Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Marry a Future Homeschooling Mom

Resist on Behalf of Your Children

A number of men have asked me about how to approach the topic of homeschooling with their wives, with the view of getting her agreement.  I am a big weirdo so I can't promise any of this stuff will work on a normal woman, but here are some ideas:

0.  Make your intentions known and clear in a confident way, make it a foregone conclusion.  Make it seem like she would have to convince you to send them to school, rather than you have to convince her to educate them at home.

1.  As a dad, have a mindset of liking your kids, you care about them more than anyone in the world is capable of caring about them.  You enjoy their company.

2.  Homeschooling life will be flexible.  There is a lot of fun to be had with your kids on a Tuesday morning that can't be had on a Saturday morning.  Even mundane things like grocery shopping, doctor appointments, etc., are easier to manage when your weekdays are flexible.

3.  Homework for older kids takes as much time as simply homeschooling the first time around and everyone is tired and grouchy in the evenings.

4.  Huge resources are available.  You are not going to be cooped up in your house with your kids all the time.  You don't have to reinvent the wheel with respect to curriculum.  Your kids will have friends their age and their siblings' ages.  Any activity school kids do is available to your children.

5.  Encourage bonding, breastfeeding, cosleeping.  I know not everyone is into this stuff, but maybe it will have the effect of bonding mom and kids and making them want to hang out more into the elementary years.  Maybe it won't, I don't know.

6.  Reminisce about all the bad experiences you had in grade school, nasty or indifferent teachers, bullying, ghastly diseases.  Get her to talk about hers.

7.  Be confident about money.  Earn as well as you can and act like it's no problem living on one income.  Be cheerful in your frugality and cheerful about work.

8.  Homeschooling is economical.  You can avoid the cost of living in a top school district or the cost of a private school.

9.  Be supportive of your in-laws, if they are supportive.  There should be no doubt that you are the man of the house.  If your wife is going to be home with the kids, having her mom or sister, or someone there for a few hours a couple times per week could make a big difference.  For a stay at home mom of elementary age kids, a trip to the grocery store alone is kind of a big deal.

10.  The facts are on your side.  Homeschooled kids do very well in life.  They get accepted to great colleges and have very good outcomes in all areas of life.

11.  Tell her she is smarter than any public school teacher you have ever met.  Before they reach school ate, why should minimum wage third worlders take care of her kids while she slaves away in some office?

12.  It can be hard to be with small children all the time, people talk about needing more intellectual stimulation.  To me, the best thing can be a short change of scenery.  By sympathetic on this stuff with your wife but don't get carried away with it either.  Kids grow up fast and they get easier to look after.  There will be stretches that are tougher than others, if the kids are throwing up, or a few nights in a row of bad sleep.  In those cases, pitch in however you can.  If your wife is chronically overwhelmed then something systematic needs to be addressed.

13.  You get better at things if you practice them.  Nothing can really prepare you for becoming a parent, and the same is true of homeschooling, but in both cases, you get a lot of on the job training.  Build up routines and you will get better at them the longer you stick it out.

I welcome any comments or questions you have.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Monday, September 17, 2018

Summer Fiction - Crackpot Podcast 43

James and Lynn discuss his fiction projects published in the summer of 2018, Supplicant Song and Thunderbird.  James is truly a compulsive writer and has absolutely buried his editor, Lynn, in books of all kinds.  She is partial to his fiction so that is what is getting published lately.  Listen to find out what James' rather dark imagination has wrought.



02:55  Supplicant Song
09:16  Bull leaping
11:00  Orson Scott Card
15:24  Thunderbird, lots of talk of Native Americans, John Paul Barber ep
32:28  Animal Control
34:00  Contribution by Joe Bellofatto, Taboo You
35:25  The Filthy Few, fairly abrupt ending, sorry about that!

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Saturday, September 15, 2018


Ancient Reading on your Device, at Least Until the Lights Go Out

James has given a reading list for those interested in military history.  It's truly a horrific yet wondrous time to be alive and all the recommended volumes are available for free online:

The History of Herodotus Vol I
The History of Herodotus Vol II

Thucydides, The History of the Peloponnesian War
Audiobook of Thucydides

Xenophon, The Anabasis

The History of Polybius Vol I
The History of Polybius Vol II

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 41

Read about Nero the Pict's dubious adventures in Southeast Asia.

The US is disciplining independent writers because it can't discipline anyone else.

James' practiced eye for fights shows you there is more to the story of the white cheerleader and her black assailant.

James has a LOT to say on how to get along with black women.

See if you can spot the white privilege in James' family history.

You can take the Ghetto Grocer out of the ghetto, but still get your Ghetto Grocer updates with an international relations hot take!

Shutting down Roosh is another battle in the war against the sexes.

Using a gladius for home defense.

Good things are happening in Russia.

The Filthy Few is back in progress, my favorite!  Check out the dust cover, and meet Shayne "Not my Army" Rasmussen.  By the way, if any of you is interested in performing a romantic gesture like that for a young lass, you are obligated to get her pregnant.

Official history has wrongly dismissed the idea that Europeans served as slaves in North America, the evidence for it is abundant.

How to check if you are an NPC, don't let your babies grow up to be NPCs, keep them out of public school.

Buy a book, many fine titles are available as pdf books through his main website.

You can buy James' books through Amazonbut they are rapidly falling to the censor's hammer.  Now some -banking- troubles have held up his royalty payments.  

We are slowly working on Amazon alternatives but in the meantime, support James by becoming a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

‘Kindred to My Soul’

James LaFond's impressions of This is A Young World & The Ages Stride on Golden Feet by Robert E. Howard

Reading from pages 84-85 of A Word from the Outer Dark.

This is a Young World is enough to make the jaded wince, such a celebration of youthful exuberance in the accursed and envious shadow of old priests and rulers, with full knowledge of the awesome age of the cosmos, but without the arrogant hedonism of the 1960s youth cult which still hold wicked sway over American ideas of being young and full of life, Howard's verse is not even anthropomorphic, but tellingly pagan, as he imagines himself swaying with the saplings, likewise young in the old world.

The best two lines of the poem are:

8: I have shaken off musty creeds and dusky Despotisms

13: They [the planets] sit like crones and laugh fruitlessly at youth.
In Howard’s hands, this duly childlike celebration of young life, of a fresh cycle of strife, rattles like something old, like leaves shaking before a cold wind, with a keen sense that winter is due.

The Ages Stride on Golden Feet consists of one four-line verse and a rhyming couplet, forming a word picture of nature’s rhythm, from the cycle of the ages echoed in the ancient stars to the dawning day greeted by the creatures of the morning mists.

This reader is impressed with Howard’s use of unpublished verse, possibly to set the narrative mode and certainly to develop his ability to tell gritty tales in verse—such as the Solomon Kane verses concerning Francis Drake and Sir Richard Grenville, as well as that character’s ghostly homecoming. Most importantly, in terms of his major works, Howard’s skill in verse permitted him to set some of his best Conan tales, Pool of the Black One, Queen of the Black Coast and The Scarlet Citadel in the context of epic ballads, opening chapters with the type of heroic narrative that a bard in such ancient times would employ.

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Saturday, September 8, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 40

Weekend links for you!

Supporters of the Katyn statue in Jersey City reached a milestone last month, stay tuned for more developments.

The story of the settlement of North America has yet to be fully discovered.

I hate drugs but former users and non-users fascinate me.

Something strange is happening at Amazon.  If you have read some of James' books, go to Amazon and try writing a review.  I will be very interested in your reports.

The cold season is upon us, soon your school age children will look like this guy.

A boxer worth remembering.

Be careful friends, fake news can kill.

Good luck to this outlaw.

A very informative look at an original source concerning the practice of slavery in Plantation Virginia.

A movie recommendation, documentary on Sheriff Buford Pusser.

For boxing fans, a fight review, Michael Dokes vs Randal Randy Tex Cobb.

The Crackpot gives his insight into the Dallas wrong-apartment-execution case.

Buy a book, many fine titles are available as pdf books through his main website.

You can buy James' books through Amazonbut they are rapidly falling to the censor's hammer.  Now some -banking- troubles have held up his royalty payments.  

We are slowly working on Amazon alternatives but in the meantime, support James by becoming a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Friday, September 7, 2018

Do a Maneuver - Crackpot Podcast 42

Riley hosted James in his canyon fortress and joined us for a special edition of the Crackpot Podcast.  We discuss stories from Riley's long and varied career, at sea and around the world, as well as happenings in his hard earned and well guarded garrison.

The Crackpot Podcast features itinerant writer and manual laborer James LaFond, and sleep deprived motherslave of a KINDERGARTNER, Lynn Lockhart.



0:01:43  James' journey west
0:05:44  Singapore Summit
0:08:30  The Sea Daddy
0:12:00  Andrea Doria, The Final Chapter
0:15:25  The African Queen
0:18:24  The King Barge
0:24:40  The Brit in Daisy Dukes
0:27:15  Katrina
0:29:00  Smash
0:34:53  Music
0:36:22  Bob Dylan
0:37:55  Cow farts
0:39:17  Air Force, loading aircraft, bring beer and air conditioners in, taking dead people out
0:41:25  Canary Islands
0:43:20  Ocean artifacts
0:44:40  Dining on the barge
0:45:53  Riley's favorite place to live overseas
0:47:25  Riley in San Francisco
0:52:15  Military school
0:55:05  Mice bridges

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Thursday, September 6, 2018

Living in Nature, Sort of

Waiting for the Fire

Man has built bulwarks against the forces of nature since he lived in trees, but the solution was arrived at long ago. Gather up in groups and build structures to cut the wind, stop and divert the rain and flush the shit away. Stay clear of areas not under the control of governments. Kill strangers. Forget the days when enabled monkeys built empires out in the verges. Verges are thin on the ground these days. Costly, 'cause you don't want just any-old-body getting loose out on the edge of control.

The fire came six years in, gobbling trees and brush; cooking stones unto explosion. We sat in a loaned house downhill for almost three weeks not knowing day to day if our place still stood. In the lands still under construction, fire, water and wind have a free hand, like the abrasive on a buffing wheel to remove varnish from a wooden floor. To actually live in nature is to sense fully how far we've fallen in our quest for a bit of benison.

The blessing being sought is to live in the mythic nature that our ancestors fought to escape. A land ruled by tooth and claw, on a clock of seasons. One comes to perceive nature as a sort of drunken bed mate: farting and snoring with various stinks, stealing the covers. To learn nature has not the least appreciation of your deep thoughts and western aspirations. You can visit for awhile, but someone is sure to show up and upset your balance.

With no dog-catchers or cops around, one has to stay alert for rabid skunks, feral dog packs, the ubiquitous adder and two-legged opportunists. Become acquainted with killing. You also have to keep the humming bird feeders filled to keep the tiny things swarming, feeding up for their trip South, around the time the Deer dies. Seasons move in a way clocks don't, as there's some slack built in to allow for surprises. Other than the 'phone I haven't had an alarm clock in years. Something's sure to wake me up if something's really happening.

These groups that organize stuff tighten their grip out of habit, like a Coyote driving its fangs through a Rabbit's skull. I can't help mistrusting them with their smart-meters and concern for my soul and welfare. They won't spray for mosquitoes carrying avian viruses, but build causeways for leaping meadow mice to safely cross roadways. Where does one have to go to escape it, the Moon?

In fact, there is no escape from mankind barring disasters with mass die-off. The hard trick to that one is not dying along with the rest. To be honest, a depopulated world needs vital younger folks and doesn't need codgers, no matter their arcane knowledge. That, sadly, is just a worn novelist's device.

No matter where you might land in a country of 330,000,000+, the chances are that a swarm of others have had the same idea, and are busy turning it into an industry; the one you'll have to deal with who'll steal your data, blow your location and track your ways. In your hide-out.

Good luck in your foxhole. Do watches and practice X ten. Notice.

The Antrim family were first into this canyon, 1905, and have run it as a ranch since. Their old place is at the back. Back where the road ends. Bob is dead and Dorthy is in the old folks home down in town. Someone noticed folks hanging around and called the Sheriff. The house had been robbed of some firearms and tools, and meth had been cooked in Bob's shop. Nature hates a vacuum, and turn your back if you crave challenge.

A late model BMW 7 Series sports sedan with no plates was found abandoned high-centered on a mound of dirt, a dozen feet off the road to the right. Four paws in the air. Front end destroyed, an expensive little drug dealer car shed like a skin flake on a mountain road. I guess these items are write-offs in the drug trade these days. The automotive equivalent of a sneaker. If I had ever twigged to how indescribably weak people are I would have become a drug mogul. I thought weakness was unique to me. See? Self absorbed. Coulda' been a contender.

Meanwhile, while it lives, keep a sentry up. Even if nothing that concerns you comes, other things that bear no malice do, and their ways are lovely.

September 5, 2018

Saturday, September 1, 2018

‘Purple Gods of Morn’

James LaFond's Impressions of Earth-Born by Robert E. Howard, reading from pages 82-83 of A Word from the Outer Dark

Earth-Born is a Protean poem consisting of seven verses of four lines each. The spirit is very animistic and would be well understood by a shaman of some remote tribe. The spirit of Earth-Born reminds this reader of the song of Apollo’s sisters, sisters of the sun who condense into the amber weeping from lonely trees, but with an upbeat, masculine tone, that strikes a note of desire to venture across the world. This reader’s best measure of the inspiration was that the author used the East Texas landscape and the animistic bent of its displaced inhabitants to refashion an old Gaelic verse.

Verse four is quoted below:

And up along the mountain,
And down along the lea,
I heard my brothers singing,
The river and the tree.
Earth-Born reads like the reflections of the first man, if he were not born in a garden, and begins to feel, by the seventh verse, like the rhyme of a race. Despite the idyllic tones, the thinker is not reclining in hard-earned or well-deserved bliss but is rather accepting that he has been born into a turbulent world which he is fated to experience more intimately than any muse of Antiquity would expect of her consort.

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 39

Here are your weekend links, friend!

Guns and ammo favor the stationary defender, the blade favors the lone wanderer.

Texas was not kind to Nero the Pict.

Boxers make great writers and also great characters.

The Khan advises on pest control for suburban landed gentry.

Will this young boxer take the path of Modern Agonistics?

A Harm City park is no place for a midnight stroll, from the pre-Freddie Gray archives.

It's one way to turn lemons into lemonade.

For those curious about the long term plans of a compulsive writer.

The story of a man, though not a Barbarian, who lives mostly free of civilizational artifice.

The Ghetto Grocer origin story.

Working out at altitude with the stick, bat and bag.

Parking lot puncher is clearly an intelligent fellow, he won't be coming down to the station to pick up his trophy.

Buy a book, many fine titles are available as pdf books through his main website.

You can buy James' books through Amazonbut they are rapidly falling to the censor's hammer.  Now some -banking- troubles have held up his royalty payments.  

We are slowly working on Amazon alternatives but in the meantime, support James by becoming a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Monday, August 27, 2018

BANNED - Crackpot Podcast 41

James and Lynn talk about banned books, especially The Logic of Steel (pdf).

The Crackpot Podcast features James LaFond, a high country forager, and Lynn Lockhart, an expert on snack food.



01:00  James' embarks on his travels, internet safety, a new website
05:40  Book suppression, The Violence Project, The Logic of Steel
07:55  Banned books: Autumn in a Dying City, The Logic of Steel, The Fighting Edge, Barbarism vs. Civilization
15:35  Why is LaFond dangerous? Luke Ford interview
20:30  James condemns political violence, favors time traveling Native Americans coming to slaughter left and right
21:35  The Logic of Steel, Mr. Kenny, statistics
34:32  What does the Norman Bates grip mean?
39:30  Don't get Boned, The Boned Zone
44:40  Castalia House
47:05  Supplicant Song, The Violence Project

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 38

Your weekend links are a double, last weekend was super busy for me, sorry about that!

This place sounds like James' proverbial candy store!

My favorite fact about the swastika is how much trouble hate-crime hoaxers have drawing it (remember, right angles, left hand spiral!).  Here in Sub-Contintental-California, I once saw a car with a large swastika drawn on the hood, along with a multitude of Hindu idols and ornaments in the cabin.

Anachronistic boxing commentary.

James has a take on child abuse that I have never heard before and that rings very true.  An investigator into the matter was found dead.  This is very real and occurs at every level of government and around the world.

Cleanse your mind with this uplifting story.

The truth about Quakers, it's not very friendly.

What does it mean to be buried with another man's arm?  James has some educated guesses.

A couple of Ghetto Grocer classics, managing marital and racial dynamics and EBT doomsday; a shoplooting report.

James covering the Harm City beat from the Rocky Mountains, violence against police is on the menu.

Advice on love from the Khan, coming soon to a podcast near you.  James says women are not capable of honor, but of course, Penelope is a fictional character.  The Khan on how to be a leopard among jackals.  The Khan explains a woman's role.

Pedestalization is an Anglo-Saxon habit, so says Gottlieb Mittelburger.

More fun times hanging with junkies.

Training while you work with heavy tools, I heartily approve of these activities.

Attention music lovers and historians, you can help with Plantation America.

Corporate censorship is a form of mob aggression against the individual, a topic James is all too familiar with.

A pre-Freddie Gray Harm City vignette, and another, an actual street fight.  These stories are fascinating in light of the after effects of the riots.

The human sense of smell is a lot more powerful than we give it credit for.

Plantation America was full of slaves of every color, it was never limited to blacks or the Southern colonies or states.

The LaFondiverse is pleased with ISIS.

My text messages provide these assisted responses also, people are meant to be indistinguishable from robots.

Qanon is someone having fun at the expense of baby boomers, which doesn't mean it's not an op.  It is undoubtedly extremely annoying.

Coaching notes, walking, running and (not) jogging

Being an adult at age 21 implies a need for 21 years of training, not an instant transformation.

Buy a book, many fine titles are available as pdf books through his main website.

You can buy James' books through Amazonbut they are rapidly falling to the censor's hammer.  Now some -banking- troubles have held up his royalty payments.  

We are slowly working on Amazon alternatives but in the meantime, support James by becoming a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Monday, August 20, 2018

Shelters for the Self

A Review by LaMano

This is as minimal and as compelling as it gets. No “tweaking” to make it sound more interesting like we might come to expect from modern books or movies, it’s just raw and atmospheric and real.

Don’t expect to spend days or even hours reading it the first time. You can get through all of it, the forewords and background and historical context and the actual diary, in about 30 minutes of reading.  But I find myself picking it up again and again; the last time with a calendar of the Pacific war next to it.

A hand-written diary picked up on a battle-torn Pacific island after all the Japanese on the island were dead or captured, passed on to someone else, translated and typed up while the memories were still clear, it has the feel of half a chapter of Henri Charriere’s Papillon; the translation is not perfect, the diarist was not a skilled writer. He just says what he is feeling, tells what he did while the bombs crashed around him, and with each reading you get a little more of his mood..

The writer is a young, loyal, frightened, courageous petty officer attached to an Imperial Japanese Navy anti-aircraft artillery unit on the island of Biak during the American invasion. You get a sense of the kind of propaganda that he had been fed by some statements he makes. He has never been in close combat with his enemy, and yet of the American troops he says “…. the enemy are known to be weak in maneuver and will cry and flee when attacked …..” Each time a Japanese aircraft flies over, they're told that it sank an American ship. Maybe you HAVE to believe that sort of thing in that situation...

Perhaps someday, someone will be able to use the clues in the diary to get this information to his family. But in the meantime, we can get a sense of the fear and hopelessness of a Japanese soldier coming to the realization of just what magnitude of a “sleeping giant” Japan has awakened from its slumber...

Shelters for the Self

(c) 2018 LaMano

Saturday, August 11, 2018

Dissipation - Crackpot Podcast 40

Here is a short episode to talk about some of the summer's news developments, as well as some explanation from James for our lighter podcasting schedule.

The Crackpot Podcast features nomadic writer James LaFond and suburban mom Lynn Lockhart.



00:40  Trump economy and Big Ron - hangover interlude
04:20  Back to Trump economy
08:42  Katyn Monument, Jersey City, The Long Walk, The Way Back
12:44  Shelters for the Self, notice, movies about WWII in the Pacific are made by rightists such as Mel Gibson and Clint Eastwood
15:48  Dissipation
24:10  Sean's Man Weekend
26:04  Machete dueling
30:12  Frederick County, Maryland, manumissions in the 19th century

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 37

Welcome to weekend links, friends.  With  a little luck there will be a podcast tomorrow!

Thanks to cell phone technology, James can continue performing Harm City interviews!

I love this story, thank you to the nice Redneck Lady on the train!  Here's another good one about her horse.

The Khan and his entourage review the Kase of the Korean Kunt.  (I am really sorry for cursing, but the bitch has triggered me bigly).

Harm City is experiencing a Murderbowl slump, due to the Harm County expansion team grabbing all the top talent, correspondence from Big Ron.

Millenarianism was a mistake.

James tells us more about the timeless art of fighting with blades, with his special insights gained from being a fighter and a writer.

This is much too disgusting for words.

James reviews a deceptively interesting book.

And you thought flying Delta was just the worst!

Detailed coaching, boxing footwork for rehab.

More tales of seedy Baltimore from (I believe) Nero the Pict.

A discussion of James' work on masculinity.  I can heartily recommend Man Gearing and Masculine Axis, for what it's worth from a frail.  The other two titles are on my eternal and unending to do list, so stay tuned.  Here is the link for The Third Eye.

Children never get over divorce.

Some things never change here in Plantation America.

Coaching on bag use and construction in less than optimal circumstances.

Sam Finlay gives book recommendations.

Nero the Pict reports on innocent youth activity in James' forlorn and abandoned stomping grounds.

Buy a book, many fine titles are available as pdf books through his main website.

You can buy James' books through Amazonbut they are rapidly falling to the censor's hammer.  Now some -banking- troubles have held up his royalty payments.  

We are slowly working on Amazon alternatives but in the meantime, support James by becoming a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Thursday, August 9, 2018

Attitude Meets Altitude

0 Dark 30 or so, and I arose in order to meet a bus headed South at 0530. For $7 (due to my years on the rowing benches) the bus would drop me at Union Station in Denver. I was to sit and wait the arrival of the California Zephyr, due at 0715. She was late, but government dulls everything.

I walked around a little after daylight seeing the city wake up, figuring out the below-ground bus layout and access from the train. The train was late, due to arrive at nine, and I bought a book to pass time within the upscale restored train station. It was done up like maybe the 1930s. You know, the years our country became infested. I seldom come down this way for a very good reason.

Around nine I was hanging back down by the benches at the end of the line. The spot smokers and drinkers sit is the best view of the Zephyr backing down. I watched until it stopped and the Conductors stepped out, then strolled down the platform past all the cars, watching the folks escaping their ride. No Jimmy-Jimmy that I saw. I turned and strolled back, looking hard now. It had been a year after all, maybe that's him wearing coveralls and a hard hat? No, he was the guy in a boonie hat across the tracks, bouncing on his toes and the balls of his feet. In motion, but standing still.

I crossed over and we met up. There was a bright aura of motion about him, so he stood out from the crowd of people around us. I let him know the first bus North was four hours away, and we ate food, drank beer and coffee and generally kilt time until the time arrived.

The bus was fast and plush: wi-fi, bottles of water and a toilet. An hour later he was planted under a shelter with his gear while I ran for the truck in a downpour. Summer in the Rockies.

The old Ford crawled up the last bit of dirt road and we were at the place. Head of the canyon, hanging off the flank of the mountains like a Swallow's nest. Angles everywhere.

I was three weeks off a sprained ankle and sort of limping about, but James was wide awake and looking at stuff. Energy from hell. Like being with a practicing man-at-arms would be, I'd imagine.


It was into the 90s during the days, but with low humidity and a breeze the sun gets aggressive on sea level hide. Closer now with less pollution, folks have died for the lack of a hat. As well, the atmospheric pressure is slightly lower and the air is slightly less inspired. For five or so days one will come up short of wind, until the body learns it.

James had swarmed through my shop, dragging a rubber car mat outside and hosing a year's worth of mud and slush off it, leaving it to sun dry and then be rained and hailed upon. Each gas can, wrench, carton, roll of hose, etc. etc., was set up high on something out of the way, then the whole space was swept out. The reflected light level at least doubled, toning down the drab dungeon vibe. James whacked on the heavy bag with my blackthorn stick. I wandered around wondering where everything was.


James told me that he had planned to do several hours a day of "light labor" to try to stay loose and maintain form. I told him his ship had come in. I need a secure footpath across the front of my shop, and the stone apron surrounding the building was trying to head downhill. That is no longer the case. I now have a proper path and James has been altitude tuned. Learned about hydration and getting work done early in the cool. A large toad has moved in under the bridge across some drainage, and a new small sub-world has sprung up. Cowboy the dog has embraced the new path, and the James effect lingers in his wake.

We went to a fairly good liquor store, and I got a bottle of bourbon. James got a jug of Carlo Rossi red and a 12-pack of Aggie beer. Nobody's drunk Rossi red and rum on ice out of a Pyrex measuring cup around me lately. OK, no one had ever done that. Baltimore cuisine right here in the high desert.

I worked him daily, mattock in hand like some white slave in the sun. He's in better shape than me for sure. I could let it inspire me off my ass into industry of my own, but there's no way I will let that sort of thing happen. I like taking two hours to wake fully up.

Ishmael showed up to visit and take the drifter over into Utah. He is a constant, like a human prime number. A lost culture in human form. He slept out on the deck at night in a Mercedes-like folding chair, listening to the cattle wailing down in the valley, buck snorts as the deer boys crept about mossy horned and "something with a fluffy tail that got close." Heard a cow Elk too. Just one, just once. Ishmael was limping around too, but he has two robo-knees and a good excuse.

We held some temperance meetings and shot the shit until we were tongue tied. James had been planning to use Ishmael as a sort of fork lift due to his size, but he was feeling his wounds and had not the LaFond enthusiasm for dirt work. Despite all that, it got done. We'd ride to the store, twenty miles daily for the mail, paper and Gatorade. Zero humidity and temps of 90 allow one to drink liters of Gatorade and water, yet never piss. Mountain Magic! We'd made the store run on Friday, and I realized I'd been a bad host to both James and Ismael. We'd been up at the house all week and I hadn't shown them around much.

I hung a right on Highway 36 out of the store and headed west up the Big Thompson Canyon towards Estes Park. In the Rockies, an open space ringed by mountains is called a park, think South Park. It is a glorious drive up through sheer canyon walls. Bighorn sheep kick rocks down at you as they defy gravity like mammalian house flies, prowling the crags. I turned off the main road at Drake onto the best bike road I know of. World class biker killing curves, always climbing, gaining altitude on up through Glen Haven past the Glen Haven Inn, a virtual English inn run by two genuine English poofs. GREAT establishment! On upward, finally through some of the most devious switchbacks ever, where I nearly dropped my bike more than once, and then topping a pass to reveal Estes Park suddenly like some kinetic postcard 2,000 feet below us.

We coasted on down through the estates and condos. High dollar stuff, and we could go there, if we behaved. The traffic was crawling through crowds of white peoples on vacay. We wound up at the Estes Brewery, where we saw our first Dindu. He had three or four mesmerized white people with him that he was instructing. He only said MF once, so was obviously tamed, maybe even educated. James was over the moon. He felt at home.

We had burgers and beer, then drifted on back downhill on Highway 36 back through the canyon. We held another temperance meeting, and the next day was spent shooting. Ishmael had an old school M14, I had 308 stuff too plus shotguns and 9MM stuff. We shot awhile, and it wound up shooting rocks off fence posts with a 22 target pistol at around 15 yards. Ishmael the sand-bagger, "I hardly ever shoot handguns," damn near beat me with my own pistol.

The next morning, Sunday, James and Ishmael headed off to Utah. Life quieted down to the normal silence, and my Wife emerged from her safe room. Cowboy the dog stared off down hill after the guests, having been charmed by James with beef jerky.

Too much testosterone, three men on the place. That was my Wife's assessment. I thought the level was optimal, me. You can live with folks half your life and all, but don't ever think that means you know them completely.


Saturday, August 4, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 36

Hey look, weekend links!

James is working on a new boxing metric, join in the fun!  First up, Ali.

The Sea Daddy is a sovereign, approach with caution.

Sometimes privileged white folk really do have trouble believing their own eyes.

An indentured German warns his countrymen against coming to Plantation America, a voyage and fate as dangerous as any faced by the later-arriving African slaves.

Boxing skills can serve you in self-defense, but your psychological development is more valuable still.

Advice for training with a full size baseball bat.  Remember to bring your glove and ball!

The seeds of a science fiction world are sprinkled in the author's mind, a pragmatic reader gives perspective.

George Washington, his slaves of many colors, and his teeth.

James has identified the natural successor to Trump in 2024 and given him a winning campaign strategy!

Here are some thoughts on hatred, the confusion it engenders and the power it hands to your enemies.

Did you ever have a break up so brutal it made your neighbor move away?

I have to admit, this chick got under my skin.  There wouldn't be room for both of us in the Khan's household, that I can tell you.  If His Greatness would grant my wish, I would see her stripped in the public square, her head shaved in ritual humiliation and then made to beg for scraps at the gate of the city for the rest of her cursed life.

Both flags and boobs make you feel things, that's why they both belong in this blog post.

Buy a book, many fine titles are available as pdf books through his main website.

You can buy James' books through Amazonbut they are rapidly falling to the censor's hammer.  Now some -banking- troubles have held up his royalty payments.  

We are slowly working on Amazon alternatives but in the meantime, support James by becoming a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Friday, August 3, 2018

‘This Impetuous Chieftain’

Could This Be the Man that Kull, Conan, El Borak and Black Vulmea Were Modeled Upon?

A recent reading of Bust Hell Wide Open: The Life of Nathan Bedford Forrest, an excellent book by Samuel W. Mitcham, Jr., brought to mind two things, first, Howard’s literary depiction of the battlefield personae of such heroes as Kull, Vulmea, El Borak and most of all Conan. Secondly, it reminded me of a little known and touching tale by Howard, titled, For the Love of Barbra Allen, in which a Texas man recalled his experiences riding with Forrest in the Civil War.

Below are the unifying heroic threads that seem, to this writer, to suggest that Howard was deeply affected by the heroism of his conquered nation’s greatest hero.

Forest stood under enemy fire 179 times and was seriously wounded four times.

He had 34 horses shot from under him and was proud of having killed 35 enemy men in retribution.

The Texan Adam R. Johnson recounted Forrest saying to him, when frustrated over the loss of his horse staying his sword from Yankee throats, “Johnson, catch me a horse.”

Those who dismiss Howard’s fiction as pure fantasy on the level of human realism—which it is manifestly not—often point out that one man besting a gang of men in combat is unrealistic. Improbable, yes, unrealistic, hardly. I might recount dozens of tales of my friends and associates clearing out roomfulls of combatants by themselves but would be best served relying on “promiscuous saber slaughter” in Forrest’s first sword fight of the war, in which he personally slew nine men, one with a gunshot and the others with his sword. In the same melee he shot an officer and then trampled him with his horse and effected his capture, as he was engaged by this man and three others at sword’s reach upon the backs of their plunging horses.

Forrest having his men drive back a rioting mob with the flats of their swords, on page 43 of Bust Hell Wide Open is repeated by Kull and Conan in Howard’s fiction. During this affray he personally beat the piss out of a brawny Irishman who challenged his authority.

On pages 55-56, incidents are told, which would repeat throughout Forest’s career, of women appealing to his sense of chivalry to go punish the enemy for outrages or to save their men from torture and death, are found in the career of Conan numerous times, most stridently. Forrest, Kull, Solomon Kane and Conan had an overwhelming commitment to protect and avenge women, with no less than 21 slave girls, queens and princesses saved by Conan’s bloody hand.  Most graphically, in relation to Forrest, was Conan’s adventure Beyond the Black River, in which the women on the frontier ask the hero to save their men. Interestingly, Conan is seen from the vantage of a woman as often as from his own egocentric perspective. The Conan character—and Howard tested this with Kull—actually forms largely through his interaction with the frail sex, above even his interaction with the supernatural. This is reflected in Forrest’s abdication of moral authority in the presence of women of character in need and of his wife, publicly attaching his operant masculine authority to the cause of a wronged woman—which would, by definition, be any woman self-sacrificing enough to marry such a man as he. This crudely chivalric union is included in almost all the Conan stories.

Reminiscent of El Borak is Forrest, on page 58, coolly taking aim at a Negro teamster who was banging away at him with a firearm, and killing the man dead with one shot.

What those who knew Forrest said over and over again, was that he took on a frightening transformation when in battle and that his eyes could be baleful in the extreme. He was a kind of man that people quaked before when his ire was up. Howard repeats this in For the Love of Barbara Allen and throughout his fiction, particularly in his Conan yarns, where he concentrates on the hero’s character as reflected in his own eyes.

Below are some quotes from a much underrated story, The Pool of the Black One:

‘Are you a merman, that you rise up out of the sea?’ she asked, confused by the candor of his gaze…
Conan turned toward the others. But for a slumbering glitter in his eyes, his bearing was unchanged.
‘Are you mad, to ask?’ laughed Conan, coming swiftly toward his erstwhile chief. His lips smiled, and in his blue eyes danced a mad gleam.
…he faced his foes. The dancing recklessness was gone from his eyes. They blazed like blue bale-fire; his mane bristled, his thin lips snarled.

In the treatment of Conan as a blue-eyed, black-haired and bronzed-skinned man of ancient European type, Howard actually predicted what geneticists have discovered a century later, that such men stood as a prototype of Aryan and Amerindian races alike in the mists of deep antiquity.

The way he addresses this, and the inner character of the man, is to write in such a way as to convince the reader that at least a drop of Conan’s blood runs in our veins despite our domestication. Two of his tools are the totemic imagery of the face, thin lips and mane invoking an image of a wolf or great cat. Indeed the passage preceding the quote likens him so, “rebounding like a great cat.”
The eyes though, strike deeper. His heroes move like panthers, roar like lions, spring like a tiger or plunge into conflict like a wolf, but their eyes, and those of their arch enemies evoke the depths of the sea, the gulfs we fear, the setting sun, the deep night, the blue sky loved by free men and the many fires that stalk our puny lives, those of extinction, of creation and of transformation. The transformative glare of the last Aryan hero, Nathan Bedford Forrest, lives still in Howard’s unforgettable prose.

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Sunday, July 29, 2018

Summer Plans - Crackpot Podcast 39

James and Lynn talked back in May about summer plans and current events.  I hope you enjoy this short episode.

The Crackpot Podcast features compulsive writer James LaFond and compulsive editor Lynn Lockhart.



00:40  Request from Brian Jewell
01:10  2Kevins podcast, how the Crackpot got started, Lynn seeks validation, fails to obtain
07:23  Elusive Big Ron update, Let the World Fend for Itself
10:05  Tribes Yarns, James' estate planning
15:30  The World is our Widow
17:25  Ghetto Grocer news
22:50  Baltimore Police Chief indicted
27:40  Single Combat, Baruch's comments, The Deadliest Men
38:25  Industrial warfare, Napoleonic Wars
45:30  Summer plans

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Saturday, July 28, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 35

Your weekend links are a little late because we had a family obligation to sit in traffic for four hours today.

Coming soon from Crackpot Books: Banned by Amazon.

Extracting the obscure history of Plantation America in Texas cattle country.

Of Baltimore flop houses.

Equating skill and fitness levels to weight classes, co-ed!

Open borders are slavery, this is LYNN LOCKHART'S OPINION ONLY.

Attention auto enthusiasts, your submissions are requested for future fiction projects.  Related story, a Belgian couple drove through the Congo, Toyota Land Cruiser is the vehicle of choice for that.  Read their story and compare and contrast James' Harm City life.

More on tribalism and the faint hope of solidarity among Europeans.

James is on the road but still keeping up with the 2018 Murderbowl.

The history of slavery is larger and more complex than even James expected.

A man question from Tony, a father's opportunity to teach honor, threat assessment and survival to his sons.

Oliver and James correspond on the threats that limit our discourse.

James describes the recipe for the salad of civilizational collapse.

You thought hitting people over the head was caveman stuff - well it is, but there is a science to it.

If you are going to live with a junkie and his mice, at least make sure the junkie is fastidious about using clean needles so you can avoid getting AIDS.

To be fair, 8am in Baltimore is 6am in the Rocky Mountains.

Buy a book, many fine titles are available as pdf books through his main website.

You can buy James' books through Amazonbut they are rapidly falling to the censor's hammer.  Now some -banking- troubles have held up his royalty payments.  

We are slowly working on Amazon alternatives but in the meantime, support James by becoming a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Thursday, July 26, 2018

A Hero of Mine

A Memorial by Riley

I met him back in 1983, while I was running around with this ASTSE union sound man I'd met on a movie about diving.  He is a photographer and all-around artist, but his vision is poor, enough that he'll never get a license to drive.  We were driving around in my pickup to airshows.  We both loved the old war birds, for the sound and the shapes. He took the shots, and I watched. I had a Sony Pro Walkman and good microphones, and I was looking for characters and engine racket.

We stopped by my sister's in Vicksburg, and she said she knew a war bird guy.  Lived across the river a dozen miles or so in Talullah, Louisiana.  She called ahead, and the next day we were sitting, drinking iced tea with Merle Gustafson in his living room. Merle owned a Corsair Sky-raider, and we were soon sweating bullets at a tiny airstrip doing photos of his planes.

Photo courtesy of Trip Advisor

It was tiny, but Talullah is tiny.  There was the old two story Delta Airlines building, but it was in haunted house shape: toilets busted off at the floor and lots of missing glass.  Critter nests.  He had small open hangars spotted around with his stuff.   All his stuff was squared away and ready.

He was a known man in his community, respected by most I'd presume.  When you live far from the seats of power, you might think of yourself as a hick.  Out of it and of no import.  But there is always a Merle out there somewhere so satisfied and accomplished that it just polishes your soul to know a man so pleased.  It improves your life to watch him live his.

While pictures were being taken, I talked with him, taping it all.  A great story about landing a twin engine bomber while watching both engines tumbling alongside raising dust clouds. He was a problem solver and lover.  Joyfully making it all work.   There wasn't a Mrs. Merle around that I saw.   Something about judging a beauty contest.

He died too young, a year or so later.   It wasn't flying though, but a gas vapor explosion while welding on a friend's fishing boat.  I would have given a lot to have been there when they planted him.  That was a wake to remember, and I wasn't even there.  I just know how it is when good boys die.  We lose so much.

I don't think he died needy.  The tiny airstrip now holds a museum with good planes and hot rods.   His boy flies the old T-6 for the AeroShell Aerobatic Team.  The Angel of Okinawa is sitting in a museum in Florida.  Talullah is another roadside attraction, the first since Grant tried to canal around Vicksburg during the recent unpleasantness.   I gotta go find his plot.

(c) 2018 Riley

Sunday, July 22, 2018

Nero the Pict - Crackpot Podcast Ep 38

Special guest from north of Yo Adrian's Wall, Nero the Pict.  I didn't remember to bring this up during the podcast, but this is my favorite nom de James, partly because of my interest in Hadrian's Wall but really because it is perfect.

Nero tells us about the restaurant and social scene in Baltimore, which may be in your city's future, so pay attention.  He talks about his interest in history, including the riots of 1968, restrictions on trucks in the city, and many funny stories.

The Crackpot Podcast features itinerant writer and laborer James LaFond, and sleep deprived motherslave Lynn Lockhart.



0:00:45  Baltimore restaurant scene
0:03:55  Restaurant workers in Baltimore don't get hazard pay
0:07:20  Early 2000s gentrification movement
0:08:55  Opening second locations in the county
0:11:15  Banning trucks in Baltimore, Nero, historian of Baltimore, library denizen
0:16:30  Nero's interest in the Baltimore riots of 1968
0:18:35  2015 Freddie Gray riots continue today
0:20:05  Baltimore PD, see the Hell's Angels Myth 20 episode, cops in MCs
0:25:05  Contrast with toothless PNW cops
0:26:45  San Francisco PD
0:28:10  Working in downtown Baltimore, food trucks, restaurant
0:37:20  Famous Baltimore bartender story
0:43:05  The Bel-Loc Diner
0:45:25  Starbucks open bathroom policy
0:50:05  How to interact with persons of color
0:53:48  Sean's road sign (see above)
0:54:40  Kanye
1:00:50  Women voting for Trump
1:03:50  Loudon Cemetery post
1:06:00  Jitterbug phone
1:09:20  The Poor Tour, Pat Dixon

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Saturday, July 21, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 34

Here are your weekend links!

James has published a new book on the Crackpot label, a short fiction book, Supplicant Song.

Training advice for slow sparring with heavy sticks, videos to come.

When firsthand accounts contradict your thesis, you can always rely on false consciousness to get you out of a jam.

If Working John ever does need an amputation, he will probably do it himself, no electrical work involved.

James is tracking the coalescence of racial taxonomy through the colonial era for Plantation America.

A warrior's weapon seems to carry a glimpse of his shade.

James describes a spiritual alliance.

I would never encourage readers to have some fun with these types of census forms, that would be wrong.

The path of a warrior people.

Slavery's most important modern legacy - prison.

Coaching slow sparring with heavy sticks, three new videos.

A road trip that could have been much worse.

Majority white countries are nice, the same is true of cities and neighborhoods, as Sam J. knows, but don't attribute racial solidarity where none exists.

Buy a book, many fine titles are available as pdf books through his main website.

You can buy James' books through Amazonbut they are rapidly falling to the censor's hammer.  Now some -banking- troubles have held up his royalty payments.  

We are slowly working on Amazon alternatives but in the meantime, support James by becoming a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

‘Unx Yim’

The League of Cross-Chronological Orphans

On my last weekend in the Harm City vicinity, I paid a visit to the Redneck Riviera to see Megan, her daughter Niki, and Niki's daughter Emma. Since both of Emma’s grandfathers are deceased and her father is a junkie, alternately skulking 'round Baltimore drug dens and government institutions, I help fill a gap in the little girl’s life. I always recall that three kindest souls I ever knew were my grandfathers LaFond and Kern, and my great-grandfather Kern. Maybe it’s just a family tradition and not a general rule. But my urge to shed small kindnesses on small children is largely frustrated as I suspect my own grandchildren have been taught to fear me like a creature from deep impenetrable swamps of yore, running and hiding and adopting a rigid silence as my son reluctantly takes my hand with quaking voice and his wife offers an obligatory shoulder hug…

Emma and I are orphans of a sort, passing on either ends of a similar alienating trajectory as our parent society dissolves along its wavering internal lines.

My normal duty, other than play, is grocery shopping with Megan and Emma and carrying the groceries home through the gravel path in the woods while Emma dances along jerkily in her pink rubber shoes singing, “Oh no, lions and tigers and bears! Unx Yim, save me—me scared…” and then she smiles and turns on her heels, spinning and grinning at the tree tops where the turkey buzzards perch, shouting, “Go 'way bad birds!” her finger pointed stridently at the looming top branches. The entire thing is an ordeal for Megan as Emma wants this and that.

So as we sat on the Friday-nighted couch I said, “Emma, wouldn’t you like to go shopping with your own little cart and get anything that you want, no grownups telling you what to do?”

[They have tiny “customer in training” carts at this grocer.]

Megan groans, “That wallet better be fat, old man.”

Niki chimes in, “I’m curious as to what she’ll buy. It might be totally random.”

Confident that the cart could not hold more groceries than the $40 in my wallet and that Emma, having about the same effective IQ and language range as most of the grocery store employees I once managed, would impress us with her mature choices, I said, “Emma, whatever you can fit in that cart you can have.”

Emma curled up next to me as her grandmother got up, rested her head on my gut and recoiled, saying as she touched her ear, “You belly so big—and hard!” patting it so it sounded like a drum. Then she grabbed the hem of my shirt and lifted it and said, “Hairy, like beast!”

I then deepened my voice to a rumbles and made my eyes monster big and intoned, “And when the moon comes up the hair on my back sprouts like grass!”

That sent her scurrying with a playful scream towards the kitchen to begin a game of beast and zombie girl hide and seek.

At the courtesy counter, her tiny cart veered unsteadily yet unerringly towards the candy counter and Megan snarked, “ATM here we come.”

As we watched, Emma very responsibly shopped the rack, weighing the size and appeal of each item and eventually chose one package, a combination toy, candy pack and flavored drink.

On she marched, overwhelmed by the responsibility and potential decisions, without a gluttonous impulse to choose two of any one thing.

She chose a value pack of freezer pops from a seasonal bin display.

She headed down the candy and bread aisle and remarked, ‘Me smell bread,” and did not choose a single bag of candy, mentioning how “pretty like flowers” one bag was.

She then found the toy rack, with about 60 skus on it and examined the tray of rubber balls, chose one pink and one gold and then placed the balls other children had scattered about into the tray, wiping her hands off as if knocking off dust as she stood.

Veering into the meat aisle she picked out a bag of miniature “white ‘oughnuts,” and then a pack of chocolate peanut butter cookie bars, saying, “Yum.”

Rounding the next corner she spotted a jug of cheese balls as large as her body and limbs combined and seized that, “Help, Unx Yim, so big for me.”

A box of cereal and a juice drink with toy sipping cap completed the purchase and Emma strode meaningfully, with full shopping cart, to the register, and began dutifully heaving and stretching to place every item on the belt two feet above her head.

Bagging the order, which cost her Unx $22.19, Emma decided that since she had relied on my beast strength to place the jug of cheese balls in the cart and on the counter, that once it was in a bag she would drag it home, and she did, giving me a tour of the experience, narrated at each turn of our path:

“Trucks dangerous…”

“Swamp so scary…”

“Under trees so cool…”

“Sun so hot…”

“No me flowers,” as she points to a flower pot arrangement.

“No me flowers e-or,” as she points to a bed of red-petaled plants

“Dese me flowers, so sad,” as she stopped teary-eyed before the hydrangea bush where, a month ago, she had stopped to sniff every colorful ball, pointing to the burned brown remnants of the sun-singed flower clusters and explained, “the sun ruin dem, burn dem brown.”

Then, with a widening of her eyes, she sees her apartment door and says, “Me show mommy me grossies,” and we were soon inside, her proudly unpacking, folding up her dollar bills and stuffing them in her pink piggy bank and soon back on the couch with us, her in the middle on her mother’s lap and Megan and I on either side as she said, “Unx Yim, me love you. You my Grandpa. Be careful in West place.”

Those who walk evermore woodenly on the declining path sometimes learn the most from those just beginning the climb on the other side.

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Friday, July 13, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 33

Here are your weekend links, a little early because I will be out and about this weekend.  Enjoy!

Reviews for your viewing convenience: The Last Kingdom, Paracas Skulls of Peru, MK Ultra, and an unnamed film on the life and death of Gordon Kahl.

Are you in the Baltimore area and looking to train?

He can ball but his tax planning is awful, especially for a rank materialist.

Censorship news: Are they messing with Kindle editions?

Keeping the residents of Baltimore safe, the epitome of public service.

Crime in Baltimore must remain unsolved.

The king who wins his crown with the sword slowly loses his power to the budget committee.

The LaFond version of the Dewey Decimal system.

Managing your own life in a decent way is more than most people accomplish, start with that.

Is your time machine working?  Here is how to fight cowboy and Indian style.

Going to lunch in Baltimore is like going on safari.

When both political parties, the media and experts of all kinds are in agreement in their hatred, I feel pretty good about things.

Nero the Pict tells us about living in Baltimore in the 1990s.

Buy a book, many fine titles are available as pdf books through his main website.

You can buy James' books through Amazonbut they are rapidly falling to the censor's hammer.  Now some -banking- troubles have held up his royalty payments.  

We are slowly working on Amazon alternatives but in the meantime, support James by becoming a Patron, or donate straight to the man through Paypal, because you love James and his work.

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Thursday, July 12, 2018

Foreign Diplomacy

An alternate history of the Singapore Summit from the Checkered Demon

Joltin' Bolton sat at the conference table, his head tilting right, then left from the weight of his mustache, nine hours into talking to one of the most enigmatic problem-children the red, white and blues brothers had ever faced. These rice-heads, while taking time out from naming their babies after the sounds of falling cutlery, and starving, had whipped up the big banana. The A bomb. The radiatin' flesh-eatin' horror that "responsible governments" had been hectoring each other with since forever.

At Bolton's mention of the Libya model, Rocket Man had driven a Mont Blanc pen into his own thigh, screaming, "Rebar up my ass and a bullet to my head?" (in Korean). His entourage scuttled out, with him limping on their arms. Dennis Rodman got the door.

"John, you got an unfortunate way with words. You should only let that mustache grow and garble your delivery more," Trump told him.

"I don't know what's so bad about the Libya Model. He allowed everyone in to look, and got certified nuke-free," Bolton said.

"Yeah? And then the next thing Daffy knew, Jug Ears, Ms. Clinton and the French were strafing and bombing him with UN planes in support of the rebels. The rebels who sodomized him with rebar in a drainage ditch, then mercifully put one in his head. He knows the ones who want him wouldn't stop so quickly. His zombies would cook him on a spit and eat him."

"Okay, boss. I hadn't thought the whole thing through."

Trump was pacing, in a flyweight tropic suit and one-off shoes that managed to click quietly. "Just fade back a bit. Let Mike take the lead for now, and we can groom him some. Did you notice his eyes? The service guys say he's stoned. Probably pot."

"Really?"  Bolton was incredulous.

"Yeah, his father never told him drugs are an exit on the highway to success."


Kim stood in his Commander's tunic and skivvies, bare footed on the cold tile as two doctors hovered around the hole in his thigh: swabbing, poking, muttering apologies. "I must dial back with the reactions. Like Dennis says, chill. Trump frightens me though. He really doesn't care, and he doesn't baffle himself with drink, tobacco or anything! He is his own dragon and I am not."

All patched and in freshly pressed trousers and shod, Kim stood with Dennis and rolled a Spinner 2 vaping battery in his fingers, eyeing the light through the 500mg cartridge of Somalian Taxi Ride screwed into it. "So this is the shit?" Kim asked.

"Oh yeah, brother. New Sativa vape," Rodman replied. 

Kim took a hit. Four count and stop. The light went out. He exhaled as pressure built in his temples. His vision scrambled a tad, then things settled. "Very nice Dennis. Many more of these."

The next morning Kim and his party entered the conference area, and Trump jumped up and took his hand, directing him to his seat like a butler. Bolton faded as Sec State moved in. Trump faded back, asking, music?

(c) 2018 The Checkered Demon

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

‘My Flowers’

Three Hours with a Nearly Three-Year-Old Girl

June 9, 2018, a day of sun and storm, the Sparrows Point waterfront lush from two months of almost daily rain.
Emma will be three soon.

Her head comes up just past my knee and her brass-colored hair is piled high after Mommy brushed it.

Her eyes are big and expressive, her mouth small and pensive and her energy such that it makes this old man feel like mortals speed up every time I crack the lid on my coffin.

Her shirt is pink, with white lettering reading HERSEY PERSEY.

Her shorts are pink with white trim.

Her shoes are those hideous knit rubber-banded things that Velcro on—pink of course.

Adventurers do not always dot every i and cross every t, so one might forgive our adventurette for putting her shoes on the wrong feet and having to stop, snarling to get them each to their proper foot.

One grandfather is in Heaven, the other in Hell and daddy has found a new drug—made in a former Soviet Republic—guaranteed to cure him of his addictions to opiates, cocaine, Suboxone, Ambien, lithium, Xanax and at least one other reality buffer I surely cannot spell either.

So Unx Yim is on deck as HERSEY PERSEY bodyguard.

Off to the steamship playground with Mommy and Mum Mum, for teenagers have destroyed the apartment playground.

The steel wire and plastic playground, set in a quarter acre of wood chips outlined by railroad ties, is quite a workout for Unx Yim and Emma is determined to master it, despite lacking the reach and strength for some parts of the design made for 8-year-old bodies. I hold her when necessary, offer a hand when she asks, stand close enough to grab her when she waves me off to conquer the next step and otherwise behave like the crusty castle Steward for a young princess.

A 4-year-old boy, well knit and athletic in his soccer uniform, shows up with an escort, a man who does not appear related by blood, other than the Irish look of both. The man is nearly 30 with easily $20K in ink on his wiry frame and a $500 smart phone to which he is wedded like Saruman to his palantir, hypnotized but polite as we say hello. For an hour more Emma and I play, the man ignoring the boy who keeps looking jealously at Emma and me. I hear from snatches of conversation that a parent will be coming to pick him up. All I hear is “your…ther” whether mother or father I do not know. The man is kind to the boy in his dismissive way as he peers ever deeper into his phone…

Emma takes a break and dances on the adjacent field with Mum Mum, who is teaching her dance steps and songs. In the meantime, as Mommy makes her grocery list on the bench, I did pull ups and pushups and stretches on the bars. Unable to get the attention of his chaperone, the boy sees that I am not occupied with Emma and leaps at the chance to show off, selecting all of the portions of the ship-themed monkey bar and catwalk maze that Emma had difficulty with and tearing across the course, spending one of every three steps or handholds looking at me, to make certain someone was witness to his ability to navigate the uncaring world.

His hair was bronze in the sun and I waved goodbye to him when we pulled off.

We go to the auto supply store and the supermarket and then stop by the snowball stand for a treat. Emma was utterly horrified at my “a broccoli snowball, yuk!” which I did not bother explaining to her was diet spearmint and found out the next morning that Emma was right after a sense, as the snowball acted on me as if I had eaten a blender full of broccoli.

Back at the apartment Emma wants to explore the near world, around the corner and out of sight of Mum Mum on the porch. We start out with some ‘ombie tag, with Emma as the ‘ombie, which gives me a chance to work on my pivots and triangle steps. I am informed the that she will have a “Hallaween birfday” and that I will be the werewolf and must keep the gampires away from her cake. Looking at my Duke Nukem sleeveless shirt from some 20 years ago, she points in disapproval at his faded image and wags her finger imperiously, “No Wankenstein!”

She then takes a drink of juice back at Mum Mum Base Camp and points to the chokecherry tree which she wishes to investigate. The chokecherries on the ground have been gotten to by birds and she wants me to hold her up so she can inspect unplucked versions. The resulting sprig and berry sample must be taken back to Mum Mum.

What follows is a mania of gathering. Where my sons spent their toddling years gathering weapon materials and reinventing the knife, spear and club and hunting and herding bugs and yard critters, Emma is all about the plants, off on a quest for berries and flowers.

The little flowers down the way are described by color as she walks around on the stained four-by-fours that line the flower bed.

A neatly trimmed hedge earns her attention until a mosquito lands on her wrist and the hedge is declared a “gampire bush,” and we beat a hasty retreat.

Another chokecherry tree is almost too high for her to reach, but I grab her by the hips and she manages to grab a sample sprig and berry.

A cat lounges on a small hammock in a window and she stops and wonders at its golden eyes.

A third chokecherry tree is too high. Across the lot where the buzzards nest in the nighted treetops, the mulberries at the woods’ edge are too wet and stain her hands and arm and knee and she requests an airlift over the intervening puddle to civilization—the land of flowers and concrete paths.

She begins her toddling run, part hop, part stride, part dance step, part questioning foot, her hands waggling up around her shoulders and ears in an ecstasy of rediscovery. Within a few yards she finds, stops, points and says, “My flowers,” as she stands beneath a raised flower bed, which is home to a deep-green leafed hydrangea about a yard wide, round and festooned with balls of opening buds, white, frost, pink, yellow and purple. Emma holds out her hand and takes mine so she can use it as a pull assist to step up on the two-foot bed. She then waves away my hand and does her balance-beam walk all around the woodchip flowerbed.

Having satisfied herself that she can come and go as she pleases, she stepped gingerly down into the bed and approached the bush which hulked before her like I would stand before an SUV and stalked closer, obviously conscious that she was visiting a living thing and pointed at the flowers, “See, Yim, it okay to sniff—no bees to sting,” and leaned forward delicately and sniffed first one flower ball, then another, and another until they had all been scented. Satisfied after some minutes, she looked coyly over her shoulder at me, smiled, “Booiful, no pick—my flowers.”

She then held out her hand and I took it, stepping around the planter housing with her as she leaped two feet down into a squat, and with a curled lip of determination ran for the porch to deliver the news that the flowers smell nice, a somewhat dead thing following her, wondering if he would ever share such a moment with the world again.

(c) 2018 James LaFond