Writing is so much cheaper than therapy, and you can drink while you do it!

Writing is so much cheaper than therapy, and you can drink while you do it!

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Goodreads Giveaway!

Hey! Monkey pic seekers!

I'm giving away five copies of Mostly Dead Melvin between 10/29/2014 and 11/30/2014 at Goodreads!
Enter today for your chance to win this book!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Mostly Dead Melvin by Foinah Jameson

Mostly Dead Melvin

by Foinah Jameson

Giveaway ends November 30, 2014.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win
Sweet!

What to do with true love spam....


I recently received an email at my author page on Goodreads.
Being a freshly published author I got all excited about the "fan" who was writing to me.
Giddy with author pride I clicked the link and VOILA...
Sigh.
Eye roll.

Spam.


But golden, sexy spam, ripe for the frying.




I redacted his name because it's the polite thing to do. And no...sadly the initials J.A. do not stand for Jensen Ackles (my alternate reality super boyfriend)
Behold:
to: 8098414 Foinah Jameson
subject: I want a relationship with you
message: I am J(redacted) A(redacted),

Am a Petroleum Engineer,an Honduran based in United Kingdom.
As i was reading,i saw your beautiful face 

(THIS PIC IS MY AVATAR THERE!)
 and  i can't hide my feelings to contact you.I don't
know how to love again since my last heart break.


But i believe distance between us doesn't matter
because am having the feelings that you are
the special woman to love,trust and cherish if
you can give me a chance to have a relationship
with you.

It is A mighty pain to love it is,
And Love is a pain that pain to miss;
But, of all pains, the greatest pain,
Is to love, but love in vain.
I am very interested to know you"

Please send relationship accepted via email to
(blahblahblah1sl@gmail.com ) or
( blahblahblah1sl@yahoo.dk )
so i can send my photos to you.

Yours Love,
J(redacted) A(redacted).


Well...that was interesting. 
 
I'm not a mean person by nature, but I do love an opportunity to amuse myself so I answered his little love note.

How could I not?


 
How could I not respond to such a moving plea from a paramour of his standing? Hmmmmm?

My response:

Dear Love,

It is rare that such moving words can wake me from my slumber. But you have valiantly taken sword to thorn walls to free me, scaled the highest tree to procure the sweetest fruit, groomed me, cleansed me of mites that burrow and chew....

But my family must come with me, we dine, we sleep, we run en mass. You will grow accustomed to their hoots and hollers of joyous abandon. You will have the highest perch and watch over us in the night.

"It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I bless the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had"

I will share my fruit with you, teach you the secrets of the stick in the log for the sweetest treats.

Do you smoke?
I must rely on this platform for our burgeoning love. I have no access to an email...just this battered research laptop I may borrow while the doctor is away.

Let me know when I may look for you. I will lower a branch so that you may join me and rule by my side.





I think I blew his mind!!!
 
I waited a few hours and, after no response, I then sent this gem: 

My love,
Why have you not yet responded?
Is it unexpected that you could tame my wild nature so very quickly?

How can I explain?
When there are few words I can choose, how can I explain when words get broken?

This world moves quickly for two lost souls in love’s fishbowl.

Do you remember there was a time a when people on the street
were walking hand in hand in hand? They used to talk about the weather,
making plans together, days would last forever....

Let not the distance chain our love!
Come to me, cover me, hold me! Together we'll break these chains of love!
Don't give up, just don't give up (Don't)!!!!
Together with me, you, my baby, we can break the chains of love.

Is there an impediment? What is the delay? Remember...I have limited access to this laptop so time is of the essence because am having the feelings!

I eagerly await your response.


My plan was to become progressively more unstable and needy, and to finally ask him to send me money because he was obviously a wealthy  oil engineer and could afford to support me during my transition back to society.

Unfortunately Goodreads nuked the emails. I was so sad. I didn't think to actually save his gmail or yahoo addresses when I cut and pasted the originals to my facebook wall. 
Now I'll never know if JA was the one.

Teehee. 
 

 
 -- Foinah
 

Sunday, October 12, 2014

The psychology of smokey dokes. Or how I learned to be a pariah and start loving the shunning.

Greetings!

Welcome to the road less traveled where all of your monkey pic needs are satisfied.
I do enjoy being a resource, a clearing house, a repository of the inane.
Sometimes I even have something to say!

Today I would like to discuss smoking.
I'm a smoking monkey.
Yes, yes I am.
I'm a monkey with a monkey on my back.



But my monkey is a Masseuse. Clever little fellow, my monkey knows how to banish my stress, keep me calm, and ease the urge to fling poo.

Not actual poo. That's disgusting.
Metaphorical poo.

I love my monkey. Who cares if his weight is slowly pushing my lungs out the front of my body!

I smoke clove cigars.


How 80's anachronistic am I?! Eh?


Regular smokes are disgusting. They stink. At least my clothes smell of spice.

Yes...I can bend space and time with the amount of spice I ingest.

I'm a polite smoker. I do not smoke near children, I always ask if the smoke will bother someone before I light up, and I do not litter; those butts are put safely in a bin. My adoration of my vice makes me an outcast in today's health conscious society.  Whatevs, man. You say pariah, I say quiet contemplation/creative time.


I abhor rude smokers. You know the type: Lights up in closed spaces, waves the cig around like a laser pointer, dumps ashes everywhere,  with the sick stick clenched between their teeth rude smoker approaches children, puffing madly and crop dusting carcinogens over tender pure-lunged youngins.
People who smoke around kids are complete and total ASS CLOWNS. Seriously. It's just not okay.
Eejits. The lot of them.
Have I just described you, rude smoker? Sorry.
(Not really)



OH MY GOD!!! YOU HATE SMOKERS!
I do, too. Let's be pals.
No?
It's bad for me you say?
It's a disgusting habit? I'm a horrible person? It's what killed the dinosaurs? You have graphic photos of smokers' lungs to show me?


I'm going to die???????
Everything dies eventually.


I'm a horror writer. Nothing scares me.
(That's a total lie. Lots of things scare me.)

clowns...why did it have to be clowns? Very dangerous...you go first.

Let's get back to the discussion, shall we? This blog goes out to the smokers ~ the proud, the few, the sneaky-outside-breathmint-'no I wasn't smoking'-weather resistant- brethren. Oh we happy few (deedeedeeeeeeedadoooooo). Smokers like me, join and rejoice in our filthy vice!

I smoke when I write. I have an outside office.

I've said before that I channel good old Gonzo himself (Hunter S. in the brain!) without the bats or drugs. Instead I have stinkbugs, hummingbirds (I get dive-bombed all of the time due to my glorious mane of RED hair), cloves, and copious amounts of caffeine.


I have certain rituals regarding smoking: the tap on the new pack, the careful removal of the cellowrap and foil, the first smoke acknowledgement.

This is important.
I channel John Lovitz from News Radio, and in his voice I say, "Cigarette,  prepare to be smoked!"



In my mind it makes the smokey doke less inclined to do damage to the lungs.

It's a quirk. What can I say?
But it works for me.

Phase I

Happy smoke, smoke, smoke....type, smoke, read a bit, smoke. Sip coffee.  Smoke half a one and put it out. Toss it in the butt can; I have a whole pack. I can be decadent.  Chain smoking my way to creative incandescence.

Ahhhh. Blessed silence. No one bothers me in the sacred smoke bubble.



Phase II

Hours later -- uh-oh. I only have four smokes left. Just let me get this chapter finished.
{looks at accumulated halfsies and poorly stubbed remnants of the sacred inspiration flaming stick}



Phase III  (usually at 3:00 am or when it's impossible to leave the house for another haul of clovey goodness because the kids are NOT going to be left at home alone. Ooof. Another pet peeve: kids who are neglected! Sack up parents!)
Back to the regularly scheduled whingeing
Damnit.
I'm out!
Why did I just crush those half smoked ones?! Why was I not more careful????
I don't want to put on pants and go up the way to the minimart!





I sit and remember each puff on that first smoke, the negligent and wasteful tossing away....
The horror...the horror. 


Phase IV: THE HOBO FACTOR

This consists of rummaging in the butt bin for salvageable smokes.
Come on....we've all done it.
When I'm out in my office I tend to channel my inner bag lady. Multiple layers of jackets, fingerless gloves, uncombed hair.... It's frightening.
The smokes are stale or dewy, and I say outloud, "This is disgusting. You should just quit."

Quit!
Who? Me?




Bwahahahaha



So I go buy a new pack and start the whole process over again!!!!!!




See you all at 3:00 am for a smokey doke run!
-- Foinah

Thursday, October 9, 2014

My living guy spirit guide is back!!!! Oh how I've missed you ED ASNER!

I have a weird connection with Ed Asner.
I adore him. I really do. Everything about him: hirsute glory, dry-wit, gravelly voice, aged perfection....


I've never met the man, but a few years ago he started visiting me in my dreams.

I know that I've blogged about it before.

Mr. Asner always has some bizarre message for me encoded in a surreal Lynchesque dreamscape. Wacky stuff. Sometimes I have absolutely no idea what he's trying to tell me, but I awaken refreshed and somewhat wiser.
Ayup.
Sadly I haven't had any guru visits in a long while.  Bummer. 


Then, about two weeks ago, my darling hubby saw ED ASNER in the airport.

I was stunned. DH did not run up to him for an autograph, get a pic, talk to my spirit guide, nor tell Mr. Asner about me and ask for any bizarre dream elucidation. Nope.
Seriously? Not even a hello?


He did, however, call me to tell me that he saw him. 
That's cool.  DH might have broken the magic if he talked to Mr. Asner. Or....had a 5150 hold issued for me from Ed's people. Cackle™ heh. ha. Um...sigh.

Guess what????

That encounter sparked another Guru dream! Yay.

It's a weird one.

I was in Walgreen's shopping for latex gloves to wear for protection against Ebola.  Everyone around me had face masks and body suits on; it was nuts. 
We had to pass through this scanner to get into the store -- if you were clear it played Milli Vanilli's Blame It on the Rain over the store's speakers. If you were infected a trap door opened up underneath and you dropped into this super big, industrial Food Saver vacuum seal thingy. Oh...and the music was Wait by White Lion.
(I don't know why...my brain is a scary place).

Anyway, I made it through just fine, humming along with Milli Vanilli as I wandered the aisles. The further into the store I went the louder the muzak got -- Pointer Sisters (that link takes you to Pointer Sisters Live 1975).


I'm looking for fingerless rubber gloves so I can still smoke outside and use a laptop during the plague apocalypse.
Yeah.
Fingerless gloves.  Fingerless rubber gloves. Fingerless.
Lo and behold I find a box of them.
There's a tap on my shoulder and I turn to see Ed Asner standing there in a wife beater tank top and bermuda shorts.
He's wearing a tie with little monkeys all over it.  The hair on the sides of his head is dyed in a leopard skin pattern and the hair on his chest and shoulders is dyed neon yellow.
(WTF, Mate?)
Ed says, "Why are you even bothering?" as he hands me a bottle of Jean Nate.


"Pour this in a circle around your desk. Ebola don't like lemons none."
I just sort of stand there, not quite sure what to do.
Ed slaps the box of gloves out of my hand and points at the reading glasses.
"Get a pair of those. Ebola hates hipsters, too. Pretentious douchebags."
I hand him a gumball (I don't know why).
He high fives me and hops on to one of those mobile scooter cart things, pops a wheelie, and starts singing opera at the top of his lungs as he tears down the aisle and crashes through the front door glass. 

Whoa.

I have no idea what he was trying to tell me.
The takeaway? Hipsters are kind of dinkbubbles. Ebola scares the crap out of me but if I smell like the 70's/80's I'll be fine.  I'll just need to adjust the 8-track soundtrack in my head accordingly.

Oh...by the way...

MOSTLY DEAD MELVIN comes out on 10/31/2014. 

Paperback and ebook. 
I has done promo now. Yeehaw!!!!!!!

Available everywhere except Mars. 
Pre-order ebook here and here

Print copy available in most book shops after Halloween.

-- Foinah