Milo H. Tomb

Milo!

2010-07-03T09:35:00.002+02:00

Holy shit, you’re alive! Lenore’s going to hack pieces out of you, mate. Where are you? I’ll come and get you. I’ll send a car. I buy you bloody flowers. I don’t care. Forgive me, Milo. I was just having a bit of fun. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I feel awful. I’m such rubbish at this whole blogging thing anyway.

I'm sorry

2010-07-03T09:00:00.000+02:00

Okay, I admit it! I lied. There are no aliens. Never were any aliens. A lot of the tour was true, but I made that bit up. Happy now? I’m sorry! Just come back to the hotel, Milo. We’ve missed our flight home to America. I just want to go back to New York and have things be like they used to be. I’ll stop exaggerating on the blog. I’ll stop writing on the blog if you’ll just come back. Please.

Help

2010-07-02T12:36:00.000+02:00

Hi, everyone. Burbank here. I don’t mean to alarm anyone, but I’m stepping out of my guise. I realize that there is quite a community of fans on this blog, and if anyone can accomplish nearly impossible tasks, I know it’s you. Milo has been gone two days now. Lenore’s been in and out of the police station more times than I’ve got toes, and I’ve been sticking Missing posters all over town. I’m really worried that something awful has happened to him. He’s never been angry before, not like this. He’s normally very nice. I’m skeptical about him torturing us for this long by hiding out. Maybe the aliens got him. If you have seen him, do email me or tell the police. Thank you.

Yours,
Burbank Jammaker

158. New Competition

2010-07-02T06:00:00.000+02:00

New competition! If you have seen me in Cork, Ireland (or thereabouts), please email Burbank at milohtomb@yahoo.com. If you win, I will give you my soul. I’m apparently not using it anyway. Wanted alive, but will accept dead if no other state of being is possible.

157. Hermit

2010-07-01T16:00:00.000+02:00

Still no sign of me.

156. Stretching it out

2010-07-01T11:45:00.000+02:00

It’s nearly dinner time and I am still not back at the hotel. Lenore and Burbank have both tried to ring my mobile, but I have not picked up.

155. Up and Left

2010-07-01T02:00:00.000+02:00

Somehow, at some point during the night, I mustered the sobriety to escape my hotel room unnoticed by the others. This is a remarkable feat as Burbank and Lenore were up all night talking and I was, as they say, drunk as a skunk. Also because Burbank has ears like a bat.

I imagine that he did come into my room at some point to find my drunken scrawling and I take pleasure in the fact that he nor Lenore has any idea where I am. I think I will make them suffer a little by being unreachable despite the fact that this childish act is ungrounded and dangerous for the publishers. Oh well, I know Burbank will take care of it. I’d trust him ‘til the end of the world.

154. Things Milo Notices

2010-06-30T18:00:00.001+02:00

While I was busy collapsing into bed with a swimmy head, Burbank consulted Lenore in the next room. I passed out for a few hours and woke up around four in the morning to go to the toilet. I could hear Burbank’s and Lenore’s voices through the wall, and I was jealous even though the rational side of me knows that it was just Burbank trying to rescue my publishing house via Lenore’s dazzling agent skills.

But as I don’t have a rational side in the bathroom at four in the morning after a heavy night of failing to drink a single Irishman under the table, I scribbled something on my bathroom mirror in toothpaste and passed out next to the toilet. I hoped that Burbank would find it in the morning when he came knocking.

It says: Things Milo Notices: Burbank is a dick.
This includes an artistic yet highly inaccurate drawing.

153. Pub-licity

2010-06-30T16:00:00.000+02:00

I couldn’t think straight. Burbank was right—we needed to convince Lenore we weren’t mad and that she had to take on this new project for everyone’s sakes. But all Lenore cared about was getting me through tonight’s event, which was in a pub. How very Irish.

There was no podium or me doing a gentle cough and reading a few pages of my novel like a stuffy old man. What there was was a big round table where old men kept slapping me on the back and buying me drinks. Every once in a while someone else would come in with a “Ooos dis den?” and everyone would try to explain about why I was here in very slurred Irish accents that I could barely make heads or tails of when they were sober, and then I’d get another beer. At one point I think there was a shush and I thanked everyone for coming, but I can’t really remember it now because I was quite pissed by then.

152. Convincing Lenore

2010-06-30T14:00:00.000+02:00

Burbank and I were in my hotel room throwing sharp whispers at each other about what the hell we were supposed to do to get my publishing house out of the grip of these aliens. Then Lenore came in unannounced, assuming I’d already gotten ready for tonight’s book event, which I’d forgotten about even though it’s my last one of the tour. Burbank threw himself at her feet. “Lenore, you’ve got to help us!”

“You can’t tell her!” I said. “We’ll sound crazy.”

“Lenore, I’ve got..a…a friend,” Burbank said. “You have to represent him and get his manuscript published.”

Lenore looked annoyed and explained that it didn’t work that way and she would have to see if the writing was any good and fit her taste and anyway she wasn’t taking on new authors at the moment. So Burbank graveled more until he cracked. “Aliens have taken the publishing house hostage and they won’t give ‘em back unless you give them a book deal!”

Lenore just stared at him.

“I told you it sounded crazy,” I said.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, so I answered it and it was room service. I told him I didn’t order any room service, but the bellhop insisted on giving me a tray of raw fish which smelled terrible. I argued with him until Burbank came to the door, shouted at the man, and slammed the door. “Sorry,” he said. “I set that prank up yesterday.”

151. Absolute Power

2010-06-30T09:04:00.000+02:00

Have these aliens no idea how the book industry works? The people who can make their manuscript known to the public are the very hostages they’ve stolen! The editors! The publishers! Why do they think that I can make a book deal happen for them? Because I’m the public figure, probably. It’s my name on all the posters and books. My face. My words. So they think that if I can make a book popular, I can make their book popular. What rubbish! I got lucky, is all, got a proper agent and she sold it to the publishing houses, and that’s where the fame came from. It’s like whining to the president about some political issue, but he’s really a figurehead. He’s got people to take care of that sort of thing. What am I supposed to do now? I can’t guarantee them a book deal. Bloody hell, I can’t even guarantee another book for myself.

150. Contact

2010-06-30T08:00:00.001+02:00

Out of the sky, there was a ship. It wasn’t there and then suddenly it was. It was incredible—nothing at all like Star Trek or any of that sci-fi channel rubbish. It looked almost exactly like a weather balloon, except it had weird writing on the side that I assume was the name of their ship, like how we paint on names of boats. Or maybe it was just the brand name of their manufacturer.

Burbank picked up a signal on the communicator which started off first as a bunch of tooting but evolved into something that sounded identical to English. I nearly shat my pants.

“Give us back our publishing house!” I shouted.

Burbank rolled his eyes. “They can’t hear you.”

But then the alien voices said, “You will get back your story-makers when we get what we want.”

“What do you want?” I asked the weather balloon.

“They can’t hear you,” Burbank said again.

The aliens continued. “The human prisoners will be set free as soon as you spread our stories through your flattened tree market.”

I frowned. “They want us to chop down trees?”

Burbank narrowed his eyes. “No, they want a book deal.”

149. Secret Garden

2010-06-30T07:00:00.000+02:00

What a terrible picture of me. Blimey.

How beautiful is Blarney! We walked around the exterior of Blarney Castle for hours. We got lost, but we didn’t care. It was one of those experiences. I wished Lenore had come with us to the gardens, but alas she had more important matters like dealing with my career.

Burbank was carrying the communicator and talking a lot about where we could go to get the best signal. I wasn’t really sure what his ramblings were about—all too scientific for my pebbly brain.

Eventually we did get to high ground on the battlements where people used to chuck spears out of turrets, or so I assume. I didn’t get the audio guide or anything. Burbank said we should stop here, and he fiddled about with the communicator. When he’d boosted the signal the best he could, we watched the sky and waited and waited and waited.

148. Red Eye

2010-06-30T03:00:00.000+02:00

It’s the last day of the month, and Burbank and I are ready to meet some aliens. I am a little apprehensive about the whole thing. I don’t know if they are hostile or not. We’ll have to play it by ear.

I woke up early because we’re getting a bus to Cork. We’re going to Blarney first because Burbank believes that we will be able to get to higher ground in Blarney than in Cork. I don’t know if this is accurate or if he is up to something, but I am far too docile a creature to argue with him.

After I’d finished washing up, I left my room, pulling the knob to shut the door. I found it a little greasy but didn’t think much of it until I joined Burbank and Lenore in the hotel restaurant for breakfast. They were already there drinking tea and coffee. I was wearing my green stripe number for the third day in the row, convinced that it had not started to get whiffy. I pulled on my hair the way I always do and scratched some crust out of my eye.

By the time I sat down, my eye was beginning to burn. I rubbed it, but that only made it worse. I knocked over a glass of water in my quest to blindly find a napkin. Tears streamed down my face.

“Don’t wipe your eyes,” Burbank said. “That’s how you get germs in your body. You’ve probably touched half a dozen germy things on your way down here. Elevator buttons, hand rails. Door knobs.”

I paused, remembering the slippery doorknob.

“Is that why you had to go to the store at midnight last night to buy jalapeño peppers?” Lenore asked.

I wanted to ask how the hell she knew what Burbank was up to in the middle of the night, but I was crying too much. I reached over the table violently and tried to shove my fingers in his eyes.

147. After Effect

2010-06-29T18:45:00.001+02:00

The sob had come from, surprisingly, a woman in the back row, not Lenore at all. She fled the room, and Burbank went after her, catching her by the arm as people filed out. Burbank asked her what was the matter and she confided in him that she was in love with Milo, and Burbank asked her how she knew him, probably feeling defensive over Milo’s choice of Lenore. She said she’d never met Milo before but planned to propose marriage to him tonight in the signing queue. Burbank, baffled by anyone becoming obsessed with someone they barely knew, wanted to know why she thought she was in love with Milo. She said that she’d been reading his blog and thought he was the most amazing person ever. Then she read his books and fell more in love with him.

Burbank told her that he was the one writing the blog and that he was also an author. The woman, whose name was Mali, wiped her eyes on her sleeves and asked hopefully, “Really?”

So they sat on the curb a while and chatted. Burbank was able to make her smile, even laugh. He was convinced she’d forgotten all about Milo until the book signing inside ended and all the people started filing out. Last came Milo and Lenore. They didn’t see Burbank with Mali sitting on the curb in the shadows. Lenore whispered something to Milo under the street light and they kissed. Burbank felt torn between being happy for Milo and shattered for Mali, who’d begun to sob quietly into Burbank’s shoulder.

He stroked her hair and told her it would be all right. He would send her a copy of his book in the mail.

146. Confession

2010-06-29T18:30:00.000+02:00

It was hard to focus at the book event because my mind was so stuck up on how mad Lenore was at me. She thought I was a chair thief! I suppose it’s better than her thinking I’m crazy. Although, she probably does think I’m crazy. What if she runs off with Burbank?! Okay, I know that Burbank is far too loyal a friend to steal my girl, but I’ve seen her giving him the once over and the twice over, for that matter. It was eating me up, and at a time like this, I just couldn’t keep focused on my fans with all these thoughts burning through me.

I stood up at the microphone and said hello, and people said hello back. It was such a relief to be able to speak English at people again, and to have them understand, as much as a person can understand my muddy American accent. “I’m told I should read you a selection from my new novel,” I said, and the crowd looked pleased, “but there’s something I need to get off my chest first.”

And then I gave this speech: “I’ve spent the last month traveling around Europe, meeting all sorts of extraordinary people, people with remarkable lives I couldn’t come close to living, and I’m honored that they look so highly upon me and my work. Nevertheless, this tour hasn’t been all bubbles and squeaks. It’s been difficult, fighting through misunderstandings with people of other cultures and I realize how small and insignificant I really am humbled by it. I couldn’t have done this trip alone, is what I’m trying to say. Through it all, I’ve had my best friend by my side. Many of you probably know him because of that damn blog he writes about me on the internet. But he really has been there for me through all of this, and I couldn’t have done this without you, pal. Thank you Burbank.”

There was an uproar of applause and lots of people looked around the room, trying to spot Burbank, who clapped along with them, too modest to point himself out in a time like this.

I put my hands up. I wasn’t done with my speech. “I’ve also been accompanied by the best agent in the world. Lenore has been with me since the beginning of my career as an author. I don’t only owe the success of this tour to her, but to my career. To my life. And I know I haven’t been a very good client. I’m not easy to work with, but you don’t know how hard it is to play it cool when there’s something growing inside your chest and it wants to get out. Well, tonight, it can’t stay caged for any longer. So here it goes: Lenore, I love you. I always have. I don’t expect you to feel the same about me, and in fact I expect you to be pissed saying this in front of all these people, but that’s the truth, and I thought you deserved to know.”

There was some hesitant clapping at first. Heads wheeled around again, not knowing where to spot Lenore. Only from her would they be able to tell if this was a clapping moment. Without serious reaction from anyone, the clapping grew louder, but then through it all, there was one loud sob.

145. Busted

2010-06-29T18:00:00.001+02:00

When we were sure we’d given the redheads the slip, hiding near the dumpsters behind the book shop, Lenore started hitting me, as if I haven’t been through enough abuse already. “I knew I wasn’t hallucinating!” she shrieked. “You two idiots are up to something and if you don’t tell me what it is, I’m quitting.”

My heart quivered at the thought. Not that I would have any trouble finding a new agent, successful as I am, but I couldn’t bear the thought of Lenore being out of my life for good. Lenore, my love! What would we tell the kids? Well, all right, we didn’t have any kids, but we might someday. But could I really tell her about the aliens? She was probably safer not knowing, and all I wanted was her to be safe.

Burbank must have seen me struggling for something to say. “We’ll come clean,” he said. I looked at him, my eyes doing that funny thing they do where they go all wobbly when I’m confused and scared at the same time. “You see, Lenore,” Burbank continued, “In Spain, Milo stole a chair.”

“I didn’t!” I protested.

Burbank put his hand on my shoulder, which probably looked comrade-like, but his nails dug into my shoulder and he seemed to be speaking through his eyes to me. “Milo, it’s time to tell her the truth.”

And I realized then that it was better for her to believe the lie than the truth, so I admitted, “Okay, yeah, I stole a chair.”

“But he gave it back,” Burbank said. “They still want to put him in jail though. You can’t let poor little Milo go to prison…again!”

Lenore looked like she didn’t know what to do. She swung her bag half-heartedly at Burbank who stepped out of the way with poise and grace. “I’m going in to set up for the event. Don’t you clowns screw this one up. I’m serious, no more pranks.”

144. That was close

2010-06-29T17:50:00.000+02:00

Before the book event, we went to a pub near the venue for some proper Irish stew. Burbank had the communicator in his carrier bag because he didn’t trust it alone at the hotel, especially since maids and managers have the key to the door. The redheads must be able to sense the communicator because now that it was assembled, the real crazies started coming out of the beer-stained woodwork.

The barman was a redhead. He came up to us with our stews grinning away like a cat in a mouse factory. I gasped and started looking around for an exit. But then he pulled out a copy of my book and said he was going to the reading tonight and would I please sign his book now so he doesn’t have to stand in the queue. I relaxed. It’s quite normal for an Irish person to have red hair, I realized. I signed his book and he went on his merry way. Burbank and I exchanged a That was close glance.

But on our way out of the pub, someone put his hand on my shoulder and said “Mr. Tomb, believe you got something belongs to us.” I turned slowly, saw a whizz of red hair then stars as something fist-like damaged my abdominal muscles. I doubled over and heard Lenore scream.

She beat one of them over the head with her purse, and Burbank kneed the other in the gut. We all took off running down the street toward the bookshop.

143. Assemblage

2010-06-29T07:00:00.001+02:00

It took us all a while to recover from the kidnapping. Lenore had wanted to call the police, but Burbank and I didn’t want to involve the authorities on a matter about aliens. We finally convinced her that she’d hallucinated the whole thing. We were pretty quiet the whole trip to Dublin. Burbank got to work on assembling the alien communicator. I’m a bit useless in engineering, I suppose. After a few hours of Burbank tinkering, my curiosity got the better of me, and I went to his hotel room to watch him put it together. It’s amazing the way he can figure all of this stuff out.

Burbank had mixed the black seaweed and grape jelly together in the jar, which he had stuck two wires into. He’d connected the other end of the wire to the bike helmet with the clothes pins from the French woman. There was some more wire connecting the helmet to his real-o-meter. I watched him solder the antenna to the dish from the Gregor award. Then he melted the plastic of the helmet and welded the dish on top. I asked him where he got the soldering iron, and he said the front desk rented out all sorts of equipment.

Finally, he took the gondolier’s batteries and put them into the real-o-meter and turned it on.

I literally saw the spark shoot through the wire, up to the helmet, and into the jar. The jelly seaweed glowed a hot green, and the metal dish began to turn. Burbank shot me a devious grin. “All we need to do now is get higher.”

142. Competition Results

2010-06-28T12:01:00.000+02:00

Congrats to ZiggyStardust who correctly answered all of the cryptic clues correctly. Many of you got these answers. I chose randomly out of the winners. So congrats, Zig. Send your details to milohtomb@yahoo.com and I’ll send you a signed picture of yours truly, and Burbank’s too if you want.

The answers:

1. Sincere Stitchingroute – Ernest Hemmingway
2. Grouchy Feral – Oscar Wilde
3. Wonderland Stroller – Alice Walker
4. Crouch Joyfulmale – Neil Gaiman
5. Wed Armor-cased – Mary Shelley
6. Steal Antlerwasp – Nick Hornby

141. Question Monday

2010-06-28T08:00:00.000+02:00

How come I couldn’t get your new book when it came out?

It was set to be released in December, but there was a production holdup, so they released it in April instead. One of the great myths of publishing: the release date.

140. Things Burbank Notices

2010-06-27T17:40:00.000+02:00

Being suave has to do with confidence. It has to do with the kind of wine you order—which is not the kind we drank tonight—and it has to do with commenting on paintings on the wall and saying “Ah yes, yes,” when other people say things. Being unsuave can lead to kidnappings of the third kind.

139. Escape

2010-06-27T17:30:00.000+02:00

The cigar woman wasn’t alone. She had minions and the minions had dogs. The three of us were sprinting down the dark Frankfort streets, footfalls and barking at our heels, when we found a squat little police station. I think we all saw it at once because we simultaneously dove at the door, crashing against the glass. But when we spun around, there was no one following us. We sat against the door, panting until a copper opened the door and let us in. We all talked at once, babbling about a crazy redhead and her torture devices. I pointed at my ear, now crusted shut with blood. Burbank mimed his heroic rescue. Lenore waved her arms up and down. She still had no idea what was going on.

Eventually the copper got us to settle down, took our statements, and gave us some ice cream.

138. Torture

2010-06-27T17:25:00.000+02:00

I feel bad for Burbank, having to watch me get tortured like that. I’m sure it’s much more traumatic to watch your best friend writhe in agony than the torture itself.

The woman whipped off my blindfold. She was sort of old but in a beautiful way. The huge cigar looked very out of place between her thin lips. I tried to see where I was, but it was pretty dim and her face was taking up all of my vision. That and the needle she was waving in front of my face. “Last chance writer-boy,” she said like some kind of B-movie villain. Then she started sticking the needle in my left ear very slowly. At first it was just uncomfortable, but then it started to hurt. Blood leaked down my ear and the pressure felt like it was going to blow out my eyes. I started screaming, but I didn’t give her any information. I am surprisingly brave.

Lenore started to cry and I wished that I had had the spine to tell her earlier how I felt about her. I considered telling her now, but it would be an awkward story if I survived.

The next thing I knew, Burbank was hitting the woman over the head with his chair! Usually he doesn’t hit girls because he is chivalrous, but this woman was probably not even human. How did he untie himself, I wondered. He will ever be an enigmatic hero to me.

137. Abducted!

2010-06-27T17:20:00.000+02:00

I woke up to the smell of cigar smoke. I didn’t know where I was, but it felt cold like I was underground. Everything was dark. I heard a voice. “He’s alive.” It was Burbank.

“Where are you?” I asked and tried to get up, but my hands were tied together in front of me, my ankles latched together as I lay on the ground.

“Right here. You’re blindfolded.”

“Why?” I asked.

“How should I know?”

I asked him a lot of questions then. What happened, where was Lenore, where were we, why couldn’t I remember anything. He said he didn’t remember either, but he reckoned the enemy of the aliens, the redheads, had stolen us from the restaurant, and Lenore was here too, chained to the chair next to him.

Then there was another voice, very close, and cigar smoke stuffed my nostrils. The woman from the restaurant. I could vaguely remember her. She hadn’t said much before I blacked out. But now she was speaking to me again in her thick accent. “Where is the communicator?” she asked me.

I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about. She said that was fine. Torture would get it out of me.

136. Suavity

2010-06-27T12:30:00.001+02:00

I gave Burbank an earful about the public pranking, but I forgave him by midday because that’s the kind of person I am. We are currently in a posh little dinner club. I’m up at the bar looking through the wine list while Burbank and Lenore are sitting at the table, waiting for a waiter to show up. We are all very underdressed in a place like this, which might be why we’re being snubbed. Everyone seems to know each other, too. It’s very difficult to be suave when you’re an outsider.

I’ve just come back to the table balancing three glasses of white wine. I’m setting them down in front of the others. And now I’m telling Burbank to get off his Blackberry because it doesn’t look very suave. Burbank is telling me that at least it looks like I have friends unlike me who seems only to be dining out with his business associates. This hurts my feelings and Burbank apologizes.

The waiter comes and rattles off some things in German. The menu doesn’t have pictures. I am annoyed at this and say so. The waiter has shiny black shoes. Lenore orders some appetizers. The waiter is walking away now. I tell Burbank again to get off his phone. I know that he is writing my blog and this annoys me too.

A woman with hair like a red hedgehog sits down at our table and smiles. Lenore is smiling back. I glance at Burbank, but he is still typing on his phone. The woman says “Good evening” in a thick German accent, and Burbank finally puts his phone away.

135. Fool of Myself

2010-06-26T16:00:00.000+02:00

There were a lot of people at the German book event. You’d think by now I’d be quite prepared. After an introduction by the store owner and some clapping from fans, I approached the podium and smiled shyly at all the expectant faces. Thank you if you came to this event, and I apologize for being such a dunce.

I stammered my way through a hello. I guess I had a lot on my mind like aliens and redheads and my faltering relationship with Lenore because of my preoccupation with these things. I’m not even sure how many people in the audience knew English, so I suppose it didn’t matter.

I picked up my book and began to read the third chapter. One sentence later, I realized that I had just read from an erotic passage I didn’t remember writing. I stopped and stared at the page, listening to my audience shift uncomfortably. My face tinged red. This wasn’t what I had planned to read, was it? I flipped the book around and looked at the front cover. It was my personal copy, so I knew it wasn’t some strange German release that involved…well, if you were there, you know what parts of the body it involved.

Then I looked up and saw Burbank smirking in an aisle seat. I glared at him and he lost his composure. I tore the sleeve off the book to reveal some hardcover smutty romance Burbank had replaced my book with. “Burbank!” I shouted, and everyone turned to look at him, entranced by his internet fame. Burbank pulled a jacketless book out of his bag and passed it forward. I was beginning to sweat like crazy and took a gulp of my water, which I sprayed all over the first row, surprised to find my mouth filled with vodka.

134. Frankfort

2010-06-26T11:00:00.000+02:00

We are spending the weekend in Germany. I’m exhausted from the travel and might go back to the hotel for a kip until the event tonight. Burbank’s roaming the city leaving little pieces of artwork everywhere he goes. If you’re in Frankfort, keep an eye out for tiny statues, especially downtown and at the city center. You might see little men, no more than six inches tall, climbing the sides of buildings or swimming in puddles. A small papier-mâché woman is walking her dog outside a library. But please leave the statues there. They are not your souvenirs, no matter how much you may love Burbank.

133. Things Burbank Notices

2010-06-25T16:00:00.000+02:00

Despite both being slimy and wet, seaweed and jelly don’t mix very well together. This could be because seaweed has a stringy quality about it and jelly is more lumpy in substance.

Blending the two together in the blender does help the mixing process along, though the people in the hotel kitchen tend to give you strange looks despite that you’re wearing an official chef’s uniform borrowed from the unlocked pantry just around the corner.

After a blending, it pulls apart like fresh bread, but remains liquid-y if added to a spot of water. It smells a bit like a failed sushi picnic sandwich. Which gives Burbank an idea for lunch tomorrow.

132. Twelve Words

2010-06-25T15:00:00.000+02:00

Burbank was getting very excited because we had all the pieces of the transmitter now. We just had to figure out how to put it all together. He said that I’d better stay out of it in case I muck it up, which he’s probably write. I’m no engineer. I asked Burbank to divulge a little of how his genius mind works—how did he know how to get all these pieces? How does he know what he’s doing?

He shook his head at me and told me I had the answer right in front of me the whole time. He took out a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It was the torn out page from my book that the French woman had given me with the jelly, jar, and pins. He gave it to me and this time I looked at the twelve circled words a little closer.

Real
Dig
Bike
Weed
Purple
Transmitter
Dish
Power
Highest
Last
Day
Month

I asked him to explain it to me, and I could tell he was getting a little frustrated at my density, but he is kind and took the time to put it in layman’s terms. The first thing he did was buy a real-o-meter, as suggested by the first word. This will be the most intricate technical device that goes into the communicator. He knew to buy shovels because of “dig,” which we used when the bum gave us the treasure map. He knew the bike helmet would be important, but also the seaweed, which obviously needs to be mixed with grape jelly (“purple”) to make a special liquid substance that the energy can travel through like electricity through water. The “transmitter” was the antenna and the “dish” was the aluminum dish on the top of the Gregor Award. The “power” of course is the batteries, which look like normal double A batteries, but they have strange markings on them and are of a brand I haven’t seen before. Burbank recons that they are not filled with normal battery acid. As for the last four words, on the last day of June, we have to get as high as we can to use the communicator. This gives us only four days to assemble the device.

131. Gondola

2010-06-25T13:00:00.000+02:00

Our gondolier didn’t speak English either, but that wasn’t important. It’s more about the sights than the sounds in Venice, although someone was singing something somewhere, which echoed off the sides of the narrow canals and made me feel like I was in one of those old films. And Lenore beside me—how romantic! It would have been more romantic if Burbank wasn’t there sitting across from us, but if Burbank hadn’t been there, we would have never gotten the last piece of the alien communicator.

So we’re sat there taking in the city and the gondolier interrupts us by pointing at the sky and gibbering away. I turned to look at what he was pointing at, half expecting to see a UFO, but there was nothing there. “Yeah, that’s a cloud,” I said. “You probably don’t get a lot of those around here.” Burbank told me to shut up and started making complicated hand gestures at the man. I didn’t know what they were on about, but they seemed to understand each other vaguely.

After a few minutes of this DIY-European-Sign-Language gesticulation, Burbank turned to us and said that the man had been looking for me because he was told to give me a battery. I asked why, and he said for the communicator we were supposed to be assembling.

The gondolier took out his mobile phone. I didn’t think it was very professional for an age-old occupation like gondolier to be carrying around a phone, but who knows what’s in their rule books. He opened the back to reveal a sliver of battery hiding behind the phone’s real battery. He gave the sliver to Burbank, who wrapped it in his handkerchief and folded it away into his pocket for safe keeping. Lenore was completely lost in the goings on, so I told her Burbank’s smuggling stolen army intelligence into the States. It’s saner than the truth.

130. Stalkers

2010-06-25T11:00:00.000+02:00

I had an event this afternoon in Venice. A lot of people came to listen to me read. I wonder how many people in Venice know English. It’s pointless, really. Why learn English when you’ve got Italian? It’s like eating Easy Mac in Italy. But I’m an Easy Mac kind of guy when it comes to languages.

However, when people came up to get their books signed, I discovered that many of the people are not Venice natives. Most of them don’t even live in Italy! Fans have come from all over the place so that they can not only visit the most wonderful city in the world, but also meet me, author of the Angela Beam novels.

This is what I presumed, anyway, but I began to get a little suspicious when I sold more of my first novel than the one that just came out. Most people here had not read my work before? What are they doing here, I asked myself. So I asked. And you know what they said? The blog. The wonderful, amazing blog that Burbank’s been working his ass off to keep up for me while I lazily go about my business. They want to meet me, the star of the online world, and Burbank, the underappreciated genius behind the wheel. They had him do another reading from his book of poetry. Lucky for him, he just so happened to have a copy with him.

129. Sunlight

2010-06-25T09:00:00.000+02:00

Burbank told me that he read an article about sunlight’s effect on the psyche. Now, we know that there are a lot of suicides in Alaska because it’s so dark most of the year and that makes people depressed. But there’s been a study that says that in places where it’s light all the time, people are also depressed. I wonder why this is and why more people don’t commit suicide in Venice because it is so bright and shining. It’s like the sun never sets on them. I mean, it becomes night, sure, but doesn’t it ever rain here? Do they ever get black-clouded days? Or is it perfect like this all the time?

128. New Competition!

2010-06-25T07:00:00.001+02:00

New competition! This one is for all you who like puzzles and brain-teasers. I’m going to give you some cryptic clues that will lead you to the names of authors. If you can email me all the correct answers (milohtomb@yahoo.com) then you will win an autographed photo of me! How exciting is that? Additionally, I will name a character in my next novel after you (or if you don’t like your name, you can choose a different one).

So here’s an example: If I say “Shiverlance,” then you say “Shakespeare” because another word for shake is shiver and another word for spear is lance. Get it? Here we go. You have only two days to get these answers in, so you’d better be quick!

1. Sincere Stitchingroute
2. Grouchy Feral
3. Wonderland Stroller
4. Crouch Joyfulmale
5. Wed Litteredbeach
6. Steal Antlerwasp

127. Venice

2010-06-25T06:00:00.000+02:00

I think we’re lucky to get out of Rome alive and un-arrested, but let’s face it: Burbank had to do what he had to do. I’m too much a coward, and indeed too ill, to be tackling posers at award ceremonies. He’s taken such big risks for me and my publishers. Maybe they’ll re-release his novel to the masses for rescuing them all from the aliens. It’s the least they could do.

Venice is a very beautiful city, but you knew that already. It’s like a strange little town made of chalk and glass floating on a cloud, untouched by the rest of the world. If anything is like an alien world, it must be Venice. It’s big and bright and the architecture will knock you off your feet. It did me. I fell into one of the canals, making a bunch of laughing tourists snap photos of me as they passed on their 30-euro gondola ride. Those pictures will be up on facebook soon, I’m sure.

126. Things Burbank Notices

2010-06-24T17:03:00.000+02:00

A swollen eye closes up very fast, but the colour comes slower. Sometimes if the vessels break, there can be little red lines on the skin that look like blood poisoning. The skin turns yellow and tough even though it’s delicate to the touch. Eventually the colour gets darker and riper like a plum. It feels nice when a friend drops by the room with a pile of ice cubes wrapped in a paper towel.

125. And the Gregor goes to...

2010-06-24T15:01:00.000+02:00

...not me.

I’d been so expecting to hear my name called that I actually started to stand up until Lenore pulled me back into my chair. She was visibly upset with me for not being in hospital anyway, so she didn’t offer any condolences. So I hadn’t won after all. Well. That was all right, I suppose.

But it wasn’t all right for Burbank. He is a superhero of justice. He knew that I deserved this award more. And of course that without it, the aliens might eat all the publishers.

I stood by terrified as Burbank stood on the table and leapt across the room using people’s dinners as lily pads. People started shouting, security guards started bumping into each other, and Lenore put her head on the table and covered her eyes.

Burbank, who knows six kinds of martial arts, leapt off the table in a Flying Agenda kick and pounced on Ginny Velvet, the unrightful winner of the award. The guards tackled him soon thereafter, but Burbank managed to snap off the disc on top of the award and stuff it in his pocket without anyone seeing.

124. Awards Ceremony

2010-06-24T13:00:00.000+02:00

As I got into my suit in the limo, I told Burbank how much I appreciated it that he had rescued me from that nightmare so that I could get my award. He explained that it was more than that. He’s much cleverer than I am. He pointed out that the award might not just be an award. He’s referring, of course, to what the tour guide said earlier. As he understands it, with the bike helmet and the antenna, and the award, we will be able to assemble a communicator and bargain with the aliens to get the publishing house back.

When we got in the dinner hall, they’d already begun introductions. We slipped in quietly and sat down next to Lenore who looked shocked out of her socks to see me. I realized that Burbank had not shared his ingenious plan with her. She never would have approved, having complete faith in every quack doctor roaming the streets. I decided I didn’t want to talk to her. She’d broken my fragile little heart ditching me like that.

It was a fairly good ceremony. Acceptance speeches were short and there were no heinous interruptions by musical acts. People won awards for all sorts of literary feats. I recognized some of the writers there, but I didn’t say hello because I was feeling dizzy and flustered with everything that was happening. I was also beginning to worry about my own category. My fellow nominees were talented and perhaps I’d been a little egocentric to assume that just because I was a huge success in America, I would win this award.

123. Escape

2010-06-24T11:00:00.000+02:00

The drugs made me groggy, but it’s hard to sleep even on sedatives when you’ve got someone as charismatic as Burbank in the room with you. It was dark outside, past visiting hours, but I’d know that silhouette anywhere. “Burbank?” I tested, and he hushed me. He had a pair of sheers in his hands and used them to cut me free of the leather bindings. Ah, liberty!

“Your suit’s in the limo,” he whispered not wanting the other patients to wake up.

My suit? My head was swimming. Of course! The awards ceremony. I was still going? Could I even walk?

Yes and no. Leaning on Burbank’s shoulder, I could stand, at least. He unhooked me from the IV and unplugged the heart monitor. Together, we escaped the dark hospital like one large limping man.

“How did you get in here?” I asked as we ambled down the corridor.

“I never left,” he said. “I’ve been hiding out in the public toilets all day.” What friendship!

The gates were locked, keeping us from continuing down the hallway. I thought for a moment we were doomed, but then Burbank produced a large wheel of keys. I wasn’t even going to ask where he’d acquired them. Instead, I leaned against the wall as he unlocked the gate.

The night air felt good. I didn’t feel sick anymore. But maybe that was the drugs.

122. Prisoner

2010-06-24T06:00:00.000+02:00

When I awoke, I was restrained in bed. Now, I understand it’s for my own good so I don’t go wandering off and getting bloodless, but I am not a criminal like some of these drug fiends. I nearly panicked, but I could hear Lenore’s voice in the hallway and relaxed. She wouldn’t let them treat me like an animal. She’d get me out of here. If the doctors didn’t steal my liver during the night, surely one of my cellmates…sick mates would.

But then she left! What heartache! Betrayal! Had she actually fallen for what the doctors said? Did she really think that I was delirious and a hazard to myself?

I started yelling to her. “Lenore, my love!” Then a nurse had to come in and give me a shot to knock me out.

121. Surgery

2010-06-24T04:00:00.000+02:00

I feel like I’m in one of those horror films where the protagonist gets locked in an insane asylum and all the doctors think he’s crazy and try to electroshock him into sanity and stuff. These guys don’t want to take a blasted X-ray, but they’re quite happy to cut me open and go rooting around inside me. They reckon I’ve got a blocked intestine and need to clear it out. This, mind you, is not really based on any extensive testing. They even admitted that if they’re wrong, they’ll just fasten me right up again. I’ve got a gig to do tonight! They’re announcing the winners of the Gregor Awards tonight. I’ll need to be present to win.

I pulled out my IV and found a pay phone—they still have pay phones? As they took all my personal items, I couldn’t call Burbank up on my mobile. So I called him and Lenore on the pay phone and told them to help break me out of here. I realized that I’d done something wrong because my hand was spurting blood where I had pulled out the IV. Then I passed out.

120. Bedridden

2010-06-24T02:00:00.001+02:00

I’m quite certain Rome has some nice hospitals. But this isn’t one of them. The wallpaper makes me think that this room was decorated by the same people that did the Coliseum. I have to share a room with five other blokes of varying diseases, mostly of dying of drink and thirst for morphine which somehow justifies them getting some.

They’ve got me hooked to a heart monitor and an IV drip. I don’t feel ill anymore, but the doctors won’t let me leave until they’ve finished running some tests. They’re the cheap tests, probably the kind you can take by filling in bubbles on a Scantron. They won’t do any X-rays because they’re too expensive, as Italy is on the free health care system.

It was such a relief when visitor hours started up as I had a horrible night. Burbank and Lenore came in right away with some flowers, but I noticed one of my sick mates nicked them first chance he got. Bugger.

119. Things Burbank Notices

2010-06-23T19:00:00.001+02:00

Burbank notices that someone who is about to be sick gives off warning signs such as paling of the skin to the extent that you can see rivulets of blue lines inside their forehead. Also, profuse sweating that—along with the paling—makes the skin look like a recently beached jellyfish. There is a glassiness of the eyes and hot breath that smells like some kind of spicy vegetable that has been sitting out in the sun too long.

This is how I looked right before I got food poisoning so bad that I threw up all over the hotel room and passed out. Thank heavens Burbank was there to take care of me while Lenore called for a doctor. I was rather cranky when I awoke to find I was in hospital.

118. Thisda and Thothers

2010-06-23T16:00:00.000+02:00

I couldn’t believe how many people wanted to see Burbank at this event. There’ve been photos of him popping up on blogs. People have started fan sites devoted to him, mostly because of his mysteriousness and unveiling, but of course they mention his talent for poetry as well. I shouldn’t be surprised that he brought a handful of copies of his novel with him to the event. He sold out in minutes. I didn’t do too bad either, but it’s Burbank they all wanted to talk about. All the questions were about my blog and my adventures so far and the aliens, not so much about Angela Beam and her adventures. But I can hardly blame them because real life adventures trump fiction any day, don’t they? And Burbank is a pretty rocking writer.

There was one embarrassing moment where I was signing books. This woman comes up, and I’m used to people starting off by saying their names so I can write while they jabber on to me about how my book has changed their lives yaddah yaddah. But this one woman clearly didn’t know protocol and said “Thisda Newan,” which I assumed was her name and I endorsed the book to Thisda Newan. When I smiled up at her, she looked rather perplexed and asked me again, “This the new one?”

117. Coppers in for a Pint

2010-06-23T13:20:00.000+02:00

We were just sitting there chatting away to Salmon when about a dozen cops barge in and start sniffing around. Salmon practically has a heart attack, nearly dropping dead right there in my beef ravioli. He tells us all to scoot in and not to move. “Don’t say a word,” he mutters through his teeth. He’s got his face over the table, hiding it behind our scooted in shoulders.

“They aren’t doing anything,” I said, watching the coppers wander around with all their battering gear on.

“They’re looking for trouble,” Salmon whispered. “Don’t let it be us.”

“But they’re police. They help people.”

“Not people like…” Salmon stopped short. Like what? “Me,” he was going to say. I just know that’s what he meant, that he was some kind of criminal or at least a rowdy drinker known to get banged up in the slammer every now and again.

We stayed like that for twenty minutes before Lenore declared this was stupid and we had to go to my book signing now, thank you very much, Salmon. He smiled nervously and asked to pay our bill, probably hoping we’d keep quiet about his whereabouts. But Lenore would have none of that and left some cash on the table for the waiter. I didn’t think it was a great idea because Salmon would probably take it.

116. Italian Dinner

2010-06-23T13:00:00.001+02:00

We went to a fancy Italian pub for dinner. Everyone was pissed on wine by the time we got there, but we ordered our pastas anyway and tried to ignore the locals who were singing songs and splashing their beverages about.

This tall bloke sat down at our table without being invited. He smelled of red and called himself “Salmon.” He was very excited to see us and asked what we were doing in his country. Thinking he might be working for the aliens, Burbank lied and said it was my birthday tonight. Salmon thought this was the best news he’s ever heard and called a waiter over. I say called. What he actually did was lift his orangutan arm in a wobbly gesture and shout something indecipherable to even the people who spoke his language. A minute later, the waiters were putting fresh cut roses on our table and strapped a colourful hat to my head.

115. Rome

2010-06-23T06:00:00.000+02:00

Rome’s a tad dirtier than I imagined. I mean, it’s got old buildings with bits crumbling off—that much I expected—but there’s an awful lot of graffiti and litter. But anyway, it’s Rome and we’re spending the day seeing the Roman sites like the coliseum and aqueducts and fountains and all that. I also bought a new white shirt and a dress suit so the others won’t have to bear with my stink much longer.

We took a tour around the St. Peter’s Square area. Lots of statues of saints here. I tend not to listen to tour guides as I just trust them to get me to the places that are interesting to look at. But one thing did catch my attention. She said “It’s not about awards, you know, not usually.” I looked up from the pizza stand I’d been eyeing and saw that she was looking directly at me. “Not usually,” she stressed, “but sometimes it is.”

I think she must have been referring to some story about Roman competitions, but I couldn’t help feeling that she’d been speaking only to me, and referring, of course, to the awards ceremony tomorrow night. I’ve been nominated for a Gregor Award and the ceremony is here in Rome. Maybe she recognized me. Maybe it’s a secret message.

114. Roaming

2010-06-23T02:00:00.000+02:00

I love being in a limo. It’s even better when I get to share it with my mates, Burbank and Lenore. There was even a bottle of wine. It was like prom or a wedding or something. We got to stick our heads out the top like idiots and hoot and holler at the Italian countryside.

Burbank even crawled up on the roof, which would have been a right good time if the imbecile driver hadn’t taken such a sharp turn and tossed him maliciously into the roadside brush. He had to pull over and wait for Burbank to scramble out of the bushes, and he didn’t even apologize. What if Burbank had been seriously hurt? I’d have had to cancel the tour because I would have been too crushed to carry on. Thankfully though, he’s taking it like a sport, but we all have to sit inside the car for the rest of the ride.

113. Wrapped Up

2010-06-23T01:02:00.000+02:00

I woke up early because our ride to Rome was leaving at first light. They’ve gotten me a limo this time so as I don’t have to sit on a bus any longer. When I got out of bed, everything appeared normal. I didn’t have any more clothes, so I didn’t open my suitcase. Instead, I went into the mini fridge where I’d left some yogurt. It was wrapped in cling film. I thought this odd, but unwrapped it and opened it anyway. My spoon, which I’d left in the drawer, was also wrapped in cling film.

I ate my yogurt and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My toothbrush was wrapped in cling film. My toothpaste was wrapped in cling film. My razor and my shaving cream and my comb and the soap and the goddamn bog roll were each individually wrapped.

It was then I knew I should look in my suitcase. When I unzipped it, just as I had suspected, every item, small as you like, was individually wrapped like flies in a spider’s web. I don’t know how he does it! How does Burbank get in during the night and move about without me hearing? The man is a genius!

112. Things Burbank Notices

2010-06-22T18:00:00.000+02:00

Burbank notices that if none of those people where there to see Milo, then why the hell did they all have red hair?!

111. Identity Crisis

2010-06-22T17:45:00.000+02:00

As soon as I walked into the bookstore to find ten rows filled with fans waiting to hear me read, my heart nearly stopped. Almost all of them had red hair! They were after me! I considered turning and running, but then I remembered my very own gimmick. Red hair is my protagonist’s trademark. They were dying their hair for me.

It is a little difficult doing an event in another language. You have to funnel yourself in and out of the translator’s mercy. This event in Florence was set up differently than most I’d been to. There were not books at my table, and the announcer wanted me to start with question and answer and move onto a reading at the end, which would inspire them to buy the book.

When people started asking questions, I found that I had difficulty answering them. I figured the translator wasn’t that good because often audience members referred to moments in my books that never happened or they called the characters by the wrong names. Some of them referenced my writing background, which was flawed in many ways, but so many people mentioned my six-year residency at Atlanta College, that I started to believe I actually had attended there. They all seemed to know me better than I did, and my mind hadn’t exactly been sound today what with all the stress of bugs and aliens. Perhaps I was this Atlanta man.

And then I saw the poster on the window and my shoulders slumped. I hadn’t bothered reading it because it was all in Italian, but I could make out the date and time now advertising this event. The only problem was, it wasn’t my name on the heading, and it wasn’t my book cover on the poster.

In the end, I ended up selling and signing more books than at any other event. Unfortunately, they were all robot thrillers by Marco Thom.

110. No clothes

2010-06-22T15:30:00.000+02:00

We got back to the hotel to learn that Lenore had complained to the manager about the bed bugs, and they’d taken all of our bedding and clothing. They gave us new rooms on a different floor, which was nice of them, but now what was I supposed to wear?

“The clothes have to be quarantined for six weeks before they are safe to wear again,” Lenore told us. “That or burned.”

So I wear this damn green shirt for the rest of the trip, huh? That’s two weeks straight, and not two weeks of sitting at home writing at my laptop but two sweaty weeks of voyaging around. Not that I’m the only one suffering—mustn’t be selfish—as poor Burbank’s chosen a rather slimming t-shirt that will do him no good when we get to the less tropical regions of Germany and Ireland.

Burbank told me that he’d read in the news of a village somewhere in New Zealand or Australia or somewhere that completely ran out of underpants. Citywide crisis, honest! So this preacher man journeyed to the city and distributed free underpants for everyone. What I wouldn’t give for a savior like that right now.

109. In Hiding

2010-06-22T15:15:00.002+02:00

We waited there a half hour before slinking back to the hotel. I needed a change of clothes before my event. I hated the walk back because I felt like every person in the city knew who I was and not because I’m a famous author. Do you think that there is some kind of fluid in the bug bites that works as a tracking device? Are we safe? Can the government see us? I hope so now. I’m more concerned about aliens than the government sending insects to control my body.

108. The Chase

2010-06-22T14:30:00.000+02:00

Can you say Caption Contest anyone?

I am writing this in a dark alleyway hiding behind a dumpster. The light on the Blackberry may give away our hiding spot, but I thought that my fans deserved to know what became of me should I get found out. Let me back up.

Burbank and I had gone for a night stroll around Florence making rude poses in front of ancient statues for the camera. But then—I swear to God—this man comes around the corner, hair red as a baboon’s derrière, and goes “Hey you!” Now, this is Italy, so I figured if someone knows he should be speaking English at me, there’s a good chance he knows me, probably been looking for me, and judging by his hair colour wants to make a pie out of my face.

Burbank and I took off running, and of course the guy chased us. We ran all the way over the river and got into some little public square where tourists were enjoying a night out at a range of orangely lit Italian restaurants. We couldn’t stay here. We had to get somewhere dark, out of public eye. So we darted down a dark corridor between the ATMs and the chemist and dove behind a dumpster where we now sit listening for sounds of clomping feet, but all I can hear is Burbank’s confident and steady breathing.

107. Control

2010-06-22T06:00:00.001+02:00

The government is controlling me! I should have suspected it before. Of course they would go after someone with substantial power. Say, America’s greatest up and coming horror novelist with fans across the globe. I can influence mankind with the written word, as demonstrated in my ability to send adults to the safety of under their beds. I’m beginning to act out of the norm. Why, just an hour ago, I was hiding behind the television set in the hotel because I thought the government couldn’t see me there.

106. Bumps in the Night

2010-06-22T04:00:00.001+02:00

For the first time in my life, I’m beginning to know what it’d be like to lose my mind. Paranoia is hell on rationality. The Florence hotel has bed bugs. I awoke to little red, itchy lumps all over my body, eaten alive overnight! The others have suffered a similar affliction.

I don’t know much about bed bugs. Do they live in clothes? In hair? Do they carry diseases?

I must look like an idiot, attacking every black fleck of fuzz on my person. I am wearing a green stripe shirt because it’s the only light-coloured clothing I brought with me. Good thing the Italians dress well. I’ll blend in. If only they were also blanketed in red spots, then I could be incognito.

The weird thing about these bites is that they don’t so much as itch as they do inflict a prick of pain every so often. I think they are triggered by stress because all will be fine and then several will go off at once. We’re lucky the government hasn’t got their hands on this technology. They could control a man like this!

105. Competition Winner

2010-06-21T16:00:00.001+02:00

The winner of the short story contest is J Leigh with “A Sweater Story.” You can read the story here. Thanks for all who played!

104. He's from Barcelona

2010-06-21T15:00:00.001+02:00

After dinner, Burbank had me watch four hours of Fawlty Towers just for the “He’s from Barcelona” jokes. I haven’t heard of Fawlty Towers, but it’s a British thing, and British stuff is Burbank’s forte seeing as that’s his culture. However, I’m not nearly as educated on American media culture as he is on British media culture, but can you blame me? American media is generally not something you want to brag about as most of it consists of the lowest brow comedy or whining idiots shouting at each other.

Then we had to check out of the hotel. We’ll be sleeping on the bus tonight. I hate sleeping on the road, but it’s worth it because tomorrow, we’re waking up it Italy!

Burbank woke me up in the middle of the night on the bus to show me the next thing he put in his Things Burbank Notices notebook. It was about the languages in Barcelona.

I ask you: What's your favorite Fawlty Towers moment?

103. Question Monday!

2010-06-21T13:00:00.002+02:00

On Mondays, I publicly answer your pressing questions that have appeared in comments or in emails (milohtomb@yahoo.com).

Is it true you’ve been nominated for a Gregor Award?

Yes! The ceremony is on the 24th this month! I’ll let you know when I win. *wink*

I want to go to one of your events. Where can I go?

You can come see me in Europe this summer. My tour is posted on my website and in the sidebar. Otherwise, I live in New York City, so you can usually find me doing signings there. I get out to other US cities pretty often too.

I’m having trouble finding your books. Where can I buy them?

They are in such high demand that some of them are actually now out of print. The early ones are under contract negotiations to get printed by another company. The current book, Countdown, has run out of copies in this print-run, but it is scheduled for another run very soon. There’s a backlog of printing at the company, but I will let you know when they are back in stock. In the meantime, the best place to pick up a copy is to come see me at my events because all the bookstores for the summer tour already have books.

I really like your blog, but…aliens?

Yes. Aliens.

Are you on crack?

No. Please see previous post.

102. The world is revolving around me!

2010-06-21T11:00:00.000+02:00

I know it sounds crazy, but there are seriously aliens that have come to Earth to talk to me. I mean, I know I’m talented and good natured and everything, but there are plenty much more dashing and selfless people out there than me. Take my friend Burbank, for example. But no, they want to talk to Milo Tomb, and I don’t know the first thing about contacting them. Thank God Burbank’s with me to sort it all out.

So there we were walking down the road in Barcelona, and Lenore was with us, and she wants to go into this little pawn shop, right? So I’m all like “I don’t wanna go in the pawn shop—I might get herpes,” but Burbank convinced me to stop being a baby and I followed them inside this shower-stall-sized ‘store.’

There’s this man in a tan coat and lots of jewelry standing behind the counter. Burbank remembers what the person at the panel had asked about meeting a “rich coated tan man,” so Burbank starts asking him a lot of cryptic questions like “Have you been waiting for us?” and “Do you have anything we might like?” and “This here is my mate Milo, you know him?” All right, so not all that cryptic, but it got the job done. Lenore said she thought for a moment that Burbank was trying to score drugs off the man, but Lenore doesn’t seem to know that Burbank’s body is a temple that he will put no toxins into.

Eventually the man, who looked a little scared—definitely hired by the aliens and not an alien himself—handed over a little stick of metal. Burbank retracted it and pulled it to its full length again. An antenna. The next piece of the communicator.

101. They've got dogs with no noses

2010-06-21T10:00:00.000+02:00

I met some fans after the event and we all went out to lunch together at a proper Spanish restaurant that I can’t remember the name of. It sounded spicy. My taste buds are not accustomed to such new flavors, but it was somehow delicious anyway, I suppose in the way that being with people you don’t know can make you feel good even though for all you know, they’re complete psychopaths.

But thank you to my fans. We all had a brilliant time and about fifty appetizer platters! Most of the conversation revolved around America. One girl really wants to go to America some day, but all the other people I was with said that they’d rather stay in Barcelona forever (who wouldn’t?!) or travel around the rest of the world. America is too glossy and pretentious they seem to think. And here I was thinking that everyone who doesn’t live in America wants to be in America. I guess they were right. We Americans can be pretty arrogant sometimes, like the whole world is revolving around us.

100. Panel Event

2010-06-21T08:00:00.001+02:00

I was asked to sit on a panel about the publishing industry at a conference in Barcelona. I don’t know any Spanish, but there was an interpreter. Thank you to all my co-panelists who are far savvier about the world of publishing than I am. I was the only one coming from an author perspective as the others consisted of an editorial manager, a project editor at a not-for-profit publishing house, an agent, and someone who works in distribution. There were only a couple questions directed at me, but thank you to all the people who got involved. Here’s some highlights:

How difficult is it to get published?

It’s difficult. I’m not going to lie. I don’t want to discourage you, but even if you’re a really good writer and have written a genuine masterpiece, you might never be published. But that should also be encouraging because just because you get a lot of rejection, doesn’t always mean that your work sucks. Though sometimes it does. Get a variety of opinions.

What do you think about self-publishing?

Well, it’s okay, I suppose, for certain people, but don’t think it’s going to make you a star. There are success stories where great writers self-published and because they were brilliant publicists and had a lot of money to throw at the project, they got picked up by a major house. That usually doesn’t happen, and you’re better off trying to get through the door by schmoozing.

Can authors get rich?

It’s possible, but it rarely happens. Usually if they get rich, it’s from something other than writing. Sometimes non-fiction authors will rake in some cash, but it’s hard for fiction. We write because we love it, not to make money. You often get an advance up front, but that means that you won’t see a single royalty check until after you’ve sold more than what your advance is worth. I didn’t make any royalties on my first novel. That’s just the nature of the game.

Have you met the rich coated tan man yet?

Sorry? I think there’s something missing in the translation.

99. Old Fart

2010-06-21T06:00:00.000+02:00

I just bought a chair. I must be getting old. Young people don’t buy things like chairs. Chairs are things that are already there and if they’re not, you tend not to notice because you’ve got plenty of cushions and boxes to sit on. But I saw this truly blinding chair in a shop window and I said I needed to have that chair, so I went in and bought it and had them ship it to my apartment in New York. It will probably be there when I get back from this trip. Burbank can come over whenever he wants to sit in it.

98. Things Burbank Notices

2010-06-20T17:00:00.000+02:00

There are no clocks in casinos because they don’t want you to know how long you’ve been in there. But there are also no clocks in many post offices. Coincidence?

97. Monaco Event

2010-06-20T16:00:00.000+02:00

There were over a hundred people at my mid-day event in Monte Carlo. I couldn’t figure it out at first, but Burbank pointed out that it had to do with the blog. Of course! Maybe there is something to this whole social networking after all. I’m such a skeptic luddite, I hadn’t ever given it that much thought. Thank you to Burbank for making such a successful event.

After my reading, I signed some books, but something strange started happening. As I signed, fans asked when the other part of the event would begin. I told them I didn’t know what they were talking about. Little by little, I gathered that they were looking for some kind of poetry reading.

Then it hit me. Burbank had promised to read a poem at this event. Not only is his poetry outstanding, but this would be the first time that he revealed his identity to the public, the public that had been reading the blog and dying to know who this hilarious and insightful Burbank character was.

We gathered everyone back together. Burbank took the stage. Many people gasped. One woman even fainted. But it gets better. Then Burbank read from his yet-to-be-published book of poems. The first poem was called Dentistry Anxiety. Several of the audience members swooned under such beautiful words, and a few had to leave because their hearts couldn’t take such powerful lyrics. I don’t blame them. I couldn’t resist but hug Burbank half way through his last poem. I accidentally knocked him down, ruining the ending of the poem, but I think most people forgave me.

96. In The Dark

2010-06-20T04:00:00.000+02:00

When I got back to the hotel, the power seemed to be out in my room. I didn’t really care because I just wanted to go to sleep, so I plopped down on my bed, but my blankets were gone. And my pillows! I felt around in the dark, but only felt the coarse material of the mattress. I knew Burbank must have snuck in and stolen my linens, or at least ordered the hotel staff to do it. I couldn’t be bothered, so I slept shivering in my clothes atop a bare bed.

In the morning, I discovered that Burbank’s prank had been much more elaborate than I had given him credit for. He hadn’t stolen my blankets at all—they were still here. He’d simply turned the mattress upside down, but in the dark, I couldn’t possibly have figured this out. The power, in fact, was fine. He’d just removed all the light bulbs.

95. Treasure Coast

2010-06-19T18:00:00.001+02:00

It was a bike helmet. I asked “All this for a stupid helmet?” but Burbank knew better. He knew it must be a part of the communication device that we had to assemble to contact the aliens.

I yanked it out of the sand and started pulling off the seaweed, but Burbank stopped me. He said we should keep the seaweed because that was buried too. I said that seaweed’s always buried, and he said this was special seaweed because it’s black. He pulled out the jar that I got from the girl with the clothes pins and jelly. That Burbank really thought of everything. He carefully placed the strands of seaweed into the jar and sealed it up. We officially had our first piece of the treasure hunt.

94. Like Hermit Crabs

2010-06-19T17:30:00.000+02:00

Burbank had it all planned out. He’d be quite good as a military strategist if he didn’t believe in world peace. He had two collapsible spades, a flashlight, lantern, and his real-o-meter.

“By my calculations,” he said, fiddling with the compass around his neck, “the treasure or whatever the aliens wanted us to find should be right here. Will you help me dig?”

We were between the largest bolder and the ocean, and the tide was already coming in. I hesitated. It was dark now, and I’m afraid of the dark, as well as oceans and fun. But Burbank has a very charming smile that could convince you to jump off a bridge if he wanted to, which he wouldn’t because he believes in world peace.

So we dug, and the tide came in, and we were bailing water out of our hole in the sand, and I was just about to pack it in and join Lenore in the hotel when Burbank’s real-o-meter started beeping, and Burbank convinced me to dig another foot down while he held the lantern steady.

Sure enough, the spade hit something hard and Burbank helped me drag it up onto dry land.

93. Cote d'Azure

2010-06-19T17:00:00.001+02:00

We spent the morning on the Blue Coast. You should see the Blue Coast. It looks like someone took a picture of a map—the lines are that perfect. We pretty much didn’t leave the beach all day long. Lenore went into town and bought us lots of expensive things to put in our picnic basket, and Burbank and I dinked around, stepping into the water and jumping out when it was too cold or when I naively thought there were sharks. I was in my swim trunks and sandals, showing off my gnarly toes, and Burbank sported his new tan. Lenore was the only one who went swimming. She was like some kind of shiny dolphin the way she was able to ride the waves. I wish I had poise and grace. And knew how to swim.

After a while, Burbank disappeared with that map the beggar gave me, leaving Lenore and I to our own devices. Of course, I didn’t make my move because I’m too much of a coward, but what wasn’t said was louder than what wasn’t not said, I’m sure.

Lenore got tired of waiting for Burbank and left me on the beach after the sun had gone down to return to the hotel. I was tempted to join her, but I would never abandon such an amazing friend like Burbank. I didn’t have to wait long until Burbank popped out from behind one of the coast boulders asking if she was really gone.

I asked what he was talking about and he told me he’d found where the treasure was buried.

92. Something Fishy This Way Comes

2010-06-19T04:00:00.000+02:00

It was morning and I wanted ice for my early morning iced coffee. There is a mini fridge in the hotel room, so as one does I opened the freezer and pulled out the tray of ice. I had the fortune (or misfortune) to look down into the tray before popping out a cube. Inside every little block of ice was a horrified-looking guppy, each with wide eyes and a gaping mouth as if the last thing they saw before departing this world was my face. But indeed it hadn’t been my face they’d seen. I knew whose face it was.

“Burbank!” I screamed loud enough to wake all the adjacent neighbors.

“Yes?” came a quiet voice from the hallway. Burbank had been standing outside my door because he is a concerned friend.

I swung open the door and demanded what the hell he thought he was doing putting fish in my ice, and he said it was funny, and I said it wasn’t very funny for the fish, and he said it rather was because they were going to be used as bait for bigger fish and that was certainly no way to die—betraying your fishy brethren by luring them into…a lour.

I asked him how he knew what a fish thought was funny because he’s not a fish, and he asked how I knew he didn’t know what a fish thought was funny because I wasn’t him.

91. Things Burbank Notices

2010-06-18T17:00:00.000+02:00

Here’s what Burbank wrote in his journal tonight after some investigation online.

Turkey is called turkey because it is the sweetest meat. It reminded early settlers of Turkish Delights. Originally, turkeys were called turkishes, short for Turkish Delight birds, but it evolved into turkies, and eventually into what we know today as turkeys. Before anyone had managed to catch one of these birds and cook it, they were lumped in with wild peacock. However, they knew there would have to be a name change once tasted because peacocks taste dry and rubbery, so if you invited your inlaws over for some lovely peacock, they would be very displeased. Instead of having to explain, “No, the good kind of peacock! The one that tastes like Turkish Delight!” they just changed the name of the better tasting bird.

Isn’t it strange the way that we see no distinction between things unless we name them differently? Words truly do make up the universe. Which is why I’m a writer. I create the universe!

90. Re-reenactment

2010-06-18T16:00:00.000+02:00

The first event in Monte Carlo was another reenactment of a scene from one of my books. But this one was in their own language, so I had a little trouble following, but it was good nevertheless. The freakiest thing is that all the players had red hair. Now, this is obviously not that suspicious because it comes across as a tribute to my protagonist Angela Beam, who is known for her shiny red hair. However, after the man in the park warned us against spies with red hair, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a cover up. Burbank stood very near me throughout the signing as my bodyguard. He didn’t have a gun or anything, but he’d borrowed Lenore’s keys, which has some pepper spray on the chain. I don’t think anyone realized the guy standing behind me was Burbank, especially after he’s made such an effort to remain mysterious, but they will see soon enough when he unmasks himself in a wild and crazy poetry event.

89. Party Bus

2010-06-18T11:00:00.000+02:00

Burbank and I are talking again, and yet we’re not conversing on this bus ride because I’m shy. He’s made all sorts of friends on the short jaunt from Lyon to Monaco, but I’m just sitting here chatting with Lenore. Well, I guess I have my reasons, wink wink.

Burbank spent most of the time talking to these two circus performers. They’re jugglers, but one’s only got a left arm and the other only a right arm, but between them, they can juggle better than anyone who maybe even had ten arms! He also made conversation with a guy called Ned who just got out of prison for embezzlement. He looks a little weasely, but he got a tattoo in prison. It looks kind of like a scorpion on fire, but I think it’s just red because of infection. Burbank also chatted up a girl from Kentucky. He gave her his phone number. He’s always fancied himself a bit of a cowboy because he looks so dashing in a fedora.

88. Mapped

2010-06-18T10:00:00.000+02:00

When we finally got aboard our bus, Burbank took the piece of paper from me because I was going to throw it out. It took him about twenty minutes to unglue the edges so it didn’t rip. When he succeeded, he showed me how dumb I would have been to throw this priceless sheet away.

It’s a treasure map!

Like a proper treasure map with dotted lines, and names of geographical locations, and an X where the treasure is buried. And get this, right? It’s a map for Monte Carlo. That’s where we’re going. The aliens are trying to contact me and they’ve recruited this drunk to give me the location of…what? Their space ship is landed? Buried gold? We have to follow this map if we’re ever going to save the publishing house.

87. Running Wild

2010-06-18T08:00:00.000+02:00

I’m debating on whether or not I should tell you this next bit lest you think I’ve gone mad. But alas, it my duty as a truth-speaker to share the next bit of my life story. It might be important later, as uncharacteristic things often are.

I’m having myself a wander with Burbank and Lenore as we’re waiting for our coach bus to Monte Carlo. We’ve already gone to the bus station and got our tickets and are now pacing the streets and checking our watches. There are a lot of dirty people in this part of the city. Homeless and poor and run-down buildings.

Then this one tramp grabs my arm really hard, pinching all my flabby upper-arm skin, and I nearly cried right then and there, but I didn’t because he started talking to me. His breath smelled like cabbage, which is a weird thing to think because I don’t even remember what cabbage smells like (I don’t eat my vegetables like a good boy, which is why I’m so weak).

And this tramp says “It’s you!”

And I say, “Wow, even beggars read my books.”

And he says, “No. They said you’d be here.”

And I say, “Yeah, my tour’s on my website. Do you want me to autograph your…cup?”

And he says, “They said to give you this.” He hands me this crumpled up piece of paper and then runs off. It was crazy! I’ve never seen a tramp run before!

86. Real-o-meter

2010-06-18T06:00:00.000+02:00

I’m not really sure what’s in this city, Lyon. I’m sure there’s something spectacular and cultural in the city centre, but so far we’ve only seen off-licenses and humble industrial buildings among the roadside brush. I decided to stay in and watch telly for a while today while Burbank and Lenore went out into town to do some shopping. Lenore came back claiming there truly was nothing on this side of town, but Burbank, at least, made quite a find at the French equivalent of a Radio Shack.

He bargained a product down to half its original price, a little cylindrical tube with a retractable LCD screen that seems to be broken. But nevermind the screen. It has two prongs that come out of the end. They begin to vibrate when they come across anything that isn’t real. The man in the shop called it a real-o-meter. For example, Burbank tested it out on the concierge, and as it turns out, his hair is, in fact, a toupee.

85. Looking Bleak

2010-06-18T04:00:00.000+02:00

Still no contact with the publishers. Although I won’t admit it to Burbank, I’m beginning to suspect that the odd little man in the park was right. After all, I am one of their top selling authors. They’ve never gone this long without returning my calls. I don’t even have anything of great importance to tell them. I just want to know that they’re still there so I don’t have to worry about little green men and red-headed spies.

84. Hijacked House

2010-06-17T21:30:00.000+02:00

Back at the hotel, I tried to call my publisher, but she was out, so I left a message. Lenore, too, tried to get a hold of someone at the publishing office, but she also got voicemail. This is very peculiar considering the park man’s warning about aliens holding it hostage.

83. Park Party

2010-06-17T18:15:00.000+02:00

This was the strangest event yet, and for three reasons.

1. Some students from the local acting league turned my second book into a stage play and performed it live in front of everyone under the shade of the gazebo. It was amazing to see my work performed by such enthusiasts.

2. A short man in a tuxedo approached us as we were wrapping up. He said that my publishing house is being held hostage by aliens, and they will set it free only when they can talk to a Mr. Milo H. Tomb. I’ll have to assemble a communicator to do so, and will be contacted in Monte Carlo by another messenger to help do this. But I have to be careful because enemies of the alien race are disguised as human redheads and will do anything to stop the communicator from being built. I thought the guy was either barking mad or trying to give me an idea for another book. Burbank knew he was genuine because he knows crazy when he sees it.

3. What idiots decided to put balloons up at this festival? Don’t they know that popped balloons get washed into the sewers when it rains? The water goes all the way through, but the rubber gets trapped at the end of the pond where all the turtles are. The turtles eat the balloons. They fill up on rubber until they don’t think they’re hungry and die of starvation. Burbank spent the rest of the night picking up balloon fragments in the park. I went back to the hotel with Lenore because I am an animal hater and care more about romancing my agent than the lives of hundreds of little souls.

82. Lovely Lyon

2010-06-17T16:14:00.000+02:00

I pretend like Burbank’s poetry makes me want to vomit, but it’s a front because I’d hate for his florid Latin-based words to overshadow my purely plot-driven Germanic-based text.

And anyway, we’ve arrived here in Lyon, so I’d better start talking to Burbank again as we have to set up for the event. It’s an outdoors event at a park. Sort of a carnivalesque festival with games and plays and whatnot. I’m one of three special guests. The other two are a musician and a kid’s TV show presenter. Even if nobody comes to get their book signed, I’m sure we’ll still have a great time. Provided I’m not planning on ruining the day by continuing this immature blank I’m giving Burbank.

81. Publicizing Poetry

2010-06-17T15:13:00.000+02:00

I may be jealous of Burbank’s mad publicity skills, but I don’t think it affects him much. Everyone who’s anyone was once underappreciated, and someday Burbank’s talents will fall into the spotlight. In fact, he’s planning on shedding his mystery cloak and reading one of his brilliant poems at my gig in Monaco.

80. Birdsong: Cheap! Cheap!

2010-06-17T15:11:00.000+02:00

I find it strange sometimes that I complain so often about not having enough stuff despite the large advances I get on my work. The percentage I get per book isn’t half bad either. Some people can’t afford to buy their own honey, so why do I resort to nicking them from dodgy caffs? Maybe I ought to contact a psychiatrist about my kleptomania.

79. Hardened Heart

2010-06-17T15:09:00.000+02:00

My heart is nine sizes too small, but the childlike innocence of my beloved friend Burbank is beginning to warm that shriveled cowpie of a love organ in my chest. In fact, I think I can even hear it beating. I’ve already broken my vow of not speaking to Burbank for the whole trip, and it’s only been two hours. There might be hope for me yet.

78. Fighting Friends

2010-06-17T15:00:00.000+02:00

Burbank and I aren’t speaking. I still haven’t forgiven him for last night in the pub. When will I learn to forgive and forget? We’re spending most of the morning on a coach bus, riding to Lyon. I’m sitting in the front of the bus, and Burbank’s in the back with the cool kids.

77. Lord of the Flies

2010-06-17T02:59:00.000+02:00

The famous police station has a gift shop for tourists. On our way out, Burbank bought a postcard with a photograph of the cells on it. I said that these weren’t for the inmates, but I guess I just don’t understand the scrapbook mentality.

We smelled like sewage when we got out of the joint in the matin. Lenore wouldn’t take the same taxi as us because of the stench. Well, can you blame us? We had to sleep next to a bucket of excrete from the last person who was in that cell. It was disgusting. Burbank’s added the smell to his list of things he’s noticed. The only ones who would give us the time of day were the flies.

76. Grapes of Wrath

2010-06-17T02:57:00.000+02:00

For dinner, they served some kind of vegetable thing. Well, I thought it was vegetable. Burbank’s pretty sure it was some kind of meat. Pork, probably, though I wouldn’t be surprised if it one of those skinheads. For dessert—they serve dessert in prison!—they served a little cup of grape cobbler. I got so angry, I chucked the bowl back at the guard, spilling green goo all over him. He hit me with his truncheon.

75. Notes from Underground

2010-06-17T02:51:00.000+02:00

The holding cells are in the basement of the police station. Apparently this is a very famous police station, and lots of tourists came in to look at us. I will never look at zoos the same.

We were banged up in that cell for the whole night. Lenore came by to bail us out, but the cops told her she couldn’t until the matin. That means morning. Thank god Lenore knows some French because I was completely lost. If she hadn’t explained everything, I would have thought I’d be stuck in that cell for the rest of my life. Then we’d have to cancel the tour! But don’t worry, faithful fans. Not one event will be canceled due to this mishap.

74. Crime and Punishment

2010-06-17T02:45:00.001+02:00

I’ve never been in jail before. I mean, I guess it’s just a holding cell in the police department, but I was arrested! Me, Milo H. Tomb, horror novelist, put into handcuffs and a squad car. How embarrassing!

Burbank told me to grow up: It’s an initiation into adulthood. Of course, I kept blaming Burbank for our little fiasco because I’m unwilling to take any responsibility for the crime. Even if it had been his fault, I should be thanking him, I know in my heart of hearts, because this tour is the first time I’ve really lived, and it’s all thanks to my suave and savvy neighbor-stroke-publicist.

73. 12 Angry Men

2010-06-17T02:40:00.000+02:00

The man I’d gobbed on was a very large white bloke with a string of tattoos down his arms. Basically, he was Mister Clean, and I suddenly felt like he was going to shove a broomstick up my arse.

Because my apologies came out as drivel, Burbank had to step in and sort things out. Unfortunately, Mr. C had eleven of his baldheaded tattooed mates with them, and they were all standing up as well. Burbank said some very nice things to the neo-Nazis, as they probably were, but one of them decked him in the face.

I dove under the table, but two blokes swept me up and out like a swing. I kicked out my feet which were no longer touching the ground and accidentally nailed one of them in the face. I got a chipped tooth for that. Burbank beat one of these lads to a pulp, but got fairly dented up himself.

The next thing I knew, the pub was full of police putting everyone in handcuffs, Burbank and I included on the jail roster.

72. The Color Purple

2010-06-17T02:36:00.000+02:00

Burbank and I went to a pub. I will not name the pub here, so let us call it The Purple Pub because that is the colour your face becomes when you go here. It seemed like a chill enough place, right? Sort of the old man’s bar that young men go to waiting for their turn to die. Or something like that.

Anyway, I ordered something called a Tank, which Burbank warned me against, but I figured What the hell, I only live once. Such are the last words of many dead idiots. The stuff matches its name. It looks sort of gray and oily like someone’d spilt their paint set in.

I started off with a rather lack of caution by taking a huge swig of the vile stuff. Big mistake. What was once liquid turned spongy in my mouth like my tongue had absorbed all the fluid and I was left with something a bit like taffy. I just could not swallow it.

So instead, I spit the large gob of gray madness out of my mouth as hard as I could. It cleared the table and hit the bald man sitting across from us in the back of the head.

71. Divine Comedy

2010-06-17T02:30:00.000+02:00

I’m writing these seven posts after the fact, or facts as it may be, because Burbank had no access to his Blackberry for the duration of last night. The reason why will become apparent very soon.

The irony of this title is that these posts are not, in fact, comical. Burbank thinks it’s funny in retrospect, but I am still not laughing.

I explained to Burbank that the original word comedy did not mean that the stories were funny but had a happy ending, which is why Dante’s Divine Comedy is not funny either. Burbank doesn’t like this title for Dante’s piece because it gives away the ending. I’m not too worried about giving away the ending to today because as you can see, I’m still here to tell the tale.

70. Things Burbank Notices

2010-06-15T18:30:00.001+02:00

Fresh blacktop smells like youth.
Walnuts taste like daycare carpet smells.
Cocoa beans smell like Burbank’s grandma, but his grandma doesn’t smell like cocoa beans.

69. French bearing gifts

2010-06-15T18:00:00.000+02:00

Lenore wasn’t too pleased me being forty-five minutes late to my own book signing. A lot of people left before I got there. Burbank stood outside another fifteen minutes because he didn’t want anyone to guess his identity. By the time he came in, I had finished my speech and was doing autographs.

The French like to give gifts. I got a collage of things from my book, a t-shirt that says “Beam me up, Angie,” and a portrait someone drew of me. The weirdest gift, though, I was told to open at home. So when I got back to the hotel, I opened the box, which had been wrapped in seven layers of different wrapping papers, to find twelve clothes pins, one of those little packs of grape jelly you get from restaurants, and an empty jar. There was also a page of my first book, carefully ripped out, with twelve seemingly random words highlighted. Burbank thinks it’s some kind of code. I didn’t open the jar for fear of some poisonous gas leaking out.

68. Karma

2010-06-15T16:30:00.000+02:00

I’m learning a thing or two about karma.

1. I did a rush job on my last novel: careless with characters and used cliché plotlines. In return, I’m bitten by someone who’s done a rush job on an airport railing, which gives me Tetanus.

2. Today, a little old fellow asked me for directions. He pointed to his map and said something in French. I just shook my head and walked away. Now, I’ve got a taste of karma’s tarlike medicine because I’m the one who is lost.

It’s dark. The Paris roads are pretty sketchy. And Burbank and I are wandering the streets, trying to find the book shop where I was to begin my presentation half an hour ago. Lenore is already there, waiting for us, but we are getting nowhere. I feel bad for Burbank, having to be the level-headed one of the pair as his brain has not been infected by a muscle-munching bacteria. He knows slightly more French than I do, but it still does little good among the bar crowd staggering around. Why did I have to leave my cell phone at the hotel? And Burbank’s got internet on his, but no reception to call anyone. The bloody roadmaps don’t help one wit.

After half an hour of this, I am lying on a bench and am having a breakdown while Burbank is trying to hail a taxi cab driver who speaks English.

67. Unhinged

2010-06-15T09:00:00.000+02:00

I am unhinged and in denial of it. The wound inflicted upon my hand earlier today is starting to get red. Lenore thinks it’s infected. Of course it is. And more than that, it’s given me Tetanus. Although I deny it to Lenore and Burbank, that eye twitching earlier was not the sun or tiredness. Because now my fingers are twitching as well, my neck feels stiff, and I haven’t had anything to drink all afternoon because I don’t want to admit to the others that I’m having trouble swallowing.

We went to the Arc de Triumph and I started babbling on about skeletons and zombies. The bacteria has gotten to my brain. I don’t think I’ll survive until tomorrow without medical attention.

Venus de me

66. Lonely and Loveless

2010-06-15T07:00:00.000+02:00

Is Paris supposed to be the city of love? It’s all a bit smoggy and gray. I just can’t see myself sitting in one of those outdoor cafes that are supposed to be so charming sharing a chocolat chaud with Lenore. It’s not romantic with the traffic and the road litter. I’d much rather be inside the restaurant, but do they have roaches, do you think?

All right, it’s not all bad. The three of us sat on the steps of the opera house and watched some skateboarders for a couple hours. Okay, not your typical image of Paris, but in fairness, we were sharing a baguette at the time.

My eye started twitching a little, which caused some concern among the others, but I insisted it was just the sunlight and that I was tired from the plane.

65. Needle on a Tarmac

2010-06-15T05:00:00.000+02:00

I’m not particularly fond of airports. Burbank has a jolly old time buying overpriced crisps and chatting up strangers from other parts of the world. But me? I’m not terribly social, am I? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I’m a xenophobe.

We flew into Paris this morning. I cut my hand open on the metal rail of the jet bridge when we were boarding. There was so much blood, I almost passed out, but the flight attendant took me to the bathroom and washed out the wound to keep me from fainting. The nice old lady sitting next to me stitched me up with her travel sewing kit. It was a plastic needle though because they wouldn’t let the old broad on the plane with a metal one. Like she’s some kind of terrorist! I’ll tell you who’s a terrorist—whoever did such a shoddy job filing down the edges of that damn railing!

64. Sticky Situation

2010-06-15T03:30:00.000+02:00

The morning began with a shower. Not an expected shower, mind you. The kind you get when you’re standing at the bathroom sink and casually turn it on, not realizing that someone, who had asked to use your toilet the previous night before going to his own room for sleep, had shoved a wad of chewing gum up the faucet nozzle. Not Burbank’s most clever or destructive trick, but I’ll give him seven out of ten for catching me unawares.

63. Stray Cats

2010-06-14T17:00:00.001+02:00

The sun is setting on a Monday in Brussels. I’m watching the sky gray while cats run around on the street below. It’s weird people treat some cats as parts of their families and treat others like squirrels, mostly ignoring them despite that they follow people around as though they’re out for a walk with their owner, often looking back to make sure their human is still coming along. They’re awful pretty for squirrels, not the mangy alley cats with tatty hair but sleek calicos and gray stripeys. I wonder if cats are happier pampered or free. Maybe it doesn’t occur to them.

62. Going Dutch

2010-06-14T16:00:00.002+02:00

Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth?

At the Belgian event, I thought it would be quite hip of me to read a chapter of my book not in English but in the audience’s own language—Dutch. The book store kindly lent me a copy of the Dutch/Flemish translation. After a brief lesson in pronunciation from Lenore, I had it sussed.

“Hello,” I said in English. “Eek ben uw scrijiver!” There was some hesitant applauding and I saw Lenore slide down in her chair. From there I switched over to English until the reading.

After the first paragraph, I glanced up from my novel and saw that everyone was looking around at each other, not snickering exactly, but puzzlement was clear. I paused to make a decision. I could

A. Plow ahead and confuse everyone
B. Save my face and switch over to English
C. Turn it into a game.

“You’re going to help me,” I told them like they didn’t have a choice. I sounded out a word a few times until someone figured out what I was trying to say. I repeated it back to him in his pronunciation, or what I thought was his pronunciation. Everyone giggled.

Screw the story, I thought. This was going to be fun.