A short story parody by William Hrdina

The legendary Sherlock Holmes stared at a large stack of album covers, his eyes darted from place to place like a pair of cocaine addled hummingbirds.  While he examined the evidence, Sherlock took a long drag from his pipe.  The resulting smoke billowed about his head in an aromatic cloud.

“An interesting case, I must admit.”  Holmes declared, looking at his guest for the first time in five minutes.

“Indeed.  So then, you will take my case?” Asked Brian Epstein.

He looked exhausted.  A tentative hope played on his face.

“I think I will, yes.  I’ve always been interested in scarabaeus.”

Off to the side, leaning fashionably on a Victorian chest, Watson did his level best not to roll his eyes.  Poor Sherlock, he saw plausibility in even the most absurd of claims- and still found a way to be pretentious about it.

Sherlock saw the look of incredulity on his old friend’s face and felt similarly sorry for Watson- whose lack of imagination had been a millstone around his neck for well over a decade.

“Watson, I must implore you to see the plainness of the case.  The scenario sketched out by Mr. Epstein is a bit unlikely, I agree, but how likely is it that there should be four musicians whose collective imaginings would change music so profoundly?  Not bloody likely.  Yet there they are.”  Holmes pointed at the stack of album covers.

“Yes, but…” Watson began.

He was cut off by a wave of Sherlock’s gaunt hand.

“No buts.  It makes perfect logical sense.”

Seeing the blank look, Sherlock elaborated, “Oh Watson, must I hold your hand and walk you to even the most apparent of truths?  It follows as day follows night that an extraordinary man should have his death play out in an extraordinary way- and that is exactly what we are seeing here.  What’s more, I believe I can prove the case using nothing more than anecdotal evidence and these album covers.”

“Marvelous!” declared Brian Epstein.

Watson shook his head in wonder and reached into his sock holster for his whiskey flask.  He took a long pull.

“Watson, bring your pistol.” Sherlock said, rushing out of the room with a flap of his unnecessarily dramatic cape.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing in the control booth in Abbey Road Studios.  Sherlock swept in like he owned the place and immediately started pushing buttons and flipping levers.  Brian ran behind, returning everything back to where it belonged.

“Please, Mr. Holmes, these switches are very sensitive.”

John and Ringo came wandering into the control room in search of a ham sandwich.  Ringo was drinking a grape soda.

“Who’s this guy?” John asked, pointing his thumb at Sherlock.

“This is the great Sherlock Holmes.”

John stared, grinned, waiting for someone to admit the gag.  No one did.

“You’re joking.”

“No joke.”  Watson confirmed.

John turned around and stuck his head back into the studio.

“You guys really need to come in here.” John called.

Paul and George came in and were introduced to the legendary detective.

“Wow. This is like when the Harlem Globetrotters met Scooby-Doo.”  Ringo gushed.

“I’m afraid I’m not here for a social call and I do not anticipate any hijinks with Scooby Snacks. I am here on some very serious business.”

“What business?”

“The cover-up of the death of Paul McCartney.”

Sherlock reached out and flipped a switch on the sound board.

DUM-DUM-DAAHHHH played over the loudspeakers.

“How did he do that?” George whispered.

“Shhh.” John scolded.

“I’m sorry, but what the hell is this guy talking about?”  Paul asked, looking incredulous.

“I’m talking about November 9, 1966.”  Sherlock retorted.

All of a sudden, it got very quiet in Abbey Road studio.

The Duke of Deduction continued, “You know Nov. 9th- it was the night the real Paul McCartney died in a car crash.  The crash that should’ve been national news- but wasn’t- because you replaced him with this guy.”  He pointed at Paul, who looked a bit green.

Ringo kept looking off in whatever direction nobody else was looking and John was suddenly interested in his fingernails.

Sherlock Holmes looked at the Beatles and shook his head.

“And, just like all guilty people who do wrong even when they know better- you couldn’t live with the guilt- you begged to be caught.”

“What?”

“The clues you left.  You’d have to be as slow as Watson not to see what has happened here.”

The great detective dropped three album covers onto the table, Sgt. Peppers, Magical Mystery Tour and Abbey Road.

“There is a pile of additional evidence of course- but I think we can just stick with these three albums to make our case.  First, the facts that liebehind the desperate pleas for arrest seen in these images.  I found a small story in a newspaper called ‘The Daily Sentinel.’  This particular issue was to be burned prior to its distribution- but I was able to proffer a copy from a particularly sentimental pack-rat I know at the paper- his uncle is my aunt- or some such thing.  According to the story you boys worked so hard to squash, you were recording the Sgt. Peppers album and got into an argument over the use of a moose’s mating call on ’When I’m 64.’  According to the article, Paul got into an argument with the lot of you on the evening of the 9th- an argument that caused Paul to get into his car and go racing off into the night.  On his way home, his car crashed.  There is a rumor that he crashed because of a woman named Rita who he picked up hitchhiking.  When she realized she was with a Beatle- she hugged him and caused the crash.  This is apocryphal.  I investigated the scene myself this very afternoon and I discovered a set of raccoon tracks.  Rocky Racoon tracks.  Paul swerved off of the road because of the raccoon- a tragic accident.  His car spun into a ditch and he was killed instantly.  I cannot yet say exactly how the cover up was achieved- but, reportedly, a large amount of cash was placed into a bag and dropped into the hollow of a tree in Hyde Park.  I have investigated the tree and there are clear signs a canvas bag holding 2 million pounds had been sitting there in the past 8 years.”

“It didn’t say that.”  John insisted.

“It did.  Of course, such evidence isn’t actually necessary.  All we need is the evidence you’ve provided us- evidence that proves you know Paul is dead.”

“I don’t even know what you mean.”  John said.

Yet he was clearly edging towards the door.

Watson, who’d been watching the interactions with an increasing wonder, found himself reaching into his pocket and yanking out his pistol.  He pointed it at John.

“I think everyone needs to stay here for the time being.”  He said.

Sherlock was just getting started.

“Only two weeks after the fateful car crash, the reclusive Beatles announced- via their fan club- a Paul McCartney look-alike contest.  The winner was a young man named William Campbell.  A week later, this same man died in a fire.  His body was burned beyond recognition. Only it wasn’t William’s body that was burned- it was Paul’s.”

“That’s mad.”  George snorted.

Sherlock continued, ignoring him.  “It was Paul’s body you burned- and William took his place- the new Paul.  He’s been Paul McCartney ever since.  Sure, it wasn’t easy- William here isn’t a natural lefty.”

Sherlock snatched the knob off of a nearby console.  He threw it at Paul- who caught it with his right hand.

“You probably hoped nobody would notice.  But everyone noticed.  You played as a rightie while you guys were doodling around in the Tonight Show studio before a 1968 appearance.  I talked to a guy named Gus via the tele- he told me he saw you playing the bass backwards.  So you didn’t play in public again for a very long time.  During which period you were sent to the intensive left-handed bass camp held in the Himalayan mountains, known most commonly as Bass-Sur-Ack.  There you learned to play like Paul.”

“That never happened.”

“Oh, so you’d have a rational man believe the fire that burned in the Himalayan mountains, taking the Mik-Sun monastery in the spring of 1969- that was just a coincidence.”

“You’re a nutter.”  Insisted Paul.

“Am I?”  Sherlock took the top album from the pile. “Then why did you leave me so many clues?  Let’s look at Sgt. Pepper’s first.  After all, this was the first album you recorded after Paul’s death.”

Sherlock lit another pipe and toked deeply on it, smoke trickled out of his nose.

“What do you have there?” John asked, sniffing the air.

Sherlock looked abashed.  “You are a Beatle sir.  I would assume you would know what I have here.”

“I just wanted to know if I could have some.”  John said, defensive.

Sherlock passed John the pipe.  It ended up going around several times before Sherlock secreted it away again into a hidden cape pocket.

Holding up Sgt. Pepper’s, Sherlock announced, “I think we’re ready to hear what it is I have to say.  Let’s do the obvious one first.”

Sherlock opened the gatefold of the album cover.  There was a picture of Paul in a blue jacket with a large badge on the shoulder with three letters: OPD. Sherlock tapped his finger on the photo.

“OPD: Officially Pronounced Dead.”

“Or maybe it stands for Optional Pants Day.”  Ringo countered.

“Or Otter’s Penis Digest.”  John said.

George: “Is there a big circulation for that one?”

“Millions.”  Ringo chuffed.

Sherlock gave the Beatles a dirty look and stared at them like a stern school-marm before continuing.

Paul said, “If I remember right, the badge actually said OPP, which stood for Ontario Provincial Police, I bought the badge in Ontario.”

“That doesn’t sound very likely.  You’re telling me you bought a police badge in Canada that just happens to look like OPD?  That might make sense if it wasn’t for the fact I’ve been through all of your customs statements- and you’ve never declared such a patch.”

“No you didn’t.  That’s ridiculous.  You couldn’t of done that.”  Paul said.

Sherlock stared at the man, blinked.  “Okay, so I didn’t do that.  But never mind- what are you going to say about this?”

He flipped back to the front of the album and tapped his finger on the floral display.

“Explain this.”  He insisted.

“Explain what now?”

“This clearly says Paul, with a question mark.”

He looked at the incredulous faces staring back at him- even Watson looked doubtful.

“Fine- you are too blind to see.  But, what about the fact the rest of you are holding brass instruments on the cover and Paul is holding an oboe- which is black- the color of death.”

“I play oboe.  I can play all of those instruments.  Not very well.  The oboe was just the instrument I grabbed.  And black isn’t the color of death- actually black is all of the colors.  It is white that is the lack of any other light of the spectrum and so should therefore be associated with death- and isn’t one said to ‘go into the light’ when they die?”

“Perhaps by some- but they are likely followers of Satan.  Besides, everyone who knows anything about oboes knows that it is one of the oldest instruments- its origins date back to before antiquity- and as you are surely aware- all things of antiquity are- by their very nature- ancient- a thought connected- intimately- in the minds of us all- with death and dying- for what is antiquity if not an age passed into history?”

John looked over at Watson.  “Is he really serious?”

Watson indicated his pistol- “I wouldn’t be holding this if he weren’t.”

Sherlock was positively gleaming now- his brain spinning up as he laid the pieces into place.  With a flourish, he tossed down the copy of Sgt. Peppers and picked up Magical Mystery Tour.  He tapped another photo,

“See here, once again, Paul is wearing a black rose while everyone else is wearing red.  It’s just a coincidence, again?”

All at once, The Beatles looked a little less cocky.

“And this- not exactly subtle boys.”

He flipped the album around again revealing a picture of Paul sitting at a desk in another military type uniform.

“I was.” Sherlock read.  “He’s sitting in front of a sign that says ‘I Was.’”

Watson leaned forward.  “I’ll be damned.”

“And in this picture, Paul isn’t wearing any shoes- they’re visible off to the side- and they appear to be covered in blood.”

“It is a bit odd.”  Ringo admitted.

“I can picture the four of you standing together in a hotel room somewhere.  You’re trying to figure out how it’s possible nobody’s figured it out yet.  At this point- somebody comes along- somebody smart- and they tell you the safest play is to take the Paul is Dead thing over the top.  Make it so obvious nobody will believe it.  A lie kept in plain sight.  A clever, if maladjusted strategy, to weave the illusion of innocence around a crime of great cynicism- the cover up of Paul’s tragic death.  And so we get the Grand Confession that is the cover of Abbey Road.”

“Cover image: four men walking across a street.  No text- no album or band name.  When we look closer, we see that the four men are the four of you- The Beatles.  And further, John is dressed in white like a preacher, Ringo is dressed in black like a pallbearer, then comes Paul in an ill-fitting suit and once again, wearing no shoes.  Why?  Because as everyone knows- they never bury a man in his shoes, a custom started by the Fins in St. Albertine during the Great Death.  Finally comes George, dressed in the casual clothes of a gravedigger.  So there you are- a funeral procession- and for who- for Paul.  I don’t have to be Karl Jung to get the message.  Oh, and don’t forget- with a little squinting, you can see the license plate of the car on the road.  It says ‘28 IF’- which is how old Paul would’ve been when Abbey Road was released- had he not been dead.”

“Must I go on?” Sherlock asked.  “If you insist, I can give some more examples. I’ve barely scratched the surface- for instance, at the end of Strawberry Fields you can plainly hear the phrase ’I buried Paul’ during the song’s coda.  I’ve heard the rubbish about how you claim to be saying cranberry sauce.  You recorded that snippet of tape in the Spring- you wouldn’t have been thinking about cranberry sauce.  Now, if you would’ve claimed to be saying ‘Cantelope,’ why then you’d have a leg to stand on.  But cranberry sauce?  What do you take me for sir?  Now, what say you to these charges?”

Sherlock lit his pipe and took another long drag.

The four Beatles stood looking at each other.

“The jig is up boys- let’s run for it!”  John exclaimed kicking out at Watson’s gun and sending it flying across the room.

A comic chase ensued- Sherlock and Watson pursued one Beatle after another- always losing them behind a door or under a table or by hanging onto a chandelier.  The Beatles were well versed in this sort of escape- they’d used it in more than one film.  From somewhere, perhaps another dimension, the theme to Benny Hill was playing.

The chase finally ended when Sherlock managed to herd all four Beatles into an overly complicated trap.  It was a remarkable oversight nobody had mentioned the big thing set up in the middle of the studio at any previous point.  John, Paul, Ringo, and George were forced over the edge of a massive circular slide.  They flew down it and came out on a wide sheet of ice.  They slid across the ice and crashed into a large hockey goal set directly in their paths.  When they all crashed into the goal- a scoreboard counted up to 4- and then a second goal came crashing out of nowhere- trapping all 4 Beatles.

Entwining his fingers into the mesh of the goal, Paul glared out at Sherlock and his good friend Watson.  “And we would’ve gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for you meddling kids.”  He hit John in the arm.  “And you- with your Cranberry sauce.”

And so ended what came to be known as the Case of the Dead Beatle.

“No no, it’s perfectly safe.”  The guide assured me, blinking only rarely.  She was pretty, with bright blue- terrifyingly blank- eyes and hair that smelled of cotton candy.

I stood looking up at the great beast Godzilla- over 150 feet of pure giant lizard fury.  Every once and a while a burst of flames escaped from his massive jaws.  The cage they were holding him in was indeed impressive.  I looked back at my guide.

“You’re sure this is safe?”

She smiled, patronizing, “Oh yeah, absolutely.  Look at Godzilla’s wrists.  They are being held by shackles made of pure anodized steel- over a foot thick.  Those wrist cuffs are attached to chains strong enough to suspend an ocean liner full of fat tourists.  Look around his waist- that thick band of steel and carbon fiber- it’s almost unbreakable.  And again, chains thick enough to hold an army of Herculeses.  And finally, his ankles, all of the above applies- and then some.  So yes, he’s absolutely safe.”

“But say the unthinkable were to happen- like an earthquake- or Mothra attacks- something like that.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“It’s happened before- Mothra and Gajira and Megalon- even Mecha Godzilla.”

“Yeah, but it’s not going to happen again.”

“Let’s say it does, humor me.  Say it happens and Godzilla breaks free- what is the result?”

“Okay, speaking only theoretically- that’d be an absolute catastrophe.  Cities destroyed- thousands dead- a bad scene.”

“Okay, so, that doesn’t give you pause?”

“No,sir, I told you,  it’s perfectly safe.”

I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall.

“It’s safe.  But if it isn’t safe, it’s catastrophic.” I repeat, hoping to make my point clear.

“Yes.”  She agrees.  “It’s safe.”

She apparently didn’t hear the second half of my statement.  I change the subject.

“What are those guys doing over there in the little room?”

“Oh yes, that’s the state of the art Godzilla control room.  We spared no expense.  That’s how I know we’re safe.”

I look into the control room, about 10 technicians in lab coats scurryied back and forth in front of hundreds of dials and sensors and meters.  They looked at handheld computers and wrote things down.

“Why are they doing all of that?”

“Well, if you don’t keep an incredibly close eye on Godzilla, he could escape his bonds and go on a rampage.  You have to be careful.”

“You just said it was safe.”

“It is safe.  We monitor everything.”

“You don’t have to be careful around things that are safe.  Cute and fuzzy bunnies are safe- you don’t need a room of people to monitor cute and fuzzy bunnies.   If Godzilla was safe, you wouldn’t need a room full of people to monitor him.  That’s the definition of safe- something you don’t have to monitor or be careful around.”

“Yes sir, it’s safe.  That’s what I just said.”

Resisting the urge to bang my head against the wall, I said, “What you’re saying makes no sense.”

“It’s safe sir, there’s nothing to worry about.  We monitor the Godzilla.”

Again, I tried to change the subject, I saw a bunch of signs saying “Beware the Poo.”

“What are those signs about?”  I asked, pointing.

“Well, his poo is a problem.”

“Godzilla’s poo- is a problem?”

“Yeah.”

“What about it is problematic?”

“His poo makes people very sick.  Prolonged exposure to Godzilla poo can kill you.”

“Eww.”  I moaned.

“Yeah, I know.”  My guide agreed.

“So then, what do you do with the poo?”

“Well, we put it in barrels and store in it giant underground caverns.”

“Why do we do that?”

“Because Godzilla’s poo can continue to make people sick for a few thousand years.”

“A few thousand years?”

“Yeah.  Give or take.”

“Okay, again, what exactly are we getting out of keeping Godzilla like this?”

“Well, you know, he turns the crank and makes the turbine go round- bringing cheap electricity to millions of people.”

“Oh.  Don’t we have other ways to turn the turbine?”

“Well, sure. There’s lots of other ways of turning the turbine.  But Godzilla- he really turns the turbine- that Godzilla- he’s a real turbine turner.”  She grinned.

“But his poop makes people sick for 10,000 years.”

“Sir, I told you, we have caverns and stuff for that.”

“But what if something happens to the caverns?”

“Oh, that’s not going to happen.”

“What if it does?”

“Well, again, it’s not going to happen, but if it did- well, I suppose the poo could get into the ground water- absolute catastrophe.  But that won’t happen- don’t worry.”

“But then, I have to trust you- and you guys are the ones who are dumb enough to think having Godzilla turn the turbine makes any sense in the first place.  Besides, I heard there are ways to make the sun turn the turbine- or wind- or geothermal heat.”

“Only hippies say that.  It’s all unproven technology.”

“But I’ve seen…”

“Unproven technology.  We need Godzilla to turn the turbine safely.  It works.  Besides, my company makes Godzillas- we don’t make solar cells or windmills.”

I don’t see what that has to do with anything.

It crossed my mind to start hitting people over the head with something- but I realized it would do me no good.  They’d lock me up for being crazy.  Gotta love the irony.  Besides, it might make Godzilla angry.

“Well, uh, I guess, thank you for your time?”

What I really needed was a stiff drink.

“No problem, be sure to pick up your official Godzilla Power souvenirs on your way out.”  The guide said, smiling prettily.

I left, shaking my head.

As I walked away, I could see the guide shaking her head too.  She just couldn’t wrap her head around stupid people like me who didn’t believe in Godzilla power.

Oh sure, I know what you’re thinking, I couldn’t possibly have a thing in the world to complain about.  You’re thinking you would give anything to be in my hooves. After all, my master is Gandalf the White, one of the most famous magicians in the history of Middle Earth.  And I am Shadowfax- mythical horse given to Gandalf by Theodon the King of the Horse People.  I’m the fastest horse in the world and my master is the dictionary definition of a hero.  On paper I’ve got the best life in the world.

But truth be told, my life pretty much sucks.

Sure, Gandalf can shoot lightning from a stick, but there’s more to life than pyrotechnics and killing ten orcs with a single blow.

Like hay, for instance.  I happen to like hay a great deal.  I like eating hay more than running or standing or anything else.  But do I get to eat all the hay I want to?

Of course not.

Sure he stops when he has the chance, but when you spend your life saving the world from ultimate evil it doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for snacks.

So believe me when I tell you there are down sides to my job.  It’s not all parades and glory, not by a long shot.

For instance, I want to tell you what just happened to me.  For at least a year we’ve been racing all over everywhere trying to track down a ring that Gandalf read about while hanging around and smoking the “hobbits leaf.”  Yeah, right, it’s pot and we all know it.  So anyway, we’ve been traveling for months, never staying in one place for more than a day or two, trying to find this ring.

Then he finds it.  So I’m happy right?  Thinking okay good, we finally get to rest for a bit.  And instead, right away he just gives the thing to this little midget guy with the hairiest feet you’ve ever seen.

Then more with the running.

Every time we stop long enough for me to meet a nice filly or find a particularly tasty clump of grass he’s up on my back yelling for me to “run like the wind” or “show him the meaning of the word speed” or “may the wind envy your swiftness.”

You have no idea how annoying this gets over time.  No one ever yells to Gandalf, “Be really wizardly, like Merlin.”  He gets respect.

I get to run all over kingdom come and I don’t even get health insurance or a 401k plan.

We ended up running all the way back to Rohan, my first home.  It was nice to see some of the guys from my foal days, but then it turns out we’re just there because a huge battle is looming.

The next thing I know we run into this battle and I barely get through it alive.  I mean there were all kinds of nasty creatures everywhere swinging sharp and pointy things at my tender bits.  But I made it through.

Not two days after the battle we were on the road again this time with a bunch of folks and two different midgets.  I don’t know what it is with Gandalf and midgets.  He’s always liked to visit them and hang around their village.  I think it’s the weed.

Anyway, after the battle we go to this ridiculously phallic tower owned by an old buddy of Gandalf’s named Sarumon.   A fight erupts and in the confusion Sarumon drops a big black marble and the next thing I know Gandalf’s on my back along with this goddamn midget and I’m getting kicked in the ribs and told to hurry up.  Now I can handle it and everything, but the point is, was that really necessary?  I mean I’ve seen Gandalf’s treasure room; the cheap son of a bitch could afford to spring for a horse for the stupid hobbit.  But no, he figures two’s better than one and now I have to carry an extra 65 pounds of hairy feet on my back.

So we run for THREE DAYS without stopping.  Did they get to sleep?  You bet your ass they did.  You could hear the old man snoring from three valleys over.

Did I get to sleep?  Not for a minute.  OK, you know, that’s my job.  If I gotta run for three days so be it.

But then we get to Minas Tirith, this huge city built…

…into the side of a mountain.

Can you imagine?  You’ve just run for three days, your destination comes into view and it slowly dawns on you that now you’ve got to run up the side of a mountain.  Talk about a nightmare.  I mean, you know right away that you’re going to have to run all the way to the top because Gandalf is a very important wizard and he’ll need to see whoever is in charge.  Does the guy in charge ever live on the ground floor?

Of course he doesn’t.

He lives in the penthouse.

There was a ray of hope when the fuzzy footed extra weight on my back remarked to Gandalf how high and steep the paths were.  He asked, “Do you think the horse can handle it?”

Never in my life did I wish I spoke human more than I did at that moment.  First, I wanted to tell the midget that my name was Shadowfax, not “the horse.”  And then I would tell them that stopping was a bloody stupendous idea.  I would say, “Why don’t the two of you continue the rest of the way on your own, or maybe you could ride another horse or something.”

Only I don’t speak human, and despite his many talents, Gandalf cannot speak horse.  So, being Mr. Brave guy, Gandalf replies, “No Shadowfax has taken us all this way, he will take us to the end of our destination.”

Oh sure.  Easy for him to say, he’s not the one who just ran for THREE DAYS without stopping.  It’s not like I’m riding on his back. He’s lucky that I didn’t join the horse’s union, I’d be entitled to coffee breaks every few hours, and no mandatory overtime.  You’d think the great hero would be pro-union.

But you’d be wrong.

By the time I reached the top of the city I honestly thought I was going to barf up my lung.  Seriously, it was just terrible.  To be fair Gandalf gave me a huge bucket of water as soon as we stopped, after THREE DAYS.  Not much of a consolation if you ask me.   Once I’d drunk the bucket dry I looked around for some grass and came to yet another in what was, at this point, a long series of terrible realizations.

I was in a city carved into the side of the mountain.  Grass doesn’t grow very well on stone.  Hay doesn’t either.  So all I could do was wait while Gandalf had a three hour meeting in the hall on the top of the mountain.  Finally he bothers to come out and take me to the city’s depository of hay, where I was finally allowed to eat.

Then he thanks me with a lousy pat on my flank and tells me to rest well.  There were a number of horses about, but they were all nervous and talking about some upcoming battle.  None of the filly’s were in the mood for lovin, not even from Gandalf’s horse.  That’s one perk I admit I like.  Usually dropping Gandalf’s name gave me some stud power with the ladies; everybody likes a celebrity.

Then the drum’s started.  They sound like thunder rumbling across the ground from miles away.  As time passes they get keep getting louder.

I’m scared and this sucks.

I know at any minute Gandalf’s going to come running in here, jump on my back and put my life in peril without once asking my opinion on the matter.

So the next time you’re enjoying my story, remember, the horse who looks like he’s just having the best time, is really just tired and wants to stop for a snack.

I am starting over.  New Blog, new podcast.

Well, same podcast, Where the Fnords Linger- but it has to shift to a new home.  Which really pisses me off because it took me a long time, but I was getting 1500 downloads a month when the Clickcaster took a crap on me- it’s been down since early February! So I decided its time to start fresh.  So now I’m using libsyn- which is the company Smodcast and Geronimo Jack (Hurley from Lost) use- so it’s good enough for me.  I’m more than a little annoyed I have to repost all 50 previous podcasts- but what can you do- so goes life in the future.

The new blog just came as a side-effect of my searching around for the best way to start over on the podcasts.  I like that this is hosted straight from my website instead of through Blogger.  One stop shopping.

I am very pleased to announce I’ve finished the first “readable” draft of my tenth novel, We Can See Through the Machines. The first rought draft was finished about a month ago on 2/24/09. It is the 7th novel in the Incarnations of the Americas series- all of which I hope to release by the end of the year.

Before the big 7 book re-edit- I am going to be turning my short story trilogy “Kenny G Must Die” into a short novel- probably about 75,000 words or so. It will expand and change the storyline a bit with much more details about the oddly familiar world of Aliester Crewley- data entry engineer by day, powerful sorcerer by night.

More at www.williamhrdina.com

The election went down- the most historic electoral event of my lifetime. Barack Obama was elected President of the United States.

Like millions of others, I don’t know what the future brings. But, for the first time in eight very long, very hard to deal with years- I feel hope.

I listened to a woman talking today at my job- I work in a hospital- she was talking about the difference between hopes and wishes.

Her name is Dr. Dr. works with the parents of dying children. She told the story of a girl in a wheelchair- dying of cancer- eight days after this conversation, the girl was dead.

As part of her research, Dr. asked the girl, “What are you hoping for?”

The girl answered, “I’m hoping I’ll get up and I’ll be able to dance around, that my legs will carry me again and I’ll be able to fly through the air like a bird. All my friends and family will be able to sit in a theatre and watch me while I dance good enough to make Baryshnikov blush.”

The girl stopped. She considered for a moment. She said. “You know what, that’s not what I hope. That’s what I wish. There’s a difference you know. A wish is something I want to happen that’s impossible in the world as it is.”

She paused, and then continued, “In the world as it is… I’m going to die. But in the world as it could be- I can dance- my legs are strong- I’m going to get better. But that’s just a wish. What I hope for- what I think is possible- in the world as it is- is that I will feel less pain and be able to sleep better.”

Hope and wishes are different. Hope is real, wishes are not. You hope for things in the world as it is. Wishes require the world to become something new.

That’s the truly astounding thing about democracy- what makes it the greatest system humans have yet invented to govern themselves.

With a single collective action we turned a wish into a hope- a political alchemy of the most profound sort. With a single ballot we turned our backs on the past 8 years and as President Elect Obama said in his nomination speech, “Enough.”

We really are incredibly lucky to have such an opportunity. Literally billions have died without it over the years.

We could say, we demand an end to the Iraq war. We want tax relief to someone who isn’t rich or have Inc. at the end of their name. How about some Supreme Court nominees who’ve actually read the Constitution, or at least care what it says.

Before November 4th- these things were wishes. The world where they happened was impossible. Universal healthcare was as likely during the Bush administration as the Banks being able to regulate themselves without causing an economic meltdown. Or leprechauns.

But now, just like that, because of the mysterious brilliance of the simple collective will of a people, these impossible things, these wishes, are hopes again. I suddenly live in a world where my country doesn’t believe in wars without cause- or torture- or extreme rendition- or the philosophy that says the rich should see all of the spoils for the simple act of being rich. I live in America again, a place I can hope. And it’s all because of democracy.

But all things have a flipside- the Tao shows us that. Things are dual natured. Even democracy. Even wishes and hopes.

Because on the same day we did this wonderful thing, electing Barack Obama, in that same breath in the state of California- a single vote turned a hope back into a wish for an entire group of people. Like Cinderella at midnight, the protection of equal rights for homosexuals turned back into a pumpkin. People who were married- married- legally- in front of a justice of the peace. Now, magically, these people are no longer married. Human beings choosing to dedicate their lives to each other are banned because people think it’s icky or because they think it’s a sin. It’s disgusting. And yet, it too is democracy.

All of the rights that go along with marriage- stolen- mostly because of Mormon carpetbaggers and people who think the earth is 6,000 years old. While one wound healed, we tore one open a new one, fresh. Banning a right you’ve not yet granted is appalling enough (as they did – banning gay marriage in 2 other states), but giving a right, and then taking it away- that’s almost worse. That’s coldness and cynicism on a level even I, a cynical person, can only look at with utter astonishment.

There is no doubt in my mind in 20 years, maybe more, hopefully much less, society will look at what happened in California in horror. And there’s also no doubt in my mind some new group of people will be the new boogeyman- the new thing for the fearful to see going bump in the night. It seems there’s a never ending supply of things to be afraid of- but

But, as long as democracy keeps working, it means we’ll get another chance next time. Society will have time to heal, and to learn, and there will be another vote. Let’s not take 300 years this time though, okay?