cellini's Diaryland Diary

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In The Parade

My thing at Y@le is all set today. On February 13th I am speaking at Y@le. They are flying me in and the whole nine yards.

Then I also had a brilliant idea for another piece for Sl@te. I pitched it within minutes of thinking of it and about an hour later I had a green light on it. This one will be about herbiv0res that sneakily eat me@t. No idea when it will run -- I still have to write it. But the subject has been on my mind for years and I have plenty to say about it.

Those p1g-fuckers swear to me that my chicken piece is running Thursday and will be on the front page. Whatever. I heard the same from Pr3vention this evening.

I am listening to this song by Current 93 right now:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OVGQ5zokDDE

Right now I should be quitting. I should be running for the fucking hills. I need to get paid. But how do I run from this? Y@le wants to fly me in to speak at a symposium. Sl@te Magazine just bought another article from me. Millions of people will, again, read what I have to say.

I matter. I think about things and I say what is on my mind and millions of people harken to it. How do you walk away from that?

The legitimacy of speaking at Y@le is also, honestly, a lure. As I have written here before, I literally do not have a high school diploma. Nor a GED. I dropped out of high school to work at a newspaper and sneak my way into college. I love the idea of now being handed this sort of academic legitimacy.

What is this? What is this to be famous without getting paid for it? I don't understand. The whole idea of being famous is supposed to encompass being rich as well. But I'm still as far from that as one can imagine. Millions of people know who I am.

I get these emails from people who think that they know me. They pour out their lives. I don't know what to say to most of them. When I meet them in person I usually like them, but it is awkward because they think that they know me very well.

Everything about me is not this hunting and meat and wildlife stuff. I read Joyce and Theroux and Asimov and Maldoror and so forth. But every time I pick up the phone or swing the microphone in front of my lips I reduce myself to the tiny universe of my own books.

What do I do with this little bit of mattering?

Oh, I want to be in the parade. John Dee and Samuel Pepys and Voltaire and Wilde and Burroughs and Hunter S. Thompson.

12:09 a.m. - 2012-09-20

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