The Obligatory Voice Mail, Who You Callin' Crazy? and Gay Male Authors Rule!

Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been a few days since my last post. I am in the midst of preparing for the NYC Toy Fair, beginning October 24th. I am a busy little bitch.

So busy, in fact, that a couple comedy club bookers are pissed at me because I didn’t return their phone calls in a timely manner, and apparently, that’s unprofessional. I had no idea that the comedy business expected me to be considerate. I should refer them to anyone who’s ever left me a message. They can explain that I am not a call back kind of gal. The way I see it, if you call me and leave me a message thinking that puts the onus on me to call you back, expect to get pissed, because homey don’t play that. I didn’t call you. You wanted to get a hold of me. Why should I have to respond just because you missed me? In Shan-land, voice mail messages serve as notification of a call, not as an RSVP. That’s bullshit. You want to talk to me? Keep trying.

Next, when a friend or coworker introduces someone to me, I’d like to impress upon them that my name is Shannon, not Crazy Shannon. I am not crazy. Granted, it’s a wide, fuzzy line that separates me from crazy, but it’s there nonetheless. I am just funnier, smarter and more quick-witted than anyone else they know. That doesn’t make me crazy. It makes them fortunate.

I overheard this today: “Man, I gotta do some sit-ups. My abs are invisible. I am a doughnut with a belly button.” Who among us couldn’t use a few thousand sit-ups?

Does tyranny of the aesthetic exist? David Rakoff, at his Barnes & Noble reading/book signing, said it does. He revs me up big time. I highly recommend his 2 books of marvelous essays. The first, “Fraud” is based on his world travels. The new one, “Don’t Get to Comfortable” is more of a peek into his cultural philosophy. Rakoff, if I were compelled to classify his writing, is more erudite than David Sedaris. However, they’re both masters of the snarky, queen bee quip. Rakoff’s stuff reads more like a wicked op ed column, whereas Sedaris leans toward the big gay autobiography. David Sedaris taught me that it’s possible to weep and cackle simultaneously. I mean, he did a piece in “Barrel Fever” on his very public love affair with Mike Tyson. I shit myself on the N train in front of hard core Astorians who weren't amused. He could've gotten me killed. In between descriptions of what a playful couple they are, he let’s us into their circle of friends. According to David, he and Mike hang with Burgess Meredith and Strom Thurmond, each major queens in their own right. Also, having gained access to a ‘behind the scenes’ inventory of the Sedaris’ home occupants, complete with reviews of Mom, Dad, sis Amy, and brother "The Rooster," I am exponentially more appreciative of my own family’s eccentricities. Speaking of big gay autobiographical authors I love, meet Mr. Augusten Burroughs. He writes like people speak. He is the only man who will ever truly satisfy me; laughing one minute, leaking empathy the next. The first time I read “Dry,” I was an active drunk. The second time I read “Dry,” he took me to rehab. Burroughs won’t slam you with an SAT vocabulary word assault. That’s Rakoff’s bag. His reader’s companion is a thick thesaurus. Regardless, you’ll be all the better for having examined any offering from Sedaris, Rakoff and Burroughs. I am.

Expect fewer blog entries from me in the next coupe weeks. I love you. Don’t touch me.