Book Trailer

My first book trailer is on You Tube. Type in Book Trailer-Twilight People or my name and you'll see it. It runs just over two minutes and consists of a bunch of photos corresponding with the stories in the book. A classical music piece plays in the backround as I narrate the introduction to the book.
I wanted my voice to be as creepy as the text and it is. You don't realize how you actually sound until you listen to something like this. I don't know if it will help sales. Sandi Sola, the person who created it, is so imaginative in her approach. She did her sister Vicki's trailer and that one turned out great also.
Publishing a book really is a team effort. I have begun the tough job of marketing, which involves making appearances, this for the second one, Plowed In--More Switchblade Stories. My next workshop is Sept. 17 at The Nutley Library--a workshop on flash fiction. I'm getting better at speaking in front of people. I don't make enough eye contact though. I'm afraid of losing my place in the text.
Anyway, I hope some of you will give the book a try. It's available through Scribbulations, Amazon and B&N.
Now I'm immersed in creating more stories, writing and writing, always writing.

Finishing a Story

I finished the first draft to my new story tonight. Of course there will be tweaking and tightening, adding and subtracting. I wrote it in long hand in my notebook, as opposed to using the computer. It just seemed to flow better. Took me three days, which is two days longer than usual. In between writing, I was thinking about each scene, which characters would make their appearance, how they would interact with my protagonist.
I know I'm going to play with the dialogue, which most readers enjoy best. This story is actually another episode following the initial introduction of this character in the last story of my new book, Plowed In--More Switchblade Stories. Just because I'm marketing this doesn't mean I take a hiatus from writing.
Tonight I was at a Meet Up Group, Shut Up & Write with a dozen others. I met a young woman and we exchanged business cards. I tried to impart helpful info, showed her my books and explained some of the ins and outs of self publishing.
Tomorrow I continue planning events and strategy for marketing. I think I'm becoming a better reader, but I have to look at the audience more. Looking forward to a book launch next month. Publishing a book is like no other experience.

Something Bad Done Well

The Plant Terrorists blew up Lois's cherry tomatoes. They strike in the dead of night and no one knows how to stop them. Their targets are hedges, plants, flowers, trees, bushes, vines, anything growing from the soil.
A suspicion the Concrete Cabal is responsible. This is a rumored secret group of extremists who worship concrete, pushing for a world order centering on unbroken miles of pavement.
These are bad people doing bad things very well. They are responsible for much of the way cities look today. They hate cucumbers with a passion, morning dew makes them vomit, leaves turning color causes them to cover their eyes, grey being their hue of choice. It is postulated this cabal has directly caused the premature death of thousands of Portabello mushrooms.
Politicians linked to this group will no doubt present a bill outlawing greenhouses and hiking trails.
Damn. Another explosion. Mrs. Haliday's roses are history.

Easier Said Than Done

Ever try taking the bull by the horns? First you have to get it drunk or the beast won't cooperate. Then you have to determine what position is best, find a private spot and go at it. Fornicating with a bull is frowned upon by that same society that created the above saying. Hypocrites.
You'll still have to deal with post coital promises. Do you really want to be exclusive with this bull? If not, you need to be honest and risk getting gored or trampled, simultaneous orgasm be damned.
Don't cry over spilled milk is another proverb easier said than done, especially if it's expensive soy milk. Sour milk smells and your family will hate you if you don't stop sobbing and clean it up. Plus, they have to drink their coffee black and eat their cereal dry.
One door shuts and another opens. Well, what if you need a rest from opening and shutting doors? Why pay attention to doors anyway? So much of what happens that is worth watching can be seen through windows.
Expressing wisdom in these blogs is easier said than done. Thankfully, this one's done.

Law Books

I saw a pile of law books in the dumpster. One had the word 'torts' in the title. I felt sadness. Obviously this was someone who had hopes of being an attorney, fighting for the underclass, righting wrongs, settling injustices. For whatever reason, poor grades, no tuition money, no openings, this person had abandoned his dream of being a barrister.
As I turned away I heard a cough from behind the dumpster. I decided to investigate and shockingly discovered a young man in a wrinkled suit and scuffed shoes sitting against the dumpster, head in hands. I made the assumption those were his books.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" I asked.
"Sue someone. Fall down, get hurt and sue. Swallow a hair in your salad at a fast food place. Slander your boss or former wife. Walk away from your mortgage. Break some stinking law. I need WORK!"
He broke into sobs.
"I'm thinking of making out a will," I offered.
He leaped off the ground,grabbed me by the shirt.
"God bless you. That's $165 covering everything including postage. I take check, money order and cash. I prefer cash. Do you have an office I can use? Temporarily."
I said no, but perhaps in the future when I've made a final decision...
He exploded. "TEASE! Another close but no cigar. No one wants lawyers anymore. The Internet killed us. Free advice, free information, free forms. I still owe $80000 for my schooling. Lawyers used to get laid. Now we beg for scraps."
He slumped back into a sitting position. I tip toed away, listening to his grumbling. Those law books looked in good shape. At least if I fell I knew who to contact. If he still had a cell.

Promoting the Book

My new collection of short stories, Plowed In-More Switchblade Stories, has just been released on Amazon & B&N, and now its time for me to make appearances and promote. It can be interesting, meeting and discussing one's writing with friends and strangers. It can also get sticky.
One has to be careful not to be too aggressive. You can lose friends pretty quick. I simply hold up the book, mention the title and the price($10) direct from me, a bit more online, and let them peruse. I don't want anyone to feel obligated, nor do I want my feelings to be hurt if those I expected to buy, don't.
People have their reasons. Money is certainly one of them. Others have said they don't buy books anymore. Maybe jealousy creeps into it. Writers struggling with their project don't want to be reminded of that by seeing others hawking a finished book.
You can't sell it in little bookstores because they want a percentage and that means a loss on each sale for me. Big stores don't stock it. Open mikes are attended by others looking to perform, not buy. Libraries host authors and attendance is spotty. Buying a table at an outdoor fair is costly.
Yes, it tough sledding marketing one's book, but that is part of the commitment. I feel these 25 stories are varied enough to keep one's interest. The humor is edgy, but there are serious undertones. I hope my readers will give it a try and if you like it, spread the word.

Seduced and Abandoned

I fell deeply in love with VHS. Collected hundreds of videos for when I retired. I wouldn't have to leave the house, just sit back in my recliner, unshaven and unwashed, watching film after film.
I stored them in closets, on shelves, in the hamper. I stared at their striking covers and bold titles, cataloged them by director and actor. As long as I had my VHS collection I didn't have to interact with others.
You know what happened next. Three ugly letters--DVD. Followed closely by DVD players.
My lonely VCR remains under my cable box, unused. I am retired six years and have not watched a single video. All those unseen Steve Guttenberg performances.
My tapes haven't actually abandoned me. They exist peripherally in my life. Sometimes I will take some out and caress their box. I almost wish they were gone for good.
I feel so used.

The Ivy League Has the Bomb

Think about it. Millions of bucks in alumni contributions. Some of the finest minds anywhere doing research on campus. Elitists, disgusted with the rest of us. They turn up their noses at our tastes, lifestyles, vocabulary, mismatched clothing, tiny reading lists, our slacker kids, our bunions.
William F. Buckley sneered his way to the top. Who do you think he was sneering at? He chewed on his pen like germs wouldn't dare present themselves in his bubble world. An intellectual dictator with Ivy League-rs as his minions.
Besides the bomb, they probably possess chemical and biological warfare elements.
Targets? Rutgers, Montclair State, all Florida Universities, Wendy's and Burger King, plaid manufacturing, Jerry Lewis.
They'd force us to learn Latin, read Henry James, use long sentences with many dependent clauses, repeat words like nefarious and coagulate.
Demand we have joyless sex.
It's coming, my friends, it is coming.

Canadians are Planning Something

Strange messages on my radio. Canadian accent. Friends experiencing the same thing. All that land no one lives on. Who knows what goes on across that terrain? Ann Murray, the singer, disappeared. Why?
Who are these Canadian researchers? Why don't they ever publish anything? Are high level officials in our government really Canadian?
What could they be planning?
Isn't it obvious? A complete takeover of The Great Lakes. Rename them. Profit immensely off tourism. Buffalo and Syracuse are next. All these radio messages are secret signals to their infiltrators. One night all hell will break loose. The foundations of our government will crumble and Canadians will swarm across the border led by Martin Short. That's right, he is Canadian.
The scariest aspect-they look just like us!

Something Moved

Ned and Tara are having dinner at a restaurant.

Ned-Sit perfectly still.
Tara-You're scaring me.
Ned-Your meat loaf just moved.
Tara-My loaf is dead.
Ned-There's something very strong underneath it.
Tara-I covered it in gravy.
Ned-Maybe it's in the gravy.
Tara-Make up your mind. Gravy or loaf.
Ned-Don't get snippy. I could have said nothing.
Tara-Last night you could have said nothing.
Ned-Don't start.
Tara-You yelled "Bettina!"
Ned-She was my nanny. I was confused about my feelings.
Tara-So that wasn't the hussy at Cara's party you were all over?
Ned-We were discussing exploring caves in the southwest. I had a life before I met you.
Tara-Waiter!
Waiter-Yes?
Ned-Something moved on her plate.
Waiter-Perhaps it is the lights in here. Plays tricks.
Tara-Something around or on that meatloaf is alive.
Waiter-Would you like me to take it back?
Tara-No, I'd like you to question it.
Waiter-Your sarcasm is noted.
Ned-Call the manager over.
Waiter-As you wish. Morris!
Morris-Is there a problem?
Tara-You've got foriegn objects in your entre.
Morris-I am appalled, truly appalled.
Ned-We want to speak to the owner.
Morris-Certainly. Howard!
Howard-How can I be of assistance?
Tara-Something is moving on my plate.
Howard-Morris, determine if this is so. If it's alive, add a surcharge. If it's dead, speak to the chef.
Morris-Yes, but Mirella's been exceptionally cranky all day. She lost her pet beetle.

Stuck in the Tunnel

So here I am, El Conquistador, superhero, stuck in the tunnel in my Volvo. My tights are riding up on me, the cape pulling on my neck, the mask and boots too tight. A hostage situation in Bensonhurst, way out of my area of responsibility, but it's a holiday and I'm covering for Slab, who's off skiing.
I'm sweating like a buffalo, nothing is moving, people are honking. If I had better super powers I'd fly right out of here to fresh air. But my only power is talking fast and spraying strange saliva, which makes foes fall asleep. What can I say? Either you have it or you don't.
The problem with this ability is when I'm on a date and sneeze, the woman winds up face down in the mashed potatoes, snoring like a buzz saw. I usually don't get second dates.
I should find a tunnel worker, tell him who I am and ask for an escort. But these sweat stains are expanding and one in particular looks like I peed myself.
Maybe I can get Green Lantern on my cell. Whoops. Forgot. I'm in a stinking tunnel with no reception.
I hate my life.

One Battery

Months ago my condo was inspected. I was not there and gave my super the key. When I came home the key was on the table without a message. I assumed I passed and forgot about it.
Yesterday I got a letter from the management stating one of my smoke detectors in the hall was not working and would have to be fixed or replaced. The letter was three pages long. There was also a notice for a certified letter that had to be picked up. I hate certified letters, which are usually from lawyers and mean you're in trouble. Since I don't actually have a hall, I called management and they confirmed it was in my nonexistent hall, which I realized was actually on the ceiling in my living room. They also confirmed they sent the certified letter, which was exactly the same as the regular notice.
Let's add up. Six pages typed, two letters totaling $5 in postage, a trip to the PO to pick up the certified letter, which they could NOT find, a trip to Rite Aid for a 9 volt battery (buy one, get one half price), finding my step ladder so I could replace the old battery.
Now I have to wait for the inspector to notify me when he is returning. I'd like to know how he reached that detector on the ceiling. What if he used my step ladder, fell and hurt himself? Could I be sued?

Art Overflow

I've got too many paintings. My closet, living room and garage are full of paintings I will never hang or view. I've already donated a bunch to Goodwill. I suppose I could donate more.
These are excellent works, abstract renderings, most in oil, that will keep you staring for hours. Anyone can paint an apple or orange. I am painting the beginning of time, the ethos at creation. The fact that they look like squashed insects is irrelevant. The shapes and colors leave one breathless. Okay, sometimes a headache results, but it's a good type, the kind you get reading the great Russian authors.
I know I must separate myself from some of these. Space is at a minimum. If I had money I would buy a place large enough to house my brilliance. Critics do not know what they are missing. I pleaded with several to come review my work. Philistines. None want to cross the Hudson, leave the city, explore the world I've created.
Some people have pets; I have my paintings. Yes, you can hug a pet and not art, unless you want an undershirt full of color. Which brings me to the downside of this activity--my clothes are splattered with paint. I should don an apron, but when inspiration strikes all I want is to grab my brush and attack the canvas. Far too many shirts and pants have suffered in the process. It's called sacrificing for one's art.

Dodging

I almost got run over tonight. I was walking and reading, but I swear when I got to the cross walk I had stopped reading. A car approached. I did not wave him through. He stopped. I began walking. Suddenly he hit the gas. I leaped out of the way--somehow. All those hours in the gym paid off. I did not curse or make a scene. He did not beep or say anything. I made it to the other side, took a deep breath and resumed reading.
This is how pedestrians die on clear, dry roads with perfect visibility. What if I didn't avoid contact? Suppose I lay there unconscious? How long before someone stopped to see I was okay?
If you guessed less than two hours you don't live in Hudson County.
My fear as I grow older is that someday I'll be too slow to react. I already type slow, shower slow, climb steps slow, digest food slow, drive slow. I sense I'm blinking slower than I used to. There will come a day when I'll be too anxious to leave the house. One point in my favor--I always have on clean socks and underwear. And those tiny shoulder hairs get trimmed regularly. I will make a handsome corpse if I dodge a fraction too late.

What Do Geese Know?

Geese are watching me. I sit here on the bench and mind my business. Sometimes I feed them citrus fruit, but this isn't about food. It's about me.
The geese know something about me I don't want them to know.
Mostly, they face the lake, but there are times when I look up fast and catch them eyeballing me. I believe they are judging me by my past. I admit there was a time when I had an unhealthy interest in swans. Some people are into otters. To each his own. I never did anything overt, but swans could sense my passion.
Once the swans mysteriously left, as swans do, the geese picked up on my sadness. Since then they've been watching me.
The sensible thing would be to switch parks and defuse the situation. But what if the geese followed me? Can you tell one from another? Suppose there were swans in the new park? Could I control myself?
No, it's best I stay right here, showing no fear even if they waddle right up to me. I'm the one paying taxes here. Thankfully they can't give each other hand signals. The book I'm reading is Winnie the Pooh. Not a single swan within.

Hole in Pocket

People are busy. Stitching isn't what it used to be. Put two and two together. Voila, a new business--Hole Alert. People only discover they have a hole in their pocket after stuff has slid out. My concept is to simply circulate among the masses, thrusting my hand into their pockets searching for holes. For each one found, I get $1.
I am trustworthy and good at what I do. They call me The Hole Whisperer. Some clients want me to keep my hand in their pocket. There is a surcharge for that.
Lately I notice copycats, streets full of strangers checking people's pockets. I am the genuine article. Before they eliminated tokens I was clearing $800 a week. I do have to keep my nails trimmed to prevent creating holes myself. That would be unethical.
I have a sense about these things and I sense you have a hole in your pocket. Wait! Don't run off. I am a professional.

Forced Hugging

I'm not a hugger by nature. Some people are, some aren't. Intense, intimate contact with people whose name I'm not sure of is uncomfortable. I'm not a germophobe. I am on good terms with my germs and I assume your germs are no worse.
The other night I was at an outdoor concert in Jersey City. I know people in JC and they are all serial huggers. You see these same folks everywhere, smiling, hugging, engaging in intense conversation about very important things. Sometimes they pat each other on the butt. I am okay with most of this, but I wonder how close is this friendship? It sure looks like they are hugging for the benefit of others. See how loved I am. See how popular. If something bad happened to me, look at all those who would jump to my assistance.
After about an hour watching this, I closed the book I was reading and looked around for someone to hug. Yes, I was feeling a bit lost and abandoned. I couldn't hug the musicians or vendors, none of whom I knew. A woman next to me asked the time. I suppose I could have used that as an excuse to toss a light hug her way. She seemed happy and happy people are more likely to hug strangers.
There is far too much hugging at the Olympics, but that is another level of contact altogether.
I left the concert having hugged no one. I have now gone 161 days without hugging anyone and I tell you it's not as bad as it sounds. My super is cutting the grass. He is a stocky Latino and we get along fine. I believe I should go out and give him a hug. First I'll gargle, floss, spray deodorant and slap on moisturizer. I want my infrequent hugs to be memorable.

Shopping Cart Conspiracy

Why is it the shopping cart I choose never rolls? Hundreds of carts in the parking lot, I pick the one that stutters or lurches to the side or makes unacceptable rattling noises. No matter where I shop this happens.
Sometimes the cart will play games with me. It will roll along beautifully for 50 feet, then suddenly stop short causing a punctured bowel. Invariably I have to get another, but not without struggling to place the defective one where it's not blocking traffic. More than once I've gotten a solid citizen cart prepared to do its job, and on the way into the store I'll spot someone taking my damaged cart, unknowingly. If I were possessing integrity, I'd warn them. But since I'm me, I just wait and watch them get suckered in, eventually cursing loudly.
Another cart problem occurs when they are attached and you have to pull the first one loose. I keep yanking to no avail. Then I move to another line and try again without success. Meanwhile some 100 pound woman has no trouble detaching the very cart that stubbornly refused my efforts. Recently I discovered the trick others have been using. Raise the basket located by the handle and the cart releases without hesitation. Why didn't anyone tell me this?
Wal-Mart carts are too big for what I need. I know this is a subconscious sales tactic to get me to spend more than I intend. I may not be shopping cart savvy, but I know my sales techniques. Because I'm a detail guy, I've only misplaced my full cart a handful of times. Instead of panicking, I quietly traverse the entire store until I come upon it. Should I not find it, I confront the store manager, demand he lock all exits and accompany me on a cart by cart inspection until we find the culprit. The down side of that is he or she usually manages to sell me stuff I don't need, like camping equipment. If you ever find me out camping somewhere, call assisted living immediately. My mind has left the building.

Spoiler Alert

Don't read this is you don't want to know the information.

Lions 8, Christians 0.
Gore Vidal is dead.
King Lear has his hands full.
There is no actual mockingbird in To Kill a Mockingbird.
Most of your Facebook friends contain Malware and viruses.
No one is reading your blog.
Bungee jumping peaked in 1998.
Sir Paul forgets the words.
There are only six genuine poets left in NYC.
Peeing starts to hurt around age 50.
Portland isn't as cool as we're led to believe.
Opera singers take too long with our National Anthem.
He who laughs last is probably single.
Going green requires a spread sheet.
Monks are not easily impressed.
Boat owners never wear socks.
Craig stole some of his list from my list.
The latest Mars landing was photo shopped.

Branding

Every Olympic athlete who competes needs a brand to sell to corporations. One swimmer smiles and giggles, a gymnast repeats the question before carefully spouting rehearsed responses. A sprinter does his lightning bolt stance, others mug for the camera at the starting line.
Girl gymnasts with little in the way of curves and squirrel voices pronounce how they WANT that medal. A woman weightlifter does her comedy routine. Athletes preen and strut and smile on cue, drape themselves in their countries flag, fall to the ground in pain or ecstasy. It's all choreographed down to the facial expressions. Meanwhile, boxing, once a staple of the games, has virtually no coverage because research has shown it doesn't entice viewers like it did.
BP and TD Ameritrade are not even American companies and their commercials state how proud they are to support our athletes.
The US girl that missed her vault and got silver instead of gold looked shocked, sitting there unblinking. The announcers came right out and stated she would win long before her turn came. The difference between gold and silver amounts to millions in endorsements. I wish that little fact would have been mentioned.
Her fragile brand was damaged.

Sunday Times

I love buying the Sunday NY Times. Anticipation builds to a fever pitch by Sunday morning. I will not buy the Saturday early edition because it lacks late sports results.
I love reading the International section which explains serious problems in other countries, some of which I actually care about.
I love the travel section describing places I can never visit, the style section reporting on parties I will never attend full of celebrities I will never meet wearing clothes I can never afford.
I enjoy the auto section featuring cars way out of my price range, the real estate section listing property larger than some Third World countries on the market for the gross national product equal of many Eastern European countries.
I love the week in Review featuring esoteric think pieces by successful authors who can just sit home and think.
I love the sports section covering sports no other paper will touch, like team handball.
I love the book review section and all those tomes on worthy, but obscure subjects and contemporary fiction by minimalist stylists and all those best seller lists and quirky opinion pieces and haiku attempts.
I love the magazine section with its in-depth profiles of people I should at least be acquainted with and solid investigative journalism on the shortage of fiber in prisons.
I love the Metropolitan section and all its off the wall stories about slightly off people with strange ambitions and stranger conflicts.
I love the business section delineating all the different ways hedge fund managers and banks are screwing us.
Mostly I love the Arts & Leisure section because it makes me feel like I have lots of leisure time and am appreciative of the fine arts. Plus, sometimes there's a photo of a hot actress.
Last, I love the Target ads with sales on Tide, Bounty, Puffs, Bounce, Downy, Pampers and Charmin.
Why leave the house at all on Sunday when the Times brings you the whole world?

Dance Challenged

Why can't I dance?
I'm a reasonably athletic guy. I go to the gym. I was good at sports as a kid. I'm comfortable with my body. People in my family can dance like banshees. Friends invite me places where dancing is required. I stand in the corner praying no one will ask me to cut a rug. I can't even scratch a place mat.
It's always been like this. I'm sure I would have been more popular in high school if I could do something resembling a series of moves. I watched the teen dance shows growing up and tried to imitate the participants. Whenever I checked myself in the mirror I resembled someone having an aneurism. I just cannot stay with the beat. I don't even clap on the beat. I thrust my hips, roll my shoulders, jerk my head, fling my arms out, snap my fingers. Scary. At least Martin Short's character, Ed, can shimmy.
My dance grunts are ineffective and sound unhealthy. Yes, I freeze up, but I do that at the urinal and still manage an acceptable pee. Maybe if I took Asian self defense I could incorporate some of those moves. Gene Kelly had to start somewhere. Maybe he took judo lessons and went from there.
Great female dancers are the stuff of fantasy, especially if they sweat. I was thinking of going commando and seeing if that stimulates coordination, helps me toss away self consciousness. Of course I'd have to forgo the limbo. Don't want to frighten anyone.

Snide Remarks

There is an art to executing snide remarks. Below are the essential elements in pulling off successful snide remark impact.
Say it loud enough for people to hear, but not so loud so that it crosses over into outright cruelty.
Accompany it with a look of disdain.
Your target usually should be someone whose life is rolling along carefree.
Only use English. Repeating the same remark in several languages dilutes impact.
Don't include the person's mother, but spouses are fair game.
Before you let loose, gauge the mood of the room. Hostile means postpone until things simmer down.
If everyone seems happy, chuckle when you release your snide comment.
If you intend to school your kids in making these remarks, make certain they know self defense.
Be prepared for your target to retaliate when you least expect it.
Snorting after you've attacked is considered bad form in polite circles.
If your target is the food served by your hostess, say something nice about the salad.
Your remark must contain pithy, but deadly wit. Use an English accent when possible.
Assume that your target will eventually learn of your ambush and you will lose another friend.
For variety, raise an eyebrow like Cary Grant when executing.
Clear your throat first to subtly get attention, pause and release the verbiage.
Snide remarks about celebrities are a good way to hone your gift.
Cruel is a relative term.