The Show Must Go On

As a fiction writer I’ve often had to remind myself to be careful not to cross the line of believability. Like, what if I wrote a novel in which the president of the United States has supposedly caught and beaten a deadly virus. I’m telling the story in the vice president’s viewpoint... A bunch of my aides have caught the virus, there’s about a week until the election, and my plane has just landed at a campaign stop...I know, I’ll do the hundred yard dash to the waiting throng, pumping my fist in the air. It’s a win win. Undecided voters will think either me and the chief are stronger than any old stupid virus or they’ll think maybe the whole thing IS a hoax. And also the chief will be pleased. And if he kicks the bucket...Yeah, if he really had the virus and kicks the bucket I’m in. If he faked the virus, I’m still in. Okay, the hundred yard dash. Just be careful, don’t stumble... Hmmm, crossing the believability line in this fiction racket is tricky.

Pack Your Shit

After Pandemics, Warming, and Trump Climate change rages…Pandemics come and go…Oligarchs rule. A world made “great” by ignorance is in trouble. Fenced off and fenced in at a retirement community. Play a little golf, have some booze, and watch for wild dogs while flipping meat substitute on the grill. Can gates, razor wire, contact tracing, and drone security save them from extinction? An AI flown hybrid airliner heading to Orlando crash lands on a golf course. Although isolated, Latin Villages residents golf, socialize, and shop at malls. They survive on protein grown in vertical farms, micro-filtered hydration drinks, and alcohol. After the crash we’re treated to a microcosm of Earth on the brink. “We’re going away. Pack your shit, folks.”—George Carlin. Extinction Village

Extinction Village II

Because of the world pandemic and climate change not only ignored but worsened in the current US political miasma, I began working on a sequel to Extinction Village.

Heavy Reading

I've been doing some heavy reading lately. Besides climate change, some history. Based on what I read last night here is a puzzle. Fill in the blanks: Individual 1 = _________ Individual 2 = _________ A quote from Individual 1: “Individual 2 was that classic know-it-all. His mind was cluttered with minor information and misinformation, about everything. I believe that one of the reasons he gathered so many flunkies around him was that his instinct told him that first-rate people couldn't possibly stomach the outpourings.” Scroll down for the answers. The answers: Individual 1 = Albert Speer Individual 2 = Adolf Hitler

Winter

I’m looking forward to it this year for many reasons .

It Will Be Worse

Nothing even said about the derecho over a week ago. Nothing acknowledged about the pandemic. Nothing done about evictions. Instead he tries to destroy the PO while the multimillionaire senators hide out on vacation. His goal? To litigate his way in for another term, I guess. I just finish my latest take on our future after Trump and the current pandemic and climate change racing onward and now the future portrayed in Extinction Village seems rosy. Perhaps it’s time to serious begin Extinction Village II.

Extinction Village

I tried to type in a new blog and the blogger app says there is a new interface. Well, the damn thing doesn't work! Here is a new book: This is similar to the last book, but on steroids. Living in the world today, especially in a country ruled by a buffoon whose only goal is the daily news cycle has worn on me. It has shaped my writing and my thinking. Are we screwed? EXTINCTION VILLAGE: Climate change rages…Pandemics come and go…Oligarchs rule. A world made “great” by ignorance is in trouble. Fenced off and fenced in at a retirement community. Play a little golf, have some booze, and watch for wild dogs while flipping meat substitute on the grill. Can gates, razor wire, contact tracing, and drone security save them from extinction? An AI flown hybrid airliner heading to Orlando crash lands on a golf course. Although isolated, Latin Villages residents golf, socialize, and shop at malls. They survive on protein grown in vertical farms, micro-filtered hydration drinks, and alcohol. After the crash we’re treated to a microcosm of Earth on the brink. “We’re going away. Pack your shit, folks.”—George Carlin.

Extinction Village

Welcome to Sunset Villages, where golden age retirees tough it out as the century nears its end. Their retirement community is gated, razor-wired, and watched over by drones. But will they escape extinction?

FOSSILS 2084 is now out in print (you can order at any bookstore) and in ebook. Amazon has a 90 day Kindle ebook exclusive. After that it will be available on all devices.

The final cover is ready! Release still April 1, but it may appear sooner.
The eBook ISBN will be:            978-1-54395-798-3
The print book ISBN will be :     978-1-54395-797-6

Finally!

My new novel, The Girl with 39 Graves, will be released in print and on Amazon Kindle on April 1, 2019.

Whistling in the Wind

It has been a long uphill journey between blogs and life has changed significantly for me. Most is personal, but this morning I will share this. My 1967 Beetle has a luggage rack that whistles in the wind. I discovered an old strapped-together suitcase at the Salvation Army Store. The suitcase fits nicely in the rack and has the added benefit of keeping the luggage rack from whistling in the wind. Perhaps I can learn from this and not spend the rest of my life whistling in the wind.

Around the World in 44 Years

After all these years the bug has finally made it home. It wasn't easy. Odysseys are never easy. Why should they be? During the Cold War, and later, in Ukraine, driving near the exclusion zone, the bug was exposed to radiation. Japan is another story. The earthquake there was long after the bug had completed a cargo ship journey. I owned a similar 1967 bug a half-life ago. This one is in better condition and took decades to reach me. One of its owners put it in storage for some years. Another passed away after disassembling the engine, guts strewn on a garage floor five years after the owner's passing. I have chosen to adorn the bug with original bumper and hubcap jewelry, celebrating its junket to me.

25 Years

Will we have one of these things every 25 years? If we sign on to wind and solar now, at least we will have done something to spare future generations from these terrible mistakes.

Styrofoam

Although from opposite sides of the aisle, newly elected representatives Mary and Tom often had lunch together in the House Cafeteria. Nothing political, but they both drank tea.
"Ahha," said Tom recently at the lunch counter, "Our new house leaders have seen fit to bring back the Styrofoam cups your party tossed in favor of the so-called green paper cups."
"In that case I'm switching to coffee," said Mary.
Tom laughed. "To protest our Tea Party, I assume?"
"No, I take lemon in my tea, and as any tea drinker knows, the acid eats away at the Styrofoam."
"Well then, I guess I won't have lemon in my tea," said Tom.
Yeah," said Mary. "Not having lemon is a little thing. Maybe you could one-up Obama's We Do Big Things slogan."
"How's that?"
"We Do Little Things?"

Snowplow

In rural Michigan where I live, truck plows are sometimes replaced by more serious plows. Oftentimes we humans find it necessary to use a larger stick or, as indicated by the color on this one, carrot. The driver of this carrot waved and smiled like mad as I ran out of the way with my camera. The dog is smarter than me, she stayed back up the driveway.

Why We Fight

Here is a short short story (exactly 100 words) I wrote for a contest:

We Fight For Air

The armored vehicle is superheated, making breathing difficult, especially with diesel fumes seeping inside. When the radioman riding shotgun yells, "IED!" the lieutenant glances up toward the gunner's ivory tower.
"Anything?"
"Sky and sand! Wait! There it is!"
"Smoke?"
"Yeah!"
The lieutenant reaches between driver and shotgun, tracing a frantic circle with his hand, a fan made of flesh. When the vehicle lurches ahead, it seems a shockwave at first. But soon the lieutenant feels a fresh breeze from the ivory tower as they make speed. Breathing the breeze is a moment to be savored before their arrival in hell.

Orange Pekoe Revolution

KIEV, UKRAINE — Despite the best efforts of humankind, revolutions are brewing throughout the world. A recent one in Ukraine has been dubbed the Orange Pekoe Revolution (OPR). OPR organizers credit right-leaning Teabaggers of the US for inspiration. An OPR spokesperson stated, "We want something, but we are not yet certain what this something is. However, if they know what is good for them, politicians must listen. Listening is what they must do. It is written in all constitutions and even on the walls of toilet stalls wherever the masses cry out. Please listen, for there is a distinct odor of discontent in the air!"

Sadly, today, while we in the US slept, except for those with restless leg syndrome, and despite the "common man and woman" appeal of the OPR message in Ukraine, tragedy has struck. Today, April 1, 2010, which comes earlier in Ukraine because of it being +GMT while we in the US are –GMT, OPR activists found themselves pelted with coffee beans thrown by irate left-leaning latte and mocha drinkers in upscale westernized Kiev.

The so-called "coffeeists" attacking the OPRs had dressed themselves as teabags, complete with dipping string and that paper "thingy" stapled to the end for a handle. The overlarge teabag thingies dangling from protesters contained signage with slogans such as: "Would you like that ground?" "No, I have my own grinder." When the hurling of dark roasted beans by "coffeeists" became violent, threatening to put out an eye, or worse, Kiev Militia herded the "coffeeists" off to makeshift jails set up in various city squares.

Unfortunately, in our globally warmed world, fountains in Kiev's squares are these days warmer than usual. Because of this warming, the protesters immediately jumped in and began steeping themselves, many of them longer than the recommended five minutes. Eventually the Kiev Militia was forced to wade in and make arrests. And this is when the fountain waters ran red with blood. It turns out the scrap metal used by the "coffeeists" to fashion the staples for their thingies had very sharp edges. The result? Several militia, leftist protestors and, tragically, even some of the right-leaning OPRs who had waded into the fray were injured.

Meanwhile, back in the US, as the dateline of April 1, 2010 crossed our shores, an association dedicated to defending the Second Amendment of our own constitution put out a press release stating: "Staples on teabag thingies do not injure people; leftist liberal criminals dressed as teabags injure people." A liberal media website quoting the press release showed an elderly man, somewhat reminiscent of the organization's past president, holding an assault rifle aloft and stating in dramatic balloonage dialogue, "Coffee, Tea . . . or Me!" Standing behind the elderly man was a sneering "coffeeist" complete with Cold War hammer and sickle on his teabag chest. The unabashed "coffeeist" pinched his nose with finger and thumb as he stared at the backside of the iconic leader of one of our nation's most nontrivial organizations.

Is it any wonder there are revolutions when world heroes such as this are caricatured? As one of the OPR activists with bandaged arm back in Kiev said so eloquently, "If we are not heedful, soon we will be getting Chernobyl soil in teabags, and this will turn us all into monkeys."

Author’s Note: Ukrainians celebrate April Fool’s Day with parades, pranks, and other festivities. The city of Odessa, not Kiev, is considered the Humor Capital.

Little Debbie

Here in Michigan, snack cakes called Little Debbies are quite popular. Debbie’s cute freckled face and engaging smile on each wrapper make even a cynic like me smile until the day I see her delivery truck being towed backwards with its rear axle completely gone. A tow truck dragging Little Debbie down the pot-holed highway says a lot about the earth. We've eaten too much, there are too many of us, and we lack resources to maintain our infrastructure.
When I pull to the right of the rig at a stoplight, Little Debbie's driver, hitching a ride in the tow truck passenger seat, stares down at me with sadness on his face as thick as cream filling. As the light turns green and the tow truck surges ahead, I imagine Little Debbie, emblazoned on the side of the truck, winking seductively. In a mile or so we pass a cemetery where a crew is at work digging a hole in the still frozen Michigan soil. I’ve let the tow truck move ahead, and now Debbie’s image on the rear end of the truck maintains the smile despite road grime pasted to her face, hiding the innocence of her freckles.

SATELLITE NIGHT

This summer, Jeremy, my next-door neighbor, stands outside on hot nights near his satellite dish mounted to a pole in the yard and speaks to the sky. I see him from my bedroom window. He is silhouetted against ground lighting in the distance. Sometimes Jeremy’s fists gesture skyward as if in anger; other times his hands plead like a black swan flapping its wings to begin flight. We live near an O’Hare Airport flight path, but it’s late and quiet.
During the day Jeremy is an ordinary guy who commutes to his day job in Chicago, cuts the lawn on weekends, tinkers with an old Harley Davidson motorcycle he rarely rides in the early evening before dark, and does some gardening with his wife—a buxom woman who wears sweat-stained halter tops of various colors and complains vehemently about climate change. A woman who must wonder to whom her husband is speaking in the yard while she lies, I can only assume, naked beneath a thin top sheet. Unlike our house, theirs does not have air conditioning and it must be stifling inside.
I’m worried about Jeremy; tonight I have decided to confront him. I grab two cold bottles of water from the fridge, step out into the world of humidity, insects, and a hazy overcast sky with not a star in sight. I elbow spider webs away from my face while walking between trees bordering our yards, and say, “Hey, man.”
Jeremy answers, “Hey,” turns toward me, takes the water bottle, clicks open its security cap, and looks back to the sky.
“What’s up?” I ask, giving him a nudge. His arm is moist and hot.
“Nothing,” says Jeremy. “That’s why I’m out here . . . to ask God what became of the promises.”
“Promises?” I ask.
“Yeah. When small satellite dishes were announced years ago, promoters said there would be channels for every interest. If you were a sculptor, you’d have a channel. If you were interested in rebuilding motorcycles, you’d have a channel . . . and I don’t mean these repeats of guys with tattoos and facial hair building six-figure choppers. It’s supposedly reality TV. But the reality is, they feed repeats of cheaply-made, camera-zooming, voice-over junk to us and we wear out our remotes. They buy the rights to a few cheap movies and . . . Oh what’s the use?”
I wait for a second, then ask, “So, you’re talking to God about this?”
Jeremy takes another swig of water and wipes his mouth before responding. “Did you know my name is short for the Hebrew, Jeremiah, which means ‘Jehovah is up high?’”
“Uh . . . no.”
Jeremy has turned toward me, and I swear I smell wine on his breath. He looks back to the overcast sky. “Everyone in the world watches the same junk,” he says, raising his water bottle to the sky. “I command television be changed! I want my thousand channels!”
As if in answer, a FedEx flight, probably carrying hundreds of dishes and receivers for the two satellite monopolies, cruises over for a landing, its lights piercing the haze.