M.K. Alexander's Blog, page 5
September 16, 2018
alien dust
“Sorry to bother you, Mr Undersecretary, but what should I do about the mess in the living room?”
“What’s that, Rosie?” The bland bureaucrat looked up from his desk. He seemed a bit distracted.
“The pile of dust by the wall…”
“Well, don’t sweep it under the rug, my dear.”
“No, sir…” she giggled.
“Have you tried a vacuum cleaner?”
“I did— got most of it up, but I can’t get the rest, it’s like a stain on the carpet.”
“Hmm… not my usual area of expertise.”
“I’ll get Larry and the crew to help; sorry to bother you, sir…”
“Wait a moment, Rosie,” the undersecretary called out and added a smile. “Maybe I should take a look myself.”
He followed her into the palatial living room and switched on all the lights. There, on the other side of the massive conference table was the stain in question. The place where Janus had stood. The undersecretary gave it some close inspection; it seemed to be glistening, but in the end, he decided not to dab his finger.
About two hours later, a hazmat team arrived. The stain, the carpet, and Rosie’s favorite vacuum cleaner were sequestered from the rest of the world, taken to Wallops Island Analytica, a private laboratory in Wattsville Virginia. A full containment protocol was ordered. Further examination would take time.
***
Mr Thursby, who began life as a short story, is growing up into a novel. The above excerpt will be opening book two. I suppose it’s baffling to anyone who hasn’t read the novella yet… Two words: alien dust.
For those who have read it, I hope you’re delighted and chuckling…
Currently available as an ebook only:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FZCS9FS
“What’s that, Rosie?” The bland bureaucrat looked up from his desk. He seemed a bit distracted.
“The pile of dust by the wall…”
“Well, don’t sweep it under the rug, my dear.”
“No, sir…” she giggled.
“Have you tried a vacuum cleaner?”
“I did— got most of it up, but I can’t get the rest, it’s like a stain on the carpet.”
“Hmm… not my usual area of expertise.”
“I’ll get Larry and the crew to help; sorry to bother you, sir…”
“Wait a moment, Rosie,” the undersecretary called out and added a smile. “Maybe I should take a look myself.”
He followed her into the palatial living room and switched on all the lights. There, on the other side of the massive conference table was the stain in question. The place where Janus had stood. The undersecretary gave it some close inspection; it seemed to be glistening, but in the end, he decided not to dab his finger.
About two hours later, a hazmat team arrived. The stain, the carpet, and Rosie’s favorite vacuum cleaner were sequestered from the rest of the world, taken to Wallops Island Analytica, a private laboratory in Wattsville Virginia. A full containment protocol was ordered. Further examination would take time.
***
Mr Thursby, who began life as a short story, is growing up into a novel. The above excerpt will be opening book two. I suppose it’s baffling to anyone who hasn’t read the novella yet… Two words: alien dust.
For those who have read it, I hope you’re delighted and chuckling…
Currently available as an ebook only:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FZCS9FS
September 9, 2018
Dreams do come true…
No, not those dreams. I mean the kind when you sleep.
“I don’t dream,” say some people. Well, they’re wrong. Everyone dreams, even cats and fish— well, maybe not fish, but cats certainly. You can see their little paws moving, and their whiskers. It’s physiology. Just blowing off neurological steam, say some. I disagree with that idea, but let’s move on…
“I don’t remember my dreams” would be a more accurate thing to say. It ain’t easy, I’ll admit that much. Each Autumn I begin a new Dream Journal. This Fall marks number nine— nine years of keeping track of my dreams (the kind marked by REM, or whisker movements). Almost a decade… and it is one of the better decisions I’ve made in my life. If you’re a serious writer, you might want to consider it as well. If you’re not a serious writer, you will be after just a few short years.
Here’s why:
Dreams are hard to remember when you wake up. They can be so elusive, but tantalizingly near— there one second, and gone the next… just a couple of neurotransmitters away from oblivion. Most dreams are forgotten, and when you do recall them, you’re lucky to remember a tiny fraction of what happened. I’m talking a hundredth or a thousandth’s of all the action, settings, plot, and characters.
There’s that, the brain thing, the remembering thing— sort of like exercise for your longterm storage neurons. And it will change the way you wake up. Alarm clock? Throw it out the window.
And there’s the writing part:
You do it every day, even if you just make an entry saying how you forgot all your dreams. Discipline. Write every day and you’re a writer.
There’s also a freedom here you don’t find in anything else you do. Basically, you’re writing a rough draft that no one will ever read (except maybe yourself). No need to worry about grammar, spelling or punctuation… Free at last. I find this liberating.
And there’s the challenge. When you do recall your dreams, even a snippet, it’s going to be complicated and nuanced. Guess what? You’ll have to put that down in writing somehow, and you’ll be better for it.
I won’t get all Freudian here, or even Jungian… What do your dreams mean? Not a clue. Though, after doing this for almost ten years, I can say it’s more than just blowing off neurological steam.
“I don’t dream,” say some people. Well, they’re wrong. Everyone dreams, even cats and fish— well, maybe not fish, but cats certainly. You can see their little paws moving, and their whiskers. It’s physiology. Just blowing off neurological steam, say some. I disagree with that idea, but let’s move on…
“I don’t remember my dreams” would be a more accurate thing to say. It ain’t easy, I’ll admit that much. Each Autumn I begin a new Dream Journal. This Fall marks number nine— nine years of keeping track of my dreams (the kind marked by REM, or whisker movements). Almost a decade… and it is one of the better decisions I’ve made in my life. If you’re a serious writer, you might want to consider it as well. If you’re not a serious writer, you will be after just a few short years.
Here’s why:
Dreams are hard to remember when you wake up. They can be so elusive, but tantalizingly near— there one second, and gone the next… just a couple of neurotransmitters away from oblivion. Most dreams are forgotten, and when you do recall them, you’re lucky to remember a tiny fraction of what happened. I’m talking a hundredth or a thousandth’s of all the action, settings, plot, and characters.
There’s that, the brain thing, the remembering thing— sort of like exercise for your longterm storage neurons. And it will change the way you wake up. Alarm clock? Throw it out the window.
And there’s the writing part:
You do it every day, even if you just make an entry saying how you forgot all your dreams. Discipline. Write every day and you’re a writer.
There’s also a freedom here you don’t find in anything else you do. Basically, you’re writing a rough draft that no one will ever read (except maybe yourself). No need to worry about grammar, spelling or punctuation… Free at last. I find this liberating.
And there’s the challenge. When you do recall your dreams, even a snippet, it’s going to be complicated and nuanced. Guess what? You’ll have to put that down in writing somehow, and you’ll be better for it.
I won’t get all Freudian here, or even Jungian… What do your dreams mean? Not a clue. Though, after doing this for almost ten years, I can say it’s more than just blowing off neurological steam.
September 2, 2018
Lancelot Link
Sorry, this has nothing to do with chimps.
It has to do with supporting indie-writers.
I run two accounts on twitter, the first is @Smart_Reads.
Every evening I RT and "heart" everyone that hits my notifications page, mostly writers... I post something about writing (usually humorous), and add one or two posts about my own books. No strings attached. I have about 14,000 followers, so anytime you need a shout out, just head on over there. (Note: twitter does not sell books, merely makes them visible.)
The other account is @TractusFynn, my time traveling detective. He tries to stay in character but fails often enough. He does not tweet books, even his own... Every morning he posts to #timetravel, and every evening he butchers the past with "This Day in History." Some people find him amusing, others hate him with a passion.
See you there...
It has to do with supporting indie-writers.
I run two accounts on twitter, the first is @Smart_Reads.
Every evening I RT and "heart" everyone that hits my notifications page, mostly writers... I post something about writing (usually humorous), and add one or two posts about my own books. No strings attached. I have about 14,000 followers, so anytime you need a shout out, just head on over there. (Note: twitter does not sell books, merely makes them visible.)
The other account is @TractusFynn, my time traveling detective. He tries to stay in character but fails often enough. He does not tweet books, even his own... Every morning he posts to #timetravel, and every evening he butchers the past with "This Day in History." Some people find him amusing, others hate him with a passion.
See you there...
August 12, 2018
In 2 Days...
In two days, Tuesday, August 14th, Mr Thursby is out and about. A sci-fi novella, a quick read, some 20,000 words, or about eighty pages. It will not be published as a spineless paperback. It is only available as a kindle ebook. Take heart though, a sequel is already in the works.
What to expect?
Science fiction at its retro-best… Set in the immediate present, and no one ever leaves earth. A first contact story, kind of like Aliens VS Bureaucrats. (Who will triumph?) It’s dialogue-heavy, humorous, subtle and thought provoking.
The blurb?
Mr Thursby has called the White House every year on the same day since 1948. No one has ever called him back, until now... A mysterious alien marooned on earth for the past 70 years. A gamma ray burst racing towards us like the beam from a lighthouse. A promise to save humanity. Trust issues.
Thanks to overwhelming interest, it’s already the number one best-seller in the “Alien Bureaucrat” Category.
Here is a brief excerpt:
A ten minute drive down Erie Boulevard took them to the Pericles Diner. It was dark and closed when they arrived; no other cars in the parking lot.
“Not exactly an auspicious beginning,” Dr Kyler commented once the Subaru rolled to a stop. No sooner were the words from her lips when a few lights sputtered on. A neon column started to glow in Mediterranean blue. More lights came to life, though not enough for a diner. It was still dark and shadowy inside. Becker and Pablo took positions at the exits. Director Donovan and Dr Kyler headed up the steps.
A man stood by the entrance. He seemed slightly stooped and was dressed in a heavy black overcoat, the collar turned up; a thick scarf covered his neck. He also wore sunglasses and a tattered fedora. On closer inspection, neither Donovan nor Kyler were especially keen on seeing what was underneath. There was also an odd smell of lavender and decay in the air.
“Mr Thursby?” Donovan asked unnecessarily, and put out his hand in greeting.
“I would prefer not to shake hands,” he replied and turned away. He shuffled across the floor to the largest oval table by the window.
At first sight Mr Thursby was a bit frightening. Cadaverous might be the word best to describe his appearance. Nor was he unlike a puppet, a meat puppet. It almost seemed as if something was slithering under his trench coat, like a moveable hunchback. His arms and legs functioned, but not exactly with the usual motion a human would use. When he walked, a barely-audible squishing sound could be heard, as if he were wearing wet sneakers.
“It’s best that you sit at the other end of the table, if you would,” Mr Thursby said in a raspy sort of voice. His mouth hardly moved at all when he spoke, and he stayed as far from Donovan and Dr Kyler as he could. “I’m sorry, my immune system has been compromised. I have no wish to become contaminated.”
Pre-Order:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FZCS9FS?...
What to expect?
Science fiction at its retro-best… Set in the immediate present, and no one ever leaves earth. A first contact story, kind of like Aliens VS Bureaucrats. (Who will triumph?) It’s dialogue-heavy, humorous, subtle and thought provoking.
The blurb?
Mr Thursby has called the White House every year on the same day since 1948. No one has ever called him back, until now... A mysterious alien marooned on earth for the past 70 years. A gamma ray burst racing towards us like the beam from a lighthouse. A promise to save humanity. Trust issues.
Thanks to overwhelming interest, it’s already the number one best-seller in the “Alien Bureaucrat” Category.
Here is a brief excerpt:
A ten minute drive down Erie Boulevard took them to the Pericles Diner. It was dark and closed when they arrived; no other cars in the parking lot.
“Not exactly an auspicious beginning,” Dr Kyler commented once the Subaru rolled to a stop. No sooner were the words from her lips when a few lights sputtered on. A neon column started to glow in Mediterranean blue. More lights came to life, though not enough for a diner. It was still dark and shadowy inside. Becker and Pablo took positions at the exits. Director Donovan and Dr Kyler headed up the steps.
A man stood by the entrance. He seemed slightly stooped and was dressed in a heavy black overcoat, the collar turned up; a thick scarf covered his neck. He also wore sunglasses and a tattered fedora. On closer inspection, neither Donovan nor Kyler were especially keen on seeing what was underneath. There was also an odd smell of lavender and decay in the air.
“Mr Thursby?” Donovan asked unnecessarily, and put out his hand in greeting.
“I would prefer not to shake hands,” he replied and turned away. He shuffled across the floor to the largest oval table by the window.
At first sight Mr Thursby was a bit frightening. Cadaverous might be the word best to describe his appearance. Nor was he unlike a puppet, a meat puppet. It almost seemed as if something was slithering under his trench coat, like a moveable hunchback. His arms and legs functioned, but not exactly with the usual motion a human would use. When he walked, a barely-audible squishing sound could be heard, as if he were wearing wet sneakers.
“It’s best that you sit at the other end of the table, if you would,” Mr Thursby said in a raspy sort of voice. His mouth hardly moved at all when he spoke, and he stayed as far from Donovan and Dr Kyler as he could. “I’m sorry, my immune system has been compromised. I have no wish to become contaminated.”
Pre-Order:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FZCS9FS?...
August 5, 2018
How's My Math?
Ever hear of the Pareto Principle?
It states that, for many events, roughly 80% of the effects come from 20% of the causes. It seems to work for a lot of things: investments, sales, all sorts of human behavior, and even what we would call strictly “natural events” (those with no human involvement). Surely, not something physicists can easily explain, nor politicians.
Mr Pareto aside, this evening, I’m looking at the 33%. Roughly speaking, 33% of Americans are rabid Trump supporters, red hats and all. Another 33% are vehemently opposed to him and his policies. That leaves the last third, 33% of the people who don’t give a hoot, or are otherwise occupied by other things. Let’s add this up: 33 + 33 + 33 = 99. Wait, that leaves the one percent. That’s who will decide how things go in the nation? It doesn’t seem fair, but it does seem familiar.
During the American Revolution, it’s said that 33% wanted independence, 33% were happy with crazy King George running the show, and 33% just wanted to be left alone to drink their cider in peace (usually hard cider). History tells us how that ended.
More recently, in 1933, Hitler won the vote for chancellor with 33%. A third were vehemently opposed to him, and the other third was too busy drinking schnapps or eating bratwurst to pay much attention. We all know how that worked out.
Back to modern times. If Mr Pareto is correct, we need only concentrate on 20% of the 33% to effect 80% of the change that seems to be desperately needed.
;)
It states that, for many events, roughly 80% of the effects come from 20% of the causes. It seems to work for a lot of things: investments, sales, all sorts of human behavior, and even what we would call strictly “natural events” (those with no human involvement). Surely, not something physicists can easily explain, nor politicians.
Mr Pareto aside, this evening, I’m looking at the 33%. Roughly speaking, 33% of Americans are rabid Trump supporters, red hats and all. Another 33% are vehemently opposed to him and his policies. That leaves the last third, 33% of the people who don’t give a hoot, or are otherwise occupied by other things. Let’s add this up: 33 + 33 + 33 = 99. Wait, that leaves the one percent. That’s who will decide how things go in the nation? It doesn’t seem fair, but it does seem familiar.
During the American Revolution, it’s said that 33% wanted independence, 33% were happy with crazy King George running the show, and 33% just wanted to be left alone to drink their cider in peace (usually hard cider). History tells us how that ended.
More recently, in 1933, Hitler won the vote for chancellor with 33%. A third were vehemently opposed to him, and the other third was too busy drinking schnapps or eating bratwurst to pay much attention. We all know how that worked out.
Back to modern times. If Mr Pareto is correct, we need only concentrate on 20% of the 33% to effect 80% of the change that seems to be desperately needed.
;)
July 29, 2018
Mr Thursby
Mr Thursby is out and about.
The novella is a quick read, some 20,000 words or about eighty pages. It’s available for pre-order over at Amazon and will be automatically published on August 14.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FZCS9FS?...
Thanks to overwhelming interest, it’s already a Best-Seller in the “Alien Bureaucrat” Category.
I’ll leave you with this brief except:
Director Donovan took it from there: “Hello, Mr Thursby, I’m from the White House. I’m returning your call.”
“I see… Are you the President?”
“No. My name is Donovan, with the President’s Office of Science and Technology Policy.”
“You are prepared to speak with me then?”
“We are. You said something about the destruction of our planet.”
“Yes.”
“Is that a threat of some kind?”
“Yes, a threat to all life on your world.”
“Are you making this threat?”
“No.”
“Terrorists, religious extremists, a rogue nation? What kind of threat are we talking about?”
“Nothing like what you’ve mentioned.”
“Are you planning an attack?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“A focused beam of deadly radiation.”
“What, like a weapon?”
“No, a natural phenomena. The threat has already occurred, some two hundred years ago. The consequences, however, have yet to arrive.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” Donovan responded with a good bit of patience.
“Your astronomers call it a gamma ray burst.”
“A what?”
“A GRB,” another voice cut in. It was Dr Olivia Kyler. She had an animated tone and glanced unseen to Donovan. “But gamma ray bursts only happen in distant galaxies, not ours.”
“It may seem that way to you,” Mr Thursby replied. “They are a fairly common occurrence, though admittedly rare in this neighborhood of stars.”
“When did this take place?” she asked into the phone.
“As I’ve said, approximately two hundred orbital periods in your past.”
The novella is a quick read, some 20,000 words or about eighty pages. It’s available for pre-order over at Amazon and will be automatically published on August 14.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FZCS9FS?...
Thanks to overwhelming interest, it’s already a Best-Seller in the “Alien Bureaucrat” Category.
I’ll leave you with this brief except:
Director Donovan took it from there: “Hello, Mr Thursby, I’m from the White House. I’m returning your call.”
“I see… Are you the President?”
“No. My name is Donovan, with the President’s Office of Science and Technology Policy.”
“You are prepared to speak with me then?”
“We are. You said something about the destruction of our planet.”
“Yes.”
“Is that a threat of some kind?”
“Yes, a threat to all life on your world.”
“Are you making this threat?”
“No.”
“Terrorists, religious extremists, a rogue nation? What kind of threat are we talking about?”
“Nothing like what you’ve mentioned.”
“Are you planning an attack?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“A focused beam of deadly radiation.”
“What, like a weapon?”
“No, a natural phenomena. The threat has already occurred, some two hundred years ago. The consequences, however, have yet to arrive.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” Donovan responded with a good bit of patience.
“Your astronomers call it a gamma ray burst.”
“A what?”
“A GRB,” another voice cut in. It was Dr Olivia Kyler. She had an animated tone and glanced unseen to Donovan. “But gamma ray bursts only happen in distant galaxies, not ours.”
“It may seem that way to you,” Mr Thursby replied. “They are a fairly common occurrence, though admittedly rare in this neighborhood of stars.”
“When did this take place?” she asked into the phone.
“As I’ve said, approximately two hundred orbital periods in your past.”
July 22, 2018
Betazoids
Sorry, I meant to say beta-readers.
Mr Thursby is complete, done, done, and done. It turned out as a short novella, a quick read, coming in at around 20,000 words.
It’s slated for release in early to mid-August, though I’d love to get a few beta readers on board before then.
If you’ve read anything I post here, you’ll know what to expect: a tight story, terse prose, and exceptional dialogue. I think it’s my best work. It is of course funny (you will laugh despite yourself), but also poignant, thoughtful and thought-provoking. It is straight up science fiction, like an episode of Twilight Zone or the Outer Limits.
What’s it about?
Oh… it’s hard to say too much without issuing a spoiler alert. I might mention, “aliens versus bureaucrats…”
I might give it this blurb:
“Mr Thursby has called the White House every year on the same day since 1948. No one has ever called him back, until now…”
If you’d like to give it a read, comments and criticisms are welcome. Drop me a line and I’ll shoot you a PDF.
Thanks!
mkalex@optonline.net
Mr Thursby is complete, done, done, and done. It turned out as a short novella, a quick read, coming in at around 20,000 words.
It’s slated for release in early to mid-August, though I’d love to get a few beta readers on board before then.
If you’ve read anything I post here, you’ll know what to expect: a tight story, terse prose, and exceptional dialogue. I think it’s my best work. It is of course funny (you will laugh despite yourself), but also poignant, thoughtful and thought-provoking. It is straight up science fiction, like an episode of Twilight Zone or the Outer Limits.
What’s it about?
Oh… it’s hard to say too much without issuing a spoiler alert. I might mention, “aliens versus bureaucrats…”
I might give it this blurb:
“Mr Thursby has called the White House every year on the same day since 1948. No one has ever called him back, until now…”
If you’d like to give it a read, comments and criticisms are welcome. Drop me a line and I’ll shoot you a PDF.
Thanks!
mkalex@optonline.net
July 8, 2018
For New Yorkers Only
Stuck in traffic with time on my hands…
(and the steering wheel)
Like many New Yorkers, I have spent a significant portion of my life on the Cross Bronx Expressway. None of us would care to tally those inglorious, unglamorous hours exactly, and yet we all suffer in silence and perpetually. I’m speaking specifically about the CBE westbound; somehow the eastbound lanes do not suffer the same fate: that noonish hour when almost daily, the CBE becomes a hell on earth, or at least some kind of purgatory. Certainly an embarrassment to the civilized world. We suffer on, year after year.
Is there anything that can be done. Can’t this be fixed?
Anyone can tell you trucks have a lot to do with the situation… and I mean a very large number. I would estimate at least ten trucks for every car. On the plus side these tractor trailers are generally operated by courteous professionals.
There is a six mile stretch between the Throgs Neck to the GW Bridge that should take 15 minutes to traverse, but routinely takes an hour, 90 minutes or more. I once saw the “Average Travel Time” sign read 643 minutes. I couldn’t even begin to calculate how many hours that might be, and turned north towards the Tappan Zee instead.
How can this embarrassment of a road be good for our city, our environment, our economy?
A vast, futuristic change in infrastructure does not seem likely in the near term. We are left only with traffic management. A few simple ideas:
1. Put a solid double orange stripe along the left lane and label it “GWB Express” (open to trucks and cars alike), or perhaps less ironic signage might read “Bridge Only.” Every experienced driver on the Cross Bronx already knows this lane moves marginally faster than the rest. I think this idea would dissuade people from changing lanes until the pivotal choice was needed to be made: take the upper or the lower level across the bridge into Jersey; or head up I-87. This particular bit of merging road is utter chaos to put it kindly, otherwise known as a shit storm.
2. Slow access from some of the side streets. Simply change the yield signs to stop signs.
3. Clean and improve emergency stopping areas and respond with all possible speed when there is an accident. This is a matter of resourses.
4. Trucks… so many trucks. Would it be possible to charge an extra toll during peak periods from around noon till 7pm? Or, if a stick doesn’t work, perhaps a carrot: could discounts be offered to tractor-trailers that travel off-peak? This is a matter of logistics.
Finally a change in the informational LED signs, to read, “Welcome to Purgatory, Please Drive Safely.”
(and the steering wheel)
Like many New Yorkers, I have spent a significant portion of my life on the Cross Bronx Expressway. None of us would care to tally those inglorious, unglamorous hours exactly, and yet we all suffer in silence and perpetually. I’m speaking specifically about the CBE westbound; somehow the eastbound lanes do not suffer the same fate: that noonish hour when almost daily, the CBE becomes a hell on earth, or at least some kind of purgatory. Certainly an embarrassment to the civilized world. We suffer on, year after year.
Is there anything that can be done. Can’t this be fixed?
Anyone can tell you trucks have a lot to do with the situation… and I mean a very large number. I would estimate at least ten trucks for every car. On the plus side these tractor trailers are generally operated by courteous professionals.
There is a six mile stretch between the Throgs Neck to the GW Bridge that should take 15 minutes to traverse, but routinely takes an hour, 90 minutes or more. I once saw the “Average Travel Time” sign read 643 minutes. I couldn’t even begin to calculate how many hours that might be, and turned north towards the Tappan Zee instead.
How can this embarrassment of a road be good for our city, our environment, our economy?
A vast, futuristic change in infrastructure does not seem likely in the near term. We are left only with traffic management. A few simple ideas:
1. Put a solid double orange stripe along the left lane and label it “GWB Express” (open to trucks and cars alike), or perhaps less ironic signage might read “Bridge Only.” Every experienced driver on the Cross Bronx already knows this lane moves marginally faster than the rest. I think this idea would dissuade people from changing lanes until the pivotal choice was needed to be made: take the upper or the lower level across the bridge into Jersey; or head up I-87. This particular bit of merging road is utter chaos to put it kindly, otherwise known as a shit storm.
2. Slow access from some of the side streets. Simply change the yield signs to stop signs.
3. Clean and improve emergency stopping areas and respond with all possible speed when there is an accident. This is a matter of resourses.
4. Trucks… so many trucks. Would it be possible to charge an extra toll during peak periods from around noon till 7pm? Or, if a stick doesn’t work, perhaps a carrot: could discounts be offered to tractor-trailers that travel off-peak? This is a matter of logistics.
Finally a change in the informational LED signs, to read, “Welcome to Purgatory, Please Drive Safely.”
July 1, 2018
Too Hot to Cook
Too hot to do anything, really.
Every fan I have is set on three.
I'll save this for another day...
Cooking for Fynn
and Other Recipes
by MK Alexander
preface
Tractus Fynn is a time-traveling detective, and of course a fictional character; nonetheless, he shows up in my kitchen from time to time, and is more often than not, very hungry… I hope you enjoy these recipes as much as he does. For the record, I do not resent his oft-heard comment, “recipes for things you should never cook, let alone eat.”
Introduction
This cookbook presupposes very little:
1. You can read or be read to
2. Functioning tastebuds and a nose (sorry, Tycho Brahe)
3. Access to a kitchen (preferable someone else’s)
4. A fork, a knife and a runcible spoon
5. A non-functioning smoke alarm
6. A modicum of common sense and humor
(If none of the above apply, please return this book or drop me a line to receive a full refund.)
Optional Equipment:
Mass spectrometer
Calipers
Electron microscope
20 gallons of liquid nitrogen
A large Hadron Collider (microwaves can vary in output)
Please keep in mind what I said earlier about common sense
***
Most of these recipes have been passed down through the family for eons (thanks, mom!) They are legacy recipes, heritage recipes, heirloom meals, or what ever trendy term you’d like to use. Some recipes have been provided by Tractus Fynn himself, back from his travels; notably, Bear Steaks, Plague Stew, and the all-purpose Chateau D’If Sauce.
Sadly, some recipes did not make the cut:
Haggis Soufflé
(getting it to rise proved to be a real challenge)
Birds’ Eye Fondu
(the great unsolved dilemma was of course whether to use melted cheese or hot oil)
Chicken Beak Salad
(not as poplar as it once was)
Ragnarok Ratatouille
(best to avoid this nordic apocalypse)
Death by Gazpacho
Deep fried frog lips
(my supermarket no longer carries fresh frog parts)
Every fan I have is set on three.
I'll save this for another day...
Cooking for Fynn
and Other Recipes
by MK Alexander
preface
Tractus Fynn is a time-traveling detective, and of course a fictional character; nonetheless, he shows up in my kitchen from time to time, and is more often than not, very hungry… I hope you enjoy these recipes as much as he does. For the record, I do not resent his oft-heard comment, “recipes for things you should never cook, let alone eat.”
Introduction
This cookbook presupposes very little:
1. You can read or be read to
2. Functioning tastebuds and a nose (sorry, Tycho Brahe)
3. Access to a kitchen (preferable someone else’s)
4. A fork, a knife and a runcible spoon
5. A non-functioning smoke alarm
6. A modicum of common sense and humor
(If none of the above apply, please return this book or drop me a line to receive a full refund.)
Optional Equipment:
Mass spectrometer
Calipers
Electron microscope
20 gallons of liquid nitrogen
A large Hadron Collider (microwaves can vary in output)
Please keep in mind what I said earlier about common sense
***
Most of these recipes have been passed down through the family for eons (thanks, mom!) They are legacy recipes, heritage recipes, heirloom meals, or what ever trendy term you’d like to use. Some recipes have been provided by Tractus Fynn himself, back from his travels; notably, Bear Steaks, Plague Stew, and the all-purpose Chateau D’If Sauce.
Sadly, some recipes did not make the cut:
Haggis Soufflé
(getting it to rise proved to be a real challenge)
Birds’ Eye Fondu
(the great unsolved dilemma was of course whether to use melted cheese or hot oil)
Chicken Beak Salad
(not as poplar as it once was)
Ragnarok Ratatouille
(best to avoid this nordic apocalypse)
Death by Gazpacho
Deep fried frog lips
(my supermarket no longer carries fresh frog parts)
June 24, 2018
Summer Break
Not much to say this evening. My short story, “Mr Thursby” has become a monster; that is to say, a novel or at least a novella. I cannot stop myself… Must finish…
I leave you with the opening lines:
Click.
“The White House… how may I direct your call?
“The President, please.”
“Who should I say is calling?”
“Mr Thursby.”
“And this in regard to…?”
“The destruction of your planet and all life there upon it.”
“Is that a science matter?
“Yes.”
“I could have someone from the Office of Science and Technology call you back at the first opportunity. Can you be reached at this number?”
“Yes, and I would like to mention this is not the first time I’ve called.”
“I understand, sir; and thank you for calling the White House.”
Click.
I leave you with the opening lines:
Click.
“The White House… how may I direct your call?
“The President, please.”
“Who should I say is calling?”
“Mr Thursby.”
“And this in regard to…?”
“The destruction of your planet and all life there upon it.”
“Is that a science matter?
“Yes.”
“I could have someone from the Office of Science and Technology call you back at the first opportunity. Can you be reached at this number?”
“Yes, and I would like to mention this is not the first time I’ve called.”
“I understand, sir; and thank you for calling the White House.”
Click.
