Travis Erwin's Blog, page 12
November 18, 2011
SAVE TRAVIS OR HE ONLY GETS LEAFY GREENS UNTIL I RELEASE HIM
I know, I know you all opened this page to read the words of the monster sized man from Amarillo and you wound up with me instead and as you sit there scratching your head wondering who the hell is this? I said to myself…well if you're going to be that way then I should explain.
My name is Mark Durfee AKA The Walking Man and I live in Detroit. I am a poet without much of a sense of what poetry is, except poetic justice.
Four years ago there was a mayor in Detroit named Kwame Kilpatrick, he was busted for lying under oath during a lawsuit and in the course of events it was discovered that not only had he been schtuping his chief of staff, but about a half dozen other women, none of them named Carlita which happens to be his wife's name. Now once he was tried and convicted and put on probation a kind Detroit multimillionaire named Peter Karmanos of Compuware fame and a few other kind multimillionaires paid to move Kwame, his wife, (whom Kwame may have started schtuping again because she probably put a leash on that hog,) and their kids to Dallas.
Seeing as Travis is always remarking on his size 6'5 280 and Kwame is exactly the same size, I could feel, with all that weight in Texas, the world shifting too far on its axis, so I traveled down to the Lone Star State and to decide which of these huge hunks of meat I needed to force back to the north to stop the earth from tipping too far. Well the short of it was after a great dirty, dusty and hours long fight, I (who am much smaller comparatively to Travis) but from Detroit, which comes with its own cache of dirty fighting, hog tied the big man from Amarillo and threw him in the back of his own pick up truck (my Honda was too small) and hauled him to what we affectionately call the "D."
I could have hauled Kwame back but we have had enough of that grazer of feed store swine product. Besides by the time Travis escapes from the evil clutches of the D the feds will be hauling Kwame back here to face 25 or so indictments for running a criminal enterprise while mayor. And then the world as you have come to know it will be right again and the axis will be back in proper alignment. You could acknowledge your gratitude for me saving the planet from tipping over but I am humble enough to know you are grateful without forcing you to say it.
So here is the deal, you put up with one piece of my poetry, make a shit ton (that is a feed store measurement) of comments and I will release Travis and his pick up truck to go back to Texas but only because the Feds really are bring the Detroit Dog back here for a federal trial. In the interim you will have to click through to HERE to not only take yourself to the D but to check up on Mr. Erwin's welfare seeing as I left him with only his hands unbound sitting at my rusty old computer in zip code (that is Postal Service talk that Travis told me about during our ride North) 48205; which is the most murderous zip code in the most murderous city in America. So now you are aware of the deal and you and you alone have the power to save Mr. Travis Erwin not only from Detroit but if you fail and I have to keep him here I am changing his squirrel and quail stew diet to one of only leafy green vegetables.
There was a kid named Travis Erwin who grew up in a place called Pearls Feed and Seedrun by a reprobate named Doyle Suggs.
Now Doyle or Mr. Suggs a wise man of three ex wives(two he married twice)was prone to espousing to Travis a young fella's need for "getting in the girl" advice.
Erwin, at the time not the brightest bulb in the chandelier,tried ever trick Suggs suggested at age sixteen yearswent every which way Doyle sent him to get his manhood vested.
AND THAT IS THE PREMISE FOR THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLESBut by far the sweetest part of the book is that it comes to a right ending.
OK now that doesn't count as the poem of mine, even though there is a countable iambic meter in there if someone knows how to count that shit. That is what we call a hook so you will spend your time purchasing and reading Travis' book. Though it's not Bukowski, in a prose sort of way The Feedstore Chronicles comes close to some of Hanks poetry.
Now to torture you my work is below, it's an old piece but one of my favorites. It appears in my second book of poetry which you can buy from me if you want it.
Cobblestone Kisses II
I saw a shoeless girl,about 4.Dancing on cobblestones in pure bliss.Each and every cobbleshe touched gave her bare feet a smiling loving kiss.
I wondered as I watched Where she got the joy to dance like that; fluttering dress, twirling, blessedmindless bliss, in a place so lacking in romance. Dance though she did, on and on laughing, loving, living while she had the chance,to be dancing carelessly to a music
only she could hear.
I wished I could be that way again mindlessly joyful with cobbles dearkissing my bare feetsoothing my mind taking my fear.Wishing for a childhood not knowing what lay ahead.Better yet I'd like the freedom to be dancing now this moment, this dayletting the smooth stones take my care away.
Laughter and smiles come so easy to children loved,with nothing amissall the little ones should be dancing and twirling in joy as the cobblestones deliver their loving bare feet kindest kiss.
© M Durfee9-2-0512-22-09(rev)
My name is Mark Durfee AKA The Walking Man and I live in Detroit. I am a poet without much of a sense of what poetry is, except poetic justice.
Four years ago there was a mayor in Detroit named Kwame Kilpatrick, he was busted for lying under oath during a lawsuit and in the course of events it was discovered that not only had he been schtuping his chief of staff, but about a half dozen other women, none of them named Carlita which happens to be his wife's name. Now once he was tried and convicted and put on probation a kind Detroit multimillionaire named Peter Karmanos of Compuware fame and a few other kind multimillionaires paid to move Kwame, his wife, (whom Kwame may have started schtuping again because she probably put a leash on that hog,) and their kids to Dallas.
Seeing as Travis is always remarking on his size 6'5 280 and Kwame is exactly the same size, I could feel, with all that weight in Texas, the world shifting too far on its axis, so I traveled down to the Lone Star State and to decide which of these huge hunks of meat I needed to force back to the north to stop the earth from tipping too far. Well the short of it was after a great dirty, dusty and hours long fight, I (who am much smaller comparatively to Travis) but from Detroit, which comes with its own cache of dirty fighting, hog tied the big man from Amarillo and threw him in the back of his own pick up truck (my Honda was too small) and hauled him to what we affectionately call the "D."
I could have hauled Kwame back but we have had enough of that grazer of feed store swine product. Besides by the time Travis escapes from the evil clutches of the D the feds will be hauling Kwame back here to face 25 or so indictments for running a criminal enterprise while mayor. And then the world as you have come to know it will be right again and the axis will be back in proper alignment. You could acknowledge your gratitude for me saving the planet from tipping over but I am humble enough to know you are grateful without forcing you to say it.
So here is the deal, you put up with one piece of my poetry, make a shit ton (that is a feed store measurement) of comments and I will release Travis and his pick up truck to go back to Texas but only because the Feds really are bring the Detroit Dog back here for a federal trial. In the interim you will have to click through to HERE to not only take yourself to the D but to check up on Mr. Erwin's welfare seeing as I left him with only his hands unbound sitting at my rusty old computer in zip code (that is Postal Service talk that Travis told me about during our ride North) 48205; which is the most murderous zip code in the most murderous city in America. So now you are aware of the deal and you and you alone have the power to save Mr. Travis Erwin not only from Detroit but if you fail and I have to keep him here I am changing his squirrel and quail stew diet to one of only leafy green vegetables.
There was a kid named Travis Erwin who grew up in a place called Pearls Feed and Seedrun by a reprobate named Doyle Suggs.
Now Doyle or Mr. Suggs a wise man of three ex wives(two he married twice)was prone to espousing to Travis a young fella's need for "getting in the girl" advice.
Erwin, at the time not the brightest bulb in the chandelier,tried ever trick Suggs suggested at age sixteen yearswent every which way Doyle sent him to get his manhood vested.
AND THAT IS THE PREMISE FOR THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLESBut by far the sweetest part of the book is that it comes to a right ending.
OK now that doesn't count as the poem of mine, even though there is a countable iambic meter in there if someone knows how to count that shit. That is what we call a hook so you will spend your time purchasing and reading Travis' book. Though it's not Bukowski, in a prose sort of way The Feedstore Chronicles comes close to some of Hanks poetry.
Now to torture you my work is below, it's an old piece but one of my favorites. It appears in my second book of poetry which you can buy from me if you want it.
Cobblestone Kisses II
I saw a shoeless girl,about 4.Dancing on cobblestones in pure bliss.Each and every cobbleshe touched gave her bare feet a smiling loving kiss.
I wondered as I watched Where she got the joy to dance like that; fluttering dress, twirling, blessedmindless bliss, in a place so lacking in romance. Dance though she did, on and on laughing, loving, living while she had the chance,to be dancing carelessly to a music
only she could hear.
I wished I could be that way again mindlessly joyful with cobbles dearkissing my bare feetsoothing my mind taking my fear.Wishing for a childhood not knowing what lay ahead.Better yet I'd like the freedom to be dancing now this moment, this dayletting the smooth stones take my care away.
Laughter and smiles come so easy to children loved,with nothing amissall the little ones should be dancing and twirling in joy as the cobblestones deliver their loving bare feet kindest kiss.
© M Durfee9-2-0512-22-09(rev)
November 17, 2011
Pink Dragon Poop
I'm not a shy guy. Public speaking has never bothered me but today I'll admit to a few butterflies. As I type this I am about 4 hours away from speaking at a local civic organizations monthly luncheon. I've spoken to writers groups, a few book clubs and even taught writing classes to both kids and adults, but this is my first general assembly type of talk.
My idea to forgo a written speech and speak off the cuff seemed like a good idea as recently as last night, but this morning I'm feeling a tad more dubious over that decision, after Lettuce Is the Devil my secopnd favorite personal creed is Baffle 'em with Bullshit. I sure hope it works this time.
Speaking of bullshit, tomorrow morning me and the talented poet known as THE WALKING MAN, Mark Durfee are engaging in a blog swap of fantastical fecal fun. Hope you check out our B.S. laden posts.
In other guest post and blogging news, I danced with dragons yesterday while giving out a few tips on writing memoirs.
And today, I have the honor of making the talented Deborah Elliott-Upton blush over at the Sleuth Sayers blog.
Stop by and say high to these fine ladies if you get the chance.
My idea to forgo a written speech and speak off the cuff seemed like a good idea as recently as last night, but this morning I'm feeling a tad more dubious over that decision, after Lettuce Is the Devil my secopnd favorite personal creed is Baffle 'em with Bullshit. I sure hope it works this time.
Speaking of bullshit, tomorrow morning me and the talented poet known as THE WALKING MAN, Mark Durfee are engaging in a blog swap of fantastical fecal fun. Hope you check out our B.S. laden posts.
In other guest post and blogging news, I danced with dragons yesterday while giving out a few tips on writing memoirs.
And today, I have the honor of making the talented Deborah Elliott-Upton blush over at the Sleuth Sayers blog.
Stop by and say high to these fine ladies if you get the chance.
November 15, 2011
'Rasslin
I have several blog post I want to get written including one with pictures and commentary of the party and wife my friends threw for the release of THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES. My former boss at the feedstore was in attendance along with 2 of his 3 sons and one ex wife. Yes the one that twice tried to kill him so I of course have some interesting tales to share about our little reunion the other night, but today I wanna share what has to be the most outlandish dream I've ever had.
As anyone who follows me on Facebook or twitter already knows my world is completely consumed with book promo at the moment. And while it is probably not productive or even healthy to do so I check my Amazon sales rank at least half a dozen times a day. After the initial sales burst the book's ranking has fallen a but but at its peak, THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES reached #478 on the list of all books and #38 among books in the humor category.
Humor has lots of stiff competition with many of the books having been written by celebrities and that I presume was the catalyst for my peculiar nocturnal illusion last night.
The dream started with a call from my publisher. We'll call her Dee, because well that is her name.
Dee tells me to be at such and sch address at 8 PM sharp for a special Amazon promo guaranteed to raise my sales ranking. When I show up she hands me some bright red tights and a pair of electric blue wrestling boots. Quickly explaining I am to wrestle the other authors in my category she says, "Do whatever it takes to win because your rank depends on it."
And this is when it gets really weird.
I enter the arena under a barrage of boos. Now I'll be the first to admit I'm no Adonis so strutting around in red boots and lace up blue boots is not a look all that becoming, but still I could't help be be taken aback by the fan's venom.
Then the announcer grabbed the PA and shouted my opponents name. America's Favorite Funnyman ... Bill Cosby.
The crowd cheered wildly as Mr. Pudding Pop himself made his way to the ring. Cosby's latest book was released the same day as THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES and while his tome has stayed atop the ranking there was a short time where I was actually ahead of him on Amazon.
Just as he didn't asked to be born, I didn't ask to fight him but that is what I did. And amid a chorus of hate-filled taunts I kicked Cosby's ass right there in that ring. I pinned him following a piledriver but the jog back to dressing room was rougher than anything Heathcliff Huxtable dished out.
Dee was quite excited I'd won but I wasn't feeling so good. Sure I'd given an old man a beat down but now all of America seemed to hate me for it. "Don't worry," Dee said. "Everyone loves a winner. Keep kicking butt and they will come around."
A few minutes later I was again summoned to the ring. This time the crowd cheered wildly. My opponent was already in the ring. Tucker Max, of I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell fame.
The crowd threw their beer at Max who is a self-proclaimed asshole and womanizer. Happy to be the good guy in the bout me I tore into to Tucker but he proved a tough opponent. At one point his bit me on the nose but I finally triumphed and knocked him out cold with a flying elbow.
And then my dream got even more strange.
I was slated to fight Tina Fey, which sounded kinda like fun to me but before the bell could ring both Alec and Stephen Baldwin attacked me from behind.
The Baldwins beat the hell out of my kicking and stomping while shouting, "How does it feel to get your ass kicked by a vegetarian!"
The referee disqualified Tina Fey and despite the being bloodied and bruised I moved on in the big Amazon Wrestling Extravaganza. AWE for short.
I'd made it the main event and Dee was excited. Her partner at TAG Publishing Liz showed up to give me some pointers. She had been scouting all the matches and informed me I;d be battling Chelsea Handler for the title. Now some of you long time readers may recall my twitter campaign a year or so back to convince Chelsea to consider my work for her new book imprint and while I did eventually manage to get a tweet and a message from Chelsea that was as far as things ever got.
Liz explained that Chelsea had won all her matches by fighting dirty. She'd distracted Ellen DeGeneres by flashing her boobs, seduced Anthony Bourdain into submission, and stabbed David Sedaris in the abdomen with a high heel.
But when we got to the ring, Chelsea was yawning and proclaiming loudly she was bored with all this fighting fuss. Besides, Chelsea said, "I only like to roll around with black guys, so I'm going to let Chuy fight this one for me.
That is when I got cocky. And pissed. Because I'd been looking forward to to grappling with someone with Chelsea's assets, but instead of a pretty blond I'd be groping a fat wee little sweaty Latino. But for the first time I thought, Yes I can be the humor king. If I can;t whip an old fat dude half my height I don't deserve to be at the top.
The bell rang.
Chuy screamed, "Viva La Mexico!" and ran at me.
midgety missile my red tight enshrouded gonads made direct contact with Chuy's onrushing forehead.
I fell to the mat.
Chuy pinned me.
Dee and Liz shook their head. "You were that close and you let an elf beat you."
I hung my head in shame and trudged from the arena amid the raucous chorus of VIVA LA MEXICO!
A sad dream for sure, but you my friends can help me sleep better at night. Buy a copy of THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES now for yourself and all your friends. Trust me, it will make a much better Christmas present than any of those other humor books. My leaping ability aside.
As anyone who follows me on Facebook or twitter already knows my world is completely consumed with book promo at the moment. And while it is probably not productive or even healthy to do so I check my Amazon sales rank at least half a dozen times a day. After the initial sales burst the book's ranking has fallen a but but at its peak, THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES reached #478 on the list of all books and #38 among books in the humor category.
Humor has lots of stiff competition with many of the books having been written by celebrities and that I presume was the catalyst for my peculiar nocturnal illusion last night.
The dream started with a call from my publisher. We'll call her Dee, because well that is her name.
Dee tells me to be at such and sch address at 8 PM sharp for a special Amazon promo guaranteed to raise my sales ranking. When I show up she hands me some bright red tights and a pair of electric blue wrestling boots. Quickly explaining I am to wrestle the other authors in my category she says, "Do whatever it takes to win because your rank depends on it."
And this is when it gets really weird.
I enter the arena under a barrage of boos. Now I'll be the first to admit I'm no Adonis so strutting around in red boots and lace up blue boots is not a look all that becoming, but still I could't help be be taken aback by the fan's venom.
Then the announcer grabbed the PA and shouted my opponents name. America's Favorite Funnyman ... Bill Cosby.
The crowd cheered wildly as Mr. Pudding Pop himself made his way to the ring. Cosby's latest book was released the same day as THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES and while his tome has stayed atop the ranking there was a short time where I was actually ahead of him on Amazon.
Just as he didn't asked to be born, I didn't ask to fight him but that is what I did. And amid a chorus of hate-filled taunts I kicked Cosby's ass right there in that ring. I pinned him following a piledriver but the jog back to dressing room was rougher than anything Heathcliff Huxtable dished out.Dee was quite excited I'd won but I wasn't feeling so good. Sure I'd given an old man a beat down but now all of America seemed to hate me for it. "Don't worry," Dee said. "Everyone loves a winner. Keep kicking butt and they will come around."
A few minutes later I was again summoned to the ring. This time the crowd cheered wildly. My opponent was already in the ring. Tucker Max, of I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell fame.
The crowd threw their beer at Max who is a self-proclaimed asshole and womanizer. Happy to be the good guy in the bout me I tore into to Tucker but he proved a tough opponent. At one point his bit me on the nose but I finally triumphed and knocked him out cold with a flying elbow.
And then my dream got even more strange.
I was slated to fight Tina Fey, which sounded kinda like fun to me but before the bell could ring both Alec and Stephen Baldwin attacked me from behind.
The Baldwins beat the hell out of my kicking and stomping while shouting, "How does it feel to get your ass kicked by a vegetarian!"
The referee disqualified Tina Fey and despite the being bloodied and bruised I moved on in the big Amazon Wrestling Extravaganza. AWE for short.
I'd made it the main event and Dee was excited. Her partner at TAG Publishing Liz showed up to give me some pointers. She had been scouting all the matches and informed me I;d be battling Chelsea Handler for the title. Now some of you long time readers may recall my twitter campaign a year or so back to convince Chelsea to consider my work for her new book imprint and while I did eventually manage to get a tweet and a message from Chelsea that was as far as things ever got.
Liz explained that Chelsea had won all her matches by fighting dirty. She'd distracted Ellen DeGeneres by flashing her boobs, seduced Anthony Bourdain into submission, and stabbed David Sedaris in the abdomen with a high heel.
But when we got to the ring, Chelsea was yawning and proclaiming loudly she was bored with all this fighting fuss. Besides, Chelsea said, "I only like to roll around with black guys, so I'm going to let Chuy fight this one for me.
That is when I got cocky. And pissed. Because I'd been looking forward to to grappling with someone with Chelsea's assets, but instead of a pretty blond I'd be groping a fat wee little sweaty Latino. But for the first time I thought, Yes I can be the humor king. If I can;t whip an old fat dude half my height I don't deserve to be at the top.
The bell rang.
Chuy screamed, "Viva La Mexico!" and ran at me.
midgety missile my red tight enshrouded gonads made direct contact with Chuy's onrushing forehead.
I fell to the mat.
Chuy pinned me.
Dee and Liz shook their head. "You were that close and you let an elf beat you."
I hung my head in shame and trudged from the arena amid the raucous chorus of VIVA LA MEXICO!
A sad dream for sure, but you my friends can help me sleep better at night. Buy a copy of THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES now for yourself and all your friends. Trust me, it will make a much better Christmas present than any of those other humor books. My leaping ability aside.
November 12, 2011
Down Louisiana Way
Charles Gramlich, a man whose writing talent a greatly respect had a few questions for me.
Today, I answer them over at his blog.
Come see us.
Today, I answer them over at his blog.
Come see us.
November 11, 2011
Booze Hound
I spotted this Lost and Found ad in my local paper yesterday and I simply had to share it.
Don't get me wrong, it's sad for anyone to lose a pet, but let's break down the this ad.
1) Is it ever wise to take your pet to the bar? Now the ad doesn't specify what they mean by taken. You see this particular bar is on 6th street here in Amarillo. 6th street is part of old Route 66 and this particular section of the road is an eclectic mix of antique stores, restaurants, nigh club, entertainment venues, and tattoo parlors. Several nightclubs allow dogs in the bar and there is a joint called the No Dogs Allowed Saloon nearby. So was this pooch left in an unlocked vehicle or was it curled beneath its owners stool? If the former then it is my belief the owner should have been smarter but if it is the latter than i gotta say it's a pretty low person who will steal a person's dog while they are drinking. Thought that does raise the question how drunk does a person have to be to not notice someone carrying off the canine beneath your seat?
2) I know crooks are dumb, but if you are gonna steal a dog why would you thieve a one-eyed one? Unless you yourself are a pirate and want a pet with a matching eye-patch I don't get this one. Of course my friend Lissa could be involved. She has a track history with one-eyed critters.
3) Why when describing a lost pet would you bother to include spayed? These ads cost by the word and given the fact that with some exploratory probing a person can not verify this information gotta say this was a wasted dime. If I;m going to waste cash by tossing in an extra word I;m gonna get my money;s worth and use something fun like onamonapia. Oh come on, don;t act like you enjoy the way onamonapia whishes off the tongue.
4) Pretty Girl? For a dog name? I don't like it. Maybe a parrot which leads back to my earlier pirate theory.
5) For any of you treasure seekers out there don't get to excited. I've been to Lowery's and frankly I';m rather skeptical any of the clientele there has five hundred smackers to be throwing around.
******
In other news my promotional blog tour for THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES is on going. Monday I was in Germany, today Canada where the ever gracious Beth Stewart let me surprise her readers. Hope on over and join the discussion.
And if you missed Stop 1 on the tour you can still check it out as well.
Don't get me wrong, it's sad for anyone to lose a pet, but let's break down the this ad.
1) Is it ever wise to take your pet to the bar? Now the ad doesn't specify what they mean by taken. You see this particular bar is on 6th street here in Amarillo. 6th street is part of old Route 66 and this particular section of the road is an eclectic mix of antique stores, restaurants, nigh club, entertainment venues, and tattoo parlors. Several nightclubs allow dogs in the bar and there is a joint called the No Dogs Allowed Saloon nearby. So was this pooch left in an unlocked vehicle or was it curled beneath its owners stool? If the former then it is my belief the owner should have been smarter but if it is the latter than i gotta say it's a pretty low person who will steal a person's dog while they are drinking. Thought that does raise the question how drunk does a person have to be to not notice someone carrying off the canine beneath your seat?
2) I know crooks are dumb, but if you are gonna steal a dog why would you thieve a one-eyed one? Unless you yourself are a pirate and want a pet with a matching eye-patch I don't get this one. Of course my friend Lissa could be involved. She has a track history with one-eyed critters.
3) Why when describing a lost pet would you bother to include spayed? These ads cost by the word and given the fact that with some exploratory probing a person can not verify this information gotta say this was a wasted dime. If I;m going to waste cash by tossing in an extra word I;m gonna get my money;s worth and use something fun like onamonapia. Oh come on, don;t act like you enjoy the way onamonapia whishes off the tongue.
4) Pretty Girl? For a dog name? I don't like it. Maybe a parrot which leads back to my earlier pirate theory.
5) For any of you treasure seekers out there don't get to excited. I've been to Lowery's and frankly I';m rather skeptical any of the clientele there has five hundred smackers to be throwing around.
******
In other news my promotional blog tour for THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES is on going. Monday I was in Germany, today Canada where the ever gracious Beth Stewart let me surprise her readers. Hope on over and join the discussion.
And if you missed Stop 1 on the tour you can still check it out as well.
November 7, 2011
First Times
Today, I am in Germany, hanging out with one of my favorite people, the talented author of THE TAVERNIER STONES, Stephen Parrish. Come on over to see what chupacabres, sasquatch and blow jobs have in common.
November 4, 2011
Friday Freebie
In honor of my publisher's Best Seller Campaign and Friday I am for today only giving away the first chapter of my just released book. I will delete this post after today.. THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES - Chapter One
Most coming-of-age stories are fraught with symbolism, hiddenmetaphors, and a heaping mound of other literary devices. Not thisone. Not mine. You see, I came of age while working at a dustyTexas feedstore. A place where To Kill a Mockingbird involved atwelve-year-old and a BB gun. Of Mice and Men was a problemeasily solved with rat poison. And David Copperfield was nothingmore than a dude that made shit disappear.
In the spring of 1989, I was a rosy-cheeked boy of sixteen.Doyle Suggs was a twice-divorced, thirty-year-old high schooldropout. On the surface Doyle and I had little in common, yet hisinvolvement in my life changed me in drastic and dramatic ways.Doyle ran a feedstore in Amarillo, Texas. A joint called Pearl'sFeed and Seed. Working there provided me my first paying job,my first taste of how fun life could be, and … my first brush withreal danger.
Pearl's Feed and Seed was named after Doyle's mother.Originally she ran the place, but by the time I hired on, Pearl hadlong since hightailed it back to her ancestral home in Oklahoma.Nearly all of Doyle's family hailed from the same ruralOklahoma town. A town famous for hosting one of the world'slargest rattlesnake roundups. You have to wonder about an entiretown that considers it high entertainment to track down and capturevast quantities of poisonous snakes. I don't know how the practicegot started, but let's hope it was a group of teenage boys that firsthit upon that idea, since it's a proven fact pubescent males are theleast intelligent demographic of human beings. A demographic Isolidly belonged to when I hired on at the feedstore.
Even with the ignorance of youth working against us, neitherI, nor any of my high school buddies made a habit of seeking outvenomous snakes. My friends were content to while away theirtime with the three F's – Football, Fighting, and Fornication.They washed it all down with six-packs of beer.
That brings us to me. Despite the fact that I towered over most myage, I was too lazy to be any good at football, too accommodatingto get in many fights, and too scared of my female classmates tofind a willing partner for the latter.
But then, in the spring of '89, I went to work at Pearl's.
Like all sixteen-year-old boys, my desire for cold hard cash wasrooted in a swelling appreciation of the opposite sex. Foolishly, Ibelieved a steady paycheck, and all the imagined things I couldbuy with my minimum wage windfall, would separate me from thepack. In my warped fantasy land, I envisioned hundred dollar billsbulging from my pockets and girls clamoring for my attention.Actually, I didn't care about girls in the plural. I wanted only togain the affection of one : Samantha Blake.
I'd been harboring a crush for Samantha better than a year, butgiven her elevated stature in the halls of Caprock High School, I'dnever acted upon my infatuation. Samantha was a cheerleader; Iwas a cowboy boot-wearing rabbit raiser. She was graceful, petite,and beautiful; I was a six-foot-three sophomore who hadn't quitemastered the coordination of my man-sized body. She was oneof the most popular girls at our high school; I'd lost my bid tobecome FFA president.
Turns out not even Scott, my best friend, voted for me. Notthat I blame him. After all, my opponent to head up Caprock'sFuture Farmers of America was Destiny Hayes. Destiny had beenwildly popular with all of the guys since the fourth grade, whenshe was the first girl to grow a set of boobs. There we were in highschool, and the other girls had yet to make up for Destiny's headstart. Scott had been in love with her, or at least her bra size, sinceelementary school, but as I said, there was only one girl for me.
Samantha Blake wasn't like the superficial and pretentiouscheerleaders you see in movies. She was sweet, kind, and possessedlong black eyelashes that left me tongue-tied every time theyfluttered in my presence. Scott maintained that other girls in ourclass were just as pretty. A point I might have conceded, except . .. none of those other girls made my heart accelerate with a singleword. None of them made me lay awake at night thinking abouttheir big brown eyes. None of them were Samantha Blake. Okay,so it wasn't her eyes I stayed up at night pondering. My thoughtswere of a more libidinous and lusty nature. I was a teenage boyafter all. Nevertheless, my sleepless nights and unacknowledgedattraction for Samantha paled in comparison to my boss's brandof lady troubles.
Doyle had three women in his life. His first wife and the motherof his three boys, Pamela. His second wife, Laura, whom he wasin the process of divorcing when I hired on and last, but not least,Snuggles.
Snuggles was an English Bulldog. Her fur was brown and white,and she was one of the laziest, not to mention nastiest, canines toever down a bowl of kibble. Snuggles possessed runny, pus-filledeyes, a loud, raspy breathing pattern, reminiscent of an asthmaticDarth Vader. Her stubby, bowed legs that barely kept her flabbygut from dragging the ground. She also happened to be Doyle'smost prized possession.
Ninety percent of the time, Snuggles curled up on her doggybed behind the counter and refused to move. Too bad for me ifI needed something from the cabinet her fat body was pressedagainst. Once or twice per day she would hoist her smelly carcassfrom the fleece pad, only to use my pant leg as a depository forher snot-crusted eyes. A nasty habit to be sure, but that act beat herother habit all to hell.
Doyle lived for the times when Snuggles went into heat. Havingread an ad in the Thrifty Nickel for English Bulldog pups fetchingthirteen-hundred bucks a pop, mining Snuggles' ovaries becamehis life's mission. I, however, dreaded the arrival of the dog's cycle.For this glorious week, Snuggles wasn't merely content to wipeher eye boogers on my jeans. No -- she also felt the animalisticcalling to drag her butt across the store's concrete floor.
Guess who cleaned up the crimson snail trails. Me.
The only good thing about these visits from Mother Nature wasthe entertainment they provided at each failed attempt by Doyle toproduce a litter of grandpups. Doyle whored Snuggles out to everymale bulldog within a three county area. Too greedy to share in thepotential booty of a litter worth several grand, Doyle always optedto pay upfront stud fees rather than give up a higher share shouldshe actually conceive by paying with pick of the litter.
For each arranged rendezvous, Snuggles would shack up withthe chosen doggy Don Juan. Three or four days later she'd returnfrom her tryst looking as happy and satisfied as a fat man leavinga Vegas buffet. Given the price of bulldog pups, Doyle projectedSnuggles and her uterus to be good for an easy five grand per yearand by his calculations, she only needed to have two litters of twopups to accomplish that goal.
Along with the dog, Doyle was also raising three boys. Threemean little hoodlums that I wagered would make him a grandpalong before Snuggles ever did. Never mind the fact that Austin,the oldest, was only eleven. Their father's genes were too strongfor them not to find trouble of some sort and given Doyle'strack record, some of that trouble was bound to be of the femalevariety.
To this day I still can't fathom how Doyle sweet-talked so manywomen into the sack. Women you would never expect a man wholived in a double-wide on the outskirts of town to coerce into asleepover.
Women like Dr. Croft.
When pimping out Snuggles failed to work, Doyle turned toartificial insemination. The procedure was pricey, but each timeSnuggles came into heat, he'd reach for his credit card, load thepooch into his pickup, and head for the vet's office. This went onfor better than a year, and I never suspected Snuggles wasn't theonly one getting her jollies at the appointments.
Then came the day I was in the back, sacking up some henscratch for Mrs. Esparza. Doyle had taught me how to up-sell so Iwas in the middle of trying to convince the woman a bit of oystershell and a bag of laying pellets would raise her egg production."As hens get older," I said, "they really need the extra calciumthey gain from oyster shells."
"No, no, no. No hay falta con mis gallinas." Mrs. Esparzawagged a finger in my face. She was a regular customer, so Iknew my chances of selling her anything extra were over once sheturned to responding in Spanish. Next she would pretend not tounderstand anything I said.
"Yo, Travis!" Doyle's voice came over the intercom, saving mefrom continuing what would have been a futile effort.
"Yeah," I yelled back.
"Hurry up and get Mrs. Esparza loaded. I have an importantmission for you."
I carried the hen scratch out, loaded it in Mrs. Esparza's Buick,and headed back inside to see what Doyle had in mind.
"John's bringing some papers by for me to sign, so I need you totake Snuggles in for her AI appointment."
John was Doyle's lawyer. Between the divorces, the subpoenawhen Doyle's bookie got popped, and other brushes with thejustice system, they had a close working relationship, so I didn'tthink anything of his explanation.
"Okay," I said, "But I'm taking your truck. I don't want yourdog wiping eye snot on my seats." My pickup had been a recentgift from my grandfather, and despite the '76 Ford's batteredappearance and age, I was still quite proud of the vehicle. Grabbingthe keys for the store's flatbed Ford off the pegboard, I snapped aleash on Snuggles and drug her fat butt out the door.
On the way to the vet's, Snuggles tried to lay her head on mylap. I managed to fend her off, though I very nearly rear ended aVW bus in the process. Then, right as I turned into the lot at thevet's office, Snuggles sneezed and blew mucous all over the rightside of my face, as well as the driver's window.
Cursing, I reached for a stained Taco Bell napkin on the dash. Thelone towelette did little more than smear the snot, so I searched forsomething else to clean my cheek while Snuggles looked on withsmug satisfaction. I leaned across to open the glove box. The foulbeast mistook the gesture as a sign of love and planted her wide,pink tongue on my cheek. The lick left a string of dog slobberoozing from my ear.
In between heartfelt expletives, I wiped the slime off with theback of my hand and headed inside.
Behind the receptionist desk sat a stunning young woman in herearly twenties. "Snuggles!" She beamed when we walked in. Thegirl came around the counter to pat the dog's head.
Sucking in my stomach, I swelled my chest and proudly said,"She's a good dog."
"She sure is," the girl cooed. Then she looked up at me andfrowned. Pointing with a cute, manicured fingernail the receptionistsaid, "You've got something on your eyebrow."
Reaching up, I grabbed a gooey green wad of bulldog boogers.So much for making a favorable impression.
The girl led me and Snuggles back to a waiting room where sheleft us alone.
Up until then, I'd assumed bulldog semen came in little vials.
I assumed they kept it frozen and had a machine that heated it upto the right temperature when needed. I assumed the procedureinvolved something resembling a turkey baster. Two out of threeof my assumptions proved to be flat-ass wrong.
Dr. Croft came in after only a few minutes and the truth didn'tdawn on me even as she bent to lift the bulldog that had followedher into the room. Brutus was his name as I'd later find out.
I watched as the doctor, an attractive woman in her forties,reached beneath the male bulldog, snapped what looked like asandwich bag around his junk, and began the collection process.Like a fan at Wimbledon, my head went back and forth as Dr.Croft established a steady rhythm.
Blood rushed to my cheeks when she looked me in the eye andsaid, "So you work for Doyle? That must be interesting."
I might have managed a nod as she continued to stroke Brutus.Beside me, Snuggles ignored the poochie porn show. There I was,a teenage boy, trapped in a tiny room, and forced to bear witnessas an attractive and secure middle-aged woman jacked off a verywell-endowed beast. Most would describe that as interesting.
Not me. I found it mortifying.
Puberty had hit me like a two-ton rock so I had both an active,fantasy-filled imagination and a strong libido, but none of mydaydreams had ever starred the canine equivalent of Ron Jeremy.Though I was pretty sure, a few of my nightmares were about to.And yet, I couldn't look away.
Grimacing, I watched the piston-like movement with held breathand tensed jaw. When the big moment arrived, I actually flinched.Brutus shuddered once, before casually looking over his shoulderas if challenging me to do better. Right about then, I felt about asconfident as a major league slugger swinging a toothpick.
The only part of the act I'd envisioned correctly was the turkeybaster. When the whole sordid event was finished, I'm not surewho felt more violated, me or Snuggles. On the way out I didn'teven slow down. No way did I want to chance making eye contactwith that pretty receptionist.
Back at the feedstore, Doyle had a huge, shit-eating grin plasteredon his face when I slinked in.
"You could have warned me," I said.
"I could've," he nodded, "but that wouldn't have been nearlyas much fun." Doyle laughed, before adding, "Heard you turnedredder than Brutus's dipstick."
"What did you want me to do? Cheer the vet on? Offer to lenda hand?"
He shrugged. "You could have volunteered to go next."
"That would have gone over well."
Doyle served up a lop-sided grin and shrugged. "Worked forme."
Gape-mouthed, I stared.
"Sometimes all you've got to do is ask," Doyle said with a winkand an evil chuckle.
Who knows whether Doyle was telling the truth or just jerkingmy chain, so to speak, but he taught me a valuable lesson; Untilyou're brave enough to ask the question, you'll never hear a yes.I could tell you that the whole bulldog experience gave me theconfidence to march right up to Samantha Blake and ask her out.Yeah, I could tell you that, but it'd be a lie. Truth is it took manymore lessons. Some painful, some criminal, and some downrightimmoral before I emerged from the feedstore a wizened memberof the male species.
Perhaps I would've found love and a good woman to share mylife with without Doyle's depraved guidance. Perhaps, I would'vesailed through my teen years and into adulthood unscathed andequally as prepared to face the world. Perhaps, but it wouldn'thave been nearly as much fun.
Click here to purchase a paperback copy of THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES in its entirety.
Most coming-of-age stories are fraught with symbolism, hiddenmetaphors, and a heaping mound of other literary devices. Not thisone. Not mine. You see, I came of age while working at a dustyTexas feedstore. A place where To Kill a Mockingbird involved atwelve-year-old and a BB gun. Of Mice and Men was a problemeasily solved with rat poison. And David Copperfield was nothingmore than a dude that made shit disappear.
In the spring of 1989, I was a rosy-cheeked boy of sixteen.Doyle Suggs was a twice-divorced, thirty-year-old high schooldropout. On the surface Doyle and I had little in common, yet hisinvolvement in my life changed me in drastic and dramatic ways.Doyle ran a feedstore in Amarillo, Texas. A joint called Pearl'sFeed and Seed. Working there provided me my first paying job,my first taste of how fun life could be, and … my first brush withreal danger.
Pearl's Feed and Seed was named after Doyle's mother.Originally she ran the place, but by the time I hired on, Pearl hadlong since hightailed it back to her ancestral home in Oklahoma.Nearly all of Doyle's family hailed from the same ruralOklahoma town. A town famous for hosting one of the world'slargest rattlesnake roundups. You have to wonder about an entiretown that considers it high entertainment to track down and capturevast quantities of poisonous snakes. I don't know how the practicegot started, but let's hope it was a group of teenage boys that firsthit upon that idea, since it's a proven fact pubescent males are theleast intelligent demographic of human beings. A demographic Isolidly belonged to when I hired on at the feedstore.
Even with the ignorance of youth working against us, neitherI, nor any of my high school buddies made a habit of seeking outvenomous snakes. My friends were content to while away theirtime with the three F's – Football, Fighting, and Fornication.They washed it all down with six-packs of beer.
That brings us to me. Despite the fact that I towered over most myage, I was too lazy to be any good at football, too accommodatingto get in many fights, and too scared of my female classmates tofind a willing partner for the latter.
But then, in the spring of '89, I went to work at Pearl's.
Like all sixteen-year-old boys, my desire for cold hard cash wasrooted in a swelling appreciation of the opposite sex. Foolishly, Ibelieved a steady paycheck, and all the imagined things I couldbuy with my minimum wage windfall, would separate me from thepack. In my warped fantasy land, I envisioned hundred dollar billsbulging from my pockets and girls clamoring for my attention.Actually, I didn't care about girls in the plural. I wanted only togain the affection of one : Samantha Blake.
I'd been harboring a crush for Samantha better than a year, butgiven her elevated stature in the halls of Caprock High School, I'dnever acted upon my infatuation. Samantha was a cheerleader; Iwas a cowboy boot-wearing rabbit raiser. She was graceful, petite,and beautiful; I was a six-foot-three sophomore who hadn't quitemastered the coordination of my man-sized body. She was oneof the most popular girls at our high school; I'd lost my bid tobecome FFA president.
Turns out not even Scott, my best friend, voted for me. Notthat I blame him. After all, my opponent to head up Caprock'sFuture Farmers of America was Destiny Hayes. Destiny had beenwildly popular with all of the guys since the fourth grade, whenshe was the first girl to grow a set of boobs. There we were in highschool, and the other girls had yet to make up for Destiny's headstart. Scott had been in love with her, or at least her bra size, sinceelementary school, but as I said, there was only one girl for me.
Samantha Blake wasn't like the superficial and pretentiouscheerleaders you see in movies. She was sweet, kind, and possessedlong black eyelashes that left me tongue-tied every time theyfluttered in my presence. Scott maintained that other girls in ourclass were just as pretty. A point I might have conceded, except . .. none of those other girls made my heart accelerate with a singleword. None of them made me lay awake at night thinking abouttheir big brown eyes. None of them were Samantha Blake. Okay,so it wasn't her eyes I stayed up at night pondering. My thoughtswere of a more libidinous and lusty nature. I was a teenage boyafter all. Nevertheless, my sleepless nights and unacknowledgedattraction for Samantha paled in comparison to my boss's brandof lady troubles.
Doyle had three women in his life. His first wife and the motherof his three boys, Pamela. His second wife, Laura, whom he wasin the process of divorcing when I hired on and last, but not least,Snuggles.
Snuggles was an English Bulldog. Her fur was brown and white,and she was one of the laziest, not to mention nastiest, canines toever down a bowl of kibble. Snuggles possessed runny, pus-filledeyes, a loud, raspy breathing pattern, reminiscent of an asthmaticDarth Vader. Her stubby, bowed legs that barely kept her flabbygut from dragging the ground. She also happened to be Doyle'smost prized possession.
Ninety percent of the time, Snuggles curled up on her doggybed behind the counter and refused to move. Too bad for me ifI needed something from the cabinet her fat body was pressedagainst. Once or twice per day she would hoist her smelly carcassfrom the fleece pad, only to use my pant leg as a depository forher snot-crusted eyes. A nasty habit to be sure, but that act beat herother habit all to hell.
Doyle lived for the times when Snuggles went into heat. Havingread an ad in the Thrifty Nickel for English Bulldog pups fetchingthirteen-hundred bucks a pop, mining Snuggles' ovaries becamehis life's mission. I, however, dreaded the arrival of the dog's cycle.For this glorious week, Snuggles wasn't merely content to wipeher eye boogers on my jeans. No -- she also felt the animalisticcalling to drag her butt across the store's concrete floor.
Guess who cleaned up the crimson snail trails. Me.
The only good thing about these visits from Mother Nature wasthe entertainment they provided at each failed attempt by Doyle toproduce a litter of grandpups. Doyle whored Snuggles out to everymale bulldog within a three county area. Too greedy to share in thepotential booty of a litter worth several grand, Doyle always optedto pay upfront stud fees rather than give up a higher share shouldshe actually conceive by paying with pick of the litter.
For each arranged rendezvous, Snuggles would shack up withthe chosen doggy Don Juan. Three or four days later she'd returnfrom her tryst looking as happy and satisfied as a fat man leavinga Vegas buffet. Given the price of bulldog pups, Doyle projectedSnuggles and her uterus to be good for an easy five grand per yearand by his calculations, she only needed to have two litters of twopups to accomplish that goal.
Along with the dog, Doyle was also raising three boys. Threemean little hoodlums that I wagered would make him a grandpalong before Snuggles ever did. Never mind the fact that Austin,the oldest, was only eleven. Their father's genes were too strongfor them not to find trouble of some sort and given Doyle'strack record, some of that trouble was bound to be of the femalevariety.
To this day I still can't fathom how Doyle sweet-talked so manywomen into the sack. Women you would never expect a man wholived in a double-wide on the outskirts of town to coerce into asleepover.
Women like Dr. Croft.
When pimping out Snuggles failed to work, Doyle turned toartificial insemination. The procedure was pricey, but each timeSnuggles came into heat, he'd reach for his credit card, load thepooch into his pickup, and head for the vet's office. This went onfor better than a year, and I never suspected Snuggles wasn't theonly one getting her jollies at the appointments.
Then came the day I was in the back, sacking up some henscratch for Mrs. Esparza. Doyle had taught me how to up-sell so Iwas in the middle of trying to convince the woman a bit of oystershell and a bag of laying pellets would raise her egg production."As hens get older," I said, "they really need the extra calciumthey gain from oyster shells."
"No, no, no. No hay falta con mis gallinas." Mrs. Esparzawagged a finger in my face. She was a regular customer, so Iknew my chances of selling her anything extra were over once sheturned to responding in Spanish. Next she would pretend not tounderstand anything I said.
"Yo, Travis!" Doyle's voice came over the intercom, saving mefrom continuing what would have been a futile effort.
"Yeah," I yelled back.
"Hurry up and get Mrs. Esparza loaded. I have an importantmission for you."
I carried the hen scratch out, loaded it in Mrs. Esparza's Buick,and headed back inside to see what Doyle had in mind.
"John's bringing some papers by for me to sign, so I need you totake Snuggles in for her AI appointment."
John was Doyle's lawyer. Between the divorces, the subpoenawhen Doyle's bookie got popped, and other brushes with thejustice system, they had a close working relationship, so I didn'tthink anything of his explanation.
"Okay," I said, "But I'm taking your truck. I don't want yourdog wiping eye snot on my seats." My pickup had been a recentgift from my grandfather, and despite the '76 Ford's batteredappearance and age, I was still quite proud of the vehicle. Grabbingthe keys for the store's flatbed Ford off the pegboard, I snapped aleash on Snuggles and drug her fat butt out the door.
On the way to the vet's, Snuggles tried to lay her head on mylap. I managed to fend her off, though I very nearly rear ended aVW bus in the process. Then, right as I turned into the lot at thevet's office, Snuggles sneezed and blew mucous all over the rightside of my face, as well as the driver's window.
Cursing, I reached for a stained Taco Bell napkin on the dash. Thelone towelette did little more than smear the snot, so I searched forsomething else to clean my cheek while Snuggles looked on withsmug satisfaction. I leaned across to open the glove box. The foulbeast mistook the gesture as a sign of love and planted her wide,pink tongue on my cheek. The lick left a string of dog slobberoozing from my ear.
In between heartfelt expletives, I wiped the slime off with theback of my hand and headed inside.
Behind the receptionist desk sat a stunning young woman in herearly twenties. "Snuggles!" She beamed when we walked in. Thegirl came around the counter to pat the dog's head.
Sucking in my stomach, I swelled my chest and proudly said,"She's a good dog."
"She sure is," the girl cooed. Then she looked up at me andfrowned. Pointing with a cute, manicured fingernail the receptionistsaid, "You've got something on your eyebrow."
Reaching up, I grabbed a gooey green wad of bulldog boogers.So much for making a favorable impression.
The girl led me and Snuggles back to a waiting room where sheleft us alone.
Up until then, I'd assumed bulldog semen came in little vials.
I assumed they kept it frozen and had a machine that heated it upto the right temperature when needed. I assumed the procedureinvolved something resembling a turkey baster. Two out of threeof my assumptions proved to be flat-ass wrong.
Dr. Croft came in after only a few minutes and the truth didn'tdawn on me even as she bent to lift the bulldog that had followedher into the room. Brutus was his name as I'd later find out.
I watched as the doctor, an attractive woman in her forties,reached beneath the male bulldog, snapped what looked like asandwich bag around his junk, and began the collection process.Like a fan at Wimbledon, my head went back and forth as Dr.Croft established a steady rhythm.
Blood rushed to my cheeks when she looked me in the eye andsaid, "So you work for Doyle? That must be interesting."
I might have managed a nod as she continued to stroke Brutus.Beside me, Snuggles ignored the poochie porn show. There I was,a teenage boy, trapped in a tiny room, and forced to bear witnessas an attractive and secure middle-aged woman jacked off a verywell-endowed beast. Most would describe that as interesting.
Not me. I found it mortifying.
Puberty had hit me like a two-ton rock so I had both an active,fantasy-filled imagination and a strong libido, but none of mydaydreams had ever starred the canine equivalent of Ron Jeremy.Though I was pretty sure, a few of my nightmares were about to.And yet, I couldn't look away.
Grimacing, I watched the piston-like movement with held breathand tensed jaw. When the big moment arrived, I actually flinched.Brutus shuddered once, before casually looking over his shoulderas if challenging me to do better. Right about then, I felt about asconfident as a major league slugger swinging a toothpick.
The only part of the act I'd envisioned correctly was the turkeybaster. When the whole sordid event was finished, I'm not surewho felt more violated, me or Snuggles. On the way out I didn'teven slow down. No way did I want to chance making eye contactwith that pretty receptionist.
Back at the feedstore, Doyle had a huge, shit-eating grin plasteredon his face when I slinked in.
"You could have warned me," I said.
"I could've," he nodded, "but that wouldn't have been nearlyas much fun." Doyle laughed, before adding, "Heard you turnedredder than Brutus's dipstick."
"What did you want me to do? Cheer the vet on? Offer to lenda hand?"
He shrugged. "You could have volunteered to go next."
"That would have gone over well."
Doyle served up a lop-sided grin and shrugged. "Worked forme."
Gape-mouthed, I stared.
"Sometimes all you've got to do is ask," Doyle said with a winkand an evil chuckle.
Who knows whether Doyle was telling the truth or just jerkingmy chain, so to speak, but he taught me a valuable lesson; Untilyou're brave enough to ask the question, you'll never hear a yes.I could tell you that the whole bulldog experience gave me theconfidence to march right up to Samantha Blake and ask her out.Yeah, I could tell you that, but it'd be a lie. Truth is it took manymore lessons. Some painful, some criminal, and some downrightimmoral before I emerged from the feedstore a wizened memberof the male species.
Perhaps I would've found love and a good woman to share mylife with without Doyle's depraved guidance. Perhaps, I would'vesailed through my teen years and into adulthood unscathed andequally as prepared to face the world. Perhaps, but it wouldn'thave been nearly as much fun.
Click here to purchase a paperback copy of THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES in its entirety.
November 3, 2011
Name That Flake
Upon the release of my book, the twistedly talented, Avery Debow asked if I was going to change the name of my blog to One Word, One Rung, Right Effing Now and while that moniker does carry a confident straightforward tone I think I'll keep the name the same. Though I have tweaked the description with the title as I now have a new set of primary goals.
It's been a fantastic, but busy week and luckily my schedule looks to stay that way. I know few of you live in or even near Amarillo but nonetheless I want to invite each and every one of you to Bar Z Winery on November 6th for the official release part for THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES.
For direction or more details drop me a line in the comments or via email.
On November 17th, I will be the guest speaker for the Amarillo Rotary Clubs luncheon located at Amarillo Country Club and I'm putting together details for a possible trip to several Colorado bookstores as well as a spring feed store tour through Texas and Oklahoma.
Tomorrow, November 4th my publisher, TAG Publishing, launches a best selling campaign on Amazon. The aim of which is to maximize sales within a certain window (6 PM Eastern-11 PM Eastern on November 4th) so as to achieve as high an Amazon rank as possible which can be a huge help in other promotional endeavors. So if you are planning to buy a book sometime soon and are near a computer during that window I'd be much obliged if you visited Amazon during that time frame. Of course the higher my rank going into that window the better so you don't be shy about clicking over right now as well.
I have several contests coming up as well as a full out blog tour but I'll share those details in the near future.
Now before this post feels entirely like a commercial let me share a shot a took on my way back home from Guymon, Oklahoma yesterday.
That is the sign at the border welcoming me back to the great state of Texas. This is the second snowfall we've had this year as we got 5 inches a week or so back. We desperately need the moisture so we'll take it in any form but at least one friend in Michigan tells me they have yet to get a single snowfall. I blame Rick Perry's disbelief in global warming for this early season snow. Either that or years of hairspray abuse has created an avalanche of dandruff on our Guv'nuh's scalp and each time he flies over to attend another debate turbulence shakes a few inches off only to fall on we commoners up here in the panhandle.
The Feedstore Chronicles is now available in paperback. Order your copy here.
It's been a fantastic, but busy week and luckily my schedule looks to stay that way. I know few of you live in or even near Amarillo but nonetheless I want to invite each and every one of you to Bar Z Winery on November 6th for the official release part for THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES.
For direction or more details drop me a line in the comments or via email.
On November 17th, I will be the guest speaker for the Amarillo Rotary Clubs luncheon located at Amarillo Country Club and I'm putting together details for a possible trip to several Colorado bookstores as well as a spring feed store tour through Texas and Oklahoma.
Tomorrow, November 4th my publisher, TAG Publishing, launches a best selling campaign on Amazon. The aim of which is to maximize sales within a certain window (6 PM Eastern-11 PM Eastern on November 4th) so as to achieve as high an Amazon rank as possible which can be a huge help in other promotional endeavors. So if you are planning to buy a book sometime soon and are near a computer during that window I'd be much obliged if you visited Amazon during that time frame. Of course the higher my rank going into that window the better so you don't be shy about clicking over right now as well.
I have several contests coming up as well as a full out blog tour but I'll share those details in the near future.
Now before this post feels entirely like a commercial let me share a shot a took on my way back home from Guymon, Oklahoma yesterday.
That is the sign at the border welcoming me back to the great state of Texas. This is the second snowfall we've had this year as we got 5 inches a week or so back. We desperately need the moisture so we'll take it in any form but at least one friend in Michigan tells me they have yet to get a single snowfall. I blame Rick Perry's disbelief in global warming for this early season snow. Either that or years of hairspray abuse has created an avalanche of dandruff on our Guv'nuh's scalp and each time he flies over to attend another debate turbulence shakes a few inches off only to fall on we commoners up here in the panhandle.
The Feedstore Chronicles is now available in paperback. Order your copy here.
November 1, 2011
October 30, 2011
Fertilizing For The Future
Pardon my French ... but the world is going to shit.
There are few things under the sun as pure as the joy of a child. And nothing brings on that joy like Christmas morning.
I still remember that eager anticipation I felt the night before ... The vow to stay up and listen for even the faintest of sounds from Santa ... The straining to hear the tinkling of bells ... the heaviness of my eyelids.
Then the surprise come morning when i realize I did fall asleep. The bounding from bed and rush to the tree.
Yep, that was pure joy.
But what if? What if I arrived at the tree only to find this stinker of a gift idea.
Sadly this little gift for kids is real. and even worse it is making the hot items list. yeah it's hot all right. It's a regular steaming pile of ...
From what I gather the kids playing this game take turns walking this plastic dog which is crammed full of a Play Doh like substance. The leash has a button that when pushed makes "gassy sounds." Eventually the gassy sound is followed by a plop and the lucky kiddo gets to clean up the aftermath. The "winner is the first child that gets to scoop poop for the third time.
Hell, not even Charlie Sheen would call that winning.
Come on people. Bring back jack, pick up sticks, hell the Stretch Armstrong I got in 1977 was better that Doggie Doo. Sure I busted it pen and to this day that goo is still stuck to the baseboard in my dad's house but at least Stretch wasn't crammed full of shit, or a substance meant to replace excrement.
Where do we go from here? A game called, Who wants to Change Granny's Depends?
As kids we don;t realize it, but it ain't that far a trip from childhood until adulthood. The time will come when every responsible adult finds themselves int he backyard, shovel in hand, wondering where they tookt he wrong turn that lead to them shoveling Fido's crap on a Saturday afternoon. Let's not speed up that journey by ruining your kids Christmas with work passed off as play.
On second thought I might just buy my buy the special edition Scotch Bright SpongeBob Action Figure complete with particle removing scrub action. That way I can watch the ball game Christmas day rather than doing dishes.
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There are few things under the sun as pure as the joy of a child. And nothing brings on that joy like Christmas morning.
I still remember that eager anticipation I felt the night before ... The vow to stay up and listen for even the faintest of sounds from Santa ... The straining to hear the tinkling of bells ... the heaviness of my eyelids.
Then the surprise come morning when i realize I did fall asleep. The bounding from bed and rush to the tree.
Yep, that was pure joy.
But what if? What if I arrived at the tree only to find this stinker of a gift idea.
Sadly this little gift for kids is real. and even worse it is making the hot items list. yeah it's hot all right. It's a regular steaming pile of ...
From what I gather the kids playing this game take turns walking this plastic dog which is crammed full of a Play Doh like substance. The leash has a button that when pushed makes "gassy sounds." Eventually the gassy sound is followed by a plop and the lucky kiddo gets to clean up the aftermath. The "winner is the first child that gets to scoop poop for the third time.
Hell, not even Charlie Sheen would call that winning.
Come on people. Bring back jack, pick up sticks, hell the Stretch Armstrong I got in 1977 was better that Doggie Doo. Sure I busted it pen and to this day that goo is still stuck to the baseboard in my dad's house but at least Stretch wasn't crammed full of shit, or a substance meant to replace excrement.
Where do we go from here? A game called, Who wants to Change Granny's Depends?
As kids we don;t realize it, but it ain't that far a trip from childhood until adulthood. The time will come when every responsible adult finds themselves int he backyard, shovel in hand, wondering where they tookt he wrong turn that lead to them shoveling Fido's crap on a Saturday afternoon. Let's not speed up that journey by ruining your kids Christmas with work passed off as play.
On second thought I might just buy my buy the special edition Scotch Bright SpongeBob Action Figure complete with particle removing scrub action. That way I can watch the ball game Christmas day rather than doing dishes.
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