Quantum Irrationality (100th post)

Quantum Irrationality

I’ve seen such a plethora of new-age-hippie-self-help-guru-pat-the-bunny-fuzzy-logic pap that tries to combine the old “rub your tantric chakras together for fun and profit” with a scientific patina of “deliberately misunderstand Quantum Mechanics and Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle” that I decided I should get in on the gravy train before the rubes got a clue and it was time for the charlatans to go on the lam (fat chance of that). Look for me on Oprah soon!

The underlying premise of these books is to take a really weak understanding of Quantum Physics and apply it to philosophy (preferably, a pet philosophy you already have lying around and like to use to impress the dames). So, without further ado, I present to you:

Quantum Irrationality, a New Breakthrough in the Study of the Mind and Retroactive Self-Justification

As we all know, Heisenberg worked with the Ancient Maya developed what is now commonly called the Uncertainty Principle. This principle states, in essence, that the act of observing an object alters the properties of said object. Specifically, observing position alters velocity, observing velocity alters location, and in a stunning revelation location is roughly interchangeable with position so long as the switch is not observed. The Secret Government does not want you to have this information but, these rediscoveries of ancient Lemurian truths are not just applicable to mechanistic objects but to your daily life. Quantum Irrationality (QI) can enhance your spiritual well-being and lead you to a higher understanding of the world around and into an advanced state of mental awareness. In addition, this final step in the evolution of the human consciousness will also guarantee you financial prosperity, less stress, regular and fulfilling bowel movements, and mind-blowing multi-orgasmic sex. [Warning: Repeated applications of multi-orgasmic sex may result in accidental tantric trans-dimensional translation.]

Chances are, you have already experienced QI in your own life. It is common knowledge that the more people you have looking for an object, the faster it can be found—frequently in a location you have already searched. This is because when you, as a singular observer, attempted to discern the position of the object, by observing it, you altered its velocity thereby causing it to move away from your gaze. But when multiple observers were employed, the overlapping field of energies generated by the group synchronicity created a pattern of “strange attractors” that glued the lost object into place. Once you understand, it’s that easy. With an understanding of QI supplemented by the liberal application of herbal attenuators, the key to the mysteries of the universe are yours to command.

The most significant recent development in the study of QI was the discovery in the Fifty-Second Veda of the Eddaic Groomba of Bohr that since observation alters, it is possible to become aware of the properties of an object by a studied program of apathy. If one does not care about the properties of an object, eventually one of these datum, either location or velocity, will project itself into your conscious or subconscious mind—an “end-around” of the Uncertainty Principle! Think, in your own life, how often have you been sitting in the comfortable Zen bliss of mindless television-based meditation when suddenly you “remember” that you have a tasty piece of chocolate cake just sitting in the refrigerator? This is Bohr’s Apathy and QI at work. Sadly, once you remember the cake, you become interested in its location and are doomed therefore to impart it with velocity thereby making it impossible to actually find the cake when you look for it but this is a minor detail that later QI studies will most certainly hammer out (another good reason to subscribe to our QI newsletter).

You have probably noticed that the longer you stare at an attractive member of the opposite sex, the faster they move away from you. You’ve been making a classic QI mistake in your approach to mating. By observing position, you have imparted velocity. Now that you know better, employ the reverse. Grab him or her and impart a velocity (such as toward your waiting van in the parking lot) and you will have achieved control over position! Further in you have equipped your transcendence van with a GPS monitor, the Global Positioning System will constantly observe your position, imparting additional velocity to your van when the Secret Government attempts to intervene in your attempts to initiate your new acolyte into the mysteries of Quantum Irrationality.

Though we can’t give away the entire secrets of Atlantis, Lemuria, and New Jersey blindly on the internet, we can, through covert hints with shady characters and a six-figure book deal eventually lead you to a full understanding of QI. But time is short, the world will end in November of 2012. (You may have heard that the actual date predicted by the Maya is in December but this is disinformation propagated by the military-industrial complex to prevent public panic before their own operatives can use the wonders of QI to frame the new coming world-age into their own twisted image. Don’t be fooled.)

Not since ancient astronauts brought the technology of “chittlings” (know to the ancient Aztecs as Citlz), has a discovery offered such potential for abuse and profit. The ability to force world peace and impose your mental dominion over the planet to bring about freedom via the alignment of your chakras and your happy benevolent thoughts of tolerance of all non-intolerable beliefs lies within your grasp.

To save the future, you must act now, flooding the newly-founded QI Institute for Unlimited Internet and Television Appearances and a Big Fat Book Deal with money and support! QIIUIT (ABFBD) needs your help.

Book Drive Update

The response to the book drive was considerably better than what the bookstore staff had expected and, honestly, a bit above my own expectations as well. I would estimate that we're going to be sending out about the same number of boxes as we did after the ConClave book drive--about 40 boxes or so. I've been sorting through the books to get some idea of the types and it is interesting to see the difference between the two drives. ConClave was heavy in paperback classic sci-fi and fantasy (not a surprise) while this drive is largely newer, hardback popular fiction. But, and this is a huge bonus, there are a lot of westerns (very popular). I even saw a few familys come into the bookstore with their children to buy books expressly for the book drive. Thank you especially for that. I also learned from the staff at Hastings that someone had conducted their own drive at their place of work and then dropped the books off at the store before I got there on Saturday. I never even got to see this paerson and yet they made a huge contribution to the drive. Thank you and everyone you work with (and feel free to post and let me know who and where).

So, where does that leave the drive itself? The short answer is, now I look for group requests over at BooksforSoldiers that match the types of books recieved, box up the books for shipping, fill out the customs forms, and start sending them out. That's going to go a lot slower than I'd like and it will probably take a few months before they're all sent. Why? Well, for one thing, my available manpower is limited and another is the sheer volume of donations exceeded what we were ready to handle. But the other thing that will slow the process is that while the good, literate people of the Ozarks and the staff at Hastings did a good job in getting the word out and the books in, our appeals for corporate supporters was met with an unusual deafening silence. Maybe it's the economy or maybe it's that the war isn't a "sexy, marketable" cause these days or maybe it's just bad timing but the end result is, I'm financing the postage myself. I'm not complaining because I always plan on that but it does mean that I can't ship everything all at once.

Some of you may wonder how much it costs to send a box of books. I use boxes that are about the size of a case of paper for each requests and, since it's all books, I'm able to mail it all media rate. That puts the cost per box at about 20 dollars. All in all a really good rate because these boxes are heavy. For those who don't know, by the way, APO and FPO addresses are considered domestic for postal rates so that helps as well.

Filling out customs forms sounds a lot scarier than it actually is. I simply go down to the post office in little Hindsville Arkansas, tell the Post Mistress what I'm sending out and she hands me the forms I need (you can also download them off the web). You fill out your name and address and then where it's going (the form also acts as a mailing label) check a few boxes to answer some basic handling questions (Like, if the person it's adressed to isn't there anymore, should the box be returned, thrown away, or left with the current resident--obviously since the military folks rotate in and out, I always check leave with resident), and finally, there's a section that says "What's in here?" and the answer is "Books" and a rough estimate of the number. Easy.

You may ask, "Can I sponsor a box or two?" and the answer is "Well, yes, I feel uncomfortable taking your money but give it go me and I'll pay the postman." But don't worry about that, just be patient and I'll keep updating everyone as the boxes go out.

Since I've been sick for the last week and the heat is horrid here (and no AC in the storage building with the books) I would estimate that the first wave of shipments will go out around the middle of June and nearing July, hopefully to arrive around the holiday.

Book Drive Info

Okay, today is the book drive and I'm setting at a table in Hasting trying (and failing) to be charming and congenial. Since not everyone can do a book drive or might want to do it differently than me, I'm going to give you just a few of the places you can go and look to find more information on how to donate, write letters, send care packages, etc.

BOOKSFORSOLDRS.COM (My #1 go-to people since they handle individual and group requests)

Nmam.org (National Military Appreciation Month and they also link to a lot of other useful places)

Militarymoms.net

Warletters.com

USO.org

Operationmilitarypride.org (another favortite of mine)

And of course, someone around here will eventually answer any questions you email in if we can help. In fact, I think we even have a brocheure (or however you spell it) on what to put in a care package and the best ways to send them that we'll send out for a SASE (or maybe we can email the pdf, I don't know, the cat's dead and I don't know squat about all this interweb stuff but I'm sure it'll get sorted out once it gets here, just be patient.)

So, now we see how it goes.

Book Drive Info

I've had enough questions about doing book drives (and other charity work) for the military that I thought this current drive would be a good idea to walk through the steps of how I do it. Note, this is how I do it; not how it should be done or the only way to do it or even the best way to do it.

Let's start where I am right now. I've partnered with a local bookstore for this drive to increase visibility and give people a reliable drop-off point. In preparing for this, I've spent about 200 bucks in printing posters, direct mailings, and other advertising kinds of things to make sure people know about it. Honestly, you don't have to go to all that trouble. I just happen to have enough interested people in the area that it's a justified expense. (I also include a signed copy of one of my books in each box of books that we send out dedicated to the person who made the request for books for the rest of their squad. It's an additional cost and not one that the average person will incur but, well, it's what I like to do.)

Also to increase visibility, I've sent a press release to the major news stations and papers in the area. (An aside: Thank you NWA Star Shopper--I think that's the biggest ad I've ever had donated and I'm very appreciative.) Finally, I've hit up the various publishers and local authors I know to see if they want to help.

Basically, to get read for the book drive itself, I've made sure that I can get the word out that it's happening every way I can think of.

Does that mean it will succeed? Who knows. That part is out of my hands and up to the local people. I can say that, even though the book drive isn't until Saturday, I've already got two boxes of books at my place that have been donated in advance, the bookstore (Hastings in Springdale Arkansas) has told me they already have a stack that people have been bringing in, and Alan Gilbreath at Kerlack publishing has offered to help make up any shortfall I have.

From here, we get boxes ready and wait.

Some people might want to go ahead and get together their requests and adresses that they're going to send books to. I used to but I don't anymore; now I wait until I've got the books. Reason is, I use the fine people at Books For Soldiers (booksforsoldier.com) to provide me with requesters and adresses and I've found that it's easier to match requests and boxes of books up after I know what I have to work with. That's up to you. I know it saves a lot of time if you start filling out customs forms, etc. in advance but I've done this often enough that I feel comfortable waiting.

Status Update

I've had several people wondering just what the heck is going on in my personal life (vis a vis moving et. al.). Well, let me try to bring it current but it's a mess.

Dad's got six acres, I have two. They're adjacent and, for logistics sake, it was decided that we'd bring Dad's functional before I started on mine. So, we have electricity to the front six and a road. Drilled a well (five-hundred feet and sulfur water-dammit). Finally, installed a septic system. Right now I'm living out of a travel trailer sitting on the front six getting ready to go to work on mine. Should have electricity run back to the back within a week or two and then I'll be out of money. Running water to the back from the well and putting in septic will run around four grand and that has to be done before I can move the trailer back...and that's all before I can start building a house.

In between, I have to write about twenty books and coordinate the May book drive. If you want to see me do many public appearances and travelling this year, I humbly suggest you feed the cat.

Hopefully, that catches everyone up.

Military Appreciation Month and Book Drive

May is Military Appreciation Month, a time to honor and remember the men and women who serve our country and keep it safe. On May 22, Hastings in conjunction with local author M. Keaton are hosting a drive to collect new and gently used books to be shipped to our troops. Donations may be dropped off at the store. It’s as simple as that—you bring in the books and someone else will take care of sorting and shipping. Clean up your cluttered book shelves at home or buy new books at the store, either way this is a great opportunity for everyone in the Northwest Arkansas region to show their support and give a little something back to those who give so much for all of us. (Worried about what books you can donate? Common sense rules apply. No propaganda or overtly religious books or tracts and, by request of the troops, no romance.)

MidSouthCon this Weekend

Once again I take to the road. I'm off to MidSouthCon in Memphis, TN. (Actually, just south of Memphis but close enough.) If anyone happens to be in the area, I'd love to see you there, just come on up and say 'hi'.

MKeaton

Global Warming

Normally, I try to avoid politics but this is a special case and a subject that I've been involved with for a long time.

I’ve been watching the science news patiently for the past year and I think it is now quite clear to anyone willing to consider the facts, the scientific support for the political fraud of global warming has collapsed. Glacieral data has been discredited, warming trends have been shown to not exist and the planetary temperature constant since the mid-nineties, and the unacceptable shredding of data to avoid Freedom of Information acts are only the most recent of the collapsing dominoes. Man-made global warming has been shown to be a hoax and the faked and “manipulated” data casts serious doubt on the premise of any global warming at all outside of the routine cyclic trends that occur naturally.

This has been something I’ve been fighting since the early 1990s when I began to work as an environmental scientist and learned that Freon was outlawed, not for any environmental or chemical reasons (despite the public propaganda) but because the exclusive patent had expired—or, if not, the timing was very suspicious and the ban counterproductive. (For those who doubt that it was counterproductive, I ask you to consider that, one the one hand, we have no proof that CFCs ever affected the ozone layer while, one the other, it is abundantly clear that the need to stop using the economical and compact Freon cooling systems and change to the more expensive and larger alternative systems significantly reduced the ability of the world’s aid organizations to distribute medicines to the third world.)

A decade of environmental analysis served only to strengthen my conviction that the science was flawed and yet, the amount of grief I had to endure from other (non-environmental non-climatologically) scientists and laymen was fascinating. Despite the mounting evidence to the contrary, such as the demonstration that increased levels of atmospheric carbon dioxide was a result of increased temperatures, not a cause, somehow I was a bad scientist and a luddite for rejecting what was, from the first, a political rather than scientific dogma.

And now the hoax is falling completely to pieces. Certainly, the religious believers in global warming will ignore the facts and continue to hold to their belief but it’s time for science to move on with data rather than bias. For my own part, I am currently accepting apologies and promise to try not to mock those who fell for the con game too harshly.

Okay, I'm nuts. Get over it.

Something happened the other day that illustrates some of the small difficulties in putting up with someone whose brain works the way mine does. It’s no secret that I’m “hyper-linear” and overly literal but it crops up in strange and often amusing ways. You see, there’s a commercial running on the radio that starts out “Men, are you having trouble urinating? Going more frequently? Waking up at night to urinate?” and then it goes on to promote a pill that will solve these problems. My response was, to me, perfectly reasonable. I looked to my good lady wife and said, “Why would anyone want to buy a pill that makes you wet the bed?”

She gave me a look. Not the dreaded The Look but a look, one of the useful stock that she keeps just for me. This was the look that says “Are you really that dumb or are you teasing me?” and, as always, the answer is “Yes, he’s that dumb.” She then proceeds to explain to me that this is a pill to reduce prostate swelling and that idea is the pill stops waking up by removing the need, not making you wet the bed. I’m quick to defend myself by pointing out that my interpretation is quite logical and my lovely bride is nice enough to concede that the commercial could have been phrased better.

The ugly fact is, this kind of thing is much more common than it should be. I’m sure neurotypicals will be quick to point out that the problem is in my mental function but I reject this explanation. Word mean thing and should be used with precision. (Although I will concede, sometimes the needle in my mental record jumps the groove.)

Random

I'm still in the process of moving so today I thought I'd clear up on of those small things that people get wrong (even in books) that really irritates me.

CHICKENS WILL LAY EGGS IRRESPECTIVE OF THE PRESENCE OF A ROOSTER!

Yes, it's a true, biological fact. Now, go thy way and write stupidness no more.

Booksigning

Assuming anyone is curious, the booksigning went well. I wish I had sold one more copy of "Calamity's Child" though. If I had, the store would have been sold out (including the extra stock they ordered in especially for the signing). Now if the book drive for the military goes half as well in May (at the same store) then all will be well. I'll post the details of that once we have them.

Let me just say a quick "thank you" to everyone who came out. I appreciate the support and I absolutely love when enough people show up for a book signing that it intimidates the store's management.

MK

Bah, some storm. New signing date

We had a very bad storm--for a day. Just enough to delay the signing but not enough to knock out the power. (My water is frozen but that just means that it's a month that ends in Y or R.)

New date for the Arkansas Hastings signing is February 13th.

Words is his craft

I finished reading a book yesterday that was unremarkably bad, just one more bit of the mendacity that comprises modern “literature”. It did, however, contain a description that I thought was worth passing along for your consideration:

“Sheep dotted the hillside like wool.”

Saturday Signing

Well, as anyone around here knows by now from the weather forcasts, we're supposed to have ice, snow, hail, and a cameo from at least one of the four horsemen this weekend (or we might just have a slow, drizzling rain--I don't trust weather forecasters that much). It looks very likely that the signing scheduled for this Saturday will be moved to next Saturday. If the weather is bad, stay home and be safe.

Also keep in mind that I'll be back at the same store in May (Military appreciation month) for signing and a military donation bookdrive so if you miss me this pass, I'll be back again in a few months for a really good cause.

MK

The Good Ol' Days

I’m doing most of my writing now from my laptop, which is annoying because the keyboard is so small. Now, I’m not on a netbook or any tiny toy like that, I’m on a normal laptop with a “full-sized” keyboard. Problem is, it’s a “full-sized” computer keyboard and it’s flat and jammed together.

I’m old. I know it, I’m happy with it, I embrace my antiquity. It just causes small problems on occasion. For example: People looking over at me in the library and saying “Dude, what’re you trying to kill it?” I learned to type during a different time, the age of typewriters (during the “fire good, wheel patent-pending” era for you youngsters). Back then, we had keys that were actual keys and you’d better slap ‘em hard if you wanted a clear result. We had manual typewriters and, I must explain for the children, a manual typewriter is basically a set of levers with woodcuts of letter on one end and you smash down the other. The woodcut flies up (hopefully) to smack on the back of a ribbon (the fancy technical term for “piece of cloth soaked in ink-usually in two colors just to be helpful). Imagine your wife’s scrap booking stamping kit but made of metal for use by men.

It was a different era, a golden time when we were taught to strike hard and to actually spread our fingers out because the keys had to be far enough away from each other to avoid tangling up as you went. It was a time when accuracy was more important than speed because mistakes were fatal. Well, not directly fatal but indirectly because the stress and extra work of trying to fix a typographical error in those days would lead a man to an early grave. There was no “file”, no electronic copy. There was the sheet of paper in the machine and the fourteen carbons behind it and you had to hit hard enough to carry the ink through them all. In theory there were a dozen different ways to fix errors, from poisonous paint to cover your error to little sheet covered in carcinogens that you could retype over. But none of them fixed the carbons—you had to do that one at a time—and they all came with their own complicated ways to mess things up even worse. No, there was only one true way to fix a problem: rip the paper out of the machine, crumple it up in a ball, throw it over your shoulder, and start again. A successful author was judged based on how many wads of paper surrounded his chair. We didn’t have word count, publishers ordered manuscripts by the pound. At the end of a hard day, you’d have to shove through the waist-high debris to get to the door. Most of us just slept at our desks until our publishers sent someone over with dig us out and get the finished manuscript. The original Hugo trophy was a snow shovel!

We went through the paper in those days, ten or twelve sheets tossed to the floor for every page of clean manuscript copy. And there was no email or electronic submissions, everything had to be done by hand—reams of paper sent to the far edges of the earth to be inspected by monastic orders who lived in the mountains of Tibet and read slush. More than a handful of rejections for a book and you’d have to become a best-seller just to cover the investment in postage.

It was no time for the weak. With no fancy interweb, we did our research the hard way; we lived it. We learned police procedure by starting bar fights and spending a night in the tank. Sure, we did ride-alongs with the cops—from the back seat. Want to understand military strategy? Saddle up and ride with Teddy off to find a war. We were hard men in hard time in a hard job. Hemmingway used to eat other authors just to keep his strength up!

It was a time when authors were respected. Well, no, but we were feared! Today, tell someone that you’re an author and they nod. “That’s nice. My cousin wrote a cookbook and…” (I’ve never heard the end of that sentence; I don’t have the attention span.) In the golden days, say you were an author and men gasped, mothers pulled their children in off the streets, and neighborhood petitions were passed urging the city fathers to pay you to leave town. We were paid in paper, ink, and whiskey. We ate what we could catch—leaves, tree bark, slow neighborhood dogs. Children would disappear only to be found days later by desperate relatives; wandering like miniature Dr. Zhivago’s, the tops of their heads barely visible above the great blowing drifts of wadded paper filling the house. Where authors went, bad things followed.

Fire was the worst. Working neck deep in dry paper, sweating alcohol, and smoking like a chimney fires were common. More than a few of the best authors of the past were victims of spontaneous combustion. Our only defense was coffee. In those days, coffee only came in two flavors: solid and sludge depending on how long the pot had been sitting on the radiator. We didn’t have fancy frapees or mocawhatsits or special mild blends of roasted beans; we had a black gruel of battery acid, cigarette ashes, and burnt bread crumbs dumped out of the toaster. With enough coffee, a man could become fireproof, like old leather or half-petrified wood.

It hurt, a good hurt, the kind of hurt that tells a man he’s alive and that death will only come as a favor we’re not good enough to earn. We had lungs full of smoke, blood full of alcohol, heads and hearts burning with passion for the craft, and terminal heartburn in our guts.

That’s the problem with kids today; no fire in their bellies.

Update

I said we might be off the air for a while. I underestimated “a while”. Without going into too much boring detail: still homeless and living out of a travel trailer, freezing, and working off the laptop. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was horribly frustrating at best and it’s even harder to work, especially since I spend a good portion of my day making sure the water doesn’t freeze and/or thawing out frozen pipes. So, the more promising news:

Book Signing:
Hastings in Springdale AR
January 30
1-4pm.

And I’ve been invited back to MidSouth Con.

Oh, and we have a new kitten but I’m inclined to file that under “bad things”.

The Forester’s Tale, A Modern Parable

The Forester’s Tale
A Modern Parable

Once there was a Forester who, with his lovely wife, had a small cottage. The Forester was a man of trees and understood the forest but his wife understood the smaller plants and flowers that make a house a home and she turned the area around the cottage into a fairyland of color. Though the Forester did not understand her work, by the time she was done, he had carried and toted and dug enough that he felt her plants to be his own and thus it was that both the Forester and his wife had a pleasant home surrounded by foliage they both adored.
Sadly, the Forester lived near a City. It was not a very big City, which may explain why it had such a terrible attitude and always acted horribly toward everyone it dealt with. The City did not like the Forester, for he was a different kind of man than it preferred, it did not like the Forester’s wife because she loved plants which it did not, and the City absolutely hated the Forester’s cottage because it was not the kind of thing the City would have built if it had owned the Forester’s land. And what the City did not control, it hated.
There was trouble from the beginning.
“Your grass is too long,” the City would yell at the Forester.
“I daresay, sir, no. Your grass is too short, for it is not long enough to hold sufficient water within its leaves and will burn and brown in the summer sun. To cut it shorter is to lose it all and harm the land.”
“Better that it be destroyed than different from what I wish,” growled the City. “Cut down those weeds”
“I daresay, sir, no. For those are not weed, they are day lilies, planted and beloved of my wife.”
“And those weeds there too!”
“Those you now insult are peonies, sir, and will soon flower a lovely pink. I shall not cut them for they are deliberate and things of beauty. Neither shall I cut the hyacinth nor the lilac which you also impugn. If you would but tarry a bit and listen, sir, I would tell you of each planting and why it is and then you, too, may have things of beauty for, forgive my saying so, your own lands are blasted ground and pavement. It is not hard, sir, and I will help if I can.”
“Better that it be destroyed,” roared the City, “than different from what I wish.” And so it went until the Forester learned to remain silent but he would not destroy the cultivations of his hands and the things of beauty on his land.
Now, the City had a ditch that ran against the back of the Forester’s land and, when the spring storms came, the sides of the ditch crumbled away and the City’s ditch flooded the Forester’s land. With reluctance, the Forester went to the City.
“Excuse me sir but your ditch has flooded my land,” the Forester explained. “Might I ask you to repair it?”
“There is nothing wrong with anything of mine,” the City replied. “The fault must be yours.”
“I daresay, sir, no. I have seen it with my own eyes as have my neighbors. We sought the council of the ditch diggers’ guild and their journeymen have inspected it as well. All agree that, indeed, the fault is yours.”
“There is nothing wrong with anything of mine,” the City thundered and drove the Forester away.
For days, the conversation was repeated until the Forester was of a mind to seek redress from the local Lord and the courts of Law. Then suddenly, strangely, the City declared that, though there was neither need nor reason, the City would rebuild his ditch but to reach it, he must come in through the Forester’s land.
The Forester thought the City’s behavior exceedingly strange but he did not argue. “Indeed, sir, you may cross my land to work upon your ditch. I ask only that you tread with such care as you can lest the cultivations of my land be unduly harmed.”
The City did not repair the ditch itself but sent other men to do it for him and these men came with heavy equipment, great noise, and no regard for the affairs of the Forester. Once their work was complete and they took their leave, the City’s hirelings left the land behind the Forester’s cottage a great torn gash of mud and rock and barren, hard-packed soil.
“Alas,” sighed the Forester’s wife, “all my work is ruined. The land is hurt too deep and shall now be as the City’s land, blasted land and pavement.”
“I daresay, wife, no,” the Forester answered. “You are wise in the way of the land and my back is yet strong enough. We shall rebuild and heal this land.”
But the City, having once set foot upon the Forester’s land, now began to command the Forester as if the Forester’s land was its own. “You will cut down this tree and root out these weeds as I have told you before.”
“I daresay, sir, no. This land is mine own and I shall care for it as I see fit.”
“Better that it be destroyed than different from what I wish,” spat the City and stomped away.
The Forester set to work, thinking the matter done, but soon the City returned, bringing with him a vassal of the local Lord who thought himself to speak with the voice of the Law.
“The City has told me of your defiance,” the vassal said, tying a blindfold across his eyes. “Now that I see for myself, I agree: better it be destroyed than different. Your land is a blight upon the kingdom.”
“I daresay, sir, no. This land is mine and my wife agrees with me that it is a place of beauty. It is no blight.”
The vassal laughed and handed the Forester a scrap of foolscap. “Now, it is a blight.”
The Forester looked at the parchment which read only: “Blight-weeds.”
“Cut down that tree, it is a blight,” ordered the City.
“I daresay, sir, no. It is an apple.”
“Tear this strange vine down here, and this one here too. Rip up this flowering thing that covers the ground and plant short grass instead. Burn down that pile of leaves there within that box, I find it ugly. And,” the City gasped in horror, “is that a garden?”
“The vine here is porcelain berry and this one here is wisteria. The flowering groundcover must stay. The grass will no longer grow here, for your hirelings have made the ground too low and wet. That box is not of leaves alone but compost that I may return health to the land you have injured and allow it to grow again. And, indeed, sir, it is a garden and for its success you may thank the compost bin which you find so ugly.”
“Destroy it!” the City screamed. “Destroy it all!”
“I daresay, sir, no. And twice again, no. You presume too much. By both Law of God and Man, you have no right to demand these things.”
The City’s hissed and glared. “I shall set this vassal to torment you. I shall speak lies of you in court and I shall devote my full attentions to the destruction of all which is yours.”
“As you will,” replied the Forester, “but I council you one final time toward wisdom. The land is afire with brigandry and war. Men go homeless and hungry upon your lands. These are dark days and you could do much good. But the choice is yours and I cannot make you do otherwise.”
The City did not heed these words and long years passed, filled with pain for the Forester and his wife for it was more important to the City to have its way than to do things both right and good until one day the Forester’s wife said to him, “Husband, this place will be death to you. With every day I see you grow older and weaker while the City does not age and his minions are endless. Let us go away and return to your people in the free lands of the south where you may regain your strength.”
“As always, wife, your council is wise but who shall watch the cottage to keep out the robbers while we are gone?”
“The Traveling Woman has no home. Let her come and stay within our cottage. In this we will all be well served.”
“You are wise indeed, beloved wife.”
And so the Forester and his wife left the lands of the City to rest and heal and the homeless Traveling Woman was given a home and all seemed, indeed, to be well.
And it should have been but, like most honest people, the Forester and his wife could not conceive of the selfish and evil depths creatures like the City can stoop to. The City went to the vassals and demanded that the Forester be punished because the Forester did not get permission from the City to let someone else stay in his cottage. “And surely,” the City told them, “he obtains money from her as well and we should receive a portion of this as well.” This was not true but, just as the Forester could not conceive of the selfish things the City would do, so too the City could not conceive that someone would act out of kindness or compassion. The City would never let someone stay upon its lands without paying a steep toll and therefore that was what the Forester must be doing as well.
By now, the vassals considered the City’s words to be the words of the Law, so they did not bother to seek the truth of the matter but instead ordered that the Forester be captured and placed in irons and that all his good and assets should be forfeit to the City. Mind you, the free peoples of the south would not raise hand against the Forester for he had done them no wrong and they were not such fools as the people of the City to believe everything the City said. Still, by this the City was able to continue its attacks upon the Forester and he continued to sicken.
Dear children, if this were a fairy tale, I would tell you of how a champion emerged to defend the Forester or how, with her vast wisdom, the Forester’s wife tricked the evil City with her cleverness or how the land itself rose up to drive the City away from the cottage and the Traveling Woman or how the City had a change of heart and chose to do those good and right things that were its duty and leave the Forester to live in peace, but, alas dear children, this is not a fairy tale, it is a parable. Unlike fairy tales, parables must show the world as it is.
So, the Traveling Woman was again without a home, the Forester and his wife were forced to remain with the southern free people, never to return to their cottage again, and the City got exactly what it wanted, as it always did, and was free to turn its attention to destroying someone else.
And now you know, dear children, why there are neither Foresters, Authors, nor any beauty in Center Line, Michigan.

For the Semi-Good Niece

Dearest True,

Even as I left you, my health was declining and, upon my return to my own modest abode, I fell under the sway of a most vile pestilence. I therefore must communicate to you using this odd new-fangled grimcrack which seems to operate upon the waves of the ether (I am not certian of that; I rather suppose Mr. Edison would know better). Further, I must trust that you mother, obsessed as she is with all things electrographic, will turn up this rather misplaced missive and deliver to you my message. Let me apologize profusely for the lack of annotation and illustrative documentation that the nature of this medium prevents me from providing. (Perhaps it is for the best. After all, my dear, do you truly wish to have a sketch of "Evil Uncle succumbing to pustulation and mucosial discharge"? It may be that, even in the interests of science, so vistas remain obscured.)

To my point then with alacrity before the goodfellows expel my disease-ridden carcass from their lodge. I wish to let you know that I did indeed return to the McHO intact though somewhat the worse for wear and that I did survive being catapulted through the atmosphere as no man rightfully should. I firmly believe that man was not meant to fly and yet he does. Having experience in these matters, I believe the discomfort is necessary to offset the insult to the natural order--a kind of purgatory for our hubris. Further, I would have you know that I have recieved your own vastly informative missives and devoured their contents with great haste and pleasure. I find fault within your researches in but a singular instance. I believe that the correct designation for a discorpreated spirit residing in the temporal ether pending migration to either higher or lower plain for its final respite is "ghost" rather than "gost". On the other hand, this may be a matter of regional dialect and, if it does indeed prove to be true, you may have chanced upon a most profitable area of linguistic, ethnic, and anthropological lore to investigate further. I recommend to you that you also consider additionally the possible alternative spelling of "ghast". While these all share a similar root in the Teutonic/Scandinavian phonetics, I do think that "ghoul" is sufficiently established within the Hungarian to be safely excluded from your search. Perhaps I am wrong on this and if so, what a discovery awaits you. Follow your instincts on this and do keep me abreast of your researches.

For now, I return to my sick bed. Not to worry. Carry on, stiff upper lip, pip-pip, and all that.

I remain,
your Evil Uncle

Advice for the lovelorn

While things are in tumult, I thought I'd take some time out to offend people. Hence, I offer my opinions on marriage.

I am seeing just way too many nice young girls marrying men I flat disapprove of and so, as a public service, I have taken it upon myself to provide a short guide for making sure the man you want is a good man. And, for the record, in order to make sure you get the best of the best, I’m going to insult just about every married guy I know including myself because ain’t none of us perfect.

First off, ladies, consider where you found him. Don’t go looking for men because the only place most of you think of to look for them is the worst place to find them. Don’t date a man that you meet at a place you don’t want him to be at after you marry him. If you meet him at a bar or a disco, you don’t want him (and what are you doing there to start with?). His environment already tells you his character. Try a more wholesome environment like a rodeo or a NASCAR race or, better yet, find a guy that’s volunteering to help at the VFW or a hospital. Remember, no matter how nice he is, if you meet him while you’re working undercover with the feds to help break up his white slavery ring, the relationship is not going to work out. Likewise, prison pen pals are right out. Men are like produce. If you’re in the grocery store and you find a nice tomato in the vegetable aisle, that’s fine but if you see a tomato shoved onto the shelf over between the dog food and the cat litter, just leave that nasty thing where you found it.

Now, let’s assume that you’ve acquired a suitable pool of suitors. How do you narrow them down? Quick cuts first. Check his feet. Can you see his toes? Goodbye. Flip-flops are for showers at the gym and sandals are for the beach. Any man too dumb to wear appropriate footgear is right out. Now check his head. Is it gelled up and spiky? If he thinks his head is a cave floor to be covered in stalagmites, he’s too dumb to be a good husband. Besides, you don’t want any guy that spends longer getting pretty than you do.

Listen to me on this, when you get married and are just starting out in the world odds are you’re going to be in an apartment or a tiny little house. That means only one bathroom and you don’t want to be sharing that precious space with a man who has more lotions than you’ve got curlers. Look at his soap too. Does it have chunks of lava rocks in it? Does it have a citrus base to cut through grease? That’s good. When you get married you can shove his soap under the cabinet and not worry about it. All he wants from it is to get the gunk off his hands; he doesn’t care if the bottle is pretty or if it’s imported. In my shack, the soap on the counter is goat soap with pumpkin spice. Why? Because that’s what my wife likes. I don’t know why they make soap out of goats and I don’t want to know what they do to make the goat’s smell like pumpkins. I know my wife is happy. ‘nuff said.

Let’s cut some more real fast. In love with his car? Not in love with you. Cruel to animals? Cruel to you. Still calls his mommy ‘mommy’? That man’s already got a woman. His hands softer than yours? Get lost slacker. Uses the phrase “If you really loved me, you’d…”? Hell no. Mean to children? To the curb.

Now, some of you are wailing “But I don’t want kids” and that’s fine but you still have to cut him from the herd. If you know me, you know that I hate kids and consider them a total blight on society. But that’s no reason to take it out on the little ones. Not their fault they’re here. We got ‘em; let’s take care of ‘em and maybe they’ll grow up to not be human. Listen, girlfriend, you do not want a man that can be mean to children or animals. You don’t even want him to know you. This is a guy that’s got three bodies buried in the basement and already has a hole dug for you. Run!

And don’t marry a crazy guy either. I know; I’m certified insane. We are way too high maintenance. I’m thrilled to death that my wife was gullible enough to take me but don’t inflict this wound on yourself.

If this little winnowing process leaves you all alone, that’s okay. I know that for some reason most of y’all don’t get it but no man is way better than the wrong man. I ain’t never seen a scraggly horse yet that there weren’t a scraggly bush around to tie it too. Hang in there, your time will come spinster woman.

That was the easy part. From here it gets harder because you’ve got to ask a few questions. And this isn’t like one of those quizzes in Cosmo, you’re going to have to think a little.

What does he talk about? If he talks about stuff more than people, it’s bad. If he talks about his stuff more than people, it’s worse. I know guys are concrete oriented and you might think that makes it okay for him to be stuff oriented but they aren’t the same thing. Concrete oriented means he’s not so good at articulating feelings and that, when you tell him your problems, he’ll try to fix them instead of just listening and nodding like your girlfriends. Stuff oriented means his life is about how much can he get to show off to other people and compensate for his own lack of worth. He probably sees you as one more thing on his stuff list. “I have a house, a car, a Rolex. Must be time to get a wife and a kid.” No, no, no. You are a person. Your family and friends are people. Your offspring will probably be people too. He doesn’t have to like them but he’d better understand them they’re mooshy organic real folks and not chess pieces on a board for his scoring and amusement. You deserve better.

How does he hunt? Notice I didn’t say “Does he hunt?”. I’m not saying he should but I am saying he should be prepared and willing to do so if necessary. If you’ve got nothing and the kids are hungry, you want a man that will pick up or borrow a gun, a stick, a blowgun, a knife, or even go out with his bare hands and strangle you some food for the table if that’s what it takes. However, you don’t want a man that brags about his hunting. That’s insensitive and cruel. You want a man who will boldly go out onto the frozen tundra, bludgeon Bambi to death with a warped 2-by-4, dress out the carcass and bring home the meat then cry about it a little when he thinks nobody is looking. And don’t give me any nonsense about animal rights and vegetarianism. If it don’t eat bacon, it ain’t a man. Heck, even pigs like bacon.

How does he react when you suggest a co-ed wedding shower? If he says absolutely not, then this question is a push. Maybe he’s being selfish and insensitive and maybe he’s being old-fashioned and smart. I can’t tell you which from here. But if he thinks it’s a good idea, get rid of him. In fact, brand him with a big X or something so the rest of us guy can beat him when he’s outside.

Does he want a stag party? G-rated bachelor parties are fun and I’m all for them. Miniature golf, go-karts, and junk food till dawn while you shoot the breeze over old times are something that should never go out of style even after a fellow is married. But if he wants some kind of stripper-laden, wild oats send off to the single life, tell him to keep the single life. This is a huge red flag.

Why does he love you? Ask him this question and then be ready to hold the door on his way out. If he says one word about a single physical attribute, he’s gone. I know that one of the major appeals of women is that they’re soft and they smell nice (like spiced goats, I reckon) but that’s no reason for love. If he names any transient aspect, anything that will change over time, he’s not ready. Maybe he’s not a bad guy but he’s not ready. Marriage is about permanence. Remember, you’re not looking for a pretty groom or a playmate for the party; you’re looking for the guy that someday is going to have to hold you hair when you puke and change your Depends—if you don’t end up doing it for him first! This is not glamour but it is love. In the end, the real answer to why is because he CHOOSES to. Your sparkling wit and wonderful personality may be contributing factors to why he decided to make the choice but if you don’t hear anything else I’m saying, hear this: LOVE IS AN ACT OF CONSIOUS WILL! It’s not an emotion. Don’t marry infatuation. Marry stubborn.

I’ve said my piece and maybe I’ve exaggerated at times but not as much as you think. And if you’re a guy and I’ve offended you, grow the hell up. Any guy that’s not confident enough in who he is to take a poke in the ribs isn’t ready for a relationship anyhow.

More confusion than one man needs

I don't talk about it much, but I'm currently homeless. Not the horrible "living on the street and sleeping on stoops" homeless (been there, don't want to do that again) but the awkward uncomfortable homeless of being forced to live in other people's spare rooms and, most lately, on the edge of my father's farm. Well, the farm finally sold and so, I've got to move again. Move where? Don't know.

Now, don't fret for me. It may take a month or two but things should improve considerably (I might even end up with a bit o' property of my own under me feet). But it does mean that the regular blog updates will be even more irregular (if that's even possible). Be patient and I'll hopefully see some of you at ConClave SFF convention in Michigan in October. If I can figure out the entire wi-fi/laptop/public library mystery, you might not even notice but consider this fair warning. Ah, fun, fun, fun.

And I'm still cat-less. Sumo (Kay Kenyon's cat) recommends I mourn three years before getting another.