The sounds of space

Welcome to my latest obsession: Sounds from space. I know, I know, space is for all practical purposes a vacuum (unless you're designing an interstellar ramjet) so sound as we know it doesn't exist there. And even if it did in the thin stellar media, we'd need fantastically sensitive microphones to pick up any hint of audio.

Well, I thought so, until I stumbled across the "NASA Space Sounds" video below when it was being shared around the interwebz recently. Instruments aboard Voyagers I and II, as well as several other space probes, recorded an array of electromagnetic signals that, when converted to sound (think of it as running it through a space age amplifier) the result is a strange and eerie ambient sound that is utterly engrossing. To my ear, at least, the pieces are evocative of the non-classical music soundtrack from 201: A Space Odyssey. So that's bonus points right there.

The sequences sampled below are taken from a series of 5 CD put out by Laserlight in 1990 titled "Symphonies of the Planets" as well as an additional volume a few years later titled "Celestial Love Songs." Long out of print, they're quite pricey to purchase second hand. Fortunately, they're readily available as MP3 (as well as other format) downloads online, the only drawback being the file labeling isn't consistent and therefore it's challenging to keep track of individual tracks. And since all data, audio and video released by NASA is public domain, fans of these fascinating ambient sounds may download with a clear conscience that no copyright is being violated.

Alas, in my obsessive research, I've learned that things aren't so cut-and-dried. Yes, NASA does take collected electromagnetic data and convert it into audible sound, but the raw, unvarnished audio doesn't sound all that much like what we hear on the CDs. That's because Laserlight (or Brain/Mind Research, which handled the production) didn't just take the NASA audio and burn it to disc. They ran it through an intergalactic version of the nefarious Auto-Tune, processing it heavily and looping, over-dubbing and sweetening with synthesizers to the point where many of the actual "space sounds" are tenuous at best. In fact, some pieces, such as the samples of "Song of Earth" and "Voices of Earth" in the video above simply do away with the source material entirely and re-orchestrate it. I guess that make it an artistic interpretation of the data rather than an objective representation (which opens up the whole objective/subjective reality can of worms, but I digress...).

What's more, it brings copyright into question. It is clearly established law that what is public domain cannot be subsequently copyrighted (publishers may copyright specific presentations of public domain materials, but not the content itself, which is why you can find free 1920s jazz downloads online, as well as the complete works of Charles Dickens, even though publishers put out new editions every few years). However, derivative works of both copyright and public domain can be copyrighted, but only that which is new and derivative is thus protected, ie the original which is incorporated into the derivation remains in the public domain. In this particular case, I would expect the Brain/Mind Research productions to be fully covered by copyright protection. Being out of print is irrelevant. However (and I'm full of caveats today, aren't I?) their persistent and insistent claims (indeed, the entirety of their marketing and mass appeal) that the audio is direct from NASA, with no claims of alteration on their part would, at least superficially, serve to undermine any copyright protection as, has been pointed out previously, all NASA materials are automatically released to public domain. For Brain/Mind Research to assert their copyright on these works, they would effectively have to admit false advertising, which would significantly diminish the value of said works. It's an interesting academic question, albeit one I doubt anybody is going to bother exploring any time soon.

Authentic or not, I find the interpretations of space sounds interesting and appealing. I'll be keeping an eye on Ebay and the like in case a CD shows up for a bargain price...

Now Playing: NASA Voyager Recordings Symphonies of the Planets
Chicken Ranch Central

Friday Night Videos

I saw Peter Wolf's "When Women Are Lonely" exactly once, on MTV, back in 1990 or 1991. I never saw the video again, never heard the song on the radio. It was off Wolf's Up to No Good album, which received no airplay and flopped, thus relegating him to that subset of former hit makers who have to content themselves with putting out critically acclaimed albums few people hear. Still, I fell in love with the song and have waited a long time for the video to resurface on YouTube. Enjoy.

Previously on Friday Night Videos... "Weird Al" Yankovic

Now Playing: The Kinks Arthur (or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire)
Chicken Ranch Central

Chicken Ranch anniversary: 41 years and counting

On this date in 1973, the infamous Chicken Ranch brothel of La Grange, Texas, closed its doors for good. The closure followed a week (give or take--it's been tough to pin down exact dates) of broadcasts by Houston TV station KTRK's consumer affairs reporter Marvin Zindler, accusing the brothel of corruption and conspiracy. The Chicken Ranch had survived attempts to close it before, but the white-hot media spotlight proved too much for it. The brothel claimed a history dating back to 1844, back during the Republic of Texas days, and if those claims couldn't be substantiated, there was at least evidence of organized prostitution dating to the 1880s. Throughout the latter half of the 19th century and the first half of the 20th century, rare was the Texas town that didn't have a whorehouse of some fashion. The one thing that really made La Grange unique is that by 1973 the Chicken Ranch was (the Wagon Wheel in Sealy aside) the only one left.

Since my epic history of the place is still languishing on editors' desks, why not console yourself with my photo tour of the ruins, Ghosts of the Chicken Ranch? Eh, it was worth a shot.

To mark the occasion of the 41th anniversary of the closure of the Chicken Ranch, I offer up this excerpt from Chapter 12, chronicling the final hours of the famed brothel:

"Why don’t you call Sheriff Flournoy yourself, Dolph?" Colonel Wilson Speir, head of the DPS, suggested out of the blue.

As the trying day turned into an equally trying night, Governor Briscoe continued to talk with Colonel Speir to find some way out of the impasse. During their discussion, the governor--a long-time South Texas rancher--realized he’d known Big Jim from way back, when the sheriff worked as the foreman of the McGill Brothers Ranch. Big Jim resented outside interference in what he considered a strictly local matter, but Marvin Zindler had shone a glaring spotlight on it. Clearly, things could never go back to the wink-and-nod tolerance of before. The sheriff didn’t accept that the DPS had any authority over him, but if Governor Briscoe himself gave the order...

"Sheriff, it’s just too much. We’ll just have to close it down," Governor Briscoe said as soon as he got Big Jim on the line.

"You know, there’s a lot of furniture out there and we have to get those girls moved out," Big Jim answered in his slow drawl. "Why don’t you let us run two more weeks just to let things taper off?"

"No sheriff, you’re just going to have to shut it down. That’s all there is to it. There’s too much heat. Everybody’s embarrassed by this thing," Governor Briscoe said. "Sheriff, I am ordering you to close what is known as the Chicken Ranch."

Big Jim paused a long moment, then answered with a simple, tired, "Okay."

"He and I both knew that I had no authority to order him to close the place, but it was a practical way for us to get the law enforced in that county," Governor Briscoe said later. "For several days afterward I kept waiting for someone to point out that I had no legal authority to close the place down, but no one did."

All that remained was for Big Jim to inform Miss Edna, a phone call he loathed to make. Miss Edna’s nephew, Robert Kleffman, was visiting when his aunt disappeared into her office to take the call. When she returned, her mood was grim.

"She said, ‘Dang it Robert, Mr. Jim's got to shut us down. He's got to. The Governor's on his way,’" Kleffman said. "She sent all the girls home except for two. I went and got a shirt--Edna'd bought me some new shirts, she was always buying me clothes--and I pulled the cardboard out of it and I drew the block letters of CLOSED. I stuck it on the front screen door with a bobby pin and shut the door and locked it.

"Edna had everybody get their cars and took 'em around back. In a little bit, there was a knock on the door, and we just didn't answer it," he said. "We sat back in the back. There was a bottle of Cold Duck, and me and those two girls sat back there drinking that bottle of grape juice, watching TV in the dining room.

"Edna sat back there, kinda daydreaming and looking out the window, thinking the way she does. We just refused to answer the door," he said. "That was the end of it, because we were told the Governor and the Texas Rangers--that's the story as I remember it--were coming down and were going to close the place. So we just put a closed sign on the front and didn't answer. We made like we weren't there."

The news hit Miss Edna like a ton of bricks. She sent the few customers there that night home, then called the girls together and told them the story. Most of the women packed their bags that night and left by morning.

"One or two little girls--they were young but they were not kids--I got tickled with them. They came in and got in my lap and put their arms around my shoulders and neck and everything. I had to kind of grin," Miss Edna said, smiling at the bittersweet memory. "It was sweet of them, you know. They’d been there long enough where I was family to them. Those little girls, I’ll remember forever.

"Later, another one came in I wasn’t expecting and did the same thing, nearly. It wasn’t quite rehearsed, but nevertheless it could’ve been," she said. "If something had happened and I could’ve reopened and gotten those girls back... well, I wouldn’t have made pets out of them, but it would’ve been hard for me to ever raise hell with them [if they misbehaved]."

Despite all of Marvin’s publicity, Miss Edna never truly believed the Chicken Ranch might close down. Since the brothel claimed origins dating back to 1844--before Texas became a state--she believed the Chicken Ranch had a grandfathered exemption to any modern anti-prostitution laws. Armed with that, as well as a long list of powerful business and political clients that stretched from Austin to Washington, D.C., she considered fighting the order that long, dark night following Big Jim’s call. Even if she didn’t win, she could bring a whole bunch of cowardly hypocrites down with her--and probably take out half the Texas legislature and congressional delegations. By morning, though, Miss Edna threw in the towel.

"The whole damn thing, in a nut shell, was that I didn’t want to keep it open and I sure didn’t want to guilt somebody to mess up or sell to somebody even if they got somebody to finance it or otherwise. I was just tired," Miss Edna said. "It needed more hours than is humanly possible for a person to do. If you’re putting in 14, 16 and 18 some days 20 hours. You get a little tired after a while. And it doesn’t take very many years to kill you.

"After awhile you get so tired, and I did. Toward the last, so damn tired of everything. I was ready to get the hell out of there," she said. "If I hadn’t been so terribly tired I might’ve fought them, to keep it open. But I was just tired."

I'll see you back here for the 50th. I've got no specific plans yet, but I'm certain I'll come up with something by then...

Now Playing: ZZ Top Tres Hombres
Chicken Ranch Central

Sailing Venus: The story so far

The other day I gave my eldest, Monkey Girl, a copy of the Writers of the Future anthology containing my story "Cyclops in B Minor." She'd complained in the past, "When are you going to write something that I can read?" Much of my output is written for older audiences, and as such I'm not comfortable with my kids reading it. Ever. But here's a girl who's devoured Hunger Games and Doomsday Book and a hundred others besides, so I think, "Hey, I do have some published stories she might like." So I gave her the anthology, knowing that a mere manuscript wouldn't impress her as legit.

So after a couple days of ignoring it, she came into my office as I worked on Sailing Venus with an odd look on her face. "Why is there a cyclops there? Is he just chillin'? Where'd he come from? How can he see music?" The barrage of questions caught me off guard. I answered honestly, but not in much detail, so as to not ruin the story with analysis. Then she just stood there, still staring at me, as if I were some unusual hamster-like creature she'd just discovered in the woods.

"What?" I said finally.

"You can, like, write." I gestured at my monitor, filled with words. "What do you think I've been doing all this time?" "Yeah, but I didn't expect it to be good."

So then she takes a keen interest in the words upon my screen, noting names and dialogue and the like. Sailing Venus is, after all, my effort to write a YA novel in response to her original challenge above. After I failed miserably in my attempt to write it during NaNoWriMo, I left the story untouched as other demands consumed my time. But earlier this month I opened it back up and started re-reading the chapters I'd started. Making cuts here and there, adding a sequence to better develop a concept, replacing a serviceable word with a more focused one... essentially a second-draft pass. And then I reached the end and picked up where I left off. The words haven't come quickly (as I complained elsewhere, just once I'd like to go all Robert Silverberg on a project) but they are coming steadily, as opposed to the fits and starts from before. There's a precision in my language I'm not sure I've achieved before, packing in a lot of world-building in a limited amount of space. Implying rather than explaining, that sort of thing. I do think it is working. I'd already completed chapter 2 and was well into chapter 3 before going to Armadillocon over the weekend, which left me recharged and enthused to get back to writing, as it always does. So that's what I've been doing since, every night for a couple of hours, writing slowly but precisely, working out thorny little logistical problems in my plot I hadn't anticipated along with getting to know my characters better. It is, I must confess, progressing reasonably well.

"So when this is published, and there's a copy in my school library," she said, a slight bit more excited than it was cool to be, "you need to go in there and sign it. That's all, just your name." And then she bounded off, back to her world of texts and Tweets.

But you know what? I might just take her up on that.

Now Playing: The Moody Blues Time Traveller
Chicken Ranch Central

The "M" word

It looks like we're moving. This does not fill me with joy. There are few things I despise more than moving. I'd make a terrible nomad.

No, I haven't gotten a new job or anything drastic. We're staying in the New Braunfels area. We're just selling and leaving the house we've lived in for the past 11 years. We like this house quite a bit. We've put our stamp on it. I love my office with ceiling-to-floor bookshelves I built myself. I'll miss the wine rack I built in the kitchen. And I'll really, really, really miss the pecan, pear, peach, plum, pomegranate and fig trees I planted in the yard and are only this year all producing mature crops of fruit and nuts, for the first time in the 10 years I've grown them. I'll also miss the passion vines (and passion fruit) and grape vines I've been growing for 10 years now. Now I'll have to start over from scratch, and wait another 10 years for all my plantings to mature. Moving really, really sucks.

But you know what sucks even worse? Neighbors. Neighbors who refuse to weather-treat their side of the privacy fence, so that it rots through from their side. Neighbors who let their dogs rip the fence apart so they can get into our yard and wreak havoc. Neighbors who constantly park in front of our house, blocking our mail box so that the post office refuses to deliver. Neighbors who throw raucous parties every other weekend that last until 3 a.m. Neighbors who laugh you off when you politely--or even not-so-politely--complain about these acts of inconsideration. You know what also sucks worse? An HOA run by a corrupt property management company that continually raises HOA fees and provides absolutely nothing in return for it. Public areas of our neighborhood are a disaster. Fences falling down. Fences unpainted and rotting. No parks, no playgrounds, no club house, no pool. Absolutely nothing that other HOAs with far lower fees take for granted. Pockets are being lined, and lined lavishly. From the full-throated defense of this property management company from our HOA board, someone's getting kickbacks as well.

The final straw came the day before we left for vacation last month. When the city passed an ordinance last year permitting homeowners to keep a certain number of backyard chickens within city limits, I picked up some chicks from the local feed supply. I grew up with chickens, as did The Wife, and we wanted our kids to have the experience of gathering fresh eggs. They raised those chickens from hatchlings. Those chickens were outright pets, following people around, looking for attention. Whenever we took table scraps out for the beagles, the chickens muscled right up in there amongst our dogs to claim their share. So when we got home from a wedding to discover the neighbor's dogs had once again broken through the fence to get into our yard, killing all of our chickens and leaving a horrible, feather-strewn mess to traumatize our kids, I'd had enough. So had The Wife. We're moving.

Our next home will be in the country, with some amount of acreage to buffer us from any neighbors. I'll have a shotgun to deal with any feral dogs or coyotes that choose to violate our property with their presence. The girls can finally have that horse they've pined for all these years. I'll re-plant my orchard, bigger this time, and include jujubes and avocados and mandarins and loquats, if only to break up the number of fruit trees starting with the letter "P." The Wife will get a full-blown photo studio--we'll build one from the ground up if we can't find a property with a barn or workshop or such that's suitable for conversion. We'll also do some landscaping to support her studio work, and have the most obnoxiously dense field of bluebonnets Texas has ever seen.

The trouble is, while The Wife and I are doing better financially than we ever have and have paid down our debt significantly, we still can't carry two mortgages. We have to sell our current house in order to finance the new one, which obviously puts us in the untenable position of being homeless if we can't find a suitable new home and close on it within a few days of selling. That's not likely (as we hate moving, this new place better be as close to perfect as it can be. We're not settling for "meh") so we're looking at short-term rentals, and that is no fun, either. It'll work out in the end, somehow.

So where does that leave us? Packing. We're boxing and boxing and boxing. Well, The Wife is boxing. I'm mostly hauling and stacking. We've rented a big storage locker and are doing our darnedest to fill it. It's amazing how densely we've lived in this house, expanding to fill every nook and cranny. But cozy and comfortable to us is cluttered and cramped to potential buyers. We're emptying the house with an eye towards showing staring in September, and already the results are impressive. I haven't started on my office yet--boxing all my books is a daunting task, and I swear one box of books from our previous move (with some of my Greg Egan collection) has yet to turn up. My 18" Bill The Cat doll vanished during the last move as well. And the disruption of the move comes right as I'm back to seriously working on Sailing Venus. Conducive to writing the moving stuff is not.

It's all for the best, I keep telling myself. I hope so, because it's too damn much work for a lateral move.

Now Playing: Pink Floyd Oakland 1977
Chicken Ranch Central

Chicken Ranch anniversary: Marvin Zindler (1921-2007)

On this date in 2007, KTRK consumer affairs reporter Marvin Zindler died of pancreatic cancer.

Zindler, of course, is forever linked with the Chicken Ranch, as his series of exposés on the brothel directly led to its closure. And for that reason, many people (mostly men) who are old enough to remember curse his name. Despite being a raging egomaniac, he was a powerful champion of the downtrodden in his lifetime, and did a tremendous amount of good. Where the Chicken Ranch was concerned, he let his lust for fame and the spotlight get the better of him, and this allowed people with a vendetta against the Chicken Ranch to manipulate him from a distance. Zindler was a person who firmly believed in his own righteous infallibility, and once it became clear the vast organized crime conspiracy behind the Chicken Ranch's operation did not exist, well, Zindler doubled down on the conspiracy angle rather than admitting he'd been duped. He went to his grave insisting on criminal conspiracy and corruption, although he was never able to prove any of his claims.

Despite this, nobody could argue Zindler wasn't committed to his job. Despite constant pain from the cancer destroying him, he insisted on delivering his restaurant report from his hospital bed on Aug. 20. It proved to be his final report. Just over a week later, he was dead.

Now Playing: Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra Grofe: Death Valley Suite
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That was the Armadillocon that was

I cannot remember being so exhausted during and after a con as I have with Armadillocon 36 this past weekend. I don't know what was up with that, but despite turning in way early on Friday and Saturday, I operated in zombie mode most of the weekend. Hopefully I was able to cover it up and not infect too many folks I came into contact with. One might think that with such depressed energy levels, Armadillocon would've been a complete bust for me, but surprisingly the exact opposite is true. I had a blast. Despite an asinine, patronizing set of conduct rules distributed to all the programming participants that was relentlessly mocked throughout the duration of the convention (and rightfully so), most folks there seemed in great spirits.

The guests-of-honor list turned out to be a great lineup: GoH Ted Chiang, Special GoH Ian McDonald, Editor GoH Jacob Weisman, Artist GoH Stephanie Pui-Mun Law, Science GoH Sigrid Close, Fan GoH Michael Walsh and Toastmaster Mario Acevedo. Unlike most years, I managed to spend time with, or attend panels featuring every one of the major guests. They proved to be a witty, insightful bunch that brought their A game. Seriously, they all seemed to be running full steam ahead all weekend. I was fortunate enough to sit next to McDonald during the writers workshop panels on Friday, and learned he's that kid from high school who has a funny retort for practically anything anyone says, ever. It was a struggle to not double over laughing and have everyone in the room turn and stare at me. The workshop portion went well, and one participant, Shlomi Harif, brought a short story that I am utterly convinced can be expanded into a complex relationship novel steeped in strangeness. In a good way. That evening's Pirate Panel lurched along like a drunken schooner--mainly because I was moderator and hadn't prepared nearly enough--but my arch-enemy Stina Leicht, Cassandra Clarke, Dave Hardy and Rob Rogers gamely filled in the gaps. Hardy, in particular, proved to have an encyclopedic knowledge of every pirate who ever lived and could've run a two-hour discussion solo without breaking a sweat.

Saturday I brought Monkey Girl along to wreak her particular brand of havoc. After an unfortunate example of impulse control failure at Worldcon last year, the first thing I did was remove her bank card from her possession prior to her entering the dealers room or art show. To buy or bid on anything she had to come through me. She wasn't happy about it, and I know the vendors weren't happy, but we can't always have a geyser of money spraying out as her bank account is emptied in minutes. There were also discussions amongst myself and several other con-goers regarding her decision to stop participating in my Babylon 5 reviews on this blog, mainly because she complained writing her thoughts "was too much like homework." When Monkey Girl learned people were discussing her opinions shared on my blog, and expressing disappointment she was no longer participating, she expressed shock. "Why? I told you people were commenting on the posts. They liked reading what a fresh set of eyes thought of these episodes." To which she responded, "Yeah, but I didn't actually think you were telling the truth." So, she has expressed interests in rejoining the review thing. Heh.

The GoH interview with Weisman--conducted in tag-team fashion by Rick Klaw and Scott Cupp, with color commentary by Bill Crider--was an interesting capsule history of Tachyon Publications, enhanced by a liberal distribution of Crackerjacks. Afterward, I got to speak with Weisman--quite a thoughtful fellow, if a little more low-key than most of the other lunatics frequenting Armadillocon--and was able to discuss a side project I've taken on. He was intrigued, yet justifiably cautious. I'm to follow up with him this week on it, and he's promised to offer advice and direction if nothing else. Yes, I know that's maddeningly cryptic, but I'm superstitious about some things that way. As soon as I have something concrete to share, I promise I will. It will be a Good Thing if I can pull it off (and no, it's not an anthology pitch, so don't send me your stories).

The Neal Barrett, Jr., memorial panel (see the four images above) was a sad affair, but gut-bustingly funny. Howard Waldrop, Lawrence Person, Peggy Hailey, Brad Denton, Scott Cupp, Scott Zrubek and Joe Lansdale kept themselves as well as the audience in stitches with stories of Neal's eccentric brilliance. It turns out that Neal really was the Forrest Gump of science fiction authors, because he was directly connected with almost every significant event and celebrity of the 20th century. And then Lansdale demonstrated Neal's driving technique. It was simply amazing. I miss Neal. If you've never read his work, change that. You'll be hard-pressed to find anything as strange and wonderful as what Neal wrote.

My guest of honor interview with Ted Chiang seemed to go well. At least insofar as Chiang hasn't taken out a restraining order on me. In my devious ways, I put him on the spot by asking the title of his first story submitted for publication--at age 15. He declined to share the title (much to my disappointment) but then proceeded to give a synopsis of the tale, an action-packed space ship adventure of the type one would expect from an enthusiastic 15-year-old. And very much different from the type of fiction Chiang has become known for. That was one of the highlights of the convention for me.

What else? What else? The Fireside Chat could've been a complete crash and burn, but Brad Denton came prepared with a set of moderator questions tailored for the other panelists. He ended up getting me to talk about the Chicken Ranch for 20 minutes or so, which had most everyone there asking to buy the book on the spot. Alas, I'm still waiting for a publisher to show as much enthusiasm for the project. Sunday morning I stumbled into the "Best Cons" (as in confidence games, swindles) in SF, and exhausted my contributions early on by invoking Harry Harrison's Stainless Steel Rat series. Fortunately, Don Webb revealed a previously-unknown grifter streak, and pretty much held court. I learned a pretty nifty (if simple) mind trick from him that I'm going to pull on my kids. But yeah, there's no way I'd ever go against him in a game of chance. I caught most of the "Women in Science" panel, and have to say, it rocked. Mel White, Rachael Acks, Sigrid Close and Paige Roberts kept things moving at a brisk and funny pace, touching on an array of gender issues including (but not limited to) overt and institutionalized sexism. As the father of two daughters, some of the points they brought up were all too familiar. Much progress has been made, but there's still a long way to do. The con wrapped up (for me, any way) with the "Contagion" panel, which I moderated. I was prepared for this one, and Gabrielle Faust, Rhiannon Frater, Stina Leicht and Nancy Jane Moore dove right in when I prodded them for their favorite fictional diseases, after which we followed with a long discussion on actual nasty afflictions that exist today. We then segued into the evolution of diseases, both in the wild and laboratories, before concluding with diseases we'd created ourselves for fiction. Poor Faust admitted to being a hypochondriac, so the panel was probably torture for her, but she handled it well.

By then I was too drained to make any of the remaining panels, so I headed home (which took twice as long as it should have because of a wreck on I-35). I came away from Armadillocon with a renewed enthusiasm for my current Work-In-Progress, which isn't all that unusual. But I also came away with a whole lot of new writers to follow on Twitter and several other potential projects and deals. I saw so many people I didn't get to speak with nearly enough--Rhonda Eudaly, Lillian Stewart Carl, Katharine Kimbriel, Rie Sheridan, Sara Felix, Alexis Glynn Latner, Mark Finn, Claude Lalumière, Tim Miller, C.J. Mills, Jess Nevins, Jessica Reisman, Josh Rountree, Patrice Sarath, Patrick Sullivan, Martha Wells, Sanford Allen, Lou Antonelli, Aaron de Orive--the list just goes on and on. I also got much-needed encouragement from all quarters regarding the Chicken Ranch book, that despite publishers' continued reluctance to green light it, there is a substantial audience for this book just waiting for the chance to buy it. So yeah, good weekend all around. Here's hoping that next year they ditch the silly rules sheet and make the event even better.

Now Playing: Prince Around the World in a Day
Chicken Ranch Central