http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/searchEverything.kickAction?as=30146&mediaType=blog&sortType=recent All new blogs on Mike's Writers Network Sat, 24 Oct 2009 22:57:24 GMT Sat, 24 Oct 2009 22:57:24 GMT mgeffy@gmail.com (writermike) mgeffy@gmail.com (writermike) KickApps Feed Builder 2009-10-24T22:57:24Z 166 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/searchEverything.kickAction?as=30146&sortType=recent 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Prajna-Book-Review/BLOG/1436985/30146.html   Author Roxanne Smolen opens her second book of the Anneliese Thielman trilogy, Prajna, one year later.  Anneliese-Thielman is dressing in her wedding finery for her marriage to Sayer-Kihn, the chiliarch or chieftan of his tribe of Llaird.  She’s also been named and accepted as the Jefe-Naik, the prophetess of change, foretold in their legends.  The wedding ceremony is disrupted by infiltrators from a rival clan of Llaird, and to Anneliese’s dismay the wedding is postponed.While meditating before her wedding, Anneliese has a vision of a “great city chiseled from a mountainside”, and learns about Prajna, the Llaird city of enlightenment and education, and the fate that befell the city and her people.  A few days later on a cruise in the chaser she and her bodyguard found and repaired, they discovered an abandoned city of stone growing out of a mountain on what was once the shore of a dry riverbed.  Prajna.  The discovery of the city provides Anneliese with the final piece of her plan to get the Llaird city-dwellers out of Enceinte, the city that is owned by and supports Resort Debauch; the resort that caged and humiliated her for her ex-husband’s gambling debts. She needs housing to see her plan through to help the Llaird help themselves and Prajna can house thousands and is near the Malpais mines, a valuable stone of volcanic origin.  And just maybe Sayer-Kihn will love her again.Prajna captivated me as totally as Resort Debauch did.  Where Roxanne Smolen in her first book showed the harsh realities of life on this almost uninhabitable planet, in Prajna she shows us the hidden beauty. You can read more about her work at her website http://www.roxannesmolen.com/ .  Her books can also be found in both paperback and eBook on both Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-url?_encoding=UTF8&search-type=ss&index=books&field-author=Roxanne%20Smolenhttp://books.barnesandnoble.com/search/results.aspx?ATH=Roxanne+SmolenBrenda Cloutier is a reviewer for Romancing the Pubs. She writes historical and contemporary women’s fiction.    Author Roxanne Smolen opens her second book of the Anneliese Thielman trilogy, Prajna, one year later.  Anneliese-Thielman is dressing in her wedding finery for her marriage to Sayer-Kihn, the chiliarch or chieftan of his tribe of Llaird.  She’s also been named and accepted as the Jefe-Naik, the prophetess of change, foretold in their legends.  The wedding ceremony is disrupted by infiltrators from a rival clan of Llaird, and to Anneliese’s dismay the wedding is postponed.While meditating before her wedding, Anneliese has a vision of a “great city chiseled from a mountainside”, and learns about Prajna, the Llaird city of enlightenment and education, and the fate that befell the city and her people.  A few days later on a cruise in the chaser she and her bodyguard found and repaired, they discovered an abandoned city of stone growing out of a mountain on what was once the shore of a dry riverbed.  Prajna.  The discovery of the city provides Anneliese with the final piece of her plan to get the Llaird city-dwellers out of Enceinte, the city that is owned by and supports Resort Debauch; the resort that caged and humiliated her for her ex-husband’s gambling debts. She needs housing to see her plan through to help the Llaird help themselves and Prajna can house thousands and is near the Malpais mines, a valuable stone of volcanic origin.  And just maybe Sayer-Kihn will love her again.Prajna captivated me as totally as Resort Debauch did.  Where Roxanne Smolen in her first book showed the harsh realities of life on this almost uninhabitable planet, in Prajna she shows us the hidden beauty. You can read more about her work at her website http://www.roxannesmolen.com/ .  Her books can also be found in both paperback and eBook on both Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-url?_encoding=UTF8&search-type=ss&index=books&field-author=Roxanne%20Smolenhttp://books.barnesandnoble.com/search/results.aspx?ATH=Roxanne+SmolenBrenda Cloutier is a reviewer for Romancing the Pubs. She writes historical and contemporary women’s fiction.  Sat, 24 Oct 2009 22:57:24 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Prajna-Book-Review/BLOG/1436985/30146.html RSmolen 2009-10-24T22:57:24Z Mike's Writers Network   Author Roxanne Smolen opens her second book of the Anneliese Thielman trilogy, Prajna, one year later.  Anneliese-Thielman is dressing in her wedding finery for her marriage to Sayer-Kihn, the chiliarch or chieftan of his tribe of Llaird.  She’s also been named and accepted as the Jefe-Naik, the prophetess of change, foretold in their legends.  The wedding ceremony is disrupted by infiltrators from a rival clan of Llaird, and to Anneliese’s dismay the wedding is postponed.While meditating before her wedding, Anneliese has a vision of a “great city chiseled from a mountainside”, and learns about Prajna, the Llaird city of enlightenment and education, and the fate that befell the city and her people.  A few days later on a cruise in the chaser she and her bodyguard found and repaired, they discovered an abandoned city of stone growing out of a mountain on what was once the shore of a dry riverbed.  Prajna.  The discovery of the city provides Anneliese with the final piece of her plan to get the Llaird city-dwellers out of Enceinte, the city that is owned by and supports Resort Debauch; the resort that caged and humiliated her for her ex-husband’s gambling debts. She needs housing to see her plan through to help the Llaird help themselves and Prajna can house thousands and is near the Malpais mines, a valuable stone of volcanic origin.  And just maybe Sayer-Kihn will love her again.Prajna captivated me as totally as Resort Debauch did.  Where Roxanne Smolen in her first book showed the harsh realities of life on this almost uninhabitable planet, in Prajna she shows us the hidden beauty. You can read more about her work at her website http://www.roxannesmolen.com/ .  Her books can also be found in both paperback and eBook on both Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-url?_encoding=UTF8&search-type=ss&index=books&field-author=Roxanne%20Smolenhttp://books.barnesandnoble.com/search/results.aspx?ATH=Roxanne+SmolenBrenda Cloutier is a reviewer for Romancing the Pubs. She writes historical and contemporary women’s fiction.  book, fi, prajna, review, romance, rtp, sci nonadult false Prajna Book Review text blog book,fi,prajna,review,romance,rtp,sci 0 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=7088799&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_3777935_30146_7088799_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1436985 7088799 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_You-Down-With-NPP/BLOG/1074950/30146.html Different times call for different initials. Most of us remember the catchy hook; yea, you know me. Well, it can surely fit today. I’m down with NPP! The Noble Peace Prize was awarded to our President Barack Obama! Next phrase – are you ready for some football?Is it sad to say that our President now has to stick diligently to a plan for every move he makes? Stick to the playbook, Sir, because if you sneeze during a speech at the United Nations, a statement will be released detailing the severity of it. Aww, Lawd, he got the swine! He’s trying to infect his views on the world! Impeach is ass! After all, a Nobel Peace Prize winner does not have any flaws. Some say he won to soon – he hasn’t done anything. I guess they weren’t on the nominating committee.We all live history; some of it is printed in text books, most of it isn’t. This particular day, Friday October 9th, 2009, is a part of my minds legacy. See, on this day I volunteered at a fund raiser for Northeast Public Radio – NPR. I was a part of the valiant personnel who answered telephones, and recorded pledges from people who desired to keep NPR going strong. Giving up money in a recession? Some folks need to mind their own recession business and stop inflecting negative views on others – just my opinion. Broke isn’t always Poor. Poor isn’t always Po’. Yah’ll know what I’m saying…The enthusiasm that filled the room was amazing. Not just for seeing the station reach its goal, but also for our President winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I received calls from people pledging amounts that ranged from twenty-five dollars to one thousand dollars. Amazing. The part of the pledgers and my conversation that made me feel validated was not the fact that they so effortlessly divulged personal information, but that they wanted to leave a comment to be read over the air – name included. They wanted people to know that they enjoyed the station AND that they were so proud of OUR President for being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.I noticed that I was the only black volunteer during the time that I was there, which was between the hours of 8am and 3pm. There were maybe 25-40 people in room at various times. Did they notice, too? I’m sure they did, but I got the vibe that on that day it didn’t matter. The more things stay the same, the more they change. I know, I said it “backwards” but I meant it moving forward. Many times I have been the only black person in the room and it mattered, and it was noticed. I filled the quota. Somebody’s job had been done.Twenty years later I wasn’t a quota – I was a welcomed addition to a cause. A cause to keep an informative station on the air, and a valuable asset to show that we as a people desire the same things. Validation. Shoot, I want a cup of coffee and a donut for breakfast sometimes just like everyone else. I want to provide for my family and have job security just like everyone else. I want to commend our President on his achievement just like everyone else.I do believe that certain things will always be present between races. There are differences that, well, make us different. It’s okay. Racism, hmm, well, it exists. To finally physically see people of a different race applaud and rally behind a man that my race let the world borrow because he is ours, is incredible. WE (and WE encompasses yah’ll, too) voted for him. WE support him through all adversity. WE all are united and can sing the jingle proudly – You Down With NPP? Yea, you know me!Wanda D. HudsonWait for Love: A Black Girl’s StoryLuvMe – Because Everybody Needs A Little LuvComing Soon – A Sheltered Lifehttp://www.wandadhudson.comhttp://www.blogtalkradio.com/wandaswayhttp://www.wandasway.blogspot.comhttp://www.cafepress.com/wandaswayhttp://www.facebook.com/wandadhudsonhttp://www.twitter.com/@wandaluvhttp://www.myspace.com/wandaluvContributing Author -Succulent – Chocolate Flava 2Purple Panties – An Eroticanoir.com Anthology Different times call for different initials. Most of us remember the catchy hook; yea, you know me. Well, it can surely fit today. I’m down with NPP! The Noble Peace Prize was awarded to our President Barack Obama! Next phrase – are you ready for some football?Is it sad to say that our President now has to stick diligently to a plan for every move he makes? Stick to the playbook, Sir, because if you sneeze during a speech at the United Nations, a statement will be released detailing the severity of it. Aww, Lawd, he got the swine! He’s trying to infect his views on the world! Impeach is ass! After all, a Nobel Peace Prize winner does not have any flaws. Some say he won to soon – he hasn’t done anything. I guess they weren’t on the nominating committee.We all live history; some of it is printed in text books, most of it isn’t. This particular day, Friday October 9th, 2009, is a part of my minds legacy. See, on this day I volunteered at a fund raiser for Northeast Public Radio – NPR. I was a part of the valiant personnel who answered telephones, and recorded pledges from people who desired to keep NPR going strong. Giving up money in a recession? Some folks need to mind their own recession business and stop inflecting negative views on others – just my opinion. Broke isn’t always Poor. Poor isn’t always Po’. Yah’ll know what I’m saying…The enthusiasm that filled the room was amazing. Not just for seeing the station reach its goal, but also for our President winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I received calls from people pledging amounts that ranged from twenty-five dollars to one thousand dollars. Amazing. The part of the pledgers and my conversation that made me feel validated was not the fact that they so effortlessly divulged personal information, but that they wanted to leave a comment to be read over the air – name included. They wanted people to know that they enjoyed the station AND that they were so proud of OUR President for being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.I noticed that I was the only black volunteer during the time that I was there, which was between the hours of 8am and 3pm. There were maybe 25-40 people in room at various times. Did they notice, too? I’m sure they did, but I got the vibe that on that day it didn’t matter. The more things stay the same, the more they change. I know, I said it “backwards” but I meant it moving forward. Many times I have been the only black person in the room and it mattered, and it was noticed. I filled the quota. Somebody’s job had been done.Twenty years later I wasn’t a quota – I was a welcomed addition to a cause. A cause to keep an informative station on the air, and a valuable asset to show that we as a people desire the same things. Validation. Shoot, I want a cup of coffee and a donut for breakfast sometimes just like everyone else. I want to provide for my family and have job security just like everyone else. I want to commend our President on his achievement just like everyone else.I do believe that certain things will always be present between races. There are differences that, well, make us different. It’s okay. Racism, hmm, well, it exists. To finally physically see people of a different race applaud and rally behind a man that my race let the world borrow because he is ours, is incredible. WE (and WE encompasses yah’ll, too) voted for him. WE support him through all adversity. WE all are united and can sing the jingle proudly – You Down With NPP? Yea, you know me!Wanda D. HudsonWait for Love: A Black Girl’s StoryLuvMe – Because Everybody Needs A Little LuvComing Soon – A Sheltered Lifehttp://www.wandadhudson.comhttp://www.blogtalkradio.com/wandaswayhttp://www.wandasway.blogspot.comhttp://www.cafepress.com/wandaswayhttp://www.facebook.com/wandadhudsonhttp://www.twitter.com/@wandaluvhttp://www.myspace.com/wandaluvContributing Author -Succulent – Chocolate Flava 2Purple Panties – An Eroticanoir.com Anthology Tue, 13 Oct 2009 02:37:06 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_You-Down-With-NPP/BLOG/1074950/30146.html wandadhudson 2009-10-13T02:37:06Z Mike's Writers Network Different times call for different initials. Most of us remember the catchy hook; yea, you know me. Well, it can surely fit today. I’m down with NPP! The Noble Peace Prize was awarded to our President Barack Obama! Next phrase – are you ready for some football?Is it sad to say that our President now has to stick diligently to a plan for every move he makes? Stick to the playbook, Sir, because if you sneeze during a speech at the United Nations, a statement will be released detailing the severity of it. Aww, Lawd, he got the swine! He’s trying to infect his views on the world! Impeach is ass! After all, a Nobel Peace Prize winner does not have any flaws. Some say he won to soon – he hasn’t done anything. I guess they weren’t on the nominating committee.We all live history; some of it is printed in text books, most of it isn’t. This particular day, Friday October 9th, 2009, is a part of my minds legacy. See, on this day I volunteered at a fund raiser for Northeast Public Radio – NPR. I was a part of the valiant personnel who answered telephones, and recorded pledges from people who desired to keep NPR going strong. Giving up money in a recession? Some folks need to mind their own recession business and stop inflecting negative views on others – just my opinion. Broke isn’t always Poor. Poor isn’t always Po’. Yah’ll know what I’m saying…The enthusiasm that filled the room was amazing. Not just for seeing the station reach its goal, but also for our President winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I received calls from people pledging amounts that ranged from twenty-five dollars to one thousand dollars. Amazing. The part of the pledgers and my conversation that made me feel validated was not the fact that they so effortlessly divulged personal information, but that they wanted to leave a comment to be read over the air – name included. They wanted people to know that they enjoyed the station AND that they were so proud of OUR President for being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.I noticed that I was the only black volunteer during the time that I was there, which was between the hours of 8am and 3pm. There were maybe 25-40 people in room at various times. Did they notice, too? I’m sure they did, but I got the vibe that on that day it didn’t matter. The more things stay the same, the more they change. I know, I said it “backwards” but I meant it moving forward. Many times I have been the only black person in the room and it mattered, and it was noticed. I filled the quota. Somebody’s job had been done.Twenty years later I wasn’t a quota – I was a welcomed addition to a cause. A cause to keep an informative station on the air, and a valuable asset to show that we as a people desire the same things. Validation. Shoot, I want a cup of coffee and a donut for breakfast sometimes just like everyone else. I want to provide for my family and have job security just like everyone else. I want to commend our President on his achievement just like everyone else.I do believe that certain things will always be present between races. There are differences that, well, make us different. It’s okay. Racism, hmm, well, it exists. To finally physically see people of a different race applaud and rally behind a man that my race let the world borrow because he is ours, is incredible. WE (and WE encompasses yah’ll, too) voted for him. WE support him through all adversity. WE all are united and can sing the jingle proudly – You Down With NPP? Yea, you know me!Wanda D. HudsonWait for Love: A Black Girl’s StoryLuvMe – Because Everybody Needs A Little LuvComing Soon – A Sheltered Lifehttp://www.wandadhudson.comhttp://www.blogtalkradio.com/wandaswayhttp://www.wandasway.blogspot.comhttp://www.cafepress.com/wandaswayhttp://www.facebook.com/wandadhudsonhttp://www.twitter.com/@wandaluvhttp://www.myspace.com/wandaluvContributing Author -Succulent – Chocolate Flava 2Purple Panties – An Eroticanoir.com Anthology blogging, life, obama, president, sexy, wandaluv nonadult false You Down With NPP? text blog blogging,life,obama,president,sexy,wandaluv 1 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=2816514&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_5211613_30146_2816514_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 1074950 2816514 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Fear-Drives-My-Writing/BLOG/858307/30146.html By Anthony S. Policastro[image]Both of my novels,DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM and ABSENCE OF FAITH, both mystery/thrillers, were written out of fear, universal fears that I believe all of us consider at one time or another.DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM is about Dan Riker, a computer security expert whose family is kidnapped by digital terrorists who take over the power grid and cell phone network and hold the United States hostage. Dan is the only one with the know-how to stop them, but the hackers have his family and he must decide to save his family or save millions of people.[image]While I wrote this book the fear of losing my own family pervaded my thoughts and I wrapped a plot around this fear using the latest wireless technologies and a lot of imagination. I still have my family and the thought of losing them is unimaginable.This was the fuel for DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM. Dan's life is well planned, predicted and uneventful like most of our lives and I wanted to see how Dan would react when all of that is shattered in an instant when his family disappears. Does Dan have the courage to save his family or will he just give up because he never had to face such insurmountable odds? Will he save millions of people whose lives are threatened by the terrorists or will he save his family?The book is not just about technology. These are some of the questions I addressed in the book and when or if you read the book you may ask yourself these same questions and maybe better understand your own capabilities.ABSENCE OF FAITH also addresses universal fears when residents in a highly-religious small town have horrible near-death experiences and wake up with burnt skin.  They believe they went to hell and that God has abandoned them. Matters get worse when a local Satanic cult emerges and wins over many residents. [image]My fears of losing all hope and all faith in the face of a downturn in life is what spawned ABSENCE OF FAITH. Again, I was interested in how people would react if you stripped them of all hope and faith. Would they pick themselves up and continue their lives? What would they do when this great fear overtakes them.These are the questions I address in ABSENCE OF FAITH. Bestselling author and psychicSylvia Browne writes in her book, Prophecy, that, "...our beliefs are the driving force behind our behavior, our opinions, our actions. Without faith, without our beliefs, we're lost." I have always been interested in religion and why and how it has such a powerful hold on all of us and what would happen if it were taken away. I not only wanted my books to entertain, but I also wanted them to inspire, educate and leave readers with something to think about after they put the book down for the last time. I wanted the books to be relevant to people's lives today and some of the problems we all face in the journey of life. I hope my books are that and more. Both DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM and ABSENCE OF FAITH are available as paperbacks from Outer Banks Publishing Group, Amazon.com and as ebooks from Smashwords.com and the Amazon Kindle. Both books will soon appear on Barnes and Noble's new ebook site. Visit my blogs for tips on writing, publishing, and books, WRITING IS ABOUT PUTTING YOURSELF TO WORDS and THE WRITER'S EDGE. Interviews can be found atThe Lulu Blog Ask Wendy - The Query Queen Gather.com   By Anthony S. Policastro[image]Both of my novels,DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM and ABSENCE OF FAITH, both mystery/thrillers, were written out of fear, universal fears that I believe all of us consider at one time or another.DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM is about Dan Riker, a computer security expert whose family is kidnapped by digital terrorists who take over the power grid and cell phone network and hold the United States hostage. Dan is the only one with the know-how to stop them, but the hackers have his family and he must decide to save his family or save millions of people.[image]While I wrote this book the fear of losing my own family pervaded my thoughts and I wrapped a plot around this fear using the latest wireless technologies and a lot of imagination. I still have my family and the thought of losing them is unimaginable.This was the fuel for DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM. Dan's life is well planned, predicted and uneventful like most of our lives and I wanted to see how Dan would react when all of that is shattered in an instant when his family disappears. Does Dan have the courage to save his family or will he just give up because he never had to face such insurmountable odds? Will he save millions of people whose lives are threatened by the terrorists or will he save his family?The book is not just about technology. These are some of the questions I addressed in the book and when or if you read the book you may ask yourself these same questions and maybe better understand your own capabilities.ABSENCE OF FAITH also addresses universal fears when residents in a highly-religious small town have horrible near-death experiences and wake up with burnt skin.  They believe they went to hell and that God has abandoned them. Matters get worse when a local Satanic cult emerges and wins over many residents. [image]My fears of losing all hope and all faith in the face of a downturn in life is what spawned ABSENCE OF FAITH. Again, I was interested in how people would react if you stripped them of all hope and faith. Would they pick themselves up and continue their lives? What would they do when this great fear overtakes them.These are the questions I address in ABSENCE OF FAITH. Bestselling author and psychicSylvia Browne writes in her book, Prophecy, that, "...our beliefs are the driving force behind our behavior, our opinions, our actions. Without faith, without our beliefs, we're lost." I have always been interested in religion and why and how it has such a powerful hold on all of us and what would happen if it were taken away. I not only wanted my books to entertain, but I also wanted them to inspire, educate and leave readers with something to think about after they put the book down for the last time. I wanted the books to be relevant to people's lives today and some of the problems we all face in the journey of life. I hope my books are that and more. Both DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM and ABSENCE OF FAITH are available as paperbacks from Outer Banks Publishing Group, Amazon.com and as ebooks from Smashwords.com and the Amazon Kindle. Both books will soon appear on Barnes and Noble's new ebook site. Visit my blogs for tips on writing, publishing, and books, WRITING IS ABOUT PUTTING YOURSELF TO WORDS and THE WRITER'S EDGE. Interviews can be found atThe Lulu Blog Ask Wendy - The Query Queen Gather.com   Sun, 27 Sep 2009 22:06:34 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Fear-Drives-My-Writing/BLOG/858307/30146.html Aspolicastro 2009-09-27T22:06:34Z Mike's Writers Network By Anthony S. Policastro[image]Both of my novels,DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM and ABSENCE OF FAITH, both mystery/thrillers, were written out of fear, universal fears that I believe all of us consider at one time or another.DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM is about Dan Riker, a computer security expert whose family is kidnapped by digital terrorists who take over the power grid and cell phone network and hold the United States hostage. Dan is the only one with the know-how to stop them, but the hackers have his family and he must decide to save his family or save millions of people.[image]While I wrote this book the fear of losing my own family pervaded my thoughts and I wrapped a plot around this fear using the latest wireless technologies and a lot of imagination. I still have my family and the thought of losing them is unimaginable.This was the fuel for DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM. Dan's life is well planned, predicted and uneventful like most of our lives and I wanted to see how Dan would react when all of that is shattered in an instant when his family disappears. Does Dan have the courage to save his family or will he just give up because he never had to face such insurmountable odds? Will he save millions of people whose lives are threatened by the terrorists or will he save his family?The book is not just about technology. These are some of the questions I addressed in the book and when or if you read the book you may ask yourself these same questions and maybe better understand your own capabilities.ABSENCE OF FAITH also addresses universal fears when residents in a highly-religious small town have horrible near-death experiences and wake up with burnt skin.  They believe they went to hell and that God has abandoned them. Matters get worse when a local Satanic cult emerges and wins over many residents. [image]My fears of losing all hope and all faith in the face of a downturn in life is what spawned ABSENCE OF FAITH. Again, I was interested in how people would react if you stripped them of all hope and faith. Would they pick themselves up and continue their lives? What would they do when this great fear overtakes them.These are the questions I address in ABSENCE OF FAITH. Bestselling author and psychicSylvia Browne writes in her book, Prophecy, that, "...our beliefs are the driving force behind our behavior, our opinions, our actions. Without faith, without our beliefs, we're lost." I have always been interested in religion and why and how it has such a powerful hold on all of us and what would happen if it were taken away. I not only wanted my books to entertain, but I also wanted them to inspire, educate and leave readers with something to think about after they put the book down for the last time. I wanted the books to be relevant to people's lives today and some of the problems we all face in the journey of life. I hope my books are that and more. Both DARK END OF THE SPECTRUM and ABSENCE OF FAITH are available as paperbacks from Outer Banks Publishing Group, Amazon.com and as ebooks from Smashwords.com and the Amazon Kindle. Both books will soon appear on Barnes and Noble's new ebook site. Visit my blogs for tips on writing, publishing, and books, WRITING IS ABOUT PUTTING YOURSELF TO WORDS and THE WRITER'S EDGE. Interviews can be found atThe Lulu Blog Ask Wendy - The Query Queen Gather.com   mystery/thrillers, novels, writing nonadult false Fear Drives My Writing text blog mystery/thrillers,novels,writing 1 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=13037130&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_5494602_30146_13037130_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 858307 13037130 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Watery-Deep-Book-Review/BLOG/818769/30146.html WATERY DEEP Book Three of The Colonial Scouts Adventures by Roxanne Smolenscience fiction for young adults and the young at heartNatica and Impani are Colonial Scouts, an elite group of teenagers who search the galaxy for habitable planets. The girls were best friends until the day a terrible accident took the life of an innocent colonist. Now Natica is consumed by guilt, and she hates Impani for not understanding. She quits the Scouts and returns to her water-world home. The family reunion is not what she expects, however. Her twin brother is missing–and her clueless ex-friend, Impani, has followed her home.Join the fun as the girls battle sea serpents and pirates, escape an exploding police station, and chase across the floating cities in a speedboat as they search for Natica’s brother. When they find him, they learn he plans to have gills implanted and join a cult living beneath the sea."Watery Deep is a creative and original story with an interesting blend of fantasy and science fiction and a great sense of adventure. The characters are feisty, emotional, and real, with shifting dynamics between their friendships and alliances that makes for suspenseful reading!I particularly enjoyed the tumultuous friendship between Natica and Impani, two girls from very different backgrounds with very different strengths and weaknesses. There is spitefulness, jealously, and underneath it all, caring and compassion as they sort out their own problems with themselves and their world. Teenage angst abounds in full throttle, which makes every scene a delicious read.Natica’s home planet of Naiad is full of vibrant imagery and alien atmospheres. Almost entirely covered by water, the cities float on coral, the taxis are airboats, and devious pirate gangs roam the waters. It is one of the most creative worlds I’ve ever read about, and makes the story all that more intriguing.Complete with romance, adventure, shifting alliances, and good family values, The Watery Deep is an excellent story for all ages."Posted by Aubrie Labels: science fictionReviewed by Aubrie Dionne at Book Reviews by AubrieISBN: 0-7443-1635-9To Purchase: SynergEbooks Store WATERY DEEP Book Three of The Colonial Scouts Adventures by Roxanne Smolenscience fiction for young adults and the young at heartNatica and Impani are Colonial Scouts, an elite group of teenagers who search the galaxy for habitable planets. The girls were best friends until the day a terrible accident took the life of an innocent colonist. Now Natica is consumed by guilt, and she hates Impani for not understanding. She quits the Scouts and returns to her water-world home. The family reunion is not what she expects, however. Her twin brother is missing–and her clueless ex-friend, Impani, has followed her home.Join the fun as the girls battle sea serpents and pirates, escape an exploding police station, and chase across the floating cities in a speedboat as they search for Natica’s brother. When they find him, they learn he plans to have gills implanted and join a cult living beneath the sea."Watery Deep is a creative and original story with an interesting blend of fantasy and science fiction and a great sense of adventure. The characters are feisty, emotional, and real, with shifting dynamics between their friendships and alliances that makes for suspenseful reading!I particularly enjoyed the tumultuous friendship between Natica and Impani, two girls from very different backgrounds with very different strengths and weaknesses. There is spitefulness, jealously, and underneath it all, caring and compassion as they sort out their own problems with themselves and their world. Teenage angst abounds in full throttle, which makes every scene a delicious read.Natica’s home planet of Naiad is full of vibrant imagery and alien atmospheres. Almost entirely covered by water, the cities float on coral, the taxis are airboats, and devious pirate gangs roam the waters. It is one of the most creative worlds I’ve ever read about, and makes the story all that more intriguing.Complete with romance, adventure, shifting alliances, and good family values, The Watery Deep is an excellent story for all ages."Posted by Aubrie Labels: science fictionReviewed by Aubrie Dionne at Book Reviews by AubrieISBN: 0-7443-1635-9To Purchase: SynergEbooks Store Fri, 25 Sep 2009 17:40:39 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Watery-Deep-Book-Review/BLOG/818769/30146.html RSmolen 2009-09-25T17:40:39Z Mike's Writers Network WATERY DEEP Book Three of The Colonial Scouts Adventures by Roxanne Smolenscience fiction for young adults and the young at heartNatica and Impani are Colonial Scouts, an elite group of teenagers who search the galaxy for habitable planets. The girls were best friends until the day a terrible accident took the life of an innocent colonist. Now Natica is consumed by guilt, and she hates Impani for not understanding. She quits the Scouts and returns to her water-world home. The family reunion is not what she expects, however. Her twin brother is missing–and her clueless ex-friend, Impani, has followed her home.Join the fun as the girls battle sea serpents and pirates, escape an exploding police station, and chase across the floating cities in a speedboat as they search for Natica’s brother. When they find him, they learn he plans to have gills implanted and join a cult living beneath the sea."Watery Deep is a creative and original story with an interesting blend of fantasy and science fiction and a great sense of adventure. The characters are feisty, emotional, and real, with shifting dynamics between their friendships and alliances that makes for suspenseful reading!I particularly enjoyed the tumultuous friendship between Natica and Impani, two girls from very different backgrounds with very different strengths and weaknesses. There is spitefulness, jealously, and underneath it all, caring and compassion as they sort out their own problems with themselves and their world. Teenage angst abounds in full throttle, which makes every scene a delicious read.Natica’s home planet of Naiad is full of vibrant imagery and alien atmospheres. Almost entirely covered by water, the cities float on coral, the taxis are airboats, and devious pirate gangs roam the waters. It is one of the most creative worlds I’ve ever read about, and makes the story all that more intriguing.Complete with romance, adventure, shifting alliances, and good family values, The Watery Deep is an excellent story for all ages."Posted by Aubrie Labels: science fictionReviewed by Aubrie Dionne at Book Reviews by AubrieISBN: 0-7443-1635-9To Purchase: SynergEbooks Store adult, aubrie, deep, dionne, fiction, roxanne, science, smolen, watery, young nonadult false Watery Deep Book Review text blog adult,aubrie,deep,dionne,fiction,roxanne,science,smolen,watery,young 2 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=7088799&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_3777935_30146_7088799_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 818769 7088799 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Uhm-What-Are-You-Selling/BLOG/699298/30146.html A child’s favorite pastime during summer months is the infamous ice cream truck. To hear the delightful bell, horn, or looped melody approaching causes a thunderous amount of unexplainable joy. The feeling is one that never leaves your senses. As an adult, even after the onset of lactose intolerance, one still feels a slight urgency to purchase one or two scoops.Having a small child means you must have money each time the top ten melody goes into rotation. Recently my family changed zip codes, but in all of my sexy years on this earth, I have only known Mr. Softee. A blue and white truck with a cool looking cone dressed up to every child’s fancy.  Mr. Softee definitely isn’t prejudiced, he serves everybody. You don’t need a number, just get in line and watch your toes – eager children could care less about your twenty-five dollar pedicure.The truck is equipped for the hearing impaired – the loud top ten hit that can be heard from miles away, and the blind. – the looped music that continuously plays over and over, so don’t worry if you make a few wrong turns - keep tapping that walking stick until you find it.My new zip code doesn’t include Mr. Softee but the new and improved text message aged Mr. Ding-a-Ling! WHAT? Yes, Mr. Ding-a-Ling! Is it just me or when you read this did your mind go kiddie playground porn-tastic?The first time I saw the truck thankfully I was alone. The laughter that exploded from me! My goodness, a person laughing alone could be categorized as a bad drug mix. “Oh, she must have taken some of the good stuff’” is the statement that I looked like.Am I a horny woman looking for a quick orgasm at each corner? Hmmm, I don’t think so. The thought that ran through my mind after my laughter subsided was, “And we wonder why our kids feel that oral sex isn't sex! We hear the dayum bell and they run to the truck with our money to get their licks on!”Yesterday Mr. Ding-a-Ling stopped on the street that we live on. My daughter and I ran down the stairs, but unfortunately he pulled off before we made it. My child cried an anguished, “No!” and continued to cry as we made it back up the stairs. It took me at least ten minutes to console her. My untold thought, “Shit, I didn’t want you licking none of his stuff anyway.”Mr. Ding-a-Ling had his way. He returned three hours later. I heard him, grabbed my wallet, yelled out to Doobah, “Come’on!” and dayum near broke my neck getting down the stairs. Doobah yelled, “Don’t leave me!’ but I was already down the stairs on the sidewalk. Mr. Ding-a-Ling would not leave us this time.Maybe I am a horny woman. Although Mr. Softee is the keeper of some of my life’s most fond memories, I really don’t want to meet a man that proudly says, “Hi, my name is Mr. Softee.” Mr. Ding-a-Ling is straight to the point. That name on an ice cream truck though, for me, keeps me asking, Uhm, What Are You Selling? A child’s favorite pastime during summer months is the infamous ice cream truck. To hear the delightful bell, horn, or looped melody approaching causes a thunderous amount of unexplainable joy. The feeling is one that never leaves your senses. As an adult, even after the onset of lactose intolerance, one still feels a slight urgency to purchase one or two scoops.Having a small child means you must have money each time the top ten melody goes into rotation. Recently my family changed zip codes, but in all of my sexy years on this earth, I have only known Mr. Softee. A blue and white truck with a cool looking cone dressed up to every child’s fancy.  Mr. Softee definitely isn’t prejudiced, he serves everybody. You don’t need a number, just get in line and watch your toes – eager children could care less about your twenty-five dollar pedicure.The truck is equipped for the hearing impaired – the loud top ten hit that can be heard from miles away, and the blind. – the looped music that continuously plays over and over, so don’t worry if you make a few wrong turns - keep tapping that walking stick until you find it.My new zip code doesn’t include Mr. Softee but the new and improved text message aged Mr. Ding-a-Ling! WHAT? Yes, Mr. Ding-a-Ling! Is it just me or when you read this did your mind go kiddie playground porn-tastic?The first time I saw the truck thankfully I was alone. The laughter that exploded from me! My goodness, a person laughing alone could be categorized as a bad drug mix. “Oh, she must have taken some of the good stuff’” is the statement that I looked like.Am I a horny woman looking for a quick orgasm at each corner? Hmmm, I don’t think so. The thought that ran through my mind after my laughter subsided was, “And we wonder why our kids feel that oral sex isn't sex! We hear the dayum bell and they run to the truck with our money to get their licks on!”Yesterday Mr. Ding-a-Ling stopped on the street that we live on. My daughter and I ran down the stairs, but unfortunately he pulled off before we made it. My child cried an anguished, “No!” and continued to cry as we made it back up the stairs. It took me at least ten minutes to console her. My untold thought, “Shit, I didn’t want you licking none of his stuff anyway.”Mr. Ding-a-Ling had his way. He returned three hours later. I heard him, grabbed my wallet, yelled out to Doobah, “Come’on!” and dayum near broke my neck getting down the stairs. Doobah yelled, “Don’t leave me!’ but I was already down the stairs on the sidewalk. Mr. Ding-a-Ling would not leave us this time.Maybe I am a horny woman. Although Mr. Softee is the keeper of some of my life’s most fond memories, I really don’t want to meet a man that proudly says, “Hi, my name is Mr. Softee.” Mr. Ding-a-Ling is straight to the point. That name on an ice cream truck though, for me, keeps me asking, Uhm, What Are You Selling? Sat, 12 Sep 2009 14:51:26 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Uhm-What-Are-You-Selling/BLOG/699298/30146.html wandadhudson 2009-09-12T14:51:26Z Mike's Writers Network A child’s favorite pastime during summer months is the infamous ice cream truck. To hear the delightful bell, horn, or looped melody approaching causes a thunderous amount of unexplainable joy. The feeling is one that never leaves your senses. As an adult, even after the onset of lactose intolerance, one still feels a slight urgency to purchase one or two scoops.Having a small child means you must have money each time the top ten melody goes into rotation. Recently my family changed zip codes, but in all of my sexy years on this earth, I have only known Mr. Softee. A blue and white truck with a cool looking cone dressed up to every child’s fancy.  Mr. Softee definitely isn’t prejudiced, he serves everybody. You don’t need a number, just get in line and watch your toes – eager children could care less about your twenty-five dollar pedicure.The truck is equipped for the hearing impaired – the loud top ten hit that can be heard from miles away, and the blind. – the looped music that continuously plays over and over, so don’t worry if you make a few wrong turns - keep tapping that walking stick until you find it.My new zip code doesn’t include Mr. Softee but the new and improved text message aged Mr. Ding-a-Ling! WHAT? Yes, Mr. Ding-a-Ling! Is it just me or when you read this did your mind go kiddie playground porn-tastic?The first time I saw the truck thankfully I was alone. The laughter that exploded from me! My goodness, a person laughing alone could be categorized as a bad drug mix. “Oh, she must have taken some of the good stuff’” is the statement that I looked like.Am I a horny woman looking for a quick orgasm at each corner? Hmmm, I don’t think so. The thought that ran through my mind after my laughter subsided was, “And we wonder why our kids feel that oral sex isn't sex! We hear the dayum bell and they run to the truck with our money to get their licks on!”Yesterday Mr. Ding-a-Ling stopped on the street that we live on. My daughter and I ran down the stairs, but unfortunately he pulled off before we made it. My child cried an anguished, “No!” and continued to cry as we made it back up the stairs. It took me at least ten minutes to console her. My untold thought, “Shit, I didn’t want you licking none of his stuff anyway.”Mr. Ding-a-Ling had his way. He returned three hours later. I heard him, grabbed my wallet, yelled out to Doobah, “Come’on!” and dayum near broke my neck getting down the stairs. Doobah yelled, “Don’t leave me!’ but I was already down the stairs on the sidewalk. Mr. Ding-a-Ling would not leave us this time.Maybe I am a horny woman. Although Mr. Softee is the keeper of some of my life’s most fond memories, I really don’t want to meet a man that proudly says, “Hi, my name is Mr. Softee.” Mr. Ding-a-Ling is straight to the point. That name on an ice cream truck though, for me, keeps me asking, Uhm, What Are You Selling? nonadult false Uhm, What Are You Selling? text blog 8 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=2816514&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_5211613_30146_2816514_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 699298 2816514 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Inspected-by-God/BLOG/699289/30146.html Long time no see, where have you been? These are a few of the questions that I have been asked lately. I usually answer that I have been here, but there is no set definition of my here. The middle of last year crashed for me. Many of you know that I lost my father on June 4th, 2008. Within weeks shortly thereafter my life began to collapse. There were no battery cables to hook up to for a reviving jump.There is a paragraph in my first novel, Wait for Love: A Black Girl’s Story that details the characters feelings on grief. I had never experienced grief, and wrote it believing that her reactions were how someone would feel. The words were on point. Your mind wanders; your heart aches, and you continue to break down while hateful blood churns through your veins. Bluntly put, that shit hurts.My 2008-2009 has been difficult. I lost my drive to write or to do anything productive for my personal gain. The post below mentions my daily routine. That particular routine came to an end in late June. That was it – I had enough. I will always miss my daddy, but grief can kiss my ass. I’m so sick of it handling me like I’m a foolish punk. It told me what to say, when to say it, and when to shut my mouth. It allowed me to tolerate behavior that is absolutely unacceptable in my professional, and personal life.Why do people do you dirty? Why do people set out to do you dirty? Why do people think that you don’t know they did you dirty?  Some of the things I put up with – please… This post is not written to belittle anyone or bring negativity to light. A few months ago I let it go. My life was tired of waiting on me. The inner turmoil that I caused myself was enough stress for three strokes. I thought my child would find me dead and there would be no one here for her.We all suffer through something. As long as we have the ability to get THROUGH it, we can continue to prosper. Some of us don’t. Wallowing in misery and blaming everyone else was simply not it for me. My father died. I said it. I knew he was sick, I knew he was going to die, but I didn’t want him to. My father died. I said it again and I’m okay. I can still function on this earth. I can still be here and not feel guilty because he isn’t. I still love him.Coming to grips with the fact that life will roll on whether you can hang or not was rough. I have struggled financially, mentally and physically. Making the wrong decisions, whew, that gets old. The past ten years have been a serious lesson. I was scored on a curve and barely passed. I’ll never say I may be black, I may be ugly – we love you Celie, but I’m still here. I’m SEXY, I’m talented, and I’m still here.Sometimes when we make a purchase there is a small piece of paper inside of the item with an inspectors number on it. If there is a problem with the item you can exchange it or get your money back, but you may never meet the inspector. I was Inspected by God; you can’t exchange me and I‘m priceless. My inspector is available whenever I need Him.I’ve been stretched to the limit and have returned better than before. I’m not refurbished, damaged or rebuilt. Just upgraded. The original version gets the job done; this version – keep breathing and you may understand. When you step out on faith, He takes all of your doubts, fears and mistakes. He will forgive you.The SEXY One has been Inspected by God; are you ready?  Long time no see, where have you been? These are a few of the questions that I have been asked lately. I usually answer that I have been here, but there is no set definition of my here. The middle of last year crashed for me. Many of you know that I lost my father on June 4th, 2008. Within weeks shortly thereafter my life began to collapse. There were no battery cables to hook up to for a reviving jump.There is a paragraph in my first novel, Wait for Love: A Black Girl’s Story that details the characters feelings on grief. I had never experienced grief, and wrote it believing that her reactions were how someone would feel. The words were on point. Your mind wanders; your heart aches, and you continue to break down while hateful blood churns through your veins. Bluntly put, that shit hurts.My 2008-2009 has been difficult. I lost my drive to write or to do anything productive for my personal gain. The post below mentions my daily routine. That particular routine came to an end in late June. That was it – I had enough. I will always miss my daddy, but grief can kiss my ass. I’m so sick of it handling me like I’m a foolish punk. It told me what to say, when to say it, and when to shut my mouth. It allowed me to tolerate behavior that is absolutely unacceptable in my professional, and personal life.Why do people do you dirty? Why do people set out to do you dirty? Why do people think that you don’t know they did you dirty?  Some of the things I put up with – please… This post is not written to belittle anyone or bring negativity to light. A few months ago I let it go. My life was tired of waiting on me. The inner turmoil that I caused myself was enough stress for three strokes. I thought my child would find me dead and there would be no one here for her.We all suffer through something. As long as we have the ability to get THROUGH it, we can continue to prosper. Some of us don’t. Wallowing in misery and blaming everyone else was simply not it for me. My father died. I said it. I knew he was sick, I knew he was going to die, but I didn’t want him to. My father died. I said it again and I’m okay. I can still function on this earth. I can still be here and not feel guilty because he isn’t. I still love him.Coming to grips with the fact that life will roll on whether you can hang or not was rough. I have struggled financially, mentally and physically. Making the wrong decisions, whew, that gets old. The past ten years have been a serious lesson. I was scored on a curve and barely passed. I’ll never say I may be black, I may be ugly – we love you Celie, but I’m still here. I’m SEXY, I’m talented, and I’m still here.Sometimes when we make a purchase there is a small piece of paper inside of the item with an inspectors number on it. If there is a problem with the item you can exchange it or get your money back, but you may never meet the inspector. I was Inspected by God; you can’t exchange me and I‘m priceless. My inspector is available whenever I need Him.I’ve been stretched to the limit and have returned better than before. I’m not refurbished, damaged or rebuilt. Just upgraded. The original version gets the job done; this version – keep breathing and you may understand. When you step out on faith, He takes all of your doubts, fears and mistakes. He will forgive you.The SEXY One has been Inspected by God; are you ready?  Sat, 12 Sep 2009 14:50:02 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Inspected-by-God/BLOG/699289/30146.html wandadhudson 2009-09-12T14:50:02Z Mike's Writers Network Long time no see, where have you been? These are a few of the questions that I have been asked lately. I usually answer that I have been here, but there is no set definition of my here. The middle of last year crashed for me. Many of you know that I lost my father on June 4th, 2008. Within weeks shortly thereafter my life began to collapse. There were no battery cables to hook up to for a reviving jump.There is a paragraph in my first novel, Wait for Love: A Black Girl’s Story that details the characters feelings on grief. I had never experienced grief, and wrote it believing that her reactions were how someone would feel. The words were on point. Your mind wanders; your heart aches, and you continue to break down while hateful blood churns through your veins. Bluntly put, that shit hurts.My 2008-2009 has been difficult. I lost my drive to write or to do anything productive for my personal gain. The post below mentions my daily routine. That particular routine came to an end in late June. That was it – I had enough. I will always miss my daddy, but grief can kiss my ass. I’m so sick of it handling me like I’m a foolish punk. It told me what to say, when to say it, and when to shut my mouth. It allowed me to tolerate behavior that is absolutely unacceptable in my professional, and personal life.Why do people do you dirty? Why do people set out to do you dirty? Why do people think that you don’t know they did you dirty?  Some of the things I put up with – please… This post is not written to belittle anyone or bring negativity to light. A few months ago I let it go. My life was tired of waiting on me. The inner turmoil that I caused myself was enough stress for three strokes. I thought my child would find me dead and there would be no one here for her.We all suffer through something. As long as we have the ability to get THROUGH it, we can continue to prosper. Some of us don’t. Wallowing in misery and blaming everyone else was simply not it for me. My father died. I said it. I knew he was sick, I knew he was going to die, but I didn’t want him to. My father died. I said it again and I’m okay. I can still function on this earth. I can still be here and not feel guilty because he isn’t. I still love him.Coming to grips with the fact that life will roll on whether you can hang or not was rough. I have struggled financially, mentally and physically. Making the wrong decisions, whew, that gets old. The past ten years have been a serious lesson. I was scored on a curve and barely passed. I’ll never say I may be black, I may be ugly – we love you Celie, but I’m still here. I’m SEXY, I’m talented, and I’m still here.Sometimes when we make a purchase there is a small piece of paper inside of the item with an inspectors number on it. If there is a problem with the item you can exchange it or get your money back, but you may never meet the inspector. I was Inspected by God; you can’t exchange me and I‘m priceless. My inspector is available whenever I need Him.I’ve been stretched to the limit and have returned better than before. I’m not refurbished, damaged or rebuilt. Just upgraded. The original version gets the job done; this version – keep breathing and you may understand. When you step out on faith, He takes all of your doubts, fears and mistakes. He will forgive you.The SEXY One has been Inspected by God; are you ready?  nonadult false Inspected by God text blog 8 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=2816514&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_5211613_30146_2816514_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 699289 2816514 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Working-Depression-Please-Fire-Me/BLOG/699288/30146.html My daddy died today. Well, actually he died June 4th, 2008, but each day is the same for me. Now I lay me down to sleep doesn’t work. When I close my eyes I see my daddy lying in his coffin. I know he is not going to get up, so the vision never changes. My mornings are identical; I wake up tired and want to stay in the bed until. If I didn’t have to “live” I wouldn’t. Routine – open my eyes and listen to my mind complain, get Dasia ready, take her to school, and go to work and “function.” Thank God for Dasia. Monday through Friday I remain under my sheets until I’m late enough for work - not enough for my boss to complain, but enough for me to fuss as to why I continue to fall into the late schedule. People lose their jobs everyday, but my working depression won’t fire me.I’ll settle for a layoff if it’s long term and the position won’t call me back. I can’t shake this. One minute anger is my best friend, the next hate, and I try to reason with it all. Tolerating things that I paid no attention to previously burns holes into my soul. My mouth, oh, the words that can come from my mouth.  My dreams tremble me. One night I had one about a basement full of rats. The setting was on a street that my family resided on when I was a child, but in a neighbor’s apartment. The rats crawled into the cement wall, the wall closed and all their tales fell off. The next one I can remember contained dogs, spit, singing and skin. Working depression, please fire me.I don’t write anymore. I figured getting this out might help. Lying on a couch talking about my feelings would be a waste of time and money. I’d make myself late or not show up. The someone that I need to talk to is dead. The woman that raised my father said it would get better; she died less a month after my daddy did. What am I looking forward to?Patience is invisible in my world, although I’m not as mean as I was a few months ago. That’s my opinion. I still like to blast certain people who say dumb things with no meaning. You can’t have an opinion about someone else’s opinion, but I don’t care. I’m talking shut them down and get out my face blast. Rude for Miss WandaLuv, but effective.See, I had this multimillion-dollar empire planned for my family. The dream that my daddy chased all his life ran to me. Miss Luv’s Books was formed, NYC was the place where my astronomical comedy career would blossom - my father would lavish in it. He pushed me, he told me that I was still young and it took work. My daddy told me to keep at it. “Babygirl people work their whole lives to make it; you got plenty of time.” I wish I had enough time for him.My prior life of hustling for it is somewhere. I don’t make any effort to develop the uniqueness that is I. In all honesty – I’m all fucked up. Just tired, angry and aggravated. Am I going to commit suicide? Hell naw, fool! My daddy would kill me! This is my attempt at getting back to the swing of things. Misery could care less about who it chooses for company.On March 2nd I’ll be forty-three. Before June 4th I loved my birthday. I’d buy myself a  present, go out or celebrate with friends. When I turned thirty I threw my own birthday party. What a vain heffa I was. This year I will think about how my daddy felt the day that I was born. He had something that was for him and still is his. I’ll get it together one day.When will these weird dreams stop? Why do I wake up tired when I don’t dream? Why do I keep seeing him lying in that coffin? By the way, he was laid out in a gold-ish tan colored suit that matched the coffin. He was always a suit wearing well-dressed man. My father’s love of clothes, his laugh that I can still hear, and his voice. These are some of the things that I never want to forget. Do you forget?I want to sell books and perform on stage. Book clubs need me to make their meetings exciting. Comedy shows need a little luv.  My Blog Talk Radio Show – Wanda’s Way - was HOT.  Wait for Love: A Black Girl’s Story, LuvMe, the book and the fragrance, and A Sheltered Life need me to make it. I need a stimulus plan custom designed for me.How do you live with depression? It’s easy. Take a shower, go to work, go back home, take a shit, and go to bed. Plenty of us do it everyday. Many of us have been doing it for years. When distress happens in your life most of us call our mother. My mother doesn’t care to talk about my daddy. They were divorced after twenty-seven years of marriage. They both remarried, but she still brings up things that happened in 1970. The husband-wife relationship is totally different than the father-daughter one. The first person I called when I found about my daddy was her. She told me to be strong. She didn’t realize that she was talking to a baby and babies aren’t supposed to be strong. I don’t give a damn about her past and I guess she doesn’t care about my present. All fucked up.A good job is challenging to find and to quit a job is idiotic, but one day I have to resign from this one. No unemployment for quitters, which would mean no Cheetos for Dasia…back to my first request.  Working Depression, Please Fire Me. I love you, Daddy.Wanda D. Hudsonhttp://www.wandadhudson.com My daddy died today. Well, actually he died June 4th, 2008, but each day is the same for me. Now I lay me down to sleep doesn’t work. When I close my eyes I see my daddy lying in his coffin. I know he is not going to get up, so the vision never changes. My mornings are identical; I wake up tired and want to stay in the bed until. If I didn’t have to “live” I wouldn’t. Routine – open my eyes and listen to my mind complain, get Dasia ready, take her to school, and go to work and “function.” Thank God for Dasia. Monday through Friday I remain under my sheets until I’m late enough for work - not enough for my boss to complain, but enough for me to fuss as to why I continue to fall into the late schedule. People lose their jobs everyday, but my working depression won’t fire me.I’ll settle for a layoff if it’s long term and the position won’t call me back. I can’t shake this. One minute anger is my best friend, the next hate, and I try to reason with it all. Tolerating things that I paid no attention to previously burns holes into my soul. My mouth, oh, the words that can come from my mouth.  My dreams tremble me. One night I had one about a basement full of rats. The setting was on a street that my family resided on when I was a child, but in a neighbor’s apartment. The rats crawled into the cement wall, the wall closed and all their tales fell off. The next one I can remember contained dogs, spit, singing and skin. Working depression, please fire me.I don’t write anymore. I figured getting this out might help. Lying on a couch talking about my feelings would be a waste of time and money. I’d make myself late or not show up. The someone that I need to talk to is dead. The woman that raised my father said it would get better; she died less a month after my daddy did. What am I looking forward to?Patience is invisible in my world, although I’m not as mean as I was a few months ago. That’s my opinion. I still like to blast certain people who say dumb things with no meaning. You can’t have an opinion about someone else’s opinion, but I don’t care. I’m talking shut them down and get out my face blast. Rude for Miss WandaLuv, but effective.See, I had this multimillion-dollar empire planned for my family. The dream that my daddy chased all his life ran to me. Miss Luv’s Books was formed, NYC was the place where my astronomical comedy career would blossom - my father would lavish in it. He pushed me, he told me that I was still young and it took work. My daddy told me to keep at it. “Babygirl people work their whole lives to make it; you got plenty of time.” I wish I had enough time for him.My prior life of hustling for it is somewhere. I don’t make any effort to develop the uniqueness that is I. In all honesty – I’m all fucked up. Just tired, angry and aggravated. Am I going to commit suicide? Hell naw, fool! My daddy would kill me! This is my attempt at getting back to the swing of things. Misery could care less about who it chooses for company.On March 2nd I’ll be forty-three. Before June 4th I loved my birthday. I’d buy myself a  present, go out or celebrate with friends. When I turned thirty I threw my own birthday party. What a vain heffa I was. This year I will think about how my daddy felt the day that I was born. He had something that was for him and still is his. I’ll get it together one day.When will these weird dreams stop? Why do I wake up tired when I don’t dream? Why do I keep seeing him lying in that coffin? By the way, he was laid out in a gold-ish tan colored suit that matched the coffin. He was always a suit wearing well-dressed man. My father’s love of clothes, his laugh that I can still hear, and his voice. These are some of the things that I never want to forget. Do you forget?I want to sell books and perform on stage. Book clubs need me to make their meetings exciting. Comedy shows need a little luv.  My Blog Talk Radio Show – Wanda’s Way - was HOT.  Wait for Love: A Black Girl’s Story, LuvMe, the book and the fragrance, and A Sheltered Life need me to make it. I need a stimulus plan custom designed for me.How do you live with depression? It’s easy. Take a shower, go to work, go back home, take a shit, and go to bed. Plenty of us do it everyday. Many of us have been doing it for years. When distress happens in your life most of us call our mother. My mother doesn’t care to talk about my daddy. They were divorced after twenty-seven years of marriage. They both remarried, but she still brings up things that happened in 1970. The husband-wife relationship is totally different than the father-daughter one. The first person I called when I found about my daddy was her. She told me to be strong. She didn’t realize that she was talking to a baby and babies aren’t supposed to be strong. I don’t give a damn about her past and I guess she doesn’t care about my present. All fucked up.A good job is challenging to find and to quit a job is idiotic, but one day I have to resign from this one. No unemployment for quitters, which would mean no Cheetos for Dasia…back to my first request.  Working Depression, Please Fire Me. I love you, Daddy.Wanda D. Hudsonhttp://www.wandadhudson.com Sat, 12 Sep 2009 14:49:00 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Working-Depression-Please-Fire-Me/BLOG/699288/30146.html wandadhudson 2009-09-12T14:49:00Z Mike's Writers Network My daddy died today. Well, actually he died June 4th, 2008, but each day is the same for me. Now I lay me down to sleep doesn’t work. When I close my eyes I see my daddy lying in his coffin. I know he is not going to get up, so the vision never changes. My mornings are identical; I wake up tired and want to stay in the bed until. If I didn’t have to “live” I wouldn’t. Routine – open my eyes and listen to my mind complain, get Dasia ready, take her to school, and go to work and “function.” Thank God for Dasia. Monday through Friday I remain under my sheets until I’m late enough for work - not enough for my boss to complain, but enough for me to fuss as to why I continue to fall into the late schedule. People lose their jobs everyday, but my working depression won’t fire me.I’ll settle for a layoff if it’s long term and the position won’t call me back. I can’t shake this. One minute anger is my best friend, the next hate, and I try to reason with it all. Tolerating things that I paid no attention to previously burns holes into my soul. My mouth, oh, the words that can come from my mouth.  My dreams tremble me. One night I had one about a basement full of rats. The setting was on a street that my family resided on when I was a child, but in a neighbor’s apartment. The rats crawled into the cement wall, the wall closed and all their tales fell off. The next one I can remember contained dogs, spit, singing and skin. Working depression, please fire me.I don’t write anymore. I figured getting this out might help. Lying on a couch talking about my feelings would be a waste of time and money. I’d make myself late or not show up. The someone that I need to talk to is dead. The woman that raised my father said it would get better; she died less a month after my daddy did. What am I looking forward to?Patience is invisible in my world, although I’m not as mean as I was a few months ago. That’s my opinion. I still like to blast certain people who say dumb things with no meaning. You can’t have an opinion about someone else’s opinion, but I don’t care. I’m talking shut them down and get out my face blast. Rude for Miss WandaLuv, but effective.See, I had this multimillion-dollar empire planned for my family. The dream that my daddy chased all his life ran to me. Miss Luv’s Books was formed, NYC was the place where my astronomical comedy career would blossom - my father would lavish in it. He pushed me, he told me that I was still young and it took work. My daddy told me to keep at it. “Babygirl people work their whole lives to make it; you got plenty of time.” I wish I had enough time for him.My prior life of hustling for it is somewhere. I don’t make any effort to develop the uniqueness that is I. In all honesty – I’m all fucked up. Just tired, angry and aggravated. Am I going to commit suicide? Hell naw, fool! My daddy would kill me! This is my attempt at getting back to the swing of things. Misery could care less about who it chooses for company.On March 2nd I’ll be forty-three. Before June 4th I loved my birthday. I’d buy myself a  present, go out or celebrate with friends. When I turned thirty I threw my own birthday party. What a vain heffa I was. This year I will think about how my daddy felt the day that I was born. He had something that was for him and still is his. I’ll get it together one day.When will these weird dreams stop? Why do I wake up tired when I don’t dream? Why do I keep seeing him lying in that coffin? By the way, he was laid out in a gold-ish tan colored suit that matched the coffin. He was always a suit wearing well-dressed man. My father’s love of clothes, his laugh that I can still hear, and his voice. These are some of the things that I never want to forget. Do you forget?I want to sell books and perform on stage. Book clubs need me to make their meetings exciting. Comedy shows need a little luv.  My Blog Talk Radio Show – Wanda’s Way - was HOT.  Wait for Love: A Black Girl’s Story, LuvMe, the book and the fragrance, and A Sheltered Life need me to make it. I need a stimulus plan custom designed for me.How do you live with depression? It’s easy. Take a shower, go to work, go back home, take a shit, and go to bed. Plenty of us do it everyday. Many of us have been doing it for years. When distress happens in your life most of us call our mother. My mother doesn’t care to talk about my daddy. They were divorced after twenty-seven years of marriage. They both remarried, but she still brings up things that happened in 1970. The husband-wife relationship is totally different than the father-daughter one. The first person I called when I found about my daddy was her. She told me to be strong. She didn’t realize that she was talking to a baby and babies aren’t supposed to be strong. I don’t give a damn about her past and I guess she doesn’t care about my present. All fucked up.A good job is challenging to find and to quit a job is idiotic, but one day I have to resign from this one. No unemployment for quitters, which would mean no Cheetos for Dasia…back to my first request.  Working Depression, Please Fire Me. I love you, Daddy.Wanda D. Hudsonhttp://www.wandadhudson.com nonadult false Working Depression, Please Fire Me text blog 4 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=2816514&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_5211613_30146_2816514_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 699288 2816514 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Torn/BLOG/438186/30146.html I have been writing a novel that I would love to get a critique on. It is a young adult sci-fi thriller.  I quietly crawled over to the entrance of what Aiden called the Kiva trying desperately to not make a sound. The ground was rough and covered in sharp slivers of rock and minerals that were embedding themselves into my palms and knees. I still couldn't understand how people were able to live in underground caves without sunlight. I glanced back over to the corner where the supplies were wishing I had thought to bring the canteen with me. The dust and heat permiated my lungs drying out my mouth."Focus." I whispered to myself. I finally reached the large double doors and saw that Aiden had left them slightly cracked. It seemed strange that a guardian, especially Aiden who was always very careful, would make such a careless mistake.   Maybe he wanted me to hear them. He knew he could trust me, but he also knew that I did not like being left in the dark on matters that concerned me and ...well... the end of the world as we know it. He had to know that I would try and listen. If Peter knew that Aiden did not follow his order of privacy Aiden would have to deal with severe consequences so he must have done it with good reason. I peered through the crack to see the room glowing, almost sparkeling. I squinted to see where the beautiful light was coming from. That's when I saw him, Peter, the Guardian to the Goddess.  The light was illuminating from him, lighting the entire Kiva with  beautiful calming warmth that radiated like the sun. Aiden stood in front of Peter with his head down."But why? Why would the Goddess choose me to protect Lilly? I am not as strong as you, as fast as Travis, or as courageous as Shawn. I can not put aside my feelings for Lilly. How can I protect her and our way of life if I dont have the internal strength to refuse her?" My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid they would turn any moment and realize I was there, hearing every heartbreaking word Aiden was saying. Aiden raised his face to look at Peter. He looked defeated and tired as Peter placed his hand on Aidens shoulder."Aiden, if you were not all of those things you mentioned and much more you would not have been chosen by the Goddess to protect her most beloved daughter.""I have to make a choice. I cannot keep up this charade of Code and honor when it comes to Lilly. She is why I still go on everyday. All of those years, waiting for her to rise again...I can not comprimise her getting hurt because of my emotions." Aiden dropped to his knees pounding his chest in anger. "I am being ripped apart inside everytime I hear her voice, everytime she touches me, begs me to be more to her than I can. I don't know if I am strong enough." He stood up and punched through the cave wall, "Why did the Goddess curse me to such a hell? Why was I not 'gifted' with indifference towards Lilly? Isn't that how we are supposed to be?"All became quiet.Tears streamed down my face. How long had he been waiting for me? How long was I petrified in the earth?The light that had been radiating from Peter began to flicker slowly. At first, I wasn't sure if it was my imagination or just the shadows, but he began to grow until he towered over Aiden and that's when I saw his shadow. It seemed to move seperately from him. The looming darkness on the cave wall was also beginning to glow and then, they appeared. Soft and beautiful with a majestic spread, Peters' wings stretched from his back to encompass the entire cave wall. They shone an iridescent black with gray. There were ragged edges showing the battles of the past, but majestic non-the less.He no longer looked like one solid form, but  like a shimmer you see in a crystal lake as a raindrop touches the middle and makes it ripple. He was frightening and beautiful.His wings enveloped Aiden as he spoke."Aiden it is not the choices we make that should guide us but our destiny we need to accept. The Goddess would not have given you her heart, her Lilly, if she did not have a plan. Your destiny is preconceived and the path you have been granted should be followed. Sometimes a 'Code' is just that and nothing more. You will make the right decision . The Goddess has faith in you and so do I. Follow your destiny Aiden."As his final words were spoken his shadow reverted back to the familiar human form it had been. I turned away and quickly crawled back to the corner by the supplies where Aiden had left me. Sobbing from the pain of what Aiden was going through. Ripping myself apart inside for being so selfish in asking him to disobey the Guardian Code. I knew what I had to do the question was, could I do what needed to be done in order to save the world.How could I refuse my heart?How could I refuse my destiny?  I have been writing a novel that I would love to get a critique on. It is a young adult sci-fi thriller.  I quietly crawled over to the entrance of what Aiden called the Kiva trying desperately to not make a sound. The ground was rough and covered in sharp slivers of rock and minerals that were embedding themselves into my palms and knees. I still couldn't understand how people were able to live in underground caves without sunlight. I glanced back over to the corner where the supplies were wishing I had thought to bring the canteen with me. The dust and heat permiated my lungs drying out my mouth."Focus." I whispered to myself. I finally reached the large double doors and saw that Aiden had left them slightly cracked. It seemed strange that a guardian, especially Aiden who was always very careful, would make such a careless mistake.   Maybe he wanted me to hear them. He knew he could trust me, but he also knew that I did not like being left in the dark on matters that concerned me and ...well... the end of the world as we know it. He had to know that I would try and listen. If Peter knew that Aiden did not follow his order of privacy Aiden would have to deal with severe consequences so he must have done it with good reason. I peered through the crack to see the room glowing, almost sparkeling. I squinted to see where the beautiful light was coming from. That's when I saw him, Peter, the Guardian to the Goddess.  The light was illuminating from him, lighting the entire Kiva with  beautiful calming warmth that radiated like the sun. Aiden stood in front of Peter with his head down."But why? Why would the Goddess choose me to protect Lilly? I am not as strong as you, as fast as Travis, or as courageous as Shawn. I can not put aside my feelings for Lilly. How can I protect her and our way of life if I dont have the internal strength to refuse her?" My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid they would turn any moment and realize I was there, hearing every heartbreaking word Aiden was saying. Aiden raised his face to look at Peter. He looked defeated and tired as Peter placed his hand on Aidens shoulder."Aiden, if you were not all of those things you mentioned and much more you would not have been chosen by the Goddess to protect her most beloved daughter.""I have to make a choice. I cannot keep up this charade of Code and honor when it comes to Lilly. She is why I still go on everyday. All of those years, waiting for her to rise again...I can not comprimise her getting hurt because of my emotions." Aiden dropped to his knees pounding his chest in anger. "I am being ripped apart inside everytime I hear her voice, everytime she touches me, begs me to be more to her than I can. I don't know if I am strong enough." He stood up and punched through the cave wall, "Why did the Goddess curse me to such a hell? Why was I not 'gifted' with indifference towards Lilly? Isn't that how we are supposed to be?"All became quiet.Tears streamed down my face. How long had he been waiting for me? How long was I petrified in the earth?The light that had been radiating from Peter began to flicker slowly. At first, I wasn't sure if it was my imagination or just the shadows, but he began to grow until he towered over Aiden and that's when I saw his shadow. It seemed to move seperately from him. The looming darkness on the cave wall was also beginning to glow and then, they appeared. Soft and beautiful with a majestic spread, Peters' wings stretched from his back to encompass the entire cave wall. They shone an iridescent black with gray. There were ragged edges showing the battles of the past, but majestic non-the less.He no longer looked like one solid form, but  like a shimmer you see in a crystal lake as a raindrop touches the middle and makes it ripple. He was frightening and beautiful.His wings enveloped Aiden as he spoke."Aiden it is not the choices we make that should guide us but our destiny we need to accept. The Goddess would not have given you her heart, her Lilly, if she did not have a plan. Your destiny is preconceived and the path you have been granted should be followed. Sometimes a 'Code' is just that and nothing more. You will make the right decision . The Goddess has faith in you and so do I. Follow your destiny Aiden."As his final words were spoken his shadow reverted back to the familiar human form it had been. I turned away and quickly crawled back to the corner by the supplies where Aiden had left me. Sobbing from the pain of what Aiden was going through. Ripping myself apart inside for being so selfish in asking him to disobey the Guardian Code. I knew what I had to do the question was, could I do what needed to be done in order to save the world.How could I refuse my heart?How could I refuse my destiny?  Wed, 15 Jul 2009 00:35:59 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Torn/BLOG/438186/30146.html carrie 2009-07-15T00:35:59Z Mike's Writers Network I have been writing a novel that I would love to get a critique on. It is a young adult sci-fi thriller.  I quietly crawled over to the entrance of what Aiden called the Kiva trying desperately to not make a sound. The ground was rough and covered in sharp slivers of rock and minerals that were embedding themselves into my palms and knees. I still couldn't understand how people were able to live in underground caves without sunlight. I glanced back over to the corner where the supplies were wishing I had thought to bring the canteen with me. The dust and heat permiated my lungs drying out my mouth."Focus." I whispered to myself. I finally reached the large double doors and saw that Aiden had left them slightly cracked. It seemed strange that a guardian, especially Aiden who was always very careful, would make such a careless mistake.   Maybe he wanted me to hear them. He knew he could trust me, but he also knew that I did not like being left in the dark on matters that concerned me and ...well... the end of the world as we know it. He had to know that I would try and listen. If Peter knew that Aiden did not follow his order of privacy Aiden would have to deal with severe consequences so he must have done it with good reason. I peered through the crack to see the room glowing, almost sparkeling. I squinted to see where the beautiful light was coming from. That's when I saw him, Peter, the Guardian to the Goddess.  The light was illuminating from him, lighting the entire Kiva with  beautiful calming warmth that radiated like the sun. Aiden stood in front of Peter with his head down."But why? Why would the Goddess choose me to protect Lilly? I am not as strong as you, as fast as Travis, or as courageous as Shawn. I can not put aside my feelings for Lilly. How can I protect her and our way of life if I dont have the internal strength to refuse her?" My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid they would turn any moment and realize I was there, hearing every heartbreaking word Aiden was saying. Aiden raised his face to look at Peter. He looked defeated and tired as Peter placed his hand on Aidens shoulder."Aiden, if you were not all of those things you mentioned and much more you would not have been chosen by the Goddess to protect her most beloved daughter.""I have to make a choice. I cannot keep up this charade of Code and honor when it comes to Lilly. She is why I still go on everyday. All of those years, waiting for her to rise again...I can not comprimise her getting hurt because of my emotions." Aiden dropped to his knees pounding his chest in anger. "I am being ripped apart inside everytime I hear her voice, everytime she touches me, begs me to be more to her than I can. I don't know if I am strong enough." He stood up and punched through the cave wall, "Why did the Goddess curse me to such a hell? Why was I not 'gifted' with indifference towards Lilly? Isn't that how we are supposed to be?"All became quiet.Tears streamed down my face. How long had he been waiting for me? How long was I petrified in the earth?The light that had been radiating from Peter began to flicker slowly. At first, I wasn't sure if it was my imagination or just the shadows, but he began to grow until he towered over Aiden and that's when I saw his shadow. It seemed to move seperately from him. The looming darkness on the cave wall was also beginning to glow and then, they appeared. Soft and beautiful with a majestic spread, Peters' wings stretched from his back to encompass the entire cave wall. They shone an iridescent black with gray. There were ragged edges showing the battles of the past, but majestic non-the less.He no longer looked like one solid form, but  like a shimmer you see in a crystal lake as a raindrop touches the middle and makes it ripple. He was frightening and beautiful.His wings enveloped Aiden as he spoke."Aiden it is not the choices we make that should guide us but our destiny we need to accept. The Goddess would not have given you her heart, her Lilly, if she did not have a plan. Your destiny is preconceived and the path you have been granted should be followed. Sometimes a 'Code' is just that and nothing more. You will make the right decision . The Goddess has faith in you and so do I. Follow your destiny Aiden."As his final words were spoken his shadow reverted back to the familiar human form it had been. I turned away and quickly crawled back to the corner by the supplies where Aiden had left me. Sobbing from the pain of what Aiden was going through. Ripping myself apart inside for being so selfish in asking him to disobey the Guardian Code. I knew what I had to do the question was, could I do what needed to be done in order to save the world.How could I refuse my heart?How could I refuse my destiny?  nonadult false Torn text blog 27 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=4310629&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_2193443_30146_4310629_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 438186 4310629 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Podcast-Writing-Changed-My-Life-1/BLOG/338466/30146.html RSS LinkWith authors Melissa Mendelson, Mike Plested, and David Silva[image][image][image]From left: Melissa Mendelson, Mike Plested, David SilvaDOWNLOAD AND LISTEN TO "HOW WRITING CHANGED MY LIFE #1" MP3 HEREJoin us for this inspiring show in which three writers explain how writing has changed their lives.Melissa Mendelson is an author and poet. Her prose poetry collections include Silent Dreams and Tears of Sand.  She appeared on "Homework," an ABC News program, in 2007 and in Cinematherapy, 2008. She was a news reporter for Long Island's Smithtown Messenger and wrote freelance for The Photo News. Her poetry has been published by The Outreach for Breast Health Foundation and appears in Names in a Jar: A Collection of Poetry by 100 Contemporary American Poets. Her short stories have been published by Bartleby Snopes Literary Magazine, The Subway Chronicles, and Literary Masters, Inc.Michell Plested is an amateur writer with three completed books and a handful of short-stories to his credit. Two of the books, a YA adventure and an adult fantasy, are currently in front of publishers. Michell is the creator of the podcast "Get Published," featuring guest writers, editors and agents. He is currently doing final edits on a book that is rumored to be on next year's release schedule for a small press. You can read Michell's blog entries and book reviews and hear episodes of "Get Published" at MichellPlested.com .David Wayne Silva is an eighty-year-old retired teacher and school administrator who spent 38 years working with teachers, children, and parents of all races and backgrounds. In that capacity, he found himself providing a good deal of family counseling. After the death of his wife, he met others who were seeking help and soon found himself facilitating a counseling group for widowers. The author of two nonfiction books and a collection of short stories, Silva encourages other seniors to write their own stories and memoirs. He now lectures senior citizen groups on living with the problems of aging. Suddenly, he says, life is once again an adventure, and aging is only a necessary annoyance.Interviewees: Melissa Mendelson, Mike Plested, and David Silva Host: Paula B. Date: June 7, 2009 Running time: 37:01 File size: 18 megabytes Rating: G Melissa Mendelson's Web site: MelissaMendelson.com Mike Plested's Web site: MichellPlested.com David Silva's Web site: SeniorMomentsBooks.com RSS LinkWith authors Melissa Mendelson, Mike Plested, and David Silva[image][image][image]From left: Melissa Mendelson, Mike Plested, David SilvaDOWNLOAD AND LISTEN TO "HOW WRITING CHANGED MY LIFE #1" MP3 HEREJoin us for this inspiring show in which three writers explain how writing has changed their lives.Melissa Mendelson is an author and poet. Her prose poetry collections include Silent Dreams and Tears of Sand.  She appeared on "Homework," an ABC News program, in 2007 and in Cinematherapy, 2008. She was a news reporter for Long Island's Smithtown Messenger and wrote freelance for The Photo News. Her poetry has been published by The Outreach for Breast Health Foundation and appears in Names in a Jar: A Collection of Poetry by 100 Contemporary American Poets. Her short stories have been published by Bartleby Snopes Literary Magazine, The Subway Chronicles, and Literary Masters, Inc.Michell Plested is an amateur writer with three completed books and a handful of short-stories to his credit. Two of the books, a YA adventure and an adult fantasy, are currently in front of publishers. Michell is the creator of the podcast "Get Published," featuring guest writers, editors and agents. He is currently doing final edits on a book that is rumored to be on next year's release schedule for a small press. You can read Michell's blog entries and book reviews and hear episodes of "Get Published" at MichellPlested.com .David Wayne Silva is an eighty-year-old retired teacher and school administrator who spent 38 years working with teachers, children, and parents of all races and backgrounds. In that capacity, he found himself providing a good deal of family counseling. After the death of his wife, he met others who were seeking help and soon found himself facilitating a counseling group for widowers. The author of two nonfiction books and a collection of short stories, Silva encourages other seniors to write their own stories and memoirs. He now lectures senior citizen groups on living with the problems of aging. Suddenly, he says, life is once again an adventure, and aging is only a necessary annoyance.Interviewees: Melissa Mendelson, Mike Plested, and David Silva Host: Paula B. Date: June 7, 2009 Running time: 37:01 File size: 18 megabytes Rating: G Melissa Mendelson's Web site: MelissaMendelson.com Mike Plested's Web site: MichellPlested.com David Silva's Web site: SeniorMomentsBooks.com Sun, 07 Jun 2009 15:37:31 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Podcast-Writing-Changed-My-Life-1/BLOG/338466/30146.html PaulaB 2009-06-07T15:37:31Z Mike's Writers Network RSS LinkWith authors Melissa Mendelson, Mike Plested, and David Silva[image][image][image]From left: Melissa Mendelson, Mike Plested, David SilvaDOWNLOAD AND LISTEN TO "HOW WRITING CHANGED MY LIFE #1" MP3 HEREJoin us for this inspiring show in which three writers explain how writing has changed their lives.Melissa Mendelson is an author and poet. Her prose poetry collections include Silent Dreams and Tears of Sand.  She appeared on "Homework," an ABC News program, in 2007 and in Cinematherapy, 2008. She was a news reporter for Long Island's Smithtown Messenger and wrote freelance for The Photo News. Her poetry has been published by The Outreach for Breast Health Foundation and appears in Names in a Jar: A Collection of Poetry by 100 Contemporary American Poets. Her short stories have been published by Bartleby Snopes Literary Magazine, The Subway Chronicles, and Literary Masters, Inc.Michell Plested is an amateur writer with three completed books and a handful of short-stories to his credit. Two of the books, a YA adventure and an adult fantasy, are currently in front of publishers. Michell is the creator of the podcast "Get Published," featuring guest writers, editors and agents. He is currently doing final edits on a book that is rumored to be on next year's release schedule for a small press. You can read Michell's blog entries and book reviews and hear episodes of "Get Published" at MichellPlested.com .David Wayne Silva is an eighty-year-old retired teacher and school administrator who spent 38 years working with teachers, children, and parents of all races and backgrounds. In that capacity, he found himself providing a good deal of family counseling. After the death of his wife, he met others who were seeking help and soon found himself facilitating a counseling group for widowers. The author of two nonfiction books and a collection of short stories, Silva encourages other seniors to write their own stories and memoirs. He now lectures senior citizen groups on living with the problems of aging. Suddenly, he says, life is once again an adventure, and aging is only a necessary annoyance.Interviewees: Melissa Mendelson, Mike Plested, and David Silva Host: Paula B. Date: June 7, 2009 Running time: 37:01 File size: 18 megabytes Rating: G Melissa Mendelson's Web site: MelissaMendelson.com Mike Plested's Web site: MichellPlested.com David Silva's Web site: SeniorMomentsBooks.com nonadult false Podcast: Writing Changed My Life #1 text blog 56 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=2364513&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_1207967_30146_2364513_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 338466 2364513 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_The-Glasses-Darkened-by-Falsities/BLOG/300242/30146.html Our society is ruled by categorist whose sole purpose is to pigeon hole our culture into quantitative sections. They express, and at an alarming rate, that to counter “our” norms is to drive a nail through our shared identity as Americans. Ironically, our unified identity of Americanism is a falsity that those categorists continue to play off of. You see, our Americanism is just a way of expressing our xenophobia. Compared to the larger issues that life presents, categorization of our society should be considered the sugar at the bottom of a glass of ice tea. As well, our Americanism is this society’s categorization of the broader Eurocentrism that continues to rule our culture.     We forget that this planet has more countries then those listed in the European Union and NATO. In doing so, we neglect, by impulse and by design, that “our way” is not the end-all-be-all.  Famed writer Molefi Asente, self proclaimed “Afrocentrist,” proposes that “without the Afrocentric perspective, the imposition of the European line as universal hinders cultural understanding and demeans humanity.”One can replace “Afrocentric” with “Asiaocentric” or any other “centric” one wishes, however, the truth that we are so unicultural and that we live in a state of xenophobia is ignorant to ignore. We are doing an injustice to ourselves as well as to our kin by neglecting those brothers and sisters around us.      With our Eurocentric glasses removed, can we, as Americans, believe that what E.D. Hirsch Jr argues in The Decline of Literate Knowledge; that the youth of America is dangerously ignorant to the importance of not only being able to read but to comprehend words as well; is accurate? Who says that the verbalization, comprehension, and application of the English language are imperative to providing a positive contribution to society?  This is surely a Eurocentric belief for those, such as Asente, whose views are most certainly Afrocentric, are in no need to comprehend, verbalize, and apply the English language to be successful in a culture other then the Western world. Success, in the end, is the opinion of the applier. Our society is ruled by categorist whose sole purpose is to pigeon hole our culture into quantitative sections. They express, and at an alarming rate, that to counter “our” norms is to drive a nail through our shared identity as Americans. Ironically, our unified identity of Americanism is a falsity that those categorists continue to play off of. You see, our Americanism is just a way of expressing our xenophobia. Compared to the larger issues that life presents, categorization of our society should be considered the sugar at the bottom of a glass of ice tea. As well, our Americanism is this society’s categorization of the broader Eurocentrism that continues to rule our culture.     We forget that this planet has more countries then those listed in the European Union and NATO. In doing so, we neglect, by impulse and by design, that “our way” is not the end-all-be-all.  Famed writer Molefi Asente, self proclaimed “Afrocentrist,” proposes that “without the Afrocentric perspective, the imposition of the European line as universal hinders cultural understanding and demeans humanity.”One can replace “Afrocentric” with “Asiaocentric” or any other “centric” one wishes, however, the truth that we are so unicultural and that we live in a state of xenophobia is ignorant to ignore. We are doing an injustice to ourselves as well as to our kin by neglecting those brothers and sisters around us.      With our Eurocentric glasses removed, can we, as Americans, believe that what E.D. Hirsch Jr argues in The Decline of Literate Knowledge; that the youth of America is dangerously ignorant to the importance of not only being able to read but to comprehend words as well; is accurate? Who says that the verbalization, comprehension, and application of the English language are imperative to providing a positive contribution to society?  This is surely a Eurocentric belief for those, such as Asente, whose views are most certainly Afrocentric, are in no need to comprehend, verbalize, and apply the English language to be successful in a culture other then the Western world. Success, in the end, is the opinion of the applier. Wed, 03 Jun 2009 05:29:24 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_The-Glasses-Darkened-by-Falsities/BLOG/300242/30146.html Meeze 2009-06-03T05:29:24Z Mike's Writers Network Our society is ruled by categorist whose sole purpose is to pigeon hole our culture into quantitative sections. They express, and at an alarming rate, that to counter “our” norms is to drive a nail through our shared identity as Americans. Ironically, our unified identity of Americanism is a falsity that those categorists continue to play off of. You see, our Americanism is just a way of expressing our xenophobia. Compared to the larger issues that life presents, categorization of our society should be considered the sugar at the bottom of a glass of ice tea. As well, our Americanism is this society’s categorization of the broader Eurocentrism that continues to rule our culture.     We forget that this planet has more countries then those listed in the European Union and NATO. In doing so, we neglect, by impulse and by design, that “our way” is not the end-all-be-all.  Famed writer Molefi Asente, self proclaimed “Afrocentrist,” proposes that “without the Afrocentric perspective, the imposition of the European line as universal hinders cultural understanding and demeans humanity.”One can replace “Afrocentric” with “Asiaocentric” or any other “centric” one wishes, however, the truth that we are so unicultural and that we live in a state of xenophobia is ignorant to ignore. We are doing an injustice to ourselves as well as to our kin by neglecting those brothers and sisters around us.      With our Eurocentric glasses removed, can we, as Americans, believe that what E.D. Hirsch Jr argues in The Decline of Literate Knowledge; that the youth of America is dangerously ignorant to the importance of not only being able to read but to comprehend words as well; is accurate? Who says that the verbalization, comprehension, and application of the English language are imperative to providing a positive contribution to society?  This is surely a Eurocentric belief for those, such as Asente, whose views are most certainly Afrocentric, are in no need to comprehend, verbalize, and apply the English language to be successful in a culture other then the Western world. Success, in the end, is the opinion of the applier. opinion, political, social nonadult false The Glasses Darkened by Falsities text blog opinion,political,social 41 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=7392920&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_3658445_30146_7392920_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 300242 7392920 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Podcast-Announcing-The-Writing-Show-2009-Halloween-Short-Story-Contest/BLOG/299272/30146.html RSS LinkWith Writing Show host Paula B.[image]DOWNLOAD AND LISTEN TO OUR HALLOWEEN SHORT STORY CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT HEREWriting Show host Paula B. announces our 2009 Halloween short story contest.Host: Paula B. Date: June 2, 2009 Running time: 01:02 minutes File size: 1 megabyte Rating: G RSS LinkWith Writing Show host Paula B.[image]DOWNLOAD AND LISTEN TO OUR HALLOWEEN SHORT STORY CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT HEREWriting Show host Paula B. announces our 2009 Halloween short story contest.Host: Paula B. Date: June 2, 2009 Running time: 01:02 minutes File size: 1 megabyte Rating: G Tue, 02 Jun 2009 18:19:24 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Podcast-Announcing-The-Writing-Show-2009-Halloween-Short-Story-Contest/BLOG/299272/30146.html PaulaB 2009-06-02T18:19:24Z Mike's Writers Network RSS LinkWith Writing Show host Paula B.[image]DOWNLOAD AND LISTEN TO OUR HALLOWEEN SHORT STORY CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT HEREWriting Show host Paula B. announces our 2009 Halloween short story contest.Host: Paula B. Date: June 2, 2009 Running time: 01:02 minutes File size: 1 megabyte Rating: G nonadult false Podcast: Announcing The Writing Show 2009 Halloween Short Story Contest text blog 51 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=2364513&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_1207967_30146_2364513_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 299272 2364513 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_To-Outline-or-Not-To-Outline/BLOG/291960/30146.html One question that often comes up in my writers’ workshop is should an author outline their novel before writing or just wing it.  The answer is, of course, there is no answer.  Writing is personal—you put so much of yourself into the words.  That's why it hurts to have a project rejected.  The act of writing is equally personal.  There is no right or wrong way.  My advice is to try both methods, outlining and not outlining, and see which works for you.I outlined my first novel in the standard outline form with clipped, structured sentences—first this happens, then that happens, etc.  But when it came time to write the book, I found it difficult to follow such a strict format.  My characters balked at what I was forcing them to do because I hadn't considered their evolving personalities.  I felt stifled, unable to let my imagination run free.So with my second book, I just started writing and let the pieces fall where they may.  It was exciting to face each new day of writing not knowing what was going to happen.  But a novel is a lot of words, and I found myself paging back through previous chapters, trying to remember how I described this or that, or whether it had been day or night.  I had plotting problems and pacing problems.  I was doing more rewriting than writing.  To make matters worse, I became ill and couldn't write for weeks.  I had trouble getting back into the story after that, as if I'd lost my way.I went back to outlining.  Not a standard outline—more a stream of consciousness.  I write in long paragraphs, putting down events and images as they come to me.  I put in snatches of conversation as I think of them, as much description as I can imagine.  I think in terms of scenes rather than chapters, and I don't hesitate to juggle the scenes around if I think of something better later on.The outline for the book I'm working on now is twenty-five pages, single-spaced, and growing.  It's ever changing.  I'm constantly tweaking and adding details.  As a result, I'm rewriting less and enjoying it more.Fine for me, but suppose you want to try outlining yet don't want to go into so much detail.  One method is to write all your scenes on 3X5 cards.  Put down the important features such as time, place, which characters are in the scene, etc.  Arrange them in order on your kitchen table.  It's a good way to spot plotting problems—you can shift the scenes around or add new ones to fill in any holes.Does that still seem too much of a chore?  Then make outlining a game—and what is more fun than a computer game?  Storybook has a terrific program to help novelists organize their story.  It’s fun, easy, and they never use the word outline.  Best of all, it’s free.  Download it here: http://storybook.intertec.ch/joomla/A friend tells me he outlines his books in his head.  While I don't think that's quite the same thing, I firmly believe the only right way is the way that works for you.  Don't discount anything until you've tried it yourself.Roxanne Smolenwww.roxannesmolen.com  One question that often comes up in my writers’ workshop is should an author outline their novel before writing or just wing it.  The answer is, of course, there is no answer.  Writing is personal—you put so much of yourself into the words.  That's why it hurts to have a project rejected.  The act of writing is equally personal.  There is no right or wrong way.  My advice is to try both methods, outlining and not outlining, and see which works for you.I outlined my first novel in the standard outline form with clipped, structured sentences—first this happens, then that happens, etc.  But when it came time to write the book, I found it difficult to follow such a strict format.  My characters balked at what I was forcing them to do because I hadn't considered their evolving personalities.  I felt stifled, unable to let my imagination run free.So with my second book, I just started writing and let the pieces fall where they may.  It was exciting to face each new day of writing not knowing what was going to happen.  But a novel is a lot of words, and I found myself paging back through previous chapters, trying to remember how I described this or that, or whether it had been day or night.  I had plotting problems and pacing problems.  I was doing more rewriting than writing.  To make matters worse, I became ill and couldn't write for weeks.  I had trouble getting back into the story after that, as if I'd lost my way.I went back to outlining.  Not a standard outline—more a stream of consciousness.  I write in long paragraphs, putting down events and images as they come to me.  I put in snatches of conversation as I think of them, as much description as I can imagine.  I think in terms of scenes rather than chapters, and I don't hesitate to juggle the scenes around if I think of something better later on.The outline for the book I'm working on now is twenty-five pages, single-spaced, and growing.  It's ever changing.  I'm constantly tweaking and adding details.  As a result, I'm rewriting less and enjoying it more.Fine for me, but suppose you want to try outlining yet don't want to go into so much detail.  One method is to write all your scenes on 3X5 cards.  Put down the important features such as time, place, which characters are in the scene, etc.  Arrange them in order on your kitchen table.  It's a good way to spot plotting problems—you can shift the scenes around or add new ones to fill in any holes.Does that still seem too much of a chore?  Then make outlining a game—and what is more fun than a computer game?  Storybook has a terrific program to help novelists organize their story.  It’s fun, easy, and they never use the word outline.  Best of all, it’s free.  Download it here: http://storybook.intertec.ch/joomla/A friend tells me he outlines his books in his head.  While I don't think that's quite the same thing, I firmly believe the only right way is the way that works for you.  Don't discount anything until you've tried it yourself.Roxanne Smolenwww.roxannesmolen.com  Thu, 28 May 2009 16:23:56 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_To-Outline-or-Not-To-Outline/BLOG/291960/30146.html RSmolen 2009-05-28T16:23:56Z Mike's Writers Network One question that often comes up in my writers’ workshop is should an author outline their novel before writing or just wing it.  The answer is, of course, there is no answer.  Writing is personal—you put so much of yourself into the words.  That's why it hurts to have a project rejected.  The act of writing is equally personal.  There is no right or wrong way.  My advice is to try both methods, outlining and not outlining, and see which works for you.I outlined my first novel in the standard outline form with clipped, structured sentences—first this happens, then that happens, etc.  But when it came time to write the book, I found it difficult to follow such a strict format.  My characters balked at what I was forcing them to do because I hadn't considered their evolving personalities.  I felt stifled, unable to let my imagination run free.So with my second book, I just started writing and let the pieces fall where they may.  It was exciting to face each new day of writing not knowing what was going to happen.  But a novel is a lot of words, and I found myself paging back through previous chapters, trying to remember how I described this or that, or whether it had been day or night.  I had plotting problems and pacing problems.  I was doing more rewriting than writing.  To make matters worse, I became ill and couldn't write for weeks.  I had trouble getting back into the story after that, as if I'd lost my way.I went back to outlining.  Not a standard outline—more a stream of consciousness.  I write in long paragraphs, putting down events and images as they come to me.  I put in snatches of conversation as I think of them, as much description as I can imagine.  I think in terms of scenes rather than chapters, and I don't hesitate to juggle the scenes around if I think of something better later on.The outline for the book I'm working on now is twenty-five pages, single-spaced, and growing.  It's ever changing.  I'm constantly tweaking and adding details.  As a result, I'm rewriting less and enjoying it more.Fine for me, but suppose you want to try outlining yet don't want to go into so much detail.  One method is to write all your scenes on 3X5 cards.  Put down the important features such as time, place, which characters are in the scene, etc.  Arrange them in order on your kitchen table.  It's a good way to spot plotting problems—you can shift the scenes around or add new ones to fill in any holes.Does that still seem too much of a chore?  Then make outlining a game—and what is more fun than a computer game?  Storybook has a terrific program to help novelists organize their story.  It’s fun, easy, and they never use the word outline.  Best of all, it’s free.  Download it here: http://storybook.intertec.ch/joomla/A friend tells me he outlines his books in his head.  While I don't think that's quite the same thing, I firmly believe the only right way is the way that works for you.  Don't discount anything until you've tried it yourself.Roxanne Smolenwww.roxannesmolen.com  novel, outline, storybook nonadult false To Outline or Not To Outline text blog novel,outline,storybook 51 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=7088799&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_3777935_30146_7088799_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 291960 7088799 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Paperbacks-vs-Ebooks/BLOG/275712/30146.html I just read an interesting article about turning ebooks into paperbacks.  http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article6157474.ece It describes a machine that can print and bind a book in about five minutes.  So you go into a bookstore, request a book, and have it printed while you wait.Some people envision a future where bookstores will have pamphlets or blurb cards on their shelves instead of books.  They will have a machine like this and print only after the book is sold, removing the need for inventory.  Other people expect bookstores to be done away with altogether.  They believe consumers will have machines in their homes and print at their leisure.I hope both views are wrong.  To me, the appeal of ebooks is in having no paper at all.  I would much rather read from a screen, be it a computer, a mobile reader, or a phone, than to continue depleting natural resources.  Trees are necessary for life.  You want to counter global warming?  Plant a tree!When I voice my opinion, I am often met with comments such as "I just like the feel of a book in my hand," and "I love the smell of old books."  These are romantic notions.  To which I say, Get over it!We are all resistant to change, and the progression from paperbacks to digital media is slow.  But I think machines that switch us back to print is a mistake.  Time might be better spent finding better ways to power our electronic gizmos so we don't pollute our landfills with batteries.  (Recycle, you say?  Don't get me started.  That is another subject.)http://www.roxannesmolen.com  I just read an interesting article about turning ebooks into paperbacks.  http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article6157474.ece It describes a machine that can print and bind a book in about five minutes.  So you go into a bookstore, request a book, and have it printed while you wait.Some people envision a future where bookstores will have pamphlets or blurb cards on their shelves instead of books.  They will have a machine like this and print only after the book is sold, removing the need for inventory.  Other people expect bookstores to be done away with altogether.  They believe consumers will have machines in their homes and print at their leisure.I hope both views are wrong.  To me, the appeal of ebooks is in having no paper at all.  I would much rather read from a screen, be it a computer, a mobile reader, or a phone, than to continue depleting natural resources.  Trees are necessary for life.  You want to counter global warming?  Plant a tree!When I voice my opinion, I am often met with comments such as "I just like the feel of a book in my hand," and "I love the smell of old books."  These are romantic notions.  To which I say, Get over it!We are all resistant to change, and the progression from paperbacks to digital media is slow.  But I think machines that switch us back to print is a mistake.  Time might be better spent finding better ways to power our electronic gizmos so we don't pollute our landfills with batteries.  (Recycle, you say?  Don't get me started.  That is another subject.)http://www.roxannesmolen.com  Tue, 12 May 2009 20:18:58 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Paperbacks-vs-Ebooks/BLOG/275712/30146.html RSmolen 2009-05-12T20:18:58Z Mike's Writers Network I just read an interesting article about turning ebooks into paperbacks.  http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article6157474.ece It describes a machine that can print and bind a book in about five minutes.  So you go into a bookstore, request a book, and have it printed while you wait.Some people envision a future where bookstores will have pamphlets or blurb cards on their shelves instead of books.  They will have a machine like this and print only after the book is sold, removing the need for inventory.  Other people expect bookstores to be done away with altogether.  They believe consumers will have machines in their homes and print at their leisure.I hope both views are wrong.  To me, the appeal of ebooks is in having no paper at all.  I would much rather read from a screen, be it a computer, a mobile reader, or a phone, than to continue depleting natural resources.  Trees are necessary for life.  You want to counter global warming?  Plant a tree!When I voice my opinion, I am often met with comments such as "I just like the feel of a book in my hand," and "I love the smell of old books."  These are romantic notions.  To which I say, Get over it!We are all resistant to change, and the progression from paperbacks to digital media is slow.  But I think machines that switch us back to print is a mistake.  Time might be better spent finding better ways to power our electronic gizmos so we don't pollute our landfills with batteries.  (Recycle, you say?  Don't get me started.  That is another subject.)http://www.roxannesmolen.com  ebook, paperback nonadult false Paperbacks vs. Ebooks text blog ebook,paperback 57 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=7088799&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_3777935_30146_7088799_ap_160X120.jpg false 1 0 275712 7088799 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_The-Trip-to-the-Mountain/BLOG/269939/30146.html Snow white descending upon a blanket of crystallized water.The smoke begins to fill the air, as the cold search for the warmth, and I find my martyr.The talking is so loud, yet silent to the sound, only active in waves crashing against our eardrums.The herb it steals and hints at days that scream for the silence we hope only comes.The twirls of the flakes kissing our face, and the breaths that smear the air.No time to waste on this day of haste, climbing the mountain with a view so fair.Lights twinkling in the distance, with the mountains that glisten, we stand and we stare.We search for the reason to life in this season only to become the boys without a care.Do you see us standing up there? The kings of the mountain, ruling our fair share?Eyes as big as marbles, with life never being less horrible, warmth from our bellies to our hair.Our world all in front of us, the trees below us, and the emptiness that is ours if we dareBut as boys of the wild, our ambitions still mild, and the smoke calling through the air…We do not stay there. Our sight lines were skewed by the grandest of Green Mountains,Furthering our demise, while our souls flowed out like endless fountains.And you wished for sight, while I wished for flight, and he yearned for someone to care.Another boy was lost to the silence of the frost and the crystal clear air.Yes, oh yes, it was ours as we jumped, never with any scare.  Snow white descending upon a blanket of crystallized water.The smoke begins to fill the air, as the cold search for the warmth, and I find my martyr.The talking is so loud, yet silent to the sound, only active in waves crashing against our eardrums.The herb it steals and hints at days that scream for the silence we hope only comes.The twirls of the flakes kissing our face, and the breaths that smear the air.No time to waste on this day of haste, climbing the mountain with a view so fair.Lights twinkling in the distance, with the mountains that glisten, we stand and we stare.We search for the reason to life in this season only to become the boys without a care.Do you see us standing up there? The kings of the mountain, ruling our fair share?Eyes as big as marbles, with life never being less horrible, warmth from our bellies to our hair.Our world all in front of us, the trees below us, and the emptiness that is ours if we dareBut as boys of the wild, our ambitions still mild, and the smoke calling through the air…We do not stay there. Our sight lines were skewed by the grandest of Green Mountains,Furthering our demise, while our souls flowed out like endless fountains.And you wished for sight, while I wished for flight, and he yearned for someone to care.Another boy was lost to the silence of the frost and the crystal clear air.Yes, oh yes, it was ours as we jumped, never with any scare.  Thu, 07 May 2009 02:49:02 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_The-Trip-to-the-Mountain/BLOG/269939/30146.html Meeze 2009-05-07T02:49:02Z Mike's Writers Network Snow white descending upon a blanket of crystallized water.The smoke begins to fill the air, as the cold search for the warmth, and I find my martyr.The talking is so loud, yet silent to the sound, only active in waves crashing against our eardrums.The herb it steals and hints at days that scream for the silence we hope only comes.The twirls of the flakes kissing our face, and the breaths that smear the air.No time to waste on this day of haste, climbing the mountain with a view so fair.Lights twinkling in the distance, with the mountains that glisten, we stand and we stare.We search for the reason to life in this season only to become the boys without a care.Do you see us standing up there? The kings of the mountain, ruling our fair share?Eyes as big as marbles, with life never being less horrible, warmth from our bellies to our hair.Our world all in front of us, the trees below us, and the emptiness that is ours if we dareBut as boys of the wild, our ambitions still mild, and the smoke calling through the air…We do not stay there. Our sight lines were skewed by the grandest of Green Mountains,Furthering our demise, while our souls flowed out like endless fountains.And you wished for sight, while I wished for flight, and he yearned for someone to care.Another boy was lost to the silence of the frost and the crystal clear air.Yes, oh yes, it was ours as we jumped, never with any scare.  amazingness, green, mountains, snow nonadult false The Trip to the Mountain text blog amazingness,green,mountains,snow 54 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=7392920&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_3658445_30146_7392920_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 269939 7392920 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Misplaced-Dreams/BLOG/261432/30146.html There is this certain buzz around my head as if a fly is eyeing my watermelon during a spring picnic in Elmwood Park. The trees tower over my head, protecting me from the sun. They are nature’s sunscreen. I think I needed that protection more than a poet needs the pain. I was planning this huge celebration during which crowds would cheer my name in jubilation while you sat on the sidelines, underneath the canopy, remembering that I was all yours after the microphone quiets and the crowd moves to their next water-ice cart. Yet, just as the warmth of an early March’s sun can melt even the hardest of icy hearts, meanings to rhymes can be thawed away. How do I address something that is neither distinguishable nor understandable? I assume this is what the writers of the Bible faced. Although my thoughts are believable (at least in my head) my head is scattered in so many fucking directions the Academy has yet to quantify the shape it makes. I think you stuck your heroin into my vein a whiles back, and now I hunt for the newest rush, never knowing that what I had originally was the best dope this side of Broad. Boy, could I quantify that shape. For you, my darling, I am the junky with needle left in his hip. So goes the story of Mr. Emo Boy.Your door seems so open, yet the translucency has worn off. You are nothing short of a hopeless romantic, never checking the consequence of one slip. I have invested far too much for this not to work out. But as the Dow Jones slips into oblivion, my trust in you has failed at finding a grip. I am fortunate for your presence, but do you need the same out of me? I know what I should do, but I just cannot find a way to drive away. Oh God, I hope this was not in vain. It is 4:40 in the morning, and you are in my thoughts. My eyes are tired and the stale, yellow light coming from the desk lamp over my bare, right shoulder is illuminating just enough for me to search for the ending to my story. I am not looking for some readers, just listeners. My clothes have been scattered on the floor around my bed for a while. I have come to believe that Jimmy was correct when he stated: “We’re only just as happy as everyone else seems to think we are.” I do not think you want to see this boy right now; not in this state. It must mean something more though, for in the end, I care too much about whether you will take my pain away or not. My thoughts are too strewn about right now. I seem to have misplaced my dreams.I need both of you to located them again. There is this certain buzz around my head as if a fly is eyeing my watermelon during a spring picnic in Elmwood Park. The trees tower over my head, protecting me from the sun. They are nature’s sunscreen. I think I needed that protection more than a poet needs the pain. I was planning this huge celebration during which crowds would cheer my name in jubilation while you sat on the sidelines, underneath the canopy, remembering that I was all yours after the microphone quiets and the crowd moves to their next water-ice cart. Yet, just as the warmth of an early March’s sun can melt even the hardest of icy hearts, meanings to rhymes can be thawed away. How do I address something that is neither distinguishable nor understandable? I assume this is what the writers of the Bible faced. Although my thoughts are believable (at least in my head) my head is scattered in so many fucking directions the Academy has yet to quantify the shape it makes. I think you stuck your heroin into my vein a whiles back, and now I hunt for the newest rush, never knowing that what I had originally was the best dope this side of Broad. Boy, could I quantify that shape. For you, my darling, I am the junky with needle left in his hip. So goes the story of Mr. Emo Boy.Your door seems so open, yet the translucency has worn off. You are nothing short of a hopeless romantic, never checking the consequence of one slip. I have invested far too much for this not to work out. But as the Dow Jones slips into oblivion, my trust in you has failed at finding a grip. I am fortunate for your presence, but do you need the same out of me? I know what I should do, but I just cannot find a way to drive away. Oh God, I hope this was not in vain. It is 4:40 in the morning, and you are in my thoughts. My eyes are tired and the stale, yellow light coming from the desk lamp over my bare, right shoulder is illuminating just enough for me to search for the ending to my story. I am not looking for some readers, just listeners. My clothes have been scattered on the floor around my bed for a while. I have come to believe that Jimmy was correct when he stated: “We’re only just as happy as everyone else seems to think we are.” I do not think you want to see this boy right now; not in this state. It must mean something more though, for in the end, I care too much about whether you will take my pain away or not. My thoughts are too strewn about right now. I seem to have misplaced my dreams.I need both of you to located them again. Wed, 29 Apr 2009 14:50:29 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Misplaced-Dreams/BLOG/261432/30146.html Meeze 2009-04-29T14:50:29Z Mike's Writers Network There is this certain buzz around my head as if a fly is eyeing my watermelon during a spring picnic in Elmwood Park. The trees tower over my head, protecting me from the sun. They are nature’s sunscreen. I think I needed that protection more than a poet needs the pain. I was planning this huge celebration during which crowds would cheer my name in jubilation while you sat on the sidelines, underneath the canopy, remembering that I was all yours after the microphone quiets and the crowd moves to their next water-ice cart. Yet, just as the warmth of an early March’s sun can melt even the hardest of icy hearts, meanings to rhymes can be thawed away. How do I address something that is neither distinguishable nor understandable? I assume this is what the writers of the Bible faced. Although my thoughts are believable (at least in my head) my head is scattered in so many fucking directions the Academy has yet to quantify the shape it makes. I think you stuck your heroin into my vein a whiles back, and now I hunt for the newest rush, never knowing that what I had originally was the best dope this side of Broad. Boy, could I quantify that shape. For you, my darling, I am the junky with needle left in his hip. So goes the story of Mr. Emo Boy.Your door seems so open, yet the translucency has worn off. You are nothing short of a hopeless romantic, never checking the consequence of one slip. I have invested far too much for this not to work out. But as the Dow Jones slips into oblivion, my trust in you has failed at finding a grip. I am fortunate for your presence, but do you need the same out of me? I know what I should do, but I just cannot find a way to drive away. Oh God, I hope this was not in vain. It is 4:40 in the morning, and you are in my thoughts. My eyes are tired and the stale, yellow light coming from the desk lamp over my bare, right shoulder is illuminating just enough for me to search for the ending to my story. I am not looking for some readers, just listeners. My clothes have been scattered on the floor around my bed for a while. I have come to believe that Jimmy was correct when he stated: “We’re only just as happy as everyone else seems to think we are.” I do not think you want to see this boy right now; not in this state. It must mean something more though, for in the end, I care too much about whether you will take my pain away or not. My thoughts are too strewn about right now. I seem to have misplaced my dreams.I need both of you to located them again. dreams, help, misunderstanding nonadult false Misplaced Dreams text blog dreams,help,misunderstanding 113 1 2.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=7392920&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_3658445_30146_7392920_ap_160X120.jpg false 1 0 261432 7392920 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Please-Critique-Anderson-Sisters-from-Broken-Homilies/BLOG/222539/30146.html The Anderson Sisters               The invitation had been delivered matter-of-factly enough “I was talking with my sisters, and we were wondering if maybe you would like to come over for our little monthly get together.” It was Kristi Anderson; one of three sisters from the church and perhaps the only regulars there about my age.             “Sure.” I replied to the voice. “Should I bring anything?”             “Nope. Just yourself. We have food and drinks all ready.” It sounded a little pre-rehearsed, but Kristi struck me as a shy person to begin with. Besides, being the oldest sister and the only one with a house of her own, she was no doubt nominated to be the one to extend the party invitation. Anyway, I was tired of my own company and Sasafrass hasn’t been herself lately; barely eating and laying around whining.             The first encounter I had with the Anderson Sisters was Easter a few years ago. After presiding over the Easter service Lois, their mother, had her youngest daughter, Alicia  invite me to dinner, with the instructions not to take no for an answer. Alicia was about twenty two years old, and a student at the University in Presque Isle. Although a student there myself, I only really saw her at weekly choir practice at the church.                    Come dinner time, the girls were all lectured about being on their best behavior for the arrival of the minister in training. There was only one flaw in that plan; the third sister, Erica. Erica was in her mid twenties; about five-ten, and built like a pro linebacker. Her untamed growth of red hair rested uneasily across her broad shoulders, accenting an already chiseled jaw line. She was big, boisterous, and commanded the full attention of any room. It were as if at an early age, when she had begun to realize that she could not easily blend into a room, she would do her best to become the centerpiece. In the setting of a stoic Swedish colony, it did not take much to stand out in the crowd.            Dinner was served with all the trappings of rural Americana. Lois constantly ran from dining room to kitchen, anticipating the needs of the extended Anderson clan. It would seem that the only Anderson who was on edge that day was Aunt Norma, who was inexplicably terrified of cats. Every so often, she would quickly shift in her seat and grow wide eyed before asking someone to go check to make sure that the family tabby was still locked up in the bathroom. Shortly after dinner, she was so certain that there was a cat loose in the house that she jumped up and retreated for the relative safety of the screen door. The one thing that made this scene all the more hilarious to me was that there were at least seven other people in the room who did not find it in the least bit humorous. Aunt Norma eventually lost her nerve and went home before dessert, which consisted of no less than five different pies to choose from.            Feeling ever so grateful, yet not without my sarcastic side titillated by the whole Aunt Norma episode, I surveyed the pies; guessing that Lois had not slept much last night for all of her preparations. When asked which one I would like to try, I let out a sigh and feigned disappointment noting  my disappointment that Lois had not prepared a watermelon pie; my favorite. Ever so slightly, Lois deflated against the wall before I could hold it no longer. I smiled and the sisters chimed in; Erica letting out a hearty guffaw that even a lumberjack would be proud of before slapping the table and laughing some more. The illusion was broken. The minister had a sense of humor, and the sisters had found an accomplice.             Upon arriving at Kristi’s house, all the makings of a civil get together were underway. Erica was pouring Pepsi over some chicken in a pan while reassuring me of the flavorful outcome. Kristi was showing me where the beer was, as well as the other booze planned for later on. I cracked open a Killians while Kristi fiddled with her stereo; cuing up her collection of eighties classics and not-so-classics. The kitchen door opened and in walked Norma-Jo, who, by her appearance, I took to be a cousin to the Andersons. Introductions were made as Norma-Jo sipped at a beer. She had the same red hair as Erica and Kristi that was tied back from her face in a red kerchief, giving her face in a kind of Scandinavian peasant look. Soft spoken and unsure, she spent most of the evening sitting on the couch watching everyone else.             The next to arrive was another red headed cousin, Penny. Penny looked a lot like Norma-Jo with a pony tail and glasses. Looks, however, were where the similarities ended between the two. “Oh, it’s preacher boy!” She exclaimed from across the room, beer already in her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you!” She sang out, this time with a sly smile before knocking down most of her beer. I wandered out to the living room while taking a mental head count; five to one. The girls were laughing hysterically out in the kitchen with Erica leading the chorus when, much to my relief, another male appeared through the door. It was Gus, a friend of the Andersons and master of the fry-o-later at the Caribou Burger King. Gus was short and stocky with a sense of humor that hadn’t reached much beyond his high school education.             Before the chicken was ready, I had already been served two Long Island Iced Teas by Kristi; effectively eliminating any possibility that I could ever attest to the wonders of cooking with Pepsi. I was getting hammered way too fast, so I switched back to beer and settled down on the couch to watch a movie. Penny noticed me alone on the couch and dramatically flopped down across it, placing her stocking feet squarely in my crotch. “Having fun, preacher boy?” She asked in a sleepy, drunken tone. “It’s nice to take it easy, for once.” I replied, never flinching at the now-searching heels of Penny in my lap.“If it’s easy, take it twice!” Shouted Erica from the other room before laughing at her own attempt at cleverness.             Not satisfied with her efforts, Penny swung her legs to the side and sat up, slamming the side of her posterior as tightly against mine as possible before dropping her hands at her side so that her left hand came to a tactical rest in my lap. Now, for the first time since crazy Aunt Norma ran from a cat that wasn’t there, I was truly amused, and vowed to myself to make the most of this. Letting Penny’s hand just lay in my lap both encouraged Penny and left her perplexed with what her next move should be, considering I had not reacted in the least. Finally, little by little; almost imperceptibly, she started inching her face toward mine; never letting her hand either leave my lap, or letting her put too much pressure on that hand so as to nullify the “accidental” nature of its presence there. I was amazed by her balance and wondered when she would tip over, squashing my bits with her errant hand before finishing me off with a head-but. Watching the movie, I could hear laughter and banter from the kitchen. “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings!” Another tidbit from the Pez dispenser of funny that is Erica. Finally, I could feel uneven breath on my cheek. She was within two inches of my mouth and holding. Letting this go on for another minute, I quickly leaned into her, almost touching her lips, and departed the couch for the booze in the kitchen. Mission accomplished.             “We’re out of mixer.” Kristi slurred at me, holding up a handle of Long Island Iced Tea mix. “This is all we have left. Wanna do shots?” Famous last words never to be acted upon once the clock has turned over to morning.            Two small juice glasses were placed on the table and filled, and refilled, and filled again. At some point, Penny rejoined the group in the kitchen; pressing her body against mine as I threw back another shot.             “You’re not going home tonight, are you?” She leaned into me as if to whisper, but the liquor had already affected her volume control, causing her to bark her request into my ear. “You need to stay here tonight.” She continued. “I’m sleeping here tonight… right over there.” Her head lolled back and she pointed toward a wall while attempting to reenact her sober sly smile.            The world slowed down and faces blurred. Gus suggested that we go for a walk to clear our heads a little. It seemed like miles to the first neighbors driveway and I fought the urge to curl up on the roadside and take a nap. Finally, that metallic taste invaded my mouth from under the back of my tongue. The blood rushed to my head and then fell back out of it and into my stomach, causing me to projectile vomit from a standing position across the width of the neighbor’s driveway. After three waves of alcohol exited my body, it was time to call it quits and walk the miles (thirty yards) back to Kristi’s.  Once safely inside, Kristi stumbled toward the stereo as Erica and Penny called out in a form of chant for the “party song”. The nearest I could tell, the song was an old Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ditty about a boy and a girl fishing in the dark. The revised lyrics, however, complete with the Anderson sister dance moves, were more of an adult nature. Through the one eye that would focus, I could see all the girls across the living room country line-dance style, dancing and singing, “You and me go fuckin’ in the ditch. Drop your drawers, you skinny little bitch. And we’ll do it slow…”              “Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love You and worthily magnify Your Holy name, Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.” If I appeared to be extra penitential while giving the brief order for confession and forgiveness, it was mostly due to my pounding head and troubled stomach. Certain that I reeked of alcohol; I had stuffed three Altoids in my mouth prior to the bell ringing, so that the closest faithful in the fifth pew could not smell me. The service ended and I snuck out early in order to add to my three hours of sleep.             Rolling into the meadow, I felt every bump; rolling from side to side in the Cavalier’s interior. Exiting the vehicle, the sun glinted in my eyes; causing a kaleidoscope of silvery diamonds to encircle my vision; a halo I walked through to my front door.             Falling upon my mattress, I could not attain the euphoric pass-out effect I had envisioned on the drive home. It was difficult to put my finger on what was wrong; especially in my hung over state. I was feeling the sting of guilt. Was I feeling bad because I delivered the Mass half in the bag? Surprisingly, no; considering nobody even suspected that I wasn’t quite myself. They got what they came for; didn’t they? I said the prayers and the liturgy, gave a brief homily, and sent them all home to Sunday dinner. That’s all they ever wanted from a minister in the first place. Hell, if I did that every week, the ladies group would probably sign up to get me good and soused every Saturday night.             Where were my kids, I wondered? What were they doing this Sunday morning? Were they having fun? Were they thinking of me; even when I wasn’t thinking of them last night. Uneasiness crept over me as I entwined my feet in the unkempt covers. I felt cold and exposed in my empty little room. I was a terrible father. Why didn’t I think of them last night?             I had spent the entire night thinking only of myself and my own good time. I had managed to block out my kids while Penny groped me and the thought made me sick. It’s not that I hadn’t already sufficiently distanced myself from them in one way or another. I went from calling them every night, to every other night. Soon, just to keep my phone service connected, I had to call weekly. Sometimes the phone got shut off anyway. Sometimes I called less; taking every missed call as another personal failure. Years later, it would be easy to pat the old me on the back and say that I deserved my own life apart from the kids; that I deserved some adult fun. This was not years later, though, and failure compounded upon failure; even if perceived, was another reason to feel utterly defeated. But now I failed not only myself, but my children as well.             I rolled off the mattress and slumped down the ladder to tend the fire that had also been neglected by my night out. Sheba’s claws ticked out of the kitchen and a wet nose met the back of my calf as I descended into the living room. Ears back and tail swishing low, she offered her freckled muzzle to me as I reached the floor. I gave her furry cheek a scratch but would not look at the pictures on the wall; only the fading glow of coals in the center of an ashen pit in the stove. The Anderson Sisters               The invitation had been delivered matter-of-factly enough “I was talking with my sisters, and we were wondering if maybe you would like to come over for our little monthly get together.” It was Kristi Anderson; one of three sisters from the church and perhaps the only regulars there about my age.             “Sure.” I replied to the voice. “Should I bring anything?”             “Nope. Just yourself. We have food and drinks all ready.” It sounded a little pre-rehearsed, but Kristi struck me as a shy person to begin with. Besides, being the oldest sister and the only one with a house of her own, she was no doubt nominated to be the one to extend the party invitation. Anyway, I was tired of my own company and Sasafrass hasn’t been herself lately; barely eating and laying around whining.             The first encounter I had with the Anderson Sisters was Easter a few years ago. After presiding over the Easter service Lois, their mother, had her youngest daughter, Alicia  invite me to dinner, with the instructions not to take no for an answer. Alicia was about twenty two years old, and a student at the University in Presque Isle. Although a student there myself, I only really saw her at weekly choir practice at the church.                    Come dinner time, the girls were all lectured about being on their best behavior for the arrival of the minister in training. There was only one flaw in that plan; the third sister, Erica. Erica was in her mid twenties; about five-ten, and built like a pro linebacker. Her untamed growth of red hair rested uneasily across her broad shoulders, accenting an already chiseled jaw line. She was big, boisterous, and commanded the full attention of any room. It were as if at an early age, when she had begun to realize that she could not easily blend into a room, she would do her best to become the centerpiece. In the setting of a stoic Swedish colony, it did not take much to stand out in the crowd.            Dinner was served with all the trappings of rural Americana. Lois constantly ran from dining room to kitchen, anticipating the needs of the extended Anderson clan. It would seem that the only Anderson who was on edge that day was Aunt Norma, who was inexplicably terrified of cats. Every so often, she would quickly shift in her seat and grow wide eyed before asking someone to go check to make sure that the family tabby was still locked up in the bathroom. Shortly after dinner, she was so certain that there was a cat loose in the house that she jumped up and retreated for the relative safety of the screen door. The one thing that made this scene all the more hilarious to me was that there were at least seven other people in the room who did not find it in the least bit humorous. Aunt Norma eventually lost her nerve and went home before dessert, which consisted of no less than five different pies to choose from.            Feeling ever so grateful, yet not without my sarcastic side titillated by the whole Aunt Norma episode, I surveyed the pies; guessing that Lois had not slept much last night for all of her preparations. When asked which one I would like to try, I let out a sigh and feigned disappointment noting  my disappointment that Lois had not prepared a watermelon pie; my favorite. Ever so slightly, Lois deflated against the wall before I could hold it no longer. I smiled and the sisters chimed in; Erica letting out a hearty guffaw that even a lumberjack would be proud of before slapping the table and laughing some more. The illusion was broken. The minister had a sense of humor, and the sisters had found an accomplice.             Upon arriving at Kristi’s house, all the makings of a civil get together were underway. Erica was pouring Pepsi over some chicken in a pan while reassuring me of the flavorful outcome. Kristi was showing me where the beer was, as well as the other booze planned for later on. I cracked open a Killians while Kristi fiddled with her stereo; cuing up her collection of eighties classics and not-so-classics. The kitchen door opened and in walked Norma-Jo, who, by her appearance, I took to be a cousin to the Andersons. Introductions were made as Norma-Jo sipped at a beer. She had the same red hair as Erica and Kristi that was tied back from her face in a red kerchief, giving her face in a kind of Scandinavian peasant look. Soft spoken and unsure, she spent most of the evening sitting on the couch watching everyone else.             The next to arrive was another red headed cousin, Penny. Penny looked a lot like Norma-Jo with a pony tail and glasses. Looks, however, were where the similarities ended between the two. “Oh, it’s preacher boy!” She exclaimed from across the room, beer already in her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you!” She sang out, this time with a sly smile before knocking down most of her beer. I wandered out to the living room while taking a mental head count; five to one. The girls were laughing hysterically out in the kitchen with Erica leading the chorus when, much to my relief, another male appeared through the door. It was Gus, a friend of the Andersons and master of the fry-o-later at the Caribou Burger King. Gus was short and stocky with a sense of humor that hadn’t reached much beyond his high school education.             Before the chicken was ready, I had already been served two Long Island Iced Teas by Kristi; effectively eliminating any possibility that I could ever attest to the wonders of cooking with Pepsi. I was getting hammered way too fast, so I switched back to beer and settled down on the couch to watch a movie. Penny noticed me alone on the couch and dramatically flopped down across it, placing her stocking feet squarely in my crotch. “Having fun, preacher boy?” She asked in a sleepy, drunken tone. “It’s nice to take it easy, for once.” I replied, never flinching at the now-searching heels of Penny in my lap.“If it’s easy, take it twice!” Shouted Erica from the other room before laughing at her own attempt at cleverness.             Not satisfied with her efforts, Penny swung her legs to the side and sat up, slamming the side of her posterior as tightly against mine as possible before dropping her hands at her side so that her left hand came to a tactical rest in my lap. Now, for the first time since crazy Aunt Norma ran from a cat that wasn’t there, I was truly amused, and vowed to myself to make the most of this. Letting Penny’s hand just lay in my lap both encouraged Penny and left her perplexed with what her next move should be, considering I had not reacted in the least. Finally, little by little; almost imperceptibly, she started inching her face toward mine; never letting her hand either leave my lap, or letting her put too much pressure on that hand so as to nullify the “accidental” nature of its presence there. I was amazed by her balance and wondered when she would tip over, squashing my bits with her errant hand before finishing me off with a head-but. Watching the movie, I could hear laughter and banter from the kitchen. “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings!” Another tidbit from the Pez dispenser of funny that is Erica. Finally, I could feel uneven breath on my cheek. She was within two inches of my mouth and holding. Letting this go on for another minute, I quickly leaned into her, almost touching her lips, and departed the couch for the booze in the kitchen. Mission accomplished.             “We’re out of mixer.” Kristi slurred at me, holding up a handle of Long Island Iced Tea mix. “This is all we have left. Wanna do shots?” Famous last words never to be acted upon once the clock has turned over to morning.            Two small juice glasses were placed on the table and filled, and refilled, and filled again. At some point, Penny rejoined the group in the kitchen; pressing her body against mine as I threw back another shot.             “You’re not going home tonight, are you?” She leaned into me as if to whisper, but the liquor had already affected her volume control, causing her to bark her request into my ear. “You need to stay here tonight.” She continued. “I’m sleeping here tonight… right over there.” Her head lolled back and she pointed toward a wall while attempting to reenact her sober sly smile.            The world slowed down and faces blurred. Gus suggested that we go for a walk to clear our heads a little. It seemed like miles to the first neighbors driveway and I fought the urge to curl up on the roadside and take a nap. Finally, that metallic taste invaded my mouth from under the back of my tongue. The blood rushed to my head and then fell back out of it and into my stomach, causing me to projectile vomit from a standing position across the width of the neighbor’s driveway. After three waves of alcohol exited my body, it was time to call it quits and walk the miles (thirty yards) back to Kristi’s.  Once safely inside, Kristi stumbled toward the stereo as Erica and Penny called out in a form of chant for the “party song”. The nearest I could tell, the song was an old Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ditty about a boy and a girl fishing in the dark. The revised lyrics, however, complete with the Anderson sister dance moves, were more of an adult nature. Through the one eye that would focus, I could see all the girls across the living room country line-dance style, dancing and singing, “You and me go fuckin’ in the ditch. Drop your drawers, you skinny little bitch. And we’ll do it slow…”              “Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love You and worthily magnify Your Holy name, Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.” If I appeared to be extra penitential while giving the brief order for confession and forgiveness, it was mostly due to my pounding head and troubled stomach. Certain that I reeked of alcohol; I had stuffed three Altoids in my mouth prior to the bell ringing, so that the closest faithful in the fifth pew could not smell me. The service ended and I snuck out early in order to add to my three hours of sleep.             Rolling into the meadow, I felt every bump; rolling from side to side in the Cavalier’s interior. Exiting the vehicle, the sun glinted in my eyes; causing a kaleidoscope of silvery diamonds to encircle my vision; a halo I walked through to my front door.             Falling upon my mattress, I could not attain the euphoric pass-out effect I had envisioned on the drive home. It was difficult to put my finger on what was wrong; especially in my hung over state. I was feeling the sting of guilt. Was I feeling bad because I delivered the Mass half in the bag? Surprisingly, no; considering nobody even suspected that I wasn’t quite myself. They got what they came for; didn’t they? I said the prayers and the liturgy, gave a brief homily, and sent them all home to Sunday dinner. That’s all they ever wanted from a minister in the first place. Hell, if I did that every week, the ladies group would probably sign up to get me good and soused every Saturday night.             Where were my kids, I wondered? What were they doing this Sunday morning? Were they having fun? Were they thinking of me; even when I wasn’t thinking of them last night. Uneasiness crept over me as I entwined my feet in the unkempt covers. I felt cold and exposed in my empty little room. I was a terrible father. Why didn’t I think of them last night?             I had spent the entire night thinking only of myself and my own good time. I had managed to block out my kids while Penny groped me and the thought made me sick. It’s not that I hadn’t already sufficiently distanced myself from them in one way or another. I went from calling them every night, to every other night. Soon, just to keep my phone service connected, I had to call weekly. Sometimes the phone got shut off anyway. Sometimes I called less; taking every missed call as another personal failure. Years later, it would be easy to pat the old me on the back and say that I deserved my own life apart from the kids; that I deserved some adult fun. This was not years later, though, and failure compounded upon failure; even if perceived, was another reason to feel utterly defeated. But now I failed not only myself, but my children as well.             I rolled off the mattress and slumped down the ladder to tend the fire that had also been neglected by my night out. Sheba’s claws ticked out of the kitchen and a wet nose met the back of my calf as I descended into the living room. Ears back and tail swishing low, she offered her freckled muzzle to me as I reached the floor. I gave her furry cheek a scratch but would not look at the pictures on the wall; only the fading glow of coals in the center of an ashen pit in the stove. Thu, 26 Mar 2009 20:37:38 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Please-Critique-Anderson-Sisters-from-Broken-Homilies/BLOG/222539/30146.html Douglas 2009-03-26T20:37:38Z Mike's Writers Network The Anderson Sisters               The invitation had been delivered matter-of-factly enough “I was talking with my sisters, and we were wondering if maybe you would like to come over for our little monthly get together.” It was Kristi Anderson; one of three sisters from the church and perhaps the only regulars there about my age.             “Sure.” I replied to the voice. “Should I bring anything?”             “Nope. Just yourself. We have food and drinks all ready.” It sounded a little pre-rehearsed, but Kristi struck me as a shy person to begin with. Besides, being the oldest sister and the only one with a house of her own, she was no doubt nominated to be the one to extend the party invitation. Anyway, I was tired of my own company and Sasafrass hasn’t been herself lately; barely eating and laying around whining.             The first encounter I had with the Anderson Sisters was Easter a few years ago. After presiding over the Easter service Lois, their mother, had her youngest daughter, Alicia  invite me to dinner, with the instructions not to take no for an answer. Alicia was about twenty two years old, and a student at the University in Presque Isle. Although a student there myself, I only really saw her at weekly choir practice at the church.                    Come dinner time, the girls were all lectured about being on their best behavior for the arrival of the minister in training. There was only one flaw in that plan; the third sister, Erica. Erica was in her mid twenties; about five-ten, and built like a pro linebacker. Her untamed growth of red hair rested uneasily across her broad shoulders, accenting an already chiseled jaw line. She was big, boisterous, and commanded the full attention of any room. It were as if at an early age, when she had begun to realize that she could not easily blend into a room, she would do her best to become the centerpiece. In the setting of a stoic Swedish colony, it did not take much to stand out in the crowd.            Dinner was served with all the trappings of rural Americana. Lois constantly ran from dining room to kitchen, anticipating the needs of the extended Anderson clan. It would seem that the only Anderson who was on edge that day was Aunt Norma, who was inexplicably terrified of cats. Every so often, she would quickly shift in her seat and grow wide eyed before asking someone to go check to make sure that the family tabby was still locked up in the bathroom. Shortly after dinner, she was so certain that there was a cat loose in the house that she jumped up and retreated for the relative safety of the screen door. The one thing that made this scene all the more hilarious to me was that there were at least seven other people in the room who did not find it in the least bit humorous. Aunt Norma eventually lost her nerve and went home before dessert, which consisted of no less than five different pies to choose from.            Feeling ever so grateful, yet not without my sarcastic side titillated by the whole Aunt Norma episode, I surveyed the pies; guessing that Lois had not slept much last night for all of her preparations. When asked which one I would like to try, I let out a sigh and feigned disappointment noting  my disappointment that Lois had not prepared a watermelon pie; my favorite. Ever so slightly, Lois deflated against the wall before I could hold it no longer. I smiled and the sisters chimed in; Erica letting out a hearty guffaw that even a lumberjack would be proud of before slapping the table and laughing some more. The illusion was broken. The minister had a sense of humor, and the sisters had found an accomplice.             Upon arriving at Kristi’s house, all the makings of a civil get together were underway. Erica was pouring Pepsi over some chicken in a pan while reassuring me of the flavorful outcome. Kristi was showing me where the beer was, as well as the other booze planned for later on. I cracked open a Killians while Kristi fiddled with her stereo; cuing up her collection of eighties classics and not-so-classics. The kitchen door opened and in walked Norma-Jo, who, by her appearance, I took to be a cousin to the Andersons. Introductions were made as Norma-Jo sipped at a beer. She had the same red hair as Erica and Kristi that was tied back from her face in a red kerchief, giving her face in a kind of Scandinavian peasant look. Soft spoken and unsure, she spent most of the evening sitting on the couch watching everyone else.             The next to arrive was another red headed cousin, Penny. Penny looked a lot like Norma-Jo with a pony tail and glasses. Looks, however, were where the similarities ended between the two. “Oh, it’s preacher boy!” She exclaimed from across the room, beer already in her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you!” She sang out, this time with a sly smile before knocking down most of her beer. I wandered out to the living room while taking a mental head count; five to one. The girls were laughing hysterically out in the kitchen with Erica leading the chorus when, much to my relief, another male appeared through the door. It was Gus, a friend of the Andersons and master of the fry-o-later at the Caribou Burger King. Gus was short and stocky with a sense of humor that hadn’t reached much beyond his high school education.             Before the chicken was ready, I had already been served two Long Island Iced Teas by Kristi; effectively eliminating any possibility that I could ever attest to the wonders of cooking with Pepsi. I was getting hammered way too fast, so I switched back to beer and settled down on the couch to watch a movie. Penny noticed me alone on the couch and dramatically flopped down across it, placing her stocking feet squarely in my crotch. “Having fun, preacher boy?” She asked in a sleepy, drunken tone. “It’s nice to take it easy, for once.” I replied, never flinching at the now-searching heels of Penny in my lap.“If it’s easy, take it twice!” Shouted Erica from the other room before laughing at her own attempt at cleverness.             Not satisfied with her efforts, Penny swung her legs to the side and sat up, slamming the side of her posterior as tightly against mine as possible before dropping her hands at her side so that her left hand came to a tactical rest in my lap. Now, for the first time since crazy Aunt Norma ran from a cat that wasn’t there, I was truly amused, and vowed to myself to make the most of this. Letting Penny’s hand just lay in my lap both encouraged Penny and left her perplexed with what her next move should be, considering I had not reacted in the least. Finally, little by little; almost imperceptibly, she started inching her face toward mine; never letting her hand either leave my lap, or letting her put too much pressure on that hand so as to nullify the “accidental” nature of its presence there. I was amazed by her balance and wondered when she would tip over, squashing my bits with her errant hand before finishing me off with a head-but. Watching the movie, I could hear laughter and banter from the kitchen. “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings!” Another tidbit from the Pez dispenser of funny that is Erica. Finally, I could feel uneven breath on my cheek. She was within two inches of my mouth and holding. Letting this go on for another minute, I quickly leaned into her, almost touching her lips, and departed the couch for the booze in the kitchen. Mission accomplished.             “We’re out of mixer.” Kristi slurred at me, holding up a handle of Long Island Iced Tea mix. “This is all we have left. Wanna do shots?” Famous last words never to be acted upon once the clock has turned over to morning.            Two small juice glasses were placed on the table and filled, and refilled, and filled again. At some point, Penny rejoined the group in the kitchen; pressing her body against mine as I threw back another shot.             “You’re not going home tonight, are you?” She leaned into me as if to whisper, but the liquor had already affected her volume control, causing her to bark her request into my ear. “You need to stay here tonight.” She continued. “I’m sleeping here tonight… right over there.” Her head lolled back and she pointed toward a wall while attempting to reenact her sober sly smile.            The world slowed down and faces blurred. Gus suggested that we go for a walk to clear our heads a little. It seemed like miles to the first neighbors driveway and I fought the urge to curl up on the roadside and take a nap. Finally, that metallic taste invaded my mouth from under the back of my tongue. The blood rushed to my head and then fell back out of it and into my stomach, causing me to projectile vomit from a standing position across the width of the neighbor’s driveway. After three waves of alcohol exited my body, it was time to call it quits and walk the miles (thirty yards) back to Kristi’s.  Once safely inside, Kristi stumbled toward the stereo as Erica and Penny called out in a form of chant for the “party song”. The nearest I could tell, the song was an old Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ditty about a boy and a girl fishing in the dark. The revised lyrics, however, complete with the Anderson sister dance moves, were more of an adult nature. Through the one eye that would focus, I could see all the girls across the living room country line-dance style, dancing and singing, “You and me go fuckin’ in the ditch. Drop your drawers, you skinny little bitch. And we’ll do it slow…”              “Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love You and worthily magnify Your Holy name, Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.” If I appeared to be extra penitential while giving the brief order for confession and forgiveness, it was mostly due to my pounding head and troubled stomach. Certain that I reeked of alcohol; I had stuffed three Altoids in my mouth prior to the bell ringing, so that the closest faithful in the fifth pew could not smell me. The service ended and I snuck out early in order to add to my three hours of sleep.             Rolling into the meadow, I felt every bump; rolling from side to side in the Cavalier’s interior. Exiting the vehicle, the sun glinted in my eyes; causing a kaleidoscope of silvery diamonds to encircle my vision; a halo I walked through to my front door.             Falling upon my mattress, I could not attain the euphoric pass-out effect I had envisioned on the drive home. It was difficult to put my finger on what was wrong; especially in my hung over state. I was feeling the sting of guilt. Was I feeling bad because I delivered the Mass half in the bag? Surprisingly, no; considering nobody even suspected that I wasn’t quite myself. They got what they came for; didn’t they? I said the prayers and the liturgy, gave a brief homily, and sent them all home to Sunday dinner. That’s all they ever wanted from a minister in the first place. Hell, if I did that every week, the ladies group would probably sign up to get me good and soused every Saturday night.             Where were my kids, I wondered? What were they doing this Sunday morning? Were they having fun? Were they thinking of me; even when I wasn’t thinking of them last night. Uneasiness crept over me as I entwined my feet in the unkempt covers. I felt cold and exposed in my empty little room. I was a terrible father. Why didn’t I think of them last night?             I had spent the entire night thinking only of myself and my own good time. I had managed to block out my kids while Penny groped me and the thought made me sick. It’s not that I hadn’t already sufficiently distanced myself from them in one way or another. I went from calling them every night, to every other night. Soon, just to keep my phone service connected, I had to call weekly. Sometimes the phone got shut off anyway. Sometimes I called less; taking every missed call as another personal failure. Years later, it would be easy to pat the old me on the back and say that I deserved my own life apart from the kids; that I deserved some adult fun. This was not years later, though, and failure compounded upon failure; even if perceived, was another reason to feel utterly defeated. But now I failed not only myself, but my children as well.             I rolled off the mattress and slumped down the ladder to tend the fire that had also been neglected by my night out. Sheba’s claws ticked out of the kitchen and a wet nose met the back of my calf as I descended into the living room. Ears back and tail swishing low, she offered her freckled muzzle to me as I reached the floor. I gave her furry cheek a scratch but would not look at the pictures on the wall; only the fading glow of coals in the center of an ashen pit in the stove. divorce, drunken, faith, guilt, nonfiction, party nonadult false Please Critique. Anderson Sisters from Broken Homilies text blog divorce,drunken,faith,guilt,nonfiction,party 148 1 4.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=4839825&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_2688368_30146_4839825_ap_160X120.jpg false 1 0 222539 4839825 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Going-Home/BLOG/204046/30146.html I got the call at 9:03am on February 16, 2009, her voice was filled with panic, I said, "I am on my way." We[image]knew that God was going to take him home soon. But I never imagined that it was going to be today! As I stood in my room panic filled me. What do I do, how can I help her. This was her father. My military background kicked in and off I went. As I pulled up in the driveway, anxiety filled my body. I have to do this! I rushed to her side, she wasn't making scene. I said I am here and we will get though this! I knew I had to go check on her dad. My heart felt like it was coming out of my chest. I stood up and walked to his room. I paused at the door, he was looking at a picture of a man on a boat. Although we was not there anymore. There not enough expressive words to describe the discernment of peace that he was truly experiencing vs how the disease he had endured for so long. I have seen may people after they have died and this was an experience I will always cherish. Days later at the wake, I reminded the family of the great task ahead. As I sat and listened to how there father went so many times without things so they would have. I reminded them of the great legacy that he had left for them and asked the question, " What are you going to do with it?" I truly got a tremendous scene of pride in having the privilege of knowing him! At that moment I realized he had left a piece of the legacy with me as well. We all have been impacted by someone in our lives. Fiends as much as family. The question is what are you doing with it and will it be a legacy worth passing on! God speed Mr Frank! I won't let you down;0) I got the call at 9:03am on February 16, 2009, her voice was filled with panic, I said, "I am on my way." We[image]knew that God was going to take him home soon. But I never imagined that it was going to be today! As I stood in my room panic filled me. What do I do, how can I help her. This was her father. My military background kicked in and off I went. As I pulled up in the driveway, anxiety filled my body. I have to do this! I rushed to her side, she wasn't making scene. I said I am here and we will get though this! I knew I had to go check on her dad. My heart felt like it was coming out of my chest. I stood up and walked to his room. I paused at the door, he was looking at a picture of a man on a boat. Although we was not there anymore. There not enough expressive words to describe the discernment of peace that he was truly experiencing vs how the disease he had endured for so long. I have seen may people after they have died and this was an experience I will always cherish. Days later at the wake, I reminded the family of the great task ahead. As I sat and listened to how there father went so many times without things so they would have. I reminded them of the great legacy that he had left for them and asked the question, " What are you going to do with it?" I truly got a tremendous scene of pride in having the privilege of knowing him! At that moment I realized he had left a piece of the legacy with me as well. We all have been impacted by someone in our lives. Fiends as much as family. The question is what are you doing with it and will it be a legacy worth passing on! God speed Mr Frank! I won't let you down;0) Sat, 07 Mar 2009 10:57:36 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Going-Home/BLOG/204046/30146.html homebody 2009-03-07T10:57:36Z Mike's Writers Network I got the call at 9:03am on February 16, 2009, her voice was filled with panic, I said, "I am on my way." We[image]knew that God was going to take him home soon. But I never imagined that it was going to be today! As I stood in my room panic filled me. What do I do, how can I help her. This was her father. My military background kicked in and off I went. As I pulled up in the driveway, anxiety filled my body. I have to do this! I rushed to her side, she wasn't making scene. I said I am here and we will get though this! I knew I had to go check on her dad. My heart felt like it was coming out of my chest. I stood up and walked to his room. I paused at the door, he was looking at a picture of a man on a boat. Although we was not there anymore. There not enough expressive words to describe the discernment of peace that he was truly experiencing vs how the disease he had endured for so long. I have seen may people after they have died and this was an experience I will always cherish. Days later at the wake, I reminded the family of the great task ahead. As I sat and listened to how there father went so many times without things so they would have. I reminded them of the great legacy that he had left for them and asked the question, " What are you going to do with it?" I truly got a tremendous scene of pride in having the privilege of knowing him! At that moment I realized he had left a piece of the legacy with me as well. We all have been impacted by someone in our lives. Fiends as much as family. The question is what are you doing with it and will it be a legacy worth passing on! God speed Mr Frank! I won't let you down;0) daddy, encouragement, family, kids, love nonadult false Going Home! text blog daddy,encouragement,family,kids,love 107 1 4.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=5151209&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_2814921_30146_5151209_ap_160X120.jpg false 1 1 204046 5151209 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_The-Whistler/BLOG/197130/30146.html The scenes replayed from my childhood all begin the same way – my Dad with a whistle on his lips. He whistled constantly, always happy tunes, like Anna in Siam “whenever she felt afraid” – except with Dad, it was just … whenever.I can't remember a time when my father didn't whistle. We always knew he had arrived home from work long before he entered the house. His music preceded him, the whistle slipping from his lips as easily as the slide of Glenn Miller’s trombone.When we were young, we used to love taking walks with Dad in the small Illinois town where he grew up. He’d whistle Big Band tunes as we bounced along beside him and, as we passed the various landmarks, he would share stories of his youthful mischief-making. Rushville’s resident delinquent. “That’s where we hoisted the Model T into the tree. Was my teacher ever surprised, coming out the next morning to find his pride and joy missing … until he looked up.” Then he would whistle contentedly as we followed him like a gaggle of geese to the next landmark. When we passed his old high school, he stopped whistling long enough to describe the tornado that had ripped through town while all its residents were packed inside the gymnasium watching a basketball game. Dad had rushed in to warn everyone of the funnel cloud that had touched down, but, of course, nobody believed him, convinced it was just another one of his pranks. He was vindicated, however, when they filed out of the gymnasium after the game to find debris everywhere–roofless houses, uprooted trees, chimneys shaved off like unwanted whiskers. “There was nothing they could have done anyway; they were probably better off sitting in the safety of that gym enjoying a good game.” Again with the whistling. Over the Rainbow.I could never get lost as a child. One time at the carnival I got separated from my parents amid the throng of humanity on the Midway. But I wasn’t scared. All I had to do, I told myself, was listen for the whistle. And sure enough, there it was. The theme from Carousel. (His choices were always appropriate to the setting.)My father enjoyed the dubious distinction of being the only person ever rebuked for whistling in Abraham Lincoln’s tomb. You guessed it. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. As the docent clicked her tongue in contempt, he teased. “I think old Abe would have liked my whistling. It was his favorite song, after all.” You would think the self-conscious, pre-adolescent young girl that was me at the time would have found it mortifying to have all 20+ eyes in the tour group focused on my father, but, as it turned out, group sentiment appeared to run about 20:1 in his favor.If you asked me what trait I loved most about my father, his whistling would be at the top of my list. Once, at the mall, we passed a group of teenagers who made fun of him as we walked by, snickering and pointing at him and blowing through their lips in mock whistles, then falling all over each other in peals of rude laughter. I remember wondering at the time what their dads were doing right then.Like his personality, Dad’s songs were always upbeat – Big Band tunes, of course, and college fight songs … nothing can beat the Army Air Corp. He was the eternal optimist, even at the end when he knew he was dying. They gave him six months; he aimed for a year or, better yet, to prove them wrong all together. In the end he had to settle for 4½ months beyond their prediction, but they were good months. He tied up loose ends, said his goodbyes, made his amends. “I’ve had a long, happy life,” he’d said over and over. “I’m thankful for all I’ve had–my friends, my family, my memories. I’m ready.”I’m not sure what tune he picked for the grand finale; his words were trapped inside him by then. But of one thing I have no doubt – my father went out whistling. In MemoriamCharles A. DillApril 11, 1922 – February 18, 2009 The scenes replayed from my childhood all begin the same way – my Dad with a whistle on his lips. He whistled constantly, always happy tunes, like Anna in Siam “whenever she felt afraid” – except with Dad, it was just … whenever.I can't remember a time when my father didn't whistle. We always knew he had arrived home from work long before he entered the house. His music preceded him, the whistle slipping from his lips as easily as the slide of Glenn Miller’s trombone.When we were young, we used to love taking walks with Dad in the small Illinois town where he grew up. He’d whistle Big Band tunes as we bounced along beside him and, as we passed the various landmarks, he would share stories of his youthful mischief-making. Rushville’s resident delinquent. “That’s where we hoisted the Model T into the tree. Was my teacher ever surprised, coming out the next morning to find his pride and joy missing … until he looked up.” Then he would whistle contentedly as we followed him like a gaggle of geese to the next landmark. When we passed his old high school, he stopped whistling long enough to describe the tornado that had ripped through town while all its residents were packed inside the gymnasium watching a basketball game. Dad had rushed in to warn everyone of the funnel cloud that had touched down, but, of course, nobody believed him, convinced it was just another one of his pranks. He was vindicated, however, when they filed out of the gymnasium after the game to find debris everywhere–roofless houses, uprooted trees, chimneys shaved off like unwanted whiskers. “There was nothing they could have done anyway; they were probably better off sitting in the safety of that gym enjoying a good game.” Again with the whistling. Over the Rainbow.I could never get lost as a child. One time at the carnival I got separated from my parents amid the throng of humanity on the Midway. But I wasn’t scared. All I had to do, I told myself, was listen for the whistle. And sure enough, there it was. The theme from Carousel. (His choices were always appropriate to the setting.)My father enjoyed the dubious distinction of being the only person ever rebuked for whistling in Abraham Lincoln’s tomb. You guessed it. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. As the docent clicked her tongue in contempt, he teased. “I think old Abe would have liked my whistling. It was his favorite song, after all.” You would think the self-conscious, pre-adolescent young girl that was me at the time would have found it mortifying to have all 20+ eyes in the tour group focused on my father, but, as it turned out, group sentiment appeared to run about 20:1 in his favor.If you asked me what trait I loved most about my father, his whistling would be at the top of my list. Once, at the mall, we passed a group of teenagers who made fun of him as we walked by, snickering and pointing at him and blowing through their lips in mock whistles, then falling all over each other in peals of rude laughter. I remember wondering at the time what their dads were doing right then.Like his personality, Dad’s songs were always upbeat – Big Band tunes, of course, and college fight songs … nothing can beat the Army Air Corp. He was the eternal optimist, even at the end when he knew he was dying. They gave him six months; he aimed for a year or, better yet, to prove them wrong all together. In the end he had to settle for 4½ months beyond their prediction, but they were good months. He tied up loose ends, said his goodbyes, made his amends. “I’ve had a long, happy life,” he’d said over and over. “I’m thankful for all I’ve had–my friends, my family, my memories. I’m ready.”I’m not sure what tune he picked for the grand finale; his words were trapped inside him by then. But of one thing I have no doubt – my father went out whistling. In MemoriamCharles A. DillApril 11, 1922 – February 18, 2009 Fri, 27 Feb 2009 23:52:46 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_The-Whistler/BLOG/197130/30146.html CJBro 2009-02-27T23:52:46Z Mike's Writers Network The scenes replayed from my childhood all begin the same way – my Dad with a whistle on his lips. He whistled constantly, always happy tunes, like Anna in Siam “whenever she felt afraid” – except with Dad, it was just … whenever.I can't remember a time when my father didn't whistle. We always knew he had arrived home from work long before he entered the house. His music preceded him, the whistle slipping from his lips as easily as the slide of Glenn Miller’s trombone.When we were young, we used to love taking walks with Dad in the small Illinois town where he grew up. He’d whistle Big Band tunes as we bounced along beside him and, as we passed the various landmarks, he would share stories of his youthful mischief-making. Rushville’s resident delinquent. “That’s where we hoisted the Model T into the tree. Was my teacher ever surprised, coming out the next morning to find his pride and joy missing … until he looked up.” Then he would whistle contentedly as we followed him like a gaggle of geese to the next landmark. When we passed his old high school, he stopped whistling long enough to describe the tornado that had ripped through town while all its residents were packed inside the gymnasium watching a basketball game. Dad had rushed in to warn everyone of the funnel cloud that had touched down, but, of course, nobody believed him, convinced it was just another one of his pranks. He was vindicated, however, when they filed out of the gymnasium after the game to find debris everywhere–roofless houses, uprooted trees, chimneys shaved off like unwanted whiskers. “There was nothing they could have done anyway; they were probably better off sitting in the safety of that gym enjoying a good game.” Again with the whistling. Over the Rainbow.I could never get lost as a child. One time at the carnival I got separated from my parents amid the throng of humanity on the Midway. But I wasn’t scared. All I had to do, I told myself, was listen for the whistle. And sure enough, there it was. The theme from Carousel. (His choices were always appropriate to the setting.)My father enjoyed the dubious distinction of being the only person ever rebuked for whistling in Abraham Lincoln’s tomb. You guessed it. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. As the docent clicked her tongue in contempt, he teased. “I think old Abe would have liked my whistling. It was his favorite song, after all.” You would think the self-conscious, pre-adolescent young girl that was me at the time would have found it mortifying to have all 20+ eyes in the tour group focused on my father, but, as it turned out, group sentiment appeared to run about 20:1 in his favor.If you asked me what trait I loved most about my father, his whistling would be at the top of my list. Once, at the mall, we passed a group of teenagers who made fun of him as we walked by, snickering and pointing at him and blowing through their lips in mock whistles, then falling all over each other in peals of rude laughter. I remember wondering at the time what their dads were doing right then.Like his personality, Dad’s songs were always upbeat – Big Band tunes, of course, and college fight songs … nothing can beat the Army Air Corp. He was the eternal optimist, even at the end when he knew he was dying. They gave him six months; he aimed for a year or, better yet, to prove them wrong all together. In the end he had to settle for 4½ months beyond their prediction, but they were good months. He tied up loose ends, said his goodbyes, made his amends. “I’ve had a long, happy life,” he’d said over and over. “I’m thankful for all I’ve had–my friends, my family, my memories. I’m ready.”I’m not sure what tune he picked for the grand finale; his words were trapped inside him by then. But of one thing I have no doubt – my father went out whistling. In MemoriamCharles A. DillApril 11, 1922 – February 18, 2009 band, big, father, model, rushville, t, whistler nonadult false The Whistler text blog band,big,father,model,rushville,t,whistler 118 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=2376006&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_1330923_30146_2376006_ap_160X120.jpg false 2 0 197130 2376006 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_There-must-be-a-story-in-this/BLOG/195015/30146.html Having ran a little country store for several years, I met some coloroful characters.  John ranks up there at the top.  I was wonding if someone with some expertise (more than I have) would care to share some pointers on writing a story or stories about John.  Some of what I've mentioned is in court or army records, so I'm supposing what is written should be a true story.John of course, is not the true name of this person.A colorful local character was a member of Tiger Force one of the men in Lt. William Callie’s platoon during the infamous My Lai affair in Vietnam.  During his tours in Vietnam he was awarded several medals including the Purple Heart and Bronze Star—I’m not certain but I think he was awarded a Sliver Star also.  Anyway he was one of the most decorated soldiers from east Tennessee.  Hew showed me these medals one time when I was over at his house.            Coming back to these mountains and suffering from what I would term Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, he apparently tried (a fairly successful tobacco farmer) to adjust to civilian life but never did.  He was and is outspoken, not afraid to say what he thinks e.g. Each fall—usually in late Nov. or early Dec. the tobacco farmers of this region would take their bales to the tobacco barn in Johnson City where dealers would bid on it.  This particular year, the dealers were bidding exceptionally low.  John jumped on top a bale of tobacco and hollered:  “If you Son’s of Bitches can’t do any better than that and pay us a fair price, we’re hauling it back.  It can rot or we will burn it. We are not giving it away to you M. F’s!”  That brought the sale to a halt as the other farmers started shouting similar opinions.  Before the end of the day, the tobacco was sold at fair market value; about 30 to 40 cents a pound higher than the original bids.I don’t really know if it is part of his psyche or something about the My Lai affair/ (massacre—that some referred to it) but he had changed from a good, fun loving boy with no known run-ins with the law to someone with somewhat of a scorn for society’s laws.He started out by buying moonshine in bulk and selling it retail.  As marijuana became more profitable, he got into buying it bulk and selling it retail.  Some competitor ratted on him and he was set up for a Big Buy.  As he told me, I was just a dumb country boy.  The thought of $60,000 profit on one deal, closed my eyes as to what I was doing and that I was being set up. The deal went down at that little country store that I use to run.  He hadn’t been out of his car a minute when the DEA agents had their guns pointed at him.  The local Sheriff had some deputies there and one of them, his gun drawn was hurrying across the parking lot; fell, his dropped gun accidentally went off and several officer fired shots at John.John was shouting, don’t shoot! Don’t Shoot!—Somehow, he wasn’t shot.John was out on bail awaiting trial and the local radio station was having a field day (convicting him without a trial as some of the TV news shows do to people today)  The station was trying to tie his wife in (convict) her as well.  According to John, that caused him to “loose it.”  He put on his army camouflage uniform took an assault rifle and headed to the radio station.  A local woman (that I know) saw John walking alongside the road, recognized him stopped her car and gave him a ride.  About a half mile from the station he asked her to stop and he got out.  She said he didn’t answer her even though they knew each other.  “What’s the matter John?” She asked him.  She said he didn’t say a thing, just waved and walked away.At the radio station, John walked in; herded all the employees (4) into the broadcast room and said they could go or stay, but he had something to announce to the public (that his wife knew nothing about his drug dealings).  The employees left –ran, from the station and immediately called the law.  Unknown to John, the announcer had cut off the mike, so John’s announcements were not broadcast.A swat team called from Johnson City surrounded the radio station, but by the time they got to it, he had exited the station crawled down a drainage pipe which turned into a ditch which ran through an open field, eluded the local police officers on scene and circled back around to survey the situation.  “I could have picked every one of them off if that had been my intention” John said. From there he cut through the fields and woods—about 10 miles to his house.  His wife talked him in to going back and turning himself in.  The search was still in progress around the radio station when they drove back.  By that time a curious crowd of onlookers were gathered alongside old highway 23 looking at the search going around the station about 200 yards down its private drive.  They (John and his wife) walked up and spoke with some people he knew in the crowd before finally getting the attention of a deputy to arrest him.   (I THINK SOME OF THIS—THE RADIO STATION INCIDENT, WAS ON NATIONAL TV)The news media, SWAT Team, Sheriff and town of Erwin police were ready to hang him, as his escape and the way he was finally arrested embarrassed them.This being somewhat of a sensational case for this area, lawyers were lining up to defend him.  The prosecuting attorney, David Crockett (supposedly kin to the famous Davy Crockett) and still practicing law, was out to give him the maximum sentence.I suppose he would have got the maximum sentence but there is a VA center (Mountain Home) in Johnson City; the veterans there got together behind John and with the support they garnered (in my opinion at least) cowed or persuaded the Judge to be lenient with sentencing.  He got 7 years.The story doesn’t end there.  He was sent to Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary where the accused killer of Martin Luther King was held.John became a born again Christian in prison and apparently somewhat of a preacher as well.  The local people around here say he preached his way out of prison, as he got out in 5 years.Over a bottle of Wild Turkey, John told me of his time in prison and his conversion. (This apparently had nothing to do with abstaining from strong drink) He also said he read scripture to James Earl Ray and had talked to him on many occasion.  He was convinced that Ray was not Martin Luther King’s killer.  According to John, James Earl Ray was set up by a Spanish looking guy named Raul (if that name is spelled right).  The part that seemed a little fuzzy to me was Raul giving Ray money to leave the country.John’s opinion of James Earl Ray was that of a naïve country boy, a small time thief; always getting in trouble with the law, though nothing serious, like murder.  John was convinced that Ray didn’t kill King.I saw John regularly at the store for about 5 years.  He farmed a little tobacco, got into building houses with a brother-in-law and was leading a fairly normal life, but he still didn’t feel laws applied to him like they did to everyone else.  He went over to Asheville, bought a deer rifle  (I’m not sure of the caliber) for his son’s Christmas present in his own name.  Of course convicted felons are not allowed to own fire arms and he was once again picked-up on a federal weapons charge and sentenced to 7 years again.He’s out of prison now.  I guess John is in his early to mid 60s and I haven’t seen him since he got out of prison a year ago.  But he still lives in the county.   Having ran a little country store for several years, I met some coloroful characters.  John ranks up there at the top.  I was wonding if someone with some expertise (more than I have) would care to share some pointers on writing a story or stories about John.  Some of what I've mentioned is in court or army records, so I'm supposing what is written should be a true story.John of course, is not the true name of this person.A colorful local character was a member of Tiger Force one of the men in Lt. William Callie’s platoon during the infamous My Lai affair in Vietnam.  During his tours in Vietnam he was awarded several medals including the Purple Heart and Bronze Star—I’m not certain but I think he was awarded a Sliver Star also.  Anyway he was one of the most decorated soldiers from east Tennessee.  Hew showed me these medals one time when I was over at his house.            Coming back to these mountains and suffering from what I would term Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, he apparently tried (a fairly successful tobacco farmer) to adjust to civilian life but never did.  He was and is outspoken, not afraid to say what he thinks e.g. Each fall—usually in late Nov. or early Dec. the tobacco farmers of this region would take their bales to the tobacco barn in Johnson City where dealers would bid on it.  This particular year, the dealers were bidding exceptionally low.  John jumped on top a bale of tobacco and hollered:  “If you Son’s of Bitches can’t do any better than that and pay us a fair price, we’re hauling it back.  It can rot or we will burn it. We are not giving it away to you M. F’s!”  That brought the sale to a halt as the other farmers started shouting similar opinions.  Before the end of the day, the tobacco was sold at fair market value; about 30 to 40 cents a pound higher than the original bids.I don’t really know if it is part of his psyche or something about the My Lai affair/ (massacre—that some referred to it) but he had changed from a good, fun loving boy with no known run-ins with the law to someone with somewhat of a scorn for society’s laws.He started out by buying moonshine in bulk and selling it retail.  As marijuana became more profitable, he got into buying it bulk and selling it retail.  Some competitor ratted on him and he was set up for a Big Buy.  As he told me, I was just a dumb country boy.  The thought of $60,000 profit on one deal, closed my eyes as to what I was doing and that I was being set up. The deal went down at that little country store that I use to run.  He hadn’t been out of his car a minute when the DEA agents had their guns pointed at him.  The local Sheriff had some deputies there and one of them, his gun drawn was hurrying across the parking lot; fell, his dropped gun accidentally went off and several officer fired shots at John.John was shouting, don’t shoot! Don’t Shoot!—Somehow, he wasn’t shot.John was out on bail awaiting trial and the local radio station was having a field day (convicting him without a trial as some of the TV news shows do to people today)  The station was trying to tie his wife in (convict) her as well.  According to John, that caused him to “loose it.”  He put on his army camouflage uniform took an assault rifle and headed to the radio station.  A local woman (that I know) saw John walking alongside the road, recognized him stopped her car and gave him a ride.  About a half mile from the station he asked her to stop and he got out.  She said he didn’t answer her even though they knew each other.  “What’s the matter John?” She asked him.  She said he didn’t say a thing, just waved and walked away.At the radio station, John walked in; herded all the employees (4) into the broadcast room and said they could go or stay, but he had something to announce to the public (that his wife knew nothing about his drug dealings).  The employees left –ran, from the station and immediately called the law.  Unknown to John, the announcer had cut off the mike, so John’s announcements were not broadcast.A swat team called from Johnson City surrounded the radio station, but by the time they got to it, he had exited the station crawled down a drainage pipe which turned into a ditch which ran through an open field, eluded the local police officers on scene and circled back around to survey the situation.  “I could have picked every one of them off if that had been my intention” John said. From there he cut through the fields and woods—about 10 miles to his house.  His wife talked him in to going back and turning himself in.  The search was still in progress around the radio station when they drove back.  By that time a curious crowd of onlookers were gathered alongside old highway 23 looking at the search going around the station about 200 yards down its private drive.  They (John and his wife) walked up and spoke with some people he knew in the crowd before finally getting the attention of a deputy to arrest him.   (I THINK SOME OF THIS—THE RADIO STATION INCIDENT, WAS ON NATIONAL TV)The news media, SWAT Team, Sheriff and town of Erwin police were ready to hang him, as his escape and the way he was finally arrested embarrassed them.This being somewhat of a sensational case for this area, lawyers were lining up to defend him.  The prosecuting attorney, David Crockett (supposedly kin to the famous Davy Crockett) and still practicing law, was out to give him the maximum sentence.I suppose he would have got the maximum sentence but there is a VA center (Mountain Home) in Johnson City; the veterans there got together behind John and with the support they garnered (in my opinion at least) cowed or persuaded the Judge to be lenient with sentencing.  He got 7 years.The story doesn’t end there.  He was sent to Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary where the accused killer of Martin Luther King was held.John became a born again Christian in prison and apparently somewhat of a preacher as well.  The local people around here say he preached his way out of prison, as he got out in 5 years.Over a bottle of Wild Turkey, John told me of his time in prison and his conversion. (This apparently had nothing to do with abstaining from strong drink) He also said he read scripture to James Earl Ray and had talked to him on many occasion.  He was convinced that Ray was not Martin Luther King’s killer.  According to John, James Earl Ray was set up by a Spanish looking guy named Raul (if that name is spelled right).  The part that seemed a little fuzzy to me was Raul giving Ray money to leave the country.John’s opinion of James Earl Ray was that of a naïve country boy, a small time thief; always getting in trouble with the law, though nothing serious, like murder.  John was convinced that Ray didn’t kill King.I saw John regularly at the store for about 5 years.  He farmed a little tobacco, got into building houses with a brother-in-law and was leading a fairly normal life, but he still didn’t feel laws applied to him like they did to everyone else.  He went over to Asheville, bought a deer rifle  (I’m not sure of the caliber) for his son’s Christmas present in his own name.  Of course convicted felons are not allowed to own fire arms and he was once again picked-up on a federal weapons charge and sentenced to 7 years again.He’s out of prison now.  I guess John is in his early to mid 60s and I haven’t seen him since he got out of prison a year ago.  But he still lives in the county.   Thu, 26 Feb 2009 02:32:48 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_There-must-be-a-story-in-this/BLOG/195015/30146.html Tennessee 2009-02-26T02:32:48Z Mike's Writers Network Having ran a little country store for several years, I met some coloroful characters.  John ranks up there at the top.  I was wonding if someone with some expertise (more than I have) would care to share some pointers on writing a story or stories about John.  Some of what I've mentioned is in court or army records, so I'm supposing what is written should be a true story.John of course, is not the true name of this person.A colorful local character was a member of Tiger Force one of the men in Lt. William Callie’s platoon during the infamous My Lai affair in Vietnam.  During his tours in Vietnam he was awarded several medals including the Purple Heart and Bronze Star—I’m not certain but I think he was awarded a Sliver Star also.  Anyway he was one of the most decorated soldiers from east Tennessee.  Hew showed me these medals one time when I was over at his house.            Coming back to these mountains and suffering from what I would term Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, he apparently tried (a fairly successful tobacco farmer) to adjust to civilian life but never did.  He was and is outspoken, not afraid to say what he thinks e.g. Each fall—usually in late Nov. or early Dec. the tobacco farmers of this region would take their bales to the tobacco barn in Johnson City where dealers would bid on it.  This particular year, the dealers were bidding exceptionally low.  John jumped on top a bale of tobacco and hollered:  “If you Son’s of Bitches can’t do any better than that and pay us a fair price, we’re hauling it back.  It can rot or we will burn it. We are not giving it away to you M. F’s!”  That brought the sale to a halt as the other farmers started shouting similar opinions.  Before the end of the day, the tobacco was sold at fair market value; about 30 to 40 cents a pound higher than the original bids.I don’t really know if it is part of his psyche or something about the My Lai affair/ (massacre—that some referred to it) but he had changed from a good, fun loving boy with no known run-ins with the law to someone with somewhat of a scorn for society’s laws.He started out by buying moonshine in bulk and selling it retail.  As marijuana became more profitable, he got into buying it bulk and selling it retail.  Some competitor ratted on him and he was set up for a Big Buy.  As he told me, I was just a dumb country boy.  The thought of $60,000 profit on one deal, closed my eyes as to what I was doing and that I was being set up. The deal went down at that little country store that I use to run.  He hadn’t been out of his car a minute when the DEA agents had their guns pointed at him.  The local Sheriff had some deputies there and one of them, his gun drawn was hurrying across the parking lot; fell, his dropped gun accidentally went off and several officer fired shots at John.John was shouting, don’t shoot! Don’t Shoot!—Somehow, he wasn’t shot.John was out on bail awaiting trial and the local radio station was having a field day (convicting him without a trial as some of the TV news shows do to people today)  The station was trying to tie his wife in (convict) her as well.  According to John, that caused him to “loose it.”  He put on his army camouflage uniform took an assault rifle and headed to the radio station.  A local woman (that I know) saw John walking alongside the road, recognized him stopped her car and gave him a ride.  About a half mile from the station he asked her to stop and he got out.  She said he didn’t answer her even though they knew each other.  “What’s the matter John?” She asked him.  She said he didn’t say a thing, just waved and walked away.At the radio station, John walked in; herded all the employees (4) into the broadcast room and said they could go or stay, but he had something to announce to the public (that his wife knew nothing about his drug dealings).  The employees left –ran, from the station and immediately called the law.  Unknown to John, the announcer had cut off the mike, so John’s announcements were not broadcast.A swat team called from Johnson City surrounded the radio station, but by the time they got to it, he had exited the station crawled down a drainage pipe which turned into a ditch which ran through an open field, eluded the local police officers on scene and circled back around to survey the situation.  “I could have picked every one of them off if that had been my intention” John said. From there he cut through the fields and woods—about 10 miles to his house.  His wife talked him in to going back and turning himself in.  The search was still in progress around the radio station when they drove back.  By that time a curious crowd of onlookers were gathered alongside old highway 23 looking at the search going around the station about 200 yards down its private drive.  They (John and his wife) walked up and spoke with some people he knew in the crowd before finally getting the attention of a deputy to arrest him.   (I THINK SOME OF THIS—THE RADIO STATION INCIDENT, WAS ON NATIONAL TV)The news media, SWAT Team, Sheriff and town of Erwin police were ready to hang him, as his escape and the way he was finally arrested embarrassed them.This being somewhat of a sensational case for this area, lawyers were lining up to defend him.  The prosecuting attorney, David Crockett (supposedly kin to the famous Davy Crockett) and still practicing law, was out to give him the maximum sentence.I suppose he would have got the maximum sentence but there is a VA center (Mountain Home) in Johnson City; the veterans there got together behind John and with the support they garnered (in my opinion at least) cowed or persuaded the Judge to be lenient with sentencing.  He got 7 years.The story doesn’t end there.  He was sent to Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary where the accused killer of Martin Luther King was held.John became a born again Christian in prison and apparently somewhat of a preacher as well.  The local people around here say he preached his way out of prison, as he got out in 5 years.Over a bottle of Wild Turkey, John told me of his time in prison and his conversion. (This apparently had nothing to do with abstaining from strong drink) He also said he read scripture to James Earl Ray and had talked to him on many occasion.  He was convinced that Ray was not Martin Luther King’s killer.  According to John, James Earl Ray was set up by a Spanish looking guy named Raul (if that name is spelled right).  The part that seemed a little fuzzy to me was Raul giving Ray money to leave the country.John’s opinion of James Earl Ray was that of a naïve country boy, a small time thief; always getting in trouble with the law, though nothing serious, like murder.  John was convinced that Ray didn’t kill King.I saw John regularly at the store for about 5 years.  He farmed a little tobacco, got into building houses with a brother-in-law and was leading a fairly normal life, but he still didn’t feel laws applied to him like they did to everyone else.  He went over to Asheville, bought a deer rifle  (I’m not sure of the caliber) for his son’s Christmas present in his own name.  Of course convicted felons are not allowed to own fire arms and he was once again picked-up on a federal weapons charge and sentenced to 7 years again.He’s out of prison now.  I guess John is in his early to mid 60s and I haven’t seen him since he got out of prison a year ago.  But he still lives in the county.   nonadult false There must be a story in this! text blog 110 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=4627788&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_2479374_30146_4627788_ap_160X120.jpg false 1 0 195015 4627788 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_A-Depressing-Slide-from-Broken-Homilies-feel-free-to-critique/BLOG/193475/30146.html A Depressing Slide              Springtime in the North breaks almost overnight, bursting forth blooms of every color and chest-high grasses. Nature knows that it has precious little time in order to complete another cycle before winter eclipses the land again. Ravens commence their broad-winged patrols in wide arcing turns, as flocks of smaller birds dart from field to tree-top like a rapid moving cloud. In the yard, apple trees bloom and spread their downy flakes across the tops of wild wheat grass that moves like the tide in the ever-present North wind.            All the world around me smelled green and alive again. It would, that is, if I could smell. In her orgiastic ecstasy, Nature neglected mankind; or rather, his histamines. Swollen and oozing, I sat at my computer in misery; one eye completely swollen shut, the other well on it’s way. My nose had become a wonder in itself; swollen to a ripe, wino-red and running without reprieve regardless of my constant attempts to clear my nasal cavity. With each pair of sneezes came a hair-like tickle at the back of my throat that would trigger a rib-cracking round of coughs, followed by another sneeze-duet. During the night, I would give up hope and stuff a wad of toilet paper up each nostril until the dam would get too soaked, and again, spill out onto my face and pillow. Down to three or so hours of sleep a night, I spent my days in an already exhausted, medicated haze; taking as many as six Benadryl at once to make it to work. Last week upon clocking in, I was told to go home in words that I was sure were merely a euphemism for “you are scaring    the customers”. The next night in my department, while working upon a three-step ladder, I was temporarily trapped, holding onto the ladder and an adjacent shelf to save myself from falling when the store suddenly tilted sharply to the left. Called back to my senses by an eight year old boy who had just dumped a box of BB’s onto the white tile floor, I slowly descended the ladder and prepared to round up ten thousand steel balls as they raced forth in every direction. I was vaguely aware of his presence, as he did not feel the need to tell me what had just happened or why. He just stood there in his WWF tee shirt, fumbling with an empty box of Crossman Copperhead BB’s, his hair, unkempt and hanging in his face, obscuring his left eye. I shot him a medicated glare and wondered, possibly aloud, where the rest of the trailer park was. Then my ear caught the sound of thousands of tiny spheres racing for destinations unknown. Looking down, the blurry copper beads swirled, collided, and darted. It’s like the beginning of the universe, I thought to myself; a tiny microcosm of the Big Bang Theory. Leaning over the mess, I began to sweep the racing copper colored BB’s in a futile attempt to get them to roll into a dustpan with a blunt front lip, worn to a jagged ridge from years of BB wrangling and the sort, that did little more than deflect the offending particles like a giant pin-ball bumper. Cursing out loud, I did little to impress the perpetrator of the  BB incident until, out of my nose, came a stream of clear liquid that landed in the dustpan with a splat. Suddenly, I was the alien monster in charge of this fledgling universe; sliming entire galaxies at will. The quickly fading sound of sneakers squeaking on the tile floor told me the show was over.             “I think everything is there.” I told the receptionist behind the counter at the VA clinic as I handed her a clear plastic clipboard with several forms attached. She was in her mid-thirties, with short brown whispy hair, dark framed glasses and  that familiar look of a local trying hard to appear professional in the County: uptown professionalism, the latest business fashions from Wal-Mart, and too much product in her boxed dye job.            “Looks good Mr. Mac-Innnnn- tire? Is that it?” She smiled as she struggled to sound out my name. I stopped getting irritated when locals couldn’t pronounce my name about the fifth time I had to decipher Gagne, with it’s three pronunciations depending on where in the county your family was from. As I returned her smile and nodded, she slowly leafed through a large appointment book, searching for an opening. Scanning the pages with great concentration, she scratched at her nose and made a quick final notation before snapping her head back up to face me. “You’re all set.” She said in a chipper tone. “The doctor will be able to see you in September. We’ll call then to set a firm date.”             “September” I repeated incredulously, furrowing my brow and leaning forward as if the Benedryl was affecting my hearing.            “I’m afraid so.” She said in a child-like tone, mirroring my own brow and nodding her head at a slight tilt. “The doctors book months ahead of time. Sorry.” Her head was still nodding when I turned around and walked toward the door. The lobby was full of patients, most of whom were gray-haired and in various stages of infirmity. I wondered if they were my age when some perky nurse put them on the list.            Getting in my car, the warmth of spring translated into an auto oven as I settled behind the wheel. The heat made my head swim temporarily, until the dust caused by slamming the door caught my nostrils, eliciting a fresh round of sneezes. I quickly covered my nose, but not before soaking the steering wheel with -snot? Spit? It really didn’t matter anymore. I knew now what I had to do; there was simply no choice left. I had to go to the enemy and ask for help.              As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered the last time I had spoken with the good folks at the Department of Human Services. It was the mediation phase of my divorce, when a forty-something blonde with a briefcase and deep-seated hatred for anything sporting a penis told me that I should be happy that the state can only take half of my paycheck for support. After explaining my already strained financial circumstances to her overly- made-up face of stone, her reply was curt, “Maybe you should consider dropping out of college and getting a second job so that you can send in more money.” It was then that I decided that I hated them- all of them. After expressing my desire to support my children and fighting to be made the custodial parent, I was treated as a common deadbeat. A criminal. Since then, I would refer to them (in their presence whenever possible) as SS officers. I denied their authority in all matters pertaining to myself or my children, and would stonewall any attempt on their part to gather information about me or my employers.            Walking into a lobby similar to the one I had just left, I immediately noticed the change in clientele. A large woman sat between two cushions of a plain institutional sofa, causing the ends of the assaulted cushions to stick up from either side of her backside. Her face was pasty and overly-large, with brown eyes set close together. I wondered if she had Down’s Syndrome, or was just an unfortunate victim of bad genes. Just then, a little patch of frizzy brown hair slowly rose above the coffee table littered with toys in front of the woman. It was followed with what appeared to be the face of a little boy about four years old and sporting the same close-set eyes. “Christ, somebody fooked her.” I muttered to myself as I made my way to the receptionist at the far side of the room.            This receptionist made me long for the first. She was in her forties, with short salt and pepper hair that clung to her head in tight wiry curls like a poodle. Her eyes were brown and each carried beneath it, a large sack. Her nose was narrow and hooked, giving far too much length to her face. She never smiled. “Can I help you?” She asked; her expression never changing from it’s neutral gaze.            “Look, I’m sorry. But the thing is, I’m broke. I need to see a doctor and get something for my allergies. I never ask for…” I realized that I was running on even as she cut me off mid-sentence.            “Fill these out and bring them back.” The face never changed.            After an hour in the waiting room watching the kid play while his mother stared blankly at some spot on the wall, I was led into an office through a security door. There, I was met by a pleasant woman in a blue jacket and white top. She was older with signs remaining in her face that she was once quite attractive. Her eyes still held a sparkle to them and that sparkle never once faded; even when she assumed the same head tilt and nod while telling me that I was shit out of luck. I could read in her face that she was used to giving bad news, just as I could read in her tone that professional numbness had robbed her of any genuine sense of compassion for my plea. What did I expect? I came to the camp of my enemy seeking comfort and now left feeling foolish and weak for the attempt. Still, I was strangely consoled as I got back into my car and fumbled out two more store brand Benedryl. Someone had, if for only a minute, pretended to care about my situation. I blew my nose and rolled out onto the access highway and headed for home.             That night, Sasafrass’s pain had increased, evidenced by her continual whines to me for help. She had begun to show blood in her urine as well and I had placed a fresh towel under her, to make her more comfortable. She hadn’t moved in days except to struggle forward and drink a little from the bowl of water I had placed at her nose. She should have gone to the vet long ago. A venture that would have cost even more than the doctor visit I so desperately needed and couldn’t afford. I alternated between petting her and reassuring her, to sitting in a chair and watching her. She was mine from the time she was six weeks old, and barely a white puff of fur with a little black nose. Now, ten years later, she had grown from a chewing machine of a pup to a shadow that would follow me from room to room and lay at my feet. Sheba played nursemaid as well, getting up several times to sniff her and nudge her flanks with her freckled nose. The whining increased as the night went on, and as I sat there, I couldn’t believe what I was contemplating.            At midnight, I rose from my chair and, grabbing a shovel, went out into the meadow. Digging a shallow hole into the side of an embankment, I still couldn’t believe what I was doing. I had become completely numb. This wasn’t happening. Laying aside the shovel somewhere in the dark, I went back to the house. Scooping up Sassafrass with the white towel still beneath her, she whined a little but made no attempt to shift position in my arms. With what little strength she had, she turned her head on my arm and stared  up at me, wide eyed and ears back. I talked to her as I carried her out into the dark, freeing a hand to stroke the fur on her head. I told her it would be alright. I told her everything was fine. I lied.             Laying her on the towel in the hole, I turned to go back to the house. My feet stumbled and my hands shook. I wished and prayed to God that she would find the strength to get up. Just get up and wander off in the dark. Wander off before. Sheba lowered her head when I went back inside and loaded the .22 rifle. Her ears were back as she approached me, but I couldn’t look her in the eyes. She knew. Shaking more violently now, I wandered back into the darkness. I could see her outline ahead of me. She hadn’t escaped. Never letting her see the rifle, I layed it behind her as I knelt down beside her. She didn’t move. I stroked her fur as I watched her flank rise and fall with each labored breath. She whined again to me for help. Reaching behind her, I slid the rifle barrel behind her ear and kept petting her and attempting to sooth her with my voice. “I’m sorry.” I told her. “God, I am so sorry.” Over and over, I repeated; how many times? Time was a blur, and neither of us were really there. This wasn’t happening. How does it all come down to something so horrible?             There was a muffled report of the rifle. In an instant, her body tensed and relaxed. I heard the rifle clack off of a rock as it fell from my hand. I felt my body become weightless and I rolled sideways and landed on my shoulder and back. Above me through burning eyes, the stars and moon swirled like a kalidescope. My breath came in ragged jags as I could not even catch my breath enough to cry. Immediately, from within the house, a low, mournful howl went up from Sheba. One after the other, she continued to howl for her fallen pack mate. I lay there on the wheat grass for an eternity. It must have been hours before I felt the dew freezing my back and broken grass stems jabbing me to wake from the nightmare. Sassafrass still lay bleeding at my feet. I rolled over and felt her side. She was cold. No longer would that side rise and fall. No more would she be able to follow me from room to room. No more would she steal scraps from the kids or chase mice like a cat. She was gone and I could neither justify it fully in my mind or call the bullet back. A Depressing Slide              Springtime in the North breaks almost overnight, bursting forth blooms of every color and chest-high grasses. Nature knows that it has precious little time in order to complete another cycle before winter eclipses the land again. Ravens commence their broad-winged patrols in wide arcing turns, as flocks of smaller birds dart from field to tree-top like a rapid moving cloud. In the yard, apple trees bloom and spread their downy flakes across the tops of wild wheat grass that moves like the tide in the ever-present North wind.            All the world around me smelled green and alive again. It would, that is, if I could smell. In her orgiastic ecstasy, Nature neglected mankind; or rather, his histamines. Swollen and oozing, I sat at my computer in misery; one eye completely swollen shut, the other well on it’s way. My nose had become a wonder in itself; swollen to a ripe, wino-red and running without reprieve regardless of my constant attempts to clear my nasal cavity. With each pair of sneezes came a hair-like tickle at the back of my throat that would trigger a rib-cracking round of coughs, followed by another sneeze-duet. During the night, I would give up hope and stuff a wad of toilet paper up each nostril until the dam would get too soaked, and again, spill out onto my face and pillow. Down to three or so hours of sleep a night, I spent my days in an already exhausted, medicated haze; taking as many as six Benadryl at once to make it to work. Last week upon clocking in, I was told to go home in words that I was sure were merely a euphemism for “you are scaring    the customers”. The next night in my department, while working upon a three-step ladder, I was temporarily trapped, holding onto the ladder and an adjacent shelf to save myself from falling when the store suddenly tilted sharply to the left. Called back to my senses by an eight year old boy who had just dumped a box of BB’s onto the white tile floor, I slowly descended the ladder and prepared to round up ten thousand steel balls as they raced forth in every direction. I was vaguely aware of his presence, as he did not feel the need to tell me what had just happened or why. He just stood there in his WWF tee shirt, fumbling with an empty box of Crossman Copperhead BB’s, his hair, unkempt and hanging in his face, obscuring his left eye. I shot him a medicated glare and wondered, possibly aloud, where the rest of the trailer park was. Then my ear caught the sound of thousands of tiny spheres racing for destinations unknown. Looking down, the blurry copper beads swirled, collided, and darted. It’s like the beginning of the universe, I thought to myself; a tiny microcosm of the Big Bang Theory. Leaning over the mess, I began to sweep the racing copper colored BB’s in a futile attempt to get them to roll into a dustpan with a blunt front lip, worn to a jagged ridge from years of BB wrangling and the sort, that did little more than deflect the offending particles like a giant pin-ball bumper. Cursing out loud, I did little to impress the perpetrator of the  BB incident until, out of my nose, came a stream of clear liquid that landed in the dustpan with a splat. Suddenly, I was the alien monster in charge of this fledgling universe; sliming entire galaxies at will. The quickly fading sound of sneakers squeaking on the tile floor told me the show was over.             “I think everything is there.” I told the receptionist behind the counter at the VA clinic as I handed her a clear plastic clipboard with several forms attached. She was in her mid-thirties, with short brown whispy hair, dark framed glasses and  that familiar look of a local trying hard to appear professional in the County: uptown professionalism, the latest business fashions from Wal-Mart, and too much product in her boxed dye job.            “Looks good Mr. Mac-Innnnn- tire? Is that it?” She smiled as she struggled to sound out my name. I stopped getting irritated when locals couldn’t pronounce my name about the fifth time I had to decipher Gagne, with it’s three pronunciations depending on where in the county your family was from. As I returned her smile and nodded, she slowly leafed through a large appointment book, searching for an opening. Scanning the pages with great concentration, she scratched at her nose and made a quick final notation before snapping her head back up to face me. “You’re all set.” She said in a chipper tone. “The doctor will be able to see you in September. We’ll call then to set a firm date.”             “September” I repeated incredulously, furrowing my brow and leaning forward as if the Benedryl was affecting my hearing.            “I’m afraid so.” She said in a child-like tone, mirroring my own brow and nodding her head at a slight tilt. “The doctors book months ahead of time. Sorry.” Her head was still nodding when I turned around and walked toward the door. The lobby was full of patients, most of whom were gray-haired and in various stages of infirmity. I wondered if they were my age when some perky nurse put them on the list.            Getting in my car, the warmth of spring translated into an auto oven as I settled behind the wheel. The heat made my head swim temporarily, until the dust caused by slamming the door caught my nostrils, eliciting a fresh round of sneezes. I quickly covered my nose, but not before soaking the steering wheel with -snot? Spit? It really didn’t matter anymore. I knew now what I had to do; there was simply no choice left. I had to go to the enemy and ask for help.              As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered the last time I had spoken with the good folks at the Department of Human Services. It was the mediation phase of my divorce, when a forty-something blonde with a briefcase and deep-seated hatred for anything sporting a penis told me that I should be happy that the state can only take half of my paycheck for support. After explaining my already strained financial circumstances to her overly- made-up face of stone, her reply was curt, “Maybe you should consider dropping out of college and getting a second job so that you can send in more money.” It was then that I decided that I hated them- all of them. After expressing my desire to support my children and fighting to be made the custodial parent, I was treated as a common deadbeat. A criminal. Since then, I would refer to them (in their presence whenever possible) as SS officers. I denied their authority in all matters pertaining to myself or my children, and would stonewall any attempt on their part to gather information about me or my employers.            Walking into a lobby similar to the one I had just left, I immediately noticed the change in clientele. A large woman sat between two cushions of a plain institutional sofa, causing the ends of the assaulted cushions to stick up from either side of her backside. Her face was pasty and overly-large, with brown eyes set close together. I wondered if she had Down’s Syndrome, or was just an unfortunate victim of bad genes. Just then, a little patch of frizzy brown hair slowly rose above the coffee table littered with toys in front of the woman. It was followed with what appeared to be the face of a little boy about four years old and sporting the same close-set eyes. “Christ, somebody fooked her.” I muttered to myself as I made my way to the receptionist at the far side of the room.            This receptionist made me long for the first. She was in her forties, with short salt and pepper hair that clung to her head in tight wiry curls like a poodle. Her eyes were brown and each carried beneath it, a large sack. Her nose was narrow and hooked, giving far too much length to her face. She never smiled. “Can I help you?” She asked; her expression never changing from it’s neutral gaze.            “Look, I’m sorry. But the thing is, I’m broke. I need to see a doctor and get something for my allergies. I never ask for…” I realized that I was running on even as she cut me off mid-sentence.            “Fill these out and bring them back.” The face never changed.            After an hour in the waiting room watching the kid play while his mother stared blankly at some spot on the wall, I was led into an office through a security door. There, I was met by a pleasant woman in a blue jacket and white top. She was older with signs remaining in her face that she was once quite attractive. Her eyes still held a sparkle to them and that sparkle never once faded; even when she assumed the same head tilt and nod while telling me that I was shit out of luck. I could read in her face that she was used to giving bad news, just as I could read in her tone that professional numbness had robbed her of any genuine sense of compassion for my plea. What did I expect? I came to the camp of my enemy seeking comfort and now left feeling foolish and weak for the attempt. Still, I was strangely consoled as I got back into my car and fumbled out two more store brand Benedryl. Someone had, if for only a minute, pretended to care about my situation. I blew my nose and rolled out onto the access highway and headed for home.             That night, Sasafrass’s pain had increased, evidenced by her continual whines to me for help. She had begun to show blood in her urine as well and I had placed a fresh towel under her, to make her more comfortable. She hadn’t moved in days except to struggle forward and drink a little from the bowl of water I had placed at her nose. She should have gone to the vet long ago. A venture that would have cost even more than the doctor visit I so desperately needed and couldn’t afford. I alternated between petting her and reassuring her, to sitting in a chair and watching her. She was mine from the time she was six weeks old, and barely a white puff of fur with a little black nose. Now, ten years later, she had grown from a chewing machine of a pup to a shadow that would follow me from room to room and lay at my feet. Sheba played nursemaid as well, getting up several times to sniff her and nudge her flanks with her freckled nose. The whining increased as the night went on, and as I sat there, I couldn’t believe what I was contemplating.            At midnight, I rose from my chair and, grabbing a shovel, went out into the meadow. Digging a shallow hole into the side of an embankment, I still couldn’t believe what I was doing. I had become completely numb. This wasn’t happening. Laying aside the shovel somewhere in the dark, I went back to the house. Scooping up Sassafrass with the white towel still beneath her, she whined a little but made no attempt to shift position in my arms. With what little strength she had, she turned her head on my arm and stared  up at me, wide eyed and ears back. I talked to her as I carried her out into the dark, freeing a hand to stroke the fur on her head. I told her it would be alright. I told her everything was fine. I lied.             Laying her on the towel in the hole, I turned to go back to the house. My feet stumbled and my hands shook. I wished and prayed to God that she would find the strength to get up. Just get up and wander off in the dark. Wander off before. Sheba lowered her head when I went back inside and loaded the .22 rifle. Her ears were back as she approached me, but I couldn’t look her in the eyes. She knew. Shaking more violently now, I wandered back into the darkness. I could see her outline ahead of me. She hadn’t escaped. Never letting her see the rifle, I layed it behind her as I knelt down beside her. She didn’t move. I stroked her fur as I watched her flank rise and fall with each labored breath. She whined again to me for help. Reaching behind her, I slid the rifle barrel behind her ear and kept petting her and attempting to sooth her with my voice. “I’m sorry.” I told her. “God, I am so sorry.” Over and over, I repeated; how many times? Time was a blur, and neither of us were really there. This wasn’t happening. How does it all come down to something so horrible?             There was a muffled report of the rifle. In an instant, her body tensed and relaxed. I heard the rifle clack off of a rock as it fell from my hand. I felt my body become weightless and I rolled sideways and landed on my shoulder and back. Above me through burning eyes, the stars and moon swirled like a kalidescope. My breath came in ragged jags as I could not even catch my breath enough to cry. Immediately, from within the house, a low, mournful howl went up from Sheba. One after the other, she continued to howl for her fallen pack mate. I lay there on the wheat grass for an eternity. It must have been hours before I felt the dew freezing my back and broken grass stems jabbing me to wake from the nightmare. Sassafrass still lay bleeding at my feet. I rolled over and felt her side. She was cold. No longer would that side rise and fall. No more would she be able to follow me from room to room. No more would she steal scraps from the kids or chase mice like a cat. She was gone and I could neither justify it fully in my mind or call the bullet back. Tue, 24 Feb 2009 12:30:05 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_A-Depressing-Slide-from-Broken-Homilies-feel-free-to-critique/BLOG/193475/30146.html Douglas 2009-02-24T12:30:05Z Mike's Writers Network A Depressing Slide              Springtime in the North breaks almost overnight, bursting forth blooms of every color and chest-high grasses. Nature knows that it has precious little time in order to complete another cycle before winter eclipses the land again. Ravens commence their broad-winged patrols in wide arcing turns, as flocks of smaller birds dart from field to tree-top like a rapid moving cloud. In the yard, apple trees bloom and spread their downy flakes across the tops of wild wheat grass that moves like the tide in the ever-present North wind.            All the world around me smelled green and alive again. It would, that is, if I could smell. In her orgiastic ecstasy, Nature neglected mankind; or rather, his histamines. Swollen and oozing, I sat at my computer in misery; one eye completely swollen shut, the other well on it’s way. My nose had become a wonder in itself; swollen to a ripe, wino-red and running without reprieve regardless of my constant attempts to clear my nasal cavity. With each pair of sneezes came a hair-like tickle at the back of my throat that would trigger a rib-cracking round of coughs, followed by another sneeze-duet. During the night, I would give up hope and stuff a wad of toilet paper up each nostril until the dam would get too soaked, and again, spill out onto my face and pillow. Down to three or so hours of sleep a night, I spent my days in an already exhausted, medicated haze; taking as many as six Benadryl at once to make it to work. Last week upon clocking in, I was told to go home in words that I was sure were merely a euphemism for “you are scaring    the customers”. The next night in my department, while working upon a three-step ladder, I was temporarily trapped, holding onto the ladder and an adjacent shelf to save myself from falling when the store suddenly tilted sharply to the left. Called back to my senses by an eight year old boy who had just dumped a box of BB’s onto the white tile floor, I slowly descended the ladder and prepared to round up ten thousand steel balls as they raced forth in every direction. I was vaguely aware of his presence, as he did not feel the need to tell me what had just happened or why. He just stood there in his WWF tee shirt, fumbling with an empty box of Crossman Copperhead BB’s, his hair, unkempt and hanging in his face, obscuring his left eye. I shot him a medicated glare and wondered, possibly aloud, where the rest of the trailer park was. Then my ear caught the sound of thousands of tiny spheres racing for destinations unknown. Looking down, the blurry copper beads swirled, collided, and darted. It’s like the beginning of the universe, I thought to myself; a tiny microcosm of the Big Bang Theory. Leaning over the mess, I began to sweep the racing copper colored BB’s in a futile attempt to get them to roll into a dustpan with a blunt front lip, worn to a jagged ridge from years of BB wrangling and the sort, that did little more than deflect the offending particles like a giant pin-ball bumper. Cursing out loud, I did little to impress the perpetrator of the  BB incident until, out of my nose, came a stream of clear liquid that landed in the dustpan with a splat. Suddenly, I was the alien monster in charge of this fledgling universe; sliming entire galaxies at will. The quickly fading sound of sneakers squeaking on the tile floor told me the show was over.             “I think everything is there.” I told the receptionist behind the counter at the VA clinic as I handed her a clear plastic clipboard with several forms attached. She was in her mid-thirties, with short brown whispy hair, dark framed glasses and  that familiar look of a local trying hard to appear professional in the County: uptown professionalism, the latest business fashions from Wal-Mart, and too much product in her boxed dye job.            “Looks good Mr. Mac-Innnnn- tire? Is that it?” She smiled as she struggled to sound out my name. I stopped getting irritated when locals couldn’t pronounce my name about the fifth time I had to decipher Gagne, with it’s three pronunciations depending on where in the county your family was from. As I returned her smile and nodded, she slowly leafed through a large appointment book, searching for an opening. Scanning the pages with great concentration, she scratched at her nose and made a quick final notation before snapping her head back up to face me. “You’re all set.” She said in a chipper tone. “The doctor will be able to see you in September. We’ll call then to set a firm date.”             “September” I repeated incredulously, furrowing my brow and leaning forward as if the Benedryl was affecting my hearing.            “I’m afraid so.” She said in a child-like tone, mirroring my own brow and nodding her head at a slight tilt. “The doctors book months ahead of time. Sorry.” Her head was still nodding when I turned around and walked toward the door. The lobby was full of patients, most of whom were gray-haired and in various stages of infirmity. I wondered if they were my age when some perky nurse put them on the list.            Getting in my car, the warmth of spring translated into an auto oven as I settled behind the wheel. The heat made my head swim temporarily, until the dust caused by slamming the door caught my nostrils, eliciting a fresh round of sneezes. I quickly covered my nose, but not before soaking the steering wheel with -snot? Spit? It really didn’t matter anymore. I knew now what I had to do; there was simply no choice left. I had to go to the enemy and ask for help.              As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered the last time I had spoken with the good folks at the Department of Human Services. It was the mediation phase of my divorce, when a forty-something blonde with a briefcase and deep-seated hatred for anything sporting a penis told me that I should be happy that the state can only take half of my paycheck for support. After explaining my already strained financial circumstances to her overly- made-up face of stone, her reply was curt, “Maybe you should consider dropping out of college and getting a second job so that you can send in more money.” It was then that I decided that I hated them- all of them. After expressing my desire to support my children and fighting to be made the custodial parent, I was treated as a common deadbeat. A criminal. Since then, I would refer to them (in their presence whenever possible) as SS officers. I denied their authority in all matters pertaining to myself or my children, and would stonewall any attempt on their part to gather information about me or my employers.            Walking into a lobby similar to the one I had just left, I immediately noticed the change in clientele. A large woman sat between two cushions of a plain institutional sofa, causing the ends of the assaulted cushions to stick up from either side of her backside. Her face was pasty and overly-large, with brown eyes set close together. I wondered if she had Down’s Syndrome, or was just an unfortunate victim of bad genes. Just then, a little patch of frizzy brown hair slowly rose above the coffee table littered with toys in front of the woman. It was followed with what appeared to be the face of a little boy about four years old and sporting the same close-set eyes. “Christ, somebody fooked her.” I muttered to myself as I made my way to the receptionist at the far side of the room.            This receptionist made me long for the first. She was in her forties, with short salt and pepper hair that clung to her head in tight wiry curls like a poodle. Her eyes were brown and each carried beneath it, a large sack. Her nose was narrow and hooked, giving far too much length to her face. She never smiled. “Can I help you?” She asked; her expression never changing from it’s neutral gaze.            “Look, I’m sorry. But the thing is, I’m broke. I need to see a doctor and get something for my allergies. I never ask for…” I realized that I was running on even as she cut me off mid-sentence.            “Fill these out and bring them back.” The face never changed.            After an hour in the waiting room watching the kid play while his mother stared blankly at some spot on the wall, I was led into an office through a security door. There, I was met by a pleasant woman in a blue jacket and white top. She was older with signs remaining in her face that she was once quite attractive. Her eyes still held a sparkle to them and that sparkle never once faded; even when she assumed the same head tilt and nod while telling me that I was shit out of luck. I could read in her face that she was used to giving bad news, just as I could read in her tone that professional numbness had robbed her of any genuine sense of compassion for my plea. What did I expect? I came to the camp of my enemy seeking comfort and now left feeling foolish and weak for the attempt. Still, I was strangely consoled as I got back into my car and fumbled out two more store brand Benedryl. Someone had, if for only a minute, pretended to care about my situation. I blew my nose and rolled out onto the access highway and headed for home.             That night, Sasafrass’s pain had increased, evidenced by her continual whines to me for help. She had begun to show blood in her urine as well and I had placed a fresh towel under her, to make her more comfortable. She hadn’t moved in days except to struggle forward and drink a little from the bowl of water I had placed at her nose. She should have gone to the vet long ago. A venture that would have cost even more than the doctor visit I so desperately needed and couldn’t afford. I alternated between petting her and reassuring her, to sitting in a chair and watching her. She was mine from the time she was six weeks old, and barely a white puff of fur with a little black nose. Now, ten years later, she had grown from a chewing machine of a pup to a shadow that would follow me from room to room and lay at my feet. Sheba played nursemaid as well, getting up several times to sniff her and nudge her flanks with her freckled nose. The whining increased as the night went on, and as I sat there, I couldn’t believe what I was contemplating.            At midnight, I rose from my chair and, grabbing a shovel, went out into the meadow. Digging a shallow hole into the side of an embankment, I still couldn’t believe what I was doing. I had become completely numb. This wasn’t happening. Laying aside the shovel somewhere in the dark, I went back to the house. Scooping up Sassafrass with the white towel still beneath her, she whined a little but made no attempt to shift position in my arms. With what little strength she had, she turned her head on my arm and stared  up at me, wide eyed and ears back. I talked to her as I carried her out into the dark, freeing a hand to stroke the fur on her head. I told her it would be alright. I told her everything was fine. I lied.             Laying her on the towel in the hole, I turned to go back to the house. My feet stumbled and my hands shook. I wished and prayed to God that she would find the strength to get up. Just get up and wander off in the dark. Wander off before. Sheba lowered her head when I went back inside and loaded the .22 rifle. Her ears were back as she approached me, but I couldn’t look her in the eyes. She knew. Shaking more violently now, I wandered back into the darkness. I could see her outline ahead of me. She hadn’t escaped. Never letting her see the rifle, I layed it behind her as I knelt down beside her. She didn’t move. I stroked her fur as I watched her flank rise and fall with each labored breath. She whined again to me for help. Reaching behind her, I slid the rifle barrel behind her ear and kept petting her and attempting to sooth her with my voice. “I’m sorry.” I told her. “God, I am so sorry.” Over and over, I repeated; how many times? Time was a blur, and neither of us were really there. This wasn’t happening. How does it all come down to something so horrible?             There was a muffled report of the rifle. In an instant, her body tensed and relaxed. I heard the rifle clack off of a rock as it fell from my hand. I felt my body become weightless and I rolled sideways and landed on my shoulder and back. Above me through burning eyes, the stars and moon swirled like a kalidescope. My breath came in ragged jags as I could not even catch my breath enough to cry. Immediately, from within the house, a low, mournful howl went up from Sheba. One after the other, she continued to howl for her fallen pack mate. I lay there on the wheat grass for an eternity. It must have been hours before I felt the dew freezing my back and broken grass stems jabbing me to wake from the nightmare. Sassafrass still lay bleeding at my feet. I rolled over and felt her side. She was cold. No longer would that side rise and fall. No more would she be able to follow me from room to room. No more would she steal scraps from the kids or chase mice like a cat. She was gone and I could neither justify it fully in my mind or call the bullet back. nonadult false A Depressing Slide from Broken Homilies feel free to critique text blog 98 1 5.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=4839825&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_2688368_30146_4839825_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 193475 4839825 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Poor-Chef-Magazine-article-Kayaking/BLOG/193469/30146.html The allure of kayaking has inspired many an outdoor adventurer to take paddle in hand and trek off to explore where no outboard has gone before; and why not? Kayaking offers both the thrills of whitewater and the peaceful seclusion of coastlines and coves. For the intrepid paddler, a sublime postcard picture awaits a sunny day and a good put-in point, but what about the not-so-intrepid paddler? What about the rest of us who want the benefits of paddling, but are daunted by the first crucial steps of kayaking? Berry Manter; a licensed guide and associate of the L.L. Bean Outdoor Discovery School has been teaching and guiding kayakers for years. She offers sound advice to all would-be kayakers. “The first question I hear is, “Can you do an Eskimo roll?” Citing escape as a vital first skill, a perfect Eskimo Roll is not a prerequisite. Berry insists that one does not have to be a triathelete to take up paddling. Like any other sport, kayaking is a process in which the participant decides their own level of comfort. “The biggest myth”, Berry says, “is that you need strong arms.” Unlike canoeing, paddling involves whole body motion. She refers to kayaking as a total-fitness exercise that involves the legs, abdomen, obliques, and back; not to mention the mental well-being that comes from gliding on the water. With a sense of elation, Berry tells us, “Feeling the swells beneath you is like the Earth Breathing.” The allure of kayaking has inspired many an outdoor adventurer to take paddle in hand and trek off to explore where no outboard has gone before; and why not? Kayaking offers both the thrills of whitewater and the peaceful seclusion of coastlines and coves. For the intrepid paddler, a sublime postcard picture awaits a sunny day and a good put-in point, but what about the not-so-intrepid paddler? What about the rest of us who want the benefits of paddling, but are daunted by the first crucial steps of kayaking? Berry Manter; a licensed guide and associate of the L.L. Bean Outdoor Discovery School has been teaching and guiding kayakers for years. She offers sound advice to all would-be kayakers. “The first question I hear is, “Can you do an Eskimo roll?” Citing escape as a vital first skill, a perfect Eskimo Roll is not a prerequisite. Berry insists that one does not have to be a triathelete to take up paddling. Like any other sport, kayaking is a process in which the participant decides their own level of comfort. “The biggest myth”, Berry says, “is that you need strong arms.” Unlike canoeing, paddling involves whole body motion. She refers to kayaking as a total-fitness exercise that involves the legs, abdomen, obliques, and back; not to mention the mental well-being that comes from gliding on the water. With a sense of elation, Berry tells us, “Feeling the swells beneath you is like the Earth Breathing.” Tue, 24 Feb 2009 12:18:38 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Poor-Chef-Magazine-article-Kayaking/BLOG/193469/30146.html Douglas 2009-02-24T12:18:38Z Mike's Writers Network The allure of kayaking has inspired many an outdoor adventurer to take paddle in hand and trek off to explore where no outboard has gone before; and why not? Kayaking offers both the thrills of whitewater and the peaceful seclusion of coastlines and coves. For the intrepid paddler, a sublime postcard picture awaits a sunny day and a good put-in point, but what about the not-so-intrepid paddler? What about the rest of us who want the benefits of paddling, but are daunted by the first crucial steps of kayaking? Berry Manter; a licensed guide and associate of the L.L. Bean Outdoor Discovery School has been teaching and guiding kayakers for years. She offers sound advice to all would-be kayakers. “The first question I hear is, “Can you do an Eskimo roll?” Citing escape as a vital first skill, a perfect Eskimo Roll is not a prerequisite. Berry insists that one does not have to be a triathelete to take up paddling. Like any other sport, kayaking is a process in which the participant decides their own level of comfort. “The biggest myth”, Berry says, “is that you need strong arms.” Unlike canoeing, paddling involves whole body motion. She refers to kayaking as a total-fitness exercise that involves the legs, abdomen, obliques, and back; not to mention the mental well-being that comes from gliding on the water. With a sense of elation, Berry tells us, “Feeling the swells beneath you is like the Earth Breathing.” nonadult false Poor Chef Magazine article: Kayaking text blog 116 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=4839825&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_2688368_30146_4839825_ap_160X120.jpg false 1 0 193469 4839825 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Poor-Chef-Magazine-article-Honey/BLOG/193468/30146.html Reconnect with your honey tonight.  No, really. That sweet, syrupy stuff that’s sat in your cupboard for the last two presidencies is still good and just waiting for you to pay some attention to the little bear shaped bottle. For some, the presence of honey in the house conjures images of old Aunt Sylvia pretentiously sipping her tea, or that last odd ingredient for a turkey glaze that you ended up not making after all. It’s true that while growing up, honey was a distant second sweetener to most of us; preferring to dump numerous tablespoons of sugar atop our healthy oat cereal. While we no longer dump mounds of sugar on our cereal (mostly), honey has remained the unchanged champion of healthy sweeteners. That’s right, healthy. From its status as a natural antibiotic to a fine antioxidant and homeopathic cure-all, honey has been the sweet choice of humans since prehistoric times. The moment humankind discovered the first hives; only slightly before they discovered the first sting treatment, we have been in love with honey. According to the National Honey Board, honey contains antioxidants that may help protect against cellular damage. While the amounts may not rival fresh fruits and vegetables, it makes for a guilt free drizzle onto your oatmeal or toast. Researchers at Purdue University have also concluded that honey aids in calcium absorption, and that the rate of absorption increases with the amount of honey consumed. Want strong bones? Grab a smoothie in one hand, a bear in the other and have at it. While we’re combining dairy products with honey, let’s talk prebiotics.  While probiotics help put the good bacteria in your gastrointestinal track, prebiotics bring peace to your good bacteria that have already set up housekeeping. Since prebiotics are not absorbed by the body, they pass into the intestines and become a buffet for Bifidobacteria who keep bad bacteria and yeast at bay. By mixing some honey into a cup of yogurt, you can have the best of both worlds; sending some good bacteria into your system and, essentially, packing them a lunch as well. Got a tot with a cough? Before you run out to the local drug store, you may want to reach for the honey. A study conducted by the Penn State College of Medicine in 2007 suggests that honey soothes a child’s cough better than the leading over-the-counter cough suppressants. Worried about recent news concerning the effects of cough suppressants containing dextromethorphan (DM) on children and the recent FDA recommendation that over-the-counter cough and cold medicines not be given to children under six, researchers set forth to re-examine the medicinal uses of honey. Considered to have healing properties throughout the ages in different societies, doctors sought a revisit of honey to provide a safe alternative for parents of young children. In a double blind study, children were given honey, honey-flavored DM, or no treatment while the parents were asked to answer five questions the following day. Each time, the DM results were only as good as children given no treatment while the honey showed dramatic improvement in both cough reduction and improved sleep for child and parent alike.  The only side effect mentioned in the honey group was a few cases of hyperactivity. Apitherapy anyone? No, it doesn’t involve stinking up the room with candles or humming while someone tunes your Chi with a singing bowl. Apitherapy comes from the Latin apis or bee. Apitherapy has been around for perhaps millennia before someone came up with a catchy name for it. It involves a little bit of homeopathy, a little bit of bug, and a little bit of faith, as some of these home grown cures involve bee venom. The American Apitherapy Society claims that Hippocrates touted bee venom as a valid treatment of joint disorders, although the ability to run from an angry bee is hardly the kind of proof the AMA looks for. Apitherapy is not all about nature’s little acupuncturist. Many of the treatments involve honey, pollen, wax, and royal jelly. Although Apitherapy is an ancient concept, it has found a modern niche in America’s organic obsession. The apothecary section of any natural foods market will probably carry some form of Apitherapy, whether it’s bees wax lip balm, or an unfiltered honey beauty mask, no part of our little friend’s labors are put to waste. All the research is still mounting to prove what we already knew; honey is good stuff. We can love it for its antibacterial qualities, because it helps keep our bodies in working order, and because we no longer have to depend on potentially damaging medicines for our children. Or, we can drizzle on a healthy serving regardless of what we’re eating, relish the flavor, and be glad we’re not piling on tablespoons of sugar. Reconnect with your honey tonight.  No, really. That sweet, syrupy stuff that’s sat in your cupboard for the last two presidencies is still good and just waiting for you to pay some attention to the little bear shaped bottle. For some, the presence of honey in the house conjures images of old Aunt Sylvia pretentiously sipping her tea, or that last odd ingredient for a turkey glaze that you ended up not making after all. It’s true that while growing up, honey was a distant second sweetener to most of us; preferring to dump numerous tablespoons of sugar atop our healthy oat cereal. While we no longer dump mounds of sugar on our cereal (mostly), honey has remained the unchanged champion of healthy sweeteners. That’s right, healthy. From its status as a natural antibiotic to a fine antioxidant and homeopathic cure-all, honey has been the sweet choice of humans since prehistoric times. The moment humankind discovered the first hives; only slightly before they discovered the first sting treatment, we have been in love with honey. According to the National Honey Board, honey contains antioxidants that may help protect against cellular damage. While the amounts may not rival fresh fruits and vegetables, it makes for a guilt free drizzle onto your oatmeal or toast. Researchers at Purdue University have also concluded that honey aids in calcium absorption, and that the rate of absorption increases with the amount of honey consumed. Want strong bones? Grab a smoothie in one hand, a bear in the other and have at it. While we’re combining dairy products with honey, let’s talk prebiotics.  While probiotics help put the good bacteria in your gastrointestinal track, prebiotics bring peace to your good bacteria that have already set up housekeeping. Since prebiotics are not absorbed by the body, they pass into the intestines and become a buffet for Bifidobacteria who keep bad bacteria and yeast at bay. By mixing some honey into a cup of yogurt, you can have the best of both worlds; sending some good bacteria into your system and, essentially, packing them a lunch as well. Got a tot with a cough? Before you run out to the local drug store, you may want to reach for the honey. A study conducted by the Penn State College of Medicine in 2007 suggests that honey soothes a child’s cough better than the leading over-the-counter cough suppressants. Worried about recent news concerning the effects of cough suppressants containing dextromethorphan (DM) on children and the recent FDA recommendation that over-the-counter cough and cold medicines not be given to children under six, researchers set forth to re-examine the medicinal uses of honey. Considered to have healing properties throughout the ages in different societies, doctors sought a revisit of honey to provide a safe alternative for parents of young children. In a double blind study, children were given honey, honey-flavored DM, or no treatment while the parents were asked to answer five questions the following day. Each time, the DM results were only as good as children given no treatment while the honey showed dramatic improvement in both cough reduction and improved sleep for child and parent alike.  The only side effect mentioned in the honey group was a few cases of hyperactivity. Apitherapy anyone? No, it doesn’t involve stinking up the room with candles or humming while someone tunes your Chi with a singing bowl. Apitherapy comes from the Latin apis or bee. Apitherapy has been around for perhaps millennia before someone came up with a catchy name for it. It involves a little bit of homeopathy, a little bit of bug, and a little bit of faith, as some of these home grown cures involve bee venom. The American Apitherapy Society claims that Hippocrates touted bee venom as a valid treatment of joint disorders, although the ability to run from an angry bee is hardly the kind of proof the AMA looks for. Apitherapy is not all about nature’s little acupuncturist. Many of the treatments involve honey, pollen, wax, and royal jelly. Although Apitherapy is an ancient concept, it has found a modern niche in America’s organic obsession. The apothecary section of any natural foods market will probably carry some form of Apitherapy, whether it’s bees wax lip balm, or an unfiltered honey beauty mask, no part of our little friend’s labors are put to waste. All the research is still mounting to prove what we already knew; honey is good stuff. We can love it for its antibacterial qualities, because it helps keep our bodies in working order, and because we no longer have to depend on potentially damaging medicines for our children. Or, we can drizzle on a healthy serving regardless of what we’re eating, relish the flavor, and be glad we’re not piling on tablespoons of sugar. Tue, 24 Feb 2009 12:16:48 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Poor-Chef-Magazine-article-Honey/BLOG/193468/30146.html Douglas 2009-02-24T12:16:48Z Mike's Writers Network Reconnect with your honey tonight.  No, really. That sweet, syrupy stuff that’s sat in your cupboard for the last two presidencies is still good and just waiting for you to pay some attention to the little bear shaped bottle. For some, the presence of honey in the house conjures images of old Aunt Sylvia pretentiously sipping her tea, or that last odd ingredient for a turkey glaze that you ended up not making after all. It’s true that while growing up, honey was a distant second sweetener to most of us; preferring to dump numerous tablespoons of sugar atop our healthy oat cereal. While we no longer dump mounds of sugar on our cereal (mostly), honey has remained the unchanged champion of healthy sweeteners. That’s right, healthy. From its status as a natural antibiotic to a fine antioxidant and homeopathic cure-all, honey has been the sweet choice of humans since prehistoric times. The moment humankind discovered the first hives; only slightly before they discovered the first sting treatment, we have been in love with honey. According to the National Honey Board, honey contains antioxidants that may help protect against cellular damage. While the amounts may not rival fresh fruits and vegetables, it makes for a guilt free drizzle onto your oatmeal or toast. Researchers at Purdue University have also concluded that honey aids in calcium absorption, and that the rate of absorption increases with the amount of honey consumed. Want strong bones? Grab a smoothie in one hand, a bear in the other and have at it. While we’re combining dairy products with honey, let’s talk prebiotics.  While probiotics help put the good bacteria in your gastrointestinal track, prebiotics bring peace to your good bacteria that have already set up housekeeping. Since prebiotics are not absorbed by the body, they pass into the intestines and become a buffet for Bifidobacteria who keep bad bacteria and yeast at bay. By mixing some honey into a cup of yogurt, you can have the best of both worlds; sending some good bacteria into your system and, essentially, packing them a lunch as well. Got a tot with a cough? Before you run out to the local drug store, you may want to reach for the honey. A study conducted by the Penn State College of Medicine in 2007 suggests that honey soothes a child’s cough better than the leading over-the-counter cough suppressants. Worried about recent news concerning the effects of cough suppressants containing dextromethorphan (DM) on children and the recent FDA recommendation that over-the-counter cough and cold medicines not be given to children under six, researchers set forth to re-examine the medicinal uses of honey. Considered to have healing properties throughout the ages in different societies, doctors sought a revisit of honey to provide a safe alternative for parents of young children. In a double blind study, children were given honey, honey-flavored DM, or no treatment while the parents were asked to answer five questions the following day. Each time, the DM results were only as good as children given no treatment while the honey showed dramatic improvement in both cough reduction and improved sleep for child and parent alike.  The only side effect mentioned in the honey group was a few cases of hyperactivity. Apitherapy anyone? No, it doesn’t involve stinking up the room with candles or humming while someone tunes your Chi with a singing bowl. Apitherapy comes from the Latin apis or bee. Apitherapy has been around for perhaps millennia before someone came up with a catchy name for it. It involves a little bit of homeopathy, a little bit of bug, and a little bit of faith, as some of these home grown cures involve bee venom. The American Apitherapy Society claims that Hippocrates touted bee venom as a valid treatment of joint disorders, although the ability to run from an angry bee is hardly the kind of proof the AMA looks for. Apitherapy is not all about nature’s little acupuncturist. Many of the treatments involve honey, pollen, wax, and royal jelly. Although Apitherapy is an ancient concept, it has found a modern niche in America’s organic obsession. The apothecary section of any natural foods market will probably carry some form of Apitherapy, whether it’s bees wax lip balm, or an unfiltered honey beauty mask, no part of our little friend’s labors are put to waste. All the research is still mounting to prove what we already knew; honey is good stuff. We can love it for its antibacterial qualities, because it helps keep our bodies in working order, and because we no longer have to depend on potentially damaging medicines for our children. Or, we can drizzle on a healthy serving regardless of what we’re eating, relish the flavor, and be glad we’re not piling on tablespoons of sugar. nonadult false Poor Chef Magazine article: Honey text blog 92 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=4839825&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_2688368_30146_4839825_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 193468 4839825 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Poor-Chef-Magazine-article-Spam/BLOG/193464/30146.html The True Value of Spamby C. Douglas McIntireNo one denies that times are tough. In fact, these days, shoppingfor a descent cut of meat is like window shopping for a new livingroom. You stand, gazing at the butcher’s case whispering,“Someday you will be mine, filet mignon,” as nervous motherscorral their children away from your cart.The wistfulness makes the mind wander off to comforting andmore affordable foods - like Spam. Hey, why not? After all, Spamhas been around since 1939 and it has seen us through manytough times. In fact, seventy-five little blue cans of happinesshave flown off American shelves since you started reading thisarticle. However, the question remains: Is Spam a true value forconsumers?Categorizing Spam as an inexpensive meat is a shaky argumentat best, but I still tested it against another pork product. A brieflook around my local grocery store revealed that pork sirloincutlets were selling at $2.49 per pound. If Spam were to earnthat auspicious place in with its meat kin (meaning pricedaccordingly pound for pound,) it would have had a price of $3.52per pound. But wait, the discrepancy widens.The average weight of a sirloin chop is four ounces. Since thesuggested serving of Spam is only two ounces, I either had todouble my Spam values or ask someone to eat only half of achop — and I would never do that. The full chop came in at 140calories with 45 calories from fat. Spam’s 214 calories with 140calories from fat meant that four ounces of Spam contain thesame fat calories as the entire caloric content of a single chop! Inaddition, the chop contained 600 mg of sodium. Sound bad? WellSpam topped out at 1156 mg!At the end of the day, Spam did not measure up as a “hard time”food. That’s all right, as it is perfectly acceptable to love Spamjust because it makes you feel good. So pull back that shiny littlelid with pride, and cook it however you like; six billion cans ofSpam can’t be wrong. The True Value of Spamby C. Douglas McIntireNo one denies that times are tough. In fact, these days, shoppingfor a descent cut of meat is like window shopping for a new livingroom. You stand, gazing at the butcher’s case whispering,“Someday you will be mine, filet mignon,” as nervous motherscorral their children away from your cart.The wistfulness makes the mind wander off to comforting andmore affordable foods - like Spam. Hey, why not? After all, Spamhas been around since 1939 and it has seen us through manytough times. In fact, seventy-five little blue cans of happinesshave flown off American shelves since you started reading thisarticle. However, the question remains: Is Spam a true value forconsumers?Categorizing Spam as an inexpensive meat is a shaky argumentat best, but I still tested it against another pork product. A brieflook around my local grocery store revealed that pork sirloincutlets were selling at $2.49 per pound. If Spam were to earnthat auspicious place in with its meat kin (meaning pricedaccordingly pound for pound,) it would have had a price of $3.52per pound. But wait, the discrepancy widens.The average weight of a sirloin chop is four ounces. Since thesuggested serving of Spam is only two ounces, I either had todouble my Spam values or ask someone to eat only half of achop — and I would never do that. The full chop came in at 140calories with 45 calories from fat. Spam’s 214 calories with 140calories from fat meant that four ounces of Spam contain thesame fat calories as the entire caloric content of a single chop! Inaddition, the chop contained 600 mg of sodium. Sound bad? WellSpam topped out at 1156 mg!At the end of the day, Spam did not measure up as a “hard time”food. That’s all right, as it is perfectly acceptable to love Spamjust because it makes you feel good. So pull back that shiny littlelid with pride, and cook it however you like; six billion cans ofSpam can’t be wrong. Tue, 24 Feb 2009 12:12:29 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Poor-Chef-Magazine-article-Spam/BLOG/193464/30146.html Douglas 2009-02-24T12:12:29Z Mike's Writers Network The True Value of Spamby C. Douglas McIntireNo one denies that times are tough. In fact, these days, shoppingfor a descent cut of meat is like window shopping for a new livingroom. You stand, gazing at the butcher’s case whispering,“Someday you will be mine, filet mignon,” as nervous motherscorral their children away from your cart.The wistfulness makes the mind wander off to comforting andmore affordable foods - like Spam. Hey, why not? After all, Spamhas been around since 1939 and it has seen us through manytough times. In fact, seventy-five little blue cans of happinesshave flown off American shelves since you started reading thisarticle. However, the question remains: Is Spam a true value forconsumers?Categorizing Spam as an inexpensive meat is a shaky argumentat best, but I still tested it against another pork product. A brieflook around my local grocery store revealed that pork sirloincutlets were selling at $2.49 per pound. If Spam were to earnthat auspicious place in with its meat kin (meaning pricedaccordingly pound for pound,) it would have had a price of $3.52per pound. But wait, the discrepancy widens.The average weight of a sirloin chop is four ounces. Since thesuggested serving of Spam is only two ounces, I either had todouble my Spam values or ask someone to eat only half of achop — and I would never do that. The full chop came in at 140calories with 45 calories from fat. Spam’s 214 calories with 140calories from fat meant that four ounces of Spam contain thesame fat calories as the entire caloric content of a single chop! Inaddition, the chop contained 600 mg of sodium. Sound bad? WellSpam topped out at 1156 mg!At the end of the day, Spam did not measure up as a “hard time”food. That’s all right, as it is perfectly acceptable to love Spamjust because it makes you feel good. So pull back that shiny littlelid with pride, and cook it however you like; six billion cans ofSpam can’t be wrong. nonadult false Poor Chef Magazine article: Spam text blog 90 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=4839825&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_2688368_30146_4839825_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 193464 4839825 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Sorry-Mike/BLOG/190115/30146.html I won't be using this blog any more. With all the blogs that I have, I don't need the frustration of not having my posts show, especially since I wanted to go back and use the story notes I blogged, yesterday. It's been over 12 hours! I don't know the reason for that and I can't think of any good reason for it. I don't recall anything about it in the TOS, but then, my mind does tend to glaze over as I read those things.I'm glad I didn't post something I was afraid I'd forget. I've been thinking about this story for some time so I can remember the gist of what I wrote. If I had any new ideas, they are lost to me until the post shows.Anyway, I thought this would be a help for my writing, but it's frustrating and I have enough frustration in my life right now without this. I can keep my story notes and comments elsewhere. I won't be using this blog any more. With all the blogs that I have, I don't need the frustration of not having my posts show, especially since I wanted to go back and use the story notes I blogged, yesterday. It's been over 12 hours! I don't know the reason for that and I can't think of any good reason for it. I don't recall anything about it in the TOS, but then, my mind does tend to glaze over as I read those things.I'm glad I didn't post something I was afraid I'd forget. I've been thinking about this story for some time so I can remember the gist of what I wrote. If I had any new ideas, they are lost to me until the post shows.Anyway, I thought this would be a help for my writing, but it's frustrating and I have enough frustration in my life right now without this. I can keep my story notes and comments elsewhere. Thu, 19 Feb 2009 19:52:31 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Sorry-Mike/BLOG/190115/30146.html airycat 2009-02-19T19:52:31Z Mike's Writers Network I won't be using this blog any more. With all the blogs that I have, I don't need the frustration of not having my posts show, especially since I wanted to go back and use the story notes I blogged, yesterday. It's been over 12 hours! I don't know the reason for that and I can't think of any good reason for it. I don't recall anything about it in the TOS, but then, my mind does tend to glaze over as I read those things.I'm glad I didn't post something I was afraid I'd forget. I've been thinking about this story for some time so I can remember the gist of what I wrote. If I had any new ideas, they are lost to me until the post shows.Anyway, I thought this would be a help for my writing, but it's frustrating and I have enough frustration in my life right now without this. I can keep my story notes and comments elsewhere. nonadult false Sorry, Mike text blog 83 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=2591590&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_1271362_30146_2591590_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 190115 2591590 Member 0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Growing-up-in-China-in-the-60s/BLOG/189515/30146.html Nope. Not me. My character. (I thought I'd jot down some thoughts instead of complaining more.) Braketed [] parts are notes on my notes, or notes within notes.As yet unnamed male lead character grew up in China during the Cultural Revolution. He was separated from his well-to-do parents and sent to a community farm [look up proper name]. He was the right age to be influenced and joined the Red Guard.He was an adult when Mao died and capitalism started to be filtered into the Chinese economy. Since he was an intelligent young man and not particularly fond of farming, he ventured into business. [What business? Need to figure it out so that it ties in logically with existing story.]He does well in his business and travels. He has visited many places, including US. At some point he meets his wife, a woman with Taiwanese ties. [Do I need to elaborate on how they met?] China, as is often the case, is uncomfortable with wealthy capitalists. He is a loyal citizen, not completely unaware that he needs to make his patriotism clear and open. He believes he has done well at this, but...The rest mostly follows as in the original story, minus the fan element.If I write his life story as fully as I can, I can then determine how much and what parts need to be revealed when in the story. His whole biography can be telling until I actually fit it into the story, at which point I need to get into his head and "experience" it as I did with Abby's (female lead) story. I'll edit as I think 0of things, if I can do that here. Nope. Not me. My character. (I thought I'd jot down some thoughts instead of complaining more.) Braketed [] parts are notes on my notes, or notes within notes.As yet unnamed male lead character grew up in China during the Cultural Revolution. He was separated from his well-to-do parents and sent to a community farm [look up proper name]. He was the right age to be influenced and joined the Red Guard.He was an adult when Mao died and capitalism started to be filtered into the Chinese economy. Since he was an intelligent young man and not particularly fond of farming, he ventured into business. [What business? Need to figure it out so that it ties in logically with existing story.]He does well in his business and travels. He has visited many places, including US. At some point he meets his wife, a woman with Taiwanese ties. [Do I need to elaborate on how they met?] China, as is often the case, is uncomfortable with wealthy capitalists. He is a loyal citizen, not completely unaware that he needs to make his patriotism clear and open. He believes he has done well at this, but...The rest mostly follows as in the original story, minus the fan element.If I write his life story as fully as I can, I can then determine how much and what parts need to be revealed when in the story. His whole biography can be telling until I actually fit it into the story, at which point I need to get into his head and "experience" it as I did with Abby's (female lead) story. I'll edit as I think 0of things, if I can do that here. Thu, 19 Feb 2009 04:31:58 GMT http://affiliate.kickapps.com/_Growing-up-in-China-in-the-60s/BLOG/189515/30146.html airycat 2009-02-19T04:31:58Z Mike's Writers Network Nope. Not me. My character. (I thought I'd jot down some thoughts instead of complaining more.) Braketed [] parts are notes on my notes, or notes within notes.As yet unnamed male lead character grew up in China during the Cultural Revolution. He was separated from his well-to-do parents and sent to a community farm [look up proper name]. He was the right age to be influenced and joined the Red Guard.He was an adult when Mao died and capitalism started to be filtered into the Chinese economy. Since he was an intelligent young man and not particularly fond of farming, he ventured into business. [What business? Need to figure it out so that it ties in logically with existing story.]He does well in his business and travels. He has visited many places, including US. At some point he meets his wife, a woman with Taiwanese ties. [Do I need to elaborate on how they met?] China, as is often the case, is uncomfortable with wealthy capitalists. He is a loyal citizen, not completely unaware that he needs to make his patriotism clear and open. He believes he has done well at this, but...The rest mostly follows as in the original story, minus the fan element.If I write his life story as fully as I can, I can then determine how much and what parts need to be revealed when in the story. His whole biography can be telling until I actually fit it into the story, at which point I need to get into his head and "experience" it as I did with Abby's (female lead) story. I'll edit as I think 0of things, if I can do that here. notes, story nonadult false Growing up in China in the 60's text blog notes,story 104 0 0.0 http://affiliate.kickapps.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=2591590&as=30146 http://media.kickstatic.com/kickapps/images/30146/photos/PHOTO_1271362_30146_2591590_ap_160X120.jpg false 0 0 189515 2591590 Member 0