A Grassroots Marketing Campaign for Ashley Bay

Ashley Bay is not Pearl Harbor director Michael Bay's wife, it's the title of a work of Christian fiction by a man named Rob R. Thompson. Rob R. Thompson is a former member of the New Hampshire House of Representatives, a lobbyist for the Christian Coalition, and Political Director for Alan Keyes's 2000 presidential campaign.

Last month my store received a telephone order for three hardcover copies of Ashley Bay from someone calling himself Rob Rowe. When the books arrived at the store it was discovered that the number Rob Rowe had given was out of service, and upon further investigation, it was revealed that Rob R. Thompson's middle name is Rowe. The managers deduced that the order had been placed by Rob R. Thompson himself, a devious plot to trick us into stocking his book. If that is in fact true, Mr. Thompson 's understanding of the publishing industry is much poorer than one might expect.

Still, I feel for the man. It's hard to spend a lot of time on something, only to have it released by a shitty press no one cares about, to never see it on shelves in local stores, and to be remembered primarily as the political director of Alan Keyes's 2000 presidential campaign. His rude little stunt was a cry for attention, and in some small way it has succeeded. Rob R. Thompson, I am going to help you out-- I'm going to use my blog to advertise your book. Free of charge.
Of course, I don't have room for a very long excerpt. Many of you (and here I'm thinking of Katie Youell) have already stopped reading and left to check the Internet Movie Database. So I have selected six extremely brief, random passages from Ashley Bay. You may judge their worth for yourself, and if the spirit moves you the complete book is available online, or at my Barnes and Noble, located at 5501 West Broad Street, conveniently less than a mile from Interstate 64 .

The stories of the sea fascinated me as if I were a young man seeking pirate like adventures all over again. (pg 31)

Smacking my teeth and licking the hitchhikers off my fingers, I made my way to the sidewalk nearest my son to be young friend. [sic] (pg 37)

Dottie adjusted her abundance and in a Yankee like manner informed me, "Don't bull shit me boy. all the Dartmouth know how language can't undo simple disappointments [sic]. When you feel bad get it out, it's like the flu. We won't get better if we want to stay sick, aye?" (pg 50)

I lay down as I had for sometime now, arms at my side and staring at a pockmarked ceiling. It was a ceiling that was once strewn with welcome home balloons, congratulation signs and happy birthday wishes but not anymore. It was now a ceiling that saw gray stains of doubt and cobwebs of forgetfulness and it hovered over me as I welcomed the night. (pg 94)

"We grew up mostly here and Mama died and is buried up the road aways The war came and I went and did some fighting, joined the army met my gal Ruthie brought her here and here we made out lives." [sic] (pg 157)

My bones had become frail, my hair more gray and my vision questionable for night time use. Otis too looked older certainly fatter than when our journey had begun. He was likely to soon sit on his stomach and not the part of his body that God had intended for such purposes. (pg 218)

Ashley Bay (ISBN 1-59682-021-7) is published by Fultus Corporation. Their website is at www.fultus.com.

Mr. Thompson, feel free to express your gratitude using the comment feature.

June is Gay and Lesbian Pride Month

I have a couple small things I want to throw out.

One is my frustration with Rick, the guy who does the staff recommendations at my store. He asked for Gay and Lesbian themed selections for June, but wouldn't let me recommend Angels in America as "The gayest movie ever." I have a friend (her name is Raven. Hi Raven, I'm giving you a shout out) who recommended the book G.R.I.T.S.: Girls raised in the South under the words "There's more than one way to eat grits." Apparently allusions to oral sex are fine, but my comparatively bland "the gayest movie ever," that's taking things too far.
Possibly Rick isn't so much bothered by the remark being inappropriate as he disagrees with my ranking. And if he was thinking that Personal Best is gayer than Angels in America, well there's an argument to be made for that.

Second, and unrelated to anything gay, I think Dairy Queen should rethink the name of its coffee flavored milkshake, the Moo-Latte. I understand what the marketing people were thinking-- "Moo like cow, that's funny. Latte like espresso and steamed milk-- a mixing of an elitist yuppie drink and a bit of agricultural onomatopoeia. Something for the red states and the blue, excellent."
But when I saw a commercial for it the other day, a commercial that shows the moo-latte being enjoyed by a young african-american couple, I couldn't get away from "moo-latte"'s resemblance to a certain racial epithet. That is to say, mulatto.
I am not the first person to have this idea, and below are several links to pages exploring the Moo-Latte in greater depth.

Moo-Latte related links

A very funny interview a Houston paper had with a Dairy Queen representative.

A markedly less funny blurb about a poorly named Swedish ice cream.

This is just some asshole ranting about his job and making mean jokes about fat people that came up when I googled "Moo-latte." It's kind of horrifying, but interesting too, in a sort of sick, "Wow, people are nuts" kind of way.

Mormtastic

The other day two young Mormons knocked on my door, and I ended up engaging them in a discussion about my religious beliefs. I tried to avoid this, but Mormons are crafty. Sure, they looked dumb standing there, all pale with their big brown eyes and bad yellow teeth, but that's what they wanted me to think. I'm embarassed to say I underestimated them.
I thought I could cut them off quickly and end things on my own terms, that is to say politely. So the first thing I said was "Listen, I don't want to be rude, but I'm not interested." Which seems straightforward and polite to me, but I guess door to door religious evangelism doesn't happen without some stick-to-it-iveness, and one of the Mormons, the one with the bad skin, interrupted me.
"Well fair enough, but would you mind if we ask you just a few questions?"
Which is where a more assertive person would have said, "Yes I mind," but I didn't say that. I said "Uhh." "Uhh" is appparently an invitation to continue.
"Do you believe God loves you?" The zitty Mormon was clearly working from a script.
"Uh, I'm kind of unsure about whether I believe in God. I do think that if there is one, nobody is going to hold it against me for getting it wrong."
"Do you go to church?"
"No." That question seemed silly; of course a person who is unsure wheteher they believe in God doesn't go to church. This seemed further proof that zitty Mormon followed a script.
"Well if Jesus Christ had a church here on Earth would you want to belong to it?"
"Uhm, well since I don't believe Jesus was the son of God, I guess not."
"So then," said the other Mormon, the one with the receding hairline who was putting things together, "you're an agnostic then?"
"Yes. I believe there are many ways to live a moral life, and you have one you like, and that's fine. It's okay that you want to share something you believe in with other people, I respect that [a lie, of course I don't]. But I don't believe the same things, and I'm not interested."
"Wow. We don't meet many agnostics around Chesterfield."
"Yeah, they mostly live in the city. It's more diverse there. Better restaurants. Culture, universities. We like stuff like that."
"Mmhmm. Well," said zitty Mormon, "I have one more question, though I guess we know the answer, haha! If I had a book that proved that Jesus Christ has a church right here on Earth would you be interested in reading it?"
"Nope."
"Okay, well--" And like a teacher giving me the answers I missed on a quiz, "This is a Book of Mormon, and it proves that Jesus does have a church here on earth, and that God does love you. Have a good day!"
"God loves you!" said balding Mormon.
"Alright, have a good day! If I ever decide I agree with any of that stuff I'll be sure to give you guys a call!"

Kevin lets Bubba off with a warning

When I was sixteen and a clerk at Ukrop's I had the following conversation with Kevin Lanham-- manager, Christian songwriter, and tormenter of bestselling lesbian mystery novelists:

"Bubba, can we talk a minute?" (Kevin called me Bubba, which I hated but didn't know how to deal with.)
"Sure Kev, what's the rhubarb?" (I actually said "Yes Kevin, what's going on?" but rhubarb is funny to me.)
We walked to his office, where Kevin decided to open with, "I hope you know that if you have any problems my door is open to you."
"Well gee Kevin, that's good to know, but I can't think of anything. Unless you want to pay me a little more, har har har!"
"Yes, well Andrew, I just had a call from a customer."
"Hmm." I said, nervous that I might know what was coming.
"Yes, it seems that when asked how your day was going you told a customer that, and I am quoting her, 'He said he wanted to blow up the store.'"
"That's not really accurate at all, Kevin. She asked how I liked working for Ukrop's, and I said, 'Let's just say if you pick up the paper tomorrow and it says-- "Grocery Clerk goes Berserk; Dozens injured in suicide bombing!"-- that'll be me.' But I was obviously joking. I had a twinkle in my eye the whole time."
"Maybe she mistook the twinkle for the frenzied look of insanity. "
I remembered the customer laughing heartily, but decided that it wasn't a good idea to argue.
"I'm very sorry, I was trying to be funny, but I guess that was in poor taste."
"Yes, Bubba it was. I like to joke too, you know I do, but jokes like that, well, they scare people. You're sure you don't have some things you'd like to talk about?"
"No Kevin, just a lack of common sense and a taste for dark humor."
"I'll say. Alright, well you just rein in the humor, leave the suicide-bombin' to the towelheads, and we'll make like this didn't happen. Have a blessed day."

Several Great Minds Wrestle with Another Important Issue of Their Day

Who would win a fight between Helen Keller and Stephen Hawking?

Andrew: It has to be Helen Keller. That is, provided that we are talking about Helen Keller in her prime. I don't know about "old" Helen Keller, but Helen Keller at 25? Certainly she would win a fight with a man in a wheelchair. He can't move right? He'd drive his wheelchair into her and she'd take one hit, but then she'd know where he was, and that'd be it. She'd grab a hold of him and it would be over.

Jacob: I have to disagree. Stephen Hawking is a genius. I mean, excluding the possibility that Helen Keller's sense of touch is heightened to the point where she can use it to "see" a la Daredevil, I have to think that Hawking would win with his intelligence. Helen Keller wouldn't even be able to find him before he pulled some equation out of his ass, altered the matter around Helen Keller and made her head explode.

Max: I agree with Jacob. Think about when Batman fights Superman. That's an excellent comparison-- Superman has all the physical advantages over Batman, but through superior planning and intellect Batman wins. Similarly, Helen Keller has full mobility, a distinct advantage over Stephen Hawking, but I think even if he wasn't able to actually explode her head, he would still win through superior strategy and tactics.

Andrew: But how do we really know Stephen Hawking is a genius? Has any of us read his books? Do we understand the physics that he discusses in them? No, we assume he is a genius because we are told he is one, by the people who market his books and television programs. Stephen Hawking is nothing more than a puppet of marketing, and as such, fodder for Helen Keller's fearsome left hook. Consider: This woman overcame being born blind, deaf, and mute to become an important voice for social reform. She wrote books, lots of them. How? She had not only a great intellect, but also drive and toughness. No way does she lose to some shriveled up little bitch in a chair, no matter what equations he knows.

Jacob: Man, I'm just gonna go about my day and pretend like you didn't say that.

Nicknames, Part 1 (or Poindexter McEagle's Nest Makes a Splash)

I knew a pianist in college named Mike Disque who liked to give people nicknames.
Some he used all the time--a short and stocky man named Jeffrey, who was obsessed with train simulation programs and wore a big mustache and aviator style glasses, came up in conversation often, but never as Jeffrey. Always, "Turd Ferguson."
Some I heard only once-- my friend Mandy, a Catholic who dressed in Goth clothing and make-up, was "the Gothlic," but I only know that because I was there when she asked him to tell her.
My own name I asked for repeatedly, but heard only third-hand after I graduated-- "Pooh Bear."

There was a new freshman pianist my senior year of college who was discussed widely in the music department, discussed because he was talented and seemed borderline crazy. His real name was Brent, which I only just now remember after several days of puzzling it over. It's taken me several days because I always refered to him as "Poindexter McEagle's Nest," the name Mike gave him. "Poindexter" described his manner and appearance-- he was tall and thin, with an awkwardness that most people attributed to homeschooling. "McEagle's Nest" was for his job working the fryer at the student commons, "the Eagle's Nest," which is where I saw him most, usually in a t-shirt mapping the human muscular system. I saw him somewhat less frequently around the music department, but it's there that he interacted wiith me.
"What's your favorite Beethoven Piano Concerto?" is the only thing I can remember him saying directly to me (mine was #5, his the less obvious and to me unfamiliar #3).

Poindexter is most remembered now (at least by people I know) for his first departmental recital, for whiich he played Chopin. I can't remember the exact piecee, but it was fast and somewhere in the middle of the piece he got lost and started improvising. This in itself was not unusual, and would have gone unnoticed had he not started audibly whispering to his fingers as he did it.
"No. No, that's wrong. Try that one. No, wrong too. Ah, that's better. No, no, uh. Hmm, uh. No, okay. Hmm."
Having worked his way to the end of the piece with out stopping, young McEagle's Nest stood and awkwardly bowed to the scattered applause. Then, as he descended the stage, he tripped and fell. He did not fall as most people do, wiith his arms in front of him to brace the fall. He threw his arms back, as though diving, and landed flat on his face. He fell next to the front row, grabbing the thigh of a horrified Tricia Pifko. There, face down on the floor of the small recital hall, Poindexter McEagle's Nest was heard to say,
"What a great way to end the performance."