Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part Six
Another short one, but AT LAST!!! one that revisits a character you’ve already met. In this one, Nate Wells returns to Atlanta after flipping his Blazer in his uncle’s parking lot. Turns out, the (probably) totaled SUV is the least of Nate’s concerns. This one will leave you wondering why Dick Burrell wants to pull his ad out of Nate’s paper. The answer to that comes next week. In the meantime, enjoy!
A War Between States Part 6:
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Chapter 4: Campaign: Nate, Part One
July 8, 2003
Nate parked the Audi rent-a-car in his usual spot behind the building where his offices were. He decided that when he bought a new car (which might be next week if the Blazer was totaled), he’d look into an Audi, although he wasn’t sure he could afford one. Not yet anyway.
The sun bathed this part of East Point in a dazzling light. It wasn’t as hot as it had been the week before down in Marionville, but it was bright, and his blue eyes were sensitive to it. He squinted to watch a gay couple stroll down the side street, probably headed to Oz Pizza, the Corner Tavern, or one of the antique shops. A buxom black woman pushed a stroller, heading in the opposite direction. A line of cab drivers idled their cars in the direction of the MARTA station.
He sighed and got out, flipped his keys into his pocket, and walked into the cool interior of his office. In the front room was a collection of six desks, scattered almost at random all around, each with a computer on it, five of them occupied.
When Nate walked in, Rich Stephens immediately leaned back in his swivel chair and flipped the window unit AC down to low. Janine Moss hung up her phone and tried to look busy with her keyboard. Manny Chetwall closed a window — probably a porn site — on his computer. Nate had surprised them.
He grinned at the room, and they knew he’d caught them slacking off (and running the AC too high when they knew he was behind on the electric bill). They also knew he had instantly forgiven them. After all, he was a good boss. The best boss.
“Hey, Nate,” Janine piped, and they all greeted him after that, all with relief in their voices. Still, a certain amount of tension filled the room — tension that had been ever-present for months.
Deanna came into the room then, and the tension settled in and stuck to them like Saran Wrap. Nate found it a little harder to breathe.
“Hey, Nate. You’re early,” she said.
He forced a grin. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
She didn’t return his grin — Deanna was all business, all the time.
“Good. There are three calls parked on hold for you right now. Follow me.” She spun on her low, soft heels and left the front office, heading down the short hall which led to his office, her office , and the bathroom. He shrugged at the people in the room and started to follow her.
“Phil still not back?” he asked no one in particular.
“No. Didn’t you see him down there?” Janine answered.
“Too busy with family shit. Plus, I flipped my Blazer.”
He left them wondering — he liked to do that — and went down the hall.
Deanna met him in his office. He noted again how pretty she was, with her bob of auburn hair, her horn-rimmed glasses, her pale skin and blue, blue eyes. Then he again rued the fact that she was lesbian. He was sure they would be dating if she wasn’t gay.
And also cantankerous as hell, he reminded himself as she laid into him. Again.
“When you hired me, you didn’t tell me I’d have to take shit from nasty, mean-ass asking-for-money-I-can’t-fuckin’-give-them mother-fuckers,” she started.
He gave her a look that said he didn’t want to hear it again, and then simply asked, “Who?”
“Dude from Namco Printers called at 8:15, offering to ruin your credit if you didn’t front him at least a grand by Thursday. What was left of my head got chewed off by the guy from Express Printers, who said he wants all eight thousand by Friday or he’s out and out suing. Right now, you have calls waiting from the service bureau and a guy from the IRS about last quarter’s 941 bill. Neither one would just take no for an answer.”
“And the last call?”
Her angry look softened to a one of sadness, with just enough affection in it that Nate felt his heart flutter. “Maybe the scariest one of all. It’s Dick’s Hair Salon. He wants to pull his ad.”
“Did he say why?”
Deanna shook her head.
“Okay. What’s your evaluation of my predicament?”
Now Deanna brightened. This was the part she liked — her solutions, however temporary, to his ongoing troubles. This was where he relied on her. She could read people’s temperaments better than anyone he knew, and she had already established decent enough relations with most of his vendors and creditors that they trusted her, if not him. That included the tax man.
“I think you can handle half a grand to Namco,” she said. “That should hold Yumi off until next week at least. I think I can squeeze a thousand out for Express, which’ll appease them for now. Probably. I’m gonna tell the service bureau to kiss my ass — nicely of course — and I’ll try to drum you up another company to replace them for a while. As for the IRS guy — well, you fuckin’ owe him seven grand, and you better pay him. You can, and in full, if you hold our paychecks for two days, and if you can convince Dick not to pull out.”
Nate smiled at her Freudian slip, and she stared at him, oblivious. Neither said a word. He waited on her to realize what she’d just said, and when she did, she screwed up her face in distaste and said, “Fuck you, Nate. You know what I meant.”
“On so many levels, I know what you meant.”
She hit him.
“C’mon, you asshole. This is serious.”
He knew she was right. It was serious. So in his best imitation of Jean Luc Picard, intrepid Captain of Star Trek’s USS Enterprise, he said, “You’re right. Make it so.” Then, in his own soft drawl, he added, “You deal with the rest. I’ll take Dick in my office.” And he winked at her. She rolled her eyes and left him alone.
“He’s on two,” she said as she whisked back down the hall.
He shut the door to his office — something he was loathe to do — and sat in the comfortable swivel chair behind his cluttered desk. He gazed at the blinking red light on line two a while before picking it up.
The Cast
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Nate Wells - Jay Elgin
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Deanna - Andrea Kruse
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Janine Moss - Madeleine Kenyon
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Narrator - Will Kenyon
Allow Me To Introduce You To My Friend… Beer
I like beer.
Yeah, I know you like beer, too (or at least some of you), but only a handful of you know what it means to like beer the way I do. I like beer so much that when I kickstarted this web site again, I promised myself that I would spend some of my time here evangelizing the glories of good beer, in the hopes that those who like beer as much as I do would raise their glasses with me in a salute to our shared passion, and so that those who didn’t quite, might find some direction.
Some of the breweries I love and respect.
So, how should I go about this? Should I denigrate the beers which a beer snob like me turns his nose up to?
No. That won’t work. If you like Budweiser or Miller Lite or even Yuengling, then I’m glad to have you as a distant cousin. I do encourage you, however, to experiment a little. I can almost guarantee that some variety of beer exists out there which will make you understand what we beer snobs mean when we say that Budweiser is like having sex in a canoe…. And let me tell you that I understand if you drink Bud because it’s convenient, inexpensive, and familiar. Just think of those “strange brews” as treats, and treat yourself once in a while. I’m sure there’s something out there which will tickle your taste buds (no pun intended) the same way chocolate tickles some people’s.
OK. So, should I go into a long technical dissertation about the different types of beers and brewing techniques?
Nope. This is beer we’re talking about here, so no science allowed in this initial introductory article. For right now, let me assure you that some of the finest chemists in the world work in the beer industry, trying all sorts of combos to come up with unique and interesting flavors. Anyone who tells you that all beers taste alike simply hasn’t had very much beer.
Alrighty then. Should I discuss the history of beer? Well, for many of us fans, the history of beer is a fascinating topic, but if you’re just now seeking to expand your horizons, then what you really need to know is this: in recent years a resurgence of mostly American breweries (although imported beers are represented, too) has created a wave of variety and experimentation unlike anything we’ve ever seen before. Beer “corporations” are in a tailspin trying to capitalize on this grassroots groundswell of good taste and freshness which is wildly different from the mass-manufactured product many of us had settled for.
All around the country, grocery and liquor stores are offering more, different, better beers. Restaurants and bars are hosting beer dinners, where the house chef actually pairs specific flavors of beer to specific gourmet foods. People are homebrewing – experimenting themselves – and American microbrews are cropping up in U.S. cities from coast to coast.
So… you know what? I think that actually brings me to the point of this first piece about beer, and that is basically to say: RIGHT NOW is perhaps the best time ever to be an American who enjoys beer, because we have so many delicious options available to us.
It’s up to us to take advantage of those options, and for those of us love beer to let other people – the Bud drinkers, the wine-drinkers, the “I don’t like the way beer tastes” drinkers – know that they have options, too.
And this is how I will go about the next article: I’m just gonna tell you about some of my favorite beers. Now, I like some hard-to-find ones (try finding Dark Lord Imperial Stout), so I won’t talk about those much, because I don’t think good taste should be difficult to find. Instead, I’ll talk about great beers you can usually find in a medium- to high-end liquor store.
In the meantime, let me introduce you to what I consider the two best bars in my hometown of Atlanta (and its suburbs) to get the greatest variety of delicious beer: The Porter Beer Bar and The Brick Store.
Also, here’s a list of links to some of my favorite American breweries. Many of the beers I’ll be talking about in the coming months are made by these people:
Abita
Atlanta
Avery
Bells
Brooklyn
Clipper City
Dogfish Head
Duck Rabbit
Fat Tire/New Belgium
Flying Dog
Great Divide
Kona
Lagunitas
Lefthand
Moylans
Ommegang
Oskar Blues
Rogue
Samuel Adams
Sierra Nevada
Schmaltz (Hebrew and Coney Island)
Stone
Sweetwater
Terrapin
Victory
More Random Poetry
The other day I got back what more or less amounts to a rejection letter from a prominent literary magazine. What it WAS, was a list of winners in the magazine’s annual fiction and poetry contests. I entered the contests this year and…
I wasn’t on the list. Sad.
I did, however, recognize a couple of the names on the list of poetry “winners” as people with whom I have personal and/or professional relationships. Ironically, though they won recognition for their poetry, they did not in fact manage to get their poems published. You see, traditional publishing - especially for magazines which are generally considered literary and therefore have much lower circulations that dimestore rags and tabloids - is very expensive. Paper costs a lot of money, so while the magazine in question can afford to make room to mention that so and so won Honorable Mention in the annual contest, the magazine can’t really afford to publish all that wonderful poetry. So my friends/acquaintances know that the magazine has given them a nod, but… no publication.
It reminded me of the year I actually won Honorable Mention at the magazine in question. I, too, had my name and the title of one of my poems mentioned in the back pages of the magazine, but the poems in question have remained unpublished.
So I figured, hey, why not? I’ll give my readers a sample of what one particular magazine saw fit to give an auspicious nod to, but could not make room for. Here it is, heretofore unpublished, but apparently good enough to warrant Honorable Mention in Nimrod: The Martyr.
The Martyr
Watch the growing lethargy of the bee
See it before you on the shiny glass surface
Observe as its insides ooze from its back
The wings flutter useless
The buzz it made has become innocuous
Desultory
The industry of its purpose is dim
Even in your vastly more sensitive perception
In your vastly more persistent recollection
Even the anger of that one fated instant
That fatal flash of stinger and skin
The drawing of blood
Infusion of poison
Even that
And the reasons behind it all
Are forgotten, oozing out of time and meaning
Like innards out of a broken thorax
And soon weariness will overtake it
And the flighted, rapid yellow and black
Will fade to stillness and gray
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part Five
And without further ado, here is the second part of the piece I gave you last week. Tamara’s story continues….
A War Between States Part 5:
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Chapter 3: Campaign: Tamara, Part Two
July 7 and 8, 2003
The next Saturday, Tamara climbed out of the back seat of Phil Dobson’s silver Nissan and stretched. A three hour trip wasn’t so bad when you made the trek with friends, but still — three hours was three hours. And Phil didn’t believe in toilet breaks. Phil and Karen clambered out of the front of the car, Karen wearing her sunglasses, and Phil — who somehow lost his in the car —shielding his eyes with his hand. He grunted, reached back into the car, pulled out his baseball cap, and plopped it on his head. Ever since he’d started losing his hair about a year before, he’d found a lot of excuses to wear that cap.
“Sun’s bright,” he said now.
Tamara scanned the road where they had pulled over — took in the tall Bermuda grass on both sides and the faded yellow passing line that ran down the middle. She noted how few trees lined either side of the road, and how most trees that were there were scraggly, near lifeless loblolly pines, perhaps the most decrepit, ugly tree on the planet. For evergreens, they sure have a lot of brown needles, she thought.
Then she stared for a long time at the one impressive tree nearby — the oak which had made her decide to buy this particular lot. It stood out of place and noble, like a king come to visit his commoners and finding they were only rabble, clinging to the dirt and the thin grass in desperation while he towered over them, his roots deep, his countenance ancient and far-reaching.
“We used to pass this oak every Sunday on our way to church in Cauley,” Phil said, coming around the side of the car.
“Why’d you go to church in Cauley?” Karen asked, and shut her door with a bang. Phil made to put his arm around her, but she shooed him off and mouthed the word no. Tamara smiled — her friend assumed she was still sensitive to seeing two people be affectionate, which was only half true. She was sensitive to it, but it made her happy to see them together, not sad.
“The churches in Marionville didn’t have any kids in them,” Phil answered. “But Cauley First Baptist did.”
“He’s talking about the white churches, of course, Karen,” Tamara added. “The black folks’ church where I went had lots of kids in attendance.”
Phil laughed and shrugged. “She’s right.”
Tamara laughed with him, and Karen looked confused. Then Tamara idled over to the oak, stepping lightly through dry, yellow grass which cracked and broke as she passed. She strolled around the oak and gazed up into its branches. Its leaves, at least, were green.
“Be careful a’ snakes!” a man’s voice shouted from up the road.
All three of them turned to see the man approaching them along the side of the highway. He was an old, white gentleman, wearing faded jeans patched in the knees and a white cotton shirt which was dulled to a sort of eggshell color from its numerous washings in hard water.
The man raised a gnarled hand above his head. Liver spots and moles covered both his head and hand, and as he got nearer Tamara noted with disgust his cavernous nostrils, all black and purple on the inside. His hair was amazingly thick for a man as old as he otherwise appeared to be, and he ran his hand through its grayness after he waved.
“Hey, Mr. Blankenship,” Phil shouted, and Tamara suddenly recognized the old man as the shop teacher from her and Phil’s old high school. God, he’s gotten old, she thought.
“Well, I’ll be a turd in a turbine, if it ain’t Phil Dobson and Tamara Granger. Two of the smartest little ‘uns to ever graj-e-ate from Crayton County High.”
He waddled up in front of Phil and thrust out his weathered hand. Phil took it, and Mr. Blankenship pumped it up and down.
“I heard Tamara done bought the acreage next to me, and I figgered I’d be seein’ her.” He nodded toward Tamara. “But what brings you here?”
“Tamara and my wife are best friends,” Phil said and reclaimed his hand from the old man. “We came down with her. We’re supposed to be meeting her contractor here.”
“Your wife?” Mr. Blankenship raised his bushy eyebrows.
“I’m Karen Dobson, Mr. Blankenship,” Karen said and swooped her hand in a circular sort of wave. Tamara left her spot by the oak and took a position next to Karen.
“Hey, Mr. Blankenship,” she said.
Mr. Blankenship’s eyes appraised Karen for a long moment before rolling over to take in Tamara. He exhaled — it sounded very loud through his enormous nostrils — and nodded at her again.
“I heard you was gonna open up some sorta business on this land,” he said to her. His voice held a certain level of apprehension it hadn’t before.
“Yes, sir,” Tamara answered and affected a smile. She felt hot all of a sudden. “I’m opening a brew pub.”
“A what?”
“A brew pub.”
Mr. Blankenship snorted — the sound was like a plane crashing — and then he said, “Well, now, I know what a brew is, and I reckon I know what a pub is…. You thinkin’ ‘bout openin’ a bar way the hell out here?”
Tamara grinned, and delivered a watered-down version of her pitch to the bank as a response. “The population supports it, even with the relative size of Marionville. And being ‘way the hell out here’ avoids the city ordinance against drinking establishments.”
Mr. Blankenship’s eyes shifted and settled on Karen again, but his voice still directed unabashed questions at Tamara.
“You think you’ll sell enough beer to support your rent and expenses?”
“Well, I’ll sell more than beer,” Tamara replied. “I’ll have food and live entertainment and karaoke.”
“Karaoke?” Blankenship chuckled, a nasally, high-pitched cackle that rolled across the shrub-filled ground and bounced off the loblollies. “That sing-a-long foolishness I seen on TV?” He glanced sidelong at her, then returned to staring at Karen. Phil shuffled closer to his wife, as if Blankenship might at any moment pounce and suck her up one of his gigantic nostrils. “That crap’s just a fad, like pet rocks and video games. Don’t bank on that stuff, or you won’t last long. You got your liquor license?”
Tamara sighed. “No, sir. Not yet. I…. We don’t figure I’ll have that much of a problem with it.”
At last Mr. Blankenship turned to face her fully, and studied her from head to toe. At first she felt uncomfortable with his appraisal — but then she realized he wasn’t gauging her by the same criteria by which he gauged Karen, and she started feeling even hotter.
“I reckon ya’ll are right. You might not have much trouble with the city council,” he said. “Considerin’.”
Another vehicle — an olive green Expedition — drove up and rolled off the road and onto the stony shoulder. Everyone turned to watch the SUV approach.
“Considering what?” Karen asked out of the corner of her mouth so that only Tamara and Phil could hear. Phil laughed again, shrugged again, and hailed the driver of the SUV. Tamara smirked and rolled her eyes.
“Considering that I’m black,” she said. “And that most of the Marionville city council is, too.”
The Expedition stopped, and Tamara’s contractor tumbled out — a square-shouldered black man dressed too well for the heat. Tamara rushed forward and gave him a hug, leaving Phil to his amused observations, Karen to her inevitable consternation, and Mr. Blankenship to whatever thoughts he was having.
“Here he is,” Tamara said. “My man, Mr. Craig Owens.”
Craig grinned and blushed, a mild sweat already bubbling on his brow. He waved at Phil and Karen with one arm while the other held Tamara timidly. “You’re the person deserves the praise, going through with this,” he said out loud. Then, under his breath and for her only, he asked. “Who’s the old guy with the nose?”
Tamara’s giddy laughter climbed through the hazy, hot summer air until it seemed it might tickle the feet of passing angels.
I forgot my cast list last time. Sorry, cast. But since it’s essentially the same as this week’s, here goes:
The Cast
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Tamara Granger - Stephanie Thornton
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Karen Dobson - Aida Kenyon
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Phil Dobson - Chris Cline
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Mr. Blankenship - Jim Dervan
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Craig Owens - Joe Macon
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Narrator - Will Kenyon
Fun With Haiku
Although I write poetry, and I’ve gotten a few published, I’ve never really dug haiku. I always envisioned it as “nature poetry” and I really don’t dig nature poetry so much (Sorry, nature poets! I DO respect what you do!). In fact, until last week I had MAYBE written one haiku, a “very serious” poem about a red cap floating on the open sea. It was short of course - according to the standard haiku rules, it was seventeen syllables total, divided in to a five beat line, a seven beat line, then a final five beat line. I don’t remember how it went though, just that it followed the rules of haiku and it was about a stupid cap.
Recently, though, due to a site called TwiHaiku (http://makeliterature.com/twihaiku/twitter-poetry) which I discovered a la Twitter, I’ve had a renewed interest in the old Japanese poetic form. I’ve written a few, submitted a few to TwiHaiku, and yes, had a pretty good time with it. It’s gotten to the point where I’m constructing haikus in my head just about every time I find myself doing something mundane and repetitive, like mowing the grass or taking a shower. Since I used to balance the checkbook in my head while I did those things, this is both a good thing and a bad thing: I’m keeping my creative juices flowing, but I’m falling behind on my finances.
Ah, such is life.
Anyway, that’s the explanation. Now, here’s some examples of what I’ve written. As you read, you’ll see how much fun this can be, and you’ll notice that these are NOT in any way nature poems.
Telekinesis || I can make your head implode || Watch out, here I come
I sold my kidney || Now I can pay for her school || Happy Father’s Day
I like working out || Unfortunately for me || I also like beer
Dick Cheney visits || Smell of brimstone in the air || We hid the rifles
The angrier that || Hulk gets, the stronger Hulk gets || You are not the Hulk
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part Four
I want to give this to you in bigger chunks of time (each post around 12 minutes), but if I don’t get this posted now, I’ll hit the 11-day mark between podcast posts again. I’ve having just a little trouble with the sound quality of one of my voice “talents.” So while I work on that part (which will be in the next podcast), I’ll give you this. Introducing Tamara Granger, main character #3.
A War Between States Part 4:
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Chapter 3: Campaign: Tamara
July 7 and 8, 2003
Tamara Granger walked out of SunTrust bank, wearing a smart-looking baby blue business suit, her long, black hair falling in tousled ringlets around her shoulders. She squinted her brown eyes against the sun, then let out the loudest whoop she’d ever let out — louder than the one when she’d gotten the full ride to the University of Georgia, louder than the one when she’d graduated Magna Cum Laude four years later.
When Tamara whooped, it made her friend Karen Dobson, who was walking beside her, jump, then start screaming right along with her.
“I did it! I did it, Karen! I motherfucking did it!” Tamara screeched. Several young men in ties turned to watch her — no doubt one of the most startling gorgeous black women they’d ever seen — jump up and down in the bank parking lot. “I got the loan!”
Karen hit her.
“Ow!” Tamara rubbed her shoulder where Karen had punched her. “What was that for?”
“You scared the ever-living shit out of me,” Karen said. “Next time you’re gonna scream like that, let me know first.”
Tamara grinned. “Sorry.”
“Jesus,” Karen grumbled. Then she, too, smiled, and wrapped both arms around Tamara. “You did it!” she shouted into Tamara’s ear. “You got the loan!”
And then they were both jumping up and down on the asphalt, yelling and hollering and congratulating Tamara on her success with the bankers. The other people crossing in and out of the bank shook their heads and passed them by. The two women ignored any scornful looks, crossed to Karen’s new green Volkswagen, which shined in the midmorning sun, and climbed in.
The leather seats sent visible waves of heat to the ceiling. They felt hot through Tamara’s pants as she eased herself into the passenger seat. She breathed in the steamy new car smell and gazed out across the traffic that passed by on the highway next to the bank.
Karen hissed at the hot leather on her own bare legs — which were tanned to the point that they were almost as dark as Tamara’s, although Karen was white, and Irish Catholic to boot, with dark auburn hair, freckles across her nose, and oceanic eyes. She cranked the car and turned the air-conditioning on full blast. Both women put on their sunglasses, then sat still, letting the ever-colder air rush over them.
“Dream come true,” Karen said, still facing forward. She pushed a lock of her hair out of her face and smiled. Ever since they were first roommates in Brumby Hall at UGA, Tamara had loved to see that smile. When her best friend smiled like that, she knew everything was right with the world.
Or could be.
“Well, this is only the first step,” Tamara said. “I know it’s a big one, but I’ve only just begun.”
Karen put the car in reverse and began singing We’ve Only Just Begun out of tune. She eased out of the SouthTrust parking lot.
“The rest’ll be easy,” she said. “I’ve been to Marionville with Phil a few times. I know how cheap land is down there. The money you got is plenty. And you’ve got your business license and your business plan and your contractor in place. All round pegs, and nothing but round holes. All you gotta do is make some phone calls, write a couple of checks — which you can afford to write now — then sit back and wait.”
Karen cut over a couple of lanes and headed for I-75 South.
“I still have to get a liquor license,” Tamara said.
Karen laughed. “Sweetie. You know as well as I do: if they’ll let Bill Wells have a liquor license, they’ll let you have one.”
Tamara smiled, and gazed out at the rows of cars that had already begun to fill every lane of the highway. It would be so nice to get away from this, she thought, to indulge in the peace and ease of life that Marionville offered. She was so glad she’d come to terms with her life there. It had been poison as a child. But now, Marionville was the promised land.
“I’m gonna turn on WSB, find out if the Connector’s backed up with traffic yet,” Karen said. Tamara nodded and closed her eyes.
What I’m Thinking About, 1st Edition
I haven’t had anything lengthy to say for a few days. But as we all do, I have been thinking random stuff for a while, and now that I have a blog in which to voice some of these random thoughts, well…. Here are some things I have contemplated of late. No particular order or reason. And I’m perfectly sober right now, so there’s that.
- People who ask “What, are you high?” usually have no idea what being high is like.
- Who was the better father - George Jetson or Fred Flintstone?
- When I finally had sex for the first time, I stopped bragging about it. Until a few years ago.
- The perfect woman for me would probably be a cross between Daphne and Velma. The perfect man would NOT be a cross between Fred and Shaggy. I don’t like dogs, so there is no perfect dog as far as I’m concerned. Sorry, Scooby.
- Can earwigs really lay eggs in your ear like in that movie I saw?
- I’m not sure I understand people who write computer viruses. There seem to be a lot of them. Unless… do you think maybe they get kickbacks from people who make anti-virus software?
- I think gaming will keep me from getting Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia when I get older.
- I wish I would have taken better care of my Chevy Nova in high school. Turns out, it could have been a really cool car.
- Going to hell would suck.
- I despised the Bush Administration, but I will say this: I don’t think a single person in Georgie’s offices was as big of a hypocrite as Newt Gingrich.
- Trolls in AD&D weren’t nearly the cowards that Internet trolls are.
- My house alarm monitoring company sent me a letter telling me they were gonna raise my monthly rate by roughly $2. I own my alarm system - they just monitor for me. So I called them up and told them I didn’t want them to raise my rate, and they said OK. They know I can leave them for another company. And THAT is capitalism at work.
- Would you hire a company called “Catastrophe Roofing”?
- Speed traps are NOT done in effort to make the highways safe. They are done to collect revenue.
- Apparently, one should not fuck with gypsies.
- I don’t trust the motives of any politician whose cause would make me either buy a product or subscribe to a service. I’d be willing to bet that politician has invested in the company that provides said good or service.
- There are many, many beautiful women in the world. Most DO NOT live in L.A.
My Friend Will Levin, The New York Animator Guy
Years ago when I lived in New York, there was this guy I worked with named Will Levin. He was this shortish, very handsome, cuddly guy who made sly jokes and liked to draw and play 9-ball in his spare time. I don’t know if he still plays 9-ball, but I know he’s not really any taller, he’s still handsome and cuddly, he still makes jokes when I talk to him, and he’s parlayed his love for drawing into a successful animation career.
Check out his latest, a parody of one of last year’s best films, Wall-E, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ufYAiGF1UwM, made for the Ignite Film Festival.
I think the thing that really makes the short is the fact that everything is his voice - even the Peter Gabriel send-up in the credits.
And just so Will gets as much attention as possible, let me direct you to his various web sites, where you can see even MORE of his animation:
And yeah, he’s Jewish. NTTAWWT.
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part Three
Alright! So sure, it’s Friday NIGHT, but as I promised myself and anyone else who cared, I have now officially managed to post the next section of A War Between States by Friday.
This section introduces another character - Nate - who’s just visiting Marionville, and has a run in with some characters there. I think this chapter captures the over-the-top ribaldness that I want some of the book to carry (more John Kennedy Toole than Flannery O’Connor), especially in the person of Bill Wells. I hope you enjoy it.
It STARTS with a car crash….
A War Between States Part 3:
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Chapter 2: Skirmish: Nate
July 5, 2003
Phineas Nathan Wells — Nate to his family and friends — looked out at the world from the windshield of his Chevy Blazer, and noted with amusement how strange everything was when it was upside down.
“Well, shit,” was all he could say.
He watched several upside-down sets of feet approach him on the pavement, including the much too skinny, tanned-to-the-point-of-melanoma feet of his Uncle Bill. Every pair except Bill’s stopped some distance from the Blazer. Bill’s feet burst into a hobbling run across the pavement, while Nate was considering how best to undo the seat belt and extract himself from the vehicle. He could hear the voices of the people who surrounded him.
“Is he okay?”
“Did you see that?”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God.”
Nate felt the blood rushing to his head, and his seat belt was cutting into his shoulder and stomach, beginning to hurt.
“Holy living fuck!” he heard his uncle yell.
“Nate, you all right?”
Nate pushed the button on his power window and rolled it down — or up, depending on how you look at it.
“I’m fine, Bill,” he said. “Mostly just shook up.” He saw that Bill was wearing his usual sandals, and that his toes were so far apart even the flesh in between them was tanned.
Bill chuckled. “I always said them SUVs was top heavy. This proves it. Can you get out?”
Nate tried to open the door, and found it wedged shut.
“I’ll have to climb out through the window,” he said.
He negotiated the seat belt, lowered himself out of the seat, and crawled through the window. Then he stood up, stretched, and put his hand to his shoulder to rub the sore spot where the seat belt had caught him. He smiled at his Uncle Bill — Bill in his cut off jeans shorts, his yellow Nascar T-shirt, and his sandals. The man was the epitome of relaxed and incautious; the worry on Bill’s face was out of place.
“You was lucky the airbag didn’t ‘splode,” Bill said. “You don’t look hurt now, but that coulda ‘sploded and bruised you up. That woulda been ironical, huh?”
“Yeah. Ironical.”
Nate scanned the parking lot he’d just tried to drive out of. A line of trees to the east blocked the sun, which was just beginning to douse the town with unrelenting July heat. Tendrils of light poked through the tree line and played on the pavement like fiery snakes dancing to a music only they could hear. To the west, the empty main thoroughfare of Marionville — Washington Street — plunged down from the pine and oak crested hills on the edge of town toward the Chattahoochee river and the Alabama flatlands beyond. Marionville itself was located on a high bluff overlooking the river. Once it had stood like a sentry, overlooking riverboat commerce and the migrations of west-bound settlers. Now, it stood like a despondent, withering madman, ready to plunge suicidally into the receding brown muck of the river below.
The parking lot where they stood surrounded a one-story building which belonged to Bill — Wells’ Bait & Tackle. Early as it was, neon signs advertising Budweiser and MGD already shined in the window, and a big sign on the door said in glossy green letters: Come Inside, It’s KOOL — Air-conditioned. A weathered Nissan truck sat at the gas pumps, and its owner, Hosea Cox, stood in the crowd that surrounded Nate and his overturned Blazer. The Blazer itself lay on its roof, the windshield cracked by the weight of the vehicle, a spider web which sparkled in the rising sun. Its wheels were still spinning.
“So how the hell did you manage to flip that gall-derned SUV anyway?” Bill asked.
Nate shrugged. “Bad luck, I guess. I was driving out of the parking lot and somebody in a white Mustang came barreling by like the fucking devil was behind him. I swerved to avoid getting sideswiped, and then I must’ve hit the curb and rolled over.”
“The sumbitch fuckin’ flipped,” Bill said, with way too much enthusiasm, like he’d just witnessed the breaking of some world record.
“Yeah,” Nate agreed. “It flipped.”
“Well, the white Mustang ain’t around no more,” Bill said, “but I’ll betcha it was Terminius Green. He’s the only guy ‘round here got a white Mustang and the balls to barrel through my parkin’ lot.” Bill waved his bony hand behind him in a flourish to take in the lot and the store. The crowd around them was dispersing, and as Nate followed his uncle’s hand, his eyes came to rest on the brown sedan which was approaching them up Washington Street. The lights on top of the brown car erupted into reds and blues.
“Well, here comes Sheriff Boyd,” Bill muttered. “Our hero.”
Nate heard the sudden annoyance in his uncle’s voice, and glanced over to see Bill shaking his head. Then Bill sighed and patted Nate on the shoulder, being careful to pat the one which the seat belt had not dug into. “You ‘member Robert Boyd, don’t you Nate?”
“I remember the time he pulled Phil and Todd and me over. We weren’t speeding or drunk — just headed to Dothan to see a movie.” Nate laughed, and half-expected Bill to laugh with him. Instead, the skinny man set his prominent jaw squarely in a look of defiance and determination.
“He was just tryin’ to put the fear o’ God in you boys. Or at least the fear o’ Marionville law. But don’t worry none — Boyd’s about as scary as my ass crack.”
“I dunno, Bill — that’s pretty fuckin’ terrifying.”
Boyd pulled up and clambered out of his vehicle. His long legs poked out of his khaki slacks, and Nate could hear the man’s knees pop as he straightened. He could see himself mirrored in the man’s sunglasses.
“What happened here?” Sheriff Boyd asked. He strolled toward the two in loping, vaunted strides, like he was saddle-sore or had uncomfortably large testicles. He stopped in front of them and hitched his khakis by the belt loop.
“Nate got cut off by Terminius Green,” Bill blurted. He reached into the back pocket of his cut-offs and pulled out a round canister of Skoal. He popped it open, plucked out a round wad of tobacco, and placed the wad between his bottom lip and gum.
“That true, Nate?” Boyd asked.
“Well, I don’t know if it was this Terminius,” Nate said, then after a pause added, “And what kind of name is Terminius anyway?”
“His mama named him after Atlanta’s old name, but she got it wrong,” Bill said and grinned. He turned his grin to the sheriff. Dots of tobacco decorated his teeth. “White Mustang,” he said, and Boyd nodded.
“You been drinkin’?” the Sheriff asked.
“At nine in the morning?” Nate replied. “Are you serious?”
Boyd only nodded again, and stepped past Nate to the Blazer. He bent over and peered into the Blazer’s interior, then stood straight, hitched his pants again, and returned to Bill and Nate.
“Well, you ain’t got no open containers in there now,” he said, “so I guess you ain’t lyin’ about that.”
“I’m not lying about anything,” Nate exclaimed. He could feel the color rising in his cheeks. Bill’s eyebrows raised a little in surprise; he scowled, put a hand on Nate’s arm, and spat onto the asphalt.
“It happened just like we said it did, and we ain’t leavin’ nothin’ out. Now I know you know who Nate is, even though he ain’t been to town in ages. And to tell you the truth, Robert, I kinda miss havin’ him around. So do me a favor and don’t go pickin’ on the boy ‘cause he’s got out of town plates and a better haircut than us. Shit like that is why he don’t come around no more. Him and Phil Dobson.”
Now Nate could actually see Sheriff Boyd’s cheeks fill with color to match his own. “Now listen here, Bill Wells,” the man said. “I don’t go ‘round tellin’ you how to do your job, so don’t you go tryin’ to tell me how to do mine.”
Bill laughed, although his laughter was empty and harsh now. “That’s ‘cause I do my job better’n you do yours. Ain’t no need for nobody to tell me what to do.” For someone who’d just told Nate not to “sweat it none,” Bill was getting uncharacteristically antagonistic. Nate knew it was in his uncle’s nature to banter and make fun, but the tone of his voice indicated more that that. He really sounded angry.
As for Sheriff Boyd, the man looked like he was about to burst. Nate wondered what the sheriff’s eyes looked like under those sunglasses.
“You be careful, Wells,” Boyd said.
“Or what? You gonna run me in for speakin’ my mind?” Bill spat onto the pavement again. The spit sizzled in the heat.
“It’s insubordination to an officer of the law.”
“It’s insubordination to a fuckin’ bonehead.”
“Wells.”
“Look, Robert. What are you gonna do about the situation here, ‘sides accuse Nate of drinkin’ and sportin’ your goddamned out of fashion shades before the sun’s even full up?”
“Dammit, Wells!”
“Arrest me, Sheriff. Go ahead. Way I see it, election’s comin’ up, and I got a lot of patrons figure Deputy Soames is a better man than you.”
The sheriff’s mouth fell open like hinges that have sprung loose. His arms were straight down by his side, and the hands at the end of them splayed, fingers apart, and shaking. Nate could see the moles and liver spots on those hands, could see the big vein in the man’s forehead beginning to rise. The sun, which wasn’t full up yet according to Bill, glinted off the man’s wedding band, and Nate wondered what Mrs. Boyd thought of her man, what Luke Boyd thought of his dad.
“Soames woulda done somethin’ ‘bout the drug traffickin’ down at the Unnerground by now,” Bill was saying. “Soames woulda busted Cyril West for drunk drivin’ and public intoxication by now, if you’d let him. And right now Soames would be callin’ a truck to set that Blazer up right, and then headin’ off after Terminius, ‘stead of harassin’ a good boy like Nate.”
The two men faced off for several long moments, while the sun rose higher in the sky and Boyd’s sunglasses slowly grew useful. Nate wondered what would happen next, wondered how long this tirade had been building up in his uncle, wondered if the anger and frustration behind it was common to most people in Marionville.
Finally, the sheriff broke the silence.
“Well, I ain’t Deputy Soames,” he said.
To that, Bill Wells nodded.
“You got that right,” he replied. “You sure ain’t.”
The Cast
- Nate Wells - Jay Elgin
- Sheriff Boyd - Dennis Maguire
- Background Voices - Madeleine Kenyon, Lauren The Computer, Will Kenyon
- Narrator/Bill Wells - Will Kenyon
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part Two
There are a lot of good comic book writers. The problem with some of the best, though, is that they simply aren’t prolific enough, since they’re expected to churn out a new piece of their story every month or so. If they don’t, readers will still follow them for a while - but after some time (a few months usually), those readers give up and move on to the next writer. They lose interest.
I am not a comic book writer (yet?), but I have given myself an even tighter deadline with this podcast - a week MAX between podcast posts. And already I’ve failed, since I’ve let 11 days pass. I could go into detail as to why it’s taken so long - there are reasons. But there are no excuses.
I’m not going to promise it won’t happen again - likely, it will. But I’m going to try to keep it from happening again SOON - you can expect another podcast post later this week. If you’re reading this, then that means you’re still with me, and I’m glad. Thank you for that. Enjoy.
If you’re just coming to this podcast (or if you already need a refresher, which you might because of my lapse), then you should scroll down and listen/read to part ONE first. Then come back to this a find out what Sarah Dobson ends up deciding about her future.
A War Between States Part 2:
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Chapter 1, Part 2: Campaign: Sarah
May 7, 2003
Six hours later, Phil was swearing at the printer in his office and beating his fist on a countertop. “Goddamn dot matrix cheap ass shit!” he screamed. “If they hadn’t screwed around with the money so much I’d be able to afford a laser printer!”
Behind him, Sarah stood, smiling, waiting. He stomped back and forth on the commercial-grade carpet as she watched him. Finally, he turned back to the printer and gently pulled several wrinkled, torn sheets out of it. He handled the machine with such grace, it was hard to believe that he’d been in a fury ten seconds before. Satisfied that he was calm enough, she strolled up behind him, put one arm around his chest, and the other around his waist to where her freckled hand rested gingerly on his crotch.
“You frustrated?” she asked. He shuddered, and she could hear him chuckle softly.
“Uh… little bit,” he said.
“How can I help?”
“Well….” He turned around in her embrace, his own hands searching her body — rougher than he’d handled the printer, but more gentle than one would expect. Once again, they kissed, and the printer was forgotten. Sarah loosened his belt as he lifted her onto the countertop beside the printer. They both moaned as she reached into his pants and he hooked his thumbs around the elastic waistband of her slacks. They both began to pull.
A knock on the glass door of the office startled them.
“What the hell?” Sarah groaned.
“Ignore ‘em,” Phil pleaded. “They’ll go away.”
Sarah grinned. “Okay,” she whispered.
The knock came again.
“Mom? Dad? C’mon, I know you’re in there!” Jack banged something metallic against the glass. “Hello? You gotta see this!”
Sarah and Phil gazed longingly and knowingly into each other’s eyes. Someday, they said to each other without words, Jack will graduate and go away like Phil Jr. did. We’ll miss him so much, true, but we won’t miss interruptions like this. Jack had a knack for them.
“Coming!” Sarah shouted, and Phil silently zipped his pants up and fastened his belt, a pained expression on his face. She hopped off the counter and strolled around the corner — out of the office’s copy room and down the main hall to the front lobby, where Jack stood outlined by the orange streetlight outside. He was a massive young man; though relatively short, his shoulders filled the glass doorway. His brown hairline receded a bit — a constant source of frustration for him since he was only twenty-four — but his face shined handsomely and friendly under it. His hands raised to knock again, and Sarah could see that the metallic sound came from the high school class ring he still wore. He grinned at Sarah now, as she unlocked the door.
When she pulled the door open, he pecked her on the cheek, then said, “Get a load of this.” Then he swept his arm in a flourish to indicate the street to his right. “I was drivin’ by on my way to the house, and saw that. I figured I’d stop and get you guys out to see it, since it’ll probably be gone by the time you leave.”
Sarah stared down the street. She felt Phil join her by her side. Down the block, where the side street they were on intersected with Washington Street, which was the main drag down the middle of Marionville, a car rested on the side of the road. Actually, it wasn’t on the road, at least not anymore. Rather, it sat askew on top of a short hedge that separated the house beyond it from the sidewalk. In the shadows cast by the streetlights, Sarah strained to make out the color, make, and model of the car. She saw it was a maroon Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra, and she recognized it as the car driven by Cyril West, a long-time member of the Marionville city council. Behind Cyril’s car, pulled over on the side of the street, but still safely on the road, was Sheriff Robert Boyd’s brown sedan, its headlights beaming across the scene, but its blue and red flashers curiously not on. Cyril and Sheriff Boyd were themselves standing on the sidewalk, Cyril gesturing wildly, Boyd gazing coolly on, his eyes for once not hidden by his mirrored shades.
“West is probably drunk again,” Phil said.
“Yep. And this time he ran into Mrs. Adell’s azaleas,” Sarah added.
They watched for a while, as Cyril stomped his feet and shouted. Even with his voice raised, Sarah couldn’t understand a thing he said, his words slurring, and his southern accent thick. Cyril was a short, slight black man, with a curly beard and bushy, wild hair that he kept crushed under a crumpled fedora. He perpetually wore a brown suit which matched the hat, and he was perpetually inebriated.
“Isn’t tonight a city council meeting?” Phil asked.
“Yes. Yes it is,” Sarah answered. “It’s at seven.”
“Looks like Cyril’s runnin’ late,” Jack observed.
As they watched, Cyril got back into his car and backed it off of Mrs. Adell’s bushes. He rolled his window down and Boyd leaned in.
“Take care, Cyril,” they heard the sheriff say. “Drive straighter.”
Then Cyril West’s maroon Oldsmobile puttered noisily down the street in the direction of Town Hall. Cyril drove it relatively straight as Sheriff Boyd looked on.
“That’s pretty messed up,” Jack said. “If that would’ve been me, I’d be in handcuffs on my way to lock-up.”
“I dunno,” Sarah said. “Boyd let me go a few times back when I was driving drunk.”
To that, Jack only laughed a little. His laughter sounded nervous and empty.
* * *
The next day Sarah told Nancy Walker her intentions about running for mayor. Nancy narrowed her eyes at her friend and pursed her lips. Sarah recognized the disapproval in that look.
“You can’t win,” Nancy said.
“Well,” Sarah said, suddenly on the defensive, “Phil seems to think I can.”
“Then you’re both wrong.”
Sarah grabbed a sheaf of bills, banged them on the desk to straighten them, and slammed the stapler down on them.
“You forget, Sarah,” Nancy stated evenly. “I’m not the only doctor in town. Cox has his following, too. And unlike me, who has to actually charge patients to stay in business, Cox gives medical help free or cheap. He’s been in Marionville sixty years. He’s been practicing for thirty. He’s made a comfortable living — and now it’s easy for him to give medical attention in exchange for votes instead of money.”
Sarah stopped and gaped at her friend. “You really think he does that?”
“I know he does. I’ve only been in Marionville a couple of years, but I hear stuff. I think I’m charging someone a phenomenally low price, and then I find out I’m not the lowest. I can’t beat Cox’s fees, and you can’t beat his politics. Don’t even try.”
Sarah considered this for a moment. Then the bell above the door rang, a patient came in, and the busy day resumed.
But on her way home that evening, Sarah puffed on a cigarette and thought more about her situation. She thought about everything she’d seen and heard in the past two days, and decided that despite Cox’s impenetrable incumbency, local politics was still her life’s work.
She would run for city council instead of mayor— and she’d run against Cyril West.
The Cast
- Sarah Dobson: Jennie
- Phil Dobson: Jeff Carter
- Jack Dobson: Jonathan Freitag
- Nancy Walker: Paula Towry
- Narrator/Sheriff Boyd: Will Kenyon