No Devotion to Promotion

Today I mailed Dear Babalu: Letters to an Advice Columnist to over twenty celebrities, though none were movie actors, opera singers, politicians, high wire artists, contortionists, ballet dancers, or rock stars.  Who is left over you ask. Late night TV talk show hosts, of course, who are as likely to actually look at the book as I am to win the Booker prize.  Also radio talk show hosts, newspaper columnists, and the government agent who listens in on my phone conversations--Hello, Mr. Smith. My reasoning is that if one of these influential people also enjoy humor of the absurd perhaps . . . No, never mind. You know.

Now to the cynical mind it will appear that I am paradoxically bragging about my modesty when I say self-promotion makes me uncomfortable.  It feels like "hey, look at me." Not that I don't like showing off at times. I do,  but weather conditions, including the intensity of the the gamma radiation from nearby (relatively speaking) supernovas must be just right. Oh, well.