Simply put, I need a companion to accompany me for a medical procedure.  They insist on this and they don’t realize that a lot of people live alone and are unable to fulfill this requirement.  I need someone to accompany me downtown Brooklyn for two hours, and back home.  I am prepared to pay you $50.00 for this service.  This may be an odd thing to post on a social media site, but there you go.  I will have to postpone indefinitely a much-needed operation if I can’t come up with a companion in the vicinity of Marine Park or thereabouts.  It only takes one.

Donald Trump, the frontrunner in the GOP race for president, has proposed a complete ban on immigration to America until we can “figure out what the hell is going on.”

So, how many Muslims are there in America? Official estimates vary from 4 million to 12 million. That’s a very wide spread. So, yes, we don’t know what the hell we are doing.

Looking at the matter as a New Yorker, how do the numbers shake out? Of the fourteen or so attacks that have been thwarted by authorities, all, or almost all attempts on New York, have been by Muslims.

When Jim voices dissatisfaction with the system, he writes a letter to his congressman. When Jihadi Jim is dissatisfied, he goes to Pakistan and learns the art of bomb making, returns to America and tries to build the largest bomb he can to blow up the most number of people. It gets personal. A van carrying a thousand pound truck bomb was parked 75 feet from the entrance to my building. The target was the Federal Reserve Bank of New York across the street. The perp activated what he thought was a cell phone switch in Queens, and is sitting in a Federal penitentiary somewhere. It wasn’t his day, thank God.

It’s always the homegrown Jihidi that wants to do us in. I wonder why?

GOP candidates have lined up against Trump. Paul Ryan has said “It’s not who we are.” And it’s true that excluding a person because his religion is unconstitutional. But that assumed that his religion is in synch with American values.

Muslins complain that their religion has been hijacked. They say theirs in the “religion of peace.” All you have to do is look up the history of jihad, which goes back to the beginning of Islam. The only thing that has stopped them has been military force. They don’t change directions; they just build a new army and try again. Yes, there is Muslim-on Muslim violence. The Arab revolt against the Ottoman Empire, led by T.E. Lawrence, is an example of that. But as Muslim strength relative to the West, with its superior science and nuclear weapons, grows, we will see a more confident and assertive Islam, an Islam that is prepared to challenge the West on its own terms and bring about the dream of the umma—Islamic world rule. Watch Iran.

America is founded on the idea of freedom of choice. Islam is founded on the idea of submission to God. You aren’t free to choose your religion according to Islam. You are born a Muslim and you can lose your life if you decide to convert to Christianity, say. Christ taught man to turn the other cheek. The Prophet was a warrior and taught his followers to rule by the sword.

Christianity and Islam are fundamentally different. One believes in freedom of expression, while the other believes in bowing to the earth five times a day in submission to God.

So while it might be dicey to rule on Muslims based on constitutional law. Who are we really protecting? Islamicists who use American values to defend their presence is this country? Or the people who founded this country and formed its values and are called by the petty and awkward “Islamaphob?”

Hudson Owen All Rights Reserved

Remember Francis the Talking Horse? Of course you do! That’s 1950s television. He came up to a fence and talked, he did. I don’t remember his human sidekick. It was a real cheap set.

Well, that’s what is needed to win the Triple Crown, a horse that understands. That way, you can whisper in his ear, “There’s an extra bucket of oats in for you, if you win the Triple Crown, and stud privileges for life.” That ought to get his attention.

The horse understands that it’s in a race, yes, but it doesn’t understand the significance of any one race, like the Belmont Stakes, which is the graveyard of so many runs at the Triple Crown. The horse just didn’t get it.

A truly superior horse like American Pharaoh might win four, five, or six races. It won by the widest margin, some five and a half lengths, since Secretariat. That kind of superior horse comes along once in a lifetime, maybe twice, if you live long enough.

Hudson Owen All Rights Reserves

I went for an echocardiogram recently. It’s the kind on thing where a mom looks up to see her unborn baby in the womb, only the target was my heart.

It was wet, with lots of conductive paste across my torso. And it was done in the dark. The machine was designed for that, it looked like airplane console lights, I imagined.

And there was sound: ker-wish…ker-wish, ker-wish, ker-wish, ker-wish, her-wish. It was a funny sort of sound that had been assigned to it. The technician checked the heart and the heart rate, moving back and forth from image of the heart to amplitude, those up-and-down lines showing beats-per-minute.

We have so many emotion-charged words and phrases for the heart. The heart is fond, it is constant, it stops in our throat, the heart knows, be still, my beating heart. If it were left to language, the heart would be all over the place. It would stop, but it doesn’t.

Ker-wish, ker-wish, ker-wish, ker-wish, ker-wish…

The machine gave it a kind a kind of fiery light, clearly showing the four chambers of the heart. And it moved around quite a bit. If I took a deep breath, the image disappeared.

I began to form a different idea of my heart, one of rock-solid constancy. It was a slave, this heart of mine. It was like a man with a shovel endlessly shoveling coal into a furnace. It was never too hot. It had reserves way beyond what I imagined my limit to be. It never got tired; it never slept, even for a moment. No naps! Always pumping blood through my system.

This coal-shoveler had the musculature of a man suited to his task. He had a flat stomach and sinewy muscles. He wore a skullcap, for some reason, and had rather large hands. He paid no attention to me. To do so, he would have had to pause. And that was one thing it could not do.

My job was to go through the world, inventing all sorts of paradigms and models, traveling through time, and lighting on far galaxies. Going where no man has gone before. His job was to shovel coal, matching me stride for stride, when he speeded us, I speeded up. When I relaxed, he relaxes but kept working. Without so much as a by-your-leave, a glance my way.

Hudson Owen All Rights Reserved

I smell war in the Pacific and I smell was in the Atlantic. That’s World War, if you’re counting.

In the Far East, the Chinese are itching to fight. They have been building submarines and now outnumber the US. The Los Angeles class of submarines number 39 boats, the last of which was build in 1996, 19 years, than half the life cycle of each boat. The Navy will try and keep these boats as long as possible, maybe for another ten yours. If they can do that, they may save us. But then they will face a massive “Die off” of these boat.

We will replace 39 boats with 20 new Virginia class submarines, or less than half that class. The new boats will be 2.5 times more expensive are building them at the rate of two a year. So, how do the Chinese surpass us? Answer: they build non-nuclear Song  Class subs. Both the Russians and Chinese build both non-nuclear boats.

These quiet subs are the enemy of the carrier battle groups. They can get inside of the protective screen of destroyers and cruisers and fire away. There is no telling what as enraged congress will do to avenge these losses of super expensive carriers. They will clamor for war.

The Chinese are building us the Spratleys—a tiny island chain in the Pacific. Nonetheless, once they are build up, the Chinese can point to them and say, “Hey, you attacked our base!” They are willing to fight over crumbs.

And then there is Putin, pushing, pushing, pushing in Ukraine.

The Mediterranean is a hot bed of unrest. Of course, you can say, if this is peace, give me war. From Libya all the way to the Persion Gulf, the world is in flames, basically over that same thing, Sunni vs. Shia.   Learn that one thing and you will understand volumes. The Iranians want the loosening of sanctions on the very day they have a deal with the West. A deal that may be scrutinized by the West and rejected. That may be a tipping point. If they cannot achieve peace through negotiation, then they may show their teeth and all bets are off.

I have outlined a way to fight the Iranians in my essay The Naval Battle: What The Navy Needs to Get Right. Pull our ships out of the Persian Gulf, place then at the end of the Gulf, in the Gulf of Oman, and set up a blockade. That would be an act of war. Nonetheless, the threat of the destruction of their oil and gas industry, which is on the surface, will be the choice they will have to make: without it they will not remain a civilized state. And we can destroy them at our leisure. We have had a long time to prepare for their kind of war.

Hudson Owen All Rights Reserved

Hilliry Clinton looks old. Just on the borderline. A puncinello sort of face. You know, a clown’s face.

But all the polls show she is running ahead of the pack. It’s had not to run with all that support. Support, even though you don’t need it to walk. Imagine having all of that support. Imagine weaning a political button: “Shut up, I’m Hillary.”

So, Hillary cashes in all her chits, there by extending the inevitable four more years. Nobody is suicidal enough to believe in the Little People for eight more years.

Babs will sing, Neil Diamond will sing, the Stones will sing, about a rolling stone, while Hillary gets cool speaking fees greater than Ashton Kutcher gets for Two and a Half Men.
You know, that were poor, those Clintons, at their low mark, hardly had spit to tide them over.

It’ll be a route, in the end. Boomers will crush all before them. Lets put these Millelennials or Metrosexuals, whatever the are—yippe hippies they are not—to flight. As long as one of those magic names does not wind up head down in the punch bowl. You know what I’m talking about. Running tremendous at seventy and, yeow-meow, the music stopped.

This goes double for bill, with his quadruple bypass surgery—and we still don’t know his medical records. You get minus two for the price of one. You know, Hillary will be on the phone 20 times with bill daily to get things right.

And one thing I know is, you can’t be wrapped around the head with a punch bowel moving forward. Some things are just too silly, even for the Clintons.

Hudson Owen. All rights reserved

A year ago this December, one of the luminaries of the independent author self-publishing community proposed an anthology of short stories to be published by an ad hoc group of authors. This was proposed on the Writers’ Café of the Kboards (Kindle Boards) website. This call to stories was immediately me with enthusiasm. Many authors wanted their story included; some offered services like proofreading. I began working on my short story. There was no shortage of volunteers. There were plenty of Indians but no chief. For while the honcho who had proposed the idea was good at delegating authority, he did not really want to accept the role of Editor-in-Chief. I do not write to assign blame.

I don’t know if that was the fatal flaw or not. My review of the relevant threads on the project is incomplete. Much good will and talent was thrown into the proposed anthology. For a while, it looked like the whole thing might gel and move to completion. In the end, it founded and fell apart. It went blub blub and sank.

Then something remarkable happened.

A new crew, including some of the original members, put on the mantle of authority, a line from Aeschylus, resurrected the anthology and propelled it forward. There was plenty of discussion about the type of stories, length, what charity to donate any profits to—it had been decided at the outset not to publish for profit—absolutely the right decision, in my experience. A new editor emerged, Andrew Ashling. He had the good habit of showing up regularly for work. He made good executive decisions and grew into the job of editor. A female clique developed. Fortunately, it made good decisions. There were spirited exchanges back and forth. Once the cover design had been selected, one writer wanted the book to be called the “The Hip Pocket Anthology,” until it was pointed out to him that the pocket in question was not on the hip.

Long story short, on December 14, 2014, Stories On The Go, a Kboards Flash Anthology was published to immediate acclaim. It grows stronger in the rankings every day, it seems. Everyone who contributed a story or helped in some way with the anthology has a right to feel proud. It’s a feather in our cap.

I’ve wondered how such a diverse assortment of independent authors, some who have created their own publishing houses, could coalesce and create an anthology. I realized that being independent did not mean anti-social. I think we all understood that there would be no third-time-is-a-charm opportunity.

Kboaards AnthologyMy story “Einstein Stayed Here,” set in Brooklyn, is in the middle of the pack. So, load up your Kindle, put in your heavy-duty eyeballs, and start reading.

By Hudson Owen All Rights Reserved.