Man Martin's Blog, page 202

Proving the Existence of God

No one ever asks me to prove the existence of God, but if they ever do, I've got an answer for them. I figure I've been proving the existence of God several times a year since I was twelve. Recently for example, Nancy decided we needed to put in a pot rack. Neither of us had seriously injured ourselves in the kitchen for months, and the idea of suspending a lot of heavy stainless steel, nonstick, and cast-iron pots and skillets from the ceiling seemed like a pretty good one to both of us. When the pot rack arrived in the mail, Nancy and I discussed how we'd go about hanging it. A joist, we agreed was the sine qua non of hanging things from the ceiling. Find a joist and the rest would be simple. We were hanging it between two ceiling lights, and we knew there would be a good sturdy joist somewhere between them. So we got out the stud finder, and ran it slowly over the ceiling according to the directions until we heard a beep, and a light went off, telling us we'd found a stud. (I told Nancy, we didn't need a stud finder because I live right there in the house.1) The stud-finder worked like a charm, but when we tried it in another part of the ceiling, it indicated the joist was following a sort of river-bend pattern, as if it were made of some pliable non-joist-like material, such as whatever formed the skeletal structure of Gumby and Pokey. I then decided finding the joist would require the British Petroleum Method: Exploratory Drilling. I am proud to say, I managed to locate the joist after drilling only four holes in the ceiling. I put in the first two screw-hooks, satisfied how firmly they bit into the wood above the sheetrock. "This is a cinch," I told Nancy. "We'll have this rascal knocked out in another five minutes."

This is how I know there's a God. Because He heard us. I do not know much about God, whether he's a Democrat or Republican, if he likes NASCAR or Metropolitan Opera, but I do know this – He's very keen on humility, and He won't put up with the opposite of humility, at least not from me because as soon as these words came out of my mouth, there began, as Shakespeare puts it, the tempest to my soul.
When we hung the pot rack from the two hooks we'd drilled into the joists, it swayed to and fro like a front porch swing. Every time Nancy added or subtracted a pot, the thing began to rock back and forth. It was like watching a pot rack in a galley on a pirate ship during a heavy storm. I will not go into the full and tedious adventure of solving this problem except to say I ended up drilling about six more holes and we had to hang the pot rack from purpose-bought hooks rather than the ones that came with the kit. Also, the two hooks that went into the joists, those turned out to be unusable and had to be removed. In other words, Nancy's skillets, pots, and pans are hanging from the ceiling, held up by nothing but sheetrock. Now there are ceiling anchors, don't get me wrong. We may be stupid, but we're not crazy. But I know better than to go around bragging about my omnipotence in the matter of pot-rack-hanging. As far as I'm concerned, once is the maximum number of times you want to prove the existence of God per project. So any time I see those matte black and shiny black and heavy, heavy, heavy cookware hanging from the ceiling, I think, "God is good. God is good. God is good."

1. Nancy didn't think it was funny, either.

Keeping Chickens off the Patio

One of the problems associated with raising chickens in suburbia is keeping them off the patio.  Nancy and I, I forgot to mention, have two Rhode Island Reds, delightful birds in every way, who provide eggs for the table and fertilizer for the garden, but who love nothing better than to stroll on up to the patio and feast on Nancy's potted begonias and poop on the patio deck.  Chicken poop, it turns out, has a unique chemical property that when it comes in contact with any concrete or masonry-type substance, such as a patio deck, instantly anneals itself to the surface with an epoxy-like bond that would defy a NASA scientist to scrub off.  For a while I kept a squirt gun on the patio, and when the chickens approached, would shoot at them.  But the water gun was pretty low caliber, more of a water derringer, actually, and it did little to dissuade the birds.  They may have actually enjoyed the challenge.  A little spice of danger to season the begonias.  Anyway, after failed attempts with the squirt-derringer, I decided to bring out the Big Guns.  The big guns in this case being a "Scare Crow," a sprinkler with a motion detector that goes off whenever something approaches.  I set it up on the steps leading to the patio.  And waited.  Sure enough, within a few minutes the sprinkler went off, there was a frantic clucking, and I saw my hens achieve the maximum lift-off of their chicken ability and head back down the yard.  Mission accomplished.  The only teensy drawback is that the Scarcecrow doesn't have a specific setting for "chicken" vs "human being" but fires indiscriminately at any motion.  Squirrels, birds, me.  This means effectively the patio is off limits for me as well.  However, I hope this is only a temporary measure.  I once saw in a fair a chicken in a glass box who for a dime would play you a game of tic-tac-toe.  I do not think the chicken knew she was playing tic-tac-toe, and I have no idea how good a player she was; I use this example purely to show chickens can be trained.  In the fullness of time, I trust, my chickens can learn to stay of the patio.  And the Scarecrow is a very effective teacher.  In the meantime, however, the patio is a no-man's-land as well as a no-chicken's-land.  The begonias have it all to themselves.

Jesus Wept

Jesus wept.
That's the shortest verse in the Bible, and in many ways, the most astonishing.  Think of it.  Christians worship a God who cries.  I don't think any other religion in the history of the world has done that.  The Roman world must've been dumbstruck by such a notion; the biggest going philosophy of the time was Stoicism, which maintained among other things, that the wise man is immune to strong emotions.  "Be in control of your emotions, or your emotions are in control of you," sort of thing, and here's Jesus.  Weeping.  God, philosophers have argued since time immemorial, would be above suffering, impassible: to have passions meant one was subject to outside forces.  When people talk about the Passion of Christ, they aren't talking about his love, but his suffering.  Outside forces worked him around like a rag doll in a tornado.
It is an odd thing, but to a Christian the concept of God is not complete unless God has known all things, experienced all things, felt all things - including the shedding of futile tears.
Today we celebrate the Resurrection which is a pretty remarkable event, but lots of religions have worshipped gods that died and came back to life: The Golden Bough is chock full of such examples.  But no religion besides Christianity ever had a god that wept.

My Correspondence with Ms Zarin Al-Usman Part IV

                                                                                     Dear
Who is man to question the decision of Allah because we all know that our ways are not Allah's way. Secondly, I have decided to compensate you with 15% of the total sum while 5% will be mapped out for any incidental expenses in the cause of transferring the fund into your account.I have also paid the lawyer for his service that means he cannot ask you any money for his fees; all I require of you is sincerity, transparency and honesty in making sure the rest money is implemented strictly on humanitarian.The reason why I trusted a complete stranger was that my late husband's relatives embezzled the money we gave them to start this project when my late husband was alive and that was why I have been praying over it for Allah to connect me divinely with anybody that have the spirit of helping the less privileged. Although I had intended contacting another person if I did not hear from you.I have only few requirements from you namely:-1. Open a new account and send me the details where I will instruct the bank to transfer the money while you sit back and watch, my reason for not asking for an existing account is that I will not want some mix-up along the line between my money and yours.2. Send me your detail addresses and, contact Tel/fax numbers.
3. Any valid identification to confirm that you are genuine.
This is my full details for your perusal:-
NEXT OF KIN: - MRS. ZARINA AL-USMAN
RELATIONSHIP:- ONLY WEDDED WIFE
ADDRESS: - COURT DES GRANDE, LOT 621 COCODY ABJ 01
STATE/CITY: - ABIDJAN
COUNTRY: - REPUBLIC OF COTE D'IVOIRE
DATE OF BIRTH: - 11-07-1952
NAME OF DEPOSITOR: - LATE MALLAM ALI M. AL-USMAN
ACCOUNT NAME: - ALI M. AL-USMAN
ACCOUNT NUMBER: - 101-078-75-19
BANK NAME: - FEDERAL SAVINGS BANK
AMOUNT: - TWELVE MILLION FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND U.S DOLLARS
If you have more questions that require clarification, do not fail to ask me before I instruct my nurse to submit your names as my appointed foreign trustee.Sallam,MRS. Zarina Al-Usman

Mrs Al-Usman,
Please, please forgive my long delay in getting back to you. I realize the last time you wrote you were on death's door. I know sometimes disease can wrack the body and yet not take the life, leaving its helpless victim hanging on by a straw and silently begging for the release of death which does not come. I hope this is what's happened for you, because if you've already croaked in the interim, it would be a terrible shame.
The fact is I've been terribly busy on another deal that I have just learned fell through. Perhaps you heard that here in the US, the PowerBall Jackpot reached some six hundred million or so. I'm not very good at math, but it seemed to me that if I bought TEN tickets, that would cover every possible combination and I'd be sure to win. You can imagine my astonishment when the winner was announced and it wasn't me. Apparently, I should have bought at least eleven. That's when I remembered you and your millions.
I think it is very prudent to trust a complete stranger to handle this money, especially given the way your in-laws treated you. After all, if you can't trust a complete stranger you meet on the internet, whom can you trust?  And if anyone dared suspect you were less than honest, your last email surely would have convinced him.  There it says on your bank statement that you have TWELVE MILLION FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND U.S DOLLARS to the penny, and who could want more proof than that?
I have done my best to comply with your three requests - the information you need is below.
1. I tried to set up a new bank account, but when I told the lady at Wells Fargo that I needed it so a lady on the Ivory Coast could transfer 12 Million into it, she gave me a funny look. Then it turns out I can't open an account with less than $100 or I have to pay a special fee. (Maybe she's one of your in-laws, ha-ha.) Between you and me, I don't want my wife finding out about this. She's a wonderful human being, but every time I tell her about a new way to make 12 million on the internet, she puts a stop to it. So what I was thinking, if you could mail me a check for $100, then I could open the account, and you could transfer the rest in, and I'd pay you back the $100 out of that, and you could mail me the $100 back to me because that would have been part of the original 12 million anyway, so all you'd really have to send would be $11,999,900. That makes sense, doesn't it?
2. Certainly, you will need my detail address, so here it is. When you come off 400 North, you want to go East on I 285. (It may actually say South at that point, but in any case, go left.) Then, you get off on the very next exit, which is Ashfordy Dunwoody. (Actually, come to think of it, I think you have to go right off 400. If you go left and end up hitting Roswell Road, then it was right, and you'll need to get off and go back.) Anyway, like I said, get off on the very next exit, or - if you had to turn right after all, the exit after that, or you'll end up back on 400. Ha-ha. Then go right - I'm definitely sure you go right here. But don't get in the FAR right lane, or you'll end up on Lake Hearn, and you may never find your way out again. Then you turn left at the first stoplight. There may actually be one stop light before that, but if you turn in there it's just an office park and you'll know right away that it isn't where you want to go. So when you turn left under the first or possibly second stoplight - actually the more I think about it, the certainer I am that you'd need to turn right off 400 - there'll be a sign that says Oak Forest Drive, or at least there used to be, some workers took it down while they're repairing the sidewalk, so just look for a spot where you'd expect a sign to say Oak Forest, and if it isn't there, you'll know you're on the right road. If there is a sign saying Oak Forest, I honestly don't know what advice to give you. But we don't live on Oak Forest. Then when you come to a fork in the road, take it. Our house is on the right and there used to be a basketball goal, but there isn't.
I hope this is enough detail for you.  You can't miss it and if you do miss it, Oak Forest is a big circle so you'll come back around again anyway.
3. As far as valid identification, I'm about five foot ten inches tall with a compact, muscular build, and sparkling green eyes. An expression both confident and yet with a secret sadness, a man who has seen much and forgotten little. Usually, whenever I walk into a room, conversation falls silent, and attractive women look over their shoulders to see this mysterious man. If someone's playing a piano, he usually quits until I have a few moments to survey the room. Then I take a step forward, and conversation resumes again.  I assure you I am genuine.
I look forward to getting your check for $100 assuming you are still alive and still rich.
Man

My Correspondence with Zarina Al-Usman, Part III

Dear


I am Mrs. Zarina Al-Usman, I have been diagnosed with Esophageal cancer .It has defied all forms of medical treatment, and Right now, I have only about a few months to live and I want you to distribute my funds worth Twelve Million Five Hundred Thousand US Dollars to charities homes in your country.
I have set aside 20% for you and your family so keep this as a secret to yourself because this will be my last wish.
Sallam,
Mrs. Zarina Al-Usman

Ms Al-Usman,

I hestitate to use the word "good news" when you are in such dire straits, but it is good news to hear from you. I had written you but all but given up hope that you would reply. We have a saying in my country, "kicked the bucket," which is exactly what I feared you had done before you could get around to dispensing the dough. By my reckoning, 20% comes to about two million five hundred dollars which should just about cover my legitimate expenses.
Let me know what I must do next.
Man Martin

Off to Iowa

I write this as black night still presses against the window panes of the office.  This morning I'm off bright and early (or dark and early) to Iowa City, Iowa where my beautiful, wonderful, kind sister has invited me so I can do a reading at Prairie Lights Books.  Chris and I, Mur used to remind us, share more genetic material with each other than with any other person on the planet.  Mur was a strange mother indeed.  But there was something to what she said.  Chris (She prefers to go by Nettie now, but in my mind she'll always be Chris, just as once in a while she slips and calls me "Mannie.) and I have two older half-siblings, but in some ways, I remember them more almost as aunt and uncle rather than brother and sister: they were so much older, they seemed to be already grown and inaccessible when I was a kid.  It was Chris with whom I wrestled, Chris with whom I played, Chris who shaped my childhood.  Chris likes to tell the story of how she used to pin me down and drool on me - she'd let a long string of viscous drool extend from her lips until it almost touched my nose, then suck it back up just in time.  Sometimes she didn't suck it back up in time.  In truth, though, this was a very small episode in our childhood lives.  What I remember, and remember most fondly, was playing the final chase scene from "North by Northwest" on the red clay bank near our house that we called "the cliff."  There was also a huge thorn bush that grew up from the center like a fountain, and spread its branches over in an umbrella-shape to form a hollow inside big enough to sit.  Chris discovered that, and shared it with me: we called it "the thorn bush fort."  Childhood is largely a matter of finding places away from adults.  We had a reel-to-reel tape recorder and would make eerie stories of vampires and monsters, first playing the opening to some ponderous Bach fugue, then make up lines and scenes with plenty of screeking doors and throaty voices.  Chris used to say to me, "I have a theory..." and then she'd spin off some speculative something or other about a book she'd read or why dirt-dobber nests looked the way they did or something.  I don't remember any of her theories, just her habit of coming up with them - a habit that has infected me to this day.  I don't think Chris was original in this proclivity for coming up with theories; we are a weirdly intellectual family; nevertheless, she was the conduit through which it was transmitted to me, the delight in scampering among ideas as on a playground.
My current novel Paradise Dogs ("Simply brilliant," Booklist, and a dandy gift for all occasions) is set in Central Florida where Chris and I partly grew up and one of the protagonists is partly based on our alcoholic father.  The other protagonist is based on a combination of me and Chris.  Once, sitting in Doc Greens, Chris told me about her experiences working as an obituary writer.  There are times I have laughed so hard, I quite seriously feared for my life.  This was one of those times.  I was pleading with my sister through gasps not to say any more, because I was laughing so much, I couldn't breathe.  When I recovered, I incorporated what she told me into my story, but of course, I can't do it justice.  It's funny, I hope, but it can't be as side-splitting (this is no hyperbole, I actually though my sides would tear in two) as hearing Chris tell it.
Thank you for the thorn bush fort, Chris.  Thank you for your theories.  Thank you.

Hard to Be Right

I'm a Conservative living in an era when it's hard being a Conservative.
Take Health Care.  Now I have nothing against getting people adequate healthcare, my only reservation being how do we pay for it?  If you want to see which way socialism leads, take a gander over at Greece and Spain and let me know what you find out.  And while I appreciate the moral value of saying insurers can't turn folks away for pre-existing conditions, it makes me worry knowing people will tend to avoid getting insurance until they come down with cancer or something.
That's why the only reasonable Conservative solution always struck me is that you just have to make a law that everyone buys insurance.  After all, we can make you buy insurance for your car, why not for your health.  If you get sick and go to the hospital, you're sure going to want access to our healthcare infrastructure, so you need to pony up before it happens.  Being Conservative, I don't like big government solutions, but if everyone had to buy insurance, they'd still be getting it through the private sector, which is the only system we know of that effectively regulates cost versus benefits.  Making people self-insure is the most practical way I know to spread the benefits of healthcare, keep costs low, and have a feasible, sustainable system.
I thought that was the Conservative approach, but Republicans brought suit in the Supreme Court to junk that very idea.
The other thing I thought was bedrock Conservatism was my position on subsidies.  "Subsidies bad," I say, voicing a conviction so profound it needs no verb.  For one thing, it's immoral on the face of it to confiscate money from one person to benefit a potential competitor.  It skews the whole free enterprise system.  Anyone will tell you one thing you don't want is a skewed free enterprise system.  The idea that subsidies keep prices down, we Conservatives will tell you, is liberal hogwash because the tax you pay for the subsidy is just a disguised part of the price.  "There is no free lunch," we say, and we'll just laugh when you roll your eyes at us.  But Republicans are blocking a measure to end petroleum subsidies on the basis that - wait for it - it'll make prices go up!
Honest to God, I don't know what happened.  Republicans are conservatives - I know this because NPR says they are.  And Obama's a liberal, which I know because he's a Democrat and because he wants the government to "invest" in renewable energy.  (Doesn't he know what happened with ethanol?)  But lately, I've been agreeing more often with Obama and less and less with the Republicans.  I thought I was Conservative, but I guess I'm not, so what am I?

Santorum and Kafka

One morning, after troubled dreams, Rick Santorum awoke to find himself transformed into a giant insect.  Medical authorities cannot account for this, and yet to those who know him well, it came as little surprise.  He looked down over his segmented belly and saw his numerous legs, which seemed pitifully small compared to his bulk, wiggling. 
"Some strange change has taken place," he surmised, "perhaps the entire world has gone mad!" then looking around saw that he was still in his room at the Radison where he'd spent the night, saw the campaign literature on his night stand and realized that apart from himself, everything in the world was just as it had been.
He tried to roll out of bed, but given the dome-like shape of his back, this was very difficult.  He rocked himself left and right, creating a dull throbbing hurt on one side, and finally managed to roll himself out of bed, plopping on the floor.
"Look at the time," he exclaimed in a great panic, bringing his bulging eye close to his smartphone to read it.  "I should have been up hours ago!  My campaign manager must be worried sick!" 
At that moment as if on cue, there was a frantic pounding on the door, and the worried voice of Ajay Bruno spoke, "Rick, Rick, what the heck are you doing in there?  Are you okay?" 
"Yes, I'm fine," Rick replied; however when he spoke, his voice was horribly garbled, mingled with a high-pitched chittering, so that Rick was certain Ajay would never understand. 
But in fact, Ajay seemed to understand perfectly, "Okay, well, good, but get your kiester down here as quick as possible.  Dick Wolf's in the lobby."
Ajay's footsteps retreated down the hall, but when Rick went to the door, he discovered he could not open it, having no hands.  Trying to turn it with his mandibles was painful and awkward - he could grip it and then had to work himself around until he was almost horizontal, but it was no use.  A brown fluid issued from his mouth, and he thought, "That is probably not good.  That is probably not good at all."
He decided that when he didn't come to the lobby, Ajay would return to check on him, but in the meantime he might as well get dressed.  He began running around the room, not troubling to wonder how he would button his shirt even if he could get it over the abdomen, but the delight he took in his efficacious little legs, how quickly they could dart him about!  Like a team of twelve rowers - overcame him and he forgot all about getting dressed, but lost himself in the pleasure of scampering over the floor, up the walls, and even across the ceiling - his feet excreted a sticky substance, he discovered, that allowed him to hang upside down - he was quite giddy with it, intoxicated almost, chittering and laughing with delight as he walked straight over the mediocre seascape, a weak imitation of Cezanne, then onto the ceiling without missing a step.  Once he fell, and for a moment was terrified, but some natural gyroscope in his brain took over, and he righted himself midair, landing safely on his springy feet. 
A muscle in his back twitched, and he heard an unfamiliar dry rustly sound.  He could not work his head around to see, but he twitched the same muscle again, this time deliberately, and felt unmistakably the grainy friction of two filmy wings concealed under his carapace.
"I have wings," he thought.  "I have wings!  I never suspected I had wings."  He pondered whether they could possibly be strong enough to lift an insect of his size, and whether in any case, it was advisable to try them out indoors, when there was a pounding at the door again, and Ajay's voice, "Dang it!  What's keeping you?  Are you sick?"
"I'm fine," Rick chittered impatiently, "I'm just getting my cuff links."  And he scuttled over to the air conditioner under the window where he lay his cuff links the night before.  But lifting himself up against the air conditioner, he looked out the window, and was dazzled by the beauty of the world.  The Radison parking lot, to his cockroach eyes, was velvet, bejeweled with pearl-gray, and blue, and green mini-vans.  The sky over Philadelphia was threatening storm, and the rolling clouds seemed like twisted gray sheets, smeared with black and white.  What would it be like to fly through such a sky?  He stood, leaning against the air conditioner, one bristle of his little leg stroking a cuff link, transfixed, the wings under his carapace twitched.
"It is so pretty," he murmured.  "So pretty, pretty."

Thank you to all the kind people who purchased a copy of Scoring Bertram Wiggly yesterday - I am forever grateful! :-)

Operators are Standing By

Today I'm asking all my fans, yes, both of you, to purchase an online copy of my novella, Scoring Bertram Wiggly, for the low low price of just ninety-nine cents, simply click the link labeled "link": Link

"So, Martin," you're saying, "great price, why that's less than I'd expect to pay for a half-caff half-skim lo-fat capucino at StarBucks, but what do I get for my buck aside from a penny back?  What's the durn book about, anyways?"

Glad you asked: When Bertram Wiggly leaves his job as an appliance actuary – calculating the life expectancy of major appliances so their warranties expire precisely one day before they implode – he thinks he's found the perfect place to retire in Medville, with its town square, circled by brick-cobbled streets and quaint shops with bright red and white awnings.
But then… the town rezones itself for musicals.
At any moment an invisible orchestra is apt to strike up a melody and the otherwise sane townsfolk of Medville burst into song. And not just song, either. Dance.
Against his will, Bertram finds himself in the midst of a musical comedy in which he has been cast as the comic curmudgeon.
Can Bertram defy Sam, the mysterious orchestra leader, and thwart the destiny laid out for him?

By now you're thinking, "Way cool!  I'd pay a buck ten, maybe a buck and a quarter for a good read like that, and you're giving it away for a mere ninety-nine cents?  Nine thin times, one chunky nickel, and four red cents?  How do I get my online copy?"
It's simplicity itself, just click the link labeled "link" to get started: Link

Now maybe a few of you sly dogs out there are saying, "Yeah, it's a pretty sweet deal alright, but how do I know it's the real McCoy.  I mean, I know you're an award-winning novelist and all that - Georgia Author of the Year for 2008 and that The New York Post calls you required reading and Booklist says you're 'simply brilliant.'  But what about this thing?  I mean, I may be just a big galoot, but I won't even buy a watermelon unless they cut me a sample plug to taste.  So hows about a sample?"

Very well, here's a little taste from somewhere in the first chapter:

...The next moment I felt a tickling in my ear and tried to brush it away, only to rap my knuckles against something cool and metallic. A trombonist was sitting behind me, his slide resting against my face. Miss Terwilliger shrieked to discover a flautist in her lap. Everywhere stunned people realized they had been sharing the room with a veritable army of Sousaphonists and French Horn players. The mayor recoiled and nearly knocked over a set of chimes, sending a discordant tinkling up to the rafters.

"It's okay, folks, it's okay," Jim said, calming us with a gesture. He showed no amusement at our consternation; except for cracks he makes himself, Jim never laughs at anything. "It's just a demonstration of what they can do. Let's let the conductor talk to us. Come on out, Sam."
As people settled back in their seats, exchanging polite nods and handshakes with the musicians around them, the orchestra leader stepped forward from a corner. By some trick of lighting, his white uniform with its gold epaulets and shiny brass buttons had blended into the dark wood paneling behind him, so he seemed to materialize from nowhere like a white cat sauntering out of the fog.The flabbergasted mayor stood aside, and Sam the conductor took the stage. "We're a municipal contractor," Sam explained. "We've provided many towns just like yours with – well, sort of a musical backdrop to their lives. People seem to like it. It makes life more interesting. It adds – " Sam hesitated, at a loss for words."Oomph?" suggested Bernie Goldstein, the owner of the dry goods store, looking over his bifocals and raising his finger modestly in front of his white apron for attention.
"Oomph, yes, that's it exactly," Sam said with a smile.
Someone had to put a stop to this dangerous nonsense. "If you're so good," I said, standing up without waiting to be called on. "Why did you come here? Why don't you already have a job somewhere?"
"We did," Sam said. His face, which had worn an affable smile, became grim. The various band members shuffled uncomfortably in their crisp white uniforms and looked at their shoes. "A city. A city with a million souls but not one neighbor. Where it's always crowded, yet you're always alone. A city that never sleeps because it's too busy trying to forget what it never can." The conductor's voice was weary with regret. He sounded like a person who associated with no-good dames. No-good dames with secrets to hide and gams. At the back of the room, a saxophone player put his instrument to his lips, and a melody oiled out that reminded me of merciless summer nights, wet asphalt, slow-turning ceiling fans, and long, poorly-lit corridors. I hadn't realized until that moment that Sam was smoking a cigarette. He took the butt from his mouth and flicked it with his forefinger over the podium into a trashcan. "We didn't like it there. You could say we couldn't take it."
"Too many shadows," said a clarinetist under Carmello the barber's chair.
"And rain," said someone holding a pair of cymbals over Zeke's head.
"And neon signs flashing through Venetian blinds," added the trombonist behind me.
"When we heard about Medville, we knew this was the town for us," Sam said. A moment ago I could have sworn his face wore a five-o'clock shadow, but now I saw it was shaven as smooth as a windowpane. "You should know we are fully bonded and insured, and have a facility for, well, disappearing." Sam made a gesture of dismissal, and before we could look around, they were gone. The flautist had left Miss Terwilliger's lap, the cymbal player in back of Zeke seemed to evaporate, the clarinetist under Carmello's chair vanished, and when I turned, the trombonist was likewise not to be seen. Sam stepped backward – the xylophone and chimes were no longer behind him – and faded once more into the paneling. I strained my eyes to pick out his contour against the wall and could not. A band of stealthy Apaches waiting to ambush a wagon train could not have concealed themselves more neatly.

"Whoa!" you're thinking now.  "That is something I've got to read.  And only ninety-nine cents!  That's a deal too good to pass up!  Point me the way cousin, where do I go?"

No need to go anywhere, my friend, just click the link labeled, "link": link

Earl Scruggs, RIP

Earl Scruggs (1924-2012)

There were banjo players, and there was Earl Scruggs.  These days fame can be achieved, and usually it seems, is achieved, by random no-talent nobodies who strike lucky and rise to prominence on the backs of reality shows, or else former no-talent nobodies who rise over the ashes of their brief has-been careers to exploit themselves as the butt of jokes in other reality shows, but Earl Scruggs was the Real Deal.  He taught himself to play - taught himself!  And of course he had to, because who else would have even dreamed of that lunatic, syncopated, blizzard of notes?  There is a pantheon of musicians that just to hear them is to feel good, and Earl Scruggs was one of them.  You just had to grin to hear that white-water river rhythm and those mad-cap riffs.  And on top of this, Scruggs was a good man.  Like the best of the old-timey country musicians, there was no pretense in him, no humbug.  He was not out to sell some agenda or even himself; he was content to disappear behind his music.  Not that this matters a whit as regards his well-deserved fame.  He would be listened to were he the veriest asshole to trod the earth. He was great because of his musicianship.  He was loved for who he was.