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"Sit Elsewhere, Before You Break Something! said the Ellison-man."

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Appreciation by James Patrick Lockett Melancholy ain’t just Lassie guarding some cantaloupes. Nor is it the word that properly describes how I feel today.  There are forty-eight synonyms in the Thesaurus for ‘sad’ and not one of them adequately convey how I feel.  Just one of the many things I already miss about Harlan Ellison – I’m sure he would look at me and throw out ‘lugubrious’ or ‘woebegone’ or just a simple, ‘low.’ I’d started writing half a dozen times, different things the passed couple of days, and all the words always seemed to just mock my feelings.  Maybe it’s not time yet.  So, I sat eating (Hydrox) cookies and re-re-re-reading Ellison short stories – feeling sorry for our loss and mad that death slipped in like a thief in the night and took Harlan in his sleep.  Normally, that’s the way we all want to go, but there’s something lily-livered about not having the guts/spine/pluck (take your pick) to risk encountering Harlan’s wrath.  ...
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Fanning the Infernal Flames of Peace...Long May They Burn

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            So this past week- while most of you were distracted by the Yanny or Laurel controversy – the world marked the opening of the relocated U.S. Embassy in Jerusalem; and while it was conducted with all the pomp and circumstance of an alt-right ribbon cutting at a Charlotte, N.C. Krispy Kreme, I fear the repercussions – far beyond the senseless murder of sixty Palestinians protesting the move by a frightened Israeli Defense Force [ as portrayed on Tuesday by The Ohio National Guard ] – will be unimaginable and in time, remembered as a grave moment in both U.S. and World history.             Now, the current resident of The “White” House doesn’t care about this move one way or another – it does not benefit his personal or financial agenda in any way – so, he didn’t want to go. He can’t send his Christian Zionist Vice-President because it wouldn’t do to have him gleefully jumping around sc...
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"The Special"

      "The Special”                by   James Patrick Lockett        It was an hour ago – to the second, if you care to be that precise – that we’d broken up. But, since I was looking at a clock next to the glass shelf of high end scotch, all bets were off. Bar Time! Could be an hour, could be could be ten minutes. However, I was on my fourth drink, so it was probably closer to . . .no, wait . . . that’s also a poor gauge. Fuck it, let’s just say sometime within the past hour I became single again.        I sucked the last bit of Jura off an ice cube and set the glass down in hopes of catching the bartender’s eye. I stared passed my empty glass, at the bodies on the dance floor pulsating to bad eighties songs. . .  . . .  traveling in a fried-out Kombi, on a hippie trail head full of zombie, I met a strange lady, she made nervous . . . . . . indeed. Ladies Night re...
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