Secrets of Aetherium

For the past few months, I've been writing Secrets of Aetherium, the Weird Science sourcebook for Ravaged Earth.

Secrets of Aetherium is unlike anything else I've written. Focusing specifically on scientific developments in the early 20th Century after mankind discovers the Martian Metal known as Aetherium, the book chronicles technological developments as they might have been. Creating alternate history is fun, if not challenging. You have to plan where your altered timeline deviates from the actual one, and develop any after-effects caused by monkeying around with history.

What would have happened if, after the War of the Worlds, the world's governments found an extraterrestrial element capable of almost miraculous feats? Our technological development would rocket lightyears ahead. Coupled with the futuristic vision of early 20th Century dreamers (when futurism wasn't a whimsical fantasy of anticipating ahead), technology would bequeath the 1930s orbital rockets, rayguns and levitating cars.

Dieselpunk, in all its oily, rivet-covered glory, would be ours.

This is the world of Ravaged Earth; a grimy, yet optimistic world of dashing sky pirates in massive airships, jetpacks and clunky robots, all anchored by the sensibilities of the 1930s.

Secrets of Aetherium will explore the social and ethical ramifications of exploiting the New Science. As scientists and inventors push the boundaries of what can be done, how far is too far? With these boundless vistas ahead, where mankind is limited only by imagination and resources, what's stopping a megalomaniac from creating death rays or a squadron of killer robots?

The answer is, the heroes.

Though I don't like discussing specifics of a product while in development, I can say Secrets of Aetherium will contain everything you need to play a pulpy scientist and inventor. Plumb the depths of Aetherium in your own private lab, or join the Institute for Modern Scientific Research, a consortium of like-minded, altruistic gadgeteers. Be one of three new races (Hybrid-Martian, Robot or Super Simian). Select from new Edges and Hindrances, vehicles and over 40 Weird Science gadgets and gizmos. The book also has rules for constructing robots and rocket ships, and a Plot-Point campaign.

Needless to say, it's an abundant amount of material to create and edit. My ultimate goal is to have the book completely written before summer's end, say in August. Most likely, writing will be placed on a temporary hiatus while I move in late July. Once I finally settle into my new digs, I'll continue working on Secrets of Aetherium.

Other Ravaged Earth news: I completed work on four one-sheet adventures which are winging their way through the editing process. There's also a New York City guidebook and Ravaged Tale also going through edits.

My Faustian Pact

Hunched over my laptop staring at the blinking cursor on the blank page. The whiteness on the glowing screen taunts me, an incessant "neener-neener" of a schoolyard bully. Will my words matter to anyone? Is writing just a cosmic joke, a colossal time suck, a delusion I've persisted under for 20 years?

Will I be anything but a rank amateur in a bloody clown circus of amateurs, sniffing the big top for peanuts and stepping in mountains of elephant shit? Can I finally cast off these shackles of anonymity and find sweet success?

Are my words making others happy? Am I fulfilled and complete?

Just as I extricate a large block of text with a swift movement of the cursor, flicking pixels on the screen like an axe murderer dismantling torsos in a Jacuzzi, a chilly wind blew through the room.

The unmistakable aroma of brimstone hit my nostrils and I spun around in my chair.

A gaunt gentleman in a Victorian frock and tophat stands behind me, stroking his tightly cropped and oiled goatee. Flashing me a Cheshire cat grin, the man introduces himself, his voice oily like a tin of sardines.

"Greetings, mortal. I am Mephistopheles. Some call me by other names. Beelzebub. Lucifer. Prince of Lies. Satan. The Great Deceiver. You can call me Blaine."

"Get the fuck out of my house, Blaine," I said, pointing at the door.

"Is that any way to treat a guest?" Blaine said, and sat on a nearby chair, first pushing a pile of books from the chair to the floor, where they crashed in a great heap. "Have writer's block, do you? Can't get those stubborn words from your beloved brainpan?"

"Seriously, I'm calling the cops if you don't leave."

"Ah, the writer's temperament. Frustrated because your inability to release those brilliant word nuggets onto the page, eh?" Blaine said, producing a red silk handkerchief from his vest pocket and dabbing his lips. "It's positively infernal, isn't it?"

"I'm dialing 9-1-1," I said, reaching for the phone.

Before I knew it the iPhone transformed into a block of Bavarian chocolate an started melting in the stifling humidity.

"What the hell?"

"Exactly!" Blaine said, tittering like a foppish dandy. "Hell is full of surprises, you know."

"Where's my fucking phone, Blaine?"

"You don't need to get the authorities involved. I can make your wildest dreams and desires come true," Blaine said.

"So you're some kind of Victorian gay rent boy? Sorry, Blaine, I don't swing that way. I jut want to finish writing my story. Peddle your forbidden love candy somewhere else, ya freak."

Blaine wrinkled his brow.

"That's no way to treat a guest. I'm here because you need my help. You're a writer, but self-doubt and self-loathing plagues you. Nothing you try seems to work. None of your stories connects. You squeeze the trigger, but the bullets don't fire. You're not hitting your targets. Am I correct?"

"What's it to you?" I said. "How did you get in here, anyway?"

"I can assist your writing career. I can make people love your work. The ideas will flow under my tutelage. Let me guide you. Why be a miserable hack when I can nourish your budding talents? Don't you want to be one of the most successful writers who's ever lived?"

For a solid minute, I sat in silence, thinking about Blaine's offer. Does he really possess the ability to lift me from my torpor and jumpstart my career?

Then it dawned on me.

"You're a literary agent, aren't you, Blaine?"

Blaine looked offended.

"No, I'm not."

"You are. You're totally a literary agent. Or maybe one of those con artists who trick writers into paying for a writing seminar and then dispense trite advice on preparing manuscripts and query letters," I said.

"All you have to do is sign this contract, pledging your immortal soul to me in exchange for success. You'll be prolific and witty. Your books will sell like hotcakes. You'll ride the gravy train to Beverly Hills and beyond."

"I'll bet there's a fee. There's always a fee with you people. Or a membership. I'll have to buy a membership to your writing club, right? Maybe you're from a self-publishing business, ready to hook a few egotistical suckers."

"No! There are no seminars, no dues. No weekend writing getaways at a hotel in Woodbridge, New Jersey. Just sign your name in blood and that's it," Blaine said, rising to his cloven feet. He waved the contract at me, a brittle document with lavish, flowing script. "I'm the devil! All I want is your soul in exchange for something paltry and temporary you crave. That's it!"

"So what's in it for me?"

"Fame. Prosperity. A horde of loyal readers. I can give you an audience hanging on your every word. Your name will be on books from now until forever."

I thought about it.

"Fuck you. I'm calling the cops," I said, and moved towards the door.

Blaine stamped his foot and a thunder clap sounded, shaking the house.

"Deny me this, son of man, and you'll be forced to slog indefinitely. Your words will be ignored, your name forfeit. Madness and insecurity will hound you for the rest of your days," Blaine said, his eyes glowing red.

"You're trespassing, Blaine. Fuck off," I said.

Blaine dissolved in a wisp of foul mist which smelled like rattlesnake farts and roadkill skunk guts. The gibbering moron was finally gone.

I sat back down at the computer and stared at the blank screen. Something brilliant was on the verge of being created, a future masterpiece ready to be born, yet the stubborn words would not come.

Letter to a Future Tyrant

Dear Sir, Madam, or Sentient Computer Overlord,

Congratulations! Though guile, hard work or insidious machinations, you’ve managed to wield undisputed, absolute power.

Most likely you ascended by convincing people of your flawless abilities or maniac vision. You might have used your charisma or physical force to murder thousands or millions of people you marginalized or demonized. Despite how you achieved the position of world dictator, I feel it incumbent to write and warn you of the eventual ramifications of your meddling.

I’m speaking from a framework of the late 20^th century to early 21^st century, and don’t know what your world looks like or how it operates. I’m assuming if humanity didn’t unleash nuclear hellfire, that there is a functioning society in your time, and that it operates much as ours did; people are born, have childhoods, fall in love, work, have children, get old and die. In my time, we even had moments of reflection called prayer, where we’d thank the great wizard in the sky we called God. Assuming religion isn’t abolished or outlawed in the future, I’d like to think people in your time still gather peacefully and pray.

One problem from my time hinged upon these prayers. People began praying for everything, and to not pray meant you were some sort of secular humanist or subversive. As they did in the past, politicians began summoning God for protection against people who thought differently. People turned against each other, persecuting those who sought reason and understanding through science and logic.

We became too obsessed with material culture, with acquiring things. We cloistered our minds against any new ideas, fearing them like a child fears an imaginary closet monster. People became isolated, partisan politics dominated and strength determined by who had the most guns and money.

In short, we were intellectually bankrupt, and extinguishing the flame of knowledge usually leads to social decay and disorder.

These conditions probably fermented your rise to power.

Despite our technology and over 7,000 years of human civilization, we comfortably descended into a new Dark Ages, one where humanity contentedly pushed buttons while ignoring each other. We stopped dreaming. We failed to look forward. We turned our backs on everything history taught us, on the valuable lessons of our ancestors.

Maybe you capitalized on this weakness to further divide us. Using Machiavellian tactics you crafted a world where you became the savior, the guardian of tomorrow. You became the sky wizard, promising prosperity while shackling everyone in chains.

Here’s the thing about humanity maybe you’ve realized. Humans are hopeful. We naturally desire a better situation, and no matter how bleak things get, we fight to maker things better.

Even though you terrorize a population into submission, your reign won’t last a thousand years. Emperors, kings and dictators throughout history always die, and their crazed, debauched reigns always crash and burn, whether through revolution, war or social change. History does not stand still, and neither do people. Time will eventually wash away your misdeeds and you’ll be regarded as a ridiculous nightmare as Hitler is to us.

There have always been people like you throughout history. Delusional, egotistical sociopaths who claim God is on your side. You view your fellow man as chattel, and through slavery, war or some other goofy excuse, you murdered, raped and sold millions to slake your insane appetite. Empires are always lubricated by the blood of the weak.

Yet even the most powerful leaders are often felled by their own delusions.

You failed to calculate that no matter how repressive your rule, there will always be those who resent you. In trying to bend humanity, you break them.

You become the schoolyard bully.

Everybody hates bullies.

One day, your frightened subjects, who spent years quivering in terror at your very footfalls will cease being afraid.

The tide will turn against you. The flood of resentment will eventually topple you and like every megalomaniac in history, you’ll ask yourself how this could’ve happened.

You’ll be exposed as a sham, a charlatan and a thug. The reality you fashioned out of force and might will implode.

You failed to grasp a few universal truths: Kindness works. Compassion is necessary. Compromise is essential.

Treat people with dignity, no matter their ages or genders, or whether they’re straight, gay, in a wheelchair, overweight or mentally ill. It’s okay if you don’t agree with them, but all people have basic human rights, even if they believe in a sky wizard or not, or even if their skin color is different from yours.

Freedom should be embraced and the marketplace of ideas must flourish. Diversity is not just some politically correct buzzword; it could spell the difference between a content populace and one enslaved.

The United States in my time is a democratic republic slowly transforming into a plutocratic oligarchy. The gulf between rich and poor is growing wider. Corporations and the moneyed classes are gobbling up everything, and sowing an atmosphere of paranoia. We’re teetering on the edge of the abyss, peering at the bottomless pit of your reality.

One need only review history to grasp at how power has been misused and abused over the centuries. Empires rose and fell and at one rare junction, men plotted to seize power for themselves, for the people. This began a brief experiment called the United States of America, which proved too fragile and succumbed to hubris and greed. 

Where does that leave you, oh munificent leader perched upon a throne of human skulls? 

In charge of puppet world, a sycophant's paradise. 

Obey or perish. 

So enjoy what precious little time you have left. Eventually, time will bury you. Worm food rotting in a box. Forever dead. The grave your ultimate reward. Despite all of your rapacious ambitions, your reign will eventually fade, your name forgotten. 

I write you this message from the past not to cajole or torment, but to enlighten and persuade. A man's deeds are how he's remembered, how he forges his legacy. What we do now could shape the world for years to come, even if it's trivial and small, such as a kind word or unselfish gesture. 

Make your legacy matter. Choose love over hatred, courage over fear. See good in yourself and others. It might be too late for the rulers of my age, who are obsessed with superstition and blinded by ignorance. We'd rather drown public discourse by shouting instead of patently listening. As your days unfold torturing and impaling your subjects for not genuflecting when you walk past them or setting people of fire for not bidding you a good morning, heed my words.

Don't be a dick. 

Your several cloned offspring will one day thank you for not unleashing the mutated hounds upon humanity and razing the Neutral Zone all because you were cranky after your nap. 

Why I Quit Standup

WARNING: The following essay contains strong language/adult content and may cause heart palpitations, nervous fidgeting, restlessness, unbridled outrage and/or uncomfortable silence.

My comedic saga began in 2006 with a newspaper advertisement encouraging amateurs to attend a six-week standup comedy class. I’ve always wanted to try standup comedy, believing it my destiny to make drunken strangers laugh. Ever since I recited Bill Cosby’s Wonderfulness album to my fellow 7^th graders in the school cafeteria, comedy flowed in my blood.

Or so I thought.

The first time I tried standup was in 1991 at Glassboro State College on student talent night. I did it twice, and both five-minute sets were complete trainwrecks. I didn’t actually get booed, but the hostility was palpable. If you’ve never been heckled, you’ve never truly performed standup.

Having put those early uncomfortable experiences 20 years behind me, I was ready to try again, because,

A.     I was a complete masochist, and

B.     I was a gullible idiot who hadn’t the slightest notion of what I was getting into.

Two standup comics taught the class, which attracted some pretty frightening people. If you think the bus stop at 2 a.m. is a freak show, take an amateur comedy class. Lunatic central. A school teacher who did a bit about his whiny Colombian girlfriend, a pizza shop worker with five kids who joked about Nintendo games, a construction worker with an obnoxious obsession for celebrities, and an ex-professional wrestler whose colorful euphemism for penis was “rancid piss dispenser.”

We slogged through the course and eventually performed in front of audiences. They videotaped our sets. I have yet to watch mine, because I’m not into disaster porn.

After the class, a few of us formed a comedy troupe and struck out on our own, driving to shitty bars and clubs for a few minutes on stage. 

Comedians are damaged. Irretrievably psychologically wounded outsiders who crave attention and praise. A balancing act of ego and insecurity teetering on the brink of self-destruction. I would be a natural fit.

Plummeting down the rabbit hole into the comedian’s warped universe, I had no inkling of what awaited me.

Comedy, like anything worth pursuing, is hard work.

In time, you learn to craft a unique set, a series of jokes and bits wholly yours. The routine should say something about your exclusive experiences and impressions of the world. But in assembling this elusive set, you must tap into the powerful Zen-like notion of humor. Learn what is funny and work it like a blacksmith forges iron, fashioning it into a sophisticated bit, filigrees of hilarity, ornamentation of chuckles.

The hardest thing about standup is actually doing it. Hauling your ass on stage after butterflies fluttering in your stomach, the flop sweats, the anxiousness and anticipation. When the emcee calls your name and the audience throws you polite applause.

Then you’re in the spotlight, blinded, trying to discern the shuffling shapes in the darkness.

You grab that microphone and must make a choice. Will I bomb or will I kill?

You launch into your bit, stumble, recover, and the seconds tick by like an eternity. Yet you weather it all. The hecklers. The pauses. Forgetting details and backtracking. Staring nervously at your set list. It looked easy on TV, but they’re professional standup comics. George Carlin. Bill Hicks. Louie CK, Patton Oswalt. Ricky Gervais. All of them faced terrible audiences, dodgy club owners, and anonymity.

Yet they persevered. For them, it was the thrill of killing.

Killing is good. I killed twice, and the satisfaction, the approbation from the audience’s applause, carried me through the weekend. Euphoria. A blissful high. There’s nothing in the world like creating something and having strangers enjoy it.

Our travels continued, and we clamored for more stage time. When you start out, you play the most atrocious dives. I performed standup at a bowling alley, a bar, a Moose lodge, a coffee shop and a strip club. Nothing but class.

I had a really bad set at the Comedy Cabaret in northeast Philadelphia. I have it all on tape. Schindler’s List was funnier by comparison.

My worst set ever was performed at a Salem County country club in February. The audience consisted of my girlfriend, two comics, the event promoter and the promoter’s family. All I remember from that night (besides the inherent urge to slash my wrists) was the promoter doing ten minutes on receiving an enema from his wife. And I thought Lenny Bruce was a revolutionary comedic talent.

When you’re starting out, humor is scatological, crude and childish. Through time you learn subtleness and sensibility and aren’t so gratuitously vulgar. You can be funny without wallowing in the muck. Unfortunately, the muck was where I felt most comfortable because, 

A. I was a masochist, and

B. I was an idiot.

Here’s an example of one of my earliest jokes:

“You know how they say eating Chinese food makes you hungry and hour later? Does eating out a Chinese woman make you horny an hour later?”

Somebody actually left the room after I told that joke. Comedy club in Atlantic City, I told that joke and a white-bearded man in a red shirt left the room. Afterwards a fellow comic told me I had just walked Santa Claus.

So why did I leave the promising and lucrative world of standup comedy? The old adage timing is everything applied to my personal life. At the time, I was embroiled in a messy divorce and wasn’t connecting with people while onstage. You could only do so many ex-wife jokes before it becomes tiresome. Like listening to an ancient record that keeps skipping, hissing and popping. After a while, its not music. It’s a cacophony of shit.

I grew jaded of the routine, of scribbling observations and punch lines in a notebook, of traveling to backwoods bars, of the futile circlejerk rotation of opening, closing, emceeing. Southern New Jersey isn’t New York or Los Angeles. The audience for the brand of comedy I wanted to pursue, a more sardonic and intellectual variety, wasn’t here.

Writing is my one true passion. Words are always on the periphery, lurking nearby. Comedy is something I do because I feel silly or am comfortable enough. Yet writing is what I was put on Earth to do, not make dick jokes to a rowdy crowd. I’d rather be the sage on the page than the fool on stage.

So I fled the open mics, the smoke-filled clubs, the late nights driving to and from gigs. Somewhere in that ridiculous blur I had fun. Met some nice people and some assholes. Had my time on stage and performed a flawless ten-minute set. Performing in public frightens most people, and I did it. In a way I conquered a fear and learned a bit about the world while making an ass of myself.

That’s what life is, when you get down to it.

We’re all up on a stage, exposed, naked and vulnerable. Eyes upon us. Nowhere to run. You just have to plow through it the best you can. Maybe you’ll get heckled, maybe applauded.

But you never know until you try. So get on the stage.

Not For Sale

Last night a local developer (you know the type: yuppie, dough-bellied, handshake like a cold fish) called me up and queried whether I’d cover a meeting for him. He said he didn’t want me to report anything from the meeting, just attend and take notes for him while he was out of town.

He mentioned his application was coming before this one board and wanted to know what happened.

I replied since I’m a reporter, I’d publish what went on at the meeting.

He said he didn’t want me to report on anything, just takes notes, then he asked me “how much something like that would cost.”

Essentially, he wanted a recording secretary.

I gruffly (because I get that way when someone insults my intelligence) explained I wouldn’t be attending the meeting.

“Do you know any reporter I could ask who would do that for me?” he asked.

“Someone without ethics or a conscience,” I proffered.

Here’s the part where I launch into a diatribe about how people in this one-horse town don’t fathom or “get” what I do.

I’m not a lone gun for you to hire to waste my time attending meetings for you. If I do go to these dreadfully boring things it’s because someone pays me to do it and write for publication.

Get that last part, Stephen Hawking?

Write. For. Publication.

I hate wasting time. I sit at these meetings (and are they ever tedious and boring) taking notes and recording them. I do this not because I’m inspired by local zoning ordinances, but because the man at the end of the hall takes the words, edits them and puts them in the newspaper. Then he cuts me a check and I use the money to pay bills so I can escape the hellish existence of debtor’s prison.

Poverty notwithstanding, it’s quite a racket, this. It affords me a chance to meet people, make connections and inform the hybrid monkey creatures inhabiting this island.

Informing the public. What a novel concept.

Telling people what the need to know is vital to preserving our country.

A well-informed citizenry, yadda yadda yadda. You’ve heard that spiel before.

Problem is, the quality of news you’re consuming - like hoagies filled with Frito’s - will one day kill you.

The news cycle is already saturated with over-indulgent, sensationalistic garbage. Celebrities, shootings and boobies. That’s what sells. Throw in a road accident and someone’s grandma and we have a contender for the Pulitzer Prize.

We’ve gone from a nation of smaller, regional and daily newspapers to a kingdom of media conglomerates. Dailies and weeklies are folding, leaving the Internet and television as the prime sources of information. Of these two, I’m hitching my wagon to the Internet. Words allow far more in-depth reporting and convey a truer sense of information than sound bites and ten seconds of canned footage.

Once, a smarmy real estate agent (you know the type: Lexus driver, trophy wife, card-carrying member of the Aryan Nation) was having a party congratulating himself on being in business for umpteen many years. His secretary called and wanted to know how much it would cost to pay me to cover his party. This was a private house party with his co-workers and family.

What am I, a magician or clown? I don’t do parties. That’s not my job.

Apparently, the elite believes you pay reporters to provide the news, as long as it’s glowing and omits all controversy.

Hire a public relations firm, not a journalist.

Journalists starve, while public relations professionals are covered in gold doubloons and feted royally.

We receive scorn and derision, they’re treated like living gods and given a pick of several nubile women and nectar-filled drinking horns.

It’s no wonder why the elitists disregard reporters. Harsh truths don’t matter to the ones who benefit from ignoring them. If you’re privileged enough to live in a ruby and emerald encrusted mansion, why do you care about people starving in the streets?

If the Almighty Dollar is your god, the plight of the pitiful rabble aren't keeping you awake at night.

So they call us liberal boat-rockers and biased parasites. They dwell in a cocoon of ignorance and disregard all news if it vivisects their sacred cows.

They think they can buy us with cash, as if we were hookers at a Shriner’s convention.

Someone’s got to keep their backs to the wind and inform Joe and Jill Lunchpail that something is rotten in America.

Bribing reporters doesn’t make you a slick businessman. You can’t use us as secretaries or public relations hacks. Having scruples is not a weakness. Turning down a rich bully’s money doesn’t mean you’re a naive idealist. 

It means you’re nobody’s dupe.

It means you have principles. 

It means you seek facts, no matter how uncomfortable they might be. 

Just A Writer

Some writers construct symphonies with words, mastering semantics, cadence, and rhythm. Flowing poetry, seamless and succinct. Displaying a copious vocabulary, a knack for wordplay and nailing everything perfectly.

I have yet to do this.

They construct mansions with their words, elegant spaces with comfortable nooks, sprawling gardens and classical elements. I construct a hovel, whose cardboard walls are flimsy and in danger of collapsing. Yet I can erect the four walls, so that’s something.

With every story I write, I’m learning. With every story I read, I’m learning. The mantra they teach you about writing is: Read. Write. Repeat. Read different genres, write something out of your comfort zone and continue doing this until you’re dead.

Writing should not be a dilettante hobby. It’s a lifelong commitment. It’s the monkey on your shoulder flinging its poop at you whenever you get complacent, whenever you feel sorry for yourself and want to sit on the couch, eat Cheetos and watch “2 Broke Girls”.

That’s especially sad.

The monkey smacks you on your head, urging you to continue, forcing you back into Word City, driving you forward. It pries your mouth open with its little monkey fingers and pours coffee down your gullet. It chants eek eek ook ook and gets you to regroup and write.

You are not a human being with free will. You are that monkey’s bitch. Mistress Monkey with the 9-inch stiletto heels and bullwhip, smacking you around, forcing you to meet deadlines.

You’re a writer. You’re weird. Get used to it.

Twenty years ago I came down to Cape May County to work in newspapers. I started out editing obituaries, because 23-year olds find typing and proofreading death notices mentally stimulating and fun. From there came a plethora of mundane assignments; covering the freeholder board, local zoning boards, school boards and town councils.

Journalism doesn’t have a monkey muse on your shoulder. It has a gorilla on your shoulder, crushing your spine, wearing you out and thrashing you about like a suitcase in a 1972 American Tourister commercial.

It’s brutal, the hours and pay suck and as far as respect, Congress has a higher approval rating. The print media is a dinosaur going extinct. In 2013, the Wall Street Journal named newspaper reporters as the worst job in America. That means the guy who cleans the elephant shit in the zoo has more job satisfaction than newspaper reporters.

I dedicated my adult life to a sinking ship. Cynicism, gloomy prognostications and hand-wringing fill newsrooms. The once idealistic and gullible writer I was became squashed under the gorilla’s fist. The hot breath from the monster’s nostrils down my neck. A stressful, thankless parade of writing on deadline, getting a paper out and doing it all again. Not allowing myself time to relax. Not laughing. Letting the corrupt system running the world chip away at the writer I was.

No wonder why so many reporters are alcoholics.

It’s taken me years to ignore the false doomsayers in the media and politics and refocus my energies on writing. Only on the cusp of middle age do I grasp the importance of words, of this bizarre gift and curse.

When you’re north of 40, you’ve lived half your life. You assess yourself, where you’ve been, where you’d like to go. I didn’t want my remaining years consumed with further regret. I refuse to be a washed-up hack, toiling in front of a computer screen. If I’m going to further commit to this, I’m doing it my way.

Full throttle, balls deep, in the zone.

This career is not just another way to pay bills. It’s not just about competing with other newspapers and websites for readers. Since editorial doesn’t generate revenue, as one editor told me, I am not as important as the advertising department. I disagree. The pen is mightier than the sword. It’s mightier than an F-16 fighter jet carrying a 100-megaton nuclear warhead. Words can do more than entertain and amuse. They can change the world. They can send the forces of corruption and evil running for the hills. They can topple careers, expose abuse and neglect and burrow right into your gut like pinworms with super powers.

Words inflame your passions and raise the dead. Lazarus frantically typing away, cursing the darkness and shining the Fresnel lens of truth. Your Mighty Word Beacon illuminates the night, scattering ugliness across the land, like the deformed demonic critters from a Hieronymus Bosch triptych. With your skill and perseverance, you squash every one of those corrupt buggers.

Every. Single. One. 

Maybe there’s a tiny bit of the idealistic young man inside me, even though I’m old and petulant most days. Perhaps keeping a sense of humor, a need for satire and a reputation for honesty and truth helps.

Especially in a small town like this, where truth is often swept under the rug for expediency’s sake, and superficiality replaces substance.

But I wouldn’t know anything about that.

I’m just a writer.

Come At Me, Bro

Life is the ultimate bully, picking on 98-pound weakling you, kicking sand in your face and stealing your girl.

When things are at their darkest, life bursts from its seedy grime-covered hole and starts poking your chest. “Come at me, bro!” it taunts. “Come at me!”

At age 11, I lost both my grandparents, one to a heart attack, the other to liver cancer. Life left a traumatic impression, like waking to a rat skittering across your chest.

“Come at me, bro!” life mocked.

I wasn’t like the other students and was left behind a grade. It wasn’t that I lacked motivation or intelligence; I just wanted the pain to stop. Wanted people to listen to me. Didn’t want them to tease me.

“Come at me, bro! Come at me!”

Every girl who rejected me in school, who made fun of my last name, who laughed because I was withdrawn. The fights after school on the playground. Humiliating. Blood on concrete. Muffled sobs into a pillow because I didn’t want my parents to hear.

“Come at me, bro!"

Jobs with asshole bosses. Suffering the ridicule and the positions I didn’t want but slogged through because I needed the income. Trying to squeeze out of the shell suffocating me.

Life became a drunken lout and boorish jackass.

“Come at me, bro! Come at me!”

When I struggled through an unhappy marriage and stressful divorce, the disillusionment poured over me like waterboarding. Whispers and promises, paying bills and drowning in a torpid routine. You’re flawed and she makes you feel small, makes you regret. Makes you attempt suicide. Noose slung over beam in garage.

 “Come at me, bro!”

What you thought was love was only lust. Drunken tryst with someone you regarded as your soul mate. Turns out you were too immature for anything deep.

Hurtful words said in the heat of the moment. Hurtful words you could not take back. Life calling you a loser, a failure, a nobody.

Life slaps you, punches you, gives you a bloody nose.

“Come at me, bro!”

A series of missteps, accusations you’re incompetent. Self doubt. She texts you, calling  you a liar and saying you’re afraid of life. Your writing career is a joke. What the hell do you have to say? Back pain. A herniated disc. Hypochondriac. Munchausen syndrome because you want others to feel sympathy.

You just want someone to feel anything for you.

Life jabs you repeatedly, uppercut, overhand, hook, liver punch. Staggering and stumbling, seeing stars.

“Come at me, bro! Come at me.”

Then you do the most unexpected and surprising thing, when life has you on the ropes and you’re drooling blood and black puffy eyes obscure your vision.

You punch back.

You’re Muhammad Ali, Rocky Balboa and Popeye the Sailor beating the shit out of life.

That’s all you can stand, you can’t stands no more.

When life retaliates, you don’t throw in the towel. You defend yourself and swing.

No matter how much life bullies you, knocks you down or trips you, you don’t give it the satisfaction of quitting. Punch back, spit blood, grunt like a wolverine on steroids and say “Is that all you got? I’m still standing. I won’t be undone. I’m tired of your bullshit, tired of feeling sad and insignificant. I will kick your ass.”

That moment life realizes you’re not weak and easily intimidated. It wobbles like a battered crane, hobbling on one foot. Mouth agape, stunned into silence.

You lean over, scrunch up your face and say to life, “Come at me, bro.”