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Teddy: An Introduction

Frank Marcopolos — Tue, 15 May 2012 11:02:21 +0000

The Pool

Back in my college days, I was often bored by my classwork, so I spent a lot of time hiding out in the stacks of the library, reading my ass off. I first met Teddy (formally Theodore McArdle) there, hiding from my responsibilities, my student loan debt, myself. Precocious child Teddy was, for sure. But still, he had that other-worldly wisdom practically dripping from him, so there was no way I could ignore the boy.

I didn’t really know what to make of him. Some of the things he said—about getting out of the finite dimensions, about some crazy thing called Vedantism, about vomiting up the “apple”–seemed ridiculous, seemed like the make-believe world of a 10-year-old boy with an active, vivid, intellectual imagination. At first, in short, I wrote the damn kid off.

But.

Being in the library anyway, I decided to delve into all those things they had stacked on all those shelves. Books, magazines, newspapers. Found everything I could on Vedantism and other Eastern philosophies. I read all the Salinger stories I could find, even the uncollected ones.

After all this extensive research, I came back to Teddy with a mind that had been grenade-blown wide open. With this new perspective, I could see that what he was saying was absolutely TRUE. It was NOT some fanciful fabrication of a hyper-intelligent kid. It was pure and beautiful truth.

You know that whole thing Teddy says about… oh, wait. You’ve met Teddy, haven’t you? Oh, no? Well, you probably should…….

[MP3 audio file below. I know the quality of the audio in the YouTube vid isn't great--it's because of the multiple conversions of the low-fi MP3 file.]

“A few years ago, I published an exceptionally Haunting, Memorable, unpleasantly controversial, and thoroughly unsuccessful short story about a “gifted” little boy aboard a transatlantic liner….” – Buddy Glass, J.D. Salinger’s (most obvious) alter-ego.

There are a bunch of great essays on the web about Salinger’s “exceptionally Haunting, Memorable, unpleasantly controversial, and thoroughly unsuccessful short story about a “gifted” little boy aboard a transatlantic liner,” “Teddy.”

Such as:

Orange Peels and Apple-Eaters: Buddhism in J.D. Salinger’s Teddy by Tony Magagna

Along This Road Goes No One: Salinger’s “Teddy” and the Failure of Love by Anthony Kaufman

Salinger’s Teddy by Charles Deemer

The Grass Before It Was Green by Leslie English

What’s Up With the Ending? on something called Shmoop.com

Teddy McArdle – Character Analysis on Shmoop

Professor Phillip Schultz in the Writers Studio’s CraftClass on “Teddy” and Salinger (Audio)

This being the case, I don’t really want to re-hash anything that these other fine essays have already gotten into. I’ll just reiterate for the uninitiated (and if you’re one, shame on ya) that Teddy McArdle, the “gifted” little boy mentioned above, advocates a Vedantic view of the world which espouses an unemotional approach to life. He (and it) champions the abandonment of desire–sexual, financial, and material– as a path to spiritual enlightenment. This is emphasized in the story by other characters’ obsessions with name-brand things: Leicas, and Gladstones, and Eastern-seaboard regimental outfits, and Ivy League educations. Teddy believes that a focus on these things prevents a person from making spiritual progress (by meditation) which eventually allows the person to become one with God, whereby that person would then stop the cycle of reincarnation and spend eternity in perfect bliss.

The main issue of contention about the story is its rather abrupt, controversial ending: What, exactly, happened? Did Teddy commit suicide? Did his kid sister push him into an empty pool? Did he push his sister into a full pool?

Here’s the exact concluding text:

“At D Deck the forwardship stairway ended, and Nicholson stood for a moment, apparently at some loss for direction. However, he spotted someone who looked able to guide him. Halfway down the passageway, a stewardess was sitting on a chair outside a galleyway, reading a magazine and smoking a cigarette. Nicholson went down to her, consulted her briefly, thanked her, then took a few additional steps forwardship and opened a heavy metal door that read: TO THE POOL. It opened onto a narrow, uncarpeted staircase.

He was little more than halfway down the staircase when he heard an all-piercing, sustained scream–clearly coming from a small, female child. It was highly acoustical, as though it were reverberating within four tiled walls.”

What I’d like to discuss is something that I haven’t seen written about elsewhere (if anyone else has please point me to it): Saint George and the Dragon. It’s mentioned in the story in a rather inconspicuous way. Specifically:

“Teddy passively looked up from his newspaper, but the woman had passed, and he didn’t look back. He went on reading. At the end of the passageway, before an enormous mural of Saint George and the Dragon over the staircase landing…”

It’s just mentioned in passing like that, with no apparent significance whatsoever to the plot. However, I don’t think it would be there if it had absolutely no meaning. The fact that Salinger mentions this detail at all seems to me like the man put it there for a reason. Perhaps even a big reason.

So, who is this Saint George fella and what’s the deal with the dragon? Turns out, it’s a legend. And, like all good legends, there’s a kick-ass lesson behind it. From Wikipedia:

“The town (Silene) had a pond, as large as a lake, where a plague-bearing dragon dwelled that envenomed all the countryside. To appease the dragon, the people of Silene used to feed it a sheep every day, and when the sheep failed, they fed it their children, chosen by lottery.

It happened (one time) that the lot fell on the king’s daughter. The king, distraught with grief, told the people they could have all his gold and silver and half of his kingdom if his daughter were spared; the people refused. The daughter was sent out to the lake, decked out as a bride, to be fed to the dragon.

Saint George by chance rode (his horse) past the lake. The princess, trembling, sought to send him away, but George vowed to remain.

The dragon reared out of the lake while they were conversing. Saint George fortified himself with the Sign of the Cross, charged it on horseback with his lance and gave it a grievous wound. Then he called to the princess to throw him her girdle, and he put it around the dragon’s neck. When she did so, the dragon followed the girl like a meek beast on a leash. She and Saint George led the dragon back to the city of Silene, where it terrified the people at its approach. But Saint George called out to them, saying that if they consented to become Christians and be baptized, he would slay the dragon before them.

The king and the people of Silene converted to Christianity, George slew the dragon, and the body was carted out of the city on four ox-carts. “Fifteen thousand men baptized, without women and children.” On the site where the dragon died, the king built a church to the Blessed Virgin Mary and Saint George, and from its altar a spring arose whose waters cured all disease.”

It is my belief that Salinger’s purpose for the story (which he admits was a failure, per the quote above) was to convert a large percentage of Americans into a Vedantic (or at least anti-materialistic) view of life. American Consumerism is the dragon, Teddy is Saint George, and the pool is the spring whose waters cure all disease coming from the worship of money and materialism — by being the cause of Teddy’s death. (Water is generally regarded as a symbol of life in stories or poems.)

It is also my belief that Teddy did actually die because, like all good prophets, his death was required for his cause to live eternally.

“Teddy” first appeared in The New Yorker magazine in 1953. The context of the culture at that time was that television was beginning its ascent to media domination in post-War America, as more and more households turned away from radio programming to get their entertainment needs met. This is also–as a way to subsidize that entertainment–the time when Madison Avenue advertising companies began to commodify the American Dream as something you can purchase at your local retailer. (This is currently being dramatized on Mad Men.) If you just purchase the right brand of laundry detergent, the right brand of car, the right brand of cigarettes, the American Dream can be yours. No spiritual advancement required!

Living in the aftermath of those early, lying-for-profit efforts, in a hyper-materialistic, puddle-deep, attention-deficit, drug-addicted America, I’d have to agree with Mr. Salinger that this story, sadly, was an abject failure.

Maybe that’s why the guy wouldn’t come out from his dark hole prior to his passing. He couldn’t bear the light of truth that what post-War America has become is one non-stop corporate gang bang.

*********

Saturday Show #2: Fifty Shades of Shady?

Frank Marcopolos — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 01:49:52 +0000

50 Shades of.. Shady?

On this edition of Saturday Show, I discuss the runaway phenomenon of FIFTY SHADES OF GREY, Joseph Conrad (HEART OF DARKNESS), and other moving literary topics.

SHOW NOTES/LINKS:

http://thesuburbanjungle.com
http://dearauthor.com

ALMOST HOME: http://amzn.to/xdIC1p
THE WHIRLIGIG: http://amzn.to/uxBWmM
FIFTY SHADES OF GREY: http://amzn.to/IAA0Tp

Joseph Conrad: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Conrad

***

[The audio in this video is the same as the MP3 file.]

Saturday Show #1: Is Attorney General Eric Holder Now in Charge of E-Book Pricing?

Frank Marcopolos — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 00:45:09 +0000

Saturday Show #1 Show Notes:

Department of Justice Case vs. Big 5 + Apple

New York Times Criticizes the Case

Here is the YouTube version (Audio is the same as the MP3 file below)…

Was Jack London Secretly a Gaian?

Frank Marcopolos — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 11:13:48 +0000

Thin line between Heaven and here?

The knowledge of how to build a nest in a bare tree, how to fly to the wintering place, how to perform the mating dance—all of this information is stored in the reservoirs of the bird’s instinctual brain. But human beings, sensing how much flexibility they might need in meeting new situations, decided to store this sort of knowledge outside the instinctual system; they stored it in stories. Stories then…amount to a reservoir where we keep new ways of responding that we can adopt when the conventional and current ways wear out. – Robert Bly

On the tiny isle of Manhattan, there are 80 bazillion human beings prowling around trying to deal with each other, or so it seems. In response to this ant-hill madness, I had no other choice but to invent a game so clever, so sinister, and so flat-out-fun that not one of those 80 bazillion people would see it coming. Nor could they stop its eventual triumph over the minds of people everywhere. (Except people who hate fun, I guess.)

Thus began the era of “The Urban Fun Run.” The glorious rules of “TUFR” are as follows. You walk along somewhere in the crowded city, and you suddenly and without warning break out into a run as fast and hard and far as you want, dodging street-walkers and mailboxes alike. To improve things, you can up the Danger Quotient by running across light-changing streets, dodging traffic, and trying to squeeze through precarious bio-traffic, such as slack-jawed tourists and fanged pit bulls.

Pretty sweet, right? And yet, somehow, incredibly, it gets even better!

TUFR was working (and does work) pretty well to increase the Fun Factor of a boring day in Gotham. But I knew I needed to come up with something better, something bigger. Something that could be sold to ESPN as the Next Big Thing in Sporting Hijinks.

The idea factory that is my brain then came up with this golden nugget: The Urban Fun Run Olympiad!

The Olympiad is essentially the same as The Urban Fun Run, but with the following differences. First, it’s a competition, with many participants. Second, each participant would wear a GPS-enabled bracelet, with a beeping alarm thingamajig on it. There would be three or four “runs” scheduled of various lengths in one day. The participants know in advance the order of the runs and the lengths, but they don’t know when they will start. So, as the day begins, you just start walking along anywhere in Manhattan, or any urban area. At some point, your bracelet beeps and this signals the beginning of the first race. You run as straight as possible until your bracelet beeps again, signaling the end of the race. You have no idea what place you finish in. Then you continue walking around, and doing whatever you want, except that you can not rest. The only “resting” allowed is buying food from street-cart vendors, if you want to. At some random moment, could be 5 minutes or 5 hours later, the bracelet goes off again, and the next race has begun. You run until the bracelet beeps, etc., etc. until all 4 races for the day are over. Finally, you go to some central location to find out how well you did.

(Now that I’ve revealed this publicly, I’m sure ESPN will be calling me any minute now. Still waiting…. waiting…)

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Now, all of this running, all of this need for an escape of some kind comes from New York City’s disgusting overflow of people, buildings, pit bulls, garbage, rats, banksters, and everything else. The running events are just my completely natural reaction to it (ahem.) And it’s not just Manhattan. Want a snapshot of modern life in this beautiful country of ours? 82% of Americans live in urban areas according to 2008 estimates, as opposed to rural. (The worldwide urban rate is 50.5%.) More than 8 out of 10 of us are squashed into a metropolis, living one on top of another, commuting like canned anchovies on mass transit for hours every day. We’re all up in each other’s spaces, trapped in these tiny cages of asphalt, and smog, and blacktop, and sweltering on summer sidewalks and buried in winter snowbanks.

Yeah? So?

Yeah, so, what that means is we’ve buried Nature beneath the blacktop. As Joni Mitchell sang, we’ve paved paradise for the massive benefit of having a parking lot. We’ve lost—been severed from—our connection to Nature.

You might be thinking, “So what? Good! Nature’s really dangerous! I could die from Nature! Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Save me Super-City, save me!”

Which is where “To Build a Fire” by Jack London comes in. The story is generally understood to be a Man vs. Nature story, where nature wins out due to man’s over-confidence and stupidity. (Other stories in this genre include Moby Dick by Herman Melville and “The Open Boat” by Stephen Crane.) But what modern-day, evolutionary lessons about urban living can we pull from this classic story?

Take a listen…. ((I know what you’re thinking… “Frank, I don’t have 38 minutes to listen to a story! What’re you, crazy?” I hear you, I hear you. But here’s the thing. The video below is just a piece of narrative voice-over work I did with a picture of Jack London on it to make it a YouTube video. I am a voice-over professional who has a side-pocket deal with William Morris Endeavor Talent Agency. I promise you’ll enjoy it, and I even urge you not only to listen to it, but to put on over-the-ears headphones, close everything else down, sit, listen, and enjoy. Because if you don’t take 38 little minutes out of your hectic day to listen, the conversation we have in the comments section will be much more shallow. And I don’t know about you, but I prefer to go deep. Way deep. Extra Special Bonus: If you listen all the way through, I will also buy you a Guinness!))

Is the story simply a warning not to travel in minus-thirty-degree weather? Or is there more to it than that? Another way to think about it is that all of the dangers lurking about in Nature are Mother Nature’s gift to us. The dangers, and the threat of those dangers, force us to sharpen our survival and surthrival skills. They make us smarter, more innovative, and just generally better. If we rubber-room our lives completely by trapping ourselves in concrete cities, we become, instead, brain-dead zombies staring at a blue light that hypnotizes us to be passive in our living rooms. We lose our essential surthrival skills. When you lose those, when you lose that edge, you die little by little, hour by hour, day by day, year by year. It’s a slow, funereal death-march corroding—rigor-mortis style—the human soul. Not good. It reminds me of one of Machiavelli’s rules: If you don’t have any enemies, make some right away. Our enemies keep us sharp, keep us passionate, keep us energized and full of vibrant life.

When we’re packed tight into overcrowded cities, cut off from both the dangers and wonders of Nature, we are robbed of one of the most basic elements of humanity—a nurturing, improving, empowering connection with the Nature that surrounds us, or is supposed to surround us. I mean, the fact that most modern cities are so flooded by artificial street lights that you can’t see most of the stars in the sky at night, for example, is quite obviously ridiculous.

But. “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

There is some good news. Some people have come to the same conclusion, and they are changing their lifestyles accordingly, in ways that would make Jack London proud. For example, there is a growing number of “Gaians” in America.

I heard about this phenomenon when Michael “Collapse” Ruppert discussed it recently on Joe Rogan’s great podcast. According to Mr. Wikipedia, Gaians believe in a philosophy and ethical worldview which implies a transrational devotion to Planet Earth as a superorganism (“Gaia.”) They don’t see Nature as the enemy, as modern city planners do. Rather, it is a power to be respected, to live in harmony with. Sure, sounds hippy-dippyish, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a healthier way to live. I’m not talking about tree-hugging. I’m talking about living off the land; raising chickens; cultivating food gardens; using well water; being self-sufficient. Basically, everything you can’t do in Urbania. (Ever notice how your body deep-breath relaxes when the power goes out? How it’s almost like coming down from some weird, awful high, back to normal human life? Consider the ramifications of that.)

Others have looked more toward traditional Native American rituals and practices that have an intense respect for animal life to the point of the imitation which provides so many jokes about this ancient culture. (Maybe that’s why they had to be so savagely killed and their land stolen?)

And others still are simply moving out to the country, or to places that have more Nature than, say, New York City.

As someone who lives in Brooklyn and commutes into Manhattan this whole situation weighs on me daily. Every packed subway ride, every siren-blasted evening, every second spent idling in traffic makes me yearn for something different, something better, something more natural. Something more real. Because no matter how much Urban Fun Running I do, I am still stuck on the barren island. (For now, anyway.)

But what do you think?

A Bottleneck in Time

Frank Marcopolos — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 19:00:27 +0000

NOTE: I guess I don’t really have the ability to write blog-post-length blog posts, because whenever I try to do that, the thing gets way, way, way out of hand. So, because this is so long, I’ve recorded it on audio (above) and made a little video (below.) You can also grab the PDF version here if you want to read it that way, or print the thing out. (It’s 7 pages.) – Frank

A Bottleneck in Time

BANGBANGBANG!

“What was that?” I thought.

BANGBANGBANG!

“Oh, it’s the front door. Why is someone banging on my front door?”

BANGBANGBANG!

“Guess I better go down and see what the hell is going on.”

I opened the door. The world seemed out of joint somehow—a swirling, mad vortex awash in full-on Crazy. The sidewalk quivered, like it was made of grey and black Jell-O. A short, goatee’d, angry-looking man stood there. An even shorter woman stood behind him. “You the tenant?” the man said.

I said, “One of ‘em, yeah. Why?” The faded sky was all slush and cigarette ash blended into a gooey mix. A crisp, frigid breeze whirled bits of paper garbage around on the twisty sidewalk.

“Bob’s dead,” the man said. “Died on New Year’s Eve. We’re the new owners of this place. And it’s gonna be sold. You ask me, you got, like, maybe thirty, sixty days, tops, to collect your stuff, and be out. But it’ll be upta the new owners, o’course. What they wanna do witcha.”

“Um,” I said. “Okay? Well, my name’s Frank, by the way.” I held out my handshake hand. We shook. “In the meantime, you might want to consider, maybe, renting out the store, keeping the two tenants, and having that monthly cash flow, which will accumulate pretty nicely over time.”

“Nah,” the woman behind the man said. “We just want the casheesh. We gonna have a blow-out in Vegas, baby!” She laughed, turned, and clacked her heels against the Jell-O cement toward the curb where a late-model Camry was parked. The car swayed and swerved as if whoever was observing it was doing so through the kaleidoscope lens of a sixties-style acid trip. She opened the wavy door and disappeared inside the car.

“Yeah, we’re set on sellin’,” the goatee’d man said. He handed me a slip of paper. “Here’s my info. Mail me a check the first of the month til the place sells.”

I stood there, dumbfounded, until they drove away, back to whatever bastion they called home. The world slipped even more out of joint, and I quickly closed the door, before the entire thing collapsed into dank, smoky ruins.

I remember what I was doing before all the door-banging that Saturday quite well because I was excited by the fact that I had just finished architecting the narrative of my new novel. I was happy that with that structure in place, I could move on to the business of seriously constructing the actual scenes—y’know, the fun part of writing a novel, the actual writing of it. And then the banging came, and my mood suddenly swung 180 degrees, from joy to world-collapsing, black depression.

First of all, I actually liked my previous landlord. Now, all of a sudden, I had to digest the fact that he was no longer walking around on the planet. He was, instead, a pile of ashes in an urn somewhere. That’s more than a little depressing.

Second, I was told that I had to vacate an apartment that’s been my home for over 10 years now. As crappy as this apartment may be, it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve had 10 years’ worth of personal memories here. When I started thinking about the prospect of leaving this crappy apartment that trippy Saturday afternoon, the emotions struck me, hard. Even though it had been around 300 days since I had had a drink on that Saturday, I seriously considered breaking my long streak of sobriety. It was a lightning-strike, life-changing situation after all, and normally I drowned those kinds of events in alcohol—as an attempt to kill them. I mean, one minute, you’re finishing up the architecture of your new novel, the next minute doors are being banged on, and you’re told you’ve got to find a new home, in the least home-like place on Earth, Noir York City, where people would rather stab you than smile at you. It’s jarring, to say the least. But I ultimately decided NOT to have that drink. I decided to deal with all of this stone-cold sober.

The fact of the matter is, I’ve been living in this crappy apartment since February 19, 2001. I was here during 9/11, on vacation of all things. A vacation spent having my emotions ripped apart with chaos exploding everywhere. I woke up on that day intending to get some serious writing done, heard Howard Stern (still on terrestrial radio back then) talking about something weird going on, flipped on the news, and that was it for the writing plans and everything else as I watched with horror as that tragic day raged on and on and on.

The Apartment - Jack Lemon

I’ve gone through a number of different jobs while in this crappy apartment. Several girlfriends have come and gone through here. I’ve had countless gallons of alcohol here, hung out with cool and not-so-cool people here. I’ve read some of the world’s great books here. Right here, in this crappy apartment. I’ve suffered through robberies, graffiti vandalism, roof-leak rainstorms, insurance-fraud fires, next-door cold-blooded murders, and countless other heart-stopping events in this crappy apartment.

Besides all the bad stuff, some good things have happened here, too. I’ve celebrated exciting sporting events and personal achievements here, cooked thousands of untasty meals here, felt the entire range of human emotions in this crappy little apartment. This crappy little apartment is not just wood floors and broken-hinged doors, knobs coming off cabinets and dead pet fish and video games and broken windowpanes. It is, but it’s not.

I have written a zillion less-than-glorious words here. I have narrated some of the greatest stories ever written here, by writers named Poe and Twain and Dostoyevsky and Bierce and Henry and Wilde and Salinger and Hemingway and Faulkner. I have discovered Robert Greene and Paul Dobransky and Eva Cassidy and Robert Bly and Eminem and THE WIRE and Alex Jones and Joe Rogan and Luke Rudkowski and Dwight Swain here.

Some day, I know this crappy little apartment will be the source of a lot of funny stories. For example, I’m going to tell stories about when the roof leaked directly above the toilet, so every time I had to relieve myself, I’d be subjected to a very strange version of Chinese Water Torture during severe rainstorms. I’ll be telling stories about how many things I fixed with duct tape. I’ll be telling stories about how the methamphetamine head from 3 doors over used to sneak into my apartment through the windows and steal from me while I was at work until I barred the windows to the point where it’s now a fire hazard. I’ll be telling stories about how I went around the apartment sniffing for 20 minutes one night, trying to find the source of the smell of fire I was getting—and then suddenly realized the building (from 2 apartments over) was on fire, and I needed to get out immediately. I’ll tell stories about the mice and the bugs and the spiders and the broken pipes and the standing water in the shower and the noisy neighbors and so much more.

Most importantly, though, I wrote the final, published version of ALMOST HOME here. I architected the narrative of that novel here, surprising myself with what I’d come up with as the plot slowly unfolded over time. I found it fascinating to write myself into a corner at night and think, with frustration pouring out of me, “There’s no way I can solve this plot problem. It’s over. This novel is dead. I’m a total and complete fraud. It’s over. I can never write this fucking novel. What was I thinking? It’s all over.” But then I’d wake up in the morning, get back to work, an idea would come, and the unsolvable problem from the night before was suddenly solved. It felt… miraculous, really, to go from “I can’t possibly solve this problem” to “Problem solved. Let’s move on.” So to ME, miracles have happened here, in this crappy little apartment. Sounds grandiose, maybe, but if you’re a writer, I think you’ll be able to relate to those “early morning miracles.”

And I think what I’ll remember most about this crappy little apartment is THAT rollercoaster experience—the excruciating pain and the inexplicable joy—of finishing a novel that I’m proud of. A novel I want to share with YOU, even though we’ve never met, and probably never will meet.

ALMOST HOME is the first novel that I tacked up, scene by scene, with colored index cards onto my corkboarded walls. And I did that here. I had it rejected by dozens of literary agents and small presses here. I tacked those rejections up on the corkboarded walls here. I pitched it to hundreds of book-review bloggers here, did giveaways and discounts for it here, promoted it ad nauseum on Twitter here. I came up with the way-too-popular title, ALMOST HOME, here. Right here, in this crappy little apartment.

But, despite all of that, or maybe because of it, I know that new memories await me, and they’ll be made in a healthier, less dangerous place. New literary adventures are awaiting my arrival as well. I don’t know what they’ll be, exactly, but I suspect they’ll be just as poignant, just as miraculous, just as enlightening as the ones I’ve had here, in this crappy little apartment.

I can hardly wait.
________________________________________________________________________

Find more of my “stuff” by clicking through the following links:

Smashwords.com

BarnesandNoble.com

Amazon.com

Follow me on Twitter, where my tweets are both hi-larious and thought-provoking:
http://www.twitter.com/FrankMarcopolos

***

And to end on a musical note, here are The Stereophonics with “Maybe Tomorrow…I’ll find my way home…”

The Strange Case of a Mind Shift (Part 4 of 4)

Frank Marcopolos — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 11:01:20 +0000

NOTE: This is kinda long, which is why I split the blog posts up into 4 parts. But if you want to read the whole thing at once (it’s 20 pages), you can download the PDF via this link or grab it from Smashwords.com (free) for any kind of e-reader by clicking on this link. You can also listen to the whole thing via the MP3 player above, or the YouTube player below. – Frank

MY PERSONAL JOURNEY TO SELF-SOVEREIGNTY

((((((FOUR))))))

EXT. – GREENWICH STREET, NYC (TRIBECA), IN FRONT OF IVY’S BAR – DUSK

FADE IN FROM BLACK.

A ruggedly handsome MAN, with the kind of good looks that let you know he knows how to handle a firearm but also pets his neighbor’s puppy whenever the opportunity presents itself, is walking briskly toward Ivy’s Bar. His breath is visible from the cold, his gloved hands hidden inside his black Alfani overcoat, which tops a black Fred Perry zip-up sweater, white tie, white Van Heusen button-down collar, and black slacks. His square-toe Kenneth Cole Reactions gleam with high shine. The left lapel of his overcoat is adorned with a “Ron Paul 2012” button.

The street is color-bled and bleak, while the interior of the restaurant beams with vivid and vibrant colors.

The MAN walks in and greets another MAN like a long-lost brother, smiling and hugging him.

MAN #1: Alex! M’man!

MAN #2: Frank! Long time.

FRANK: Yeah, bro. But I need to thank you.

ALEX: For what?

FRANK: For waking me up. What’s been up is, I shifted my mentality, y’know. Based on some of the stuff you were telling me about last year, and I got my humanity back, or whatever you wanna call it. I realized that I have personal sovereignty because it was provided by my creator—NOT the government or any other outside entity. It’s a direct connection between the source of all consciousness and my own consciousness. Plain and simple.

ALEX: Exactly right. Yup. Glad to see you finally came around, buddy!

FRANK: Yeah. But it does mean that I am responsible for the quality of my life, which can be scary. Especially ‘cause my life could still, y’know, use improvement in so many areas. That’s scary, it really is. Y’know, uhh, I’d always thought that the government had my best interests at heart, I really did. I’d grown up thinking that while politicians might screw up here and there, and there might be some corruption occasionally, y’know, overall, overall they try to do the right thing for the people. I now realize we’ve all allowed politicians to have way too much power over our lives. We’re kind of complicit in their actions, and, in the same way, it’s up to us to remedy the situation.

ALEX: Yeah, self-reliance, personal sovereignty, and preparedness, it turns out, are forms of empowering wisdom. After that initial shock of fear, your mind quickly moves into a realm of supreme empowerment. That wisdom, that illumination, can then be used, like a floodlight to enable you to see what for so long was ensconced in ever-darkening shadow: your true nature, which is divine, your true mission in life, and your everlasting truth.

FRANK: Yes! Exactly! These days, I wake up daily with a crazy-cool energy, ready to keep fighting the good fight with an irrepressible smile all over my face.

ALEX: Right, I get you. Me too, man. And how did it start? Like everything always starts. By you making a choice, a decision.

A pretty blonde BARTENDER in a blue V-neck T-shirt leans over the bar, toward ALEX and FRANK, revealing an alluring view of her significant cleavage.

BARTENDER: ‘Scuse me. You guys want a drink or what?

ALEX and FRANK turn their heads away from her, look into the camera, and raise their eyebrows.

They’re expecting an answer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Frank Marcopolos began writing as a kid in the evenings after summer days of competing—always unsuccessfully—against the older neighborhood kids (the evil “teenagers”) in the P.S. 207 schoolyard. After long, hot days of sporting failures, he discovered that by writing stories, his fictional heroes (almost always coincidentally named “Frank”) could always end up saving the day from the taller, menacing forces arrayed against them. He usually composed these stories by flashlight as he wrote in a black-and-white Mead notebook while seated on a shelf in his bedroom closet.

For some reason, this love of creating alternative—glory-promising—realities never died within him, and continues to this day. (Thankfully, his boyhood habit of naming all of his main characters “Frank” has died, however.)

Frank still lives in Brooklyn, New York, not far from that very schoolyard where he spent so much of his youth failing at various sports. He notes with sadness that the current trend in public education is to chain up all schoolyards during the summer, presumably so that the painted-on-cement bases can’t be stolen.

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and always knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

The Strange Case of a Mind Shift (Part 3 of 4)

Frank Marcopolos — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 11:00:00 +0000

MY PERSONAL JOURNEY TO SELF-SOVEREIGNTY

((((((THREE))))))

I’ve gone through a lot of different seasons in my life. College baseball player, U.S. Army paratrooper, cellar manager for a wine auction shop, hospital administrator, voice-over talent, and more. But what I always did, in all seasons, through any weather so to speak, was write. Writing has been a life-long love affair that just refuses to burn out. It’s something I’ve loved doing since I was a little kid. So, I knew that my life mission would have to be literature-oriented. The question was how to manifest that in a realistic way to earn a living. Enter the Kindle and the 2011-era e-book revolution of Amanda Hocking, John Locke, Joe Konrath, and others. It quickly became clear to me that I needed to become an entrepreneur and publish my own novels as an “indie publisher.” I had run The Whirligig by myself for 6 years, after all, and turned it into one of the most respected underground literary publications going. So, I was going to have to do something similar with this new publishing venture. “Whirligig Media” it would be called—that much I knew, but not much else at that point.

To maintain an income base, I needed to enhance my day-job professional credentials, so I decided to embark on a long, 4-exam process which would protect me somewhat in the professional marketplace. This would be so grueling that I knew I couldn’t sacrifice any more time or brain cells to alcohol, so I decided to keep not drinking, at least until it was over. I also needed to boost my overall health, so I searched for a nutritional plan that might help me lose those stubborn thirty pounds or so that were becoming more than a minor nuisance. That was when I found The 4-Hour Body by Timothy Ferriss. Highly recommended for life-changing body transformation.

I stayed sober, lost 35 pounds by following the Ferriss formula, passed all 4 excruciatingly difficult exams, started “Whirligig Media” and published 4 of my e-books, including my debut novel, Almost Home in 2011. In addition, I published 1 audiobook and 34 audiostories and poems, acquired an official USPTO trademark, gained over 7,700 Twitter followers and counting, and began investing in real assets for the first time, all while holding down that pesky day job. Are these things monumental, Tony Robbins-sized successes, where it’s as if “MTV Cribs” can use my house for an episode? NO, but they are a starting point. (In fact, I’m still living in my crappy “apartment of solitude.”) But they are the foundation of an upward spiral of positivity to which I see no end, really. The undeniable fact is that I’m just getting started.

This new, mature way of understanding the world, of understanding that it is no one else’s responsibility but my own to run and take ownership of my own adult life, led me to become more curious about how the defining principle of self-sovereignty could then apply to politics and government in America. I wondered if it had something to do with what the electorate allowed Turncoat Obama and all politicians to do, resulting in the current deplorable state of affairs in America and the world. I thought about the ice-pick-cold day in December outside Ivy’s when I had forgotten my gloves, and how much my world-view had changed from that day. How silly, childish even, my former mental self seemed to be. My friend “Alex” had been right all along. It seemed so juvenile to me now to think that the federal government should be allowed to interfere in ANY aspect of my peaceful life, or the life of my business, for that matter. To think that any federal government could “take care of me” is akin to thinking a fox can “take care” of a hen house, I now know.

But “Alex” wasn’t through with me yet. He sent me something in the mail called a “Pocket Constitution,” whatever that was. “Weirdo,” I thought. One day, though, I started reading it, and it dove-tailed perfectly with everything I was learning about self-sovereignty and a more mature outlook on life. I mean, it was all in there, in black and white, as it pertained to the relationship between man and state. “Snitches get stitches!!!” popped back into my mind. The government wanted Americans to snitch on their neighbors? All of a sudden, that act of vandalism took on a much greater significance in my evolved mind. The last thing in the world we needed to be doing was spying on each other and reporting back to Big Sis, especially when the chances of dying from terrorism are less than those of dying from a honeybee sting.

It seemed to me like the end of the Truman Show when Jim Carey has to choose which world to be in, and he chooses the world of risk, the world of uncertainty, the world where it’s not guaranteed that nothing will harm him. And he makes the right choice because a risk-free life isn’t worth living. It’s a prison, a slave plantation.

So, I started looking even more closely into what is called “freedom movement” consisting of people like the End the Fedders, Dr. Ron Paul, Ann Barnhardt, Alex Jones, Luke “WeAreChange” Rudkowski, Comedian Joe Rogan, Catherine Albrecht, Sheriff Mack, Mike “The Health Ranger” Adams, Nomi Prins, Adam “AdamvstheMan” Kokesh, Lord Christopher Monckton (the man Al Gore refuses to debate), Liz “Raw Milk Freedom Rider” Reitzig, David Icke, and many others. I watched their videos online, read their articles, read their books. (The Kindle has increased my read-rate by about 70%, I’d say.) All of the info now coalesced into a coherent, logical viewpoint, which, it seemed to me, actually made sense of the geopolitical events that only months before seemed completely assinine and incomprehensible. This philosophy, call it “libertarianism,” “constitutionalism,” “freedomism,” whatever you want, actually has the power to change the world for the much, much better. It actually makes sense, top to bottom, side to side, upwards, downwards, any way you look at it. Freedom was important enough for the American Founding Fathers to stake their lives on—and now it was clear to me WHY. Any other social construct ever invented inevitably led to tyranny and oppression of those at the bottom of the pyramid.

Most people, like my previous self, reared on television, vaccines, and sodium-fluoride-water, find these “freedom advocates” and their views radical or “fringe.” And before my awakening, I would have, too. But I now feel like if you allow others to have control and power over your life in any way, you’re effectively trapped in a prison, even if it’s not the kind of prison where you can see and touch the bars entrapping you. “A prison. For. Your. Mind,” as Morpheus tells Neo in The Matrix.

I now believe self-sovereignty is the only way to ensure freedom, peace, and prosperity both personally and for the country I love. The simple bottom line is that more freedom equals more prosperity equals more security.

FADE TO BLACK.

Part 4 will post on 1/23/12.

The Strange Case of a Mind Shift (Part 2 of 4)

Frank Marcopolos — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 11:00:56 +0000

MY PERSONAL JOURNEY TO SELF-SOVEREIGNTY

((((((TWO))))))

It’s now January of 2012. According to the most reliable account, January is named after the Roman God of beginnings and transitions, Janus, who is also the God of gates, doors, doorways, endings, and time. He is usually a two-faced God since he looks simultaneously to the future and the past.

The world as it stands today teeters on the brink of an economic meltdown (1, 2, 3). Wars are ongoing across the globe. Angry protestors are on the streets in many cities. America is quickly becoming a police state. Far too many people across this land of beauty feel like something has gone horribly wrong, but they can’t quite figure out what to do about it. Indeed, many people are wondering if there is anything we can do about this world gone mad.

Since the debate in Ivy’s, all through 2011, I noticed that the nightly news refused to provide satisfactory answers to my questions about WHY the geopolitical news didn’t seem to make any sense. The TelePrompTer readers skimmed off the top of an issue, never really getting down to root causes, or real solutions, or why everything was framed within such a tight Overton Window, I noticed. It seemed to be enough for them to read the news, have a guest from each side of a topic state their opinions, and then move on (in between boner-pill commercials.) With the seriousness of what was going on in the world, I knew I needed to try and make sense of what was really going on. I decided to look elsewhere.

As a fiction writer, English Literature major, and former literary magazine editor (“The Whirligig”), I somewhat naturally turned mostly to literature, to stories, for some perspective on what was unfolding on the geopolitical stage. I was seeking some modern answers from old stories, and—Janus willing—a large dollop of hope. I kept reading, delving into books and magazines and alternative-media websites, searching for answers. (I also decided to quit drinking for a while at this time. I wanted to see if my brain function would improve if I stopped killing off all those brain cells. Maybe I could even better comprehend the complexity of world events.)

I somehow—miraculously, it seems to me now—stumbled upon Robert Bly’s masterpiece Iron John: A Book About Men. It got me pointed in the right direction, I think: “The knowledge of how to build a nest in a bare tree, how to fly to the wintering place, how to perform the mating dance—all of this information is stored in the reservoirs of the bird’s instinctual brain. But human beings, sensing how much flexibility they might need in meeting new situations, decided to store this sort of knowledge outside the instinctual system; they stored it in STORIES. Stories, then…amount to a reservoir where we keep new ways of responding that we can adopt when the conventional and current ways wear out.” As a voracious reader of stories, including those that are collectively called “the classics,” Bly’s words struck a loud and distinct chord of truth for me.

Bly’s book takes us through the maturity stages of life, based on the narrative progression of the Grimm fairy tale, “Iron John.” The fairy tale, of course, uses symbols exclusively to convey its messages, and Bly unpacks these symbols so that the story’s real meaning can be clearly understood by a modern reader. In general, it is a time-honored tale of the proper stages of progression for male maturity—from unlocking the “wild man” by stealing the key from beneath your mother’s pillow all the way to the massive, gold-laden reward of living with mature integrity.

Iron John is the type of book that you go through and want to highlight almost every single part because it’s so enlightening. There are so many “Ah-ha!” moments it’s unbelievable. The book revealed, basically, everything that had been missing in my life, why it was significant, and how I could go about fixing it. This was an enormous revelation to me. Growing up without a father, all of this was brain-busting news that I had a hard time swallowing. I could barely believe it. And I couldn’t believe all of this essential knowledge was housed in ancient stories of all places, many of which I’d been previously familiar with, but had no way of being able to understand with an immature, ignorant, liberal arts mind. The blindfold was ripped off. I was beginning to see the true nature of things.

So, I started looking around for other fables that might help me grow the hell up, and at as brisk a clip as possible. I mean, here I was—thirty-something years old, with an intellectual maturity of a sixteen-year-old boy. It was freaking embarrassing is what it was.

So, Internet searches then led me to Dr. Paul Dobransky, and his concepts of Mature Masculine Power and MindOS (the operating system of the mind), which at that point, obviously appealed to me a great deal. One of the things Dr. Paul teaches is a lesson drawn from another fairy tale, “Bluebeard.” While the story (and re-imaginings of it such as Angela Carter’s “The Bloody Chamber”) is often used as a cautionary tale for women, warning against violent men, there is one aspect of the story that is relevant to mature masculinity. That is, a mature man always has one metaphorical, locked, mysterious room (NOT a real room filled with dead bodies!) that’s off limits to everyone but himself. Dr. Paul uses “Bluebeard” to illustrate the key issue of always having some aspect of your life that’s just for you, hidden away like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. A Solitude Fortress allows you to re-charge your masculine batteries when they get run down by life. If you ever do relinquish the key to that fortress, it results in bloodshed, much gnashing of teeth, and abject misery for everyone involved.

MindOS, while too deep to get completely into here, illustrates the psychological concepts of personal boundaries, inner resources, doors/handles, observing ego (a.k.a. “the science of cool”), and the 4 basic human temperaments and how they relate to each other. (Needless to say, I highly recommend Dr. Paul’s work, which can be accessed here: http://www.menspsychology.com.) Where Iron John goes through the maturation stages from boyhood to manhood, Bly leaves us there without knowing what do with our new-found maturity. Dr. Paul takes it from there by mapping out the operating system of the mind, and then going beyond that into the area of Mature Masculine Power by using the following equation:

Progress on Career/Life Mission + Success with Women = Mature Masculine Power

The upshot of the equation is that if you’re not on your life mission, your level of Mature Masculine Power will be dangerously low, causing a significant amount of unhappiness (“depresulinity”) and all sorts of destructive behaviors toward yourself, others, and even society (manifested in things like violent gangs.) One example of not being on your mission is having a job you hate, which is fairly common these days.

To use a movie plot-device mechanism, we’d probably need a montage somewhere right about here, showing a long chain of progress in a short amount of movie time. But I can’t really do that here, so we’ll just keep things more-or-less linear, which may not be 100% accurate. (My memory is somewhat less than optimal, even when alcohol-free.)

Anyway, I now knew I needed my Fortress of Solitude (a.k.a. my crappy apartment) in which to work on the development of my life mission and my mature masculine power by applying the wisdom of ancient teachings revealed in stories. Underlining this lesson is The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. This novel (and movie, especially the 1993 version) dramatizes the stages of male masculinity brilliantly. Reading this novel, in conjunction with the teachings of Bly and Dobransky, a key piece of wisdom became clear: it is incumbent upon every person to take responsibility for his/her own circumstances, regardless of upbringing. In other words, even though I didn’t have a father to properly shepherd me through these stages, if I didn’t go through them at some point—self-directed if necessary—only I would be worse off for it, trapped in my own jail, my own Chateau d’If, if you will, for all eternity. There’s a reason why there are a million legends, stories, myths, movies, comic books, and novels based on what Joseph Campbell calls the “Hero’s Journey,” where the hero must accomplish a really hard goal (a.k.a. “life mission”) with the odds stacked heavily against him (a.k.a. “life.”) It’s because the fictional journey in these stories is a metaphor for life itself, an essential teaching from each elder generation to the next in the forms of metaphors and symbols, and so on. Unfortunately, too many of these lessons have been “Disney-fied” for modern audiences, rendering them impotent and useless, save for the inflation of the portfolios of Disney stockholders.

According to these lessons-in-stories, if you’re not on your mission, you’re wasting your life because you’re not consciously developing your masculine power to manifest in a just society; if you get knocked down on your mission and don’t get back up and keep fighting, you’re wasting your life because it means your mission wasn’t all that important in the first place; if you don’t take ownership of the results you’re getting, you’re wasting your life because you’re allowing others to control your destiny, which is a recipe for disaster. I certainly didn’t want to waste my life, so I got down to work thoroughly assessing what my life mission actually was and why.

Part 3 will be posted on Monday, 1/16/12.

The Strange Case of a Mind Shift (Part 1 of 4)

Frank Marcopolos — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 11:00:23 +0000

MY PERSONAL JOURNEY TO SELF-SOVEREIGNTY

((((((ONE))))))

If they played it in the movies, it’d be different. I’d be more handsome, for one thing. Probably a rugged sort of handsome that lets you—the viewer—in on the secret that while I certainly know how to handle a firearm, I also pet the neighbor’s puppy whenever the opportunity presents itself.

The other thing about it would be the lighting. The Handsomer Me would be exiting the bar—Ivy’s on Greenwich—and the bar itself would be lit, dressed, and edited with warm colors, rich and vibrant and alluring. Contrasting this would be how they made the street into which I was walking look: stark, color-bled, and bleak, like a noir comic book scene portraying the tragic, heart-rending death of a beautiful woman that propels the hero into unimaginably heroic action. And Handsomer Me would be right in the middle, in slow-motion probably, nattily dressed in black and white, but lit and edited so that the fabrics looked reassuring nonetheless.

That’s how they’d do it in the movies. You The Viewer wouldn’t be able to feel the cold in my fingers, wouldn’t be able to see the regret in my mind of forgetting my gloves again, nor could you feel the warmth that the residue of seven glasses of wine were providing inside of me at that camera-perfect, chiaroscuro moment.

In non-movie time, it was December of 2010 when I was stepping out from the glow of Ivy’s and into the street freeze. The pervading topic among “the smart crowd” in America at that time, the “buzz,” was the ObamaCare legislation. I was an ardent Obama Democrat then, and before leaving Ivy’s I’d gotten enmeshed in a debate with a friend, “Alex” (not his real name), about it. I put forth the theory that everyone has a natural-born right to healthcare, and single payer (with that payer being the federal government) was far superior to the insurance-company-payer model we had in place in America. Alex countered that ObamaCare was unconstitutional and would lead us further down a slippery slope into total technocrat tyranny. Armed with all that wine in my belly and a bit of natural smugness borne from a liberal arts education, I had dutifully parroted the arguments provided for me by the mainstream media during the discussion, thinking Alex’s argument was rather quaint and perhaps a little racist. I felt quite comfortable that I’d clearly won the argument, and that everything was well on its way to becoming awesome in America.

Leaving the bar—black Alfani overcoat, black slacks, black Kenneth Cole Reaction square-toes, black Fred Perry zip-up sweater, white tie, white Van Heusen button-down collar—the winter cold pierced my defenses spiked with needles of wind, a unique New York City freeze that rattled your bones and made you long for places like Miami, or Los Angeles, or even Hell itself just so long as you could escape the shearing attack of New York City Weather. The wine, however, was providing me with an internal furnace which kept every part of me toasty, save for my ungloved fingers. I snugly pocketed them when I turned a corner and saw something massively important that I completely dismissed at the time. Funny how life does that sort of thing.

A simple thing, really, as all portals tend to be—a poster stuck to some temporary wooden construction wall with one corner, the right bottom corner, flapping in the chill-wind. It was one of those DHS “See Something, Say Something” posters, but someone had taken a red marker and written something across it in large, urgent letters. The urgent letters said, “Snitches Get Stitches!!!”

A part of the movie 1984 flashed through my endrunkened mind, and then it immediately vanished. I jogged down the subway steps, went home, and didn’t think much more of it or the argument I’d had in the bar until a long time afterward.

In movie-visual parlance, calendar pages flew off into oblivion, and the Obama presidency marched on. It soon became clear that, except for the healthcare issue, President Obama was betraying everything Candidate Obama said he would do. I began wondering: why had he continued the Bush tax cuts for the rich? Why hadn’t he closed Guantanamo Bay, even though he signed an executive order saying that he would? Why hadn’t he ended the Afghanistan war? Why did he have Kaddafi and 40,000 mostly black Libyans killed? Why did he kill an American citizen without a trial? Why was he allowing his Attorney General to ship guns into Mexico so they could be used by Mexican gangs to kill their competitors who DIDN’T launder their money through the international banks who contributed millions to Obama’s campaign? These questions and a bunch of others kept running through my mind. It didn’t make any sense for him to turn his back on his base like this. We all wanted change from George W. Bush because, as Democrats, we saw everything Son-of-a-Bush did as evidence that Republicans were pure evil, puppets of the global mega-corporations. We Dems thought all we had to do was get our candidate in there—a Democrat, a person of the people!—and everything would turn around. Obama’s historic election, we thought, would instantly transform the world into a nirvanic space full of peace and love and understanding. Except that it didn’t.

If anything, things had gotten worse. Much worse. And I couldn’t quite figure out why. In movie terms, the American landscape was becoming more like Charlie Chaplin’s “Great Dictator” than Aaron Sorkin’s “American President.”

Part 2 will post on 1/9/11.

Almost Home: Episode 23 (Chapter 47 – THE END)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 11:31:03 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

About the Author/Narrator: Frank Marcopolos began writing as a kid in the evenings after summer days of competing–always unsuccessfully–against the older neighborhood kids (the evil “teenagers”) in the P.S. 207 schoolyard. After long, hot days of sporting failures, he discovered that by writing stories, his fictional heroes (almost always coincidentally named “Frank”) could always end up saving the day from the taller, menacing forces arrayed against them. He usually composed these stories by flashlight as he wrote in a black-and-white Mead notebook while seated on a shelf in his bedroom closet.

For some reason, this love of creating alternative–glory-promising–realities never died within him, and continues to this day. (Thankfully, his boyhood habit of naming all of his main characters “Frank” HAS died, however.)

Frank still lives in Brooklyn, NY, not far from that very schoolyard, among others where he also spent portions of his youth failing at various sports. He notes with sadness that the current trend in public education is to chain up all schoolyards during the summer, presumably so that the painted-on-cement bases can’t be stolen.

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

The End. Thank you, and Happy New Year!

Almost Home: Episode 22 (Chapters 45 & 46)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 11:29:42 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

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To buy the entire novel as an e-book in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 21 (Chapters 43 & 44)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 11:28:23 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle via Amazon.com, click here.

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To buy the entire novel as an e-book in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords.com, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 20 (Chapters 41 & 42)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 12:45:12 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here. (ALMOST HOME has now been reviewed 13 times on Amazon, all 4 or 5 stars! Woo-hoo!)

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 19 (Chapters 39 & 40)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 09:25:55 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

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To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.
***

Almost Home: Episode 18 (Chapters 37 & 38)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 10:24:29 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Happy Turkey Day!

Almost Home: Episode 17 (Chapters 35 & 36)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 18:22:42 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 16 (Chapters 33 & 34)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 11:21:10 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 15 (Chapters 31 & 32)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 11:00:23 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 14 (Chapters 29 & 30)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 11:30:43 +0000

“He jests at scars that never felt a wound.” – Romeo Montague

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Almost Home: Episode 13 (Chapters 27 & 28)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 11:15:58 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

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To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 12 (Chapters 25 & 26)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 11:14:51 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

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To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 11 (Chapters 23 & 24)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 12:12:14 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here. Until 10/15/11, use coupon code EA89C to get it for $0.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

About the Author/Narrator:Frank Marcopolos began writing as a kid in the evenings after summer days of competing–always unsuccessfully–against the older neighborhood kids (the evil “teenagers”) in the P.S. 207 schoolyard. After long, hot days of sporting failures, he discovered that by writing stories, his fictional heroes (almost always coincidentally named “Frank”) could always end up saving the day from the taller, menacing forces arrayed against them. He usually composed these stories by flashlight as he wrote in a black-and-white Mead notebook while seated on a shelf in his bedroom closet.

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 10 (Chapters 21 and 22)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 12:30:38 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook (Barnes & Noble), click here.

To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here. Until 10/15/11, use Coupon Code EA89C to get 100% off the retail price.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

About the Author/Narrator: Frank Marcopolos began writing as a kid in the evenings after summer days of competing–always unsuccessfully–against the older neighborhood kids (the evil “teenagers”) in the P.S. 207 schoolyard. After long, hot days of sporting failures, he discovered that by writing stories, his fictional heroes (almost always coincidentally named “Frank”) could always end up saving the day from the taller, menacing forces arrayed against them. He usually composed these stories by flashlight as he wrote in a black-and-white Mead notebook while seated on a shelf in his bedroom closet.

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 9 (Chapters 19 & 20)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 12:09:10 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle (Amazon), click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook (Barnes & Noble), click here.

To buy the entire novel as an ebook in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here. (Use coupon code: EA89C until 10/15/11 to snag it for FREE!)

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***

Frank rocks a cable-free lifestyle, and ALWAYS knows where his towel is. ALMOST HOME is his debut novel. From 2000-2006, he was the editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, THE WHIRLIGIG.

***

Almost Home: Episode 8 (Chapters 15-18)

Frank Marcopolos — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 10:07:56 +0000

To enjoy the podcast, click PLAY above, or download the MP3 file by right-clicking, and using Save Link As…

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Kindle, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book for Nook, click here.

To buy the entire novel as an e-book in any other format, including PDF if you don’t have an e-reader, from Smashwords, click here.

If you’re new and want to start from the beginning, click here.

Grab the RSS feed by clicking here.

***