the new bobsoldout.com

I just turned on my laptop computer machine to write my monthly Tough Love column and I opened up the electronic Tough Love document and realized I had started writing it earlier:

You plug a lamp with a frayed cord into an electrical socket and you’ll have pretty good lighting for a while, but one day you’re going to be engulfed in flames.

That’s all the younger John Fontaine had written and if it was good enough for him then, it’s good enough for us now.

jf, npfw, rmotw
johnfontaine [at] bobsoldout.com

This month the electronic Tough Love mailbag was a little skimpy and I think I know what happened.  You, Dear Readers, sat down to write your deepest, toughest love questions so that you might hear the thoughts of John Fontaine, noted pulp fiction writer and real man of the world.  In so doing you began to realize how small your problems really are in comparison with the stature of the real man of the world you are asking, a noted pulp fiction writer no less, that suddenly your problems weren’t even worth mentioning.  “Who am I to bother Mr. John Fontaine, noted pulp fiction writer and real man of the world, what with my comparatively inconsequential problems?” you thought.  And so right there I’ve solved most of the world’s problems for most of you out there, helping you realize how small and insignificant you are and therefore how little your problems actually matter.

But as a real man of the world I also know that the people with the biggest problems are the ones without any problems at all, since they are obviously so out of touch with reality.  What I mean to say is this: If you don’t have any problems, then you have a problem with me, John Fontaine, noted pulp fiction writer and real man of the world, and you can write to me and tell me all about it, answered in the order received.

jf, npfw, rmotw
johnfontaine [at] bobsoldout.com

Dear Merriam-Webster, Incorporated,

I was recently perusing one of your fine dictionary products recently and was shocked to find a missing entry somewhere between the words “font” and “fontanel.”  I thought that perhaps my copy was just misprinted or maybe I was the victim of a singular conspiracy against me, but I went to the local dictionary store and discovered that those, too, are incomplete.  If the grievousness of your error hasn’t quite hit you yet, let me introduce myself: My name is Mr. John Fontaine, noted pulp fiction writer and real man of the world.

As a noted pulp fiction writer I am the hub of many literary and learnèd circles and I can assure you personally that the term “Fontaine” has come into common usage to mean “an especially worldly and yet somehow accessible and most clever fellow,” as in, “that extraordinarily worldly and yet somehow accessible and most clever fellow over there is a real Fontaine.”  Or, in jest, you might say of someone who is a bit dull, “a Fontaine he is most certainly not!”  Said with the right sort of Fontaine-timing and in a sort of mocking tone, you will certainly get a hardy laugh.  I would also expect to find the term “Fontaine-esque,” which is quickly coming into use as the adjective form of my surname.

Ask anyone on staff to search his or her personal library and I’m sure there will be more than enough copies of photos of me on dust jackets to use in the next volume of the corrected edition of your otherwise fine publication.

Thank you for welcoming my petition.  Remember: It’s okay to make mistakes.  The important thing is, especially when one’s mistakes are so obvious, to correct them as quickly as time permits.  The longer you wait, the more embarrassing it is for all of us.

Yours most truly,

Mr. John Fontaine
npfw, rmotw
johnfontaine [at] bobsoldout.com

I woke-up from a nap in my hammock yesterday and looked at my hand and was hit by an epiphany, which is that fingers are actually just little arms when you think about it.  That first knuckle is like your shoulder, and the next is like a little elbow, and then you have a little wrist, and the pads of your fingers are sort of like the palms of your hands, except without any fingers attached to them.  So then it occurred to me how useful it would be if fingers did have little fingers attached to them, especially in terms of grasping things like cherry tomatoes or cashews.  Hammering nails might be more difficult though, because you’re just giving the hammer more fingers to smash.  On the other hand, you could probably hold the nails better.

jf, npfw, rmotw
johnfontaine [at] bobsoldout.com

After my Valentine’s Day Note was published here at Bobsoldout.com, I received a lot of electronic fan mail letters in my electronic mailbox that read something like this:

Dear Mr. John Fontaine,

I am a longtime reader and first time writer, and I have to tell you that I love your pulp fiction for which you are so duly noted.  But the real reason I write to you today is because of your wonderful Valentine’s Day Note that you published there at Bobsoldout.com.

[Personal anecdote about love problem, followed by desperate pleas for my thoughts, how I'm not only a noted pulp fiction writer but also a real man of the world, etc. etc., thanks in advance]

Yours sincerely and thanks (in advance) again,
[Name withheld]

Now I thought, I’m a generous man of the world, I have gifts in the ways of love to contribute to the world-at-large, but as every real writer knows the first thing you need before you start writing anything is a title.  So what should I call my new advice column to answer all of the world’s tough love questions?  Then it hit me — “Tough Love.”

Now I know what many of you are thinking — I should change the name of the column to something that reflects my street smarts, like, “Tuff Luv,” or maybe “Xtreme Luv,” or something with the letter Z.  And truth be told a younger John Fontaine might even agree with you — see, for example, my essay titled “I’m not going to let your Fascistionary dictate how I spill things,” or my book, Tie Kilt Ghoti (pronounced like “She Killed Fish” and not to be confused with the next book in that series, Thai, Kilt, Goatee.)  But I’m not going to change the title, not because I believe in the necessity of standardized spelling or the logic of etymology, but because everyone already knows how street smart I am and I don’t want to seem braggy.

Anyway, your Tough Love questions will be answered in the order received, the last Sunday of every month.

jf, npfw, rmotw
johnfontaine [at] bobsoldout.com

I woke up this morning to the sounds of the mouse who lives in my ceiling and I got to thinking about what this mouse’s morning routine must be like.  I imagined him making very small cups of coffee, reading a very small newspaper, and standing over a very small stove frying a very small egg.  Of course this lead me to thinking about the very small chickens he must have cooped up there, and the thought of this mouse breeding his own animals suddenly became very disturbing to me.  The sheer amount of time and effort it would take to breed chickens that small is mind-boggling in itself, especially given the life expectancy of mice, even ones who live soft lives in the ceiling, drinking their morning coffee and reading the paper.  And the smallness of the eggs — the mouse must’ve been frying at least 4 or 5 of them just to make a single, reasonably mouse-sized omelet.  I could probably eat over 100 of them.

And then you consider how smart this mouse is — after all, he’s bred a new type of chicken and subscribes to at least one print media publication (that we know about) — and you realize that perhaps a certain Warner Brothers cartoon was not much of an exaggeration, and perhaps it’s only a matter of time.

jf, npfw
johnfontaine [at] bobsoldout.com

After my second wife — the one I really loved and would have married sooner if my first wife hadn’t made such a poor decision in agreeing to marry me first (which was part of the settlement — she admits she made a terrible decision and gets the rights to most of my early work) — left me, I didn’t think I’d ever love again.  But then my second wife (who shall remain nameless, as per my attorney’s advice) pointed out that I was in love with myself (her keen observations are part of why I fell in love with her in the first place) to which I responded, “Well if I’m so in love with myself why don’t I just go ahead and marry me?” which is the last thing I ever said to her, unless you count voicemails, which I’m still convinced she didn’t receive, despite what the court order may claim.

So anyway I tried to take my second wife’s advice (as any loyal husband would) and went down to the courthouse (I had been married twice already and I didn’t want a big ceremony) and filled out all the forms and turned them into the clerk who eyed me suspiciously and said, “Sir, is this a joke or do you and your spouse-to-be really have the exact same name, address, and date of birth?”  I explained as calmly as passion allowed that it was most certainly not a joke, that I was in love and I wanted the world to know it and the state to recognize it.  And that’s all I’ll say about that situation pending the outcome of my lawsuit, but I remain optimistic.

Also I’d like to remind you that John Fontaine novels make a great Valentine’s Day gift for someone you love or just for yourself, especially anything published in about the last 10 years or so.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

jf, npfw
johnfontaine [at] bobsoldout.com

I sent out a few proofs of the second draft of my new book, Cows, Cowards, Cowboys, and Vampires: The Rise of Count Cowcula, and so far all responses have been positive.  A noted pulp fiction writer even calls it “A meaty book you won’t be able to put down,” and I can imagine Flann O’Brien calling it “the pig’s whiskers.”  Here’s another excerpt*:

Hot damn was it ever summer in the country and the heat was hitting Count Cowcula , hard, like a ton of bricks in a pizza oven.  Private Intelligence Cow had just returned from intentionally building urban relationships, disguised as a stray cow, and had some very delicious news for the other moosquitoes.

“Hear me, bovampires,” he lowly declared.  “There is an urban orphanage nearby, filled with defenseless children.  Their tender hearts are filled with children’s blood!”

Count Cowcula immediately understood Private Intelligence Cow’s intentions, and announced, “We feed in the heat of tonight!”

***

Cayhill Orphanage Works was just shutting down for a good night’s rest.  The sweet orphans were all tucked into their beds, and Gary and Melinda, primary caretakers, were winding down with bourbon, ice, and soda, in that order.

“I really enjoy our job,” Gary said.  “We’re really, really good people.”

“It’s true,” said Melinda.  “Now let’s make sweet virtuous love together.”

Gary barely had time to sexily consent before they were making love all over each other like hot syrup on hot pancakes, which is probably why neither thought to close the window.  The same window that a certain band of moosquitoes would soon use to float through.

***

The last words Gary would ever utter were, “No, not you, too, stray cow from the petting zoo!  I never should’ve believed you!”

*Earlier in the book I explain that bovampires cowmoonicate with each other through a series of vigorous grunts and stomping.  The following bovampire dialogue should be considered a loose translation only.

The response to my letter about my dear Grandfather Grandpa has literally flooded my electronic mail’s inbox like gasoline floods a car’s engine. Where the gasoline is coming from, I don’t know, but I am sincerely afraid my computer machine is going to explode. So I’ll make this short because the mechanic can’t make it over until after 6 and I’m already craving my menthols. We’re already a month into the new year — out with the aughts and in with the 10s as they say — and my publisher is already telling me that Count Cowcula needs to be more believable or it won’t sell; I’m telling my publisher to be more specific about what, exactly, is so unbelievable about cow vampires, because if those little cow horns aren’t a mark of the beast then I don’t know what is; and I better be getting paid soon whether it goes to print or not because we have a contract and I’ve already spent most of the money they haven’t even given me yet.

These fumes are getting to my head. More anon.

jf, npfw
johnfontaine [at] bobsoldout.com

First, Mr. John Fontaine, noted pulp fiction writer, has decided to call his weekly column “John Fontaine Presents…”  He says that our first-ever reader poll is arbitrary and that he picked the name “John Fontaine Presents…” because it makes him feel like he has a special type of gift associated with his name, as in, “I didn’t know what to get my family for the holidays this year, but then I found out about John Fontaine presents.”

Also, we finally received the first said column from Mr. Fontaine, which we reprint here, in full and unedited, as promised and contractually obligated:

Dear Loyal John Fontaine Presents… Readers,

I write to you today in the epistolary style of my grandfather, Grandpa Fontaine, man of letters.  More specifically he worked for the postal service, delivering mail.  But I distinctly remember letters always swirling around him, and now in retrospect I think he really must’ve been stealing them.  His name, Grandpa, didn’t serve him well in his youth, but rest assured was something he grew into, like a good pair of shoes.

I tell you these things because so many readers have been electronically-mailing me questions about how I got started as a writer, and the answer is that Grandpa Fontaine, man of letters, was my first inspiration.  The man believed in pen and paper, in the ink that ran like blood on a page, in the living space created between the literal and the metaphorical, and should he still be alive today he would surely be flabbergasted by all this electronic mail going around, all ephemeral, all non-physical, and all un-stealable.

Every night before I fell asleep at Grandpa Grandpa’s house he would read me letters from all over the world, full of characters and references that neither of us understood, and we would laugh and cry and imagine possibilities.  Of course now that I think about it the letter stealing must’ve been connected to his habit of shoplifting.  If I had been a bit older perhaps I could’ve helped him; he was so slow by the time he finally got caught I’m really not sure how it didn’t happen sooner.

Yours most truly,

John Fontaine
Noted pulp fiction writer
JohnFontaine [at] bobsoldout.com