From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 4
Ted's Grand Cherokee was already in the parking lot early next morning.
“What're you doing here at this ungodly hour?” asked Ted, looking up.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I replied.
“Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd come in and make sure we weren't on the wrong track again. You?”
“About the same,” I said, trying to find something to look at.
“Too many voices in my head,” said Ted, returning to whatever he was working on before I came in.
“Me too. Is it warm in here, or is it me?”
“It's you. The air kicked on more than an hour ago.”
“You've been here more than an hour?” I asked, “How did you get in?”
“I got them to give me a key; I've been coming earlier lately.”
“But you're here when I leave.” I was wondering if I might not be right, there was something wrong with Ted.
“Not for long, I usually follow you out. It's just that we came up with Luna-A and Luna-B. Now we've got “C” and I don't want to be the guy who killed a bunch of subjects with three products in a row.”
“I share some of that blame, you know. And we're not alone here, we have a large staff of people, anyone of which could have discovered the flaws in “A” and “B” and didn't. You can't carry this all on your shoulders.”
“I'm not, Phil,” said Ted, getting up and reaching for his empty coffee cup, “I'm just trying to make sure we don't have to formulate a Luna-D.” Ted left for the coffee room.
In the trash, were two blue envelopes. Ted had been using some of the “B” samples. Had Ted been retesting? But we discovered what was causing the results in “B”. Why would he have Luna-B out?
At the end of the day, Ted seemed fine and normal. He even left at a reasonable time. Ted gave me a wave and ambled off to his Grand Cherokee. It looked like another world to me, his gleaming clean Grand Cherokee, knowing that he would go home to the beautiful Alice who would have dinner on the table. Two endearing children would run in to hug their daddy and the cares of the day would fade into oblivion without the use of artificial nerve-dullers.
I drove my aging wreck to the poor side of town where I nuked a burger and fries meal that didn't live up to it's advertising. Settling down in front of the television, I reached for the bottle of hooch, then stopped myself. No, three didn't do it, four certainly wouldn't. I would try my theory and have none.
Just before I toddled off to bed, I breathed a quiet prayer that Carol would fall in love and get remarried, then I could have my paycheck back and could move out of that lousy neighborhood.
The breeze through the window was just right, the bums were quiet and there were few cars at that late hour.
Then the dreams came. I saw the table, Ted's kids slumped over and Ted with his note, roughly torn from the pad at work and carrying it's chilling message. The blue envelope fell from his hand to the floor. My gaze followed the envelope to the floor. Then a strange cry entered the scene and I woke up to a siren passing; an ambulance going by. I turned and looked at the clock – little after three in the morning. I got up and went to the couch, turning on the television. There was nothing on, so I turned it off, laid back on the couch and drifted off.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Luna Nightmares
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 3
Evening found me eating a ready-made meal with whiskey and water. The television show was one I'd seen before but I couldn't tell you what happened next. Finding a picture was tough and I could only get two channels in that neighborhood; it was the land that time forgot.
Outside the window the usual show was going on, shouting and shooting, sirens and horns; how could people live like that? Why did they stay? Why did I, for that matter?
I decided that I stayed because I couldn't find another place to live in that price range and got up to get myself a second drink. Trying one of my theories: I only had two whiskey and water the other night so that night I poured three. More is better, right?
On the TV, the bad guy was taken down and the commercial came on. I turned the television off, then turned it back on but lowered the sound. I was on my way to get the second drink so I couldn't go to bed yet. I got a fresh glass, just so I could keep score.
With three empty glasses in front of me, I looked up to see that the host's monologue was a repeat; he told that joke before and to just as few laughs. I turned the tube off and fell into bed.
In my dream, Ted took a small envelope out of his shirt pocket and went into the dining room. The envelope was from the lab, blue like those that held samples of Luna-B. He opened the envelope and poured some of the powder into the glasses of iced tea. Ted had tears in his eyes. In his hand he held a piece of paper, white with thin lines and a ragged corner, torn from a pad at the lab. Across the paper he had written, “I love you and the kids.”
I woke up sweating to the sound of banging on the wall next to me. “You wanna shut up in there? People are trying to sleep!” shouted the guy in the next apartment. I held still, gripping the sweat-soaked sheets, hoping he'd shut up.
“It's not like when you live in a house,” I whispered to myself, “where you can scream in peace.”
After a few minutes of quiet, I got up to get a glass of water then returned to bed, looking at the ceiling, trying to think of anything to stay awake. I couldn't think of anything at all other than my dream and my own deplorable situation. I got up and turned on the television. A sexy woman was licking her lips inviting me to call her. She said she was waiting just for me. I laughed, “Not if you could see me,” and turned to the other channel. The late-late-late show was just wrapping up.
Episode 3
Evening found me eating a ready-made meal with whiskey and water. The television show was one I'd seen before but I couldn't tell you what happened next. Finding a picture was tough and I could only get two channels in that neighborhood; it was the land that time forgot.
Outside the window the usual show was going on, shouting and shooting, sirens and horns; how could people live like that? Why did they stay? Why did I, for that matter?
I decided that I stayed because I couldn't find another place to live in that price range and got up to get myself a second drink. Trying one of my theories: I only had two whiskey and water the other night so that night I poured three. More is better, right?
On the TV, the bad guy was taken down and the commercial came on. I turned the television off, then turned it back on but lowered the sound. I was on my way to get the second drink so I couldn't go to bed yet. I got a fresh glass, just so I could keep score.
With three empty glasses in front of me, I looked up to see that the host's monologue was a repeat; he told that joke before and to just as few laughs. I turned the tube off and fell into bed.
In my dream, Ted took a small envelope out of his shirt pocket and went into the dining room. The envelope was from the lab, blue like those that held samples of Luna-B. He opened the envelope and poured some of the powder into the glasses of iced tea. Ted had tears in his eyes. In his hand he held a piece of paper, white with thin lines and a ragged corner, torn from a pad at the lab. Across the paper he had written, “I love you and the kids.”
I woke up sweating to the sound of banging on the wall next to me. “You wanna shut up in there? People are trying to sleep!” shouted the guy in the next apartment. I held still, gripping the sweat-soaked sheets, hoping he'd shut up.
“It's not like when you live in a house,” I whispered to myself, “where you can scream in peace.”
After a few minutes of quiet, I got up to get a glass of water then returned to bed, looking at the ceiling, trying to think of anything to stay awake. I couldn't think of anything at all other than my dream and my own deplorable situation. I got up and turned on the television. A sexy woman was licking her lips inviting me to call her. She said she was waiting just for me. I laughed, “Not if you could see me,” and turned to the other channel. The late-late-late show was just wrapping up.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Luna Nightmares
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 2
Horns woke me. I was toppled over onto the couch; my neck and back were stiff. I got up and went into the bathroom, stubbing a toe on the way.
Standing in front of the mirror as the florescent bulb flickered to life, I looked myself over. 'Gees! I look terrible. No wonder Carol left. No, that wasn't it,' I told myself, starting my daily routine, going through the steps as if it mattered. 'It was the fights, the long hours, the second drink, then the third just to tune out the day. Then a fourth to tune out Carol, screaming how I promised her more.' I sighed deeply, picked up a razor and looked at it. 'Not much chance of me cutting myself badly enough to do any good. Might as well just shave.'
An hour later I pulled into the lot at Lunadyne, parking far away from the entrance, hoping no one would see me in a car I ordinarily would have traded two years earlier. The back stairs were rarely used and even more rarely swept; they had become my 'main entrance' so as not to be detected by co-workers I wanted to avoid. Only Ted was in the lab as I opened the door.
“Hi Ted,” I cheerily tossed over to him, already in his white coat and looking over the results of yesterday's tests.
“Hi Phil,” Ted said without looking up. “C might be the one. C seems to be testing like we hoped Luna-A and B would. If these preliminary results keep up we may have something.”
“Glad to hear it. That'll take some heat off.” I said as I busied myself with some items on the desk, trying to get up some excitement for the work. Ted nodded solemnly.
There hadn't been a lot of enthusiasm of late. Word came down that Lunaprex was falling off, people were starting to think of it as the 'old way' to handle depression. “Other brands are touting new cures to new stresses of life,” said the people upstairs in the rarefied air of the board room, “the public wants breakthroughs – Lunaprex is something they already knew about; It's yesterday's news!”
Luna-A, as we called it until Marketing could come up with a catchy name, was the answer. Fewer side effects and a stronger internal formula with a thinner, faster-acting coating made Luna-A a leading contender for the top slot in the anti-depressant race. “A” removed the highs and lows of life leaving a gray middle ground where nothing was very good, but nothing was very bad. It was like whiskey-and-water in a capsule.
There was only one problem with “A”; the subjects died. We couldn't tell what it was that made “A” deadly, because every autopsy result was different, thought the results were the same. After a dose of Luna-A, the subjects would convulse wildly and eventually beat themselves to death. It was ugly and very disturbing to watch. It was a wonder I didn't have nightmares about that.
Luna-B was much better. There were no fits, no convulsions, no beating of oneself to death. It was a breakthrough. “B” was testing well in the lab, then went to the animals where it tested well, then to human tests where one of the subjects simply dropped his head into his mashed potatoes. We went back to the lab.
We found what was causing it this time. One of the masking ingredients interacted badly with common foods, resulting in death. You could take Luna-B safely, you just couldn't eat. It was a disaster. Pressure was on from the board room upstairs to come up with a safe product.
Reformulation of “B”, avoiding the pitfalls of “A” brought us to what we called, naturally enough, “C.” When tests began, first in the lab, then on animals, it seemed to be working. Of course, no one breathed that sigh of relief until human test subjects took it without dying.
“Yes, this may be it,” said Ted calmly, not being one to get excited prematurely. “The first returns seem to be within acceptable levels.”
“You mean no one has died yet?” I asked, standing beside Ted looking over his shoulder at the results.
“Precisely!” said Ted. “Of course, we're still doing in-house lab tests.”
We both scanned the reports in silence.
“You up for a coffee?” I asked, once the report was fully digested.
“Yes, I'm ready for a coffee,” replied Ted, putting the report down and turning his attention to more worldly things.
The coffee bar was a long walk from the lab on purpose. We wouldn't want anything falling into the coffee, now would we?
“How's things?” I ventured.
“Things?” replied Ted.
“Yeah, you know, Alice, the kids, life in general.”
“Great! Couldn't be better. Alice is going to start photography classes now that both the kids are in school. They're doing great, seem to get on well in the school environment. All in all, life is good. The only cloud on the horizon is the Luna-alphabet problem.”
“Well, I'm glad things are good at home.” I was, in fact, glad to hear it. Of course, that meant that my dream was totally a projection of my own problems, but that was expected.
“And how are you, Phil. Adjusting OK?” asked Ted.
“As well as can be expected, but I could sure use a bonus.” Carol was financially draining me dry. She must have gotten advice from every divorced friend and sister she had. Carol had three divorced sisters, all full of spite and advice.
“The failures were costly. Some of those test subjects had relatives who want to be compensated. I doubt there will be a bonus,” Ted said, wincing at his coffee.
“They were homeless volunteers – paid volunteers who signed wavers. Any family they had abandoned them years ago. How can they expect compensation?”
“That's the way the world works. People smell money and the third-cousin twice-removed-that-never-got-invited-to-Thanksgiving-dinner suddenly becomes a terrible loss to the family.”
Ted and I stood there, looking into our coffees and pondering the ways of the world.
Episode 2
Horns woke me. I was toppled over onto the couch; my neck and back were stiff. I got up and went into the bathroom, stubbing a toe on the way.
Standing in front of the mirror as the florescent bulb flickered to life, I looked myself over. 'Gees! I look terrible. No wonder Carol left. No, that wasn't it,' I told myself, starting my daily routine, going through the steps as if it mattered. 'It was the fights, the long hours, the second drink, then the third just to tune out the day. Then a fourth to tune out Carol, screaming how I promised her more.' I sighed deeply, picked up a razor and looked at it. 'Not much chance of me cutting myself badly enough to do any good. Might as well just shave.'
An hour later I pulled into the lot at Lunadyne, parking far away from the entrance, hoping no one would see me in a car I ordinarily would have traded two years earlier. The back stairs were rarely used and even more rarely swept; they had become my 'main entrance' so as not to be detected by co-workers I wanted to avoid. Only Ted was in the lab as I opened the door.
“Hi Ted,” I cheerily tossed over to him, already in his white coat and looking over the results of yesterday's tests.
“Hi Phil,” Ted said without looking up. “C might be the one. C seems to be testing like we hoped Luna-A and B would. If these preliminary results keep up we may have something.”
“Glad to hear it. That'll take some heat off.” I said as I busied myself with some items on the desk, trying to get up some excitement for the work. Ted nodded solemnly.
There hadn't been a lot of enthusiasm of late. Word came down that Lunaprex was falling off, people were starting to think of it as the 'old way' to handle depression. “Other brands are touting new cures to new stresses of life,” said the people upstairs in the rarefied air of the board room, “the public wants breakthroughs – Lunaprex is something they already knew about; It's yesterday's news!”
Luna-A, as we called it until Marketing could come up with a catchy name, was the answer. Fewer side effects and a stronger internal formula with a thinner, faster-acting coating made Luna-A a leading contender for the top slot in the anti-depressant race. “A” removed the highs and lows of life leaving a gray middle ground where nothing was very good, but nothing was very bad. It was like whiskey-and-water in a capsule.
There was only one problem with “A”; the subjects died. We couldn't tell what it was that made “A” deadly, because every autopsy result was different, thought the results were the same. After a dose of Luna-A, the subjects would convulse wildly and eventually beat themselves to death. It was ugly and very disturbing to watch. It was a wonder I didn't have nightmares about that.
Luna-B was much better. There were no fits, no convulsions, no beating of oneself to death. It was a breakthrough. “B” was testing well in the lab, then went to the animals where it tested well, then to human tests where one of the subjects simply dropped his head into his mashed potatoes. We went back to the lab.
We found what was causing it this time. One of the masking ingredients interacted badly with common foods, resulting in death. You could take Luna-B safely, you just couldn't eat. It was a disaster. Pressure was on from the board room upstairs to come up with a safe product.
Reformulation of “B”, avoiding the pitfalls of “A” brought us to what we called, naturally enough, “C.” When tests began, first in the lab, then on animals, it seemed to be working. Of course, no one breathed that sigh of relief until human test subjects took it without dying.
“Yes, this may be it,” said Ted calmly, not being one to get excited prematurely. “The first returns seem to be within acceptable levels.”
“You mean no one has died yet?” I asked, standing beside Ted looking over his shoulder at the results.
“Precisely!” said Ted. “Of course, we're still doing in-house lab tests.”
We both scanned the reports in silence.
“You up for a coffee?” I asked, once the report was fully digested.
“Yes, I'm ready for a coffee,” replied Ted, putting the report down and turning his attention to more worldly things.
The coffee bar was a long walk from the lab on purpose. We wouldn't want anything falling into the coffee, now would we?
“How's things?” I ventured.
“Things?” replied Ted.
“Yeah, you know, Alice, the kids, life in general.”
“Great! Couldn't be better. Alice is going to start photography classes now that both the kids are in school. They're doing great, seem to get on well in the school environment. All in all, life is good. The only cloud on the horizon is the Luna-alphabet problem.”
“Well, I'm glad things are good at home.” I was, in fact, glad to hear it. Of course, that meant that my dream was totally a projection of my own problems, but that was expected.
“And how are you, Phil. Adjusting OK?” asked Ted.
“As well as can be expected, but I could sure use a bonus.” Carol was financially draining me dry. She must have gotten advice from every divorced friend and sister she had. Carol had three divorced sisters, all full of spite and advice.
“The failures were costly. Some of those test subjects had relatives who want to be compensated. I doubt there will be a bonus,” Ted said, wincing at his coffee.
“They were homeless volunteers – paid volunteers who signed wavers. Any family they had abandoned them years ago. How can they expect compensation?”
“That's the way the world works. People smell money and the third-cousin twice-removed-that-never-got-invited-to-Thanksgiving-dinner suddenly becomes a terrible loss to the family.”
Ted and I stood there, looking into our coffees and pondering the ways of the world.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Summer Short Stories
Here, from my collection of short stories, Murder at Thompson Bog, is the first installment - updated weekly.
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Luna Nightmares
Episode 1
It began with a nightmare; it was one I couldn't shake. I could see Ted in his house, the house I had been to several times before, the house I used to live next to back when we carpooled to Lunadyne Corp.
In the nightmare, Ted is sitting in his kitchen looking at a piece of paper. It's white with lines, torn from a pad like the ones at work. A corner is torn crooked, as if ripped too quickly from the pad. The words are large and in block letters. Ted is crying. He picks up his drink and tosses it back, placing the empty glass back on the counter. Ted then walks back into the dining room where his wife, Alice, and two kids, Tyler and Spencer, are at the table with their heads tilted down, eyes open and staring at nothing, arms limp and spilled glasses ignored. Ted is crying and touches Alice's hand. He places the note on the table next to her and reels to the side, falling to the floor.
That was when I woke up, sweating and shaking. The clock said 4:13. The darkness outside confirmed that dawn had not yet broken. There were still voices coming from the 24-hour convenience store at the corner. Somewhere a siren grew louder, then stopped. I could hear a television through the walls. I sat up, turning and groping for a glass of water. It was empty. I sat on the side of the bed, trying to wake up enough to stand and get more water.
The dream haunted me even awake. Ted had killed his wife and his two beautiful kids. Tyler was in little league and king of third base. Spencer was a ballerina, precious even with a tooth missing. I smiled to think of them. Then shuddered to think that he killed them – only in my dream, of course, but still.
The siren picked up again. A car passed and lights danced across the dingy ceiling. I struggled to my feet and took the glass into the kitchen.
'What in the world could it mean, that dream?' I thought to myself. 'Ted loves his family.'
Who wouldn't? Alice was great! I should have done so well! When Carol and I were fighting over the house and other possessions I would sometimes look at Alice and wish I had met her instead.
Carol sold the house and everything in it, moved back to Omaha and that was that. Keeping her in the manner to which she had become accustomed was keeping me in a cheap apartment on the wrong side of the tracks. At least we had no kids to squabble over, but if I had met Alice and we had Tyler and Spencer, I think I would've been a happy man.
'So why would I dream that Ted killed them?' I leaned against the sink, turned the faucet and let the water run – it was still warm. The noise from outside the open window, a mix of sirens, dogs barking, drunks cursing and cars passing, even at four-something in the morning, seemed a fitting sound track for my life. What a mess I had made of it. And now I was having nightmares in which my best friend kills his family and then himself.
'But Ted is happy,' I thought, standing straight again. I held the glass under the spigot, filling it to the top. 'He has a good job – stressful, but still good. He's one of the top chemists at Lunadyne, one of the men who came up with Lunaprex, the leading anti-depressant on the market. He has a great life – there is no reason why he should do such a thing. So that's it.' I end the conversation in my head with the only answer, 'It's not Ted, it's me. I am reflecting my own disheveled life onto him in my dreams and in the process scaring myself silly. Am I going crazy? Is this the first sign of dementia?'
I drank the entire glass of water and held the empty glass under the still running spigot. I let the water run over onto my hand. It felt good. I wondered, was I drinking too much or too little lately. 'I only had a couple of drinks last night: whiskey and water, not large. Maybe I should go to three. Maybe I should go on the wagon. Either way, something has to change.'
The lights of passing cars played across the ceiling and wall as I walked to the couch. When the glass was empty, I put it on the table and stared into space.
(More next week)
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Luna Nightmares
Episode 1
It began with a nightmare; it was one I couldn't shake. I could see Ted in his house, the house I had been to several times before, the house I used to live next to back when we carpooled to Lunadyne Corp.
In the nightmare, Ted is sitting in his kitchen looking at a piece of paper. It's white with lines, torn from a pad like the ones at work. A corner is torn crooked, as if ripped too quickly from the pad. The words are large and in block letters. Ted is crying. He picks up his drink and tosses it back, placing the empty glass back on the counter. Ted then walks back into the dining room where his wife, Alice, and two kids, Tyler and Spencer, are at the table with their heads tilted down, eyes open and staring at nothing, arms limp and spilled glasses ignored. Ted is crying and touches Alice's hand. He places the note on the table next to her and reels to the side, falling to the floor.
That was when I woke up, sweating and shaking. The clock said 4:13. The darkness outside confirmed that dawn had not yet broken. There were still voices coming from the 24-hour convenience store at the corner. Somewhere a siren grew louder, then stopped. I could hear a television through the walls. I sat up, turning and groping for a glass of water. It was empty. I sat on the side of the bed, trying to wake up enough to stand and get more water.
The dream haunted me even awake. Ted had killed his wife and his two beautiful kids. Tyler was in little league and king of third base. Spencer was a ballerina, precious even with a tooth missing. I smiled to think of them. Then shuddered to think that he killed them – only in my dream, of course, but still.
The siren picked up again. A car passed and lights danced across the dingy ceiling. I struggled to my feet and took the glass into the kitchen.
'What in the world could it mean, that dream?' I thought to myself. 'Ted loves his family.'
Who wouldn't? Alice was great! I should have done so well! When Carol and I were fighting over the house and other possessions I would sometimes look at Alice and wish I had met her instead.
Carol sold the house and everything in it, moved back to Omaha and that was that. Keeping her in the manner to which she had become accustomed was keeping me in a cheap apartment on the wrong side of the tracks. At least we had no kids to squabble over, but if I had met Alice and we had Tyler and Spencer, I think I would've been a happy man.
'So why would I dream that Ted killed them?' I leaned against the sink, turned the faucet and let the water run – it was still warm. The noise from outside the open window, a mix of sirens, dogs barking, drunks cursing and cars passing, even at four-something in the morning, seemed a fitting sound track for my life. What a mess I had made of it. And now I was having nightmares in which my best friend kills his family and then himself.
'But Ted is happy,' I thought, standing straight again. I held the glass under the spigot, filling it to the top. 'He has a good job – stressful, but still good. He's one of the top chemists at Lunadyne, one of the men who came up with Lunaprex, the leading anti-depressant on the market. He has a great life – there is no reason why he should do such a thing. So that's it.' I end the conversation in my head with the only answer, 'It's not Ted, it's me. I am reflecting my own disheveled life onto him in my dreams and in the process scaring myself silly. Am I going crazy? Is this the first sign of dementia?'
I drank the entire glass of water and held the empty glass under the still running spigot. I let the water run over onto my hand. It felt good. I wondered, was I drinking too much or too little lately. 'I only had a couple of drinks last night: whiskey and water, not large. Maybe I should go to three. Maybe I should go on the wagon. Either way, something has to change.'
The lights of passing cars played across the ceiling and wall as I walked to the couch. When the glass was empty, I put it on the table and stared into space.
(More next week)
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sorry, I've been distracted
Please accept my apology for being so remiss, I have been distracted by earning a living and expanding my knowledge and abilities to do so. Not easy, but not hard either. It's what has to happen to survive these times.
I heard it again this week: The economy's bad! And it wasn't on Jay Leno's show. It wasn't a joke. It was a reason to sit back and mope.
Look, my income got cut in half, due to the increased price of gas. But when gas came down, the budgets of the places I play didn't go back up, so my income stayed cut in half. Several places I used to play have dropped entertainment altogether, because it's one of the first things to go when “the economy's bad.”
I've seen it before. Every recession (depression, downturn, pot-hole) if preceded by someone getting on the news and saying, “Money's tight and people are scared.” And sure enough, money gets tight and people get scared. This always happens for a reason and the reason, I'd bet my bottom half-dollar, is so someone can make more money. If a bank goes under, someone buys it for a song and makes a lot of money on it. So how do you buy a bank for a song? Make it go under. The economy is in trouble because someone wants it that way to make a bundle – not worrying about the people who will go under in the meantime.
My last novel was about this. In Deadly Research, (http://tinyurl.com/cdhcab or as a Kindle at http://tinyurl.com/cbpfjp ), Jack Richmond discovers that the news is being manipulated so that a handful of people will benefit from every turn, while millions suffer. Of course, they try to kill him, but if they didn't it wouldn't be an exciting book, would it.
The point is, I wrote a book and I'm writing another. I've learned about eBooks and how to handle files and format a novel for the new readers out there. I am promoting that to people and am getting a response. Good things are happening, because I am learning and promoting.
So turn that frown upside-down and sing along with me: Early to bed, early to rise, work like blazes and advertise.
I heard it again this week: The economy's bad! And it wasn't on Jay Leno's show. It wasn't a joke. It was a reason to sit back and mope.
Look, my income got cut in half, due to the increased price of gas. But when gas came down, the budgets of the places I play didn't go back up, so my income stayed cut in half. Several places I used to play have dropped entertainment altogether, because it's one of the first things to go when “the economy's bad.”
I've seen it before. Every recession (depression, downturn, pot-hole) if preceded by someone getting on the news and saying, “Money's tight and people are scared.” And sure enough, money gets tight and people get scared. This always happens for a reason and the reason, I'd bet my bottom half-dollar, is so someone can make more money. If a bank goes under, someone buys it for a song and makes a lot of money on it. So how do you buy a bank for a song? Make it go under. The economy is in trouble because someone wants it that way to make a bundle – not worrying about the people who will go under in the meantime.
My last novel was about this. In Deadly Research, (http://tinyurl.com/cdhcab or as a Kindle at http://tinyurl.com/cbpfjp ), Jack Richmond discovers that the news is being manipulated so that a handful of people will benefit from every turn, while millions suffer. Of course, they try to kill him, but if they didn't it wouldn't be an exciting book, would it.
The point is, I wrote a book and I'm writing another. I've learned about eBooks and how to handle files and format a novel for the new readers out there. I am promoting that to people and am getting a response. Good things are happening, because I am learning and promoting.
So turn that frown upside-down and sing along with me: Early to bed, early to rise, work like blazes and advertise.
Monday, October 13, 2008
My Inner Poobah!
As I walk along the path of life, I pick some things up and drop some things off. If I only picked things up, soon my pockets and arms would be full of crap. Already there's too much stuff, too many things, but that is another discussion; I speak here of intangibles.
The Gulf Rim Cafe songwriters' showcase that I picked up in June, I recently left by the side of the road. I did my final show there last Saturday, happy to share the stage with Leah and Rupert (Thank you!) and just as happy to end off at a little past ten, as the place was empty.
So many friends says, "When are you playing? I want to come and see you!" On show night, there is one or two familiar faces, one for sure because my wife has to show up, I expect it.
Last Sunday, I played at the Carrboro Music Festival. 12 or so stages, entertainers most of the day, people walking around with guitar cases on a hot day, eating food they wouldn't ordinarily be eating, catching their fav artists, or missing them. I was reminded of the Newport Folk Festival in days of Yore. I like the feel of music festivals.
But a funny thing happened. At the Newport Folk Festival, my guitar was broken and my money stolen, landing me home broke and late for the job I lost as a result. I arrived just before I had to play at the Carrboro festival, because I had a gig. So running on time, in danger of being late, I grabbed my guitar and sought the quickest way to the stage. After playing, catching Rupert Wates and Stacey, eating at the Armadillo Grill and walking back to the truck, I discovered that I had not only left my Explorer Sport unlocked, but had left the driver's side door wide open. My amp, mic stand, mic and cords, my wallet with all the money I had in the world ($14) were all inside the truck and all were intact. Apparently, you can still leave your door open in North Carolina.
For my own set, I sang funny songs, songs to evoke a smile, laugh, guffaugh or hysterical fit (hopefully). I have decided that topical songs with a sense of humor, or just songs with a sense of humor, are my calling. I don't write deep and meaningful love songs, songs of conscience or longing. I am no John Prine, Elton John or Jimmy Web. I'm certainly not Jacques Brel, Stephen Sondheim or David Pomeranz. But then, they aren't me either. Would Jack, Steve or Dave write "When Turkey's Mate, They Think of Swans?" Would John, Elton or Jim write "She Lives a Tank Away?" Doubtful.
My latest is called, "I'm Moving to Wall Street" and is topical and doomed to be obsolete within a few weeks. I'll be lucky to get it sung at an open mic or two before it is old news. Like "The Country Needs a Little Spare Change" as soon as the political climate changes, the song will be as current as last Sunday's paper.
But that's the way the ol' cookie crumbles. The 50 or so songs I wrote for the Religious Freedom Crusade in the mid-80s did their job, but are now lost to the ages, not even found at garage sales or flea markets. I am an artist in search of my inner poobah these days, and my inner poobah seems to be reflected in songs with a message that make you smile. Hopefully you will remember them for a minute and smile. Hopefully, you will think for a minute about the message and consider that there could be another viewpoint. And then, like dust in the wind, it will be gone, replaced by whatever other fluff enters your field of vision or range of hearing.
This is the stuff of life.
The Gulf Rim Cafe songwriters' showcase that I picked up in June, I recently left by the side of the road. I did my final show there last Saturday, happy to share the stage with Leah and Rupert (Thank you!) and just as happy to end off at a little past ten, as the place was empty.
So many friends says, "When are you playing? I want to come and see you!" On show night, there is one or two familiar faces, one for sure because my wife has to show up, I expect it.
Last Sunday, I played at the Carrboro Music Festival. 12 or so stages, entertainers most of the day, people walking around with guitar cases on a hot day, eating food they wouldn't ordinarily be eating, catching their fav artists, or missing them. I was reminded of the Newport Folk Festival in days of Yore. I like the feel of music festivals.
But a funny thing happened. At the Newport Folk Festival, my guitar was broken and my money stolen, landing me home broke and late for the job I lost as a result. I arrived just before I had to play at the Carrboro festival, because I had a gig. So running on time, in danger of being late, I grabbed my guitar and sought the quickest way to the stage. After playing, catching Rupert Wates and Stacey, eating at the Armadillo Grill and walking back to the truck, I discovered that I had not only left my Explorer Sport unlocked, but had left the driver's side door wide open. My amp, mic stand, mic and cords, my wallet with all the money I had in the world ($14) were all inside the truck and all were intact. Apparently, you can still leave your door open in North Carolina.
For my own set, I sang funny songs, songs to evoke a smile, laugh, guffaugh or hysterical fit (hopefully). I have decided that topical songs with a sense of humor, or just songs with a sense of humor, are my calling. I don't write deep and meaningful love songs, songs of conscience or longing. I am no John Prine, Elton John or Jimmy Web. I'm certainly not Jacques Brel, Stephen Sondheim or David Pomeranz. But then, they aren't me either. Would Jack, Steve or Dave write "When Turkey's Mate, They Think of Swans?" Would John, Elton or Jim write "She Lives a Tank Away?" Doubtful.
My latest is called, "I'm Moving to Wall Street" and is topical and doomed to be obsolete within a few weeks. I'll be lucky to get it sung at an open mic or two before it is old news. Like "The Country Needs a Little Spare Change" as soon as the political climate changes, the song will be as current as last Sunday's paper.
But that's the way the ol' cookie crumbles. The 50 or so songs I wrote for the Religious Freedom Crusade in the mid-80s did their job, but are now lost to the ages, not even found at garage sales or flea markets. I am an artist in search of my inner poobah these days, and my inner poobah seems to be reflected in songs with a message that make you smile. Hopefully you will remember them for a minute and smile. Hopefully, you will think for a minute about the message and consider that there could be another viewpoint. And then, like dust in the wind, it will be gone, replaced by whatever other fluff enters your field of vision or range of hearing.
This is the stuff of life.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
A foray into Science Fiction
A writer is a creator of “What If.” Even a non-fiction author says, “What if people actually got this message?” A fiction writer makes worlds that do not actually exist, even if they look a lot like where we currently live. A Sci-Fi author makes his own world and you can visit.
Recently, I have been pleased to have been honored twice by the Writers of the Future contest. My stories, “Selfers” and “Smoking Bedpan” (available on request) have won Honorable Mention. The story I have in to them now might or might not get such notice, but it is something I have wanted to write for a long time, “Team Spirits.” If you want to read it, send me a note.
But it is my 473 page novel that has me excited, for though it was not picked up by any major publishers, “The Trasaron Chronicles” is an accomplishment I am proud of. It began as a single story about a fellow who finds himself in a particular situation, one that affects the whole world. But then another story line occurred to me and I wrote that. Then a third, to me just as compelling. I considered putting out three stories all about the same event, but decided instead to intertwine the three stories into one book. If I had included all of the songs written for the story line, the book would have been considerably longer, but I decided they weren't necessary to the story line. If the book gets any die-hard fans, the songbook is available.
You can see the book and description at www.midnightwhistler.com. Exciting times!
Recently, I have been pleased to have been honored twice by the Writers of the Future contest. My stories, “Selfers” and “Smoking Bedpan” (available on request) have won Honorable Mention. The story I have in to them now might or might not get such notice, but it is something I have wanted to write for a long time, “Team Spirits.” If you want to read it, send me a note.
But it is my 473 page novel that has me excited, for though it was not picked up by any major publishers, “The Trasaron Chronicles” is an accomplishment I am proud of. It began as a single story about a fellow who finds himself in a particular situation, one that affects the whole world. But then another story line occurred to me and I wrote that. Then a third, to me just as compelling. I considered putting out three stories all about the same event, but decided instead to intertwine the three stories into one book. If I had included all of the songs written for the story line, the book would have been considerably longer, but I decided they weren't necessary to the story line. If the book gets any die-hard fans, the songbook is available.
You can see the book and description at www.midnightwhistler.com. Exciting times!
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