PriorBlog

So I ordered a bunch of copies of my book, The Yoke of the Horde, that I could sell from home or whatever, because on Amazon and Createspace, I have to sell the book for twelve bucks, which I personally think is a little prohibitive. I don’t want to get too into how many copies for various reasons, some of which will become apparent in a few lines.

As I am sitting there admiring the book for the seventieth time last night, I noticed that the word “eight-teen” on the back cover looks kind of funny. That’s when I realize, long after it is too late to stop the shipment of x amount of books to my home, that not only are there a few grammatical errors in the text, but there is also a glaring one in the description.

I feel like such a smacked-ass.

Here is the new plan I am formulating. I am going to offer these books at an exceptionally reduced rate due to “publisher error.” Let’s say you want to buy a copy of a book, and you know that you can get it discounted 50% because an extraordinarily common word is misspelled on the back cover. Don’t you think that knowing about a deal like that could swing you? I mean, I bet some people, who wouldn’t want to buy a copy of Yoke in the first place, might now buy a copy knowing it is available for six bucks. On the other hand, if you want to pay full price for the book with mistakes, it looks like it is available now on Amazon.

And that’s what this all about anyway. Getting the word out, however that word might be spelled.

Eight-teen.

Since receiving the proof in the mail I have found about three errors in the content of the book as well. Nothing too crucial, but it just gets in the way and delays my fame and power by a few weeks. What if I don’t make it to the end of the month, you know, what if something horrible happens to me, and because of this delay, I never receive the accolades or cherished attention this book was written for in the first place?

Last night, against my better judgment I set off to see the band Yeasayer play at Great Scott in Allston.  I learned earlier in the day  that the show had sold out, which surprised me, because I didn’t realize that Yeasayer was that big yet.  And I don’t think they were the reason it sold out, actually.  I think there was some other band that was headlining who are really popular.  I don’t feel like looking up the band name now, and why should I since they are (presumably) the reason I didn’t get to see Yeasayer, whose latest album I have been listening to a lot while I putz around on the internet all night.

As a reward for being completely uninformed (read square), I got to stand in the wet snow pathetically asking all of the younger, better looking, ticket holding people if they had an extra.  I wasn’t alone in this pursuit, and after about twenty minutes forced myself to the honest assessment that I wasn’t getting in.  I tried calling a friend or two, but nobody was around.  I don’t really know anybody in that part of town anymore, so I shuffled off back to my car.

The snow was coming down pretty fast, the roads weren’t the best, and I was all bummed out about my failure.  I ended up stopping at a bar for a quick beer, just to have something to do.  And as my beer was heading to me, my wife called me to tell me all about the roads which at this point I was very familiar with.  I lied to her about being at the show, drank half my beer and headed home.  Oh, and to entertain myself at the bar, since of course I didn’t have anybody to talk to, I read a few pages of a two or three week old Weekly Dig.  This maybe was the highlight of my big night out.

When I got home my wife was watching some show about an insanely ugly woman whose job it is to hook up socially inept millionaire males with attractive women.  There were these two dudes who only went on dates if they were double dates so that both of them could be together, and then there was some other guy in his late thirties who chose to go out on a date with some 21 year old chick.  When the disproportionately aged couple were presented with the meal on their dinner date, the dude went into a meditative trance, which I guess was his version of grace.  Normally I would find something like that funny, but I was in such a bad mood I felt like punching him.

On the plus side I got the proof for my book from createspace, and I only found one little grammatical mistake.  Of course I didn’t read the whole thing.  I read maybe thirty pages.  I’ve read the thing so many times before I figure I’ve found most of the mistakes, but the bottom line is that it’ll be for sale soon, and won’t that be fun.

Here are some snacks I have been enjoying lately and encourage you to try out for yourselves.

Late July’s Organic Classic Cheddar Cheese Sandwich Crackers- The crackers are salty, but not too salty, and while cheddar cheese filling is made from organic milk from organic cows, it still tastes just as good as a chemically processed spread. For an extra treat, you can peel two of the sandwiches apart and make one super sandwich as sort of a cheesy paean to the Oreo Doublestuff.

Mi-Del Cookies Vanilla Snaps- These cookies appear rather inconspicuous. Less than exciting packaging reveals a profoundly plain looking cookie belonging unquestionably to the snap family, and also not so shockingly, the taste of this bashful little friend doesn’t at first insist on anything amounting to cookie transcendence. No, it is only after you mash its pulpy remains about your mouth after a few chews that the “organic dehydrated cane juice” kicks in like a rodeo bull on steroids. These are highly addictive cookies and if you do try them, I would advise doing so with some type of supervision. One of the pleasant side effects of the Mi-Del Vanilla Snap is the accumulation of gooey Vanilla Snap paste encasing your molars after you’ve eaten about twenty or thirty of these bad boys. Fear not. This material can be dislodged with subtle shoves of the pinkie finger moving upwards from the gums. Based on the number of cookies you have already eaten, you can find your mouth subsequently filled with what amounts to three or four “new” cookies. The gift that keeps on giving. I read online somewhere that the DEA is working to classify the Mi-del Vanilla Snap as a Schedule I narcotic, so you might want to “snap” some up while you still can.

Milky Way’s new More Caramel Bar- I got one of these by accident, expecting the good old tried and true Milky Way of yore. Milky Way doesn’t always score when it comes to tweaking the product line. One only has to remember the miserable experiment that brought to life Milky Way Dark to ascent to this. And, in truth, misadventures like the Dark will probably scare some people away from this new version of the Milky Way with “More Caramel,” which is ashame, since this bar is one of the hottest new candy bars to hit the market in a very long time. Definitely a departure from the classic Milky Way, despite it differing not so much in ingredients but ratio, the new Milky Way presents itself to the mouth with an overwhelming sentiment of silkiness, a silkiness, it is necessary to add, subject to the task of preparing for a thrilling revelation of caramel. This is a softer, sleeker, smoother bar than its predecessor, a, dare I say it, more European take on the classic American candy.

Because Quimby and my wife swore by it, I decided to have a go at reading Henry James’ The Golden Bowl. I started this, oh I don’t know, maybe three weeks ago, and so far I think I’ve read about ninety or so pages. It’s not that it isn’t interesting, it is, it’s just that I have probably put more mental energy into these ninety pages than some kid bouncing over his Koran in a Northwest Frontier Province madrassa. Even so, all I’ve got to show for it are the ninety or so pages, and this is embarrassing, in a way, because I was dumb enough to tell people, quite proudly at the time in fact, that I was reading Henry James.

“Who are you reading?”
“Harry Potter, and you?”
(Trumpet intro) “Henry James.”

Since this was weeks ago, I fear a sequel to the conversation will be something like this:

“So, what are you reading now, Mister-I-am-so-smart-I-read-Henry-James?”
“Henry James.”
“Still!?”
“Yes. I am only on page 100.”
“Well, I have just finished reading Book XLVII of the Harry Potter trilogy, Harry Potter and the Teabagging Dragon of Nirmdorf!”

Now we can easily fill in the explanation slash line of thought that goes something like you’re supposed to read for pleasure, and who cares if it takes you fifteen minutes to read a page so long as you enjoy it. There are, of course, some points to be made about this line of thinking, points that I would like to go over right here and now.

One, I do care about the speed at which I read. I am a slow reader and I feel embarrassed by this. My embarrassment is particularly acute, because I read on public transportation, and I feel like when I am reading slowly other people are watching me. You think I am being paranoid, but before you label me as such consider that most people on the T, as we’ve discussed before, for some unknown but remarkable reason choose not to read during their commute. And this is by no means my way of dragging an agenda into this, say people should read. I really could care less about what people do, but I just find it mysterious that they would prefer to stare into empty space rather than read, which, you know, is doing something. At this point I will have to qualify, because I realize that I do care about what they are doing, since it could potentially involve me. My point being that I often suspect, that despite the appearance of being in a meditative and or comatose state, that my fellow passengers might actually be checking out things on the subway car, and noticing that I have been stuck on page 7 since Stony Brook.

I feel like I have a right to feel self-conscious about this because my mom made me do a second tour of duty in kindergarten back in ‘79, but let’s not focus too much on my pathetic past when the less than glorious present exists before us in all of its splendor. Which brings me to, am I actually enjoying this book, and I have to say, I think I am right on the brink, intelligence-wise of being able to like this book. In other words, I might recommend this book to smarter people, but not dumber people. I have read certain pages in this book over four times. It is to the point where I need to reference some chart in which I can weigh time spent reaching a semblance of understanding to overall sublimity of literary flair. Some people, no matter how hard they try, just aren’t going to get it, and some people, who maybe aren’t really going to get it, are just going to keep flailing away to the amusement of their fellow passengers.

Before I leave you today, I would like to offer you a little something extra. It would be one thing if I were just to mention how pathetically I have been struggling through this book. My guess is you probably are looking for a little something extra, like what is so difficult to understand about this book, what’s it about in other words. Here is what I have figured out so far. This Italian guy marries an American woman for her money, leaving behind his old girlfriend another American who happens to be friends with the girl who married her ex-boyfriend. Then, the rich girl who got married, she’s now trying to set her dad up with her husband’s ex-girlfriend, and they all live in this huge estate together. Yes, I know, it is just like Melrose Place!

Since it’s been really icy lately and it took me forever to get rear lights for my bike I have been taking public transportation to work, which is nice because even though I am gaining weight like crazy, I get to read. So, score two for gravity.

First book I read was Common Ground by J. Anthony Lukas. I’ve always wanted to read this because it is about Boston. It didn’t disappoint. It follows three families through the decade surrounding the bussing crisis in Boston. As somebody who lives here, it was interesting to see what in the past were to me nondescript street corners or buildings come to life as a parts of a larger history. We were down in the South End Saturday. It was the first time I had been there since reading the book and I felt like I was on a pilgrimage to the holy land.

Oh, this is where Colin chased the guy down the street with the baseball bat, etc, etc.

I love playing tour guide even though it puts my wife to sleep.

For me there was an added bonus of an entire chapter having to do with the large newspaper I am currently contracted to work for.  I was able to regale my lunch table with tales snipers being dispatched to the roof of the building  in 1974 and so forth.

Then I moved onto Plexus by Henry Miller. A couple of years ago I bought this after browsing around Pazzo Books with nothing better to do one afternoon. How I miss those days when I had nothing better to do. Nowadays there is always something better to do, so hop to it! I picked up this book for two reasons. One, I knew Henry Miller was “important” but didn’t really know anything about him. Two, it was an early edition, from like 1963 or something and I liked the cover art.

I never thought I would read it, but one night I pulled it off the shelf just to see what the writing was like and I liked it a lot better than I thought I would have. Eventually I got around to reading the rest of it, and I was really enjoying it until about the last fifty pages or so.

It’s about Henry living in New York with his second wife, who supports him as he tries to become a writer. The parts about wanting to be a writer kind of make you want to vomit, but the other details of his life in New York in the twenties and the odd ball characters he hangs out with are worth throwing up for. This is the second book in a trilogy, so I wasn’t a 100% on all of the details.  For example, the way his wife Mona supports him is basically through taking advantage of her admirers.  I kept wondering how accurate this description was.  Basically, she stays out all hours of the night with one of her admirers and comes back with a bunch of bills to support the two of them, but Henry seems to stick to the line that there’s no sex involved.  Everytime she comes back though, I was wondering what he was or wasn’t telling us.

The one thing I had heard about Henry Miller was that he had run into some trouble with people considering his work to be obscene.  From Amazon, I learned that other books in this trilogy are a lot more graphic.  This book is very tame until an impromptu orgy breaks out about two thirds of the way through.  It’s abrupt intrusion makes for a nice comic landing, as Henry’s friend uses a post-coital pause to gush on and on about how philosophical and deep Henry is.  And then it’s back to fucking, I suppose.

As much as I am not into reading books to find out about the authors’ sex lives, I would have much preferred a sixty page sex scene than the end of Plexus, which is this paean to Oswald Spengler.  The book is steeped in Henry’s egotism, which is possible to overlook when you are invested in reading about the parties and people that make up Henry and Mona’s world, but when it’s just Henry raving about Oswald Spengler’s influence on his way of thinking, things get dull fast.

This morning after locking my bike I began heading to my secret entrance at work when I was accosted by a security guy who told me that “they” would “get mad” if I continued using that entrance.  So I walked in the entrance that all of the people who shower and dress before leaving for work go through, somewhat embarrassed, but figuring the security guy wouldn’t be there tomorrow and I could then renew my nefarious entry habits.

Later in the day, I noticed this security guy again inside.  Must have just got hired I thought.  He really seems on the ball.  I worried that this might be a new threat I would have to deal with.

At the end of the day, after changing back into my grubby cycling home clothes in my private wash room (that I think I described earlier), I headed to the elevator I use to get back down to the parking lot.  Again, the aim is to be as low profile as possible when walking around that place in shorts, sneakers, and a t-shirt.  The only problem was a phalanx of guys in expensive suits in front of the elevator.  I decided to avoid them by descending a flight of stairs and catch the elevator below, but when I got there another security guy was protecting the elevator.

So I descended another few flights of stairs and headed towards my bike.  On the way I noticed that all of the doors were propped open.  Once I got into the garage I saw a line of black SUV’s parked behind a state police car.

Now I was curious, because in the past important people have stopped by my workplace, and so I knew somebody good was in there.  I just had to find out who.

I have only dealt with the secret service once before when Jeff Timberlake and I ventured off to go to his brother’s coffee shop in Harvard Square and on the way Tipper Gore’s motorcade cut us off at a corner.  It all happened so quickly that Tipper and one of her daughters popped into a furniture store before we could figure out who they were.  But figure we did, eventually asking one of the secret service guys who they were.

A very phlegmatic “Gore,” was his response, which thrilled me, because that was my guess.  We continued to wait and were eventually joined by a woman who told us that the Native American seer Sitting Bull had recently prophesized that the world was going to end in the next five to ten years.  I don’t know if the Secret Service guy heard this or not, but within seconds the motorcade took off.  Without “Gore(s)” I should add.
A few years later I unknowingly had a conversation with one of the Gore kids at a bar.  The place was probably crawling with SS, but what did I know.  Had I known who she was I could have told her about Sitting Bull, or at least asked if the vice president had been tipped off by the secret service and taken Sitting Bull and his prophecy down.  Probably saved the world, but not something that could get out to the public.  Makes the fall of Communism seem like small potatoes, doesn’t it?  As it was I talked to her about the teevee show Land of the Lost.
I had reservations about asking one of the suits in front of the SUVs who they were waiting on.  I mean, I guess in a lot of ways I resemble an assassin.  Desheveled irritated/irritating white male with glasses and a Messiah complex wielding a weapon, in this case a Kryptolock, but curiosity got the best of me and so I approached the two guys in suits.  Neither one, I would guess, was carrying.  They seemed to not be secret service guys but some type of well polished lackeys.

I could tell they weren’t thrilled that I had come up to them, and I knew this so I told them not to worry that I wasn’t planning on sticking around, I was just curious as to who they were waiting for.  They sort of stared at me apprehensively and then the shorter of the two, after a few seconds pause, said “Senator Clinton.”

Then the other guy cued that music from that scene in Raiders of Lost when the Ark of the Covenant is first shown.  Or at least that’s kind of the way the words “Senator Clinton” were presented to me.  Prissy and icy, like she was a holy relic I had no business being around.

I will admit to being flabbergasted.  And as soon as he said it I started trying to think of strategies for sticking around and seeing her.   I fiddled with my bike lock for a while, and then checked to see if my tires had enough air.

What a schmoe I am.

Then I headed home.

On the way I noticed that there were some cops at the scene of the Alan Peguero murder.  One was in the store and another was out front on the corner.  After observing so much security, it was strange to pass by a scene in which a month ago there was absolute vulnerability.  I wondered what business the cops could possibly have in there, but I wouldn’t dare ask.  Just pedaled on by.

I lobbied hard for getting cable teevee when the Phillies got into the playoffs, and we ended up getting a nine month “deal.”  I know most of you have cable and are probably so used to paying for it that it doesn’t seem like a big expense any more, but to me the extra thirty or forty bucks a month seems like a lot because we’ve gone so long without it.

So, we get cable, and it comes a day late so I missed game one.  Then they installed it the day of game two, but when I got home there was a bunch of stuff I had to do right away, so I missed the last couple at bats.  Both games starting at 3pm didn’t help matters much either.  I was all set to watch game three, but by now less excited because the Phils were down 2-0 in the series.  Only problem was I was completely exhausted because I was at game two of the ALDS the previous night, which lasted until just before one am.  Then I came home and the new baby that my wife had was making all sorts of noises all night and I couldn’t get any sleep.  Don’t know if I mentioned the baby before, but he’s here now, so back to baseball.

I lasted until the fourth or fifth inning before falling asleep.  I woke up to some sit-com on TBS.  The season was over I found out via a blurb on mlb.com.

At least I got cable.

A few notes then on all of the non-Phillies baseball I have been watching.

Chip Carey.  When my family got cable back when I was a kid, one of the benefits was that I went from just being able to watch the Phillies to being able to watch the Phillies, Yankees, Mets, and Braves.  Chip’s father Skip was a Braves announcer, and I have never been able to get over how boring those old TBS broadcasts were.  Chip was just abysmal during the Yankees series.  He would get all pumped up over Yankee singles and so forth.  At one point, the Yankees were trying to get a rally going and the crowd was really into it, and Chip goes, “This crowd is up for grabs!”

This crowd is up for grabs.

As if it wasn’t enough that the Yankees already have a soap opera based on them, all of the baseball coverage revolves around what is going to happen to Torre, Posada, et al after the season.  Then again, it is hard to get into the playoffs when the Dbacks are playing the Rockies, Troy Tulowitzki or no Troy Tulowitzki.  Maybe I’ll just watch when Tulowitzki comes to bat.  Actually, Branden Webb is as good a pitcher as anybody, but that’s not as important as ARod’s feelings.

The Marlins have an 8-1 lead against the Mets going into the bottom of the 9th.  They are bringing in their closer!  I love the Marlins.  Hanley Ramirez is playing hurt because he hates the Mets.

Phillies are three outs away.  Both games should end nearly simultaneously.

Ryan Howard just homered and the Mets are down by seven runs.  It looks to me like the Phightins are heading to the playoffs.

I feel Grrreeeat!!!

It took me a while to get comfortable with riding my bike to my new job. For one thing, I didn’t want a repeat of the getting my frame smashed in the mailroom like at my old workplace. And then there was the issue of me having to dress fancy (by my standards) for the new job and how this makes it difficult to show up at work all sweaty.

Instead of riding my fancy new Bottecchia to work, I have been getting there via a circa 1980 touring bike that I bought for $20 at a yard sale a few years ago and forgot about, having left it in my parents’ garage. My mom brought me the bike on a recent visit and after a few fixit sessions in the basement (I’ve been thinking of starting a series of “How Not To Fix a Bicycle” videos for YouTube. The pain and frustration I feel when say breaking my chain tool hurts, but I bet it would look hilarious to somebody else) it works reasonably well.

I did two days sweating a lot and hiding behind minivans while I changed into my work pants in order to evade being seen. The whole experience was unpleasant and awkward, and I was leaning towards just saying forget about it and taking the T. But the T had been getting crowded, and I was really getting sick of it. It seemed like everytime I got on the orange line I’d get stick without a seat, and nobody would offer me a seat either, which is just plain rude, because I had a book. If you don’t have a book on the T, what business do you have occupying a seat? It’s more difficult for me to hold a 1000 read book while standing and being jostled than it is for some “old person” to just stand there. The bottom line is, illiterates don’t deserve to sit!

Sorry for the rant.

And only people reading books I approve of should be allowed to sit.

Back to work. So, I’m feeling this awful tension between uncomfortable T and uncomfortable situation with being nude in the parking lot (slight exagerration). That’s when I was told that there was a shower near my cube at work. This coupled with a secret entrance a fellow cycling commuter co-worker showed me, means that I can pretty much sneak into work a sweaty mess and arrive at my desk fresh and clean and hardly anybody sees me in my former state.

Speaking of state, let me tell you about the old Boston State Hospital. Yes, thanks to google maps, cyclists can find new and exciting ways to get to work. I discovered via satellite a shortcut along some abandoned roads. Yeah, it’s private property but nobody reads this blog anyway so let me tell you all about it. There used to be a Lunatic Asylum there with a 250 acre campus. First it was called “Boston Lunatic Hospital,” then it was called “Boston Insane Hospital,” and then they changed the name to “Boston State Hospital.” Then they closed it down and razed all of the buildings. It is very eerie and strange and I am sure if I cruised through there late at night, not only would I see ghosts, but insane maniac ghosts, which are extra-scary.

The place is currently being developed, but currently all there really are in the section I ride in are a lot of abandoned roads. It’s somewhat reminiscent of Centralia, Pennsylvania where my maternal grandfather was from.