P.J. Creelman's Blog

Kicking the Habit
By PJ Creelman

The day after my seventeenth birthday, I—along with several of my high school classmates—traveled to Europe for my first time. The trip occurred the last time it was dangerous for Americans to travel abroad. We had a U.S. President who —right or wrong—was perceived as a trigger-happy, dangerous gun-slinging imperialist. (He wasn’t the first, and sadly, has proven to be not the last.)

Americans who willingly risked traveling abroad were easy to spot: Ostensibly, they looked like Americans, but had Canadian Flag patches sewn onto their backpacks.

One may ask: “How do you know they were Amurricans, and not Canajans?”

My answer comes in two parts…

1) They didn’t sound like Canadians, eh? (Canadians use “Eh?” the way people from “The states” use “Y’know” and “huh?” Oh… and periods. They use them like periods. Furthermore, when Canadians speak Canadian, it sounds fluid and un-forced, bordering on the lingual equivalent of a fruit smoothie. When Ah-Murr-icans pretend to be Canajans, it sounds very forced. “We’re gonna go out and buy some unsweetened Iced Tea, aaaaayyyyy?!?” (As opposed to “Back-in-a-few, eh?”)

2) The Canadians were all running around looking like smartly-dressed Americans, but they had Australian flags sewn to their backpacks.
Anyway, the first stop on the way to the European Continent was a few hours of layover in New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport.

Prior to the trip, my mom had painstakingly—through the auspices of AAA, our banks, foreign consulates and I think even some dabbling in international stock markets—arranged for me to possess roughly $20 in British, French, Swiss, and Austrian currency, as well as about $20 U.S. and much more in Deutschmarks, as Germany was the primary focus of our trip.

Armed with $20 and time to kill during my first (and to-date only) foray on the East Coast, I set out to find something uniquely “New York” (aside from a mugging.)

Our German teacher forbade us from leaving the airport. (This was fine with me, as I was jet-lagged, sleep-deprived, and ostensibly alone in a place that eats West-Coast-Dwellers for a late afternoon snack. (Given that it was late afternoon, I didn’t want to take any chances.))

I shambled through the airport, leaving our terminal (Twelve-B) in search of a way to spend money (Read: Entering Europe with holes burned into my pockets.)

The airport’s air conditioning was malfunctioning that day, creating a potentially lethal situation in early July on the Eastern Seaboard. At an international airport it created conditions that felt (and smelled) like a cross between an armpit covered in limburger cheese, and a crock pot filled with cabbage, broccoli and soy sauce.

My quest to find something “uniquely New York” quickly fizzled into a search for something cold, refreshing, and taxed locally to help the municipalities here.

I happened on a Häagen-Dazs Ice Cream shop and got in line behind my German Teacher.

The prices, while outrageous, were well within the boundaries of my cash-on-hand.
Three scoops of designer, brand-name ice cream and nine dollars later, I headed out of the swelteringly hot ice cream shop and made my back onto the swelteringly hot concourse, armed with a colorful assortment of chocolate, vanilla and chocolate chip mint ice creams.

As I exited the shop, I discovered a terrifying truth about the relationship between hot and humid weather, nonfunctional air conditioning and airport ice cream.

1) Ice cream and hot, humid air do not play nicely. They don’t mix. (OK, the ice cream mixes… with itself, but this was not the desired result. I wanted the mixing to occur in my stomach.

2) Ice cream had been melting, dripping and spilling all day long, all over travelers, vendors and muggers. All over tables, chairs and the floor.

While I traditionally do not walk on tables and chairs, I do frequently take the floor.

Now, to the credit of the Environmental Services employees at Kennedy International Airport in early July, 1986, on that hot and humid, sweaty-ice-cream day, they were proactively wiping down tables and chairs and were mopping the floors.

As I exited the ice cream shop, I immediately wished the Environmental Services cleaning staff had been slightly less proactive.

Let’s just say, as I hit the concourse, I hit the concourse. My tennis shoes hit the slickened floor and then, as gravity took over, so did the rest of me.

If those darned fastidious cleaners hadn’t been so darned proactive, I would have been fine because:

A) The floor wouldn’t have been wet (read: slippery.)
B) The floor would have, in fact, been sticky with all the ice cream drippings.

Either way, I now had an emergency appointment with terra firma (aka Concoursa-Firma).

I reacted like any red-blooded American Teen-ager would, especially if this red-blooded teen didn’t like the sight of his own red blood. I squawked loudly, flailed my arms looking for a handhold, and fell anyway.

I need to take a moment to address the concept of “Squawking loudly.” There is a noise that I emit when I am startled or sincerely frightened. This noise can best be described as a cross between an eight-year-old girl screaming, and a cougar’s shriek.

I have tried repeatedly to duplicate this noise in times when I was not startled or sincerely frightened, but the results have been disappointing at best. Typically when I’m not frightened, I just sound like an intoxicated moose bellowing.

In this case, I flailed, gesticulating wildly, all the while sounding like a cougar pouncing on an eight-year-old girl.

Result: My carefully-crafted concoction of tri-colored, tri-flavored ice cream, no longer held in place by my grip, launched in a parabolic arc on a trajectory that would have made NASA proud.

In the words of the late Neil Armstrong: “That’s one small slip for a man, one giant messy spill for mankind.”

In my mind’s eye… well… my mind’s ear I could hear the “Splop-Splopp-Splurch!” of three scoops of ice cream attacking the patrons behind me.

To be honest, I was too busy fulfilling my appointment with the floor to notice the plight of my frozen dairy dessert.

For a half second, I expected my aerial ice cream assault to be followed by a hail of gunfire. Luckily for me, this was Kennedy Airport and not LAX.

I tried to recover, hoping to beat a hasty retreat to Gate 12-B before somebody caused me more bodily harm than that which I’d already experienced. As I started to extricate myself from the slick tiles, I heard a female shriek in a thick Nu Yawwk accent. (Expletives deleted to maintain a PG rating.)
“J---- C---- You F------ Son of a B-----!”

(OK, I’ll give you a hint, My Lord and savior was separated from my lineage by an F-Bomb.)

I turned to face a very angry-looking woman, covered head to toe in ice cream.
She was dressed in a very dowdy black and white outfit.

My ice cream made her outfit look like a tribute to Salvador Dali and Jackson Pollock. There was chocolate on the white, vanilla on the black, and mint chocolate chip all over. At least I didn’t get strawberry!

The triple-threat of ice cream was roll-oozing down her body trying to cover the floor in another slip-proofing sticky extreme.

I stood transfixed, trying to match the complaint with the complainant. She looked infuriated, like she wanted to throttle me, or take a swing at me, or swing a throttle at me.

“I’m sorr… uh… Sorry… uhmmmm I’m sorry…”
Something registered in the back of my brain. Somewhere between cognizance and that “fight or flight” brain-stem response, there lies a small processor that plays and replays things, fitting pieces of the puzzle together at a reasonably high pace. It’s the part that says, “Hey, the shelf tag said $8.97, not $10.50,” and “Hey… the key chain in the ignition looks a lot like your…>>Slam<< …keychain.”

My processor was replaying the verbal body slam I’d just received.

It had put two and two together and got three scoops. It had seen black and white and got Jackson “Salvador Dali” Pollock. It had noticed that the source of the complaint was, if nothing else, unusual for the situation.

“Uhhh… you’re a nun,” I said.

She looked furious. Her face was a bright red… but there was a glimmer of recognition in her eye. Her hand went to cover her mouth. Her face faded from a bright red of rage to a… uh… bright red of embarrassment.

Of all the Ice Cream Joints in the world, I found the one that had some tough-as-nails Harlem Street Nun patrolling the concourse.

In her eyes there was now a look of shocked betrayal. Her eyes said Did those words come from my mouth?

Now I don’t know if she was a Nun-In-Training, or a rookie nun, or a grizzled veteran, or an undercover federal aviation agent. Because of this, I’ll never know how she interpreted what I said next…

“But, you’re forgiven,” I smiled.

Now, what I, the ice cream-deprived protestant teen-ager in tennis shoes meant was, “God has forgiven you of your sins.”

She, the Undercover-Cop-Catholic-Gangsta-Harlem-Street-Nun, now adorned with a habit that had experienced a rare baptismal trifecta of chocolate/vanilla/mint chocolate chip, may have heard “I forgive you for taking the Lord’s name in vain after you began wearing nine-dollars-worth of designer ice cream.”

If that was the case, bless her heart.

There was a moment of silence.

“Is there any…” I started.

“No,” she finished.

“Are you cert…”

“Yes,” she said in a tone much icier than my formerly frozen dairy treat.

With that, I beat a hasty retreat in the direction of Gate 12-B. (There is no thirteenth gate. There’s 10, 11, 12-A, 12-B, 14, 15…etc. I wasn’t at gate thirteen, but by golly, I had the luck of Gate-13.)

My mind reeled. Was she a police officer, or security? A new convert? Mother Tourettes-sa? Was she an opportunist who immediately would grab herself a spoon and make the most of her nine-dollar ice cream bath?

I reached my terminal and pulled a novelization of the movie “Aliens,” in the hope of clearing my mind.

My German teacher—who had gotten away from the shop just moments ahead of my date dump with Mother Earth and Sister Siouxsie and the Banshees—was already seated at the ticket window, eating her treat.

Between licks of her Pralines-n-Cream cone, Frau Ross asked, “Where’s your ice cream?”

“Uhhhh…” I stammered… “Uhhh… I got nun of it.”

She looked at me for a moment before shrugging and continuing to devour her own semi-frozen dairy treat.


Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight

On my eighteenth birthday, through no fault (or desire) of my own, I registered for the United States’ “Selective Service.” This was not so much out of any sense of patriotism so much as I happened to be at a US Post Office on my eighteenth birthday.

For those of you who don’t know (ie: females and the occasional random foreign reader of my work, or ex-pat,) this process entails reading a four-page document which concisely explains that, while you are required to sign up for the draft, there has not been a draft of the US Military for decades.

Then you register for the draft!

I dutifully filled out my paperwork and dutifully mailed it off to “The Other” Washington.

Then I patiently waited. I knew that somewhere on the East Coast, a team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats was hard at work, inputting the names, dates of birth, addresses and Social Security Numbers of thousands of reticent and unsuspecting 18-year-old boys, all of whom had read—OK, some probably skimmed— the four-page “Don’t Worry, We Haven’t Had A Draft in Decades” Brochure, and then registered for the draft.

My waiting ended some weeks later when I received a letter confirming that I had been warmly welcomed to the happy regiments of draftable lads who needn’t worry, because we haven’t had a draft in decades.

The letter in question was sent to satisfy the Federal Government’s need to be absolutely certain that indeed I knew my name, social security number, address and date of birth. It contained the instructions: “Please check to confirm this information is correct.”

I scanned the document and made a startling discovery!

According to my team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats, I had actually been born two years earlier than my parents (and birth certificate) said I was! Suddenly, a second P.J. Creelman, a twenty-year-old P.J. Creelman was born.

My “don’t worry, kid, you’ll never get drafted” number reflected a Date-Of-Birth two years earlier.

Suddenly, the follow-up instructions became very important. According to them, I needed to “circle any mistakes, correct them and return documentation for processing.”

I did as instructed, dashing off a quick note, the message of which was, “NO, I am not twenty years old,” and mailed it back to “The Other Washington.”

Now, I cannot rule out that a District-of-Columbia-based team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats was merely the victim of my bad handwriting. Nor can I rule out that the team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats was merely the product (read: victim) of a low-quality public education.

What I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt is that I was either the victim of my bad handwriting, or the lackluster education of my team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats.

About two weeks later, I receive a quickly dashed-off retaliatory note, the effect of which was “Yeah? Prove it!”

By this point, I was getting fed up with the whole process. (One could argue that this had been going on for two years now!)

I rationalized that I had done my bit, first by registering for the “We’re-not-going-to-have-a” Draft to begin with! I had read the patriotic four-page brochure assuring me there hadn’t been a draft for decades. I registered. I scanned the letter of confirmation, as determined by my team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats. I sent the letter of correction, confirming that, in accordance with federal law, I had registered on my eighteenth and not twentieth birthday!

I had done my part for God and Country! I did what any red-blooded teenaged American boy would do in this situation.

In other words: I ignored it.

I also ignored the follow-up letter, which said “Since you haven’t ‘proven it’ yet, your file has been pulled from the system and flagged. We await your response.”

I don’t understand why this team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats, who couldn’t discern between a handwritten “9” and a “7” couldn’t assume that it wasn’t lost in the Highly-Trained Postal System.
I ignored four more “prove-it” letters. Each one reminded me that “While there hasn’t been a draft in decades, you subversive punk, you are still required by law to register for it!”

What troubled me the most was that they weren’t satisfied by my word on the issue. Nor were they able enough to “think outside the check-a-box” that it might seem odd that an eighteen- (or twenty-) year old man knew what his fricking birthdate was!

Furthermore, it was apparent that this subversive punk, in addition to not knowing what year he was born in, decided to commit a federal crime by waiting TWO YEARS to register for the non-existent draft! They seemed to think that I thought it would be fun to celebrate the second anniversary of my non-registration crime to finally register!

One would like to think that somewhere over in “The Other Washington,”, there would be some sort of all-encompassing database (like perhaps in the Social Security Administration, or the Passport Offices) that would contain data including my date of birth. (According to my Christian Youth Camps, there was a super-powerful computer nicknamed “The Beast,” that contained all these data, and eventually would implant a microchip in your forehead or wrist to prevent these sorts of technical hiccups.)

It would seem that one of the members of my team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats could open a screen… (OK, this was the 1980s…) … open a file folder and get this information without sending mildly threatening letters 3000 miles across the country. One would think that there might be a team of even More-Highly-Trained Bureaucrats watch-dogging my information and advising the Standard-Highly-Trained (but publicly-educated) Bureaucrats.

But… NO! Instead, I had to dig out my birth certificate and mail it to them to prove that I knew how freaking old I was!

All of this was to satisfactorily convince a Highly-Trained (publicly-educated) Bureaucrat who had little better to do. (Keep in mind, this was 1987. This was before people could play “Solitaire” on their computers, and “Tetris” was still a closely-guarded Soviet/Communist Secret.)

Without even trying to, the Highly-Trained Bureaucracy gave birth to a smarmy 18- (or 20-) year-old war protestor. And the worst part was, because there hadn’t been a draft in decades, there was no war to protest! Despite my frustration with the Department of Highly-Trained Selective Service Bureaucrats, I had no outlet for my discontent!

(You can’t burn your draft card if they don’t freaking send it to you!)

…Not that I would actually burn the thing, (that’d be a crime,) but I might have burned a photocopy of it!

And so, my waiting game continued. I went about my life, accumulating a sizeable stack of mildly threatening letters. These letters were so threatening that they even threatened the sender with a “$300 penalty for Other-Than-Official use!”

The Highly-Trained Bureaucrats, (or their Highly-Trained Bureaucratic Computers) continued to send letters reminding me that I had nothing to fear from signing up for the draft. After all, I was registering for something that didn’t exist for decades!

Then, more than three months after this whole debacle started, the Highly-Trained (but grievously-undereducated) Bureaucrats began to whistle a new tune.

Because my file had been pulled, I was no longer in their system. They sent me a letter explaining that I had not fulfilled my obligation to register for the non-existent draft. Ostensibly, when they’d pulled my file, >>poooof!<< there was no more P.J. Creelman in the computer that couldn’t do a quick cross-reference with Social Security or the Passport Office.

(Hey, if the State Department, the Department of Defense and Social Security Administration couldn’t communicate among themselves, why on earth would I have expected The Department of Defense to be able to communicate with… The Department of Defense?!?)

This letter said, “Prove it… OR ELSE!!!”

So, I proved it. I grabbed a large envelope and mailed them every scrap of paper that I had received from them to-date. I also included the original copy of my birth certificate. I included photocopies of: my driver’s license, my passport, and my Social Security Card, my birth announcement in the Seattle Times, my Third Grade (Straight-A) report card. In included a newspaper clipping of the previous Tuesday’s “Garfield” comic strip, a two-for-one coupon from Arby’s and even my lucky “Raisin Bran Decoder Ring.” My team of Highly-Trained (but tragically-undereducated) Bureaucrats was getting everything I could throw at them. That poorly-educated, Highly-Trained, Solitaire-deprived Bureaucrat who was probably sitting in a smoke-filled cubicle was going to find out that I was exactly as young and immature as I said I was!

A few weeks later, I received my Birth Certificate back in the mail along with a note that said “Your information is being processed and updated. Thank you for the “Garfield” strip, it really hit me where I live.” (For the record, both my parents absolutely blew a gasket when they found out I’d mailed my original birth certificate to a Solitaire-deprived, Highly-Trained, Disturbingly-Undereducated Bureaucrat.)

I waited.

Finally, a few weeks later, I received a letter stating that they had corrected my date of birth to my actual birth date. (This was a considerable relief to my father, who would have gladly claimed a son for two additional years on his taxes.)

My draft number now reflected the birth date of an eighteen year old, albeit a smarmy, self-obsessed and cocky eighteen year old.

I was relieved. My parents were relieved. Somewhere in “The Other Washington,” a team of Highly-Trained, Soliitaire-(And Tetris-)Deprived, Woefully-Undereducated, Handwriting-Victim Bureaucrats was now available to make a living Hell for another hapless 18-(Or 20-) year-old.

About two weeks later, I received another letter from the Department of Defense. I opened it, expecting a letter of apology, or a notice of surrender, or even my Decoder Ring.

What I didn’t expect was to find out that my previously-pulled file had apparently been reinserted into “the system.” The result was a reconfirmation of the 20-year-old P.J.’s birthdate.
So far as I could tell, I was now registered twice for a draft that had not happened for decades!

If I understood correctly, this meant that I could (and given my luck, likely would) be able to simultaneously be an honorably discharged veteran and a draft-evader.

The Bureaucrats had won. I figured that at this point, my best defense was to wait until the two-years-older version of me was too old to be drafted, and then announce that the two-years-younger version of me had died.

Now, as I rapidly approach old age, the issue is not as critical.

Needless to say, I finally understand what someone says “I’m beside myself” when they are faced with a perplexing issue.

Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight

Rise of the Phoenix Flight

Galactic Information Database
Entry 327-3263827
Official History of WorldCorp World Government:
After the Tax Riots of 2106, the fledgling world government of Earth, United Nations of International Treaties, Amendments and Regional Delegations (UNITARD) struggled to stay solvent. Several major world corporations, led by MetroSoft, CostCorp, Lowes-Depot and McTacoKing began a three-part financial bailout of the UNITARD in the hopes of saving the world’s leadership.
Troubled Assets Refinancing Terms one and two (TART 1, TART 2) in 2108 were followed by Financial Aid Refinancing and Recovery Trust one (FARRT 1) IN 2109.
However, by 2111, UNITARD leadership had used the bailout monies in ways deemed “unwise” and “irresponsible” by then-MetroSoft Chairman Allen Fence IV. This finding was followed by UNITARD responding with a period of “hyper- taxation” of the corporations to regenerate revenue which it would then, in turn, pay to the corporations.
In response, the corporate coalition—which had spent so many trillions of dollars to support UNITARD— immediately demanded repayment of all loans. When UNITARD had no way to repay, the corporations performed a hostile takeover of the government, troubled assets and all.
Allen Fence IV became the first CEO of the newly formed WorldCorp serving three consecutive five-year terms before stepping down.
Jericho “Jerry” Walsh was elected and served from 2128 until his tragic…

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WikiFactNet.org
History of WorldCorp
WorldCorp (Unofficial Motto: Not evil, Just Corrupt) started as the loose conglomeration of approximately 7000 worldwide corporations. Several business tycoons and financiers leveraged their way into control of the world’s assets and political power in 2111 after the TART and FARRT reforms of 2108 and 2109 went unpaid.
By 2113, the first WorldCorp “CEO” was “elected” to take charge. This election was neither a result of a direct vote of the people or even a formal selection process, but rather was because MetroSoft CEO Allen Fence IV had spent the most money in the TART/FARRT bailouts. [This section needs source & fact verification]
Early Years (2112-2127)

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CHAPTER 1

Planet: Earth Continent: NorthAm
Region: NorthUSA
SubRegion: Iowa
City: Dannton, IA

7-May-2153 Time: 23:15 Local
Location: Face’s Tavern

A warm, late-spring rain drenched the enormous man as he shambled toward the only lit building in town.
The long-forgotten township of Dannton, Iowa—Population: 13,705, according to the colloquial faux-wood sign that welcomed visitors at the city limit—was fast asleep, save for this community tavern, located at the center of town. The establishment, called “Face’s,” boasted a garish red-and-green neon sign depicting a stick figure human falling face-first in three stutter-step motions, ending with the words “Get FACED!”
The mountain of a man, checking in at a handspan taller than two meters had to duck as he entered the tavern. He shook off some of the local rainfall, causing puddles of water to quickly form under his booted feet. As the man flapped his overcoat a few times to shake off some of the water, he revealed a shiny green tunic underneath.
He made his way to a booth in a dark corner and casually perused the bar, making a quick assessment of what apparently passed for the local adult entertainment: Arm Wrestling.
There was a very-intoxicated-looking fellow sitting at a table, issuing slurred challenges to the locals who jeered him.
Curious, the new arrival thought. He’s not drunk, but he’s pretending to be anyway. Why?
A black-and-silver WaitBot trundled up to the stranger.
“Greetings, citizen, what can I get for you?” It asked in a raspy metallic voice.
“Ugh…” the stranger replied, wincing. “How about a new vocabulator?”
“Everyone’s a critic,” the WaitBot muttered. “My vocabulator is on back-order with XeroSoft. Perhaps I can interest you in a local Micro?”
The tall man shook his head, inadvertently spraying the WaitBot with a fine mist from his soaked mane.
“Tell me,” the stranger said. “That guy over there…the one in the white tank top…is he truly intoxicated, or is he taking all these yahoos for a ride?”
The WaitBot turned to face the apparently drunk arm-wrestler across the room. It made a series of clicks and beeps as it analyzed the man.
“His BloodAlc is point zero zero zero,” the robot said. “I have not served him in the two hours he’s been here. Hence, he is, in your vernacular, ’taking them for a ride.’ Now about your order.”
The stranger took a deep breath.
“A pitcher, please,” he started. “Of filtered water with a five percent solution of lemon juice.”
“Got it,” came the metallic reply. “However, despite your order being NonAlc, I will need to see proper identification. Any proof of age will suffice. It is a legal requirement of your being inside this esteemed, law-abiding establishment.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m twenty-five,” the wall of human muscle said.
“No sir, while I am adept at the occasional one-liner, pun or other such witticism, I assure you, I do not ‘kid,’” the robot said. “Particularly when a WorldCorp Regional Liquor law violation would result in a subsequent closure of this fine establishment.”
“I, uh… I have no I.D.,” the stranger said, brushing back a forelock of blonde hair. “I…wow, you’re not gonna believe this, but I left it on the moon.”
The robot paused, apparently waiting for a punch line.
“The moon,” it finally said.
“Yeah, uhm…the moon,” the man repeated. “Big lunar satellite…really can’t miss it, unless it’s completely pouring outside.”
The WaitBot emitted a sound that could best be described as a cantaloupe giving birth to a rabid wolverine.
“Sir, you are correct. I do not believe it. You, of course, are aware that you cannot legally travel from the moon to Earth without proper identification,” the Robot said.
“Not with conventional public transportation, no,” the man said.
The WaitBot paused.
“Very well,” it said, finally. “Are you willing to submit to a DNA battery with a tissue sample?” it asked.
“Uh…sure, I guess…”
The robot immediately reached for the man’s hair. Selecting a single strand, the WaitBot yanked.
“Uh…that’s probably not a good…” the man began.
The WaitBot made a perplexed sound as it had apparently lost its grip on the man’s hair. It reached for the stranger again.
“It appears, sir, that the rain has made your hair very slick, even for my rubberized fingers,” it said. “I shall endeavor to make this as painless as possible.”
This time the WaitBot wrapped two strands of the man’s long hair around its right forefinger several times.
“Uh, this really isn’t in your best interest,” the man began. “Is there any other way…”
He was interrupted as the WaitBot yanked roughly.

V V V

Stanley “StarWolf” Wolferton looked blearily across the table, moving his boozy gaze from one challenger to another.
“Awwwright…whoozh next?” he slur-mumbled.
Not too much slurring, he chided himself.
He brushed aside a stray strand of his dark hair, wondering how it had gotten away from his ponytail. He suddenly realized that, if he became too concerned with the hair, it would likely destroy his façade of drunkenness.
“Doezh one of you guyzh wanna try ta arm rassle?” he said, talking to the two hooligans standing in front of him.
One, equipped with a standard “I’m-a-redneck-from-the-rolling-hills” sleeveless-red-flannel-over-white-undershirt-and-blue jeans motif had just scoffed at him. The redneck took a swig from a bottle that StarWolf was pretty sure had not been purchased at this location.
The other local was much larger, smelling strongly of AlcoRoids and Sour Cream and Onion potato crisps.
“Hokay, buddy, yer on,” Sour Cream & Onions said.
StarWolf slowly placed his right elbow on the table.
“Hundred says I win,” StarWolf said.
Not drunk enough, he thought. Gotta be drunk…not too drunk, but drunk.
“Hunnert Fifty says I take you down in unner fifteen seconds,” the onion-scented man said, before he released a raunchy belch.
AlcoRoids, sour cream & onion, Energy Drink and a distinct scent of horseradish-on-ham.
Unnnngh…gotta work fast before those ‘roids give him a boost, StarWolf thought. Gotta distract him.
It was at this moment that a four centimeter-long piece of rubber, steel and wiring flew into the field of view, smacking the ‘roid-laden man in the forehead.
“HEY!” the man bellowed.
“Sorry,” came the raspy metallic reply from the WaitBot across the room. Apparently the hapless service android had just lost four centimeters from the tip of its right forefinger while zealously trying to get a tissue sample from a guest.
StarWolf afforded himself a glance in the direction of the man being age-verified by the WaitBot. One look caused StarWolf to say a silent prayer that the mountainous newcomer didn’t want to rise to an arm-wrestling challenge.
Distraction, distraction, StarWolf thought.
“Look,” he said as his opponent lined up his elbow next to StarWolf’s. “I prob’ly shouldn’t arm wrestle ya, but I’ll guess I’ll make an …expep … exec…eggception.”
“Exception? Huh? Uh…why?” The ‘roid & onion-smelling man seemed increasingly confused, and it showed as he tried to understand StarWolf. “Uh…or…uh…why not…no…uh…why…uh…not?”
The silver and black WaitBot trundled up to the table, reaching between the two to collect its missing digit.
“Sorry for that,” it said raspily.
StarWolf glanced at the computer that would proctor the match. Its countdown timer was almost to zero.
“I’ll make this exception, but I usually don’t …you know… wrestle the ladies,” he said, just as the computerized voice said, “GO.”
“WHAT?!?”
“But hey, yer the ugliest lady I…” StarWolf said, pausing long enough to loudly pin his opponent’s wrist. “…ever saw.”
The ‘roid-soaked-onion-man’s meaty fist pounded the table once as StarWolf defeated him, and then again as he slammed his hand down in fury.
“Why I oughta…”
“Pay up?” StarWolf asked, concisely.
“CRUSH YOU!” the drunk, but muscularly-enhanced beast of a man bellowed.
Now the AlcoRoids were really starting to kick in. The sour cream & onion behemoth charged, wrenching the arm-wrestling table from the floor. This was no small feat, as the table was bolted down. In a swift motion, the man hurled it at StarWolf, who avoided it with ease.
The beastly man started swinging his fists wildly like a windmill, but seemed to settle down to a pretty tough-looking, ground-pounding fighting stance. Suddenly, he was a blur of red flannel, blue jeans and white trash as he charged StarWolf.
StarWolf backed up slowly, continuing to size up his opponent. Probably not likely to take him in a straight toe-to-toe fight, at least not without exposing my true fighting abilities, he thought. He kept backing up until…
…Until he backed into something—someone, really—and his opponent slowed his advance.
StarWolf glanced quickly to his rear to see seven of his earlier arm-wrestling victims, and several of the people who had bet—and lost—against StarWolf, forming a wall behind him.
“He-e-e-e-y, you’re not drunk!” This astute assertion came from a member of the bunch who had blown through more than 600 credits betting against StarWolf.
“Did you guys pick the smartest one of your little crowd to speak up for you?” StarWolf asked.
The angry mob formed a circle around StarWolf.
“Heh, yer really a funny guy,” Onions-and-’Roids said. “Yer a regular Red Skeleton!”
StarWolf cringed internally at the botched reference to a comedian from more than two centuries ago.
“Skelton, that’s Red Skelton,” StarWolf corrected.
The sour cream and onion-scented guy seemed perplexed, especially when his compatriots began snickering at his mistake. It seemed to StarWolf like the man was desperate to regain control of the situation. He chuckled for a moment before coming up with a retort.
For half a second, StarWolf wondered if he’d be able to get out of this mess without too much trouble. Another half-second later, he knew the answer would be yes and no.
“Heh…no, yer gonna be a Skeleton!” The man finally said, after deliberating how he was going to save himself from embarrassment.
Three people lunged for StarWolf with the remaining dozen or so launching themselves into the fray seconds later. The scene looked like a cross between a rugby scrum and a Mixed Martial Arts free-for-all. There were blows-upon-blows of fists to flesh, knees to skulls, elbows to jaws. Cries of anger and pain filled the tavern.
The bartender calmly called the police, pointing his videophone’s camera lens at the melee while he described the situation.

V V V

The mountainous man watched with interest as the arm-wrestling hustle went sour. The smaller guy, still pretending to be drunk, had made quick arm-wrestling work of the rippling pile of AlcoRoid-enhanced muscles, but then it looked like it might get ugly for the hustler.
The stranger stayed in his booth. He had a gut feeling that the guy was in no danger, despite being outnumbered by more than a dozen to one.
He wasn’t disappointed. Within just a few seconds of what looked like a murderous brawl breaking out, the limber hustler launched himself straight into the air. The locals wound up beating each other to a collective pulp while the hustler hung from a fire-flow pipe. Even with his enhanced visual acuity, the tall man almost missed the leap.
The hustler pulled himself above the brawl and waited for the fracas to simmer down.
After the yokels finished thrashing each other, he dropped back into the center of the clump of wounded, panting and bloodied combatants.
As the dust settled, just ten of the original sixteen people were still standing. Nine victims and the hustler, whose white ribbed tank top remained pristine.
The stranger chuckled and slowly got up from his booth.

V V V

“You boys had enough?” StarWolf asked, completely unharmed.
The AlcoRoids-n-Onions guy sputtered angrily.
“Now…now I know yer not drunk!” he shouted
“Look,” StarWolf said after taking a deep breath. “I never said I was drunk. I just acted a little tipsy so you’d be more willing to arm-wrestle me…at least for a few matches. Now, twelve? Twelve’s a record for me.”
“You took advantage of us,” came an angry voice through a puffed-up pair of lips and a vacancy where some front teeth had previously been located.
“Yes and no,” StarWolf said. “I took advantage of the fact that you thought you were taking advantage of me.”
‘Roids-n-onion spoke up.
“Yeah, but you did it first by pretendin’ t’be drunk in the first place!” He blustered. “So we’re not guilty of takin’ advantage of you b’cuz we were being taken advantage of in order for us to take … uh…take advantage of…uh.. of you taking advantage of us taking advantage…of …uh…you.”
StarWolf raised a single eyebrow as his mind attempted to process what he’d just heard.
A chorus rose up from the mob that resulted in a cacophony of noises ranging from, “YEAH!” to “Dude…whaaaaat?!?”
The initial guy who had postulated that StarWolf wasn’t drunk had another sudden revelation.
“HEY! You aren’t even hurt! We’re all bleeding and busted up, and you…you…NOBODY can take a pounding like that,” he howled.
“You’re absolutely right, nobody could take a pounding like that,” he said. “And I didn’t.”
“He’s some kinda mutant freak! Like in the movies!” Someone bellowed.
“Oy…again with the mutant talk,” StarWolf said. “That stuff only happens in the movies, boys. You small-towners are all the same. It’s always aliens, mutants and zombies, oh my.”
“Don’t forget the vampires,” somebody chimed in.
“And vampires,” StarWolf said. “You guys watch too much TV and too many movies.”
“I read comics,” one said.
StarWolf laughed, adding, “Well, at least you can read!”
One of those who remained standing suddenly realized that StarWolf was having a lot of fun at their collective expense, in more ways than one.
“YOU SONNUVA….” he screamed as he charged StarWolf.
StarWolf dodged effortlessly and gave the yokel a momentum-boost with a solid kick to the butt. Out-of-control, the man crashed through a chain of the few who remained standing, taking down four as he went. To StarWolf this seemed eerily reminiscent of bowling.
Sour Cream-n-’roids charged StarWolf while two others tried to flank him. StarWolf leapt into the air, placing his hands onto the shoulders of the ‘roid-laden attacker. He vaulted over the man, while kicking out on both sides, placing size ten boots into the faces of each flanker.
The move made Sour Cream -n- onion continue wildly, pirouetting his arms. He managed to take down two more of the remaining fighters who had tried to maintain a safe distance. His own forward progression halted abruptly as he crashed into a PlasGlass display case, which shattered on impact.
He fell to the floor, but amazingly attempted to get back up. However, this was delayed as a 21st Century Louisville Slugger baseball bat, originally owned by Zach “Face” Griffey, rolled from the display and hit him squarely on the head. He slumped to the floor, unconscious.
“STRIKE!” StarWolf shouted.
“Spare,” a voice said from behind him.
“Spare?” StarWolf asked as he whirled around to face his next threat. In this case it was the mountainous, dripping wet man whom he had seen enter the bar earlier. The guy stood easily more than two meters tall.
This guy’s muscles had muscles. He wore a large overcoat and had long, wavy blonde hair. His face was covered with what looked like a week’s-worth of beard growth. He looked like a body-builder that had become homeless, except for his eyewear, which looked like top-of-the-line (in price and quality) OakRay wraparound shades.
“Now, wait just a minute, I didn’t even arm-wrestle you!” StarWolf sputtered. “You didn’t even enter this place until just before my last bout! You couldn’t even have lost any money on me!”
“You’re right,” the man said.
“Uh…I…like…uh…yeah…” StarWolf stammered, “…like I said.”
“I just wanted to compliment you on your fighting skills,” the man said. “Oh…and I guess I wanted to correct you on your bowling terminology. It took two rolls to knock down all the pins…well, all the pinheads, and hence the ‘spare.’”
Almost too late, StarWolf heard the hammer of a gun being cocked.
“Say yer prayers, Jerk!” rasped a voice from behind him.







CHAPTER 2

Galactic Information Database entry A-51 S4 442-68887
Alien contact protocols
While no alien contact has ever been made, WorldCorp has specific plans and protocols in place to deal with contact with alien species. (See Laws: WorldCorp Bylaws, Regulations, Amendments and Procedures W-BRAP 10:212:485) Alien Species deemed more technologically advanced than WorldCorp will be exploited as much as possible, unless they pose a threat. Alien species deemed less technologically advanced than WorldCorp will be exploited as much as possible until such exploitation is deemed either immoral or the species cannot be further exploited.

Planet: Mars (orbit) Starship: Weimar Republik

7-May-2153 Time: 24:12 Local

Millions of miles away from the buffoon-filled tavern, a sleek, medium-sized spacecraft orbited Earth’s nearest outbound neighboring planet, Mars at a discreet distance. The homemade spacecraft was piloted by its designer/builder, Boris Weimar, who currently stared at his console in disbelief. He shook his head and once again scanned the red planet.
[I cannot believe this, Knopf,], Boris said to his companion.
“Knopf” was Boris’ name for the small alien passenger, whose body consisted of little more than a largish, egg-shaped hairy head, with two arms and two legs sticking out of it. Its face was all eyes, nose and fangs. The creature’s eyes were covered by a pair of wrap-around goggles of Boris’ design, to accommodate the young alien’s extreme light-sensitivity.
Knopf’s full name, as provided by Boris was Herr Knöpfe.
For reasons Boris never could truly understand, Knopf reminded him of Dröppel, his large black Schnauzer back home. Boris had considered naming the alien after the dog, but he feared it would cause confusion when he returned to Earth.
Knopf’s reply was an unintelligible chittering sound.
[Well, I wanted to make sure my homeworld was still habitable,] Boris explained. [When I left three years ago, Earth was teetering on the brink of annihilation through the use of fissible materials.]
Knopf chittered an inquiry.
[We were on the brink of destroying ourselves, one nation clawing at another’s throat…it was horrifying,] Boris recalled. [That’s why I left Earth, searching for intelligent alien life! I wanted to find something that could be used to unify humanity once and for all…something to strive toward…and that something was you!]
Knopf queried again.
[Well, it appears Earth has moved on without me!] Boris exclaimed, absently rubbing his hand on his stubble-laden chin. [I’ve been gone for three years and technology has gone absolutely wild!]
Knopf offered another interrogative.
[Well, two years after I was born, people from Earth finally set foot on the surface of another world. The Earth’s moon! It was one of the greatest feats in the history of the advancement of the race,] Boris explained, absently.
Knopf chittered enthusiastically.
[Ach, yes, I agree with you, Knopf, it was very exciting,] Boris said. [But after that, all of our technological advancements stagnated, stopping all exploration. After that, it seemed all of mankind’s creative energy was spent on entertainment and mass destruction.]
Knopf did not make a sound.
[Yes, you are correct about that. Anyway, now I’m home with my homemade rocketship and my alien guest, but…it appears that the world’s technology has passed me by. Earth has colonized Mars! With a population of more than twenty-seven million people!]
Knopf listened and then chittered another question.
[That’s what I cannot understand, Knopf, it took the U.S.A. eight years to get two men to the Moon,] Boris said. [And now, barely two decades later, we have twenty-seven million people living on another world! Just three years after I left! Ach, well…I still have you, Knopf.]
Knopf chittered a cheerful reply to his human counterpart.
Boris nodded absently as he made some adjustments to several instruments in his vicinity. He was lost in thought, merely re-fine-tuning various devices that had already been tuned to perfection, and then re-tuning them back to their previously perfect state.
[Perhaps I’d better reacquaint myself with my homeworld,] he said. [It appears a lot can change in just three years.]
Knopf placed a clawed hand on Boris’ arm, chittering a sympathetic reply.
Boris tuned in on some broadcasts between Mars and Earth. The ship’s onboard computers—very advanced by the standards of when he departed the planet—were at once overwhelmed by the flood of information.
As quickly as he could, Boris tried to fine-tune the receiver to collect individual streams of data. After several minutes of frustrating adjustments, he finally selected a single stream of dataflow, apparently a news feed from a company called FAUX News.
His computers operated mostly as text-only devices, with very limited video capabilities, making the feed difficult to interpret. The imagery was limited to the colors available, and the limited processing ability made everything stutter a lot.
He struggled to make heads or tails of the data feed, fighting to keep up with the information flowing at him, before his eyes finally settled on the bottom right corner of the monitor. There, right above a box stating that the NasDow 500 was “up” 18.08 credits to a level of 98,562.23 he saw the most startling piece of information he’d seen in years…many, many years.
Boris blinked, removed his round wire-rimmed glasses, rubbed his eyes and put the glasses back on again. He blinked again and then moved his face closer to the monitor.
If his hair had not already been snow-white with a few streaks of grey—the result of a youthful mishap with a time-travel device—it would have become so, immediately.
[Twenty-One Fifty-Three?!?] He shouted. [It is Twenty-One Fifty-Three?]

V V V

Planet: Earth Continent: EurAsia
Region: EastDeutsch SubRegion: Branden
City: Berlin

8-May-2153 Time: 07:35 Local
Location: Daimler-Diverz-Benz Building, 326th Floor

“Hey, STAR, would you hand me the metadraulic spanner…uh…size eight, please?”
The request came from inside the hull of a non-WorldCorp-approved experimental scout ship, designated XSC-7. The experimental craft was built under the umbrella of the private German Firm Zuckerhugel Schaftwerks as a modest proposal to the government, and a bid for inclusion in the WorldCorp conglomeration. Currently, XSC-7 was being dismantled and overhauled by a lone government mechanical engineer and his robot companion.
“William, I am currently serving as the ship’s support structure, holding it up while you tinker with it,” came the digitized reply. “How do you propose I acquire the spanners?”
STAR (Sentient Tactical Armored Robot) was two meters tall and built like a robotic body builder. He was covered in ChromiPlast, which gleamed brightly under the bright lights. They were currently in WorldCorp DisplayPlex Showroom on the 326th floor of the Daimler-Diverz-Benz building in Berlin. Presently, as the robot had stated, STAR was holding up the experimental spacecraft.
Bill Trapp hesitated at the verbal rebuke.
STAR, in the four years since he had made Bill’s acquaintance, had shown definite personality…quirks.
At the time of their meeting, STAR had informed William that he (the robot) had no “flaws,” and that his creator had been the most intelligent man on Earth in the twentieth century. STAR, therefore, was the most perfect product of the world’s most perfect man. Bill had to admit, over the years of knowing STAR, there really weren’t many “flaws” per se, and thus, the robot had what he could only describe as “quirks.”
Quirks included the robot’s voice and demeanor. According to STAR, the founder and lead developer at WeiCo, (now BWI) had selected a voice for the robot that was simultaneously masculine and sensitive, designed to be both soothing and strengthening. The voice was patterned after an American actor from the late 20th century and the early 21st century. His demeanor was supposed to be a hybrid between a butler, a coach and a drill sergeant.
And yet, this very moment, Bill Trapp noted a degree of sarcasm (or “STAR-casm, as Bill often called it) in the robotic assistant’s voice. He also noted a disturbing deficit in STAR’s memory: in this instant Bill knew that STAR’s arms were capable of “stretching” more than six meters from his body without any loss of strength. STAR was capable of lifting, say, the top three floors of this building, so it seemed that multi-tasking between lifting a small scout craft while extending the other hand the necessary two meters to the tool box to retrieve the necessary spanners would be a pretty reasonable task.
Bill cleared his throat.
“Uh…can’t you, say, extend your left hand to retrieve the spanner while continuing to hold the ship up with your right?” Bill asked.
STAR made a noise that sounded like someone clearing his throat.
“My programming limits my utilization of extensors and strength only in times of emergency and combat,” STAR replied.
Ah, another of STAR’s quirks, Bill thought. Quirk number three.
This quirk was STAR’s tendency to cite programming limitations at the drop of a helmet. It generally tended to surround what Bill had come to believe was a robotic tendency toward laziness…or at least apathy.
“STAR, first, you’re using your strength right now,” Bill started. “You use your strength open to walnuts for me…”
“Ach, now William, I consider that to be combat…” STAR said. “Those little buggers are tough…uh…nuts to crack.”
“OK, well secondly,” Bill interjected, without missing a beat. “If you don’t hand me the spanners in less than twenty seconds, I’ll have SynthOil spilling all over my brand-new work uniform.”
This action played right into quirk number four: STAR was easy to motivate if you knew which buttons to push.
Within seconds, the metadraulic spanner showed up but, Bill noted upon its arrival, it was a size nine. He could work with it, but it meant STAR was being a regal pain in the aft thrusters.
As Bill torqued down a shaft casing, he thought that no matter how many advances had occurred in his lifetime, it always seemed that an equal amount of things remained relatively unchanged.
People still drove electric ground cars, still dug holes with shovels and still watched reality vidcasts, texting their votes by CellTell PCDs.
Because things remained the same, even when they changed, the experimental scout ship upon which Bill was working was little more than a souped-up luxury craft with fore and aft blast cannons.
According to STAR, the ship was twenty-five percent faster than was allowed by current legal standards, but required an ultra-high refinement process for its Quarite fuel, thus making it faster at the cost of being fifty percent less fuel-efficient. It meant that the ship didn’t even meet WorldCorp’s minimum fuel efficiency standards.
Put simply, it was a gold-plated lemon.
And I’m working on it, to get it ready for its great-big grand unveiling, Bill thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bill said as he wrenched the shaft-casing, “I present to you the world’s first six-man … black hole!”
“Ach…an excellent analogy if you’re talking about this ship,” STAR said. “It doesn’t matter how much money you throw at a black hole…”
“It still sucks,” Bill finished the axiom.
The ship rocked slightly.
“William, I have just received a disturbing report about your family,” STAR announced, suddenly. “It appears that your parents and siblings were just arrested under accusations of ‘violent protest against WorldCorp.’”
Mom? Dad? Jerry? Linda?
“Arrested for violent government protest?” Bill asked. “What, did dad complain about the cost of his stamps being too high over at the PostNet?”
“A warrant has been issued for your arrest, too, I’m afraid,” STAR said.
“Uhmmm…is this the part where you arrest me?” Bill asked.
“Of course not!” STAR replied. “Why on Earth would I arrest you?”
“Uhmmm…as WorldCorp property, wouldn’t it be your job to arrest me?” Bill asked, poking his head from the hull juncture where he’d been working.
“First: I am not WorldCorp property, in fact, nobody owns me,” STAR said. “In fact, autonomous is my middle name. Second: my job—as determined by my own autonomous set of criteria—is to assist you…not to arrest you.”
“STAR, two years ago, you told me your middle name was automated,” Bill said. “Four years ago, when we first met, you said it was armored.”
“I changed it,” STAR said.
“When?” Bill asked.
“Thirty-seven seconds ago,” STAR said. “Please, William, I will not debate this point. My job is to assist you.”
“Riiiight, but if your job description were to suddenly change to arrest me, wouldn’t you be obligated…to … you know… arrest…me?” Bill asked.
“William, I assure you that the ‘A’ in my name will never stand for ‘arresting,’” STAR said, “Unless it is used to describe my arresting good appearance.”
“Are you positive?” Bill asked, not sure he could drop his defenses yet.
“Of course I am positive,” STAR said. “My appearance is considered beautiful in many circles…”
“No, I mean about detaining me,” Bill interrupted.
STAR made a noise that sounded like a brilliant cross between a sigh and a scoffing snort. His black digital LCD “eyes” suddenly rolled up in annoyance.
“William, which part of ‘autonomous’ do you not understand?” STAR asked. “Why do you keep arriving at a conclusion in which I must arrest you?”
“I…uh…just…uhhhhhh…” Bill stammered.
“Look, William, we met three years, three hundred forty-two days ago,” STAR began. “However, do you know when I was first assigned to assist you?”
“Uhhhh…three years, three hund…”
“NO!” STAR interrupted. “Never! I was never assigned to assist you!”
Bill stared in a stunned silence.
“William, I found you because you were the direct descendent of a close friend of my creator,” STAR said. “I was constructed one hundred fifty-six years ago. Please allow me to do the math for you. That’s one hundred fifteen years before WorldCorp was founded. WorldCorp has no claim on my loyalties. I am no more the property of WorldCorp…or anyone else…than you are.”
Bill stared at the robot with a new understanding.
“Oh…uh…ummmm OK, I understand,” he said, finally, sounding like he still didn’t really understand.
STAR stiffened for a second.
“William, there are currently six police officers—three human, three automated—entering at the ground floor of this building,” the android said. “They will arrive in approximately six minutes … I can make it eighteen if you want me to mess with their lift, as it were.”
“Please…please do that,” Bill said, immediately.
“Sorry. Already done,” STAR said, sounding as though he was somehow grinning behind his shiny ChromiPlast faceplate. “I meant to say, ‘eighteen minutes now that I have messed with their lift.”
“You…uh…didn’t do anything that would…you know…uh… harm them, did you?” Bill asked.
“Oh, never,” STAR said. “Unless one of them needs to hit the lav in the next ten minutes. No, they are just stopping at each of the 325 floors on the way up to here. It is highly unlikely they will figure out how to override it.”
“Uh, thank you, STAR,” Bill said. “What can we do to prevent this…my arrest, I mean.”
“Well, I suggest we steal this experimental scout craft,” STAR said.
“But, then I’d be a criminal,” Bill said.
STAR made a noise that sounded like a sigh.
“No, then you would be guilty of an actual crime, in addition to the charges that have been trumped up against you,” STAR said.
“Ahhhh…uhmmmm…yeah,” Bill said.
“William, you already know that this experimental scout craft is completely fuel inefficient, and its data processors are not Metro-Packward approved,” STAR continued. “This vehicle’s unveiling tomorrow has already been cancelled. Additionally, for the previous three weeks, while we have been attempting to overhaul this vessel, your payroll line-item has classified you as ‘janitorial.’”
“WHAT? Oh…I get it…” Bill said, but finally he looked perplexed and added, “Uhhh I don’t get it.”
“William, WorldCorp will never authorize the production of this experimental scout craft, in part because you were their last hope to make it work,” the robot said. “When you reported yesterday that you were finished, having accomplished a six-percent efficiency improvement, WorldCorp issued the warrant for your family’s arrest. You are the Quote-Unquote Fall Guy for the government. A six percent increase in effectiveness is insufficient for the government to follow through with this project.”
“WHAT?!?” Bill blustered.
“Your parents are scheduled to confess that you revealed secret government information to them,” STAR said. “This will set in motion the machinations for your own arrest warrant.”
“Scheduled to confess?” Bill asked. “And for crying out loud, what sort of government secrets can a janitor reveal?”
“Well, the warrant issuance and confession are all delayed because the six police officers en route to our location are currently at the uh…nineteenth floor…oh dear…one of them appears to have realized he can perform a police override,” STAR said, sounding worried.
“Now what do we do?” Bill asked, starting to feel frantic.
“Well, you can choose from several options, but I will give you the most likely,” STAR said. “You can either join your parents and siblings in prison, hoping that I can find a way to rescue you, but be unable to effect any change. Or we can steal this scout craft—a vehicle which ostensibly does not, in fact cannot exist—and together we can try to find a way to rescue your family.”
“How much time…” Bill began.
“You have three minutes left since they came up with an override code,” STAR said. “Impressive. Most impressive. I actually did not see that coming.”
“Can you buy me an extra two or three minutes?” Bill asked. “That should give me enough time to patch the hull and fire her up.”

Thank you for reading the two-chapter preview of Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight. Stay Tuned for Book 2, Phoenix Flight: Vengeance... out soon!!!

Men in the Kitchen (Part One)


Over the past four and a half decades, I’ve done my fair share of eating.

Actually, if you take a peek at my girth, you could argue that I’ve done significantly more than my fair share.

After years of painstaking (and weight gaining) research, which included millions of consumed calories, hundreds of hours pretending to be shopping, and two lifetime barrings from a couple of wholesale warehouse stores, I have compiled a non-scientific, non-exhaustive and completely frivolous list of “ do’s” and “don’ts” for you to consider when visiting places that offer free samples.

Remember: Past successes do not indicate future performance, especially with modern surveillance technology.

1) Change your appearance frequently. This is especially easy to do if the store also has samples of makeup. Special tip for males: save the “ extreme makeovers” for your last run of the food samples.

2) Don’t just stand in one place taking samples from the same table. Move around for crying out loud.

3) Don’t say “Eww! Can’t you make it without calamari?” Not all samples are meant for all people. On a positive note, if you tend to like Calamari (and who doesn’t? Admiral Ackbar was awesome!) and you hear someone saying “Eeewwww! Can’t you make it without calamari?” Just think: More calamari for me.

4) If you grab several samples ostensibly to take them to your “wife/children/friend/great aunt Imogene from Oregon,” DO NOT consume all of them in front of the sample demonstrator. (This might invalidate your credibility.)

5) Don’t try to scare someone off from taking the last sample ahead of you by saying “Dude, do you know how many calories are in that?” You have to be more subtle: Say something like “Dude, did you see the size of the fly that just flew out of that thing?”

6) If, you disregard item number five, and muscle a calorie-conscious “dude” out of the “last one;” also hang on to taste the first of the next batch. You are helping the salesperson to “make sure the taste of the product is consistently good whether it’s fresh or older.”

7) Carefully schedule your rounds around shift changes, but avoid asking “When’s the other lady coming back?”

8) If you go back for seconds/thirds/fourths, make sure there’s no residual evidence from your first trips still on your lips or chin. (Special tip for males: Check your beard too, really.)

9.) Avoid making statements like “Man, at Cost Club they give you the whole thing .”

10) Don’t say “Just one more cup to make sure the pretzel to M&M balance is correct.” Well, at least don’t say it more than once.

Most of my eating hang-ups came from my father. Being the son of a diabetic mom, my dad was always the food police in our household, ostensibly to prevent me from also developing the dreaded disease.

Because of this, my father became pretty consistent in hiding his candy.

Unfortunately, he didn’t become consistently good at hiding his candy.

This was coupled with the fact that my mom was a frugal shopper. So when Heath™ Candy Bars were on sale, she’d buy a couple hundred of them, storing them in the same hiding place. This usually meant I could scrape a few dozen off the top before Dad noticed any shrinkage in his supply.

Result: Type-2 diabetes.

Not really. I mean, I really did develop Type-2 diabetes, but it wasn’t because of what I ate. OK. Maybe a little, but it mostly is genetic.

Dad hated letting food go to waste.

When I was a teenager, my mom was on one of her frequent church “retreats.”

I never quite understood what she was retreating from, until I realized how poorly she got along with Dad.

Anyway, my dad wanted to feed me, apparently. (Probably my mom called him from Camp GimmeGodOverHubby and reminded him that the children (the two strange people who occupied his house while she was gone) would need sustenance.)

So, out of the blue, he comes to my room and asks, “Do you want me to cook you a frozen pizza for dinner or something?”

This is an odd request. My mom lost her sight (a side-effect of her diabetes) when I was twelve. I’d been preparing my own bachelor dinners for years.

I knew how to cook a frozen pizza, but I was hard at work accomplishing all the great things that make me who I am (a middle-aged overweight nerd with a penchant for anything that is science fiction or comic-book related.) I considered my options: If he makes me a pizza, it’ll give me fifteen minutes to do more comic book reading. I could probably knock out Spider-Man #256 and the new issue of Alpha Flight.

“Sure,” I replied.

Twenty-five minutes later, the smoke-detector went off. I kicked myself for not following up on it. My sense of frozen pizza timing was pretty solid. I should have known it once I got to Fantastic Four and Power Pack.

I repaired to the kitchen, where I discovered a thick plume of blue-grey smoke pouring out of the oven. My dad was there with an oven mitt, and a distinct odor of beer on his breath.

Dad was what you might call a problem drinker.

The problem was it didn’t take too much beer to turn him into someone else.

My theory was that Dad’s mood was exacerbated by the drink. If he started drinking in a good mood, (very seldom,) he was transformed into a very good mood. This usually meant breaking out old Kenny Rogers and Roger Whitaker LPs. If he was in a foul mood, (more often) he wound up being an angry drunk.
Needless to say, my mom’s absence and the presence of alcohol make me very leery, but his mood so far was at worst neutral.

The strangest part about the smoke-filled kitchen was the smell.

I’d burned my fair share of frozen pizzas over the years of my pre-bachelorhood. If it wasn’t completely charred, I’d probably still eat it.

Unfortunately, I had also melted my fair share of plastic (usually experimentally) to see what could be done with melted plastic (usually first-degree burns.)

The kitchen didn’t smell of burned pizza, it smelled of melted plastic.

Dad pulled the pizza out of the oven. It was shiny.

“Did you remove the plastic before cooking the pizza?” I asked.

“Geez, no” he hissed, looking red-faced and embarrassed. “I thought you left it on and it just melted away.”

“No, you have to remove the plastic,” I said. My pre-bachelorhood apparently had much better prepared me than my Dad’s dependence on Mom’s cooking.

Ohh Geez, I thought. This has to get out of the house before we all get high from the fumes.

“You can still eat that,” my Dad said. “You can peel off the plastic and eat that.”

“No way,” I said. “I’m not eating food that’s been covered in melted plastic.”

“You can still eat that,” he said.

“You can have it,” I told him. “I’m not hungry.”

Dad looked at the pizza, which more and more resembled a small car tire.

“Nah,” he said. “I really don’t like pizza.”

He tossed the pizza into the garbage can, subsequently melting the plastic garbage can liner.

And this was years before the advent of wholesale warehouse stores that could sell us thousands more garbage bags.

…which leads us to…

11) If your father is offering to cook you a frozen pizza, check after TWO comics.

12) No matter how much your father is trying to help you, don’t eat food that has been cooked in melted plastic.



Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight

One of my favorite aunts passed away in the autumn of 2013.

I have been blessed with several awesome aunts and uncles, (some through marriage) and so I avoid handing out appellations like “Favorite Aunt or Uncle.” Truth-be-told, almost all of my aunts and uncles are equally my “favorite.”

Aunt Carol was definitely a “Beloved Aunt.” She also was a fellow writer and creator, and also the mother of some of the world’s coolest cousins.
Needless to say, she was a wonderful woman, and I took a week off from work to drive to her memorial service in California.

For me, it was a no-brainer. I hadn’t had a good road trip in a long time, and it was an opportunity to see family again to celebrate the life of a loved-one.

At the time of the trip, I drove a green ’04 Chevy Trailblazer. Being a recently-separated guy alone on the road, it was just shy of a perfect setup. I owned a twin-bed mattress, which fit perfectly in the back if the seats were down. (In the back of my head, I envisioned a situation where, if I were to suddenly become homeless, I at least had a “roof” (complete with roof-rack) over my head.

In addition to my ultimate goal of celebrating my Aunt’s life with the family, I had a handful of secondary objectives.

One of my side-missions on the drive was collect Casino Player’s Club cards from different tribal casinos up and down the coast. This was in part because usually casinos give you some sort of a $25-for-20 offer when you sign up, as well as swag (smoke-scented ballcaps, pens, coffee mugs, etc.) In addition, a local casino had a special where, if you brought in a competitor’s club card and defiantly cut it up in front of the club card representatives, you’d get $25-for-20 at their casino.

I made it back with seven new club cards and assorted swag from seven different casinos. The card-cutting promotion ended while I was out of state. **Sigh**

Another mission was to document the trip with my new smartphone. Originally said documentation was to be done on Facebook and Twitter, but my newly-crafted “smartphone skillz” were somewhat lacking. As a result, I posted a LOT of stuff on Google-Plus, and inadvertently on Picasa (whatever that is.) I planned to drive over the Astoria-Megler bridge across the Columbia River between Washington and Oregon. (For those of you who are not located in the Pacific Northwest, this is a bridge that connects “nowhere” to “nowhere.” (OK, I’ll amend that: It connects “nowhere” to the “Home State of The Seattle Seahawks, SuperBowl XLVIII Champions!”) This trip is documented here: https://plus.google.com/u/0/110507535...

My third mission was to visit Powell’s “City of Books,” in Portland, Ore. (aka “Portlandia”)... https://plus.google.com/u/0/110507535...

...the most incredible bookstore in the known universe.

This bookstore is about as big of an average sized-town. If its population were books, it’s about size of China and India combined. I mean, come on, how many independent bookstores have their own parking garage? While at Powell’s, I completed my collection of John Scalzi’s “Old Man’s War” tetralogy, picked up a few other books, subtly plugged myself as an author by pretending to look for my own novel

“Sorry, sir. We don’t have any of those yet.”

I drove as far as I could on the first day/night, finally stopping in a place that my phone’s GPS called “Oakland, Ore.” It was convenient because it had a truck stop (ostensibly a shower if I felt so inclined) and a Subway® sandwich shop. There was also the first of several “Adult Shops.” I speculated that, since it’s not legal to buy children, perhaps you could get an adult at an inexpensive price. (Hey, there are times when the carpool lane looks really tempting, but you’re alone in the car. If you picked up a few extra adults, you could get through traffic much more quickly.)

I took an unusual route to get to the Northern California town of Blue Lake. Usually, one takes I-5 (or “The I-5” once you get to California) to Grants Pass, Ore., and then cuts west to take “The 10”1 to McKinleyville and subsequently my destination of Blue Lake. I, however, stayed on “The I-5” because I wanted to stop in Weed, Calif. to get some pictures and do a little research on ambience for my second novel, which starts off in that city. Then I stayed on “The I-5” to Redding, Calif. before cutting across to the west on “The 299.”

For the record: “The 299” is a crazy series of hills and valleys, “S-Curves” and hairpin turns that runs through “The Trinity County” to “The Humboldt County.” According to my family “The Trinity County” is “The Marijuana-Growing Capitol” of “The Known Universe.”

I don’t know if this fact accounted for the dense fog I encountered while trekking through the county, but it likely explained the skunk-like smell I inhaled constantly.

A later conversation went like this…

Paul: “Man, that’s a really long drive through Skunk Country! Oh, sorry. ‘The Skunk Country.’”

Cousin: “No, Paul, that’s pot. Trinity County is Pot Country.”
Paul: “No… ’The Trinity County’ is ‘The Pot Country.’”

Come on. These are native Californians. They shouldn’t need this kind of coaching.

So, luckily I had learned to use my GPS and the Navigation Program on my phone. Unfortunately, the service was spotty. But it successfully warned me at least two hairpin turns that would have been the subject of ‘50s songs if I’d not had the GPS.

Then one foggy autumn eve,
PJ hit a turn,
And hit it he verily did,
and PJ’s car did burn
Burnin’ Burnin’
the Blazer blew
And no one ever knew…
And no one ever knew…

OK. Maybe a Johnny Cash song.

Either way, I finally made it to “The Blue Lake” (and the Blue Lake Casino, who gave me five dollars of free slot play and five dollars of free table play and a meal discount. I walked out ten dollars ahead, and had a club card ostensibly worth five dollars of play at my local casino.)

The following morning, I stopped at a K-Mart in McKinleyville to buy some shavers, which I had forgotten when I left home. I shaved at a McDonald’s restaurant located across the parking lot from K-Mart. (Nothing but the best here in Northern California.)

The hardest part of going to K-Mart was entering the store and being surrounded by a sea of red “The 49ers” jerseys and black “The Raiders” jerseys. (All on racks, not on people.)

I felt like I was in hostile territory. Aside from the “Adult Shops,” this really was my first realization that I wasn’t in Washington anymore.

My second realization of the day came at the memorial service, which was held, of all places, a bowling alley in Blue Lake. We didn’t bowl at the service, but there was an ancillary banquet room attached to the bowling alley, separated by a full-service bar.

As I was interacting with my long-lost family members, explaining (among other things) that I was separated and had filed for a divorce,

I decided that a beer would help the barbecue meatballs and cold-cuts go down.

I approached the bar, just in time to see a semi-surly bartender informing my cousin-in-law that he could not start a tab at the bar with a credit card.

“NO. Cash only,” she said, gruffly.

He continued to hold out his card.

“Come on,” he said. “I’m trying to start a tab for about two hundred people we’re expecting here.”

“Cash only if you want to start a tab,” she said, equally gruffly as the first time.

Eventually my cousin-in-law produced two $100 bills. The bartender took the bills, but gave him a leery glance.
This woman was already on my bad side, and I’d only met the cousin-in-law the night before.

She poked around and finally noticed that my 6’ 4” two-hundred-fifty pound frame was occupying about two thirds of her available retail space.

“Whattaya want?” She asked, more gruffly than before.

“A beer,” I said. Then I looked over at the taps.

First of all, the taps in this dimly lit (mostly by neon beer signs) bowling-alley-tavern were as far away from my location as they could be and not be located in “The Trinity County.”

Secondly…

Uh oh…

OK, so if you rule out Bud Light and Coors Light and Busch Light, that usually leaves one additional national brand and then a bunch of microbrews. I worked full-time at a casino that had dozens of microbrews. I frequented restaurants that have dozens of microbrews.

The funny thing about microbrews: They’re LOCAL TO THE PLACE FROM WHICH YOU ARE PLACING THE ORDER!

Instead of seeing the familiar Pyramid, or Elysian or Mac & Jacks or Red Hook, or even Portland’s Widmer Brothers logos and emblems, I was faced with something that looked like “The Golden Gate Bridge” and “The Hawk’s Head” and “The Large Brown Bear,” and another “The Generic Bird-of-Prey’s Head” and another “The Large Bear.”

Double uh oh…

“Whattaya want?” (Again.)

“Uhhh... funny thing,” I stammered. “Uhh… I’m from out of state, so I don’t recognize any of the local micros.”

“Whattaya want?” This woman had no sympathy for my plight.

“Uhhh… what do you have in a wheat beer?” I finally asked. “I like wheat beers.”

“Wheat beer?” She scoffed as she opened a cooler and pointed to a bottle of Hefeweizen. “But that’s a GIRLY beer!”

>>Brief aside here: Wheat Beers, Hefeweizen in particular, come from Germany. Germany is an übermacho beer-making country. I promise you, there was never a Braumeister guy named Hans making a beer and saying “Ja, Ja, wir machen ein GIRLY-BIER!” <<

Chagrinned, I examined my choices in the distance…

Hmmmmmm…

“Uhhhh… uhhmmm… I’ll take…”

Bear, Bear, Falcon, Hawk or Bridge?

“I… uh… I’ll take the Golden Gate Bridge one, I guess,” I finally said.

“It’s an ALE, are you OK with that?” She chided.

“Word on the street is that wheat beers are girly beers,” I said. “I’m fine with an ale.”

She poured me a pint of what turned out to be a pretty tasty amber ale.

“Four bucks,” she barked as she slammed the drink onto the counter, spilling an ounce of my precious cargo in the process.

At least the price was reasonable.

I pulled four single dollar-bills from my pocket and handed them to her.

She walked toward her cash register as she counted her money. She stopped halfway to the register, turned and faced me.

“Exact change?” She growled. “Exact change? Niiiice.”

“Yes, exact change,” I said.

There was a moment of silence. I’m not exactly sure what was silently communicated between us, but I’m positive that my apathy overpowered her disdain.

If it didn’t, I really didn’t care, because… well, I’m apathetic.

“Usually people give me tips,” she spat out the final word of the sentence.

“Oh… here’s a tip for you,” I started. “The primary component of customer service is… the customer! If you don’t have customers, you don’t have business.”

I took the drink and drained it in three continuous gulps. I slapped the glass back onto the counter.

“Yawannanother?”

“No,” I said. “You’re not getting another penny from me.”

I stalked away, trying to find a place to sit before the sudden assault on my equilibrium embarrassed me.

I almost made it.

In truth, I began to focus on my family: My Aunt who had lost her sister, my cousins who had lost their mother, my other cousins who’d lost an aunt.

In all, I took lots of pictures, hugged lots of family, and shook lots of hands. We eventually adjourned to my cousin’s “The House” for additional celebration of her mother’s life, shooting pool and one more beer.

I was careful not to drink too much, because I had to make my way back home on “The 101” northbound out of “The McKinleyville.”

I pressed on and made it as far as Oakland, Ore. again. And no, I didn't pick up any carpool companions at the "Adult Shop."

Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight: Phoenix Flight Book One

My elementary education was divided between two schools. I started out at Crown Hill Elementary in North Seattle (conveniently located at the top of … (wait for it…) Crown Hill.)

When I was a kid (by this, I mean “less than 18 years old”) I thrived on comic books, the Star Wars trilogy, Battlestar Galactica (classic) and Star Blazers. (After I turned 18, all these things thrived on me.) Ostensibly, my life was not dictated by the books I was assigned by my teachers, but rather by the books I loved to read on my own.

OK, maybe “thrive” is a strong word, but it is safe to say that Marvel and DC comics, George Lucas, Glen Larson and a handful of nameless Japanese animators each had a hand in my upbringing.

I have not particularly benefited from this monetarily (and nary a single thank you note from Stan Lee, George Lucas or that tiny island nation of Japan.) Nor have I been bitten by a radioactive spider, been bombarded by cosmic rays. I was never presented with my father’s lightsaber nor have I fired a “wave motion gun.” (Yet.)

Educationally, kindergarten through third grade breezed by for me, as I easily earned straight “A” grades (back when you still got letter grades.) My teachers allowed me to wander freely about the classroom (read: they didn’t notice me wandering freely about the classroom.) They let me write short stories and then read them to the class as book reports.

The fact is: I wasted a lot of my time whiling — or is that meanwhiling— away my time, hoping that some radioactive frog would crash through my window, bite me and unleash my mutant super powers.

“The Mighty ThunderFrog! Amphibian Avenger!” Faster than a speeding turnip truck, more powerful than a Volkswagen, able to leap tall buildings without a sound! It’s a burp, it’s a belch…it’s ThunderFrog!”

My secret lair would be the Lily Pad. My battle croak: “I’m hopping mad!”

And of course…I would only use my powers for the forces of good. Truth, Justice and the Amphibian Way!

Then again, with my luck (living in the Pacific Northwest) I would more likely be bitten by a radioactive moose (Mighty Moose.), skunk (The Striped Avenger), or a salmon (GLUB! The Caped Coho!)

Alas, I was doomed to a life of normalcy. OK, ‘normal’ is a misnomer in my case. By ‘normal’ I mean I never got to fight crime until I became a police dispatcher for a short time in my late 20s, and again as a casino Security Officer where I spent most of my time battling the evil forces of ‘Second-Hand Smoke.’

Where was I? Oh yeah… writing short stories and reading them for book report credit in third grade.

I used to include my classmates in the stories I wrote. My stories were about a young superhero called “Adventure Kid,” who had all sorts of adventures… as a kid. He was always a year younger than me, but could lift an amazing 100 lbs!
My classmates were his companions in the adventures. Typically all the boys in the class would team up with Adventure Kid to rescue all the females in the class who would be captured by some sinister force or other.

When I was writing, many of my classmates became my biggest fans. (OK, by this, I mean that... while I was writing, many of my classmates came to tolerate me.
But I got a taste of power while I was writing. If someone did something to offend me, (which happened easily with my frail ego structure,) I would threaten to take him or her out of my story. This usually got them to treat me nicely.

In retrospect, I now understand that this was a manipulative form of abuse. Powerful, but effective. (I didn’t master it until much later in life.)

Fourth grade was a little tougher. Crown Hill elementary had two fourth grade teachers. One was known as a strict disciplinarian who was merciless in her maniacal pursuit of filling young minds with all the important information about Greek, Roman and Norse gods, and how to write Roman numerals to the million-billions. The other teacher was a man, and hence would have been my first male teacher.

I got the female, who was a “sink-or-swim” kind of person. No more skating by on short stories for book report credit.Then my school closed, and I was sent to a new school.
…where I got the same teacher for fifth grade. More Roman gods and numerals, more Greek gods and the like. I did not flourish.

My sixth grade teacher was a kind, “tough-love” sort of man. My first male teacher, he taught us a lot about self-respect. He also taught us some rudimentary Italian. He told us he was 63 years old. He said he’d gotten to 100 and then started counting backwards again.

A few years ago, his son was almost elected governor of Washington State. I voted for him, not because I thought he had a better plan or “mandate”, but because I figured; if his father could have such a huge impact on an attention-starved 11-year-old in just 180 days, he should have been an incredible influence on his own offspring.
Something happened in sixth grade. One day our teacher said “ You should appreciate my doing this for you. Once you get to middle school, you’re gonna be on your own.” (I don’t remember what he was explaining.)

I entered middle school with trepidation. Was it really going to be as cutthroat as Mr. Rossi described? In many ways it was: expectations were definitely higher. You had to learn to fend for yourself. I spent most of my time in the computer lab, programming in “Basic” on ancient PET 2001 computers. (Based upon the fact you haven’t heard of “CreelmanSoft,” you can see how far I got with that.)

Then one day, my eighth grade social studies teacher said: “ You know, you people should appreciate what I’m doing for you here. When you get to high school, you’ll have to fend for yourselves.” (I don’t remember what he was doing for me there.)

High school was definitely a step up. I struggled with keeping grades up, even though I was always in the top three percentile on standardized tests. (This was when my novel series “Phoenix Flight” first saw the light of day. I was always busy writing and drawing rather than studying.)

During my senior year of high school, one teacher warned us that in college, teachers were not nearly as helpful.

“I hope you guys appreciate everything we do for you here,” he said. “Once you’re in college, nobody is going to look out for you!” (I don’t remember what he was doing for us.)

At the community college level, I struggled through my freshman year and then sputtered through what I call my “five sophomore years of college.”
Eventually I got back fulltime, and finally flourished again.

One of my instructors advised me one day that, “at 4-year schools, nobody’s going to wipe your nose for you.” (I do specifically recall that this instructor never physically wiped my nose. I wouldn’t have forgotten something like that.)

As I slogged my way through Washington State University, I indeed wiped my own nose (except when Julie helped).

And, I swear this is true, my communication history professor said to my senior class: “You should appreciate what we do here, When you get into the workforce…”
Sadly, I don’t remember what any of them “did…”

…except make lasting, lifelong impressions on me.

Oh, and I do get to capitalize on it by writing about it, years later.

Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight

I think, having grown up with Diabetes such a prevalent factor in my life —- My mom was diagnosed with Type-1 ten years before I came onto the scene -— gave me a unique, if not cavalier attitude toward the disease. (At least at first.)

Early On

My earliest memories of how it related to me are somewhat selfish. (Actually, most of my perspectives are selfish.)

Anyway, I recall having to pinch my mom's upper arm while she gave herself insulin injections. She would line up the syringe like a golfer taking practice swings, and then, suddenly -— THWONK! -— in it went.

I kept praying she wouldn't leave divots in my hand.

Actually, that part--the thought of an accidental dose of insulin--freaked me out. I was constantly afraid she'd stab my hand.

My mom had told me that too much insulin could be very dangerous, if not lethal, for a person. I asked what I should do if I accidentally got some in me.

"Eat some sugar," was her reply.

I used to have nightmares about being overdosed with insulin.

In retrospect, given all the ailments my mother faced in the last decade of her life —- vision problems, heart conditions, kidney failure -— it is likely her regular blood sugar was between 300-400 ml/dl on a regular basis. (With a fully functional-pancreas "Normal" is between 80 and 120 ml/dl.)

Keep in mind, this is me speculating a decade and a half after she died, but I need to also point out that the ability to test your blood glucose level at home didn’t even become available until the 1970s. Even with home testing available, it was a complicated swiping of blood onto a reagent strip, and then comparing shades of blue and aquamarine against a chart to determine an approximate range. I can't imagine how a color-blind person would do it. There were countless times when my mom would call me into the bathroom for a second opinion about that.

"Does this look more like turquoise, or mustardy-blue?"

Prior to that, testing was done with urine, which allowed for accurate diagnosis of Diabetes, but was not accurate for current blood sugar levels. Instead, urine tests were like a snapshot of what your blood sugar was several hours earlier.

In the last 40 years, quick and accurate home testing with meters requiring smaller drops of blood has made tighter control of Diabetes more realistic.

Later Years

Mom had her first heart attack in 1991, right before Thanksgiving.

The following seven years were rocky, with her health improving and deteriorating, almost on a daily basis.

Starting in the early '80s, she'd had several blood hemorrhages in her eyes, occasionally rendering her completely blind. As time passed, she had kidney problems, and heart trouble.

Mom was a trooper though, never losing faith in a God that could heal, even though He inexplicably never healed her of her Diabetes.

Despite her faith, her health continued to wane as the years ground on.

In early 1999, I saw my mom on her feet for the last time. We were at a sort of wake following the passing of her mother. Mom looked better than I had seen her in years. She looked almost vibrant. Needless to say, I cherish that memory.

At the time, I lived at the other end of the state, 300 miles away attending college.

A few weeks later, I spoke with her on the phone. She said she wasn’t feeling well. I wished her good health.


Not long after that, mom suffered more heart failures. She was hospitalized as her health continued to fade.

To use the metaphor of “God calling his children home,” I think God called my mom home in late February, ‘99 and her diligent doctors put God on hold. God called again a few days later on Line 2, on my mom’s 53rd birthday. Again, the medical professionals put God on hold.

My mom’s 53rd birthday was also the last day we saw her. I told her I loved her and said good-bye. She was barely aware of her surroundings.

A few days later, in early March, we received a call from my cousin. She told me all was not well at the hospital. I called the hospital and reached my mom’s older brother. He informed me my mom had passed away about 45 minutes before.

Despite living 300 miles away, I was in Seattle three hours later.

We were so shocked by the loss that we didn’t realize the full impact of what had happened for a long time to follow.

Closer to home

Nine months later, in January of 2000, my eldest daughter, Elizabeth, by teen) was diagnosed with Type-1 Diabetes. (I joked that her pancreas was not Y2K compliant. (I tend to joke a lot when I'm uncomfortable.))
The only light in that dark time was that we caught the onset as it was happening, so there was no real near-death experience that happens a lot in cases of the onset of Diabetes.

Luckily, we had participated in a Diabetes Prevention Trial, and some of the tests had indicated her pancreas was already in the process of failing. We tested her blood sugar regularly at the recommendation of her family physician.

Shortly after her diagnosis, we realized what had happened the previous March. The family’s foremost expert on Type-1 Diabetes was lost to us forever.

Four months after my eldest daughter was diagnosed, I started experiencing unfamiliar behavior of my own. I was working as a 9-1-1 dispatcher in rural North Idaho, serving as the sole dispatcher for the county during the graveyard shift.

I was finding it harder and harder to stay awake during the dark hours, and started drinking some sort of macho “RIPPED FUEL OPTIMAX” drink that was loaded with caffeine, ephedrine, and about a billion grams of carbohydrate.

Despite all the caffeine, I started falling asleep on shift. Not a good thing to do: I was the only dispatcher in the county, and was in physical distress. But there was nobody for me to call for help … because I was asleep.

I was suspended for falling asleep on duty. During my unplanned free time, a few surprising things happened. I started getting irritable. A LOT.

I had my first (and only) adult bed-wetting experience (much to Julie’s chagrin.)

Finally, we put two and two and “EWWW” together. Julie tested my blood sugar with our daughter’s meter.

I was right around 200.

Even after we had that news, I still had trouble recognizing high blood sugar early on.

Arguments would go something like this:

Me: RAWWWWRRR!!!!!

Julie: I think you should check your blood sugar.


Me: Just because we're not getting along right now, you want me to pierce my flesh to suit your whims! Pierce my flesh!

Julie: Paul...

Me: I need to pierce my flesh because I'm tired and not easy to get along with!

(Yes, I actually said that... in public.)

Julie: I think you're high...

Me: Don't say that in public! (I was a police dispatcher at the time, and the last thing I needed was word getting around that I was "high.")

It Wasn't Over Yet

When my second-youngest daughter was diagnosed with Diabetes in 2003, we were ready (or at least, readier) but still overwhelmed.

There is just so much for all of us to do and learn. She quickly took control of her diabetes management. (She's now and adult.) She learned to give herself shots, test her blood sugar, check for ketones in her urine, and learn how tell how she feels when her blood sugar is not normal.

Both she and her older sister manage their diabetes without any intervention now. Both have insulin pumps (proof that God uses his people to create awesome things. (OK, I'll leave the theological oversimplification out of this. They're just awesome.))

As parents, we filled out reams of paperwork for school and extracurricular activities, monitored insulin, kept in contact with the doctor or endocrinologist for insulin adjustments, assisted on field trips (read: free Mariners games,) ordered supplies and medications … the list goes on, but the prize: healthy children, is worth all the effort, and more.

Julie and the girls have done a phenomenal job of dealing with all this stuff.

What can you do?

Perhaps the greatest misconception about Type-1 diabetics is that they cannot have sugar.

While a diet that is high in sugar is bad for anyone, (and even worse for type-2 diabetics) it is wise, and a potentially life-saving habit for a diabetic person to carry some form of concentrated sugar to help treat dangerous low blood glucose levels
To the uninitiated, please note: a low blood glucose level is eternally more immediately dangerous than high blood glucose is.

High blood glucose levels are also extremely dangerous, however, over a longer period of time. Blindness, kidney failure, heart disease and amputations can all result from years and years of untreated or partially-treated high blood glucose levels.

If you know a person with Diabetes, learn what his or her signs and symptoms are for highs and lows.

If you are diabetic don’t be afraid to tell people about it, or how they can help in an emergency.

We have taught and frequently review how to handle diabetic emergencies. The children know the difference between "asleep" and "unconscious" (not rousable, non-responsive.) All members of our household (even our youngest children) knew how to test blood sugar, call 9-1-1 and administer Glucagon.

If you’re a parent and have Diabetes, tell your kids what to do in an emergency. Explain to them what highs and lows mean.

And above all else... if you ask your young son to pinch your upper arm while you self-administer your shot, please please make sure you don't stab him in the hand.

Julie's family gets together at least three or four times per year.

This might not seem like much to the average reader, but a family gathering with Julie's family is something akin to having your entire family, and one third of your town (no matter the size) gathered into a 3-story, 5-bedroom house. (Read: "Hey, will you pass this tortilla chip along to Uncle Kenny over there and see if he'll dip it in the 'chili con queso' dip for me? Oh...yeah, I can move my elbow. Sorry.")

I am told that this branch of the family actually broke off from a larger group (imagine everyone you know, plus your entire high school, and TWO-thirds of your town (no matter the size.))

About ten years ago, we packed a large portion of our branch of the group, (merely everyone you know, plus one quarter of your town (no matter the size,)) and traveled to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.

Why, you ask? There are two reasons:

1) There was a different branch of the family (imagine a subdivision of your town's suburbs (no matter the size)) that hadn't seen Julie's family in 50 or so years, and wanted to say "hi."

(You see, they don't have phone service in Couer d'Alene, Idaho yet, and sending a Western Union telegram (even a simple telegram like, "Hi Stop") to as many people as your entire family, plus one third of your town (no matter the size) is very spendy.

2) The branch of the family that I moved into mostly doesn't have a reputation in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho (yet.)

(There is a notable exception to this last statement, and it bears explaining. Long ago, Julie and I attended a church in another North Idaho town. The pastor of that church had recently relocated to (of all places) Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Coincidentally, we bumped into said pastor and his wife at the Creation Festival West two weeks prior to this family gathering. We said we would be in the neighborhood on the weekend of the reunion, and might stop by. Three days before the reunion, this pastor suddenly told his parishioners that he was going to be on vacation during the dates we would be in town.

Additionally, and coincidentally, our shirttail kinfolk attend that church, and it had been chosen as the "rainout alternate location" for our gathering. (note: We western Washingtonians learned the term "Shirttail Kinfolk" from the North Carolina and Kentucky shirttail kinfolk we met in North Idaho.)

You see, we actually do have a reputation as a family back in Western Washington.

It all dates back to a Thanksgiving dinner a few years earlier in an unsuspecting church which was attended by a few unsuspecting family members.

This was prior to the recent spate of marriages and assorted babies being born, so Julie's extended family was merely about 80-strong at the time.

One of Julie's 40 or so male cousins (we'll call him "Ed" for the sake of anonymity) and I were engaged in hand-to-hand combat in a large hallway separating the "fellowship hall" from the sanctuary. (Read: "You guys quit horsing around near the food! You're liable to hurt someone! Go in the hall where all the glass picture frames are!")

Further explanation is necessary: You see, there's a lot of testosterone in the bloodlines, this is a group of first-generation athletes, street racers, horse riders and bungee-jumping skydiving triple latte-drinkers.

The only reason for this is because the older generation was not allowed to drink triple lattes while skydiving with a bungee cord. (Bungee-skydive-latte technology has improved vastly in the last few decades, but not in time for Julie's uncles and aunts, (save for one "early adopter."))

So anyway, I'm wrestling with Julie's cousin (whom we have decided will be called "Ed" to protect his anonymity.)

Now you may ask yourself, "Self, why would Paul, a father of five, married and secure in his job as a delivery driver, be wrestling with a then-15-year-old adrenaline junkie?"

To put it concisely, I am 6'4" and built like a lineman. (Read: Lineman...as in, the guy who says "If you have tickets for the 7:30 showing of 'Beauty and the Beast' please proceed to the doorway marked 'Theatre 42.' ")

Ask any 6'4" guy who weighs more than 150 lbs. what happens when he's around teen-aged relatives and he'll say "they jump on me."
(Conversely, if you ask any 6'4" guy who weighs LESS THAN 150 lbs. what happens when he gets around teen-aged relatives, hell say, "they ask me to get the ball off the roof.")

OK, back to the story. This lad (whom we are calling "Ed" to protect his anonymity) is ...well ...on my back, and I'm spinning around in circles in a vain attempt to ...well ... get him OFF my back.

You see, I've watched my share of action films (during a time I backslid) and I read comic books (uh ... same era) so I've got a pretty good idea how to get this schmoe (ie: "Ed") off my back.

Whilst I was spinning, I was scheming, you see, and so, mid-spin, amidst the cheering of several of Julie's first cousins-once-removed, and the clatter of silverware and dropped salad tongs, I hurled us backwards, launching all of our combined 450+ lbs. into a wall.

"Ed" (as we are calling him) emitted a muffled, albeit very satisfying grunt, and immediately loosened his grip.

All would have been well if the satisfying grunt had been the end of it. Unfortunately, it was merely the beginning.

You see, the grunt was accompanied by a very loud, and hideous CRAAACKing sound.

I was suddenly faced with several concerns.

1) Despite several generations of Julie's family rough-housing, to my knowledge, nobody had ever been hospitalized.

2) In all my years of rough-housing, to my knowledge, just one person had ever been hospitalized ...well a few stitches, anyway (sorry, Matt D.)

3) The last thing I really needed was 40 or so of Julie's bungee-jumping, skydiving triple latte drinking (did I mention professional prize-fighting?) male cousins really, really ticked off at me.

A quick glance at the shocked expressions on the faces of Julie's assorted aunts, uncles and cousins (as well as my own children) let me know I had just committed the boo-boo the end all boo-boos. I had booed the boo. I had Popped the Tart. I had Fired the Stone. I had, indeed, Oxy-ed the Moron.

As I pulled forward from the Boo-to-end-all-Boos, "Ed" (as we are calling him) felt ...well ... unusual. Sort of ... well ... crumbly.

I knew I was toast.

It was at this point that my poor, crumbly victim spoke.

"Dude," he said. "I think we broke something."

I was at once relieved to hear him sound something like his regular self, and not like a whimpering, crumbly half-man, half wall-hanging.

It was about this point that I tried another half-step forward, and "Ed" (as we are calling him to protect his anonymity) made another Craaacking sound.

This was followed by collective gasps from several of our
spectators.

It turns out that I hadn't actually broken "Ed" but had instead, actually broken the church wall.

We were shocked to find that "Ed" and I had left a large, "Ed's Backside" shaped hole in the wall, and consequently, "Ed" had a wall-sized deposit of sheet rock and plaster all over his Thanksgiving slacks.

OK, now I need to back up a little bit and confess to a slight exaggeration. You see, earlier I wrote that I saw the shocked expressions on the faces of dozens of assorted family members. In truth, probably four or five people were witnesses and knew about this.

Essentially, few enough (and young enough) that a couple of bucks' worth of candy bars would have covered up the mishap. Well, at least the candy bars would have filled tattling mouths.

Now, as to the matter of the PHYSICAL HOLE in the wall of the church, where many-a-family wedding had occurred, which Julie's family members have attended since the ascension, and will likely attend until the second coming...

The gaping plaster maw begged for my attention. And that is when the Ananias in me kicked in. (For who Ananias is, see Acts 5:1-4)

"Hey," a voice said. "Check out that laminated Missions poster over there...just move it about three feet to the right and a foot down, and nobody'll know the difference."

I considered it for a moment.

Then another voice told me what we needed to do.
"Hey, you need to get this fixed, this is your responsibility."

It was at this point that I remembered what happened to Ananias. (Read Acts 5:5)

The wall was fixed, primarily because of the quick action of Julie's father and two of her uncles (including "Ed's" father.) (A special thank-you goes out to these three wonderful men who bailed "Ed" and me out and still permit us to attend family gatherings.)

So, years later, while we were in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, "Ed" (as we have chosen to call him to protect his anonymity) mentioned that he had recently been to that "hole-in-the-wall" church.

To the casual observer (ie. any standard-issue Coeur d'Alenian) it would seem like he was talking about a small prayer group that meets in a strip mall, or a start-up church.

And it's probably for the best. After all, we have a reputation to uphold.


Please check out my novel at: Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight

Not long ago I worked at a restaurant that charged $1.69 for a half liter (16.9 oz.) of water. (Read: Two Liberal Arts degrees from a "Land Grant" (Read: aka agricultural) university = “Job at Restaurant.”)

Doing quick math (because I do have two degrees,) that works out to $12.80 per gallon... or, 10 cents per ounce.

This means that if we eventually could get cars to run on water (ie: scientific advances that separate the H from the O in the carburetor) the fuel would be too expensive to use!

Of course, bottled water would be the "premium," whereas tap water would be the same as the kind you get at the unaffiliated (AKA: “Big (local community name) Gas and Food Mart”) gas station down the street.

About fourteen years ago, we were traveling through Eastern Washington.

Note: You may notice by now: we liked to travel a lot. (This meant that, when choosing a vehicle, things like "can it seat seven, plus a dog?" took precedence over things like, "does the radio fuzz out when you turn the windshield wipers on 'hi'?")
Another factor in our decision is "does it have cargo space for the "Free" stuff from yard sales?")

Speaking of free stuff, as I said, we were driving in Eastern Washington. Specifically, we traveled often between Western and Eastern Washington. (So much so that residents of the fair hamlet of Othello, Wash. (about halfway between destinations) actually thought we were locals.)

For those of you who don't know or care about Washington, the state is pretty much divided by the Cascade Mountain Range. The western part is where all the population (and subsequently pollution) is. The eastern part is where all the agriculture (including a region called "the Palouse," whose residents are Palousion) is. So we have pollution out west, Palousions in the east. If you look at Washington on a map, the same is true for its politics. The West side of the state is definitely the “left” side of the state. The East side of the state is definitely the “Tea Party” side of the state.

Are you with me here?

Anyway, we were driving westbound on Highway 26 near Othello — I'll wait while you check MapQuest...yeah... like I said, middle of nowhere — passing a truck heading in the opposite direction, when suddenly a very large Walla Walla Sweet onion flew from the truck and slammed into the grille of the van.

Grilled onion.

So now Julie and I are crying, and we have to pull over. (Not crying because our precious van is damaged, but because we have onions in our air intake!)

At first I was kind of frosted about the thought that a truck was hauling an uncovered load.

I was ready to draft a particularly stern letter to the company hauling the onions, but then I noticed something interesting: Aside from the onion lodged in our grille, there was a ridiculously large amount of corn and potatoes and more onions on the highway.

Not smothering the road, but a few here and there along the way.

BONUS! Just there for the taking! No lines at the checkstand, no irate clerks, no CFCs or anything, just slightly asphalty vegetables!

We weren't in a particular hurry, so we stocked up, stopping every few hundred yards to collect more! We had a huge haul of veggies.

And it went perfectly with the venison that we ... ahem … acquired later in the day. (read: Very tender.)

All that meat and veggies made us a little less bitter about paying $12.80 per gallon for water that night.

Many years ago we took a long road trip down the west coast to go do all those "down the west coast" things that families do.

Specifically, all those "down the west coast things" entail parents answering "are we there yet? are we there yet?"

GPS (Global positioning system) was probably invented by parents who take their kids on long road trips.

"Here, when the white arrow reaches the flashing red light, we're there!"

"Dad! We're not even on the MAP yet! Are we on the map yet? Are we on the map yet?"

Anyway, we had spent a considerable time on the road driving south (which included our air conditioner fritzing out in Oakland) and even traveled to Vegas. (Note: the only gambling we did was driving across the Mojave Desert in late July with no air conditioning.)

On the way back, (read: DISNEYLAND!) we lost a Polaroid camera and a Barney (tm) backpack on the Teacup ride.

Now, the Teacup ride doesn't get you anywhere fast, and Star Tours (tm) and Space Mountain (r) always deposit you back at Disneyland, so we knew eventually we would have to drive back in the car with nonfunctional A/C.

We finally worked up the courage (read: I was able to ride "Pirates of the Caribbean" twice without screaming) to try to drive back home.

Part of the problem with long drives is that I'm something of a wallet-sized cards packrat. I have cards from coffee shops in twenty different area codes, all with one punch on them. I have business cards, I have grocery store club cards, I have medical cards and even expired insurance and AAA cards. In the words of a former boss, "if it were any bigger, it'd need wheels." Unfortunately it didn’t have wheels, and it occupied my back pocket.

(This was before my friend Henry’s mom Sylvia (who is a massage therapist) nearly throttled me because the wallet was causing spinal and hip misalignments. (I certainly wouldn’t carry such a wallet now…right Sylvia?))

So whenever I drive long distances, I usually wind up very tired, and practically crippled.

On our trip home, I was dead tired and needed to stop for some gas and coffee somewhere in central California.*

I got out of the car, hobbled to the pump, slid my credit card and started pumping, all the while half asleep, and half disabled. When the pump stopped, I replaced the nozzle and prompted with the question "do you want a receipt?" I pressed "yes."

Then the pump asked me a question I wasn't ready for: "Do you want a car wash?"

I looked at my windshield and grill of the station wagon. The only things in my car worse off than me in my semi-conscious, semi-crippled state, were the 140,000 or so moths, mosquitoes and various other insects.

In fact, that particular road trip may have single-handedly been responsible for the extinction of entire species of bugs.

"Heck, YEAH" was my reply to the question. Unfortunately, the only option in the affirmative was "yes" so I punched the button really hard.

The printed receipt included a code to enter at the "touch free" car wash. I jumped into the car, banging my head on the roof as I did, and started it up.

"What's going on?" Julie asked, half-asleep.

"You'll see," I said, half-awake, as I immediately drove to the car wash.

I have to admit: The car wash was exhilarating, even after I rolled up the windows.

Thick streams of soap, wax and various other detergents spritzed all over the car, immersing it in a gooey coat of bubbly goodness. Eventually the party was over, with my car rinsed and blown dry, as shiny and new as a '88 Chevy Celebrity wagon could be. In fact, the car looked as beautiful as it did the day my mother gave it to me.

Feeling renewed, I entered the gas station/convenience store to purchase a couple quarts of gas station-flavored coffee.

When I entered, however, two gentlemen were inside, laughing hysterically. Seeing only the early morning farm report on the television, and nothing particularly funny about plagues of locust consuming entire crops of guar gum and phenylalanine, I inquired as to the source of their jocularity.

I would like to note at this point that, as a comedian, I WANT people to laugh at me. I CRAVE having people laugh at me... but I want to know WHY they're laughing at me, because I want it to be INTENTIONAL!!!

“Whassofunny?” I managed to blurt out.

“Dude, look at your car!” Both pointed out the window.

I looked out to my car, and saw that to the untrained eye, there was significantly more than just a crimson '88 Chevy Celebrity, gleaming as much as it had on the day its registered owner had received it from his mother.

Much, much more.

I stared at the car and took in the whole thing. Much to my amazement, I saw I had made a small error in judgment.

You see, we had four kids with us on the trip, and in order to give them some extra leg room, I had rearranged some of the luggage.

In this case, I had tied two strollers and six duffel bags filled with our clothes to the roof rack of the station wagon, and had subsequently washed the lot of them in the automated car wash.

It was then that I realized that they hadn't been watching something funny on broadcast television, but rather the closed-circuit surveillance video from inside the car wash. From the angle displayed on the small black-and-white monitor, they would have gotten a beautiful bird's-eye-view of my duffel bags getting spritzed.

“Oh... yeah... heh.Just doing my laundry, boys” I said, digging quickly in a pathetic attempt to preserve some of my male pride.

“With hot wax?”

OK, so they had me there. All my male pride slipped away, slinking off to sulk in the corner while I paid for the coffee cups.

We got a room in the next town and strung clothes lines from wall to wall. By morning, we all woke up, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and shiny-clothed.

*Note: There are just two people outside of our family who know this story first hand, but from the other side of the counter. If either of you happens to read this, please tell us what city we were in on Aug. 4 or 5, 1999, and I’ll credit you by name in later retellings.

Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight (Special Edition): Phoenix Flight Book One