Richard Paolinelli's Blog, page 30

Places Called Home: Steele, North Dakota

1974 was a crappy year in many ways.

We were facing a move out of state, and I had never once stepped foot outside the state of California in my first 10 years of life, and we were moving to North Dakota of all places. I didn’t even know where that was.

One of the good things about 1974 was my grandfather had moved out from Texas and was living with us. I’d only met him once before, in 1972, when he came out for a few days to visit. He and my Dad were getting back together after years apart. He and my grandmother had divorced and, as happens all too often, lies were told that kept them from having anything like a normal father-son relationship. But now he was living under the same roof and I was getting to know him.

Just before the big move, my uncle died during a trip east. He’d pulled over to take a nap and left the car running to stay warm on a cold, early spring night in the mountains east of Salt Lake City. There was a leak of carbon monoxide and he never woke up. We were on that same stretch of I-80 two weeks after the funeral. I always think of him whenever I pass that little town, just as I did back in July.

[image error]We got to Steele, a town of 400 residents, and a culture shock to be in a town THAT small that was the largest town in the county. Oddly enough, I fell in love with the place. In an alternate history, I wouldn’t have minded spending my entire life there.

Steele was where I discovered the books of Louis L’Amour, a native of nearby Jamestown. The barber shop in Steele also served as a used book store and Ray, that was the barber, had copies of every book L’Amour wrote. Well, at least he did until I got there and started relieving him of his inventory at $0.25 a book.

It had a small newspaper, with an old-style printing press, the Steele Ozone – which is still in print to this day. I like to think I might have grown up to be its editor. During music class, Mr. Charles Wells, who also taught science, would lead us all in a rousing rendition of “The Steele Ozone” – sung to the tune of Dr. Hook’s “Cover of the Rolling Stone”. We just swapped out Steele Ozone for Rolling Stone and let fly. The principal showed up one morning to tell us he could hear us in his office…on the other side of the school. We had to watch the volume levels after that.

There was the Ro-Do-Rah Drive In, a little burger shack right at the entrance of the town, just off I-94. Crown Lanes, where I first bowled league in and made quite the tidy sum in the evenings keeping score on the old overheads with the cellophane sheets and wax pencils for the leagues three nights a week. Being a whiz at math made me popular and kept me in comic book money. The golf course was just nine holes and had sand greens that you had to rake when you were done. You got your exercise in when you played that course.

[image error]Whiskey’s brother, who we got after the first Whiskey was killed.

There were a lot of happy memories for the three years we were there. But two very sad ones too. In August of 1974, my grandfather collapsed and died two days later. One month after that, our dog Whiskey was struck by a car and killed. It was a long winter, which included a massive blizzard that introduced me to living in snow for the first time.

When the snow melted the next spring, it seemed things were much better. The pain and loss of 1974 was fading. Life went on. It seemed simple then and the road ahead filled with nothing but promise.

I think that is what I miss most about that time. Even though Steele has changed, we went through there in 2019, and much of what used to be there no longer is, whenever I do pass through I always leave feeling a little better about the road ahead, if even for only a little while.

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Places Called Home: Orange County, California

I went with the entire county this time because, or so I am told, we lived in Redondo Beach, Newport Beach and Santa Ana from 1965 to 1970. I honestly only recall Santa Ana.

Mostly, those memories are pretty good. My first dog, Samson, and I had great adventures. Unfortunately, he passed away before we left Santa Ana.

[image error]I went to my first baseball game in Anaheim. I still have the ticket stub from 1967 when the California Angels hosted the Cleveland Indians and a memory of a baseball player running down the first base line. Why that one snippet of that game has lasted over 50 years escapes me, but it stuck inside my 3-year-old brain for some reason.

We went to see the Lakers play at both the Sports Arena and The Forum, the two former homes of the Lakers before Staples was built. I’ve seen games played in all three arenas much later in life, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to tell you what the interiors looked like based on memory alone. I had the pleasure of listening to both Vin Scully and the late Chick Hearn, Bob Miller and Dick Enberg call games on radio and local TV. Four masters of their trade.

[image error]Then there were trips to Disneyland, Knotts Berry Farm and the now-closed Marineland. My dad loves telling the story of how I blew through a whole dollar (1968 money) on dime-a-bag treats for the seals. I was very popular among the seal population that day.

Of course, there was the wonderful night we were loaded up in the car and headed for the mountains following an earthquake that spawned a tsunami warning. I think I was four or five and for some reason – already a huge Godzilla fan – the “Tsunami” was a monster that Godzilla was going to have to show up and fight. The tsunami alert was cancelled, we went home and I was bummed I didn’t get to see the big fella in person.

There was the drive-in theater we went to every Friday night, passing the iconic Coppertone Billboard just off of I-5 to get there. A miniature golf course that seemed to stretch out for miles and endless days of sun. I’m trying to remember a single day of rain and I can’t.

Orange County today is vastly different of course. I don’t even know if that billboard is still up. But for those five years that it was home, it was a nice place to be.

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Superversive Sunday Spotlight: Stephanie Osborn

Welcome to this week’s Superversive Sunday Spotlight. Every week we will chat with a Superversive author that you really should be reading.

This week we welcome Superversive author, Stephanie Osborn:

How long have you been writing?

I guess it depends on what you mean. Professionally? I got my first contract back in 2008. In general? I wrote my first poem in 3rd grade, my first play in 4th, and turned out a slew of short stories in 5th and 6th.

[image error]Which writers inspire you?

Oh, that’s like asking a parent which is their favorite child, I think. But…let’s see…Conan Doyle, Asimov, Bradbury, Bujold, among others. James Joyce to a certain extent. (I like the way he devises his own grammatical devices.)

So, what have you written?

Mostly science fiction mystery and some popular science. At this point, there have been right at 50 titles that I’ve authored, co-authored, or contributed to (anthologies and the like). I’ve written the Division One series, the Displaced Detective series, the Cresperian Saga, and I’m working on completing what I call the Burnout trilogy. I’m also writing, by invitation, in Richard Weyand’s EMPIRE universe, and I wrote a book in his Childers series, too.

What draws you to Superversive writing?

I think it’s more upbeat. Oh, now and again I leave a story ending on a shocking note, because that’s a good way to make the reader sit up and think. But I never leave it on a no-win scenario. There’s always a way back, a way up. I have anxiety disorder and that tends to exhaust the nervous system, leading to depression in varying levels, so having a positive outlook on the world – fiction or real – helps me combat that. It’s a personal decision, I think.

[image error]What are you working on at the minute?

 Right now I’m working on the ninth book in the EMPIRE series. Weyand started writing that series in sets of trilogies, and I’m about to wind up the Imperial Police trilogy. After that, I’ll write a couple more books in the Division One series, maybe a short story or two, and start on the next EMPIRE trilogy Weyand has me slated to write. (I have three trilogies in that series I’m scheduled to write.)

Do you read much and if so, who are your favorite authors?

I don’t read quite as much now as I used to, at least in fiction. In general, the time I used to spend reading, I now spend writing. I read a lot of nonfiction, and probably half to two-thirds of that is research for whatever I’m writing. When I do read fiction, I often tend to read authors that are deceased, partly because I don’t want to inadvertently grab a concept, character, or whatnot from a friend and fellow author. I’m fond of Victorian writers. Conan Doyle is a fave. I grew up reading Laura Ingalls Wilder, Mark Twain, Lucy Maude Montgomery. But I also read Asimov and Bradbury and some Heinlein juvenile novels when I could get hold of them. (I was raised in a rural farming area, and science and science fiction were not that popular in the school libraries.) That said, whenever I’m playing in another author’s sandbox, I tend to thoroughly read and digest his or her previous books in the series. Right now I know the EMPIRE series almost as well as Richard Weyand does. He says I know it better in at least some respects.

How can readers discover more about you and your work?

Well, there’s a couple of ways. You can hit me up on my website, http://www.stephanie-osborn.com/. Or you could look at my Amazon Author Page. (I have it to understand that Nook/Barnes-Noble is about to institute author pages as well, but I haven’t seen much about it yet.) I’m also on Facebook, Instagram, and MeWe.

Thanks for sharing Stephanie. Be sure to check out Stephanie’s books and be sure to check back next Sunday for our next chat with a Superversive author.

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Places Called Home: Turlock, California

For the next couple of weeks I’ll be looking back at all the places I’ve called home since 1964, leading up to the Oct. 1st reveal of where our new hometown will be. It seems like all those years moving around the United States with my father’s drilling business stuck. Although to be fair, we stayed put in one place for a very long time until the kids graduated from high school and then we started up the gypsy road tour again.

Today we start the series where my journey began: Turlock, California.

[image error]When I arrived, the Turlock Journal announced that the little town in Central California was now at 10,000 residents. I don’t know if it was me or that other kid born that day in Old Emanuel Hospital that hit the milestone for the town. We didn’t stay in Turlock long, moving down to where a lot of drilling was taking place in Southern California (that’s tomorrow’s post) but by 1971 we were back in the Turlock area. 

We also lived from time to time in Hilmar, Hughson, and Denair, towns very near Turlock and now almost merging with the city today. We’d move on to North Dakota in 1974, moved back to Turlock in 1977, moved away again in 1981 and stayed away this time until 1994. And this time we stayed put until 2006, when we packed up and moved away for what is very likely the last time.

Over a century later, Turlock’s population has grown to over 70,000 – thanks mostly in part to the BATs (Bay Area Transplants that fled the high rent of San Francisco back in the 1980s). But it will always be that small town of 10,000-15,000 that I spent a lot of time biking around in as a kid.

None of the downtown shops remained the same over the years, especially once the Woolworth, J.C. Penny and Sears stores packed up sought newer locations. A lot of the restaurants are gone now, LaCreme, Foster’s Freeze, Penguin’s Ice Cream Parlor (hold up a second, I’m having a Red Raspberry Sherbert memory moment here….), Straw Hat Pizza, and the old Liberty Markets are long gone. So is the old two story movie theater.

Even the Turlock Journal (where I was a sports writer and Sports Editor at one time) is now a ghost of itself. The original building has been remodeled and now the Journal’s total office space is barely 1/5th of what it once was. They don’t even print the paper there anymore is I’m not mistaken.

There are some places there now that are favorites to visit when we come back for a few days. Topping the list has to be Main Street Footers. Even now, years after having moved away, I can walk in and if the right person is behind the counter I don’t even have to order, they already know what I want.

Turlock will always hold a special place in my heart. I’m glad I was able to write and publish From The Fields. It is my tribute to the high school football teams in Turlock, but I also mixed in some non-sports items in the book. Things that caught my eye as I scrolled through 100 years of newspaper microfilms.

[image error]Hedy Lamarr, yeah THAT Hedy Lamarr, once called Turlock home, if but briefly. Several athletes have made it to the professional level in football, baseball and softball. Turlock has been, at times, considered the Turkey Capital of the world and held the record for most churches per capita than any other city.

There’s less agriculture there now. Strip malls and housing developments have cut down large swaths of orchards. Oddly enough, it also seems to have cut down on the tulle fog that used to plague the area.  Back in the 1970s it would get so thick you couldn’t see the front of your car, much less the traffic lights. There were some bad wrecks over the years. I recall one winter when we last saw the Sun and the Moon shortly before Thanksgiving and we never saw either again until late January. It was either raining cats and dogs or heavy fog.

There’s far too many memories over two+ decades of living in Turlock (Stanislaus County when you factor in Denair, Hughson, Hilmar, and Modesto) to squeeze in to one blog post. But Turlock was the first step in the journey.

 

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The Calling: Part 2, Chapter 13

THE CALLING: Part 2, Chapter 13

A Work Of Star Trek Fan Fiction By Richard Paolinelli

© 2020 RICHARD PAOLINELLI . ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO COPYING OR ANY OTHER REPRODUCTION OF THIS STORY IS PERMITTED WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION. This is a work of fan fiction based in the universe of Star Trek, created by Gene Roddenberry. It is not intended to be sold, to be used to aid in any sale and is not to be copied or used in any other way by any other party.
 
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Forelni kept his hands well out to each side, palms open and facing the woman on the transporter in as much of a non-threatening pose as he could muster. That this was the same woman from the portrait they’d been beaming up from the surface was indisputable.

How she had come to be here and what had become of the portrait itself were mysteries he would happily explore after figuring out how to deescalate the current situation. First, he needed that blade in her hand returned to its scabbard.

He heard Kyle sound the alarm for an intruder alert an instant before the red alert lights began flashing around the bay, accompanied by the blaring alarm sound. All of which only alarmed their already frightened visitor who tensed as if she were about to launch an attack.

“Mr. Kyle, kill that alarm now,” Forelni ordered, keeping his tone level and as non-threatening as he could. “And activate the universal translator if you please.”

“Translator tied-in, sir,” Kyle reported as the alarms and lights cut off. “But we’ll need her to start talking and it will likely take some time before it will start working.”

“I’m aware of that, thank you. Who is nearest the inner hatch?”

“That would be me, Sir,” Engineering Mate Jim Bellmore answered.

“I want you to make sure no one comes onto this deck until I give the all clear, Mr. Bellmore,” Forelni ordered. “I don’t care who, just keep them out. We don’t want to make things worse here by adding more people to the mix.”

“Aye, Sir.”

“Now then,” Forelni turned his attention back to the woman on the pad, taking a slow careful step toward her. “We mean you no harm. You are among friends here.”

She rewarded him with a narrowed look and a quick, but ineffective, swipe of her blade in his direction.   

“Okay, Plan B then,” Forelni muttered softly, taking one step back. “Anyone holding something in your hands, slowly set it down. Then I want everyone on this deck to take a knee, just as slowly as you can, and stay there until I say otherwise.”

“Sir?”

“This woman is royalty, Mr. Butler, likely a Queen. We’re going to speak to her in a language that she can understand. Take a knee.”

Forelni led the way, slowly kneeling and adding the Etalyian gesture of a slight bow with the right hand over the heart, as everyone else on the deck followed suit.

*     *     *

“Smart move,” McCoy whispered, standing behind Kirk and just outside of the inner hatch. “Do everything possible to calm the situation until the translator can kick in. Now, he needs to get her talking.”

They had rushed down together when the intruder alert sounded, arriving just behind the six-man, on-duty security team. Now all eight of them could only stand and watch. Kirk had considered entering the bay, only to have McCoy caution against it.

“Your Security Chief knows what he’s doing, Jim,” McCoy had said quietly. “And he was an Ambassador before either of us was born. Let the man work.”

*     *     *

“Your Majesty,” Forelni said, looking up but remaining on one knee. “My name is Bari.”

He tapped his chest, repeated his name, and then repeated the process twice more as she stared at him, more inquisitive than hostile now.

“Bari,” he said a third time, tapped his chest and then held out his hand in her direction, with what he hoped was a “And your name is?” look on his face. She rewarded him with a single word and he repeated it as best as he could.

“Avion?” he asked, then repeated her name, repeated his with another tap on his chest and waited. When she repeated his name and then his he reached over and touched a nearby crate.

“Crate,” he said. Repeated the word twice and then looked at her. She spoke a single word that he couldn’t quite repeat but must have been close enough. He repeated the process several times; Wall, floor, ceiling, hammer, any object close enough to point to or touch. Finally, he pointed at the blade in her hand and said its name aloud. Her eyes widened slightly.

“How is it you have the same name for my blade?” she asked in perfect Standard. Forelni smiled.

“Because we are finally speaking the same language, my lady,” he replied.

“What magic is this?”

“No magic, my lady, simply a tool,” he explained. “Much like your blade there. Only this tool works on language so we can better understand those we meet in our travels. Sometimes it takes a little longer for our tool to work however.”

“How incredible,” she replied in a hushed tone, but the blade remained out and pointed at Forelni.

“Allow me to properly introduce myself,” he fashioned a slight bow. “I am Lt. Commander Bari Forelni, Chief of Security aboard this vessel, and Crown Prince of Etalya. And you are?”

“Queen Avion, 47th ruler of Chandera,”she replied. “I have never heard of the Etalya anywhere on Chandera. But wherever it is it has declared war on Chandera by kidnapping me.”

So Chandera is the name of her planet, Forelni thought as he tried to figure out how to explain she was not a kidnapping victim, and she rules over all of it. So there goes claiming they were from another part of the world.

“My lady,” he said aloud. “You have not been kidnapped, I assure you. How you arrived aboard our vessel is a mystery to me, but it was not by our design. As long as you are here you are our guest, not our prisoner, and you have nothing to fear from anyone on this ship.”

“Then return me to my palace immediately.”

“If I could, my lady, I would. But until we discover how you got here this is not possible. I am afraid we are too far away from your home to do that.”

“You lie!” she accused. “You are carrying me further from my people…”

“Mr. Bellmore,” Forelni called out, cutting her off. “Raise the outer force field and then open the outer hatch.”

Bellmore glanced over at Kirk, who immediately guessed what Forelni was up to, and nodded his approval. Bellmore rose to his feet, threw two switches and then pulled down on a lever. The outer hatch cracked open, each half sliding into the hull, revealing the destroyed world of Auriga III hanging in space beyond the open hatch.

Avion took a stumbling step forward, unable to tear her gaze away from the sight. Her blade clattered to the deck.

“What is that?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“That,” Forelni replied, trying to soften the blow. “Used to be the world you called Chandera at least five thousand years ago.”

She stared at the lifeless ball below, then her eyes rolled until nothing but white showed. Forelni stepped forward and caught her before she fell to the deck.

“Doctor McCoy,” he called out, turning toward the inner hatch without setting her down.

“Subtle work, Commander,” McCoy said as he waived his medscanner over her.

“She dropped the knife, didn’t she?”

“How is she, Bones?”

“Shock, for obvious reasons, but readings well within humanoid norms. Let’s get her to Sickbay. Commander, since you seem to be well suited to serve as an ambulance, would you mind?”

“Of course, Doctor. Mr. Butler, secure that blade and bring it to me in Sickbay, if you please. Mr. Bellmore, we seem to be finished beaming things up until further notice. Secure this cargo and by all means close that hatch if you will.”

Forelni followed McCoy off the deck and out the inner hatch.

“Mr. Spock,” Kirk toggled the comm panel, “stand down from intruder alert. I trust you and Mr. Kyle are going to figure out exactly what just happened down here and why. More importantly, how we are going to return our visitor where she belongs.”

“That, Captain, may take quite some time.”

“In that case, Spock, I suggest you get started right away.”

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Free Read Friday: September 18, 2020

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Born Under A Wan’drin Star

Yep, after a 2-year, 4-month, and a handful of days-run in Omaha, Nebraska the time has come to close up shop and mosey on down the road. If you’ve ever watched the 1969 adaptation of Paint Your Wagon, you might see why I identify with Ben Rumson.

 

So as yet another moving day fast approaches, I thought it might be fun to look back at all of the places I’ve called home since I showed up on the ball of rock, dirt and water back in 1964.

We’ll start it all off tomorrow with where this scribe’s journey began – Turlock, California – and end it sometime around Oct. 2nd when I’ll reveal exactly where it is we’ve landed next.

 

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September Short Story #2: Kek Wills It

Back during the 2016 election season, when the TrumpMania/TrumpPhobia was just heating up I decided to have a little fun and try my hand at poetry. This month’s second short story is a poem that was intended to poke fun at both sides.

It must of worked, because I submitted it to a pro-Trump anthology as well as an anti-Trump anthology and both editors rejected it.

Of course, back then I fully expected everything to settle down eventually, even after Trump was elected. Boy, was I wrong about that!

If you are a premium member, give it a read and judge for yourself. If you aren’t a premium member, its only $2 a month. Sign up today and enjoy this and all of the other premium content on this website.

September Short Story #2: KEK WILLS IT

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1st Week of NFL-Free in the books and is Snyder Trolling the SJWs?

Since I’ve been asked this, yes I went the entire first week of the NFL season without watching a single second of a single game. That means no commercials were watched either Mr. Advertiser spending hundreds of thousands of dollars putting your ad on during the game.

Even my wife kept walking into my office to check. She knows what the usual drill is on Sundays starting in September and knows when the routine is not being followed.

[image error]Many doubted I’d do it. Not sure why they doubted. I haven’t watched a single-second of an NBA game since LeBrat James, Duh-Whinny Wade and the Miami Cheats donned those hoodies in honor of a thief who took his MMA skills out of the safety of his home and jumped right into a gunfight.

As for the MLB, I haven’t watched a game this season. NASCAR was permanently turned off when Bubba Smollett faked a racist incident to try to land a bigger contract. Can’t say as I blame him. He’s not talented enough to win a race, its a major news story when he has a top 10 finish. Look, Danica Patrick came closer to winning the Daytona 500 and a road race – some idiot threw a shoe onto the track in front of her car and knocked her out of the lead – than Bubba Smollett ever has or ever will. The NHL got shown the door when they shut down in the middle of the playoffs to be “in solidarity” with the domestic terrorists-supporting NBA.

So, yeah, when the NFL kicked off on Thursday, I listened to The Writer’s Block on LA Talk Radio instead. When the games kicked off on Sunday, my TV stayed off. And Monday’s games? Sorry, I had better things to do with my time. It seems many have followed suit. Thursday night’s season opener was down 12% over last year’s numbers and it look’s like the Sunday night game was down anywhere between 23-28% over last year’s opening game. That’s a lot of people walking away from the NFL, Roger Goodell.

I spend five minutes tops every night, checking on the final scores, standings and playoff brackets of the teams. I spend no time whatsoever finding out what any of the players did.

[image error]They mean nothing to me. I will not remember, much less, say their names. Which brings me to the other point of this post. A friend sent me a link from a Fox News story on Washington Redskins (Yeah, I said THEIR name) owner Dan Snyder’s statement that he just might keep the team’s official name as: Washington Football Team.

Brilliant. Master trolling, Mr. Snyder.

What better way to tell the SJWs to go pound sand than to not pick a mascot name at all. Just put the first initial of the City or State on the helmet, choose your team colors and move on. I hope every team in every league looks at this idea and embraces it.

The Dallas Football Team

The Los Angeles Basketball team

The Other Los Angeles Basketball team that couldn’t win a championship even if you disqualified all the other teams first.

The Chicago Hockey Team

Then, remove the players’ names from the jerseys. No social justice statements, no nothing. Just a big number on the back, the City or State name on the front with a slightly smaller number so the refs can identify a player being called for an infraction.

[image error]Say, maybe – in the name of equality of course – all players would be required to play in a full body suit, covered from head to toe, and all in a very neutral and non-racist grey? 

Mr. Snyder? You, sir, are an evil genius!!!!

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2020 DragonCon/Dragon Awards AAR

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