Peter H. Cropes

"Quizno's."

2008-05-04T21:01:00.000-07:00

A new sandwich company has opened its doors just a few blocks from Pat's house. It is called "Quizno's," perhaps named for an Italian fellow, and their claim to fame is that they heat up all of their sandwiches, guaranteed. This intrigued me, as I have a very good memory of a hot sandwich at a road house late one night while driving across the country. Oh how the roll was toasty but soft, and oh how the cheese did melt into a fine soft sheet atop the many meats. I did not ask for the free fresh-sliced onions, because I did not want to cool down the sandwich with vegetables.

My sandwich at Quizno's was quite tasty. After some time in considering the large menu, I asked the female for a Bacon Chipotle Club, and I agreed to the larger size (one foot). It was served open-faced, and I allowed for a squirt of pink-colored "chili" mayonnaise. I am glad that I did. The sandwich bites came alive and sang once inside my lips. I ate and ate, the pleasure of each mouthful growing like a fire inside me. Saliva squirted inside my mouth with abandon, like a car wash. That sandwich was literally treated to a car wash inside my mouth...

I was so pleased with the sandwich that I pored over all of the literature available about Quizno's, but could find no company history. This must mean that it is a corporate invention. That is fine, if they can produce such a tasty product, but I would like them even better if they had a good story to them. Once home, I sat myself at my desk and began to pen the tale of Giugliacomo "Johnny" Quizno, my imaginary founder of the chain. A good, stout boy from Italy, he boards a steamship for Brooklyn in 1909, and makes his bones the old-world way, in a time of murder, prostitution, hard liquor, and the foods that stood up to it. He has a large belly all his life, but this is shown as seeming trustworthy rather than unpleasant. Anyhow. I am typing all of this up, and even drawing a portrait of Johnny, to mail to the corporate headquarters. It is an exciting time, for I know they will welcome this clever idea.

Where Rachael Ray Lives.

2008-01-02T17:28:00.000-08:00

A little while back I mentioned that I was not happy with Rachael Ray, a famous television personality, because of the way she spoke low of perch. I guess I never told you how my "visit" to her went. Well, it is the holidays, and I finally have some time to myself, so here is that story.

I had read on-line that Rachael Ray lives in the woods outside of New York City, so I hopped in the van and got going. I figured I could do research here and there on the way, in various "hobo cafes" where there is Internet (I could also call a few colleagues). Things went well, and I made it to New York in about fifty hours. Once in New York, I had a pretty good idea of where she lived, so I headed "upstate" to the quiet rural community she calls home.

It's a nice enough town, with pines and cedars lining the road. The air is fresh, and the last yellow silt from pollen season lines the creek beds. An old general store advertises daily specials on medicine or cloth, and tired men in honest caps walk dogs that have real problems. Two women chat as they enter what is clearly a beloved hamburger restaurant.

I like where she lives; it is a good place. This is why I do not like that she lives there. It is as though she does not Get it. She tries much too hard to please. A good country person waits to be pleased. Poverty cannot afford to dance.

After some eavesdropping behind a newspaper I hear a local man mention where her house is to a new pizza delivery boy. I start the van and head there. The light is growing dim, and I have sulfured eggs to distract her dogs.

I make a few wrong turns, out on the foggy pine forest roads, but it isn't long before I know I've found the place. I ask you, what good country family has three matching PT Cruisers. Why would she need three. I know she is married, but it just seems terrible. It makes me angry. She should not make her husband drive a PT Cruiser. No matter who he is. (Although, I have to admit, my opinion on that will soon change.)

I park the van six miles down the road, to ward off suspicion, then sprint back to their property. As I had read, there are large dogs prowling about. I reach into my fanny sack and throw two sulfured eggs as far as I can from the house. The dogs hear the cracks and sprint away. Perfect. I've injected the eggs with Haxall's Pandemonium Chlorodyne.

Now it's time to get up and look in the windows. The first thing I see, unfortunately, is her short husband using the bathroom. Before I can duck away I learn the awful truth: he is sweating, and he has jazz butt. The window is open, so I am spared no detail, no matter how quickly I try to creep away. Oh god how awful, how awful to live with Rachael Ray. How awful to watch what happens. How awful to eat what happens.

Soon I have crept around to the back deck and I see the small husband, an Italian fellow, walk delicately into the large dine-in kitchen. Rachael is there and, away from the cameras, she wears Mickey Mouse clothing from head to toe. Even her house slippers have things on them which make it clear they are a Mickey Mouse product. She stirs a large pot of something I cannot see clearly; I hear her tell the little husband that it is her "Astronaut Turkey Smackers." I do not know how something called a "smacker," or meant for astronauts, can be prepared in a large pot. It seems that outer space demands special, careful foods. I feel lost. The husband, too, has the same feeling. He sneaks off to the driveway and takes a big sip of Amstel from a hidden place in the back of the third PT Cruiser. He has done this before.

Soon the pizza delivery boy pulls into view, but he stops a hundred yards down the road. He leaves a pizza box near a fencepost, picks up a rock, and removes what looks like cash. The husband does not look in his direction, but when he has heard the boy's engine fade away he sprints to the pie and ravenously consumes several slices. He then hides the box beneath large dried cedar branches, perhaps for later. It is a gamble, as animals may eat it, but it looks to me that he lives by playing at odds. He wipes wet leaves and pine needles on his mouth, on his tongue, to hide the smells.

Rachael steps out to the front porch and yells, "JAAAAHN? JOHN-BOY? YOU OUT THERE?"

The husband panics, and yells back, "I...I was chasing a rabbit! It looked like it was hurt!"

"Well, was it?"

"I guess not, Rach, 'cause he sure got away fast!"

"Get back in here! I just got an idea for Hobgoblin Turkey Gobblers! You know, kind of a Halloween thing!"

"Sounds awesome, Rach! What's...what's in it?"

"I'll figure that out later! Come in here and try the Smackers, and quit makin' me yell. You know I'm doin' twelve shows tomorrow!"

He whispers his reply: "Sure thing, Rach!"

"WHAAAAAAT?"

"Sorry, Rach! Be there in a sec!"

The dogs finally start to howl and convulse in the woods behind the house, so they run off to see what is the matter. I am disgusted with them both; I do not want to confront this terrible situation as much as I thought I did. I want to be gone, away from these two. It is all I can do to go into the house, make myself sick on a plate, and leave it by the stove. "Amateur hour," I know.

Not too long after that I am back in the van, headed for home. I am disappointed, and it takes me a good sixty hours to reach California. When I turn on the television, there is Rachael Ray, serving a meal of Astronaut Turkey Smackers. A telltale stain of iodine shows just past the cuff of a long shirt sleeve: she has been bitten by a crazed dog.

In a way, I have communicated with her, but I would not call it a conversation.

Cold Noodles.

2007-11-08T16:15:00.000-08:00

There are not many foods which I can eat in common with Pat, as he is quite particular. There is even a name for his style of peculiarity, but it escapes me at the moment. Something like Rogaine, although you and I both know that Rogaine is a gentleman's hair recovery salve. Anyhow. My point is, Pat and I both enjoy noodle meals.

We also enjoy my home-crafted "tater tots," but that is not on topic. Heh. I guess I just say it to brag. Oh how I love that old recipe.

Tonight's noodle meal was to be divine. Pat cooks some special Oriental spaghetti-type pasta and then coats it with "organic" peanut butter. The idea, the combination, is lunacy, but oh how delicious it is. It is truly...an amazing food. He often sprinkles it with coriander leaf and sesame "bushotto." Oh how it is filling. Oh how it sates. When he makes it lately, we even refer to the dish as "lunatic noodles." It is a joke among men. It is good.

I was very late getting home after my trip to the secret redwood patch (one of the roads had gone out after the first rain and I needed to shore up a section with a fill wall — even added a French drain for good measure) so my noodles had gone cold. I was polite and said I was sorry I had been late, but Pat continued to watch his television show about dancing. I put the noodles in the microwave cooker but this caused the peanut butter to separate into oil and an unpleasant mealy paste, and the noodles went clumpy. To honor Pat's commitment I ate it, but it was horrid. Every bite was an eternity. Every swallow was to vomit oil and glue into my own stomach. At the end of the meal I was ill, mad at Pat (although I honored him), and there was no fun in the house. I sat alongside the car in the dark garage for a few hours until my body had processed the terrible nutrition, and then went to the corner store for a pickled chorizo and a box of Saltines.

A great sneezing besets me.

2007-08-14T22:12:00.000-07:00

I do not mean great in that I am pleased with the ceaseless sneezing I have experienced in the evening lately. I mean it is out-of-bounds, unacceptable, painful in the extreme. For the last few months, at ten o'clock in the evening, I have had outbursts of this kind, and violent ones — ones that leave me retching.

Typically at ten o'clock PM I have my "rudders true" through a History Channel program about magnificent ships, as there has been a Series lately ("Empire of the Wind"). I admire fine old ships. Though of near-ancient ways, their power knew no equal. Meaningless men in creaking hammocks swung from the ceiling come night. Terrible food full of maggots and ash sustained them. Their punishment: the stockade. Oh, how many men screamed their way to the bottom of the sea in the stockade, bereft of even the ability to float hopelessly upon the surface, to talk while they died, before committing themselves, in final desperation, to the same "briny deep."

I cannot enjoy my show any longer, for all this sneezing. I must find a pill, or antidote, or a reason that I can do away with. I will start with Pat and his new friend. I will not put a name to him. The friend is the latest change to our home. Perhaps he wears some cologne, or dresses a persistent wound in some herb of succor, which upsets me so.

A good sun-caught perch.

2007-06-26T22:55:00.000-07:00

When I was a boy, it was always a good day when we could land a few sun-caught perch down at the ox mine sinkhole. Daddy would smack them across the head with his old special Carter wrench, and fillet them quicker than they could die. I remember good fish so fresh the fin on the side was still risin' up and down in the pan. We fried them in honest butter and put lemon alongside, that was meal enough for us.

Yet here I see on Food Television that a woman named Rachael Ray has claimed that perch is low, and says to get a fish by the name of "ahi" instead. Ahi looks red and wicked, like a steak cut from a man's thigh. It is said to cost great sums, much greater than meat. I don't like this woman, and I understand she lives in the woods. Well, I know woods. I see she has dogs. Well, dogs are of low persuasion and easily distracted by sulfured eggs.

Maybe next time she goes on television, she won't have the same low opinion of simple sun-caught perch.

I cooked a TV Dinner.

2007-04-17T08:30:00.000-07:00

Call me low, but I do enjoy a good old-fashioned TV Dinner. I cooked one tonight, while Pat was away with his new fellow. Guess I'm going to be doing a lot of cooking on my own for at least a while. That is good, I can get by. I can turn on an oven with the best of them, I like to kid.

Tonight's dinner was a Swanson Hungry Man Classic Fried Chicken dinner. It was on sale at the Bell, two for one, and to wash it down I chose good, cold milk. Oh how my meal was fine. The lengthy cooking time was a temptation of agony, but at last I could peel the cover off and eat. Oh how I dined. Oh how salty the meat, how perfect the mashed potato compartment with its yellow area where the picture-perfect square of margarine had melted. The corn I did not care for. Oh how sweet and sticky the delicious berry crumb dessert. And I have one left.

I am only worried at my insatiate behavior after I finished the meal. I was in a salt-lust and ate an entire jar of peanuts. I will walk for a few hours, and drink orange juice, to help break down the nuts. The walking will help rock the sea in my stomach and erode the food into a fine, fine sand.

I have been on a Book Tour.

2007-03-19T21:56:00.000-07:00

Oh this was not the fancy kind of Book Tour with plane tickets and gleeful "paparazzi" and a smiling greeter at the airport. It was more of a tour of my own design. Late one night, while rifling, I was able to find the addresses of every customer who had purchased my books through Achewood, and after a fashion I was able to copy them down into a list. It took a good many hours, but fortunately rain was coming so everyone slept soundly as I did my work.

After that I plotted them all on free maps from the American Automobile Association, and fueled up the van. I watched through many windows as my customers read my books, and I have to say the results weren't half bad. It pleased me to see that folks generally were respectful while reading, and only one fellow shook his head at the end. We talked about that, he and I (in my mind). Since he had given money for the book, I had no claim over him, but all the same I did feel that his after-act of painful criticism justified the fire I set while he slept. That was my, "criticism," of him, if you will.

There were many long, hard nights on the road, but I believe I did visit all of you. I have to say that some of the college campuses are awful hard to navigate, and that made me angry, but I was pleased to see about the shared showers in many places. It kept my mind alive on the long roads between. The drain grates were enormous, and the water pressure superb.

What is plastic? No one will say.

2006-12-16T01:24:00.000-08:00

For the life of me I can not get a straight answer about what plastic is. Some say it is a petroleum product, but what on earth happens to the petroleum (good, simple gasoline) to make it plastic, no one will say. One fellow tried, but he talked too long and made me feel of low mind. The next fellow who tried said it was made of small pellets which were melted down as needed at a "destination factory." Needless to say that only made me angrier. By the time the third fellow tried to explain plastic to me he could barely open his mouth before I brought my pink lunch tray down on his head so hard that it (his head) hit the table and actually bounced back up against my tray and then down again (like a basketball dribble). From that point out barely anybody in the hof brau was listening to each other and so I fired up the van and left. I feel worse than ever that I am surrounded by this basic material that I can not understand.

My new novel is released.

2006-11-27T22:10:00.000-08:00

I did not expect to finish my second novel, A Hilarious Comedy, as quickly as I did. The first novel was a marathon of hate and anguish and endless paste-up, and I vowed many times I would never put a book together again. This time it was different. Based loosely on what I ended up having to do with the coquettish sandwich fellow, the story came together in mere Nights. I would sit and type feverishly at the computer -- oh, that is the main thing. I have learned to use Microsoft Word for novel making. Oh how it does ease the process. And there is no paste-up. The new book is spic-and-span and so professional. This time instead of taping down my drawings to the paper, I "put" them into the Microsoft Word page. I would tell you more but I know you must find my advances dull.

I have put forth my "sophomore" effort. It is done and though there are no reviews yet I feel that I can begin to term myself a "writer." It is a curious mantle to wear. At once it seems arrogant and high-brow, but again Homer was a blind wanderer and Chaucer had been a prisoner. I do not think you will find anyone of value who tinkers with their merits to spite their low ways.

A complicated gay man sold me a sandwich.

2006-10-04T20:26:00.000-07:00

I have seen some good old hospitality for the first time in a long while. It came in the form of a fellow who dressed and cut sandwiches at a place which is rumored to be all the rage in town. I would not have gone there but over the course of things I heard Téodor mention that they really dress them nice there, and because of an owner's background, they have a special scrapple sandwich, with the scrapple crisped fine and savory, among chilled lettuce and a zesty mayonnaise. I love to get a scrapple when I can, as I miss it from many hard nights on the road, from my days back East.

I got in the line where the people agreed to wait, and before too long I was up at the front. I had had plenty of time to be certain that scrapple was on the menu, and I knew what I wanted alongside: a soda. The sandwich cutter looked up at me: he smiled. I reported that I would like the scrapple sandwich on a fine sweet roll and he smiled perhaps more; I sensed that he too knew of the pleasure of scrapple. He was a gay fellow, and as gay fellows do he had prepared his hair and clothing well. Some call it coquetry, and it is not much practiced by men.

I do not want to make much of this, as it was straightforward. He prepared the sandwich well and something about him fascinated me. He wore his jeans in the modern low style where there is a hint of backside, and I was interested in that. I did not know how much he meant to show me, and that raised questions. You will know what I mean when I say that the sandwich is not where I will stop knowing him. I want to know what he meant by those pants and that coquetry. I think he meant quite a great deal, and I think he was out for adventure.

I am Infected.

2006-09-20T00:45:00.000-07:00

Living out West has infected me. I am a slave of the advertisements and the shameless style of spending money. I have a good car, yet I want a separate car, of a different shape, for those times when I feel a different way about myself. I even want a third car, of a third shape, for a time in my future, that I should hope for, when I feel a third way about myself. And oh the colas. They are never content with their colas. They add cherry, and vanilla, and then coffee flavor, and they take away the sugar, like a magician pulling away the tablecloth, and change the logo artwork, and keep you ever dancing, dancing, like a madman on a red-hot conveyor belt to hell; if you don't dance in place and always buy more strange new soda then you'll fall on your side and be whisked off to the scalding white-hot pits of brimstone and sulphur. That is what it is like to get out of bed each day in California.

Camping

2006-08-16T23:56:00.000-07:00

Oh, how it would be fine to go camping. The dog days and locust nights are nearly past and now once again a body can lay out under the stars without worry of mosquitoes or toads. Maybe I will pack up the old cooler and bedroll and find some time to myself out in the open. Heh if you can believe it I am even mildly paranoid that Casper Jim Middritch will come drive an axe into my guts even though he has been dead ten years, oh how he used to do that. Camping is a time when we agree with no-one that we are safe, and people who don't care about that have maps to campgrounds.

I cooked a chicken this evening, which is new to me

2006-08-02T22:19:00.000-07:00

As many of you may have guessed, I am not a cook of much interest to others. I suppose you can tell this through my shy manner and plain meals of pan-top trout or bread. Tonight though I saw a cooking show by a man called Tyler Florence. It was on Food Network Television, a channel you can find on cable. I happened to see it while I was flipping around aimlessly. Something about Tyler Florence caught my eye. He is clean and handsome, and probably mostly hairless. Men like this interest me. Of course this is not to say that the hair on the top of his head was not quite good. It looked quite fine and full, but soft and easily changed.

He cooked a simple baked chicken with someone else, and showed them the basic ideas. I don't know why, but I wanted to cook a chicken after I saw Tyler Florence do it. I bought one at the store, not a frozen one but one ready-to-go. I put it in the baking pan but something did not seem right. I was not dressed like Tyler. I went upstairs and put on a fancy ski sweater, then I felt right. I felt different. I turned on the oven. I poured salt on the chicken, then some inside. I cut a lemon in half, but in my excitement, I forgot it. The chicken went into the oven at room temperature and then in an hour, as Tyler had mentioned, it was cooked. I felt fantastic. I pretended I was showing it to someone. The person in my pretending was Tyler. He touched the cooked chicken in a few places and then announced casually that it was perfectly done. I said well how about that, and he chuckled a good chuckle and mentioned that it was time to dig in. I hit him as hard as I could across the back of the head with a ladle and he had only about five seconds of primal fight response in him before his senses petered out. I guess I got some signals crossed, even in my pretending.

Anyhow, I ate healthily from the bird and when I had had my fill I went out in the van and put the carcass in a black mailbox, being sure to lift the red flag on the side. I hadn't done that in a while, it felt good.

Plum season is almost here

2006-06-14T21:38:00.000-07:00

Oh but how fine is plum season. Ripe delicious plums are such a treat. Their flesh is almost like a jelly when the ripening is complete, almost clear and oh how sweet. For dessert a plum is finer than any meat.

This brings me to a good question. How does any one know when words are a poem vs. a paragraph? Is it only to do with hitting the RETURN key at surprising times? I have looked at many poems, and that is my only guess. As far as I can tell from looking through MAX BAERSON'S EXPANDED MODERN POETRY ANTHOLOGY I may be the first man to write his rhymes in paragraph form. I looked and flipped and read through the pages and as I continued to fail to find paragraph poems my excitement grew. Soon it was at a pitch, and I realized I had made a great breakthrough. I type this here now because Pat tells me that "Google" (a massive computer two stories high and then some) records everything that is put on the Internet, with a time stamp to prove you wrote it first.

As far as I know this is a free automatic service but just to be sure I will attempt to summon the Google computer:

Hello Google
Please read my words Google
Computer Computer Google
Who invented you Google
You beautiful thing

Finally my book is shipping.

2006-05-10T22:25:00.000-07:00

I do not know what Heaven feels like, and I do not Expect to, as my good works are not quite so great as my Sins. But I imagine I know a Heaven, now that I have seen copies of A Wonderful Tale roll off of the shipping line at the Achewater Publishing Fulfillment Building. It is a small building, and I was given a no-sugar soda, but still the thrill was great in my bones and flesh. I saw how it "works." There were clear bags for the books to go into, and "ridgid" paperboard envelopes to protect them, and finally they went into a large strong paperboard envelope which provided even more protection from bending and careless spray. A professional label was "slapped" onto them by a worker, and then they went into a bin direct to the post office. DO NOT BEND. DO NOT BEND. I am proud that my work can bear such a label.

Hopefully you will read this book soon. In it, you will find a "teaser" to my next book. I am not going to write this next book, not for a while, because I HATE, I DEEPLY HATE the publishing process. I have been horribly betrayed by everything from the machines to the people. I may not even make a dime.

You may want to read this brief teaser and then wait a couple years, is my advice, because I am too furious to finish the next story right now.

Book very close to reality.

2006-03-30T23:22:00.000-08:00

My publisher, Chris, had to talk with his printer this week about the finer details of the book production process. He had to negotiate, and at times he made large decisions. I know he talked about saddle-stitching, and scoring, and many other complicated printing concepts, such as resolution. Resolution is not what you would think. It is a quantity of dots, and my work does not have enough dots. Much of it is not even "half-tone," and if that is a slur on my heritage or mind I will cut and I will carry.

But if "half-tone" is in fact an honest term of the trade then I will try to make it right, or full-tone. If that can be done with what I have made. I know I am not a real writer, but paper is paper and all men should have access.

I hate making this book, but in hate the mind is new.

A second car.

2006-02-25T22:39:00.000-08:00

Chris Onstad says we may publish my book, A Wonderful Tale, very soon. Apparently he had quite a few irons in the fire but now things have calmed down a bit and he has got his mind back.

When we do finally get the book out into the public I have considered that I will get a second car, a Sports car. My van is all I need but I understand that to make certain impressions upon meeting with reviewers, columnists, and screenplay-adapters, a Sports car is desirable.

Good thing for me that while out on a walk recently I saw a great Sports car for sale. It seats two, and has very fast lines. I will approach this person about the title and registration. If everything is good and the sales of the book have gone well, I will get it. I will tell you more then.

Here is a photograph of it:

You may ask where I am.

2006-01-07T21:41:00.000-08:00

I will tell you. Just at the last minute, after Chris (of the "Achewood" company) agreed to publish and support my book, it was time for me to make my annual migration to the hidden hot springs in Saline Valley, which if you do not know is near Death Valley. We have a good community there and every year at Christmas I go there to see Lee, Wizard, Chili Bob, and the rest of our people. I guess most folks know it as the valley where Charlie Manson holed up with his family, but it really is well known for much more than that. You can get most tires repaired there (by Lee), you can still go quartz hunting up at the Blue Monster mine, and Wizard will let whites play horseshoes at his personal pit outside his RV. There is also some talk that Chili Bob wants to be in National Geographic.

I am back now, and I decided to edit a couple ideas in my book. Do not worry though. Once I figure out how to re-lay it up so that it staples properly and in order, the book is pretty much done. Then I will tell Chris ("Achewood") that it is time to sell it to you.

A last-ditch publisher.

2005-12-22T01:02:00.000-08:00

At long last I realized that I would need a distributor for my self-published book, because for all the world you will not sell a completed book unless you have a distributor. I originally envisioned hitting the bricks with my book, setting up card tables along public sidewalks and inside restaurants, but after some talking it seems one cannot operate that way in California.

I will sell A WONDERFUL TALE exclusively through Achewood (Achewood is a modern-day chronicler of small ideas and filth, if you really must know), and in January of 2006 my work will finally have a sales-home on the world-wide web. Knowing what I do about publishing, I asked about the accommodations for book tours. Chris O., the main employee of Achewood, said they would share fuel expenses based on mileage reports. To me this seems only fair. His handshake is good and to me that is the mark of a man.

My Halloween book launch party.

2005-11-19T04:21:00.000-08:00

I had prepared well for this party. The theme was good: I would hold it in the woods, where the book itself was set. I sent handwritten postcards to every publisher for miles around. Also to magazine writers. Even some in New York City, on a lark. On a hope.

I organized a clearing in the woods, and ringed the clearing with candles and different computer printouts of huge 8.5" tall, 11" wide words such as "A HIT," and "TOP SELLER." I placed two plates of cubed cheese approximately 20' apart, one white, one yellow. The flavor of cheese was Sargento. Italian cheese is in such demand these days. The bottles of cold wine were kept in an ice bath.

As it was Halloween I dressed in a costume of Dracula. This costume is pleasing to me. I enjoy the chance to slick my hair down, just as papa had done in his wedding photo those many years ago.

As the hour of the start of the party drew near, I began to worry slightly. Was 2am not a good time for publishers? I understand they usually get up early to read the trade papers, but I thought my party would be a good reason for them to change their routine. I was taking a chance. I hoped they would, too.

By 2:50 no publishers had come to my party. I was full of doubts, even though it is of a fashion to be late. Then, a shuffle of feet. Teen-agers entered the clearing, dressed in black capes. They said they were surprised to see me, and could they sample of the wine and cheeses. I was hostly and said of course, and let them get comfortable. Then one by one I made discussion with them about books, to see if any were in publishing families.

Slowly it became clear that they were not any of them to do with publishing, and I grew angry. This party was a farce, and no one had come for the right reason. I would have Taken several of them if I had not been mindful of a publisher showing up late, only to find me Taking a guest. Instead, I politely told them to leave. It is hard to get flies off of honey, however, and they did not immediately want to go, but when I showed them my erect penis they scattered to the four winds.

What is left to do is follow-up. I have made a plan to visit many of the publishers to whom I had sent an invitation. I will go a-calling.

I am going to throw a party.

2005-10-21T00:54:00.000-07:00

I realized this evening while watching a detective show that when a person wants to make a stir about their announced project, they have a party. They invite friends, and also people who are not friends, and they serve cold wine and wonderful cheese. At this party the writer (I am ashamed to say that in this case that is me) will take questions and try to interest the community in his work, casually. Often, powerful men will ask him why he wrote the book, and wait for an answer.

I am going to host a party of this kind. It only makes sense, as I have a project that should debut to the public. I will throw the party on Halloween, which is an ideal day, as folks have already asked for that time off work.

Book update for October 15th.

2005-10-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

Oh how it is good to work with one's hands. In the modern computer world they say most people never get their hands dirty. With me it is quite the opposite way. At the end of the long nights of making the books my back is sore like Noah and of honest work. There have been horrible problems— ghastly, furious moments. But art must be lifted, screaming, in our hands, if it is to touch the heart of man. Just as the babe is rent from the bleeding flesh unto this world, just as the world hungers and slavers for him to return unto its dust, such is my labor on this book.

I do not feel that I will write another tale for quite a while. I may travel.

October Update for Book Friends' Club

2005-10-10T23:15:00.000-07:00

It has been a treasure and a delight to understand the world of book publishing. I have learned many new things, and had many terrible moments as I put the finishing touches on A Wonderful Tale. The main thing I hate is computer screens which tell you one thing but then that thing is a Lie. Hence most of my book will be manually pasted up using good old hot wax technology and know-how. Caul, maintenance man at the high school, has let me make use of the out-dated equipment which no-one uses.

I am grateful to him.

I am pleased at my drawings. They are what is inside my head. I have been careful to draw them extremely slow, so each line is exactly what I see. You will notice this.

I want you to get this book at Christmas-time. Oh how the book will please you. Oh how the angels will dance. Oh how the people will sing.

Sincerely,
Peter H. Cropes

An update to my book.

2005-09-22T23:41:00.000-07:00

Book readers:

I have good news and with the good news comes extremely horrible, awful news.

The publisher for my book will no longer publish my book. The reasons for this are extremely regrettable, but in our actions we must accept counter-actions. Or so he should have known.

The good news is that I will personally publish my book using money I have saved in a small "account" and people can have this book available to them. I will do all the re-typing and paste-up on my own and without the help of the man who once lied to me.

This is the cover to my new book, "A Wonderful Tale." I hope you see it soon. I am using a lot of my time to make sure that the book is extremely professional.

Sincerely,
Peter H. Cropes.

The ending to my book.

2005-06-23T00:22:00.000-07:00

Hello. This is a message from Peter Cropes, the author of this book which you are reading. I do not know if you have been enjoying this book so far, but I hope so. I want to share with you some late-breaking announcements regarding this book.

As you know, the book is not complete. There is still a lot left to happen, to work itself out. Interestingly, though, in some of my dealings with various Internet people I have found a publisher. I will be releasing the next several chapters of this book, including a lot of illustrations by me, and also including all the existing chapters of this book, in the Fall. It will be my complete book, with illustrations, with all the chapters in order.

If you get this book in its hard-copy form you will know how all the characters look, and also how the book ends. The book will be called A Wonderful Tale, and you can ask for it by name wherever daring books are sold.

Chapter 18

2005-05-10T04:55:00.000-07:00

An older man stood at the edge of the clearing, watching the terrible circumstances unfold. He was a good, simple country man, and he watched the situation through good country eyes.

Eustace K. Dobbs had hypnotized the boy's papa with the famous holiday song, and came near to him fixing to wring his neck with his crazy hands. The boy's papa's gun hung in his hand at his side, forgotten.

Just as Eustace lifted his arms to commit the gruesome deed, the older man stepped forward onto the crunchy leaves. Eustace froze in his tracks as the man began to sing in perfect tone,

Hey did diddle
The piggy's in the middle
The farmer grabs the bucket
The knife goes down the middle

Hey dad daddle
The farmer grabs the paddle
The cows drink up the pig's blood
While the paddle kills the cattle

Hey dud duddle
They all lay in a puddle
The farmer's wife is laughing
As all the corpses cuddle

That is what did it, the secret third verse. Eustace's father had never included that third verse in his famous song, and had never sung it to anyone besides his son.

Chapter 17

2005-04-09T05:56:00.000-07:00

When Eustace K. Dobbs got out of the truck he did not do what a body would expect. He began to do a simple hill dance and slap his heels as he jumped and sang.

Hey did diddle
The piggy's in the middle
The farmer grabs the bucket
The knife goes down the middle

This was the song that had made his father famous, the song that all people knew. It was a famous holiday song. The boy's papa was taken aback, as he like all people had good memories of this song.

Eustace advanced on the boy's papa, who stood transfixed by the familiar voice singing the old holiday song. Even though the voice was broken, the Dobbs family tone was unmistakable.

Chapter 16

2005-04-01T23:18:00.000-08:00

The boy's papa slid carefully under the truck as its engine screamed. He had good knowledge of motors and knew where to cut the fuel line. Soon the scream of the engine died down like a pony that has been shot in the heart and starts to accept that it is passing from this earth.

He found a gun under some leaves nearby, and pointed it at the truck as he slowly advanced.

"I don't want to shoot you," he said. "I don't wait to shoot you in the brain."

The man in the truck said nothing. The boy's papa did not know that he was peaking on his acid trip.

"...But I will shoot you," he continued, "if you don't get out of that truck."

From down in the hole many of the girls screamed that they wanted help. But he knew that the best help he could give them was to subdue their captor.

Eustace peered out the window and to his high mind the boy's papa looked like he was a Chinese waiter holding a delicious tray of spiced, steaming won tons. In his mind he thought he stayed in the truck and told the man to bring him the won tons, but in reality he got out of the truck and advanced on the boy's papa.

The boy's papa was surprised to see the man wearing a police officer's uniform. But something wasn't right: the uniform was far too large for his frame. He knew right away that this cop was spurious.

His finger tightened on the trigger of the gun.

Chapter 15

2005-02-21T01:57:00.000-08:00

To look into the mind of Eustace K. Dobbs was to look into the barrel of a gun. He had wanted Dimitri Warnock and the girls trapped in the hole to have a crazy sex orgy, because in his mind this would finally show his dead papa that his failed son had done some good.

Now, high on acid, he revved the engine of his old pickup truck and planned on crushing the mock orgy to death. Because acid is an extremely unpredictable drug, however, he simply stayed there in neutral, with his foot pressed down all the way on the accelerator, the engine screaming at a terrible RPM for several hours as the smoke from the burning crankcase oil rose into the air.

The boy's papa saw the smoke, and knew something was wrong. He carefully drove closer to the plume, and then took in the situation. In an instant, he knew what to do.

He pulled the handmade knife from his belt loop and crawled carefully toward Eustace Dobbs's truck.

Chapter 14

2004-12-24T02:39:00.000-08:00

The boy's papa could not believe that Dimitri would simply disappear from the bar like that, without so much as a comment. He knew that something was wrong. He had felt, the entire time, that today was going to be pretty screwed-up. Now he was sure.

The boy's papa went outside and noticed some tire tracks that were pretty tell-tale. They displayed too much use of power, like the rider was trying to make a quick getaway with a lot of extra weight on his bike. He knew this was what had happened to Dimitri. He called it an intuition.

The boy's papa knew that Dimitri was being taken to the woods. He tracked the tire trail out of the parking lot and soon he was at the dirt off-roads ramp that led off the major highway.

Chapter 13

2004-12-10T04:23:00.000-08:00

Eustace K. Dobbs finally had things arranged the way he wanted. Dimitri Warnock, the famous guitar player, was in his trap-hole, and he was down there with a passel of kidnapped college girls. The girls knew full well who Dimitri was, but the situation was not erotic, as Eustace had expected it would be. In fact the captives were not acting erotic at all.

Eustace watched them for a full hour before growing angry. He stared and spat as the captives whined and begged for his mercy. Then he stood up and drank beer solidly for seven minutes.

When he was done, he had a new, separate idea. He would drive his truck into the hole at a high rate of speed. His truck was exactly the size of the hole so he would be sure to crush all of the people.

He got into his truck and backed it up a good fifty yards. In his mind he pictured a noose made out of a living snake. Then, he dropped acid.

Chapter 12

2004-12-04T01:06:00.000-08:00

Eustace K. Dobbs pretended to talk on the telephone that was near the bathroom. He said phrases about how nice the weather was, and about how high the prices of things had gotten lately. Dimitri Warnock walked by, because he had some beer in him and the pressure on his bladder was intense. Soon Dimitri had walked into the bathroom and Eustace looked around to make sure nobody was watching.

Eustace ducked into the bathroom six seconds later. Six seconds is the amount of time it takes a man to really get into a good pee. He knew that Dimitri would be focused on the pleasure of his peeing sensation, and that he could have his way.

Soon Dimitri was down in the hole in the forest, a huge bruise on his forehead. There were women there.

Chapter 11: Eustace K. Dobbs

2004-11-23T13:27:00.000-08:00

Eustace K. Dobbs had grown up a wealthy boy in nearby Susquahota county, the son of a successful singer and musician. Early parts of his life included trips to Europe on a magnificent ship, and bow and arrow lessons in France. However, he was not raised well. His father always wanted him to be a successful singer and musician like him. Oh how he would try to please his dad, but he had a "tin ear" and could not carry a tune. In the end he failed his dad, and his dad died a man who had been failed by his only son. The weight of this was too much to bear.

As a result, Eustace K. Dobbs was a broken-minded man, and he lived in a world of broken ideas.

Chapter 10

2004-11-09T17:54:00.000-08:00

Dimitri Warnock and the boy's papa laughed as they remembered their fishing experiences from earlier in the afternoon. They sat at the counter of the Rawhide bar, a tough bar not too far from the lake. They had golden, crisp beers and they snapped the provided peanuts open as snacks.

A shady figure sat at the far end of the bar, unseen by them. It was Eustace K. Dobbs. He wore a false outfit and there was malice in his heart.

Chapter 9: The Moaning Hole

2004-10-20T13:52:00.001-07:00

Far back in the woods 3.5 miles from the lake was a deep sink-hole, ringed with torn roots that made it an inescapable prison. Scattered here and there on the ground was old trash, mostly pull-tab beer cans and shell casings. There was also a map that had been extremely rained on.

From down in the dark hole came a quivering moan, like the person was so sick and scared they wanted to die. Or, was it a person at all?

Chapter 8

2004-10-06T14:36:00.000-07:00

The pretty girls from the local college were having a great time. They were driving in a Jeep, and they wanted to go skinny-dipping in a remote lake. There were five of them, and their hair blew in the air as the Jeep drove fast down the country lane. No one was around, so the driver pressed more on the gas pedal. Soon they were going fast, too fast. Soon it was too late.

Before they knew it, they ran over a body.

Chapter 7

2004-09-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

Dimitri and the boy's papa looked at each other. Even though the papa was guilty of hiding evidence, he had good country charm, and that went a long way. Soon he and Dimitri were spinning yarns and telling tales out of school. It turned out that Dimitri had known about the lake from a while back.

From the bushes, an unseen eye watched them. They did not notice when the hidden figure darted off. Was it Eustace Dobbs?

Chapter 6

2004-09-25T23:51:00.000-07:00

His old pick-up truck's winch pulled the state trooper's car out of the deep, muddy lake. Mud squished between his toes. There was no dead body in the car, or in the trunk. He released the car and let it sink back into the muck. He did not want trouble.

Dimitri Warnock had been on a long tour and wanted to do some simple fishing. He came into the clearing just as the last bubble from the state trooper's sinking car popped.

The men looked at each other. Not a lot of people knew about this lake.

Chapter 5

2004-09-12T05:51:00.000-07:00

The bobber sat in the water on top of the lake. It suddenly began to jerk, and the small boy reeled in his fish. Only, it was not a fish. It was the hat of a state trooper. He went home later and showed it to his papa, who knew that something was not right.

Chapter 4

2004-09-07T04:37:00.000-07:00

Dimitri was flying down the country lane. Corn plants were on either side of him. They were blurred, he went so fast.

Suddenly, he ran over a body.

Thump-thump.

Dimitri knew better than to go back and see what was going on. Often times such a situation is a trap where a body is thrown into the road and you run over it, then when you go back a third person kills you.

He threw up a big rooster tail of dust and went tearing down the lane. Soon he had arrived at his cousin's house and they ate corn bread and spicy stew.

"How was your concert," said his cousin.

"It was good," said Dimitri. "Thank you for the food."

Meanwhile, on the country lane, an unseen hand pulled the body slowly back into the corn plants.

Chapter 3

2004-09-06T05:38:00.000-07:00

Dimitri Warnock was a famous guitar player. He finished his concert at the saloon and got onto his motorcycle as the fans came around him to say praises. Laughing thankfully, he rode off into the distance. One of the fans, Eustace K. Dobbs, looked perhaps too strongly at him as he rode off.

He went onto the country road where his cousin lived. It was far out into the country. He began to rev the bike up fast, then too fast. Soon he was going way too fast. He was going to stay with his cousin, and he was Hell Bent.

Chapter 2

2004-09-01T05:44:00.000-07:00

The flies were real bad that year. I remember it. They were the size of grapes.

The policeman rolled along in his car, through the fields. His car went fast, then faster. Too fast. Suddenly he ran over a body.

A Book

2004-08-30T01:57:00.000-07:00

Chapter One

The milk was in the bowl. The cereal in the milk was puffed up and kind of exploded from sitting for a while in the milk. The body did not stink too strong yet. It takes 3-4 days for a body to become extremely smelly.

The policeman got into his car. He felt good. It was Friday. Not a day of a lot of crimes.

Famous Boy

2004-08-18T01:56:00.000-07:00

This boy is in China. He is a Special Creature, under God's protection.

http://www.maohai.com

When I was small I did not get good grades

2004-08-06T19:28:00.000-07:00

Friday

nice

2004-07-27T01:00:00.000-07:00

Back now.

2004-07-21T11:49:00.000-07:00

going out tomorrow

2004-07-17T02:41:00.000-07:00

2004-07-14T12:23:00.000-07:00

it is so cute the way a dog is

2004-07-14T00:49:00.000-07:00

Peter H. Cropes

2004-07-11T23:45:00.000-07:00

Peter H. Cropes