Shakers KarateMonkey and Leah emailed me about Angie the Anti-Theist, a blogger whose birth control failed, resulting in a pregnancy which she decided to terminate. And she decided to use the occasion of her abortion to talk about it, via Twitter and YouTube. “I’m doing this to demystify abortion,” she explains. “I just wanna let everybody know that you, too, can have an abortion, if you want one.”
I put together a short list of some of the most common complaints that I get which I have grown tired of answering over the years.
I’m not a [member of a particular group] but [goes into a long argument supporting that particular group].
Right. And I’m not a blogger but just a person with a frequently updated website with each post being assigned a permalink, an rss feed, and is then archived, categorized, tagged, and assigned a comment thread.
I hope never to be in a movie theater with this person.
I know it’s your blog and you can do with it whatever you want with it but [then a detailed explanation of what I shouldn’t do with my blog that I may do whatever I want with]
This is the first time I felt the need to comment but I just wanted to say that I will never read this blog again.
If it’s the first time you commented then how am I supposed to know you were reading it in the first place. And how am I sure that you’re not still reading it now as you always did…. without commenting?
Why did you delete my comment and all the comments that agreed with what I was saying?
It was amazing that you had four people who commented right after each other expressing how fascinating and intelligent your comment was. It was even more amazing that all four people who found you witty had the same ip address as you. But I will say that when I did delete all the comments from that ip address, I felt a disturbance, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.
It’s exactly what it sounds like- bedazzling for your vajayjay. The trend exploded when Jennifer Love Hewitt announced that she Vajazzles regularly to feel good about her privates. It took mere minutes for bloggers to go wild in pursuit of real Vajazzling pics. Alas, there were none to be found on Google. Until the lovely team at Spa Week Daily called me up and said “Bryce, we know you’re at the forefront of Vajazzling… you’re basically the authority on the subject, any chance we can send you down to Completely Bare Spa in NYC to actually get it done?”
When so much clamour greets even D-list celebrities, it is curious that Sedaris, who has sold more than seven million books, been nominated for Grammys, filled Carnegie Hall, whose every volume of memoir begins with pages of lavish ecomiums comparing him to Oscar Wilde and Mark Twain, lives in London almost unnoticed. Indeed, he considered calling his latest book Indefinite Leave to Remain after the British immigration status he was granted two years ago: “I liked the little contradiction in the phrase.” He passed his Home Office test on UK life: its quirky questions —“How old do you have to be to deliver milk?” — appealed to an American humorist fascinated by the oddness of the everyday.
Perhaps his low-key profile is intrinsic to his appeal: readers love him so intensely because they feel that they discovered him themselves. Sedaris rarely appears on TV (“I don’t want to be seen as just a personality with a typewriter”) although he travels the world giving huge, sold-out readings.
Mostly he writes about his upbringing in a loud, Greek-American clan in Raleigh, North Carolina, but his outsiderness — being gay, odd-looking, drifting between college courses and lame jobs into sundry addictions — renders his humour unflinching and often very dark. In his most recent volume, called When You Are Engulfed in Flames, he discusses the etiquette dilemmas arising from when a neighbour in the Normandy village where he owns a house is jailed as a paedophile, and the first time he told anyone he was gay ( to explain to a man who’d picked him up hitchhiking why he didn’t want to have sex, right there in the car, with his negligée-clad wife).