The Written-in-the-Style-of-Tao-Lin New York Observer Profile, Reviewed in the Style of Tao Lin


The blogger woke up on Wednesday morning around 9 a.m. and showered and put on clothes. He took the train into Manhattan. He once saw a young child eat a carrot alive on that train. He went to go buy the New York Observer from that newsstand on Astor Place and Third Avenue where they overcharge for everything but can’t overcharge for the Observer or any other magazine really because of the cover price. He bought that week’s New York Observer, which he does every week. He could also buy the Observer at the Starbucks at Astor Place and constantly thinks about doing so but doesn’t. He wishes he could ascribe a political motive to this, but he can’t. He is not a “political” person. He wishes he did better on his SATs. He opened the New York Observer and saw a profile of a “New York” “Literary” “It” “Boy” named “Tao Lin,” that is written “in” the “style” of “Tao Lin.”

“Fuck this,” the blogger wrote. The blogger was upset. The blogger did not know where this feeling of being upset came from. The blogger thought again about his SAT score and the word “handjob” and tried to ascribe meaning to it but couldn’t. The blogger had hopes. The blogger hoped that readers would read the profile themselves even though none of them ever click through. The blogger “wrote” it “like” that and put a link in the story to the “New” “York” Observer “piece” and decided he would end his blog post soon by reiterating his feeling of destitute hollowness again by writing about what he said out loud but not “actually” saying it. He sat at his desk. He stared at his monitor. He changed his name to Jo Jo Dancer and it didn’t “do” “anything” for “him.” Jo Jo Dancer sighed and looked at the picture of Spike Lee above his desk and wanted to talk to Spike Lee at that moment but couldn’t because it was only a poster. Jo Jo Dancer thought about what kind of effort went into eating lychees though he wasn’t sure about whether or not the plural of lychee was indeed lychees or if it “was” lychee. He logged into Gmail chat. “Fuck this,” he said again, out loud this time. He typed his email address in brackets at the bottom, linked it, and hit “publish.”