Mystery/Suspense novel "Most Fortunate Son" by Eric Luck

OLD STUFF

In the Slipstream
Bloglike, Journalesque
and Occasional.
We are very proud.

DECEMBER 2006
Chrirstmas Truce
We Should Book a Ski Vacation
Working on Your GIft
Merry Christmas from the Lucks

NOVEMBER 2006
Christmas Letter Deadline
Respect
Quit Yer Bellyachin'
Smarmy Pimp-n-Ho Slutfest
Heart Melters

OCTOBER 2006
Multiple Life Sentences
Finally Found My Talent
Indictment Extravaganza Update
www Mission Statement Exam

SEPTEMBER 2006
Bunny Takes Some Killer Photos
Another Hard Drive Failure
Bunny Went to Africa
Photo Toast
Thirty Years Ago

AUGUST 2006
Where Did I Leave My Heart?
Conspiracy Theories
City Greatness
Audio/Visual Giggles
But, It is Rocket Science

JULY 2006
Bunny's Birthday
Spicy Monterrey Club-Gone
Fish Pictures
Water on the Moon
Life Without Computers is good

JUNE 2006
Snotboogers
Pop
Crazy River Dogs
Bunny Hits the Road
Devil Day Survived
fox news Colorado

MAY 2006
Memorial Day
Puttin' on a Nice Spread
Brian at PC House Call
Niece Flown to Iraq
Blackhole in the www
Computer Tribulatioins

APRIL 2006
Author Demands
Words Not Working
Movie Star Finds Work
His Mother's Eyes

MARCH 2006
Bad Voodoo Afoot
Grandma Eva- The Passing of
an Era
More Moving Fun
Academy is Proud to Present
Master Bait and Tackle
Books for Sale

FEBRUARY 2006
Get Moving
Heidi Klum Wearing Just Paint
New Fangled Moving Pictures
California Dreamin'
Old Fat Guy Craving Autofocus
How to Order My Book

JANUARY 2006
Dallas Building Imploded
Self Portrait
Book Cover Revealed
Nation Swept: Best of 2005
Leaving
Frighteningly Unintelligent
Design
Legacy
Infidel Living in a Van Down
by the River

DECEMBER 2005
Gnarly
Powder Days
The Gift Saga Continues
Chronicles of a Gift
Christmas Greetings from the
Lucks
Book Review: "Liquid Bones"
Wishing, Hoping, Begging for
Peace

NOVEMBER 2005
Runaway Jury Doody
Give Thanks for Wrasslin'
Sweet Ride in Paradise
Porn, Brad, Angelina & Naked
Kitties
Notebook Unload: Random but
www Fun
Driveway Paved
New, Improved & Nicer
Costume Frenzy
Indictment Extravaganza

OCTOBER 2005
Travails of Travels With Bunny
My www Welcome
Pass the Butter
Mick, Rhymes With Ick
World's Biggest Hot Dog
hypnotized & mesmerized
In the Slipstream - the original

December 3, 2006 Merry Christmas from the Lucks

New Years always gives us the chance for renewal. Lose a few pounds, exercise more, we all know the drill. I had hoped that new, semi-healthy living in 2006 would clear my
head and make things easier. Now we are at the end of another year and sweet sainted mother of Brent Musberger…I am all zitty and stupid, and checking toilet paper rolls for
instructions. I look like a 16 year old bagboy scowling like I forgot my puka shell necklace. Often, I will get up to go in the other room and forget why I went there. I mean often.
Charging rhino. A full-on ninety percent of the time, I feel like rubbing everything I got with liniment, calling in sick, curling up with a fleece blanket and punching in a Green Acres
DVD. That Arnold Ziffel is a corker. What is a man of size to do? Looks like I’ll be ordering my shorts, t-shirts and whatnot from the Big and Tall Shop again in 2007.

With a wifely tone, Cheri reminds me that there is nobody to call in sick to. Good thing I have her. I am a lucky man.

Sorting through spam emails on the stupid www remains the highlight of my day. Too many people out there are thinking I need sexual organ enhancement, both natural and
un. They send me daily emails about it. Now, I mean, really. How would they know that? Why would they think that? And how about the ones about low cost ways to split from
your spouse? Who do they think I am? Ted Nutjob Turner? Besides that, they clearly have no concept of the wife that I deal with on a day to day basis.

My book was released in April and it was a thrill. I like the signings, but they are a humility dogpile. I cut out a story about book signings by another author from one of those
airline magazines recently, but I have lost it. I told Cheri that I was stealing it and making it my own since it was so close to my own experience. A hearty handclasp to that
unknown author… from another unknown author…my brother in book signings.

So I sat down to my first book signing with books, a chair and a table with a poster of the book cover on it (you cannot go wrong with a naked lady on the cover) along with a plate
of cookies that someone really nice made for me. I’m thinking that maybe this might work into something. Maybe this is how successful authors get started. As is my nature, I
sat for a while and observed proceedings in the store. People came into the store more purposefully than I ever noticed when I was just a customer. I thought that maybe more
people might be browsing. What exactly is the hurry? I browse. Does no one else browse?

My sense of it is that they didn’t even want to make eye contact with me. After the first hour, I was starting to feel like a known sex offender, not that I would know how that actually
feels. But nobody would come near me. People began to look at me with a clear and shocking level of anger on their faces. It was as if I was keeping them from getting to the
book they really wanted because of where I was sitting. Finally a lady walked around my table, eyed the poster of the nearly naked lady on my book cover and actually smiled at
me. I smiled back, but she didn’t say anything. Finally…a browser. We exchanged the browser’s knowing nod. She has no idea how little I actually know. She continued down
the ‘Home Repair’ aisle with the same level of interest she showed to me. I had been there over an hour without human contact of any other kind. Then hope sprang forth. She
took a return route by my table. She motioned to the table and started to speak. I sat up at full attention to hear her question and she asked, “How much are the cookies?”

Cheri and I moved to a smaller house from January to May. Yep. The five-month move. We had new carpet installed before the furniture got moved. It was flawed, so they had to
come back after the furniture arrived and move all the furniture and install it again. The second batch was also flawed. They said this never happens. I dispute that. They came
and moved the furniture and installed a different carpet the third time. I am not kidding. It was a nightmare, just like moving three times. So we went to Colorado.

Evan left Ft. Worth and moved into our new, smaller Dallas house in August while Cheri and I were in Colorado. Did I mention that the new house is smaller? He brought his
little dog, more stuff than any 12 year old girl would save and a giant ocean aquarium full of fish and exotic life forms unidentifiable to anyone over the age of 28, mostly because
those of us who are older just don’t care. There is no chance he gets it. We will come back to Evan.

For now, join me on a neurotic journey through this year’s travels with the Lucks. After surviving the move to the smaller house, Cheri let me be in Steamboat from May to
September (she was there most of the time). It was the finest summer I could ever imagine. From there, we traveled occasionally. There were trips to the Virgin Islands three
times, Lake Powell with Ed & Steph for a week in July, San Francisco a couple of times, Maui TWICE. Before summer was even at its hottest, Cheri announced it was not
enough. She wanted to go to Africa.

What in the latte’ sippin’ hell?

She knew full well that the most travel, the most stress I wanted to experience during fall was to be frustrated if the dog was just out of my petting reach while the aspen leaves
changed. <gulp> The terms ‘willy-nilly and half cocked’ danced through my brain, but this is normal when dealing with my wife.

I asked if she had asked anyone exactly how many countries would be visited in Africa that were currently experiencing a revolution or had experienced a revolution during our
lifetime. Nope. Never asked. Never checked. How about had they asked about famine, pestilence, outbreaks of incurable diseases? She just scrunched up her face at those
silly questions. It might unduly burden the fun if they were to actually know the answers to my questions. So, I asked if she could save a little money and route through Beirut or
Islamabad for stopovers in both directions in order to take advantage of the great time-share markets there. She did not laugh. She asked once if I wanted to go, knowing full
well my answer. It was a delightful three weeks that Cheri was in Africa. I sat by the cell phone and waited for the inevitable text message from rebel forces that her body was
being held in East Camel Scrotum, Namibia, you know, at the Terrorist Training Camp Body Storage Center where I could pick it up and would I please hurry because they are
running a little short on ice.

She went to Kenya, Tanzania, South Africa, Botswana, and Zambia. Her pictures are fabulous. See them on the www at:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/queen_cheri/

I chose to stay in Colorado where I better fit in. In the fall, literally thousands of camo’d men carrying big guns and sporting legions of unkempt facial hair search the countryside
to blast Bambi’s mom to smithereens. Sounds exactly how I picture Africa, except they speak English here while looking all smarmy. Can ah hep ya?

Well, what did you do while Cheri was in Africa? Very important stuff, that’s what. Without the little woman, I was finally allowed the freedom to participate daily in the gift that is
fast food-dom. I’m a proud carnivore. But if you eat enough fast food, it sets on the full body shivers. I know. I have had ‘em.

I toyed with getting a Sgt. Carter flattop haircut at the local barbershop. Thinking about that took a few days. Caught up on the ‘Star’ and ‘Enquirer’ news. It seems that Brooke
Shields got the Cruise-Holmes’es a blender. Not kidding. I missed Cheri so much that I took to watching house re-do shows on HG network, just like she always does. From a
slumbering, drooling stupor, I started periodically jumping up, pointing at the TV and yelling, “I said double sinks in the master vanity!”

And…I watched a bunch of other TV. Yeah, quite a shock, huh? Late summer TV throws some genuine multimedia dung in all directions. Specials are the only respite from the
full on crap reruns on TV. I would pretty much watch any TV special if it had Gwen Stefani on it. I don’t care if it had her changing a dirty diaper. But this new trend she is on, to do
music best described as ‘Caucasianal scantily clad girl rap’, has simply got to go. This is why the "MUTE" button was invented. The music is more like the sputtering of a long-
term mental patient, albeit one with some really, really great legs.

As fall went along, I started to miss Evan. Pass the smelling salts. Since he had moved into our new, smaller house while we were in Colorado, I decided to head home and
evaluate the damage. He is still here and I am pleased to see him most days. Hey, that’s a higher average than when he was in Jr. High or High School, so I got that going for
me. You know, I still remember my own 6th grade. About then, it hit me like a lightning strike that being forced to touch a girl while square dancing in gym class might not be
such a bad thing. Evan is on the verge of realizing these same things. He is 24. The ditch is littered with ex-girlfriends. I have liked every one of them and even miss a few. But I
don’t need a date. I got girl trouble of my own…Africa-going girl trouble.

That about wraps up 2006. The more medically educated of you should please give me a call. My question is this: Can leg and back cramps along with joint aches and
constant hunger pains be caused by the stress of consuming too much beef and ridiculously oversized Mountain Dews? I’m just not too clear on anything.

“Steer clear” is my motto for 2007. So I’ll see you then.

December 28, 2006                                   Christmas Truce

One of only a few blogs that I pay attention to, Spencer Batchelder writes one worth reading. http://halfjack.typepad.com/
Spencer is a soldier in the U.S. Army and is in Ramadi, Iraq. He is a terrific photographer and I found him through his photos on Flickr.
You can look at those here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/christchild81/

I asked Spencer's permission to reprint one of his recent posts about a Christmas Truce during WWI. He graciously agreed and it is
offered below. It is a startling story and it is a true story. Spencer did not write the original, but it was sent to him via email.

Based solely on his writing about the "Life and Times of Spencer Batchelder", Spencer and I do not always agree. He even labels
himself as "The Last of the Liberal Soldier." That does not upset me in the least. I respect his opinion and the job he is doing. It seems
enormously important to him to do a good job. He gives me the perspective of somebody who is actually there in Iraq and someone
who is not an American politician. Spencer has credibility with me. In his job, it is clear to me that his heart and his mind are engaged at
the same time. That alone confirms that he is not an American politician and that is a very good thing. Further confirmation of credibility
is that he is not part of our mainstream media. My views on American journalism are well known.

His view is invaluable.

Spencer is the same age as my son. By the time he has lived as long as I have, he will realize that there is very little difference between
the conservatives and the liberals that actually has an impact on our lives. He will eventually know that such labels are quite NOT
valuable except to allow others to put you into a little category in their minds. Mostly, minds are small whether liberal or conservative.

Spencer's view tempers my emotions and reminds me that he is one of the real people representing us in an unbelievably difficult
situation. Spencer is participating in training Iraqis to police themselves and to run their own country so we can get out of there. That is
a tough job in the midst of a civil war. Is there any way that his job could go well? We all should hope so. Without intending to do so,
Spencer reminds me that I am not there and I don't know everything just because I have read and listened to some of our politicians
wax eloquent on Iraq. Those politicians are not there either. His writing reminds me to think first and speak later.

Some of you may remember that I previously have written about some of my views on Iraq. I refer you to January 2006 over there on your
left under "OLD STUFF." Some of you may recall that I have also written about my grandfathers who were each in the military during
WWI. For that, I refer you to May 2006 under "OLD STUFF" to your left. Page down to Memorial Day if you would like. My paternal
grandfather was in France or Germany with his unit during Christmas 1918. His Division was part of the major Allied offensive at
Meuse-Argonne through November 1918. Armistice was on November 11, 1918 and the 90th Division was shortly moved into Germany
for occupation duty. The Paris Peace Conference was on January 12, 1919. I wish I could ask him about the story below. It is
fascinating. Thanks, Spencer.

December 24, 2006                    The Life and Times of Spencer Batchelder

The Christmas Truce
A friend of mine emailed this link to me today. I thought it was an incredible story, if only the world were still full of men this civil and
noble.

     From his book, "We Can Change the World " by David G. Stratman

It was December 25, 1914, only 5 months into World War I. German, British, and French soldiers, already sick and tired of the
senseless killing, disobeyed their superiors and fraternized with "the enemy" along two-thirds of the Western Front (a crime punishable
by death in times of war). German troops held Christmas trees up out of the trenches with signs, "Merry Christmas."

"You no shoot, we no shoot." Thousands of troops streamed across a no-man's land strewn with rotting corpses. They sang Christmas
carols, exchanged photographs of loved ones back home, shared rations, played football, even roasted some pigs. Soldiers embraced
men they had been trying to kill a few short hours before. They agreed to warn each other if the top brass forced them to fire their
weapons, and to aim high.

A shudder ran through the high command on either side. Here was disaster in the making: soldiers declaring their brotherhood with
each other and refusing to fight. Generals on both sides declared this spontaneous peacemaking to be treasonous and subject to
court martial. By March 1915 the fraternization movement had been eradicated and the killing machine put back in full operation. By the
time of the armistice in 1918, fifteen million would be slaughtered.

Not many people have heard the story of the Christmas Truce. On Christmas Day, 1988, a story in the Boston Globe mentioned that a
local FM radio host played "Christmas in the Trenches," a ballad about the Christmas Truce, several times and was startled by the
effect. The song became the most requested recording during the holidays in Boston on several FM stations. "Even more startling than
the number of requests I get is the reaction to the ballad afterward by callers who hadn't heard it before," said the radio host. "They
telephone me deeply moved, sometimes in tears, asking, `What the hell did I just hear?' "

I think I know why the callers were in tears. The Christmas Truce story goes against most of what we have been taught about people. It
gives us a glimpse of the world as we wish it could be and says, "This really happened once." It reminds us of those thoughts we keep
hidden away, out of range of the TV and newspaper stories that tell us how trivial and mean human life is. It is like hearing that our
deepest wishes really are true: the world really could be different.

Christmas in The Trenches - Song                          http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_truce

This song is based on a true story from the front lines of World War I that I've heard many times. Ian Calhoun, a Scot, was the
commanding officer of the British forces involved in the story. He was subsequently court martialed for 'consorting with the enemy' and
sentenced to death. Only George V spared him from that fate. -- John McCutcheon

My name is Francis Toliver, I come from Liverpool.
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school.
To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here,
I fought for King and country I love dear.
'Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung.
The frozen fields of France were still, no Christmas song was sung.
Our families back in England were toasting us that day,
Their brave and glorious lads so far away.
I was lying with my messmate on the cold and rocky ground,
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound.
Says I, "Now listen up, me boys!" each soldier strained to hear,
As one young German voice sang out so clear.
"He's singing bloody well, you know!" my partner says to me.
Soon, one by one, each German voice joined in harmony.
The cannons rested silent, the gas clouds rolled no more,
As Christmas brought us respite from the war.
As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent,
"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" struck up some lads from Kent.
The next they sang was "Stille Nacht," "'Tis 'Silent Night,'" says I,
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky.
"There's someone coming towards us!" the front line sentry cried.
All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side.
His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shone on that plain so bright,
As he, bravely, strode unarmed into the night.
Soon one by one on either side walked into No Man's Land,
With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand.
We shared some secret brandy and wished each other well,
And in a flare lit soccer game we gave 'em hell.
We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and photographs from home.
These sons and fathers far away from families of their own.
Young Sanders played his squeezebox and they had a violin,
This curious and unlikely band of men.
Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more.
With sad farewells we each prepared to settle back to war.
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wondrous night:
"Whose family have I fixed within my sights?"
'Twas Christmas in the trenches where the frost, so bitter hung.
The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung.
For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war,
Had been crumbled and were gone forevermore.
My name is Francis Toliver, in Liverpool I dwell,
Each Christmas come since World War I, I've learned its lessons well,
That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame,
And on each end of the rifle we're the same.

Posted by Spencer Batchelder on December 24, 2006 at 10:27 PM in Journal