Ghosts of California Pt 1

Prologue:
“Times such as these, require heroes of a harder steel…”

Seldom is it given to a man to become a hero in his own lifetime. Even more rare is his passing into history, thence into story and legend, while he yet lives. Yet men such as this do dwell on the earth at all times. Often they are the man next door, the youth digging a ditch, the boy riding his bike, and the only thing that keeps them from being noticed, is that the normal fires of life do not rage hot enough to smelt them from the common iron.
When, however, the circumstances of the world around them call for it, these individuals are capable of rising to such heights, that their lives will become inspiration to a new generation of heroes, who cannot equal them, yet nevertheless aspire to show the courage and strength shown by their new idol.
And so men who in a quiet world would have gone unnoticed, suddenly find themselves in the fore, leading others to glory and death. Those that would follow them must eventually die, however those that lead need not fear, for even if they fall in battle, their names and lives will live on, told and retold until their greatest accomplishments in life have been eclipsed by those attributed to them by others.
Once in a great while however, times will arise that will call for heroes that stand taller than the legends of old. Times that will call for men so far above average that by mere virtue of accepting their fate they become irrevocably changed, and can never walk again as normal men. Men such as this never die, they merely fade away until all that remains are the stories, true stories so fantastic that they are believed legend, and legends that become myth, until the mortal nature of these men is lost entirely.
The only thing that is forgotten is the man himself, who can never return to normal life, and is condemned to wander forever a world that refuses to leave him at peace, and is simultaneously incapable of challenging him to new heights, or sending him through the door of death to eternal rest.
James Carver was destined to be such a man. Little did anyone suspect this young man would one day be a hero. No one expected times to arise that would call to light his superior will, courage and natural ability to lead. Not one person in his small Georgia hometown ever thought to themselves that this boy would grow up to be a legend among heroes, a warrior among soldiers, or the Commanding officer of the most efficient fighting unit that his country had ever seen.
Carver was a fun loving boy, like all boys, and he wanted nothing more from life than sunny day, when he was young, it was for playing in the yard, then for fishing, then baseball. As he grew older his sunny days became more and more mature, he worked on cars, laid concrete, planted crops, chopped firewood, yet through them all there was one constant. Whenever the trees bowed in a breeze James Carver would stop whatever it was he was doing, and enjoy his life.
By the time he reached high-school he had decided that he was in love. He never fell in love, never tumbled head over heels, instead he grew up with her, day after day they were friends. Until one day when the two of them were walking in the woods.
They had stopped to rest on a flat rock, when a slight buzzing caught their attention. As they both turned the snake on the rock behind her struck. Without batting an eye James reached out his hand and caught the snake around the neck before it could bite her.
This single act, the reaction of a split second caused both of them to realize two very different things. She realized that he was not an ordinary boy, and because of her telling of the story he became a local hero. Every girl at the school longed to be with the boy who caught a snake barehanded. His actions were those of a hero, one with ability beyond that of others, saving the innocent from danger.
He interpreted the action differently. He viewed it as a colossally stupid move made because of a subconscious will to protect this girl at all costs. James Carver had not believed that he could actually catch the snake, he merely wanted to keep it from biting her. It was at this moment that James Carver realized that he was in love with Katherine Jacobs.
James was no fool, he recognized even at a young age that he would need something to show if he were to propose to Kate. He had seen his father and older brother go to work at the factory, scraping enough each week just to stay alive. That was not the life that he wanted to offer Kate. He wanted to offer her something a little more secure, nothing fancy, but not tiptoeing the line his father walked.
To accomplish his goal he needed an education, and to get that education he needed money, neither of these were things that he had. Then one night he and two of his friends were sitting on his back porch drinking a beer and discussing their pipe dreams.

One of James’ teammates threw his empty can at the back of the trailer and swore, “Hell, we ain’t never getting out of this town. We can dream, we can talk, but it ain’t never going to do no good. Born poor, raised poor, live poor, die poor. It won’t change just because we’re young and we want it to.”
Jeffery Kentworth, James’ best friend for years, wrapped his hands around his can, “Sure it can. I turn eighteen tomorrow, and I’m walking down to the recruiter. I’ll get out.”
The first one to speak scoffed at Jeffery’s plan. He called it ridiculous, risking your life for nothing, foolhardy, and many other things. Jeffery only nodded his head and watched the sun setting. James saw in his best friend’s eyes the silent resolve to get out. Silently, not wanting to say things he couldn’t back up, he wondered about the military. He had never given it a thought, but now that Jeffery was going to join, it made sense.
James knew that his talents were limited to the physical realm, but he did have an ability. Even after the other two had left James sat on his back porch thinking. It was a relatively peaceful time in the world, the terms only lasted four years. The odds of him dying in combat when there wasn’t a war going on were incredibly small, and benefits would be enough to take the risk.
After all, in four years Kate would be a nurse, or a teacher, and he could come home, he could save enough money to last them while he went to school and learned a useful trade.
He pursed his lips and pulled the tab off of his last beer, he smiled as he flicked it towards the house, he had been drinking for years, and it had never been novel. Even the first night his father let him drink at home, he felt like it was just a way to unwind after a rough day. It had become a tradition for his father, brother and himself to spend Friday evening drinking and talking. Since his mom died when he was young, and his father had never remarried, there was no one to object.
At last his thoughts resolved themselves. He looked up at the moon, already high in the sky and smiled, it might be his last night here for a while, but he’d be back, and when he came back he would have something to offer her.
Slowly he stood, savoring the hot stillness of the summer night air, the singing of the tree frogs down by the creek as the crickets harmonized. Tomorrow he would join Jeffery on his walk to the recruiter, the cicadas would play them a farewell march, and he would be on his way to being somebody.

Stories and such

Awright chilluns, we's gwan do this proper. I intend to start posting a story or two as serials on here, since they're too long for one post. Hopefully it will be a weekly thing. Some of them don't divide nicely into chapters so it might be uneven. The second story and conclusion are still in development, so it may be a while until they come out to play. Till then I shall do my best to entertain you in various and sundry ways.

Turn back drop the bottle pop
Everybody knows that you gotta stop
With the flows here we go let your nose
Guide you cause it isn't gonna find you
Going by the back streets
This is how a heart beats
Never know the pattern I just listen to the rhythm
Let the sound control your body plug yourself into the system
Uh-oh here we go made a joke now it's told
On playgrounds and there's sounds of parents anger
Don't blame me cause your kid is spitting oaths
You should remember take a lesson get involved in his life
Cause, not because, the change in his jokes
His mouth is dirty but that's not an accident
Maybe you should practice this thing called parenting
Heaven forbid we teach a child right from wrong
Let them learn how it goes in the movies and the songs
Alcohol, drugs, rock'n'roll are in
And they'll pick 'em up if you don't tell 'em about sin
Yes, no, here we go tell me white from black
Never thought you'd hear another kid talking back
But respect isn't given it's gotta be earned
And parents never in the house won't get a turn
So the kids turn to friends who turn to me to tell them when
But I'm just as messed up as any of them
Point your fingers in a circle till it comes back again
Finally the problem'll be identified then

Rendezvous with the future
Or is that what we forgot
Don't tell me what to do
When you pop pills to stay on top

Prozac, valium, percoset and helium
Ritalin, alcohol, nicotine and vicodin
Drugs are our culture hiding from the world
Sure they have their uses like helping boys to get with girls
Wait no, uh-oh, I shouldn't have said that
I might have offended you, too late to take back
Like I really care what you think about this song
See caring is like sharing it helps us all to get along
Too bad I'm not in preschool I might even act like I care
But your fashion money lifestyle isn't getting you no where
So blame it all on culture, music and the world
Whatever helps you sleep knowing you forgot your baby girl.

Rendezvous with the future
Or is that what we forgot
If we want to make a difference
We need to hold on to what we got

Music

So, I got asked recently what kind of music I listen to, and I really didn't know what to say. I mean, everyone says, "Oh, I listen to it all...except this, or that, and that totally sucks." Do they really listen to it all? doubtful indeed sir.

So, what do I listen to? currently I'm jamming to some Shane McGowan. Post Pogues he went solo and tore the country to pieces in a figuratively awesome way.
Of course and always, Streetlight. I sometimes wonder how much I mean this, then I listen again and realize I mean it a lot, they are my favorite band, end statement, no question. They take ska from cheesy "Hurrr, punk with brass instruments, hurrr" to an art form. A lot of the fill music and solos they play are Jazz quality. As someone who's listened extensivelyl to Miles Davis and charlie Parker I'm qualified to judge jazz. the drumming is phenomenal, the tunes are upbeat, and not gonna lie, the few times the guitarist does go on a rampage he does it properly.

Other bands I quite enjoy and need more of their stuff include but are not limited to, Nightwish, Blitzen Trapper, Great Big Sea, Tyrone Wells, Mike Ness, Flogging Molly, Egypt Central...blah blah blah are you even listening anymore? Anyway, ending superiority diatribe. Here's a few lyrics though from a truly great song to start off your weekend.

"Oh the wind it blows to the north and south, it blows to the east and west
I'll be just like the wind my love for I will have no rest
Till I return to thee." -Aisling

Traffic and Weather

I swear, this post is serious. This is a true crying out of anguish in my soul, the angst in my heart cannot be contained any longer. Aw nuts, it's just messing around again. I would swear that the title means something and I'll talk about frustrations with cars and rainfall, but really it's just what's on. Hmm...odd enough...ya know what would rock? If Traffic and Weather Report did an album together with Story of the Year. Insert obligatory news joke.

Today is sad, I have no fruit snacks. :( I'm still a Viking though. Apparently Hrothgar the Norse god (read funny story character not in any way real) of Awesome wrote a letter to the editor of this movie that is my life and told him that I would have the most awesome weekend in the history of men chasing women and hitting other men with an axe and drinking meade. Yeah, Vikings. [don't know how long I'll be on this viking kick, settle down for a long hulled ship (that was awful {awful as in truly awesomely bad on a scale usually only reached by sci-fi channel original movies}) I should stop priority sorting my blogs]

Previous deviation from standard grammar can be blamed on my mother, she spoke of the over use of commas in writing, so I decided, "commas? forget that, I'll use bracketing and semi-colons to denote that stuff; see?"

But seriously, weekend plans, Suit shopping (suits=awesome), Six flags with fast pass and friends (lines~=awesome), Braves game with girl (;) winking smiley wants you to know that said specific girl is awesome and so are the tickets), GI Joe movie with brother and bro's friend (introducing new generation to awesomeness of GI Joe and the Baroness's rocking boobage)

This was supposed to be a music review about the subtle solo's and beautiful jazz influence mixed with punk that is Streetlight Manifesto. I'll skip that, if you're awesome you'll go check them out anyway, cause Vikings like them and vikings are AWESOME!

Colliding worlds and parting ways

Initial note, shark fruit snacks are just as awesome as dinosaur ones. While Churchill was an advocate of dinosaurs, it's a known fact that Vikings preferred sharks, and vikings are rad. Hmm? You didn't know that fact? Well I guess that makes 'you' O. That's you, and that's how out of the loop you are, now go cry tears of shame for not being awesome like Vikings.

anyway, this post really has nothing to do with the title...or does it? Let's play a game called "Can you guess the hidden meaning in the title while I laugh at you for playing a stupid game instead of eating fruit snacks and being a Viking?!" Yeah! homohibilusdiscoveringopposablethumbssayswhat...man, this is not your day.

Why am I openly mocking my reader? Because I feel rather ridiculous myself today and I decided you should share in that. I have discovered ridiculousity through repeated inquiry returning null set. When attempting to solve the equation x+v*t+1/2*a^2*t the loop exits and program terminates without closing to zero.

So, what do you do when you wake up and realize you're not who you want to be, the road in front of you isn't the one you took, and the day is drawing to an end. You can't turn around, you have to go forward and make due before night falls. Or ya know, you could just man up, pick up the freaking road, put it back where it needs to be and start walking. However, the likelyhood is that you will simply stumble forward improvising and trying to work your way back to your destination until you find yourself in an entirely new unknown place.

Remember, kids, "Life is a cesspool. Dig it."

Music and such

Lunch break at work, leads to music reviews. Why is there a comma there? Because I chose to put one there. Anyways, got into some different music while working here. Usually my playlist is dominated by Irish music (due to the deep seated rebel tones in the lyrics) Streetlight Manifesto (due to the upbeat happy music backing predominantly depressing lyrics that portray the reality of life and death). side note, in the words of the famous Winston Churchill, "Dinosaur fruit snacks? Hell yeah! If you don't like them, you're probably a nazi." Now, did Winnie really say that? I dare you to prove he didn't, the burden of proof lies with the negative, try not to embarrass yourself too much. Anyway, music.

The Killers-Hot Fuss

This album is old, it's not new, if it were new I'd be telling you something you didn't know. This album rocks. The singles off of it are Mr. Brightside, Somebody Told me, and Smile like you Mean it. Honestly, probably the most mediocre tracks on the album. If your experience with the Killers is over the radio, check out the album. The tracks Jenny Was a Friend of Mine, Ballad of Michael Valentine, and Believe me Natalie are great. For being a 'pop' rock band they have some actual musical talent. Their lyrics are interesting, often tell a story without being bland, oh, and the blues inflections done by the guitarist on Ballad demonstrate chops. Sadly there are some less than mediocre tracks (as with all albums) that really drag this one down.
Thumbs, stars, cred, props and such are for utter pansies unable to come up with anything more creative. People that couldn't improvise a wet fart after a bean burrito dinner. I'm going to rate this on my own damn scale. This album is a Pyrat XO rum. It's fairly common, most people regard it as cheap and overrated, however it's a well built solid pleasure that has subtle complexities that you discover each time you enjoy it.

"Baby, baby don't be so shy. Rock children hold your heads up high."

Sounds of Silence

Preface: here it is, it's not a zombie story, it's a story set in a zombie scene. While not written for the scare factor if you are easily scared you might want to skip this post. Yes, I know it's rough, it was written at one sitting. I make no claims, and I make no apologies, like it or lump it.

“Let man never forget that he was born in darkness, raised blind and will die alone. This is the solemn truth, that prejudice, hatred, and bigotry are all born of fear. All created in our mind from ignorance, changing friends to foes, people to monsters, and peace into terror.”

The red light glowed from the exit sign above Dmitri’s head. His eyes were accustomed to it, and the shapes around him stood out starkly from the pale walls. Left, right, up and down his eyeballs flicked. Trying to see everything simultaneously. From the corners of his sight the palm tree decorations seemed to rustle and grow into something far more formidable, so he would turn quickly to look at them, but again they were mere plastic and wicker.
He heard a groan and clenched his fists in preparation to fight before he realized it was his own voice. Just how long he had been sitting there he no longer remembered. His back itched so he scratched absentmindedly as he tried to recall when he had first sat against the wall. What had once been a sharp young mind darted back and forth, calling up images and noises that followed no order. He saw clearly a young man somewhat like himself walking into this old hotel with several others. They walked among the halls, jesting at the state of dilapidation. Gradually the images changed tone, one of the group screamed at another for no apparent reason. The mood continued to cloud as eyes changed from bright to brooding, a deep anger brewing in each mind. A room, suddenly all he could see was a room. On the wall there was red streaking. As the image rotated it became a series of words that trailed off in an arc to the floor. Dmitri sensed that the words of the image held some significance, but as hard as he tried he could not control his own memories to show them again. A door slammed somewhere, Dmitri could no longer tell if it was in his mind or outside his hallway. The images in his head swept left to show another member of the group panting and coughing up blood. The other man slowly looked up and the horror filled Dmitri all over again. The man’s eyes were no longer white with blue in the middle, instead they were bright green with a red center. The other man’s face contorted with fear as he looked around the rest of the group. He involuntarily licked his lips and Dmitri recoiled from the sight. Suddenly the man lunged at Dmitri screaming and trying to choke him.
Dmitri’s memories were so vivid that his body turned and tried to climb up the wall behind him to escape from the man. He could feel the man’s hands tearing at his throat, the man’s teeth lashing at Dmitri’s arms. Suddenly the sensation left and Dmitri lay back and watched as his mind showed the other men of the group seizing the afflicted one and crushing him with whatever objects lay at hand. As he lay there panting both in his mind and in the hall Dmitri could only see the dead man’s tongue, it was spotted with mold.
The next eternity was spent watching short bits of events that had culminated in the hall. The images were jerky and jumped from scene to scene wildly. Through it all Dmitri’s eyes darted back and forth seeing his past as a third party and frantically scanning the hallway for any signs of disturbance. Suddenly it all cleared, the images became coherent and for a brief span of time Dmitri was himself again. He saw it all, the realization that the mold was infecting them, then the terrifying moment when they learned that they were not alone in the hotel.
Dmitri pawed through his pockets till he found his wallet. He pulled a picture out of the sleeve and gazed at her. He was himself again, he was Dmitri. He didn’t know how long it would be till it got to him too, but for this moment he was aware, and all he thought about was her. “Diana…” the words trailed off. Even his own voice sounded foreign. He wished she were here, he would hold her and forget all that was happening outside. His finger slid slowly down the glossy image, caressing her cheek, “Diana, I’m sorry.”
He heard a sound outside, something in the ballroom beyond the wall had knocked over a chair. Dmitri knew what it was, it was someone driven mad by the mold. All reason gone they were skulking along the walls hiding from all others, savagely attacking those that they encountered out of fear. He knew that he should crawl to the window and look out, but Dmitri was shrinking back. He wanted to go out, to see, to stop hiding in the dark hallway, but Dmitri was too afraid. He pulled at Dmitri, trying to force him to look. Dmitri slowly moved towards the door, fear welling up inside of himself. Dmitri knew what this was, this was the transformation, the welling up of fear that would dominate his every action. Dmitri tried to resist, he clung frantically to the carpet and his clarity. The thoughts that had raced through his mind returned more vivid than before. He was standing up, peering out the side of the window. He could see shapes moving around outside, anger began to build inside. He was tired of being afraid, tired of hiding from those things. His arm muscles flexed and his lips pulled back as he snarled at the ones outside. He knew he was stronger than them, he would show them, they would see that they couldn’t scare him, no one could. He wasn’t afraid of her, he wasn’t afraid to show her what he was, they would all see.
Dmitri fought with him, screaming inside his mind against the change. Dmitri saw his intentions. Dmitri knew that he was strong, nothing would stop him. Dmitri shrugged and was surprised to see his shoulders move. In his mind Dmitri smiled slightly, I won’t let you go dammit, I’ll never let you touch her.
He laughed, he felt Dmitri struggling against him, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Dmitri submitted. He tilted back his head roared against the terror. The ones outside shrank away from the door. He smiled, soon they would find out what he was.
Dmitri seized his hand and forced it into his pocket. The hand retrieved a paper clip that was already bent out of shape. Too late he realized what Dmitri was doing. With one final effort, one last great exertion, Dmitri plunged the paperclip into the nearby white plastic socket. Dmitri wasn’t afraid anymore, Dmitri was calm. He screamed in anger and fear as he waited an eternity for the spark he knew was coming.
For one second Dmitri and he were again the same, one split second united them for all eternity. I’ve got you, you bastard. Di…

“Hello darkness my old friend…”

Irony

This post isn't really about anything. It's to maintain sanity. I'm currently writing a story, and this story is beginning to take on a somewhat dark tone. I don't do well with horror movies/stories/whatever so I'm taking periodic (read frequent) breaks to maintain balance and a sense of reality. What's that you say? Listen to mitch hedberg while writing horror stories? Okay.

Whew, second break. I had no clue I was able to write stuff creepy like this. Just a warning, I'm not planning to post said story on here, I might post the beginning paragraph, if you're interested in reading it all just tell me and I'll email you a copy. Okay, back to the gig, time to move from scary to mental.

Um...wow. Yeah, I'm not gonna be able to sleep tonight. Anyway, the first part is crap, but I feel pretty good about the last part. So, maybe I lied, I might post it on here. If I do it will be clearly marked, and if you're not into that kind of story, I strongly advise you not to read it.

Well, that's all, time for bed. On a brighter note two new songs in the works, one's decent, one's...okay. Will post when completed.

The Arnold Palmer

This entry is dedicated to the Daytona Crew. Phil, Troy, Brandon, Bill, Ray, Dave, Steve. This was the greatest group of guys you could pick to spend four weeks going through the crappiest hotels in Daytona. We kept things light, always joking despite the fact that we walked through crime scenes, faced actual danger from mold inhalation(finally put on the masks) and just in general had to put up with more crap than we cared to. The Deck was our retreat. It's lower room was at beach level, no glass or anything separating you from the ocean breeze, soft salt blowing through your hair as you enjoyed a beer...or four to unwind after work. I was introduced to a new world, the world of the traveling consultant. We are the few, the proud, the ones who don't have a home life. I can't say that I long to be just like them, but I do admire them, and find the concept to be somewhat tempting. I was introduced to a new drink, the Arnold Palmer. A florida classic it's simply made with unsweet tea and lemonade split 50-50. It cuts the overly sweet or sour taste of the lemonade while also adding flavor to unsweet tea (let's face it, unsweet tea is pretty rotten stuff).
This was the taste today as I left, it was bittersweet quite literally. I was glad to be finished with a project that I had labored on for 4 weeks, and I was sad to see the crew break up. Prose no longer sufficient, I turn to an ancient muse. The bog-sprite Lagavulin loosens my tongue and bids me sing.

It was a sunny morning when I pulled into here
Eager for the chance to make new start clear
When the wind blew my hair as I crossed over the bay
I knew something was a head of me on the road today
But I wasn't sure what I'd find here at 92 and A1A

It was a breezy evening when I sat at the bar
Mumbling about sore feet dragging me in from the car
It was a gloomy end to work when I looked up from my place
To see the ocean rocking gently and the caps on the waves
But I wasn't sure about tomorrow here at 92 and A1A

It was a rainy night as I walked down the strip
Crying about you and how I couldn't forget
The sand blew in my face and my eyes filled with flame
From my knees the lights in the towers were like sprites in the rain
But I wasn't sure how I'd gotten here to 92 and A1A

It was a clear afternoon when I drove away from the sand
I'd been beaten and offered no helping hand
My soul was at peace for I'd done what I had planned
Between surf shops and shanties and men shackled to land
I'd seen Heaven and beauty in a young mother's eyes
I've seen futures and pasts in the ocean and skies
It's as a new man that I'm leaving in the left lane
But it's because what I learned here at 92 and A1A