Sunday, October 19, 2014

Books with 'wife' in the title beat ones with 'husband' any day

After the success of "The Time Traveler's Wife" and "The Aviator's Wife," I am making sure that my first novel will have "wife" in the title.

Search Amazon for books with "wife" and you get over 50,000 results. Search for "husband" and it's less than half that. From this math arises such titles as "The Soldier's Wife," "The Thug's Wife" and "The Nazi Officer's Wife."

Rather than novels, "husband" titles tend to be self-help gems like "The Good Husband Guide" and "How To Be The Almost Perfect Husband."

These sell beautifully as well-meaning, horrific Christmas presents. No man has ever read one of those, but that crack in the garage wall isn't going to fill itself now, is it?

In contrast, who can resist "The Traitor's Wife" or "The Shape-Changer's Wife" or "The Millionaire's Pregnant Wife"? This last is not to be confused with "The Millionaire's Wife," who is evidently using birth control and probably selling fewer copies.

I am only using actual titles today, people.

They sell a book called "The Pastor's Wife," sure, but the wife-obsessed public today requires more sizzle for real sales. "The Runaway Pastor's Wife" exists to fill that need. Unfortunately, due to the poorly placed adjective, I am not sure if it is the pastor who has run away or his wife.

It is, frankly, killing me.

You can't just have a wife any more. Her spouse has to have a cool trade. Thus, "The Saddlemaker's Wife," "The Shoe-maker's Wife," "The Map-maker's Wife" and "The Chocolatier's Wife."

Because this is not a perfect world, these books do not comprise a quartet known as "The Real Housewives of the 16th Century."

This spousal requirement seems a bit old-fashioned. We don't get a woman CEO, we get "The CEO's Pregnant Wife." What can we suppose this pregnant wife is going to do? Maybe she is meeting the runaway pastor at the bus station. Maybe she is in cahoots with "The Earl's Inconvenient Wife." Maybe she is, in actuality, "The Rancher's Secret Wife."

I wonder what kind of conversation "The Donkey-driver's Wife" might have with "The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife." Probably nothing that the "The Duke's Willful Wife" hasn't heard before.

I do not yet know the plot of my first novel, but I do have the title. It will do gangbusters: "The Caramel Apple Salesman's Sticky Wife."

This baby is going to write itself.

. . .




Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Wednesday Wa Pics - As Seen In England


 Oh. Whew! Exhibitions. Thank God. Had me going there for a minute.





 Buy us, don't buy us. Whatever.





"Don't judge our food by our wordplay."




Sunday, October 12, 2014

Questionable email offer results in scintillating interview

I got an email recently exhorting me to try the services of a "Dr. Uma Sabo" for any spells I needed casting. It included a handy list:

"Money" spell, "long life" spell, "spiritual bulletproof," "becoming a manager" spell, "get a huge loan without paying any fee" spell, "invisible human" spell, "free house loan" spell, "production spell of films and movie," "loose weight and body" spell, and my favorite, "getting your scam money back" spell.

Intrigued, I invited him for an interview.

GW: Dr. Sabo, welcome.

Sabo: Thank you, Greg.

GW: Doctor, would you say that most of your customers want you to fix love problems?

Sabo: Yes, Greg, the love is the hardest one to find. That is why I have the "love" spell, the "marriage" spell, the  "getting your lover or husband back" spell, and if that ones do not work, the "avenging" spell and the "killing" spell.

GW: Whoa, those last ones seem harsh. How does the avenging spell work?

Sabo: Goats.

GW: Goats?

Sabo: You know this, goats?

GW: Yes, I know about goats.

Sabo: Then you can imagine.

GW:

Sabo: You are imagining, yes?

GW: Yes. Um, how exactly does the "production spell of films and movie" work?

Sabo: You write screenplay.

GW: O.K.

Sabo: I get you production deal.

GW: That's great. But how?

Sabo: Doctor Meza never reveal his secrets.

GW: Wait, isn't your name Sabo?

Sabo: Doctor Sabo never reveal his secrets.

GW: I am curious about how you can render me "spiritual bulletproof."

Sabo: That easy one. I talk to God, he give you free pass.

GW: You mean even if I do bad things, if I steal my neighbor's goat, I still get into Heaven?

Sabo: Anything but goat. That in the fine print.

GW: But cars? Jewels? Wives?

Sabo: Straight to Heaven.

GW: Even if I kill somebody?

Sabo: You do not look so dangerous to me.

GW: I'm just saying.

Sabo: Straight to Heaven.

GW: How much does that cost?

Sabo: How much it worth to you for spiritual bulletproof?

GW: A lot.

Sabo: That what it cost.

GW: Is it possible to get the "killing" spell and the "spiritual bulletproof" sort of as a combo?

Sabo: Yes, yes, that is Groupon.

GW: You use Groupon?

Sabo: Of course. This 21st Century. I go now. Thank you, Greg.

GW: My name's George.

Sabo: I have spell for that too.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Wednesday Wa Pics - More from England


 It makes the phrase "shut your pie hole" pale in comparison.





"It's the 21st Century. You can't have it your way any more."





 If you only eat one "gourmet" burrito this year, be sure to go to England for it.




Sunday, October 5, 2014

Shipping mistake almost fulfills childhood fantasy

The other day I came home to find five cardboard boxes from the Acme company on my porch, an event I have fantasized about my whole life. I had no idea why. I had not ordered anything. But I was excited.

I opened the top box giddily, anticipating rocket-powered roller skates and boulder-catapults, but found instead...organic black tea. Thirty-two foil pouches of organic black tea.

Not even fuse-delayed exploding organic black tea. Not even gunpowder masquerading as tea.

Just tea.

Did you ever have that dream where you come into possession of something fantastic, and then you wake up and all you really have is 160 pouches of organic black tea? I know, right? I hate that one.

I do not know why I got five cases of tea from Colorado instead of one case of breakfast cereal from Canada like I ordered.

(Why do I get my cereal shipped in from Canada? Because, my friend, it tastes like sweet mountain air and gun control.)

I called the delivery company. The nice lady insisted that the boxes had been delivered exactly where they should have been. I had to admit my name and address were plastered all over the boxes in a cavalcade of stickers, as if somebody were getting paid by the sticker, all of them suggesting quite convincingly that I was the possessor of a serious, hard core organic black tea habit.

I have found, in life, it is hard to argue with barcodes.

Then I discovered a game-changer on the bottom box in the stack—the packing slip, which revealed that a tea company in Colorado had intended this bounty to go to a Mediterranean Grill in Texas.

In your face, nice parcel service lady, I thought. Smoking gun officially un-holstered! And then I felt guilty, because really all she had was barcodes, and what kind of life is that?

I called my cereal company and told them I was not much of a tea drinker, which led to an unexpected conversation about India, the concept of empire, and the merits of the free market system.

I am kidding. I just got their answering machine.

They called back and told me they were already on the case. My granola was on its way. They would have somebody pick up the tea. Acme was just a company they used for shipping.

Fine. My Acme fantasy lives on, though. Because you never know when you will need a portable fake cave entrance.