tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41241145223418836012024-02-20T15:23:24.789-08:00Middle DamnedMiddle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-54082655057725003292012-12-02T19:27:00.001-08:002012-12-02T19:29:32.975-08:00Free E-books on Amazon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c186/Elisabeth83/fracturedfairytales.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c186/Elisabeth83/fracturedfairytales.jpg" height="320" width="204" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Wayman Publishing just came out with an anthology of short stories, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Open-Doors-Fractured-Fairy-ebook/dp/B00AB986C4/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1354118775&sr=8-1&keywords=open+doors+fairy+tales" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Open Doors: Fractured Fairy Tales</span></a>. My contribution to the anthology is a sci-fi retelling of Little Red Riding Hood as if she lived in a time of intergalactic flight and lunar colonization. To commemorate the release, Wayman is making some of their titles <a href="http://ecwrites.blogspot.com/2012/12/christmas-charity-book-fair-free-ebooks.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">free for download</span></a> from amazon for a limited time.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecwrites.blogspot.com/2012/12/christmas-charity-book-fair-free-ebooks.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Wayman Publishing Christmas Book Fair: Free E-Books</span></a></div>
<br />
Please consider purchasing Open Doors while your at it. A large portion of the profit will be going to gifts for kids at Primary Children's Hospital in Salt Lake City.<br />
<br />
My book, Middle Damned, is one of the titles up for free download. It's up to #9 in the genre of Epic Fiction, so if you haven't gone over and gotten your free copy, do it now!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Middle-Damned-ebook/dp/B008LMQNOG/ref=tmm_kin_title_0" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Middle Damned Free Download</span></a></div>
Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-4725409900805094462012-11-29T22:33:00.000-08:002012-11-29T22:39:26.122-08:00Pachelbel's Canon in DMy good friend, R.K. Grow, over at the blog <a href="http://rkgtheauthor.wordpress.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">RK Grow: Author in the Making</span></a> asked if I would do an author interview and I gladly obliged. I recommend you go over to her blog and check it out. If you don't know already, my book is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Middle-Damned-Volume-Shane-Stilson/dp/1478206284/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Middle Damned</span></a>, an adventure in the afterlife.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Middle-Damned-Volume-Shane-Stilson/dp/1478206284" target="_blank"><img height="200" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41gXeE%2BiQcL._SL500_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-big,TopRight,35,-73_OU01_SS500_.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
To commemorate the occasion, I thought I would post a video of yours-truly playing the guitar. Now that I have watched said video a few times, I must say this is one of my more ill conceived ideas. But, that's never stopped me before, so why start second guessing myself now. So enjoy the music, or get a laugh, whichever.<br />
<br />
Pachelbel's Canon in D (a work in progress)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/cltsWswlbJ8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-55785786262499702602012-11-03T14:07:00.000-07:002012-11-03T14:09:02.292-07:00The Zombie Apocalypse is Here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oonhPRIJ0AaQQIfkPsNqKssLcceVqEir2IThdrBD0E-ZxJHWb6dxK1D-4jVWrbJoE1p0D6OnqmZjg3Ca-hFxUQ9MCHzFtYT1hwB8BrmDhUVfIwqrUn04VqnwTdXJh-Q-RCdWLctdWEc/s1600/Zombie+Apocalypse+Political.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oonhPRIJ0AaQQIfkPsNqKssLcceVqEir2IThdrBD0E-ZxJHWb6dxK1D-4jVWrbJoE1p0D6OnqmZjg3Ca-hFxUQ9MCHzFtYT1hwB8BrmDhUVfIwqrUn04VqnwTdXJh-Q-RCdWLctdWEc/s1600/Zombie+Apocalypse+Political.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
With the craze going on over vampires and werewolves, wizards and demons; I got to wondering about the zombie apocalypse. And, given the current political time of year it is, I realized that it has already arrived, and we didn't even know it.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It would be all too easy to spot if people turned white and gnawed each other's faces off. No, the apocalypse has manifested its self in a much more subtle way. It has arrived, but not in the mindless consumer allegory envisioned by George A. Romero in the original zombie classic, Dawn of The Dead. Instead, it has come in the form of Political Zombies catering to the whim of the amorphous masses, ready to change their stance on policies in any direction the latest polls blow. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
They all seem the the same to me, hungering for power, inching ever closer with their half truths and veiled lies, until elected when their ravenous hunger can be satiated by gnawing our faces off. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The politicians are all zombies in disguise. They are all partisan, lining up in little rows on either side, pretending this ideal or that social issue belongs exclusively to them, when, in reality, its just a vast illusion to curry favor from the greatest number of people available. The desire for big government, or small government, states rights or centralized government isn't inherently tied to abortion or being pro-choice, gay marriage or the biblical definition of marriage, environmentalism or pro-drilling. But, like the zombies our elected officials are, they follow the party platform and vote accordingly. They don't even have the decency to be pasty faced, with blood dripping from their mouths.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
But how do they get there in the first place? It wouldn't be an apocalypse without hordes of mindless flesh-eaters working collectively together. That's when I realized it. We have all been bitten, by every skewed statistic they've fed us, by every dollar spent by the super pacts, by every union or committee or think-tank seeking to impose their will over the air-waves.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So, we as a nation line up on either side and fight, when we should come together. And like every one else, I will go vote, and I will vote for either the incumbent or for a specific party if I have no idea who either person is. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I have become a political zombie, and I disgust myself. It is too difficult to understand all the issues or really get to know the candidates. Besides, in the end, it has become more about winning than doing what's right. How about you?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
A zombie's a zombie, no matter its color. </div>
Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-49671644027288955412012-10-19T06:21:00.001-07:002012-10-19T10:21:30.503-07:00Book Signing at SLC Downtown Library, Oct. 20th <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_rjuJVUKEYnPzpEscVskRxCU6ZA-t7S0qBD_p_pVkn173LOpZ7t_X_POvYfGAPDrxZdDrmKGx9W6sYbgGBfuc-DtAIk4E2MKSzTW2c6KxLLPdek2-2IG35FKdTHMkpXfuYYlW7nHzcU/s1600/bookmarks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_rjuJVUKEYnPzpEscVskRxCU6ZA-t7S0qBD_p_pVkn173LOpZ7t_X_POvYfGAPDrxZdDrmKGx9W6sYbgGBfuc-DtAIk4E2MKSzTW2c6KxLLPdek2-2IG35FKdTHMkpXfuYYlW7nHzcU/s400/bookmarks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I am going to be at the Salt Lake City downtown library this Saturday, October 20th, signing and selling books. My sister will be manning the booth with me and I hope anyone with the time and interest will come down to support us! We will be in the main thoroughfare, the Urban Room. This is my first event, and to commemorate the occasion, Wayman Publishing had some bookmarks made up to give away with the books. The Utah Humanities Council has events scheduled from 11:00 to 5:00, so there's a lot to do while you're there. There will be multiple booksellers, publishers, authors and more.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I hope to see you at the library!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Here is the link to the Utah Humanities Flier for the National Book Month events occurring in Utah.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.utahhumanities.org/BookFestival/2012/BookFestivalProgram2012.pdf">http://www.utahhumanities.org/BookFestival/2012/BookFestivalProgram2012.pdf</a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Our event is Saturday, October 12th, at the downtown SLC library</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
210 East 400 South, SLC</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
You can also check out the library's website if you need more info on directions and parking.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.slcpl.lib.ut.us/branches/view/Main+Library">http://www.slcpl.lib.ut.us/branches/view/Main+Library</a></div>
<br />Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-10422147000033676132012-09-16T20:09:00.001-07:002012-09-16T20:10:33.906-07:00Purple Mashed Potatoes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitTxyjf1-O1kM7grZCO-a_TXi6Oh6HdQI0NVr6aYfxY16qbQaHJE7M8RZV3xoR9Z6pH-WnFygG4hIjGNt-9XY1yw1bN1BRXYSJYOog67nortCH2jo5_Qc5GzQ0dAOLl_F_f_6Mgc-ACwg/s1600/Purple_Mashed_Potatoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitTxyjf1-O1kM7grZCO-a_TXi6Oh6HdQI0NVr6aYfxY16qbQaHJE7M8RZV3xoR9Z6pH-WnFygG4hIjGNt-9XY1yw1bN1BRXYSJYOog67nortCH2jo5_Qc5GzQ0dAOLl_F_f_6Mgc-ACwg/s320/Purple_Mashed_Potatoes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I cannot deny it, I am an avid fan of the mashed potato. So when my wife insisted I choose two of the dishes to be served this week, mashed potatoes were naturally at the top of the list. Now, I admit, I have long underestimated the ingenuity of my wife regarding the culinary arts and this week proved no different. I sat down to eat this evening and to my delight and then despair, there lay the mashed potatoes. No ordinary mashed potatoes were these, these were PURPLE mashed potatoes. Holy Grape Juice Batman! Potato Sacrilidge. MASHED Potato Sacrilidge no less. Despite this, I am a tolerant man, for I've read Green Eggs and Ham; I picked up the fork by my plate. My wife quoted a line from the story as she saw me eyeing the side dish warily. It did not seem to agree with the baked chicken beside it. "Could you would you..." she said and left the rest for me to fill in. You should know that gravy has the unique ability to make almost anything palatable, and in this fact I took great comfort as I spooned up a man-sized dollop to my lips. I opened up and put it in. The bite in my mouth was creamy, yet hearty, mixing with the gravy to a most satisfying conclusion. I smiled at my wife. She had once again transformed the most improbable of dishes into a gastronomical sensation. Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-58369348955624752582012-09-04T07:58:00.002-07:002012-09-04T08:14:10.116-07:00Middle Damned Video TrailerThis puppy took way too long to create. See the new video trailer for Middle Damned below, the book is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Middle-Damned-1-Shane-Stilson/dp/1478206284/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1346770333&sr=1-1&keywords=middle+damned" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">available at amazon</span></a><span style="color: blue;">.</span> Middle Damned is the story of Blake Stillwater; sometimes it takes the afterlife to understand what it means to be alive.<br />
<br />
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DW4uw0_8lhQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-76999759245501382732012-08-22T12:58:00.001-07:002012-08-23T07:44:22.537-07:00Cat Norris: Kime<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhDLV2KYIIxE6PyfKqDx279Fjv40PEHQFpExuJZaBvXA193Hhfl5tYUnkOlw0r68z6N92n1zWYb8LP6n9BSl360_oFotO3nHB0NMVt1x8M0mSBG-Idc0HIjzS-e0qdxzZ0ZXwF6iqYUw/s1600/CatNorris.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhDLV2KYIIxE6PyfKqDx279Fjv40PEHQFpExuJZaBvXA193Hhfl5tYUnkOlw0r68z6N92n1zWYb8LP6n9BSl360_oFotO3nHB0NMVt1x8M0mSBG-Idc0HIjzS-e0qdxzZ0ZXwF6iqYUw/s320/CatNorris.png" width="320" yda="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Yoko Geri Kekomi or perhaps Ura Mawashigeri?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is a perfect moment of 'kime', pronounced key-may.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><b>Kime</b> (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_language" title="Japanese language">Japanese</a>: <span lang="ja" xml:lang="ja">決め</span>) is a Japanese word. It is the noun form of the verb "kimeru," which means "to decide," "to conclude," etc. In English, it's general meaning is "deciding."<br />
<br />
Kime is very important in the japanese martial arts. In shotokan, applying the proper kime, the proper power at that one critical moment is all-important in <strong><em>deciding</em></strong> the conflict. Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-65218832443276760302012-08-10T08:05:00.004-07:002012-08-10T08:12:49.230-07:00Melynda's Labor Day Blogfest & Book Fair<strong>Melynda's Labor Day Blogfest & Book Fair - Come check out the amazing books (some free eBooks included) we're featuring in support of raising awareness for diabetes</strong> <br />
<div><br />
<br />
Sign up to join a Labor Day Blogfest and Book Fair. Sunday September 2nd -Tuesday the 4th.<br />
<br />
In honor of Melynda Fleury--who has bravely been fighting diabetes and almost completely lost her eyesight--Wayman Publishing is offering unlimited free downloads of their top ten bestselling books to all entrants during this event! In addition, we're featuring some phenomenal books you should check out AND giving away X-amount of Cash (announced after Blogger signups completed).<br />
<br />
Other bloggers can join in for this great opportunity to gain new traffic. We're excited to spread the word about some fantastic authors and Wayman Publishing; we hope you'll join us for this fun event.<br />
<br />
The first links to enter are free with the agreement that you will post the button and information about this giveaway on your site. Any additional links will be $3 for Social Network links and $5 for RSS/Email Subscriptions. </div><div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;">Feel free to grab this button: </span></span></div><center><span style="font-size: medium;"><center><a href="http://www.ecwrites.blogspot.com/p/melyndas-labor-day-blogfest-book-fair.html" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c186/Elisabeth83/silly%20blog%20photos/melynda-enter1.png" /></a></center></span></center><br />
</div><br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="1487" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" src="https://docs.google.com/spreadsheet/embeddedform?formkey=dHk4ekpKdG52bkNrTjJ2MlNiY1JPOGc6MQ" width="760">Loading...</iframe>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-80921671081780932682012-08-06T11:12:00.005-07:002012-08-06T11:22:45.081-07:00Bones Speak: Cremation Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLALeKZHFwjKbH4u-qzimUaWywBJBjWc9ll4sKKxyI_eglJm19H1kuvctxYz6DLXt2GQrSBVhlx9TZS5C8J_qMS1g-J9sBOEApdwaTG0swWgDHfpHfFPYdQjiuJxQ2jB4wR4-VKiYyHp8/s1600/20070430_crematorium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black;"><img border="0" height="264" kda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLALeKZHFwjKbH4u-qzimUaWywBJBjWc9ll4sKKxyI_eglJm19H1kuvctxYz6DLXt2GQrSBVhlx9TZS5C8J_qMS1g-J9sBOEApdwaTG0swWgDHfpHfFPYdQjiuJxQ2jB4wR4-VKiYyHp8/s320/20070430_crematorium.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">His body lay on the cradle of concrete; the flesh stripped away, the spaces between the bones made more poignant by the absence of the organs that should have been there. No longer did the mottled flesh stretch across emaciated bones, he had been restored to a state of beautiful by crematorium fire.</div> While still alive, the cancer had eaten his mind and body until I no longer recognized the man I’d grown to love. But, here he was! In the mountains of central Japan, in the region he had lived for over fifty years. Here he was on the concrete slab, in the city crematorium, next to the municipal garbage dump.<br />
His pure white bones screamed at me. “I’m here, Shane. Do you hear me? Take care of your wife, my daughter. Take care of my grandchildren, the last surviving memory of me on earth.”<br />
They had exhumed his slab the same way it had gone in. None had touched his sacred remains since my wife pushed the button to release the cleansing fire. An hour later, she huddled at my side, weeping, her father’s delicate skeleton before us.<br />
A man, dressed in the clean but simple jumpsuit of a recycling plant worker took up a pair of massive chopsticks from a small pedestal situated to the side, but still on top of the concrete cradle. He motioned for each of us to take up a pair of our own and removed the lid from one of two urns beside the chopsticks.<br />
“I did not get to see my last grandchild before I died,” the bones said. I stared back in shock. “It is your responsibility to remember me to him.”<br />
The man in the jumpsuit continued as though he hadn’t heard or found talking bones to be common place. He used his chopsticks to pull a small bone near the skull from the surrounding ash. “This bone is one that makes up the inner ear,” he said.<br />
My wife and I took the piece together and placed it in the smaller urn. The piece broke as it fell, revealing the soft tan of baked marrow inside. The process continued, a fragment of eye socket, the final link in the right index finger, a segment from around the nose, all were deposited inside.<br />
The partially erect skull, half buried in ash, stared up at me. “Do you remember that time at the base of Mount Fuji? At the restaurant? When I told you it wasn’t you who was funny?” it asked.<br />
“I remember,” I whispered.<br />
“I’m not sorry,” it said.<br />
“I know. It’s not in your nature to be sorry.”<br />
The bone emancipator held up a tooth. The open doors let in a cool breeze of mountain air, but it failed to stir the palette of white and gray hues beneath him. “Your father had amazing teeth. Most teeth of people this age don’t survive the fire."<br />
“I loved my teeth,” the crusty white incisor confirmed. A breathless pause followed and let in the rustling of bamboo of the forest outside. “Do you forgive me?” it asked. The man holding the tooth placed it on the pedestal. My wife picked it up and put it into the small jar. The man locked the tooth away, along with the other bits as he placed the lid atop the urn.<br />
“Yes,” I said.<br />
The jump-suited man took both chop sticks in one hand, placed them against the balled neck of the right femur and broke off the ball by pushing at the top of his instruments of dissection. He placed the dislocated joint on the pedestal and my wife transferred it to the now uncovered larger urn.<br />
“Thank you for finding my high school yearbook,” the spherical piece echoed from the bottom of the container.<br />
“It took forever to clean out that shed.” I smiled. “There was fifty year old junk buried beneath thirty year old crap with worthless ten year old trinkets stacked on top of that. It was like excavating for the lost city of Tanis.”<br />
“You’ve always been too wordy,” the jar resonated at me.<br />
“I know, it’s in my nature,” I said.<br />
Something shifted and I looked down. A piece of rib had broken off on its own accord. “Does she love me?” it asked.<br />
“Does she love you?” I tested the words with my tongue. The man in the jumpsuit had followed my gaze and immediately relocated the fragmented rib to the pedestal.<br />
“Does she love me?” it asked again from its new position. It was not an easy relationship my wife had endured with her father; not with the drinking, or the long hours at work, or the fact that they were both so headstrong a boulder would break if it came against their will.<br />
My wife’s chopsticks reached across the void and gently lifted the frail bone from the stone. Tears streaked her face. Her other hand shot out to catch the treasured cargo in a moment of doubt, in case it should fall, but her transport of it remained true. She placed it in the urn and stared at the jar as though it was her heart she had put inside.<br />
“She loves you,” I said.<br />
“I know,” the rib called, its voice muffled inside of the container. “She just told me.”<br />
The last urn was filled and the lid returned to its proper position. The man packaged the jars in a black satin box with a white cross on the front and presented it to my wife with a bow.<br />
We left the crematorium and my wife turned to me as we drove away. “I can’t believe you asked me if you could take a picture.”<br />
“He was so beautiful. I want to always remember him like that. I could feel his presence there.”<br />
My wife looked at me as I negotiated a hair pin corner through the cave of bamboo trees around us. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to write a story about it then.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_13?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=middle+damned&sprefix=middle+damned%2Caps%2C1511" target="_blank"><img border="0" eda="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy44SFcu0loDPKqTxw8pl2MleniMk5_fzs7QpeQz42HRvLB6ucRKJ75ugXWjYGsDj8JCchj3dxUwSWMgEm5oz7WpGTGxWgfUlF2Z059sn8DPYq5eaZ9922ubyO94Rbb4gnGtRO9YZMM9o/s320/MD_Face1.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I am very proud to announce that Middle Damned, the novel, is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_13?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=middle+damned&sprefix=middle+damned%2Caps%2C1511" target="_blank"><span style="color: lime;">available for purchase at amazon.com</span></a> in hard copy and Kindle e-book.</div>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-40121250217168161702012-08-01T08:07:00.007-07:002012-08-08T12:46:31.130-07:00Middle Damned, the Novel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_13?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=middle+damned&sprefix=middle+damned%2Caps%2C1511" target="_blank"><img border="0" eda="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy44SFcu0loDPKqTxw8pl2MleniMk5_fzs7QpeQz42HRvLB6ucRKJ75ugXWjYGsDj8JCchj3dxUwSWMgEm5oz7WpGTGxWgfUlF2Z059sn8DPYq5eaZ9922ubyO94Rbb4gnGtRO9YZMM9o/s320/MD_Face1.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I am very proud to announce that Middle Damned, the novel, is officially being released today by Wayman Publishing. It's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_13?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=middle+damned&sprefix=middle+damned%2Caps%2C1511" target="_blank"><span style="color: lime;">available for purchase at amazon.com</span></a> in hard copy and Kindle e-book. Here are a couple of excerpts from reviews it has received so far.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I thoroughly enjoyed this book. It kept my attention as it was both intriguing and entertaining." -APTeacher</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"His ability to overlap the world as we know it with the Realm of the Middle Damned is nothing short of a pleasure. Wonderful imagery around characters that you can't help but root for the whole journey." - Joshua</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"The plot is unique and fresh which provided unexpected twists and turns. I recommend this book with confidence the reader will be pleasantly surprised by how much they enjoy the book." -GL</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_13?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=middle+damned&sprefix=middle+damned%2Caps%2C1511" target="_blank"><span style="color: lime;">I hope you too will check out the book and let me know what you think.</span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Life after death was not all Blake Stillwater and his family had expected. Some went to live in the light, another into darkness, while Blake fights for survival, somewhere between, in the Realm of the Middle Damned. <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">At this cross roads connecting the dimensions of the Living World and the hereafter, failure is a one way ticket to everlasting torment in the lake of fire. Blake’s only hope is the gifts of those he was responsible for in the car crash that claimed their lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blood staining his hands entitles them to endow him with a final token of their memory. It’s a race against time, for while the gifts of those who love the light will sustain, the one who now dwells in darkness can ruin it all.</span></span></span></div>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-24714597644539115212011-12-15T16:05:00.000-08:002011-12-15T20:46:17.191-08:00The VCR robot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8ubsp2YFfGcme4v6DzOMbVZE9_e7oIYsd7mUCMbZLPBAcg_gKUz1V117cdt-5f-Obg7PUMfFe8tO_u5HQbf40YyHU4eyqVmF6Un7tg3wCQboO2ut2F_GHEw5_CNTSmz96hzEk5IOeTQ/s1600/robot.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8ubsp2YFfGcme4v6DzOMbVZE9_e7oIYsd7mUCMbZLPBAcg_gKUz1V117cdt-5f-Obg7PUMfFe8tO_u5HQbf40YyHU4eyqVmF6Un7tg3wCQboO2ut2F_GHEw5_CNTSmz96hzEk5IOeTQ/s320/robot.png" width="296" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
So in general I tend to start ridiculous projects thinking, "This is going to be easy." I've embarked on too many of these wild goose chases to count. I suppose you have to dream. Anyway, most of the time the ultimate goal is to teach my kids something interesting. Usually it just turns into a massive hole into which my time gets sucked. The kids wander off and I'm left tinkering with stuff I have no business doing because so many other things are waiting to be done. But I can't stop, because ... I ... am ... stupid. Here is one such example. The antiquated VCR broke, so we decided to make a robot out of it. Check out the video below. It is less of a robot and more of a mechanical aberration.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/1gFJZ-BMqj0?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-77998980475000505862011-12-04T20:29:00.000-08:002011-12-04T20:29:06.432-08:00Cremation: Not a bad way to be laid to rest: Part ISo, like I said last week, my father-in-law died two hours before we landed in Osaka. Someone came to the airport to get us and whisked us directly to the hospital. He still lay in the bed when we arrived. In general I can be pretty insensitive. I tend to use the excuse of being an engineer and therefore having no social graces as a cover for this. Refer to this statement as you get irritated later on.<br />
<br />
Anyway, so when people say someone looks so peaceful in death, I usually think they're full of crap. The person who's dead looks dead, the spirit's gone and no one's home. I suppose we get attached to these bodies. It's only natural, right? But, it is so clear to me when looking at the dead that what remains is just a vehicle that I find the things we tell ourselves to be asinine. I believe the spirit moves on, leaving the broke down 1975 Gremlin of our bodies on earth. This has to be more important than anything else.<br />
<br />
My father-in-law looked worse than most. He lost a ten year battle with liver cancer and exploited every possible course of action to prolong his life. "He looks so peaceful," the pastor said. Uh, no he didn't. Japanese custom is for the body to come home and spend one final night sleeping in their own bed. The event serves in a similar manner to a viewing at a funeral in the US. So my wife, my youngest boy and I slept upstairs that night with the body downstairs. They packed dry ice around the body's mid section (to slow decomposition, I guess). My engineering mind immediately started doing thermodynamic calculations, it wasn't pretty.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lowcostcremation.com/crematory_photos/cremation_chamber.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://www.lowcostcremation.com/crematory_photos/cremation_chamber.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
The next day we accompanied the body to the crematorium. It is rather convenient for the crematorium to be part of the city dump as will later be explained. The body was at this point in a coffin and the whole thing slid into the oven and the door locked. My wife pushed the arm button and then the activate button. You could hear the mechanism inside ramping up in response. We left and then came back an hour later.<br />
<br />
Now, I really had no idea of what to expect at the next stage of the process. I know I have sounded calloused and cruel in the descriptions up to this point. I've done this intentionally, because, well... that is really what I think and I'm not sugar coating it. But also because it puts into stark contrast the emotions the next step elicited in me. It was one of the most spiritually impressive moments of my life. Come back tomorrow to hear about it.<br />
<br />
What are your thoughts about public viewings of the dead. How does it make you feel?Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-62816030756867622112011-11-27T18:05:00.000-08:002011-11-27T18:05:33.174-08:00The International Date Line: Your Assport to JetlagThink the title doesn't make any sense? I don't care. I've been up 30 hours straight, flying with a six month old back from Japan. You get on the airplane at 6:00 pm then spend the next 12 hours of your life sealed in a tin can in the middle of the night. And I for one would find it easier to sleep through a stampeding herd of elephants than on one of those airplane seats.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.regalwings.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/Jet-Lag-1-300x257.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://www.regalwings.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/Jet-Lag-1-300x257.gif" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My father-in-law died two hours before we touched down two weeks ago. We rushed to the hospital and spent some time with his body. He didn't get to see his last grandchild with his worldly eyes before he died. It still rankles me, but I think he's looking down on us, watching over our kids. Some pretty amazing things happened to us in Japan. The stories will have to wait. I'm just too damn tired. Apparently they do Christmas in Japan, but it's even more annoying than it is in the U.S. I know, it's hard to imagine.Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-34612941547980657632011-11-20T05:26:00.000-08:002011-11-20T05:26:00.719-08:00The Crack of the Bat: Part IV<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is continued from the previous post.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQfHqZWs0WJ4GbVgwZAXI79mr7KJ5B38os50gBMfoWz_NxNmMkt" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQfHqZWs0WJ4GbVgwZAXI79mr7KJ5B38os50gBMfoWz_NxNmMkt" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The next day we all went to the hospital.<br />
<br />
“Hello, Oto-san,” my wife said, “ how are you today?”<br />
<br />
“Good, good.” He then turned to me. “Shane, genki des ka?” How are you?<br />
<br />
“I’m good, Oto-san,” I said in English. I know some Japanese, but not enough to converse confidently. Despite his harsh ways, my wife’s father always treated me as though I were his son and not a son-in-law. “I have something for you.”<br />
<br />
My wife translated and he looked at me with anticipation. I pulled a thin book from behind my back and handed it to him. He brushed some of the dirty on top away and some of the blue cover went with it.<br />
<br />
Shigekazu froze. His breathing stopped, and except for a slight quivering of his hand, he was a statue. Then slowly he turned the pages.<br />
<br />
“Sore wa,” this is, “sore wa,” he said. “This is my high school year book. I didn’t know we still had this,” he finished in Japanese. He turned the fragile pages like they were sheets out of a prized text. “This is me,” he pointed.<br />
<br />
We all looked at the photo and then at my oldest son. They looked the same.<br />
<br />
He turned more pages. “This is me,” he said. He pointed to a group of boys holding baseball gloves and bats. “I was president of the athletic club at school. This was my friend,” he pointed at a boy on the left. The pages continued to turn and he talked of his childhood in Gobo, a small fishing village, and his love of baseball.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
A week ago I talked to my father-in-law on the phone. We hope when we get to Japan he’ll still be alive, but the doctor’s don’t think so. We have a new baby he’s never seen.<br />
<br />
“Oto-san,” I said to him in broken Japanese, “I love you. Try hard. We’re coming.”<br />
<br />
He didn’t say anything, but I could feel emotion weighing down the silence between us. I handed the phone back to my wife. She spoke for a few seconds before turning back to me.<br />
<br />
“He said he wants to see you one last time,” she said.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
As I write this I'm still in America, but I’ll have been there several days to a week when you read this. Pray for us, that all goes as well as can be expected.<br />
<br />
This concludes the Crack of the Bat series.Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-31859878712907857482011-11-19T05:21:00.000-08:002011-11-19T05:21:00.306-08:00The Crack of the Bat: Part IIIThis story is continued from the previous day's post.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQpdpwBVEA1ytq94cVrts8LPPRh_4K3BTxOQD6n8BkkE8qCXnAh" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQpdpwBVEA1ytq94cVrts8LPPRh_4K3BTxOQD6n8BkkE8qCXnAh" /></a><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQpdpwBVEA1ytq94cVrts8LPPRh_4K3BTxOQD6n8BkkE8qCXnAh" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQpdpwBVEA1ytq94cVrts8LPPRh_4K3BTxOQD6n8BkkE8qCXnAh" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My wife and I sat in the kitchen of her childhood. The house around us could have fit into our garage back home. Dust blanketed everything above my mother-in-law’s reach to clean, which was a lot. At eighty four and under five feet tall, it was a wonder she kept the house tidy at all. Stacks of magazines reached from floor to ceiling in the halls and around the kitchen. Canned goods with expiration dates from twenty years ago sat under the table. Painting supplies populated random areas; piled on the chair, sitting in the refrigerator, obscuring the television. With three kids, 10 and under, it was an avalanche waiting to happen.<br />
<br />
“What do we do?” my wife asked me.<br />
<br />
“We roll up our sleeves and we clean,” I replied.<br />
<br />
“There’s just so much.” She looked dazed.<br />
<br />
Weeks of cleaning followed. We went to the dump tens of times. We had heated arguments over dilapidated furniture and moth eaten clothes that hadn’t been worn by my wife’s mother in thirty years. We accidently threw away a thousand dollars and my in-laws bank books randomly hidden in an old newspaper. And, the whole time my father-in-law was in the hospital. We made the trek daily from Iwade to the capital of Wakayama prefecture, Wakayama City. Shigekazu would be glad to see us, but tired easily of the kid’s energy. When one of them got a cold, he asked us not to come anymore, because he didn’t want to get sick. It might be understandable now as I look back, but after traveling across the world to see him, it seemed odd at the time.<br />
<br />
I transitioned to cleaning the yard when the house started to get into shape. A jungle of roses outgrew their borders beautifully. The house had structures on either side, but to the front and back are large rice paddies. Dragon flies flitted through the new green rice blades, while frogs made a deafening chorus at night. Iwade is considered a rural community, even if the population is half a million. That is Japan for you in a nutshell.<br />
<br />
Cicadas chirped incessantly as I approached the one thing I had dreaded since arriving. A large shed, fifteen feet by fifteen feet, sat like a demon in the back yard. When the floor had been completely covered decades ago, Shigekazu laid two-by-fours over that junk and created a new level. This had continued until the space was bulging from floor to ceiling, but the time had come to clean it.<br />
<br />
Throwing out their bank books and money had traumatized me. I went through the storage shed as though every item might contain a treasure. It was painstaking work and disgusting, to be frank. The roof had leaked and bizarre bugs made it their home. My in-law’s nephew worked at a soap factory and so they had boxes of laundry detergent that looked centuries old, the leaking roof turning some into indistinguishable masses of gelatinous goo. Containers of moth eaten books came out of the shed, and then I found it, pure treasure; a treasure worth more than the bounty Ieyasu would have offered to unify Japan without war. It was something that might make all the work worth it; something that might give a dying man solace.<br />
<br />
The next day we all went to the hospital.<br />
<br />
This story is continued in tomorrow's post.<br />
<div><br />
</div>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-80974776251359898372011-11-18T05:12:00.000-08:002011-11-18T05:12:00.341-08:00The Crack of the Bat: Part IIThis is continued from the previous day's post.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTJ6ek1ytoOrbJiy-tIuhzR_yJniHvehphcjelxyxMjjUFAjcsyag" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTJ6ek1ytoOrbJiy-tIuhzR_yJniHvehphcjelxyxMjjUFAjcsyag" /></a><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTJ6ek1ytoOrbJiy-tIuhzR_yJniHvehphcjelxyxMjjUFAjcsyag" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTJ6ek1ytoOrbJiy-tIuhzR_yJniHvehphcjelxyxMjjUFAjcsyag" /></a></div>Years later a man probed the inside of a grand piano, center stage at an empty concert hall. There hadn’t been many days in which Shigekazu hadn’t looked back, and wished he’d nodded to the slow ball, or the slider. But, this day he hadn’t thought of baseball once.<br />
<br />
“The piano tuning must be perfect, Shigekazu-san.” The concert violinist admonished. “This piece is like a love song between the violin and the piano, neh?” Her lithe fingers played in the air to emphasize the words.<br />
<br />
“Of course, I’m almost finished.” Shigekazu smiled at the violinist’s analogy. His fingers glided over the strings. He didn’t use tuning forks. He didn’t use electrical devices. He tuned by what his ear told him. He felt the vibration of the sound board in his bones, through the air, as it circulated through the ground. It was why he had been called down to Wakayama for the special appearance of the national virtuoso.<br />
<br />
After a slight tweak, Shigekazu slid free. “There. It is finished.”<br />
<br />
“Let us see,” the violinist countered. “Hachiro, come and play with me. The concert is in less than an hour.”<br />
<br />
A thin man deposited himself at the piano and began playing an evocative melody. The violinist retrieved her instrument and immediately fell into a trance of concentration. Her bow slid across the strings and the voices of angels filled the hall. Shigekazu listened, and consumed the performance as though it were just for him.<br />
<br />
They finished and the women opened glistening eyes. “Arigato gozaimasu, Shigekazu-san. Arigato gozaimasu,” thank you, thank you. “It is perfect, absolutely perfect.”<br />
<br />
“Doitashimashite,” Shigekazu replied. It would be the one thing he would remember above all others in his life. He packed up his piano tuning tools and went back to the small town of Iwade where he lived with his wife. They had no children at the time, even though they were in their mid-forties.<br />
<br />
It was a few years later when his wife unexpectedly became pregnant with a child, a little girl. For what reason we are left to guess, but he enjoyed beer, sake’ and the bars in Osaka. He wasn’t home often and left his wife and child to often wonder when he might be home. The girl they sent to America to study at the age of fifteen. She stayed there, went to an American university and met an American boy she married. I was this boy, almost twelve years ago. A couple years after my marriage to his daughter, Shigekazu was diagnosed with liver cancer, a common ailment of people with Hepatitis C who also have a propensity for drinking. The doctors treating him exploited every possible surgery and natural remedy to extend his life. Last year he became a permanent resident at the hospital by all common measures. My wife and I took our family to Japan to see him in the heat of the 2010 summer. It was not a vacation.<br />
<br />
This story will be continued in tomorrow's post.<br />
<div><br />
</div>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-18018003129198616382011-11-17T04:00:00.000-08:002011-11-17T04:00:03.123-08:00The Crack of the Bat: Part IOkay, so Elisa has asked us to open up a vein and spill blood for this blogfest, the one promoting the launch of her book, The Golden Sky. She said something about sharing a story of loss I think it was. If that’s what she wants then let’s go.<br />
<br />
I may have already mentioned in a previous post that I am currently in Japan. My loss hasn’t happened yet, but it is imminent, like a boulder teetering on the edge of a cliff. I am in the land of the rising sun for this reason exactly. I get ahead of myself though. Let’s go back to a different time, to a different place, where a young Japanese man eats breakfast with his family.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.oneinhundred.com/Upfiles/upimg8/Full-size-35-inch-baseball-bat-5156478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.oneinhundred.com/Upfiles/upimg8/Full-size-35-inch-baseball-bat-5156478.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
“Shigekazu, when is your first minor league baseball game?” his mother asked and ladled a second helping of Ojiya, rice soup, into his bowl. The other three kids eyed the helping with hunger. It had always been the same. Their oldest brother, and the most successful among them, received special privileges.<br />
<br />
“Tomorrow, Oka-san.” Shigekazu told his mother with respect. He slurped the soup, not giving the disproportionate size of his bowl a second thought.<br />
<br />
“Will your sponsor from Yamaha Piano be there?” she continued.<br />
<br />
“Yes, Oka-san.”<br />
<br />
“What is your stipend again?” she rhetorically asked and eyed the other children.<br />
<br />
“Issen yen per month.”<br />
<br />
“Wonderful, just wonderful,” she crooned. The family finished breakfast in silence and Shigekazu headed out for the junior college.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
A roar of local support funneled down onto the diamond, circled around the bases and emboldened the pitcher on the mound. Shigekazu rubbed the ball with his hands and contemplated the pitch he would throw. The batter dug his back foot in at the plate. His bat swung lazily in the strike zone, his eyes probing his adversary for any sign of predictive body language.<br />
<br />
Shigekazu held the ball behind his back and eyed the batter. The catcher signaled for a slow ball, but Shigekazu shrugged it off. The pitcher already knew what he wanted to throw. He wouldn’t strike out the league’s best batter with guile; he would do it with flaming speed. The catcher called for a slider, and the recommendation was shrugged off again. The third base coach groaned. This kid on the mound had a mind of his own. The catcher flashed his fingers for a fast ball and Shigekazu nodded.<br />
<br />
The human cannon went into the wind up like a coiling snake. His chorded arm twisted at an irregular angle behind his back and then catapulted forward. The ball launched from the fingers gripping the curling seam like blasting caps. The batter grinned, he had anticipated the pitch. The bat came around and contacted the ball like a sledgehammer. The Shinto gods wailed as the energy drove the ball away from the bat and directly at the mound.<br />
<br />
There was no time to react, Shigekazu still rocked forward in his follow through as the ball struck him in the face, on the nose. Blood splashed to the ground and the pitcher flew back as though his life had been ripped from his body. The coach ran to the mound with a bucket and propped up his star player. Blood filled the vessel from Shigekazu’s nose. His mother wailed in the stands in grief. Her son’s career as a baseball player was over. He would need a blood transfusion because of the accident. Health policies in Japan were not what they should have been during this time and he contracted Hepatitis C from the contaminated blood he received.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Come back tomorrow for the continued story.Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-10230858792018687402011-11-14T05:24:00.000-08:002011-11-14T05:24:01.326-08:00The Fatal HeartI'm in Japan, and my business here leaves me in a foul mood.<br />
<br />
Do you ever feel something so strongly your heart swells in your chest, your sides bulge out, choking your breath? Do you fell the hurricane twisting inside, barely contained, seeking release? It rages. It roars, the unfettered beast. Do you lock yourself in closets, proofed against sound and then yell yourself horse when no one's around?<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I admit, I feel like this. Not always, but sometimes. Unfortunately for you, when I do, I write stuff like the following.<br />
<br />
This not part of the Middle Damned book, but I imagine it is the beginning of an ancillary tale to be told there.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://us.cdn3.123rf.com/168nwm/builttospill/builttospill0711/builttospill071100002/2081377-an-old-western-barber-s--dentist-s-chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://us.cdn3.123rf.com/168nwm/builttospill/builttospill0711/builttospill071100002/2081377-an-old-western-barber-s--dentist-s-chair.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The hate rose from his pores like the stench of garlic the day after an all-you-can-eat scampi buffet. The smell impregnated the walls, saturated the polished concrete floor, frosted the solitary mirror on the wall. He hated and woke to the reality of a frail human body, incapable of being loved. The textured ceiling swirled with dim shadows cast by the nightlight he kept in the room. His mind created faces in the contrasting light and uneven surface. They mocked him. His soul descended the last degree into his body and he smelled the sweat beaded on his brow, the urine on his pants, the feces squeezing between his buttocks and the metal dentist's chair he sat in. It was always the same after a night in the Spirit Slip. Although only tenuously tied to the physical form while on the spiritual plane, the body reacted violently to the power expended there. The well used porcelain tub in the corner would be the receptacle of the waste. A hose would wash down the chair and then he'd squeegee the remnants down a drain.<br />
<br />
A loud bang sounded on the double-dead-bolted door to the room. "Dad, what're you doingaaa?" a girl's voice bled with an incredulous inflection, "I'm going to be late for school. Dad, I have to go in early today. Remember?" his daughter Iris called.<br />
<br />
A juicy, sucking sound annoyed him as he peeled away from the chair and he reminded himself. It's just another day.<br />
<br />
The ritual cleansing brought a measure of comfort even though conducted in a rush. He almost felt like he belonged in the body by the end, but not quite. He opened the metal door and faced his daughter, who must have nearly had her nose pressed against the panel when it was shut. An open mouthed scowl destroyed her usually beautiful face, and he observed her tongue fidgeting with an upper molar angrily. He couldn't help it, she made him smile. He saw his little girl, regardless of the layered goth makeup around her eyes.<br />
<br />
"Good, morning Iris," he said cheerfully.<br />
<br />
"Good morning? Ugh." She stomped away. "I'll be in the car."<br />
<br />
Dent Jolman followed his daughter, but stopped in the living room. The big picture window admitted a bounty of light. That was where the demon had entered to feed off of Iris in the Spirit Slip. For the demons, windows were the only way in or out. How he had managed to leave the drapes open before going to 'bed' in the safe room was a mystery. Maybe Iris opened them during the night, but why would she do that? Either way, the oversight had nearly been fatal for both of them. The car horn blared loudly, reminding him where he was going. He left the house and brought a very grumpy Iris to school.Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-30489122315931198682011-11-07T19:50:00.000-08:002011-11-07T19:50:09.934-08:00The Boss From Hell: Part II<div><br />
Continued from yesterday.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" style="color: #2936d3; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; position: relative;"><a href="http://middledamned.blogspot.com/2011/11/boss-from-hell.html" style="background-color: white; color: #2936d3; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-decoration: none;">The Boss From Hell</a></h3><br />
<br />
"Don't - say - 'I'," The Boss slowly enunciated. "<i>You </i>haven't thought of anything. <i>You </i>only do what you do because I first told you to do it. I told you to model the system. I told you to run the simulation."<br />
<br />
My mind raced to understand the social ramifications of these comments in front of the senior staff. Accusing eyes stabbed from all around. "Well... When, we," I stumbled over the word, "ran the simulation, the benefits of controlling the torque evaporated in the extra energy required to change the gear ratio."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://workingwastecase.com/workingwastecase/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/boss-from-hell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://workingwastecase.com/workingwastecase/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/boss-from-hell.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
"What do you mean 'we'?" The Boss asked.<br />
<br />
This was bad. "You just said..."<br />
<br />
"I didn't come to that conclusion. Did anyone here come to that conclusion?" The Boss rotated his white haired head like a vulture looking for fresh meat.<br />
<br />
"<i>I</i>'m just saying that the simulation indicated the power balance is negative and-" I flubbed again.<br />
<br />
"What did <i>we</i> say?" The Boss cut off my words, and shook his head as if correcting a recalcitrant child.<br />
<br />
"When the simulation finished, the post processing algorithm indicated a negative result," I said, avoiding personal pronouns entirely.<br />
<br />
"Then what did <i>you</i> do?" He baited me.<br />
<br />
"The data yielded an interesting perspective and then you came into my office," I told him.<br />
<br />
"Who gave you the right to draw such volatile conclusions?" his face reddened.<br />
<br />
"The data did." I challenged.<br />
<br />
"The data is not in control," a vein throbbed in his forehead.<br />
<br />
"No, physics is in control," I whispered load enough for all to here.<br />
<br />
"NO! I am in control," he yelled and struck the table with a fist.<br />
<br />
The rest of the meeting preceded in a similar manner, and I learned I was nothing to the man. I was a tool, a dog to be slapped down if I dared bare my teeth. I elaborated on the findings, describing the data, or the keyboard ,or physics itself as if they were Greek Gods announcing truths from on high. It infuriated him, but I didn't get fired. I don't know why. I suppose he preferred no one get credit rather than share it with someone else.<br />
<br />
The story is a fitting analogy for the vast majority of us in the American Middle Class. Sometimes I feel stuck here, like it were a prison or something. The american ideal seems to be to breach the gap and become one of the financial elite. It is ingrained in us that every american has the opportunity to do great things, if only you are willing to work hard. I still believe this is true to a certain degree. On the other hard, it is harder to do so. And yet another part of me wonders what being in such vapid company as the ultra rich would really feel like. Bankers producing no physical products, real estate speculators owning nothing but the sale, Hedge Fund Managers betting against the economy as the markets dive? It is not appealing and I have resigned myself to the inevitable, to the ranks of the Middle Damned, a vanishing breed.</div>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-66958659303955987242011-11-06T17:31:00.000-08:002011-11-06T19:56:09.778-08:00The Boss From HellSo, what the hell is the Middle Damned blog? In the end it's just a lame attempt to promote a book I'm writing. And what is that book's name? Why, it's the "Middle Damned". But, at a deeper level there lurks a deeper meaning, as is true in the book as well.<br />
<br />
My boss stalked the halls of the office, patrolling, his radar set to detect disparaging remarks. He whistled, like the preacher from Poltergeist, an off key drone strategically putting those in range on edge. At one time a brilliant engineer, his greatest asset was now the power of manipulation. Cultivated over a forty year career of dealing with government bureaucracy and greedy investment capitolists, he would get your mother to feed you to the lions on a dare.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEherl1PWpjgINmYL7yBnQts639PHQklzNBgqMbFnz_qj71CrVqjLNrLBKoBIItjgYs3Pgfy_4A8bgE2jhVc_A1UklQhCM5c2mDSki-ovnJ7MMRxx4gv-k9B6vrNnFKvFTNC7xWzDbxBy8wz/s1600/kane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEherl1PWpjgINmYL7yBnQts639PHQklzNBgqMbFnz_qj71CrVqjLNrLBKoBIItjgYs3Pgfy_4A8bgE2jhVc_A1UklQhCM5c2mDSki-ovnJ7MMRxx4gv-k9B6vrNnFKvFTNC7xWzDbxBy8wz/s1600/kane.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I hadn't been with this particular division of the company long. I'd transferred from Tucson, up to Salt Lake City in order to be closer to family. Changing jogs is an adjustment, but this turned out to be something else entirely. I'd always prided myself on being honest, regardless of the risk. This attitude had worked well in my previous position, and suited my personality, but as I was learning, some people don't want to hear the truth.<br />
<br />
My boss, The Boss, looked for the grand invention to enshrine his memory into the annals of history. The Boss searched for this one ephemeral thing, in the twilight of life. He'd already accomplished amazing things from a business perspective, but he wanted more, believed of himself better.<br />
<br />
We worked toward developing an infinitely variable gear ratio. In essence, when given an input power this device would transform the output into any desired torque or force desired. It's a bit like saying you want to build a perpetual motion machine, but he believed. I had been tasked with developing and testing in the computer the physics of the invention.<br />
<br />
One day the dissonant whistle approached from down the hall. The Boss walked into my office.<br />
<br />
"What's the simulation saying today?" The Boss asked.<br />
<br />
"That physics won't be denied," I replied enigmatically.<br />
<br />
"How do you mean?"<br />
<br />
"Well, you can't get something for nothing. The power required to change the gear ratio basically wipes out any advantage of varying the output torque," I tried cautiously.<br />
<br />
The Boss turned beat red. "Bring your results to the conference room so we an peer review the results," and he walked out of the room.<br />
<br />
It was going to be bad, the stench of ire circling in his wake told me as much. I uploaded my simulation to the company repository and headed to the conference room. It had only been a few minutes, but The Boss had already assembled every senior engineer in the building. PhDs and thirty-year-veterens inspected me with pity as I walked in. I took the only seat left, across from The Boss.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://ocdbloggergirl.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/pitythefool1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://ocdbloggergirl.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/pitythefool1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
"Okay Shane, so you think there's something wrong with my idea?" The Boss began.<br />
<br />
"Well, when I ran the simulation it-"<br />
<br />
"Wait," The Boss interrupted, "don't say 'I'."<br />
<br />
"Okay... I, umm, aah, don't understand what you mean."<br />
<br />
I started to panic. The meeting felt like a witch hunt or something where someone ended up tarred and feathered at the end. Come back tomorrow to see how things turned out.Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-55178607593987576512011-11-03T18:42:00.001-07:002012-07-31T21:12:22.694-07:00Siamese Twins<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_9?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=middle+damned&sprefix=middle+da%2Caps%2C507" target="_blank">MIDDLE DAMNED, the novel, is now available at amazon.com!!!</a></span></div><br />
It would seem the blog war has escalated and Elisa now has a lieutenant to lob verbal bombs for her, Melynda, going under the moniker Craziness Abounds of the blog<br />
<br />
<a href="http://melyndarockinthecrazy.blogspot.com/" rel="contributor-to nofollow" style="background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-origin: initial; color: #ff6600; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Crazy world</a><br />
<br />
<br />
You may have noticed that Craziness Abounds has another blog where she describes how she lost 110 lbs.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://howilost110pounds.blogspot.com/" rel="contributor-to nofollow" style="background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-origin: initial; color: #3366cc; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">How I lost 110 pounds</a><br />
<br />
And of course there is Elisa's mammoth-success of a blog.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://ecwrites.blogspot.com/">http://ecwrites.blogspot.com/</a><br />
<br />
What she has failed to mention in this blog is that the 110 lbs she lost was actually her conjoined twin. And, you guessed it, her twin is Elisa. I didn't want to pull these out, but here are some little known pictures of the two of them before the operation to separate them in Taiwan.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiytv6XG-9_Qna-I8hgAwtz8zTL1bRjFVEMek_vkNWmLCZofJ6ZVQlfxaX7R5_uI992yi1lNQ3rY7bE7kiYsZ_5IBML0i1k9j3RCrtX3Owy-xLBiM33hwRLB0J1aVgUzlA8geHkY3rSUII/s1600/EM1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiytv6XG-9_Qna-I8hgAwtz8zTL1bRjFVEMek_vkNWmLCZofJ6ZVQlfxaX7R5_uI992yi1lNQ3rY7bE7kiYsZ_5IBML0i1k9j3RCrtX3Owy-xLBiM33hwRLB0J1aVgUzlA8geHkY3rSUII/s320/EM1.gif" width="238px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There really is a reason why Elisa and Melynda are the butt of all the jokes.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggU4APrZ9SlZFjHMDNt2c4fnGDPzFZEht_5LYVCAespJWFGvTgSmZQlu9ctjtNO6ziyKq-4kL1ZBzHHYR-zmB47wa_CiKpZy15VNc0d34Bpz8x4YHGu7f9TV4mEYaBeMdw7AMO9L3oKts/s1600/EM2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggU4APrZ9SlZFjHMDNt2c4fnGDPzFZEht_5LYVCAespJWFGvTgSmZQlu9ctjtNO6ziyKq-4kL1ZBzHHYR-zmB47wa_CiKpZy15VNc0d34Bpz8x4YHGu7f9TV4mEYaBeMdw7AMO9L3oKts/s320/EM2.gif" width="223px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">They've preserved their looks rather well, don't you think? Is that a penis?!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfLQARxZUsAGyF68EyidKaQN3mFoYU-CcjIA7NiTfLORKTE_SNqZ7g5TKFwQunMqEKLigvEEyEeHVK2oKgUHvj9zbnp9ka2CrNzOJGIoI3lgQ9fFMoIPJWoidRTn1k6TqA62wDFBpVHc/s1600/EM3.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfLQARxZUsAGyF68EyidKaQN3mFoYU-CcjIA7NiTfLORKTE_SNqZ7g5TKFwQunMqEKLigvEEyEeHVK2oKgUHvj9zbnp9ka2CrNzOJGIoI3lgQ9fFMoIPJWoidRTn1k6TqA62wDFBpVHc/s320/EM3.gif" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My! What a long tongue Melynda has. (snicker)</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXAnv9CopK4zyEgsDe_nugDSY5cwVe8Tk_DNUT462ESViZjWWos90PUoZk1x8rAniUYSzBU_s8hGQmyYcW_TAoGMysZWPpWR35Fx1WZuocksFXUZphRVnLRiSdUlS1JHTHBoLgomF5gE/s1600/EM4.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXAnv9CopK4zyEgsDe_nugDSY5cwVe8Tk_DNUT462ESViZjWWos90PUoZk1x8rAniUYSzBU_s8hGQmyYcW_TAoGMysZWPpWR35Fx1WZuocksFXUZphRVnLRiSdUlS1JHTHBoLgomF5gE/s320/EM4.gif" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Relaxing in the waiting room in Taiwan, before being separated. It was a happy-sad day.</div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFXviOujLq-rPWa9-IhMi3torfXlOtWLMG6vM74rxgjIdiy5HHk4FKHQ_zRL6U6tMdPqn0E-UD9G_LAUdJ2l9M4YbUF-xI9vlFHdEd3ZI3Ja_q34MCa3nH_uXc5pcFia2xrPmXdIx41U/s1600/EM5.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFXviOujLq-rPWa9-IhMi3torfXlOtWLMG6vM74rxgjIdiy5HHk4FKHQ_zRL6U6tMdPqn0E-UD9G_LAUdJ2l9M4YbUF-xI9vlFHdEd3ZI3Ja_q34MCa3nH_uXc5pcFia2xrPmXdIx41U/s320/EM5.gif" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And of course, in their youth on the farm.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3gFMiME1ow4kzOsj0P14J2sDr9TbrxoJUF4_EmjWfdLYE5CPZsM2EBlTeSh9RiavdOZU6wFL02QFnDI4DEkrUo8T2O_6H0KhloVgoIsWzFuI4D3qFpim-uJv1SZmljp-saeQpqf4TqCY/s1600/EM6.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3gFMiME1ow4kzOsj0P14J2sDr9TbrxoJUF4_EmjWfdLYE5CPZsM2EBlTeSh9RiavdOZU6wFL02QFnDI4DEkrUo8T2O_6H0KhloVgoIsWzFuI4D3qFpim-uJv1SZmljp-saeQpqf4TqCY/s320/EM6.gif" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I debated whether or not to put this one in. After all, everyone should be allowed to make the mistake of posing for a racy Siamese Twins calendar during their college years.</div>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-73786607370189370182011-11-01T20:46:00.000-07:002011-11-01T20:46:10.885-07:00Total Prankonic Reversal: Part 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSrM3f_Ox_niUeKfORG5DlSEfL19UydZppkcy-QYVfU34B2dBBeRw" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSrM3f_Ox_niUeKfORG5DlSEfL19UydZppkcy-QYVfU34B2dBBeRw" /></a></div><br />
<br />
This post concludes the Total Prankonic Reversal series.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" style="color: #2936d3; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; position: relative;"><a href="http://middledamned.blogspot.com/2011/10/total-prankonic-reversal-part-1.html" style="background-color: white; color: #2198a6; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Total Prankonic Reversal: Part 1</a></h3><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" style="color: #2936d3; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; position: relative;"><a href="http://middledamned.blogspot.com/2011/10/total-prankonic-reversal-part-2.html" style="background-color: white; color: #2936d3; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-decoration: none;">Total Prankonic Reversal: Part 2</a></h3><br />
<br />
I had had grand aspirations of deluding Elisa into thinking she had car problems with the two-way radio in her van. This went over like a lead balloon. I almost quit then, I almost packed it in and called off the rest. I'm glad I didn't, then I wouldn't have known I'd already pranked myself something terrible.<br />
<br />
"Hi, mom," I said through the cell phone. "Are you ready to do this?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, but I'm a little nervous," she said.<br />
<br />
"No worries. You go in, plant the radios and then give me a signal at the front picture window. I'll start making noises after that. Try and get something on your camera's video," I instructed her.<br />
<br />
"Okay, I'll see you after it's over. Bye."<br />
<br />
"Bye."<br />
<br />
The overhead lighting glared accusingly from above the freeway as my phone rang. "Hello?" I answered.<br />
<br />
"Hi Shane," Elisa said. "That was pretty funny."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, you knew right away though."<br />
<br />
"True, but I was afraid to look under the seat. But hey, I was wondering. So, the whole thing today, it was just a ruse to get the walkie-talkie into my van."<br />
<br />
"Well, no, not exactly." I deprecated. I choked, unsure what to say.<br />
<br />
"Anyway, that was a good one. I'll talk to you later, Okay?"<br />
<br />
"Okay."<br />
<br />
When I arrived at Elisa's house I parked down a cross street where I could see the front picture window. My mother's car had pulled into the driveway a minute before. She'd walked into the house, glancing furtively from side to side, looking guilty as hell. A couple more minutes passed and my mother, the master of subtlety, walked in front of the window and practically starting doing jumping jacks. Her hands waved through the air like she were doing the backstroke across the room. It was the most conspicuous sign I'd ever seen.<br />
<br />
"What the heck is she doing?" I chuckled.<br />
<br />
I decided to wait another 10 minutes to throw Elisa off the scent, but apparently mom had something else in mind. She was back and gesturing out the window in a fit of epilepsy.<br />
<br />
"Oh great googly moogly," I groaned and dialed my mom's phone number.<br />
<br />
"Hellooo." She answered sweetly. "Do it now. Do it now." She continued in an emphatic whisper. "Oh no, Cade's found one of the radios. Do it now!" she practically yelled.<br />
<br />
I hung up the phone and started mooing over the radio. In the house my mom says Cade and Elisa frantically searched for the one remaining radio. The radio in my hand crackled to life, but not with my bovine serenade. Cade squealed in response to my mooing, like a pig wallowing in cow turd. The prank was over, or so I thought. I drove the half block to Elisa's house from my look out point.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSDL1SHOPXzim5Vq1Qx69IIyLvMtyz9-Z2LQTEW0zrod57NGUtn" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSDL1SHOPXzim5Vq1Qx69IIyLvMtyz9-Z2LQTEW0zrod57NGUtn" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Elisa stood in the driveway, her hand on a jauntily cocked hip. "I couldn't figure out what in the heck was going on. It smelled like mom was trying to prank me, but I couldn't figure out why. Mom said she was in the neighborhood and wanted to come over to visit, but then said she was half an hour away."<br />
<br />
I smiled at our mom as she came down the entry stairs. "Yeah, she's a sly one."<br />
<br />
Elisa turned to her, "So you didn't really come over to visit, huh?"<br />
<br />
It was then I noticed Elisa 's eyes had that tired, red look after having just cried. It was then I realized I had just pranked myself worse than I had ever hoped to get Elisa.Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-47841469426963565712011-10-31T21:28:00.000-07:002011-10-31T21:28:18.733-07:00Total Prankonic Reversal: Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://mybirdie.ca/files/dicktracy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://mybirdie.ca/files/dicktracy.png" /></a></div><br />
<br />
So continues the story of my failed prank execution as first described yesterday.<br />
<br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" style="color: #2936d3; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; position: relative;"><a href="http://middledamned.blogspot.com/2011/10/total-prankonic-reversal-part-1.html" style="background-color: white; color: #2198a6; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Total Prankonic Reversal: Part 1</a></h3><div><br />
</div><div>All of our kids, Elisa's, Julie's and mine had been at a church sleep over the night before. Julie picked them up in the morning and Elisa and I met at her house to get our kids. This is the background on which phase one of the prank began.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"I am so excited to see your thesis." I heard Elisa gush to Julie.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Thanks for coming." Julie said from inside the den.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I went outside and approached the van like a kid from The Outsiders. It sat unsuspecting on the road. I pulled on the door handle, locked! My mind raced. Julie's husband busied himself preparing the yard for an impending cold snap. The first fingers of winter's chilly grip had wrapped around the Wasatch Mountains a few days before.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.allthetests.com/quiz28/picture/pic_1289158056_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.allthetests.com/quiz28/picture/pic_1289158056_2.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Rachel," I called to a fair niece of mine. </div><div><br />
</div><div>She glided across the lawn. "What Uncle Shane."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Go and Tell Aunt E.C., we need to move her van to fix a sprinkler."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Why?" she questioned.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"I'll tell you later," I said with a devilish grin. I chose Rachel because she has the demeanor of an angel, no one would suspect her.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Keys in hand, I moved the van and lay below the driver side foot pedals, looking up into the guts of the steering column. I placed the radio into the mechanical bowels and tested its reception.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The receiver crackled to life. "Test 1, moo. Test 2, moo." My voice echoed softly above me. "Excellent." I whispered in conclusion.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I went back into the house and ran into a mob of cousins huddled around a video game like it harbored the universe's secrets. I passed the den and saw Elisa scrutinizing a computer screen while Julie explained some arcane detailed. Elisa's pony tail bobbed as she thoughtfully pointed at the monitor. IT was good to see them sitting together. It occurred to me that I didn't know the last time I had seen them like that, sharing some one-on-one time as sisters.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Both are beautiful women, but the differences between them are as stark as the glowing moon against a shimmering, starlit sky. Elisa is blond, while Julie is dark brunette. Julie runs a tight ship and Elisa plays it by ear. To sum it up, Julie never would have put a fake severed finger in my birthday chili! To see Elisa's post on this event click the following link.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/TheCrazyLifeOfAWritingMom/~3/61aeCl-lz8Q/i-gave-my-brother-finger.html" style="background-color: white; color: #3366cc; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: bold; line-height: 15px; text-align: left;" target="_blank">I Gave My Brother the Finger</a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c186/Elisabeth83/finger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c186/Elisabeth83/finger.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I anxiously watched the clock. My wife labored at home preparing a birthday party for me. I really should have been there helping her, but one <i>has</i> to have priorities. I deliberated on my next move. It would be best to leave first and then lay it wait before whispering into Elisa's world. Elisa emerged from the mock consultation before I could act. </div><div><br />
</div><div>"Okay, kids," I said, "let's go."<br />
<br />
Elisa and I herded the children out the front door.<br />
<br />
"Thanks, Julie." I told my older sister with a wink.<br />
<br />
"Sure, no problem, Shane." Julie said, but I failed to notice the hint of uncertainty in her words.<br />
<br />
Elisa chatted with her little boy, the one she calls the Zombie Elf in her blog. "So, do you want to be an engineer like Uncle Shane when you grow up?"<br />
<br />
"Yup, I want to be an engineer for Halloween, too," he said. I love that boy.<br />
<br />
I sat in my car, radio in hand, and waited. Elisa strapped her brood in and pulled around me. I surged forward, immediately behind her, too close behind. I depressed and held the send button on the radio. I should have left earlier and struck from within the shadows. It was too late now. I took a deep breath and let out a screeching like mechanical components grinding to an inoperable halt. Elisa's brakes slammed on and she pulled slowly to the curb. I parked in front of her and got out of my car.<br />
<br />
"Van problems?" I asked innocently.<br />
<br />
Elisa stepped from the car. "Did you do this?" she smirked. Elisa has asked me this question more than any other since the blog war began. She gets a paper cut, "Did you do this?" The Texas Rangers loose the world series, "Did you do this?" She gets lesbian love letters, "Did you do this?" Do I look like a lesbian bent on amore'? At least I hope not for my wife's sake.<br />
<br />
Apparently Elisa thought something terrible waited under her seat, but in the end she knew it was me. Urrgh, another failure, but the jig wasn't up yet. Two more radios waited in the wings, ready to strike fear into Elisa's good-natured existence. Check in tomorrow to see how it went and to find out how I ended up pranking myself.</div>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-37556835743745464392011-10-30T20:53:00.000-07:002011-10-30T20:53:54.650-07:00Total Prankonic Reversal: Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHLJqqDFlp7zwGtvuxEJa-75smi6PdShPjzfCs5_NSHPZ7GY1zHZUaGoLhFsA0adnDfB6ywm6rKjVUOwMauPTk021JA68tY-0dUTW66dmTWcH6AFWwCjI7mObRFyL58oMyB8gx-U6leco/s1600/371+Dont+Cross+the+Streams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="383" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHLJqqDFlp7zwGtvuxEJa-75smi6PdShPjzfCs5_NSHPZ7GY1zHZUaGoLhFsA0adnDfB6ywm6rKjVUOwMauPTk021JA68tY-0dUTW66dmTWcH6AFWwCjI7mObRFyL58oMyB8gx-U6leco/s400/371+Dont+Cross+the+Streams.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
This blog war with my sister Elisa has taught me some important lessons about the nature of relationships and the fragility of humanity, especially my own. It is too easy to forget the impact an action will have on someone's feelings when focused on 'winning', an irrational notion in itself considering pranks. A couple of days ago I tried to prank Elisa. Not only was it another udder failure, I ended up pranking myself in the process. It was a complete backfire. You may ask how one accidentally pranks oneself. As Egon said, when you cross the streams, you get total prankonic reversal. When you cross the line, rational thinking is left behind. So, what are the characteristics of prankonic reversal?<br />
<br />
Any prank has a desired emotional outcome, the primary being embarrassment, as a result of misguided fear, anger, joy, etc. Funny how deconstructing it in this way reveals pranks to be the dirty little deeds they are. Anyway, a failed prank elicits an unintended emotion, the most dangerous being sadness... And so part one of the story begins.<br />
<br />
The Prank Premise:<br />
I planned to secret two-way radios in Elisa's van and house. With another radio I would then create sounds, ultimately mooing, into Elisa's unsuspecting world.<br />
<br />
Prank Facts:<br />
Three radios eventually infiltrated Elisa's domain, one in the van and two in the house. Each was set to a different radio frequency. The forth I kept with me and could change it's frequency to communicate with the other three independently.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.cartoonstock.com/newscartoons/cartoonists/bst/lowres/bstn189l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.cartoonstock.com/newscartoons/cartoonists/bst/lowres/bstn189l.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Prank Method:<br />
The hardest part of this idea was getting the radios in place. I enlisted our older sister, Julie, to plant a radio in the van, and our mother to plant two radios in Elisa's house. Julie would ask Elisa for her opinion on a Master's thesis she is writing. While Elisa reviewed the document in Julie's house, I would be outside planting the instrument in the van. Our mom would call Elisa and ask if she could visit. While there, our mother would place two radios in the house.<br />
<br />
Nothing would go as I had planned. Check back tomorrow for how it went at Julie's house.Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4124114522341883601.post-63577771034332175502011-10-23T21:52:00.000-07:002011-10-23T21:52:07.961-07:00Motorcycle LoveToday I came home with a surprise for my wife. I came home with a motorcycle. It was given to me by a friend at work who no longer wanted it. At first I thought springing this on her would make for some good blog material. Fortunately, this isn't the case. She seems to know me well enough to take such things in stride. In the end I would guess this is what makes a marriage work, tolerating the idiotic husband when he behaves badly. That, and having something in common. I may be an engineer, but I've got a fairly broad streak of fine art running through. My wife on the other hand has a technical streak running through a majority of fine art background.<br />
<br />
The following are some pictures we've done over the years. Each has brought us closer in one way or another.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKIvWX1poM9C1tSWUTo3p8xSLR4d9jk2YaNbr3AMei7Y1o85Vx0e02QEUHB8H2-N1_Mp5VdRuLvzcMbG-VsDq9a4cW0NVOYOTttXGMc5Z5VKpJBTGb56jQ3GQXlL5hqnL7LpPu_pS9NPo/s1600/KZ2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKIvWX1poM9C1tSWUTo3p8xSLR4d9jk2YaNbr3AMei7Y1o85Vx0e02QEUHB8H2-N1_Mp5VdRuLvzcMbG-VsDq9a4cW0NVOYOTttXGMc5Z5VKpJBTGb56jQ3GQXlL5hqnL7LpPu_pS9NPo/s320/KZ2.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Painting of my wife while she was pregnant with our first child. (minus the blue boxes)</div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrK7BKH45_zbLXEuRdE1VX5spdx6UmWxhdxlnC6WdHoP290BsOpjblm4kTEyU6CwuAIW4QEdRyFKZGHJ6Ui8U5PRz1PfOy9ojQSx2Z5Yv0M1EU0eRVy-SpWfKHxhyddKmlT30mzbbE3-4/s1600/KZ3.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrK7BKH45_zbLXEuRdE1VX5spdx6UmWxhdxlnC6WdHoP290BsOpjblm4kTEyU6CwuAIW4QEdRyFKZGHJ6Ui8U5PRz1PfOy9ojQSx2Z5Yv0M1EU0eRVy-SpWfKHxhyddKmlT30mzbbE3-4/s320/KZ3.gif" width="259" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Germany map painting my wife gave me on the first birthday we celebrated together.</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3nCqozGXIsFu6oyIJw1Rzwehl-Cfva6_A6W0SisayMFRcoCikmYInaXmtmWVsxgW6EYBo7R-5ySqY7HnUs8R-z0ZdMmGWfDh1MuaLkgAO3K9_s3y0KN3chPhRjRwanCfBQ7kjWKC_gQ/s1600/KZ4.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3nCqozGXIsFu6oyIJw1Rzwehl-Cfva6_A6W0SisayMFRcoCikmYInaXmtmWVsxgW6EYBo7R-5ySqY7HnUs8R-z0ZdMmGWfDh1MuaLkgAO3K9_s3y0KN3chPhRjRwanCfBQ7kjWKC_gQ/s320/KZ4.gif" width="244" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">France map painting my wife and I worked on together, but mostly my wife.</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibm8TMBN2_RxNT-kzMKL66QqoedCfYaNuOCXpA1IZ5daEumAZ-jABBKYgajr5khrJpYT9Vgxes4M3ecRZ52H_ylcXWVR2W9-dxdd4M2gP4dqZ3itXhu4xOC_E2lweS0wUfT6tZyMmtvdc/s1600/KZ5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibm8TMBN2_RxNT-kzMKL66QqoedCfYaNuOCXpA1IZ5daEumAZ-jABBKYgajr5khrJpYT9Vgxes4M3ecRZ52H_ylcXWVR2W9-dxdd4M2gP4dqZ3itXhu4xOC_E2lweS0wUfT6tZyMmtvdc/s320/KZ5.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Painting I did of my father and myself.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">They say opposites attract when it comes to relationships, but I don't buy it. I think it's the things you share in common that bind you together. It has something to do with being not only husband and wife, but friends at the same time. When I brought home the motorcycle, my wife wasn't happy. Indeed, she hit me several times as I teased her, but she's still talking to me and I love her all the more for it. </div>Middle Damnedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01425301253300525444noreply@blogger.com10