Apple-Obsessed Author Fella

Tag: rantsandramblings (page 5 of 7)

Rants And Ramblings

The Plutarchy Cometh

Cash and Bullets

(A brief caveat: this post has the potential to generate discussion, and that discussion runs the risk of being heated. I’m all for being emotionally invested, but the standard rules of “don’t be a dick” apply. Further, a disclaimer: I am not mad if you don’t agree with what I say. Obviously, I think I’m right because, well, duh, I’m me and I am pro-me as much as possible. But I do not demand that you agree with me as long as you don’t demand I agree with you. Civil discourse, pretty please.)

If the middle class is a big balloon, it’s like someone untied the balloon knot and know the thing is slowly but surely leaking air, sputtering around the room like a cartoon dirigible.

This is a pretty cool link right here, featuring eight graphs that detail… well, let’s just say that the title of the page is, “It’s The Inequality, Stupid.”

I just feel like we’re living in truly absurd times. Times that, were you to read about them in a book of fiction, you would say, “Oh! This is satire,” or, “I’m sorry, I don’t really believe this is possible. Pbbbt.”

We live in times when Republicans (and, true, non-Republicans) exalt Ronald Reagan and then, in the same breath, bemoan the many tax hikes they have suffered. Except, what tax hikes? And, hello, Reagan had his own share of tax hikes, people.

Here’s the thing about tax hikes: nobody likes them. Nobody likes having to pay more money for things. But let’s reframe the discussion a little. Let’s say you want your children to go to a great school, so you shell out the money and put them into a great program at a great school and they’re on track to become smart little motherfuckers. Tuition, however, isn’t cheap. So, the school board — which comprises parents who send kids to this very school — approve a cut in tuition to make it more affordable. Sure. Okay. And year after year, they continue to uphold that tuition cut because — duh — they like paying lower tuition. Except, problem: the school can no longer continue to afford the high-end teachers, or the trips, or the classroom computers, so everything drifts downward in terms of quality, which means the education there also drifts downward. (You might call this a “trickle down” effect, if you’re a fan of irony.) The kids that come out of the school are no longer smart little motherfuckers because the school is now on par — or below — with public schools. The desire for cheap tuition outweighed the desire for smart little motherfuckers. Even though those who sent the kids there could afford the original tuition.

If the metaphor seems muddy, let me clear the waters so it is crisp as consomme: the oooh-la-la private school is America, a country once lauded for being a champion on the world stage. We won every motherfucking spelling bee, what up. But now, the “school board” is voting with their own selfish interests, choosing to keep tax cuts which means, in short, we aren’t able to pay for stuff. Roads. Teachers. Arts programs. Cops. Workers. Everything costs money. And we don’t want to pay for it. More importantly, the wealthy don’t want to pay for it because, duh, they’re wealthy. They don’t give a fuck about roads because, I dunno, they have secret hovercrafts or some shit. They can afford top-shelf schooling. They don’t care about what the country has now or can do, they only care about what’s in their Zurich accounts.

And let’s follow that chain — campaign finance and lobbying confirms that money talks in our political system. Which means that those with money can make things happen. Which means that the wealthy can take greater advantage of the political system through various loopholes and exploits. Which means that they’re constantly going to vote in their own favor, whiiiiich meaaaaans we are moving swiftly toward an oligarchy, or, more specifically, a plutarchy, where the rich rule. Do I have that right? So, all those blah blah patriotic blah blah “Democracy!” blah blah trumpeter assholes are saying one thing but voting for another thing entirely which is a crass dismantling of democratic ideals. The Tea Party, which continues to advocate that it’s for the common man (in many cases not just the common man but actually the lowest common denominator man — the modern American Neanderthal), is actually funded by big money dick-cankers like the Koch Brothers who actually want to reduce the common man’s bargaining power which in turn gives more power to the government. That’s not small government, you shitheads.

(Er, not you shitheads, my fine feathered readers.)

I see the question bandied about: why do Americans continuously vote against their own well-being? We vote against healthcare for everybody which seems like a total no-brainer (yay healthy people, healthy country!). We vote against teachers. We vote against improving our infrastructure. We vote “for” smaller government by stupidly voting for big government. We vote against our own income bracket and for the income brackets way above our meager heads. Why?

Because we believe a lie.

We believe that “get rich quick” should be cross-stitched on every flag flying at every American home. We believe that we are one day going to be rich, and so this illusion keeps us from voting against the rich — in fact, it convinces us to vote for them in big ways. “What’s that? A bill that says that rich people should be allowed to murder poor people in the streets with sabers? Well, sure! I mean, no, no, I know, I’m not rich right now, but soon as my Wacky Plumbing Widget hits the big-time, I too will be able to slay the poor with my saber! Ha ha ha! Stupid poor people! Okay, I’m going to go buy more Ramen now.”

You see a lot of blustery hoodoo about raising taxes on the rich and not those below them. There is this sense that such a move would be unfair — as if “fairness” figures into this game at all — and further as if this would be a socialist move. Let’s talk about that a little.

First, socialism exists across many echelons of our government. Social security smells of socialism. It’s right there in the name. Socialism is also a much nicer program than “let’s give all the power to the super-rich and hope they decide to support all us bottom-feeders and pray that trickle-down doesn’t mean the trickle of urine spattering upon our heads.” (AKA, “Golden Shower Economics.”)

Second, let’s get shut of the idea that a single tax rate across the board creates an equal economic condition for all. Let’s say that I have ten dollars, and you have a million dollars. Let’s say that the tax rate is 10% (because yay for easy math!). The gubmint take a dollar from me, leaving me with nine. Uncle Sam takes $100,000 from you, leaving you with $900,000. Equal tax rate, fair across the board. Ah, but. Now that I don’t have a dollar, an unholy host of things now fall outside the “Shit I Can Actually Afford” purview. My ten dollar co-pay? Can’t afford it. A ten dollar McDonald’s meal for my family? Can’t afford it. New pair of super-discounted sneakers? Bzzt, nope. On the other hand, you’ve still got nine hundred thousand dollars. Sure, some things might have slipped from your economic grasp like, say, a jetboat made of other jetboats, or a floating island where you force hobos to compete in your own version of The Hunger Games, but you can still afford all the essentials. You can afford most luxuries, actually. Plus, money at that level suffers a Gremlins-like phenomenon: it multiplies a lot faster because you have more of it to multiply. Your money makes money. My money goes towards not dying.

Do you see, then, how the system is already unfair?

Power is consolidating in the hands of the rich. It doesn’t trickle-down because companies have left this country so it “trickles” in rivulets and runnulets away from American citizens. And yet we continue to reward this behavior, like giving a treat to a pit bull who keeps biting our hand time and time again.

And meanwhile, we continue to watch as the Republicans — who, by the way, at their core have compelling notions of personal moral and fiscal responsibility — devolve into a party of mustache-twirling villains. You can tell they’re villains because anytime Michelle Obama comes out with a smiling, friendly initiative the GOP swiftly moves to cut it down just on principle. “Kids shouldn’t have diabetes? Yes they should! Screw you, First Lady! Diabetes is a choice. I won’t let your big government take that away from my kids!”

It’s almost comical how swiftly the Republicans act like the American people are the enemy, constantly trashing initiatives that serve the best interest of the common man. I feel like a crazy person yelling about Soylent Green. “We’re eating each other!” America gets fatter and stupider and meaner and weirder and we just watch the shadow puppets dance on the wall, convinced that one day someone will hand the marionette strings to us and so we continue to vote in favor of the puppet-makers and puppet-masters.

Meanwhile the Democrats continue their “not-in-the-face” policy while the Republicans continue their “oh-hell-yes-in-the-face” policy. Are we losing our minds over here?

How the hell do we get this train back on the tracks?

The Carnival Of Pimpage Is Open

Cue The Calliope Music As noted yesterday in my missive of squawks and hoots, I think it’s important to use the Internet for good as well as evil. Here, then, is another expression of that.

Put on your pimp hat (mine is denim fringe). Whip out your pimp cane (mine is topped with a golden dodo skull). Slip on your pimp slippers (mine are made from the hide of a rare lavender ermine who, as a baby ermine, was fed a constant diet of smooth jazz). Because it’s time to do some pimping.

I want you to pimp somebody or something.

Not yourself. Not one of your own projects.

The work of another. A blog post. A book. A game. A tweet.

Or, if not their work, fuck it, just say something awesome about somebody. Regale the world with tales, tales about your pimp target’s kind ways, tremendous hands, humorous outlook, and truly magnificent genitals.

I will use my time on the pimp floor to point you once more to author Robert McCammon.

McCammon is why I write.

I won’t sit here and regale you with an obsequious soliloquy of why he will rock your eyeface because, frankly, I already did that shit (no, seriously, blog post right here).

I’ll merely note this: the man, once retired from writing because the industry tried to pigeonhole him, is back with new books that you damn well better pre-order.

First up: THE FIVE, his first true horror novel in a while, about a rock band? And an Iraq war vet? Not sure where it goes from there, but if it’s from McCammon, it’s going to get twisted. You can pre-order the book over at Subterranean Press.

Second up: THE HUNTER IN THE WOODS revisits the Nazi-killing werewolf spy, Michael Gallatin in a series of short stories and novellas. (If you haven’t read the novel featuring Gallatin, THE WOLF’S HOUR, do that immediately or be cast out of my drum circle.) Once again, you can pre-order this collection over yonder hills at Subterranean Press.

This is actually also a good time to note that Subterranean Press has an impressive list of other pre-orders, which features kick-ass writers such as Ray Bradbury, China Mieville, John Scalzi and Joe Lansdale. They are one of my favorite small publishers.

So, there you go. The pimp-doors are open.

Pimp-walk your ass inside and get to pimpin’.

How We Speak On The Internet Matters

Catching Snowflakes on Tongue

Yesterday, Will Hindmarch — a writer, game designer and thinker I respect dearly — said something smart on Twitter (which for him is not uncommon). He said, “I think how you write something makes a difference, especially when you’re doling out writing and creative advice.”

This is somewhat perpendicular to another meme that’s going around, which is a question over the value of negativity on these here frothy Intertubes. Lots of questions abound: can critique find a healthy place on the Internet? Is there any value to negative reviews? Should negative reviews be constructive instead of destructive? Should we build up and not tear down? Should we be, as the saying goes, a fountain, not a drain? (Related reading: “Don’t You Like Anything?” At the Seven Keys of Ventoozlar.)

I say these two points are perpendicular because I think they hit an intersection point. (They hit this intersection point after dodging all the rampant pornography, Justin Bieber fan pages, Justin Bieber hate pages, political rhetoric, and funny YouTube videos where some skateboarder accidentally skateboards his way into the whirring turbine of a 747 airliner — this is, after all, the Internet and the Internet is home to 90% Alice In Wonderland-style nonsense and madness and maybe 10% of sane, semi-rational discourse.)

The intersection of those two ideas, for me, really ends up with: how we speak on the Internet matters.

It matters when you’re talking about writing or game design advice.

It matters when you’re offering critique or review.

It matters when you’re writing dumb-ass crazy person blog posts like I do, here.

It matters on Twitter. It matters on Facebook. It just plain matters.

At first I was going to say that all this remains especially true for creators: after all, our value is in what we create, and we can only give the world our creations if the world wants them, and the world may not want our shit if they think we’re just a gaggle of blustery fuckwipes. (“Blustery Fuckwipes” is not the name of my band, my album, my first novel, or my autobiography. It is the name of my pet ferret, who wears goggles and an aviator’s hat. “Blustery Fuckwipes,” I say, “Take us to to Mach Speed so that we may catch the Chartreuse Baron in his Sopwith Ultra-Thousand!” No, I don’t know. Shut up.) But it’s not just true for us. It’s true for everybody. Everybody is selling something. Everybody is looking for work. For friends. For loved ones. For something. And how we speak on the Internet has an effect on all of that.

In this day and age, the Internet isn’t just a reasonable facsimile of real life but rather, a substitute for it. People spend as much time online as they do off of it, and while that merits a whole other discussion, it doesn’t change the reality that a great deal of our social discourse is here. It’s not outside our doors. It’s on our computer monitors. The people online aren’t avatars or characters. They’re actual human beings like the same blubbery skin-bags you see at the grocery store or the malt shoppe or the dildo emporium.

Now, I think the knee-jerk response to this revelation is a kind of paranoid uncertainty (which I’ve felt keenly in the past) — “I shouldn’t present a strong opinion because then I’ll make people mad.” But that’s not it, either. Because our opinions are important. Whether it’s about a movie we saw or about labor unions or abortion or the publishing industry or whatever, our opinions frame us and tell the world who we are.

So no, I don’t think we should be afraid of critique or review, nor do I think we should be afraid of having opinions or giving advice. I just think that how we convey that matters. The message matters most, but what that message purports to be — what supposed truth it delivers — can’t matter if it’s poorly put forth.

Here’s an example, then, of how it matters:

Yesterday, Colleen Lindsay called me and said that she wanted to talk to me about taking a look at her Sekrit Projekt. She said, right off the bat, that she wanted to connect with me because she thought that I was funny and fairly upbeat and — well, wasn’t a constant wearer of Internet Cranky Pants. Now, I’ll grant that some of you might be furrowing your brow — after all, I’m the guy who says things like Why Your Self-Published Book Might Suck A Bag Of Dicks. Or, PC Gaming Can Punch A Baby Seal. I’m not Doctor Thumbs-Up over here. I’m not Joe Smileynuts. That being said, I do endeavor to put forth a certain attitude in even my most extreme rhetoric — an attitude that aims to be self-deprecating, imperfect, funny, and that allows room for me to be the wrong-headed asshole. I have strong opinions, but I do not try to present those strong opinions as if they are also bulletproof. Do I misstep? Sure. I strive to do better.

Anyway. Them’s my Saturday morning rambles. For a long time I kind of worried that strong opinions were the concern, but I’m coming to terms that having opinions isn’t the problem, but rather, it’s how we give those opinions out. We can pitch them at people’s heads like frozen shit-balls, or we can make some effort to deliver them so that they don’t put out somebody’s eye in the process.

This is all of course provided your opinion isn’t, “I like to stomp babies” or “I loathe Algerians and I think we should institute a pogrom.” Some opinions won’t hold water no matter how nicely you frame them.

(To go back to the beginning, I assume that Will was referring in some way to this post that asserts that game designers are somehow playtesting incorrectly, as if such a thing were possible. I read that article and to me, it’s very much an example of what I’m talking about. It felt pedantic and cranky. I found a few snidbits of wisdom in there, but I had to read it a couple times just to get past the bad attitude. It’s like hiding pretty little pearls in a bucket filled with thorns and snakes. Don’t make me reach in there to find your wisdom because that does nothing to earn anybody’s respect.)

Time To Talk About The Thing About That Teacher

Hell Monkey

This is what I imagine it’s like to be a teacher in America:

It’s like trying to bring God to the apes. You don’t descend into their habitat but rather, ship the apes by bus to you. There, you try illuminate the apes — or chimps, or orangutans — and deliver wisdom unto them, but let’s be honest: apes don’t give a grunting squat about God or any illumination you aim to give them. They’re apes, for Chrissakes. They just want to fling shit and pick ticks and eat bananas and ball each other. Because they are apes. And so day in, day out, you try your hardest to “get through” to these ooking primates, and every once in a while you manage to connect with one and you think, “That one, that one may just evolve into higher creature.” But for the most of the time, you’re just scrubbing ape poop out of your hair and trying to remember exactly which one of them taught the others to play with matches. After a few years of this, you’re either a hardened cynic, a battle-torn skeptic, a who-gives-a-shit-laissez-faire pacifist or a twitching pee-stained educator with ape-caused Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I say this having been one of those apes.

I was a pretty good student and, frankly, not that bad of a kid. Even still, school kinda sucked. I didn’t want to be there. Few of my fellow students wanted to be there. Already that’s a barrier for the teacher: even your best and brightest students would rather be anywhere else in the world.

So, I’m sympathetic to teachers. I do not doubt that it can be rewarding, and I also know that some teachers in this area get paid pretty well (too well, if you read and believe all the angry “We Hate Teachers” signs), but even still, anybody who would paint for you a picture that teaching is some kind of joyous cakewalk has never washed chimpanzee vomit out of their knickers.

And so we come to this news story.

Basic gist: teacher writes a mostly anonymous blog about all kinds of stuff and sometimes writes about educational woes — she calls out (not by name) whiny, lazy kids and their buddy-buddy parents. Someone (a parent?) finds the blog, casts it far and wide, brings it to the attention of the school board and principal, and wham, the teacher is escorted from the building and may end up getting fired.

Do I think her blog was the best idea? No, I guess not.

Do I think she’s wrong? Ehhh. No, no, I do not.

I am not a teacher. I do not spend day in and day out with kids. But this teacher? She teaches at my old high school. I remember what we shitheads were like back then, and I wouldn’t blame the teachers for getting all frowny-faced about us. And for fear of sounding like an old man (kids today with their video music and their cocaine hoverboards!), I think kids today are a lot worse than when I was a brash young snotwipe.

I suspect that kids seem worse today because my generation of aforementioned brash young snotwipes are having kids, and given how most generations are watered-down piss-poor facsimiles of their elders, well, this isn’t good news. I go out in public too often and where once I saw parents being parents to their children — because they are children — I now see parents locked in weak-kneed negotiations. We were in Hawaii and we were at this lighthouse slash bird sanctuary and these parents come up with their poor little squalling toddler who is throwing an epic mega ultra shit-fit… and what was their response?

It was not:

a) To soothe the child by making parental soothing noises — “Shhh. Shhh.”

b) To be firm and disciplined — “Stop crying or I give your sister to the gulls.”

It was, instead:

c) To say, “If you don’t stop crying, we’re going to have to begin a timeout situation.”

What the fuck does that mean? I’m sorry, are you trying to use adult logic and terminology to calm a blubbering toddler? Has that worked in any universe? Are you negotiating? What the crap is “we’re going to have to begin a timeout situation?” Hell, that wouldn’t even calm me down, and I’m in my mid-30s. You tell me that, I will kick you into the ocean.

The toddler didn’t stop because the toddler had no idea what Daddy was even saying. No, the end result was that the toddler kept crying and the parents didn’t even make good on their vaguely-worded, generic threat — they just brought the kid to the lighthouse, tantrum-be-damned. Meaningless threat. Zero consequence.

It feels like some parents never want to admit their kids are, y’know, kids. Imperfect in many ways. They’d much rather spend time defending them (and by proxy, their parenting skills) rather than by correcting problems. When something went goofy when I was a kid, my parents did not rush to my defense. They wanted to know what the hell I did wrong. You know why they did that? Because I probably did some stupid shit. I did stuff wrong all the time! Because I was a kid!

A dumb, chimpy, hormone-addled lackwit.

I’m not saying that parents should be backhanding their kids down the cellar steps or that the only answer is tough love and no compassion — I think parents should stand by their children when it is called for and I think parents should be sympathetic to the fact that being a kid kind of blows. But that doesn’t mean defending bad behavior. That doesn’t mean kissing their ass. That doesn’t mean doing their work for them, or excusing their worst instincts or training them to be entitled little jerk-mongers. (Yes, a “jerk-monger” is one who sells jerks at the market. Shut up, you.)

Ten, twenty years ago, a teacher who called out her students like that would’ve stirred the same shit-bloom of shame, except some of that shame would be reserved for the kids who caused it. Parents would go to their kids and ask, “Are you giving Mrs. So-And-So a hard time? Are you? Is it you she’s talking about? Goddamnit, don’t make me slap the homework of your mouth.” Nowadays, parents see this and they immediately rush to bury the teacher because — let’s be honest — she’s telling the truth and they can’t bear the sting of reality carping on about their bullshit parenting.

Do I think the teacher’s attitude is totally awesome? No, probably not. But is it dishonest? Sure ain’t. And in teaching, and in raising our kids — and actually, in practically all levels of American discourse — the one thing we could use more of in our mouths is a fist full of honest medicine.

Then again, what the hell do I know? I am neither parent (yet) nor teacher.

Curious to hear your thoughts on this whole mess. Chime in if you so feel like it.

And no, I’m not talking about all parents, and I’m probably not talking about you, so don’t get offended. I mean, okay, you’re allowed to get offended, I wouldn’t be mad at you for that, but seriously: not worth it.

The Irregular Creatures One-Month Annivalentine’s Daysary Extravabonanza!

Cat-Bird Banner: Irregular Creatures

It’s Valentine’s Day weekend.

It’s also the one-month anniversary (“monthiversary?”) of the release of IRREGULAR CREATURES, my collection of nine short stories which features (but is not limited to): a family household that serves as ground zero for a battle of good versus evil fought by flying cats; a Bangkok dancer whose ahem nether regions are so spectacular that they surely do not belong to a mere human; a working man who learns the true cost of fighting zombies; and a boy who gets lost in an otherworldly auction where a mermaid’s innocence is put on the chopping block.

To celebrate, I’ve decided to drop the price on the collection down to the so-low-I-just-pooped-my-pants price of ninety-nine cents ($0.99)!

(This is true only for the Kindle release.)

The price will hold true until cough-cough at some point on Monday or Tuesday. Sorry — it’s hard to predict with Amazon. I’d so love it if I could change product descriptions and prices on the fly, but I can’t — Amazon puts even the teeny-tiniest of changes (“I just added a comma to my product description!”) through a review process, which takes 24-48 hours.

So —

Go now and procure the collection for the wild-and-wacky-bargain-basement-how-will-I-be-able-to-afford-my-heart-pills-and-by-heart-pills-I-mean-Pez-and-tequila price.

IRREGULAR CREATURES: $0.99.

Tell your friends. Hell, tell your enemies. Gift them a copy if you so desire.

Then leave a review on Amazon.

Decisions, Decisions

I mentioned this sale yesterday on the Twitter-Tubes and received a handful of comments (all welcome) that asked why I was doing this, or suggested that maybe it wasn’t an ideal solution, or (the nicest of them all) noting that the collection was worth more than that. Seems then like a good idea to peel back the layer a little bit. Like an onion. Or a sunburn. Or a rejected skin graft.

I am not a fan of the ninety-nine cent price point. I am especially not a fan of it as the end-all be-all price of something. I’m not knocking any author who chooses that path — I just think that a novel or collection is worth more than a song on iTunes (but maybe less than an album on iTunes). I want authors to value their content and, further, I want readers to value the content, too. Is a race to the bottom really the way to go?

Further, if you go the bottom-bitch pricing at Amazon, Amazon takes a more robust cut. One assumes that this is because they’re trying to train authors to keep their prices a little higher. Which is good for Amazon and good for the author and ultimately, I agree.

I sell the collection at $2.99, I get about two bucks. I sell it at $0.99, I get thirty cents.

And yet, other authors report surging numbers at the lower price. Some of that makes sense — you look at app-pricing, well, some apps are far lower than what I would consider to be their value. After having played Angry Birds, I’d tell you that the game is worth ten bucks, easy. But by pricing low, they got me to commit without thinking twice — and, given the humongous sales numbers, were able to hook millions of others accordingly. Price point isn’t the only factor there, but I suspect it’s a big one.

Lower your price on Amazon, you might convince uncertain buyers to take a risk because, shit, a buck is cheap. That’s “taco truck” cheap. If enough buyers bite to put the product in the higher sales rankings, then the product becomes more discoverable. Then, if the price goes back up, it does so ideally while amongst those higher rankings. One assumes that some degree of psychology is at work here. I know it’s true for me that when I check out paid apps on iTunes, I look to see what’s in the Top 10 (or at least Top 50) first — I assume, however incorrectly, that the top rankings are likelier home to a greater percentage of quality apps. So too with Amazon. I find myself skimming the top rankings periodically just to see what’s there. Getting into that echelon is not without value.

The big thing is, it will at least reveal the value — or the lack of value — in making such a move. If it doesn’t yield significant results, I’m not likely to do it again. I view this collection as something of a canary in a coal mine — I want to see how the bird behaves when I throw it into a mine tunnel filled with different gases. It’s not a perfect test, but it’ll yield me some data. And at this stage, data is just as valuable as cold hard cash.

I recognize that this isn’t purely scientific, but being a writer without a significant math brain, I don’t see any great way of turning this into an officially official experiment. I don’t have a control product. I can’t account for an unholy host of uncontrollable (or indiscernible) elements. But one thing I have at my disposal is price — by changing it, I’m throwing a pebble in the water and watching the ripples.

I think it was Jeff Tidball who noted that Gameplaywright doesn’t drop the price on their books or offer sales because it burns the early adopters. Which is true, to a point, and if anybody feels burned here — well, you have my uttermost apologies. My assumption, however, is that we as consumers are not that sensitive. I bought World of Goo for fifteen bucks on the PC, then it came onto the iPad for ten bucks. I waited, and it dropped to five bucks on a sale, and I picked it up. This weekend, it’s ninety-nine cents. I’m not pissed. Hell, I bought it twice because I loved it and was happy to support the creators of the game.

The television I bought was more expensive the week before I bought it, and cheaper the month after I bought it. As a consumer, price wobbles like that occur. Sales or discounts are common. Still, if anybody feels stung over it, you have my apologies, and the next time I see you, I’ll buy you a beer. Or give you a hug. Or hire a hobo to caress your junk with tickling calluses.

Quick Sales Update

Sales continue to be slow and steady. Three to five sales a day, with 280 sales after a month of being “out there.” About 65% of my sales are through Amazon, and 35% of my sales are through here, via PDF/ePub.

Not bad, ultimately. We’ll see what happens from here.

The flimsy self-publishing experiment continues.

Contain your mirth; this is a new carpet.

What Can You Do?

If you read the collection and liked it, definitely leave a review on Amazon. Further, please tell others — word of mouth is the best vector any author has of getting readership.

Otherwise, you just keep doing what you do best. Sit there, looking pretty, you handsome blog audience, you. With your lovely eyelashes and your lashing whip-like tail.

Crowdsourcing Our Child’s Future

It has become increasingly clear to me that I am going to be an awful father.

(hold for applause)

I am only marginally capable as a human being. The very few things I am good at are simply not things that will help me raise a kid. Way I see it, I’ve got a 15-minute window daily where Daddy can kick a little ass — I’ll be top of the pops when it comes time for the wee one to lay down and be transfixed by the weird magic of storytime. I’ll probably be good at that. The rest of the time? Eeeesh.

In part, this is why I wanted a girl. Because then Daddy can just be Daddy — he doesn’t have to teach the girl how to be a girl. (I recognize that this is a little myopic and perhaps even mildly sexist. But the father-son and mother-daughter axes are still prevalent, for good or evil.) But a son? Oh. Oh. Oh, shit. Oh, no. One day my son is going to look into my eyes and seek answers. He’s going to want to know something about something, about anything, he’s going to ask me “Why?” or “How do I do this?” or “What do I do now?” and I am likely to stand there, jaw beslackened, my mouth forming words that have no sound.

What the hell am I going to tell him?

“Son, here’s how to write your way out of this problem. Bully at school? Punish him in your fiction!”

“My boy, to fix this problem, you must go, go be snarky on the Internet.”

“Problems at school? Uhhhh. Here’s how to make an omelet. Did that fix anything?”

I don’t have any of my own answers. In fact, as I get older, I am increasingly bewildered. My once rock-solid certainty in things is turning to liver mush.

I’m clumsy. My practical skills are minimal. I’m an idiot. I’m lucky I don’t piss myself in public. I should wear a bucket on my head so I don’t damage the soft fontanelle of my skull.

I don’t expect the child to realize it right away. I mean, I can fake it for a number of years. It’s not like my son is going to be playing with his toy du jour at the age of five and realize Daddy put that shit together wrong. But over time, the reality of my overall incompetence is going to seep into his daily life and there will one day come a kind of illumination for him, a critical moment of revelation where a flashlight clicks suddenly on and highlights a spot on the wall that had before been cloaked in shadow, and on the wall will be written the words: “Daddy is a dipshit. Adults are suspect. Trust nothing.”

You know what I did yesterday? I painted the nursery. It is, quite literally, the color of Winnie the Pooh. The end result? Whoo. Yeah. We should’ve just hired a chimp to paint it. I came out of that room looking like a paint bomb went off. No telling how much paint I actually ingested. (Answer: at least 8 ounces.)

This isn’t going to go well.

Daily the boy shows deeper signs of his existence. He’s punching and kicking like you wouldn’t believe. Weeks back, I’d feel my wife’s belly and the wee one’s movements would be minimal — not more than a muscle twitch here, a nudge-nudge there. But now he’s developing. He’s got room to move. He’s breaking bricks with karate chops in there. He’s an action hero. I put my hand there, it’s like that scene in Jurassic Park where [insert dinosaur here] tries to break through [insert object here] and [dents it, damages it, breaks it]. You can see the flesh move as he pivot-kicks off my wife’s bladder and Ki-yaaaa!

So, we are now receiving daily reminders that this is real.

This is happening.

I’m going to be a Daddy, and I am woefully unprepared.

I figure that, in order to fill in the gaps of my striking lack of knowledge, I’d better turn to you, the brain trust, the hive-mind, the group-think, to figure some shit out.

Today is fairly light, but it’s really time to start hunkering down and procuring the mountain of objects reportedly necessary to have a baby. We have a crib, but we don’t have much else. No high chair, no car seat, no play pen, no nothing. Dipping our toes into the waters, we are learning alarming truths: did you know, for instance, that car seats have expiration dates? As if the car seat were a jug of milk? True fact.

So, what I’d like to know is whether or not you have any advice — anything at all — to share regarding our preparations for the baby’s upcoming existence. It’s a daunting task just trying to buy the objects that the baby will use for like, 10 minutes (“This high-chair is good for ages 3 months to 3 months and 7 days”). It’s just as daunting trying to figure out the items the baby won’t need. You go to a place like Babies R’ Us and it is truly overwhelming. I don’t need that many objects to survive. They have like, 50,000 strollers available. It is awesome, and not in the “Dude, Bro, Awesome” way, but rather in the, “I have seen great Cthulhu rise from the ocean’s depths to consume us all and lo it is awesome.”

Any help is appreciated because, well, as noted earlier, I am doe-eyed and confused. But the truck is coming, and no matter how hypnotized I am by the pretty lights, I have to get cracking.