The Wish I Was Flying Dutchman

Claiming Our Inheritance

2012-02-12T09:00:00.000-08:00

Thank you, Carol. Your point is well taken when you say:

It is a sad commentary that we live in the only "civilized" country in the world that does not provide health care for its citizens. Not one of the few .. the ONLY.

Carol B

What is happening in America is criminal -- criminal neglect. Live with your illusions: the only thing that matters here is what you can do for Corporate. Your value as a human being does not matter, or matters in reverse proportion to what you can contribute. This puts the cart before the horse, as far as I can see. Keeping our countrymen healthy and happy will promote economic growth; economic growth should not dictate individual value.

I know other systems of economics-slash-government have their problems and their share of disgruntled citizens, but at least they're healthier than we fast-food placated, empire-driven Americans.

I love this country. I am saddened by the sinking standard of living here. I do not see how increasing profit margins for insurance companies that are reluctant to pay the people back does anything but hurt America. We hobble ourselves with a Congress determined to do nothing useful, by holding onto a misguided understanding of the American Dream that itself dengrates that dream, and by sitting by and doing nothing while a handful of unreality-based politicians strive to promote only one thing -- themselves.

We can get America back on track, but first we have to get America back at all.

And by the way, what exactly is WRONG with free universal healthcare?????

Fifty Percent Tax Rate

2012-02-11T16:49:00.000-08:00

If you knew for a certainty that your health care, including eyes and teeth, would be covered 100%, no matter what; that you got five weeks paid vacation every year, no matter what; that your children were guaranteed a college education if they wanted it, no matter what; and that you would not have to downsize your lifestyle or home upon retiring unless you wanted to, no matter what -- would that be worth fifty cents on every dollar you earned? No more insurance premiums, college funds, or fear about how to afford to live beyond retirement. No more rainy days.

If you said yes, you are at least partially a socialist. If you said no you're probably a member of Congress (who has the best health care system in the country, for life). I ask you to consider. If you have health insurance and add its cost to your state and federal taxes, your social security and medicare taxes,I bet the percentage creeps above 50%. Then what's left has to feed you, clothe you, buy you all the things our society and economy need you to buy, plus earn savings for both your college fund and your retirement (which today they say should be one million dollars plus by the time you reach retirement age).

I think I know where the profits go. Maybe it would feel better to have a stake in your own future -- half of what you earn comes back to you in help. Not a handout; you earned it. And as o quality of care, education, and living, it seems that we in the US are lagging behind anyway, with much greater stress levels than any socialist I know.

Of late I listen to pundits who advise us how, what and how much to save, how to prioritize our income, how to budget to achieve the highest saving percentage, and on and on. It is solid advice, but the people giving it seem trapped in the same bubble that has engulfed Washington. Reality in America is a sinking ship. One in four of our children goes to bed hungry every night. One in six Americans -- most of them children -- lives below the poverty line. In the wealthiest country that ever was, ever.

Things have to change here, but first our attitudes have to change, and our prejudices have to be overcome by education. America has become a war-based economy that serves to protect its own corporate empire; no other country in the world (except perhaps Israel) spends so high a percentage of its GNP on war. In fact, the US spends by itself almost as much as the rest of the world combined -- and the rest of the world, at least the developed world, treats its own citizens better than we do.

In America, stay healthy. You can't afford the alternative. And think, challenge, question, learn, even if you find a way to prove me wrong.

Being Busy

2012-02-09T13:38:00.000-08:00

Dear Ones,

I haven't written for two days. I needed the mental break, having just finished transcribing all my notes for Ghost Music. That's just phase one; now I have to blend that material with other material that suits it and gives it plot and development, to make it a novel. This will take time and feels like a daunting task. Part of me is digesting all that stuff and hoping it comes together into a cohesive, moving and entertaining whole.

I am also in the middle of trying to set up AMBER WAVES as a hand copy paperback book through CreateSpace. This is a bit tricky for a first time self-publisher, so I am going slowly and carefully. But the reward will be a real, tangible book for sale along with the Kindle version.

I also am trying to piece together a chapbook of poetry for Kindle. My nephew and good buddy and fellow Silly Man Erik says I should keep it to between 25-40 poems, when I was thinking 100. I now think the middle ground, around 60, will be where I settle. I am also trying to bring some of his artwork if I can to the project.

Then there is my grandson. I watched him on Tuesday for a few hours and he takes all my attention, gladly. At one point he spontaneously climbed onto my lap, grabbed me for a big bear hug, held on tightly and said, "You're so beautiful!"
He melts my heart.

Then, there is tax season to consider. Don't get me started on THAT. Or politics. At least not today!

I guess I am telling you all this so I can give myself a break about taking a break. It's a busy life. Sometimes it seems too busy, but after all, it does beat the alternative. And even sorrow can bring me joy.

Short Note at Half Time

2012-02-05T16:02:00.000-08:00

Just a hort one to keep my hand in. It's hard to write a blog a day, especially if you spend your day tickling your grandson on demand or building Duplo structures just so he can knock them down. By the time he's ready for bed, so am I.

It is one of our greatest delights to have Xander on sleepovers almost every weekend. It's a wonderful way to stay connected and to watch him grow, change and develop. It also offers me in particular the opportunity to train Xander in the very porecise arts of being a Silly Man.

Montana is great in no small measure because of Xander and his terrific parents. I wish more grandchildren were on the horizon, but, then, for the time being Xander gets the benefit of our full attention, which any nearly four year old can really enjoy.

Silly Men unite! Special note to Erik -- the next Silly Man Convention needs planning big time. Bring your own spam.

A Choice Memory

2012-02-02T09:26:00.000-08:00

Politics is in the air, like Spring. Politics is always in the air, and sometimes it doesn't quite smell as nice as Spring. But sometimes it does.

My fondest memory of a comment made by a politician comes from Julian Bond, then 3 years of age. It was 1972, the year Richard Nixon was running for re-election. At the Democratic National Convention the delegates were having a heck of a time settling on the candidate they thought could beat Nixon. Someone suggested to Bond that he run, to which he thanked the Convention and said, ":Unfortunately, I am not of age."

He would have been the first Afro-American candidate in our history and possibly the first President. I can see it still, as the President inroduced himself as "Bond. J. Bond."

His slogan, naturally, would be: Our Bond Is Our Word.

But he never got up a head of steam for 1976, which was a wide open chance to unseat the Republicans after Nixon's resignation and Ford's pardon. With the real chance that a mere 36 year old Black man might run, the issue barely or never came up and Mr. Bond was religated to the sidelines. Still, Diane and I both really lijked and admired him, so we created our own write-in ticket for Mr. Bond and Bela Abzug. The thing was, Di put Abzug up for President and Bond for Veep while I voted the other way around. I think it cost them the election.

But what a ticket!

Some Random Thoughts

2012-02-01T13:11:00.000-08:00

Once in a while you just hear stuff. On headline news or Today or you see it in the little blurps that show up on your server's hopme page under headlines. They can sound odd or rough or cruel or danmgerous and many of us take them right out of context -- because the little blurp (and I am intentionallyt using that term) takes them out of context. One example is today reading that Presidential Hopeful Romney says that he is not worried about the poor. WHAT???#@!!

If you reasd the aricle he esplains that there are systems in place to help the poor -- a safety net. If elected and he finds that net broken, he will repair it. He also says he is not concerned about the very rich, they can take care of themselves. His focus is the middle class. Now that sounds more reasonable.

Still, I wonder what he defines as "poor." In America. In 2012.

More thoughts:

Today we also are stepping up concern about Iran's nuclear capability and Israel's possible pre-emptive strike response. It makes we think about another situation in which a major power was concerned about the growing strength of another major power and decided to launch a pre-emptive strike of its own. They attacked Pearl Harbor, and that didn't tirn out too well for Japan. Just saying.

On justice: can't we leave that to the courts? In America an accused is innocent until proven guilty, yet under freedom of information, the accused's name is released to the media, where the same person is guiltyu until proven innocent and the damage done by the public opinion garnered in the case can damage that person for life even if they prove nto be innocent.

Thirdly, there is an ad on TV for Tums. Is your favorite food foghting you? Change your diet -- your body is trying to tell you something!

And finally, I leave you with this thought:
Remember, every silver lining has a cloud.

Th, Th, That's all. Folks!

Tiered Flat Tax - the Solution?

2012-01-31T15:42:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again when all good little citizens pick up their tax forms, their pencils, their speed dials or their online tax filing alternatives, trying to understand all the changes in the laws and make sure they don't miss a single deduction. The tax code is cumbersome, complicated, and filled with little loop holes that either thrill you when you find them or devastate you when you learned you missed one after you turned in your forms. It also means a healthy return for some, paid back by the government for taxes collected, but without interest on the amount the government got to use all year that really belonged to you. Of course, interest was a bigger issue when there really was some.

This brings me to a thought process: simpler is better, or so they say. In that spirit I think we safely could strip the tax code down to basics. If you earn, you pay. I think the flat tax idea, bandied about for so long and usually shot down with flaming arrows, deserves a modified look. I would suggest that we adopt it, but not straight across the board at one rate. Instead, make it tiered, as follows (only a suggestion):
Income under $10,000 pays a flat 10%
Income 10,000-49,999 pays a flat 15%
Income 50,000-249,999 pays a flat 20%
Income at $250,000 and above pays a flat 25%

All sources of income should be lumped together and subject to the tax. There should be no deductions and no exemptions (with charitable donations a debatable point), and therefore no need for cumbersome tax forms and multitudinous expert help. Just simple math. This may cause accountants, tax consultants, and the employees at the IRS a little concern, but I am sure they will still be needed, perhaps in monitoring how Congress spends all that revenue.

You may ask, why should I pay more just because I earn more? Why should someone pay more who earns less? I believe that we all have an obligation to the society in which we live, to help that society take care of all its citizens. If that society has provided you with a healthier income -- be it through hard work, sound investment, inheritance, or luck -- you should and must pay a higher share to run that very society.

Besides, 75% of a million bucks is still a lot more than 90% of $10,000. And remember that if our society breaks down, you will have nothing. The so-called one percent needs to understand that they need the other 99% a lot more than the 99% needs them -- to make things, buy things, build things, rent things. If the one percent should ever falter, there are plenty who would replace them.

Three Blog Night Again

2012-01-29T16:06:00.000-08:00

Hello, everyone! The weekend hit and things got busy and i neglected my blogging. So, to make up for that I would like to present three blogs.

Friday: My Book, My Gift

The events detailed in Amber Waves happened not long ago – well, some of them happened a very long time ago – in the days after 9-1-1 and the infamous shoe bomber, when most of America began looking for terrorists under every bed in a manner that would have made Joe McCarthy – look him up – proud. The one positive thing I can see to come from it all is a radical increase in foot cleanliness spurred by airport security concerns and resultant required shoe removal. You might call it pedophobia, if there is such a word.

In the context of that time, our travelers found themselves in a place that just didn’t give a damn. The people who lived there had their own set of priorities, and clean shoes were not of paramount concern. But, then, what was worth blowing up in Amber Waves, Nevada?

Many of the events that take place in this book actually happened as part of the historical record. Some did not. I have taken liberties with them all, for dramatic effect. Or comedic interpretation. Or poetic license, or shits and giggles.

Replaying Jason Edwards’ life was like running a highlights reel: although he had many ‘lives,’ re-inventing himself again and again, memory best recalled the most dramatic ones that found him encountering the famous and notorious. The rest were not dull, exactly, just tame and peaceful. And you, Gentle Reader, prefer to hear about the tumultuous and confrontational. Admit it, you do – it makes for better storytelling.

The results are the stories in this book that I have given you.

Saturday: The Disney Movie That's Still On The Shelf

I may have written about this before, I do not remember. Even so, the question bears repeating. The Walt Disney Studios have produced arguably the best animated films of all time. If we add Pixar to the mix, the best recent films join the list.

Every one of these films is readily available on DVD and most on Blue-Ray, at least whenever the vaults are opened to sell them to the next generation. These are timeless classics, like Bambi, Dumbo, Snow White, and more recent classics like Beauty and the Beast, The Lion King, Up. Yet one remains mysteriously missing. Of course I mean The Song of the South.

I saw it when I was a kid, and that was already a theatrical re-release. I whistled and sang Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, literally, for years, and always felt joy when I did. But the film disappeared. Pirated copies exist, I am sure, but Disney decided to pull the plug on any push to put this one on tape or disc. Why?

The answer seems to be a matter of image, if I understand it right. The image that Uncle Remus presents to young people of African-American decent turns out to be a negative one, an Uncle Tom image of the placating, put upon old Black Man (before our current era of political correctness one might have used the “N” word and meant it in every sense possible, especially the ironic ones), subjugated by the white community around him. At least, Disney seems to think so.

Perhaps I saw a different movie. I saw a man of color struggling to retain his dignity while at the same time giving the young white child who loves him and admires him every scrap of education Remus could. I saw a man who was put upon by the society around him, no longer owned as a slave but often treated like one, yet remained the true font of wisdom in the story. I saw the real hero of the story being that marvelous black man, who saved the boy’s soul as well as his life.

Maybe it is reverse discrimination that has kept this fine film on the shelf: maybe the film is so good at portraying how life was for people like Remus that the white community is embarrassed to admit it. But today is a new age, filled with new awarenesses. Disney ought to release Song of the South without explanation or apology. It was the product of its times, and a reflection of a specific chapter in American history but, more, it is a wonderful vehicle for telling every child who will listen that, in the end, it is the clever and witty Br’er Rabbit who will outsmart Br’er Fox and Br’er Bear every time.

Sunday: Silly Men in Training

My grandson is great fun to be around. He will be four years old in March. Already, he displays a remarkable sense of humor and an easy, infectious laugh. Watching his funny bone at work, and admittedly encouraging it at every turn, I have come to a conclusion: either Xander is very sophisticated, or my own humor operates on the same level as a three and a half year old.

Diane says, “No comment.”

But sometimes she can be a real pooh-pooh head.

Acceptance and Rejection

2012-01-26T17:12:00.000-08:00

I accept that there is evil in the world.

I accept that we must combat it.

I accept that sometimes evil will win.

I accept that this maxim is true: killing is always bad, but sometimes it is necessary.

I reject utterly that we must become evil in order to combat it.

When someone tells you to hate, it has to do with personal gain. And it is not what Christ or Buddha or Mohammad were about.

It's Not A Diet

2012-01-25T10:44:00.000-08:00

So many people are having success with their weight loss programs that I thought would throw us into the ring. Diane and I were both very overweight. In 2007 I went to Holland with my brother, and when I saw photos of myself taken during that trip I realized, really for the first time, that I had gone out of control. Di already knew. We worked hard for the next three years, trying to be a bit more careful about quantities and what we were eating, and slowly dropped a bit of weight. But in April 2010, on the invite of a friend, Di went to Weight Watchers and I went along for the ride.

Doctor Oz reports that WW has the best record for weight loss AND maintenance. We both were morbidly obese when we started. Diane had considered gastric bypass surgery until she learned she would have to give up her Celebrex and her doctor agreed that was a deal breaker. Still, it wasn’t until I turned 60 and she was nearly 59 that we had the necessary mind set not to go on a diet but to make a substantial change in how we approached the food we ate. The first thing was to identify the trigger foods that caused us to overeat and simply refuse to have them in the house. For me thyat included peanut butter and mayonnaise. Second, came tracking what you eat. Third came portion control, and fourth came the support network the meetings provided Di, and through her, me.

I have lost 96 pounds altogether and have remained virtually the same goal weight for over a year. Di has lost 142 pounds so far, 122 on WW, and is still working to lose a bit more. Better still, I have lost the Nexium, Lipitor, and blood pressure meds I was on. Di lost her blood pressure meds as well and has not taken a Celebrex in months, this despite the Montana winter.

WW is not for everyone, but it is a wonderful resource. Whatever gets you to your goals is a wonderful resource. The key is not to go on a diet, as I said, but to look at what you are doing as a new lifestyle focused on eating the right things, making good choices. And guess what? You still can have fun!

The Van Gogh Equation

2012-01-24T11:15:00.000-08:00

What I have learned, or remembered and relearned, is that if I put my work out there, in front of everyone, it has a chance to be remembered itself. Even if no one reads it today, someone might discover it tomorrow. Vincent van Gogh sold only one painting in his lifetime, but that did not stop him from painting. And today he is thought to be one of the best, if not the best, artists of all time.

Jan van Gilse – my newest hero – saw his countrymen resist his music as too Germanic, then saw the Nazis ban all performance and try to destroy his manuscripts. Nicholai Miazkovsky composed 27 symphonies, most performed briefly in his homeland Russia, then, like Haydn, chucked aside awaiting the next. They had no staying power, even in Russia, and were ignored abroad == but now we can hear all 27 if we want.

Then there’s Mahler. Always there is Mahler, who rarely got rto hear one of his elaborate and beauty-filled symphonies performed but knew he would be remembered for them someday. Today we consider him one of the greats.

Thousands upon thousands of works of art go unrecognized or enjoyed only by our closest friends and families. I thank you for that, by the way. But fame or value, even after I am dead, yet may come. It’s like the Lotto: you can’t win if you don’t play. You won’t gain an audience if you hide your work. Or, to paraphrase that famous line from “Field of Dreams”: if I write it, they will read.

In that spirit I must be less shy, less anxious, less afraid. Rejections aside, failure would be failure to try.

Back to Writing About Writing

2012-01-23T13:50:00.000-08:00

In 1975 I completed a biography of the man whom I considered to be one of the greatest musical geniuses of the Twentieth Century, Dmitri Shostakovich. The book was more than a biography. It was a fun trip through the world of modern symphonic music, written for laymen, like myself.

Soon after I finished the book Shostakovich died. I sold the manuscript, but to fit into the publisher’s series format, the book had to be changed. And changed. The fun went out. What was left was a valuable (of course) biography and musical discussion of Shostakovich’s symphonies, critically well received.

Between sale and publication, four years elapsed. Shostakovich’s own Memoirs came out at the same time as my book, adding vistas to my understanding of Shostakovich the Man and the Artist. After a lifetime of devotion to this man and his music, now I make of him a character in a novel. A ghost, if you will, who wrote music, although it is the ghosts who spoke to him that you will meet.

More Political Digressions

2012-01-22T16:27:00.000-08:00

The philanderer beat the businessman. The Constitution came in fourth. Maybe the Republicans ARE as confused as the Democrats.

Now we are being set up to hear the President of the United States say, “He turned me into a Newt.

Meanwhile, Congress is ineffectual, even invisible, except when its members are posturing. I mean, has anyone seen or heard from Al Franken?

Daniel Bartle

2012-01-21T17:32:00.000-08:00

It is with great sadness that I have to report the loss of a fine young man, Daniel Bartle. USMC Csptain Bartle died in a helicopter crash along with five fellow Marines in Afghanistan. Mechanical failure is suspected as the cause of the crash. Daniel was 27 years old.

He was a fine person, a proud American, and an accomplished pilot. Diane and I remember him as a young boy, around the same age as our grandson is now, as one of our day care kids. Our memories of young Daniel are filled with smiles, but today our hearts are heavy.

John and Sandy, we cannot know the depth of your loss, but we share in it. War is tragedy, we all know that, but today that tragedy has come home to us. It makes all the rest seem unimportant.

W. H. Auden wrote:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song:
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the word;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

At least, that’s how it feels. God Bless you, Daniel, and bring you Peace, and may you be there to guide us home when our turns come.

And this one, from me to you:

Life goes on.
The living prepare
Their Sunday snacks
For armchair football
Unaware.
The snow needs plowing,
My grandson needs my help
Building Duplo towers
Just to knock them down.
The trees drop wet burdens
Like small avalanches
Right where I need to be,
And all I can think about
Is a helicopter crashing
A million miles away
That took from us a young man
I’ve known since he was
My grandson’s age.
The game has lost its thrill today,
The score is unimportant.
The film is not that funny;
The comedy falls flat.
I cannot taste the food;
Even odes to joy ring bitter
For a while life will have to go on
With me on the sidelines, sobbing.

Digressing Into Politics

2012-01-20T16:28:00.000-08:00

Is it any wonder that Americans increasingly don’t want to vote? Looking at the Republican circus, it would be funny if it weren’t so tragic. One of these guys is going to be their choice to run for President. Romney was a shoe-in a few days ago. Now he hasn’t even won the first test that he won. Gingrich is moving up on the outside – depending on how voters view his alleged open marriage proposal. Santorum – who exactly is this guy? And Ron Paul is simply too set in his Constitutional ways to appeal in a general election.

There people are running to be the leader of the Free World, still the most powerful position in the world. All too often the voter has been left with choosing the lesser of two evils – and all too often, we choose wrong.

Maybe the convention will be deadlocked and the Party will draft Chris Christie.

The irony in Washington today is that our government works by gridlock. Checks and balances assure that nothing outlandish is done, at least not before it is watered down or explained to death and is no longer outlandish – or helpful. Gridlock protects our democracy, but there comes a point when, as one observer suggested over two centuries ago: revolutions happen when nations move forward but governments stand still. Gridlock may work when the country needs as little interference as possible, but is deadly when we need help. FDR saw that and acted on it, letting the dust settled after. Everyone in Washington today seems to be in love with gridlock and non-performance, from the White House on down, and we the people are stuck watching individuals with money and power run against each other.

We decide. Sure. Give me one candidate who doesn’t want the job. Oh, yeah, I think one name came up in there someplace, but he’s a Republican . . .

My First Book Leads to My Next

2012-01-19T15:38:00.000-08:00

In 1975 I completed a biography of the man whom I considered to be one of the greatest musical geniuses of the Twentieth Century, Dmitri Shostakovich. The book was more than a biography. It was a fun trip through the world of modern symphonic music, written for laymen, like myself.

Soon after I finished the book Shostakovich died. I sold the manuscript, but to fit into the publisher’s series format, the book had to be changed. And changed. The fun went out. What was left was a valuable (of course) biography and musical discussion of Shostakovich’s symphonies, critically well received.

Between sale and publication, four years elapsed. Shostakovich’s own Memoirs came out at the same time as my book, adding vistas to my understanding g of Shostakovich the Man and the Artist. After a lifetime of devotion to this man and his music, now I make of him a character in a novel. A ghost, if you will, who wrote music, although it is the ghosts who spoke to him that you will meet.

Ghost Music - The Plot

2012-01-18T14:24:00.000-08:00

Two men meet in a park, in Dresden, in 1960. One is the conscience of a brutalized generation playing back fear and hope in equal measures. The other is a warrior whose life and deeds condemned that generation to its hell. One is Russian, the other German. For that one brief moment, they reach, remembering the tragedy of Dresden a mere fifteen years before, that seemed a mere microcosm of the tragedy of Man at War.

Ghosts sing to them, many shared between them, yet until this moment they had never met, and, alive, they would never meet again.

Odes to Joy

2012-01-17T15:07:00.000-08:00

One of my characters in my new project is going to say the following: Does music have to say anything more than, “I’m glad to be alive”? Or, more simply, Let’s dance!

I struggled for a long time to understand just that aspect of music. So much is tied to a program, or lyrics, or a subtitle, or even the moment in the life of the composer during which the piece was written. We look for meaning. Sometimes there is none, and in music that is just fine..

Music is the only medium I know that does not have to be about anything and still reach you. Even poetry, which supposedly is about the words and their sounds and how they interplay, has to have a subject or object to draw us in. And abstract art is the exception that proves the rule. You look at a Pollack and somehow it moves you, or possibly nauseates you, but it does something –- without reference points. That would not work for a Rembrandt or Vermeer; trust me on this.

Poetry, and anything using words, creates imahes to follow. Music, when it is not anout anything specific, allows us to create our own images from the influence of the notes. It has been said the observer brings his or her preconceptions and expectations to the table when viewing a work of art. But the art always gives you directions, hints. In music those hints are more emotional, more visceral, and the observer’s reaction more complete.

Take for example the coda at the end of Shostakovich’s Tenth Symphony. After all that has preceded it – a funeral waltz, a crushing march, a playful contest and a declaration of Self – this last outburst explodes in the joy of being alive, against any logic. It says everything words cannot.

A song without words, a symphony without subtitles, a joyous celebration or a desperately sad sound, all touch us profoundly, often to tears. And I have to ask: does music have to say something to say something?

Knowledge is Power, or Have We Forgotten?

2012-01-16T10:02:00.000-08:00

Dealing with the histories of so many ghosts whose only choice in liberty was between living under tyranny or being killed by the tyrant, I am mindful of how precious liberty is. If you don’t use it, you lose it. But if you don’t know you have it, you won’t think to use it.
"Knowledge itself is power." -- Francis Bacon

Knowledge is power. When this phrase was coined, the concept meant that, in order to navigate through the realities of the world, you had to understand them first. The more you knew, the more you understood, and the farther you would go. Modern society has lost this key interpretation.

Knowledge as power does not mean better knowing an App. It is inclusive knowledge of the whole world: history, literature, mathematics, philosophy, politics, morality, religion, science, art and music. It is not good enough to know where to find answers -- without the curiosity to ask questions or the foundation of knowledge to drive that curiosity.

Knowledge as power belongs to the individual: equally to a postman as to a university dean or a king. Do not surrender your knowledge or your equality. Your liberty will follow, and with it your sense of individuality.

I leave you with this final quote:

"Knowledge is good. It does not have to look good or sound good or even do good. It is good by just being knowledge. And the only thing that makes it knowledge bis that it is true. You can't have too much of it and there is no little too little to be worth having." -- Tom Stoppard

In Praise of Shostakovich and Myself

2012-01-15T15:44:00.000-08:00

The other day I got a Great Courses catalogue in the mail. These are wonderful opportunities to brish up on areas of little or long ago exposure, like the basic star map, or explore new curiosities, like how and when to serve what wine. I am always curious what is being offered, so, with no intention of buying a class )I have a star map and I serve whatever wine I happen to have), I peeked through.

One class was called “The Thirty Greatest Orchestral Works.” Being wrapped up in classical music (since I was a kid), I just had to look (having written a book). I found myself agreeing with most of the lecturer’s choices and was particularly pleased to see Shostakovich represented not once, but twice, with his Fifth and Tenth Symphony.

The Fifth is an obvious choice to me: it was the single most performed symphony of all that were written in the 20th Century. But the Tenth is a more obscure choice. Although in my book I called it his masterpiece. I thought of it as the Fifth in Retrospect – filled with sadness, anger, pathos, self-determination and ultimately joy. I like to think that perhaps I had a little influence on the decision makers with my own assessment.

Well, if we don’t toot our own horns, who will?

Dealing With Iran

2012-01-14T14:56:00.000-08:00

One of the major issues that we likely will have to face in 2012 is Iran’s nuclear program. We know what everyone is telling us about that – and how UN sanctions are not having much effect in stopping or curtailing what the Iranians plan to do. With Iran listed as one of the rogue nations about which we are continuously concerned, facing this challenge has to be one of the primary targets of US foreign policy.

A solution exists, if we think outside the box a little. This is how we should deal with Iran’s nuclear ambitions – embrace them. Invest in them. It would not be the first time US economic interests dictated foreign policy, nor the first time we engaged beneficially with a power with whose politics we disagree. And besides, if we invested American capitol and perhaps even American labor in Iran in this way, we could monitor their programs better if we were on the Board.

Iran says they are seeking only peaceful uses for nuclear power. Sell them our own expertise. Sell them our own materials. Help them build that peaceful program, then hide bugs and cameras nation-wide to spy on them. It would be better than looking for WMDs that are not there, or, worse, watching a threatened Israel launch pre-emptive strikes against Iranian power plants and thereby perhaps alienating the entire region.

I know you aren’t listening, Mr. President and members of Congress. But you should be.

Friday the Thirteenth

2012-01-13T14:32:00.000-08:00

Friday the Thirteenth/

This is one of my favorite days of the year because it gives me the opportunity to use a big word and make people say, “Boy is he smart!” The word is triskadekaphobia.

Trouble is, I always called it stristodecaphobia. Close, but no cigar. And Di thought it was tridecaphobia. Her logic was sound: tri for three, deca for ten = thirteen, and phobia means fear of. In aother world that word would do. But the wordsmiths decided to make it even more elaborate and obscure by using the Greek word for thirteen, “Triskadeka.” How fearsome is that?

Anyway, Happy Triskadekaphobia Friday to you all!

Looking at the Upside for 2012

2012-01-12T13:14:00.000-08:00

I have been feeling down as this new year arrived. I have looked at myself with regret, thinking about all the things I want to do but do not have the means to pursue. In so doing, I forgot about the things I have done and am still able to remember with a fond heart and a clear – or nearly clear – mind.
This is part of it:
I have been so fortunate in my life. I have gotten to do things most people never get to do, see things most people never get to see, and share all of it with a partner who has managed to stay with me and put up with me for 37 plus years, and counting. I have walked on a hillside where Charlemagne once stood overlooking his empire. I have watched Christiaan Huygens’ pendulum clock working in his father’s summer house. I have seen The Girl With The Pearl Earring—so close I could have reached out and touched her. I have found Delft Blue dildos in Amsterdam’s flower market and screamed in bemused delight. I have walked on the Third Floor at the Belleek Factory in Northern Ireland and survied driving on the wrong side of the read.
I have gotten to travel, not once but several times, to the land of my birth and the land of my wife’s ancestry. I got the travel bug and always am itching to go back. My regret is that travel is only a distant possibility. My joy is in knowing what I am missing.

The Soul of a Poet

2012-01-11T10:14:00.000-08:00

Ultimately, I think of myself as a poet, with a poet’s soul if not his talents. I think I am talented, but I have very little opposition. I have sold poems in the past, although many many more were rejected than accepted.

Still, talent or no, I write. Nothing stops me from writing. Millions of things stop me from submitting.

So bear with me if I decide to put some of my poems together into a volume or chapbook for publication on Kindle while working on my ghosts. As I say elsewhere, it has come time for me to put my Self and my Stuff out there where people can choose to read it or not, and if they choose not I have to accept that it’s their mistake.

My mistake would be to sit on it forever.

Montana Milestone

2012-01-10T09:16:00.000-08:00

My second blog of 2012 is an apology to my new home state of Montana. A major change has come to you, one that you have managed to avoid for your entire existence. Your population surpassed the one million mark, and I know that two immigrants from the Salinas Salad Bowl contributed to this new statistical level. Whether you are proud or a little disappointed, we, Diane and I, are a bit sorry but majorly glad to be here.

Now, for perspective, the entire state population is still less than the population of the city of Amsterdam in the Netherlands and just about the same as the city pf San Jose in California. The area we escaped from, Salinas, has 144,000 people all by itself and is considered a smaller town by California standards. So, Montana, we may be more than a million strong, but we’re still spread out, less stressed, and definitely more friendly on average, and want for nothing.

Now, as for winter! We are still waiting. Personally, I am not unhappy that there isn’t a foot of snow on my driveway, but we came up here expecting a long hard winter like they told us they had last year. It’s January and yesterday the thermometer tickled 50. many are promising that we will have a tough spell yet, but I am at the believe it when I see it stage. My friend Clint reassures me, though, that precipitation is at 80% of normal already, with the season still going strong, and the snowfall above 5000 feet will provide runoff for the summer. Last year they wound up with 175% of normal and flood issues.

It comes down to this: we added to the population and we may have brought a bit of moderate weather along with us as well. At least for now. Sorry, but not.

A Beggar In Montata

2012-01-09T14:13:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the year 2012. We have seen the interesting and difficult 2011 pass away, and, oddly, the world did not look very different Sunday morning from how it looked on Saturday. I think I remember saying that 2010 was an interesting and difficult year, too. And 2009, 2008 . . .

I begin 2012 looking toward my writing, with some trepidation. To commit to the creation of a book length manuscript, as I have done, is daunting, as I am sure I have said. I also plague myself from time to time with doubt, that horrible monster that lurks in everyone’s closet. Will the book work out? Am I the right one to write it? Once written, can I sell it? Will anyone ever read it? Those doubts ring inside my head, sometimes more loudly than the voices begging me to write down their stories. And then there are other projects that await in the wings, so to speak, that would be easier to finish. And there are poems and reviews and stories I could be writing for Helium and other publishing alternatives. I have been ignoring that part of my craft.

Which brings me to something that occurred to me on New Year’s Eve, I need a patron. That would make life easier, and would allow me to focus on the writing much more intently than I do even now. I need to find a generous, flexible patron of the arts willing to gift me around $20,000 for the joy of seeing their name in the acknowledgements, or even in the dedication. If you know someone just itching to give that kind of kindness to a struggling writer, let me know. Better still, let them know my plight!

It could be two patrons at ten grand each, or five at just $4,000, or ten at two grand each, or twenty investing a thousand bucks in my future. Hey, if you don’t ask, you will never receive! Am I begging? No – I am offering solid product for any genuinely philanthropic human or humans who believe that artists and writers need to be encouraged.

To the patrons I do not have -- Wouldn’t that be nice?

The Grateful Writer

2011-12-20T09:08:00.000-08:00

It's Chrristmas and the writing is going slowly, with so much else to do. But the thinking goes on full tilt. And the reading -- what follows comes from encountering a slim volume used on Amazon, wherein lay the following treasured remarks. They remind me that this is a great time to take stiock and counbt our blessings, and I for one feel particularly fortunate right now -- and many of you contribute to the reasons why I feel that way as I struggle, mostly with myself, to do the work.

If you can read this, consider yourself loved, fortunate, and skilled.

My all time vavorite author, Kurt Vonnegut, said the following in an interview in 1999 that became "Like Shaking Hands With God, a Conversation about Writing," with Vonnegut and Lee Stringer. I needed to read these words, to remind myself that what I am and what I do is a blessing. He said:

"And it's important to retreat from the hoopla on television, and what television says matters and what we're all supposed to talk about. And of course literature is the only art that requires our audience o be performers, You need to able to read and you have to be able to read awfully well. You have to read so well that you get irony! I'll say one thing meaning another, and you'll get it. Expcting a large number of people to be literate is like expecting everybody to play the French horn. It is extremely difficult . . . when we think about what reading is . . . it's impossible. Literature is idiocyncratic arrangements in horizontal lines of only twenty-six phonetic symbols, ten Arabic numbers, and about eight punctuation marks. And yet there are people like you who can look at the printed page and put shows on in your head--the Battle of Waterloo, for God's sake. The New York Times says that there are forty million people in the United States who can't read well enough to fill out an application for a driver's license. So our audience cannot be large, becaused we need a highly skilled audience, unbelievably skilled.. . . . Thank you for learning to do this virtually impossible thing."

The point to me is that writing is something the writer does not for an audience, exactly, but for himself. Lee Stringer added:

"More and more these days I find that people want to boil things down to something simple, something you can grab in a second. I also see that today people are very result oriented. We don't do anything because it's the right thing to do, or for the sake of art, or for the sake of anything unless we can prove that down the road, e, y, or z is going to happen. I guess in that kind of environment it is difficult for what we call literature to exist because a book is not all that practical in short term. It's probably infinitely practical in the long term. But you're not going to pick Timequake (Vonnegut's last novel) off the shelf and learn how to scamble eggs tomorrow. So, in that context, writing is a struggle to preserve our right to be not so practical."

I am learning every day. I am learning a sad truth, but an important one. I won't change the world by writing Ghost Music. I know this; so do you. All I can do is write it, or not, and to be honest, or not, is not a choice.

But I will be read. And for that I thank you. Merry Christmas!

Amber Waves of Curiosity, revised

2011-12-13T13:57:00.000-08:00

For some reason my spell check did not work and I blithefully went ahead and posted anyway Please read the revised version instead, with corrections! My bad!

As Catherine so beautifully put it, my novel AMBER WAVES would make a great holiday gift. What more can a person want or get for under a buck?

In this book i have given you a smorgasbord of history. But, after all, history is a smorgasbord -- all you can eat,m choose what you want. One day I'm reading Carl Sagan;s COSMOS and come across the name Christiaan Huygens for the first time, and fall in love. Curious, I did deeper (to the point of visiting the Huygens summer house in Hofwijk, near Den Haag, in the Netherlands). On another trip to Holland, while visiting a good friend in Nijmegin, i happen on the ruin of Charlemagne's castle -- one of many castles he constructed throughout northwestern Europe so he could better monitor his kingdom. The encounter sparks memories from school, and those memories spark further interest. Another day I'm watching Brad Pitt as Achilles in the action adventure flick, TROY. Curious, I read Robert Graves' brief but both fascinating and entertaining account -- well, you get the point.

So this novel is my restaurant, my menu, my delights, selected from the so very many choices out there. One day you want Swedish meatballs, the next fried chicken. Or, in terms of the book, one day you want to hunt the Bull of Heaven with Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the next you crave a glimpse of Cleopatra in her bath.

This being a work of fiction, I am allowed a certain amount of license in what I present and how I present it. The fundamental facts cannot be changed. The characters ;iving through those facts -- and not always aware of how those facts will be remembered or why -- have greater freedom. What makes writing fiction so much fun is to set the characers free and let them tell me, the writer, what to say.

The truth is, no one really knows what happened back then, whenever then was. It's all our best guess. We learn new things about such people as Gilgamesh or the Frankish King all the time, revise our thinking, and press on./ We now know that Troy did exist, the Dark Ages were far from dark, and so-called golden ages pop up from time to time as a matter of course. As one of my former co-workers might say, "It's all good."

There just isn't time to learn it all.

So, Gentle Reader, if you become curios, even the tiniest bit, from my book or merely this brief discussion of my intent, make like an archaeologist and dig deeper!

Thanks for listening.

Amber Waves of Curiosity

2011-12-13T13:29:00.000-08:00

As Catherine so beautifully put it, my novel AMBER WAVES would make a great holiday gift. What more can a person want or get for under a buck?

In this book i have given you a smorgasbord of history. But, after all, history is a smorgasbord -- all you can eat,m choose what you want. One day I'm reading Carl Sagan;s COSMOS and come across the name Christiaan Huygens for the first time, and fall in love. Curious, I did deeper (to the point of visiting the Huygens summer house in Hofwijk, near Den Haag, in the Netherlands). On another trip to Holland, while visiting a good friend in Nijmegin, i happen on the ruin of Charlemagne's castle -- one of many castles he constructed throughout northwestern Europe so he could better monitor his kinbgdom. The encounter sparks memories from school, and those memories spark further interest. Another day I'm wathcing Brad Pitt as Achilles in the action adventure flick, TRPY. Curious, I read Robert Graves' brief but both fascinating and entertaining account -- well, you get the point.

So this novel is my restaurant, my menu, my delights, selected from the so very many choices out there. One day you want Swedish meatballs, the next fried chicken. Or, in terms of the book, one day you want to hunt the Bull of Heaven with Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the next you crave a glimpse of Cleopatra in her bath.

This being a work of fiction, I am allowed a certain amount of license in what I present and how I present it. The fundamental facts cannot be changed. The characters ;iving through those facts -- and not always aware of how those facts will be remembered or why -- have greater freeedom. What makes writing fiction so much fun is to set the characers free and let them tell me, the writer, what to say.

The truth is, no one really knows what happened back then, whenever then was. It's all our best guess. We lkearn new things about such poeople as Gilgamesh or the Frankish King all the time, revise our thinking, and press on./ We now know that Troy did exist, the Dark Ages were far from dark, and so-called golden ages pop up from time to time as a matter of course. As one of my former co-workers might say, "It's all good."

There just isn't time to learn it all.

So, Gentle Reader, if you become curios, even the tiniest bit, from my book or merely this brief discussion of my intent, make like an archaeologist and dig deeper!

Thanks for listening.

Welcome to Amber Waves

2011-12-12T11:55:00.000-08:00

In a serious attempt to get people interested in my first published novel, available exclusively on Amazon Kindle, I dedicate the next few blogs (unless somnething earth-shaking gets in the way). Yes, this is flagrant self-promoition, but, heck, it;s a ripping good yarn, if I do say so myself. So, here goes:

Welcome to Amber Waves, Nevada. Population, 218. Average lifespan, 294 years, three months, seventeen days. Of course, it only takes a few to throw off the curve. Felonies committed, only one in the last forty-three years.

All that's about to change.

MABER WAVES is a novel about immortality, mortality and confrontation. It traces the personal journeys of Jason Edwards and Edna McFadden, better known as Amber, from the time of Gilgamesh past the seige of Troy, through two and a half Golden Ages, inside the death camp at Dachau, to the rough and tumble mining town of Virginioa City and nthe little nstagecoach stopover that became Amber Waves. But Edna/Amber has begun to feel the effects of aging, while a ghost from Jason's more recent past has come back to haunt him -- or it might be the other way around -- and an agent from the FBI, suffewring from a serious case of curiosity, has come mto visit.

Through their mmemories we become witnesses to certain key episodes of history, with humor, mystery, sex, amurder, and a touch ofn the absurd running through it -- as well as that deepest of human emotions, regret. If you like to categorize a story based on other authors' works, I suggest you think of it as Thomas Cahill meets Christopher Moore.

For 99 cents on Kindle, how can you go wrong? Neverr has fun been so reasonably priced!

Off Target

2011-12-08T11:14:00.000-08:00

Just a quickie today.

Have you seen the ad on TV for Target that shows a young boy playing with a set of soldier like figurines, then attacks them with a giant stuffed Rudolph the Red nosed Reindeer? It is very funny and somewhat pointed -- Dad is watching, and obviously feels bad because his son doesn't have a proper monster to attack and destroy his troops. Flash to a monstrous T-Rex like creature in its packaging, available at Target -- Santa has elves, you have Target.

I like the ad. But what I really like is the message opposite the one Target intends. I see a young child using what he has available in order to enact the storyline he created -- in other words, using his imagination.

That;s what toys are for -- to awaken us. So don't be so shy about giving your son a Rudolph plush, okay?

Postal Blues

2011-12-06T14:08:00.000-08:00

Back to blogs. This one is about one of my least favorite subjects, the Postal Service. Having been retired from that institution for over a year, it seems I still pay attention to the news when it blurts out. Whether that is my own self interest, watching closely to make sure my pension is safe -- I don't trust what politicians tell me -- or out of some perverse sense of loyalty to a company that went out of its way to . . . well, I shouldn't go there. Not yet.

The news yesterday reveals that the PO is dropping its guarantee of overnight delivery within the same zip code zone. Again, this business is planning to compete with other like businesses by CUTTING service to its customers and decrying, they'll get used to it. After all, the Internet ether has replaced Bill paying and catalog shopping for so many, so what if there are still a million or two people out there who don't have the Internet or don't trust the ether to protect their identities.

Not that the service is all that great. Admittedly, even as a former employee, I am aware that much mail is being lost out there. I myself have lost half a dozen packages while an eBay seller, with considerable loss. A close friend and businesswoman reported to me that a package she ailed half a year ago containing $3500 in merchandise, equipped with confirmation and tracking, was lost, and all she gets from the PO is "Oh, well." The same individual reports the loss or delay of several bills "in the mail." This kind of empirical data shows that the Postal Service has forgotten the Service aspect of its job.

Frankly, the Post Office doesn't care.

Ask a carrier or a clerl or a mail handler on the job, and THEY care. But their hands are tied and their throats are being systemmatically choked. and if they want to keep their jobs in todfay's hostile climate (not that it was ever friendly -- the term Going Postal entered American jargon for a reason). they bhave to swallow hard the changes thrown at them in the name of progress, allow the work to be piled on to fewerr individuals, and, in those immortal words, suck it up.

Again, I wonder if the Post Office wants to fail. After all, how does a business that laready has cut almost half its work force since I began there three decades ago, and over 100,000 jobs in the last few years, continue to lose money? Then it hit me in one word: Congress. The Postal Service is the onbly private business answerable directly to Congress. Congress must approve any and all suggestions, adjustments, and price hikes, often tying the hands of those who actyually might know something about running a mega business. And, frankly, our Congress isn't running anything well these days, except for animosity and debt.

British TV

2011-12-01T13:33:00.000-08:00

The future of NBC's Prime Suspect is itself suspect. The show is facing cancelation after I think six episodes (I stopped watching after five). Once again, it goes to show that American adaptations of British television series rarely works. There are notable exceptions -- Sanford and Son, the Office come to mind -- but the failures are much more glaring and common. Coupling -- one of the funniest shows ever put together in Britain: need I say more?

This gets me to wondering: aren't there any American writers with new ideas anymore? Between so-called reality shows that don't need writers, to remakes of terrible shows from our past into feature length movies, to Brit TV fiascos, it sure looks that way. But I know differently. There are plenty of good ideas out there: my own book, Amber Waves, could supply the basis for a series that could run indefinitely -- if anyone were looking -- and provide interesting historical references along the way without getting too serious. Yes, it would be entertaining, if I do say so myself.

So Hollywood moguls, check out my tome on Kindle, and talk to me. I know this is shameless self-promotion, but look what HBO did with Rome, and Rome is only one of the places I would visit in my series.

Just don't beast it to death or miscast a Southern rebel to play the Scot.

Open Letter to the Postmaster of the United States

2011-11-30T10:40:00.000-08:00

i was not planning to write this blog, but the local news was upsetting. For several days now there has been talk that the processing plant for the USPS in Missoula may be closed, and its operations taklen over by the plant in Spokaine. This is all part of the Postalk Service's efforts to streamline -- they want to cut processing plants in half, from 500 to 250. In terms iof cost, this may be effective: they estimate that the closure in Missoula will save a million dollars a year. This could mean a quarter billion dollars a year nationally, if each closed plant represents the same savings.

All well and good.

But jobs will be lost, first and foremost. At least six in Missoula, not counting anyone who will be offered a transfer but cannot or will not accept it. It also means more delay in the mail -- instead of the traditional and much bragged about ability to deliver overnight within yoiur own zip code prefix (first three numbers, like 599 in my case), this will mean two- to three-day delivery for first class mail. In other words, service to postal customers will be worse. Meanwhile, the price of postage goes up another penny next year. So once again we get to pay more so we get to have less.

Is this any way to run a competitive business? I don't think so. If the postal service is in direct competition with the internet, where people can shop, transact, bank, track and even write almost instantly, then how can a busiess stay in business by cutting services? Instead, you invest. You create ways to increrase service. You offer more services, better, cheraper, more efficiently. But the way the opost office is structured, innovation is difficulkt to come by, and when it does come, even harder to install in time to be useful before it becomnes obsolete. I see the Post Office as a dying institution that is not willing to live. I know its employees do not feel that way, but it appears that Congress does.

The Post Office remains the only independent business that I know of that is not independent of the whims of Congress. And it looks to me that Congressmen throughout both houses would like to see the service privatized or eliminated altogether. If that happens, packages will get delivered by others, but woe to any American who does not have access to the net.

I know there still are a few out there somewhere.

Last Blog of November

2011-11-29T13:50:00.000-08:00

My dear friends and followers,

I anticipate that this will be my last blog for a short while. As the season progresses my time diminishes, and I fear I have too little for blogging, at least for the foreseeable future. So I want to impart some words of wisdom as my Holiday Gift to each and every one of you, for what they're worth.

First, I got quite a nice response to my most recent blogs regarding spending and celebration. My dear friend Joanne put it most succinctly: "If we spend our time loving the life we have, not obsessing about what we don't have, we don't need Black Fridays or day-after-Christmas sales. We just need one another. After all, all we take with us when we leave for the last time is the love we have inside. Me? I want all I can get so I can share it with Jim when I see him again." Jim is Joanne's loving husband who passed away suddenly eight years ago. The point is clear: we have to love one another and hold on tight.

So that is my Christmas Wish: love one another. I didn't say it first. But in a world consumed by material things -- and that's another subject for discussion down the road -- Joanne is so right: those things remain of this world even when we move on. They're nice. I like my stuff. But they all could go away tomorrow, and if I still have the love of my wife Diane and all of you, I will be fine,

Now, as to the ghosts in my head, they have been stirring things up even as I have neglected them on paper. I love that -- the writing is going on at full tilt inside my head, mapping out the course it wants to take me; the characters are writing their own stories THROUGH me now -- and that is as it should be. The great William Goldman, author of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and The Princess Bride, once quipped (I'm paraphrasing): "If the writing is going badly it won't matter if you are in the most idyllic, quiet, peaceful setting in the world, and if it;s going well you can write in an elevator."

When it's the latter, life is exhilarating.

The ghosts have added a few things, They've been talking. They say, "It's well and good that you want to write about us, remember us. But what about your own ghosts?"

I was stunned. Of course! All of a sudden the book has unfurled like a family banner and I realize that all these people are connected --= to me. The story has layers that belong together, while I have been trying to figure out ways to keep them apart. It is a revelation. And when I think, in realistic tones, that this may be my last chance at a really good novel, I start to believe that Ghost Music may be the book I was meant to write all my life, whether anyone else reads it or not.

My favorite author, Kurt Vonnegut, once said regarding his best known work, Slaughterhouse Five (and again I am paraphrasing): "Sometimes a writer writes about one thing so he can write about something else altogether." He meant, in his case, writing a SyFy novel based on the idea of a single person unstuck in time so that he could relate his own experiences during the firebombing of Dresden, where he was being held as a POW. Now I think the same thing may be happening to me, and I am excited as hell!

The ghosts are talking. Listen . . .

Finally, it occurs to me that one of the themes of this book needs to be stated somewhere, so here goes. How much guilt does a person lay at his or her own feet for things they could not stop?

Thank you for listening, for caring, for being there. And if I don't see you, hear from you, or blog to you again -- or even if I do -- have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Black Friday

2011-11-23T11:54:00.000-08:00

T'is the season. Damn the triptofan and full speed ahead -- to the local mall. Is anyone else bothered by the fact that the Christmas shopping rush has become such an ingrained part of American culture that Black Friday now is set to start after dinner on Thursday? Let us give thanks and then spend, spend, spend.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a Dutchman and I love a good bargain as much as anyone. Proof: I just got a wonderful animated Santa and Snowman on a teeter totter and paid the best price of all -- absolutely free -- because my wife's boss wanted to get rid of it and we happened to be in the right place at the right time. A happy accident. But being at the right place at the right time when the store doors open is not accidental, it is by design. And not OUR design -- we just have become so conditioned to this shopper reality that we accept it without question and actually encourage Black Friday to start sooner and sooner every year.

What is my objection? After all, it is a way for businesses to get a jump start on the Holiday Season, and shoppers too. It has become an event, like the Super Bowl, to be enjoyed and shared with loved ones, battling over the grid iron -- er, the display case. It's as American as apple pie.

For me, Black Friday is symptomatic of a deeper issue. Getting that flat screen TV has become as important as carving out an acre of farmable land. Grabbing that latest toy craze is like buying that first potted plant for your brand new house. In other words, getting and possessing things has become a substitute for owning a piece of the American Dream -- and we are being trained to believe it is THE SAME THING. It is not. In fact, we had the American Dream in our hands, the Baby Boomer generation. We had it, and we've lost it, and no number of cheap sweaters or Blue Ray players or I-Pods can bring it back.

But Corporate America encourages us to replace our dreams with goods. The saddest thing is most of those goods were made overseas. No, the saddest thing is that we are willing to make fools of ourselves, interrupt a holiday built on remembering all the good things and giving thanks, just to join the rush.

Myself, I'm waiting for Cyber Monday. And old books.

Happy Thanksgiving

2011-11-22T12:29:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone!

It has that busy busy time of year, my favorite season. As once upon a time I looked a great deal like Santa Claus myself, and often was mistaken for the Jolly Old Elf by children on my postal route or in the local stores, his feast day, or the Day of Saint Nicholas, is a personal favorite of mine. Also, being of Dutch heritage (and birth), Saint Nicholas being the patron saint of the Netherlands, Saint Nick Day is a big deal to me. Diane agrees. This year we decided to do special Saint Nicholas Day presents for all the littler kids in our extended family. It has long been a tradition to give ornaments to our own children, who, even at 30 and up, still expect to get them every December 6. This year we added stuffed stockings to the mix for the kids -- and at Christmas we will be doing a very select gift exchange.

I think this could be a really good idea for the nation, if it ever could take hold: National Gift Exchange Day. It would serve several purposes, first of which is to get the commercial aspect of Christmas away from the day itself. Then, we give it in the name of Nicholas of Myra, that venerable man of the late Third Century whose generosity and love for children earned him a sainthood. Saint Nicholas in Holland became Sinter Klass, and the Dutch brought him over to the New World with them when they settled Niew Amsterdam. His name modified to Santa Claus. Third, we could take the commercial aspect of Christmas and bring it forward by several weeks. It might not affect overall sales, but it would give us all an opportunity to make Christmas a simpler, family oriented event not predicated on "What'd ya get?"

We'd have an app for that.

As for my beloved ghosts, they are gathering for the feast of Thanksgiving, and are being most kind and patient with me as I am distracted by the fun of the season and the pileup of the snow. Today, however, the snow is melting back a bit and I plan an hour or so on the book, so everyone will be happy.

The Ghosts Are Waiting

2011-11-18T16:52:00.000-08:00

It is almost six pm Mountain time. I spent two hours shoveling snow off my driveway and walkways and porches this afternoon, after spending the morning first at work (4 am to 7 am) and then in Kalispell during a snow storm. My first experience driving in real winter conditions besides back and forth from my house to my or Di's work. The snow scares me -- I am not used to it. And the road to ouyr house goes pretty far up the hill, so I am always worried that I might get stuck climbing it. But the last two days have boosted my confidence greatly -- I can navigate snow covered, icy roads, and I can shovel snow for as long as it takes to get the job done. And I can drive down the hill at four in the morning in snowfall. Wow. I went into this week's work schedule frightened and anxious, and tonight I feel like maybe I can do it after all. Like I said, Wow.

But the ghosts have to wait. My energies have been elsewhere most of the week and will continue to be elsewhere much of the next holiday season. I have to mnake allowances. The first one is less writing for Helium, poems and reviews and such. Any spare time I find will go to my ghosts, and knowing that, they seem to have plenty of patience. Well, they're not going anywhere.

So happy Thanksgiving a few days early, and when you give thanks, remember your own ghosts with a smile.

Striking While The Iron Is Hot

2011-11-16T14:29:00.000-08:00

I fully expected not to be writing at all this week. But my grandson got to stay over with his other grandparents yesterday and today, so I got a reprieve. And though the temperature outside dipped to 12 degrees (minus 11 Celsius) and never climbed above freezing all day, the snow has not fallen and the snow shovel is idle for the moment. I am on a learning curve here: winter has come early and I have to toughen up fast. Sometimes I don't think I can, but I have to, I have no choice. I drive into work down the hill tomorrow at four in the morning, and it's supposed to snow lightly. More learning.

We did have twelve inches of snow on Sunday last. Quick study. And they say it was unusual to get that much this early. But unusual seems to be my middle name.

As to the book -- the fictional composite character I mentioned last time took hold of me and I literally exploded with material. It has been a fruitful session that will keep me satisfied throughout the week until I can work some more. He was quite ready to share his story with me, and I hope I recorded it faithfully. As with bathrooms at my age, you should never pass up the opportunity when it presents itself.

Snow Flakes in the Ointment

2011-11-14T11:11:00.000-08:00

Time to catch up. Please bear with; there are three bolgs below.

SATURDAY: Counting My Blessings
Today, someone new screamed at me. I don;t know his name, so I am going to give him one. I don't know his history, so I will provide it for him. I do known how his story ends. Funny -- I have always known that.

In my life, I have comfortable sheets and a flushing toilet, propane heat and freedom of speech. I tend to forget that, or take it for granted, which is the same thing. They would say, "That's the whole point. If you forget what you have, someone else will come along and take it away from you, and by the time you notice, it will be too late.

SUNDAY: Writing While Not
Off camera writing, so to speak, is more fun than editing. I feel like a stenographer trying to get everything said to me down before I lose it. I don't want to break the train of thought being hurtled at me by several anxious voices. So many voices that I have had to invent a character or two just to hold them, although most of the people in the upcoming book remain real people with real lives and real deaths.

But now, too, a fly has entered the picture: Xander, my grandson. He knows nothing of ghosts, yyet, and when he learns of them some day down the line, I hope it will be through books like the one I am writing and not in any way from personal experience. I already know that the prospects for his parents to have a better life than I did -- a father's goal for his children -- has been severely compromised. How must they worry for him? All I can offer now is vicarious ghosts. life will be hard enough.

We watch Xander next week while his parents are off for a few days to celebrate their fifth anniversary, and I know the writing will have to cease for three or four days, just when I am getting hot on the project. But this can be, and I will turn it into, an advantage. If the heat is still there after he goes home, then the stuff in my head is probably pretty good. But for now I will have to do my writing off camera. Such a sacrifice!

MONDAY: Snow Flakes in the Ointment
We've had our first real snow. I had the pleasure -- for me, first time -- of shoveling snow off the porch yesterday. Three inches accumulated, and it was pretty easy. But overnight a foot of snow accumulated and it took me twenty minutes to clear a path to, then liberate the snow from, my car. Driving down the hill was not too bad, but coming back up I lost traction and got stuck. AND I HAVE SNOW TIRES! So I just rolled back -- slowly -- until I could get traction and went the long way around to our house where the road is not as steep. But it's a challenge, and if winter is going to be like this maybe my enthusiasm for it will disappear with the sunlight. We will have to see.

Meanwhile, I get anxious about the white stuff -- another distraction. And Saint Nicholas Day is coming quickly. St. Nick is a big tradition in my house, and I have to prepare to play Sinter Klaus on his Feast Day. Another distraction! Yet, that part is fun. So the writing may slow down over the next little bit, and I have to let it. I just hope the ghosts enjoy hibernating over the winter.

Thanks for listening!

Today's Entry

2011-11-11T18:13:00.000-08:00

Went shopping!!!

Did not write today. But a ghost I was not expecting began to sing to me and I had to stop and listen. Sometimes you write best without moving the pen.

My blogs are becomming a sort of journal of my progress or lack of it. And even when I don't write at all, I still feel like I am making a bit of headway. Truth be told, Saint Nicholas Day is coming up fast and we have to prepare. It's a big thing in our household, and even after being out of the home for literally years, our kids would be disappointed if we did nothing to makr the Feast Day of Jolly Old Saint Nick. After all, I have a job app at the North Pole for whenever he retires.

Busy Remembering

2011-11-10T12:06:00.000-08:00

This one will be brief. I am just about to start a few hours working on my ghosts. And I was thinking about . . .

Our children are not taught to remember. They are taught to forget. Learn enough to take a test, pass it, move up, forget about it. They are told, You always can look it up. But how can anyone look up an answer if they've forgotten the question? No search engine is that good. And will anyone drive down the information highway if the fuel that drives them -- curiosity -- is in low supply and their tanks are empty?

Why is remembering so important? Does it get you a Job, the house, the girl (or boy)? Well, I knew what question to ask and so I looked the reason up. It is contained in George Santayana's famous quote: "Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it."

Humanity has gone through hell after hell of our own creating. And yet each generation seems more than willing to make the same mistakes, to enter the same bloody ventures, to go for glory not in the library but on the battlefield. Santayana also said, "Only the dead have seen the end of war."

So, lets simplify, shall we? A slogan of sorts, short, not sweet:

THOSE WHO FORGET, REPEAT.

To Task

2011-11-09T16:54:00.000-08:00

I just spent the last few hours pouring out ghost music onto the page. I am both exhilarated and exhausted. I did not want to write today -- I DID NOT WANT TO WRITE! I goit comfortablke on my couch and tuned in an NCIS I had not seen before, and was glued. The next one -- it's a marathon out there -- looked equally unfamiliar. But the book was waiting for me. I knew I would feel terrible guilt if I did not at least type in a sentence or two. Which led to three, then a paragraph, then a page, then some fact checking and some more writing and look out, about 4,000 words went in.

sometimes you just gotta tell yourself the ghosts are waiting. they're much more patient, by the way, than I would be.

One-A-Day

2011-11-08T16:15:00.000-08:00

Oh joy -- the system just dumped my blog. I had promised to write a blog a day and am trying. Today got away from me. It started out with promise. I took Di to work (I'm officially a go-getter: I take my wife to work and I go get her) at 8"30 and then went into Kalispell for some Chistmas shopping and our weekly Costco sojourn. It snowed. It snowed all morning -- big, luscious, heavy wet flakes that attacked the car and my coat but melted on contact. Still, it was our first real snow of the season and kinda fun.

I picked up the mail on the way back home to find a letter from Social Security. I had just applied, so I expected this to be a verification sheet. No! It turns out SS cannot verify that I am a citrizen of the United States! So I got back into my car, drove back to Kalispell to our local SS office, it snowed a litle more of the non-accumulating variety, and I presented my Certificate of Citizenship to the gentleman there. The computer did not recognize the number! The cert was too old!! Luckily, I brought my passport with me; he plugged in that number and the system recognized me. So now I wait to be sure there are no more glitches -- ah, the joy of governmental efficiency! I will say that everyone I talked to or saw at SS was most helpful.

Back home at 3:30, too late to get deeply involved with my ghosts. So here I am, ambling on amicably with all of you! So take care, all. I will attempt to blog again tomorrow, as well as listen to my ghost music.

Until then, tot ziens!

More on the Dutch Girl

2011-11-07T16:35:00.000-08:00

Hello, ola, 'allo, bonjour, and all that.

I wanted to mention that Mata Hari is not going to appear in this book I am working on now. It's already crowded, and deals with the next generation of victims. It's just that she is a recent, for me, example of innocent life lost to cover-up and national paranoia. She was held prisoner for months in filthy conditions kust to break her down and yet professed her innosence to the very end. They had only circumstantial proof, most of it based on falsified transmissions in a code both sides in the war knew had been broken, and other debatable sources and materials, and yet still they imprisoned her, interrogated her, tried her, convicted her, and executed her. It is sad, of course, but more than that: it is symbolic of what people with a great deal of power and a significant dose of righteousness can do to anyone they choose, and pretty much get away with it.

Part of the irony is that Mata Hari, born Margaretha Zelle, could not tell you where the troops were entrenched, even during the stagnant battle of Verdun, because she just didn't think about that stuff. And yet she was a spy?

One of the Ghosts

2011-11-06T16:36:00.001-08:00

It occurs to me that when I talk about the voices in my head, it may make me sound a little unbalanced. Crazy, no? Well, sanity is highly overrated.

Please understand that I have encountered many stories in my 61 years of curiosity induced reading, and remember them. (Details -- I have a fine research library for them). I am busy remembering people I believe should not be forgotten ----- those are the voices in my head. I worry that when I am gone (and forgotten) that they will be, too, at last. The urgency of getting some of their stories down on paper grows when I think on that.

Like Mata Hari. I just read a bio on her. She was a woman of loose morals (for her day) convicted of spying on flimsy evidence as a scapegoat for French military failure. Then she was shot.

She was also a Dutch national. A cousin of sorts.

I read her story, the last half of which was about her arrest, incarceration and interrogation, and trial, and I think about how we hold people indefinitely on the suspicion that they are terrorists. I understand the paranoia behind that; I also understand that the government claims to have proof that each one is a dangerous person. But their rights are gone. And if only one of them is innocent, a Mata Hari incarcerated for who they are rather than what they did or did not do, then American justice is a joke for all of us.

History shows us many things. The worst lesson is this: the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Work

2011-11-05T16:19:00.000-07:00

I hope I am not repeating myself, but, hey, this is therapy for me as well as a chance to share with you. Writing is much harder work than I ever imagined. Maybe it;s because I am more serious about my craft now, or just that at last I have time to actually work on it. I do know that someone once said (sorry, can't remember who at the top of my bead) that a writer will do just about anything to put off writing -- I understand that now. It;s one thing to jot off a review of a film or book. It's also easy to start an idea and run it through a few paces. But the work comes in trying to make the material sing the right notes, true notes, and see it all the way to its conclusion, which lies down the road a fair stretch,

I have a responsibility to do the best I can by the voices in my head, even if they are all my own voice. Thursday I wrote/rewrote seven pages in three hours and felt drained afterward. But very happy with the results. So now I have set the bar. so, patience, all of you, it will take time. Patience, Me.

Dreams

2011-11-03T11:46:00.000-07:00

I cannot always be profound. I am often profane, and being over 50 -- significantly over 50 -- I have it on good authority that it's okay to be that way. But profound? That comes in spurts, and even when I think I am being so, I may not be at all.

What I wish I could do, what I dream about doing, is writing a bestseller, I just don't know how. I understand that there is no real formula except being at the right place at the right time with the right editor in the right mood. I also know that if you don't submit, there is no chance at all. And yet, the submissions game is a hard one to play, and harder to come back to again and again. I have never been very good at rejection. I tend to want to pack up my marbles and move onto the next project, instead of persevering. Does this make me a coward? I don't know. But I still dream, of a million bucks in royalties and how to spend it.

Then I get sidetracked. Something grabs me and seems SO important, for a while. I run out of steam, or I begin to doubt that I am the one who should be telling this story, and it all collapses. The project gets put away, waiting for me to rediscover it. Ghost Music is like that -- I wrote it in 1997, then set the Ms aside. At least four other books, in various stages of development, are also tugging at me. If I can only stick to It, I might be able to write them all. Publishing, well, I will find a way.

At least I have job security well into my retirement! So wish me luck. More, wish me warm fingers and a strong will.

Daisy Bell Is Ringing For Me and My Gal

2011-11-02T13:05:00.000-07:00

Another blog, another day. Or is it another day, another blog? Either way, I am going to give you all a ghost of a chance to forget about ghosts today and remember an old chestnut instead. My European friends may not get the reference, but here goes.

When I hit college I joined a very impromptu barbershop quartet. First, we were not strict about there being only four of us. Second, we sang whenever and wherever we wanted, often by the Cowell Fountain at the tops of our lungs, just for shits and giggles. One of our favorite songs was "Daisy," also known as "Bicycle Built For Two." Everyone remembers the lyrics:

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do/I'm half crazy all for the love of you/It won't be a stylish marriage/I can;t afford a carriage/but you'd look sweet upon the seat/of a bicycle built for two.

But we feminist liberals at UC Santa Cruz loved the second verse more:

Billy, Billy, here is my answer true/I'm NOT crazy all for the love of you/And if you can't afford a carriage/There won't be any marriage/"Cause I'll be daamned if I'll be crammed/On a bicycle built for two.

Years later Diane and I got into a debate as to whether the second verse was real or not -- it was a friendly disagreement we hit upon from time to time over the years of our marriage (which was stylish, by the way, and no bikes in sight). It turns out that she was -- ug, hate to admit it -- RIGHT. The second verse is one version of several so-called :"answer verses" added on for fun. The other key variety substitues damned.crammed with switched/hitched. Further, it turns out the original verse is merely a chorus throughout a muich more elaborate song, the lyrics for which can be found online at Wikepedia -- type in Daisy Bell. The article is interesting and fun for the curious -- which I always encourage you to be!

And remember: you can't stay serious all the time. Bad for the face.

More on Ghosts

2011-11-01T15:22:00.000-07:00

I ask myself: why do I spend so much time among the dead? The quick and quirky answer is that they don't talk back much and don't eat into my food budget, but that's glib. Truth is, they talk back a lot. Sometimes, they scream. I am busy remembering them. And learning what I can from them.

How do the dead help the living? Two things they have shown me clearly: Beware that love is not enough. And cruel people often succeed in attaining power and LOVE to do anything and everything they deem necessary to keep it.

How we are taught to be goes out the window.

More Ghosts, Just in Time For Halloween

2011-10-31T12:46:00.000-07:00

I was talking about my ghost music, and the fact that I feel compelled now to write about the ghosts of futures passed. there is a long roll call. Not all of them are particularly nice or good, although some are, but all were victims in one way or other, most were silenced, many erased and nearly forgotten, and all stuck here in my head. They do not rage or fuss. They only remind me gently to remember them, especially whenever I hear a certain piece of music like the Sixth, or come across a name in the line notes.

The truth is, these ghosts will not let me go. They’ve had a hold on me for more than half a century, since I encountered the first of them staring up at me from the pages of a history book. I was curious even then – and they saw it, smelled it. They teased me, cajoled me, infiltrated my consciousness and my memory – acting as if my memory were their own, collected – and became part of me. Their ranks swelled; each encounter I had brought a lifetime of histories along with it, like a promiscuous lover. I am a walking dictionary of other people’s lives, because of them.

It is only natural, right, and necessary that I allow them out.

on a much lighter note -- and nice way to finish -- when i came home today the deer did not run away. They were grazing on my lawn and I slowly walked to my front door, talking softly to them, and for the first time they did not bolt and run, in fact staying in the yard wuite a while longer after I went inside. I always knew someday I would have the best grass in the area . . .

Happt Halloween!

Tomorrow's Blog Today

2011-10-27T15:56:00.000-07:00

It looks as though Diane and I will be taking tomorrow off, at least the first bit, so I thought I would get tomorrow's blog in today. I have spent this afternoon working on my new project, but it is a hard go. I had forgotten that, as easy as it is to write, it is exponentially diffiult to edit, to re-write. Between fact checkinbg and keeping the story straight -- and interesting -- takes all my energy. I am exhausted at the end of it, but in a good way.

So the Blog is a break. So is listening to Shostakovich's Sixth Symphony, one of his most interesting works. In my book on him I all but dismissed this opus, much to my later embarassment, because now I realize it is a masterpiece, and I know why its emotions are so precise. This one piece IS my ghost music, but you will have to read the book to find out why,

As River Song would say, "Spoilers."

Shame

2011-10-27T09:40:00.001-07:00

Okay, it's time to get political. Maybe just for a moment. In the weeks while I was virtually hibernating, several surveys were coinducted and information releasewd, some of which is downright shameful for an American to have to acknowledge about America. While the protests agaiust Wall Street (and by extension, Corporate America) continue to grow, and grow more hostile, recalling to many the 1960's when our vested interest was our own lives . . . it turns out that there is much statistical evidence to support and substantiate what the proesters are saying: America is falling down and the gap between the well off and the rest of the country is growing.

Survey says: one in six Americans live below the poverty line. One in eleven people seeking work cannot find it. And one in four American children goes to bed hungry every night. We know how poor much of the rest of the world is, how a billion human beings planetwide eeks out a living on a dollar a day or less. But this is America! A dollar here may buy you a burger but won't cover the tax on it and certainly won't get you something healthy to eat. Our standard of living is high, which makes our poverty line higher than for other areas of the world. And yet 17% if us are poor. In America!!

Meanwhile, CEO salaries and bonuses have multiplied exponentially even when the corporations they represent are losing profits. We have spent billions of dollars to assure ourselves of the deaths of a handful of individuals abroad -- Bin Laden, Kadafi, Hussein, And yet people are starving within the United States. Our priorities are screwed.

If they sray that way, America runs the real risk of slipping further down the list of Industrial Nations. After all, we barely have any industry left. We seem to consume and consume, those of us who still have income and credit. But as the gap widens, history shows, that disparity will lead to more and more derision, and eventually to violence. This is not the direction I want to see for America, and yet as long as Corporate America is run by greed and Washington elects to bicker and quarrel and stonewall instead of act, it is the direction we will take.

There are long term problems that need to be faced and conquered. But first we have to get rid of short term thinking. Any suggestions as to how?

My New Project

2011-10-26T10:26:00.000-07:00

I recently found a book length manuscript I had written in 1997 and started reading it. Oddly enough, I like it. It is unrelentingly sad, but it is honest and true and beautiful in its portrayal of the uglier aspects of Mankind. And if the Holocaust told us to keep busy remembering, then this is my effort to record some names worth the time and energy. I call it "Ghost Music."

I know it is funny how you see several ideas or projects ahead of you, and you flit from one to the other until one grabs you and says: WORK ME. I have begun the transcription/rewrite of this first draft, written in pen in two journals. I do not know if this will be the project that won't let go of me until it is done, but I suspect so: my brain keeps thinking about the lines and how to make them better. I also don't know if the book will ever have any appeal to a wider public, but that does not matter. The material matters -- to me.

And I ask myself -- how can so much sorrow bring me such joy? Because I think I got it right. And because these ghosts remind me of how lucky I am. And, finally, because I have been busy remembering all my life and now it's time to share those memories, even of lives lost long before I was born.

Greetings from the Big Sky

2011-10-25T17:09:00.001-07:00

Here I am, trying to ease myself back into the habit of blogging, a habit I have not yet completely made for myself. My blogs are sporadic and that has to change. There is always something to write about -- look at me writing about writing about stuff! There have been surveys and reports and information coming out, and then there is all that treasure trove of old material I have yet to sort through. So much work! It feels really wonderful to have so much to do, a lifetime's worth of words. Funny how having so much to say sometimes translates into saying nothing at all for long periods of time.

Meanwhile, tonight;s temperature in the Big Sky will be well below freezing, but Diane and I will be cozy in our propane heated home. So watch the skies!

Debit Charges

2011-09-30T12:27:00.000-07:00

Today Bank of America announced that it will charge, starting in 2012, $5 for any month in which you use your debit card for a purchase. Once again, banks are scrambling to find wqays to re-capture the revenue they lost when Congress declared limits on how much they could charge for overdraft, over the limit credit balances and late fees. They already charge most of us just to use their services, and now they want to add to it. This means that cash customers -- and debit cards ARE SUPPOSED TO BE THE SAME AS CASH -- now will be penalized for not using credit.

What I don't understand is how they can get away with charging us to use our own money. They already hold that money and use it for loans, and charge the loan customers a higher interest rate than they pay us. In addition, these fees will impact most the people whose economic status in America has already been badly shaken -- middle America. Do they care? Do we still bank with them, pay the fees, and smile when we bend over?

Bank of America is the first bank to do this, butthe rest will follow suit. What each of us has to decide is how to respond. Maybe we should all pull out our cash, start dealing locally on a cash and carry basis, and slide back a hundred years to keep these greedy uncaring corporations from raping us yet again.

Oh, gee, I wish I had something cheerful to write about today, but the news is just too overwhelming. If you don't feel like a slave yet, maybe you are staring to feel like an indentured servant. Even your hard earned money has bewcome subject to hidden fees -- and some blatantly open.

Once upon a time Americans believed in integrity. Sadly, integrity has gone the way of common sense, compoany loyalty, competitive products made in the USA, and jobs. And when they figure outr a way to charge for using the ether to voiuce our opinions, I guess I'll shut up, too.

Just for Fun

2011-09-10T12:32:00.000-07:00

After talking politics and other sad things lately, I thought it might be time for a "lesser" observation. We here in Montana particularly know the following to be true -- the most subversive man America ever produced was Walt Disney. How do we know? Because of one word that still lingers in our memory banks after seven decades that Uncle Walt made a household name: Bambi.

How many great hunters return from a successful trip only to hear a wife or child say, "I won't eat Bambi!"

It's almost enough to put you off. Except for that other word: venison.

Did They Die For This?

2011-09-09T14:03:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago America was brought to her knees by nineteen men and an investment of $500,000. Over three thousand citizens of the world perished, and we declared war on a word. :Terrorism" is a tactic, not a philosophy, and ten years later all that has changed is that America has spent herself into near insolvency and her people have, as well. We mourn the dead, grieve with their families. The wound has not healed -- there remains a gaping hole in our consciousness.

But the question begs to be asked -- was our response over the top? We toppled one dictatorship, certainly, and killed Bin Laden (after ten years of hunting). We have engaged in the longest and most constly war in our history against an enemy whose numbers remain small, whose governments pose no viable threat to our or anyone else's national security, and whom we vastly out-gun and out-man. And yet we haven't closed the deal (moxed metaphor, I know, but this is America the land of the Businessman).

If our enemies are nothing but anarchists, let us define the term. Anarchists actively pursue the disruption or dissolution of the existing order with no clear alternative to present; the lack of order IS the goal, by any means available. This sounds a bit like Congress to me, where a handful held the economy hostage in the hopes of further lowering public opinion toward all members of Congress -- in the bargain they are betting the voters (those that show up) will side with no government at all. Anarchy. Is that what the victims of 9-11 died for?

Thank you, Catherine, for cluing me into Jon Carroll's commentary in the San Francisco Chronicle today. In it he suggests strongly that the Republican Party is not the party of opposition, but now only of obstruction. I hope he is only partially correct. But I always state the one obvious point -- follow the money. Find out who stands to make a profit out of anything our :deciders" decide -- or stonewall.

Standing Still

2011-09-06T16:41:00.000-07:00

Digging through my stuff I came across a book: "The Next Century," by David Halberstam. I had forgotten it, and flipped through it to remind myself of its contents. In 126 pages, the author showed us the likely outcome of the collapse of the Soviet Union, then the rise of Japan because of that nation's focus on practical education, and finally on us. He was not kind about us, but uncertain. Could we compete in the modern world with our service-oriented economy? Was the rest of the world catching up with us and surpassing us on the global market? Would our standard of living be sustainable into the next century?

Halberstam's book came out in 1991, twenty years ago and ten years before "9-11" pushed us into a collision course with national bankruptcy (fueled by all that unchecked spending on two wars and everything else as if we had the money to spend, plus sponsoring that very attitude among our people). The housing bubble was a symptom pf our economic malaise, not its cause. The cause was a combination of corporate greed and political myopia.

Niel Degrasse Dyson recently asked (paraphrasing) how we would create jobs unless we actually manufactured something. But he's just a scientist; what does he know? Still, I look around at the lack of industry or industriousness across the nation as we sit back and are spoon fed reality TV and fat-laden cheeseburgers with sugar coated french fries. And I see others streaking ahead of us. I am reminded of an exchange in the play, "Inherit the Wind" (by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee -- being an author myself, I can't pass up an opportunity to mention their names).

Matthew Harrison Brady asks his former friend Henry Drummond, "Why have you moved so far away from me?"

Drummond replies, "Perhaps it is you who have moved away by standing still."

America is standing still. Perhaps our politicians should be thinking about THAT.

Amber Waves Discount

2011-09-03T15:06:00.000-07:00

I have dropped the price on AMBER WAVES to 99 cents. There are many independent writers selling their wares on Kindle at that price and I want to price myself fairly and competitivelty. I WANT TO BE READ!

To those of you who paid $2.99, I thank you. Your sacrifice has been a great encouragement to me. But let anyone and everyone know that there are many books at Kindle for under a buck. How can you go wrong? You get a great book for less than just about anything in the world these days except at the 99 cent store. And you lend encouragement and hope to aspiring writers who could not publish in the competitive Best Seller only environment that has taken over Publisher's Row.

Plus, there's an app for downloading a Kindle product directly onto your personal computer, and it's free. But Kindles are cool, too.

The Ugly Americans

2011-09-03T14:34:00.000-07:00

Watching the political process, or lack thereof, over the past few months, brings me to a dire conclusion: the people charged by the people with running the show are clueless about what is really important. They listen to select minorities pounding away while the -- once tragically called -- Silent Majority is left scrambling to maintain a decent standard of living. One in five AMERICAN children goes to bed hungry every night. One in eleven Americans is out of work, and if you're Hispanic or Black the numkber is worse. Now I am told by my union (ah that other ugly word to those in power even though only one in eight American workers belongs to a union) that the US Postal Service wants to pull out of its agreed upon contributions to its workers' retirement benefits. An echoing in my head are words, always words, but once upon a time a man's word was his bond.

So I am here to remind you, and I hope you pass it on to anyone and everyone who might listen. Not my words. Not even new words expressing new ideas. They come from a speech made in 1944.

when you read them, think about all that we have achieved as a people over the past eighty years, since the Great Depression began in 1929, all that we have gained regarding the rights and protections of our working force, of Middle America. We remain the backbone of the country, and yet Congress coldly and assuredly is working toward destroying Social Security, Medicare, unions, health care, and personal freedom, all in the name of profit. Not my profit. Not your profit. So here come the words. Let them echo in your head, too, and resonate throughout this once great land.

“The Economic Bill of Rights”Excerpt from President Roosevelt's January 11, 1944 message to the Congress of the United States on the State of the Union[1]:

“ It is our duty now to begin to lay the plans and determine the strategy for the winning of a lasting peace and the establishment of an American standard of living higher than ever before known. We cannot be content, no matter how high that general standard of living may be, if some fraction of our people—whether it be one-third or one-fifth or one-tenth—is ill-fed, ill-clothed, ill-housed, and insecure.
This Republic had its beginning, and grew to its present strength, under the protection of certain inalienable political rights—among them the right of free speech, free press, free worship, trial by jury, freedom from unreasonable searches and seizures. They were our rights to life and liberty.

As our nation has grown in size and stature, however—as our industrial economy expanded—these political rights proved inadequate to assure us equality in the pursuit of happiness.

We have come to a clear realization of the fact that true individual freedom cannot exist without economic security and independence. “Necessitous men are not free men.”[2] People who are hungry and out of a job are the stuff of which dictatorships are made.

In our day these economic truths have become accepted as self-evident. We have accepted, so to speak, a second Bill of Rights under which a new basis of security and prosperity can be established for all—regardless of station, race, or creed.

Among these are:

The right to a useful and remunerative job in the industries or shops or farms or mines of the nation;

The right to earn enough to provide adequate food and clothing and recreation;

The right of every farmer to raise and sell his products at a return which will give him and his family a decent living;

The right of every businessman, large and small, to trade in an atmosphere of freedom from unfair competition and domination by monopolies at home or abroad;

The right of every family to a decent home;

The right to adequate medical care and the opportunity to achieve and enjoy good health;

The right to adequate protection from the economic fears of old age, sickness, accident, and unemployment;

The right to a good education.

All of these rights spell security. And after this war is won we must be prepared to move forward, in the implementation of these rights, to new goals of human happiness and well-being.

America's own rightful place in the world depends in large part upon how fully these and similar rights have been carried into practice for all our citizens.

For unless there is security here at home there cannot be lasting peace in the world.

Editors Are Fine

2011-08-31T14:04:00.000-07:00

I am sitting here, listening to massively large raindrops pelt my roof while the sky over the lake remains blue, confident that words will come. They always do -- I am never without words for long.

I just sold an article to the online magazine "Clever" because the editor saw potential in the article I originally submitted, and suggested to redirect my focus. She liked the result. I like the fact that an editor will take the time to encourage and suggest.

So thank you, Dianne.

Can't be gloom and doom all the time. Once in awhile you just have to smile.

Wisdom with Age?

2011-08-29T10:08:00.000-07:00

They say age brings cynicism. I say it brings retrospect, but hope doesn't exactly disappear just because you become disappointed in our lack of progress. After all, after all we have seen, we still buy on credit, eat fatty and sugar-loaded foods, support war, and ignore climate change. But not all of us. And the numbers keep growing among the, dare I say, opposition.

There is a book that says old is fifteen years older than you are right now. That means age, like hope, is a relative thing, and depends on your own heart, your own approach. You choose. You can choose misery or happiness, regardless of what the world outside is up to on any given day. You do not have to bury your head in the sand to remain hopeful. You can see hope being smothered and still believe in it. Stay curious, have fun, and dream.

Liberals In Montana

2011-08-26T09:48:00.000-07:00

There are liberals in Montana, although they're quiet. Is it because of that liberal thought pattern that says, "Hey, I could be wrong," among so many who are convinced they can't be? Or am I wrong about that?

Could it be that we are embarassed because the liberal agenda is so all over the place that there really isn't one? Or is it that the Democrats and the President have taken to believe that appeasement is a good thing -- and call it compromise?

Truth be told, I know many concervatives who these days are shaking their heads, too. Quietly.

Bring Back Hope

2011-08-25T12:57:00.000-07:00

From several directions lately, I have been hearing the same thing being said: hope is gone. In America, at least, hope is gone. Americans don't dream anymore. We can look around at the reality out there and see two glaring things: most of us look to satisfy our needs and more so our wants on a daily basis even if we have to mortgage ourselves -- and our kids -- to the sky; and, two, as a result, for the first time since people have been keeping track, our children are going to have it WORSE off than we did. Wouldn't it be good to downsize our expectations and upgrade our aspirations?

As Niel Degrasse Dyson commented on Bill Maher on August 12, for our economy to recover, for the United States to regain some promise in the world, for us to create JOBS, don't we have to MAKE something? What do we make now? We consume, we expect, we indenture our future. We have lost our standing in the world, and our footing to climb back up.

So. What do we do? What do we MAKE? Dyson mentioned how hopeful he always felt as a youth, growing up in the 60's. There was constant talk of tomorrow -- the city of tomorrow, the space race and where it would lead, even the imaginary exploration that captured us for nyears, Star Trek. It was all there. It was all killed (my own suspicion is that hope died with the everlasting involvement in Vietnam), The odd thing is that the future is still out there, and if America does not lead the way someone else will. So instead of bickering among ourselves over our small group private interests, maybe we should look for some united front on which we can all -- dare I say it -- pin our hopes,

Back in the Groove

2011-08-22T13:47:00.000-07:00

It's been a while. The chance to sit at the keyboard for any length of time has been hard to come by, moving into our new digs up here in the Big Sky Country. I also have been neglecting my writing, but for good reasons. Hopefully, I'm back now. More hopefully, someone will notice.

The world continues, and I continue to watch it. The word is out that blogs and tweets are becoming the opportunity for people with opinions to express them, no matter how vile their terminology or outrageous their thoughts. Ah, freedom of speech in the instant electronic age means we get that much more chaff to sift through to get to the grain. I want to be part of the grain, not the chaff.

Still, no one seems to notice. I feel like I am screaming in the dark in the middle of a forest. Hey, that's exactly what I am doing. Yet the thoughts are there, and the facts are there, and sometimes the solutions seem so obvious. But nobody is listening, and why should they? I'm just a retired mailman with a bachelor's degree in history who likes to read and write. Nobody needs my advice.

And yet . . .

Here are a few observations and ideas gathered up since Congress decided to hold the economy hostage for a better photo op.

My idea of a stimulus package: two cups of coffee before breakfast.

Seriously, if we wanted to jump start the economy, instead of bailing out big business and hoping they will get back to hiring people, I would give every taxpayer in America $100,000 cash, tax free, and watch them spend it. If they pay off their debts, that helps the banks. If they rush out and buy houses and cars and whatnot, that helps recreate demand, ergo, jobs. The last stimulus was a bust.

My idea of Utopia -- doctors make house calls and Congressmen ride along, or, better still, all politicians get out of that bubble they're in and spend time in the real world where the rest of us live. Better still, flush the politicians out of the system. Elect housewives, accountants, historians and scientists instead -- we'd have purpose, balance, perspective and more than one eye on the future.

Now, what would you do with one hundred grand? What does your congressman do with his?

Off Line For A While

2011-07-08T15:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

Just a quick note to let you all know I will be off line for a short time. Not that anyone would notice. But for the time being I am occupied with the delight of moving into a much larger accommodation. As wonderful as our kids have been to take us in, we now have a place to call our own and they can get their regular lives back as well. Yet we are only a mile and a half away from them and our grandson. It's what we call a win win win situation. Plus, once the dust has settled and been properly swept up, I can get back to writing again. So few projects, so much time!

So the Amber Waves sequel will have to wait. First my book on the Occupation. Then maybe a more lighthearted effort and a memoir and a horror novel that's been hiding in my closet like a Bogey Man, waiting to attack! But for the moment, silence. A short moment, I expect.

Thanks, and keep watcing for more. There will always be more.

The Reviews Are In

2011-07-05T21:53:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers (and may your numbers grow),

The first reviews of AMBER WAVES are in, with positive feedback all around. One of you commented that he did not see the surprises at the end coming, which means I did my job. Another said it screams "sequel." As I mentioned in my last blog, I might revisit Amber Waves and its inhabitants someday anyway -- and a third gentle reader saw the blog and said, "Might go back there? Pleasde go!"

IUn all instances I feel I did my job, and I feel that the characters have more to say and more growing to do. There are other projects standing in the way, of course, but the delight is that I have plenty of material and ideas to keep busy for a very long time. So watch the skies! Or at least the ether.

a day without sunshine

2011-07-01T13:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was an odd day in one respect: I never went online, not once, not no way, not no how. I never even looked at my computer. I was just a bit too busy with real life stuff. And yet, I cannot really call it a day without sunshine: Diane and I got to spend the better part of the entire day doing real life stuff together, and we had fun doing it.

And yet, that means I did not write yesterday. Strictly speaking, I write every day even when I don't write, because I can compose in my head ore refine something I have already written. I rely on notes to help me remember but I find really good stuff (good in my opinion, at least) sticks with me or comes back once I find a pen.

And today I summarized my novel's basic premise for a tie-in on Helium. I was told a long time ago that a good writer can summarize his book in 25 words or less; more than that and he may not have a clear idea of what it is he is writing. I am proud to report -- despite how many words I have spent to get HERE -- that I did it in seventeen words! 17! AMBER WAVES summed up like this: "about people, often mistaken as gods, who do not die, coping in a world where people do."

Cool, huh?

They're interesting people, the residents of AMBER WAVES. I might go back sometime.

Amber Waves Is No Field of Dreams

2011-06-28T18:11:00.000-07:00

Dear loyal friends and readers,

I am stymied -- AMBER WAVES is not selling. As if I would find isntant success! As if half a million people would "discovert" me and glom onto my work, clamoring for more. I have to admit that Shoeless Joe Jackson did NOT whisper into my ear, saying, "If you write it, they will read." But I swear it is a funbook worth aanyone's time and better tham much of the formulaic fiction out there.

Make room, Christopher Moore. Move over, Niel Gaiman. Thomas Cahill, this might have been what you wrote if you wrote fiction. And remember me in the great writer's garret in the sky, Kurt Vonnegut and Douglas Adams -- put in a word with the Big Guy Marduk for me!

The rest of yoiu, give AMBER WAVES a try. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be glad you did that Kindle thing or direct to Personal Comupter App. Trust me on this. AMBER WAVES may be no Field of Dreams, but it is the first square in a magnificent Traveler's Quilt.

The Joe Blogz Blog

2011-06-28T17:51:00.000-07:00

I missed another one. But in fairness, I have been very busy. Who said retirement would be boring? I haven't even had time to work on my Dutch novel in a few days, given the level of activity up in the Big Sky. Diane works part time for a Vet up here, but last week had to work all five days due to the other Tech's family emergency. And I have been pushing broom at a local gas station slash convenience store slash casino called Joe Blogz. I love it, though I hate getting up at 4 am Thursday, Friday and Saturday, but it's only three mornings a week. And I like all the people I work with. It's my job to clean up before opening and so far the evening crews are so fastidious that they make my job easy. And once our living situation is settled (unsettled at the moment for good cause), I think the writing will flow in literal buckets. High quality buckets, of course, from Montana and Holland with love.

Three Blog Night

2011-06-26T21:09:00.000-07:00

I missed the last two nights for good and busy reasons, but now I want to mke up for it by dividing tonight's entry into three blogs. Bear with -- none will be too long; in fact, just right!

Blog One: AMBER WAVES demonstrates my feminist side. In fact, when Di read it she commented, "You really are a feminist, aren't you? I thought she knew that -- but what one perceives intellectually about another one does not fully believe until seen in practice.

Blog Two: Farewell, Columbo. I will remember Peter Falk always, but not just as Detective Columbo, the trickster cop. He was brilliant in so much and two supporting performances stand out in my mind: Joy Boy, the wisecracking but immensely pragmatic number two to Glen Ford's superstitious mobster in "Pocketful of Miracles"; and as the persistent and silvertongued narrating grandfather who read us all "The Princess Bride." Thank you, Mr. Falk.

Blog Three: Lost In Holland: Even as I settle down in the beautiful lakeside community of Lakeside, Montana, I still find myself wishing I could go back to Holland again, to visit. The Dutch connection remains strong. A key part of AMBER WAVES takes place there, and the stories of my family and my travels are anchored there. An amazing country with an amazing history and a powerful influence on the world, a large piece of my heart belongs there and always will, as my upcoming stories are likely to reflect. So, as they say, wait for it!

Mixed Day

2011-06-23T16:35:00.000-07:00

This has been a very good day overall. I will not get into the boring details, but suffice it to say that things are going better than I had any right to expect, and little breaks added to the joy.

The downside is a simple one: AMBER WAVES is stalled. I am too busy to figure out ways to un-stall it right now, to sell myself better as it were. I keep hoping for miracles. What else can a writer do, having written? Write more, of course.

Meanwhile the bug bad world keeps rotating and the people on it keep pretending we are far more important than we are. Ah, philosophy . . . there must be a book in that somehow. Meanwhile, my dreams of matching Stieg Larsson's sales output -- a book a second at one point -- is a bit exaggerated. Oh well. I don't know if I could handle such overwhelming, rapid success. I do know I'd like to find out.

So, that's it for today, sort of a silly blog because I am feeling just a little silly today. Maybe it's just a self-defense mechanism because I spent part of the day mired in other people's hell, but that, as they say, is another story.

Keeping up with my promise

2011-06-22T17:32:00.000-07:00

I have promised to blog every day, even oif no one catches on that I am here. Even wolves cry in the emptiness.

I have started assembling my book on World War Two and the occupation of Holland. It is not a unique story, and yet I thinbk it has a unique outcome. After all, this is my family I am writing about. The book may be fiction, but it is filled with my fatgher, my mother and my brother and my sister's ghost. And it leads to the factual stories to come.

I live in an exciting time, for many reasons. People who know me know the hell that Diane and I have been through over the past nine months. We are on the other side of it now, and I hope I am a better writer for it. So, even though I am "reassembling" old material, I am really re-writing it with an ear to the tragedy inherent in the material, and I hope to do it justice.

Humor is there, too. Humor is always there. But I am writing about a time without color, a time of sorrow.

Meanwhile, the few of you who so far have grabbed onto my book AMBER WAVES (thank you!!!!!) report that they like it. May it catch fire!

Amber Waves Back On Sale

2011-06-21T07:43:00.000-07:00

First, the news: AMBER WAVES is back on sale, with a brand new cover designed by my dear friend and nephew Erik Rutgers, a drawing called "Library." I cannot imagine a more appropriate cover. Thank you, Erik!

After 61 years of living and much of it spent with a pen in hand, I have gathered a great deal of material onto sheets of paper, floppy disks, CDRs and DVDRWs. The few times I ventured out into the competitive world of publishing have met with encouraging rejections (with the notable exception of "Shostakovich" -- it remains much harder to get fiction published than non-fiction). Not enjoying rejections, I rarely submitted. Anxious about failure, I rarely risked.

The internet has changed all that. Rejection has become much more objective, not dependent on a slush pile reader having had a good night's sleep or missing their morning coffee or being in the mood for a comedy when picking up a drama. As long as the content of my work is not pornographic or objectionable (sex, violence, religion and politics are fair game as long as they are handled with taste, and that remains a gray area at best), e-publishers tend to let you in the door. Then it's up to the reader to decide.

Consequently, it has been 32 years between my first two books. Book Three, drawn from existing material and based on family experience, may be out in 32 days! It's not that I'm writing formula after formula (anything but), it's that I am revising manuscripts I did not have the courage to send out into the cold, cold world one publisher at a time hoping for one lucky break.

It's time to make my own luck now, and let you decide if I've entertained you or not.

Keeping My Promise

2011-06-20T15:00:00.000-07:00

My novel is off the shelf while Kindle processes the additions - a short bio note on me and Erik's cover design. It takes 24 hours to update, which should be over by this evening. Still, I promised to write a blog every day as I try to learn the ropes of self e-publishing. I need patience more than anything else because I am still unknown to most of you and it is only with great luck and somehow sparking your interest thyat this is going to change.

Download Kindle Titles on Your PC

2011-06-19T16:06:00.000-07:00

Great news for all of you who want my book but don't have Kindle! Or just for anyone who wants a Kindle edition of any book . . .

My dear daughter Beth found out that Amazon Kindle offers a free app that you can download onto your PC or cell phone/Blackberry/whatever. Then you can order and download any book you want. To sweeten the deal you get three books free -- three public domain books like Treasure Island.

I did not know you don't have to have a Kindle to download a Kindle edition. So, in an act of shameless self-promotion, if you have a PC you have no reason to avoid what I sincerely believe is a ripping good yarn -- mine!

So, on my seventh day as a novelist I have learned that the availability of my book is far greater than I had imagined. Now I have to wait for you all to discover "Amber Waves." You won't be disappointed.

Five and counting

2011-06-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

Hello again! This is the fifth day since my book came out on Kindle and we've sold six copies so far. Not bad for an unknown writer self-publishing. It's a thrill just to be saying that.

But not to bore you all, lets change the subject. Now that Mr. Wiener is out, I wonder if we can get down to talking about issues? While Wienergate was going on, the Republicans in the House have managed to cut funding to the WIC (Women, Infants and Children) program. Like trimming from the needs of hungry women, infants and children will bring the national debt in line or balance the budget. They also are attacking Social Security again while trying to get further tax breaks for the wealthiest 1 percent of Americans. Are these guys real? Do they have any sense of fiscal responsibility beyond protecting their own wealth? At least the Republicans show a united front. The Democrats cannot seem to agree on anything concrete or meaningful. That means the Republicans are likely to push their agenda forward because they have one. Like it or not.

As long as we fail to pay attention, our entitlements will be stripped from us as surely as our rights. Or our amber waves of grain may shrivel up and die.

Oh, for a good, entertaining read!

Day Four

2011-06-17T14:25:00.000-07:00

Here I am again, pleased as punch about the book. I still don't know how to promote it or myself, but I figure this is a learning curve for me. My day job has me pretty tired today, so I will put off until the weekend serious thought. My wonderful nephew Erik has given me art work for the cover, so now I have to figure out how to format it for Kindle. Being the technophobe I am, it scares me a little. Perhaps intimidates is a better word. But I managed to overcome my fears to submit the book in the first place. What's a cover?

Or, to paraphrase the great American philosopher Snoopy when asked what the title of his novel was: Why worry about four words when I have 100,000 to write?

Amber Waves.

I figure if I am subliminal enough you will be compelled.

Day 3

2011-06-16T12:29:00.000-07:00

I feel as though my life has just begun again at 61. It is a remarkable, happy feeling, especially bafter the last very trying and difficult year. Today the book is available on Kindle in the UK and Germany. I have no idea how many people will give me a try, or how to expand my appeal, but I am working on that, step by step, just as I am working on the next book. And it's fun. The world of physical publishing has gotten so competitive that the few publishers who remain are constantly searching for the Next Bestseller and small authors with small books have fallen by the wayside in many instances. I have to believe that if my voice is worth hearing, you all will find me. And my goal is to enlighten and entertain, mostly entertain. So join me on the ride!

Meet Helen of Troy and Socrates and Cleopatra and Charlemagne and Christiaan Huygens, and the Great God Marduk within the pages of my book. Meet the Travelers as they journey through time and history. Meet the lady who inspired the town of Amber Waves to be born. Meet the ex-Nazi retiree. They're all here, waiting for you!

And let me know what you think.

Day 2

2011-06-15T16:11:00.000-07:00

Day 2 as a published novelist! Friends and family have already started buying and at $2.99 I don't feel they can go wrong! Initial feedback is excited, and I thank you for that. Now I have to find ways to spread the word that I am here.

Much more to follow!

Big News

2011-06-14T19:39:00.000-07:00

It has been awhile since I have written, so long that my followers few have disappeared. That's okay, for a while I disappeared. Even now I am not sure how much I am coming back at the moment, but I have an announcement for what it is worth, and I feel a degree of pride not just in what I have done but in the fact that I found the strength to do it.

I published. My novel, Amber Waves, is available exclusively on Amazon Kindle. It is the story of a man who cannot die, living in a world filled with people who can. It is fast paced and funny and entertaining and makes a few good points along the way, and introduces you to several amazing characters, a few of them historical. All in 300 poages, at $2.99!

Do I sound like a proud parent? If you want a delightful summer read, please check it out! And thanks.

The Finer Points of Drinking

2011-02-05T11:01:00.000-08:00

For S and G's. Published on Helium.com:

The choices great, rewards too --
Red or white, gold or blue.
Never drunk, the more to taste,
But do not a sample waste.
In my freezer I keep gin,
On the wine rack rests my Zin,
Absolut and Grand Marnier,
Medicinally, every day.
Single malts, the rich man’s sport
Unless you like a tawny port
Or fine Chateau-neuf du Pap.
Duvel beer pulls out the stops.
Moving on, my spirits high
I guess I’ll give this wine a try.

New Poem

2011-02-03T17:50:00.000-08:00

For your consideration, a new poem . . .

The Cycle of Love and Pain

Two nightshades off of a plumb,
A couple of bubbles on the square.
Falling in love is a bit like that.
No room for anything debonair.

Tulipomania, the market crashed.
Circle the flower carts, the roses have toes.
Being in love is a bit like that.
We sprinkled shared tears and watched orchids grow.

Blank verse poems written on Iambic columns
Carved of rock hard pent-a-meter.
Losing your love is a bit like that:
Like hummingbirds visiting an empty feeder.

The stages repeat whether rhyming or no,
We all always want to give love a go.

The King's Speech

2011-01-24T17:28:00.000-08:00

Having unfavorably reviewed "Dutch Girls" I thought it fair to give Colin Firth his due . . .

Film Review: The King’s Speech (2010)
Directed by Tom Hooper. Screenplay by David Seidler.

The harshest criticism of “The King’s Speech” is that it is solid. “Entertainment Weekly” calls it satisfying but square. I think this means that it is a film with no surprises. As with many historical dramas, the end of the story is already known to us; it is the journey there that matters.

Executed with delightful precision, this is an actor’s film dominated by a troupe of actors who always hit their marks. That alone, to watch such skilled performers become so completely the characters they play, gives the film a nearly documentary veracity. We literally become flies on the walls of a behind-the-scenes drama about one man’s struggle with stuttering.

The importance of his impediment comes with the importance of the man. Shakespeare knew that truly great tragedy involved potentially great people who found themselves in situations far greater than their own lives. Tragedy was the arena of kings. As we meet Prince Albert, he is not yet king but we already know he will be -- and King of Great Britain when the Second World War broke out. The gravitas underscores Albert’s personal struggle with the demon that plagues him -- his inability to communicate effectively or with the confidence of a Royal.

Albert is the second son of King George V, the king who guided Britain through the First World War and can see the second one coming. George is charismatic and confident, but troubled by the prospect of who will succeed him, eldest son David. Albert is second in line. When George dies, David becomes King Edward VIII, perhaps the least suited individual ever to take the throne. When he abdicates within the year in order to marry American divorcee Wallis Simpson, Albert becomes the reluctant but necessary king, taking the name George VI.

Most of his reluctance comes from his stammer. Even as Prince Albert he was infinitely better suited to being monarch than his brother, something even their father recognized. But he cannot make a speech. No doctor or therapist has been able to help. Enter Lionel Logue, an Australian born speech specialist with his own ideas of how -- and where -- to practice. The film focuses mainly on the efforts of both men to become a team, one who is destined for greatness regardless of his own fears and the other who gladly would have embraced greatness if it had befallen him but would never attain it.

Through a series of witty and touching encounters we peer inside both men’s very souls. It is a remarkable thing to witness, and both men are so sympathetic that we find ourselves caring deeply about the outcome,. And would have, I think, even if Albert were not the man who would be king. It is a story of two men of totally different backgrounds united by a common purpose, who become friends. At times it is heartbreaking, particularly in the moments Albert reveals deep hurts within himself, but never sentimental.

At this writing Colin Firth has already won the Golden Globe for his performance as Albert and is the frontrunner for the Oscar. Geoffrey Rush was nominated for the Golden Globe for his role and Lionel Logue, in a supporting role, but the award went to Christian Bale for his work in “The Fighter.” An Oscar nomination for Rush would be well earned. Firth dominates the film as a complex, deeply flawed leader-in-the-making whose flaw is glaringly, embarrassingly visible. Rush is beautifully pained yet both exuberant and patient as Lionel, a remarkable, fiercely intelligent man whom time and society had ignored until now.

Helena Bonham Carter is loving and supportive, and regal, as Bertie’s wife Elizabeth (mother of Elizabeth II and later much beloved Queen Mum). Jennifer Ehle is equally supportive in the smaller role as Mrs. Logue. The rest of the cast is a who’s who of leading actors taking marvelous supporting roles: Sir Michael Gambon as George V; Guy Pearce as the whiny, self-absorbed David/Edward VIII; Anthony Edwards as Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin; Derek Jacoby as the manipulative Archbishop of Canterbury; and Timothy Spall, with a rare chance to play the good guy, doing a fine turn as Winston Churchill.

Albert became king in 1936. But it is the speech he gave on September 3, 1939, that climaxes the film. The speech announces to all citizens of the United Kingdom that Germany and England are at war for the second time in his lifetime. In it he addresses his subjects, his people, at the gravest moment of their history and must show both his concern for their future and confidence in ultimate victory. With Lionel Logue at his side, he speaks with all due deliberation, and not a single stammer, for nine minutes, and is truly the leader his people need at that grave moment.

One critic noted that the film did not address David’s sympathies with Germany, which indeed would have been interesting but distracting to Albert’s story. It is also noted that the timeline is compressed for dramatic effect, that Logue actually began working with Albert in 1926, much earlier than the film implies. Another critic mentioned that Churchill did not have as obvious a presence in the 1936 court as the film suggests. It is known that Churchill was very fond of George VI and suspicious of Edward VIII, and that Churchill’s admonitions regarding Hitler went virtually ignored until it was too late, but adding his presence to the film gives historical recognition for many of us who are vague on the inner workings of British politics in the time leading up to the war.

Otherwise, the film is as accurate as any drama based on factual events can be. And as compelling to watch.

Dutch Girls, the movie

2011-01-22T16:44:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time I promised myself to throw myself whole heartedly into blogging -- anything to be able to write every day. Looking back, I have not done very well, averaging about five blogs a month. That is not going to change anytime soon, I fear, as my life rushes toward a major move to the beautiful and exotic country of Montana. But once I am settled, I hope to be more dedicated to this fun task to which I have committed myself. And maybe, just maybe, I will have more of you following me if I can find the right sorts of things to say.

For today, though, I just want to offer for your enjoyment the following review. I offer it for two reasons, one, that it is shorter than most of my reviews, and two, that it proves that -- contrary to my own opinion -- I don't always like everything I read, hear or see. Here goes:

Dutch Girls (1985) Directed by Charles Foster. Screenplay by William Boyd.

Not every project even a great actor enters into can be a masterpiece, or even a memorable role. There will always be those parts he nor she wished they had never done, or wished had been done better. This is true particularly of their earlier works, before they made a name for themselves and could afford the luxury of selectivity. Tony Curtis once remarked how fortunate he felt he was to have been involved in a dozen or so worthwhile films in a career that spanned decades. Mandy Patinkin once commented how fortunate he was to be part of just one in particular -- it made his career worthwhile.

Having just seen “The King’s Speech” in the theater, which will stand as one of Colin Firth’s best roles, I rented “Dutch Girls.” “Dutch Girls,” released in 1985 when Firth was just coming into his own at age 25, appealed to me for two reasons: first, my affinity for anything to do with my native country, no matter how frivolous; and second, my admiration for Firth as an actor. And though Firth is the best thing about this earlier movie, unfortunately the film itself set low goals and reached them all.

“Dutch Girls” is a coming of age story about a boys’ field hockey team in England that goes across the channel to play exhibition games with teams in Holland. But the boys can only think about Dutch Girls, who are reputed to be easy. These boys frankly want to smoke, drink, and get laid, and the matches, much to their irritating coach’s consternation, take a far back seat on the traveling bus. The fact that the girls are nowhere as easy as the boys expect, coupled with the stuffiness of the boys themselves, should make for a fine comedy of errors. The errors occur, but largely are not funny.

Firth’s character, Neil Truelove, is the most interesting -- an insecure and shy young man who always steps back for his best friend. It is Firth’s awakening that we witness. The girl he meets and becomes attracted to is sweet, smart, self-assured and patient. She will help him grow up, but not in the way he originally sought -- by treasuring him for himself, and by honestly helping him figure out that his best friend is no friend at all.

Timothy Spall plays Lyndon, an oafish slob with no regard for anyone’s personal space or property. Neil and Lyndon are housed together with the family of one of the opposing players, and while Neil acts with decorum, Lyndon cannot even be bothered to flush the toilet. Yet at the end it is Lyndon who acts like a true friend, helping complete Neil’s short journey to self-realization.

All this should be either very funny or very endearing, or both, but is neither. It is played more like a ribald juvenile comedy without any zest or sex. The sequences in Amsterdam’s Red Light District may be the only truly real part of the film -- they make sex for rent look as sleazy and uninviting as it truly is. Yet this sequence is also uninvolving, frenetic and even irritating to watch.

Perhaps my biggest complaint with the film is that it is irritating. There is potential to really explore these characters, even in so short a time frame, yet the only character who grows even a little is Neil. There is no depth beyond that, and I felt as though I were nothing more than a still shot camera taking snapshots of a brief holiday in the rain.

A Prayer of Thanksgiving

2011-01-20T10:08:00.000-08:00

I wrote this poem thirty years ago, when I was at the height of my "religious period," if you can call that chapter of my faith journey that. Odd to think that recent events in my life have made me look back at earlier work with a small degree of admiration and not a small degree of agreement. Not to put too fine a point on it, lets just say my faith journey continues -- call it my journey to spiritual awareness if you like. This poem basically says I am grateful to recognize that I am on such a trek, and that it is the trek that matters.

Here goes:

Now, when I talk to you
My heart is filled with thanks.
There are times I feel desperate
And alone and very very scared
And petition you to please come help.
There are times I want success
By yardsticks of wealth and fame
And petition you to move mountains
On Publisher’s Row
On my behalf.
I ask so much of you that sometimes
Just once in a while
I want to offer thanks.
You gave me a will and a mind that ask
And you lend me an ear that listens.

The Wall

2011-01-14T14:01:00.001-08:00

The Wall is a novel by Jeff Long, published in 2006. This is my review for Helium:

Some writers surprise you. I read “The Wall,” by Jeff Long, because I had read and thoroughly enjoyed three other books by him, “The Decent,” “Year Zero,” and “Reckoning.” Each of those was decidedly different from the others, yet unified by a strong sense of both story and character and a deft hand at holding back the key strokes until just the right moment, though the clues are there. “The Wall” continues the trend that Long has established in his writing.

If you had told me that I would enjoy a full length novel about mountain climbing -- let alone hate when it was over -- I would have scoffed. Mountain climbing is not a subject that calls to me, possibly because I have a healthy fear of heights. So a climb up Yosemite’s El Capitan, even one that turns into a desperate rescue mission, would seem to me worthy of a short story at best. But Long weaves his magic, mostly through the perceptions -- eyes, ears, tastes, smells and mostly touch -- of Hugh Glass, a 50 something mountain climbing veteran looking for one last hurrah with his best buddy, Lewis. Yep, that’s Hughie and Louie -- but these guys are no joke.

They mastered El Cap decades ago, and are legend for it even though others came after, went farther, and did it faster. They were pioneers. Now they want to retrace their steps and forget all the years in between.

Hugh’s wife Annie died in the desert a little while before the story begins. Lewis’ wife Rachael wants to leave him, has outgrown him. For Lewis, the climb is an odd chance to win her back. For Hugh, the demons he keeps at bay are even more personal -- and buried so deep that Lewis cannot manage get Hugh to talk about it. Although Lewis wants to act as friend and listener, and Hugh has thoughts of helping Lewis accept Rachael‘s leaving, the code of “real men“ applies, and both men are more comfortable discussing the logistics of their climb than the tragedies in their lives.. Both men seek to escape their sadness at the wall. More, to transcend it.

But a trio of female climbers gets in trouble and Hugh finds himself in the middle of a rescue attempt spearheaded by young Augustine, a man with demons of his own. One of these is Andie, one of the three women in peril. In an environment where even the smallest mistake can be fatal, these men must climb the sheer El Cap -- the Wall -- and retrace the steps that brought the women into mortal danger. When they reach their goal, the danger is just beginning.

Long weaves a spellbinding tale, mostly because Hugh Glass himself is so stoic and closed-mouthed. Yet Glass is our point of view. We see the world as he sees it, we feel every inch of the Wall as he climbs it, and even the uninitiated can understand the process as he describes it. The intimacy is powerful and makes the climax unforgettable.

Dirty Harry Turns 40

2011-01-12T16:01:00.000-08:00

In honor of the film's 40th anniversary, and in keeping with the spirit of this blog, I offer for your consideration the following review.

DIRTY HARRY, 1971. Directed by Don Siegel. Screenplay by Harry Julian Fink, R.M. Fink, Dean Riesner, and (uncredited) John Milius and Terence Malick.

“Dirty Harry” is a remarkable film, one of those rare cinematic events that extends and defines a genre. 40 years old this year, the film has not aged because we are still asking the same basic questions it poses. The film has been lauded as one of America’s finest efforts and has spawned a great many similar stories, including three sequels.

Starting with Steve McQueen’s “Bullitt,” in 1968, stories centering on hard boiled cops who disregarded the rules and the orders of their superiors became a fan favorite. These films included “Coogan’s Bluff,” which was released the same year as “Bullitt” and also starred Clint Eastwood with Don Siegel directing, and Academy Award winning best film for 1971, “The French Connection.” The ultimate car chase sequence in “Bullitt” became a standard others tried to equal or top, but in “Dirty Harry” the action, though none stop, does not depend on imitation.

Clint Eastwood portrays Harry Callahan, another maverick cop patrolling the streets of San Francisco in his own way. For Harry, justice does not require kid gloves in the application -- Miranda is a hindrance to be avoided. In many ways, Harry is an extension of the character Deputy Sheriff Walt Coogan, but here even more of a “loose cannon.“ Facing a brutal killer named Scorpio, Harry proceeds with just the right combination of righteousness and revenge to satisfy all the members of the audience who believe in the ideals the justice system stands for, but realize that system’s shortcomings when it comes to protecting its citizens instead of its sociopaths.

The dilemma is broadly stated here. Just how far should and can you go against the rights of a suspected killer in order to save innocent lives? The audience may wonder at the answer. Harry Callahan has no doubts.

Scorpio starts a grim and deadly game of cat and mouse by coldly killing a young woman swimming laps in a pool with a difficult shot from his high powered rifle. He leaves a ransom note demanding $100,000 or the next victim will die. Harry finds the note and is assigned to the case. After a diverting but defining robbery sequence that even plugs Eastwood’s own directorial debut on the marquis of a local movie theater, the chase begins in earnest as Scorpio leaves an increasingly brutal trail behind him, then takes Callahan’s pursuit as an opportunity to flaunt his own invincibility. The end result may be predictable, but the journey is harrowing and well told.

New York City, and then Seattle was supposed to be the setting for the story, but the filmmakers decided on San Francisco instead. The City’s recognizable scenery, plus the success of “Bullitt” three years before, probably drove the change in locale.

Eastwood is perfectly cast. The original concept for Harry Callahan intended to portray him as a grizzled 50ish veteran police officer jaded by his experience. Among those considered for the role were Burt Lancaster, John Wayne, Robert Mitchum and Frank Sinatra. Wayne actively campaigned for the role, but at 63 was considered a bit too old. Sinatra became the frontrunner, but had broken his wrist while filming “The Manchurian Candidate” eight years earlier and found it painful to wield the trademark .44 Magnum Callahan handles like a toy. And with the success, both critical and financial, of “Bullitt,” making the main character a younger, cooler individual offered the filmmakers the chance to appeal to a wider demographic as well. With his steely eyes and quiet menace, Eastwood made Harry Callahan his signature role.

The character of Scorpio is one of the greatest villains in film history, and Andy Robinson, at the time an unknown actor with an angelic face to contrast with the hellish brutality of this killer, is spellbinding. What motivates him is not the story here. What he does, how he does it, and how to stop him are the driving forces in Callahan’s story. What Scorpio is -- a monster -- is abundantly, convincingly clear. Amazingly, the part was offered first to Audie Murphy, but Murphy was killed in a plane crash before he could answer. Robinson played the part so convincingly that the real life pacifist found himself receiving death threats and had to change his phone number to an unlisted one.

“Dirty Harry” forgets the car chase. Instead, it places the most innocent among us -- our children -- in jeopardy at the hands of someone lacking any moral code. This is a brilliant stroke: no society feels more vulnerable than when its children are at risk, which makes the undertone of the film, the underlying theme all the more real and important. By the dramatic conclusion, we find ourselves agreeing with Harry that he must do whatever he has to in order to stop an uncontrollable monster, procedure be damned. In a society squeaking with moral ambivalence, this film poses interesting questions on what is going too far, with slam-bang action to boot.

Poem: Poverty

2011-01-11T11:47:00.000-08:00

For your consideration, a brief tome:

Poverty can be liberating
But I would not recommend it.
No alarm clock in the morning,
No uniforms to fit,
No cable TV ads or news bytes here,
No wireless internet.
The world goes on without me
And I don’t mind a bit.

John Wayne, An Appreciation

2011-01-08T12:59:00.000-08:00

For your consideration, the following article I published on Helium today. Politics aside.

John Wayne, Actor (An Appreciation)

John Wayne was the definitive Western Hero. From his early years as one of the “Sons of the Pioneers” to his breakout role in “Stagecoach” in 1939, and all the way through to his last film, “The Shootist,” Wayne was the personification of Western Swagger -- a combination of confidence and righteousness that could never be defeated. Eventually he only had to play himself: just his name at the top of the marquis told the audience what to expect. In that sense Wayne, born Marion Martin, became the stereotype of the Victorious American Hero. His other roles, even in war epics, did not bring out that same reassuring, old shoe comfort of knowing what to expect in a John Wayne Western -- lots of action with Wayne standing tall as the gun smoke cleared. His image became so indelible that even his outfit stayed the same from film to film, character to character.

A John Wayne character was simple, straightforward, and sure. And yet, among his dizzying body of work, there were many standout performances of characters layered in complexity, even downright ugliness, that allowed Wayne to portray a character unlike and beyond his persona. Knowing the actor is Wayne colors our appreciation and enjoyments of these roles now, where Wayne is the actor instead. But these are stellar performances in masterful films. For your consideration (listed by year of release):

“Stagecoach” (1939), directed by John Ford, is one of ‘39’s bumper crop of great films that included “Gone With The Wind” and “The Wizard of Oz.” it also marked Wayne’s emergence as a star, playing the young, wronged man on a vengeance trail that gets hijacked by his efforts to help his fellow passengers survive a harrowing run through hostile Indian territory.

“Red River” (1948), directed by Howard Hawkes, is my second favorite Wayne film of all time. It is his most complex performance as an uncompromising and often cruel tyrant of a cattle boss during a drive. In a film filled with rough men and sharp edges, Wayne’s performance is spot on and courageously unsympathetic.

“Fort Apache” (1948), directed by John Ford. In this brilliant story of life at the edge of the frontier lived under the command of a blind megalomaniac, Wayne gets to play the more understanding junior officer to Henry Fonda against type as the tyrannical, ill-advised cavalry commander who foolishly leads half his command into disaster. The balancer between the two men is perfect.

“Hondo” (1953), directed by John Farrow. This film may have gone a long way to creating the persona Wayne eventually would become -- self assured, rigged individualist with an unyielding moral compass. Army scout Wayne comes across a woman and her son who seem oblivious to an impending Apache uprising. The horsemanship alone is thrilling, and the scenery breathtaking in a taut, well told story.

“The Searchers” (1956), directed by John Ford. Not only is this my favorite John Wayne film, it is one of the greatest American films of all time. Wayne portrays a hardened Civil War veteran, bitter from his losses, who takes his nephew on a relentless quest to rescue his niece, kidnapped by Indians during a raid on his family’s home. The film is brutal and honest, showing the humanity and inhumanity on both sides. And Wayne’s turn as fractious Ethan Edwards is spellbinding up to the very last scene.

“Rio Bravo” (1959), directed by Howard Hawkes. This is one of several virtually interchangeable John Wayne oaters. The plots are all similar with Wayne in the same shirt, cowboy hat and bandanna and wielding a Winchester with his handgun gently riding his hip, bringing or upholding justice with the help of an assortment of secondary characters that always includes one has-been and/or drunk who rises to the occasion and achieves a level of redemption. This one, with the help of Dean Martin as the drunk (yes, he could act), Ricky Nelson as the arrogant young gun, Walter Brennan as the cantankerous deputy (does anyone do cantankerous better?), and Angie Dickinson as the way too young love interest, is the best of this crop.

“The Alamo” (1960), directed by John Wayne. For a long time this film was looked down upon as a bit of bombastic self-indulgence. The truth is, this was Wayne’s personal homage to American heroism, with himself in the director’s chair as well as portraying Davy Crockett. There are more than one pretty speech, and it takes a while to get to the final battle, but that battle is rousing, tragic and heroic all at the same time. For a study in heroism, it is interesting that Wayne chose a battle that ended in defeat. The men who died there were America’s 300 Spartans. And though Wayne did not have to stretch to portray Crockett, he did one thing admirably well. Casting himself and casting Richard Widmark as Jim Bowie lent credibility to the film because Crockett and Bowie each was fifty years old at the Alamo.

“The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” (1962), directed by John Ford, is another of the great American films, an amazing study of new versus old and the true nature of doing what’s right. Wayne plays the odd man out in a romantic triangle who rises above his beliefs and feelings to help Jimmy Stewart bring civilization to the West and earn himself a grand political career in the bargain. Lee Marvin is a standout in the title role\.

“True Grit” (1969), directed by Henry Hathaway, gets an honorable mention here because Wayne earned an Oscar for playing Rooster Cogburn, the one eyed codger who becomes protector of a vengeance seeking 14 year old girl. I saw nothing remarkable in the film and believe the Academy was rewarding Wayne for his body of work. I thought Wayne was being a bit too much Wayne and the action more improbable than a Clint Eastwood spaghetti Western. And with the new version out, it seems certain that these filmmakers missed much of the wealth in Charles Portis’ 1968 novel.

“The Shootist” (1976), directed by Don Siegel. Wayne is an aging gunfighter dying of cancer, who manages to find a way to go out in a blaze of gunfire. The character is a stoic, sad, old, finished man looking for one instant of his long gone youth to relive. With Jimmy Stewart as the doctor who diagnoses him and Lauren Bacall as the boarding house matron who rents him a room are wonderful, and Ron Howard -- who has often said he learned much about filmmaking from working with Wayne on this film -- plays Bacall’s son, an impressionable youth who relishes in Wayne’s violent past and present as much as his mother abhors it. This was Wayne’s 184th and last film, a fitting end for a man who died of stomach cancer in June 1979.

Dutch Pride, American Style

2011-01-05T19:56:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought justice was taking a vacation in America, Baseball's Hall of Fame has finally elected Bert Blyleven to its honored shrine. This is the greatest honor in Baseball, sort of an immortality. It took 14 years to get there -- I think after 15 a player becomes relegated to the old timers committee. So, bully for you, Bert!

Blyleven is a partioular favorite of mine, of course. He was born in Zeist, Holland. His parents immigrated to Canada when he was two, then to the US. I believe that Blyleven, who won 287 games in the Majors, often playing for second division teams and saddled with hard-luck losses, is the only Dutch born member of the Hall.

Go, Orange! Conquer the world! Well, maybe we don't want the headaches So just have fun!

How To Train Your Dragon

2011-01-04T10:44:00.000-08:00

Animated feature length films always have provided movie makers with considerable freedom to tell their stories in fantastic ways, although, almost by definition, these stories are geared toward younger audiences. Still, two factors are essential to lasting success. First, the material has to work on more than one level, appealing to young viewers and their parents. Second, and paramount, the story has to be a good one.

Walt Disney Studios had a virtual monopoly on animated motion pictures until single cell animation became too costly while cheaper to produce programming invaded television, allowing young viewers to engage with a less critical eye and a shorter attention span, and their parents to ignore the proceedings altogether. Family night at the movies was dying along with the G-Rated film.

It may be fitting that Disney’s “The Little Mermaid” is credited by many with starting a resurgence. But it was that studio’s “Beauty and the Beast,” which became the first animated film in history to be nominated in the Best Picture category at the Academy Awards, that gave animation total legitimacy as a current art form. Then CGI (computer graphic imaging) smashed open the floodgates with quality artwork and effects. When aided by quality writing, something the people at Pixar do consistently, animated films became mainstream entertainment for all ages, whether mixed with live action or not. The Oscars created a new category just for animated feature length films; last year, Paxar’s “UP!” was nominated for both Best Picture and Best Animated Feature, winning the later.

The key is story. Fantastic animation cannot surpass a terrible, dull or unbelievable script, but an odd or mediocre animation effort can still touch our hearts or our heads if the story is compelling. This year’s early animation hit, “How to Train Your Dragon,” proves the point. Although it is likely that Pixar’s “Toy Story 3-D” will win best animated film this year, my vote would be for “Dragon,” a product of the less consistent but sometimes brilliant people at DreamWorks. Visually, the film is sharp, smart and stunning, but it is the complex storyline, presented simply, that enthralls us. I did not see it in 3-D and can imagine the thrilling scenes of flying dragons and bursting fireballs would have been spectacular, but, as with any good film, “Dragon” does not depend on gadgets to work.

The story, by co-directors Chris Sanders and Dean DeBlois, and writer Will Davies, is based on a novel by Cressida Cowell. In a mythical corner of Scandinavia, Vikings and dragons are at war. Young Hiccup, son of the chief, discovers he cannot kill a dragon. Instead, he learns how to be a dragon whisperer, which threatens to make him more of an outcast than he already is. While his fellow Vikings lust for dragon blood in what they believe is a righteous cause, Hiccup learns that the dragons have their own problem, one that has caused them to act aggressively toward the humans. But he cannot convince his father, or the elders, that dragons are not the enemies the Vikings believe them to be. The consequences could spell disaster for everyone, humans and dragons alike.

Many themes find resonance in the telling. Cruelty is cruelty, even again your enemy. Loyalty does not always mean agreeing with your leaders; sometime opposing them in favor of what is right is true loyalty although you might be smacked down for it. And judging anyone, no matter who or what they are, without all the facts is not only unjust, but dangerous. Finally, right will prevail if we work together to achieve it. These are powerful; ideas that no one is too young to discover.

Add to the mix a young crop of aspiring dragon hunters who themselves are more misfit than Viking, yet become the cornerstone of the film’s dramatic resolution, and a wide variety of dragon types, shapes, and sizes, and you get a wild, fun-filled story with a strong set of messages about tolerance and understanding that does not have to preach to win its point, or the audience.

The Princess Bride

2011-01-02T13:12:00.000-08:00

Directed by Rob Reiner. Screenplay by William Goldman, from his novel.

In the mid-1970’s Diane and I somehow got a hold of a small paperback by William Goldman. This is the same William Goldman who demanded -- and got -- $400,000 to write the screenplay for “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” in one blow finally getting screenwriters their due forevermore. After all, where would a movie be without a script? An Academy Award winning script at that and nothing but happy endings.

“The Princess Bride: was a horse of another color, a careful, cunning tongue in cheek fractured fairy tale. Di read it first, laughing out loud next to me. “What?” I’d say and she’d tease, “You’ll just have to wait,” to which I’d reply, “Well, hurry up, then!”

When I finally got my turn I too would LOL and she’d ask, “Where are you?” or, “Have you met Miracle Max yet?”

My favorite feature of the book was that the passages in the real world, with grandpa reading to his ill grandson, were printed in red ink, which seemed so unreal by comparison to the expected bold black ink used for the narrative of young Wesley the farmhand and Princess Buttercup.

Alas, that edition is long ago toast. I have not seen any new edition with this delightful feature.

Fourteen years after its publication, Goldman adapted his novel into a screenplay for Rob Reiner. The 1987 film has become a fan favorite, a charming and funny spoof of fairy tales that stands tall among them at the same time.

True love dominates the film, but not in a yucky kid un-friendly way. A young boy, at home with an undisclosed malady, reluctantly allows his grandfather read him the same story grandpa used to read to his son, the boy’s father. Before long, the kid is hooked and so are we.

Wesley and Buttercup fall in love. Feeling unworthy of her, Wesley, in true fairy tale fashion, goes off to make his fortune in the world with full intent to come back and marry the girl. Word gets back to Buttercup that Wesley’s ship was attacked by Dread Pirate Roberts, who, it is known, takes no prisoners. Presuming Wesley dead, she vows never to love again.

Five years pass. The Prince of Florin decides to marry a commoner, as is his right no matter the girl’s feelings, and chooses Buttercup. It is a ploy, of course. She is expendable in his plans to wage war on neighboring Guilder. Three mercenaries kidnap her to put the plan in motion, but a mysterious and dangerous man foils their plans and rescues Buttercup. By accident he reveals his true identity to her -- not Dread Pirate Roberts as she thought, but her long lost true love Wesley.

Prince Humperdinck captures Wesley and takes Buttercup back. He orders Wesley tortured to death. With the help of two of the original mercenaries, even though he is mostly dead, Wesley rescues Buttercup once again and all will be well.

It is the telling that is so much fun, ripe with humor and filled with honor. And love. A wonderful subplot involves Indigo Montoya, one of the kidnappers, on a quest to avenge the murder of his father years before by a “six fingered man.” that man turns out to be the prince’s henchman. The highlight of the film comes as Indigo repeats the mantra that has kept him going: “My name is Indigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Stage great Mandy Patinkin plays Montoya. His adversary is played with a brilliant combination of bravado and cowardice by Christopher Guest. Andre The Giant plays Fezzik and Wallace Shawn is Vizzini, the other two members of the kidnapping trio. Gary Elwes plays Wesley with all the confidence of a leading man -- one wonders why his career has had so few leading men to portray. Robin Wright is Buttercup in a breakout performance. Chris Sarandon is wonderfully evil as Prince Humperdinck. In a delightful cameo Billy Crystal is Miracle Max and Carol Cane his wife, Valerie, the wizard and witch who help restore Wesley to life. Fred Savage as the young boy and Peter Falk as Grandpa frame the story artfully. Under the deft direction of Rob Reiner, the cast is perfect in this at once romp, at once genre story.

The music is by Mark Knopfler, the eclectic force behind Dire Straights , songwriter and film score composer. The song “Storybook Love” was written and performed by Willy DeVille, taken at Knopfler’s suggestion as the theme song for the movie, and earned an Oscar nomination for best song.

The Twentieth Anniversary edition has a trio of extras that are worth your time, none more so than when Mandy Patinkin, holding back tears, marvels out loud at the realization that, as an actor, he got to be part of something memorable and special at least once in his career.

It was “The Princess Bride.” If you never have seen it, treat yourself. If you have seen it, revisit the film. You will be amused and charmed.

Year's End, Year's Beginning

2010-12-31T14:46:00.000-08:00

It has been a while since I last blogged. Our lives have become so complicated that the idea of -- and the time to dedicate to -- writing a blog has been difficult to attain. I hope to do better, but over the next several months our lives are still in limbo and I keep spending my time in frustration: hurry up and wait. I wish things could be finished, and yet wish they never happened. Major changes in our lives offer me the opportunity to grow and remind me of what is really important.

Enough said.

Oh, one more observation: it took me until I was 60 before I began to understand all those things I have come to believe about stuff. I knew it in my head, but my heart held out for more ----- stuff. Stuff is nice. It makes life easier to go through. But what matters are the people in our lives and how we treat them. I know that sounds trite, but when you look around you and really see what others feel, the words ring true. Stuff -- stuff -- doesn’t matter.

Don’t get me wrong. I like my stuff. I only realize how wrapped up in getting stuff I had become and I lost sight, lost touch, lost meaning along the way. I only hope I genuinely am on the right road once again. Which doesn’t mean I won’t go out and get Mark Twain’s Autobiography or the newest Christopher Moore novel fresh off the press. It means I would rather spend time with any of you.

Now for a note of a more positive nature. Earlier this month Richard and Caiti Devine-McPalmer welcomed their second son into the world. His name, in keeping with their own tradition, is Franklin Finnegan Devine-McPalmer. Richard likes Presidential names -- but when I heard the choice I was puzzled. After all, Benjamin Franklin was never a President. But then I remembered Franklin Pearce (okay, I’m the only one who does, and that’s barely), and then FDR, author of the second and tragically unfulfilled Bill of Rights.

Caiti likes Sesame Street characters. They kicked around the name Grover for awhile but waited until the baby arrived and told them his name himself. Good choice, Franklin.

On a scarier note, a good friend has had major heart surgery -- a wakeup call that helped us get our priorities in order and gave us much needed perspective. Prompt attention to subtle symptoms probably saved his life. Recovery will be difficult but he is well on the way.

Enough welcome myself back blather. I a looking forward to 2011 as a year filled with promise and appropriate conclusions. May each of you be blessed with curiosity and wisdom, and of course, peace.

Hunting Dragons

2010-11-02T23:13:00.001-07:00

From the Unpublished Memoir of a Dragon Hunter

I have spent my academic career on an errand of folly. Some might call it a quest but many might, and far too many have done, call it a colossal waste of time. And yet, through my journey, which always has sought the truth, I have had the opportunity to travel to many places and see many things. Just never what I sought in the first place.

This was no surprise: finding what I sought would have been earth-shaking.

To put matters simply, I long have wondered why dragons exist in legend and mythology world wide, with reports of actual sightings, even battles, as late as the Fifteenth Century, and yet no physical evidence of their presence exists. At all. Not one skeleton, even a skull, or an egg or a horde of gold in the base of a mountain can be attributed to such a beast. Are they legend only? Myth? Or are they some sort of creature driven to extinction by men so utterly that even their bones are gone?

Every question begat more questions. It seemed to me that perhaps dragons were some sort of prehistoric memory lodged in the human collective consciousness from a time long, long ago. After all, every one of us is fascinated by dinosaurs even though those magnificent creatures died out millions of years before humans appeared on the planet. Yet there were mammals around during the Age of the Dinosaur -- has memory followed evolution? If so, are dragons part of that memory?

Still, the only dinosaurs to appear in actual human existence came from fiction, like “King Kong,” “The Lost World,” “One Million BC” or “Jurassic Park.” one can argue that the same can be said for dragons, but this would be inaccurate. Among Western civilizations, stories exist of recent encounters, and in the East dragons are an accepted part of current mythology -- clearly a unique interpretation of the animal’s existence.

Then it occurred to me: Dragons fly. It seems a universal constant. The Chinese claim that a dragon has to turn 4,000 years old before it gets its wings, but that does not prevent it from flying much earlier in its life. Western dragons almost always have wings already. And yet, dragons are massively, frighteningly large. Given the rules of aerodynamics, a creature that large would need incredible musculature and extremely long wings to act, essentially, as acrobatically as a hawk one hundredth its size.

Unless -- and here is the revelation -- a dragon has no bones. even with considerable size, an animal unencumbered by the weight of a skeleton made of heavy material would require considerably less strength to achieve the same graceful flight. I imagine a skull of calcium but a skeleton of cartilage -- much like a shark.

One other component adds to my revised picture of dragons: fire. Many dragons are purported to breathe fire. Perhaps all can. If that ability exists, and how it might remains a mystery (like purring in cats), then the probability is that a dragon’s body, or a goodly percentage of it, acts like a bellows and hot air balloon. Imagine if you can a shark flying a dirigible with total maneuverability, and a dragon comes closer to being an acceptable reality.

Still, why have we found no trace? Do dragons self destruct upon death? Or are their skulls so similar to those of other creatures that they have gone misidentified? Forget horns and think more of alligators -- who, on land, have been mistaken for dragons (see Saint George and the) -- or giant pythons -- who have been mistaken for sea serpents in the water.. It works in reverse: when Greeks uncovered the skull of a dinosaur, they looked at the thing from the wrong angle and invented the only explanation they could come up with -- a Cyclops. Truth be told, we are still revising our understanding of, and visual imagery of dinosaurs to this day, as new evidence emerges.

Perhaps a dragon lies somewhere in the Alps or Caucasus Mountains awaiting discovery.

Of course, we believe in God without any evidential proof beyond what human beings have written, invented, or done themselves. Why not dragons?

Pirate Latitudes, a Review

2010-11-01T17:01:00.000-07:00

The great thing about dead writers, especially modern dead writers, is that their work lives after them. That is, previously unknown manuscripts surface in their estates and get published. Sometimes, the resultant book self-evidently demonstrates why the author kept it hidden while alive (but didn’t have the heart to throw it out -- we writers are in love with our own words). Other times, the book turns out to be as good as any in his oeuvre.

Robert Ludlum has made a second career as a dead writer, with several Bourne stories coming out based on his character and/or notes. Kurt Vonnegut’s estate has released some very classy stuff, including a new book soon to be published, “While Mortals Sleep”
(slated to be in stores December 25, 2011, four and a half years after his passing),. And Michael Crichton, who passed away in 2008, left behind the completed manuscript to a gem among ripping good yarns called “Pirate Latitudes.”

Unlike “Prey,” the last book Crichton published before his untimely death, which felt disjointed and too busy to be effective, “Pirate Latitudes” is a tightly told, linear story with a strong, straightforward focus. It is not great literature, nor does it pretend to be. It is an adventure story told in real time, without the aid of scientific input or twists and turns, about one man in particular and the other people who inhabit his very specific world.

Set in the Caribbean of 1665, the story follows the exploits of English Captain Charles Hunter and his handpicked crew of sixty men and one woman, who are privateers(not pirates) on a mission to capture a treasure laden Spanish Galleon out from under the noses of a well armed garrison on a difficult island and, as it turns out, a Man of War commanded by Hunter’s sworn enemy Gazalla.

The delight is in seeing the adventure unfold, step by step, in a logical linear progression. These are rough men and women, used to rough ways, and Crichton makes no apologies to our modern sensibilities in portraying life and death in the Pirate Latitudes. Hunter and his crew face danger after danger -- from the Spanish, the weather, natives of the region, even a Kraken. But the greatest danger comes from his own government and a self-righteous bureaucrat with delusions of grandeur.

Hunter is a ruthless leader, cunning strategist, and at the same time a charming and charismatic personality, very popular with the ladies. Every secondary character is drawn carefully as well, though each in turn serves mostly to amplify Hunter’s determination and talents. The result is a genuine page turner locked in a real world fifty years before the likes of Blackbeard and Captain Kidd or Ann Bonny and Mary Read -- a Pirates of the Caribbean based on true stories and feeling genuine from first to last. To touch that world, to feel that time and place with all its hardness and terror, and yet survive the experience, Crichton presents us an exciting, fulfilling read.

One can only hope there are other pieces in the dead man’s chest.

Bonekickers

2010-10-22T13:51:00.000-07:00

For S and G's here is my review of a BBC single season wonder:

Bonekickers (BBC, 2008)
Original broadcasts July-August 2008. Available for rent or purchase.

One thing I love about British television programming is brevity. A season will last from six to thirteen episodes and is done. A series lasts just as long as it takes to tell the story, and is done, even if it lasts only a single season, six episodes long. Even the very best follow this pattern: “Mulberry” went two seasons, totaling thirteen episodes; “Coupling,” by far one of the funniest situation comedies of the past twenty years (and not to be confused with the pitiful line for line American copy) went four seasons; the Occult drama “Hex” had its story told in two. Even the exceptions prove the rule -- “Doctor Who” prepares for its sixth season but with its third doctor since the new millennium reboot.

These shows finish leaving you wanting more. For some, like “The Bonekickers,” one season is quite enough.

This series was created by Matthew Graham and Ashley Pharoah, the team that gave us the outstanding “Life on Mars” (two seasons, twelve episodes total). Archaeology professor Mark Horton from Bristol University acted as consultant, helping give the program its air of authenticity.

“Bonekickers” has a six episode arc that clearly was intended to be self-contained. The series follows the exploits of a quartet of archaeologists from fictional Wessex University who solve puzzles with the care of a CSI team and the gusto of Indiana Jones. Not even Jones himself would believe that archaeology could be so bloody dangerous and exciting, particularly in locations like Bristol.

Dr. Gillian Magwilde (Julie Graham) leads the troupe, with Dr. Ben Ergha (Adrian Lester), a former classmate at college and lover, and Professor Gregory “Dolly” Parton (Hugh Bonneville) her main scholastic allies, and young Viv Davis (Gugu Mbatha-Raw) their apprentice. For comic relief, Michael Maloney plays Daniel Mastiff, the boss you love to hate. The characters are interesting but fairly one-dimensional, and we see very little personal growth in any of them during the course of the series. The one exception is Bonneville’s Professor Parton, who comes to us already complete and almost anachronistic, a throwback to that Indy Jones brand of adventurer caught in the modern world.

But adventures abound. The subject of each episode is itself fascinating and filled with potential. In order, the archaeologists uncover, and then fight to preserve, the Knights Templar’s greatest treasure; the legacy of escaped New World slaves called the Maroons; the true story of the death of Warrior Queen Boudicca; the prophesies of the Babylonian God Marduk; and the resting place of Joan of Arc. Each time someone sinister wants to stop them. Crimes, including murder, ensue. Each time they acquire great knowledge but usually lose what they are after.

Gillian is on an underlying quest for a specific sword. In her pursuit, she shows herself to be hard, belligerent, driven, and often hubristic. This makes her at once interesting yet not wholly sympathetic, a difficult and real person. But we stop there. She is no different at the end of her quest than she was when we first met her. We learn about the complex relationships between the characters, which lend an almost soap opera quality to the proceedings, and we are presented with an array of interesting and likewise driven guest characters from episode to episode -- in fact, things move quickly enough throughout the program that all we are left thinking about is how cleverly all these artifacts and bones link together, first within the framework of each episode, and then in the totality as summed up in episode six.

At least they didn’t leave us hanging. With pointed references to Gillian’s quest for the sword appearing in every episode, in the finale she manages to solve the riddle and attain her prize, if only temporarily -- Excalibur. The clues fit neatly together, while the possible implications of finding that sword lead to a heated and dangerous conclusion of the series. The ending is satisfying up to a point. I still don’t know why Gillian . . . Well, maybe you should see for yourself.

My favorite character in the show rarely had much to do but strut and translate. But in the finale he got to shine at last. Hugh Bonneville’s raspy voice was perfect as his “Dolly” Parton got to utter the best line in the program: “Don’t mess with me, I’m an archaeologist!”

“Bonekickers” is definitely not a great series. The characters never fully develop and each episode seems to struggle to create a neat, believable ending. But the subjects explored by the archaeologists -- Christ, the Maroons, Boudicca, Marduk, Joan of Arc and Excalibur, are all captivating, while the level of danger and potential impact the characters face each week make these episodes a guilty pleasure -- sort of like watching Robert Langdon decipher the Da Vinci Code, only this quartet of explorers show genuine passion for what they do, and that alone is fun to watch.

"The Wrecking Crew"

2010-10-22T13:36:00.000-07:00

"The Wrecking Crew" is a film by Denny Tedesco documenting his father's career. On October 16 I got to see it, thanks to my brothers Paul and David. I wrote the following review for Helium.com and wanted to share it with you all.

The Wrecking Crew, a Documentary by Denny Tedesco (2010)

You probably have never heard of them, but if you’re my age or if you have ever listened to any music from the 1960’s or 70s, I guarantee you’ve heard them play. As Los Angeles became the center of the recording scene for everything except Country, The Wrecking Crew were the consummate studio musicians who helped create hit record after hit record, from Elvis to the Beach Boys to the Mamas and the Papas to Herb Alpert to Sonny and Cher to Frank and Nancy Sinatra.

It was an era in which stars and their bands were not always good enough to make a record special, and studio musicians were called upon to turn a good song into a sonic treasure. Cost was also a factor: the actual band might take days or weeks to get a song just right for album release, while the studio musicians routinely did it in hours. It was a special window of time perfectly suited for this one steady core mix of talent.

An eclectic group of brilliant musicians who could sight-read anybody’s composition, master it, improve it where necessary, and turn in a finished track within three hours, these guys and gals might play for Sinatra in the morning, do the sound track for Hawaii Five-0 after lunch, then move in to tackle one of Brian Wilson’s increasingly sophisticated and complicated musical ideas -- too demanding for the touring Beach Boys themselves -- before dinner, then play to exhaustion to create Phil Spector’s “Wall of Sound” before calling it a night.

It is said that drummer Hal Blaine is the most recorded drummer in music history, and that Tommy Tedesco holds the same honor among guitarists. No matter what genre, if you wanted a specific sound, Tommy Tedesco would find it. Bass guitarist Carol Kaye could take a simple riff and turn it into something unforgettable -- for example, she tweaked the very simple base line for Sonny and Cher’s “The Beat Goes On,” and gave a flat, lifeless underscoring genuine snap. Add a wealth of musicians numbering twenty or more at any given time, including drummer Earl Palmer, guitarists Billy Strange and Glen Campbell, and bassists Larry Knetchel and Joe Osborne, and you have The Wrecking Crew.

They got their name when they first showed up for work. The studio musicians there all wore ties and jackets and “looked” professional. These new guys came in with scraggly hair, wearing T-shirts, and dangling cigarettes from their lips. One of the other guys said, “You’re gonna wreck the music business.” Hal Blaine then said, “That’s us. The wrecking crew.”

Tommy Tedesco’s son Denny has spent the last fourteen years building a loving, honest tribute to his dad and fellow musicians of The Wrecking Crew. It has taken all that time to get releases from the various music studios for whom they recorded, so Denny could include the 130 examples of their work in the film. When asked why he didn’t just cut down the number of songs, Denny replied, “Because that’s the point. They played everything.”

By 1980 a new breed of singer-songwriter emerged on the music scene. New bands appeared who not only wanted to play their own stuff, they had the skill needed to do so effectively. Studio musicians became redundant. But, as several of them comment, it was a great ride.

You won’t find “The Wrecking Crew” at your local art house theater or even on DVD yet. Tedesco is still raising money to pay off the last of the studios for permission to play those songs, and money to finance the DVD release. He’s about $250,000 shy as I write this -- pocket change in today’s music industry. This means he is unable to show this film in commercial outlets, so he has been airing it at film festivals, where it has won numerous awards, and in private non-profit venues. I got to see it, along with about 200 others, at the Steinbeck Center in Salinas, California, where it was presented as one of the Center’s “Night at the Museum” series of events.

For me it was a wonderful evening filled with nostalgia, fun, and great humor. The members of The Wrecking Crew loved what they did, yet has a great sense of humor about themselves, and it shows in every frame of the 95 minute film.

Carefully edited and honestly told, this is the story of the musicians who created the soundtrack of my generation. They were paid handsomely for it and got to do what they loved. And even if they weren’t credited on those albums, this film shouts their names with joy.

For more information on The Wrecking Crew, visit the website:
www.wreckingcrewfilm.com.

Checking In

2010-10-13T14:24:00.000-07:00

Hello to all my friends out in the eather! It has been a long while since I blogged last, and I apologize. Many of you already know why I have remained quiet for the last several weeks, and now is not the time to launch into some sort of tirade or bitter self-flagellation. The horizon is still far away, but I have seen it and know I am moving in the right direction, and that is all I feel the need to say at the moment.

I do have a few words of wisdom to impart, They are not my words. They belong to a Chinese philosopger named Mo Tsu, who predates Lao Tsu, credited with being the center of the Taoist movement. My eldest rightly points out that Mo Tsu's words apply to an ideal and unattainable reality, not ours. Still, if each of us could live them, well, ah, the idealist in me still dreams.

In response to the criticism that "All embracing love is fine enough, but it is hard to apply where it counts," Mo Tsu answered:

"The world's leaders have no idea what is for their own profit . . . Those who love others will be loved in return. Do good to others and others will do good to you. Hate people and be hated by them. Hurt them and they will hurt you. What is hard about that?"