Dave Eggers is guilty of being famous, and those who sentence people for that have been sentencing him for years. He writes books? Opens writing schools? Publishes a one-day rocket-car newspaper? He's like a fucking criminal. If he sucked, we would get it, but he doesn't. Eggers works. He invents. He brings the payload safely home. Maybe you found the "Hey, look at me! I'm doing goddamn somersaults over here!" style of his first book grating (you shouldn't have), but move on. He did. He hasn't drawn a stapler in a book in nine years. And it hasn't escaped us that had Eggers limited himself to just, say, two books and one writing school and, okay, the pirate store people would be in a defensive crouch around their little genius holed up on Valencia Street, especially those who flipped through Might. (What, you don't remember Might? How about For the Love of Cheese?) Now he has an art show, "It Is Right to Draw Their Fur," like he's John Waters or something (or David Byrne, whose show, "Arboretum," runs concurrently in the same gallery), and you can really find something wrong with it. It's drawings of little animals. More than 100 adorable little creatures. They're good, and some people are going to be unsettled by that. Some are really going to fabricate an angle to crush him on that. Here's what you should remember: It's okay to be jealous. It makes you hungry.