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.

The President, began his speech by saying that the immigration system was broken. How many times have you heard that before? What does it mean? We no longer have immigration laws—they disappeared in a puff of smoke? All our immigration agents have likewise disappeared?

If the system is broken, who broke it? And, tell me this, why does fixing the system always mean a better deal for the illegals?

In my view, the immigration system is being overwhelmed by legal and illegal immigrants. According to my reading, the FBI, which must vet every single application for citizenship, is at least three years behind in this task.

There are just too many people pouring into this country, legally and illegally. We should shut down immigration to all but a handful of people for five years, say. Fat chance that will happen.

The President repeated the meme that there are too many illegals to round up in one fell swoop. So? Does that mean it’s no longer worthwhile to deport illegal residents in smaller numbers. The President seems to have suggested that it is un-American to deport those who live illegally inside the US. “ It’ not who we are,” he said. Why aren’t we allowed to enforce our laws? Aren’t we supposed to be a nation of laws?

Does the President believe in open borders?

Have you ever wondered about the value of anchor babies? Under Obama’s plan, the undocumented parents of U.S. citizens and legal permanent residents who have lived in the country for at least five years can apply, starting in the spring, for relief from deportations for a period of three years. About 3.7 million immigrants are expected to qualify under the new guidelines. There you go! Those babies are valuable for mom and pop. These peasants are mostly uneducated, but they know how to use our laws to their advantage.

Here’s a weird definition of amnesty, for you. According to the President:

“Amnesty is the immigration system we have today — millions of people who live here without paying their taxes or playing by the rules, while politicians use the issue to scare people and whip up votes at election time,” Mr. Obama said. “That’s the real amnesty — leaving this broken system the way it is.”

So, just to be clear, real amnesty is when millions of people living here (illegally) don’t pay their taxes or play by the rules. Say what? I’m reaching for my Webster’s dictionary.

The President said many things for the benefit of illegal aliens. He said nothing to address the concerns of US citizens, the people born and raised in this country. Why is that? Are those who live here legally chopped liver? We no longer count for something?

The subways in Brooklyn are getting crowded. Often I don’t find a seat riding into the city. I look down and see a twenty-something with jet black hair and Yankees baseball cap. Chances are he is an illegal. I’m a senior citizen. Why do I have to stand while he gets a seat? Hey, I’m talking to you. Why?

By Hudson Owen. All Rights Reserved.

Contrary to popular opinion, I’m going to predict an early end to the so-called Islamic State.  Military experts are saying it will take years to do IS in, requiring lots of boots on the ground.  Maybe not.  Before the air strikes, IS could move men and equipment with relative ease.  Not any longer.  Everyone is getting into the act of attacking the brutal fanatics, including Arab states.  The Netherlands, Belgium and Australia are the latest to sign up. For years, Saudi Arabia has been purchasing top of the line fighters and fighter bombers from Western countries.  Now, its’ bombs away on IS.

The growing coalition, led by the U.S. , is destroying oil refineries in the possession of IS.  That’s really bad news for IS.  Without gas, the Toyotas and tanks will grind to a halt.  They won’t be able to re-supply their various outposts and captured towns.  One by one, the Kurds and Iraqi Army will be able to re-take the towns and cities captured by IS.  There are already quite a few boots on the ground fighting IS.  Now, the sky is filling with adversaries.  There are many hostile eyes in the sky, including planes, drones and satellites.  The U.S. can mount air strikes around the clock, day and night.  Anything the pilot sees, he can destroy.  There isn’t much cover in the desert.

This is how the Allies put an end to the Third Reich.  We bombed their refineries especially in Rumania.  American heavy bombers flew at low altitude over Ploiesti to make sure we destroyed it.  We took heavy losses in men and aircraft for that raid, but we destroyed Ploiestie.  There are photos of German jets sitting on runways unable to fly because they had no fuel.  Hitler’s last gasp thrust against the Allies, what became the Battle of the Bulge, stalled for lack of fuel.

One thing IS or ISIS does really well is to create new enemies with its outspoken brutality.  Now the whole world is lining up to destroy it.  More than 40 nations have pledged or given aid to those fighting this grim, artless caliphate.   Now, they are lining up to bomb IS into oblivion.  There will be jihadies a year from now, for certain.  Sad, but true.   I will be surprised if this upstart, bloodthirsty Islamic State is among them.

By Hudson Owen.  All Rights Reserved.

I watched part of the funeral proceedings of 18-year-old Michael Brown on television on August 25th. I wasn’t surprised by the emotion, per se; after all, it was a funeral. I was put off by the emotionalism: a woman stomping and shaking her head, Martin Luther III imploring the heavens with open arms. The ceremony was attended by Rev. Jesse Jackson and Spike Lee among other black luminaries. What should have been a private ceremony was turned into an international event in which angry Black America shook its fist at White America over the police shooting of the unarmed black teen.

There was very little of Michael Brown, from what I saw. The family apparently only came up with the one snapshot of the youth giving a questioning, sullen look at the camera in the one still shown in the media. It matched in character the video where Mr. Brown, the size of an NFL lineman, stole a handful of cigars from a convenience store, showing the small (Asian?) store owner out of the way, in leaving.

There was so little of Michael Brown in the ceremony that one could almost imagine that the whole thing was a set up, a hoax. Did he ever have a birthday party, go on a class trip? Did he ever smile? Was he just another young thug in training like Trayvon Martin?

The Reverend Al Sharpton seemed to sense that Michael Brown was a weak case on which to rally black support against the police by saying that they, the black community, wanted the police and they recognized the black-on-black crime problem merited a mention. Looking ahead, Sharpton could probably see that obtaining murder one against a reasonable looking white police officer would be difficult if not impossible once the details came out in a grand jury. Will anyone believe that Police Officer Wilson gunned down young Michael Brown in cold blood? Really?

One of the stories floating around out there is that Michael Brown had once confided to someone that one day the whole world would know his name Was this entire episode a bid for fame gone wrong, or a deliberate attempt at suicide by cop?

The way I see it, the situation breaks down like this.

A black man, often a large black man, commits a petty crime. In the case of Rodney King, the crime was speeding. The suspect was approached by the police who try to arrest the subject. The subject resists arrest. This is where things quickly go downhill. Eric Garner, the 350-pound Staten Island man who police were trying to arrest for selling untaxed cigarettes, died while police were wrestling with him on the ground. The initial take-down as shown in the video taken by a bystander, was a headlock. It is unclear from the video if that ever developed into a choke-hold. None of this would have happened if Mr. Garner had not resisted arrest.

Rodney King was badly beaten; Eric Garner died of asphyxiation; and Michael Brown was shot to death by Police Officer Wilson. All three black men were unarmed. Act three of this drama occurs when the news races through the black community and, as if on signal, the black community loots and burns the neighborhood. It’s almost as if they think its their right to do so. The Los Angeles riots in 1991 killed 53 people. Remember those Koreans defending their business with gunfire? They were non-whites. Many of the looted and torched business in Ferguson, Missouri were owned by non-whites. No matter. They got punished too.

What is to be done?

Some black activists say that the police should allow petty crime and concentrate on serious offenses. Lately, Mayor de Blasio has staunchly defended the “broken windows” police polity exacted by his police commissioner Bill Bratton, insisting that the little things count, just as they did in the Giuliani administration, where Mr. Bratton first served as police commissioner. By tackling the quality of life crimes, which began the big turnaround in New York City during those years. It took years of tough policing using policies like stop ‘n frisk to bring down the high murder rate to the low levels of today.

In other words, you can’t allow Michael Brown to steal cigars and get away with it.

If you were to ask any of the male black leaders present at the funeral ceremony who commits what types of crimes in New York City, you will not get a straight answer. This is because they do not want to admit the truth, which is that the overwhelming amount of street crime is committed by young black and Hispanic males, according to police statistics.

So, the paradigm, at least in the large metropolis, is not the black kid assaulted by the white police department, but all of society put as risk at the hands of the Destructive Black Male, as I have dubbed him in my essay “Trayvon Martin and Race In America.” There are reasons why this black male came into being and reasons why he will be outside the walls of the new city states in America. This essay is available on Amazon.com.

The Ferguson police now wear body cameras.

By Hudson Owen – All Rights Reserved


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