CarlHoliday

What a day! The neighbor’s Weimaraner got out of its run, again, and was terrorizing the neighborhood. It’s basically a very nice dog, but just a little timid and, of course, dumb as a door nail, but it’ll crap in the most inconvenient place, like our front yard. Rambo was having a total fit whenever he caught sight of the other dog. For two long hours, Rambo ran from one window to the next trying to see where the dog had gotten to, twice knocking over his water bowl. He got so foamy at the mouth from his constant barking you could’ve sworn he was rabid. The Book? Well, we out on a limb today. Wrote nearly 2,100 words in Chapter 4 about an 11 year-old girl who hits puberty a little early. Now, on Hercules III that is strange because there puberty doesn’t start until age 12 at the earliest, most times later. So an 11 year-old in the 5th year between age 11 and 12 (there are 20 years in total), puberty is definitely not supposed to start. So, she’s sent to a medical center to find out what’s wrong. Well, something is wrong. But, it was a stretch trying to get the wording right to fit someone that age. Plus, a little bit of research on how puberty works for girls helped a lot, too. Then there was a bit of research on intersex conditions. I thought of using some existing condition, but decided it would serve the story better if I came up with something different. After all, with the new birthing methods used on Hercules III, new diseases and syndromes are inevitable. Nothing’s perfect in a bot perfect world.

Two days, 5,313 words, and Chapter 3 is over. Ended with new found love and a marriage. Oooh, so mushy-mushy. Total word count thru 3 chapters is 16,110. As I’ve said before, this is going just swimmingly. If I could get some sleep this could go even better. Chapter 4 starts out with Sister Angelina of the chromed rod and wooden ruler. Sounds absolutely peachy! Though, there will be a happy surprise. Originally thought to use Sister Angelica as the evil nun, but I Googled that name and lo and behold, she's in wiki. Damn! Have remember that when I want to use something unique I need to Google it to see if it already exists. I suppose you wouldn't be surprised at the number of Carl Holidays in the world. Luckily, Carl's last name might have been Peterson, but that isn't how it worked out. Besides, my real last name isn't Peterson, either.

Well, actually, it’s going swimmingly. Yesterday I worked on Chapter 3, section 2, and it went better than expected. It just didn’t seem to want to end. It’s mostly dialogue. It’s a party, a barbecue, steaks. There’s a problem on the commune that needs to be solved and the initial six partiers are trying to come to terms with their new situation. Then four new characters show up, which causes just a bit of consternation for the first six. In the end, there were over 1,800 words. Just when I’d get to a place where the story was at a logical end point, another character or event would take place and off it’d go further down the page. I wish I could tell you the characters’ names, but that would spoil it for everybody. Let’s just say they’re famous. In many ways, you wouldn’t expect the ten of them to be named the way they are, considering the naming convention for the first two chapters. No, this chapter is very different from the first two, but could be just as dark. There is a lot of humor. In fact, in many ways this is turning out to be a very darkly humorous book. Just the kind I’ve been trying to come up with. Section 3 has the potential to be a little dull, but I have a feeling there will be a bit of humor, too. With my current mental state, humor seems to be the best medicine. Last night I was in bed for ten and a half hours, but only got four and a quarter hours of total sleep. Yes, humor is definitely needed. My son says I’m getting too OCD and I do obsess over the silliest shit, but I’ve been that way for most of my life. Yes, humor does help; though, it doesn’t do much good for the attention deficit problem. The VA keeps sending me forms to ask whether I’ve worked in the past year. I can’t pay enough attention to somebody talking to me to learn how to do a job. My son and I will be talking and I’ll get distracted by the dog or the tube, and I end up saying ‘Huh?’ But, I’ve been that way for most of my life, too. That’s why I ended up being very close to a total failure in high school and an absolute failure in college. Try as I might I could never get enough concentration going on long enough to get anything done. No, writing keeps me on an even keel and I suppose I’ll keep doing it until the upstairs turns to mush and the VA sends me to a nursing home to die.

This morning I finished Chapter 2 of the new book. Remarkably, it has an ending slightly similar to Chapter 1, though without the mushy-mushy part. Right now, the plan is to have a number of characters solo in their first chapter; then come together and separate (or stay together) in subsequent chapters. The bot situation on Hercules III is a little different than the previous book, which has a lot to do with how they have an impact on human life. One aspect of the new order is the difference between the human chronological/cognitive age and physical/emotional age. As it stands the new possible final physical age of death for humans is 200, but in chronological years that is 26,000,000. Why so much, you ask? Well, the bots finally figured out Hercules III is basically a cargo ship with humans being the cargo. Sure, they’re possibly going to new planets in the galaxy and maybe further into the universe, but they figured out it would be better if the humans lived chronologically longer so they would be able to populate new planets with sufficient older adults to run things from the outset. Only, there is a small problem. While humans think they are free to pursue whatever vocation they want, there are limits to what the bots will actually allow. As the story moves forward those limits become more and more evident. Chapter 3 is pretty well set. I know the protagonist, the place, and a lot of the other characters. Interestingly, six of the minor characters have rather interesting names that may or may not have a bearing on the chapter. Though, as I see it now, they will, in fact, be the main carriers of the narrative. This is becoming a fun book, at least for me. Unfortunately, it definitely isn’t doing me any good in the sleeping department. Sure, writing gets the ol’ neurons to start connecting, again, but they don’t know when to turn off or they turn on at the most inopportune time, like four in the morning. Two and a half hours of sleep does not make a happy camper. Thankfully, I was able to get in seven and a half last night, but it was a restless night filled with dreams I’d rather not experience again; that may have been due to getting a nose full of Lysol disinfectant spray when I was trying to kill yesterday’s load of foot fungus. I keep telling my son he needs to take me down to Monroe so I can get new shoes, but he keeps coming up with things to do on weekends. As I see it now, the earliest I’ll be able to toss out the old shoes is Saturday after next. This weekend we’re supposing getting the new front porch and ramp built. My son has decided I’m too old for steps, since I did fall flat on my face on the 28th of September coming up to the front porch. I had too jugs of distilled water and do to the ol’ bipolar wasn’t paying the least bit of attention, falling on my face was the least of my problem. Just now, my wrists and hands are finally getting usable. I still have to use the braces when I go to the store and can’t do the dishes, but I am getting better. Other news, life seems to be getting more and more boring. Not being able to drive anywhere decent (that bipolar thing, again) is definitely a downer. So I sit at the laptop typing and proofreading my stories and blog entries, read the few magazines we get and the books I order from Amazon (A Death in the Family now), and watch the tube when there’s something worth watching. I know I should be going outside and getting more exercise, but I just don’t seem to find the time and, now, with winter coming on, the rains will be even more discouraging. I can only hope for another warm, dry winter like last year.

I’m still riding the high wave of mania. That’s okay if one can channel the extra energy into some purposeful task. I finished the first draft of Chapter 1 of the new book yesterday morning. I’ll need a week or so to give it a number good reads looking for those errors that hide from your eyes. Having had a number of different keyboarding jobs in the past (word processing and typesetting), it’s not surprising that their are always a number of works that come out rong. Primarily this will be sort of a children’s book, rated mature; some what like Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five or The Children's Crusade. I’d like to make it rated teen, but Chapter 1 has graphic violence experienced by the protagonist when forced to witness a number of executions as punishment for the crime he committed. The executions are quite gory. Why, well you’ll have to read the chapter. (Which I am contemplating posting on the Sneak Peeks forum; when, I’m not certain.) As I see it now, this chapter will be the worst, but you never know, maybe I'll throw in a murder or a little off-camera sex. Interestingly, there is a homosexual in Chapter 1. Chapter 2 (started yesterday afternoon) on the other hand is more mental, maybe PG. It deals with a method of esoteric meditation that I practiced when I worked at the University of Puget Sound and took a couple classes from a PhD who was well versed in esoteric practices and studies. To this day, I remember when he taught a class about alpha and omega; I suppose most people have no idea where that came from. He was also an ordained United Methodist minister, a sort of a requirement to work in the religion department of a college that is or was loosely aligned with the United Methodists, who originally founded the school. I kind of know where this book is going, but the way I tell stories is more of a spur of the moment kind of thing. It’s that mania thing again. I do know I’m going to structure it in much the same way William Faulkner wrote A Fable. Each chapter will center on a different character, characters, or events that will lead to the final END. The biggest problem right now is I'm dealing with 11 year-olds. That's there physical age, not their mental because, like between 11 and 12 it takes 20 years to achieve a physical age of 12, while their brains continue to evolve as more and more information is injested. That's what I like about sci-fi, you can come up with the silliest shit and in the end it all makes sense. I do know I will write the as much of the book while I’m still high. Maybe, I’ll be able to finish it before the end of the year. Highs do last that long. I just don’t want to get halfway and have to stop because I fell into a never ending funk.

I went to the shrink last week. I wanted to discuss the problems I was having with getting and staying asleep. It seems the VA hospital in Seattle came up an instruction booklet for older adults to acquire proper sleep habits. Starting off with going to be at the same time every night then getting up at the same time the following morning. Since my son turns the TV off at 1:30 a.m., that is my scheduled bedtime; 9:30 is the time I’m supposed to get up. The TV is distracting so it delays the time I’m able to get to sleep, but that really isn’t the problem. My mind doesn’t turn off. Then there’s the problem with sugar. My intake of the wonderful substance is too much, which probably contributes to the problem. The bowl of ice cream with sugary strawberries or chocolate topping an hour before bedtime doesn’t help either. So, now I stop eating chocolate before 8:00 p.m. Have my ice cream before nine o’clock and coast to midnight when I take my night pills, eating a little something without sugar, and do my dental work. Then I can try to relax before it’s time to go to bed. Then there’s the problem with my defective mental state. Being Type I Bipolar doesn’t help with a lot of things around the house, but I think it has a lot to do with not getting a good night’s sleep. Like Saturday and Sunday when in the morning I was totally in a funk in the morning; then bounced back up passing the middle mood the Depakote is supposed to maintain; and landing at total mania. Yesterday, I was working on my new book, the new age schema on Hercules III, and reading the news at The Atlantic online site. Today, the mania started this morning as soon as I awoke at 10:45, resulting in this blog entry. Plus, editing what I typed on the book yesterday. I have a whole new section or two to work on today; plus, working some more on the data for the age schema. Age iterations were introduced in my first Hercules III novella, but now they’re more complex. Basically a person’s physical age at any given point is related to what iteration they’re on. Iterations are the number of years it takes a person to go from one age to the next. From birth to age 1 takes 2 years, resulting in a physical age on Hercules III of 1, but the Earth equivalent age is 2. But, things get more complicated as a person slowly ages. There are 23 iterations between age 9 and 10. At the age of 10 on Hercules III a child looks like a normal everyday ten-year-old on Earth, but the Earth equivalent age is now 116. Then there are the periodic accelerations that occur between the ages of 21 to 31, 53 to 75, 85 to some as yet undetermined age; resulting in an Earth equivalent age of 746,081 at the Hercules III age of 100, but that is now barely middle-age. The bots have manipulated human physiology to the point that people age very slowly. They do die from accidents, disease, and other natural causes, but there are some who will possibly live to where life becomes so boring that they may take their own lives. Can you imagine what it would feel like to live a million years? What would you do to keep busy? Mania is fun and productive if you can channel it correctly. When I finish the book, I think I’ll get the shrink to up my dosage of the Depakote so I can remain moodless for a while. It’s not as much fun, but it is dangerous as hell bouncing off the walls and not paying attention to what’s going on around you, like driving to the grocery store. Was that a stop sign?

I’ve been thinking of writing a blog entry on a few of the songs I find interesting, so I think it’s time (now that I’m feeling somewhat manic/mostly depressed) to discuss these songs. (Research from Wikipedia) Let’s do them alphabetical (by artist) just to make it easy. First off is Alanis Morissette’s, “You Oughta Know.” It’s a rather troubling song about a failed relationship that seemingly went terribly wrong. Now, the jilted girl is asking her former lover if his new love will measure up as in: Is she perverted like me, Will she go down on you in a theatre . . . and, Are you thinking of me when you fuck (bleeped in the official video and on nearly every radio station) her? Do I like it because the song comes right out and says how the woman feels or is it something about the words “down” and “fuck” that intrigue me? For a long time this was the first song I came across on iTunes that actually slapped me in the face with its lyrics. A person raised in the 50’s and 60’s isn’t used to hearing songs with fuck in them, which leads us to our next artist. The song “You’re Breaking My Heart” is attributed to songwriters Sunny Skylar and Pat Genaro, but theirs is only a version of the Italian song “Mattinata” by Ruggero Leoncavallo written in the early 20th century. Harry Nilsson wrote a song with the same title, reportedly concerning his ongoing divorce. In it, beside the line You stepped on my ass, the phrase fuck you occurs four times. As a saving grace, the song ends with I love you. Do I like it because it has four fucks? That’s three more than Alanis Morrisette, but does it have to be reduced to that foul simplicity? No, it’s Harry Nilsson. He’s from my teens and early adulthood. It’s old shit. I’m old and I like old shit. Not that you can add up four fucks to make one shit. When I first heard it, I was a bit shocked that a song from 1972’s Son of Schmilsson could have a song with that many fucks, but what was I to do, it was Nilsson? The early video is just a bit amateurish; no, a whole lot amateurish. It does have a baritone saxophone though. (I played a baritone sax before I gave up playing saxophone, clarinet, piano, and bassoon when I realized I really wasn’t as good at any of those as everyone said. Although, I think I was getting pretty good a boogie-woogie on the piano, but if I wanted to stop my parents were going to stop paying for all the lessons. Luckily, I had other interests. I was a teenager with raging hormones surrounded by a ton of cute boys, who were so straight I shut myself in a closet that stayed shut until it was for all intents and purposes too late. Damn it! No, with my low self-esteem, AIDS would’ve erased me from this planet in the second wave.) Next up, The Raspberries with their ever famous million seller song “Go All the Way.” Banned by the BBC for being too risqué for that era, though it did receive considerable play elsewhere. I find it interesting that the BBC banned it while at practically the same time broadcasting the television program “Are You Being Served?” that is about as risqué as you can get without being clipped apart in the editing room floor in America. I suppose, though, watching television is much different than having your raging hormonal teenager listening to the radio with a song that has a girl wanting to “go all the way.” When I listen to the song, I find myself not listening to the words. The guitar work is totally fantastic. I wish I’ll be able to play that good when I get my hands back. (Don’t tell my son, but I’m typing without my braces. Take an aspirin and every finger does its job, mostly.) Finally, we come to The Tremeloes with “Suddenly You Love Me.” When you look up the lyrics online, there’s a problem. At the end the second, third and fourth verses there is the line Suddenly you love me and I know I’ve gotta stay. However when I listen to the song I hear at the end of those verses Suddenly you love me and I know I’ve gotta say/die-die-die/die-die-die/die-die-die/die-die-die. The online lyric sites completely ignore the die-die-die parts as if they do not exist, they do not know what is being said, or can’t imagine such a line occurring in a popular song. Unfortunately, when you listen to the whole song you can’t tell whether they’re sing die-die-die or quite possibly bye-bye-bye. Die or bye, whatever it is it is there and is completely ignored by the lyrics transcribers. Whatever is being said, it is being said by a frustrated lover whose girlfriend is running around on him. She’s worthless, but every time he tries to breakup with her, she “open her arms and suddenly loves only him.” Die or bye they both work in the context of the song.

Rambo, my son’s GSD (as distinguished from an original German shepherd; you know, the dude or dudette (Mary, Mary, quite contrary . . .) with a long stick with a crook on the end, maybe a large long-haired white dog who thinks it’s a sheep, and a flock of medium sized white or black woolies), has a very faint whine that I cannot hear even when it’s close, but my son can when the dog is across the room! N____ has super-sensitive hearing; so bad that I’m on the other side of the living room at the computer and he can hear the music coming out of my ear buds when they are lying on the desk. I’m close and I can’t hear them, but he can. I only took them off because he was staring at me. You know that kind of stare. Well, anyway, N____ has this talent, he claims, from not toasting his hearing apparatus when a teenager. He listened to soft music on the radio; soft so as to not bother his mother who sent him to his room because as he has told me, she was a mean bitch when he was growing up, especially when I was at work. Nice! I wish he’d get some glasses because his vision is atrocious; he simply can’t see. He couldn’t see as a child, but we were so poor and, therefore, didn’t have vision care until he was in second grade. We wouldn't have then, but his teacher sent a note home. He wore glasses until he found out only wussies wore those things. Now, he has very good vision care, but refuses to get glasses even though he admits to not being able to see worth a shit. It is strange, though, that he has extraordinary night vision. He takes Rambo out for walks at night and generally doesn’t take anything to aid his poor vision. He does have a small LCD lantern that he will use sometimes, but Rambo (who we swear thinks he’s a cat, for reasons to be explained sometime later) likes to chase the light beams and tugs at the leash. N____ says we should make Rambo a backyard dog, but he keeps taking him out at night when he gets home from work, as he did before we decided to start keeping him in the backyard. Nearly 39 years old and still acts like the kid he used to be. Or am I just getting to old to care? I’d like to walk Rambo when we’re alone while N_____ is at work, but Rambo is too strong for me and has pulled me to my knees on more than one occasion. I take him out to the backyard to do his business, but he stills wants to go out the front door, which we (at least me and the dog) can’t use because the front deck is gone. As a result of my fall on September 28, my son decided it was time to install a ramp that he says I will need in my old age (he’s like that). So I trip over my own feet, that certainly isn’t a federal crime (or, is it?). (Did you hear about the strange Medicare law that says if there isn’t a COLA increase in Social Security the premium for Medicare goes up? Nice ol’ federal government treating old people with such niceties.) Anyways, he’s removed the front deck to be replaced by my son’s childhood friends R_____ and B_____. It’ll be smaller because it’s just going to be a front porch with the ramp attached. My son wants room to park his Crown Vic (police interceptor), but if he does that, I showed him the ramp will go over the septic tank. He said, “No, no, no, there’s plenty of room.” I informed him that the ramp needs to be wide in case I’m forced to use a walker (or, heaven forbid a scooter). I haven’t told him yet he should go down to city hall and check with the building department about handicap ramps. If he doesn’t, he’ll run the risk of a stop work order. Plus, having read instructions on a number of sites and watched a YouTube vid of how to build a ramp, he needs to check with the building department for local specs, anyway. So much for news from the home front (door). . . .

Started to read a new book, sample sentence follows. They were like the faces of sleepwalkers looking backward across nightmares, recognizing no one and no familiar things, glaring down across the fleeing irrevocable instant as if they were being hurried to execution itself, flashing on, rapid and successive and curiously identical, not despite the fact that each had an individuality and a name, but because of it; identical not because of an identical doom, but because each carried into that mutual doom a name and an individuality, and that most complete privacy of all: the capacity for that solitude in which every man has to die,—flashing on as if they had no part nor interest in, and were not even aware of, the violence and speed with which or in which they rigidly moved, like phantoms or apparitions or perhaps figures cut without depth from tin or cardboard and snatched in violent repetition across a stage set for a pantomime of anguish and fatality. Yes, William Faulkner; this time offering A Fable, winner of the 1955 Pulitzer for Fiction. Actually, Faulkner is one of my favorite authors, since being introduced by Oprah’s Book Club: Summer of Faulkner: As I Lay Dying (very, very good)/The Sound and the Fury (have read twice)/Light in August (need to read again) in 2005. For the past year or so I’ve been reading as many of the Pulitzer prize winners as I could find, beginning with the very first, His Family, by Ernest Poole, winning in 1918 (good read) (interesting last chapter). For the prizes 1980 and later, I’ll try to read the listed almost winners, too. Oh wait, don't they call those the short list? Just being nice I guess in this age when everybody gets a trophy. On a side note, I broke the D string on my electric guitar when trying to tune it. It got horribly out of tune from not being played for over a month. Bipolar is such a drag, it gets into unwanted places in your life at the worst times. My son says he’s going to restring and tune it. Says he saw guitar players on the band he worked as a roadie for tune their guitars, so he can tune mine, too. In so many ways I fail to believe him, but he’s taking 40 mg of Prozac to control his anger and says that will help. Good thing I have a service contract on the guitar, might have to use it if he breaks the neck, which I’m lucky I didn’t. You know, I could just use my acoustic until he gets the electric fixed. Nah, that would mean having to switch things around in my room, which the bipolar might get in the way of. It certainly feels that way just thinking about it.

My first creative writing instructor (who was truly one of those great people in a person's life) introduced me to Checkov's Gun and I have carried it with me ever since.

Thank you for helping in this tragic problem in America. Having been thru my own period of homelessness in 2011, I know how much these men appreciated the help you provided in their time of need. Thank you, again.

WARNING: This article contains crud humor. If you have not read The Atlantic online article, “The Coddling of the American Mind”, or if you do not enjoy crud humor, please leave now. You have been warned! On Monday afternoon I tripped coming up the stairs to the front deck resulting in a full header onto the deck. I have a hard lump on my left eyebrow, a colorful left eyelid and surrounding tissue, and, to make matters worse, both wrists are seriously sprained. When my son came home from work early and saw my predicament, he went back out to find two wrist braces and some ACE bandages. At Rite Aid he found a stack of ACE (the best) wrist braces, unfortunately all for right hands, no lefts in the store. I’m sure they were very apologetic, but why all rights? I can’t get it through my mind why they wouldn’t stock a few lefts. It just doesn’t make a bit of sense. He ended up going to Walmart where he found an ambidextrous brace. Its okay but a little too small, okay, a whole lot too small. It claims to be Large/X-Large. It feels more like a Medium. (I think of small handed workers in some foreign factory unable to imagine how Americans can have such large/x-large hands, so they make the braces a scosh too small to fit their hands. Warning: My mind comes up with the damnedest shit.) Yesterday on his way to work he went to Bartells and found a leftie, which does the trick. I suppose the worst of it is that my typing speed has dropped to at least under 5 wpm; single fingers (mostly the FUs on each hand) though sometimes I catch myself using the others, but I can’t do that consciously, they just have to do it on their own, making a plethora (didn't think I'd use it, did you?) of typos as they go along. Sheesh! In this/last month’s Smithsonian magazine there is an article by A. E. Hoetchner about his close friend Ernest Hemingway (I recommend it if you’re a fan of Hemingway. Even if you’re not, I recommend it anyway. Well written stuff is good to read, even if you don’t particularly like the subject.) Anyways, the article eventually gets down to Hemingway’s WW I novel A Farewell to Arms. A dark corner of my mind kicks in, interrupting the program. It brings up a picture of a hospital ward in some armed conflict (not unlike the hospital where Rock Hudson found himself in the movie of the same name). The ward is filled with soldiers who have lost their arms. Okay! Okay! I told my mind is dangerous. Its not funny, honest its not meant to be funny, but your (and mine) mind can’t stop your lips from going into, at the minimum, an uproaring giggle. If someone asks, just say they wouldn’t understand. Full guffaws are excused in advance.

Back in the '90s, we were given two kittens (boys) who were about two weeks old. And yes they were picky about how they were held when feeding. Unfortunately, the long hair (Sebastian) had a need for nipples once they went on regular food. Luckily, his brother, Lefty, had something that could substitute. Lefty really, really liked having Sebastian's head buried between his back legs. My wife had a fit whenever she caught them doing that. (Something about cats imitating gay men.) I thought it was very funny and eventually they grew out of it.

Went to see the psychiatrist today. It was going like a normal appointment until I brought up the hallucinations I’ve been having. We’ve (and my previous shrink) discussed them in times past, but recently they’re manifesting themselves more frequently. We discussed if I felt this was due to one of the many meds I take. After we talked for a good while she asked if I ever had a Parkinsonism examine, which I haven’t. On the paper test I scored 21 out of 26, not good, but at least not too bad either. The physical part was okay, I guess. She’s giving me a new antipsychotic which should help with the memory problems and the hallucinations. Of course, being only 66 I shouldn’t be having issues like this, but sometimes it’s good to start checking mental issues considering I am Type I Bipolar which requires a host of meds that may cause either Parkinsonism or other mental issues. It might just be related to the med I take for Essential tremor in my hands; but she’s taking me off that because of the mental issues it causes. I’ve started working on the next chapter in the lives of Carlos and Stefan. It takes place somewhere in their future. Oh, there is one change in my life. I’ve jumped on the wagon. Going through two bottles of Tequila in 5 or 6 days is not good. At least the shrink thought it was a good thing. The deal is, my son said he’d give up the ale he was drinking (sometimes a whole six-pack in one sitting), if I’d cut out the booze. Good idea, but he’s still smoking marijuana and electronic cigarettes. Seems like cheating to me, after all his doc put him on Prozac to manage his anger. Oh well, can’t have everything. Oh, yeah, two more changes around here. I’ve taken up the guitar. I was taking lessons, but I can’t drive anymore due to a worsening of the bipolar situation. I can’t drive on the hi-way anymore because of a worsening short attention span. Scared my son so, so, so bad; scared me, too.

Thank you for the review. That said, I don't think there will (ever) be a rewrite or heavy edit. I'm not the best writer around here, but I do my best. Also, I write stories for my own entertainment. This story was my first attempt to write a story without any mention of sex (gay or otherwise). I think I've accomplished that. Without giving away too much, it's important to remember the bots are running the show and the two boys are very special to the future of bots and humans. Will I rewrite it? No, I don't think so. Once a story is cast there is little enthusiasm to redo it; and, per Cyril Connolly, Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self."

Hercules III Chapter 10 “They will not let you leave,” the bot said. “There is a lot of static in here, Carlos,” Stefan said. “It’s almost like all of the speeders are on and waiting to be occupied.” “Yeah, well, we’re here so we might as well take one and leave,” Carlos said. “All of these speeders are assigned to Security,” the bot said. “They will see you stealing a speeder.” “How about you take it and we’ll go along, too,” Stefan said. “That way we get away without killing too many

Sean sounds like a good friend. In the beginning I thought Arty was going to be a very good acoustic friend and was, until I was no longer able to drive him to the music school. I knew I would have to find a new friend, maybe one with an amp attached, while meeting my continued needs with strum and pick. When Arty acted up around my new friend Aaron he had to be put into the case. (At night when the house is very quiet, I can hear him scratching to get out.) Andy wants to be a very, very good friend even if it might have a strange condition because his G string refuses to allow me to make it act in tune. No matter what I try, the G string acts as if it's the D or B strings.

Thomis, thank you for the review.

Screwed again, I hate oatmeal.

Hercules III Chapter 9 “What’re you doing now?” Carlos asked as he walked into the ship’s clock monitoring room. Stefan looked up as if he’d been interrupted from some really important task. He shrugged and said, “Now that we have all this extra time since the mainframe took over our education processes, I thought I’d come down and exercise my super dimensional extrasensory perception.” “You’ve been paying attention in our classes, haven’t you?” Carlos asked with a sour face. “Now I suppo

Earlier today I went to check out any recent reviews of my current long story (Hercules III), but there weren’t any and then I started looking at the slow ebbing of the number of readers. Oh well, if there isn’t anyone reading, how can I wonder why there are no reviews. And, then I remembered a writer saying something about writing for yourself. Wiki to the rescue. I thought it was Elmore Leonard saying that, but Wiki came up with someone else. It seems Cyril Connolly (a critic) said: Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self. The New Statesman (1933-02-25). (If you’re interested, go to his Wiki page and find out who and what.) (As an aside Elmore Leonard (he has a Wiki page, too) came up with: Never open a book with weather. Avoid prologues. Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue. Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said”…he admonished gravely. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose. Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose." Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters. Don't go into great detail describing places and things. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. My most important rule is one that sums up the 10. If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. * Excerpted from the New York Times article, “Easy on the Adverbs, Exclamation Points and Especially Hooptedoodle” ) And, so, I shall no longer be concerned there are fewer and fewer readers and hardly any reviews, even if they’re constructive criticism, which I rarely receive (I can’t be that good.) (see, Renee Stevens blog entry November 18, 2014, Constructive Criticism: Part 1)

Hercules III Chapter 8 “What are you doing? That’s not part of our responsibilities, we kill bots and a few humans, that’s all,” Carlos said, while Stefan was fiddling with the frequency adjustment knob on the yellow jumper. There was a holographic image slowly rotating in front of them showing two young men in a slow dance to unheard music. They weren’t on tape, this was a live performance, but neither of the performers knew they were being imaged by a circle of colorless broad lasers in t

On Thursday, last week, I had to have a little surgery on two empty places that'll be filled with implants. When they were setting up the appointment, they offered me a trip to the operating room where I would not feel a thing. Didn't either! The other option was two hours in a dentist's chair as they injected more happy juice because I was feeling the sharp thingy. Didn't feel a sharp thingy. Didn't feel a thing. They sent me home with happy pills and I've been quite happy since being with a dentist.

I was listening to Aker Bilk while watching America’s Test Kitchen, but Bilk had to wait. I can usually multitask, but not with watching television without my glasses on. I’m fairly good without the glasses as long as I’m doing something no more than an arm’s length away; then I’m in the range for the glasses. I just filled an 8 oz. drink glass with probably a little over one-third of Aberlour (a very good Speyside Scotch); and, now I’m wondering if I should continue drinking Scotch or go back to the IPA (Inversion from Deschutes Brewery in Bend, Oregon). . . . and, yes, I’m close to the stupid suicide thoughts, again. I wish they would just go away. I know how writers and some of their fiction characters commit suicide, but I’m deathly (what a coincidence) afraid of drowning. Robin Williams took the easy way out. (I’ve thought about that means to the desired end.) I suppose I should call the suicide number, after all the number is on my contact list, or I could call the new psychiatrist at the clinic. (I guess she’s a she, which shouldn’t matter since my PC is a woman too.) The dog just crawled out of his box and probably wants me to take him outside to do whatever he needs, but I’m not in the mood. Besides, there are wild animals out there who might have a taste of dog or maybe human. Some cougars do not have any qualms about attacking either dogs or humans, (They usually don’t think things out because attacking a human will result in people with guns and dogs tracking it to a place to give it a needle in the ass or a bullet if they are truly bad). plus they’re hard to see in the dark; then, there are black bears who might be interested in one more kill before they den up for hibernation. Quite possibly (the dog thinks) it can wait for my son to come home from work. He craps at the most inopportune times (Especially, when it’s dark and I can’t see the turds to pick up; and, no I can’t use a flashlight because he thinks it’s a toy, just like a cat.) and does everything when my son comes home about 11:15, anyway. I know, I’m a jerk, but I’ve always had the strangest experiences out in the dark (also, I avoid swimming in rivers or lakes because there things, beasty things, who enjoy the taste of humans who are swimming in those places (I’ve read that Native Americans don’t swim in lakes either for the same reason.) Son’s home and he took Rambo out for a pee and poop. Time to go.

Well, it's like this. In the beginning of Hercules III I said the story is for "everyone". I've tried to keep to that commitment, but now in the start I'm faced with this sentence: There was a holographic image slowly rotating in front of them showing two naked young men in a close, slow dance barely mimicking sexual intimacy. Okay! Okay. . . Yes, there is implied sex, but is it too much sex, considering "everyone" might say visual sex is still sex. Does futuristic pornography meet the requirements of no sex? After all, porn does titilate the grungier side of the mind, possibly to the point of no return when orgasmic relief needs to be satisfied. I have watered down the sentence to the point where any further cleaning will erase the sentence and, most likely, the whole paragraph where it resides. Frankly, I'm going to run with it unless someone confronts me on the street in the steamier part of town (you know where) and says porn titilates the mind too much. So much, in fact, that certain parts of the body are stimulated into compromising situations. ******* Chapter 8 of Hercules III is progressing at a slow rate. I'm not awakened at night needing relief from the story bouncing around in my mind. Those nights are long past. Mostly, it's the anti-pyschosis medicine that's doing most of the dirty work. My attention span is so bad sometimes I lose the end of a sentence I'm creating. I'll remember I'm supposed to take my afternoon anti-depressant, but after a few minutes I'll forget it, sometimes until after dinner. I have trouble conversing with anyone because I lose interest and return to a program on the television. My son helps alot (whether he knows it or not) by earnestly carrying a conversation that interests me, but still it only takes a moment and I'm off on some other track, totally forgetting what he asks or says. Driving is a hazard because I lose concentration on the car ahead and catch myself getting too close. At least I haven't gotten to the point where I can't drive at all. That scares me because we're so far out, it's nearly twenty miles to a town that has everything (three grocery stores, three BECU ATMs, a Rite Aid, a Lowes, and a hospital). There is a bus, but I have to walk a mile and a half to catch it; sunny days are okay, but raining days are not.