Juxtaposed, and torn asunder

Juxtaposed, and torn asunder
Meticulously, I wormed onward
Slogging forth, advancing nowhere
Through the desiccate abyss
Loitering
Idled here

Shrug, gasp, sigh
Another doorway

"Fuck this shit, my path is North-ways!"
Yet, against my will
my feet turned South
Still dwelling here
Brooding doubts

Egotism, mysticism
In the gloom
The one-true vision
Lateralized before mine eyes

Hark, Lo!
Bundle up, dear childer
I feel another bitter winter
Curdling within my bones
The carillon's requiem
Long-lost tomes
Extrapolate the yearning soul

Yet, another verbose excuse

Just live your life

Time will soothe

But still, we can't let go of those grudges
Slanders, slights, and up-and-comers
Challengers who beat us down
Put up your dukes
I'm older now

The phantasmagoria dissolves before me
Like frayed and fractured pictures of my youth

Yet the reveries stripped from mine eyes

Such relief, such privilege
Such dissolute

All fades to ubiquitous blackness
I slink into my cell
Death was once a doorway
The reality is Hell

Depressed

Depressed here
Slinking low
As a scolded child

My dove says
She doesn't care
What I need or want

Brooding here
Stewing here
In miasmic air
It's a wonder
I've not choke to death

The garrote clinches around my neck
Dead-man walking here
I fell as low as bed-bugs
Beneath the furniture

What does love want?
I don't know
And still pondering
Cerebrating
Lucubrating
Self-inquiring

In drug dreams dreary
I've walked among the dead
I felt more welcomed there
Than I do here

Don't admire this
No admonishments
There's no beauty here
Death is not a doorway
Just a prison cell

Erudition
Navigation
Lost among gales

Across tides
Pitch as black
Circumnavigating Hell

Depressed here
And thusly here
I spun a gossamer shell

One day to emerge
And gorge upon myself

The only thing I know for sure

The only thing I know for sure, is that I know absolutely nothing.  But hell, 86% of the population doesn't know anything; 9 out of 17 people know this.  At least, I know that I know nothing.  Some people don't know they don't know anything.

I look around, I look around,
And I think, where have all the role-models gone?  Where have all the John Wayne's gone?

We're so concerned with our own crap.  We call them problems.  But they're just privileges.  I've seen real problems.  And I count my lucky stars that I have none.

Some say, ignorance is bliss.
But I say, ignorance is a way for the surreptitious to take that which they have not earned.

I'm reminded of when thieves were alleviated of their sinful appendages.  Now, I see a time where some need to steal just to survive.  Is that right?  Is anything we know ever been right?

I've read of when, each season,  Babylonian women sacrificed a man by burning him alive.  According to history, such practices were performed to appease the gods and yield good crops.  Apparently a matriarchal society is as ruthless as our traditional patriarchs.  Perhaps, more so.  In Africa, most of the females of each species are bigger than the males.  This is so the males don't eat the young.  Except, instead of an adult predator trimming the weak from the herd, mammoth females kill other matured adults and feed the spoils to their young.

Which is worse?
Does it matter?

I've read of a time, where, if you hurt, trimmed, or chopped down a tree (without permission from the gods), Pagans carved out your naval, nailed it the offended conifer, and forced you to circumnavigate the trunk until all your intestines firmly wrapped around the bark.  

Imagine if we lived back then.
There'd be no paper; among many other things.

Do I wish we still lived in a matriarchal society?
I don't know, I'm just glad we're not sacrificing people to phony-baloney gods in the hopes of a prolific harvest.

Do I wish we still lived in a time where defacing Mother Nature was a capitol offense? 
I don't know, but it would sure be great if we stopped ravaging our own natural resources in the name of progress.

What progress?
What have we really achieved in the last thirty years?  Century?

Most people seem so sure that the world will end any day now.  Y2K.  SARS.  12/21/12.  What a joke that was.  People, the Mayans never said that was when the Rapture would happen.  That's just when they stopped calendaring.  And the Mayan calendar was based on a ten-month-scale, not twelve; meaning the end-of-days would have happened well-before 12/21/12.

Still, we plod  on.
Now, pundits say that things in the Middle East are escalating just as things did back in August of 1914; right before WW1

Day-by-day, things get worse.
Zealots proclaim the impending return of the One True Savior.
Atheists say, "Naw, don't worry about.  Such is the way of things." 

Are we tottering on the precipice of Doomsday?
Or, will the night grow incipiently darker before a long-awaited dawn?

I don't know.
But at least, I know that I don't know.

And I thank God for that. 

Silenty, Incipiently

Silently, incipiently
I've breached another door in darkness
On my knees
I slogged toward it
Adytum, mew
Whatever you call it
Here and now
I dwell inside it

Excavate, emerge
From the gloom
I'm reborn
Inside my maw
New teeth are torn

I hunger
I thirst
I sate and slake
And then hibernate

Nihilists and atheists
Quake before the one true hate

Deep inside
Demons do hide
On our anger
They do thrive

This prison built
Of our free-will
Beleaguered here
Besieged by Hell

Angrily, I fight against it
The rip pulls me under
I struggle
I suffocate
I remain
Ensconced in Hell

Lost in rage
Forever here

New Batman

For the love of God, please, someone tell me that Ben Affleck is not going to take up the cape and cowl.  Don't get me wrong, Mr. Affleck has great charisma and stage presence.  But he can't act.  He either plays a condescending douche-bag, or his usual, Joe-everyman-reluctant-hero-type-self.  I'm sorry, but playing one of two characters is not acting.  Just because you're good looking and can memorize dialogue doesn't mean you should automatically receive the leading role in a block-buster-hit.  Ryan Reynolds, I'm talking to you.

Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself.

As I said, Mr. Affleck typically plays one of two roles -- every time. 

Consider this, when you're depicting the Dark Knight, you're not just playing a character, but two.  Bruce Wayne, stands tall, proud.  He's audacious, and speaks in an assuaging  voice.  On the other-hand, Batman broods, skulks, and speaks in such a fashion as to get the bad-guys quavering in their boots.

Yes, it's true Mr. Affleck can play two different roles, but neither would do the caped crusader justice.

I've heard the Hollywood tripe that both Mr. Affleck and Dark Knight director, Christopher Nolan, assure fans that they know what they are doing, and that after such a disastrous flop as, Daredevil, Mr. Affleck is more selective of roles.  If that's true, than I and seven-thousand-fans-and-counting are wrong.

DC comics, Hollywood producers, dais actors, forgive my bluntness, but you are fucking up.  You struck gold with the Dark Knight Tribology.  And after sour reviews of Superman Returns (which, I actually liked), you bounced back with Man of Steel [See previous blog:  They should never make another Superman movie again...]  And now you're going to tie the two together with an entirely different Batman, and an entirely different story-line?  Really?  Unless you start with Joseph Gordon-Levitt's character being bludgeoned to death in the streets, and bring back Christian Bale (which would be an entirely different Batman movie), I don't really see this working.  Especially if this is supposed to be a Man of Steel sequel.

Please, don't ruin a good thing.

Why don't you just do what Marvel's been doing, and pave the way for a Justice League trilogy?

I remember a time when the customer was always right.

8,000-fans-and-counting disapprove of Ben Affleck taking up the cape and cowl.

I sincerely hope you Hollywood hoop-la writers know what you're doing.        

Doing Nothing

Doing nothing
Feeling nothing
bereft of maudlin curmudgeon
What is this that stands before me?
Just another canted doorway
Sighing, Perplexed and vexed
I snidely snorted
"Fuck you guys, my path is North-ways"

I had an idea
Then I lost it
Scurried off
Like lambent roaches
Spangled fears
Reluctant cheers
We've lived our lives
Counting drear

Shut up
Stop making excuses

Shut up, you
What excuses?

The ones that blind us
Like white-noise
Lulling us to sleep
Life un-enjoyed

But we're too busy
With the hurry
Hustle, bustle
Scribble, scrabble
Skitter, fritter
We forget
That blissful winter
We once enjoyed
When us childer
And un-employed

Thusly then
And only then
When the snow fell upon my up-turned face

I knew my path
And destiny

This is Hell
Don't follow me

DHS

A friend of mine was telling me about how DHS (Department of Human Services, not Department of Homeland Security; why there's two DHS's, I have no idea), was screwing her out of food-stamps.  Over the last eighteen months or so, DHS has been incorporating new rules and guidelines for those they dole out welfare-rations to.  Why they're allowed to change such rules without prior public notification is anyone's guess.  I have theories.  But sometimes silence is the best card to play.  That's a good rule for life, kids.  Allow me to elucidate.  If you had a bridge-card, you would be subjected to account reviews every six months.  This is not something DHS does, this is something they want you to do, and if you don't, you will experience a delay, or refusal (depending on their new bi-laws), of benefits.

Anyway, DHS screwed up my friend's paper-work, thereby decreasing the rate of monthly benefits from $180 to $59.

I'm not like most people.  I don't eat that much.  At most, I eat twice a day.  More than that leaves me feeling lethargic.  But to my friend, $59 doesn't last an entire month.  At most, it buys her two-weeks worth of groceries, and that's predicated on the stipulation that she only eats once a day.  Seriously, $40 buys me two weeks worth of food.  Once again, I don't eat that much.  But try living on less than $60 a month, I double-dare you.

My friend said she tried calling DHS, but the phone number never rang through.  Interesting side-note, the particular branch of social services handling her case is two counties over.  Why?  Because the government likes to make things as confusing as possible. 

So, my friend, a productive, working member of society, had her benefits cut due to a clerical error, and her case worker will not return her calls.

Perhaps, this a scenario you are all too familiar with. 

Do not distress.  There is one sure-fire way to get a DHS case-worker to call you back, 'though I only recommend it as a last resort.

About five years ago, I too applied for food-stamps.  At the time, I was working at a local sub-sandwich shop.  I won't say which, but I am a sandwich artisan.  When I was first hired, I was told by the manager, that, they thought someone was stealing, and they wanted new, trust-worthy employees.  I was hired on the spot.  Two-and-a-half months later (and before I could claim un-employment), I was fired for theft.  Apparently I was their culprit after all, though the thievery  transpired well before my employment.  I think the manager was the one to blame all along.  I, the unsuspecting patsy of corporate theft, could have fought such slanderous allegations, but fuck-it, it was Subway.  Who wants to work there for life?  Hopefully, not you.

Anyway, I too applied for food-stamps, and I too was given the run-around until the point where I wanted to just say, "The hell with it."  DHS dragged-ass on my benefits.  So, I called and left a rather nasty message, saying that I was starving and would soon resort to violent thievery.  Within twenty-four hours, my so-called-case-worker, called back with a snide retort.

He said, my benefits were disqualified because my previous employer wouldn't sign a piece of paper.  Of course, he wouldn't.  For two-straight weeks, I went in to my previous place of employment to get the boss-man to sign off on my paper-work.  But he wouldn't.  He was never there.  I left the forms.  But he never filled them out.  Why would he?  After all, I was the one he tried to frame.

In the end, I just said, "The hell with it," and got another job.  Then, I got a second job.  People, jobs are out there, they're just the ones nobody wants.  I don't know why.  The types of unemployment that seem the worst always pay the best.  I have a disgusting job, and it pays well.  Not as well as it could, but I digress.  I guess actual labor isn't worth the pay-off to some folks.

Anyway, the reason pissing off your DHS case-worker will guarantee a call-back, is because the people working there are the kind of people that love to rebuke anything you say.  Those folks are often mean-spirited and condescending.  A few years back, when me and my girlfriend started living together, her DHS case-worker wanted my personal financial information.  I wrote them a letter saying I refused to disclose any such information, because I was not the one seeking assistance.  I also wrote that, "I now consider this matter to be closed.  Any further attempt at collecting any financial or personal information will be construed as harassment, followed be legal action on my part."  Two days later the case-worker called, demanding to talk to me.  I reiterated my letter.  She said, "DHS is changing their rules.  Some people live with girlfriends, boyfriends, and baby-daddy's, trying to scam more benefits."  I held my tongue from responding to her slanderous insinuation that I was a, "baby-daddy."  Nor did I relay to her that neither me or my girlfriend had any children, nor were we planning to in the immediate future.

Yesterday, I bumped into my friend and asked if DHS had fixed her problem.  She said when she finally got ahold of her case-worker, the case-worker told her that it was not a mistake.  Her benefits had been decreased from $180 to $59 a month.  And she had to make due with that.  When she told me this, I pictured her  well-feed, government-compensated, case-worker with the receiver held up to a maniacal grin.

Sure, we're broke as hell, but do we really gotta be such assholes to each other just because the so-called-powers-that-be say it's our job?  

World War Z highly unlikely

I for one, love the zombie genre.  But let's not get carried away.

My brother says there are two kinds of people: those that wake up everyday praying for the zombie apocalypse, and those who don't.

I'll have to admit, last summer when that bum ate some guy's face off, and there was a rash of flesh eating bacteria, and the CDC was posting zombie-apocalypse-preparedness-blogs: I quavered at the very notion of eternally living in an episode of The Walking Dead.

First off, true zombies aren't dead.  Nor do they eat the brains or flesh of the living.  According to Voodoo (which originated in Jamaica/Haiti), zombies are people (not corpses), that are so deep under a trance it only appears they are dead.  And they do not hunger for the flesh of the living, they merely carry out the wishes of the person who hexed them.

There is folklore of zombie-like creatures such as ghouls and draugers, but they're not exactly zombies.

According to Hollywood hokum, there are two kinds of zombies:  1.) The slow, shambling cadavers of those who died.  And they feed on brains.  2.)  Some sort of mad-people-like virus that turns us all into flesh-craving cannibals.

Movie and television depicts such catastrophic pandemics as signaling the end of times.  This is false.

For one, let's set aside the fact that some two-hundred-plus-pound floppy-corpse could run-us down in the street, or that the zombie of some-punk-delivery-boy could tear you to pieces.  A zombie would posses nor more or less than the proportional strength or speed of it's living counterpart.

Here's another thing, every time you move, you're stretching and tearing muscle fibers.  Every time you move your shedding microscopic skin cells and hair follicles.  When muscles rip, lactic acid builds up, creating new muscle fibers.  Sure, you lose skin cells and hair, but more grow back.  But not on a dead person.  If you're a zombie, every time you move, muscles and ligaments tear, but do not grow back stronger.  Every time you move, skin and hair flake off you like dandruff, but once again, do not grow back.  Even if you're the most gorged ghoul on the block, you'd still fall apart in a manner of weeks.

And what about when winter comes?  Main-stream-media would have you believe that if a zombie freezes, they instantly lash-out when thawed.  This notion is insanity.  Have you ever put a bottle of coke in the freezer, and then forgot about it?  What happens?  The water molecules expand until they crystallize, and fracture (This is also why cryogenics is complete malarkey).  The same would hold true for any zombie, especially if their cells didn't undergo mitosis.  Every molecule would fragment and fracture, including the brain.  What's the best way to kill a zombie?  Take out the head or brain.  Well, if a zombie's brain freezes and fractures due to the changing seasons, then all you have to do is hide out in your shelter and wait till the metaphorical dust settles.

To summarize, if an apocalypse of the living un-dead ever did happen, it wouldn't last long.  The walking cadavers would naturally fall apart in a manner of weeks.

No, Mother Nature would never be so kind as to grace us with a zombie-apocalypse.  Instead, we have things like Ebola, AIDS, H1N1, and pig-bat-camel-flu. 

Yeah us!     

Bright Ideas

Bright ideas are like snow flakes.  When we want them to descend upon us in a full-out maelstrom, they merely flutter about.  When our hands tied; then the deluge falls.  And each and every (bright) idea seems as uniquely crafted as semi-frozen globs of precipitation.

The other day, I was at one of those huge-mega-monolithic-superstores; back in the bottle-return department.  I go in the middle of a work-day, when it's far-less crowded.  Anyway, I'm there all of eight minutes.  I know, because I timed it.  I had to.  Technically, I was on my lunch-break.  But, is it technically a break if no lunch is involved?  Alas, I do not know.  But, I deviate.

The self-service-six-items-or-less-U-scan line was backed up all the way to the frozen food section.  If I had to guestimate, I'd say the line was fifty-foot long; the wait, undeterminable.  So, I ambulated down the rows of tightly packed consumers.  You know how there's certain huge-mega-super-cali-fragilistic stores that advertise:  If more than two people are standing in line, we'll open another?  Well, this wasn't one of them.  So, I walked all the way down to the last (open) lane.  Three people in front of me.  They had fully stocked carts.  I had two bottle-return coupons.  But, none of the other lines were moving, so I figured, "What the hell, I'm a patient guy -- sometimes."  I waited in line for fifteen minutes.  I know, because I checked the time on my cell-phone.  Technically, I had seven-minutes to return to work.

When I finally got to the cashier, I said, "You guys should really have one of those U-scan-bottle-deposit-return-machines back in the recycling area.  She said, "Most people go to the U-scans."  I replied, "Normally, I would."  Then I pointed out the U-scan line, far off in the distance, still backed up to the frozen-food section, still unmoving.  I told the cashier, "If there was a U-scan-bottle-return-slip-machine in the recycling area, then those with bottle-return slips wouldn't have to stand in line, and the lines wouldn't be so long.

Brow furrowed, bottom lip tucked up like a bulldog's, she grunted as if such a thought had never occurred to her.

Why would it?  After all, the longer we stand in line, the longer we're subjected to glossy magazine spreads, Clorox to-go sticks, the latest candy concoctions, and the more inclined we are to spend just a teensy bit more.

Still, I wish one of those mega-mart-super-whole-sale-stores would put a bottle-slip-return-machine in the actual recycling area.

I don't know much about meteorology, barometrics, or the crystallization process that makes each snowflake indelibly different from the next.  But having a bottle-slip-return-machine in the recycling area sounds like one hell of a bright idea to me.  

#@$%&*! CARDS

What's the deal with places like, Quality-Way, and Speedmart (the names of these actual locales have been changed to protect the innocent)?  These convenience stores, (sometimes), slash, gas-stations, (sometimes), slash, liquor stores; and these special cards they press on people?  I, for one, don't have a Speedy-card (Shit.  I said it.  Oh, well, the cat's out of the bag).  But, I frequent my local spots.  And even though my ID doesn't scan (due to a crease in it), buying adults products is never a problem because most of the employees know me.  Not by name, mind you.  They always ask, "Got a *#%@ card?"  I say, "No."  They ask, "Why not?"  I reply, "Because, I don't have one."  They ask, "Would you like one?"  I politely decline.  At which point, they get defensive, and ask, "Why not?"  To which, I reply, "Because I don't want one."  Then they pester me while dragging out the time it actually takes to ring up my order.

One time, I bought something off the roller-grill.  The clerk asked me if I wanted two.  I thanked her, but declined.  She said, "It's cheaper if you buy two."  I asked how much it was for one.  She said, "A $1.49."  I asked how much it would be for two corndogs (or whatever it was.  I can't recall).  She replied, "$2.00, out the door."  I asked her how $2 was cheaper than $1.49.  She seemed flustered, agitated. 

But, I digress.

One time, on a whim, when the clerk asked me why I didn't want a *#%@& card, I wiggled my fingers in the air, and eerily proclaimed, "Because, I know the truth, Ooh!"  I didn't really wiggle my fingers.  I wish I had.  The clerk replied, "What, the government?"  (Why, is the government the first to be blamed for everything?  I'm sure there's a reason).  I nodded, letting her lead the conversation.  Have you ever done that before?  Just made some random, obscure statement, and then went along with whatever the replier said?  It's fun.  I highly recommend it.

Anyway, three (not one) clerks responded in a cacophonous chorus, "The government don't check that."  "It took three years for @$#%$#@-mart to get these cards made up, if that tells you anything."  "You don't need an ID."  "We probably got about fifty John Does."

Their resounding reassurances did not assuage me in the least.

To be honest, I was previously under the conspiratorial theory that Big-business was in cahoots with the government to keep tabs on everyone:  Where they shopped.  What they bought.

Think about it; what if you were the type of nefarious n'ere-do-well, who didn't have an address, bank account, valid ID, phone number, or credit card?  What if you were hired under the table, and didn't pay taxes?  Tracking what liquor store your frequented, and at what time, would be of great benefit to both corporate fat-cats and the federales.   

But that can't be right.  That's just nervous nonsense.  Right?  It must be.  Who would possibly be keeping track of how many gallons of milk you buy; other then that particular store, of course?  Hey, it's great re-stocking intel!

Did you know, you get points for buying alcohol, but not tobacco?

This is truly a confusing age in which we live. 

    

To blog, or not to blog

To blog, or not to blog, what does it matter?  Is anyone out there reading this blather? 

The other day, my girlfriend asked me what I blogged about.  Why she doesn't just read them, I don't know.  Perhaps, nobody reads these world-wide thoughts of mine.  Doesn't matter to me.  I don't  write blogs with the intention of appeasing readers.  I just like to vent about stupid crap.  But, not things as frivolous as:  Josh found a Pepsi-clear.  How nostalgic! :)  I just blog about whatever I want.  But I keep three things in mind:  1.) Is there a point to my blog?  2.)  Would someone be entertained by my post?  Number 3 is tricky.  Some might presume that #3 is:  Does this make people want to return to my blog?  Not me.  Even if you're insightful, intelligent, and can string a sentence together, I don't care if you're making a sandwich, or tweeting your inner-most-personal thoughts while pondering the workings of the universe from atop your porcelain throne.  I'm sorry, but I don't.  Nor, do I care what people think of my blogs.  I'll post what I want.  But, still, number 3 is elemental, subconscious; something you can take with you:  3.)  Does this make you think?

Well, I certainly hope it has.  People, please be mindful and respectful on your blogs.  You may think your mundane actions trite; uneventful.  You may even think no one is reading.

But, remember, the universe is always listening, and never forgets.

So much, so little

So much, so little
Such drab, and such drivel
We contort to the clock
Lest we like it or not

The hours tick by
As seasons do dry
Death and division
What's nuclear fission?

Compression, convex
molting, complex
Chrysalis analysis
Regulated dialysis

On box, and on fox
Take your cootie-shot
In car or on plane
Succumb to your veins

What is this that stand before me?
Hark, it just a crooked doorway

Such tidings, and giggles
coquettish, belittled
Death improvised
And yet, some survive

The hours plod on
Devoid of the dawn
Maledictions inscribed
Fatuitous jive

Compressed and repulsed
Hypodermic remorse
Chrysanthemum-gigantism
Esoteric retorts

What is this that looms before me?
Hark, it just another doorway

So much, so little
Sadistic, enabled
Death circumscribed
Morally deprived

Lo!  Hark!

And I lurk inside
In my mew, I do hide

Come and search for me
I dwell just beyond the archway

Beyond the blue
And in the pale
Don't linger here
This is Hell

POD

What does POD stand for?  Payable on death?  Prince of darkness?  Pants on the drier?  Provincial outsourced-downsizing?  On the internet, it stands for: print on demand.  But, why would one feel the need to print on demand?  Peer pressure?  Fear of being ostracized?  Who in their right-mind would pay over $30 to buy a book they could own for free, or download for $0.99?  I, personally have only read (or, is it red?  God, the English language is utterly exasperating), a handful of books more than once.  Most of the time it seems redundant, like writing one's name in already yellowed snow.  According to periodical evidence, most recent books are printed on demand.  Why?  Do publishers no longer believe in the authors in which they invest?  More importantly, is it impossible to build a legion-like fan-base without publishing hardcopies?  Sure it is.  Look at every movie you've ever seen.  Was there a hard-bound copy of that movie before it was reproduced for commercial use?  Highly unlikely.  Regrettably, things don't work the same as they do in the world of cinematography as they do in publication.  No one knows who you are until some dime-store-charlatan comes along and makes a cheap adaptation of your work.  Or worse, you are already one of those people who contort masterfully crated words-men-ship into Hollywood hokum.  In which case, my heart goes out to you.  Where was I going with this?  I don't know.  It's well-past the witching-hour, and I'm more-than-properly besotted.  Oh, that's right.  What does POD stand for?  I don't know.  But for now, I'm gonna claim that it stands for:  "Piss-off, damn-it!"

P.S.  I'm not telling anyone or anything to piss-off.  I just hear the letters P O D and think, "Piss-off, damn-it!"  Try saying that sometime.  You just might like it.  

To Write Well

In the book, Hideaway, Dean R. Koontz (via the phlegmatic author, S. Steven Honell), says that, "To write well, one ought to possess a monk's preference for solitude.  In isolation, one was forced to confront oneself more directly and honestly than possible in the hustle-bustle of the people world, and through oneself also confront the nature of every human heart."

I half-heartedly agree with that.  Sure, writing takes up a lot of time.  A lot.  And the old axiom holds true:  Those who write about life, have no time to live it.  And those living it, are too busy to write about it.  In addition, I often enjoy spending the final hour of every night just sitting in silence; contemplating.  But if I didn't wrench myself away from the keyboard (or sometimes the ol' fashioned pen and notebook), I'd never have anything to write about.  I'd have no characters to write because so much of what I write is influenced and inspired by other people and my experiences with them.  "They" say to write about what you know.  Well, if you don't live your life once in a while, then, you won't really know anything.  Will you?  Except, you won't even know that you don't know anything.  And that's a sad-sad state of affairs.

If writers want to delve into the depths of the human condition, perhaps they should repatriate from their monk-like mews to the land of the living.

Post script.  Why the hell did they change, Hideaway, so much when they made it into a movie?  Hollywood (I'm sorry, but if you want me to refer to you as L.A., you better take down the Hollywood sign and replace it with one that reads either:  LOS ANGELES or L A), completely butchered a unique piece of masterfully-crafted fiction.

My only critique of the book is at the beginning, when the car is sinking to the bottom of the river and Lindsey is thinking about the past five years of her life.  I've been in car accidents, and I've nearly drowned a handful of times.  In that penultimate (which is a word I learned from Mr. Koontz), moment, you're not thinking about your life.  Your thinking about ESCAPE.  Or, you're summoning your last bit of strength for one final furious burst of hope to break the surface of rushing waters before your lungs explode in your chest.  It can be difficult to get your bearings under rapidly churning water.  Sometimes you don't even know you're up-side down until some Good Samaritan strolls along and  pulls you out by your feet. 

They should never make another Superman movie again.  Ever.  Man of Steel is hands down the best Superman ever made and a good candidate for the top ten super-hero movies of all time.  Seriously, after a much more sinister version of General Zod, plus an entire brigade of super-powered Kryptonians (or is it Kryptonites?), who would be the villain in the next Man of Steel?  Lex Luther?  Albeit, his mirror-shined bald cranium and overall size and stature (but, only in the comics, anyway), may appear daunting to us mere mortals, what sort of threat could he pose to ol' Supes?  I'm reminded of a line from, The Last Action Hero, in which Danny tells Schwarzenegger, "This is a sequel, it's supposed to be harder."  Or, something along those lines.  No matter what diabolical scheme Lex hatched, I really don't think it would prove any more challenging than the ferocity with which Zod and his minions fought to preserve the survival of their people.  Here's another thing, no Kryptonite.  The writers changed it so that the Man of Steel's vulnerability was to Krypton's atmosphere, not Kryptonite.  What I don't understand is that if Superman doesn't breath (he can go underwater and into outer-space), than why would Krypton's atmosphere have any effect on him at all?  Plot-holes. 

I've heard that in keeping up with Marvel Comics (which will be releasing X-men:  Days of Future's Past, more Avengers sequels, plus making an Ant-Man movie), DC is trying to bring about Justice League films, and solo movies with the characters that comprise such a heroic squad.  They're also finally making a Batman/Superman move.  Both Christopher Nolan and the guy who did Man of Steel (I can't think of his name right now), will be working on it together.  I don't know if that means they're writing it together, producing it together, directing it, or what.  Just that they'll be working together on it.  All the actors from Man of Steel will be in the new cross-over movie, but there's no word on what things will look like from Batman's side of the lawn.  Will Joseph Gordon-Levit take up the Dark Knight's cape and cowl, as the ending of The Dark Knight Rises, suggested?  Or will some insidious force bring Bruce Wayne out of retirement?  Time will only tell.  I'll say this, if they do manage to pull off a Batman/Superman movie, it will either stand triumphantly at the top of the list of great super-hero adaptations, or be one of the biggest flops ever made.  Christopher Nolan, guy whose name eludes me, don't disappoint us fans.