The paperback edition is now available with beautiful gray-scale page backgrounds and images. Yes, I had fun formatting this book for you!
Synopsis:
Follow my evolution from frightened child to (relatively) enlightened senior, with select key moments in between, as I pushed the limits of what is possible, hopeless, useless, desirable, ethical, affordable, even legal, or something else. On land, sea, and in the air!
As a high-tech multinational business executive, I proved a kid raised on the wrong side of the tracks from the corn fields of Minnesota can spar with heavy hitters in the inner sanctum of a global corporation and survive, if not thrive.
And as an itinerant vagabond in retirement, I also proved that “All who wander are not lost,” but also, “Every battle plan is perfect… until the first shot is fired.”
Now an author of 21 published titles comprising 15 full-length novels spanning five genres, a book of poetry & essays, four audiobooks, three of which I narrated and produced, at age 77 I still cling to the delusional self-image of a relatively fit young man of higher-than-average intelligence who still has much to accomplish. This old dude ain’t all that smart, but I refuse to quit. Ever.
I describe this memoir as “a literary-based archeological dig into my life in search of artifacts that lend their value and insight to the present, and to the future. For me, and perhaps for you.” Fancy, huh?
With pretense now a distant mirage in my rearview mirror, I offer you honest and often embarrassing anecdotes from my past that uncover a true rebel without a clue who confronts his own weaknesses to prevail in series of refreshing tales who takes chances and wins more than he loses.
I hope to finish recording, producing, and publishing its audiobook edition by late summer. Here’s a pre-publication audio sample:
But what about actual content, you ask? After several acquaintances suggested I’ve led a rather provocative life, I decided to write this edgy memoir—a select set of life-influencing pivotal moments surrounding the book’s theme in the title—brought to you in a carefully curated set of short stories—critical moments in time—only because I was an ordinary guy repeatedly thrust into some rather extraordinary circumstances, many downright dangerous.
Some, if not all of these stories are sure to entertain you. You say you’re not into memoirs? How about a memoir written by a veteran novelist? Here’s a sneak peek:
My early teen years had been passing me by in a fog of mediocrity. Although it all came back into focus once in a while for a few standout moments. Though I was physically invincible, I still craved acceptance. Then, invincibility almost killed me and my friends.
I can’t vouch for every detail of this near-death experience—one of many—but it’s close. Yes, the three of us had been drinking. No, we weren’t of legal age at 16. New to driving, our buddy, Rod (not my brother), piloted an old Mercury. Or was it a Chevy? No matter. It sure sounded like a fast car with a big-ass V8 and a four-on-the-column shifter. I recall each of us craving a need for speed, though none of us said that out loud. More of an unscratchable but persistent itch. I can’t even tell you where we’d been earlier that night or how we scored the booze.
We careened through Silver Lake Park. Rod drove as if possessed by feral abandon. But me on the passenger side, and my friend Bill in the middle of the front seat? Not really, though we’d never allow such cowardice to surface. A vortex of wind noise swirled around us through the rolled-down windows. The summer evening intoxicated us, along with the beer and whiskey we’d been swilling. Bill hollered over the thunderous roar of the big engine. “Boy, this thing sure has a lot of power!”
He and I both clutched the metal dash with white-knuckled grips, already hurtling through the darkness. Not sure what we were expecting, other than naked fear knowing our buddy Crazy Rod. He growled, “Ain’t nothin’. Watch this.” He downshifted with violent abruptness milliseconds before stomping on the gas pedal to challenge a tight curve around the old Isaac Walton League cabin. I don’t think we careened up onto less than four wheels, but it had to have been close, at least within the expanse of my fertile imagination six decades later. Neither do I remember if that car was equipped with seat belts. Even if it was, we weren’t wearing them. Another potential act of cowardice.
I drank in delicious first-hand terror with my two intoxicated neighborhood buddies—slow-motion trauma—of decelerating from somewhere on the high side of 55 MPH to a dead stop in less than a second or two. This experience felt similar to a few other pivotal life-or-death moments in my teenage years and beyond—this wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last. None of us should have survived that night, but we did. After all, we were invincible.
Time didn’t quite stop. That was the surreal illusion that engulfed me. Whatever this phenomenon is called, I’d experienced it before when a lady T-boned me on my motorcycle with her car’s front bumper several months earlier. She’d blown through a stop sign at speed on West Center Street. I saw it coming in full slo-mo, and with intense curiosity, observed the sequence, powerless to twist fate toward my favor. It’s a beautiful thing, this cosmically choreographed ballet—foreplay to a violent embrace. But the pain and blood and many weeks of rehab? Not so much. Fortunately, I healed quickly in my youth.
I forget a lot, but the seconds leading up to that almost lethal event with two of my besties 60 years ago? I will never forget that cinematic frame-by-frame phenomenon. The front of Rod’s heavy sedan folded around that massive tree trunk that remains scarred to this day. The car’s ass-end left the ground. Just a touch of vertical deceleration—and a whole lot of horizontal—followed.
Then, a warm curtain of blood descended into my eyes a few seconds after I snapped back from planting my nose on the dash and the top of my skull into the windshield that both gravity and I had just shattered. Part of it, anyway.
Nor will I ever forget the strong sense that I was part of something unique and special—proof of my immortality, and more importantly, of belonging. We sat there stunned, listening to the background soundtrack of hissing and crackling and the ticking of cooling metal. We bled together, a fraternity of adolescent desperadoes.
Most of all, that night of invincibility meant camaraderie. Did that mean I was a danger junkie? Surely not. Or was that what it must be like to bond with others in combat? I hadn’t a clue. Not back then. As I recall, after the initial shock, I think we coughed up a little laugh, a sneer into the Grim Reaper’s shadowy leer. Or maybe a nervous chuckle at the ridiculous proposition that we had all survived. Or most likely, simply a veneer of false bravado instead of crying like babies in front of each other.
Now, I’m not saying I sought to re-experience that euphoria again and again. But thirteen motorcycle accidents, plus “totaling”my mom’s 1962 Buick Le Sabre while under the influence of some damn fine weed, all before the age of eighteen? And I’m still alive to regale you with these idiotic tales? Evidence suggests I was invincible, immortal, an exception to the professed frailty of man. Especially as a hormone-inflated teenager. Or I was just damn lucky!
