I had big dreams when I published my first book: I wanted to sell 500 copies over the course of the first year. After eight months, I've sold less than 1/5th that amount. Sure, I knew the first 50 or so copies would be the easiest ones to unload. I promoted the book via Facebook and word of mouth and during the first few months sales were relatively brisk, mainly to friends and family. My book was in the top 10 sellers for a short time on Booklocker, the print on-demand company I used to put out my book.
All along, I was concerned that I would run out of energy and motivation to continue marketing the book. And sure enough, I did. I never thought I'd get rich off the book, but I've always hoped to at least break even. But I wasn't willing to do what I needed to do to boost sales, i.e., contact all area independent bookstores; mail out review copies blindly; push myself on local media outlets; walk around Boston with a sandwich board sign (and nothing else!) featuring the front and back covers of the book.
Of late, however, I've been pushing the book a bit more, and sales have increased a little, which is nice. I've sold a few through the Newbury Comics chain of stores in Massachusetts, had two books places in my locally owned bookstore, Newtonville Books, and seen a few copies fly off the digital shelves as well.
With summer coming to an end, I'll have more free time to promote my book, and work on other things, such as my two children's books, my novel/concept album project, and an article about a mystery in my hometown of Simsbury, CT, that I wrote about here last week (see August 24, 2011, "My Nascent Archeology Career").
So, in case you haven't gotten the point, I'd like you to go out and buy my book. Or, if you've already bought it, please recommend it to your friends and family.
I've long been interested in archeology: I'm fascinated by the stories of discovery in Egypt's Valley of the Kings; Jordan's ancient city of Petra; the trove of material uncovered during Boston's Big Dig project; really, any place where scientists locate and delicately reveal pieces of the distant (and not-so-distant) past.
Here's some quick background on the above photo. When I was 14 or 15, two older kids in my neighborhood told my friends and me that they'd rummaged through an abandoned house close to the nearby railroad tracks. It was full of somebody's stuff -- lots of it, they said.
So my buddy Pat and I (and maybe his brother, Bryan) hoofed it down the tracks, then slid down a hill leading to a swampy area until we got to the house. Sure enough, the place was empty of people, but full of all the things that make up a life: boxes and cans of food; framed photos; clothes; magazines, books and newspapers; a mannequin (?); pots and pans.
I imagine we went back at least one more time, although I can't recall (it's been a looooong time). I don't remember when the house was torn down. In the early '80s, when I was 18, a road was built right near where the house had been, leading over the train tracks and into a new condo development.
While I didn't know the people who had lived in the now-abandoned house, the memory of walking through the detritus of their lives haunted me for quite some time. OK, maybe I wasn't dwelling on it in college, but through my 20's and into middle age (oh man, is that what 46 is?) I've continued to puzzle through the situation. Why did the owners leave behind everything? Were they forced to leave? Who were they? How long had they lived there?
I remember that the people in the pictures in the house were African-American. I let my mind wander to dark places when I thought about these unknown folks. Did racists from my hometown threaten the family, forcing them to flee? I doubted it, but I just had no clues as to what had gone on.
Fast forward to August 2011. I joined a group on Facebook called "I grew up in Simsbury, CT." I posted a question wondering if anybody knew anything about this abandoned house, and lo and behold, two people not only knew of the house, but had visited the old man who lived there back when they were teenagers.
They told me his name was President Little (what a name!) and that he was the son of slaves. One of them said he had no family to leave anything to when he died, which was why the house was left in the condition that my friends and I found it. The other Facebook commenter said, "President was a great man, and all the kids loved him."
Well, I was thrilled to uncover a piece of the puzzle. I had a name, and the fact that the man claimed to be the son of slaves (or that somebody remembered it that way) backed up my memory of seeing a black family in pictures in the house. A quick Google search turned up some basic genealogical facts. Turns out President Little's parents weren't slaves, as they were born in the late 1800's. But it's entirely possible he was the grandson of slaves.
I also discovered that President Little had five kids, and as best as I can tell, four of them were alive in 1981 when he died. It's possible that one or two of them are alive today. So why didn't he leave the house and his belongings to one of them?
As fate would have it, I had a trip to Simsbury planned for last Friday, August 19. I played in the 7th annual Ben Nascimbeni Memorial Golf Classic. I set out from home a bit earlier than I needed to in order to try and find anything at all at the site where President Little and his family had once lived.
I turned off Route 10 onto the road leading past where the house had been, and into the development. I walked back down the road, toward Route 10, looking for an entry point into the thick woods that shield the development from the road.
Finding no path, I just plunged in, camera in hand, not caring at all about the fact that I was wearing neat and clean golfing clothes. The going was a little rough and muddy, but within five minutes I stumbled across what I figured was the remains of President Little's abode.
Upon my approach, I could tell I was in the right place. It looked like this:
I stepped carefully through the mud, and around the objects, and things began to come into clearer focus.
I was thrilled that I'd found this location that had been on my mind so often over the years. I was proud of myself for taking the plunge into those woods and so quickly locating the spot. These feelings were mixed with sadness, however, about the fact that somebody's life and belongings were slowly sinking into the muck. I was also shocked, frankly, that whoever had torn down the house had removed big items like furniture and appliances, but simply left behind these smaller items.
So what now? I'm not sure. I've talked in the recent past in the abstract sense of wanting to write a book about this house and its abandonment. Now that I've discovered the name of the man who lived there, and been to the site, strangely I feel less of a need to take on something as big as a book. Honestly, I never knew what form the book would take.
I do plan, however, on finding out as much information as I can about President Little, his family, the house, people who knew him, etc. And put together an article of some sort and try and find a market for it.
This project brings together so many of my interests: history, archeology, genealogy, my hometown, detective work. I can't say why this concept has stuck with me for such a long time. Encountering the abandoned house all those years ago made quite a mark on my psyche, and I've felt the need to solve the puzzle, even though I have just a very tangential connection to the people involved.
I reported yesterday that I'd be stepping onto the Fenway Park diamond before today's Sox game, but alas only Owen and Beth got that opportunity (see August 15, 2011, "Chance of a Lifetime").
I hung out with Amelia while the two of them were on the field for a pre-game ceremony involving Beth's company. It was Amelia's first time at Fenway, which she enjoyed, especially the chocolate ice cream.
Owen had fun hanging with a few other kids while Beth did her corporate duty. He even got to meet Wally.
As for Beth, she made it to the big screen.
We all had fun, and our decision to leave after the 6th inning was a good one, as the score remained the same, Sox up 3-1, from that point on.
Tomorrow, August 16, marks the the second time that I will set foot on the field at Fenway Park. The first time was in October 2002, during the Emerald Necklace Half Marathon. That was the first half marathon I ran, and certainly the most memorable. The race starts near Boston's Museum of Fine Arts and continues near Fenway. Because the Red Sox weren't in the playoffs that year, the course ran down Lansdowne Street, under Fenway's center field bleachers, and onto the warning track. We then ran all around the park on the track, including next to the Green Monstah. It was very cool.
Still, not as cool as I expect tomorrow's experience to be.
More details will follow, but in a nutshell, Beth is going to be the on-field representative for her company in a pre-game ceremony, and the kids and I get to tag along, and then stick around the for game. We'll be there for the first game, which starts at 1:35. Jon Lester (see above) will be pitching.
(I love this picture. This is Owen's fall 2010 team, which I didn't coach, but which I enjoyed watching immensely.)
I love baseball. I loved playing as a kid and a teenager. I loved playing as a grown-up, from age 40 to 44. I love watching the Red Sox. I mourn baseball during the winter.
But I'm conflicted about coaching. In the first draft of this post (yes, I'm a journalist at heart), I went on about how coaching Owen's team this summer has been a bit of a pain in the ass. Then I read through it and thought I was being a bit of a drag, so I set to rewriting it.
Then, came the latest agonizing, I-need-a-beer-immediately-after-this-game kind of a game. And now I realize that if Owen continues to play baseball next spring (he's taking this fall off, after having played three seasons in a row), I won't be coaching. Over are my days of keeping score, telling kids repeatedly to keep their eyes on the batter, and reminding each and every kid that they won't get a hit if they don't swing the bat.
I tip my hat to those with the combination of patience, empathy and discipline to wrangle kids, teach them the basics, encourage them to have fun and let them know that the world won't end if they lose a game or don't get to pitch.
Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed coaching. First of all, my presence behind the bench makes Owen feel more comfortable than if another coach is there. He's a shy kid on the bench, and I think my being there helps him relax a bit. I like being there with him, just as I felt good when my dad helped coach my Little League team.
Secondly, I enjoy watching a kid get his first hit, or make a really great play, or whoop it up when he (or she; we had a girl on the team for the first half of the season) scores a run. I make it a point to congratulate kids on all the good things they do, while also making sure I point out as best I can where they can do better. It's hard to get information into their heads during the game; that's what practices are for, but we don't have those in the summer.
Owen's teammates are good kids. Each one of them had at least a few good moments during this short season (we've played seven games; we've got one more next week). Sure, they lose focus more than I'd like, and they hector (I love that word) me about pitching or catching or batting first more than they should. But they're 7- to 9-year-olds and that's what they do.
And I signed up for this, so I can't complain (too much).
But it sure can be tedious. The kids have a hard time focusing, probably because most of them have been in camp all day. So when they're in the field, I spend a lot of time reminding them to keep their eyes on the batter, or to get their gloves off their heads. Because there aren't any practices, I'm constantly yelling out to them what the situation is, i.e., runner on first, one out, play it to second, tag the base. Two of the kids had never played organized baseball before this summer, so they don't always know what to do, or where to be.
I recruited two dads (Thank God!) from the team to help, so they take part in this, too.
When we're at bat, it's more of the same. Reminding each kid to keep his eye on the ball, swing hard, keep your back foot planted. When they're on base, we spend a lot of time telling them the number of outs, run if it's on the ground and go part way if it's in the air (unless there are two outs).
Yes, I know, this is what coaching is. And for the most part I enjoy it. But this is all done on two feet; there's no sitting down. God, I sound old, don't I? Anyway, the games are slow, because most of these kids (at least on our team) are just learning to pitch, so there are a lot of walks. In an effort to keep the free passes to a minimum, the league instituted a rule by which if a pitcher walks two kids in an inning, and throws four balls to a third kid, that batter is then pitched to by one of his coaches, until he gets a hit or strikes out.
Our penultimate game was a tough one. One of the kids refused to take the field if I didn't let him pitch. I told him I needed him in a different position, and then his mother and I spent about five minutes cajoling him into taking the field so the inning could start.
Later in the game, another kid got very upset because he hadn't pitched in as many games as his brother, and this was their last game, and it wasn't fair, in his view. I assured him he'd done a great job in the field, and that's where I needed him. His father is one of the assistant coaches, and helped smooth things over. Still, I never thought I'd be so exhausted and exasperated during a three-inning Little League game.
We've only got one more game, and Owen's not planning on playing in the fall, so before you know it I'll be complaining that I miss coaching Little League. Because I love baseball.
After a few years away, I've been sucked back into the vortex of black ops, government conspiracies, and UFO's.
My fascination started when I was a kid, looking through my parents' copy of "Chariots of the Gods," which asks questions such as, "Did astronauts visit the Earth 40,000 years ago?" and "Did extraterrestrial beings help set up the giant stone faces that brood over Easter Island?"
I don't remember the answers, or frankly reading that much of it, but the pictures were cool and made me think about ancient civilizations and wonder whether it was possible that aliens had visited, say, the Incas.
I, like so many kids of my generation, was very taken by Steven Spielberg's "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," some of which I'm watching as I type this sentence. Thanks Retroplex!
Anyway, it's not like I obsessed about UFO's when I was a kid, but when I got into college I began thinking about them more. I wrote a short story in my 20s about two young brothers who see an alien space ship. The younger brother wants to tell their family, friends and the world about it, because he's just so fascinated by it. The older brother believes that if they talk about it in public, people will think they're crazy. I don't remember the exact ending, but it definitely gave the younger brother (basically me) the upper hand.
Of course, later in my 20s I got into "The X-Files." I loved the one-off episodes, which dealt with all sorts of odd characters and spooky sightings, more than the government conspiracy aspects that took over, and eventually ruined, the show.
I read Whitley Strieber's Communion, in which the man known up to that point for horror novels The Wolfen and The Hunger details his alleged encounter with extraterrestrials.
And several years ago I began writing a concept album about UFO's, which I have subsequently used as an outline of sorts for a novel with the working title "Area 51 Is for Lovers." My plan is to complete both an album and the novel and market them together in digital form.
So I think it's safe to say I've put more thought into the extraterrestrial phenomenon than most people my age. But of late I'd taken AboveTopSecret.com and other conspiracy web sites off my regular browsing list. I spent my time a little more constructively: finishing my collection of short stories, trying to launch myself as a children's book writer, raising my kids, coaching Owen's baseball team, etc.
OK, I did discuss UFO's with my buddy Jay Kumar for his excellent podcast, Completely Conspicuous, back in February 2010. You can check it out here.
But, seriously, I've not given much thought to alien spacecrafts and nefarious government plots for quite some time. But I just finished reading Annie Jacobsen's "Area 51: An Uncensored History of America's Top Secret Military Base," so now I'm back on-line, both in the sense of wanting to know what's up with top-secret military projects and possible alien incursions, and in checking out some of my old favorite web sites.
I used to be positive that Earth had been visited by aliens. In the galaxy, with its billions of stars, I figured, there must be at least one planet out there with a civilization advanced enough to locate another planet with advanced beings, and to figure out how to travel through space to get here.
But after having finished "Area 51: An Uncensored History of America's Top Secret Military Base," by Annie Jacobsen, I believe that a lot of what gets reported as UFO's are actually secret government projects. Area 51 is the place where the CIA and the Air Force developed spy planes and drones. Nearby locations that are part of the Nevada Test Site have seen hundreds of nuclear bombs detonated over the last half century.
Jacobsen does a great job documenting the history of the super-secret site, which the U.S. government has never acknowledged. Or it has, depending on whom you ask. She talked to numerous former employees of the CIA and the military who worked at the site starting in the '50s. The stories about the Cold War, and overhead reconnaissance, nuclear testing, spy projects and the like are fascinating enough.
But then at the end of the book (SPOILER ALERT!!) Jacobsen drops the biggest bombshell of them all: the only unnamed source in her book claims that he was one of five engineers (and the only surviving one) to have worked to reverse engineer the infamous UFO that crashed in Roswell, New Mexico, in 1947.
He claims the craft had Russian writing inside, and that the "alien beings" that have long rumored to have been inside were actually genetically or biologically altered, child-sized humans. The engineer claims that his team was told that Soviet leader Joseph Stalin had recruited the most heinous Nazi doctor of them all, Josef Mengele, to aid the Russians in their effort to pull off a UFO hoax that would throw the United States into a "War of the Words"-type panic. Mengele, known for his demonic surgeries and medical abuses of twins, Gypsies, Jews and other minorities in Germany, provided the Russians with children, or very small adults, with enlarged hears and saucer-like eyes, the book claims.
The aircraft that they landed in was controlled remotely, goes the argument, and the Russians' hope was that when they landed on U.S. soil, the government and people who think we'd been invaded by aliens and that all hell would break loose.
The engineer also claims that his team and subsequent ones not only worked to reverse-engineer the craft, but also performed tests on humans similar to what Mengele and the Russians had done.
I don't know what to think about all of this. Last week I went online and found reports citing many of Jacobsen's named sources, and they say she's way off with this claim, and that she included it only to sell books. Of course, taking the word of men who spent their entire adult lives keeping secrets for the government is rather difficult to do. Are they helping to perpetuate what Jacobsen claims is the real reason that Area 51 has never been acknowledged? That rather than as a way to keep all their airplane and bomb technology in the black, that what the government really is doing is hiding the fact that we engaged in unspeakable human testing in the name of fighting the Cold War?
Frankly, just about any scenario seems possible to me. I believe that during the Cold War, paranoid men did crazy things. Some of these actions were necessary, sure. Preventing the Soviets from putting nuclear missiles on Cuba was a must-do. I condone spy planes and satellites, although I wish they weren't necessary.
But the number of nuclear bombs that the U.S. government detonated -- in Nevada, in the Pacific -- is just ridiculous. Those events caused damage to the environment and surely to humans and animals in the area. Others were just purely evil in their disregard for what might happen. For instance, the Atomic Energy Commission (now the Department of Energy) detonated a thermonuclear device in the atmosphere, despite protestations from the scientific community that doing so could possibly set the planet's ozone layer on fire.
Reading Jacobsen's book makes we wonder what's been going on at Area 51 for the last 30 years or so. She doesn't cover that time period, because the government hasn't declassified anything since the late '70s. The technology that has come out of Area 51 is amazing: stealth bombers, which were in the works since the late '60s but didn't get perfected until the late '70s; drones, which are now commonplace in our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, but which were first envisioned in the '50s; bunker-buster bombs; the march of military hardware goes on.
So I have to think that whatever's been in the works out in the Nevada desert for the last few decades has got to be pretty incredible. Do the current projects relate to cyber wars? Biologial warfare? Battle field cyborgs? Who the hell knows?
In the course of writing this, I did some online research and learned about Dugway Proving Ground in Utah, which some folks in the conspiracy industry call "Area 52." These folks, including the dudes from History Channel's "UFO Hunters," say that since Area 51 was exposed in the '80s as the place where so much military-industrial-espionage work goes on, much of the black ops works has shifted to Dugway.
So now I've got another place to obsess over. Great.
I'll use my newfound momentum to finish my album and novel. And maybe some day I'll take a trip out west to see these top-secret locations, and camp out in hopes of seeing some crazy, unidentified lights or space ships, all the time wondering if anybody will ever discover the truth that's out there.
Please forgive the title's reference to Weird "Al" Yankovic's "Fat," a parody of Michael Jackson's "Bad." But that video just cracks me up.
Anyway, I went to see Big Audio Dynamite last night at Boston's House of Blues (which is a much different place than the original, Cambridge-based HOB, but let's save that discussion for another time) with my friends Jim and Ken. We ran into my buddy Jay, and we all had a good time. We laughed, we ate, we drank beer (except Ken) and we danced a bit.
I found it funny to be at the show, because I was never a fan of Mick Jones's post-Clash band. I wasn't alone in thinking it odd that I was in the crowd grooving along to "Rush" and others of the band's hits. Ken brought up on more than one occasion before, during and after the show, the fact that in the late '80s I had taken great pleasure in making fun of B.A.D.
I joined Jim because his lovely wife, Nikki, had bought tickets for Jim's birthday. Ken signed on just a day before the show. Although I wasn't expecting much from the band, I have to admit I had a good time. I knew more songs than I figured I would. Sure, I found some of the songs a bit boring and sloganish (is that a word?). But it was cool to see something a bit different than what I usually see, and to have the legendary Mick Jones be the central figure, well that was pretty damn great.
