Shortbus to the Gates

Since I’d read page 6 of the book, Demon Squad: Armageddon Bound, I have been a fan of Tim Marquitz’s series. It is a dark, gruesome tale laced with biting sarcastic humor. I’ve enjoyed the first two books with tremendous zeal. Here is a link to the review I gave of the first book.

Tim also read it. Back in July, after I’d posted it, I sent him a link. The Shortbus deleted everything soon thereafter, but I kept that review since it was one of the few things I’d written that wouldn’t get me sued for a gazillion dollars. Tim must have liked the post– I was one of the lucky ones to receive an advanced copy of his third in series, At the Gates.

At the Gates is going to be released on December first; here is a link to his page. There, you can get all his books if you are interested.

Here is a little background to bring you up to speed. Frank Trigg is a half-demon who resides on Earth. Being from Hell, he has a little insight to the supernatural and he informs us that recently, God and Lucifer have called a truce and have left our dimension to sort out their ills. The angels in heaven are quite confused and the more powerful demons in hell have made land grabs, cutting out pie-pieces of Earth, expanding their own territories. In Armageddon Bound, two major demons by the name of Baalth and Asmoday are going for broke. Asmoday wants to become the new Lucifer and Baalth wants the world to remain as it is since he’s got a nice cut of the pie already. (That isn’t exactly it, but it is simple and close enough to the target.) Add a couple crazy angels and you’ve got one hell of a supernatural thriller.

In book two, Resurrection, there is a rotten necromancer and his gang of stinky-slimy undead with a reckless need to return a previously dead anti-Christ. In Tim’s clever creation, historically, there has been more than one anti-Christ, and the one possessing the greatest potential Lucifer killed in a bout of jealousy. Handsome devil was sleeping with Lucifer’s girl — whoops. So the second book is about stopping the return of the Anti-Christ. Oh, and there is sexy Lilith too. Let’s not forget her.

Book Three, At the Gates is his best yet. The descriptions are vivid and colorful. The cast of characters are better defined than they ever have been in the series. And the tension– the tension is almost over-whelming. Frank, how are you going to get out of this one?

As a reward, Frank has been imbued with a little bit of magic for doing a big favor for Baalth. It comes in handy as soon as the first chapter is half-told. Scarlett, who is his angelic-cousin, has barely escaped Heaven. Heaven is under siege by a faction of crazy angels who’ve blamed the non-crazy angels of betraying God in his absence. Scarlett escaped through the Gates of Eden and three nasty aberrations called the Nephilim had taken pursuit. Frank gives them a taste of demonic magic that sends them packing.

But wait, it gets worse, not only are all the good angels (save Scarlett) locked-up within the Garden of Eden, but the Tree of Life is getting sick from all the violence and as some warped consequence, clouds of acidic death are materializing on Earth, destroying everything they contact. As if that isn’t enough, there is a pesky Werebear named Grawwl and his gang of Vampires adding a royal pain in the ass.

Again, as we expect with Tim’s stories, this is a bloody, twisted, roller-coaster of carnage and mayhem, coated with a justly film of sarcastic irony. Tim’s Hell is certainly a lot nicer than Tim’s Earth. Perhaps the Shortbus is heading in the right direction after all.

Happy Thanksgiving

I’d planned to write about what really happened to the natives by the “pilgrims.” What created this holiday? Let’s get some definitions for today’s blog so that we are all on the same page. We cannot afford to be confused.

Pilgrim ¬– noun
1- A religious devotee who journeys to a shrine or sacred place.
2- One who embarks on a quest for something conceived of as sacred.
3- A traveler.
The following definition is found only in American Dictionaries.
4- One of the English Separatists who founded the colony of Plymouth in New England in 1620.

Exile – noun
1- a prolonged living away from one’s country, community, etc., usually enforced; banishment, sometimes self-imposed
2- a person in exile
3- the span of time in exile

Briefly, I wish to state something about the word pilgrim. Isn’t this word a nice euphemism? (Please read quotes with a British accent.) “Good day, Chap. How about you go far away and leave England before we set you on fire, burning you at the stake for blasphemy and heresy?”
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Would that be an exile, or is it a pilgrimage?
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Or better yet, (quote the following with a John Wayne type drawl.) “Now you listen here, pilgrim, I think it is about time we take our snazzy-buckled hats and our big-buckled shoes and sail across the Atlantic Ocean. May-haps we’ll greet death while living in the colonies; better than staying here to be burned at the stake in our beautiful home of England.”
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Again I ask – pilgrim or exile?
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In one of my earliest posts I linked to the Declaration of Independence. (Now that post has been deleted, so find the D-o-I for yourself you big babies.) I love the Declaration of Independence.
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It was the year 1620 when the first “pilgrims” had arrived from England. By 1776, the declaration was signed by 56 men who held significant status here in the English Colonies of America. Those men do not resemble our current government. It looks to me like persecution followed the colonists/pilgrims/exiles for all of those years, 156 years since the landing at Plymouth Rock, and that is a long time to be treated like shit from unfair tyranny.
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Remember the Stamp Act? Of course you don’t, but it was in truth only one of the final straws leading to the American Revolution. Read the Declaration and you will see that there was a deeper tyranny set against those who sought to flee religious persecution from the Anglican Church.
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Pilgrims, or exiles?
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To make my point clear, I quote Thomas Jefferson, “Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.”
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It is my opinion that our ‘leaders’ would be wise to take that last statement to heart. The ‘Occupy’ movement, although destined to fail, it is a good clue to how many Americans do not feel the ‘evils are sufferable’ from our bought-out government.
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T.J. continues with saying, “But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.”
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Again, for you who can’t understand, I’ll translate – “We’ve taken your shit for a long time and we aren’t taking any more of it. Go away, we don’t need you anymore.” That is the bottom line. Occupy only shows an anger, it does not offer any solutions, nor does that group value the true merits of the American Spirit, the Constitution of the United States of America.
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THAT was what Bush and Obama promised to up-hold but instead held the door open for all their buddies to make huge grabs at our money. The Occupy group will fail because it is a bunch of snotty kids crying for mama’s tit to suckle. “Whah-whah, gimme free money and I’ll go away!”
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But Uncle Sam, you better pop your head out of your ass, because the next group will do more than cry. To quote the magnificent and honorable Princess Leia, “The more you tighten your grip, Tarkin, the more star systems will slip through your fingers.”
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Slow down dude!
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 Take a couple of deep breaths. It really isn’t that bad yet, but it could be.
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I stopped watching TV twenty years ago so I could purge my brainwashing. History is a lot like religion; the truth is in there somewhere, just buried really deep. And with all the fun diversions we are given to help hide us from the truth, it is nearly impossible to find any form of truth.
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(This is a modified repost from last year. It was fun the first time, now it is better than last time.)

Alcoholic Fantasies

We had gone to the Alexander Valley region in wine country California. I realize Temecula is famous for their wine, but where we went was north of San Francisco. C-Jane went for a half-marathon, I went to drink; something should be said about my German/Native American genealogy. Ah, yes, and now my constant anger has a feasible explanation.

What C-Jane looks like

Like that? That is what C-Jane’s shadow looks like at the beginning of a 13.1 mile race. She finished in 3 hours and 10 minutes. That is less than 15 minutes per mile — very nice.

Yup, that's me

Since I’m showing off shadows, here is one of me. I look like Big-J the pin-headed fat-ass wearing a spy vs. spy hat. I was thinking of putting this pic in the back of my next book. I hate pictures of me. Imagine a balding Tonto with an Adolf Hitler mustache. Yuppers — but for the grace of God, there go I. Not just ugly, but fugly.

The Best B-n-B ever

C-Jane loves B-n-B’s. The Old Crocker Inn was where we stayed. It was very remote, tucked away and off the beaten path. That means I liked it too. Every morning we’d get up and go for a walk just past dawn. We’d see mule deer every morning accompanied by a young buck. We also saw a gang of silly-little quail that looked like miniature dorks running on swift feet with necks propped high and bobbing. We also saw a skunk, yikes! Luckily, that time we were protected inside C-Jane’s car, but it was a harrowing experience all the same.

Mmmm, Venison

The proprietors of the Old Crocker Inn served the best breakfasts. One morning was Belgian Waffles with fresh berries; another day was Eggs Benedict over home-made polenta. Yummy.

As for wineries, we went to seven. Sadly, I cannot remember all of them, and we already drank all the wine we’d bought so I can’t look at the bottles. Most memorable was Preston Winery. Their selections were very diverse, from a super-tasty Viognier, to rich Red Zinfandels. (Alexander Valley/Sonoma is known for some of the best Red Zins in the country.) They also had big healthy chickens and pigs roaming freely on their vineyard.

View from Sbragia

Sbragia Vineyards had the best view. After buying a couple bottles, we opened one on their patio and shared some crackers with lavender goat cheese and salami (not C-Jane, she mostly eats plants. Weird, I know.) Here we bought a couple bottles of Chardonnay.

There was the FREE tasting at the Raymond Burr winery. Raymond Burr Memorabilia filled the tiny tasting room. K-Dog, C-Jane’s brother-in-law, was quick to ask how Mr. Burr was associated with the winery, and they informed us that his name was on the bottle. That’s about it. Did I say FREE tasting! We bought a bottle of Petit Sarah.

C-Jane's best pic

The Disneyland of Sonoma was the Coppola Vineyard. It was giant! It had a pool, a couple restaurants, and a gigantic bar-space for the masses to taste Francis Ford Coppola’s wines. (Blaugh, not the best wines on the trip.) But the immense Disney-like structure had the coolest movie memorabilia in all of northern California. Thank you for Apocalypse Now! but please, you can keep your wines.
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(Disclaimer- Coppola has some great wines, but I sampled the cheap pour instead of the premium pour.)

Congress Created Dustbowl

 

Define Bakersfield

 

Notice in this pic where it says, ‘never syphon by mouth’ — That describes Bakersfield to a T.

In the past, I’ve talked mad-dog trash about living in Las Vegas, but the above stated line about ‘syphoning by mouth’ says everything there is to say about Bakersfield Ca. If I had been born there, I’d have blown my own brains out years ago just to get away. I’d rather not tell our entire story about Bakersfield, I’d just become angry again. For this post, just know that Bakersfield is the new definition of suck.

I had intended to use pictures to simplify the dustbowl story, but having just downloaded them to my computer, not one of them is a good enough picture to tell the story of how bad the agriculture system is suffering in central California. Here is the best picture, and it still doesn’t describe how bad things are for the farmers in the area.

 

Signs of a very hungry future

 

All across the land, from Bakersfield to south of Oakland, the farms look built upon a desert. This used to be very rich land. See how the sign tells us that water prices are leaping, and this is why food prices are spiking. That makes sense.

Why Food is so expensive

 

There were other signs promoting the ‘Congress  Created Dustbowl,’ and another one calling-out Pelosi, Boxer and some other dude I don’t know as being the masterminds behind high-food costs. I don’t usually come to the defense of Congress, but California is having a drought. Water is scarce. So, water goes up in price – for everybody.

 

I don’t have all the facts to defend the farmers or congress, I can only make an opinion from a narrow view given while driving on Interstate-5 and seeing an entire county filled with outraged farmers. It is no secret that I never liked Prez W. Bush — not at all — but I never blamed him for Hurricane Katrina.

 

God did it. Governor Perry prays for rain in Texas, and God says no. I don’t know if California prays like Texas, but God is again saying no if they are praying. I’m gonna blame God.

 

If Barbara Boxer and Nancy Pelosi truly control California’s rainfall, then they totally suck. I still think the farmers are blaming and petitioning to the wrong source. City people need water too, and people who are not farmers are paying higher water costs as well. The real problem isn’t a lack of water; the real problem is there are too many people in the world.

 

 

(I really wanted to be on the side of the farmer when I first had the idea of writing this blog. I doubt our government is intentionally damming the flow of water. Congress might not be the villain for once.)

Viktor the Wampire

 

C-Jane and I realized we were true mates at the time of our first road trip. Then, we’d left Vegas nervously knowing that trip would either seal, or break our budding relationship. Our first stop on that trip was at a motel in the middle of nowhere, south of Bakersfield.

The night clerk at the motel kept his hair long, and greasy, tied behind his head. He smiled a lot, and was very friendly. As he wrote the number of our room, we saw the long unkempt nails. “Enjoy your evening,” he smiled, nearly sinister. The name-badge leaped out at us, ‘Viktor.’

Hurrying to our room, we entered and locked the door behind us. C-Jane asked, “Do you think Viktor is a vampire?”

Rubbing my chin in deep thought, I answered, “Could be. We should smear some garlic around all possible points of entry.”

C-Jane, always resourceful, pulled a couple cloves from her purse, saying, “You never know when garlic will come in handy.”

It was a good thing too, because that night there was a bumping at our door, then what sounded to be an ugly hiss and a scratching on the door. Then silence. “Was that him?” C-Jane asked softly.

Peeking out the window, the lot was empty. “If it was, he is gone now.” The next morning, we had our complimentary waffles and left, putting distance between us and nowhere.

More than three years later, C-Jane and I are on a road trip again, this time to meet Sister Calamity and her husband K-Dog in wine-country California. We’d left the Atomic Museum before dusk, and by 9:30, we were approaching nowhere.

“I’m going to be scared if we run into Viktor again,” Jane said.

“Balderdash!” I exclaimed, a common word in my vocabulary. “That night-crawler is long gone by now. We should stop at the same hotel to dismiss our silly fears.”

We did. This time we were met by a very friendly man with short hair. He wore a suit and a smile, “Have you ever been here before?” the man asked as I checked out his hands. His nails were trimmed.

Relieved, I replied, “Once, several years ago.”

“Many things have changed over the years.” Hypnotic eyes gaze upon me as C-Jane’s hands trembled while signing the registration bill. “Yours will be room 211.”

Rushing to the car, C-Jane informed, “It is him!”

“Are you sure?” I doubted while pulling suitcases out of the trunk.

“Didn’t you see the placard on the desk, it said manager Viktor!”

“He tricked me. His claws were retracted, and his hair was clean.” I realized it was all just a disguise. I patted my pockets with frantic hands, “Oh no, I ate all my garlic on the bus at the Test Site!”

“Don’t worry, I got breath mints and some holy water in my make-up bag.”

“But you don’t wear make-up,” I acknowledged, sounding a lot like Shaggy, “we are doomed.” C-Jane doesn’t wear make-up. Everyone says that make-up makes women look younger, but if that is true, C-Jane would look twelve. At thirty-two, C-Jane is always carded wherever we go drinking. If ‘make-up’ made C-Jane look any younger, I’d go to jail for pedophilia.

She replied with a wave of her hand, “I keep the bag to hold silver bullets, holy water, gypsy tears …you know, important stuff.”

It didn’t matter, Viktor never came. The next morning we met Viktor’s wife. She yelled at me for being retarded. It seems I broke their complimentary waffle-maker, and we barely escaped the wrath of Viktor’s harpy. No wonder he left us alone at night — she was really mean.

We had a long day of travel. My next post will be The Congress Created Dust Bowl.