The Bluebook Invades Death Valley - Updated

Never been to a Clemson Football game, not until tonight. McCoy wanted to know, "Where have you been?"

Would I have rather been at The Shanghai International Circuit for tomorrow's F1 race? Maybe, but probably not.

Naaah. Looking back, definitely not.

Last night's race will be re-played on speedtv this afternoon. I taped it live anyway, so don't nobody tell me who's the winner till I get a chance to watch it.

My Favorite New

A Catholic priest, a Southern Baptist preacher and a Jewish rabbi run into each other at an interfaith ministry meeting, and discover to their amazement that they all share a common interest in boxing.

All three men agree to attend a fight together the following Saturday night.

That Saurday night as the first bout's about to get underway one of the fighters bows his head, closes his eyes and crosses himself.

The rabbi leans over and asks, "What does that mean?"

The Baptist preacher shakes his head and tells him, "Not a darn thing, if that boy can't fight."

On the Waterfront w/ The Blue Book

We're scorching earth quickly tonight ... so have The Playlist cued up in advance:

Terraplane Blues (repeat as necessary; volume as required)
-Robert Johnson

8:08 AM - 9:00 AM - phone call with attorney (The Electric City hates me)
9:20 AM - pick up at Mr. Alternator
9: 25 AM - arrive marina
11:15 AM - Doctor Mike throws his tools (and my car keys) over the side and announces, "I hate boats."
(Folks, I can't make this stuff up.)

12:10 PM -order new regulator
3:03 PM - McCoy. Petition for go-carts
3:04 PM - McCoy prevails
3:10 - 4:10 PM - Frashleys
4:37 PM - pick up regulator

Hey Baby Department
Switch Playlist:
Rebel Rebel
-Seu Jorge

5:10 PM - consult with Mr. Barrett, The Blue Book's marine decorative design consultant

6:00 PM - install regulator
6:01 PM - fry regulator by switching battery selector to "On"
6:02 - 6:03 PM - roll around on dock sobbing, kicking, removing hair by the handfuls. Replace clothes with sack cloth; probably terminally embarrassed Mr. Barrett

6:04 PM - throw my tools (and Mr. Barrett's car keys) over the side and announce, "I hate boats"

7:30-present - decompress with Allman Brothers Mountain Jam

note: it's better than hell.

"Prison Break" Update
Wilbur just got back from LA, after doing a 3-hour read-through with Brad Pitt for "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"

What's That In The Mirror?
I hate shaving. No more. I refuse to do it.

Tattoo para Usted?
I want one. I'm ready. Give it to me.

In Real Life, does anyone ever really say "woohoo"?
Woohoo, ya'll. Yo.

Heard Any Good Songs Lately?

And I feel so lonesome
you hear me when I moan
When I feel so dock-bound
You hear me when I moan
Who been drivin' my little trawler
and burning parts since I been gone

I'd said untie me right now, mama
your horn won't even blow
(Somebody's been runnin' my batteries down on this machine)

I even flash my lights, mama
this outdrive won't even lower

Got a short in this connection
hoo-well, babe, it's way down below the waterline

I'm on'h'ist your regulator, mama
I'm bound to check your oil
I'm on'h'ist your alternator, mama-mmm
I'm bound to check your oil

I got a woman that I'm lovin'
way down in Slip Number Four.

Now, you know the coils ain't even buzzin'
little Volvo won't get the spark
Motor's in a bad condition, you gotta have
these batteries charged

But I'm cryin', Mike please
Mike plea-hease don't send another bill
Sylvia you got me tied up on the dockside
you-hoo since I've been gone

Mr. Marina man
plea-hease don't laugh out loud
Puh hee hee
plea-hease don't shut me down

Cause The Kid's re'ist'rin a cold one hundred
and I'm booked out to Zomzbie
and right now I got to go

Mmm mmm
mmm mmm mmm
You ooo ooo ooo
You hear me weep and moan
I been tied up on dry ground too long
you-hoo since The Kid's been gone

I'm on get deep down in this connection
keep tanglin' with your wires
I'm on get deep down in this connection
hoo-well, keep tanglin' with these wires

And when I mash down on your little starter
then your spark plug will give me fire.

Can You Smell The Weekend's Coming?

Earth Abides

Read somewhere once that Earth Abides was Jimi Hendrix's favorite book.

What struck me after reading George R. Stewart's 1949 novel was the narrator mentioning that within a generation or two after a viral plague eliminates virtually all human life from the planet, children couldn't grasp that skyscrapers, bridges and highways had been built by human beings who'd lived before them, and were not naturally-occurring topological features like rocks, hills and streams.

Children born after the pandemic had never known or participated in a time when most American families owned automobiles, or lived in houses. People under 20 didn't think radios were important because no one had ever been broadcasting for them to listen to.

Naturally, folks under 20 got bored and annoyed when adults tried to explain what office buildings and bridges were all about. And why highways had once been significant.

Because highways had no relevance for people who have no place to go, just as telephones have no significance for a generation of people accustomed to talking face-to-face to express their immediate biological needs.

Just as a bridge has no importance for people who lack the curiosity to see what's on the other side.

People without imagination or an interest in "what came before me?" are restricted to re-creating the same experiences and believing that what they see is all that exists in the world.

I wonder what the caveman who invented the wheel had to dream about.

Earth Abides is lost. It is lost because it has been crowded out by the glut of novels published each year. When you're talking to someone you just met and you discover they 'love' science fiction, and you ask with great anticipation if they have read Earth Abides, the answer is "No, Should I?" -www.lostbooks.org/reviews/1998-06-11-1.html

Fernando Alonso Says Words - Corrected

Unrepentant Alonso Still Claims F1 is "a Show"

Written by: Adam Cooper, RACER Magazine Shanghai, China – 9/28/2006

Alonso stood by his Italian GP claims that modern F1 is more of a show than a pure sport. (LAT Photo)

Fernando Alonso stands by his earlier claims that F1 is not a sport, and says that it instead a show in which drivers play their parts.

Alonso made his original statement in the light of a succession of penalties that have struck both the Spaniard personally and the Renault team in recent weeks, during which time his championship lead has tumbled dramatically.

“I think the same,” said Alonso in Shanghai on Thursday. “If I say it or when I say something it’s because I think that, it’s not because I’m angry or whatever. It’s because I feel that, many people feel that, but nobody says. I feel that.

“It’s my job, it’s my life, F1, and I enjoy it so much when I’m in the car. But when I came here I still feel the same. In other categories there is sport, and here there is a little bit of everything. That’s nothing new for everybody.

“It’s a big show, I think, no? For everybody. A lot of TV coverage, a lot of money involved in F1, TV rights, sponsors, everything. And the driver is part of the show.”

Although he was clearly upset before the race in Monza, Alonso says that such concerns do not bother him when he’s in the car.

“I’ll put it out of my head for this race and the championship, but I will not put it out of my head in my career or in my life. Never, not this year. For my career I have some memories and some things and some feelings that happened in go-karts, in many races I did in 20 years.

“And what happened in Monza will be always there. Not for sure for the fight now in the championship, you forget, and you beat the others in the track if you can. If not, you do the maximum.”

1 2 Next > Last >>

-from speedtv.com

The only thing worse than being a loser? Being a whining loser. And then driving tin-roofs.
It's Columbian driver Juan Pablo Montoya who's leaving F1 for NASCAR .

Could anyone possibly say NASCAR is a step up from Formula 1 ... and do it with a straight face?

Time At A Standstill

It's only going on three weeks since the last Formula 1 race, but it seems like forever.

And this Sunday morning is The Grand Prix of China.

Here's the good news ... you can watch it LIVE, Saturday September 30, on speedtv at 1:30 AM EDT.

Mr. Alternator

Turns out the charging light stayed on because the alternator had a fried diode and a loose nut.

The diode probably fried because the loose nut switched battery banks while the engine was running.

This loose nut learned another valuable lesson about boats: if you touch it or work on it, chances are it will probably break.

What I Really Need Today Is ...

A DC digital multimeter with a clamp probe. And a high-amperage shunt would be nice, too.

Come on ya'll, hook a brother up ...


How I Learned 110-Volt AC Wiring

By feel.

Rate My Professor?

Here's a web site that allows college students to rate their professors ... not only for their teaching skills, but also according to subjective "hotness."

Is "hotness" particulaly relevant at institutions of higher learning?

Guess we can thank Paris Hilton for adding "Hot" to the lexicon, too.

One Reader Writes ... Eeewww, aaah, like so totally

People with a sense of humor often strike me as funny.

Which made me realize my closest friends all share at least one common trait (besides NS) : an amazingly funny, almost diabolical sense of humor.

Phran (not her real name) is one of them. Add roommate Ashlee (also not her real name) doing her mythical Courtney-at-a-fraternity-party impression to a telephone conversation and I'm on the floor rolling, crying ... begging them to like, aaaa stop right now, you knooow, like so totally.

Last night I practically choked with jocundity reading over these lines, taken verbatim from Phran's e-mails over the past two months ... not describing the context only adds to the merriment.


-Wow I'm such a nerd. Already I am addicted to blogging

-Like Ewww, Ohhhhh, ahhhhh its like Joe Hall, ya'll....yeah, totally so like

-This is us. We've gone cyber!
soon we should be able to figure this out and get some pictures on it.

-Like Ewww, ooooo I just like got up from my nap and like oh my gosh like

-Mr. Separated drove us. He seemed to have a good time. I don't know yet what I think of him as a person. I think he has
ADD. hmmmmmmmm...........
I am about to go to french right now.
What are you doing today?

-She is looney toones. She is going off the rails on the crazy train.

-The Wedding Singer is on VH1 if you can tear yourself away from Fox News.

-....yikes!

My favorite:
-Went to the health center and got some drugs.
Call me around 9 my phone should be turned on.
- Like eeeewwww, oooh, I soooo totally hope your phoooone feels better soooon, like, ya knoowwww.


-oh sugar
fudgesickle
perhaps i should have googled it.

-Hmmm.... I wonder.
Mysterious.

-and you could see Emu the roommate.

From Thoughts From The Dollhouse

-I have decided football games and just walking around campus in general would be so much better if I have Chanel sunglasses. Not to mention what an improvement it would be on driving.

-I would enjoy Mondays more if I were a Pineapple Paradise Pony.

-We are living like death is coming. We went to class at 12:20 and now intend on not leaving our suite for the rest of the evening.

-Je aime le colour le rouse, le violet et l'orange. Mon chien's appelle est Morgan. Je voudrais lire un roman.

Is any of this really useful?

-Here are the phrases I need to know to navigate my way around France:

Which way to the Chanel store?

Does this train go to San Tropez?

It's not big enough.

More please.

Take me to the Ritz.

-He was thrown out and we were not.

-On Our Playlist For Today:
Come On Eileen
Rock Lobster

-Well, The Frashleys are off to class!

Finally!

Kept having this problem about a pesky indicator light hinting the batteries aren't getting enough juice to stay charged while the engine's running.

Mike did some testing with his multimeter this afternoon, and after 30 minutes of discussion we're pretty sure it's the alternator that's the culprit.

Or the battery cables, the battery selector switch, the positive DC feed, the diodes, the triodes, loose battery lugs, corroded ring connectors, a loose screw hidden somewhere, rust, dust, The Green Monster in general maybe or because it's Wednesday.

But it might be something else, too.

What Planet Did This Come From really?

The Good Wife's Guide
(Housekeeping Monthly - 13 May 1955)

• Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.

• Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

• Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

• Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.

• Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper etc. and then run a dustcloth over the tables.

• Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

• Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and, if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimise all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.

• Be happy to see him.

• Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

• Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first—remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

• Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.

• Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquillity where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.

• Don't greet him with complaints and problems.

• Don't complain if he's late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through all day.

• Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

• Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

• Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

• A good wife always knows her place.

Don't tell me ... a guy actually wrote this, right?

Learn Small Boat Repair in Your Spare Time!

Based on my experiences, here's pretty much all you need to know about How to Work on Boats:

1. Before getting started on any job, step onboard and carefully organize all new parts to be installed, any new expensive specialized tools required for the job, and your car keys on the deck. Now step back, and kick them all over the side.

This saves aggravation later, from doing it accidentally.

2. When working with your upper body sweat-wedged deep inside a tight-fitting engine hatch, be certain to leave one foot dangling over the side, between the boat's hull and the dock.

The pain receptors in your foot will alert you to drop whatever small screw, last-of-its kind bolt or exotic washer you're holding, and brace yourself for any sudden wave action created by passing boats.

3. Always insist that the new wiring harness you just made, which looks like something a seasick rat would build from straw, duct tape and loose hair, was actually installed by the boat's previous owner.

Any subsequent "repair" work you do will seem like an improvement, by comparison.

4. Be outgoing and personable, always eager to interrupt what you're doing to "take a break" and make small talk for at least an hour with anyone walking by.

When you finally get back to work, you'll have completely forgotten what you were doing ... which you probably did incorrectly in the first place.

5. Always carefully measure three times before cutting any part of a boat with a Skil Saw.

You'll be more impressed than ever at your ability to zip through critical sructural members, like the keel, without realizing it.

6. Expensive, hard-to-replace personal items like prescription eyeglasses, Ipods or handheld VHF radios should always be loosely carried in an unbuttoned shirt pocket.

When they fall out and disappear into the bilge, you'll know exactly where to reach under water and find them.

7 (a). Never read installation manuals or trouble-shooting guides.

This confusing, troublesome literature is intended only for professional installers, who get paid $90 an hour to sit and read it.

7 (b). Only install the minimum number of parts included with replacement components (like pumps, ignition coils and battery chargers).

Dreadfully expensive items are over-engineered, and come with more parts than absolutely necessary for quick installation.

8. Understand that a boat can float and be 100% leak-free.

But not at the same time.

9. You can double your boat's value by simply doing all the work yourself.

If you spend four times what the boat originally cost.

10. You'll feel a new sense of accomplishment when all the work on your boat is finally completed.

But nothing like what you'll feel after selling it.

Fidelity, Commitment ... and Ferrari

Do people who appreciate what a Ferrari means ever pull up at a stoplight and think, "Man this is so boring. It's just not what I expected," then stare at Yugos whizzing by going in the opposite direction (I'm talking about the custom low-rider models, with spinners) and fantasize about, "Now if only I could be with something like that ..."

Sorta doubt it, really.

Sunday Night ... in perspective

Sunday night Perry told the congregation, "People want to know why New Spring keeps on growing? It's because we preach the gospel of Jesus Christ."

"Was Sunday really that big of a deal???

A little perspective....

* Newspring had a larger crowd Sunday than nine Division 1 football games did on Saturday.

* There were more at Newspring Sunday than the Florida Marlins actual average attendance this year.

* More than the Kansas City Royals actual attendance as they hosted division leader Detroit Tigers yesterday.

* More than the population of the cities of Camden, Clinton, Dillon,Fort Mill, Seneca, York, Abbeville, Belton, Honea Path, Iva, Liberty and 180 other South Carolina cities.

*Newspring had more Sunday than the total population of Jews or Muslims in South Carolina.

*Newspring had more in attendance Sunday than the registered members of all other Baptist churches in our zip code....combined.

* There were almost as many people at Newspring as there are pages in the IRS Tax code (9,000 pages)

* Based on U.S. averages, if every person in attendance Sunday were to join hand in hand and stretch as far apart as they could, you would have a continuous chain of people almost nine miles long! That's a line of people from NewSpring to the Anderson Courthouse and then to the Anderson Mall!

* Everyone that was saved Sunday could join hand in hand and make an entire loop around a running track (1/4 mile).

Was Sunday big? Uh, yeah, I'd say it was."

-reprinted courtesy AVCLUB.US

Sunday's message available here.

Upstairs in A-Control

"There were so many awesome moments yesterday… I can’t describe them accurately. But I will say, one of my favorite moments was sitting in A-control watching a shot camera 4 picked up of an 80 year old lady being escorted down to the front of stage. She accepted Christ last night. I turned to Lloyd, who was directing yesterday, to say “hey, what an amazing shot, it’s so powerful” when I saw everyone in A-control with tears streaming down their faces.

"You see, what we do is not about technology, or cool shots, or even clever, inspiring services. What we do is about leading people to a life change and a lifelong commitment to Jesus Christ. He gets all the credit. And He is all we need.

"Thank you, Jesus, for what you allowed us to be a part of yesterday."

-posted this morning at AVCLUB.US

Speechless

Did you hear it thundering tonight?

... Sounded to me like the angels were rejoicing in Heaven.

Awesome -corrrected

An estimated 25,563 people live in Anderson, South Carolina.

The auditorium at New Spring Church has about 2500 seats.

Here's a photo of overflow seating in the atrium during this morning's 9:15 service {actually 11:15 AM}, courtesy of avclub.us

No photo yet from the 11:15 ... but I imagine they had to find a few more folding seats.


You've still got time to get there early and catch the 6:00 PM.

I love this photo

This is Lanna's blog.

This is one of her self-portraits; you can see (and vote for it) here.

Very nicely done, imho.

You busy on Sunday?

Thanks to Brent Sears over at Five Porches for passing this along:

The Batterson Blog - Thoughts on Life and Leadership
Perry Noble
By Mark Batterson

Just finished my session at the Innovative Church Conference.

Perry Noble is up to bat. Remember, he said it I didn't :) I can't believe how many perrryisms he fit into one session!

"Pastors, I have a word from the Lord. Get rid of the preacher hair."

"I like getting sick so I can drink Nyquil."

"I was pagan of the year eight years running."

"Jesus powerwashed my soul."

"If I met one more church planter who says they can't grow because they are in permanent facilities I'm going to knock them out."

"I never graduated from cemetary. I mean seminary."

"Curious George books are boring. You know what would have been interesting: Curious George and the Electric Fence."

"Church ought to be the most engaging place on the planet. If the tomb is really empty we ought to act like it."

"Get out of his box or let God out of His. He wants to move."

"You better believe we're about numbers. Numbers represent souls."

"I think Jesus was getting ready to come back until Tim and Jerry starting writing the Left Behind. God isn't finished reading them yet."

"We lose steeple people all the time."

"Don't shut the backdoor of the church. The church is a body. You shut the back door and you've got problems. You need a Holy Spirit enema."

"If you target the people nobody else wants you won't be able to stop from growing."

"A church is not effective when a pastor ministers to the people. A church is effective when the body ministers to the body."

"You've got a cell phone, a PDA, an XYZ. You look like flippin' Batman."

"If you're sick in the hospital I'm not coming to visit you. I hate hospitals. If I come to see you in the hospital it's bad. If I show up the dude behind me has a bag for you."

"People will sit on their blessed assurance as long as you let them."

"Your passion is not my burden."

Finally, I love the "New Spring" prayer: "Dear Jesus, Yes. Amen."


On Monday morning there's gonna be several thousand people hearing about what happened on Sunday, September 24 2006, who'll lace up their boots and start kicking themselves for either being too lazy, too cynical, too proud and arrogant, too entrenched with arguing about whether a building can be a "church" unless it's got stained glass windows and a steeple, too busy to take a shower and get dressed ... or just too plumb scared about finding out they've been fighting a losing battle their entire lives to take a chance on going to church just one more time, and missed out on ...

I'm not exaggerating one bit in saying you will probably never see or hear the truth about who Jesus Christ is and what his death was about described more clearly than you will tomorrow.

If you're an agnostic ... or better yet an atheist, or are already convinced "Christianity is a man-made religion" or think "there's no difference between Christ and Buddha, or between Muhammed and Scientology, or believing in UFOs" ... then tomorrow you'll get the chance of a lifetime to see whether you're right.

Just remember it's okay to call me on Monday morning if you need to borrow a size-12 boot.

Get driving directions from anywhere in the lower 48 here.

New Spring Church
9:15 am
11:15 am
6:00 pm

Disclaimer: I am not a staff member of NSC nor has NSC authorized me in any way to express any opinions or viewpoints on their behalf. The opinions expressed here are entirely my own and I accept full responsibility for errors, oversights, inaccuracies and omissions.

Ces soir

Friday Night Fiery Finish Playlist:

"Jump Into the Fire" - Harry Nilsson

Flyboys

I was in Orlando a few years back standing with my face pressed into a chainlink fence, drooling, oogling across the hangar at Crazy Horse with my hip pocket feeling like somebody'd replaced my wallet with a hot waffle iron.

I resisted, and didn't sign up for the dual-controls P-51 Mustang orientation ride.

But I did go up for an hour in an open-cockpit 1930s-era Waco biplane (similar to the one pictured here) ... which is probably as close as I'll ever get to flying a real World War I-vintage fighter like the French Spad or the British Sopwith Camel ... much less a Fokker Dr 1 tri-plane like The Red Barron's.

Flyboys ("The adventures of the Lafayette Escadrille, young Americans who volunteered for the French military before the U.S. entered World War I, and became the country's first fighter pilots." - imdb.com) opens in theaters today.

More words would be wasteful.

Kreen-Akrore (Updated 2x)

Been way too much angst and rancor recently at The Blue Book's Comments Department.

I always intended to publish any comment that wasn't profane or obscene, even if it meant dumping a load on my shoulders, but ya'll need to quit it and move on.

Maybe I'm Amazed
This song was featured on The Playlist the other night; what amazes me is that Paul McCartney did the whole album by himself and played every instrument, except for backup vocals and keyboard performed by his first wife, Linda.

McD could do it, but I sure couldn't.

The next song is Kreen-Akrore. There's no lyrics, so there should be no suggestion that I'm -signaling dolphins- in the North Sea with secret messages.

I like the drum solo.

The Wee Friday Morning Hours Playlist
"Beneath the Icey Floe"
artist: Black Tape for a Blue Girl

"The Kreen-Akrore tribe is probably the most negatively influenced by the West of all of the tribes discussed here. They live near the Tapajós River, and are known as the “tribe that hides from man.” This is because they were once attacked by explorers and were so scared of their guns that they hid from other humans until they finally made contact with the West in 1973. However, foreign diseases killed off half of their tribe, making them weary of the outside world once again. Now, though, they have built new villages and are once again thriving in Amazonia."

The Deadliest Sin - addendum - Updated

My post the other day about rage and anger came from a talk on the phone I'd had earlier with my Uncle Joe, who lives in Virginia.

I asked Joe if he remembered my uncle Huburt Sammons, who disappeared over the Atlantic in a B-24 back in May 1944, and found out a whole lot I didn't know.

I hadn't known that Huburt, who stood 6 feet tall and weighed about 170 pounds, was a skilled boxer who'd intended fighting professionally until one night down in Miami he'd been matched against an opponent who beat the stuffing from between his ears.

So much for Uncle Huburt's prize-fighting career.

Then Joe went on to say that while Huburt was a great, fun guy to be around ... once he was in a bar and had had a drink or two, Huburt started looking for somebody, and the bigger the better, to fight. And I got the impression that except for that one night in Miami, Huburt didn't know much about losing.

(Joe told another story that doesn't apply here, about another male relative (whose name I won't mention) who'd been in the Constabulary in Germany following World War II. One night this relative was walking home over a bridge and ran into another group of guys going in the opposite direction ... one of whom became beligerent.

(My father threw the loudmouth off the bridge [over Cass Street, in Tampa] ... somehow I'd never heard that story before talking to Uncle Joe the other night.)

I don't know if there's either genetic or environmental components to anger, but I do know it doesn't matter.

World-class boxers don't go looking for fights in bars; neither do Formula 1 drivers go racing through the streets to impress their friends or pick-up girls.

Men at a world-class skill level don't have to impress anybody with their talents or ability: they already know how good they are from being measured and winning against equal opponents, and realized a long time ago they're not proving anything by going up against somebody who's incapable physically, intellectually or emotionally of defending themselves.

Only bullies with a need to respond to unresolved issues about themselves use anger to take on weaker opponents ... because nine times out of 10 bullies are born from being bullied and feeling helpless, and angry, about themselves.

Who's Behind The Curtain?

"As you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary."
Ernest Hemingway

I'm not gonna call a guy who blew his head off with a shotgun my hero, but Hemingway did have a strong influence on several of my perspectives.

I think it's OK to have heroes and folks you admire ... so long as you can accept that they are real people, warts and all, without changing your mind with every new tide.

I'm not sure what it says about someone who can do an abrupt about-face and start vilifying yesterday's hero, except that such a person was probably just a toadie and a sycophant in the first place.

Magic Doesn't Work If You Already Know The Trick

Remember The Wizard of Oz, near the end when Dorothy goes behind the curtain and discovers there is no Wizard, after all?

"If a writer knows enough about what he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one ninth of it being above water. "
Ernest Hemingway

That scene sums up how art works, and why most major movies fall so flat on their faces.

If a producer (or nowdays, a committee of studio executives with no background in either Drama or Film) sits around in a screening room murdering the director's and screenwriter's vision with "notes" dictating that certain extra stuff has to be fitted in somehow (like gratuitous nudity and sexual content) to make sure the film gets "good box office" or because they happen to like a certain scene, then all they've done is rip down the curtain to let the audience see there is no wizard after all.

Motion pictures are the most powerful and immediate communication medium known: sitting in a dark room watching a story unfold on a larger-than-life screen is a shared emotional experience going all the way back to the nights when our ancestors sat huddled together in fire-lit caves (with hungry lions, hyenas and saber-toothed tigers lurking in the foyer) and learned about life and themselves through the stories they heard and shared.

Those earliest dramas used a technique too often dismissed by studio executives: the tales the first storytellers told, probably the re-telling of heroic hunts and epic battles, used emotion to grip the audience, and created a common and unifying experience by placing that audience within the action ... which also had the benefit of teaching and communicating a thing or two about How to Survive in an environment filled with constant threats and The Unknown.

The caveman story-teller describing how his neighbor Nak was ripped apart by a man-eating tiger couldn't risk losing his audience's attention by distracting them with a favorite cliche about how he'd once seen a beautiful butterfly gentlly floating atop a tiger's back, which suddenly caused him to realize that all creatures should live together in peace.

For crying out loud, all the audience wanted to know was what happened to Nak next and how much did it hurt.

Today it's called The Suspension of Disbelief. And for the audience to forget that they're watching a film, we need tension.

If the audience is holding on tight to the edge of their seats, focusing on what happens next that means their brains are involved, active and participating in the story ... that doesn't leave them much opportunity to get distracted and start fidgeting.

Getting back to Hemingway's iceberg: tension doesn't come from what we see; tension comes from what we don't see and must imagine ... because it hasn't being shown. (That might be why some photographers and DPs use so many shadows in their images. Shadows force your brain to pay attention to the puzzle, and imagine what else must be there inside.)

The cavemen and cavewomen who were too busy or preoccupied with other things to imagine what else is there? had their genes withdrawn from the DNA pool pretty quickly by the hungry predators that knew the most satisfying meals seldom took the trouble (or had the smarts) to be on-edge about shadows.

(And folks ... this isn't about what's "pretty" or "looks good" to your eyes, because movies aren't postcards. It's a science about how our brains and eyes work together that we're taking about.)

The first time Org the Story-Telling Caveman interrupted his frightening tale of How Wak Was Eaten By A Crocodile with an aside about how Wak's enemy Mog had more wives than Wak did (which Org only included because Mog carries a club in each hand and besides, Mog really likes that part), Org broke the Fourth Wall and reminded the audience that that they were just listening to a story, rather than participiating in it.

Or even worse, the first time Org introduced deus ex machina by having a talking rock suddenly whisper a secret escape route to save Wak's life, so there'd be a happy ending, Org the Storyteller was probably beaten half-silly with his own club and tossed outside the cave the play with the pterodactyls.

Even cavemen knew better than to accept trick endings and implausible situations.

They would've seen it was Org pulling levers behind the curtain ... and that there was no Wizard in Oz after all.

-------------------------------
More Hemingway quotes here.

The Captain and The Kid

My first night out with The Kid was a bust. There, I said it.

After spending all day together I felt like she was in the mood for a twilight ride through the moonlight, but the alternator light came on before I left the "No Wake Zone" ... and even with the VHF radio up and working I wasn't ready to renew my longterm relationship with towboat.us (it's probably bad seamanship when the towboat captain hails you by your first name, has your phone number memorized and carries around towing receipts pre-printed with your account info).

Here, I'll admit something else: I spent the day working on The Kid's electrics ... which actually worked fine during our 3-hour cruise on Saturday, so I've got no idea why anything went wrong tonight.

Go figure.

Official Seal of The Blue Book

Thanks Ken ...

Bring Your Stuff - Updated Live- Continuously Worldwide- Across the Interweb while you're sleeping

Tomorrow night's a first date. I'm taking The Kid out to Zombie.

Oh yeah, it's true.


Hey A ... it's a fire dance coming, for sure.

PS. Unbelievable.

PSS. Everyone should agree to keep their suffering private ... OK?

Update: We're all better now.

I think I'm gonna quit blogging ... and just link my keyboard to youtube.

BLACK MAGIC WOMAN

Hey baby .. Rebel, Rebel
["Life Aquatic" raw footage]


All Right Now
Be My Friend
Ride On Pony
Fire and Water
Mr Big

Kick Out the Jams

Compare 1970 to ... shucks, never mind.

Fiberglass Hands - Updated

Is Tuesday almost gone already? And I'm not even up to my elbows in fiberglass yet.

This afternoon's Too Late For Tuesday Playlist is- what the heck, this one's for you ... and 'that little girl over there with the yellow balloons'.

Drive safely on your way home; only add volume as needed.

McCartney - "Maybe I'm Amazed"

The Deadliest Sin?

I grew up in a traditional Southern Baptist church and remember hearing lots about the evils of sins like drinking alcohol, lust, adultery and gambling.

But through the first 17 years of my life I don't remember a pastor ever once take aim at rage.

Maybe our religious culture is more tolerant of anger than adultery or drunkeness because we accept it's inevitable that eventually we'll get pushed too far ... and a fiery explosion seems not only justified but required.

Maybe we've had a temper outburst or two in the past and see getting results with anger as an advantage, a secret weapon holstered to our egos. I mean admit it, isn't it fun making someone else squirm, grovel and cower? Isn't it better to turn the tables and be the bully this time around?

And after a blow up, we like to imagine our wrath-weapon provokes knee-trembling fear and dread among the folks who'll straighten up pretty darn quick rather than risk facing the A-bomb again.

The Anger Bomb.

My anger, rage and hostility is always just under the surface ... and I struggle with keeping them there, and under control, more than I do with anything else.

Even if we express our rage without screaming ... by glaring, snorting and huffing, turning our cheeks red or suddenly going silent in mid-scream (our way of warning, "Be glad I'm stopping myself and not saying anything else 'cause I'd pinch your head off!") the fact remains that sometimes we actually enjoy discovering our saint-like patience is exhausted, that we've finally "been pushed too far"... because then we feel entitled to start the war dance on somebody else's face and makes ourselves and the thing we want the center of attention.

Anger has a way of making us see ourselves as powerful and in control. And that's important ... when we're focused on Me.

Anger is justified in extreme situations (like throwing money changers out of your house, or in matters of life and death requiring urgent and immediate action), but otherwise throwing a temper tantrum merely signals others that your self-importance has reached critical mass because you're unhappy about not getting your own way.

I can't find a passage anywhere in The Gospels that indicate Christ taught the Apostles through conceit or coercion: even when dealing with the money-changers in the temple Jesus's anger didn't consist of cheap emotional barbs, or sarcastic jabs hurled for His own amusement.

Even compared to the so-called "big" sins ... adultery, stealing, drunkeness ... none exposes the shortcomings and weaknesses in our walk with Christ, or leaves us so vulnerable to the enemy as completely, as anger.

Not even murder, because murder almost inevitably begins with anger.

If we allow the enemy to use anger, wrath or rage to re-focus our attention, it's inevitable he'll try to soothe our frustrations and reward our tantrums by increasing our sense of self-importance ... through simultaneously reducing our determination to preserve our witness as followers of Christ.

Ever noticed how we never give the boss "a good ice-chewing" or toss intidimation in his or her direction? And it seems we hardly ever "lose it" with people we respect or "ream out" someone whose opinion we trust and value.

I used red above to highlight the point that it's the people we perceive as being beneath us who're most likely to be the recipients of our self-righteous fury even though the thing we're angry about is inside of us ... and has nothing to do with them.

The fact that we still yearn for and need the respect of people we've sent crawling away on all fours with singed backsides ought to be a reminder that no one has more control over what we say and how we behave than we do ... and how weak, conceited and self-absorbed our anger and sarcasm makes us appear in their eyes.

Calling Dr. MIke - Updated

When your dog gets sick you call the vet; when your kid gets sick you dial up the pediatrician.

And when your boat gets sick you hunt down Dr. Mike.

Merely by listening to an idling engine Dr. Mike can tell you stuff you'd need a manual and a factory technician to explain ... and after 2 years his diagnoses are still averaging 99.999%.

"Dr. Mike" knows his stuff.

Mike is a marine mechanic who plans to retire in a few years and spend some time living aboard his cabin cruiser while exploring the intercoastal waterway ... and picking up odd repair jobs along the way to help offset expenses.

I ran into Mike on the docks this afternoon and asked him how long a boat should be "self-sufficient" (contain its own water, fuel, food, etc., without having to return to shore) for that type of adventure [hint: I've been gearing Ben to live "off the hook" for 3-5 days at a time].

His answer made my head spin, which is why I'm mentioning it here.

30 Days.

That's right, 30 days.

Proving once again I drop the ball every time it comes to the Vision Thing.

The other thing I'm sharing is that Mike's son & I go to the same place on Sundays ... and we're both more-than-hoping Mike comes this Sunday, too.

Stone Believer

Pounder might be logging off soon ... I've been thinking about doing the same thing, and on September 13 she lists all the right reasons far better than I could.

------
I'm not gonna describe growing up in Tampa ... or say anything about the goldfish pond at The Spanish Garden (gone) or The Cafe Seville or The Columbia or about standing in line with nobody who spoke English at The Cafe Mercedes in Ybor City (gone) ... or mention Robles Park or anything at all about the Gasparilla Knight Parade through Ybor City.

What about Malios? I was never been there. I won't even mention The Valencia Gardens in passing ... because you weren't there, either.


Puuuh-lease don't read anything more into any song on The Playlist than what's there ... they're only songs I've liked for a long time.

Here's one more ... with a vocal by Mike Pinera (who coincidentally happens to be from Tampa).

Iron Butterfly - Metamorphosis
"Stone Believer"

--------------

People wanna know why The Playlist is full of such old songs. Here's why:

Because even Disco had more conviction and integrity than what's being packaged/branded/merchandised today.

How Many More Times - Updated

Never mind tonight's post; I feel you and know you wanna go straight to The Saturday Night Playlist:

Led Zeppelin: "How Many More Times"

The Blue Book says Hendrix, always Hendrix- but "How Many More Times" stands by itself as the anthem to unrequited love.

Jimmy Page's haunting Les Paul seems to shepherd and guide the medley through an emotional landscape of valleys and summits ... but every beat between John Bonham's restless, testosterone-charged tomtoms ("... and she's all mine") through the defiant snare-drum march near the end ("... that's my name") add a confident certainty that make the song what it is.

Man.

Dragon Boat Round-Up:
Years ago I described how Vikings first landed on the shores of Lake Hartwell in the early 1100's and eventually settled The Electric City; today Dragon Boat races were held at the Portman Marina ... sans plundering and pillaging.

Judith, Mike and their friend Jason showed up instead ... and Mike proved again he's The Bagel Man and more by showing us a few tricks about diving, dog-paddling and how a Real Man wears his lifejacket.

And dances.

Mike, you are The Man ... and there might be footage on youtube soon to prove it.

A Wilbur Weekend (Updated)

Yesterday was my friend Wilbur's birthday.

How's this for a surprise birthday present ... Wilbur's gonna be guest-starring on Prison Break Monday night at 8 PM on the Fox Channel.

I met Wilbur and his gorgeous wife Diana in 1992 at the Sundance Film Festival, and they were gracious enough to leave me alone and unsupervised in their house for two weekends while shooting NeverMore.

Wilbur is one of the true good guys (in an industry often described as Swimming with Sharks) and I'm glad he's my friend. Tune in on Monday night and meet him for yourself.

Computer Update
VideoRaids on both editing machines died yesterday within an hour of each other ... one even took the operating system out with it. That means pretty much everything from the past 4 years is gone. Aw, well ...

Tiger Forecast
Clemson takes on FSU tonight in Tallahassee. My forecast is Clemson by 17.

Music Video Update
Chris W. just e-mailed me this link to one of the great music videos of all time. They sure don't make like they used to, do they?

What's Under the Stairs?

All my old LP's are under the stairs.

I pulled a few out the other night, just to remind myself what music sounded like before CD's made "digital" an infectious disease. Vinyl albums and tubed amplifers just sounds more life-like than MOSFETs and nk-oversampling.

Friday Night For Fun Playlist

Issac Hayes Live At The Sahara Tahoe:
"Ike's Rap VI"
"Ain't No Sunshine"
"The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face"

Makes me wanna throw my CD's in the trash can ... where they belong.

Nice Friday Nite at The Bean
Met up with Bent Spears for dinner and first ran into the real mccoy ... then Ken, Meg, Gardner and Rainey also showed up, and we ended up having a round table.

You go out to dinner with one friend and wind up running into three more friends (plus 2 future friends) ... all of whom you know through church ... not bragging, but I feel blessed.

PS. When's the last time you saw Gardner?

Hint: In another week he'll be shaving, and I'm pretty sure I saw Ken let him have the car keys.

New Reverend Joe Dale video

I forget how long it's been, something like 18 months, since Reverend Joe Dale last appeared. But today there's a new message, titled "These Are My Church Clothes."

Right now it's uploading at youtube.

I'm gonna pull it off by Saturday night, so check if out if you get a chance.

Bleah

I hate being in front of a crowd.

I've read it's adrenaline that causes the butterflies to start fluttering before you go onstage but even when I'm here alone with the camera pointed in the "other" direction, mine feel more like pigeons.

Cut,, Copy ... Uh Oh

Decided to clean out one of the hard drives this morning and within seconds had deleted almost 30 gigs of unused video files.

Also deleted 6 gigs of footage I needed by being too quick on the draw with Delete? Are You Sure?

But I'm over it ... and ready to dive in and tackle a few ornery bugs in the System Registry. Uh oh.

Golden Lie

I just finished reading Meg's blog, and it reminded me that the last novel I'd finished was almost 3 years ago. And I still haven't gotten around to sending it off.

Golden Lie (which, compared to more serious stuff, doesn't even rise to what Graham Greene called "an entertainment") is a thriller/action/adventure story set here in the Upstate, mostly on and around Lake Hartwell.

I sorta envisioned it as a mainstream series revolving around a central character, Steve Case. That's right, I wrote it for the bucks.

The second draft came out to 532 pages ... forgive the flaws; here's the prologue and Chapter 1.

-----------------------------------------------------

PROLOGUE

Friday October 23, 1891

Phoenix, Arizona Territory

The old man had not moved in two days.

Except for the feeble, barely discernible rise and fall of his chest, he appeared to have been dead for some time. Whatever color that had once pasted his cheeks was gone, replaced with a gray miner’s pallor of ash and stone. His arms and legs resembled sticks jutting from the sheets and his hands appeared gnarled into claws, intent upon digging his own grave.

The unheated room was dingy, sour with the stench of sweat and unwashed clothes. The window shades were pulled and although the sun would rise for in another three hours, the woman doubted whether he would live long enough to see it.

The old man had lived in this room since spring, when he had been discovered clinging to a tree near his one room hut beside the Salt River after the worst storms she could remember caused the stream to overflow its banks. The swollen, fast moving current had trapped him there for almost five days, before she thought to dispatch her son to accompany the Sheriff and bring the old man back to town. Since then he seemed to have regained some of his strength, but now she felt certain the pneumonia had returned because his condition seemed to deteriorate with each passing day.

He lay on his back with his eyes glued to a dark spot on the ceiling. The woman standing beside him wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cloth and watched his chest to see if it moved. Her face was oddly impassive. She knew next to nothing about him, only that he was German, and that prior to moving to Phoenix he was a prospector, and that he called himself Jacob.

She closed her eyes and murmured a prayer that death would take him soon.

Jacob was a queer one, even among the hordes of drifters and scoundrels who seasonally teemed through Phoenix. Men who’d fled their families and children back east on their way to riches and fortunes, itinerants and ne’er-do-wells who made and spent fortunes with equal indifference; they were hard-drinking, hard-living men who seemed out of place everywhere, men with visions lost in time as the twin devils of railroads and barbed wire fences closed the last frontiers, and carpeted the American frontier with civilization. They came West with dreams of prospecting for silver and gold, and almost all stumbled down from the mountains broken and disillusioned.

The old man suddenly stirred and gasped.

The woman, whose name was Julia Thomas, took a step back and clutched a hand to her heart. His eyelids blinked furiously, struggling to bring the room into focus. His breath rattled between his parched lips, and a single word resonated from his throat.

“Gold.”

Julia loosened the sheet covering the old prospector’s chest. “Jacob, what did you say?”

“My gold. Where is the gold?”

She laid her hand across his forehead, puzzled because the old man’s temperature seemed normal. He clearly was suffering from fever, and yet ...

“Try to lay still, Jacob. There’s no need ...”

The old man pushed her hand away and struggled to push himself up.

“Under the bed,” he hissed. “In the candle box.”

She wanted to ignore him, to wait for a moment until his delusion passed and death came to claim him. But what was he trying to tell her?

The fear in the old man’s face swelled to anger.

“Look under the bed!”

Julia sighed and wiped the perspiration from her face with a fresh cloth.

“Very well. But there’s no point getting yourself riled up when you need your rest.”

She bent beside the bed on one knee, lifted the cover, and thrust her hand underneath. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the fear that a mouse, or more likely a rat, waited in the darkness to bite a chunk of flesh from her fingers. She tried not to think about that, and decided that if she humored him, maybe the old German would fall back asleep for good and she would be done with him forever.

On the other hand, maybe she would find a small cache of gold powder or nuggets under the bed: the old man certainly lived frugally enough, yet he always had cash on hand whenever a friend seemed to need it. Even an ounce or two of gold would help defray the cost of his burial; so far as anyone knew, the old man had no wife or family to claim his body, and she was reluctant to handle the funeral arrangements for a charity case. And a foreigner at that.

Her fingers touched the rusted edges of a metal container. About the size of a breadbox, the top was covered with a thick layer of dust and grime. She needed both hands to pull the box from under the bed and she struggled lifting it to the night stand. The box was heavy, and her back sagged with the effort.

The old man’s face showed sudden relief as soon as he saw the box. He gestured with his hand and sighed.

“Open it.”

Julia shrugged and pried the box open with her thumbs. As her eyes focused in the dim light an unconscious gasp rushed from her throat. She touched her hand to the object and ran her finger over its coarse surface. Gold. A single nugget more than twice the side of a ladies’ shoe.

“Go on. I want you to have it.”

“But is it ...?”

He nodded and his whiskers settled like straw on his chest.

“That’s all that’s left.”

Julia trembled as she picked up the nugget. The rock was heavy, much heavier than she expected. At least twenty, maybe as much as thirty pounds. The yellow metal flowed in veins thicker than her wrists through the glowing white quartz. She jumped as the old man’s hand clamped down on her wrist.

“But there’s more,” he gasped. “More than fifty ... more than a thousand wagons could carry.”

“Where, Jacob? Where’s the rest of your gold?”

The bedroom door swung open and Julia’s stepson stepped through the threshold. Julia pushed the nugget back into the box and clamped the lid down tight.

“What’s wrong with the Dutchman?”

“Close the door!” She motioned the boy to join her beside the bed.

From her apron she produced a nub of pencil and a stained fragment of foolscap, which she thrust into her stepson’s hand. Her eyes glared as she mouthed the words, “Write it down.” She sat on the bed and pushed her fingers through the old man’s greasy hair.

“Now Mr. Waltz,” she began sweetly, “you go ahead and tell me where we can find the rest of your gold.”

--------------------------------------

Chapter 1

Lake Hartwell, South Carolina

The twenty-six foot wood cabin cruiser rolled gently on the lake’s glassy surface. Steve Case glanced over his shoulder at the nearest shore, more than a mile from where they were anchored, before hoisting the scuba tank onto his back and tightening the straps across his chest and waist. He kept an eye out for any traffic that might be headed in their direction and seeing they had this portion of the lake to themselves, he turned to the two men standing near the transom and watched as they struggled with their tanks.

“The water’s not that deep, but there’s not much visibility near the bottom. I want both of you to stay close and be aware of your surroundings. Even experienced divers have drowned from getting tangled in rotting branches and limbs.”

The taller man grunted and fingered the diving knife on his belt.

“That’s the third time you’ve told us. We hired you to be a guide, not our nurse.” He slipped the knife into its sheath and flexed the fingers on his right hand before curling them into a fist. Case sat on the transom and pulled on his fins.

“Well, I told you the rules before we left the dock. We’ll be breaking the law as soon as we go over the side, so I can turn around right now if there’s any problem deciding who’s in charge.”

The older, more slightly built man shrugged.

“All Calvin’s saying is that we’re not amateurs. Between us, we have more than twenty years of diving experience.” His voice was calm and reassuring, but the condescending tone put Case on edge.

“And besides not getting arrested, I want to make sure you each get twenty more.” Case checked his regulator and turned the valve to adjust the air flow.

The two men had arrived at his dock just before noon, eager to book a one-hour dive at the submerged Friendship town site. Neither man had a diving license but they paid cash up front, all in fresh twenties and fifties. Business was slack during the late summer, and Case welcomed the unexpected windfall despite what the men had asked him to do. He nonetheless booked the dive as a lesson to at least keep the paperwork legal, and fitted each man with tanks and gear. The older man had taken charge of the transaction, and signed an illegible scrawl on the receipt.

Al stood slowly with the cumbersome weight and checked his watch. “How much time will we have on the bottom?”

“If we maintain a fifteen minute reserve, we’ll have at least thirty minutes on the bottom.”

Calvin shot a glance at Al. “We paid for a full hour.”

“Your hour started as soon as we left the dock. We’re already taking enough chances as it is, and if we stay anchored here more than thirty minutes, someone’s liable to notice the boat and start getting suspicious.”

Al checked the beam on his diving light and glanced across the gunwale at the surface. “Thirty minutes will be plenty. All we need is a quick look at the site.”

Case lowered his mask and adjusted the fit to his face. He gave a thumbs-up, gripped the mask, and slipped over the side. Ten feet below the surface his descent stabilized, and he floated motionlessly in the boat’s quivering shadow as the two clients appeared beside him.

Case waited as the bubbles cleared and each diver adjusted his buoyancy vest. Both men returned his thumbs-up and then he pointed at the bottom. The pressure against his eardrums intensified almost immediately and he swallowed as hard as he could to relieve the strain as he swam to the bottom.

Twenty feet below the lake’s surface, the muddy clay bottom roiled as the three divers kicked ahead into the blackness. Their powerful handheld lights reached only a few yards into the swirling silt before fading into the inky, unsettled murk.

Case checked the compass attached to his wrist. Not much current on the lake bottom, but even the slightest drift could push them off course, and with the least deviation they might overshoot their target. He calculated their objective was only a dozen or so meters ahead, and motioned the two other divers to stay close behind.

The two men nodded and followed single file. Case switched the light to his left hand and casually played it along the bottom. Not much to see here, just the occasional beer can, an old tennis shoe, the rusted shell of a barbecue grill, and the ubiquitous stumps and tree limbs that could tangle and snarl a diver’s gear before he had the slightest hint of danger.

He exhaled and watched the silver column of bubbles surge to the surface. Escaping toward the light. The bubbles fluttered and disappeared overhead. He had accompanied student divers who could never adjust to the foreign sensations and the unnatural dependence on compressed air. Other first-timers found the experience claustrophobic, but Case found each dive exhilarating, and as natural as walking upright.

Then his beam struck a broken stone wall. His pulse quickened and he swam ahead with quick easy strokes, swinging the light back and forth across the forgotten site. A rotting door. A wagon wheel. A barely recognizable combine. Rotted boards and planks lay strewn across the silt as if deposited there by a giant hand.

In 1962 the Army Corps of Engineers had flooded the northeastern Georgia low-country along the Savannah River to create a lake for a new hydroelectric dam. A few private farm houses were jacked onto trucks and relocated before the flood gates opened, but most properties were judged too unstable or impractical for relocation, and were left to drown beneath the surge of the new reservoir.

Not much interest remained in the lost community following its disappearance. Even now, only an occasional sport diver expressed much desire to explore the scattered foundations, junked automobiles, and structural debris littering the lake bottom. In another decade corrosion and silt would reclaim all that remained, but the Corps maintained a strict policy requiring an application and an expensive permit before divers were allowed near the site. This policy had been put into effect to prevent souvenir hunters from vandalizing the historic location, and violations were considered a Federal offense with prison time often resulting for offenders caught with artifacts in their possession.

Al had claimed his ancestors lived near the site late in the late 19^th century, and with a day off between appointments during a business trip to the upstate, this was his lucky opportunity to visit a lost part of his heritage. Not that Al’s interest in the submerged community mattered much to Case: he had collected his fee before leaving the dock. What mattered was guaranteeing that the next thirty minutes under the surface passed without detection from a passing Wildlife patrol.

A disembodied thunk echoed into his diving mask. Steve whirled around and froze.

His clients had vanished behind him, absorbed within the swirling layers of sand and silt. He held his breath and listened but there was only the sound of air bubbles escaping from his regulator. Ca-thunk.

Louder this time. About twenty yards to his left.

Steve swung his light back and forth in the sound’s direction. Nothing. Silt and suspended organic particles obscured his vision and prevented him from seeing more than a few yards ahead. Then the sound became steady, rhythmic and deliberate.

He swam ahead and spotted a faint beam of light arcing through the murk. As he swam to the light his beam revealed tombstones canted at odd angles along the bottom. Somewhere off to his right stood the stone walls of an old Baptist church dating from the 1850s.

Forty years ago, when no one claimed forgotten friends or relatives, the Corps of Engineers allowed the graves to remain undisturbed where they lay. Over the years, he had heard rumors that more than two hundred bodies remained interred in the lake bottom.

The tap tap tap became louder, and more distinct.

Then his light struck Al’s bent-over form, reclined at an odd angle on the bottom. Calvin was crouched protectively beside him. Calvin noticed the beam from Case’s light and suddenly jerked upright. Al tugged Calvin’s arm, and both men exchanged glances and waved Case close.

As he approached Steve saw the two men hovering beside an algae-stained tombstone. Neither man seemed injured or in distress, and then his light caught a flash of steel from the claw-shaped pick in Calvin’s hand. Case gestured “What’s up?” just as Al whirled around with his diving knife cocked in the striking position.

Case grabbed Calvin’s wrist with both hands but the serrated blade was already a blur of motion. The knife whipped past his chin, passing just inches from his throat. The next attack glanced off his mask and severed his air hose as Case turned to avoid the stroke.

Instinctively Case lunged at the other man’s mask, but Calvin was stronger, and had anticipated the move. He twisted Case’s wrist and punched his chest with the blunt hilt of his knife.

The air rushed from his lungs in a painful burst. Case kicked toward the surface, simultaneously fumbling with the emergency valve on his buoyancy vest. But Calvin slashed the bladders before the vest fully inflated, and a vise-like grip seized Case’s ankle as he tried swimming away.

Case struggled to release and free himself from his harness, but the effort foolishly wasted what little air remained in his lungs. He gasped and choked as water surged down his throat. Glowing white orbs scorched and burned the edges of his vision. The bigger man’s bulk was dragging him down, away from the oxygen his body desperately craved.

The spotlight slipped free from Case’s wrist. He watched with idle detachment as the light corkscrewed out of sight to the bottom. He was drowning, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Then the world around him dimmed, and his muscles twitched and relaxed involuntarily as he began helplessly sinking into the depths.