In this very fictional story, my wife asks me about that sultry woman's voice in my office

My historical novel, "Zeppelins Over Denver," will be out soon from The Ridgeway Press. I recently proofed all 395 typeset pages and now need new glasses or possibly new eyes if they are available. I spent most of my working life editing my own work and that of others. Not everyone appreciates editing, as you may discover if your boss asks you to "take a look" at his article for the corporate web site. The editor's goal is to make every written piece shine like a diamond or at least like a good knock-off over at the pawn shop. Readable, it has to be. Comprehensible. Maybe even dazzling. 

Writers rarely read their published books because they have read them over and over again. You would think it gets old. It does. In the new world of self-published books, an editor should be worth its weight in gold but now we have computers and A.I. One thing that helped me through 128,373 words was a new gadget on Microsoft Word. It is the "Read Aloud" prompt. The writer blocks text and then this mellifluous female voice reads your text. OK, it's slightly artificial. I noted some grievous mispronunciations, but they are surprisingly few. What I wasn't prepared for was the artificial voice emphasizing chosen words. One of them is this: What? I caught a lilt in her voice. I was charmed. I decided to give her a name, Rita Read Aloud. She has personality. 

However, I was tempted to change Rita's voice into a male one because most of my fictional characters are male (but not all). I decided to ask Gary Google if this was wise. Responses were surprising. The male voices sound mechanical, robot-like. One respondent warned that if I switched off the female voice to male, I would never get Rita back. The finality of divorce. Suitably forewarned, I kept Rita and am happy I did. Somewhere around Chapter 27, I started talking back to her and we are now in a long-term relationship which has led to a world of domestic problems.

Wife: Who was that you were talking to in your office?

Me: That was just me.

Wife: Sounded like a female voice.

Me: Robot. Just a robot. On MS Word. A very bland robot voice.

Wife: I thought I heard her say WHAT? like she really meant it, as if she was responding meaningfully in some way, as if....

Me: I shut the office door slowly, you know, like that last scene in The Godfather when Michael Corleone shuts himself off from the love of his life. Just like that.

Sunday morning round-up: Big & Strange, WY and FL

A round-up is a task performed by cowboys when they bring in the cattle.

I am not a cowboy. But I spent 30 years in The Cowboy State of Wyoming so sometimes feel like one.

Yesterday, a big galoot from Laramie, Wyoming – Frank Crum, 6-foot-7, 315-pound OL for the Denver Broncos -- caught a touchdown pass from Bo Nix as the Broncos beat the Bills. Crum grew up in Laramie, played football at Laramie High School, and played six years for the UW Cowboys. His father and grandfather all played for UW. Way to go, big fella.

Later, in overtime, Bo Nix powered the Broncos to the OT win. He broke his ankle along the way and now is out for the rest of the playoffs.

Meanwhile, UW’s Josh Allen, everyone’s favorite in Laramie where UW retired his uniform number in tribute, sat and watched his Super Bowl dreams evaporate.

A big, strange day for Wyoming. Wyoming excels in Big & Strange.

I miss it. Now living in Florida which has its own Big & Strange.

Earlier in the day, Chris and I cheered on the Florida Gators as they beat Vanderbilt 98-94 in NCAA men’s basketball. The Gators (UF my alma mater) are a hard-driving bunch with players from all over, some appearing mysteriously out of The Portal. There’s this small guard Xiavian Lee who portalized from Princeton to make amazing shots and there’s Rueben Chinyelu who steamrolls his way to the bucket. I was happy to see the win and glad there was no OT to interfere with the Broncos/Bills game. I know of no Wyoming connection for the Gators but looking for one.

Just finished reading (for the second time) “Never a Lovely So Real,” a biography of Nelson Algren by Colin Asher. I love the book for its unflinching portrait of Algren powered by Asher’s love of the subject. Algren was my first writing mentor, a strange old man dressed in rumpled clothes and a beat-up cap who taught writing to UF undergrads in 1974. I was a non-trad student, a university newbie at 23 who had been out doing something interesting. Nelson taught writing in many places (including the MFA bastion at Iowa) and was openly scornful of learning writing in the academy. He came from those mean streets of Chicago and learned his trade on the road. He wrote about the travails of regular folks. He must have looked around that stifling classroom and said what do these people know of the ways of the world? Go out and do something interesting and then write about it. I did. Was still learning. Algren told great stories and my Vietnam vet buddy Mike and I took Nelson to a strip club on Gainesville’s outskirts and had a swell time. We smoked pop with him although he said it didn’t do much for him as he had smoked it many times with jazz cats in 1930s Chicago. Nelson liked one of my stories and gave me his agent’s contact info which I never followed up on. He also gave us all a list of recommended reading and I worked my way through it, parked deep in the stacks of the UF library. Asher has a new book coming out which sounds cool. It’s titled “The Midnight Special: The Secret Prison History of American Music” and will be released by W.W. Norton on June 30. Check out his cool web site at colinasher.com for more info.

I get up every day cursing Trump and his fascist minions. Cursing is one thing. Doing something about it is another. I am a lifetime voter and Democrat who has been active in party politics. It ain’t always pretty but you gotta get your hands dirty if you want to make something. Algren was blacklisted for 30 years for being a Commie. His pal in the WPA Writers Project, Richard Wright, was forced out of the U.S. for his activism. I write regularly to the dimwits who want to turn Florida into a Maga Playground. Write. Demonstrate. Vote, please vote. There’s a good chance that Trump and his goons will find excuses to close the polls in November. Do not let him do that. It’s up to you.

A (belated) Christmas memory, Colorado and Capote

"The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere

Is a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow."

That's the refrain in "Colorado Christmas" by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, a song written by Steve Goodman. I listened to it numerous times during the Christmas season and call it up other times. It's pure nostalgia, a musician in a L.A. hotel dreaming about "Telluride and Boulder Down below." No mention of Denver, my hometown, or Aurora, where I did some of my growing up, or Fort Collins, where I attended grad school. Telluride is a wonder, deep in the Rockies, well known for skiing and summer music festivals. Something beautiful about sitting on a grassy field under the stars listening to music. Boulder, of course, is known coast-to-coast for its counterculture vibe, beatniks and hippies, Naropa Institute, the CU cafeteria named for a Colorado cannibal, "South Park," and the Flatirons jutting up to the west like, well, flatirons. John Fante grew up in Boulder. You can get heated up about your favorite cause and then cool off at the Dalton Trumbo Fountain Court on the CU campus.

So, is NGDB from Colorado? They are in the Colorado Music Hall of Fame and many in its roster of performers live in Colorado. Long-time member Jimmy Ibbotson had a recording studio in Woody Creek outside Aspen, also known as the lair of the late Hunter S. Thompson.

I first heard "Colorado Christmas" in Aspen. Christine and I were up in Starwood, heading to our friend Steve's father's house, when we got stuck in a snowbank. We drove an AMC/Renault compact, not even front-wheel drive. Driving up the night before, we got lost and stopped at an intersection where a big 4WD was parked. Obviously lost, we waved, the window rolled down, and John Denver poked out his head. Yes, he said, this is the right road to Starwood. We thanked him and didn't even ask him for a song. We maneuvered up the scary road to the summit. Two hours later we drove down. The next morning, we drove back up and got stuck. As we did the usual rock-and-roll motion to free the car, "Colorado Christmas" came on the radio. I thought it was the most beautiful song I ever heard even though at that very moment we were stuck on a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow. "The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere..." What could we do? We laughed, and kept on rollin'.

We live in Florida now.

Speaking of Christmas memories --

"A Christmas Memory" was a 1966 Emmy-winning televised story by Truman Capote. A remake appeared later but it lacked what made the earlier one stand out, narrator Capote. So special to hear his voice recall a rural Alabama childhood memory. A young Capote (Buddy in the story) is deserted by his parents and stays with his grown-up second cousin Sook whose goal for the season is to make 30 fruitcakes for friends and neighbors. She is dirt-poor in the midst of the Great Depression and she and Buddy scrape together what they have saved during the year and set out on their quest. First stop: salvage "windfall pecans" from Farmer Callahan's grove. They buy makings at the general store and a bottle of bootleg whiskey from Ha Ha Jones Fish Fry and Dancing Cafe. They make the cakes and distribute them just in time for Christmas. The cakes are sweet and imply a bit of a buzz. The sweetest part is the young Capote and his grown-up voice, this tiny story that came from the writer who gave us true stories of Kansas murderers, Manhattan society dames, and tortured souls who haunt Tiffany's. Capote was a tortured soul but how he could write. 

Lately I’ve been having dreams, Train Dreams w/update

For decades, I kept a copy of “Fiskadoro” by Denis Johnson. I liked the idea of the book more than the book itself. It was an early post-apocalyptic novel set in the Florida where I grew up, the Keys, way south of my youth in Daytona Beach, but still, Florida. With my brother Dan, I was writing a post-apocalyptic novel set in the Central Florida I knew. It was the 1980s and we wanted in on the post-apocalyptic scenario that Reagan’s anti-Soviet MX Missile plan engendered. Dan, Air Force veteran and air traffic controller, was a Reagan man and I was not. There was energy in that – and we were brothers. I miss him still. Today is his birthday.

But back to Johnson. I read “Train Dreams” a decade ago when I still lived and worked in Wyoming. It’s a novella and I read it in two days. It touched me. I didn’t think it would. I did my best to read “Fiskadoro” but failed to finish -- I just couldn't get inside. Is this the same writer? My heart ached by “Train Dreams” end, much as it did last night when the credits rolled for “Train Dreams” on Netflix. It’s set mostly in Idaho, my old neighbor, and in the tall-timber forests I grew to love in my 40 years in the Rockies. Most of that time, the timber industry and environmentalists waged war. I wasn’t in the fight, but my location in the cities of the Colorado/Wyoming Front Range made me suspect.

I put that aside as I watched Robert and other loggers in early-20^th-century Idaho and Washington cut 500-year-old trees. Robert worked for his wife and daughter. He traveled to jobs by train, the most efficient form of transportation then. This was a love story featuring Robert and Gladys and little Katie. The couple planned and built the cabin themselves and did all the work. Tragedy came and some resolution followed. The ending is breathtaking yet somber.

It's a beautiful work, Johnson’s novel and the Netflix film directed by Cliff Bentley. The credits roll to a song called “Train Dreams” by Nick Cave. He was the right person for the job. I have it on my playlist now: 

Lately I’ve been having dreams, crazy dreams I can’t explain; A woman standing in a field of flowers, a screaming locomotive train; Crazy dreams that go on for hours and I can’t begin to tell you how that feels.

Robert doesn’t have the words.

I keep searching for them.

UPDATE: The Dec. 1 New York Times carried a review of a new biography about the late Denis Johnson. The book, "Flagrant, Self-Destructive Gestures," is by Ted Geltner. He assembled it through interviews with family and friends and fragments of notes left behind by Johnson. The writer spent his last years living in a cabin in north Idaho. If you live in the West, you can picture the cabin and know what it feels like as December snow swirls outside.

Death by Lightning: To be gone, gone and forgotten

On the morning after I watched the conclusion of “Death by Lightning" on Netflix.

One of the final scenes really got to me. It’s First Lady Lucretia “Crete” Garfield (Betty Gilpin) confronting the assassin Charles Guiteau (Matthew McFayden) in prison before he is hanged. She is angry and distraught about her husband’s death at the hands of this addle-brained miscreant, the likes of which we’ve seen too many times. Crete (President Garfield’s endearing name for her) tells Guiteau that she has halted the publishing of his tell-all book. “You will be forgotten!” She also knows that history will forget her husband, that he will be some sort of trivia question about the shortest-serving president. Nobody will remember what a fine man he was.

But this viewer now knows. President Garfield, streets will be named for you. Millard Fillmore too. In the 1980s I lived in the Cherry Creek block north of the funky-but-soon-to-be-ritzy Cherry Creek North Shopping District. Chris and I walked from our rental on Fillmore Street to the old Tattered Cover Bookstore when it actually had tattered covers for sale – cheap! – and the Cherry Cricket for football and beer and burgers.

Millard Fillmore. Yet another forgotten one. From Wikipedia:

Millard Fillmore was the 13^th president of the United States, serving from 1850 to 1853. He was the last president to be a member of the Whig Party while in the White House and the last to be neither a Democrat or a Republican. A former member of the House of Representatives, Fillmore was elected vice president in 1848 and succeeded to the presidency when Zachary Taylor died in 1850. Fillmore was instrumental in passing the Compromise Act of 1850 which led to a brief truce in the battle over the expansion of slavery.

"Brief truce” indeed.

He also later ran for president as a member of the Know Nothing Party.

Fillmore is now mostly a Jeopardy question: Who was the one-term 13^th president? Here’s a hint: There is a comic strip about a duck named for him.

Not surprisingly, there is also a comic strip named “Garfield” that features a misbehaving cat. Baby Boomers’ kids had Garfield stuffed animals.

You can look it up.

In Denver, Fillmore is situated between Detroit and Milwaukee streets. We rented a typical Denver bungalow brick house with a porch and a swastika on the chimney. I walked to the branch library and found that this swastika stood for auspiciousness and good luck until the 1930s when the Nazis hijacked it.  

A writing colleague lived in our basement and another writer friend and his girlfriend lived in the big corner house on the next block. Fillmore was a friend to writers if only for a short time.

Now, Garfield. It was named in the 1880s. The street runs north and south and dead-ends on the north at the old City Park Golf Course and on the south at City Park. After Fillmore, Chris and I lived in a walk-up apartment on Cook Street that was so close to the Denver Zoo that we could hear peacocks screeching at all hours. Garfield was a few blocks east as you walked to Colorado Boulevard.

The unforgettable thing that happened to us on Cook Street was the Christmas blizzard of December 1982 that buried us in three feet of snow for a week. The infamous event in the neighborhood was the assassination of radio talk-show host Alan Berg in June 1984, by The Order Neo-Nazi gang. He was at 14^th and Adams, another street named for a president, actually two of them. They were not assassinated. They are not forgotten.

I have a library of presidential books willed to me by my father. No Garfield or Fillmore volumes in the collection. I have an original copy of Mark Twain’s hardcover bio of Ulysses S. Grant, known as one of the best memoirs in presidential history. I also have a trade paperback of it. Several other Grant bios.

We bought our first house in 1985 on South Grant Street in Platt Park in Denver. The next street over was Sherman. We all know the origins of those names. Street names you won’t find anywhere in the South. Our bungalow-style house was built in 1909 and needed work. Our son Kevin was born there. Neighbors were nice. We let them rent our two-car garage for their woodworking business which is how we got our living room furniture that we no longer have. I walked to work at Gates Rubber Company. I came home, got on my running clothes, and jogged to Wash Park where every Yuppie jogged after work. 

My mother grew up in the Wash Park neighborhood. Wash, of course, is short for Washington, our first president. In the 1920s, the resurgent KKK once burned crosses in this Irish-Catholic neighborhood. Public school kids used to harass my mom and sister when they walked home from St. Francis. Mom said that was the first time she was called a redneck. Their father, my grandfather, was an Irish immigrant whose neck had been burned many times. The streetcar ran nearby. Some of the original houses have been “scraped off” and now are monstrous million-dollar-plus townhomes.

I looked to see if there were any streets named for Garfield in my Florida county. Garfield Avenue runs through Deland, not far from Stetson University and the historic downtown. There is a house like ours for sale on S. Garfield.

Every day and everywhere, we live with ghosts.

Ann Patchett pulls me into the lives of "The Dutch House"

Ann Patchett's novel "The Dutch House" was a finalist for the 2020 Pulitzer Prize in Fiction. First place went to Colson Whitehead's "The Nickel Boys." I have yet to read Whitehead's novel but did read his amazing "The Underground Railroad." 

"The Dutch House" was my first Patchett novel. I don't know what took me so long. She's an amazing writer and owner of Parnassus Books in Nashville. Novelist and bookstore owner -- two full-time jobs. I read Patchett's novel via Kindle from Amazon as I require large-print books or enlargeable print e-books for my clunky eyesight. In the future, I will acquire my print books at indies such as Parnassus. I can get e-books at Libby and a large assortment of large-print books at the Ormond Beach Public Library. It's crucial in these dark times to keep alive the light of good literature and the nonprofit literary world. The fact that Tom Hanks narrates the "The Dutch House" audiobook is enough for me to get it just to hear what Hanks does to the first-person voice of the narrator.

"The Dutch House" follows the lives of a family and their house from the title. The house was built by a Dutch family in Elkins Park just north of Philadelphia. It's ornate and weird, inhabited by others after the aging Dutch wife died with no heirs. Buyer was Cyril Conroy, a World War II veteran and man of seemingly modest means. He loves the place. His young wife hates it. And his children, Maeve and Danny, grow up obsessed with it after their father's second wife throws them out. The tale is told by Danny.

It has a Dickensian flavor to it. Both the house and the characters loom large. A  bit like the painting of Maeve on the cover of the book's first edition (painting by Noah Saterstrom). The setting isn't the gritty hovels of 1840s London but the polite environs of  Philadelphia and New York City. I was caught up in their lives and was heartbroken at the end. I loved the characters so much I didn't want to see them go. That takes skill, bringing a cast to life so we are bereft when they exit the final page. I don't want a sequel but do want them to hang around for a spell like the ghosts who inhabit the house. 

The book ends with the lingering feeling that we all live parallel lives in the houses we have inhabited. How many times have you driven by "the old place" and been hit with a sense of longing?

That's "The Dutch House." 

One final note: I downloaded a "Kindle Unlimited" post-apocalyptic novel to read following Padgett. I read all kinds of books. But this one was all action and style. I won't name the book because it's a book and there's a writer who worked hard on it and I don't want to hurt feelings. I've written many novels, all unpublished, and it is a lot of work. So, as I cast around for my next read, I won't settle. 

John Fabian Witt’s new book asks if the American Experiment can be saved

Beginning Oct. 16, I will be reading John Fabian Witt’s book “The Radical Fund: How a Band of Visionaries and a Million Dollars Upended America.” I ordered the book after reading his guest essay in Monday’s New York Times, “How to Save the American Experiment.” The graphics caught my eye, a drawing of a big red hand pushing down on a platform and a group of people pushing from below. The Big Red Hand looked like it belonged to a marble statue or a giant, ponderous and huge. During other times, the resisters might be labeled “the people” or “the masses,” The Masses being one of the leftist mags of the 19-teens (later New Masses).

In any case, Witt’s essay grabbed my attention. How do we save the American experiment? I’ve been asking that very question since Trump took office for the second time. I have good days and bad. This essay gave me some hope.

Witt captured me when he talked about how a messy war and a pandemic bred a decade of strife that ended in a failed economy and then to a surprising resurgence.

Yes, the 1920s. A time of race riots and red-baiting and the Insurrection Act. Unions pushed workers to organize and the workers protested and were clubbed by guys that acted a lot like 2025 ICE Storm Troopers.

Hard times followed by harder times followed by a global war that birthed the U.S. as a global power. Until it lost its way.

I am obsessed with the 1920s. I just finished writing a historical novel set in 1919 Colorado. It will soon be published by Michigan’s Ridgeway Press. Its characters come to Colorado to start anew after war and sickness and failed dreams. They come to reinvent themselves. Colorado, Denver in particular, has always been a place for people to find themselves. Find gold, too, whether it be the actual metal or penny stocks or pot farms or the fresh powder of mountain ski slopes. As a native Denverite, I admire the magic but know the shortcomings. Historians such as the late David Halaas and Tom Noel have helped me delve into the past. I was a childhood fan of the Denver Public Library and spent many adult years in the Denver History Museum and the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. A wonderful place. I don’t live there any more. Why? I’m, an American. I move on. It’s what we do. I’m now back to Florida. As you know from late-night comedians, Florida has its own problems.

Witt’s message is not so much “move on” but dig in, into those entities that make a difference. He writes about Charles Garland, a millionaire who used his fortune to fund the American Fund for Public Service or the Garland Fund. It was overseen by muckraking writer Upton Sinclair and ACLU founder Roger Baldwin. They funded entities that pushed for civil rights, a living wage, and, in the 1930s, Social Security. Woodrow Wilson’s presidency petered out and led to the totalitarian tendencies of Harding and then to rich-boy Democrat Roosevelt who surprised us all, both hard-right Wyoming ranchers and big-city liberal labor agitators.

America, the Arsenal of Democracy, helped win the war and reaped the fruits of its labor and good fortune to bring prosperity in the 1950s and its most annoying demographic cohort, the Boomers. Say what you will about us but we helped the good times roll and now, well, we face the same political shitstorm as our offspring.

So, I write scathing letters that seem to fall on deaf ears. I support organizations such as the ACLU and the Florida Democrats and Wikipedia which is now under attack by the MAGA crowd. I support the independent WyoFile in Wyoming and the Independent Florida Alligator at UF, my alma mater. They are all under attack and need us. Protests are great but pointless if you don’t act and then vote in 2026 and 2028.

As the actor astronauts in “Galaxy Quest say: “Never give up…and never surrender.”

Author Michael Connelly delves into Florida experience for next streaming series

Michael Connelly, best-selling author and UF and Independent Florida Alligator alum is now writing about his days as a reporter in Daytona Beach in the 1980s. He’s also writing about his time covering crime in Fort Lauderdale which includes forays into the South Florida cocaine wars.

I met Connelly in the first part of this century at the Los Angeles Times Book Festival. I came to town for the Wyoming Arts Council to meet with colleagues at WESTAF, our regional arts organization. Now Creative West, it keeps track of the MAGA attacks on the arts funding world through its Action Center. 

I waited in a long line to meet Connelly at the L.A. Bookfest at UCLA and he signed two books because I wore my Gators cap. The Gator connection led him to take a book tour detour to Wyoming a few years later and many fans turned out.

The first Connelly novel I read was "The Poet" (1996) because it was a mystery about poetry (I thought) and it's set among the two Denver newspapers I once worked for. From 1978-82, I was writing in-depth articles about prep football, college hockey, and the Coors Classic cycling race. After that, I was managing editor and columnist for Up the Creek weekly which had its origins covering rec softball leagues and wet T-shirt contests at Glendale singles bars. I still have clips if you’re looking for something to read about the halcyon days of the 80s.  

In The Poet, Jack McEvoy is a crime reporter for The Rocky. When his twin brother Sean, a Denver homicide detective, is murdered. McEvoy pursues the story. He finds  his brother’s murder was staged, and uncovers a pedophile ring which leads to other murders committee by a serial killer known as The Poet because he features Poe in his killings. I was impressed. I read more and now have quite a collection. The book won 1997 awards from the Mystery Writers of America and the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. 

When I moved to Denver in 1978, the RMN and Post were battling for readers. The Post won the fight.  

When I met Connelly in L.A., I asked if he ever made it to Wyoming. His answer, as I suspected, was no. I asked if he might take a 100-mile detour from his next Denver book stop if we could find funding for a presentation, reading, and book signing in Cheyenne, Wyoming’s oft-neglected capital city. He put me in touch with his agent and the YMCA Writers Voice chapter wrote a grant and brought him to town. An SRO crowd came to the Y’s meeting room where an arts exhibit arranged by my wife Chris was on display. A great time was had by all. Barnes & Noble sold a lot of books.

That meeting room is now forever empty. The Cheyenne Family YMCA closed its doors for good yesterday. No more swimming pool. No more creaky weight machines. No more Writers Voice.

I send whatever I can to arts organizations in Wyoming, Florida, and elsewhere. I will report on some of those entities in the coming months. The anti-arts savagery shown by Trump and his minions have taken a big bite out of the creative industry. Not surprising since arts and arts education were prime targets of Project 2025.

I hear from poet and performer M.L. Liebler in Detroit that “all of our programs getting money from the NEA has collapsed.” Medical research funding has also been hit: “All research on cancer has been halted.”

If androids dream of electric sheep, why are there no sheep in my dreams?

I discovered Philip K. Dick and his mind-blowing novels at just the right time. In November 1975 I was a non-trad student at the University of Florida. Non-trad because many in my 1969 high school graduating class had claimed their diplomas and were now looking for work in all the wrong places. Meanwhile, we laggards and slow-learners were on campus with a younger crowd and a passel of Vietnam veterans. And the Krishnas -- can't forget them and the Krishna lunch. 

I spent many of my waking hours at the library where I gobbled up novels I missed reading in high school and copies of Rolling Stone, Esquire, The New Yorker, and any other pub that featured great writers -- Hunter S. Thompson and Joe Eszterhas among them -- and Esquire carried Harry Crews' Grits column and its annual dubious achievement awards. I learned snark from the witty DA awards and writing through Crews in print and in person in his creative writing class. 

A profile of PK Dick arrived in the Nov. 6, 1975 Stone. Great graphics by G.K. Bellows showed the author, book in hand, with an alien invader coming through his window. The header: "The True Stories of Philip K. Dick: Burgling the most brilliant sci-fi mind on Earth -- it is Earth isn't it?" Paul Williams wrote the piece. Was this the same Paul Williams from TV and film? No, it was Paul Williams, founder of Crawdaddy, who RS called "the first rock critic" and who died in 2013. He also loved sci-fi.

So I had to look up the RS piece. I printed it out and the type was too small for these tired eyes. So I enlarged the e-piece and read the whole thing. I remembered most of it from '75. I found as many PK Dick books as I could, in libraries and second-hand bookstores, and wrapped "Ubik" and "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" into the folds of my brain that also held Shakespeare in Elizabethan English, Chaucer in Middle English, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge's dreamscapes, all from my UF classes. All in books. 

Williams notes in his final paragraph that some PK Dick movies were being discussed. "Blade Runner" came out in 1982, just a few weeks after PK Dick died. It blew our minds. It wasn't Dick's novel but it was beautiful. There now is a Director's Cut and a Final Cut as well as sequels. And many movies based on other novels. 

What is PK Dick thinking out in the Bardo? You may have to go to Colorado to get an inkling of that. Dick's ashes were interred in a Fort Morgan, Colo., cemetery next to the grave of his twin sister who died at six weeks. She is the basis of the "phantom twin," a recurrent theme of his. Fort Morgan was in the middle of the Dust Bowl in 1928 so I assumed the worst about the sister's fate. Go to Fort Morgan on a winter's day in January. Stand outside in the winter gales and think of the many things that could doom an infant in 1928-29. 

Dick, who lived most of his life in California, including mystical Marin County, is buried on the prairie. Only 112 miles from my one-time home of Cheyenne, Wyo., the setting of Hawthorne Abendsen, the author of "The Grasshopper Lies Heavy," an alternate history of World War II (the Allies win!) in "The Man in the High Castle." Dick had the mountains and prairie in his bones which made the Rocky Mountains the best place for the opposition to the Japanese and German conquerors on the coasts.

Dig up that '75 Stone article and find out about the author's situation in a tumultuous year, 1971. There's a mystery at the story's center: why did someone burgle Philip K. Dick's house in San Rafael, blow up his 1,100-pound asbestos-and-steel safe, home to his precious manuscripts, and flood the floor with water and asbestos? All sorts of wild things were going on in 1970s California. Dick posits possibilities and Williams follows leads to no avail. 

The answer is out there somewhere.

Emily Dickinson could not stop for death but could for poetry

How did the Dominican sisters think I could understand an Emily Dickinson poem, "I could not stop for death?"

Sister Miriam Catherine: What is this poem about Mr. Shay?

16-year-old Me: Death, sister.

Sr. MC: What about death?

Me: She could not stop for it.

Sr. MC: Anything else?

Me: There's a carriage.

Sr. MC: Are you a dunderhead, Mr. Shay?

Me: Yes, Sister. Please don't smite me.

There was no smiting on that day. 

I am now smitten with Ms. Dickinson's poetry. I did not, would not, could not understand its full meaning then. I was a kid. She began writing as a youngster but her lifetime of creativity was enormous and almost unknown at the time of her death.

I turn my attention to the poet who became "The Belle of Amherst" on stage but was anything but. Since her death in 1886, Dickinson's reputation has been battled over by family, friends, and biographers. Lyndall Gordon tried to make sense of it all in his biography, "Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family's Feuds." And Jerome Charyn writes of Dickinson in his 2010 W.W. Norton historical novel, "The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson." You guess that this is a different kind of look at a literary legend because the cover shows Dickinson's bloomers illuminated by candlelight under her hoop skirt.

I'm only through Charyn's first section but know this is a different look at an American poet who bored high schoolers and even college English majors. 

I now know that I didn't get it when I was young. Why does knowledge come so late in life? 

It's a dangerous time to be woke to literature. Liberal arts majors are being threatened in the U.S., maybe no more so than in Florida where I came of age as a writer. If I can identify a fellowship of dunderheads, it rests in the Florida governor's office. He aims to gut everything I treasure at the University of Florida: The College of Liberal Arts, English majors, arts programs, "wokeness" in general, and the Independent Florida Alligator. As a movie hero of mine once said, "This will not stand, man."

Back to Emily Dickinson. Charyn notes in his intro that he is obsessed with her poetry and has been for decades. His first sentence in the author's note: "She was the first poet I had ever read, and I was hooked and hypnotized from the start, because in her writing she broke every rule."

I returned to her poetry and I know what I was missing. I read and reread "I could not stop for death." I couldn't get enough. I went to the Emily Dickinson Museum web site. I read about her and more of her poetry. 

I laughed when I read this on the museum's online Q&A (thanks AI): 

"Q: Is Amherst close to Boston? A: No, Amherst is not close to Boston. It is located in the western part of Massachusetts, about a 90-minute drive from Boston, which is a significant distance for a quick trip. The two locations are in different regions of the state, with Amherst being further west in Pioneer Valley."

I laughed because when I lived in Boston 1972-73, my woman friend and I hitched regularly to Storrs, Conn., to see friends. The two of us had logged some 7,000 miles the summer of '72 by thumb, ending up in her hometown of Boston. My pal Tommy and I hitched from Boston to Putney, Vt., passing just minutes from Amherst, on our way to get high with friends among the colorful foliage. I spent my career driving Wyoming and Colorado. Significant distance, indeed.

I wish I had gone. I still could. For now, I will finish Charyn's novel and read more Dickinson. I live in memory and imagination. 

Read more about Dickinson's "Secret Life" in upcoming posts.

 

Why did Bernice bob her hair?

"Bernice Bobs Her Hair," F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story published in the May 1, 1920, issue of the Saturday Evening Post. It was his first story to receive national attention. (Thanks, Wikipedia, for the image. I  wear your [Edit] T-shirt when I'm editing.)

I lived in 1919 for five years. It was the mid-to-late twenty-teens and, physically, I was in Cheyenne, Wyoming, but my mind was in 1919 Denver. This is the year my grandparents migrated to Colorado. War puts people in motion and the Great War  did that. But other factors were at work. Young people were restless, as we were to see in 1920s literature. We have always been part of a moveable feast in this country. We value the ability to get up and move. No state border guards to show our papers to. No permission needed if we decide to quit our job and move cross-country to take another one. Relationships break and partners seek new pastures, new people to connect with. 

Some move for their health. That was never more true than in the 19-teens when the flu pandemic and tuberculosis caused many to get up and go. In John Green's book "Tuberculosis is Everything," we see the rise of TB sanitoria throughout the western U.S., land of clean air, dry climates, and expansive vistas. Some cities got their starts with TB, places like Pasadena, Calif., and Colorado Springs, Colo. Denver's air, when it wasn't choked by those winter air inversions and coal smoke, was pristine, just the thing for lungers, as TB patients were called and not in a nice way.

So I spent much of my 20-teens in the 19-teens. I suppose part of me will always be there. The novel that arose from the project, "Zeppelins over Denver," is nearing publication. I've written a follow-up since, this one set in 1922. And I am always at work writing stories and blogs. I've surpassed my 10,000 hours of creative practice. I'm a bit tired of practicing and want to get on my way to doing and finishing and enjoying. 

I'm still hooked on the era. My Millennial daughter Annie phoned yesterday. She was deciding on a haircut for a job interview. She talked about getting a bob. 

"Bernice bobbed her hair," I said. 

Annie didn't recognize the literary reference but suspected it. "OK, Dad, who's Bernice?" 

"From the F. Scott Fitzgerald short story, " 'Bernice Bobs Her Hair.' " 

"What happens, Dad. A sad ending, right?"

I had to think. "I don't remember. It's been awhile."

"It's not Gatsby-like, is it? Grim and filled with messages about a corrupt society?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that."

So I pulled up "Bernice Bobs Her Hair and Other Stories." I was about to send it to my Kindle when I came across an  audiobook version. I began listening to that, took a break for lunch, and when I returned, I found a "Bernice" graphic novel just released in 2024. The cover illustration intrigued me and I downloaded that. I stayed up late to read. Glad I did. My neighborhood is dark and quiet at midnight, as is my house. Peaceful. My laughs echoed down the hallway and might have reached my slumbering wife but she didn't mention it the next morning.

I did not remember the track of this story. I must have read it in grade school, junior high, high school. Now I do remember another notable story of that era, "Why I Live at the P.O." by Eudora Welty. Richard Connell's "The Most Dangerous Game" was an eye-opener. They all were in the same Catholic Church-approved collection as "A Bottle of Milk for Mother" by Nelson Algren and something by Hemingway probably one of the Nick Adams stories. I linger over those stories now. They are deep, wild, and funny, what I missed out on as a teen.

I loved "Bernice Bobs Her Hair." I had so much fun with the graphic novel adapted and illustrated by John Paizs and published by Graphic Publications. The story was first published in May 1920 in the Saturday Evening Post. Its popularity cased the Post to publish another Bernice Story in November that included a color illustration of Bernice. Fitzgerald was paid real money by the Post and it helped launch his career. In 1920, writers earned a living by writing stories for popular magazines. This has not been true during my time as a writer. 

Go read "Bernice." A pleasant journey during troubled times.

There is a world of difference between a 125,000-word novel and a flash of 50 words

Spending my days and nights with a close reading of the formatted text for my historical novel, "Zeppelins over Denver." Much of my adult life was spent writing and editing so this is just another in a long line of projects. But, the process is different with a 125,000-word novel. If that seems like a lot of words, it is. But they were composed one sentence, one paragraph, one page at a time. I write and revise short stories, which is a slightly different task. A short story may be 5,000 words. In 2025, flash fiction has taken over the litmags and I am pleased that I've publish a few in print mags and online. It's a neat exercise to write a story that's a page long and not pages. Some very talented writers taught me the way. The always-busy Meg Pokrass has shown me and others the way. I recently had a piece rejected by 50-Word-Story that I thought was pretty good for a 50-word-story. I had revised it from a 250-word story but maybe that was the problem. Sometimes a 250-word story just wants what it wants. 

Back to the novel. The story must be compelling and the characters memorable. The writing must be crisp. And very importantly, the text must be error-free. This is the challenge with a 125,000 word novel in this day of self-publishing. Traditional publishers used to employ editors and fact-checkers. They still do, I suppose, but I don't know for sure because I've never been published by one. I did have a st6oory reprinted in a Coffee House Press anthology, "Working Words: Punching the Clock and Kicking out the Jams." ML Liebler was the editor. I've also had a creative nonfiction piece published in a Norton anthology, "In Short: A Collection of Brief Creative Nonfiction." But my historical novel is not being published by a traditional press. Thus, the work must be done by the writer. That takes time and attention to detail, lots and lots of details. Since my book is historical fiction, this writer must pay attention to period detail in the case of 1919 Colorado. What did people wear and how did they speak? What models of automobiles were on the road? What was it like to fly a biplane? Many questions that I try to answer as best as I can. 

An editor must pay attention to detail. But it is inevitable that mistakes will slip in. One must forgive oneself in the end. Nobody's perfect. We try to be. AI is available. My MSN Word keeps bugging me about the CoPilot AI program. No thanks, I keep saying. Will that ever become a necessity in the publishing world? My daughter uses ChatGPT when writing her college papers. The professor says it is OK as long as it is noted. Good grief. I might have used it when tasked to compare and contrast the Early and Late English Romantic Poets. In fact, I may just go to CoPilot and propose this very topic, see what the bits-and-bytes say. It might be fun. 

Not sure how the late Dr. Alistair Duckworth might respond. 

Oh yes I do: Off with his head!

In Percival Everett’s historical novel “James,” the whole world relies on the naming of names

I spent the past couple weeks with James. I knew him in my youth as Jim, Nigger Jim, from Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn.” On the eve of the Civil War, Jim and Huck go on a spree down the Mississippi. In Percival Everett’s novel, “James,” Huck’s name remains the same while Nigger Jim becomes Jim and then, at long last, becomes James. No accident that these are the last lines of the book:

“And who are you?”

“I am James.”

“James what?”

“Just James.”

I guess that I should issue a spoiler alert, that the main character is speaking at the end of the novel. But you don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. You don’t even know if it’s not an imagined scene, something from the always creative mind of Everett. So I’ll leave it at that.

James is a slave on a journey, sometimes with his white pal Huck and sometimes not as he and Huck get separated. We revisit a few of Twain’s characters, the Duke and the Dauphin among them (I’m thinking of you Jason Burge, The One True Dauphin of Mississippi) and others are new creations.

But as the Kindle pages turned, I was less interested in Everett’s Twain trail as I was by what Everett was doing with his own creation. It’s crystal clear early on when James is still in Hannibal talking to other slaves about proper diction. And it’s hilarious. Slaves know how to speak white man’s English (I would say proper English but this is the South) but they also need to master slave’s English. A hilarious scene, one that caused me raucous laughs that awoke the family. Slaves must dumb down their language to make sure white people are not offended by the possibility of a smart Negro. Even language is a slaveholder’s weapon. That scene really nails down what’s at stake in “James.” If you are a slave, everything you do must conform to the white man’s image of you and the owner’s sense of mastery over you. To challenge that leads to death.

As a slave, James sneaks into Judge Thatcher’s study to read. He knows Voltaire's "Candide" and John Locke even appears to James on the trail for verbal sparring matches. This journey is so much fun that you almost forget the stakes. But not quite. As I read, I thought deeply about slavery and its continuing hold on America. We are in the midst of a fascist coup by the same white men who gave us slavery and the KKK and Auschwitz. Massa Ron DeSantis gloats over his concentration camp in the Glades and plans to open more. Trump’s White Nationalist Stephen Miller plots the creation of a white nation, one without those pesky people of color.

But back to the book. It’s clear why it won the National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize. A work of genius. I cringed in spots but I fear that not cringing would make me unrecognizable to me and to James, Just James.

A couple things about Everett. He grew up in South Carolina, educated in Florida and Rhode Island, but went West as soon as he could, as the saying goes. He spends time and writes about the West of Wyoming and New Mexico. I look forward to reading “Walk Me to the Distance” and “God’s Country.” There’s a funny Twain quote that might have come from Everett. “I’ve only been as far West as California.” It sounds like Twain but I can’t find confirmation that he said it. He traveled in what we know as the real West: Wyoming, New Mexico, Nevada, the gold-mining fields of California. But the quote has been used sarcastically by those in the inner West who say “California ain’t West.” Twain knew it. As you see in Everett’s books, he does too.

In the “James” acknowledgements, Everett writes this:

“Finally, a nod to Mark Twain. His humor and his humanity affected me long before I became a writer. Heaven for the climate; hell for my long-awaited lunch with Mark Twain.”

Always read the acknowledgements. You find gold nuggets there.

Post #4,000

Remember all those great songs about getting a letter, or not getting one?

The Letter

Wait a Minute Mr. Postman 

Return to Sender 

P.S. I Love You

Take a Letter, Maria

A Dear John Letter

Just a few of the pop songs about the good and bad of mail. Youthful memories, from a time when getting a letter meant getting A LETTER. Might be good news such as a letter from an old friend, birthday card from grandpa, or fan mail from some flounder, or not-so-good, say a missive from Selective Service, the IRS, a fed-up girlfriend. 

And yes, this is grousing from a Baby Boomer. Mail has lost its cachet. But mail still gets delivered, or not, depending on who's doing the delivery. Our postal delivery in Ormond Station has been dismal. Mail sent to us in June that was supposed to be forwarded to our new address was never forwarded. I got a call from my former employer in Wyoming that asked for my new address. She said mail sent to our address on Ocean Shore Drive was not forwarded to Melogold Drive but just returned to sender, as in the song. Somehow it missed a step. We put in a forwarding request before we moved. I dialed in my new address to address change sites for credit cards, car payments, payees like Dell and Lowes, and often it responded that there is no address. It was odd, since I was living in this new address and as far as I knew, it existed as did my wife and I. Now, houses in our Groveside neighborhood were still getting their finishing touches and some had yet to sell, but it seems like the P.O., a very large and respected organization, would have the Internet, GPS, drones, even printed maps at its disposal, the combined knowledge of thousands of postpersons, and they could figure this out. But they did not.

I have great memories of the mailman, as that person was known in my youth. They walked routes in those days. They had tales of ferocious dogs and snarling customers. They told of days cold enough to freeze your keisters and hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. 

Our woman delivery person in Cheyenne was the friendliest person I know, always with a greeting and mail that might mean something or might mean nothing. She wore arctic gear in January and plowed through snow-packed roads in those funny little vehicles. My brother Tim delivered the mail in Daytona Beach until a brain tumor took hold. I shared cardiac rehab with a woman younger than me that sometimes arrived at rehab in her uniform. One day, both of us on treadmills, chatting, she had a follow-up heart attack and quick response by rehab nurses brought her back. 

The U.S. Mail meant something. Lots of great songs. The Beatles, of course, and Elvis. 

I was 16 when "The Letter" by the Box Tops climbed the charts to number one. I viewed it on YouTube and I would post a link here but I never know if it will work down the line. Go watch it. The band members look high. A flashback to 1967. Vocalist was the great Alex Chilton. Joe Cocker had a big hit with it too. 

"A Dear John Letter" was a hit in 1953 by Ferlin Husky and Jean Shepard. In it, a young woman writes to her boyfriend under fire in Korea that she is dumping him for his brother. I'd like to think the song spawned the term we use now, but I've heard World War 2 soldiers talk about Dear John letters. Maybe it goes back even farther than that. What say, history buffs?

"Old Girls and Palm Trees" by Meg Pokrass is a dream

I am reviewing a new book today but first wanted to outline the pleasures and dangers of late-night reading on the Fourth of July weekend.

I've read about the gender gap among White American Male Literary Fiction Writers, notably novelists. Upstarts such as Salinger, Hemingway, and Updike seem to be a vanishing breed. Guys whom you can't wait to read. Guys that hog the bestseller charts. 

I made the mistake of choosing Marc Tracy's July 3 New York Times article for late-night reading. My wife Chris was asleep, or trying to get to sleep as fireworks exploded around us in Ormond Beach suburbia. A few hours earlier we'd joined friends for dinner at a Flagler Beach bistro with a view of the rickety old pier under reconstruction. Made me wonder about hurricane season. The sky burned red as we drove west toward home. Should have taken that as an omen.

"The Death and Life of the Straight White Man's Novel" was compelling reading. I am an old straight white man fiction writer who has published one story collection and written two as-yet-unpublished novels. I've published a number of short stories and a smattering of flash fiction and prose poetry. I left the corporate world to get my M.F.A. in creative writing. I wrote and raised a family while working full-time as an arts administrator, a rapidly dissolving field thanks to MAGA. Agents and editors will admit over late-night beers at writers' conferences that white guys aren't getting published because it's a new world out there, a new multigenerational, multiethnic, gender-neutral world out there. And young white guys are spending their 10,000 hours gaming and not sitting alone in a cafe populating their journals with trenchant observations. So suck it up, buttercup (what is a buttercup anyway? Must Google it). 

I am including a photo of a buttercup.

This buttercup looks happy. Or surprised. Or maybe it's surrendering. They can be poisonous and in the South they are seen as an invasive species. On the plus side, kids like to hold the flower up to their chins and the reflective petals turn skin the color of butter. Like butter!

Since I'm a buttercup, I ordered a nifty little chapbook by Meg Pokrass, "Old Girls and Palm Trees." Published by Bamboo Dart Press, a nifty little outfit with offices in Claremont, Calif. It's illustrated by artist Cooper Renner, who has a playful style. I tackled this book late at night and it pleased me. Meg is a writer friend I met a dozen years ago on Facebook who wasn't afraid to put her flash fiction on display for all the e-world to see. She's from California but now lives in Scotland. Many writers, me included, were a bit concerned about placing our work on social media. Into what dark and dreary and corporate place will it end up? Any Tom or Dick, Harry or Sally, can scoop it up and claim it as their own. That occurred to Meg but didn't faze her, probably because she is represented by crackerjack agent Peg Mokrass who sports huge eyeglasses and looks a bit like Meg. So here it is, years later, and Meg had published some 900 pieces in various mags and online sites. And she's published eight flash collections and two novellas. I brought her to Casper, Wyoming, in September 2014, as a presenter at the Equality State Book Festival.  

The book is delightful. Can a SWMW say delightful? I await your response.

Meg's book features flash pieces about her imagined life with an old friend in California. In the opening piece, she imagines this old friend behind her, "a friend who had become a shadow that needed to be sewn back on." I had to stop there because this is a scene from the black-and-white "Peter Pan" I grew up on. Peter loses his/her/their shadow and has to sew it back on. I watched my own shadow for weeks after that, afraid if it came off I wouldn't know how to sew it back on. I close my eyes and remember that feeling. I'm scared, but also aware that my shadow is a living thing with its own life. It may have turned me to writing, as my Mom read Peter Pan to us after and I saw that words were kind of like a shadow of life, that the writer has thoughts and it travels down the arm for finger to make imprints on the page. Did I think that at five? No, I am imagining that now. Something magical was going on, I knew that much. Somehow I understood that knowing how to read those shadow words could open up new worlds to me. I was a nuisance. I read everything: cereal boxes, candy wrappers, billboards, and eventually magazines and books. I am still a nuisance; any printed matter within reach is not safe. I can read upside-down like a noir detective. So much joy and heartache comes from reading and I wouldn't have it any other way.

There is joy and heartache on the pages of "Old Girls and Palm Trees." It is a dream, basically, and dreamily written. 

About the book: It's a chapbook, 6.5 x 6.5 inches. Well constructed, with a sturdy coated cover, and easy to carry on the Metro or to the beach (as we retirees do) in your E-Cycle or E-Tricycle basket. Nice gifts at $10.99. E-book version available but that kind of defeats the idea of having a nice little chapbook to carry around. As I mentioned, art is by Cooper Renner. Cover art by Meg and Dennis Callaci. 

Support small presses: www.bamboodartpress.com

A Writer Orders a Birthday Cake

She’s pretty but doesn’t know it yet or maybe she does, maybe her new spouse told her that this morning before she hustled off to a new job. But she’s still in college, I think, summer break from FSU, a job making and decorating cakes. Could be worse, with her skin, working out in the Florida sun in June. A head taller than the slight Indian woman in a sari she helps. The woman wants a birthday greeting on a whipped cream cake. She spells out her granddaughter’s name and the clerk writes it down, says that’s a pretty name and then admires the women’s shiny hoop bracelets. The clerk tries to write on whipped cream but it’s not going well and she summons the head baker, a white-clad bearded guy old enough to be her father. I think they would like to tell the customer that she might try another cake, you know, one of those solid bar cakes or maybe a sheet cake with buttercream frosting, the ones you can write on. They come up with a solution, placing a plastic oval over the cake and writing on that. A bald Indian man rolls by on his store scooter that matches the one I ride on. He speaks brusquely and then rolls past the doughnuts and disappears down an aisle. Minutes later he returns but the woman from India is patient and keeps at it. He rolls away again. The Indian man is about my age, maybe even younger. I want to be a watcher at the counter, quiet, as I wait to order my cake. The woman customer turns to me. She is beautiful and tells me that it’s her granddaughter’s birthday and she is 10. Happy birthday to her, I say, and she smiles. The baker and the clerk finish their work and I draw close to admire it. Pink greeting on clear plastic over a white cake. High art. She turns and leaves. I order a sheet cake for my siblings’ birthday. A quarter sheet? Enough for 25? The clerk isn’t sure, looks for the baker and he’s in the back and she fetches a cake from the cooler and shows it to me. I know it is not the size I want and I think she knows it too but then consults with the baker and he comes out and tells me it feeds 20 when you cut 2-inch-by-2-inch pieces. If it’s not enough, you can grab some of our cupcakes. He points to a table piled high with them. I like that solution. I order my cake, the clerk writes down the birthday greeting, and I leave them for the day, a day that will lead to other days and other stories. I pass the Indian woman on the cereal aisle. She smiles, raises the cake in a salute, and peers down the rows of Cheerios and Fruity Pebbles, looking for the bald man in the scooter.

"In My Room:" Brian Wilson spent most of his time looking out his bedroom window

Rob Tannenbaum wrote June 12 in the New York Times:

In songs like “Surfin’ U.S.A.,” “California Girls” and “Good Vibrations,” Wilson did as much as anyone to depict Los Angeles and California as a land of bikinis and warm, honey-colored sunsets. The songs he wrote about the West Coast, he said in “I Am Brian Wilson: A Memoir,” were “more about the idea of going in the ocean than they were about actually going in the ocean.” Wilson didn’t like waves, but realized how they could serve as a metaphor for life.

Wilson tried surfing once and his board conked him on the head. He liked looking out windows at other people surfing and driving hot rods. Tannenbaum went on:

The songs, he added, tell stories about teenagers. 'We base them on activities of healthy California kids who like to surf, hot rod, and engage in other outdoor fun.' He saw these activities the same way he saw the ocean — through a window.

This caught my attention because it says a lot of what writers do: watching activities through their window of imagination and not actually taking part in that activity. As Wilson wrote ("In My Room") he spent a lot of time in his room imagining what was happening outside.

I grew up surfing in Daytona Beach, Florida. I surfed for five years, 13-18-years-old. I gave it up the summer of 1969. My surfboard, a Greg Noll Bug, was stolen out of my family's garage. It was the last board I owned and the only short board. I also sold my beat-up old car that summer as freshmen weren't allowed to have cars on campus. Our house burned down, destroying the kitchen, my school clothes, and my father's Barracuda, 'Cuda as the cool kids called it. My eight brothers and sisters and my parents survived and we moved to cramped motel rooms. The End Times were coming, or so it seemed. I began to have dark thoughts, imagined a black ball rotating in my chest. My girlfriend was pretty and nice but she was going off to the state school and I was going to another state's school 400 miles away. I was slated to be a NROTC midshipman and I had no idea why except the Navy agreed to pay my way if I agreed to get ship-shape and squared-away which I failed at miserably.

Depression came to call. I returned home to my beach town, lied in bed, listening to surf sounds drifting up from the beach and rolling through my jalousie windows.

Brian Wilson suffered with crippling depression. I know how that feels. Wilson laid in bed and looked through windows and saw different lives. His head was populated with beaches and endless streets to race cars and meet girls. His head and heart were also populated with monsters and he didn't really write about them. He looked out windows and saw himself. 

When he was 20, Canadian Steven Page wrote the song "Brian Wilson" which was later recorded by his band, Barenaked Ladies. When he heard it, Wilson wrote his own version. But lyrics in the original go like this:

So I’m lyin’ here 

Just starin’ at the ceiling tiles

And I’m thinkin’ about

What to think about

Just listenin’ and relistenin’

To smiley smile

And I’m wonderin’ if this is

Some kind of creative drought because

I’m lyin’ in bed

Just like Brian Wilson did

Well I’m

I’m lyin’ in bed, just like Brian Wilson did, oh

So,

If everybody had an ocean

Across the USA

Everybody'd be surfin'

In Cal-if-or-ni-a

Or lyin' in bed, just like Brian Wilson did.

 R.I.P. Brian.

Word Back: Let’s Make America Again Again

Again.

Make America Great Again

I’ve been exploring this phrase as it has taken over conversations, rallies, bots, blather, mind games, etc.

It’s a work of genius, really. It gets everyone on the same page. It does, if you are a true believer in Trumpism. That’s what 70-some million people voted for, right? America is no longer great so we needed to fix it. And we will put in place a supervisor who really has never done anything I could call great. But let’s pretend he has and see what magic time in our recent history he wants to return to, revisit, make great again.

So many T voters were elderly as am I. They remember a time when a middle-class suburban lifestyle ruled lives and airwaves. Our Southwest Denver neighborhood was mostly White Anglo-Saxon Protestant or WASP. Not the kind of WASP who grew up in suburban New York City or Chicago. Our Dads made less money than yours. I say Dads because that’s who left the house to work.

Mom was a housewife or householder – she held the place together. Dad was a contract something-or-other for the Martin Company in Lakewood. I never really know what Dad did for a living. Martin eventually merged with American-Marietta and then Lockheed to become part of aerospace and defense work. Martin got his start building airplanes and so did Lockheed. Martin ranked 14^th among defense contractors and built the B-26 Marauder bomber and the B-29 Superfortress that dropped The Big Ones on Japan. Lockheed was most famous for building the P-38 Lightning, the twin-tailed warplane that all of us kids bought in model kits.

We knew our warplanes in the fifties. We were fed by movies, TV,  and comic books. We heard some stories from our fathers but nothing of great import because that’s the way it was. Dad was an infantryman, a Signal Corps radioman who marched through Europe with the rest of the grunts. His unit was lost in the Ardennes during the Bulge but eventually made it back to American lines. I wondered what it was like, being lost in a war zone, but he never elaborated on it. I saw the fellow vets huddled around the patio bar at or the grill during parties and knew they were telling war stories but we were never invited in. So we had to read about them in books or imagine them.

Most of the neighbor men were soldiers and sailors. No fighter pilots on our street and we would have known if there were any. The dad of the kid next door was a plumber. The kid’s name was John and last name Lennon. He went on to become famous as one of the Beatles. Just kidding. I don’t know what happened to him. On our other side lived an older childless couple. They were nice enough. What I wonder about is what they thought about living next to us, one of the largest families on the street. We were a rowdy bunch. Loud. They complained when Dad installed a set of monkey bars in the backyard. It was perilously close to the older neighbors’ fence and it apparently gave them nightmares about one of us swinging wildly on the bars and breaking our backs on their fence. Looking back, we think it hilarious but, older now, we have our own nightmares about injured children and grandchildren.

The man who lived behind us was an army mess sergeant. An FBI agent lived down the street. Across from, him was the only Hispanic family on the block and Catholics like us. One of the boys was the age of me and my brother and we rode bikes together. He took a spill and was impaled by his handlebars. They rushed him to the hospital. When he reappeared, he showed us his stitches and said his spleen was removed. A spleen? Who knew we had one?

We rode our bikes to Bear Creek and played war. Firecracker wars! No danger there. The creek tumbled from the high peaks but was tame by the time it reached the flatlands. Our father once pole-vaulted across the creek and we thought it amazing. Dad showed us how to skip rocks. We rode our bikes down steep hills and crashed in a cloud of dust and rocks. We explored the mall digs, daring each other to ride down into the holes.

We walked to school four blocks away. It was rare, even when it snowed, to see Moms bundle the kids into station wagons and shuttle them to school. I drive past my local elementary school at the end of the day and there is a traffic jam of SUVs idling on the street. Maybe that’s what MAGA people want? Make schools close enough to walk to! Well, that would mean more schools and more taxes to pay for them and the school library might have a book about two dads or a boy who wants to be a girl and all hell would break loose at PTA meetings.

Why can’t we go back to the days of PTA meetings where the only squabble was how many cakes to bake for the Halloween Walk? You remember that, right? Kind of like musical chairs but if you win you get to take a cake home and hope you are there early enough, dressed in your Popeye costume, to win a chocolate one and not one of those yucky coconut ones. A coconut cake! That mom must be a commie!

Ah, those good ol’ days.

Note to my son: Thank you for sending me the book “Dad, I Want to Hear Your Story: A Father’s Guided Journal to Share His Life and Love.” I will fill out some of the pages but most memories can be found on these pages which I’ve been keeping for 20 years. Most stories are true, although I have been known to take liberties. If I still covered high school sports for A Major Metropolitan Newspaper, I would be much more careful in my reporting. I would take time for better fact-checking and less snark. Enjoy!