Celibate Sex

Will the real Republicans please stand up?

2012-01-17T16:54:00.000-08:00

Why do Republicans devalue intelligence? Republicans use the word “intellectual” as a pejorative. One of Newt Gingrich’s attack ads directed at Mitt Romney mocks him for speaking French in talking about the 2002 Winter Olympics held in Salt Lake City, for which the official language was French. In fact, Gingrich once said about himself, "I'm not a natural leader. I'm too intellectual; I'm too abstract; I think too much” (1995).

Republican attack ads against Elizabeth Warren in the Massachusetts senatorial race pitting her against Scott Brown refer to her disparagingly as, “Professor Warren.” Michele Bachmann in criticizing Barack Obama, mockingly called him “professorial.” Obama was editor of the Harvard Law Review and taught Constitutional Law at the University of Chicago.

Rick Santorum has accused Obama of “intellectual snobbery,” because of Obama's emphasis on getting a college education.

Michael Steele, former head of the RNC, mocked Jon Huntsman speaking Mandarin during a Republican debate saying, “I thought he was ordering takeout.”

Herman Cain bragged about not knowing who the president of ‘Uzbeki-beki-stan” (Uzbekistan) was, and blew off his complete brain freeze on Libya.

For Republicans, being college educated makes you an “elitist.” They equate being an intellectual with being a socialist. In response, some clever entrepreneur created a tee shirt sporting this on the front, "If you can read this, you're a socialist."

Someone who approaches a complicated problem, like going to war in Iraq, and has the audacity to change their mind, is a “flip-flopper.” George W. Bush famously made his decision to invade Iraq based on his “gut.” Then, in the face of overwhelming evidence that his rationale for war was dead wrong, stuck to his guns.

Is it all just a ruse to appeal to what the Republicans may see as their “stupid demographic” -- the Christian fundamentalists, the conspiracy theorists, the southern redneck -- or is this what Republicans have truly become? If the former, then let them have their craven fun and beat the hell out of them at the polls. If the latter, then, quoting one of our supposed heros, we must say to them, “You are pitiful, isolated individuals! You are bankrupts. Your role is played out. Go where you belong from now on—into the dustbin of history!”

2012

2012-01-09T16:27:00.000-08:00

Chapter 14: That was a good start
[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove found the morning news upsetting. The Wall Street Journal was reporting that employers had stepped up hiring in December, and unemployment had fell to its lowest level in two years. Job growth before the 2012 elections was anathema to Republicans; it hurt their argument that Obama was mishandling the economy. Rove immediately called Reinze Priebus; damned RNC needs to stay on top of this jobs thing, he mumbled, as he waited for his call to be answered.

“Hello?” Priebus answered, wondering who was calling him at 6:30 in the friggin morning.

Reinze, Karl here. Listen, have you seen the Wall Street Journal article this morning on jobs growth?”

Priebus, leaning forward to look in his bathroom mirror, scrunched up his face in a frown. He had a pimple forming right in the middle of his forehead. “No,” he said.

“They’re reporting something like two hundred thousand jobs added in December,” Rove said, an edge of anger in his voice. “Do you realize what jobs growth, any jobs growth, is going to do to our chances in 2012?”

“Well,--” Priebus began.

Rove cut him off. “We need to take a two-pronged approach to cutting this job growth off at the knees. Start ASAP with our Wall Street friends. If they want us to kill financial reform, they’re going to have to play ball on blunting this jobs growth thing. Then--”

“Wait a minute, Karl,” Priebus interrupted. “How does Wall Street blunt job growth?”

“Jesus, Reinze, think about it. Banks loan money for construction, don’t they? Venture capitalists buy into business start ups. All kinds of shit like that. Money, money, money, Reinze. Makes the world go around, remember?” Rove said.

“Ah, okay, yeah,” Priebus said. Rove had a way of insulting his intelligence that frosted his balls.

“Then we need to get with our big business contributors, the Koch brothers, our Texas contingent; Tillerson, Watson, those guys. Talk to API; the damned Petroleum Institute ought to be on board, for Christ’s sake,” Rove said, talking faster and more forcefully as he thought about it.

“What are we going to do, tell ‘em not to drill?” Priebus said, with a chuckle.

“Hell yes!” Rove answered. “They’ll get plenty of new leases when we elect a Republican president, and in the meantime, let’s see ‘em push gas prices up. That further depresses job growth. It’s all good,” Rove said.

“Okay, I’ll get on it,” Priebus said, without knowing exactly how.

“And while you’re at it, Reinze, talk to Boehner about any projects that our House members are pushing. Things like that Smart Grid project in Texas.”

“The 25th District,” Priebus said. “That’s Doggett. He’s sure as hell not gonna cooperate.”

“Well Doggett’s going to be out of a job as soon as C185 goes into effect,” Rove said. He was referring to the new redistricting plan that Governor Rick Perry had signed that gave the 25th a whole new geography. The Republican-controlled legislature had gerrymandered Texas congressional districts such that the growing minority vote was well diluted in predominantly Republican districts, with some districts taking on highly tortured shapes.

“We’ll see what happens in the Supreme Court,” Priebus said.

“Hey, George W took care of that for us,” Rove said. “The point is, find out which of Boehner’s House members have projects in their districts and have them put a hold on start up until after the election. We have got to do more to blunt job growth, Reinze,” Rove added.

“Well, we killed Obama’s jobs bill,” Priebus said.

“That was a good start,” Rove said, and ended the call.

____________________________________________________

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Merry Christmas

2011-12-24T22:14:00.000-08:00

Graben, Vienna, Austria

2012

2011-12-23T15:06:00.000-08:00

Chapter 13: Wish the Gipper were here
[Go to beginning]

“Bob? Hey, this is Karl. Rove. Yeah, fine, fine. Listen, what can we do to get that ad running on more local stations up there?” Karl Rove said, in a men’s room in Reagan National Airport, his voice bouncing around the tiled restroom. Rove had speed-dialed Maginn’s number and adjusted his Bluetooth device as he positioned himself at a urinal.

The sight of men talking to a wall in public restrooms had become so common that no one paid any attention.

Bob Maginn, was the new Chairman of the Massachusetts Republican Party, and Rove wanted to make sure he was on point for the Senate election between Scott Brown and Elizabeth Warren.

“Well, you know the ad is running, and we appreciate your PAC producing it and paying for airtime,” Maginn said.

“Yeah, but how about more airtime on that country station; what is it...?”

“WKLB,” Maginn said. “Well--”

“And boost the buy on talk radio, like WRKO,” Rove said. “And don’t worry about the money. We’ve got plenty.”

“Well, it’s not the money, so much. It’s just that we’re getting some push back about the nature of the ad,” Maginn said.

“What about it?” Rove said.

“Karl, the ad basically blames Warren for the TARP program, and everyone knows she’s on record as a strong advocate for financial reform. She actually criticized the Treasury for their handling of the--”

“Bob, Bob,” Rove tried to interrupt.

“...program when she was the Chair of the Congressional Oversight Committee. People aren’t buying it, and the radio stations don’t want their credibility damaged.”

Rove zipped his fly, grabbed his Roll-aboard, and exited the restroom talking. “People don’t know shit, Bob. I mean, come on. How many of those Bay Staters have a clue about what Warren really did in the government? Give me a break.”

“Yeah, well...,” Maginn said.

“We’re losing momentum as we speak, Bob,” Rove said.

“Yeah, okay, but we’ll need another infusion of cash, Karl. It helps to grease the skids on getting airtime, you know.”

“Yeah, money always helps radio station owners feel better about their credibility. Okay, no problem. And by the way, I suggested something to Buckley and haven’t heard anything back from him. Have him get in touch, will you?” Rove said, and ended the call.

Rove had suggested to the Massachusetts GOP’s Director of Communications, Tim Buckley, that he arrange for an anonymous direct mailing of something egregiously negative on Scott Brown, making it look like it came from Warren's campaign, and thereby making her campaign look bad. It was something Rove had done successfully in the past and this seemed a good time to try it again -- Warren had pulled slightly ahead of Brown in the latest polls.

Rove stood on the moving sidewalk and checked his BlackBerry for messages. Then he brought up Twitter and tweeted, “At #Reagan Int’l AP - wish the ‘Gipper’ were here.”

On the way to his boarding gate, Rove stopped at duty free and picked up two bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label to give as a Christmas present to a ‘Bush Pioneer’ he planned to hit up for another contribution. He handed the checker a previously used ticket to London and his passport, paid in cash, and included a little extra. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

___________________________________________________________________

2012

2011-12-21T12:03:00.000-08:00

The Ninety-Nine Percent Party
[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove rushed into the small meeting room and began to set things up for the meeting he had scheduled. Rove had been busy. His meeting with Buddy Roemer had set in motion the various actions needed to form the third party that Rove hoped would draw significant votes away from Obama in the 2012 Presidential Election. Rove had recruited a team of people to infiltrate the Occupy Wall Street movement and, having established their bone-fides, file the necessary paperwork and pay the fees required for third party registration.

Rove’s deep pockets donors had ponied up all the money needed to pay Rove’s infiltration team, pay filing fees, and pay for getting people registered in the new party. This would take a lot of door-to-door, and shopping mall-to-shopping mall legwork and Rove already had people out doing it. It was all about money, and Rove had more ‘Bush Pioneers’ ready, willing, and able to contribute. In addition, Rove had already drafted a party platform and it was in Buddy Roemer’s hands for review. Rove had stressed to Roemer that the draft be kept “Close hold -- your eyes only.”

Rove was spending the morning conducting a brainstorming session with a few of his confidants to come up with a name for the new party. The meeting participants straggled in carrying cups of Starbuck's coffee. It was a good thing, because Rove hadn't had time to arrange 'refreshments.'

Rove thanked everyone for coming and then said, "Grab a seat anywhere. Let's get right into this. I have another meeting this morning."

Rove explained the rules for brainstorming, which he felt anyone used to this sort of exercise should know, but still. After a little prompting, ideas started to come fast and furious. Some of the participants seemed to get carried away proposing names like, America’s Party, Patriot Party, and so on, forgetting apparently, that the Occupy Wall Street party, whatever they called it, had to have a socialist flavor.

The idea was to de-emphasize traditional American entrepreneurial values. Rove had stopped writing proposed names on the electronic white board and reiterated the theme he was after. Finally this sunk in and the group started coming up with more appropriate names, like Citizen’s Party, American Socialist Party, People’s Party, Worker’s Party, and Labor Party, all of which, Rove had to point out, had already been used at one time or another.

One of the participants said, “We could name the party after an animal, like the Bull Moose Party.”

“Yeah, only we should call it the Bull Shit Party, said another man, whom Rove had brought in from the DCI Group. This guy was named John Murphy. Rove called him, ‘Murph,’ a tendency to use a shortened version of a person’s last name that he’d picked up from George W. Bush. Murph had a perpetual smirk on his face that along with his comb-over hair made him look like a standup comedian. But he was about as funny as a heart attack. He was meeting with Rove after the brainstorming session to discuss the ‘metrics’ that Rove was seeking on congressional house and senate elections.

“The name, Bull Moose Party, was just a kind of catch phrase used for Teddy Roosevelt’s Progressive Party,” Rove said. “But coming up with a name like that isn’t a bad idea.”

“What about just calling it the Occupy Party?” one of brainstormers suggested.

“Sounds like we’re talking about American troops in Iraq,” Chris Burgess said.

Rove frowned, despite his explanation of how brainstorming was supposed to work, no one could refrain from criticizing the ideas of others. And Burgess was one of the most negative people Rove knew. He had him in the session to stroke his ego; Burgess had a lot of money, which he’d made perfecting methods of anonymous spamming, SPAM filter avoidance measures, and botnets that surreptitiously collected data from targeted computers.

“How about the Ninety-Nine Percent Party?” Giles Jeter said.

“Ninety-nine percent of what?” said Burgess.

Rove ignored Burgess and wrote down the suggestion on the white board. “Okay, we’ve got enough to go on,” Rove announced, hitting the print button on the white board. “Thanks for all your help. I’ll throw these at Buddy and we’ll see what sticks.”

As meeting participants filed out of the room, Rove walked over to John Murphy and handed him the white board printout. "Murph, see that your guy...what's his name..., Chris or Chip something, registers domain names for all of these. And have him register for dot com and dot org," Rove said.

Rove was aware of the problem that Rick Perry and some other Republican candidates had when they failed to stake their claim to a domain name and found supporters or potential supporters being redirected to the web sites of other candidates, advertising, or even pornography. Potential Democratic voters had to take the new third party seriously, if they were to be lured away from the primary Democratic ticket.

"Okay, Murph, outline what your guys have come up with on the metrics," Rove said, looking down at his BlackBerry to check messages.

"Yeah, so we've got credit card purchases, cell phone records, mortgage reports, that kinda crap, and we hacked into that VoteBuilder data--"

"I don't want to know how you got your data," Rove said.

"Right," Murphy said, drawing out the word to indicate he understood Rove's need for deniability. "So, we have data on Democratic voters, you know, stuff like name, address, phone number--"

"Do you have ethnicity, age, employment?" Rove asked.

"Oh yeah, Murphy said. "We know whether they're massage therapists or welders, whether they hunt or bird watch, what charities they donate to, their arrest records, all that stuff."

"Good, good," Rove said.

Murphy went on to described the analyses that DCI was producing to help Rove's American Crossroads PAC target potential Democratic voters who might be persuaded to swing over to an Occupy Wall Street third party. "Hey, we're using social network analysis, and some kind of visualization software that--"

"Yeah, well that's nice," Rove said. "But what I really want to know is when I can get my hands on the results."

"I'll check with Chip, but I think we can get most of it to you this week," Murphy said.

Rove was texting, and didn't respond.

_________________________________________________________________

Vampires in the Desert

2011-12-16T18:38:00.000-08:00

We went to war with Iraq a wounded nation. Some say we were compelled by lofty motives; to put down a dictator whose brutal repression of his people cried out for their liberation, and whose weapons of mass destruction threatened the region, if not the world. But in our heart we knew what drove us into that vast desert. In our hearts we seethed with anger, with hate, and yes, with fear, and we went to seek vengeance. And in the blasting heat of those desert sands we took their blood, and spilled our own. And in the end, they danced in Fallujah, as we cased our flags.

December in Vienna at the Church of St. Charles

2011-12-15T22:30:00.000-08:00

He walked past the apotheke on the corner of Taubstummengasse and Favoritenstrasse, past the deserted U-Bahn station -- the trains had stopped running at Midnight -- and down Argentinierstrasse to Resselpark. He stopped and looked up at Karlskirche. He smiled. “No saving this sinner, St. Charles,” he said.

It had been a lovely evening; a special Christmas dinner, music, wine, a dash to the loo to hide from surprise guests, and the love of a beautiful woman. Even if he believed, he wouldn’t have asked for St. Charles' forgiveness. He only wished he didn’t have to walk back to his hotel on this cold December morning.

"Merry Christmas, my love," he said, and turned and walked away.

Who Will Take My Dreams Away

2011-12-09T20:28:00.000-08:00

Marianne Faithfull & Angelo Badalamenti

2012: Synopsis

2011-12-09T14:00:00.000-08:00

Karl Rove is working covertly to establish a third party candidacy in the 2012 Presidential Election. His plan is to grow the third party from the Occupy Wall Street (OWS) protest movement. The party will have a carefully formulated, left-of-liberal platform designed to pull votes from Barack Obama’s reelection bid.

Rove wants a relatively well-known person to be the new party’s candidate and is negotiating with Buddy Roemer to be the party’s standard bearer. Although Roemer is a Republican, he used to be a Democrat, and he has openly supported the OWS movement.

Roemer has also appeared on Stephen Colbert, and received the famous ‘Colbert Bump.’ Roemer hasn’t said ‘no.’

Rove plans to ‘infiltrate’ the OWS movement and use his plants to carry out his false flag operation. His infiltrators will form the third party, claiming to represent the OWS protestors. Buddy Roemer, if he agrees to run under the third party banner, will be espousing the party’s liberal platform. Rove and Roemer are negotiating a deal whereby the Republican winner of the presidency, whoever that turns out to be, will reward Roemer with a cabinet position. Rove claims to have received assurances from Republican front runners that they will honor this arrangement.

Rove has promised Roemer significant financial support for Roemer’s campaign. He already has commitments from a number of Republican donors, former ‘Bush Pioneers,’ with deep pockets.

Rove hasn’t decided yet what to call the third party; ‘Occupy Wall Street’ party isn’t a grabber like the ‘Grand Old Party.’ What should Karl call the third party? What should the third party’s platform be?

2012 is being serialized on this blog. It starts here.

Sweet Surprise

2011-12-08T22:33:00.000-08:00

This is the reprise of a Christmas story I wrote for my grandson, Logan.

Merry Christmas!

2012

2011-12-08T09:58:00.000-08:00

Chapter 11: I'm not a fucking magician
[Go to beginning]

While he drove to his meeting with Buddy Roemer, Karl Rove talked into his digital recorder. He was trying out graphic adjectives with which to lace his fliers and ads lambasting Obama and his policies. He’d always been good at this, and he rattled off a series of zingers. “Profligate spending, record deficits, monstrous health-care costs, huge bailouts, distortions, demagoguery,” he said, as he turned off 16th Street NW onto Colorado Avenue. He drove past the Rock Creek Tennis Center and parked in the southwest section of the parking lot adjacent to the Carter Barron Amphitheater. His was the only car there.

Rove put on the heavy coat he’d brought and put the recorder into his left coat pocket. He checked his calls and email, and then put his smart phone and BlackBerry into his briefcase. He got out, walked around his rental car, and put his briefcase in the trunk. He leaned against the car and checked his watch. It was a few minutes after three o’clock. Roemer was late.

Buddy Roemer watched for Rove from the bleachers of the Rock Creek Park Tennis Center. He looked through binoculars as a car drove past the tennis center and parked in the far southwest section of the lot. The season was well past and the amphitheater parking lot was deserted. He saw Rove get out of the car and put his briefcase in the trunk. When he was sure no one was with Rove or following behind him, he walked down to his car. He opened the door and put the binoculars under the seat. He took a digital recorder and an audio jammer from his glove compartment. He put the jammer in the left pocket of his trench coat, and the recorder in the right pocket. Then drove over to where Rove was waiting.

The sky was overcast and a cold wind blew across the lot gathering leaves in a series of small whirlwinds. Rove hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets. He watched as Roemer parked and walked over.

Rove stuck out his right hand and switched on his recorder with his left. Roemer stuck out his right hand and switched on his jammer with his left. The two men shook hands.

“Karl.”

“Buddy.”

“Let’s take a walk,” Roemer said.

“Fine,” Rove said, and they started down the trail towards the amphitheater. The trail was bordered by dense foliage that protected the men from the chill wind, but made the trail seem dark and the area somewhat threatening. Good place to off someone, thought Rove.

They sat down at the left rear of the amphitheater seats and each scanned their surroundings before Rove spoke up. “Buddy Roemer you picked a cold, lonely place to meet,” Rove said.

“It’s a beautiful spot in the fall, Karl, but this time of year, not so much.”

“Well it’s too damned cold out here to beat around the bush, so let me get right to the point. I can offer you significant financial support for a third party run, and should we see a Republican elected president, a cabinet position,” Rove said.

“Which?” Roemer asked.

“Health and Human Services, HUD, or Labor,” Rove said. “Depends on who gets the nod and who owes what to whom,” he added.

“How much?” Roemer said.

“How much what?” Rove said.

“How much financial support will I get and when will I get it?” Roemer said.

“Well, you know that Republicans with deep pockets contributed to Ralph Nader’s campaign in 2004, and they are willing to do that again for you,” Rove said.

Roemer opened his mouth to say something, but Rove held up his index finger and hurried on. “In addition, we will help you raise the required matching funds in at least 20 states so that you qualify for matching public funds.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Roemer said.

“Hell, Buddy, we have PACs, Super PACs, grassroots support groups...you name it. Raising the money’s no problem. Laundering it is the problem.”

“I’ll need one million up front to get off the ground,” Roemer said.

“One million?! What are you getting off the ground in, a Lear Jet?” Rove said, with a guffaw.

Roemer just looked at Rove.

“Okay, we can manage that. You’ll want to look as if you have some substance,” Rove said.

You crass son of a bitch, Roemer thought.

Rove went on to outline the next steps in moving the dishevelled mob that was Occupy Wall Street towards the formation of a third party. "Look, Buddy, we're not trying to get these bozos to come to a consensus or anything like that. For Christ sake, they can't agree on what they're protesting. We're just gonna insert a few people in the mix, get them some attention, and then have you announce your third party candidacy and have these people endorse it," Rove said.

"And what are the real Occupiers going to say about that?" Roemer said.

"Who gives a shit," Rove said. "First of all, they don't speak with a single voice, and second, by the time they realize what's happened, absentee ballots will be in the mail."

"So you have no intention of really trying to coalesce the Occupy Wall Street movement into a coherent political party? Roemer said.

"Hell no!" Rove said. "I'm not a fucking magician."

Both men were quiet as they made their way back to their cars, shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep in the pockets of their coats, as each mulled over what had just transpired.

They had agreed that in the future, face-to-face meetings would be kept to an absolute minimum. No use taking the chance that someone would spot them and wonder what was going on.

DC was a hotbed of rumors and it didn't take much to get one started. Rove had purchased a couple of anonymous prepaid cell phones, activating them from a phony address. He'd given one to Roemer, and told him how to buy another when the activation expired. Mostly, they'd coordinate their activities by phone.

When they reached their cars, Roemer shut off his jammer and switched on his recorder. Rove shut off his recorder and stuck out his right hand, "Nice doing business with you, Buddy," Rove said as the two men shook hands.

As they turned to their cars, Roemer said, "Hey Rove, one more time. Just so I have this straight. Quick run down on the plan."

___________________________________________

2012

2011-12-06T11:36:00.000-08:00

Chapter 10: Stars and Stripes Forever
[Go to beginning]

Reince Priebus had just gotten off the phone with a Justice Department staff member when his cell phone ring tone, Stars and Stripes Forever, sounded. He checked the caller ID and saw it was blocked. He answered it, because he knew Karl Rove blocked his ID and he’d been getting calls from Rove every few hours. “Hello?”

“Reince, this is Karl. What’s the status on your letter to Justice on Obama’s illegal campaign ad?”

Rove had alerted Priebus to an ad that the Obama campaign had videotaped in the White House map room, telling him that it was illegal. “Write a letter to Holder and leak it to the media,” Rove had demanded.

Priebus knew that previous presidents had done the same sort of thing, including most recently, George W. Bush, and he knew that Justice considered it fine and dandy. But he also knew that Rove’s gambit had nothing to do with what Justice would or wouldn’t do, but was all about the spin.

“I sent the letter and just got off the phone with some third-tier flunky at Justice. She said they would take it under consideration, but not to expect an answer any time soon,” Priebus said.

“But you leaked it to the press?” Rove said.

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Listen, I finally talked with Romney and Gingrich. They’ve agreed to go along with the Roemer package.” Rove wasn’t being truthful on this, but he’d gotten both potential nominees to waffle word him a response that would be good enough for a second-level cabinet post or an ambassadorial position somewhere. “I’m meeting with Buddy this afternoon. Have someone on your staff make up all the paperwork to establish a third party. I want to--”

“On MY staff?” Priebus said. Priebus knew he shouldn’t even be talking to Rove, let alone assisting him in his various schemes. But with Rove came money, and money was what it was all about.

“I have my people up to their eyeballs in working senate elections, Reince. Checking the metrics, building the volunteer organizations. Lots of stuff. I’ve just had my lawyers submit an advisory opinion to FEC saying it’s legal to use incumbent members of Congress in advertisements.”

Rove’s American Crossroads PAC had formally requested it be allowed to produce and distribute television and radio advertisements featuring on camera footage or voice-overs of incumbent members of congress up for re-election. The purpose of the ads would be promote Republican members of Congress up for reelection, but American Crossroads lawyers argued that the spots would focus on policy and legislative issues.

“So I heard,” said Priebus. “But look, Karl, if it gets out that the RNC is putting together the paperwork to form a third party, we could all go to jail.”

“Well I doubt that,” said Rove. I wouldn’t be going to jail, he thought. “But okay, I’ll get DCI to do it.”

DCI Group was a high-powered Republican lobby and PR firm that claimed it helped corporations ‘navigate their most challenging political, legislative and regulatory problems anywhere in the world.’ They were practiced at what they called ‘reframing the issue,’ and working through ‘think tanks’ to cast doubt on scientific findings detrimental to their client’s interests. Rove made frequent use of their services.

“How’s the primary schedule shaping up?” Rove asked, knowing that Priebus had been fighting to keep the state’s from leap-frogging each other to move up their primary dates to gain influence in picking the Party’s candidate.

“Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Florida in January. Anybody try to move their date up is gonna have their delegates pulled,” Priebus said.

“Atta boy! said Rove. “Listen, Reince, it just occurred to me that we could use DCI to help push those new laws to, uh, level the playing field on voting. What do you think?”

Rove was talking about GOP attempts to require government-issued photo identification for voting, eliminate same day voter registration, require proof of citizenship to register to vote, including a passport, impose stricter requirements for voter registration drives, reduce early voting days. The idea was to make voting harder for about five million people in the 2012 election; people who traditionally voted democratic.

“We’re making progress all down the line in about 12 states, but any help we can get, unofficially, of course...” and here Priebus chuckled, “...would be greatly appreciated.”

“You got it!” Rove said. “What are you doing about Devine’s decision blocking that suit on prison-based gerrymandering?”

Rove was talking about Republican efforts to have prisoners counted in the districts where they were incarcerated, instead of their home of record, thereby inflating population statistics in favor of less-densely populated Republican districts.

“We have our lawyers reviewing the decision,” Priebus said, checking the ID on another call he had.

“Okay. Well, I’ll keep you posted on the soon-to-be announced OWS third party.” Rove hung up and immediately called Roemer’s number.

______________________________________________________

Published on Amazon Italia

2011-12-02T13:43:00.000-08:00

My writing is now published on Amazon's Italian affiliate, Amazon.it.

2012

2011-12-02T09:47:00.000-08:00

Chapter 9: Onion Rings
[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove had a little more than an hour before his flight. He checked his voice mail and found the call from Reince Priebus he’d received while he was at the Mass GOP Headquarters, Talking to that arrogant bitch, Kangas. He touched the callback button, put his briefcase on one of the chairs at the small table he’d selected, and sat at the other. There were some fairly good sit-down restaurants at Boston-Logan, but Rove didn’t have time for a full meal. He just wanted a place to sit, have a beer, and hold his conference call.

Priebus answered on the second ring. Without prelude, Rove said, “Reince, what about that conference call?”

“Karl, have you been keeping up on the news?” Priebus said, making the word ‘news’ sound like a dirty word.

“What about it?” Rove said.

“Some woman is claiming that she had a 13-year affair with Herman Cain. Her name is--”

“Yeah, yeah, I read all about it. So what? He’s already had four women accuse him of sexual harassment. Maybe this charge will help him. The sex was consensual,” Rove said, with a guffaw.

“Well, Cain’s not open to any conference call, Karl. Says he ‘reassessing’ his campaign. And Romney and Perry..., oh and Newt, want a face-to-face meeting,” Priebus said.

“Jesus! What a fucking circus,” Rove said. “Hang on.” Rove ordered a beer and onion rings from the pimply-faced waiter, then put the phone back to his ear. “Reince, I’ve got a flight in 45 minutes. I’m going to email you an agreement for these jokers to read. Make copies and get them to sign it, and then-- ”

Priebus cut off Rove, “Karl, these guys aren’t going to sign anything. You know that. They won’t even--”

“Hold on,” Rove said. “What have you told them?”

“I told them you had a proposal for them, and that it could improve their--”

Rove cut off Priebus. “I said practically guarantee,” Rove said.

“Yeah, well...” Priebus said.

“Shit,” Rove said, and ended the call.

Rove shoved several onion rings in his mouth while he opened his Contacts file and found Mitt Romney’s cell phone number. He touched the screen and waited for the call to go through, checking his watch as he did.

“Karl, what’s up?” Mitt said, sounding relaxed.

“Hi, Mitt. Listen, I’m between planes so need to hurry this, if you don’t mind.” Rove went on to describe his scheme for getting Buddy Roemer to run as a third party candidate on an Occupy Wall Street ticket.

Romney became cautious in the conversation as Rove described the “package of incentives” he thought Roemer would need to carry out the campaign. At one point, Romney, the paranoid SOB, asked, “Are you recording this conversation, Karl?”

Rove answered, “Hell no, Mitt, that’s illegal,” but Rove was recording the conversation and knew that Romney would never take him to court if it came out, because that would just damage him in the public eye.

Romney told Rove that he ‘wouldn't oppose Rove's plan,’ and although Rove would’ve liked a more enthusiastic endorsement, he settled for that; given Romney’s suspicious personality, that was as good as it was going to get.

Rove waved a waiter over, paid his bill, and started walking to his boarding gate. He started to thumb his cell for Newt Gingrich’s number, but the phone, greasy from onion rings, slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. Rove swore, picked up the phone and checked to see if it still worked. It didn’t. Rove swore all the way to the boarding gate.

______________________________________________________

2012

2011-11-30T21:23:00.000-08:00

Chapter 8: Emphasize her education and turn it against her
[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove was distressed to find the GOP campaign office practically deserted. He shouted to the only people in the office; two women talking at a corner desk, “Where is everybody?!”

The woman leaning against the desk shrugged. The woman seated at the desk stared at him with a puzzled expression on her heavily made-up face.

Rove turned away and snaked his way through the maze of desks to the chairman’s office. Jeananne Kangas, who was the acting chairperson of the Massachusetts GOP, was on the phone. She looked up, brushed a wave of rust-colored hair from her narrowed eyes, and recognizing Rove, motioned to a chair at the side of her desk.

From the content and tenor of her conversation, Rove figured she was addressing someone who was dissatisfied with how the process for electing the new chairperson was going. Jennifer Nassour’s unexpected resignation had raised some ugly divisions in the party.

Kangas hung up with a curt, “Well, that’s the way it is,” and turned to Rove. “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to raise Tim yet. He’s supposed to have been here fifteen minutes ago.”

Rove checked his watch. The meeting he’d set up with Kangas and her communications manager, Tim Buckley, had been for 2:15. Kangas probably wanted to pow-wow with Buckley before they had their sit down with Rove. “Well, that’s okay, Jean, gives me a chance to ask about who the new chair’s gonna be.”

“Bob Maginn, if I have any say,” Kangas responded.

“But McNamara’s thrown his hat in ring?” Rove said, making it a question instead of a statement.

“Yeah. He’s a favorite of the Mass Tea Party,” Kangas said, frowning.

“Well and good,” said Rove. “But Maginn gets you Mitt Romney.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Kangas. “You betting on Romney to get the nod?”

“It’s between him and Gingrich. Newt’s baggage may weigh him down, but this flip-flopping by Mitt is getting a lot of traction,” Rove said, checking his vibrating smart phone.

Kangas looked over Rove’s shoulder. “Ah, here’s Tim. Finally,” she said, as Buckley hurried into the office.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic,” Buckley said, taking off his sport coat and hanging it over the back of the remaining chair. Buckley reached out to shake Rove’s hand. “Karl. How was your trip?”

Rove’s handshake was perfunctory. He wasn't big on hearty handshakes. “Fine,” he said.

Kangas said, “Karl wanted--”

Rove cut her off. “I want to talk about a more aggressive campaign against Warren,” he said.

“Well, we’re --,” Buckley said.

Rove talked over him. “I want more direct mailings, and I have a list of points I want included. I emailed them to you, Tim, on my way here.”

Buckley started to take out his smart phone.

“You can check later, Tim,” Kangas said.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the ad we’re running against Warren,” Rove said,

“Sure,” Kangas and Buckley said, simultaneously. “Great stuff,” Buckley said.

“Well, I want more ads focusing on her Harvard Law connection. Tie her directly to Obama. Emphasize her education and turn it against her. She’s elitist. Doesn’t understand the common working man. Or woman. That sort of thing,” Rove said.

Kangas was taking notes. Buckley was still thumbing his cell.

“Look, I know we feel confident about Brown keeping his seat, but the Democrats are going to throw a lot of money at this race. They think he’s vulnerable. I don’t want to take any chances,” Rove said.

“I hear you,” Buckley said.

Kangas gave Buckley a fish eye look. “We appreciate the input Karl,” Kangas said, with something less than conviction, and thought, Who the hell does he think he is?

Rove looked at Kangas and came to a decision. "I've gotta run," he said, and started for the door. "Oh, Tim, walk with me. Want to ask you something." Raising his hand, he said, "So long, Jean. Next time, huh?"

Once in the outer office Rove put his hand on Buckley's shoulder and guided out the front door. "Jean's a lawyer, isn't she," he said, making it a statement, rather than a question.

"Yeah, she is," said Buckley.

"She a little squirrely on things you might want to do?"

"Well...," said Buckley.

"I mean, say you wanted to direct mail something negative on Scott Brown, and make it look like it came from Warren's campaign? You know, something that questions his character, or family values. That sort of thing. Or say there was an implication that he avoided service in Iraq or Afghanistan because of his National Guard service?" Rove smiled at Buckley, who looked slightly ill.

Buckley just shook his head. He was thinking, Jesus Christ!, It was all he could do not to cross himself.

______________________________________

2012

2011-11-28T21:41:00.000-08:00

Chapter 7: Anger Points

[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove sent a text to James O’Keefe, “Send more photos from OWS. Hire more helpers.” ‘Helpers’ was a euphemism for the homeless guys O’Keefe was paying to wander around Occupy Wall Street rallies and sit-ins. In a stroke of genius, O’Keefe was paying his 'helpers' with beer.

Rove turned his attention to the list he was making on a BlackBerry digital notepad app. It was labeled, ‘Anger points.’ At the same time he was listening to Reince Priebus on his cell. Priebus was whining that it was near impossible to arrange a deal for Roemer when the GOP hadn’t yet nominated its presidential candidate.

“Listen, Reince, I’m meeting with Roemer again Monday. I need to lay this out for him.” Rove got up, flushed the toilet, and walked into the bedroom of his hotel. “You need to get the top three together and tell them no RNC money unless they all agree to the deal.”

“The top three?” said Priebus.

“Romney, Gingrich, and Cain,” Rove said, punching the room service number on the desk phone.

“But what if--”

Rove interrupted, “What if Bachmann gets the nod, or Santorum, or Paul, or--”

“Perry,” said Priebus.

“Have you seen his numbers recently? The guy is shooting himself in the foot, when he doesn’t have it in his mouth. He’s losing contributors right and left. He won’t have the money to see it through. Believe me, I know,” said Rove, checking his BlackBerry for the latest polling on the Republican candidates.

“Well...,” Priebus said.

“Club sandwich, potato salad, pickle, and a coke,” Rove said.

“What?” Priebus said.

“Set up a conference call. I’ll handle it,” Rove said, ending the call before Priebus had a chance to protest.

Rove thumbed his smart phone until he found what he was looking for on Youtube. Then, while he ate, he watched the attack ad on Elizabeth Warren his Crossroads PAC had produced. He chuckled as Warren was shown in her ‘class warfare’ speech in the ad. The volume in the ad had been turned way down, so that the viewer couldn’t hear the substance of her argument. She was just gesticulating strenuously. She came out looking deranged, especially when superimposed over the chaotic scenes of the Oakland Occupy Wall Street protests. The ad’s ominous music was a bit cheesy, but in Rove’s opinion, cheesy never hurt when it came to politics. The ad cost Rove’s PAC nearly $600K, but it was worth it. The GOP couldn’t afford to lose Scott Brown’s senate seat.

By the time Rove walked out of the Ritz-Carlton and into a waiting taxi it was almost 2 pm and he still had a lot on his ‘to do’ list. His first stop was GOP Headquarters. On the way there he continued to add to his ‘anger points’ list. ‘Guns’ topped the list, followed by ‘homosexuality/gay marriage. Then he wrote, ‘Barney Frank.’ He paused, put his hand on his stomach, belched, and then dry-swallowed an antacid. Then he wrote ‘Nancy Pelosi.’ Then in rapid succession he wrote, ‘abortion,’ ‘mandated health insurance,’ ‘high cost of gas,’ ‘global warming hoax,’ and ‘unemployment.’ Rove paused to look out the window as his taxi navigated downtown Boston, and then finished his list with, ‘OWS.’ and put away his BlackBerry as the taxi pulled up in front of the drab, brick building that served as GOP Headquarters.

_______________________________________________________________

2012

2011-11-26T10:10:00.000-08:00

Chapter 6: Pigeon hunting in NH slow

[Go to beginning]

Instead of heading directly back to the airport, Rove told his taxi driver to take him to the Red Arrow Diner; a cup of coffee and soggy piece of pumpkin pie at the Science Center didn’t cut it. On the way, he texted Reince Priebus, “Pigeon hunting in NH slow.”

As Rove slid into a booth at the rear of the diner he saw a photo of Barack Obama on the wall at the end of the bench. Obama had come through the diner during the 2008 election, along with every candidate except McCain. Had to hand it to Obama. He was a was savvy politician.

Rove ordered a ‘DinahMoe’ from a incurably cheerful, young waitress, who seemed not to recognize him, thumbed through messages on his BlackBerry, and paged through the day’s issue of the Union Leader.

A story about Republican state Rep. J.R. Hoell of Dunbarton co-sponsoring a bill to allow guns on university campuses caught his attention. Hoell was arguing that as long as UNH received taxpayer money, they were a ‘subdivision of the state,’ should abide by the Second Amendment, and overturn their prohibition against firearms on campus.

Rove made a note to himself to think about how to better use the whole gun rights issue to his advantage in 2012. Maybe he could manufacture a rumor that Obama was planning to reinstitute the automatic weapons ban once he was reelected. Hell, he probably was. He quickly typed the outline for an Op Ed and emailed it to Chris Stirewalt at Fox.

Rove went through his email and text messages and finished scanning the paper as he wolfed down the huge DinahMoe steak burger that was a favorite of Red Arrow patrons. No wonder Americans are fat, he thought, as he polished off the last of his french fries. Before he left for the airport he took an interior photo of the Red Arrow with his smart phone and twitted, “Thanksgiving on the road at Red Arrow; work, work work.”

________________________________________________________________

2012

2011-11-25T09:18:00.000-08:00

Chapter 5: What would Roemer want, besides the Presidency, that is?
[Go to beginning]

Buddy Roemer said nothing. Karl Rove was staring at him, willing him to react to Rove’s statement about a viable third party candidate ‘gestating.’ Roemer considered it an unfortunate metaphor.

“We think someone could run with the Occupy Wall Street movement,” Rove finally said. You know, say all the things the protesters want to hear, form a legitimate party, coordinate with a PAC to--”

“That’s illegal,” Roemer said, interrupting Rove.

“Well, you know, not exactly coordinate, but...”

“Uh huh,” Roemer said.

“Look Buddy, I have some serious money behind this idea. We just need the right guy out front. Not someone like Nader. He’s all hat and no cattle. Know what I mean?” Rove loved using cowboy idioms, which he’d picked up from the Texas crowd.

“Uh huh,” Roemer said. Spit it out Karl, Roemer thought.

“Well, who do you think could do it?”

Roemer said nothing.

“Dennis Kucinich? You know we’re redistricting him right out of a job.” Say something, you fuck!

Roemer shook his head. “He may be far out there on some things, like that ‘Department of Peace’ idea, but he’d see right through your scheme.”

“How about Russ Feingold? He’s dying to get back in the mix. Even considered a run for the Presidency.”

“Maybe,” Roemer said, sounding doubtful.

“Well, Buddy, give me a name,” Rove said, sounding exasperated.

“What’s your pitch to the guy going be, Karl? I mean, how to you get someone to go through all that hardship; all the scrutiny, all the speeches and fund raising, recruiting volunteers. All with malice aforethought?”

“Malice aforethought?” said Rove.

“Knowing it’s a sham. A scheme to draw votes away from Obama.”

Rove thought about this. What would Roemer want, besides the Presidency, that is? “What do you think we ought to offer, Buddy?”

I wonder if the shit is recording this, thought Roemer. “I’ll tell you what, Karl. Let me think about this over the holiday weekend and I’ll get back to you on Monday. You think about how you’re going to make this worthwhile for your spoiler, okay?"

Roemer saw that Rove was about to say something, and preempted whatever it was. "I mean, it’s Thanksgiving, Karl. Let’s go home and give thanks that you and I will be dead before future generations are questioning the legitimacy of our birth because we ignored global warming.”

_________________________________________________________________

2012

2011-11-24T09:11:00.000-08:00

Chapter 4: Happy Thanksgiving
[Go to beginning]

Buddy Roemer spotted Karl Rove wandering around the pavilion of the Science Center looking lost. Karl was hard to miss. He was the only person wearing a trench coat and carrying a battered leather briefcase. Roemer smiled. Rove, with his somewhat shabby raincoat and briefcase, reminded him of Columbo, the TV detective. Rove didn’t have Columbo’s funky charm, but he was shrewd as hell and as TV criminals had learned with Columbo, it was foolish to underestimate him.

Rove spotted Roemer standing by the entrance to an exhibit bordered by photos of New Hampshire autumns. A sign over the entrance said, ‘Seasons of Change.’ Rove changed the hand in which he carried his briefcase and reached out and shook Roemer’s hand. “Hey, Buddy. How’r ya doing?”

“Karl, it’s awfully nice to see you. How are you?" And what's so damned urgent? Roemer wondered. "Happy Thanksgiving.”

“I’m hitting my stride, Buddy. Hitting my stride.” Rove put his hand on Roemer’s back. “Where can we sit down and talk? I’ve gotta get some input from you on the--.”

“Walk with me, Karl. I want to show you something. Then we can talk. You’ve got a little time, don’t you?”

Rove looked at his watch, and then wished he hadn’t. He wanted Roemer to feel as though he had his undivided attention. “You bet, Buddy. Let’s git’r done!”

The next half hour was agony for Rove. Roemer led him through the Seasons of Change exhibit supplementing the posters with a running commentary on how global warming was going to impact New England. What the fuck!

Karl forced himself to appear interested as Roemer explained that New England’s fall foliage would be less brilliant. “Maple, beech, and birch trees can’t abide the warmer temperatures and will move north, you see,” Roemer said, pointing a collage of brilliant fall foliage.

Rove’s smile made him look slightly bilious. “Hmm,” he murmured.

“You know what fall tourism contributes to the New England economy, Karl?” Roemer asked.

Rove recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one and just raised his eyebrows in response.

“Tourism employs 250,000 New Englanders and another 106,000 upstate New Yorkers, paying total wages of greater than $6 billion,” Roemer said.

Rove wanted to kill himself. Maybe this had been a mistake.

“As our fall foliage retreats, tourism is expected to decline. The economic impact will be felt, Karl. And in more ways than one.”

Rove felt helpless as Roemer went on with evangelical zeal to cover the effects of climate change on cranberries, blueberries, and native Concord grapes; described how invasive pests and plants threatened to destroy wildlife habitats and take over cropland; and how maple sugar and paper industry jobs would be lost as maple trees and spruce and fir forests moved out of New England.

Finally, Rove couldn’t stand it and, taking Roemer by the elbow, said, “This is fascinating Buddy, but truth is, I’ve gotta catch a plane. I really want to run something by you that I think you’ll find pretty damned interesting, too.”

Roemer finally shut up and led Rove to a small, sparsely populated snack bar in an alcove of the Science Center, where they got a piece of pie and coffee, and found a booth near the back.

Rove launched right into his pitch before Roemer had a chance to lecture him on the environmental impacts of acid rain, or some damned nonsense. “Buddy, what I’m about to tell you is extremely sensitive and strictly confidential. There are only three people who know about this, and I’m one of ‘em.”

Roemer took a bite of his pie and studied Rove. What has he got up his sleeve?

“I don’t have to tell you that we have a hard row to hoe in the 2012 presidential election,” Rove said. We don’t have our candidate yet, but whoever it is will face an uphill battle against an incumbent president. Always the case.” Rove said, as he took a bite of his pie.

“Not for Clinton in ’92,” Roemer said, just to irritate Rove, who pretended to ignore the comment.

“We’re going to have to work hard to get a Republican elected, Buddy, and hard work alone may not be enough.” Rove winked at Roemer. “We can hope that the Democrats shoot themselves in the foot the way did in 2000, but I don’t see that happening on its own.”

“On its own?” Roemer said.

“I’m thinking we encourage a third party candidate, Buddy.

“You mean Ralph Nader?” Roemer said, and laughed.

“Hell no!” Rove said. “He pulled in less than a million votes in ’08.” Rove pushed his empty pie plate off to the side. “We need somebody who’ll take a significant block of votes away from Obama.”

“There isn’t a viable third party candidate that can do that, Karl,” Roemer said.

“There’s one in gestation,” Rove said, studying Roemer to see if he’d figure it out.

________________________________________________________________

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

2012

2011-11-23T09:10:00.000-08:00

Chapter 3: Les Feuilles Mortes
[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove looked out the window as his taxi drove along Bedford Street. Trees along the river were losing their autumn leaves and they raced along the street in a whirlwind of color, but Rove wasn’t paying attention to what was going on outside. He was thinking about the 2012 election.

Rove was concerned about how Republican candidates were faring on the debates. If it was up to him, there’d be no debates. It just gave the snarky media a chance to criticize the candidates, to say nothing of the candidates themselves making one gaffe after another. As far as Rove was concerned, it didn’t much matter who got the GOP nomination, but Rove was hoping it wouldn't be Perry. Perry was pliable, and if he could keep the dunce from stepping on his dick, he might swing two terms with him, just as he’d done with Bush. But he'd had a falling out with Perry in the Nineties, when Bush was governor, and the relationship, although superficially cordial, was still fraught with simmering hurt and distrust. Still, Karl felt sure he could support a Perry candidacy and end up back in the position of chief Architect for Perry's election. That's what he did -- get people elected.

A freezing wind was blowing off the Merrimack River as Rove exited his Taxi and clutching his briefcase to his chest to keep his coat from blowing open rushed into the SEE Science Center. Why the hell Roemer wanted to meet here instead of the country club that he had suggested was a puzzle to Rove, but then Buddy was eccentric, which was exactly why Rove was approaching him.

Rove’s meeting with the ‘Bush Pioneers’ at the Armstrong Ranch had been encouraging. He had money in hand from several donors and contingent pledges from others that would help fund a third party candidate start up. Once supporters saw the handwriting on the wall, more money would come rolling in, and with transparency of Super PACs being what it was, no one had to know that his PAC was supporting a spoiler candidate.

Rove moved through the Science Center looking for something called the ‘Seasons of Change’ exhibit where Roemer wanted to meet. Rove’s mind was racing as he went over his pitch to Roemer. Buddy was a bit off the wall, but he was no dummy. The occasion called for some subtlety.

__________________________________________________________________
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

2012

2011-11-21T10:44:00.000-08:00

Chapter 2: A hunting we will go

[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove hated hunting, or any kind of outdoor activity for that matter, that involved ‘getting close to nature.’ He shuddered at the memory of George W. Bush making him follow along as Bush cleared brush on his ranch at Crawford. Yet, here he was at the Armstrong Ranch in South Texas dressed for ‘the hunt.’

Rove was having a ‘pow-wow’ with party luminaries who had the money and influence to help him set up the false flag operation that would lead to a split Democratic presidential vote in 2012. Katharine Armstrong, a ‘Bush Pioneer’ and daughter of the heir to the King and Armstrong ranch fortunes, was hosting the event. Her high pitched laugh could be heard coming from the kitchen, where other members of the hunting party were finishing their breakfasts.

Rove looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “Listen to this Huff, he said to the man sitting across from him in the front room of the hunting lodge. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and read from the newspaper. ‘It is Main Street that creates the majority of jobs in America; it is Main Street that sends our brave young men and women to war; it is Main Street that hurts when another manufacturing plant closes only to be re-opened in China; it is Main Street that is being foreclosed on; and it is Main Street that is suffering while the greed of Wall Street continues to hurt our middle-class.’ Who do you think said that?” he asked.

James ‘Huff’ Huffines was an exceptionally influential and often controversial figure in Texas and national politics. He was currently a bank president and COO, had loads of money, big money connections, and important political ties with Republican high rollers. In 1999, Huffines served as chairman of George W. Bush’s Inaugural Committee, donated hundreds of thousands of his own dollars to Bush’s campaign and, with Armstrong, was another ‘Bush Pioneer.’ Huffines was largely responsible for getting Rick Perry the Texas governorship after Bush left to become ‘leader of the free world.’ In return, Perry appointed Huffines to the University of Texas Board of Regents, where he was soon elected chairman.

Huffines had always disliked Rove, whom he considered a bumptious little blowhard, but he had to hand it to the guy -- the 'Turd Blossom,' as Bush called him, could generate some serious negative shit to sling at political opponents. “Some bleeding heart liberal, sounds like,” answered Huffines, taking another puff on his cigar.

“Buddy Roemer,” Rove said, studying Huffines’ face for a reaction.

“Roemer? Isn’t he making a presidential run? He’s a Republican, isn’t he?” Huffines said, looking puzzled. “No, wait. Roemer, he’s a Democrat. Former governor of Louisiana. Right?”

Rove chuckled. “Right both times. Buddy Boy was the Democratic Governor of Louisiana. But he switched parties in 1991 and then lost to Edwin Edwards in the gubernatorial contest. He tried again in ’95 and came in a poor third. Now he’s a kinda born again conservative promising to clean up politics.”

“Well, he sounds like a half-baked liberal to me,” said Huffines.

“What if we could get Roemer to switch parties again?” Rove said, almost as if to himself.

“You mean go back to being a Democrat?” asked Huffines, leaning forward in his leather chair.

“Huh? No, no. I mean run as a third party candidate. An Occupy Wall Street candidate,” said Rove.

Huffines studied Rove. The crafty sun of a bitch, thought Huffines. “A spoiler,” said Huffines.

“You got it.”

____________________________________________________

2012

2011-11-17T21:26:00.000-08:00

Chapter One: How do you pronounce Reince?

Karl Rove enjoyed the opulence of the posh Washington DC club in which he was breakfasting with the head of the RNC. It was these sort of perks that made him feel successful. He looked up from the newspaper he had spread in his ample lap. “Have you been following the Occupy Wall Street movement, Reince?” he asked his companion, a pasty-faced, buttoned-down younger man shoveling hash browns into his mouth.

Priebus looked up at Rove and frowned. It irked him that Rove refused to pronounce his name correctly. It rhymed with Heinz, like the catchup, not rinse, like the wash cycle. Priebus picked up his napkin from his lap and very deliberately wiped his mouth before responding. “Those hippie freeloaders? I could care less.”

“Well, you should care. They could help us elect a Republican president in 2012.” Rove narrowed his eyes and stared at Priebus. What a cypher, he thought.

Priebus sat back in his upholstered arm chair. What the fuck does Karl have up his sleeve now? he wondered. “How’s that, Karl?”

Rove dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with his large, linen napkin. Then removed his glasses and polished the lenses. “Reince, you know what the spoiler effect is,” he drawled.

Priebus narrowed his eyes. “You mean like in sports?”

“Are we talking about sports, son?” Rove said. “I mean, goddangit Reince, put on your thinking cap!”

Priebus flinched visibly. God I hate it when he goes into his god-damned lecture mode. Just say what the fuck you mean and get it over with. “What do you mean?”

“In the 2000 election... you were old enough to vote then, right?” Rove said, with just the hint of a smile.

Priebus opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Rove guffawed. “Just joshing ya, son.” Rove said.

Priebus looked at Rove with an expression between disgust -- it made him nauseous to see the waddle under Rove’s double chin tremble -- and malice. Rove was such a dick. “I remember the 2000 election,” Priebus said.

“Well then you remember the kingmaker; the fellow who got Dubya elected.”

“You?” Priebus said.

“Ralph Nader, boy. Ralph, unsafe at any speed, Nader. That’s what a spoiler in politics is, and that’s what we’re gonna create for the 2012 Presidential Election, and we’re gonna mold it right outta the mud and shit of the Occupy Wall Street morass.” Rove slammed his open palm down on the table making the silverware, the plates, and Priebus jump.

“How the hell..., I mean--” Priebus stammered.

“Third party candidate. Someone the hippies -- I mean the noble youth -- can identify with. A person with all the liberal left bone-fides; a green, socialist, gay marriage, pro-abortion, free love liberal. Someone we’ll help get on the ballot, and support right up to the election.” Bubbles of spit floated in the air over Rove’s place setting as he grew in excitement.

“You’re talking about co-opting the Occupy Wall Street movement?” said Priebus.

“Hell no, Priebus. Stephen Colbert’s already tried that. I’m talking about infiltrating it.”

________________________________________________

Writer Beware

2011-11-03T19:53:00.000-07:00

"A few weeks ago, I began getting questions about the Franklin-Madison Literary Agency. Never having heard the name before, I did some research. What I found rang warning bells."

Aspiring authors should check out this blog post.

Writer Beware™ Blogs!

The Wind in the Trees -- A Halloween Story

2011-10-31T18:00:00.000-07:00

“Come on, Ricky. We’re going for a ride!” Ricky heard his mother call from the kitchen. Good! Ricky thought. He was tired of playing with his cars and trucks and tractors and trains. He’d run out of ways to have them crash, anyway.

Ricky’s mother appeared in the den and Ricky looked up to see her smiling at him. He pushed himself up from the floor and ran over to her for a hug.

“There’s my big boy,” his mother said. “Here, put on your coat.”

“Don’t need it,” Ricky said and pulled away.

“Come on now, honey. It’s cold outside. We don’t want you catching cold.”

Ricky looked at his mom while she struggled to get him into his coat without any help from him.

Doesn’t look cold, he thought, seeing the sun streaming in the window.

“How do you catch it?” he asked his mother.

“Catch what?” she answered, taking his hand and starting for the door.

“Cold,” he said, but his mother wasn’t listening. She was rummaging around in her purse like she always did just before going out the door.

Ricky stood on the front porch waiting for his mom to lock the door. It was cold, even though the sun was shining. The wind was making a whooshing sound in the colorful trees, and red and yellow leaves were skittering across the lawn. Something white flew up towards the porch making a crackling sound and Ricky backed up into his mother’s hip and reached for her hand.

“Okay, honey, here we go,” his mother said.

Ricky watched the white thing settle back on the front walk. It was just an old newspaper.

Ricky crawled into the back seat and up into what his mom called his ‘special seat.’

“Aren’t you a good boy,” his mom said.

And I’m a good climber, Ricky thought.

“Here we go,” said his mom, backing out of the driveway.

As they drove off Ricky noticed that the neighbors had big orange pumpkins on their porches and steps, just like the one they had on their porch. But he and his dad had made their pumpkin smile. Some of the pumpkins Ricky saw as they drove along had scary faces. He didn’t like that.

“There’s a bull yard stop,” Ricky said, pointing to a round, red sign on the corner as his mother slowed and stopped.

“I see it,” she said, looking to one side and then the other before she started going again.

As they drove through the intersection Ricky looked at a house on the opposite corner and gasped. There was a ghost standing right in the middle of the lawn waving its arms and swaying back and forth. Ricky wanted to tell his mom, but he was so scared he couldn’t say anything. He turned his head as far around as he could and watched the ghost disappear behind them. Ricky wondered how his mother could have missed it, but then he remembered how she was always saying, ‘Darn, I missed my turn,’ so maybe her eyes weren’t as good as his.

“Here we are,” his mom said, as she parked the car next to a big grey and green building. There were lots of cars parked next to the building and Ricky’s mom held tight to his hand as they threaded their way through the cars and across the parking lot to the building’s entrance. Ricky was startled by a loud cackling and looked up to see three black crows hopping along the fence next to the walk. They looked like little magicians to Ricky and he watched them carefully to see what tricks they might have up their sleeves.

When they got in the building, Ricky’s mom stopped to look around. Ricky looked around, too.

Ricky pulled on his mom’s hand to get her attention. “Mom, Mom, this supermarket doesn’t have any food,” he said to her.

“Oh, honey,” she said glancing at him, “This isn’t the supermarket. This is the Health Department.”

Ricky squinted his eyes and looked around again. He’d heard the word ‘health’ before and it seemed to him that he didn’t always like what was connected with that word, like broccoli, for example.

Ricky’s mom seemed to figure out what she wanted, turned and started walking down a hall. It seemed to Ricky as if it were getting darker the further they went. He looked up at his mom to make sure she knew what she was doing. There were signs with arrows pointing the way and she followed the signs, so Ricky figured she did. Finally, they came to a room where a lot of people stood in line. Ricky and his mom got in line behind them. Ricky looked up at the person in front of them. It was a woman wearing a long, black coat, a thick scarf, and a knitted, wool hat. Ricky tried to see her face, but her back was turned. He did see her hands. They had, long, red nails. She could be a witch, Ricky thought. He squeezed his mother’s hand. She looked down and smiled at him.

Ricky was restless. He was about to tell his mother that he wanted to go home, when he heard a clack, creak, clack, creak coming up behind them. He jerked around and saw an old man shuffling towards them. He was using what looked like a cane, but Ricky looked closer and saw that the foot of the cane had claws. Ricky scooted up as close as he could get to his mom. He said, “Mom?”

“Yes dear,” she said.

But Ricky couldn’t say anything because the man with the claws was standing right next to them. The man saw Ricky staring at him and smiled. Ricky hid his face in the folds of his mother’s dress.

Finally, he and his mother were shown to a room off to the side. There was a man standing there next to the room. He was carrying a bag with a bottle in it. Tubes went from the bottle up to the man’s nose. Ricky pulled on his mother’s hand.

“Mom, why does that man have tubes in his nose,” he whispered.

“That’s oxygen,” she whispered back. “He needs it to help him breath.”

Help him breathe? thought Ricky. He must be an alien.

He was about to ask his mother if the man was a dangerous alien when she said, “Okay, Hon, it’s our turn,” and led him into the room.

There was a woman in a clean, white dress in the room. She had on a white hat.

Ricky pulled down on his mother’s hand. “Who’s that?” he asked.

“That’s the LPN,” said Ricky’s mom.

Ricky had no idea what an ‘Elf peon’ was, but he didn’t like the look of her.

The LPN was sitting at a small table. It had little bottles and little plastic packages on it. There was something about it that made Ricky squirmy. He scrunched up close to his mom and said, “Mommy, I wanna go home.”

Ricky’s mother leaned over, took Ricky by the shoulders, and said, “We’re going to get flu shots, Honey, so we don’t get sick this winter.”

“I don’t wanna flew shot,” Ricky said, glancing at the nurse woman.

She smiled at Ricky and said, “Don’t you want to show your mommy what a brave boy you are?”

“No,” Ricky said.

“Come on now, Honey. It’s just a little stick. It won’t hurt,” his mother said.

“Yes it will,” said Ricky, reflexively rubbing his upper arm where he remembered getting the shot for something called chicken pockets.

“You get it for me,” Ricky told his mother.

“I already had mine, Honey.”

Ricky’s mom pushed Ricky towards the nurse and he saw that she already had a sticker thing in her hand.

“Which arm do you want to give me?” asked the nurse.

Ricky’s eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. She wants one of my arms? He wanted to keep both his arms so he could drive a truck when he grew up.

“Here, let’s do the left arm,” said his mother.

Ricky wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, but he was afraid of what the nurse might do to him if he wasn’t looking, so he turned his head away and looked at her sideways.

The nurse pinched his arm, but she wasn’t very good at it and it didn’t hurt any where near as much as when Lizbeth Dowdy did it at preschool.

“There we are. You’re all through,” said the nurse.

A sense of relief washed over Ricky. It was over, it didn’t hurt – not much -- and he hadn’t even cried. He felt very brave.

“Here you are young man,” said the nurse, and handed Ricky a lollipop. “I bet you’ll get more candy when you go out trick or treating later,” she said.

Trick or treating, thought Ricky. I forgot all about that. And he smiled.

“Can we go home now, Mommy? Ricky said.

Outside, Ricky noticed that it had gotten cloudy and it felt colder. He was happy to get in the car, climb into his special seat, and have his mom put a blanket on his lap. He felt a little tired. He must have dozed, because the next thing he knew, his mom was slowing to make the bull yard stop and turning onto their street. Ricky noticed that the ghost wasn’t on the neighbor’s lawn anymore.

“How about a little nap, then you can put your costume on,” said Ricky’s mom. Ricky didn’t argue.

“Want me to carry you?” Asked his mom.

“I can do it,” Ricky answered. He was feeling pretty grown up after what he’d been through. He held his mother’s hand and trudged up the stairs to his bedroom.

Ricky climbed in his bed; his mother removed his shoes and pulled his blanket up to his chin. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She felt warm and soft and he liked the way she smelled.

Outside Ricky’s window three miniature magicians – about the size of crows – sat on a tree limb watching Ricky’s mom tuck the boy in for his nap and waiting for her to leave. The ghost, the witch in black, the claw foot man, and the alien waited below for the magician’s signal. You could just hear the alien’s raspy breathing over the sound of the wind whistling in the trees.

Ricky chuckled softly as he drifted off to sleep. Boy, would they be scared when they saw him in his skeleton costume, he thought.

Publish, Anyone?

2011-10-17T01:48:00.000-07:00

Amazon is reinventing publishing, and brick and mortar publishing houses are scared, and I say, be afraid, be very afraid.

Misses Melanzane

2011-10-03T22:00:00.000-07:00

It is not my intent
to denigrate in any way
the charms of Misses Melanzane
Now you may dissent
But really, I must say
the woman was no Modigliani

Io vivrò senza te

2011-09-28T13:23:00.000-07:00

Io vivrò senza te/ I'll live without you

Che non si muore per amore/ that you don't die for love

è una gran bella verità/ is a great truth

perciò dolcissimo mio amore/ so, my sweet love

ecco quello, / here is what

quello che da domani mi accadrà/ what will happen to me from tomorrow on

Io vivrò/ I'll live

senza te/ without you

anche se ancora non so/ even if I still don't know how

come io vivrò./ I will live.

Senza te,/ without you

io senza te,/ I, without you,

solo continuerò,/ will go on alone

e dormirò,/ and I'll sleep

mi sveglierò,/I'll wake up

camminerò,/ I'll walk

lavorerò,/ I'll work

qualche cosa farò,/ I'll do something

sì, qualche cosa farò,/ Yes, I'll do something

qualche cosa di sicuro io farò:/ I will surely do something

piangerò,/ I'll cry

sì, io piangerò./ yes, I'll cry

E se ritorni nella mente/ and if you come back to my mind

basta pensare che non ci sei/ I just have to think that you're not here

che sto soffrendo inutilmente/ that I'm suffering in vain

perchè so vivere solo / because I know how to live alone

io so che non tornerai/ I know that you won't come back

I Heard a Cry in the Night

2011-09-23T10:35:00.000-07:00

I heard a cry in the night,
A thousand miles it came,
Sharp as a flash of light,
My name, my name, my name.
It was your voice I heard,
You waked and loved me so
I send you back this word,
I know, I know, I know.

He fell in love with her just listening to her voice. But who was she?

He was in a military hospital in Germany listening to a BBC news broadcast from Jordan. Spacey on pain meds, he missed the commentator’s introduction and before the woman had finished her story and signed off with her name, his doctor had come in with a small contingent of interns to review his case.

He’d held up his hand and said, “Wait!”

The doctor, who was an Air Force major, simply reached over the bed rail and shut off the radio. Turning to his audience of bored looking trainees, the doctor began discussing him as if he were a static display on the flight line.

“This Air Force lieutenant sustained multiple injuries ejecting from his aircraft, the most serious being injury of the cervical spine, including ligament injury C5-6 and a sliding of the C6 relative to the C5. Any questions?”

He had questions, but the major wasn’t talking to him.

He wanted to know if he’d walk again. He wanted to know when he’d be released. He wanted to know who the woman on the radio was.

His injuries would heal completely in time, although he’d have neck and back pain for the rest of his life. He was released from the hospital with a neck collar the following weekend. A month later he met a medical board, was told he could no longer fly, and was given a choice of a desk job or a disability discharge without severance. He chose the latter and started looking for the woman whose voice still murmured in the silences between his far off gaze, and his late night dreams.

During the ten years that he searched for the woman he went to graduate school, earned a dual master’s degree in journalism and international affairs, became a leading newspaper’s Middle Eastern Correspondent, and traveled extensively to countries where he thought he might cross paths with the woman whose voice he knew he would instantly recognize.

During that period of his life he met numerous women, many professionals like himself, with whom he shared intimate moments, some on more than one occasion, and with some women who made it clear that they were interested in more than a superficial connection. But he was haunted by a vision of a woman he had created elementally, from the tone, the timber, the modulation, the melody of a voice, heard once, as a disembodied phantom of the electromagnetic spectrum.

He is approaching his late-thirties, his black hair is still thick and unruly, but his hairline has receded slightly, and there is just the touch of grey at the sides. He often has a three or four day’s growth of stubble on what was once a chiseled face, but now begins to look craggy and seamed from days in the hot desert sun. He looks perpetually tired, which is reflected in his hazel eyes, which seem lighter against his sun darkened skin, and there is a far off look in them that some women interpret as disinterest and others, perhaps more perceptive, see as loneliness.

On assignment in Bahrain, he is listening for her now among the babble of voices echoing across the conference room where discussions are underway about the Western media’s “unfair” reporting on the government’s treatment of its Shiite minority. Doubt begins to creep into his mind.

Inshallah, will he find her? Will she be what he has imagined her to be all these many years? Will they live happily ever after? He wonders, if he does not, if she is not, if they do not, then what is he to believe about Allah, the merciful?

Words from the Quran come unbidden into his mind. Do you worship what you have carved yourself?

The hotel in Kabul is fronted by a keep-out zone to prevent terrorists from ramming a bomb-laden car into the hotel entrance. The zone is created by a courtyard, raised beds of roses and dahlias, and a center fountain. He thinks of his father’s backyard as the heavy scent of roses opening wide in the late morning sun reaches him.

Glancing at the TV above the reception desk as he shows his identification, he sees that the correspondent’s breakfast meeting has already started. A colleague from his newspaper is summarizing the purpose of the meeting, and emphasizing the importance of shared security for journalists covering events in the Middle East. As he turns from the desk to make his way to the conference room he hears a woman’s voice on the TV that stops him cold. Her voice. She is asking a question. He listens for a moment allowing her voice to wash over him like a warm sea. Then he turns towards the TV.

He experiences the explosion as a kaleidoscope of burst ear drums, shattering glass, blinding dust, violent motion; a terrible dance that ends in disorientation, and searing pain.

He is old now. He lives in the north, where winter is never far off and where the morning cold rekindles the pain in his limbs and reminds him that he is still alive. The winds can be fierce, rattling the double pane windows of his house, but he cannot hear this sound, nor any other.

He moves slowly, feeling his way around the small house by memory. He finds his way to the porch and reaching behind, finds the arm of a chair. He sits, raises his face to the morning sun, and closes his eyes.

And he listens.

Uncle Leo's Garden

2011-09-17T11:22:00.000-07:00

I made sure to arrive at my Uncle Leo's well after lunch and well before dinner. Despite the off hour, Uncle Leo would still invite me to eat with he and my step aunt, Madeline, but I'd have a graceful way of declining; an afternoon meeting in Manhattan, picking up a friend at JFK, rushing back to work, etc. I had a number of reasonable excuses in my hip pocket.

I loved my uncle and made a point of stopping in for a visit when I was in New York, but Madeline -- Maddie, as Leo called her -- was a terrible cook, if you could call warming fish sticks in the microwave cooking. Maddie also wore so much perfume that she moved in a kind of blue-green haze that roared up my sinuses and stung my eyes when she leaned in to kiss my cheek.

I rang the bell and waited and then rang again. I was beginning to wonder if anyone was home. Finally, Uncle Leo opened the door a crack and peered out. "Oh, it's you, Roberto," he said. Leo insisted on calling me Roberto, although my name was Robert. He enjoyed rolling the "R" and adding the Italian inflection.

Leo motioned me in and told me he had company.

"Come on back to the porch and I'll introduce you to Gus. So, how have you been," Uncle Leo asked, as we walked out to the back porch.

"Good," I said, but Leo was already thinking about something else.

Gus was a balding, bowling ball-shaped man, with surprisingly small hands, and a weak handshake.

"How're ya," he said.

"Gus is an officer with the boilermaker's union," Leo said.

"I'm a steward in the local IBB," Gus said.

"Sit, sit," directed Leo, pointing to a mixed assortment of chairs on the back porch. "I'm gonna get us something to drink," and he disappeared back into the kitchen.

We sat looking out at Leo's small, fenced backyard, where he grew swisschard, egg plants, bell peppers, tomatoes, and various Italian herbs.

"So, you're Leo's nephew?" Gus said.

"Yeah. My dad was Leo's big brother."

"Was?" Gus said, leaning forward and looking at me with clear, blue eyes.

"Yes, he was killed in Vietnam. Leo was like a second father to me."

"That right? He's got a kind of father complex, or someting, that uncle of yours."

"How's that?"

"Knows all the kids in the neighborhood. Fixes their bikes. Gives 'em advice, Even gives 'em lunch money." Gus moved his shoulders and neck as he talked in an odd dance of gestures that didn't involve his hands, which he kept clasped together. I wondered if he was self conscious about them.

"You got kids?" Gus asked me.

"Two. A boy and a girl."

Leo came out of the kitchen with three beers in his hands, letting the screen door bang behind him.

"Bobby's in his senior year at St. Christopher. He plays ball there; second base. Like his dad," Leo said, handing us a beer.

Leo sat down opposite Gus and I and raised his bottle.

"Salute!"

Gus took a sip of his beer, and then asked me about my son.

"Your boy is at some Catholic school?"

"St. Christopher's," I said.

"And he was second?" Gus said.

"He plays second," I said.

"How's Jennifer?" Leo asked.

"She's doing great, Uncle Leo. Sends her love."

"You got two kids; did I hear that right?" Gus said.

"Yes. Boy and a girl. Jennifer is eighteen months younger than Bobby," I said, taking a sip of my beer.

"She play sports, too?" Gus asked. He leaned over and set his empty bottle on the floor beside his chair.

"No," I said. "Jennifer is artistic."

Gus grimaced and shook his head.

"That's gotta be hard."

Leo looked at Gus with raised eyebrows.

I smiled. "Not really. She's taken up the guitar and really loves it."

"That's amazing," Gus said. "A kid with that kind of problem."

"Problem?" I said.

"Autism," Gus said.

"Ar - tis - tic," Leo said, raising his voice and leaning towards Gus. "She's artistic, not autistic."

Gus picked up his empty beer bottle and shook it at Leo.

Leo jumped up and started towards the kitchen, but stopped and asked if I wanted another beer. I shook my head and Leo went into the kitchen, letting the screen door slam.

"Leo, fer chrissake!" I heard Maddie shout.

"Sorry about my mistake," Gus said. "I don't hear so good."

"That's alright. I'm starting to have problems myself. It runs in the family."

Maddie came out, preceded by a wave of jasmine scent, and leaned over and kissed my cheek.

"Hi, Robert," she said, squeezing my shoulder.

"Hey, Maddie," Gus said.

"Hey yourself, Augustus."

"Robert, you'll stay for dinner?"

"Thanks, Maddie. Can't do it. Big meeting this afternoon."

Leo came out of the kitchen with two beers, looked at Maddie, and closed the screen door without letting it bang.

"Robert, how about staying for dinner?" Leo asked, handing Gus his beer.

"He's got one of his meetings," Maddie said.

"Pasta alla Campidaneses," Leo said.

"I love that stuff," Gus said, draining half his beer.

"Gus is staying," Maddie said, looking at me.

"I'd love to, Maddie, but duty calls."

"Hey, did you guys hear what happened to Dominick Ciccioni?" Gus said. "I'm telling ya, it was bizarre."

Gus's Story

Breakfast in Manosque

2011-08-31T22:13:00.000-07:00

He checked into his pensione on the Rue Du Poete late after a long, tiring flight to Marseilles and an 85 km drive to Manosque. Too tired for dinner, he fell into the single bed, kicked off his shoes, and fell asleep. He woke at 2 am and again at 3 and 5 and gave up at 6, got up, and shedding clothes as he went, staggered into the shower.

He stood in front of the small mirror drying off, glad for the fogged glass. The last thing he wanted to see so early were his red eyes, receding hairline, and the scars he had running horizontally across his chest, as if he'd been the victim of a badly botched radical mastectomy. "Daniel, you are messed up," he said to the misty apparition appraising him from the other side of the glass.

There was no one about in the pensione at this hour of the morning, so he walked about the Manosque city center admiring the golds and pinks of a morning sky reflecting in the windows of the old city. After about 45 minutes, he found himself in a quaint little square with flower baskets hanging from the lamp posts, where a Cafe Des Negociants was just opening. The waiter was still setting up the outdoor tables. He said good morning and motioned Daniel to sit.

Daniel's French was not good, but the waiter appreciated him trying and rewarded him with a café au lait, warm croissant, bread and butter, and a tiny jar of strawberry jam. Daniel found himself enjoying his modest breakfast in this small square on a cool, sunny morning in the South of France. He bit into his second croissant. No one made the buttery, flakey roll as well as the French.

When he returned to his pensione, Mademoiselle Marie, who must have been the oldest 'mademoiselle' in Manosque, insisted that he have breakfast. In her fractured English she informed him that the breakfast came with the price of the room, emphasizing the point by vigorously fluffing out her apron. He hesitated to inform her that he'd already eaten somewhere else, and so he lied and said he was very late for his meeting at the Cadarache Research Centre. The Mademoiselle, glancing over her shoulder at the wall clock, looked at him suspiciously. Daniel knew what she was thinking, Someone in France will be working at 8 am?

Making his excuses about showering, finding his way on unfamiliar roads, reviewing his papers for the meeting, and several other things at which Mademoiselle Marie puffed her breath out in scorn, retreated to his room. Even though he'd already showered, he felt compelled by some twisted sense of morality to do so again. By the time he'd dressed and walked down stairs with briefcase in hand, his arrival hour at Cadarache after the 50 minute drive would seem to be reasonable. His meeting however, wasn't until 1400.

As Daniel made to say au revoir, one French expression with which he felt fairly comfortable, Mademoiselle Marie handed him a small basket and said, "Le petit déjeuner."

Daniel drove up Chemin Docheur Gerard Durbet to Mont d'Or, parked, and ate his second breakfast under an olive tree while admiring the view of the Durance River. He could make out Av. de la Liberation below, and the A51 that would take him to Cadarache, where he would learn about the ITER fusion center's work to help meet mankind's future energy needs. He fed bread to a pair of European Goldfinch, and then left for his drive to Cadarache.

State of Wonder, by Ann Patchett

2011-08-30T15:23:00.000-07:00

What a wonderful writer is Ann Patchett. I'm about in the middle of her new book, State of Wonder, and am struck by her ability to place the reader smack dab in the jungle city of hot, sticky, buggy Manaus, in the Amazon of Brazil. Patchett combines her skill at atmosphere, with an unerring eye for humanity, creating characters, whether pleasant or unpleasant, that are fully developed and full of all the baggage that forms them as human beings. Patchett adorns her characters with both the physical accouterments of who they are, but also the mannerisms, speech patterns, and utterances of who they've become. Add to these impressive skills her superb story telling, and you have Ann Patchett and her wonderful, State of Wonder.

Excerpt from The Lion and the Sun

2011-08-28T20:34:00.000-07:00

Diplomats, attaches, military assistance advisory group personnel, field agents, and other government foreign workers are taught to vary their routine in order to make it more difficult for potential adversaries, especially terrorists to kill or capture them. I was trained to do this. My training was decades old. My mind was elsewhere. I left for my morning jog from the same side entrance of my Istanbul hotel every day, thinking how clever I was to sneak by the horde of street vendors.

From The Lion and the Sun, a Novel

The Snowman

2011-08-25T19:30:00.000-07:00

Everyone’s glad the snowman died

With his feet so high in the air

In the startled air

By the scream

By the standing scream

Shaking the night

Catching its breath

In the dome of its sky

The snowman dead in his cold

In the ice of his heart

The tomb of his sob

Deep in his throat

Bring flowers

To die in the ice

When the ice in the night

Melts in the dome of its sky

How cold the snowman died

So lonely
forlorn

Alone in the tomb of his sob

The cry in the ice of his heart

With his feet so high in the air

In the startled air

By the scream

Excerpt from The Lion and the Sun

2011-08-21T19:50:00.000-07:00

Conte called Chrissy about 2330 Vienna time. Still early evening US Eastern Standard Time. She answered on the first ring -- a simple, “Hello.”

Conte pictured her in the kitchen, standing at the counter, a bottle of water in her hand, looking like a professional model wearing the latest in yuppie hiking togs. She had outdoor looks, and ballroom grace and beauty.

“Hi, Chrissy, it’s Dan.”

At least a couple of beats before she responded. “Hello, Dan. Sarah told me you called. How are you?”

“I’m okay, honey. Listen, I’m really sorry about the way things went down. As soon as I get back--”

“I know you’re sorry, Dan. You don’t mean for things to happen the way they do, but they happen anyway.” The tone of her voice ate away at Conte. She sounded so… defeated.

“Honey, we’ll work things out. This was just something I couldn’t get around.”

“Dan, face it, you’ve always had things come up that you can’t get around. This isn’t any different than a hundred other times.”

“Chrissy, I--”

“I don’t blame you, Dan, really. But I can’t deal with it anymore. I’m angry and bitter all the time. I don’t want to be that way.”

Conte squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t muster the energy to respond. He didn’t know what to tell her. ‘I love you,’ would sound hollow. But he did love her. He just knew that she was right.

There was a long silence. Then she said, “I’ve filed for divorce, Dan.”

“Chrissy…”

“And I’m seeing someone.” The last statement blurted out. She needed to get it off her chest. Her conscience was bothering her. Conte wondered if Sarah knew. Sure she knew.

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter who. That’s not the point.”

“Well, what is the point?”

“The point is, it’s over. That’s the point.”

Conte took a deep breath. Chrissy was being emotional. He wanted to reason things out. He was good at reasoning. Relationships? That was a different matter.

“Listen Chrissy, we can still work this out. Let’s give it a shot. I’ll be back in a few weeks. Can’t we wait that long?”

“Dan, you’re not listening. I’ve filed for divorce. You’ll find the papers when you get back. Find yourself a lawyer. I have one.”

A lawyer, for Christ sake! Just what he needed. Conte clenched his teeth.

“So who is it, Chrissy?

“It’s someone that’s here, Dan. Someone that’s been here. Unlike you.”

“God damn it, Chrissy. You think I wanna be gone all the frigging time. You’re punishing me because of my job, for crying out loud!”

There was a long silence. Conte wasn’t sure that Chrissy was still on the line. Then he heard her voice come across the line low and slow, “Dan, there’s no point in us having this conversation. It’s not getting us anywhere. What’s done is done.”

“Are you sleeping with this guy?

“Dan --”

Conte yelled into the phone, “Who is it?”

“Jim, if you have to know. And yes, I’m sleeping with him.”

James O. ‘Jim’ Buchanan, her boss, congressman for the eighth district. A guy whose only qualification for office was unbridled ambition. The type of person that gives the term ‘politician’ a pejorative connotation.

“Jesus, Chrissy, can’t you do better than that? He’s a superficial son of a bitch…a real cipher. He’s just the fucking image you made up for him. He must be good in bed.” Conte heard the catch in his voice. His cheeks were wet. He hated that he was crying. He hated what he was saying.

Chrissy’s voice was filled with anger and contempt. “The point is, he’s in my bed. You’re not!”

“Well, not only yours,” Conte spit out.

The line went dead. Conte took the phone away from his ear and looked at it. Chrissy isn’t the type who needs to get in the last word, especially when dealing with an asshole like me.

Jesus Out to Sea

2011-08-19T08:53:00.000-07:00

Jesus Out to Sea is a collection of short stories by James Lee Burke. Crime fiction fans may be familiar with Burke's, Dave Robicheaux novels, which stand out as much for Burke's wonderful descriptions of the Louisiana bayou, as they do for the tight story telling. But my guess is that few will have read his short stories, which is a shame because they reflect the same craft, as well as Burke's astounding range of characters and milieu. Burke's lyrical prose is always a treat to read, whatever his subject.

Dreaming Hair

2011-08-10T12:45:00.000-07:00

Walker made his way carefully across Tiefer Graben towards the friseure. Traffic along the street was bumper-to-bumper and horns blared as impatient drivers waited to move through the intersection.

Cars were parked willy-nilly all along the block, including on the corner of the sidewalk. A woman walked her dog along the curb, talking to the little long-haired Dachshund about doing his toilet. The dog seemed otherwise inclined.

Walker waited until woman and dog passed and then stepped up to the building. As he did so, he saw his reflection appear in the large, plate glass window of the hair salon, just under the sign that said, ‘Dreaming Hair.’

“They probably meant to say, Dreamy Hair,” he said, to himself. He shielded his eyes and peered into the salon, trying to see around the large potted plant that sat on the window counter. There appeared to be just one styling chair in the shop. It looked like the pilot’s chair in a Startrek movie.

The chair was turned away from the window so that Walker saw the stylist from the back. She had hair clippers and was running them up the back of the person’s head completing what appeared to be a buzz cut.

Walker turned and walked through a short side alley and into the salon. The stylist nodded to him, turned the chair, and motioned for him to take a sit. To Walker’s surprise, there was no one in the chair.

“I thought you had a customer,” Walker said to the stylist, a slender young woman, with straight black hair, heavy eye shadow, and black lipstick. The woman gave him what Walker considered an indulgent smile, and motioned again for him to sit.

As Walker sat in the chair he checked around the shop for the person he’d seen in the chair when he had looked in through the window. The salon was a sterile looking, small rectangular room with white walls and a white and black tile floor. The stylist’s work counter and sink ran against one wall. A large mirror hung over the work counter. Other than that, there were no furnishings of any kind, not even chairs for customers who might be waiting their turn.

The stylist turned the chair so that Walker faced the mirror above the stylist’s work counter. Her leather pants creaked as she moved behind him.

“Nicht zu kurz,” Walker told the stylist, which was close to the limit of his hair styling lexicon in German.

“Hmm,” the stylist said. Then began humming tunelessly, while readying her styling instruments.

Walker looked at the stylist’s reflection in the mirror. She was totally absorbed sorting though scissors, clippers, and combs. Walker was struck by the woman’s pale, almost white complexion. Was it makeup? He shifted his gaze to the shop behind him and to the philodendron, and beyond it to the window. He saw a man peering into the salon. He sat up and leaned forward for a better look. The man looking in the window was him.

“Wait!” he said to the stylist, who had just turned on her clippers and brought them to the back of his head. Walker jumped from the chair and ran out of the salon and around the corner to the front of the shop. There was no one at the window. He walked across Tiefer Graben and looked up and down the busy street.

“I’m seeing things,” Walker said to himself.

Walker made his way back across Tiefer Graben towards the friseure. The woman with the little long-haired Dachshund was still there talking to her dog.

Walker stepped up to the salon and shielding his eyes, peered through the window, trying to see around the philodendron. The chair was turned away from the window so that Walker saw the stylist from the back. She was running her hair clippers up the back of the person’s head who was now sitting in the chair.

“What the...!” Walker said, as he hurried back into the salon.

“Hey, I was getting my hair...,” Walker was saying as the woman turned the chair to face him. It was empty. She motioned for him to sit.

“I thought..., didn’t you...” Walker stammered.

The stylist gave him her artificial smile and motioned again for Walker to sit. She was humming her tuneless hum, sounding like the oscillation of alternating current.

Walker looked around the salon as he sat in the chair. Once again, he saw no one else in the salon. The stylist turned the chair to face the mirror and reached for her hair clippers. Walker immediately looked at the reflection of the salon window in the mirror. There he was again! Peering into the salon.

“What the hell!” Walker shouted, bolting from the chair and rushing outside to confront his doppelgänger.

But the result was the same. No evil double stalking him. The same woman walking the same toilet-resistant Dachshund, the chaos of the city all around him. Walker stood on the sidewalk scratching his head. Then walked back to the window of the salon and didn’t even think twice when he saw someone in the stylist’s seat. “That’s me,” he said, and turned and walked into the salon.

The stylist started humming and Walker said, “Nicht zu kurz” just as she pressed her clippers firmly against his neck and ran them up the back of his head.

Stranger

2011-06-14T21:51:00.000-07:00

There was a stranger at my sister’s funeral
He came in late and stood at the back
He was tall, but slightly stooped
His white hair swept back
Wearing dark glasses
He wants to be invisible, I thought

Sitting in the family pew
I watched him from the corner of my eye
“Who’s that man in the back?”
My husband turned to look
“Don’t turn around,” I hissed
“How would I know?” he said

I felt compelled to share
When the time came in the service
I said the things people say
The usual meaningless things
And I watched the man in the back
As he stood expressionless

As the benediction ended
I pushed out of the pew
“What are you doing?” my husband said
“I want to know who he is,” I said
But the stranger had already left the church
I rushed to the side door

I tore my heels off and ran
Rounding the corner I glimsed him driving off
My sister’s lover?
An ex-husband we didn’t know about?
“Wait!” I shouted
“Who are you?”

Time's Arrow

2011-06-13T19:10:00.000-07:00

There is no time

I knew this even before

I grew tall enough to see over

The absurdity of it

Before I realized that

I was not at the center

of anything

I knew that events

Determined the trajectory

of time’s arrow

That only my consciousness

Constituted the reality

Of the past

Or the future

I knew that time

did not exist

Anymore than

The soul

Or God

Or love

Existed

The Death of Innocence

2011-05-28T18:41:00.000-07:00

What can we know

About this child lying dead

Here, in this trackless land

of fierce sun and shifting sands?

That he played and laughed

And stood gazing in wonder

At a night sky filled with myriad stars

Endless, like the ghibli blown dust

That Malak al-Maut came for him

Unbidden, as the angel is wont to do

For the warrior, the woman, the aged

For this innocent child

That the angel of death came swifltly

Across an azure sky

Streaked with feathery clouds and fire

And he took this boy’s breath

And he took this boy’s body

And his soul, breathed them in

And exhaled his being in ghlibli dust

And placed his soul in the garden of heaven

Speak to me of mercy

Speak to me of compassion

Speak to me of innocence

And show me this small child

What can we know

About this child lying dead?

Q Squad Report

2011-05-27T12:15:00.000-07:00

Officers responded to report

Of juveniles prowling vehicles

Upon arrival

Officer Argentina spotted

One of the suspects

Who fled on foot

But was not as fast
As Officer Argentina

Who detained and restrained

The 14 year-old reported

Assault by 18 year-old brother

Who kept hitting him
All over his body

With an extension cord

Preliminary investigation indicates

Mother requested that brother hit him with the cord

Because he was performing poorly at school

Officer Argentina went to home

Mother reported break in at front door

Which no longer locks

Due to her children breaking in repeatedly

Nothing appears to have been stolen

But someone may have taken a shower

And probably ate, too

Mother suspects her son

Who is on the run

From his probation officers

Complainant at home

Reported to Officer Argentina

That her 18 year-old grandson

Threatened to kill himself

Because his computer was shut off

His grandmother took him to the Hospital

Because he said his blood was hot

Son called station

To report he wanted to kill himself

He said he had hit his foot several times

With a hammer

Officer Argentina

Issued a detain and transport

To Detox

Lost and Found and Lost

2011-05-10T14:14:00.000-07:00

I found the music cassette
After all these years
Dropped out of a box
of old videos
(I don't even have a VCR anymore)

I looked and looked for it
I don't know why
Just because you recorded it
These were the songs
That meant something to you then

"Who Wants to Live Forever"
The hell with everything
We were in love
I was writing poetry
Like a lovesick teenager

I listen now
And can't find the words
But the feelings?
They still come
Overwhelming me again

Who dares to love forever

Street of Dreams

2011-04-12T21:19:00.000-07:00

There on the left

the entrance

a narrow archway

hidden by the foliage

A courtyard

the fountain sparkles

in the noon sun

the sound of water falling

"I want to kiss you

No, no, not here"

Quickly, across the cobbled street

To the right

Up the stairs

of my pension

the cumbersome key

fumbled in the lock

Oh, and then

desperate for the kiss

overcome

fainting with desire

Heart racing

falling on the bed

bodies entangled

press her to me

I turn from my window

and survey the empty room

Did I hear footsteps

on that street of dreams?

Horses are running underground

2011-01-17T19:05:00.000-08:00

Horses are running underground and it feels like an earthquake.

That's what I get for living in Los Angeles.

Where else can the horses run?

Pasta Matthew Marinara

2011-01-13T21:56:00.000-08:00

The Marinaras, Matthew and his dad and mom..., oh, and their cat, Claw, lived in Happy Valley, Pennsylvania. It was a small town and everyone seemed to know everyone else. And they seemed to know everyone else's business. So everyone was surprised when Mr. Splutter, the mail carrier, marched up to the Marinara’s door and announced that there was a letter for Matthew.

“Who is it from?” asked Matthew.

“Not my business,” said Mr. Splutter. “Besides, there’s no return address.”

Matthew studied the envelop. Sure enough, it didn’t have a return address, just a couple of marks in the left corner that looked like geese flying. “Hmm,” said Matthew, turning the envelop this way and that.

Claw rubbed against Matthew’s leg looking for attention. Matthew reached down with the letter and said, “Who do you think this is from, Claw?”

Claw sniffed the envelop, arched his back, and his fur stood straight up. He let out a yowl and dashed off upstairs.

“Silly cat,” said Matthew. He tore open the envelop and read the letter. It said,

Dear Mr. Matthew Marinara;

You are invited to a dinner to be held in your honor at the home of Baron Timothy Von Tinymann tomorrow evening at 1800 sharp. Guests may include very important people, such as the Mayor, the Chief of Police, the head of the school district, and members of the city council. You would be wise not to disappoint these VIPs.

RSVP, which, if you don’t know French, means, Are You Coming or Not, Please (and you better be coming).

Very Respectfully yours,

TvT

His Royal Hindend, Timothy Von Tinymann, III, Baron of Kugelkase

Gosh, I wonder why I’m being honored, Matthew thought. Maybe because I did my homework this week? No, that can’t be it. I didn’t do my homework.

Matthew scratched his head. Why am I being honored? he asked himself. Maybe it’s because I didn’t tease the cat, thought Matthew. No, Matthew said to himself, you don’t get rewarded for not doing bad things. You get rewarded for doing good things.

“Let’s see,” Matthew said to himself, “Did I help Papa take the garbage out? No. Did I help Mama wash the dinner dishes? No. Did I put away my toys? No.”

Matthew thought and thought, but he could not think of anything he did to deserve being honored, especially by “very important people,” like the Baron and his VIP guests.

He ran into the kitchen and showed his mother the letter. “Why do you think I’m being honored, Mama? he asked.

Mama Marinara looked at the note. “Who is Baron Von Tinymann?” she asked Matthew.

“He’s a very important person, and he is holding a dinner in my honor,” Matthew said, proudly.

“That’s nice, dear,” said Matthew’s mama, and then she turned back to the pasta sauce she was making.

Matthew ran into the living room where his papa was sitting reading the paper. “Papa, papa!” Matthew shouted. “Look at this note.”

Papa Marinara lowered his paper and glanced at the note. “Hmm,” he said.

“Why do you think I’m being honored, Papa?” Matthew said.

Matthew’s papa said, “Ask your mama, Matthew,” and went back to reading the paper again.

Matthew walked slowly back to his room and sat on his bed, staring at the letter. There must be a good reason, he thought. I’ll just have to go and find out. He went to his desk and wrote a note. It said:

Dear Baron Von Tinymann;

I am coming to dinner, but I don’t know why.

Sincerely,

Matthew Marinara, Kid of Goodly Street, Happy Valley, PA

The next evening, Matthew put on his good slacks, shoes, and shirt, and pulled a warm sweater on. Then he put on his heavy coat, shoved the dinner invitation in his pocket, and went to the front door.

“Bye!” he shouted, and dashed out.

Matthew wasn’t sure how he found the Baron Timothy Von Tinymann home; somehow he knew it would be on the very top of the hill, and it was -- way up there playing hide and seek in the clouds.

Matthew came to a wall so high he could not see the top. In the middle of the wall were two tall flamingoes facing each other. Matthew stared at them.

“What are you staring ahtttt?” the flamingoes squawked.

“Uh...” Matthew stammered. “I’m here for the dinner.”

“What dinner?” the flamingo on the left asked.

“The dinner in my honor; I’m Matthew--”

Before Matthew could finish saying his name, the flamingo on the right said to his partner, “He’s the guest of honor, you bird brain.”

“Oh dear, then we should open,” the other flamingo said and the two flamingoes turned and opened like a giant bird gate, feathers flapping apart in welcome.

Matthew walked through the flamingo bird gate and headed towards the house. He walked and walked, up and up he went, until he was breathing hard and wondering if he’d ever get there. Finally he came to the front door. He saw a big door knocker shaped like a serpent and standing on his tip toes, grasped it and banged it on the door.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” the door knocker shouted. “Sissss-pose, I banged your head on the door,” the serpent said. “How would feel about that?”

“I’m sorry,” said Matthew. “I wanted to get in.”

“Well, ssssssilly, why don’t you open the door?”

Matthew turned the door handle and the big door swung open, its hinges squealing like Grandpa Marinara’s old wheel barrel.

Matthew walked into a cavernous entry hall filled with dusty statues. The walls were hung with dark paintings of castles, and mountains, and oceans. A giant chandelier hung overhead. Most of the lights in the chandelier were out and it gave off only a faint, ghostly light.

Matthew’s footsteps echoed on the cold floor tiles.

Matthew said a weak, “Hello?”

No one answered.

He said, “Hello” louder, and still no answer.

Then he shouted “Hello! and his voice echoed around the empty room, “Hello lo lo lo lo.”

Matthew decided he’d either got the date of the dinner wrong, or someone was playing a joke on him, and he turned and was about to leave when he heard, “Master Marinara, I presume.”

Matthew turned back and there was a man standing in the entry. He stood very straight, wore a black tuxedo, with a bow tie, and kept his hands clasped behind his back. He bowed slightly and Matthew saw that the man’s black hair was very shiny and not a single strand was out of place. “Yes,” said Matthew.

“Indeed,” said the man. “I am Butter, the butler. Follow me, please. The dining room is this way.”

Butter the butler led Matthew to a set of double doors. Matthew could hear loud voices, the clatter of dishes, and what sounded like a duck quacking, all coming from the room behind the doors. What a noisy dinner party, Matthew thought.

Butler Butter opened the door and bowed Matthew in. As Matthew passed by he noticed that the butler’s hair was painted on his bare scalp.

The dining room was a chattering, clattering, rattling, ruckus of a mess. A very fat man at the near end of the table was rocking violently in his chair hollering, “I’m stuck, I’m stuck, I’m stuck!”

The woman next to him had a giant, feathered hat on and was batting at it with a soup ladle. The hat was quacking.

The places around the table were filled with men and women of every size and shape and color and they were all talking at once, gesturing wildly, with food in their hands, and shouting to be heard over the general cacophony. The table was filled with covered platters. A large vase of flowers covered with caterpillars sat in the middle of the table.

Matthew was looking for his place at the table, when a piece of buttered bread and jelly came flying out of the air and hit him on the forehead. It stuck there on his forehead and Matthew was too stunned to do anything about it.

“I say there, young man, that’s my jellied bread. I’ll thank you to give it back!” said a very small woman seated near the head of the table. She jumped up on the table and came running towards Matthew to get her bread, but suddenly she was stopped in her tracks, and a deep voice shouted from the head of the table, “Silence!”

The room went as silent as church.

Matthew tried to see who shouted, but the woman on the table whose bread he had on his forehead was blocking his view.

The woman climbed off the table and back into her seat and Matthew saw a very elegantly dressed, very little man at the head of the table.

“This is the guest of honor, Master Matthew Marinara,” the man said in his deep, sonorous voice. “Allow me to introduce myself, Master Matthew. I am Baron Timothy von Tinymann. At your service. And this charming lady,” and the Baron gestured to the small woman at his right, “is Lady Lydia von Tinymann.”

“He has my bread on his head,” said Lady Lydia.

“Nonsense,” said the Baron. “It’s the latest fashion.”

And all the guests began slapping jellied bread on their foreheads.

“Now then Master Matthew,” said the Baron. “Let me introduce you to the menu.”

“The menu?” said Matthew, pulling the bread off his forehead. “Don’t you mean to say, introduce me to the other guests?” said Matthew.

“I say what I mean, and I mean what I said, I said, when I said what I meant,” said the Baron, throwing his head back so violently that the bread on his head went flying into the soup tureen.

There was a violent splashing in the tureen as several turtles fought over the bread.

“Now then, please pay attention,” the Baron said.

He climbed out of his chair and up onto the table. He lifted the lid off a platter and pointed to a frog sitting on a bed of lettuce. “Il primo,” the Baron announced, with a flourish. “We will start with a frog-leg salad. Say hello Hoppy.” The frog said, “Ribbid.”

The Baron replaced the lid and went to the next platter. Lifting the lid he gestured to a sparrow sitting on its nest. “We will then have a bird’s nest soup.” The sparrow gave a tiny chirp, before the Baron replaced the lid.

Matthew watched in fascination as the Baron went from platter to platter introducing their contents; a pink pig he called, “Span Ferkel,” a brown rabbit, he called “Hasen Pfeffer,” and then a platter with nothing in it.

The Baron looked around the table and spotted the duck on the woman’s hat. “Ah ha!” he said, grabbing the duck and putting it back in the platter. “This is our French delegate, Monsieur D’la Orange; the pièce de résistance.”

The duck said, “Je suis enchanté,” before the Baron slammed the platter’s lid down.

“Very nice,” said Matthew, wondering what was for dessert, but feeling it would be impolite to ask. “Where do I sit?” he asked.

“Why right here,” the Baron said, lifting the lid from a platter of spaghetti. “Pasta a la Matthew Marinara,” he announced to the diners, who stood in unison and clapped enthusiastically.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Matthew said. And that’s when he woke up.

Matthew ran to the bathroom, washed up, and skipped down the stairs, hopping over Claw on his way. His mother was in the kitchen working at the stove.

“Momma, momma!” Matthew shouted, “What are we having for dinner?”

“Dinner?” His mother said. “We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

Just then Matthew’s father came into the kitchen. “I think I’ll fix my famous Pasta Marinara for dinner,” said the father.

“Oh no!” said Matthew.

Mama and Papa Marinara looked askance at Matthew.

“That’s odd,” said Mama Marinara. “He usually loves your pasta, Papa.”

“Hmm?” said Matthew’s father. “I wonder what’s gotten into him.”

“Baron von Tinymann,” Matthew said, under his breath.

“What’s that dear?” asked his mother, feeling his forehead to see if he had a fever.

“Nothing, Mama,” Matthew said, and went out to get the morning paper.

“Does he have a fever?” Papa Marinara asked Mama Marinara.

“No, but he seems to have jelly on his forehead.”

The End

Keeping warm together

2011-01-03T12:56:00.000-08:00

Winter Quail, Photo by David Schindler

The morning air is crisp and cold. There is still a pink glow in the eastern sky. I cross a dry creek bed, then climb up a rise and surprise a covey of quail. They dash about on prissy feet refusing to fly, determined to preserve their dignity, looking ridiculous -- but I don’t tell them that. They deserve some respect, after all. It’s freezing out here, and yet here they are, all fluffed out, keeping warm together. We could learn from these bird brains.