I’ve added a page to the site here with a listing of the books I’ve read, sorted by author. So, if you’re searching for something new and exciting to read, why not take a look at what I’ve got on my shelf?

I’m currently reading Slippage, a collection of stories by kick-ass author Harlan Ellison. I’ve noticed a trend in his writing, in that much of it starts off like an essay, and then moves slowly into the story itself. It’s an interesting approach, and a nice way of setting up some background so the reader doesn’t feel like he’s going into the story cold.

This particular bit is inspired by these two entries from my moleskine: "Society in which people shave all of their body hair out of fear of a plague. Fashions arise around adornment of shaved heads, eyebrows, etc." and "In plague story, a body is found with a full head of hair that causes a man to question his world."

I don’t expect to develop this idea completely here, so I’ll probably use it again later.

Also be aware that some of the language in this is not child-friendly.

The fire, reported in news outlets across the Pan-Continental Republic, cost six lives and caused an additional seventeen injuries, all of which were dutifully recorded on the appropriate forms, stored in the appropriate folders, and filed in the appropriate filing cabinets in the Capital Central Records Repository.

Fourteen blocks burned, all of it prime real estate that was the subject of a local revitalization project, long opposed by a coalition of neighborhood residents who characterized it as a gentrification effort and not one meant to encourage local prosperity.

The jury, almost literally, was still out as to the exact nature of the project. The judge who presided over the last hearing, the fourth attempt by the neighborhood coalition to block the project, was deliberating when the fire started. He later stated that, had the fire not rendered much of the issue irrelevant, he would have found in favor of the neighborhood activists.

A long-abandoned sub-basement of the library, obscured until after the fire by plaster and paint, was discovered by clean-up crews pulling away the wreckage so that the chic bistro the developers had planned for could be built. It had been concealed, covered over during a time when the library was remodeled fifty years before, without removing its contents, like an ancient tomb. Saving the contents for the afterlife.

Many of these documents have anecdotal historic value, as they provide interesting snapshots of the world half a century in the past. Among them, and featured as a "human interest" story on PCR news feeds, was the story of a private investigator who raised a stink in local politics when he insisted that the government had invented the Vindus-Kopelli Plague, known then as V186, to control the populace.

Journal Entry – June 13 – Friday – 0400

Cops woke me up to look at a body in the street. Said it had some "interesting" features.

Understatement of the year.

Dunn was unceremoniously ripped from pleasant dreams by the pounding scream of his phone. Police frequency. It meant steady work, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant to wake up to. He fumbled with the small device, oriented the speaker the right way, and muttered nearly incoherently into the receiver.

"What?"

"Dunny! Good morning, sunshine!"

"Jackson. Name’s not ‘Dunny,’ it’s ‘Dunn,’ and it’s three-thirty in the goddamned morning."

"We need you. Car’s outside to pick you up."

"Fuck you, Jackson. I work daytime hours."

"Five minutes, Dunny, and I send ‘em up to get you. I’ll get you a cup of coffee for your troubles. See you soon. Good-bye, Dunny."

Swearing under his breath, Dunn sat up and put his feet on the floor. The concrete beneath his toes was cold. Neon freezing cold. The environmental controls were likely not functioning, since it shouldn’t been that cold in June. Didn’t matter how far north you lived, the Republic was not cold in June.

Making a mental note to call the landlord when he and the rest of the world were up, Dunn pulled on a pair of thick socks and padded across the apartment to his couch, overstuffed leather covered in papers spilling forth from open manila folders. As a kid, he used to call them vanilla folders. Didn’t change the taste of what was inside, though. Cheating spouses. Employees and employers stealing what wasn’t rightfully theirs. Each manila folder belched forth stories of jealousy, hatred, and greed. Stories he was paid to surreptitiously record and pass along to another person brimming with much of the same.

Pushing the distasteful stories aside, Dunn leaned back in the couch and closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration before sitting up and putting on his shoes. Non-slip soles helped at crime scenes. You never knew what you’d be walking through.

A loud thumping sound echoed through the apartment, followed by a muffled voice. Cops trying to sound threatening.

"Mister Williams! You have one minute to exit the premises or we will force this door open!"

"Hold yer fuckin’ horses! I gotta make myself pretty." Dunn opened the front door of the apartment on the way to the bathroom, admitting two uniformed cops in heavy gear. Typical for this part of town, especially at this hour.

Staring into the mirror, Dunn ran a hand over his bald head. The monochromatic design that had been so fresh and edgy twenty years ago was hardly the height of fashion anymore. Now the fashion was bright colors. Bright colors and shifting designs. New pigments that faded and changed color in predetermined ways blew away the old ways of showing your personal style. Dunn didn’t care much about that anymore. The march of technology was fine. He just didn’t care how he looked.

These cops probably did. Under those carbon and steel riot helmets, Dunn was sure he’d find subtle hues of color pulsating across the officers’ bald heads. Half the cops he knew took the job because of control issues, while the other half did it to get laid. A woman loves a man in uniform. That was as true now as it was when Dunn’s father had said it to him.

Journal Entry – June 13 – Friday – 0400 (continued)

Jackson says to keep it quiet. Word gets out, panic starts up. Hard to keep things orderly in the street if people think a carrier is in the city.

"Dunny!"

"Call me that one more time Jackson, and I swear I’ll break your fuckin’ nose."

For the briefest moment, Detective Jaskson’s scarred face contorted in hatred, before the squat thug of a man regained his composure and addressed Dunn more cordially.

"Guess we’re not on friendly terms anymore. No matter. Got a body you gotta look at, but you need to know a few things. First-"

"You promised coffee. Where’s the coffee?" Jackson again looked briefly irritated, but quickly smiled and motioned for an officer to provide what he’d promised.

"Can I get you a morsel, to eat? Perhaps a cupcake?"

"I don’t know. What do bottom-rung detectives eat at this hour?"

An officer in a red cap–traffic control–brought Dunn a foam cup of coffee and then went back to gazing at the cars, whipping through the air like skittish fish when a six year-old pounds on the aquarium. The coffee was gourmet. Made sense. You got the best coffee here, but usually only during the day. Most people scuttled home after dark these days, at least in the cities. Dunn had heard that it was different out in the country, but had never witnessed it for himself.

"Okay, Jackson," said Dunn, gazing at an assembled crowd of police officers, hovering like flies over a tarp-covered body, "Why don’t you show me what you dragged me out of bed for?"

Oh, of interest, this site will load much faster if you have Google Gears.

Pardon the bulk mailing. I Can’t Vote. I am an immigrant with a Green Card and, therefore, I am not eligible to vote in a federal election. FYI – I can get drafted (luckily, Daniel Berrigan burned my draft board’s records) and I pay taxes, yet I cannot vote for President. On Election Day, I see my neighbors heading to the nearby elementary school to cast their ballots. The voting booth joint is a great leveler; the whole neighborhood – rich, poor, old, young, decrepit and spunky – they all turn out in one day.

But most of you can vote. What can I say? The Republicans have made us less safe than before 9/11, bankrupted this economy, started an illegal war they can’t – and don’t intend to – finish, removed what sympathy (after 9/11) and respect the world had for the US, and have robbed US citizens of many of their basic rights. Global warming? What’s that? Science and education? Investment in our future? No, thanks – we’ll stick with a good ‘ole hockey mom. Ignorant, and fucking proud of it, as is always the case.

Although it looks like a shoo-in, it ain’t over ’til Florida. And there are plenty of racists in this country who will vote against their own best interests. So please, get to your local elementary school, post office, town hall, or whatever, and cast your vote and make this a country we can all be proud of. We can get out of this mess, and life can be better than it is.

David Byrne
NYC

That’s pretty darn cool, and I just felt compelled to share it.

My very first attempt at anything but a normal, standard pumpkin!! I should have worked a little more on the shading, but all in all, I think it’s okay!

The BEST part was the overwhelmingly positive response we got from trick or treaters (and their parents!). Many kids were SO excited to see the pumpkin, asking, “Is that OBAMA???” THAT was the very best part of Halloween to me- kids recognizing someone who has the potential to make a LOT of positive change for our country. What a wonderful feeling!!

Don’t tell anyone it broke.

Check it out below.

See? What did I tell you?

After 13 years of study (including kindergarten!), Yvonne is graduating from La Cueva High School!!! The ceremony is this Sunday, May 11, at the Pit. If you’re anywhere near Albuquerque, come celebrate with us!!

This picture was taken during the robing ceremony, in which my mother Yvonne robed Yvonne in the official cap and gown that Yvonne will wear on Sunday. We got to hear all about all the accomplishments of all the seniors…  and yeah, La Cueva is full of very high achieving kids. It’s nice to hear and all, but Yvonne’s college is completely paid for, and I’m SO proud of her, and that’s really all I was there for. 

I still recommend this book to people whenever I get the chance, as I hope it can influence people just as positively as it did me. Most people give me a friendly ear while I rant and rave about it, find it on the internet, and print out excerpts for them to read, but they never pursue it. Regardless, I still try, because I believe in what Benjamin Hoff had to say.

Imagine, then, how disheartened I was to discover today that Mr. Hoff put up a website a couple of years ago for the sole purpose of announcing that he was quitting writing books. In an eloquent and heartbreaking essay, he explains how the publishing industry essentially destroyed his love of writing, and further explores the death of new and creative thought in the world today.

I encourage you to read it. It’s painful, but necessary. Here’s an excerpt:

The variety is constantly diminishing as corporate committees of book-ignorant, conservative-minded decision makers reject ideas and rework manuscripts they consider too new and untried, not in harmony with a particular point of view or political ideology, or lacking the potential to quickly and sensationally bring them large amounts of risk-free money. Literary quality and intelligence are being lost as well in the relentless corporate dumbing down of literature and numbing down of readers. And authors.

In an age where we are increasingly concerned about the consolidation of television, radio, and internet media, this essay is very important. It serves as a sobering reminder that books–the oldest and most potent vehicle for ideas–are suffering the same brutal injustices as are their brethren in the more talked-about forms of information sharing.

Our big orange cat Cletus fell ill in October with what was most likely liver cancer. He held on for another two months, until finally, yesterday, December 9, he let me know that his suffering was too great. I took him to an emergency clinic, where I met Dr. Deeb, who was celebrating his 49th birthday. He was very loving and gentle with Cletus, whom I held like a baby until he had passed on. Before we were taken in, I had about half an hour alone with Cletus in the van. He purred constantly and meowed every time I stopped petting him. He gazed into my eyes… I don’t suppose that he knew what was about to happen, but I’m glad we had those last few minutes together.

Zoe has never dealt well with death… her experiences with it so far have been few and far between, but every time, it’s a devastating blow to her. Although Cletus was the most aloof of our cats, he was nevertheless one of our cats, and Zoe is just not dealing well with it. It’ll take some time.

I stopped by a store called Wanderlust, which was recommended by Julia of Mother Road Theatre, and found some jewelery for Zoe and me, commemorating Cletus. I got a ring with an amber stone, and a pendant with a topaz or citrine stone (nice orangey color, in either case). I love both of them, so I’ll have to leave the decision up to Zoe, as to who gets which item. And to top it off, Zoe got braces on her lower teeth today, and had her rubber bands on her braces all changed to orange in Cletus’s honor. Everyone in the orthodontist’s office extended their condolences to us, which was very kind, and very appreciated.