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Dave Eggers' The Wild Things is available for preorder, in regular hardcover and
limited-edition fur-covered.
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READ PART ONE. Some of you may know that I am recently returned from a mission to Canada. I will not tell you the purpose of my mission. That is a secret. No matter what you read, my mission had nothing to do with my old foe, the Sasquatch (A.K.A. the novelist Mordechai Richler, who tragically passed away when I was there). I did not go to walk the boundaries of Nunavut, or to fistfight Plimpton for the right to light the fireworks in Ottawa on Canada Day. Nor was it a scheme to cross a national border before August so as to officially keep my "World Traveler and Dilettante" passport designation. But for the record: I do find those regulations to be odious. But because you have been so patient, I feel I owe you some explanation for my long absence, so I will tell you two things about Canada that I found surprising, and perhaps you will as well. 1) Canada is not an island nation. It does contain islands, but science has so far been unable to explain this. 2) In Halifax, the Provincial capital of Nova Scotia and an otherwise lovely city, happy young men run around pulling actual rickshaws. Yes: I said rickshaws, pulled by pure foot-power — a cruel novelty that banks on the old truism: all Americans loved to be dragged about town by their own smiling Canadian boy. And to think the Canadians had the nerve to call me "Barbarian" as I wandered their streets kicking dogs and cursing at children for fun. Hypocrites. The kicking and cursing of Canadian animals and children, by the way, was not my mission either. I would do the exact same thing in Maine, and on my way back, I did. Let's put it this way: you will never know about my mission. But there are some questions I can answer, and here they are.
John Kellogg Hodgman, Former Professional Literary Agent: You are right to conclude that book publishers love to spend money on satire. Traditionally, humor battles only poetry and jazz criticism for the title of most lucrative prose form, and that is why editors who specialize in these fields wear lots of jewelry and furs and silk. You are also right to be angry that your college newspaper is not publicizing your works more aggressively. When I was in college, things were different. That was a time when school papers would still promote a single humorous essay with an ad in The New Yorker, a five-dining-hall appearance tour, a 10,000 postcard mailing, and a man in a gorilla suit walking up and down the Old Campus wearing a sandwich board with the name "John Hodgman" on it while singing "Danny Boy." Of course, that was also a time when we were all Whiffenpoofs, and we all wore raccoon coats and beanies, plus jewels and silk. We certainly never signed contracts with our dinky school newspapers giving our copyrights away. Copyright is the basic right of authorship — literally the right to control if and how a text is copied. Please do not give it away. If you indeed have relinquished the copyright to your work in writing, then you will have to ask permission of these "numerous publications" if you wish to reprint that text, because you no longer own it. If, on the other hand, you have no such signed contract, they have no further claim on your prose. So, as I once told one renowned jazz critic: fuck them and prepare for cash.
JKH, FPLA: Clearly you have discovered that the temptation to help others is a powerful compulsion, touching even the most ice-hearted former professional souls. But I suspect that you have also learned that it is a dangerous practice. Those who receive help tend to resent needing it, and so gratitude often quickly turns to contempt, evil stares, and threatening letters. I, luckily, live in a secret location and am immune to all poisons. Unless you can make the same claims, I would not recommend helping anyone ever again.
JKH, FPLA: Washington, D.C. is obviously not a state: it is a District — in this case of Columbia, which is also not a state. So I appreciate your intense, almost hysterical sensitivity to this matter. But this is such a common mistake that I can't imagine you did not anticipate it. And I am not sure why you didn't clarify the matter in the first place, unless you were just being stubborn, or perhaps desired to shame the customer service person into admitting her sad ignorance of precisely where you happen to live. If I have misread you, I apologize. But taunting trapped customer service persons is a dangerous game that nobody wins because it has no rules and sometimes leads to biting.
JKH, FPLA: When you originally wrote me, sometime in the 16th century, I did not. But there is one Blair Trowbridge who is the manager at the Inn at Spry Point in Prince Edward Island and who was extremely helpful in my Canadian mission. He recommended some nice places to eat. And when the shit came down on Spry Point, and we were running through those damned woods, lost and mindless and bleeding, he did not cry or scream for mercy, as I did. So though we spoke mainly by phone and met only briefly, I am proud to call him "My Canadian Acquaintance."
JKH, FPLA: I regret that the answer is no: first, because the green silk smoking jacket you describe fit perfectly and needed no tailoring when I purchased it; and second, because my tailor's name is unpronounceable in your language. It is interesting you should bring that jacket up, as I first wore it to introduce my former client Mr. Neal Pollack at the Coolidge Corner Moviehouse/Theater in Brookline, Massachusetts almost a year ago exactly. He was kicking off his book tour and had asked me to find him either an Evel Knievel outfit to wear or a space suit. I failed on both counts, and, anxious to preserve what little of my dignity remained, I bought that smoking jacket. Buying smoking jackets is a nervous habit of mine, and all distinguished citizens and former publishing professionals own at least nine. Some of you may also recall that this very column, irregular and unworthy as it is, was inaugurated for that same event: the idea was to inspire people to ask questions from the audience which I would answer on stage, thus relieving me from having to actually write or prepare anything. And from time to time since then, on this site, this scheme has continued, and I thank you. So I am feeling sentimental on this one-year anniversary, and also old and fatter than I was then. I don't think the jacket fits anymore. But if you, Roman or anyone, come to the store next Thursday evening, I will try it on. Then I will take it off. Then I will auction it to the highest bidder. And so I will say good-bye to my past, and hello to my future. I will also continue to be happy to answer your questions on any subject, either in person this Thursday, or on-line. Asking is as simple as this. That is all. John Kellogg Hodgman
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
Baseball Is Just Baseball: An Excerpt from a New Book By David Shields Why I'm No Longer Invited to Write Dust-Jacket Blurbs By Eric McHenry Comedic Variations on Three Themes By Paul W. Williams A Brief History of the Sidewalk Sale By Paul Sopocy I Am Number One By Mike Topp |
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