Thursday, April 04, 2002

Hello, and welcome to the stop on the "Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard" virtual book tour, the of virtual book tours. My name's and I've borrowed the keys to Downeast and will inevitably return it empty, in need of a wash and with at least seventy-five percent of a body in the trunk.


"Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard" -- cooling on the window sill at So New Media -- isn't going anywhere, bub. It's just going to sit right here, staring at you, until you buy a copy. Staring. Staaaaring. Staaaaar--

"Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard" has to go to the bathroom. Wait here.

Today's reading is from I Corinthians:

"Thomas?"

"Daddy?"

"Let's try it. Say 'Q'apla!'"

"Ka-pa!"

"Q'apla!"

"Ka-pa!"

"Good boy! And, remember, don't tell mommy that I'm teaching you Klingon."


Hey! Look! Questions!

Joshua P. Munn asks: It's great to see the book come out -- I've already purchased 825 copies -- but do you foresee updating the site regularly again?

Honestly, Josh, if you're going to spend -- lemme see -- just short of five grand on a pay version of my life, you're not giving me a lot of incentive to live it for free. On the other hand, though, the shower cam will be installed next week.

More seriously, and far more unfortunately, this busy modern world of ours has left me with limited options and a simple decision to make: do I raise my kids, write about raising my kids, or write about having written about raising my kids on an intermitable book tour? I think you'll agree I've made the right choice.

Jennifer Whigham asks: My boyfriend is currently running around our house in long underwear with a cereal bowl on his head, screaming, "I start this war in the name of Raisin Bran!" Should I allow this man to be the father of my children?

Oh, yes. Unquestionably, yes. All he needs to do is soil himself and he's given you a pretty good idea of what having kids is like. Most men can only exhibit that kind of innocence while crying piteously after sex.

Rogers Cadenhead, apparently after sucking back a whole bottle of rum, asks: I'm trying to decide between your book and this one. Can you offer any guidance on which choice I should make?

Tough choice, Rogers. The soft, joyful laugh of children or the swaggering yo-ho-ho of crewmate-sodomizing pirates? Watching Barney or something that I imagine is a whole lot like watching Barney? Church- and state-approved early 21st century normality or the briny stench of sea-faring criminals and their deviant sexual practices? I can't tell you how many times I've been faced with exactly the same decision. But, ultimately, the right choice is the one that puts money in my pocket.

Well! Seeing as how "Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard" hasn't come back from the bathroom yet -- and I'll bet you wouldn't want to be in there right now -- let's sneak off. With any luck, it won't remember that tomorrow's stop is at GIRO and we can be rid of it forever.

Wednesday, April 03, 2002

Please Don't Tell The Chamber Of Commerce

The tides in Bar Harbor are quite striking, with over a ten foot difference in sea level between high and low tides. During low tides, a natural land bridge — the actual "bar" in "Bar Harbor" — appears in the middle of the harbor that connects the town to Bar Island, and for about three hours during each cycle one can walk or drive across it. If you don't pay attention to the time, you'll find yourself swimming back to your hotel or waiting about eleven hours for the bar to reappear.

Now, many things in my life have changed since my move here from Boston, but the glee I derive from messing with the minds of tourists is not one of them. And one of these days during the height of tourist season, as some of the roughly four million annual visitors descend on the town, I'll be standing on Bridge Street waving to them.

And I'll be waving an orange flag toward the bar, while standing next to my "ALL-DAY PARKING ONLY $3" sign.

Monday, April 01, 2002

Words Will Never Hurt Me, Though They May Hurt You

In an attempt to cheer myself up, I dug out some old college writing notebooks today. I get a kick out of seeing how my writing skills have...well I don't think advanced is the proper term. Maybe "not gotten completely suckier" is more accurate.

Anyway, the stuff inside is mostly tripe, suitable only for burning to keep one warm. There are a few bits that I enjoyed seeing again, like this sentence describing a lack of focus:

I hold onto thoughts like handless people hold on to boiling-hot potatoes.


For every nugget like that, however, there are thirty things that would have been better off left inside the Bic:

Stripes! Wonderful, outrageous stripes! They're on shirts and sweaters! They're painted on athletic fields! A movie was named after them! Find them on tigers, raccoons, and prisoners! Hey Hamburglar, you're covered in them, too! Off-air television stations broadcast them in the wee hours of the morning, while you're up drinking scotch instead of getting those precious few hours of sleep that will help you function through your tiresome, meaningless day! Mr. Music Man loves stripes, and places notes atop them! Old Glory wouldn't be a grand old flag, a high-flying flag, without them! You may never have heard of striping data to hard disks, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist! Why can't I escape the stripes? Why do they mock me with their omnipresence?


Although I shudder in embarrassed fear at knowing I'm responsible for such literary travesty, I'm happy that I have never inflicted these beasts upon the public (a mistake that some people are all too happy to make). But in the spirit of one man's garbage being another man's treasure, I'm offering all interested parties a chance to own some of the most self-indulgent nonsense that I have created. Fire off an email to the contact address on the left side of this page, and I will deliver these ill-begotten words to you, freshly ripped from the finest spiral notebooks that I could sneak out of office supply closets. You may receive a few sentences or several paragraphs, depending on how much torture I feel you deserve.