A Gent's Outlook

A Literary Agent Divulges the TRUTH about Publishing

Monday, March 27, 2006

A Wannabe's Revenge?

Bon Giorno! Or what the fuck ever!

Sorry dear ones, but I have been out of commission for a week or so in sunny Italia. I’m finishing up the month here by attending the Bologna Book Fair. Yes, I know it’s only for kids books, but a beautiful editor friend of a friend of Marley’s made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse.

I think I have moaned on here before about how I love Europe. No writers! Juuuust kidding. There are writers, but they can’t speak a fucking word of English. So they are technically mute writers…my favorite kind.

Anyway, I DO love Europe, and when Bunny Sue from Random or maybe it was a random Bunny Sue told Marley that we should all do a “gang” trip to Baloney, I was all for it. I am the only guy, unless you count Marley and that is only really her potty mouth, so why not?


Inns. That’s why not.

Do you know what happens when you get drunk with a bunch of girlzzzz from the publishing biz in Italy and end up a couple of days later in the middle of the night in another European country that shall remain nameless (HINT: There are lots of consonants in its name)? Let me clue you in. You get to stay in an inn. A nice, quiet, cozy little place that time has left behind. And for good reason.

What happened was that me and the gals got a little toasty one night and planned a road trip. Oh, and I forgot Victor, or Vincenzo, or some guy (maybe an ugly girl?) with a foreign name and lots of hair was with us. I really don't know where he came from. Having a car would have been a good idea, but getting on a train was our only alternative. What would have been a better idea is if someone would have remembered that we had planned this disaster in the making when we were all drunk, some more than others (and those giggly bitches had the ink pen, I sure as fuck didn’t). So we got on the damn train…some damn train. Right now, all I can tell you is that the train stopped in a little town with an inn and lots of consonants in its name. And we—me, Marley, Vincenzo, Bunny Sue, and two other publishing people—had no choice but to stay in an inn. The inn. The inn in the middle of this quaint little village run by a toothless guy wearing, I swear to God, an apron and some kind of hat with flaps on it, and his two daughters, whom I shall refer to here on out as Twinkie and Tinker Bell.

And guess who is of marryin’ age?

That’s right. While the ladies and Vinnie suffered little more than technology withdrawal symptoms, I spent my time hiding from Twink and Tink. Apparently, Poppa Ear Flaps wanted to marry either of his girls off to a rich American. Vinnie wouldn’t do, probably all that hair and the lollipops. Anyway, Poppa kept accosting me all evening and basically withheld information on where in the hell we were until I agreed to “dance” with his precious darlings, because apparently if you dance with a girl under the moonlight in Wherethefuckeverville and the cock crows twice before your cock falls off, that means you have found your soulmate.

Well, folks, I did not find my soulmate in either Twink or Tink, lovely as they both were. I did discover, however, that there are places where time does stand still, and Kjystnmstanland is it. We got to our rooms, where it was freezing. There was no hot water (although, wink wink, Twink and Tink would bring me some later on if I wanted it) or hot anything (unless you count Twink and Tink). There was one phone, circa 1204 BCE, and one bathroom with a single, sort of john (and a mirror, which said “In case of emergency, break and slit wrists”). Now, I don’t want to offend the ladies out there, but you guys do tend to spend more time in the loo-loo than us boys do. That means that Bunny, Marley, and the girlzzzz, spent half the evening getting ready for bed, using the only bathroom within miles. Vinnie wasn’t a problem; he had taken his monthly dip last week. No competition there.

You would think NYC babes would be so out of their element in the Land of the Lost that they would be in tears and constantly out-bitching each other. You know those ridiculous stereotypes you read in all those chick-lit novels? The goofy, vulnerable, yet quirky, yet fun, yet sassy gal thrown into a situation ala A Simple Life? Well, these gals weren’t that. They were enjoying themselves. Having the time of their lives. They had to share beds (none with me, of course, I got stuck with Vinnie and Sasha the goat, but at least it kept Twink and Tink away), a bathroom, and even some clothing, and they LOVED it. Someone said something about staying another day before heading to our next destination, but I put my foot down (and it went through the floor, which hurt like a son-of-a-bitch).

So, sadly we waved good-bye to Poppa, Twink, Tink, and Sasha the goat, and headed back to a nice warm hotel in a big city where Marley could create another international incident (more on that later—check CNN), the girlzzz could shop, Vinnie could get a bikini wax, and I could get medical treatment and slip into something more comfortable.

Her name is Isabella. Wow.



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