Book Launch Party News, #Dos; Ta-Ta Timmy T.

 

So. This is the second posting in the book launch party series of updates written by me, and, hopefully, read by you. I don’t want to beat this too deeply into the ground, but it was a nice party. I have ruminated the entire last twenty-four hours as to what form and format these informative pieces should take, and I’ve also wondered what happened at the party that you will give a shit to hear me yak about.

Was that a dangling participle back there, you know that “about” I was yakking about?

I lay awake most of the night last night, tossing and turning as my ADHD-fueled anxieties swirled and swilled in my skull. I was experiencing what I imagine hot flashes would be like for a menopausal woman. First I’m hot, then I’m cold, then hot, cold, hot/cold/ho/co/h/c… I was flipping from side-to-side like a gymnast—spinning like a top from resting on my right hip to the left, then back again in one motion. Covers off, covers on, repeated.

“Por el amor de Dios, Bwanna Mooner. Werden Sie liegen immer noch für Scheiße willen?” The Squirt was obviously displeased with all of my tossing and turning.

“I knew how to say ‘for the love of God’ in Spanish, but I have always wondered how you say ‘Oh, for shit sakes in German,” my response to the aggravated dog. I hear my Gram say that phrase in her back-woods redneck so often that I was wondering how it would sound spewing from a German’s mouth.

“I’m sorry, little lady,” I told my puppy, “I’m all distressed about the party. I don’t know what to tell people about it over to the bloggie on the webber.”

“Well, asshole, if you had taken us to the party we could help.” With that, at three in the morning, my sweet little dog waved her ass in my face and disappeared beneath the thick down comforter.

She was right, you know. My diminutive puppies are far better observers than am I. This realization came to me as I was reading your comments here awhile ago. All I need to do is listen to people and they will tell me what they want. Listening is a difficult task for me as it requires concentration and focus of thought. To be a good listener, you need to be able to look a person in their eyes, hear what they are saying and focus on their words.

To be a good listener, you need to be able to look, hear and focus for longer than thirty seconds at a time. Not traits I have in spades.

I lifted the edge of the comforter—a family heirloom stuffed with the fluffy down from a family of geese I fostered as a kid—and said to the lump of dog flesh now planted at the foot of the bed, I said, “I know, sweetie, but I was worried you’d get squished underfoot.”

“Harrumph,” was all the response I got.

Have you ever smelled the hot air that escapes from under tight covers where dogs lie? The cleanest of hounds produce an odor that can only be described as “dog smell” and it escapes from under the covers in a blast of fetid air when you lift the edge of covers. I know I’m sick, but that smell is comforting to me.

I was worried that the dogs would get stepped on if the party got crowded. It did get crowded and if they were attending the big bash, I would have worried that they would have been mashed under foot. My brain was too full of worries as it were, and I didn’t need to be concerned about the dogs as well.

Anyway, as I was reading comments from Mel and Granny Ook and others, it dawned on me that people just want to hear what happened and what was said at the book launch party that was interesting. So I’ve decided to start by telling you some of the questions that were asked of me and my answers, thereto. Therefore? Fuck, thereof, maybe?

This one guy, a writer himself, asked, “Where do you get the inspiration for your stories? Your writing seems to come from all over the place and lacks any cohesiveness at all.” He was dressed in a camel-colored corduroy jacket with patched elbows, brown slacks with faded knees, and a stained off-white shirt. The shirt looked as if it had been washed with too much bleach in the water too many times.

“OK, was that a question or a statement? I was distracted by the ink blots test printed on your shirt, so which is it?” I asked him.

“Both,” his answer and statement both.

“Well,” I started, “my shit comes from all over the place and ADHD fuels my inspirations.”

“Interesting.” This the writer said with an expression like he had just sampled a canapé of cat turd mousse on a rye crisp with dill and capers. I didn’t serve any frilly hors d’ oeuvres, so maybe it was the spicy artichoke with jalapeño chunks that soured his countenance.

“’Interesting’ is a microscopic slide of a new strain of syphilis, sir,” I told him. “My writings are suspicious and incredulous.”

Some writers are, basically, assholes dressed like writers. I have no patience for effete snobs, and I brace them at every turn of phrase. “Have you written anything of consequence, sir?” I asked him, “or are you one of the legions of writers who have nothing important to say?”

A second question, and one asked numerous times was, “How much of your book is true?”

How to answer that fucking question? “All of it,” would be an accurate answer in summation, but incomplete in its finality. “Most of it,” would likewise be mostly true but unfulfilling.

How would you answer that question if you were me? What would you say if you were a crazy redneck fuckball who wrote what happened to you and what you thought about the world? If you spilled your guts out in an unedited manner for all the fucking world to read, how in the fuck would you answer that particular question? Even if you remove all the “fucks” from my stilted prose, how in the fuck would you categorize it?

Fame is a frame into which I fit quite uncomfortably. With the keen knowledge and understanding of just how totally screwed-up I am, how can I accept the accolades given to a four-of-five-star reviewed author? Giuseppe Taurino, the Badgerdog man, said so many nice things about me that I could only hang my head in embarrassment. I know that I’m basically a good man, but I lack the chromosome in my DNA that allows a person to accept compliments with grace.

People laughed in most of the right spots and gasped when I wished them to gasp, as Rachel Wiese read Chapter 15 from my book. They laughed deep and long when I hoped for just such deep, long laughs. They laughed best at the “… scoop guacamole from a V-necked bowl..” part of the chapter. People said such nice things about me that I started to wonder if my body and soul had been taken over by some fucking Baptist do-good mother fucker who was out to trick the public with the smoke and mirrors of modern Christian dogma.

So many nice things were said of me that I started to question myself and my intentions. Did I write honestly? Did I tell the truth? Did I cast a clear eye on events, or did I look though the jaundiced eye of a bullshit artist?

I have the confidence of absolute certainty that I have written a four-hundred-plus pages book that is the truth as I see it—complete truth, unvarnished. But I have this nagging question that hounds me, a question steeped in the traditions of literature as timeless as man’s first turn of stain to flat rock tablet in vain attempt to chronicle events. I have a mother’s son’s lamentable, painful wish.

“O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.”

Sleep, dear Hamlet, perchance to dream.

Ugh. Ugh, ugh and ugh once more.

I, dear friends, am a seriously ADHD-addled crazy and fucked up redneck shitball. More party news manana, y’all.

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10 Responses to “Book Launch Party News, #Dos; Ta-Ta Timmy T.”

  1. It almost sounds like you went for the ‘shock and awe’ approach and, instead of being aghast, the audience loved it.

    I’m glad things went well. So well it made you question your abilities. That means it went REALLY well.

    Cheers to you, Mooner. Cheers to you.

  2. mel says:

    First things first, there was nothing I didn’t love about that Patriot/Broncos football game. My favorite part was when Tom Brady himself punted on 3rd down….because he could. It brought a tear to my eye, I must say.

    Secondly, do NOT question your intentions or abilities. I can totally see why it is people are digging your book…because it is awesome. You say things that people are always thinking and afraid to say. And those who are not thinking it? Fuck them…they need to go back to church and pray or something. They are jealous because you are so free with your thoughts and it kills them because they are so repressed.

    And holy wow, can I ever envision that corduroy jacket. Nice imagery, you successful writer, you!

  3. chrisinphx says:

    Well for what it’s worth, you are my favorite seriously ADHD-addled crazy and fucked up redneck shitball. Im going to second Mel, dont question your genius just go with it.

  4. squatlo says:

    Hold on a second, folks… I Mooner stops questioning his abilities, all we’ll be left with will be a guy who brags incessantly about four star reviews and shit like that. Let’s keep his ass humble by reminding him there are some folks who don’t “get” his work at all (granted, most of them need a swift kick in the ass and a serious sexing, but that’s not our problem).

    Mooner, you did well by not exposing your precious puppies to the heels of your disciples. Nothing would have ruined your memories of the book launch like a crippled Squirt, so tell the little shit to hush. You kept her at home for her own good. I was once allowed to roam around the house during one of my parents’ parties at the ripe ol’ age of about four, and a woman accidentally stuck a cigarette in my ear as I tried to get to the finger food. Pretty much ruined my opinion of smoking women forever. And fingerfood, now that I think about it.

    Glad they liked your professional’s reading, and even gladder (is that a Mooner word?) they didn’t try to burn your herectical ass at the stake.

    Keep ’em coming. I think you need to hire a good screenwriter and put this thing on celluloid. Or digiloid. Film it, in other words.

  5. bj says:

    If your book were an historical tome about the Battle Of Britain, it would be appropriate to stress over facts, dates, quotes and such. Your Novel was created in YOUR MIND and therefore cannot be held against the lamp of actualities and realism. My answer would be “It’s all true …. in my mind. By what means would I document the events, if not true.” And Sleeve Patches really wasn’t trying to LEARN from where your inspiration comes ….. he was trying to discern how to EMULATE it his DAMN self. Fuck Him and his patches …. he may well have been “Interesting” (using YOUR definition) but YOU, Sir ARE both “suspicious and incredulous.”
    Glad yer launching was a success ….. I did some research on Badgerdog Literary and couldn’t find them as a non-profit on the Charity Rating site so thanks for clearing that up …. I think.
    You did right by not taking yer puppies to the Freak Show …. Squirt’ll get over it, and it was in her best interest, after all. Wish I had me a multilingual translator at my beck and call …..
    Congratulizations you speechafyin’ fucker you …. now get back to WERK! Well, after you find you one of them “veste de velours camel couleur avec les coudes patché”, anyhow ……

  6. Granny Ook says:

    Mooner, dear… At the risk of ruining you for life (as Squatlo warns), I must say that you are questioning your abilities a little too much. Not surprising for someone who grew up being called a disruptive little shit… But you don’t need ADHD to be overcome with nerves and anxiety about a book and/or a book launch party.

    Stop squirming and listen to Granny- You wrote a stream-of-consciousness book. It was published. It got a good review. You had a book launch party. It was a success.

    You must be doing SOMETHING right. (Or your keepers and helpers are doing something right- in that case, tip them handsomely with some of that stripper money you mentioned over to Squatlo’s.)

    I know you can’t stop worrying, fussing and fuming, but at least try to go with the flow and enjoy the ride.

    PS- Good English, good grammar, and good writing are actually three different things. For example, “about” is a preposition, which allegedly should never end a sentence. That, say the grammar Nazis, is something up with which they will not put. Yeah, right. That’s good grammar, inferior English and bad writing. (Trust me- I’m a retired technical editor.)

    PSS- Enjoyed the description of the “writer” at the party… Didn’t you say you have pictures?

  7. admin says:

    Brandini. Thanks, and thanks again.

    Squattie. Thanks. My first foray into adult party land was at two, when I managed to barter a “sip” from each adult’s adult beverage. And it would be “gladder still” if you desire precision of both context and verbiage. I wonder how much it would cost to do a movie? Maybe I could sell enough tickets to pay for the book.

    Mel. I must have missed when Timmy told the Lord that he was disappointed in the outcome. Tom Brady is, after all, a heathen with children out of wedlock. If I smoked, I’d have been tempted to stub one out in that asshole’s pocket. Or, after Squattie’s suggestion, in his ear.

    Christo. Thanks, my Arizonian First Underlord of something that I have now forgotten. I do remember that you are our Basher of bashers. At least there were no bogots there. OK there were no obvious bigots at the party. They’d have been hung from the balustrades by their balls!

    Does anybody know EXACTLY what a balustrade is without looking it up? I think I could put my hands all over the meaning but would lack a grasp of the word’s preciseness. Precision?

    BJ. Dude. I love when you talk all Frenchie and shit. BTW, why isn’t camel accented in the same way as the patch? And another BTW. Since I’ve instructed the Squirt that she’s not bedding Mr. Dave, she has asked me to ask you for a photo of the Ranger. To quote the little shitbird, “Ranger sounds like a hunk.”

  8. Granny. Thanks. I think I need one of those slaps Cher gave that idiot Nicholas Cage in Moonstruck. Nicky Cage is an asshole. As for the pics of the party, I am having considerable technical difficulties therewith. More to follow.

  9. I’m behind in my reading, so I’m going backwards on your posts, Moon-dog.

    First things first, if YOU’RE a redneck fuckball, then I am the fucking Queen of Humility and President of the Society for a Curse-Free World. Crazy, yes. But redneck fuckball? No. Hate to burst your bubble…but WE MET YOU, you crazy fucker!!

    And as far as what people think about you and your writing skills…Who gives a shit? (Or should I say WHY do you give a shit?). The people worth anything will dig you and keep on reading your crazy ADHD-addled ramblings no matter what…because in some weird fucked up way, we kinda “get” you. Fuck anyone else.

    Personally, I would like to see what would happen if you sent ole Prick Perry an autographed copy (with a “personal” message) of your book!!!

  10. admin says:

    Reck. This is why I love you. “nuff said.

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