Somewhere in a Vienna Airport...

There's a book I wrote and had published in limited (5 copies) release -- since I had a coupon code for free printing and I love deals. The secret romantic in me has a lot of love for the found object and it perhaps being a sort of serendipitous event. To that end I'd decided I should drop off a copy of said book somewhere in Europe while there with the wife-to-be. There was a most excellent venue presented to me in Prague, but alas I wasn't carrying it. Or I may, in fact, have just been too nervous about it. Probably overzealous to drop it in the Kafka section. With a touch of sadness, I czeched out.

Nearing the end of our journey another great and eclectic book shop within the Museumsquartier that might be this place presented itself. Again I don't recall whether I was bookless or ball-less in the circumstance, but once again opportunity passed. After all, it's a little embarrassing to stick your own book into a place like that.

So at last I gave into halfway guerrilla marketing, purchasing the latest Junot Diaz book at an exorbitant rate in a Vienna airport book shop, and replacing it with my own offering. Inside was just an inscription hopeful that someone would pick it up, read it and, most importantly and least likely, enjoy it. Who's to say how much of this will or has taken place as one thing I didn't do was include any sort of contact information, save even a link to this blog or perhaps a twitter account.

At any rate, between the swapping of [book] places with another writer from New Jersey, and that the book is about an itinerant and then left in an airport, it all seems to have come in not too far shy of 360 degrees. Sometimes you don't get to find out where or how a thing ends up. And since fiction is about inventing outcomes (or lying and calling them invented -- one might use the terms "repackaging" or "repurposing"), an invented future for this work fits just fine.

Fear

I have a weird relationship with privacy, truth, and online personas, so when I saw the other day that The Department of Homeland Security had dropped by this place, I admit, I got a little worried. In general I don't say anything too sensational on here, but dating back to when Google started reading your email and offering targeted ads, well hey I read 1984 okay? I've already been on the cusp of minimizing my online visibility and footprint, because I prefer real-life interactions and perhaps just because of the change of the seasons. I can't exactly dictate why I go through these back-and-forth feelings, I just know that it happens. Sure, I like to be accessible, but most of the people I want to be accessible to would be capable of tracking me down without Facebook, a blog, or Twitter. I am also aware that this is not a unique feeling.

As far as discovering how discoverable I may be, I realized that I am the number 5 search result for "deaf people are assholes," (number 3 if you change assholes to "jerks") and the number 2 search result for "shitty boy bands." That last one really amazes me. For "backhair" I yield a solidly unlucky 13, but where I come in number 1 is for "'Me Want Honeycomb' ad." The old quotes within quotes thing really gets to me.

At any rate, welcome to October folks, an even more appropriate time for bourbon and whiskey (actually, when isn't?), and a time at which it's okay to consume the occasional pumpkin ale, now that they are available and all. The weather back in the Chi is decidedly fall, and while I'm a bit bummed to be unable to run in it, just walking around, smelling and drinking it in is pretty damn skippy. See ya in a jif.

Anger is a Gift

Shout out to my boys Rage Against the Machine. Lately I have been one testy son of a bitch on my daily commute. I don't know precisely why, maybe it is the change of season, but good lord, for a generally mild-mannered Bruce Banner, NJ Transit and NYC walking manage to make me mighty testy.

I have taken to periodically leering at people who walk obliviously with their faces glued to their iPods, phones, and PDA devices. I'm not sure how expertly these people might walk anyway, but trust me, they certainly can't manage to walk while operating any of these devices. The thing is, like other walking-related issues I've mentioned in the past, I'm sure if I managed to bump into them they would consider it entirely my fault. Amen to that.

As usual though, it only takes little things to distract me from my silly anger. This evening approaching the tracks for a departing train was a perfect example. People tend to push and shove much more than seems necessary and the other morning I actually glared at a lady that literally kept slamming into me. This was on a packed track in Penn Station when no one was moving much, so the slamming motion seemed unnecessary. She gave me a good three feet or more halo after I evil-eyed her. So tonight I feel a mass slam into me, but at an awfully low height. I turned around, prepped to glare or perhaps even mention that the perpetrator should watch themselves, only to see an Indian boy, likely aged about six, who had barreled into me in the way that children will in public or private places. This brought a smile to my face, and I happily let the family walk ahead of me. After all, we're all riding the same train.

Anyway, next up I need to talk some Gossip Girl and mention how people always think I work at stores, so now I just strike preemptively and help them out anyway. Shit, I need to make like Stella, and get my groove back...