Everything ends -- or how the film "Cocktail" is totally like this website

by Jason Tudor

"Everything ends badly, otherwise it wouldn't end" gets uttered by a bartender named Coughlin in a film called "Cocktail." That he uttered those words in "Cocktail," one of the 1980's 10 Worst "Films With Feathered Hair and Acrobatic Drinking Tricks" doesn't mean the phrase isn't worth examining in light of recent events.

I'll just throw out a few as retrospective: Octomom. Jersey Shore. John Edwards. Crystal Pepsi. The Magic Johnson Hour. 24-hour cable news (Wait. That still exists ...). Even "Cocktail" ended by allowing Tom Cruise to make more movies. This is life's little cruel stubbing of its own toe over and over again.

Conversely, An Army of Ermas ends its run Sept. 30. By no means will it end badly. Rather, it will simply end. And there should be more: fireworks, live sign-off, ticker-tape parade, immigrants selling fake Rolex watches and glowing light sticks. You get the idea.

This thing shouldn't end, but it will. So, in reflection, let's peek at what Ermas has brought you:

-- As of this writing, there are 410 columns written by about 30 different columnists. So, almost every other day for the past two years, one of us has told you about driving Fieros, boob smashing or cooking something delicious. To recap: cars, boobs and food. You win.

-- Much like the mixed drinks Cruise's Brian Flanagan makes, the stories you've been introduced to come from a line-up of funny, talented people with diverse, wonderful backgrounds. Stalk them like old boyfriends. Every single one of them will be more famous than Usain Bolt's after-parties before you know it.

-- If the numbers are right, you've shared this stuff like college kids share good weed (or, at least, that's what the college kids tell me). In other words, Ermas are all over the Web like a snotty cold at a daycare center. Again, that's a good thing. So many of my colleagues deserve that electron-warming loving that only you can provide with the stroke of a 'send' or 'like' button.

There's more to be sure. For my own part, I've scratched out about two dozen columns and waited for the comments to roll in. Sometimes there were many and with others, the crickets kept me company as we watched the stars twinkle in the midnight of the Internet. That's okay. Humor, especially the kind that Erma Bombeck wrote, is tough, like seeing Elisabeth Shue suck it up for 104 minutes next to Cruise's Foghorn Leghorn rooster hair. I won some. I lost some.

And rather than Elmer Fudd blasting Daffy Duck's bill around to the other side of his face for the next 20 days or so, you'll get another version of Looney Tunes. Our version. It's more like the colonoscopy that went A-OK. And, no: it won't end badly, but like "Cocktail" with a brand new bar and twins on the way, it will end.

To quote my beloved editor of this site, "Now, scoot."

Jason Tudor is a writer and illustrator. He is also the creator and co-host of the hour-long podcast "The Science Fiction Show." You can continue to find him at www.jasontudor.com or www.myscifishow.com.

August Haikus

By Jason Tudor

Life

Down the dark canal

Caught by friendly waiting hands

Yea! It’s my birthday!

Signs

In roars the lion

Thunderous gold jungle king

But you’re a Pisces

Hot

Fickle summer’s touch

Parches throats, scorches thin skin

Stay a bit longer?

The Supposed Apotheosis of My Cat Rex

Story and art by Jason Tudor

Many pets have owned me or my family over the course of four decades. “Another mouth to feed” never stood in the way of a canine or feline sharing space in our homes.

So goes the story of Rex, a kitten found wedged between a whitewall tire and the quarter-panel of a neighbor’s car in the Azores. Truth be told, I wasn’t looking for a cat, but why let the rain pour on it. I took it in, fed it and eventually, it continued to stay at my place.

Forking out a few bucks to ship him, Rex made the military move with me when I went from the islands to the middle of Georgia. He and I shared space in the house I rented shortly before my wife arrived. As an indoor-outdoor cat, he had run of the grounds and I let him in at night so the place wasn’t pindrop quiet.

One day, he stopped showing up.

Then another. Then, another.

Rex split. I figured he found a larger bowl of food. So, when my wife did arrive and we moved into a new place, my only thought was, “Geez, I hope I don’t find him pancaked in the road." I never did. And for good reason.

A bit less than 11 months later, my wife and I were enjoying a Saturday at home when we heard meowing at the front door. I opened it. There was Rex. Now, keep these three things in mind:

-- The new house we rented was better than five miles from the old place.

-- We had new cats, new scents and a whole different footprint at the new place

-- Rex had gained 417 pounds

Well, not 417, perhaps, but it did look like he swallowed a bowling ball. Like some fat cat plantation owner, Rex rolled into the living room and looked up as if to say in his best Foghorn Leghorn voice, “Feed me boy, I say, I say, feed me before I let go on the carpet here.”

Actual jaw dropped, I did, in fact, feed him and welcome him home. His grey, furry blubbery mass found its way around the new place just fine. Rex didn’t mess with the two new cats; ignored them, in fact, as he wobbled around, going in and out again, doing his business. Three cats wasn’t exactly what we had in mind with a baby due, but six days in, we figured we would tolerate things and see how they went.

Then on the seventh day, Rex disappeared. And never came back.

There’s probably no lesson here. Cats are weird, distorted little bands of reality with jeweled collars and snide looks like the one’s Sarah Jessica Parker makes sneering at a bad pair of Manolo Blahnik’s through the smoke of a Marlboro Light 100. One person’s cat is another person’s sacred idol is another person plate of Szechuan cooking. Or something like that.

Go easy, Rex. And lay off the Mars bars.

Jason Tudor is a writer, illustrator and co-host of the weekly podcast “The Science Fiction Show,” available on iTunes. His short story, “The Lives That Magda Made,” can be found in the anthology “No Rest forthe Wicked” available on Amazon. He lives in Europe with his wife, daughter, two guinea pigs and one cat. More can be found at www.jasontudor.com.

Baloney. No. Wait. Not that Kind …

by Jason Tudor

Most of the known world gives up eating bologna sometime after middle school becomes high school. It falls away like fruit roll-ups and chugging Sunny Delight. I never did. I love bologna like fat kids love … bologna.

That said, as an adult, there are very few dishes that can be prepared with bologna. For instance, bologna fajitas will never EVER be a reality. Neither will that slow-cooked, Crock Pot-made bologna roast. There are, however, three things that can be made with bologna that won’t get your adult card pulled. These are they:

The first is Bavarian Wurstsalat. I’ve eaten Angela Merkel’s weight in this stuff since I’ve lived in Bavaria (just past three years). As my wife says, it’s bologna in vinegar, but it’s so much more than that; it’s more like a vinegar-soaked golden unicorn splashing in a bologna fountain spraying gherkin pickle drops and rainbows all over the glowing dinner table. Unicorns aside, here’s the recipe, via Wikipedia:

“To prepare the dish, the (bologna) is cut into thin slices or strips and placed, along with raw onion rings or cubes, in a vinegar and oil marinade, lightly seasoned with salt and pepper. Common additional ingredients are finely cut gherkins, radishes, parsley or chives. Wurstsalat is normally served with bread and sometimes also with fried potatoes.

The aforementioned unicorn loving wurstsalat. (Photo from Wikipedia)

The second dish isn’t for the faint-hearted and I gave it up sometime before my military service started. My lower-middle class upbringing, however, demanded some innovation when the cupboard ran bare of Oreos, potato chips or something else that could be better classified as food. Here it is:

The Bologna and Peanut Butter Sandwich

Two slices of wheat bread

Two tablespoons of peanut butter, smeared over the bread

Two slices of thick-cut bologna

Sliced bananas (optional)

I know. Mmm. As mentioned, I abandoned this culinary delight sometime before Cyndi Lauper jumped her She-Bop over the 1980s shark, but before that I ate four or five of these a week. I swear I didn’t swallow lead paint chips as a child, though my mother won’t admit to dropping me on my head.

Finally, in a pinch, a two other suggestions:

·         Fry a couple of slices of bologna in a pan. Roll up and dip in mustard.

·         Wrap cold bologna around a cooked hot dog, drop on the bun and dress with mustard.

Is bologna baloney? Hardly. Try the wurstsalat and prove me wrong. Just leave the peanut butter in the cupboard.

Jason Tudor can still be found pushing two slices of rye bread, cheddar cheese slices and a 1/4 cup of mustard together for lunch – occasionally. He is to creator and cohost of the Science Fiction Show podcast at www.myscifishow.com and the editor-in-chief for the upcoming science fiction anthology “Battlespace” published by the Science Fiction Show and Knightwatch Press.

15 years ago today, having a ball

by Jason Tudor

Your whole life, you never thought you’d be in Mississippi for any reason. Now, there are a dozen people in a Biloxi hospital working to save your life, and you had to drive yourself here to have them do it.

Surgeons hauled out that golf ball-sized tumor three months ago. Soon they’ll tee up the jokes. Take your ball and go home is still No. 1. You’ve been scratched onto the list of the 7,500-8,000 diagnosed every year. You’ll never be able to say the words “radical orchiectomy” to anyone because they’ll think you’re talking about a snowboarding trick.

At least you’re two weeks in. The Greek gyro payoff at the end of each session is worth it now that you’re not dry heaving your way to a stroke every day and you’ve stopped bleeding out of your eyes.  (Hooray, pharmaceuticals!). The lead blanket’s not so bad. It’s that lead ostrich egg they wedge your privates into that could use a happier face (Well, maybe “face” isn’t the right word …). And who thought that thing up? “You’re going to need radiation therapy, but we want to avoid radiating your joyboys. So we’ve created this lead Pac-Man to encase them. We’ve got three sizes. Oh, you want the largest? All guys do.”

Everyone is kind. Helpful. Warm. They smile. It’s not like you’re in this alone. They reach out and ask how you’re doing. They seem to mean it. That matters. The 85-percent survival rate jumps to 100 when someone holds your hand to help you through the tough moments. You’re 320 miles from the nearest person who loves you, and at least for the hour you’re lying there being partially cooked by some medical Transformer spitting radiation, they help you remember you’re human and not some slab of ribs they’ll sauce up later with a few Coronas. 

Having an oncologist who’s a woman turned out fine. Sure, she’s attractive. All of your guy friends said if you were assigned a female doc, every meeting would turn into a scene that would make a Vivid Video reel. “Hey, doc, I brought us some pizza.” Fortunately, you leapfrogged over 7th Grade intentions (including your own) and it’s just a weekly visit.

You’re working again, even if it's just something to do after treatments. Two weeks ago, at the same time of day, you were smashing your fist against the rim of a toilet, wondering when the vomit, pain and tears would get flushed permanently.  Now you’re writing and helping out wherever you can (and that line about “the island is really no bigger than the period on the end of this sentence” is genius).

Is there some life-affirming change on the horizon? Will Jesus or Buddha or the Flying Spaghetti Monster suddenly stroll through the door with a Mai Tai and a club membership in hand? Will you want to climb mountains or hack Samson’s hair? Go on some sort of spiritual journey? People say that happens. I don’t know. There are two weeks to go. You’ll still have go to work, mow the lawn and change the cat box. If some greater force is going to put itself front and center, he/she/it should probably bring a few bags of Fresh Step Scoopable as incentive.

Your whole life, you never thought you’d be thinking about these things. Mortality, being humbled and gaining even the slimmest glimpse into humanity will do that.

Have a ball.

How to crash in a hot air balloon? Like this.

by Jason Tudor

Hot air balloons are like political pundits: they are filled with hot air and only governed by which way the wind blows. Both of those facts can also make for interesting endings. Case in point: a trip my family and I made to Cappadocia, Turkey a few weeks ago.

Among the many things the region is known for, including looking like the back lot to a "Star Trek" production, is an extensive network of hot-air balloon companies. In this region, there are more hot-air balloon companies then there are soft mattresses to sleep on. Trust me on this.

To make a sunset launch, one wakes up at an hour when drunks are usually returning home from bars. Now, I'm not a morning person in the same way Kim Kardashian is not a marrying person. That aside, the temperature hovered somewhere near "those pants kinda make you look fat" and "are we really going to your mom's house again?" Plus, I'd forgot to bring a jacket.

Like hostages, we were rushed in a van out to a dirt field where balloons were waiting. There were hundreds of people, huddled against each other abating the frigid temperatures. And we waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And, after two hours ... we went home. The wind was too strong to fly. Try again tomorrow morning. The next morning, we managed to fill the balloon and get in the air.

Turns out, we were with 21 other people from Venezuela packed into the basket in the same way People of Wal-Mart pack themselves into Spandex. Also, one of them was trying to document the entire flight on video WITH HIS IPAD. Secretly, as he was hanging it over the edge of the gondola, I was hoping it would slip and shatter into a thousand iPod Shuffles.

The flight was breath-taking. The alien hillsides of the area were painted orange and gold from the sunrise, which did not let us down. Our Turkish pilot was capable and hovered us into valleys and ravines. The chase cars followed us all over the province of Nevsehir. We were aloft better than 45 minutes when the pilot told us it was time to land.

"Landing" a hot-air balloon is a little like the recent mortgage crisis: you a let a little of the air hiss out and eventually the whole thing crashes to Earth. Unfortunately, as the pilot deflated our balloon, a wild apricot tree appeared, ran in front of and managed to catch our balloon in its branches. After 25 minutes, we did manage to untangle from that and get on the ground. And that's when the fun started.

In order to get out of the basket, we had to wait for the air to be let out of the balloon. As this was happening, the balloon tumbled down and, as it did, caused the gondola to crash onto its side, turning 21 Venezuelan patrons, four propane tanks and my family into a stack of giggling human Lincoln Logs.

Zero injuries, glasses of champagne and a certificate of accomplishment rounded out the two-day adventure and fulfilled a lifelong dream for my wife. Can't have a more interesting ending than that.

Running into Something New

by Jason Tudor

Amongst the accomplishments of a lifetime, count “completed running a marathon” amongst those for my friend Yvonne.

Just a skosh over five feet tall, with two children and a full-time job, she woke up one morning staring at the new running challenge the same way some people stare at mountains and go, “well, I’ll climb that because it’s there,” but she saw it with three facets: she could get in shape, she could challenge herself, and she could say she ran a marathon.

“It’s also a cool thing to do,” she added.

To cover the 26 miles and 385 yards needed to finish, she enlisted the help of a friend who motivated her to first walk long distances every day. “We had a goal and we wanted to finish. We knew the whole process would benefit us. Not everybody can do a marathon. It’s a recognizable achievement.”

Shorter distances grew longer. Lunch hours turned into agonizing training sessions. Her feet hurt. Eventually, however, the first wave of training paid off: she walked the Maratona di Roma in 2010. She did it again the next year, earning the medals and taping the times on the front door of her office.

Still, she knew she had to run a marathon to really tamp down the anxious thing beating inside her. So, in May 2011, she started running, working toward finishing the Dublin Marathon on Halloween.

Yvonne said the Maginot Line in this process was her own mind. “About halfway through the training, my inner voices kept telling me to stop. But I wasn’t going to let myself down. I knew that if I gave in, I wouldn’t finish.”

With every Facebook update, the training distances increased: five miles, 10 miles, 15 miles, 20 miles. Rinse and repeat, with more aching feet, sore muscles and weakness fleeing for the doors.

Halloween arrived (also a public holiday in Ireland) and so did the rain. “It was pouring. It was ridiculous.” Still, when the starting gun went off, so did she. About three-quarters of the way through, rain beating down, those pesky inner voices returned telling her to stop. “I just turned the music up louder and shut them up.”

Throughout the training, she felt that four hours, 30 minutes was a realistic goal to finish. Five hours, tops. Unfortunately, the rain and the hills conspired against her.  “When the guys carrying the five-hour balloons passed us, I cried and THAT really hit hard. (My husband) mentioned they had started a little late so I knew there was some wiggle room in there. When I saw the finish line, I broke off and ran as fast as I could, because I wanted that five hours BAD.”

Save 63 seconds, it worked. With 13,000 others in front, beside and behind her, Yvonne finished the 2011 Dublin Marathon in five hours, one minute and three seconds.

She hasn’t run much since, mostly due to work and family obligations. With a move this summer, however, she’ll be back into it with her husband. She has no desire to stop tallying lifetime achievements or trying new things.

“I wanted to challenge myself to see if I could do it. And I did it,” she concluded. “How many people can say they ran a marathon?”

Jason Tudor is an American writer and illustrator who lives in Europe. His short story, “The Lives Magda Made,” will appear in the anthology “No Rest for the Wicked” in June 2012. He is also the co-host and creator of “The Science Fiction Show,” a weekly podcast about all things science fiction in pop culture, film, television and elsewhere. For more, go to www.jasontudor.com.

Listening More

By Jason Tudor

Erma Bombeck once famously said, "If I had my life to do over, I would have talked less and listened more." So, who am I to get in the way of her brilliance or my own sheer, purposeful laziness?

I've decided to shut my yap and allow friends and colleagues to dispense wisdom just eight days past Ms. Bombeck's birthday. I get out of penning an actual column. You get useful tidbits you can cut out and stick on your monitor. Win-win.

As a bonus, I've also made you meme-able graphics made up of my friends' and colleagues' wisdom. As the Internet kids say, spread them like a virus! That said, on this bonus day of 2012, let's leap and listen:

From my father, advice from his father: "Always be honest with yourself and others, no matter if it hurts. I started in high school and I still do it today. My real friends know I am a man of my word and with that comes respect from those that really know you."

---

From my friend John, whose news editing work is seen by about 4 million people each day. He also makes great chili. Source unknown: "There will be a last time this child will look at you as if you hung the moon or will crawl into your lap and ask you to read a story you’ve read to him 500 times. You’ll be somewhere, sometime, and realize how long it’s been since you lifted her up on your shoulders so she could get a better view, and that it will never happen again. Someday he’ll go to bed on his own and you’ll never again hear his prayers or tuck him in. No matter how routine these rituals become, make sure you savor them every time, because no one is going to tap you on the shoulder and say, 'This is the last time for this, so remember how it feels.'"

---

From my friend Frank, who works in politics in Alaska and taught me something about inner strength, from his grandfather: "'Find something you love to do, and then find a way to make them pay you to do it. Happiness is more important than success. To be happy, always remember why you’re doing the thing – because you love it, not because you’re getting paid for it.' It’s definitely the best advice I ever got."

---

From my friend Tiny, who loves a good science fiction convention as much as I do and is a former member of the British Army Parachute Regiment, from his father: "He said, 'Learn something new every day, because if you don't, you're dead!' I continue to adhere to this, and try to improve myself."

---

From my best friend Michael, vice president for a telecommunications company and my co-host for "The Science Fiction Show," from his mother, father and Walt Disney: "'Keep moving forward.' The diligent application of this advice will not always guarantee that every day of my life will be filled with unicorns, rainbows or butterflies, but that’s okay. I know that I will never be given more than I can handle, no matter how trying or satisfying a situation may become."

---

And finally, from my friend Val, a brilliant painter and a former boss, from her Mom: "She said, 'There is something beautiful about everyone.' I'm sure she told me this because I was a super geeky kid with buck teeth and thick glasses, but it is true and it has always stuck with me. It taught me early on to never judge anyone based on how they look and to appreciate the beauty in everyone."

---

Jason Tudor's short story, "The Lives Madga Made" will be published in the anthology "No Rest for the Wicked" in May. He's also the creator of "Tales of the Gunfighter Hollis Brown" available from iBooks and Lulu.com. He is the creator and co-host "The Science Fiction Show," a weekly podcast available on iTunes. For more, visit www.jasontudor.com.

Five rules of the Mancave

By Jason Tudor

Under the tundra, tucked past the laundry room, or stashed in the same room where the ironing board, sewing goodies and boxes of shopworn clothing awaiting transport to a charitable bin is the one room of the house men find solace.

It’s a Fortress of Solitude; a guy-made panic room and beige-walled Tardis sometimes blaring heavy metal or Waylon Jennings ditties. And whether that room is garage, third bedroom, basement or carved out attic space, the man caves across American are sacred spaces.

At my house, my daughter occupies three rooms, including two bedrooms, three beds (she digs the air mattress) and a playroom. She’s like a Trump heiress counting properties along her Atlantic City boardwalk. Meanwhile, the rest of the house belongs to my wife, save the one room, which I’ve captured for you here:

You will note that my mancave is actually a mankitchencave.
The irony is not lost on the author, but I’ve got my own fridge.

All that said, for many men, a man cave of some sort is a must, like a favorite worn shirt or that THING. And since the Ermas are hip-deep in lists, what better way to roll into February and all its amorous then to cover five rules about man caves (the other 13 are classified ‘top secret’):

1. Let him decorate it. Really. Dallas Cowboys jerseys, Night Ranger posters, “Big Bang Theory” ironic tchotchkes. Old beer mugs. He’s taken time to dampen the ground around this spot with his feral spray. Barring bikini-clad pinups, ensure he has full reign to throw up (and that’s probably an apt term for what will serve as décor) whatever he wants.

2. Don’t touch anything. Piles of automotive magazines. Tools tossed into greasy piles making a metal miasma. Stacks of CDs. All of it may look like a hurricane hit it, but there is a sophisticated, meticulous organizational system at work here. Anyone having the impetus to “do him a favor” and “clean up this mess” would only be obliterating weeks of laborious, detailed organization. Besides, those discarded Slim Jim wrappers won’t recategorize themselves.

3. Requirements. Mancaves that are not garages have mandatory stocking requirements. They include: a giant television, a computer, a LOUD SOUND SYSTEM … LOUD, a bar (but where a bar can’t fit, a small fridge), and a lingering scent that will drive most others out of the room.

4. Earmuffs! This is hallowed ground. It’s the one place the man can go with other men and let the language freely flow about fishing lures, shovel passes and bed liners. The syntax that prevails in these conversations sometimes makes drunken sailors blush. 

5. Mind the door. I say this with the full knowledge that my own office does not have a door. That said, a closed door is an opportunity to allow man vapors to secrete without hindrance; to crank the volume knob to 11; to play the Imperial March and allow the office walls to reverberate; to think manthings and concoct manideas, most of which we get in trouble for in the first place.

Yes, at times, our knuckles drag. We slobber. We have a favorite pelt we wear often and wash little. It only makes sense that our caves resemble us. So, peek inside and tell me: what’s your mancave like?

Linus and His Resolutions

by Jason Tudor

My friend Linus and I sat in the Irish Pub the day after Christmas nursing beers and watching a soccer friendly when he brought up New Year's resolutions.

"You have any?"

I gave up making New Year's resolutions five years ago.

"I got three."

Lay them on me.

"One, I'm gonna lose 25 pounds and get down below three spins."

Three spins?

"On the scale, moron."

Do scales still spin?

"The point is that I wanna lose weight!"

Well, that is good. You are five feet seven inches. Your heart and your insoles will thank you for that.

"The second is to be nicer. Just, you know, nicer. To be a nicer guy."

All right.

"And third ... I want to learn how to salsa dance."

Umm ...

"Well, actually, I've already started that one. Had to take a break since the wife went home for the holidays. Hey, why'd you give up resolutions? You don't like change?"

On the contrary, I love change. I embrace change like my taste buds meeting a bacon-wrapped hunk of veal.

"It's 2012! You get a clean slate!"

You don't, really. You wake up with the same challenges you had the day before. Bills. Children. Illness. Regret. It's all still there plus a walloping hangover if you did New Year's Eve according to Madison Avenue rules.

"So you're saying I'm not gonna get below three hundred pounds?"

I'm saying you've got to be ready to do it. The thing with New Year's resolutions is the need to be, well, resolute. By its very definition, 'resolute' conjures up all sorts of problems around this time of year. It is difficult to be "admirably purposeful, determined, and unwavering" while retailers, hucksters and every con artist with a racket scream for your money; food flies out of ovens faster than you can pack it down; and the niceness gallops like free zebras across the Serengeti. I think this is just a tough time of year to make it happen.

"Plus all those college bowl games and the party clean up and everything else. There's a lot to worry about."

Something like that.

"Hmm. So you're sayin' don't do it?"

I'm saying don't do it NOW. Smarter people than me have said you should wait so you can ensure you have the willpower, some concrete goals and, perhaps most importantly, the support mechanism, like a friend or two, to help you get there. And you've got some things, like that weight loss, that will probably require some encouragement and coaching from a friend. All you'd have to do is find the right person and ask.

"You're right about that because I really need to make that happen. That resolution will be great for my health, I'll feel better about myself, gain some confidence, and I'll see some long-term benefits. That said, umm, can I ask you something?"

Sure.

"Would you mind being my salsa partner for a few days until my wife comes back?"

Jason Tudor is something of a multimedia alchemist who likes buying gadgets and shopping online, mostly because he has to. He's a three-time Department of Defense first-place winner for feature writing and has three published books of poetry. His illustration work appears on websites like the Zombie Dating Guide, and has commissioned work in anthologies "The Undead That Saved Christmas," volumes 1 and 2. Jason is currently working on three novels, including two science fiction books. As such, he the host and producer of "The Science Fiction Show," a weekly podcast on the topic available on iTunes. His website is www.jasontudor.com

On Shopping Habits of Men

By Jason Tudor

Black Friday is little more than a notation in the margins of an accountant's ledger now. However, the consumer zombie walk that is the holiday shopping season is underway! That said, many men are not predisposed to this euphoria of wedging into a packed mall in Bayonne and fighting tooth-and-nail for the final ShamWow. Many men believe that December is when NASCAR dies, pro football comes to a head and Santa drops 72-inch LCD televisions down their chimneys.

Many of us just aren't wired to shop. We're wired for laughing at monkeys, nodding our heads in agreement about the Turf-and-Turf, and a whole lot of other things that don't come close to stepping foot in the Yankee Candle Store at the Paramus Park Mall. That said, I'm happy to provide a bit of insight to that wiring and what can be expected over the next 24 days or so about male shopping and co-shopping habits. Even better, it's in list form! I would recommend making this bad boy credit-card sized and stuffing it into your wallets. It could save a marriage. On we go:

1. Men do like to shop. That's why God invented Bass Pro Shops.

2. Men don't like to "shop." That is, if we're the third wheel on some "me and some new FMPs scavenger hunt," that will wear us down quickly. The whole notion of joining a hoard speeding from sale to sale on Black Friday is about as appealing as a canker sore. On the other hand, if it turns out to be a barbarian hoard with looting, plundering and generalized mayhem along the way, we're in.

3. We don't like to shop for clothes. We just go buy them. Really. Clothes are utilitarian. When we walk into a store, we think, "Shirt. Pant. Shoe. Sock." Colors and seasons are best left to foliage experts. In fact, if our clothes are washed well enough, we'll believe those are new. And if you don't believe this, think of how many times a guy has picked up a shirt or pair of underwear off the floor, buried his nose in them, turned to you and said, "Yeah, I think these are still good."

4. We like parking. This is hunter-gatherer material at its finest. There is also a level of hubris generated by the proposition of cramming a Dodge Ram 1500 into the space the size of a Smart Car. There's another joke here about the euphemism that same hubris creates, but I'll refrain.

5. We will form fraternities of the moment.We know each other, my brother. We're standing in Victoria Secret with our hands in our pockets looking for anything that might be vaguely smeared with testosterone. We see each other from across the store. We nod.  Though we're trapped in the girly underwear armageddon, you and I are staring at each other silently saying, "Let's smear each other with deer urine and get the hell out of here." Or something like that.

6. We want to do the thing that gets us back to the remote control fastest. We realize when we go shopping, many times, our roles include chauffeur, skycap, and unshaven sycophant. If that social lubricant gets us home before the kickoff of Roll Tide and the return of our left hands down the front of our pants, the more the better.

While this wiring schematic doesn't cover all guys (insert trite 99-percent joke here) and is incomplete, it gives insight to those men who will stand in the the Mall of America, the North Star Mall and elsewhere with those Thousand-Yard Stares on their faces. Good luck and happy shopping.

Jason Tudor is something of a multimedia alchemist who likes buying gadgets and shopping online, mostly because he has to. He's a three-time Department of Defense first-place winner for feature writing and has three published books of poetry. His illustration work appears on websites like the Zombie Dating Guide, and has commissioned work in anthologies "The Undead That Saved Christmas," volumes 1 and 2. Jason is currently working on three novels, including two science fiction books. As such, he the host and producer of "The Science Fiction Show," a weekly podcast on the topic available on iTunes. His website is www.jasontudor.com.

Courting Poe

By Jason Tudor

Slumped in the plastic cafeteria seating of the Deep Space Communications Station Maupassant, Yeoman Bierce slurped in the last minutes of oxygen swirling around him. Each gulp of air ground against the walls of his throat rasping like sandpaper against pine, the sawdust collecting in his lungs. The final moments of the dying station’s generator power provided lighting from the few LED bulbs that weren’t shattered or smeared dark.

Maupassant’s compliment of 213 communications technicians and naval officers fell when a virus sudden and quick invaded and buzz-sawed through them. Outside making repairs to a long-range radio antenna, Bierce watched for hours through one of the station’s windows as germs exploded and swarmed crew members like a fierce hornets from their nest. They ran around, screaming in terror though Bierce heard nothing  … and could do nothing. To stay alive, he huddled outside the station. Eventually, as the oxygen supply in his suit weaned off, he knew he would have to go inside where he would have to take off his helmet.

In a cruel twist, he was not infected. Instead, he waited alone amongst ravaged bodies strewn like rag dolls. Hours turned to days. The stench of rotted flesh pushed through every air duct. Silence.  Moreover, there was the unfortunate notion that there would be no resupply shuttle. Still incoming message traffic told Bierce that Naval Command knew of the Maupassant’s fate. Assuming all had been lost, Navy decided to let the station die, a process done remotely and taking less than 48 hours. Days turned to weeks. Air thin, food eaten and only minutes of life left for the once vibrant military post, Bierce whimpered.

Then, something quiet; a shimmering light in his peripheral vision cast against the frost -covered station windows; something pleasant above the gore. Moaning through the pain, he turned his head to see its full resplendence, and sat awed.

Crewman Poe. Bierce managed a smile. He always held a fondness for Poe. Stunning blue eyes. Curling, shiny red hair. Thin fingers and wrists. Soft, unintended touches across communications consoles and repair stations. Seven light years from Earth, the compliment split 70-30 favoring the men. Space stations, despite their technological marvels, were cramped, logistical tea kettles. Intimacy and kindness came in short quantity, often sneaked in uncomfortable places at awkward moments.  He now wished that he had acted more boldly, recalling his timidity on so many accounts.

No matter. All of that corporeal … gone. What remained of Poe – what the disease decided it would leave behind -- lie two meters from the heels his blood-stained boots, mouth agape, her last look a frightened, sad one, piled amongst the bacteria-riddled corpses of his comrades. So, seeing her blurred, sad smile glimmering in this spectral light before him gave him both peace -- and worry.

Eventually, the spirit circled and settled before him. He squinted, trying to better make out her face.

“You died unhappily,” he croaked, air becoming harder and harder to find.

“I’m happy now.” Her voice soothed him, like hot chocolate solving chills.

“Where are you?”

“Here. With you.”

“I mean … are you … in heaven?”

“I came back to help you.”

“I wish you’d come sooner. We could have …” he strained to raise his arm and wave it around, “… fixed the station.” He laughed. He didn’t mean that. A tear dribbled down his cheek. “I don’t want to die.”

“I brought you something.” The apparition shifted its form. A small picture frame fell into Bierce’s lap. He turned it over. A beautiful color photograph Bierce and Poe at one of the station’s off-duty functions. Bierce shot the photo himself by sticking out his arm and turning the camera to face them both. Both smiled wildly, looking like freshmen at a Friday night frat party.

“I don’t remember ever shooting … did we … ?”

“This was my favorite,” she interrupted. “It reminds me of how happy we were.”

Bierce’s slid his index finger across the smooth glass over Poe’s face. “We were? You’re so pretty. I wish I had … had …”

“Had what?” The form stirred and moved closer.

Bierce strained extending a hand. Ethereal glimmering tendrils spiraled toward and wrapped around it. He shivered as it entered him, something visceral and codifying. His mouth opened, his back arched and every memory from his birth to now charged into his consciousness. In his mind, the cacophony of recalled sensations played in a colorful, confusing diorama reaching zenith on something near sexual and then careening into the sad as the sensations wound back to the reality of his demise, his weakened shell slouching back in the cafeteria chair.

He drew his hand away from the spirit. Bierce sat for a moment collecting his thoughts again. As he did, the last of the LEDs burned out and the Maupassant went dark. Poe’s fluid visage remained the only light in the room, staring at him as he faded in and out. He wasn’t sure what to say. He spat out the first thing that came to mind.

“What’s heaven like?”

She weighed her response. “Remember that moment we shared. Your hands were warm. Your lips, succulent. My heart almost beat out of my chest. Do you remember?”

“I don’t … warm …?”

“Heaven,” she purred, “is that.”

“When … ?”

“I’ve done what I came to do. I’m being called back now. I’ll miss you.”

With a sad smile, the specter dissipated. Bierce drew a breath, clutched the picture frame and chased after her.

Jason Tudor is a writer and illustrator. He is also the creator and co-host of the Science Fiction Show, a weekly podcast delving into all things Science Fiction in entertainment, books and other media. It’s fun and funny, and you can subscribe to it on iTunes or through the web site at www.myscifishow.com. He can also be found at www.jasontudor.com

Image courtesy Narrenkoenig of DeviantArt

A Rocktober to Remember

by Jason Tudor


Rocktober looms just one day from the posting of this column. For those not familiar, those 31 days are the time that every radio station that programs classic rock or something like it changes the name of 'October' to 'Rocktober." I know. Clever as a cavity.

Live in any large city long enough and one endures 'Rocktober' over and over and over again. "It's Rocktober the Fourth, so let's get a little Zeppelin Four going!"

One particular Rocktober, my "Science Fiction Show" co-host Michael Wistock and I were trying to figure out the name of the band that played a particular song. We knew it was from the early 1960s or 1970s. We knew the melody and could sing a few bars. We dug it and each time we heard it, we dug it more. So, we figured, "Let's call our local station and get the answer."

Two rock stations lined the dials of San Diego radio for rock. The first, 101 KGB-FM, did not answer the phone (granted, we were hailing them at about 2:30 in the morning). The second station, KPRI, did answer. However, imagine our surprise as we discovered that one of the two purveyors of 'Rocktober' had turned into an EASY LISTENING RADIO STATION.

No matter. We recognized the personality who answered.

"Hey," I said. "Who sang this tune?" I belt out a few bars that include the words "dykes and fairies."

No dice. Mike chimed in with his rendition (which he probably still breaks out for his intense Petaluma Saturday night "Guitar Hero" sessions).

Zilch.

We naively believed Mister Overnight Guy would be able to help us. Sadly, despite both my friend and I doing our best American Idol audition, he knew nothing. Before hanging up, we requested an Iron Maiden tune, forgetting that the next tune from that station would probably be Seals and Crofts "Summer Breeze" or something from Bread.

As it turned out, we got our answer from a radio station in Los Angeles. Rocktober lived on, and looms for you tomorrow. Bob Seger, Boston, Peter Frampton, Aerosmith, and all the love you can cram into an elevator will be yours from Rocktober First to that Rocktober Halloween to remember. Party on!

The song, by the way, is "I'd Love to Change the World," by Ten Years After. Enjoy.


Jason Tudor is the creator and co-host of "The Science Fiction Show," which airs
weekly. He is also a writer and illustrator. You can find more of his work at
www.jasontudor.com

Back to the School Future

by Jason Tudor


Overheard on a Mervyn's clothing rack in 1983 ...


Say, where ya goin', Mom? Just stop right there with your feathered hair and tube top. It's me, corduroy, and I've got something to say. Did I mention I'm corduroy? Oh yeah, and I've seen you circling the store looking for last minute back-to-school bargains like a women who really knows her stuff. I'm it. Let me explain.

First, I know. Your son said he wanted that popular OP brand that all his friends are wearing. He gave you the nod on some 501's. Okay. Fine. Maybe. But look at me for God's sake. Lush. Shiny. Striking. Don't like my tan? My friend is Navy blue. His buddy is Butterscotch. Another is wheat. Still another is dusky rose. We're the Color Me Badd of clothes; a rainbow of corduroy flavor (Oh, I need to write that down!). How could your son NOT like that?

Oh, and did I mention who's wearing me this season? Kirk FREAKING Cameron. That's right! Oh and did I mention Alex FREAKING Keaton aka Michael J. Fox wears cords and a sport coat while he's berating that patsy father of his? Your son couldn't be in cooler company. Those, mommy dearest, are the facts of life and to deny your son two or three pairs of me ... well, gimmie a break.

Now, I know where you're going to go next with your finger on your chin there: the noise. Look, corduroy-clad thighs scraping together in a crowded high school hallway is a sign of dominance; an aural urine territorial marker that swishes, scrapes and smells of good judgment -- and victory. Squint and scrunch your face all you want. I'm a winner.

Now, don't let these red tag placed on green tag placed on yellow tag clearance stickers dissuade you from reality. Seven dollars a pair IS a bargain, but people in France are paying, like, seven times as much. The Japanese aren't just snatching up real estate; they are awash in corduroy pant value. So, tell your son he's making an INTERNATIONAL fashion statement. That I'm on this clearance rack next to these terry cloth shirts with the zippers merely means I'm one step closer to justifying your back-to-school budget.


That's right ... reach out a hand. That's it ... that's ... wait! Where are you going? I just explained that ... what exactly didn't you like about velvet ... I AM A BARGAIN AT TWICE THE PRICE! DENIM IS FOR PINKO COMMIE HIPPY FREAKS!


[Ahem]

Doesn't matter. I'll get the next one. Or the next one after that. Once you go cord, you never go back.


(When Jason Tudor's Thorazine wears off, he's allowed one ball point pen, one-side of one sheet of used bond paper and access to a dictionary. This is one of the things he made. You can discover more of his drug-holiday induced creations on Twitter @jasontudor or his website at www.jasontudor.com)

Striking Out

by Jason Tudor

I called it a dent. By the sound of my grandparents howls, the noise was more like the government ripped the Medicaid from their wallets. Either way, that wallop in the side of my grandparents station wagon couldn't be covered up with mud, towels or delays. Let me explain.

A little past 12 years old, I'd been invited to summer trek across country with my grandparents following one of the myriad military moves we'd made during my childhood. My parents had forged ahead to the SoCal and I would follow behind with said elders and a pop-up trailer in tow.

Most of the journey from Little Rhody to Emerald Hills, California rolled along in a car cabin filled with the chain smoke of several cartons of Marlboro 100s, songs about driving across country and argument language that would have had the rowdiest members of the Navy's 6th Fleet blushing.

One of our stops? Cooperstown, New York. The Baseball Hall of Fame, where we spent the day. I was allowed one souvenir. I chose the small, wooden replica Louisville Slugger. Then, off we went.

Four days later, we pulled up to the two-story 1960s styled home my parents rented. With the wagon parked on the curb, my grandparents retreated inside while I stretched my legs in the yard. I took the little slugger along as something to do while running around on the grass.

As I pretended to be Greg Luzinski and Mike Schmidt (big Phillies fan at a young age), I took swings with my slugger sending 500-foot home runs over the Veterans' Stadium walls.

One one particular shot, I wound up and really let go. And by that, I mean I let go. OF. THE. BAT.

It spun like a helicopter about 60 feet and them smashed into the right rear door of my grandparents' wagon. From the size of the dent, you would have sworn I'd tossed a Steve Carlton curve ball into the thing. Either way, I panicked like an impala that just felt a cheetah's tongue lick its neck.

My first solution? Grab a ball of wet California mud and smash it onto the dented spot. My 12-year-old genius intellect figured if it stuck there for along enough, they wouldn't see it until they got back to Rhode Island. Unfortunately, the mud clung to the door for about three seconds and a new solution came into play.

The second solution? Drape a towel out of the window and onto the door. I don't remember the exact plausible explanation for this, however, at age 12, it made PERFECT SENSE AT THE TIME. However, there were no towels to be found within reason. So, I settled on my last tactic: stalling.

See, the inevitable was coming. I would be having my butt spanked. There was no getting out of that. However, I figured if I could butter up the more senior members of the fam, maybe I'd buy less strokes with the belt.

Not to be. As soon as I launched into my "Who wants to hear me do Abbott and Costello's 'Who's on First?' gag," my grandfather managed to get outside and see the dent.

I don't know if there' is a phenomenon where 'yell volume' transfers from one relative to the next, but it happened here. My grandfather, angry, said something vulgar and loud. That transferred exponentially to my grandmother, then my mother and then ultimately to my waiting stepfather who had the belt.

Before the butt whipping, I tried to explain that it could be easily repaired and that my $5 allowance that I got sometimes would fix the thing in no time (with 'no time' being about 76 weeks). After the butt whipping ... well, you know.

I never found that little slugger again. It's probably for the best.

Jason Tudor is a writer and illustrator originally from San Diego with a fondness for baseball and other things. You can catch him at his website, http://jasontudor.com

A thousands reasons to cross the U.S.

By Jason Tudor

The Pontiac Fiero. Shallow. Low. Unreliable. Dangerous. If it got going way too fast, it ended up on its back. It was the Lindsey Lohan of automobiles. And in the summer of 1989, someone gave me one thousand dollars and 30 days to drive one across country.

Something past 19 years old, I saw an opportunity to a.) keep the better part of a thousand bucks and b.) break a new land speed record using a Pontiac. Besides, my friends convinced me I could make it from upstate New York to southern California in about the same amount of time it took to watch an episode of "Knight Rider." Challenge accepted.

This was familiar territory. Growing up a military brat, I'd criss-crossed the United States to the tune of six times and 24,700 miles by station wagon, motorhome and mid-size car. Route planned, cash in hand and with an armful of cassette tapes, my employer handed me the keys. "I had the car performance tuned and there are four new racing tires on it," he added. He might as well have thrown his naked daughter in the passenger seat.

Sitting in a Fiero is a bit like climbing into bobsled. Your ass almost touches asphalt and you need a booster seat from Sizzler to see over the dashboard. Still, if ever a car said "mid-life crisis," the Indy Fiero screamed it. Spoiler in the back. Super-charged engine. It might as well have come with the volleyball scene from "Top Gun" as an optional accessory. I slammed the first cassette into the player, fired up the engine, and was off.

The first and shortest leg took me to Effingham, Illinois. If you're unfamiliar with Effingham, it's the same shtetl radio hosts Bob and Tom once heckled with a bunch of "Effing" jokes. "The Crossroads of Opportunity" took 17 hours to reach from Plattsburgh. Highlights of the first leg included realizing I could drive like a bat out of hell in Canada and a guy jumping off an overpass into the windshield of a pickup truck in Detroit. Welcome to Michigan!

Day two provided the most drama. Somewhere between Goodland, Kansas and Denver, Colo., I stopped at grocery store. I felt tired. And what fixes tired? Vivarin! Peckish, I also grabbed a bag of fruit. Two Vivarin and half a cantaloupe later, Fiero and I raced back onto the 70. Meanwhile, about an hour later, I wasn't feeling the Vivarin kicking in. So, I took two more. Then one more an hour later. And maybe one more.

NeedlesstosayabouththetimethatLimonColoradocameintoviewmyheadwasracingalongalotlikethisentenceiswritten. Thismustbewhatitfeelsliketoswallowspeed. Wowthoselightssurearebright. AmIreallygoing125? Doesn'tfeellikeit. You get the idea. Still, I felt physically tired, arms heavy, legs like Jell-O. With Denver just an hour or so out, however, I'd wrap up 22 hours of driving, stop in a hotel room and get some shut eye.

Or so I thought. The combination of mixed fruit and grocery store uppers rebelled about the time the suburb of Aurora appeared. My insides roiled, growled and shuttered. Just past 3:45 a.m., squirming and rolling in my seat, I did the only thing I could do with no visible gas station or rest stop in sight:  I screeched the Fiero to a stop in the shoulder, pulled my shorts off my legs and let nature (and gravity) take its course.

Twenty-five minutes later, reeking of all things foul following the evacuation of my sickness and dignity, I found a hotel room. I stared at the hotel room ceiling for an hour and a half (thanks Vivarin!), then, strangely, "woke up" refreshed and hit the road. Less eventful passed the final day of driving, but it lasted the longest -- almost 24 hours before pulling into the final stop, an apartment complex near Azusa, California.

The trip, 2,974 miles, took 66 hours. I slept 10 of those hours. I spent exactly $209, and the Fiero’s owner gladly paid my airfare back to New York.

The last thing I did in two and a half days was clean my attic. But if you handed me one thousand dollars, I could probably get it done in one.

Jason Tudor is the owner of a lumbering, mid-sized SUV that sometimes climbs over 100 mph on the German autobahn. A writer and illustrator, he can also be found talking science fiction with his friends on a podcast called "The Science Fiction Show," which is funny, filled with geek and available via iTunes. He can be found at www.jasontudor.com and www.myscifishow.com and here, of course.

Remembering Childhood Fear

by Jason Tudor

It’s an August morning in the 1980s. The sun’s creeping over the ridge near our Point Loma, California, apartment. The pomegranate colors flash through my second floor bedroom, casting light on the “Star Wars” sheets, the keyboard of my VIC-20 computer and the toys on my bedroom floor.

Flicking on the small television atop the light blue desk Dad once made for Mom as a vanity, the noise of news pipes up. A vanilla, well-styled newscaster smiles and tells me the Soviet Union still has ten thousand nuclear bombs pointed at my bellybutton. She smiles again and throws it to the weather guy. I turn it off.

I stretch and think of those violent artificial suns. Hydrogen bombs do that. They also wipe out every living organism within 12 miles of where they explode. The after effects of the radiation last longer than my grandparents have lived. Looking out the window seeing the natural sun, I think of those missiles. All it would take is a 30-minute ride over the Arctic Circle, past Whitehorse, Yukon and swan dive into the broken, dirty community pool. At least the blast would take care of the pool.

A bag of books and a frown. What if they do press the buttons? What motivates some fat old white men to want to turn the Big Blue Marble into a carbon-scored hunk of glass? Down the sidewalk and up the busted up flight of steps that lead to my high school, that smiling reporter’s words persist: thousands of nuclear missiles on the other side of the world pointed at us. Thousands of nuclear weapons buried under North Dakota, Wyoming, Montana and elsewhere pointed at them.

School ends. Adulthood begins. It’s 1989. I wake up, stretch and turn on the news. The Berlin Wall is falling and taking the Iron Curtain with it. On the edge of my bed, I watch hundreds of Germans tear down my childhood fears chunk by chunk. For 12 years, all that’s left for kids to worry about is “Friends,” SAT scores and something called “getting the Internet.”

Then, airliners smash into the World Trade Center. While we were clumsily trying to find Sharpies and draw a face on what scared us in the Cold War, television’s 550 lines broadcast his face and name, and Osama Bin Laden, and kids in the United States get a new fear: terrorism.

The day ends. Wars begin. Scared children sign up and go off to battle. In between exploding transports, rocket attacks and embassy explosions, the fear spreads. Some vanilla anchorman reports the damage, tallies the lives lost, smiles, then tosses it to weather.

A decade goes out. May 3, 2011 comes walking in. A group of trained military killers rumbles into a bedroom in Pakistan. They blast fear in the skull with a repeating machine gun. Some others wrap the body and throw it in the ocean hours later. Later, the president stands at a lectern. He tears down someone else’s childhood fears word by word.

It’s an afternoon in May. The sun is creeping through partly cloudy skies. Snow is melting from the mountains and I’m picking up my daughter from afternoon daycare.

She fears nothing.

Just Letter Go, My Friend

by Jason Tudor

I am not a fan of paperwork. Of any kind. It's all evil. So, when it came time to mail six packages to family and friends at Christmas, I flinched.

We live overseas. That means every package we send needs a completed US customs form. Six packages? Six customs forms. Five minutes for each form. That's 30 minutes of my life I could have spent reading Charlie Sheen tweets or alphabetizing the spices in the kitchen.

I packed each of the six boxes November 28, 2010, a Monday. Most were gifts I'd created for family and friends. Like a man who'd just finished cleaning the house on the spur of the moment (the "no prompting" kind that earns us praise and a sex coupon), I was very proud to see these off. Once packed, I set them beside my desk upstairs and thought, "I'll send them off Friday."

Well, Friday came. And went.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

Flash forward to April 10. Yes. THE MOST RECENT April 10, where I sat beside my desk staring at the stack of unmailed packages. My wife walked up.

"Send these out," she said, "or I'm throwing all of it away."

As the clock ticked, she told me repeatedly that "this would not be one of those times I bail you out. You have to do it yourself." She used he same tone that also means a sex coupon has expired, so I knew she was serious.

"Why did you wait so long?"

I explained my seeding hatred for filling out the customs forms. Sure, I could have gone to the post office, picked up the forms, brought them home and completed them over the period of (ahem) five months. But I didn't. Also, I just figured she'd bail me out.

Instead, she laughed. Off to the post office I went.

By now, six packages had now grown to eight, including one bound for Australia. I found eight customs forms and began filling them out. To put you in the right mood ... you know that thing that you hate so much it makes your eyes twitch, stomach churn and fists clinch until the knuckles are white? Whatever that thing is to you, it's angel food cake to me. Filling out forms is kick in the balls that time forgot -- over and over and over again.

Eight times writing my address. Eight times writing someone else's address. Eight times checking the word "gift." Eight times believing an eternity spent as one of those suckers who dies in a Stephen King book would be better than this. After just over 30 minutes, I hauled the boxes up to the counter. The attendant stared at me.

"Wrong forms," she said. "You need the other customs forms."

Head explode. Rinse. Repeat.

Eventually, I finished and mailed the packages out. And those packages, embarrassingly, arrived five months after they were due. Really. Hold your applause.

And you'd think this would be the place to write, "And he moral of the story is ..." unfortunately, two packages' destinations were mixed up and are on their way back to me. When they come back, I'll need to send them off in the right direction.

Talk to you in August.

Jason Tudor's experiments with fusion-powered turtleneck sweaters and genetically engineered eggplants have given him the strength to continue writing and podcasting mostly about science fiction and the coming galactic battle between earthlings and mutated toilet brushes from Alpha Centauri. You can find out more at his website, www.jasontudor.com, which will be up and running again May 1.