11-11-11

The eleventh hours of the eleventh day of the eleventh month Private Doug Clark wasted away in an endless trench on the Western Front; a wasteland of craters, mud and tree trunks splintered by bombs and howitzer shells.  He shivered in damp and cold air.  His coat that everyone assured him would keep him warm, was wet and useless.  There was word of a truce about to begin, but the general would have none of it.  He wanted to carry the fight to the city of Berlin. 

Doug didn’t immerse himself in the politics of generals and such; his concern was warmth and survival.  He heard of a flare that would signal the truce to commence, but didn’t remember what the color of that flare was.  When the platoon sergeant, a kindly looking older man with a gray mustache and fat, jovial face, told them moments ago, a mortar landed and exploded.  The blast muted whatever he said in regards to the flare’s color. 

I’m too cold to care at this point, Doug the doughboy stated miserably to himself.  The color could be the colors of the rainbow for all I care.  He had a four day growth of beard on his nineteen year old face.  It made him look more manly, he thought.  At least back home in Philly I won’t be called kid anymore, when I get back.  He wasn’t a big man, but he wasn’t small either.  I’m just an average guy trying to do the right thing, he kept convincing himself. 

It was quiet now, only an occasional cannon shot could be heard from behind them.  Then they could hear the low pitch whistle as the shell flew past them and then the ear-piercing explosion over there on the other side of the line. 

This place was a beautiful forest, the Ardennes, before the war, seemingly an eternity ago.  Now, Doug only saw a muddy zone of absolute devastation wherever he looked. 

There was no flare that shot up though, instead a whistle sounded that ordered everyone to pull themselves from the trenches and attack their trench 500 yards away.  A no-mans land of barbwire and mines, machine gun nests and pillboxes that had seen its share of conflict since America went over here back in 1917.  What is going on, Doug asked himself as he followed the orders of the platoon sergeant and platoon leader, screaming at them at the top of their lungs.   They ran through the wire, all shredded from the last cannonade that erupted moments ago.  They pushed them to their trench and Doug could see the scared faces of the German soldiers someone hastily tried to create a makeshift white flag from a towel, or something.  They all seemed more puzzled by this than anything, as if the general wanted that last 500 yards for himself.  The Kaiser’s Krieger threw down their Gewehr 98 rifles to the ground and raised their hands in the sign of surrender. 

Doug reached them at the same time as the platoon sergeant and began ordering them in German who was in charge.  A corporal pointed at an officer who also dropped his personal weapon and his sword to the ground and raised his hands.  The platoon sergeant held his Browning BAR level to the Captain and asked him in German, “Are you prepared to surrender at this time?” 

“I will only talk to your commander,” he replied with contempt to the NCO. 

“LT, he will only talk to your kind,” the Sergeant pointed out with sarcasm in his voice. 

The lieutenant came up to the German captain and said, “I don’t speak German.” 

The officer looked at both men in confusion and frustration as he realized he had no choice as to whom he talked to and stated to the platoon sergeant, “Yes, my men are prepared to surrender.” 

Doug guarded a group of German privates who spoke quietly among themselves and asked him a question in German.  Doug, being from Philadelphia, recognized some of the words, but had a hard time figuring out what he asked.  “I’m sorry, my German isn’t that good,” he replied in a halting German that all laughed at. 

Finally, another German soldier in the group asked in English, “Now that you have successfully invaded our land, what do you plan to do with us?  The war is over, American.” 

“Sir, is that true?” he asked his platoon leader, a clean cut butter bar from West Point.  

“I supposed it might be true,” he stated as a green flare shot up into the sky and a loud whoop of joy erupted from everyone up and down the front. 

I’M BROKEN

Back in my younger days when I was a functionally dysfunctional alcoholic, going to my outpatient treatment to avoid jail time at the court’s discretion, our counselor always asked us how we were. 

Each and everyone of us always told that counselor, “we’re okay.” Or, actually, “I’m okay. It was of course a lie that I’m sure that counselor probably knew all too well. The truth for all of us would have meant jail time and having to start this program all over again.  

It was a joke because none of us believed we had a problem. We had our friends sign our forms that we attended AA meetings, mostly at our favorite watering holes. I’m sure now isn’t any different. We get arrested opt for deferred prosecution and go through the two year program gambling that no one would notice. 

I got away with it the first time around. The last time, not so much when I was arrested in 97 for DUI and told everyone I was being framed by the cops, went to court and a jury found me guilty. I spent a month in jail, and still I didn’t really learn my lesson. If I had to actually go to another counseling, which the judge did order me to perform along with AA meetings, I’m sure I would have told everyone that I was okay, lying about how sober I was and enjoying my life immensely. 

The stroke I suffered in 2002 was the wakeup call I needed to put my entire life into clearer focus. I wasn’t okay. I was broken and it took a young man wearing a hoodie at the casino I work at that had that message clearly inscribed boldly on that sweatshirt to see for myself how far I’ve come since that first day I went to my first counseling session over thirty years ago. 

Latest Release Live

My loyal readers, my new publisher, Prominent Edge Books, just released my latest edition of A Man’s Passion. 

It’s available through Amazon, though the marketing agent assured me the book will be distributed worldwide. 

Please, please, buy and read this newer and improved version of A Man’s Passion, and let me know how you like it. 

Thanks to all of you who enjoyed reading my stories and hopefully this latest effort will be successful too. 

Stupid is as Stupid Does

I don’t know about you, my loyal readers, but doesn’t it seem a bit asinine that we see all these recent robberies at jewelry stores? 

After all, I’m amazed that these owners are even allowed to display high end jewels in glass display cases. 

The latest, the brazen attempt in Paris, France at the Louvre Museum this past weekend. The time has finally come to be smarter than the thieves who commit these crimes. 

I’m one of those few liberal leaning democrats that believes in upholding laws that protects property. I’m also a firm believer in lower insurance rates. I don’t believe jewelry owners or insurance companies benefit with the present policy of displaying precious gems to the public to admire and ogle over. 

I’m afraid those days have past. We have a new generation of thieves and outlaws who use every advantage at their disposal to rob these stores of thousands, if not millions of dollars in product. These advantages include using computer generated AI to create scenarios on the best strategies and tactics to break and get out quickly and in their cases profitably. 

What I propose is so simple, I’m amazed no one else including the insurance industry hasn’t made this happen. Why not display costume jewelry in these display cases? The actual jewels would be stored in a confidential location, and the customer and jeweler would be the only ones privy to where this would be. 

Another option is doing Amazon-like ordering over the internet, though many customers do appreciate the one-on-one personal intimacy of going to a jewelry store. All I know is how expensive everything has gotten lately including property insurance. I’m certain these high-end smashes and grabbed robberies have much to do with that. It’s time for a commonsense approach here.

Oh Deer!

I’m watching Master Jerry eat his morning breakfast: toast, oatmeal, and coffee. I’m a cat I don’t care for any of that stuff. Why doesn’t he eat what I like? You know chicken flavored kibbles and canned tuna straight out of the can, which is quite tasty, though a bit boring. That’s why I like to hunt mice, flies, birds, and anything else I can pounce on and sink my highly sharpened claws. 

Oh, forgive my rudeness, I’m Tommy. The bird isn’t paying me any attention, so I can do this while he’s not looking. I’m now ten months old and something of a young adult, though I still feel more like a kitten than an adult cat. I guess in time I will settle down and act my age, though that doesn’t sound like much fun. I still enjoy taking naps though. I do miss Cato. I learned a lot from him and his hunting prowess.  

Speaking of hunting, the other adults that live on our property, the man named Nic, and the female human named Emely came home the other day just as Master Jerry did from his job. I still don’t understand what that word even means but he’s gone most of the day is all I know. 

Anyway, back to this story because it is very fascinating to say the least. They came home and opened the garage door. He went inside moving things around and she moved this contraption; he called it a cherry picker. It’s wheeled and on a horizontal stand, with a vertical arm and some mechanism that makes it move up and down. She then moves this cherry picker contraption to the back the pickup truck that I Like to sleep on top of the hood during the heat of day.  

Master Jerry busies himself with filling the trailer’s water tank, and doesn’t seem all that interested, but I am. I smell meat! So I decide to watch these two humans. He gets on the back of the truck and removes a tarp and throws it on the ground. The smell is stronger now. 

She has gone and brought a hose back, with a nozzle that she attached to the hose, sprays once and appeared satisfied. 

“What are you looking at?” Master Jerry asked me while he turns on another water faucet. I ignored his question. I’m now fully engrossed in this activity going on in front of me. I’m smelling fresh meat and he’s asking me a stupid question! 

Those two humans have attached a pair of legs to this cherry picker and pulled the whole dead and wonderful smelling creature out the truck’s bed. My mouth salivated when this creature came out in its full, dead glory! What is that? I’m standing nearly vertically on my hind legs as I watch them move this dead creature into the garage.  

“That’s a deer,” Master Jerry pointed out to me. A deer? How can they get a deer? And why haven’t you gone out and brought one of those home too? The unfairness of it all! It is big that’s for sure. He’s more than I could handle. I have heard that I have a couple cousins who are big enough to take one like that down. 

Maybe Master Jerry is too old to go and get one of those deer. That must be it! That and the fact he doesn’t walk well, and his left hand isn’t working well either probably requires more strength than he can handle. 

I’ll just go inside and eat my kibbles and dream of having one of those deer for dinner one day. 

Another Interview

As many of you my loyal readers know I have been using all media to market my books to garner interest and sales. Today, another is going to occur in the form of an interview with Zach Feldman. 

The interview starts in two hours and I’m a bit nervous about how I come off. Apparently Mr. Feldman likes candid unscripted interviews. Me, I’d like to be prepared. As evidenced by my performance from Logan Crawford, I thought I messed up because I had issues being spontaneous with Mr. Crawford’s questions. I was hoping this interview would be more scripted so that I’d feel in better control. 

I supposed that practice makes perfect. We’ll find out in two hours. You will see the result next week when the interview goes live. 

Update to Previous Blog

As many of you are quite aware, I keep up with the news, and the local news gave me and  a majority of others here much comfort. 

The news is that the killer I mentioned in the blog I wrote in June had killed his three daughters. The weeks that followed more information became revealed that Travis Decker had serious mental health problems including PTSD from his military service when he toured Iraq. He tried to get the help he felt he needed, but for reasons no one could justify, was denied that help. 

Last week, searchers found his remains at a cliff above the site where he killed and disposed of their bodies. Predators had done their job in disposing of his remains making it identifying his remains a challenge. It is as written in the Bible, God is the final arbitrator of justice. 

I honestly believed that he more than likely committed suicide probably within hours of killing his three daughters. The pain and hopelessness he had to have experienced was probably compounded by his realization of what he had done. 

No word on the individual who killed a horse in Deer Park, but I’m sure eventually his time will come too. I hope so because as I mentioned in that blog I wrote in June, that’s how serial killers get started by killing animals first. 

Antifa Hunting We Go

Joe Buck went to the local market where his buddies of like mindedness hung out at a pair of tables where paying customers ate deli meals like Jo-Jos and the store’s famous monster tacos.  

Rob Roy laughed to an off-colored joke about Barack Obama when he came in. “Joe, you heard the news?” 

“If it ain’t on Fox, It ain’t news, Rob.” 

“Well it seems President Trump done designated Antifa a terrorist organization and he’s gonna round them rascals up and get them arrested.” 

“Well, don’t that beat all. You know what an antifa looks like?” Joe asked the group. They all shook their heads no. “Me neither. I couldn’t begin to tell what one looks like from the other.” 

“Well, maybe the President knows what they look like,” Rob volunteered. “He keeps telling us they’re vermin and a disgrace to us true American patriots.” 

“He tells us all sorts of things, Roy,” Billy Joe snickered and laughed. “How about those gasoline prices going way down? Or price of eggs for that matter.” 

“Billy, you are looking more and more like an antifa the more you talk bad about our president,” Joe exclaimed. 

“Well excuse me for having an opinion,” Billy Joe rebutted. “He might be better than Biden, but not by much. They’re both old as dirt and dumb as rocks. What we need is someone who gets the job done but keeps his mouth shut when it ain’t his concern.” 

“You got a point there, Billy,” Rob Roy told him. “Maybe—wait what does antifa mean?” 

“Back during World War Two it meant anti-fascist,” Jerry, the quiet one chimed in from a back table sitting in the back chair near the window. 

“Oh how I hate you know-it-all college boys,” Joe Buck exclaimed. “I supposed we best get our antifa tags down at the sporting goods store. I wonder how much the state charges for that tag.”  

“Yeah, and whether there’s a bag limit,” Rob Roy exclaimed with a hearty laugh. 

Tommy Boy

“Meow, I’m Tommy the kitten abandoned by an evil human family and now living with this wonderful human named Master Jerry. He’s really old and don’t walk very well, and his left arm and hand can’t pet me like the other one can.” 

“But, enough about him. It is after all about me.” 

“Will you stop,” Elsa exclaimed in frustration. 

“What? I am the star of this story after all.” 

“Yeah, and I’m Cleopatra’s African Gray.” 

“Who? What? You confused me. I don’t like that. Plus we’re getting away from the story, you mangy bird you!” 

“Fine, you tell your version and next week I’ll tell mine.” 

“Wait, you did when I first got here. You told them about Master Jerry getting me and how you thought he’d lost his mind, and that it wasn’t funny. I remember, but obviously you don’t.” 

“I’ll tell another version, then,” Elsa declared as she scratched an itch behind her neck. 

“Anyway, back to the story. My name is Tommy, but before that these evil humans, as a form of a sick joke, named me Ducky. I’m a cat! K-A-T. cat and maybe they were already punishing me just by naming me that ridiculous name. But that was just the beginning. 

“I was just a wee kitten when they got me and introduced me to their human child. I noticed by the broken toys and mutilated stuffed animals; I was in for a nightmare existence here.” 

‘Kitty,’ “it exclaimed as the toy it had was discarded to the floor and he or she grabbed me and tried twisting my head off my body. I immediately used my kitten powers by clawing and scratching the demon child until it let go and went crying at his parents. 

“After that, I was put in a box like container, placed in a dark room and left there. How long? I have no idea. But then the woman fed me, and I was given a litter box and ignored for another long time. 

“The man parent came in and played roughly with me, which I didn’t care for, but also didn’t mind because at least I was given some attention. Finally he too tired of me and left me in that cold dark room for all eternity as far as I was concerned. 

“The demon child came into the room one day and tried kicking and hitting at me, but I was too quick for his moves that were slow and clumsy. The mother came in and smacked his bottom so hard the child screamed in pain and ran from the room. She looked at me with contempt, as though I was to blame for that child’s bad behavior. 

“Finally, one day a man came into the room. He was a stranger. I was placed inside a cage and there were many other people milling about too. They were all strangers, and I felt a deep fear and foreboding that something awful happened here. To this day I don’t know what it was. I smelled things that a young kitten probably shouldn’t smell, yet it permeated the house as I was taken away and later brought to another place. 

“I stayed at this place where other kittens, cats, puppies, and dogs lived. We all discussed current affairs, the weather and who would be lucky enough to get adopted first on this day or that. 

“On the day I was adopted by Master Jerry, I just knew he liked me by how he looked at me with his kind eyes, his smile and the smooth voice that assured me he was a gentle soul. I experienced none of that at that other house with those evil people. 

“So, there you have it to this point anyway.” 

“Yeah well, my version is how you constantly pick on me, and I have to stand my ground against you, you nasty old cat you,” Elsa exclaimed in ill-humor. 

“You’re just jealous because Master Jerry lets me out in the morning and you’re stuck inside that cage.” 

“There are, as he warned you and me, more dangerous creatures out there. He’s just taking better care of me, that’s all.” 

“Oh whatever, Elsa.” 

What the…?

My first reaction was I wasn’t even aware of who this person was. Then come to find out Charlie Kirk was a conservative activist and influencer that apparently helped Trump retake the presidency last year. 

As all my readers know, I’m not a conservative. But that being said, I also abhors political violence in any guise. It smacks of anarchy and doesn’t promote civil governance, discourse, or debate. It sends a message to everyone around the world that this country is still backward living in the wild west, and we aren’t civilized or intelligent enough to lead this planet. 

I have no problem debating the issues that matter most to me and expect whoever opposes me will do so civilly and not threaten violence or insult. Unfortunately, this country has never been famous for civil discourse or debate. Too many times, violence rules the day regardless of time.  

I grew up learning as a child about John Kennedy’s assassination, and to this day,  no one knows for certain why Lee Harvey Oswald shot him. Jack Ruby silenced that query when he shot Oswald.  

At least the assassination of Robert Kennedy was more clear-cut, mostly because Sirhan Sirhan lived to be tried and convicted, telling the world he hated Kennedy because he supported Israel and Sirhan was Palestinian. 

There were others too that be it madness or some other issue, such as David Chapman killing John Lennon because he believed he was John Lennon. 

Now, it seems school shootings have grabbed the headlines, and until today, political assassinations took a back seat. I have hoped and prayed this kind of mass violence would end in the near future. But unfortunately, that is a pipe dream.