As Luck Would Have It

I once heard, or read, or found out, or someone told me —but am far too tired to research— that when a type or genre of book is popular, it’s already too late to attempt jumping onto that proverbial bestselling bandwagon. Examples that come to mind, at this moment anyway, are books like Harry Potter, Twilight, The Hunger Games and TV shows like The Walking Dead. Because, right now, utopia / dystopian worlds, such as the one in Divergent and The Maze Runner (not to mention, once again, The Hunger Games), are toping bookseller charts, movie theaters and DVD rentals – guess what? That market is saturated.

If you are working on a utopian / dystopian, apocalyptic and/or supernatural manuscript, might want to stop. Publishers will be mailing out form rejection letters (or emailing them). This may include vampires and zombies – it’s what I’m thinking, same boat. It’s just a guess, a gut feeling.

Think of it this way. You write the manuscript. Let’s say that takes roughly a year. Add six months for some re-writes and edits. Maybe you already have an agent. So we can skip that. How long might an agent take to find a publisher? For the sake of argument, let’s be generous and add another six months (uh-huh). Publisher reviews the material in bits and bites, eventually offers a contract (we will add 3 months for that process). You get assigned an editor. More re-writes. And fifteen months later your book is in stores (or available for Kindle/Nook uploads). Not bad. What year is it then? From start to book-on-a-shelf? I really don’t know, like, more than 3 years has passed? I can’t do the math. Not this late at night.

But I mean, hey, still write the story. Finish it if you must. I don’t want to discourage. Point is it might be a tough sell. Probably will be. Just saying.

Nothing new under the sun. I know. I’ve heard that, too. But think cycles. Goes around. Comes around. When Katniss and Thomas and Beatrice and Rick Grimes have lost their flare, their popularity … the next wave of fiction will strike.

It will.

The question is –you ready for it— what type, what genre will be the newest, hottest fad?

I remember when my oldest son was little. Christmas was around the corner. The craziest toy was the latest craze: Tickle Me Elmo. I’ll admit it was kinda cool. But you couldn’t get one. No one expected it to be so popular. Stores were unable to keep shelves stocked. Think Tyco knew what they had on their hands when they first produced the battery-filled doll?

Doubt it.

Hate to say it, but I’d put my money on luck.

Movies. Books. Same thing.
It’s about timing. Delivery. But mostly luck.

I’ve bought toys I’ve despised, watched blockbusters I’ve hated, read bestsellers with sloppy plots and cardboard characters and thought – what am I doing so wrong if this is a bestseller?
Luck.

I can’t predict what the next hot genre will be. But I will let you in on a secret. I have shoved into a sock drawer my zombie work-in-progress, and am diligently at work on something … fresh, new. Something that is hopefully different, but relevant, and will be holding my breath to see if my gamble pays off.

It might. Might not.

With fingers crossed (and breath held), we will have to wait and see what genre pulls into the forefront. Leads the pack. Takes the wheel . . . in the months (that follow the apocalyptic) storylines.

Me? Who am I but a midlist author. Still, I’ve got my money on ... Ha—I’m not telling!

Sincerely,
Phillip Tomasso

PS … Check out my new website: http://www.philliptomasso.com/
Pulse of Evil Book Trailer

Pulse of Evil For Sale

Other titles for sale for Kindle

Other titles for sale for Nook

The Molech Prophecy for sale on Nook/Paperback -- writing as Thomas Phillips

What's In A Name?

When I wrote my first book, MIND PLAY, I started more trouble than expected. I used the first names of family and friends for each of my characters. That wasn’t the bad part. That wasn’t where the problem started.

The problem, you see, came when I informed people of what I’d done.

Unless you are James Patterson (who has ten million books released every year – that he does not write), you cannot write books fast enough to use the names of all your family and friends. Look at my name. Tomasso. Know what that is? Know what that means? Italian. Ever see a small Italian family? I’ve got more aunts and uncles and cousins than Stephen King has fans. See what I’m saying, eh-oh, oh-eh.

Anyway. I try to do my best. I try to incorporate the first names of as many people as I can. The thing is, sometimes, those just aren’t the names I want for my characters. Believe it or not, I put thought into the characters. And they become real to me. I look up the meanings of names. I picture what they look like in my mind. And if they don’t look they’d be named “Jane Doe” because my Aunt Jane Doe is on my butt about using her name, then I can’t in good conscience name that character “Jane Doe.” It won’t work for me. It would shatter the person/character I’d created.

My Uncle Bill used to come to every book signing I had in Rochester. And at each new book signing he’d ask me when I was going to use his name. Finally, I’d sold the manuscript of a novel where I’d used his name, his full first Italian name – Abello (“Bill”). His character was a Mafia Don in the story.

When Uncle Bill got up to the front of the line, he handed me a copy of my book to sign for him. And, of course, he asked, “So, when are you going to use my name in a book?”

So I told him about being a Mafia Don.

You saw it in his face. He was excited. He asked me, “What’s the name of the book?”

I said, “Pigeon Drop.”

He grimaced. “What’s that? That’s crap.”

To this day, I am not sure if he was seriously mad, or just being funny. We Tomassos’ have an odd, peculiar, sense of humor.

My first book was released in 2000. My ninth, Sounds of Silence, will be released later this year – and you know what? I still have not used all the names of family and friends as characters in the stories written.
At work tonight, 2013 – it’s no different. Only, my friends are more aggressive about what they want. Crystal wants me to use her name. Not her last name. Her first name, and … get this – to make the entire novel about her. (You may not realize it – but it was Crystal’s inspiration that inspired my last blog, First Dates & Red Robin Yummm … ).

My point?

There isn’t one. (Is there ever with me?) Except, maybe … be patient. If I can use your name, I will. Promise.

More times than not, I am using your personality. You just may not be smart enough to recognize it’s you you are reading about.

Bada-bing!

Take care,

Phillip Tomasso

PS … Check out my new website:

http://www.philliptomasso.com/
(Still under construction)

Pulse of Evil Book Trailer

Pulse of Evil For Sale

Other titles for sale for Kindle

Other titles for sale for Nook

The Molech Prophecy for sale on Nook/Paperback -- writing as Thomas Phillips

First Dates & Red Robin (Yummm)

Aside from being an (ah-hem) award winning novelist, I am unfortunate I do not make enough money to write as a career author. Holding down a “day” job is essential. Only difference is, my day job is a night job. Graveyard shift. We call it First Platoon. I am a Fire/EMS Dispatcher for 9-1-1. Thankfully, when there are no fires, work is not too busy. When it is not too busy, six of us (Fire Dispatchers) sit in what we call a pod (a circle) filled with 5 computer monitors, 3 keyboards/mice and phones, per station, and we talk. And the talk oftentimes is nonsensical.

Last night we discussed first dates. Being 42, divorced, and with three kids, dating is tough. First dates, tougher. Not being rich—perhaps borderline poor—the idea of trying to impress a woman on a first date is not generally doable. And for that matter, I thought, also not wise.

Way I see it, if you take a woman out to on an expensive night, big-bill dinner, and theater, and limo and shit like that – it’s misleading. Improperly so. Think about it. (And I truly believe this is not frugal, or downright cheap). If you take extravagant measures to show the young lady an amazing time, isn’t it then fair for her to assume each date thereafter is going to hold, at a minimum, equal expectations? I could be wrong. (Feedback and comments are most, most welcome).

Way I see it, (yes starting a second paragraph identically to the one above it), if the plan is dinner and a movie, going to a restaurant that is affordable is okay. Especially on a first date. (More expensive dates can certainly follow, on things like, special occasions). But it is not always financially practical to drop a lot of money on a date. And on a first date – let’s face it – there is always a 50/50 chance there will not be a second, a follow-up, a sequel. See what I’m saying?

Maybe that makes me a jerk. A cheapskate. A tightwad. But you know what? I’m okay with that. Perceive away. Judge. I prefer to let a woman know who I am. Who I am, is not money. Not even close. Why give the impression otherwise? Misleading, as earlier indicated, and in my opinion, should be seriously frowned upon.

The fact that I like Red Robin burgers got everyone laughing. At me. I thought, and said out loud, “I think going to Red Robin is a good first date. Good burgers, bottomless fries … I mean, yummmmm says it all.”

Yeah. Wrong thing to say. Think I’d of been okay just thinking it. The comments I received went as follows:

“It’s too ‘family restaurant’ styled for a first date. It’s all parents and kids.”

“Seriously, Phil? Seriously?”

“You don’t have to spend a lot of money, but certainly not Red Robin.”

“Red Robin’s a good first date if you’re a teenager…”

And, from that above sampling, I think you get the idea.

Other, equally affordable options were suggested. Some good. Some, personally, I rejected. But by the end of the discussion, I guess I learned a lesson. Two, actually. And what is the point of open forums if there is not, at least, one moral to a story … much less, two?!?

One. Don’t ever tell close friends the specifications of date plans, unless you are hoping to be talked out of them, humiliated, laughed at, or frustrated because trying to get your point across in a five to one situation is not humanly possible.

Two. Maybe talk with the person you plan to go out with. Get their input before making decisions. While a female likes to see the man make calls, it might work out better to actually ask for some general input. You never know – they may think a most wonderful idea involves good burgers and bottomless fries at your local Red Robin … Yummmmmm!

One last question: Is it okay to pull out a coupon when the bill comes??

As always, take care!

Phillip Tomasso

Pulse of Evil Book Trailer

Pulse of Evil For Sale

Other titles for sale for Kindle

Other titles for sale for Nook

The Molech Prophecy for sale on Nook/Paperback -- writing as Thomas Phillips

Writing Is Like Having A Baby

Writing a novel is about telling a story; about creating characters and making them real, three-dimensional. The process, I assume, is a lot like pregnancy. You spend months and months getting ready for the manuscript to be completed. You worry about it while you are writing. You try to feed your imagination with with relevant and inspiring thoughts during the process.

You can't help be prepare for the potential results of the finished product. Envisioning book covers; winning awards and hitting coast-to-coast bestseller lists. Your dream and dream as the page and word count grows and grows.

Let's not forget worrying, too. Authors do that. A lot. Before beginning to write. While writing. And once the work is actually published and for sale. Oh, the worrying. It never, never ends. You think it might. You say you won't be "One of those authors," but once the book hits store shelves. You are. You become "One of those authors."

Before writing, you take notes. You make lists. Pro's and Con's to telling the story. You wonder, aren't there already enough stories? Do I really have any business bringing another into this world?

While writing, you are nothing but preoccupied with plot, and setting. With dialogue and ensuring every word moves the story forward. Does the opening grab the reader? Is the middle fluff-less? Is the ending a surprise, and unexpected?

Will people even care what happens to my characters, the way I care!

It's enough to have you pull hair off your head! Have Mercy!

Then, once the book is on sale, and your are in a bookstore, you want to take your novel off a bottom shelf and insert it eye-level next to James Patterson and Stephen King books. It's what's best for your book. Why wouldn't you? You're only trying to be a supportive author. You're only attempting to ensure your novel gets a fair shake at being bought ... by a stranger!

A stranger! If someone you don't know buys and reads your book, you feel like you might throw-up!

This isn't your Mom. Your Wife. Your Kids!

This is a stranger.

They might not like it! They might actually tell you they don't like it!

Worse--they could post a review, publicly, and tell EVERYONE they don't like it!

And yet, despite all the pre- and post-fears of writing, we do it anyway. We know we may never sell the manuscript. Or that the book might not be well received. Or critically destroyed. That doesn't stop us. Because the story is still inside. And needs to be told, for whatever reason.

Writers write.

Have an awesome day,

Phillip Tomasso


Pulse of Evil Book Trailer

Pulse of Evil For Sale

Other titles for sale for Kindle

Other titles for sale for Nook

The Molech Prophecy for sale on Nook/Paperback -- writing as Thomas Phillips

Think Outside the Box: Death to the Introvert

Writing is solitary. You do it alone. You generate characters, worlds, and stories from your imagination. It’s creative. You are considered an artist. It’s a pretty good feeling. I love it, the writing process. I treat it like brushing my teeth. Stick to a routine. You get yourself into a habit of writing, and it becomes second nature. Mornings work well for me. Make my coffee. Turn on my laptop. Pop buds in my ears. Put on Pandora. And begin.

However, writing is only one hat an author can wear. It’s not like decades ago. Writers wrote. Publishers not only published, they handled marketing, advertising and public relations. Budgets existed. Those days are gone. Wouldn’t make sense to hold your breath. I believe now that most publishers pushed marketing, advertising and public relations off their plate and onto the laps of writers, there is little chance they will ever take on that responsibility again. But that’s just me. You want to cross your fingers, cross ‘em. Holding your breath, that just seems risky.

I’ve always said, “Writer’s write because they love to tell stories, while getting published is icing on the cake.” Now that a book has been published (which is no easy feat), the hard part begins. Generating sales. Sales are important for one main reason. And that reason has nothing to do with making millions of dollars. In fact, if you write because you think you are going to make millions – you might as well go back to holding your breath.

I’ve done hundreds of book signings. For the release of each novel, I tend to schedule anywhere from ten to fifty signings a year. At each signing, I may sell anywhere from zero to forty copies. Many days I sat at a table and stared at my pen, or directed customers to the calendar aisle and restrooms. It’s a tough, but necessary gig. Below I am going to elaborate on six (6) ways to market and advertise your novel in a non-obnoxious way:

Book Signings. Book signings with chain AND independent book stores in your area and surrounding counties. Generally, give yourself an 80-90 mile radius. Gas is expensive, but the exposure is convenient. Once the signing is booked, create several 8x11 flyers advertising the book/date/time of the event, and send them directly to the bookstore to be hung for a month prior to your event.

Print/Web Notifies. Once you have several book signing events booked, generate a press release that contains the book’s info, a synopsis, and your contact information. Send it to big and small newspapers in the areas of the stores you will be visiting. See if you can obtain an actual contact, and “force” an interview, or blurb to be included in an edition near or on the day of your event. Be sure to also check those newspaper websites, many have a Calendar of Events page. And many will let you list your event, free. (Key word there, free).

Radio. Same as Number 2 – but contact ANY and all radio stations. Do not shy away from college stations. They are often very receptive to author interviews.

Sample Chapters. Take your 1^st two chapters, the book’s back cover synopsis, order information and your bio/website and make a two to three page booklet (folded over 8x11—with a saddle stitch – or two staples at the center). Then what do you do with these booklets? No. That is so not the question. The question is, what DON’T you do with these booklets! Leave them at doctor/dentist office waiting rooms, airplane seat pockets, thumb tacked on cork boards – I don’t know, be creative. I’m just giving you tips. Not doing your marketing/advertising for you :-)

Target Audience. My most recent novel is a vampire story. In my area there is a giant walk-thru haunted mansion. Runs from September to the end of October. I am working to coordinate a book signing, or several signings at his location in an empty warehouse. My target audience is the crazy people willing to pay money to get the heck scared out of them. I also have a novel coming out about a Little League Baseball player. Come the spring, I will be trying to schedule events at the Double A ball park, and have copies of the book sold at Little League concession stands.

Social Media/Twitter/Blogging. I am going to guess I don’t need to explain too much here. However, if using Facebook, be sure to set up a separate author page from your main, personal account. Invite people to “Like” that author page. This ensures you don’t annoy family and friends with endless posts begging people to buy your book. (I still bug them. I don’t care. Want to delete me, feel free). Make sure you link your FB/Twitter/Blog accounts, so that when you write a new blog, it is automatically pulled and posted onto your other accounts.

I will be writing more on obtaining reviews, endorsements, and speaking engagements. 

As always, take care and best wishes!

Phillip Tomasso

Pulse of Evil Book Trailer

Pulse of Evil For Sale

Other titles for sale for Kindle

Other titles for sale for Nook

The Molech Prophecy for sale on Nook/Paperback -- writing as Thomas Phillips

A Night At Pineapple Jacks--Me and Eight Girls

You know, in my first blog, I "changed the names to protect the innocent." But you know what? If you made your way into one of my blogs, chances are there's nothing innocent about you. Chances. But regardless. (Or as some people I know mights say, irregardless ..."

As a novelist, I am often asked the question: "Where do you get ideas for your stories?" (Now you can google me. But you won't find me. My name is not Chase N. Nichols. So writing these blogs is going to do nothing to help me sell books. But I am not writing the blog to sell books. Like I say in my bio -- it's therapeutic. It's all about the therapy).

Anyway, the short answer is, (and the question was ... "Where do you get ideas for your stories"?) the ideas just come to me. And that is the truth. I don't dream them. I don't struggle to come up with plots. I just, all of a sudden, have an idea and then grab a pen and pad (or napkin), and scribble out the basics of the idea.

However, that new story idea, is just that, an idea. The work I put in comes from fleshing out the idea to make it three-dimensional. Plausible. Believable.

A key to good storytelling, is realistic characters. Crisp dialogue. And plenty of action, regardless of genre. Action is what keeps readers turning pages.

One night, I was overwhelmed with inspiration.

See, I posted on Facebook that I was headed down to a local watering hole to watch the Yankees/Orioles game. A good friend said she'd see me there. It was "Girls' Night Out" and I was invited to intrude on the get-together.

Most of the women going, I knew. Most I had not seen in 20 years. Not since high school. Yeah, I'm that old.

I arrived at Pineapple Jacks a bit before seven. Found a place at the bar and ordered a drink. I paid with a twenty. The barmaid, always chatting up patrons, forgot to give me change back. I tried not to get anxious. But twenty bucks for one drink ... it was hard to not fidget on the stool.

When she came back around, the guy next to me held out money. She took it as he said, "This wasn't my change."

She made a stupid, Oops-face, and goshed, gollied, and gave me back my change. What did I do? I bought the guy next to me a bubble (next-drink-on-me-kind-of-thing), as a kind of a reward for returning-a-lost-wallet idea. We shook hands, he thanked me, I thanked him. In return, the barmaid gave me a bubble. Karma?

I'm going to admit something here. Two years prior, I had no idea what a "bubble" was. Me and this girl Franca met out for drinks. She bought me a bubble. The barmaid slid a shot glass in front of me. Mouth down. So I said, "What's this?"

"A bubble," the barmaid said.

"Oh, no," I said, and pushed the shot glass toward her. "I only drink beer."

Franca and the barmaid laughed at me pretty good. I got married at twenty-one. Had my first son by twenty-two. I didn't know much about bars, and bar-slang.

A bubble--good for a next drink free. Just in case any of you reading this were like me, and had no idea what I was writing about.

So my friend Mindy showed up. Said she and her friends had a table out front. In back was smoking. I smoked. I guess some of the other ladies did not. I followed Mindy. Turned out I was the only guy among eight women. Not a bad night, eh? No. Not at all. Not at first, anyway.

We spent an hour catching up. Turns out most of the women hadn't seen each other since school, either. Cell phones with pics of kids and husbands were passed around. Memories shared. An abundance of laughter ensued. Blah, blah, blah, right? But it was all good. All fun. I was having a good time. Hadn't even watched an inning of the ballgame.

Unfortunately, like I said, I smoke. Bad habit. Filthy. But I do. So did a few of the women. Four of us entered the smoking section of the bar. (One of the only bars I know of in Monroe County that has a smoking section, part of why I love going there so much).

While Mindy went to the bar, Abby, Kim and I found a table. Turns out, Mindy was harassed by a large man while waiting for a glass of water. The guy, apparently, was rude and obnoxious. His comments too vile to post on a public blog.

When she came back to the table, so did he. Mindy, tough like she is, told the guy off, in equally obnoxious language.

See. I'm the guy at the table with four girls. There's an obligation to stand up to the man and put an end to the situation.

So I did. I turned to the guy. He sat next to me. I said, "Look, you're upsetting my friends. We're just here to hang out. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave the table."

Don't think he expected me to stand up to him. His buddies were at the table behind us. He looked at Mindy, who wasn't listening to him, and said to me, "She's got balls." Then he turned to me. "And you got bigger balls."

But he stood up. Was ready to leave. Mindy missed the exchange. The guy was up, and staring at me. She must have misread it. So what did she do? She started in on him. Insults flying from her mouth so fast and furious, all I could do was cringe. AT one point, perhaps her crowning moment, she called him a "fat-fucking-keg," and made like a basketball hoop with her arms outstretched to mimic the size of the guy's gut.

I said to Mindy, "Dear, I handled it."

She wasn't listening. Kim and Abby tried to tell Mindy, it was over. That I'd handled it. But Mindy, she was on a roll. I can't recall much of else of what she said, of what she called this man, but I do recall feeling my intestines coil, and my bowels liquefy some.

I expected a chair over the back of the head, or a sucker punch to my ear. Something. Anything. It had to be coming.

After all, this guy wasn't going to hit a girl. He was going to hit me. Right? Of course right. Mindy would piss him off and I'd get the shit kicked out of me by Keg and his buddies.

Kim, who'd just told me a story about a fight she'd been in at Roller City, had used one of her roller skates to pound an adversary and assured me--had a bru ha ha erupted--she had my back. Abby, who'd also shared some fight-stories from her youth, let me know she was ready to use her chair to smack the guy across the back of his head if necessary--despite just having undergone back surgery. And Mindy--no doubt--was ready to duke it out from the get-go.
What happened next caught us all off guard. Keg and his pals simply left. I'd love to say it was me that intimidated the group to swiftly exit. But it would be fairer to say, though harder to admit, that I think if anything, Mindy scared the shit out of them.

Eventually, we finished our cigarettes and made our way to the other half of the bar outside of the smoking section, where we rejoined our friends.Of course, we recapped what just happened. Everyone laughed. Apparently at my expense. At least it felt that way.

"If Kim had a roller skate with her, I'd have felt a lot more prepared," I'd said. This, for some reason, made everyone laugh ... more. My imminent doom seemingly caused much delight.

What I took out of the event?

Emotions. They'd surged.

Anger: that some guy would continually insult my friend.

Fear: not for me, mind you, but for the obnoxious guy. I don't think he knew the hornet's next he'd stirred was buzzing and ready to sting, relentlessly.

Courage: for not having backed down.

Inspiration: because I knew I'd get a blog out of the deal, and some character attributes to store away for use in future writings.

All in all. It had been a great night, with many, many inspirations tucked away.

Had I of stayed home, on the sofa, in jammers, and watched the Yankees game on TV, I'd have missed out on all the free inspiration oozing at Pineapple Jacks.

What I don't know, what I may never know is, did the Yankees even win? I missed the entire game!

Until next time ....

Chase N. Nichols
Follow me on Twitter -- or don't, I really don't care!

Quick & Crazy Straws

It's hard to say at what age I started drinking. Ten or eleven seems right. I could take full responsibility. After all, it was me that choose drinking. But I also blame Mark. Well, Mark's parents really. See, Mark's parents went out every weekend. All summer long. And all summer long my brother and I spent weekend's at Mark's.

His parents had a pretty well stocked cupboard. More whisky and bourbon and wine than any tween should have access to.

Being just ten or eleven, the three of us were both smart and stupid. We were smart enough not to take and drink from just one bottle. Even a blind man would notice two-thirds of a bottle missing. Instead, we used a Quick glass. Actually, it was plastic. Like a fountain drink cup. "V" shaped. Had the chocolate bunny from the commercials on it. His body bounding over the word Quick, and through the giant "Q", ears askew as if his leap over and through were captured by an action snapshot.

We'd pour in some vodka, Southern Comfort, red wine, a can of beer, and mix the conncoction with a spoon.

The conncoction is where we could be placed in line under the Stupid catagory.

We sat at the kitchen table. The Quick glass (plastic), filled to the rim, betwen us.

Also under stupid was the escaped thought that one of us could simply have had a few glasses of wine. The other some hefty shots of vodka and the third a beer with Southern Comfort chasers. That would have been a damned good idea. And I am slightly embarassed to admit I only just now thought of this. But see, that's the thing. The idea of pouring all of this into one twenty ounce plastic cup was what I'd done, so it always seemed like the only way to drink it, at that time.

We didn't even know enough to mix it up, doll it out, and chill. Put on TV and watch a ballgame, or cartoons. Nope.

Playing cards was an interest we shared. Aside from Old Maid and Go Fish (which when I was younger I used to call Gold Fish, but that has absolutely nothing to do with this story) we had recently learned a new game. Bloody Knuckles.

The rules of Blood Knuckles espcape me right now. Maybe it had something to do with getting the lowest scoring hand? I'm not sure. It really doesn't matter. There was this guy I worked with. He was the worst at telling stories. He would say something like, "I was taking pictures the other day. I had two-hundred speed film in my camera. No, no, wait--it might have been four-hundred speed. Because I know it wasn't a full roll of film. I had put four-hundred in the camrera about a week before. And I think the four-hundred was still in there. Unless I finished the roll of four-hundred, and put in that roll of two-hundred. I got the roll of two-hundred free at the store about a month ago. The pharmacy's photomat fucked up a roll, and to make it up to me gave me a couple rolls of two-hundred. It didn't make up for losing the pictures. But, you know, free is free..."

And then you say, "Ron! Ron! What the fuck are you talking about?"

And he would shake his head. "Aren't you listening, Chase? I was taking pictures at the Bill's preseason game the other day and got some great shots of them warming up."

"No, Ron. That's not what you said. You just went on talking about absolutely nothing for like ten years!" That's what I always wanted to say. He was like my boss. So I never said that. I just nodded. And waited. Eventually he got around to the point. And I didn't give two shits either way. If he was jawing away, we weren't working. Getting paid by the hour, the less I did in eight hours, the better.

...So we played Bloody Knuckles. At the time, we knew the rules. So for all's sake, the game was played. Rules followed. Then who ever lost--the others would fan out the cards, face down on the table. The loser picked a card. If it was a black--seven, say. The loser would have to drink while the oher slowly counted to seven. If it was red, the others counted fast.

The loser had to drink the concoction while the others counted.

But we didn't want to be slamming the drink all at once. So we looked for a straw. Only straw we had--Mark had--was a Crazy Straw. You know what a crazy straw is? It's one of those hard plastic straws that are washable. When used, they tease a thirsty person. While a regular straw goes from Drink to Mouth. Point A to Point B. A Crazy Straw insists on whipping around and in and out of loops like a liquid roller coaster before ever passing through now dry, cracked lips.

Imagine drinking a cold (plastic) Quick glass filled with--not mixed drinks, mixed like someone might order at a bar, and pay money for--an ulcer-possible, vomiting-certain ... well, concoction? I still can just stare an empty stare and drool from thinking about it, from remembering the smell. And I drooled. After every crazy draw on that wild and crazy straw, I drooled.

It was dentist office--Novocain drooling at its best.

We did this at least every Friday night. Sometimes Saturday, too.

By the time a full glass was gone (and sometimes a second filled and downed), we were pretty ripped. If between the three of us we weighed more than one-fifty, I'd be shocked.

At ten or eleven drinking is no different than if you are twenty-one, or forty. Bed spins, running to the bathroom to blow chunks, crawling up the stairs to get to bed, butt sliding back down to keep from toppling over and tumbling twelve steps. Slurred words, prank phone calls, and fighting. It was all in there. Along with promises we'd never do it again. And we promised that. A lot. And then by Tuesday, we counted the days, the hours, until Friday night.

Yep. Quick and Crazy Straws. Good times. Good. Times.

--Philiip Tomasso