So yesterday, I spent upwards of 45 minutes scheduling social-media posts to promote my novels. To say it’s not one of my favorite things to do is an understatement.
It’s boring and it also makes me feel cheap and desperate. “Please, please buy my books. Won’t someone please buy my books?!? They’re old but they’re still good!”
There are companies who provide these services. They charge money, of course. The money, however, isn’t the issue. It’s that these companies seem to be followed mostly by other desperate authors who number in the tens of thousands. And the social-media promotion these companies provide is basically: “Here’s a tweet of this author’s book and an off-center picture of the author and/or his book cover.” This tweet is immediately followed by similar tweets for about a hundred other authors. If I’m gonna get tied up with a pimp, I expect more than that. Continue reading “Why Twitter Hearts Are Like Bull Nipples”→
I may have been inspired to start a new business. For a low fee — certainly lower than the competition — I’ll work with folks thinking of opening a restaurant and save them thousands and thousands of dollars.
But first, a word about my inspiration. Recently, someone opened up a buffet joint in Bay Ridge, right around the block from us. This wasn’t a sudden move. There’d been signs in the window promising its arrival for well over a year. “Coming soon,” the signs said. “Buffet!” And so, in the middle of November and after a week of papering the neighborhood with menus, someone opened a restaurant located between a laundromat and the Brooklyn Bad Ass Academy (yes, that’s a real thing).
I’ve seen four customers in that place since and they very well could have been employees or family members. This, despite the increasing proliferation of signs in the windows advertising brunch and discounts for police, firemen and senior citizens. I’ve walked by during the morning, during lunch, at night — on weekends and weekdays. Nothing.
Sure, the place could have been opened as a money-laundering operation, a tax write-off, a front for the Indian mafia or something like that. But I suspect some guy thought to himself, “I’m the one who’s going to make an Indian buffet restaurant work in this weird location.”
So here’s my business idea. I become a consultant. Aspiring restaurant openers (I HATE the word restaurateur for some reason. Where the hell did the n go?) will come to me, I will take their money, then sit them down and say, “ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS OPENING A RESTAURANT! WHO’S YOUR CUSTOMER? WHERE’S YOUR FOOT TRAFFIC COMING FROM? WHERE ARE YOU MARKETING? ENJOY THE RESTAURANT FOOD BECAUSE YOU’LL BE EATING OUT OF CANS AFTER THIS THING GOES BELLY UP!”
Cara often calls me The Dream Crusher. It’s about time I put that skill to use. (Though that’s pretty much what editing is.)
Maybe I’ll be more polite than that. Maybe just send this video.
I feel it would be a real service. And I’m not going to be greedy about it. I’m only going to charge $5,000 or 10% for what you were planning to spend to open your restaurant — whichever makes you happy.
For this low fee — about half what 40 hours worth of restaurant consulting would cost from someone else — you get:
A tax deductible business expense.
Savings of anywhere between $50,000 and $500,000 depending on location.
Better credit — after you repay the loan you know you already took out without consulting with anyone else first.
A roof over your head — because you won’t be taking out multiple mortgages on your house.
Time to find a job that doesn’t require you to work seven days a week 365 days a year and/or manage ego-raging chefs, snotty high-school and college kids who think they’re better than you and border-line criminals.
A firm guarantee that your spouse will not spend the rest of you marriage (however long it may last) asking, “What did you do to us?”
The knowledge that you actually did spend money pursuing your dream.
The ability to tell friends, “Yeah, I looked into opening a restaurant, but my consultant said it wasn’t the way to go right now. I might invest in alpacas.” (Don’t invest in alpacas.)
Sounds like a win-win for everyone involved. Now all I have to do is go find some prime Manhattan office space. I need to look legit.
Some not uncommon side effects of the flu shot may include
Getting sick 24 hours after getting the shot
Saying “This fucking shot got me sick, which is why I never used to get it in the first place.”
Saying “Besides, I’m not six or 75 so it’s not like I needed the damn thing in the first place. But everyone’s like ‘OMG. Y U NO GET FLU SHOT?!? U DUM OR SUMPIN. ANYWAY ITS FREE.'” And you like free things. So.
Suddenly remembering there’s no such thing as a free lunch.
Being told by your wife, “You can’t get sick from the flu shot.”
Thinking, “Oh yeah, says who?” and hoping she’ll respond, “The government. That’s who.” And then you say, “Yeah, well the government says MSG allergies don’t exist and essential oils are a hoax. Also, the government is now run by Donald Trump. So who you gonna believe? Me or Donald Trump?”
Not saying any of the above because she might slap you in the arm where you got the flu shot and that shit hurts and then she’ll call you a baby and remind you that she TOLD you to move the arm after getting the shot but did you listen? No you did not listen.
Googling flu shot side effects.
Clicking on the CDC website and being told the flu cannot give you the flu.
Thinking, “Well they would say that wouldn’t they? They’re pumping it into everyone.”
Thinking, “These are the same clowns who said they had Ebola so under control.”
Thinking, “Oh, they use a dead virus do they? How does that even work? Couldn’t I just chew on a snotty flu tissue and immunize myself?”
Thinking, “Maybe I’ll text my friend at the CDC and set some shit straight right now. Get to the bottom of all this.” But can practically HEAR the eye rolling.
Thinking, “God. I’m starting to sound like those anti-vaxxer loons I make fun of on Facebook.”
Reading the line on the CDC site: “Some studies have found a possible small association of injectable flu vaccine with Guillain-Barré syndrome (GBS).”
They were loud talkers, so this story ends in the perfect way.
But you know who I’m talking about, that couple who always has one, two or three issues that they feel need to be aired out in public. This morning, they chose to do it on the R Train out of Bay Ridge. For the one stop the three of us shared, they were speaking Spanish so I was able to ignore it.
Two other women, speaking Spanish, were apparently unable to ignore it because they gave up seats to move away from the couple.
When the train pulled into 59th the street, the man exited and walked across the platform to the arriving N Train. And then the woman freaked out. She walked to the door of our R Train and started yelling, first in Spanish and then in English.
“My keys. I need my keys.” In Spanish again. “I need my fucking keys. Now. Give them to me.”
She was holding the train door. Both trains were just sitting there. I don’t know where we were in relation to the conductors of each, but maybe they heard the commotion and were giving these two a chance to get it done. The passengers on the R Train were mildly annoyed at the yelling. We were all waiting to get extremely annoyed if the conductor tried to close the door and Drama Queen had her ass wedged there and wouldn’t let us leave.
She shouted again, waving frantically. “MY KEYS!”
And for some reason, one thought flitted across my mind: Don’t do it.
But of course he did it. HE THREW THE KEYS. About two pounds of keys and key chain were launched toward the R Train.
Where do you think they landed?
On the platform? No. On the floor of the train? Of course not.
In her hands?
Well, they hit her hands, barely, and then fell, right into the gap between the train and the platform onto the tracks.
“Oh my god! How the fuck you gonna do that to me?” she yelled, then said some other things in Spanish that made me wish I knew all the dirtiest curse words in Spanish because I bet that’s what she was using. The man remained silent.
She stepped out of the train. The doors closed. The women speaking Spanish said something and laughed. Then someone else said, “Boy and you thought your day was bad,” and everyone else laughed. And off we went.
It feels a little weird to write something (else) about the flooding in Louisiana a few weeks ago. After all, a hurricane just hit Florida and I’m constantly checking weather sites to see if it’ll make it to New York (not out of fear, but to see if it’s going to screw up my barbecue plans).
But the sad fact of the matter is that just because something bad is happening in one place, it doesn’t mean bad things just stop happening elsewhere. The national news media barely covered the Louisiana Floods to begin with. Because of that (and other shameless behavior when it comes to the state), they weren’t exactly welcomed with open arms. And when the flood waters showed the first signs of receding, they were off after the next shiny thing, whether that was Ryan Lochte, Donald Trump or the Italian earthquake, all of which got much more coverage.
Here’s the thing about floodwaters receding, though. It’s only then you see the real devastation. There might not be much of the dramatic structural damage associated with hurricanes or tornadoes, but the interiors of houses are ruined. And days later, every street in some towns becomes a valley of discarded furniture, sheetrock, moldy insulation. It looks like the houses had a hell of a frat party and then threw up all at the same time.
My Uncle Carl’s house was flooded. In one of those surreal moments created by modern life, I’d seen the first hint of this flit by on Facebook when my cousin Lainey asked if anyone had heard from her dad. Within half an hour, three people in pickups had shown up at his house. (The below photo is obviously taken before the flood.)
He was fine. But the house took on water. Flooding is relative. It didn’t get anywhere near the roof of the house, so yes, others had it worse. But once the water’s in. Floors had to be ripped out. Furniture had to be thrown out. And when they started cutting into the walls, they discovered water had gotten in there, too. So, it all had to be thrown out. And, obviously, it all has to be replaced. Which isn’t easy.
My cousin Corey started a GoFundMe page and I’ll let him explain a little bit about who Uncle Carl is:
a veteran of the National Guard, living with ALS, a widower, and a survivor of the Flood of 2016. He’s worked his whole life to make a home for us growing up, and now in his retired years he’s having to rebuild once again. In 1987 our home was wiped away by a tornado and today he lives those memories all over again. We have had some help from FEMA but it barely covers materials for the basics of reconstruction.
That might make Uncle Carl sound like Job, but most mornings he’s up and posting on Facebook that it’s time for coffee and asking if everyone’s okay.
A word about that “widower” bit. If you’ve read my third novel, Sweet as Cane, Salty as Tears, you’ll know that the events in the book are kicked off by the death of the main character’s sister. If you’ve read anything I wrote about the writing of the book or come to my reading, you’ll know that it was the death of my Aunt Debbie that sort of shook me and kicked off that part of the book. That’s her holding me in the picture below. She was 15. I was 1.
We were young once … and tee-tiny.She was Uncle Carl’s wife.
This is them at a wedding:
Now, some folks might ask, “Ken, why don’t you, I don’t know, donate some of the millions you make off of that book?”
Well, first of all, there are no millions. What I’ve made off of the book, I could maybe pay one month’s rent here in Brooklyn. Secondly, even if there were a mad rush on it, I wouldn’t see that money until next year at some point, because book publishing is an antiquated industry run by not particularly bright wizards.
Thirdly, every time you see one of those “Proceeds from this book” things, know that it’s first and foremost a marketing ploy, a PR effort to drive up sales for the book. That’s not what this is about.
I just want anyone reading this to a) donate and b) share it. Just to be clear, I donated. I’m also not a fan of “Well, I wrote about it, so I did my part! Raising awareness! Starting the conversation!” Conversation ain’t gonna get the mold out of the walls.
They’re not asking a lot. Five bucks, 10 bucks. Hell, two bucks! Donate here.
P.S. I didn’t write anything about my cousin Jason in this post. Hi Jason!
I’m typing this post out while hauling ass through the South of France on a TGV train, the arid, hilly countryside and villages filled with sandy-colored houses topped with red-tile roofs. It’s the sort of region in which you could film Western movies and the audience wouldn’t know the difference. (Just ignore the fact that if you climb the next hill, you’ll be faced with the blue waters of the Mediterranean.)
I never thought that I would be writing about this on my first ever travel blog post. I considered leaving this part of my journey out, however, I have always told myself if I’m finally going to start a travel blog, it will be honest, raw, and comprehensive. So here goes…
In over four years of extensive travel to over 30 countries, I found myself in a foreign country with no cash, credit or debit cards. My flight from Lafayette to Cancun, Mexico took just over three hours. This situation could have been a lot worse had I been farther from home in a less populated or third world non-English speaking country. Luckily, I was is one of the most modern and touristy cities in Mexico. Like most cities, the airport is set on the outskirts of town so to get to Zona Hotelera it takes…
If that headline doesn’t win an award for best SEO-optimization, I don’t know what would? The only thing missing is Kardashian and “You Won’t Believe What Happened Next.”
Anyway, one of the reasons I hadn’t been blogging much is, as stated last time, bandwidth issues. When I took on the new job, I didn’t give up writing the column at work, so, well, it’s sad really. I remember back in the day when James Lileks wrote a daily 6-katrillion word piece for his own blog, did some sort of radio stuff, wrote a column for work and more (actually, I’m pretty sure he still does it). Here I am bitching about getting a column out every other week. In my defense, I totally kick ass at going to meetings, though.
Anyhoo. So the column. What have I been writing about? This week I wrote about the Super Bowl, as one would expect. But I did not do the ad review this year. No, I just wrote about surviving your $4.8 million hangover if you were a marketing executive who bought an ad in the game and, perhaps, it didn’t go so well. Also: PuppyMonkeyBaby.
I wrote about Coke’s new marketing as well, but that might be a little TOO focused on marketing for anyone outside the industry to get into it.
I even took some time out of my busy schedule to write about Donald Trump and his political campaign, such as it is. This was well before Iowa. And, as you can imagine, I got an earful from his supporters for daring to suggest that his marketing efforts, while great for him, aren’t replicable for anyone else, much less real companies that have to sell actual things to actual people. (Try to imagine Coke or Procter & Gamble, straight-up calling people smelly ugly losers … rather than just implying you could be one if you don’t use their products.)
Now, some of the ex-suburbanites who dwell in New York are already laughing, because they’ve convinced themselves that a recliner is something to be scorned rather than a technological marvel that deserves a place in the annals of history right up there with the air conditioner and television. But you go right ahead and pretend you scoff at the recliner because of your impeccable taste in design rather than some deep-seated daddy issues that we’d rather not get into. I’d tell you to “enjoy” the discomfort of your Modern furniture, but you probably don’t notice what with the stick up your ass.
Where was I? Oh. I wanted a recliner. We now have plenty of room and the couch and ottoman thing has been killing my back. I wanted something cheap, functional and not completely ugly. Cara thought it was all quite cute until she sat in a recliner and I saw immediately we’d be fighting for whatever I purchased. So we got a loveseat with two recliners built in because, like Charles Manson said, if you’re gonna do it, do it witchy.
So yesterday, I spent upwards of 45 minutes scheduling social-media posts to promote my novels. To say it’s not one of my favorite things to do is an understatement.
Some not uncommon side effects of the flu shot may include
Bonjour from France, yall.
If that headline doesn’t win an award for best SEO-optimization, I don’t know what would? The only thing missing is Kardashian and “You Won’t Believe What Happened Next.”
KEN WHEATON 