Vincent Zandri's Blog, page 4
August 2, 2014
Writers Take Control ... And That's a Good Thing
The following essay is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
The publishing wars seem to be gathering more media attention these days than Israel's current war with the terrorist organization Hamas. More specifically, the ongoing tug of war between Amazon Publishing and Hachette. You can browse the web and find dozens of articles written about the situation that are chuck full graphs, numbers, charts, and more mathematical and statistical equations than I was besieged with in high school (I was never more than C+ math student).
The simplest way to understand what's happening is this: Amazon Publishing wishes to offer great books to all readers for far cheaper than more traditional publishing companies like Hachette are willing to offer. At the same time, AP wishes to pay their writers a bigger profit than the old traditional New York houses (what's left of them) are willing to dole out. Hachette has big rents to pay in the Big Apple and more than enough mouths to feed. So they need to keep prices high while keeping author's wages as low as possible. Unless you're James Patterson of course. But then, Mr. Patterson doesn't write is his own books anymore, which means he's gone from writer to sort of corporate cog in a giant machine filled with many cogs and wheels that must constantly be greased and oiled by guess whom, the consumer.
I entered this business as a writer and I intend to stay a writer until the bitter end. When I have a publisher who is willing not only to aggressively market me but also tell me things like, 'Vince, we just want you to write,' and who, at the same time cuts me (and my agent) monthly royalty checks, well then, I need look no further. However, I don't take sides in the Amazon/Hachette situation because it doesn't really involve me directly as a writer. I don't want to see any one publisher gain a monopoly share of the market any more than I want to see authors (and readers) continue to be subject to an antiquated publishing system that not only steals control from the writer, but also places him at the bottom of the totem pole. Authors and readers deserve a healthy and competitive publishing market in which many publishers compete for the privilege of publishing a great writer. Taking sides will only work against that and continue to fuel the war.
In a word, I'd like to see what's left of the big new York Publishing system wake up to the reality of the new publishing paradigm which includes e-Books as the dominant method by which we will all be reading books in the near future. Paper won't disappear, it will always share the podium with e-Books. But just take a look around you. The digital format is here to stay, and it is an inexpensive way to get great books to readers for low costs while at the same time, allowing authors to make more money. In the end, it's not AP that's putting the big publishers out of business. What's putting big publishers out of business are the big publishers and their inability to adapt.
But I'll say it again. I'm not going to take sides. I run as an independent politically, religiously, and I run as an independent as a writer. Hell, I even consider myself independent from those who writers who publish "independently." The recent New York Times piece that featured me got one thing wrong. I don't just publish with AP. I maintain a healthy mix of publishers that includes not only AP, but also Down & Out Books, Meme Publishers in Italy and France, and more. I've also started my own imprint, Bear Media. In the old days, I had one publisher, Delacorte Press. And when a corporate consolidation caused my mid-six figure contract to suddenly take a nose dive, I found myself without a job or a future. Sure they honored the contract by paying me all my money and publishing my books, but they did so with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man shuffling to the gas chamber. I vowed never to allow that to happen to me again. Never again would I or my family be crushed by a big publishing corporate mandate. Trust me when I say no one up in their big corporate offices were crying for me, and I'm not crying for them now.
This is a good time to be a writer. For the first time in decades, we have control over what we do and how we want to do it. We're no longer slaves. We're no longer forced to live from advance to advance. No longer at risk of being terminated during a corporate consolidation, no longer forced to kiss up to marketing departments that really have no interest in promoting our books. This alone, frightens the traditional houses more than anything else. Writers taking control of their careers. Because what happens then? Writers no longer need the traditional houses in order to get their books out there to a public who wish to devour more and more novels for reasonable prices. Amazon Publishing is dedicated to giving both the people what they want and their authors what they need. It's a the free market system working at its best and thank God for it.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Shroud Key
Vincent Zandri
The publishing wars seem to be gathering more media attention these days than Israel's current war with the terrorist organization Hamas. More specifically, the ongoing tug of war between Amazon Publishing and Hachette. You can browse the web and find dozens of articles written about the situation that are chuck full graphs, numbers, charts, and more mathematical and statistical equations than I was besieged with in high school (I was never more than C+ math student).
The simplest way to understand what's happening is this: Amazon Publishing wishes to offer great books to all readers for far cheaper than more traditional publishing companies like Hachette are willing to offer. At the same time, AP wishes to pay their writers a bigger profit than the old traditional New York houses (what's left of them) are willing to dole out. Hachette has big rents to pay in the Big Apple and more than enough mouths to feed. So they need to keep prices high while keeping author's wages as low as possible. Unless you're James Patterson of course. But then, Mr. Patterson doesn't write is his own books anymore, which means he's gone from writer to sort of corporate cog in a giant machine filled with many cogs and wheels that must constantly be greased and oiled by guess whom, the consumer.
I entered this business as a writer and I intend to stay a writer until the bitter end. When I have a publisher who is willing not only to aggressively market me but also tell me things like, 'Vince, we just want you to write,' and who, at the same time cuts me (and my agent) monthly royalty checks, well then, I need look no further. However, I don't take sides in the Amazon/Hachette situation because it doesn't really involve me directly as a writer. I don't want to see any one publisher gain a monopoly share of the market any more than I want to see authors (and readers) continue to be subject to an antiquated publishing system that not only steals control from the writer, but also places him at the bottom of the totem pole. Authors and readers deserve a healthy and competitive publishing market in which many publishers compete for the privilege of publishing a great writer. Taking sides will only work against that and continue to fuel the war.
In a word, I'd like to see what's left of the big new York Publishing system wake up to the reality of the new publishing paradigm which includes e-Books as the dominant method by which we will all be reading books in the near future. Paper won't disappear, it will always share the podium with e-Books. But just take a look around you. The digital format is here to stay, and it is an inexpensive way to get great books to readers for low costs while at the same time, allowing authors to make more money. In the end, it's not AP that's putting the big publishers out of business. What's putting big publishers out of business are the big publishers and their inability to adapt.
But I'll say it again. I'm not going to take sides. I run as an independent politically, religiously, and I run as an independent as a writer. Hell, I even consider myself independent from those who writers who publish "independently." The recent New York Times piece that featured me got one thing wrong. I don't just publish with AP. I maintain a healthy mix of publishers that includes not only AP, but also Down & Out Books, Meme Publishers in Italy and France, and more. I've also started my own imprint, Bear Media. In the old days, I had one publisher, Delacorte Press. And when a corporate consolidation caused my mid-six figure contract to suddenly take a nose dive, I found myself without a job or a future. Sure they honored the contract by paying me all my money and publishing my books, but they did so with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man shuffling to the gas chamber. I vowed never to allow that to happen to me again. Never again would I or my family be crushed by a big publishing corporate mandate. Trust me when I say no one up in their big corporate offices were crying for me, and I'm not crying for them now.
This is a good time to be a writer. For the first time in decades, we have control over what we do and how we want to do it. We're no longer slaves. We're no longer forced to live from advance to advance. No longer at risk of being terminated during a corporate consolidation, no longer forced to kiss up to marketing departments that really have no interest in promoting our books. This alone, frightens the traditional houses more than anything else. Writers taking control of their careers. Because what happens then? Writers no longer need the traditional houses in order to get their books out there to a public who wish to devour more and more novels for reasonable prices. Amazon Publishing is dedicated to giving both the people what they want and their authors what they need. It's a the free market system working at its best and thank God for it.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Shroud Key
Vincent Zandri
July 23, 2014
100 Miles from a Bookstore
The following essay is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
In the places where some of us spend the summer, there is no such thing as a bookstore. You cannot drop in casually or order a book sent home. Or perhaps the nearest bookstore does not have the kind of book you need.
Yet books are necessities. There are long, rainy days when you crave reading... And you may be 100 miles from the nearest bookstore. Perhaps 1,000 miles....But there's a bookstore that works all summer long....If you're not sure what you want, just write and ask. It is waiting for you ... A letter will bring it instantly. There will be no delay.
We arrange it so that each book arrives on the proper date. So when one book is read the next arrives automatically!
Words written by the sales staff at Amazon Books?
Not at all.
These words were written in 1915 by the sale staff at the old Scribners Bookstore on Fifth Avenue in NYC. It was a time when readers not only craved good books for a good price, they took advantage of stores like Scribners who were willing to go the extra mile by sending their books to the consumer "automatically."
Scribners wasn't just a store. It was a publisher too, responsible for the likes of Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Scribners edited these authors, promoted their work, and sold their books in the Scribners bookstore, an outlet that attempted to deliver their products "instantly" to the consumer.
Sound familiar?
Perhaps all publishers, bookstores, and authors can take a lesson from a system that worked quite well a century ago.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
In the places where some of us spend the summer, there is no such thing as a bookstore. You cannot drop in casually or order a book sent home. Or perhaps the nearest bookstore does not have the kind of book you need.
Yet books are necessities. There are long, rainy days when you crave reading... And you may be 100 miles from the nearest bookstore. Perhaps 1,000 miles....But there's a bookstore that works all summer long....If you're not sure what you want, just write and ask. It is waiting for you ... A letter will bring it instantly. There will be no delay.
We arrange it so that each book arrives on the proper date. So when one book is read the next arrives automatically!
Words written by the sales staff at Amazon Books?
Not at all.
These words were written in 1915 by the sale staff at the old Scribners Bookstore on Fifth Avenue in NYC. It was a time when readers not only craved good books for a good price, they took advantage of stores like Scribners who were willing to go the extra mile by sending their books to the consumer "automatically."
Scribners wasn't just a store. It was a publisher too, responsible for the likes of Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Scribners edited these authors, promoted their work, and sold their books in the Scribners bookstore, an outlet that attempted to deliver their products "instantly" to the consumer.
Sound familiar?
Perhaps all publishers, bookstores, and authors can take a lesson from a system that worked quite well a century ago.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
July 6, 2014
The End of the Road ...
The following post is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
...or is it just the start?
A month on the global road:
--16,860 miles traveled by air, including a perfect circle around the globe, heading on an east-bound course the entire way (NYC to NYC)
--Seven flights
--Six countries, three continents
--At least four different time zones (I've lost count)
--Temperatures ranging from 45F to 115F
--Modes of transportation: Airliner, boat, rickshaw, tuck tuck, tram, train, 4x4, car, van, elephant
--Food: vegetarian, seafood, mutton, beef
--Average amount of sleep per night: 4-5 hours
--Number of currencies: Four
--Terrorist attacks while en route to Dehli: two (both by Maoist Rebels aimed at the railroads. Total dead and injured: 100+)
--Top memories: The burning of the dead in Lumbini. The cleansing of the body in Varanasi, the giant orange swastika a holy backdrop. Monsoon rain and winds pummeling our little boat on the upper Ganges, and a human skull lying jaw up on the banks where we anchored and held onto our ratted rooftop tarp for dear life. Swimming downstream in the Ganges, nearly drowning when we hit a stretch of water so deep, the clear-over-gravel-color river turned to blue. The overnight train to Agra, sleeping beside dozens of Indians, young and old. The woman who rushed the train on a stop from Occha to Agra, slipping between the car and the platform, her right leg cut off just below the knee as the train pulled out of the station. Touching, for the first time, an elephant's ear, its smooth almost silky texture taking me by complete surprise. The nervousness of a rhino cooling itself with mud only a few feet away from where I stood in the back of the 4x4 ...
Next stop...who knows.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The RemainsVincent Zandri
...or is it just the start?
A month on the global road:
--16,860 miles traveled by air, including a perfect circle around the globe, heading on an east-bound course the entire way (NYC to NYC)
--Seven flights
--Six countries, three continents
--At least four different time zones (I've lost count)
--Temperatures ranging from 45F to 115F
--Modes of transportation: Airliner, boat, rickshaw, tuck tuck, tram, train, 4x4, car, van, elephant
--Food: vegetarian, seafood, mutton, beef
--Average amount of sleep per night: 4-5 hours
--Number of currencies: Four
--Terrorist attacks while en route to Dehli: two (both by Maoist Rebels aimed at the railroads. Total dead and injured: 100+)
--Top memories: The burning of the dead in Lumbini. The cleansing of the body in Varanasi, the giant orange swastika a holy backdrop. Monsoon rain and winds pummeling our little boat on the upper Ganges, and a human skull lying jaw up on the banks where we anchored and held onto our ratted rooftop tarp for dear life. Swimming downstream in the Ganges, nearly drowning when we hit a stretch of water so deep, the clear-over-gravel-color river turned to blue. The overnight train to Agra, sleeping beside dozens of Indians, young and old. The woman who rushed the train on a stop from Occha to Agra, slipping between the car and the platform, her right leg cut off just below the knee as the train pulled out of the station. Touching, for the first time, an elephant's ear, its smooth almost silky texture taking me by complete surprise. The nervousness of a rhino cooling itself with mud only a few feet away from where I stood in the back of the 4x4 ...
Next stop...who knows.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The RemainsVincent Zandri
June 22, 2014
Border Crossings: Northern India
The following post if now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.in/2014...
The sweat that soaks my khaki shirt has nothing to do with the relentless heat that covers this land like a heavy, hot water-soaked, wool blanket. I'm at the border between Nepal and India. It's six in the morning. Skies ominously overcast with gray/black clouds that threaten monsoon season rain. It's been raining heavily on and off all night and the narrow road that accesses both countries is nothing more than a thick layer of gooey brown mud that, taken along with the ramshackle single and two-story wood, concrete and brick buildings that flank it, looks more like the setting for a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western.
My guide and I are stopped by a soldier dressed in olive green who bears a World War II era bolt-action rifle over his shoulder and a thick black leather belt around his waist. He tosses our backpacks onto a wood table and begins inspecting them inside and out. India's mega Hindu population gets along swimmingly with its smaller, but major Muslim population. However, no one gets along with the radical Islam component that has snaked its way into the country via Pakistan and other ports of entry. That said, the bags are checked thoroughly.
After looking us over ...up, down, and up again...the solider gives us the go ahead to proceed across the border. I've already made it through Nepal customs and received my stamp. But it wasn't Nepal I was worried about. What's in the back of my mind is all the trouble I got into recently at the American India Embassy back in the States. The short of it is that the embassy wouldn't issue my journalist's visa unless I met with them in person in Manhattan and attended one of their "press lectures" regarding the benefits of the "New Era India." An invitation I blew off entirely. I didn't come here for politics, but something else instead. Originally that reason was to research a new Chase Baker novel, and to write a couple of travel pieces while also writing for the Vox. But now, having spent a little more than a week in this part of the world that will slam you with a million different sensory alerts at once (from the persistent smells of curries to cow shit, from huge, colorfully decorated trucks speeding directly for you, to millions of people who peer at you with their dark, penetrating eyes as if you are the very first westerner they've ever seen), I'm not entirely sure I can put my reasons for being here into mere words.
Trudging through the mud past the many overloaded cars, 4X4s, and trucks queued up before the wood-pole gate, my guide points out the immigration office and, heart in my throat, I immediately go for it.
It's not much of an office. A couple of rooms in a very old building the interior of which is shaded by old wood shutters left over from the filming of Gunga Din. There's a counter on one side, and a wood table on the other. An overhead ceiling fan blows the hot humid air around somehow pleasantly, while behind the counter, a pot of tea boils atop a hot plate set upon an old wood desk that also supports a computer and a Royal typewriter from the 1950s.
There's a middle aged man manning the counter. He wears loose slacks and an even looser button down shirt. He collects my passport, along with those of a half dozen other people waiting to cross over the border. College kids mostly who look like they haven't slept or bathed in weeks. It makes me smile inside to know that I must appear as a much older version of their wanderlust-filled selves.
After filling out the immigration form, I hand the passport back to the counter man. He in turn hands it over to a second, smaller man, who takes it with him to the computer. As he runs the passport over a scanner I see my face pop up on the computer screen. This is it, I think. The moment where they'll ask me to accompany them into the back room where they'll spend hours lobbing questions about my intentions for visiting India. "Why did you not attend the lecture in New York?" the men will shout while blinding me with a single bright white light. Eventually, the tall one will turn to the smaller one. "See if you can get him to talk," he'll say. Then, as the tall man leaves the room, locking the door behind him, the smaller man remove his shirt, bearing a chest filled with scars from knife fights too numerous to count. He go behind a desk and pull something from out of a drawer. A pair of brass knuckles maybe. As he slips them onto his right hand, he'll smile at me, bearing a gold tooth. "So what's the weather like in New York this time of year?" he'll say.
But within a few minutes, something far different occurs.
The little man behind the desk takes hold of his stamp, and positioning it above the page that contains my visa, brings the inky business end down hard onto the page. The little man hands the big man the passport. And the big man, in turn, hands it to me. He smiles politely but genuinely.
"Welcome to India," he says. "I hope you enjoy your stay."
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Check out the first Chase Baker adventure novel, THE SHROUD KEY, and look for CHASE BAKER AND THE GOLDEN CONDOR coming early this Fall.
The Shroud Key
The sweat that soaks my khaki shirt has nothing to do with the relentless heat that covers this land like a heavy, hot water-soaked, wool blanket. I'm at the border between Nepal and India. It's six in the morning. Skies ominously overcast with gray/black clouds that threaten monsoon season rain. It's been raining heavily on and off all night and the narrow road that accesses both countries is nothing more than a thick layer of gooey brown mud that, taken along with the ramshackle single and two-story wood, concrete and brick buildings that flank it, looks more like the setting for a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western.
My guide and I are stopped by a soldier dressed in olive green who bears a World War II era bolt-action rifle over his shoulder and a thick black leather belt around his waist. He tosses our backpacks onto a wood table and begins inspecting them inside and out. India's mega Hindu population gets along swimmingly with its smaller, but major Muslim population. However, no one gets along with the radical Islam component that has snaked its way into the country via Pakistan and other ports of entry. That said, the bags are checked thoroughly.
After looking us over ...up, down, and up again...the solider gives us the go ahead to proceed across the border. I've already made it through Nepal customs and received my stamp. But it wasn't Nepal I was worried about. What's in the back of my mind is all the trouble I got into recently at the American India Embassy back in the States. The short of it is that the embassy wouldn't issue my journalist's visa unless I met with them in person in Manhattan and attended one of their "press lectures" regarding the benefits of the "New Era India." An invitation I blew off entirely. I didn't come here for politics, but something else instead. Originally that reason was to research a new Chase Baker novel, and to write a couple of travel pieces while also writing for the Vox. But now, having spent a little more than a week in this part of the world that will slam you with a million different sensory alerts at once (from the persistent smells of curries to cow shit, from huge, colorfully decorated trucks speeding directly for you, to millions of people who peer at you with their dark, penetrating eyes as if you are the very first westerner they've ever seen), I'm not entirely sure I can put my reasons for being here into mere words.
Trudging through the mud past the many overloaded cars, 4X4s, and trucks queued up before the wood-pole gate, my guide points out the immigration office and, heart in my throat, I immediately go for it.
It's not much of an office. A couple of rooms in a very old building the interior of which is shaded by old wood shutters left over from the filming of Gunga Din. There's a counter on one side, and a wood table on the other. An overhead ceiling fan blows the hot humid air around somehow pleasantly, while behind the counter, a pot of tea boils atop a hot plate set upon an old wood desk that also supports a computer and a Royal typewriter from the 1950s.
There's a middle aged man manning the counter. He wears loose slacks and an even looser button down shirt. He collects my passport, along with those of a half dozen other people waiting to cross over the border. College kids mostly who look like they haven't slept or bathed in weeks. It makes me smile inside to know that I must appear as a much older version of their wanderlust-filled selves.
After filling out the immigration form, I hand the passport back to the counter man. He in turn hands it over to a second, smaller man, who takes it with him to the computer. As he runs the passport over a scanner I see my face pop up on the computer screen. This is it, I think. The moment where they'll ask me to accompany them into the back room where they'll spend hours lobbing questions about my intentions for visiting India. "Why did you not attend the lecture in New York?" the men will shout while blinding me with a single bright white light. Eventually, the tall one will turn to the smaller one. "See if you can get him to talk," he'll say. Then, as the tall man leaves the room, locking the door behind him, the smaller man remove his shirt, bearing a chest filled with scars from knife fights too numerous to count. He go behind a desk and pull something from out of a drawer. A pair of brass knuckles maybe. As he slips them onto his right hand, he'll smile at me, bearing a gold tooth. "So what's the weather like in New York this time of year?" he'll say.
But within a few minutes, something far different occurs.
The little man behind the desk takes hold of his stamp, and positioning it above the page that contains my visa, brings the inky business end down hard onto the page. The little man hands the big man the passport. And the big man, in turn, hands it to me. He smiles politely but genuinely.
"Welcome to India," he says. "I hope you enjoy your stay."
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Check out the first Chase Baker adventure novel, THE SHROUD KEY, and look for CHASE BAKER AND THE GOLDEN CONDOR coming early this Fall.
The Shroud Key
June 14, 2014
Kathmandu's Cavalcade
The following blog is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
For the life of you, do not attempt to travel half way around the world by flying three different, back to back flights. No matter how good a flier you are, you will find yourself exhausted from lack of sleep. Your eyes will sting from lack of moisture. Your stomach will distend and cramp from too much gas buildup, and the interior mucous membranes in your nasal cavities will crack and bleed. If you insist on flying to four different countries on three different continents over the course of 2.5 days to make for a total of 26 hours in the air, make sure you break the trip up. And don't fly over the Bay of Bengal during a severe thunderstorm...It will scare the crap out of you. Unless of course, you're 19 and don't give a shit.
But the ill effects of three sleepless days and nights were quickly forgotten upon landing in Kathmandu, Nepal. Sure this is the home of Everest and expert climbers from all over the world who come here to scale the tallest mountain in the world (I know this debatable, but it's my blog so bear with me). However, Nepal's capital city of Kathmandu is a vibrant, ancient metropolis congested with people, young and old, who all seem to be moving rather quickly to some unknown destination. The bazaar itself is made up of narrow roads connected at odd angles as if no planning went into them. The roads are boarded with crumbling ancient architecture interspersed with Buddhist and Hindu temples. The smog pervades the air to the degree that, like in many Chinese cities, the locals don masks over their faces to filter the pollution. Some of these masks are made by famous clothing designers. The masks might match a woman's outfit and I imagine they cost a lot.
Cows and rickshaws share the roads with cars and motorcycles, the latter combustion engine-powered machines forever somehow competing for the finite space that exists on the byways but miraculously never smashing into one another or running anyone down. Drivers honk horns relentlessly and at times, you find it impossible to know who is honking the horn at who.
The night life is vibrant to say the least. Kathmandu is a musician's paradise with the rattle and hum of live bands competing with one another from the many bars and eateries that exist within the bazaar. Last night I enjoyed a couple of beers while listening to a middle-aged man play trombone not to an accompanying band but instead to digitally pre-recorded tracks. This is 2014 after all, even if the Kathmandu of today could easily fill in for the Kathmandu of 1970, or 1935 for that matter. He was dressed in a long tunic over pantaloons that looked like pajamas. His feet were bare and he wore a long gray/black beard and even longer gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. I took him for a SoCal transplant, circa 1985, who came to find something to smoke and never left.
I could tell you about the food and how fresh it is ... nan prepared over a stone fire...chicken and beef drowned in savory curries...cool and crisp vegetables cut up in chunks...but I need to head back out to explore more in this city of adventurers and ancient history.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Remains
For the life of you, do not attempt to travel half way around the world by flying three different, back to back flights. No matter how good a flier you are, you will find yourself exhausted from lack of sleep. Your eyes will sting from lack of moisture. Your stomach will distend and cramp from too much gas buildup, and the interior mucous membranes in your nasal cavities will crack and bleed. If you insist on flying to four different countries on three different continents over the course of 2.5 days to make for a total of 26 hours in the air, make sure you break the trip up. And don't fly over the Bay of Bengal during a severe thunderstorm...It will scare the crap out of you. Unless of course, you're 19 and don't give a shit.
But the ill effects of three sleepless days and nights were quickly forgotten upon landing in Kathmandu, Nepal. Sure this is the home of Everest and expert climbers from all over the world who come here to scale the tallest mountain in the world (I know this debatable, but it's my blog so bear with me). However, Nepal's capital city of Kathmandu is a vibrant, ancient metropolis congested with people, young and old, who all seem to be moving rather quickly to some unknown destination. The bazaar itself is made up of narrow roads connected at odd angles as if no planning went into them. The roads are boarded with crumbling ancient architecture interspersed with Buddhist and Hindu temples. The smog pervades the air to the degree that, like in many Chinese cities, the locals don masks over their faces to filter the pollution. Some of these masks are made by famous clothing designers. The masks might match a woman's outfit and I imagine they cost a lot.
Cows and rickshaws share the roads with cars and motorcycles, the latter combustion engine-powered machines forever somehow competing for the finite space that exists on the byways but miraculously never smashing into one another or running anyone down. Drivers honk horns relentlessly and at times, you find it impossible to know who is honking the horn at who.
The night life is vibrant to say the least. Kathmandu is a musician's paradise with the rattle and hum of live bands competing with one another from the many bars and eateries that exist within the bazaar. Last night I enjoyed a couple of beers while listening to a middle-aged man play trombone not to an accompanying band but instead to digitally pre-recorded tracks. This is 2014 after all, even if the Kathmandu of today could easily fill in for the Kathmandu of 1970, or 1935 for that matter. He was dressed in a long tunic over pantaloons that looked like pajamas. His feet were bare and he wore a long gray/black beard and even longer gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. I took him for a SoCal transplant, circa 1985, who came to find something to smoke and never left.
I could tell you about the food and how fresh it is ... nan prepared over a stone fire...chicken and beef drowned in savory curries...cool and crisp vegetables cut up in chunks...but I need to head back out to explore more in this city of adventurers and ancient history.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Remains
June 9, 2014
Colbert Delcares War On Amazon and Me
The following blog is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
That knucklehead pee-in-your-pants class clown Stephen Colbert trashed Amazon Publishing a few days ago on his show because his books are aren't selling fast enough on the Amazon site.
Me sitting at a pretend news desk wearing a cheap suit: "Maybe your books aren't all that good?"
(Laugh track) oops...Live audience supplied by free tickets handed out in Times Square....
You can see the clip from the show here, where Class Clown Colbert does something really clever like giving Amazon the finger....twice...and get this, his hand is stuffed inside an Amazon delivery box, bubble wrap and all...HAHAHA!
I almost pissed my pants it was so funny. Guy's got serious talent.
Hey Stephen, there's a reason Amazon sells 50% of the books that are purchased by the reading public. Because they offer a great product at a reasonable price.
You just declared WAR on Amazon. I publish with Amazon Publishing's imprint, Thomas & Mercer, which means you are at WAR with me. I'd be happy to face off with you on your show about my experiences with AP.
If you don't like it, you can flip me off ... To my face.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Remains
That knucklehead pee-in-your-pants class clown Stephen Colbert trashed Amazon Publishing a few days ago on his show because his books are aren't selling fast enough on the Amazon site.
Me sitting at a pretend news desk wearing a cheap suit: "Maybe your books aren't all that good?"
(Laugh track) oops...Live audience supplied by free tickets handed out in Times Square....
You can see the clip from the show here, where Class Clown Colbert does something really clever like giving Amazon the finger....twice...and get this, his hand is stuffed inside an Amazon delivery box, bubble wrap and all...HAHAHA!
I almost pissed my pants it was so funny. Guy's got serious talent.
Hey Stephen, there's a reason Amazon sells 50% of the books that are purchased by the reading public. Because they offer a great product at a reasonable price.
You just declared WAR on Amazon. I publish with Amazon Publishing's imprint, Thomas & Mercer, which means you are at WAR with me. I'd be happy to face off with you on your show about my experiences with AP.
If you don't like it, you can flip me off ... To my face.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Remains
June 8, 2014
Bergdahl Affair Begs the Question: Deserter or Double Agent?
The following blog is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
Anyone who doesn't live under a rock or who doesn't limit their TV time to the House Wives of New Jersey and their radio time to the Lady Gaga channel on the Pandora, knows at least something about the Bowe Bergdahl story. You know, the "sort of POW" who was finally released from a five year captivity from Taliban captors entrenched deep in the mountains of Afghanistan. The release became controversial when his fellow platoon mates came forward and announced that Bergdahl was a deserter and should be tried for his crimes. Adding greatly to the controversy was the fact that Obama released five major league Taliban generals (or what's being termed the Taliban Dream Team) in exchange for the deserter. None of this made sense to me when I first heard the news and all I could be concerned about was this: Who on earth would negotiate with terrorists? Now, no American who travels abroad, solider and civilian alike, are safe. Terrorists will be happy to snatch you off the streets of Paris knowing that the USA will be happy to negotiate for your safe and very expensive return.
The left believes that the return of Bowe and the release of the five Gitmo prisoners was the humanitarian thing to do. The right believes that Bowe is a deserter who isn't worth the price of five dangerous Taliban members who will now, no doubt, return to the battlefield and kill more Americans.
You ask me, something isn't adding up here.
What if Bowe Bergdahl, was more than just a soldier? What if Bowe was in fact, working as a double agent? Check this article out from Beforeitsnews.com and decide for yourself.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Remains
Anyone who doesn't live under a rock or who doesn't limit their TV time to the House Wives of New Jersey and their radio time to the Lady Gaga channel on the Pandora, knows at least something about the Bowe Bergdahl story. You know, the "sort of POW" who was finally released from a five year captivity from Taliban captors entrenched deep in the mountains of Afghanistan. The release became controversial when his fellow platoon mates came forward and announced that Bergdahl was a deserter and should be tried for his crimes. Adding greatly to the controversy was the fact that Obama released five major league Taliban generals (or what's being termed the Taliban Dream Team) in exchange for the deserter. None of this made sense to me when I first heard the news and all I could be concerned about was this: Who on earth would negotiate with terrorists? Now, no American who travels abroad, solider and civilian alike, are safe. Terrorists will be happy to snatch you off the streets of Paris knowing that the USA will be happy to negotiate for your safe and very expensive return.
The left believes that the return of Bowe and the release of the five Gitmo prisoners was the humanitarian thing to do. The right believes that Bowe is a deserter who isn't worth the price of five dangerous Taliban members who will now, no doubt, return to the battlefield and kill more Americans.
You ask me, something isn't adding up here.
What if Bowe Bergdahl, was more than just a soldier? What if Bowe was in fact, working as a double agent? Check this article out from Beforeitsnews.com and decide for yourself.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Remains
June 2, 2014
Travel Alert: It's Now Open Season on Americans Heading Abroad
The following blogs is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
This a warning to all Americans traveling outside the domestic US. You are in danger.
In the wake of the Obama Administration's negotiations with the Taliban to free Sgt. Bowe Bergdahl from his five year POW captivity, you will now have a price on your head. You will be fair game for any Al Qaeda linked or inspired group or even individual who wishes to not only fill his or her pockets with American greenbacks, but also in the process, perhaps work up an exchange for a radical Muslim terrorist now under detention at Gitmo. You know, your life in exchange for the life of a mass murderer.
I'm not about to get into the politics involved here or the timing amidst the VA scandal or the horrid foreign affairs speech Obama delivered last week to graduating West Point cadets. I'm not going to get into the fact that going forward with the release without giving Congress 30 days notice is illegal. I'm not going to comment on Defense Secretary Chuck Hagel's optimism that the prisoner exchange (five terrorists for a single POW) “...will present an opening” of further negotiations between the US and the Taliban (Huh? Since when did the Taliban go from terrorist organization to sovereign nation status?). I'm not even going to get into the fact that Bergdhal was not only drunk when he was captured by the Taliban, he had drifted far away from his post in what some fellow soldiers described as an attempt at "desertion," and that just prior to his "capture" he wrote to his parents, I'm “ashamed to even be American.”
I'm not going to get into any of that.
But what I will say is this: American's traveling abroad and especially alone, must now act with extreme vigilance, which means if it's possible to have eyes installed in the back of your head, do it. Obama's America has shown itself not only to be open to negotiations with terrorists but extremely willing to continue to do so (Short-timer Obama Press Secretary Jay Carney tried to spin his way out of using the "N" word during this morning's press briefing due to the fact that we're dealing with an American POW here and not a civilian hostage, but his argument was profoundly and disturbingly weak. A negotiation is a negotiation no matter what you label it. No wonder he's getting the hell out of Dodge).
Very likely, Obama will have his chance over the the course of his remaining two years to practice his new found craft of negotiation and what amounts to collaboration with the terrorist network (if collaboration seems too strong a word, remember, the unknown sum of money we also paid out to free the soldier isn't going to go to new hospitals and schools. It will go to the Taliban fighting machine.)
I travel abroad upwards of three to four months out of the year. Next week I'll head to India and Nepal and while terrorist activities aren't nearly as rampant in these places as say, nearby Pakistan, the opportunity exists for something bad to happen now that open season has been declared on US citizens. Not even travelers visiting seemingly safe places like Rome, Paris, and London will be immune.
Perhaps it's time the major media stopped hiding behind a cloud of political correctness and fear of being labeled racist by making Barack Hussein Obama II accountable for what will surly become some magnificently ill-fated foreign policy decisions that achieve nothing more than undermining America's international interests and its overall security. But then, what the hell, the guy we didn't "leave behind" is ashamed to be an American. I can't help but wonder how Obama truly feels about being an American.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Shroud Key
This a warning to all Americans traveling outside the domestic US. You are in danger.
In the wake of the Obama Administration's negotiations with the Taliban to free Sgt. Bowe Bergdahl from his five year POW captivity, you will now have a price on your head. You will be fair game for any Al Qaeda linked or inspired group or even individual who wishes to not only fill his or her pockets with American greenbacks, but also in the process, perhaps work up an exchange for a radical Muslim terrorist now under detention at Gitmo. You know, your life in exchange for the life of a mass murderer.
I'm not about to get into the politics involved here or the timing amidst the VA scandal or the horrid foreign affairs speech Obama delivered last week to graduating West Point cadets. I'm not going to get into the fact that going forward with the release without giving Congress 30 days notice is illegal. I'm not going to comment on Defense Secretary Chuck Hagel's optimism that the prisoner exchange (five terrorists for a single POW) “...will present an opening” of further negotiations between the US and the Taliban (Huh? Since when did the Taliban go from terrorist organization to sovereign nation status?). I'm not even going to get into the fact that Bergdhal was not only drunk when he was captured by the Taliban, he had drifted far away from his post in what some fellow soldiers described as an attempt at "desertion," and that just prior to his "capture" he wrote to his parents, I'm “ashamed to even be American.”
I'm not going to get into any of that.
But what I will say is this: American's traveling abroad and especially alone, must now act with extreme vigilance, which means if it's possible to have eyes installed in the back of your head, do it. Obama's America has shown itself not only to be open to negotiations with terrorists but extremely willing to continue to do so (Short-timer Obama Press Secretary Jay Carney tried to spin his way out of using the "N" word during this morning's press briefing due to the fact that we're dealing with an American POW here and not a civilian hostage, but his argument was profoundly and disturbingly weak. A negotiation is a negotiation no matter what you label it. No wonder he's getting the hell out of Dodge).
Very likely, Obama will have his chance over the the course of his remaining two years to practice his new found craft of negotiation and what amounts to collaboration with the terrorist network (if collaboration seems too strong a word, remember, the unknown sum of money we also paid out to free the soldier isn't going to go to new hospitals and schools. It will go to the Taliban fighting machine.)
I travel abroad upwards of three to four months out of the year. Next week I'll head to India and Nepal and while terrorist activities aren't nearly as rampant in these places as say, nearby Pakistan, the opportunity exists for something bad to happen now that open season has been declared on US citizens. Not even travelers visiting seemingly safe places like Rome, Paris, and London will be immune.
Perhaps it's time the major media stopped hiding behind a cloud of political correctness and fear of being labeled racist by making Barack Hussein Obama II accountable for what will surly become some magnificently ill-fated foreign policy decisions that achieve nothing more than undermining America's international interests and its overall security. But then, what the hell, the guy we didn't "leave behind" is ashamed to be an American. I can't help but wonder how Obama truly feels about being an American.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Shroud Key
June 1, 2014
Social Media: A Situation Report
The following post is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox in slightly different form: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
Time has been a precious commodity lately.
I've been nailed with a two developmental edits for two upcoming books at the same time, plus I had to write a 70 page novella for the mystery collective I belong to, and add to this a re-edit of an already published novel and my normal duties as a journalist and I'm about ready for the funny farm.
What did Hemingway once pen? "No one can work everyday...without going stale."
But hey, business is business, and while I have a nice advance riding on at least one of the two aforementioned books (more money than I made in an entire year five years ago), I'm not shirking my duties. However, I have noticed myself getting more and more agitated with the social media and the persistent onslaught of useless information that bombards me not day in and day out, but minute in and minute out.
No, I do not wish to be invited to play a Game of Thrones or whatever it's called.
No, I do not wish to like your "I love Fluffy Cats" page
No, I don't care about your impromptu selfie snapped in the office bathroom
No, I don't care that after twenty glorious years of marriage you and the hubby are still in love.
No, I don't care that the old girlfriend has a new boyfriend.
And for God's sakes, please don't IM me unless the house is burning down around you. Even then it might take me a while to respond.
As for texting me without being invited to text? You're risking your life here...
Okay, I can hear you loud and clear, "You're one to talk Zandri!" and it's all too true. I'm not casting cyber stones so much as I'm realizing the utter time suck and futility of the social media networks (don't forget to add in useless emails here...). Christ, you can't even pimp your books on Facebook anymore without having to pay out the ass for the, ummmm, privilege.
I think there was a time, not all that long ago, where social media played a vital role in an author's promotion. It got our names out there on a global level, and if our work was any good, we gathered many new fans and sold a few books. Some of those fans even became friends. Some of those good friends live in far away places like Moscow, Cairo, Florence, and many other places. I've never met some of these friends, but a few I have, and that is the beauty of social media.
But when it comes to the everyday posting of useless information, I find it to be a distraction of immense proportions and I'm more inclined lately to turn the damn thing off altogether while I tend to my work.
Okay, so much for my rant about social media. Time to finish this essay and get it out there on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Google+, ...
www.vincentzandri.com
The Remains
Time has been a precious commodity lately.
I've been nailed with a two developmental edits for two upcoming books at the same time, plus I had to write a 70 page novella for the mystery collective I belong to, and add to this a re-edit of an already published novel and my normal duties as a journalist and I'm about ready for the funny farm.
What did Hemingway once pen? "No one can work everyday...without going stale."
But hey, business is business, and while I have a nice advance riding on at least one of the two aforementioned books (more money than I made in an entire year five years ago), I'm not shirking my duties. However, I have noticed myself getting more and more agitated with the social media and the persistent onslaught of useless information that bombards me not day in and day out, but minute in and minute out.
No, I do not wish to be invited to play a Game of Thrones or whatever it's called.
No, I do not wish to like your "I love Fluffy Cats" page
No, I don't care about your impromptu selfie snapped in the office bathroom
No, I don't care that after twenty glorious years of marriage you and the hubby are still in love.
No, I don't care that the old girlfriend has a new boyfriend.
And for God's sakes, please don't IM me unless the house is burning down around you. Even then it might take me a while to respond.
As for texting me without being invited to text? You're risking your life here...
Okay, I can hear you loud and clear, "You're one to talk Zandri!" and it's all too true. I'm not casting cyber stones so much as I'm realizing the utter time suck and futility of the social media networks (don't forget to add in useless emails here...). Christ, you can't even pimp your books on Facebook anymore without having to pay out the ass for the, ummmm, privilege.
I think there was a time, not all that long ago, where social media played a vital role in an author's promotion. It got our names out there on a global level, and if our work was any good, we gathered many new fans and sold a few books. Some of those fans even became friends. Some of those good friends live in far away places like Moscow, Cairo, Florence, and many other places. I've never met some of these friends, but a few I have, and that is the beauty of social media.
But when it comes to the everyday posting of useless information, I find it to be a distraction of immense proportions and I'm more inclined lately to turn the damn thing off altogether while I tend to my work.
Okay, so much for my rant about social media. Time to finish this essay and get it out there on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Google+, ...
www.vincentzandri.com
The Remains
May 12, 2014
My Openly Naked Shameless Heartbreaking Publicity Seeking Monica Lewinsky Story
The following blog post is now published at The Vincent Zandri Vox in slightly different form: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
Monica Lewinsky, the young woman who gained infamy by becoming then President Bill Clinton's illicit Oval Office sex kitten, is back in the news. Now forty and rapidly approaching a period of her life when most women (and men) are hitting high gear in both their careers and relationships, poor Monica just can't seem to shake the stigma of the Clintons, which according to her new Vanity Fair expo, has cost her both her ability to land a job and a husband. Funny how Slick Willy hasn't seemed to suffer from the blue-dress-"I did not have sex with that woman" scandal that dominated the news for more than a year back in '98/'99 even with his having been impeached. In fact, Bill, is considered a great statesman while Hillary prepares for her 2016 White House run. Go figure!
I feel badly for Monica. While she claims that her relationship with her boss was consensual, I have trouble swallowing the legitimacy of the whole affair. Let's face it, she was twenty-three and he was old enough to be her dad and then some. To put it as frankly as possible, it was a power trip for him to bang the young hot intern, and he knew it. Maybe the scandal proved to be a real pain in the rear end for the Clintons, but by some sort of oddball twist of political irony, it might have even served to make them more famous and desirable in the public eye.
Monica and her DNA stained blue dress certainly hasn't stopped the Clinton machine from conquering new territory in DC. If anything, it has made the power duo more alluring (One can picture Slick Willy gripping a cocktail at a Dem fundraiser while Pres. Obama leans into his ear, whispering, "Come on, Billy, tell me. What was she really like?")
Well, I'm sick of the Clintons getting all the glory. Sick of them sucking on the publicity tit that is Monica Lewinsky. Fact is, I have my own Monica story to expose after keeping it hidden for sixteen years. That's right people, I too have enjoyed a run-in with the Black Widow of the Beltway and it happened entirely by surprise.
It all went down in the Winter of '98, which as some of you might recall, was a killer. I was a very young novelist fresh out of writing school and who had just signed his first big quarter million dollar deal with Delacorte Press (Random House) for the publication of my first big novel, THE INNOCENT (back then it was called, As Catch Can). Being young and stupid and living within close proximity to NYC up in Albany, I would often find myself in the city on weekends, not only to play drums in my then editor's band, Straw Dogs, but also to, well, party like a rock star.
It was during one of these weekends that I found myself sitting on the floor of Penn Station on a late Sunday morning, trying to stave off the ill effects of a gargantuan hangover. Armed with coffee and a double Nathan Hot Dogs value meal, I awaited the train that would cart me back up north to Albany, where I looked forward to sleeping off my weekend for twenty four hours or more.
It was snowing outside. Correction, the entire East Coast was engulfed in a major Nor'easter, and the airports were shut down, which meant that many travelers who had planned on flying upstate were quickly snatching up train tickets. I'd prepaid for a seat in what was then called Amtrak Business Class, because at the time, I had money to burn, being the promising new Norman Mailer, minus the Pulitzer talent and audience. But hey, it was fun to pretend.
When the call came for my train I peeled myself up off he floor like a piece of chewed up old Juicy Fruit, and gladly barreled my way through the throngs of tourists until I found my train car down inside the steaming bowels of the station. As I located my seat inside a car that was mostly filled with Business Class passengers dressed in sharp clothing, not a single eye took notice of me, my black jeans, worn combat boots, leather coat, and Nathan's Hot Dogs. In fact, their eyes were glued to their respective copies of the New York Times Sunday Edition, which bore a headline that went something like, "CLINTON AND LEWINSKY KISSING IN AN OVAL OFFICE TREE!" Okay, I jest, but our president and his sex scandal was indeed the top news of the day. I myself might have taken a vested interest in it, were my head not ready to explode. But all I wanted was to crash in my seat, chow down my hot dogs, close my eyes, and pass out for the two hour ride north.
I wasn't seated against the window for more than a minute, the first of the two Nathan's Hot Dogs just inches from my open mouth, when a conductor interrupted me.
"Excuse me," he said. "But is this seat next to you taken?"
We both gazed down at the seat in question. The cushion didn't contain the ass end of a human being, but instead, my yellow cardboard Nathan's Hot Dog container, the already mustard-covered number two dog lying in wait.
I looked up at the tall, blue suited man and noticed two women standing directly behind him. Both women were tall, dressed expensively, and holding carry-on bags. They stared at me with wide, almost pleading dark eyes that never once blinked as the question about the empty seat lingered in the air like the aroma from my Penn Station lunch. The two women were none other than Monica Lewinsky and her mother.
I looked at them without saying a word, far longer than I should have. Because the conductor repeated the question about the seat. A little more emphatically this time.
I shook my head, dumped my first hot dog back into the container along with its partner, then picked the entire package up off the seat and gripped it in my hands. Sliding out of the seat, I faced Monica and her mom, and tried to work up a smile.
"Why don't you take both seats?" I said, knowing full well they were the only two seats left in Business Class, or perhaps the entire train.
But Monica shook her head. I recall she was wearing a black baseball cap, black acrylic stretch pants, and a snug fitting zippered jacket that accentuated her ample bosom. That very famous bosom that Bill so craved day in and day out. But I digress.
"I'll sit on the floor," Monica insisted, pointing to the empty space directly behind the two empty seats that might otherwise house a handicapped person and his wheelchair. "It's no problem," she added.
I stared down at the uneaten hot dogs and considered offering one up. But then raising my head, I peered at all the people reading their Clinton Scandal newspapers, all of them oblivious to the scene taking place only inches from their faces. History was being made here. How could they not see it unfolding? Here stood not only the major player in a sex scandal that was shaking the entire world, but so was her mother. How they could miss the obvious was beyond me and my sore head.
"Why don't you take both seats for you and your daughter?" I said again to Monica's mom, at which point, she shook her head in frustration, and issued a slight, if not tearful cry. Maybe all those people were glued to their newspapers, but they wouldn't be for long. Not if Monica and her mom continued loitering in the aisle.
"Please," she said. "Don't do this."
My heart sank for this attractive, middle aged woman who seemed so stoic yet so vulnerable and hurt. Peering down at my hot dogs, I slipped back into my seat, while Monica sat down on the carpeted floor behind me and her mom took the seat beside me.
Silence ensued while the train left the station and I, no longer hungry, slipped my hot dogs under the seat in front of me. After a time, as the train began winding its way along the banks of the iced over Hudson River and the snow fell on the tress of the Hudson Valley, Monica and her mom began conversing over the seat back. They were discussing someone "who would get theirs in due time." Someone who had no doubt played an integral role in the uncovering of the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal. They spoke in hushed whispers and in a kind of mother/daughter code that, while not entirely understandable to me, wasn't completely Greek either. The two women were pissed off and I guess they had a right to be. A young life was in the process of being ruined.
After a time, Monica got up and quickly darted through the aisle to the bathroom, passing by all those travelers and their newspapers, her shapely but sizable posterior creating a slight wind that blew back the edges of the newspapers like an American Flag caught in a stiff breeze. I remember staring at her butt. Her very very very famous butt, and knowing how much Slick Willy must have enjoyed it. It was not the most unattractive sight I'd ever witnessed in my life. But then, hey, I harbor a particular fetish for meat-on-their-bones brunette girls. I'll go so far as to say that I might have even, for a split second or two, contemplated asking Monica for her phone number, knowing that she was, at present, not dating anyone. What the hell, I was young novelist on the rise and her face was plastered on every newspaper and cable news network on the planet. We might make a powerhouse team.
After Monica returned to her seat on the floor, her mom leaned into me.
Looking out the window, she said, "I've heard the Hudson Valley is like the new Hollywood."
I was taken aback by the comment.
"It is?" I said like a dummy, once more taking in the aroma of my hot dogs as they sat unattended only inches from my toes. "I mean, yah, lots movies being filmed here now. Where are you headed?"
"Rhinebeck," she said. "My boyfriend lives there. We need a little time to ourselves."
That bit about "a little time to ourselves" is as close as the woman came to acknowledging hers and her daughter's true identities, and despite a little more small talk, I didn't push her further. By then, all I wanted was to try and figure out a way to get Monica's phone number.
But then the train came to stop as we pulled into a station.
The Rhinecliff/Rhinebeck station.
The woman beside me exhaled a relieved breath and stood up. As she grabbed hold of her carry-on from out of the overhead rack, she issued me the nicest and most genuine of smiles.
"Thank you," she said. But I knew she wasn't thanking me for the seat so much as not blowing their cover.
That's when Monica stood and gazed at me. She looked so young and innocent in her cute baseball hat, her long dark hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. I wanted to say something to her. Something profound and promising. I wanted to ask her if she'd like to get together sometime, shoot the shit, have a beer or two. Maybe even have me ghost a tell-all book for her. I just couldn't get the words out. It was a total choke.
But then she did something I'll never forget: Before she turned to exit the car with her mother, she locked eyes with mine, and smiled.
"You're very sweet for giving up your seat," she said.
I wanted to tell her it wasn't mine to give up in the first place. But the words just wouldn't come.
She turned then and exited the train car. I watched them walk the concrete platform through the window, and for a brief moment, I thought she might turn and once more lock onto my eyes with hers as the train began to slowly roll forward. With the snow coming down in heavy flakes, it was like a scene out of Dr. Zhivago. I the broken hearted young revolutionary knowing that he was losing his young Lara forever and ever.
As the train took on speed, Monica never did look back. I pressed my right hand up against the glass and I watched her disappear from my life forever, and all that remained was the snow falling on the glass as it melted into tear-like streaks of water.
Maybe a half hour passed before I pulled my eyes away form the safety glass. Not a soul was stirring in Business Class. A few people had given up their newspapers for nap time. Some people were chatting it up, gossiping about current events, totally ignorant of what had just occurred right before their eyes. Or had I dreamt the whole thing and was only now waking up from a bizarre hungover dream?
But then I smelled just a hint of the perfume Monica's mom had been wearing and I realized they they had indeed been here for that brief time. I sat there for a while, missing them, until I remembered my Nathans. Reaching back down under the seat, I retrieved the yellow cardboard container and rested it in my lap. Picking up the first hot dog, I bit into it. It was cold, but not too cold. The hot dogs were still good. I finished every bit of them. Small reward for a young novelist who had just played a tiny role in modern political history, and had his heart broken in the process.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Monica Lewinsky, the young woman who gained infamy by becoming then President Bill Clinton's illicit Oval Office sex kitten, is back in the news. Now forty and rapidly approaching a period of her life when most women (and men) are hitting high gear in both their careers and relationships, poor Monica just can't seem to shake the stigma of the Clintons, which according to her new Vanity Fair expo, has cost her both her ability to land a job and a husband. Funny how Slick Willy hasn't seemed to suffer from the blue-dress-"I did not have sex with that woman" scandal that dominated the news for more than a year back in '98/'99 even with his having been impeached. In fact, Bill, is considered a great statesman while Hillary prepares for her 2016 White House run. Go figure!
I feel badly for Monica. While she claims that her relationship with her boss was consensual, I have trouble swallowing the legitimacy of the whole affair. Let's face it, she was twenty-three and he was old enough to be her dad and then some. To put it as frankly as possible, it was a power trip for him to bang the young hot intern, and he knew it. Maybe the scandal proved to be a real pain in the rear end for the Clintons, but by some sort of oddball twist of political irony, it might have even served to make them more famous and desirable in the public eye.
Monica and her DNA stained blue dress certainly hasn't stopped the Clinton machine from conquering new territory in DC. If anything, it has made the power duo more alluring (One can picture Slick Willy gripping a cocktail at a Dem fundraiser while Pres. Obama leans into his ear, whispering, "Come on, Billy, tell me. What was she really like?")
Well, I'm sick of the Clintons getting all the glory. Sick of them sucking on the publicity tit that is Monica Lewinsky. Fact is, I have my own Monica story to expose after keeping it hidden for sixteen years. That's right people, I too have enjoyed a run-in with the Black Widow of the Beltway and it happened entirely by surprise.
It all went down in the Winter of '98, which as some of you might recall, was a killer. I was a very young novelist fresh out of writing school and who had just signed his first big quarter million dollar deal with Delacorte Press (Random House) for the publication of my first big novel, THE INNOCENT (back then it was called, As Catch Can). Being young and stupid and living within close proximity to NYC up in Albany, I would often find myself in the city on weekends, not only to play drums in my then editor's band, Straw Dogs, but also to, well, party like a rock star.
It was during one of these weekends that I found myself sitting on the floor of Penn Station on a late Sunday morning, trying to stave off the ill effects of a gargantuan hangover. Armed with coffee and a double Nathan Hot Dogs value meal, I awaited the train that would cart me back up north to Albany, where I looked forward to sleeping off my weekend for twenty four hours or more.
It was snowing outside. Correction, the entire East Coast was engulfed in a major Nor'easter, and the airports were shut down, which meant that many travelers who had planned on flying upstate were quickly snatching up train tickets. I'd prepaid for a seat in what was then called Amtrak Business Class, because at the time, I had money to burn, being the promising new Norman Mailer, minus the Pulitzer talent and audience. But hey, it was fun to pretend.
When the call came for my train I peeled myself up off he floor like a piece of chewed up old Juicy Fruit, and gladly barreled my way through the throngs of tourists until I found my train car down inside the steaming bowels of the station. As I located my seat inside a car that was mostly filled with Business Class passengers dressed in sharp clothing, not a single eye took notice of me, my black jeans, worn combat boots, leather coat, and Nathan's Hot Dogs. In fact, their eyes were glued to their respective copies of the New York Times Sunday Edition, which bore a headline that went something like, "CLINTON AND LEWINSKY KISSING IN AN OVAL OFFICE TREE!" Okay, I jest, but our president and his sex scandal was indeed the top news of the day. I myself might have taken a vested interest in it, were my head not ready to explode. But all I wanted was to crash in my seat, chow down my hot dogs, close my eyes, and pass out for the two hour ride north.
I wasn't seated against the window for more than a minute, the first of the two Nathan's Hot Dogs just inches from my open mouth, when a conductor interrupted me.
"Excuse me," he said. "But is this seat next to you taken?"
We both gazed down at the seat in question. The cushion didn't contain the ass end of a human being, but instead, my yellow cardboard Nathan's Hot Dog container, the already mustard-covered number two dog lying in wait.
I looked up at the tall, blue suited man and noticed two women standing directly behind him. Both women were tall, dressed expensively, and holding carry-on bags. They stared at me with wide, almost pleading dark eyes that never once blinked as the question about the empty seat lingered in the air like the aroma from my Penn Station lunch. The two women were none other than Monica Lewinsky and her mother.
I looked at them without saying a word, far longer than I should have. Because the conductor repeated the question about the seat. A little more emphatically this time.
I shook my head, dumped my first hot dog back into the container along with its partner, then picked the entire package up off the seat and gripped it in my hands. Sliding out of the seat, I faced Monica and her mom, and tried to work up a smile.
"Why don't you take both seats?" I said, knowing full well they were the only two seats left in Business Class, or perhaps the entire train.
But Monica shook her head. I recall she was wearing a black baseball cap, black acrylic stretch pants, and a snug fitting zippered jacket that accentuated her ample bosom. That very famous bosom that Bill so craved day in and day out. But I digress.
"I'll sit on the floor," Monica insisted, pointing to the empty space directly behind the two empty seats that might otherwise house a handicapped person and his wheelchair. "It's no problem," she added.
I stared down at the uneaten hot dogs and considered offering one up. But then raising my head, I peered at all the people reading their Clinton Scandal newspapers, all of them oblivious to the scene taking place only inches from their faces. History was being made here. How could they not see it unfolding? Here stood not only the major player in a sex scandal that was shaking the entire world, but so was her mother. How they could miss the obvious was beyond me and my sore head.
"Why don't you take both seats for you and your daughter?" I said again to Monica's mom, at which point, she shook her head in frustration, and issued a slight, if not tearful cry. Maybe all those people were glued to their newspapers, but they wouldn't be for long. Not if Monica and her mom continued loitering in the aisle.
"Please," she said. "Don't do this."
My heart sank for this attractive, middle aged woman who seemed so stoic yet so vulnerable and hurt. Peering down at my hot dogs, I slipped back into my seat, while Monica sat down on the carpeted floor behind me and her mom took the seat beside me.
Silence ensued while the train left the station and I, no longer hungry, slipped my hot dogs under the seat in front of me. After a time, as the train began winding its way along the banks of the iced over Hudson River and the snow fell on the tress of the Hudson Valley, Monica and her mom began conversing over the seat back. They were discussing someone "who would get theirs in due time." Someone who had no doubt played an integral role in the uncovering of the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal. They spoke in hushed whispers and in a kind of mother/daughter code that, while not entirely understandable to me, wasn't completely Greek either. The two women were pissed off and I guess they had a right to be. A young life was in the process of being ruined.
After a time, Monica got up and quickly darted through the aisle to the bathroom, passing by all those travelers and their newspapers, her shapely but sizable posterior creating a slight wind that blew back the edges of the newspapers like an American Flag caught in a stiff breeze. I remember staring at her butt. Her very very very famous butt, and knowing how much Slick Willy must have enjoyed it. It was not the most unattractive sight I'd ever witnessed in my life. But then, hey, I harbor a particular fetish for meat-on-their-bones brunette girls. I'll go so far as to say that I might have even, for a split second or two, contemplated asking Monica for her phone number, knowing that she was, at present, not dating anyone. What the hell, I was young novelist on the rise and her face was plastered on every newspaper and cable news network on the planet. We might make a powerhouse team.
After Monica returned to her seat on the floor, her mom leaned into me.
Looking out the window, she said, "I've heard the Hudson Valley is like the new Hollywood."
I was taken aback by the comment.
"It is?" I said like a dummy, once more taking in the aroma of my hot dogs as they sat unattended only inches from my toes. "I mean, yah, lots movies being filmed here now. Where are you headed?"
"Rhinebeck," she said. "My boyfriend lives there. We need a little time to ourselves."
That bit about "a little time to ourselves" is as close as the woman came to acknowledging hers and her daughter's true identities, and despite a little more small talk, I didn't push her further. By then, all I wanted was to try and figure out a way to get Monica's phone number.
But then the train came to stop as we pulled into a station.
The Rhinecliff/Rhinebeck station.
The woman beside me exhaled a relieved breath and stood up. As she grabbed hold of her carry-on from out of the overhead rack, she issued me the nicest and most genuine of smiles.
"Thank you," she said. But I knew she wasn't thanking me for the seat so much as not blowing their cover.
That's when Monica stood and gazed at me. She looked so young and innocent in her cute baseball hat, her long dark hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. I wanted to say something to her. Something profound and promising. I wanted to ask her if she'd like to get together sometime, shoot the shit, have a beer or two. Maybe even have me ghost a tell-all book for her. I just couldn't get the words out. It was a total choke.
But then she did something I'll never forget: Before she turned to exit the car with her mother, she locked eyes with mine, and smiled.
"You're very sweet for giving up your seat," she said.
I wanted to tell her it wasn't mine to give up in the first place. But the words just wouldn't come.
She turned then and exited the train car. I watched them walk the concrete platform through the window, and for a brief moment, I thought she might turn and once more lock onto my eyes with hers as the train began to slowly roll forward. With the snow coming down in heavy flakes, it was like a scene out of Dr. Zhivago. I the broken hearted young revolutionary knowing that he was losing his young Lara forever and ever.
As the train took on speed, Monica never did look back. I pressed my right hand up against the glass and I watched her disappear from my life forever, and all that remained was the snow falling on the glass as it melted into tear-like streaks of water.
Maybe a half hour passed before I pulled my eyes away form the safety glass. Not a soul was stirring in Business Class. A few people had given up their newspapers for nap time. Some people were chatting it up, gossiping about current events, totally ignorant of what had just occurred right before their eyes. Or had I dreamt the whole thing and was only now waking up from a bizarre hungover dream?
But then I smelled just a hint of the perfume Monica's mom had been wearing and I realized they they had indeed been here for that brief time. I sat there for a while, missing them, until I remembered my Nathans. Reaching back down under the seat, I retrieved the yellow cardboard container and rested it in my lap. Picking up the first hot dog, I bit into it. It was cold, but not too cold. The hot dogs were still good. I finished every bit of them. Small reward for a young novelist who had just played a tiny role in modern political history, and had his heart broken in the process.
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