Should

I was hoping to have something new for you by now.  This isn't exactly new, but the reading is, so that counts, right?


Right?


Ah well, old, new or something somewhere between, I hope you enjoy.

This Is a Test

It's no secret that I'm a fan of audio fiction and radio drama.  I've decided I'd like to make the shift from spectator (auditator?) to participant, and so I've taken my first timid steps in that direction.  After I work my way through the basics of sound editing, I hope to have a story for you, but in the meantime, I've been playing with this short demo:

When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Someone Else

Hmm?  Sorry, have you been waiting long?

Yeah, I haven't done a whole lot of blogging lately.  The holidays are partly to blame, along with my resolution to spend more time writing for profit (no offence). 

So here I am, six weeks into the new year without a single post, and none coming up in the near future.

So I did what any good blogger does.  I subcontracted.

Lucky for me, Rebecca Hosier, my ever so charming and talented niece (steady, fellas - I may not be Daddy, but I do overprotective just fine, thanks) has agreed to help out by sharing a piece of her own.  If you're expecting an overexcited teenage dose of celebrity gossip and LoL Cats, guess again. 

Enjoy

The Israeli and Palestinian Conflict

by Rebecca Hosier

If you watch the news at all you have probably heard that something is going on over in Israel. You may not know specifics, but you vaguely remember hearing that something bad is happening. There has been fighting over Israel, former Palestine, for decades. It seems the media only covers half the story. Let’s take a look at the rest of it. Let us have a peek the injustices happening on the other side of the wall.

One thing you may not have heard much about is the separation wall. The separation wall is an eight meter high wall that stretches for 403 miles, weaving in and out of Palestinian territory. The U.N. created a green line that the wall was supposed to follow. It would fairly split the country in half.

The wall is only 20% on the green line. This said wall is supposed to protect the Israeli people; sadly it does much more than that. The wall divides family property, separates brother from brother and farmer from field. Also if your house is within fifty feet of the wall you are in risk of having it demolished. If your house is still standing you are then at risk of being shot at from the soldiers stationed on the wall. Tell me how this is protection.

In the states we take water for granted. We take long showers, we leave the faucet on while brushing our teeth and doing the dishes. But what does it matter? We won’t run out of water.

That is not the case in Palestine. Most of the water sources are on the Israeli side of the wall, so the Palestinians must buy the water. Each house has big barrels on the roof for water storage. The family will get only enough water to fill the number of barrels in which they own. If this isn’t bad enough there is no schedule for when the water is delivered. So when the water runs out it is possible the family will have to go days without water for showers, dishes or laundry, things we do daily without thinking about.

Medical care is something else we as Americans take for granted. If we aren’t feeling well then we just call up the doctor’s office and set up an appointment. It is that easy.

In one refugee camp, Ida camp, there is one doctor. He is there for six days a week for six hours a day and that is all. He has eleven thousand possible people to care for. If you were in need of emergency care and had to go to a hospital you would need to go to Israel.

To do that you’d need to go through checkpoints. Checkpoints are places between Israel and Palestine. They are manned by soldiers that check for the correct papers before they let you pass. Checkpoints are also for protection, to make sure nothing or no one “suspicious” goes into Israel.

Without the right papers you have no hope of passing through. Even with the right papers it is possible access will be denied. If the soldiers manning that checkpoint are having a bad day they are allowed to take it out on you by not letting you through.

Because of this dozens of babies are born at checkpoints every year. There are villages that because of checkpoints emergency response time has gone from ten minutes to one hundred and ten minutes. In some places at night it is impossible to have any emergency response because the checkpoints close.

Now you have heard some of the injustices happening, injustices that have become part of the Palestinian’s daily lives. Should any human being be forced to live this way? Organizations, such as World Council of Churches and Amnesty International, help the many people who are living under oppression. What can you do to help people all over the world who are mistreated and oppressed? 

No It's Not New, But It's New To Here

We're creeping up on the holiday season, which means I get to recycle old material.  Here's a bit I did a couple years back.  Still holds up and I'm still in the same place.  

Enjoy!

Happy. . . Thursday?

We’re deep into November now.  There’s a bite in the wind and daylight has become scarce.  The bowl in the kitchen with all the Halloween sweets is out of chocolate and jellies, down to the chalky bits that no one wants. 

November is a slightly homesick time for me.  A few years back, I moved from Pennsylvania to Ireland.  By now, Ireland is Home, but November is always a time to think of Back Home.  This used to be a time for high school football with the marching band soundtrack, of hard frost and dead leaves crunching underfoot, a time for complaining about Christmas displays up too early, just like they were last year.  And of course, it’s time for Thanksgiving. 

It’s hard to describe to outsiders just why Thanksgiving is such a big deal.  There’s no presents, no costumes, no fireworks.  It’s just dinner with the extended family, sort of a Christmas dress rehearsal.  But it does matter.  It’s one of our biggest holidays, and from the outside, it can be hard to see why.  We’ll eat some turkey, cart out our family dysfunction for the annual outburst, and fall asleep watching Home Alone on TV.  True enough, but it still doesn’t scratch the surface of what the day’s all about.

Every year, my wife suggests that we do Thanksgiving here, and every year I say thanks but no. Thanksgiving is not a holiday that travels well.  For me, the day is about community, one of the few things my country does together. 

Most days, America doesn’t feel like a single place.  California doesn’t have much in common with New York, and less with Kentucky.  We’re a nation of subcultures, divided by ethnicity, religion, geography, politics, and personal taste, but Thanksgiving belongs to all of us, and it looks the same in Portland as it does in Boston.

When folks here ask about Thanksgiving, they try to compare it to Christmas, but that comparison just doesn’t hold up.  Dinner menus aside, Thanksgiving is not Christmas.  Yuletide traditions stateside vary from one state to the next, one town to the next, even one family to the next.  When my Irish December doesn’t match up with my own ghosts of Christmas-past, I can adapt without feeling out of place.  I’d face the same compromises anywhere, even in my own home town.  In this house, we’ve managed to keep traditions from both sides of the Atlantic, even adding a few that are all our own. 

That doesn’t work with Thanksgiving.  There are no local traditions to integrate.  Thanksgiving is exclusively American, and trying to do it on this side of the Atlantic can only remind of a community that doesn’t exist here.    Friends and family may wish me “Happy Thanksgiving,” but they aren’t marking the day themselves.  They’re off to work, just like me. 

My wife asked me again this year, reminding me that our son’s old enough to learn about his American roots.  I though about it, but I still said no.  For my family to experience Thanksgiving, we will have to visit America.  All that I can offer here is turkey dinner on a Thursday.

Suport Your Local Praisehound

I have a new flash fiction piece out on WeirdYear:

Seven Satin Nights: Forward by Henry Gaudet

Check it out.  Odds are, there's someone odd in your life that would appreciate weird short stories, so spread the word.   

Sunday In the Kitchen

thump thump grunt 

Bang

badword mutter mumble badword grumble strain

pop 

Phew!

crunch thump thump turn squeak strain turn turn

slip bang ow 

LOUDbadword 

Badword badword SLAM badword ow

sigh

thump thump ow thump clatter 

Wait 

wait 

yes!

Done.

kettle bubble pop pour stir sit 

ah

creak 

CRASH thump bumpbump heavybump 

tink

tink

tink

Sob 

---

I really, really hate DIY.

Just a Moment of Your Time

Okay, first thing's first.


I've been lax in my bloggery of late.  


Bad blogger.


Now that that's out of the way, on with the rant.


---

I don’t shop on my doorstep.  Ever.

And not only am I not buying, but I’m not listening either.  I don’t care what the product is.  I don’t care how great the offer is.  I don’t care if you’re giving it away for free or paying me to take it off your hands.  We’re not doing business at my front door. 

          I’m having a little trouble getting this idea across.  The first polite “no, thanks” doesn’t get much notice at all.  And even when I interrupt Sales Pitch X with a much more stoic “I’m not interested,” I still don’t get much traction.  Usually, the point doesn’t sink home until the door closes mid-sentence. 

Now, part of my frustration comes from the fact that I don’t hold the salesmen at my door responsible.  Door-to-door sales is a tough gig.  They work exclusively for commission, and if they don’t sell they don’t get paid.  That kind of pressure encourages hard sales don’t-take-no-for-an-answer tactics. 

Traditionally, the employer shoulders the bulk of risk surrounding sales.  Salesmen had to sell, sure, but even after a rough week with no commission, that basic salary was still there to meet the bills.  Door-to-door salesmen are working without a net.  No sales means no pay.

The businesses they sell for are saving some money on cheap labor, but the folks really cleaning up are the middlemen.  Promotion agencies hire out teams of salesmen to strip mine towns one street at a time.  Since they only pay commission, they run virtually no risk, passing all that worry down to the salesmen. 

          It’s a bad deal, but when jobs are scarce, a bad deal looks a lot better than no deal at all.  Turnover’s high, but when you don’t pay salaries, who cares, right?  Scared, hungry salesmen work harder and sell more, and if people get annoyed by dinner-time doorbells, so be it. 

Personally, I like to decide what and when to buy.  I can find out what options are available through conventional advertising, and once I’m interested I can find the details I need.  I might even ask someone in sales about an offer’s finer points, but I’ll be the one to initiate that conversation, thank you very much.  No need to swing by my house on the off chance that I’m ready today.  I’ll let you know.   

There’s nothing about this sales model that I like.  It’s short-sighted and takes advantage of a workforce trying to make ends meet.  It’s intrusive and aggressive, annoying the public en masse and alienating potential customers.  I don’t want to do anything to encourage this business model, so I don’t participate.  

Nothing personal, I just don’t think it’s a good way to do business.

         

           

         

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

It’s been a busy few weeks.


So I was driving home and I got caught in the rain, one of those waterfall-down-the-windscreen downpours. Couldn’t see a thing, including the road flooded at the bend up ahead. 

That’s right, at the bend. 

Of course, I hydroplaned right off the road. Missed the telephone pole, but plowed right through the pole’s grounding wire. Did a number on the radiator and kicked the left wheels up in the air. My wing mirror popped as it hit the asphalt and I slid to a stop at the edge of the road resting on my door.


Relax, I’m okay. The air bag never popped. I never even felt a tug on my seatbelt. I was fine, perpendicular but fine.


It took me a minute before I thought to switch off the engine, to turn off the radio, to figure out my next move. I shoved open the passenger door, popping up like a tank commander, and waved to the cars behind me, letting everyone know I was okay.


The rain was still bucketing down, and I was pretty shaken up. I stood at the roadside, a bit lost and a lot confused. Some of the other drivers got out to lend a hand, to check on me and help me tip the car back off the road and onto its wheels. One gentleman gave me a lift back into town and got me home safely. 

I have no idea who any of you are or how to reach you, but thanks.


Once the emergency was over, once we got past the “thank God you’re alright,” then we had to deal with the aftermath: towing, scrapping, replacement. 

Pain in the hole all round.


When I came back later, the car started just fine, but it was never going to move again. What had once been a fuel-efficient little runaround had become a very large paperweight with a built-in radio. I was suddenly the proud owner of a car shaped box of car parts.


It took two weeks to get mobile again. Two weeks of calls to gardai (that’s cops for all you Americans), mechanics, insurers, and dealers. 

Two awkward weeks of walking everywhere, starting with the scrap yard – I had to collect all our bits and pieces left in the car: shopping bags, spare change, sunglasses, the road atlas, the booster seat and a blanket left behind after our last picnic. 

Two weeks of walking for errands, of dodging raindrops and shopping with a backpack, of walking slowly for younger feet when we went out as a family. 

Finally, we have wheels again, and we’re settling back into our routine.


It could have been a lot worse. I kept the speed down because of the weather and I had my belt on, but even so, if I’d hit the telephone pole instead of the wire, I’m pretty sure I’d have felt that. Even the fence behind would have done more damage. I came away addled, but without a single bruise or scratch. The soaking I got climbing out of the car probably did me more harm.


Still . . .


Discounting the odd parking lot fender bender, this was my first crash. I’m not sure what I expected, but the experience was underwhelming. One second I was driving, the next I was in the very same position, only on my side.


I think my exact words were “Hmm. Okay.”


I’m not wishing for more trauma or grief, but I was expecting . . . I don’t know. Something. There should be some pay off for all that noise and adrenaline. It’s a bit like coming away from a 3-second rollercoaster with no hills. Or a Matrix sequel.

The Latest Buzz

I’ve got a housefly.

In this house, we most often see giant zeppelin bluebottle flies, the kind that get wedged in between the slats of the blinds and spend the next 72 hours bouncing off the window.  These brutes are noisy, but I’ve gotten pretty good at herding them to an open window, so they aren’t usually a problem.

But I don’t have a bluebottle.  I’ve got a housefly, a nimble, persistent little housefly who seems to have something of an ear fetish.  He keeps hovering about two inches from my earlobe until I take a blind swing and he switches sides.  So either Jeff Goldblum is in my living room desperately trying to enlist my aid, or I’ve got a fly who just won’t stay out of my ear canal.

He doesn’t bother landing either, and unless I can pull a Mr. Miyagi, I’m not about to take him down.  I suppose I could use Raid for cologne. . .  I’m pretty sure that’d do the trick, but I’ve got this thing about spraying my neck and face with poison.  Just this odd little quirk I have.

I tried luring him away, either outside or at the very least to another room, but he’s not interested in following me around the house.  Maybe he wants a comfy chair or maybe he’s hooked on reality TV.  I don’t know, but he ain't moving.  I can go make a sandwich in peace or have a few minutes to myself in the “reading room,” but when I get back to the sofa, he’s there, waiting for me.  No, not for me.  Waiting for my friggin’ ear!

I’ve got a housefly, which means the living room is No Man’s Land.  I’m not going to be on the console tonight or catching up on Cool & Trendy Cop Show X.  If you need me, I’ll be in the “reading room.”

Of course, I'm pretty sure I left my book in the living room…

And Now For Something Completely Different

I've decided to go trawling through the archives for an older piece.  By now fairly dated, but I think it holds up well.  If nothing else, consider it a mental snapshot, a picture of the Stuff Inside My Head seven years and one day ago.




I Have a Flag
04/07/2003

I committed a cardinal sin last Christmas; I disappointed my wife. Oh, don't get me wrong. She loved everything she got. It was the gift she gave that disappointed her.

You see, my wife gave me a flag, a star spangled beauty in all its Old Glory, given with love and an understanding of just how long all those miles between Home and Back Home have grown. She moved heaven and earth to find it and shelled out a fair amount of cash to make it mine. And how did I react? I'm not quite sure, but I think my exact words were "Oh. Thanks."

Now, not all that long ago, I was flag hunting myself. Symbols can comfort in times of crisis, and in the wake of That September, I remember feeling so completely isolated, so far from home and helpless. I sat here just like everyone else, but while my neighbours watched an international tragedy unfold, I witnessed a very personal attack on Who We Are.

I remember the intense pride I felt for my countrymen, for their strength and perseverance in the face of disaster. I remember being moved to tears by the international show of support, an especially poignant rendition of You'll Never Walk Alone from the bleachers in Liverpool, and I remember, for reasons I still can't articulate, a need to publicly display the depth of that feeling, the pride and the pain. So I set off to find a flag.

It turns out I wasn't so alone after all.  Back home, flags flew off the shelves and they were a good deal rarer here. So I went without in the short term, and as the days turned to weeks and history unfolded, my sense of patriotic exhibitionism began to wane. In fact, it wasn't long before I was happy enough for the distance.

Which leads us to today. On this side of the Atlantic, it's just another Friday, but over there...

Over there it's Independence Day, a day set aside to celebrate baseball, Coke in green bottles, V8 engines, John Wayne, Motown, hot dogs, and a mythical army of rebels in powdered wigs who made their mark by telling King George to piss off. 

This is the 4^th of July. . . and I have a flag.

I pulled it out today, a tightly folded triangle of stars on a field of blue. I stared at it, thinking of my fellow Americans who made me so proud not so long ago. 

I wish I still felt that way.

Politics and foreign policy are topics for another day, but like so many viewing the U.S.from the outside, I find the current trends disturbing.  More disturbing still is the broad support these policies have found.

I have a flag, a gift from my wife, and I love her for her thoughtfulness.  I love my country too, love it dearly, and as much as I would love to shout that love from the rooftops today, I won't.  I know that what is intended as a show of love and affection will be seen as support and approval.

I put the flag away, for now at least, and wait for the day I can celebrate not just Who We Are, but What We Do.


Back to the here and now: I still have the flag, and it's found a permanent home in my son's bedroom alongside the tricolours.  It seems like a fitting display.