Happy July 4th USA!!

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For Whom the Bomb Blows

Back in 1970, I visited my brother at college in Madison, Wisconsin. He showed me the wreckage of Sterling Hall, housing the physics department and the Army Mathematics Research Center, where work was done under contract for Uncle Sam. Anti-war protestors had set off a bomb killing a physics researcher and father of three, Robert Fassnacht, as well as injuring others. I recall the windows on all the surrounding buildings were blown out and covered with plywood. According to the late Mr. Fassnacht's family, he, too, was against the Vietnam War.

In these unsettled times, not everyone crying for justice is just. Change imposed is tyranny by another name. And violence unleashed will, sooner or later, devour those who thought they could control it.

On this our nation's birthday, let's recall that our heritage as Americans is "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

For today, let us all promote a little bit of happiness.

A blessed 4th to all.

triangleonthecheap.com

Portlandia 2020

Federal Courthouse in Portland, Oregon. Many of the communist-anarchist groups in that city are funded by George Soros, the American far left, and a number of spray paint companies.

Andy Ngo

Book Review: The Trayvon Hoax

The Trayvon Hoax: Unmasking the Witness Fraud that Divided America by Joel Gilbert
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

On the night of his death, Trayvon Martin spoke on the phone with a teenage girl right up to the moment of his second encounter with George Zimmerman. But was this the same young woman who testified at Zimmerman's subsequent murder trial? Was this "phone witness" fraudulently swapped for another young woman with the complicity of Martin family attorney Benjamin Crump? And why did Florida prosecutors allows the mother of a crime victim to control access to a fact witness?

Having obtained Trayvon Martin's texts and phone records, author Gilbert sets out to answer these questions and more as he reexamines the events that led to the death of a teenage boy and the destruction of a man's life. Gilbert explores the dark intersections of grief and profit, parental responsibility and tragedy, racial myth, teen lust, and facts that don't fit any media narrative.

Gilbert's search for answers leads him through Miami's urban teen culture as well as the Haitian community. The author's dogged willingness to chase elusive truth begs larger questions as to why the media, plus the State of Florida—possessing the same information—preferred fiction over veracity to the point of convicting a man for a crime he did not commit.

Stunning revelations, supported by evidence, make for a compelling read, serving as an alternative to the contemporary fantasy of a tragic death based solely on race.

View all my reviews

Benefits of Cancel Culture

And you thought it was all about bellowing.

Ryan Long

Story Du Jour #18

All Story Du Jour tales are available online and free! A small offering in these trying times.

Image by Willgard Krause

Teleport Magazine

"The Food of Life" - by Matthew B. Johnson

6,122 words

Conflicting thoughts on digesting a long life. 

Here's a sample of the writing:

"Doctor Percovic?” 

A gentle voice through dense cotton, she was unsure if she’d heard it or imagined it. Soft light began to brighten the world around her as she stirred. Something hard and cold pressed into her back and the backs of her legs. 

 “Are you alright, Doctor?” 

 She opened her eyes, surprised to find she was sitting propped against the wall of the shower. Her head feeling dense and heavy as cast-iron, she turned toward the voice. A face came into soft focus and a soothing hand reached out toward her. 

 “Don’t touch me!” she shouted, recoiling as Lazarus touched her shoulder. 

She tried to stand. Lacking balance, she simply sat back on her haunches, leaning against the shower wall for support. 

“Why?” she croaked.

 Lazarus turned a nozzle protruding from the speckled green tile. A cascade of warm water rained down on them, pulling Marion back to her senses. 

 “Why?” she shouted. 

 “Look at me,” Lazarus said.

Next, a review, then Story Du Jour #19.

John P. McCann Discusses Himself

Yes, it's me. 

What could be better for an hour?

A lot of things, come to think of it: soft music, a pie, a cat and Gorilla glue. But if you'd like to hear a story of the rise, fall, and plateauing of one TV animation writer, then give a listen to my audio interview by Joshua Murphy over at JM Archives.

I discuss my Warner Bros. days, post-Warner Bros. career, and writing books and short stories. If you're thinking of writing for a living, here's a great resource on how not to do it. Give a listen, leave a comment, enjoy rose water and ham.

Cancel Culture Finally Explained

So much chat about canceling this one and banning that one. At last, the sound reasoning behind such dramatic actions is explained.
(Language warning.)

LongBeachGriffy

Book Review: A Thief of Time

A Thief Of Time by Tony Hillerman
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Crime, coincidence and culture clash in this tale of secrets, personal loss and theft in the American Southwest.

Navajo cops Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee once again find their paths crossing as stolen artifacts, a purloined backhoe, and a missing person compel the two men to team up in solving intersecting mysteries.

Hillerman's knowledge of the Southwest as well as Navajo ways roots the reader in the world of the story. And while his prose can be spare, it's by no means dry.

"Behind Nakai the sunset had darkened from glowing pale copper to dark copper. Against that gaudy dackdrop, two streaks of clouds were painted blue-black and ragged. To the left a 3/4 moon hung in the sky like a carved white rock."

I'm not a regular Hillerman reader, thus the sense of backstory between the two protagonists left me feeling a little like an invited guest at a family reunion. Nevertheless, the narrative doesn't suffer too badly. The use of Navajo culture to discover clues and weed out false leads lent the tale a unique flavor.

An enjoyable read and well-plotted police procedural.

View all my reviews

Story Du Jour #17

All Story Du Jour tales are available online and free! A small offering in these trying times.

Akin Bilgiç

Agni Online

"Night Beat" - by Lisa Chen

4489 words

Disappearing in Los Angeles is easier than you think.

Here's a sample of the writing:

"Lily read somewhere that the average Korean woman keeps seventeen different lotions and creams on her nightstand, like a sophisticated irrigation system. Sylvia has at least that many creams and ointments sprawled across her vanity, the bigger bottles for expansive surfaces like legs and arms, the smaller jars for trouble spots—elbows, the balls of the feet—and even smaller bottles for her face and neck.

Put Sammy on, will you?" Sylvia calls from the bathroom. Through the door Lily can see her leaning close to the mirror, engrossed in the fine-motor precision needed to apply her glue-on lashes. Lily slides Night Beat out of its paper sleeve, lowers the needle. A pop and hiss before the tom-tom of the bass. The music is like the clinking of bottom-weighted tumblers in a thickly carpeted room.

 Is there a word—German, compound and polysyllabic, probably—that describes the sensation of knowing, at the very moment you are listening to a piece of music, that hearing it again years later will instantly transport you back to this precise time and place? That’s the temporal vertigo Lily feels now, squatting in front of the record player in Sylvia’s low-ceilinged bungalow, Cooke’s voice drowning out the ambient sea-roar of freeway traffic in the distance."


A fine literary selection this week. Another genre soon. 

Raceless in LA

men health.au

All Trained Up and No Place to Run

(Unless You're Running From the Law)

Since Los Angeles has scotched all outdoor sporting activities save mass demonstrations and rioting, I find myself a man alone without a marathon. I'd set my sights on a winter marathon up in Oxnard, but, sadly, they've cancelled due to the old Wuhan Virus. 

Actually, I'm Not Trained Up At All

I was back in February, having run eight miles for the first time in over a decade, lowering my 5k time, and cross-training like a fiend on the stationary bike. But an injury and the COVID blues sapped my zeal. Nevertheless, once again on the rebound, I find that road races are as outmoded as streaking. Virtual racing holds little appeal for me. Who says I ran the time I claim?

Here is My Simple Plan

Training for 26.2 will continue. At such point as I would run a marathon, I will, instead, run from Lot K at the Rose Bowl to the Elmer Smith Bridge and back, then loop the Rose Bowl until I complete 26.2 miles. (Six laps or so.) I invite any and all to observe and second my efforts. Barring fires, floods, pandemics, civil disturbances, or giant insects, I hope to attempt this in late November or early December 2020. 

There. Now I've said. Until then, stay safe and limber.   

Story Du Jour #16

All Story Du Jour tales are available online and free! A small offering in these trying times.

Starfield Composite HD

Cossmass Infinities

"The Hard Quarry" - by Caleb Huitt

6434 words

In space, only the pirates can hear you scream.

Here's a sample of the writing:

"One hundred fifty million klicks separate Earth’s moon from the asteroid belt, give or take, and even the small Mars outpost is seventy million k from the nearest asteroids. I force deep breaths as I confront what every miner knows, in their heart: if something goes wrong, ain’t no SOS that can summon the cavalry in time.

Those distances are best case, and now is not that. I’m at least twice as far and getting farther each minute I’m out here. That’s not all. Blame a bad breakup, but when I grabbed my claim I took the one furthest from anyone else. Hell, registered stakes are 25 klicks per side, tiny in interstellar terms—but miners have always been an ornery bunch, and antisocial, and—in particular—suspicious someone else’ll find our best rocks and take them. We don’t go near each other, as a rule.

 The nearest other claim to me is a few hundred k distant. My neighbor’s not there, because otherwise her ship’d be on my console. If any other ship passes within a million k or so, they show up, at least briefly. But none appear—the absences notably including the pirates. This is my worst nightmare, worsened by the fact I’m outside my fucking spacesuit as I hotline the engines. If anything’s shittier than greeting pirates, it’s doing so buck-ass naked."

Longer than the last one I said was long, but a fine venture into the realm of space opera. Another story soon.