I'm taking a class now on Contemporary Postmodern Lit that ends this week. The class has been great, the professor is illuminating and cool, the style of the class is engaging despite being almost 4 hours long twice a week, and the readings are, for the most part, thought provoking. We've read stuff by Delilo, Vollman, Pynchon, Barthelme, Laurie Anderson, Mark Leyner, and David Foster Wallace, among others. But now I have to write a 20 page lit paper. Due this Wednesday. Which I haven't started.

I have my topic, sort of: An analysis of three Foster Wallace short stories through the lens of Umberto Eco's take on Irony in Postmodern works. (Life Note: any time you say "through the lens" of someone obscurely Italian, you sound smart)

I have my sources: 4 analyses of Foster Wallace in lit journals, a few of the more highbrow Foster Wallace book reviews, an interview with him, some sheet I printed off a website with "Fun Facts", some stuff i can't cite from Wikipedia, a fake Foster Wallace MySpace page, and a print out of what the American Apparel store in Second Life looks like.

I've read the stories I'm going to use. I've made an outline, kind of, which more or less is a flow chart in which I've written down things like, "make insightful analysis here" next to an arrow and then made well stenciled smiley faces around the arrow to provide motivation/excitement.

But I can't write the paper. I have no thesis. And this, friends, is not, as the Digable Planets would say, cool like dat.

Fortunately, this has not stopped me before. I have written several papers without actual theses, most of which used complicated words to obfuscate the glaring point that I didn't have a thesis and tried to jazz up the fact that, for the most part, I was giving a well-written book report using words like obfuscate. Other times I have a thesis that sounds money but when i really dig through my material, I find that the stuff doesn't quite match up to my money thesis, so then I end up really, really stretching for quotes and using parts of parts of phrases to strenghen my argument, making the paper sound like an Associated Press newspaper story with misplaced, ironic quotation marks: Sherman Alexie's "use" of "Native American" dream stories is not at all "like" the classic adaptation "of Stephen" King's Dreamcatcher, even though both involve "multiple usages" of the word "dream" and two or more "references" to Morgan "Freeman" (Bell Hooks, "624").

And now I really, really need to go write this. Like I need to stop trying to come up with "clever" places to put quotation marks in fake examples of past lit papers and just leave my apartment, walk down to the Espresso Royale on the corner, order something with caffeine in it and maybe one of those delightful, cutesy, little pastry things with the jam, and get this party going. And i need to do it soon because I have class at 6. Till 9:45. Wait. Ssshhhh. Listen: If you put your ear up to the computer and mute "L.O.V.E." by Ashlee Simpson that's "accidentally" on repeat on your iTunes, you can almost hear the violins playing my pity party. Woe is me.

If anyone has the time and extensive educational background, I'm open to any sort of thesis ideas involving Foster Wallace, irony and Stephen King films, you know, something else smart sounding. And just because this is more entertaining than writing a lit paper, I'll drop back in later on tonight to give you a real word count and the worst best quote from said paper. Because who doesn't like reading succinct, well-thought out totally non-b.s. literature analyses via the Web 2.0?

That's right. Chuck Sambuchino. No one.

Until later on tonight, friends.

I'll Make it Rain on Them (remix),

Fat,
Joe

PS- Pictured Below: Actor Damian Lewis of Dreamcatcher gives a sidelong glance to his competition after placing third in the "hurt dog carry" in the 2003 Lumberjack Games at Colby College and rapper Fat Joe "ironically" snacking on KFC minutes after coming out against trans fats on The Big Idea with Donny Deutsch.

To: Jann Wenner
Editor of Rolling Stone Magazine

From: Kevin Alexander

Re: Query for Potential Profile

Dear Mr. Wenner,

If you were to find some sort of thermometer/pulse taking thing that could take the pulse of the entire YouTube generation, said thermometer would read "Emo". Then it would catch on fire and explode. Emo, Jann, is somewhat of a slang term derived from hardcore punk music and the subculture surrounding it. According to Wikipedia, it started in DC, but this is clearly a lie, as nothing has ever "started in DC". Anyway, it's characterized by tight jeans, bangs on dudes, Chuck Taylors, and baddish poetry centered around an "upper middle class teen life is pain" theme...so actually, maybe it did start in DC. But the kids, Janny, the kids love this sh*t. Or maybe they just "like" it, ironically. Honestly I'm not actually sure, these Facebook profiles are hard to parse. But anyway, of all the Emo bands in the Emo world, the band that best characterizes the downfalls, the upswings, and the mood altering effects of Ativan are a certain band from a certain North shore suburb of Chi-town: No, not Panic! At the Disco. Or Dave Coulier. Or Avril Lavigne. She's from Canada, I think. I'm talking, of course, about Fall Out Boy.

Now me myself, I'm a hip-hop guy, partially because I was obsessed with basketball as a wee one, but also because I envision myself as pretty damn "gangsta". I drive a 96 Ford Explorer, All Black, with smallish tires. I pay my credit card late, sometimes. I live in an apartment in the city without a concierge. Also, the air conditioning is spotty. Sh*t Jann, some people talk about it, I live it. But my point is this: despite my affinity for hip-hop, I'm willing to do a profile of Fall Out Boy. For you. Or as the Emo kids might say: 4 u.

I envision it like this: 4000 words, gonzo style journalism... I do some drugs on the way to meet Fall Out Boy's publicist, we get in a shouting match about the relevance of the cat on the last episode of Soprano's, I write about it. I meet the band at a semi-trendy brunch spot called Toast in Wicker Park, send back my egg white fritatta and order rye toast dry just to make a lot of crumbs, then write about it. I listen to their "From Under the Cork Tree" CD backwards while watching "The View" on mute and taking Ativan, and, wait, get this, I don't write about that. See, Jann? The key is keeping people on their toes. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that. You've probably met Boyz II Men.

But now comes the time in every query letter where the editor must make a decision. Should I trust this unknown person who comes to me and confesses to driving an SUV with smallish tires? Trust him enough to write about a semi-popular band that might not even be in the "Emo" category? Well, Jannifer, I've given you The Pledge, I've shown you The Turn, so now this is the point in the program where I reveal my Prestige: I almost worked for you. Kind of.

I, Jann, was a semi-finalist for your unsuccessful MTV reality program "I'm From Rolling Stone". You might have even watched and rejected the interview tape the casting directors made of me, probably right after the portion in which I was supposed to conduct an interview and asked each of them "about the first person they'd tongue kissed". Now, am I bitter about not being picked? Yes. But would I let that get in the way of this kick ass docu-drama-profile I'm about to write? Maybe. But would I be stupid enough to tell you that before I even got offered the contract? No f*cking way, no how.

It's your serve Janny. Either you hop aboard this "Emo" ship now, or watch it sail into the cultural sunlight, no doubt hurting the eyes of the Emo kids aboard who were trying to write poetry in the dark.

Sugar, We're Going Down Swingin',

Kevin Alexander

PS- If this isn't a fit for Rolling Stone, could you copy and paste it to one of your other mags. Like US Weekly or whatever? Just be sure and take out the Janns and insert whichever editor is applicable... I know how much editors hate that. Thankxxx.

PPS- Pictured Below: Boyz II Men, minutes before the regret of spending their entire advance on platinum encrusted sportcoats sinks in and Generation Emo posing for mom but, like, totally rejecting her premise.

Hello, friends. Apologies for the time lapse, but we have a "special" "event". It seems the "Man" wants us to do a little cross-promotional hype to make the company more "synergistic" and "profitable". So, the next two blog entries will include contributions from TOW Books (and woman!?) "author" Sarah Walker, who participated in a book signing at the F&W booth during the BEA. She requested her editorial commentary below be in red because it reminds her of the magazine that "shook her being to the core; Redbook".

Brief Corporate Promo: Sarah Walker's book Really You’ve Done Enough: A Parents’ Guide to Stop Parenting Their Adult Child Who Still Needs Their Money But Not Their Advice will be released from TOW Books in October. You can find more of her crap oeuvre at walkerandcantrell.com

Friday, BEA: After taking Thursday off to blunt the trauma induced by drinking in front of co-workers, I came to the Friday session of the BEA ready for action. After all, I’m a professional writer. And I wear status jeans. This is just my life.
 
 I came in around lunchtime to meet with Brant Rumble (Sarah Walker Comment: This is clearly a made up name, as it is far too awesome), a senior editor at Scribner, and discuss important things over a choose-your-own-adventure pasta lunch. The cook who made my pasta clearly recognized me from my award-winning columns, so I ended up with 50% more pasta than Brant, which was awkward, but we managed to overcome our differences and discuss an idea for a future profile in the magazine. Then we talked about the Nintendo Game RBI Baseball, shook hands, chest bumped, and made vague promises of future interaction. Needless to say, aside from the pasta incident, it was a successful lunch.
 
That was pretty much the only thing I had to do. So I did what any good journalist does: I expensed a water, and pretended to talk on my cell phone.
 
Scene Setting, Pseudo-Literary Fashion: The Book Expo is held at the expansive Jacob Javits Center, a modern goliath of glass and steel in a part of NYC hipster's call "not cool". During the BEA, the main exhibitor areas are covered in a series of maze-like halls with each publishing company setting up displays in their respective allotted area. Huge banners adorn walls or sit above publishing houses like hot air balloons or those tragic Zeppelin things that were popular travel options in the John Rhys-Davies vehicle “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade”. Book sellers, Exhibitors, Agents, Editors, and vaguely associated "Industry Professionals" wander around looking for free pens, books, stuffed animals, condoms, and other merchandise to put in their BEA emblazoned bags, take home and promptly re-gift.
 
Wandering around proved exhausting, as the place is huge and, although I am extremely physically fit and almost debilitatingly handsome (SWC: You know when people are sarcastic but they actually want you to believe what they just said? You know when that happens? Good.), I only have a certain amount of endurance, so I called McSweeney’s Internet Tendency Editor John Warner who, after some prodding, eventually divulged his location at the F&W display (SWC: I was there. The phone conversation went like this: John: Hello? Oh, hi, Kevin. We're actually very busy. We can't really meet...I know you're lonely...Yes, New York is a big scary city...I mean, we're friends, I wouldn't say that we're BEST fri--Kevin, stop crying...Stop. Ok, fine. Pull yourself together. We're at the F&W booth). After spotting the F&W balloon-Zeppelin, I walked briskly over and saw him standing with two women.
 
"Sup," I said and tried to give the taller woman a “pound”. She refused my request (SWC: I didn't so much refuse his request as he punched me in the left breast) and ventured a question.
 
 "Are you wearing an inside-out t-shirt?" (SWC: I did not say this. I did not want to speak to him, post breast punching. Why would I? No, I suppose in an attempt to relieve the awkward silence, Kevin blurted out, "I'm wearing an inside out t-shirt!" We sort of vaguely nodded.)
 
I was, yes, but that was beside the point. And anyway, at that same moment John introduced me to the people he was with: Annelise Robey, his agent, and my aforementioned fashion critic Sarah Walker, the author of Really You’ve Done Enough: A Parents’ Guide to Stop Parenting Their Adult Child Who Still Needs Their Money But Not Their Advice (SWC: Hilarious! And if you think it sounds lame then I promise you it's much cooler than the title might imply. I actually wanted to call it, "You Can Stop F*cking Me Up Now," but no dice. Anyway, if you think it sounds awesome then forget all that lame talk from before. People who think that are jerks anyway), one of the first books for John's new humor imprint TOW. Being a gentleman, I bowed deeply and attempted to kiss both of their hands, expecting them to at least curtsy, but again I was rebuffed (SWC: Yes, again rebuffed as we noticed he had tiny mirrors on the tops of his shoes and was trying to look up our skirts. We backed away).
 
“No, seriously,” Sarah said. “Who wears inside-out t-shirts to the BEA?” (SWC: Again, in an attempt to break the awkward silence that ensued, Kevin offered more information about his inside out t-shirt. "It says 'Everyone Loves a Jewish Boy'! It's from Urban Outfitters. I got it in college. It's funny 'cause I'm not Jewish. Get it? Anyway, Urban's so played out. Am I right? That's why it's inside out!" Then he attempted to high five us. We didn't know what to do, so we looked imploringly at John, who mouthed, "I'm sorry."
 
 We wandered around through the different publishing house displays. We saw a man dressed up as Borat sexually harassing onlookers (SWC: Wow, I'm glad Kevin can spot sexual harassment, at least in others), and a woman in a banana/star suit was explaining her trade to a man with a notepad. “It’s not not itchy.”
 
 Annelise, I noted on my own reporter's pad, was very charming and Sarah, apparently, was very tall.(SWC: Kevin's powers of observation are truly overwhelming. Few would be able to ascertain that I am tall. I'm glad he reminded me of it often, I would have forgotten myself how very, very tall I am.)
 
At one point, we all went down to the McSweeney’s display so John could “talk shop” with some co-workers. While Annelise and Sarah discussed Fall Out Boy and Emo bars, I took out my notepad and wandered over to the food court area, where I engaged the woman behind the counter at the Crepe Café (SWC: Annelise and I, being super cool New Yorkers, were speaking of the travesty of a local bar being recently acquired by the lead singer of Fall Out Boy. When Kevin attempted to join the conversation, just by yelling the word, "Emo" in our faces, we told him that maybe it would be interesting to his readers to report on the Food Court. He took to this idea, yelled the WWE catch phrase, "Suck it!" with the accompanying hand gesture, and ran off, Thank God, and gave us a few blissful minutes alone).  The convo went like this:
 
Me: Excuse me, ma’am. Could you tell me your most popular crepe?
Her (dubious look): Um, I dunno.
Me: But which one are people getting a lot?
Her (no eye contact): They like them all.
Me: Dessert crepes or Savory crepes?
Her: I guess people like mozzarella.
Me: That’s interesting.
Her: Why are you writing this down? (SWC: I'm pretty sure I heard Kevin yell "Suck it!" in the poor crepe girl's face, who was just trying to make a buck and avoid being harassed by smarmy bloggers looking for an interesting angle.)
 
Other things probably happened, but by then I’d done almost three hours of “journalism”, which is well above my daily limit. I bid adieu to the women, sans bow (SWC: He attempted to hug us and then pretended to drop his notebook and actually look up our skirts. Annelise kicked him in the face), chest bumped John (SWC: He actually punched John in the breast as well) and (moon?) walked out of the Javits center, promising loudly never to return again. Or at least until tomorrow, for the book signing.
 
Join us next time as women's lit "author" Sarah Walker reveals the secret of a successful book signing and, in the process, a fundamental truth about cats and dogs (SWC: I have a feeling he said that because in the feature film "The Truth About Cats and Dogs", Uma Thurman is tall. But I'm not sure. It's not like frequent comments about my height have made me super sensitive to height innuendo. Not at all). 
 
Question to Ponder: When the Soprano’s inevitably ends with a well choreographed dance scene a la Michael Jackson’s music video “Bad”, who will play Wesley Snipes? (SWC: Robert Loggia)
 
Whoa-oh. Heaven Let Your Light Shine Down,
 
Collective,
Soul  

Pictured Below: Author Sarah Walker talking to Kevin Federline at Marquee, and the teamwork version of my alleged BEA catchphrase.

WD Superlatives: Best Quote Overheard during the Pitch Slam: "I'm going to make you a filthy, filthy rich man, sir." --to Agent Peter Miller, by a 17 year old boy carrying a briefcase.

Day 1: In the history of time, things haven't always gone well. Wars, plagues, telethons, etc, don't always work out as one might imagine they would when they began. But the Writer's Digest conference was no such occassion. Everything, friends, and I mean everything, went smoothly.

Allow me to specify: The keynote speaker was none other than my fellow This Writer's Life soul mate columnist Jodi Picoult. I'm sure they were heavily debating which one of us should give the keynote since we're both so ridiculously successful, and probably flipped a coin or something bc they couldn't decide, and I was probably heads, and it came up tails and they probably debated just giving it to me anyway, but eventually decided to be fair. Her talk, which was on all of the research she does for her novels, was great, and her personality is very dynamic for a writer. Also, she asked the question, "are you sure there isn't a little bit of incest?" to her mother, in college, while searching for something to have angst about. That, friends, is humor.

The next part of the day involved deciding which session you would attend. I was torn between attending Maria's session to provide moral support and attending my friend John Warner's (author of Fondling Your Muse) session titled "How to Make Humor Your Bitch". Notice how I said my friend before i mentioned his session? That was to subtly inform you that i have writer friends. Anyway, I went to Maria's because she was reading my Life Changingly Awesome Query Letter to Outside Magazine as an example of how not to query an editor and I wanted to make sure she was annunciating. And, again, as things went all day, her talk went well and my query letter even got some laughs, especially when Maria said "drop on your ass".

There was another session, but I spent that one wandering around, taking the "freebies" that they handed out, and pretending to be on my cell phone involved in an important debate with my agent about money. "Well, you can tell Random House that that baby ain't going nowhere unless I see six figures," I'd say very loudly whenever anyone got in earshot. I lost my street cred when my phone actually rang while I was pulling the stunt, so I gracefully retired to the restroom for the rest of the session to sit down in the stall with my penknife and scratch KA + Jodi 4 Eva into the wall.

Lunch came next. Editorial Point Re: Lunch: Lunches at convention centers freak me out, mostly because I watched the scene in the movie Fight Club where they do terrible things to the food, and I can never not think about that when they are serving 500 plates of chicken in a white sauce. My only defense is to be really friendly to the staff and hope that they make those types of decisions about who to give toxic plates to post-salad, targeting the rude people. Yes, I know that makes no sense, but I need to be able to rationalize why I still cleaned my plate and ate some stuff off of John Warner's as well. Actually this is probably a conversation better suited for my therapist. Moving on...

The book signing. Jodi's line wrapped around the conference room and out of New York into New Jersey, so I didnt' get a chance to say hello and do our super secret This Writer's Life handshake, which I'm sure devastated her. The highlight of the book signing for me was getting a free pink t-shirt with the logo "Redneck Debutantes" from a woman who told me her book (not yet completed) was basically "Steel Magnolias meets Sex and the City with casting by Chevy Chase". I don't really understand what that means, but, as I type this, I'm wearing the shirt.

There was another session, but i didn't go to that, as I spent most of the time in the "Green Room" backstage watching as the agents straggled in for the Pitch Slam, helping direct them to their right rooms and drinking the complimentary waters. Most of the agents are older and have that congenial librarian look, and everyone seemed to know everyone else, and, as they sat drinking sweetened iced teas and eating cookies they talked in a language I couldn't really understand, always about "pubs" and "auctions" and "markets" and whatnot. I saw a few younger agents wearing hip clothing and tried to make eye contact with them and initiate convo's about cool new Indie bands, Emoticons, and YouTube, but it was all for naught, as I had drunk too much water, and had to retire to the bathroom before the Pitch Slam began, sans penknife.

The Slam: Maria and I were given the job to watch over one of the rooms during the Slam. This is how it works: for two hours, writers have three minutes to convince an agent that they should look at their book. You try and see as many agents as possible, and you try and seem like you know what in the hell your book is about, where you see it being placed, why you're the person they want, what part Ashton Kutcher will play in your movie etc, etc, etc. Our room was mostly non-fiction, and that, coupled with the fact that most of the attendees are novelists and this year we had 50% more agents than last year, meant that none of the lines in our room were very long and you could probably pitch all the agents there in 55 minutes. This was a good thing and it kept the unwashed masses happy. I had the pleasure of keeping time and yelling out "Ooonnneeee Minute!" when there was one minute left, and then ringing the bell and saying "Next!!" when they were done. I tried various voices during the "One minute" yell and think the auctioneer meets Kentucky Derby announcer at a loud Applebees bar was the best variation. Some people inevitably try tricks, like having the art for their book already picked out and put on a card, or self publishing demo copies of the book, or getting up on their chair and singing (seriously) but the people that had the most success were always the self-assured people who were confident they'd written a good book, had done their homework about which agents at the Slam worked with books similar to theirs, and kept it simple and fresh and clean. Amazing how that works out...

Anyway, that's pretty much it from the conference. There was a dinner that night for the speakers, agents and WD staff, but we aren't going to talk about that, other than to say that the bartender was pouring heavy and I may or may not have spent 20 minutes talking to Agent Stephanie Evans in a faux German accent. I took Thursday off from the BEA to recover and garner strength for today, when things really start to jump off. I'll keep you in the know.

Question to Ponder: If you're the "celebrity chef" for Applebees does it really mean you're a celebrity chef?

Drop It Like It's Hot,

Lil,
Wayne

Ps- Pictured Below: The lovely ladies of Steel Magnolia's competing for Best Big Hair and a bonus movie pic from Fried Green Tomatoes, which I originally thought was the same film. Now all I need is a picture from Beaches, and I'll have listed every DVD my mother owns....

Least Obvious Internet Search of the Day That Turns Up My Blog: "Christian Magazine Opinions on Anna Nalick"

Worst Clif Bar Flavor of All Time: Apricot

Unrequested Anecdote from my Family Life: I've just spent Memorial Day weekend on a family vacation in Bermuda, which is probably the most beautiful, friendly and exotic place that you can get to from Boston in less than two hours, outside of the Wrentham Village Premium Outlets. My mother and sister and I went on the trip with our dearest family friends, and, because I lack the financial wherewithal and dental insurance to provide for myself, I was forced against my will gleefully shared a room with my mother. Most of the stories from my trip are boring (example: I ate and enjoyed an egg white omelet, and normally I don't even like omelets!!!!) or embarrassing (I spent much of the first day in the Bermuda Hospital emergency room, where a nurse was forced, against her will, to examine, touch then bandage my left foot, as I'd ripped the nails off of during a clumsy intoxicated fall), but there was one event that my mother will never forgive me for worth sharing with the general public:

1. My mother--who usually never drinks anything that isn't Newman's Own Virgin Lemon-Aided Iced Tea-- did the first alchoholic "shot" of her known life, a "lemon drop". The effects of the jolt of alcohol were palpable, especially when she confided to me that she "felt goofy" and then started telling mortifyingly personal anecdotes from her college experience in the 70s. Lesson: Unless your mom is Dorothy Parker, encouraging her to do shots will always end poorly.

Moving on...

This is a big week, friends, and not just because it's short. As you may have noticed from the advertisement above my blog, the Writer's Digest/ BEA Writing Conference is on Wednesday, followed by the Book Expo of America, the Book Industry's answer to Nickelodeon's Kid's Choice Awards. It's a time when the publishing houses pull out all the stops, revealing their big guns, newly annointed stars and catering services (sometimes with open bar!) in an effort to woo booksellers, librarians and Writer's Digest Contributing Editors. And I will be there in NYC all week, first wandering aimlessly around the Writer's Digest Conference, then aimlessly wandering around the BEA, while my editor Maria openly questions why she lets me come to these things each year.

But--in an effort to make myself seem valuable, or better, invaluable-- I'm going to keep a daily embedded journal of the Conference and Book Expo for those of you who want to know what happens when book industry people stop being polite, and start being real. It'll be just like that episode of the Real World: Hawaii when Teck and the drunk chick went skinny dipping, and everyone else felt uncomfortable...but with, like, agents and stuff.

So join me all this week, as I'll be dropping the most insightful, concise and unavoidably irrelevant points of interest from the book industry's biggest week, all while trying to figure out where in God's name the good people at the Jacobs Javits Convention Center keep their bathrooms. And if you happen to be attending either the Conference or the Expo and you see a striking, partially well groomed man with a shaved head and pre-distressed jeans pretending to scribble feverishly in a notebook, feel free to interrupt and say hello. I won't actually be doing anything, anyway.

Questions to Ponder: Will Rosie O'Donnell definitely accept Lizzie Hasselbeck's inevitable request to be Godmother to her next child? And--assuming they knew how to save a life--do you really think the Fray would stay up with you all night?

Guilty Feet Have Got No Rhythm,

Wham

Ps- pictured below: The second sweetest place to go during a Memorial Day weekend and me and a bunch of my golf buddies living la vida loca in 'Muda Shorts after six or seven Lemon Drops.

Brief Pop Culture Sidenote re: Bachelor: Officer and a Gentleman: See? It was Tessa!!! When has the NY Post ever been wrong about anything? According to the results from the Bachelor, never. Lesson: Never trust women named Bevin. Always trust the tabloids. Always.

Moving on...Were you worried, friends? Did you think I had gone underground? Or quit to pursue a career in urban dance? Or just become lazy and depressed, like AJ on the Soprano's? No. Unlike the NY Post, you got none of that right. The real reason I've been on radio silent was because I had to write and turn in in my actual magazine column, which kept me from blogging. And exercising. But now I'm back, eating a Peanut Butter Cookie Luna Bar (Just for Women, my ass) and ready to introduce a new installment on the blog: Life Changingly Awesome Query Letters. Expect a new one to a different magazine every few weeks. Or better yet, don't expect one. That way, you'll be totally surprised when it comes.

To:Christopher Keyes
Editor
Outside Magazine

From: Kevin Alexander
Re: Query!!!;)

Dear Mr. Keyes,

ROAAARR!!!!! Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. You're quite safe. Physically at least. But your mind is about to be scared out of its complacency. What you just read was the sound that a bear makes. Transitionally, did you know that Panda Bears cannot walk on their hind legs? Of course you didn't. You're just one man. Which is exactly why you need my services. Plus bears, like hippies, live Outside in the wilderness. Vis a Vis: they are a natural fit in your magazine.

When Calvin Coolidge said, "Time heals all wounds," he'd obviously never seen the wound inflicted by a bear on a moose in the driveway of a couple in Alaska that I just watched on Youtube. You should Google it, it's horrible stuff. But what would be more horrible for the readers of Outside magazine is if you don't include the obvious Best American Travel Writing 2008 story I'm about to drop on your ass.

Here's the payoff: I'd like to write a 6000-7000 word personal essay about my experience with bears. Now, because I've never actually seen a bear in person, a lot of this (3000-4000 words, at least) will be focused around a dream I had several years ago involving Daisy Fuentes, my Physics teacher from senior year of high school wearing a Skip-it, and a player from the Chicago Bears. The other 2000 words will probably be a pro-con list of reasons to keep a bear as a pet (example pro: companionship). Also, I can totally see a sidebar that lists famous bears and where they are now. And don't get me started on the art!!!

Although, admittedly, I haven't actually read your magazine myself, one of my good friends, Geoff, won a subscription when he switched over his credit card and so I've seen your covers. Fit, handsome men with a penchant for wetsuits and Dri-Fit workout gear, mountain peaks, and other worldly pleasures. And while these things are very nice (I myself am a very fit, extremely  handsome man), have you considered the bump in circulation you'd get if you threw a Panda mountain biking on the cover? Plus--and now I'm just thinking aloud--if the Panda wasn't wearing a biking helmet, wouldn't that sh*t be illegal and thusly controversial? Like it or not, controversy and Panda's sell f*cking magazines. That's just a fact.

Anyway, I should wrap this up, because I know you like things to stay on one page, but this is the portion where I list my qualifications. I'm a writer, Chrissy, a writer with a (newfound) passion for bears. I've written for a sh*t ton of magazines, I've got infinity clips, but I also have dreams, some of which involve bears, which I wrote about in the third paragraph. So how's about you and I get together over some lunch (Nobu is fine) and make this magic into a reality? It's the least you can do.

ROAAARRR! (Jk, Chris. Jk)

Kevin Alexander

ps- I know we're supposed to negotiate for payment, but I'll tell you: you give me 50 cents 4 bucks a word right now and I'll take the photo's of the Panda myself.
pps- As a bonus showcasing my photographing acumen, I've also enclosed a photo of my nephew playing in the yard, who, you must admit, is very cute (strong genetics). But I'm going to need it back. And before the holidays.

Pictured Below: A Non-Panda trying to burn off the calories from the moose, and a Skip It, the "in" toy of 1987.

Bad Excuse Introductory Sidenote: Like a pregnant Elisabeth Hasselbeck and the rest of the View posse, I took the weekend off. Some people might call that selfish and lazy, and those people would be my father, but I call it regeneration, a chance to build back the atrophying muscles in my legs and behind and start anew. Or fresh. Or something. But that doesn't mean I didn't write. No sir. It just means I didn't write well. Or as I probably would've said before re-reading this, goodish.

Words: 1834
Feelings: Confusion, Urgency, Emotional Misgivings

Fears: My book's ending can't possibly make sense, I have an urge to take off my silk writing gloves and slap one of my characters, that despite getting 150 million in box office sales (just in Canada and the US), Spiderman won't be able to escape his inner demons.

Thoughts: The thing is, your writing doesn't always have to make sense, right? Like, for instance, say you get through 1800 words and realize that, you know, maybe some of them aren't actually words (constabulating?) and that all a lot of them don't actually help do anything to the plot or character development so you spend a goodish length of time talking to one of your friends who is in the midst of law school finals asking him to help explain some of your character's motivations and he tells you that this is impossible for him seeing how he has never read the book nor does he wish to, and that, maybe, at some point in the future, if the book was published and out in hard cover, he would make a point of possibly checking it out of the library but right now he has to finish an exam on Contracts and, unless you are willing to tell him some potentially viable information re: the laws of Contracts, he has to go, and, by the way, those two new titles that you came up with for your book are not only not funny, they don't even really make sense and could turn off the three or four readers that are actually willing to purchase your book, but you should call him next week because he will be in NYC and maybe when you are there for the WD Conference and the BEA, you guys can get some drinks and talk about professional sports. That's totally fab okay, right?

Question to Ponder: Has it ever really paid off to buy the " full week VIP bracelet package" from your super fun STA rep while on Spring Break?

Join me tomorrow when I realize that writing in Baskerville Semibold isn't as intensely bold as it sounds.

More than Words,

Ex,
treme

PS- Pictured below: Two dudes high fivin' post purchase of their VIP bracelets, and an accurate drawing of the muscles in my legs.

The E Hasselbeck Pregnancy Watch: Thanks to Trina, who thanks Yahoo news, who thanks the Associated Press, who thanks the unnamed writer of the story, we have confirmed that the View's Elisabeth Hasselbeck and her tooth brushing ploy didn't have any effect on her husband's libido: She is pregnant again. No word on what they plan on naming the baby, but sources close to the state of Washington inform me that it probably won't be "Raven". When asked to comment, Barbara Walters said, "Wait. I thought I was on 20/20."We will continue to bring you information you probably don't need about a show only I seem to care about as it becomes available.

Words: 1045
Feelings: Let Down, Disappointment, Fatigue, Athlete's Foot?

Fears: I can't think of anything to write about, I can't develop any of my characters in the ways that I want to, E Hass won't even consider naming her new kid (boy or girl) Kevin Alexander because she's selfish and doesn't check her email, I have what looks like a splinter in the side of my face which explains my father's sudden desire to "get take-out", I was not invited to be a contestant on the new CBS reality show called "Pirate Master" (seriously. that's seriously a new show) .

Thoughts: Looking back, it was inevitable. You write a crucial climatic scene, you feel good about it, your word count is high, your cholesterol is low, you don't have any splinters and definitely none near your face, you just have to expect you're going to get burnt. Out.

And burnt I got, to the tune of 8 hours, 1000 words. According to my math background that's like one word every... um, sh*t. See how hard this is?

I tried, friends. I tried so hard to keep it going, but I literally couldn't think of anything to write. I knew that the chapter following the big climatic chapter would be sort of a transitional chapter, a "come-down" chapter, I had a vague (three line) outline of what needed to happen in said chapter, I refilled my Earl Grey tea four different times, I was wearing comfortable pants and clean undieskins, and still, still...empty. The fact that I managed to even get 1000 words is a testament to my refusal to get up and use the bathroom until that was so, even though almost everything I wrote was a self-parody of a self-parody of my actual work.

Even enjoying a California Club Pizza from CPK in the company of my father did nothing to shake up the "creative juices".

"I believe the term is stir up the creative juices," said my dad.

See, friends? See the environment that I'm working in? How can anyone get good work done when their father clearly doesn't love them? Or, maybe worse, does love them, which leaves them with no angst, bitterness or pent up aggression to pour onto the page?

Join me tomorrow when I overcome these setbacks and drop 2000 words worth of digitized magic before finding out that the splinter in my face is just an ingrown hair.

I Guess You're Just What I Needed,

The,
Cars

PS- Pictured Below: The Show I couldn't get on, Barbara and Rosie in a rare embrace, and the pizza that, despite being delicious, failed to get me my groove back.

Words: 984
Feeling: Dramatically Displayed Disgust.

Sins: Sloth-like Avarice, Compulsive Gluttony

Fears: I suffer from productivity hangovers, I need Ritalin badly but am too lazy to get tested for ADD, I will never get to the Seventh Operating Thetan Level of Scientology.

Thoughts: Thinking isn't exactly working out for me today. Look at the word count, friends. My brain stopped. Luckily it's the weekend, so I'm not expecting anyone to read this. They should be out in the sun, absorbing the Daily Recommended Value of Vitamin D in an effort to avoid ricketts.

But, as a bonus for the sun-haters, I will provide the famous pro-immigration speech by Alicia Silverstone from Clueless:

Mr. Hall: Should all oppressed people be allowed refuge in America? Amber will take the con position. Cher will be pro. Cher: 2 minutes.

Cher: So, OK, like right now, for example, the Haitians need to come to America. But some people are all, "What about the strain on our resources? But it's like when I had this garden party for my father's birthday, right? I said R.S.V.P. because it was a sit-down dinner. But people came that, like, did not R.S.V.P. So I was, like, totally buggin'. I had to haul ass to the kitchen, redistribute the food, squish in extra pl