Senior Scare Tactics

In 16 days I'll officially be a senior citizen, according to one measure of what constitutes a senior citizen. That's the age at which a person can get a senior citizen discount in most stores and restaurants in this part of the country. Age 55.

When I was a kid I always thought that a senior citizen was someone over 70 or at least retired. But, nowadays, they're putting us out to pasture a lot earlier and they're not trotting us out afterward, even if they need us. But that's not my biggest fear about being a senior citizen. My biggest fear about being a senior citizen is being house-ridden and looking forward to Home Delivery Meals as the biggest event of my day.

The demons in my life will no longer be failure and poverty and poor health but seeing this person headed my way (see pic). But then, that's not the worse case scenario. The worse case scenario would be seeing no one at my door at all.

Self Disclaimer

For the record, my fiction is not autobiographical or even semi-autobiographical. I created more important characters to write about and have never had any interest in writing about myself or my life, per se. Here are the only exceptions I can think of:

1) The material for any novel probably contains some of the writer's observations of life and may be, therefore, "tainted" with an autobiographical slant (the "voice" in the narrative component of a story).

2) An autobiographical "voice" may also be evident in how conflict and conflict resolution is handled in a story. This voice may be more pronounced in the narrative component during character development and also in dialogue between characters and especially between protagonist and antagonist.

3) Blogging. Blogging is more about yourself than anything short of an autobiography and I blog regularly, mostly for fun and therapy, but also as a marketing tool.

Otherwise, my fiction has very little to do with me and my life. The people I write about in my science fiction thrillers are a lot more interesting by far than I am. Any autobiography of Michael Casher would be about as exciting as reading a thick volume of nothing but old weather reports.

"Fiction is real life without its mask."

That sentence is my signature line and that's what I write about. Unmasking the everyday world and seeing what lies beneath it, challenging the lie that is our day-to-day existence and exposing the awesome truths awaiting those who dare to look beyond the obvious.

Home Boy Disclaimer

For the record, I don't write about real places or real people in my novels. All the characters in my novels, as well as their names, are fictitious and the towns, townships and counties in which they live are fictional places in Pennsylvania and do not really exist.

In addition, there are no composite characters in my books, no "take-offs" on or "rip-offs" of people I have known, although I occasionally give certain "tics" and eccentricities to older characters for humorous effect and in gratitude for the source of childhood wonder they provided. However, in my novels I never write about Snow Shoe, my hometown, or Centre County, my home county, or any of the people who live there now or who ever lived there before. The only similarity between those places and the places I write about is the coal and lumber history, which is fairly commonplace in much of Pennsylvania's Allegheny Plateau Region.

In my novels, my focus is on a quadrangular, fictional part of Pennsylvania that would lie somewhere between the following real places: Smethport in McKean County and Wellsboro in Tioga County as the northern border and between Clearfield in Clearfield County and Lock Haven in Clinton County as the southern border. This is the fictional vicinity of the Pennsylvania I write about. I picked this part of the state for my fiction because this is the part I know the best and love the most.

The only exception to this rule is in Deeds of Destiny, my 5th novel. The first half of this story takes place in a fictional part of southeastern Pennsylvania that would lie somewhere between York and Philadelphia, if it were real. The second half of this story takes place in a fictional section of the above-mentioned area of Pennsylvania's Allegheny Plateau Region.

So, while my novels are fiction, they also pay homage to the rich history and the beautiful topography of Pennsylvania's Allegheny Plateau Region.

link to same post on Thinkers' Corner

Remembrance of Stings Past

I once asked poet Nikki Giovanni to autograph one of her books for me at an after-recital reception but she simply ignored my request. She wouldn't even look at me.

I looked around the room and saw that I was the only white person at the reception in the Walnut Building on Penn State University's main campus at University Park, PA. As I was about to leave and make everyone there happy (especially Nikki Giovanni), the man who was responsible for her appearance at this particular function took my book and pressed Ms. Giovanni to sign it. She reluctantly signed it and handed it back to him without looking at either one of us. I politely thanked both of them and left. When I got home I noticed that she had merely scribbled in the book. That stung, but only for a moment.

If I recall correctly, it was 1978 and I haven't read anything by her since. I can't even remember why I would read any of her stuff in the first place let alone traipse off to Schwab Auditorium to hear her "pissed-and-proud" brand of racist, feminist poetry and then skulk over to Walnut Building to make a fool out of myself seeking her autograph. But I know damn well why I did it. Back then I liked modern free-verse poetry and I didn't hate others because of their race or gender or whatever like a lot of other people. I still don't. But I have evolved. Thank heavens. Today, I wouldn't even give someone like Nikki Giovanni the time of day.

Science Fiction for Thinkers

I don't write comic book sci-fi. There are no capes and swords, no hooded ghouls or superheroes in my books. That's called Fantasy which is often confused with Science Fiction.

Someone once asked me if I write the kind of books Stephen King writes. I told him no, that I don't write Horror. Besides, when you unmask real life, what you see is a lot spookier and astonishing than anything purely imaginary, and that's what I do.

I take an average American town or an average day in the life of an average man or woman and I peek under that rock and expose the supernatural roller-coaster ride that runs beneath it all. And on that ride many battles are won and lost and many unlikely heroes emerge and all of it seems so real. And that’s because most of it really is. And that's because there's a lot more to life than what we see, hear, smell, taste or feel. And much, much more than we think.

Wanted: Read or Alive

Wanted on all nine planets in this solar system and in three constellations in the Milky Way Galaxy for dealing in high probabilities and hidden truths.

Michael Casher, a.k.a. Jonco Bugos, last seen in the eastern U.S., makes his temporary home in Pennsylvania's Allegheny Plateau Region. Casher originally hails from the planet Mars.


If you see this man or his books, please contact the Illuminati immediately.

Manhattan Memory

I actually lived in New York City once for a single day. Back in the late 1970s my girlfriend at that time and I rented an apartment on Morton Street in Greenwich Village, sight unseen, over the phone. It was right off Bleecker Street and I was excited about living in the the Village and just being where a lot of artists, musicians and writers hung out.

The apartment turned out to be a real dump, though. One room with a bed, a table and two chairs, and a kitchenette. I'd never been in an apartment before where the shower stall stood between the gas range and the kitchen sink.

Across the street sat one of the biggest and most attractive townhouses I'd ever seen. It was supposed to belong to this big-time Syndicate boss but I thought it was just bullshit until a big Lincoln coupe with dark windows pulled up unexpectedly and sat double-parked with the engine running while we unloaded our meager belongings from the trunk. Then it took off, the driver apparently satisfied that we weren't hit men from Cleveland or the "heat" setting up a stake-out.

When we asked the landlady for the rent check back the next day she didn't even bat an eye. She just stuck in it a sandwich bag and lowered it on a string three flights down to the lobby of her building (a much nicer place) where my girlfriend stood dumbfounded and wide-eyed as I waited in the car.

After that, I was ready to put The Big Apple in my rearview mirror once and for all. That was 1978 and I haven't been back since. And this is a strange but, unfortunately, true story.

Power Outage Gremlin

Yesterday I was working on the computer when the power went out. Luckily, it was still daylight and not very cold outside. I cursed the electric company under my breath as I always do, remembering an article in the local paper a few years ago about the inordinate amount of power outages this particular power company has every year. Well over 30,000 and, apparently, all but a dozen or so occur in my hometown. But then I got to thinking about the real cause of the power outages and my face flushed red with embarrassment.

Every time there's a power outage here that's long enough to knock out the VRC programs and the kitchen clock, what do I do? I spend the next couple days or so re-programing all the VCRs and the TVs that don’t have a built-in battery backup. And I reset all the electric clocks that don’t have battery backup or the ones where their backup systems simply don’t work. And both answering machines and two clock-radios and all the rest. And then what invariably happens after all the electric and electronic hardware in this house is reset and reprogrammed? We have another power failure.

So, the real reason for all the power outages in this town is not really because of the power company at all but because of me and all my crazy resetting and reprogramming and I’d simply forgotten that. I hope no one around here finds out that I’m the real reason the power goes out so regularly in this town and punches my lights out, or worse. But then, again, they’re probably too busy resetting and reprogramming to even think about that.

Just Say “No” to Slugs

I've often believed that people who search the Internet for free blogs to read while ignoring all other published material are often federal agents, aliens, terrorists and Illuminati spies, all of whom are looking for skeletons, weak spots, toe-holds and soup-starter for big boiling pots of legal gumbo.

But some blog readers are just lazy slugs who are also too cheap to pay for the really good stuff. They believe that being addicted to reading blogs is actually a disease and not a lifestyle choice and that makes me laugh.

The image shown here is a composite of all those kinds of blog readers. This particular figment of my paranoid imagination is a legal clerk for a crooked lawyer in Philadelphia. It’s his job to read blogs all day long and catch people saying really stupid things or revealing way too much about themselves in their blogs. Then he and his boss move in like vultures and sue the pants off bloggers they can’t easily blackmail.

If you see this guy snooping around your private affairs, just wave a book at him, any book, and he’ll go away and never bother you again.

IRS: R.I.P.

I have long advocated the demise of the IRS in favor of a simple flat tax rate, one for businesses and another for individuals. But now, after getting one of those IRS e-file cards in the mail and trying to file online, I think criminal charges should be filed against the IRS before dismantling this out-of-touch, kickback-infested dinosaur.

IRS e-file is nothing more than a ruse for private tax preparers to squeeze money out of taxpayers who think they can file online themselves for free. That's why the IRS tele-file was scrapped. No profit there for the Republicans' good ol' boys.

Now a private tax preparer has my social security number and I can't cancel my account with them, I can't ask a question without using a credit card and I can't complete their tax form because the program is flawed. What a ripoff.

Heads up America! As a fiction writer, I have done more than spin stories to entertain people, make them think and make them laugh. I've exposed a lot of contemporary woes and offered solutions. You won't find that in genre sci-fi.

When Worlds Collide

Back in the early 1960s my father was on a winter business trip to New York City and did a night on the town with a few business associates that found them sitting in the famous 21 nightclub while a blizzard raged outside. The weather outside was, indeed, so "frightful" that there was only one other table being occupied in the club.

Inside, a man waved at my father and his friends, inviting them to join them at their table. They accepted. When Dad and his colleagues approached the other table they were shocked and intrigued by the man who had waved them over. It was Ed Sullivan. While the winter storm tore up the Big Apple, my father enjoyed cocktails with Ed Sullivan and his friends and watched the show and a good time was had by all.

Many years later (1983) both my parents were at the Dearborn Inn in Dearborn, Michigan where my father was attending a convention of the Society of Manufacturing Engineers, as President of the Harrisburg, PA Chapter of SME. A man they believed to be Robert Mitchum sat alone at a booth and my father ventured over to see if it really was the famous movie actor. It was Robert Mitchum, relaxing after a day of shooting Winds of War. This time my father did the inviting and Mr. Mitchum joined my parents for a round of drinks which he insisted on buying. They even had their picture taken with him and said that he was very cordial and quite friendly.

Neither of these stories is earth-shattering but such things do make me wonder. Do these worlds collide for a reason or is it just a small world, after all?

Red Sky At Night...

...no one's delight. One summer night nearly forty years ago I stood in my back yard and gazed at the star-studded sky, a teenager dreaming of far away places and distant worlds. Suddenly, a tiny red glowing dot appeared in the eastern sky about forty-five degrees above the horizon.

I watched in amazement as the dot quickly spread, covering the entire sky from east to west in a scarlet glow that blocked out all the stars. For ten or fifteen seconds Earth was like another planet with a bright red sky.

Then the blood-red vision faded in seconds to the diamonds-and-coal blackness of a clear Allegheny night and only the returning stars were my witnesses.

Post Updated for image 2-11-13

Burger Belles-Lettres

McDonald's Restaurants is one of the few real-life businesses I mention in my novels and I give them lip service only to add realism to my stories, not as an endorsement.

Back in 1983 or 1984 — I can't remember the exact year — I wrote a letter to McDonald's Corporation defending their business practices against a public onslaught that, in my opinion, was spearheaded by a handful of opportunistic, avaricious people with lawyers on retainer and competitors trying to hone their own competitive edge by slinging mud. As if that ever works.

Anyway, I felt that the very heart of the American entrepreneurial spirit was under attack. In the subsequent letter I wrote to McDonald's Corporate Office I told them that "McDonald's was as much an American Institution as Sears & Roebuck" and I meant every word of it.

Well, later that year, McDonald's ran a TV commercial featuring veteran actor John Houseman telling the public that McDonald's may very well be "an American Institution". I was flattered but also a little put off by the fact that McDonald's never gave me credit for saying that first. What they did give me were two fifty-cent coupons toward their sandwiches.

I still eat at McDonald's every now and then but I don't write letters of support or praise to any American businesses anymore. If I like what they sell, I just buy their products like everyone else.

Pearl Harbor Day Milestone

Today, December 7th 2005, I finished my fifth novel, Deeds of Destiny, a story about the myth of free will and the reality of cosmically-orchestrated life events. This book is dedicated to my father, John Ed Casher, who died in 1995.

Ghost of a Chance

I used to wonder what would have happened if I had not turned down the job offer from Time Magazine in 1978. It wasn't much off an offer, just being a stringer. A stringer is a writer who does on-call reporting without his or her name appearing on the story. It's the proverbial "foot in the door" and who knows what might have happened to me afterward?

At the time, I was living in a studio apartment on the tenth floor of The Howell House on Peachtree Street NW in Atlanta, Georgia, a half a block from the famous Fox Theater. Time Magazine's Atlanta Bureau Chief, Rudolph Rauch III, had called my answering service a few days after I'd met with him without an appointment at his office at the Time Magazine Atlanta Bureau Headquarters in one of the Gaslight Towers.

I called him back and he offered me the job. I accepted his gracious offer and made a quick trip to Pennsylvania where I'd flown to tell my family the news and to see my four-year-old son who had been living with his mother since our divorce. He didn't even know who I was and I'd only been gone a couple of months. That did it for me.

I flew back to Atlanta where I called Rudolph Rauch III and told him I wouldn't be able to take the stringer job after all. Then I packed my bags for Pennsylvania for the last time. Mr. Rauch probably thought I was crazy or something after the way I'd so brazenly pitched myself and my writing ability to him. But, I had my priorities, and making my writing career the biggest reason for my being alive wasn't my top priority.

When I look back on my missed opportunity to write for Time Magazine, I see myself trapped in a roving wormhole that opened briefly to spit me back out before it haphazardly attached itself again to another point in the space-time continuum. Trying to remember it as anything else would be a fruitless search for a past that never existed.