Loopiness, laziness, more IF please.

I'm not feeling the writing mojo, tonight, so here's one last installment of "Inherent Flaws". This is in 1973, when things are starting to come to a head.

----------------------

So a few days later, in spite of Marc’s warning, Lou and I were sitting in his car down the block on Broome Street, with a perfect view of the one and only revolving door. Cops and civil servants and all sorts of other people entered and exited, non-stop, none of them knowing or thinking or caring about what went on in there. He had this kick-ass-looking 35mm camera with a lens half a foot long on the seat between us. His sister had shown him how best to use it and he’d already focused on the door so it was ready to fire in a flash.

He was almost like this excited puppy as he said, “I had myself put on steady four to twelves, so I can sit here everyday. Carl didn’t like it much, but...”

“Carl?”

“Carlo Pantucci.”

“Oh, okay.” Lou’s partner. I’d only met him once; didn’t really know him but he hit me as a guy who’s a lot like Bobby.

“He’s a good guy. Been together the last four months. Anyway, him and his wife’re still like newlyweds, so...”

“Tell him to make it last as long as he can,” I said, then I got back on track. “I can’t do change this week. I got three court -- well, two trials and a grand jury appearance going on. But next week, I’ll ask Bobby if he’ll do four-to-twelves with me so I can be here, too.”

“I can handle it till then.”

“No, no, no, Lou, don’t even think it.”

“C’mon, Vinnie, you think I need my hand held?”

“I just don’t want you here alone. Let’s start this next week so I can be with you...or better yet, I’ll see if Marc knows somebody who can get us a temporary assignment for a month or two. Just don’t let anybody in on it.”

“Ah,” he whispered in that Kung-fu style. “Tell no one; do everything, grasshopper. Everything we allow you to do.”

Making light of it. That pissed me off, so I grabbed his arm, suddenly scared for him.

“Lou, listen up -- this ain’t a game. I lived around guys like this all my life and Marc gets it. You don’t. You can’t, not unless you’re Italian. This code -- it’s about more than just keeping quiet about what some cop does or what some wiseguy does. It’s about taking care of your family, and your brother’s family if you have to. And the families of those who work for you. Yeah, there’s bastards who pull shit, but they also take care of you ‘cause there’s rules and regulations to the code, and if you violate one little bit, you violate it all. I know what they can do -- what they will do if they have to. Because they’ll see you as going up against the family, and they turn into tigers when it comes to that. You don’t fuck with the family. You just -- you just don’t.”

“Then why’re you doing it?”

Bam, right between the eyes. He was right to wonder, because that’s what I was doing. I’d promised Ronnie I wouldn’t do this, all those years ago, but that is exactly what I was doing. I hadn’t really let myself think about that.

But then I saw my cousin, Fredo, crashed on that chair, his clothes messed up, needle in his arm, exactly like Aunt Mary found him with cops walking around and chit-chatting like he’s just another screwed-up junkie who got dumb about how much horse he could handle. And I heard her weeping in the next room. And I could see him being jumped at the door and held down by a couple of goons as they shot him up. And I could see the terror in his eyes as he realized what was gonna happen and how he fought it as they held him down and let him drown in that crap. And then were heartless enough to leave him like that for his family to see. That’s what this was leading to. It wasn’t just that he was killed; it’s that they spit on my aunt...on my family by leaving him like that. And there’s where the difference was -- junkies would’ve snuck the pure crap in on him and let him die on the floor. It was cops that did this, and that’s who I was after, not Ronnie or Rizo or Dante or anybody else.

“Because it’s those bastards,” I said, the words starting to spill out, “Velasquez, Kowalski, Moretti -- they aren’t family. No, what they’re doing is -- they’re hurting us -- all of us -- our families and how can a cop be involved in this? How can a cop be helping that? Helping assholes who don’t give a damn what they’re doing to families and people who’re part of their own? All for some quick cash and an easy-skater life. They aren’t even animals, those bastards. They’re a cancer. Cancer eating away at everything and not giving a damn that eventually they’ll kill what they’re feeding on and that’ll be the end of them, too. They’ll die along with the people they’re feeding off of, and they don’t care. All that matters is what’s happening now and the hell with tomorrow. It’s sick. It’s fucking sick.”

Lou looked at me, a bit wary. “Man, I don’t even want to think about how that’s messing you up.”

It took me a second to get back in control, then I said, “I’m just telling you, Lou -- don’t take any chances. Be as discreet as possible.”

“Buddy, I’m black,” he smirked, “so I can’t be anything but smooth as a breeze.”

“Cut it out! If it’s their ass on the line, they’d kill us both in a heartbeat if it’ll keep them out of jail.”

“Don’t try scaring me, Vinnie. I’ve been to Nam, and they were some killing motherfuckers, over there.”

“Then that should give you a fuckin’ idea what you’re up against! Ask Carlo; I hear he’s been in Nam, too.”

“I know! Okay? Shit.”

“Wait -- when WERE you in ‘Nam?”

“I joined the reserves when I was seventeen. Got deployed there for a year. Not cool.”

“You never said a word.”

“That’s ‘cause people think we’re all crazy, Viet Nam vets. And if word got around the street, it’d make things harder for me and Carl, both. So it stays in the closet.”

“Right, you said you were in the reserves. But you did two weeks in North Carolina?”

“To work in my own family. Pissed off a couple crackers, too. ‘Damn nigger in my unit’.”

“Shit, Lou!”

“Hey, I can use the word; you can’t. Okay?” And his smile was backed by some serious warning. I nodded. He grinned and said, “C’mon, I’ll drop you off at Court.”

Then he started the car and we pulled away, and I saw at least three of the people near that door watching us leave, probably wondering what we were up to, black guy and a white guy, sitting there for so long and talking so hard. Yeah, real smooth, that’s us.

More of IF...1968, Vinnie's a cop

Now the problem with a lot of these parties was, after about ten minutes they’d break out the illegal powders and pills. Then girls in hip-huggers that barely covered their asses with hair down to their crack’d drop acid and start swaying and moaning and all that. Guys dressed the same way with hair almost as long would get coked up and manic. Then they’d lose all inhibitions. Needless to say, I got kissed by both sexes on more than one occasion. So long as that was all, I could handle it, but then this one guy grabbed my butt and I nearly punched him but Marc stopped me and said, “Just walk away.” Turned out that guy was the host and I later learned Marc was trying to find out who his connection was. If I’d hit him, Marc would’ve had to start from scratch.

So I walked and wound up in a bathroom with a blond goddess who was so high on something, she kissed me hard enough to draw blood then slipped her hand down my jeans and muttered, “Feels so good,” and went down on me. You know that old saying, “First time’s the best”? Darla’d never done that on me...so I now had proof positive -- that saying was completely true.

Thing is, they all wanted me to join in with the drugs, when it was all I could do to keep from screaming “NYPD” the first couple times I saw it. So from that point on, soon as things started getting crazy at a party, I’d back into a corner and just watch, making sure I had a beer or a glass of something alcoholic in hand to look like I was doing what I wanted to do. And if a girl came up, I was fine. If a guy came up, I made like I was going to get another drink.

That’s how I met Catherine. We were in an old brownstone just after Christmas, in the East 60s. Some banker named Adam celebrating some deal, and Marc knew the guy from a year he spent at college. The place was done in the usual dark paint and black light and fluorescent posters in hundred-dollar frames on the walls with pillows and incense and stuff. The usual people were there -- self-satisfied intellectuals reading eastern sayings, girls with flowers painted on their cheeks and Indian beads hiding their breasts, everybody with hair so long you couldn’t tell he from she, half the time. Cigarette smoke and wine everywhere as sitar music alternated with The Doors and Jimi Hendrix. It descended into the usual chaos of pot and pills and punch spiked with God knows what and puking and screaming, so I grabbed a bottle of vino and hit for the roof.

It was cold and threatening to snow, but it felt clean and real. The lights of the city seemed to be looking down on me, as if they were asking, What the hell I was doing there -- I mean, other than trying to make lightning hit twice with some stoned chick and a blow job. I just sort of shrugged at them and sipped some of the wine straight from the bottle. How do you answer a question like that?

I had just about decided to split and catch a train back home when I noticed someone sitting in a folding chair off to one side, hidden in this fur coat that surrounded her face and barely reached the top of these white boots.

She held up a glass and asked, “Is that white or red?”

I had to look at the bottle to tell. “Red. Want some?”

“If you’re up for sharing.”

I slipped over and filled her glass then took another sip.

She smiled and said, “Do you always drink wine like it’s beer?”

I shrugged and said, “I’m not out to impress people. Besides, it tastes just as good this way as that.” And I nodded to her glass.

“May I try?” she asked, holding her hand out.

I handed the bottle over and she took a dainty sip, and I got a better look at her face now that it wasn’t hidden so much by the coat. Her features were almost pixie-like, with light blond hair and green eyes, and her lips were a soft pink.

She handed the bottle back, saying, “Not bad. Not the same, but close enough.”

“Ah, you like to let wine breathe.”

“Don’t you think it adds to the flavor?”

I shrugged. “Wine’s for drinking. Like beer. Like bourbon.”

“Simplicity. I like that, but it’s hard to achieve.”

I wasn’t sure where she was coming from, so I held out my hand and said, “Vinnie.”

She took it and smiled. “Catherine. Why aren’t you downstairs, Vincent? Or do you prefer Vinnie?”

“Told you -- not out to impress. And I’m not in the mood for crazy, tonight. You?”

“I’m not fond of parties.”

“Then why’re you here?”

“Adam asked me to come.”

“Friend of his?”

“Sister. Being supportive and all that.”

“Oh.” I took another sip of the wine then said, “Y’know, I used to work in a bank. When I got out of high school. Never struck me as the kind of place that’d make the kind of deals that’d warrant this kind of party.”

“Adam’s with a private investment bank. What do you do for a living, now?”

“I’m a cop,” I said, the word popping out before I could think. I cast her a sideways glance. She was smiling.

“Then it’s no surprise you don’t want to be downstairs,” she said. “The happenings must drive you mad.”

“Some, not all.” Then I cast her another glance. “But you know, there’s a coffee shop around the corner, on Lexington. It’s warmer than up here, and I’d be up for a cup.”

She eyed me then stood up, and that coat whispered up legs that went all the way to last Thursday, ending at this tiny mini that was immediately swallowed up by the fur.

“Lead the way,” she said.

I rose and found she was almost as tall as me. I glanced down at her legs. “You gonna be warm enough?”

“I’m wearing tights,” she said then glided towards the door.

Prologue to "Inherent Flaws"

It started at 240 Centre Street. Police headquarters, once upon a time. Middle of the night. Middle of winter. Middle of Lower Manhattan. Middle of everything around me going to hell. Streets empty because it’s too late. Line of cars parked along one side near this row of ugly brick buildings going two, three, five, seven stories up. Rickety fire escapes dripping down the front of the tallest one, like a cancer, making even its arched windows want to hide from it. Stores on the ground floor hidden behind rolling security panels. All silent and dark. Even here, the city’s never been safe.

My girl was parked right under one of those fire escapes. The roof down on her Caddy convertible, even though it’s close to snowing. You could smell it in the air. Smell her perfume. So beautiful. It’s like she wanted me to see her, wanted to make sure I knew I wasn’t alone. Put an ache in my heart to know that she cared so much, especially after all I’d put her through.

I shouldn’t of gone into the old HQ. Should’ve just got in that Caddy and let her drive me to my mom’s to change out my uniform, or...or home, or anyplace else but there. And I thought about it for half a second. It’s just, I didn’t realize how bad off I was. Didn’t realize that if I did go into that building, like I’d been doing all week at this time of night, the life I had would end. Completely. Totally. Forever.

But like a robot I started across the street. And once again, those old, baroque, snotty windows seemed to be glaring down on me like I was some piece of trash blowing past in the wind. They were in the process of shifting operations to the new building, a few blocks away, and I was glad. This damn thing takes up the whole narrow block, with its columns and half-hidden windows and sort-of balconies, and the iron railings along the sidewalk to keep you from dropping into the gullies that dipped down to the basement’s emptiness. Even the stupid dome on top make it look more like a capitol building than a place too old to work in the modern world, anymore, and would’ve added to the attitude except I heard bats squeaking in its friggin’ belfry overhead, invisible in the black, black sky.

It looked like what it was -- close to abandoned and going to trash. Nothing but a couple low-key, bare-bones offices left inside, one of them happily involving me. After that was done -- after I was done -- the city’d try to figure out what to do with the piece of crap. Maybe tear it down and sell the land. Not a bad idea, in my opinion.

Climbing the steps to the main doors wasn’t easy, thanks to the cracks and chips missing in them. So I began to shake and had to hold onto the banister. That meant I had to push through crumbled up bags and broken bottles and newspapers flapping against the posts. And that night, it seemed like half the lights were either busted or missing, making being there feel like a Hitchcock movie.

It was even older and darker, inside. More lights burned out. Trash on the floors. Shadows everywhere. The only guy around was this big brusque cop at the half-circle of a reception desk, like always. Would be till the last day. And like always, he didn’t bother to look up as I entered and said, “Hey,”

“Lombardini. How ya doin’?” was all he said.

“I -- I been better,” I said my voice cracking. I could hear it, even if he couldn’t. “But thanks. Been a long day. All these lights missin’ -- don’t maintenance care, anymore?”

He just grunted and kept working. He had a lamp on his desk so he was set. I sighed and staggered down a corridor, aiming for the lockers next to the office that was crushing my life. Finally began to notice how quiet it was, and how it seemed like nobody else was around. Had they already moved everybody over to the new place and not told me? That’d be crazy...but wouldn’t surprise me, not the way things’d gone the last couple days. Besides, I was lower than the lowest man on the totem pole, when it came to info sharing. So I kept on going.

I swear to you to this day, that corridor seemed to grow longer and darker as I went. And there were these shuffling sounds, fresh and new, echoing from everywhere. My breathing got sharp. My eyes darted about, wary. Why were so many fixtures missing light bulbs, completely? That didn’t make sense, unless they’d been removed. Deliberately. Make it harder to see into the darkness. Into the shadows. Perfect for an ambush.

I hesitated by the first door on the left. Undid the safety harness and checked my pistol then peeked into the area. Nothing but a couple rows of freestanding units meant just for the few people left in the place. It was so dark and dirty and empty and quiet, even my breathing seemed to echo.

Or was it mine I was hearing?

I started to shake more. I’d been doing that a lot, lately, once I’d realized what I’d got myself into. But no way was I backing down. I carefully slipped inside and crept past row after row of lockers, getting closer and closer to mine. I saw nothing. No one. Just shadows filling the room.

I was sweating now, even though the building was cold. I could actually see my breath whispering in and out, like it was trying to escape. They weren’t even bothering with the heat, anymore. I finally reached my locker and leaned against it, and looked down at my shaking hand...and saw a thin trail of blood whisper over its skin.

Aw, no -- no -- I’d been hit? I’d been shot? Dammit.

I almost fainted but caught myself by slamming my head against the locker. Twice. Again. It hurt, but I was back in control, I fumbled with the lock’s combination, running through it three times and smearing blood all over it before I was able to work it right. When it popped open, the noise bounced off the walls.

I heard that shuffling sound, again, and froze to listen. Nothing but silence. Not even breathing.

I slowly pulled off my coat. It didn’t hurt, but something was pulling sharp against my left shoulder. I checked it and saw the shirt to my uniform was soaked with sweat -- and blood. I wiped my face. Blood smeared over it.

God, I wanted a shower. I wanted a shower so bad. Clean the blood off and warm me and --

I heard the shuffling sound, again. Closer. I started to quake, inside. But then I thought, Maybe it’s my partner come looking for me.

“Bobby?” I called. “Bobby, that you?”

Nothing. Not even the shuffling. Until a whisper of a sound came from my right. I turned to find a gunman standing at the end of the lockers, raising a pistol!

Everything clicked into slow-motion as I yanked out my service revolver, dropped to one knee and fired at him.

My first shot hit his left knee. The second ripped through his thigh. Two more hit an arm and a shoulder.

He got a couple of shots off at me and I felt something punch my side, but then he crashed against an office wall and landed in a sitting position, his leg twisted under him.

I rose slowly, carefully, in complete disbelief, and inched up to him, pistol ready but shaking in my bloody hands, barely under control and hoping to God he wasn’t gonna make another move. I heard voices approaching. Footsteps running. Echoing. So far away and I wished they’d get here, already and --

The guy lifted his gun, unsteady.

I fired, again. The bullet exploded through his skull.

Blood splattered over me. Covered me. I collapsed, about ready to pass out -- and then I saw it.

I saw the gunman’s gold shield.

He was a cop.

A detective!

A uniform had just shot a top dog in police headquarters!

“Man, there’s gonna be hell to pay for that,” I thought as I dropped to my knees and quietly drifted towards darkness.

Simon Pegg Rocks

I never called myself a geek, but looking back I probably was half that and half just plain weird when I was in high school. I don't think I ever settled on any particular attitude or aura, which might have kept me from being as liberated as this. I think I wound up just being seen as artistic -- which is liberating in its own way.

But I love this sentiment, and I've known people who lived by it. I think that's part of the reason I like "Big Bang Theory" so much -- they're geeks caught between brilliance and boyhood, and have no problem living their lives in a way that makes them somewhat happy even if others view them as oddballs.

But Simon Pegg is being disingenuous. Any guy who can go from being potential zombie food with a deadly record collection to Scotty in "Star Trek" is a force too cool to be reckoned with.

I heard an interesting comment on NPR, this morning just as I was headed out the door. It was some theater critics commenting that at the same time Russia was exploding with novels and plays by Chekov and Dostoyevsky and Turgenev and the like, who saw the world as bleak and the embodiment of darkness, even in their comedies, England was having an explosion of plays and novels by the likes of Shaw and Oscar Wilde and Noel Coward that faced everything, even death and disaster, with a humorous shrug.

Simon carries on the tradition, especially by contrasting his haughty expression with a t-shirt of a Silly Symphonies skull and crossbones. Only a geek would do that; only a cool guy would get the reference.

The problem with partnering

I'm just over half done with IF, and I'm finding moments where the guy whose story this is has reworked bits of it...and his grammar skills are not the best.  I can forget to put in words and transpose letters and write sentences that are too complex for their own good, but I know enough to start a sentence with a capital letter and end it with a period or something. And it drives me nuts when I stumble across that kind of thing in my work.

I never have been the best collaborator. I absolutely hated doing that when I was working on "Bugzters". I guess I just don't like the lack of control, and honestly feel like I'm the best protector of my characters and the story they're telling me. Which is why it's probably good I'm shifting to novels; I normally have the last word in that format.

Thinking of the other occasions where I've collaborated or done rewrites...the first time I did it, I subsumed my preferences to my partner's. Not a good idea. Half of what I wrote was crap. Then when I was reworking some scripts a couple years ago, I found I'd make the changes I needed to make the story work for me, and when the client didn't like them, I'd all but shrug.

My last one, I withdrew from the rewrite because the original writer, who also was going to direct the script, was locked into a particular story structure that just did not work and wouldn't consider any of the changes I suggested, not matter how hard I tried to convince him. And he didn't believe me when I insisted it was the storyline the characters wanted. What fools these mortals be.

Of course, I'm the same way. Once a story I'm relating is set, it's set, and God himself couldn't get me to change it. It's funny how that works. Some of my scripts just don't want to gel, and no matter what I do to them, they don't settle...and won't until I find the key to the story.

I don't ever give up completely on a story, much as I may think I do. I have one script where I wrote a first draft on back in graduate school...many, many years ago. It still doesn't work...but I think I'm finally getting an idea of what it needs. Now. After probably two dozen drafts and changes left and right in the spine of the story, if not the characters and details.

Aw, man...suddenly I saw myself as a rat terrier, probably one of the most stubborn mutts there is. Grr. Growl. Snap. Snarl.

Reboot it all

I bit the bullet and ordered new RAM for my Mac Mini. I can bump it up to 2 gigs, if I'm reading the specs right, and that may help my little beast go a while longer. Wasn't cheap, but I have the kind of card that gives little rebates on everything you buy, and since I use it for my trips, I've built up enough to pay for the RAM...so officially it's costing me nothing. That, I can live with.

I'm a third of the way through IF's polish, and still running into moments that are confusing or don't add up to when the story's supposed to be taking place. For instance, I had Vinnie luxuriating in a brand new 1966 Pontiac GTO with a vinyl roof, "the first he'd ever seen," when the timeframe should have been late in 1966, so it needed to be a '67 to keep things in order.

I wish I could just rely on my own memory of those times for this story, like when miniskirts came into fashion and what sort of cultural references there were at the time, but my memories are too jumbled up from living in so many different places. Summer of '65- summer of '66 was in El Paso; '66-'67 was Grand Forks, North Dakota then San Antonio; '67-'68 was Honolulu; and we settled back in San Antonio the summer of 1968, in the middle of Hemisfair and Fiesta Noche del Rio in La Villita (San Antonio's old town nestled up next to Hemisfair Plaza). And San Antonio was about 10 years behind the times, if that modern.

Example -- I did my last two years of high school in SA, at an inner-city school where girls could not wear miniskirts or pants; and boys had to wear slacks, no jeans. Hair was kept to a minimum my first year, and many's the time I got ordered to get mine cut...and many's the time I ignored the order. But it was hard for me to hide my long hair in the crowd; I was the only redhead in a school that was 95% Latino.

My connection with pop culture didn't really come about till I'd graduated and was working, which was during the phase between hippies and disco. Not a lot of memories to mine...because I wasn't sober much. Not stoned; I couldn't smoke pot because it killed my voice (couldn't even smoke cigarettes) and the few times I tried uppers I hated it when I came down. So I drank wine and screwdrivers and slowly shifted to beer, and once got so drunk, I wound up with alcohol poisoning...and didn't remember driving home. That's when I cut back on my drinking, and now I just have a beer with dinner, every now and then, and that's plenty.

Y'know, I hated moving around so much, back then. I wanted consistency and long-term friends instead of people I'd only know for a year, if that long. Now? I love to travel, even as painful as it is dealing with airport security. If I could have worked it out right, I'd have taken the train down to this next packing job in New York because it's a beautiful journey. As it is, I'm staying an extra day in NYC so I can go to the Guggenheim...so that's fine.

Hmph...a rambling road of thoughts to lie back on. 

Not all that bad

I'm weaving my way through "Internal Flaws" to polish it and clean up the grammar, and so far it's not all that bad. I found some inconsistencies and a few spots where my timeframes didn't work out, and of course I edited and reworked a couple of moments. Seems I can't get away from that. But I'm about a fourth of the way through it and won't mind it being shown to publishers.

I will say, I like the chatty way Vinnie is telling his story. It jumps around a bit, like a guy who's explaining himself in a bar as one event reminds him of something else that happened but has relevance, somewhat meandering but always getting back to the thread. I guess we'll see how this goes, now.

I'll be in New York City the 9th through the 12th. I was only supposed to be there till the night of the 11th, but I booked my flight on the wrong day and decided the hell with it; I haven't just wandered about NYC in years. Haven't gone to a museum or gallery. Never been to the Guggenheim. So I booked my hotel for the extra night and will just enjoy myself, that day.

It's funny, but the first time I was in NYC was the summer of 1979, and the city damn near overwhelmed me. I'd been accepted to NYU's Graduate School in film but was not at all ready, emotionally, to take it on. I tell myself now that I copped an attitude, but truth is, if I'd stayed I'd have lost it. I was deep in debt from my undergraduate studies, not just student loans (which didn't have to be paid back, yet) but also credit cards. I could not have handled school, work, projects that needed to be done and paid for, and living day to day.

Now? After living in LA for 16 years, I can treat it like a vertical version of that town. I basically know how to get around...when I pay attention to what I'm doing. I have enough tools in my psyche to handle the city, now. Of course, it might just be arrogance talking...but now when I walk around, I don't feel lost or oppressed. It's just a big town, like London or Paris or Berlin or Hong Kong.

Hmph, world traveller Kyle.

The ennui of Henri gives me meaning, you see

I've seen too many French films that are really like that cat's commentary, and it makes me happy to know my inner kitten is still smitten with what is written and ... and ... okay, what's another word that rhymes with written? Spittin'? That's cheating.

An idea came to me, last night, just as I was about to drift off to sleep. Killed my quietness, and I couldn't drop off for another hour. But I wrote it down, this time, and think it may be something that needs to be done. It's a plan to promote "The Lyons' Den" and I have to work fast because all hell is about to break down in my computer world and I need to upgrade to Snow Leopard soon. Then Lion. Once I do that, I have no access to such niceties as Word or Final Draft or a number of other programs until I buy new versions, except on my Mac Mini, and it's running rough, lately.Maybe it needs more memory.

I hate technology, which is probably why I love it so damn much.

Anyway, not saying a thing more about anything until I've actually DONE it. Then I'll ask for commentary and explain myself and wonder what the hell I'm trying to pull.

It snowed all day, today, and still managed to only lay an inch on the ground, and that was gone within an hour. Very odd weather, they say. I find it fascinating.

Amazon is still being a pain. So any thoughts I may have had about self-publishing through Kindle have vanished.

1. I don't rust their sales reports, so why do the self-publishing thing through them if you won't be given data you can trust?
2. Their customer service is in Pakistan or India and only sends out canned messages to whatever you ask them. I tell them the titles of some of my books have been changed, recently, and ask them to put them back like they were. They say I have to talk to my publisher. I tell them I want to know why they changed the titles of my books on the Kindle editions. They say the books are available. I tell them I'm only asking why they did this, recently. They say I have to talk to my publisher.
3. They insisted LD be offered exclusively through Kindle for 3 months prior to its paperback release, but have done nothing to promote it. Zero. Zip. Nada. Why? I have to talk to my publisher.

So they can talk to the hand. I'm looking into publishing through my own website, once I get caught up. There must be a way to do that without involving Amazon and Kindle and all that crap.

Or am I about to totally hate technology, again?

Henri Premiere

Je suis Henri!

C'est trop perfect! (Too purrrrfect.)