The Return of the Native Son

And lo, the son turned his face again upon his jilted blog and found favor with her, for she was pleasing unto him. And the son mused at his absence and how to proceed with his estranged blog and at his superfluous use of the conjunction “and” and he thought it was wonderful.

“A month has passed since last we met,” spoke the son, tenuous, like a child speaking to a mighty gorilla. “How shall we proceed?”

The blog—she has been anthropomorphic all along, has she not?—stared back at the son, blinking once per second with the soul-crushing gaze of a blank cursor.

“I thought so,” said the son, sighing a sigh beyond his twenty-six years. “The problem is that I’m not the person I used to be. I’ve changed, see. What we had was nice, but it just doesn’t exist anymore, y’know?”

The cursor blinked-blinked-blinked.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I hate it when you do that.”

He might as well have been talking to a deaf and blind gorilla with cotton balls in its nostrils for all the good it did him.

“Fine. What do you want from me? You want me to tell you about my new job? Is that it? You already know how much I’m loving it, how I get to help the environment by polluting her in controlled quantities. It’s thankless and I’m hated by the people in production, but that’s environmental, right?” The son laughed a not quite sardonic chuckle. The great-and-terrible eye blinked-blinked-blinked. “Or would you rather me tell you all about the housing situation? Stewartland has been under a contract to sell for three weeks and she’s scheduled to close two days after the Ides of December. We’ve been frustrated waiting on the buyers to get an appraisal—which still hasn’t been ordered, by the way—because the house we’re moving into—currently unnamed—is all contingent upon our successful sell of Stewartland. It’s a crazy and mind-numbing process, especially with Christmas approaching and the very likely possibility that we’ll be spending the holidays in transition, wonderful for Keisha and Avonlea’s holiday spirits, I’m sure.” He couldn’t help but let the cynicism in this time. Blink-blink-blink.

The son made a fist. “I could delete you, you know? It’s not like I would miss you.” And he thought seriously about it. “It would be… easy.” Blink-blink-blink.
The son collapsed into a crumpled and tired form. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just, well, I’ve not forgotten you, but I don’t have the time to carry on like we used to. We’re not just some bumbling teens any more. I have a career and a wife and a seventeen-month-old and a son on the way and a million, billion other things and honestly you’re just not that high up in the priority list. But it’s not just you, either. Life is a crazy, wonderful, beautiful thing, too short by far. The time we spent together, it was good. But let’s face it, that was in the past. If you want to still be a part of my life, then you’re going to have to accept my decision. I’ll still visit you from time to time, if only for journaling. That is, after all, one of your primary purposes. I’m sure I’ll still even give you reviews from time to time, too. It’s not like I’m tying you to a tree, coating you in honey, and leaving you in the jungle for a gorilla to find. It’s more like I’m locking you in the basement and turning out the lights, but I’ll come down there from time to time just to check on you. That’s not so bad, right?”

Her eye reminded him of Sauron’s and he shivered.

“Right?” he asked again, but he already knew her answer.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said with an appropriate adverb applied to his tone. “Until next time.”

The Stand, a Review

Some folks say that The Stand is Stephen King’s greatest work. The book has been on my TBR for many years, pretty much from my starting of The Gunslinger during my college years. I vaguely knew what the book was about, but I definitely knew that it had a monstrous page count. Other than that, my expectations were moderately high. 

In 1990, a superflu swept across the globe. Its mortality rate was greater than 99%. The survivors of this superflu were therefore few. The Stand opens with the outbreak, and it doesn’t take too many pages before people begin dying. King tells this tale through several different points of view (too many for this particular story), from an up-and-coming Rock-and-Roll star to a deaf mute, from a pregnant coed to an insane pyromaniac. All of these survivors each must come to terms with their circumstances, but they also must come to terms with the reasons behind their survival, a reasoning that is possibly more than what seems. 

The Stand is gripping… at first. The spread of the superflu and its devastation was an absolute thrill to read, especially considering that my allergies kicked in right as I was starting. But as the pages turned and the survivors rose above their circumstances, it didn’t take long for fatigue to set in. Part of the issue was the enormous cast of characters. King spends time building up each one of them, which makes some sense, but not enough to justify their purpose. I mean, I understand why they were in the story, but I don’t understand why King wanted to give so much mundane detail on so many different people. 

Stephen King is a gifted storyteller, that is true. I think it’s also fair to assert that Stephen King is a gifted deliverer of lackluster (or maybe I mean disappointing) conclusions. The Stand gets no reprieve. I felt that after spending 1152 pages with these people that I deserved something more than what I got. Surely King was telling a grand story here. Surely his message and theme deserved climax. Sadly, I felt greatly underwhelmed with the resolutions and the ultimate fates/decisions of the characters. 

What did I like? I liked the opening part of the story, right when the superflu was spreading and people were dying. I liked how King dealt with the humanity mindset in that time of catastrophe. I liked the survivor’s initial guilt and ponderings on why they survived. I liked the stirrings in their minds as they felt the urge to pick up life again and journey across the nation. But, as I’ve said, after this elongated exposition, my entertainment waned. 

I don’t like sounding so negative. I wonder if part of my problem is with the genre itself. King’s post-apocalyptic romp was probably unique back in 1978 when the first edition of the book came out. This is no longer the case, obviously, and post-apocalyptic stories are run of the mill now. I’m sure part of the initial success with the book is attributed to when it was published (which can be said about any book, truly). 

The Stand is much more than a book about a decimating (uh, centi-mating?) epidemic. It’s a book about Good versus Evil, sort of. It’s a book about what it means to be human and be a manipulator or one that’s manipulated. It’s a book about choice and consequences. It’s a book about anger and sex and violence and fear and love. It’s a looooooong book and a trifle boring, but never bad enough to abandon. The Stand is vulgar, as is King’s proclivity, but not as bad as could be expected. Ultimately, The Stand is an unsatisfying novel with a brilliant start-up but an inability to pull through. Any fan of King will likely enjoy the novel—and indeed I did enjoy the novel—but to a Reader familiar with contemporary trends the novel will very likely feel flat. I truly did love the first few hundred pages, but that wasn’t enough to overcome to over-long book. Read at your own discretion.

A Clockwork Orange, a Review

I was introduced to A Clockwork Orange back in old high skolliwoll. My droogs and I used to, like, hang out at a certain dromy and spend our time viddying acclaimed sinnys. Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation (1971) was a real horroshow and I had my glazzies opened wide, Oh my brothers. The protagonist, fifteen year old Alex, was a miscreant and a true troublemaker, spending all his raz crasting about town, tolchocking poor innocent vecks for no reason other than to have a real horroshow time, forcing the old in-out-in-out on helpless devotchkas, and many other vile deeds. Yes, Oh my brothers, Kubrick’s sinny opened my glazzies wide. I found the film both repulsive and fascinating. The source material for Kubrick’s sinny was from a book by Anthony Burgess, and this book made its way onto my TBR all those years ago. 

To begin, Burgess’ acclaimed novel varies from the Kubrick adaptation. The sinny ends with a slightly different take on poor old Alex’s fate. This is because at the time of A Clockwork Orange’s original publication (1962), the American publisher decided to omit Burgess’ final chapter. This final chapter puts a completely different ending on the book, and Kubrick’s film is based on this “incomplete” version. I had no idea what to expect with the true ending, but I was curious to find out. 

A Clockwork Orange is a malenky bit disturbing. It is graphic and filled with pages of ultra-violence atop ultra-violence. I found it hard to stomach, especially in the opening few chapters. Alex and his droogs are wretched from the beginning, but even after Alex’s transformation the ultra-violence doesn’t stop. No, Oh my brothers, it just finds a new victim. Alex is abused time and again. His jeezny has changed and Burgess does a wonder at making the Reader have pity on poor little Alex. 

Linguists will love the way Alex govoreets. Burgess’ created language, Nadsat, is a mixture of Russian, English colloquialisms, and other slangs. Much of it is, like, left up to the Reader to pony through context. I did not pony all of the slovos Alex used, but I did pick up on most. The use of Nadsat really enhances the read, Oh my brothers, lending credibility to the novel that otherwise might have been absent. Nadsat also fits in comfortably with the dystopian future Burgess imagines; it’s easy to compare this language with leetspeak and other modern slang (and eerily with Orwell’s newspeak). 

I also want to remark on Alex’s transformation in the book. The brainwashing experiment was a memorable scene from Kubrick’s sinny; the book makes it even more memorable and more horrifying. Remarkable to go from utter loathing to distrusting sympathy for a character, yet Burgess succeeds. Alex is a true anti-hero worthy of scorn and love. 

I can’t say that I recommend A Clockwork Orange to everyone. No, my brothers, I cannot say this at all. It is quite disturbing on its own oddy-knocky, especially when coupled with Kubrick’s sinny. Nevertheless, the book is a treat to read for a mature Reader, if only to work through the Nadsat. From my ponying, both Burgess’ and Kubrick’s works had a heavy impact on the counter culture of the times. The satire was piercing and the cautionary tale was too close for comfort. A Clockwork Orange is an important work of art, both cinematically and in literature. It is right to be challenged, but it cannot and should not be banned. 

On Cemeteries

Share a memory of a cemetery, Carl prompted.  Okay then...

What particular memory comes to mind when thinking about graveyards? No singular one, at least none more prominent than another. I see myself standing at the top of the dangerous hill where Gish Cemetery is located, overpopulated and old. I remember the cold October day of just a year ago, when the ground was opened and my absent father was placed therein for keeping. I remember the same cemetery welcoming in a middle aged Marine, twenty-one guns and all. I remember a different place—Bethlehem Cemetery—some years earlier, Keisha’s dad, tears, shock, grief. In the small towns, a funeral is often a community involvement.

But not all memories are of tragedies and passings. I spent many summers helping my uncle keep a massive cemetery cleaned. My job was always weed-eating around the headstones, a painstaking task, stooping over at every stone and picking up the artificial flowers, swinging in the weed-eater, replacing the flowers, and repeat times a million. Long into the gloaming we’d work, my uncle on the mower, my brother and I with weed-eaters. Good money, though.

Or the time Keisha and I stopped on the side of the road to go off into the woods and find a supposedly very old cemetery. We walked through the woods, curious explorers. We found the place, segregated from the encroaching woods by a fence and nothing more. We spent some time contemplating the graves, searching out the oldest dates and obscurest names, all the while freaking ourselves out more and more. It wasn’t t

Or the place out way back in the woods behind the projects. We’d ride our bikes all throughout the town as teens, leaving no lands unexplored. An abandoned and demolished house, one like you’d imagine a witches hut, a smattering of broken tombstones around the place.

Or the seashell topped graves, sunken deep into the ground, cracked with fissures like canyons. To our young eyes we imagined we were seeing bones inside those cracks.

Or the first time I saw solar powered lights glowing at night along Highway 181, eldritch and sinister. My heart took a fright to that one, and I still feel a spook whenever I see the eerie lights at night. They’re like modern day will-o’-the wisps.

There’s no single memory of a cemetery that comes readily to mind for me. Most prominently in my mind is Gish Cemetery, the one closest to my old stomping grounds. It’s where I figured I’d end up, at least physically, but now I’m doubtful of that one. But who knows. I’m a proponent for cremation, though Keisha informs me every time I bring that up that if I go first that’s not going to happen. Alas…

It's A Boy!

That thing that I've vaguely hinted at a time or two, yeah, Keisha's got a baby growing inside her womb again.  Numero Dos.  Been quickening life for a while now, but I've put off announcing it until we found out the sex.  Turns out that baby is a boy, which is most excellent and kind of what we were hoping for.  I mean, a girl would've been fine and all, but I just wanted Avonlea to be my only girl for the time being.

Needless to say, Keisha and I are both super very muy excited.  More information as I get it.

Anyway, not much time really, just wanted to get that out there.

Oh, and if you're just itching for a fascinating post that my buddy Lance put up--titled "Why I Never Try to be a Dark Person"--check it out.  The comments are rather philosophic, but very interesting.  It's all about whether Darkness really does exist or not.

Mr. Monster, a Review

My first exposure to John Wayne Cleaver was in May of last year. On a whim I picked up I Am Not A Serial Killer [my review here] and had my breath stolen away. I burned through the first book in just a few hours, unable to tear my eyes from the words. Wells’ book made it to the shortlist of my favorite books I read in 2011, and I knew that the sequel(s) would be savored at some later time. Now that RIP season is here, I decided to give Mr. Monster a go. 

Mr. Monster is a direct sequel to I Am Not A Serial Killer, taking place just a few months after the events of the first book. John is now sixteen years old and still a sociopath. His control on his inner voice—Mr. Monster—is tenuous, and John’s worried that his grip on his strict rules my slip too far. His families mortuary business has slowed down now that the Clayton Killer has apparently stopped, and John’s been itching for excitement. Unfortunately for the townsfolk of Clayton, another killer soon arrives on the scene, and once again John’s attraction gets the better of him. 

In Book One of this series there was an abrupt shift in the plot when the true identity of the killer was revealed. It was so shocking that I re-read the paragraph several times, making sure that I understood what Dan Wells was saying. In Book Two, there was another scene like this, and I really shouldn’t have been so ill-prepared for it, but I was. Suffice it to say that I stayed up long past my bedtime to finish the book. My pulse was racing away and I had a strange sense of dread within. 

Mr. Monster starts out slower than the first book, but this pace is never really boring. Once the Great Reveal happens, the action explodes. It was sickening, honestly, and quite disturbing. We’re dealing with serial killers here, and Dan Wells writes as if he’s familiar. Needless to say, this book is not for the faint of heart or the weak of will. There are scenes that will haunt you, but in a good way. On some points I would market this book as YA, but on others I would urge caution. Teens can definitely relate to John (i.e., high school angst and parental issues), but so can we all. 

I’ve kept this review intentionally vague because of the Great Reveal. If you’ve not read I Am Not A Serial Killer then you shouldn’t read Mr. Monster. If you have read the first book and enjoyed it, then you’ll love what comes in the sequel. The book is a bit darker than the first, but there’s plenty of lightheartedness, too. I’ve been very impressed with everything I’ve read from Dan Wells so far (see also A Night of Blacker Darkness [my review here] for a comical RIP book) and I very much look forward to finishing up this series.

On A Cold and Rainy October Night

It's been far too long since I've blogged.  It's not that I stopped, because I still blog all the time, though these are just theoretical and intangible blog posts that exist solely in my psyche.  I miss the catharsis that comes from just sitting down at my computer and punching out a few lines of text and clicking that "Publish" button atop the GUI, sending the post out into the ether for all to see.

It's rained all day, this beloved October One.  A cold rain.  A miserable rain under the right conditions.  I stood out in the wind and the rain for much of the day, wearing two waterproof jackets and talking with a professional geologist.  There were some contractors doing some core samples, but the rain and the thunder inhibited progress.  I stood in the weather and thought about how happy I am with my new job, how fulfilling it is to actually do something that I enjoy.  I spent the morning collecting water samples from our main effluent spot, dipping an instrument into the creak and pouring water into acid filled containers.  Nitric acid, Sulfuric acid, and Sodium Hydroxide.  They preserve something in the water to allow the lab to test properly.  Time is important, that is, how long it takes for the sample to get to the lab and get tested.  Water temperature is also vital.

I'm learning a lot about environmental engineering and I'm very much enjoying it.

I'm also progressing through several books at the current moment, still whittling away on my 2012 Manifesto.  Reading life is good.

Don't forget to check out the RIP VII review website for all your up-to-date book reviews of RIP themed books.

Still running, though less.  Did a three mile run the other day.  Felt wonderful.  About died.

Catching up on Season 4 of Fringe.  I happened to win Season 4 on blu-ray thanks to a local tv stations contest.  Unexpected yet cool.  I really really like this show.  And I'm trying to stomach Revolution, but I'm not holding my breath.

And there's still that undisclosed bit of information that I alluded to with my last "general update" style post.  I've not forgotten.

Life is wonderful.  God is great.  I am blessed.

World War Z, a Review

Zombies are everywhere in pop culture these days.  The undead presence is so proliferated that its occurrence is no longer shocking to encounter in almost any given genre.  By and large I am an independent soul, beating to the chords of my own guitar.  I eschew trendiness like a kindergartner cringes at shots.  For all practical purposes, whenever something becomes coo, it is implicitly given a death sentence, because the masses are always looking for something new and different.  The zombie craze, I think, is finally nearing the downward slope of its popularity.  (But the question is can it remain dead?)

I’ve been a zombie fan for most of my life.  My mom woke me up late one night—I was five—and she wanted me to watch some old black & white movie with her cause she was scared.  This is one of my earliest memories.  The film was “Night of the Living Dead.”  To this day she is still terrified of that movie.  Apparently it entered into my young psyche and I’ve been partial to the genre ever since.

When Max Brooks’ World War Z came out I thought it sounded interesting.  I’m a fan of the documentary style of storytelling, and World War Z was described as a series of interviews with survivors from the zombie war.  But this was all during the hype of the zombie craze, so I dropped the book on my TBR and went about my business (much like I did with Pride & Prejudice& Zombies).  However, I had to do some traveling recently for work, so I decided to pick up the audio version of WWZ for the road.

To begin with, the audio book itself is a work of art.  Because the book is a series of interviews with various survivors, the audio production features a full cast of actors to fill the bill.  Max Brooks reads his own part, playing the role of the interviewer.  Alan Alda, Mark Hamill, Rob Reiner, and several other voices play other roles.  This version won recognition and an Audie award.  This was truly a delight to listen to.

However, one thing I did not notice until later, the audio book was ABRIDGED!  I am against abridged books and cannot understand why they even exist.  (If you have any good reasons why, do tell.)  But there was no going back, so I pressed on.  This is my only disappointment with the audio book.

Plot-wise, Brooks establishes right up front that he’s presenting these interviews as a follow-up to an official UN report.  He traveled the world collecting facts and figures and wound up gathering so much stuff that he was encouraged to write the book.  Most of the time Brooks stays silent in order to allow the survivor to tell their story.  He introduces each character and asks an occasional question, but he has intentionally removed himself from the story.

The world is fascinating.  Brooks interviews people from all over: China, Japan, Iceland, New York, South Africa, Palestine, and more.  The stories are captivating to varying degrees, but all were engrossing enough that I never grew bored.  The interviews provide some unique insight to how the zombie outbreak affected the entire world, culturally, economically, mentally.  They were handled well and entirely believable.

I don’t want to say anything about any of the individual stories to remain spoiler free, but all were worth the read.  If you can suspend your disbelief and have a weakness for this type of storytelling, check out Max Brooks’ World War Z.  I very much enjoyed it.  The audio was excellent, just remember that it is abridged.

Pride & Prejudice & Zombies, a Review

Pride & Prejudice & Zombies came out whilst I finished my studies at the University. I recall when the faint whisperings of such a blasphemous tale first reached mine ears, and I remember delighting in it. This was before zombies were ubiquitous in the entertainment world, and the introduction of zombies into Jane Austen’s beloved classic was twisted just enough to my liking that I could not but help declaim its brilliance. And so Seth Grahame-Smith’s alterations to Austen’s original masterpiece* made its way onto my extending TBR. 

That was a smidgen over three years ago. Since then, the glorious undead have proliferated to a shocking degree. Indeed, they became mainstream and trendy. As such, I never got around to reading P&P&Z… until now. 

In essence, this book is a bizarre alternate universe story of old England. The undead—also known as the dreadfuls—roam the beautiful countryside with unstated bloodlust. The five Bennet sisters struggle to maintain ladylike propriety due to their training in the Deadly Arts. Each of the sisters is a lethal zombie slayer, much to Mr. Bennet’s delight. Each of the sisters is unwed and somewhat uncouth, much to Mrs. Bennet’s chagrin. 

The basic plot of Pride & Prejudice & Zombies follows the original excepting a few major points (i.e., the revisions have more innuendo than Ms. Austen’s, as well as violence). Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley come into the Bennet’s lives and romance ensues. During it all, however, the threat of the undead grows. Periodic episodes of zombie mayhem arise, and the Bennets are often forced to make quick of the scourge. 

I have mixed feelings about this book. The idea is clever, methinks, but its execution quickly grew stagnant. The bizarre juxtaposition of Regency England to ninjas and zombies yielded laughs, yes, but the tension never elevated. I enjoyed all of the different nomenclatures Grahame-Smith created for dealing with the dreadfuls. I also liked the plot surrounding Ms. Charlotte Lucas. But, as I mentioned, too many things grew repetitive and dull. 

There was enough intrigue to keep me reading the book, if only to see it to the end. I kept thinking about Downton Abbey while reading the book, picturing a twisted version of the show airing on PBS. I think that I would have enjoyed Pride & Prejudice & Zombies more if the plot varied, or if there were more postulation about the dreadfuls and the scourge. Instead, as often the zombie genre does, this is left up to the Reader to accept as Fact and move on. Usually I’m okay with that, so long as the world is captivating enough. Regency England is not. 

So do I recommend reading Pride & Prejudice & Zombies? Maybe. I suppose it would depend on the Reader’s expectations. A true Jane Austen fan may balk at the disgraceful changes, but an Austen fan with a sense of humor might get enough giggles to warrant a read. Me, I can’t say that I’m an Austen fan per se. I only read the book out of mere curiosity. I had more fun imagining how the original readers of Pride & Prejudice would have reacted if Austen had actually published the & Zombies version instead of the original.

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*That is according to universal acknowledgement, not which is not necessarily reflective of my own opinion.  I think perhaps calling the book a masterpiece is quite a high honor, but I'll not get into all that stuff.  It's just a "beloved classic" in mine eyes.

Stardust, a Review

Tristran Thorn is an unusual lad in the town of Wall. Wall itself is rather an unusual town in the English countryside. The town is named after the natural wall that spans all across its border next to faerie. There is but one break in the wall, and it is guarded day and night by men from Wall to make sure that no one goes through.

Every nine years the Market comes to faerie. It’s set up across the hole in the wall, and folk travel from far and wide to shop at the Market. This is the only time the guards allow anyone through, as a faerie Market is not something to miss. To miss the Market would be to miss miracles and wonders and all manner of mysterious things.

Victoria Forrester is the prettiest girl in all of Wall, and young Tristran Thorn pines for her as much as any other man. One night Tristran proposes to Victoria and she laughs him off, telling him that if he wanted to win her love then he would have to find a fallen star that the two had just seen. Tristran, ever eager, vows that he will and sets off almost immediately. The guards let him through the wall and soon he’s in faerie, chasing a fallen star to win his love.

Tristran Thorn, however, is not the only one after the star. For a fallen star is a thing of value in faerie, and there are many that would like to find it.

In essence that pretty much sums up what Neil Gaiman’s Stardust is. The book has accolades and acclaim and has been on my TBR pretty much since I discovered Gaiman back in college. I remember watching the film adaptation, but I have no memories about it other than that. So as I read this book it was as if I was reading the story for the first time.

No one can deny that Neil Gaiman is a master storyteller. His prose is precisely as it needs be, and he has a way with words that few others can match. Stardust is a simple story, but its simplicity allows Gaiman to truly shine. All of the characters are well developed (even Wall) and flushed out. The pacing is quick, partially rushed by the tale’s just two-hundred pages or so. The wit is great, and the humor quite funny. Gaiman once again tells a master story.

Allow me to give an idea of how much I enjoyed this read. I checked out the audio book from the library and listened to it on my commute. Gaiman himself did the narrating, and this made the story all the better. Once I finished the audio book I checked out the hardback from the library and began reading it aloud to Keisha because I wanted her to hear the story. Point blank, I finished the book one afternoon and began re-reading it again that night. That’s how much I enjoyed Stardust.

If you’ve never read Stardust then allow me to boldly recommend that you rectify that. It’s a truly wonderful story that takes very little time to read. It’s sweet and funny and dramatic and fascinating and many other things. Gaiman tells a great story, and I’m rather sure to say that Stardust is my favorite novel of his that I’ve read to date. I’m glad to have finally read it, and I look forward to revisiting it again down the road.

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Post Thought: I checked out the film version from the library again.  I'd forgotten so much about it that it was practically like watching it anew.  The long short of it: Nowhere near as good as the book.  The many changes made to suit a film style were necessary, I suppose, but the alterations weren't to my liking.  I much prefer the book's ending to the film's.  Even so, the movie does have a magical-ness to it, and it was a fun way to while away the night.

Bob Dylan Chronicles Volume 1, a Review

Bob Dylan has had a special place in my heart for nigh over a decade now.  My first experience with the man himself was in high school, where I bought a double-live album on a whim.  I’d recognized the name and had a vague idea of who he was, but that was it.  This album stirred something inside my high school soul, and anon I was captivated by folk music.  Through college my love for the genre grew fonder, as did my appreciation for the legendary Dylan.  I up and listened to his entire catalog.  The guy could write.

Sometime ago I bought a trade paperback of the first volume of Dylan’s memoirs titled Chronicles Volume One.  The book was an immediate bestseller and had a lot of fanfare about it.  But I’m not much on biographies* so the book rested on the TBR.  Until now.

I described Bob Dylan’s Chronicles Vol. One to Keisha like the ramblings of an old man just sharing some memories.  In essence that’s exactly what it is.  But to the fan, this is a book straight from the man himself**.  Music is in my blood and marrow, and the idea of getting some insight into Dylan’s psyche sounded fascinating.

Reading prose by Bob Dylan is as evocative as his lyrics.  His use of metaphor is unique, painting pictures with perfect comparisons.  The way he describes people is sometimes funny but always revelatory.  These passages are like little trips into Dylan’s mind.  I loved his reactions to Woodie Guthrie’s music and Robert Johnson’s records. 

One odd thing about Chronicles Vol. One is that its focus is on odd points in Dylan’s life.  The book spends a bit of its time detailing two of Dylan’s lesser celebrated albums (Oh Mercy and New Morning) and how Dylan came to creating them while practically omitting any other albums.  There’s also a generous section on Dylan’s rambling about New York and New Orleans but very little on his formative years.

I did enjoy Bob Dylan’s Chronicles Volume One, but there seemed to be things missing.  I would have preferred more time devoted to his first few albums as opposed to ones so late into his career.  I would have preferred more anecdotes and reactions to his rise of popularity.  I would have preferred many other things, but that’s not what Dylan wanted to share.  This Reader infers that these shared memories in Chronicles Volume One are very special to the man, perhaps more so than others.  There are supposedly three volumes to this memoir set, but this is the only one out right now.  All in all, if you’re a Bob Dylan fan and are curious to learn some more off-the-familiar path information about him, Chronicles Volume One is definitely for you.  Just be aware that the scope is very limited with this book and you may wish to get a more thorough biography if you’re after anything else.

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*Unless they’re fictitious in nature, or about a larger-than-life subject (of which Dylan possibly could be). 

** Apparently there is a bit of controversy over how much of this book stems from Dylan’s own vocabulary.  There’s folks aplenty crying that Dylan plagiarized, or at least didn’t give proper credit.  From what I can tell, this has some truth to it, but I didn’t really care one way or the other. 

From the Library of C.S. Lewis, a Review

From the Library of C.S. Lewis is a reference book filled with selections from C.S. Lewis’ personal library.  This book, compiled by James Stuart Bell and Anthony Dawson, is broken into eighteen sections.  The primary focus of the book is to highlight works (and writers) who influenced Lewis’ spiritual journey, as Lewis is regarded as one of the finest Christian thinkers of the 20^th Century.  There are a few other sections that are not dedicated to religion (such as a section on fantasy & imagination), but these are definitely the minority of page takers.

I found the concept interesting and so I requested a review copy from the publisher.  I like Lewis (especially Mere Christianity), but I’m not fanatic about him by no means.  I’m also finding myself getting a bit more interested in biographical works as I’m getting older, and I’m a believer that you can tell a lot about a person by the types of things they read.

Unfortunately, my initial excitement quickly faded.  Page after page I read through archaic texts and dated sermon notes.  The material was interesting, but my daily dose of deep theology and introspective meditation could not handle deluge.  As such, I took to skimming things, and that’s not what I wanted to do.  So then I decided to read devotionally, just picking a page a day or something and seeing what was said.  I noticed a lot of repeated writers and works, and I suppose these were more influential on Lewis than others, but that’s pure speculation on my part.

Each selection is presented with a title, its source, the text, and then a mini author biography (Twitter-esque).  This format is perfect, and each selection spans at most three pages.   Much of the text is heavy and deep, as I’ve said, and I recommend it in small chunks to avoid duress.  This format inevitably leads to bias, as quoting out of context is wont, but I believe the intent of Bell & Dawson is to tease the Reader to dig deeper into the cited works.

From the Library of C.S. Lewis is an interesting little reference book.  It is dry and sometimes complicated, but that will fluctuate based on the Reader and the day.  There are many pearls of wisdom in this book, and it was a pleasure to think about how they affected Lewis’ works (and life).  I would have liked more descriptive correlations between works and Lewis’ life, but that was outside the scope of the book.  To a casual Lewis fan this may not be the book for you, but if you would like to find out what kind of things C.S. Lewis liked to read, then by all means check out From the Library of C.S. Lewis.

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FTC Thingy: I received this book for free in exchange for an honest review.  Nothing more was required.  I was not coerced or bribed to review positively or negatively, nor was I offered any extra incentives for a positive review (i.e., baked goods, especially cookies).  As such, this review is reflective of my inner self's inner self.

Catch-22, a Review

Joseph Heller first published Catch-22 in 1961.  The book is a modern classic that has received universal praise.  The book directly created the eponymous “catch-22” phrase that has entered into the vernacular.  Catch-22 has been on my TBR since high school, always on the shelf to get to one day.  Thanks to the 2012 Manifesto, that day has come.

It is hard to pin down exactly what Catch-22 is all about.  On the surface it’s a biting satire of war and disillusioned life in the mid-19^th century.  Yossarian, the twenty-something chief protagonist, is a captain in the U.S. Air Force serving in the 256^th Squadron in the Mediterranean during World War II.  He’s hilarious and honest and completely against flying any more missions.  Again, superficially, this is the main dilemma of the book.  Colonel Cathcart wants to impress his superior officers and so he keeps increasing the number of missions the men have to fly. 

It doesn’t take much to see that Catch-22 is really something else altogether.  Absurdity abounds, often to the confusion of the characters within the pages and to the Reader without.  I scratched my head a few times trying to understand what had just happened.  It doesn’t help that Heller uses a third-person rotating POV omniscient voice, as well as a proclivity to disregard chronology periodically.  The book reminded me a lot of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five.

I struggled at first with this book, wondering whether or not to abandon it.  There start is somewhat slow, and getting used to Yossarian’s (or whoever’s) mind takes some time.  But once I had the tone established my enjoyment level dramatically increased.  The characters were funny, but I was more drawn to discovering their true motivations.  Heller paints a picture of utter confusion and absolute chaos in the leadership ranks for the military, one that required a constant suspension of disbelief and several groans.  This was another struggle I had, and I can easily see how some could take issue with plausibility.  In fact, practically every character is irrational to varying degrees, which conveniently fits nicely into a major theme of Catch-22.

So what exactly is the catch?  Heller writes,

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he were sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle. (p. 56, ch. 5)

This review really doesn’t give an in depth understanding of this novel.  Heller’s constant rotation of POVs is jarring but fitting.  Heller’s wit is perfect.  There is a rather bleak and fatalist view of things, but it’s World War II and that’s understandable.  The characterization (especially Major Major Major Major and the Chaplain) is brilliant.  There is much to write about with the book, but finding the appropriate words are difficult.

Ultimately I very much recommend Joseph Heller’s Catch-22.  It offers a fascinating glimpse of war and sanity.  It is an adult book with some coarse language and wanton sexuality, but comparatively it’s much more vanilla than contemporary mediums.  If you’ve never read Catch-22 and you’re looking for something bizarre and thought provoking, then I strongly recommend you try this book.  It’s worth its many accolades. 

About My New Job

I am working for a large, international aluminum product manufacturing plant, where we make rolled aluminum coils and sell them out to people that want to customize the stuff.  This company is not called Manuel's Mousepad Emporium (MME), but that's what I'm calling it so as to give myself one level of anonymity.  I am in the Health, Safety & Environmental department, where we have two staff environmental engineers and a handful of safety specialists.  My title is, officially, Environmental Compliance Technician.  I'm pretty sure that that is the most prestigious sounding job title I've ever had.

So what do I do?  To answer that would require a small understanding of the rolled product manufacturing facility itself and how the processes work.  In extreme brevity, MME buys recycled aluminum and melts it down to a certain level.  This molten aluminum goes through a casthouse until eventually it is poured into molds and cast as large (~22 feet long) ingots.  The ingots make their way through the mills, getting chopped and scalped and cut along the way.  Eventually they go through a machine that smashes the ingot down over and over, kind of like rolling a piece of clay in your hand until it is a long and thin snake, except the aluminum stays rectangular in shape and not round.  One the aluminum is flattened into a sheet it is then rolled up into a coil (~20,000 lbs.) and hauled off on a crate to sit and await shipping.  That's the short version.

MME also does customized sheets with embossed designs.  There's also a paint process if customers want colored aluminum (and many of them do).

So what do I do?  I basically make sure that all the water that we're pushing out of the property is within the acceptable limits for a variety of things (coliform, chlorine, pH, oil & grease, etc.)  To do this requires a daily visible inspection of our main outfall and the waste water treatment outfall.  In addition to the regulations surrounding a WWTP, MME also has its own drinking water supply.  I am responsible for all the routine inspections of these areas.

Next I work with the waste side of environmental engineering.  There are a few hazardous byproducts left over and I have to make sure that they are properly labeled and disposed of correctly.  Non-hazardous and universal waste regulations also fall into this realm.  MME doesn't generate a lot of varieties hazardous waste, most of it being from paints and solvents.

The last piece of environmental that I deal with is the air side.  Air regulations are some of the most difficult things to understand and regulate.  I have several binders in my office on Air Regulations due to the Clean Air Act from the EPA and I have wracked my mind over the billion+ acronyms and numbers.  There's a lot of stuff that I don't understand right now, but eventually I'm going to have to know everything that pertains to the aluminum industry, or at least a portion of it.  I've not really got into this much yet, but it's coming so very soon.

The EPA has the authority to wage some monstrous fines on violations, so I'm employed to do the routine checks (daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly, etc.) to make sure that we catch any problems and get them corrected before anything major happens.  It's a job that keeps me away from my desk for much of the day, and I'm loving it.  The casthouses are awesome, but I'll have to get into those again some other day.

Until then, I must retire.  I get up earlier now and I have an incredible amount of things going on that I can't disclose currently.  Rest assured, though, that I have not forgotten this blog or the Readers of it.  Perchance once Stewartland is out of my hands things'll swing back closer to normalcy.  Here's to hoping.

The Children of Odin, a Review

I grew up a fan of Greek mythology, amazed by the esoteric worldviews of long ago. This love crossed over into a few other cultures—Egyptian and Roman mostly—but nothing compared to Greek. As I grew up I began looking to related things: fairy tales, urban legends, and folklore. I loved the language and mood these stories had, and to this day I still enjoy reading these kinds of things. When a friend suggested I read the free Kindle book The Children of Odin I dismissed it, chiefly because it was not on my 2012 Book Manifesto. But the seeds were sewn and soon I was swept away by unfamiliar tales.

The Children of Odin: The Book of Northern Myths (by Padraic Colum) is a collection of Norse mythology. This collection is composed of thirty-six myths and broken down into four parts. This review will discuss each part and what the tales are about as opposed to individually reviewing each story.

The Dwellers in Asgard: Any self-respecting book on mythology will begin at the beginning, and The Children of Odin makes no exception. Here the Reader learns of the Gods of Asgard, of Odin All-Father, Thor, Baldur, Tyr, Freya, Loki, and many more. We learn of the ever-waging war between the Gods and the Giants and the building of the Wall. Many of these names were very familiar (especially to the Final Fantasy gamer, comic book reader, and Neil Gaiman fan), but I knew very little about the Norse Gods. These histories were both fascinating and funny and a great way to start the book.

Odin the Wanderer: At the end of Part One Odin decides to leave Asgard and roam the world. This section deals with Odin's wanderings and the things he sees there. Additionally there are a few very important stories ("The Dwarf's Hoard, and the Curse that It Brought" chiefly) that set up a lot of things for the eventual Ragnarok.

The Witch's Heart: This is the last main section that deals with the Gods. Here we really get into the cunning and deception of Loki, the dreaded fate of Baldur, and all of the implications of these things for Asgard. I really liked this section a lot, especially the stuff concerning Loki's children. This was probably my favorite section of the book.

The Sword of the Volsungs and the Twilight of the Gods: There is a sudden (and unexplained) shift in the focus of the myths here. While the first three parts deal with the Gods of Asgard and mentions little of Man (of Midgard), Part Four deals almost exclusively with Men. This section is basically a life story of Sigurd, the most fearsome and noblest of all warriors. Sigurd is a man of legend and brawn, equipped with a fierce flame sword and a steed from Odin's stock. There are several stories about Sigurd, and I enjoyed them all. They reminded me of medieval knight's tales. This section also finishes the book with "Twilight of the Gods," an eschatological story of death and rebirth.

One thing that stood out to me throughout this book was Colum's propensity to fall into Old English with his characters. There were several times I chuckled due to a particular word choice or phrase structure. I don't think too many people talked in Old English in 1920, though I suppose contemporary literature at the time was a bit dated. Nevertheless, I found these instances funny whenever Colum would drop into Old English. I could just imagine larger than life Norse Gods speaking like Hamlet.

The Children of Odin is a wonderful collection to introduce the Reader to Norse mythology. Some tales could have been better flushed out, but all really fit the mold of classical myths. I very much enjoyed some of the ideas in the mythos (like the serpent that's wrapped around the world) and am interested in pursuing more Norse mythology.  If you've never read any Norse mythology and you've an e-reader then you should definitely check out this free collection. Quite enjoyable and easily recommended.

And Just Like That...

...Vacation ends.  Well, if you want to call it a vacation.  Technically we didn't vacate our beloved and despised Stewartland for sandy beaches or wooded vales.  No, we stayed home and worked our butts off. As I mentioned in a blog post a few moons back, we're trying to get Stewartland on the market.  To achieve this amazing feat we must first deep clean and sponge bathe the house.  This goes hand in hand with one of our 2012 goals: to rid ourselves of material goods, and we spent the majority of the week cleaning and weeding and boxing and tossing.  It was a busy week, but we got a lot finished.

...I started my new job today.  Technically I didn't really do anything other than orientate myself with the Manuel's Mousepad Emporium (MME).  I'll continue to be orientated all week, going through safety and policy and whatnot.  But after going through my benefit package today, I'm extremely excited at how much God has blessed me.  My paycheck will be a little less than I have been making, but only slightly, and the benefits are so offsetting that it's negligible.

...I started exercising and getting healthy.  Technically I started a month ago.  I'd been feeling the faint stirrings in my ticker box to do so, but Carl's post on June 11--"(It was) Time for a Change"--gave me the final nudge into that not-so-gentle good morning.  (He also inspired a ton of others to shape up and live healthier, and those of us joined an email support group.  You should definitely read his post.)  Starting just a day or two later I began getting up an hour earlier than I normally did, right around 5:30am.  I started educating myself on eating healthier.  I took initiative.  I ran 2-3 miles every other day or so.  I've stopped with Doritos.  And since then I've definitely gotten* much healthier.  It's a wonderful feeling that I'll probably elaborate on sometime in the future.

...Blogging stalled.  Literally.  Rememorandom takes the back burner while life is in full throttle, and life is well into full throttle.  I very much enjoy blogging and the community, but there's just too danged much going on to have the time to do it all right now.  I'll continue to post intermittently until things calm down.  Winter is coming, after all.

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*this is one of my least favorite words in all of English.  But the Dude abides.

The Speculative Edge #1, a Review

The Speculative Edge is a brand new speculative fiction magazine with a goal set to push boundaries in the genre by publishing stories, reviews, and other assorted tidbits in a monthly digest form. Its Editor-in-Chief is Mr. Shane Collins. I've reviewed a magazine similar to this before (ResAliens #4, where I was first introduced to Collins' writing) and I enjoyed the short tales quite a bit. Needless to say, I jumped at the opportunity to review the inaugural issue of the magazine.

As explained in the "Letter from the Editor," The Speculative Edge treads familiar territory in the zine world. There are several of these types of things out there, so why add another? The answer, as Collins says, is to create a magazine that caters to the readers by blending pieces from new writers as well as established (i.e. published) authors. The magazine would also contain film and book reviews, excerpts from novels, poetry, essays, and several unique short stories. 

The majority of the magazine is devoted to fiction. For this first edition there are two interviews with established authors as well as two excerpts from their respected novels. Additionally there are four short stories, ten poems, a smattering of dated book reviews and summer film reviews, and an essay on genre and literary fiction by the Editor-in-Chief. I like to review these types of things like I review anthologies, by each individual story. I will not be reviewing the poetry or the reviews (although a review of a review could be interesting).

"The Cosmic Stringbusters," by D. L. Chance, opens the magazine's short fiction set with a sci-fi yarn infused heavily with bluegrass. Now since bluegrass runs deep in my veins (being from Western Kentucky, where bluegrass was literally born and living in the selfsame city where the International Bluegrass Museum is located) I was immediately curious about this story. On board a space vessel with a mission of spending 100 years away from earth the people are segregated into two groups: those that look back to Earth and those that look to the future. Suffice it to say that there is some tension between the two. "The Cosmic Stringdusters" is more philosophic than action-filled, but it was nevertheless a rather unique and fun story to begin with.

"Of All the Gin Joints," by C. T. Hart. This is a rather standard android/cyborg story with a slight misfire. I had questions after finishing the very short story, wondering the plausibility. Even so, when the Narrator goes into a normal bar for an evening drink and everything suddenly grows weird, I was left wondering more about the world the writer created as opposed to what just happened.

"Gravity 101," by Christian Riley. Aliens and UFOs appear. The aliens are upset and the earthlings have to pay for it. As uninspired and trite as that sounds, I actually enjoyed this piece a lot. It is another very short story, but I liked the voice of the Narrator. My imagination had fun with this story.

"They Call Her Miss Hood," by Matthew Sideman. I honestly struggled to finish this story. I'm not much of a fan of pulpy noir stuff with a whimsical self-righteous narrator, and after the first two paragraphs I groaned. The gimmick gets old very quickly. This is a story about a private investigator named Miss Hood (the Fable from "Little Red Riding Hood") and her quest to make rent by uncovering the truth from some wolves. I couldn't help but be reminded of Bill Willingham's Fables, of which I've been a fan for many years. This genre is too crowded and I did not like this story at all. Perhaps had it been shorter? Or if the writer had used a different voice?

Skipping over the poetry (Rosie of New Bedford and Asylum were my favorites) and reviews. Mr. Collins' essay, The Writing War, offers a beginners guide to literary and genre fiction. He treads no new territory, but I don't think that he was intending too, either. I've long wondered the same things he's pondered here, why we have the distinction in our books when so many of them span multiple genres. It was also nice to see Mr. Collins in support of expanding one's reading sphere and stretching out and trying new things. I've personally found that to be beneficial and enjoyable.

It's hard to say what my final feelings are concerning the first edition of The Speculative Edge. Of the short stories I enjoyed three of the four. I honestly skipped over the interviews because, well, I almost never am interested in those, regardless of the author. However I did read the two book excerpts--A Tale of Two Moons (George Wilhite) and Fallen World (C. R. Rollinger)--but neither story intrigued me enough to purchase the books. Poetry isn't something I normally read, and having no real gauge for this field I'd give it a mostly passable grade. The reviews were heavily dated, each focused on books that are a few years old. My recommendation for future editions would be to expand the fiction section, lessen the poetry section (but don't get rid of it), and have reviews for somewhat current books. The Speculative Edge is a fledgling magazine. It's not worth the print edition for a subscription, although a digital subscription isn't completely off the table. Much depends on where the magazine goes with the upcoming issues. 

If you're looking for a speculative magazine that you can get on your e-reader on the cheap (from $1.99 to $2.99 per issue), then check out The Speculative Edge, especially if you like reading stories by young and (relatively) unknown authors. Check the magazine out at their website, linked here. The first edition hits the shelves August 1.

FTC Thingy: This magazine was provided to me for free because I am ruggedly handsome and have a face made for the silver screen. Sometimes when I smile I literally break people's hearts. There were no monies exchanged between myself and The Speculative Edge, nor were there any baked goods.

The Curse, a Cover

Been a while since I've done a cover. This song is by one of my favorite artists out at the moment, Mr. Josh Ritter. The lyrics are haunting, and I've puzzled over the implications of the song and would be curious to know your reactions, too.  I've put my cover first followed by the original.

(Don't those puppets add a certain creepy mmph to the song?)  After listening to Ritter's it makes me wonder why I even did a cover.  Honestly I just wanted to share the song and, more importantly, the story.  Wow. I can't stop thinking about it.

Theory One: The mummy is cursed and malevolent
Theory Two: The woman spends her whole life researching this thing and has a great imagination

The Question: Does the mummy truly love her? I think yes. Keisha thinks not so much. I think a great, thought-provoking song, unlike any other love story I know.

Lyrics?

He opens his eyes, falls in love at first sight

With the girl in the doorway

What beautiful lines, how full of life

After thousands of years what a face to wake up to

He holds back a sigh as she touches his arm

She dusts off the bed where till now he's been sleeping

Under miles of stone, the dried fig of his heart

Under scarab and bone starts back to its beating

She carries him home in a beautiful boat

He watches the sea from a porthole in stowage

He can hear all she says as she sits by his bed

Then one day his lips answer her in her own language

The days quickly pass, he loves making her laugh

The first time he moves it's her hair that he touches

She asks "Are you cursed?" He says "I think that I'm cured"

Then he talks of the Nile and the girls in bullrushes

In New York he is laid in a glass-covered case

He pretends he is dead, people crowd round to see him

But each night she comes round, and the two wander down

The halls of the tomb that she calls a museum

Often he stops to rest, but then less and less

Then it's her that looks tired, staying up asking questions

He learns how to read from the papers that she 

Is writing about him and he makes corrections

It's his face on her book and more and more come to look

Families from Iowa, upper West-siders

Then one day it's too much, he decides to get up

And as chaos ensues, he walks outside to find her

She's using a cane, and her face looks too pale

But she's happy to see him, as they walk he supports her

She asks "Are you cursed?" but his answer's obscured

In a sandstorm of flashbulbs and rowdy reporters

Such reanimation, the two tour the nation

He gets out of limos, he meets other women

He speaks of her fondly, their nights in the museum

But she's just one more rag now he's dragging behind him

She stops going out, she just lies there in bed

In hotels in whatever towns they are speaking

Then her face starts to set and her hands start to fold

And one day the dry fig of her heart stops its beating

Long ago on the ship, she asked "Why pyramids?"

He said "Think of them as an immense invitation"

She asks "Are you cursed?" He says "I think that I'm cured" 

Then he kissed her and hoped that she'd forget that question

Check out more Josh Ritter if you want some great writing and excellent songs.

Avonlea Enjoys Swimming

A quick post to share this great picture of Avonlea trying out her float for the first time. Looks like she's rather enjoying the water. This is such a fun time in my life right now, and I'm so incredibly fortunate to be blessed with both a wonderful daughter and a phenomenal wife. Just thought I'd share.

Flash Fiction Friday (Retro): The Story of Irvin Milhouse

[I discovered a cache of floppy discs that have stories and poems from when I was in middle and high school. This was written as a senior in high school for unknown reasons. I am putting these unedited works up here for archival purposes. Word Count: 1275]
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     It was a Thursday in July of 1934. Irvin Milhouse sat on a tree stump in Kentucky. He had left New York on Black Tuesday without saying goodbye to anyone. He feared that the mafia was after him, and any person he saw dressed in a black suit Irvin generally avoided. If a gunshot rang in the distance, Irvin thought the mob was getting closer: Irvin Milhouse was a wreck. 

     He had not eaten in two days. It had been five years since the stock market had fallen, and since then Irvin had lost much of the weight he once possessed. Now he longed for it back. He bore a beard, old clothes, and a crumpled leather hat. He looked Kentuckian. Often he contemplated suicide. It would put an end to the suffering, but for some reason he could not bring himself to do it. He thought occasionally of the beautiful apartment he once owned and it brought tears to his eyes. All of the luxuries he had once taken for granted had simply vanished on that Black day. But, he rationed, was it payment for his sins? 

     Somewhere in the distance he could see a figure drawing closer. Too tired to run and too tired of hiding, Irvin simply sat on his stump, waiting for the person to come to him. As the shape grew close enough to see, Irvin made out that the figure was simply an old man, weary and bone-thin like everyone else. The man said nothing until he stopped beside Irvin. 

     "Howdy." The traveler peered sadly into Irvin's eyes. "You got a name stranger?" 

    "Yes, sir," said Irvin. "I used to use it back before everything went wrong. Irvin's the name. And you?" 

     The man shook his head and spit in the dirt. "Nope. I don't reckon I'm worthy of a name anymore. Haven't used one in so long." 

     Irvin stood and shook hands with the strange old man. "Take this here seat, Mister. An old man like you needs all the rest he can get." 

     "What are you doin' in these parts?" Asked the old man as he sat down on the stump. "You're not from around here, are ya?" 

     Irvin shook his head and shrugged. "I guess I'm doing what every other person in this country's doing. I'm looking for work and food." He paused. "No, I'm not from here. Does my voice give me away?" 

     The old man laughed. "Yep. You Yankees all sound the same to an old man, but I s'pose we hicks sound the same to you. But ye ain't gonna find work or food around here. I used ter work in them mines fer enough money ter s'port my fam'ly. Had me a wife and two kids. My woman died two years ago and my kids left me. Said they'd find 'em some work and then they'd help me out. Well, it's been two years and I ain't heard from 'em yet." 

     Irvin did not know what to say. Since the crash he had heard countless stories similar to this, and each one broke his heart anew. The whole world had been drastically altered in just one day. People were roaming the streets looking for work; people were crossing the country to find work anywhere they could in America; people were seeking desperately for just a small bite to eat and to end the suffering. Irvin and the stranger were two people out of millions who could tell similar stories. 

     "What's yer reason fer sticking ‘round here?" The man's voice brought Irvin back to the present. 

    "Well, I used to work on the stock market up in New York before that dreadful day. Somehow, I got involved with the mob and since Black Tuesday, I have been running from them. I think they are always after me because I lost my boss millions of dollars. Last I heard there was a bounty on my head, but I'm sure that's just a bluff. The Don doesn't have any money either." 

     The old man was shaking his head. "A bounty huh . . .. Aw, it's a shame when a man ain't got no place to sleep without being skeered o' somethin'. To be a runnin' fer five years must have quite a toll on a feller like you." 

     "Yep. I ain't ate in two days now. I ain't bathed in Lord knows when." Irvin paused. "What about you, Mister? How long has it been since you ate?" 

     The man had to think for a minute before responding. "Lemme see. I reckon I et me somethin' last night. I was gettin' off a train, and I found me an apple tree. Plum near every apple was plucked off 'at tree, but I got me one." 

     "Sure wish I had me an apple right now. I could eat the whole tree probably." The old man reached into his pocked and pulled out a small Golden Delicious. 

     Irvin's eyes lit up with hunger and the man smiled. "Here, son. You take this here apple and eat it. I'm old and ain't got much life left in me, but yer young and in need of some food." Irvin looked apprehensive. "Go on, son. I got more." 

     Irvin took the apple from Mister's hand and began eating. Between a bite he managed a "Thank you" and Mister smiled at his fortune. "The Lord is gonna look out fer ya', Irvin. He's got plans to fix up this country. You just wait." 

    For a while longer the two men just sat and said nothing. They enjoyed each other’s company. It was rare for a friendship to start in such hard times, but Irvin figured that people all around the country were pulling together, trying to overcome the hardships. Irvin looked at his new friend and smiled. The stranger could offer hope in Irvin's life where others could not. God was showing him that there was still a reason to hang on. 

     Night fell and the men were resting peacefully on the Kentucky grounds. Mister stood up from his stump and talked quietly "Irvin, son, are you awake?" 

     "Yeah. I'm just sittin' here thinkin'." 

     "Me too. I think I'm gonna be a headin' on." 

     "Where ya goin'?" Irvin asked rising up. 

     The man shrugged. "I dunno. I got a fam'ly out there somewhere. I sho' would like ta' see 'em again before I go on to meet the Lord. I guess I'll go a lookin' fer food, a job, and my kids. What about yerself?" 

     Irvin shook his head. "I don't know, either. I'm probably going to head on down the river and see if I can get me a job sharecroppin' with someone. Only the Lord knows." 

     Mister extended his hand, and Irvin happily grasped it. "I thank'ee son fer givin' an ole' man yer seat. If ya' travel a piece east, you'll find that apple tree I was tellin' ya about." 

     "Thank you, Mister. I hope God watches over you on your trip and I'll be praying for you to find your kids. Thanks for that apple, too." 

     The old man smiled. "I'll see ya again one day." 

     Irvin watched as his friend started walking away in the dark night. He was amazed at how strong the man was, how determined he was to find his kids and secure a future, and this offered inspiration to Irvin. He watched until Mister disappeared and then he sat back down on the stump. For the first time in years, Irvin Milhouse slept unafraid. The future would bring with it change for the better, and he would be there when it came.

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