Wednesday, August 5, 2015



Saturday, August 29th
3 to 5

Guedo's Cantina Grille
71 E Chandler Blvd, Chandler, Arizona 85225
(480) 899-7841

* Get a complementary Guedo's Taco with your copy of THEM APPLES.
* TV's Real Eastate Rockstar, Ty Lusk, will be on hand to keep us entertained.
* Guedo's Tacos (aka Mexican Soul Food) are the best tacos on the planet.
* HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES is a collection of stories about Bill Snyder's 29 years in the teaching biz.
We're talking' good book, good tacos, and who a whole lotta Ty Lusk fun!

Bill's Contact Info: 480-374-0189

Guedo's World Famous Taco Shop in Chandler. Guedo's Taco Shop is the recipient of the New Times award for "the Best Taco in Phoenix," and Guedo's ain't even in Phoenix. That's how good Guedo's Tacos are!

Ty Lusk, the Real Estate Rock star is Chandler's best loved entertainer, but don't get the idea that he's a ham-and-egger. Ty has opened for the Doobie Brothers, Diana Ross, and James Taylor. Even more impressive, he played my Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son Book and Haircut Book Signing at Papa Joe's Barbershop in 2012. I know, HUUUUUUGE! Ty has a the unique ability to interact with his crowd, changing up song lyrics to fit the moment and making frequent wisecracks. I gotta tell you Ty is almost as funny as me. Okay, if were using jokes that are actually funny as a frame of reference, Ty Lusk is probably funnier than I am.

All of this rigmarole involves the launch of my new book HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES?


The comedy routine got lost in the shuffle and William Snyder’s one year gig stretched into a 29-year career that included stints teaching at inner-city schools, Catholic schools, charter schools, accommodation schools, and boys reformatories, in addition to working as a satellite TV teacher and teaching at an upper-middle-class “normal” school that turned out to be anything but normal.

William Snyder’s stories are gritty, poignant, funny, and often bizarre, honestly recounting the triumphs and disasters associated with teaching poor kids, rich kids, incarcerated kids, immigrant kids, pregnant kids, autistic kids, and just about any other kinda kid you might imagine.

“Masterfully written. Hilarious. An eye opening look at education in America.”
-Richard Rios, San Joaquin Delta College, author of Songs from the Barrio

How Do You Like Them Apples? is a thoughtful examination of the human condition that drove me into outright fits of laughter.

-Eric Tozzi, award winning director of Ray Bradbury’s Kaleidoscope

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Just Around the Corner: HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES?

Here's the front and back cover for HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES? The manuscript is being formatted. Looks like the book will release in a couple of weeks.

I'm thinking of charging two thousand clams a copy. I'm a frugal guy; all I have to do is sell 50 copies and I'm set for a couple of years.

Friday, July 24, 2015




         I parked the battered school district van in the dirt parking lot of the Gila River Indian Community headquarters. The building had the feel of an old Elks Lodge. It was tattered and weather-beaten; chunks of paint peeled up from the trim. Ominous black clouds loomed above, casting complex shadows against the Estrella Mountains.
            “You guys stay put here for a minute while I find out where the hell we are,” I shouted over my shoulder.
            “Hey Coach, did it ever cross your mind to get directions before we left the school?” David bellyached.
            The kid was compressed into the back row of the van. At six-five, he didn’t have much legroom.
            “I did get directions, David. And we’re here. This is the address and I don’t see a gym. Do you see a gym? Let me know if I’m missing something here, Dave.”
            David wasn’t even listening. His eyes were closed, and his head was bouncing up and down to the beat of his gigantic headphones. I pulled open the rickety screen door and walked into the tribal headquarters. The place smelled of damp wood, pipe tobacco, and coffee grounds. An old Indian man was reading the sports page with his feet propped up on a massive empty desk. He was whistle breathing through his nose. A Garth Brooks tune played on Camel Country Radio. The man wore thick, black-rimmed glasses, Wrangler jeans, a blue flannel shirt, and an expensive pair of snakeskin cowboy boots. He betrayed no reaction when the wooden screen door slammed shut behind me.
            “Excuse me,” I said.
            “Oh, hey,” he tossed the newspaper on the desk and stood up. “You’re the coach.”
            “Yes, I am. Bill Snyder,” I said, extending my hand.
            He took my hand softly, barely gripping it with the tips of his calloused fingers. I had come across that soft handshake with other Indian guys I’d met since moving to Arizona. I didn’t know if it was a sign of disrespect or respect or just the way Indians shook hands. It was a personal enigma.
            “Hello, young man. I’m Ned, and I’m the tribal chairman.”
            His brown face was cracked and weathered.
            “It’s an honor,” I said.
            I wasn’t kidding. I’d never met a tribal chairman before.
            “He, eh…Bill, our gym’s undergoing some repairs. You and your boys wouldn’t mind playing the game outside would you?”
            “I guess not. Can’t be much worse than our gym.”
            “Yeah, I was at your gym for the last game. You’re right, Bill. Our gym’s not that bad,” he flashed a politician’s smile. “Your gym is the worst gym I’ve ever seen.”
            The old chairman’s assessment was right on the money. The East Side Gym was a downright disgrace. Hundreds of students crowded into the building during school breaks, leaving cigarette butts, chewing tobacco, spilled soda, and soft candy squished and scattered across the badly warped wooden floor. There were dozens of holes in the roof. When it rained, and it rained a lot that year, more than twenty buckets had to be strategically placed from one end of the court to the other.
            I talked to the maintenance guy, a man who worked to avoid doing any work harder than anyone I’d ever known, about fixing the roof.
            “Can’t do it,” he told me.
            “Why’s that, Brian?”
            “It was built wrong.”
            “The gym was built wrong?”
            “And that’s why the roof leaks?”
            “That’s right, Bill.”
            “And you’re not going to fix any of the holes in the roof?”
            “Someone could get hurt.”
            “Want some advice, Bill?”
            “Why not, Brian?”
            “December, January, and February are excellent months to schedule away games,” he said, checking his watch.
            “January, February, and March. That’s the whole basketball season.”
            “Sure is, Bill.”
            The tribal chairman snatched his keys from a nail on the wall and sauntered over to the door, the floorboards creaking beneath his cowboy boots.
            “You and your boys follow me.”
            The chairman climbed into his expensive pickup, and we followed him along a dirt road and over a couple of hills to a basketball court in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The court was naked. There were no buildings in sight, just sagebrush, tumbleweeds, and a few ghostly mesquite trees. On one side of the court was a scorer’s table with a flip-card scoreboard. On the other side were three benches for a couple dozen Indian spectators. Many of them were overweight, some morbidly obese. They gave us a friendly round of applause when we climbed out of the van.
            “Hope you boys don’t mind playing outside,” one of the men shouted to us.
            There was laughter from the crowd.
            “You boys’ll want to adjust your shots ’cause there’s a wind comin’ in from the west, eh,” added a man with long hair and a T-shirt that read Fry Bread Power.
            More laughter.
            “Where do we sit, coach?” one of my players asked.
            “On the dirt—or stand, I guess.”
            Sitting during the game would not be an issue for our opponents. Estrella Mountain had just five players, and I don’t think those guys ever sat down. They had already gone through their warm up drills, and they were engaged in a game of twenty-one. I approached the coach. Looking to be in his forties, he was a tall white guy with thinning hair and too many broken blood vessels on his nose.
            “How you doing, Coach?” I asked
            Nothing. He looked at me and then at my team. The five rez boys had beaten us by two points three weeks earlier.
            “The old outdoor court on the rez trick. Nice move, Coach.”
            There was no outdoor court on the rez trick. I was trying to be witty, fire up a little pre game conversation. This guy was having none of it.
            “You better get your boys warmed up,” he said before literally turning his back on me.
            “Does this mean we’re not meeting for beers after the game?” I asked the coach’s back.
            Nothing. I thought it was funny.
            We won the opening tip, and David Thomas got things started when he soared across the murky desert sky to throw down a monster dunk. Everyone out there responded with cheers and celebration. One of the opposing players patted David on the back as he ran by. The Indian boys really got a kick out of David’s dunk. Then the rez boys shifted into high gear, and, baby, they never looked back. We were down by twenty at the end of the first quarter. During the second quarter, a couple of crooked-walking, half-bald rez dogs wandered onto the court. My players ran from the court, allowing one of the Estrella Mountain boys to score an uncontested layup. The crowd erupted with laughter. During the third quarter, the ball bounced into the sagebrush. It was our ball, but my players were afraid of the possibility of being attacked by snakes or rez dogs. An argument broke out over who should go after the ball. One of the Estrella Mountain players disappeared into the brush and reappeared with the ball. He dropped it in front of my five bickering players and got back on defense. The crowd loved that one, letting loose with more laughter, slapping their knees, and wiping tears from their eyes. We were down by fifty when Josh Rogan threw up a fake, blew past his defender, and flipped the ball over to Gary Smith. Gary took the ball in for the first game dunk of his life. It was a beautiful play. The crowd cheered with appreciation of sheer athleticism. The ref blew his whistle and signaled Gary for traveling.
            “That’s bullshit!” Gary shouted at the ref.
            The ref whistled Gary for a technical foul.
            “Oh my God!” Gary shouted, throwing his arms into the air.
            Members of the crowd mocked Gary, throwing their arms into the air, collectively shouting, “Oh my God!”
            At that moment Gary lost it, turning to the crowd and shouting, “F--- all of you!”
            They loved it. A half dozen people were still throwing their arms in the air, looking at each other and shouting, “Oh my God.”
            The ref whistled Gary for a second technical and tossed him from the game.
            I walked over to the referee and asked exactly where my player was supposed to go, taking into account that we were in the middle of the desert. He said that Gary would have to stand over by the van.
            I looked at Gary and tears were streaming down his face. He had been totally humiliated. I put my arm around his shoulder and led him over to the rear end of the van where he was cut off from the vision of the merciless spectators. Thunder rumbled off in the distance and lightning exploded across the mysterious gray skies. The sweet, clean fragrance of desert rain overtook my senses.
            “That was f----d up, coach,” Gary said through his tears.
            “Yeah it was Gary, but that was a helluva dunk you threw down.”
            “It was my first game dunk.”
            “I know. How’d it feel?”
            “I don’t know. I guess I felt like I was flying for a minute there.”
            “That’s good, Gary. Just wait here for ten minutes, and we’ll get the hell out of here.”
            I felt like I should have said something inspirational, but I gave him all I had. The game had resumed without me. I let my JV players finish out the last few minutes. After the game, the opposing players shook hands and walked my guys to the van. Raindrops began to spit against the pale desert floor. I looked for the opposing coach. He was already in his jeep and making a beeline for Phoenix. We were definitely not meeting for beers.
            I spent the next three hours navigating the rain-soaked streets of the East Valley to drop each player off at his respective doorstep. My shooting guard complained the whole way because he was last. When I finally dropped him off, I reminded him that it was me who would be going home last. After driving back to the school at the old Air Force base, I parked the old van and drove my car home. I was tired and beaten. As I climbed out of the car, my three-year-old daughter sprinted out into the rain and leapt into my arms.
            I pulled my little girl in close and let the rain fall—and everything was good.

HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES? is collection of stories from my 29 years in the teaching biz. 

The book will release in August.

Sunday, July 19, 2015


The Book Frog is my main book store. These guys have supported my writing since I first published CRIMINAL'S SON in 2011.

Sunday, May 3, 2015


My editor is going over my collection of teacher stories. My publisher says the book will release in October. I gotta admit, it feels pretty cool to talk about my editor and my publisher. We've been kicking around these titles. 

The Adventures of a Reluctant Educator

The Adventures of a Reluctant Educator

The Adventures of a Reluctant Educator

The Adventures of a Reluctant Educator

The Adventures of a Reluctant Educator


In the mean time, I've begun playing with a comedy/time travel manuscript I tossed aside a few years back. I do dig me some time travel. Dug the genre ever since the Sherman and Peabody days.

Saturday, March 28, 2015


While I'm not a fan of the science fiction book genre, I have thoroughly enjoyed both of Eric Tozzi's alien invasion books. The author's background in the movie industry is apparent in his work. Phoenix Lights reads like 1950s Saturday afternoon matinee, a cliffhanger if you will. The book leaves the reader with unsolved mysteries to be addressed in part deux. The story feels very much live a film. Tozzi's prose generates larger than panoramic images, majestic musical scores, earth shaking sound effects, and the taste of hot buttered popcorn. Tozzi fills the book with engaging characters. I especially dug the television UFO investigator and her brother the clandestine government operative. Nicely developed relationship. The gorgeous blind musician was compelling as well. While the aliens somehow strike mankind blind while the girl is blessed with sight. Her reaction to her new found sense is satisfying.
Cool Alien invasion thriller.
Mr Tozzi. You just might make sci fi fan outta me yet…

Eric Tozzi's books are available at

Saturday, March 14, 2015


Imagine facing this guy down with your arm around his girlfriend.  You can read the story of my heroic encounter with Dave Cruz in my book THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON, available at the link below.

You can listen to Gary Gidak's masterful recording of "Dave Cruz" for the measly price of absolutely nothin' by clicking on the link below.
Dave Cruz

Dave Cruz is my go to story for readings. I had the opportunity to read Dave Cruz to Susan Halberg's freshman English class this week at Red Mountain Community College in Mesa, Arizona. Susan is my go to teacher. She's been inviting me to her classes and sharing my stories with her students since The Eight-Fingered Criminal's Son was published in 2011. I am a huge Susan Halberg fan.



Sunday, March 8, 2015


Can't tell you how excited I am to be collaborating with the insanely talented Lyle Tucker. Lyle is currently illustrating  THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON. The illustration above is a story called THE SOUTH BAT DAILY BREEZE. Lyle is doing an illustration for each of the Criminal's Son Stories as well as a comic book style cover. This is going to be very cool.

My book isn't his only project. Lyle keeps busy doing dead on comic book reproductions. Reasonably priced, I might add. You you can learn more about Tucker Art here: TUCKER ART

Saturday, February 28, 2015


Remember that terrifying first kiss? Listen to the the audio version of First Kiss from Stories From the Spirit Guide Bar. Give it a listen. It's guaranteed to bring elicit memories of bygone times.
The audio story was produced by bona fide production genius, GARY GIDAK of GIDAK DIGITAL.

Saturday, February 21, 2015

Surfer Girl

Growing up in Hawthorne California, the Manhattan Beach Pier was just a twenty minute bus ride away.  I spent countless summer days experiencing the sun, sand, surf, and surfer girls.
Check out the audio version of SURFER GIRL, an excerpt from my book THE SPIRIT GUIDE BAR.


The story was produced by the scary talented GARY GIDAK of GIDAK DIGITAL.