It’s been a busy time around here. Books needing to be written. Dogs needing baths. Naps needing to be taken. And there’s only so much room in my small brain. So in order to make better use of my fretting time, I’m banishing all thoughts about the following:

1. Miss California’s Gay Marriage Views

She’s a beauty pageant contestant. The only people who agree with her are idiots anyway, so let them clap for her.

2. How Much Weight Valerie Bertinelli Has Lost

I loved you in One Day at a Time, sweetie, but I just can’t be bothered with your soaring self esteem regarding your shrinking thighs and ass.

3. The Somali Pirates

If you’re stupid enough to sail through there without enough firepower to fend off six skinny dudes in an inflatable boat, you kind of deserve what you get.

4. Reality TV

It’s become America’s Next Top Idol Loser Survivor Apprentice Chef. And if I hear Tyra say, “The next name that I’m going to call is . . .” one more time, I’m going to shriek and fall over dead. Don’t tell us you’re going to call it, woman, just call it.

5. The Economy

No matter what happens, I still won’t have any money. So stop reminding me.

6. Celebrities Adopting Third World Babies

It won’t make you any younger, Madge, or get you any closer to winning an Oscar. Besides, you’ll never beat the Jolie-Pitts. Just stop it.

7. People Becoming Celebrities for Having Babies

A note to Octomom, Jon & Kate and their 8, those people with 18 and counting, and the family with a dozen around their table — spiders and fish have that many because most of them won’t survive. Unless you’re planning on losing a bunch to predators, knock it off.

8. Mass Murders

It was interesting the first time around. Now it’s just stupid.

9. Twilight

Mormon vampire stories. Good in theory, bad in reality.

10. Athletes on Steroids

It’s sports. Who cares? If you want to penalize them, stop paying them so much.

All right, so, a month ago I mentioned that I’ve kind of been dreading the reviews for my new novel, What We Remember. I generally don’t worry about reviews, mostly because there’s nothing you can do about them and all-too-frequently the reviewer thinks “review” means “find anything, no matter how small, to pick on.” And it really is true that the only one who remembers a bad review is the author. Oh, and the author’s enemies. Not that I have ever rejoiced in a foe’s bad review. I wish everyone only brisk sales and unending feelings of well-being.

Anyway. I don’t usually worry. But I’m currently in hyper neurotic mode because a bunch of projects are converging in an unpleasantly stress-making way, which I’m dealing with by worrying about everything but those projects. And by eating bags of Cheetos.

So today I got my first review for What We Remember, from the trade magazine Publishers Weekly. My editor called to read it to me. The conversation began with him saying, “PW reviewed the new book today. I think it’s good.”

I know, right?But you’ll understand when you read it. Here you go:

What We Remember Michael Thomas Ford (Kensington)

Ford’s adequate if overbusy latest begins with the body of sheriff Daniel McCloud, who went missing seven years ago, discovered buried in a box in the woods. As the investigation by the current sheriff, Nate Derry, progresses, the McClouds must come to terms with their father having been murdered, while McCloud’s son, James, becomes the prime suspect, and a dark web of deception that chokes the Derry and McCloud families threatens to be unearthed. Leaning heavily on flashbacks, the story jumps between its perhaps too many points of view with relative ease. Ford handily navigates the suffocating intimacy of smalltown life, and his wide supporting cast has a few meaty characters. While the big reveal is set up very early on, the sprinkling of smaller mysteries and little tragedies will keep readers going. (June release.)

Adequate. Overbusy. Hard as it might be to believe, these are not really words that bring joy to an author’s heart. I know you will find that shocking, so I will give you a moment to regain your composure.

All right, so that’s not what one might call good. But the rest is okay. I can deal with things like with relative ease and handily navigates and will keep readers going. Particularly will keep readers going. At the end of the day, that’s what’s important.

And I fared waaaaaaaay better than a certain Super Mega Successful Author did. By all accounts this fellow is a lovely man, and every book he writes sells a trillion copies, so I suspect he doesn’t much care what reviewers say. But if he did care he might not be too excited about comments such as underdeveloped motivation and a jokey narrative tone and will leave others scratching their heads, and especially not a lot of readers may have already checked out.

Okay, yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. His worse review makes me feel a little better about mine. I never said I was gracious. It’s not like I’m going to phone him and read his review to him in a mocking tone. I’m a better person than that. Besides, I don’t have his number.

So speaking of books, I’ve been doing a lot of newspaper interviews recently about my discovery of a new solar system. I mean because my friend Seth’s book Pride and Prejudice and Zombies has become a pop culture phenomenon and every time someone writes about him they want to write about my upcoming Jane Bites Back.

Mostly these interviews are fun, but occasionally there is a Moment. The most recent Moment went like this:

Reporter: “It must be exciting having your first book coming out. Are you excited?”

Me: Long pause, followed by lighthearted laugh. “I’m very excited. Just as excited as I was for the first fifty-four books I published over the past twenty years.”

Reporter: “Oh. So, why do you think Jane Austen is so popular?”

Okay, I get it. I’m not Stephen King. But come on. You’re writing about me. I have a website. I have a Wikipedia entry, for crying out loud. Would it be so hard to do a little Googling? It reminds me of another Moment from a long time ago:

Reporter: “I haven’t actually read your book, so could you tell me why it’s interesting?”

And people wonder why so many writers kill themselves.

Now I have to get back to work on the next book, which was due last week. I can’t wait to hear what PW has to say about it.

When my first essay collection came out (that’s it over there on the left), almost nobody knew who I was. I’d been writing a syndicated monthly humor column for a year or so and it was popular in gay papers, but that accounted for maybe 5 readers. So I was surprised when Alec Baldwin Doesn’t Love Me shot to the top of the gay bestseller lists. I was even more surprised when it stayed there. And stayed there. And stayed there. All in all, it was one of the 10 bestselling gay books for more than two years.

Now, I’d like to say that the book’s instant popularity was because people found my writing so refreshing. I learned very quickly though that it had more to do with the picture on the cover. At one of the first book signings following the release of the collection–at the annual Book Expo America or Book America Expo or American Book Expo or whatever they were calling it that day–I sat at a table while people came by and looked at the books. Over and over again, I watched as a man stared at the cover of my book, picked it up, and said, “Is that the author?”

You may not believe me when I tell you that this was not as ego-boosting to me as you might imagine, but it’s true. Nor was it a happy experience when, upon finding out that I was not the fellow in the photo, the man holding the book inevitably said, “Oh.” That’s it. Oh. I know what “Oh” means. It means “I was really hoping you looked like this guy, but you don’t. At all. Which sucks for both of us.” But they (usually) bought the book anyway, so I got over it pretty quickly.

A lot of people also thought that the picture really was of Alec Baldwin, which it isn’t. It’s Tom Katt. For those of you who don’t know, Tom Katt was a popular gay porn star, famous for his hairy chest in a time when most every guy in porn looked like a 12-year-old girl. That’s him on the right.

He doesn’t look anything like Alec Baldwin, but hairy is hairy and the picture was free, so there you go. I’m not complaining.

I hadn’t thought about Mr. Katt in a long time, until earlier this week a friend asked me who the guy on the cover of the book was. Gay porn stars have a shelf life of about six seconds, and Tom hasn’t made a movie in years, and this friend had never heard of Tom Katt. Coincidentally, we were also talking about how it can be a big shock to see recent pictures of people you haven’t seen in a while. I thought it would be interesting to see whatever became of my cover man.

Well, this is what happened to him.

It seems that Tom, in True Hollywood Story fashion, got a little bit too much into the boozcahol and nose candy. Also, apparently, the Ho-Hos. Not that I’m judging. I’ve gotten a little porky myself since the book came out.

Tom made another big change–he found Jesus and turned straight. I don’t know that he was ever gay gay, if you know what I mean, and he did do some bisexual porn, but still this is news. Unlike some other porn stars who turn their backs on the people who made them stars, however, Tom continues to be a vocal supporter of the gay community.

Now to relieve your feeings of dismay over Tom’s change in physique, let me explain that the picture to the left is a “before” picture taken for one of those body transformation contests sponsored by a sports supplement company. Because Tom Katt was actually David Papaleo, a competitive bodybuilder. And along with becoming friends with Jesus, David decided to get back in the game.

This is what he looked like by the end of the contest.

Admittedly this is not a look I personally like. It’s a little too insect exoskeleton for me, what with all the bumpy things and severe angles. I’d prefer it if he were somewhere in between before and after. But good for him! He looks great. This is the guy who helped me sell piles of books.

From everything I’ve heard about him, Tom/David seems like a really nice guy. People I know who have worked with him have had nothing but great things to say. And despite the Jesus thing (which always freaks me out) he seems to have avoided the whole ex-gay bullshit. So congrats, David. I’m glad you’re happy with your life.

Now before I go, I want to mention one other tiny little matter regarding Alec Baldwin Doesn’t Love Me. Not too long ago, Alec did a short Q&A with Advocate magazine in which he was asked if he’d ever read my book. He said that no, he had not.

Well all I have to say to that is: “Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!”

As evidence I submit a letter received from Mr. Baldwin in April of 1998. You can click on the image to see it at actual size.

Okay, no, he doesn’t actually say he read the book. But he does say that “My dresser, Robert Guy, carried a copy of your book around with him to alternately kiss and slap me with at will.” Which, now that I think of it, sounds like a good plot for a Tom Katt movie.

He also says, at the end, that “Your book is very funny and thank you for thinking of me.” He could have added “while you touch yourself” to the end of that sentence, but I suppose he was trying to be professional.

Anyway, my point is that Alec lied either to myself or to the good people at Advocate. Alec, you should be ashamed. You’ve been a very bad boy. Very bad. In fact, I think you might need to be spanked.

I’ll be right over.

As someone who puts books out into the world, I have grudgingly come to accept that people will have opinions about them. Whenever you create something for public consumption, the public–or at least some portion of them–will feel the need to announce what they think about it. That’s fine. But here’s the problem: we’ve made it too easy for people to say what they think.

Blogs, for example. Here I am telling you how annoying it is when other people have opinions. That’s my opinion. And you are sure to have your opinion about my opinion. That’s why that little comment box is down there at the bottom of this post. It may even happen that other people have their opinions about your opinion of my opinion.

Which brings us to yesterday. To those of you who know me, it will not surprise you that I was spending a lot of time not working on the novel that is due on April 15. (John, if you’re reading this, I promise it will be done.) What I was doing was reading some articles on sfgate.com, the website of the San Francisco Chronicle newspaper.

SF Gate provides the opportunity for people to comment on their stories. I’ve only recently started to read these comments, but already I’m addicted to them. See, there’s this weird subculture of commenters. The same people show up again and again, and you fairly quickly start to form ideas about who they are, or at least who they are online. You start to recognize their screen names, and to anticipate what they might say about any given article. For instance, last week a local fellow went all mad cow and shot a bunch of his family members dead. I know, it’s a big boo-hoo, but that’s not the point. The point is that when I read the story, my first thought wasn’t, “How awful.” It was, “I bet cowboyjeepman is going to say something about how this is another reason immigrants shouldn’t be in this country.”

Which he did. And just as predictably, veganfairy countered that he was a racist bigot and blah, blah, blah. They say the same thing on every article. Natasha Richardson died? Blame the immigrants! The polar ice caps are melting? Get the immigrants off ‘em! The banks are failing? It’s those damn Mexicans! And so on.

For a while I resisted the temptation to add my comments to the stories. This was, of course, futile. I couldn’t help but comment on some stupid thing some stupid person said. (Stupid is a buzzword in the commenting world, along with moron, bleeding heart liberal, right-winger, and baby killer.) Then that stupid person called me stupid and, well, we were off to the races. It all got tedious fairly quickly, but I still find myself dropping in from time to time, often just to post a comment I know will infuriate my enemy.

Okay, so yesterday. After riling up militarypete (homophobic, thinks everyone who lives in San Francisco is a snooty liberal, which of course we are) by suggesting his fear of gays might have something to do with his really wanting to take it in the antechamber, I wandered over to the Real Housewives of New York website. It would take too long to explain the mental chain of events that caused this, so just go with it.

If you watch the show, you undoubtedly have been talking about the showdown between Kelly and Bethenny that happened this week. It was, to say the least, a highlight in the timeline of American popular culture. Perhaps even in the history of the world. If you haven’t seen it, find it on youtube or on the Bravo site or anywhere you can, because you will love it.

Anyway, I went to the Bravo site because some genius has given every single person to ever be on a Bravo show a blog. Seriously, every one of them. This way we always know what Nick thinks about the latest Project Runway contestants’ rouching abilities, who Leann thinks should be cut from Top Chef for having no idea how to mix pomegranate and tripe, and what Andy Cohen thinks about absolutely everything while looking like a kind of hot special ed student. It’s too much excitement for one brain to handle, but there you are.

I went because I wanted to see what Bethenny and Kelly had written in their blogs about their catfight. And they did not disappoint. I won’t bore you with the details, as you can read them yourselves. Besides, it’s not important. What’s important is that when I finished reading the blogs, I actually spent ten minutes writing Kelly a response.

I know, right? But I did. I believe I may have even used the words “pathetic,” “vacuous,” and “miserable human being,” but I could be wrong. I was very excited at the time, and the details are fuzzy. Then I sent it off. And immediately I thought, “You’ve become one of Those People.”

Yes. Well. Fine. I’m one of Those People. I told off somebody I will never know, who I don’t give a shit about, and who doesn’t give a shit about what I think of her. Or maybe she does. Maybe Kelly is at this very moment reading the comments on her blog and becoming so depressed by the fact that so many people hate her that she’s going to stick her head in the oven. I doubt it, though. She’s too stupid to be depressed about anything. Even if she is, she’ll just go out and buy something to make herself feel better, or eat an Entemann’s pound cake and throw it up again.

This is the problem with comment buttons–they’re irresistible. We can’t help but push them. And they’re everywhere. We can comment on our friends’ Facebook statuses. We can comment on the books we buy from Amazon. We can comment on our Netflix rentals. We can Yelp about what we had for dinner, fave our favorite Flickr photos (fotos?), and Twitter about everything we haven’t been able to comment on. Then we can vote on whether or not other people’s comments contribute to the discussion, are useful, or violate some TOS.

It’s madness, I tell you. Sheer madness. We’re all so busy commenting and faving and tweeting that we’re not actually doing anything. Soon there will be two classes: those who do, and those who comment. I don’t know about you, but I’d kind of like to be on the doing team.

Before I get back to work, though, can we discuss how excellent it is that the patronizing Countess de Lesseps has been unceremoniously de-countessed just days before her book on manners and etiquette hits the shelves? Can you say remainder bin? I haven’t been so pleased since Sandra got booted from ANTM. Discuss.