A Short Story

My father-in-law, Dave Hesse, sent me something he had written -- something that had come from a dream he had. It was somewhat familiar, sort of similar to an old short story I had written some years ago. In that spirit, I share it with you all.  -- R

The Audit

by

Rory McClannahan

Redmond Gardner stared at the letter under the glow of the fluorescent light. His Cheerios were going soggy in the green bowl his wife, Maggie, had bought the day before. At first he thought nothing of her buying bowls, they needed new ones. But that was before the letter had come in the mail later in the day. It was marked: U.S. Government, Department of Taxation and Revenue. He was being audited. He stared at the letter informing him in its bureaucratic efficiency that there was a problem with the return he had filled out the month before, and to please go to the nearest center at his earliest convenience—as long as it was before the end of the month. He was also informed to bring all relevant paperwork. That’s how he knew he was screwed. He didn’t have the relevant paperwork because he told a couple of little white lies.

“It will be ok, Red.” It was Maggie, up earlier than usual. He looked at her. Her eyes were still a magnificent green even though her brown hair had been replaced by silver when she was in her forties. Her worry lines looking a little more worried this morning.

“I don’t know, Sunshine. I think I’m in real trouble this time.” He said, getting up and throwing the soggy Cheerios down the sink and turning on the garbage disposal.

“What do you mean?” she asked, the lines on her forehead becoming crevasses.

“I lied on the paperwork.” He knew she would want to know why and he wasn’t sure he could explain it so she would understand. Hell, he didn’t understand it very well. But after 30 years of marriage, she knew him well enough to know that he still did some stupid things in the name of principal. Especially when the government or some large corporation wanted to know personal information about him. The government or corporation always claimed the information was private and wouldn’t be used by anyone except people who were authorized to use it. Red knew that could add up to a few more people than he cared to think about. Maggie always laughed at him when he put the wrong telephone number on a magazine subscription or the incorrect social security number on a bank account. It was harmless. But now his principles got him in trouble. He never figured the government would audit him.

“How bad?” Maggie tried to remain calm.

“I’m in big trouble.” Her eyes turned red almost immediately and he knew what was coming. She never liked it when she cried, always called it a stupid female thing to do, but sometimes that couldn’t stop her. The tears came flowing out and Redmond Gardner went to his wife of 39 years. Maggie Gardner held on to him as tightly as she could.

“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” he lied.




“Mr. Garner. Is this some kind of joke? Don’t you believe the government is serious when it asks you to fill out these forms according to the instructions included in the booklet.” The little man with the ponytail, earring and funny little beard looked hard at Gardner. Red was mad this little bureaucrat couldn’t even read his name correctly off the computer screen which turned the man’s complexion an off-white.

“The name is Gardner,” Red said in a steady even tone. “You people never get my name right. And yes, I know what I was doing. Did you know that your instruction book is fifty pages long for the short form?”

“Irregardless,” the annoying young man said, and before he could finish his dramatic pause, Red had to say something.

“That’s not even a word.”

“What isn’t?” The little man had lost his train of thought.

“Irregardless,” Red said and he sat back in the uncomfortable plastic chair he was forced to sit in and crossed his arms. The bureaucrat took off his little round granny glasses wiped them on his tie, replaced them to his peanut head and directed his attention to Red.

“Irregardless, Mr. Garner. You are bound by law to fill out a return every year. And the return must be filled out according to the instructions.” Now the bureaucrat leaned back in his chair and looked smugly at Red.

“You have no right to judge me,” Red said, leaning forward in his chair. He could feel a lock of gray hair falling down on his forehead. He knew it made him look like a lunatic, but right now he felt like one. “You don’t even know my name and when I walk out of this building, you won’t even know my face.”

“I think you’re a little confused Mr. ...” he man with the little beard looked at his screen. “Mr. Garner. I don’t need to remember your face. All relevant information about you, including photos are in our data base. I can access information about your work history, your wife’s favorite perfume and how many times you’ve had sex in the last 10 years.” The little man leaned toward him, as if talking to a confidant. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation. I think you told lies on your return. And you should be old enough to know that you shouldn’t tell lies to the government. If everyone did that, our society would break down.” The man leaned back, winked at Red and began twirling the little diamond earring in his right ear. The bureaucrat was trying to communicate something to Red, but he had no idea what it was. Red didn’t know if he was being mocked or come on to. But whatever it was it was making him angry.

“Can we just get on with this?” Red grumbled.

“Of course.” The bureaucrat turned back to his computer screen and punched several keys. “I just want to check some of these things before we get to the meat. You’re 63, right?”

“Yes.”

“Retired?”

“Yes.”

“A little young to be retired, don’t you think?”

“Not really.” The bureaucrat grunted.

“Married, one child. Does your son live with you?”

“I thought you know everything about me?”

“I do. I was just making small talk.” The bureaucrat tapped a few more keys and then leaned back and folded his hands behind his head.

“Here we go,” he said cheerfully. “Now here on your return, you claim to have worked 20 hours a week of community service at a place called the Silver Springs Country Club. What sort of organization is this?”

“It’s a country club.”

“I see, I see,” the bureaucrat punched a few keys. “And what exactly did you do there in the form of community service?”

“I checked the golf course for gopher holes and to see if wind was a factor in club members enjoyment in golfing there.”

“And is it?”

“Not really.”

“And you did this service for free?”

“Actually I paid them for the privilege.”

“That is impressive Mr. Garner,” the bureaucrat said, punching a few more keys.

“Okay, on to something else. Do you love your son?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, Mr. Garner. I don’t like to argue with you, but we have indications that you don’t. When we cross reference your account with that of your son’s, we find that one of you is lying. He says you didn’t spend enough time with him when he was younger. What do you say to that?”

“I spent plenty of time with him. I never missed any activity he was involved in.”

“Yes, but you didn’t encourage him to play soccer and he says that may have damaged him for life.”

“Is it that important?”

“Every child should be given the opportunity to play soccer.”

“I didn’t know.” Red sat back and rubbed his chin while the bureaucrat tapped some more on the key board. The tension was mounting as he would type in something and sit back and stare at the screen, then lean back in and type some more. Finally, he turned to face Red.

“Here’s the problem,” he started with no real emotional connection. “By your last return you can’t justify your existence. You added several numbers incorrectly and that didn’t help your case. Plus, there just isn’t much use for old men anymore. Computers have stored our knowledge so we don’t need your brand of wisdom anymore.” The bureaucrat got up and went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a form.

“Now here’s what you can do,” he said as he sat back in the chair facing Red. “You can take a government supplied cyanide capsule and do yourself in, you can have the police come and shoot you or you can appeal.”

“I’ll appeal,” Red said.

“Yeah, I thought so. What you have to do is fill out this form and return it here within 10 days. Do you have a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ll need one. A hearing officer will schedule a hearing within a year. Any questions?” The bureaucrat turned back to his computer screen assuming Red wouldn’t have any questions.

“How long does this usually take?” Red asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. We haven’t had to terminate anyone yet. The appeals office is backed up. Some cases are almost 20 years old. Have a nice day Mr. Garner.”

Red smiled. Maybe the government wasn’t so bad after all.

Great Day, but too much work

Yesterday was a good and busy day. I participated in the Read "Write" Adult Literacy Program's Author's Event in Moriarty.
I sold a few copies of "Blind Man's Bluff" and met a lot of good people, and actually won a Kindle Fire in a raffle. I've had a Nook for awhile, so it'll be interesting to compare the two. So far, the Nook is winning.
Anyway, with a full day yesterday and chores to do today, which include starting on a final read through on my next book, "Time in the World" -- which will be out in June, I hope -- the desire and ability to write a posting is low today.
So instead, I offer you all, again, an older column from the Mountain View Telegraph. Which actually led to a short story I've written. (I'd post the story, except I'll be trying to sell it soon. Stay tuned for when and where it will appear.)
This was written right before the Mayan calendar was set to expire.
R



Depending on who you are talking to, the world is scheduled to end tomorrow.
This is according to the Mayas, who created a 5,125-year-long calendar that ends Dec. 21, 2012 — 10 full days before the 2012 At-A-Glance calendar on my wall expires. I guess the Mayas were ahead of their time.
Just about everyone with half a brain is not really concerned about this — most of us lived through Y2K and numerous other world-ending predictions without any problems. Still, I made sure not to do any Christmas shopping yet, just in case. However, this alleged apocalypse is supposed to be on Friday, a day after my wedding anniversary, so I didn't get out of that one.
The whole Mayan thing has had me thinking about surviving the apocalypse.
A contemplation that springs to my mind is would I want to know the end was coming. And if I did, what would I do?
Obviously, you'd want to spend what time you had left with those closest to you. I suppose, though, after we've told each other what we want to say in that sort of circumstance, there might still be a little time before "the end." I suppose we'd play Monopoly then. Maybe cribbage. We'd certainly make some popcorn and hot chocolate.
But what if this apocalypse is more of a Hollywood type end-of-the-world scenario where an event occurs that leaves us all fending for ourselves. In reality, when faced with this sort of thing, most of us wouldn't last very long. But in our minds, we are all part of a small band of survivors fighting off mutant zombies and what-not.
In this scenario, the first place I'm heading is to Walmart, which I would turn into a fortress and my followers would dub me King Rory.
The Walmart is an obvious choice to hole up in the first months of the apocalypse — there is enough there to keep a small group of people going for quite some time. There also is enough goods to trade for the essentials, such as gasoline for the generators — available in automotive — to run the freezers and other electrical needs for the fortress.
The only problem is that I may not be the only one who has thought of this and wrestling possession of the store away from those folks — some whom probably would have worked there — would not be an easy task.
While tamping down any insurrections would require a certain ruthlessness, I would be a fair ruler and reward loyalty. Most current employees would be invaluable to maintaining my domination. The folks in lawn and garden, for instance, would be necessary for constructing a defensible perimeter around the building.
The electronics department would be essential for establishing contact with the outside world and communications within the fortress. The pharmacy would be important, as well, for maintaining the health of my loyal subjects.
From the safety of our castle, we would be able to wait out the rise and fall of the mutants while noshing on frozen pizza cooked in toaster ovens. We would be ready to emerge and rebuild in the post-apocalyptic world.
As you can see, I've given this a lot of thought. That's what happens when someone tells me things like the world is ending.
And if the apocalypse doesn't occur on Friday, at least I've got a good start on my Christmas shopping list.

A Conspiracy

My bed is trying to kill me, I think.

I'm not sure of its motivations. It's never mumbled a word about oppression, or said anything about dissatisfaction with it job. But I'm suspicious. What makes this worse is that I don't think the bed intends to kill me quickly. No, I believe there is a conspiracy afoot with my pillows and bed sheets to take me out slowly; although the bedsheets seem to want to finish the job quickly – many a time's I've woken in the middle of the night to find the sheets wrapped around my head. I'm not sure if the sheets merely intend to smother me or are making an incompetent effort to choke me.

The comforter, I'm convinced is not in on the plot – it seems to slink away as quietly as possible.

I became aware of this plot about a year ago when I woke one morning to a throbbing pain in my left wrist, as if someone had spent the night bending it backwards. Within weeks, the assaults came at my right wrist, both my elbows, my knees and hips and my neck. Each attack seemed to be coordinated to coincide with the healing of the previous battery. I began to wear all sorts of preventative devices to bed – wrist braces, knee braces, elbow braces. For a while, the assaults would abate, only to pick up once I gained confidence that it wasn't the bed at all, but that I was “just laying the wrong way.”

I know now that this was part of the bed's evil plan; a way to lull me into complacency and to keep me from taking refuge with the couch. Then, the bed ratcheted up its attacks against me, twisting my ankle nightly until I could not walk. I see now the plan:

Injure my ankle just enough to make walking painful, then wait for an “accident” to occur in the middle of the night. The bathroom door has been complacent in this scheme, but not entirely resistance to the cause; sometimes standing wide open while at other times being closed. This, I know, is done to confuse me. I'm fearful as to what might happen if the toilet cannot resist and must join the revolution.

I'm not sure what I did to the bed. When it was welcomed into our home five years ago, everything seemed wonderful. It was a top-of-the-line bed, with the ability to adjust each side for firmness or softness. I would make the adjustment and everything would be fine. Those were the days – or should I say nights – of great sleeping. Then slowly, the bed started to rebel. It would lose air pressure in the middle of the night and I would sometimes wake to find myself in a bowl, my body lying on the flat hardness of the “boxspring.” Other times, during the day, the bed would inflate itself to its full capacity so that when I went to sleep, my throbbing knee would wake me in the middle of the night.

Now it seems like there is no relief from the onslaught, and I know my pillows are in on the plans. Why else would they jump out from underneath my head while I slumbered? I'm not sure how much more I'll be able to take. I'm ready to talk, but the bed remains silent on its demands. Does it want a pillowtop? A ruffle along its base? Is it upset we've never gotten it a head board?

I just don't know.

I do know that I'm at my wits end and think it might be time to move on; to get rid of this bed that made claims of a 10 year lifespan after only five years. If it hadn't cost so damn much, I probably would have been rid of it long ago. I keep going though, finding some relief in the middle of the night on the sofa.

The horror; the horror.

Stories I Tell, Part 1

You can pick your friends, but you are stuck with family. The thing about family, though, is that you get lots of stories to tell over a beer with those friends you chose so well.

This story is about my grandparents on my father's side – my Gramma and Grampa Mac.

As children, we grow up wanting to please our parents, and by extension our grandparents. I was no different, but you learn the hard way that what's important to a child may not seem that big of a deal to a parent. My father is not culpable in this story – in his own way, he has shown me that he is proud of my accomplishments. My grandparents, though, were a whole different ball game. I'm sure neither of them – or even my mother's parents – really understood what motivated me, what was important to me. And I could say the same about them. They lived in a world completely foreign to mine.

So, I suppose a little background is needed. Charles McClannahan, my grandfather who everyone called Mac was a plumber when I knew him. His youth and life was one of tragedy followed by struggle. His father died in the Flu Epidemic in 1918 and his little brother died not much later of lockjaw, long before tetanus vaccinations

Grampa Mac

were invented. My grandfather spent his life working with his hands, but he was the smartest, most intimidating man I've ever known. His free time was spent reading and understanding the world around him.

He had once asked me if I had read Machiavelli's “The Prince.” When I said I hadn't, he accused me of not knowing anything. I suppose I didn't in his eyes.

My grandmother, the former Helen Dixon, was the daughter of a dance instructor and from what I saw in the old photos, something of a flapper. She also was a die-hard Republican who could not cook, although I don't believe the two are related. And ... well … she didn't seem to like kids very much, which is kind of difficult to understand if you are a kid.

Gramma Mac

By the time my grandparents were in their 70s, they had retired to southern New Mexico and would make occasional trips up to Albuquerque to see a doctor, or whatever it was they did. For the most part, though, if I wanted to see them, I'd have to drive down there. Which I did, but probably not enough.

I plead guilty of not seeing my grandparents enough. My excuse was that I was a young man who was doing as much as he could to enjoy life. One of those things was acting.

I was playing at the idea of being an actor, but not really. If I had wanted to make a go of that, I should have been living in L.A. or New York; not Albuquerque. I did it because it was fun. You get to pretend to be someone else and your talents can move an audience to laughter or sadness or anger. If you are an insecure person, there really is nothing like the ego stroke of someone gushing over a performance you gave. As an actor, though, I'm a pretty good writer.

Another reason, and probably the main reason I was into the Albuquerque theater scene, was the girls. That's where I met my wife, but that's another story and we're still on the subject of my grandparents.

It came to pass that I was cast in the Neil Simon comedy “StarSpangled Girl” at the Wool Warehouse Dinner Theater with my best friend Gary and my other friend Connie. It was a challenging production from the beginning – there was a bit of theater bitchiness involved that I honestly don't fully remember. But we made the best of it; and, despite the external factors, we had fun. People who participate in sports understand the pure joy of being part of a team, especially with your friends. It's not much different being on stage with your friends and making an audience laugh. Nothing can compare.

As with any other show in which I appeared, I invited my friends and family. Usually Dad would come, he actually enjoys live theater. With this performance, though, he wanted his parents – my grandparents – to see me on stage. Honestly, I was thrilled and I worked it out that they had great seats and got the deluxe treatment for the dinner. I was planning to bring them back stage after the show and maybe even go to the bar after that and have a cocktail.

Then the whole thing went off the rails.

My grandparents didn't want to leave their dog at home or with a neighbor while they came up to the show. So they

The Wool Warehouse

 

 

brought the dog along and left it in their truck parked out on the street. With dinner theater, the dinner is served first. The actors and tech folks are usually backstage getting ready for the performance. For me, that usually meant going over my lines and trying to calm my nerves.

Jennifer, the theater manager came back stage with a funny story. She said she had stopped an old man from taking a plate of food out the back door. She said he explained that his dog was in his truck and he was going out to keep the animal company and eat his dinner. Everyone got a good laugh out of this, but I didn't say anything. I peeked out of the stage door and into the lobby to see if I could find out what was going on.

In the lobby was my father. We made eye contact and he kind gave an exasperated shrug. He waved me off and I went back to getting ready for the show. The curtain went up and we started the first act. I don't remember much about my performance, but I imagine I was a bit off – my family was sitting right in front and all of them had a somewhat disinterested look on their faces.

The first act of the show lasted about an hour, I think, and my character wasn't on stage for the last 15 minutes. During this time, I would be back in the green room listening on the speaker to the show progressing. That matinée show was not a good one for any of us, and I found out at intermission what the problem was.

Connie came into the green room after the curtain dropped for intermission nearly in tears. She'd been holding in laughter and let it out once she was safely out of the audience's earshot. Gary followed in much the same condition.

“What?” I said, grinning at the thought of fit of stage giggles. I'd been part of those events before – yes, that's another story – and I wanted to know what had happened.

“Did you see the old lady?” she asked. “The one right in front? She feel asleep, her head thrown back and her mouth wide open.”

I knew the old lady but didn't say anything, the blood rushing to my face in embarrassment.

“She was snoring,” Gary said with a guffaw.

They thought it was that much funnier when I informed them that the snoring lady was my grandmother. Although there was some hurt feelings on my part, I did realize that it was pretty funny.

At least that's the way I look at it. There are too many times in the course of a day where it is easy to be offended by something someone says and does; and it can hurt even more when it's someone you are close to. I still get offended and I still sometimes get angry about comments directed at me. In the end, though, it doesn't make much difference and I try to remind myself that the truth of the matter is that most people are simply unaware their actions are offensive. I'll have my bursts of anger, and then I let them go.

Besides, I spent the second half of that performance doing everything I could to interrupt my grandmother's nap, and I succeeded a couple of times. She was a pretty heavy sleeper.

You can pick your friends …

An excerpt from "Time in the World"

I offer you all an excerpt of "Time in the World," a time travel novel that will be available on June 1.

July 15, 1985

There was a great blending of colors, as if I was moving fast. No, that's wrong. I wasn't moving at all, it was the world that was moving. There was no noise, and that was the most unsettling part of the experience. That and the nausea, something J.C. had failed to mention. In a matter of seconds, it stopped. During the whole experience our feet stayed planted on the ground, we hadn't moved but now the building opposite us was a faded green instead of brown. The temperature was about ten degrees hotter, too.

We were in the same filthy alley; and if anything it was dirtier. The Dumpster we were near when we left was gone, replaced by at least ten garbage cans, half of them belching trash. It didn't look much different than 2013, but the surroundings were off. There were differences you wouldn't have noticed unless you were looking for them, like the hundreds of aluminum pull tabs ripped from soda and beer cans that were embedded in the alley's asphalt.

Once we walked out of the alley, though, you could tell we'd gone somewhere else. The neighborhood had changed, and the first thing I noticed was the electric and phone lines overhead – Con-Ed must not have buried them yet. It was still Brooklyn, and most of the buildings were still there, but some things were missing, like cell phone stores. Traffic lights were strung across intersections on wires instead of topping planted poles. There was a video store, it was a Mom and Pop instead of any major chain; and they didn't have DVDs, only a large selection of VHS and Beta. There was a TCBY Yogurt and an A & W, but there was no Applebees or a Best Buy. As we walked down the street, I found myself staring at the number of people with huge boom boxes, all playing very loud and very public. A few folks, men and women, were wearing shorts that were tight and short. I shouldn't have been surprised that no one was talking or texting on a smartphone, or that no one was plugged into an iPod, but I was. It's funny what we take for granted. I noticed some people with pagers on their belts and there were pay phones. Pay phones!

I stopped to inspect one, a blue kiosk box mounted to the side of a building, the Yellow Pages attached to a cable and dangling below. I didn't notice that J.C. and Felicia continued walking as I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear. Pay phones weren't that strange to me – I wasn't that young. But they were things that disappeared so slowly that I didn't notice they had become obsolete. With the dial tone in my ear, I knew I had to make a call. I punched in the number to my mother's house, trying to remember if it was the same in 1985. A three-note tone blared in my ear.

“You must first deposit twenty-five cents to connect your call,” an adroit female voice told me. Before I could dig into my pocket for a quarter, Felicia harshly grabbed me by the arm.

“Would you come on,” she hissed. I smiled an apology and hung up the receiver.

As promised, J.C. bought us a slice of pizza in a little joint around the corner from L'Armour. The slices were huge and cost a buck, a soda was thirty-five cents. There was a juke box in the place that was playing vinyl records. I made sure to carefully look over the juke box, silently amused each time a record was lifted from its slot and placed on a turntable. The pizza place was filled with young people who dressed in torn Levi jeans and homemade Ramones T-shirts. J.C. didn't think our clothes would stand out – his old man trousers and long coat didn't – but Felicia and I looked like foreigners, her low-rise jeans and my cargo pants, stylish for the 21^st Century, looked out of place with the faded denim and torn T-shirts of the punks around us. They looked dingier, too. I was staring at a guy with gnarled teeth and bad acne thinking that he would have had both fixed in 2009. His shirt had a hand-drawn cartoon that was labeled “Zippy the Pinhead.”

No one seemed to give us a second glance, though, and it wasn't long before Felicia started quizzing J.C. on time travel. She asked about the device, getting the same responses he had given me earlier, but she asked questions I hadn't even thought about.

“So,” she asked in a hushed tone, “how are you able to sell your antiques? If you go into the past and get things, they wouldn't age would they? You'd have a hard time selling them, people would think they're forgeries.”

J.C. chuckled at the question and took a sip of coffee.

“Objects brought forward in time don't seem to age, but I don't know if they actually do. I haven't tried carbon dating them,” he said. “I suspect they do age, mostly because the stuff I've brought forward wears out pretty quick.” I thought of his collection of baseball cards. They looked brand new, and even smelled of cheap bubble gum. J.C. caught me furrowing my brow in puzzlement.

“Think of this way,” he said, leaning in close, “it would be the same if I locked an item – a card let's say – in a vault that was temperature controlled, dark so the light couldn't do any damage and opened it years later. It's still old, it just looks new.”

Classic Rory

This is a "classic" Mountain View Telegraph column of mine from 2008. Sorry for no original content today, I'm up to my eyeballs in other things that need to be done, such as take the garbage to the dump, go to the grocery store, shoot some Easter egg hunt photos for the paper and spend a little time working on some other writing projects. -Rory

I’m thinking of applying for a new job, one that pays well with little actual work involved.

That’s what we all dream of, isn’t it?

I believe the perfect job for me would be that of vice president. I hear there is an opening coming up. I’ll state right off the bat that I would be willing to serve for either presidential nominee and will change my voter registration accordingly. I only ask that I be excused from any actual campaigning; I don’t care much for traveling or being on television. Actually, if either candidate could just hold the job open until after the election, that would be great. I can say with certainty that I’d be a pretty good vice president because I’d pretty much stay out of the way of any real work, so I wouldn’t muck up anything.

The vice presidency was once described by John Nance Garner, who held the office for Franklin Delano Roosevelt, as not being “worth a bucket of warm (spit).” Garner actually said a much worse word, but we won’t go into that. John Adams, the first vice president, described the job as “the most insignificant office that ever the invention of man contrived or his imagination conceived.”

The problem, though, wasn’t with the job. It’s that Adams and Garner, along with just about every vice president except Harry Truman, were ambitious men unable to appreciate their good fortune.

With me that is clearly not the case. I have no desire to be president, and if asked to serve I will decline. I’ve been around long enough to see what that job does to people. No, thanks!

But I would be willing to serve as vice president. The job pays $208,100 a year, offers a $10,000 expense account and a place to live in the nicer part of Washington, D.C. The job duties, as enumerated in the 12th Amendment to the Constitution, are that the vice president presides over the Senate and fills in for the president when he is incapacitated, which has happened only three times in more than 200 years. In addition, I would become the big guy if the president dies or resigns from office. I’d quit first before I’d let that happen.

As president of the Senate, the vice president can hand off day-to-day operations to the president pro tempore, so you won’t see me hanging around there. I also learned from my limited research that the vice president usually serves on a couple of boards, one required. That’s cool; I’ve spent years of attending city council meetings. As long as the chairs are comfortable, I can handle it.

One important duty of the vice president to break tie votes in the Senate.

If I did have to cast a tiebreaking vote, I can assure Americans that I have a foolproof system. In my pocket I carry three presidential dollar coins, Washington, Jefferson and Adams. Normally, I flip a coin when confronted on an indecision over what to have for lunch or whether to buy a video game, but the method could certainly be used to break a tie vote in the Senate. That can’t be any worse than the way decisions are made now anyway, can it?

So when I get the job, y’all are invited to come to Number One Observatory Circle, the 9,150-square-foot home that serves as the official residence of the vice president, for a visit. I’ll need the company to fill my days. But don’t show up before noon — I’ll probably still be in bed.

Adventures in Writing, Part 3

I have no less than four active notebooks. Each contains little scraps of characters, settings and ideas for stories. I even save quotes from famous people, which I'll explain later. When it comes to subject matter for a story, I generally don't struggle too much for something.

The trouble is the way my mind works. I do not exaggerate when I say that the notebooks contain scraps, although, I admit to one containing fully excised story “outlines” ready for the writing.

Here's an example from my oldest active notebook which I've been using since 1998:

“A blind person – blind or deaf perhaps – compensates for what he has missing. His other senses work better. But what about a mentally handicapped person, where does she make up for the things that are missing in her head?”

I've never done anything with this little nugget, nor do I know if I ever will. Just knowing it exists is comforting. Here's another one from 1998:

“Sere is a former showgirl. She had to quit because of a knee injury, but in reality, that was just an excuse – she was unwilling to get a boob job. She hated the long hours of the physically demanding work and the concerns over the tool of her trade – her body. She may have quit, but she still kept in contact with her showgirl friends, they were a good source of information. They had boyfriends in high and low places.”

There's plenty more about Sere and her employer, Prof, and lover James. The three ran money-making scams in Las Vegas. Prof is a former child prodigy who chucked the world of academia to find a life in white collar crime in Las Vegas. James is a large Asian-American who can do a perfect impersonation of Sean Connery. The three take on a powerful casino owner who screwed Prof out of some money.

It's a story that has yet to be complete. The trouble I found was that the Las Vegas I was writing about hasn't existed in at least 20 years. Also, the story is kind of the same formula used in “Ocean's Eleven” movie. I was stealing from the 1960 original, but then the 2001 remake came out and there didn't seem to be much reason to continue. The characters still exist, though, and I may still use them from something. I kind of like them.

One final note from 1998:

“I stood in my driveway surveying the neighborhood. The air was crisp in my nicotine soaked lungs.

“The neighborhood was quiet. Too quiet. Something big was going to go down, I could smell it. The stench was so powerful that it penetrated the scent of my wife's famous liver and onions, which was why I was out in the driveway in the first place.

“That, and because it was my job to watch out for the neighborhood. I'm the block captain. I take my job seriously.”

The story goes on about how the block captain fights a monster from an another planet. I'm not sure why I didn't finish it, but I know I never will in light of Ben Stiller's movie “The Watch,” which is eerily familiar.

Along those same lines, I actually wrote the first draft about a former president who moves to a small town and runs for mayor, which is an awful lot like “Welcome to Mooseport.”

I'm not sure what the point about this is -- maybe that I have great ideas for crappy movies. Some people probably won't believe me. My wife, Robin, does. I told her about these stories long before the movies came out. To her, the point is that I need to get busy writing. Which is why on a Saturday morning I can ignore her and the kids, listen to the Best of Nilsson and do some writing.

I've got one last entry from my notebooks for you all. It's the most recent.

“A lost man found a magical girl who made everything OK for just a little bit. The man sees the world as a garbage heap and constantly contemplates suicide. When he comes close to the girl, he sees the world as bright and shiny. This all takes place in a Las Vegas that has a giant casino that moves up and down the Strip, 300 feet above, on rails.”

I've been thinking about this one for a week or so and I've already made about 10 pages of notes. This is the project I'm working on.

Family Stories, Part 2

If you are offended by scatological humor and you find nothing funny about farts, then read no further. Like the great George Carlin, it is my belief that farts are inherently funny. Not only that, it is something that binds us together as human beings. While we are not the only creatures on this beautiful earth to fart, we are the only ones who make jokes about it.

And being a male of the species, I have a certain affection for farts and any practical joke involved with them. My favorite jokes involve the assessing blame for flatulence, and few things are funnier than if you can get away with someone else getting blamed for your own stink bomb. The problem with that, though, is if you gain a reputation for such behavior. Your family and friends will always be suspicious of your motivations.

However, if your target is a young child unsophisticated in fart subterfuge, you can have loads of fun. (Oh yeah, like you've never blamed your kid for something you did?)

When my oldest son, Connor, was about 8 or 10, he would want to go everywhere with me. I miss those days, now that he's a teenager he rarely wants to hang out with me. He's got interests of his own, and there is nothing wrong with that. But I do miss being with him and having fun. There is a phase about that age in every boy's life where he wants nothing more than to be in the company of the man who is most responsible for his existence, even if that dad is a jerk. My youngest son, Beck, is going through that phase right now and I'm enjoying it while I can.

Some years ago, when Connor was 8 or 10 or around that age, we took a trip to a local big box electronics store for a DVD or something. Before hitting the store, we most likely got something to eat, probably fast food. By the time we hit the store, my stomach wasn't feeling very well and I knew it was going to have to be a quick trip.

As we walked up to the cashier, I could no longer hold the gas in. Although there was no sound to this blast, there was a horrible smell akin to burning tires. At the cash register, there was me, and Connor and the cashier – an innocent young woman. After the offense was committed, another fellow walked up and stood in line. It was apparent by the looks on everyone's faces that foulness was about and only one of us knew for sure where it had come from, and I wasn't about to claim it when there was a perfectly good scapegoat standing next to me.

As the cashier was processing the transaction while trying her best not to cover her nose and run away screaming, I gave my best stage whisper to my oldest son, the gleam of my eye.

“Connor,” I said. “Did you fart?”

He immediately denied it, almost a little bit too much, which fit into my scheme. Because by that time, both the cashier and the guy in line behind us had focused their suspicious eyes upon Connor.

Too many times, children get blamed for things they didn't do. Thank goodness for that.

Adventures in Wrting, Part 2

The other day, a friend who recently had read my first book made a point to come by my desk and ask if I had ever tried to get it published through the traditional methods. It's just as good as any of the crap that's published these days, he had said, though not quite in those words.

The answer was, yes, I had gone through the the submittal and denial process. I found that experience so frustrating that I didn't write another book for 10 years. I suppose I have a different attitude toward writing now than after I'd finished that book, but I still hold the same attitude toward the publishing industry.

The process of acquiring a book agent and a contract for publication, garnered from the toe I've dipped into the water and from stories of author friends, is another job itself. If you are an unknown writer, the odds are stacked against you finding a publisher. Notice I said “unknown” instead of “new.” New writers get published all the time.

My friend Steve Brewer, a talented mystery writer, makes a simple statement that sums up the publishing industry: “Snookie is published.”

I have no qualms about submitting a work and having it rejected. It's all the other people out there looking to make a buck off the dreams of someone wanting to become a published author that gives me heartburn.

When I was searching for an agent or publisher those many years ago, I had sent out my manuscript to numerous places. (Copy costs taken on by author.) With many, I received my manuscript, obviously unread, back in the SASE (Self Addressed Stamped Envelope, costs taken on by the author) I'd sent with it. Most I never saw again. Then I started hearing from the shysters who would be happy to represent me, but that the manuscript needed “some work.” For several thousand dollars, they would be happy to help me get it in shape to shop around – no guarantee of a sale, of course.

One especially annoying New York woman called me collect to offer the package of services her agency offered. However, she was going to give me free feedback on some of the things that needed work on my manuscript. OK, I said.

My book is set in New Mexico and the landscape is an important character in the story. This woman told me that she would have an easier time selling it if I set it in Pennsylvania Amish country. I've been to Pennsylvania once in my life and have never toured Amish country. There would be no way I could rewrite the story to fit that location and culture, I told her. She was still willing to represent the book, but only if I sent her $3,000 for editing services.

I pulled my toe out of the pool and determined that I would work on my newspaper career and raising a family rather than put up with the crap of the publishing industry.

But things have changed over the years, and not to the benefit of the so-called gatekeepers, the people who decide what sees print and what doesn't. More and more people have e-book readers and iPads and the like. Delivery of books is much easier and cheaper. At the same time, printing technology has improved so that print-on-demand services are relatively cheap and easy.

That means that just about anyone can get into the market. It also means that just about everyone is in the market. There's a lot of literary junk out there, there is no doubt. But there is some great stuff out there that never would have seen the light of day through traditional publishing channels.

I'm not knocking traditional publishing houses, especially small presses which struggle to make a go of the business. Good for them, I guess. But it doesn't mean I have to conform to their archaic business model.

But that is more of a change in attitude I have toward writing. It's fairly simple: I just want to write. Whether I go through traditional publishing or do it myself, the odds are long that I'll be able to even support myself and my family through writing. That's OK. That's not the primary reason for doing it.

I do it because I like telling stories. I love language. I love new ideas and even dressed up old ideas. I'm as much a fan of reading as I am of writing. And yes, I am thrilled when someone is moved in some manner by what I've written.

So I'm doing the self-publishing thing. I've sold a handful of books, and I'm not disappointed it isn't a million seller. If a traditional publishing house comes knocking, that'll be fine. Right now, I'm content to do what I'm doing.

On the Homefront

This piece was written a couple of years ago and never ran anywhere else. I offer it up as a way to post something while I'm busy working on finishing a short story. -RM

It was a normal Sunday, but quickly deviated from the normally scheduled programming.

Each Sunday morning we make time for breakfast. We cook food that is bad for us, but who can resist biscuits and gravy? Who can pass on eggs and bacon? I can't and I won't. I may cut my intake, but I still want it. It's comfort food. It's home.

Connor's pet rat, since passed.

Because we take the time for breakfast, we listen to music and tell jokes and enjoy being a family together. There's Connor, playing with the rat, or eating his cereal or trying to make us laugh. Beck is usually running around and pitching a fit about something. It's controlled chaos and each of us plays our roles to a tee.

We live modestly, not so much as by choice, but out of necessity. It sounds cheesy, but we really do have each other, and that is comforting. We each know that we have a time and place to be a unit and to play with each other.

Sunday morning breakfast is the best three hours of the week and it is going to be a bad day if it is sullied at the start.

One bright sunny Sunday, it was the one before Memorial Day, we decided while lying in bed that the breakfast menu would be biscuits and gravy, eggs, bacon and orange juice. Some weeks we would just have a cinnamon roll and juice or sometime a bowl of cereal; but this morning we wanted to indulge ourselves in comfort food. We deserved it.

My job for Sunday morning breakfast is co-chef. Some weeks, I'm the primary cook and sometimes Robin is. Most of the time we work together to prepare the meal. We make a good team.

There is music, usually rock and roll, playing so we can dance and sing to it. That Sunday was no different. I made the biscuits using the recipe off the Bisquick box; nothing fancy, but still delicious. I got the pans ready, turned on the oven, got the eggs out of the fridge, skillet out of the cupboard, mixed the eggs and milk in a bowl with a fork, poured gravy mix into a pan of water – the mixes that come out of an envelope are just fine, sometimes home made is overrated, depending on whose home you are in.

The oven preheat timer went off and I opened the door to stick in the raw biscuits, after which I would throw some bacon in the skillet.

Every thing was cooking along fine and the timing was looking to be just right. The timer dinged and I opening the oven to pull out golden brown biscuits. Except that they were in the same condition in which I placed them. The oven was stone cold. It was broken and didn't even turn on.

The day was shot from there.

No, really, it truly was all downhill from there, but sometimes if you just hang in there, things will get better.

Instead of biscuits, we had toast. It was only OK.

After eating, we tried to get on with the other chores, one of which was now figuring out what was wrong with the oven, so we could take the afternoon together. That morning was different. I had some weeds to trim and headed outside to the gasoline-powered trimmer. I don't like it much and the next trimmer I get will be purchased for comfort over price.

This thing I have is a smoke-belching annoyance, it vibrates too much, it stinks and it gets hot.

It also does a great job whacking the weeds that can't be reached with the mower, which was slated to be pulled out after finishing with the trimmer. I never got to the mowing part.

Riley didn't look like much, but he could run

The first inkling something was amiss was Riley, Robin's horse, running through the front yard being chased by a donkey. They were running fast and before I could turn off my machine and run into the house to call Robin, then run back outside, the horse and donkey were nowhere to be seen. We only knew that they headed north. Robin quickly got some Old Timer's feed in a bucket, the horse's halter and we split in the truck after I told Connor to watch his brother.

The great thoroughbred Secretariat ran 1 ¼ miles in less than two minutes in his trip in the Kentucky Derby. That's more than 40 mph. Pretty damn fast, and I think our 20 year old horse must have been going double that, because we didn't see him anywhere. The donkey, stupid beast that it was, had stopped to trouble some other horses along the way.

Horses are funny creatures and if you've never lived with one, you have never lived. It's like having a one-ton neurotic six year old boy living in your back yard. The horse can be at times petulant and demanding. Other times, he is fearful and skittish. Our horse was fine with his neighbors , the chickens and the stray dogs that wandered into his pen. Ducks may or may not be a different story, the jury is still out on that.

But essentially the smaller animals are of no concern to the horse. Humans are OK, although I think that every time he sees me, he comes running at me to make me flinch. He usually succeeds, and in his horsey way, I know he laughs at me as well.

However, he's got issues with other horses, donkeys and especially cattle. He does not like cattle and when they come up close to our property in the pasture across the road, the horse will be at the fence, watching them suspiciously.

I see in his behavior a little arrogance. It's as if the livestock world is their hierarchy, with horses on top. But like a lot of people blinded by their arrogance, they aren't “all that.” Their intelligence is high, but usually misdirected and most horses aren't as smart as they think they are. And that arrogance gets them in trouble.

Cows are always up to something

It's no question that cows are the morons of the livestock classes – they are easily led, big and fat, benign creatures whose only chores in life seem to be to eat and crap. The natural enemy of the bovine? Everything. It is at the bottom of the food chain; every predator will hunt cattle – they are easy pickings. Because of this cattle will act like...well...cattle.

Goats seem to be friends with horses, they get along just fine. I honestly don't know where pigs fit in to the scheme of the things.

Donkeys I hadn't learned about until that day. There are several donkeys in the cow pasture, which would indicate that they might be in cahoots with the cattle. There also are several donkeys throughout our large neighborhood. It's funny to hear them braying at each other in some coded messages, or for no other reason that to hear their own voices. Donkeys also are very stubborn; they don't accept their lot in life with great aplomb. Horses, apparently, don't care for the donkey's attitude problems and are easily intimidated by this personality trait.

So a donkey showed up that Sunday morning and started to give our horse the bit. Being a former show jumper, Riley easy took the fence and ran and ran and ran.

Fortunately, we aren't the only ones to use the early weekend days for chores, plenty of people saw where the horse went – up the ridge to get lost in the juniper trees. After hours of searching, Robin came home covered with tree sap, a few scratches and a limp. She was leading the horse, who was in about the same shape.

We didn't get to a movie that Sunday, and I didn't get the property mowed. Maybe it wasn't a total waste.

All I know is this: Never trust a donkey.

Adventures in Writing, Part 1

    If the pen is mightier than the sword, why is it we give our children the ability to write? In the wrong hands, a clever turn of phrase can cause nothing but trouble. There is power in words, which is why we spend countless hours huddled over notebooks and computers writing and editing and reading and doing it all over again in the hopes that someone might read what we've written and possibly give us a five-star review on Amazon.

    We like the idea that our work can move people, but we weren't born with this knowledge. It took an audience to plant the seeds of our calling. Just as a lawyer can tell you about the first case she won, or a doctor can tell you about that first baby he delivered, a writer can tell you about the first time his writing got attention, when the reactions of his readers sparked that switch which made him say, “Wow, this is really kind of cool.”

    Or in my case, “What the hell have I done?”

    Ah, the plot thickens. I've made my introduction and now I'll tell my anecdote. Afterwards I'll tell you what I learned. Pretty standard stuff.

    I first learned the power of literature when I was a sophomore in high school. I did not write a scholarship-winning essay of what the Constitution meant to me, I did not write a letter to the editor that sparked the outrage of a nation, I did not write a best-selling teen novel about a special school for witches and wizards. I wrote on a the wall of a stall in the boys bathroom, and while the style I chose – long form prose – was new to this venue, its subject was that best left to toilet stalls. Yes, I wrote four chapters of soft core porn on the wall with a No. 2 pencil.

    The incident is still embarrassing to me, but, at the same time, taught me about the power of writing.

It starts when the principal of my small high school came up to me and asked if I wanted a part-time job as a janitor after school let out every afternoon. I would be locked in the school and for two hours I would sweep the halls, empty garbage cans and clean the bathrooms. For this, I would be paid minimum wage. Of course I said yes, not even wondering why I had been chosen out of just about everyone for this job. (I suppose now that my father may have had something to do with it, which makes my embarrassment even stronger.)

    One other guy was hired, but only for an hour after school. Yes, I got the work done and I think I did a good job. But we also would do things that probably would have been frowned upon by our boss; namely, the development of Hall Hockey in which a roll of masking tape served as puck and the giant brooms were the sticks.

    After the other guy left, I had the whole school to myself. This is a power that should not be granted to any 16 year old. I was a good kid, I was responsible. I also had, like most teenagers, a capacity to get myself in trouble.

    One day, I found myself in the boys bathroom in the science hall of the school. I was bored cleaning and I had a pencil in my pocket. So I took to writing a short story on the wall about my imagined sexual exploits, which was a joke because I was at least several years away from losing my virginity. Not thinking, I used one of the prettiest girls at school as my narrator's conquest. I didn't think about her in any way except as a character in a soft core porn story. Which means I didn't think about her boyfriend, the large football player.

    The next morning, there were a few murmurs about the story on the wall and I went along with everyone's enjoyment of the story. That evening, I wrote the second chapter on the same wall; again using one of the girls in the school as a character. Now my story was gaining traction. Guys were going out their way to make it to the bathroom to read my work. There was speculation about who was the author of this wonderful work. I remained silent, but it wasn't easy.

    I took a day off writing and there was a clear disappointment among my adoring public, so I wrote a third chapter; again, starring a girl at the school. By now, everyone knew of my writing, including girls who would sneak in to read it. I was the most popular kid at school, and I couldn't even enjoy it. I could remain silent no longer and confided in my fellow janitor assistant that it was me who was writing this grand porn novel on the wall of the bathroom.

    A fourth chapter was added, but this time I didn't use anyone's name. I actually introduced a conflict with the intent to develop a true story. But it was my last chapter, my cover had been blown. My compadre had told one person, who told another and soon the whole school knew it was me who had written those things on the bathroom wall. This brought me attention, but not the kind I wanted. Girls I had liked now looked at me different. At the time, I couldn't tell if that was a good thing or bad thing, but I knew it was a thing that made me uncomfortable. I also had to deal with the consequences of three girls who were the “stars” of my writing. These were real people I had hurt and I made my way to apologize to each one, and getting different reactions from all three.

    More worrisome were the boyfriends of these three girls, who had enjoyed my writing until their girlfriends were included in it. The boyfriends' reaction were less friendly than the girls themselves. “I'm going to kick your ass,” was a common theme among them. Although it should be noted that my ass was not kicked by any. Even then, I could talk myself out of that situation. It did matter, though. The damage was done. I was an odd kid to begin with and now everyone threw pervert on top of that. I already had problems talking to girls, and this just made it worse. I would always wonder if what I had done would be in the back of their minds every time they saw me, I knew it was in the back of mine.

    Even now, I see this as a low point in my life, but it also taught me some very important lessons. The first is that if you are doing something of questionable morals, ethics or legality, you should keep it to yourself. The second is that when you write about real people, you should always stick to the facts. Third, there is power in literature to make people angry.

    And lastly, sex will always sell.

Family Stories #1

I like family stories. These are the stories everyone in the family knows and retells over the Thanksgiving table. These stories are part of the great oral tradition of telling stories that has been shared by every generation of man. They've been told so many times that their telling has become performance art. Everyone in the family has heard them, but they still like to hear the retelling. And every family has them.

When I was young, I shared my bedroom with my older brother, Kerry. Our oldest brother, Shawn, was lucky because he had his own room equipped with a sliding lock he installed himself. Shawn was a teenager, and you know how teenagers are – it was always best that when you heard Frampton Comes Alive from behind his door to just leave him alone.

The McClannahan boys with their mother

In the days before Kerry became a teenager, we were close. We had no choice. In our shared room, we had little privacy and at the time that wasn't a big deal. However, I am the youngest of three boys, and anyone with more than one of these creatures in their house knows that there will be roughhousing going on. From my perspective, a lot of times it felt like I was being picked on. I always came out on the short end of spit fights, I had more than my share of farts in my face and I can even recall one time when a good-sized rock found it's way from Kerry's hand to the top of my head. One of Kerry's favorite things to do was to let me enter a room first whereupon he would grab hold of the top of the door frame and lift himself up to give me a double-legged kick from behind.

Another favorite “game” was the dreaded titty-twister, known to many in these post-feminism days as a purple-nurple. If you are unfamiliar with this brand of torture, it is when someone grabs the loose fleshy part of your chest – usually somewhere in the vicinity of the nipple – and squeezes and twists as hard as they can. I didn't have much problem when I heard CIA operatives were waterboarding terrorist suspects. My attitude would have changed if I'd known the suspects were getting titty-twisters. My brothers especially liked this torture against me because I don't bruise – the pain would be intense but it would not leave a mark, otherwise known as evidence. They also were aware that I'm incapable of getting a bloody nose and used to to take great joy when a blow to my nose would make me sneeze.

Being the smallest, though, you learn other survival skills. To this day, I still have a relative high threshold for pain; except for ingrown toenails and throwing out a back, but those are adult problems. I'm almost ashamed to admit that I know the weak points on a male body. Some are obvious – a good swift kick to the balls will stop just about anyone. What many people don't know and I discovered is that a strategically placed thump with a middle finger on either the right or left gonad can be just as effective. I also know that if you grip someone by the hair on the back of their head and pull up, it will give you enough time to get loose from the grip of your older brother.

I'm sure my brothers have a different perspective on the regular tortures dished out upon me. To them, I was just a cry-baby. They were just goofing around, but there was usually a good reason I was crying.

With this in mind, Kerry and I found ourselves cleaning our room one day; which entailed picking up our junk and stuffing it into the closet. We had a set of bunk beds that could be used either separated or stacked. On this occasion, they were separated and I was searching under my bed for toys or whatever. There was only one thing I remember finding – the brass tip of a plastic toy dart. I turned to tell Kerry about this lost treasure, but found that he too was looking under a bed. He was vulnerable and I didn't get many chances at a vulnerable brother.

In review:

A butt belonging to someone who constantly harassed me was in front of me, and in my hand I had a sharp, pointy object.

The answer is yes, I did insert said dart tip into my brother's rump and he did react as you would imagine.

I don't remember if I got in trouble for my act, but if I did it was well worth it.

This story has become part of family legend. So much that my nieces like to hear it told. The story has been told in many different manners, but the lesson is the same every time – don't pick on your little brother.

Saturday morning, March 2, 2013

Saturday mornings always seem to be best here in Barton. It's a lazy time.

This late winter morning is actually pleasant, no clouds and you can see the snow-capped Sangre de Cristo Mountains off in the distance. South Mountain looms closer and still the horses are busy doing what horses do, which seems to be this morning to be standing around. Nan, the old one, stands with her butt to the wind. Arya, the youngster, is more mobile but seems to be ignoring her pen mate.

The wind is blowing, that's nothing new and anyone who lives around here has learned to deal with it. I tell myself that the wind is beneficial – it spreads pollinated seeds around and blows insects over 200 miles to Amarillo. In truth, seeds can hardly find purchase in the clay soil and bugs tend to find the environment inhospitable.

But it's home and I love it just the same.

Inside the house, the oldest son is still in bed at 10 a.m. And the youngest son is busy trying to squeeze all he can out of the Microsoft corporation through the Xbox. He's got the makings of a banker in him, and a tenacity to always try to gain the upper hand on large corporations. We've taught him well, and he generally finds success in his schemes in obtaining what he is seeking, mostly by wearing people down. I worry about both my sons, that's my job as a Dad. I know, though, that they'll be okay.

It's their world I worry about, though. Scratch that; I don't worry about the world – it will be here regardless of its inhabitants. It's my place in this world that I find disconcerting. On a modern timeline, I'm not that old, but lately I've been feeling a bit fogey-ish. I struggle with how to describe it, but I'll give it a shot through the prism of media, because that is how everything is viewed these days.

When I was young, I used to walk about a mile from my house to Hilltop Drug at least once a month to pick up the newest copy of ForrieAckerman's “Famous Monsters of Filmland.” The magazine was brought to its adoring public in sterling black and white. It included stories and photos from Hollywood's Golden Age of monster movies. I know now that it was regurgitated content originally produced years before I was born, but it was new to me and I loved it. I read and re-read that magazine every month until the pages were falling out, which meant it was time to get the next issue. I'm not the only one who has been inspired by this magazine, Ackerman is considered a God among many of us science fiction geeks.

Now, all the information from those old magazines is easily available on the internet. Not only that, but I can interact with people from all over the world about our love of Boris Karloff starring as Frankenstein's monster. That is very cool.

But we've lost something. We've lost our sense of anticipation. We wait for nothing. In addition, we may be able to talk to someone in Germany about Christopher Lee's turn as Dracula, but chances are more likely that someone will end up calling us names and attempting to invalidate our opinions.

We are at a time when communication is easy. I remember times as a youth when it seemed like our problems could be solved if we could just talk about them. We can do that easily now across cultural lines, but the opposite has occurred. Everyone seems mad now, and no one seems willing to compromise for the greater good. To me, it's all so much junk and I prefer to live my life open to new experiences and ideas.

I understand and enjoy the technology we have, yet at the same time long for a time when it didn't exist.

And yet, here are my words, brought to you not in the pages of a periodical, but through pixels on a screen. This is what I must do to build a career as a writer, and I appreciate the ease technology provides to get my writing in front of a wide audience. That still doesn't mean I find comfort in it.

Ah, the horses are eating their hay now. It's still a nice Saturday morning and the mountains are still off in the distance. I guess you've got to hang onto the things that keep you grounded.