Pete Rose

I'm repeating myself, pretty much, as I just said this over at the Sloth's blog.

But I'm already tired beyond belief of hearing about Pete Rose. It irks the shit out of me that he's getting this much attention for admitting "Yeah, I'm a shitstain," then not apologizing, and doing it all so that he'll probably, at the very least, get Hall of Fame consideration in 2005.

And let me ask this. What kind of a miserable literary world do we live in? One, apparently, where Pete Rose gets a 500,000 print run for fessing up to something that any of us would have bet our left nut that he had done in the first place, yet one where I can't get my collection of cookie recipes even picked up on the small press?

That last line in the preceding statement is false--my cookie recipes are stored where nobody can get to them: Texas.

But it is telling of the publishing field as it exists today, and it makes me think that maybe ghostwriting is the way to go, if you want to get your shit published up all pretty.

(Which is a title consideration for the short story collection I'll be putting up on Cafe Press before long: Shit Published Up All Pretty)

Lastly, I can remember thinking more than a year ago that Baseball's Chief Used Car Salesman, in another attempt to curry favor for his administration, would probably end up reinstating Rose with all the rights and privelages thereto. I still feel that way. Because I'm beginning to think that Bud Selig is my worst enemy, and he'll do just about anything he can to irritate me.

(It's him that's been waking me up every afternoon by yelling for dogs named Lucy and Lickety Split right underneath my apartment window).