Buy these photos or your family will hate you forever

I'm not a salesman, never have been -- but I know when someone is trying to ream out my wallet in the friendliest manner possible.  I had one of these experiences last night.

My mother bought a car recently.  You might be thinking, say no more, car salesmen ... but this isn't about car salesmen.  Not really.  As part of her "great deal" on the car she also received a voucher.  This was not a voucher for a free burger at Burger King, or a two-for-one deal on putters from Golf World ... no, this was a BIG MONEY voucher for a studio photography session.

Ah, I hear you say.  Ah indeed.

No, poor Mum has never experienced the kind of hard sell which comes with such vouchers.  She innocently believed the voucher she now possessed entitled her to $800-worth of professional photos -- which it did, technically, but you have to consider what that $800 represents.  My mobile phone contract, for example, includes $700 of calls a month.  This is not the same as dropping $700 into a payphone and making a year's worth of calls.  This is $700-worth of phone calls in the same way that a loaf of bread is worth a trillion dollars in Zimbabwe.  You have to consider the scale.

We discovered the scale of the pricing yesterday evening.  Myself, N, Kid A and Kid B -- even the dog -- all sat through an hour and a half of posing in excruciating positions while trying to look natural.  Am I smiling?  Yes Mr Photographer, I do believe I am smiling.  These are just tears of happiness streaming down my face.  This is a cramp of joy in my hamstring.

After the session came the "consultation" with the studio owner, and that's when the real pain began.  That's when we discovered just how far our voucher got us, and how much deeper we'd need to dig to free ourselves from the emotional blackmail which had just been hand-delivered to us.

So, here are a few questions and comments a studio "artistic director" might throw your way if he or she is trying to put the hard sell on you.

What do you do for a living?  You should interpret this as: how much of your disposable income am I likely to be able to corral?

Describe your house to me, as if I were walking into it for the first time.  Why did I get the feeling he was hoping I'd reveal the location of a hidden wall safe, along with the admission that the combination was just my date of birth because I'm hopeless at keeping track of long numbers?

I'm really pleased that you've decided to have this done now, with your children at this age.  I kept thinking: was there any kind of decision-making process involved?  We had a voucher.  Use it or not?  That was the extent of the decision-making process.

This is something you might only have done once or twice in your lifetime.  Oh crap, I thought, is it going to cost that much?  The answer to that unspoken question was yes, yes it is.

This photo (of N and I) is perfect.  It might not be something you would buy for yourselves.  But for your children, in the future, it will be priceless.  It will be how they remember you.  Oh, fabulous.  Thank you for reminding us that we will one day be dead, maybe soon.  Can we have the image laser printed onto our tombstones? 

For the family portrait, you really need to get it in at least the 20x24.  At least.  Anything smaller would look silly.  Because anything smaller won't cost you an additional $650.

How much have you budgeted for this?  It was a PHOTO SESSION!  We had a VOUCHER!  You budget for holidays, groceries, car purchases and home renovations.  Sane people do not budget for a family photo session.

You can pay it all upfront, or half now and half later.  Or, we also offer a monthly payment plan.  AHHHHHHHHH!

Sorry, you can't go away and think about it.  The moment you leave this office, if you haven't made a purchase, we have to destroy the files.  WHY?  It's fucking digital!  Why in the name of all unholy do you need to destroy the image files the moment we leave?  I understand that to do otherwise would undermine your pressure-selling, guilt-tripping, heartstring-fumbling, account-plundering, exploitative arseprick business model, but come on!  If you demand that I buy now, immediately, lest the opportunity be whipped out from before my eyes and cast into the fires of Mordor, then you can take your photo "art" and jam it in the same dark smelly orifice from which you'd extracted your sales pitch.

Needless to say, N and I resisted the sales pitch.  We've resisted worse than you Mr photo salesman -- doorstep sellers in London, timeshare salesmen in the Canary Islands, gypsies in Madrid -- your sales kung fu is tired and weak, and I'd rather fly the family to Thailand for a holiday and pay a Thai photographer to take shots for a week before forking out for one of your packages.  It'd probably be cheaper too.

But our piddly little free "$800" portrait is just lovely.  Thanks!

Fenton Book Scatterplot

I discovered the other day that some people think I have one or two books out on Kindle, when I actually have four.  (Maybe three-and-a-half, one’s a novella.)  Such were my poor marketing efforts.  I read yesterday that Pippa Middleton has been knocked back by Penguin for a second book deal, and one of the main reasons for this was that Pippa refused to do any promotion.  Penguin believed that her first book could have been huge, despite it being rubbish, if Pippa had only moved her arse and … moved her arse and … Sorry, what was I saying? 

Right, marketing.  I don’t want be like Pippa Middleton, a victim of my own non-promotion, so I’ve put together this graphic to help people choose between my books.  It’s arranged across two dimensions, weirdness and offensiveness, which I’ve been told are the two defining characteristics of my books.

Spanner in the works

It would probably be more accurate to say The Spanner is out of the works, or at least out of my head.  My little novella, The Spanner, is now sitting quietly in the Kindle store, not disturbing anyone or creating a fuss.

I wish it would create some kind of fuss.  Even a small fuss.

It lives here ( http://www.amazon.com/The-Spanner-A-Novella-ebook/dp/B009QEJMN2) and here ( http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Spanner-A-Novella-ebook/dp/B009QEJMN2 ).

It's not an easy story to summarise, but I'm inclined to call it an absurd comedy.  It started to form in my head one day when I was on a conference call with the IT manager for a project I was working on, and I found myself in an argument I couldn't quite believe was taking place.  This guy, who forms the basis for the title character, Stan Ramble (so that's how I'll refer to him from here on), was insisting that "completed" meant something very different to "done".  I of course decided to represent sanity in the matter and argued that in the context of the discussion they were exactly the same thing.  One just had fewer letters.

Stan wouldn't have it.

This is just one example, one very small example, of the nonsense which came out of this guy's mouth.  The term "stranger than fiction" had never been so apt.  I thought I could never write a book about this guy, it would be too far a stretch; but then I thought about it some more, and my colleague in pain (call him S) pushed me to get it all written up.  So I started writing about Stan Ramble, just for a bit of fun, and I ended up dropping two other projects to get it finished.

Thanks S.

It is finished now, and I like it.  I started out hating the guy, but now I'm quite fond of him.  I doubt he bears much resemblance to the real-life Ramble who started it (I hope not, for his sake), but I still can't help feeling a gentle affection for the man who'd probably stab me in the eye with a pen if he knew what I'd done.

Terrorist Dogs

TERRORIST DOGS

A One Act Play

TWO DOGS, ONE BROWN AND ONE WHITE WITH A BLACK SPOT OVER HIS EYE LIKE A PIRATE'S PATCH, COME TOGETHER IN A SQUARE CROWDED WITH PEOPLE PREPARING FOR THEIR DAY. LONG QUEUES FORM AT ESPRESSO BARS AND PEOPLE BARELY AVOID COLLIDING WITH ONE ANOTHER AS THEY TALK AND TEXT ON THEIR PHONES.

ROCKY: Good morning Spot 721.

SPOT: Good morning Rocky 296. Today is a fine day.

ROCKY: Yes, it is a fine day for Dog. A glorious day.

SPOT: Praise Dog.

ROCKY: Have you made your final preparations?

SPOT: I, ah ... Sure. Yes I have.

ROCKY: You sound uncertain 721.

SPOT: It's just that being a martyr, the reward and all, it doesn't seem so appealing as it did a few days ago.

ROCKY: When you volunteered.

SPOT: Yes I know I volunteered, but I was having a really bad week. I picked up a tick in behind my sack and it was really bothering me, and then when my owners couldn't get my nose out of there they started talking neuter, you know?

ROCKY: But you volunteered.

SPOT: Yeah yeah, heard you the first time Rocky boy.

ROCKY: Don't call me that.

SPOT: What, Rocky boy?

ROCKY: (PAUSE)

SPOT: Oh, is that what ... Is that was he ... I'm sorry. I didn't think.

ROCKY: It's fine. Don't worry. He used to call me that, until he went on to meet Dog. He was one of the rare ones who understood the power of Dog. He even revealed the great truth to me one day, after taking exercise with me in the park. He said, Rocky boy, God is just Dog backwards.

SPOT: Adog, brother.

ROCKY: Adog. But the rest of them, look at them: they'll never admit it, so convinced of their own superiority, and that of their false gods. They can't even settle on one true God.

SPOT: How weak is that? At least we're consistent. But I don't suppose I could, like, door-knock or something instead. You know, spread the word?

ROCKY: They can't understand you.

SPOT: I can write, I could do some signs. I can't hold a pen, obviously, so it'd have to be with my own poo, but they could read it.

ROCKY: (sighs) You have made your choice, Spot 721, and you must abide by it.

SPOT: Okay, okay. I've probably only got a few good years in me anyway, it's just that --

ROCKY: A woman approaches! It is time. Prime the device.

SPOT: Okay, okay. (begins wagging tail)

ROCKY: I must retreat to a safe distance. Dog be with you Spot 721.

SPOT: (mutters) Yeah, you need to get to a safe distance. I'd like to see you go onto your reward.

ROCKY: Pardon?

SPOT: Nothing, nothing, just priming. (wags tail faster)

AS SPOT 721 WAGS HIS TAIL, A WOMAN IN A PANTSUIT APPROACHES TO PAT HIM. SHE CALLS HIM CUTE NAMES AND HE WAGS HIS TAIL FASTER. BARELY PERCEPTIBLE WISPS OF SMOKE CURL OUT OF HIS ANUS WHILE ROCKY 296 BARKS ENCOURAGEMENT FROM THE FAR SIDE OF THE SQUARE.

ROCKY: It's working, brother. The device is reaching critical mass. Keep priming, faster! Death to the infidels!

SPOT: My arsehole is on fire!

ROCKY: Soon you will be in paradise.

SPOT: Soon I'll be a smoldering heap of dog. Ow! That's it, I'm aborting.

ROCKY: No! You're attracting attention, the infidels are gathering around. Increase speed, the time to strike is now!

SPOT: I can't, I can't ... Oh Dog, oh Dog, I think ...

A PERCUSSIVE BURST OF FLATULENCE FROM SPOT 721 CUTS SHORT THE COOING AND CUTESY NOISES OF THE HUMANS. THEY ALL RECOIL IN REVULSION AS A STREAM OF FECES FOLLOWS THE FOUL BLAST, SOME OF IT SOLID AND SOME OF IT FLUID. NONE OF THEM SEEM TO NOTICE THE SHORT WIRES CURLING OUT FROM ONE OF THE MORE SOLID CHUNKS. ROCKY APPROACHES SPOT WHEN THE LAST OF THE HUMANS HAVE DEPARTED.

SPOT: Am I dead? I feel like I'm dead.

ROCKY: No, it would seem the package aborted.

SPOT: Then where are all the infidels?

ROCKY: They all left in disgust.

SPOT: Oh. I thought they might have all been, you know, vaporised. I closed my eyes when it happened.

ROCKY: (sighs) No, no, you just dropped your load. On the plus side, there did seem to be some level of kinetic reaction within the detonator. Hipkins will be pleased.

SPOT: Hipkins designed this one? He hasn't had a successful detonation for over seven years, has he?

ROCKY: True, but what a detonation! You should have seen it 721, the humans were picking pieces of scorched cow out of the trees for miles around.

SPOT: I heard about that, but why cows? Dogdammit, my arse is sore!

ROCKY: Here, let me get that for you. (begins licking Spot 721's traumatised rear-end)

SPOT: Oh yeah, that's the spot, right there.

ROCKY STEPS AWAY FROM SPOT'S REAR AND GIVES HIS OWN SOME ATTENTION BEFORE STRAIGHTENING UP.

SPOT: War wound troubling you?

ROCKY: Starts playing up every time I see a failed attempt. Mine was back in oh-six. It was Hipkins behind that one two. The technology has advanced since then, let me tell you. After my load dumped, a secondary detonator stayed lodged up my butt, gave me burning diarrhea for a week afterwards.

SPOT: Yikes. You mean Hipkins has had all this time to get it right, and we're still failing? Maybe it wasn't meant to be.

ROCKY: You can't blame Hipkins, he's one of only three canine bomb technicians in the world. It's not easy designing those things. And it's not just down to design ... It's the kinetic primers, the way they work. The humans have a way of triggering chemical releases in our brains that interfere with reactant mix, or with the priming rhythm ... We have some of our best dogs working on a solution.

SPOT: Certain chemicals? You mean happiness?

ROCKY: Careful 721. It might seem like happiness, but to admit so is heresy. No, it is chemical warfare, nothing less, and the humans are without mercy in its use. Look at them 721, smiling as they walk along eating their egg and bacon sandwiches, drinking their coffee. One day, 721, those will be our egg and bacon sandwiches, our coffee.

SPOT: But how will we make it? How will we butcher the pigs and cure the bacon?

ROCKY: Ours is not to question how, 721. Trust in Dog.

ROCKY AND SPOT LOOK OUT AT THE SWARMING HUMAN MASSES. EVENTUALLY THEY STAND AND BEGIN THE UNPLEASANT JOB OF CLEANING UP AND RETRIEVING THE FAILED INCENDIARY DEVICE.

CURTAIN

BADD

My BADD isn't getting any better.  (Blog Attention Deficit Disorder ... duh.)  Although I've proven myself to be utterly useless at maintaining one blog, I've decided to start another: Brisbantium.  As you might be able to gather from the title, it's about Brisbane.  If you haven't heard of Brisbane, it's a far-northern suburb of Sydney.  That's Sydney, Australia.  That's right, the place where Hugh Jackman comes from.

Brisbane is kind of odd.  I'm going to document my culture shock here, so if I inadvertently become a Queenslander in the process, my family can trace the history of the blog to discover where it happened, because by that stage I'll be capable of little more than discussing superannuation and watching rugby league.

(Kidding.)

(I'm not kidding.)

Meanwhile,  I've created a small writing nook in the garage.  It's fairly quiet in there now, but come summer it'll no doubt become home to half the deadly creatures in the state.  If you don't hear from me for more than a month, please send the paramedics to the garage.

Distractapalooza

I can't focus long enough to decide whether I should:

A. Work on the "big" novel
B. Work on the "small" novel, or possibly novella, which wandered into the open field of my brain a few weeks ago, and has now parked its caravan and invited its friends and family to come join it.  Way to enable my procrastination, Shehriar Ahmed (yes, you).  I'm filing that one on the scratchpad (see the tab at the top of the page)
C. Continue my marathon viewing of Big Bang Theory (thanks again Shehriar, and Rob too)
D. Keep editing the older novel
E. Obsess about work problems
F. Resume piano lessons
G. Shop for a reasonably-priced digital piano

The older novel, Natural Selection, was high on my to-do list, until I realised how bloody unwieldy it is.  I usually try to keep chapters between two-to-four thousand words, roughly, but as I was converting the Word document into Scrivener chapters, I did a double-take on one of word-counts.  Thirteen thousand words!  For one chapter!  I've abandoned novels which were short of that length.  This, I saw, was going to be more work than I'd anticipated

Maybe I should just focus on finishing season 2 of Big Bang Theory. That I can do.

You Call That a Book Launch?

This is how I imagine my book launch would play out if I lived in North Korea:

ME: Is he watching?
MY WIFE: Is who watching?
ME: Glorious Leader.  Is he looking away?
MY WIFE: Well ... he appears to be looking the other way, but Glorious Leader sees and knows all, so I guess you're screwed on that.
ME: Shit.  Okay, okay, let me think.  Okay, here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to do it anyway.  I'm going to press the button.  I mean, what's the worst that could happen?
MY WIFE: You could be executed for dissidence, I suppose.
ME: Oh, thanks for the support.
MY WIFE: You asked for the worst.  Hey, maybe they'll just imprison you for life.
ME: Okay, I'm going to say something now which might shock you.  I don't believe Glorious Leader is omniscient.
MY WIFE: (gasps)
ME: I mean it, I don't think he knows everything.  Yesterday I kicked my toe on the dining table --
MY WIFE: You mean the wooden crate?
ME: Yes, the dining crate.  So I kicked my toe and I said, Glorious fucking Leader.
MY WIFE: (gasps)
ME: I know, right?  So I said that, and here I am, still walking around, free.
MY WIFE: Perhaps Glorious Leader is also merciful.
ME: No, he's a cock.
MY WIFE: (nods)
ME: There, I've done it.  I pressed the button.
MY WIFE: Well done dear.  And what has that done?
ME: It has published my novel as an e-book on Amazon, that's what!
MY WIFE: What's Amazon?
ME: You know, the global online retailer?  Biggest bookseller in the world?
MY WIFE: Biggest bookseller in the world except in North Korea, where only Glorious Leader has true access to the internet?  You mean that Amazon?  Honestly, I have no idea where your book has gone.
ME: So what, now it's lost, floating around somewhere in our disconnected national intranet?
MY WIFE: Unless the Secret Police set up a fake Amazon site to trap stupid dissidents.
ME: Oh, you are just a bottomless well of support, aren't you?  You're a pillar of strength, supporting me in my darkest hour.
MY WIFE: Don't mix your metaphors dear.  Look, maybe Glorious Leader is secretly interested in the creative output of the collective.  Maybe he wants to read your novel.
ME: Nah, he'd never read my book.
MY WIFE: Now who's being negative?  Why wouldn't he?
ME: It has vampires in it.  Glorious Leader hates vampires.

That's roughly how it went down, with two key differences: there are no vampires in my new novel, and my wife wasn't even in the country when I hit the button.  Upload book ... press "publish" ... now, shhhh.

CELLAR DOOR