Reefer Gladness by Michael Konik

Author:Michael Konik [Konik, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Short Stories
Publisher: HUNTINGTON PRESS, INC.

8

Author’s Note

Thank you to my agent.

And thank you to my editor. You caught some spelling errors.

And big big thanks to my publisher, the money man, who allowed himself to be persuaded that my windy pronouncements were actually something of value, something you could eat or wear. I’ll never forget our lunch in New York (great wine, by the way; thanks for that, too). He said, “Have I read your manuscript cover to cover? Of course not. But that’s not going to stop us from sneaking onto the bottom of the bestseller list!” I’m grateful for your confidence.

Thanks to the graphic designers, and a giant advance thanks to the sales team. You made a believer out of me. I didn’t think anyone—aside from my friends—would buy this at retail. You’ve taught me that any old stack of papers, properly packaged and marketed, can be fashioned into a consumable product that someone will pay $25 to take home and add to the pile of other unread books in the bathroom.

Thank you!

I would thank my family, especially my wife Emily and children—Sarah and Cotter—except, come on, let’s be honest: They really had nothing to do with this book, other than silently resenting it. If you ask them, they would have preferred I hadn’t wasted 19 months of my life, locked away in my study like a sociopathic monk, working on another stupid literary meditation that hardly anyone, including them, will read. I could—and maybe should—have taken the offer to ghost-write Tiki Barber’s autobiography. But no. I figured the world would tolerate another collection of essays about 20th century art.

Actually, no kidding, I knew from the outset that the public had no interest whatsoever in this kind of thing, not when there are so many cool shows on TV and Drew Barrymore has a new movie on the way. But the older I get, the less interested I am in jerking off to Busty Latina porn and the more willing I am to engage in intellectual masturbation, pleasuring myself and the handful of readers who still care about abstract painting and Dadaist ready-mades. So, OK: Thank you, dear family, for putting up with Dad’s bad habits. I appreciate your patience and I promise that my next book—if there is a next book, which, based on the sales of my last two, ain’t very likely—will be more “fun.” More like Grand Theft Auto, but, you know, done on paper. Promise.

I should thank my therapist, too, Dr. Minkin, for the pills. Do they work? I don’t know. But without them I can’t write more than twenty minutes without going to the refrigerator. With them I’m a 1,200-words-a-day man, so you tell me.

Thank you, also, to John Ruskin, Robert Rosenberg, Peter Schjeldahl, and all the others who inspired me, however falsely, to believe that this thing we call art is something that can be written about, not just looked at. You guys are the best.

Thanks to Larry Glick, Simone Bancher, and everyone else from the Workshop for the pep talks.

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