Booked

So I wrote another book.
Wait………come back!

I get it.
I know the only thing more tedious than hearing some dork talking about his new book is hearing some dork talking about writing the book..
It’s as bad as hearing someone tell you about a fish they almost caught, say, or suffering through someone’s unending post of vacation photos.
(….and in this one, we’re pretending to hold the Tower of Pisa from falling!)

It’s an outrageous proposal, I know.
That in this day of shortened attention span and toxic media, to expect people to sit down quietly and devote a few hours to reading the words I splashed onto the page.
And yet, if you are reading this, you might be inclined to read the book, so I feel justified in giving you a bit of background.
Also, allow me to shamelessly put in the sales link here.
And here.

When I wrote the first book, Miles Per Gallon, (hey! that was another sales link!) I sat in a darkened den, laptop upon lap, tapping away in Covid mandated isolation. It was fitting that a worldwide pandemic was the only thing that finally forced me to sit down and write the book I had imagined for decades.
I had those romantic notions of Hemingway alone in his flat off the 5th arrondissement, dreaming up his terse prose for a waiting world, or Bukowski holed up in his skid row flophouse.

This is what a writer does, I’d think, tapping a pen against my teeth in the shuttered room..
And then I would get up and vacuum the house, then clean the baseboards.
The baseboards, people!
Is there a cleaner house than that inhabited by a procrastinating writer?

This time around I found myself writing the book all over the world, a few words typed in a Buenos Aires café notable, a chapter finished backstage in Kanazawa.
I started the book in San Francisco while attending a tribute to my dear fallen friend James.Stewart.
I finished it in the Lobby Bar of Hotel Chelsea, just because.
I did find my old pal procrastination follows you everywhere though.
In the middle of the Antarctic sea, ensconced in the ship’s library with the cursor blinking its unanswered plea for input, a call goes out for volunteers to help decontaminate rubber boots on the tender deck.
Ten minutes later I am there, happily brushing penguin shit from vibram soles, not a thought of foreshadowing or character development in my head.

It turned out to be a book that continues the misadventures of the band, into the big haired days of the Sunset Strip and the ruthless music industry of the 1980’s. I also go into my life as a sheet metal worker (A Tin Knocker –hey!) and the struggles between art and commerce, punk and rock, salty and sweet, that kinda stuff.
And in response to the most common complaint we got on the last book (it ain’t got no pictures!), this book features double the photos: Two!

Once again working with the lovely folk at DiWulf Publishing House (LINK!) and their UK partners at Earth Island (boom) we can get the book into your paws no sweat. Do I have to mention that it is also available from our digital overlords at Amazon? (Fuck ’em. No link.)
Steven DiLodovico once again served as my trusty editor and therapist, Amy Yates Wuefling our steady captain.
Their daily emails thoughout the months shaped the book as well as assured me that two spaces are no longer necessary after a period. Of this, I remain skeptical.
The ultra cool cover art, done up as a classic blueprint was done by my pal Brian Walsby.

And finally, unbelievably, a box of the finished product sits on the floor.
Somehow here, physical, captured.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, you can also order the book HERE!