pm me your mailing address & total price including tax & postage. i send cash & get signed copy. thank you
Hey Chadwick, can I send it to the same PO box you gave me in March? I'm going to the post office tomorrow to send a copy to Brian Lux, I can send one to you too. I'll let you know the postage afterwards.
well played, mr. organizational skills & memory bank championship
add my bill to the package
Keep an eye out chadwick. I put it in the mail last friday.
Glad I had just been in the Keys in May so it resonated well..
Really enjoyed... A great beach read... and a terrific first effort by Mr. Pistachio..
I look forward to the next one..
Glad I had just been in the Keys in May so it resonated well..
Really enjoyed... A great beach read... and a terrific first effort by Mr. Pistachio..
I look forward to the next one..
Thank you!!
I just heard back from a few contacts in the Keys. A few stores down there might carry the book.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
I would like to share the opening scene from JONNY BAILS FLOATIN:
I looked down at my fingers. I was temporarily hypnotized by the natural contours, creases, folds, wrinkles, and tiny hairs that combined to make up my hands. I thought of the muscles, veins, and dozens of bones that all work in conjunction to make my hands and fingers go where they needed to go when I was playing my guitar. I held my hand up to the light. A slight hint of the Luck of the Bioluminescence penetrated my skin, which was looking particularly paper thin. I spread my fingers wide and saw the scars Edward spoke of, how they lined up across the last two fingers as if previously cut by a blade, ages ago.
The low hum of the window air conditioner unit was the only sound in my old efficiency apartment. As I gazed at my spread fingers, I suddenly refocused my attention to Edward, who was standing uncomfortably close. In a lightning fast instant, he grabbed my left wrist, slammed my hand down on the coffee table, and came down hard above the large knuckle and across my four fingers with some sort of large knife.
Time stood still, but blood squirted out with such speed that I was amazed that the three sensations that went through my body took so long to reach my brain. I could almost see the pain signals like sparkler fire being sent from my severed stumps.
The four fingers on my left hand were no longer attached.
My natural reaction to pull my wrist out of his grip was futile for some odd reason. I would have expected my strength and fear to make me pull back instantly with ease, but Edward was freakishly strong for an old man and it was evident that he had planned this attack. Pain and physical retraction were the first two reactions, as one might expect. The third was to scream, but I did not. I held my breath, trying to sequester the pain. I could not scream. I did, however, panic a bit.
Perhaps a distance of 10 inches separated our faces, as we appeared in a staring contest while Edward still had a hellacious grip on my wrist.
“Focus Jonny. They still belong to you. It’s your body – tell it a command!” Edward proclaimed.
I looked away, down to the floor to see if I knew where my fingers ended up. Then fear overcame me. I imagined that I might never play guitar again. But I said “might,” not because I thought the fingers might be reattached (lets face it, they would never be the same even if they could be reattached), not because I imagined some crazy scientist would invent finger prosthesis with amazing accuracy, and certainly not because of any other technology. I said “might” because my gut instinct told me I would be fine. Something told me not to worry.
I finally spotted one dead finger on the rug near the small table at the end of the couch. The finger looked grey and dead, but my hand, with four stumps for fingers, and covered in blood, began to glow the reassuring tiny random blue speckles like stars that I had not yet learned to love.
Edward finally let go of my wrist. The pain was still immense, and I began to sweat profusely. I held the hand up over my head for an instant thinking it might slow the squirting blood, then my hand began to feel heavy and a pounding from within began to sound, like a cartoon character had hit my cartoon hand with a cartoon mallet.
Then the blood flow stopped, quite suddenly I might add. I felt the urge to stabilize myself, so I put both hands palm down on the blood soaked coffee table. The room was spinning, but it began to slow. This was clearly the most shocking thing that had ever happened to me.
But I must stop there. I’d prefer to tell you where it all began; months before I had met Edward and how I was given the unusual gift I call the Luck of the Bioluminescence.
I was drunk again. Booker was physically carrying me because I had too much rum. And by too much, I mean that it wasn’t my fault. Most of those drinks were bought for me, and I simply cannot turn down free drinks.
It was a Friday night and Duval Street was bustling after all. It was the Bourbon Street of Key West, Florida.
Although I was mostly passed out drunk, I remember the feeling of the contrasting air around me. It was hot and humid, but there was a steady breeze. Sometimes, you could smell and breathe the salt from the sea, even as far inland as Duval Street, a few blocks from the ocean.
Key West was a mystery to me when it came to weather, but I didn’t care, I always thought sweating was good for you -- cleans your pores and gets the demons out. I was always sweating. I could benefit from losing eleven or so pounds, I guess.
Booker, on the other hand, was one of those weird folks who simply didn’t sweat. Maybe it was because he was raised in the Keys or maybe he just didn’t have any demons.
Ahh, Booker. My old friend. He just went by “Booker.” Nobody really knew much about him other than he lived in Key West seemingly his whole life. He knew everyone and the history of everything local. He was a large man with short cropped dark hair, tanned and rugged looking from all his work on boats and in the outdoors. He was much older than me, maybe 50 or so. His hands were like sandpaper and he limped like an old dog. I was 6 foot two inches tall, so he struggled to carry me ‘bride style’ into the small motel we knew so well on Duval Street. Although Booker was strong as an ox, I was tall, so I was cumbersome.
Despite the raucous, touristy mayhem of Duval Street, Booker made his way into a small motel called the Pink Flamingo, off a side street where he was owed a favor. This motel was old, the halls narrow, and the rooms a bit musky. It was a party destination after all. Booker stood at the check-in counter with me in his arms for a moment before the pretty Danish woman came out from a back room behind the counter. He winked at her, expecting the free room. We had been through this before.
She rolled her eyes and said with a slight Danish accent, “Again Booker? Room 101, its open…”
“Sweetheart, he’s a performer. They throw shots and drinks at him all night long,” Booker explained as he readjusted his grip on me. He gave me a large boost up over his shoulder and I moaned as his muscular shoulder dug into my belly. I tried to sing the first song that came to mind, but couldn’t put two words together.
There was awkward silence, aside from my drunken murmuring, humming and singing.
“Let me guess, Teach your Children, by Crosby Stills, Nash, and Young?” She asked.
Before she finished asking, I let out a louder, nearly incoherent blurb. Booker recognized she was correct, that I was trying to sing the song “Teach Your Children,” so he sang along loudly. He proceeded towards the back door that led to the alley, where the dismal room 101 was located. We frequented this motel because they couldn’t rent out room 101 by the alley due to the fact that it had been flooded recently and smelled like a wet dog. Ok, it simply smelled more like a wet dog than the other rooms.
Before I passed out completely, I slightly remembered a flashback to when I first carried my drunken mother into the trailer and I was humming the same song; Ironic that I was drunk and on the other end now.
Booker dropped me in the cheap, worn out bed, carted my bicycle rig into the tiny room, slapped my face a bit to see if I was breathing, then headed back to the bar.
Seconds before I passed out for the night, I recall looking up at the old dusty ceiling fan, as it wobbled dangerously and made a horrific squeaking sound. The bright light from the center of the fan hurt my eyes, but I was too drunk and tired to get up to turn it off. I wished I had something I could throw at the bulb, to smash it, making the glass rain down on me so I could sleep in sweat, glass, and motel filth. That way, I would be forced to get up and leave as soon as I was able.
Then music came into my head like a racehorse. What would I do without music? The sounds of the music I loved transported me to another place entirely. I held my hand up to block the light, and the last thing I saw was pinprick sized, subtle blue lights covering my fingers. I saw this once before…
Glad I had just been in the Keys in May so it resonated well..
Really enjoyed... A great beach read... and a terrific first effort by Mr. Pistachio..
I look forward to the next one..
Talked me into getting a copy. Between your recommendation & me loving pistachio nuts (sorry JP ) it's a must read .
Plus I eloped in Key West .
So, What you Giving ?........ (Thanks Speedy, Alesek, & Arq+friends)
What You Giving
I suggest you step out on your Porch.
Run away my son. See it all. Oh, See the World!
Glad I had just been in the Keys in May so it resonated well..
Really enjoyed... A great beach read... and a terrific first effort by Mr. Pistachio..
I look forward to the next one..
Talked me into getting a copy. Between your recommendation & me loving pistachio nuts (sorry JP ) it's a must read .
Plus I eloped in Key West .
guacJoe!
Really? you eloped in Key West!? Awesome. Did you get to Mallory Square?
disclaimer - there are no mentions of pistachio nuts in the novel...I think there might be other nuts mentioned though.
The one thing I fear the most is drowning and of course you have that going on with an 11 yr old boy. I'm reading those pages and I feel myself panicking. You did a great job in describing the near drowning, plus I have an 11 year old son. All I can think about is where the hell is the kids mother !!!! Passed out drunk.
The one thing I fear the most is drowning and of course you have that going on with an 11 yr old boy. I'm reading those pages and I feel myself panicking. You did a great job in describing the near drowning, plus I have an 11 year old son. All I can think about is where the hell is the kids mother !!!! Passed out drunk.
loving your book :thumbup:
Thanks Mikalina!
There are two or three scenes where I tried to make them a bit intense, but had a hard time...that near drowning was one of them. Glad you like it, sorry for the panic!
Got mine on the kindle yesterday, but I have to finish another first. I did peek at the front page, and was amused to see that I should buy Johnny a beer if I ever meet him.
Got mine on the kindle yesterday, but I have to finish another first. I did peek at the front page, and was amused to see that I should buy Johnny a beer if I ever meet him.
Well, they got Charlie Hunnam to star in 50 shades of Grey. I dont want him for Jonny Bails any more. slut.
I wonder who could play Jonny Bails in a movie?
Sam Rockwell as the BOMB, i love the guy, but he can play an asshole like nobody else.
Coby Bell (from Burn Notice)as the Cuban Bass Player
Bruce Campbell as the Best friend Sax Player who owns the Pad, i know the characters Black, Johnny, but it's Bruce Fuckin Campbell, either him of LL Cool J.
Ben Affleck as Johnny, I'm So Sorry!
Hayden Panettiere, the Chick
Best i got off the top of my head, as long as there's no Ryan Gosling, he a talentless ass hat.
Sam Rockwell as the BOMB, i love the guy, but he can play an asshole like nobody else.
Coby Bell (from Burn Notice)as the Cuban Bass Player
Bruce Campbell as the Best friend Sax Player who owns the Pad, i know the characters Black, Johnny, but it's Bruce Fuckin Campbell, either him of LL Cool J.
Ben Affleck as Johnny, I'm So Sorry!
Hayden Panettiere, the Chick
Best i got off the top of my head, as long as there's no Ryan Gosling, he a talentless ass hat.
:thumbup:
Awesome BJ, I actually like Ben Affleck. Can he play grungy?
I can get on board with Sam Rockwell..he's fucking awesome..and Bruce Cambell will work too
Ryan Gossling isnt allowed in Key West...too pretty.
No! how far are you into the book? thats how this whole messed started, i don't want my onions glowing blue.........Wait i may need to think about that. :think: :think: :shifty:
Comments
Keep an eye out chadwick. I put it in the mail last friday.
Sex scenes got you too, huh? :P
Just kiddin...Thanks Adam! I'm so glad to hear that!
Glad I had just been in the Keys in May so it resonated well..
Really enjoyed... A great beach read... and a terrific first effort by Mr. Pistachio..
I look forward to the next one..
Thank you!!
I just heard back from a few contacts in the Keys. A few stores down there might carry the book.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Thanks Ms. Haiku!
I looked down at my fingers. I was temporarily hypnotized by the natural contours, creases, folds, wrinkles, and tiny hairs that combined to make up my hands. I thought of the muscles, veins, and dozens of bones that all work in conjunction to make my hands and fingers go where they needed to go when I was playing my guitar. I held my hand up to the light. A slight hint of the Luck of the Bioluminescence penetrated my skin, which was looking particularly paper thin. I spread my fingers wide and saw the scars Edward spoke of, how they lined up across the last two fingers as if previously cut by a blade, ages ago.
The low hum of the window air conditioner unit was the only sound in my old efficiency apartment. As I gazed at my spread fingers, I suddenly refocused my attention to Edward, who was standing uncomfortably close. In a lightning fast instant, he grabbed my left wrist, slammed my hand down on the coffee table, and came down hard above the large knuckle and across my four fingers with some sort of large knife.
Time stood still, but blood squirted out with such speed that I was amazed that the three sensations that went through my body took so long to reach my brain. I could almost see the pain signals like sparkler fire being sent from my severed stumps.
The four fingers on my left hand were no longer attached.
My natural reaction to pull my wrist out of his grip was futile for some odd reason. I would have expected my strength and fear to make me pull back instantly with ease, but Edward was freakishly strong for an old man and it was evident that he had planned this attack. Pain and physical retraction were the first two reactions, as one might expect. The third was to scream, but I did not. I held my breath, trying to sequester the pain. I could not scream. I did, however, panic a bit.
Perhaps a distance of 10 inches separated our faces, as we appeared in a staring contest while Edward still had a hellacious grip on my wrist.
“Focus Jonny. They still belong to you. It’s your body – tell it a command!” Edward proclaimed.
I looked away, down to the floor to see if I knew where my fingers ended up. Then fear overcame me. I imagined that I might never play guitar again. But I said “might,” not because I thought the fingers might be reattached (lets face it, they would never be the same even if they could be reattached), not because I imagined some crazy scientist would invent finger prosthesis with amazing accuracy, and certainly not because of any other technology. I said “might” because my gut instinct told me I would be fine. Something told me not to worry.
I finally spotted one dead finger on the rug near the small table at the end of the couch. The finger looked grey and dead, but my hand, with four stumps for fingers, and covered in blood, began to glow the reassuring tiny random blue speckles like stars that I had not yet learned to love.
Edward finally let go of my wrist. The pain was still immense, and I began to sweat profusely. I held the hand up over my head for an instant thinking it might slow the squirting blood, then my hand began to feel heavy and a pounding from within began to sound, like a cartoon character had hit my cartoon hand with a cartoon mallet.
Then the blood flow stopped, quite suddenly I might add. I felt the urge to stabilize myself, so I put both hands palm down on the blood soaked coffee table. The room was spinning, but it began to slow. This was clearly the most shocking thing that had ever happened to me.
But I must stop there. I’d prefer to tell you where it all began; months before I had met Edward and how I was given the unusual gift I call the Luck of the Bioluminescence.
Chapter 1 – Sleep it Off
12:07 am April 1, 2012
I was drunk again. Booker was physically carrying me because I had too much rum. And by too much, I mean that it wasn’t my fault. Most of those drinks were bought for me, and I simply cannot turn down free drinks.
It was a Friday night and Duval Street was bustling after all. It was the Bourbon Street of Key West, Florida.
Although I was mostly passed out drunk, I remember the feeling of the contrasting air around me. It was hot and humid, but there was a steady breeze. Sometimes, you could smell and breathe the salt from the sea, even as far inland as Duval Street, a few blocks from the ocean.
Key West was a mystery to me when it came to weather, but I didn’t care, I always thought sweating was good for you -- cleans your pores and gets the demons out. I was always sweating. I could benefit from losing eleven or so pounds, I guess.
Booker, on the other hand, was one of those weird folks who simply didn’t sweat. Maybe it was because he was raised in the Keys or maybe he just didn’t have any demons.
Ahh, Booker. My old friend. He just went by “Booker.” Nobody really knew much about him other than he lived in Key West seemingly his whole life. He knew everyone and the history of everything local. He was a large man with short cropped dark hair, tanned and rugged looking from all his work on boats and in the outdoors. He was much older than me, maybe 50 or so. His hands were like sandpaper and he limped like an old dog. I was 6 foot two inches tall, so he struggled to carry me ‘bride style’ into the small motel we knew so well on Duval Street. Although Booker was strong as an ox, I was tall, so I was cumbersome.
Despite the raucous, touristy mayhem of Duval Street, Booker made his way into a small motel called the Pink Flamingo, off a side street where he was owed a favor. This motel was old, the halls narrow, and the rooms a bit musky. It was a party destination after all. Booker stood at the check-in counter with me in his arms for a moment before the pretty Danish woman came out from a back room behind the counter. He winked at her, expecting the free room. We had been through this before.
She rolled her eyes and said with a slight Danish accent, “Again Booker? Room 101, its open…”
“Sweetheart, he’s a performer. They throw shots and drinks at him all night long,” Booker explained as he readjusted his grip on me. He gave me a large boost up over his shoulder and I moaned as his muscular shoulder dug into my belly. I tried to sing the first song that came to mind, but couldn’t put two words together.
There was awkward silence, aside from my drunken murmuring, humming and singing.
“Let me guess, Teach your Children, by Crosby Stills, Nash, and Young?” She asked.
Before she finished asking, I let out a louder, nearly incoherent blurb. Booker recognized she was correct, that I was trying to sing the song “Teach Your Children,” so he sang along loudly. He proceeded towards the back door that led to the alley, where the dismal room 101 was located. We frequented this motel because they couldn’t rent out room 101 by the alley due to the fact that it had been flooded recently and smelled like a wet dog. Ok, it simply smelled more like a wet dog than the other rooms.
Before I passed out completely, I slightly remembered a flashback to when I first carried my drunken mother into the trailer and I was humming the same song; Ironic that I was drunk and on the other end now.
Booker dropped me in the cheap, worn out bed, carted my bicycle rig into the tiny room, slapped my face a bit to see if I was breathing, then headed back to the bar.
Seconds before I passed out for the night, I recall looking up at the old dusty ceiling fan, as it wobbled dangerously and made a horrific squeaking sound. The bright light from the center of the fan hurt my eyes, but I was too drunk and tired to get up to turn it off. I wished I had something I could throw at the bulb, to smash it, making the glass rain down on me so I could sleep in sweat, glass, and motel filth. That way, I would be forced to get up and leave as soon as I was able.
Then music came into my head like a racehorse. What would I do without music? The sounds of the music I loved transported me to another place entirely. I held my hand up to block the light, and the last thing I saw was pinprick sized, subtle blue lights covering my fingers. I saw this once before…
Talked me into getting a copy. Between your recommendation & me loving pistachio nuts (sorry JP
Plus I eloped in Key West
What You Giving
I suggest you step out on your Porch.
Run away my son. See it all. Oh, See the World!
guacJoe!
Really? you eloped in Key West!? Awesome. Did you get to Mallory Square?
disclaimer - there are no mentions of pistachio nuts in the novel...I think there might be other nuts mentioned though.
"Hear me, my chiefs!
I am tired; my heart is
sick and sad. From where
the sun stands I will fight
no more forever."
Chief Joseph - Nez Perce
"Hear me, my chiefs!
I am tired; my heart is
sick and sad. From where
the sun stands I will fight
no more forever."
Chief Joseph - Nez Perce
You're welcome my friend.. I've not yet been referred to as 'gnarly.' But I'll take it.
The one thing I fear the most is drowning and of course you have that going on with an 11 yr old boy. I'm reading those pages and I feel myself panicking. You did a great job in describing the near drowning, plus I have an 11 year old son. All I can think about is where the hell is the kids mother !!!! Passed out drunk.
loving your book :thumbup:
Thanks Mikalina!
There are two or three scenes where I tried to make them a bit intense, but had a hard time...that near drowning was one of them. Glad you like it, sorry for the panic!
Hope you like it, and thank you!
I wonder who could play Jonny Bails in a movie?
Coby Bell (from Burn Notice)as the Cuban Bass Player
Bruce Campbell as the Best friend Sax Player who owns the Pad, i know the characters Black, Johnny, but it's Bruce Fuckin Campbell, either him of LL Cool J.
Ben Affleck as Johnny, I'm So Sorry!
Hayden Panettiere, the Chick
Best i got off the top of my head, as long as there's no Ryan Gosling, he a talentless ass hat.
:thumbup:
Awesome BJ, I actually like Ben Affleck. Can he play grungy?
I can get on board with Sam Rockwell..he's fucking awesome..and Bruce Cambell will work too
Ryan Gossling isnt allowed in Key West...too pretty.
I like your cast. I will contact their agents.
Need some Company?
YES!!! You going me??!?!
Yes i need a Vacation and Hot Red Head on my arm in an Exotic local!!!
I like Dorrf but he's short, didn't you picture someone like you and Johnny size? Unless Johnny, plays Johnny
Can we take a boat ride at night?
And bring your Mickey shirt.
No! how far are you into the book? thats how this whole messed started, i don't want my onions glowing blue.........Wait i may need to think about that. :think: :think: :shifty: