It's that time again...

Hey, can someone check out the calendar for me? Is it seriously Monday already? I feel like I just answered my latest email for the Monday Mailbag yesterday, but alas, here we are again. For it is Monday, and there is certainly a mailbag. There’s no denying that. So here I am, clad in gray shorts, ready to answer some mail. (You may think the color of my shorts is irrelevant; I assure you it is not.

Hey, Dave-o, any trouble with paparazzi these days?

Chuckles, Paris TX

Well, Chuckles, can I just say that your name makes me…well, never mind. Cheap thrills are great and all, but that one seems just too easy. I gotta let it slide, my friend. So, the paparazzi? I knew this question was coming eventually, and I figured it would come from somewhere glamorous. Paris? Nailed it!

The truth is, the paparazzi live for people like me. Notice I said live and not lives? Well, my good followers (all 11 of you), that little i on the end says, “Hey, buddy, this world is in Italian. And it’s plural!” So, there you go. Anyway, the paparazzi are all about authors. They love to follow around pasty, socially awkward people to plaster on the front of grocery aisle rags. What can I say? We sell.

And indie authors are tops on the most wanted list. As soon as it came out that I recently sold my 44^th copy of The Boo Hag, they were all over me like flies to, well, anything. I was out with the fam this weekend, and I saw some dude sneaking up behind me with his camera. He tried to play off like he was taking a picture of his adorable little daughter doing adorable little daughter things. Was I fooled? No. As soon as he got within striking distance, I snapped flying kick to his aftermarket lens, and left his camera in little pieces on the ground. He was mad. That’s what you get, Mr. Paparazzo!

Consider your Monday Mailbag-ed.

A culinary mailbag. Monday style.

I forgot today was Monday. Isn’t that horrible? Okay, it’s not that bad, but I didn’t think I had anything pressing to do today, except of course keep on a-writin’ my yet-to-be-named second book, but then I said to myself, “Dave, get yourself together. Es lunes. (It’s Monday for those of you who don’t hablar espanol)” And then I went on, “Get to your mailbag, man. Get to your mailbag before the whole thing gets overrun with wonderful tidbits, and can you can never answer them all in a timely manner…” Of course I went on from there, but let’s just leave it at that, shall we? I’m runnin’ this joint, so we shall.

What is your favorite food?

Camille Somewhere, In-The-World

I have made an assumption here, and I’m hoping it doesn’t come back to bite me, as assumptions seem to have a tendency to do. You see, Camille did not tell me where she’s from, and instead of shooting her back an email like any normal person, I went all lazy and said, I’m just going to assume that Camille is an earthling. Camille, if you’re out there reading this, and I’m sure you are, I’m sorry if you are not in fact earth-bound, and I have offended your intergalactic sensibilities. And might I add, if you are in fact an alien from so far off world, what a beautifully earthy name you have?

What is my favorite food? Well, I assume (there are I go again. The assumptions are running rampant today!)—I assume you mean what isn’t my favorite food. I’m gonna answer that one. I feel that answering the assumed question is often less helpful, but at the same time more entertaining. And who wants a question answered? If someone were to give me the option to know…I don’t know, let’s say, how exactly the JFK assassination went down, or if I’d like to be entertained, I’m going with clowns and magicians. Hold off on the facts, I just want to have fun.

So, back to the question (assumed question) at hand. What is not my favorite food? Camille, I’m gonna have to go with cow tongue. I struggle to even classify this as a food, but people do indeed eat it. I did in fact. And I don’t wish to repeat the traumatic event. Any liver-haters out there? Of course there are.  Think liver, but squishier. If you ever do eat, just be happy you didn’t get the piece that was connected to the throat, where squishy meat meets tough gristle. If you did in fact get the throat piece. Good luck, my friend.

Happy eating. This is your Monday Mailbag!

Foot fetishes and mailbags

Look who’s back from vacation? Okay, don’t look too hard; I was referring to myself. And when I say vacation, well, what I mean is Memorial Day. I didn’t actually go on any vacation, I just decided that as a practitioner of the postal arts, I should make like a mailman, and take the day off from the mailbag. So, like I said, look, I’m back from my Memorial Day spent in the throes of blogger slackitude.

I’m back. I’m back and it couldn’t come at a better time. My mailbag was brimming with mail. And not just any mail, but mail with a hint of international spice. Is that pancit and pan de sal I smell? Nope, it’s just a smell of some Asian islands wafting in on the back of another bit of scintillating email. This, my dear constituents, (as if you voted for me) is your…drumroll please…just imagine a drumroll in your head…MONDAY MAILBAG!!!!

If you could name each of your fingers, what names would you give them and why?

Ellie the Philippines

That’s right the Philippines. If I hadn’t hit the big time before, well my dear sirs, and madams of course, I have now. Did you know that I was born in a little San called Diego? And that after leaving my dear San Diego birthing grounds, I left for the opposite coast to live in a grand beach of the Virginia variety? Well, I did. And I heard once that Virginia Beach and San Diego, because of the good ol’ US Navy have the highest amount of Filipinos outside of the Philippines. I may have just made that up, but you can quote me anyway, because, well, I write fiction. So, if I’m lying to you, that’s okay. (side note, see over there ß where it says that’s? Well, my good ol’ grammar checker says I should change it to say that are. Gotta love the brilliance of the Microsoft Office grammar checker-ma-jigger) It’s my job. So, point is, Filipino people are cool. And they make delicious food.

Okay, on to the question. What would I name all my fingers and why? Well, that is an interesting question if ever there was one. Unfortunately, it’s a question that will remain unanswered. Look, I’m a man of mystery. It’s the truth. But I would cease to be that man if the world knew my secret finger names. And also, it would take too long. I mean, I’ve rambled on for this long without naming a single finger. If I named all ten and told you their stories…hmm, book idea?

I will name toes for you. But not all of them. Did I say toes? I meant toe. I will name toe for you. The second toe on my left foot is named Einstein. Someone once told me that if your second toe is longer than your big toe, which mine is, then you’re smart. Is that awesome or what? So, I’m naming my second big toe in honor of a good friend of mine named Bill Einstein. He’s just a cool guy. You can disregard that little bit about the length of your second toe determining your IQ. I don’t know why I even threw that in there.

Well, Bill Einstein, I hope you’re reading this. This toe’s for you! And that, friends and foot fetishists alike, is your Monday Mailbag!