Hey, all. I’ve been working on preparing the manuscript for printing via Print-On-Demand at lulu.com. I’ve got it almost completely wrapped up, still have a few kinks to work out, waiting on artwork and cover design. In the meantime I thought I’d post a little writing I’ve done other than FUTUREPROOF. The following is a parody of a section of Don DeLillo’s book WHITE NOISE. I wrote this with my friend and fellow writer Brandon Stickney while we were attending a writing conference in New York. It won a prize after being chosen by legendary writer Jay McInerney as the best parody. If you want to check out the source for the parody, read the section in DeLillo’s book about the Most Photographed Barn In America. I can’t reprint it here due to copyright issues.
“Murray asked me about a tourist attraction known as the Second Most Photographed Barn In America. We drove twenty-two miles into the country around Dylartown. There were meadows and apple orchards, silos and horse shit. White fences ran as fast as they could through the rolling fields. Soon the signs started appearing.
THE SECOND MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA
With Murray keeping track on his fingers and toes, we counted twenty signs before we reached the site. There were forty cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along the cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing, buttressed by a small nearby tent for fucking. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides–pictures of the dilapidated barn taken from an elevated spot. Another booth sold condoms, sensuous oils, edible underwear, whips and bondage gear. We stood near the grove of trees and urinated. Murray occasionally scrawled some remembered Muzak notes in a little book.
I asked Murray why he wanted to come here, rather than the more trendy and fashionable Most photographed barn in America, just up the road.
‘Because there is no such thing,’ he said. ‘Oh, it’s there alright and people visit it, but they don’t really see it. The first or best of anything is an unattainable ideal, a thing too big to be made, seen, touched, photographed.’
Enraptured in his thought, he continued, ‘The second of anything is always better because we, humans, you and I, and everyone can fully and completely grasp the second, the failure to be the best much better, and with more satisfaction, than with that which is Number One. For example, did you ever make love to the most beautiful blonde in school, the one every boy drooled over, the one who dated the quarterback?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Yes, you did,’ he stressed. ‘You did for real or in your head, but no matter what, you never really had sex or made love to her. You had sex with the IDEA of The Best, the most beautiful, the so-called Number One, but you never actually had her because she never existed.
‘It is the girl you married, the one who you hung on to and hung on to you, no matter what, whom you have and continue to really make love to because she’s REAL. Every man you know knows that, too, about her, and they want her too because she is so perfectly genuine. With experience, the intelligent man will always photograph the Second Most Photographed Barn in America. It’s obvious.’
He seemed immensely pleased by this.
‘Plus,’ I added, ‘I guess the Most Photographed Barn doesn’t have a fuck tent.’