IT WAS 131 YEARS AGO TODAY

June 25, 1876, is the day Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer perished along with some 210 men of Companies C, E, F, I, and L on the hills above the Little Big Horn River. Another 50 to 60 men died with Major Reno and Captain Benteen on Reno Hill, about four miles away. That battle has generated more debate, books, movies, and emotions than any other in U.S. history--perhaps world history, as well. Exactly what happened, and when, and for how long has fed speculations from armchair generals young and old, pro and con, and at all points of the compass. Was Custer an heroic figure who perished trying to enforce a policy set forward by greedy, unscrupulous politicians? If so, he wouldn't be the first. Or was he a glory-seeker trying to recapture some of the fame he'd enjoyed as a Civil War hero? Everyone has his own opinion and it's not my desire to either change or reinforce what you think. I do want to pay my respects to thoe who fought and died that day, on both sides. And so I do. "Garryowen in Glory!" "Hoka hey!"

There a couple of myths about that day I'd like to clear up. First off, it wasn't a massacre. The soldiers died in battle. Second, the 7th Cavalry wasn't destroyed. Of the 1250 officers and men authorized to fill the ranks of the 7th, about 260 died. The regiment was brought up to strength and has lasted in one form or another until this day. Custer did not kill himself. Nor was he killed by Rain-In-The-Face and have his heart cut out (RITF probably mutilated Tom Custer, George's brother). Sitting Bull did not participate in the fight. No white man survived the battle who fought with Custer's five troops. A recent article in WILD WEST says there was one, but it's buncombe.

Speaking of those who fought and died, my Uncle Gene passed away yesterday after a long bout of Parkinson's Disease. He was a WWII vet and worked for Uncle Sam for many years. This marks the end of an era in many ways. While my mother and her sisters are still alive, all the men from that generation (my father and uncles) are gone. A daunting prospect, to be sure, and the realization that one day I'll be one of the oldest family members bums me out a bit.

Catching Up is Hard to Do

Since my last visit here I've spent three weeks in Charleston, South Carolina, bought my younger daughter a car, and got the local paper to agree to do a story on my book.

Charleston was hot, the school I attended fairly easy, and the tourist attractions interesting. I didn't know, for example, that rice was a major cash crop in the Charleston area before the Civil War. However, it was such a rotten job to keep the paddies up that they couldn't get anyone to work them once the slaves were freed, so the industry died.

As a result of the school I'm qualified (pending a certification review) to be a ground loadmaster. That means I can do most of the jobs a regular Air Force loadmaster does. I was already qualified for some of them, but this class expands the envelope. What it doesn't expand is my paycheck. A letter to my congressman will address this issue forthwith. When some of us mentioned to the guy that started this APEX (Aerial Port Expeditor) program his response was, "Just be glad you've got a job." Hell, I was glad to have a job before they added more responsibility to it. And who the hell does he think he is, some coal mine owner in 1890? What an arrogant ass.

OJ skated, Bobby Blake may have skated, and Christian Brando got off easy, but Paris Hilton is doing hard time in the Crossbar Hilton and I can't help feel a sense of satisfaction. If I'd never heard of this vapid, self-centered, no-talent brat I wouldn't have cared about her at all, but the way she and the media have conspired to shove her useless life down our throats has made me wish she would simply dry up and bust. That goes for all those other celebrity media whores out there. Who needs them?

And remember my 2008 Presidential Slogan: ANYONE BUT HITLERY!

Another Thumb Up

Noted critic Jon Breen has this to say about LOVE, DEATH AND THE TOYMAN in the May 2007 issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine:

"Jack Lorentz, a Tacoma-based collectible toy dealer, is asked by an old lover to look into a mysterious death on the property of her husband's wealthy and influential family. The first novel from the longtime fanzine editor known as Cap'n Bob is a commendable job, including surprising variations on familiar hardboiled elements: the rocky romance, the dysfunctional rich, and the hero's loyal but somewhat unstable sidekick."

Now, if just 1% of EQMM's readers buy the book, I'll be happy as a clam.

I wonder when that element Jon refers to as the sidekick actually started. I'm guessing Robert B. Parker's Hawk was the first of any consequence, although I'm just pulling this off the top of my head. But Mike Hammer, Mike Shayne, Dan Turner, Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, etc. were loners. Nowadays it's more common (think Coben's, Burke's, and Lehane's books for starters) for the hero to have an ally/friend who's basically a homicidal maniac. Waldo, the sidekick in my novel, isn't like that, and I should point out that I started this book a long time ago, before any of the others I mentioned hit the scene.

On another note, I have my first signing lined up. I hope everyone who can be in Seattle on St. Paddy's Day, March 17, will drop by the Seattle Mystery Bookshop (117 Cherry St.) and say hey.

Honest, Or Just Plain Stupid?

A little earlier I went to get some cash from an ATM. A woman was already there ahead of me. She suddenly turned and walked off; as I stepped up to the machine I saw it was still in use. The screen asked if I wanted another transaction. I hit NO, grabbed the receipt and card as they ejected and yelled for the lady to come back and get them.

Then it hit me. The card was in, the pin number activated, and the account there for the robbing. Not that I'm a thief, but I'd like to have had a chance to mull it over before I take the high road. Maybe I could have pinched, say, $100, taken it to the casino, and shared the winnings with her if I had any. Nah. It has been my curse in life to be pretty honest about such things. Were I not so I might be rich.

Great Anti-Cult Video

Don't hesitate, check out this great slam on the Scientology Organized Crime Family. Here's the address: //www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GmCa6hqpVQ

And You Thought MLK Could Dream

Last night I had a dream. In it I went to the Emerald Queen casino, sat at the middle slot machine in the row of Three Stooges machines, and made a high bet.

So today, since I was out and about and passing the casino on my way home, I dropped in. At first I played a Lobsterfest machine, which didn't do well at all. I moved to the one next to it and won some of my money back. I then decided to follow my dream and hit the Three Stooges slots. The row has an even number of slots so there's no real middle one, and there was a lady at one of the middle ones, so I played the one on the end. I broke even for a while, and then started to lose, so I went over and sat beside the lady, at what would count as a middle machine. About six spins into it, and playing 36 nickels a pop, I hit sevens all the way across and won $100. After three or four more spins to see if there was any magic left in the machine I cashed out and went home. Grubstake: $60. Cashout: $116.65. Not a fortune, but it bought me some gas and lunch and left me with a few bucks to play with.

I hope I have a dream like that again.

Rebecca Bunny, R.I.P.

About ten years ago I bought Kristine a bunny for Easter. She named it Rebecca. For a number of years I kept the bunny in my office, but there was a sanitation problem that caused me to finally put her hutch outside. I was afraid the winter weather might do her in, but she did fine. In the summer we'd put her in a pen in the yard on sunny days, and sometimes we'd let her in the house, as we did during a recent spate of cold weather. If you want to know what it's like to stroke a heavenly cloud, pet a bunny some day.

Yesterday the bunny was listless, and today when I came home I found her dead. Not really a surprise, but a sad thing to bear nevertheless. I hope she was happy here, just as we were happy to have her as part of our family for so many years.

Two smaller disappointments rounded the day off. I learned that I won't get my new, sportier glasses in time for Left Coast Crime, and the library on the Air Force base where I work has no funds and can't buy any new books, including mine.

The good news is that I wasn't nominated for Civilian of the Quarter for our squadron. Every single nominee from the old six-two lost, including the military people.

The Holiday For Primates Everywhere

Free At Last, Free At Last...

On this day in 1969 I walked out of the gate of the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, New York, with my Army discharge papers in hand. What a glorious day for me. I didn't mind the Army for most of my hitch, but the last few months were terrible and fraught with trouble. When I applied for a hardship discharge in September of 1968 it was approved in two weeks. It took almost four months for the actual discharge to happen.

Oddly enough, I recently made contact with a guy who was the company clerk of my outfit in Nam, the 595th Engineers. To backtrack a bit, I was in Nam when I was notified there had been a death in the family. I went back to the states, applied for a hardship discharge, and was attached to the HQ COmpany at West Point. The people in that unit did a lot of idiot jobs on the post: worked the rifle range, drove brass around, and clerked in various offices. Not exactly a front line fighting outfit. I was there with about five other strays and we were given a series of lowly jobs which we screwed up as often as possible. Eventually we were called The Outlaws. None of us gave a damn about the Army by then.
Now, 38 years later, I discover that the reason my discharge took so long was that the people in charge of our 201 files--without which nothing administrative can be done--lost them. Not just mine, but the files for a whole battalion. Guys whose rotations were up were held over in Nam because their files were lost. There was a huge dust up, the Inspector General started an investigation, and when the files were eventually found in a mismarked conex the personnel officer was court martialed. None of which made my life any easier during that long, long time I waited to return to civilianhood and get my life going again. And of coutse Uncle Sam can't compensate me for messing up my plans and putting me through a couple or three months of agony, but after all this time I know the reason for that unconscionable delay.
I hope they shot that damn personnel officer.

Back From the Forest

Back from Tankon. I returned to civilization on the 31st, as indifferent to New Year's Eve as possible. I've always thought it was a pretty stupid holiday. Anyway, Tankon was mostly good. The isolation, the fellowship, even the friendly arguments are fun. This year I was put off by a non-regular who showed up for two days, talked non-stop about how wonderful he is, and left. Never again, I vowed.
That aside, it was fun to see the dusting of snow on the first morning, to plunk at cans with my Daisy BB gun (I'm a hell of a shot, BTW), watch 10 movies and two cartoon series, read two books, eat, sleep, write, and leave the world behind. While we were there two ex-leaders died--Saddam and Gerry Ford--and because one of them died I got the day off today. A nice perk if you're a federal employee.
Thanks again, fellows, and especially to our gracious host, Frank Denton.

Earlier today I had the idea of doing a Net search for my old Army outfit (at least the one I was with the longest), the 595th Engineer Company (LE). I found an old e-mail from a Joseph Short. Hmmm, Joe Short. That name rang a bell. Later on the bell clanged loudly. A picture of Joe Short came into my head and then I remembered him well. Not that we hung around a lot, but we worked close by when he was company clerk at one end of a tent and I was operations clerk at the other end. He was coming in a few months before I faded out or we would have spent more time together, I'm sure. For one thing, all of us support guys were in one hooch.
Anyway, I e-mailed Joe and he e-mailed back saying he remembered me plus a few others I named. He also told me about LE (pronounced Lee--the LE in our outfit's name stands for Light Equipment, even though we had heavy equipment like dozers, scrapers, graders, dump trucks, etc). LE was a mule and our outfit's mascot. He lived on a patch of earth across the road from our tent and was tethered to a stake by a 50-foot rope so he could graze. He was the meanest jackass you could ask for. I have some 8mm movie footage of him chasing the sergeant who fed him. I also recall that LE was promoted to E-4 ahead of me. In '68 he was shipped back to the US. Joe told me LE died last year at Fort Riley, Kansas. He must have been about 40 years old. I hope his transition to stateside duty improved his disposition.

Tomorrow I return to work after nine days off. Luckily it's my normal Friday so I only have to work one day before my weekend rolls around again. Then it's time to settle down and get some real work done.

Tankon Beckons

In a few hours I'll be off to the wilds below Mt. Rainier for the semi-annual gathering called Tankon. Just me and four other curmudgeons at a remote cabin with every amenity but running water. Sloth and eating are the main entertainments, with reading, movie viewing, and chatting/arguing following close behind. I also plan to bring my laptop and write a bit.

Festivus was fine. I spent Festivus Eve in the dark and rain, holding a flashlight while Darryl changed the alternator on his van. Festivus morning I was awakened from a deep, restful sleep by Kristine, who couldn't wait another minute to open her presents. I got some nice presents and one really great one: a Daisy BB gun. I've wanted one since I was a kid, but my mother was one of those You'll Put Your Eye Out wet blankets, so I never had this rite-of-passage weapon. Luckily, some friends did and I shot up scores of non-refundable bottles one summer.
Later that day I went to my other daughter's house for some more presents and a good pot roast dinner. My girl, Stephanie, has been working so much at Taco Bell (Our Motto: Each Worker a Peon) she fell asleep after the presents were exchanged, so we went back home and declared it a good Festivus all around. I have three gift cards to use: $15 at Target, $30 at Home Depot, and $100 at Wilson's House of Suede and Whips.

Just in Time for Festivus

Don't delay, my well-hyped novel LOVE, DEATH AND THE TOYMAN is now on sale. The regular retail price is $25.95 but you can save a few pennies at places like Amazon or Overstock.com. Or you can go to Limehouse Books and pay a mere $54.16 for a copy. Holy Hypermoderns, Batman! What's that guy thinking?

There's even a copy in the main branch of the Tacoma Public Library. No, they didn't religion all of a sudden. One of my shills asked them to stock a copy.

Yesterday Amazon had one copy in stock. Today they have two. Hurry before they have dozens.

As I type this there are promos on TV for an interview Katie Couric did or will do with the wife of one of the men who died climbing Mt. Hood in Oregon.
Now, I'm very sorry these men died and I feel for their families, but I can't help but also feel that they're all a bunch of damn fools for leaving the relative safety of flat land to climb a dangerous mountain during the winter, especially when the weather recently has been horrible. These were totally avoidable deaths and the dead men would have been wise to think first of their families before risking their lives on a foolish venture.

K-Mart, K-Mart, Spare That Tree

The other day I went to K-Mart to buy a DVD for Kristine's birthday. That's all I bought, one DVD. I ran across the receipt a few minutes ago and was stunned. It was 19 3/4 inches long. Naturally, most of it was advertising for their wares or discount promises if one took advantage of, say, a one-day special on certain toys or jewelry.

I hate going to that store anyway, but getting a sales tag long enough to make a necktie kind of jerks my chain. Perhaps if I was a logger I'd feel different.

Tacoma's Libraries, Part 2

I happened to be downtown today and stopped into the Tacoma Library's main branch to see if they'd order my novel. At first I didn't say who I was and they thought I was just some patron trying to get the book. I finally told them I was not interested in reading it, but just checking to see if they had ordered it or indeed would order it.
That's when the bureaucracy started:
"We rely on reviews (LJ, PW, KKK)." I said I have had five published reviews and all were positive but one (asshole at KKKirkus).
"We don't buy just because an author is local." Well thanks for supporting Tacoma's arts, cousin.
And on and on about procedures and policies. It's like I stuck a quarter in a jukebox and got a recording of the Kiwanas' by-laws.

The Multnomah, Oregon, library system already has eight copies of my book on order, sight unseen, but my wonderful home city acts like I'm trying to get them to spread a disease. I was right the first time. The Tacoma Library System stinks on ice.

BTW, that last positive review came from the one and only Harriet Klausner. Or maybe she's the four and only. Rumors abound that she's the front for a reviewing factory. Whatever the case, she liked it. Frankly, I'm surprised. Pleased, but surprised. I didn't think she'd like a book like this.

Happy Birthday

Today is my baby's 16th birthday. Happy Birthday, Kristine. It's been nothing but great.

Also, this is the anniversary of the birth of George Armstrong Custer. He's 167.

Something Went Wrong

Well, I tried to give the Puyallups some of my birthday money but something went wrong. I ended up winning $45.11. Not a fortune, but as long as I walk out on the plus side I'm happy.

Getting back to the library rant, I posted a milder version of it on DorothyL several weeks back. I heard some very kind and understanding comments defending librarians and libraries, most of which said that it cost libraries processing fees even if they get a book or books for free. All well and good, but my library was willing to take the books as donations, so the fees can't have been a consideration.
Let me state for the record that I have no grief with librarians. It's the administrators and the idiotic bureaucratic rules that rankle me.

Another Milestone

Happy birthday to me. There are many advantages to being older but not a one of them is physical. The greatest advantage is that I'm one year closer to retirement. I plan to celebrate this occasion by donating some money to the Putallup Indians, one slot machine pull at a time.

Those Accurate Kirkus Hatchet Jobs

Not that I'm mad or anything. Here's what the malodorous pecksniff had to say about my fine book. My comments are in italics.

Into the office of toy collector [No, he’s a toy dealer] Jack Lorentz slithers [Her entrance is described more like someone wading through water, not slithering] the gorgeous blonde who once made a plaything out of him. [Untrue. She was his girlfriend] Fifteen years ago, Amanda walked out on Jack, breaking their engagement and his heart. Now she's back, wanting a favor. Amanda, it seems, married up into the snooty Howard family, among Tacoma's richest. Michael, Amanda's husband, has developed political ambitions. But there's a problem: a dead, possibly murdered body discovered on their property. Though the Howards claim not to know who it is or how it got there, they sense looming scandal. And for reasons not really persuasive [It’s pretty clear they’re trying to hire his reputation, not his abilities], they've decided that the Toyman, a former investigative reporter, is the man for them. Nobody expects Jack to find the murderer, Amanda explains. They just want him to "investigate and submit a detailed report." About what? he might sensibly have asked, but doesn't. [How about what he finds, what he concludes, who he suspects, who he can clear?} Instead, he signs on, albeit reluctantly, and as a result becomes involved in a variety of messy situations, including a re-entanglement with amorous Amanda. At length, Jack cracks the case, but not before a bizarre confrontation with the villain, who has the drop on him. Attempting to delay his demise, Jack pleads for a chance to say goodbye to Lester, his pet hamster. It's a measure of the prevailing absurdity that the killer, lips curled, says, "Go ahead." [This one really galls me. The attempt to say good-bye to Lester was a ruse and a small part of a larger scene, one I thought was well done. What’s so absurd about the killer granting the wish?I can’t say more without revealing the ending.] One of those what-were-they-thinking debuts. [Maybe that it wasn’t so bad a book and that they’d make a few bucks off of it and that it deserved to be published]

It appears the syphilitic hosebag who wrote this failed to comprehend the plot turns and character motivations everyone else got. But to turn her failures into my failures makes me wish I knew the name of this living incubator for yeast infections so I could correct her deficiencies, using my fists to punctuate my sentences. Not that I'm bothered by any of this.

Happy Birthday, Stephanie

Seventeen years ago today my first child, Stephanie, came into this world. Beautiful then, beautiful now.
Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

Spunky: R.I.P.

AT 10:30 this morning I brought Spunky to the vet's to have her put to sleep. She was suffering from kidney failure and arthritis. This morning she was under the trampoline in the backyard on cold, damp ground and looked miserable. We'd already decided today would be the day she'd have to be put down, and the state she was in made it clear it was the necessary decision.

That doesn't make it easy, but the poor dog was suffering badly. She was 13 and a sweet, gentle animal. We'll miss her.

Here she is five years ago, during better times.

Are All Library Operators Stupid...

...or is it just Tacoma's?

Here's the scenario. Several months ago I checked out a western by the late Bill DeAndrea, one from his Lobo Blacke series. A month or so later I got a letter from the library saying it was overdue and I owed them ten bucks. Somehow, I'd forgotten that I'd borrowed the book; I thought it was mine (I rarely get books from the library since my own is better stocked). I decide that for a few dollars more I could say I'd lost the book and decided to pay for it.
I went to the library with this offer and was told I owed $31 and change. What? The book couldn't have cost more than $15. Turns out it was about $18. PLUS they wanted me to pay the $10 late fine on top of that, plus tax.
Hold the wedding, says I. Why should I pay for the book AND pay the fine? And since when is an ex-library copy worth full retail?
They were adamant. So was I.
Anyway, I think fines are bullshit.
Some weeks after this I decided to return the book (plus a tattered paperback Kristine had misplaced after checking it out on my card). So, according to their lights, I should owe only $20, a fine I have no plans to ever pay.
However, I receive many review copies every month and I thought of a brilliant way to both get the library off my back and increase their stock. I offered eight pristine new hardbacks as a payment for the fines. The books I offered were worth ten times what I owed.
That's when the bureaucrat hit the fan.
The head of the branch library I approached decided such a decision was above her authority and promised to consult someone higher up. After ten days of high-level discussions, no doubt involving a bevy of middle-management pencil gnawers, I was told they must decline my offer. Their ultimate fear was of setting a precedent. "What if someone should offer us furniture?" I was asked.
Decline, I said. You're a library. You buy books. I'm offering you ten times what you want. You save money. I also told them I'd have other books to offer in the future, free of charge.
I was given some malarkey about their computer and accountings, but I know they can wipe out a fine with a keystroke and it won't destroy their ledger.
I finally got the phone number of someone higher up the ladder to call.
What galls me is how impotent this bureaucracy is. It's like no one has the courage or brains or authority to make a simple decision, even one favorable to them. They are paralyzed by the prospect of dealing with a situation that requires someone to show foresight and initiative.
I've always been favorably disposed towards libraries, but when I hear the inevitable cry about their budget woes next year I'll be saying tough turkey. You had a chance to make a killing and you rejected it. And they can expect my vote to reflect this disgust.

Who is mysterydick (and why is he saying all those nice things about me)?

Powell's City of Book in Portland, OR, is taking preorders for my book for $30.95. That's five bucks over retail. You can get a better deal at Barnes & Noble, but they don't have the following review:

"Strap yourself into your easy chair and get set for a wild ride. Love, Death, and the Toyman is very likely the world's first hardboiled toy dealer novel.
Actually, hero Jack Lorentz is a former hardboiled investigative reporter turned baby-boomer collectible trader who gets sucked back into action by a sexy ex-finace and her aristocratic in-laws. Jack confronts a cast of wicked and wacky characters in his quest to discover who dumped a body (or is it two?) on the family's exclusive resort property. It's a whirlwind tale of mystery, sex, love, politics, humor, snobbery, adultery, violence, tenderness, Doo-Wop, a Lone Ranger wrist watcht and a Betty Boop mantle clock, sweeping you along to a slam-bang finish. It's a shotgun blast in the pants! Buy it!"

Rated five out of five stars by mysterydick

This is the first review I've seen from someone outside my circle of family an friends, and it's wonderfully flattering. Whoever you are mysterydick, thank you.

Fuzzy and Tsunami, RIP

Not a good week for small animals at Chez Cap'n. My Thai Fighting Fish, Tsunami, died three days ago, and my rat, Fuzzy, passed away overnight. It was a bit of a relief that Fuzzy went. He'd been suffering from two serious maladies for months (crippled and blind), but was always spirited and would crawl out of his house looking for a treat whenever I entered the room. He was at least three years old, which is ancient for a rat, and I like to think his time here was comfortable and happy. Attached is a picture of him taken when he was healthier.

The Cover

As threatened, here's the cover.

Show Me the Proof

Yesterday I got a box of uncorrected proofs of my novel, LOVE, DEATH, AND THE TOYMAN, due from Five Star in December. They're bound up like books, albeit with soft covers. I'm beginning to get the idea this thing is actually going to see the light of day.
If I can remember how to do it I'll publish a picture of the cover. I'm not sure what it's supposed to represent, but I realize the publishers are limited by what they can glean from public domain art. There's a bit in the book about a red tattoo on the derriere of the beautiful female lead. I volunteered to perform a nationwide search for the perfect posterior and paint the tattoo on myself, but my generous offer was met by silence. Too bad, it would have been the best cover since Mickey Spillane's ex appeared nude on the dj of--dang, was it THE ERECTION SET? Bill Crider will know.
Anyway, make room in your Christmas budget for a copy of this future collectible. The royalty you create may be mine.

Louiefest

On August 19 I joined Dave Lewis, his friend Drew the Omaha dj, Tough Jim (alias Sir Trafford) Gaston, Alex Mills, and my daughter Kristine for Louiefest 2006. The intent of this gathering is to have 1,000 guitars play the song "Louie, Louie" simultaneously. Year one came closest, with around 750 players. Year two drew half that, and despite the promoter's claim I think this year topped out at around 200. In addition to the mass "Louie, Louie" playing, there were a number of local bands entertaining on one of the five stages located around Spanaway's Spinker Center athletic fields, a custom car display, and vendors selling anything from jewelry to real estate.

Kristine called this her Day of Misery. She didn't want to attend and had a bad time except for the "Louie, Louie" part. In truth, I wasn't that overwhelmed by the local groups and it seemed like I spent a lot of time walking around in the hot sun.

For those who don't know, "Louie, Louie" is a song that was recorded by The Fabulous Wailers in 1961 with modest success. Two years later The Kingsmen did another verson of "Louie, Louie" and had a big hit. The song also caused a sensation because the lyrics were so garbled that a rumor spread claiming they were obscene. It got so bad that FBI agents would attend Kingsmen concerts, notepads in hand, trying to write down what the band was singing.
Because both The Kingsmen and The Fabulous Wailers are Northwest groups, the song has had special signifigance in this part of the world. Some years ago a movement grew to have "Louie, Louie" declared the state song of Washington. It failed.

I must admit I've never been a big fan of the song, although I don't dislike it.

To see and hear the spectacle, log on to:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXFXDqg5aG0 I think that's a zero at the end.

I'm the chap in the red tee-shirt, Drew's in the black one. Tough Jim has the yellow guitar, and Alex is the young guy. Kristine is the cutie with the ponytail. The woman with the camera is Laurie, Alex's mother. Dave took the video with a camera hanging around his neck, thus the MTV effects.

By the way, a drawing was held before the song started to pick 10 Guitar Heroes to perform on stage with the bigger names. Dave and I were both picked but refused the honor. What kills me is that right after they drew my name for that they drew one for a free Epiphone electric guitar. Missed it by this much.

The promoters--Wailers Performing Arts Foundation--hoped to get The Guiness Book of World Records to accept this as a category, but it was not to be. I don't know if there will be another Louiefest (last year was skipped), but I hope so. If nothing else, I end up with a neat tee-shirt and a couple of guitar picks every year.

Why I Will Never Be On WHEEL OF FORTUNE

Earlier this week the WHEEL OF FORTUNE show held contestant tryouts at The Emerald Queen Casino, my favorite place to game. It's close, and I know which machines are likely to pay off.
Anyway, the call was for five in the afternoon. When Linda and I got there the line went through a sereies of switchbacks in the auditorium, across the second level, and halfway through the main floor of the joint. For all that it moved reasonable quickly. We were given yellow slips to fill out, which then went into a rotating drum, and eventually we got seated in the large theater. I don't know how many were in that hopeful audience, but at a bare minimum I'd say 500.
On stage was a cheap replica of the WOF board, a small upright wheel, and a table piled with prizes (hats, T-shirts, tote bages, etc.). Some bozo and a pretty blonde were also up there. The bozo's job was to whip the mob into a frenzy and the blonde worked the answer board, filling in letters with a marker during the test games.
It was made abundantly clear from the get go that frenzy and manic enthusiasm meant everything; playing skill meant zero. And most of the largely female crowd was only too happy to make fools of themselves toward this end. If you've ever read H.L. Mencken's essay The Hills of Zion, about a Fundamentalist camp meeting that takes on the emotional aspects of an orgy, you have an idea of what I witnessed.
The procedure was to call five people to the stage, briefly interview each one, and play a quick round sans spinning the wheen, just calling out letters. The purpose of the interviews were to test people for perkiness. The more agog the better.
Of the assembled multitude perhaps 35 made in onto the stage. That number could have been doubled had not Bozo, with his mike set to a level five times the necessary decible level, not flogged and prodded the crowd into a froth every ten seconds. Not much fun when the room is hotter than a burning outhouse.
After about 90 minutes of this spectacle we were herded out and another batch of candidates allowed to suffer the same ordeal. We were assured that more names would be selected from the uncalled slips at a later date, and those people would be given a chance to compete.
You have to wonder at some people. One old gent whose name was called to go on stage was so feeble his wife had to come along and hold him up. The topper was the woman who didn't speak English. What was going through her cabeza? If you watch the show you know the lame and the halt never get get on stage.
If you know me, my personality is not one of ebullience. I don't jump around like a drunken kangaroo every time I win a keychain. I don't care to make a spectacle of myself and I manage to keep my emotions in check, except for anger. Good to let that one out, I think. However, I'm good at word games and would likely be a good player. It irks me that the people who run WOF (and most other game shows) prefer a raving lunatic to a controlled, competent player. Perhaps that's why I like JEOPARDY best. They value brains over behavior.

On the way out of the casino that afternoon I decided to play the slots. I gave Linda $20, took $60 for myself, and started playing. I mean losing. Couldn't hit a thing. She wasn't doing so well, either, so she decided to try her luck in the non-smoking room. I headed over to a Three Stooges slot machine and started winning. I was ahead a bit when Linda comes back and shows me she'd trippled her $20. And right away I started losing again. I finally went bust.
Hmmmm... On my last six visits I'd won four times and lost twice. The two times I lost I had Linda with me. I even won when she was there but not around me, and started losing when she came back. Coincidence? I doubt it. On my future trips, I'll fly solo.

Take Two

I tried to post this yesterday, June 7, but it failed.

So, a belated Happy Birthday to my role model, Eddie Haskell. Okay, to Ken Osmond, who played Eddie on the best family sitcom ever, Leave It to Beaver.

We start war games at work next week. I hate that crap.

Correction

My post from earlier today said that our ports were being sold to Saudi Arabians. Not so. It's the United Arab Emirates, a country of 12,000 square miles on the eastern coast of the Arabian Peninsula. Still, that's close enough to Saudi Arabia for me. This whole idea of selling US companies or land to foreign nations upsets me.
I think the movie NETWORK was right. There will be no more U.S., or England, or Russia; only Exxon and Time Warner and Sony. I assume there have been s-f books based on the premise that the world is one large mall occupied by competing corporations. I'd like to read some of them one of these days.

Long Live Big Mac Brother!

Wave the Flag

I've just finished filling out an extensive and somewhat insulting form to insure that my government security status remains Secret. I accomplished this onerous task a little over two years ago, and it should not have been due until 10 years after that, but God forbid the people who are supposed to keep these records shouldn't lose them. It is reassuring to know that those responsible for our security are so efficient.

This taste of government efficiency got me to thinking about just how long I have been associated with the military. For openers, I was born in the Brooklyn Naval Hospital in 1947. As a Navy brat I lived in New York, Rhode Island, Louisiana, Maryland, and Virginia. I think I was 12 1/2 years old when my father retired from the service, but he worked for a year or so at the D.E.W. Line when I was 14-15. In 1966 I joined the Army and spent 28 months in that venerable service, including 13 1/2 months in Viet Nam. Skip ahead to 1979 and I started my civil service job with the Air Force. So we add 12 1/2, 1, 2 1/3, and 25 years and we get (mm, mm, carry the one...) 40 years and 10 months in Uncle Sam's embrace. Maybe 41 if you add in the odd days and weeks. Over two-thirds of my life. And I have to justify to this nation that I'm worthy of a security clearance? Meanwhile, this nation is selling its major shipping ports to the Saudi Arabians--the nation that spawned the 9/11 murderers. Wotta world!

Kristine dragged me to my second and her fourth viewing of the latest Harry Potter movie last night. I'm glad I went, as I'd forgotten a lot of what I saw the first time. I suspect that my poor recollection stemmed from the fact that by the time the film started I was bone tired from standing in line for 90 minutes after a long work week. I'm surprised I didn't fall asleep and snore up the theater. One of these days I may read the books, but at this point I'm not interested in switching genres.

Although, to be honest, I bought a couple of s-f paperback short story volumes at a thrift store last week. One is The Machineries of Joy, by Ray Bradbury; the other is The Year's Best S-F, 8th Annual Edition. I believe Bill Crider's warm reminiscences about his youthful s-f reading influenced my decision to buy these books. And, being short stories, I can nibble away at them as I wait for Kristine to get out of school, or when she's having her guitar lesson.

It always sounds like whining when you complain about bad officiating leading to your team's defeat, but this year's Super Bowl resulted in nationwide complaints and questions about the job the officials did. I thought it was an appalling display of incompetence and/or bias. Would Pittsburgh have won if the game had been called properly? Maybe. They're a good team and worthy of their appearance in the Super Bowl. But we'll never know, and a strong case could be made for the Seahawks winning if the zebras didn't destroy so many of their drives or nullify their scores. My ultimate reaction to it can be summed up thusly: "I is regusted."

We're Number One!

SEA-HAWKS! SEA-HAWKS! SEA-HAWKS! SEA-HAWKS!

I was calling for a 28-24 Seahawk victory, but they kicked Panther butt throughout the game. This is the first time a Seahawk football team made it to the Superbowl and we're all excited here in the great PNW. Can we beat Pittsburgh?

Damn right we can.

Freedom Day

I wanted to post this yesterday, Jan 19, because it's a special anniversary for me. It was on that day in 1969 that I got my discharge from the Army. Never was I so happy to get rid of an obligation. Not that I minded the Army during my regular duty, but when I got out I'd been cooling my heels at West Point awaiting said discharge. It took two weeks to have it approved (I was getting a hardship discharge, allegedly as the sole support of my mother) and another 2 1/2 months to make it happen. Those 2 1/2 months, during which I had no idea when my paperwork would come through, were awful. By the time I got out I had a burning hatred for the Army and just about anything else connected to the government. That made going to California and becoming an antiestablishment hippy a few months later very easy for me.

Because it was 36 years since I re-entered civilan life, you might think I'm a bit long in the tooth. But the truth is that I joined up as a drummer boy when I was six years old and was mustered out a year later. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

All this might seem odd considering that I now work for the Air Force and have for the past 26 years. Well, that's what I do for money, and the BS that I faced back in my Army days is still evident in today's action Air Force. On the other hand, I'm glad to have the job and there are even times when it's interesting and fulfilling. Like a couple of weeks ago when I was part of a team that supported a Medivac mission. A baby was flown in from Kadena AFB, Japan, for treatment at Madigan Hospital on neighboring Fort Lewis. There were a good 20 people involved in getting that infant from Japan to here, not to mention the load planners, air crew, ground people, and whoever had to authorize the use of the aircraft. When I went out to the plane I knew we were doing a Medivac, but I was expecting an adult on a gurney to be aboard. Was I surprised. The infant was in something like an incubator, and that was covered by a towel, so I never laid eyes on him or her, nor do I have any idea what its problem was, but my heart went out to the baby and I hope Madigan can help.

Another Year? I Haven't Used Up the Last One.

It seems that if I don't have a broken down car to report I'm out of conversation. Well, the car was in the shop again, but that was a couple or three weeks ago. Thank goodness it was something expensive. I'd hate to see my mechanic miss out on a first-class, around-the-world cruise on my account.

Christmas is over with and I enjoyed it. I didn't even let the crowds, lack of parking, and imbecile drivers bother me. I bought Steff a computer desk and spent most of the evening putting it together. I think there were 500 screws involved, and my power screwdriver was dead. I got Kristine a printer for her computer but beat it out of town before I had to deal with the installation. She probably did it herself; I ought to check.

The day after Xmas, I joined four other old reprobates for the annual gathering in the wilds known as Tankon. The venue is a cozy cabin belonging to Frank Denton. When I arrived this year Frank was there, having arrived a short time before me, and announced there was a problem with the electricity. We had enough to use the two overhead lights, but no more. No fridge, microwave, heaters, DVD player, or laptops (other than the limited battery). We kept the cabin warm using a wood-burning stove, but once we went to bed the fire died and my head and shoulders, not being inside my sleeping bag, were ice cold. I slept little, and finally got up and fired up the stove. Later that day the guys from the power company came and fixed the lines, and we were back to normal. We still don't have running water, but we're used to that.
We did the usual: ate too much, read, watched movies, chatted, argued, slept, wrote. At the end of six days I packed up and left, glad again to have had the isolation of Bestafar's Hut. I was also glad to get home to a hot shower and shave.
My New Year's resolutions are the same ones I break every year: read more, eat less. Maybe this time I'll keep them a bit longer than usual.

One of the movies I watched at the cabin (on my laptop, knowing the others wouldn't appreciate it) was BELA LUGOSI MEETS A BROOKLYN GORILLA, with Sammy Petrillo, Duke Mitchell, and an aged Lugosi. Petrillo's claim to fame, or infamy, is that he's a dead ringer for Jerry Lewis. Looks like him, sounds like him, and annoys me like him. I like Jerry Lewis impressions that exaggerate his goofy mannerisms, but to see someone act exactly as Jerry would act doesn't work for me. About the only thing that made this movie endurable was the pretty island girl. Better was THE ASPHALT JUNGLE, with Sterling Hayden, Jean Hagen, Sam Jaffe, and a very young and breathless Marilyn Monroe. This is a classic noir with dark streets, tough mugs, despair, lost innocence, and every bad act destined to doom the perpetrator. I loved it, with the possible exception of John McIntyre's lecture towards the end about the importance of cops.

Today ends the regular football season. The Seahawks are well positioned for the playoffs, but I wonder how they'll hold up against some of the teams they're apt to face. Sure, they beat the Colts last week, but the Colts' head coach was gone and some key starters were benched after the first quarter. I suppose we'll just have to wait and see. Seattle has never had a team in the Super Bowl or World Series, and this is the year it might happen.

Dinner awaits. May you have a safe and prosperous 2006.

Happy Plus One

Yesterday's birthday was quite nice. Linda took me to the local Indian casino and gave me $40 to play with. I played a penny slot machine, usually risking 20 cents at a time. After a couple of hours I was down to $11 and change. She'd lost the $20 she brought for herself and all but 36 cents of the fiver I advanced.
The casino has a buffet, so I piled a plate high and stuffed my face. After eating we realized it was getting late, so I figuered I'd just play a buck per pull and get it over with. I went back to one of the penny machines I favored and within five minutes had built my stake up to over $57. I took a couple more plays to make sure the streak was over, and quit at $54.99.
Back at the house we had some cake and ice cream and I opened my presents. A strap for my guitar, a DVD about Guitar Heroes, a season of The Twilight Zone of DVD, lottery tickets, cash, and some trifles. One set of lottery tickets were a bust, alas, but there are some for a drawing on the 22nd and I'm hoping for the best--which would include instant retirement. Well, I can dream.

Today was spent finishing my zine for Dapa-Em. I also watched the Seahawks scape by the lowly 49ers. Not a good showing, but any win is better than no win.

Happy Birthday to Me

Yep, today marks mumbledy-mumble years since I made my Earthly debut at the Brooklyn Naval Hospital. Frankly, aging stinks, but, as the pundits say, it beats the alternative. Linda is taking me to the local Indian casino where I'll wile away some time playing penny slots and wishing I was rich and retired.

Last night I took Linda and the girls to see Harry Potter, after we fortified ourselves on Mongolian grill. We all enjoyed the movie, and Kristine, my Potter maniac, can't wait to see it again. She'll have to wait a week anyway. I missing seeing the movie stairways, and I wish Hermione had a larger role, but I understand that it was impossible to cram everything into a 2 1/2 hour movie. The special effects are so good I never notice them. It seems like all that stuff is really there--the monsters, the magic, the sailing ship rising from the sea.

Reading has been eclectic, but I can recommend TRACE EVIDENCE, by Elizabeth Becca. The author is a trained forensic scientist and her knowledge of forensic procedures and evidence gathering adds a lot to this story of a nut killing young women with tenuous ties to him.

Marvin Albert's APACHE RISING is an action-packed paperback about a scout and troop of cavalry trying to thwart an uprising by an Apache leader. A number of compelling subplots add suspence to the story and Albert's writing is so precise you can feel the burning sun and taste the gritty, omnipresent sand.

More later...

Mama Mia, Hold the Kia!

I just got a call from the mechanic and the problem is a heater hose, not the head gasket. Maybe I'll keep the old bomb after all. At least until it's paid off, which is only 4 or 5 months away.

I confess I watch a lot of courtroom TV shows, and one thing I've noticed is that the bailiff is always in contrast to the judge. Note:

Judge Judy--White female judge / black mail bailiff
People's Court--Hispanic female judge / black male bailiff
Judge Joe Brown--Black male judge / white female bailiff
Divorce Court--Black female judge / white male bailiff
Judge Alex--White male judge / black male bailiff
Texas Justice--White male judge / black male bailiff
Judge Mathis--Black male judge / white male bailiff

I don't know what, if any, significance there is in all this, but it does indicate that someone thinks there ought to be ethnic/gender diversity between the judge and the bailiff (sometimes called the court officer).

I was at a thrift store earlier and checked out the books. I found a western from Belmont Tower (HOT LEAD, by Dwight Bruckner, 1977). I like finding books from the second-string publishers, and I wish there were more houses like BT around these days. We do have some small imprints, but most of them are of better quality than BT and its ilk.

For the first time in ages I hit four numbers on the lottery. I won $30, which I reinvested in tickets. I won $9.00 on them. I added a buck of my own and got $10 worth of tickets, which I parlayed into zero dollars. This has made me wonder if the lottery evolved out of Man's desire to get something for nothing or if there is an Intelligent Design promulgated by The Lottery Gods. Angry, vengeful, Lottery Gods, at that. I'm deep in matters like this.

Never Fails

I told the family last week that as soon as I got my advance from Tekno Books something would happen to eat it up--either my car or computer. Saturday I got the check, Sunday the car started having problems. I'm pretty sure the expensive head gasket job I had done 5-6 months ago gave out. Later today I'll take it to the shop--assuming it'll go that far--and have it repaired again. Then I'm going to trade it in on something else. I'm ashamed to say I've been thinking of a new Kia. Yeah, I know they're chintzy little jokes, but they're cheap and the warranty is pretty good. And I'm sick of used cars. Filling the tank on my pimpmobile is costing about $45 a shot. I need something with better mileage.
As you may recall, when I got my lawsuit settlement I had to immediately spent about half of it fixing that lemon. It is written on the stars, I guess, that Cap'n Bob is not allowed to have money. Thanks a heap, stars.

I want to wish Ed Gorman the best of luck with his cancer treatments. I've said it before and I'll say it again, no one has done more for mystery writers and the mystery community at large than Ed. Come back, Ed. We need you.

Sandra Scoppettone has recanted her statement that paperback books are on the way out. Her industry source didn't know what he or she was talking about, apparently. That's good news, or non-news as the case may be. And that source ought to get a job in the crumbling Bush administration.

How about those White Sox?
How about those Seahawks?

Fall Preview

The leaves are clogging my gutters, it's raining more often, and I'm colder at night. It must be Fall.

As always in this irregular blog, I have to backtrack. Let us cast our memories to late August. I flew to Milwaukee to visit old pal Beth Fedyn for a few days before driving down to Chicago with her for Bouchercon, The World Mystery Convention. The visit was generally pleasant, marred only by one of her dogs trying to rend my flesh whenever my back was turned. I solved that by not turning my back, but I could have done without the cur altogether.
When I wasn't being a chew toy for Cujo I had a nice time seeing the local sights, breaking my diet shamelessly, and invading used book stores. I loaded up on old western paperbacks that I would mail home later.

Then it was on to Chicago and B'con. I must admit I loved the city, at least the area where the convention was held, at The Sheraton Hotel near Lake Michigan. The con was a lot of fun, too. I saw old friends, made a couple of new ones, and reacquainted myself with the tasty libation known as the whiskey sour. Not that I've become a sot, but I'm not above having a cocktail or two if I go out to dinner. I'm lucky in that drinking heavily has never appealed to me.
Among the fun things I did at the con was have a look at the Navy Pier complex, take an evening excursion on a sightseeing boat along the waterfront, visit a park whose name I can never remember (the one with the chrome bean and the spitting woman), hike around the streets with various friends, touch a piece of the Alamo imbedded in the Dearborn Building, watch Bill Crider win the Don Sandstrom Memorial Award for Lifetime Achievement as a mystery fan, take in the view from the 80th floor of the Aon Building, eat a decent banquet meal at the same building, see Beth Fedyn get her B'con Fan Guest of Honor Award at the banquet, buying more books than I should, and meeting Polly the P.I and Elizabeth Becka.

Then it was back to Wisconsin to relax for a couple of days before flying home. My return flight was supposed to be Milwaukee to Minneapolis to Bosie to Sea-Tac, but bad weather in Minneapolis grounded our connecting flight. We were rerouted to Denver and thence to Sea-Tac, saving us an extra takeoff and landing. We also got in ahead of schedule. However, my luggage never got transferred so I had to go home without it. The good news is that it was delievered to my door the next morning, saving me from having to schlepp it around. It would be another week before the two boxes of books I mailed from Oconomowoc appeared, but by then I was caught up with deadlines for Dapa-Em, Slan-Apa, and OWLHOOT. I didn't have time to even open the boxes until another week had passed, and have since read only one of the books I picked up on the road.
That book is HEARTSTONE, by D.C. Brod, and I enjoyed it a lot. It's a modern fantasy/quest story with underpinnings of the Arthurian legend. If you've read Debbie's Quint McCauley books you know she's a good writer, but these are very different and show a completely different side of her talent. I also had an old western I read at work during slack time and finished it. Otherwise, my reading for September has been nil.

In a couple of weeks my Stephanie turns 16. I can't believe it. I remember the minute she was born as clearly as though it happened yesterday.
My other girl, Kristine, is going to try out for the school play this week. They're doing The Matchmaker, by Thornton Wilder. Kristine will be 15 in December. When I think of what a useless do-nothing I was at those ages I cringe. I really am impressed by the ambition and courage of both these kids. They sure didn't inherit that from me.

Do you remember the scene in THE GOOD EARTH when the couple with the new baby go a temple to thank the gods for their child? They keep the kid under wraps and protest that it's a sickly, ugly child and will be of no use to their family farm. They do this, we are told, lest the gods covet the child (who was in fact quite healthy and attractive) and take it from them. I know how they feel. I just had a bit of good news that I fear trumpeting lest the gods snatch it from my grasp.
But I'll risk it. Five Star has agreed to buy my novel LOVE, DEATH, AND THE TOYMAN. Imagine that. Me, a novelist. I've written articles for professional publication before, and tons of fannish works, but this would be the first time I'll have a novel published. Honestly, it doesn't seem real. It's like the head cheerleader is lusting after me--I know there's a second shoe waiting to drop. But, unless it does, I'm going to ride out this high for a while.

Another Fine Mess

Saturday was one for the books. I'm in the upstairs convenience when I hear Linda yelling that the downstairs convenience is overflowing. Like I'm supposed to come running. I finish up as fast as I can and discover that, sure enough, there's a small flood in the downstairs bathroom. This happened once before and I knew the cause right away: tree roots got into the sewer line and caused a jam. The fun part is watching feces and murky water filling the tub. But, veteran of the wars that I am, I called Roto-Rooter and dug the dirt off the sewer line access so he wouldn't do it at his ungodly rate (approximately $155 for 30 minutes, $40 for every 15 minutes thereafter). Here was there and gone in an hour ($301.11, including the root killer I bought from him) and we're safe for now.

I am learning to hate trees. Oh, I know they're lovely, provide shade and oxygen and homes for dear little woodland critters, but that's only the part above ground. Beneath the earth, like Commie infiltrators in the fifties, they spread their satanic roots everywhere, clogging innocent sewer lines, choking garden plots, and buckling staid old driveways. I've also had their branches all over the roof after a storm, their leaves in my house's gutters, and more leaves in the yard. I expect one of these ruthless monsters to fall on the house one day. If I ever get another house my first requirement is that there is no tree within 100 feet, and those that are on my property never grow more than 15 feet tall.
Maybe those bonsai people have something there.

In six days I'll be on the road for the Bouchercon in Chicago, via Wisconsin. That is, if Northwest Airlines is serious about their scab mechanics keeping 'em flying. Expedia, from where I got my tickets ("from which?" "From whom" doesn't sound right when discussing a company) has sent me a couple of e-mails assuring me that there will be no glitches. But I always expect the worst and with the way my life has gone that still makes me an optimist.

I took Kristine to Wal-Mart yesterday so she could stock up on school supplies. In their dollar bin I found a DVD of MAN AGAINST CRIME, with Ralph Bellamy. The notes on the back say this show was unique in that it was broadcast live. Also on the DVD front, I finished the latest CISCO KID disk I got from Netflix. The stories were generally better than some of the earlier ones, but there are still some time glitches that even the kiddies must have noticed. What's also interesting--at least to me--is that Cisco had three different horses, often in the same show. I call them the 90% black-and-white paint, the 50% black-and-white paint, and the regular paint. It wasn't uncommon to see him climb aboard the 90%, ride across the landscape on the 50%, and rein up with the 90% again. The regular paint (think of the markings on Little Joe Cartwright's horse) was only used in the occasional chase scene. I can't tell if Pancho's horse had stand-ins or not. It's a basic palamino with a blaze face.

As I type this some moron in the area is blasting a stereo. I'm going to stop now so I can counter-program with my electric guitar. "Mr. Checkov, amp on stun."

HELP ME. Help me. help meeee

Remember the ending of The Incredible Shrinking Man? I know just how the guy feels. A few days ago my kids measured my height and I'm a full inch shorter than I used to be. I've been afraid this has been happening for years. I used to buy pants with a 32" leg; now they're 30". Getting old sucks.

On the plus side, I weighed in at 190 yesterday morning. I'd like to hit 180 before B'con, but that's highly unlikely. When I was at my piggiest I was 223, so I feel pretty good about losing the extra grease. Another Atkins success story.

I took the girls to the movies on each of the past two weekends. First we saw The Bad News Bears, or what Kristine called the most unneccessary remake of the year. I agree. It had some funny moments, but most of it consisted of 12-year-old kids using bad language.
Last weekend Kristine and I saw Skeleton Key, with Kate "Spoiled Hollywood Brat" Hudson. Kate's cleavage co-starred. It was an attempt to be an atmospheric thriller, and it wasn't bad, and the ending was a change of pace, but there were times when, had it not been for the cleavage, my mind would have strayed.
Most amazingly, no one talked during the latter film. I could even hear the woman in the row behind us chewing her popcorn. Or maybe she had a bale of hay. They sound alike while being chewed.

Usually my job is boring routine, but two Mondays ago there was something interesting. There had been an air show/open house over the weekend and some of the planes RONed (remained overnight). So as I was driving around the flightline in the morning I saw 2 AWACS, a B-2, The Air Force Thunderbirds stunt team's jets, a Navy AE-6 Prowler (one of the loudest jets extant) and several fighters. The previous Friday, as I was leaving work, I watched a couple of biplanes with white smoke pouring out from under their wings practicing loops. They made a heart as I drove off.
Naturally, I didn't attend the show. Bad enough I have to go on base five days a week, I don't want to go on my day off, especially when I have to slog through miles of backed up traffic and a crowd of 150,000. (The recruiters also signed up 100 unsuspecting youths.)

I also took the girls school shopping last Sunday. Yikes! How can a flimsy little T-shirt cost $20?

On my last post I mentioned Bill Crider's and Ed Gorman's blogs, saying they were the best. I should have added there are a number of others I like equally: James Reasoner's, Polly the P.I.'s, Mark Evanier's, Frank Denton's, Tod and Lee Goldberg's separate blogs, and no doubt a few others I'm forgetting.

Monthly Meanderings

It occurs to me I've been posting to this blog about every four weeks. It must be the influence of doing a monthly publication for almost 20 years that sets my inner clock to that schedule. If you want a really good blog try Bill Crider's or Ed Gorman's. None better in my book.

Two weeks ago Tacoma had its annual library sale. I descended upon Wilson High, where they hold it, with expectations high. I wasn't disappointed. I was mainly looking for westerns and found several series books, many obviously donated for the sale because they weren't covered with library stickers. I bought 13 Longarms, 11 Lone Stars, 4 Edges, 5 Floating Outfit books, 2 Earl Murray titles, and one each by Max Brand, Jake Logan, Donald Clayton Porter, Ramsay Thorne, Hank Edwards, A.B. Guthrie, Peter Brandvold, Ernest Haycox, T.G. Horne, Lee Floren, and Chap O'Keefe, in paperback. I also got hardbacks of a short story collection by H.A. DeRosso, and "Happy Trails: Our Life Story," by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. On the mystery side I found a hardcover of Jame's Crumley's "Final Country." Total: $24.50, the cost of one new book.

Speaking of Wilson High, it's the school Linda graduated from 40 years ago, along with her classmate Ted Bundy. Kristine will start there this fall. When I was in the 10th grade I attended a high school that my parents graduated from many years before. Alas, I went there for just half the year, then we moved back to the district of another school, which I didn't like at all.
We're signed up to attend Linda's 40th reunion, and as you can imagine I think of it as something to be endured. I've been to parties where everyone but me worked together and I desperately wanted to blow my brains out before the canapes were finished.

Last weekend I went to Portland and bought 17 Bradford Scott westerns plus 2 by Jackson Cole, 2 more in the Edge series, one each Trailsman, Diamondback, and a Brian Garfield. Most of those were 50 cents each. At Powell's I snagged one each by Jason Manning, and Ace Double featuring Brian Wynne (Garfield), and a Robert E. Howard story collection called "The End of the Trail" (Bison Books).
Obviously I have enough westerns to keep me busy for a while--say, 10 years.

While I was in Portland, where I always bunk at the home of Dave and Irene Lewis, Dave and I hooked up with guitar master Brian Trainer for a photo shoot. We three have formed a shadow band called The Moops and I wanted to make some album/CD covers for us. Music to follow, maybe. Turns out Brian's real band has a studio space in an industrial neighborhood and all the mikes, drums, amps, and wires made for a nice backdrop.

Been having a lot of trouble with my e-mail the past five days. I think it happened because I deleted a spyware sample program. MSN's solution is to take away my MSN firewall protection and let Norton handle things, but it still corrupts every day. I'm thinking of finding another server and starting from scratch.

I spent a goodly portion of this day boxing up some of my figures/toy soldiers to make shelf space for the books stacked all over my office. I've already boxed modern soldiers, pirates, Foreign Legion, Civil War, Napoleonics, American Revolution, and miscellaneous others. Today it was Vikings, knights, ancients, and Africans. I'm leaving up my Indians, cavalry, and cowboys for now because I present pictures of them in each issue of my western apazine, Garryowen.

Yesterday I took Linda to one of those Japanese restaurants where they cook everything in front of you, pinging and dinging their spatulas as they go. It was fun and the food was good, but sitting by a wall of flame when it's 90 degrees outside and the building isn't air conditioned really tested my deodorant. After we ate we hit Half Price Books and I added about six more western titles to the mix. Because I find myself enjoying the simplicity of western series books I've sent for Pat Hawk's tome on the subject.

No movies other than what's been on TV. One fo those was the first Batman, with Michael Keaton, Kim Bassinger, and Jack Nicholson. My reaction was it was a lot of nice scenes that didn't add up to a good movie. The best part, other than seeing Kim, was that there was no Robin. Even when I was a kid I hated kid sidekicks. I never believed they were capable of pulling their weight and at best they seemed like hyperactive, pushy pests.

The assinine antics of Tom "Jackass" Cruise has led to some publicity for the Scientology Organized Crime Organization, mostly negative I'm glad to say. Our local paper had an article that I thought was extremely mild so I wrote a letter to the editor spelling out in no uncertain terms what a money-mad ripoff cult they are. The letter was printed, and a woman called to thank me for telling the truth. Unfortunately, the first time she called my daughter, thinking it was a solicitor, said I wasn't home, and the next time I either wasn't home or had the phone tied up with the Internet, so she left a message on my voice mail. Still, it was good to know that someone appreciated my comments. My brother-in-law also congratulated me, but it's not the same as when a stranger does.
BTW, have you noticed that the Cruise brouhaha died almost to the day when his lame ass movie debuted? I can only hope Katie sees the light before she's dragged into the morass of that insane cult.

I'm still looking for a retirement paradise. Costa Rica may work, if I can stand the heat. Any suggestions?

Okay, time to shelve some books.

Hello, I Must Be Going

Not going forever, although my infrequent postings must have convinced some people I've given up the ghost. No, the title refers to the fact that in two days I'll be off to the wilds of the Washington woods for a gathering of old farts at the rustic (read: no running water) cabin of Frank Denton. We'll be there for five days or so. It's a very nice place to be if you want to escape TV, phones, radio, newspapers, and the outside world in general. And I do.
We do have a TV that can play DVDs and videos, however, and we usally have a small film festival each evening, often followed by some bitching about so-and-so's choice of movies.
I usually gain five to eight pounds at Tankon since activity is at a minimum and food is in abundance. But since I'm doing Atkins I'll face the challenge of eating only approved foods. To that end I'm fixing up an large batch of bacon and eggs, lots of steaks, chicken, turkey, cheese, and pork chops. Also sauteed onions and mushrooms.
I'm still bringing boxes of Ding-Dongs, Susie Q's, Twinkies, etc, but I'm letting the other guys eat them. Okay, I'll have one a day, but that's it. I hope.

I'm finding much to enjoy in series western novels, many written in the '70s and '80s but some new. The Trailsman, Ruff Justice, The Gunsmith, Longarm, and numerous others have provided me with satisfying entertianment that echoes the cowboy shows I loved when I was a lad. Except, of course, those old shows didn't have the obligatory sex scenes most of these books demand.

I've never tried a link before but I'll give it a shot. If this one works, you'll get another look at why that jackass Tom Cruise is defending the Scientology Organized Crime Family. And please, don't see his movie. Don't help him spread this cultural disease that tries to pass itself off as a religion. C:/word/scientology document.doc If this doesn't work, I'll try again. Or contact me directly an I'll e-mail it to you.

We just finished a rodeo out at the base. It made for busy times for a lot of people, but not many of us civilians had to bother with the competition. My busiest times were before the competition started and after it was over. One of the competitors was a Saudi aircraft, and the crew was quite perturbed when a female airman drove a service vehicle out to their plane. They're not too crazy about non-Muslim males, either.

Linda and Kristine were at Disneyland pasrt of last week. A good time was had by all. Linda brought back a DVD that contains old Mickey Mouse Club shows and various special features. One of these features is a gathering of about seven original Mouseketeers. Little Karen is in a wheelchair and can no longer walk, but I don't know why. Annette was too ill to attend. But the others looked fine when you consider they're all around 60. There was also an excellent look at the late Jimmie Dodd, who seems to have been the genuine article--a really nice guy who wanted to make people happy.

Well, time to sautee a bag of onions and three boxes of mushrooms.

Three Day Weak End

After needlessly buying and installing a new alternator, battery, and battery post for my heap I found out the problem was a cable connection. I don't know whether to feel elation because my ride is back in service or anguish over the dough I wasted. Taking the philosophical high road, I dismiss the loss of money by telling myself it's only money and I would have pissed it away on food, clothes, bills, and other foolish items. And to reinforce that cavalier attitude I took Linda to the local Indian casino last night. She wanted to go into the small, isolated, and profitless non-smokers room, so we did. I didn't see any slot machines I liked after a couple of tests, so I plopped down beside her and stuck my $75 credit slip in the slot. After a few plays I noticed my credits were pretty low and she was busted (having only $20--of mine--as a stake). That's when I noticed the nickel machines we'd been playing were actually $5.00 slots.
No high roller, me. I said the heck with this and headed for the smoky main room. There's a machine that was good to me the last time I played and I found one that was open so I sat down and put in my by-now $55 credit slip. After a bit I was up to $80--my original buy in--and decided to stop. Linda, meanwhile, dropped another of my double sawbucks.
Since we hadn't been there long I thought we should get a couple of $5.00 slips and play the penny machines. I settled on a 2 cent slot and milked it for a time. Linda actually parlayed her fiver (mine, actually) into $15.00.
Some day I'd like to have a fat roll to play with and the attitude that if I lose it all I really don't care.

Speaking of Linda, she just went to the movies and saw that lame comedy with Hanoi Jane. I am not pleased.

I've done some chores this weekend. I wired the trailer I assembled, no thanks to the instructions. I cleared out some junk in my office and the staircase leading up to it. Cleaned the rat's cage. I mowed the front yard and ripped up a bunch of weeds on the strip between the street and sidewalk.
That stip has been the biggest pain in the ass since we moved in. When I planted grass it didn't grow. When I put down plastic and covered it with beauty bark the grass grew. Linda, my commie pinko wife, put in some bushes and weeds sprouted between them like, well, weeds. Very hearty, fast-growing weeds.
I watched the second batch of Deadwood shows on DVD. Some folks were offended by the cussing, and the scripts do it up royal, but I work with young military people and they talk like that all the time. I hardly notice it anymore. I like the way the series tries to show the Old West the way it was--dirty, deadly, corrupt, lawless, and unmerciful. Sort of like L.A. today.

My reading is still minimal right now. I have a western on my bed that I'm slowing working my way through and Pronzini's short story collection at work that I look at during slack times.
There haven't been that many slack times lately, however. One of our jobs is to load and secure Stryker armored fighting vehicles into the C-17 jets at McChord AFB. I suppose in the past six months I've been involved with deploying a couple of dozen of these Strykers, and there have been as many done by other shifts. It makes me wonder what happened to the ones that were there initially, and also what happened to the guys who rode in them. I know that the desert is murder on engines, and certainly some just wore out, but others were blown up and a couple rolled into canals by accident. Fort Lewis, the Army base we're supposed to merge with, has at least one memorial a week for service members who have died in Iraq or Afghanistan. Some of them in Strykers. So each time I help send one off I wish the best for those who will be assigned to it on the other side.
Besides, it takes eight 25,000 lb. tiedown chains to secure one of those monsters (weight: about 43,000 pounds) to the deck of a C-17. I hate doing tiedowns. Getting too old for all that squatting.

Happy Memorial Day to all those who served.

Cap'n Bob, veteran

Is It Over At Last?

As moaned about in my previous blog, a lot of annoying little setbacks have been happening since the middle of April (the beginning if you count an old back injury that flared up). The ongoing car hassles may have stopped since I put in a new battery, alternator, and battery post.

Yesterday I took my girls to see KINGDOM OF HEAVEN. It was rated R, and I wouldn't have taken them to an R movie normally, but the rating was based on some splattered blood during the battle scenes and that's mild compared to the junk they see on TV all the time.
I suppose I liked the movie but not without reservations. My usual complaint about the MTV influence in the action scenes continues here. Flash cuts, extreme closeups, wobbly cameras, and what appears to be a strobe effect all diminish the action for me rather than enhance it. Also, the movie included the old chestnut of the hero doing a good deed for his enemy which saved him from destruction later on.
Still, the assault on the castle was damned exciting, the female lead lovely, the ideals of knighthood and redemption played with proper solemnity, and the chatterbox a few rows ahead shut up after I hinted she should.
Also interesting was the portrayal of the Knights Templar, whose history was germane to the Maltese Falcon. Here, they're shown as a rapacious, greedy bunch interested only in loot and power.
A movie like this demands a large screen, so unless you have a really big TV I recommend you see it in the theater.

My oldest girl has been getting a few driving lessons from me. Actually, I just sit there and let her drive my car--when it works--and caution her about stopping distances and speed around corners when the need arises. Lucky for us there's a park nearby with a Five Mile Drive that's one way and has a 20 MPH speed limit. After traversing that a couple of times we hit the city streets and she's doing well. It's funny for me to see someone learning to drive a car when I routinely drive a 55-foot long aircraft loader and other pieces of Air Force equipment.

I stared reading BURGADE'S CROSSING, by Bill Pronzini, last week. I like Bill's writing a lot and was eager to read this, but when I stared I realized it was a short story collection. I'd already read the titular story (luckily I have too poor a memory to remember how it ended), and probably several others. Now, I don't mind having the book at all, but I think the pulisher was kind of sneaky by not saying it was an ss collection right up front. All the cover says is FIRST TIME IN PAPERBACK! That sounds like a novel to me.

The weekend was so busy I had to take today, Monday, off. What with the holiday next week, that'll be back-to-back three day weekends. As Homer Simpson says, Woo-hoo!

2005: A Very Good Year For Whines

I'm glad the last two weeks are over. What a lot of crap hit during that period. First, I had to take a difficult class for work. It's more than a little disheartening to realize that my memory is stuffed fuller than a glutton on Thanksgiving and won't hold anything more. I managed to pass the final and get my certificate, but I don't look forward to applying what little I learned. If I do I'll be responsible or seeing to it that a C-17 cargo plane is properly loaded. There are a ton of things to consider before one of those $300 million planes gets off the ground, and I'm happier not having to consider them. I suppose that after a while it'll all be second nature to me, but for now it seems quite daunting. Worse, there's no extra money in it for me.

While I was fretting about that my car blew a head gasket. Estimated cost: $1600+.

And to top it off I heard from my collaborator, Warren Murphy. He's decided to retire from the writing business so the book I wrote that he was supposed to rewrite is now orphaned. Oh, I could take it back and try to sell it myself, but I don't think that's going to happen. It was really his book, his vision, his idea, and he has the clout to sell it.

It would seem that the insurance company for the jackass who rear-ended me almost three years ago finally offering to settle would come as good news. Sure. Of the $10,000 they're giving I'll get about $4800. The car will eat up a lot of that. The little that's left won't cover a tenth of the projects I have begging for attention.

Oh, and I've had a head cold the entire time all of this has been happening.

Sometimes, life really stinks.

I guess I should be glad that we're all reasonably healthy and Kristine's latest report card was excellent (except for the C in science). The rest were A's and one B.

I've succumbed to the lure of Netflix and watched a few movies since I signed up. MYSTIC RIVER started breaking up after the first half and I never saw it through. It wasn't bad, but it suffered from a modern affliction some movies have with the addition of so much ambient nosie that the dialogue is often lost. And no, I'm not getting deaf in my dotage. I hear the foot shuffling, clothing material rustling, dinnerware rattling, and cars whooshing by just fine. But I'd prefer to hear what the people are saying. I've compared how they record movies today to the way they did during the Golden Age of Hollywood and I'm positive they were more aware of sound then. Even when people whispered in those old movies I can hear them. Nowadays, I need to be a lip reader.

KILL BILL 1 & 2 were great. I liked part two better, but they were both exciting, funny, interestingly plotted, and deliciously over the top. Okay, so no one is going to come out of a four-year coma looking as good as Uma Thurman, but I was willing to play along with the director on that one.

HERO was the first movie I saw on this plan. The kung fu was elaborately staged, almost balletic, but the story dragged badly and I was glad when it was over. I gave it a 6 out of 10.

I also saw BASIC INSTINCT, but that was a local rental. Hard to believe that I waited this many years to see it. Sharon Stone is magnificent as the calculating femme fatale, Michael Douglas has just the right amount of doofus in him to be convincing as the gullible cop drawn into Sharon's web, and the plot twists were smooth and believeable. A real classic.

Before all the crap started I stumbled over a cheap record/CD/cassette player/radio and bought it. I've been able to play my old vinyl albums that have been sitting around for decades, in some cases. As I type this I'm listening to The Man From Duck Run, a collection of songs by Leonard Slye before he became Roy Rogers.

My other girl, Stephanie, has started a driver's training class. She's now 15 1/2 years old and can't wait to hit the highway. But so far she hasn't had any stick time at the class. If she doesn't get some soon I'm going to go in there and ask some pointed questions. I didn't shell out $240 so she could watch videos and read bulletins.

Okay, life hasn't been all weevils in the flour. I got the latest James Crumley and Loren Estleman books, fishing season opens May 1, and the M's just won two in a row. And perhaps my lottery tickets will come through.

Yeah, sure.

Paperbacks R.I.P.?

According to Sandra Scoppettone's recent blog there will be no more mass market paperbacks published after 2007 or thereabouts. Everything will be hardcover or trade paperback.

I sure hope this is a wild rumor. It's hard for me to fathom a world without paperbacks as we know and love them. Granted, they're mighty expensive these days, but they're cheaper than tpbs or hcs, as we aficionados call them.

Do publishers really think people will spend two- to four times the cost of a pb for a book by a newcomer or non-bestselling author? Or are mass market pbs unprofitable these days, forcing this change? Beats me.

It would seem to me that if the major publishers did discontinue paperbacks there would be a huge void left and some enterprising newcomers would rush in to fill it. After all, paperbacks started in order to serve a need (cheap books for the common man/woman) and that need still exists despite the deplorable dearth of new readers spewed from the hallowed halls of modern learning.

I won't even go into the issues of shelf space and convenience that can only be satisfied by paperbacks. I'll just say that if there are no more new paperbacks to read I'll finally have an excuse to read all the old ones I've been stashing away for the past 20+ years.

High Society

I trust everyone's familiar with the case of Mary Kay Letourneau, the Washington school teacher who had an affair with an ugly, obnoxious 13-year-old student. Mary served a 7-year jail term and is now preparing to marry the kid she had the affair (and 2 children) with.
All that's strange enough, or creepy enough if you will, but what really floors me is that the happy couple is signed up at the bridal registry at Macy's.
Am I missing something? I always thought that bridal registries were meant for people on the mid- to upper levels of society, not pitiable freaks and felons. And should one wish to purchase a wedding present for them, what would be appropriate? Supp-Hose for her and Dr. Suess for him? The whole thing is alternately funny and sad.

Still Crazy After All These Weeks

Last weekend I took my girls to Oro Valley, Arizona, to visit my mother and two sisters. I'd bought my mother a computer for her birthday (Feb. 24) and decided that if I didn't go down there, install it, and show her how to use it it would linger in the boxes a long time. So we took a pre-dawn redeye to Phoenix, rented a car, and drove to Oro Valley. Our first order of business was to get a computer desk, and after driving a while found a place that sold them. It should be noted that everything in that area is scattered all over the desert and there's nothing in between but scrub, mesquite, sand, and cactus.
Naturally, the job of assembling the desk fell to me, but I was lucky in that the instructions were clear and my mother had a good power screwdriver. By evening the desk and computer were up and running (okay, the desk didn't run, but you get the idea). Since AOL had a free connection built in I signed her up with them. If you know me, you know I hate AOL, but this was just to get connected so we could sign up with her full-time server, Peoplepc. We canceled AOL later.
My mother has had virtually no dealings with computers before so the training had to start at the lowest level. Now that she's had it a week she's getting more confident.
While I was in Arizona I hooked up with my cousin Glenn, who by coincidence was visiting a friend in Tucson. I haven't seen him since 1988, and not for a long time before that. It seems we shared a number of interests, including guitars and model kits, and he brought me a box full of WWII figures and accessories. I spread them out today and found 50 WWII Marx Germans, 66 WWII Marx GIs, and 30 Tim-Mee Vietnam GIs.
Of course it was nice to visit with the family, whom I haven't seen in ages, and they enjoyed seeing how the girls had grown. My brother-in-law rode his motorcycle over and gave the kids a ride. They both loved it so I have to hope they don't become a couple of tattooed Harley chicks this summer.
There wasn't much time to go places and do things (there would have been more if people could get out of the door in under two hours), but we hit a mall on Saturday. The women went clothes shopping so Glenn and I looked for places of greater interest. I found a Waldenbooks that had a western section, of all things, and bought a Gorman/Greenberg-edited collection called TEXAS RANGERS, and three Randisis. I also found THE LONDON BLITZ MURDERS, by Max Allan Collins, in the mystery section.
I'd bought round trip tickets but when I went to America West for the return journey I discovered I'd been book on United, or, as they so hiply call themselves now, TED. Gag me with a spoon.
At least the planes were roomy (we had a stop in San Francisco). The one we flew in on the way down must have been built for midgets.
Arizona was hitting around 80 degrees every day, which didn't bother the natives but was too warm for me. I was able to switch on the fans in my mothers house, but all the public places seemed to think there was some law against air conditioning. Places like the mall and the furniture store were stifling.
Oh yeah, speaking of the mall there was a store called Puppies. I like to look at pups so I went in for a browse. In one cage they had a black and brown Chihuahua that was almost fully grown. The price? $1700.00! That's two to three times what they're worth, Grand Champions excepted, and this was no champ.

On a more recent note, I see that Robert Blake beat the rap for killing his wife. My reaction is GOOD! Not only did I think there was no evidence to show he did it, I have to agree with John Wayne that some folks just need killing. Bonnie was one of them.

Fred Wise

Eight years ago my father-in-law passed away. His widow, after waiting a year, remarried. She was 80 and her new husband, Fred Wise, was 87.
Fred died Monday morning after a series of strokes. He was 94.
Fred was one of the kindest men you could meet. He was a geologist as a young man who prospected for oil, gold, and other ores from Alaska to South America. He taught junior high science for 17 years (and wore a tie every day of his life afterwards out of habit), and had a large boat for a few years. He belonged to the Tacoma Yacht Club.
I don't think I ever heard Fred say an unkind word about anyone, and while his memory was pretty much kaput for his last few years, he still worked on his memiors and played Scrabble all the time.
Adios, Fred. It was nice knowing you.

Fred's passing got me to thinking about how finite our time can be in this life. I've been urging my mother to get a computer for years, but her reluctance to learn something new and the related costs have kept her from making the move. So, since her birthday is coming up later this month I decided to get her a basic Dell system. No printer or scanner, but it has enough muscle to get on line and surf the Net.

I love tax time. The IRS apparently has this idea that if they make filing taxes difficult enough we'll give up and not take all the exemptions to which we're entitled. Case in point: The Child Tax Credit. They direct you to follow the instructions in Form 927 or somesuch. I dare you to find that form. I did a search in the IRS site and got 500 hits, none of which were for that form. Case in point: Deducting state sales taxes. This is something new for this year, but try to find the table that tells you how much you can deduct. I dare you.
Usually the basic tax forms can be found at the Post Office, but they aren't supplying the PO this year. Try the library, I was told. I did, and they had next to nothing. The library people taped a sign up saying "This is all the IRS sent us."
Conspiracy theorists arise!

I asked Kristine's guitar teacher if he played Chuck Berry and he replied "No!" as though I'd asked if he got Michael Jackson's castoffs--and I don't mean clothes. So I'm still looking for someone to teach me rock leads. I just can't bring myself to pony up $40-per-hour for the privilege. I'll be going to Portland on the 18th, where rocker Brian Trainer will give me some pointers, but that isn't the same as regular lessons.

Last week I stayed home with a nice case of the flu. I'm still coughing like Doc Holliday and my sleep schedule is a mess, but I'm at least fit enough to go to work and function in a more-or-less normal fashion.

Stephanie Ann Smith and Tiny on his birthday, Jan 3, 2005 

In Good Company

I took my girls to see IN GOOD COMPANY yesterday and we all enjoyed it. It's about the dilemma of working in modern corporations and the comic results when a man's daughter starts dating his youthful boss. There's a touch of bitterness along with the comedy when takeovers destroy careers and corporate ladder climbing depends more on back-stabbing and ass kissing than ability.
It would have been easy to slap on a warm fuzzy ending, and it does end on an upbeat note, but not everything worked out by the usual Hollywood blueprint.

I bought a new shirt today. Now, I'm the kind of guy who will wear a shirt when it's worn thinner than cheesecloth and frayed like the battle flag on Fort McHenry. As long as it hides my nakedness, it's a keeper. But my closet is packed tight and I've vowed to discard one for each new shirt I acquire. So today I sent my western-style, ivory-colored, pearl-buttoned classic to the dustbin. I've had that shirt for about 20 years, and now it's a rag. Sure, you could see paint stains on my tee shirt right through it, but I feel like I've euthanized a family pet.

On a separate post today I presented a photo of my younger daughter, Kristine. What a rigamarole to do this. I'll try to post oneof Stephanie next. No one needs to see my ugly mug.

Reading: I just started THE FUNERAL OF TANNER MOODY. Recently read an ARC of Victor Gischler's SUICIDE SQUEEZE, which I enjoyed a lot.

Kristine Corinne Napier, 8th Grade 

RIP Johnny

I learned today that Johnny Carson died. I watched Johnny on The Tonight Show for decades. Over the years I lost countless hours of sleep staying up to watch his show, and if I couldn't see the whole show I'd at least see the monologue and opening comedy bit.

Rest easy, Johnny, and thanks for the million laughs.

Curses, Foiled Again

I was looking forward to my first Intermediate Guitar class tomorrow at the local community college with keen anticipation. Friday afternoon I found a message on my phone saying it was canceled. Again. This is the second time. I don't know why they keep on offering it. I'll get my money back, but I'm both annoyed and disappointed. I bought a new guitar a few days ago in anticipation of becoming a better player, but now I'll have to play it with the same old skills. The ax is a Fender Stratocaster, by the way. Not the $2000 model; it was on sale for $329.

Biorhythms

Do you ever check your biorhythms? Once in a while, if I'm bored enough, I do. This usually happens at work.

The idea behind biorhythms, as I understand it, is that certain functions of our life run in cycles that start when we're born. The three main functions are our physical, mental, and emotional states, and each runs on its own cycle--say, 24 days for one, 26 for another, 28 for the last. You can plot a line as these cycles go up and down with lines that look like an EKG.
I don't think biorhythms are any more accurate than horoscopes, but they're not as fraudulent as Dianetics or Creationism.
I've read that in some industries in Japan a person whose rhythms are very low can use them as an excuse to stay home from work, with full support from the company.

I mention this because my chart for this weekend (Jan 15-17) has all three of my elements at rock bottom. According to the proponents of this idea, that means I should stay home and not do anything more complicated than eating. Preferably soft foods.
By a stroke of luck I did spend most of the weekend at home. I watched the NFL playoffs while I printed out my zines for Dapa-Em and OWLHOOT. I didn't feel any dumber or emotionally unstable than usual, but perhaps I've already bottomed out in those areas and I have no lower to go.

Insomnia's Retreat

It's pushing 2 a.m. and I can't sleep, perhaps because I went to bed at 7 last night. That might sound off kilter to most of you, but when you consider I get up at 3:30 a.m for work I'm not really too far from the norm.

I've spent the weekend printing out my zine for OWLHOOT, a western apa of which I am the Ramrod. It's a pretty fine apa if I say so myself, and anyone interested in westerns should ask me for particulars.
Anyway, it takes a long, long time to print out these pages on my printer so I watched the NFL playoffs at the same time. I think this is called multitasking. My wife calls it being a lazy bum. I was surprised to see Minnesota and the Jets win, glad that the Colts spanked the hated Broncos (though not as hated as they were when Elway was QB), and resigned to the fate of the hapless Seattle Seahawks. The Hawks were done in by the two bugaboos that have haunted them all year: dropped passes and a poor pass defense. And what about Jerry Rice? I don't think they threw one pass to him the entire game. What is he, a multimillion-dollar decoy? They could have had me for a lot less.
Next week we'll have another round of playoffs, then another I believe, and the week after we'll see who goes to the Superbowl (hint: it won't be Janet Jackson). I'd like to see New England or Pittsburgh represent the AFC and Minnesota take the NFC crown if only to have a Cinderella 8-8 team in the game.

I'm about two-thirds through SUICIDE SQUEEZE, by Victor Gischler. His style reminds me of a cross between Carl Hiaasen and Tim Dorsey, two other writers who use a Florida setting. He's not as outragous as either of them, but he has a freewheeling way of storytelling that both delights me and fills me with envy. The story itself revolves around a number of people on the trail of a unique Joe DiMaggio baseball card--one signed by not only Joe by Marilyn Monroe and Billy Wilder as well. There is some dipping into the milieu of comics and sci-fi (shudder!) mania that makes me feel right at home. I'm reading the ARC, so keep an eye peeled for this book when it hits the racks.

Happy Birthday to Toby and Tiny, my daughters' Chihuahuas, who turned two on the 3rd. I have to admit that I didn't think I could like yippy little dogs like them, but they're great.

The week between Christmas and New Year's was spent at Frank Denton's cabin near Mt. Rainier for a semiannual gathering known as Tankon. Five of us convened for a near-week of fellowship, male bonding, discussion, argument, backbiting, contempt, rabid disagreement, homicidal thoughts, and food. Lots of food.
The best part of the experience, other than spending time with a group of bright, fannish guys, is the chance to get away from the real world. No TV, no newspapers, no radio, no phones, no families. No Internet, either, and that's a problem for a junkie like me, but I manage. And I read.

A week ago I saw the movie THE AVIATOR, and recommend it highly. Leonardo DiCaprio surprised me with his performance as Howard Hughes, and whoever the actress is who played Kate Hepburn stole the show; she was brilliant.

As for New Year's Eve, I made myself a vodka collins and went to bed by nine. There's no correlation between the two, I was just tired and that's my late bedtime these days anyway. I've never been that big on celebrating New Year's. One year I was a part of the mob in Time's Square. Once or twice I've drunk more than my usual two beers. I've enjoyed the usufructs of gallantry. More often than not I've stayed home and ignored it. It just seems artifical to me. Like Mother's Day being a conspiracy by the card and flower industries, New Year's seems like a plot by the liquor and restaurant people to get us so drunk we forget we spent all our money at Christmas.