Okay, I'm guilty. I admit it. I'm a horrible salesman. I just hate to ask people to close the deal. If I had to make my living selling, I'd starve.
Why do I tell you this? Because I've read a couple of books by wildly successful indie authors that say I should ask for the sales twice on each blog post. I haven't done this, so I decided to rectify the situation.
Here's the pitch. I'm almost finished with the first draft of the new Ted Higuera thriller, Cyberwarfare. It is a completely stand alone book and you can read it without reading any other of my books, but it takes place directly after The Chinatown Murders. To really get a good understanding of Ted's universe, it would greatly help to read The Chinatown Murders first.
Get your copy of The Chinatown Murders today.
Well, was that too bad?
Why do I tell you this? Because I've read a couple of books by wildly successful indie authors that say I should ask for the sales twice on each blog post. I haven't done this, so I decided to rectify the situation.
Here's the pitch. I'm almost finished with the first draft of the new Ted Higuera thriller, Cyberwarfare. It is a completely stand alone book and you can read it without reading any other of my books, but it takes place directly after The Chinatown Murders. To really get a good understanding of Ted's universe, it would greatly help to read The Chinatown Murders first.
Get your copy of The Chinatown Murders today.
Well, was that too bad?
Driving for Lyft
Book sales have dropped off significantly in the last couple of months. To make up the shortfall, I took up driving for Lyft. I’ve given over three hundred rides, but a select few stand out.
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Ducks vs Beavers
Everyone knows I’m a Duck. I graduated from the University of Oregon and wear it proudly. All my sweat shirts say Oregon on them and half of my T-shirts are from Oregon. The Ducks big in-state rivalry is with Oregon State University, the Beavers.
On Saturday night I picked up four young people in the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego. They were partying and very (alcohol induced) happy. They got in the car and off we headed to Pacific Beach, about a twenty-minute drive away.
It didn’t take long for me to figure them out. They talked about OSU (I thought to myself, Are they talking about the Beavers or Ohio State?). Then they mentioned Beaver Village.
I cut in. “Do you mean Corvallis?”
They gave a positive response.
“If you’re Beavers, I’m afraid you’re going to have to get out of my car,” I said.
They were shocked.
I turned towards the guy in the passenger seat and held out my green sweat shirt with yellow lettering that said “Oregon” on it.
They went mad. We had a great ride, chiding each other’s alma maters until the girl mentioned that she was a Yankee fan. Then the three of us guys turned on her like a school of piranhas.
I dropped them off at Pacific Beach and returned to the Gaslamp.
My next ride was two young men, one of them deep in his cups. We chatted. They said they were San Diego natives. I mentioned that I came from Seattle.
“Oh, I’m familiar with the Northwest,” the man in the passenger seat said. “I went to the University of Oregon.”
Once more I showed him my sweatshirt and said, “I’m a Duck.”
“I played football for a year,” the drunk in the back seat said, then quickly passed out.
We were instantly best friends. We talked football and basketball, discussed living in Eugene, and shared fond memories of our college days.
It was a long ride, all the way up to Rancho Bernardo, about a forty-five-minute drive. Passenger #1 decided he was hungry and wanted to stop at McDonald’s. While he was in the restaurant he bought me a Big Mac Jr. – Hey, we were college buddies.
It’s funny how much coincidence there is in the world. Who woulda thunk that I’d pick up passengers from both my rival school and my alma mater on back-to-back drives?
Everyone knows I’m a Duck. I graduated from the University of Oregon and wear it proudly. All my sweat shirts say Oregon on them and half of my T-shirts are from Oregon. The Ducks big in-state rivalry is with Oregon State University, the Beavers.
On Saturday night I picked up four young people in the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego. They were partying and very (alcohol induced) happy. They got in the car and off we headed to Pacific Beach, about a twenty-minute drive away.
It didn’t take long for me to figure them out. They talked about OSU (I thought to myself, Are they talking about the Beavers or Ohio State?). Then they mentioned Beaver Village.
I cut in. “Do you mean Corvallis?”
They gave a positive response.
“If you’re Beavers, I’m afraid you’re going to have to get out of my car,” I said.
They were shocked.
I turned towards the guy in the passenger seat and held out my green sweat shirt with yellow lettering that said “Oregon” on it.
They went mad. We had a great ride, chiding each other’s alma maters until the girl mentioned that she was a Yankee fan. Then the three of us guys turned on her like a school of piranhas.
I dropped them off at Pacific Beach and returned to the Gaslamp.
My next ride was two young men, one of them deep in his cups. We chatted. They said they were San Diego natives. I mentioned that I came from Seattle.
“Oh, I’m familiar with the Northwest,” the man in the passenger seat said. “I went to the University of Oregon.”
Once more I showed him my sweatshirt and said, “I’m a Duck.”
“I played football for a year,” the drunk in the back seat said, then quickly passed out.
We were instantly best friends. We talked football and basketball, discussed living in Eugene, and shared fond memories of our college days.
It was a long ride, all the way up to Rancho Bernardo, about a forty-five-minute drive. Passenger #1 decided he was hungry and wanted to stop at McDonald’s. While he was in the restaurant he bought me a Big Mac Jr. – Hey, we were college buddies.
It’s funny how much coincidence there is in the world. Who woulda thunk that I’d pick up passengers from both my rival school and my alma mater on back-to-back drives?
Sleeping Girl
I have two daughters. They are twenty-eight and thirty-three. They’re both strong, capable women and I don’t worry about them too much. Until Friday night.
I got a call to pick up a young lady in the Gaslamp. Her destination was the Wyndham Hotel in Del Mar.
She was a beautiful young Latina, I’d say in her early twenties. She was slightly inebriated. (Did I say slightly?). She told me that she’d been out partying with one of her girlfriends, but that she’d lost the girlfriend and decided to go home.
I think that was probably a good decision. However, as soon as she was settled in the car, the passed out. I drove up to Del Mar in silence.
When we arrived, I tried to wake her up. I gently shook her arm. She didn’t stir. I shook harder. Nothing. I shook hard and called her name. She mumbled something.
When she finally came to, she screamed and asked what I thought I was doing. I could see the sexual misconduct complaint coming.
“Anita (named changed to protect the guilty), we’re here.”
“Uhhhh … Okay.”
She fumbled with the door and finally managed to get it open. She staggered into the hotel lobby. I watched to make sure she was going to be all right. Fortunately, a uniformed woman saw her staggering around the lobby and managed to catch her before she fell. I’m sure the hotel employee got her to her room safely.
The moral of the story: that girl got lucky. She was totally defenseless in my car. Her short skirt was hiked up around her panties and her low-cut top wasn’t hiding much of anything. When she got in the car, my paternal instincts kicked in. What would have happened if she was picked up by someone less scrupulous?
My writer’s imagination ran away with me. She could have been driven to some remote location and taken advantage of, maybe even killed. She was in no condition to defend herself. As a matter of fact, Dawn and I have been talking about writing a book called the Uber Murders about just this subject.
How many young girls like Anita are out there every night? They’re dressed to kill and head out to drink. Once intoxicated, they are at the mercy of every predator in the neighborhood. I’m just glad that this story ended happily.
I have two daughters. They are twenty-eight and thirty-three. They’re both strong, capable women and I don’t worry about them too much. Until Friday night.
I got a call to pick up a young lady in the Gaslamp. Her destination was the Wyndham Hotel in Del Mar.
She was a beautiful young Latina, I’d say in her early twenties. She was slightly inebriated. (Did I say slightly?). She told me that she’d been out partying with one of her girlfriends, but that she’d lost the girlfriend and decided to go home.
I think that was probably a good decision. However, as soon as she was settled in the car, the passed out. I drove up to Del Mar in silence.
When we arrived, I tried to wake her up. I gently shook her arm. She didn’t stir. I shook harder. Nothing. I shook hard and called her name. She mumbled something.
When she finally came to, she screamed and asked what I thought I was doing. I could see the sexual misconduct complaint coming.
“Anita (named changed to protect the guilty), we’re here.”
“Uhhhh … Okay.”
She fumbled with the door and finally managed to get it open. She staggered into the hotel lobby. I watched to make sure she was going to be all right. Fortunately, a uniformed woman saw her staggering around the lobby and managed to catch her before she fell. I’m sure the hotel employee got her to her room safely.
The moral of the story: that girl got lucky. She was totally defenseless in my car. Her short skirt was hiked up around her panties and her low-cut top wasn’t hiding much of anything. When she got in the car, my paternal instincts kicked in. What would have happened if she was picked up by someone less scrupulous?
My writer’s imagination ran away with me. She could have been driven to some remote location and taken advantage of, maybe even killed. She was in no condition to defend herself. As a matter of fact, Dawn and I have been talking about writing a book called the Uber Murders about just this subject.
How many young girls like Anita are out there every night? They’re dressed to kill and head out to drink. Once intoxicated, they are at the mercy of every predator in the neighborhood. I’m just glad that this story ended happily.
Day Off
I started driving early on Sunday because I wanted to be home in time for the 60 Minutes interview with Stormy Daniels. (I love a good sex scandal) I was planning on taking the day off, but needed six more rides to reach Lyft’s bonus level. It was worth one hundred and five dollars to get those six rides.
My first ride was in Little Italy. A nice couple wanted me to take them home to Ocean Beach, about a mile from where I live.
After dropping them off, I got an immediate call for a ride only a few blocks away. Unfortunately, I was on a busy arterial street when I got the call and I’d already passed the turn. I circled around the block to come back and pick up my ride. Circling the block in Ocean Beech is no mean task. I had to go up into the hills where the streets are not in a grid pattern. After several right turns, I was back on West Point Loma Boulevard and on my way to the pick-up.
When I arrived there, a young lady, dressed in a tank top and very short cutoffs, awaited me. She was angry. Why had it taken me so long? Why was I driving around in the hills instead of coming to pick her up?
She was very worried about getting to work on time. She just started a job in the Gaslamp as a server and her boss does not take kindly to people being late.
I assured her that we would make it on time and she rode the rest of the way without saying a word. When we arrived at her destination, there was a closed sign in the window.
“Can you just wait here for a minute?” she asked. “You can keep the meter running.”
No problem. I’m there to serve.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Today’s my day off.” She held her head in her hands. “I got so hammered last night, that I didn’t know what day it was.”
She pulled out her cell phone and called her husband who was out playing golf. He agreed to come down and pick her up, so I let her out and drove on.
Another day messed up by the Demon Rum.
I started driving early on Sunday because I wanted to be home in time for the 60 Minutes interview with Stormy Daniels. (I love a good sex scandal) I was planning on taking the day off, but needed six more rides to reach Lyft’s bonus level. It was worth one hundred and five dollars to get those six rides.
My first ride was in Little Italy. A nice couple wanted me to take them home to Ocean Beach, about a mile from where I live.
After dropping them off, I got an immediate call for a ride only a few blocks away. Unfortunately, I was on a busy arterial street when I got the call and I’d already passed the turn. I circled around the block to come back and pick up my ride. Circling the block in Ocean Beech is no mean task. I had to go up into the hills where the streets are not in a grid pattern. After several right turns, I was back on West Point Loma Boulevard and on my way to the pick-up.
When I arrived there, a young lady, dressed in a tank top and very short cutoffs, awaited me. She was angry. Why had it taken me so long? Why was I driving around in the hills instead of coming to pick her up?
She was very worried about getting to work on time. She just started a job in the Gaslamp as a server and her boss does not take kindly to people being late.
I assured her that we would make it on time and she rode the rest of the way without saying a word. When we arrived at her destination, there was a closed sign in the window.
“Can you just wait here for a minute?” she asked. “You can keep the meter running.”
No problem. I’m there to serve.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Today’s my day off.” She held her head in her hands. “I got so hammered last night, that I didn’t know what day it was.”
She pulled out her cell phone and called her husband who was out playing golf. He agreed to come down and pick her up, so I let her out and drove on.
Another day messed up by the Demon Rum.
Sex Talk
I’ve noticed that there are three types of passengers on Lyft. There are the ones who engage you in conversation. My sharp mind, rapier like wit and gregarious humor allows me to interface with these people and keep them laughing all the way to their destination.
Then there are those who talk among themselves and ignore you. They must think that I’m in the cone of silence because they talk about the most intimate things and even fight while I’m sitting right there with them. They would never have these conversations in a restaurant booth, for instance, with strangers near them.
The final kind are the ones who sit in silence the whole way. I try to engage them, and they answer in mono syllables, so I give up and let them ride in peace.
If you’re under eighteen or are prudish, you can stop reading here.
I picked up two good looking women and a movie-star gorgeous man in Little Italy. After the requisite pleasantries, they drifted off into their own conversation. They didn’t smell like alcohol, but they were obviously high on something. Their voices were loud and inhibitions non-existent.
They stared out by sharing how drunk they were last night. Then the conversation got sexual. It was obviously that all three had been sleeping together. No problem, I thought. To each his own.
Girl #1 mentioned their bet and the conversation got good. The bet was who could have sex with the most men in twenty-four hours. The man acted as the moderator in this bet.
Girl #1 said, “I want to sleep with three guys at the same time. I haven’t done that before.”
“Oh,” says girl #2, “You’ve gotta. It’s so much fun. The most I’ve ever fucked at the same time is four.”
“Then I’m going to sleep with five tonight.” (I don't think there was much sleeping going on.)
The conversation went on. My ears strained to pick up every word. This was better than a porn movie.
“You’ve got to promise me to tell me all the details in the morning,” the man said. “If you sleep with three guys, I’m going to call you triple crown. If you sleep with four, I’ll call you grand slam.” He went on. When he got to eight he said, “If you sleep with eight guys, I’ll call you octopussy.” They all broke up.
Girl #1 kept the ball rolling. “I’ve already got a head start on you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last night I went home with that guy at the bar, I don’t remember his name. I woke up early, around seven am, and he gave me a ride home. On the way, Chris called me. He wanted to come over and cuddle.
“I had the guy drop me off at a coffee shop. I got coffee and pasties and called an Uber to take me home. I’ve already done two guys today.”
And so it went. I couldn’t believe these girls. I’ve read books and seen movies with people like this, but I didn’t know they existed in real-life.
Where were they when I was young?
I’ve noticed that there are three types of passengers on Lyft. There are the ones who engage you in conversation. My sharp mind, rapier like wit and gregarious humor allows me to interface with these people and keep them laughing all the way to their destination.
Then there are those who talk among themselves and ignore you. They must think that I’m in the cone of silence because they talk about the most intimate things and even fight while I’m sitting right there with them. They would never have these conversations in a restaurant booth, for instance, with strangers near them.
The final kind are the ones who sit in silence the whole way. I try to engage them, and they answer in mono syllables, so I give up and let them ride in peace.
If you’re under eighteen or are prudish, you can stop reading here.
I picked up two good looking women and a movie-star gorgeous man in Little Italy. After the requisite pleasantries, they drifted off into their own conversation. They didn’t smell like alcohol, but they were obviously high on something. Their voices were loud and inhibitions non-existent.
They stared out by sharing how drunk they were last night. Then the conversation got sexual. It was obviously that all three had been sleeping together. No problem, I thought. To each his own.
Girl #1 mentioned their bet and the conversation got good. The bet was who could have sex with the most men in twenty-four hours. The man acted as the moderator in this bet.
Girl #1 said, “I want to sleep with three guys at the same time. I haven’t done that before.”
“Oh,” says girl #2, “You’ve gotta. It’s so much fun. The most I’ve ever fucked at the same time is four.”
“Then I’m going to sleep with five tonight.” (I don't think there was much sleeping going on.)
The conversation went on. My ears strained to pick up every word. This was better than a porn movie.
“You’ve got to promise me to tell me all the details in the morning,” the man said. “If you sleep with three guys, I’m going to call you triple crown. If you sleep with four, I’ll call you grand slam.” He went on. When he got to eight he said, “If you sleep with eight guys, I’ll call you octopussy.” They all broke up.
Girl #1 kept the ball rolling. “I’ve already got a head start on you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last night I went home with that guy at the bar, I don’t remember his name. I woke up early, around seven am, and he gave me a ride home. On the way, Chris called me. He wanted to come over and cuddle.
“I had the guy drop me off at a coffee shop. I got coffee and pasties and called an Uber to take me home. I’ve already done two guys today.”
And so it went. I couldn’t believe these girls. I’ve read books and seen movies with people like this, but I didn’t know they existed in real-life.
Where were they when I was young?
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