Box of Disappointment

 

The refit of Xanadu continues without help from Rush, Olivia, ELO, or Coleridge. A box of disappointment arrived today. I ordered it last week. I should've known better than to order through P. Andora Co. How did I come to request this delivery of dismay?

It's not a long story, but it goes back to before we closed on the new digs. When male offspring came to have a look at the place, we happened to look at the furnace filter. It looked like a bad and fatal case of black lung. Fortunately, there was a new filter sitting by the unit and we swapped in the clean one. After closing and move in, I thought it would be prudent to acquire an additional filter for change in the future. I noted the size on the old filter and went to the local hardware store to procure the ready replacement. 

I thought it would also be prudent to make sure the standby filter fit properly. <Morgan Freeman voice begin> It did not fit. <Morgan Freeman voice end> I compared the sizes as printed on the filters. They were the same. However, small print indicated the new filter was several millimeters bigger in the troublesome dimension. The local store gladly took the return of the filter, and I went online to find filters that matched down to the millimeter. Not-the-Nile store made the order easy and the delivery arrived within an entirely acceptable time frame. It's a box of six, because the filters are much cheaper by the half-dozen.

Once again, I decided to check the fit. It did not fit.

What?! The measurements all corresponded precisely--I had ordered the same exact size--but the fit was off by more than an inch, not mere millimeters. I had a big box of regret, failure in a six-pack.

There was a mystery here. A little investigation and a tape measure provided the clues I needed. Both the original black lung filter and the handy spare had been cut down from the size printed on them to remove a couple inches, and then reassembled, still bearing the now-false printed size. I suppose that if the previous owner could resize the filters, so can I. However, I would have preferred to have ordered the correct size and avoided the manual resizing.

By the way, I know where you can get a good deal on some furnace filters. 

I've saved the best for last.

There is good news. Out of the blue--even though I had been hoping for a response for many weeks--came a thunderbolt of fortuity. Raconteur Press has informed me that my sequel to Accidental Pirates has been accepted for publication. Of course, there will be rounds of editing and cover creation and all the tedious stuff in between the conditional acceptance and the final product, but I've already heard words of joy from happy readers who have fallen in love with Chris and Kenny and their adventures. Get Accidental Pirates here.

Wait! There's more! I was on the Blasters & Blades podcast with JR Handley and Jana Brown this week. I don't know how long before it goes live, but I'll post a link when it does.

Refitting Xanadu

The good ship Xanadu, as I'm currently calling it, complete with stately pleasure dome and caves of ice but no sign of Olivia Newton John, possesses no dearth of dings demanding attention. Yesterday repairs to the vessel consumed most of the day. I don't quite remember where it began, but I recall correcting a faucet nozzle early in the process. The main task was a minor matter by most standards: a sheet rock and insulation issue where water had damaged it under previous ownership. 

I had the foresight to pick up a roll of insulation during the week. I didn't have the prescience to pick up a utility knife. I knew that I had such a tool, so never thought about getting one. The removal of the bad gypsum was mostly accomplished by gravity before I touched it. A good jerk and the rest of it came down. I removed the remaining nails, measured the hole, and transferred the measurements to the replacement sheet rock that was already on hand. During the course of these events, I did trash the ruined drywall and swept the area multiple times. Gravity was the culprit. The hole was horizontal rather than vertical and up rather than down relative to the floor. The insulation that had been blown in would sometimes catch a gravity wave and make the less than 2 foot fall to the floor upon which I had to lay to accomplish many parts of the task.

With the replacement marked, I looked for my utility knife in vain. I still don't know where it is. I know where it used to be. I kept it on the bench in the garage - of course, that place is over 300 miles away, and I know it's not there now, what with it getting packed when we moved. One would expect the purchase of a utility knife to be a quick and simple affair. Mostly it was. There were many to choose from, but I selected one that already had my name on it. With a slightly arched handle, it felt good in my hand, like some deadly ninja device, and promised not to cause more pain to me than to the target material. 

It was the assembly that gave me troubles. No blade had been loaded. There were blades inside; I heard them rattle when I shook the tool. They were cleverly hidden within the device that was as easily cracked as a Herring Hall & Marvin. I managed. It would seem like an easy matter to install the new blade into the knife. It wasn't. I tried about 30 times to get the blade to seat properly in the knife so that it could be properly extended and retracted with the thumb-operated control. The two pieces of hardware refused to cooperate. I don't know what I did differently, but on the 30th, or perhaps I exaggerate and it was only the 28th try, the planets aligned and must've I held my mouth just right.

The knife cut very well, and I didn't make a mess of the drywall or the insulation that I cut with it. The planets really had aligned, and I kept holding my mouth just so. In only slightly less time than they took to build the pyramids of Egypt, I had the gypsum sheet cut and screwed in place. I followed that job with replacing the 8 foot long florescent light tubes--having discovered the replacement tubes being concealed beneath the fallen sheet rock--and again demonstrated my ninja-like proficiency with the utility on the remaining gypsum board to cut a cover for the attic crawl space.

The storage room shelves required a supporting actor for their monotonous performance, so I auditioned a 2x2 for that role. The actor required some attention in the form of measuring, marking, and cutting with the circular saw before final casting. Upon completion of those actions, it seemed like a decent match. A few pointers from the screw gun made it fit the role perfectly.

I experimented with refrigerator and freezer options as well as parking options, finding success with the former but not the latter.

Meanwhile, the co-captain of the ship pursued her own agenda. She got a lot of boxes unloaded, and drafted me for a preliminary rearrangement of the furniture, during which we discovered that pianos are not very flexible. If only it were an accordion.

________________ 

 Here's the latest AI copy from the persons or scammers contacting me about Accidental Pirates:

What makes this novel compelling is the immediacy of its premise, two brothers, a simple summer outing, a crack in the rock, and suddenly the Caribbean of the 1770s. Pirates, dragonlings, flintlocks, and a fire-breathing Green Lady create the kind of high-stakes wonder that hooks young readers quickly. But beneath the swashbuckling energy is something equally important: brotherhood, courage under pressure, and the quiet transformation that happens when ordinary boys are forced to become heroes. 

It's not bad.

 

Carnival of Fun

 

We had a manifold mission for the weekend that took us to Le Chateau au Chat Gris and to the home of olden days. 99 and I loaded the compact white whale and began our voyage. On our arrival au chateau, we immediately commenced the festivities, beginning with celebratory weed-pulling. We harvested three wagon loads or more of the cursed crop, both getting pricked multiple times by the dried stickers that congregated at the base of the foul flora. On the plus side, we had arrived in time to execute our vile vegetation eviction revelry during the hottest part of the day.

After we had disposed of the verdant corpses, I analyzed the next scheduled event in our carnival of fun. There had been a storm and the old maple tree, exuberantly cavorting like a featured performer in Cirque du Soleil, became apprised of the fact that her limbs were no longer suited for the gymnastics of a sapling and thus broke a hip. The said fracture was over 20 feet off the ground. The limb had not broken cleanly and the old girl refused to release the useless appendage. A dose of pushing, pulling, and shaking failed to convince her to set it free. I was going to have to perform surgery.

 My original estimate placed the fracture higher than my mightiest ladder would reach. Nevertheless, I brought out the ladder and my bow saw. I also tried ascending via the patient's own form, but soon abandoned that course because of the obstacles she placed in my way. Finally, I extended the ladder to its fullest length and 99 and I and raised it to penetrate the protective foliage to discover that it just reached the injured limb. I jammed the ladder beneath the limb and contemplated the wisdom of ascending to perform the surgery. 

Initially, a little voice suggested that it would be extremely unwise to trust my life and health to the slender aluminum projection held aloft only by the friction of its top rung against the branch. I agreed with the little voice because it was the same thing my gut was telling me. I've seen enough videos of people getting hurt in trees to know that once I cut away the damaged part, the limb would rise without the extra weight holding it down. If the limb rose, my ladder would tumble, and down would come baby, cradle and all.

The whole situation annoyed me, so I decided to ignore the little voice. That proved difficult because 99 kept talking, telling me that I couldn't and shouldn't try it. I tried a little binding to silence the voice. It wasn't entirely successful, but I did get the top of the ladder bound to the limb so the aluminum trail-to-the-sky couldn't collapse for lack of support. I also attached a rope to the broken appendage and gave instructions to 99 on how to pull so the branch wouldn't scrape me from the ladder or knock me unconscious as it plummeted from directly over my head.

The plan was pure genius, in a Maxwell Smart or Wiley Coyote sort of way, but actually worked to perfection--surprising wife, me, and the tree. Neither KAOS nor the Road Runner is safe from my keen intellect and sharp saw.

We resumed the carnival of fun the next day, mowing, moving obstacles, and tracking down and removing weeds that had failed to comply with verbal notices to vacate the premises. 

An hour or two after we left for part two of our mission, I remembered that I had forgotten to shut off the sprinkler. Fortunately, I was able to track down a good friend who was suffering from early onset retirement to turn off the water for me.

The second half of the mission went off successfully. It was the second reception for child 5 and was helped immeasurably by the fact that there was ice cream.

 

Quest for Air

 

Artwork by Cedar Sanderson from interior of Space Cowboys 6: Fission Chips. It may even go with my story, "Love under a Purple Sky."

There's something about the idea of the cowboy that persists in the imagination of humanity. It's a romantic notion nurtured not only in the fertile imagination but in the heart. I've often said that the western is a uniquely American genre set on the vast canvas of the the plains, prairies, deserts, canyons, and mountains of America. However, the vision of the cowhand, sheriff, drifter, and outlaw transcends the geography and lifestyle that birthed it. The dream can't be restrained and has taken to the stars. Climb aboard and touch your spurs to ride that lofty ambition. Sic itur ad astra.

Space Cowboys 6: Fission Chips is out and topping the list in new sci-fi anthologies.

______________

I went on a quest this week. I didn't expect to go on a quest. I expected to make a quick trip to a gas station so that I could fill the low tire on the rattlin' battle wagon. The brand new station with its fancy-shmancy air station held out the promise of pressure, but that particular position on the premises remained positively passive. In fact, it had not been activated at all. I had to mess with it for a few minutes to verify that it suffered from a lack of power and that it wasn't merely operator error to blame. Fortunately, it only took credit cards, preventing the prodigal squandering of coins in a vain attempt to prime it to life.

There were legends that lived on from the Chippewa on down of another air station at the older sister station to this one. I consulted the ancient charts in the form of my recollection of having driven by the older place on numerous occasions. After placing the location in my mind, I set the sails and got underway, arriving only minutes later. Before me stood a seasoned air station bearing the scrapes and scratches of many encounters with desperate travelers. I gave it a brief examination and loaded it up with coins. 

Nothing happened.

I couldn't hear any compressor kicking on, nor did any pressure come from the hose. No matter how many buttons I pushed or how I adjusted the mechanism, it refused to perform the service for which I had paid. It ate about two bucks without providing satisfaction.

I had heard of another place whose name was spoken in hushed tones. Those hushed tones had come from the guy who had told me about places that might have air stations. He had mentioned a third place, almost as an afterthought. Having been certain that one of the first two possibilities would answer my dilemma, I hadn't paid much attention to the third. I racked my brain and shot the cue ball into the mass, scattering thoughts in all directions. One found the pocket. I knew the place, even though I had not noticed the air station. 

A reading on the sextant of memory let me adjust my course for the new destination. A slick maneuver and a shortcut brought me precisely to where I would've been had I taken a less imaginative route. I got into traffic, got through the light, turned, and turned again to find the air oasis. My keen eye found it hidden next to a shrubbery and completely devoid of knights with a favorite word. Although it took coins, I didn't have enough left to meet the minimum requirement to make the machine dance. However, being the resourceful type, I persuaded the apparatus to perform with a perfunctory perusal of my payment plastic. 

Thus did I complete the quest for air and did slay the dragon of diminished pressure in my pneu -- or at least forced it to retreat before superior firepower so that it could creep slowly back to clash again another day.

 Survival Drinking

I've suffered from a debilitating affliction in recent times, and as a result the time I have spent writing has been limited. I'm not sure as to the cause of this disorder. One theory holds that chemicals may be the cause. Not long ago, I picked up a case of Flamin' Hot Mountain Dew. I remain ignorant of the composition of the substance within the gaudy cans, but I would wager that it consists of some chemical melange. (On a different note, don't you think melange looks like one of those names some parents create by jamming together parts of different names--like they put together Melody and Angie and came away with Melange?)

Anyway, when I cracked open the first can, a peculiar fragrance tickled my nostrils--if tickled is interpreted to include a violent thrashing with a pine bough. Nevertheless, I was intrigued. I knew this drink was not the average soft drink when I took the first mouthful.The taste was not unpleasant. I liked it. First there's the flavor, and then there is the experience. To paraphrase a certain son of Gondor, "One doesn't simply drink Flamin' Hot Mountain Dew," one must experience it.

The flavor is akin to Orange Crush with a vague suggestion of something picante. The experience arrives when the concoction contacts the back of the mouth--as it often does when one attempts to swallow the liquid mystery. The beverage washes back like a gentle, orange-flavored tide--containing a spiny sea urchin and two enraged lionfish. The urchin and lionsfish plunge their deadly weaponry into the soft and tender flesh at the rear of my mouth. The deadly attack--for it can be nothing but a violent, premeditated attack upon the most vulnerable portion of the oral cavity--compels a reaction. My reaction was a violent coughing fit which spewed dew across the expanse of my desk and beyond. 

I must surmise that the chemical compound, the mysterious melange, had become a living substance and sought to escape by murdering the would-be consumer. Notwithstanding the fact that a prudent man would have ceased consumption at that point, I became more determined to prove my mastery over the liquid. The first few trials concluded in the same manner as the first. However, each time, finding that I was still alive, and that more beverage remained, I persevered. By the time the can was half-empty my fortitude began to pay off. My body had become immune to the vociferous attacks. I drank the rest of the contents with pleasure.

I presume that you can guess what I did with the rest of the cans in the case. I drank them--and bought 4 more cases. Any drink that makes me feel like I've just won a fight for survival is a winner for me. Seriously, I did. Flamin' Hot makes a great mixer with pineapple coconut Body Armor and the Exposed Aloe drink. I must admit that the three-beverage mixture lacks the deadly attack of the straight stuff, but I relish it.

So how could this duel with the Dew be the cause of my affliction? I don't know; it's just a theory. Nevertheless, the malady has motivated me to fix the dryer (twice--which is another tale), spray weeds, install a new battery in the motorcycle, change the oil, change the coolant, repair a pipe, and cut my hair--all in a window of a few days, and the account of any one of which would make for an entertaining blog post (except for the hair cut, there's no story there). I guess near-death experiences can change a person.

_______________

I expect to begin the final round of editing on In Death Bedrenched next week. I have a few super, advance readers who are finishing their editorial recommendations.

I've also had an idea that may be another novel or a series of short stories featuring the protagonist from my noir detective novel Smoke. Of course, I still have to finish book 5 in the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series before I can start writing that one -- but that doesn't mean I can't do research for it.

I won't tell you what color we painted the house yesterday, but I may take to calling the place Grey Havens, and change my name to Cirdan. It has been a lengthy project -- and it's not yet complete as we still have all the trim to do. I am entirely responsible for the great color which the neighbors admire because I let my wife and daughter make the color selection. Lacking both freakish height (which is anything over 5'8") and scaffolding, there were stretches when I spent more time moving the ladder than spraying paint. Let me recommend spraying as opposed to brushes and rollers. We still use brushes and rollers for certain spots, but spraying is about 20 times faster for me. The great plan to leave the windows covered until after we had completed the trim came to an end last night with the terrific windstorm that rattled the paper all night long which created a sound like that of 40 snare drummers practicing outside the house.

In addition to the painting, and the weekly slaughter of the green horde about the estate, I had an interview with E.G. Stone on Thursday morning (which won't post until December 14), and an interview Thursday afternoon at the Fantasy/Sci-Fi facebook group, and a reading at the same page on Friday afternoon. I was a bit disappointed that I didn't have time to read from Power to Hurt. I had selected a few pages depicting a confrontation between Alex and the dragon hunters which were a consequence of his choices in Threading the Rude Eye. Oh well.

***

I mentioned last week that I would have a few more words about Nick Cole. Let me spit them out without further ado.

This book

is the cause of my return to the bitter subject of Mr. Cole. The book came up on my Prime reading list--meaning I got to read it for free, and astute readers of this blog (if there are such folks) will note that I have a penchant for reading for free. I finished it within a couple days. It has been a long time since a book demanded my attention in such a manner.

Reading Legionnaire by Jason Anspach and Nick Cole is like freebasing candy-coated crack cocaine, or mainlining bacon. Legionnaire reminds me of H. Piper Beams' Uller Uprising with the "Koobs" standing in for the "Geeks" in the same way that an Olympic luge run reminds me of a toboggan outing. It's Iran, Somalia, Afghanistan, the Sepoy Mutiny, and the Battle of Rorke's Drift where the ragged edge of present history mingles with the fringe of deep space and a republic of the future that may have crossed into the territory of corrupt empire, and which certainly has allowed even its elite forces to be weakened by political nepotism and influence. Regardless of the setting, it always comes down to the men on the ground. They're hopelessly outnumbered, and crippled by bureaucratic impediments.

My disdain for novels written in the present tense is second only to the feeling for those involving sparkly vampire romance. I've cast aside books written in the present tense because the technique strikes me like an ice-pick jabbing into my gums. Very few writers do the present tense well. Anspach and Cole used the present tense throughout this book--and I didn't even notice until I had read nearly half of it! That's how one should do the present tense! The story seizes the reader with the subtlety of a pirate boarding party and never lets go. It's a rapidly paced yarn adorned with futuristic weapons, armor, and vehicles, but founded on human foibles and determination as exacerbated by dealings with alien peoples and unfamiliar customs.

If you read only one book in the coming month--and it's not one of mine--make it Legionnaire by Jason Anspach and Nick Cole--but, of course, that's only if you can't get one of mine.

Strap down the grey matter and hold on to your cerebellum (not to be confused with antebellum or parabellum) Clamorous Harbingers will give your mind a ride! (Yes. I was listening to Boston when that bit of self promotional inspiration came to me).

Not yet, but soon. My proclamation is premature as I've not yet completed the book. However, "Havoc!" has been cried, and the dogs of war let slip. The battle at the cache to shape the future of empires and liberty's struggle has commenced.

Perhaps I should go into television repair. I performed a life-extending surgery on our television. The IR sensor which reads the remote had gone bad. It had started as a frequent but not complete failure to respond to the input from the remote control. In a matter of days, the failure to hearken waxed into willful rebellion such that all commands had to be given by physical administration. Wife picked up a new remote, but the TV's fault, like that of Brutus, lay not with the stars or the remote, but within itself. I did some searching, narrowed down the problem, and postponed action when I couldn't find the correct part in stock. A few days later, I, like Ayn Rand's Atlas, shrugged, escaping the burden of indecision and located the replacement part online. I waited until Saturday to perform the operation.

Here is the part I removed (It's held in place by two screws and attaches to a little plug by the white connection at one end.):

The main difficulty was in opening the patient to get at the components within. I prepped the TV for surgery by removing all the cords which connected it to power and auxiliary units, and moved it to the operating table. I should have taken pictures of the operation, but I didn't. Something like 300, or twenty-some screws held on the back cover - plus another eight which attached the stand. The operation--performed without anesthetic, I might add. I was awake the entire time--was a complete success. The patient has fully recovered and now hearkens to our commands.

***

Here's something short of a book review:

I read this. I thought about dropping out several times, but kept at it. I enjoyed Flint's 1632, but this one not so much. The story is told by Ignace, the strangler's manager. Ignace is clever and amusing. As a result, the humor in the story is more clever than entertaining. Rife with parody and satire the story references Dante's Inferno and other works (none of which spring to my recollection at the moment). The action has a cartoon-like quality, and provided me with the same amount of satisfaction. Great writing by Flint, but not quite a palate-pleaser for me. It's still free at the big river store--at that price, you can get it and judge for yourself.

***

This is the first story (to the best of my knowledge) that I have read by Manly Wade Wellman--who deserves to be read if only for the sake of his memorable name.

The Devil's Asteroid is a short story. It takes place on an asteroid where the protagonist is stranded by the Martians. I was able to predict most of the story's developments before they happened, but the narrative allowed me to feel smart and self-congratulatory in doing so, rather than that the writing was predictably unimaginative. It's also free--a quick, pleasant read.

***
I also read this short work:

The other editions have more interesting covers--but this version was free, and still is. One of the other editions claimed to be unexpurgated, so this one may be sanitized. It's a middle of the road sword and planet story by the Queen of Space Opera, and who was also known for her work on the movies The Big Sleep (1946), Rio Bravo (1959), Eldorado, and others. She also worked on an early draft of The Empire Strikes Back (1980), but she died before the movie went into production.

I see that her first novel was a mystery novel in the style of Raymond Chandler. So we have something in common (see my novel Smoke). Black Amazon of Mars ended Brackett's period of high adventure writing (according to Wikipedia).

As for the Empire Strikes Back: Her early draft was not used, but many of its story elements are in the final movie. Here is a PDF of that script. The opening looks the same as the actual movie, except Luke and Han ride white snow lizards (which I first misread as snow leopards--which would be super cool) instead of Tauntauns. Most importantly, Luke's father is a distinct character from Darth Vader. If you ask me (which you haven't, but I won't let that stop me), as I've probably mentioned before, that single decision (Vader as Luke's father) laid the foundation for the complete ruination of the franchise (See the prequels, and the final desecration--they all trace back to that ill-conceived brain vapor). Of course, I should expound on this sometime, but not yet. Also, in Brackett's script, Lando was one of the last surviving clone storm troopers. You can get more details on that script here.

So much for a book review become Bella Siderea trivia.

Before I tell you of the wrestle I had before the Craftsman war machine in preparation for an attack upon the green horde which has my castle nearly encircled, I must clarify the progress of Clamorous Harbingers (not to be confused with Glamorous Hamburgers). Having utterly failed to justly render an exciting conclusion to the trilogy at less than 100K words, I've decided to triumphantly end the book with not only the cataclysmic battle for the original McGuffin, but also with the clash in the caverns. I had thought to wait on the telling of the clash in the caverns until the next book, the beginning of the next trilogy, which I'm tentatively calling Wings of Rebellion, but it makes this conclusion perfect if I include it in this trilogy. My new goal is 120K words. I'm currently at around 105K, and each chapter is more awesome than the last.

It will blow you away!

Maybe not quite so literally as shown in this GIF, but, as Yoda would say, upon you a great impression made will be.

***

     I had a date with Destiny. On this day, Destiny had a mind of her own. It pained me to do so, but I had to cuff the dame around a bit to get her to see things my way. I set the date a couple weeks ago when I mowed the yard for the first time this year. The grass towered; the mower blades had all the sharp, incissive, trenchant characteristics of a wad of chewing gum--not a great combination. The war machine didn't so much cut the grass as give it a good roughing-up and warn it about what could happen next time. I had resolved to sharpen the blades before mowing again.

     The morning broke cool and clear like that first pointed paper cup of water from the cooler. The scent of insecticide wafted in from the neighboring field, and I relished the bitterness in my nostrils. I tightened my belt a notch, or I would have if I had been wearing a belt. Instead, I thrust my thumbs into the waistband of my Levis and drew them up an inch. This pair is a little loose in the waist and frequently cause me to feel like they might fall off. My wife bought me 3 pair of the articles (back when we had the brisk discussion about how I was patching my old jeans, as some of you may remember). Each pair is supposed to be the same size. One of the three fits snugly, the pair in question fit a bit loosely, and the third pair fit too tightly to comfortably wear--that's some kind of quality control they have going there. Anyway, as is my wont, I have digressed. Let me resume: I drew the jeans up an inch and strolled to the shed to select a number of old 2x6s to use as a ramp. Four was the number of the boards that I selected because I wanted to be certain the boards would hold; two felt flimsy, so I doubled them up. I lowered the tailgate on the pickup and placed the boards.

     With the table set for my date with Destiny, I confronted the Craftsman war machine. It started on my command. That's the sort of relationship we have: I command; it obeys--sometimes. I was relieved to discover that this was one of those times. I drove it part way up the ramp, enough to expose the deadly underbelly of the beast. I set the brake, killed the motor, and made a perfect dismount. Only the Russian judge marked me down out of spite, and the war machine rolled back down the ramp.

Destiny can be a fickle lass, retracting her favor just when victory seems assured. As she withdrew her favor, I slapped the retreating hand by insisting on victory: I would take advantage of the angle of the war machine and jack it up and tip it backwards to rest upon braces at the rear. Destiny laughed. When I jacked the monster higher, using two cinder blocks as the base for the jack. I raised the machine from the ramps sufficiently for it to begin to tip to one side. Not only did my blocks and jack prevent me from accessing the underbelly from the best position, the thing would never stay in place once I started twisting the bolts. I had to rethink the attack.

With Destiny's cackling laughter still ringing in my ears, I allowed that I would have to do what I had hoped to avoid. I moved the pickup to the back of the house where the ground falls away in a short but steep slope. With the boards in place, I drove the machine upon the ramp once more and set the brake. Now that the ramp angle was much less than the roughly 60 degrees (maybe less than 30 degrees here) the machine did not roll back. I had access to the mower blades. The 5/8th socket from my grandfather's old socket set proved to be the only socket that would fit the two bolts which held the blades in place. With the a hearty taunt, I showed Destiny the back of my hand, and removed the mower blades.

I thought I heard a faint giggle as I took the first blade to the bench grinder my father-in-law had given me some 30 years ago. The grinder had seen little use, but it had served me well when I had needed it. The grinding wheels didn't turn when I hit the power switch. They groaned like a sick bison in labor, but they refused to turn--which is something you expect wheels to do (turn, I mean, not groan like a bison). I assisted the wheels and got them going. When I touched the metal of the mower blade to the spinning wheel, the wheels slowed, and stopped--not the most desired result, not in the top three, in fact. Destiny loosed a peal of laughter which clawed at my ears like a wildcat with a migraine.

     I was not to be deterred. I knew how to solve this problem. I pushed Destiny away. She tripped on the hem of her long gown and fell to the ground in a sullen heap. I stepped over her to go for the secret ingredient, that salver of wounds, saver of days, and repairer of broken tangibles: money. I grabbed a modest handful of cash and headed to one of the local hardware establishments. Once upon the premises, with neither mask nor scrip, I might add (well, maybe scrip or sorts; I had cash), I confronted a dilemma. (Would a dilemma, be two lemmas?) Should I get the bench grinder for $50.00, or the hand grinder for $30.00?

     Upon reaching the checkout with my purchase, I faced another difficulty. Only one register was open. One guy was at the counter where the clerk stood behind a freestanding sheet of plexiglass, but neither wore a mask nor had any other sort of microbial protection. That wasn't the problem. The problem was figuring out who was ahead of me in the line. Someone stood on a piece of red tape on the floor. A guy in a hat stood farther way to the side, opposite of my approach. I figured I would wait casual like to see if the hat guy planned to approach the checkout. I could only hope there weren't more people lined up behind him, ready to pop into view like clowns from a tiny car, if I tried to approach the register. I learned all I needed to know when a masked lady carrying a small potted plant marched toward the counter with the intent of stepping up behind the guy on the tape. As she passed me, she suddenly drew up when realization that these were strange times tapped her on the shoulder. She looked at the guy in the hat.

     "Are you in line?" she asked of l'homme au chapeau.
     "I'm right after that guy," he pointed to the man waiting on the tape.
     She looked at me, "Are you in line too?"
     "I'm after him, unless there's someone behind him down that aisle," I replied.
     "Oh," She said. She moved back to stand behind me.

     Her confusion was understandable. Hat guy and I weren't adjusting ourselves to align with the tape on the floor which stretched down the aisle between us as we had approached from opposite sides of the register rather than up the marked aisle. That's the way we rolled.

     I paid with cash and didn't bother trying to stand behind the plexiglass as it would have been impossible to pass the money through the glass, there being no openings in it. The clerk didn't seem to care, and neither did I.

     As for the rest of my date with Destiny, that skirt snickered a few times as I assembled the hand grinder, but she was soon laughing out of the other side of her face. I ground cutting edges onto the mower blades that would make a sous chef squeal with delight, but, honestly, no one would want to cut their food with those mower blades. Not only would it be awkward, and gross because of the hardened residue of grass gore upon parts of the blade, because, although the edge may be sharp, the blades are too thick to slice meat, tomatoes, bread, and most other things--carrots, they might be okay for slicing carrots, or celery, but a knife would still be better. I see that I have digressed again. Please go to the next paragraph.

Destiny stood by in silence as I reattached the mower blades. She left and I had to lead the attack against the green horde by myself. Once more, the war machine and I took the battle to the enemy, literally mowing down the horde. The casualties were too many to number.

***

Bonus Shakespeare quote that is appropriate for the current time:

"And you all know, security
Is mortals' chiefest enemy." --Shakespeare, MacBeth, Act III, Scene 5.

"Bridge at Chalons" is the first episode of season 2 of Combat! It wasn't the next episode on my list for viewing. I found it looking for an episode with the theme of blowing a bridge as I wanted to try some WWII action for my skirmish game. The game has already proved itself with musketeers, frontiersmen and Indians, Martians, Trek, and probably a western on which I'm still working--but I digress. I won't do a review or recap here of this Combat! episode. I merely wanted to note that it scores 2 out of 3 on the Combat! Excellence Scale: 1. It featured combat, including a German 2-man machine gun firing from a cemetery, and grenades and explosives. 2. It wasn't about the NPCs. The guest star, Lee Marvin, did not disappoint, but he did not become the show. He also helped bring out the prominent character features/flaws in the regulars. Saunders got to shine, overcoming all obstacles, including the guest star. Only on point number 3 did the episode fail to please--there was little-to-no French spoken in the episode. I give it 4 of 5 on the combat score, 5 of 5 on the character and guest star score, and 0 of 5 on the French score for a total of 9 out of 15. It's definitely one I could enjoy re-watching. I'll probably re-watch when I do a review so I can get some pictures.

***

On a more serious note, the well pump handed in its resignation last Sunday. I managed to put off acceptance for a couple days until Tuesday when I had the time to replace it. Two things stand out about the whole experience. First, a fine friend not only helped with the pump replacement, he also did all the driving as we went to get the new hire and the requisite accessories. My dad, and son, and boss also came to assist in the project. Second, the new hire cost two to three times what it should have. HR was all accommodating in providing the replacement and everything else but deferred telling me the price when I asked, indicating we would settle up when I brought back the lifting tool they had lent to me for the task. I had priced new pumps and knew the expected range. I suspected that this pump would be at the high end of that spectrum. I did not expect it to be double the anticipated cost. Color me soured. There is no doubt whatsoever that I would have gone somewhere else if they had not hidden the cost until after I had installed the pump. I hope that was the last repair of the year. For Christmas, we have water. I may put a bow on the faucet.

***

Thanksgiving came this year in that fashion to which we have grown accustomed. We had a small gathering of part of the family. The turkey I smoked didn't turnout as fabulous as had the one last year, but it was good. Thor, the Ice Queen, and the Corsican Brothers came for the thankful festivities. (Thankfestivities? Thanktivities?) I persuaded Thor to test my skirmish game. He chose a Federation versus Klingons scenario in which a mysterious tractor beam had destroyed a Klingon battle cruiser and threatened to do the same to the Enterprise. Thor ran the Klingons who, always ready to attach blame to the Federation, refused all efforts at cooperation. Chekov had the only working phaser. He had not moved from his beam-down spot before the enemy disruptor killed him. Kirk elected to forego the combat advantage he had and attempted to persuade the Klingon commander of the necessity of cooperation if they were to have any chance of saving themselves. That commander rebuffed his pleas and burned him down where he stood. McCoy met the same fate, and he was armed with nothing more than a nonworking tricorder. When the tractor beam crushed the Enterprise, Scotty was cornered by Klingons and a venomous wolf-like creature. He never even got a chance to disable the beam. Ironically, Scotty, the last crewman standing, was the only model wearing a red shirt.

***

Snow and lights provided the theme for the rest of the weekend. Snow visited on Friday and drifted to a depth of nearly a foot--by which I mean the standard measurement, not someone's particular foot--in front of my garage. The new snowblower--and by "new" I mean I have no idea how old it is as it came from the estate of a friend who passed away earlier this year, but it's new to me--started right up and didn't die until I tried utilize it for its designated purpose. It wouldn't start again. I left it and shoveled for only a few minutes before I decided to put fresh gas in the blower and try again. It then started right up and did in fact blow snow--much of which the wind brought back into my face. It also left about a quarter inch of compacted snow in its wake. So I still had to shovel that.

Saturday morning drifted in like a breath exhaled in cold winter air, but it soon warmed up. When wife and daughter had finished their errands, wife asked me if I was going to put up the Christmas lights. The thought had not crossed my mind. Last year my son and I had joined in that activity. This year my wife helped. I'm not exaggerating much when I say that we did an entirely adequate job of stringing Christmas cheer about two and half sides of the abode, and adorning the crab apple and dead maple with polychromatic yuletide hopes. I think Polly Chromatic would make a good character name. Would she be an artist? A paint salesman? A singer who can't hold a note? As you can imagine, the possibilities are finite.

***

Now for a note on the progress of Book 3 (I really need a good title for this one) of Tomahawks and Dragon Fire: It is exciting. I'm only 40 some pages in, and I can already tell that this book is even more exciting and action-packed than the two previous entries in the series. Friday and Saturday, while others were shopping, I digitally carved some characters in motion. The aftermath of the big ending in Power to Hurt is slopping over into the next set of plot complications and character advancements with musket fire, tomahawk chops, and some magic which may have been suspected by the more astute readers but which had not previously been revealed. I have revealed written it. Where it goes remains to be seen. Is there more magic to come? Get the books now and find out.

There's an undeniable satisfaction derived from pounding a screwdriver through an oil filter. Grasping that skewering tool's handle, applying the torque--that transference of will into action--and twisting the recalcitrant part to force the release of its tenacious hold upon the engine block brings an indisputable sense of gratification--until you realize that the removal of the nearly brand new filter was completely unnecessary.

That oil filter was the single most expensive part in the repair that I did Saturday on the lawn mower aka the Craftsman warmachine. It had a broken intake rod. I had discovered the broken rod when I had removed the valve cover and found things in a state of complete disarray--not to be confused with Desiree, who is complete and is also found in my state. The repairs included replacing the rod guide (which I had unwittingly (or half-wittedly) damaged in a previous repair, and which ultimately, I believe, was the cause of the broken rod) both the intake and exhaust push rods, a gasket, and last, but not least (and completely unnecessarily), the oil filter.

My dad taught me the trick for removing a stubborn oil filter. He did teach me that it wasn't the best option; but when it has to come off, and if it won't come off by hand, and you don't have a proper wrench for it, the skewering and torquing works every time.

When I had replaced the parts and reassembled the machine, it started immediately on the turn of the key. Victory was mine! O mechanical incompetence, where is thy sting? Best of all, I didn't lose a single drop of blood, neither cuticle, knuckle nor dermis spread itself upon the altar of small engine repair deities. The repair, reassembling, and the mowing spent the day.
***
More books reviewed:

Half a King, by Joe Abercrombie

General Thoughts: Joe Abercrombie writes very well. I enjoyed the book from the very beginning and never found myself disappointed in either the story or the writing style. The style doesn't call attention to itself. It's sparse on description and detail, giving sufficient information to set the scene in broad terms while allowing the reader's imagination to naturally establish the details and unspecified staging. The story itself maintains the reader's interest. The pacing never drags. Plot, pacing, and style are a delight.

Story in a nutshell: Boy who doesn't want to be king, finds himself thrust into the throne (or thrown into the throne) by the deaths of both his father and brother. He swears an oath of vengeance. After setting out to achieve revenge, he escapes treachery and attempted assassination only to become a galley slave. His oar mates and a couple others on the ship become his new family. His previous training to become a minister (of the advising rather than the preaching ilk) more than makes up for the lack of one hand. He must escape from slavery and return home to reclaim his kingdom. Naturally, he changes along the way, becoming confident and cunning.

Do I recommend it? Yes. I got this book on sale for $0.99. So far, it is the best book that I've read at that price this year. I rode this story like a spirited horse from beginning to end. The story never falters. I found some key character development rather sudden, but credible under the circumstances. The cast of supporting characters provides great texture if not extreme depth to the story. The book also included the first chapter of the next book in the series. That first chapter seemed too similar to the first chapter of this book. I probably won't read the next book, unless I find a similar deal on it. As for Half a King, I rate it: A Galloping Gallivant--enjoy the ride.


"Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!" by Richard P. Feynman

General Thoughts: I had no previous knowledge of Mr. Feynman, his work or his writings. This is a purely biographical work. He's a Nobel Prize winning scientist. He worked at Los Alamos on the atomic bomb project during WWII. I enjoyed the story which ranged from his early interest in repairing radios to his education, trips abroad, work on the atomic bomb, cracking safes, playing the bongos, learning how to attract women in bars, learning to draw, lecturing, and more. It was an interesting change of pace.

Story in a nutshell: A very smart and talented guy does lots of interesting things.

Do I recommend it? Yes. This book was a nice look into an interesting life. I would imagine that I would have many agreements and disagreements with the author on all kinds of subjects, but he doesn't invite me along to convince me of his point of view; he just lets me know what it is, and let's me see what an amazingly interesting life he has had. The book is light on the kind of thing that would make me want to put it down, including heaving scientific explanations. The science talk is kept simple. There was a spot or two where I failed to grasp the scientific aspect of the story, but it didn't matter; the story was still great. I acquired this book for free through Prime. I rate this book: A Semester Abroad -- enjoy learning things by looking at them through another's perspective.
***
Books in the reading queue: The Ragged Edge of Night by Olivia Hawker, Stiger's Tigers by Marc Alan Edelheit, Fatemarked by David Estes, and Heroes of Issalia by Jeffrey L. Kohanek are new on the list. Le Loup Blanc by Paul Feval is still in progress. I should also do a review of Ken Jorgenen's Treachery of The Daimyo too, and read the next two books in that series.

The day dawned, as it is wont to do, with the rising of the sun. A clear blue sky overlooked the estate. The day promised heat, and lots of it. I didn't have time to admire the azure canvas over head; I couldn't do anything about the promised heat; it wasn't my concern: I had a date with Destiny, and I was hoping that she would be wearing a clinging pastel number with some lacy frills. I was kidding myself; this was no date--it was a showdown. I was going mano a mano with the Craftsman war machine. I planned to tear into it without mercy, to strip its power source from its corpse, crack open that box of mechanical brain-works, and perform some compliance surgery on that metal crate before reattaching and reanimating the creature to do my bidding.

With might, power, and high hopes, I confronted the beast. I didn't give it a chance to talk. I had it jacked up and on the stands before it could even say, "Jack Robinson." Come to think of it, I've never heard it utter that phrase; it's a particularly difficult iteration for most mowing machines. The videos that I had watched indicated that the engine could be removed in about one half an hour. It was held to the frame by four bolts. Of course some other wires and assorted connections like the fuel line, a mystery hose, and the throttle cables had to be detached as well, but the four bolts, and the pulley below the frame were the primary obstacles.

When I set the wrench to the first bolt to begin the struggle in earnest, the mower struck back.

The end of the wrench snapped off as soon as I applied pressure. Round 1 to the mower. It was comparable to Napoleon falling from his horse at start of the invasion of Russia--not a good omen.

The half-hour engine removal took me two hours and included a trip to town for a particular socket and an angled section. The two front bolts resisted, but they were overcome. The two back bolts were more difficult to persuade. So the mower effectively delayed, but I won that round. In my defense, I don't have the fancy rotary tools the video guys used to zip the bolts out in a flash (refer to broken wrench above for the quality of my resources).

It looked rather pathetic with the engine removed. Some people have noted difficulty in removing the pulley beneath the mower; once I removed the bolt holding it to the engine, it practically fell off--no pounding was necessary.

Out of the mower and on the concrete, and then on the operating table. It was at this point that I began to congratulate myself on having completed the removal of the engine without the customary blood sacrifice to appease the gods of gasoline powered things. I began to think that I would complete the task sans such sacrificial exsanguination. 

"Hold on to your hemorrhage, Batman!" The mechanical ones demanded obeisance. My very next move resulted in the first incision of the operation. While attempting to loosen one of the bolts that held the oil pan to the engine, I ran the knuckle of my little finger across the head of another bolt. I noted that it hurt, but didn't realize that the bloodletting had begun until I saw the crimson drop upon the plate. My wife had a band-aid ready. Apparently, she remembered the process.

The operation proceeded without much else of note happening. The pictures below show the innards of the beast.

You might note that I had not drained the oil prior to beginning the surgery. For future reference, I recommend draining the oil first. I think that I managed to get oil on most of the exterior surface of the engine, as well as all over the work table and the floor. It spilled my blood; I spilled its blood. 

The camshaft is the larger wheel with all of the teeth. Below, one can see the old, damaged shaft on the right, and the new shaft on the left. 

One might notice that the mechanism on the left that sits against the center of the toothed wheel is missing from the shaft on the right. The missing piece (broken pieces), the ACR (something compression release mechanism), can be seen behind the two shafts. There is a close up of the pieces below.

 These were in the bottom of the pan. It is a fine testament to the quality of this product that this part fails so frequently--it ought to be a free part and repair. Some videos explain exactly how the part functions. Having watched those videos, I still don't pretend to understand it. Like Sgt. Oddball from Kelly's Heroes, "I only ride'em. I don't know what makes 'em work."

 One very important detail that I'm glad was noted in one of the videos was that the timing marks, the divot on the camshaft and the other shaft (crankshaft?), must be aligned in order to remove the camshaft; naturally, the new camshaft must also be so aligned for installation.

The most difficult part of the procedure was removing the old gasket. The rest wasn't too difficult. I made significantly better time in reattaching the engine to the carcass that I had in the removal.

Next time: What fruits do these labors bear?

The Craftsman war machine has terminated negotiations. The tips of the tall grass wave jubilantly in the wind, defiant, unyielding, uncut and spitting stinging imprecations with each windy ripple (which sounds like a drink: Windy Ripple, now in your favorite pastel colors with an aftertaste that resurrects memories of treated lumber and burnt hair). Civilization as we know it teeters at the edge of the precipice; the fate of humanity hangs in the balance. What has brought us to this terrible state? What is the cause of this our dismay, this forlorn future, this fantastical fate?

Word is that it is something called an ACR--it's broken. I don't know what the A stands for, but the C and R stand for compression release. Maybe the A is for awful, or ain't working. The internet, which is never wrong--Oh, I know--says that this is a common problem with the Briggs and Stratton 21 hp engine (and others of the B&S make with the overhead valve setup). The progression of part replacement/adjustment is battery, starter, valves, camshaft--with the latter being the only thing that ever needed to be replaced. Having already replaced the battery and starter, and adjusted the valves, I am unhappily awaiting the new camshaft upon which the ACR is found. It's supposed to arrive on Wednesday. Oh, what fun awaits.

I was able to terminate another successor in the line of Claude Roowener, Earl of Clay. I expect to have the lifeless body of the next heir-apparent tomorrow morning.

***

A friend lanced me with a bit of sunshine today. He told me that he started reading Smoke this week; he's half finished with it and is thoroughly enjoying the read. He really liked Justice in Season, but is even more taken by Smoke. It's always great to hear that someone genuinely enjoys reading something that I've written. Nice reviews posted to the sales site and Goodreads are also nice. My wife has started reading Smoke and professed her pleasure with it--but she kind of has to say nice things about it; I'm sure she's sincere, but she's still in the early chapters--she has plenty of time to lose interest or otherwise be disappointed in the book, but she won't.

***

Here is the gratuitous Star Trek picture of the week:

It comes from a fb group devoted to TOS. The episode was "Elaan of Troyius" which was written and directed by John Meredyth Lucas. I consider it one of the finer episodes of the third season. Spoiler Alert: The green man with the bladed accessory protruding from his back actually survived the episode. The picture, which captures Elaan, Kirk, and the ambassador sporting the cutlery, is representative of the fine direction throughout the episode. This is one of the episodes that I like rather more as an adult than I did as a kid--when I didn't particularly notice creative camera angles and that sort of detail. When I saw the picture, I thought Kirk should be saying, "Is this a dagger I see before me?" --but of course, that line isn't from that episode. France Nuyen made a perfect spoiled barbarian brat of a princess. Jay Robinson (who played the spoiled Emperor Caligula early in his career) absolutely sells his role as the slightly effeminate Ambassador Petri who is completely out of his league in trying to deal with the strong-willed Elaan--which point the knife perfectly illustrates. It's a top tier episode in my opinion.

Did I mention that Smoke is available in paperback?

A sky painted in watercolor gray looked down upon me with all the joy of a boy who had lost his favorite toy. It was threatening to cry. I knew that I had only a limited amount of that currency issued to each of on a daily basis to complete the daunting, but not overwhelming tasks before me. In fact, I would say the tasks were merely whelming, definitely not overly so.

It was like this, see. Last Saturday the mower went on strike again. It had had some complaint about needing a new starter motor. I had immediately broken off negotiations...and ordered a new starter motor. The local apothecary of parts had said that they would have to order it. I had decided that I could do that on my own. So I did.

Saturday, I returned to negotiations with the new starter motor in hand. I made a blood-free presentation. It went so efficiently that my wife couldn't believe that I finished as soon as I had. The biggest problem had been a set of bolts on the engine cover were masquerading as 10 mm but which were in in fact 3/8 inch; those guys had taken the 10 mm at first, but when things got tough, they just shrugged their shoulders and refused to tighten up. I brought out the 3/8 and showed them who was boss, but good, see.

Overcome by the sheer brilliance of my proposal, the mower accepted it immediately by roaring into action. I still needed to battle the two weeks worth of wild jungle growth that is my lawn before the sky let loose with its tears. My yard is like The Ponderosa meets The High Chaparral--if the former were covered in lush grass and the latter boasted thistles and morning glory in lieu of cactus and chaparral, and had a gopher.

Although I had neither Hoss, Little Joe, Buck, nor even Blue to aid me, I rode into battle on the Craftsman war machine determined to conquer or die do as much as I could before the rain came. The yard knew that resistance was futile, but resist it did. Fortunately, it used the Mahatma Gandhi method--its resistance was entirely passive. Unlike the British, I had no conscience to whisper against the wholesale massacre of the little green grassy fakirs. It was slow going, but I maintained the massacre at the best possible speed with no remorse whatsoever.

Finally, the gray sky finally couldn't hold its water any longer. It began with a light sprinkle like the first tears of sadness welling up and trickling down childish cheeks. I continued the massacre unmoved. Gradually, the tears increased until great gouts of tears fell as the sky sobbed uncontrollably. I was over half finished with the task. Moved by moisture rather than remorse at my murderous mayhem, I relented while the storm passed.

When the sky had stopped its whining, I let the turf dry a while while I whiled away the time at other things, including making sure a couple of my books were now on sale at Barnes & Noble for the Nook.

Finding Jack is now available at B&N for Nook.

Justice in Season is now available at B&N for Nook.

I resumed the mayhem at the earliest opportunity because the crybaby heavens still had that gray look of sadness that threatened to break into a fit of weeping at any time. In fact, the weeping began before I had finished mowing. I carried on the labor of slaughtering the herbaceous army arrayed against me and my war machine in spite of the heavens' lament. I finished wet and weary, but triumphant over the foe.

Of course, my murderous work was yet incomplete. There remained a gopher to confront. I didn't want to face that saber-toothed menace without backup. When the sky had finished its bawling, I took a small boy to use for bait help me set the trap. He likes to carry the shovel. In a matter of moments we had laid a cunning trap for the clawed ruiner of turf--which sounds like a good name for a literary character: Claude Roowener of Turf, Earl of Clay.

This morning I checked the trap. Claude will ruin no more turf.

Don't forget, Smoke is on sale on Amazon, but the sale ends the 12th. After that, you'll have to part with at least $2.99 to peruse the pages of that work which is destined (or not) to become the literary gem of the century.

I spent part of last week at a professional training conference. It was good stuff. I met some people from around the state, and passed on a few of my self-promotional cards. A couple folks seemed genuinely interested in my books. I'm pleased with the recent sales of Smoke, but the sales are not nearly what they should be (if I judge based upon how fun it was to write the book).

I did find time alone in my hotel room after the daily sessions to re-engage in writing Justice Resurgent, the sequel to my first novel Justice in Season. I also did some more research on a particular stagecoach robbery that will figure prominently (a fictionalized version of the event) in the story. This week, I've enjoyed writing that part of the story. The focus has temporarily shifted away from the men and women striving for law and order to highlight the activities of the villains. The book is just over half-way complete. I expect a lot of action in the remaining chapters.

***

Mowing the vast expanse of grass (or the great swath of emerald sward--I'm pretty sure that I learned the word "sward" from reading Burroughs) chez-moi constitutes a weekly summer ritual. It's a big job. It beats going to the dentist, but not by much--except for the opportunity it gives me to listen to great literature. Last year, over the course of a few weeks, I enjoyed completing the audio version of Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities.

I've recently been listening to The Classic Tales podcasts. A couple weeks ago I learned that Louisa May Alcott wrote some short stories that she called stories of "blood and thunder" (if I remember the sobriquet correctly) before writing her famous novels and children's stories. One of these horror stories was "The Mummy's Curse." Although predictable, it wasn't bad. Most recently, upon seeing the title to a particular podcast, I immediately got an idea about how to resolve, or not resolve, actually, an issue that I've anticipated in the sequel to Finding Jack--The Orb; the sequel will be Finding Jack--Book Two--The Rod.

I had to look up a word today. That's not a bad thing. It's just a word that I should've known. I came across it in Louis L'Amour's The Mountain Valley War. That's ironic because I once told my son that he needed to read some science fiction or something besides of Louis L'Amour westerns in order to improve his vocabulary. I'm sure vocabulary is just one of the many things that that author could teach me.

***

Saturday was also a deferred maintenance reconciliation day. That's reconciliation by way of penance and blood sacrifice. I had been hearing my brakes moan like a wounded walrus in heat for some months. When the noise first started, I thought that it was coming from the car or truck next to me at the stop. Eventually I noticed a pattern: I was hearing the same sounds, more and more frequently, and no other cars were nearby. Of course, I had to spend another month thinking that I needed to do something about it; I kept forgetting; and with the motorcycle friendly weather, I was often spared the sound of those moaning reminders that diligence delayed isn't diligence at all.

The highlight of the repair job, besides the oppressive heat and the fact that I was already fatigued from the grueling three hour mow experience in said heat, wasn't the smearing of my hemoglobin across the brake assembly--a necessary, but involuntary act aimed at appeasing the automotive deities--which I did while uttering the requisite litany--but the fact that my wife came out to assist me with the task. It could be that she yearns to see me engaged in something more manly than riding the lawnmower or tapping at a keyboard; or it could be that she's a nice person and wanted to give me help if I needed it.

She may have been surprised by the blood sacrifice. Not that she hasn't seen it before in various iterations. She just didn't understand that it was a requirement every. single. time. The old brake pads having died valiantly in duty, I consigned them to the automotive parts and accessories Valhalla, and installed the new recruits in their place.

***

Finally, a secretary at the office is reading Smoke. I bug her frequently about her reading progress. When she gave me an update this week, a line from that chapter came to mind: "Chivalry is not dead...and it didn't get any sleep either." I don't often remember specific lines that I've written, but that one stuck in my head based on the circumstances to which it applied.

I didn't get to a review of The Broken Gun. Maybe I'll do a double review of The Broken Gun, and The Mountain Valley War sometime soon.

PS (Why do I write "PS?" It's not like I'm doing a letter here--but this did come after I had finished the rest of the post, thus making it a post post scriptum) - While reviewing this for posting yesterday, my old wrestling coach and friend called to say hi and to express some other nice sentiments. What a perfect end to a busy day. It pays unexpected emotional dividends to have associated with nice people.

Naturally, my wife was curious to know how things went when I returned home after spending part of the evening in the arms of another woman. She (my wife) didn't get too excited about it when I told her that everything went fine with the play. We just finished the first week of this production. We have one more week to go. I haven't broken a tooth yet. Still, that wasn't the highlight of my day. I'll get to the highlight shortly. Here's a hint.

While putting on my shoes this morning, I found myself whistling Gordon Lightfoot's "Ribbon of Darkness." I can't remember the last time I heard that song, but it's still lodged in that tape deck in my head. Apparently an auto run program was tripped. It must have been something like, "Mind idle. Search the musical memory banks; play random selection. Repeat until manual override is initiated." So it looped for a while. 

I had to pull the vent covers from around the exterior foundation, and mow the prolific jungle that my yard has become. If the grass, weeds, dandelions, and baobabs were allowed to go another week, I would probably have to have an environmental study completed before I could even lift a machete against it. 

Problem: The mower stared me dead in the eye and told me it was going on strike until something changed in our relationship. My wife, fortunately, is much easier to get along with than the mower--that has nothing to do with the mower story, but my wife is great. I entered into negotiations with the mower. For more than an hour, I engaged in some tough techniques that had brought victory in the past: intense questioning, verbal threats, pleading, live electrodes applied to sensitive areas,  but the machine had me over a barrel between a rock and a hard place--if it's permitted to combine those metaphors--and I finally had to concede. I caved to the demand and made the change--of battery. $36 later I was maneuvering the machine like a skilled mahout with a hard working tusker. 

Following the clearing of the wilderness, I turned to a task that I had been excited to complete, but for which I hadn't found the time. Smoke is now available for pre-order. The picture above is the cover. Youngest daughter chose the title font from some options that I presented; it had the most smoke-like character while retaining that most important quality: legibility. The background picture isn't what I had originally anticipated. Although it includes some important elements from the novel; it lacks a seductive female, and the coils of smoke rising from the cigarette. My photography skills and resources are sorely limited.

Get your pre-order in today for Smoke. Or not. You know you want to. It will be very satisfying. Just do it.

Let me know what you think of the cover.