Never a dull moment; we’ve got: Twelve arrested in creepy clown hoaxes, Pepe the frog has become a hate symbol, God tells a man to burn his house, seaweed that taste like bacon, and Is Wells Fargo a ‘criminal enterprise’? Say it ain’t so… Read On
There’s no way in hell, this novel could’ve been written in this day and age of hyper-sensitive ‘special’ snowflakes—the author would’ve been hanged by the balls and left to dry in the hot desert sun for being perceived a misogynist fool (among other things). However, those who dismiss it, fail to see that in order to create something as ballsy and unapologetic as this piece of work. One needs to be brave, and not give a fuck about ruffling any feathers, which remains me; I should read more Charles Bukowski.
Chinaski grabs a beer. Drayer Baba have mercy!
Henry Chinaski is the average Joe, the average nasty sonofabitch, drunken, ugly, and misogynistic poet who beds any c***t who throws herself at him, and they do, by the busloads (some sad, some bonkers, some a combination of both). But hey what’s an old alcoholic at the twilight of his miserable existence to do? Say No? Fuck you buddy! So what if from time to time he can’t get it up? Screw another one because, hey, why the hell not. And so the novel becomes a tad repetitive with the wake up, drink, puke—puke or drink, (been there, done that) go to the race track, do a reading, drink some more, fuck some nubile,(wish I could do this. Often) do a reading, drink, repeat—oh wait, he can’t get it up—okay repeat. Yet it’s done in a raw, funny, repulsive, passionate, honest and breezy way. Midway through the book though, you’ll come to the realization that no one writes this way, meaning; he doesn’t give two fucks about impressing the sneering glitterati. Or anyone. You either like it or hate it, it’s there, raw and festering like a staph infection, or a flower growing in the sewage—take your pick.
Some unexpected insights rewards the readers of this book, with quotes aplenty:
“You’re so full of shit!”
I laughed. “That’s why I write.”
So, if you’re of a sensitive predisposition you might want to steer clear of this one, ya special little snowflake ya. 🙂
5 out of 5
Due to the fact that I’m a night owl, I tend to sleep late. It wasn’t any different fifteen year ago, when New York stood still. Back then, I used to live in a studio apartment, located on the last stop of the N train in Astoria, Queens— one of my favorite neighborhoods in this city. Back then, we were coming down from a Rock ‘n Roll high call the late 90’ when Britpop owned the airwaves, and we were entering the dreaded Nu Metal phase. That’s probably when my interest in music began to dwindle—never cared about that genre.
My favorite song became Clint Eastwood by Gorillaz
That September morning the phone kept ringing off the hook, I picked it up. It was a good friend of mine telling me to turn the TV, I did—no signal on any channel, (I didn’t have cable) then he told me that there was an accident at the World Trade Center, he said that a plane had crashed on one of the buildings, and that he was getting the fuck out of there.
He was working as a landscaper inside of the WTC.
Since there were no TV signals, I tried the radio, which at the time I had permanently tuned to the Howard Stern Show; this was way before the FCC made him jump to Sirius radio. Howard had a minute to minute play on what was going on—then he said that a second plane had hit the other building, at first I thought he was fucking around, then the phone rang again; it was my sister, then my mother, calling to see if I wasn’t at work even though they knew that I worked nights at a bar in Soho. The first attack to the WTC was in 1993, I remember the perpetrators’ being caught fairly quickly. Who knew that this time around things were going to be different?
My friend the landscaper got out of there unscathed, he later told me all about the horrendous things he saw that day, which I will not repeat. He is now a happily married father of one, a boy, and I hope that someday he writes about what he went through that day. The smell of burnt asbestos lingered for weeks, I’ll never forget it–It smelled like cancer.
It didn’t take long for the drums of war to become louder, and louder. The rest, as they say is history.
Please, take a moment to remember the lives that were lost that day.
Yeah it’s going to be one of those rants.
But wait—if you’re writer—stick around and I’ll tell you where you can place a FREE ad, for your free book or short story, a place where you’ll get a bunch of download and hopefully readers. Okay back to bitching, I mean; pitching. Here’s the pitch (blurb/synopsis) for my FREE short story Killing Crows.
Newly minted family man Bobby Herrera got pinched for robbing a bodega. Now he’s looking at twenty years. His new cellmate, Clayton Stanton Jr., is a dark and violent man. A killer with a big secret—a secret that can set Bobby free or get him killed.
Its chess not checkers at Federal Correctional Institution Ray Brook in Upstate New York.
Admittedly, I’m biased, because I wrote the damn thing. Naturally, as the writer, I don’t see anything wrong with it. The blurb gives the names of the main protagonists and the gist of the story—without giving away the whole enchilada. Reddit is a great place for a lot of cool stuff, I really like the place. Their self-publish sub-reddit helped me a lot when I was starting out in this journey, and to help writers promote their writing; they’ve added a few places where a writer can advertise their books and shorts stories for FREE, without coming across as a spambot douche.
Those sub-reddits are:
/r/freeebooks /r/kindlefreebies /r/efreebies /r/wroteabook /r/bookdownloads.
So I added my FREE short story Killing Crows to all of those sub-reddits. But apparently my pitch sucked because pretty soon I had some messages that told me so. Here’s the abridge version of some of them:
*Drop back five yards and punt, kiddo.
*Hmm… I’m gonna pass. There’s a grammatical error in the last line.
*Your blurb is very short, doesn’t hook me, and contains at least one grammatical mistake. That’s enough to turn me away.
*I was intrigued by the title, but the cover and blurb didn’t grab me.
I’m no grammar Nazi, but I understand where these folks are coming from, who wants a miserable reading experience right? Despite of all that was said above; I stand by my story, It’s a solid piece of work, a testament to that is this AMAZON REVIEW I don’t see the mistakes or problems with that blurb and neither did the TWO editors whom I paid to helped me edit and prof-read it—I’m stumped, that being said, as of this writing, the story has been downloaded by 54 people, and counting, so hopefully they’ll like the story and leave an honest review—that’s all I can hope for.
Look, in no way am I comparing myself to the great Hemingway (I write pulpy crime fiction for fucks sake) but I wonder; if he was a writer today, how on earth would he find the time to go fishing in the Florida Keys, take in a genuine Spanish bullfight, smoke hand- rolled cigars in Cuba, and write great books about his adventures, if he had Tweets to send, Facebook to update, write rants to post on his blog, pin pins on Pinterest, do whatever it is that folks do on Instagram, buy Google ads, buy Twitter ads, figure out how to buy Facebook ads, make print books, find a way to get a mailing list going—somehow, and beg people to read his book on Goodreads, Twitter, Reddit, and Facebook., etc. If Papa Hemingway was a self-publishing author today, he would probably blow his brains out…Oh wait, bad example.
Terrible, jet-black humor aside, this promo thing has proven to be quite the challenge. At times it feels like a tremendous waste of time, but hey, that seems to be the new normal for us self-publishers these days, good thing I enjoy writing a cool and solid page turner, otherwise I won’t be doing this.
‘Till next Time Buckaroos.