Barry, I purchased your new novel - The Glass Fence - on Amazon, my wife is reading it, and says it is fascinating. Good job
5 hours ago ·Facebook
Friday, May 27, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
I Missed Doomsday Again
Some kid showed up at my door selling Mayan calendars and chocolate bars for a buck. I bought one of each. After he left I glanced at the calendar and realized the Doomsday prophecy was right around the corner. I barely had enough time to prepare for my end of days.
I washed my car, did all the laundry and even folded it, watered the houseplants, and emptied the trash. I set the thermostat at a comfortable 68 degrees. I paid my cable and utility bills and wrote a post-dated check to the landlord. Just in case.
My dilemma in all this was the underlying fact that only good people would be disappearing from the face of the earth and all the bad people would still be left behind.
I judged myself. Was I a good person or a bad person? I lose my temper sometimes, but it's usually for a good reason. Am I bad? If only bad people were left to rule the earth, how chaotic would it get? I realized that if I were left behind for reasons unknown it would still be business as usual.
The day before Armageddon, I called my boss, reminded him that Doomsday was at hand and that there was a good possibility I wouldn't be at work on Monday. My boss said he'd take his chances.
My car dealer would still be in business. There are bad people there, especially in the service department. They charge $90 an hour. That's more than my good dentist and doctor get from me on a visit after my co-pay.
The people at the dry cleaners would be left behind. They burned two shirts and lost a pair of my slacks.
If all the churchgoers disappeared what would happen to Sunday? Should we cancel it? Who would ring the bell and pass the basket?
People who work in liquor stores would be left behind. They sell demon spirits. I bought a bottle of Merlot last week. Did this make me a bad person?
I made a list of friends and assigned them to one of two columns - GOING or STAYING. Chuck buys lottery tickets. He's staying. Mary is a waitress and doesn't declare her tips. Staying. Mark lies about his golf score. He's staying. Cliff and Barb owe the IRS back taxes. They have to stay. On and on the list went and I couldn't put anyone but me in the GOING column.
Up and down my block, neighbors were busy packing boxes in their garages. It's a good neighborhood filled with responsible working people. I assumed everyone had bought a Mayan calendar from that kid. Only one neighbor seemed oblivious to the exodus. Old Bert. He lives two doors down.
"Aren't you getting ready?" I asked.
"For what?" he said.
"Doomsday. Armageddon. The End of Days."
"Shucks," he laughed. "I ain't going nowhere. Even if I was elected I wouldn't go."
"Why not?"
Bert watered his flowerbed. "That scientist Stephen Hawking, he says heaven is a fairy tale."
"But he isn't God!" I reminded him.
"Look at my place," he smiled. "I got flowers coming in and tomato vines budding. It's as close to heaven as I can get. Besides, I don't wanna run into my three ex-wives in heaven. They'll just pick up their arguments where we left off."
"Are they good women?"
"Good enough for me."
"Bert, what is the difference between a good person and a bad person?"
"Something to do with kindness. Doing what's right by people."
I mulled this over. "Bert, let's make a pact. If I go, will you take care of my house? Feed my dogs? Cut the lawn?"
"I suppose I can," he said.
"And if you go, I'll keep up your garden."
We shook on it, then drove to Henley's key shop. We had spare house keys made for each other.
On the way back, Bert said, "I'll be wanting my key back come Monday."
"What makes you so sure I'll be here on Monday?"
Bert scratched his whiskers. "The way I figure it, they raised the bar so high about being good that nobody's goin'.
When we arrived at his house he clipped me a rose from his bush and handed it to me.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"Just a little heaven on earth."
I smiled and took the rose home. After an hour I called my boss and said I'd probably be in on Monday. My boss told me I was a good person.
Doomsday came and went and nobody from my block left. I took the defective Mayan calendar off the wall and threw it away. A neighbor stopped by and I signed her petition to ban kids from soliciting on our block.
http://ping.fm/5TzJl
Some kid showed up at my door selling Mayan calendars and chocolate bars for a buck. I bought one of each. After he left I glanced at the calendar and realized the Doomsday prophecy was right around the corner. I barely had enough time to prepare for my end of days.
I washed my car, did all the laundry and even folded it, watered the houseplants, and emptied the trash. I set the thermostat at a comfortable 68 degrees. I paid my cable and utility bills and wrote a post-dated check to the landlord. Just in case.
My dilemma in all this was the underlying fact that only good people would be disappearing from the face of the earth and all the bad people would still be left behind.
I judged myself. Was I a good person or a bad person? I lose my temper sometimes, but it's usually for a good reason. Am I bad? If only bad people were left to rule the earth, how chaotic would it get? I realized that if I were left behind for reasons unknown it would still be business as usual.
The day before Armageddon, I called my boss, reminded him that Doomsday was at hand and that there was a good possibility I wouldn't be at work on Monday. My boss said he'd take his chances.
My car dealer would still be in business. There are bad people there, especially in the service department. They charge $90 an hour. That's more than my good dentist and doctor get from me on a visit after my co-pay.
The people at the dry cleaners would be left behind. They burned two shirts and lost a pair of my slacks.
If all the churchgoers disappeared what would happen to Sunday? Should we cancel it? Who would ring the bell and pass the basket?
People who work in liquor stores would be left behind. They sell demon spirits. I bought a bottle of Merlot last week. Did this make me a bad person?
I made a list of friends and assigned them to one of two columns - GOING or STAYING. Chuck buys lottery tickets. He's staying. Mary is a waitress and doesn't declare her tips. Staying. Mark lies about his golf score. He's staying. Cliff and Barb owe the IRS back taxes. They have to stay. On and on the list went and I couldn't put anyone but me in the GOING column.
Up and down my block, neighbors were busy packing boxes in their garages. It's a good neighborhood filled with responsible working people. I assumed everyone had bought a Mayan calendar from that kid. Only one neighbor seemed oblivious to the exodus. Old Bert. He lives two doors down.
"Aren't you getting ready?" I asked.
"For what?" he said.
"Doomsday. Armageddon. The End of Days."
"Shucks," he laughed. "I ain't going nowhere. Even if I was elected I wouldn't go."
"Why not?"
Bert watered his flowerbed. "That scientist Stephen Hawking, he says heaven is a fairy tale."
"But he isn't God!" I reminded him.
"Look at my place," he smiled. "I got flowers coming in and tomato vines budding. It's as close to heaven as I can get. Besides, I don't wanna run into my three ex-wives in heaven. They'll just pick up their arguments where we left off."
"Are they good women?"
"Good enough for me."
"Bert, what is the difference between a good person and a bad person?"
"Something to do with kindness. Doing what's right by people."
I mulled this over. "Bert, let's make a pact. If I go, will you take care of my house? Feed my dogs? Cut the lawn?"
"I suppose I can," he said.
"And if you go, I'll keep up your garden."
We shook on it, then drove to Henley's key shop. We had spare house keys made for each other.
On the way back, Bert said, "I'll be wanting my key back come Monday."
"What makes you so sure I'll be here on Monday?"
Bert scratched his whiskers. "The way I figure it, they raised the bar so high about being good that nobody's goin'.
When we arrived at his house he clipped me a rose from his bush and handed it to me.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"Just a little heaven on earth."
I smiled and took the rose home. After an hour I called my boss and said I'd probably be in on Monday. My boss told me I was a good person.
Doomsday came and went and nobody from my block left. I took the defective Mayan calendar off the wall and threw it away. A neighbor stopped by and I signed her petition to ban kids from soliciting on our block.
http://ping.fm/5TzJl
Friends - My new novel The Glass Fence is finally available for guilty summer reading pleasures. A bouncing cultural mystery set at a luxury hotel with troubled romances, cracking friendships, my twisted humor, the spirit of life and plenty of subplots . It is available at Amazon in print or ebook and Smashwords. Please take a peek. Links below...
Glass Fence Amazon print:
http://ping.fm/4lXwg
Amazon Kindle:
http://ping.fm/3jZk3
Smashwords (all other ebook platforms)
http://ping.fm/wrssa
Glass Fence Amazon print:
http://ping.fm/4lXwg
Amazon Kindle:
http://ping.fm/3jZk3
Smashwords (all other ebook platforms)
http://ping.fm/wrssa
Listen to The Spirit Connection - Inspirations - Honoring Soul with Barry James Hickey.
Listen to internet radio with SpiritConnection on Blog Talk Radio
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Barry Hickey hosts The Spirit Connection tonight at 7pm mountain time on blogtalkradio. Tune in!http://ping.fm/yONac
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Join Barry Hickey, Christine Blackburn and David Torres on The Spirit Connection thursdays at 7pm (Mountain Time)
http://ping.fm/6YWKA
http://ping.fm/6YWKA
Friday, May 6, 2011
My Dogs Are On Facebook
Barry James Hickey
Georgie Girl and her accomplice Portia are rascal mutts. I know they take me for granted. I used to wonder what they do around the house all day while they send me to fetch money to keep them living in doggy heaven. Then I stumbled across something very disturbing this week.
My dogs are on Facebook.
Are dogs intelligent? I suppose. I know dumber people. But dogs are also cunning master manipulators. My girls always wake me before sunrise to feed them. They force me to walk them at least once a day. They eat dinner before I am allowed. I had to give up Sunday church services for the dog park. And why do I have to chill their water bowls?
Sure, they let me sit on the couch sometimes. After all, I paid for it. That king-sized bed has my name on it, not theirs. But they don't care. They think they have me trained. But this Facebook business… I feel like I lost my best friends.
I should have seen it coming. There were early signs, dire warnings. But I can't smell or see or hear like a dog.
The hole I found dug under the fence last week? It turns out Georgie Girl and her live-in girlfriend Portia were dragging coaxial cable from the empty house next door, stealing the land line signal for their secret lair tucked in a corner of the garage behind stacks of old boxes.
Last week several UPS boxes arrived c/o "Ladies of the House" from Dogs-R-Us. It wasn't Christmas or their birthdays. Dogs don't celebrate Easter or Mother's Day (at least I don't think so). Inside were behavioral toys, peanut butter biscuits and a yard clean up tonic "for a sweet smelling yard".
I discovered that Georgie Girl hacked into my old laptop computer in the garage while Portia swiped my credit card from my wallet when I was sleeping. They bought $200 worth of junk. (That's my credit card limit - I'm not a rich man - two female dogs are expensive upkeep.) When I confronted them they smiled and barked, "It's a woman's prerogative." (Whatever that means.)
I threatened to seal up their doggy door but they know I won't go through with it. I'm not Alpha enough. Besides, when they poop in the house they always make me clean it up.
Now this Facebook business behind my back. They posted over 200 profile pictures and I'm not in any of them. They describe themselves as voluptuous, rather than pudgy. I discovered their interest in "men" and that Georgie Girl likes "romantic walks in the rain," while Portia enjoys "romantic dinners by candlelight." They're such liars. Georgie Girl whines when it drizzles and Portia's idea of a romantic dinner is gorging herself on sweat socks.
I sat them down and spent a fruitless afternoon talking to them about the pitfalls and dangers of social media between strangers. But they don't care. They want what they want when they want it.
I checked into other social sites. They opted out of MySpace. There are no videos of them on YouTube yet. (I returned the digital camera they ordered.) One of them saved Twitter as a favorite site. I'm sure they'll have something to bark about in 140 characters or less.
I went into my Facebook account and posted on their wall, telling their "male friends" that the two of them are just two fat lazy bitches in heat and that they don't look anything like their pictures in real life. The next day they had over thirty hits. Males looking to "hook up" with females on the plump side.
And just how did they get more friends than me on Facebook? It's a dog's life.
Barry James Hickey
Georgie Girl and her accomplice Portia are rascal mutts. I know they take me for granted. I used to wonder what they do around the house all day while they send me to fetch money to keep them living in doggy heaven. Then I stumbled across something very disturbing this week.
My dogs are on Facebook.
Are dogs intelligent? I suppose. I know dumber people. But dogs are also cunning master manipulators. My girls always wake me before sunrise to feed them. They force me to walk them at least once a day. They eat dinner before I am allowed. I had to give up Sunday church services for the dog park. And why do I have to chill their water bowls?
Sure, they let me sit on the couch sometimes. After all, I paid for it. That king-sized bed has my name on it, not theirs. But they don't care. They think they have me trained. But this Facebook business… I feel like I lost my best friends.
I should have seen it coming. There were early signs, dire warnings. But I can't smell or see or hear like a dog.
The hole I found dug under the fence last week? It turns out Georgie Girl and her live-in girlfriend Portia were dragging coaxial cable from the empty house next door, stealing the land line signal for their secret lair tucked in a corner of the garage behind stacks of old boxes.
Last week several UPS boxes arrived c/o "Ladies of the House" from Dogs-R-Us. It wasn't Christmas or their birthdays. Dogs don't celebrate Easter or Mother's Day (at least I don't think so). Inside were behavioral toys, peanut butter biscuits and a yard clean up tonic "for a sweet smelling yard".
I discovered that Georgie Girl hacked into my old laptop computer in the garage while Portia swiped my credit card from my wallet when I was sleeping. They bought $200 worth of junk. (That's my credit card limit - I'm not a rich man - two female dogs are expensive upkeep.) When I confronted them they smiled and barked, "It's a woman's prerogative." (Whatever that means.)
I threatened to seal up their doggy door but they know I won't go through with it. I'm not Alpha enough. Besides, when they poop in the house they always make me clean it up.
Now this Facebook business behind my back. They posted over 200 profile pictures and I'm not in any of them. They describe themselves as voluptuous, rather than pudgy. I discovered their interest in "men" and that Georgie Girl likes "romantic walks in the rain," while Portia enjoys "romantic dinners by candlelight." They're such liars. Georgie Girl whines when it drizzles and Portia's idea of a romantic dinner is gorging herself on sweat socks.
I sat them down and spent a fruitless afternoon talking to them about the pitfalls and dangers of social media between strangers. But they don't care. They want what they want when they want it.
I checked into other social sites. They opted out of MySpace. There are no videos of them on YouTube yet. (I returned the digital camera they ordered.) One of them saved Twitter as a favorite site. I'm sure they'll have something to bark about in 140 characters or less.
I went into my Facebook account and posted on their wall, telling their "male friends" that the two of them are just two fat lazy bitches in heat and that they don't look anything like their pictures in real life. The next day they had over thirty hits. Males looking to "hook up" with females on the plump side.
And just how did they get more friends than me on Facebook? It's a dog's life.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Barry James Hickey is the host of the entertaining 30-minute Spirit Connection on Blog Talk radio tonight at 9pm, Mountain Standard Time. We are looking for show followers and guests for future shows. Look for Barry's other show - Made in America in a few weeks.
http://ping.fm/wuhFo
http://ping.fm/wuhFo
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/spiritconnection/eventfeed
Barry James Hickey is the host of The Spirit Connection on Blog Talk radio. Look for his own show, Made in America in two weeks.
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/spiritconnection/eventfeed
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/spiritconnection/eventfeed
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Excerpt from the novel Chasing God's River
THE ROYAL GORGE
Less than a mile downstream, Wade and Malachi came around a bend and saw two spent men sitting on a boulder near their overturned boats. A camera operator was videotaping them from a bluff across the river.
“Howdy, Wade,” Bratt said.
“Howdy, Bratt. Looks like we made it a-ways,” said Wade.
He and Malachi pulled to shore and climbed out of their kayaks, stretching their legs.
“That we did, Wade,” Dimens spoke. “But the snake took its toll. Anybody left behind you?”
“Nope. As far as I can tell we're the last ones. He looked at the bandage on Dimens head. “Concussion?”
“It's comin'. Feels like I'm drippin' blood in the back of my brain.”
“Guess I'll take dim Dimens and me into the next town for some x-rays,” Bratt said.
“Where’s Dennis the Menace?” Wade asked.
“You mean Spooky Dennis - been staring at his derriere all day,” Dimens said. “You'll find him around the next bend up ahead in his boat. Been dodging us like we got a plague. Every time we move up, he moves up, hoping a television camera will see him in first place. But nobody can get in this part of the river. I don't think he wants to enter the gorge but then again, he ain't gonna let nobody pass him either. I’ll bet you a buck he’s parked in his boat around the next bend, praying we’re all finished.”
“Dennis doesn’t pray,” Malachi said.
“Old bastard,” Bratt said.
Wade took a long drink from his water bottle. “Malachi? I'm gonna walk the river up ahead, see if I can talk some sense into Dennis. Maybe I won't spook him if he sees me on foot. Can you get these kayaks up to the roadside?”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Malachi.
Wade cautiously followed the fast-flowing river, gripping at the vegetation along the riverbanks so he wouldn't be forced into the current. Fifty yards ahead, he turned a sharp bend, climbing a rock to get a view downstream. He found madman Dennis Nicholson below, his aching body half in his banged up boat, eyes twitching, examining the river upstream for humans in kayaks. His arms and face were bloodied.
“Jesus,” Wade said. He yelled down to the man. “What the hell kind of mess you get yourself into, Dennis?”
Dennis turned around, flashing his paddle like a weapon. “Jes' keep yer distance, Jones!”
“Hell, Dennis, if I wanted I coulda jumped you and smashed your head in already.”
“You'd like that, wouldn't you, Wade? You'd like to claim the day. Just like always! The great Wade Jones gettin' all the glory while old Dennis lays back sucking on what's left of the tit!”
“Come on, Dennis. It ends here,” Wade said. “We can climb this hill together and be done with the river.” He glanced ahead at Deadman's Drop - the narrow entrance to the Royal Gorge - a point of no return. “Your boat won. Gotta be worth at least forty thousand dollars cash in your pocket.”
Denny's eyes scanned the horizon. “So you say - and not a damned camera in sight to prove it,” he said.
“Hell, Dennis, you can take my word.”
“Your word don't mean nuthin' to me! I got you to two Olympics and what did you do when you got there? You pissed it all away, pissed away that God-given talent, never listening to a damned word of advice I gave you. You think them Olympics cost you? What about me? I lost everything trying to take you to the top! My wives, my career - all bet on you - and you threw me away like an old penny when it was over.”
“I got married, Dennis. Tried to move on. Even got a kid coming now!”
“Not so much as a Christmas card from you,” Dennis yelled. “To a man who treated you like a father!”
“Dennis... Let's get off the river. We'll talk about old times. I got a kid coming. You won the race.”
“Any kind of lie to get me to stop - to hell with you! To hell with everybody!” He slid into his boat.
“Denny, don't...” Wade started sliding down the rock to stop him.
“Yeah, that's right, Jones! You just try to stop me!” He pushed off into the river.
“Come on, Denny. Pull over!” Wade yelled.
“I'm right where God wants me to be,” Dennis decided.
Wade fell into the water and reached for Dennis' boat. The old man fought back, slapping at Wade's fingers with the blades of his scarred paddle.
“I'm taking the day! Me!” the older man ranted.
“Dennis...” Wade called out. “Stop Dennis! There's another way!”
“To hell with you, Jones!” Dennis shouted as his boat caught the current and drifted downstream between the narrow granite walls of the gorge. “This is the only way!”
The old man drifted into Deadman's Drop and was gone.
THE ROYAL GORGE
Less than a mile downstream, Wade and Malachi came around a bend and saw two spent men sitting on a boulder near their overturned boats. A camera operator was videotaping them from a bluff across the river.
“Howdy, Wade,” Bratt said.
“Howdy, Bratt. Looks like we made it a-ways,” said Wade.
He and Malachi pulled to shore and climbed out of their kayaks, stretching their legs.
“That we did, Wade,” Dimens spoke. “But the snake took its toll. Anybody left behind you?”
“Nope. As far as I can tell we're the last ones. He looked at the bandage on Dimens head. “Concussion?”
“It's comin'. Feels like I'm drippin' blood in the back of my brain.”
“Guess I'll take dim Dimens and me into the next town for some x-rays,” Bratt said.
“Where’s Dennis the Menace?” Wade asked.
“You mean Spooky Dennis - been staring at his derriere all day,” Dimens said. “You'll find him around the next bend up ahead in his boat. Been dodging us like we got a plague. Every time we move up, he moves up, hoping a television camera will see him in first place. But nobody can get in this part of the river. I don't think he wants to enter the gorge but then again, he ain't gonna let nobody pass him either. I’ll bet you a buck he’s parked in his boat around the next bend, praying we’re all finished.”
“Dennis doesn’t pray,” Malachi said.
“Old bastard,” Bratt said.
Wade took a long drink from his water bottle. “Malachi? I'm gonna walk the river up ahead, see if I can talk some sense into Dennis. Maybe I won't spook him if he sees me on foot. Can you get these kayaks up to the roadside?”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Malachi.
Wade cautiously followed the fast-flowing river, gripping at the vegetation along the riverbanks so he wouldn't be forced into the current. Fifty yards ahead, he turned a sharp bend, climbing a rock to get a view downstream. He found madman Dennis Nicholson below, his aching body half in his banged up boat, eyes twitching, examining the river upstream for humans in kayaks. His arms and face were bloodied.
“Jesus,” Wade said. He yelled down to the man. “What the hell kind of mess you get yourself into, Dennis?”
Dennis turned around, flashing his paddle like a weapon. “Jes' keep yer distance, Jones!”
“Hell, Dennis, if I wanted I coulda jumped you and smashed your head in already.”
“You'd like that, wouldn't you, Wade? You'd like to claim the day. Just like always! The great Wade Jones gettin' all the glory while old Dennis lays back sucking on what's left of the tit!”
“Come on, Dennis. It ends here,” Wade said. “We can climb this hill together and be done with the river.” He glanced ahead at Deadman's Drop - the narrow entrance to the Royal Gorge - a point of no return. “Your boat won. Gotta be worth at least forty thousand dollars cash in your pocket.”
Denny's eyes scanned the horizon. “So you say - and not a damned camera in sight to prove it,” he said.
“Hell, Dennis, you can take my word.”
“Your word don't mean nuthin' to me! I got you to two Olympics and what did you do when you got there? You pissed it all away, pissed away that God-given talent, never listening to a damned word of advice I gave you. You think them Olympics cost you? What about me? I lost everything trying to take you to the top! My wives, my career - all bet on you - and you threw me away like an old penny when it was over.”
“I got married, Dennis. Tried to move on. Even got a kid coming now!”
“Not so much as a Christmas card from you,” Dennis yelled. “To a man who treated you like a father!”
“Dennis... Let's get off the river. We'll talk about old times. I got a kid coming. You won the race.”
“Any kind of lie to get me to stop - to hell with you! To hell with everybody!” He slid into his boat.
“Denny, don't...” Wade started sliding down the rock to stop him.
“Yeah, that's right, Jones! You just try to stop me!” He pushed off into the river.
“Come on, Denny. Pull over!” Wade yelled.
“I'm right where God wants me to be,” Dennis decided.
Wade fell into the water and reached for Dennis' boat. The old man fought back, slapping at Wade's fingers with the blades of his scarred paddle.
“I'm taking the day! Me!” the older man ranted.
“Dennis...” Wade called out. “Stop Dennis! There's another way!”
“To hell with you, Jones!” Dennis shouted as his boat caught the current and drifted downstream between the narrow granite walls of the gorge. “This is the only way!”
The old man drifted into Deadman's Drop and was gone.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
I think we nailed our book back cover synopsis for The Glass Fence. I'm looking for pre-publication reviewers. Anyone interested? It's a fun read.
Barry James Hickey
"To reclaim her heart and spirit, Katie Jones struggles with an aloof General Manager and his entrenched staff to start an employee rowing team at a luxury seaside hotel. All she has to do is find a willing team from a dysfunctional group of earnest employees and solve the mysteries of The Glass Fence."
http://ping.fm/CxR7U
Barry James Hickey
"To reclaim her heart and spirit, Katie Jones struggles with an aloof General Manager and his entrenched staff to start an employee rowing team at a luxury seaside hotel. All she has to do is find a willing team from a dysfunctional group of earnest employees and solve the mysteries of The Glass Fence."
http://ping.fm/CxR7U
Friday, April 8, 2011
Midwest Book Review (Oregon, WI USA) - This review is from: Chasing God's River (Paperback)
We can't always live up to what the past expects of us. "Chasing God's River" is about a life crisis when Wade Jones goes to meet old friends, away from his wife and broken life. Blending kayaking into the story as a strong focus, this story of life will draw people in and be tough to put down. "Chasing God's River" is a fine read and very highly recommended.
We can't always live up to what the past expects of us. "Chasing God's River" is about a life crisis when Wade Jones goes to meet old friends, away from his wife and broken life. Blending kayaking into the story as a strong focus, this story of life will draw people in and be tough to put down. "Chasing God's River" is a fine read and very highly recommended.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Readers want Chasing God's River to be a movie next. I don't even have an agent. http://ping.fm/cRDHD
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
www.barryhickey.com
I found the voice for Waking Paul Bunyan!
He's 12. What do you think?
"Most people say I'm pretty smart, but it's never been proven. I guess I elected myself to spill the beans on something worth mentioning. It ain't easy having a famous relative - especially when it's Paul Bunyan, the biggest man who ever lived, apparently. My dad, (sometimes I call him my old man), he's crazy about my great, great, great uncle. He has facts and figures and a handmade genealogy tree that goes way back, maybe even to the dinosaurs.
My sister Alissa, she's crazy, too. All girls are crazy. Just ask any twelve-year-old boy and they'll tell you. Girls ain't good for much. Too emotional, especially. Alissa cried when the goldfish drowned. She had a nervous breakdown when her hamster keeled over on the exercise wheel. But when it comes to spiders and bugs, she's plain kill crazy and joyful at their demise.
Having madness in a family is okay, I guess. It doesn't bring great pleasure but it always gives me something to think about. I'm pretty thick-skinned from it. My mom says someday it will make me a better man, having all that insanity on my dad's side of the family. She says she never would have married the old man if she knew he'd become a Paul Bunyan nut. He wasn't that way when he was a Boy Scout. He never mentioned it in high school or when they married. She says his obsession began after we kids were born and after his own dad died. Going through old boxes hidden in grandpa's attic, he discovered the whole Bunyan story. Grandpa never revealed the big dark secret. Maybe he just didn't want to live in someone else's shadow. Mom says dad is middle-age crazy now with failed dreams. Being related to Paul Bunyan is a big deal for him, she says. It's made her crazy, too. Crazy enough to turn any conversation into a cause for divorce.
My little brother, he's a good kid, I guess. He lives in that stupid wheelchair and never complains. I wish I had his kind of guts. Him and Paul Bunyan and my crazy old man, they're as unique and different as marbles.
My mom's craziness is nothing like my sister's. Mom is too business-like, running that eighteen-room motel at the edge of town. We kids call it the Psycho Motel - like from the movie. It has a history of violence - People stabbing themselves to death or hanging themselves, people with prescription bottles and old people dying in their sleep 'cuz their respirators ran out of air. Hell, some motels with bad locations may as well be called mortuaries. We kids joke with her too much. I said she ought to put casket brochures in every room instead of bibles nobody reads. If people read the bibles, maybe they wouldn't be wanting to die so fast.
My family, we try to laugh a lot between all the miseries. We try not to talk about death much, not knowing what's gonna happen to Little Bill as we go. Seems we know more doctors than kids. But Little Bill, he takes things in stride. He's one heck of a marble.
I can't say I'm living a normal life. Not with all the eccentrics around me. Being the offspring of dreamers and intellectuals tends to lead towards social isolation. My dad thinks an old pile of scrap wood, a box of nails and a claw hammer is the most fun any boy can have. I tend to disagree. I'd rather have something electronic. My dad, he says cell phones maybe cause cancer. The closest I can get to one is two old tomato soup cans connected by string. Little Bill, he's only ten feet away on the other end so I can hear every word he says, regardless.
All us kids, my mom, the neighbors, even the man at the dump tell my old man to move his mind into the twenty-first century. Hell, he ain't even in the last century most of the time, his thoughts clouded with Paul Bunyan business from the 1800's.
After Grandpa died, then Grandma, we moved to the old farmhouse on a forty acre tract of land. It sets on the edge of town in Wabasha, Minnesota, along the upper Mississippi River. On a clear day, I can see Wisconsin across the water. (We don't get to Wisconsin much. Dad says it's full of liberals).
Wabasha is the oldest town in the state, started in 1826 as a trading post. Everybody here is pretty proud of it. It used to be called Wabashaw with an extra w, named after an Indian chief. I hear they dropped the last w to make the place sound more cosmopolitan and less Indian to nervous investors and homesteaders. Lots of Indians roamed the area before white settlers came. There were Sioux, Sacs, Foxes, Iowas, Omahas, Otoes and Chippewas. But they faded away over the years. We got lots of half bloods in the area. Everybody wants to be part Indian in Minnesota. You get free money from the government."
I found the voice for Waking Paul Bunyan!
He's 12. What do you think?
"Most people say I'm pretty smart, but it's never been proven. I guess I elected myself to spill the beans on something worth mentioning. It ain't easy having a famous relative - especially when it's Paul Bunyan, the biggest man who ever lived, apparently. My dad, (sometimes I call him my old man), he's crazy about my great, great, great uncle. He has facts and figures and a handmade genealogy tree that goes way back, maybe even to the dinosaurs.
My sister Alissa, she's crazy, too. All girls are crazy. Just ask any twelve-year-old boy and they'll tell you. Girls ain't good for much. Too emotional, especially. Alissa cried when the goldfish drowned. She had a nervous breakdown when her hamster keeled over on the exercise wheel. But when it comes to spiders and bugs, she's plain kill crazy and joyful at their demise.
Having madness in a family is okay, I guess. It doesn't bring great pleasure but it always gives me something to think about. I'm pretty thick-skinned from it. My mom says someday it will make me a better man, having all that insanity on my dad's side of the family. She says she never would have married the old man if she knew he'd become a Paul Bunyan nut. He wasn't that way when he was a Boy Scout. He never mentioned it in high school or when they married. She says his obsession began after we kids were born and after his own dad died. Going through old boxes hidden in grandpa's attic, he discovered the whole Bunyan story. Grandpa never revealed the big dark secret. Maybe he just didn't want to live in someone else's shadow. Mom says dad is middle-age crazy now with failed dreams. Being related to Paul Bunyan is a big deal for him, she says. It's made her crazy, too. Crazy enough to turn any conversation into a cause for divorce.
My little brother, he's a good kid, I guess. He lives in that stupid wheelchair and never complains. I wish I had his kind of guts. Him and Paul Bunyan and my crazy old man, they're as unique and different as marbles.
My mom's craziness is nothing like my sister's. Mom is too business-like, running that eighteen-room motel at the edge of town. We kids call it the Psycho Motel - like from the movie. It has a history of violence - People stabbing themselves to death or hanging themselves, people with prescription bottles and old people dying in their sleep 'cuz their respirators ran out of air. Hell, some motels with bad locations may as well be called mortuaries. We kids joke with her too much. I said she ought to put casket brochures in every room instead of bibles nobody reads. If people read the bibles, maybe they wouldn't be wanting to die so fast.
My family, we try to laugh a lot between all the miseries. We try not to talk about death much, not knowing what's gonna happen to Little Bill as we go. Seems we know more doctors than kids. But Little Bill, he takes things in stride. He's one heck of a marble.
I can't say I'm living a normal life. Not with all the eccentrics around me. Being the offspring of dreamers and intellectuals tends to lead towards social isolation. My dad thinks an old pile of scrap wood, a box of nails and a claw hammer is the most fun any boy can have. I tend to disagree. I'd rather have something electronic. My dad, he says cell phones maybe cause cancer. The closest I can get to one is two old tomato soup cans connected by string. Little Bill, he's only ten feet away on the other end so I can hear every word he says, regardless.
All us kids, my mom, the neighbors, even the man at the dump tell my old man to move his mind into the twenty-first century. Hell, he ain't even in the last century most of the time, his thoughts clouded with Paul Bunyan business from the 1800's.
After Grandpa died, then Grandma, we moved to the old farmhouse on a forty acre tract of land. It sets on the edge of town in Wabasha, Minnesota, along the upper Mississippi River. On a clear day, I can see Wisconsin across the water. (We don't get to Wisconsin much. Dad says it's full of liberals).
Wabasha is the oldest town in the state, started in 1826 as a trading post. Everybody here is pretty proud of it. It used to be called Wabashaw with an extra w, named after an Indian chief. I hear they dropped the last w to make the place sound more cosmopolitan and less Indian to nervous investors and homesteaders. Lots of Indians roamed the area before white settlers came. There were Sioux, Sacs, Foxes, Iowas, Omahas, Otoes and Chippewas. But they faded away over the years. We got lots of half bloods in the area. Everybody wants to be part Indian in Minnesota. You get free money from the government."
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