It's a little thing called Sabotage.

Ok, so without so much as a heads up Ms. Picket! I outed our book. Yes, Ms. Picket and I wrote/compiled/ self-published A Book.

It's a dishy and voyeuristic blabfest. And it's orange. Who doesn't like orange?

Anyway, were you aware that there will be a bookstore within Blogher Conference up in Chicago next week? Yep, they're setting up a bookstore inside the hotel to sell the books that bloggers have written. Books. With paper. It's like the antiblog station. Down with computers! Up with paper!

And this little guerrilla operation will be selling our book. Which I find HIL-AR-I-OUS. I don't know why but I do.

OUR.

BOOK.

Our self-published unusual work of blood, sweat, and tears. In a bookstore. Even if it's not a real bookstore.

You know what else this little bookstore might have? Author's signings. I mean not us. Not me and Darcy. (Ms. Picket's name is Darcy in case you didn't know.)

So this is how I'm picturing it goin' down in my head....

There's a nice modern looking temporary structure with it's own shelves and cashier and tables comprising the bookstore. Maybe even lighting. And a speaker system pushing out some mood music. Something that market research has shown increases a person's desire to consume.

Awesome.

So there they are. The real authors. Set up at their signing tables with stacks of their tomes and piles of black Sharpies. Long lines of excited book buyers in hushed tones waiting for Dooce or The Pioneer Woman to sign their copy.

Then.

Then Darcy and I walk in wearing our sunglasses. I don't know why we're wearing sunglasses but I can be fairly certain that it will seem like a good idea at the time. So we strut in and slam down the music.

I'm not talking about some esthetically pleasing esoteric pussy iPod docking station.

No, I'm talking about a 1982 Ghetto Blaster with sub woofers.

On the count of three we hit play. And The Beastie Boys Sabotage starts blaring out of the blaster. There are gasps and stares from the crowd. They're shocked - shocked - at the scene.

The sabotage! The nerve of those women.

I don't know where it goes from there. A hidden cooler of DML (delicious Miller Lite - don't ask) may appear. Perhaps the security team will be persuaded to hang with us and kick it old school instead of kicking us out. Otherwise perfectly respectable women dancing on tables. A veritable rock video worthy of Tawny Kitaen. Anything's possible.

In my vision we don't actually sell any books. But we're having such a good time we don't really care.


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