If you are like me, you know what it is like to wash up unconscious on the beach with sand in your undergarments and have a beautiful Italian woman resuscitate you vigorously. If you are not like me—and I seriously doubt that you are like me in any way—, then you will have to take my word for what the experience was like.
Most people aren’t like me at all; how could they be? I’m a nearly-famous artist, and, so, by extension, anyone reading this book must be an idiot and/or no one of consequence. You are probably just one of the nameless, boring, dull, stupid, hairy monkeys who dream about beaches, about unconsciousness, about sand, about undergarments, and about beautiful women resuscitating you on a desolate beach and saying really sexy things in you ear in an Italian accent like, “Oh, my limpy spaghetti.”
Most people, and I’m sure you are part of this cadre, don’t contribute to society like I do, and that’s fine. We can’t all be finely tuned, nuanced, smell-goody, thoroughbred graduate students who make artwork for a living, can we?
So, if this is you—not me, but the, you know, group who isn’t famous like me—and you don’t smell that great or you are as hairy as a money, just sit back, relax, and watch me (the nearly-famous artist) work my artistic magic in the forthcoming pages. Many of my contributions are not for sale, of course, but I do condescend occasionally to communicate with the masses and produce something that really sizzles like a hotcake, and that’s what this little book is about: my mentor and I decided that we would put together some of my sorbet works—if that’s the word—and publish them so that bosomy graduate students can get their crimson nails into the details of my life to begin speculating about my sexuality and about how mean my mother was to me when I was little. Let’s not forget these lonely sad young men, too, who are, you know, nameless, boring, dull, stupid, hairy monkeys who dream about beaches and such, but who are permanently barred from a life of refinement and elegance because of their fat sweaty fingers; they too can enjoy reading about my adventures and enjoy some light summer reading with which to help them get through another few months without trying to kill themselves again. I mean, come on: if you are going to do it, really do it.
Generally, I ask for thirty or fifty dollars per book because I think it is essential that people cough up the dough and put a good price tag on the invaluable contributions that I make, but can anyone really put an actual price on what I do for a living? Of course not, so the least we can all do is all pay, say, a lot of money per book, like sixty or eighty dollars per book. A living wage.
Okay, so now that that distasteful marketing aspect is out of the way, and you’ve paid for all the invaluable stuff that I’m about to dump on you, let’s get going with the particular story that I want to tell you about, which didn’t start with me awakening on the beach to a vigorous woman resuscitating me—that happened later and left a really interesting rash—but the story does begin on a beach and with vigorous poking with an old man’s walking stick, so that’s nearly all the same details.