Archives (page 460 of 461)

January 6, 2011 / 28 Comments

Why Are Dead Birds Falling From The Sky? (Hint: It’s Totally My Fault)

Dear Publishers Of Books:

You may have noticed that, around the world, birds are dropping out of the sky like frozen poop from an airplane bathroom. These dead birds are found all over the map — Arkansas, Kentucky, Georgia, Italy, Sweden — and many suspect these instances will increase as the coming Hellpocalypse of Cthulhu’s awakening draws closer. You will note, of course, that the first birds to go were several thousand (also calculated as “one fuck-ton”) of dead red-wing blackbirds in Arkansas, and days later, more blackbirds took a free-falling dirt-nap in Louisiana. Further, in Sweden, you will see that the birds that perished there were jackdaws — which sounds like a totally made-up bird, but I assure you, is no more made up than the titmouse, boobie, or nuthatch. Jackdaws are in fact a type of crow. Or they are at least “crow-flavored.”

Let’s switch gears for a moment.

You may have also noticed that I am a penmonkey (equal parts “game designer,” “screenwriter,” “alcoholic,” and “novelist”), and it is the latter identifier that should ring a bell, as my novel BLACKBIRDS is out on submission with you fine, friendly folks, and has been for a number of months, now. You may gaze upon a mock cover I did for this novel below:

This novel deals with a cranky, profane psychic character, Miriam Black, who has a very curious way of solving murders before they happen. It is a book very much about death and how we deal with it. It is also funny and contains both sex and blood, and who doesn’t like that? Communists, that’s who.

I have, over the course of many moons, received a cascading series of glowing rejections from your wonderful industry. Editors love the book! They assure me that they would not change a thing. “Huzzah!” I thought, “What good news!” But then I got to the part of the letter where it also says something like, “We love the book and it’s perfect as it is and yet, somehow, mysteriously, we could not convince the army of terminators our sales board that this was a book that would sell more than seven copies. They remain in fact unconvinced that even your mother would buy a copy. Trust us. We called her. We asked her. She shrugged and gave a half-committal ennh, then said something about how you write rude books about rude people and why don’t you write a nice book about a girl who buys a pony? She also reminds you to call her. As we feel that you are a bad son and a wonderful but unsellable author, we have decided to not publish your truly spectacular standout don’t-change-a-thing novel, BLACKBIRDS.”

This is of course a shame, because I feel I am a prime catch. First: I’m dead sexy. (I look hot dressed up as a Barnes and Noble book display.) Second: I am nothing if not loud and irritating, so you can be assured I will market this novel until my fingers are worked to bloody nubs and my tongue explodes. Third: I have that mythical “writer’s platform” thing covered. Fourth: I think I wrote a pretty snazzy book with a flawed-but-lovable murder-solvin’ psychic-havin’ sexy-bein’ character that people seem to really enjoy reading.

You may at this point be asking, “Wasn’t this asshole supposed to answer the mystery of the dead birds?”

I am, and will.

You see, it is not coincidental that the name of my book is BLACKBIRDS and that many of the dead birds are also blackbirds (or, at least, birds that happen to be black of feather). It is also not coincidental that my book is about death and solving murders, and this mystery of the birds also orbits the cheerful, charming subject of death, doom, and gloom. Why is that, you ask?

I’m totally the guy killing all those birds.

Whew. I’m really glad to have that off my chest.

It’s been so hard! Seriously. Go ahead — you try to kill a metric fuck-ton of birds by yourself in order to pimp out your unsold novel. It’s really tough stuff! I have had to shoot fireworks into flocks of grackles, I’ve had to rig up supervillain-esque contraptions that hoses blackbirds down with water before blasting them with the coruscating energy from a secret Nikola Tesla device, I’ve had to break into secret government labs and release toxic Phosgene into the atmosphere. Heck, I’ve even had to pilot an ultra light plane amongst the birds while (with a free-hand) clubbing them all to death with a croquet mallet.

I am, frankly, exhausted.

Unfortunately, the bird deaths will continue as long as my novel remains unsold. This is, of course, regrettable, but I see no other course of action beyond these Blofeld-like tactics.

For every day that my novel goes unsold, I will continue punching, scalding, exploding, electrocuting, poisoning, and tickling birds to death. I have already begun to expand my purview beyond blackbirds and crows — you may have read about the thousands of dead doves in Italy? Yup. That was me. My only regret there was that I could not also manage to spraypaint them all black, y’know, to keep in theme.

Oh well. Next time!

So, while I am pleased to announce that the bird deaths are not in fact a sign of the Apocalypse, they are however the acts of a disgruntled novelist who just wants his book to find a home with a lovely publisher.

Please buy my novel. If not for the awesomeness of the book itself, do it to save the birds of the world. Because I’m totally going to keep killing birds until someone buys this goddamn book.

Thank you for your time. I appreciate any efforts on my behalf. The birds thank you, too.

BLACKBIRDS is represented by super-agent Stacia Decker of the Donald Maass Literary Agency. You may contact her to request that the bird deaths cease make a wonderful offer on my book.

Regards,

Chuck Wendig

P.S. I also have a non-fiction book on pitch called CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY. Please don’t make me kill any monkeys or writers. Unless you want me to kill a few writers? Call me.

P.P.S. Oh, the fish aren’t my fault. It’s possible that you have another grumpy novelist out there who wrote a book called FISHHEADS or some shit, but if you ask me, all the dead fish are a sign of the fucking Apocalypse, so you should probably start praying to your God and building bunkers and what-not.

January 5, 2011 / 47 Comments

Drop The Pen, Grab A Hammer: Building The Writer’s Platform

Ahhh. The writer’s platform.

I first heard the term… what? About three, four years ago? Reading various snidbits of advice, you pick up on that increasingly popular question: “Do you have a platform?”

I thought, oh, shit. No, no I don’t. I didn’t have anything that looked remotely like a platform. So, out in the woods I built a small raised dais. On it I placed a chair. In the chair I placed my ass, and on my lap I rested my novel. Just in case, I wrote a crazy person sign — “I AM NOVELIST WILL WRITE FOR HOOKERS” — and then I waited. Eventually I grew hungry — and further, I grew tired of people throwing their fast food garbage at my head. So I went inside, did a little investigation and lo and behold I was doing it wrong.

Sadly, building a writer’s platform does not involve an actual platform. I know, right? Welcome to Disappointment City, Population: Me.

So it goes.

Let me be clear: I detest the word “platform.” I mean to say, it’s fine when used to literally define something that deserves the term: I don’t froth at the mouth and rip out clods of chest hair anytime I hear the phrase “platform shoes,” for example. But when someone says “writer’s platform,” I cannot help but grind my molars together until I hear the crinkly, crunchy snap as my enamel cracks like punched glass.

Still. As a buzzword, it’s got legs.

And in the bullshit of the buzzword, truth lingers. Let us tease it out with a tickle, shall we?

Define Your Terms, Inkmonkey: What In Tarnation Is A Writer’s Platform?

The metaphor of the writer’s platform is — duh — that you as a writer need to stand on a platform with your megaphone and your lectern, and the stronger the platform is — or is it the higher the platform? — the better off you’re going to be when the time comes to get published because you stand on a solid base above all others and you rule them with an iron fist. Blah blah blah. Snargh. Or something.

Fuck all that right in the blowhole.

Here’s a simple definition:

You are your platform.

Lemme explain. Getting published is the sum of two parts: one, the book, and two, the author that wrote the book. The book matters in the short term: the audience (and by proxy, the publisher) want a good book in hand. The author matters in the long term: everybody wants to get behind an author with some longevity, an author they like, or even better, an author that they love.

The writer’s platform is about you. It’s about putting yourself out there. It’s equal parts “putting on armor” and “taking off all your clothes.” Your platform is how people know you — it’s their perception of you as an author, but even more importantly, of you as a human being.

Your Strongest Platform Is A Book That Doesn’t Suck Moist Open Ass

Go read a gaggle of articles about a writer and his platform and the one thing you won’t see very often is advice talking about your actual book. Here’s the thing: a writer without a platform can still get published if he has a kick-ass book, but a writer with a great platform isn’t likely to get published if his book is better off being dragged out behind the barn and shot in the head.

A shitty book will crush even the most well-constructed platform under a ton of manure.

Let it be said: your primary goal is to write a fucking whopper of a book. The lion’s share of your efforts should go into that which makes you a writer: your writing. Many writers are all about the sound and the fury, but it’s all bark and not a lot of bite. They over-promise and never deliver. Don’t be that asshole. Write the best book of your life, and then go write an even better book.

The book is your currency. You and your platform are just the way to get that book seen.

Now, to be clear, I don’t mean you shouldn’t concentrate at all on getting yourself out there. You can, and should. No false dichotomies here — you can do both. As you’re writing the book you should also be putting yourself into the world as the writer you want people to know and to read. Just remember that the book is king. You are merely the power behind the throne.

A Writer’s Platform Is Made Out Of People

“A writer’s platform: the miracle food of high-energy plankton gathered from the oceans of the world.”

No, wait, that’s Soylent Green, isn’t it?

Still, the point stands: your platform is made out of people. You’ll hear a lot about social media this and writer conference that. Those are tools. Those are means to an end.

People matter. Relationships count. That is no less true today than it was 50, 100, or 1,000 years ago — you don’t want to lone wolf this shit. You are not Author Ronin Without Clan.

Your platform is about connecting with people.

Yes, it’s that simple. It is in part about building audience, but to me there’s a bit of a mind-set tweak in there: building audience puts you at a separation from people, and it’s the same separation suggested by the term “platform.” It sets you both above and apart. “I am Author!” you shout from your dais made of human skulls. “Hear my voice! Read my book! When you’re done reading my book, I’ll also need you to lick my feet! And smite my enemies! And buy my t-shirts and coffee mugs! Do not forget to read this interview with me, for it is filled with the blood of awesome! Raaaaar!”

Ah, but the writer’s platform isn’t all about you.

You shouldn’t stand above and apart. You should stand within.

That sounds like some real Zen Hippie Shit, but your platform isn’t about screaming so the cheap seats can hear it. It’s about connecting. It’s about connecting with people so that you may exploit them and make them dance on your puppet strings and then when you’re done you will wear their flesh like a suit and boil their bones for broth! Whoa, wait, no, where’d that come from? Whoo. Zoinks. I maybe need a Xanax. And a Zantac, because I have heartburn from slurping all this bone broth.

No, seriously, connecting with people is about reciprocal relationships. It’s not even all about I Am Writer, it’s in part about I Am Just A Dude Or Chick Who Is Pretty Cool And You’re Pretty Cool And We Should Talk About Coffee And Bacon And Dreams And Writing. Be a writer, but also, be a person. And don’t be an asshole. Or, rather, don’t be a huge asshole. More on that in another post.

Because Damn, Who Doesn’t Love A Checklist?

Okay, fine, I hear you. You’re saying, “This is a big basket of theory and metaphor, but you’re not giving me any practical information. Dickwipe.” And I’m like, “Dickwipe?” And you’re like, “Yeah, I said it.”

Fair enough.

Practical information. Here goes. Ready?

One: Figure out who you are and who you want to be. You know how you go to college and that’s a time to kind of… if not “reinvent” yourself than to make upgrades to your original design? This is like that. You are transitioning from Regular Human to Author Human. No superiority intrinsic to that, I just mean that now is a good time to slap a new coat of paint on who you want the world to see. Want to know a secret? This should be the best and most interesting face of who you already are. No ruse, no illusion.

It helps, too, to think a little about your authorial mission: ideally, who you are or appear to be matches the books you hope to write. Presuming you’re a confident author with some understanding of your voice, this shouldn’t be too much of a problem. That said, if they’re totally different, you need to navigate that. Do you sanitize and create an illusion? Me, I say be who you are and let the chips fall as they may. The majority of readers won’t know that you’re a foul-mouthed weirdo on the Internet. And when they find out, they probably won’t really give a rat’s right foot.

Two: Get a blog. That blog should not look like a Myspace page or Geocities blog from 1998. No amateur hour shit. Go pro, or go home. Own that blog. Own it from the ground up. Feel free to disagree with me, but I’ll just pull this lever and drop you into the dark churning ocean. No, I don’t have any sharks. I have squid. Little squid with robot brains and laser eyes. Seriously: own your blog and your domain name and create a space. This is your nexus online. Drive traffic here.

Three: Get slathered up in the sweet grease of social media. Twitter, Facebook, Flickr, Tumblr, Goodreads, Forums, Skype, Soup Cans Connected By Cat-5 Cable, whatever.

Four: Remember that the key word of social media is social, which means it’s about people, which means you need to connect and communicate. That means you are not just a salesman of information. You are not just pimp and prostitute. If you act like that, then our hunter-killers will confuse you with a Spam Bot and you will be beheaded on sight by their whirring mouth-saws. BZZZTGGRHHBLLE. Blood everywhere.

Five: Don’t be a huge asshole. Or a giant douche. Be cool. Be funny. Be honest (mostly).

Six: Be consistent. Put yourself out there and stay out there. Communicate with your people frequently. Don’t have to be annoying about it, but don’t drop off the map: connect, and stay connected.

Six-Point-Five: Do not confuse “followers” with “buyers.” Tweets and blog posts are free. Your book will not be. They may buy. They may not. Keep expectations in check.

Seven: Realize that the Internet isn’t everything and that a real world exists. Leave your home. Talk to people. Meet other writers and industry people — your so-called “platform” is as much about audience as it is about connections within the industry. Those people have done it. Listen to them. Extend a hand. Better yet: buy them alcohol. Many writers have built strong platforms out of beer kegs and whiskey bottles. (Alternately, buy them a meal because otherwise they’ll go home to a fridge empty of everything but hobo wine, mustard packets, and month-old Indian food.)

Eight: Go to a conference or three. Meet people who write the kinds of things you write.

Nine: Meet people who aren’t writers or publishers. Break the incestuous little fuck-tangle and meet anybody you can: dock-workers, librarians, artists, bartenders, hookers, and did I mention bartenders?

Ten: Keep writing. Always keep writing.

Caveat, Cuidado, Verboten, Awooga, Awooga

Be advised: nobody is a social media expert. Do not pay anybody anything to help you build your platform. You want to pay somebody, pay an editor. Pay an agent. Pay a cover artist if you’re self-publishing. But you need to handle your own shit. Only you can be the face of you, and it really is as easy as a) finding your voice b) putting that voice out there by connecting with people in and out of the industry.

Further, the platform isn’t a magic bullet. It won’t guarantee sales. It won’t guarantee a publishing deal. It won’t make that dead fish of a book you wrote suddenly come alive and start flopping around on the dock. It is merely a maximization of luck: you won’t get hit by lightning if you don’t stand out in the field.

Your platform can backfire. It can collapse under the weight of your bullshit. If you don’t have a good instinct for dealing with people but you write kick-ass books, then trust me — step off the platform and disappear into the crowd and let the book sell itself. I’ve seen a few upcoming authors who are pretentious jerkoffs or self-righteous blowhards — I know they’re good writers, but their attitude turns me off.

Now Go Forth And Connect

That’s it. Find your voice and use it to talk to people.

And all the while, keep writing.

There you have it: a writer’s platform in a nutshell.

Comments? Questions? Prayer requests? Death threats? Proposals of marriage? Nigerian email scams?

January 4, 2011 / 7 Comments

You Are Now Entering The Month Of “What Now?”

You just finished a novel. Like, finish-finished. You wrote it. You edited it. You edited it again. You drank profusely. You gave yourself a 5-Hour-Energy-Drink enema. You cried into your pillow. Then you edited it one last time. And now — big deep breath — you’re done.

Exhale. Release the demons.

And now —

Elation! Freedom! A flock of happy chickadees alighting off the fencerail that is your heart.

But then —

There it is. The book. A brick. A big block of words and dead trees, or a garish white screen of 1s and 0s comprising your asstastic prose. Your gut sinks. Palms sweat. This thing? It might as well be a football helmet filled with diarrhea. It’s got nothing of value to offer to the world. It’s a tangled briar of gibberish. Nobody’s going to want to read it. The best thing they can do with it is to bludgeon Snooki to stop her from writing another novel. Best thing you can do for the book is crawl in a hole and die.

Deep breath again.

In. Out. Ahhhhh.

Unclench thine hindquarters. Stop pinching your nipples: they’ll turn to raisins and fall off. (True story. Where the hell do you think raisins come from? Dead grapes? Don’t believe the lies.)

Calm thyself.

Here’s the problem:

You’re overwhelmed by possibility. You’ve just taken a chompy bite out of your life, chewing off a goodly hunk of months — maybe even years — and then spat that time and effort up in front of you. Hrrrgh-ptoo! This story is important to you. It matters. You want to do the right thing. You want to put it out there. And here it is, done. Ready to rock out with its proverbial you-know-what out. But with that realization comes a tide of triumph coupled with fear (like a fine wine paired with a quivering adrenal gland tumor).

The problem is, you don’t know what’s next.

You’ve asked yourself the question, “What Now?” and you have come up wanting.

That’s okay. Let me help. Let me stroke your hair. Let me whisper secret truths in your ear. I mean, sure, I actually don’t know cat shit from Captain Crunch, but somehow I’ve managed to convince you people that I know what the hell I’m talking about, so we might as well continue the scheme.

November, we talked about writing the book.

December, we talked up editing that sumbitch.

And now, January, it’s time to figure out what to do next.

Welcome to the month of “What Now?”

We’ll talk more about agents and publishing. I’ll chat (maybe tomorrow) a little about an author’s so-called “platform.” You’ll see some posts concentrating on both the writer’s life and the lifecycle of your novel.

For now, I’ll just say:

Stop worrying.

You did good.

But the work ain’t done.

If you have specific questions, feel free to expectorate them into the comments below — otherwise, just sit back and relax. I’ve got the wheel. And a bottle of Tito’s vodka. Let’s roll.

January 3, 2011 / 11 Comments

Auld Lang Search Term Bingo

It’s the New Year. Which feels like a good time to revisit my favorite past-time: SEARCH TERM BINGO.

If you don’t know how this works, here it is: people discover this website via some of the strangest search terms one could imagine. I pluck these search terms out of obscurity and dissect them for gits and shiggles.

This is distinctly NSFW.

Please to enjoy.

how writers deal with angry wives

Two words: Bear mace. You heard it here first. Wife comes in. She’s all cranky. She’s like, “Caw caw caw, you forgot to feed the children! You pooped in the sink! All you do is write write write! You never tend to my needs!” And then you fumigate her with a stream of bear mace. FOOM. And then she divorces you and probably calls the police and she also takes half of everything, which because you’re a writer means she gets 16 dry lentils, half a chewed-up pen, a ferret, and a bucket full of brothel tokens.

Alternate theory: maybe if you weren’t such a dipshit she wouldn’t be angry. Assface.

making my own Frankenstein

Okay, technically Frankenstein was the doctor. You know, the dude who made the monster. I don’t recommend making him. Frankly, that guy was kind of a dick. Total God complex.

One assumes, however, that you’re making the monster. To which I say: good for you, and if you need body parts, I got ’em cheap. I have some real off-the-rack stuff, too. Like a duodenum.

Who has two thumbs and a spare duodenum? This guy.

Actually, come to think of it, I have more than two thumbs. I have a whole tray of the damn things. They’re just rolling around like loose marbles. They’re starting to smell, so you can have ’em cheap.

By the way, don’t think you need lightning or anything. This is the year 2010 2011. This is the future. These days, you just need a couple car batteries and a cattleprod to get that sumbitch up and walking around. I have like, three Frankenstein monsters toddling around my woods right now. They mostly just bump into shit and bite each other, but it’s still pretty fun. You know, for the kids.

gussy squart

Ahh, good ol’ Gussy Squart — Wild West six-shootin’ bank robbin’ cake bakin’ prostitute outlaw! Cantankerous! With a mouth that tastes of scorpion venom and one eye that always winks. She’s got garters made of sand vipers and an old noose still around her neck. You best watch out for Gussy Squart. She’ll shoot you dead between your eyes and steal your penis to sell to the Devil, she will.

No, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

there’s a cold going around

I love this phrase. You hear it in winter. “There’s a cold going around.” Yeah. No kidding. It’s fucking wintertime. I’ll make a risky bet and say that I suspect there’s more than one cold going. Maybe two, even three! It creates this weird false sense of solidarity. You’ll be at a family gathering, you’ll cough, and Uncle Morty says, “Oh, you got that cold? I had that a few months ago.” Well, fuck you, Doctor Morty. Thanks for being Ground Zero for my lung plague. I’m going to invent a time machine and go back in time to destroy you, thus ensuring that I never get that one cold going around. You jerk.

oh fuck no

Oh fuck yes.

balloon-juice

I don’t know what this means. I only know that it has some vaguely grotesque sexual connotation that I cannot for the life of me pinpoint. I cannot help but picture some sweaty late 40s sleazeball who smells like hoagie oil and cider vinegar, and he’s all like, “Heh heh heh, you want a little balloon-juice?”

And then? You hit him with bear mace. FOOSH.

i got my husband a beard head

And I’m sure he appreciates it. What… ever it is.

lagunitas cappuccino stout gives me gas

So that’s you I’m smelling over here. I’m all like, “So what smells like someone took a beer shit in a Starbucks latte?” and it’s you. Well done. By the way, here’s a tip: just don’t drink that stout anymore.

some people are afraid of clits

And some people are fucking crazy. The clit is nothing to fear. The clit is wonderful! The clit is like a little weeble wobble. The clit is a cute little mouse poking her head out of the wall. The clit is equal parts “magic jellybean” and “button that, when pressed, brings a rain of candy that falls on the heads of the just and unjust alike.” What the hell are you afraid of? It’s not going to bite. It’s not a goddamn Moray Eel. Calm down. Learn to love the clitoris. The clitoris is your friend, not your enemy.

dipshit husbands

Guilty as charged.

i just beard-raped you

Wow. Holy shit. Uhh. Okay. I think we need to break this down a little.

First, no you didn’t. I’m sure I’d know it if you did.

Second, what does that even mean? Like, you stuck your dick in somebody’s beard? Or you stuck your beard in somebody’s dick? I just don’t understand. Maybe it’s a colloquial term like, you held down your roommate and gave him a beard-burn on his tummy? Which, for the record, is really weird.

Third and also for the record, rape is maaaaybe just a little overused as a colloquialism, don’t you think? “Our team got raped today on the field.” One assumes this is not true, given that they were not sexually assaulted against their will. Of course, were you to say, “Our team got murdered today on the field,” somehow that doesn’t feel as wrong. Wonder why that is? I blame that cold that’s going around.

special forces beard growth secret

What’s awesome about beards is that they can never be kept secret. You cannot hide the beard. The beard is self-evident. It’s literally in your face. Special Forces, special as they may be, can’t keep that kind of secret. I don’t know why they’d want to keep it hidden, either. You want to terrorize your enemies, you do it with your SPECIAL FORCES BEARD OF DEATH. Braid bullets into the hair. Paint it with the blood of your enemies. Stick leaves in it and use it as camouflage.

too much active voice in fiction writing

True that. You know what else? Too many awesome, active characters in fiction. Frankly, you ask me, there’s just too much good writing going around. Me? I say, more passive voice. And characters that we hate. And books that are written by Snooki. Welcome to the publishing trends of 2011. Boo-yay.

sphincter won’t open

Did you try a crowbar? A speculum? A ferret?

Give me a call. I know a guy. A little WD-40 and some C4 and he’ll have that sphincter open in no time.

goosebumps thrill pussy

I love their music. I particularly love their new song:

laser jane fuck hard

I smell another t-shirt. Not coincidentally, I also smell jet engine lubricant and a piquant erminey odor.

I don’t know who Laser Jane is, by the way. One wonders if she’s a G.I. Joe character.

where do they use the bathroom in ghost adventures

Really? This is what you’re wondering about that show? Not, “Is it real?” Not, “What’s the creepiest thing they caught on camera?” Not, “How does Zak Bagans manage to keep that emo kewpie haircut in place?”

It’s a TV show. They probably use a bathroom. Christ, they probably have a buffet table set up by craft services just outside the lockdown. They don’t just defecate on the floor like dogs. It’s not like you see Zak carrying around a thermos and he’s just whizzing in it all night long.

Actually, I can kind of see that.

Or maybe they just wear diapers. Black leather GHOST ADVENTURES diapers. With sterling silver skull pins holding it together. Makes sense, given how often it looks like they’re voiding their bowels in fear.

aaron from ghost adventures is a pussy

Wow, that’s kinda harsh, don’t you think? I mean, it’s probably true, but harsh. Aaron, that poor bastard. Aaron is actually my favorite of the bunch. They always stick that sad sumbitch in the worst places by himself. “Dude. Bro. This is the floor where the Satan worshippers cut off the heads of 60 children, and now every night the demon-ghosts of those 60 children rise up out of the floorboards and rip off the ears of anybody standing there. Aaron, you’re going to be here all night by yourself.”

words we no longer use

“Flangtrop.” “Snargometer.” “Rimpleteat.”

ducky fat eyes

HEY. Who said you could call me that? Nobody’s called me that since Martha Stewart Craft Camp. “Har har har, Ducky Fat Eyes doesn’t know how to macrame,” they’d say, and then my eyes would ooze duck confit and the room would smell like goose grease and they’d all stab at my face with their crocheting needles and lick them. Those were hard years for me. Hard years. Ducky Fat Eyes. You animal.

January 2, 2011 / 35 Comments

Welcome To The Bourbon School Of Bourbon

Last night, cracked open the ol’ bottle of [correction: Laphroaig, need more coffee] 18-year Scotch, had a couple fingers of the stuff with a friend, drank down that warm smoky gold — I think I could taste the Druids they sacrificed in the bog.

Mmm. Sacrificial booze.

I wouldn’t say I’m particularly well-versed in the hard stuff, but I’ve got my choices. For gin, I love me some Bluecoat. For vodka, it’s Tito’s or it’s a punch to the mouth. Scotch I drink and enjoy more widely: right now, have bottles of Lagavulin, Balvenie Doublewood, and Johnny Walker in the Lazy Susan. (Yes, I keep all our booze in a Lazy Susan. Or, perhaps, a Lazy Boozan? Shut up.)

But one drinky-drink I’m not well-versed in is bourbon.

Few times I’ve had it in the past I found it to be a lot harsher than Scotch — instead of smooth and warm we’re talking razors boiled in distilled water — but that tells me I’m just not drinking the right stuff.

So, bourbon nerds, come together.

School a brother on your lovely drink.

What should I be drinking?

What should I be avoiding?

What don’t I know about the stuff?

Bourbon: It’s What’s For Dinner.

January 1, 2011 / 7 Comments