Caruso, I am told, loved the sound of his own voice.
Unfortunately, that’s the case with so many bloggers these days. They love the view from their own keyboards.
Sad too. I’m sure they have much to say, it’s just obscured by their own “pontificatory” arrogance. You need a machete to cut through the overgrowth of prolix.
As a comedy writer, that’s what I know; humor is what draws me in and when I find a legitimately funny blog, I become childishly giddy.
Vonnegut’s Asshole turns me into a toddler with a fairly decent rack.
Author, Eric Spitznagle is the singular brain trust behind this very, very funny blog. He’s penned articles for just about every major mag on the planet; he’s written six books and is in the process of adding the seventh to his resume.
I am in awe of this man.
So, can you imagine the shock I received when I received an e-mail from him? Oh yeah…it was that suppress my tongue and secure my appendages to the table kind of shock. He called me “a fellow writer who’s work he greatly admired”.
Then he went on to say: I don’t care for much of what passes for comedy writing on the web. I visit even my favorite blogs about as often as I get a colonoscopy. But since discovering you Laurie, I’ve had a renewed faith in what’s possible in this online journal racket. I’ll just come right out and admit it, your site is addictive. If I was Keith Richards, your blog would be smack. I read it when I should be doing other things, more productive things, like writing or spending time with family or friends. If I don’t finish my novel this year, you’ll have to accept as least part of the blame.
Receiving his e-mail made my day, week, month….my year. I am flattered beyond words.
Then, I realized something…
Could it be?
Do I ?
At this stage of my life, do I actually have a literary crush on this brilliant, dashing, young incredibly accomplished writer?
Impossible. I am far too old and too mature.
Mr. and Mrs. Eric Spitznagle
Mrs. Eric Spitznagle
Laurie Kendrick Spitznagle
Mr. and Mrs. Pulitzer
Once I greased my ego-engorged cephalitic noodle to the point where I was able to get it through the door, I went to the kitchen and had frosty beverage. I toasted Eric Spitznagle and Vonnegut’s Asshole. It’s smart and heady and piquant. In a blogosphere filled with pretentious drivel and self absorbed narcissistic horse skatole, this blog is like a silken sachet of beautiful lilacs, tuberoses and all that other floral shit that smells really nice.