10. Disco Punk
You gotta fucking promise not to tell anyone, but I’d always liked disco. Disco was my first choice. I loved the way the Bee Gees sang. That song ‘Night Fever’ made me feel wonderful, and girlish inside. I was heavily into disco before I shifted my appearance to try to blend into the crowd a little better. But there was a navy blue polyester disco suit in my closet back home. I got into the roots of hip-hop as well. Kurtis Blow, the Sugar Hill Gang, Grandmaster Flash. They were incredible. The combination of disco beats and spoken word just took everything up a level that had been missing for a long time.
Broken glass everywhere
People pissing on the stage
You know they just don’t care
I can’t take the smell
Can’t take the noise
Got no money to move out
I guess I got no choice
Rats in the front room
Roaches in the back
Junkies in the alley
With a baseball bat
I tried to get away
But I couldn’t get far
‘Cause a man with a truncheon
Repossessed my car
Don’t push me ’cause I’m close to the edge
I’m trying not to lose my head
It’s like a jungle
Sometimes it makes me wonder
How I keep from going under
Uh hu-hu-hu
I completely related to the blank, lonesome tones of disco, every bit as much as I related to the disco beats and blank rhymes of rap lyrics. As a kid, in my suit, with a hairbrush for a mic, dancing and singing along in my room I could move myself to tears. I was aching inside, and ‘Freebird’ just meant nothing to me. ‘Stairway to heaven’ reminded me of being next in the hands of a curvy babysitter who just couldn’t leave my little body alone. Her boyfriend liked it too. So rock said nothing to me. Rock fucking sucked.
But disco and rap were not socially acceptable. I think I was one of three or four people I ever met who had the balls to admit that they liked disco when it was a commercially successful form of music. Punk came along and cleared all the cobwebs away. Like a bullshit detector going off on top of the television, you couldn’t ignore it, and it was loud. If I had never tried to blend into the “stoners” at school, I don’t think I would have undertaken the path of a punk. For all their big talk, heavy eyelids, and trippy music, the social order of things was really pretty much the same as the jocks, or the nerds. We just operated outside the loop. We were physically away from the rest of the people, but it was the same crap. Blake was the cutest, Tommy was the meanest, and Brian was the biggest. Everyone else was a secondary character. Same was true for the ladies. Margie was the meanest, and the prettiest, Diane was the hardest and best connected, and that was that. Anyone else was secondary, out of the question. And if they put on too much light blue eye shadow, or over frosted their feathered hair, then there was going to be a fucking girl fight, because that slut didn’t know who she was messing with, ok? What a bore.
So in every way, Punk medi-vac’ed me out of the cesspool and into the sewage treatment plant. It gave me a reason to live.
Of course that didn’t account for Alissa and her sister, or their friends. They would listen to funk, and a new kind of disco from England. They wore crazy makeup, and flowing pants, pretty scarves, and their shiny bangs would flop over their romantic eyes in a coy gesture at will. They went dancing. They would show up on the Avenue the next day exhausted, often still high from the night before, but happy. They were the only people I’d ever met who would smile freely and laugh about things that weren’t angry, or malicious. ‘Course they also liked punk rock, and generally mixed in with the same crowd of people that I did.
What began as me making vicious and angry fun of these girl’s affection for Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, ended in getting down to some serious disco and funk with them in my jack boots. It turned out that there were parties all over the city, and sometimes in Berkeley, where people would just play twelve-inch dance singles and everyone would dance. It was mainly girls. Girls liked to dance. And I went wherever the girls were. So I’d let them drag me down to the social, and I’d stand there for an hour with my arms folded, watching these women with mohawks, bandannas tied around their arms, cowboy boots, spiked belts and wrist bands shake their thangs together. The quality of drugs here were a lot more experimental and interesting too. I tried my first doses of Seconol, Deladed, Darvon, MDA, and Quaaludes at these parties.
I would pout in the corner, defiantly refusing to openly enjoy the music, my friends would dance over and flirt with me. I really liked that, but it would only go so far unless I agreed to join them on the dance floor. Eventually someone would arouse me enough to get me dancing, and for a little while I’d get into it. Holding my arms up in the air, and moving my hips to the music. I got lifted by it, but only for a little while.
Suzie or Becki would be the ones I usually attached myself to. They were pretty girls, and they loved to dance, but they had a shyness about them that I really liked. But once I got on the dance floor, they would start spending their energy flirting with other guys who weren’t dancing. I’d stop dancing and go back to pouting, Alissa would come over and say “Come on!” or something encouraging, but the girls I liked best would never come back. Sometimes I would dance all night. But that was usually drug induced. I could never sustain a night of disco and funk without ending up mortally self-conscious and feeling sorry for myself.
The promise of sexual exchange, or some further exploration of something hinted at in the flirtation to get me out on the dance floor was flat, and rarely developed further. I made better time laying unconscious on the women’s bathroom floor at the On Broadway.
But disco re entered my life. It was a secret. I liked it a lot. When no one was in the record store I worked for, I would ask the guys behind the counter to put on all kinds of songs and albums. We all liked it really. But then when a customer would come in, the disco would come screeching off the platter, and a punk album would replace it as fast as possible.
“What’s this shit?” They’d ask if we got caught.
“Some bullshit.”
“Disco sucks man.”
“Totally.”
The two worlds were closer together than any ordinary punk rocker would probably admit to. We shared the same clubs, for the most part. Most punk clubs either were bankrupt, or part time discotheques, and sex clubs. With the exception of the Mab, which was a restaurant, Tenth Street Hall and the Temple, which were both churches, in the late seventies and early eighties, I rocked out; disco danced, and had sex with strangers in the same clubs on different nights.
The sound of music was a 100% sleaze bag disco. It made no pretenses about it either. They were a disco club with a capital “D.” Glitter decorated the ceiling, a mirror ball spun in the middle of the room, and all the photographs on the wall were of disco singers, and disco bands who had performed there. It was a tiny little place, barely held two hundred people, and the backstage area was about the size of a Pacific Heights walk in closet that opened up into a 12-car parking lot. Down on Turk Street, in the tenderloin, you could make some money off the guys at the corner, sell your bad drugs to the tourists, and then slip into the back door of the sound of music without paying and check out the Undead, or some other band.
We were like ghost ships passing silently on a party pier. People would get on and off of the barges, as long as they were close to the dock. But no one was going on for the whole ride in either direction. Even if they wanted to, they wouldn’t survive the trip.
Although many would actually try. Seeing Dennis years later walking up University Avenue without his teeth, and dating a fourteen-year-old girl was one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen. No more unpleasant than watching all of my friends who blended blood, needles, sperm, veins, mucus membranes, and instincts with anyone and everyone, begin to blow away in the bald and unforgiving sunlight of the following decade. Men, women and children who were calling for life. Longing to finally fucking live. They died.
These ships were ghost ships. It didn’t matter if Sylvester or The Sleepers were playing, not many people would find the lifeboats. And even if they did, it didn’t guarantee that anyone would get out alive.
Soundtrack:
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five ‘The Message’
flash player required
56 Comments
thank you for sharing these chapters…i’ve really love reading them and I look forward to more.
Love!
Thank you for your response.
I’ve written this book already. This is the rewrite process (the first one anyhow.)
It’s slow, because I rewrite as i go, sometimes removing huge parts of the work, other times expanding into totally new areas.
I’m ok with how it’s coming along.
Your appreciation, as my sister and friend, means a lot to me.
thanks.
sunshine,..
keep writing, and i will keep reading.
these stories are amazing.
it’s really heavy shit. vivid, the part
in chapter 5 about the first time
shooting up in the shower. it made me
queezy, and i don’t get queezy easily.
i really respect your writing and your
honesty in shareing these stories so
openly.
thank you.
I hope, in and among the heavy shit, you’ve got some perspective and are able to laugh too. It’s true, most of this is the abolute worst of my life. But there’s a lot of love in my writing, forgiveness, and hope. I hope you are laughing along with me, even if you are horrified or disturbed.
we’ll see.
1311 more chapters to rewrite.s.
sunshine,
your writing is filled with perspective.
you’ve got me laughing, singing, smileing,
sad, happy, forgiveing and hopeing. it’s as if
i was following you around while it was going down.
all i’m saying is i can feel the love in the stories.
no worries.
love
gino.
Now if only i could actually say what it is i want to say, the way i want to say it without a non-stop-run-on-sentence, we’d really be making some progress.
style=content
s.
Reading this memoir (I’ve read through chapter 8: ‘Call Home’ so far) is so interesting for me. It boggles my mind that you were out having these experiences while I was at home being a little girl. I have spotty images of you as a ‘punk’, but it never ceases to amaze me how little I know of your history. Your experiences. Your trip (both kinds). How carefully sheilded I was from the reality of the situation.
That all being said. ‘Call Home’ made me cry. I love that chapter.~~Another thing I love is when you’re telling the story and then you suddenly admit that that’s not the way it really happened. I remember you once told me you used to make up stories that were completely not true and to be honest, I’ve done that too, so I relate to rearranging events and making them work out better in your imagination. It’s a great writing tool for you!
I love the honesty, the unapologetic voice, you’re using to tell this story.
Thank you! I’ll keep reading…
*a.
Meaning comes from contrast. What is a good existence?
The sociopath lacks any conscience at all and lives inverted; their life the opposite of meaning, a black hole, sucking pieces of other lives into the bottomless chasm. Evil.
The schizophrenic falls out of reality or never enters it, and lives doomed to an infinite spectrum of secret meanings that can’t be validated. We give them medication, trying to help them find some kind of contrast.
Finally, an existence more ironic than all others.
The one who strives and yearns to always do the right thing, to please, every breath hoping, that they are a good person, yearning for meaning through purity. Perpetually striving to burn off the impure within. Any weight to even the small inevitable mistakes and rebellions simply evaporates; a puff of smoke incinerated by the never-ending guilt, the screaming hypocrisy. Purity isn’t goodness. Purity is nothing. This one never existed at all.
Blessed are the contrasted.
Nate, that’s beautifully said.
impressive.
I’m going to spend some time re reading and reflecting on your words.
Thank You.
s.
sunshine, fyi.
some people are signifigantly more resistant to HIV than other people.
interesting stuff. specially bout the needles.
i cant stand needles now.
very interesting, very cool (is that the right word?)
erich
Well, Thankfully it seems I was in and then out of the IV Drug world before patient zero arrived.
I have no idea why i don’t have AIDS or HIV. I was seriously depressed about that for many years. Felt that i should be dead, while other, much more wonderful people should be alive.
I have forgiven myself, and today I count my lucky (fucking) stars.
It’s hard, i think, for a young person of today to relate to what the hell we were thinking in the late 70′s. It was truly another time altogether.
However, I am deeply grateful that we can relate so much better today than we could then. The disparity between decades was so vast and impossible to breech.
It’s better now in so many ways.
Even if there is a Bush in the whitehouse. It’s still better.
I’m done.
(with the second re write)
I’ve read it all now. And as I sit here alone, fighting tears from running down my face, I simply feel so supremely grateful that you are here, alive, and are my family, my friend.
While I cannot imagine how cathartic it may have been for you to write (re-write and publish it here) it has also been cathartic for me to read. I understand you more now. Understand why you tell me certain things. Adivse me in certain ways. And I am even more proud now to have you as my brother than I was before. Because you’re really fucking brave and wonderful!
A Third revision is now reposted here. I went through and corrected all the spelling, grammar, syntax, and tense issues that I could find.
A few things were revised, other lines added, and a few portions removed. I also included an incomplete errata section. So if you have questions about language, frame of reference, or slang used in the work, let me know and i’ll add it to the errata portion at the end.
I have a .pdf of this now too if someone preferrs to read things in a different way.
Draft 2 technical revision 3 is now complete.
sunshine,
this was an amazing read. i feel
like i know you on a different level
now. i’m not sure how to explain it,
or if those are the right words.
i am so happy to have met you
and to be able to call you a friend.
again, thank you so much for shareing
these memories.
love,
gino.
Thanks Gino and Ali,
I really, really appreciate your input.
Sunshine,
I have a freind who I belive would love to read your book.
His name is Tomas. We met about 13 years ago when he came to Amsterdam. He is a light engineer for parties. Before coming to amsterdam he moved from a smalltown on the Swedish coast to Big town Stockholm. There he got into contact with punk culture.
Our conversations often come to this period but i have little knowledge or experience about and with punk culture, nor such a ‘life period’. I think he’ll really relate to your book
Tomas not having internet, it would be great if you could email me that pdf file. If this is to far fetched for you, i’ll understand. But i think we can make someone happy here
Joera
Joera,
It’s at the end of appendix II, at the bottom of the page.
Dear Sunshine,
I started reading your memoir today and didn’t stop until the end. It’s some of the most engaging writing I’ve read in some time. All I can say is…wow! What a story. In some ways it cetainly did take me back; it has been a long time since I’ve heard mention of Martha and the Muffins or Japan, or a number of the other artists I used to listen to as in the early-80s. At one point you mention this as fiction, but in most of your comments you discuss it as autobiographical. That has left me a little unclear…these are your memoirs? Anyway, it sure is a compelling story. What’s next?
Thanks for sharing your thoughts,
Astral
I’ve corrected a few pretty awkward paragraphs today, and reloaded the .pdf file with revision 3b instead of the old Rev 2. Just too many errors in the pdf to leave it up here with any degree of pride or good feelings.
Enjoy the corrections.
i miss the pics in the chapter headings in the pdf.
me too.
The online version is much better.
: )
FYI: While I’d prefer to talk about this book here, there’s also a thread about it over on the imperial DUB message board. That’s located here
One very minor thing. I really liked the song samples, and when I would get to the bottom it was nice to listen while finishing up the end of the chapter. Then I would move on to the next and the sample would stop, and I was too anxious to keep reading to go back and listen to the whole track. If the sample was listed at the top of the chapter, then it would make for good background music while reading. I’ve never read a whole book online before, but sure was drawn in to your tale.
You know, I felt that the “soundtrack” was essential. And i toiled over how to present it. I thought about adding the music at the head of the chapter, and realized that it was difficult to read while listening. Next i thought of only including the music in the musicology section at the end, but that would alientate the songs, isolate them and leave them hanging out back for no real reason.
Finally, i felt that adding them at the end was best. When you are done reading the chapter, you can sit a minute and just listen. Sometimes it’s irony, but most of the time it’s release.
That’s what i was thinking anyway.
s.
i have a couple of friends in boston that were in to the punk scene here when they were growing up and i let them know about the book. just wanted to let you know that they’re both enjoying it and tellign their friends too!
erin
Well, it has been a long time. Thanks Mr. Shine. The time we spend on this planet is a human journey. We interact with others, take obsevations and construct patterns. Style, economy, hopelessness, biology, cities, come and go. At the root of it are our connections with others. The reflections we see of ourselves in those on TV, in person, in a book, over the phone. China today, or perhaps Central Asia, is the place of new emerging art and social condition. Yet, the old west, the Transbay Terminal, the blue jeans, the United States, from Douglas MacArthur to Sally Mutant, are worth recording, and examining – All before the environmental and economic collapse. Still connection and a shoulder to lean on make it worth it. Girls, boys, love, music, drama, sly eyes, and the beat beat beat make it real.
Love, -Peter
Peter,
you are stealthily buried in there too. disguised under your former psudonym. i wanted to tell the story of the night that i snorted all the rest of the speed off your living room table so that the yucky girl i’d been with all night wouldn’t do it, but i felt i’d described my state of mind well enough to leave that out.
Also, fine a fellow as you have always been, there just wasn’t a lesson to learn or point to make about people like you who were (or seemed to be) wise, and thoughtful, enjoying themselves and never terribly judgmental.
That and a fucking great artist!
I’m saving the blossoms for the next book. It’s begun…
Hope you enjoyed this read, and found mercy, and all the love i put into it.
I wrote it very specifically for you, and all of us who chose some of the more difficult paths.
love,
Sunshine
i really enjoyed reading this.
Thanks, Sunshine!! :)
I’m loving the book so far.
I really hope you keep writing.
-jason
** reprinted here in part from another entry. Placed into context for the benefit of those who come to links here, and read without browsing the rest of the journal. **
I am the ex-bass player, not singer, of Animal Things. This is not my superhero status. I read what S. Jones wrote about me and am pleased that my maternal instinct has been consistant…I have a three year old son, Emilio, and based on the parenting I got I’ve wondered how it is I know how to be a good one. We can react to what we didn’t get and provide it, or we can live an unexamined life and just pass the shit on. Who are you S. Jones?
Tresca
Wow…
I’m so blown away to hear from you.
Not only did I miss spell your name, but I forgot that you were the Bass player…. Of course you were.
[color=green]/* slaps forehead */[/color]
I will write.
Thank you for your reply.
I just re-read the piece…amazed that it was edited so swiftly….but the part about your accent..the fake british one…i remember you! I just started writing a memoir of sorts…memory is so strange…it almost doesn’t matter what actually happened, but how it made us feel..or how we interpreted it. ….which is based on our hardwired, yet hormonally fluctuating neurochemical responses, formed of course by previous experiences which may or may not have happened..etc….etc…I have basically gleaned from what I’ve read that you are in the city with a wife and child..or children. I didn’t read much, but want to know more. How old are /is your child/ren? What gender and name? What do you do? WHY is your name sunshine? The last time I took lsd was a long time ago..my friend Brad asked how much I wanted….in an offhand way without turning around i said, “whatever you’re having”…that turned out to be an awful lot. Twelve hours later I could actually see enough through the patterns to make out two enormous cats laying on top of me….they were sitting on me as if I were a warm dryer….just purring in time with my vibe…soaking it up, staring intently into my face. Several hours later Brad, Peeyok, and a couple of members of the Sea Hags took me out to the beach on the west side of the Golden Gate bridge. They buried me in the sand for safety and frolicked with dogs.It was two full days at least before i could get on a bus back to the east bay. I truly thought I would never come down….that i had flipped the irreversible switch. My mom asked why I didn’t call her to pick me up when I told her later….I realized I never thought of her as someone who I could depend on for help. I loved her but… That was in the late eighties. Ok, I have to ask again: why is your name Sunshine? Tell me more, Tresca
I wrote you back.
Right… that was me. A melodramatic poseur all the way… faked it until it was real.
Those were the days!
If you’re looking for any party fun from the past, check the bottom of the second to the last page of the book. There’s a link there to a group on tribe.net that I started. Lots of people from the past. I already posted in there about having heard from you.
Wonderful that you are alive, and well, and seem to be thriving!!!!
But of course you are.
: )
Chapter 5 really hit close to the heart for me. I have spent 7 years of my life fighting that monkey on my back. I had a child and that is what made me stop, but the urge is still there and will always be. I love your writing. It may seem dark but it is inspirational if you look deeply into it.
I really enjoyed the “war stories” from the early SF Punk scene.I remember a guy named jake action who used to get every high on huge metal bottles he carried in a truck to shows.The first real high in the punk scene was black beauties and whatever booze was available. I played in punk bands in SJ and went to SF for lot of early shows. The Mab, On Broadway, 10th street hall, the Elite club. It all seemed very agro going into it, but everyone did care for each other. Razors, chains & spikes maybe, but in those days if you fell down on the pit, people helped you up. I think the suburbanation of the scene, the unflux of jock mentality kind of ruined the scene for me. That, and trying Herion. Funny after all these years, I may be playing in a new band with Rockin’ Rick and Johnny Genocide.
GASP! is that you? Don’t ask how I got here but I am glad I did! Lets see if you remember….. I am so clad that somebody took the time and effort to do this…yes oh boy which bathroom was worse? The one at target video or the one at the Mutants????
Jennifer
Jennifer,
baby, i met you in the bathroom at 10th street hall… remember?
Biff, if you need a bass player, or a sound engineer, let me know.
I’d love to see you guys again.
I don’t expect you’ll remember me; I was part of that extended Telegraph scene so long ago and so far away. I was going out with Juliet Harris when I knew you. I discovered your memoir and I’ve been sitting here at work reading and reading, at first (I admit) looking for people and places I knew (not so hard, since that scene wasn’t so big) and then just getting into the whole story and the dead-on descriptions (for a minute there I swear it was 1981 and I was with my girlfriend in the bathroom at the 10th street hall snorting a punk dime of bad meth out of the same bag at the same time with McDonald’s straws). I’m looking forward to enjoying it in its entirety at my leisure. But I’m glad to see the punch line is that you’re happy. And congratulations on your son. I have two kids; Juliet has a really cool son. Who’d have thought we’d all grow up?
Benjie,
I totally remember you. Couldn’t forget your calm, and gentle face.
I agree, it’s bizzarre that we’re alive, and it’s actually pretty fucking cool.
: )
That’s not the way I remember it…..
25 + years is a long time Maudy. what the fuck do I know?
Probably even less than I think…
Nice to see a sign that you’re alive my friend. So nice!
“They just couldn’t keep up with our decline.” Such crisp, clear, elegant writing!
It puts me right back there, only this time with context.
It was different, being a young-and-small-but-tough-enough girl, especially one who initially did the reverse-commute to run away from SF. I wasn’t aware yet that some-somewhat-coherent-one or two or three were sort of watching my back, and neither was Carol, but it turns out I could fight girls just as well as I could fight whichever skinheads were lame enough to pick on me in the first place.
I never quite got the beer-at-the-tennis-courts culture, and was never invited into it – though I imbibed plenty of other things one-on-one with most of the cohort (the gender thing, I’m guessing). It’s great to [read] that Benjie’s doing well. I wonder what became of Corky, of the Speed Queens. And Julie, who apeared one day from Lawrence, KS and who taught me one of life’s toughest lessons, by demonstration. And Vonda, and Summer, and Oliver, and the fabulous Buttfest sisters. Some souls still seem exactly the same, and seeing them on the street kind of sets me in a tailspin: once the jailbaitiest of punk rock jailbait, witnessing that intertia makes me feel so, so old.
Thanks for putting that whole scene in such a clear, shifted perspective.
Jessica,
You have a very nice blog, photoblog, travelog, and biolog yourself. I really appreciate your photos, and the commentary.
I remember Julie from Lawrence Kansas, I actually have a really funny picture of my sneering my head off with her in a headlock. She’s calm, shaved headed and you would think I wasn’t even in the picture.
You didn’t miss anything at the tennis courts. Maybe some of my vomit, and a lot of Johnny Puke’s non stop talking and laughter.
I don’t think it was a gender thing… In those days, the first blossoms of our advanced stages of alcoholism, we were mainly more preoccupied by how much there was to drink, and how frustrating it was that it was never enough.
I’m so glad to see your politics refine and define themselves and that you have embarked upon a journey of productive and insightful revolution beyond self-destruction.
I’m so glad you are alive.
Yes…I’m alive..and well…and so is Nina…You should come and play with us one day!
WOW! I just finished the paperback version last night. The book was riveting, raw, and deeply depressing, but somehow uplifting at the same time, if that makes any sense. I have absolutely no experience with the punk scene whatsoever, so the journey was especially incredible. You book gave me so much to think about. So beautiful to see so much love rise from so much angst and sorrow. We are moving ourselves so time is scarce lately, but I’m excited to see I popped in just in time for the rewrite. Looking forward to getting the chance to check it out.
much love
Hey Fee.
I’m so glad you read the book. You know, after some behind the scenes difficulty with the content of this book I lost momentum. A few people read the book half expecting a history book, or maybe a modern politically correct view of the past, my past. I realized after being accused of sexism and homophobia that I hadn’t put this book together correctly.
I mean to say that you don’t see any insight until you get to the end. How could you? I made every effort to present my state of mind in that moment without any apologies. The idea being that my experience as a punk, with all those people was that of a sociopath, a liar, a broken child with a lot of problems struggling to work it out. And not as a condemnation of punk rock, or society, or anyone else, but rather a kind of a celebration of how punk rock actually saved my life.
How other peope had other points of view, other behavior, but I was almost entirely unaware of them. Unwilling, and unable to hear them, or to learn from them.
A friend of mine is reading the book now, and we talked about it last night. I stayed up late re reading it. I haven’t picked it up in some time. It was good to read it again. I’m not sure where to begin with the re write. But I can see how it needs a complete reworking, and intend to give myself to that project.
Mod is nearly ready for presentation. I may wait to rewrite until all three books are done.
I couldn’t get it to come up on line, so I ordered my own copy. I would rather read it like that anyway.
How come you couldn’t get it to come up? Can you explain exactly what the trouble was? Maybe something’s wrong I’m not aware of…
OK, this is very strange, becaust thismornig, I was able to pull it up, but yesterday said something like “sorry such and such cant be found”
dunnoe
but I am happy to have a copy, or will be rather.
weird…
but what exactly was the problem? like, the page wasn’t found??
yeah, there was nothing except
sorry your document can’t be found
but I found it today.
good!
: )
Wow.
Incredible story.
You have no idea how much I enjoyed reading this, because I really enjoy the punk music/lifestyle and this was just amazing for me.
Is there any chance you’re selling your book in a store like Coles or Chapters or some store like that?
I’d do anything to own this book.
Thank you, so much for this.
I must have more.
Alex, you can buy this book in paperback at lulu press.
For more info follow this link:
http://sunshine-jones.com/inprint/