Day Zero

Hello, the Internet.  My name is Howard Glassman.  I am fifty-eight years old, soon to be fifty-nine, and I am going to digest the compleat works of Neil Gaiman.  By "compleat works," I mean "everything the man has ever published, be it comics, essays, poetry, or prose."  By "digest," I mean "pass through my alimentary canal."  I will start eating tomorrow morning at breakfast, with Coraline.

I imagine you're wondering why.  Then again, maybe you aren't.  I'm not the kind of man people wonder about.  My life is, as a rule, devoid of the remarkable.  I have a job like other jobs, and a house like other houses.  I have a boat under a tarp in my garage.  I drive a gray car, wear gray suits, et cetera, et cetera.

And now, I'm devouring Neil Gaiman.  I don't know what I hope to gain by eating these volumes.  Possibly indigestion.  It would be something different, at least.  My constitution has always been dismayingly robust.  Certainly, I don't expect to absorb magical powers, or have mystical visions, or even get a visit from the Sandman.  Though, depending on the composition of the ink, it's possible I could experience all of the above.  (Joke!)

I don't know if this is safe.  Maybe I'll get an ulcer, or even die.  But I don't think so.  I think it'll be all right.  I haven't had a stomach bug since 1992.  I feel I can digest nearly anything.  Besides, what's in a book, when you get right down to it?  Wood fiber, ink, maybe a little cotton or laminate in the bindings?  I saw a man on TV who had eaten, among other things, a small aircraft.  If he can chow down on thousands of pounds of metal and machine oil, I can handle a stack of paper.

Tonight, for my last paper-free meal, I will be having two poached eggs, two slices of bacon, and a braised fillet steak with red wine sauce.  For dessert, there'll be frozen cheesecake, cherry.

And tomorrow, Neil Gaiman.

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