non fiction

Indirectly Found Jesus

Ordinary life has music, especially. She used to carry a thousand cassettes in her purse. Now she has no purse; lost it somewhere with me. In certain strained dreams, she has a crown she wears of all the fold out liner notes for the greatest albums ever saved from truck stops flanking mundane roads.

“Let’s drive around, anywhere but the malls.”

Delight in the Light, otherwise be crushed flat, otherwise be sexless and only thirteen dollars in your pocket and it matters.

“I’m too broke but not to dance, or syphon gas.”

But with our random radio on, and our wreck of a shaking car and any destination up the road, we’ll eat breath drink fuck live ordinary and never flinch from it.

“Bet we dream like nobody else does.”

“If they do, I’ll kill them, or at least sue them for copyright infringement.”

Her toenails are painted bone white with green flecks like St. Paddy’s. I had half my head shaved like I lost a bet. We left a window open three nights ago and two hundred house flies came in. No matter.

“A floe lives two days, takes three days to come back to life, I’ve heard.”

“Pyramid scheme.”

Instead of solving problems we drove an hour to walk in a muddy field and look at pumpkins, that we picked up, and tossed back and forth like living footballs. Didn’t buy any; don’t have a front step to put jackolanterns on. Only a fire escape they’d fall off at midnight.

“Never seen someone in jean bib overalls scream like that.”

“It happens.”

At the farmstand store, I got a cinnamon donut and a cup of coffee and we split it, driving back, north and kind of east.

“We going the wrong way?”

“The other way is one million miles of nothing.”

“Take me to the river.”

At the last gas station ever, I filled the tank with the remainder balance from a series of daisy-chained gift cards. Hovering above a wall of wheat, there was a billboard missing a question mark that asked, “Found Jesus” or maybe it was saying they found Jesus, he was just walking around in the wheat—they’d finally found him, all quiet and song-less, no cassette tapes either. Him, all extraordinary, and with a bounty on his head.

“You can stop looking now,” told my love. Truth is, everything has slipped between the center console and the passenger seat. We only look to make music.

advice · non fiction · on writing · poem · short story

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS, UNKNOWN PRESS ANTHOLOGY: ‘TOO MUCH’ about Excess

Destructive press layers
Unknown Press is putting together a new anthology,
print and ebook.
Send creative non-fiction, fiction, poetry, flash, interviews to:

toomuchsubmissions@gmail.com

We’re looking for writing that finds it’s own way in under 5000 words. Creative non-fiction is preferred, ie. true stories that happened to you. But, we’re open to other forms. Try us.

Send as many submissions as you’d like, just keep it under 5000 words. For example, an essay at 2500 and a short story at 2000 words is perfectly fine. Wanna send 4 pieces of flash at 500 words a piece? Feel free. Please attach the sub. to the email as a word doc.

Theme:
The topic ‘Too Much’: humorous, strange, bizarre, touching, poignant. We’re looking for stories, essays, poems that touch on the most extreme experience you’ve had with drugs, alcohol, sex, any and all addictions to things considered good or known to be bad, whether that’s the internet, video games, a job, a relationship, a personal goal, even writing itself. Bring the weird. Bring the surprising and enlightening. Bring the falling over and seeing stars.

passed out

Too Much will be edited by Chuck Howe and Bud Smith for Unknown Press. Submissions are open from 1/5/13 until 3/1/13, pub. date is estimated around July 4th, 2014.

Payment will include one contributor copy of the paperback book, mailed to you. One free ebook version of the anthology. A discount code will be given to all contributors so they can purchase copies for themselves ‘at cost’.

Art direction and layout will be held in conjunction with the Uno Kudo crew, lead by its art director Erin McParland. So, this will surely be a beautiful book. A POD book, but done right. See examples of our other anthology ‘First Time’ to get a feel for our aesthetic and overall presentation.

Thank you for your time and energy. Muchas gracias.

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advice · non fiction · on writing · poem · short story

First Time: an anthology about lost virginity

Last week, the First Time anthology was released. It’s my first attempt at gathering together some of my favorite underground writers to weigh in on a collective topic. As it turns out, First Time, just so happened to be about how 48 or so writers lost their virginities. Wild, hilarious stuff. Pretty punk rock too, I might add. Judging by how fun it was to do, I’m excited about a call for submissions for another anthology that’s soon to be announced.(Too Much: about the time you got too fucked up)

All together, I am really happy with how the First Time collection came out. It’s the first release by Unknown Press, which is going to be where I release future anthologies and books by peeps that I really respect. The cover was designed by the always super talented Rae Buleri. I did a lot of the artwork inside the book myself, some of the art was public domain sketches of nature (Like the GIANT snake that accompanies Nicole Adam’s stand out story “Baby Size Arm”)

Some contributors include, Gus Sanchez, Aaron Dietz, Robert Vaughan, Meg Tuite, Lynn Alexander, Heather Dorn, Ashley Perez, Allie Marini-Batts, Alex Reed, William Seward Bonnie, Wolf Carsens, John Yamrus …

It was a great project and its available now on Amazon as a print title and coming soon as a Kindle title once the formatting gets completed.

———-

Coming next month, from Unknown Press, Chuck Howe’s collection of short stories “If I Had Wings These Windmills Would be Dead” will be released. Keep an eye out for that.

In the meantime, you should give First Time a look, but be warned, it’s pretty raunchy stuff and will make you laugh out loud. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen.

Check it out here

Soon there will be some readings and radio appearances for First Time. I’ll keep you in the loop.

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advice · non fiction · novel · on writing · Uncategorized

Tollbooth Serialized

So, I’ve been running my new novel, Tollbooth on this site, serialized, and I’ll continue it until the entire novel is posted. I love giving stuff away for free.

Below, I will post chapters 5-7, there’s a link in there to start at the very beginning, as I post each section of chapters, I am llinking it to the next set (Tuesdays and Thursdays I post new segements.) If you fall behind, or would like to read a lot in one shot, you can go up to the search bar and click on “books” then, beside “Tollbooth” there should be a drop down menu that opens up with all the current chapters posted there for convenience.

I’m also, selling the book on Amazon and on Kindle and still mailing out signed copies if anybody would like one.

amazon

I am also signing copies
and snail mailing direct to you for
$12.00
follow the paypal link below. I’m only shipping to America though. Thank you.

images-5

Here it is, Tollbooth chapters 5-7

*** continuing the serialization of Tollbooth***
click here to start at the beginning

5

There was a man in a silver Cadillac immune to the laws that governed the rest of the world. He appeared as a mirage up the highway traveling super sonically, darting through shadows, cutting sharply to avoid the other motorists who struggled in their low performance vehicles as if wading through glue.

The man in the silver car always had exact change. Everyone else had to slow down for the toll, he accelerated. His sunroof opened automatically, his hand appearing out of that opening. In his fingers, perfect coins. With a delicate flick of his wrist, he’d hook shot the change into the change basket.

Every time, as he zoomed away at high-speed, I’d sit there thinking about how absolutely dead-on his precision was. Looking down that highway at the fading thought of his reflection, his tail lights shrinking and his sunroof closing . . . I knew he wasn’t thinking about anything behind him.

He was in flux. I was not.

I imagined that the things he passed through were either parts of my dream or parts of his dream that I was inside, or that we were just parts of someone else’s dream and that none of it mattered—least of all how we are impressed by motions and precision and quality.

It was hard to gauge reality from inside the booth.

6

I went in to check my order, again. No Gena. Two of the stock boys were leaning against the shelves. They looked at me as I came down the aisle, unimpressed. I didn’t command much of an impression. They kept on with their conversation, hoping that I would continue to shuffle past and keep my stupid question to myself.

“Beethoven was no way deaf, dude. Just no way,” the tall blonde kid with the nose spike said to the stock boy with the missing arm.

“How you figure?”

“Back then they didn’t have any of the devices to like, uh, prove that he was deaf.”

“I’m not so sure about your logic,” the armless kid said.

“And think about it, dude: if I was a kinda OK composer back then, back in the day, I would definitely try to work some kind of gimmick to try to get noticed. It’s like how KISS dressed all in clown makeup to get music executives to notice.”

“Awww shit.”

“Beethoven could hear shit, he could hear all of it. Don’t believe that vibration bull crap. That motherfucker had ears like a hawk.”

I laughed like a creep, they turned to look, “You guys know if Gena is working tonight?”

“Nawww,” said the nose spike historian, “she ain’t here on Thursdays or Tuesdays.”

“Or Wednesdays or Fridays,” the one armed boy said. “But she’s so hot I wish she was here all the time. That girl has some tits, oh man, the kind to just suck on all day. Troy, you sucked them tits before, right?”

“Naw, I wish, oh I wish.”

Silence.

“Yeah, I wish too,” the stock boy with the missing limb said.

“But what about Tommy’s party? I thought you sucked her tits at Tommy’s party.”

“Nawwwwwwww, somebody else was sucking those tits at Tommy’s party. But man, I would have loved it to be me sucking those tits at Tommy’s party.”

“Do you guys have a bathroom in this store?” I ask meekly.

Really, I just had to use the bathroom. I wasn’t going to go in there to unleash some porno movie from my mind into a tissue or anything.

“Do you guys have a bathroom in this store?” I ask meekly.

“Not for the public,” Troy said.

“Oh.” I started to shuffle off, defeated.

“Dude you can use our bathroom,” the stock boy with the missing arm yelled, punching the other kid in the shoulder, saying to him, “Don’t be a dick.”

He led me through several doors to a metal door tucked between piles of cardboard boxes that said PRIVATE. “Oh, yeah, and take it easy in there OK?” he requested, “I just had to clean this thing up yesterday.”

I wanted to ask him so bad how he lost his arm. My guess woodchipper. Or . . . woodchipper—that’s all I had.

I walked inside and sat down, there were magazines on a little table: I scanned through them. Foreign cars, import cars, import foreign custom cars, tailpipes that sounded like lawnmowers. Of course those shelf stocking idiots would drive little shitty cars, the kind that came through the tollbooth—sounding like chainsaws at their arrival and departure, a skateboard with an engine, a mouse sized joke for the race lane  that made my head ring. I got so pissed that I wished I could do something cool like punch the mirror and knock holes in the wall. Why couldn’t I do something like that?

I shifted my weight on the bowl, lifting my leg, pushing my safety steel toe shoe into the little table. It stood on its side legs momentarily, before dropping back into position, wobbling.

I could definitely raise hell. I knocked the magazine table over. It crashed to some triumph. “Haaaaaa!” Then, I stood up and wiped. Fuck these kids. I was tired of taking everybody’s shit. I threw the dirty paper in the sink; I didn’t flush. I picked a few of the magazines, poised to chuck them into the back of the toilet tank, when a photograph slipped out from between them. It was my little sex machine, Gena. A prom photo of her that one of the kids had been whacking off to. The photo was crusted up.

These perverts. I decided that I had no choice but to walk out there and show the photo directly to their manager. It was the only honorable thing to do.

But instead, I took the photo, put it in my pocket, left the store as quick as possible.

7

I flipped on the switch, the cars came at me on parade. When they saw that the red X above my booth became a green O, the people were filled with such delight.

“Can I have a receipt?”

“Can I have a receipt?”

“How much is the toll?”

“Can I have a receipt?”

“Can I have a receipt?”

“Can I have a receipt?”

I was a stand-still robot with simple math skills who knew the change for a dollar.

A blue Ford Escort pulled up to the booth. I turned to face the driver, saw a clown head. Grease paint, bubblegum hair, blue stars for eyes. A yellow Joy Division T-shirt. There was a person with a stocking over his head in the passenger seat filming us with a camcorder. We were the stars of some epic showdown between good and evil. I wasn’t sure who was good and who was evil.

“HEY, MOTHERFUCKER!! SEE HOW YOU LIKE THIS SHIT!!!” the clown screamed.

“Like what?” I said, like a dope.

“THIS!!!”

Laughing maniacally, the clown leaned forward and started to spray some kind of substance into the coin basket. It was bright yellow and growing. I made no attempts to stop him; I just gazed ahead in some haphazard triumph. Finally, a member of the populous had broken the spell. I wanted to give the kid a hug.

“YOU LIKE THIS??!!!” he demanded, twisting the can, sticking out his tongue to mock me, “YOU LIKE THIS, UNCLE SAM?!”

When he was done shooting the goop into the basket, he threw the can against the booth. It rolled under his tire as he peeled off in his blue car. A photo of the license plate came up on the screen, I hit delete.

I will save you, anarchist. I don’t think you deserve the whipping of the state. I applaud you. I commend you.

I put on the red X, indicating that my lane was closed. I stepped out of the booth, picked up the crushed can. The print was still legible: “WONDASTUFT: QUADRUPLE EXPANDING MEGA FOAM SPRAY INSULATION FROM THE MAKERS OF CRACKZAP AND WINDOW GOOP.”

The change basket was quickly becoming an impenetrable dome of plastic-like foam. Then, HOLY SHIT, a car was zoomed at me. I tried to move my feet, almost fell over them. An orange Honda Civic doing at least forty-five through the toll; a red headed chick, window down. Change smashed against the booth—pennies and nickels sliding down into the foam, lost forever.

I went back in the booth, the red X steadfast, and stayed there until my lunch break. When I walked into the break room, I looked Larry in the eye. I knew that he didn’t want to be there any more than I did. I nodded at him, put seventy cents in the machine, got a PayDay, opened it, took a bite, and chewed. Then, still looking at him, I said, “Hey, I don’t know how it happened, but somebody shot Quadruple Expanding Spray Foam Insulation into my change basket.”

“Huh?” he says.

“I wouldn’t know,” I explained, “but I think it’s the same stuff that contractors use to seal up doors and windows.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Will change still go in?” he asked, scratching his head.

“Well for a little while . . . ‘til it’s solid,” I explained.

“Then no?”

I took another bite. The wrapper made a joyous sound.

“Yeah, definitely not after solidification.”

—–thank you for reading.

Warm regards,

Bud Smith

advice · non fiction

Nuclear Construction

I suspect I’m not legally insane. I had to go through a full psychological evaluation in order to get through the gate at the Oyster Creek nuclear power plant in Forked River, NJ.

They were hiring for an outage, and had an ad in the newspaper, taking people for janitorial jobs (mopping the floor of the plant to keep radioactive particles down during a phase of heavy construction, transporting decontamination suits, ect.). They were also hiring unskilled non-union labor for other things like safety watches, fire watches, ect.

When I was hired in, it took a week for me to get inside the gate of the actual plant. Every morning, I had to report to a big warehouse in the parking lot of the nuke plant, and they’d process the information of applicants, taking names, giving full medical screenings, sitting applicants down with FBI agents who’d go through the applicants entire criminal record. They also wanted 10 references, phone numbers, emails, how long you’ve known them. All this to qualify for a temporary position to mop the floors for 30 days. But, at least they were paying you to undergo all this.

On my fifth day of processing, I was taken to a small room and given a multiple choice exam that read things like this:

Which do you prefer the most

a) being with friends and family
b) being alone
c) masturbating while being asphyxiated
d) going for a walk with significant other
e) Christmas

What accurately describes your childhood

a) locked in a 55 gallon drum
b) happy, healthy, fun
c) boring, isolated, not fun
d) participated and excelled in many community activities such as any of these; little league, Boy Scouts, Pop Warner football, ect.
e) I liked to kill animals with other animals I’d killed.

How do you view others?
a) generally trustworthy
b) they steal my food and air
c) we are all part of a bigger team that seeks to improve society as a whole
d) walking, talking transporters of disease and illness that must be eliminated at all costs
e) they’re just pretty cool in general

There was a couple hundred questions like that, and then they showed me a bunch of ink blots.

“What does this one look like?”

Really, it looked like anything. All you had to say was:

“It doesn’t look like a pile of dead bodies.”

The next morning, I was sent to a new warehouse, that had been set up to represent the inside of part of the plant itself. I was taught the correct way to put on my decontamination suit, shown the proper way to enter a radioactive area, shown the proper way to exit a radioactive area and most importantly, how to strip out of my decontamination suit, so as to not spread radioactive particles all over everything.

After that, there was a few classes on how nuclear energy is actually generated. A few classes on the perils of radiation exposure, and how to minimize said exposure, also how to read the radiation monitor that I was then assigned.

Day 6, I was finally through the actual gate, finally entering the actual facility itself.

At the gates, guys with machine guns chewed gum and didn’t wave hello when you waved at them.

Inside the turn around trailer, where all the outage workers were kept. I met my contact there, who gave me paperwork to fill out.

“You’re Bud Smith?”

“Yup.”

“Hey! You won the safety award! They randomly drew your name out, and you get to pick from a list of prizes, color TV, digital camera, remote controlled car, laptop.”

“Nice.”

“You also won the check pool!”

I’d thrown in five dollars the second day I was in process, getting FBI screened and understood now, that I’d won $525.

It was all working out pretty well for me at the nuclear plant.

My boss came and found me that morning. A chubby man named Sam Gob. He said, “Ok, you’re going to be an FME safety watch during the outage. Which means you’ll sit in a chair next to this hole and anytime somebody goes down into the hole, you have to make sure they don’t have any pens or anything that can fall out of their pockets and land in the water (the Torus). Divers will be going down the hole and swimming around for a month, inspecting the floor. Think you can handle sitting in a chair for 30 days straight?”

“Sounds fine.”

“Here’s how it’s gonna go down, I have to go to a meeting now, then there’s a meeting after that to discuss the first meeting, what time is it now? 7am? Ok, we’ll meet back here at 2pm. See you then.”

“Ok.”

I sat down at the table and opened my newspaper.

“What are you doing?”

I shrugged.

“You can’t sit in here. You have to go walk around the outside perimeter of the plant and look busy til 2pm.”

That sucked. You had to keep moving. It was a constant shuffle between non-radioactive parts of the plant, stopping at vending machines, eating candy bars and drinking sodas to quell the boredom.

Every day was like that. 7am until sometime after lunch, just wandering around aimlessly through the nuclear plant, trying to look busy, having nothing to do.

But, when the meetings were over and Sam Gobb finally got me to my spot as the FME (foreign material exclusion) safety watch, things got worse.

It was just me in a chair, saying, “please take all the pens out of your pockets and leave them here with me.”

They didn’t want any pens or tape measures or ear plugs or anything falling into the water/equipment/reactor, whatever down below, through the hatch that I guarded.

Thousands of pens. Thousands of them, I was the keeper of all the world’s nuclear pens.

Everyone else in the plant appeared to be in the midst of horrible jobs, sweating like death in their rubber decontamination suits, duct taped at all the seams, I was sitting in a comfortable chair, though, occasionally harassing some Canadian divers to hand over their pens and take out their Canadian diamond earrings and all that. Sometimes some of the mop girls would come and keep me company, talking about things like “all this mopping sucks” and “oh, look at this, I need some more soap for my bucket. Oh joy!”

There was one other guy who was doing the FME safety watch. He was down the hall from me, I talked to him a little bit about the job once in the cafeteria while we both ate rice pudding and drank lukewarm instant coffee.

“Pretty boring,” I said.

“But, the plus is I got plenty of pens now.”

“True.”

“And I don’t care,” he said, “I just put on my headphones and read a magazine or whatever.”

“I tried to do that, they took away my magazine,” I said.

“That’s ’cause you’re over here in the limelight. Nobody comes down the hallway where I’m at.”

I shrugged.

The other FME watch didn’t make it much longer. The outage went on. The twelve hour days stringing together. My boss came and found me, sitting in the chair, surrounded by pens, he said, “They fired Johnson.”

“Who’s Johnson?”

“The other FME watch.”

“Oh. For what?”

“The president of the nuke plant caught him sleeping in a chair, listening to an iPod, a Hustler magazine on his lap …”

“Did they confiscate the magazine?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll need that back, that was mine.”

My boss didn’t laugh. No one laughs in a nuclear power plant. That’s the most definite thing I learned from working at one for 30 days worth of sitting in a chair, flirting with the girls who were bored from mopping up toxic waste, and while I munched candy bars from the vending machine. I must have guzzled a thousand sodas. That’s what nuclear construction is all about.

All that.

And if you’re wondering, I took the remote control car as my prize.

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advice · non fiction · novel · on writing · Uncategorized

Tollbooth reading NYC/ “Chaz and Betty” published

Tonight at Revival bar (129 E. 15th street) on the lower east side, I’ll be reading from my new novel Tollbooth for 25 minutes or so as a featured reader for Su Polo’s Saturn Series. The party starts at 8pm, and there is a sign up sheet for any open mic peeps who’d like to come and read something, (get there early). I’ll have copies of Tollbooth on hand for anyone who’s interested.

Rumor has it, that Mark Brunetti of The Idiom/Piscataway House will be there reading and handing out free Idiom zines. Julie Allen will be reading her essay from the just released First Time anthology about how 4 dozen writers lost their virginity. I always have a real great time at the Saturn Series. Come check it out.

Also, I got an email early this morning, Thrice Fiction #8 is out and I have a short story in it called “Chaz and Betty” which was illustrated for inclusion (artwork by David Simmer II) in Thrice. Always nice to see that kinda thing. There’s some great work in the issue from Ann Bogle, James Claffey, Susan Tepper, and a bunch of writers I haven’t met yet, but will certainly be reaching out to.

I’m happy to see “Chaz and Betty” find a home at Thrice, it’s a publication I really dig, and the short story is part of my new collection “Lightning Box” coming out from Kleft Jaw Press in December. Lightning Box is similar to my last collection Or Something Like That but a little closer to old school fables and the Twilight Zone/Amazing Stories vibe … It’s been real fun exploring farther in that direction, and digger deeper into the weird world where all the characters in the books I write live, they’re all strange neighbors.

Tomorrow night, on the Unknown Show, I’ll be reading some of the Thrice release, as well as some selections from First Time: anthology

Thanks for reading and for reaching out. Hit me up if you would like a copy of Tollbooth, I’ve been signing them and mailing them out as quick as I can. Post office on Wednesday. Thanks!

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non fiction · on writing

Tuesday (new books, readings, a publication)

I’ve been pretty busy lately. Three projects are coming to an imminent conclusion; the novel Tollbooth is set for release from Piscataway House within a week (last I heard, the proofs are all done and we’re just waiting for print copies to arrive for a release party. The Kindle files are being formatted also); The anthology First Time, about how 4 dozen writers lost their virginity is undergoing some final design work and Ebook formatting; my new short story collection Lightning Box (due by the end of the year) is just about to reach the hands of the editorial department at my publisher. So, yeah … A lot of stuff.

It’s been a great week though. My friends from Unlikely Stories/Unlikely Books and MadHat Press were in NYC, bouncing around to various bars, restaurants. I was happy to do two readings recently with them. One in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, where I showed off some new poems that I’m starting to assemble into a proper poetry release and another reading last night on the lower east side of manhattan, where I read my short story “The Typewriter”.

Yesterday was also a good day, because the website Cease, Cows ran a short story of mine called “The Bag of Chips“.

Here’s a link.

One last thing: just wanted to mention again, that I’m going to release Tollbooth, chapter for chapter as an online serial because I like to give things away for free. So keep an eye on that. It’s going to be every Tuesday and Thursday for about 3 months.

Thanks for reading.

non fiction

Supermoon Dreams

After the beach, and after the pool; I laid down upstairs while the reciprocating fan and the neighbor’s industrial lawn mower and the sprinklers made me think we were back at the ocean.

In the dream, we were laying in the same bed we were really in: the same gold room, the reciprocating fan, the mirror reflecting the pineapple lamp in the mirror reflecting the photograph of us at a collapsed farmhouse.

In bed, she was next to me. We were listening to David Bowie’s Low album on her seafoam record player that was long gone. He kept singing “Sometimes you get so lonely … Sometimes you don’t know why. Be my wife. Be my wife …” and from the bed, she would lean over and put the needle back on Sound and Vision and it’d all start over again. We’d drift out of sleep inside the dream and she’d sometimes even float over to the record player and flip the entire record and it’d be Brian Eno playing a suitcase AKS synth. Warsawza.

When we woke up for real, she said, “It’s 7pm.” We’d had plans to go and walk the boardwalk near an old golden carrousel and drink beers as the super moon rose above the ocean.

I told her about my David Bowie record player dream. She said, “I dreamt that I had tickets to see Prince and the Revolution and I was calling up all my friends; Julie, Marcie, Angie, Jess, Allaina, Allie, Erin …”

I said, “And downstairs from the pool, your dad kept calling up and asking us to turn the record player louder, he couldn’t hear it well enough from his float.”

“Did we?”

“Of course we did. And you–you’re already as tan as Americans dream.”

The super moon was coming around. The barbecue grill was cooling off after a long day. Birds I couldn’t identify were calling wildly from the berry bush.

advice · non fiction · on writing

Tuesdays

Yep. It’s Tuesday night. That means, I’m sitting here getting ready to do my radio interview show at 7pm. I’m also drinking coffee and listening to a Bruce Springsteen record.

The interview show is called The Unknown Show and you can check an episode of it out here. I usually have on writers and musicians, but you never know. I’ve had on people from religious cults. Helicopter pilots. Mailmen … I dunno … Maybe you wanna come on sometime. Hit me up.

In other news, I went and saw Jen Michalski read from her new book The Rain King, which seems like it is going to be as brilliant if not better than Could You Be With Her Now. the reading went down at Jimmy 43s, part of the Sunday Salon that they do most Sunday evenings in the back room at 7pm-onward. I can’t recommend that enough if you are visiting NYC. Try and hit that up. Her’s their website …

On another note … I’ve got some writing news of my own …

  • Tollbooth copyedits are scheduled to be in my hands by the end of next week, so the release date for that is slated around the end of June
  • I have finished the second draft of a book called F-250, which I am currently looking for a few interested beta readers, so contact me if you would like to see a PDF and are willing to give an opinion

Looking forward to this weekend, me and my brand new wife: SPOUT will be traveling to a massive bonfire in Pennsylvania where I have heard the rumor of drugs and alcohol and swimming. so, YEAH!

advice · non fiction · on writing

Radio Show, Safari, Novel News, AWP

Last night, I did another episode of The Unknown Show the interview radio show that I do on Tuesday nights. I like to feature writers and musicians but am open to whoever has a story to tell: a strange job, a weird slant on life, some complaints to voice. Whatever. Listen to the show, it gets better each time … If you like what you hear, hit me up.

Some other things are going on (of course). I’m getting married on May 4th, so there’s a lot of planning for that. Just got my suit on Saturday and our rings. Honeymoon planning is going real well too … African safari it looks to be, “babe, I wanna ride elephants.”
“Elephants it shall be.”

Been doing a lot of rewrites and revisions on the novel Tollbooth. Getting ready to pass it off to the copy editor in about three weeks. Have also been working on cover design, and author photo and all that crap and acquiring “blurbs” for the book from some of my peers who’ve done the work I’m doing now and have out excellent books of their own from top notch houses/presses … It’s a lot of fun being able to reach out to writers you respect and have them enthusiastically return some respect back. Ah, all for fun. But really also, part of a community. I dig that most.

Also getting ready to head out to AWP (a big meet up for lit. zines/sites/houses/writers/editors in Boston where I’m set to meet up with a ton of writer friends that I’m always down for knocking back some beers with. I’ll also be doing a reading, poetry I believe on Friday afternoon in downtown Boston. Poetry readings are actually a blast, if you’ve never done one, give it a try. You might be surprised how much you like it.

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