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.

Kinda Bummed

 Today, I have been waking up in my usual, day-off routine of coffee, cigarettes, mindlessly colorful tv and following links on Blogspot. I found a number of really cool blogs about stuff I like, comics, animation, pin-ups ... relishing in my inner geek.

From Steve Gaines' retro cartoon blog, I found a link to this site:

http://gobukan.blogspot.com/

It's title? Blah, Blah, Blog.

Damn!

I honestly had no idea that this site existed before about ten minutes ago!

I feel like a jerk.

I really don't want anyone to think I nabbed this guys title. It's a really cool blog, way cooler than my humble, little sprout of a blog.

I do recommend you check out this blog. I'm now a follower. Really, very cool stuff.

But what should I do? Should I change my title? I'm still not truly in love with it. I ruminated for a long time, but I've never been really satisfied.

On the other hand, it's just a freakin' blog title. In the Grand Scheme it's not really very important, is it?

damn

Okay, enough with the inner conflict. Resolve it later. I need another cup of coffee.

Which holiday is this again?

I work in retail. Hardware, to be specific. I think, as far as retail work goes, hardware has to be about the best. We carry products that people actually need. We get fewer browsers than other kinds of retail. People go to the hardware store because they have a need for something, not just trying to satisfy that innate human desire for something new and shiny.

This time of year, I try to end every encounter with a customer with "Happy Holidays." I do this for a few reasons. I do want people to enjoy this season as best as possible, considering it's cold as hell and dark for far too long every day. Winter is not good for people. It makes us cranky and depressed. It's obvious to me why every culture has some kind of celebration in the dead of winter. People need some cheering up this time of year.

Another reason for the "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" should be blindingly obvious; Christmas, Hanakkuh and Kwanza all take place in December. I can't, as a retail associate, risk putting one holiday above another. With the exception of Kwanza, I can't really tell who might be a Jew and who might be a Christian. No big deal, right? People know this, right?

Then why do I still get customers who reply with "You too." Quickly followed with "Merry Christmas?" Immediatly, I am forced to think of that living compost heap that calls itself Bill O'Reilly and his imaginary "War on Christmas." When this happens, I wish I had a really good retort that I can state my objection to the seemingly endless co-opting of everything by Christians, without being offensive. I want to say. "I'm not Christian" or "Io, Saturnalia" or "may the sun return after the Solstice." Something to let these white-bread suburbanites know that Jesus isn't the only religion out there, regardless of what Saul of Tarses has to say about it.

It bothers me, because Christmas really has become an insanely commercial entity in America, stuffed seam-rippingly full of all sorts of disparate imagery that has nothing to do with the birth of Jesus. It bothers me because nearly everyone talks about the "true meaning of Christmas" when they can't nail down what that really is.

But you sure as hell better not take Christ out of the mix.

Sometime, I wish I had a little Star of David pin to wear. Something barely noticed until the whole holiday/christmas thing comes up. Maybe it will stop them in their tracks. Maybe it might make them ... dare I hope, actually have to think about this topic. I won't though, because I'm not a Jew, and that would be demeaning.

Those who know me know that I am not a Christian. I don't have a problem with Jesus, I drank the Kool-Aid, but it didn't take. I have some issues with Christians, however. I agree with Ghandi (or was it the Dalai Lama?), when asked what he thought of  Christianity, he replied, "It sounds like a good idea. Someone should try it."

Maybe it's because northern European white people adopted it, and they are conquerors and despoilers by nature. Maybe it's the conversion/redemption factor of Christianity itself that is the root cause. I don't know, but the effect has been that Christians, for the last 2000 years, have rolled over other cultures with all the grace and tolerance of Army ants on the move. That which stands in their way will be consumed, absorbed or minimalized into extinction.

Which brings me to the twenty-first century and our fictional "War on Christmas." There is no such war, but there are those of us who are tired of having someone else's religion crammed down our throats. We don't necessarily want some manger scene, with a blonde Mary, and all white nativity cast (except for that one token black Maji) in our city holiday display. In short, THIS HOLIDAY IS NOT THE SOLE EXCLUSIVE PROPERTY OF WHITE CHRISTIANS! Get over it, you ain't the only game in town.

I guess the only real answer lies within each individual. Discover for yourself what this holiday means. Create your own definition of the "True Meaning of Christmas." I suggest you begin by reading up about Saturnalia on Wikipedia. Perhaps re-reading Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol." It's a fine, inspirational story intended to get the reader to consider the less-than-humane aspects of their own lives.  O. Henry's "Gift of the Magi" is a wonderfully ironic take on gift giving.

As for the rest of the tripe and trappings, you can have it. For me, Christmas is a gauntlet to run. An obstacle-course of bad weather, trite and cloying songs and the annual anxiety of gift giving on a dental floss budget. Just hunker down, get through the cold, unyielding darkness and hang in there until Spring returns.

While I'm doing that, in the immortal words of Rodney King, "Can't we all just get along?"

Chapter one draft

“Crystalhawk laughed…” began Jori, reading from a thick, leather bound book.

“Don’t most of the old Crystalhawk tales begin with ‘Crystalhawk laughed.” Is that he ever did? Laugh?” snapped Phineas Port, who liked to be called Fin. He was having trouble hiding his annoyance about his friend’s choice of reading material.

“If you’re not going to show respect for the classic adventure tales…” Jori began scolding Fin.

“True adventure tales!” interjected their quiet friend Ename.

“Oh you too now, Ename?” Fin gave her a slow shake of his head, concealing a slight grin.

“Well, everyone says they’re true…” she trailed off.

Fin, and his best friends Jori Zeopper and Ename Jolest had been shouldering their way through the morning crowds. This had been an ongoing argument with them of late. Jori had recently become enchanted by the old Crystalhawk adventure stories. This was a sore point to Fin, but he would not tell his friends the reason for his annoyance.

In fact, their friend Fin had a secret. His real name was Phineas Portamento Crystalhawk, heir to the House Crystalhawk fortune and trading empire. He was the next Lord of one of the most influential Houses in the world. He was raised on the old tales of his infamous ancestor, the dashing thief, the stealer of hearts and gemstones, the rogue of flashing steel and narrow escapes. Fin knew them all; he knew which were true and which were fantasy, as well as the lives of the entire line of House Crystalhawk. The biographies, adventures and conquests of his entire line of ancestors had been a large bulk of his studies as a child. The family saga was the most important part of his early education. First nannies, then tutors had instructed him on his lineage every day of his young life. Since there had been a lot of ancestors, and since his most notable First Ancestor had so many tales, Fin had no taste for the popularized Crystalhawk tales.

To Fin, his ancestor wasn’t the loveable rogue of swashbuckling adventure, he was just the first in a very long line of people Fin wasn’t a part of, didn’t want to know and would never be. Fin couldn’t see himself as an adventurer, a thief, an alchemist or a canny trader. He wasn’t any one thing. He liked thinking that he couldn’t be forced into one category or another. He had varied interests, though none of them to any real depth or expertise. What he wasn’t, and never wanted to be was the latest in a very long line of aristocratic rogues and greedy, power-mad merchant emperors.

At the moment, Fin was annoyed that his best friends had become enthralled by the stories of the First Crystalhawk, but he was more annoyed that his family was making even more money with the publication of the old stories. Most of them weren’t true, and the stories that were based in fact were far from accurate and polished up for dramatic effect. The old tales had become so popular, especially with the University age crowd, that there were now rumors of a radio series based on his ancestor. None of this sat well with Fin. Even the symbol of House Crystalhawk was chased in gold on the spine of Jori’s book. It seemed that his family was inescapable.

Fin wondered silently if there were anywhere in the world that hadn’t heard of House Crystalhawk? Are there any people who don’t know anything about the adventures of his greatest ancestor or the generations of noteworthy successors? Could such a place exist, and could he find it if it did? Could Phineas Portamento Crystalhawk disappear, leaving only Fin Port, nobody? Could Fin live somewhere for the rest of his life and never hear the word Crystalhawk again?

Ename pulled him from his thoughts with her typical, gentle “ahem.”

The three stopped in Square of Madame Dree. Jori was still intently reading from his book. He looked up only when Fin tapped his shoulder.

“I have to do some shopping,” Ename gently began while pushing her glasses further up her tiny nose. Her slightly droopy blue eyes were like two windows open on a summer sky. She brushed back a lock of her wavy, lavender hair. “Why don’t we meet up at the New Talisman Café at about… uh, maybe three?”

“Three? Ummm, okay.” Managed Jori, falling back into his book.

“Three’s fine, Ename, see you then. First one to arrive gets the seats, last one buys!” said Fin.

As Fin watched her slip through the morning crowd, he thought, “Why does she always make me think of a unicorn?” Without warning, Fin grabbed his friend by the shoulder of his blue coat; pulling him back he hissed, “Watch out, Jori.”

Jori, snapped back to reality, looked up to see he was about to be overrun by a small group of Steam Alchemists. As the group strode through the crowd, people pulled back to give them room to pass. There were five total, four were dressed in their usual tan, one-piece work suits. One of those carried an oversized wrench, balanced on one shoulder. All wore the dragonhead symbol of the Steam Guild on shoulder patches. Fin could see that it appeared to be the escort of a Guild Ambassador. The ambassador was an older gentleman, with his gray, receding hair pulled straight back and tied. He wore an elaborate blue overcoat, worked with gold, silver and some small gemstones glittered at his sleeves. One hand held the head of an obviously expensive walking stick, topped with a silver dragonhead. No wonder people were giving them room.

“I am always impressed, and a little surprised that the people give the Guilds such respect.” Said Jori.

“Not so surprising, really,” began Fin. After all, the Alchemist Guilds have done so much to make everyone’s lives better; provided necessary technology, establishing and maintaining the major trade routes, and making peace for about a thousand years…”

“I studied the histories of the Alchemical Guilds too,” muttered Jori. “But, it’s still pretty impressive. All that respect…uh, thanks for saving me, by the way. I half-believe they would have trod me down.”

“Look,” interjected Fin, “I’m going to see a person or two before we meet up with Ename. Don’t forget, the New Talisman at three.” He called over his shoulder at his friend. “More than friend,” Fin thought. “more like sidekick.” Since they both entered University, and since graduation they were rarely apart. Fin felt a tiny pang of guilt at being relieved to be away from Jori and Ename for a few hours. All this Crystalhawk stuff must be getting to him.

“And Jori,” Fin called to him “Don’t follow any skirts!”

As Fin turned back, he heard over his shoulder, “Ambassador Franklin! It is an truly an honor that you and your entourage should choose to visit our humble …” but the rest was lost in the ambient sounds of a city square on a warm and sunny late-morning.

 

Of course, this is original, copywritten material, dated 2009, and is owned by the author. The characters depicted represent no actual persons, and any resemblance is purely coincidental.