American Dream Deferred

originally published February 15, 2018

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.” – The Declaration of Independence.

This is not my American Dream. I don’t know what happened to mine, but this isn’t it. The dream we’re in must belong to someone else.

Before I begin, it’s worth acknowledging that I come from one of the most jaded generations in modern history: the notoriously lazy and pessimistic Generation-X. Why do you think I’m a writer? Very few things feed the self-loathing ego of a Gen-X’r more than putting his or her every thought out there for the world to see. And writing is just about as lazy a way to do it as I can imagine. Hell, our generation invented blogging and social media, for crying out loud.

So bear in mind that my generation already had a pretty pessimistic outlook on the so-called “American Dream.” We were raised in a post-Vietnam, post-Nixon world. We saw Iran Contra live. The dream of space died in front of our innocent eyes in every classroom across America. We watched the first ever televised war. We saw a State Treasurer’s suicide live via satellite, and homicide became our nightly television consumption. Madonna’s serpentine dance seduced our bodies on MTV, and Kurt Cobain’s screams penetrated our brains in an orgy of angst.

But this isn’t Gen-X’s notorious angst coming back to haunt me. I’ve spoken to many Millennials that feel this way as well. And the old hippies have been sadly crying, “We told you so.”

I did my part in the Dream, too. I graduated high school and went on to college. I joined the Army. Fought in a war, even. I toured the world – from Denver to Deutschland, Kuwait to Korea, and a few ports of call in between. I learned to respect my enemy and love his culture, and I saw us as he did. And we were just as much a terrorist to him as he was to us. It made me remember when, as a child, I asked my Dad, “Were you a good guy or bad guy in the war?” And he looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, “There are no good guys or bad guys.” It is a lesson I wish I had never come to learn.

But I came back and tried. I really did. I had the plan, the same plan of soldiers of yore: come home, use your G.I. Bill to get a college degree, get a nice job and buy a house for your wife and two and half children. Things didn’t quite go as planned, however.

For one thing, the G.I. Bill hasn’t exactly kept up with the skyrocketing costs of college. Yet I was able to manage a comfortable living by combining school with some part-time work as a pizza delivery guy while my wife worked the graveyard shift at Denny’s and her mother watched our kids.

Unfortunately, even back then I was having problems with the rest of the world. I was aware I had PTSD but, because the Veteran’s Administration takes so long to process claims, I had no choice but to try to suffer through it to provide for my family. And, while we were making enough to provide food and shelter, we started falling behind on other bills. Pretty soon we found things in collections and creditors came a calling. By the time I graduated our combined credit was shit.

Then the Great Recession hit. Which pretty much eliminated any chance we’d ever have to buy a house.

But I plodded on. From one part-time job to the other, from one class to the other, from one bottle to the other, I made it through school and just right then my disability was approved. More than six years after first filing.

Now I sit pretty comfortably where I live. Sadly, on disability payments (and factoring in the benefits), I make much more than the median for my county. My health care, and that of my family, is mostly taken care of. My children will have much of their college paid for. But I am a unicorn amongst my peers, in that aspect. Their future, and the future of their children, is not so certain. They have to balance the cost of health care against the cost college. They have to debate the pros and cons of taking out loans simply to get an education. They watch as their taxes go up and their standard of living goes down.

No, simply put, this isn’t the America we were promised in the American Dream. That ephemeral belief that in America all things are possible. Anyone can grow up to be anything. A poor man can become rich if he just works hard. You can be an astronaut, a rock star, even the President.

“There are those who will say that the liberation of humanity, the freedom of man and mind, is nothing but a dream. They are right. It is the American Dream.” – Poet Archibald MacLeish.

With the American Dream comes Rights. The Right to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. The Right to be treated equal. The Right to have your own religion, or to not have one. The Right to speak freely against your government without fear of reprisal.

But all these Rights come with a caveat: as long as they do not infringe upon the same Rights of others.

“What is the ‘American Dream’? The American Dream is one big tent. One big tent. And on that big tent you have four basic promises: equal protection under the law, equal opportunity, equal access, and fair share.” – The Reverend Jesse Jackson.

Yet here I sit staring at the news every day. I see a President who outright attacks the freedom of the press. I see the press deliberately spinning lies to appease said President. I see Civil Liberties being trampled upon daily. From people of color living in fear that their next encounter with a police officer could be their final moment, to women summoning the courage to speak out against their attackers only to be dismissed as rumor or gossip, sometimes even by the Leader of the Free World.

Wages have stagnated for three decades for the vast majority of workers. Meanwhile, the richest one percent grew exponentially richer while they saw their taxes drop.

Health care is so expensive in the United States that in some cases it is cheaper to fly to a foreign country to get treated. Medical bankruptcy is one of the leading causes of financial ruin for the middle and lower classes. We have the highest infant mortality rate of any developed country.

Hundreds have been killed or wounded in just this last year in mass shootings. Eighteen schools alone have had gun-related killings. The people of Puerto Rico, citizens of the United States, languish in the Third World as we drag our heels on helping them rebuild. Detroit looks less like the Motor City and more like Thunderdome. The drinking water in Flint, Michigan is poison and the U.S. Attorney responsible for investigating it was ordered to resign by President Trump.

Neo-Nazis marched with pride in the open in the streets of America.

Klan members took their hoods off on television – no longer afraid of being known as racist.

A pedophile was a Republican Senate candidate, and a Neo-Nazi is a current candidate.

Just this week a suspected member of a white supremacist militia group allegedly killed seventeen students at a high school in Florida. Meanwhile, the National Rifle Association has been accused of funneling ill-gotten Russian money to the GOP in order to prevent any gun legislation.

And the worst part about all of this? Over half of our government seems to want this to be the status quo. And they don’t even hide their desire for it. And, of course, a large percentage of the other half certainly secretly wants this to remain the status quo, even if they have to frown and “tut-tut” about it in public.

“I think the American Dream used to be achieving one’s goals in your field of choice – and from that, all other things would follow. Now, I think the dream has morphed into the pursuit of money: Accumulate enough of it, and the rest will follow.” – Colonel Buzz Aldrin, USAF/NASA.

This isn’t my American Dream. This is a Dream Deferred.

And I want to wake up.

 

NaNoWriMo kicks off – new excerpt from Redeemer (~3,100 words)

It’s been a while. I’ve been writing, but not posting. Something I should probably do.

I didn’t participate last year, but I decided to do NaNoWiMo this year. As I am still working on “Redeemer”, I felt it would be a good idea to continue with this book as my goal for NaNoWriMo.

In that vein, here is what I wrote today as part of Day 1 on NaNoWriMo. My daily goal is ~2,500 words, today I hit 3,100 (note: this is completely unedited, meaning there will be typos and other problems):

“Better Times” (short, ~2500 words)

I love it when a dream gives you inspiration. The words often come so naturally. I dreamt the idea of the Hall of Memories, and this story came of it as soon as I woke up.

---

 

Better Times

Hammond stretched in the uncomfortable chair and closed his eyes to check the time. Only ten minutes into the service. Why did he agree to this? She was the mother of his son, yes, but they hadn’t had any need to talk, to even acknowledge each other existed, since Robert’s high school graduation. If it hadn’t been for Robert, the last time he talked to that woman would have been over twenty years ago. Even so, ten years came and went since their son’s graduation. He had more ties with the synthetic voice behind the kiosk at the recharge station than he did with Emily.

But Robert insisted. “She was your wife, Dad. And my mother. You could at least acknowledge that.”

He did acknowledge it. He said he was sorry for Robert’s loss and put on a sympathetic face. What more did the kid expect from him? Robert knew they hated each other by the time they split.

He glanced over at his son and saw tears brimming. Couldn’t hold it against the kid, even if he was weeping over the woman who tried to ruin Hammond’s life. Two years in family courts. The house and cars sold off and the money split between them. Child support payments that cut his paychecks in half. And the rumors. Vicious, petty, lies she spread amongst her friends. How long did it take before people stopped believing he raped his own wife? Or beat her? Two things he never did, and never would do. That didn’t stop people he once viewed as friends from believing her, though.

He shook his head. Yes, the divorce was his fault. He’s the one who strayed. But she played her own role in the events. She became more focused on her friends, on social obligations, than her own husband. The last time they had sex was over a year before the divorce started – not from a lack of trying on his part, either. That she felt betrayed when he went elsewhere for it just went to show the depth of her own self-absorption as far as he was concerned.

Robert elbowed him.

“Dad,” he hissed.

Hammond broke from his reverie and noticed everyone standing. He did the same.

“At the conclusion of the benediction, Emily’s family would like to invite all her friends and family to visit the Hall of Memories. For those of you new to the Hall of Memories experience, we must warn you that you may encounter memories that you have a particular emotional connection with. These memories can sometimes trigger strong responses in those who encounter them. To avoid this, we ask you do not touch the exhibits.”

Hammond raised an eyebrow at his son.

“Your mom did that memory thing?”

Robert nodded.

“I can’t imagine doing that.”

“I think it’s a great idea, Dad. It lets your family keep your most cherished moments.”

“It lets people see things you might not want them to see.”

Robert rolled his eyes.

“She gets to choose which memories get saved, Dad. It isn’t like they just ripped her thoughts from her head and put them on display.”

“It’s still creepy.”

Hammond followed Robert into the next room of the large church. The Hall of Memories was based on relatively new technology. Hammond didn’t follow it too closely, but he knew what they said on the news about it. Using technology developed to help restore the memory of those afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease, the company Forever Ours began offering a service where clients could have their most cherished memories recorded for posterity. The original intention was for these memories to be given to loved ones so they could then experience them as a way of holding on to those they lost. It quickly became vogue amongst the wealthy elite, especially those with egos as large as their bank accounts – like Emily – to put these memories on display at memorial services in what became known as the “Hall of Memories”.

Hammond had not witnessed this ceremony, so he didn’t know if the Hall of Memories at this church was normal or not. The room itself was a large, circular affair that reminded him of a sanitized gymnasium. It was all white, festooned with flower-laden planters along the walls. Natural light shone down through a glass ceiling. Spread out in a semi-circle around the room were pedestals, Hammond guessed at least two dozen, each with something sitting upon it and a small placard explaining the memory.

The first one they came upon was blue baby shoes. The placard read, “The birth of my son.” Hammond let a bittersweet smile cross his lips before moving on.

They circled the room, looking at the various memories. They were exactly what Hammond expected. “My sixteenth birthday”, “When mom died”, etc. Each memory was a simple pedestal with something physical on it that represented that memory. The various mourners would sometimes pause and touch the item, their face going slack for a few seconds before a wistful smile returned. Usually an attendant in suit and tie would quietly whisper something to the person – reminding them to not touch, he surmised.

Janine, Emily’s sister, stood next to the one labeled, “When mom died.” Hammond recognized the item on display – his former mother-in-law’s wedding ring. Janine ran her finger lightly over the ring. Her face gained that same blank expression. Then it twisted into a frown of grief with fresh tears.

“Are they really seeing her memories?” He whispered to Robert.

Robert nodded.

“And you’ve done this already?”

Robert shook his head, “Not with all of them. It’s really intense.”

“What ones?”

Robert looked uncomfortable.

“My birth and first steps.”

“Oh.”

“Dad,” Robert turned.

“Yeah?”

“There’s one here with your name on it. That’s all she did to describe it. I don’t think anyone has used it yet. Well, Aunt Janine probably did – she’s nosy. But she hasn’t said anything.”

Hammond sighed.

“What one?”

“Over there, by the back of the exhibit.”

Hammond’s feet plodded towards the pedestal. Robert was correct. It simply said, “Hammond” on the placard. Beside it was a box of generic, store-brand macaroni and cheese and an egg carton.

“What the hell is this?” He growled.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think I should…you know.”

“Whatever.”

Hammond stared at the pedestal. His mind worked. Macaroni and cheese? Eggs? It made no sense to him. What the hell kind of twisted message was Emily trying to send him from beyond the grave? Couldn’t that woman just leave him be?

“Dad?”

“What?”

“Are you going to…you know?”

“Why?”

“It was important to her. That’s why it’s here.”

“I doubt I’d want to see any memory your mother kept of me, son. No offense.”

“I think she wanted you to see it.”

“Yeah? That doesn’t exactly sell it to me. She also wanted me to die horribly, as I recall.”

“Dad…” There was exasperation in his son’s voice.

“Fine. Just keep your Aunt away from me. I don’t need her involved in this.”

“I will. It will only be a second, anyway. It will probably feel longer, though.”

Hammond glanced over his shoulder at Emily’s sister. Janine was watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite define. Normally, her face showed open hostility towards him. But this time the expression was…curiosity? Maybe even pity?

Christ. What the hell kind of a memory did Emily leave for him to suffer through?

“So I just, like, touch the pedestal or something?”

“Yeah. The memory chip transfers from touch. It’s different for different people. The greater your personal connection to that memory, the more intense the experience is – the easier the transfer is.”

“Right.” Hammond exhaled and reached out. His hand rested on the rough cardboard of the egg carton.

“Nothing’s happening…”

– – – – –

“Jesus Christ, Neenee, let it go. He’s my husband, not yours.”

“He’s not much of a husband, Em,” the voice on the other end of the phone replied. “He’s what? A dishwasher? With no college degree. And you’re pregnant now. How the hell is he going to support you? You guys can barely pay rent.”

“That’s none of your business. We’re fine!”

“Fine? Mom said that last month you had to borrow money for gas and food.”

Emily grimaced. She could feel the baby moving around.

“Ugh. Neenee, it’s not your problem or your business. I need to go. The baby is kicking and I need to lay down.”

“Whatever. Look, I’m not trying to – well, just call me if you need anything.”

Emily slammed the phone down on the kitchen counter and braced herself. Boy, could that kid kick when he wanted to. Stubborn, just like his father. Janine was right, though. She didn’t know how they were going to survive on Hammond’s minimum wage job down at the diner. They could barely afford the rent on the one-bedroom. Food was a luxury. How were they going to get diapers? Pay the medical bills? For Christ’s sake, Robert was due in a month and they still hadn’t managed to find the money to get him a crib.

She needed a break. She sat down on the nearest chair, one of the four mismatched chairs they picked up at a thrift shop for their kitchen table. She rested her hand on the table, the familiar wobble of the unstable thing an unwelcome reminder of their situation. The tears started before she knew she was upset.

She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how they would make it. She didn’t know what kind of a life they were giving Robert. She didn’t know why she was crying. Her stomach growled.

The phone rang. She took a shuddering breath and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe, it’s me. John wants me to work a double today. I’ll be late.”

“O-o-okay.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just pregnant stuff.”

“How’s he doing?”

She laughed, a gasping sound, “I think he was Bruce Lee in a past life.”

“That’s my boy!” The pride in his voice carried through the phone line. She smiled.

“Alright. I need to get back to work.”

Her eyes darted around the kitchen.

“Honey?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Can you bring home something for dinner. We’re out of…well, everything.”

“Okay. Maybe I can snag something from here. Or I’ll stop at the store on the way home and pick something up with whatever I get tipped out with.”

“Okay. That’d be great.”

“I love you, babe. So much.”

A fresh river of tears ran down her face.

“I love you too.”

She held the receiver to her ear for a while after the line went dead, staring at the empty kitchen in the tiny apartment in a city that didn’t care she existed. She lumbered to her feet, the boy rolling around inside her belly, and walked to the ratty couch through a veil of tears. She wanted to watch TV but the cable was cut off months before. Instead, she popped a tape in the VCR and reclined on the couch.

It was dark when the sound of the deadbolt turning woke her up. She could smell Hammond before she saw him – the stink of someone who washed dishes for twelve hours was quite noticeable, especially to the heightened senses of a woman in her third trimester.

“Babe, I’m home.” He called out.

She forced herself to her feet and, in spite of the pungent odor and an intense pressure on a full bladder, walked to greet him with a hug and a kiss.

“I brought home something for dinner.” He said when they broke the kiss.

“I have to pee.” She replied, disengaging from his arms and making her way as fast as she could down the narrow hallway to the even more narrow bathroom.

“I’ll get dinner started,” he called after her. Her stomach was rumbling and she had an intense desire to eat something pickled, but at the moment all she cared about was relieving the pressure.

“Okay.”

When she came back out she found him at the stove. A pot was boiling and beside it a frying pan warmed.

“What are we having?”

He pointed at the counter. A box of store brand macaroni and cheese, a quart of milk, and a dozen eggs sat on the counter.

“Macaroni and cheese and eggs?”

“A feast fit for kings,” he joked.

Her heart sunk. They wouldn’t be able to survive like this.

“Honey…” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“How are we going to take care of a baby if we can’t even feed ourselves real food?”

He turned slowly.

“We will.”

“How?”

Fresh tears formed in her eyes.

“We will, babe. Whatever it takes.”

He stared at her, his intense blue eyes locking with hers. She could almost believe anything he said when he said it like that. Almost.

“I promise,” he added. “I love you. I will take care of you.”

“Okay,” she whispered. She wanted to say more, but thought better of it. Instead, she sat down at the wobbly table and watched as her husband prepared their feast.

A few minutes later he was plating up runny macaroni and cheese and rubbery eggs. He was a dishwasher, after all, not a cook. She wasn’t going to criticize. He sat a plate in front of her and another at the chair opposite hers. She grabbed her fork.

“Uh uh,” he chided, a smile on his face.

“What?”

He reached into the bag on the counter and produced a single tea light candle and a single bottle of strawberry wine cooler.

She laughed.

“Mon chéri,” he smirked. “Tonight, we dine by candlelight on the finest pasta ninety-nine cents can buy and sip the best strawberry wine cooler fortified with only the purest of injected alcohol and artificial flavors.”

With that, he poured the wine cooler into two plastic drinking cups, placed the lit tea light between them on the table, and turned off the kitchen lights.

“Bon appétit.”

She laughed and took a bite of her meal, all the while staring in wonder at the flickering light playing on the face of the man she loved.

“We’ll be fine.” He said again.

“I know,” she replied. And she believed it.

– – – – –

Hammond staggered back from the display.

“Dad?”

He stared at the box and carton.

“Dad? Are you okay?”

He turned and looked at his son.

“What?”

“Are you okay? You’re crying.”

Hammond quickly wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Yeah. I guess. That was…intense, like you said.”

“What was it?”

Hammond shook his head.

“Better times, I guess.”

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

Why had she held onto that memory? Before he got his degree, before they could afford to buy a house and cars, before their life got good – before they were successful. A few years…five, at the most…after that memory, Emily and Hammond were living in a house that was worth more than the combined estates of their parents. Robert never wanted for anything. They had new friends, new toys, a new life – a better life than they ever imagined.

So why that memory?

New excerpt from “Redeemer” – WARNING: Major plot spoiler.

I wrestled with the question of whether or not to post this. While it does not give away the fates of any of the characters, it does reveal a major plot point. If you don’t wish to read it, stop now.

Okay?

Still here?

Then here we go…

New Fiction: Far Away From Home

As I work on other stuff, I still enjoy writing shorts. I started, on a lark, another short series related to the game “Star Citizen”.

Here is Part 1: “Elke Fnjor”

Elke Fnjor

Outside the viewport, the white glow of Kilian split the nebula in half and sent rainbow rays through the surrounding gas cloud. It was one of the most beautiful things she had seen in her short life. She closed her eyes and imagined she could feel the warmth of the rays across the millions of kilometers and through the thick shielding protecting Naval Station MacArthur. Where she grew up, on the edges of Empire space, to glimpse the wan local star through a rare break in the omnipresent cloud layer was considered an omen of good fortune. Not that it mattered much now. Home hadn’t been a fixed location in a long time.

“Elke,” Leslie hissed. “What are you doing?”

She turned to face the row of seats and her roommate.

“Just enjoying the sun, Les.”

“We see it all the time.”

“Yeah, but not in a window as big as I am.”

“Whatever. Get back over here. I don’t want to lose our place because you were daydreaming.”

Elke rolled her eyes and rejoined her roommate. Leslie and Elke were paired on day one of cadet training, and became instant friends. Both were the same age, nineteen when they enrolled, and both didn’t quite fit in with the other cadets. It was no secret the UEE attracted a certain personality, especially in women, when it came to prospective pilots. “Tomboy” would have been the phrase Elke’s grandmother used. Elke just viewed them as women acting how they thought men should act. And looked. Short hair was common. No jewelry. Not that Elke had much use for jewelry, either, but she did like her blonde hair long. Even if it meant putting it up for uniform regulations. Leslie kept her brunette mane shorter – just above the collar. Either way, neither fit in with the look of most of the women cadets.

And that went for their personalities, as well. Leslie was the reserved one – she answered the questions put to her by the instructors quietly, with shaken confidence, even though she was almost always correct. In over a year together Elke had yet to see Leslie initiate a relationship – guy or girl or other – it didn’t matter, every date Elke’s friend went on was initiated by the other person.

Elke, in contrast, was brash – even too forward, some might say. Not in the way her classmates were. Elke personally thought it was all an act for most of them. Telling sexual jokes, gruff laughter and rough physical contact. It seemed to her they were acting how they thought the men thought they should act to fit in. Elke also let her emotions sit on the surface – something frowned upon in the pilot candidate school. A pilot was expected to have complete control over his or her emotions, especially in battle.

But expectations rarely meet with reality. And the reality was, in the simulators, Elke was as cold as a comet at aphelion. Her instructors never failed to give her the highest marks in any scenario. Except the one. But that wasn’t her fault, even if they didn’t think so. Her wing leader didn’t listen to her, and they almost lost the entire wing because of it. If Elke hadn’t broke formation, against orders, when she did, the entire simulation would have been a failure. But, instead of praise, she was marked down for not being a “team player.”

It was a stupid way to grade, anyway. Everything was pass or fail – there was no middle ground.

“Flight Cadet Fin- Fan- uh…” The lieutenant behind the desk at the end of the lobby stammered.

“Fan-your, sir,” Elke offered, standing to attention. “Flight Cadet El-ka Fan-your.”

“Right. Fnjor. Jesus, what kind of a name is that?”

Elke shrugged.

“Old Earth stuff, I guess, sir.”

“Okay. You and Flight Cadet Nicholson, uh, Leslie, are up next. Scan in and post at the door.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The lieutenant glared through the glas in front of him. Elke hid her smirk. Few liked the “Old Navy” phrases, but they were technically correct, even in this century. She only said them because she knew they annoyed so many of her instructors and there was nothing they could do about it. Be an overt ass, and they’d nail you. But be a smartass and the most they could do was frown upon it.

“Shut up!” Leslie hissed.

Elke rolled her eyes again. She was doing that a lot this morning.

The door slid open.

“Go in, Cadets. And good luck.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They walked into the simulator room. It was a simple affair, four pods in front of a large screen. A man and woman, both in instructor uniforms, stood by two of the pods.

“Alright, ladies, here’s the down and dirty,” the man, a lieutenant commander, addressed them. “You passed your written and oral exams. You’ve both demonstrated competence in single-seat and crew-served combat simulations. This is your final test. It is a pass or fail test; there is no grading scale. Furthermore, you will not know the pass conditions until after the simulation is completed. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Elke waited for the man to acknowledge her. “What ships will we be flying?”

“You find that out when you get in the simulator. Anything else?”

“How long will the test be?”

“Until you pass or fail.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright. Get in your pods.”

Elke climbed into the nearest simulation pod. She reclined back. The woman, a lieutenant, leaned in to make sure she was properly in the harness and then gave a thumbs up. Elke responded in kind. The woman disappeared from view just before the hatch closed. She was plunged into darkness.

After an interminable pause, the disorientation of the simulation activating replaced the empty void. She exhaled and inhaled several times, as they had been taught, and blinked rapidly – to adjust to the direct neural input.

The scene before her warped with static while her brain fought the new input. Then it stabilized. She no longer felt the sensation of reclining. Instead, she stood on deck plating in a ship. Before her, to what she recognized as the bow of the ship, was a massive canopy – covering many several-meter sheets of glass – and taking up the entire bow. The view outside was of the inside of a nebula or gas giant – clouded, viscous.

“Where are we?”

She turned and saw Leslie’s avatar.

Elke grinned, “Let’s find out.”

New excerpt from “Redeemer” – what? Did you think I gave up?

I didn’t, of course. But a new child in the house does cut into writing time something fierce.

But that isn’t why you are reading this. Here is another excerpt from “Redeemer”:

A Hipster Apocalypse: Review of Captain Algebra’s Debut CD and Live Show

Faithful readers, both of you, will recall I wrote an article about a local band (Southwest Washington scene) some time back. Now, I have often lamented on the rise and fall of the “Seattle Sound” or, more specific, the Washington Grunge scene.

I was a teen in the ’90s, in Southwest Washington. I look back on it now and realize just how amazing that was. At the time, it was just life. But I saw Mudhoney in concert at the Capitol Theater Backstage – with less than one hundred other people. I met members of Grunttruck and Green River/Mother Love Bone/Pearl Jam – I even met Andy Wood of Mother Love Bone before he died – I was 12, and he treated me like an adult. I will always remember that.

I saw Modest Mouse perform in The Matrix Coffeehouse in Chehalis, Washington, almost five years before they became a hit band. Sleater-Kinney, The Crabs, Beck, The Melvins, Death Cab for Cutie, MXPX – the list of bands that became big, or were influential in the grunge/alternative scene, that I saw perform live in small, smoke-filled venues as a teen goes on and on.

And then, it went away. It was like a switch was flipped somewhere – the scene was overhyped and strip-mined by big record labels and suddenly it was gone. Punk had become grunge, grunge became alternative, and alternative was suddenly mainstream and poppy, and the next thing I knew what they called “alternative” was what I called “mainstream college rock.”

The music was still there, but the scene had lost the spark. The dozens of clubs and coffeehouses that sprang up during the rise of the scene died out. Replaced by Starbucks and chain restaurants. The music went back to being underground.

So, it was with some real shock that I first encountered Captain Algebra. Their oldest member wasn’t even born when I first saw The Melvins live. When I walked into The Matrix and first spotted them, I asked Rick, the man behind the counter, who they were. He leaned in and said, “Would you believe high school kids from Olympia?”

No, I wouldn’t. High School kids don’t play this kind of music. They don’t even know it exists – right?

What kind of music, you ask?

Grunge. Punk. Sludge. Dirty, wet, distorted guitar. Throbbing bass riffs that almost take the lead. A drummer trying to hit every head on his set all at once. Lyrics that are monotone, often mumbled, and sometimes nonsensical – punctuated by a throaty, gravelly scream now and then.

Their live show convinced me to buy their self-printed 5 song CD. Both prompted me to write my original article. The article prompted Jack McQuarrie, singer and bassist, to ask if I would review their full-length debut album and another live show. I eagerly agreed.

 

First of all, let’s talk about the CD. It has all the marks of the classic punk/grunge self-published LP. Hand-drawn cover? Check. Tongue-in-cheek title? Check. Goofy song names? “Yoga Dog” “Sasquatch Eats Free” – Check.

But it isn’t what is outside that we look for. It’s what is on the inside. And what is on the inside is ten songs, for a total of 29 minutes in length. You just did the math in your head, right? That averages to 2 minutes, 56 seconds per song. For some of you, you are thinking, “They are kind of short.” The punk fans out there are thinking, “Man, how did they manage to squeeze an average extra 56 seconds in each song?”

The answer to both of you is: the songs are just right. Each one is sludgy and rhythmic. There may not be any radio hits in here, but there aren’t any misses, either. You know from the first song to the last what their sound is, there is no sense of trying to find their place – which is often the case with a debut album. It is pure angst mixed with grime packaged into a half-hour of bobbing your head and wishing you had someone or something to headbutt just…well, just because you remember that, in your youth, that was pretty fun to do in the heat of the moment.

If any one aspect of the CD stands out over the others, it is the bass riffs. Not because they are especially complex, or because they are too loud, but simply because the members of Captain Algebra have recognized that the way Jack plays bass makes for a good lead instrument. When he needs to, Taylor Pfeil can take lead on his guitar, and he does it with more skill than you might expect from a punk band, or from someone so young. But, he doesn’t need to, and he doesn’t force it. Each song stands on its own, each one showing the strengths of the members.

Drummers often don’t get their due – there seems to be this idea that “anyone can hold a beat.” I grew up the son of a drummer and I can tell you this isn’t true. Brodey Ristine doesn’t attempt to Neil Perth anything, but without his steady beats and percussive counterpoints, the songs fall apart. He get his chance to showcase his skills as well, but you get the sense in listening that he is holding back. He doesn’t overdo any of the breaks, and he could.

This is the overall sense you get when listening to the entire album: each member can do more with their instruments than they are, but they know they don’t need to. In fact, it would detract from the overall quality of the CD if any one member stood out over the others. They are a band, and perform as a team. Sadly, Brodey is heading off for college, so the band is looking to fill the void – but, for now, they are a team.

This translates well into the live show.

I didn’t get a chance to meet the other members of the band, but I did speak with Jack at some length at the show. Jack is an interesting example of the punk musician – an example that often bears out in the community. Off the stage he is soft-spoken, a little shy, and walks with a bit of a slump as if to minimize the chance someone will see him. Even when playing on stage, he often turns from the audience and focuses solely on his bass. Jack appears to prefer to speak through his instrument – and when he does, he screams for the world to hear.

It is funny, with some bands it is absolutely required they have an electrifying, almost frantic, stage presence. But Captain Algebra is still trying to find its footing on how to act when on stage. Fortunately, their music delivers the emotion and speaks for them.

When they get up there, Jack quietly introduces them to the audience, looking down while speaking softly into the microphone. The members look at each other, talk for a second, and then launch into the first song. They progress from song to song, with little fanfare or interaction with the audience.

Yet the audience is into it. Heads are bobbing. One person, a member of the final band for the night, is desperately trying to not mosh with someone – anyone. He’s bouncing his head and feet, hopping back and forth. He wants to do something – anything – with this throbbing music. I envy him his youth – ten years ago, I would be right beside him, and we’d be hurting each other and grinning.

A group of people sits nearby – clearly there to see one of the other bands and uncomfortable with the music. They are comprised of several people my age or older who keep giving each other glances that speak volumes, “What is this?” “They call this music?”

But then the two younger people with them look back at me bobbing my head and furiously taking notes. One grins and shyly throws up the horns.

Message received: Mom and Dad don’t get this music, but we do.

Captain Algebra’s set lasts about as long as their CD. It starts quick, with little fanfare, but ends with the small crowd cheering. The band mates flash cheeky grins and exit the stage, after a quick and quiet announcement that they have t-shirts and CDs for sale.

The next band to come on stage pauses to seek out the band and congratulate them. It isn’t just professional courtesy – it was obvious from the first riff that Captain Algebra had captured the attention of their peers.

Outside, I talk with the singer of the opening band, a group that describes itself as “glam-psych-pop” (a heady mixture of happy lyrics and toe-tapping rhythm that I hope to write more about when I get a chance to). I casually remark how it is amazing to live in an area where I can see glam-psych-pop, grunge/punk, and alternative all in one night in one venue. He replies, “I know. Aren’t they great?” It takes me a second to realize he is talking about Captain Algebra. I say, “All of you are.” He nods and grins.

So, go check out their Facebook page, their reverbnation page, and look for a show near you.

Their music has made it into my playlist, and onto my youtube channel – and a segment of this clip made it onto a video game podcast this morning, so they have officially reached an “international” audience of thousands.

 

“The Shifting Sands” and “The Duel” Free on Kindle Now!

First of all, if you do not have a Kindle, do not fear! You do have a Kindle-enabled device. You are using it right now.

If you have a Windows or Mac PC, an Android, Blackberry, or iOS phone, you can download the free Kindle app for your device of choice – or for all of them. Then you can get the books that way. Also, as a bonus for Amazon Prime members, you get free books every month simply for being in Prime. Don’t miss out on that opportunity!

“The Shifting Sands” free starting tonight – plus: “Redeemer” update!

As I said in yesterday’s post, I have completed uploading the revised edition of “The Shifting Sands” complete with new cover and the first ever print edition of the book. To celebrate this, the Kindle edition of “The Shifting Sands” will be available free on Amazon for the next two days, starting at midnight tonight.

After that, starting Monday, the Kindle edition of “Firedancer” will be free, and then “Snake Charmer”.

The sci-fi short “The Duel” will also be free this weekend along with “The Shifting Sands” because why not?

Now, onto some progress reports on the final installation of “The Serpent’s Song” series:

“The Shifting Sands” in Print With New Cover – and Free Book Giveaways!

And with little fanfare, there is the new cover, designed by artist Don Graham after reading a description of Mike Ritz and the ideas I wanted to convey: a soldier trapped in two worlds.

The reveal of this cover also serves as the reveal for something equally important: “The Shifting Sands” is now in print form! It has taken me a while to get to this point. If you recall, I never intended to publish “The Shifting Sands” at all. It was simply a labor of love for me.