I'm writing a story 140 words at a time and posting the results here
daily. Can I sustain interest? Will I lose the narrative thread? Find
out in this next installment of Bullets Ain't Cheap
with cash, using a debit card would only leave a trail I knew for a fact Telrik could follow. I walked back to the bolt-hole the long way around, stopping every minute or so to scan for a tail. Either Telrik operatives had completely changed the way they operated, or I had given them the slip.
The tiny room sat at the top of narrow stairs and looked out over a rooftop. One set of windows opened onto a fire escape, the other was within reach of a solid brass drain pipe. I never stayed in places that had only one way out.
Kelly was sitting on the second-hand couch, the remains of a take-out sandwich on the table in front of him. He was eating as if the last food he ate was the last meal
Showing posts with label jet pack. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jet pack. Show all posts
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
And That's The Truth
Ping pong balls are filled with nerve toxin.
Santa Claus can't go back into Liechtenstein. He won't say why.
They actually make photocopiers strong enough to sit on because they know you're going to scan your own ass.
Trees are telepathic, they're just not mobile. So they know you're going to chop them down but they can't run away. It's a cruel evolutionary adaptation, but nobody said nature was kind, only efficient.
Most of what you text is complete nonsense. Same with Twitter.
Fire bad. No, wait, fire good.
Cameras do steal your soul, but only if it's a film camera. Digital cameras steal the photographer's soul.
Most UFOs are shaped like weather balloons. Helps them blend in.
Termites are not blind, they're faking it for the sympathy.
Every prison cell has a secret exit, you just have to be smart enough to find it.
In 200 years fashion designers are going to look back at 1980's leg warmers as the height of style.
When you stub your toe that's the Universe's way of telling you to pay more attention to where you're walking. And maybe to put on some shoes.
Everyone you've ever known and everyone you're ever going to meet will die. Except for Keith Richards.
Corporations are run by people who are less competent than you are, and who don't care enough about their jobs to do them well. But they're going to die like everyone else, so that's some consolation.
Winos rarely drink wine. At least not very good wine. Which is kind of the point, now that I think about it.
Santa Claus can't go back into Liechtenstein. He won't say why.
They actually make photocopiers strong enough to sit on because they know you're going to scan your own ass.
Trees are telepathic, they're just not mobile. So they know you're going to chop them down but they can't run away. It's a cruel evolutionary adaptation, but nobody said nature was kind, only efficient.
Most of what you text is complete nonsense. Same with Twitter.
Fire bad. No, wait, fire good.
Cameras do steal your soul, but only if it's a film camera. Digital cameras steal the photographer's soul.
Most UFOs are shaped like weather balloons. Helps them blend in.
Termites are not blind, they're faking it for the sympathy.
Every prison cell has a secret exit, you just have to be smart enough to find it.
In 200 years fashion designers are going to look back at 1980's leg warmers as the height of style.
When you stub your toe that's the Universe's way of telling you to pay more attention to where you're walking. And maybe to put on some shoes.
Everyone you've ever known and everyone you're ever going to meet will die. Except for Keith Richards.
Corporations are run by people who are less competent than you are, and who don't care enough about their jobs to do them well. But they're going to die like everyone else, so that's some consolation.
Winos rarely drink wine. At least not very good wine. Which is kind of the point, now that I think about it.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
If I Had A Robot...
We're through the first decade of the Twenty-First Century. Jeez... already... We're supposed to have flying cars and jet packs and friendly robots. So far, though, the only robots like the kind I expected are small and made by the Japanese, who no doubt have some sort of deviance planned for them. I want my robot, dammit.
If I had a robot:
He would have vacuum cleaners on his feet so that the carpets would always be clean. At least the spots where he walked.
He would have a semi-British accent, like he grew up in England but spent most of his life over here. He would pretend to drink tea at 4 PM.
He could fold himself up into a briefcase so I could take him into places where I wasn't supposed to have a robot. Of course it would be a four-hundred-pound briefcase, but I figure there'd be some sort of anti-gravity too.
On Fridays he would wear a Hawaiian shirt, because robots tend to get wacky on Fridays.
He'd have flame throwers. In his arms or out his butt, I haven't decided yet.
He'd have more book learning than me, kind of like a walking Wikipedia, but he would lack human compassion and creativity.
He'd tell his robot friends about how great his boss - me - was. His robot friends would be so jealous they would all scheme ways to become my robot, and have misadventures as a result. Like a robot Three's Company.
If I fell asleep at my desk or on the couch he'd carry me to my bed and tuck me in. Because robots are strong and he would be able to lift me easily.
I would tell him what to buy at the grocery store and he'd do the shopping on his own. He'd get exactly what I tell him but he'd always bring back something new for me to try. Which I probably wouldn't like, because robots don't understand taste, but still, it's the thought that counts.
I could get on his shoulders and ride him on errands around town. People would wave at me like was in the Rose Parade.
When we played poker he'd always let me win.
If I had a robot:
He would have vacuum cleaners on his feet so that the carpets would always be clean. At least the spots where he walked.
He would have a semi-British accent, like he grew up in England but spent most of his life over here. He would pretend to drink tea at 4 PM.
He could fold himself up into a briefcase so I could take him into places where I wasn't supposed to have a robot. Of course it would be a four-hundred-pound briefcase, but I figure there'd be some sort of anti-gravity too.
On Fridays he would wear a Hawaiian shirt, because robots tend to get wacky on Fridays.
He'd have flame throwers. In his arms or out his butt, I haven't decided yet.
He'd have more book learning than me, kind of like a walking Wikipedia, but he would lack human compassion and creativity.
He'd tell his robot friends about how great his boss - me - was. His robot friends would be so jealous they would all scheme ways to become my robot, and have misadventures as a result. Like a robot Three's Company.
If I fell asleep at my desk or on the couch he'd carry me to my bed and tuck me in. Because robots are strong and he would be able to lift me easily.
I would tell him what to buy at the grocery store and he'd do the shopping on his own. He'd get exactly what I tell him but he'd always bring back something new for me to try. Which I probably wouldn't like, because robots don't understand taste, but still, it's the thought that counts.
I could get on his shoulders and ride him on errands around town. People would wave at me like was in the Rose Parade.
When we played poker he'd always let me win.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
A Caveman Walks Into A Bar
Hey there, buddy, nice sabre-toothed tiger.
It not alive, now it coat.
I can see. Very snappy. What'll you have?
Fermented goat's milk.
Sorry, fresh out.
Maybe have steppe berry in spring water?
Never heard of it.
Then light beer.
I'm Harvey.
Me Og.
Good to meet you, Og. What brings a man like you into a place like this?
Me feeling lonely. Me last of kind.
No wonder you need company.
They all gone. Friends, family, even enemies. Gone like mastadon. Never come back.
Here's your beer.
Me left alone with newspaper.
You read newspapers?
What left of them. Me think Garfield funny, him like sabre-tooth who eat lasagna.
You could just read that online.
No have internet. Og still use rotary telephone.
Rotary? Jeez...
No have computer either.
What? Seriously?
Me think typewriter just fine. It work for Hemingway, it work for Og too.
Holy crap. I'm guessing you don't have a cell phone?
Me not need electronic leash. Me free like eagle.
What do you drive, an AMC Javelin?
Me love planet so me take public transportation.
Well, whatever floats your boat.
Me not like boats. Og no swim.
You're really dedicated to the lifestyle.
It not choice, Og born this way.
So you've never heard of Facebook, Twitter, YouTube?
Og not ignorant, Og just not interested in following herd. Unless herd is tasty bison, then Og all over that action.
Maybe you could re-think your position on this. Because you're gonna get left behind. Further than you already are, I mean.
Hey, you not Og's mother. Or therapist. Leave Og to drown sorrows and eat bowls of pretzels.
All right. But you should know barflies are a dying breed too.
Og want you to shut up now.
It not alive, now it coat.
I can see. Very snappy. What'll you have?
Fermented goat's milk.
Sorry, fresh out.
Maybe have steppe berry in spring water?
Never heard of it.
Then light beer.
I'm Harvey.
Me Og.
Good to meet you, Og. What brings a man like you into a place like this?
Me feeling lonely. Me last of kind.
No wonder you need company.
They all gone. Friends, family, even enemies. Gone like mastadon. Never come back.
Here's your beer.
Me left alone with newspaper.
You read newspapers?
What left of them. Me think Garfield funny, him like sabre-tooth who eat lasagna.
You could just read that online.
No have internet. Og still use rotary telephone.
Rotary? Jeez...
No have computer either.
What? Seriously?
Me think typewriter just fine. It work for Hemingway, it work for Og too.
Holy crap. I'm guessing you don't have a cell phone?
Me not need electronic leash. Me free like eagle.
What do you drive, an AMC Javelin?
Me love planet so me take public transportation.
Well, whatever floats your boat.
Me not like boats. Og no swim.
You're really dedicated to the lifestyle.
It not choice, Og born this way.
So you've never heard of Facebook, Twitter, YouTube?
Og not ignorant, Og just not interested in following herd. Unless herd is tasty bison, then Og all over that action.
Maybe you could re-think your position on this. Because you're gonna get left behind. Further than you already are, I mean.
Hey, you not Og's mother. Or therapist. Leave Og to drown sorrows and eat bowls of pretzels.
All right. But you should know barflies are a dying breed too.
Og want you to shut up now.
Monday, September 20, 2010
My Brain Is Not Flying
You ever have one of those days where your mind is just vibrating with thoughts, random notions firing left, right and center, all kinds of new things filling your brain and pushing each other around until you just can't stand it and you have to take a moment and write it all down?
I haven't. Not for a while now, anyway.
I'm not sure what the deal is – I'm blaming work but it could be almost anything – but I haven't had a good brainstorming day in a very long time. And it's kind of pissing me off.
Used to be I would get vapor-locked from time to time, where the ideas I knew were up in my gray matter wouldn't make their way down to my fingers so I could write them down or type them out. I don't believe in writer's block, but I do believe that you can get so wrapped around the axle and concerned about other things that you kind of forget how to remember, if that make any sense. Usually when that sort of thing happened to me I would go do yard work, or take a walk, or something else physical and mindless, to unlatch my brain from whatever was holding it down and let it soar free.
Without fail I would be trudging behind the lawn mower or swimming laps in the pool and I could almost hear the 'pop' as whatever was blocking the flow dislodged. Then I'd have a different problem, trying to remember all these new things when there was nothing nearby to write with or to write on. Still, I'd gotten my creativity back to where it needed to be.
My brain's not flying lately. Not that I'm doing bad work – I think I'm probably a better writer at this moment than ever – but with long experience has come a routine. I get in my hour or two a day with more on the weekends, write and revise, and keep the creative process going. But I don't have leaps any longer, no frantic flashes of brilliant inspiration or hours-long marathons of pencil-breaking creativity. I think I manage the creative process better, but I also manage it without passion.
I gotta fix that.
I need to unleash my brain again, to let it run wild and wherever it wants with me clinging to it like a terrified rider, wondering where and when the mad dash is going to be over and hoping I don't get hurt in the process. Or maybe hoping I do, whatever brings better results.
I haven't. Not for a while now, anyway.
I'm not sure what the deal is – I'm blaming work but it could be almost anything – but I haven't had a good brainstorming day in a very long time. And it's kind of pissing me off.
Used to be I would get vapor-locked from time to time, where the ideas I knew were up in my gray matter wouldn't make their way down to my fingers so I could write them down or type them out. I don't believe in writer's block, but I do believe that you can get so wrapped around the axle and concerned about other things that you kind of forget how to remember, if that make any sense. Usually when that sort of thing happened to me I would go do yard work, or take a walk, or something else physical and mindless, to unlatch my brain from whatever was holding it down and let it soar free.
Without fail I would be trudging behind the lawn mower or swimming laps in the pool and I could almost hear the 'pop' as whatever was blocking the flow dislodged. Then I'd have a different problem, trying to remember all these new things when there was nothing nearby to write with or to write on. Still, I'd gotten my creativity back to where it needed to be.
My brain's not flying lately. Not that I'm doing bad work – I think I'm probably a better writer at this moment than ever – but with long experience has come a routine. I get in my hour or two a day with more on the weekends, write and revise, and keep the creative process going. But I don't have leaps any longer, no frantic flashes of brilliant inspiration or hours-long marathons of pencil-breaking creativity. I think I manage the creative process better, but I also manage it without passion.
I gotta fix that.
I need to unleash my brain again, to let it run wild and wherever it wants with me clinging to it like a terrified rider, wondering where and when the mad dash is going to be over and hoping I don't get hurt in the process. Or maybe hoping I do, whatever brings better results.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Ancestral Judgement
Like most Americans, I'm kind of a Heinz 57 of nationalities. I'm for sure Irish and German and English, with probably a little bit of French thrown in somewhere back in the woodpile (yeah, I know...). Parts of my family came over to America centuries back, while other parts came in the most recent European mass migration about 100 years ago. These were men and women who gave up everything - literally - to make a new life. Some succeeded and some, no doubt, could have made a better go of it. But thinking about all these people, this huge unbroken line of hopes and dreams and aspirations and disappointments and tragedies that led to me being right here, right now prompted one question.
What would my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather have thought about me?
This is the guy about 160 years back, with my surname, who first decided he wanted to leave the coal mines or tin mines or chimney sweep academy or whatever terrible situation he endured in England and get on a leaky ship to cross the Atlantic packed in steerage with a bunch of his dentally-challenged countrymen. Whether he leapt at the opportunity the first he heard of it or whether he thought about it for a long time before boarding the boat, the fact remains that he did it. He took the gamble, he rolled the dice. He committed.
He was almost certainly less educated than I am - they didn't know about galaxies or germs or Keynsian economics 160 years ago - but he was arguably far more courageous. So he wins that one. Which would you rather have in your family tree, a bookworm or someone who actually did something?
Chances are good my modest apartment would seem like a palace to him, with its refrigerator, central air, and large flat-screen TV. And my truck would be a marvel. The internet and e-mail might seem like miracles, or wishes granted by a genie in a lamp. So I'm ahead of him there.
But what would he think of the way I make my living? Would he think his time in the tin mines had been a vacation in comparison? And with all the opportunities in my world that he didn't have in his, would he wonder why I didn't take the same chances he did? Would he be proud of me or would he be utterly disappointed that I had squandered the gift he'd risked everything to give his descendants? Would he even like me or would he want to kick my ass? Because as tough as I am, that guy could still probably mop the floor with me.
I think I have an obligation I'm not fulfilling to that guy. I have a responsibility to live up to my potential to prove to him that getting on the ship was the right thing to do.
What would my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather have thought about me?
This is the guy about 160 years back, with my surname, who first decided he wanted to leave the coal mines or tin mines or chimney sweep academy or whatever terrible situation he endured in England and get on a leaky ship to cross the Atlantic packed in steerage with a bunch of his dentally-challenged countrymen. Whether he leapt at the opportunity the first he heard of it or whether he thought about it for a long time before boarding the boat, the fact remains that he did it. He took the gamble, he rolled the dice. He committed.
He was almost certainly less educated than I am - they didn't know about galaxies or germs or Keynsian economics 160 years ago - but he was arguably far more courageous. So he wins that one. Which would you rather have in your family tree, a bookworm or someone who actually did something?
Chances are good my modest apartment would seem like a palace to him, with its refrigerator, central air, and large flat-screen TV. And my truck would be a marvel. The internet and e-mail might seem like miracles, or wishes granted by a genie in a lamp. So I'm ahead of him there.
But what would he think of the way I make my living? Would he think his time in the tin mines had been a vacation in comparison? And with all the opportunities in my world that he didn't have in his, would he wonder why I didn't take the same chances he did? Would he be proud of me or would he be utterly disappointed that I had squandered the gift he'd risked everything to give his descendants? Would he even like me or would he want to kick my ass? Because as tough as I am, that guy could still probably mop the floor with me.
I think I have an obligation I'm not fulfilling to that guy. I have a responsibility to live up to my potential to prove to him that getting on the ship was the right thing to do.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Way It Should Be
I'm home from work right now, I have to go in late because the EDD (California unemployment office) is calling 'between 10 AM and 12 PM' and I have to be home to take the call. Kind of like the cable guy except I don't have to let any suspicious characters into my apartment.
I gotta say, I've missed getting up when I feel like it and working on stuff that interests me. I got into a good rhythm with my writing over the past months of being 'between assignments' and it's nice to get back to it, even if it's only for a morning.
Right now I'm working on a proposal for a children's ABC book that would benefit animal charities by donating 51% of the authors' after-tax profits. In the hour and a half or so that I've been working on it today I've gotten more done than in the previous five or six days of after-hours struggle. Not working just works out better.
I was talking this over with a friend who is also 'between assignments' and we came to the conclusion that about 30 hours of work a week is good. Go in about 10 or 11 and get done about 4-ish. You really only have 4 or 5 good hours of work in you anyway, why waste the other 4 hours pretending to work while you surf the 'Net? Get in, do your thing, get the hell out, that's what I say. The old 8-hour (now 9- or 10-hour) work day is designed for factory production, three shifts of 8 hours each, for a round-the-clock factory cycle. People don't operate that way, we need to re-think this whole 'be absent from your homes and families for 10 hours a day' thing, it's a bunch of crap.
COMMUTE: there - haven't left yet back - haven't left yet.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 59 days
I gotta say, I've missed getting up when I feel like it and working on stuff that interests me. I got into a good rhythm with my writing over the past months of being 'between assignments' and it's nice to get back to it, even if it's only for a morning.
Right now I'm working on a proposal for a children's ABC book that would benefit animal charities by donating 51% of the authors' after-tax profits. In the hour and a half or so that I've been working on it today I've gotten more done than in the previous five or six days of after-hours struggle. Not working just works out better.
I was talking this over with a friend who is also 'between assignments' and we came to the conclusion that about 30 hours of work a week is good. Go in about 10 or 11 and get done about 4-ish. You really only have 4 or 5 good hours of work in you anyway, why waste the other 4 hours pretending to work while you surf the 'Net? Get in, do your thing, get the hell out, that's what I say. The old 8-hour (now 9- or 10-hour) work day is designed for factory production, three shifts of 8 hours each, for a round-the-clock factory cycle. People don't operate that way, we need to re-think this whole 'be absent from your homes and families for 10 hours a day' thing, it's a bunch of crap.
COMMUTE: there - haven't left yet back - haven't left yet.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 59 days
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Can You TP A Space Station?
In a few days there will be four women up in space. That's the largest number of women in orbit ever, and all of them are headed for the space station.
So which one of them is the mean girl? And which one is the target? You know it's gonna happen, whenever there are three women in the same room, two of them ostracize the third, and it gets even worse the more ladies there are. This is bound to hold true up in orbit, especially in the tight confines of a space shuttle or space station. And don't tell me I'm being sexist or perpetuating sterotypes, it's true and you know it. One of the four women astronauts is going to cry before it's all over, and wonder why the other three don't like her.
Maybe NASA will pipe down footage of the zero-g pillow fight they're going to have. I mean, seriously, isn't being on the space station like one freaky slumber party? They can get in their sleeping bags, pop popcorn and make cookies, play with a Ouija board, do each other's hair and talk about the boys back in Mission Control.
Okay, see? That was sexist, that last paragraph. I shouldn't have written that, I know. I feel ashamed. And ready for the YouTube footage of the pillow fight.
So which one of them is the mean girl? And which one is the target? You know it's gonna happen, whenever there are three women in the same room, two of them ostracize the third, and it gets even worse the more ladies there are. This is bound to hold true up in orbit, especially in the tight confines of a space shuttle or space station. And don't tell me I'm being sexist or perpetuating sterotypes, it's true and you know it. One of the four women astronauts is going to cry before it's all over, and wonder why the other three don't like her.
Maybe NASA will pipe down footage of the zero-g pillow fight they're going to have. I mean, seriously, isn't being on the space station like one freaky slumber party? They can get in their sleeping bags, pop popcorn and make cookies, play with a Ouija board, do each other's hair and talk about the boys back in Mission Control.
Okay, see? That was sexist, that last paragraph. I shouldn't have written that, I know. I feel ashamed. And ready for the YouTube footage of the pillow fight.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Tis The Season
I am extremely difficult to buy gifts for. I know this, and, honestly, it's partly by design. When people ask me what I want for my birthday or for Christmas I tell them 'I don't really want anything' and I truly don't. I don't need gifts, I don't need any more stuff because I already have too much. But gifts aren't really about the having, they're about the giving. What I really enjoy are gifts that show me someone took some time to think about me. My nieces are particularly good at finding absurd things they know I'll like, but other people have stepped up to the plate as well.
I prefer to remain an enigma, but this year I've decided not only to make a Christmas list, but to put it out there for everyone to see. Now no one can say I'm hard to buy for.
Dear Santa, please bring me:
A jet pack - one that fits me and can lift me, I want to sail over castle walls like James Bond.
A posse - anything that's good enough for Tupac is good enough for me.
A three-finger ring that spells out 'TCB' - if it's good enough for Elvis it's good enough for me.
A Sinatra breakfast - if you don't know what I mean, you aren't meant to. If you do know what I mean, then get busy, daddy-o.
TCR slotless slot cars - it's the one thing I really, really wanted for Christmas but never got.
Three wishes from a genie in a bottle. And I don't mean Christina Aguilera, what she's got I don't want. An alternative would be a monkey's paw that grants wishes, I'm not all that particular.
My '72 Chevelle, best car ever. Good luck with this one, I know where the engine is, and it's not with the body. And I'm pretty sure the body's now been recycled into a Weber grill.
The still-beating heart of Bill Gates. I'm not particularly mad at him, not anymore, but he still has a lot to answer for.
One good, solid punch in Alan Greenspan's face. I know, I know, he's old, but he's got a lot to answer for too. Bastard.
That one day in 1982 when my friends Jeff, Bob, and I were out in Jeff's front yard playing football in the rain. It's all been kind of downhill since then.
For the guys in charge of Google to come clean and admit they really are in it for the money just like every other corporate bastard. Time for the charade to end.
Leather shoelaces for my f**kin' boots. And not the square ones, those suck, the round ones, like what I have now. But not broken.
A chance to visit the 18-year-old me, to tell him what he did right and what he did wrong.
There you are, that's all I want. Some of it's gonna be hard to wrap.
I prefer to remain an enigma, but this year I've decided not only to make a Christmas list, but to put it out there for everyone to see. Now no one can say I'm hard to buy for.
Dear Santa, please bring me:
A jet pack - one that fits me and can lift me, I want to sail over castle walls like James Bond.
A posse - anything that's good enough for Tupac is good enough for me.
A three-finger ring that spells out 'TCB' - if it's good enough for Elvis it's good enough for me.
A Sinatra breakfast - if you don't know what I mean, you aren't meant to. If you do know what I mean, then get busy, daddy-o.
TCR slotless slot cars - it's the one thing I really, really wanted for Christmas but never got.
Three wishes from a genie in a bottle. And I don't mean Christina Aguilera, what she's got I don't want. An alternative would be a monkey's paw that grants wishes, I'm not all that particular.
My '72 Chevelle, best car ever. Good luck with this one, I know where the engine is, and it's not with the body. And I'm pretty sure the body's now been recycled into a Weber grill.
The still-beating heart of Bill Gates. I'm not particularly mad at him, not anymore, but he still has a lot to answer for.
One good, solid punch in Alan Greenspan's face. I know, I know, he's old, but he's got a lot to answer for too. Bastard.
That one day in 1982 when my friends Jeff, Bob, and I were out in Jeff's front yard playing football in the rain. It's all been kind of downhill since then.
For the guys in charge of Google to come clean and admit they really are in it for the money just like every other corporate bastard. Time for the charade to end.
Leather shoelaces for my f**kin' boots. And not the square ones, those suck, the round ones, like what I have now. But not broken.
A chance to visit the 18-year-old me, to tell him what he did right and what he did wrong.
There you are, that's all I want. Some of it's gonna be hard to wrap.
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