Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Back o the bus

I just booked some travel for a family member.  I do that every now and then.  I haven't been travelling much, so it's not like I ever book anything for me.  I like to sit in the back row of the plane. Everyone else always seems to want to be up front. I can't figure out why.   It's often less crowded and you're close to the restroom.  And they say the tail section is where the survivors are [except on Lost]. Not to be confused with travel on a bus. You never want to be near the restrooms on a bus.  

Sunday, August 2, 2015


I had to help a hotel guest find out how to get to the planetarium in Denver.  That got me wondering something--why do they call it a planetarium?  It's about stars.  Most of the shows aren't even about planets.  Ergo, why is it called a planetarium?  

Friday, July 31, 2015

Writin' is Good

Overall, I never got much encouragement when I started out writing.  My uncle said it was because I have an Irish name and everyone despises the Irish.  But I still wrote, often wretched things that have since gone off to wherever stories go to when they've been given up on.  I wrote a story about that, too. It was a story heaven where dead stories go.  It didn't find a buyer and when my old  Zenith computer kicked the bucket some stuff like that went off to story heaven.  I liked that computer.  It ran on plain old DOS.  A lot of folks don't know what DOS was.  Ah, a simpler time before constant daily updates from Windows.   Just a yellow letters on black screen sort of thing.  I miss it. I really do. And when it died and its incompatible files went off to story heaven, well things like a couple of plays and a novel no one liked went away forever.  Back then we mailed stories to magazines and anthology editors based on hopelessly obsolete information in an era when the Internet was unknown to everyone but scientists.  And they mailed 'em back with a form letter, usually unread and postmarked the same day they received them. 

But the occasional personal reply would come in telling me I should give up writing or blasting me for sending in some "clunker" about people selling their souls to get published when the story I'd sent in had nothing to do with that.  And people wonder how I got so damned cynical.   

Well, a lot's happened since then.  Lots of magazines have come and gone.  Some of them I was sad to see go, others not so much.  

And then there were the cons.  I've lost count of how many of them have snubbed me in favor of some twerp with one or two published stories.  

I used to fantasize about killing editors.  I thought hunting them down and killing them would be wonderful.  I even wrote a few stories and  some poems about it.  Now, writers fantasize about killing me.  They go to sleep at night with thoughts of gunning me down at their favorite bookstore.  All the while knowing they haven't got the guts to pull it off.  And their dead stories I've long ago rejected are hanging out with mine up in story heaven somewhere.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Strange Goings On

I've often wondered about a few business establishments around where I live.  First, there's my bank. I've been with them two years.  They never have any customers inside--never.  I would think, at least occasionally, I'd have to wait in line or have somebody waiting behind me to do a teller transaction. Not so. This place never has any customers inside it.  

Then there's the local Chinese restaurant. They have customers. What I find odd there is there are never the same employees working there. Every time I've gone there, I don't recognize any of the employees.  The bartenders, waiters, and brief glimpses of cooks are always unfamiliar.

And last we come to the market. It's a small local market that people tend to use to buy a few items when they don't want to drive some distance to the local supermarket.  I don't go in there very often. When I do, there's always this same old lady shopping in there. It doesn't matter what time of day or day of the week I go in there--there she is with her little basket buying whatever the hell she buys.

All of these establishments, in their own way, seem to defy the basic laws of probability.  I spend a lot of time wondering about things like this.  

Saturday, July 25, 2015

New Story Released

"Just Another Indian Kid" was just released in Tales of the Talisman vol 10 no 4.  It's about an Indian kid who unexpectedly encounters a Native American god--but it's not any god his people worship. This is the wrap up final edition of Tales of the Talisman. I've had stuff appear in quite a few issues of this magazine.  

Friday, July 24, 2015

Decrepit Geezer Dayz

Well, I tend to think of today as Decrepit Geezer Day.  Why? Well, birthdays aren't as fun as they used to be.  But I don't know that they ever were all that great.  I used to lament the fact that during the school year they let kids who had birthdays wear some cheap paper crown around all day--but those of us with summer birthdays never got to experience such things.  It really bothered me around the third grade or so. But not nearly as much as the stupid lame birthday parties I was given. I mean, I guess my mom meant well, but then she'd turn around and let some little sister of one of my friends come along.  I really resented that. But, the cake would be some flavor I didn't like and I usually was relieved when the blasted birthday party was finally over.  At some merciful point as I grew up I stopped getting birthday parties.  

I don't get presents anymore.  I'll likely get a card or two in the mail later today, but that's it.  Most of the cards I get have some dog doing something like driving a car or eating cake.  And then, mercifully, midnight will arrive and I'll just be a little closer to being another senile old coot   And that'll be that.  

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Recycling Kings

At the condo where I live we have a recycling dumpster. I'm amazed the recycling company will pick it up. They ask for flattened cardboard--most of it is not.  They have signs everywhere no plastic bags--there are zillions of plastic bags put in there.  and there's even no recyclable wonders like used Kleenex--gross.  I can't figure why, if people don't want to recycle properly, they don't simply use the regular garbage.  But, until they have android cops standing guard who can kill any violator, I guess little will change.

Then I asked a neighbor why you can't ever find used garbage trucks.  She asked why I would want one. I said I thought it would be cool to have one.  "They wouldn't want you to buy one and set up a competitor."  I hadn't thought of that.