THE RIDDLE OF STEEL

Oddly enough I am not terribly happy about this. I feel like I should gloat, and that justice has been served on a selfish spoiled brat who has the power to make her life into whatever she wanted it to be, and instead used that power not for good but rather turned her life into a tawdry spectacle and her body into a cum-dumpster.

But I am not finding any gloating, I am not feeling the "yeah!" feeling that I guess I should have. What I see in that shot is a foolish young girl who is receiving her first taste of reality, and finding it quite unpalatable.

It's probably too much to hope for that this experience will be the catalyst to change her life into something worth saving, but at the end of the day the fact remains that Jesus loves her as much as he does the rest of us. So I am not going to celebrate her fall, instead I will ask God to open her heart and show her a better way.

Absence. Makes the heart grow fonder, no?

Probably not.

Do you know what concerns me these days? The knowledge that passes from this world. Every day something else is forgotten. Here on the Internet we have more information available to us than ever before in history, and still 90% of the Internet is porn.

How many of you have read Mark Twain? How many of you know about shortwave radio? How many of you have read Dante, or Homer? How many of you can understand the Morse Code? How many of you remember life before FM radio, or better yet, the WWW?

The gentlemanly arts are disappearing as well. I still hold doors for women, whether I know them or not. I still bring flowers on a first date. All this knowledge, now considered arcane by the Starbucks/iPod crowd shaped the world which you youngsters now disdain and take for granted. When I am at table - to this very day - I stand when a woman gets up to leave the table. Tonight, others were puzzled when I did this at dinner, and only myself and the woman understood - she gave me that look, as I stood - a flash of recognition and surprise as I stood as she excused herself to the bathroom. Stranger still was her stance towards me when she returned, which previously had been apathetic to one of genuine warmth. Were I not involved with a woman myself I am confident I could have gotten her number with a minimum of effort, just on the Old World politeness.

But alas, I am a dinosaur, a relic of the Cold War. I am older than I appear and I vainly sprinkle my conversations with references that would suggest a younger man, although I occasionally reveal my true age with an ill-placed slip of the keyboard. I have been penalized in the past for not being forthcoming enough, and I expect that trend to continue given my decided lack of candor.

Three are necessary, although the logically you can argue that "one is none, two is one."

The first, I would recommend a stainless steel revolver, .357 magnum so you can shoot either .357 magnum shell through it, or if you don't like all that kick you still can fire .38 specials through it. It's basically two guns in one, a .38 and a .357 all in the same efficient package. I recommend revolvers since they are almost impossible to jam, and you don't have the same amount of mechanical issues that semi-automatics have.

My recommendation: Smith and Wesson .357 Model 66 Chief's Special



The second, would be a short-barreled 12 gauge shotgun, as they are ideal for home dwellers. These are not used for hunting, they are really designed for home defense. You simply cannot go wrong with 00 buckshot, and with 7 in the tube you can get a lot of stuff done with one of these, fast.

My recommendation: Winchester Defender 1300 pump action shotgun



Third and last, a "scary black rifle" if for no other reason than the hippies don't want you to have one. Besides the withering firepower, the deterrent factor is high with these in a SHTF/Katrina style situation with the proven ability to reach out and touch someone, and in an urban environment these rifles are terrifying. I prefer the AK-47 variant, and I own this and an AR or two. The AK is less accurate, but the larger 7.62x39 round has a lot more stopping power and provided you are under 300 meters from your target the rock-solid reliability of the AK makes it my choice in a pinch.


My recommendation: Arsenal AK-47 assault rifle

For not keeping up with the postings.

This is perhaps the best music video I have seen in ages...

I started reading S.M. Stirling's "Dies the Fire" yesterday and I am very intrigued by the progress so far. What I know is the following: There was an unexplained flash of light that occurred simultaneously all over the world, and in it's wake nothing electronic works anymore, no lights, no phones, no circuits are functional. In addition, the physics of the world have changed and things like gunpowder and dynamite no longer work. So all the guns and modern weapons are now useless, and the technology has been knocked effectively back 400 years or more.

The story so far is following two main sets of characters, one an ex-Marine pilot who was ferrying a family when his plane crashed due to the Change, and a female Celtic musician who also happens to be a high priestess in the Wiccan religion. Both are witnessing the beginning of the decay of civilization as the power may be gone for good, and most people are not prepared to deal with the reality of 1600's lifestyles thrust on them in a microsecond.

I have read most of the post-apocalyptic fiction out there, and this does not seem to be the same retread of "Alas, Babylon" or worse, survivalist pulp fiction with steely-jawed men who never run out of ammo for their automatic rifles. The fact that they cannot use explosives or guns and that the Renaissance Festival folks seem best prepared to deal with this brave new world is an interesting and refreshing take on the question of what happens when the lights go out for good.

There are Five Classic Scams. This is Number Two.

I am sharing this with you ladies since you will see this scam, or variations thereof in your dealings with men of low character. I offer this information in the hopes that women will stop playing the Game, because the dumbest thing ever said is "Don't hate the player, hate the Game." Idiots, no players = no game. In addition, this particular scam works the best on the good girls, and in the end makes them believe there are no Good Guys, which of course is bullshit.

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You have to have enough on the ball to get the new girl to someplace where you are kissing, petting etc. and there is enough privacy to actually do the deed. This could be her house, your flat, a friend's bedroom - wherever you could actually have sex with little fear of interruption. If you cannot get here, stop reading and work on your conversational skills.

At some point during this epic makeout session it is likely that the girl will put the brakes on the action, because she does not want you to think she is a slut and will fall into bed with every silver-tongued raconteur that spins a witty yarn. It is your job to detect the beginnings of this subtle refusal, and right when she is about to say "Hold on, stop. Let's talk about this for a second" instead YOU stop, and pull away, but not too far.

You should appear embarrassed, and somewhat flustered when you tell the girl that she is a cool person, and that you definitely like her but you don't want to take things here that fast and that you really want to get to know her better before you take this next step of getting physical. It is critical that this be done convincingly.

If she believes you, she will now believe that you respect her, and are interested in her rather just getting laid. With a minor amount of encouraging, she will do the rest of the work to get you into the sack as she now actually likes and wants you. You can put your hands behind your head and enjoy the ride.

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Horrified? Or angry now that you have heard this before? The sad part about this scam is that a Good Guy might stop and say these things in all sincerity and the woman who has heard this before will think that he is a cad pulling a short con. Of course, the best way to test for caddishness is to hold yourself to a higher standard of virtue, and if you make discretion your watchword - Then you will not fall prey to this scam or any of the other Classic Four.

(reprinted from a comment I made over at PL's)

I gave up tequila for vodka after college. The people I ended up drinking with changed, and Russians believe it is rude, or perhaps even bad luck to not finish a bottle once opened. So that means that if it's just two of you left and three-quarters of a bottle of Русский Стандарт (Russian Standard)... You simply must drink it.

This led to more than one occasion of almost freezing to death while passed out in my car. Goddamn diesel glowplugs... Or the cold, greycloud mornings, with a hangover so bad that the cacaphony of the snow falling on the rusty fire escape outside the window sounds like panzerfaust fire in the pre-dawn gloom. Black spots swim in your vision, until the realization that the toilet you just puked in is not yours, and that you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are. Cold water and rough soap on your hands and face, and your t-shirt makes a poor towel. You cling to the wall for support as you edge down the cracked stucco hallway, looking for the room where you came from, because that room contains the best chance of finding your pants. Whereupon you spy your hostess, asleep beneath the covers, not nearly as beautiful as she was the night before, when she was bathed in the warm glow of kerosene lanterns and tumblers of vodka with cloves in them. Picking your pants up off of the floor, you shake out a cigarette from the rumpled pack and spark the gunmetal silver Zippo, warming your fingers over the wick as you light the morning's first smoke.

Yeah, I had to give up the parties and the glamorous life, for it certainly would have killed me, in the end.

Some of you may know Vox Day, the WorldNetDaily commentator and libertarian blogger from his often controversial editorials both at the news-zine and his blog. It seems that recently Vox damaged his eye playing soccer (click his name for the link) and in addition to the pain of the injury must suffer the requisite ribbing from his readers. I suggested in the comments that Vox get the eyepatch made famous by Snake Plissken in Escape From New York, and after giving Photoshop about two minutes of effort decided that the mere suggestion was not enough.

I have recently blogged a wee bit over at Pretty Lady's concerning the difference between love and sex. There are a few simple rules that must be understood if a lady wishes to catch a man and get both love and sex from him. There are striking differences between the two, and careful attention should be paid to all portions of this text.

1. Sex is a biological function to men, similar to hunger. Without compelling reason, most men see no reason not pursue sex in the same way that a hungry person pursues a sandwich. Compelling reasons to not have sex include morality, discretion and intelligence. To remove all pretense, you can equate the male sex drive to eating food. While we strive to eat healthy to provide real nourishment, we occasionally desire a Quarter Pounder with cheese. The burger provides a tasty meal, but gives little nutrition. The same can be said of sex, the casual fling is the equivalent of the QP, not very good for you but is still satisfying on some level. This is a fair metaphor for casual sex to a male.

2. Sex in the confines of a serious commitment with love bears little resemblance to the above paragraph. Men have the luxury of attaching significant emotional content to sex when in a relationship, however this luxury can easily backfire when they are rejected by their beloved. In the female mind, the man is a dog who will copulate with anything provided there is an available orifice and remains relatively motionless, and so expects her man to constantly be on the prowl. The truth is that once committed and in love, a rejection is taken personally since he has gone to the effort of attaching powerful emotional weight to the sexual act. Some men are devastated when the woman they love continually spurns their advances, she believing that he is simply looking for friction while he is genuinely expressing love, something many men find hard to do openly. This basic misunderstanding comprises much of the conflict within committed relationships. While it is possible to have recreational sex with a woman you love, it is still not the same thing as uncommitted sex, at all.

Of course, there will be those men who disagree with this and say that they never ever feel any emotions and sex is something they get constantly by legions of adoring females and they never think twice about it. I would say that these men are either lying or lack the intelligence to know any better. If you are a man or woman who feels nothing but the physical aspect and release in the sexual act and it has no other effect on you at all I would refer to you to the first paragraph and remind you that a strict diet of Quarter Pounders is not a healthy thing. There is a much greater menu available to you if you will skip the drive-through and sit down to a decent meal.

First off I would like to thank everyone who has commented, I am a blog-nub and did not realize that I had "comment moderation" turned on, and I did not see them until tonight. I believe I have fixed that in the settings portion, now all the comments will show up.

On to tonight's topic, The Picard.

Older men lose their hair, for the most part. For some men, this is an issue of much sensitivity and they spend thousands on hair replacement items such as Rogaine and Hair Club for Men and many other types of chemicals or treatments to keep that luxurious, 18-years-old-with-a-Billy Squier t-shirt and a '66 Galaxie 500 pompadour in the shape that haunts their senior yearbook picture. The truth is, time is a predator that stalks us all our lives. This is doubly true for the testosterone-laden set, as men with an overabundance of the male hormone invariably lose their hairline at a much faster rate than their estrogenic male buddies.

We have seen the wreckage of this phenomenon, the wigs, the fake mullets, the three-strand pullover, the Ben Franklins, and the (shudder) guys with bad surgical implants. To these men, I offer the final solution to your embarrassing hair follies: The Picard. Embodied by the actor Patrick Stewart on television's Star Trek: The Next Generation Capt. Jean-Luc Picard led the brave crew through countless adventures with a shaved pate that bespoke not only calm confidence, but an overriding masculinity that has seldom been seen onscreen since. The Picard haircut is simple, when you can see your scalp despite you not having had your hair cut in three months you are ready to boldly go where you have never gone before, to the barber shop armed with these words, "Shaver, no guard."

The clean lines will not only make you look younger and tougher, you will no longer be the embarrassment to your colleagues and family, and they will stop talking about that woeful comb-over behind your back during the holidays. If you fear that you will suddenly become invisible to the ladies, let me assure you that you will not. The majority of women out there are starving for real men with confidence, masculinity and quiet pride. The sad fact is, no woman respects a man who pulls all 12 strands across a shiny dome in a vain effort to show the world how much he resembles Gollum. Let me be frank here, if I had a nickel for every time a woman of even slight acquaintance asked or simply reached out to rub my head (the one with my face, for the gutterminded) - I would have enough cold hard cash to purchase a vintage Billy Squier t-shirt on Ebay, and another '66 Galaxie 500.

When one discusses orchestral music, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky manage to always capture a portion of the conversation. However, while I give all credit to the masters for their work, I am often irritated by the idea that no orchestral pieces written in the last 100 years are worth anything but a casual dismissal as "soundtrack music."

Curiously, much of what we call "classical music" were soundtracks for various stage productions of the day, or more likely, were written for the edification and glory of God. Like I earlier stated, I am taking nothing away from any of these composers or their accomplishments.

However, I am of the radical opinion that some of the soundtrack music written for motion pictures is the equal of some of the famed compositions of old. Shocking, and the purists will pour out their derision and dismiss my contention as that of an uncultured philistine. To that end, I admittedly am so much the philistine that the only thing I fear is a long-haired man with a jawbone of an ass attacking me on the plains of Judah. Nonetheless, to offhandedly decide that a piece of music is somehow a lesser piece of work simply because it was written for a motion picture seems an overly simple conclusion, and not one that shows any deeper consideration for music. This does not mean that every soundtrack contains gems worthy of the masters, since most do not, but there are certainly outstanding pieces that in my estimation rival and even surpass the Old Ones.

I know that the explosion of horns at the beginning of "Star Wars" gave me goosebumps for years when I would hear the fanfare in darkened theaters, I felt my pulse race when those same horns spurred on "Superman" to catch Lois, and then the helicopter and gracefully deposit them both unharmed on the top of the Daily Planet building. More recently, the uillean pipes unleashed on the bonny shores haunted by William Wallace reminded me that my ancestry is closer than I think, and James Horner (who will be forgiven for Titanic someday) has acquitted himself worthy of notice in many varied compositions. Another favorite of mine is Hans Zimmer, whose blend of styles has led me to purchase many of his soundtracks, and I would be utterly remiss to omit the work of Howard Shore, who led us there and back again in only three short years. My folder of mp3's from those CD's comprises much of the music I listen to while I write.

To that end, I have updated my Finetune selection with a few of my favorites, but by no means all since they limit the number of tracks per artist.

I acknowledge that the purists will unhesitatingly denounce me soulless. That is certainly their prerogative, and I do wish them well in their ivory towers of myopia. The idea that because a work of art is new should not lessen it's value, to assume so only closes the mind of the listener, the observer, the beholder.

They always smell the same, don't they? Rot, that ancient rotting smell with mildew and decay and heaven knows what else. The log in front of me, nose height, was covered with small brown mushrooms, and they did not look particularly tasty. Again, I moved - the third time in about ten minutes as I gained approximately ten inches of terrain which brought me half past the log, my legs still in the underbrush. The sound of the rain high in the canopy filtered itself into areas where the steady streams of water came down, contrasting to the light patter I heard a hundred feet above. I could still hear the cicada buzzing merrily away about 4 meters to my left, so I took the initiative and pulled my legs past the log, careful not to disturb the mushrooms and so leave a mark of my passage.

The ridgeline seemed no closer. I was not pleased to watch the spider approximately the same size as my fist approach my left hand. Would he sense the heat, even though the hand was covered in mud and below that, green greasepaint? Worse, what if the spider mistook my hand for a mouse, and attacked? I waited for what seemed like an hour, and after getting hit by a fortuitous raindrop, the spider struck out casually for my shoulder, where the neck met the collarbone and was much darker and damper. He carefully tucked himself along my carotid, and as he got comfortable I could hear the soft scritching noises of his legs on my collar. This was definitely turning into a below-average experience. Looking around, I very slowly rolled over onto my back and the spider, not enjoying the wide open space, skittered off my shoulder, over my ear and into the moldering leaves.

Finally, I gained the ridgeline. Very carefully, I raised the hooded field glasses and took in the village. There were at least fourteen guards visible, carrying an assortment of rifles, mostly Eastern bloc Kalashnikovs, although I noted one of the guards was carrying what appeared to be a 12 gauge shotgun. The patrols were sparse, and as I had read three days ago, not professionally trained. The men were mainly hired thugs, narcotraficantes on the next to lowest rung. I could now smell the cooking fires, which had been extinguished and were still smoking softly in the rain. There were people milling about, and most of them were headed into a run-down greenhouse that had been painted brown so no light could get in or out.

The report said his nickname was "Ocho". He had only seven fingers left, local legend said that he had lost three of them in a machete fight as a teenager, but purportedly sported a male member of some renown, hence the nickname. He was not visible at the moment, and I infinitesimally moved back from the ridgeline into the jungle to await the late afternoon.

Today was a repair day. I painted my guest bathroom, and repaired the toilet. Exciting, eh? I painted the walls a flat tan, which matched the ceramic tile. As I was painting it occurred to me for the first time, do professional artists - specifically painters - fresco or mural the walls in their own homes? I have of course seen Monster House and thought that if I ever did that I would have them transform the interior of my house to look identical to an Irish pub in Belfast. Dark woods, tall tables and chairs, and perhaps a painted advertisement for Guinness or Murphy's on the wall. Hardwood floors, dim lighting and a long mahogany bar that I could sit at and eat shepherd's pie and hoist a jar while watching the news on the telly mounted high and over the bartender's area. Of course, it would have to have working spigots, and I would be able to draw off a pint whenever.

As it is, I am thinking of selling my house and I do not want to make any changes to it that I would miss. Hence, the flat paint instead of something more interesting. Now my next home, that will look significantly more like what I have described above.

The previous post was out of character for me, I thought it might require a bit of explanation, as opposed to just deleting it. Over at PL's (see link on left) there was a discussion regarding the difference between what men want and women want in regards to sexual fantasy. The standard male fantasy, the Mark One Mod Zero version - usually revolves around the female nymphomaniac stranger attacking the hapless male who despite the surprise fully services his lusty female attacker, and then she abandons him immediately after the deed to reside only in sweaty memory. There are many variations on this theme, but one only needs to peruse the men's magazines where the stories sent in by readers invariably begin, "I never thought these stories were true until the other night I had an experience which changed my mind..."

It is true that men are more visual, and with that in mind I related an encounter taken directly from my experience with the hopes that I could bring more than just the visual to it. I wrote it without editing it, I simply tried to convey the experience leading up to the final act without focusing entirely on the visual. I believe I failed, there is far more visual description than tactile.

I was successful at painting a portrait of the backdrop, which was more my goal than to wax pornographic, hence the abrupt ending. There was something achieved in this undertaking though, and that is that the next time I am in a situation like this I will pay more attention to what else is happening besides what I can immediately see and feel. I think that the heightened awareness may prove illuminating, if not ultimately enjoyable.

It was unusual, her choice of music. It was Glenn Miller, which I found surprising in a thirtysomething-ish woman. I slowly walked her bookshelf, head cocked to the side listening to the clarinet and reading the titles of the books. You can tell something about a person by the library they keep. I was pleased to not see any of the Judith Krantz or Jude Devereaux hardbacks, nor was there a copy of Ms. or Modern Bride on her coffee table. Instead, the coffee table contained two remotes, an incense burner made of sandalwood with vague Indian sigils carved into it and a Discover magazine.

She spoke to me from the kitchen, her disembodied voice asking me if I wanted a drink and the clink of the ice in the glasses letting me know I was getting one no matter my answer. I continued my tour of the bookcase, and noted the movies mixed in on the bottom shelf. Again, no cloying cinema, no worn out copies of The English Patient or a host of Merchant Ivory pornography. The stereo was a bookshelf unit, one of the small ones that put out an astonishing amount of sound and again I wondered at the 1940's big band music.

Dinner had been a quiet affair, a small feast of quiet laughter and clever conversation. The restaurant had been slightly overpriced, but she was considerate enough to not order lobster tail and filet mignon. We shared an oversized dish of chicken with some odd sort of zesty chipotle sauce that made her eyes water. Our date had originally called for the dinner-and-a-movie script, but instead I took her to a small, privately owned bookstore where I knew the owner stayed open on Saturdays until 9 p.m. I did not want to sit next to her and not be able to speak for an hour and a half, so unless she insisted the movie part was not going to happen. She was delighted with this change in plan, and ended up purchasing a book on the great hurricane that devastated Galveston Island back in early September of 1900.

She pressed the drink into my hand, and sat next to me on the couch. She didn't sit directly next to me, she scrunched down at the end and removed her shoes to hug her knees to her stomach. However, she certainly held eye contact as we blathered on about what I cannot remember until I moved down to her end of the couch and gently touched her face with my hand. She immediately came into my arms and instead of the heavy kissing I had expected she pulled me to my feet and folded herself into me and murmured about dancing. This is something I knew how to do, and I gently led her about the living room while Bing Crosby reminded us that he would be seeing us in all the old familiar places. There was a sense of anticipation in our steps, and I loved the smell of her hair and the warm feel of the wool sweater under my hand at the small of her back. I spun her gently around and she laughed, and took me by both of my hands and pulled me towards the hallway.

There is an invisible barrier to a woman's bedroom, a force-field in the doorway that only men can feel. I breached this field with an almost imperceptible feeling of walking through a warm draft, and immediately felt the tension of being a stranger in an intimate setting. This was her space, her private area and while she held my hands I still felt like the proverbial bull, her smiling eyes wide and welcoming and me feeling clumsy and oversized. There were candles already lit, so I knew she had come in here while I was still at the bookcase. Her hands found the buttons on my shirt, and there was just enough fumbling to reassure me that this was not an overpracticed move on her part. Her mouth tasted of warmth and spices, the drink and her own unique flavor. There was a slight hesitation and a few bumped-nose kisses and then suddenly it was perfect, like we had practiced the movement a thousand times before. I held her auburn hair in my hands, and she ran both her hands up the back of my neck. I traced her collarbone with my lips into the sacred spot where it meets the base of her throat, and she moaned so low I felt it rather than heard it. She pulled the buckle on my belt, and I softly slid my hands down the outside of her thighs, her skirt half coming with the downward motion of my hands. She nudged her bedroom door half-closed, and Moonlight Serenade played on and on...

I had thought of saying something vaguely snarky like "This is Miss January in the Afghani-language edition of Playboy" but figured that I would talk about what is important here. The eyes. I don't need to talk about the facial expression, or the angle, what is important here is what you read into the eyes. Frown at this picture and she becomes serious, smile at it and she is happy. Look at it lustfully and her eyes deepen into forbidden coquetry.

In the movie "Kingdom of Heaven" there is a scene where Saladin has entered Jerusalem and the fleeing Christians are refugeeing their way across the desert, Saladin stops as he sees that in their haste to leave, one of them has knocked over a cross. He stops, rights the cross and moves along. According to reports, the crowds in Islamic countries cheered when they saw him show that respect to the Christian faith. Whether or not Saladins' action there actually happened is not important, the reaction to that scene is.

I went to an art exhibit/show of sorts this morning. The work on display was from local artists, and the objects ranged from what I would call arts and crafts type items to paintings to sketches to objects created from other objects. As I strolled the aisles looking for something, I was waiting for a visceral reaction where I would murmur, "That's unusual," or "I quite might like to have that." However, the first thing I actually picked up was from an artist who looked like they stepped directly from the Woodstock album cover, sans a fine veneer of mud. It was a curved piece of wood, the shape of a rainbow on which was painted the colors of the rainbow. It was clearly a wall hanging, of a rainbow. The part that made this particular piece unique was the evenly spaced lettering that was painted over the entire arc with the letters "F U C K Y O U". As I studied the piece, the artist peered at me closely, seeing the shoulders, the buzzed head, the cold hazel eyes and the bulge of my concealed pistol and instantly decided that I was the Man, as in the cops, the fuzz, the P - I - G. Which is entirely untrue, I have never served in any law enforcement capacity outside of bouncer of an Irish pub for a year or so during college. However, he squirmed uncomfortably and I gave him a tight smile and moved along.

I found myself in front of a blonde caucasian woman who painted what appeared to be Japanese-style watercolors. There were the reeds, the birds, and the minimalist landscapes present, and while I was actually tempted to purchase a small painting, the $195 price tag for an 9x11 watercolor seemed too steep. I moved along. As I stopped and got a mug of spiced cider, I ruminated on the question, what makes this piece of art something lasting, and this piece a festering turd?

Is it technique? A consistent brushstroke style? Is it the manner in which the object was rendered? Was it the vision, the way of looking at a vase and painting it in a surreal fashion? What makes the "fuck you" rainbow a worthless piece of shit and the watercolor birds valuable? Value of an object shouldn't necessarily be based on the time it took to make, the Haight-Ashbury rainbow man may have spent hours creating his masterpiece, and the watercolor lady might have painted hers in twenty minutes. Also, the rainbow may have provoked a deep reaction in the artist, with the symbolism of the rainbow as one of luck, or even God's covenant not to destroy the world with water again - juxtaposed against the crassness of telling the viewer to go fuck himself, sort of a thesis/antithesis expression. More likely, the artist simply was stoned when he painted it and thought it was deep, or funny, or both.

I left without any answers, and without any objets d'art for Caer Crom.

It begins as a echo, a tinny sound like an old Fender Twin Reverb amp being powered up, that crackle of the speaker and the tinny coils that produce the sustain. A far off sound, like the slapback from a concrete wall a half a block away. There is a feeling of confusion that follows, a momentary spike of hypersensitivity and the threat of the roaring of the world that begins but does not follow through. Calm again, although the feeling grows in the back of the throat, a darkening swallow of potential energy. Then the hum begins, drawing on the ambient sounds as it's energy as it begins to focus. There is a touch of pinkish mist in the air for a second, and the edges of objects present with painful exaggerated outlines. The roar is gaining now, past the lower thresholds that vibrate in the sinus cavity, and the bones of the ear moan with unwanted anticipation.

The strike is like lightning across the forehead, a jagged rip in the fabric below the scalp and all balance is lost. On hands and knees, the deep waves of nausea are almost drowned out by the screaming in the ears, the crispness of the detail of the ceramic tile, the imperfections in the grout, the mote of dust disturbed by the displacement of the air around the body as it falls. The clarity! The clarity of the back of the hand, straining and yet off-balance as the white knuckles support the frame, and the hollow pop of the cheekbone as it strikes the cold surface with a flash diminished only by the omnipresent howling in the ears.

Darkness? No. Shivering, sitting up and trying to regain composure. The effects have not lessened, but are familiar enough to regain motor functions. Daring not to stand, a shuffle towards the medicine cabinet to find the big white pills that dangle relief but like a pretty stranger's smile, never deliver on the hinted promise. A stagger to the bedroom, and despite the cacaphony, the candle burning in the window is still too loud to be borne. The hot smell of skin and bruises, the headache has now arrived.

I am not a literary snob. I will read practically anything that I can get my hands on, and I have read everything from George Orwell to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn to Neal Stephenson to Michael Crichton to Tom Clancy to Jack London. I spend twenty times more time reading than watching television. Were it not for news and the brothers Klitschko I would not even have cable. Cable modem, hell yes - cable television, not so much. I am always open to suggestions on what to read next, and I anticipate reading thousands more books, both good and bad. I have known a few poseurs who only read the "literary" books and flit about, martini in hand and name-dropping authors that everyone in that room merely pretended to have read. I prefer to spend time with readers who will hunker down and discuss any book seriously, no matter how much disdain is poured out by the square-spectacles crowd. I am an equal-opportunity reader, I will give most anything a chance. However, if your writing sucks do not be surprised when I trade in your bestseller/doorstop for a stack of paperbacks from writers I have never heard of.

Remember authors, just because the intellectuals like your book does not mean that it, and you - are not full of shit.

I started re-reading my brand new copy of "The Gunslinger" tonight. When I read it the first time a few years back I burned through it and the next six books. Now that there is a seventh I will take more time and re-read through the end.