Yesterday I was tooling around the interwebs and–in the inexplicable way that these things happen–came across some reviews for a book the title of which I now can’t remember. But the title isn’t important. It’s one of the reader reviews that caught my attention. I’ve been thinking about it since reading it, and still haven’t quite decided what I think about it.

Basically the reviewer said (and I’m paraphrasing here, as I didn’t copy the review and now can’t find it): I really liked this novel. However, it bothers me that the author describes one character’s Hawaiian heritage and points out that another one is black, but never describes the other characters as being white. It’s just assumed that they are. I think this is a kind of racism.

All right, so I can’t remember the title of the novel and I can’t quote the review directly. Whatever. You get the idea. I promise I’m not making it up. You can ask my friend Jill, as I told her about it at dinner last night. And if you still don’t believe me you can call the restaurant (Xiao Loong) and ask my friend Jeff, the owner, because we talked about it with him too.

This is something I struggle with myself. In general it is usually assumed–unless something in the book’s description makes it otherwise apparent–that the author is writing about characters of her own ethnicity. I know this is a generalization, but it’s true, so don’t send me nasty e-mails. When someone picks up an Alice Walker novel, they can be reasonably sure that it’s going to be a story about African-American characters, and Amy Tan’s readers know that they’re probably going to get a story about Chinese-Americans. (Oh, I have a great Amy Tan story. I’ll tell you at the end of the blog.)

Similarly, when my readers pick up one of my novels, they assume they’re going to be reading about white people, and usually about white gay men. Because that’s what I am, and it’s what I (mostly) write about. My novels are about what it’s like to be a white gay man living in America at this particular time in history. It’s my thing, as the kids say.

But I don’t only write about white characters. Sometimes I have Latino characters, or Asian characters, or African-American characters. And this is where it gets tricky. I want the reader to know that this character looks a certain way or comes from a particular background. And so I am faced with a problem: How do I do this without it being awkward?

Sometimes using a name helps. Dr. Yan most likely creates a certain visual in a reader’s mind, right? But what if Yan is her married name and her maiden one was McClatchy? Or what if Ben Goldberg has a Peruvian mother and a Jewish father and takes after Mom? Now we’re back where we started.

“Just describe him,” you say. Yes. Well. “Dr. Yan entered the room. Her black hair and tilted eyes caught Reginald’s attention. She was stunning.” No. And there are only so many times you can get away with “his mocha skin” and “her Cherokee cheekbones.” As in precisely once. And if you think for one second that describing a character as having “a profile that suggested a Jewish heritage” is going to win anyone over, think again.

But that’s sort of what we’re left with. Yes, context usually makes it fairly easy to tell what’s going on with a character. But not always. And sometimes you don’t have 40 pages in which to establish a character. You have to do it now now now. This character needs to be Eskimo, if not for plot purposes then simply for the sake of accurately describing a world where not everyone is Latino, or white, or Incan. For instance, when earlier I mentioned my friend Jeff who owns the Chinese restaurant, what kind of mental picture did you get? Asian because he owns a Chinese restaurant? White because his name is Jeff? Does it bother you that I didn’t give you any clues?

When my main character first appears I don’t write, “Philip, a white gay man, stepped out of the Volvo and waved to his friend Brad, who was also white and gay.” My readers just assume that Philip is probably white and gay, until something comes along that tells them otherwise. Is this racist, as the reviewer of that novel suggested? Or is it simply that we accept as a kind of shorthand that a book’s characters will largely be of the same race as the author? (Assuming that we know the author’s race or nationality.)

And what if at that first appearance Brad is standing on the porch with his lover Greg, who happens to be Japanese. Is my best option to open with, “Philip, a white gay man, stepped out of the Volvo and waved to his friends Brad, who was also white and gay, and Greg, who was wearing a kimono that he’d purchased on a trip to Kyoto to research his ancestral roots.”? Ha ha! No.

Yes, I’m being the tiniest bit sarcastic. But it’s a question worth discussing. How, as authors, do we make our books inclusive without making them feel like some kind of Up With People pamphlet? Is it racist to point out any character’s race? And most important, just how do I describe Dr. Yan’s Irish coloring, which my protagonist finds very interesting given her surname?

Discuss.

And now for the Amy Tan story. Okay, so years ago I was working with a publishing house that was attempting to get Tan to write a book for them. The publisher (a middle aged straight white man) was a lovely person, but not terribly socially adept. I was in the elevator one day when this man and Tan got in. As the elevator descended the publisher–clearly trying to find some common ground with this author he badly wanted on his list–turned to Tan and said, “You know, I’ve always liked Chinese food.”

True story.

I wrote my first book on a typewriter. At the time I knew nothing about computers, nothing about the internet, nothing about search engines or blogs or websites. I did the research for that book at the New York Public Library, where every other periodical I needed was missing and the stacks smelled like pee. I walked around with a pocket full of dimes for the copy machine, listing to port like the Titanic.

Fast forward twenty years. Now I spend all day on the computer, either writing or avoiding writing. I connect with readers and other writers through my website, through blogs, and through social networking sites. And I love it. I can keep in touch with friends, keep readers up to date on my projects, and basically make what was once a very large world very small.

Which brings me to my new favorite site: Shelfari. I was introduced to Shelfari by my friend Kemble Scott. It’s a fun site where readers and writers get together to talk about books and writing and anything else they like. But mostly books.

If you go to my personal Shelfari page you can see my virtual bookshelf. This is where you “shelve” books you’re reading, have read, or want to read, giving your friends a fun way to see what you have in common and, most important, get ideas of books they might want to read next. Clicking on the covers will show you reader reviews and also give you options for purchasing (hint hint). You can also visit my Shelfari author page for more info about me and my books. Because I know you’re dying to know everything you possibly can about me.

If you sign up for Shelfari, be sure to add me as a friend. And check out all of the cool interest groups on the site. There’s something there for everyone.

On the subject of finding new books, a lot of you have been asking about the Circle of Three series I wrote under the name Isobel Bird. The hard copies are out of print now, but they’ve recently been released in e-book editions. For Kindle editions, check out the handy Isobel Bird Kindle Bookshop below to get them. For all other electronic reader versions–including Adobe eBook, Gemstar, Microsoft Reader, MobiPocket, Sony Reader, and Palm Reader–you can find them at the HarperCollins website.

A couple of years ago I was doing a book signing with several other authors. During a break from the crushing mob of 6 people who came to see us, one of the other writers said to me, “Whenever I’m writing a book my partner has to hold my hand when we walk down the street, because sometimes I see my characters waving to me from the other side of the street and I want to run to greet them.” He also informed me that sometimes he finds himself looking at gifts that would be perfect for this or that friend, only to realize when he’s in line to pay that the “friend” is one of his characters. He buys the gift anyway.

After telling me these things this man looked at me expectantly, apparently waiting for me to agree that this is indeed a problem. But what I said was, “I can’t even remember my characters’ names.”

This is true. I have to keep a list. At the moment there are 387 names on it, although I have yet to add the names from my last four novels. The most often used name is Pete/Peter (6 times). But usually I use a name only once. And I try never to use my own name, although I see there are three Mikes on the list. But only one is a major character, and he was named after someone I knew in college. I think I called him Mike to remind me of what he was supposed to look like. I do that sometimes, using names as placeholders until the novel is done. Then I go back and use Word’s handy find-and-replace function to put in a new name. But sometimes I forget.

My favorite name on the list is Binny Selwidge Houghton, who appears in the novel Looking for It. Actually, Binny doesn’t really appear. She has a hospital wing named after her. And her name appears only twice in the whole book, both times on page 241 . Her first appearance is in what is arguably the worst sentence I have ever written:

The fourth floor of Mercy Hospital–recently rechristened the Binny Sellwidge Houghton Memorial Wing, after the wife of a local auto dealership owner who, moved by the staff’s treatment of his spouse of fifty-three years during her three-month battle with and subsequent death from cirrhosis of the liver, had donated slightly more than one million in her memory before discovering at her funeral that for more than half of their marriage his beloved helpmate had been carrying on an adulterous affair with his best friend–smelled, as all hospitals do, of disinfectant and decaying flowers.

And two paragraphs later:

Nobody liked working the Christmas shift. It was when the suicides came calling, the alcoholics and manic-depressives who, driven to the brink of distraction by the holidays, decided to finally do something about it. They seldom succeeded, and consequently became the problem of the women and men who had been such a boon to Binny Sellwidge Houghton in her final days. They tended to their charges with barely-disguised irritation, administering (and sometimes withholding) pain pills, inserting thermometers, and doling out tiny paper cups of gelatin colored red and green in celebration of the season.

That is all I know about Binny Selwidge Houghton. And that is all I want to know about Binny.

I’m always amazed when authors say things like, “I was so surprised to discover that [insert name of character] wears polka dot culottes and likes sushi!” Shut up. You invented the person. She likes what you tell her to like. You shouldn’t be shocked when she proclaims a fondness for Ozzy Osbourne songs, or William Morris wallpaper, or racing pigeons.

Anyway, I get a lot of mail from readers asking about this character or that character. Usually they want to know what happened to the character after the end of the book. Sigh. Every time this happens I have to go to my name list and figure out what book said character is in. Sometimes I even have to re-read portions of the novel to remember what happened.

I do have some characters I like and remember. Caddie Ransome in Changing Tides. Simon Bird in Looking for It. Jane Goldstein from the Circle of Three series I wrote under the name Isobel Bird. (Although I had to look up Jane’s name just now.) These are characters I would have dinner with. But if I ever see them waving at me from the other side of the street, they’re on their own. I’ll totally pretend not to know them.

Some of you will no doubt find my disinterest in these people cruel. After all, without them my books wouldn’t exist. Yes, well without me none of them would exist. For better or for worse, I am their all-powerful god. I choose whether they live or die, fall in love or end up heartbroken, have blueberry pie or low-fat yogurt. I don’t take this responsibility lightly, but at some point enough is enough already.

Not that I’m totally heartless. I have cheered characters on, rejoicing when they succeeded and despairing when they failed. But ultimately it’s my job to do terrible things to them. If I didn’t there would be no stories. Happy endings are fine, but before you get there a lot of awful things have to happen. Perhaps I forget the names out of a sense of guilt. Otherwise I might end up like Dr. Miranda in Death and the Maiden, put on trial by those I’ve wronged.

Toward the end of her life my paternal grandmother reached a point where she couldn’t remember our names. When she wanted to address one of us she’d simply try all the names she could remember–including those of the dogs–until she got it right. Finally she gave up altogether and just called everyone You. Some of my family members insisted she must be sad about this, but personally I think it was an enormous relief to her to no longer worry about keeping all the details straight.

I know how she feels.

If people didn’t recommend things for me to read, watch, and listen to I would probably never discover anything new. There’s just too much stuff out there, and choosing from all of it gives me a headache. So I mostly rely on people whose judgment I trust to suggest things to try. Because I care deeply about your cultural enrichment, I am hereby returning the favor and starting a handy new feature to the blog, called You Oughta. These are books, films, and albums I love, and I know you will too. Some are new, but some are old favorites. If you don’t like them, don’t tell me about it, because it will make me think less of you.

Oughta Read: City of Thieves by David Benioff
I freely admit that I first picked this up because I loved the cover (yes, I’m shallow, but look at it). And I’m so happy I did, because this is one of the most beautiful books I’ve ever read. It’s the story of two boys who during the siege of Leningrad in World War II are sent on a quest to find a dozen eggs to make a wedding cake for a colonel’s daughter. By turns absurd, tragic, and funny, it reads like the best Russian and Yiddish tales, filled with insight into the determination of people to survive and find love and friendship amidst the most horrible of circumstances. I haven’t read anything so special in a very long time. Trust me–pick it up.

Oughta Watch: The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

My friend Robrt Pela and I have a theory that the music you loved when you were between the ages of 12 – 14 is the music that will continue to mean the most to you throughout the rest of your life. You may not admit this, as some of that music can be deeply embarrassing, but it’s true. This is the music you’re most likely to sing along to when it comes on the radio, the music you secretly listen to on your iPod, the music that pops up in your head for absolutely no reason.

I was born in 1968, so my formative musical years are roughly 1980 – 1982. I don’t care what anyone says, these were excellent years for music. Disco was still lingering around (remember KISS’s attempt to cash in on it with “I Was Made for Lovin’ You”? Brilliance.), New Wave was sitting in the back row looking cool (the Cars were the best band in the world), and bands like the Thompson Twins, Berlin, the Motels, and Missing Persons were bringing a shiny new sound to the airwaves.

But what was best about this time was that there were all kinds of music on the radio. Kenny Rogers, Eddie Rabbitt, and Juice Newton shared the airwaves with Joan Jett, Styx, and Ozzy. We didn’t think about things in terms of “country” or “rock” or “pop.” It was just music. And music was a big deal to me, as we lived in the middle of nowhere, didn’t have cable television, and certainly didn’t have anything like MTV. The radio was pretty much it.

Today I was thinking about this because of the iTunes Genius function. If you don’t know about this, you’re totally missing out. I didn’t even know it was there until my friend Jill pointed it out. Now I can’t live without it. See, you select a song in your library, hit the Genius button in the lower right corner (it’s the thing that looks like an atom), and it magically creates a playlist of other songs in your library that will go well with the song you’ve started with. I don’t know how it does it, and I don’t care. All I know is that it’s, well, genius.

Today I started with the Eurythmics’ “Love is a Stranger.” Annie Lennnox made a huge impression on me when she burst onto the scene, and this is my favorite of her songs. I hit the Genius button and voila, a list of 100 songs that pair nicely with “LiaS” appeared. And it’s a good list, containing songs by the Go-Gos, David Bowie, Billy Idol, Cheap Trick, Gary Numan, Blondie, Foreigner, Prince, Culture Club, Heart, and so on. Not a clunker in the bunch.

As I listened to these songs, it brought back all kinds of memories: the day the Eurythmics’ Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) cassette arrived from Columbia House just in time for me to play it endlessly on a family road trip, trying to memorize the words to “Half-Penny, Two-Penny” from the Styx album Paradise Theatre (which our school’s insane drama teacher had decided to turn into a musical, and in which I was supposed to sing that awful song until I conveniently broke my arm), looking at the tour dates listed on the album jacket for Fleetwood Mac’s Live album and thinking that San Francisco’s Cow Palace must be the most marvelous place on earth (it isn’t, by the way).

I also recalled sitting in the back of the schoolbus playing Van Halen on a tinny portable tape player, watching Solid Gold to see my favorite bands lip sync their latest hits, and staring at a picture of a shirtless Freddy Mercury wondering why it was so appealing. Oh, and crouching by the stereo waiting for Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5″ to come on so I could tape it through the speakers (a process made impossible by my cousin Kris’s insistence on talking during it just to be a bitch).

It makes sense that the music from these years of our lives makes such an impression. At 12, 13, and 14 we’re starting to figure out who we are. Too old to be children and too young to really be teenagers, we’re stuck in an in-between place filled with acne, self-doubt, and perpetual erections (for the boys) and whatever it is that happens to you girls at that point. The point being, it’s all very dramatic, and every drama needs a soundtrack.

To further test the theory, I looked up the Billboard Year-End Charts for 1980 – 1983. Out of the 300 songs on the combined lists, I have just about half of them (146) in my iTunes library. An additional 50 or so will probably join them shortly now that I’ve been reminded of them. The remaining 104 I either don’t like (sorry, Air Supply) or simply can’t remember (Charlie Dore’s “Pilot of the Airwaves”? “Goin’ Down” by Greg Guidry?)

I no longer listen to the radio (does anyone?), and I buy very little new music. Robrt and I have another theory that our brains can hold only so much pop culture, and that at some point there’s just no more room for new stuff. Occasionally I discover something current that I like (most recently The Killers and Modest Mouse), but mostly I stick with my old friends. Or, as if I’ve developed musical Alzheimer’s, I go backwards and get into bands whose heydey was slightly before my time (the New York Dolls, Sweet, the Sex Pistols, the Stones).

Just for fun, look up the Billboard charts for the years you were 12 – 14. I bet you’ll find a lot there that makes you go, “Oh, yeah! That was great!” Play them loud and sing along. I guarantee it will make you feel better. Because Sister Christian, your time has come.

The hamsters are pissed.

Maybe it’s because the spiders got all the attention yesterday, although I suspect it’s because they got cleaned today. But it’s their own fault for stinking. I let it go as long as I could, but there’s only so much a man can take. So today I washed their condos and gave them each new bedding and cotton fluff to snuggle in.

I didn’t ask for hamsters, by the way. They were presented to me by the step-grands for my 40th birthday last fall. A pair of Bontoni shoes would have been nice, but I suppose it’s the thought that counts.

(NB: The first thing I’m going to buy when I have real money is a pair of Bontoni St. Regis 7-eyelet oxfords, which are surely the most beautiful objects ever made. I can’t find a picture of them, but here’s one of another Bontoni shoe. I know, right?)

So the hamsters got cleaned. Their names, if you’re interested, are Bob and Jeff. Supposedly they’re both boys, but it’s difficult to tell with hamsters. When you turn them over everything kind of goes up inside. Also, there’s a lot of fur. Not that it matters. The last thing I need is baby hamsters, so as long as Bob and Jeff stay in separate condos, we’re good.

Personally, I’m certain that Jeff is a boy, but Bob is problematic. He’s only about half the size of Jeff, who admittedly is a giant in hamster terms (he’s so big his exercise wheel complains whenever he runs on it), and he just seems, well, kind of girly. Not that that’s a bad thing. Girly boys are perfectly charming, whether they be of the human or hamster variety. All that matters is that they’re happy.

Which, at the moment, Bob isn’t. Nor is Jeff. I know they don’t mind being clean, as they love their weekly sand baths. I think what puts them in a foul mood is that they hate having to remake their nests. Since they sleep 18 hours out of each day, nests are a big deal. They put a lot of time into them, and I always hate having to toss them out. But they manage to get poop in them, so there you are.

I try to soften the blow by giving them a lot of new fluff in cheerful colors. But every time, when I return them to their newly-cleaned homes, they look at the pile of new bedding and glare at me. Then they set about tearing it up and rearranging it to their satisfaction, all of which is done with much petulance and eye-rolling.

Today I tried bribing them with honey sticks. These are cunning treats–sticks covered with honey and various grains–that you clip to the side of the cage for the hammies to nibble on. They love them. So I thought that this would be a clever way to lessen their irritation.

Well.

About half an hour after putting B & J back in their respective condos, I heard a series of plopping sounds. Turning around, I saw that the top of the table on which the condos sit was covered with pieces of corn. As I’d just cleaned it, these were obviously new additions. Jeff and Bob, however, appeared to be sleeping.

I went back to work, only to hear another round of plink-plink-plink. And there were four or five more kernels on the tabletop. Again the hamsters sat with their eyes closed.

Now, you can only fool me for so long. I know what they were up to. They were spitting corn at me. Every time I turned around, there it was, plink-plink-plink. And every time they feigned innocence, the horrid little beasts. I was tempted to throw it back at them, just to see how they liked it. Lucky for them, I am occasionally a patient man. Also, it was too difficult to get the corn to go between the bars of the cages with any kind of accuracy.

Eventually they grew tired of the game and burrowed into their new beds. But I haven’t forgiven them. If there’s any corn flinging tomorrow, I’m so going to get a cat.

All right, so yesterday was spider feeding day. I should have done it on Thursday, but I just wasn’t up to it. Besides, they’re all a little porky (like their daddy) anyway. I figured a day wouldn’t hurt them.

The eight of them are different ages and sizes, so feeding time involves three different sizes of crickets: pinheads for the Brazilian Black spiderlings, two-weeks for the unmatured Mexican Fireleg, and three-weeks for Horrible Spider. I have the nice lady at the pet store put them all in one bag, then sort them out when I get home. Basically, I pour the right sizes into each little critter house and everyone is happy. Well, I suppose the crickets aren’t, but nature is a cruel mistress. And I’m sure the Cricket God rewards them for their suffering.

With most of the spiders you simply plop the crickets into their terrariums and pounce-pounce-pounce they’re gone. Sometimes it takes a day or so, but eventually everyone is eaten. Horrible Spider, however, has always been fussy about food. For a while he was all excited about silkworms, then one day he decided they were passe. Then he was into waxworms for a while, until I bought a big buttload of them, at which point he couldn’t be bothered. Now we’re back to crickets.

But getting him to eat them is a problem. Because he’s an aroboreal tarantula, he spends all of his time in the upper branches of his terrarium. This makes it difficult to feed him, as the crickets tend to bounce around and get lost in the leaves. I used to toss them into his web, but that just freaked him out. And tarantula webs aren’t really suited for catching dinner anyway, so the crickets almost always got out.

For a while I worried that HS wasn’t getting enough to eat. But a few weeks ago I decided he was a big boy now and could take care of himself. So now I throw half a dozen crickets into his terrarium and let him have fun hunting. The crickets are almost always gone in a day or two, so I figure he knows what he’s doing now.

Anyway, yesterday afternoon I gave him his crickets. Then a few hours later I sat down to do some writing, and saw that Horrible was hanging on the side of the terrarium having dinner. He had a big cricket in his mouth and was going to town on it. I left him to it and got to writing.

About twenty minutes later I noticed that HS was wandering around the tank. He had reached the front panel of glass, so his underbelly was clearly visible. And in his chelicerae (that’s fancy talk for spider fangs) he had a cricket head. Just the head. With the eyes and antennae and everything still intact. He was just sitting there, showing it to me, like Salome holding John the Baptist’s noggin on a tray.

After a while he continued his tour of the terrarium, carrying the cricket head with him the whole way around. There were still three or four crickets in the terrarium, and I swear it was as if HS was waving the head around and taunting them. I could just hear him: “See what I did to your friend? You’re next! Bwahahahahahahahahahaha!”

It’s disturbing to find that one’s children are not as polite and charming as you’ve been led to believe. HS has always been a very quiet spider, minding his own business and not getting at all uppity when I have to clean his house or even pick him up. He usually just sits on my arm, waiting to be put back again.

Now I have to rethink this. Any spider that carries a cricket melon around for fun must have a sadistic streak, like those little kids at the end of Hostel 2 who play soccer with the dead girl’s head. And I don’t think he eats them. I’ve found a couple of heads in the terrarium before. But I thought he just didn’t like them. I mean, I like shrimp, but I don’t go around munching on the heads, right? Now, though, I suspect he leaves them around as trophies, which is a little unnerving. It’s like I have Ed Gein in a terrarium.

As I write this HS is working on his web. He’s climbed up into the corner and is being all, “Look at me! I’m fascinating! I make silk!” I have a feeling that soon he’ll start tapping on the screen, which usually means he wants me to open it and bring him out for a little visit. I don’t know, though. I think it might be time for military school.

I’m becoming a big fan of not caring. Partly this is because I already have too much going on in my head to add anything more to the mix, but mostly it’s because so many things are so deeply uninteresting. Or perhaps it’s that we’re oversaturated with information, to the point where things that might have been interesting at one time simply can’t compete with everything else that’s going on.

Whatever.

To make room for new things, here are the latest things I refuse to think about anymore:

1. Jon & Kate’s Marital Problems
She’s a megashrew and he’s an overgrown frat boy (and not in a good way). They got married too young, had too many babies, and now they realize they never really liked one another in the first place. It happens. A lot. Divide up the kids and the money and get out of our faces.

2. Sean and Robin Wright Penn’s On-Again, Off-Again Marriage
Enough already, Sean. The Boy Who Cried “Divorce” routine won’t win you another Oscar. Never mind that you stole the last one from Mickey Rourke anyway. But I digress.

3. Adam Lambert Losing on American Idol
Listen, I love the guy. I’d buy his album or see him in concert in a heartbeat. But did Adam lose because America is homophobic? Frankly, I don’t think the “voting” has anything to do with who wins, if you get my meaning. To put it another way, now 19 Recordings has two potential moneymakers, something they wouldn’t have if The Other Guy didn’t have the AI winner label attached to him.

PS: Brian May, if you don’t immediately hire Adam for the band, you’re insane.

4. The Fashion Show
Without Heidi and Tim, all the camp and magic has been sucked out. Besides, the only two cute guys on the show are both gone already. The remaining cast is like the roster of a Tod Browning film as made by second graders. I’ll wait for the return of Runway.

5. The Summer Movie Season
Until someone opens a no talking, no eating, no texting, no children, no gum popping, no crinkling, no cell phoning, no asking me to move over because you came in late theater, I’ll wait for the DVD.

6. The Summer Concert Season
Last year nobody would go with me to see Lordi at Ozzfest or to see the Cheap Trick/Heart/Journey show. This year I’m not even trying. And don’t even think about asking me to go with you to see R.E.O. Speedwagon and Foreigner. You had your chance.

7. My Belly
I’m 40. I sit around all day writing. I like pie. Deal with it.

8. The Demise of the Newspaper
I’m a fan of the newspaper. Mostly for the crossword puzzles. But let’s face it, as a news source papers are obsolete. By the time they’re printed we’ve already read about whatever it is online. Also, they waste trees. So unless you give readers something interesting–something they can’t get anywhere else–don’t expect them to keep reading. Change or die people. Change or die. Just ask the brontosaurs. Or, on the other hand, Madonna.

9. Where the 49ers and/or A’s Will Go
This is a local thing, I know, but it’s seriously tedious. Watching the dance the teams and the cities courting them are doing is about as entertaining as watching Matlock reruns. Which is to say only if you’re playing drinking games. I don’t care where a bunch of overpaid guys will be chasing balls around in 2013, or if Shamu will have to move so someone can have stadium parking.

10. Ingrown Hairs
No matter what razor I use I seem to always have two of them on my neck, and always in the same place. Then I poke at them and they get all red and unpleasant. I’m 40. I don’t need this shit.

Most of you are young and hip and happening, so you probably already know about this. But just in case you don’t, there’s this cool new site called scribd (I’m told it’s pronounced scrib-dee, but I could be wrong).

Anyway, scribd takes the concept of personal publishing and takes it to the next level. You can upload books (or documents, or anything readable) to the site and sell them. They can be read online or downloaded in PDF format for reading offline. It’s all very space age and glittery.

I heard about scribd from my buddy Kemble Scott, the dashing author of the bestselling novel SoMa. Kemble is using scribd to release his latest novel, The Sower. To quote the cover: “A scoundrel becomes the sole carrier of a cure for all diseases, but the only way to pass it to others is through sex. Some want him stopped. Some want him dead. Some just want him.”

How can you not read that? You know you want to. And it’s only $2! That’s right–just two bucks. It’s a Recession Era bargain. So go on over to Kemble’s scribd page and start reading.