It is not uncommon for writers such as myself to have a keenly developed interest in their fellow man. To be able to spend hours just looking at people, listening to them, finding out all the interesting little synchronicities and ambiguities that make them them.
It’s all precious information to the writer brain. From the way people carry themselves, to their wardrobe of choice, to their hobbies and the friends they keep.
But I don’t.
In fact, I can’t stand people.
And there’s so freaking many of them.
They’re like huge, overblown ants, crawling all over the world and getting in my way.
So, it came as a big surprise to me, yesterday, when I met a fellow human who did not immediately piss me off. Who did not make me want to take a ten minute detour just to avoid making eye-contact, or feel that disgusting little disturbance of air current that inevitable occurs when people come too close.
That is rare.
For brevity sake, I will refer to this person as John. This is because at the moment of writing I held the belief that names should be changed to protect the innocent and that John is the most common English name around. This, then, should make a disproportionately large group of male readers think I might just be talking about them. Which is sad on exactly two levels. The second level being that the smart reader has already observed that the only information I have given you about this person so far is the fact the his name is NOT John.
Unless, of course I’m exceptionally devious, which I am, and which I’ve just told you about, which in turn means I probably decided to switch between his real and his assumed names a few more times. But, how many?
Anyway, this John (or Lem Carmoni, as he calls himself) has a very interesting job. It’s one I didn’t even know existed. Apparently, he’s the guy who decides on the colors for the insides of shoes.
Bet you didn’t know that. Bet you never realized there was a guy out there who spent the better part of a year deciding on the exact shade of tan to use for the inside of the shoe you are now wearing. Or that weird off-white color that you wouldn’t call egg-shell, not only because it’s not exactly egg-shell, but mostly because you never even noticed the color of the inside of your shoe.
And this is part of the brilliance that is John. He’s at the top of his profession. He’s one of the few people in the world who can pull off, without fail, the exact balance between:
1. The outside color of your shoe (designed obviously by hippies and no good marketing managers without a subtle bone in their bodies.)
2. The odd lighting conditions created by the shape of the nose and the height of the heal.
3. And the mood a specific shoe-shape induces.
This balance is needed to create the perfect blend of unobtrusiveness. Now, normally, I would interject a few lines here about what the world must have been like before John started his valiant work. I would re-iterate a couple of examples of the kind of accidents that occurred when people became distracted by the color of the inside of their shoes as they were putting them on. How it destroyed their lives and the lives of the loved ones they fell on.
But I won’t do this. I don’t have the data at hand. To be honest, I think it would be reaching a bit. I’m sure things weren’t that bad. We survived, we’ll probably live on long after John dies.
But this doesn’t make John (or Stan Wilderburg, as his parents call him) and his job any less interesting.
Anyway, drop a note in the comments to tell me about the most interesting job you’ve heard about, and why any of us should care.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Goki Feng Ho, the second part of my Journey...
My own spiritual journey with Goki Feng Hoo, the ancient Chinese art of decoding car license plates, started when I spotted the following plate on a French car as it passed me when I was vacationing in Alsace: 154–GP–657. All beginnings are said to be humble and you are sure to be underwhelmed by this revelation. This particular plate is so obvious, so straight forward, that it’d take a very special kind of person to not understand its meaning, or the underlying implication that, indeed, messages are being sent to us mortals through the medium of car license plates. This plate was what one might call; a dead-giveaway.
The “GP” part of this plate is of course the ‘tag’, or the ‘identifier’, indicating the intended recipient by his or her initials. Some Goki practitioners insist on calling this the ‘eye-catcher’, as it is almost always our initials that draw us to a particular plate. The first set of numbers (154) is of course my date of birth. Inner circles call this kind of number a ‘secondary identifier’, as it conveys no further meaning than a reassurance to the recipient that he or she is indeed the intended recipient. Secondary identifiers are quite rare in license plates. It is speculated that this is because they aren’t often needed, and, obviously, they waste valuable message real-estate. Secondary identifiers are to Goki practitioners as big letter books are to literature students. Of course, it helps that 154 is my date of birth in reverse roman notation, transcoded to a hexadecimal base, but it’s still obvious to the point of being embarrassing. Nevertheless, I share this in the hopes it may convince hardened non-believers to start paying attention, to heed the plates and signposts in their lives.
The third set of numbers (667) was a rather unflattering statement on the dismal state of my kitchen tiles, which, for brevity’s sake, I shall not expand upon here.
So, with this over-obvious plate, my journey had begun. Before I finished reading the Goki Feng Hoo manual, as transcribed by Hung Lee in 1865 and translated by the venerable Iain Flackton in 1981, I started noticing additional plates baring personal messages. Some I spotted more or less accidentally, others I found while actively looking. I bought a little notebook and wrote all these plates down. A little voice inside me said that these messages might be multi-layered (something that the manual would later confirm); single messages are applicable to your immediate future, multiple messages, concatenated according to the patterning matrix as found on page 17 of the official Goki Feng Hoo manual, form a new and larger message, useful for the long term.
The first plate I noted down in my new plate-book, was the somewhat skeptic GP1–256, found on a Swedish car that cut me off on a roundabout. It was followed that same day by the more humorous 763–GWP–500, and a rather vexing XY–GP–69. Although extremely useful at the time, their true meaning didn’t become apparent until I combined them into a single message: XY–GP–69–GP1–256–763–GWP–500, which obviously led me to quit my job and move to Scotland.
Although it was an uneventful, somewhat meaningless life, it was years before I received a follow-up message, the urgent: W–457–GP. I found it hanging by a single screw from the backside of a pre-world war I tractor. That message helped me realize my mistake in interpreting the original triplet. It had me recheck my notes and study the patterning matrix as found on page 17 of the official Goki Feng Hoo manual a bit more closely. By nightfall, I’d uncovered the problem; the Swedish plate should have come last, making the message: XY–GP–69–763–GWP–500–GP1–256.
Obviously what I should have been doing was setting up a small goat cheese factory in Ochbach, Germany, using only local resources and shunning all forms of pasteurization. Better late than never, I made the necessary changes to my life and the factory has since become a moderate success.
Over the years it occurred to me that the corrective plate might have taken so long to reach me because whoever or whatever was responsible for the messages was angry at me for being so callous. But, at a pinch, it could be down to the fact that there were very few plates in Pitlochry, and most of them were covered in mud. The lines of communication had sanded over.
The “GP” part of this plate is of course the ‘tag’, or the ‘identifier’, indicating the intended recipient by his or her initials. Some Goki practitioners insist on calling this the ‘eye-catcher’, as it is almost always our initials that draw us to a particular plate. The first set of numbers (154) is of course my date of birth. Inner circles call this kind of number a ‘secondary identifier’, as it conveys no further meaning than a reassurance to the recipient that he or she is indeed the intended recipient. Secondary identifiers are quite rare in license plates. It is speculated that this is because they aren’t often needed, and, obviously, they waste valuable message real-estate. Secondary identifiers are to Goki practitioners as big letter books are to literature students. Of course, it helps that 154 is my date of birth in reverse roman notation, transcoded to a hexadecimal base, but it’s still obvious to the point of being embarrassing. Nevertheless, I share this in the hopes it may convince hardened non-believers to start paying attention, to heed the plates and signposts in their lives.
The third set of numbers (667) was a rather unflattering statement on the dismal state of my kitchen tiles, which, for brevity’s sake, I shall not expand upon here.
So, with this over-obvious plate, my journey had begun. Before I finished reading the Goki Feng Hoo manual, as transcribed by Hung Lee in 1865 and translated by the venerable Iain Flackton in 1981, I started noticing additional plates baring personal messages. Some I spotted more or less accidentally, others I found while actively looking. I bought a little notebook and wrote all these plates down. A little voice inside me said that these messages might be multi-layered (something that the manual would later confirm); single messages are applicable to your immediate future, multiple messages, concatenated according to the patterning matrix as found on page 17 of the official Goki Feng Hoo manual, form a new and larger message, useful for the long term.
The first plate I noted down in my new plate-book, was the somewhat skeptic GP1–256, found on a Swedish car that cut me off on a roundabout. It was followed that same day by the more humorous 763–GWP–500, and a rather vexing XY–GP–69. Although extremely useful at the time, their true meaning didn’t become apparent until I combined them into a single message: XY–GP–69–GP1–256–763–GWP–500, which obviously led me to quit my job and move to Scotland.
Although it was an uneventful, somewhat meaningless life, it was years before I received a follow-up message, the urgent: W–457–GP. I found it hanging by a single screw from the backside of a pre-world war I tractor. That message helped me realize my mistake in interpreting the original triplet. It had me recheck my notes and study the patterning matrix as found on page 17 of the official Goki Feng Hoo manual a bit more closely. By nightfall, I’d uncovered the problem; the Swedish plate should have come last, making the message: XY–GP–69–763–GWP–500–GP1–256.
Obviously what I should have been doing was setting up a small goat cheese factory in Ochbach, Germany, using only local resources and shunning all forms of pasteurization. Better late than never, I made the necessary changes to my life and the factory has since become a moderate success.
Over the years it occurred to me that the corrective plate might have taken so long to reach me because whoever or whatever was responsible for the messages was angry at me for being so callous. But, at a pinch, it could be down to the fact that there were very few plates in Pitlochry, and most of them were covered in mud. The lines of communication had sanded over.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Mystics predict future accurately?
I’ve recently become a master in Goki Feng Ho, the ancient Chinese art of decoding license plates. It has, you can imagine, changed my life dramatically and for the better.
Like most practitioners, I’ve always had this suspicion that there’s more to life. That we can’t be mere random collections of molecules with no higher purpose than figuring out how not to soil ourselves while we keep our bodies running as long as possible. Such a view has always seemed too arbitrary to me. So, ever since I was a child, whenever I saw my initials – or part of my date of birth – pop up on a car license plate, I’d get that uneasy feeling. As if there was something I needed to do, or that I was supposed to realize. As if someone was sending me coded messages. Even at a very young age, I understood that something like Goki Feng Ho must exist, and that I was drawn to it like a moth to a particularly nice lady moth.
So, I was both surprised and not-really-all-that-surprised when a friend gave me this book on Goki Feng Ho. I started reading and became hooked. Even the relatively scarce historical background was interesting to me on so many levels. Although much is lost about how Goki Feng Ho first came to the west, the stories about its initial discoverer, master Hung Lee, survive, and I dare say they’d constitute fascinating reading for even the hardened skeptic.
From the early days of receiving his gift in the mail (though some claim he received it in a dream) to his struggles to find disciples to whom to pass it down, Hung Lee’s story is a heartwarming one. Obviously his life was made particularly challenging by the absence of license plates, or even cars, at the time. I have found no record of what the first Goki Feng Hoos practiced and honed their skills on, but I assume they invented plates for each other to decode, or borrowed some from the Germans.
At the time, though, Chinese mystics were known to keep their gifts a secret, passing them down only to family members. Lee broke this mold when he became the first mystic to offer up his gift to the general public. But even then, the story goes, he had trouble finding anyone who was remotely interested. There are parables of Lee raffling off free Kindles and iPods among his disciples, but, again, he was too far ahead of his time. No one understood what he was talking about. He finally found a handful of willing participants at a local mental hospital, after raffling off a small pig and some sticks. And even though lived to be a hundred and fifty, it is said he never managed to recoup this investment.
Like most practitioners, I’ve always had this suspicion that there’s more to life. That we can’t be mere random collections of molecules with no higher purpose than figuring out how not to soil ourselves while we keep our bodies running as long as possible. Such a view has always seemed too arbitrary to me. So, ever since I was a child, whenever I saw my initials – or part of my date of birth – pop up on a car license plate, I’d get that uneasy feeling. As if there was something I needed to do, or that I was supposed to realize. As if someone was sending me coded messages. Even at a very young age, I understood that something like Goki Feng Ho must exist, and that I was drawn to it like a moth to a particularly nice lady moth.
So, I was both surprised and not-really-all-that-surprised when a friend gave me this book on Goki Feng Ho. I started reading and became hooked. Even the relatively scarce historical background was interesting to me on so many levels. Although much is lost about how Goki Feng Ho first came to the west, the stories about its initial discoverer, master Hung Lee, survive, and I dare say they’d constitute fascinating reading for even the hardened skeptic.
From the early days of receiving his gift in the mail (though some claim he received it in a dream) to his struggles to find disciples to whom to pass it down, Hung Lee’s story is a heartwarming one. Obviously his life was made particularly challenging by the absence of license plates, or even cars, at the time. I have found no record of what the first Goki Feng Hoos practiced and honed their skills on, but I assume they invented plates for each other to decode, or borrowed some from the Germans.
At the time, though, Chinese mystics were known to keep their gifts a secret, passing them down only to family members. Lee broke this mold when he became the first mystic to offer up his gift to the general public. But even then, the story goes, he had trouble finding anyone who was remotely interested. There are parables of Lee raffling off free Kindles and iPods among his disciples, but, again, he was too far ahead of his time. No one understood what he was talking about. He finally found a handful of willing participants at a local mental hospital, after raffling off a small pig and some sticks. And even though lived to be a hundred and fifty, it is said he never managed to recoup this investment.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Free book from Winner of Forewords Books of the Year.
As "No Hope for Gomez!" has just won the Book of the Year award, I thought it would be nice to celebrate by giving away a free sequel to anyone who can bother to download it ;)
Things start to spiral out of control for Gomez when he tries to win back his ex-girlfriend during a very strange New Year's Eve party.
Clinical studies have shown that reading the "Random Acts of Senseless Kindness" eBook is not only likely to make you more attractive to the opposite sex, it will also elevate your random luck by about 9.5%**
So, that's a nice bonus right there.
(**These statements have not been evaluated by anyone of consequence!)
This free eBook is a spin-off of the award winning "No Hope for Gomez!" available for order in all stores now.
Bio:
Download Free eBook here.
Things start to spiral out of control for Gomez when he tries to win back his ex-girlfriend during a very strange New Year's Eve party.
Clinical studies have shown that reading the "Random Acts of Senseless Kindness" eBook is not only likely to make you more attractive to the opposite sex, it will also elevate your random luck by about 9.5%**
So, that's a nice bonus right there.
(**These statements have not been evaluated by anyone of consequence!)
This free eBook is a spin-off of the award winning "No Hope for Gomez!" available for order in all stores now.
Bio:
Graham Parke is responsible for a number of technical publications and has recently patented a self-folding map. He has been described as both a humanitarian and a pathological liar. Convincing evidence to support either allegation has yet to be produced.
 | No Hope for Gomez! is his fiction debut: Boy meets girl. Boy stalks girl. Girl already has a stalker. Boy becomes her stalker-stalker. |
Random Acts of Senseless Kindness, Excerpt:
Blog entry: Arrived at the store late, found a homeless guy sleeping in the doorway. Hicks was already inside but gave no indication he’d noticed. I nudged the homeless guy and asked, “How are you doing down there, fellow? You okay?”
The homeless guy grumbled something in his sleep.
“It’s getting pretty cold,” I said. “Don’t you want to come inside?”
“Inside?” He coughed and opened his eyes.
I pointed out the store, not convinced he’d actually noticed where he’d crashed the night before. “This is my antiques store,” I told him. “We’ve got the heating on inside, shame to waste it on just two people. And it looks like it might start to snow soon.”
The homeless guy gave me a suspicious look. “You want me to come inside? With you?”
“Sure, if you’d like.”
“Is that because you think that if I come inside with you, I’ll let you touch me?”
“What? No!”
“Okay, because I can tell you right now, that’s not gonna happen.”
“Well, I suppose it is good to get those kinds of things clear beforehand. But no, I was just thinking you might enjoy the warmth, maybe a cup of cocoa.”
“A cup of cocoa you say…” He scratched his stubble. “And you’ll be charging me for this cup of cocoa?”
“No, the cocoa is free.”
“I see. So, are you operating under the assumption that if I come inside with you, and I drink your free cocoa, that I will touch you?”
“What? No!”
“Okay, because I can tell you right now, that’s not gonna happen either. Just because a guy is down on his luck, that doesn’t mean he goes around touching people in exchange for cups of cocoa.”
“I understand completely. And thanks again for pointing that out. But no, my friend and I noticed that you were sleeping in our doorway and, well, we’d like to invite you inside.”
The homeless guy turned and peered through the window in the door. He made eye-contact with Hicks, who panicked and went looking for his broom. “That your friend?”
I followed his gaze. “Yeah, that’s Hicks. He’s a bit peculiar, but he’s okay.”
“I see.” The homeless guy pulled on his collar. “And this friend of yours, will he be drinking cocoa also?”
“I suppose. I’m not entirely sure, but it seems likely.”
“I see.” The homeless guy considered this. “So,” he said, after a long moment, “will this friend of yours be expecting me to touch him?”
“No! There is no touching involved in any of this!”
“Okay, calm down,” the homeless guy said. “There’s no need to get all homophobic!”
“I wasn’t!”
“You sounded homophobic to me.”
“Me? You’re the one who can’t stop talking about touching people!”
Download Free eBook here.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Summer of Gomez Winners Announced
"Every once in a while you come across a novel so fresh and new it reacquaints you with feelings of childhood wonder. The novel my neighbor, Warren, wrote was my first example of the exact opposite of this."
-- Gomez in 'No Hope for Gomez!'
-- Gomez in 'No Hope for Gomez!'
 | Serena from SavvyVerseandWit.com Reader Kindle Winner: Arthur Hall (US) Reader iPod Winner: Lynn Bassler (US) Limited edition Winners: Ebehireme Iyoha (US) Yasmin Raad Muhi (Mal) Sarah Bibi Setar (SA) Gemma Richardson (UK) David Lane (US) |
Let's try something great next year as well.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Yet another cover-up at mysterious crash site!
I have recently uncovered the last taped conversation of ace reporter Kent Worthington. According to my calculations, it was made a day before his mysterious disappearance, and I dare say it contains some vital clues…
(Some names may have been changed to protect my innocence)
Kent: Colonel, what can you say about the reports of an object coming down over the Boswell fields?
Colonel: It appears that a foreign passenger plane has come down.
Kent: So how do you respond to claims that no passenger planes were scheduled to fly over Boswell fields at the time?
Colonel: Eh, well, someone must have lost some paperwork somewhere. Happens all the time.
Kent: Colonel, I feel you are not completely open with me here. If you are going back on your word concerning total disclosure, I’ll hang up and run the story as I have it now.
Colonel: Okay, okay. Look, it's an alien vessel, that’s all I can say. We don't know where it came from exactly, or what it wants, but we know that it is not of this world.
Kent: An alien craft? Really? You must think I'm a moron!
Colonel: Excuse me?
Kent: Do you really think I'm going to print that? Alien craft down in Bosswell fields? Forget it!
Colonel: Well, I'd really rather you didn't print that, but, yes, it's the truth. That's what we're looking at here.
Kent: Colonel, I have it on good authority that the object that went down in Bosswell is in fact a military weather balloon!
Colonel: What? No! I'm telling you the truth, it's a space ship!
Kent: It's a damn weather balloon and you know it!
Colonel: It's not, honest! Look, I can't show you the site, you’d never get clearance, but I can send you some secret documents…
Kent: Colonel, this is a cover-up. I can smell it!
Colonel: Please, whatever you do, don't print the weather balloon story. I implore you!
Kent: I have to. This is simply too big to ignore. A yearly budget of 30 billion and you can't even make a decent weather balloon! The people have a right to know. I mean, how incompetent do have to be, really? It's a damn balloon. Its natural state is being up in the air!
Colonel: There were… unforeseen circumstances.
Kent: My five-year-old can make a balloon that doesn't crash. And he has no budget at all. Can’t even tie his shoes, in fact.
Colonel: Look, it’s not that simple. The balloon has equipment aboard. Then there’s wind speed, thermal dynamics. It’s all rather complicated.
Kent: No, it’s not. It’s nothing that the field of aviation hasn’t already solved a century ago. Here’s your problem, Colonel; NASA can put a man on the moon, send a probe to follow the Haley comet, explore the surface of mars, but the military still has problems keeping a damn balloon a few feet up in the air.
Colonel: It’s a few hundred feet, actually. Look, you don’t know what you’re messing with here. There are important people involved. People who won’t be happy.
Kent: I’ll tell you who won’t be happy. The taxpayers won’t be happy. I'm writing this story!
Check out the Summer of Gomez!
Get free books and win a Kindle or iPod. Only 5 validated entries so far, so you're almost guaranteed to win ;)
As reviewers have been calling “No Hope for Gomez!” the perfect summer read - light, fast, fun - I decided to give this summer's Gomez readers some exclusive content and the chance to win prizes.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Curious Case of Mr. Miller
Blog entry: Saturday. Decided to do a little detective work and find out what made one of my fellow drug trial participants pass out. Headed over to the hospital and queued up at the front desk to ask if there were any visitor’s hours that day.“Sure,” the nurse told me. “Who did you want to see?”
“A Mr. Miller. Mr. Joseph Miller. He was brought in two days ago.”
The nurse consulted her computer, frowned, then shook her head. “No, I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Miller is dead. He died late last night.” She looked up from her screen. “Would you like to see somebody else?”
“What? No! I really need to talk to Mr. Miller. Are you absolutely sure he’s passed away?”
“I can recheck if you want.” She typed away. “Sometimes this program mixes up some of the… ah, I see what I’ve done now.” She gave me an apologetic smile. “Stupid little me,” she said. “I had the stats of several files mixed up.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “So, he didn’t pass away?”
“Oh, no,” the nurse said, shaking her head, “he’s still dead, but he died this morning rather than last night.” She held up her hand with a small amount of space between her thumb and index finger. “You missed him by that much.”
“I see,” I said. “Does it at least say what he died of?”
She browsed her screen, bit her lip, and mumbled, “Yes, no, wait a minute. I saw something about…. Ah, yes. Yes, it does.” She looked up again. For a long moment we stared at each other. When I finally arched an eyebrow, she said, “Are you a relative? I’m not supposed to give out this kind of information to just anybody.”
I tried to think fast. I really needed that information but I didn’t know Joseph other than from the clinic waiting area. We’d never even spoken. Then, out of nowhere, the perfect answer just occurred to me. I told her, “Yes.”
“Okay then.” She was about to tell me when her face clouded over again. “You really should be getting this information from his doctor, though.”
I waved it away, told her it would be okay.
“Well,” she said, reading from her screen, “it says here he died of dehydration and malnutrition.”
“He was found passed out in his apartment,” I told her. “Apparently he’d been out for a while. Does it say what caused him to lose consciousness in the first place?”
The nurse perused the file for a long time, then shook her head. “No, sorry,” she said. “I’ll have to get the doctor for that. Just a moment.” She reached for the phone.
“That’s okay,” I said, not wanting to get into trouble for impersonating a relative. “I need to go. Pressed for time. Thank you.”
As I turned to leave, she called after me, “Are you sure you don’t want to visit anyone else? There are some really nice people up on the second floor. Much nicer than Mr. Miller. They’d love to talk to you.”
Continued in "No Hope for Gomez!"
Check out the Summer of Gomez!
Get free books and win a Kindle or iPod.
As reviewers have been calling “No Hope for Gomez!” the perfect summer read - light, fast, fun - I decided to give this summer's Gomez readers some exclusive content and the chance to win prizes.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Is it like listening to you talk?
As you probably know, to become an internationally best-selling author, you need to sell three books. This is not an easy task, but once you’ve managed to rack up these three sales, the rest is more or less a done deal.Now, these sales themselves will not put you on the best-seller lists. They won’t even put you within a million spots of the bottom of the lists, but what they will do, and what they do every time, is spark a slowly growing buying frenzy that will get you there.
These three people will love your book, they will tell another five people, who in turn tell another seven. Within roughly four-and-a-half weeks, you finally make your first million.
That’s how it happens. Every single time.
But, how does an author tackle this monumental task? Where does he find these three readers?
I myself was quite lucky. When my novel appeared on Amazon I already knew over five people! What’s more, some of these people even liked me... somewhat. So I set out to become an internationally best-selling author by convincing at least three of these five people to buy my novel.
I started with my mother. Of all the five people I knew, I probably knew her the longest. I showed her my Amazon page and she nodded approvingly. She did not, however, make any attempts to buy a copy. So I logged on for her, navigated back to my novel’s page, and left the mouse pointer conveniently positioned over the BUY button.
She read the novel description again, searched-inside-this-book, and nodded some more. When I asked her if she’d like to buy a copy, she scrunched up her nose and said;
‘But what if I don’t like it?’
I told her not to worry. ‘It’s a really good book,’ I said. ‘I should know. I’ve re-written it like 50 times. It’s really funny and interesting.’
My mother wasn’t convinced. ‘I’m not really into comedy writing, though,’ she said.
‘It’s not just a comedy,’ I pointed out. ‘It has a real story; it’s a mystery. And it has twists and turns and believable characters.’
My mother hesitated. ‘Maybe I should just play it safe and buy another Stephen King novel…’
I ended up having to offer a personal money-back guarantee, and purchase a copy using my own credit card for the time being, but she finally cracked. I’d made my first sale!
Next, I prodded my wife. Although she did like words in general, she wasn’t sure she was up for reading and entire book full of them. ‘Is this like your usual stuff?’ she wanted to know.
‘What usual stuff?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Is it like listening to you talk?’
‘What’s wrong with they way I talk?’
‘Nothing. It’s just, well, sometimes you talk a lot of nonsense.’
I waved it away. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I am much more interesting and ‘telligible’ on paper.’
Long story short; my second sale is almost in the bag. Now I just need to find one more person to buy my novel, and I’ll be set for life!
Check out the Summer of Gomez!
Get free books and win a Kindle or iPod.
As reviewers have been calling “No Hope for Gomez!” the perfect summer read - light, fast, fun - I decided to give this summer's Gomez readers some exclusive content and the chance to win prizes.
Monday, May 9, 2011
The Summer of Gomez
It's the Summer of Gomez!
Get free books and win a Kindle or iPod.
As reviewers have been calling “No Hope for Gomez!” the perfect summer read - light, fast, fun - I decided to give this summer's Gomez readers some exclusive content and the chance to win prizes.
About No Hope for Gomez!
It's the age-old tale: - Boy meets girl. - Boy stalks girl. - Girl already has a stalker. - Boy becomes her stalker-stalker. We've seen it all before, many times, but this time it's different. If only slightly. When Gomez Porter becomes a test subject in an experimental drug trial, he is asked to keep track of any strange experiences through a blog. | |
But when one of the trial participants turns up dead and another goes missing, Gomez begins to fear for his life. No longer sure who he can trust and which of his experiences are real and which merely drug induced delusions, he decides it's time to go underground and work out a devious plan.
Read a chapter.
Nominated for Book of the Year by both ForeWord Reviews and USA Book News, here's what reviewers have to say about "No Hope for Gomez!":
“Extremely witty and clever writing.” -- California Chronicle
"An unputdownable read. a Coens Brothers' film in book form." -- BookReview.com
"A veritable page turner of nonstop laughs!" -- Reader Views
"A Party for your Brain!" -- Warren Baxter
Warning: clinical studies have shown that reading this novel is likely to make you more attractive to the opposite sex and elevate your random luck by about 9.5%**
(** These statements have not been evaluated by any person of consequence!)
With every cool summer party comes a gift bag, so here's just some of the stuff all summer readers will get:
- Exclusive new story collection
- No Hope for Gomez: The Lost Chapters
- Making of Gomez: behind the scenes eBook
- Signed hi-res poster + bookplate
Additionally, several lucky readers will win a prize. I'm raffling off a Kindle, an iPod Nano 8GB, and five exclusive spin-off paperback novels that are not available elsewhere!
All you have to do to have a "Summer of Gomez", is get the book from any store before July 12th 2011 and forward your receipt to nohopeforgomez@gmail.com.(Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Amazon CA, Amazon UK, Amazon DE)
Every purchase counts as an entry so increase your chances by stocking up on some extremely cool birthday presents ;)
Points towards additional entries are gained by getting your friends to join in, and tweeting/blogging/face-booking (is that a verb?) about the summer of Gomez.Tweet
Bio:
Graham Parke is responsible for a number of technical publications and has recently patented a self-folding map. He has been described as both a humanitarian and a pathological liar. Convincing evidence to support either allegation has yet to be produced.
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www.grahamparke.blogspot.com
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Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Dorkiness Equation -- PartII
Read part I first.
I understand if at this point you are in awe of me. If you have trouble believing anyone could be this insightful. And that’s fine. That’s natural at such life changing moments. But, really, I cannot take full credit. I happened to witness an event early in my professional career that gave me a vital clue to the puzzle. Without it I would not have figured this out. I had help. In fact, it was more or less spelled out for me.
Here’s what happened:
I was doing an internship at a large corporation. My first involvement with the corporate world. With the ‘nine-to-five grind’. With the ‘picking each other up for lunch and suffering each other’s company in the cafeteria’ kind of deal. The lunches were mostly boring, because the only thing everyone at the table had in common was their jobs. But one day something strange happened. Something that fascinated me. A scientist-type sitting diagonally across from me decided to fill his glass from a jug of water. He did this by holding his glass over his plate and heaving the jug above it. On that particular day, he managed to spill a great deal of water over his plate before realizing what he was doing. And I do mean a great deal of water. His potatoes were basically floating. I watched him do this in awe, and then I watched him silently put the jug back and continue his meal.
What happened next taught me much more about my colleagues than the whole week of working with them had. Because what happened next was: nothing.
Not a single thing. Although I couldn’t possibly be the only one who witnessed this incredible display of dorkiness, not a single person at that table gave any sign they’d noticed. They were embarrassed enough for the guy to pretend nothing had happened. And the reaction of the victim himself told me this was unlikely to be the first time he’d done this.
If it had been me, I’d have slapped my forehead and grumbled profanities, followed by something like, ‘I can’t believe I just did that!’ Then I’d follow it up by joining in with my colleagues as they fired off the mandatory jokes, after which I’d inspect the damage to my meal very carefully. I would do this to assess whether there was any way I could finish my lunch without having to walk back to get another one (choose the lazy solution whenever possible, you’ll live longer). I might indeed continue my meal, true, but not before very serious deliberation!
That day I understood, at least on some level, that I’d witnessed something of monumental importance, even though it would take me years to figure out exactly what that was.
Thinking back, another vital clue was the fact that I didn’t for an instance feel like sniggering. Without ever having spoken to the guy, his general demeanor had already informed my subconscious that he was indeed a dork, and so my initial reaction was one of sincere pity and compassion.
Which wasn’t very nice of me. I realize this now. And so, if by some strange coincidence I ever run into this guy again, I will apologize for joining in with the rude behavior of my colleagues, and then I’ll finally do the decent thing and laugh at him.
I'm really interested in hearing about similar experiences you may have had. Please abuse the comment section below to chronicle your ideas and happenings.
Bio:
I understand if at this point you are in awe of me. If you have trouble believing anyone could be this insightful. And that’s fine. That’s natural at such life changing moments. But, really, I cannot take full credit. I happened to witness an event early in my professional career that gave me a vital clue to the puzzle. Without it I would not have figured this out. I had help. In fact, it was more or less spelled out for me.
Here’s what happened:
I was doing an internship at a large corporation. My first involvement with the corporate world. With the ‘nine-to-five grind’. With the ‘picking each other up for lunch and suffering each other’s company in the cafeteria’ kind of deal. The lunches were mostly boring, because the only thing everyone at the table had in common was their jobs. But one day something strange happened. Something that fascinated me. A scientist-type sitting diagonally across from me decided to fill his glass from a jug of water. He did this by holding his glass over his plate and heaving the jug above it. On that particular day, he managed to spill a great deal of water over his plate before realizing what he was doing. And I do mean a great deal of water. His potatoes were basically floating. I watched him do this in awe, and then I watched him silently put the jug back and continue his meal.
What happened next taught me much more about my colleagues than the whole week of working with them had. Because what happened next was: nothing.
Not a single thing. Although I couldn’t possibly be the only one who witnessed this incredible display of dorkiness, not a single person at that table gave any sign they’d noticed. They were embarrassed enough for the guy to pretend nothing had happened. And the reaction of the victim himself told me this was unlikely to be the first time he’d done this.
If it had been me, I’d have slapped my forehead and grumbled profanities, followed by something like, ‘I can’t believe I just did that!’ Then I’d follow it up by joining in with my colleagues as they fired off the mandatory jokes, after which I’d inspect the damage to my meal very carefully. I would do this to assess whether there was any way I could finish my lunch without having to walk back to get another one (choose the lazy solution whenever possible, you’ll live longer). I might indeed continue my meal, true, but not before very serious deliberation!
That day I understood, at least on some level, that I’d witnessed something of monumental importance, even though it would take me years to figure out exactly what that was.
Thinking back, another vital clue was the fact that I didn’t for an instance feel like sniggering. Without ever having spoken to the guy, his general demeanor had already informed my subconscious that he was indeed a dork, and so my initial reaction was one of sincere pity and compassion.
Which wasn’t very nice of me. I realize this now. And so, if by some strange coincidence I ever run into this guy again, I will apologize for joining in with the rude behavior of my colleagues, and then I’ll finally do the decent thing and laugh at him.
I'm really interested in hearing about similar experiences you may have had. Please abuse the comment section below to chronicle your ideas and happenings.
Bio:
Graham Parke is responsible for a number of technical publications and has recently patented a self-folding map. He has been described as both a humanitarian and a pathological liar. Convincing evidence to support either allegation has yet to be produced.
| No Hope for Gomez! is his fiction debut: Boy meets girl. Boy stalks girl. Girl already has a stalker. Boy becomes her stalker-stalker. |
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Dorkiness Equation.
I’ve finally figured out why we laugh at someone when they do something dorky. When they almost trip, when they stub their toe, when they stack a number of paper cups, only to find that the bottom cup wasn’t quite empty.
For years I assumed it was some kind of mean streak we have tucked away deep inside our subconscious. We might think we’re nice people, ready to lend a helping hand, ready with words of kindness and encouragement, but, as soon as our neighbor puts that hammer down on his thumb, we can’t help but snigger. Obviously there’s a real bastard inside us. What’s the harm, he thinks. There’s no way to help in time, so I might as well enjoy the pain of others.
But that would be the easy answer. And it’s one that simply doesn’t feel right. We snigger, yes, but do we actually feel happy? Do we actually think; thank goodness John finally stubbed his toe, that friendly, helpful bastard had it coming! Serves him right for all those times he helped me paint my garage! I don’t think so. Barring a few errant cases where we actually do hate someone, I’d say this isn’t what’s happening.
So I’ve wondered about this for years (I have done other things in between, I assure you, but the thought kept coming back to me.)
One of my later theories was that it’s a snigger of relief rather than joy. The idea being that a certain amount of dorkiness is inevitably going to be displayed on any given day. The best you can hope for is that your involvement will be minimal. Years of walking the tightrope of possible ridicule at high school has taught us how damaging the smallest slip-up can be to our social status. So, whenever we see someone do something dorky, we immediately let out a chuckle of relief; thank goodness that wasn’t me! We might think something along the lines of: I’m not happy about what just happened to you, but, on the upside, consider this; at least I wasn’t involved!
But that’s not it either. The real reason we can’t help but snigger when someone does something stupid or painful, is that we actually want to make them feel better. We want to ease their pain, and we do this by paying them a compliment. That may sound strange, but it’s true. By sniggering we’re sending a very clear signal:
“I can’t believe you just did something THAT stupid!”
And, when you think about it, that’s the kindest thing to do. Much kinder than the alternative signal. The signal we’d send if we did absolutely nothing. If we made no sound at all and pretended we didn’t even see the dorkiness going down. Because the alternative signal is:
“I fully expected you to do something THAT dorky, and I’m so embarrassed for you that I’m going to pretend I was looking the other way.”
When your friend slams the car door on his thumb and your initial reaction is one of pity, then you think he is a dork. When your initial reaction is to laugh at him, then you think he’s basically a cool guy who just did something dorky.
See the difference?
Which signal would you rather get?
Don’t get me wrong, it’s fine to be concerned and helpful a mere microsecond later, but in that initial, no-thought-only-action moment, you’d better laugh your ass off. You’d better snigger away or your relationship will be damaged forever!
To be continued....
For years I assumed it was some kind of mean streak we have tucked away deep inside our subconscious. We might think we’re nice people, ready to lend a helping hand, ready with words of kindness and encouragement, but, as soon as our neighbor puts that hammer down on his thumb, we can’t help but snigger. Obviously there’s a real bastard inside us. What’s the harm, he thinks. There’s no way to help in time, so I might as well enjoy the pain of others.
But that would be the easy answer. And it’s one that simply doesn’t feel right. We snigger, yes, but do we actually feel happy? Do we actually think; thank goodness John finally stubbed his toe, that friendly, helpful bastard had it coming! Serves him right for all those times he helped me paint my garage! I don’t think so. Barring a few errant cases where we actually do hate someone, I’d say this isn’t what’s happening.
So I’ve wondered about this for years (I have done other things in between, I assure you, but the thought kept coming back to me.)
One of my later theories was that it’s a snigger of relief rather than joy. The idea being that a certain amount of dorkiness is inevitably going to be displayed on any given day. The best you can hope for is that your involvement will be minimal. Years of walking the tightrope of possible ridicule at high school has taught us how damaging the smallest slip-up can be to our social status. So, whenever we see someone do something dorky, we immediately let out a chuckle of relief; thank goodness that wasn’t me! We might think something along the lines of: I’m not happy about what just happened to you, but, on the upside, consider this; at least I wasn’t involved!
But that’s not it either. The real reason we can’t help but snigger when someone does something stupid or painful, is that we actually want to make them feel better. We want to ease their pain, and we do this by paying them a compliment. That may sound strange, but it’s true. By sniggering we’re sending a very clear signal:
“I can’t believe you just did something THAT stupid!”
And, when you think about it, that’s the kindest thing to do. Much kinder than the alternative signal. The signal we’d send if we did absolutely nothing. If we made no sound at all and pretended we didn’t even see the dorkiness going down. Because the alternative signal is:
“I fully expected you to do something THAT dorky, and I’m so embarrassed for you that I’m going to pretend I was looking the other way.”
When your friend slams the car door on his thumb and your initial reaction is one of pity, then you think he is a dork. When your initial reaction is to laugh at him, then you think he’s basically a cool guy who just did something dorky.
See the difference?
Which signal would you rather get?
Don’t get me wrong, it’s fine to be concerned and helpful a mere microsecond later, but in that initial, no-thought-only-action moment, you’d better laugh your ass off. You’d better snigger away or your relationship will be damaged forever!
To be continued....
Thursday, March 10, 2011
How to make less money, Fast!
More and more readers are threatening to buy my weird little novel ‘No Hope for Gomez!’ and in the process make me disgustingly rich and popular. As I always hated the popular kids in school, and I have a profound distrust of the rich, I’ve obviously been working hard at staying piss-poor and disgruntled. So far, so good. I’m very disgruntled and, better yet, I’ve found another way of making even less money on writing than I ever did before!
I’ve found a service that gives away high (and low) quality eBooks for free. You can read them on your PC in a variety of formats and most eReaders are supported also. So what better home to choose for my new eNovella? Not only can readers download it for free, there is no pesky DRM so they can share it with each other over email, usb sticks, morse code (like twitter or smoke signals, but many times more modern) and more.
Click the image above or one of the links below to get your free book.
eNovella in PDF
eNovella in kindle/mobi
eNovella in epub
Click here to leave comments on the eNovella.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
15 year old Chat discovered...
The following mysterious chat was found buried in a temp folder on a defunct server. It is presented here in the hope that someone might be able to shed some light on this.
Internet chat started at: 17:05
Instant messages are being archived on this computer
Graham: Mr. Porter, I hope you remember me. I bought a rather expensive chest of drawers in your antiques store last week.
Gomez: That’s entirely possible.
Graham: Yes.. Well.. You told me it was an authentic Val Gardena. When I had it appraised, however, it turned out to be less than 10 years old! What do you have to say to that?
Gomez: If I recall correctly, you were the one who suggested it was an authentic Val Gardena. As I know nothing about antiques, I was in no position to argue.
Graham: How can you run an antiques store and claim to know nothing about antiques?
Gomez: It happens. And believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do.
Graham: But when I asked you about the Val Gardena, you nodded and said you were impressed. Insinuating you knew what I was talking about, and that I was correct in my assumption!
Gomez: No, sir. I was merely acknowledging how impressed I was with your knowledge of antiques. It’s always nice to meet a customer who knows what he’s talking about. It was a real treat. Even if I didn’t understand a word of what you were saying.
Graham: Well, if that’s the case, shouldn’t you at least have warned me that this was a new chest of drawers?
Gomez: Are you kidding? You saw what it looked like. It was dirty! Filthy! Could easily have been a hundred years old. To be honest, I was surprised you even dared to touch it. I never went anywhere near the thing myself.
Graham (sighing): When I got it home, I found a label at the bottom of the chest. Surely you’re not claiming you never noticed that label?
Gomez: I might have noticed a label. Refresh my memory, what does it look like?
Graham: It’s small
Gomez: Yes?
Graham: and oval
Gomez: Yes?
Graham: and it says: IKEA.
Gomez: Ah. That does sound familiar, yes...
Graham: Still, you didn’t think it was something you should mention? That the Val Gardena you were trying to sell me was in actuality just a dirty IKEA chest?
Gomez: It might still have been a Val Gardena. There were hundreds of apprentice labels in use in those days. Thousands even! No one knows what they all looked like.
Graham: And this one just happened to say IKEA, using the IKEA font, the IKEA colors, and the IKEA logo? Doesn’t that strike you as a little coincidental?
Gomez: Not at all! In fact, that’s probably where IKEA got their logo from to begin with. They stole it, the cheap bastards!
Graham: Mr. Porter, I’m going to return the chest tomorrow and you are going to reimburse me. Is that clear?
Gomez: That’s fine. In fact, I was just about to call you. We just took ownership of an authentic Groedental beveled mirror! I thought it might interest you.
Graham: Well, yes, actually. Thank you for thinking of me. Put it aside for me please.
Bio:
Graham Parke is responsible for a number of technical publications and has recently patented a self-folding map. He has been described as both a humanitarian and a pathological liar. Convincing evidence to support either allegation has yet to be produced.
| No Hope for Gomez! is his fiction debut: Boy meets girl. Boy stalks girl. Girl already has a stalker. Boy becomes her stalker-stalker. |
Monday, February 7, 2011
Win a copy of No Hope for Gomez!
 | |
It's the age old tale:
- Boy meets girl.
- Boy stalks girl.
- Girl already has a stalker.
- Boy becomes her stalker-stalker.
Learn how this works out for him in "No Hope for Gomez!" As a mildly interesting coincidence, you can actually win a copy of this book by becoming an email-follower of this blog. Or, if you are one of the bright, heroic people already following, then just jot down why you are the perfect person to win in the comments section below.
(Don't worry, you're probably the only person reading this, so you're sure to win!)
Go to the next blog here.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Wedding or Funeral?
There is nothing more cool than making fun of the innocent, and there is no-one more innocent than me. (Ok, so neither statement is actually true, sue me.) So why not make fun of myself? This is what I thought when I came across a facebook picture taken of me at a wedding I attended last month.
This was one of those deals where someone catches you unawares and immortalizes an expression you never knew you made (you know, that thing where your subconscious basically uses your face to do impressions without you knowing?) Apparently, my subconscious was voicing its opinion about me having missed my calling as a world-weary New York homicide detective.
By my estimation, coming across a picture like that is a scary thing on about 17 levels. A few of these levels being; the realization that people do take pictures of you when you’re not looking, that the gray suit doesn’t actually fit you, and that you have no idea what other expressions your subconscious is experimenting with. Do I look like a serial killer most of the time? Is that where the strange looks come from? Is that why the mailwoman stopped saying hello? Do I smile overly suggestively when I count out change at the supermarket? Is this why cashiers seem so nervous?
On the upside, though, I am finally able to enter a picture in the 2011 ‘Was This Taken at a Wedding or a Funeral?’ photo competition. So, for that thing, fingers crossed. Being a sham world-weary New York homicide detective might still win me a dubious prize.
This was one of those deals where someone catches you unawares and immortalizes an expression you never knew you made (you know, that thing where your subconscious basically uses your face to do impressions without you knowing?) Apparently, my subconscious was voicing its opinion about me having missed my calling as a world-weary New York homicide detective.
By my estimation, coming across a picture like that is a scary thing on about 17 levels. A few of these levels being; the realization that people do take pictures of you when you’re not looking, that the gray suit doesn’t actually fit you, and that you have no idea what other expressions your subconscious is experimenting with. Do I look like a serial killer most of the time? Is that where the strange looks come from? Is that why the mailwoman stopped saying hello? Do I smile overly suggestively when I count out change at the supermarket? Is this why cashiers seem so nervous?
On the upside, though, I am finally able to enter a picture in the 2011 ‘Was This Taken at a Wedding or a Funeral?’ photo competition. So, for that thing, fingers crossed. Being a sham world-weary New York homicide detective might still win me a dubious prize.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Why the first cut is the deepest…
I was attacked by my hairdresser. I was butchered and left for dead. It taught me a very valuable lesson: don’t insult your hairdresser. Ever. No matter how rude and obnoxious she is. Unless you are fully prepared to throw off the gown and walk out the door, you'll have to grin and bear it. I pissed my hairdresser off and paid a terrible price.
Here's what happened. I was a bit annoyed because my hairdresser spent an unholy amount of time discussing her nails with her previous customer, even though it was well into my time slot. And then she spent some more time discussing purses and where to buy them. And then she went back to discussing her nails, this time focusing more on the age-old mystery of whether it was better to visit a nail salon or to have someone come over to her house. When her nails had finally been discussed to death, she said farewell to her previous customer, and disappeared to the back of the salon.
I let go of my anger. I decided that this girl was not actually supposed to be cutting my hair. I wasn’t sure which of the girls had been allocated to my head, so I’d mistakenly assumed it was her. Silly me. My hairdresser was one of the other girls. A nice, friendly girl who had obviously been detained through no fault of her own.
It felt good to relax and not have to feel taken advantage of.
However, moments later, the nail-girl returned from the back and leisurely pushed her trolley towards me. As she passed, she said 'Hi!'. But she said it in a manner that seemed to suggest she’d only just noticed me, and was surprised to find me waiting. Even though I should have been done by then.
So I gave her a cold shrug. A kind of 'Hi yourself, I'm sure you're not my hairdresser because no sane person would have kept me waiting this long while she discussed her nails with a customer who had already paid up and was standing in the doorway to leave anyway' - shrug. This was not actually a very complicated shrug. As it turns out, it takes surprisingly little effort to convey all that in a single shrug.
Anyway, long story short, I was a little cold to my hairdresser. Way to stand up for myself, I know. I didn't put her in her place. I didn’t call the manager. I didn’t even pee on her shoes. Not a drop! I was merely a little cold. But, it was enough. Oh yes. She attacked my hair like a mad woman, left me with very little to play with. I look like the victim of some new and frightful disease.
I would have stopped her, but there really was no point. After that first cut, which was of course the deepest, she had to keep going. You can’t put anything back so I had no option but to let her at least even it all out. I closed my eyes and prayed there would be something left when I opened them. There was, but it looked terrible. I should show you. I really should. Then we could be outraged together. Sadly, my camera is broken.
Honestly.
It doesn't take pictures anymore. And probably won't for the next 3 to 4 weeks …
Here's what happened. I was a bit annoyed because my hairdresser spent an unholy amount of time discussing her nails with her previous customer, even though it was well into my time slot. And then she spent some more time discussing purses and where to buy them. And then she went back to discussing her nails, this time focusing more on the age-old mystery of whether it was better to visit a nail salon or to have someone come over to her house. When her nails had finally been discussed to death, she said farewell to her previous customer, and disappeared to the back of the salon.
I let go of my anger. I decided that this girl was not actually supposed to be cutting my hair. I wasn’t sure which of the girls had been allocated to my head, so I’d mistakenly assumed it was her. Silly me. My hairdresser was one of the other girls. A nice, friendly girl who had obviously been detained through no fault of her own.
It felt good to relax and not have to feel taken advantage of.
However, moments later, the nail-girl returned from the back and leisurely pushed her trolley towards me. As she passed, she said 'Hi!'. But she said it in a manner that seemed to suggest she’d only just noticed me, and was surprised to find me waiting. Even though I should have been done by then.
So I gave her a cold shrug. A kind of 'Hi yourself, I'm sure you're not my hairdresser because no sane person would have kept me waiting this long while she discussed her nails with a customer who had already paid up and was standing in the doorway to leave anyway' - shrug. This was not actually a very complicated shrug. As it turns out, it takes surprisingly little effort to convey all that in a single shrug.
Anyway, long story short, I was a little cold to my hairdresser. Way to stand up for myself, I know. I didn't put her in her place. I didn’t call the manager. I didn’t even pee on her shoes. Not a drop! I was merely a little cold. But, it was enough. Oh yes. She attacked my hair like a mad woman, left me with very little to play with. I look like the victim of some new and frightful disease.
I would have stopped her, but there really was no point. After that first cut, which was of course the deepest, she had to keep going. You can’t put anything back so I had no option but to let her at least even it all out. I closed my eyes and prayed there would be something left when I opened them. There was, but it looked terrible. I should show you. I really should. Then we could be outraged together. Sadly, my camera is broken.
Honestly.
It doesn't take pictures anymore. And probably won't for the next 3 to 4 weeks …
Monday, January 3, 2011
Free Novella to start 2011 off on the wrong foot!
Blurb: Gomez' life continues to crumble towards insanity after the events chronicled in "No Hope for Gomez!". Clinical studies have shown that reading this spin-off novella is likely to make you more attractive to the opposite sex and elevate your random luck by about 9.5%**
(** These statements have not been evaluated by any person of consequence!)
Everyone who subscribes to this blog by email will receive a copy of 'Random Acts of Senseless Kindness.'
Random Acts of Senseless Kindness
A Novella by Graham ParkeExcerpt:
Blog entry: Arrived at the store late, found a homeless guy sleeping in the doorway. Hicks was already inside but gave no indication he’d noticed. I nudged the homeless guy and asked, “How are you doing down there, fellow? You okay?”
The homeless guy grumbled something in his sleep.
“It’s getting pretty cold,” I said. “Don’t you want to come inside?”
“Inside?” He coughed and opened his eyes.
I pointed out the store, not convinced he’d actually noticed where he’d crashed the night before. “This is my antiques store,” I told him. “We’ve got the heating on inside, shame to waste it on just two people. And it looks like it might start to snow soon.”
The homeless guy gave me a suspicious look. “You want me to come inside? With you?”
“Sure, if you’d like.”
“Is that because you think that if I come inside with you, I’ll let you touch me?”
“What? No!”
“Okay, because I can tell you right now, that’s not gonna happen.”
“Well, I suppose it is good to get those kinds of things clear beforehand. But no, I was just thinking you might enjoy the warmth, maybe a cup of coco.”
“A cup of coco you say…” He scratched his stubble. “And you’ll be charging me for this cup of coco?”
“No, the coco is free.”
“I see. So, are you operating under the assumption that if I come inside with you, and I drink your free coco, that I will touch you?”
“What? No!”
“Okay, because I can tell you right now, that’s not gonna happen either. Just because a guy is down on his luck, that doesn’t mean he goes around touching people in exchange for cups of coco.”
“I understand completely. And thanks again for pointing that out. But no, my friend and I noticed that you were sleeping in our doorway and, well, we’d like to invite you inside.”
The homeless guy turned and peered through the window in the door. He made eye-contact with Hicks, who panicked and went looking for his broom. “That your friend?”
I followed his gaze. “Yeah, that’s Hicks. He’s a bit peculiar, but he’s okay.”
“I see.” The homeless guy pulled on his collar. “And this friend of yours, will he be drinking coco also?”
“I suppose. I’m not entirely sure, but it seems likely.”
“I see.” The homeless guy considered this. “So,” he said, after a long moment, “will this friend of yours be expecting me to touch him?”
“No! There is no touching involved in any of this!”
“Okay, calm down,” the homeless guy said. “There’s no need to get all homophobic!”
“I wasn’t!”
“You sounded homophobic to me.”
“Me? You’re the one who can’t stop talking about touching people!”
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