"When Bikers Meet Humans" is a book I wrote and self-published. Self-publishing is something I had to learn. Over and above learning to write. This is all a story, or stories, in itself, or in themselves.
But what I want to talk about is the finished product. 500 of the finished product were created.
Copies are being resold on the internet for far more than the cover price of thirteen dollars and thirteen cents.
Here is the problem with this: if you sell it then you don't have it anymore. It doesn't bother me that people can make a big profit from this book. What bothers me is that they would consider a monetary profit superior to the profit of reading it over and over again.
I read one of the stories in it last night. I couldn't put it down. "When Bikers Meet Humans" is a godsend to anyone who can wrangle a copy. They will have entertainment and delightfulness for life. Until the day someone pokes their eyes out. Then they will have nothing. Including no eyesight.
I was reading the story about where the biker club, The Sloths, goes to the Los Angeles County Fair.
I couldn't believe it. It was relentless and yet majestic. I was up until 3AM. "No one can possibly be this funny for this long" was what I kept saying. But I was wrong. Somebody can be. I can be that funny for that long.
And yet the few people who have a copy sell their copy. It's like selling a child: it seems wrong. I mean, maybe it really isn't, but, like child-selling, it seems like it is. But, like child-selling, hey, maybe it isn't.
Anyway, that's today's post. thank you. Oh, and fuck you! Thanks again.