The Worst Boycott Ever…My Bad
Utilizing the location-alerting power of Facebook, I posted this picture of me waiting in a stupefying line for gelato at San Francisco’s lauded and overcrowded Ferry Building on Sunday.
Astute Smatterites will remember this was to be a Weeekend of No Lines, whence our unified front against slow-paced fancy-pants food pushers was to give voice to our cause.
Alas, I am helpless against the siren song of frozen sugary fat. I have failed you all, for which I’m desperately sorry. But let me remind you that the Smatterfesto makes clear that we’re all hypocrites, and that that’s OK.
How convenient. Forward thinking, I am.
You will be pleased to hear I actually finished reading Jonathan Franzen’s novel Freedom, which I somewhat recently skewered to the chagrin of a few Smatter devotees. I felt I owed it to them, and to the object of my envious scorn.
While the subject matter of the final hundred iPad screens worth of Freedom exemplified the pathos and character development one would expect of a ballyhooed gent of the quill, it couldn’t completely redeem the 18-month trudge through this meandering tome.
Nevertheless, I needn’t have been such a jerk in my assessment of said book. It took me just as long to finish Jonathan Lethem’s The Fortress of Solitude, which I immensely enjoyed, so it’s probable that the common denominator is my petite attention span, not any discernible lack of talent in the sea of literary “Jons” of my generation. Don’t think I’m not comin’ after you, Safran Foer. Your double surname and quirky titles beg for merciless blog-based contempt.
So, I’m sorry, Jonathan Franzen, you great American novelist with no inkling that The Smatter exists. You may continue to taint the literary ether with your foul prose, whilst I continue to feast off your SEO-friendly name.
You’re not useless after all.