Pomplamoose Does ‘Beat It’

Boudin, Baby. Boudin

Trust me on this one.

Boudin. If you’re not from Louisiana, you probably haven’t had it and you probably can’t pronounce it. Boo-dan. But you have to cut about half of the n off of dan.

Sure, at first glance, a box of boudin may look like a carton full of soft-boiled geriatric, uh, weinies. But I promise you won’t put anything tastier in your mouth. (I’m talking about the boudin, you perv.)

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!

WTF? Cooking With Christopher Walken?

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

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!

One Idiot’s Observation on Homeless Soccer Championship

Idiot* shouting at TV: “Well maybe if they weren’t dicking around with a soccer ball all day and went out looking for a job, they god damn wouldn’t be homeless!”

Coach talking to interviewer: “We usually practice in the evenings because the guys are out in the mornings trying to find work or find their family.” (Turns out the whole point is to settle these guys into a disciplined schedule and help them reestablish themselves)

Idiot, mumbling now: “Shut up.”

Idiot=me

A Few Words About My First Cruise

Smooth jazz equals smooth sailing.

I’ve just come back from my first cruise, a four-day out and back from Port Canaveral to the Bahamas with Susan, her brother and his wife, and Susan’s parents. (Note: By “cruise,” I mean spending time on a cruise ship. I’ve done Boston to the Dominican Republic by sail, but that was something entirely different.)

I thought surely I’d have to write something about the affair, but really there’s not a whole hell of a lot to say that wasn’t said by David Foster Wallace in his essay for Harper’s way back in 1996.

The key differences between his and my experience: 1) I didn’t go alone. 2) While I can see where he’s coming from, I don’t know that I experienced despair (and knowing what we know now about Wallace adds a whole new layer to his essay). 3) Most importantly, ours was no luxury cruise.

Early Acclaim for the Novel: Part 3

How about a blurb comparing the book to bourbon? Would you like that?

“Warmed my chest faster than a double shot of Wild Turkey and kept me laughing through the night. This is a rollicking, wonderfully irreverent debut. It’s also a charming love story with a heart as big as Louisiana. I am a huge Ken Wheaton fan.” –Matthew Quick, author of The Silver Linings Playbook

You all recognize Matthew Quick’s name, right? Because when I told you earlier this summer to go out and buy his amazing book, you immediately did so. Right? (Well, if you didn’t, I suggest you do so now.)

So how did Matthew Quick come to get his grubby paws on a copy of The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival?

All You Ever Wanted to Know About Keyboard Cat

Hey, what’s up with that Keyboard Cat thing? Rocketboom has answers.