You gotta love Firefighters.

Today's most controversial and absolutely outrageous news story involves a Florida minister with a room temperature IQ and a bad mustache. 

Caught up in his own overinflated sense of self-importance, Terry Jones (I will NOT use the title Reverend as there is nothing reverent about this mouth-breather) is the preacher of a tiny and unimportant ultra-right-wing Christian church in Gainesville, Florida called, ironically, the Dove World Outreach Center, is getting a lot of media attention by announcing his intention to carry on with a bonfire book burning of the Quran on September 11.

It's a sad fact of American existence that our Constitutionally guaranteed freedom of expression includes allowing stupid expressions to have the same weight as intelligent and wise ones.

In spite of the fact that many, many voices have taken up the call to give up this proposed idiotic and incendiary (intentional pun) event. In spite of the many appeals to reason, to decency, to tolerance, this moron Christian minister seems to think that his God wants him to intentionally provoke angry reactions from Muslims.

Yeah. Right. God wants you to burn books. Is there anyone out there with any education at all who thinks this is a good idea? I just can't imagine it, and I can imagine a lot. More than many people. I'm not one of the faithful of anyone's religion, but I don't think it's a good idea to burn the Bible or the Torah. I don't think it's a good idea to burn Steven King either. I don't like to read Steven King, but I don't think his work needs to be burned.

Jones has insisted that he will carry on with the planned Quran burning.

Enter the Interim Fire Chief, Gene Prince. A bonfire is illegal in Gainesville, and books are considered hazardous waste. The ink, it seems, is not healthy to breathe when burned. The Chief has stated he will not allow the burning to happen.

Gotta love those firefighters. Go get 'em boys.

Another story idea blooms.

One of my biggest personal failings is finishing a project before the idea for a new one strikes.

Since the story of Fin Port and his friends has stalled for now, I submit an excerpt from a new story. This one's a vampire story, but things are a little different for vampires in my universe.

As always, polite critique is greatly appreciated. Please allow me to introduce you to Alec Sangrey, vampire.

The Unlife and Times of Alec Sangrey

Even the neon lights hurt me now. It’s very hard to keep it together, shuffling down the sidewalk. I try to duck from shadow to shadow. I only manage to stumble.

When the Thirst is on you, your senses shatter. Everything is louder, any light breaks upon you like a tidal wave of broken glass. My mouth tastes like copper. It’s like sucking on pennies.

Being a vampire is not what you read about. It sucks, if you will pardon the pun. We’re not gods. We don’t have supernatural powers. We can’t control anyone’s mind. Hell, we can’t control our own minds. We can’t turn into bats and fly around. I really wish I could fly about now. My legs feel like tree stumps, my feet like cinder blocks. My insides roil as if snakes are fighting it out inside me, trying to consume each other.

Vampires are not given super strength, or the ability to climb walls. Not one of the supernatural abilities you may have read about are gifts of vampirism. Vampirism does not have any gifts.

It does, however, make vampires very vulnerable to light. Daylight kills us for good. It looks like a horrible way to go. I knew a female vampire once to simply walk out into the dawn. She didn’t say a word, just walked out into the horrible, keening daylight. There was no flash of sulphurous flame. No smoking and screaming. Sunlight kills a vampire from the inside out. She started shaking, then she fell and started convulsing. While I watched in terror, she levitated off the ground while the convulsions threw her around like a doll. She didn’t scream. She didn’t make a sound. She simply stared at me, her mouth open and her eyes insanely wide with fear. Almost as if she were begging me to grab her, to pull her to the safety of the doorway I was crouching in.  Finally, after an eternity, she fell to the ground and simply vanished. I scrambled as fast as I could to the darkest corner I could find and waited until night came again. I like to think the light took her soul to heaven. That it cleansed her, made her whole again and brought her to God.

Right now, I am trying to avoid finding out for myself. I can hear the sunrise. It’s about an hour off, but I can hear it like a choir of unholy angels riding a herd of mustangs beyond the horizon. The Thirst has got me so strung out and vulnerable, I want to vomit just from the smell of the sunshine coming. But there’s nothing in me to vomit, only the goddamn taste of copper, with just a touch of battery acid.

I stumble into a trio of young cowboy types. They reek of beer and cologne, tobacco and marijuana.

“I’m so-sorry.” I stutter, bending over and dry retching at their feet.

“Goddamn junkies.” Says one of them, “Don’t bother, he ain’t worth the effort.”

“Heh” I mumble to myself, “Probably the pot that mellowed them out enough to save me a beating.”

The urban cowboy didn’t know how close to correct he was. A vampire is nothing but a God damned junkie. That’s me, Alec Sangrey, junkie vampire.

To a vampire, human blood is a kind of super heroin. Whatever it is that gives someone the Thirst, once you have it, you’re never free of it. The Thirst makes human blood taste like cherry pudding and sex and heaven and rock & roll all rolled into one. It makes you wonderfully calm, completely at ease with the entire universe, God and all. It also makes a vampire very tired. It’s a magnificent high. But it can leave a vampire motionless. Unable to do anything but lay still and dream. And what wonderful dreams they are.

A lot of vampires have had the Dreams be their undoing. Some just lay there, oblivious to the passing of time and the night, to be caught by the sun next to their victim’s lifeless body. The vampire dies. The victim remains, and it’s another unsolved murder.

Smart vampires will have a lair, a safe house where they can quench their Thirst, then Dream in safety, far from the sunlight. There aren’t many smart vampires.

The bloodlust makes us stupid. It’s consuming. It gets harder to think clearly until nothing matters except making that next kill. Blood means peace, contentment, and lovely dreams.

And forget about fangs. Vampires don’t have fangs. It’s very difficult, I would imagine, for a vampire with the Thirst full on being able to actually hit a vein or artery. I’m sure I would butcher the job, and the prey would get away.

No, all vampires I have met (which haven’t been very many, we are both solitary and uncooperative) have a favorite blood letting tool. Ice-picks, scalpels and single-edged razor blades seem to be most popular, but a shard of glass, a credit card or even a nail have been known to have been used. I have a beautiful, antique stiletto. I pretend she once belonged to Lucrecia Borgia.

Also, I’m not sure if we are truly immortal. I don’t know how old I am. I don’t remember becoming a vampire, or the passing of time. I have no idea what year it is, nor how long I’m immobile when I’m Dreaming. When I’m feeling philosophical, which is usually in the time between waking from the Dreams and the onset of the Thirst, I always come to the conclusion that we can’t be immortal, by definition, because we’re already post-mortal. We’re corpses who just haven’t laid down to the final rest. I really hope that I won’t be a vampire forever. It’s Hell, it really is, inescapable, all-consuming damnation. 

This is a work of fiction and all characters are completely imaginary and represent no actual persons, living, dead or undead.

Drenched by a Wave of Nostalgia

Once upon a time, in the century past, I was forced to sell some personal items of value in order to pay my rent. Two vintage electric guitars and several dozen valuable comics.

-sigh-

Yesterday, I found this on eBay.

This is a 2007 release of my main guitar in my rocker days! It's an exact replica of the was my old SG Jr. looked when it was new. It wasn't new when I bought it for $200, but it had been treated nicely. It was the first real guitar I owned, and I made some changes that made it better. I replaced the stock trapeeze bridge with a Leo Quan Badass tunable bridge, and the old soap-bar pickup was replaced with a DiMarzio soap-bar humbucker in creme, and the old knobs gave way to gold barrel knobs.

The original tuning machines on my SG had been the open-gear, ultra cheapo ones Gibson used to offer, so I replaced them with nice chrome Schallers. I also replaced the strap pegs with Jim Dunlop Straplocks.

I bought mine when I was still in my late teens, in my first band Achilles. It was my main guitar in White Harlem, although I had bought a Stratocaster by that time, the SG was my main instrument. It was so light and easy to play. The 24.75" scale was perfect for my small hands and the mahogany neck and body had such a nice warm tone. I wish I had never sold it.

But now this one appears on eBay for $790 plus shipping!

I want it. I really want it. Even though I have a perfectly wonderful Carvin AE185 already, I still want it.

AIn't she pretty? Sweet, versatile and just about perfect. With all the pickup tonal options, Gina is all the guitar I should ever need.

But that's one of the curses of the guitar player. You always want more. I guess it's no different than anything else people geek about. You always want to collect more of the things you love. So the reasonable side of me says to be grateful for what I have. But the irrational side still wants to recapture that magic of my youth. Financially, I could swing it, but it would be a pretty hard hit and I just can't justify a luxury such as this right now.

But I really, really want this guitar.

A Very Welcome Early Spring.

It's Springtime here in the Twin Cities. It's an early one, too. An unusual one, since we had no blizzards at all during the state high school boys hockey tournament. For the first time in my memory, we had no, not one snowflake at all during the tournament last month. Or at all in March.

You can't tell me there's nothing to this global climate change.

However... we do have a nice spring at a time of year when other, warmer, states traditionally have a spring. We don't have to wait until May. The snow is all gone, I have been serenaded by cardinals every step of my daily walk to work. I have already seen two Blue Herons, on the same day, only minutes apart. The geese are back (stupid birds) and the ducks, seeking nesting spaces in our garden center again this year.

The weather is nice. I have a little cash in the bank account, thanks to our President's tax cuts for those of us making modest wages and my totally uncharacteristic filing of my taxes in early February.

I'm not running out of money before the next paycheck right now! This hasn't happened for too long a time. I ain't exactly flush, but I can eat better now. At least for awhile. I also really need to buy some shoes.

I encountered a sweet older couple, out for a walk one afternoon last week. As they got closer to me, I stepped off the sidewalk to let them have it to themselves, and the gentleman called out to me,
"Is that my favorite hardware store man?" Then he offered to shake my hand as we passed, which I gladly took. We wished each other happy afternoon and I walked the rest of the way home about six inches above the sidewalk. It feels so nice to be both recognized and appreciated.

Then yesterday, I met a new face at work. He was a big, blond guy (in Minnesota, imagine that!) named Don. It's not too surprising. We have been hiring quite a few new people for help with the garden center business boom coming our way. Nice guy, no big deal, just a new guy.

He was impressed at my customer service, I guess, because he made a point of out mentioning it to me, twice. When he said "I should take you with me." I guessed he must be a manager form another store, or a new manager in training. I quipped 'Where we goin'?"

He followed up quickly "I'd never take you from here." To which, I replied in my comfortable smartass mode "Oh, it would cost the owners a lot to get me to leave this store." Cause I don't have a car and I'm not riding the bus  for sub-par wages again, if I can help it. Not to be an assistant manager for what I know is too low a wage for the effort involved. Mm-mm, no-way.

The punchline is; Don is the District Manager. My boss' boss.

And I guess he was pretty damn impressed with me.

Wow. It's turning into a pretty good spring.  Early warmth, a little money in the bank and a job where I'm appreciated and middle-level management is impressed with me. Things are looking up.

And I have made a little more progress on the story. More on that later, when there's something worth posting.

I hope your spring is shaping up even better than mine. Thanks for reading.