Moderately Profane

It's Alive!

2015-11-12T07:18:00.000-08:00

(More to come)

Form-lettered...

2012-08-14T16:32:00.003-07:00

A couple days ago, I posted a customer service help request I submitted to Chase Online regarding their online prequalification process. In other words.... it didn't work. I'll admit I took a bit of artistic license with the help request. Today I got form lettered. The issue I had with the website goes unaddressed, and I've decided maybe JPMorganChase really doesn't want my business. Apparently, their "Highest level of Quality Service.", is giving me a couple of phone numbers I already had, and believe it or not, dialed, before attempting the online pre-qualification... I was told repeatedly by a very nice recorded voice that my call was very important to them, or some such, and to please continue holding... yeah.. I hung up after five minutes,

Anyway, full response is below.

Dear Michael Jordan:

I am writing in response to your recent inquiry regarding
a purchase of a home. We apologize for any online issues
you encountered.

Please contact 1 of our Chase Loan Officers who will be
able to assist you with your questions and will be able to
help you with the preapproval process, please call
1-866-712-1283.

If you would prefer for a Loan Officer to call you, please
provide your best contact phone number.

Chase is committed to providing the highest level of
quality service. If you have questions about your current
mortgage, please contact Customer Care at 1-800-848-9136.

We appreciate your business and value our relationship
with you.

Thank you,
Chase Online Inquiries

2012-08-10T17:55:00.000-07:00

I made a mistake today. I attempted to deal with Corporate America today without taking my daily dose of Fukitol (tm), Here is the result...

Dear Chase.com Customer Service:

In attempting to see what sort of home loan I could qualify for, I encountered a problem that could ~~frustrat~~e, ~~infuriate~~, cause current account holders to fall into seething, frothing fits of rage. The first couple of steps are easy and trouble-free. Then comes the question "Are you a current account holder?" and "Do you have a User ID?" I said yes to both, because I am and I do. I entered them both and my password when asked, and I was redirected to a log in page. I logged in.

Again.

Then I was taken to my main accounts page. No prompt to continue the pre-qualification process, just

"Here's your accounts,Yo!"

I figured I screwed up somewhere. so I tried again, reading all instructions with great care. I followed the steps. "Your accounts, Good Sir!" Said your responsive and efficient database.

Again, I assumed the problem was on my end. I read carefully, followed directions and once again. "Yeah...your accounts. Why do you keep logging in?"

Okay, I made that last bit up, nor do I believe your servers talk to me, but if prequalifying is this frustrating, I'd rather find a large rock and pound my head against it until I've hollowed out a domicile from it, or more likely, rent forever, than pursue a Home Loan.

Please, tell me all home lenders aren't like this? Or is it like admittance to a Buddhist Monastic Order? Do I need to log in for 3 days and night before I'm allowed to see if I prequalify? This is my first time buying a home and the whole process is foreign to me.

Help me, JPMorganChase, you're my only hope. (Well, not really, but as banks go you seem less evil than most)

Sincerely,
--Mike Jordan

Yes, this is a nearly exact copy of the email I sent to chase.com's customer service team, I made a few formatting changes, and added the pictures, because, well, refer to the frog. The automated system promised a reply in two business days. We'll see. Or Must I really repeatedly log-in for three days and nights?

Wreckage

2012-07-03T13:37:00.000-07:00

The scariest time in the writing process is pulling the trigger and putting your work out there. I don't feel that with this one. It was never intended for public consumption. I wrote it for myself originally, in an attempt to make sense of my feelings after a family member passed. It was unexpected, sudden, and her choice. We don't use the s-word anymore.

This work is copyrighted July 2012, by Mike Jordan. It may be freely reprinted, republished and redistributed, so long as it is done so in it's entirety and as the original publication (this page) and author (Mike Jordan) are cited.

Hopefully someone considering actions similar to my aunt's will read it and change their mind.

Wreckage

The first time I saw my grandfather shed a tear was at my grandmother’s funeral. I had held it together until then. Granny wasn’t in pain anymore. She was ready to go. She was at peace and I could accept that. But when Grandpa put his hand on that coffin and let out that one quiet sigh, it was too much. His pain rocked me to the core. The lump rose in my throat and tears ran down my face.

My grandfather is a strong man and he raised strong children. My father, my uncles and my aunt, I can only hope I inherited a fraction of it. Recently that strength was tested again. My aunt, who wasn’t always my aunt, passed unexpectedly at her own choice.

I wouldn’t call us particularly close. That’s my fault not hers. Truth is; I’m not particularly close to anyone. This isn’t some stupid macho chest-thumping, “I don’t need anyone!” bullshit. It’s the act of a coward; I instinctively shy away from close personal connections, because of the fear that losing those people would utterly destroy me.

When I say she wasn’t always my aunt, I mean when I first met Ardie as a boy, she was my uncle’s girlfriend, then my uncle’s fiancé. The day before my tenth birthday, she became my uncle’s wife. My aunt.

I remember my Dad remarking that his baby brother had “done good.” I remember my mother handing me a dollar bill and putting me in line for the dollar dance at the reception. I remember seeing how happy they were. I remember the first unguarded smile I’d ever seen Craig display.

I’ve always admired him, my Dad’s baby brother, my Uncle Craig. I respect his quiet wisdom, displaying his strength through intelligence and his stoic reserve. His desire to do what is right, not what is easy. With two bombastic older brothers, it’s only natural that he became the observer in the family. I’ve never seen him look as lost as I have these past days.

I remember how Ardie doted on us, the children, at those family gatherings, how happy she seemed with the barely controlled chaos generated by a group of hard-headed, hyperactive cousins all amped up on sugar from Granny’s pumpkin pie and red velvet cake.

I remember how complete she and Craig seemed when Ben, my baby cousin, joined us. Today, my baby cousin shows himself a man to be respected, and very much a Jordan. Back straight, shoulders squared, under all that weight, to the untrained eye, perfectly together.

His pain only shows through his eyes.He tells me he doesn't want to seem callous, but he doesn't know how to handle all this, how it doesn’t seem real. I tell him anyone that knows how to handle something like this isn't human at all. I tell him anger is normal, because I feel it too. It doesn't mean he loves his mother any less.

My uncle, eyes red and heavy, tells me if I’d told him this time last week that he would be here, burying his wife, he would have called me crazy. Me, the writer, the wordsmith, can’t find words. I take his hand and hug him, gently. Too much pressure would make it too real. I tell him how sorry I am. He asks after my nephew, another child he and Ardie doted upon. I tell him my sister has taken him home. He’s too young and rambunctious to understand and be properly respectful.

I can’t bring myself to look upon the casket for more than a passing glance. I know why: because part of me knows it isn’t Ardie lying there, and part of me knows it is.

The next day, before mass at a little church I’ve never been to before, I pull Ben aside ask him how he’s doing, then instantly feel like an idiot. After that I don’t talk much. I give him a cigarette and let him vent. Until yesterday, I didn’t even know he smoked. He tells me how selfish he felt for not realizing how hard his mother’s death hit his girlfriend, how he did know how they often they talked, emailed, how much they cared for each other. He seems calm, hard to read, very careful with his emotions. Ben shows himself to be much wiser than I was at that age. The idle conversation begins to die off, as the priest enters. It’s time. I whisper to Ben as he makes his way forward to stand beside his father, “She’s not in there, you know.”

I don’t even know if he heard me. As a non-practicing Catholic, I’m well versed in the motions, and I go through them. I don’t pray. I’ve got nothing nice to say to God, so I take Granny’s advice and say nothing at all. I hold it together; Ben and Craig deserve that much. I try not to show I’m wishing to get up, walk out, go home, load a shotgun and go hunting the doctor that prescribed all those meds.

Once again, Grandpa makes it real. I’d taken a seat beside Grandpa as we walked in, I’ll never be half the man he is, but I know he has more days behind than ahead. I believe myself to be the only one here not preoccupied with his own pain, so I keep a close eye on Grandpa, if he should stumble. I think back to the words I spat at my own father during his own troubles: That old man has been through enough. Who knows how many friends he has lost, and he’s already had to bury one of his children and his wife. You make him bury you, and I will never forgive you. Suddenly, I’m very angry with Ardie, at the pain she has caused mine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grandpa wipe a tear away, behind his glasses, as he reaches forward and places a hand on his baby boy’s shoulder. Craig puts his arms around Ben, an attempt to give, or find comfort, I do not know. It doesn’t seem to help. I realize quickly that anger is pointless, and using it fuel my innate desire to fix something would be counterproductive. The lump is rising in my throat again. I try to fight it, but that too, proves pointless.

Graveside is no better. I see the absolute desolation in Craig’s face. I can’t fathom his pain, but it hurts me, shaking me to the core. I want him to let it out, at the same time I fear it. I see Ben. Very much a Jordan, but I see his mother’s nature there as well. He gaze is turned inward, finding comfort in memories. I hope he finds balance, life will never be the same, but I hope, and now I pray that he will find normal again.

I look around at Ardie’s family, that which she was born into and the one she chose, all dressed in fine clothes that usually reserved for special occasions and wish they were still in garment bags in the back of the closet. I look around and I see wreckage. So we stand, backs straight through force of will, because the spirit is gone.

The one person that could make it okay with a sarcastic joke and a wry grin, so much like Granny could, is lost to us.

And that’s why it hurts.

---Mike Jordan, 2012

Attention: Barnes and Noble NOOK readers

2011-12-09T10:17:00.000-08:00

As of January 1st, 2012, Never Saw It Coming will no longer be available from Barnes and Noble.

Several factors have brought me to this decision. First, for some reason, the B&N site will not allow me to upload the new cover or set the price to match the price of the book on amazon. Second, Amazon recently announced it's Kindle Select program for Amazon Prime members, meaning Amazon Prime members will be able to read Kindle Select titles for free, while still paying the authors at the normal rate. The Kindle Select Program, however demands exclusivity Third, sales via B&N have been less than spectacular and the PubIt! format they use just doesn't seem to have the writer support tools that Amazon's Kindle Direct offers.

I did not come to this decision lightly, and hate that I'll have to make my writing unavailable to NOOK readers, but the Kindle app is still available free of charge for most smartphones, tablet pcs, desktop and laptop systems.

In short, if you're a NOOK reader, and haven't picked up Never Saw It Coming yet, you may want to before the end of the year, because I'll be pulling the title on New Year's Day.

Thanks for reading,
---Mike

Author Interview and Price drop!

2011-10-31T08:54:00.000-07:00

Well, talk about a heluva busy day, okay not really, I didn't have to do much. But I've got two announcements for the public at large.

First, a while back I did an interview with Action Adventure, Inc. It's live as of today, check it out!

Second, For the month of November I've dropped the price on Never Saw It Coming (The book now includes a teaser passage from the sequel, Undeserving) to $0.99 from $2.99.
That's right, one penny less than a dollar. In addition to that, for those of you that pick up the book today, October 31st, 2011. Shoot me an email with a friend's email address and I'll send them a copy, as well.

Thanks for reading guys, and Happy Halloween!

The Belt Loop (Book One): A Review

2011-10-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

Product Description:

Captain Uri Haad is plunged into one of the most terrifying voyages of his Colonial Navy career. His ship, the CNS Corpus Christi, stumbles upon a derelict alien vessel out in the void of Orion's Belt -- The Belt Loop as it is known by the sailors of the Third Colonial Fleet out of Elber Prime. He launched a Search and Rescue mission to the hulking derelict after his scans detected surviving life forms. What started as a mission of mercy quickly turns into a nightmare of epic proportions and as the horror spreads to his ship and crew, Captain Haad must make life and death decisions to avoid his own destruction and possibly an interstellar war. This taut deep-space adventure bridges the gap between distant suns and gives us a glimpse into the workings of the Twenty-eighth Century Colonial Navy.

My View:

The Belt Loop (Book One) takes the reader on a mundane, routine deep space patrol with the crew fast attack boat CNS Corpus Christi. Captain Uri Haad and his crew simply go about there business unaware of a 12 year old Stowaway lurking about their ship. Of course, if the Belt Loop patrol stayed mundane and routine, I doubt we'd be reading about it.

Soon enough, the Christi stumbles upon a derelict craft launched by a previously unknown species. Haad and his crew began referring to the segmented and tubular vessel as "The Worm". Given that humanity's only other contact with an alien species resulted in a destructive and costly conflict known as the Varson War, tensions run high among the crew, many of whom are veterans of the Varson War and have the scars to prove it.

A S&R team is dispatched to the Worm to securing it and located the 12 surviving alien crew, While the Corpus Christi stands by to assist, or destroy the worm if needs be. The team quickly discovers, not one, but two sentient alien species aboard. The Birds and the Worms. The Birds appear to be captive in a large cargo hold, Communications Officer Maxine Hansen quickly draws a parallel to Ancient Earth History. The Worm is a slave ship.

Then things it ugly. Security measures aboard the Worm gruesomely and quickly down a contingent of the Marines sent with the Away Team.

The rest of the story is a tense, exciting read, that takes an interesting approach to Science Fiction. With a focus on exobiology and the moral implications of what is a fundamentally culturally based conflict, Robert B. Jones' "The Belt Loop" Series is off to a great start and frankly grabs the reader by the face and refuses to let go. The author does a great job of pulling the reader into the Colonial Navy, where the enlisted and officers lead boring routine lives that are punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Overall The Belt Loop (Book One) is a great read and priced great at $2.99. I'll be picking up the next one as soon as I'm able.

If you're a sci-fi fan, do yourself a favor and pick this one up. 5/5 stars

**note: I was in no way paid for this review. The only compensation I received was a promotional copy of the book and advertising revenue from this site.

A Review: Home Lost, by Franz McLaren

2011-10-03T08:42:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm well aware I've been quiet for a while. September has be an extremely busy month for me.

Product Description:
“Home Lost: Clarion of Destiny” is the eight volume fantasy tale of Leena, a heroine selected by destiny to combat the greatest challenge her world has ever known. In an epic journey that leads through foreign lands and mysterious realms where demons, monsters, and magic rule, this inexperienced young girl is forced to overcome a protected childhood to face challenges that would crush far more experienced adventurers. With each step she takes, with each passing day, she draws closer to a malevolent force so formidable that it has defeated the mightiest armies and the strongest magic in her world, an evil that could prove too powerful for her developing knowledge and skills to overcome.

In Volume 1, “Home Lost”, Leena, a sixteen year old half trained hedge witch, is mysteriously selected to receive the Garlan branch, a magical item that has twice saved her world in the far distant past. From the first moment of contact with this talisman, her life is changed. After a solitary journey through a silent and deadly winter forest to seek this honor, she returns to her village. Nervous with the excitement and anticipation, she rushes home only to find the secure and treasured town of her youth deserted and in ruins. Confused and alone Leena has little choice but to set out on a search for her missing friends and family, and to try to discover the reason that the Garlan branch has selected her as its tool.

My Thoughts:

Loads of potential, lacking in execution. (Possible Spoilers Below)

Home Lost is billed as the beginning of an epic eight volume fantasy cycle, and it started off well. Our plucky heroine, Leena, a half-trained hedge witch, is introduced after an extremely gripping prologue (Orcs and Goblins harrying the last small band remaining free humans, all seems lost, when the young commander, Robart finally receives his apparent destiny in the form of an all powerful magical....stick?) Okay, Fanstasy piece, I can let the All-Powerful-Magic-Stick thing, known as a Garlan Branch pass. Robart single-handedly defeats the Inhuman horde with the Garlan Branch, Humanity saved. AWESOME! Being a member of humanity, I happen to like not being enslaved and worked to death but ugly Orcs and Goblins.

Then we jump ahead some two thousands years or five hundred years, either way it was a long time. Leena our plucky heroine, the half-trained hedge witch is out in the forest, in the middle of the night, searching for an invisible tree (The Garlan Tree) in what is apparently heavy snow. Okay, great, nice adventure story, Leena will have to face the dangers of the forest and nefarious powers that be, on her path to this powerful object, right?

Nope. She bumps into said Invisible tree with in a few pages and easily dispatches the Great Wizards Giant Death Raven with her Garlan Branch. Then she makes her way home, to find her village deserted and only 19 or so of her fellow villagers can be located. (Because they're DEAD!)

The average 16 year old girl would be flipping the hell out. Not Leena, she calmly buries the bodies and sets about gather supplies for her journey north, ostensibly to find and free her parents and neighbors. By riding straight to the Great Wizard's gate...you know, the same one that sent the Giant Death Raven and disappeared the populations of the surrounding area to find her?

She meets Arvin, a murderous little 12 year old squire who is constantly scampering off, getting into trouble and sticking his sword were it doesn't belong. Apparently, Leena found Arvin as tiresome as I did, because the last time he ran off in the night she didn't even bother looking for him. Instead she meets Darius, the older, wiser, much better looking Ambassador to the Great Wizard and decides that he would be a much more suitable traveling companion to walk into the jaws of the enemy with....Wait, What?

Yeah.. The rest of the story appears to be multiple days and nights of Darius and Leena riding north while Darius regals Leena with a tale of heroism and adventure (How he came to be the Great Wizard's Ambassador) Unfortunately for the reader, the all we get is Darius literally telling Leena about it. Not a flashback, or a dream sequence. Dialogue. Which is unfortunate, because if it were handled as a flashback or a dream sequence, it would've made Home Lost a much better book. It's not as if the author gives us a brief sketch of Darius' past then gets back to the story, Darius tells us, and Leena about the most minute detail of his adventures...in great length. I'm not kidding when I say the ride north and Darius' tale probably take up a good 60% of the book, if not more.

If you've read this far, you probably assume that I hated this book, which isn't true. Actually even with my laundry list of complaints, it was actually a very engaging read. McLaren writes very well, his dialogue, overabundant as it may be, is written in a very natural speaking manner, and his descriptions of the settings never leave the reader confused, he paints a picture with words. I noticed no major typos, so it's obviously been competently proofread, it's formatted well, and over all I enjoyed it. But I don't know if I could devote the time to an entire 8 book Series.

Home Lost is .99 cents on Amazon so it's no major investment, if you have the time, try it for yourself.

Overall 3.5/5 Stars

*I was in no way paid for this or any review I post on this site, the only compensation I receive are promotional copies of the books from the authors, and potential advertising revenues from this website. The Opinions expressed above are mine and mine alone.

--Mike Jordan

Back in February, I Jumped the Gun

2011-09-10T18:09:00.000-07:00

Back in February, I jumped the gun. I released my first novel, Never Saw It Coming without a proper editorial pass. It contained numerous typos and, to be quite honest, boneheaded mistakes.

Once I realized this, I was A: extremely embarassed, B: consumed with guilt for not selling my readers the best possible work.

Despite those mistakes, the book holds a solid 4.1 star rating here on Amazon (16 Reviews). Actually, the most common complaint in those reviews were, in fact, the rather glaring errors within the book. So I held off on marketing, while I corrected those mistakes and errors. Four editorial passes (Thanks to Diane, Matt and Charlie) and a new cover later (Courtesy of Andrew Ballard), the Second Edition of Never Saw It Coming went live.

To celebrate this personal milestone, I will be giving away 10 copies of the book. The 2nd edition also contains excerpts from the sequel, Undeserving, which *should* be ready for release by Christmas of this year.

If you want one just shoot me an email at jordan.nonotthatone.mike@gmail.com or visit my blog at http://moderatelyprofane.blogspot.com/ and let me know where to send it.

Unfortunately, I will only be able to provide a gift copy to the first 10 interested parties, if you miss out, please, download the sample and see if it is to your liking.

Thank you for your time,
Mike Jordan

Author's Note: This book, were it a movie, would be rated "R" it contains strong language, graphic violence, sexual situations, and the senseless murder of a bucket of chicken.

Red State: A Review

2011-09-06T09:07:00.000-07:00

First off, let me say this Red State isn't Clerks. Hell, it isn't even Dogma. What it is is a highly original, thought provoking and entertaining film. Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of Kevin Smith's previous films. But everything about this movie is different for Smith. Amazon list's the pre-release rental in the horror category. (More on that later).

But it isn't what you would expect from a standard Hollywood issue "horror" movie. Sure, there is plenty of violence, enough gun play that automatic weapons fire turns into something of a backing track for the middle third of the movie, and plenty of head shots. What is truly horrifying is Smith depiction of the Five Points Christian Church and Michael Parks outing as Abin Cooper. Cooper and his followers are truly horrifying, simply because, at least this viewer saw how easily this group could be transported into the real world. Abin Cooper and his followers go from praising Jesus to executing innocent people all the while still wearing the same frozen creepy-as-hell smiles. Their victims and finally the ATF soon realize that Cooper and his followers cannot be reasoned with. John Goodman's out as Keaton, the lead ATF agent on the scene strikes me as a very human response to a very inhuman situation. He receives an order from an off-screen superior that is just as horrifying as Cooper and his followers beliefs. I don't want to give away too much more at the risk of straying into spoiler territory, but I will say this, there is no clear-cut "good" guy here. Inhuman behavior is responded to inhumanely. Red State is a very stark, and realistic depiction of fictional events. The actors and Smith's characters mesh. Every character featured feels like a fully realized, fleshed out human being. That's something to don't get in a lot of films these days.

As far as individual performances go, Michael Parks played Abin Cooper as believable as one could when cast as a psychopathic ideologue. If you need one reason to see this film, make it for Park's performance.

John Goodman played Keaton has well as one could, an ordinary man, thrust into an extraordinary situation. He also gets some of the best lines in the film "Simple just shit itself!" and in response to Kevin Pollack's "I wonder how much a cross like that costs? Keaton simply replies, "In Dollars or Common Sense?"

The level best performance, however, came from Kerry Bishe' as Cheyenne, a member of the Five Points Church and Abin Cooper's granddaughter. She is easily the most sympathetic character in Red State. Hers is the only truly altruistic motivation in the story. She simply wants to protect the children in her family, even if it means her life or freedom. At one point she enlists one of the hostages in this cause, right before the final WTF moment of the movie.

All that being said, I'll easily give this movie 5/5 stars, as it is the best film I've seen this year. It would not have been so, I suspect, if Kevin Smith had chosen to go with the standard, traditional Hollywood model, I'm fairly certain some studio bigwig would have, (possibly did) demand some edits to dumb it down for mass consumption. I am very glad he didn't. The Studio system is a business model, the primary concern in any business is making money. Punching this film up and dumbing it down would likely lead to better box office numbers, but it also would have robbed it of it's impact.

Kudos to you, Mr. Smith for doing what it takes to see that your vision was brought to the masses. I really like the fact that you chose to allow pre-release rentals of the film on sites like Amazon.

Seriously, do yourself a favor. See this movie. But keep in mind, it's not Clerks or Dogma. If that's what you want, follow the links and just watch those.

Credit where it is Due: Part Two

2011-08-22T11:16:00.000-07:00

*situation has been resolved, Thanks Phil---Mike

A couple of years back I worked freelance for a site called gunaxin.com. The arrangment lasted a couple of months, tops. In that time they published 5 articles I put together. Today, I was working up a resume with my writing experience and publishing history. So I went back to gunaxin.com to link those articles for said resume. They are all credited to some guy named Eugene Ritterspaugh. This is the second time since the end of the freelance arrangment that my work has been misattributed by gunaxin.com. The first time they had my articles listed as by admin@gunaxin.com. I sent an email to Phil and he assured me it would be corrected, and invited me to come back freelance again.

I was working on Never Saw It Coming at the time and honestly did not have the time to devote to writing for gunaxin.com.

Don't get me wrong, Phil was a great editor, a vitural anti-F-Bomb missile defense system and taught me alot about setting up a blog and formating posts for the right impact. He is an all around a great guy and gunaxin.com is a great place to go for a laugh.

But as a writer seeking to get my foot in the door, I need my previous work to be properly credited. So this week I will be reposting the articles I did for Gunaxin, here, so I can be assured that my work is credited to me. Check back this week, I'll have one up a day. Also, I jumped feet first into 2008 and finally set up a twitter account, feel free to look me up here.

Two Cents: Original Flash Fiction.

2011-08-17T01:22:00.000-07:00

Author's note: Wrote this a little over a year ago in an effort to get over writer's block, stream of consciousness-style, while I was finishing Never Saw It Coming. It's largely unedited, unfiltered, pure and raw. There may be a few mistakes. Enjoy.

I left home today with plans on getting lost; To find a Honda Road, if you will. I drove, simply for the sake of driving for nearly 3 hours. A half hour into the excursion, I turned off the stereo. Honda can do wonderful things with a four cylinder engine. I can do wonderful things with that four cylinder engine and a manual transmission. About one hour, forty five minutes into the trip, I was on an unfamiliar road in Western Vanderburgh County, not even sure of the name of it. I had that tachometer steady at forty-five hundred in fourth gear. This means I was going about sixty five miles per hour.

As I said before, unfamiliar road. My personal definition of a Honda Road is a twisty two lane road with little traffic.

A corner snuck up on me. I.E. the turn was sharper than it appeared. This alone, easily correctable, get on the brakes, don’t jerk on the steering wheel, down shift on the way out, you’re through, no problems. That’s how it should’ve went. The little matter of the apex of this sharper-than-it-looks turn resting on a land-bridge, or a small concrete span that covered a drainage ditch changed matters. The road surface changed, roughly, from asphalt to concrete. The bump and the road surface change was enough.

The back end of my Honda started to slide. At this point I noticed a freshly painted bright yellow concrete abutment and a little white wooden cross off the slide of the road.

Somebody made this same mistake and died here.

I learned in every book I’ve ever read on the subject and through practice, in collision avoidance, never look directly at what you’re trying to miss. Human eyes are part of one of the most sophisticated guidance systems on the planet. In other words, your body tends to go where you’re eyes have settled. So I didn’t look at the little white cross or the concrete abutment, but believe me I knew where they where. I focus on a point away from the turn, where I want to go. I downshift, from Fourth to Second. Clutch in, clutch out. Off the brakes, on the gas. I feel the backpressure from the rpm spike through the car, through me. My little Silver Honda self-corrects from the slide, and I fire out of the turn.

I am not about to die. I do not get to experience side curtain airbag deployment, I do not have to explain to my insurance company why I was driving at twice the posted speed limit.

But my body reacted before my mind. My adrenal gland spit a measure of go-fast juice into my blood stream. In my bloodstream it’s found a way to my muscle structure and major organs. That full body tingle you feel after a good scare: That is a self-produced performance enhancing drug. Find a way to fire the adrenal gland at will and no athlete would ever shoot steroids again. I’m grinning with pupils dilated, nostrils flared, winding up through the gears with no more thought than breathing while sleeping.

A short time later I notice my car is handling a little mushy. My grin fades, I begin to look for the problem. It’s short search. I’m driving down a twisting two lane road, completely ignoring the center line, at a hundred seven miles per hour.

Time to slow down. Wasn’t ready to go home, pull over, light a cigarette. The world creeps back in, need to find a job, need to clean the house, got to go to the grocery.

Fuck thinking.

I’m back in the car and driving again, closer and closer to the edge. As close as I can get to that fabled Zen-no-mind state without chemical aids. The leaves are turning. Red, gold and brown, I see but it doesn’t register. Late October, not too cold, windows down, radio off. Speedometer creeps higher and higher, I’m still heading west. I don’t know this road, but I do. Blind curves without slowing, downshift for the hairpins. Puffs of blue-white tire smoke as I stomp the accelerator again. Each turn, every shift, I leave the real world and its real problems further and further behind.

I don’t know and don’t care where I’m going, I’ve got a full tank and a fresh pack of cigarettes. The only thing at matters is out the windshield, the mirrors could fall off of my little silver Honda and I wouldn’t care. I’m not looking back, and they’re just extra drag anyway. I don’t think about the girl I almost gave up on, or whether or not I was right when I tried. I don’t think about my next car payment, I’m not even worried about getting the speeding ticket I richly deserve at this point.

The edges between the little Silver Honda and I blur, the steering wheel moves as easily as my fingers, I shift without thinking, I don’t even have to listen to the engine, let alone check the tachometer. I just know when to shift. The brake and gas pedal connect me to the tires, and the seat tells me about the road. Just drive, as automatic as breathing.

Hairpin ahead to the left, Truck in my lane. Too slow. I Am Not Slowing Down. I scan through the trees that would actually be quite beautiful if I stopped to look at them, no oncoming traffic, I dive under the truck, into the opposite lane at the apex of the turn, and I’m through. The road straightens out, and I push the pedal down. Over the wind and engine I hear his horn blaring. He’s probably flipping me off. I don’t look back, because he’s behind me, and therefore, doesn’t matter. The road forks off ahead of me, I go right, no idea how fast I’m going, but apparently to was too fast for the bird that couldn’t quite clear the windshield. I hit it with a thump and a spray of feathers. Too bad. Thousands more, quick S-turn, I fire through it. Death was waiting for me behind that concrete abutment on the side of that nameless road that no longer matters. Now he’s riding shotgun and looking to fill his quota.

I’m not thinking about Student loan papers or committing myself to more debt in a lousy economy. Heading back to school isn’t even on my radar here. Just drive, Keep Driving. The bird, now just feathers and meat, doesn’t matter at all. I’m not thinking about rejection letters or not getting called back. I’m not worrying about the roommate that doesn’t like paying his part of the bills or the neighbor that routinely lets her dog shit in my yard without bothering to clean it up. I’m not even thinking my dickhead ex-boss, Dan. He doesn’t seem to merit the kick in the teeth I’d love to give him for running his company into the ground and leaving twenty of us high and dry. I’m not thinking how we all poured heart and soul into his business and tried to make it work while he was taking long lunches and playing golf. I refuse to think about Rob and working with him for five years. Before we showed up that morning almost a year ago and found the doors locked. Dan hadn’t even given us a heads up. Before the bank foreclosed on Rob’s house and his bitch-wife left him the same day the status-symbol his and hers Beamers got repossessed. Before Rob kissed his pistol goodnight. Before we buried him, all of us quaking with grief, rage. The bitch-wife and Dan had the nerve to show up. I am not thinking about wanting to kill them.

The road ends in a T-junction. I have to stop. Indiana 69. The sign reads.ßMount Vernon
New Harmonyà

I take a left, because not thinking is growing tiresome. The road is straight and flat and I am driving too fast, no longer melded with the little Silver Honda. Near the red-line in fourth gear, I see a sign flash past. It reads Bellefontaine Cemetery. I stomp on the brakes and put the car in neutral, before cranking the wheel over and pulling the handbrake. My Little Silver Honda seems to enjoy the abuse. She spins around just over one hundred-eighty degrees, and billowing a cloud of tire smoke. I slam the shifter into first and stomp on the gas. The tires spin, throwing loose roadside gravel, chipping paint. I never would’ve done this to her a year ago. Not thinking about her not being mine next month.

If Death is still riding shotgun, he knows this place as his scorecard. Me? Nineteen years ago we buried my grandpa here. Two years ago, we buried my grandma beside him. Six months ago we buried Rob here. Alone. It dawns on me that I know this cemetery far too well. I park my little Silver Honda, and get out, it doesn’t take long before I find the big marble headstone with “Seals; John F. August 3rd 1919- July 19th 1990 and Mary V. January 15th 1924 to June 17th 2007.

The big marble rock has two pennies sitting on top of it. My dad left them there when we buried Grandpa, and he told how Grandpa always kept loose change in his left hip pocket. Grandpa was a wry man with a dry sense of humor. If someone offered unwanted advice or said something just plain stupid, he’d fish around in his pocket and give them their two cents back.

There isn’t a lump in my throat. I am not blinking back tears. I am not walking to the back of the cemetery, at the top of the little hill, under the big oak tree with it’s red-gold, brown and green autumn foliage. I am not stunned to see the grass hasn’t fully reclaimed the earth behind the stone that read Robert B. Kellerman; May 7th 1978- February 14th 2009. Tell the same lie to yourself long enough, eventually, you will start to believe it.

Rob was my best friend for nine years, He was my roommate in college, got me on with Dan’s company. We worked together, pulled off the impossible, bagged accounts together. We drank at Smitty’s on Monday nights, not watching the game. I don’t think about helping him move into the house the bank took. I don’t think about the breakneck drive to the hospital when his little girl came two months early. I won’t think about horseshoes and lawn darts, backyard cookouts. I don’t think about bachelor’s parties, his and mine, both of us stumbling drunk. At least he had the guts to actually go through with it. I won’t think about the speech I gave at his wedding reception, or holding the rings and pretending to look frantically for them at the altar.

I realize I don’t even know what the ‘B.“ on the headstone stands for.

I am not thinking about the gun under the driver’s seat in my car.

I look past the stone, to the little retention pond at the back of the property. A hand painted sign reads “Private Property, No Fishing.” and something under that I can’t make out. A great Blue Heron is stalking the reeds along the bank, blatantly ignoring the notice, and a Mallard duck chuckled a warning to it’s flock, somewhere unseen.

The heron stopped, still as a flagpole, watching something in the water, then quick as lightning, he’s swallowing some poor fish. Death filling his quota.

If the Heron had lips, I think he would’ve been smiling. Then he flew off.

I look down at Rob’s headstone, still not blinking back tears and I grin.

I reach in my pocket and fish around. Find two pennies, light myself a cigarette. I smoke it slowly, not sobbing like a little boy. Then I head back to the car. I reach under the seat, and notice a red light flashing on my phone. My gun in one hand and my phone in the other, I check my messages. Four missed calls, three new messages, all text, all from the girl I almost gave up on.

“Where are you? Call me.”

“Why aren’t you picking up? Everything okay?”

“We still on for tonight? Love you.”

I’m not crying. I’m not laughing. I am putting the gun back under the seat. Death will have to fill his quota elsewhere.

I text her back, because I don‘t want her to hear me like this “Yeah, still on, running a little late. See you in an hour. Love you too.”

I left the pennies on Rob’s headstone.

It was a stupid idea, anyway.

Credit where it is due.

2011-08-07T09:29:00.000-07:00

If not for Timothy Zahn, I would probably not be a writer today. If not for his Heir To the Empire trilogy, My book probably wouldn't exist.

When I was kid, I was, like most little boys, nuts for anything Star Wars. I had tons of the action figures toy X-wings, TIE fighters, Y-wings even Slave I and the Millennium Falcon. My obsession didn't stop there either, with Return of the Jedi bedsheets and various other little childhood memories that lines George Lucas' pockets.

I remember making little Star Wars sequels starring those toys with my buddy Dan and a PXL-2000 in the back yard. A flooded drainage ditch was Dagobah. The weeds along the fence where we stood the Ewok Village play set was the Forest Moon of Endor. Earthworms and crawdads were horrible space monsters that menaced our intrepid action figure heroes. I even had a Endor Rebel trooper and a Boba Fett, whose heads popped off, that always managed to get decapitated by a lightsaber in those little movies.

Then, when I was 12, I felt like I should be growing out of those toys for boys. I packed most of my Star Wars stuff into boxes and put it in the attic. That same year, my mother took us on the yearly family vacation to Florida. She absolutely loved to eat at the Cracker Barrel. My brother, my sister and I, however, did not. It always turned into a fight. First, Mom would ask us if we wanted to eat at the next Cracker Barrel. We would all say no. Then Mom would get mad, scream at us to stop whining and we'd wind up eating at the Cracker Barrel anyway, taking an hour long pit-stop on what could have been a sixteen hour trip. Between my mom and my sister and their frequent pit stops, one of those trips between Evansville and Daytona actually took three days.

It was on one of those pit stops that I loathed, that I found myself browsing the gift shop at a Cracker Barrel. Not because I wanted to, but because my sister demanded that we look around. I think my little sister wasn't truly happy unless she was inconveniencing as many people as possible. While I was wandering around, moaning and moping, huffing and puffing, a Star Wars logo jumped out from a rack at me.

It was the cover of Dark Force Rising. At the time, I didn't know who Timothy Zahn was, I was a 12 year old boy, and I didn't read much outside of school. I was far more interested in riding my bike, video games and getting to Florida where I could spend a few days playing in the surf and sand and riding rides at Disney World, before being confined to Grandma's house for the last few days of the trip.

But here was a book-on-tape that I could pop into my walkman and listen to during that extremely long road trip. I would not have to listen to my sister whining, my brother deafening himself with Pantera or Metallica or whatever it was he had blaring on his own walkman. So I dug into my pocket and bought it. So the rest of the trip in the back of mom's Delta 88 was surprisingly pleasant. On the the return trip I picked up the other two books from the Thrawn Trilogy, and Dark Force Rising turned out to be a very wise investment, because Grandma snored...loud enough to be heard throughout her entire house. The headphones and Anthony Daniel's narration helped me block out enough of it to actually sleep those last few days.

About a month after that summer vacation, I wrote my first sci-fi epic. It was a blatant rip-off and had all the depth and complexity that a twelve year old boy could muster. Needless to say it was horrible. I wrote it out by hand in a half-used notebook from the previous school year. I still have it. A few years later, at 15, I began writing my first full length novel. I finished it by the time I finished my first year of college. It, too was horrible. I also wrote a 90-pages screenplay for a class taught by Patti Aakhus at the University of Southern Indiana. It was a little better. In the interceding years I had numerous false starts and I have page after page of half-formed ideas to show for it. Then, I started writing what became Never Saw It Coming. Tim Finnegan, Renee Williams, Maggie Gomez and even the Reverend Father Jonathan Blake became as real to me as Darth Vader, Luke Skywalker, Mara Jade and Grand Admiral Thrawn.

I loved them, I hated them and I killed a few of them. The process of writing hurt, led me to go to work tired and spent, to skip classes and forget plans with friends. I would not trade it for anything in the world. It had to be done.

I never would have thought to put pen to paper without first hearing, then reading Timothy Zahn's foray into the Star Wars Universe. I have trouble believing it has been twenty years since he guided me on my 'first step into a larger world'.

I can only hope that my stories have the same effect on someone out there.

From the "I wonder what took them so long." file

2011-08-03T10:33:00.000-07:00

I just read from a (poorly) translated Norwegian newspaper's website, that the WBC, which stands for ~~"We're Batshit Crazy"~~ Westboro Baptist Church is planning a trip to Norway to stage their unique brand of douchbaggery at the funerals for the victims of Anders Breivik's shooting and explosives laden rampage. (http://www.dagbladet.no )

Mommy didn't hug me enough and Daddy hugged me too much.

Now, I usually shy away from ranting on the WBC. Mainly because they make it to damned easy. "God hates Muslims, God hates Ryan Dunn, God Hates whoever is famous and dead, God hates US Soldiers. God Hates <insert minority group here>"

I mean, seriously it's like being a coyote in a hen house full of deaf, dumb and blind chickens. There are literally too many ways to mock these assclowns.

Seriously, even the KKK counter-protested these idiots! How stupid and moronic to your views have to be to drive the paragon of inbred racist fucktardery to side with the ALCU against you?

Until now I've held off on mocking you. But that's all over now. Are you ready for it? Because here it comes:

Okay Fred, Margie, Shirley, I am very sorry that you're all crazy white trash hate mongering idiots and I'm exceptionally sorry for your offspring and followers, because they are apparently weak minded easily lead tools. But this is America, You are Americans. You have the right to free speech and to stand on street corners at yell your idiotic and backward views to anyone willing to listen. Even if you wish to disrupt the funerals of soldiers, sailors and Marines who volunteered to protect those very rights, even if you wish to protest the funerals of anyone with a certain level of noteriety that will get you a little bit of press.

But now you seem to wish to spread your message....what is your message anyway? You seem to hate anyone and everything that isn't a Phelps? Procreation through Incest only? Is that your message? I can't seem to figure it out. You shout extremely offensive things at the top of your lungs, then sue anyone who would presume to infringe upon your right as an American citizen to be a total fuckwit. It's in that Constitution thingie they keep in D.C.

would like you to go fuck yourself.

DING! DING! DING!

I think we hit it. The Phelps clan just doesn't want to work anymore. You're a nice lil' baptist church according to the US Government, so you don't even have to pay taxes. Nice racket...and here I though you were idiots....no you're just evil little beady-eyed zealots with creepy smiles.

I do hope you take your show on the road to Norway. Europe knows exactly what to do with hatemongering ideologues now. They only had to make the mistake of ignoring one, once. I hope the local police forces there are powerless to stop the enraged citizens there from pounding you into a fine red paste, just as they were powerless to stop Breivik's murderous rampage.

A word of caution to anyone that might find themselves on a flight to Norway with these Batshit Crazy morons, you may want to get off. That sort of toxic stupidity may be contagious in an enclosed area for a prolonged period of time.

What the hell did he just say?!?!?

2011-07-29T09:42:00.000-07:00

I'm sure everyone has heard about the recent terrorist activity in Norway. God, that makes it sound relatively tame: What really happened: Anders Behring Breivik, A right-wing White Supremacist blew up and/or shot to death NINETY-SEVEN people, many of them children.

Every argument ever presented by Glenn Beck

It's horrid, enraging and utterly sad. What is worse? Glenn Beck, ever the fan of Godwining every argument he has ever heard of, compared The Labour Party Youth Camp targeted by this European version of a backwoods redneck to a "Hitler Youth Camp"

But that's Glenn Beck: We should all expect him to behave like an idiot.

The Ultra Stupid, A Quote from Morrissey:

“We all live in a murderous world, as the events in Norway have shown, with 97 dead," Yes, ladies and gentleman, this is a directly attributed quote from the 52 year old singer/songwriter. "Though that is nothing compared to what happens in McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried shit every day.”
(vancoversun.com)

Are...You...FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?

I understand the choices of vegetarians and I believe animal cruelty should have stiffer legal penalties, but to compare the cold, calculated murder of 97 people to hamburgers and buckets of chicken, is not only ill-thought-out it is just plain idiotic in every sense of the word.

First off, Mr. Morrissey, I'd like to introduce you to the food chain: Animals like Cows, chickens and even cute fluffy little bunny rabbits convert vegetable matter into animal matter, i.e. Meat. (and copious amounts of shit, but that's beside the point for this little exercise) The animals in turn are eaten by other animals, which convert that animal protein into more furry little predators and bigger, smarter brains, which is, oddly enough, how humanity came to be. The Internet came along a little after that. Which I'm thankful for, because it allows me to call you a level 3 douche bag from the privacy and comfort of my own home.

While, yes I agree factory farms aren't exactly pleasant places,they are much better than the world without them. Images like rioting at supermarkets and mass starvation come to mind. Without these industrialized food production facilities food prices would sky rocket and a good portion of the world's population wind eventually starve to death. And Yes, I do recognize the cost. These animals are bred and raised to be killed for food. It's ugly, it's bloody and it's extremely messy. It is also very necessary.

But according to your words, you think raising and killing animals for food is vastly more inhumane than Breivik's attack on unarmed and non-threatening fellow human beings. Breivik used a specific type of ammunition in his attack, rounds referred to as 'dum-dums' or sabots. For those unfamiliar with those terms. A Sabot is a type of bullet designed to shatter on impact, sending high velocity shards of splintered metal through the body of the target. This type of bullet is specifically BANNED from military use by the Geneva Convention. Why? because an easily survivable wound to an arm, leg or even torso with standard military copper jacketed rounds becomes an amputation or a slow agonizing death due massive internal injuries.

Yes, Morrissey, that seems MUCH more humane than killing and eating an animal. Have you even seen the pictures of the victims? Most of then are teenagers. Kids. Most of them appear to be native Norwegians that were executed for unforgivable crime of associating with immigrants. Breivik played judge, jury and executioner during his cold, calculated and vicious attack. But thank GOD he didn't do it while eating a Big Mac!

I've never purchased any of your music and you've insured that I never will. Basic humanity dictates that you owe the victims, their families, the people of Norway, and the entire HUMAN RACE an apology for inflicting the stupidity quoted above on the world. You basically told the world that those victims lives were worth less than a fucking hamburger.

While you're at it you can apologize to your fellow animal rights activists for setting the movement back a decade, as well. Toss another to your parents and children for shaming their name. Asshole.

Objective: Douchebaggery
Mission: Accomplished

A Review: The Book of the Nine Ides, by Benjamin Goshko

2011-07-24T10:48:00.000-07:00

Benjamin Goshko’s Book of the Nine Ides presents a lot of interesting ideas. You have a transgender teenaged protagonist apparently suffering from a mental illness, an epic fantasy world full of magic and mystery and a recurring theme of guilt and self-sacrifice.

Basically, Goshko has enough material for three great books. Unfortunately, at least in this readers opinion, Goshko put them all into one very short book or very long short story. It has a lot of potential, I’ll give it that. It’s well edited and well told. Goshko is very adept at putting us inside Ashley’s head, he never gets lazy or strays to stereotype. She develops in a compelling and logically way throughout the read Unfortunately, a lot of the supporting cast don’t get the same treatment. Most of them seem very static as far a character arc should go. This is forgivable, though, because the Book of the Nine Ides is primarily Ashley’s story.
My only major complaints are a few unresolved plot points and one utterly predictable confrontation. We are told about a lot of Ashley’s past, as a reader, I’d rather be shown.

Also, Personally, I thought it was a little short to be priced at $2.99.

In short: A good quick read. 4 out of 5 stars.

Shameless Self Promotion.

2011-07-22T11:21:00.000-07:00

I was on Dennis Lively's webcast last night, discussing my novel Never Saw It Coming. Here's the replay.

A Review: A Dance with Dragons: A Song of Ice and Fire

2011-07-21T12:46:00.000-07:00

A preface: If you haven't read the other books in this series, read them first, or you will be hopelessly lost. (And this post will contain SPOILERS!!!)

Overall: 4 out of 5 stars

A Dance with Dragons is Book Five in George R.R. Martin's epic fantasy cycle that began with A Game of Thrones. Martin excels at bringing the world of Westeros to life, he mixes practical descriptions of what life would be like in this world that seems to be stuck, for all intents and purposes, in the medieval era with the magic and mystery of prophecy.

In Book Five; Winter is upon us, and things are looking very bleak for all the Noble Houses of Westeros. In this world seasons can apparently stretch for decades. The War of the Five Kings ravaged much of the countryside during the Autumn.

According to Martin's own website Book Four and Book Five run concurrently in the timeline, where Book Four focuses on the the events in King's Landing, The Fingers, the Iron Islands and the events in Essos involving the young Targeryan Queen. (Rightful Heir to the Seven Kingdoms?) Book Five focuses on Jon Snow, the Wall, King Stannis Baratheon, his Red priestess, and much to my relief, the continued adventures of one Tyrion Lannister.

I'm going to stop here and let everyone know: The Imp is easily my favorite surviving character at this point in the series. Why? He's the most honest, to be frank. He's wily, shrewd and absolutely cutthroat when needs be. People view him as an obscene little monstrosity, and Tyrion does his best to live up to that perception.

A Dance with Dragons is a great read, well constructed and extremely entertaining. Although Martin, as an author, stays to form. (My Kindle has a crack in it, from where I threw it to the floor after reading of Robb and Catelyn Stark's shocking murders at the Twins during what became known as the Red Wedding.) Another major character, meets an apparent untimely demise at the ~~hands~~ daggers of friends in the final pages.

When Martin writes it seems that no one is safe. He continues that tradition here. Although one character most readers would have thought dead for the past two to three books in this series does make a surprising comeback, and starts on his road to redemption. The events in Mereen with the Dragon Queen are both revealing and puzzling and Young Brandon Stark is well on his way to mastering his own destiny. This outing shows Bran, Jojen and Meera journeying deep into the wilds beyond the Wall. Bran finishing his portion of this book learning from the last greenseer and restaking his claim as the hardest Stark to kill. Then Young Aegon Targaryen, the son of slain Prince Rhaegar, long thought dead, reveals himself and makes way for Westeros with Jon Connington, former Hand to Mad King Aerys, and a sellsword army at his back.

Oh...and Dany finally tames her dragon....

Personally, I can't wait for Book Six.