The End Of Time Bar - A Poem...

I’m coming down to the end of time bar

To shout out a lesson to anyone who’ll hear

And drown in the smallest glass I can find

My reflection giving me the finger of fate

But maybe I can’t get my legs to work

And maybe I can’t get my car to start

And maybe I can’t get my door knob to turn

The way it needs to turn so I can get away from it

The cold winter air like daggers on my skin

My eyes freeze over like they do

So I shuffle with my arms outstretched

Searching blind for a solid thing to take me to you

Headlights firing out their beams like bullet guns

Damage us in ways we’re never sure

But maybe it’s the sickness lying waiting for a chance

Survival of the miniscule un-tellers of the tales

I see the blurred out forms that huddle in the dark

They’re sharing warmth and odorous experiences now

Of being told they can’t be here or there or anywhere

Because they lost the fight or became unwilling

Somewhere between propulsion and direction

I discover a view of things previously unseen

Not meant for human eyes and this I have not ruined

As humanity was never my strong suit anyhow

When I was small I’d pretend to sleep wherever I was sat

In hopes that Dad would carry me to bed and kiss my eyes

A memory that comes as I am loaded in the back

Was warmer then than I am warm today... much more to warm

And I don’t think the end is near at least from the events of today

But maybe I’m illiterate to writing on the wall

And grasping always grasping with a hopefulness and grace

That the things that were will come again just better in the now

The Weight Of The World

Every morning, I drop my two oldest sons off at school.  Each day there is the same drama – they are slow to get ready and out the door, they complain of the cold, they gripe about the size of my truck and its narrow bench seat and how squished they are and having to hold their heavy book bags on their laps…

Once they settle in, though, the short ten-minute ride to school is occasionally the highlight of my day.  I listen as my boys make inappropriate jokes and comments.  I marvel at the sharp observations they make about the people and things they see and how the things I know as truth are filtered through their new eyes. 
Today I had the radio on in the background.  I’m not sure if it was NPR or some AM news show, but there was talking so… one or the other.  I was spacing out in my driving fog, when my oldest son asked me “Dad? How did they weigh the whole Earth?”

“What?”

”The guy on the radio just said how much the Earth weighs and I don’t know how they did it.”
At first I started thinking about the logistics of such an endeavor: Would you use some sort of hoist?  Where would you put the straps so as to minimize loss of life and property damage?  Would some giant simply pinch our little blue planet and set it down on a scale?

My head was spinning now… If the Earth was brought into a room where it had external weight, wouldn’t the oceans drain all over the floor?  Wouldn’t the people fall off?

Holy shit – wait a second: “weight” is a function of the amount of gravity the celestial object on which you are standing is creating.  Do you calculate the weight of the Earth by the estimated gravity of a hypothetical planet large enough to house beings capable of performing this exercise in measurement?  Because you can’t use the Earth’s own gravity, right?  You couldn’t put a scale on another planet the size of Earth and set the Earth on it.  And you can’t just measure a planet and base its weight on its own gravitational rate.  That would be like trying to put a ruler on someone’s forehead to calculate how intelligent they are.  Or using waist size as an estimate on a person’s capacity for empathy.
 
“They’re scientists,” I answered my son. “They have ways of doing these things.  They probably used a computer model.”

We pulled into the school parking lot.  My youngest son struggled to release his seatbelt and open my heavy truck door.  Then, with a quick “I love you guys. Have a great day!” they got out and stepped into the stream of children headed in for a day of learning a few new things.

Today’s Shower Idea

I do my best thinking in the shower. I guess it’s that one moment during the day I am truly free to think without even the smallest distraction. The problem is, the shower is also the one place I have no method of capturing any passing glimmers of brilliance. I can’t begin to tell you of all the beginnings of great pieces of music or potential epic novels that have circled down my drain over the years. But today’s post isn’t about thinking in the shower – rather about a thought I had today and actually took the time to jot down for later use.

Today I read an article about a space phenomenon that led me to develop in my head a quick high-level story arc. I could envision my saga being spread out over the span of multiple volumes featuring generations of characters and taking place over several centuries – life, love, determination, death, heroism and courage. Now I know I’m being a bit vague here as there is the potential I could one day sit down, put pencil to paper and get this epic yarn out of my dreams and into my car and into your sweaty little hands in the form of a book (or other new-fangled paperless reading device). But the scale of this story brought about another thought I actually would like to share: I wonder if humanity could muster the vision and maintain the support to accomplish something greater than any individual person.

Here’s where I’m going with this: Those oft-cited most important accomplishments in human history – like the pyramids or the Great Wall of China – took lifetimes to build. One person has an idea to build something. This idea is maintained by a series of other people as a motivator and morale builder for leading a society of non-workers. The actual “work” is done on the backs of slave labor which is easy for non-workers to then support for extended periods – even generations. Eventually it becomes an assumption that the work must continue and the job will be completed, hence the burden of maintaining the momentum becomes simpler. When you are born with a project underway, it is all the more difficult to make the leap to questioning why the project was even started; why it is continuing.

The story I came up with today dabbles in this idea of the need for a group of people to inspire the current (or slightly future) Human Race to come together and begin a project that will take multiple generations/lifetimes to achieve. Those that start the project will never see it come to fruition. Neither will their children. But it requires resources, input and support from all members of humanity to achieve. With the culture of immediacy we live in today could you imagine us being able to transcend politics, transcend the instant gratification to embark on a project that will require global sacrifice? Where those making that sacrifice today may not live to witness tangible progress on said project?

I don’t have the answers. Maybe they’ll come to me in the shower sometime.

The Douchebag Songwriter Strikes Again!

Over the past few years, I've written songs with the intent of them being played by a band. Band songs sort of fall together organically, requiring a riff and a hook and the rest kid of takes care of itself.  But as a douchebag songwriter, I always strive for more deliberate melodies - as though I really meant it to sound like that.

About a week ago, I got a melody in my head. Often when songs come to me, I hear them played on other instruments but I ultimately translate it to guitar. This song I heard as a piano song and when I took a shot at doing it on guitar, it was both thin and difficult to play. I'm no pianist. I could pick out a tune if there was a gun to my head, but I don't spend any time practicing it. And any times I've recorded keyboards on my songs it's never been the primary instrument; more a noodly background buzz.

Anyhoo, this song simply has to be a piano song. Now I don't actually have a proper piano - just an electric wannabe. But for the purposes of this 'proof of concept' demo, it's sufficient. With a little rigging, I've put together a fairly listenable rendition of the noise I've had in my head for the past week:  



There's a few more parts I didn't have time to get together. I'll post the finished song whenever I get around to it. If you're interested, here's the lyrics. I tell the story of a hopeless lonely fella who sits in the bar night after night and, having given up any hope of finding companionship himself, has found a sense of superiority as he watches others on their desperate search for love:

Last Call

You see the weak and lonely ones

Their desperation entertains

You see them come and go and come

Just to go and come again

-

You see yourself above the fools

Far beyond the dirty ones

You keep your distance from their claws

Safe and sound alone

-

From the first round they escape the silent room

Until the last call

So they don’t leave cold back to their quiet tombs

Until the last call

They’re all so afraid

-

You hold your cards close to your chest

Trust withheld from everyone

So sure that they can’t comprehend

Not a glimpse for anyone

-

And still they circulate false smiles

Radiate their welcoming

To greet a wink with open arms

Open knees and hearts

-

From the first round they escape the silent room

Until the last call

So they don’t leave cold back to their quiet tombs

Until the last call

They’re all so afraid

-

When all is said and done you pack your things

Head back to your soft empire

Kept company by the judgments in your head

Cleanse your soul of old desires

-

Sometimes you call

She doesn’t speak

To reinforce

She’s strong/you’re weak

But not afraid…

-

I don’t need the want, I don’t need the pain

I don’t need the tears, I don’t need the shame

I don’t need disease, I don’t need the fear

I don’t need the risk, I don’t need it clear

I just need the one, the one who holds me in

The one who chains the doors, the one who won’t begin

To tell me that I’m wrong, or tell me that I’m small

Or make me insecure, when faced with the last call… 

Life In The Hive pt 2

I'm not going to post every single song on the Bees album, but there are a few standouts I'd like to share. And here's one: track 2 - This, My Cave.

Originally intended to be a mile-a-minute punk tune, This, My Cave has been reduced to its simplest form. The original riff played at quarter-speed on acoustic and lyrics written for shouting now set to something of a melody:



I think the lyrics are straight forward enough, not requiring much translation. But I will make a quick note:

After my Dad took off, he moved away to California.  I kept in fairly regular touch with Pops and even sent him a Bees tape to check out.  He called me after listening to it and was kinda bummed that there was a song where I said I hated him.  Here's the offending section:

I've got some friends
They live three thousand miles away
I don't see them until the weekend at Christmas when they stay


I'm feeling lonely
I'd rather be alone than live a day like them
I can't help but hate them
Empty circles filling up their brains
This, my cave


In fact, my intent here was actually to say "I've got nobody except some loved ones who, because of geography, I do not get to see as often as I would like to."  The rest is directed at (of course) those fucking Bees.

I explained this all to my Dad, but I don't think he believed me.

The Modern American Dream

My first reaction to these whole "Occupy Wherever" rally things was to dismiss it as a small genuine protest that became an excuse to hang out, party and break things. I still sorta think that's what it is. But being a guy who has at many times in his working life been frustrated by the seemingly heartless decisions made by those above but not had a platform or outlet to purge it - I can now appreciate why this thing hasn't stopped yet. There's a pervasive unhappiness in our New Country here. And more and more, the unsettled masses who know something is wrong but have no idea how to fix it are being inspired to support those who at least are voicing their unhappiness.

Having the stones to stand up and say "this country stands for something more than what we're getting" is not unpatriotic. And I don't say 'getting' like I or anyone else deserves to be given something they didn't work for. We at the mid to bottom work hard every day - legitimately harder than many seen above us who are compensated exponentially more than us below. I'm not talking physical 'work,' but rather carrying the heavy burden of a workload previously carried by several people in ever thinning organizations and being told if we cannot manage the burden then we are failing. We are motivated not by the positive reward but the threat of the burden being taken away and the security of even an unfair position not being ours. 'The Modern American Dream' is not the pursuit of freedom from oppression through hard work and fair reward... it is the avoidance of destitution through a hard built perception of value to an organization that genuinely feels you are lucky they pay you at all.

I'm no anti-establishment zealot nor a hipster who thinks it's funny to protest against evil corporations while sucking on a $7.00 Starbucks coffee in an ironic fashion statement. But I sympathize with the current unfocused display of confusion and frustration and hope it opens up a few eyes from on high. Anyone will work hard if they believe they are getting a fair deal and what they deserve (or at least the knowledge that someone above is not getting multitudes more on the backs of their poor treatment). America has been spoiled by foreign slave labor and as a result is willing to sacrifice Quality in their products and the long-term success of the country whose creative and innovative spirit developed their products in the first place for a lower cost/higher margin/greater profit bottom line. It's short-term money grabbing without long-term planning for future growth and development. America is more than capable of sustaining strong profit while creating brand loyalty through production of Quality products. But 'strong profit' is no longer enough. And businesses have a difficult time creating and sustaining morale when they are not sufficiently inspired or compensated. It's hard to solve the problems of your employer when you have to choose between paying your entire rent or mortgage or putting gas in your car or food in your kids mouths.

A great leader would address these protesters directly (and they would certainly also be speaking directly to many too weak or burdened to protest themselves - but share the frustration) and inspire them to channel their current passion for change into creative, productive outlets - outlets that can generate the rewards they cannot find in the modern working world. A great leader would inspire American business to create opportunities (be it government intervention, tax concessions for businesses that generate X amount of legitimate jobs and opportunities or subsidizing education to create a new generation of inspired American business leaders) and invest in America - leveraging our strengths with long-term vision for long-term success.

At the end of the day, America will not survive if it is not allowed to do what it does best: invent, solve and make. And today our passion is wasted on yelling in the street.

Life In The Hive pt 1

Around the time of recording the band's demo in 1991, I was a bit of a mess.  I had effectively dropped out of school so I could 'party' with pals all day (I ultimately got my shit together and graduated), get high on whatever was available to get high on and create music and art.  This was a creative high point for me - I was putting together comics, making psychedelic line drawings that were getting some attention in the community and the band had a rented out practice room (that smelled more than a bit of piss, but was a good place to get drunk and jam all night) and a few shows under our belts.

Anyone who's seen my Youtube or Vimeo page knows I'm no stranger to the ways of The Pink Floyd and those epic, bloated conceptual double albums of the 1960s and 70s.  So my stroke of genius (heh) was of course to write a hardcore punk theme album, with a story that could be told both musically and visually but would not compromise on the down and dirty simple and loose structures of punk and the violent rage and 'moshability' of thrashcore.

The concept was called 'Bees' (as you will see, I had a thing in my head for always titling albums with a four letter word - my har-har inside joke) and the story is as follows:

Our hero has isolated himself in a small apartment type room (the cave) refusing to exit into the outside world, surviving only on food and drink and smoke and whatever he can order by phone and get delivered to his door.  His only entertainment and joy comes from drawing images on his walls with graphite pencil.  From his window all he sees is a large bee hive hanging from a tree limb and a steady stream of bees entering and exiting and doing their mindless thing.  Eventually he becomes paranoid of them and believes society as a whole have become giant thought-controlled bees who have been programmed to capture him and make him into one of their mindless drones.  For some reason the authorities (it is not revealed, but one can assume it is neighbors or family or his landlord or someone) kick in his door and he kills the first person to enter his room.  During the grand finale of the story our hero has been placed in some sort of  facility where he can be contained and perpetually drugged - which he perceives as having been brought into the hive for removal of his free thought.


A lofty concept, with obvious nods to other such concept albums - dealing with madness, isolation, violence and rebellion.  A string of songs were written by 18 year old FM, and were presented to the band with some positive reaction.  The opening track is actually what I considered a rather hard edged yet epic acoustic song which sort of sets the scene and the general feelings of our hero towards those bees out there beyond his window.  Here's the original solo acoustic demo of the track as recorded within hours of writing in 1991:



This song was a huge departure from the Too Baked To Skate punk we were playing previously, and the band (although sympathetic to the project) didn't really see it as something they could get behind.  There does exist a practice tape with a full band version of the track, but it was never formally recorded.

From here, the album was to take an unwavering hardcore stance with what I considered fairly brutal lyrics.  Each song was bridged with a hard spoken word segment that sort of led from one part to the next - a la Henry Rollins or Jello Biafra or Kurt Brecht.  Only one song - titled 'Society' was ever put together as a true hardcore song before the band fizzled out.  Only one recording exists of a band practice in late '91/early '92 where the 'Society' lyrics are completely illegible and the sound quality almost unlistenable.  If I can lay my hands on it, I may post it so you can at least hear what it was to sound like and the truth behind the intent that this was to be a true hardcore punk project.  That song had a level of complexity we had not achieved previously with lots of rhythm changes and catchy mosh riffs and all of us were really proud of it as I recall.  But it was not to be.

The Bees concept would stay with me for a few years and even today (at age 38) I am considering revisiting it.  The next couple of posts, we'll discuss what became of Bees and it's ultimate recorded structure and expansion.

Songwriters Are Douchebags

I had this guitar.  It was a no-name brand 'flying V' style thing that I spray painted flat black then took my box of acrylic paints and made a large multi-colored nuclear explosion up on the big big pointy part there with a red smiley face on it and wrote underneath it "FUCK OFF AND HAVE A NICE DAY" and of course made all the As into little Anarchy symbols.  I was 14.  I had already popped the lock on Mom's liquor cabinet and had scored a few nickel bags of pot from some scary black dudes who hung out all day on their porch.  I had purchased my first Black Flag album and was just learning the evil ways of the Dirty Rotten Imbeciles.  The appeal of punk (as most stuffed shirt revisionist history ass hole rock writers will surely tell you) is that anyone can do it.  Or at least anyone will think they can.  At 14 I thought I could.  So me and my trusty flying V rocked one out.  These are the lyrics to my first song: "Too Baked To Skate"  - written in 1987 at age 14:


It's Saturday afternoon
Had too many bongs
Try to thrash around
But you're too far gone
The road starts to spin
Board begins to shake
Do a 'skull grind'
Because you're fucking baked
You are bleeding now
But you do not care
Time to go home
And put superglue in your hair


Spike your fucking mohawk
Spike it three feet high
Need some money for more weed
Tell your Mom a little lie
"Mom, I need some money
for a school trip.
Yeah, maybe tomorrow
I'll bring home the permission slip."
Your Mom gives you the money
For a nice fat dime
Time to start the whole fucking thing
Another fucking time


This time on a half-pipe
Going 'round and 'round
Do a hand plant 
You're fucking upside down
Your wasted friend comes at you
Rail slide on your head
You should've known you were too baked to skate
Too fucked up to shred
Fucking Nazi punk
Shouldnt've smoked that reefer
Now you're in a wheel chair 
Watching reruns of Leave It To Beaver!


Not exactly world shattering stuff but considering the time and the age of the writer it's fairly edgy I guess.  And really, how many songs have you heard with a Leave It To Beaver reference?  The music was a bouncy thing performed as fast as I could spit out the words somewhat legibly.

Here's how it sounded when recorded by my shitty band in 1991 in my friend's basement by the drummer's Dad who had a primitive recording rig.  We had a lead singer/yeller, but this was always the song where I stepped up to the mic and belted it out.  Here's 18 year old FM at the peak of his angsty testosterone-fueled rage:





I ultimately became the driving force behind this anarchic underage booze fueled Connecticut Hardcore punk garage band called "Chemical Persuasion."  In those days it was pure shocking rebellion.  I used to bring my songs to band practice with lyrics written on a wadded up piece of paper in my back pocket and a rough tune in my head.  Generally the guys would read it through, laugh and then see how many times they could fit the word FUCK into the lyrics without messing up the phrasing too much.  I was now officially a 'songwriter.'

The term 'songwriter' fills my head with images of thin, pale young men in black, skin tight and long-sleeve turtleneck shirts with wisps of stringy beard hair and bad skin with a chain smoking habit and an air of superiority.  Simply put: douchebags.  And I guess in later years I fell into a douchebag songwriter phase.

I have spent the past few days converting a bunch of songs I wrote and sang solo acoustic into my beat up boom box in the early to mid 90s after the band fizzled out and I slipped into married working life.  I've never performed a single one of these songs live or in front of anyone - not even my wife - and only shared them with a few pals (who generally were nice enough to tolerate my shit).  But listening to them almost 20 years later, some of them are quite good and mark a few rather momentous events in my life.  The time has come for me to bring them out of the box.  You're welcome to join me for what will surely be an uncomfortably revealing and potentially embarrassing display over the next few weeks.  For the record, I'm a little freaked but mostly excited.

Greetings, Starfighter…

When I was a kid, my Mom wasn't too keen on me rotting my brain all summer at the movie theater.  She felt quite strongly that, although I was "a bright boy with lots of potential," modern-day movies contained a level of sex, realistic violence and gore that she simply did not want me exposed to.  It was not always this way.  She and Pops used to bring me and my Sis out to see some of the big blockbuster movies on the big screen.  Here are a few movies that I WAS allowed to see that stick out in my mind as the ones that probably changed her perspective (using ‘confidence-in-my-masculinity-inducing’ flowery bullets):

1. Grease

I know, right?  Grease seems so innocuous by today's standards.  But my Mom was flat out disgusted by this movie.  Was it Olivia Newton-John’s skin tight leather pants?  No.  Was it the drive-in make-out scene where John Travolta gets his balls slammed in the car door?  Nope.  It was one single phrase in one single song that forever banished Grease to the household smut pit: “The chicks will cream for Greased Lightning.”  Perhaps the fact that I’ve never forgotten that phrase is testament that she was probably right.

1. Raiders Of The Lost Ark

 

Face-melt scene, FTW!  It’s completely awesome and classic and all that, but I was like 9 years old in the theater watching this.  I wouldn’t let my son watch it now, and it’s fairly tame by today’s standards.  This was like 1981!  ‘Nuff said.

1. Buck Rogers In The 25th Century

Before it was a classic, campy sci-fi TV series it was a classic, campy sci-fi movie with space shuttles, little robots with talking Flava-Flav clocks and Erin Gray in skin-tight spacesuits:



Let’s just say that Erin Gray had something of an impact on my dark and sticky path to manhood.  Hmmm…

Before this turns into a Cracked.com ‘why classic entertainment is actually stupid’ article, let me get to the point: Although my Mom was not willing to allow me to actually witness the movies of my day, she would buy me the novelization of any movie I asked for.  Her reasoning of course was “Well, at least he’s reading.”  That what I was reading was often more descriptive in its violence and sex than the movies were ever allowed to be was kind of my little secret.  You know like, until now.

For example – the commercials for the Michael Douglas/Kathleen Turner flick Romancing The Stone presented it as a comedic action/adventure romp through the jungle with a bumbling Danny DeVito as the ‘heavy.’  Mom decided it may be a bit too violent for me, so I got the drug using, graphic violence infused and explicit sex scenes filled paperback book version:



When I finally did watch the movie years later, I was a bit disappointed it was so tame.

Another – Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom… After getting burned by Raiders of the Lost Ark, Mom was on to Spielberg and Lucas.  And in this case, rightfully so.  No child under 16 or so should be allowed to see that scene when the creepy shaman guy tears the screaming slave-boy’s still-beating heart out of his chest and shows it to him as he dies.  But let me tell you, reading it is the stuff of nightmares… not because it’s so gory, rather you are left to imagine what it looks like – while knowing it has been filmed and you someday CAN see it:



The final film novelization I’ll mention is one that I picked up not because of a commercial or schoolyard rumors that it was cool.  I simply spotted it on the shelf, saw that it was based on a movie and grabbed it.  And man am I glad I did:



I must’ve read The Last Starfighter 20 times as a kid and teenager.  It’s a great book and I later found to be an equally great movie.  I watched it recently with my kids and was so wrapped up in it I actually got a little choked up at the end (stupid, I know).  I have such fond memories of this story that I think I’m going to run out and pick it up for my sons to read.  And maybe we’ll pick up a few other books while we’re there… Is there a novelization of Zookeeper?

Oral Pacification and The Unbroken Habit

My oldest son is the victim of our parental inexperience.  With our subsequent children we had learned from our mistake.  But it cannot be denied - there are few things cuter than a baby or toddler who soothes him or herself with a soggy, wrinkled little thumb.  Of course by the time he was four or five (and entering the sick and diseased world of pre-school and kindergarten) it was far from cute.  Rather it had become a source of endless anxiety: frantic calls from frustrated teachers, late night trips to pharmacies for infant illness remedies and visions of second-mortgage requiring orthodontal bills.

Over the years we have tried a variety of medieval devices and dissuaders to break this cycle of anti-hygiene: foul-tasting digit dips and Oriental foot-binding inspired wraps and straps - all to no avail.  Eventually, we tired of the battle and left our hopes to the schoolyard - secretly hoping for a mild jungle gym teasing that would both disengage the shriveled and foul appendage and encourage a little 'hair on the chest' masculinity.  But alas, it seems not to be.  Despite the early stages of dental deformity, the boy has been overwhelmingly accepted and left to his anxious sucky-sucking in relative peace.

Today, after a brave first day of Tadpole swimming lessons (which consisted mostly of small children putting their faces in water and blowing real hard) we stopped for a celebratory treat on the short drive home: the much coveted 'donut' stop.  To drive home the message of my paternal pride we not only stopped but actually got out to stand in line so the actual donut choosing could be personalized.  A special event indeed.

As we stared as glazed as the delicacies before us, we were woken from our fat and sugar anticipatory stupor by a sudden "OH NO YOU DITN'T!!" uttered by the large black woman before us in line.  "You think you can just go sticking that thumb in your mouth where other people 'bout to eat? Nuh-uh, mister!"

I looked to my son - white as a sheet - and then to the woman who gave me a large smile and knowing wink.  "Thank you," I whispered to her as she turned to pay for her flavored iced coffee.

The Impoverished Executive

"Life is a spiraling whirlwind of stressful things I cannot contain or control. Let me count the ways..."

Did I ever tell you about the time I got the big promotion and an accompanying pay cut?  No?  Well it’s a lovely story – and as today’s thing is a direct result of it, here’s a few highlights:

In 2008, I was an hourly employee on a team that was working on a major project.  The project was hugely successful. I was promoted into a new position where I manage the processes we implemented with the project.  The timing of this promotion coincided with a major downturn in the economy where hourly employees were being asked to take voluntary time off and stuff.  I was made into a salaried employee and have earned approximately two-thirds of what I earned in 2007 since.  Oh, did I mention that when this pay change happened my wife was 5 months pregnant with our third child?

Since then, my family and I have been through some pretty rough patches: a serious foreclosure scare, broken down cars with no way to get to work, scraping together meals just trying to get through the next pay check… you get the idea.  And while all this stress was going on at home, at work I am in a high-profile position working with individuals at the highest levels of the corporation.  I am seen as one of the forefront business leaders.  Yet as I am picking up packages of ramen on the way home to feed the kids, my peers are leaving early to pick up their clubs in their new BMWs to hit the links. 

Grating.  Demoralizing.  Frustrating.  Feel free to add your own –ing.

So hey – this is all history, right?  It’s 2011 now and things must have gotten better by now… Well, a little.  As long as nothing out of the ordinary happens.  Like a birthday.  Or Christmas.  Or a vacation. 

Ah, vacation.  Today is my first day of Summer vacation.  We’ve been planning it for a few weeks.  We made some reservations at a hotel near an amusement park to meet up with some family for a long weekend and everything.  And the pay schedule worked out that I’d come into some extra funds a few days ahead of time.  Perfect. Almost.

Last week I found out that “due to the Fourth of July holiday” things were delayed and the extra bucks we had planned our vacation around weren’t going to be available until after the vacation is over.  So… no cash to actually do things during said vacation.  We can get to the amusement park and the hotel is already paid for, but we can’t afford to do stuff like actually get into the park or feed the kids.

Over the past couple of years I’ve had several moments where things seemed really hopeless.  And to be honest, this is one of the less ‘life-critical’ moments to fall apart over.  But you know, being in a desperate financial position for an extended period is wearing.  And over time I’ve gotten to the point where if someone at work asks me to go to lunch and I say “no thanks” (but really mean “I can’t afford to”), I’m nearly in tears as they walk away.  Fucking miserable.

Today is my son’s 2 year birthday party.  I’m a ball of stress.  People are coming to our house and I need to host.  I need to feed them.  I need to make a cake.  I need to keep people entertained.  I need to leave them with the perception that I am not at any moment going to shatter into a million pieces like a cheap clear beer bottle tinkling down a steep paved hill and that instead I am a successful professional who has things under control and is going on a wonderful vacation where my kids will not want for anything and life is good and I am happy.

Pray for me.

However Long It Takes…

It’s not like I’m the only patriotic person in America. And there are far better writers writing far better takes on the death of Osama bin Laden. But I feel like I need to get this out, so here goes.

There aren’t too many people in the civilized world who, if they were alive at the time, wouldn’t say they were strongly affected by the events of September 11, 2001. I was extremely affected. I remember the nights after the attacks, looking up into the sky and seeing the stars above and realizing: this is the first time, and probably the last time I will see a full, clear sky with no passing planes. Our entire continental United States was declared a no-fly zone for all commercial flights for a couple of days, and I remember it being kind of eerie, the calm quiet after the horrific storm.

On September 10th, 2011, my wife and I were pretty sure she was carrying our first child, and there was hope in the air. On September 11th, that hope was replaced with fear for the future of our country, our stability, our child’s life. I remember wondering what sort of world he would grow up in – Would he live in fear that the bus he was riding to work may be carrying a suicide bomber, moments away from violently disrupting American civility? Would he be forced to move to the wilderness with limited resources, for fear of the live warfare happening in the cities and former peaceful suburbs? My mind reeled with these extreme visions of Apocalyptic horror. Because I had seen the towers fall. I had seen people so frightened of the climbing flames that they jumped to their deaths, choosing a peaceful plunge over suffocation and burning.

By the time our first son was born on May 2nd, 2002, Ground Zero was well underway of being cleared, and much of the fear in the United States had been replaced with a dangerous mix of unwavering patriotism and bloodlust for the man behind the attacks, and frankly anyone who resembled him – even if only by nationality or race. Every house had a flag hung high, the economy was struggling but showing signs of coming back around and we had hope again. We supported the war in Afghanistan and were eagerly awaiting pictures on TV of Bin Laden’s head on a stick being paraded down the streets of Kabul, while onlookers threw rocks and garbage at it. But that didn’t come.

Then Saddam Hussein started acting up again. So we started telling playground rumors that he was mixing mustard gas in his bathtub and was going to gas his civilian population and then he was going to gas New York City and school children would die. And the political cartoonists made him look a little more like Bin Laden, and the lines were blurred.  And with the full might of our patriotic, bloodlusty military, we went in and pulled him from a dirty hole and hung him in the streets while people threw rocks and garbage and we cheered. But the glow of our national orgasm wouldn’t last for long, and when our blue balls started to ache for victory and returning heroes we got impatient and got all crazy for domestic regime change. So urgent was our need for change, we didn’t even want to see another old white guy in office. And we voted in a guy whose name rhymes with Osama, just so we could make him feel stupid until he either ended the war or brought us Bin Laden’s head on a stick.

Today is May 2nd, 2011. Today my son is 9 years old. Today Osama bin Laden is dead.

Every September 11th, I am brought to tears by some fucking TV news retrospective. I feel stupid when I cry over it. But I can’t help it. It was fucking tragic, and every year I am overwhelmed with a feeling of helplessness and anxiety that the world can come crumbling down and kill my children. Today I cried again. I was driving to work. I had already heard that Bin Laden had been killed, but it didn’t really hit me until I was by myself on the highway listening to of all fucking things the new Beastie Boys album. I simply realized I had tears in my eyes. And when the tears stopped I felt better.

Now I know the war’s not over. As a matter of fact, I expect something bad will happen quickly - as all those mother fucking, murdering, freedom-hating, religious fucknuts decide who the new leader of the symbolic America destroyers will be. People will die, and it will be sad. But I feel like a weight has been lifted. I have a little closure. And today I will celebrate the 9 years of my son’s life knowing that there is one less evil out there for him to be afraid of.

Testies - 1,2,3...

Hang on, I'll be right back.

What's up?

I guess I owe a big explanation why I left the world on the edge of their seats... I mean, how do you start an epic story like the one below and then not reveal the answer? Worse yet, not even an update for months? If I was a faithful reader, I'd be kinda pissed. So if you're one of those - I'm genuinely sorry. There is a grand ending to the story below, and I plan to reveal it one of these days. But for now - it's on hold. Always leave 'em wanting more - thanks, PT.

So, what have I been doing? you might ask. Well, I've been wallowing in financial crisis, for one. Tough times got REAL tough. But throughout all the stress, pain and tears, Missus Mungus and I have come through strong. All is on the mend there. The ole job has been eating up all my time as well, so not a ton of hours available to work on epic saga. So, I've been focusing on the instant gratification - one liner - business. Twitter: www.twitter.com/fungusmungus

I've also revived my first love: comics. I've started a daily webcomic illustrating the bizzarre behavior demonstrated by the inhabitants of an alternate universe of bi-pedal piggies: http://tlpig.wordpress.com/ . This has been a true labor of love. Comics were my passion all through my school years including an attempt at an illustration major in college. The realities of life did not allow this to come to fruition (needed aday job to like eat and stuff. That forced me to quit school and work). But now I have an outlet. And I'm totally digging it. If you'd like to check it out, I've added an update box over there on the top left of this page.

Fear not, fellow XE-ers, FM vs. Reality readers and friends - this site is not dead. A place to write some long-form discertations on the WTF moments in life is always needed. But in the meantime, check out the comic - and say 'hi' on twitter sometime. There's friends there.

A Fiction: Part XXI

II

“I must say it’s really quite remarkable. We never thought you’d make it this far. But clearly we made the right choice with you.” A small square panel embedded in the chamber wall throbs as the words are spoken. The walls are an unfinished metal, the joints of the panels plainly visible. It is clearly a strong, sturdy structure, yet built by someone with little regard for cosmetics. “I apologize for leaving you literally hanging for so long. The environment here takes some getting used to. It requires a process of adjustment.”

At first the tingling in my toes is a small irritation, but it is slowly climbing my leg – growing in intensity as it goes. Then I feel it in my fingertips. Soon it has spread up all of my limbs and begins to work at my chest and groin. I begin to panic a bit, instinctively shaking my arms to get the blood flowing again. Soon I am thrashing to work the crawling itch from below my flesh – its insidious etching like microscopic knives cutting me from the bone to the surface. My eyes are darting from side to side and the once irritant is now agony. I tuck my knees into my chest and wrap my arms around them and squeeze. Behind my now closed eyes, I am a ball floating in a pool of electric fluid, the less I move the easier it washes over me.

Either the sensation is lessening or my senses have dulled as I open my eyes and spread my limbs like newly formed wings. I am slowly spinning in all directions – end-over-end, around and twisting – but it is not disorientating. I see every scratch and imperfection in the surface of the chamber in perfect clarity. My mind builds a map of the welds and scuffs and I could recite the uneven corners like rote. I raise my open hands before my eyes and feel power surge through them. I make fists and can imagine driving them through the walls with little effort. My body feels of perfection – any cuts or bruises are gone, my worn muscles now taut and strong, my mind clear and full of peace.

“What has happened to me?” I cry out – elated.

“Adjustment, as I told you to expect, Mr. Cole.” The voice is from within the room. I spin my head to see the speaker, but am still rotating in the air, and cannot find the man. “We have such hopes for you. We could not wait for you to reach your potential naturally, as that could take years without this type of intervention. Most never achieve it, though you are clearly not like most.” I still have yet to spot my host and am sure I have rotated past every inch of the chamber more than once.

“Why can I not see you?”

“You will learn to see me, Mr. Cole. But you must be patient. You have come a long way towards your goal very quickly, but you still have a few connections to make on your own. And when you do, many things not visible will be seen and many secrets will be revealed.” The voice is stifling a laugh with much effort, and coughs. “But of course even I am not complete yet. We will complete our transitions together you and I. We will do great things, Mr. Cole.”

My imagination reels with the wonders I am hearing for the first time – disembodied voices, physical (?) transformations… and the word appears in my mind as though it were placed there, which I presume it may have been. “Evolution?” I speak to the air.

“Nature evolves over millennia, Mr. Cole. And the individual knows no benefit. Nature is bound by time. You and I, though – we do not have this limitation. We are our own generations and re-generations. We are on an expedition, Mr. Cole, to discover our potential and the ultimate potential of our kind. We will see the infinite.”

As the cloud of thought clears before my eyes, I realize I have stopped rotating and am moving feet first towards the floor. Before me, a doorway slides up and away and I see a dimly lit passage beyond. Testing my legs, I walk through – my first steps towards the unfathomable.

A Fiction: Part XX

Chapter 3

Abyss

I

I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death.

The scrabbling on the harsh ragged ice has torn my fingertips apart. At first, I am cold – cold like I have never felt before. But gradually, the cold becomes a simmering warmth that grows first in my chest and extends out to my fingers and toes. I cannot close my eyes, the blinding light above my only link to the world above ice and above water. I can see a hint of blue through the pane as day lazes above. One final push on the ice and I drift down into the abyss. The light fades as I fall away into the pitch below. Hope fades and I open my mouth to breathe in and end it. I exhale all the air in my lungs, the bubbles rushing past my eyes and coming to rest on the ice ceiling above. Then I inhale. I expect spasms of pain as my lungs fight to reject the liquid being pulled into them, but there are no spasms. There is no liquid. I am breathing air.

I open my eyes to find myself suspended in space in a nicely lit metal-walled chamber. I close my eyes again, and reopen them expecting to find the chamber gone – a figment of my last moments imagining. But the chamber remains. I breathe deep, luxuriating in the act, as my head clears and my heart slows. As I relax, I begin to ponder my surroundings at length. I stretch my one functioning arm out but I am too far to reach the wall. I attempt to shift my weight to see if there is gravity here or if I am held in the center of a weightless room. Suddenly my head begins to spin and my stomach turns. As I throw up the contents of my belly, I note that it does indeed fall past my feet and onto the floor below, splashing up onto my water logged shoes. Gravity indeed.

The force holding me in place seems equally placed throughout my body – not focused on my torso for example – my head feels as weightless as my feet. I can move my limbs, but cannot generate enough force to move myself about. I am fixed in place. It is quite comfortable and after a few minutes I begin to get drowsy, and slip into sleep.

In my dream I float through the pane of ice into the open air. As I float up beyond the ice cliff wall, I see Angel’s Head. There are men climbing off the deck onto the ice with rope and teams lowering supplies. The rear of the ship is lower than the front, and on second look is actually below water at the furthest point. Angel’s Head is sinking and the crew is abandoning her. There is black smoke billowing from the stairwell on deck – a fire below I assume. Suddenly the scene seems to speed up and the sun moves across the sky until it grows darker. I watch as Angel’s Head sinks lower and lower until finally she breaks away from the ice and slips into the depths. The men on shore all turn to look into the sky. They are waving at something… then I realize –they are waving at me! Wait, they’re not waving, but shaking their fists. I am not to blame! It was Hawthorne and the captain, not me! Slowly, the ice they stand upon begins to fail beneath their feet and to my horror, I watch as 30 men are lost to the sea, cursing me with their final breaths…

“Welcome home, Mr. Cole” the voice says as I open my eyes.

A Fiction: Part XIX

VII

The deck of Angel’s Head lurches to my left, and I slide face-first toward the thin wood edge wall. I tuck just in time to avoid my head taking the full blow, but I hit the wall hard, and am winded. At first it’s just hand tools and debris that follow my slide, but the slope of the deck steepens, and the larger equipment starts to slide in my direction.

Despite the danger, I am transfixed by the scene before me: The men that had been trying to get into the control room have now broken the glass and are piling into the room. As the ship tilts, men fall from the high deck to the icy water below. There is another group that has descended upon the snowmobiles and arctic supplies. The clear favored prizes are the vehicles of course, but there is heavy fighting for the boots, jackets, ropes and tools. One man is able to start the one closest to me, but he is pulled from the machine, dragged to deck and beaten as another takes his chance upon the beast. This cycle continues with men fighting to get position in the seat, but being torn down before the throttle can be engaged. Now the men have lost all hope as the snowmobile edges down the sloping deck towards me. They jump aside and begin their own slide toward the icy doom below. I wake from my observational haze and throw myself to the side as the speeding behemoth barrels past me. With a deafening crash, the wall and railing I have been lying on break away, and I fall into the stark white silence of ice and snow.

For a moment, as I fall, there is no sound. My mind races with thoughts of my life and impending death. My expectation of icy water is proven false when my descent is broken by piled snow. My left shoulder takes the brunt of the fall, and I am sure it is broken. In the moment I take to recover, I look up to see the snowmobile, which has landed on its back end, towering above and teetering to fall upon me. I roll to my side, and fall into a large crack in the ice and find myself sliding feet first into darkness. My back and legs are torn as they rip across the jagged ice. But as soon as it started, the slide ends and I am again falling through bright white space and land hard on solid ground. I look up at the sheer ice cliff above, and for a moment take in its pure beauty. The sun glistens off its uneven walls and I am reminded of the cathedral where my grandfather’s funeral service was held - stoic and elegant, with an air of unearthly peace.

Looking up, I notice a puff of ice and snow blown out from the top of the cliff. Then I see jagged shards of ice separating from the wall followed by a large, dark mass. Unable to support its weight, the glacier is passing off the snowmobile once more in my direction and I watch as it falls in a shower of shimmering ice. Again, I get my wits and scramble to my knees. I throw myself across the ice and claw my way as far from the cliff base as I can before the impact.

The snowmobile crashes into the ice floor with an explosive reverb, shattering the ice in all directions, and throwing a spire of water 50 feet into the air above me. A crack appears all around me and I find myself alone on a wobbling plate of ice as it breaks free from the larger floor. I grab the plate’s edge in a desperate attempt to float through the maelstrom, but it tilts up into the air and over, and I find myself below the ice, in freezing water – blackness below and clawing at the light above. My fingers search for an opening, but to no avail. I slam my fist against the ice but only push myself further down into the icy depths. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, …

A Fiction: Part XVIII

VI

In my dream, I am standing at the top of a large ice hill overlooking a field of snow. The snow is falling heavily, and I cannot make out the horizon. Above is cold steel grey cloud – no hint of sun, just even, grey light. I hear a small buzzing sound and search the sky. There’s nothing there, but I am sure I hear a small plane. I raise my arms to signal it – They are going to see me. I’m saved!! I squint my eyes and see a small black spot in the clouds. Yes!! It’s headed this way!! The spot grows larger and blacker but I still cannot make the shape of the craft. It nearly fills my vision now and I feel I am floating, my body sliding up towards my head. The buzz is getting louder and louder until it is a mind-shattering roar…

I wake to the roar of the ships engines in full throttle. My head presses uncomfortably into the headboard of my bed as I slide up with the acceleration. I roll towards the small port hole and wince as my sheet tears from a patch of hardened blood on my chest. I run my hand down, incredulous – have I been in a fight? Why am I bleeding? I look out at the water racing past my small, round window. Wherever we’re going, we’re sure in a hurry to get there. I hear heavy footfalls as someone runs past my door. Listening closely, I hear muffled shouting on deck. I roll out of bed and quickly dress, carrying my shirt with me to pull on as I make my way outside.

The cold air stabs my lungs and steals my breath as I step out onto deck and survey the chaos all around. Men are running and shouting in all directions. Some have made a line up the staircase to the control room. Above, a small group is pounding and banging on the outside of the control room presumably to gain access. To my right across the deck, Hendricks is up on a small platform, handing out orange life vests to all who will take one. He spots me and frantically waves me over. I push my way through the crew surrounding him, temporarily warmed by the close contact, and climb up to stand beside him.

“What’s going on? Are we sinking?” I ask. Hendricks is sweating with the work and takes a moment to catch his breath. I look over the rail behind him as something catches my eye. What is that? Are those whales? No, they’re oddly shaped, irregular. I am thrown back from the rail as ice showers over. The towering wall of the iceberg slides past having brushed the side of the ship. Hendricks kneels down and offers me a hand.

“The ship is out of control. Someone has locked himself in the control room and pushed us full out. This area is full of icebergs! Surely we’ll crash!!” Hendricks falls to the floor, his cool demeanor suddenly broken. His breathing is harsh and erratic. He is slipping into shock. I put my arm around him and help him to a seat on the edge of the deck. Overhead, a life boat swings across the deck and out over the open sea. It lowers quickly and crashes dangerously into the side of the boat, breaking away a section of the rail and side wall. Three crew men reach over to hold the boat in place, while two others climb in. I stand and rush over towards them, but too late – all five are inside and the boat is being lowered towards the racing sea below. I look behind to the lift controls and wave my arms to get the attention of the man running the panel - make him stop – but too late. I hear screaming as the hoist jerks wildly and the cables holding the boat snap up into the air. I fall flat on the deck as one flicks down across an unsuspecting crewman racing across. It hits directly between his shoulder and neck, embedding itself 6 inches down through his chest. He is knocked to his knees and falls forward, dead before his face touches wood.

I pull myself carefully to my knees and am about to stand when, with a scream of splintering wood and twisting metal the ship comes to a lurching stop. I am thrown forward – sliding across the wet, ice covered deck – with the rest of the debris strewn about. There is yelling from above as the crew’s fears are realized: we have crashed.

A Fiction: Part XVII

V

“Captain?!” I shout through the locked door. “Captain, open up. It’s me, Cole.” Silence… “Are you sure he’s in there?” I say to Nelson who is standing nervously behind me. I try the handle again, this time with a bit more force. Placing my hand on the door, I estimate its strength. I can surely get through it. Nelson, sensing my intention, grips my shoulder and pulls me back.

“You can’t just break down his door, Mr. Cole. C’mon, let’s go see Mr. Roderick. He’ll tell you what you need to know…” I hesitate but ultimately back away from the door when I sense Nelsons fear. I need answers, I think to myself as I follow Nelson into the sun.

The wind whirls past me wetly as we step out on deck and move towards the ladder to the control room. There’s a flurry of activity around the research teams equipment. Four large crates have been place semi symmetrically down the center of the platform. Men armed with pry bars and hammers work feverishly to pull them open to some success. The second crate from me has a gap slowly opening on one side. I pause in anticipation as the crate is opened. Two men climb inside and start knocking at the walls from the inside. The top is lowered to the deck and the sides are pulled away to reveal a shining blue snowmobile strapped to a sturdy looking wooden pallet.

“What the fuck?” I turn to Nelson who is himself looking up the ladder towards the control room. Roderick and Hendricks are climbing down, apparently to inspect the cargo. Roderick looks to me, then to Nelson and they exchange a concerned look as Roderick reaches the deck and turns to me.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Cole. A bit soon to be up and about I should think.”

“I have a questions I need answered. Where is the captain?” Roderick waves Hendricks away and puts his arm on my shoulder to direct me towards the rail. Nelson follows close so as not to miss a word.

“The captain is under the care of Dr. Sawyer. He has become ill and is in need of extended rest. He must not be disturbed. Surely you understand.” He smiles and pats my back. “Quite an adventure you had down there, eh? Shame about Stuart of course, but the balls you had to swim out… I envy your courage. Not sure I could have done the same.” I am not about to be swayed by flattery.

“You left me. The ship fucking disappeared. I had no choice.”

“Please, Mr. Cole. You must understand – Hawthorne believed we were in immediate danger.” Roderick grips my arm. “We had the entire crew’s safety in mind. You are but one man. One man’s sacrifice could have saved twenty lives. As it turns out, after some extensive tests, the danger proved to be overstated and we returned. To find you floating up to the surface above the Ether… remarkable, really. Well, all’s well that ends well, and all that.” Again, Roderick smiles.

“A man died! Don’t you care?”

“Men die all the time. At sea and everywhere else. Stuart understood the danger when he signed up for this voyage. As did you I believe. Now if there’s nothing else, Mr. Cole, I’m tiring of this conversation. If you are able to work, please be on deck in the morning looking sharp. Otherwise, stay out of the way until you have recovered fully. The rest of the crew is at your service. And I’ll ask you not to make such a clatter around the captain’s door again. Dr. Sawyer rang me to complain. He suggested I restrain you. I will do no such thing, but be clear, Mr. Cole, I will if this behavior continues.”

My face is hot with rage as Roderick turns and walks towards the men on deck. All four crates are open now. Three snowmobiles and a crate of assorted arctic gear. I am too pissed to give it much thought as Nelson walks me back to my room. He says nothing as I step in and close the door behind me. I open a small box near my bed and pull out a fresh single edge razor blade. I slice four clean lines into my chest, the pain releasing my rage. My head goes light as my blood streams down to my belly and I breathe, slowly.

A Fiction: Part XVI

III

“What do you remember?” the hollow voice inquires.

“They were iridescent and bulbous, buoyant and warm. They carried me.”

“Jellyfish?”

“Yes… yes, they may have been.”

“Do you remember what happened to Hawthorne?”

“He never came back. I guess he got lost.”

“And Stuart… where is Stuart?”

“I set him free. Where am I? What is this place?”

“Angel’s Head, of course.”

“Where did you go? Why did you leave us?”

“It was not safe.”

“Safe? Were you attacked? Safe from what?

“Please, Mr. Cole. You’re upsetting yourself. Do try to relax.”

“RELAX? Are you fucking kidding me? I could’ve died out there! And fucking Stuart…” My head begins to throb and the room spins slowly.

“I’m going to be sick…” My stomach twists as everything once again goes black.

IV

“Good morning, Mr. Cole. How you feeling on this fine day?” Nelson is waiting for me at the top of the stairway, his right hand outstretched. I take his hand and he pulls me into an embrace. “Everyone was so worried about you. It’s good to see you up and around,” he says into my ear.

“I feel pretty good. Still a bit green around the gills so-to-speak, but as long as I keep moving, it’s OK.” We walk to the rail and look out to the rolling sea, the sun at our backs. The early morning sky is pale blue, with flecks of cloud scattered along the horizon. “How far have we gone since I was picked up?”

“You ask me, not far at all. We’ve been circling. It’s a big circle, mind you. But it’s hard not to notice the sun rise and set on the same side of the ship.” Nester laughs his hearty laugh. “They left something down there that they still want.”

“Maybe they hope to recover the Ether. I’d like to know what happened.”

“Could be, could be. There sure was a lot of excitement when you were down there. There was cheering in the control room early on. They came pouring out of the room saying you found something or other. But things got pretty somber after Mr. Hawthorne showed up.”

I nearly fall as the blood drains from my face. “HAWTHORNE IS ALIVE? HE’S HERE ON THE SHIP?”

Nelson puts an arm under mine to support me, and helps me to a bench. We sit. “Didn’t they tell you? He was found on the deck the morning after you went down. The dive team was scheduled to go down and try to hook a cable to your sub. But when Hawthorne woke up, he started screaming that we had to leave, that we were all in danger and all that nonsense. Captain made the call to go.”

My head slips into my hands as the deck spins across my eyes. I jump to the rail and vomit over the side. “I have to see him,” I say, a long line of spittle hanging from my lip. “Where is he?”

“Why, he’s gone Mr. Cole. Chopper came for him right after you were rescued. No need to worry. The captain’ll tell you the whole story. Told me to tell you he wants to see you later in the week.”

“Bring me to him now.”