W.Z. SNYDER, #167 Dad

GEORGE CLOONEY and THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON

2012-01-30T08:23:00.000-08:00

The mock-up of the entire text has been approved. Now I'm waiting for a mock-up of the physical book. We're on track to have bound copies of THE EIGHT FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON available at a few California and Arizona bookstores, AMAZON.COM and CHANDLER AUTO AND TIRE REPAIR in March.

As far as I know, George Clooney has not read The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son and has absolutely nothing to do with the book. However, Rick Moranis is following me on Twitter and there is a possibility that he has read the book. Okay, it's a minute posibility, but I'll take all the hope I can get...

The e-book can be dowloaded for a measly 5 bucks at
http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1326594616&sr=1-1

THE DESCENDANTS

2012-01-22T09:02:00.000-08:00

Word on the street was The Descendants was a little on the blah side, not exactly a stinker, but nothing to write home about. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I am not in the primary demographic group for which the studios make their films, but I honestly can't remember being more disinterested in a list of movies at a multiplex theater. Armed with movie passes and a couple of hours on our hands, my wife and I chose to see The Descendents because it was the least uninteresting film at the theater.

I guess it's always helpful to walk into a movie theater with absolutely no expectations.
Getting to the point, I was pleasantly surprised. The Descendants is a pretty good movie. Set against the breathtaking music and landscape of Hawaii, the story follows a wealthy patriarch as he struggles to lead his family in the midst of tragedy and betrayal. To sum things up, the film is terribly sad, uniquely funny and undeniably real.

New to this blog? I'm promoting my new book THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON.

You can read an excerpt or download the entire e-book for a measly 5 bucks by clicking here:
http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4
The print version will be available soon at The Book Frog, Chandler Auto and Tire and Amazon.com.

Courderoys, Printers, Hungover Snails and THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON

2012-01-18T17:35:00.000-08:00

Did I mention I wrote a book?

I just recieved the mock-up of the first 15 pages from the printer. It looks fantastic. We're now awaiting the mock-up of the complete text. I guess you could say my printer has gone from moving at the pace of a hungover snail to moving along at the pace of a hungover snail that's had a glass of Alka Seltzer.

Did I mention that I am a high school teacher?

Today some wisenhiemer kid told me he liked my courderoys. They were making a zipping noise as I was running to the library.

I stopped and waved my finger at the modern day juvenile delinquent and cautioned,"Listen here, bub, I realize that was a sarcastic remark. I know you were making fun of me."

To which he replied, "Did you just call me bub?"

"Hah!" I snapped back, my finger waving back and forth like some kind of out of control windshield wiper. "You're doing it again. Your're making fun of me. You're being sarcastic again."

The kid was left speechless. On the other hand, he may have been a little freaked out.

Satisfied, I made my way to the library and went about the business of teaching. The point is the day is coming when I won't be able tell that they're making fun of me.And I'm afraid that day is right around the corner. I'm not getting any younger, man. I'm telling you I can't see myself still teaching ten years from now.

This is why I'm asking you to read The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son. In case you haven't heard, the e-book is available at http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4 for a measly 5 bucks. And the print version will be available as soon as the hungover snail of a printing company prints the thing.

RICK MORANIS AND THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON

2012-01-14T13:59:00.000-08:00

We have hired Create Space to print The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son. Create Space is in possession of the text and they are rocketing along at the speed of a hungover snail to facilitate the release of the physical, non e-book version.

In the mean time, I set up a Twitter account in order to promote the book. I haven't exactly figured out how to use Twitter, but I do have 15 followers. Interestingly enough, and I am not kidding, I'm pretty sure Rick Moranis is one of my 15 followers. If Rick Moranis is following me, I'm thinking I just might have myself a fist full of marketing dynamite. If I can get Rick "Ghostbusters" Moranis to read The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son and he likes the book, good golly Miss Molly, this thing is on. I could sell, I don't know, 130 - maybe 140 books.

You can follow my rather confused Twitter campaign that seems to include Rick "Honey I Shrunk the Kids" Moranis by clicking https://twitter.com/#!/GriggitSnyder

If you know someone who recieved a new Kindle for Christmas, please tell them about The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son. The book can be downloaded for a a measly 5 bucks by clicking on http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4

Tim Tebow and David Bowie

2012-01-12T18:56:00.001-08:00

Tim Tebow's second favorite book is THE EIGHT FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON. You can download THE EIGHT DINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON for a measly 5 bucks at from Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4

An absolutely shameless marketing ploy, I know.

The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son - Clif the Lawyer and Various Other Book Mojo Makers

2012-01-05T09:14:00.000-08:00

About a year ago, I met for breakfast with my old amigo Clifton Batchelor, also known as Clif the Lawyer. I call him Clif the Lawyer because he's a dentist. Actually, he's not a dentist; he's a lawyer, but it would be so much more ironic if I called him Clif the Lawyer while he was actually a dentist. The point is it was Clif the Lawyer who convinced me to team up whim him to compile and publish a collection of my stories. Clif spent countless hours working with me, editing, revising, researching publishing options, formatting text, and working on the cover design. If not for Clif, The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son would not exist. I want to take the opportunity to publicly thank Clifton Batchelor.

While I'm at it, I'd like to thank my old pal Robert Sanchez for personally financing the bound version. When the book was released on Amazon, my daughter Lindsey Hernandez and my sister's childhood friend Mandy Treckman Martes took it upon themselves to spread the word and between the two of them, they were probably responsible for 50 e-book sales. Pete Ledesma, co owner of The Book Frog, has offered to carry the book. And Brett White, owner of Chandler Auto and Tire, has also agreed to carry the book. How cool is that, selling a book at a garage. Bryan Frank, John Marciolonis and Tony Frink were kind enough to help out with the editing. Finally, John Baker is plugging the book on Cougar Town, the Hawthorne High School Website http://cougartown.com/feedback.html.

Countless old friends and family members have supported this venture. I realize that 126 e-book sales is a far cry from the Times Best Seller List, but it's a nice start. And it's pretty cool to have the support and encouragement from so many people. It feels a little bit serendipitous. Wait, I'm not the kind of guy who uses words like serendipitous. I'm the kind of guy who says something like it feels like there's some serious good mojo connected to The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son and I'm feeling like a pretty lucky schlep.

Awe heck, I forgot to thank Brady "Cat" White, Dickey "Tom Jones" Imburgia, Ian "Moon Doggie" Welch, Joel and Amy Fricke, Jayden White, and Wayne "Geege' Mossbarger for the 3 whacked out promotional videos.

The Latest scoop on THE EIGHT FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON and THE MIAMI HEAT

2012-01-03T13:16:00.000-08:00

Here's a shot, taken in 1985, of yours tryly with the eight-fingered criminal himself, William "Cash" Snyder.
Over 100 e-books have been downloaded from Amazon.com. My goal was 100 so I'm calling this book making venture a success.

The cover design is finished and the text has been formatted for the printer. I've been told the print version will be ready to rock in 2 to 3 months.

For starters, the print version will be available on Amazon.com, The Book Frog in L.A., and Chandler Auto and Tire Repair. Selling the book at an auto and tire repair shop is supposed to be funny.

Thank you to all who have downloaded the e-book and I'll keep you posted on the release date for the dead tree version.

You can download the e-book for a measly 5 bucks by clicking on the link below.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4
Happy New Year
And the Miami Heat have absolutely nothing to do with The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son.

THE ROUNDERS - Bill and Wayne's Excellent Adventures in the World of Film

2011-12-28T15:39:00.000-08:00

Wayne Mosbarger, the Mr. Miyagi of quirky cool old movies, recently turned me on to The Rounders, a 1965 comedy western staring Henry Fonda and Glenn Ford. Fonda and Ford cut it up with bigger than life character actors Denver Pile, Chill Wills and Edgar Buchanan. They honestly don't make actors like these guys any more. Set against the gorgeous backdrop 1960s Sedona, Arizona, the film follows the escapades of a couple of middle-aged, hard luck cowboys.

The quirky coolest aspect of this old western is Henry Fonda's love interest is played by the old gal who portrayed “The Penguin” in The Blues Brothers. And here's where it get's even quirky cooler in a Kevin Bacon kinda way: I was an extra in The Blues Brothers.

Bottom line, The Rounders with Hank Fonda and Bill Holden get's a thumbs up.

Hank Fonda cuts the rug with "The Penguin."

Merry Christmas Eve!

2011-12-24T14:03:00.000-08:00

As Adam said to his better half, it's Christmas, Eve!

Sorry, I honestly can't help myself. I've always been a sucker for bad Christmas puns.

THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON - The First Royalty Check

2011-12-24T12:37:00.000-08:00

The e-book verison of The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son is moving quite nicely on Amazon.com. The first Royalty check arrived in the mail recently. I suppose this is a milestone of sorts. Thanks to all who purchased the e-book. The bound version is in the works. One thing of learned about this book business is making an e-book is a lot easier and a lot faster than making a physical book.

Did you hear about the depressed elf?
He had low elf esteem.

Merry Christmas

The-Eight Fingered Criminal's Son - The Cover Design

2011-12-18T11:25:00.000-08:00

The long and painful search for a good graphic designer is finallyover. Here is the first cover cover proof. We're still tweaking the design and playing with the colors. It's been a long process, but I'd rather have this project done right than done fast. God willin'and the creek don't rise, the cover design will be finished and we'll give the printer the go ahead this week.

John Wayne's Ghost - A Yuletide Story

2011-12-10T19:09:00.000-08:00

John Wayne’s Ghost
Wiliam Z. Snyder
© 2008 William Snyder

1.
It was late. Another perfect Christmas was in the books. Family and friends had been by for tamales and eggnog. That’s right - I said it; tamales and eggnog. Something wrong with tamales and eggnog? There had been plenty of Christmas music; the entire family had watched Jingle All the Way straight through, twice in a row. The wife and kids were upstairs fast asleep with visions of Schwarzenegger slugging it out with the dopey mailman dancing in their heads. I was trying to hash out my time travel story. This could be construed as something of a coincidence – working on a time travel story; you’ll make the connection soon enough. I’ve never been a late night writer, but the words just weren’t coming. I needed a change-up. The story was all in a mess; too many characters, each with an individual plot line. And I’d been told that too many of these people sounded like the same character. I was working downstairs at the old oak lawyer’s desk by the window, going at it John Steinbeck style, with twenty freshly sharpened number two pencils and a yellow legal pad. Although I’d been sitting at the desk since midnight, the first pencil was still sharp enough to draw blood.

The Christmas tree was beautiful. Heck, the Christmas tree had always been beautiful. That Christmas tree would always be beautiful. Our family Christmas tree was a place where the past and present came together, a place where new ornaments shared branch space with ornaments that were a hundred years old back when I was a starry-eyed boy. The oldest were pretty ragged. They were white bearded Santa Clauses with their eyes painted crossed, and their noses broken off. One of their hands had fallen off and all of their red suits had faded to pink seventy-five years ago. Poor little bastards. There were the wooden reindeers and wise men my aunt Lois had painted in the late 1960s when my uncle was in Vietnam. And there was the little fuzzy bear in a crocheted Christmas box my mother had crafted during her last Christmas season. Just above the bear was the handmade Grinch ornament my daughter, Sophia, had brought home from school this year. Yeah, I couldn’t help doing a little time traveling when I looked at that handsome Christmas tree.

But there was the business of the book. I had put the book aside nine months ago, after a friend read the first hundred and twenty pages and proceeded to absolutely rip it to shreds. This was new genre for me and it was the first time I tried writing in third-person. The scathing review truly took the wind from my sails. Somehow, somewhere along the line, I got into my head that I wanted to be a serious writer. And I’d been chasing the dream for five years. The agents and publishers had rejected my novel and short stories hundreds of times, but it was tough to hear it from my closest writing ally. Recently, I had decided I would finish the book, good or bad, come hell or high water. I didn’t believe in that writer's block business. It was like shooting slumps in my old basketball days. There was only one way out of a shooting slump and that was to shoot my way out. Likewise, I would have to write my way out of this writing slump. Writing was easier than basketball; I couldn’t go back and fix my missed shots, but I could always go back and clean up bad writing.

Determined to make something happen, I pushed the pencil to the paper. As Murphy’s Law would have it, headlights filled the front window. The shadow of a big man slowly, unsteadily emerged from a limousine. The chauffer climbed out and began gesticulating. The big guy waved him off and headed up the brick walkway to my front door. He walked a little like John Wayne. Maybe he was drunk. Standing, I moved toward the porch. Who was this guy? He wrapped quietly on the front door.

“Who is it?” I asked quietly, not wanting to wake Gail and the kids.

“It’s Duke Wayne. Open up, will ya?”

Looking through the peep hole, this character did look like John Wayne. And he was big, John Wayne big. He was dressed in slacks dress shoes, a polo shirt and a grey tweed coat.

“C’mon friend, I need a drink.”

2.
Glancing back at the Christmas tree, I unlocked the door and opened up. Sure enough and bigger than life, John Wayne was standing on my front porch.

You’re probably thinking this is ridiculous. I get that. Quite frankly, I can’t tell you whether this happened or not, but I can tell you I experienced it. I suppose you’re questioning my sanity. That’s fair enough. I’ve been known to question my own sanity from time to time. I’ll tell you this much, I’m grounded. I take pride in my work. I love my wife and kids. I’m just a guy trying to get by without hurting anyone. I have no delusions of grandeur. There is one thing; I do tend to get a little paranoid from time to time. I tend to go on about my low teaching salary and the fact that I’m underappreciated, but at the end of the day, I’d say I’m a pretty sane guy.

“C’mon in, but please, be quiet. My wife and kids are sleeping.”

“No problem, friend.”

John Wayne turned, waved to his driver and bulled past me into the living room. He smelled of cigarettes and expensive cologne.
“Now that’s a Christmas tree, for Christ’s sake,” he breathed deeply. “Smell that pine? It’s majestic. I don’t go for that God awful flocking and such. You know my ex-wife brought in an imitation Christmas tree. Can you believe it, a fake Christmas tree?”
John Wayne followed me into the kitchen and I opened the cabinet above the stove where I kept the good stuff.

“That Crown Royall will do just fine,” he said, looking anxiously over my shoulder.

“Crown Royal it is,” I said pulling the bottle down and snatching a couple of glasses.

The Duke squeezed in at the kitchen table. I sat down across from him, placing the bottle and the glasses on the table. Peeling back the seal, I pulled the cork and poured a couple of drinks He reached into his coat pocket for a Camel non-filter. Flipping the cigarette into his mouth, he lit up.

“What?” the Duke asked. “You don’t mind if I smoke do you?”

“Actually, I do.”

“Actually I do,” he mocked me. “What year are you livin’ in?”

I thought about answering his question, but something stopped me.

“You know, those things’ll kill you.”

“I got news for you, partner,” he said looking at his cigarette, “if these things don’t kill me, sooner or later, something else sure as hell will. I just realized something; you have me at a distinct disadvantage. You know my name and I don’t know yours.”
“Snyder. Bill Snyder.”

“Salud, Mr. Snyder,” he said raising his glass.
We touched glasses. The Duke downed a half glass of Crown Royal like it was nothing. Taking a sip, the Scotch brought warmth slowly down my throat and into the stomach.

“Do you do this kind of thing often?” I asked filling his glass.

“What kind of thing is that, Mr. Snyder?” he said reclined in his chair and blowing a smoke ring.

The smoke was beginning to get to me.

“Call me Bill. I mean do you show up at strangers’ houses in the middle of the night asking for liquor?”

“Only when I’m out of liquor.”

I smiled. There could be no doubt. This was the Duke.

“Besides Bill, are we really strangers?”

Taking a long pull on the Scotch, I looked at him through the lingering smoke.

“Do you mean to suggest we’re not strangers because I’ve seen about a hundred of your movies?”

“That’s right.”

“Got a favorite of my movies?”

“It’s got to be The Cowboys.”

“Do you mean to say cowboy movies?”

“No, I mean The Cowboys.”

"I didn't make anything called The Cowboys."

“You will.”

It felt so darned urbane to be so mysterious, to have something over on the Duke.

“What the hell? Have you been smoking that wacky tobacky?”

“Nope. You don’t think your best movies already behind you do you?”

“Hell no,” he said knocking back his second glass of Crown Royal.

I could see this otherworldly experience was going to cost me a twenty-six dollar bottle of whisky, at the very least. I would have to remember to check for the Scotch bottle tomorrow morning.

“How old are you, Mr. Wayne?” I asked pouring him another glass of the most expensive liquor in the kitchen.

“I’m forty-nine, and call me Duke.”

That put him in the mid to late nineteen-fifties and the both of us at forty-nine years of age. Ok, I was feeling some degree of symmetry.

“Workin’ on a movie?”

“I was,” he said taking a look around the kitchen. “Say Bill, have you got an ash tray?”

“Sorry Duke,” I said heading to the fridge. “We’ll have to improvise.” I grabbed a couple of Coors Lights and reached to the cabinet for a couple of glasses. Pouring the Coors into the glasses, I handed him an empty can. “This’ll have to be your ash tray tonight.”

“You don’t smoke?”

“No.”

“What’re you some kinda Mormon or something?”

“Nope. Lots of people are steering clear of cigarettes these days.”

“I don’t know what planet you’re living on.”

“Same as you Duke; same as you.”

He fired up another Camel non-filter as my six-year-old daughter wandered up to the table.

“Sophia, you should be asleep, baby.”

“I heard you talking, daddy.”

She climbed up on my lap and hugged me.

“This is Duke, baby.”

“Hi,” Sophia said shyly.

“Hello Sophia, did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yes.” she said, “How come you’re here so late?”

“I needed a drink.”

“Of water?”

“No, Scotch.”
“What’s Scotch?” Sophia asked me.

“It’s like beer, baby now go to sleep.”

“How come he’s not with his kids?”

“Sophia, go to sleep,” I said

“No, that’s ok,” the Duke said. “I’m divorced and my kids are with their mother in Big Bear.”

“Are you

The Duke polished off his drink and poured himself another.
“Sure I am, sweet heart.”

“Why are you smoking?” Sophia asked.

“Time for bed,” I said, throwing her on my shoulders and carrying her back up the stares.

When I came back down, he was at the bookshelves thumbing through my Mark Twain anthology.
“You’ve got a lot of books here. What are you, some kind of professor?”

“I’m a high school teacher – and an unpublished writer.”

“You’re a teacher?” he lit up. “You know, when I a kid I wanted to be a high school history teacher, American history.”

“I teach English, but American history’s a passion of mine. You’re not saying you’d rather be a teacher than a movie star, are you?”

“Sometimes, yes. You teacher’s have a lot of freedom, you know?”

“Freedom?”

“You have the summers off, don’t you?”

“Not if I can find a summer job. The money’s ridiculous.”

“Say, would you like to arm wrestle?”

The Duke raced back to the kitchen table, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeve and assumed the position.

3.
“Why not?” I said, wandering back to the table. It wasn’t every day that a guy got the chance to arm wrestle John Wayne.

I sat. He lifted his beer glass and toasted me. We touched glasses and downed our beers before locking hands. His hands were bigger than mine, but surprisingly, we sized up pretty evenly. He was a couple of inches taller but I had ten pounds on him. If you get right down to it, I guess I’m a big dude too. The Duke looked me dead in the eye, cigarette dangling between his teeth.

“You ready?” he asked.

I nodded and we bore down on each other. He tried to flip his wrist down on me and catch me off guard.

“Nice try, Duke,” I said, holding firm,“but I’ve been around the block a time or two.”

He leaned in and I followed suit. I couldn’t get any leverage on him, but it was plain to see he wasn’t getting any leverage on me. Our shoulders here locked. We stayed locked in for a solid fifteen minutes.

“You’re pretty strong, professor.”

“This could go on all night.”

“On three?” he asked.

His cigarette was singing his lips.

“On three,” I agreed.

We counted together, “One, two, three.”

As soon as I loosened up, he tightened his grip and slammed my arm to the table.
“Cheater,” I said.
“I don’t like to lose. A win’s a win.”

“You’re a cheater.”

It’s the American way,” he grinned his movie star grin.

“I’m disappointed in you, Duke. If you have any cojones at all, you’ll come with me to the park where I will absolutely kick the shit out of you in basketball.”

At the court I pushed the night light button. The chauffer, a fat little character with a bushy white mustache, sat on the cement bench eating peanuts. The Duke was lacing up a pair of sneakers.

“Do you need to warm up?” I asked dropping a soft fifteen footer.

He didn’t look up.

“No sir. But you do.”

“Trash talking before we’ve even started.”

“What are the stakes?”

Reaching into my wallet, I counted off six ones.

“I got six bucks.”

He laughed, “Are you serious?”

“I’m a teacher, Duke.”

“A teacher who drinks eight dollar bottles of Scotch?”

He hadn’t accounted for inflation.

“Try twenty-six bucks a bottle, and it was a gift, and I think finished ninety percent of it.”

I realized I had an edge. The Duke had polished off most of my bottle of Chivas Regal, and a beer, and whatever he was drinking before he showed up at the door. He was undoubtedly liquored up.

He finished lacing up his sneakers and motioned for the ball. I shot him a crisp pass and he drilled an ugly twenty-five foot, two handed push shot. Clank. Nothing but steel net.

“Six bucks it is. Any problem with Haggerty handling this substantial prize?”

The Duke handed the chauffer his six bucks and I handed over mine. Haggerty counted the bills and tucked them into his coat pocket.

“The court rules, professor?” the Duke asked picking up the ball.

“Eleven by ones, got to win by two, makers’ takers, call your own fouls, and no threes.”

“No threes?”
“Don’t worry about the threes.”

“Do or die from the top of the key for possession.”

“According to Iowa rules, visitor gets the ball out of bounce after a made basket.”

Stepping up to the top of the key, I drilled a hard jumper.

“This is Arizona rules, Duke. And the score is one, zip.”

“If that’s the way you want to play it, English teacher.”

I picked up the ball and headed to the top of the key. The Duke crouched into a solid defensive stance.

“It’s the American way.”

I jab stepped with my right foot. The Duke didn’t go for it. I dropped back for a fade away. His long arm almost got a piece of the shot, which was good – clank; nothing but steel net.
“Two, zip.”

I was feeling it. He snatched the ball and tossed it to me at the top of the key. Catching it, I pulled up for a jumper.

“Check ball,” he snapped.

Bringing the ball down to chest level I threw the ball to him hard. He caught the ball and faced me chest to chest. Shoving the ball into my stomach, he got down into his defensive position. He wasn’t going to give me anymore open outside stuff. Smart. I had read somewhere that he blew at one of his knees playing football at USC, so I decided to see what kind of lateral movement he had. I faked a jumper and the Duke broke the cardinal rule of basketball, leaving his feet. Putting the ball on the floor, I blew past him for an easy layup. OK, at forty-nine, I wasn’t blowing past anyone, but the general idea has been expressed.

“Three, zip,” I said.

My opponent caught the ball as it clanged through the chain net, met me at the top of the key and shoved it into my gut hard enough to knock the wind out of me. He set up a little father back. I cocked and shot. The Duke sprung forward and swatted the ball with his ungodly long reach. As I turned to chase the ball, he knocked me to the ground, snatched up the ball, dribbled in and dropped an easy layup of his own.

“One, three,” he said, “and it’s my ball. Check.”

I was still on the ground. My lower back stung a little as I stood up and tossed him the ball. He turned his back on me and started to push toward the basket. Before I knew it, he was under the hoop where he tossed in a smooth hook shot. The next play, he shot out a jab step and planted his heel on my big toe, before stepping past me for a layup.
“That was a cheap move,” I said.

“Do you want to call a foul for because you got your toe stepped on?”

And so we went at it, back and forth. The score was tied at eleven. I was exhausted, finding it difficult to catch my breath, holding the ball at the top of the key. The Duke was wheezing like any chain smoker would. I faked a shot. His feet stayed planted. I jabbed left. He didn’t go for it. I faked left again, and then went left. He was right there with me as I pulled up for a fade away. The Duke fouled me hard, sending me crashing to the concrete, my left shoulder taking the brunt of the damage. The ball clacked through the bottom of the net. Slowly, I made my way to my feet, my shoulder and back throbbing. A single rain drop spit against my face.

“Game point,” I said.

The rain began to fall hard as I elevated for the coup de grace. The ball clanked off the side of rim. The American hero grabbed the board, dribbled behind the free throw line and drilled a two handed push shot.

“That makes it twelve, twelve, mister English teacher.”

We pounded away at each other. The rain poured down. We slipped and sloshed, gasping for air. The chauffer sat patiently beneath an umbrella. I wasn’t quitting and neither was John Wayne. As far as I was concerned, this was the most important game of my life and the Duke seemed to feel the same way. I’d given up and settled for less too many times in my life. I quit the basketball team my senior year. But hell, I never really worked at the game. I’ll never know what kind of player I could have been. I hadn’t really wanted to be a teacher. The opportunity came up and I took it because I didn’t have any better options. It was never my dream. This time I was taking it all the way to the end of the line.
The score was seventeen, seventeen. The Duke low-bridged me as I elevated for a layup, sending me head first into concrete. There were stars before my eyes when I called for a foul. Blood trickled into my field of vision as I took the ball out up front. Thunder and rain pounded. I noticed a crowd of classy looking guys in dark suits with umbrellas at the bench.

I was up twenty-three to twenty-two, holding the ball at the top of the key. We were soaked. The Duke called for a time out, staggered over to the side of the court and vomited. My heart was pounding harder than ever before. I was afraid I might have a heart attack. No retreat baby, no surrender. The faces of the spectators became clear: Peter Lawford, Joey Bishop, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr. – the Rat Pack. Why not? The Rat Pack made as much sense as John Wayne. The Duke lumbered back to the court and motioned for me to come forward. I wiped the rain and blood from my eyes before exploding to the right, taking four dribbles and pulling up for a ten foot jumper. I collapsed to the court, lying on my back, rain drops pelting my face.

Nothing but steel net.
“That’s it, Duke. You lose. Time to go.”
It was Sammy Davis Junior.

“The Rat Packers helped the Duke toward the car.”

Haggerty placed the wet bills in my hand.

“Hey, Duke,” I struggled to call.

“Yeah, professor?” he turned.

“You headed to Monument Valley?”

“I wish I were. Thanks for the game.”

In an instant he was in his limo, the Rat Packers folded up their umbrellas and climbed into a second limo. In an instant they were gone, all of them. The sun began to light up the Superstition Mountains to the east. The rain stopped falling. It was time to go home. I had a story to write.

A Christmas Comic, News on THE-EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON, and a Christmas Joke

2011-12-04T12:17:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again. I posted this comic last year, but what the heck, maybe it will be funny this time around.

Did I mention that I wrote a book called The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son? You can download the e-book by clicking on this link: http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4
I should have some news on the print version soon.

A Christmas joke: Did you hear that Scrooge's team won the football game? Yeah, the Ghost of Chritmas passed.

THE BOOK FROG - Support Your Local Indie Book Store

2011-11-25T07:56:00.000-08:00

There's a new indie book store in the metropolitan Los Angeles area. It's called THE BOOK FROG. Former corporate book store characters Pete Ledesma and Rebecca Glenn are the proprietors.

While Pete Ledesma and I attended Hawthorne High School, we didn't run in the same circles. I did know of Pete Ledesma. Everybody knew of Pete Ledesma. If my memory serves me correctly, Pete Ledesma was known across the South Bay area for his bleacher jumping. Dozens of students gathered after school to watch young Pete leap from top row of the football bleachers, land gracefully 25 feet below, perform a kung-fu style roll, spring to his feet and perform a showman's bow. Pretty cool. Yeah, everybody knew who Pete Ledesma was. He was also a dead on Elvis impersonator. Pete performed paid gigs as a high school kid.

The last time I saw Pete, it was 1980. We teamed up as actors, playing a couple of bumbling detectives, in a student film called Coffee, Tea or Murder at Loyola Marymount University. I bailed on the project to take a job in soup factory.

Pete's also written a yet to be published book called Norman's Conquest. Apparently, a few copies have leaked out because a came across an extremely positive on-line review.

Word on the street is Pete and Becky's independent book store is off to a great start. Opening an independent business in the midst of the current economic turmoil is takes guts. But we're talking about a bleacher jumper here. Pete and Becky leapt from the top of the bleachers and executed their kung-fu style roll. Well done, Pete and Becky. It's time to take your showmen's bow.

Address 550 Deep Valley Dr #273, Rolling Hills Estates, CA 90274
Phone 310-265-BOOK (2665)
Website http://thebookfrog.com/
Hours Mon - Thu: 10:00 am - 8:00 pm
Fri - Sat: 10:00 am - 9:00 pm
Sun: 11:00 am - 6:00 pm

11/22/1963

2011-11-24T08:55:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned in my last posting, my earliest memories involve the JFK assassination. Over the years, I've been compelled to read several books on the topic. The truth has, in my estimation, been quite successfully hidden from the American people. I am relatively sure that the Warren Commission, led by Gerald Ford, was a sham. And I'm quite confident that Lee Harvey Oswald did not "act alone."

According to the Warren Commission, Oswald was a run of the mill American boy, nothing unusual about him. He served as an enlisted man in the Marine Corps before deciding to defect to the Soviet Union. Somewhere along the line, he had learned to speak fluent Russian. After a couple of years he decided to come back to the United States. Mind you, this story takes place in the middle of the Cold War. Oswald, or someone who looked a heckuva a lot like Oswald, was observed hanging out at the Soviet embassy in Mexico. It seems he became involved in Free Cuba Movement in the months before the assassination.

Although it's been said that Oswald failed a nitrate test, indicating that he didn't fire a rifle on the day of the assassination, I'm guessing he was one of two assassins. Some theories point to actor Woody Harrelson's father as the second gunman. Weird, I know. He was arrested that afternoon, held for a short time and released. Apparently, Mr. Harrelson had done time for shooting a political figure of some kind or another. Oswald was captured in a movie theater. He killed a police officer in the process. At the police station, Oswald said, "I'm just a patsy." The next day, Oswald was surrounded by police officers in the police department parking garage when Jack Ruby, a gangster from Chicago, shot and killed him.

Who was behind the assassination? Lyndon Johnson, no fan of the Kennedy clan himself, indicated the truth would have caused World War III. The CIA had attempted to assassinate Castro numerous times. Oswald's little vacation in the USSR makes the Soviets a primary suspect. Perhaps the Cubans were involved as well.

The list of suspects with motives is pretty extensive. Jack Ruby, the man who silenced Oswald before he had the chance to tell the truth, got started in the gangster business running numbers in Chicago for none other than Al Capone. JFK's old man Joe Kennedy got filthy, stinking rich as a criminal, working along side the likes of Capone, selling illegal alcohol during prohibition. After the Mafia worked hard to help JFK become president, Attorney General Bobby Kennedy exposed and prosecuted Mafia chieftains like Santos Traficante. Gee, wonder why the mafia would be upset with the Kennedys?

The CIA, the FBI, the oil industry, the military industrial complex had no love for the Kennedy's and have been tied to various conspiracy theories. Did I mention George Bush Sr. was the director of the CIA in 1963?

Lone Gunman? Not buying it...

Lee Harvey Oswald - An Exerpt From THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON

2011-11-13T10:16:00.000-08:00

An exerpt from The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son
“LeAe Harvey Oswald (1963)"
by William Snyder
© 2006 William Snyder

It was 1963 and I was in a Sears’ department store elevator with my grandmother. The doors slid silently open. An enormous black woman filled the doorway. Her face was soaked with tears. “They killed Kennedy!” I looked up to my grandmother and she was crying too. Scanning the towering occupants of the elevator, I could see that they were all weeping and things seemed out of control. Although I hadn’t the slightest understanding of what was happening, I was scared to death.

My memory jump cuts to the dinner table at my grandparents’ home. We were having Jell-O. Tiny chunks of pears, peaches and bananas bounced around inside the cubes. My grandfather, who had been eating in silence, suddenly slammed his great lumberman’s fist on the table, “Goddamit! I knew they’d never let a Catholic run this country!” My Jell-O reverberated wildly in the glass bowl. On the wall behind my grandfather hung a picture of JFK and another of the blonde, blue-eyed surfer version of Jesus Christ.

My memory jump cuts again. Sitting with my my legs crossed, Indian style on the giant oval rug in front of my grandparents’ black and white television set, I watch a scene that I have already carefully observed at least a dozen times. Lee Harvey Oswald’s hands are cuffed as he rounds the corner in the underground parking structure. Dwarfed by giant gray men in cowboy hats, he wears a five o’clock shadow and looks like one if the guys who work on their cars behind my apartment building. I hate him because he is the man who killed the Catholic president. A man appears from nowhere, his broad back to the camera. I know that his name is Jack Ruby. He bum-rushes Oswald as the towering cowboy policemen stand by - useless. There is the muffled sound of gunshots. Oswald’s face looks almost funny. His eyes are shut and he looks as though he is trying very hard to whistle.

This incredibly chaotic, enigmatic scene is cemented into the foundations of the husband, father, and teacher I have since become.

SUBLIME!

2011-11-12T09:17:00.003-08:00

Don't know that I've ever experienced anything like the Veterans Day basketball game played on the flight deck of the aircraft carrier Carl Vinson. Enjoying the grace and style of the greatest sport on the planet set against the vast Pacific Ocean sky was nothing short of sublime...

By the way, you can download THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON for a measly 5 bucks by clicking on the link below.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4

Smaller Bookstores a "Perfectly Viable" Business Model

2011-11-11T07:51:00.000-08:00

Smaller Bookstores a "Perfectly Viable" Business Model

The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son News

2011-10-26T17:12:00.000-07:00

The print version of The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son is in the works. While the book will be available at amazon.com, you can pick up a copy in person at Chandler Auto and Tire. I'm working with the friendly and efficient folks at Chandler Auto and Tire to put together a book and a tune-up deal. Owner Brett "Big Cat White" has even agreed to chain a copy of The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son next to the commode. The first reading and book signing will be hosted by those mechanical wizards at Chandler and Tire. Big Cat says there will be plenty of stale donuts and bad coffee for all who attend.

You can download the ebook version of The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son for a measley 5 bucks by clicking on the link below.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4

THE EIGHT FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON - Rigmarole Over the Title...

2011-10-22T12:15:00.000-07:00

It seems there has been some confusion about the title of my new book, The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son.

First of all, I am the eight fingered criminal's son. Furthermore my old man did more than his share of time in the big house and he parted ways with two of his fingers, making him the eight fingered criminal

More than a few people have voiced their displeasure with the title."Doesn't everybody have eight fingers, eight fingers and two thumbs?"

"Did the guy have eight fingers on one hand?"

Yeah, I thought about the title's potential confusion. I guess I could have gone with one of the following alterate titles...

The Son of the Criminal Who was Missing Two Fingers

The Eight-Phalanged Criminal's Son

The Eight-Digited Convict's Kid

The Offspring of a Convicted Felon with Six Fingers and Two Thumbs

The Menace to Society with Two Hacked Off Fingers' Son

See what I mean. I think I'll stick with The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son.

The collection of short stories is available as an ebook on Amazon.com. You can download The Eight-Criminal's Son for a measly five bucks by clicking the link below.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4

The bound version of The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son will be available on Amazon.com and Chandler Auto and Tire in Chandler, Arizona soon.

An Exerpt from THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON

2011-10-14T13:39:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son
Danny Gilroy's Pencil
by William Snyder
© 2008 William Snyder

Hawthorne, California - 1968

The life of a fourth grader at Saint Joseph’s Parish School was not easy. To begin with, we had to deal with Sister Claudia. She was the creepiest nun I had ever known. Unless she’s 160 years old, the woman is dead by now and it is bad form to disrespect the deceased. Oh what the heck, Sister Claudia looked like a corpse even when she was alive. The old gal was incredibly emaciated, looking very much like a plucked chicken. Her pallid cracked skin was pulled tight against her face while scraggly bright red hairs shot out from under her black and white nun’s habit. Her dental situation a real mess; about twice the size of normal teeth, yellow choppers jutted out from her gums in every direction but up and down. I tried to follow her directions because her lips rose up when she screamed at us, exposing those horrible, yellow teeth. Like all of the nuns, Sister Claudia was more than willing to whack me upside the head with the flat of her hand or pummel my knuckles with the hard side of a ruler. She was a terrible teacher. The woman raced through math concepts and refused to field questions. Math class for me was constant bewilderment. My mother had to hire a tutor so I could pass the fourth grade.

Sister Claudia told us creepy stories we knew to be hogwash, but they held our attention nonetheless. Once, she went into a tirade about the dangers of throwing snowballs. In the 29 years I lived in Hawthorne, California, it never snowed. Not once. Yet Sister Claudia felt compelled to deliver her cautionary tale.

When I was in the fifth grade, I lived in Boston. Even though we had been told it was dangerous to throw snowballs, some of the children failed to heed the advice of caring adults. I remember one particular day, school had let out and I was on my way home. A boy named Jimmy Dolan began throwing snowballs at some of the children. One of the boys threw a snowball back at Jimmy. Now boys and girls, that snowball hit Jimmy Dolan in the corner of his left eye and knocked his eyeball out of the socket. And Jimmy ran home with his eyeball hanging from his eye socket by a string of tissue. The doctors couldn’t save that eye and Jimmy Dolan wears an eye patch to this day. So the next time you want to throw snowballs, think of poor Jimmy Dolan and his eye patch.

Although I’m sure the story never happened, I do think of Jimmy Dolan and get the heebie-jeebies when I see a movie in which someone heaves a snowball. That nun really got deep into my psyche. I guess that’s what nuns do. I clearly remember wondering what it would be like to have my eyeball swinging from the socket by a two-foot string. Would I still be able to see from the swinging eyeball? If I held the eyeball behind my head, could I see what was going on behind me?

The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son can be downloaded for a mere 5 bucks. Just click on the link below. You don't need a Kindle to read the e-book.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4

Billy Bob Thorton and The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son's Goofball Book Promomotional Campaign, Phase Two

2011-10-09T15:05:00.000-07:00

Ladies and germs, it is my peasure present phase two of my goofball promototion of The Eight-Fingered Son.
My thanks go out to Ian "Tig" Welsh, Brady "Cat" White, Dickie "Tom Jones" Imbugia, and Wayne "The Geege" Mossbarger.

AMAZON REVIEWS FOR THE EIGHT FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON #3

2011-09-24T14:49:00.000-07:00

This review was posted earlier this week on Amazon.com.

"In 1959 a comedy writer by the name of Jack Douglas wrote a book entitled 'My Brother Was An Only Child'. My sense of humor gravitated to that book. The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son is more gravitational. You cannot help but smile and be sad at the true life glimpses of a man's early life. It conjures up memories in our own lives."
Wayne Mossbarger

Here are the latese Amazon Stats.
Ebook sales: 43
Amazon Best Seller Rank: 13,246

Thank you to fellow blogger, Miflife Job Hunter for purchasing a copy.

You can download a copy of THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON by clicking on the link below. The book costs a measly 5 bucks and you don't need a Kindle. There is a free and easy to download app that will allow you to read the book on any phone, computer or pad.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top

Embrace the Chaos! Read THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON.

THE SECOND REVIEW OF THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON ON AMAZON.COM

2011-09-22T17:54:00.000-07:00

The following review was posted to Amazon.com by Paul Skolnick.

I thoroughly enjoyed this book, and I'm hoping Bill will in the future fill in some of the chronological gaps with even more anecdotes. I'm NOT mentioned, and don't even know the author. But his descriptions and stories sure brought back my own memories of that time and a place about 10 miles to the east of Hawthorne.

Much Appreciated, Paul.

You can download the book by clicking on the link below. You don't need a Kindle to read. There is a free and easy app on the Amazon page. The app will allow you to read the book on any phone, computer or pad.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4

Thanks to Midlife Job Hunter for the first of my blogger friends to download!

The First Review of The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son

2011-09-18T19:20:00.000-07:00

Here is the first Amazon review, written by Bryan Frank.

"Not just funny, but laugh-out-loud funny, insightful and touching. The life of William R. (Buzz) Snyder growing up in the City of Hawthorne, California is perfect in its' honesty and heart.

Buy it and read it and tell everyone you know about it. That way, when the movie comes out and Buzz is getting the Academy Award for best screenplay, he might mention your name like he sure as heck better remember to mention mine.

Yeah, that's me listed in the dedication. Doesn't mean what I'm saying isn't true."

http://www.amazon.com/The-Eight-Fingered-Criminals-Son-ebook/dp/B005NWH8L4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1316398752&sr=1-1

You can download the book at Amazon by clicking on the funky configuration above. You can read the book without a Kindell. Just download the free Kindell app at Amazon.com/