For Today's Tête-à-Tête Thursday, we are stirring things up by throwing a big beaker of testosterone in the mix. Let's meet the first man not afraid to join in some Bourbonista Banter. Welcome Kenny Soward.
In his own words, "I grew up in Crescent Park, Kentucky, a small suburb just south of Cincinnati, Ohio, listening to AC/DC, Quiet Riot, and Iron Maiden. In those quiet 1970’s streets, I jumped bikes, played Nerf football, and acquired many a childhood scar.
At the age of sixteen, I learned to play drums, and did so with a passion. I bashed skins for many groups over the next twenty years, and my musical tastes grew to include folk, alternative, bluegrass, and new age. By day, I work as a Unix professional, and at night I write and sip bourbon.
ROUGH MAGIC is my first high fantasy novel, Book I of the GnomeSaga. I live in Independence, Kentucky, with three cats and a gal who thinks she’s a cat."
The Bourbonista: Tell me more about yourself. But this time, at least one word must begin with the letter “X” and none can begin with the letter “S.”
Kenny: I’m a child of the 70’s. Big Wheels, rock music, and Tang. I was there when Garanimals hit the scene, although I’ve never owned a Xenopus. Now, I’m a (mostly) cloistered fantasy writer who enjoys hanging out with my partner, Michele, and entertaining our cats.
The Bourbonista: I am a complete proponent of Garanimals for adults. It would save me so much trouble trying to explain to Frank the difference between Infits (clothes never meant to leave the house) and Outfits. I call his style "Rodeo Clown Chic." Speaking of dressing like a clown, if you were a circus performer, what would you be and why?
Kenny: Definitely a lion. I’d only take so much shit before having the trainer for a meal.
The Bourbonista: I'll be an angry elephant and join you. We can go on one of those rampages that gets you on that show When Animals Attack. What would you do if you won the lottery?
Kenny: I’m a firm believer in more money equals more problems. Still, I’d set myself up to write full-time and continue self-publishing, because it’s a blast. Whatever windfall I received from self-publishing would go into building a bourbon room in my house that would put the Old Kentucky Bourbon Bar to shame.
I would give a ton of money to local animal shelters.
I would go to Kickstarter and fund the hell out of cool projects.
The Bourbonista: So, when that day comes, how about I join you in your liquor lounge and shoot for funding for my Floating Pepperoni Pizza barge that is going to deliver pies all around the lake? On the topic of food, if you were on death row…don’t act like you don’t know who you killed to get there…what would be your last supper?
Kenny: I’d start with a small plate of ahi tuna, set off nicely with a Woodford on the rocks. I would transition to a 12-ounce filet mignon (refill my Woodford please) and a side of mashed potatoes. Lastly, I’d have an endless supply of pizza rolls, baked until the filling is just starting to squish out the sides, and jam my face full of them until I couldn’t eat any more.
Should I happen to get sick prior to my demise, I’d want to make sure the pool of vomit I leave for my jailors is a veritable colorchunka-palooza.
The Bourbonista: Revenge is a dished best served regurgitated. I get it! Write a short “Thank You” letter to your future self for all the cool shit you’ve done twenty years from now.
Dear Sir Kensington,
Lord knows you’ve been an imbecile at times, but it looks like you got a few things right. It’s amazing how you took gnomes to a whole new level in your GnomeSaga books and eventually made a splash with dwarves and fairies too.
Too bad your 50 Shades of Little Folk didn’t sell so well. To each their own.
You did right by your friends and made your parents proud, and you paid homage to all the people who have ever influenced you by writing continuously and faithfully.
Now, quit fucking around on Dead Island: Zombie Inferno 2033 and get back to work.
p.s. Congratulations on your knighthood. Don’t let it go to your head.
The Bourbonista: First let me say how much I am loving your first Gnome Saga book...brilliant. And next, may I request that you consider getting one of your artist friends to join you and make 50 Shades of Little Folk a Graphic Novel? Now, on to more serious topics, if you were a booze, which booze would you be and who would you want to drink you?
Kenny: Best question ever. I would be an Irish Car Bomb and I would want Billie Piper from Doctor Who to slam me.
Make sure to head on over to Amazon and grab a copy of Kenny's first novel, Rough Magic.
It gets a BIG Bourbonista thumbs up.
And while your there, pick up a FREE download of Flirtini with Disaster: The Single Girl's Guide to Self-Sabotage.
Last week, Frank did a job for Jimmy Buffett's personal chef. Of course, in Frank fashion, he attempted to break the ice with a joke.
Frank: So, I said to him, “I bet you cook a lot of Pop-tarts.” (He recounts this with pride and a pump of his eyebrows.) Get it? Pop-tarts?
Me: No, I don't get it. Why didn't you say “I bet you cook a lot of cheeseburgers with lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57, and french fried potatoes.” You know, from Cheeseburger in Paradise?
Frank: Man, I wish I'd thought of that. But, he mentions Pop-tarts in a song too?
Me: What song?
Me: What in the hell are you talking about?
Frank: (singing) “Blew out my flip-flop, stepped on a Pop-tart, cut my heel had to cruise on back home.”
Me: Pop-top. Not Pop-tart. How would you slice your foot on a pastry? Think about it.
This is not the first time Frank has gotten lyrics drastically wrong. Here are a few other adorable examples of my husband's versions of songs:
Kenny Roger's Lucille- “With four hundred children and a crop in the field.”
Stevie Nicks' Edge of Seventeen- Just like the one-winged dove sings a song sounds like she's singing.”
Black Eyed Peas' Imma Be - “I'm a bee. I'm a bee. I'm gonna' be a bumble bee.”
In each case, I had to explain to him the error of his ways:
“Honey, if they had four hundred children, they'd have plenty of farm help and he wouldn't be worried about the crop.”
“What would a one-winged dove have to sing about?”
“Why would Fergie want to be a bumblebee when instead she could be
'poppin' that bubbly, coolin' and livin' that good life'?"
Of course, I also so have mangled some lyrics in my time. In the Wyclef Jean song, Bubblegoose, instead of “he caught a bullet in his bubblegoose,”--as even the title implies--I sang “he caught a bullet in his elbow groove.” And, I've spent twenty years belting out “Medieval Woman,” instead of “E-E-vil Woman” during that ELO song. It happens to the best of us. And, it's always hilarious.
Come on...admit it...and then SHARE...cause you know it's happened to you, too.
For this edition of Tête-à-Tête Thursday, we'll have a little Bourbonista banter with Cynthia Ellingsen, a Lexington local and Penguin-Berkley author of The Whole Package, about three women who open a restaurant staffed by smokin’ hot, scantily clad men, and Marriage Matters, which just hit the shelves.This latest novel is the hilarious story of a mother, daughter and grandmother who all get engaged at the same time and decide to share a wedding.
The Bourbonista: Tell me about yourself in 50 words or less. At least one word must begin with the letter “X” and none can begin with the letter “S.”
Cynthia: A Midwest girl who watched that Dead Poet’s movie 3000+ times and as a result, is most xenial to the idea that anything is possible if you follow your heart.
The Bourbonista: 3000+ times...whoa...I thought having seen Young Frankenstein 50 times made me a megafan. I'm a total amateur. But I think maybe I could watch Wreck-It Ralph 3000 times---it's my new obsession. Enough about me, so If you were a circus performer, what would you be and why?
Cynthia: Ringmaster. Put a microphone in my hand and I’m Rita Rudner, Bill Cosby and Dave Chapelle all rolled into one. Or maybe I’m just like a four-year-old repeating the same answer to a knock-knock joke. Hard to tell.
The Bourbonista: I am so buying one of those Ronco Mister Microphones, so that the next time I see you I can just hand it over and watch you go. Moving on, what would you do if you won the lottery?
Cynthia: Hoard the ticket, worry someone was going to rob me, pull the ticket out to look at it, worry that someone was looking in the windows when I did, decide to get creative with my hiding spot, bury the ticket in the backyard and not be able to find it.
The Boubonista: How about this, then? You just give me the ticket and I'll bury it for you...wink...wink... Let's get serious, if you were on death row…don’t act like you don’t know who you killed to get there…what would be your last supper?
Cynthia: Cheetos – probably the natural kind with the white cheddar because the texture is way better, but maybe the original for kicks – washed down with a California Cab.
The Bourbonista: If you ate Cheetos before you committed the crime, then that tells me how they caught you. That is some orange evidence to leave behind on someone's neck. I just assumed you choked a man to death. Now, if you were to write a short “Thank You” letter to your future self for all the cool shit you’ve done twenty years from now, what would it say?
Dear Old Lady Cynthia,
Oooh, goodie. You’re an old lady now.
Thank you so much for making our life an adventure – that summer we helped hatchling turtles scamper to the ocean? So fun. That year we spent in Italy, writing in a castle, eating olives off the vine and drinking wine like water? Favoloso. And now, living the life of Mrs. Basil E. Franweiler? So proud.
Thank you for letting me come along for the ride, you fun old bat.
Lots of love, Younger Version of Cynthia
The Bourbonista: I want to do all those things, can I join? I promise I won't behave and I'll be a fun old bat right along with you. We can even get matching tattoos on our saggy asses. So, if you were a booze, which booze would you be and who would you want to drink you?
Cynthia: I’d be that glass of wine on the cover of The Whole Package. That way, I could be a part of the party every time someone picked up the book.
Need a laugh? Grab a glass of wine, a box of chocolate and grab a copy of Marriage Matters, stat. You won’t be sorry. Except maybe if you drink too much wine.
For today's Time Travel Tuesday--just go with it, I couldn't get my shit together for Flashback Friday--For Time Travel Tuesday, I take you to January of 2010 when a fresh-faced (again, go with it) and smart-mouthed youngish writer discovered that she'd been Blog Smacked.
(January 08, 2010) Last night, I was vanity Googling and typed in "Flirtini with Disaster" (the title of my chick lit e-book). Aside from the Amazon Kindle site and link to my publisher, I was directed to this woman's blog. So I speedily went to Anne Marie Jackson's Creative Portfolio to read what she had to say.
This is the statement that I found:
"I shit you not, these are actual titles of books generating actual revenue. 'Flirtini with Disaster'. That's right. 'Flirtini', as in the popular cocktail, not the verb. What a clever little play on words. Yet not. . . not at all."
I was giddy. She had found my little e-book. And, it had somehow offended her enough to blog about. Free publicity for me. Yippee!!!
At the end of her blog, she issued this challenge:
"I think it's high time I got on the ball- huh? As an experiment, I want to try this. Give me any scenario, any characters, and I will write a short romantic novella around your specifications. You name it, I'll do it. Hilarity will naturally ensue."
Of course, I couldn't resist. This is what I left her.
Novella Scenario for You to Write:
Setting: Stockyards in the Future, 2062 or so.
Characters: Female Auctioneer, ghost of Maya Angelou, handsome one-legged drifter, and a psychic talking parrot.
Your turn, Anne Marie.
UPDATE: I have yet to receive my romantic novella from Anne Marie, but am thrilled to announce that, after a long battle with my defunct publisher, I have regained the rights and rereleased a new and improved Flirtini with Disaster: The Single Girl's Guide to Self-Sabotage.
Sharing All I KNOW about the fine art of voluptuating. here's to living the lush life.