Marc Spitz

Okay the anxiety dreams are gone. The last one was a doozy. Dr. Nick Rivera from the Simpsons talked me into undergoing an unnecessary simultaneous heart and penis transplant with organs harvested from pigs. They were squirming in a cigar box on his desk. Maybe it’s because I am trying to secure an interview with David Lynch for Uncut at the moment? Or maybe it’s the wave of the future. Pig tickers and dicks. He said (cue Hank Azaria voice) “In five years every men will be nearly all pig.” Speaking of pig-dicks, some of the Bowie reviews are in and some are mixed. I have been warned that this was going to happen, prepared to take some hits and I am taking them… right in my pig heart. My (pig) skin is pretty thick, but it’s clear to me that it needs to be much, much thicker. Bulldog skin maybe like GBV sang. Rhino skin. (cue Ozzy robot voice) I am (not quite yet) Iron Man. Basically the pot shots are usually aimed at the personal anecdotes which are BRIEF, and I think harmonious with the general (and classical) narrative. I really do. This isn’t Cringe. It’s not boo hoo lit. And also, guys and gals, the anecdotes are fully freaking explained in the intro. Warned about, if you must. You are prepped for them. But some don’t want them there at all. At all. It’s an easy thing to grouse about, and maybe a real affront to people who expect a non fiction book to look and sound a certain way but they used to expect folk music to look and sound a certain way too. Not that I’m electric Bob here but these anecdotes WILL be in the next book because this is part of a vision that i have for books like these, not an indulgence, and I guess I need the courage to stand by it… like RZ would when he wanted to sing about Johanna in a certain way that like the “Judas” cryers would or could not. Biographers don’t need to be robots. And if it is an indulgence, my worse angels want to say, “Well, fuck you. You write a book. In fact, write The Pig Man by Paul Zindel.”

Not to get all Vincent Gallo here. I am going the Chuck Klosterman route instead (after this post anyway). Chuck once told me not to take the good ones or the bad ones too seriously. Lord knows he has both. So respectfully, I will place them ALL here on our site, the hatchet jobs and puff pieces as John Waters used to call them and you, my readers and friends and the curious and the strange and fat skinny tall short somebody nobody people can decide for yourself if the book is good or bad or even misguided… if it reads like a “large magazine article” as one reviewer said (ARE there any “large” magazine articles anymore, dude? Or are you still reading the dusty ones in waiting rooms or laundrymats) because it’s finally out. And I’m going to celebrate today… and have already started, hence… emotional leakage (could I use MORE gross words in this post?) Tomorrow, I will summon the Obama and Derek Jeter worthy cool. Keep my poker face no matter if I whiff or get on the bag. Isn’t that the optimum way to be anyway? American cool. Bring me some this morning, Lordy. A little balance-assistance in the form of Ultragrrrl, who sent this snap from an airport bookstore. Very sweet of her. Am posting it here and soon as I can, WITH a link to the cranky AP review and I will rehearse my “aint not thing” face and voice and pose while gawking at each I am sure. Also posting soon in press section a link an interview I did with Elle.com for your approval/disapproval/whatever. Good bad yin yang. Rain. Shine. Down in three or off the wall, my Lady Gaga mug is iced (no literally, I am shrinking my puffy post play lids as I write this and listen to Stern and wonder what to eat for lunch cause that’s what cool people do under pressure). Nobody will know what I’m REALLY thinking anymore (oh, except all of you). To paraphrase Ed Okin (Jeff Goldblum) in Into the Night: “Now you don’t know what to believe.”