Poem: "Franklin Pierce & Me"

 I would give anything to spend an evening

with President Franklin Pierce

A room in the White House

stained with tobacco

Talking at midnight

The hour great men die

But not President Pierce and me

We were not great men

We died at 4:30 in the morning

or 3 in the afternoon

Great men have great last words, like

"Tis well," or, "I'm a broken machine."

Our last words were

"I'm in something wet."

An hour with President Franklin Pierce

We could talk about the things we could not do

the things we would not do

the things we did that were not enough

We could compare stories

like soldiers compared scars at Buena Vista

He let Kansas and Nebraska go to hell

without thinking of the bonny blue Union

I let Babylon and Sodom go to hell

without telling them about heaven

I would give anything for one dusky hour

to talk to President Pierce

I would give anything

for my hand to clasp his in prayer

Those suddenly sober prayers

where it stuns your heart to know God is listening

and breaks your heart to know He knows

I would give anything

for President Pierce's hand in mine

The Potomac cannot wash them

these clenched and haunted hands of ours

But my hand in his, and his in mine

would do wonders for hands which wrought failures

originally published in Smells To High Heaven: Poems and Prose (2019)

Charlie Kirk's Racism & Antisemitism - In Context

In the small degree of backlash I received from last week's blog concerning the death of Charlie Kirk, the one common objection was that I hadn't put his words "in context." Though in that blog I provided links that expounded on the things he said, including videos, this wasn't enough context for Mr. Kirk's apologists - some of whom I'm convinced are not quite sure how context works. Nonetheless, I thought it only fair to address the context in which those objectors wished to frame his more questionable remarks.

1. The Civil Rights Act was "a huge mistake." For more on this, click here.

The counterpoint I was offered by apologists was that when Mr. Kirk said these, he wasn't saying minorities shouldn't have civil rights. What he was saying, rather, was that the legislation was being used as an anti-white weapon. Click here for even more context affirming this was his view. This trope has often been used by white supremacists over the years who saw minorities becoming successful and, being insecure, decided it must have been the result of a conspiratorial legislation to keep white people down.

2. The "is this black pilot qualified?" remark. For more context, click here.

This was not mentioned in my previous blog, but people who took exception somehow found it necessary to bring it up, citing it as an example of his words being taken out of context, so I'll address it here. In this case, however, adding more context does not help the claim that racism was not the intent. Mr. Kirk once said, alluding to DEI, that if he sees a black pilot he's immediately going to wonder if that pilot is qualified, or if they were only hired because of the color of their skin and the pressure to hire minorities. He elaborated on such thinking, by saying, "that's not who I am. That's not what I believe." Rather, he claimed that DEI "invites unwholesome thinking." 

Charlie Kirk was saying, with a straight face, that his racist thoughts were the fault of DEI. This is the equivalent of blaming laws against theft for your temptation to shoplift. Instead of seeing "a pilot," Charlie Kirk admitted he saw a black man whose credentials immediately concerned him, because of his skin color, and blamed this on DEI. If America has become a "race-obsessed" country, viewpoints like Charlie Kirk's are part of that problem.

3. The claim that Jews are using money to undermine American culture and propagate Marxist ideology. For more on his claim, click here.

The counterpoint I received was: "Charlie Kirk was pro-Israel."

This doesn't make one immune from antisemitism. Many Christians are staunch supporters of the modern day nation of Israel because of an eschatological theology that teaches the Holy Land must be in possession of Jews before Christ can return (I am not one of those Christians). This support for Israel's military and political actions comes not necessarily from a support for a historically oppressed people - and it's worth noting not all Israelis are Jews - but support for the doctrine mentioned (a doctrine, it should be noted, many Christians don't subscribe to).

Citing Mr. Kirk's support of the modern day nation state of Israel does not negate his conspiratorial remarks about Jews' alleged scheme to bring about a Marxist America. You can't be an advocate for a people group while simultaneously claiming they're conspiring against you.

Re: The Murder of Charlie Kirk

I first became aware of Charlie Kirk last year when a pro-life organization in my city announced he would be speaking at a private dinner. Having no idea who he was, I looked him up only to find a trove of controversial statements he's made, including the claim that the Civil Rights Act was "a huge mistake." 

It's worth noting the pro-life organization at which he spoke does a wealth of positive things for new and frightened mothers - and fathers, even - in rough places, making them truly pro-life and not simply anti-abortion. This made it all the more disappointing that they would welcome Charlie Kirk, who unrepentantly made such claims as implying Jews are using money to plot a Marxist cultural coup (click here for more context), or that deaths by gun violence are "worth it" for the sake of the 2nd Amendment (click here for more context). These are not pro-life beliefs, and it was a bad look for the organization to be associated with this person.

When I found out about Kirk's murder the day before yesterday, I felt a heavy heart for his family, and for the fact that sociopolitical violence has claimed another life. But that heavy heart soon lightened as I fell prey to making my typical morbid jokes (my dark sense of humor being a coping mechanism for...well, everything) and laughing at memes that made fun of Charlie Kirk's murder. My reasoning was, "I'm still sad for his family, and he was a bigot, so it's kind of okay for me to laugh." Which, of course, is wrong.

Then, God reminded me - not audibly, but you know what I mean - of two other influential racists in American history: Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee. 

God moved me to think of these two men - who were so racist they tried to start their own country based on the principle of slave ownership being a divine right - and their reactions to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. When the President was shot, widespread outrage gripped the nation, North and South. Jefferson Davis denounced the assassination and felt "it could not be regarded otherwise than as a great misfortune for the South," knowing Lincoln's policy of reconciliation rather than hangings for treason made him the best friend a defeated Confederacy could have at the time.

Robert E. Lee's reaction was more emotional. A cohort who was with the General at the time the news came stated that Lee "covered his face and refused to listen to details of the murder." Lee used a word to describe the assassination that recently became a buzzword in American politics - "deplorable."

God invoked these images to make this point: here were two men so brazenly racist that they saw black people as inferior to whites, mourning - genuinely - for a man of compassion, one who believed in the principle that "all men are created equal." So, if these two could be so deeply grieved for a good man, what does it say about me when I can't show as much empathy as literal slaveowners?

I made excuses for my empty mourning. I was frustrated and disappointed at fellow Christians who were praising Charlie Kirk as a pillar of righteousness, when he espoused such terrible things against Jews, minorities, and victims of gun violence. That, somehow, made it less sinful for me to delight in memes that minimized the taking of a life. Charlie Kirk was, as we all are, made in the image of God. 

I must mourn for a life snuffed out, and that a life was used to promote hideous ideologies. I must mourn that someone was so filled with hopeless rage that they took it upon themselves to kill. I must mourn that Charlie Kirk's family has been deprived of their husband and father. I must mourn that so many of my fellow believers in Christ are lionizing a man who represented the values of Christ no more than the Ku Klux Klan. And I must mourn that our President, aware of Charlie Kirk's beliefs, nonetheless called him "the most eloquent truth-teller" in recent times.

I'll mourn for all of this, with genuine grief, and will eschew the memes and morbid jokes I've made concerning Charlie Kirk's murder. These words of Jesus have floated in my head since the day of Kirk's death: "by your words you will be justified, and by your words you will be condemned."

-Matthew 12:37

[Edit, 9-13-25: It occurs to me I should add a few words addressing the incredibly lopsided grief of conservatives, both in politics and private citizens, when it comes to victims of gun violence. Donald Trump did not order flags to be flown at half-staff after the murders of Democratic politician Melissa Hortman and her husband Mark in June - but did so for Charlie Kirk, whose qualification for such an honor was saying things Trump likes. Just two weeks before Kirk's death, a shooting at Annunciation Catholic Church in Minneapolis, which killed two children, Fletcher Merkel and Harper Moyski, was met by Republicans with a fraction of the grief and shock for Kirk, the usual "thoughts and prayers" cliche, which has now become little more than a meme. This lack of outrage is absolutely disgusting. And perhaps it's just as disgusting that I didn't go for my blog when these tragedies occurred.]

Photo courtesy WTSP

Schfifty Five: A Lesson in Creative Freedom

My friend Kirsten recently showed me a YouTube video from the platform's formative years. Like human formative years, YouTube's were quite bizarre and surreal compared to what the site would become. It's a crudely animated music video for a song called Schfifty Five, posted in 2006. At first, I was puzzled by what I was watching. I was even annoyed by how weird it was. It reminded me of why, in the early days of YouTube, I showed little interest in watching the videos there, because so many of them seemed like no more than inane, random messes made by people wasting precious time ("The Llama Song" stands out as one of the videos that turned me away from YouTube until the early 2010s). 

But in the present day, watching Schfifty Five, a video so old if it was a human it could vote and go to war, I inexplicably became entranced. At first I dismissed it as the novelty of such a stupid song, the way you might listen to "Safety Dance" on repeat when no one's around. But there was something more to this dumb video that I found so striking. It wasn't until my friend Kirsten pointed out how this video came from a golden age of YouTube (my paraphrasing, not her exact words), a time before the site was, at the risk of sounding like a tree-hugging socialist commie hippie, a passionless factory for empty-hearted content driven by cold corporate lust for ad revenue. The creative spirit that went into Schfifty Five was, in a word, pure.

This made me think of my own creative endeavors. My name will never be found on a bestseller list. Not even the Top 100 North-Central Croatian Independent Books list. But the lack of monetary focus has loosened my thinking from the fetters of "content." I have complete creative freedom, not being under the gloomy umbrella of billion-dollar industries. I'm so free I can't even be canceled for using the R-word in my latest book, which you can buy here.

I'm glad my friend shared with me the deranged and beautiful genius that is Schfifty Five. I hope with my writing I can, among other foolish things, maintain the spirit of YouTube's old, insane era of creative purity and freedom. 

   

"Things Blowing Up" - A Novel - Chapter 23

Things Blowing Up is a young adult novel about a small town that's dubbed "the most depressing town in Missouri." The town is subsequently invaded by aliens seeking to study depression in order to cure an epidemic on their home planet. The story follows a group of teens and their troubled families as they struggle to survive the invasion. Things Blowing Up will be available July 21, 2025, from lulu.com. 

Chapter 23: The Phenomenon of Sorrow

It was about two o’clock in the morning when Adelia started screaming. Everybody’s first thought was the aliens were sick of flexing in the sky and they were coming in. But in the dim glow of the nightlight I saw Adelia hanging onto Barry’s leg as he struggled to climb the stairs.

He’d been rummaging through Tumbleweed’s stuff while everybody slept, and found a big pair of boots and an old flannel jacket. He was laughing. For a second I thought him and Adelia were playing around. Then I realized he had the shotgun in his left hand. Adelia hung onto him like a pit bull and started pulling at the oversized boots he’d scavenged.

The rest of us jumped up when it finally sunk in through the grogginess what was going on. Me, Dad, Mario and Dave went after Barry. Brenda pulled on Adelia to get her away while the rest of us tried to wrestle Barry down the stairs. I grabbed the shotgun by the barrel and struggled to keep it pointed up. I noticed blood on the stairs. Dad’s bandages were open.

Mrs. Pico and Brenda finally got Adelia away from the fight, and Mr. Pico was gingerly sneaking up with a pipe of some kind in his hand. Any other time it would have been a little extreme, but Barry was completely insane, with superhuman strength and a shotgun. When I saw a stray yellow capsule on the stairs, I lost my grip. We should have checked his pockets or made him tell us if there were any other hiding places for Tumbleweed’s dope.

As soon as I lost my hold on the shotgun, a blast sent us all scattering as plaster rained from the ceiling. Barry let out a loud, crazy giggle and sprinted up the stairs. I felt paralyzed. It was that demented laugh that froze me. It pierced through the intense ringing in my ears as I lay there on my side, watching my friend, turned into a giggling lunatic, disappear into the darkness above us.

Seeing Dad’s blood on the stairs and on my hands must have snapped me out of it. I forced my brain to cooperate in helping Mario and Dave carry Dad down the stairs. His foot was a mess and his eyes were practically crossed with pain, but he told us to go after Barry before he got himself killed. So we bounded up the stairs as fast as you can go when you’re in a daze and you can hardly hear. I never realized before how much it affects your motor skills when your eardrums don’t work.

We made it to the Boggises’ living room as Barry was driving his shoulder into the front door, trying to break it down. In his pilled-up excitement, he didn’t realize the doorknob worked. When he saw me, Dave, Mario and Brenda coming after him, he stepped back and blew a hole in the front door with the shotgun. He ducked and plowed through it, making it bigger with the size of his body.

The four of us followed him. I don't think any of us thought about it. We just rushed through the hole in the door. It was the middle of the night, but I forgot when I saw everything bathed in red from the barrier. Through the ringing in my ears I could somehow hear Barry’s crazy laughter, but not the humming and throbbing of the ship directly above us. There weren’t any potato gunners around this time to distract it. But even if there were, I think the aliens were determined to take somebody. When everything turned green, my muscles, my intestines, everything that made up my being was pierced with a thousand little pin pricks. I felt like a rubber band being stretched as I began to float.

It’s funny, how relieved I was to see Mario, Dave, Brenda and Barry (without the shotgun) being pulled up with me in the sick green light. It was such an agonizing and slow trip that I had time to feel bad for being happy that I wasn’t alone. I shouldn’t have been glad my friends were being abducted by aliens. I should have wished they were safe on the ground. You think the dumbest things during an alien invasion.

It turns out the inside of a spaceship looks pretty much like they do in the movies. At least this one did. Everything looked like it was made of chrome, with panels of blinking lights and buttons and dials, and there were clear wide tubes that went up and down from the ceiling, maybe fifty feet above us. The circular room we were in was huge, with lots of open space in the middle. Most of the gizmos and panels were connected to the walls. If the entire ship was the size of a mansion, this room was the fancy lobby.

I don’t think any of us were afraid or even shocked. Of course this was what the inside of the ship would look like. Being inside it now, after everything it had done to us, it felt like another why not? thing. We’d seen death lasers and abduction beams. We might as well see the inside, and see the alien beings who operated the ugly thing that destroyed our town. I just wished I’d said goodbye to Dad. I had plenty of chances when we were in the basement all that time. I could have just randomly said, any time I wanted, in case something happens to me, I love you. If there’s ever a reason to tell somebody you love them, it’s during an alien invasion.

Mario had the wherewithal to recite a Catholic thing (I think) while he gazed around at all the alien technology. “If ye have received power over me from the Lord, draw nigh and delay not, for I am ready for you. But if ye have come at the command of Satan, get ye back to your places and tarry not, for I am a servant of Jesus the Conqueror.”

I wished Mario hadn’t said all that, or at least that he'd said it in Spanish. The words rubbed off on me and I felt braver than I really was when the big tubes started glowing that familiar sick green, and twelve literal otherworldly beings slowly descended from someplace above. When their big reveal was through, the only thing that really jarred me was how much they looked just like the way the crackpots (at least they used to be crackpots) always said they did. They sure gave weight to Mario’s theory of a common creator, anyway. Humanoids about five-and-a-half feet tall, with two legs, two arms, a big head with two huge black eyes, a mouth where ours is, five fingers on both hands, and two short bare feet with five toes each. I counted.

They wore poshy red robes made of something that had a silver shimmery effect. The only thing that was different from the movies and the crackpots was their skin wasn’t green. It was a gross shade of gray, like old organs you see preserved in formaldehyde. Their skin wasn’t smooth or free of blemishes, either. That was what I noticed most. They had wrinkles, spots, ruts, even a light layer of fuzz.

Barry was the only one who was freaking out, but if he wasn’t high on pills he’d have been as collected as the rest of us. He wasn’t afraid or in awe at seeing an alien for the first time, but he was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, or somebody itching for a fight. It was a good thing he dropped the shotgun on the ground. He cussed and taunted the dozen gray beings about everything from their robes looking gay (his words, not mine) to how much of a coward it takes to zap people to death from a big impenetrable ship. I don’t know why the others didn’t tell him to shut up. I know the reason I didn’t was because everything he said was true, and these beings deserved to be told they were cowards in ridiculous costumes. Even if it came from the spitting wild version of Barry who I didn’t know and didn’t like.

When his rant hit a peak, he screamed and rushed at the aliens. The rest of us shouted at him to stop. It went as well as it could have. One of the twelve intercepted him (with average human strength, not magical powers or by manipulating gravity), and without uttering a sound or changing their expressions they held Barry in place while one of them reached into its robe and took out a syringe full of yellow liquid. As Barry shouted every vulgar sixth grade insult that came to his brain, the alien gently put the needle in his neck.

They didn’t let him fall to the chrome floor. They just lifted him as gingerly as paramedics would lift somebody with a broken neck and placed him on a gurney. I hadn’t even noticed two of the aliens wheeling it around the moment Barry rushed at them.

Me, Mario, Dave and Brenda all clutched at one another’s arms as if to keep the other from fainting or going after the gray things. When we realized Barry was breathing, then snoring, we relaxed our stance a little.

So far, everybody, human and humanoid both, had played it cool, except Barry, and he looked like he was fine, all things considered. He could have easily been zapped to ashes with some space weapon instead of knocked out with space drugs. The atmosphere was so quiet, the hum of the ship almost comforting from the inside, that we weren’t taken aback when the alien with the syringe started talking, and in words we knew. Its voice wasn’t metallic and cold like the act prudently warning. It was like somebody being slow and overly careful with their words because they’re still trying to get a grasp of the language.

“We welcome you to our craft with charity and assurances of your safety. On behalf of those of us you see gathered before you, and on behalf of our commander, again we say welcome.”

Brenda would be the first one to get salty. “You’ve literally incinerated like a hundred people. I wouldn’t call that safe.”

The spokesman/spokeswoman tilted his or her head like it was thinking carefully about a good response. “We certainly understand your skepticism. We do not perceive it as a flaw on your part.”

“Oh, you don’t think I’m flawed! Greeeaaat!” Brenda glared.

The alien cocked its head again. It could apparently detect sarcasm, so it knew it had to formulate some really smooth words if it wanted to charm Brenda. “We assure you, you are perfectly welcome on our craft. We have no ill intent toward you.”

There was an awkward silence, just like we were all humans. Then Dave asked, “what did you put in Barry’s neck?”

The head alien put some extra sweetness in its voice. “It is the equivalent of a basic sedative on your planet. Our studies show it is closely related chemically to your Valium. Your companion will not be negatively affected by the serum unless he suffers from a natural allergy to it. Judging by his current state, this does not appear to be the case. You can certainly understand our reasoning for neutralizing him temporarily.”

Mario spoke up. He had the priestly tone in his voice, times ten. “I understand it. But I don’t understand why you’re sealing off our town and blowing it to pieces.”

The alien wasn’t cowed. “We assure you we had no malicious or violent intent when we traveled to Earth. The unfortunate destruction that ensued is regrettable. We hope all hostilities will cease as soon as possible.”

Mario: “Why did you come here in the first place?”

Alien: “That question can best be answered by our commander, who will join us presently.”

Dave: “What are you, like the number two?”

Alien: “I am, in fact, second in command of this vessel. Perhaps you would like to think of me as the equivalent to the character Riker on your episodic Star Trek television series.”

Dave: “I don’t watch Star Trek.”

Alien: “My apologies. When we were gathering information about Earth and its cultures, we discovered your species has an affinity for fiction which addresses space travel and communication with planets, galaxies and civilizations beyond your own. We found this fact could help us to illustrate our mission. Thus, my comparison of myself to this Riker.”

Dave: “He sounds like you, Mario.”

Alien: “Which of you is called Mario?”

Mario raised his hand.

Alien: “And which of you is called Brenda Boggis?”
Brenda: “How do you know my name?”

Dave: “They literally know about Star Trek...”

Alien: “We have your mother and father figures in an isolation unit elsewhere on this vessel. They are both unharmed and in good health.”

Brenda’s face turned pale and her eyes got wide. No matter how many times I’d seen her do it in the past couple days, it was still jarring to see her face not set to scowl. Believe it or not, it was the first time I ever noticed she has blue eyes.

“What did they tell you?” she croaked.

Me, Mario and Dave couldn’t help looking at Brenda. That wasn’t the normal first question to ask when you find out your parents are alive after they were abducted by aliens.

Alien: “That, too, is a question best answered by our commander. Tiran is here now, in fact.”

The giant tube in the middle glowed green and another being descended from somewhere above. It looked just like the rest, except its robe was yellow, with a hood over its big head. I figured only commanders were allowed to wear hoods.

“Greetings, inhabitants of Earth.”

(It really said that.)

I said hi.

Commander: “I hope you do not find it condescending if I ask about your well-being.”

The commander’s voice was more pleasant than the others, but it still spoke awkwardly and stiffly. The four of us glanced at each other, trying to decide among ourselves if it was condescending for the alien to ask about our well-being.

I finally said, “you know. A lot going on.”

Commander: “Certainly so. I trust Sila, my second, has conveyed our deepest regret for the chaos that has ensued upon our arrival. It was never our goal to destroy.”

Me: “Yeah, he said that.”

Commander: “That is pleasurable. I am Tiran. I was chosen by the elders of our home planet to lead this expedition.”

Mario: “Where is your home planet?”

Tiran: “In view of current circumstances, we do not find it prudent to reveal its name or location.”

Dave: “But you find it prudent to start a war on another planet?”

Tiran: “We do not agree with your sentiment that a war is taking place. We simply found it necessary to defend ourselves, as we were attacked.”

Dave started an angry retort but Brenda interrupted him. “Can I see my parents?”

Tiran: “Your mother and father figures have been most cooperative in our examinations. They have been, in short, a delight with which to work.”

The commander sounded more and more like it was using Chat GPT to help it talk.

Brenda’s voice broke and rose at the same time. “What do you mean cooperative? Did you cut them open?”

Tiran: “We did not perform surgery on those two particular humans. We must add that we regret that our knowledge of surgical study on the human brain fell short of our aspirations. You surely understand our limitations, having no subjects on our planet with which to work. We regret that we consequently had no choice but to destroy the five humans on whom we operated previously.”

Dave: “So, you get how that looked like straight-up murder. You killed all my uncles in two seconds.”

Brenda was shaking and her fists were balled up at her sides. “Did you operate on my parents?”

Tiran: “We had no need to do so. We have been able to study subsequent subjects with a noninvasive ray that gives us abundant insight into the mind of the human species. We rejoice, as this insight will be of great value to our own race, who are, as you may have observed, somewhat similar to your own in form and biology.”

Mario: “Why do you want to study the human mind?”

I felt detached from the whole scene, like I was just an observer watching it on TV. I tried to think of something to say, some important question, but I was afraid whatever I said would sound pointless. As funny as it sounds, I wanted to be able to make an impression on these things.

Tiran: “The inhabitants of our planet have recently become sluggish, unable to concentrate on their work. Many have developed an apathy concerning their very existence. It is a completely new phenomenon. So we turned to the nearest, most biologically similar civilization in our search for answers and insight. This happened to be yours.”

Mario: “Do you mean you’re only now discovering depression on your planet?”

Tiran: “We do not have many of the things on our planet which we have observed on Earth. For example, we do not know war or poverty in the way you know them. We saw these phenomena in extremes throughout Earth. However, situations in certain places on this planet proved so extreme we believed the humans in those places would prove too dissimilar from our own cases of behavioral malfunction. It seems evident that the plague which has swept our home is not as severe as the one which ravages the more violent and impoverished parts of your planet. For which we are grateful.”

Mario: “Who are you grateful to? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Tiran: “We anticipated a question of this nature. In studying your planet, we found a great number of your inhabitants yearn to know if there is an intelligent being responsible for the existence of all life. You may feel an affinity with us if we share that we, too, seek the same answers on our own planet. Thus far, we have discovered no definitive proof of such a creator, and the elders of our planet long ago put these findings into our planet’s creeds and laws. However, our inhabitants are free to continue seeking such answers, as long as they do so as individuals, rather than as any corporate body.”

Mario: “Oh. That’s...interesting.”

Tiran went on. “We searched other parts of your world where melancholy, as we found it termed in your literature, was on a level of severity similar to our own. By this we refer to a condition that is disabling, but without the violent chaos and social instability that accompanies other places on Earth where the phenomenon of sorrow is prevalent.”

Pay no attention to the smoking city below, I thought.

“We chose the place called Berlitz, Missouri because the malady that affects you is of the same acute form and character of our own, as, like you, we have not descended into societal chaos. We are much like you. We hope this raises your level of trust that we will take the utmost care during these examinations.”

“Why don’t you just study the...the things on your own planet?” Dave asked.

“The elders of our planet have established a strict but morally pure code of secrecy as it pertains to exploring and curing this plague,” Tiran said. “If our planet’s inhabitants knew we found the situation so alarming it required such extremes, the emotional malady would only become worse. This is but one example of the vast wisdom and foresight our elders possess.”

“You mean you can’t just snatch one guy and chloroform him so he doesn’t tell anybody what happened?” Dave pressed.

“Such deceit would be contrary to our integrity,” Sila the Second put in. “We do not lie to our inhabitants, as none have asked if there is a search for a cure.”

I finally spoke up. “What if somebody did ask?” I kind of dreaded the answer.

“There is, on our planet, what you might equate to a proverb,” Sila said. “‘It is only where there are questions that one will find lies.’”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard” (Dave).

“What if we refuse to do it?” I asked. “These exams, I mean.”

Tiran’s voice was different now. I can’t call it urgent, but he spoke faster, and definitely more firm. “The elders of our planet have insisted this expedition, undertaken for the sake of knowledge and exploration, must not be in vain. They would be extremely displeased if we returned with no information of value. They are well aware of the difficulty we have encountered thus far on this mission, and have expressed much dissatisfaction. We ask you, humbly, for your assistance.”

"Things Blowing Up" - A Novel - Chapter 3

Things Blowing Up is a young adult novel about a small town that's dubbed "the most depressing town in Missouri." The town is subsequently invaded by aliens seeking to study depression in order to cure an epidemic on their home planet. The story follows a group of teens and their troubled families as they struggle to survive the invasion. Things Blowing Up will be available July 21, 2025, from lulu.com. 

Chapter 3: The Mincer Meeting, Part Two

I still can’t decide if my reason for dropping out was a dumb one or not. Brenda said it was, because of course she did. Living next door, she was usually the first one I told anything, even before the Mincers got it. The boys didn’t know that, and I think they would have been salty if they did, because Brenda wasn’t a member of the Mincer Meeting. Just a “satellite member” (Mario’s phrase).

After Barry dropped out, the idea started floating around my own head, with visions of Miranda mixed in. Brenda saw me moping around my backyard one Saturday morning and came over to ask what was wrong (probably hoping there was a chance to roast me). In one big mumble-sigh I told her how I felt, and she replied, “that’s just moronic, Quigley! You can’t put the brakes on your entire life. Miranda wouldn’t want that. If she was here, she’d say you’re being moronic too.”

The way Miranda died didn’t help Brenda’s case. She was a closet drinker. One night, the week before school started, she drank too much and died in her sleep. By herself, in her room, alone. I existed, so she had no reason to be alone.

I went through all the things you go through when you lose somebody to demons you didn’t know they had. I said she doesn’t drink, I never saw her drunk, I never saw any alcohol in her room, and that somehow proved she couldn’t have been an alcoholic. Before I got crazy enough to start blaming a government conspiracy, her parents told me Miranda had been seeing a drug and alcohol abuse counselor in Springfield for six months. She never told me anything about it.

When Brenda told me what Miranda would tell me from the grave or the great beyond, I shot back, “if she was going through something so terrible she needed to numb herself to death, you can’t tell me she’d be encouraging me to put some pep in my step!”

Brenda glared at me, but there was something off about it, like she was taken aback. Just a little. Normally I’d have been happy to get one over on her, but I was too surprised to see that steely look of hers go just a little soft. Plus, I don’t think I really believed what I said about Miranda, and what she would and wouldn’t say if she could. I knew she’d tell me to live my life. But she was gone forever, and she couldn’t.

Even with all her hard looks and logic, Brenda couldn’t get it in my head that Miranda wouldn’t want me to give up. She eventually just gave up trying to convince me, and said, “if you argue with a brick wall, the brick wall isn’t the one wasting its time.”

If Brenda wasn’t so tough it would be hard to take her seriously when she chews you out or goes on a rant. She wears this steel dental device on her upper teeth that makes her S’s sound slobbery and kind of gross. But when she’s standing her ground and not giving an inch, you (almost) can’t hear that weird slurping noise her words make.

Right around the time Mario’s family came to America, Brenda’s family moved in next door to me, all the way from Duluth, Minnesota. Me and Dad imitated Mr. and Mrs. Boggis’ Yankee way of saying “Minna-soooda” for a week straight (but only at home). It was weird to have neighbors, because their house had been empty for three years, and on the other side of us there was a weed-ridden lot that had been vacant since before I was born. When I was a kid, I’d go over and examine the remains of the concrete foundation of a house that was there thirty years ago, like I was an archaeologist looking for clues about whoever once lived there.

The Boggises showed up just before the start of freshman year, so for the first couple weeks of high school I didn’t realize the new girl lived right next door. The first time I saw Brenda outside of school was a blustery day, one of those days where the sky is brown and everything looks like you’re trying to wake up from a weird dream. I was in the front yard, trying to dig the broken mailbox post out of the ground and take it inside so it didn’t blow away and go through somebody’s window. I’d noticed the new neighbors had one of those big old style Buicks, but I hadn’t seen who drove it yet. That day, when the huge puke-yellow thing pulled into the Boggises’ driveway, I saw a pair of knitted eyebrows and glaring eyes just above the steering wheel.

This big moose of a guy in a sleeveless shirt, with huge biceps, was working on a more modern car in the driveway. He’d just scooted underneath it when the Buick lurched up behind it. The door flew open and I instantly recognized the short new girl I’d seen at school. Her strawberry blonde hair was blowing all over the place, but I knew it was her from her hunchback posture. She marched right up to the guy’s legs sticking out under the other car. Even with the wind, I could hear the girl go off.

“Leslie! You left your stupid weed in the glove box!” the girl shouted. Not screamed, like a girl, but shouted, like a drill sergeant. “What if I’d been pulled over? I’m not going to jail like white trash!”

Geez. Harsh, I thought.

The big guy scooted out from under the car and sat up. He looked up at the girl, then up at the sky, and let out a big breath. “I’m incredibly sorry, Brenda,” he said. “This is completely on me.”

I had to strain to hear him, not just for the wind, but he was talking so slowly and using words that aren’t suited for noisy, windy weather, like incredibly and completely.

“That was inconsiderate and muddleheaded of me. I just forgot it was there.”

For a moment the girl just glared and didn’t say anything back. I wouldn’t either, if the person I was so furious with had such a calm response. But the girl decided she didn’t need words, pulled a Ziploc bag of green-brown gunk out of her pocket, and opened it up in the path of the wind. The big dude stood up, cool and collected, and wiped his hands on a rag. He just watched his weed scatter in the wind and disappear. I was kind of dumbstruck by the guy’s composure, more than the girl’s rage. People who like weed really, really like it, and seeing his little stash disintegrate like that must have been a bummer.

But he just shook his head and said, “I deserved that. Well...are we even?” He made a fist and held it out in front of him.

The girl groaned, but she bumped his fist and turned to go inside. When she opened the door she happened to turn and see me standing there gawking. I was too amazed by the whole scene to just go right back to digging up the mailbox. When the girl saw me she formed an awkward half smile, gave a quick wave, and disappeared inside.

Over the next little while I’d catch little pieces of things going on next door. Like how Brenda would call her parents Mark and Tisha in this emphasized tone. And how sometimes Mark and Tisha would literally flinch when she said something really blunt on the way to the car, like she’d made a fist and reared back with it.

After I talked to Brenda a few times, I looked up the population of Duluth, Minnesota, and it was something like 80,000. I just figured she resented having to leave the big city for a little town of 5,000.

The night Brenda decided she could tolerate the Mincer Meeting (we didn’t have that name yet) was the night the doomsday comet passed by Earth. It was March 15^th. I remember the exact date because everybody in town was half joking that the world was going to end March 15^th, so everybody should throw their Saint Patrick’s Day parties early. Maybe that should have told me something. The news said it could be seen from our particular spot on Earth for only an hour late that night.

Brenda had been my neighbor for eight months by then. Usually if you’ve lived next to somebody that long you get to be at least friendly, even if you’re not friends. But Brenda still had an unimpressed look when she waved at me, in the yard or at school. But she waved, and she didn’t have to, so there was that.

The Mincers were on my roof with Mario’s telescope (of course he had a telescope) so we could get a good look at the comet. Mario wasn’t concerned about it crashing into Earth because he said that’s not how the Bible says the world is going to end. In between our chattering we heard a crunching, pounding noise that got closer and closer. We realized it was somebody walking (stomping, really) down the gravel alley behind the house. Barry shined his flashlight on the alley, and we saw it was Brenda.

The second her face was illuminated, Barry yelped and switched off the light.

“What are you doing up there?” she called.

“The end of the world!” I called back. If anything can bring people together, it’s the end of the world. So I took a chance and said, “you should come up!”

Dave elbowed me and whispered, “she’s gonna shank us!”

Barry turned his flashlight back on and we saw Brenda’s scowl had disappeared. She looked like she was thinking it over, if she really wanted to spend her last moments alive with the group of dudes she always eyeballed at school like we owed her money.

“It’s a beautiful view up here!” Mario called.

“Don’t say it like that!” Barry said. “It sounds like we’re looking through her windows or something!”

“We would never look through your windows!” Mario assured her.

Brenda rolled her eyes and walked into my backyard. She started climbing the ladder, extra gingerly. I thought she was afraid it would fall, so I knelt down and held it where it wasn’t shaking. I swear her face was almost friendly when she looked up.

“I have to be careful,” she said. “I fell off a ladder and broke my pelvis two summers ago.”

Barry screwed up his face. “Chicks don’t have pelvises.”

Halfway up the ladder, Brenda looked up in total disgust. “I know Amish people who know more about female anatomy!”

“Yeesh!” Barry exclaimed. “Big knock on Amish people out of nowhere!”

Dave chimed in. “Name one Amish person you know.”

Brenda froze when she got to the top of the ladder, before she had to make that awkward step from the rungs to the roof. Me and Mario went over and we both took her by a hand (we asked first). I think that was it. The moment she realized we weren’t complete slobs.

She had to say something, though, to make us forget we’d just seen her so nervous, and that we’d just held her hands.

“So, do you guys always make out up here?”

Barry wasn’t bothered. “It would be a privilege to make out with these dudes. If I was gay.”

“I’m kidding,” Brenda muttered. She carefully walked up the A-frame of the roof and looked into the telescope. “So, when are we gonna die?”

“The comet is supposed to be visible between 10:15 and 11:15,” Mario said. “So you have ten minutes to repent.”

Brenda looked at him and raised her eyebrow.

“I’m kidding.” Mario turned away and pretended to adjust the telescope.

I got up the nerve to ask Brenda what she was doing walking in the alley so late.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you sure?” Mario asked. “You have some red puffiness around your eyes.”

Brenda looked like she could have killed him.

Dave didn’t see the icy look, and said, “just keep the story under five minutes. If I wanted to die listening to a woman yap about her problems I’d call my aunt Jo.”

Brenda turned and glared a dozen daggers.

“Easy. I’m kidding. Really. What’s up?”

“It’s not important.”

I said, “if it’s important enough to make you walk in a dark alley at night, it’s important enough to talk about.” I was trying to come up with something encouraging, and that was the best I could do.

Then, Barry kicked the ladder over. The clang it made when it landed probably woke up the neighborhood. I thought it was a little overkill.

“Now. You’re stuck up here, so you might as well tell us what’s wrong.”

Before we could yell at Barry for trapping us on the roof, Brenda did it for us. “That was retarded!”

Mario scrunched up his face like he was mulling something over. “Maybe we shouldn’t use that word,” he said.

“We?” Brenda snapped.

“Well, we...the four of us...we’ve been kind of debating about it for a week,” Mario said meekly.

(We really had, for some reason I don’t remember.)

“I don’t mean to tell you what to do,” he murmured. “We’re almost strangers, after all.”

“Yes we are, and you want me to tell you about my problems.”

“I don’t wanna be a PC snowflake,” Barry grumbled. “‘Retarded’ is fine, as long as you’re not talking about a special needs kid. It should be okay to say it because now it means dumb, not disabled. It’s irrelevant to disabled people.”

Dave took a tin container of Altoid mints out of his pocket and popped one. “How about ‘Altoided’?” he said.

“What?”

“Instead of retarded. We can say Altoided. Like a compromise word. And if anybody overhears us say it in public, they won’t know what it means, and we won’t get waffle-stomped by somebody who’s got a special needs kid.”

Barry: “But then you’d be saying anybody who eats Altoids is a moron. You’d be making ‘Altoid’ a slur against people who like mints.”

Dave: “Now who sounds like a PC snowflake?”

Brenda: “What...the...?”

Me: “So, Brenda, what brings you out this late?”

Barry and Dave stopped their bickering. All four of us were staring at Brenda now, so she pretty much had to tell us what was wrong. She made this low growl and took a deep breath. “Do you know Jake Kenyon and Lindsey Brown?”

We all did. They were known around school for being big fans of inhalants.

“Well, they invited me to Lindsey’s house so I could finish The Last of Us. I never got to see the finale because we were busy moving.”

Mario: “They watch The Last of Us?”

Brenda: “Yeah.”

Mario: “Hm. Seems like kind of a highbrow show for those two...no, I shouldn’t say that. That’s mean.”

Barry: “No it’s not. Those two are duuummmb.”

Brenda: “Yes. Yes they are. So I get there, and they take me into the garage and start huffing glue. I didn’t even know people really do that! Like licking toads. You hear about it, but you think it’s just an urban legend. Do people really do that in these tiny towns?!”

Dave: “I have an uncle who literally stole a toad from a pet shop so he could lick it.”

Brenda: “Well, anyway, they tried to get me to do it, and I said it was...Altoided...and they got offended and told me to get lost. They said I was being ‘holier-than-thou.’”

Me: “Yikes. That sucks. So...I know this isn’t the most important thing, but what made you want to hang out with those two goons anyway?”

Barry: “Yeah, I mean, you seem way too smart to be hanging around with those two.”

Brenda made a sour face. “I do?”

Mario: “I heard you’re in the AP bio class.”

Me: “We have English Lit the same period. You finished To Kill a Mockingbird in two days, and Mr. Simonson got mad at you for it.”

Brenda: “It was easy to finish because it’s an overrated book. It’s a white woman’s fantasy about white people being progressive heroes.”

Barry coughed. “PC snowflake...”

Me: “Right...so yeah, what brought you together with those two?”

Brenda growled again. “I overheard Lindsey tell Jake she didn’t have any money for lunch, and he didn’t either. So I gave them ten dollars. Okay?” She ran all the words together like she was confessing to a sin. “Don’t tell anybody. I’m not a charity organization. So anyway, we started talking after that, and they seemed like...I don’t know. Like they could use a positive influence.”

The four of us snuck looks at each other, but didn’t say anything.

“So I was helping them with homework, stuff like that.”

(None of us said anything again.)

“That went on for like two weeks. Then they invited me over tonight and, yeah. Huffing glue.”

Mario: “Well, I’m sorry they treated you that way when you refused to partake. But you should be proud of yourself for turning it down.”

Dave: “You ever seen styrofoam melt in a microwave? That’s what glue does to your brain. Another two years, Jake and Lindsey are both gonna be eating through a straw. They already kind of drool when they smile. Didn’t you notice?”

Brenda looked just slightly embarrassed. “Yes. I noticed.”

She sat down on the pitch of the roof. “I guess I was just eager to have friends again. Like an idiot. I don’t really talk to my friends in Minnesota anymore.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well, I guess it’s more that they don’t talk to me anymore. Everybody changed. It happens.”

Barry: “Wellllll there’s four of us, and we don’t sniff glue.”

Me: “I take a whiff of the air when I pass by the gas station. Gasoline just smells really good. But I don’t hang around like a troll and inhale the fumes. I keep going my way.”

Brenda’s shoulders kind of raised up like she was cringing. She growled again. “I just didn’t bother introducing myself or whatever, because you saw the whole thing with Leslie, my brother. The weed incident. I just thought, that guy definitely thinks I’m a psycho.”

I’d already told the boys about it, but they were savvy enough to keep quiet.

Me: “I don’t think you’re a psycho. If I thought that, I wouldn’t invite you up on my roof.”

Brenda: “Yeah, but you have protection. It’s four to one.”

Mario: “None of us would hit a lady.”

Brenda: “What, are you serious?”

Mario: “What kind of man puts his hands on a woman?”

Brenda stared at Mario like he’d just said the opposite and he’d gladly punch a woman. Whatever she would have said next was interrupted by the appearance of the doomsday comet. It looked like they do on TV. A tiny yellow-white ball of light with a glowing tail.

We knew it wasn’t really doomsday. But I think we all figured, just in case it was the end of the world, anything we said would be a dumb last thing to say, so we should just keep quiet.

That lasted about forty-five seconds until Brenda spoke up. “So, um...thank you guys for letting me hang out the last night of–”

Before she could finish a genuine, nice, heartwarming thank you (though I guess she could have been setting us up for a roasting) the comet disappeared. Just like that. We were promised an hour of this rare, amazing sight, and sixty seconds was all we got.

Brenda laughed. And her laugh was absolutely horrible. It was like a mix of a donkey and somebody’s drunk aunt. “HAAAWWW! HAW! HAW!”

When she saw how disappointed Mario was that he didn’t get a long look at the comet, and that the rest of us were so startled by that laugh, she tried to dry up and pretended to clear her throat. That’s when she knew she was stuck with us. We knew her secret, that she had the worst laugh in the world.

No sooner had I said it was a shame the world didn’t end because it meant we were stuck on the roof, we heard a shrill voice on the ground, shrieking Barry’s name. Adelia Barrymore, no more than six years old at the time, was running in the street in her pajamas. Her little flip-flops smacked the pavement and echoed down the street. This little girl had literally run a mile and a half from her and Barry’s house. She was crying like the world was really about to be decimated by a comet. When she got to my front yard she called up to Barry (she called him Christopher) and tried to tell him, between short gasping breaths, that she had a bad dream.

Barry hurried over to shimmy off the edge of the roof, but I stopped him. I stomped my feet a few times over the spot above Dad’s bedroom, and he came outside a minute or so later and put the ladder back up. I caught the look on Brenda’s face. She was beyond perplexed and her eyes were wide. She wrung her hands together like she didn’t know what to do (and what could she do?).

I wouldn’t see such a non-Brenda look on her face for two years.

It wasn’t easy getting Adelia calmed down, or anybody really, because all the power and electricity, even the phones (and the cell tower) went completely dead for twelve hours. Nobody could help pointing out that it started right after the comet passed, so it was just accepted all over town that the two must have been related. But when the power and the phones started working again late the next morning, it was like everybody forgot they ever lost it.

American Christians: Increase Your Tithing

Fellow American Christians: If you're of the theological understanding that one should tithe 10% of their income, and that tithing includes giving to individuals in need, and not just to one's local church fund, please consider this: the "One Big Beautiful Bill Act" (I didn't name it) guts Medicaid and takes SNAP benefits away from thousands of people. It can only be imperative, then, that we increase our tithing to individuals.

I therefore propose that we each increase our tithing from 10% to 15%. 

20% if you voted for Donald Trump/Republican, who designed and passed the bill. 

"If our charities do not at all pinch or hamper us, I should say they are too small." -C.S. Lewis 

"If you don't want your tax dollars to help the poor, then stop saying that you want a country based on Christian values. Because you don't." -John Fugelsang

The Founding Fathers & Trump's "Big Beautiful Bill"

When I first officially joined my church, my pastor had a talk with the new members in which he stressed that he was "fireable." He reminded us he was accountable to the elders of our church, who held the right to remove him from the position of lead pastor if such a thing should become necessary. My pastor's embracing of this is, to me, among the traits of a true leader. 

President Trump's "Big Beautiful Bill" includes a provision that would make it impossible to charge a president or vice-president with contempt of court when defying a judge's ruling. This would render court decisions mere suggestions. 

In our debates and musings on "what the Founding Fathers would do," none of us can reconcile those men's vision of government with the intention of Donald Trump to be immune and independent of court rulings. He has declared himself above the law, and his executive power to be free from the checks and balances that made our system of government so unique in its inception. 

And, on a more philosophical note, the provision in this bill - which soon heads to the Senate - finds the president declaring himself accountable to no one, his decisions free from resistance, his views and agendas exempt from the principles of basic American government. This provision is Trump's conscious effort to render himself untouchable, and clothe himself in far more power than he already has.

If we support this kind of autocratic action, we no longer have a right to invoke the ideals of America's Founding Fathers in our sociopolitical sermons. 

A Note on Forgiveness & Consequences

Without going into details, I'm currently in a situation where I'm dealing with the consequences of hurting someone.

(Not like, legal consequences or anything, just like...spiritual, emotional ramifications.) 

The pain and sadness that's come with this have been a good reminder to share this message with fellow Christians: God will forgive you, but He's not obligated to bubble-wrap you from the consequences of your sins. Under the New Covenant we're free from being condemned to eternity without God for our sins. But this is not a get-out-of-jail-free card, figuratively or literally.

If you commit a crime, God is faithful to forgive you when you repent, but the state will rightfully prosecute you.

There are even still consequences when the person(s) you've wronged has forgiven you. Consider someone who's been hit in the face with a cinder block (no, this was not my offense) - Christ has paid the penalty for that sin on the cross, but the face of the victim will take a long time to heal. Their forgiveness won't make their wounds any less painful or sensitive to the touch, any less swollen or blue. And their forgiveness certainly doesn't obligate them to trust you again, immediately or maybe ever.  

Let us strive to live under God's grace rather than trample upon it.

For the Sake of My Conscience, re: Donald Trump

Pope Pius XII earned a shadow on his reputation for his hesitance to publicly denounce Adolf Hitler during World War II. He was finally pressured into a public declaration that vaguely denounced bigotry and prejudice, but this was the strongest he ever condemned Hitler from his influential position. My own position in life may not be anywhere near as influential as the pope's, especially popes in times gone by, but we all have more influence over our fellow human beings than we often realize. Our words, or lack thereof, can be one of the biggest means of influence.

If I'd lived in the Jim Crow-era South, I'd have hoped in my old age I could think of those awful times and at least reflect that I spoke out against the many wrongs being praised as rights. In fifty years, when Donald Trump's role in American Christianity is discussed, I want to be able to honestly say I spoke up and denounced the idolatrous position into which many fellow Christians have placed the President. That I took no part in encouraging or propagating his words or actions, so bafflingly praised by other believers. This, then, is a public declaration for the sake of my own conscience when I think of these current times in my later years.

It should baffle me that I have to elaborate that, being a Christian, I have no admiration for a KKK-endorsed rapist. It should go unsaid, but sadly it doesn't: many American Christians (certainly not all, but far too many) have placed President Donald Trump on a pedestal as God's spokesman, and his party as the only way God's will can prevail in our country (as if His will could in some way be restrained). This is an idolatrous and blasphemous outlook, thus making a post like this necessary, to keep my fingerprints from any Christian endorsement of Donald Trump. 

The Bible tells us the best way for a Christian to show Jesus to the world is by our love and our actions. We are called to be ambassadors for Christ. This is not possible by lionizing a man found by a jury to have committed sexual battery, a man who was endorsed by the Ku Klux Klan and did nothing to disavow that endorsement, a man who pardoned criminals who committed violent acts in his name, who re-emboldened white supremacist movements in America, and who pardoned unrepentant violent criminals because they committed their acts of violence in his name. I can't show anyone the love of Christ by placing Him on equal footing with any man who does these things.

As far as sinners go, I'm among the worst - but I'm not being touted as a beacon of godliness, nor basking in such ill-founded praise. I'm not autographing Bibles or giving speeches at Liberty University. I'm not the President, and my sinful inclinations aren't influencing political policy. Furthermore, being a sinner, I must strive to repent and do better. I mustn't deny my sins with the delusion that I have no need for God's grace - as when President Trump said: "Why do I have to repent or ask forgiveness if I'm not making mistakes?" 

This concludes my feeble form of public record, my attempt to emphasize that not all Christians in America see Donald Trump as a pope-like figure, Christ's deputy on Earth, the only vessel through whom any good in America can be manifested. This is not a lament that Kamala Harris lost the election, not a pitch for Democratic policies, or for an alternative politician to worship. This is simply a plea for those outside the Church to understand that Donald Trump does not represent or embody the doctrine of Jesus Christ, despite the claims of many gravely mistaken adherents. I hope that those who read this who have qualms with Christianity have at least not been led to those negative feelings by believing the lie that this man is in any way the ambassador of our faith.

-Bud Sturguess. Amarillo, Texas. February 24, 2025.

PS To relieve certain people of their comment section duty of pointing out that Bill Clinton was a horndog who received fellatio in the Oval Office and lied about it 30 years ago, I say: yes, he did. Awful stuff. What it has to do with Donald Trump, I've no idea, but it always seems to be a go-to counterpoint when someone criticizes this golden calf.

PPS For the sake of fairness and accuracy, Donald Trump did eventually make remarks against the Ku Klux Klan and other hate groups - but it took deadly violence in Charlottesville and enormous pressure for him to do so. His actions since then, however render his remarks moot - numerous perpetrators of the January 6th Insurrection, indiscriminately pardoned by Trump, were associated with white nationalist groups.

photo by Damon Winter, New York Times