Every few months, I remember why I started this blog in the first place. It also pertains to why I joined the Facebook world. See, I started Mr. Cope’s Cave to sell you something, and then got onto Facebook to sell you into going (coming?) to Mr. Cope’s Cave, where hopefully, you would buy what I had to sell. In other words, this whole damn thing, all 18 months of it, three times a week, has been a sales pitch.
Yeah, like you’ve never seen that on Facebook before.
But like I said, I keep forgetting what the blog’s raison d’etre is, so I haven’t said anything about my product since forever. I get so caught up in finding new ways to call Trump the enemy of all things honest and decent that I lose track of why I’m spending hours a week trying to think of something new to write about the same old shit, then several more hours rubbing bed sores onto my fanny as I squirm with a keyboard on my lap, trying to find the right words to say it.
Yeah, I write with the keyboard on my lap, my feet up on a hassock, and the screen on a desk-like thing with wheels. Not that it’s any of your business.
Now … where was I. Oh yes. I want to convince you to buy something. And it must be the impending Xmas that reminded me, simply because everyone else in America is trying to convince you to buy something, too. I know this because they are also trying to convince me to buy something. T’is the season when you can’t open your eyes without getting hit with another sales pitch. Sometimes, I despair to think this is what our country, at heart, is all about—that everyone in America is trying to convince everyone else in America to buy something. It makes us sound like cannibals, doesn’t it? Maybe we’re not actually eating one another, but we can’t deny we all regard the rest of us as sustenance. Like, we’d all starve if we can’t convince each other we need a new Toyota. Or hot tub. Or probiotic laxative. Or home security system. Or motorcycle insurance. Or … oh, you know what I’m saying. And it’s not important what they’re trying to get us to buy. It only matters … to me at least … that I’ve come to see the vast, vast, vast, vast majority of human beings as someone else I have to say “no” to. Like, “No, I don’t want your brand new Toyota.” Or, “No I don’t need a hot tub.” It’s like we have this tiny, tiny, tiny group of family and friends who aren’t trying to sell us something—maybe—and all the rest are. Depressing as shit, if you ask me.
So then, about what I’d like you to buy. They are books. That’s what I do, when I’m not pissing around with this blog. I self-published these two books (See Below) because my agent died and I didn’t have the energy to try to convince another to take me on. They are available on Amazon. The Greenman Stories is an anthology of short stories, and Artists Save the Galaxy is a novel. Both are illustrated without and within by the remarkable Mike Flinn, and both are, for the most part, humor. Neither is political in nature, and either would be the absolute best gift you could give a loved one for Christmas. Or a co-worker. Or a distant relative. I don’t care who you give them to. Once you pay for them, they are yours with which to do any damn thing you want.
But you should know, they may well be the best two books ever written. You’d be darn smart to buy them—both—and keep them for yourself. Or, you could buy several copies, and keep one copy of each for yourself while you gift out the rest. Or, you could buy several hundred copies of each book and hand them out to graduating seniors at your favorite high school. I’m just saying, there are several options here.
And that is my sales pitch. I admit, I lied a little. Twice, as a matter of fact. It’s unlikely these books could, as I indicated in the title above, save your life. It’s not totally impossible, as the bigger book (Artists Save the Galaxy) might stop a small-caliber bullet, and the thinner of the two (The Greenman Stories) could easily deflect a golf ball, I think. But in all honesty, I am not promoting them as life-saving devices.
And I wasn’t all-together truthful about them being the best two books ever written. I haven’t read all the books ever written, so how would I know?
Below are pictures—in color, no less!—of the books, and a small excerpt from each. (The excerpts are in black and white.)
Sam squatted beside the grotesque head and held it erect, rotating it slowly so that every surviving member of the Dione Dozen got a frontal view. The thing was heavy, and he felt the dense inflexibility of a malformed skull beneath the spongy elasticity of its scalp. Just what had they gotten themselves into, these reluctant warriors, here on this endless ship, filled with the most hideous creatures imaginable … and headed to Earth? Just what horrors had they yet to discover? “Lord Sweet Lamb Jesus, save us!” blubbered Sister Aimee, when she suddenly grasped what Sam was trying to show them. “We have rocket shipped ourselves straight into Hell!”
Buy from Amazon here.
Long buried in a basement utility closet, moldering away under the arcane detritus of W. E. Greenman’s life (spider-infested bowling balls; thirteen buckle-up galoshes-all for the left foot; a complete, leather-bound collection of H. P. Lovecraft’s works, with illustrations by Joan Miró; a walrus ivory game board of Snails & Nails, still sticky after all those years; a yellowing baseball personally signed by the entire 1975 Cincinnati Reds baseball team; a pair of snowshoes; a red chow dog, stuffed and mounted; an unidentifiable spine; a moldering jock strap; and more) come The Greenman Stories, a collection of the most bizarre short stories ever to see print. Are they horror? Are they humor? Are they something else, all together? You decide…and if you are pulled inextricably into the shuffling Greenman cult, don’t pretend you weren’t forewarned.
Buy from Amazon Here.