wild seed books's Blog

• More Fun with the Book Publisher

  2004 Aug 06

  Today I received a missive from my friends at Wildseed. Seems they'd like your's truly to indulge in a little more publicity by filling out a questionnaire. All the industry's doing it, G.C. told me.
  I actually love to do these things, you know.
  Maybe this will help them promote the book:
  Book description, purpose, and audience
  Drinking, Driving, and Surviving: Uncovering the secret of DUI avoidance.
  purpose: to augment the author’s self-destructive tendencies.
  audience: Amish do-wop singers and the stray morbidly-obese chicken farmer
  
  
  Date and place of birth
  Drunkenshire, England
  
  Education including degrees and institution names and addresses
  Oxford Academy of Bartending and Barbering—Always avoid the head, as we used to say.
  Miss Lizzy’s Correspondence School of Dance, certificate in the tango and the mash potato
  
  
  Professional History
  I was always interested in journalism, mostly because of the close proximity of the pubs to several of London’s major dailies. I served a stint at several of these great papers, usually on the custodial staff, and more often than not, as a hanger-on, head-nodder. I then left for America after hearing stories that an English accent can go along way in smoothing over American birds into the ole sack. The jury’s still out on that one, I must say.
  
  Honors, prizes, etc.
  Awarded curbside removal at both Caesar’s Palace and the Golden Nugget. Voted most likely to resist being shut off by the American Bouncers Association. Most improved Whiskey Drunk, 1986.
  
  Hobbies
  Breeding Belgian mountain goats. This led to a quite unfortunate arrest, I'm afraid.
  
  Why did you write this book?
  Gambling debts, mainly. The threat of losing a leg only increased my desire to investigate other sources of income.
  
  Who is your reader? Sex, age, interests, Etc.
  I think one should be more interested in sex, less about age.
  
  Why should someone buy your book?
  Shoplifting is still socially stigmatic.
  
  What features and benefits does your book offer to your reader?
  Adapts nicely to fanning and Fly-swatting during hot days, kindling in winter.
  
  
  Are you a regular contributor to newspapers, magazines, or Web sites?
  I’ve written several letters to pornographic periodicals, with some degree of success.
  
  Do you regularly speak publicly?
  Yes, I often mumble irrationally about how the MI6’s involvement in the Peruvian shrimp industry is actually part of a plot to warm the climate and thereby increase the property values of several PMs’ homes.
  I also communicate in a high-pitched yell. Generally after being told the bar will no longer serve me. Some say it sounds like a dolphin caught in a net.
  
  What is your television or radio experience?
  Can work both. Remotes often cause me some degree of consternation.
  
  List recognized experts or personalities who would be willing to endorse this book? List as many as possible.
  The entertainment world is full of alcoholics and various misfits. Take a dart and fling it at a People Magazine, chances are you’ll hit some doped-up, half-talent who’d be willing to give the book a nod in exchange for some prescription drug medicine.
  
  Are you planning in trips before or after your publication date? If so, when and where?
  Just to the liquor store.
  
  What organizations are you currently involved in that might be of benefit in marketing your book?
  I imagine treatment facilities and support groups will see an influx of participants.
  

• The book reading, or why can’t we all get along

  2004 Aug 02

  What am I doing in Barnes and Nobles today? Glad you asked.
  When I signed with Wildseed Books, I received a hefty advance. More accurately, I swiped the corporate credit card and headed toward Atlantic City. When the cost of booze and gas escalated, and when G.C. (one of the Wildseed partners) quickly revoked the credit card, Atlantic City was sadly replaced by a honky tonk in southern Virginia. And I headed back to the folded arms of an angry startup book publisher.
  As part of my contract with Wildseed and during my profuse apologies to G.C., I agreed to do a couple of book signings and appearances. I stonewalled as long as I could. You see, I don’t hate people; I hate the public. People are okay. The public is a gelatinous, poisonous jelly fish—an organism made of many parts, but acting in unity to sting, to maim, and to stop one from reproducing on a regular basis.
  Sunday morning, G.C. appeared at my door. He appeared ready to transport me some place.
  “Don’t you remember?” he asked in a whiny tone that reminded me of a former fiancé. “You had a book reading lined up.”
  “Oh. Yeah. Right-o.” It had actually hit me immediately, but took some time for my mind to process the information through the hangover. I told him the night before, during one of his twice daily haranguing, I had a reading engagement.
  We drove around much of the nation’s scenic southeast as I delayed the inevitable, telling G.C. stories about my hatred of French soups and my mistrust of the Amish. Finally, the heat was intense. Not from August sun, but from G.C.’s forehead, a simmering red. I was just about to tell him the truth, or the closest passable proximity.
  Suddenly, like a faux brick rainbow, a Barnes and Noble megastore appeared on the horizon.
  “Right then. There it is.” I said.
  G.C. smiled. It was only the second time he has done so since our fateful partnership was arranged.
  I was excited, as well. I was thinking on my feet. The hangover was now only mildly debilitating. A quick chug out of the ole flask in the bathroom would eliminate it entirely.
  G.C. toted a box of books next to me and we entered the double doors together like a dance team in classic 1950s cinema. G.C. asked for directions.
  “Yes. Err. Right over there my good man.”
  I pointed to a little coffee corral surrounded by a rod iron fence that appeared to be made from the stair railing of a haunted house. Inside the corral, a goodly number of soccer moms and the assorted lesbian—now indistinguishable one from another by haircuts and eyewear—rested on tall stools. Beside them a hippy, the official mascot of these types of joints, was sipping tea, mulling geopolitical trends of the third world, and smelling quite third world himself.
  I went to the center of the corral. G.C. placed his books on a table. He smiled. Again.
  Just as G.C. was about to introduce my reading. A little beatnik hick be-bopped over and enquired to our presence. I replied that his manager booked me. When he still appeared reluctant, I made some reference to the loss of his position, as well as the loss of various chunks of his ass if he stood in my way. The beatnik walked away—backwards.
  The introduction went without a hitch. It started going down hill when I mentioned the name of the book. Actually, the first three words: Drinking, Driving, and Surviving. From that point, book store mayhem ensued.
  One woman, or a near proximity, muttered, “you have got to be joking.”
  “Screw you,” I replied after taking the flask away from my mouth. “If I had a picture of our savior in a bottle of urine you’d be all ears. Go darn a sock.”
  I returned to my efforts to exercise my first amendment rights when Hades rolled down in a wheelbarrow. The beat-hick, properly reinforced with several other goateed brown shirts, appeared on my left flank. One soccer mom was attempting to tear a rod from the coffee corral fence. Another was trying to tear a framed caricature of Hemmingway off of the wall, and, no doubt, intended to use it as a hand-held, literary guillotine
  “Not the decorative elements,” I shouted.
  The mob slapped, pinched, and kicked G.C. and me back through the doors and into the parking lot. In what seemed to take hours, we eventually reached the vehicle. As G.C. pulled out, I rolled down the window and shouted, “Violence is never the answer, bitches.”
  A crisp crack pierced the summer evening.
  I sat and stared into a cracked windshield. A caricature of Ernest Hemmingway looked back at me, his eyes cringed in disgust.
  “Oh. Papa.” I sighed.
  

• Fireworks and Fat Kids

  2004 Aug 01

  I'm standing on the dock with a six pack at my feet and a quarter stick of dynamite in my hand.
  But I'll get back to that. I read a depressing story about obesity among kids.
  As a lad in England, we had an obesity problem, too. His name was Irving and he was a fat kid. I owe Irving a lot. I honed my insults on Irving and sometimes he would beat me up. It was the only exercise he got.
  So why am I standing looking out over the Atlantic with beer and bombs. That's why I came to this country. I love a country where you can go down the street and buy a rather large explosive unit while you have a gallon of alcohol nestled under your arm.
  Oh America of my dreams. Now, they want to take it away from me and give it to the lawyers.
  So, I'm going to light the fuse and drop the bomb in the ocean. I'll crack open a six and think about how it will kill the fish. Then the fishermen will go broke due to the lack of fish. And the farmers with them. The ranchers will have no grain to feed their beef cattle. And the fat kid will finally be skinny.
  Just before he dies of starvation.
  This is for you, Irving.
  Bombs away, my friend.
  

• Parnell's Journey: My Bad

  2004 Jul 31

  I was drinking last night at a little club on South Beach. Or was it this morning. Time is often meaningless to me. In any event, I was jotting down notes for my next book and waiting on my vodka when the waiter approached. He had a strange kind of buzz hair cut and an ear ring. I guess he was going for the look of a gay pirate in a prison camp.
  
  He placed the glass in front of my which I immediately tested by gulping down half of it. There was something foreign in the drink--a soda or a sparkling healthy water. Disgusting. My body would reject it like a bad liver transplant, for sure, I thought. I almost spit it out, but the few brain cells in my brain that were verging on sobriety, demanded satisfaction.
  
  "My good man," I said. "This isn't the drink I ordered. I want a Viagara Vodka, you know, straight up."
  
  "Oh," he said. "My bad."
  
  "My bad," I repeated. "What the f*ck does 'my bad,' mean, me hardy. Gramatically, it makes no sense. It doesn't convey a full sentiment, exactly. Even as a catch phrase it certainly doesn't have the pizzazz of even a 'who let the dogs out,' or "where's the beef.'"
  
  The gay pirate seemed stunned. Unable to come up with another cute catch phrase and definitely prevented by his regular, "Oh. My bad."
  
  I continued my tirade which was now getting the attention of many of the club's patrons. A surly lot.
  
  "My thinking is that this bizarre little vocalalization of yours was actually formed by a bunch of teenage school girls instant messaging each other about some hottie half back on the junior high football team."
  
  "So get your 'my bad' and this 'bad drink' and go get me a real waiter and a real drink."
  
  His lips pursed and he swung around like Ginger Rogers. I never saw him again.
  
  Well, my friends back to the next book!
  
  Salutations fans!
  
  Parnell.