I don't know whether I'm late to hear the news or early, but I'd like to take this opportunity to congratulate Ultragrrl on her book deal.

This is a day of vindication not only for her parents, who began second-guessing the wisdom of Montessori school long ago, but also for her high school drama teacher, who's known since her turn as Tzeitel in Fiddler that she'd amount to, um, something. It is vindication for the internship director at Spin, who's always sworn you could cockgobble your way to the top, but could never before offer proof, and for me, who's tried again and again to get cockgobbled on somebody's way to the top, always in vain, and who blamed it all on the Jews.

We were right. We were all right.

Now Ultragrrrl will take her rightful place in line with Nabakov, Dostoyevsky, Joyce, Kundera, Kafka, and Chabon instead of pulling a train of the bassist of Franz Ferdinand, the drummer of The Killers, the guitarist of The Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, and whichever other members of trendy retro bands aren't too picky.

I've long suspected that the evolution of the American novel would involve the synthesis of a free weekly newspaper's "Upcoming Events" calendar and the diary of a loose-moraled 14-year-old girl searching for daddy's love in the trousers of anybody androgynous in the proximity of an instrument.

Finally I have a reason to wear that vintage "A Wicked Case of Chlamydia and All I Got Was This Lousy Book Deal" t-shirt and another reason not to read.

As if I needed one.

Analogcabin @ 4:20 PM
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