Thomas Nelson, a publisher of Christian books is banking on the fact that devoted Christians have an underserved need for waterproof bibles. To that end, they are releasing a fully waterproof copy of the New Testament for fishermen, beachcombers, and good Christian housewives who like to read the steamy parts in the bathtub.

I think I’ll sit that one out and spend my hard-earned cash on Aqua Erotica: 18 Stories for a Steamy Bath instead.

Allow me to suggest a few sources:

Sophie Kinsella - The Undomestic Goddess

Megan Mccafferty - Charmed Thirds : A Novel

And how can we forget…

James Frey - A Million Little Pieces

Of course, if you haven’t seen it yet, check out : A Million Little Pieces of Feces - The fake memoir that’s so much more fun than James Frey’s.

I don’t know if it’s any good or not, but it’s got to be better than the original. Stories about drug addiction and reformed lives of crime bore me to tears. They’re just tedious. They remind me of that conversation you have when you’re getting into a new relationship but you’ve been together for a little while so you’re still “sharing” and stuff. You know, the one where you have to sit for hours while you pretend to be interested in whatever trauma your date has overcome to be the “stronger, wiser” person that he/she is today. It usually comes with lines like, “I have no regrets. Everything I’ve done has made me who I am today,” and “I will basketweave no more forever. They can’t take me back to that place.” Or something like that.

This is a two part entry, inspired by a stalker-blog I recently came across:

Neil Gaiman Stalking

I must say, ladies, you’ve done good work. I started the link on page 2, since there are no actual Neil Gaiman pictures on page 1, but once you actually get to the point, you don’t disappoint. Clearly, Neil is a very patient man who digs the monochromatic look and knows how to use a lint brush. I swear, my blacks are never that perfect. Zoom in and you’ll see what I mean.

The real question is this - Were those girls just really devoted fans, or are they secretly angry witches trying to get a hair sample for an evil spell. Seriously, ask any truly geeky girl (and I think you’ll agree that these ladies qualify - that’s an observation, not an insult) what they think about the hot geeky men marrying outside of geekdom and then stand back. Since they’re rarely wearing makeup, you’ll likely see color changes you didn’t even think possible in the human female face. It’s not pretty.

And of course, I saved the best part for last. Breaking news, right here on authorazzi.com, it’s Neil Gaiman’s secret hobby:String Emil. This is absolutely not safe for work, unless you work in a porn studio or research lab for human sexuality. In fact, if you’re at work, you might want to scroll really fast past what I’m about to post.

Amazing resemblance, if I do say so myself. But alas, it’s not him. Although, for those with a bit of a Neil Gaiman crush, I’m sure it could suffice. Personally, I’m holding out for the day his career falters and he decides to do Playgirl. Hey, it could happen.

EDIT: In case you’re wondering who Neil Gaiman is, check out these books:

American Gods: A Novel - (from amazon.com) American Gods is Neil Gaiman’s best and most ambitious novel yet, a scary, strange, and hallucinogenic road-trip story wrapped around a deep examination of the American spirit. Gaiman tackles everything from the onslaught of the information age to the meaning of death.

Coraline - (from amazon.com) Coraline lives with her preoccupied parents in part of a huge old house–a house so huge that other people live in it, too… round, old former actresses Miss Spink and Miss Forcible and their aging Highland terriers (”We trod the boards, luvvy”) and the mustachioed old man under the roof (”‘The reason you cannot see the mouse circus,’ said the man upstairs, ‘is that the mice are not yet ready and rehearsed.’”) Coraline contents herself for weeks with exploring the vast garden and grounds. But with a little rain she becomes bored–so bored that she begins to count everything blue (153), the windows (21), and the doors (14). And it is the 14th door that–sometimes blocked with a wall of bricks–opens up for Coraline into an entirely alternate universe.

Neverwhere - (from amazon.com) Neverwhere’s protagonist, Richard Mayhew, learns the hard way that no good deed goes unpunished. He ceases to exist in the ordinary world of London Above, and joins a quest through the dark and dangerous London Below, a shadow city of lost and forgotten people, places, and times.

2002 wasn’t such a great year for me. First off, palindromes freak me out. It’s also the year (according to my mother) that I officially became an old maid. Apparently, in these parts, 22 passes for an old maid. Poor me.

So anyway, I must have been crying in a pile of donuts or something when this story came out, because I know I would have remembered it. It’s not every day that a guy who writes books on stupidity proves his expertise with such flair. That’s exactly what James Welles, author of “The Story of Stupidity” and “Understanding Stupidity” did, though.

A quick rundown of the events:

-61 year old shitpile with a pulse gets on that there intarweb thingy

-Shitpile begins conversing with a 15-year-old girl, because that’s what all well-adjusted senior citizens do when you let them loose with a little technology.

-Oops. 15 year old girl isn’t a 15-year-old girl at all. It’s a 40-year-old detective (still a decade or two too young for our author friend)

-Welles, screenname JWelles103, tells his new confidante all sorts of damning things:”If we like each other physically, I’d want to get off on your bod somehow” and “I’d love to have you bring me off…it would only take a minute or two”. In a phone conversation, he says, “You just have to remember–bottom line, I’ll be committing a crime.”

-Quite the Casanova, he arranges a meeting at Denny’s - because nothing, and I mean NOTHING gets a girl worked up like a nice Meat Lovers Skillet with a man like this:

-Happy ending: Welles is arrested. Police find a bag of S&M gear in his trunk (don’t picture it if you can help it, especially if you’re still thinking about that Meat Lover’s Skillet).

This guy really is stupid. Anybody with half a brain would know that you need some kind of an excuse, if you’re going to do something like this. Sitting here typing, I can think of several excuses he could have tried:

-JWelles103? Oh no, that’s not me. I’m just JWelles, no 103 or anything. But that JWelles103, I know what you mean. He’s a sick fuck.

-What little girl? I’m just here to sober up with the early bird special. It was a long night. You should check out my trunk.

-15? Fuck me, I thought she said 51. I know I said I’d be committing a crime, but you misunderstood. I meant that sex with me SHOULD be a crime.

We already know that writers are fundamentally broken and damaged people, so there’s no good reason that they shouldn’t have their own internet tabloid. Broken people make good entertainment. Except for the ugly ones, who will only be included when there is a good opportunity to mock them. I have a hard time believing that all the wonderful freaky ass writer behavior died with guys like Hemingway and Kerouac, so that’s what I’m out to find.

Books are in a sad place right now. People are getting dumber by the second. If you listen outside on a quiet night, you can actually hear it. Listen closely to the faint sounds thumping stereos in the distance. Cell phone ringtones instead of crickets. Televisions with surround sound, permanently tuned in to American Idol.
Did you know that Great Britain produced more English-language books that the U.S. last year? While we were busy watching television and going to the dentist, they were out-reading and out-writing us. Yes, I realize that’s a slightly imperfect interpretation of the actual statistics (maybe they out-wrote us, but all their books sucked…maybe they sold them here…who knows), but the point remains - They have considerably fewer people, and they are making more books.

Maybe the problem is that books and authors just aren’t played up the way stars are. You don’t get to peer into their lives the way you can with most celebrities. And of course, a lot of them are ugly, and even more are just plain boring. I have faith, though, that there are plenty of Jack Kerouacs and Truman Capotes and Ernest Hemingways out there, and I intend to find them.

If you have pictures, gossip, or stories about an author, send them my way and I’ll make them public. Allow me to turn to Sophie Kinsella’s blog for an example of what I’m NOT looking for:

“Now, you know me. ‘Dreaded’ and ’shopping’ don’t often make it into the same sentence. But what is it about swimwear shops? I’m not sure if it’s the lighting in the changing rooms (blue-grey), or the assistants (size zero, permatanned), or the fact that you’re struggling out of your winter woollies into a bikini and have never felt less beach-ready in your life… but it’s rarely a great experience. Sometimes it’s a terrible experience. Sometimes it’s a soul-scarring-years-of-therapy experience (yes, YOU, green tankini that looked so great on the mannequin).”

I’m pretty sure that passages like this one are the reason that nobody reads anymore. If you need therapy because you don’t like how you look in a swimsuit, please do the rest of us a favor and skip the therapy. Hopefully you’ll drive yourself crazy enough that you’ll never produce another publishable word. That would be just heavenly.

And another thing: That turned around picture you had on your first book was great. That picture plus a lobotomy MIGHT have made me a fan. Then you went and started putting your face on the back cover. Bad idea. Your homely visage zaps every ounce of fashionista credibility you might have had.

Actually, pretty much anything related to chick lit is gonna be a no-go here. Unless there’s a picture somewhere of Jennifer Weiner getting plugged airtight by a group of tatooed ex-cons, I don’t want to hear about it.

So what AM I looking for? Well, James Frey would have been great, if he had been telling the truth. I like dangerous and unpredictable behavior. Plagiarists make me sick, and plagiarizing chick lit authors are especially deplorable, so do not send me anything about the Indian she-whose-name-we-shall-not-even-mention.I want pictures of authors who look high/drunk/dead at their signings…anything involving nudity, felony, or questionable taste. Good authors doing stupid things. If you can find Dan Brown buying a pregnancy test, or maybe a nice JK Rowling nip slip, I’ll take that, too. Bonus points if they’re together. And if you find Jonathan Safron Foer lying bruised and beaten in a gutter…well, I didn’t put you up to doing it or anything, but my inbox welcomes your correspondence.

E-mail me at: authorazzi@gmail.com

P.S. - Get me a picture of Chuck Palahniuk in lacy panties and I’m yours forever.