Youngsters — Go Figure

Today has been frustrating, the kind of day that raises blood pressure and makes me have trouble seeing. Not the kind of trouble like in a spell of inebriation. This is more like my eyes refused to work the way I wanted them to. I haven’t gone blind or anything (although I tried valiantly to make it so in my youth). No, that isn’t the problem. They simply seemed resistant to viewing the world.

My glorious kids have been such a pain today. We received a Fire Stick in the mail yesterday and after a little time installing it. Well, it would have been a little time. As things happen at my house I had some extra volunteer workers that roamed the living room. Actually I believe it took a couple of hours last night and then another couple of hours this morning. Afterward, I know it’s hard to believe about kids, but they all started fighting, screaming, and crying.

Of course, every one of my ten kids had to be the first to view their show before the others. Yeah, a hell of a morning. None of their chores were done, and I swore, no one was going to pick anything to watch until they had their chore done. No, I mean I swore. I’m good at that, swearing. I practice it a lot, especially when I’m writing, but somehow the kids bring out the best of it. When they are the cause, depending on their age, I night mumble it before and usually after, however, the mid-teens have heard great, vocal rants. I got the equivalent of a graduate degree in it during my stay in the Army.

Anyway, back to the kid’s work ethic. I swear I don’t understand how the idea of a good work ethic became lost on every one of them. Shit fire, they all work harder at not working than they ever do while working. It was the same thing with baths a few years ago. They all worked super hard, spent hours at not taking a bath because they didn’t want to take the time to be clean. What in actual steamy piles of shit are they thinking? These are issues from my loins?

It has been several years, no decades, well all right scores of years since I was a child, so I think my memory may have faded, probably like a piece of black cloth left in the sun all summer long.

Son-of-a-bitch. They’re quiet this second.

Okay, it was a nano-second. Budding arguments are blooming all over right now. It’s what kids do.

Soon the older ones will step into their position in society that all teenagers do. I think it is instinct. I have read that the only true instinct is the urge to suckle. I do not doubt that suckling is an instinct. Hell, I haven’t been weaned yet. But there is another instinct equally as compelling. I’m talking about the need for the younger generation to bug the living shit out of every generation that has gone before them. We all had our shot at it. My generation grew long hair, corrected the political process, and stopped all wars. That shit worked out, huh? I think more than half of the Nimrods in Congress are my generation. Go figure.

Oh well, whatever this next generation does, I’m sure it will leave a mark – one way or another. The only questions now are how much it will hurt and who will do the hurting? None of this matters in the long run. Things happen and then we either remember them or not. If we do, we learn from the situation. If we don’t the whole thing is relegated to a dream or some dark recess of the brain.

That long-forgotten place may also be where creativity resides. You know, that mysterious force that makes writers crazy with their compulsion to write, makes all artist crave work in their field of arts and causes them sleepless nights.

Ah, I’m back to creativity. It makes the world grow and in the long run, gives peace to everyone. Necessity was never the mother of invention. It’s the need to create.

Please don’t forget my book The Sigma Factor is half price at For those of you that haven’t gotten it and read it, please get it. It took me a year and a half to write it so you could read it in a day. I don’t think $1.50 is too much to pay.

Give me and my editor hugs. Review it. You don’t have to finish reading it and you don’t have to write an essay. Just say you liked it, or why you didn’t like it. Hugs are wonderful.



This last week had one of my favorite holidays. I love the fourth of July. I can feel the electricity of the day as it builds to the end for the climax of expended fireworks with everyone oohing and ahhing. Who doesn’t like fireworks? I know it’s my children’s favorite. I think they love the boom and bang of the stuff more than the beauty of all explosions in the air. Personally, I like the colors and patterns more than the bang. I am a Field Artilleryman. I love a good, loud boom, the kind you can feel in your chest, but such is an occupational hazard – after living with artillery — fireworks are dimmed.

Of course, the nighttime display is only meant to represent the Revolutionary War. In that respect, it shines bright.

Anyway, the Fourth of July is always a special day. I sat outside with the kids, watching the sky for the colorful explosions while swatting mosquitoes. The kids ran around like heathens, zipping every which way, doing what kids always do when let loose. I think they make more noise than the explosions. There was no need to have them be quiet (we live in the country)and everyone was happy.

All of us had fun with the zinging and popping, then we looked to the sky and watched fireworks. Oh, there was a small typo in that last sentence – pooping, not popping. What can a person do? I’d rather smell spent gunpowder than excrement, but life goes on.

The twins tired of the show about the time I did and we retired to the living room where the true spectacle of the Macy’s fireworks filled the television screen. Ah, the life of a kid is one of the extremes. One minute running and jumping with joy outside, the next quiet and subdued.

I think every kid can change their mood while spinning on a gnat’s ass. They proclaim hate for their siblings just seconds after spontaneous hugs and kisses. They embody gusto and fun. Maybe I should change that to – they embody the outward display of gusto and fun. When you reach my age, your gusto and fun rush around on the inside. Not all the time, but a significant percentage of the time. I can hum to myself, have a virtual party inside, even have fun without smiling.

How about satisfaction?

That’s tricky. I can be satisfied in one sense, say, when I finish a novel, but not in another sense, like how I can let that novel sit for a brief span of time, pick it up and voila! I don’t like it at all. I mean what the hell happened? Let’s not confuse this with one of my readers who gets satisfaction every time they read my book.

I feel satisfied every time I read The Count of Monte Cristo. It’s one of my favorite books.

So, how can the same word describe all of those feelings? It doesn’t matter. We can just accept that it does.

Do you know what I really like to do? I love dredging up things, writing them down, and mixing them up until they take on different meanings, sometimes dramatic, sometimes clever. What makes it so delightful to me is that it at times results in pure, unadulterated, horseshit. The sum of all the hard skull-work may be the result of nothing in, is nothing out.

So how are all the different worlds created inside of books? Is everyone a genius? Was Mozart a genius? Of course, he was, but that doesn’t mean that everyone that writes is a virtuoso of words.

What happens is enormous sweat and toil (no not in the bedroom) although that may help with creativity. The work happens everywhere, at times with a pencil, other times with a computer. I mean everywhere, while driving, maybe swimming, even while lovemaking; sometimes greater things happen if you don’t keep your mind on what you are doing. Perhaps the only time ever that wives refrain from complaining about their hubbies not paying attention. Such is life.

My wife thinks, uh, I don’t know. Since I need hearing aids, I’m sure she blames my not reacting to her words on my bum ears. Even before my hearing went south, though, she complained that I never pay attention. That is in fact wrong. Some of those times the voice in my head was saying, “I have to remember what she’s saying … I have to remember what she’s saying … I have to remember what –

Unfortunately, all I remembered was that I had to remember what she said. So even when I tried to soak in what she’d uttered, the evil winds of whatever wouldn’t let me. Maybe I should say someone shuffled the cards and took one or two away, so it wouldn’t be in the cards. I don’t know. It’s a conspiracy. The Universe simply does not allow husbands to listen to everything wives say. I’m sorry.

I do tell my wife I’m sorry a lot. Usually, I try to time it so that it coincides with when she is totally absorbed in her favorite television show. That way I can just smile to myself because I know she doesn’t hear me. Wait, maybe she does. I know she can think of several different things at the same time.

I worked my way through college in a restaurant and one day during that time I watched five women come into the restaurant. They sat down and talked the entire time they were there. I will never forget them, because they all talked about different things, and answered each other when called upon to do so. Not one time did any of them lose their place in any one of the five conversations. Damnedest thing I ever saw. All I know is, I wouldn’t want to get in an argument with any of them. They would be pulling shit out of the past with the greatest of ease and I would just have to stand there and slump my shoulders and shuffle away when they were finished.

Did any of you remember to drop by and check out the book sale? Remember it lasts for the entire month of July. Just click on the link below and see that fantastic thriller of mine, and for less than two dollars to boot. you wont regret it.