More Shit I Gotta Do

Jeff Gets Fancy

Author: September 5, 2019 0 Comments

I recently got a pedicure, which was the final movement in a symphony that began two decades ago when The Duchess asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday.

As I have always been a man in love with sitting at home in the dark, I told her “Nothing.” I wanted a day to just write, listen to music, and read books. I thought this was reasonable. The Duchess thought I was kidding. When the great day arrived and I emerged from my sleeping chamber swathed in a velvet bathrobe, scratching myself in intimate ways, The Duchess greeted me in her Jeff’s Birthday Adventure Outfit and politely inquired as to what I wanted to do. Upon being informed that we’d already discussed this and I thought we were doing nothing, she became confused.

The Duchess: Nothing.

Me: Yup.

The Duchess: Fascinating.

Me: Yup.

The Duchess: You’re the weirdest husband ever.

For years, she refused to believe that I might actually wish to do just stay home on my birthday. Her own birthdays were imperial affairs, usually involving travel and sumptuous dinners; they were events that required planning and expense. And for years she attempted to force my own birthday celebrations into the same pattern, and I went along mainly because it made her happy. Then, this year, she suddenly announced that she finally believed me and that we would, therefore, make no plans for my birthday.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

I was elated, but when the day actually arrived I had second thoughts. I’ve never had the courage of my convictions, and I began to contemplate my poor wife sitting around the house bored to tears because I’d insisted on a Day of Nothing.

The thing was, I made the initial request back when I was still working a day job and trying to cram writing time in wherever I could find it. The idea of having a whole day to just to work on a novel or story was incredibly exciting. But these days I’m a freelance writer, and so I have a lot more flexibility. If I want to work on a novel at 10AM while wearing a top hat and cape and nothing else, I sure can. So carving out a birthday for myself isn’t as much of a priority. Also, there’s the whole getting older and staring into the void so what’s the point of anything factor, but let that drift.

So, thinking I was about to be nominated as The Best Husband of All Time, I told The Duchess if she wanted to do something on my birthday, I’d be down.

The Duchess: So … after two decades of complaining now you expect me to plan a birthday for you with zero notice.

Me: No … wait … see, this is —

The Duchess: I suppose you want a parade. And elephants. And a big fancy dinner reservation.

Me: No, I was just thinking —

The Duchess: Fine. What do you want to do?

Now here it got tricky, because I knew I had one shot to turn this tanker around and be a hero instead of a jackass. I needed to come up with something astounding, but also easy to arrange. Something that would make The Duchess very excited.

“I want to get a pedicure,” I said.

Touch Me I’m Sick

I don’t think about my feet. Ever. My nail-clipping and other foot grooming is haphazard and inconsistent, and I have callouses on my callouses. But I’ve always been honestly fascinated by the idea of a pedicure. There’s something … fancy about it, like getting a shave at the barber: Something that goes against the grain of my middle class upbringing and makes me feel like a billionaire.

The Duchess almost exploded in excitement, and within seconds the arrangements were made, and about twenty minutes later I was sitting in one of those plush seats with my feet soaking. Everything went swimmingly until we got to the part where they buff off your callouses. I’m kind of ticklish, and The Duchess had a good time watching me for signs I was going to break into hysterics, but I held onto my dignity.

But then the callous scraping went on. And on. At one point, I think the poor girl had to switch out for a fresh scraper, and when they all started speaking in a different language I assumed they were discussing, in wonder, how it was possible that I was at liberty in society.

I mean, it went on. And on.

When it was done, however, I had new feet. They were pink and smooth and we went for a drink to celebrate, and it was definitely the best birthday ever. Except for that time my Future Self time traveled into my bedroom and kicked me in the groin for some crime I’ve yet to commit.

Bullshit, More Shit I Gotta Do

WDC 19

Author: August 25, 2019 1 Comment

So, over the weekend I once again participated in the Writers Digest Annual Conference in New York City. The Duchess put some pants on me and we crossed the river without incident, unless you consider me spontaneously breakdancing on the subway an incident, which, to be fair, everyone else on the subway car certainly did.

First up was a two-hander with my agent, the Query Shark herself, entitled “JEFF SOMERS TELLS ALL, JANET REID REVISES HIM: BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE AUTHOR/AGENT RELATIONSHIP.” This was a lot of fun, as Janet and I have a great relationship and love to take the piss out of each other, and folks at WDC have a lot of questions about how a real-life agent relationship works. Here’s a photo of me trying to decide if I’ve just been insulted or not:

Not sure if ‘braying jackass’ counts as an insult.

After that The Duchess and I grabbed some lunch and a beer, and returned to the hotel to discover that half the WD Staff had been looking for me because my presentation file for my solo gig (Mistakes, I’ve Made [More Than] a Few: Learning to Take Failure in Stride as an Author) was crashing computers everywhere. After figuring that out, it was time for me to stand up in front of people and talk about all the humiliating failures I’ve experienced as a pro writer. For an hour.

I almost look competent here. Almost. Thanks to The Duchess for these great pics!

I really do think this is a subject that needs more attention at writing conferences and the like. When you’re asked to stand on stage and offer wisdom, the urge to brand yourself as an expert who knows everything is strong, but it’s a disservice to people making their way up, because it gives the impression that there is One True Way and deviating from it is disaster. I think if more pro writers spoke honestly about the times they failed, people would benefit greatly.

I got a great response to the presentation, with a lot of people staying behind to chat and ask questions, so I think others agreed. As always. WDC did a fantastic job pulling this together. Aside from me there were of course dozens of other great writers sharing their experience and advice (a few you might have heard of, like N.K. Jemisin and Karin Slaughter), and the WD folks work their butts off to make it a great experience for all. Thanks, guys!

Finally, here is my new avatar for all things social media.

Yup.

More Shit I Gotta Do, Writing

Speech at Mepham High NEHS Induction

Author: April 10, 2019 0 Comments

Through my literary agency, I was invited to offer a few remarks at a high school induction ceremony for the National English Honor Society. Of course I agreed, because I love any opportunity to put on an adult suit of clothes and pantomime competence. And also any opportunity to make a speech, because listening to myself talk is hella fun.

Here I am speechifying; tell me it’s not hot:

Pants? I’ll never tell.

It’s interesting to note how the high school experience, at least in this narrow way, is exactly as I remember it. Aside from the security on the entrance, things don’t seem to have changed much since my day, despite the constant sense you get as a middle-aged person that the Youth have strayed onto darker paths than you could have imagined at their age, and are evolving into strange creatures you can’t possibly understand. The kids sitting, bored to tears, during this induction ceremony were exactly like me and my friends when we were that age. It was … oddly comforting.

It always amazes me that I’m asked to make remarks and then no one wants to vet those remarks before I make them, especially when I’m known for talking about drunkenness and pantslessness and those remarks will be directed at children. And yet this is what happened. For my speech, I decided to put a button on the whole competency issue by talking about my own lack of it, but the ultimate point I tried to make was that English and language skills are fundamental to just about every industry. You hear a lot about how to make a living and career choices, but what’s often lost is that being able to read and write with skill and efficiency is absolutely a superpower no matter what industry you wind up in. Anyone who’s had to parse the gibberish emails of colleagues will know what I mean.

Anyways, here’s the speech I made:

First of all I’d like to congratulate all of you for this achievement—you should be proud of yourselves and very smug about this. And I’m kind of an expert in being smug, something my wife will confirm for you if you want, so I know when it’s a good time for smugness, and this is one of them.

And I know that it must really mean something to you, hearing it from me, person you’ve never heard of before. But I know what I’m talking about here, because I’m one of you. I’m one of those people who started reading big adult books when they were kids, one of those people who started writing stories when they were nine years old. I even sold a novel when I was sixteen, though it never published due to an incompetence singularity so powerful it destroyed several careers.

But words and writing had been so good to me in my childhood, so when the time to go to college, I naturally chose to earn a degree in English, mainly because I’d already read all the books. I started to understand how powerful it is to have this sort of grasp and control over words when my a professor in a 200-level class accused me of plagiarism because I was too good at mimicking the style and tone of the reference books I was using. I offered to show him other examples of my writing to prove it was my work, and when he saw the stack of manuscripts I brought in he instantly gave in and changed my grade. The kicker? The writing that seemed too good to be mine got a B. But I knew then that being able to write was an advantage over most other people.

After graduation, unfortunately, my parents informed me very sadly that seeing as I was legally an adult with a college degree, they could no longer pay my bills, and so I had to get a job. Which is when I discovered that I am a man afflicted by what scientists call No Marketable Skills Syndrome. Which is something else my wife can confirm for you, if my performance up here isn’t confirmation enough.

I’m not athletically gifted, which I know surprises you based on my appearance here. But the fact is, when I played Little League as a kid I pioneered the little-known position of Left Out, and the kid playing Center Field used to routinely practice racing over to shag any fly balls hit towards me.

I’m not musically gifted; I’ve been playing guitar for ten years and still can’t do a proper barre chord.

I’m not good with numbers, I can’t program, and I have the hand-eye coordination of a rock, so there was no professional Fortnite playing in my future—especially since I don’t play any video games that don’t have a God Mode. I’ve got really poor attention to detail; I was once fired from a job in a convenience store because I could never stock the sodas correctly in the cooler, and believe me when I say that stocking the sodas in the cooler was not difficult. I’ve also got a strong tendency to space out and daydream during lectures, meetings, and disciplinary hearings called to address my tendency to space out and daydream. As my sainted wife will tell you, I’m virtually unemployable.

And yet, here I am, making this speech, which obviously means I am successful and important, because unsuccessful and unimportant people do not, as a rule, get to make speeches. The reason I’m up here making a successful and important speech despite having no marketable skills or, apparently, fashion sense, is simple: Like you, I pursued English, and the skills that mastery over language have given me have enabled me to publish ten books and dozens of short stories, to sell film and TV options on several of those books and stories, and to make my living as a writer for websites like Barnes and Noble’s book blog, for magazines like Writer’s Digest, and for corporate clients writing terrible things I am largely ashamed of.

Because, here’s the thing: English, the stuff you’ve learned here in school and that you’ll hopefully continue to learn, is a superpower. No kidding. You’ll have to take my word this despite the fact that I just used the phrase ?the stuff’ instead of some creative and well-crafted metaphor.

Here’s a few things that will happen because of what you’ve learned here in school and will continue to learn going forward:

1. People will assume you are smart, whether you are actually smart or not. Again, I know this from personal experience as a not-very smart person who has been given the nickname Shakespeare more times than he can count. Also the nickname Einstein. It’s always Shakespeare or Einstein. I’m not sure why Einstein; I guess he’s the only other really smart person people can think of off the top of their heasds. People see you reading a book or writing in a notepad, and they just assume you’re brilliant. It’s really useful.

2. You’ll be able to see through people and know what they’re really thinking. This is because most people don’t have the skills you’re getting through studying English—deep reading comprehension and the ability to write effectively and efficiently. Whether it’s emails, texts, or angry, anonymous notes left on your windshield, no one’s gonna be able to get anything past you in this life. At the same time, you’ll be able to fool everyone because of your language skills. Think about that for a moment: If you happen to be a sociopath—and science tells us that there’s a very good chance at least some of you are—that means you’re practically Lex Luther already.

3. People will pay you to write things and read things for them, because they can’t. Or don’t want to. You won’t want to believe this, because for folks like us who have this mastery over language reading and writing seems easy, so the idea that someone will pay you, for example, tens of thousands of dollars for the right to publish a book you wrote in your spare time in-between a heavy schedule of playing video games and napping will strike you as a ridiculous fantasy.

But the thing is, these things are extremely difficult for a great many people, and so it does, in fact, happen. Even to people who have No Marketable Skills. Because writing is fundamental to everything. Everything begins with words. Every movie, TV show, and video game begins with a stack of memos and outlines and instructions. Every product begins with research papers and more memos and emails and reports. Music—even music without lyrics—requires language to be arranged and performed and composed. Every business and academic endeavor is fueled by words, and the people who can write those words and the people who can easily digest and comprehend them are absolutely necessary to their success. With the skills you’ve acquired and will acquire, there isn’t an industry in the world that doesn’t need you—possibly in a hidden, non-glamorous sort of way that will be forever disappointing, but still.

Of course, I am duty-bound to also inform you of the downsides to this life, which mainly boils down to the social shunning you’ll experience because you won’t be able to ignore bad writing. You’ll become that person who complains about plot holes, idiot dialog, and undercooked themes in movies and TV shows. People will stop inviting you to things because you can’t stop talking about how the ending of Us makes no sense—just incomprehensible nonsense that gets increasingly incomprehensible the more Jordan Peele makes attempts in interviews to explain it. Trust me—these sorts of observations do not make you very popular.

Look; its lonely being the smartest person in the room, but thanks to what you’ve achieved here, that’s gonna be your cross to bear. Once again: congratulations!

Deep Thoughts & Pronouncements, More Shit I Gotta Do, Writing

The No Pants Cocktail Hour Podcast

Author: December 19, 2018 1 Comment

Like drugs in my childhood, everyone’s doing podcasts. I am generally speaking the last person to get on any sort of bandwagon; not because I am cool and aloof, but because I am slow and lazy. Also, I have to figure out a way to make everything all about me and not have to collaborate with anyone, which makes projects hard to start sometimes.

But, I finally had an idea for a podcast that fits all my self-absorbed requirements: I’ll talk about myself! Or, more accurately, my fiction.

The No Pants Cocktail Hour

So here’s the idea: Each episode I’ll pick a short story of mine that’s been published. I’ll discuss the story, its inspiration, process, and anything else I think might be interesting, and then I’ll read the story. Complete with some sound effects and other fun touches. Well, fun for me. For you? Your mileage may vary, but that’s pretty much the Somers House Words at this point.

I even made a twitter account for it, so you know I’m 100% serious. Odds that account has exactly 1 tweet 5 years from now are pretty good, but I mean well.

The first episode is a bit of a cheat; I already had a recording me reading my story Ringing the Changes, so I added commentary and voila! a podcast. You can find the podcast in various places, including right here:

No Pants Cocktail Hour Episode 1: Ringing the Changes

Author Jeff Somers discusses and reads his short story “Ringing the Changes,” which was selected for Best American Mystery Stories 2006. www.jeffreysomers.com  

I’ll aim for a new episode every month in 2019 until someone shows up to ask me to stop in person.

Fiction, Free Short Stories, More Shit I Gotta Do, Podcast

Writing Without Rules Launch Video

Author: May 26, 2018 0 Comments

Remember our little launch event at Little City Books? OF COURSE YOU DO, I WON’T SHUT UP ABOUT IT. Anyways, here is the excellent, awesome, and incredibly video documentary of the event put together by the talented Bruce Meier of uhmm Ltd.

Writing Without Rules by Jeff Somers

Writing Without Rules: How to Write & Sell a Novel Without Guidelines, Experts, or (Occasionally) Pants Most writing guides imply–or outright state–that there’s a fixed, specific formula or list of rules you must follow to achieve writing and publishing success. And all of them are phonies. Well, not completely.

Deep Thoughts & Pronouncements, More Shit I Gotta Do, Writing, Writing Without Rules

Writing Without Rules Launch

Author: May 23, 2018 1 Comment

BAM!

We had the launch event for Writing Without Rules last night, at the totally awesome Little City Books in Hoboken, New Jersey last night, and it was awesome! Beer, wine, and whiskey, Jeff sweating profusely in front of a crowd, The Duchess taking charge and orchestrating everything, my agent gently mocking me from the front row — what could be better?

If you missed it, here are some incredible photos taken by the incredible Bruce Meier.

BAM!, More Shit I Gotta Do, Writing Without Rules

Jeff Studies Sleep: A Tragedy

Author: April 24, 2018 0 Comments

When I was a few years younger I used to kid myself that I had some kind of control over my existence. You can, if you squint, convince yourself that you have cracked the code. If you limit yourself to six or seven whiskies a night, eat some kale, and occasionally break a light sweat, you could possibly live forever, and all those people dying are just idiots who have not, you know, cracked the code.

As you get older, though, your complete lack of control over your body or your existence becomes increasingly, disturbingly clear. Your body comes up with bizarre ways to demonstrate how little influence you have over it, physical events that are at turns ridiculous, amusing, horrifying, and fatal, almost always disconnected from every single concession you’ve made to health and aging and mortality. These events remind you, forcibly, that no one here gets out alive, and all your healthy bullshit is just that, because you really have no idea what’s going on inside the skin sack you call a body.

For example, a few months ago, out of the blue, I started snoring. I’d snored before, in isolated incidents, but The Duchess was now reporting thunderous, incredibly loud displays of volume on a regular basis, as if some vital part of my skull’s interior airways had collapsed or perhaps been eaten by some Cronenbergian parasite I swallowed when I was three years old and eager to eat everything it found, something that’s been excavating inside my for decades. When I woke up one day to find that my wife had decamped to the couch overnight to escape the endless roar, I knew I had to do something, because my wife is certainly not above smothering me in my sleep and blaming the cats.

(more…)

More Shit I Gotta Do

Jeff Leaves the House: A Drama in One Act

Author: April 17, 2018 2 Comments

I’ve been saying something along the lines of I am hella old and don’t get out much any more since 2005 or so, and it remains true. The other day, for example, The Duchess and I met our friend Ken for dinner, and Ken made a hurtful remark about luring me out of the house with the promise of cocktails and culinary delights because I never want to go anywhere or do anything or see anybody.

I said hurtful. These comments were, of course, true. I do regard just about any plan that involves me leaving my home as highly suspect and very likely a terrible mistake that will end with me being chased by cannibal clowns or something, and it’s true that the last 50 times Ken invited me to a concert or something I’ve reacted like he just asked me to donate a kidney. How do I know this? Because I also just came across an essay originally published in the Summer 2012 issue of The Inner Swine, in which I more or less repeat my sentiments above. That was six fucking years ago and I was already a curmudgeonly asshole. How do people stand me? Don’t answer that.

Anyways, here’s the essay. Enjoy!

The Last Concert I Went To: The Joy Formidable in New York City

I DON’T GET out much anymore, as I am old and may break a hip. Or, actually, I am lazy, and the idea of trying to remain hip and connected to pop culture beyond fondling my remote control just seems so … extremely exhausting.
Besides, here at the Somers Bunker I have Internet and booze and trained animals to fetch me drinks and books. What more do I need?

Some of my friends still enjoy life, however, and thus I occasionally get an invite to a concert or something. TIS Security Chief Ken West often surfaces from his international missions, breaks into the house, and leaves coded messages written in shaving cream on the bathroom mirror. These messages always decode to an invitation to a concert or film or other social function. Every fifth one or so I accept, without paying attention to what I’ve agreed with, because otherwise I’d never actually see Ken and the property damage would be in vain.

Most recently, I agreed to attend a Joy Formidable concert with Ken. I’d heard a few songs, I was drunk when he asked me, and so it went into the books. Along the way he also invited a guy we went to high school with, a man I had not seen or spoken to in 23 years. And I did not exactly have lots of conversations with him in high school, either. This pushed my antisocial and misanthropic tendencies to their breaking point, but I still went. Such is Ken’s power.

THE ROLLING VOMITORIUM

On the day of the concert, once I had woken up, remembered what day it was, and put on some pants, I was determined not to shame Ken the way I usually do, staggering in to things hours late, confused and shouting. So I took my time, groomed a bit, checked the bus schedule, and made a coherent plan with him to meet for dinner at 6:30 in Manhattan. I actually got on a 5:45pm bus, feeling smug and masterful. I was an adult in charge of his life, heading out for an urbane evening of music and dining.

At 5:55pm, a few blocks later, Vomit Girl boarded the bus. No one knew who she was, as she was not wearing her spandex superhero costume. No one noticed her as she fell into a seat near the front and appeared to nap.

A few minutes later, on our approach to the Lincoln Tunnel, Vomit Girl roused herself to the point of sitting up slightly, opening her mouth, and vomiting all over herself, the seats around her, and one unlucky fellow who happened to be sitting near her. Then, her mission completed, Vomit Girl snuggled into a semi-fetal position, pushed a strand of vomit-soaked hair out of her eyes, and went to sleep.

The rest of us passengers were concerned for Vomit Girl, and alerted the driver that a tsunami of vomit was sloshing its way along the floor towards him. He pulled over and radioed for EMS, and we proceeded to sit and wait.

When EMS arrived, Vomit Girl was annoyed, and insisted she was fine and just needed to get into New York. Having been extremely drunk on public transportation before, I sympathized with Vomit Girl. Once I rode a bus home from New York and spent the entire half hour ride white-knuckled in my seat, fighting the urge to throw up all over every one of those bastards. The sheer force of will required to remain watertight the whole ride into Jersey City remains one of my proudest achievements, and like a true hero the people I saved will never even know they were in danger.

Also like a true hero, I got off at the first stop and went to my Mom’s house to ask her, politely, if I could throw up in her bathroom.

But I digress.

The EMS guys treated Vomit Girl like a dirty bomb. They wore protective clothing and insisted she be removed to the hospital. Which was a good idea, I admit, but I was still rooting for Vomit Girl to win and be taken home. I mean, when I’m sick drunk all I want to do is go home, throw up, take a shower, and shiver in shame until the next morning when I will likely have a cheeseburger for breakfast. Of course, I also understand the EMS guys’ position, which was more concerned with this girl dying of alcohol poisoning after they’d examined her.

They finally managed to carry her off the bus, and everyone thought the adventure was over and if we just avoided that quadrant of the seating we’d be in Manhattan in ten minutes. However, the EMS team came back on board to clean up the area. Which was simultaneously impressive and annoying. I mean, Jesus, if we treated every drunk’s vomit like the Andromeda Strain, I’d have to live my entire life in a Virus Suit. True story.

Then ensued a discussion about whether it was safe for us to remain on the bus for the ten minutes it would take to deliver us to the Port Authority in New York. Seriously. Because some drunk girl had bonked on the bus. This is why I usually follow a strict No Involvement With The Outside World policy, and stay home, wearing tissue boxes as shoes and shouting at people from an upper-story window.

INSIDE THE GREEN ROOM

We were eventually allowed to continue on in the Plague Bus, although I suspect our faces were secretly scanned and transmitted to the CDC just in case we turned out to be a collective Patients Zero. I arrived at The Shake Shack just as Ken and John were leaving, so all I got for dinner was the vague smell of delicious burgers and fries. To be fair they offered to sit and stare at walls while I waited on the immense line, but I said I’d just grab a slice of pizza on the way to the venue.

We saw two pizza places on our way; One was a tiny healthcode violation that seemed to be offering pure Salmonella on each slice, and the next was a too-bright flourescents-on-white box staffed by grinning men who appeared to understand pizza only phonetically. I’d only just survived a brush with The Plague via Drunk Vomiting Girl on Bus, so I was being especially careful with my health.

John, the guy I hadn’t seen, spoken to, or thought about in twenty-three years, knew a divey bar nearby called The Green Room, so we went there for some shockingly overpriced whiskey and non-shockingly divey atmosphere. Whenever a bartender looks confused when you order Wild Turkey, and then looks even more confused when you use the technical term neat instead of just saying no fucking ice goddammit, you know you are in for a humorous ride down the Fail Highway. Throw in a pool table far too large for the space so that everyone was jamming the cues into the walls, a digital jukebox that kept a steady image of Lana Del Rey staring at us hypnotically the entire time, and the vague smell of nachos even though the place didn’t sport a menu, and you have an almost perfect weirdness quotient.

We hung around for two rounds, and then headed for the show. By this point I was getting that lightheaded feeling you get when you haven’t eaten all day but have spent the last few hours drinking whiskey like tomorrow’s Prohibition. At the bar I noticed they were actually selling pretzels, and it seemed like a good idea to eat one, probably because I’d been drinking whiskey on an empty stomach again, which is usually the beginning of all my gastrointestinal misadventures. You’d think there’d be a lesson in there somewhere for me, but you would be: Wrong. I am unteachable.

The thing I received in exchange for some currency was pretzel-shaped. It was not, however, pretzel-flavored. It had the texture of drywall and the moment I bit off half of it I thought to myself, well, here we go, this is how we die, this is the End of Jeff, choked to death on a pretzel-like object in a seedy club in Manhattan standing next to a man he hadn’t seen or thought of or spoken to in twenty-three years.

Whiskey, as usual, saved me, as I was able to wash down the drywall with a good slug of Bushmills, and all was well. The Joy Formidable took the stage, and we moved into the crowd to watch.

The band was okay. Live, The Joy Formidable’s songs blur into one single chord, droned at you while the pixie-ish blonde lead singer leaps about the stage and the drummer dons a lobster costume – all good fun, but I doubt I could pick out which songs they played. Then again, I am old and my ears are shit, so who knows? Someday when The Joy Formidable is the soundtrack to The Singularity people may have 3-28-12 tatted on their backs and ask everyone where they were when the Greatest Concert Ever was played, and I will burn with shame.

Doubt it, though.

When I was a youth, my concerts were fraught with drama. I lost pairs of glasses, got my nose broken, got lost in Alphabet City, met underage girls who stalked me – those sorts of things. That night, however, the band finished, the lights came up, and twenty minutes later I was being driven through the Lincoln Tunnel, dozing off. Sure, I’m older. Possibly smarter. Certainly less likely to puke all over myself on a bus. I’m still trying to figure out if this is a tragedy or not.

More Shit I Gotta Do, The Inner Swine

The Disturbing Haikus

Author: March 18, 2018 0 Comments

So, as part of my quarterly I’M MISTER SOMERS LOOK AT ME! newsletter, I do a giveaway. Sometimes this is a couple of signed books, sometimes it’s a new short story no one else has ever seen, sometimes it’s something else (you should totally sign up–see a link on the right of this page). I usually make folks have a little fun with it, and for the March update I asked people to write haikus, because why not?

And I’ll tell you, I learned something about myself. Namely that everyone just assumes I am drunk all then time. Because just about every haiku submitted pivoted on the subject of Jeff being pants-wettingly drunk. Here are a few examples:

Only when he drinks

do the words come out with flare

The cats desire food

#

Darkness at High Noon.

Avery Cates is missing

“Another whiskey.”

#

Whiskey without rocks

Plus Somers without pants makes

Writing without rules

#

Whiskey charged Somers,

Spills his dark mind on paper,

But won’t spill bourbon.

On the one hand, it’s awesome that folks put so much thought into this. On the other hand, I think … I think I need to assess my lifestyle.

Now, go sign up for my newsletter so you too can disturb and horrify men in future giveaways.

More Shit I Gotta Do