Okay, admittedly things are good. One day left until the book officially comes out and already a whole bunch of amazing reviews, including a heartbreakingly wonderful one from the
New York Times. But my Al Gore-humping intern Sharyn is still not convinced we're doing well. "You're not facebookering enough, Igor," she tells me, knowing that my Russian name will reduce me to a state of blubbering infancy. "Thirty-six minutes you haven't facebookered. You're invisible! Go jump in a cool Pacific Northwestern lake! And drown!"
"But what about the nice reviews?"
"Nobody cares! The only article worth a damn is the Daily Beast's Lindsay Lohan's Jailhouse Reading List where a librarian tells Lindsay to cuddle up with your new book. What you need, farfelleh, is a platform, for realsies. I am so gonna get you on T.V."
Off we went to a production company in Chelsea where I spent my morning auditioning for a new Bravo show. I play a novelist who doesn't sell any book because nobody reads anymore. So to make money I'm saddled up by a bunch of Bravo execs who ride me around like a horsey through Central Park. I have to wear the English Oxford Dictionary around my neck on a heavy chain. It's called "Flavor of Shteyn" for some reason. Mel Gibson is attached to direct. Maybe my life really is turning a corner?