Rants...Raves...Reality

Stupid Movie/Tragic Solution

2014-12-18T09:38:00.000-08:00

As loathe as my social liberal persona is to admit it, Newt Gingrich is right. North Korea's attack on SONY PICTURES amounted to cyber warfare and North Korea won that battle. SONY's unseemly - and pathetically rapid capitulation - amounted to an unconscionable act of cowardice. Worse, bowing to external pressure - especially threats of violence - emboldens anyone with a disagreement, grudge, or self-serving point-of-view, making life more difficult for SONY and any other company that chooses to offer an opposing viewpoint, promote, support or simply depict a differing lifestyle or even offend, deliberately or unwittingly, some group, faction or petty despot. Are we heading for a day when anyone with a peanut allergy can threaten to blow up peanut farms if Skippy refuses to withdraw peanut butter from the market? I am being glib and I hope my sarcasm offends SONY (though I mean absolutely no disrespect towards anyone living and suffering with a peanut allergy).

I have no interest in seeing "The Interview". It did not make my list even before "The Interview" and cyber-terrorism were inexorably linked. I do not believe I would watch even if SONY offered the film free of charge across cable and the internet but - since I do object to others being promised then prevented a chance to see the film (not to mention the whole giving in to bullies thing) - I would applaud such a grand gesture. Besides, if they did it right, SONY might even manage to cover costs.

Was that cynical...?

Probably was...but it doesn't change the fact that SONY should make this right.

LOOK... GREMLINS CAN FLY!

2014-11-22T08:10:00.004-08:00

[Author's Note: This segment is part of a larger work-in-progress entitled I'M DEAD...WHAT CAN I SAY. It is intended to be humorous. Hopefully, despite the mayhem, that is true of this and the larger piece.]

LOOK...GREMLINS CAN FLY!

I am in a car. My car. Alone. Driving southbound well within the permissible 65 (plus ten) speed limit set by the State of New York. I am in the center lane but remember moving left to pass a somewhat sluggish, seriously seasoned driver who doesn’t belong behind the wheel let alone behind the wheel in my center lane. You know the type: gray and wizened, bespectacled turtle-head stretched forward over the steering wheel, over two skeletal hands permanently fused to the wheel at ten and two. His whole body moves left and right whenever he turns the wheel. My speedometer clocks him at no more, and probably less, than 70 mph.

I do everything I am supposed to do. Signal a turn. Check my mirror and glance over my left shoulder. Ease into the leftmost lane – the passing lane – and start moving forward. I am pressing firmly on the accelerator – sixty-five plus ten doesn’t apply when passing sluggish octogenarians or over-sized vehicles (like mobile homes and cranes) – when a late model SUV, a really big, gas guzzling tank with heavily tinted windows, comes barreling out of one of those discreet, semi-concealed, patently sneaky turnarounds frequented by troopers who disagree with the plus ten rule...

(You would think they’d teach basic rules of the road at the Academy but that really has nothing to do with my current situation…)

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The SUV skid-turns into the southbound passing lane, kicking up a good deal of dust and gravel and heads north at something like 65 mph plus twenty, plus ten or some other mathematical exponent I’ve never really understood. He is going warp factor whatever and he is heading straight towards a head-on with me. Our headlights are mere seconds from French kissing on the interstate. The logical maneuver is to glide gracefully back into the center lane and let Mad Max pass on my driver’s side but I haven’t quite finished passing grandpa; that lane is blocked. My only move is a sudden merge onto the shoulder…

Don’t get ahead of yourself. Or me. I do not end up in a head-on collision with a man who, I believe,was attempting suicide by proxy. That would have been too easy. Instead, I manage to pull my cute, completely restored, vintage AMC Gremlin, powered by reclaimed, reformulated, environmentally friendly French fry oil, onto the shoulder at a healthy seventy-five plus mph. As you can imagine, I am pressing the pedal pretty good – my Gremlin isn’t happy; she isn’t/wasn’t known for sudden bursts of speed – but I manage to totally miss the SUV. I actually feel Betsy shutter as it flies past…but I fly forward nonetheless. It is a NASCAR miracle. And then – just as immediately – I feel my poor Gremlin pull to the left and dip slightly in the same direction. I cannot stop my merge. The shoulder at this particular stretch of the Northway is narrow and I lose asphalt under two tires. My car bounces like a Baptist imbued with the spirit or a half-crazed hooker on an overbooked booze cruise and continues furiously to the left. Before I can react, my car is sliding/skidding/careening towards the wire barrier that protects out of control drivers – me – from perilous drops off occasionally steep embankments.

Wire rope guardrails are designed to stretch a little bit, grab the car and, over a long enough stretch, force the vehicle to stop. Passengers tend to walk away from this type of accident even if the poor

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vehicle looks like warm cheese forced through an angry cheese grater. The wires tear into the exterior panels; I expect long metallic strips to be rudely wrenched from the Gremlin but I also expect to be able to bemoan the loss of a faithful friend on my own two feet. I remember believing this completely until I notice incredibly bad luck or what has to be a really sick celestial gotcha – given the series of events I have already survived.

The steel cable, wire guard rails that extend southward for miles and miles literally disappear directly in front of me. Apparently, there was a previous car/truck accident and approximately 97 feet of guard rail was destroyed – flattened – at the exact spot where I need a safety net most. A gaping, uninviting, terrifyingly hungry, monstrous maw opens in front of me at a point where all the trees and rocks disappear and a normally pleasant, albeit steep, embankment begins. You could have put a giant “X” on it; that is where I am heading. My steering wheel and the brake seem intent on jumping through that hole. Despite all my weight on the brake pedal – I slow to a measly 47 mph but can’t rewrite the laws of physics (with apologies to James Doohan) – my Gremlin takes flight. We jump off the road and over the embankment with all four wheels in the air. I find myself spinning the steering wheel and working the pedals like Fred McMurray in the Absent-Minded Professor or Dick Van Dyke in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

(I should add, in hindsight, that I was proud of myself – extremely proud – under the circumstances. I tried to drive my way out of my predicament and I performed brilliantly. I even signaled a turn but I would have been proud if I managed to do all this without (1) screaming at a pitch that would make a bat’s ears bleed or (2) pissing myself. It did neither.)

Two wheels touch down first, both on my side, and the car immediately begins to cartwheel, side over side…

(Let me jump in and say that I am fanatical about seat belt use. Mine is attached and working perfectly. It locks when it is supposed to lock and holds me firmly against the seatback.)

…I turn in the air once…twice…three times before landing with a jarring but somewhat satisfying thud. The experience is not unlike riding one of those steel roller coasters at the amusement park. I land – believe it or not – on all four wheels, stopping in the center of the northbound passing lane. I have just enough time to shout “Sweet Jeezus, Mary & Johseph!” – and maybe issue a well-deserved phew! – before looking up into the grill of an eighteen-wheeler hauling a double-load of the Adirondack's finest hardwood. That poor bastard is in my latest/last lane of travel but I can’t blame him; he got there, undoubted by trying to pass his own sluggish, octogenarian road hog. It just never occured to him to watch out for flying Gremlins.

Anyone waiting/expecting/praying for a little good karma should remember karma’s a pustulating whore.

The last word of any consequence is Peterbilt. In my case it is Peterkilt.

I cannot tell you if the airbag deployed.

A Modern Day Fairy Tale, True Life Formula for True Love…Sorta

2014-10-23T07:47:00.000-07:00

ONCE UPON A TIME in a not too distant land, in the not too distant past, a young woman or, perhaps, a young man – you really can’t tell anymore – clicks some keys on a computer. In a similarly not too distant land – if it isn’t the same land – a message arrives on the desk of a young woman who, this time, actually is both young and female. The message makes her smile.

Selene, the young woman with the juvenile smile and the warm flush, clicks back. A friendship is begun - begins with a few brief keystrokes. The conversation, however, is anything but brief. They exchange messages, exchange the details of their lives, in a steady, almost unending stream of clicks and clacks. The ping of Selene’s computer becomes a constant accompaniment to the sound of crickets and the creaks and moans of the old farmhouse she calls home.

Selene gets very little sleep. Her friendship is most intense at night – at all hours of the night – but sleep is of little consequence. Selene senses a growing affection for the friend she knows only as Hera2014; she pines for the day they will meet.

Before any such meeting can be arranged, the fates intervene.

Hera2014’s dog is killed trying to cross the railroad tracks that run near her home. She complains that Noodles, her beloved childhood pet, a dachshund who has enjoyed an extraordinarily long life, never made it over the northbound line, lamenting that only the front half of the unlucky wiener dog managed to cross the rails. When found, Noodles was poised for a run across the pasture that separated the rail line from their home; the rear half of the old dog was, unfortunately, still sitting patiently between the tracks waiting its turn.

Needless to say, Hera2014 is overcome by grief. She is devastated by the abrupt loss of her most constant and familiar companion. Selene is deeply moved by her friend’s grief and begs to visit. All she wants is to hug and console her friend, to hold her close and take away some of the pain, but her offer is rebuffed. Hera2014 is not ready for company. She needs some alone time with her memories – and a bejeweled collar she now wears as a bracelet. Their visit, their first meeting, will have to wait for better times.

Better times should take about a week.

They both agree.

The week passes with tedious pauses in the conversation. Slowly, Hera2014 starts texting again and soon she seems to be back to her vigorous, near persistent, self. The messages fill the night once more and Selene grows excited and anxious; their meeting is finally getting closer. She has been packed since Tuesday.

On Friday, Hera2014 attends a frat party at the local college. She is not a student but friends are going and she decides to tag along. It is not – by any measure – a good decision. A frat brother, a guy famous for smashing empty beer cans against his ample forehead, takes advantage of her in the living room…over the back of a sofa…in front of everyone. She is too drunk or too drugged to do more than mutter the occasional “Wee!” and maybe – possibly – puke on the back of some anonymous guy kissing her breast. She remembers puking, anyway.

Needless to say, Hera2014 is an emotional train wreck (no pun intended). She is embarrassed…mortified…humiliated…shamed…and disgraced – plus one or two other words listed in the thesaurus on her desk. She locks herself in her room. Sitting on the bed, clutching her knees beneath the homemade quilt she got when her grandmother died, Hera2014 texts that she will never go out again. She will spend what is left of her life alone.

Once again, Selene asks to console her inconsolable friend.

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Once again, she is rebuffed.

Questions are asked.

Have you told your family?

My stepfather would kill me.

What about the police?

Are you crazy? My friends would never speak to me again. Those boys are THEIR friends.

“I’ll talk to you,” Selena texts.

“Thanks,” Hera2014 replies, following that text with, “I know”.

Another week later, Hera2014 gets thirsty. There is nothing in the house except milk and water. Tap water. Yuck! Hera2014 walks to the grocery store down the block and across the street. She is promptly struck by a speeding pickup that is literally falling apart; the driver doesn’t stop but the police find a cracked mirror, bits and pieces of rust and some mud smudges on the street. Hera2014 is thrown a record fifty-seven feet through the air landing with a coma inducing thud!

Selene doesn’t hear about the accident from Hera2014. She doesn’t hear much of anything for days – and days of texting – until a different voice messages her back from Hera2014’s computer.

The new voice is detailed but brusque. It is Hera2014’s sister but there is nothing warm about her. Nothing like Hera2014. The information is more like reading a newspaper. At times it is harsh. After a while, the messages get even harsher. All the warmth, all the affection she came to love and to need is missing from the computer. It is like a file has been deleted, a file Selene cannot bear to lose.

Selene tells her brother what has happened. She wants to commiserate, to share her pain with someone close to her but he is amused. He says it sounds like a country song. She gets mad when he laughs and slams her door. She stays locked away in her room connected to the outside by nothing but her recalcitrant computer.

The news continues to get worse.

The family is thinking of pulling the plug.

She wouldn’t want to live like this.

“Can I see her,” Selena begs. Privately she cries and when the ping comes back to her, she cries harder.

No.

That would not be a good idea right now.

In time, the messages no longer matter. Hera2014 is dead.

Her account is silenced.

Selena tries to express her condolences…

I am sorry…

I don’t know what to say…

She was my best friend…

…but the computer remains silent.

As Selena sits on her bed scratching her wrist with the tip of the X-Acto knife she uses for art class, she tries one last message.

I can’t tell you how much I miss her…

She waits…

Makes a second scratch…

And waits some more.

She makes six new scratches before the computer finally sings again.

Sometimes the wrong person dies, don’t you think?

As Selene presses harder on the blade, Hera2014’s messages disappear. All of them.

Hera2014 no longer exists.

It could just as easily have gone black…and does.

Dan O'Brien's "Mobsters, Monsters & Nazis"

2014-10-18T19:59:00.000-07:00

Well, the time has come to announce Dan O’Brien’s latest project: Mobsters, Monsters & Nazis: a collaboration between Dan O’Brien and Steve Ferchaud, who illustrated Conspirators of the Lost Sock Army and the Loose Change Collection Agency. What I am revealing today is the sketches for some of the interior illustrations (which will be black and white) of the first issue. It will be released as six issues (eBooks) starting on Halloween. It is influenced by film noir, pulp comics, and an abiding love of Lovecraft. It is now available for pre-order and Dan will be promoting it heavily starting in the month of October. He would love to hear what you think of it so far! Visit him at: http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ or on Twitter, @AuthorDanOBrien

GETTING THINGS RIGHT, Part Two

2014-08-29T08:19:00.000-07:00

Marty stands in the kitchen staring at the stove. He hadn't thought about dinner, not when he put that bullet in Edith's head. There were a lot of things he didn't think about. Eating certainly topped the list. Underwear came next. Realizing that Edith wouldn't be doing laundry anytime soon, the idea of dirty boxers piling up - how many did he have, anyway? - caused an unpleasant itch in an area where boxers are generally most comfortable.

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It is not that Marty misses Edith. He clearly doesn't miss the sound of her. Her voice. All of those insipid questions. He is glad to be done with all that but he might miss the convenience of a wife. She was good for thing or two. She was especially good at two but he is sure that won't present a long-term problem. Some skills are more easily replaced than others.

He has time, at least, to think about what to do next. He needs to plan. It might have been interesting to leave the ex-Mrs. Santore sitting in his chair staring at the lake she always found so fascinating. It was a good joke. Thinking about it, he feels himself smile. Edith Santore staring blankly at ducks and sailboats. Not seeing shit. He never understood all that natural wondercrap she blabbered about every time she looked out that damn window. The only time anything interesting happened out there - if anyone asked Marty, that is - his neighbors decided to go skinny dipping and ended up getting some exercise au naturel on that rock ledge that sticks out over the water. The one that kids jump off during the season but it was only springtime when they decided to frolic in the dirt and do all that outdoor shit; Marty figures they didn't know anyone was around. The guy certainly didn't but his wife...there was at least half a chance she looked his way while she was polishing the pine. He really should find out what's up with that. Always meant to, but...

He could now, of course. No questions asked.

It is still the off season (fall this time) and that is a plus. He could keep her where she is for the moment but it wasn't the best idea to leave a moldering corpse in the living room for more than a couple of days. She was a stanky bitch on a good day; Marty suspected she would raise more than a little stink if he let her. Someone might notice. Even off season. Eventually, anyway.

Marty is sure he doesn't want to drag her to the car and drive somewhere. Even in November, there were risks. Besides, the ex let herself go a little bit the last couple of years. Dead weight had a bit more heft to it than - let's say - once upon a time. He always waited too long to do what's necessary.

The camp has a dirt floor in the basement. That might present the best option. How hard could it be to dig a hole?

Marty doesn't get much further than that. He doesn't get into thinking about the Adirondacks or about digging holes in the mountains. Rocks. Boulders. Roots. Big mother roots as thick as his arm. None of that steps forward. Not when the back door opens. Not when a new and different problem decides to upend his day. Seems like there's something new everyday.

Ginger, his daughter - their one and only child - walks in innocent as you please. Ginger is a stupid name. The wife, his ex-wife, liked it before they were at the fuck no stage in their relationship but it never made much sense. Ginger is not a ginger. She was born with light blond hair that went a lifeless, dirty blond by the time she was four. Only trouble is today she is definitely not any kind of blond. Today she is purple. Electric purple!

Marty's mind sees purple - that fucking electric purple with one hot pink strip down the right side of her head - and burns red. He has gotten used to the hooker cut-offs and the band-aid bathing suits her mother let her buy, but this...this...NO FUCKING WAY...people will think she's some kinda hippie and if she's a hippie what does that make him.

He hears NO FUCKING WAY in his head and sort of feels a click. He sees a third eye appear in the center of her forehead. It must be some sort of genetic thing. Her face looks almost like her mother's. Same forehead, anyway.

Marty is amazed that she doesn't fall. Just stares at him with that gap-mouthed, empty expression that always drives him nuts. FUCKIN' NUTS. But this time he just wants to laugh. He thinks about the cartoons he used to watch as a kid. Thinks if he went over an poked her in that third eye - like Moe in The Three Stooges - she'd just fall over. Thinks he might just do that when Ginger finally gets the message and falls down on her own.

She was always a little slow!

Marty is in the middle of a debate between two holes or one large one when just a hint of movement catches his eye. Mrs. MacGregor is standing on his lawn - with her little rat-dog doing business she won't bother to collect - staring through his window. Her eyes are wide and her hand is over her mouth but Marty knows those ancient, dried up, crone fingers won't hold back a scream for long. The gun is still in his hand feeling light and oh so natural; it comes up in one fluid movement. The bullet punches a nice neat eye hole in the glass and a second later MacGregor goes down - but not before it tears a chunk of stupid, old-lady-blue-hair from her head. Marty can't help laughing; he remembers all those divots he threw up at the golf course last Saturday. That was a truly bad day.

Three!

Maybe I should rent a backhoe!

Marty is conflicted. He doesn't know if he should drag the old lady into the backyard or shoot her fucking dog. The damn thing won't stop yipping in that mind-ripping little dog voice. Shooting it would be a service. People should have real dogs. When they bark it means something...

Some decisions have to wait. Marty is standing over the body when a copmobile pulls up with a Hollywood screech and slide. The cop looks at Marty sort of drop-jawed. He is surprised by the gun - this is not that type of neighborhood - but manages to get out of the vehicle quickly his own gun drawn.

Marty thinks how many bullets does this thing hold and fires.

No third eye.

Not clod of turf spraying skyward.

A thin scratch appears on the officer's cheek. Maybe a bit of ear lobe explodes. A tiny rivulet of blood drips down his neck. A kid on a bicycle peddling by watching the drama falls to the asphalt. He is not hit but his bike suffers a critical injury.

The cop will live to retire, in the very near future, on a work related, hearing disability but his close encounter with a bullet pulls his attention from Marty for a split second. Long enough for Marty to retreat into the backyard. The stockade fence gate swings closed with a loud clank. The latch drops into place securing a barrier between Marty and a very pissed off cop.

Since they both hold guns and Marty has demonstrated a willingness to use his, the officer is forced to act prudently. He wants to plow through that fence like a champion bull with a scorpion on his nuts, pistol whip the sonovabitch that scarred his near-perfect face then shove his entire clip right up the fucker's ass but the thought of a second bullet hiding just out of sight makes the patrolman think twice about waiting for backup. All he can do is crouch and vent; the cop squats behind a shrub throwing threats and invectives over the fence.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, shooting at a cop? You think you can get away with that. You think I'm gonna let that go? You are done. I'm gonna take that gun away from you and kick your sorry balls until they pop out your mouth. Then I'm gonna shoot ya. I'm gonna shoot you with every fuckin' bullet I got. Maybe I'll borrow some more from the other cops - when they get here - and shoot you again and no one is gonna say a word. You are dead. You understand me. You hang onto that gun and you're dead. Period. You wanna live - I'm still gonna kick your ass - you throw that gun over this fence...

"I'm sorry." Marty's voice comes from the blind side of the fence.

"Not good enough," the cop shouts back, "Throw away the gun."

"I made a mistake."

"You fucking did make a mistake! Throw the gun away!"

"I hate mistakes."

"I don't give a SHIT..."

The explosion blows a ragged hole through the fence about a foot above the patrolman's head forcing him to dive face-first into the dirt. Sonovabitch tried to kill me, the officer thinks. The words shout in his head. He listened to my voice! He tried to aim! The cops hands are still over his head offering whatever protection he can find; the truth is still on the other side of the wall.

Marty sits with his back to the stockade fence. He is dead. The bullet has left a neat, proper hole in the center of his forehead. The back of his skull is not as nice. Gelatinous brain goo (and maybe a few bone fragments) follow a rain of pine splinters through the hole in the fence. The officer's uniform will definitely be bagged as evidence.

Marty's last moment was an act of utter certainty. He held the gun to his head and simply pulled the trigger. He did not blubber, argue or debate. There wasn't any doubt. It had to be done. Period. There was little need for conversation. He muttered two words, his epitaph...

I missed.

...and he was gone.

If he had a final thought it was at least I don't have to dig a hole.

GETTING THINGS RIGHT, Part One

2014-08-04T20:43:00.000-07:00

Edith Santore climbs into the front seat of her husband's Hummer and hands over a double scoop waffle cone. Dark, rich chocolate. Her husband's favorite.

Marty Santore watched her on the line, impatiently tapping perfectly manicured nails on the window. Edith always picked the wrong line. Always took too long. Her line was always the one with mechanical problems or staff problems or idiot customer problems. If some inconsiderate jerk wasn't ordering sundaes for an entire busload of chunky, pimply-faced campers - make sure that one doesn't have nuts...little Timmy has allergies - some old fart with no reason to still be living was paying for a baby cone with nickles and pennies, counting them out one at a time. The line was long enough without the bullshit that followed Edith - normally Marty wouldn't have put up with the wait - but it was hot and he had a thing for chocolate.

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Edith is all smiles while she watches Marty lick deep into his cone. Her man is going to enjoy this. He has been talking about ice cream all afternoon - they drove here especially for their hard pack, homemade chocolate ice cream - but her smile doesn't last. Two strokes of his tongue is all it took for the good feelings that came with anticipation to evaporate.

"What is this?" he demands, pointing the open end of the cone at his wife. Edith thinks he might push it onto her nose.

"Cho...colate...wa...ffle cone," Edith answers, desperate not to stammer. Marty hates it when she stammers. While she struggles to control her voice, she feels herself burrow into the seat back, to put some distance between herself and her husband. Marty hates that, too.

"This is not goddamn chocolate," he snarls, his voice going up as his eyes harden. They always went silver-grey when he got angry.

"It's Death by Chocolate. They have a lot of different chocolates. The man said if you like chocolate, this was the best..." Edith blurts the words in one breath.

The man said...

The words explode like kernels of popcorn in his brain.

"Do they have "chocolate" on that menu board? That's a question: Do they? I can see it from here. Look, dammit! I asked for CHOCOLATE. C-H-O-C-O-L-A-T-E..."

He points at each letter through the car windshield.

"Seems pretty simple to me. That's what I asked for. I did not ask for chocolate fudge, chocolate mocha, chocolate swirl, triple chocolate or fucking Death by Fucking Chocolate. I did not...I do not...want nuts and chunks of mystery shit in my ice cream. I did not ask you to milk the fucking cow. I asked for chocolate. Why...please tell me...why was that so hard."

Marty is getting loud. People will start to listen, to watch them. That would be bad. Marty hates people staring.

You wanna take a picture!

Edith watches his fist start to tighten around the waffle cone. Soon the ice cream will tumble onto the seat. That would be very bad. The Hummer is HIS car. It would be her fault. That would be worse.

"The man said it was the best. I wanted you to have the best. I was trying to do something nice...for you...I'm sorry."

I'm sorry changes everything. A switch flips and Marty stops. Everything stops. Edith can feel it. The heat stops. The anger stops. The tension stops. She sees it; it leaves her husband in a long breath, a breath that just sort of leaks out of him. Whatever was going to happen, wherever his anger was taking him, simply dissolves. Even his eyes change. They are blue again. That pretty, endearing blue. The blue that got her to marry him in the first place.

"It's only ice cream," he shrugs as he lowers his window and lets his Death by Chocolate waffle cone flop onto the blacktop.

"Counterboy can clean that up."

Marty's tone is very matter-of-fact. He slips the Hummer into gear and pulls out of the parking lot, turning left. North. Home is south.

Edith knows exactly where they are going. She doesn't ask why. She is just happy the storm has passed and passed easily. Sometimes, when Marty gets angry he goes a little crazy. Nothing she says will matter. Nothing she says will make it stop. It stops when Marty says it should stop. Period.

Route 9 becomes Lakeshore Drive and Lakeshore becomes Coolidge Hill...

They are going to the lake.

They haven't been to the lake in a while. Not since last year. The house is cool and a little damp from the winter thaw. She can smell just a bit of mold; he will want her to bleach everything.

"Take the big chair..."

His chair!

"...I'll be right back," he adds, smiling and nodding in her direction before disappearing into his study. It is the one room in the house that she does not have to clean. It is his man cave, his sanctum sanctorum. His escape. Edith has never been in the study.

"It has the better view. We can share."

Edith settles into the big recliner. It is old and threadbare - it smells of cigars and beer and something else she doesn't recognize - but it holds sentimental value for her husband. It was his grandfather's. Marty sat on the old man's lap to watch the Mets games. When Pops died, Marty took the chair before anyone could throw it out. It has followed him from his grandfather's house to his mother's, to his first apartment and then, finally, to the lake house.

Edith rubs her finger aimlessly over a small tear she repaired three summers ago. You can barely see the stitches. It was a good job.

The lake, beyond their window, is calm. A sheet of blue-grey glass. She is watching a blue heron glide above the water when Marty steps in front of her, blocking her view. He is very casual and relaxed. Calm. Smiling.

"I'm sorry about the chocolate..." she starts to stay but he stops her.

"It was only ice cream," Marty counters, flashing a large, ingratiating smile. "It was a mistake..."

Edith wants to say sorry - or thank you for understanding - but she doesn't get the chance. The bullet stops her. One shot. One hole. In the middle of her forehead. A third eye oozing a small rivulet of blood that drips off the tip of her nose.

"I hate mistakes."

A flock of geese fly past the window following whatever course they normally follow.

The Hummer backs out of the driveway.

Outside the window, a canoe glides by. The sun begins to set and bats take flight. Edith continues to stare blankly through the glass. She looks bewildered.

If Marty thought of it, he would say she always looked that way...

[to be continued]

Mirror...Mirror

2014-07-23T06:21:00.002-07:00

The scenario goes something like this:

A couple, who have been dating for - let's say - two years, break up. Let's also say that he is the breakee. She has accused him of sleeping around, stealing money from her purse for drugs and alcohol and just being one mean, unreliable son of a fuck-face. Fuck-face is her word. He tells her in a text that he's done. He can't take the accusations. He can't take her voice and all the yelling. He can't take her mouth. Well, he likes her mouth but he doesn't like the way she uses it. He just can't take it anymore.

https://www.createspace.com/4671978

Within minutes, the status messages start to fly. She tells the world that he is a two-timing lowlife. Her case is bolstered by any number of colorful and explicit adjectives. He tells the same world that she is a paranoid, overbearing, dominating succubus. He does not use the word succubus (he can't spell it) but uses a shorter word that isn't technically allowed on social media. The closest he comes to succubus is cu...

One day in, he changes his relationship status. To Single! She is furious. Devastated. Hurt. Embarrassed. Bereft of self-worth, even. Is that all their relationship meant to him? One day. She could have changed her relationship status first - lots of guys would have liked her new status - but she thought maybe there was still hope for them. Her ire - and, of course, her grief - spawns near endless messages dripping with despair and newfound fury. Likes positively ding off the hook - to resurrect an arcane image; the latest adjectives are more colorful and more anatomically impossible than before.

Within two days the tone of the rhetoric changes. He admits to some extracurricular sex but it, the sex, wasn't his fault. The woman was nuts. A certified and certifiable paranoid schizophrenic, a schizoid. He was afraid to say no. You know those people...you never know what they will do. She scared the shit out of him. He was thinking of her - the girlfriend, that is - of what would happen if he said "no". The police might have to be called (which would be bad - there was a lot of weed in his backpack); she might have to identify his body. He was only thinking of her.

She cries.

He cries.

More messages find a voice. The woman who fell ever so deliberately on her unwilling boyfriend's undulating (though unwilling) member is vilified and threatened with the worst kind of violence. Mention is made of her kid brother's new baseball bat and the alleged sluts patently unclean body parts. Boyfriend and girlfriend are reunited without further mention of money, drugs or a somewhat lengthy history as a fuck-face...

This is not, I should mention a Lifetime movie. No one will ultimately be murdered. There won't be a lengthy trial (with a patently ridiculous verdict) to kill some time. This drama is playing out on social media and I am on the computer because there is nothing left to watch. Vikings is in hiatus. I am up to date with Salem and I've managed to watch every episode of The Misfits (in just three days) and I cannot bring myself to watch one more re-run of Law and Order SVU. What's left?

I do not understand why I keep reading these things.

I don't know why people keep posting them.

I should shut off the computer. Maybe read a book. I have two pages left to one of Dean Koontz's Odd books. I have had two pages left for three weeks.

Do you really want to leave this page?

They always ask that. Am I making a mistake?

Magnus Rex 321 is complaining about the bathroom at Starbucks. He should try the stalls at Walmart but...but wait...which Starbucks?

This is stupid.

I should click yes.

Just one click.

This is really hard.

I'll get a cup of tea first.

He got a vasectomy without telling her. What if she wanted children?

Excerpt from AUF WIEDERSEHEN, LAMPIONE

2014-07-06T21:20:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER TWO

Portrait Of A Miscreant

I was a Catholic School brat.

My school, my elementary school, at least, had a strange look. It was a squat, four story, block-wide, brown brick building devoid of exterior ornamentations. It could very easily have been a factory or, if you believe those of us who went there, a prison. The school had two entrances, both double-wide steel gray doors. My entrance, the boy’s entrance, was through the back of the building. The girls entered through virtually identical double doors on the opposing side of the school; wooden crosses were affixed to their doors though I couldn’t say what they guarded against. None of the girls looked like vampires from a Peter Cushing film. There was never anything that exotic entering Our Lady of Perpetual Pain.

The girl’s portal opened onto the main office and the auditorium. More thought was given to design and appearance on this side of the building. This was the public face of the school. A half-story marble staircase rose to a wide landing. A Sacred Heart of Jesus statue commanded the landing and oversaw everyone entering the building.

There have been any number of movies featuring miscreant students kneeling before a statue with books balanced on upraised hands. They are all, with some variations, historically accurate. At my institution, we were not allowed to kneel. The good sisters were not about to allow any resting – even if only against the heels of our feet during brief, unsupervised moments. No, at Our Lady of Perpetual Pain, the offending student was required to stand before the statue. Feet together. Shoulders back. Arms extended forward in a supplicating posture. The Mother Superior or one of her minions drew a tight circle around our feet in chalk (similar to those chalk outlines on crime dramas); we were required to stay within that circle at all times. Two nuns then placed two old, heavy and fragile looking leather bound bibles on each outstretched hand. God help the student who dropped the word of God on the floor. There were always more creative ways to instruct a wayward soul. Thank you, Torquemada.

On one occasion – there were several – when I found myself staring up into the mournful eyes of the Son of God, I had to pee. I have a medically-certified weak bladder. I was provided a note from a Board Certified member of the Urological Sciences after a series of seriously embarrassing tests involving an indeterminate length of hose and gallons of water. Said note was filed and forgotten as soon as it left my Mother’s hand. Straying from the path before lunch and getting caught was an unfortunate miscalculation. Lunch was our proscribed, pre-ordained, tolerated and permitted bathroom time. Anything else was covered by one of the seven deadly sins (Hubris and Sloth were probably inscribed on my permanent record) promising a discussion with the Mother Superior. Knowing that I could not leave the circle without permission – which might not be granted in any case – I kept to my post casually shifting my weight from one foot to the other, doing the pee-pee dance while I desperately prayed for salvation. Salvation was not forthcoming. I voided before the statue that greeted parents and bishops.

The urge to urinate is sort of like having an itch and trying not to scratch. As soon as I knew I had to go, my whole body began working against me. My casual soft shoe quickly became vigorous. I began bouncing from one foot to another – always keeping within the circle – at an increasingly frantic pace. I could not have moved faster had the nuns placed hot coals under my feet. To protect the bibles, I crossed my arms tightly clasping the awkward, unbalanced tomes to my chest. I began to pray.

Please, no…God, please, no…Oh, God, please, please God…Oh, Dear God, please not now…please…SHIT!

When it started, there was no stopping. I lacked the muscles or strength of will to simply leak, to dribble. My shame was abrupt and dynamic. My pants darkened from zipper to ankle. Water gushed over my sock and shoe and pooled around my feet. The urge to dance passed and I found myself standing before the Sacred Heart of Jesus, head back, eyes closed in reverie (there is a lot of relief when you really…really…oh dear God…really have to go); every drop held by my magically and miraculously bottomless bladder spilled onto the marble floor.

If Catholics do not believe in Karma, they should. As if on cue, Sister Magdalena appeared on the stairs. Her entrance was timed not only to witness my disgrace but to focus the attention of the entire school – and perhaps the universe – on my most spectacular indiscretion; within seconds, everyone knew of my personal oasis in the center of hell. Her first reaction was to scream. She could not have screamed louder had she stumbled upon Pope Paul VI and the convent’s ancient mastiff Domingo engaged in intense, interactive prayer.

“What in God’s holy name do you think you’re doing!!!” echoed up and down the stairwells and along each hallway.

Sister Magdalena was a thin, forty-five year old soprano. She spoke in that same screechy, high pitched whine whether giving a lesson, raising her voice during choir practice or chatting on the phone with a parent. The only reason no one laughed during class was that she taught religion. No one laughed during religion.

My heart nearly crashed into the Pearly Gates at the sound of her voice. The bibles tumbled from my arms. A disjointed attempt to catch them in mid-flight failed miserably. One landed with a splash, further parting the seas and increasing my shame and humiliation. Fear reached new levels. What was left for me? The sign they would hang around my neck this time was Heretic. They burned heretics once upon a time. Our Lady of Perpetual Pain had at least one nun old enough to remember the recipe.

I was not allowed to go home to change my clothes or to wear any of the castoffs that the school collected. My Mother was called. The situation – as it pertained to me – was explained with sincerest regrets. Mom was informed that they would call again when I was ready to go home. She should be ready to collect me then. I spent the rest of the school day balancing bibles – that sin had not been paid for yet – while my urine stained pants dried. After school, after the entire female student body got to walk past me towards the exit – making note of the unpleasant scent of sin – I was required to wash and dry the stairs from top to bottom. When I was done, Mother Superior had me place my nose on the cold marble and sniff. While I was bent low snorting damp stone, she informed me, in her standard monotone, that a clear thinking Christian boy would not have to be told what to do next. A good Christian soldier would do the right thing and make sure the steps were clean – for the glory of God. She obviously thought – and maybe knew – that I wouldn’t do the right thing. I was ordered to wash them again before I had a chance to answer.

Mom came to collect me when the job was done; not once did she protest my punishment.

There was a rumor – a Catholic School urban legend – that insisted sucking on a copper penny gave you a fever. It was a rumor I needed to be true. More than anything, I wanted to be sick. More than anything, I wanted to stay home and serve my time for a day or two – or even a week or two – in my room. I sucked on that penny all night. I slept with it under my tongue and spit it behind my bed in the morning. I complained about fever and begged to stay in bed tucked under the covers.

I was sent to school without as much as a cool hand on my allegedly enflamed cheek. Mom was not one to end punishment early. I guess time off for good behavior wasn’t Christian.

The Mother Superior’s office was to the right of the statue of Jesus just outside the auditorium. She spent her days behind a solid mahogany door that was never left open. A brass door handle, brass nameplate and a golden crucifix, symbols of her office, were all highly polished. A single, simple and uncomfortable (take it from me) chair sat to the side of her office door. Apparently couples were not expected or encouraged by the Mother Superior. Anyone who came in pairs – parents, for instance – had to stand.

Inside, the walls were lined with mahogany book shelves. The bibles were in there somewhere. Hiding. Waiting. The Mother Superior sat behind a suitably ornate, authoritative, mahogany desk. It is where visitors to the school stopped before being escorted anywhere else. I do not know what she did behind that door; every time I was sent to speak with Mother, her hands were clasped around her rosary. I had the impression that I disturbed her prayers a lot; every time she looked up there was a tired, forlorn look in her eyes.

Twin staircases rose from either side of the lobby toward the second floor. The marble ended at the top – just out of sight.

Mahogany was a theme throughout the building. It was dark and impenetrable. Very little light made it into Our Lady of Perpetual Pain.

The entrance on my side of the building, the boys’ entrance, opened onto a small foyer barely wider than the doors. Twin steel staircases scissored back and forth towards the upper floors. Hallways on each landing provided access to the classrooms on the second and third floors and the teacher’s rooms on the fourth. Unescorted students were never allowed on the top floor.

Since boys and girls shared these stairs and passageways to get around the building – the girls’ entrance was only used to enter the school – steel mesh walls, the same heavy gauge, heavily painted metal that covered the windows enclosed the stairwells and divided the halls, keeping the sexes apart on the stairs and in the classrooms. I have a habit of mentioning movies and television shows to describe everyday activities; navigating Our Lady of Perpetual Pain reminded me of Stalag 17.

In the third grade, I developed a crush on a fourth grader from the other side of the wire. Most of the time, when the girls walked the halls, they marched as if in a processional, eyes fixed on the shoulder blades of the girl directly ahead, faces either naturally blank or lost in introspection. Mary Ellen Coffey was different but I cannot define how. She walked, talked and acted like every other girl in her class. Shedidn’t wear her plaid uniform skirt shorter (or longer, for that matter) than anyone else. There was never an extra button undone on her blouse. Her pleats were always starched and perfect. I noticed both. The silver cross she wore around her neck was the prescribed length and worn in exactly the same way as every other girl.

Mary Ellen’s cross was always perfect. It was the ID badge it was intended to be. Mary Ellen was a poster child. On the surface. That’s what my brain kept telling me, anyway. When I was near her I felt it, like some sort of individuality pheromone she let escape or allowed to slip past the facade. The reality, maybe (or probably), was that I had discovered horny ahead of the curve.

The boys wore similar crosses through the boutonniere hole on their jacket collar. Mine was always twisted or turned upside down. Sometimes it fell off altogether. I was always being told to stop fidgeting when I tried to fix it. I was never going to be asked to pose for photos in The Tablet or for any of the pamphlets the school mailed to parents. Somehow I never fit in. The occasional growth spurt left my pants too short. My shirt tails never stayed properly tucked. I had a permanently wrinkled, permanently disheveled look (made worse by the fact that Mom was never good with an iron). My differences were always on display or made public knowledge by ever vigilant teachers; they repeatedly felt the need to correct my slovenly deficiencies through mindless, repetitive exercises and lengthy punishments publically administered. I was often called to the front of the class to read some specifically tailored exercise. Why God Cries When My Shirt Tails Flap in the Breeze? was a personal favorite. I read it as the opening act to one of Mother Superior’s assemblies.

On one occasion, when the entire school was heading towards the auditorium for an assembly, I saw Mary Ellen’s class approach from the opposite direction. I tried to catch her eye and caught a fleeting glimpse of a smile and, less probably, a wink. I stuck my fingers through the wire mesh and wiggled them. A little secretive wave at the enticing Mary Ellen. It was an action without thought – at least what the nuns would call Christian thought – but not without consequence. I was fixated on the fourth grade love of my life but failed to take note of her teacher; nuns travelled with every class. The ruler was as much a part of her uniform as was her floor-length black robes and her beads and it struck my intruding fingers with a force only an eighty pound, eighty year old Bride of Christ can produce. I withdrew my digits with a yelp – repressing more than a few tears – and fast-stepped after my class. I was removed from the assembly for a talk with the Mother Superior. It was not my first; in truth, I was a regular on that seat outside her door.

I never got to speak to Mary Ellen. With my fingers red and bruised, I headed home. A block from my house, and away from the watchful eyes of the Good Sisters of Perpetual Pain, Bill Coffey passed me a note from his sister. Bill was in my class. A fellow third grader. He was shorter, squatter and heavier than me. The note offered a little encouragement. You didn’t cry. Good for you. The note came with a PS. Bill delivered a quick, powerful sucker punch straight to the gut. It knocked the wind out of me and doubled me over. I would like to say that he caught me by surprise but, in truth, I was never athletic. The only muscles I owned were in a Charles Atlas exercise book under my bed.

While I was still spitting and gasping for air, Bill added his own brief warning.

“Stay away from my sister, wop!”

I watched Bill Coffey trot off without a care in the world. When he turned the corner, I cried. Third graders do cry…when they can get away with it. I stayed on the street until I could dry my eyes and headed home.

Mom greeted me with a swift, and firm, slap to the face as I walked through the door. It, too, was a sucker shot. The Mother Superior had called. It was the fourth time I was struck in just under three hours. Hand, belly and butt still hurt. My face stung and burned red. I was beginning to run out of body parts.

“Why can’t you just behave?” Mom asked in her shrill, no-nonsense voice.

I wanted to say I didn’t do anything wrong. I wanted to protest. All I did was wave at a girl, for Chrissakes, but I would never have added the Chrissakes! Mom’s second slap would have reverberated throughout the neighborhood. Sinning before the Mother Superior was one thing; sinning before the Son of God…fuck, I would have been lucky if they still burned sinners at the stake in our Brooklyn neighborhood. I wanted to tell my mother that I liked this girl. She was cute. Your little boy is growing up, but I never got the chance. First of all, guys don’t talk that way to their moms and secondly, it wouldn’t have mattered. Mom was already in full rant mode screaming about embarrassing the family.

“Do you have any idea what they think of us?”

No, I thought to myself, but you’ll tell me. You always do. I grabbed my bag, an imitation leather case that buckled across the top and headed up the stairs towards my bedroom. I left Mom’s tirade behind me.

“That’s right…go to your room…and stay there…stay there until your father comes home…I’m sure he’ll have something to say…”

They certainly would have something to say. Mom would still be angry when he got home and the speech would be revisited but not with me. Dad would think it was all silly. That would be the word he’d

use. Silly. He might even wonder what all the fuss was about: his son waved at a girl. So what. I didn’t think Dad would come up the stairs. Dad rarely reprimanded me – I had to really…really work hard to get his attention; I was capable but waving at Mary Ellen just wasn’t Dadworthy – and he never cared what they thought of us at the school.

I lay on my bed and waited for the pain to go away. I fell asleep before it did.

https://www.createspace.com/4671978

THE GOOD REVEREND DOCTOR PARKER

2014-03-27T07:51:00.002-07:00

[excerpted from a larger work-in-progress, Revelations.]

...THE REVEREND ELLISON PARKER was everyone favorite pastor. He offered the invocation at the beginning of every Town Board Meeting, sponsored teen nights in the church basement and gave the benediction at most community gatherings. He officiated at weddings and funerals, was present for baptisms and stood in uniform and prayed every Memorial Day and every Veteran’s Day. He rolled up his sleeve and got dirty whenever Mother Nature or some less impressive human counterpart dealt injury to his flock. At night, he knelt by his bedside and read from the bible before sliding under the covers for an evening of well-deserved, gratifying peace.

We later learned that the good reverend’s wife slept in the smaller bedroom down the hall. That didn’t matter to the Reverend Dr. Parker. Every night, he pulled the covers high around his neck. He lay on his side and spent a few minutes bending his knees just so and shifting his back and shoulders until he found that perfect place on the mattress. It was old and all the dents and imperfections accepted his body perfectly. When he was completely comfortable, his arm, the upper one, the right one, slipped across the body of his young daughter and pulled her to him. She began sharing his bed when she was four; the practice continued until she was twelve years old.

There was an early frost that October, but Ellison didn’t feel the cold. He never felt cold at night. What he felt instead were curves that weren’t there before. When he touched her, he felt her breath hitch. He heard, or imagined, the tiniest moan slipping past his daughter’s lips. He felt her move, or thought he felt her move or envisioned his young daughter moving next to and against him and he was appalled. This was not right. This was sin. Every evil ever visited upon men by women found entre into his bedchamber that evening. The good Reverend Ellison Parker could not abide sin. Sin had to be dispatched quickly. Decisively. And so, just one week before Halloween, in the nearly morning hours well before dawn, evil was quickly and quietly returned to the shadows.

The Reverend’s car ended up in Barker’s pond. He sent it off the end of the pier and let it sink into the water and the mud. Barker’s pond is not very deep but it was just deep enough to cover the trunk. Only the red of the tail lights broke the surface of the water.

I was there when we opened that trunk. Little, twelve year old Emily Parker, lay in that trunk stuffed behind the spare tire. She was naked. And broken. There were bruises on her thighs and her chest and her neck. Her hands and her ankles and her mouth were taped. Her eyes were wide open. They were the biggest eyes I had ever seen and I was convinced that she saw everything when he carried her into that trunk. In that desperate part of my mind, the part that now needed to retire, I believe she saw everything as we carried her to the ambulance.

The good reverend locked her in the trunk alive. He let her die in the dark without a single creature comfort. He let the icy water bubble in and take her slowly. The Most Reverend Doctor Parker left his daughter to the most sinister death imaginable. There may be more evil ways to kill a person but when I stared into that trunk at the bloating body of young Emily Parker, I could not think of any.

When the car was removed from the murky waters, Ellison Parker was not behind the wheel. The evidence suggested he slipped into the woods behind the pond and disappeared for a while.

The Reverend never stood in a courtroom to answer for his crimes. Rumor has it that he was shot trying to break into a barn. It was December by then and he was probably trying to keep warm. I do not know the circumstances. I did not investigate Ellison Parker. I am ashamed to say I put my papers in the morning after we opened that trunk; I left that duty to someone else but I was glad to know he was gone. The bullet that took him was up close and personal. It was the type of closure that comes from a trunk slamming shut. That was enough.

WATCH

FOR THE

RELEASE OF A

NEW THRILLER

COMING

April, 2014


LCCN:  2014903373

ISBN-13: 978-1495959967

2014-03-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

You’re never too old to have one more adventure

Brought to life by Steve Ferchaud’s vibrant drawings, this story for all ages by Dan O’Brien lets us know that it is never too late to have one more adventure.

An Excerpt:

Robert Pendleton opened one eye as the light of a passing car flashed over the window, shattering the darkness into prisms. He rolled onto his back on the beat-up couch and yawned as he reached his hands up and rubbed his eyes unceremoniously.

He looked out over the darkness at the digital clock. The red digits spelled out a quarter ‘til midnight––nearly fourteen hours of sleep. He smiled and grabbed one of the cushions of the couch, burying his head in it. Just enough sleep, he reminded himself. Robert felt that anything less than twelve hours of sleep was very nearly too little.

He grasped blindly for the TV remote.

Groaning as he lifted his head, he looked at the empty table––his eyes drawn by another flash of a passing car. He couldn’t see clearly, but he knew that the remote had been there before he had fallen asleep nearly half a day ago.

“Could have sworn….” he mumbled as he pushed himself up and brushed his hand around the top of the table, finding nothing. “Where did….”

Another groan escaped his lips as he lifted his body to a sitting position and threw aside the cluster of pillows that he had gathered around himself. He reached out for the lamp, but instead knocked it to the floor with a resounding thud.

Robert muttered as he stood up from the couch, and then sank to his knees to search around in the darkness for the fallen lamp. Reaching around on the shadowed floor, shards of the broken lamp scattered like pieces of light.

He turned his head, peering beneath the large space underneath the couch and saw the reflection of the buttons on the remote. The off-gray piece of machinery was underneath the couch––only darkness lingered beyond it. He reached out as he spoke again.

“How did it get all the way down there?”

Robert flexed his hand and strained as he twisted his back to reach farther; yet, the remote remained just out of reach. He pulled his arm away with a huff and craned his neck to the side, staring underneath into the darkness below the couch.

His eyes widened as he saw the impossible: there was something beyond the remote. He shook his head and closed his eyes, whispering to himself that he didn’t see what he thought he had.

“I saw a little man,” he whispered to himself as he opened his eyes once more and nearly gasped as he did so.

The figure was closer now and he could make out the outline clearly. A tiny man rested just beyond the remote.

“What in the name of…?”

“Not here in the name of nobody, laddie. I be a friend though,” crooned the miniscule figure as he interrupted Robert and stepped forward, placing a hand on the darkened and slick surface of the remote.

A tam-o’-shanter crested his bright red hair, the shaggy mane blending perfectly into his equally crimson, neatly trimmed, beard.

A billow of whitish smoke drifted from the long-stemmed pipe that he held clenched between his lips.

Robert fell back and knocked aside the adjacent table. Rubbing his eyes, he spoke a single word: “Leprechaun.”

About the Author:

Dan O’Brien, founder and editor-in-chief of The Northern California Perspective, has written over 20 books––including the bestselling Bitten, which was featured on Conversations Book Club’s Top 100 novels of 2012. Before starting Amalgam, he was the senior editor and marketing director for an international magazine. In addition, he has spent over a decade in the publishing industry as a freelance editor. You can learn more about his literary and publishing consulting business by visiting his website at: www.amalgamconsulting.com. Contact him today to order copies of the book or have them stocked at your local bookstore. He can he reached by email at amalgamconsulting@gmail.com.

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Would you like to win a remarked copy of Conspirators of the Lost Sock Army and Loose Change Collection Agency signed by the author and illustrator?

Simply follow the author here and here and a few winners will be randomly selected on March 20th!

A Shameless Self-Promotion Apology

2013-11-26T07:09:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who has a cause very near and dear to his heart. Day in and day out he goes on Facebook (and other social media sites) posting links that explain the cause and encourage others to support the cause. There are times I want to tell him to shut the front door! Find something else to post. As much as I hate friends who feel the need to discuss the minutiae of their lives I almost wish he'd write about grabbing the sports section and heading off to deal with constipation. Even an obligatory "at Starbucks" status would be less nerve-wracking.

This post is not about him.

As a self-published author, I am obliged to be a self-promoting parasite. It is as much a part of the job as the actual writing. Worse, it takes more time than I wish to invest and depending on the day and season takes much needed time away from that next brilliant insight the next project desperately needs.

I hate feeling redundant. I struggle to post the same status messages desperately trying to find different words each time. On some level, it feels less intrusive and less like cold-calling (a job I held for about four hours once upon a time) if I work off a varying script and resist beating the reading public over the head with the same buy me...buy me...buy me mantra.

That said, allow a shameless plug. Black Friday is upon us. While enjoying the warm afterglow of a holiday meal (assuming you survived the storm and made it to love ones and turkey), think about sitting in front of the fire enjoying a good book. (Self-published writers have enough ego to add "good" before "book".) If you order on Friday, it might even be there waiting for you when you get home. There are no storms lurking that would delay you or the delivery of your book.

As a Black Friday special - and because the new novel will be coming out in early 2014 - I am offering "This Little Piggy Belongs to the Devil" at a 50% discount. That's Friday. All day Friday. I don't care what time zone you live in, where you are ordering from, if you celebrate Thanksgiving or not...if it is Friday, the discount is yours. Just enter the code. It's already on Facebook, Google and Twitter - and cut and pasted below.

I will be back after Christmas shameless beating a drum for "Auf Wiedersehen, Lampione". Until then, enjoy "This Little Piggy Belongs to the Devil" - with my apologies.

As posted on Facebook at 9AM 11/26/2013:

50% OFF Black Friday Discount. "This Little Piggy Belongs to the Devil". List Price $11.99. 50% savings all day Friday - ANY TIME ZONE. Just enter code 7Q73LJZD. Createspace store only. https://www.createspace.com/3678792

Just Joking, Honey

2013-11-24T06:11:00.001-08:00

(A few years ago, I tried my hand at stand-up comedy. I won't pretend I was good at it but I enjoyed the writing. Every once in a while I have a thought I find amusing and I add it to the joke file. Here's one of them.)

I cannot tell you how many times, in 37 years of marriage, I have heard the word “mine” from the wife. You may feel that I should say “my wife” – or at least be tempted to say “my wife” – but I am “the” husband; I do not have possessions. The wife has never used the word “our” – as in “our children” or “our car”. She has certainly never used the word “your” – as in your pants, your socks, your shoes. When the time comes, I will be put to rest in “her” plot. I am not sure if that is generosity or punishment. If you are married, you will hear your wife say: my couch, my table, my pots, my pans, my television, my computer, my condoms, my husband…

The wife will say – when she is mad at me – that she will not take any of my shit. You may think she is giving me ownership of my shit but she is not. It’s her shit; she just wants me to hold it for her. In fact, she insists on it.

Flash Fiction

2013-11-06T06:35:00.000-08:00

(I am a creature of habit. I write on a schedule – even if I do not know what I am about to write. I get up every morning and, with that first cup of coffee, pound on my computer.

The other morning, I was forced to reinstall the computer; my grandson or my daughter visited a site they shouldn’t have and the laptop started acting like it was swimming in molasses. This, needless to say, impinged on my work time. I filled it, while I waited for Norton and Office and whatever updates Microsoft insists I needed, by doodling in my notebook. The piece that follows wriggled to the surface without any pre-planning. I like it for its brevity and its tone.)

▬▬▬▬

The Martini, Extra-Dry

My doctor suggested that I stop drinking as part of his post-physical comments. I invited him home for dinner – I am quite the imaginative cook – and made us both a Martini to whet his appetite and to introduce him to a more reasoned, evening routine. There is nothing more civilized that a chilled Martini at the end of a long day.

My doctor passed away soon afterwards. Cardiac dysrhythmias. It was quite unexpected. It took his wife and family completely by surprise when they received the call. He was only – if I had to guess – forty-something. Fit, forty-something and dead.

The Martini is a classic drink, one that has withstood the ravages of time. It is not easy to make and must be served in the appropriate glass with sufficient preparation to honor the drink. Do you see how I have frosted our glasses? And the olives, three each, carefully pierced through the center with silver skewers. I do not abide anything stuffed into the olive. Nothing extraneous should be added to the liquor. Just a hint of brine to compliment the gin.

I find salt heightens a great many sensations. I have been watching the tiniest droplet of sweat gliding down your delicate neck. I don’t know if you can even feel it but it is enchanting. I have an almost irresistible urge to kiss you. To kiss your neck. It is not the salt that makes me want to do that – that is all you, by the way – but that hint of salt, the thought of that special taste, magnifies the experience.

See what I mean?

You are quite beautiful. I am sure you aware of your beauty; you must see it every morning in the mirror and men – myself included – cannot help mentioning it. It is the nature of human beings to appreciate beauty.

Don’t get me wrong. This is not some tawdry attempt at seduction. I do not enjoy pick-up lines. Look around you…I prize beauty. I collect books and old records, mostly classical compositions, and art. Small pieces. Little sculptures. Little porcelain pieces that are so incredibly delicate that you crave touching them but fear breaking them at the same time. Their fragility makes them…well, I guess you could say…exciting. I find holding them positively arousing.

But, enough of me and my things. The Martinis are done. I have taken extraordinary pains with yours. My doctor would claim I am being cavalier with our health but he is not here. I do not mean to be insolent, but his absence speaks volumes. If you ask me, there are quantitative benefits to the occasional vice. I do believe they have extended my life. Would you like to try it now or should we retire to the bedroom? I have never been a particularly doctrinaire host; you are so beautiful I would gladly forego my favorite addiction…or, at least, delay it until later.

The choice is yours. I am your servant.

I understand completely: the drink.

It would be an absolute shame to waste such a perfect Martini.

THE MUNCHAUSEN ENTERPRISE

2013-03-26T06:25:00.000-07:00

["The Munchausen Enterprise" is the core idea of a longer work-in-progress]

THE MUNCHAUSEN ENTERPRISE

a short story by

Vincent A. Palazzo

Maggie O’Connor drags her small metal cart and one uncooperative leg up Cooper Hill towards Greeley Gardens. At the corner, she turns right and walks the entire length of the park on the opposing side, dutifully stopping at very meter to collect the town’s parking tariff. The coins are just as dutifully deposited in the cart designed for that purpose; in almost fourteen months on the job, the sixty-four year old Maggie has not lost or misplaced so much as one quarter. In a previous life, before a stroke made speech difficult and her left leg lazy, Maggie taught High School English and led the Community Theater.

Her route takes her to Palmer Circle and the entrance of the park. She crosses, taking a moment to observe the monument to the town’s war dead, as she does every day, and heads back in the opposite direction. She enjoys the downhill walk and looks ahead to the bench at the corner where she will have her lunch. At a silver Volvo, parked by an expired meter, she hears the first sounds of trouble coming from inside the park. There is a series of quick explosions, like firecrackers but somehow hollow. Maggie is reminded of the sounds of men hunting in the woods by her childhood home. Those reports had a hollow muffled sound just like the explosions in the park but Maggie does not have the time to make the connection with gunfire. Her damaged mind jumps from popping sounds to the screams that follow and then to the squealing of car tires. She turns in time to see a late model SUV fishtail out of the park entrance and head in her direction at high speed. She has just enough time to think about writing down the license plate number, just enough time to reach for the pad she keeps for remembering what her brain forgets too quickly when a single bullet crashes through her skull. She is literally dead on her feet until the good leg finally catches on and she crumbles to the pavement. She is discovered with her hand still on the handle of her metal cart.

I have no trouble shooting her. She was a bitch in High School.

☼

A group of young children enter the park tethered to a length of clothes line. They are all young students from Ms. Edith’s morning kindergarten class and they are all excited to be on their first field trip. Ever! Each kid dutifully holds a loop in the rope and marches in lockstep towards the amphitheater. Allie King, the smallest in the group, walks at the head of the line holding the rope with one hand and Ms. Edith’s hand with the other. She can see the performers setting up the stage and grows animated.

“They’re starting! Ms. Edith, they’re starting!”

“It’s okay, honey. They’re just getting ready. They know we’re coming. No one is going to start without us.”

☼

The man in the black SUV is dressed in a black sweatshirt and black cotton pants. He sits behind black sunglasses and tinted windows watching from the parking lot as the children get settled on the grass. He has been there for thirty minutes, well before the kids crossed the street and entered the park, but no one pays any attention. He is just some guy sitting in his car sipping a cup of hot coffee. Just some guy enjoying the morning.

I cut quite the dashing figure. The Man in Black in the black SUV may be a little stereotypical but I enjoy the image. A Clementi symphony flows from my Bose sound system; my hand conducts the music through the open car window as I casually scans the pathways and roadways that lead to the amphitheater. The rest of the windows are closed; the tint provides just enough cover. No one notices my .44 caliber Bulldog or the Mac10 pistol sitting on the passenger seat. A large digital countdown timer sits next to the weapons. It now blinks “2:08”.

Time.

Ms. Edith is standing behind her charges facing the puppeteers as the car pulls to a stop. She is drinking her own cup of coffee. There are only a few yards of grass separating us as my Man in Black raises his Bulldog and fires.

The first shot is wide. It hits Ms. Edith but not as planned. The bullet catches her in the shoulder and literally spins her around. Just like in the movies. As she drops to one knee, she sees the Man in Black. She sees the black glasses. Sees the little boy smile. Her mouth flops open. Shock. Amazement. There is no time for fear or recognition. There is no time to cry out. The second round is true. Just as planned. The kill shot hits her in the chest and destroys her heart. She is dead before anyone realizes. Before the children start to cry. Before the performers, the spectators, the vendors, the joggers and the occasional lover recognize that the real drama is parked in a black SUV.

In that moment between murder and understanding, my Man in Black drops his Bulldog and fires the MAC10. I immediately miss the smaller pistol. It is much lighter, a mere 23 ounces, and much easier to control. The MAC10 feels like trying to hold an angry big mouth bass by the tail. My aim is high; my hand shakes under the weight and sheer power of the weapon. Its magazine empties in less than two seconds – I think about screaming as I squeeze the trigger – but the spectacle has the desired effect. Anyone moving in my direction has reversed field. Everyone is running for cover. Terror has taken center stage. There is screaming and confusion and chaos. The kids are now crying almost with one voice. It is pandemonium and it is perfect; exactly the scene I imagined when I first decided to act.

The Man in Black does not wait to see if he has hit anyone else. It does not matter. The play is proceeding as planned. The morning is not over; there is more to do. The car is in gear and gaining speed. The digital clock continues to count down. 1:18. The play may be behind schedule. Just a few seconds, but today seconds matter.

The car hits the turnabout fast barely slowing to prevent a skid. I hear the sound of metal on metal as the older Honda I cut off loses control and strikes a parked car. That should slow pursuit! For the moment it does. I am now travelling at highway speeds on Palmer Avenue.

Maggie O’Connor is doing her coin collecting thing as I raise the Bulldog. I sees her stop and shudder, almost as if a bug flew into her eye, but I can’t pause to evaluate my work. Three. I make a mental note and plow through a controlled intersection against the light.

There are pedestrians in the crosswalk up ahead. An old man with a walker, his wife with their cart of wet laundry and some kid on a skateboard threaten to block my path. The Man in Black switches hands and fires a single shot out the driver’s side window. This time I miss completely but the effort has the desired effect. As bits and pieces of asphalt spray into the air, the old and infirm fall backwards; the kid on the board propels himself forward creating a hole for the SUV. I click off another bullet – four – and glance at the clock. Less than half a minute remains.

☼

The rail lines are up ahead. The Man in Black hears two sounds at the same time – the horn of an approaching train up ahead and the wail of police sirens closing in behind him. The cops took up the chase just after I shot at the old man in the intersection. They didn’t even stop to help the old guy. He sat on his ass until some neighbors pulled him from the street and helped him into a lawn chair.

The train whistle sounds again. At one hundred feet from the corner I can see the silver engine and the cars that will cross in front of me. They are coming fast. The countdown clock beeps and blinks 0:00. The SUV is just a second or two behind schedule and Amtrak, miraculously, is on time. I will not make it past in time. The barrier is down, the lights are blinking and I do not have the courage to ignore the warnings. The Man in Black would make the leap but he is not driving. Not really. He will have to listen to me. The long train will not provide cover; the cars will not allow me to escape. It is time for Plan B.

☼

The SUV fishtails onto the gravel service road, gains purchase and barrels forward at dangerous speeds. The SUV bounces furiously over the uneven surface, forcing the Man in Black to drop both guns on the floor; this is two-fisted, white-knuckled driving. To my left, the train glides past at an almost similar pace. Up ahead, I can see where the rails curve away from the road. I can see the tunnel in the distance and I can just barely make out the next intersection. It is paved but crosses the rails at a difficult angle. The train will clear it before I gets there.

The police cruisers are having some difficulty on the gravel service road. They are unable to close the distance, promising a little breathing room at the corner. The Man in Black moves the vehicle to the left but does not attempt the hard turn. He uses the paved intersection to guide his vehicle onto the rails. This is not the movies. The car’s tires do not ride the rails like a train gliding effortlessly towards the tunnel. Instead, I find myself bouncing over the rail ties with the right rail running under the car. Steering is complicated; every time the vehicle drifts left, the rail rubs against the inside of the right wheels causing the SUV to buck insanely.

It is an impossible ride but the tunnel is only a quarter mile ahead. The Man in Black gets there ahead of the police cruisers.

☼

Patrolman Michael Granger was one of three officers involved in what was a very short high speed chase. He piloted the car closest to the black SUV, flying through city streets at dangerous speeds that would have been dangerous on an open highway. His position leading the chase had more to do with luck of the draw or right place at the right time than it did with driving or police skills. The rookie had little of both. He was responding to a call involving the SUV when he heard a single gunshot right in front of him. He saw the subject vehicle fly through the approaching intersection. He saw an old man with a walker fall backwards into the roadway and thought briefly about offering assistance. The chase simply had more appeal. Granger bore down on the accelerator and took the left turn at speeds well above published safety limits. Surely someone else would stop and assist the old man. Besides, this was why he became a cop. In his mirror, he saw two other patrol cars speed past the old guy. They validated his decision. The man in the SUV came first. The radio reported injuries and fatalities; this guy was not getting away.

The turn put Granger within shooting distance of the gunman. He was certain he could put a stop to this quickly but there were rules to high speed chases. Discharging a weapon risked collateral damage…a big no-no. If he got the guy, no one would care. If he clipped a civilian in the process, the family would be all over the papers. His badge would be worth less than already chewed gum. There would be a PR nightmare for the department and probably a lawsuit. Shit-heel lawyers would be all over the place. Granger ending up out on his ass would be the least of his worries. No, there were other ways – by the book ways – to stop the gunman without damaging the indigenous population.

Granger bore down on the accelerator bringing his cruiser closer to the SUV. The railroad crossing was only a few seconds ahead. The open space would afford him an opportunity to stop this perp – god, he loved the word perp – and eliminate risk to civilians. Granger could take him down single handed. When the newspapers showed up, he’d be standing next to the Commissioner. Granger’s mind drifted back to his training. Quickly, he reviewed the procedure for deliberately clipping a fleeing vehicle causing it to spin out of control. If he did it right he could end up with one dead mother-fucker or a bloodied killer in handcuffs. Both made a good picture.

Granger’s focus was shattered when the SUV’s window exploded outward in his direction. His cruiser was close enough to be pelted with glass. Worse, Granger heard and felt a small thud near his left elbow. His rear view mirror – driver’s side just a couple of feet from his head – blew apart. What remained was a jagged piece of navy blue plastic. Nothing more. Granger was taking fire. Instinctively, he eased off the gas. Both hands tightened at ten and two.

Granger took the turn onto the gravel service road at high speed. He fishtailed all over the place before regaining control. The heavier SUV was handling the rough road better than his cruiser. The two other vehicles in pursuit followed with greater caution increasing distance between the lead vehicles. Granger cursed and complained that his Academy driving classes were nothing like this but he kept going. This sonovabitch was not getting away.

Granger was taken completely by surprise when the SUV bounced onto the rail bed and started riding the rails towards the tunnel. You’ve got to be kidding me and cunt-lapping-mother-fucking-sonovabitch and quite a few more colorful expletives filled the officer’s head. What he shouted out loud was not as imaginative – No Fucking Way! – but it managed to force him forward. Granger took the turn in much the same way as the perp, positioned his vehicle like the SUV, with one rail running under his cruiser, and bounded after the shooter. It was a stupid thing to do. The patrol car bounced so violently that Officer Granger’s face kept hitting the driver’s window. He would have a nice bruise to show when this little bit of police work was done.

At this point, the rookie should have called in but Granger did not dare take his hands off the wheel. Ten and two had become a sick joke. He would have to rely on his fellow officers – behind him – reporting his position. Had Granger taken a moment to look in the mirror, he would have noticed that they had stopped at the intersection. Other cars were now entering the area. They all stopped at the intersection. No one followed him onto the rails.

Ten or fifteen very painful seconds later, his front wheel hit a particularly deep rut. The tire hit the rail tie but the wheel did not roll out of the hole. The physics of force and immovable objects took over. The car stopped abruptly but not before metal bent, the axle broke and the cruisers wheel assumed a very unnatural angle. Inside the vehicle, the patrolman was thrown forward. The seatbelt lock caused a nasty burn diagonally across his chest. The airbag deployed blooding his mouth and breaking Granger’s nose. When he wobbled out of his car, more than a little disoriented, the pain in his back almost dropped him to the ground. His right arm, thrown over the top of the door, kept him from falling. He hung there like an old Raggedy Andy doll while his fellow officers ran down the tracks to offer assistance.

Granger was still a quarter-mile from the tunnel. The SUV had disappeared into the darkness. It was no longer visible. For the moment, there was nothing for him to do. He watched the black maw ahead and listened to the pounding of black boots behind and waited. One officer was closer than the rest.

“Hey, Mike! You okay?”

There was something whimsical in his tone.

Yeah, sure! What do you think; Granger wanted to answer but didn’t get the chance. A huge explosion literally burped out of the blackness. A plume of red and yellow flame shot skyward across the stone face of the tunnel. Debris, the flotsam of rail walkers and derelicts, took flight and flew towards the officers. And empty beer can cracked the windshield of Granger’s cruiser. The concussion knocked him to the ground; he screamed in pain as his ass hit a rail tie and pain shot upward through his back.

For the first time in his short career, Officer Michael Granger thought of disability as a blessing.

☼

The Man in Black stands in the dark next to the SUV. If the police give me two minutes, Plan B will still work.

I work in near darkness. The only light comes from the interior of the car. I remove the Man in Black and toss him into the car. The black sunglasses have already been discarded. Black boots land on the floor next to the firepower. A new uniform, baggy running shorts and a well-worm t-shirt, recast my main character. The new actor is closer to reality. The play, for the first time is more autobiography. The Man in Black entered the tunnel; Eddie McDermott was about to walk into the sunlight. I climb a concrete utility shaft. Everything else is left behind.

I exit an abandoned utility shed less than a ninety seconds after losing the SUV. I am well on my way, just an average guy jogging in baggy blue shorts and a red pocket “t” when my watch chimes a two-minute warning. I feel vibration in the ground as the SVU and the tunnel explode but keep my pace steady and calm. A half mile further along Crescent Street, I stop at a mustard yellow, late model Ford Mustang. I get in and drive off without incident. Plans C or D will not be necessary.

☼

There were no redemptive, hand-of-god hiccups. I drove to the airport at posted highway speeds without incident, top down, elbow slung out the window. It was a completely enjoyable ride. Twenty minutes later, I slid into a rent-a-car parking lot, dropped my paperwork and keys into the rapid check-in box, avoiding unnecessary, casual conversations with extraneous humans, before taking the shuttle to the long-term parking lot. The family CRV, Hermione, sat waiting patiently. She has been waiting for the last five days; my most recent business trip was about to end.

☼

The police were not at my house when I pulled into the drive. They will come – I left enough victims to keep them busy for a while – but, for the moment, I planned to relax, collect myself and enjoy a tall whisky. Neat. When they come, I will be ready.

My briefcase and keys are dropped by the front door. My coat is tossed carelessly over a wing-back chair – signs that there is a new sheriff in town. I plop down on the sofa and drop my feet on the cocktail table. I take a deep pull on my drink; the remote in my other hand finds the Chicago game. The Cubs won’t win the division but the season is still young; at least, they might win the day.

In the quiet of my living room, adrenaline drains away. I feel the need to sleep. When the police come, they can wake me. That would look more natural, anyway. In the meantime, I will sleep my most peaceful sleep in years. As I sink into the cushions of the couch, I see my wife Edith drift by on the digital frame. She is surrounded by snow, bathed in the steam of a hot tub. It was a shot from our winter trip to Breckenridge.

Just like a ghost, I think.

Eddie McDermott sleeps.

I smile.

☼

I wake to a dark house and a somnambulant neighborhood. The police have not come to express their condolences and ask a few questions. It is after one and this surprises me – and maybe offends me just a little. You’d think my work deserves a bit more attention. Oh, well…in the morning, then! I lumber up the stairs and onto the bed without changing. I never liked pajamas anyway.

The alarm wakes me at 6AM. Half asleep, I go into the bathroom, strip off yesterday’s clothes and climb into the shower. The water refreshes me and brings me back to life. I step out of the tub ready to face a new day.

Edith is sitting on the toilet. Her panties are at mid-calf. Her black nightgown covers her knees and most of the view. I cannot conceal my surprise; I stand there dripping on the bathmat, my mouth agape.

“Sorry,” she giggles, “when I wake up I need to pee.”

“It’s okay,” I shrug, shaking the shock and confusion from my face and voice. “It’s not like you’ve never seen me naked.”

Edith shrugs, changing the conversation.

“You were talking in your sleep…”

I still haven’t reached for a towel. Edith has my complete attention.

“Sorry. What did I say?”

“I’m gonna kill you, Dotty…”

I laugh. The truth makes answering easy.

“Seriously? She’s a character. I was working on her big scene all day.”

“Dotty must be giving you a hard time. You were really tossing around last night…”

I watch as Edith grabs some paper and finishes up. She pulls her panties up and rises in one motion. Not once is she exposed.

“She’s a little difficult…:

I watch her leave the bathroom. When the door closes, I reach for a towel and dry quickly. Only dampness remains.

“Don’t worry,” I muttered, “I’ll work on it…”

Maybe something simpler.

BYE!

2013-03-16T20:08:00.000-07:00

(BYE! is the third installment in a collection entitled, Impractical Ventures. Previous installments include Faithfully Executed and Divine Intervention.)

BYE!

a short story by

Vincent Palazzo

Sunday Dinner.

I have always loved Sunday Dinner. As a child, there was excitement in the preparation. The shopping for pastries after church, sfogliatelle, cannoli and napoleons (with that wonderfully sweet cream that always oozed out when you tried to cut it), the hours of cooking, the perfume of bubbling tomato sauce, stuffing manicotti while various meats sizzled on the stove, the frenetic activity as Mom tackled seven jobs bestowed holiday status on our Sunday meal.

We always ate early on Sundays. Even so, by two o’clock the anticipation was unbearable. My brother and I would kneel on the sofa looking out the window, waiting for our Uncle Jake’s car to turn into the driveway. He always brought Grandma and Grandpa and Grandma always brought candies. She always had a pocketful of sour balls and peppermints that she slipped to us one piece at a time before dinner. Don’t tell your mother was Grandma’s whispered mantra. It was almost as important as don’t spoil your dinner. Grandma would tap my belly with her big, beefy hand and shake her head in dismay. You’re too skinny. Make sure you eat. In this family, that was never a problem. I might have been young and skinny but I was fast; I always got my due and more.

The food was always ready by the time Grandma and Grandpa came through the door. The antipasto was waiting on the table and the meatballs and sausage were keeping warm in a chafing dish on the counter. Lasagna or stuffed shells, baked ziti or manicotti was always bubbling gently in the oven; no one would have to wait for the pasta once Aunt CeCe, Uncle Steve and the kids got here. My Aunt was always late and Mom, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa always argued and complained and joked about it. They were loud and animated. That was our way. Once Aunt CeCe and her family arrived, we were all hugs and kisses. I brought pie was always followed by laughter and applause. Aunt CeCe made the worst pies. That was the real joke. Everyone laughed as coats were thrown on the couch and bodies pushed and elbowed their way to the table. Food was ready and no one kept an Abate away from food.

During Sunday dinner, there were two rules. No talk of religion and no talk of politics. At every Sunday dinner, God and the President always got equal time. Voices were raised. Fists were shaken. Someone was always a moron and, yet, no one ever missed a bite. It did not matter if the subject was the Pope or Mark Twain, political graft or the collection plate, the Immaculate Conception or whether Mary really pulled one over on Joseph, or whatever new stupidity was coming out of that damn liberal Court, my family always managed to talk, shout and rage with their mouth full. More sauce was spit on the table cloth than spilled passing overfilled platters. We were always loud but we never left hungry. At the end of every Sunday meal, Uncle Steve’s belt was always undone, Grandpa always complained that there was too much food and my Mom always made my Grandparents a platter to take with them. Everyone always left happy and everyone always planned to come back next Sunday.

It is a tradition that I have passed on to my own family.

It is a tradition that has not stood the test of time.

My family is at the table this Sunday. It is the first time we are together – all of us – in years. I cannot tell you how many years but I can only remember three Sunday dinners in the last year. Once my son was here. Once my daughter came by but left early and once they both left – leaving the kids behind – so that they could go to a party together.

They are all here today.

I had to tell them I was dying to get them to make an appearance.

I had to perform some serious magic to keep them.

I love my family...

They are all here and they are all staring at me. They are all scared; no one has said a word. I have decided I want to enjoy my meal. I am not entertaining conversation. This is our last family meal together and I will conduct it as I see fit.

I sit in my usual spot at the head of the table, patriarch of a sad and dysfunctional clan.

Why are you doing this?

The question is clearly on my daughter’s mind. She has always been the assertive one in this family. It is a question that should be asked, needs to be asked under the circumstances, so I volunteer my reasoning. They are my family, after all.

“I don’t want our traditions to die.”

The antipasto is spread out on several platters across the tabletop. All the usual selections are there. All the treats from my childhood. Italian tuna shares a plate with pimentos, rolled anchovies, sardines, marinated artichoke hearts, stuffed mushrooms and several salamis. There is a plate of asparagus spears, a bowl of fried cauliflower, a platter of assorted cheeses, mostly provolone and sharp cheddar, a dish of fresh mozzarella and basil dribbled with extra virgin olive oil and a Lazy Susan (my Mother’s) overflowing with olives and stuffed peppers.

No one has touched a bite. I smile. My family, my Grandma and Grandpa, Aunt Cece, Uncle Steve and Uncle Jake, Mom and Dad, the cousins, would have stormed across this table like Sherman across Georgia. There would have been nothing left and it wouldn’t have taken any time at all. If I close my eyes, I can see them. The image makes me smile.

“I have always enjoyed Sunday dinners.”

I pop a pepperoncini in my mouth and bite off the stem. The juice fills my mouth with hot liquid. I find it strangely satisfying.

”I’m sorry you don’t like this stuff,” I add, waving a hand across the table, “there is a lot more coming.”

Once again, my daughter Miranda takes the lead. There are two men at the table but she has always been the one with balls. She does not wait for her brother to confront me. Mark lacks the tools for confrontation. At twenty-seven, he is more likely to cower and whimper than take a stand on anything. Miranda pauses long enough to look for support from her mother, my wife Agnes; she is still asleep and still useless. Miranda does not pay any attention to her brother’s boyfriend – I think this one is Jeffrey. This is probably a mistake, the result of her own character flaws. She is shortsighted. If anyone will cause me difficulty it is Jeffrey. His jaw is clenched, his eyes, small and hard, are fixed on me. Their message is not friendly. None of that matters. The play begins with Miranda.

My daughter lunges at me but she cannot reach. I am out of range, the result of intense planning. She tries to scream but everything is muffled. I really cannot understand anything she says – or tries to say – but the subtext is obvious.

Why are you doing this?

“I have spent my life trying to keep this family’s traditions alive. This meal – our last by the way – is my way of acknowledging my failure. For the first time, I do not expect a different result. For the first time, I do not care what happens.”

Jeffrey starts to rock and pull against the chair trying to get away from the table. He leans dangerously close to falling backwards.

“If you fall, I will not pick you up.”

It is a throw-away line. I am nonchalant.

“Nothing will change…except, maybe, finding yourself in a more embarrassing position.”

I look at my family.

“I would like to eat now.”

I am firm and unbending. They look at me like I’m nuts.

Each family member, wife, daughter, son, son’s special someone and the children, three sandy-haired grandchildren, are all zip-tied to their chairs. Arms and ankles. A hefty amount of duct tape has been wrapped around their waists fitting them tightly to their seats. A little more duct tape has been deployed to control conversation. No one is moving very far or very much. I sense my wife is starting to stir; the grandchildren will be asleep for a while longer, maybe for the entire meal. Ketamine was a good choice.

“I mean it. I want to enjoy my meal. Please respect all the work that went into preparing this.”

I punctuate the request with the gun. My first. My brand new, out-of-the-box Bulldog Pug is on the table next to my plate. My hand aimlessly strokes the cold, chrome finish.

Miranda wiggles her fingers as if to say why. Mark starts to blubber.

“Every holiday, every Sunday feast that you have bothered to attend has been an unmitigated disaster. Your behavior has been more like animals than humans. There is certainly nothing about family in any of you. I was embarrassed to sit at the same table with you. When I remove that tape, if I remove that tape, I will let you eat like animals…”

I lower my face to my plate to demonstrate. I pluck a piece of fried cauliflower from my antipasto choices and swallow it whole.

“…I’m sure you can all reach.”

As I wipe oil from my nose with my napkin, Jeffrey finds his voice. He starts to scream beneath his gag. He pushes his tongue against the tape and stretches his mouth trying to loosen the restraint. He bellows a lungful of trapped air hoping to reclaim his captured voice. His words are garbled but some are clear enough to make sense of his contribution.

“I am not a member of this family and I am not putting my face in this plate to eat your fucking meal!”

There is a pause as Jeffrey waits for a reaction. When I remain silent he adds an apology.

“I’m sorry if I offended you…”

Jeffrey sounds a little like Porky Pig behind the gag. I cannot resist a good laugh.

“The word fuck does not shock me. These guys cannot form a thought without using it,” I acknowledge my family with a dismissive wave. I resist the urge to spend any more time on them. Jeffrey has worked hard to get my attention. He should have it.

“If you want to die hungry, the choice is yours.”

I raise my gun and aim at Jeffrey.

Miranda struggles wildly. She shakes her head violently. She is arguing with me – Miranda always argues with me – but her voice does not have Jeffrey’s power. Strangely, she is all confrontation; there is nothing entreating in her argument. Her words have meaning…but only to her.

Mark has crossed from blubber to hysteria. His eyes, dripping tears, connect with mine. They plead with me. I can only guess that he cares about the man. I meet his gaze. I shrug. I squeeze the trigger. The Bulldog barks (Sorry!). If you can hear a bullet, Jeffrey hears it whirl past his ear, missing by about six inches. I hit my target. Frank Sinatra’s head, an ugly ceramic statue that my wife and mother made years ago in some neighborhood ceramics class, explodes into a cloud of white powder. I think about a Woody Allen movie…the one where he sneezes into a bowl of cocaine. I smile. I am happy. Almost giddy.

Apparently zip ties and duct tape are not real enough but bullets…bullets are very real indeed. My guests assume a dramatically different posture. Pandemonium is a good word. Cacophony is another. They scream pathetic muffled screams. They pull wildly against the straps. They will all be bruised at the wrists and ankles. What do they say on television: ligature marks? At least one will bleed. Jeffery alone is still. Ramrod straight, he breathes rapidly, sucking and expelling air with each heartbeat. The man must be part rabbit. I tap the nose of my gun on the table restoring some sense of order to our little meal.

“I have tried year after year to keep traditions that meant something to me alive. Holidays, Sundays, Birthdays….they have never been anything by disappointing. Year after year you have sat in those chairs fighting over nonsense, insulting each other with the vilest names and the crudest language. You have complained about everything I have tried to do. One of you…”

I nod at Mark.

“…stopped at McDonald’s before stopping here. Each of you, in their own way, has found ways to arrive late and excuses to leave early. There has been no thought of the meal. No thought of family. No thought of me. I sit at this table – alone – feeling empty and disappointed. I have spent my life wondering what I have done wrong…just what I have done to make you all so fuckin’ miserable. I am a failure. I accept that now.”

The ketamine is wearing off. My wife is finally awake. I think she was able to focus on most of my little tirade. Only the little children remain deeply asleep – or, perhaps, more correctly, only the children are unconscious.

I have been married for almost thirty years. I do not need to hear her words. I know them.

What do you think you’re doing?

I can almost hear her hiss the words.

You pathetic little cock sucker…what are you trying to prove…you hate us…you hate it here…fine…leave…I can kick your fucking ass to the curb if that’s what you want…I don’t need you…I never needed you…I’ll divorce you…is that what you want…I can keep everything…you know I can…I can get rid of you…you know I can…how would you like that, you fucking wimp!

I laugh. It is actually a relief to hear her sound normal. The drug, the zip ties, the duct tape, none of that changes who she is.

“You have been promising to divorce me for twenty-eight years. We are still here.”

“Fuck you!”

“Not tonight. Tonight is not going to be any different than the last eight years. Not in that way anyway.”

This whole exercise has been crazy. I have enough sanity left to realize that. It is just another failure. History repeating without mercy. Their gags are in place but I hear their voices. Nothing is garbled anymore.

“Dad?”

Mark has something to say but it doesn’t take much to stop him. I raise a finger, one empty, slightly crooked, probably impotent finger and any other words choke in his throat. He really is a coward.

“I am not done with your mother. Not yet.”

I look back at Agnes. My smile is as fake and empty as words like “honey”, “dear” and “sweetheart”. There is simply no warmth, no affection and no love behind any of them. Not anymore.

“You won’t divorce me because you won’t give me…finally give me…something… anything...that would make me happy. And…AND…if I am wrong about that, so what. You don’t have time for the paperwork. Not anymore.”

There is a pause, a moment of awakening. It is like watching children play connect the dots.

“You’re going to…kill us?”

The question is incredulous.

“What about my children?”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“You can’t!”

“I’m your son.”

“I’m your daughter.”

“I just met Mark. I don’t have anything to do with this!”

Jeffrey’s voice chimes in as comic relief.

I do not bother answering. Their words are now in my head. They are loud and getting louder. Shouting. The grandchildren will sleep through everything. I am sure of that. Nothing else matters. I don’t even feel like eating. Not anymore. They have taken that from me, too. I guess I am not much of an Abate after all.

I raise my gun as I look at them. I touch fingertips to my lips and throw little kisses at my children. A finger slides over the trigger. There is a little pressure as metal starts to give way to flesh.

My hand is steady. I do not feel the recoil. I honestly do not hear the shot. My bullet is true. It hits its mark and passes effortlessly through my brain. I am sure it shatters something else on the wall but…

It doesn’t matter.

I see my family all trussed up in their Sunday finery.

I think…

I won’t have to suffer through another meal.

Maybe I laugh…

I see them all before I leave.

I think again…

Why would I want to take them with me?

Thoughts on the Newtown, Connectictut Shooting

2012-12-17T05:48:00.001-08:00

THE VERY DEFINITION OF INSANITY

Bob Costas spoke eloquently on the subject of gun control after the death of Jovan Belcher. I suspect there will be many more poignant and passionate calls for gun sanity in light of yesterday’s (12/14/2012) assault on a Connecticut elementary school. That attack left twenty-six dead. Twenty of the victims were young five and six year old children. Let me say, bluntly, that I have never owned a gun, abhor guns and would support any law that made acquiring a firearm as difficult as acquiring a driver’s license. Gun Control, the Second Amendment and the need to own cannon to hunt squirrels is not the most important question facing our nation today but, in light of the crimes inflicted on the children of Newtown, CT, it is a discussion we should have.

Too often, we find ourselves in front of the television captivated by Breaking News headlines from various States and neighborhoods around the country. Sometimes the incidents (what a benign word) end before the carnage. A gunman is captured or killed before a movie theater or a store or a school is decimated. More frequently, however, the Breaking News banner is followed by reports of mass murder. (Mass Murder is a less benign but still patently inadequate phrase.) People occasionally die en masse because someone somewhere got angry and decided to satisfy that anger by slaughtering innocents. I would like to know when we stopped putting a flaming bag of shit on someone’s front porch (I’m not feeling particularly eloquent right now) and started shooting friends and neighbors – and the children of friends and neighbors – to right some perceived wrong.

On the subject of gun control, I tend to look at the Second Amendment differently. That Amendment says:

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

To me, that single sentence is not a blanket promise guaranteeing a right to bear arms under all circumstances without rational limitations. A reader of our Constitution might conclude that that particular sentence no longer reflects life in a 21^st century America. Americans, for instance, no longer grab their rifle from above the mantle and run out the door to answer a call to arms. We have a large, standing, well-armed, well-regulated military for that.

I am not saying, outlaw guns. Hunters should be allowed to hunt. Recreational shooters should be allowed to blow clay pigeons and paper targets to smithereens. Collectors should be able to enjoy the craftsmanship and artistry of a well-made weapon. There is a middle ground. As already stated, it should be as difficult to acquire a gun as it is a driver’s license. What is wrong with requiring training and licensing before owning a deadly weapon? What is wrong with age limitations and vision checks (and, yes, background checks)? The common, glib response to any call for gun regulation is guns don’t kill people, people kill people. More accurately, guns don’t kill people, people carrying guns kill people. Until guns develop sentience, we won’t have to worry about firearms; the person carrying the gun, however, is a different story. The person behind the gun is sometimes a very real problem. That is a problem that should be addressed. Anything less is the clinical definition of insanity…

…you know, doing the same thing over and over again…

…expecting a different result.

DIVINE INTERVENTION

2012-12-01T09:54:00.000-08:00

a short story by:

Vincent A. Palazzo

Thump!

I cannot get away from the thump…thump…thumping of her basketball on the asphalt. I hear it in the house and it follows me on those days when need and energy propel me outdoors to the market, to the dry cleaners or to that bench by the pond where I used to enjoy an afternoon read. You will be surprised how much a woman thumping a melon or a car with a flat thumping its way to the curb reminds me of the sounds of basketball. It is worse at 5 A.M. when the rhythm of her running up and down my driveway dribbling that damn ball drives me closest to madness. I have yet to sleep through it.

After breakfast, when I think of it, and I think of it every day, I watch Ella run the length of the drive. She moves the ball in bizarre geometric patterns. She defies nature, almost stopping time as she takes her shot. I watch her rise in the air and reach the perfect altitude before releasing the ball. The ball follows its own, higher arc as she gently floats to the ground. She watches the ball slip through the hoop and come back to her – almost on command. I am in awe of her skill. It is a talent and commitment I never possessed.

From my window I can see my lawn and part of the approaching street. My lawn and gardens used to be impeccably kept. My garage is littered with edge-trimmers and weed whackers, clippers and claws, a wide variety of seeds and an even wider variety of chemicals, sprays and powders to vanquish any weed or critter that dared to cross the sidewalk. It was my Magheno Line. It was not enough.

At 5 A.M., when I answer the call of the thumping basketball, I see more than my granddaughter. More than my pride and joy. More than a star athlete and high school scholar awaiting her first prom. I am able to look across my Home and Garden lawn and focus down the street. In the distance, I am able to see the car.

That day, the day of the car, I was in the window. I saw Ella rise effortlessly from the blacktop; she made her shot then moved three steps to the left for the rebound. She caught the ball on one bounce, pivoted, basketball extended in front of her towards the street, as if to pass, and disappeared. In real time, in the midst of that what-the-fuck moment, I did not see the car. I saw her there. I saw her gone. And then I saw her sitting, legs splayed against our garbage cans, a river of red forming under her and flowing into the drain a few feet from her Nikes. I did not see the car that came to rest in our crippled azaleas. I did not see the man who climbed out of the vehicle. I did not watch him sit on a small patch of my manicured lawn. I did not see him drink from his bottle of scotch or hear the sound of his laugh. All that came later. All that comes at 5 A.M.

From my vantage point in the window, I can see the car, an insignificant, nothing special, rusting, older sedan make its way towards my house. It weaves, barely missing cars and signs and mailboxes on both sides of the road. It is, as the sun starts to rise and the air starts to warm, proof-positive that God does not exist. If he did, the drunk would have totaled Tim Thackeray’s brand new Mercedes or laid waste to Aggie Cooper’s soccer mom express. Instead, the car manages to avoid everyone’s property, gaining speed inch by inch and frame by frame. I watch as the car does a crazy, lurching dance over the curb and cuts two crooked paths across my perfect grass. In the glow of afterthought, I see Ella pivot, ready for her next all-star move. I see the grill reflected in her eyes. I see recognition in her eyes. Through one eye, I see her flying backwards towards my cans. Through the other eye, I see the car start to spin on the asphalt, sliding sideways into the bushes. The ball finds its own path, bouncing down my drive and then further downhill towards Walburton Avenue. It comes to rest somewhere; I never learned where.

The final frames of the newsreel follow the driver, a young man in his twenties, as he struggles from the vehicle and weaves a new path towards the grass. He is clearly drunk but conscious enough to remember his bottle. He sits on my grass, his legs spread in a pose reminiscent of my granddaughter and drinks heartily. Huge gulps of scotch pass his gullet. His laugh, whenever the bottle leaves his lips, is boisterous. It is as if he has just gotten off a thrill ride at the local Six Flags and is…I am not sure what he is but the word happy keeps popping into my mind.

It is here that I turn away from the window. There is a gathering of people and then a gathering of bright and blinking lights but I don’t want to see any of it. I am drawn to something else; every time that I turn, I see Ella’s lime green prom dress, the one I thought was too sexy for a seventeen year old when she tried it on, hanging on the closet door. Every time I see that dress, the anger explodes.

☼

The lawyer Perry Finn is a fat, unkempt man who reminds me of Charles Laughton - or maybe Orson Welles when Welles played Clarence Darrow – but there is nothing lawyerly or eloquent about this advocate. He wears a wrinkled suit and an old white shirt frayed at the collar. I have no doubt that, undisguised by his jacket, his shirt would be stained by sweat – and maybe lunch. He is a blue collar brawler comfortable with close quarter combat; whatever meat the prosecution offers the jury, he tears it apart.

Perry Finn stands before the jury. He makes his opening statement. Two short sentences, nothing more: “The defendant was not drunk at the time of the accident. The State will not prove otherwise.” Period. Perry Finn was assigned to defend Eddie Plumb, the twenty-six year old driver of an old rust bucket with five alcohol related arrests on his record and the blood of my seventeen year old granddaughter on his hands. He was assigned to defend a young man known as Party Boy. He did his dirty work well.

I sit in the gallery - every day - listening to the District Attorney ask hundreds of questions, virtually dragging the jurors word by word towards the anticipated guilty verdict. This is a slam dunk! It is a painstaking process. By the end, the jury is tired and I am running on empty – emotionally and physically.

Finn, by contrast, moves slowly and talks softly – you have to focus to hear him – but he never asks more than two or three questions of any witness:

“Are you aware that the Defendant was seen drinking after the accident? There are a dozen witnesses.”

A reluctant yes.

“Would consuming large amounts of scotch at the accident scene AFTER an accident affect blood alcohol results?

A furtive glance at the D.A. An almost whispered yes.

I am aware that Finn keeps referring to my lawn as an “accident scene”. The District Attorney called it a “crime scene”.

“How do you know that this young man was driving drunk?

The Police said so. They wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.

Indeed. Sarcasm. Thank you Mrs. Birnbaum.

I keep noticing that Finn refers to Party Boy as a young man – as if finding him guilty would rob this young man of a future. I feel the irony. The jury does not.

“If you hit and killed a young girl wouldn’t you need a drink?”

A sheepish shrug. It is reluctant but true is true. Another neighbor owns that moment.

The jury acquitted on the top shelf counts but found Eddie Plumb, a.k.a. Party Boy, guilty on a relatively minor open container charge. The judge hands down a six month sentence then suspends the sentence. Eddie Plumb, poor young man that he is, couldn’t afford bail. He served his time, awaiting trial, in jail.

The Defendant is free to go.

The gavel is final.

The clap of the hammer pushes the thumping sound of the basketball to the back of my mind.

The clap of the hammer sounds like a gun.

☼

Buying a gun, even in a State like New York, is not difficult. I simply walked past ladies lingerie, men’s boxer briefs, you-assemble-furniture and the toy department and asked some eighteen year old clerk in Sporting Goods for a shotgun. She put a couple of suggestions on the counter and let me get a feel for them. She prattled on about the weapon’s various features – in a few years she’d be making real money selling used cars – while I clumsily turned the gun in my hands. It really didn’t matter which gun I choose. She never bothered to ask why I wanted a shotgun. The sign above my head said hunting season was over. Why would have been a logical question – at least for me – but it never came up. She explained the legal requirements, helped with the paperwork and, in the course of time, got me my gun.

I have lived my entire life in the Adirondacks and I have never owned a gun. I have never shot a gun…until now.

☼

I have a camp on some acres about fifty miles north of town. My friends have used it to go hunting; I have never felt the urge to join them, not even for the beer. Now, bizarrely, I have spent three days, alone, turning watermelon flesh into viscous, red goo, exploding cantaloupe, peppering smoked hams and attempting to hit baseballs mounted on broomsticks. I’ve gotten good with the edibles. There is nothing recognizable in the yards and the cupboards are virtually empty. The baseballs are a different story. Mostly I miss or hit the sticks. I do not know if I should consider that a wound shot but it is not what I want. Presumably I will rip the horsehide off them before I head home.

☼

The phone call came in while I was still at the cabin. I do not get cell phone service up there but the phone spoke about halfway down the mountain. You have one voicemail. I heard my daughter Karen’s voice but the message was garbled. Individual words and phrases – him, no report yet, can’t believe it. It wasn’t much.

☼

My nephew Richie, my sister’s son, was sitting on my porch when I pulled into the drive. As I got out of the car he stood up.

“Tell me you were out of town.”

“I was.”

“I know you were at the cabin. Tell me you didn’t come down yesterday for anything – liquor, beer, milk, ice cream, anything!”

“I was there for nearly a week.”

“Thank God. I don’t know how you could have done it, but thank God!”

Richie flew off the porch and smothered me in a powerful embrace. I dropped my bag as he held me. I could feel the big man shaking and could swear he was crying.

“Party Boy is dead!” he whispered in my ear. When he stepped back, his face was streaked and pale and exultant. I like to think exultant, anyway. It is how I felt.

☼

I am reminded of the farmer who thanks God for a bountiful harvest. Eddie Plumb was good for one more traffic accident and it took his life. From what I learned from the media and what little else the authorities would offer, he was traveling west at speeds the exceeded the speed limit – but only slightly. At a curve overlooking Pine Lake he executed an impossible maneuver; Party Boy drifted right onto the shoulder and somehow threaded his latest rust bucket between the steel barrier on the left and a large granite outcropping on the right, through an opening the engineers would never have considered possible. No paint transfer was discovered on the railing or the boulder. The car then hit a patch of wet, marshy ground, slid away from the road and pointed directly down a steep embankment. Plumb – or his car – navigated around and over rocks, roots and ruts, rocking wildly from side to side, as both headed straight for the water. He gained speed all the way, reaching the bottom with enough momentum to propel the sedan a good fifteen feet into the lake. The water was deep enough to submerge the car and despite hand cranked windows, Eddie Plumb could not extricate himself from the vehicle. He drowned behind the wheel. Post-mortem testing showed that he was completely sober at the time.

I disavowed the existence of the Almighty when Ella died. Party Boy’s demise – I like to think of it as an execution – allowed me to let God back into my life. The impossibility of the accident allowed me to embrace the concept and rediscover religion. I am still angry with him - there are still a few people who deserve a little divine intervention - but I am willing give him a little time. A man has to be fair – and have faith. Besides, if I don’t hear back, there is always Plan B.

Melon is still in season.

Presidential Politics: The New WWE

2012-09-04T11:53:00.001-07:00

I won't say I watched with great interest but I did watch most of Paul Ryan and Mitt Romney's acceptance speeches (at the Republican National Convention). I missed Clint Eastwood which - if reports are accurate - was probably a good thing. I will watch the Democratic Show but I suspect my usually higher level of enthusiasm will remain in my underwear drawer.

To be upfront, let me state that I am an Independent. I define myself as a social liberal AND a fiscal conservative. What that means, simply, is that I do not object to social programs that provide assistance, security or a leg up as long as the government also takes the time to pay for them. I am usually disappointed with the latter. A case in point: the Prescription Drug Plan to benefit seniors passed during President George W. Bush's administration. I think it's great (in theory!). At the time it passed, I was the eldest son of two elderly parents one of whom had significant pulmonary problems. I knew how much they suffered - and how they sometimes skipped a medicine - under the weight of prescription costs. So, yippee to a prescription drug plan. The problem: the plan presented the Conservative Bush Administration with another large, federally mandated entitlement program. To encourage Conservative support, two things happened. One, the cost was grossly underestimated (the bipartisan Congressional Budget Office pointed this out soon after it was passed) and two, the Federal Government - which was about to become the largest single purchaser of prescription drugs in the world - was precluded under law from negotiating price with drug suppliers. Both are idiotic. (other adjectives might be insane, incompetent, disingenuous and downright stupid!) In both cases the government failed to meet its fiduciary duty to the American people. The legislation goes out of its way to hamstring the public with out of control spending. Think of it: Walmart can negotiate and bring its customers lower prices but the United States cannot. That would be interfering with business and we all pay the price - over and over again.

Back to Romney-Ryan-Obama-Biden...

Back in the 70's, my father ran as a candidate for the New York State Assembly. He ran on the Conservative line and financed his campaign out of his own pocket - taking a second mortgage on the family home. He lost, in an overwhelming Democratic district, to a candidate who never hung a single poster. My father was a terrible politician but his one defining moment was to campaign against his opponents, casting them as "Republicrats". That's not bad editing. His artwork morphed the symbols of the Democrats and Republicans (Elephant and Donkey) into a single critter. It might not have mattered because he lost but, giving the man his due, he was right.

Presidential Aspirant Romney, in his speech, spoke the truth if speaking the truth is like slicing a loaf of bologna extra thin. Has the deficit exploded under President Obama? Yes. Did the deficit explode under President George W. Bush? You betcha but history isn't important during a nomination acceptance speech. Mr. Romney went on to mention the grand daddy of all Republicans, President Ronald Reagan. I can still remember those absolutely entrancing demonstrations: Reagan dropping a handful of coins on a table - this is what a dollar is worth today - or maybe Reagan describing the national debt as dollar bills stacked up to reach the moon. Those were great images. The only problem: at the time the national debt stood at one trillion dollars. When President Reagan left office the debt had ballooned to a whopping four trillion. Mr. Romney, for whatever reason, did not mention the most successful Republican fiscal manager in recent years - the first President Bush worked tirelessly to stop the bleeding and, by the end of his term, the bleeding had slowed and the debt had risen by only another trillion (give or take a few hundred billion). It was a masterful job but President Bush lost his reelection bid; you don't mention losers. And, finally, Mr. Romney didn't even offer passing recognition to the one president who actually lowered the National Debt. That would be singing the praises of the other side and we don't do that any more.

Before I am called a partisan or an apologist for the Democrats, let me add President Obama will do exactly the same thing at his convention. My father, to give him a little more praise, used the bemoan the fact that the only goal of politics was to elect the President. He said it so often that we - his family - hated hearing it but, again, he was right. Paul Ryan, in his own speech, chided and berated President Obama's success (saving GM) because he failed to save the GM plant in his home state of Wisconsin. Did the plant close? Yes. Were jobs lost? Yes. Was revenue lost? Yes. Was Obama president at the time? You might think that's a silly question but, in the current environment, it's not. For the record, the answer is NO. The Wisconsin GM plant closed at the end of the Bush era. The sadness: this is business as usual. Issues no longer matter. Democrat and Republican, left and right, no longer care about talking to each other - or even doing the nation's business. Bashing the other guy is the only plank in the platform. If President Obama suddenly agreed with John Boehner and pledged tax cuts for the wealthy, Republicans would call it irresponsible and find reasons to object. It happens all the time. It was the Man Who Would Be President, for instance, who chastised the Man Who Is President for being in Afghanistan. If that's not reality down the rabbit hole, nothing is.

It is safe to say that I am having difficulty ending this piece.. The reason: I need a solution and I can't find one...

Finding Friends in a Strange Land

2012-08-12T06:07:00.000-07:00

Two gentleman in the twenties up ended up homeless on a bench in front of the Bolton Free Library. They were students who, with the help of an agency, traveled more than 4600 miles from Bulgaria to work in a resort motel on Lake George, NY. They described their first days in America as follows: they arrived in Lake George by bus. From there, they took a trolley the remaining ten miles to their prearranged employer in Bolton Landing. Upon arriving at their destination, they were summarily discharged - fired - because their hair was too long. Their agency, contacted for help, refused to believe they were released upon arrival because they were men with longer than shoulder length hair. They were effectively left stranded with limited English skills, little money and no place to stay.

For three days, these very personable men from Eastern Europe, slept on benches in front of the Library until the Library's Director, Megan Baker, discovered their plight. I happened to be in the library at the time and witnessed the flurry of activity that followed. A chagrined Ms. Baker charged back and forth throwing off one-liners in her wake: "they've been sleeping on the porch", "they have no one to help them", "they haven't eaten in three days!". Before I could reach for the credit card, Ms. Baker was forraging in a window box. Out came the paper plates and plastic utensils the Library uses for functions - and sometimes arts and crafts, a bowl of pasta made it's way from the Library refrigerator to the microwave and then to a makeshift luncheon in the Adirondack room. By all reports, the men ate ravenously.

In the meantime, Ms. Baker became an advocate for two student visitors she had just met. In her frenetic style, she asked questions and began working the phone. Their agency was contacted, their plight recounted and within and hour or two a new destination and a new job were secured. She checked schedules and finally asked me to drive the young men to Lake George and the bus so that they could catch a plane to Seattle. They would be met there and taken to a new opportunity in Alaska!

The men were not bitter of upset about recent events. They treated it as nothing more than a bump in the road. As I said before, they were very personable. They spoke about the opportunities ahead, about their lives back home and the degrees they were pursuing. They described Bulgaria as very much like the Adirondacks - but not as rich. Everything about them was positive whether they were speaking about their native land (they glowed when I mentioned I'd seen pictures of Sofia, the capital), the people they'd met so far or what they hoped to see and do while here; this was simply an adventure and a means to make enough money to meet their goals (university degrees). They were off to Alaska!

They could not know that back at the Bolton Free Library Megan Baker stood at her desk crying. She bemoaned the fact that they had no one to speak for them (I told her they had an advocate: her), that they were forced to sleep on her benches (why hadn't she known!) and that they went hungry in her town (people from Bolton aren't like that...what must they think of us...we're a friendly town). I told her just what they said on the trip to the bus and relayed the positiveness of their attitudes. She was grateful but it wasn't enough. At the next Library Board meeting she made sure everyone knew foreign students were sleeping on library benches and going hungry in the Town of Bolton. The Board immediately and unanimously passed a motion meant to insure that no one goes hungry on library property again. It was the best example of NIMBY I'd every seen. Go hungry...not in my back yard.

When I write (fiction), I generally wallow at the bleak and black end of the pool. My characters are dark, nonredemptive folk; their stories rarely end well. Right now, two young men from Bulgaria are working in Alaska to become, along with their fellow foreign students, engineers and doctors and lawyers. They got there with a helping hand from a librarian from Bolton Landing. It is an adventure I would love to have. I fervently hope things go well for them and that they return to their native Bulgaria with a sense of the opportunity that is America.

(By way of full disclosure: I am a member of the Board of the Bolton Free Library.)

Not as Simple as "One Nation Under God"

2012-08-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

(The following is a response to an op-ed piece appearing in the Adirondack Journal under the title of "One Nation Under God" by Daniel Alexander. http://www.adirondackjournal.com/news/2012/jul/31/one-nation-under-god/)

I found your editorial, "One Nation Under God" a bit schizophrenic. That generally happens when you attempt to marry the Establishment Clause of the Constitution with public displays and practices of religion, The real greatness of America's "Grand Experiment" was not that it guaranteed the rights and freedoms of the majority but, in doing so, it also protected and guaranteed the rights and freedoms of the minority.

I find it offensive that you denigrate certain groups for "skillfully [using] the freedoms we enjoy" in seeking redress in the courts. That, frankly, is one of the freedoms we enjoy, one of the freedoms guaranteed within the framework of the "grand experiment". The Founders did not limit dissension to commonly held beliefs. One of the great hallmarks of this country is that no one turns water cannons on people praying on the steps of the Supreme Court or marching in opposition to government policies on the Great Mall of the United States.

I applaud your statement that "there must be room in this country and its government for all forms of religious and spiritual beliefs". However that statement fails to recognize that public prayers in this country tend to reflect the majority Christian viewpoint at the exclusion of most others. I cannot think of or imagine a public prayer that seeks the blessings and assistance of multiple gods (One Nation Under God means one god no matter what beliefs may be present) or entreats the spirits of the earth (you mentioned pagans) to guide our deliberations.

Your editorial goes on to state that "our courts need to quit attacking religion and slowly chipping away its importance in our society". It has become fashionable to rebuke judges as activist whenever they take a position contrary to (one side or the other's) position. Your article does not mention specific instances where the courts chipped away at religion or even acknowledged the existence of cases that found FOR religious interests. The men and women who wear the robes are, to my mind, honest, deliberative, intelligent human beings who take difficult issues seriously and decide them to the best of their abilities. I may not always agree with their decisions - sometimes I might feel like screaming - but I believe in the honesty of the process. That, too, was part of the "grand experiment".

Finally, your suggestion that Mr. Douglass (in Essex County, NY) call for a moment of reflection has merit. When someone, somewhere discovers a way for a supervisor or a principal or a teacher to suggest prayer without making it feel like a requirement to pray, maybe we can put this issue to rest.

Penn State ...or the State of the Program

2012-07-15T14:36:00.001-07:00

James Carville, on "This Week on ABC" took the position that the Penn State Football program should not be gutted as a result of the Jerry Sandusky scandal. He spoke eloquently about all the people who would be hurt by a trash and burn campaign. At one end of the spectrum were all the contract holders whose businesses depend on Penn State games. At the other end of the spectrum stood all those scholarship kids whose dreams are tied to a Penn State sport program, Nowhere in the Carville philosophy is forgiveness for the self-serving fools who let all those crimes and all that harm come to children. Mr. Carville suggested we turn loose the lawyers and let them feed on the bones of Penn State and all those individuals who deserve to be stripped bare and marched before the public eye.

I agree.

I have always had difficulty with blanket punishments because they inflict pain and suffering on everyone - innocent and guilty. Everyone who had absolutely nothing to do with Jerry Sandusky and the abuse of children, everyone who had never heard of Jerry Sandusky, everyone who had no knowledge of his crimes and no means to stop and/or prevent them should not be tarred with the same brush as coaches and administrators who saw nothing but dollars signs and the need to protect the program and the profits it generated. Besides, gutting the program has the effect of diluting the guilt pool. In giving into a punitive blood lust, in slapping down and destroying everything in our path, we lose sight of the individuals who deserve the ignominy of the spotlight. Every single selfish, self-serving, greedy, morally bankrupt fool who could have stopped harm and injury from visiting even one child should be put in the position of losing everything - reputation, treasure and freedom.

George Will, on the same program, went on to say that “big-time football has no business on college campuses” because it is "inherently corrupting". If you consider academic sport beyond the immediate Sandusky moment, as Mr. Will was, you face an entirely different subject and, again, I agree. When you consider that top tier college coaches make more money (by significant margins) than university presidents, when, to but things into perspective, you consider that Albert Einstein, today, would bank a pittance for the Theory of Relativity compared to the salary and successes of Joe Paterno you can understand why certain highly positioned individuals sought to protect a game before children. Worse than the injury caused by Jerry Sandusky is the lesson taught every kid in High School and every kid who makes the collegiate cut.

My father was a junior high school teacher. One of the stories he brought home from the classroom - one I am sure many teachers can tell - was of a kid who told him he was waiting to drop out so that he could run drugs for the local dealer. The kid told him point blank that nothing he could say would change his mind because he (the kid) could make more in a week than he (my father) made in a year? Without the squalor of drugs, are we sending the same corrupting message to future collegiate gladiators?

I do not have - or offer - answers. I don't know what they would be. I just know that present reality doesn't work.

Summer Doldrums

2012-07-09T07:43:00.000-07:00

Sitting across from me is the Captain Morgan. Not THE Captain Morgan of happy hour fame but a tour vessel docked by the Sagamore Hotel. It is a perfect morning, cloudless skies, a bejeweled lake and a gentle breeze to add a little comfort to the heat. From where I am sitting on the beach in Roger's Park, I can see part of the Sagamore's stately veranda. The Main Building's cupola almost floats above the trees on Green Island. Beyond, the verdant green of the Adirondacks rises from the shores of Lake George. It is a breathtaking sight and the perfect place to write - something I am anxious to do since the holiday and summer distractions have given me more than a few reasons to be lazy over the last nine days. For the record, that is the lie I have been cultivating from my seat in the sand.

Behind me are some of the distactions. My grand daughter and my neice are taking a tennis lesson. Beginner Tennis is like watching - or, in this case, listening to - a t-ball game...a lot of comedy if you're interested in amusing the kids and a lot of pain if you expect to see skill and talent. Right now, their instructor is asking each seven year old, "What's my most important rule?" The one kid who knows - "Don't swing the racket close to anyone!!" - swings his racket to demonstrate. The two other kids in my charge, a younger grand daughter and my five year old nephew, are attempting the reinact the Normandy Invasion. With every manner of plastic contrivance they are attempting to wrest the beach from an entrenched army of early morning gulls. Somehow, their repeated assaults drive the scavengers in the direction of my beach chair and laptop.

Languishing on the pages of my notebook is Pangea, my alternate reality and principal location for the second novel. For the last nine days notes and thoughts have not been translated into narrative. The distant bluffs and promontory that define the Pangean landscape - reminiscent of the Tongue Mountain range - are silent. For the moment, taking some time to observe summer boaters, scanning the skies for passing ducks and geese and marveling at the occasion Blue Heron, sharing a beer with a summer acquaintance and just finding a reasoned level of calm in an otherwise choatic world, is enough. That is, afterall, what Pangea is all about. Peace, tranquilty, harmony and happiness. At least partially. It is that aspect- the "tomorrow" part of the story - that I am "researching" right now. It is not hard to make the case and accept that all this procrastination is necessary. Soon, I will have to lumber back to my study and translate research into words. It is inevitable. Not to mention necessary. The steady drumbeat of guilt is getting louder. The summer doldrums will pass. But not today. The Gulls have been routed. It is time for a dip and then a beer...and maybe some soft ice cream for the kids.

An Anniversary Remembered

2012-06-18T09:02:00.000-07:00

AN OPEN LETTER TO NEW YORK STATE ATTORNEY GENERAL ERIC SCHNEIDERMAN

I am the grandfather of Hope (12) and Mackenzie (6). On June 26, 2010 they, together with four other children - Abbigayle Smith (1); Emilie Smith (3); Lewis "Carl" Smith III (7); and Paige Cox (8) - perished in a house fire in Fort Edward, NY. I am writing – as others have – because the circumstances surrounding this tragedy defy understanding.

When I was much younger – in college – I took a philosophy course. During one lesson, the Professor posed the question: Why does 2 + 2 = 4? We debated the issue for forty-five minutes without success. At the end of the class, the Professor offered the simplest possible answer: 2 + 2 = 4 because it has to. Everything – anything – else is chaos. That is how I view the official conclusions that following the investigation into the deaths of my grandchildren.

Please consider the following:

On the day of Hope and Mackenzie’s wake, their father, Lewis Carl Smith gave an interview with the media - (I believe it was Fox News but I am not sure.) – during which he credited Abbigayle's cries with waking him up. That was the moment when grief met incredulity. Before that I was content to hold my wife and cry, to comfort my daughter and to sit in the dark when alone remembering the smiles and giggles of two perfect children. That was the moment I realized that baby Abbigayle slept in the same room as her parents. Mr. Smith and Samantha Cox, her mother, escaped the building. Baby Abbigayle died in that bedroom. Consider that the first “2” in my equation.

Some months later, my daughter Florence, Hope and Mackenzie’s mother, stood by the side of the road protesting one of the many fundraisers involving Mr. Smith and Ms. Cox. This one was on fire safety. As she stood holding a placard for passing motorists to see, Carl Smith and Samantha Cox pulled up. Ms. Cox approached my daughter and asked if she understood how difficult it was to (a) know your child was dead and (b) leave her behind. Consider that the second “2” in the equation. I cannot imagine knowing or thinking or fearing or believing my child is dead and leaving her in a burning building. I can see leaving my keys, my wallet, my pants and my digital frame (one of my favorite purchases) but not my child. During the last two years, my wife has told me repeatedly that she would have left me behind but not the baby. Not only do I believe her, I understand completely. Life would be easier for me if I could finesse these two paragraphs and make 2 + 2 = 4. I cannot.

As an aside, the NYS Fire Report confirms that Baby Abbigayle died in their bed.

On June 26^th, 2010, my eldest granddaughter (Samantha) turned 16. She wanted a beach party and I was in Roger’s Park in Bolton Landing hanging streamers and waiting for the DJ when the cell phone rang. Our celebration ended with a crudely written sign on a paper plate: “cancelled due to death in the family.” Two days later, Samantha cancelled her (6/28) trip with People to People. On June 23, 2012 Samantha will graduate from High School. She has asked us not to throw a big party. Instead of a gathering of friends and family and teachers, counselors and coaches, the people who shaped her life during the preceding twelve years, she has consented to a small BBQ to allow her family to congratulate her and send her off to college.

I sincerely doubt this letter will change anything. Conclusions are set and time marches on. I have come to the realization that I will mourn everyday for the rest of my life and, in the natural course of time, will go to my grave knowing that I could not do right by my grandchildren. Worse, the system failed Hope and Mackenzie as it failed Baby Abbigayle. Nothing will change that. Perhaps the only purpose of this letter is to let another human being know that.

Thank you for listening.

One Night With The Grandkids

2012-06-11T18:43:00.000-07:00

(Excerpt from THIS LITTLE PIGGY BELONGS TO THE DEVIL)

http://www.amazon.com/Little-Piggy-Belongs-Devil-ebook/dp/B006J9PX8A
http://www.mycroftpress.com

Colin and Connor were in the dark. They were whimpering, desperately trying to find their way out of the house. It was so dark they were literally lost within their own home. Colin took the lead as they made their way down the hallway. Connor, holding his brothers shirt with a firm hand, followed behind offering advice.

"Feel the doorknobs for heat. Remember fire prevention week. Feel for fire," Connor reminded his brother trying not to sound scared.

"I can't see the doorknobs. I can't see anything," Colin complained.

"I know," Connor's voice answered wanting to sound reassuring. He could not see his brother or even the hand that he anchored to Colin's back. His twin's pajama top was white but it could just as easily have been black. Maybe, magically, it was black. Maybe it was as dark and as dense as the air around them. Connor held tight to his brother's nightshirt; more than anything, he feared losing his grip. If that happened, he would be gone.

"Feel everything." he continued. Hearing his voice gave him substance. He found it reassuring. "Slide your hand along the wall. If it feels hot..."

"Okay."

Colin pressed his small hand flat against the wall. It felt cool. Slowly he moved forward. The wall was gritty and a little oily, different than he remembered when the lights were on but it wasn't hot. He could smell smoke. It was all very familiar like the campouts they went on with dad and grandpa, and he could hear the crackle and occasional pop of wood burning, but there wasn't any heat. And no light. Why couldn't they see anything? Light should be getting in from outside. From street lamps. And fire glows. It's orange. Why couldn't he see the fire?

Colin's hand found a door. He stopped, moving his fingers up and down trying to find the knob.

"What's the matter?" his brother asked tugging on his pajama shirt.

"It's a door."

"Is it hot?"

"No."

"Open it."

"I don't know where we are. Which door?"

"It doesn't matter. Open it. We have to figure it out."

Colin turned the knob and pushed inward. Light spilled out into the hall. The boys could see up and down. Everything was black onyx, slick and shiny, as if someone came in and painted their house while they slept. In front of them, in the glow of their familiar New York Giants lamp was their room. It looked normal. Comfortable and inviting. Untouched by whatever had happened to the rest of the house. Connor's Derek Jeter poster hung next to his bed. Colin's bright red El Camino, his dream car, dominated his side of the room. Books, magazines and the clutter that defined their eleven year old lives were strewn everywhere. Laundry basket basketball left more socks and underwear on the floor than in the hamper. Everything was as it was supposed to be. Just as they remembered it. Somehow, in the dark, they ended up back where they started.

Colin began to complain. They were trying to get outside, away from the house. That's what they were supposed to do. They planned and trained for this in school. They drew escape routes - one hung on the back of their door - but it didn't work. Somehow, Colin had failed and he felt miserable.

"It's good. Everything is fine. Let's go to bed," Connor answered sounding confident. He started pushing past his brother.

"But what about the smell?" Colin persisted.

"That crazy guy next door must be burning trash again. Let's go. I'm tired."

“Shouldn’t we look for mom?” Colin asked, holding back his twin. That was another lesson: plan a meeting place...gather with your family...stay together!

“They went out, remember.”

“Maybe they’re back. Maybe they’re sleeping. We were sleeping. Do you know what time it is?”

Connor looked in the room. His brand new digital alarm clock, the one with the iPod dock that he wanted and bought for himself, sat on his nightstand. The time blinked 1:17 AM. It kept blinking as the time changed. 1:17...1:18...

"We must have lost power. My clock says 1:19 in the morning," Connor noted looking as the time changed again. Minutes went fast. They better get to sleep if they wanted to sleep at all.

"It might be much later than that. Maybe 4:00 A. M. They could be back," Colin persisted.

“Then I wouldn’t wake them. He’d get mad.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Connor answered sounding a little annoyed. “I’m tired. If it is 4:00 o'clock...I'm fucking tired."

Connor grinned. Cursing was something new for him. He loved saying the word “fuck”.

"Let's get to bed.”

Side by side, my grandchildren stepped into the threshold. A huge and wicked plume of fire enveloped the boys in a violent whirlwind of orange tendrils and white smoke. There was something unnatural about it, like dancing flames from some very old cartoon. The blaze swirled around them rising steadily, driven by unheard music. One step...two step...one step...two step...cha...cha... cha... The ceiling above them burned and the blackened hallway filled with an eerie, unnatural glow. Colin and Connor stood motionless, leaning forward against the force of the firestorm, their long hair fluttering madly behind them. Their mouths hung open. Their teeth, clean and white against ebony, reflected miniature, flickering portraits of the blaze while their eyes bulged wide and large; they saw and understood everything. I am certain of that much. For just a moment the boys seemed to take on an unnatural sheen, to glow the color of the flames, before darkening first to an ochre and then to the oily black of the hallway. Their skin seemed to bubble and then to crack, curl and shrink from their identical features. White wisps of wriggling worms…thin, insistent, persistent, present, ever-present, rapidly multiplying smoke-like creatures…more alive than dead, twisted and crawled through every crack, hole and crevice the boys’ possessed (or the fire provided) until they escaped into the crackling universe. Then, finally, almost mercifully, the boys exploded. They just disintegrated into two giant orange puffs of ash, their dust carried away within the great swirling, all-consuming inferno.

And then, once again, I screamed. I opened my mouth, stretching my jaw to the point of pain and issued a sound no creature has ever made. Or was meant to make. It was as mysterious and as mythical as anything I’d ever read in books or seen at the movies. I could not stop. I bellowed for hours and hours and days and days as the essence of my grief spread across my neighborhood and the lands beyond. Birds fell from the sky by the thousands and stars, one by one, faded in the heavens. The world turned as black as the hallways of hell. My anguish knew no boundaries.

And then, once again, my eyes opened. I was in bed lying next to my wife. She was awake, but not because I shattered windows and frightened neighbors. There were no dogs howling, no cats hissing at unseen dangers. I tossed and turned and whimpered. In this world, my grief was not majestic. In this world, I was reduced to quiet tears and constrained moans. It was all so very impotent.

Brenda rubbed my back feeling dampness through the cotton. Gently she whispered in my ear.

“You should call the doctor.”

“I can’t. Too much to do.”

58 & Thinking About Sex

2012-06-11T18:33:00.002-07:00

A recent negative review posted on Amazon.com got me thinking. Couldn't help it...it was about my book, This Little Piggy Belongs to the Devil and, even though I shouldn't, I'm going to provide a little commentary.

"All he talks about is sexual and its just horrible. I wouldn't have bought the book if i knew the continent (sic)was so perverted. Don't waste your money if you don't want to hear about penis and sex through the whole book."

I am sorry that the book is not about sex. I've written about sex before and it's a lot funnier. I used to talk about sex in my stand-up routine...

("My wife couldn't be here tonight. She's suffering from RRSA: recurring, remitting, sexual Alzheimer's. Every time I suggest sex her brain concocts bizarre, unbelievable excuses: the curtains are open... if you're not laughing, don't feel bad. No one ever got that joke.)

...but This Little Piggy Belongs to the Devil is a psychological thriller about a man, a sixty to sixty-two year old grandfather who slowly loses his mind as he wallows in the grief of losing his only grandchildren to fire. It is a first person account during which he retells the history of his family from his own childhood through the deaths of his grandsons and beyond (as he targets the person he blames for the fire and plots vengeance). It is an exercise in anger expressed in gritty language, pained and passionate sex, violence, a wealth of memory and (maybe) a little twisted humor.

Personally, I think the characters deserve so much more than reducing them to sex objects. They have so much to say...before during and after sex!