Though I've sometimes been called extreme in my views (and that's being polite), if nothing else, my methods are effective. The reason for this is, when I encounter a problem (or problematic person), I'm enough of a creative jackass to devise a clever fix. Clever fixes, you see, are the best sort, especially when your problems are other people.

Creative people come up with solutions. Jackasses make other people feel bad about themselves. Therefore, infallible logic informs us that creative jackasses come up with solutions that make evil jackasses feel bad about themselves. They're Chaotic-Good on the alignment table.
 
If the world were populated solely with creative jackasses, it would be an obnoxious place to live... but everything would work. For instance:

Prison Violence
 Oh, so there was a stabbing in the prison cafeteria? No problem. Replace all the eating utensils with cotton balls and announce soup is on the menu. Bon appétit!
 
Deforestation
 Oh, so there's a paper mill in town stripping your pristine forests bare? Just call some arsonists and burn the forest down -- that factory will have to shut down! Wait a minute...
 
Healthcare
 I went to the doctor for an x-ray of my foot. He put the film up on the screen and said, "I see what's been causing your ankle pain. You see that there?" he asked, pointing to a dislocated bone splinter.
 
"It's that bone there, but we can't see it very well so we'll need an MRI. That will cost another $5,000."
 
I scratched my head and responded, "You mean you need an MRI to see that thing you and I can see is right there?"
 
Unapologetic, he said, "Yes."
 
So I handed him my glasses, saying, "Doc, maybe you need these more than I do."
 
Putting It All Together
 The gamut of societal problems we face -- crime, nepotism, workplace abuse, nasty neighbors -- all boil down to a simple concept: "My comfort or convenience is more important than your necessities."
 
Think about how true this is the next time you take grandma for a doctor's visit and some scumbag rolls his luxury SUV into the last wheelchair accessible parking space -- and then jaunts out of his car, strutting like he owns the place. Now you've got to park all the way in the back of the lot, struggle to get granny out of the car, then wheel her across several hundred feet of tarmac in blazing heat (or snow, if you prefer). All this, just because some self-absorbed ambulatory dirtbag considered himself too important to walk -- and took the spot reserved for someone who can't.
 
Things like this make a man's hand itch for a brick to put through someone's windshield -- luxury SUV windshield. Not that I've ever done that or would condone it, no... But still, I've seen this enough times, you'd think I'd have thrown enough bricks to make a house.

Be nice to people... or else.

A friend of mine was considering names for his soon-to-be-born first child and asked my opinion. During what would normally be a happy occasion, we nearly came to blows, all over a disagreement on baby names. For the sake of the forthcoming child, I'll not mention the name his parent suggested. Suffice it to say that some parents aren't qualified to name their pet goldfish.

Apparently, some countries have gotten so fed up with random fistfights over baby names that they've passed laws on just this subject. Countries with baby-name legislation have an "approved" list of baby names, and forbid parents from naming their children anything else. Generally, countries with this sort of law will not register a child given an unauthorized name, and birth records will simply reflect "Girl" or "Boy" on that child's vital record. This brings up a creepy tangent -- what happens to a child who grows to adulthood and yet is a non-citizen? I personally don't know, nor do I know anyone in that predicament. Even so, the threat of social ostracism, or being a living non-person, tends to scare parents into naming their kids something acceptable, for the benefit of everyone else.

Sadly, I don't live in a country that values that benefit. Americans consider it their liberty to name their children anything they want, going so far as to call it an important, constitutionally-protected expression.

Apparently, then, a parent's liberty to name his child Bonkzillius (a name I just made up, but I've heard worse) outweighs the eighteen years of ridicule, shame, and abuse that child will endure until he becomes an adult, when he may legally change his name to Steve.

Before you throw bricks at me and label me a fascist, consider this: do we really want all the sci-fi geeks naming their kids Hyperion? Do we want all the roleplaying game nerds calling their progeny Excelsior? Or all the doctors' kids Caduceus? Or the lawyers' Res Ipsa?

Hell, can we put up with all the carnies naming their kids Spin-A-Whirly, after the ride in which those children were conceived?

I don't think I can, nor would I want to.

Unabashed heroics. Nonstop peril. Romance. These are the things Marco keeps clear of. Unfortunately, that's exactly what's in store for him.

Set in a sixteenth century fantasy world, The Gullwing Odyssey tells the tale of Marco Gullwing, a young man who takes his menial job much too seriously. He wants nothing more than simply to work his menial messenger job until he can retire. But when an unusual assignment sends him across the ocean, he finds himself without a means of getting back home. No sooner has his journey begun than he is beset by a neurotic bureaucrat, an overzealous knight, a headstrong princess, and a conniving wizard, each with his or her own agendas.

Pulled in so many directions at once, Marco sees sour prospects for attaining his modest retirement dreams, much less getting out of the whole mess alive. Will Marco rise to the challenge and be the hero he tries so hard not to be?

Check out the series website for more info: www.GullwingOdyssey.com

Sample the first three chapters for free.

E-books are available at:
Amazon    Barnes & Noble    Kobo    Smashwords 

You know you've heard it. You just don't remember or won't admit to it.

You'll hear it piped through the speakers in any trendy chain coffee shop or other place hipsters have historically gathered. You'll know it by the hesitant guitar notes and presence of "new cool" instruments like the ukulele. The singer usually mutters his verses with extreme trepidation. The singers' vocal styles range between high-pitched, like a candidate for a boy's choir, or brassy, like a reject from Muppets voice acting tryouts. The themes behind the songs are usually so safe to the point of being insipid -- travel, relationships, sometimes something so trivial as "it's raining."
 
Hipster music is unobtrusive; it knows it's not the reason why people go to coffee shops. It never comes to the fore because it's not mainstream, it's not corporate ("You just don't get it, man!"). It hasn't sold out, or at least it claims it hasn't. Its image depends on its audience not knowing it has, in fact, sold out to The Man.

Oftentimes, the volume is turned low so the music provides a barely-audible back beat to the chatter in the café, although sometimes it's annoyingly loud. On that note, when it's turned up too loud, it's really annoying because the genre seems to be about music that doesn't want to be heard. The vocalists mumble. A mumble that sounds like a roar is paradoxical, it's something you don't come across every day and when you do, it seizes your attention and doesn't let go. Like a train wreck. It's an awful thing to see and you don't watch it because you want to, you watch because it's something you don't get to see every day -- whether you want to or not.

All this begs several questions: who listens to this? Does anyone? Were you to go to the music store, would you find a section devoted to coffee shop music? Would you feel embarrassed at the look you'd get from the music store clerk on asking him where that section was?

On that last note, if you'd feel embarrassed at all, it's probably because you know what you're doing is wrong. Take off your scarf, it's a hundred degrees out. And take off your sunglasses too, you're indoors. Spit out that cigarette, it's not even lit.

Friends don't let friends listen to Hipster Muzak.