Yesterday, I spent over an hour chatting with my old pal, , the patron saint of enthusiastic mediocrity and author of books with titles like I Hate Running and You Can Too.
What began with me desperately seeking RV wisdom for my upcoming road trip very quickly became a study in creative independence, the economics of self-publishing, and why Amazon reviews are written by people who give five stars to gallbladder plushies.
The New York City Marinara Marathon
We opened with the crucial matter of post-marathon pizza—because apparently, when you've just run 26.2 miles through New York City, your first instinct is to debate slice superiority. Brendan swears by La Traviata's eggplant Parmesan slice on the Upper West Side, while I remain loyal to Joe's on Bleecker. This geographical pizza allegiance immediately established the stakes: we're both people with strong opinions about things that ultimately don't matter at all, which is precisely why we get along.
My real agenda was pure terror management: I'm about to spend a week in an RV with my sister and her boyfriend, travelling from Seattle down the Pacific Coast Highway—my first time living in a rolling metal box of farts with other humans. Brendan, who spent two and a half years in an Astro van (emphasis on van, not mansion-on-wheels), offered his essential survival wisdom:
Bring earplugs.
That's it. That's the advice. Everything else is just details and the gentle art of creeping out of shadows to ask drunk campers to shut up without getting shot. (Apparently, hands visible at all times is key protocol in open-carry Montana.)
The Comedy Archaeology Project
I don’t remember how, but we veered into dissecting humour like a pair of academic comedians with too much time (and not enough gigs.) Brendan mentioned the fundamental rule: all humour contains misdirection/surprise. Which led me down a rabbit hole about reveal jokes, citing my mate Mike Goldstein's timeless bit: "My girlfriend hates it when I pee in the shower... especially when she's in it (and I'm not.)"
It's that perfect misdirection—your brain builds one image, then a completely different scenario emerges. We're basically conducting the audience's mind, which sounds more sophisticated than "making people laugh by saying unexpected things about pissing."
The Publishing Rebellion
This man has cracked the code on creative independence, bouncing between traditional publishers and self-publishing based purely on what makes sense for each project. His 15 Second Recipes book (sample recipe: "Get a block of cheese, take a bite out of it") got rejected by his usual publisher, so he printed it through a real estate brochure company for two grand and sold them himself.
The economics are brilliant: traditional publishers need to sell 50,000 copies to break even. Brendan can sell 1,000 and be happy. It's the difference between feeding a corporation and feeding your own creative compulsions.
His philosophy, borrowed from John Green:
"Make gifts for people and work hard on making those gifts... your responsibility is not to the people you're making the gift for, but to the gift itself."
The Amazon Review Safari
The conversation took a delicious detour into the psychological archaeology of bad Amazon reviews. My writing partner, Scott, recently discovered that our two-star reviewer had given five stars to cat food, underwear, and a "multifunctional deluxe gallbladder plush toy."
As Scott noted: "Honestly, we didn't stand a chance."
This is where the modern creative economy gets properly weird—your artistic efforts are being judged by people who approach your book the same way they approach reviewing kitchen appliances. It's like having your comedy set evaluated by someone who thinks a toaster is the pinnacle of entertainment technology.
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