On Endings and Beginnings

Endings are never easy for me. Beginnings? They’re the best. Exciting and full of possibilities. Beginnings make me feel younger than my 43 years on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. And I’m currently in the midst of what I hope will be my last, new beginning. But before I can embrace it entirely and give myself over heart, soul and mind to the future I need to address how I got here. My last and hopefully my last ending save for the big, bright ending that happens at the end of all things when I finally close my eyes, draw deeply my last breath and shuffle off this mortal coil many, many moons from this rainy, chilly night as I sit in my sunroom, under a blanket, my computer on my lap debating the How. How do I write what I need to write tonight? Well I guess I’ll just let my fingers do the walking across my keyboard and see where they take me. That’s always been my way. Why should this moment… why should tonight be any different?

So… so. In case you don’t know, I am no longer married. I might as well cut right to the chase. No longer married, and no longer a resident of Broomall, PA. Nicole is still there. So are the cats and the demon dog, who despite popular opinion and my own, twisted sense of humor, I actually like. I now lay my head in a little, single family twin in Swarthmore, PA–hence the above, sunroom reference. Three bedrooms, a bath and a half, the aforementioned sunroom and a finished basement, not to mention a couple of fireplaces, a small deck and a covered stoop. It’s different in many ways from where I was before, but the girls seem to like it here and I’m pretty comfortable. So there’s that.

Speaking of the girls, AKA my minions they’re doing great. Surprisingly so to be honest with you. They have great strength and I am daily impressed with their resilience. I am proud… damn proud of them and although I see them less than I used to, we make the best of our time together and that is what matters.

As for Nicole and I? We are doing well. We remain good friends and are committed to raising the girls the same way we always have. The rules at Dad’s house are the same as the rules at Mom’s. Consistency, I believe, is the key to co-parenting and I hope, nay pray that I am right. Only time will tell but for the moment, 30 plus days in, things seem to be progressing smoothly.

So that’s the How. How I ended up here. How I ended, and then began anew. Logic would seem to dictate that I now address the Why but to be honest with you, friends? There’s really no need. No point. Why did Nicole and I split up? What did I do? What did she do? No. I will not point fingers because that is not my way. Nor is it hers. Simply put? We ended because it was the right and only move. The logical, next step in our respective lives. Sometimes relationships work and serve a purpose for a time and Nicole and I served each other well for many, many years. But people grow apart. They drift. They decide that they want different things out of life and if they can walk away amicably with a friendship and a co-parenting relationship intact? Well sh*t guys and gals, that’s about the best outcome you can ask for, isn’t it? Nicole will always mean a great deal to me and I, I hope, to her. We had a handful of wonderful, experience and fun-filled years together and we have two beautiful, albeit sassy daughters to show for it. And those two, little ladies will always bind us together in life and beyond. But where she goes from here and where I go? Who knows? But I wish her all the success and happiness in the world, and I hope… I know she wishes me the same. Booyakasha, kiddo. Respect.

So… so. Here we are. Back to me. The Madchronicler. El Autoro. The once and future, hopeless romantic and eternal dreamer. Ironically enough, things have kind of defaulted back to where they were once upon a dreamer’s dream. I live by myself and support myself again. I sleep by myself in my bed and watch the shows and movies I want to watch on television. I eat a lot of sandwiches and drink a lot of Powerade Zero (that’s honestly not a change; more of a parallel move). I work, probably harder than I should but what can I say? It’s me. And I’ve never been lazy when it comes to my life, or my career. I say my prayers every night before I close my eyes and I thank God every morning that I wake up for another opportunity to make my mark on the world that exists on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence.

Am I happy? Content in my new life? Well I’d be lying if I said “yes.” Despite a bit of a return to my once-norm and the bizarre sense of comfort that it brings, I miss the life I led up until a few months ago. I miss my house in Broomall, PA. I miss my cats. And yes, I even miss the demon dog who, I should note, appears to like me more now that I am not a permanent fixture in her home. I miss seeing my minions every day though Skype/Facetime is a beautiful invention. Yet all those things that I just mentioned? Missing them and at times longing for them is normal. If I didn’t I’d likely be a different Frank then the Frank you all know and, I hope, love. Or at least like. You don’t have to love me. Hell, you don’t even have to like me. But if you respect me and who I am? That’s cool. And if you don’t? Reach out to me offline and let me know, and I’ll try to change your mind.

Please listen and heed my words, everyone: I am not writing this out of a desire for pity. I do not want that. I’m writing this because I need to and that is honestly the only reason. Those of you that have known me the longest know how I heal. How do I heal for those that haven’t? Simple. I heal via writing. It’s the last stage in the process. And it’s taken me until this rainy, chilly November night–as the rain pounds comfortably on the roof of my sunroom and Chris Cornell sings in the background–to embrace it. I am reminded of what a psychic once told me many, many moons ago as I stood upon the boardwalk in Atlantic City, NJ on a night similar to this one, albeit about 20 degrees warmer. She told me how my life would take shape. First? I would find stability. Then? I would find a career. And finally? I would find love. I remember thinking back around the turn of the century give or take a year or two that I was there. I had a stable roof over my head for the first time in years. I had a career at good old CVStress and I had met, and fallen in love with my Pharmacy Intern. And for a time? I believed it. It was arguably the only time a psychic hit the proverbial nail on the head.

Subsequent years have shown me a different interpretation. Now? I have stability. I never really lost it. That’s first. Next comes the career and as of this moment? Well, there really isn’t one though there is a paycheck and a chance. Let’s assume that one solves itself and I’m back at two of three. But the third? Love? Well, I had it. There’s no doubting that I did. I was in love despite what any naysayers or pragmatists believe. And maybe… just maybe I’ll find it again but right now it’s not about that. It’s about an old ending and a new beginning. Life anew. Another sunrise and what I hope will be a long and beautiful, cloudless day with a bright, blue sky vaulting from horizon to horizon until the next, inevitable sunset. I’m not ready for that yet. I’m only 43 years young on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, friends. Even if I’ve already passed midday… well. Days like the one I described above? They seem to go on forever. And I hope… I truly hope that this one does. Because there’s potential in this one. I can feel it. I may not be able to see it yet but it’s there. Waiting just beyond my reach like a word on the tip of my tongue or a drop of rain, barely clinging to the limb of the tree that grows outside my sunroom window. Close. So close. And if I close my eyes I can almost smell it. Taste it. I don’t need to see it yet. I just need to believe.

And that? That’s the end. Nothing more to write this evening. Thank you for reading my ramblings. You’ve been doing so for years now and I promise you that more will follow. This too is just a beginning. There’s a story or two to write, as well. So stay tuned for updates. They’re coming soon.

Winky emoticon. Smiley Face.

F.

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What Thanksgiving Means to Me By Way of CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD, Hans Zimmer and the “Interstellar” Soundtrack

Good Evening, Afternoon or Morning, fellow Sh*theads. Happy Thanksgiving Eve to all of my fellow denizens of this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. It’s been a while since I last wrote… almost too long. For those of you that have been waiting patiently for a new blog entry I’m sorry. Thank you for your tolerance of me and my inconsistency as a writer, lately.  As before, I assure you that it’s not for lack of wanting. I want to write every day. But sometimes, life gets in the way and this aspect of me has to take a backseat to other aspects of me. Husband, father, friend and working stiff. Not to mention laundry, chores, homework and playing princesses with my minions. Birthday parties, holidays… you name it. I do what I must. But tonight? Tonight it’s me, my trusty old laptop, the soundtrack to “Interstellar” and a blank page. And it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without another of my yearly “What Thanksgiving Means to Me” entries.

I promise not to be too long winded. I’ve been accused of that in the past. And really? I don’t feel the need to be so anymore. There’s no need for embellishment to tell you how I feel right now. In short? I feel blessed. Thankful this year more than I’ve been in years past. It’s not that my life has changed much. It hasn’t. Short of my kids being a year older, my marriage being a year stronger and my new-old career coming up on it’s one year anniversary things really aren’t that much different than they were at this time last year. On the surface. Inside? I don’t know. I just feel… what’s the word I’m looking for? Ah, yes. Two words actually…

At peace.

As I sit here tonight with the soundtrack to an incredible movie playing in the background (Hans Zimmer is so very, very good for the soul) I type these words with a sly grin upon my face beneath my bushy, salt and pepper beard. Why? Because I’m at peace. It’s nothing concrete… substantial. Like I said, my life isn’t much different than it was a year ago. But I feel it. I felt it at my daughter’s Thanksgiving Feast today and I felt it as I watched my girls play in the snow outside this afternoon. I felt it when I closed my eyes and took a brief, half hour nap this afternoon and when I woke up and started baking for Thanksgiving tomorrow–Pumpkin Bread and Corn Bread from scratch; I accept no substitute. I felt it watching “Caillou’s Holiday Movie” for the first of many times this season earlier and I felt it when I read my girls their nightly story, tucked them in, kissed them on their respective foreheads, told them “goodnight,” “sleep tight” and “I love you.” It was gul’darned serendipitous, friends. Like now as the composition “Stay” soars.

Serendipity.

I could type a laundry list of the things I’m thankful for this year. I could. But I won’t. Because really? There’s only one way to explain it without filling up Kilobytes upon Megabytes of text here on WordPress. I think I’ve mentioned this before and if I have, sorry for repeating myself. Yet if I haven’t? Well heck, now’s as good a time as any. I’ll admit: I’ve been stymied on CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD lately. Again, not for lack of wanting to work on it. Life, man. It just gets in the way sometimes. But there’s the scene in CHILDREN that I’ve always looked forward to writing. I call it “The Thanksgiving Scene.” It happens around page 300 of 400 or so and without giving anything away, it’s the scene where my hero, William MacNuff is reunited with his brethren in totality for the first time. Past, present and future: All intermingled, as some in Endworld would say. All one.

The other night, after not working on the book for weeks I sat down and finally… finally wrote it. I’d always had an idea of where it would go and who would be involved. A few things have changed from the moment I re-wrote the first words of ENDWORLD until now (sarcasm fully intended; the whole damned thing changed) but surprisingly? The same people that were in it the first time I conceived of it were in it again. Through a hundred and one twists and turns… new characters, unplanned demises et al, the same people showed up the other night in my living room to eat wild turkey, drink Wild Turkey and toast each other on an undetermined day of an undetermined month in the year BLANK of the BLANK (come on; I can’t give that away, can I?). The same people went around the table and said what they were thankful for. And yet when I got to William’s moment I stopped typing. Because really, what was he thankful for? His loved ones. Sure. His life. Definitely. But how could he… how could I rank the things I’m thankful for? Fact: I can’t. And neither could he.

So what did he do? What did he say? That, I can tell you because it applies this cold and snowy night here on my side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Art imitates reality and vice versa. And what follows sufficiently answers the question posed by the title of this blog entry, “What Thanksgiving Means to Me,” perhaps better than any laundry list ever could:

There was not a lot to be thankful for in Endworld. Living under the proverbial boot of a totalitarian Administration bent on suppressing humanity? Constantly running for our lives to a hypothetical freedom? There once was a poet, whose name I cannot remember that wrote that “nothing gold can stay.” “So Eden sank to grief, so dawn goes down to day.” I believe that’s how it goes. And yet at that moment as I sat there amidst my brethren… my friends after so much time apart an undetermined day of an undetermined month I knew. I knew that there was one thing I was thankful for… the same thing that we were all thankful for, originality be damned. Slowly, I stood from my feast. All eyes followed me as I did so. I picked up my half-filled glass, raised it to the ceiling and spoke.

“I’m thankful,” I began, paused, and completed, “for now.”

Smiles graced the faces of all those assembled around me. A few people nodded. I heard someone sniffle. And then, in a rousing chorus, all of my counterparts spoke in unison.

“To now,” they all said as time moved onward without check, as time always does in Endworld.

Okay, so I edited it down a bit. There were a few “tells” in the passage and I don’t want to give away what’s coming. But that statement? “I’m thankful for now?” That’s really the crux of it for me. Let’s face it, gang: You never know what tomorrow will hold. Carpe Diem, baby. I’d like to think that I’ll be here in the morning to see my wife off to work and watch the Thanksgiving Day Parade with my minions. I’d like to think that I’ll be eating store bought turkey at my mom’s house tomorrow afternoon and thereafter watching the Eagles beat the stuffing (pun intended) out of the Cowboys. But who knows? Anything is possible. If life has taught me anything over the last 39 plus years it’s to expect the unexpected. And if the world ends sometime between now and when I wake up on Thanksgiving morning to a snow-bleached world and a bright, blue sky at least I’ll be able to say that I did. I lived for now. I’d urge you all to do the same. That, friends, is my Thanksgiving wish for you. Seize your respective days and make them your b*tches and b*stards. Booyakasha. Respect.

And that? That’s the end of this little piece of pre-Turkey Day mental flatulence. Thanks as always for your time! May your turkey be warm, your mashed potatoes and gravy be un-lumpy, your stuffing be… well, awesome (’cause stuffing is just awesome) and your yams be sweet. May your afternoon be filled with love and high fives every time the Eagles score. In short?

Happy holiday, fellow Sh*theads. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

Of Sabbaticals, Life Changes, Writing and Building a LEGO House

“I’ve been here before.”

William MacNuff, CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD

Good Morning, Afternoon or Evening, fellow denizens of my subjective reality on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. You all remember me from the past, if such a concept can and does exist here. Past? Present? Future? All are meaningless in a place where we live from sunrise to sunset. Breathing, eating, sh*tting, f*cking… you know the litany. My last post could have been written a day, a month or a year ago and I would not know the difference. As I have learned over the last 38, almost 39 years of my life, time is relative. The urge to write? To revisit “Random Musings of a Pseudo-Madman Version 2.0” has been there… been here the entire time. But sometimes, friends? Sometimes, you simply need to take a bit of a break. Whether you had planned to or not sometimes such things are necessary.  So in answer to the question “where the hell have you been for the last few months, Frank,” the answer is ‘purty simple: I’ve been on a sabbatical, watching as my life changes in once-unimagined ways around me. I’ve also been building a LEGO house with my minions, but I’ll come back to that later.

Truth be told, I have been busy. Oh yes. Very, very busy. Maybe not in the same ways I was before, but busy nonetheless. In the space between when I last wrote–March 26th, actually: I looked it up–and now I’ve established myself in a new job, celebrated my wife’s thirty I MEAN 29TH Birthday, my youngest minion’s second and my oldest minion’s fifth. I’ve attended more parties and family slash friend functions than I can count, celebrated my sixth Father’s Day (counting when Cara Bear was in utero), watched the Sixers tank, the Flyers lose, the Phillies suck and the ‘Iggles… well? I’m optimistic about them.

I’ve also read. A lot. As of right now, I’ve completed the following books since March: The Stand, all seven “Dark Tower” books, A Dance with Dragons and five of the seven “Foundation” books. I’ve further re-read ENDWORLD in preparation for what I hope will be the final stretch of writing the sequel, CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD which is currently 297 pages to the good en route to roughly 400, give or take a dozen in either direction. I still need to finish “Foundation” and complete my re-read and re-write of CHILDREN thus far. All this is one of two things: Me, bringing you up to speed on meaningless trivia about my less than extraordinary existence or me, trying to convince both you and myself that my almost four month break is justified. Was I successful? I have no freakin’ idea.

Let’s delve a bit deeper into some of the things I mentioned above. First and foremost, my job. I’ve got to be honest with you, friends: When I took it back in November of 2013 and started it in December of the same I had my doubts. Staffing and HR was not an industry I was even slightly familiar with. I’d spent the majority of my working life since turning 11 working in customer service, management and sales. Finding people jobs? It was ‘purty alien to me. But I’ve discovered over the last almost eight months that low and behold, I’m actually pretty gul’darned good at it. My office… my Branch is growing, not at an exponential rate but at a steady one. I’ve tacked on over a K in gross weekly margin since taking over, cycled out one partner and am now working with a new one that seems to “get me” and my approach in ways that the last one didn’t. I’ve got a ton of business in the pipeline and more funneling in daily. In short? My job’s good. Real good. I like it more than I’ve liked a job since my earliest days working for CVSStress. In LEGO terms? “Everything is awesome.” Time for a musical interlude? No. Not yet.

Therein lies Caveat One: I enjoy what I’m doing. I put a lot of energy into my everyday, nine to five not-so mundane, routine existence and have little left “in the tank” post-putting the minions to bed to do anything but sit mindlessly and watch the Phillies suck on a nightly basis. Tonight’s a bit of an exception because I drank a Monster around 3:00 PM and am still kinda’ zooted at 10:05. I’m not sure how long this is going to last but I figured I should try to take advantage of it while I can and bang out a thousand words or so. It helps to keep the instrument, AKA my creative mind going. Watching the Phillies really just kills brain cells here in 2014.

So therein lies one reason, perhaps the biggest reason that I haven’t been writing at the same clip that I was last year at this time. Outside of my job, though? There’s my family. My beloved 29 YEAR OLD WIFE Nicole and my equally beloved but at times insanity inducing minions Cara Bear and Nat-Nat Boo. I’ll not lie (’cause really? What would be the point? Nicole would just call my bullsh*t card anyway): When I was knee-deep in the composition of ENDWORLD, I didn’t devote as much time as I should have to them. What can I say? I was at times consumed. I didn’t ignore them per-say. I didn’t retire to the basement and write for hours while they sat upstairs playing princesses and building LEGO houses, but I did allow myself to get caught up in my imagination. And it caused a bit of a strain on things. And I’m not a fan of strain. I prefer that “everything [be] awesome.” So I’v e endeavored to make it so over the last few months. Do you know what? It’s actually been nice. Relaxing for the most part, albeit occasionally enough to make me want to pull every last one of my f*cking salt and pepper hairs out of my head and beard and scream “why God, why can’t the two of you PLAY NICE” at the top of my lungs until I’m hoarse. But teaching Cara to read? Reading “Potty” and working on Natalie’s ABCs with her? Watching “Naked and Afraid” marathons and the god-awful Phillies with Nicole? Hitting up the park circuit and playing in my backyard? All are nice. Awesome, if you will. Cue up Caveat Two: I enjoy spending time with my girls. Not so bad… after all.

As for the other stuff? My ongoing fascination with sports in this town despite the fact that Cleveland may have a champion before we do again (I’m looking at you, Johnny Football)? My desire to start reading books again, albeit books that I’ve read previously rather than always writing them? All are symptomatic of one thing: My need to take a break. A sabbatical, if you will. The last couple of years have been… well? Kind of crazy, friends. Any of you that have tried to balance a career with a family all while self-publishing and marketing your 19 plus year labor of love, not to mention trying to meet the wholly unexpected (I honestly thought people were going to thing ENDWORLD stunk) demand for the continuation of said labor? I’ll repeat: It’s a lot. So you take a step back and try to put things into perspective. You dial back your life changes and “pick up the pieces and build a LEGO house” and you load that f*cker up with as many what we used to call “safeties,” i.e. cross bars that stabilize it and protect it from the destructive tendencies of your two year old as you can. And then…

Then…

When you’ve recouped the sheer amount of energy you depleted in doing all of the above mentioned things… when you’ve replenished “your tank” then? Then, you step outside one hot and humid, early July night and look at the lightning going off in the distance. You inhale deeply on the cigarette you really shouldn’t be smoking, close your eyes, breath in deeply through your nose and exhale through your mouth and for a moment? For one brief, shining moment you realize something completely unexpected. More unexpected than being good at a job you initially doubted you were qualified for and watching the lowly Phillies win four games in a row against one of the best teams in the NL (take that, Brew Crew). You realize that you’re happy. For once in your life, you are actually not a living and breathing facsimile of a smiley face. Your smile? It’s genuine. ‘Cause “everything is awesome.” Is it time, now?

Oh, yes. It is so time:

Try to get it out of your heads now, friends. Odds are you’ll be singing it in the shower tomorrow morning along with me.

All that… all this said, the question remains: How much longer is this break… this sabbatical that I’m on going to last? Well, guys and gals, the answer to that question lies right here in this blog entry. I wouldn’t be pounding these words out right now, abusing my now-seven year old, trusty laptop (might be time for a replacement soon; any suggestions) if I wasn’t ready to hop back on the proverbial horse, get back in the game or whatever chosen cliche you’d like to use to describe the simple fact that it’s time for me to begin writing again. Earlier tonight, I told Cara my two golden rules for building a LEGO house. The first? Never follow the instructions. And the second? Always build until you run out of pieces. I’ve spent enough time following the instructions, and my desire remains to build and build until such time as I have nothing left “in the tank.” Practice what you preach, Madchronicler, AKA Daddy. Who am I to deny that request?

Now, guys. Not a few months from now but now. I know that everything is awesome enough and the time is right. Nicole has my back. Work is still busy, but has stabilized to the point that I’m not spending every waking moment dwelling on it. My minions can play together when they want to, though more often then not it results in the equivalent of a wrasslin’ match, punctuated by screeching and the occasional growl.

And then? There are you. The people that continue to read my random musings and buy ENDWORLD. The ones that ask me when I’m going to finish CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD because they just can’t wait to see what happens next. All the kind souls that have published reviews of my labor of love on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Goodreads et al. You guys? You deserve to know. And I promise you that in the very near future? You will. Only 100 or so more pages to write and man oh man: It’s going to be f’n crazy. I can promise you that.

That’s all she wrote, peeps. In closing? Let me just say “thank you.” Thank you all for your constant and unwavering support of me and my endeavors. You remain my rock: That which keeps me going. We’ve all been here before, and because time has no significance on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence there’s always time. Time to live. Time to breath, eat, sleep, f*ck and sh*t.

And there’s always time to build a LEGO house.

Winky emoticon. Smiley Face.

F.

A Life Less Extraordinary

Once upon a time…

‘Cause all good stories begin as such…

I had an idea. That idea? To write my autobiography and entitle it “A Life Less Extraordinary.” Why? Because quite frankly, my life has been far from legendary. Has it had it’s moments? Certainly. Everyone’s life has ’em. Andy Wharhol called them his “15 minutes of fame.” Every struggling artist–be they a writer, an actor, a painter, a photographer, a musician… whatever–has envisioned their name up in bright, neon lights at some point. Don’t believe me? Ask around. If people are being truthful, I think you’ll find that statement to be 150% accurate.

Some have been successful. Even a few of my contemporaries have. I’ve watched once-associates of mine go on to star in Broadway shows and create album artwork for bands you’ve actually heard of. I even hold the dubious distinction of being loosely-tied to a once politician. A good one, not one of those corrupt bureaucrats that populate DC like vermin…

Oh yes. I went there…

And likely will indefinitely (not something I can control, though I make it a point to vote every single year regardless of how big the election is). But me? Much like Wharhol, I’ve had my “15 minutes of fame.” I am, of course, referring to the self-publication of my debut novel, ENDWORLD last April. It never made it onto any bestseller lists but was I happy with how it performed? Of course I was. A 250 page tome that I wrote when I was 19 to cope with unrequited love ended up being a 447 page epic. And people actually like it. Go fig’!

But outside of that? My life has been pretty darn normal. Less than extraordinary. Hence the title. My idea was to write something for the every man or woman. The people that have dreamed of their 15 minutes but have not yet had them. A rambling piece of long-form, Mental Flatulence that insists to the doubters that it’s okay to be normal. Really. It is. Because we all have a little bit of the extraordinary inside of us. That was the theme… the moral of the story. My story.

Sadly, “A Life Less Extraordinary” seized up at around 100 pages. I made it through my early childhood, through my parents’ separation and divorce and into my high school years but after that? I don’t know. I can’t remember why I stopped (I was flying through it). Maybe that was around the time I decided to re-write ENDWORLD. Or maybe it was the birth of my first and then, my second minion. Whatever the case, I stopped, and have rarely thought about it since.

But…

Lately I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Not in the same capacity as I once did. Quite frankly? I have no desire to write my autobiography at this point in my life. I’m already fictionalizing aspects of my life in The Endworld Series. Why write more? Who the flying f*ck would read it? I’ll pose that question to you my friends, Romans, countrymen and women. Would you? Would you have any interest in reading about a little pear-shaped kid from a broken family who spent the better part of his first 15 years getting picked on? Would you have any interest in reading about that same kid, post-16 through 20-something and his experiences trying to find his ideal, finding it, and then losing it in the space of a couple of weeks? What about what happened to him afterwards: His downward spiral into a toxic existence through which he ended up homeless and living on his friend’s mother’s living room floor? Would you want to read about how he pulled himself back up… how he embraced a career, discovered what “responsibility” is, started dating his Pharmacy Intern, ended up marrying her and having two beautiful little girls with her? “Would you like to know more?”

Well? There isn’t a lot more to tell, sadly. I can embellish it… it’s what I do, but that last paragraph is really it. Save for the lessons I’ve learned through my experiences my life can be summed up in one, tidy “body” paragraph. Or a couple of words. Those words? Less than extraordinary. Which brings me right back to where I started, doesn’t it? I love it when a plan comes together.

I’m torn right now, guys and gals. You see, for years I’ve believed that I had something special inside of me. I believed whole-heartedly that I was cut out for more than a mundane, routine existence. Not that my life is 150% mundane. My job is fun and keeps my busy, my minions keep me occupied and more often than not guessing, and my wife? Well, she just keeps me, which is okay by me. But it’s not my name up on a bright, neon marquis the way I envisioned it almost 20 years ago. Despite the fact that it’s not what I initially envisioned, it’s good. I can say that now. I’m relatively content with my life. Relatively. I wish I was writing more. That’s the biggest thing. It’s like a big a** hole in my artist’s soul that I just want to plug so. Damn. BAD. But it’s tough to do that between work, play, Irish Dance practice, repeated viewings of “Frozen,” birthday parties, shoveling, family strife… you get the picture, I’m sure. So the question that I find myself faced with this unseasonably frigid night in late March is…

Drum roll please…

Do I just throw up my hands, say “to heck with it” and accept a less than extraordinary life as my new norm? Would I be selling myself short if I did? I can be “that guy.” You know the one I’m talking about: The guy that’s… well, just normal. It would certainly be less stressful… less “angsty.” I can be that guy but should I? Should I sacrifice that which I’ve always believed I had inside of me? Maybe it’s not there. Maybe I’d be better off simply saying “to hell with it” and being Mister Nine to Five from now on. Don’t worry, folks. If I go that route I promise, I will still finish The Endworld Series. I owe those of you that have read it, enjoyed it and are waiting with baited breath for the continuation of William’s saga that. I might write fewer pieces of Mental Flatulence like this one and scrap my plans for about seven or eight other books post-The Endworld Series but William’s story? I will finish it. I promise.

I honestly don’t know. I’m torn. So I’m reaching out to those of you that know me. Whether via my writing or in person I invite your insight into this conundrum that I find myself faced with presently. Can I be both? I don’t know. I think it’s too much, presently. I’ve got too much other stuff to contend with. I don’t know if I can balance the dreamer with the realist right now. Circumstances won’t allow it. While you weigh the heft of what I just wrote and… I hope… formulate a response or two to it, I’m going to give it a couple of days. I’ve done this in the past and I think that now’s a good time to do it again. The next two days could potentially be very big days for me in my Nine to Five existence. I’m going to see how they go. Then, I’m going to revisit this question on Friday night post-the minions going to sleep. I’ll see how I feel then. But until then, a few acknowledgements.

To both the dreamers and the Nine to Fivers: Booyakasha. Respect. While I’m not 150% pleased with the fact that I can relate to both sides, it’s nice… and slightly maddening to have both perspectives. To my Endworld-ians: Much respect. I love that you really liked ENDWORLD… that you embraced it and continue to badger me about the sequel. FYI: It’s 280 pages long, currently. By my best estimation I’ve got about 100 left to go before draft one is done-sky. To Disney: I loved and continue to love “Frozen” despite my oldest minion’s desire to watch it every time we’re home and my youngest’s constant “singing” of “Let It Go” (which sounds more like “leh ih GO!” but is just so. Damned. CUTE). To my new employer (who shall remain nameless for fear of a reaming out) thank you. Thank you for respecting my contributions, something that my previous employers always had a bit of a problem with. And too my previous employers? Meh. That’s about all I’ve got for you right now. Meh, and good luck with that! You know what I’m talking about.

And last but certainly not least, to those of you that believe you are living a life less extraordinary, you are not alone. I’m with you, 150%. Just because your name isn’t up on a big, bright, neon marquis does not mean you aren’t special. Guess what? You are. That’s the moral of the ongoing story. Whether you’re special to one person or special to thousands, you are a bright, beautiful, magnificent soul on this, and any side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. And you always will be. Never forget that.

Winky emoticon, friends. Smiley face. Have a blessed evening. I’ll be back in a few days.

Yet Another “Quick Hit,” or What I’ve Done With My Late October and Early November

Good Evening, Morning or Afternoon my fellow inhabitants of this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Did you miss me? Probably not. Regardless of whether you did or did not the bottom line is this: I’m back. Things have been a bit hectic these last few weeks and admittedly? Writing–whether it be something simple like a blog entry or something complex like CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD–has been the furthest thing from my mind. But if history has taught me anything, it has taught me that you can only stop something that you love doing for so long. There comes a point where you just have to, for lack of a better phrase, hop back on the horse named “Tucker” (thank you, Cara) and GO. Whether this “quick hit” exemplifies me getting back on the horse or not remains to be seen but for now? It’s a beginning. And lately? I’ve been focusing too much on endings.

Let me take a “tick” and bring you up to speed: A bit over three weeks ago, I was laid off and have been unemployed since. I have not publicized this for a couple of reasons. The first? I’m not a fan of feeling sorry for myself nor of asking people to feel sorry for me. Said lay off was purely a business decision and I bear my former employer no ill will. I’ve been managing “stuff” for almost 20 years now and when times get tough–as they are now and have been for a while–you need to make cuts. I was the highest paid person with the lowest tenure in my office. It had to happen. I enjoyed my eight plus years with that company and admittedly? There is a little hole in my heart where once existed the letters “AFS.” I miss my customers and many of my co-workers. If any of them are reading this right now let me simply say this: Booyakasha. RESPECT. Thank you, all. I will never forget you. Hit me up sometime. My digits are REMOVED FROM THIS POST FOR FEAR OF THEM BEING ABUSED BY LESS SCRUPULOUS TYPES OR CARNIES. Sh*t, Carnies freak me out.

The second? Everyone’s got problems, and mine are no larger than theirs… yours if you’re reading this. My situation is really not that bad. If anything, these last couple of weeks have given me the opportunity to really think at length about what I want to do with the rest of my life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, however long the almighty has deemed that life to be thanks largely in part to a wife who has been endlessly supportive of my plight. Booyakasha, Nicole, AKA Sweetie: Respect. And much love, dawg (winky emoticon, smiley face). I’ve been able to spend a lot more time with her and my little’uns and it’s been wonderful. I’ve managed to “knock out” a number of projects that I’ve been meaning on “knocking out” for, in some cases, years, and though I still haven’t cleaned out my garage or repainted my garish, yellow bathroom, there still may be time. Though something tells me that my days on the unemployment line may soon be coming to a close. My goal when this happened was to find something by Thanksgiving and as of this moment? I may have. I’ll hopefully know more in the next few days. That said, I likely just jinxed myself. F*ck. I’ve only myself to blame, really. And Carnies. And the Rogue. Always blame the Rogue (Booyakasha, Tommy: RESPECT).

I knew early on that the key for me (this may not be the case for others reading this and if it is not I apologize in advance) was to find something that both A.) Played to my strengths and that B.) I felt comfortable doing. Early on, I mainly looked at jobs with a heavy sales component ’cause outside of writing–which I think I’m pretty good at though others, namely the Troll that bashed my novel on Amazon, don’t–I’m a pretty good salesman. I’ve been doing it for a while, now. I should be. If I wasn’t, someone would have told me long before now. And it runs in my family: Both my mother and my Biological worked in sales for the longest time… woah, woah, woah: For the longest time. I’m a better writer but as much as I want there to be one, there isn’t a career in that for me. Yet. Maybe one day but as of right now? It’s little more than a hobby/a part time, supplemental income. But I’m still hopeful. CHILDREN = 75% done despite a bit of a pregnant pause in the process. And it’s good, guys. Better than the first one. Cross my heart. Still coming in 2014. Stay tuned.

As time progressed, though, and I went through a couple dozen job postings and a few interviews I realized something pretty important: I don’t want to be JUST a salesman. Willy Loman I ain’t (poor usage of the English language completely intended). I want… I NEED a people component, as well. Whether said component is a managerial one or simply a B2B/B2C (that’s “Business to Business” and “Business to Consumer” for the un-initiated or gainfully employed) one I need to work with people. I like people and for the most part, I think people like me. So I started branching out: Looking at admissions and recruitment positions, as well. And low and behold, I MAY have keyed on one though only time, namely the next few days will tell. We shall see. I’m optimistic. Hopefully they are, too. And hopefully the Carnies stay the hell away. SHIVER.

In short? I decided what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. At 38. How f’*cked up is that? Most people go through this in their 20’s. Me? I was on a career path throughout them albeit a slightly suicidal career path with CVSStress that likely would have ended with me either A.) In the grave or B.) Running a District by now. I walked away from that job of my own volition because I was about to get married and I didn’t think working 65-70 hours a week was conducive to starting a life and a family with someone. I found AFS and for eight plus years, AFS allowed me to build a life and a family, embrace my inner Willy Loman and publish a novel. But… and here’s where one or two (or a dozen) of you might disagree with me: I believe in the “D” word. No, not “doo-doo” though Smallish Bear WAS kind enough to bless me with a bit of a Poop-pocalypse pre-her bedtime tonight. Booyakasha, Natalie: RESPECT.

Destiny, guys. Fate. I believe that we all have one. Whether you feel the same or believe that our lives are not pre-determined but are 100% a product of the decisions that we make is up to you. Me, personally? I think the almighty, otherwise known as God, “The Big Guy” et al has a set-ending for each of us. How we get there is up to us, i.e. “Free Will.” It’s like writing a novel. You generally know how the story begins and you know how it ends but how you get there is constantly in flux. Adaptability is KEY. THE key, really, to life, the universe and everything. Me? I’ve always been adaptable. It’s something deep down within me in a place that I don’t like to talk about at parties (but obviously have no problem writing about for the entire gul’darned world to see). I adapted to Retail despite my wanting to be a writer, and I adapted to Engineering despite my wanting to be a writer/my familiarity with Retail. Now? I am ready to once again adapt to something new. A new field, if you will, and… fingers crossed… I WILL HAVE that opportunity. I certainly hope it’s my last one ’cause really: I’m 38 years old. I’m far from “old” though I’m not exactly a little’un, anymore. Whatever I do from now until the proverbial lights go down on me? I want it to be IT. The last thing I do outside of writing and publishing which, let’s face it, I will ALWAYS be doing.

In closing (only a “quick hit,” guys: Sorry; maybe I’ll write more in the next few days), these last three weeks have been… interesting, to say the least. Between applying for jobs, making follow-up inquiries, going on interviews, picking away at CHILDREN, doing laundry and yard work, “de-cluttering” my house, teaching myself how to bake, occasionally bringing my wife lunch on the days she is working, working on Cara’s letters with her when she’s home and teaching Natalie how to be a better pro-wrestler (she’s pretty much nailed the Frog Splash and is currently working on what I like to call her “Zombie Claw”) I’ve had the opportunity to do something I’ve been rarely able to do in my 38 year life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence:

Live. ‘Cause oft times, life gets in the way of that. Carnies, too. And the Rogue. That gul’darned, troublesome Rogue.

To be continued, friends. G’night.

A Matter of Perspective

There is a scene towards the end of Children of Endworld in which one of the main characters–I’m not going to tell you which one–stands upon the precipice of a cliff and looks down at the ocean, smashing against the rocks below. He/she/it (yes, I wrote “it.” It’s a book about robots for crying out loud, did ya’ think I wouldn’t create robot characters?) considers “doing it”: He/she/it has been through much. He/she/it is mentally, emotionally and physically scarred. He/she/it wonders if “doing it” is better than the alternative, i.e. living in a world without love, joy or hope. Does he/she/it follow through? I’ll write more about that later.

I’ve been relatively quiet lately and for that, I am sorry. I’ve been preoccupied. Not much with writing though Children is about 75% done this cold and dreary night in early October, 2013. I’ve mentioned… “stuff” in one or two blog entries lately and that “stuff?” It’s still around. It’s even been compounded by other, unrelated “stuff.” Stuff + More stuff = One big Stay Puft Marshmallow Man of sh*t and right now? I’m covered in gooey, sugary deliciousness. But I’m surviving despite it. There are days where I feel like I’ve gone 10 rounds with Ivan Drago and the only thing that’s keeping me “up” is my heart and my resolve. There are days where I wake up feeling refreshed and ready to tackle a couple of hell hounds and Gozer the Gozarian. My mentality varies. But the one thing that has remained consistent throughout all the BS is that vision that I detailed in the first paragraph of this blog entry: That of a man/woman/machine standing upon the edge of a cliff, looking out over the angry ocean below and wondering if he/she/it should “do it.” That he/she/it? He/she/it is me, right now. I am standing upon the proverbial precipice of my 38 year life on this side of the wormhole of existence and I am wondering: Do I jump, or do I turn away?

Mind you I wrote “proverbial” for a reason. I’m not contemplating suicide. Nor am I sick and/or dying. The “stuff” in question? It’s not life threatening in the common, everyday sense of the term “life.” And I am sorry, but I’m still not going to go any deeper into detail than that. It remains mine and mine alone to contend with. But the sheer cliff face that I am looking over? I can most certainly write about that. Metaphorically, of course.

I never thought that I’d be 38 years old and married with two kids, two cats, two mortgages and soccer practice every Saturday morning. Let me get that out of the way now. I hoped for it but did I actually believe it? No. I really didn’t. Not until I met Nicole and then? Even then it took me a while to come to grips with that fact that I, too, could be happy. That I, too, could be a father and a homeowner. This was not the life I envisioned for myself some 15, very odd years ago when we all lived in and around “Oz” and no one lived anyplace else. I’ve come a long way from those Halcyon Days of my wayward youth. Yet still, here I am at 38 years young or old depending on your perspective at a crossroads. Arguably the most important one I have ever happened upon on the oft times winding road of my life. And the decisions that I make in the next couple of weeks and months are going to affect me and my loved ones for a very, very long time. Hence the extreme analogy of the cliff: Do I take the plunge or do I turn away?

It seems like an easy question to answer until you’re faced with it. Then it becomes the most difficult thing you’ve ever contemplated. And your choice will have consequences either way. The intoxication of the unknown or the comfort of the known? The world that lies behind you, back away from the precipice or the one that lies in front of you, cloaked in obscurity? One is filled with risk and the other? Not so much. What type of person are you? Are you the kind of person that embraces the questions or the kind of person that avoids them? And is your life as a risk taker or a home body sustainable? Questions, questions and more questions, all without answers save for one: I have no f*cking idea what to do.

Therein lies the rub, guys. I know I am faced with one of William MacNuff’s “watershed moments” and I know I need… I NEED to make a decision one way or the other. Do I leap or do I walk away? Sadly, I cannot decide which way is best. I’ve always been a moderate. Were I the President, I would be the Commander in Chief that straddles the aisle more than any President in history. I’m a hybrid: Both a city slicker and a suburbanite; a student and a teacher. Of course I am. I’m a guy that was raised by a woman albeit an incredibly strong woman (booyakasha, Mom. RESPECT). The only other Y-Chromosome in my house is the one my gender-challenged, almost 11 year old cat ‘Dorna possesses. I exist and have existed for decades as a contradiction: A practical artist; a dreaming realist. An oxymoron? How dare you call me a name you… you… you YOU you. But yes, I am an oxy… moron. And my current indecision? It is a direct result of that.

Each choice has potential positives and negatives. Sadly, very little is apparent on the surface. Most of it is speculation. Let me reiterate that I am not contemplating killing myself nor am I considering catching the red eye to Jamaica and cliff diving (aw HELL no). The cliff? It is a metaphor and metaphorically? I, like my character, stand upon a precipice. I, like my character is wondering “do I” or “don’t I.” I, like my character know that the decisions that I make in the next few weeks and months are going to affect me as much as the physical action of either jumping or turning from the cliff would. I am 38 years old and the remainder of my existence on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence is hanging in the balance. Do I, or don’t I?

Perhaps the answer is evident in the actions of the character from Children that is standing upon his/her/its own precipice. I’m going to let you in on a little secret, guys: I’ve written the character too that point but I have not yet written what he/she/it does. Why? Because the Endworld books have always been reflective of my own life. An Autobiographical Fiction, if you will and until I make the decision for myself? Until I leap or don’t? I cannot make it for him. Or her. Or it. Damn, dirty metal bastards.

And with that? It’s back to “stuff.” G’night, all. Pleasant dreams. It looks like “Rocky IV” AND “Ghostbusters” are on right now. But I don’t think I am going to watch either. There’s a “The Walking Dead” marathon on AMC. Metaphorical? I leave that for you to decide.

Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

In Which I Abruptly Break From Writing CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD to Discuss a Topic of International Importance

I say “abruptly” because as of five minutes ago, I was plugging away at Children of Endworld with reckless abandon. I took a break at page 216 to “deal” with what I and my wife, Nicole, like to call “The Revenge of Wings-To-Go” (and if you don’t understand what I’m talking about I’m not going to spell it out for you). When I returned to my computer, I minimized my empty email inbox to check the latest headline on CNN and saw:

CNN Breaking News – Dennis Rodman plans “basketball diplomacy” event involving players from North Korea. 

What little remained of yesterday’s late lunch/Sunday Night Football snack of reprocessed chicken product, smothered in either medium wing sauce or Teriyaki staged an entirely unexpected coup in my lower GI and I found myself once again in the bathroom “dealing” with the problem that has been plaguing me since I woke up this AM. Coincidence, or brought on by the mention of a now D-List, former sports star? I leave that for you to decide.

For those of you who have no idea who Dennis Rodman is, here’s your first lesson:

dennis-rodman-in-costume

As hard as this may be for those of you just now hearing about him to believe, the above pictured… personality is, in fact a Hall of Fame basketball player who won five… yes, five NBA Championships between the Detroit Pistons and the Chicago Bulls in the late 1980’s and 1990’s. You may recognize him better in this picture:

220px-Rodman_Lipofsky

I swear it’s the same… um, “guy.” He is considered by many to be one of, if not the greatest defensive player in pro basketball history. He’s a two time NBA All-Star and a two time NBA Defensive Player of the Year. I could go on and on with his accolades but there’s really no need to. To the non-sports indoctrinated, Rodman has been the star of an ongoing reality series for the last two decades. Whether intentionally or not, he is the walking and talking definition of a “Train Wreck.”

Consider: His propensity toward dressing in drag, his movie career which lasted about as long as Vanilla Ice’s, his stint as a pro-Wrestler, his well documented alcohol abuse (not to mention his appearance on “Celebrity Rehab with Doctor Drew”), his shotgun marriage to Carmen Electra and subsequent divorce a few months later and a laundry list of legal issues ranging from battery to drunken driving. He is also the only person in the western hemisphere that the Communist dictator of North Korea, Kim Jong Un likes which makes him somewhat essential, presently.

Are you as scared as I am? Good. That was my intention. Please excuse me while I step away for a second and “deal” with the stabbing pains shooting through my midsection, presently.

I’m back. Ugh. I’m starting to think that The Revenge of Wings-To-Go is more incapacitating than Montezuma’s Revenge which I also once suffered from. That story = Another story for another time. Not now. Back to Rodman: I can appreciate quirky personalities, especially public ones. I, myself, am slightly quirky as anyone that knows me will tell you (though I’m far from a “public” personality despite this blog, my book, the 173 people that “like” me on Facebook and my 718 Twitter followers). But I’ve never worn makeup and made proverbial “sexy time” with a dictator.

Still, I can’t help but feel a bit of gratitude towards “The Worm.” This country has a lot on its plate, right now. Between Afghanistan, the War on Terror and the clusterf*ck that is the greater, Middle East… well, sh*t. At least we don’t have to “deal” with North Korea, presently. Rodman seems to have that once-problem well in check though admittedly, I’d prefer a more stable, less eccentric personality (i.e. someone with international policy experience) to a guy who I can totally envision seeing a big red button in Jong Un’s office, saying “what does this button do,” pressing it and instigating the Apocalypse.  Not for nothing, someone in DC should call him in for a little remedial diplomacy training. Foreign Policy 101: How to deal with a two-bit dictator who compensates for his gender crisis by threatening aggression. Emphasis on the word “threatening.” Personally, I don’t think he’s got the stones to try. I’d wager he doesn’t want his country turned into a parking lot.

Sorry if that last bit offended anyone. I’m not exactly adept at talking or, in this case, writing about politics or international affairs.  You’ll never see me guest blogging on the Daily Blaze or giving Anderson Cooper an interview about my feelings on Montezuma’s Revenge, and how it’s (conspiracy theory alert) actually an attempt by our southern neighbor to eliminate us one-by-one: An opening foray in what will one day be called The Second Spanish-American War, otherwise known as the war in which we conceded ownership of the southwestern U S of A to Mexico without a single shot fired because none of our soldiers were able to stay off the commode long enough to fire a weapon. Which reminds me…

Sorry. Duty called (and I don’t mean “doody” though… well, I guess I kind of do). Incidentally if you are completely grossed out/pissed off by this blog entry feel free to look away. I promise I won’t hold it against you.

Back to Mexico: I get it. Really, I do. They coax you to come and visit with the beauty of places like the Riviera and the history of places like Mexico City. But what they neglect to tell you is that those people that keep disappearing while on vacation, down there? They’re not really disappearing. They’re being culled… infected with Montezuma’s Revenge like zombies, only to be turned loose on the U S of A when they’ve fermented for a while. You thought a zombie virus was terrifying? Consider one that duplicates the symptoms of Montezuma’s Revenge or, in mine and my wife’s case, The Revenge of Wings-To-Go on a massive scale. Think of the horror. The carnage. Sewer systems overflowing with reprocessed fast food; septic tanks that burst under the strain of the waste from an entire family that ate Corn Dogs for dinner and Fried Oreos for desert (what can I say? I was at a carnival yesterday). Oh, the implications. Oh, the stench. Oh the… ugh. BRB.

That time? Not brought on by Dennis Rodman, Montezuma’s Revenge or The Revenge of Wings-To-Go. I’m pretty sure I grossed myself out. I won’t allow it to happen again. Getting back to diplomacy and Rodman’s either sanctioned or non-sanctioned involvement in our ongoing effort to develop a relationship with North Korea and Kim Jong “I Watched ‘Too Wong Foo: Thanks for Everything Julie Newmar’ One too Many Times” Un. Despite my earlier posturings about the former NBA All-Star and his Bromance with a guy who has openly professed his hatred of the good ol’ U S of A once or twice, I respect what he’s doing.

What if… and this is a big “what if,” but what if Mexico subversively despises its neighbor to the north. What if El Presidente Enrique Pena Nieto really does believe that the southwestern United States is rightfully his? What if he’s planning on annexing it by unleashing his stash of Montezuma’s Revenge infected disappear-ees upon Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California? It would help to have a diplomat like Rodman, i.e, someone with very little foreign policy experience, a working knowledge of the language (which I don’t even think Dennis has) and a following there to smooth things over… to distract them from their hatred of us so that we can deal with more pressing issues like the ever-volatile Middle East and… oh, I don’t know, OUR OWN F*CKING ECONOMY.

Sorry. I veered right where I normally veer left. Please, forgive me my transgression. I am not well, today.

But wouldn’t it be nice? To have someone that’s been to Mexico and likes it there head down, and have a little proverbial “sexy time” with El Presidente albeit without makeup and… well, sex of any sort (I’m married, guys, and incredibly straight: I’m just making a joke ‘kay? ‘Kay?)? Said person could stay in the Riviera and take trips to Mexico City as required. Do you see where I’m going with this? If you don’t, I’m not going to spell it out for you. I’ll simply say that I would be honored and privileged to act as a liaison between Mexico City and DC. I really do have a following down there. Consider that of the 173 people that “like” my Facebook page, a handful of them live in… okay, not Mexico City but Panama City which is still in Latin American and is also a “city.” The fact that they’re all members of a Facebook Group that focuses on the evolution of electronic lifeforms–a concern that the entire, international community should take seriously–should be a bonus, and should make up for the geographical distance between one “city” and the other. Booyakasha “Fictional machines/electronic life forms and evolution scifi club.” RESPECT. I’ll even throw you a redirect HERE.

I like Mexican cuisine. I intersperse my writing with the language (see: “Numero,” “Chi Vato” and “El Presidente”). I have virtually no grasp of politics whatsoever. In short? I’m perfect. All I ask in return is to be allowed to live on the Riviera somewhere and bring my wife, Nicole, and my two minions with me. I’d also love a guarantee that my loved ones will not be kidnapped and trained to be walking, talking and sh*tting assassins. They love the good ol’ U S of A as much as I do. Other than a decent place to live on the beach and a weekly stipend, I’m good. If interested, please contact me via the comments section or via the info on the “About Me” page of this blog. Gracias, senors y senoritas.

In truth? This is not the direction that I thought this random musing was going to go in. I honestly thought I’d mock Dennis Rodman and Kim Jong “I’m Sexy and I Know It” Un for a couple of paragraphs, rue the current condition of my stomach, say something pithy and end with a moral lesson, a winky emoticon and a smiley face. But what was originally benign has grown quite malignant, IMO, and I think that it’s time to bring this abrupt departure from what has been my norm–writing Children of Endworld–for the last couple of weeks to a close. Page 217 awaits and the coup that yesterday’s Wings-To-Go instituted this AM has, apparently, failed (though I do have Monday Night Football, tonight, and some leftover so who knows? Did I learn my lesson or not? Only time… and tonight will tell).

Is there a lesson to be learned from this blog post? Lessons? Have I accomplished anything outside of exhausting all of you reading this? I have no idea. Maybe this: There exists, on one side of the proverbial wormhole of existence a place where Dennis Rodman, alias (arguably) the greatest defensive basketball player in NBA history hosts a “basketball diplomacy” event in an effort to bring countries like the good ol’ U S of A together with countries like North Korea, Afghanistan and Mexico. The President of the U S of A, Kim Jong Un and Enrique Pena Nieto are among the dignitaries that attend. Among the players are Rodman, the 1989 and 1990 World Champion Detroit Pistons and the 1996, 1997 and 1998 Chicago Bulls (his Airness can still dunk). Vanilla Ice raps a version of the national anthem that, much like Hendrix’s, is initially panned but later accepted as a quite good and because of it, he reforms his wayward life and does not end up on “Celebrity Rehab with Doctor Drew.” Carmen Electra handles court side commentary and the cheer-leading squads are made up of all the people, regardless of how they veer, that either lost their jobs, disappeared, were wrongfully gassed or were otherwise suppressed over the last couple of years internationally. And no one suffers from Montezuma’s Revenge or The Revenge Of Wings-To-Go.

Pre-the game beginning, the Panamanian Facebook group “Fictional machines/electronic life forms and evolution scifi club,” is honored by Julie Newmar for their outstanding work done enlightening the international community to the dangers of artificial intelligence. In their acceptance speech, they thank their mentor for writing what they consider a modern treatise on the possibilities, both good and bad inherent in a machine-run or “Administration” run world. That person? He is sadly not in attendance. He is not needed since El Presidente and the President sit side-by-side in their shared club suite making proverbial “sexy time.” No. Their mentor? He sits surrounded on the deck of his beach front home in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico by his wife, Nicole, his minions, Cara and Natalie and all his loved ones. “Too Wong Foo” is playing on the television in the family room but no one is paying attention to it. The sun, setting over the Gulf of Mexico is much more entertaining.

Don’t you think?

🙂