Back to The Bookstore

The most recent episode of The Bookstore is a fair bit of a self-indulgence. But this is my universe, so I’ll construct it as I like, thank you. Actually, the true point of these videos is simply to entertain and tell a story, and it is my great hope that do exactly that.  But I would be remiss in not utilizing it to also promote myself, so why not have Eddie profess me to be one of the greatest writers ever?  I was rather touched by his sentiment, even if he’s just doing so in a vain attempt to bait me into doing an event at The Bookstore.

I’ve upgraded to Xtranormal’s new movie-making program, which they call State.  It allows for more than 2 characters–which I’ve utilized here–and the ability to move characters around.  There’s a nifty voice over thingy that I will ultimately have to give a try, but for now…baby steps.

As with every project I ever undertake, I’m open to comments, thoughts, and ideas.  Additionally, I’m very (I think I mean to say VERY) open to you sharing these videos on Facebook, Twitter, or anywhere you socially congregate.  As well, you can visit the videos on my You Tube page, and add comments, likes, and so forth.  Don’t underestimate how much it helps.  Same with my books on Amazon.  It’s a public forum in which people who have never heard of me (like Stacy in the video) have the opportunity to read what other people are saying.

Ok, enough promoting. Here’s the fourth video in The Bookstore series, Going Viral.


Turning Away From the Shore

I’ve been lax in my James Franco reading, and I’m a little worried now that I may have yet another distraction in the way.

Snooki, the Bronze Demon of the Underworld.

You could hear the collective groan of publication-hungry (or just plain hungry) writers across America when this title dropped.  I’m surprised we have yet to hear of some poor writer (again, these are literal descriptives) losing their mind at a writer’s conference and Going Postal in the only way writers can.  But no reports have yet to surface of frazzled individuals running amok, covered in toiletries, and without proper caffeination shouting, “Pitch, pitch, query, query, I’ve got a synopsis for you, Snooki! Redrum! Redrum!”

How disappointing.

Anyway, it’s sure to be a classic.  I watched two episodes of Jersey Shore before coming to the conclusion that I was getting drunk watching it. Something like a contact high from the fumes emanating from the television, I think.  This Snooki person–a loose term meant loosely for a loose woman–would scare Animal.  And she’s “written” a book?  Actually, and honestly, I’m going to be very disappointed if she didn’t write it, even if it took a dozen editors to make it readable.  I wanted bronze pages, but, eh, just regular inserts.  Maybe some stained pages?  A wafting smell of tequila, or maybe you could light it and smoke it?  Nah.  It’s just a book.  And one that begins like a block of cement landing in a black hole: never to be recalled, remembered, or envisioned again.

“Life was hard. But a pouf? That should be easy?”

Egad.  It’s a pouf story?  That’s the big set-up?  Giovanni “Gia” Sputmanti is going to lead us on a charge through the battlefield of this book (where we are sure to find ourselves scarred deeply, if not maimed or wounded beyond all literary resuscitation) with a pouf?

On the first page alone, we get such great lines as “Tonight, humidity was a bitch,” and a paragraph describing the maintenance of a pouf.  Oh…yay.  On the second page, Gia says “Waa!”  She says this.  On the page.  In quotations.  As dialogue.

So, ok, Snooki wrote this.  It’s like smelling dinner in the oven, your empty writers-stomach rolling and protesting the wait, and knowing that the bag of Cheetos are but an arm’s reach away, and will do just fine, thanks.  So, in I will dive, head-first and likely to discover that the pool has no water.  But there will be no shortage of fodder for the blog.  James will have to wait.

James Franco is an author writer with mad ninja skills

I’d like to begin this with a sincere attempt at not apologizing if this sticks a very unfortunate song in your head, but this is my blog, my therapy, and I need to paste it somewhere other than in my head.  So, there.  Um, yeah.

But since this may not be enough, I drop this into the abyss of my blog as well:

There.  All better.

James Franco wrote a book.  No, really.  I might be imaginative, but even I have my limits.  It’s a collection of stories, which I imagine amuse him greatly, and probably only encourage him to think even more highly of himself.  No disrespect to Sir James, he was a passable Goblin Jr.–although the self-destructive, delusional, running weed joke that was Pineapple Express stole a bit of my soul before I sent it back to Netflix with a note that said, “No!  Bad Netflix!”–but I can’t help imagining him writing this book, pausing at each sentence with that damned half-smirk of his to admire how awesomely awesome  it was.

I am so freakin' awesome...

Yeah. That one.

Apparently, according the guru of all things hip and importantly pivotal to a world unprepared to acknowledge his vast and deeply essential understanding of hipness, Russ Marshalek, there is a sentence that reads: “When would things begin mattering? he wondered. Now, now, now.”

Wow. I am sufficiently moved now.  And yet, strangely compelled, in that Apocalypse South, kind of way to read this.  I may print out the picture above and use it as a bookmark just to be reminded of how awesome Sir James thinks he is, so that I fully appreciate it for myself.  Or I might just burn the photo, along with a collection of the movies he’s been in, so that I have enough light to tear out each page as I read it, smother it in mayonnaise, and eat it.

It’s a toss-up.