Showing posts with label
Books We Love Publishing Ltd..
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Showing posts with label
Books We Love Publishing Ltd..
Show all posts
It's probably unhealthy to attribute feelings to a discarded sofa.
When I threw out my well-used, crappy sofa at college, I felt sorry for it. It looked so forlorn sitting on top of a dumpster, kind of like an unloved red-headed stepchild. (Yes, I know that's an unfortunate, awful stereotype, but growing up red-headed and oddly different from the rest of my family, it applies).
I bid my old friend, Sofa, farewell, hoped it'd find a second life elsewhere.
Inanimate objects always get to me. Empathetic to a point, I fall in love with coffee-makers, conduct yelling bouts with toilets, demand that fire alarms quit chirping. My gang.
Don't even get me started on my best friend, Roomba. She actually talks. Sure, her dialogue is limited to warnings about being recharged or her desire to be moved and restarted, but it's nice to hear her voice. Bonus points in that she cleans the house while I sit and write. Ah, Roomba... I apologize for stepping on you that one time.
Sigh...
I work at home. Loneliness is next to insanity.
My wife pretty much thinks my preoccupation with anthropomorphism is ludicrous. That may be. But she's never debated a hot dog before either, so she clearly doesn't know what she's missing.
Hey, while we're on the topic of insanity, check out my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. There are quite a few people lurking within the pages who have more than a few screws loose.
Peculiar County's a right hospitable little piece of Kansas. Just be on the look-out for things that fly in the night or creatures that don't sit right in any zoo. Here in Peculiar County, witches rub elbows with murderers and the mortician's daughter just might be about the savviest gal in town. The mail man's a bit off, the telephone operator's way off, and the librarian sisters were never on. Only in Peculiar County can you hear a ghost dog bark up a storm in the local hotel and see a tree--the Judge's Tree--you'd be best off not visiting once the sun goes down.
Peculiar County's my first young adult book for Books We Love publishing. Set in 1965, "old adults" can enjoy the tale as well. It's a ghost story, a nostalgic slice of early sixties small-town life, a misunderstood teen girl's coming-of-age saga, a comedy of Midwest manners, and a murder mystery. A love story, too. I think there might even be a kitchen sink in there somewhere if you look hard enough...
Why did I set the book in the early sixties? Many reasons. It's the decade I was born; technology hadn't yet ramped up to the point where it messes with suspense; it's an interesting era when society was rapidly changing in fascinating and unexpected ways. Most of all, I've always been of an opinion that the best ghost stories have always had a touch of nostalgia to them.
SO... Have I succeeded in my lofty goals? That's up to you, dear reader, to decide.
In the meantime, lay out that road-map of the bizarre and plan your day-trip to Peculiar County ('cause you don't wanna visit at night!). You can't miss it. It's just a hop, skip and jump away from Strange Town. Hang a left at Killer's Gulch. Skedaddle on through the Hellington Hills (make sure you have a full tank of gas) and whatever you do, don't look too hard or pay any matter to the unsettling sounds you might hear.
Peculiar County. Click here for the most peculiar--not to mention, cheapest--road trip you'll take all year. Preorder ebook version now. Official release on July 30.
Or click HERE to get the paperback right spanking NOW!
Not a hoax! Not a prank! Not a bad dream brought on by lousy nachos!
Well...
About that last part... My newest book, Chili Run, was actually based on a nightmare I had.
A really, really dumb nightmare. I started thinking about it (never a good idea).
In my dream, for some reason I was forced to run across downtown Kansas City in my tighty-whities to get a bowl of chili. Running against the clock or face severe consequences.
As dreams go, it made perfect sense at the time. They usually do. Very intense actually. Sure, sure, there's the usual dream dealio about being in your underwear in front of people. But this was the ultimate in underwear dreams. The idea stuck with me like...well, like three-day-old bad chili.
I just had to come up with a reason behind it, see if I could sustain the idea for a novel. Make it interesting, hopefully entertaining. Logical.
Ta-dahhh!
Whether I succeeded or not of course is in your hands/minds.
And just like a dream, just like my protagonists' run, the story kept going. Before I knew it, the damn book became a comedy-thriller-suspense-love story with lofty themes such as racism, bullying and writing.
I know, right?
But don't let the pretentiousness shove you off. It's really just a high-concept, low-brow shaggy dog tale about a guy running through town to get a bowl of chili. In his tighty-whities. Or his brother dies.
It made me laugh and I was kinda on the edge of my seat while writing it. Hope it puts you there, too. In a good kinda' way, I mean. While wearing pants so you don't get chafed.
(And yes, I'm aware of the bad connotation/pseudo pun of the title and a little bit of the kid in me giggles over it! That's kinda what you're in for.)
Chili Run: The perfect thriller for the reader on the go!
Um, in case you didn't get it, CLICK HERE.
My cat's been long gone for many years.
Yet the other night, I had a dream. He and I were back at my parent's house in my bedroom. A tough "teddy" gang of Latino cats started hooting from the street. I whipped up the blinds, saw all kinds of bling and attitude. Cats weren't just frontin'. Truth up, yo.
"C'mon, Tiger, come out and play-ay-ay!" the cats said, evoking that annoying guy from the movie, The Warriors. "Run with us!"
My cat, Tiger, turned to me, said, "Stuart, can I go out with them?"
In astonishment, I replied, "I didn't know you could talk!"
"You never asked me."
You know, some of my dreams just shouldn't be turned into books. Unlike the upcoming Chili Run, a true Freudian nightmare.
But more on that soon...
This weekend I went on a wife-commissioned emergency egg purchase to the grocery store.
In front of me stood a huge massive slab of man (twice as large as I am and I'm pretty big). The manager/stock-boy made the mistake of asking Sasquatch how he was doing.
"Well, my back hurts," he says.
"That's great," the stock-boy replies.
Clearly, neither one was engaged in the conversation. They didn't hear each other, communication nil and rote. But I was there, Johnny-On-The-Spot, so you don't miss a scintillating moment.
Communication is important. Often, I see people--couples--sitting at a restaurant, not chatting. Tap-tap-tapping away on their phones as if they can't tolerate one another's company. Sad and silent.
I have an old-fashioned flip-phone. Texting is a tedious nightmare (tap, tap, tap...crap!...start over...tap, tap, tap...). But the stone-age phone helps me communicate, engaged with my wife when we go out.
I'm there.
If I see you in public engaging in such activity, I'll be forced to make a citizen's arrest. "Public Rudeness." You've been duly warned.
Testicles are an important topic, one overlooked by many people. Others would rather just skirt the issue entirely. In this day and age where every Terribly Important Issue has a cable "news" show devoted to it, it's about time testicles came out of the shadows and thrust into the open.
If I have to be the brave journalist (everyone else is one these days, so I'm tossing my hat into the ring) to cast the much needed spotlight on testicles, so be it.
They're here, not very pretty, get used to it!
Sadly, testicles have been reduced to a comic device in films, the (literal) punchline in crappy comedies (see the unfortunate Home Alone series). In what world is groin damage considered comical? Apparently many people find blows to the junk the height of hilarity. YouTube and America's Home Videos are living proof of this sadistic anomaly.
But any guy who's ever suffered testicular embarrassment or irritation, not to mention full-on injury, will testify there's nothing funny about such shenanigans.
For example...
Not too long ago, I developed "jock itch."
I said, "But, doc, I'm not a jock. I don't even watch sports! My idea of sports is gambling!"
My doctor shook her head, wrote me a scrip. Couldn't wait to get me out of her office.
Even with the prescription filled, I couldn't scratch that itch. It kinda' scared me. I became desperate: cooking home remedies, sacrificing kittens, studying Scientology, watching late night infomercials. Anything.
One day I found a tube of ointment in the medicine cabinet, a sample my wife, a knowledgeable medical professional, brought home from a conference. I found the timing fortuitous.
"Soothes skin itching and burning," the label proudly proclaimed.
Hoo-hah! Celestial trumpets! (Just as long as it's not that "wah-wah-wahhhh" insulting, cartoon trombone). A dream come true! I couldn't wait to apply the miracle salve!
After I lathered it on my testicles, my wife says, "Wait! It's not for that! Don't--"
Too late. Fire ripped through my nether regions. I jerked, shimmied, frugged like I was in one of those stupid '60's beach movies ("Hey, Moondoggy, my 'nads are wayyy gone, baby!"). Fanning the area for all the good it did me.
Photos to follow...
Whoever thought it was a good idea to apply menthol to testicles needs to seriously do some reexamining. (It's kinda' like "Ben-Gay." Why in hell the ubiquitous "Ben" is so gay--as in "happy"--is beyond me.)
Frankly, America needs to hear more about testicles. I'm thinking of doing a pod-cast.
"You're on the air with Testicle Talk..."
Okay, armchair psychiatrists, get ready to analyze!
There I am, usually either at high school or Burger King (two places I haven't set foot inside of in decades, so make of that what you will). I'm heading for the public bathroom. When I open the door...
It's a vast room, jam-packed with people, both men and women. Everyone jockeying for a position to relieve themselves in a dizzying array of strange devices: there's the chin-high banana (your aim would have to be pretty astounding to use it); there are the usual urinals, of course, but the toilets are scattered all over the room with no privacy stalls; how about the elaborate playground jungle gym devices that people have to climb to rain down their business upon the poor people beneath them? And no one in there cares! Business as usual! Unzip, drop, laters.
The absolute worst part, though--the part that brings me to a sweating, gasping, waking state night after night--is the grotesque hygiene . All the toilets overflow with foul liquid. The walls are smeared with unspeakable waste. The smell could send a skunk running. And everyone drops their business willy-nilly.
And, without fail, I'm always in socks. Desperately trying to hopscotch over the spreading tides of waste. The filthy floods chase me across the tiled floor. A monstrously loud toilet whoosh signifies the newest approaching tsunami.
My bladder's full. My stomach wants to expel. My socks and feet are soaked with vile, awful...
That's usually when I wake.
I used to worry about my mental state of health regarding this recurring nightmare. Until recently, that is, when I found hope in the oddest of places. With great relief--a wonderful feeling--I found out "Lorelei Gilmore" suffers from this recurring nightmare, too.
(SIDE BAR: If it pleases the court, I readily admit to enjoying the Gilmore Girls. I used to validate it by telling people it's a show I watch with my daughter {true}, but soon found myself drawn to the surrealistic whimsy and dialogue so funny, so furious, and so fast it'd give Aaron Sorkin whiplash. No guilt here! But I digress...)
I started wondering if maybe more people have this dream. According to my much valued research assistant, Ms. Google (I fired Mr. Bing last week), they do! Apparently it's pretty common.
No one's been bold enough to put a name to it yet, but armchair dream analysts (and have you ever wondered if the word "anal" in "analyst" is a snarky comment?) are sure giving it a go. I've read all sorts of nutty theories: people are trying to work out their own "crap"; it goes back to how one was potty-trained; fear of public places; fear of urinating; bla, bla, bla.
All I know is I'd rather have ten boogeymen fully loaded with axes chasing after me than go back to this horrendous public bathroom of my dreams. Maybe it goes back to when I visited a Stuckey's bathroom and...and... Gah!
Never mind! It's just great to find out I'm not alone. Maybe I should start a support group or something. Anyone? (I see Lorelei's got her hand up).
Okay, okay, I'm sick of politics, too. Especially this new world order that makes no sense whatsoever.
Two weeks in, let's look at Trump's major accomplishments: low-income families can no longer afford to buy houses. The Trump immigration ban? Makes sound sense, right? What the United States is all about. Trump's ticked off China, numerous other countries. Shocker. But America's great again!
No wonder 1984 is the best-selling novel now.
I'm absolutely terrified. Who's our new US president representing? And why are people buying into it?
Trump says he's giving America back to "the people." As long as "the people" are white, rich, male and orange, natch.
Here's what I don't get...white, rich, male, sexist, Eagles-listening, Fox News-watching, golfing people have ALWAYS been represented by the government. No matter the political denomination, Republicans or Democrats. The power's been in their hands, will continue to be. So why are white guys suddenly rising, like there's something to be angry about?
Orange is a new power group, but I thought the Oompa-Loompa Union had them covered.
Nothing's changing in the US regarding the power structure. Doesn't look like it will in the next four years.
Trump proclaims he wants to unite the country. Good luck, Orange One. Your hateful political campaign divided the country. (And, yes, Hillary had a hand in that as well).
We liberals aren't exempt from horrible behavior. I own up to that. Proponents on both sides have turned ugly, bitterly awful. I used to enjoy healthy political chats with friendly opponents. Not any longer. Not even with politically like-minded allies.
The so-called "leader of the free world" promotes hatred like a merit badge for scouts. Someone who's supposed to lead by example of exemplary behavior.
I feel like I'm following the biggest brat on the playground. One who likes molesting women and loves golden showers.
Have you tried having a decent, intelligent, political chat these days?
Trump has unleashed a wave of hatred, anger and bigotry across the country, unrivaled since Hitler's reign. Now more than ever, people find it okay--even admirable--to bash people, verbally and physically.
Opinions that people have been harboring--festering away like cancer--are suddenly being unleashed with zeal. Thoughts that people knew were previously forbidden to share. But everything's changed. Our leader's made it clear it's okay to hate everyone different! Shout it from the rooftops, dammit! Our president does!
Couple days ago, I wrote this about my new book...
"Not Donald Trump's biography! But
very close to it. From Riverdale Avenue Books, Demon with a Comb-Over (with a
brand-spanking, sparkly new prequel) is out now! http://amzn.to/2iZz0OH"
Just trying to find an amusing hook.
A woman responded, "Get over it! You're irritating me! We had 8 years of your idiot and he didn't do crap! Shut your mouth and deal with the future!"
Oof! Cyber-slapped! I "irritated" her. I live in her world and I'm just lucky to be sharing it. Whoops, my bad. Meanwhile, she's out there poking the bear.
Welcome to the new world order. It's like we're living in "Celebrity Apprentice," praying we don't get fired from life.
America's always been about freedom of speech and healthy political debate.
Let's get back to that.
Help stomp out orange.
For many years, I had faith in my mom regarding politics. One of the few things we saw eye-to-eye on. We hoo-hahed over the ludicrous notion of Trump even running for president. I mean, seriously, a year ago, did anyone think it was possible? Bad hair, violent temper, quite crazy (real good).
Trump's hat toss was funny for a while. Not so much any more. But I could count on Mom to laugh along with me at his blatant insanity.
Yesterday, I called Mom. She brought up politics. I told her the badly-coiffed buffoon would get us into World War III. Hillary isn't my favorite politician either, but I expect her to at least keep the status quo. Best we can hope for these days.
My mom's response nearly stopped my heart. My pulse pounded in my ears, crying to me in a tiny cartoony-mouse voice, "Mom's tipped over!"
Out of nowhere, she blindsided me with, "You're wrong. Trump is the more religious man."
Huh.
Well, I kinda flipped out. My mom's holier-than-thou attitude added fuel to the fire.
Facts meant nothing to her. "Mom, this guy wants to start war! He hates everyone who's not white and straight! His haircut is a blatant physical representation of everything he lies about. It's just a juvenile game to him! He'll bring on Armageddon! We do NOT want him talking to foreign leaders, trust me!"
"You're wrong," she says, "he's led by God."
It's hard to argue with the Big Guy, but I tried anyway. "Trump's NOT a good Christian. All he wants is sexual harassment and destruction!"
"Yes, Stuart, but how long ago did those accusations happen?"
"Last week! The guy wants to violate and kill 'real good'! Mom!" I'm shamelessly screaming at this point. "There's a separation of Church and State for a reason!"
"Huh. Shouldn't be."
"Let's see... The sixteenth century had Henry VIII killing people in the name of Christianity so he could sleep with every woman he wanted. Heads were lopped! The Spanish Inquisition! You know how many people were killed because--"
"Huh. Spain. Not America."
"Ohhhh! We all came from immigrants! So many people have been put to death when religion gets in charge of government, it's crazy. And Trump's the worst. He--"
"I know what I know. We'll see who's right."
"Trump reminds me of someone else, someone who called himself a Christian. What was his name...lessee...Adam, no, that's not it...Aidan? No...oh, I got it! Hitler! How'd that work out for everyone?"
Pointless. I simmahed down. Sizzled out. The whole thing was weird. Where'd this suddenly come from? Particularly at a time when most people were bailing on the Trump train?
"Okay, Mom, I'll take you shopping next Tuesday."
"God will prove I'm right."
"Bye."
Well.
Not too long ago, I flew down to Portland, Oregon to meet my wife to finish out her vacation (more about that peculiar, fascinating, flawed, wonderful city in the future).
At the airport, I stood in the security line, business as usual. This time I was extra careful to take off my belt, get everything out of my pockets. When I went through the scanning gizmo, an extremely nervous security guard held up an authoritative hand. Stopped me dead.
"Um, Christine?" he called out to his superior. Christine was too busy or chose to ignore the noobie. I glanced at my scan. Within the outline of my body (the kind you'd see drawn in chalk on sidewalks at crime scenes), my crotch was absolutely glowing! On fire! Yow!
Noobie and I were on our own, charting unpleasant landscapes.
Clearly neither the guard or I wanted to be in this uncomfortable situation. Timid, afraid to go to areas the he'd rather not explore, the guard grunted, sighed. At his touch, I jumped, squealed in fright. Hardly the start of a beautiful relationship. It took forever, too. Everyone stopped to watch. Checked out my glowing crotch scan.
"Um, sir, I'm going to have to pat down your buttocks and investigate your genital area. Do you require a private room?"
"What? No! But why--"
"I'm going to use the back of my hand on sensitive areas like this..." He wiped the back of his gloved hand on my shoulder. "Will that be all right?"
"I guess! But why is my crotch glowing with radiation! Am I dying? What's hap--"
"Here we go, sir."
Finally, the (very long) humiliation ended, both of us relieved. "You can go, sir."
I had to clear my throat several times to be heard, but good sport that I am, I wanted the audience to know I wasn't a terrorist. "Ah...why'd the scan show that?" I pointed, refusing to mention "crotch," "groin," "genitals," amidst the crowd.
Noobie shrugged, said, "You probably moved. Or something." He didn't look sold on the theory.
Purple-faced, I skedaddled on board.
Once I landed in Portland, I told my wife about my misadventure. And warned her to beware my radioactive crotch.
She said, "Wait. Did you use that steroid cream?"
Let's back up a minute (and I probably should've led with that, but it woulda' been a worse tale)... Lately I've had sort of a heat rash on my thighs. Doc said to get this steroid cream, put it on there twice daily. "Jock itch," she said, although I'm not a jock and it didn't itch. But I applied the ointment nonetheless.
"Yeah, I did," I answered her.
"Sometimes," my wife explained, ever the professor, "the tiniest trace of elements in creams can show up."
AH! Maybe I'm not radioactive down yonder after all.
But recently I read a news story about a man who smuggled a monkey on board a plane. In his shirt. Sure, the machine picks up my crotch cream, but not a monkey?
