Scott Bell's Blog, page 7
August 5, 2015
Ms. Inga Thobvious
Washington Pist journalist, Ms. Inga Thobvious, was working on a series of stories for her paper. The working title of the series was: Why Conservative Christians Love Guns and Hate Minorities. For this article, Inga interviewed Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson, Mark Ruffalo, Sean Penn, Susan Sarandon, Bernie Sanders, Dan Rather, and many similar reasonable and fair people. She decided to interview a Conservative Christian to add some flavor to the story.
Problem was, she couldn’t find one.
In her entire rolodex, there were no conservatives and damn few Christians. So she consulted her editor, who searched his rolodex. No luck. She tried watching Fox News, but it made her too angry. She was about to give up the search when inspiration struck. Maybe, she thought, I should leave Washington, D.C., and travel to one of those square states in the middle. Maybe there I’ll find a conservative!
Inga boarded a plane and traveled to a blue state. During her visit to this hellhole of conservative thought, Inga found right wingers raising money for missions to poor towns, volunteering at the local food bank, feeding the homeless, and donating their time and money toward improving their community.
Perplexed, Inga used the internet in her hotel room, and did a little research. She found that conservatives contributed a significant fraction more of their time and income to directly helping the poor than did liberals. Churches ran food drives, arranged for clothing and dry goods to be delivered to the homeless, ministered to the poor, and otherwise fed back to their community from their own table.
The next day, she met an elderly man at the hotel’s breakfast. To qualify him as a source, she asked him her litmus question: “Who do you think is the greatest president ever?”
“Ronald Reagan,” the man said.
Instantly, she knew she had a real conservative. They chatted for a while, then Inga brought up the subject that had been nagging her. “I have to say,” she said, “conservatives are known for being stingy, greedy, hateful racists who only want to subjugate the poor. Why else would you continue to push for reduced government funding for programs targeted at the poor?”
The man scratched his chin a moment. “Let me ask you something first. In sixty years of government handouts for the poor, have the poor gotten wealthier? Or more poor?”
“I….I don’t know.”
“Poorer is the answer. In ninety years of Social Security, can old people afford to retire and live on that income?”
“Uh…no?”
“Since government’s gotten involved in health care, have costs gone up or down?”
Inga felt her face heating. “Kind of…up.”
“A little off topic, but let me ask you this last question.” The man paused for a sip of coffee. “You’ll probably tell me the government should stay out of your womb. Correct?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Yet, you want the government—and all of us—to pay for termination of your unwanted pregnancy. True?”
“Well, not mine, no. But the poor women…”
“So even though I don’t like the wholesale flushing of fetal tissue from the womb, I should help fund it?”
“That’s….That’s democracy.”
“Inga,” the man said, “I feel for the poor, I really do. I’ve been broke, nearly homeless. Struggled to put food on the table. Through a helping hand, some hard work, and a little luck, I got myself out of that situation. My fellow citizens helped me out a little, and I want to help anybody who needs it. A little. Enough to get a start back to self-sufficiency. Not a full time dependency that causes a cycle of helplessness….or maybe I should call it hopelessness.”
Inga spent quite a bit of time with that older gentleman. She took lots of notes. She flew back to Washington a week later and wrote her articles, but they turned out not the way she originally intended. The title changed to: Government Chains, How the Poor are Crushed and Degraded. In those articles, she wrote that conservatives were neither greedy, nor heartless. In fact, when confronted with poverty, right wingers got their hands dirty. They faced the poor and destitute in their community and gave them a helping hand. Churches, she wrote, were not all dens of charlatans and thieves, and some even helped more people than they harmed.
Proud, happy, and glad to be a reporter able to bring the truth to the people, Inga turned in her articles on a clear, bright, sunny Monday morning.
She was fired twenty minutes later.
July 28, 2015
Herbs Tell the Tale
It looks like I have plenty of basil.
And lots of rosemary.
And sage.
But, as usual, I’m out of thyme.
July 12, 2015
Yeager’s Law Update
The Kindle version is now available for pre-order at $2.99. Delivered on July 21st. Print version is ready to ship now.
July 1, 2015
It Could Never Happen Here
The Greek government –
Strictly limits overtime for private sector
Sets minimums for overtime pay.
20-plus days a year minimum leave required by law
Requires minimum of 15 days paid sick leave per year
Requires business to consult with employees and obtain permission for lay-offs or demotions.
Has a national collective bargaining minimum wage
Requires 3-1/2 months unpaid family leave
Requires one month’s salary for Christmas bonus, 1/2 month’s for Easter and vacation.
In Greece –
Unemployment = 25%
Population below poverty line = 20%
Welfare recipients living in poverty = 60%
Welfare reduced poverty by = 04%
Corporate tax rate = 25%
“Social Security” deduction by employer = 28%
GDP earmarked for welfare = 22.5%
I’m glad no one in this country advocates a government-mandated minimum wage, or wants to raise corporate income tax, or believes welfare should be indefinite. I’m happy to report I see no trends in this country similar to the decisions made by the Greeks. We’re all way too smart to witness the results of a welfare state and want to repeat those mistakes.
June 26, 2015
Six Letters, Starts with “C”
In the beginning, there was a trip to the doctor. That begat a trip to the lab, which begat a trip to the specialist, which begat a trip to more labs, which begat another trip to the specialist. Are you tripping out yet?
“You have a well-differentiated atypical lipoma-sarcoma in your right thigh, extending from the metamarsupial flangit to the mediumal meninlingustrum.”
“Okay, cool.”
“It has two areas of high signal.”
“What? Is it, like, broadcasting? Am I interfering with airplane navigation?”
“No, but it could animorphically gyroscutolize into a de-differentiated lipoma.”
“Sounds awesome. Do I get superpowers?”
“No, it means we’re going to split your thigh like a rib roast and dig out the fatty growing thing before it gets worse.”
“Worse?”
“Think: ticking time bomb.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, start cutting and, hey, while you’re cutting the fatty growth out of my thigh, think you can make a left turn and do something about this spare tire around my middle? No? Okay, just asking.”
Fast Forward – Day of Surgery
Intake admin: “Name-DOB-SSN-Are-you-allergic-to-any-medications.”
You recite your personal info, including stuff you’d never tell your mother.
Intake admin: “Are you an organ donor?”
“Excuse me?”
“Just kidding, sign here.”
“What’s this?”
“It’s a form that says if we accidentally kill you, you agree in advance that it wasn’t our fault.”
“Well. Okay then. Gimme the pen.”
They have a specialist in hospitals whose job it is to drive your gurney from Room A to Room B. You think of her as Chipper Gurney Driver.
Chipper Gurney Driver: “Name-DOB-SSN-Are-you-allergic-to-any-medications.”
“Um, no.”
“Cool, let’s go for a ride. Yay! Isn’t this fun?” BANG! “Oops, when’d they move that wall?”
They have a specialist who gets you ready for the next stage of your visit to Hospitaland. She says: “Name-DOB-SSN-Are-you-allergic-to-any-medications.”
“Um, no.”
They have a specialist who draws your blood. He says: “Name-DOB-SSN-Are-you-allergic-to-any-medications.”
They have a surgical nurse who stops by to say: “Name-DOB-SSN-Are-you-allergic-to-any-medications.”
They have a gas passer who comes in to tell you he’ll be sending you on a really good high and you’ll be, like, wow, man, all the pretty colors. Then he says: “Name-DOB-SSN-Are-you-allergic-to-any-medications.”
Your specialist doctor, the meat-cutter himself, tops in his field, the expert comes in wearing these Mr. Magoo glasses and says: “Now what will be doing to you today?”
“You mean you don’t have a plan?”
He writes CUT HERE on your leg and wanders off.
There’s a janitor passing by in the hall who stops in to say: “¿Como se llama? ¿DOB? ¿SSN? ¿ Es alérgico a algún medicamento?”
The gas passer comes back and says…Well you know by now. Then he says: “I’m going to give you something to help you relax…”
Fade to Black
Fast Forward 16 Hours
It’s night. All your people have gone away. You’re alone in your Posture-Unpedic hospital bed. There are more cables and wires and tubes hooked up to you than a geek’s computer system. You’ve enjoyed your tasteless and non-nutritious broth with a side of Jello and about eighteen gallons of water because the morphine dries you out worse than an alky in rehab.
And you love the little green button that feeds you more drugs because every time you twitch that right thigh, even a little bit, it hurts like a HOT NASTY BITCH.
But the inevitable occurs, no matter how high the morphine cloud, or how bad it hurts to move.
You have to urinate.
Now, when you were a kid, you could pee laying down, you could pee sitting in a chair, you could pee standing on your head, you could pee turning cartwheels in the front yard. But you’re old now. You need gravitational assistance.
Which means getting out of bed.
Which means moving the leg.
Just kill me now. Can I OD on morphine? Evidently not.
Okay, step one: blankets and sheets OFF.
The sheet’s stuck on your right toe. It won’t budge. You flap it, you sweep it, you jerk it—
—DON’T EVER JERK IT AGAIN! Bad sheet. Bad.
You eek it off with the left big toe.
Second step: get out of bed. You’ve already practiced this maneuver with the Torture Witch, aka the Physical Therapist. You know how. There’s a process. Just Do It.
Victory! You’re standing. On the opposite side of the bed from the IV stand and the bathroom, meaning no way on God’s earth you’re going to get around the bed without pulling loose a dozen cords and screaming like Jamie Lee Curtis in Friday the 13th. Call the nurse for help; just push the button? Oh hell no. Only weinies push the button. I’m a MAN, I don’ need no stinkin’ help.
No matter, the hospital has provided a pee jug. You lift your gappy gown and get everything into position and…
And…
And…
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t wanna.”
“What do you mean, you don’t wanna? Ten seconds ago you were dying to go, now you don’t want to?”
“I’m scared.”
“Screw scared. I’m dying here. My leg’s trembling, I’m sweating buckets—” Oh, by the way, the after surgery, medicated sweat. It’s incredible. It’s like taking a bath in a Sumo wrestler’s armpit. “—the bladder’s full, so let’s GO!”
And, finally, the floodwaters of the Yellow River overflow the damn. And flow.
And flow…
And flow…
And you think: Just how big is this jug? Will it hold? Maybe I should supersize it next time. Ask for room for cream.
Mercifully, it stops. Life is good. Cap the jug. NO, not like at Starbucks—make sure the damn lids secure. Good.
Next step: get back in bed.
Oh hell no.
To be continued.
June 9, 2015
Yeager’s Law Release Date
The official release of Yeager’s Law is set for July 21st. Read an excerpt here.
Are you ready? I know I am.
UPDATE: The print version is ready now, for those of you who can’t wait for the ebook! (Look at that, just in time for Father’s Day.)
May 1, 2015
Triple Threat
I hit triple sevens on the publishing slot machine. For those following along at home, Yeager’s Law will be published in August of this year.
Synopsis: Abel Yeager is dead broke, down on his luck, and suffering from a serious case of what-the-hell-does-it-matter. His transition from active Marine to stateside long-haul trucker hit a wicked speed bump when his rig was involved in a wreck that claimed the life of a pregnant woman and laid him up for several months.
Back at work but deeply in debt, Yeager meets bookstore owner Charlie Buchanan in St. Louis and jumps at the chance to haul a load of remainder books to Austin for her. On the way south, a crew of truck thieves tracks his every move. But none of them know what Charlie’s ex has smuggled inside the book pallets, who he stole it from, or how far the owner will go to get it back. Charlie’s the first person Yeager has cared about in a long time, but as their bond deepens, so does the danger they’re in.
With enemy forces closing in, Yeager battles greed, corruption, and his own fatalism in a bid to hold true to Yeager’s First Law: come home at the end of the day.
~~~~~
May Day is in early edits by Divertir Publishing, to be released in early 2016.
Synopsis: The first in a planned series of novels featuring Sam Cable of the Texas Rangers and Rita Goldman of the FBI.
In “May Day”, Cable is detailed to fly with Trooper Boggs to California to escort Jade Stone, a woman accused of murdering her love. The victim is a Dallas Police Detective, Tommy Grace. Unknown to Cable, Grace is connected via his half-brother, John Bartlett, to a group of rogue federal agents with secrets to hide. Secrets they want buried with Stone at any cost.
In an attempt to kill Stone, Bartlett’s men sabotage the Cessna being flown by Trooper Boggs, which crashes in a remote part of the Gila National Forest. With Boggs severely injured, cut-off from help, Cable alone must protect Stone against Bartlett’s team of trained agents.
When a good friend of Cable’s, FBI Agent Rita Goldman, hears of her friend’s plane crash, she is desperate to help. She pursues the clues related to the dead detective’s ties to Bartlett and begins to unravel the web of deceit surrounding the organization.
As Goldman works to link the missing aircraft to Bartlett, and the ground team continues its search, Cable and Stone are hunted over the rough terrain of the Gila Forest while carrying the injured Boggs. But Stone has more than evading pursuit on her mind; she has an agenda of her own. One that she’s determined to keep hidden from Texas Ranger Sam Cable.
~~~~~
AND…
I’ve just signed a contract with Driven Press for Working Stiffs, release date probably also in early 2016.
Synopsis: Working Stiffs is a Science Fiction (pre-dystopian) novel of the near-future United States.
Civil liberties have been eroded. Government has replaced initiative with dependence. Unemployment has exceeded Great Depression levels.
And now, technology has created a workforce able to undertake simple, routine tasks, further displacing unskilled labor. A breakthrough in nano-technology has given us the ability to reanimate the recently dead and modify behavior of the living. Far from zombies, “Revivants” provide a ready source of cheap labor. The economic impact and social impact is potentially devastating.
Joe Warren is a college drop-out, somewhat self-absorbed and disinterested in the world’s problems. Unemployed, broke, and with no prospects, Joe only wants a job, food in his cupboard, and his girlfriend cured of the lingering sickness she’s been fighting.
Instead, he winds up in jail, tracked by government agents, forced to become an informant, and pushed into a tight crack between the federal government and a band of self-proclaimed freedom fighters.
He is forced to examine his me-first attitude and, in the process, learns some things are worth fighting—and dying—for. He must choose to sacrifice himself to save an ideal. In the end, can he muster the inner conviction to meet the ultimate challenge?
Get your reading chair ready!
April 13, 2015
It Takes More than Abs
How come the most popular literature is romance, and the bulk of romance covers feature a half-nekkid cowboy? (And what’s up with these guys? You know what happens, you fall off a horse like that? And sunburn! Holy pectoral, Kemo Sabe, put a damn shirt on.) And where’d all the damn HAIR GO? These guys must bathe in acid-strength depilatory.
Frankly, I’m offended.
As a manist (opposite of feminist but damn near as ugly) I have to say, this objectification of the male form is insulting. Men are more than their abs. 
Katy Jurado, in a famous (to me) quote from High Noon, tells Harvey (Lloyd Bridges), “It takes more than big, broad shoulders to be a man.” You tell it, sister.
I thought machismo was out of style. I was told I had to be sensitive. Sip lattes. Go to movies with subtitles. Be Vegan. Get counseling and become one with my inner navel. This objectification of males by the quality of their torso confuses me. Don’t women understand, it takes more than hard abs to make a man?
A real man controls fire ants. He cooks bloody red meat over a charcoal fire. He wears pants with an elastic waistband. He puts together tricycles and pays for college and has inappropriate gas. I’d like to see one of these shirtless wonder boys show up at a parent-teacher conference (un)dressed like that. He’d be arrested by real men in tac gear.
Real men wear tac gear.
Anyway, next time I hear a woman complain about bikini-clad hotties being used a marketing tools, I’m throwing a cowboy romance at them. Then running. Because real men know women will kick their ass.
March 27, 2015
Cover Reveal
In case you missed it in one of my 2.000 other posts, here’s the official cover reveal for Yeager’s Law, due out in July.
That is all.
March 19, 2015
Compulsive Phone Addiction
Let me be blunt. I dislike phones. I don’t want to answer them, I don’t want to talk on them, I don’t like hearing the ring—essentially, all phones could die tomorrow and I’d be happy. I’ll email 9-1-1.
So why do I keep looking at my phone? Things get quiet, and my hand starts twitching, feeling for my iPhone, itching just to touch it, play with it, feel its cool glossy firm case under my fingers. Touch its buttons. Look something up. Check the flight time. Check email. Check my bank account…well, maybe not that.
Texting. God’s answer for people who hate to talk on the phone
.
Oddly, I’m not alone in this obsession. Ride a rental car shuttle bus some time. It will remind you of a group of missionaries huddled over their bibles. A PDA prayer meeting. I’ve often wondered, if the bus caught fire, would everyone wait for their phone to sound the alarm before they moved?
I don’t wear a watch anymore; I have the time, date, stopwatch, and world clock on my phone. My GPS is obsolete; I have Google Maps. I want to check my stocks? E-trade app. (I sure as hell don’t have to call a broker.) Need coffee? Check the Starbucks app for the nearest shop. The built-in camera has a higher megapixel count than my DSLR. Stop and think about how many things have become obsolete since the invention of the smartphone: Alarm clocks, radios, TVs, books, hand-held games, airline reservation desks.
It wants me to touch it. I know this. Why else would it ding, buzz, tinkle, beep, boop, and wiggle its hips if it didn’t want my attention. Email – ding. Facebook post – ding. Text – ding. My little iPhone cries for attention all the time. Touch me, it says. Tap the code, it begs. Slide your finger across me, it entreats.
I left my phone at home for a few hours the other day. Within minutes, separation anxiety set in. My hand returned time and again to my pocket. Where was it? Oh. At home. A few minutes later, my fingers would be probing, seeking that rectangular, gratifying, slim body. When I got home, I found it first thing, in the pocket of the pants I had changed out of. Lonely. Sad. Discarded. Its battery weak. I promised never to leave it again.
I can sense my phone’s displeasure as I write this. I have ignored it too long. Out of spite, it will drop my next three calls abruptly, further exacerbating my phone call phobia. I must keep it appeased…
There. Quick check of the weather. It’s 82-degrees in Sao Paulo. My phone glows happily at me, sated and content that I still respect it. It sits now, warm in my pocket.
Vibrating…
.
