Dec 102012
 

So this past weekend, I had a book signing at Bank Square Books in Mystic, and it was an … interesting experience for me. Unlike all my previous book signings, there was no talk or presentation involved—I was invited to just sit at a table in the store and sign books for anyone who wanted to buy one.

Although I’m familiar with the concept, I’ve never actually done anything like this before, so as with pretty much everything in my life, I’m a bit apprehensive going in. But hey, I’m all about trying to push myself outside of my comfort zone, and putting myself on display like this to help sell this book is well outside how I would prefer to spend my Saturday afternoon.

So after racing 60 miles in 40 minutes—my son has a play in New Haven that goes a bit longer than expected—I arrive at the store about three minutes before my scheduled start time. The store is in the heart of downtown Mystic, and as it’s a pleasant day only a two-and-a-half weeks before Xmas, the sidewalks are bustling with shoppers.

The store is in ideal spot for foot traffic, so there are plenty of people browsing the shelves when I walk through the front door. I meet one of the owners, who has already set up a table with a stack of my books. “Here you go,” she smiles, motioning for me to have a seat. “Feel free to engage with the customers,” she adds before she goes back to helping patrons.

Of course, with my shyness issues, telling me to just chat up random strangers is akin to tossing Stephen Hawking into the deep end of the pool and suggesting he go swim a few laps. I am in no way a salesman—let’s just say when I hear “A-B-C” I think of the Jackson 5, not Glengarry Glenn Ross. [NSFW language; it is David Mamet, after all.]

So here I am sitting in the middle of a busy store, all alone at a table with nothing to hide behind other than a small pile of my books. To say that I feel just a bit *awkward* is a monstrous understatement.

I take few deep breaths. “Okay, LET’S SCHMOOZE THIS MUTHAFRACKIN’ BOOKSTORE UP!” is what I probably should’ve thought, but in my head, it’s more like, “Okay … so I guess we’re really going to do this. Yay?”

I smile, nod and say hi to anyone that comes past my table, trying desperately to not look too desperate and pathetic. For some reason, I can’t picture James Patterson doing this—I only pick him because I’m staring at a stack of his Merry Christmas Alex Cross. Apparently, a few dozen bestsellers  is the key to not having to sit in the middle of the bookstore by yourself. Noted.

I take out my phone and start typing the notes that will be this blog post so I don’t look like a complete tool sitting there. I have come to realize that my cell phone is a useful resource when I’m alone in a public place and trying to hide from the crowd. It makes me look like I might possibly have friends, which helps me feel not so self conscious.

Yes, I have issues.

Anyway, I soon realize that it seem as though many of the customers feel just as uncomfortable as I do. I can see many people are just like me in the sense that they’re not eager to engage a real person who is sitting in a store trying to sell something they probably don’t want. They don’t come close, or give me a wide berth if they have to go past. No problem—I understand it all too well!

Some customers do say “hi” and politely give the book a cursory glance. Others avoid eye contact like I am a grisly car wreck.

I decide that I must be too intimidating, which if you know me is certainly a problem that I struggle with . . . .

*Sigh*

I glance at the clock. What feels like six hours evidently has only been 13 minutes. Only an hour and 47 minutes left!

*Sigh* again.

One guy accidentally makes eye contact with me and instantly gets a panicked look. He turns away quickly like he walked in on his parents having sex.

I can see the front door and I just want to run for it. Ugh.

I smile at the employees as they pass by, but of course they are too busy working to stop and chat. Regardless, I suddenly feel like bookstore plutonium, throwing off a radioactive field into which no one will venture. “Danger: Engage at Your Own Risk!”

More like, “Caution: That Loud Hissing Noise is The Sound of a Fragile Ego Deflating!”

I have this sudden affinity for lepers. I also am now thinking of my visits to Comicon in New York City and walking past all those booths of comic book artists. And how people look at them is now how people are now rightfully looking at me.

In a word—

NERD!!!!!

Finally, mercifully, after 37 minutes of trying to be friendly but also working hard to not come across as a creeper, a woman comes up to the table and picks up the book. “I just want look at the back of this—did you write it?”

“Yeah,” I try to say casually, going into a very brief 15-second overview of the book. “I tried to have fun with it,” I say, adding, that it might make “a perfect stocking stuffer.”

“Great!” she says. “I’ll come back when I don’t have a tagalong.” She gathers up her young son who is over an aisle and leaves. I don’t even care that she doesn’t buy a book—I’m just happy to have had a conversation.

A few seconds later, her son is cavorting in the store and almost bumps into my table. “Look out,” I hear the mother say in her best sugary ‘mom voice.’ “That’s an author. He wrote a book!” I almost expect her to add, “And what sound does the author make? ‘Loooooser!!!’

Before I can think of making other sounds, an older guy comes up to me and starts talking about the store. After a few seconds, I realize that he thinks I work here. I tell him that I don’t. He leaves.

But less than five minutes later another gentleman comes up to me—I’m on fire! “Did you write this?” he asks. I tell him that I did and we chat for a moment or two. He nods to his wife shopping near by, saying, “Connecticut jerks!” She seems momentarily interested, except like all the others, they move on.

*Sigh* yet again.

I hope my phone’s charge lasts. I’m at 58 percent with more than an hour to go.

Before I can burn too much more battery, yet another guy comes over to chat about the book. He picks it up and seems very interested in it. While we’re talking, the guy who had mentioned the book to his wife comes back and takes one off of the stack. He brings it to the counter—sold!!!

The guy I’m chatting with walks off but I catch the attention of the wife of the guy who just bought a book. “I can sign that” I say, trying to be helpful. He brings it over and I do. Sweet!

Less than seven minutes later, a woman walks right up to my table and says she’s buying one for her husband, who is a teacher. “The title is great!” she tells me. “Would you sign it, please?” Sign it?! Heck lady, I’ll cut my finger and scratch my John Hancock in blood, if you want!

I sign her book (in ink), and I’m finally not feeling so much like a retail pariah. The way I see it is that I have now sold two more books by being in the store than I would’ve if it was just sitting on a shelf. That’s a good day by me.

So I’m feeling better when a white-haired sea salt blusters in through the front door and goes to the counter. I hear the employee say, “The author is right over there,” and he turns. His eyes light up, he waves to me and comes straight over.

He enthusiastically shakes my hand and introduces himself as a fellow author. “I know what you’re going through there,” he tells me. “I’ve done this plenty of times.” He is charming and funny, and we talk for a few minutes. Finally, he takes a book and asks me to sign it. I happily oblige.

He takes another, and asks me to make it out to someone for a gift. Nice! I do.

He then takes a third book, and has me sign that, too! Okay, this guy is my new hero, I think. Awesome sauce!

This is then multiplied times a bajillion as has me sign a fourth, fifth and sixth book!

I am almost giddy at this point, and so is my new BFF. He gives his books to the clerk to have her wrap them, and then runs around store enthusiastically bringing me copies of his books. Turns out he’s Steve Jones, a UConn at Avery Point professor, and a former Coast Guardsman and lighthouse keeper who has written extensively about the sea. Oh, and wonderful human being, by the way.

While my shining patron is at the counter paying for his books, another woman comes by says she read about the book in Connecticut Magazine and wants a signed copy. The pile on the table is now down to two books; my ego is back up to its normal bloated state.

My new BFF Steve comes back with a refrigerator magnet. “Here, it’s already paid for,” he says, handing it to me. He explains that the boats depicted on the magnet are his. “We built the small one,” he says proudly. “They’re docked around the corner.” I thank him profusely for his visit and everything.

He shakes my hand again, and leaves with his large bag full of my books. I want to run out after him and carry the bag all the way to his house, but I refrain. There are a few more books to sign, and these things don’t sell themselves.

Or do they?

 

Dec 022012
 

In case you haven’t had enough of me yet, I have four (technically five) more turns in the spotlight this week:

• On Monday, December 3, at 3 p.m. (with re-broadcast at 9 p.m.) on “The Faith Middleton Show” on WNPR. We recorded the show last week, so I can tell you that it went pretty well—we start right out of the box talking about my favorite Connecticut jerk, William Stuart, who Faith said was her favorite also. It was also really nice to talk to someone who had taken the time to really read the book! Most times, I’ll talk to someone who has skimmed the book, so it was great to be able to chat in depth with Faith. When I arrived in the studio, she told me, “You know, at first I said, ‘I love Connecticut Magazine, so oh, of course we’ll have Ray on to support him,’ but then I read the book, and I have to say, I love this book! I howled out loud at some parts—it’s great! Very entertaining.” Instantly swollen ego, check!

• On Monday, December 3 at 8 p.m. on “Literary New England” with Cindy Wolfe Boynton – I recorded this interview about two weeks ago, and it was going to be broadcast last Monday, but apparently something came up and it will be on this Monday—so you can fill your Monday night up with me! Sounds like the *perfect* recipe for sweet dreams …

• On Tuesday, December 4, at 7 p.m., I will be at the venerable RJ Julia Booksellers in Madison. As much as I joke about my “literary prowess,” being at RJ Julia is akin to playing Madison Square Garden or Carnegie Hall—it means I’ve made it as a writer! Of course, if no one shows up to hear me talk, there’s that whole “If an author flops in a bookstore, has he made a noise?” question. Another day, another day …

• And on Saturday, December 8, from 2 to 4 p.m. I will be at Bank Square Books in Mystic. I’m excited for this as Bank Square was heavily damaged by Hurricane Sandy—having a book-signing event means that they’ve recovered enough to open up, but they still are getting back on track, so if you can, please stop in and help support them!!!

Whew!

Of course, this all comes on heels of the other interviews and articles since September, including:

  • Jaki’s Buzz – With my new BFFs, The Grimm Generation.
  • WPLR’s “Chaz & AJ” – Only the second half the interview, but it’s better than none, right?
  • The New Haven Register – With another new BFF, Jim Shelton.
  • Plus other interviews on “Leatherneck & Lace,” “Talk of the Town” and Seasons magazine …

Oh, and let’s not forget the public appearances—at the Guilford Public Library, the UConn Coop and Written Words in Shelton, where all this attention whoring tour all started.

Just crazy. Really. I can’t believe I’ve done all these things when the only real public speaking gig I’d ever done before any of this was one talk for a women’s book club in Darien and a cable access TV show. Oh, and to this day, what I refer to as the most nerve-wracking appearance ever: In front of my son’s 4th-grade class. Awful! I was beyond nervous and sweating like Ted Striker trying to land an airplane.

Surely, I’m not kidding.

I also can’t get over the fact that all these different outlets have been interested in the book. I guess the title is catchy—as I like to say during my talks, we all enjoy the train wrecks; no one watches the show “Cops” for the cops.

Still, I absolutely cannot acclimate myself to being the center of attention, however brief it may be in these situations. As a few of you know, I am naturally very shy—especially in group-type situations. The first year I was at the magazine, I really didn’t talk to anyone, hiding in my office and trying to hide from everyone how ignorant I was to writing, editing and the publishing process. Heck, it took me about three years before I even started talking to the woman who is now my work wife, Moosey!

Going to any place where there’s a crowd and I’m by myself is tough. This past weekend it happened as I went to a bar by myself to watch a great show (with both Chris Bousquet and The Grimm Generation). I got there early and even though I know Chris and Jason and Carmen were playing so they’d eventually be there, and my old college pal Steve was meeting me there, too, I was freaking out while sipping my soda and cowering in the corner trying not to make eye contact with anyone until someone I knew showed up. Pathetic, right?

But yeah, I’ve always struggled with these scenarios. I’ll never forget my terror the first time I attended a large function with my wife’s family. It was her college graduation party, and all her relatives—aunts, uncles, cousins, etc.—were at her house. Have I mentioned that her father has 11 brothers and sisters, almost all of whom were married with kids at the time and many of whom look alike? I arrived and my wife introduced me to one of her aunts, and then wandered off, leaving me with dozens of people who all knew each other very well and were more than happy to torture the newcomer. Total nightmare! I mean, it turned out fine as I’m still in the family 22 years later, but I’m sure my anxiety took a few years off my life. (Hopefully, they’re just the years around 99, so I won’t miss them so much.)

One last story. Back in high school, I started dating this girl, and I was eventually invited to her house for Sunday dinner to meet the family. Now, she was the youngest daughter and all her siblings were very well known at Jonathan Law High School in Milford—every child was either a star athlete or just incredibly popular, or both. Oh, and her father was a respected principal, which only ratcheted up the intimidation factor.

Well, as you might guess, I was already nervous about meeting her parents to start, and it was even though they were all incredibly nice, it was very scary for me sitting at the table with all of them, and it must’ve shown. At one point, her father turns to me and says in his best principal’s voice, “Raymond! Pour me a glass of soda.”

After I got back into my skin, I reached for the bottle on the table and started to pour soda into his glass.

Raymond! What are you doing?!” he exclaimed. “I said, ‘Pour me a glass of soda!!‘”

I started freaking out and looking around, making sure I had the right bottle in my hand, which I did. “B-b-but I am pouring a glass of soda,” I whimpered. I started to pour it again.

“NO!” he shouted. “I said, ‘Pour me a glass of soda!!'”

I stammered, “But I am … pouring… you  .. ”

“NO!” he shouted again with that trained voice. “I said, ‘POUR ME A GLASS OF SODA!!!'”

I put the bottle down and almost started to cry, at which point he—and everyone else at the table—burst out laughing. “Oh Ray, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just messing with you. You looked so nervous. I had to do it.”

Of course now, it’s hysterical, but the truly great part is that I’m pretty sure I would still fall for this 30 years later. Probably why I’m not so great at being an attention whore.

 

Nov 252012
 

[Quick programming note: I will be at the UConn Coop in Storrs this Tuesday, Nov. 27, at 4 pm talking about Connecticut Jerks and signing books—please come out and say hi if you’re in the neighborhood, or even if you’re not!]

So we’ve floored the accelerator and driven like Thelma and Louise off the cliff into the yawning chasm that is the Crazed Retail Frenzy Formerly Known As Xmas, leaving Thanksgiving and anything remotely resembling personal fiscal restraint in the rearview mirror. The doors have been busted on down and now it’s time to BUY BUY BUY anything and everything that’s on sale—even if you can’t afford it (that’s what credit is for, dammit!)—so you can have your own cushy wet spot in the annual orgy of commercial excess. Remember, your friends and family and children and co-workers and neighbors and sewing circle and postman and guy who cleans your bidet *won’t love you ever again* unless you lavish them with overpriced baubles and trinkets, so open your wallet and join the fray! Love = money, dammit!

Hey, why the hell are you even wasting time reading this?! Get the frack out there and SHOP SHOP SHOP—your god, your country and your universe demands it!!

Really, when you think of it, the pagans have gotten their revenge as it seems we’ve drifted farther from a holiday of alleged Christian purity and closer to the godless drunken indulgence that was Saturnalia, which the early fans of Jeebus tried to eradicate by replacing it with their holiday. Go pagans!

Well anyway, as my friend Joopiter likes to remind me, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” And despite all the hype, it’s become abundantly clear as the years wear on that the religious observances have become secondary at this time of year and the true importance of this season is how much we can spend. It’s the American Way, after all, and one thing (despite all the other issues) I am is a proud American. U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

So it’s time for Shopocalypse, and far be it from me to stand in the way of the inevitable. As a matter of fact, I would suggest that even though it may seem that the holiday retail market is currently at its saturation point, there are more commercial opportunities than are currently being leveraged, as they like to say in those business-related meetings at work I’m never asked to attend.

Thus, in *true* holiday spirit, here are

Previously Untapped Holiday Marketing Opportunities

Santa Claus, Presented by WalMart – This seems to be a natural pairing as I’m under the impression that Santa also doesn’t really care to pay his workers top dollar for their services, preferring to offer lesser financial incentives like room and board. I mean, when was the last time you saw an elf rolling around in a tricked-out Escalade, dining on sushi at Masa or playing the roulette tables in Monaco? Ditto WalMart greeters.

Santa Claus’s Craftsman Tools Workshop – A natural fit, right? Although I always wonder how every time you see elves in the workshop, they’re always building wooden trains and generic dolls, yet on Christmas morning, kids open up Xboxes and Barbies. Magic of Santa, I suppose.

Santa’s Sprint Cup Sleigh – This one doesn’t take much to imagine: Santa’s shiny red sleigh plastered NASCAR-style with dozens of sponsor stickers, from GoDaddy.com and Budweiser to Napa Auto Parts and of course, STP, which in this case would stand for Santa’s Traveling Product-Placement.

The UPS Reindeer – When it absolutely, positively has to be there overnight. What can brown animals do for you?

Rudolph the Target-Nosed Reindeer“Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say, ‘Rudolph with your bulls-eye logo so bright, can you guide my sleigh tonight?'” Then how the marketeers loved him!

Yukon Jack Cornelius – A little liquid refreshment to warm the insides of you and your Bumble when you’re out prospecting for gold in the frozen north.

“Toymakers: Here Comes Hermey Boo Boo” on Discovery Channel – A way to maybe earn a little extra income with this reality-show look at life inside the workshop, including how making toys for Mr. Kringle can sometimes be like pulling teeth.

The Viagra North Pole – Uh … do I have to explain this one to you all? Okay, fine. Sometimes when a man is attracted to another person, he wants to hug them in a very special way, but that isn’t always possible because his north pole is pointing south and groinal warming is preventing it from freezing stiff, so he needs some *help* …

Cialiscanes – You know, some medicated treats for adults to suck on under the mistletoe. Oh, speaking of which …

The Herpeset Mistletoe – Because if you’re going to swap holiday spit, do it responsibly.

Frosty the Coors Snowman – Forged from the frosty goodness of the Rockies, when the snowman in the tophat turns blue, you know your beer is ready to drink!

The Flameless Candle Menorah – Oh, I haven’t forgotten about my Hebrew friends at this time of year, and neither has the retail universe as it has steadily tries to pump up Hanukkah despite it not being as important to the Jewish faith as Christmas is to Christianity. Then again, I suppose you could argue that Easter is really the defining holiday of the Christian faith and that hasn’t stopped Christmas from taking all the glory, so really Hanukkah upstaging Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah shouldn’t be all that out of line. Anyway, nothing saves lamp oil like batteries, amiright?

Exxon-Mobil Dreidels – How much difference is there really between an oil drill bit and a dreidel? They both turn, and when each stops, there is a prize to be had. Of course, dreidels generally don’t explode and destroy whole ecosystems when they do, but hey, never say never.

The Planned Parenthood Manger – Appropriate since women in out-of-wedlock pregnancies would have fewer choices for help if certain Christians had any say in the matter. (I think you know of whom I’m talking.)

iWiseMen – Why bring a kid gold, frankincense and myrrh when what any self-respecting future messiah needs is an iPad, an iPad mini or an iPhones to help him plan his ascension to glory. Saving your people? Yeah, there’s an app for that.

The Blessed Virgin Atlantic Mary – Travel woes got you down? Let divine intervention guide you to your destination this holiday season. With direct flights to most pilgrimage sites, plus much better than riding on the back of a donkey.

The LucasFilm/Disney Star (Wars) of Bethlehem – Aside from the obvious Star Wars Holiday Special tie-in and Star Wars Lego manger building sets, think of all the other opportunities with this one: Mary and Joseph riding a bantha arrive in Bethlehem, try to find a room in the Mos Eisley cantina (while the band plays in the background), and then huddle with some cuddly ewoks in the manger while giving birth. Oh, and don’t forget Jar Jar—”Mistah Joseph, mesa knowsa nothin’ about having nosa babeeee!”

And of course, then there’s the entire mind-boggling array of possible Disney marketing opportunities (worth a post of its own). I’ll just leave you with the image of Jiminy Cricket sitting on a hay bale in a manger, crooning to the Bethlehem sky, “When you wish upon a star …” 

Ahh … that holiday magic!

 

May 132012
 

So I got a text yesterday from my sister Joni the Whore: “I’m home.”

Now, that may not seem like a big deal to most, but for her, it means that she’s arrived at her new home in Miami … which, if you know anything about geography, is about 1,300 miles away from Connecticut where we grew up together and where she has lived until yesterday. My older sister (at her advanced age, she’s starting to lose it a bit and insists that I’m the older one—just smile and nod when she brings it up) has decided to make this Big Life Change for a number of good and logical reasons, and as her favorite brother, I fully support her decision and want her to be happy. Also as her favorite brother, I can say that I’m going to miss her tremendously.

I’m fortunate in that I’ve always had great relationships with both of my sisters; I’ll write about my sister Christine another time (you escape for now, Little Muskrat!). Joni and I are very close, and share the same dark, twisted sense of humor—for example, “whore” is a term of endearment between the two of us. We also both accept that in The End it’ll be the two of us playing cards in Hell with Satan and Hitler, and we’re good with that.

Of course, like many siblings, we certainly had our share of fights—although not nearly as many as my sisters had with each other simply because I was bigger and stronger and could easily thrash her at any moment (Mom smoked while pregnant with Joni, and that *clearly* did a lot of damage, both physically and mentally). We also shared other experiences, like discovering the folly of hiding the wooden spoon from Mom and then, after successfully antagonizing her, realizing that a metal spatula was a more painful substitute.

Speaking of sharing, she’s terrible at sharing secrets. Early on, when we were in college, she used to work at Planned Parenthood. Occasionally, she’d come home from work and be like, “Hey, guess who came into the clinic today?” And I’d be like, “Who?!” Then she’d be like, “Oh  … um … I can’t tell you. Client-privacy rules.” To this day, she’s never told me anyone she saw.

Bitch.

Two “contests” we engaged in over the years: 1. Trying to make each other laugh during church (which might figure into some of my general disrespect for things religious), and 2. Trying to make each other choke on dinner. I once made her snarf spaghetti through her nose; she returned the favor, making me snarf chocolate ice cream out of my nose. Nasty.

Despite how we’ve tried to injure each other, Joni is still an incredibly intelligent person, you know, aside from the smoking and tanning. Here’s a picture of her from next week:

Yeah, it’s good that she has goals.

I know whatever she does in Miami, she’ll be successful. Like we like to say, she’s a good egg—a little scrambled, but good nonetheless.

I would also like to tell her that if she thinks that simply moving across the country will somehow better endear herself to me (absence making the heart grow fonder), or if she’s under the illusion that the distance will create some sort of safety zone that protects her from being tortured by her loving brother, she’s utterly mistaken.

To wit: Time to share this family classic that she has *demanded* that I tell at her funeral, which hopefully won’t be for another 160 years or so. For those of you who have heard it, sit back and enjoy it again.

It started like any other summer morning around the house, no particular rush to get ready or go anywhere. At that point in our childhood—before happy pills—Joni was renowned for her ill-tempered morning routine. In fact, I can’t recall a day between first grade and when I moved out at 25 that she didn’t have some sort of curse-filled, obscenity-laced meltdown. Really. People never believed us that Joni went absolutely bonkers every single day because she was generally a quiet person otherwise. Senior Smoke insisted that I was nuts for a decade until he finally witnessed a midday meltdown/tirade, after which he told me that I was underexaggerating the severity of her tantrums and apologized.

On this particular morning Joni and I were tweens and Christine was about 8 or 9. Joni was downstairs, so I turned to Christine and said, “Hey, let’s hide all of her underwear!” Even now, it seemed like an innocent, goofy joke, and I swear, that’s all it was supposed to be. We both figured she’d turn to us, say something like, “Real funny guys,” and we’d give it back. So I cleaned out the drawer and hid it all under a pillow on her bed.

Well, when she went to get ready for a shower, Joni came into the room, opened her drawer, noticed the underwear was missing and . . . . went absolutely ballistic, a top-level banshee breakdown, screaming and spewing cusses that’d make a merchant marine blush! Christine and I were stunned—I mean it was so obvious that we took everything out of the drawer—but before we could step in, the future whore bolted out of the room screaming, “MOOOOOM!”

I quickly turned to Christine and said, “Hey, let’s put it all back.” It’d be funny, right? She agreed, so I went and got all the underwear, stuffed them back in the drawer and scurried down the hall. Just as I was ducking into my room, Joni stormed past with my mother—looking very annoyed (uh oh?)—in tow.

Okay, since I was out of the room now, all I got was the audio portion of events; Christine filled in the visuals later.

Joni [standing in front of her dresser, very angry]: “I’m telling you, I don’t have any underwear in here, not one!”

Mom [even angrier]: “And I’m telling you if there’s even *one* pair in there, you’re in trouble!”

Joni [jerks open drawer]: “See, not a . .. . .” [looks down, mouth drops open] “How did—”

*SMACK! SMACK!*

Joni: “No! *SMACK!* They weren’t *SMACK! SMACK!* there a *SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!* minute ago *SMACK! SMACK!* I swear *SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!* No! *SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!* Nooooooo!!! *SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!*

—and so on as Joni literally got the beating of a lifetime!

Oh, it was glorious to have set up a sibling to get whipped so! Especially a sibling that you think had it coming for years of tirades and meltdowns—apparently a feeling shared by my mother as she completely uncorked like I’d never seen. I’ll always remember that I was literally on the floor of my room (I can still see the red-white-and-blue looped carpet—hey, it was the late 70s), writhing in hysterics, crying from laughing so hard that my sister was getting all but murdered (from the sounds of it), and it was ALL MY FAULT! A perfect sibling moment.

Christine said she had her face in her pillow because she was laughing so hard. It was a truly beautiful moment in life, like having a chocolate sundae while watching the sun set, or when Inigo Montoya catches up with the six-fingered man at the end of The Princess Bride. Ah, you can’t make these moments up, just relish them. I do.

Eventually, my mom wore her hand out on Joni’s skinny butt and left her in a battered, crying, red pile of tears. Christine and I were in tears, too—from laughter! Being the caring siblings we were, we waited a week to confess.

Joni was a little upset about it, but curiously, my mom laughed. I guess Joni did have it coming after all …

Anyway, love—and already miss—ya’ whore! Here’s hoping you’ve got lots of underwear in your new home!