All Hail Pomplamoose

Before everyone else jumps on the Pomplamoose bandwagon, let me just say that Susan has been listening to this on repeat since Saturday (hey, days count in the world of claiming to be so cool it hurts). And me? I can’t stand Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.” Hate that song. HATE. IT. But this cover, I’ve watched more than once. Our office Millennial/Music geek said he heard them on WFMU this weekend. And now the blogosphere — even Instapundit — is taking notice!

Some label should sign Pomplamoose immediately — and then we can accuse them of selling out!

That’s One Way to Boost School Spirit

Guaranteed to get a rise out of the crowd.

“Inflate school spirit to new proportions!” You don’t say!? Hey, I don’t make this stuff up. I didn’t create the photo. I didn’t write the copy. Just pointing it out. I haven’t seen something so disgusting and hilarious since Woody the Pencilman. (Not surprisingly, both links were sent along by the same sick person, a lady teacher in our public-school system!)

Never Expect Integrity from Writers

Writers, painters, actors and other “artists” get entirely too much slack for bad behavior. Ezra Pound is forgiven for being a Nazi sympathizer. Frida Kahlo was a devout Stalinist. And all sorts of current idiots who’ve apparently never picked up a biography get a hard-on for Mao or Che Guevara.

But at the end of the day, those are little more than crimes of the brain — muddle-headed thinking resulting from fashionable trends, contrarian politics, rebellious posturing, lack of moral compass and, sometimes, actual mental illness. People are allowed to think what they want, even when it’s wrong. Hell, I even hear wild stories about actors who find work despite NOT having voted for Obama.

Roman Polanski, on the other hand, drugged a 13-year-old girl and raped her. He gave her booze, fed her drugs and, despite her crying and saying no over and over, he raped her vaginally as well as anally.

The First Reading . . . and Your First Taste of the Book

Holy crap, there's a poster involved.

Last Friday, I flew down to the Southern Independent Booksellers Association trade show, held this year in Greenville, South Carolina. For the vast majority of you who don’t work in publishing, what goes down at SIBA is that the good folks who own and/or work for independent bookstores around the South show up, look at what’s out there, maybe meet some authors and publishing-house reps, and decide what they’re going to order for the upcoming year. (That’s a simplified version, but close enough.)

Of course, that means it’s a chance for publishing companies and authors to get out there and cajole, beg and plead for their books to be considered. And I think we all know it goes without saying that I’m not the type to shun publicity and a chance to sell himself or his work. I signed a couple of boxes worth of uncorrected advance reviewer copies of The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival and even learned that Kensington had a poster printed up for the trade-show floor. A POSTER!

Friday Night Frights: The Terror of Public Reading

Friday night, in Greenville, S.C., I’ll be doing the first public reading from The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival. So if you see me this week and I’m looking a bit green with terror and I keep running off to the bathroom, it’s not that I’m pregnant, it’s just that good old fear of public speaking.

WTF? Cooking With Christopher Walken?

I’m assuming this is ancient interwebs history, but … really? These pears … look … very nice.

A Challenge for LOLCatalogians

In response to the below rare footage of Roof Kittehs in their natural habitat, fellow Twitter user Anton Olsen posed the following question: “Is the Roof Kitteh a higher authority than even the Ceiling Cat?”

This is an excellent question. Twitter user sk8bette points out that while the roof is higher than the ceiling, the ceiling is harder to cling to and therefore Ceiling Cat possesses more skill. Of this, I am not sure. After all, Ceiling Cat dwells within the ceiling usually, no? Perhaps what we have here is a Titans-Olympians dynamic. Unfortunately, the Authority on all things LOLcats provides no guidance on this subject.

The First Review Is In

I’d planned to get in a few non-novel related posts, but Publishers Weekly went and reviewed The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival. (Third review at the link.)

Sure, I don’t care about reviews. I don’t care what the critics think. I also don’t care much for oxygen or Jack Daniel’s! I saw the subject line from my editor this morning reading “FW: PW Review!!” my cheeks clenched a bit. (But the two exclamation points were enough to give me hope.) Here’s the verdict:

Wheaton writes with an infectious energy, and his affection for the characters and culture is authentic without being overbearing or cheesy. Do the bon temps rouler? In Wheaton’s hands, they sure do.”

When I Grow Up I . . .

I want to be Daddy Cool! I dare you not to smile.

Holy crap is that good. Also, you won’t be surprised at all to find out who’s behind this band. Blame it on the rain.

Did Monday Night Football Save My Life?

Where was I on 9/11 when the planes first hit the Twin Towers? I was in my bed in Brooklyn, wondering why the FUCK people kept calling me on a Tuesday morning.

Back then I still had a land line and my first cellphone was two weeks old, so people weren’t trained to call me there (and it probably wasn’t working). But DAMN.

I heard the answering machine over in the kitchen. “Beep. Kenny, it’s your Daddy. Just calling to see if you’re still alive.”

That’s the kind of thing he always says if I don’t call him for a couple of weeks.

“Beep. Kenny. It’s mom. Calling to see if you’re okay. Call me back.”

Again, not out of the ordinary. Little odd for a Tuesday morning.

“Beep. Hey man. It’s Corey. Just calling to see if you felt anything this morning. Call me back, brother.”

Okay, now why the fuck was Corey calling on a Tuesday morning? And felt anything? Did we have one of those rare minor earthquakes that no one actually feels at the time but swears they did after the fact.

THAT’s when I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and found out what was going on.

And let’s not allow me to get all overly dramatic. Nothing bugs me more than when New Yorkers are all like, “Ooooh. I was here on 9/11. It was so scary. I almost died.” And it turns out they were sitting in Central Park or visiting a relative in Ronkonkoma. That day’s horrible enough without people trying to jump on the pity bandwagon. Should be one day when one-uppers keep their damn mouths shut. (Please forgive the overly dramatic headline, but I gotta grab the readers ya know?)

Fact is, I didn’t work near World Trade and my commute wouldn’t have taken me that close. Had I gone to work that day, I may have made it all the way in. Or I may have been stopped somewhere in lower Manhattan or DUMBO (in Brooklyn). Most likely scenario, I would have been inconvenienced, trapped in Manhattan. Worst case? My dumb ass would have decided to go check it out after the planes hit and before the buildings collapsed. (My mom to me during Katrina: “I’m just glad you’re not here because you’d probably go down to New Orleans just to see.”)

But I was in bed.

Why was I still in bed? Because I stayed up late watching the New York Giants get their asses kicked by the Denver Broncos during Monday Night Football. I was going to go to bed at halftime but decided, “Meh, screw it. I’ll call in sick tomorrow and stay up and watch the game.”

So thank you to the NFL for that game. And even to the Giants for sucking.

And fellas, don’t ever let anyone tell you watching Monday Night Football is a waste of time!