An Honest and Mostly Sincere Essay by Ken Pauls Milano
I still remember when I was a young man of seventeen. My, those were the days. I could smoke anywhere I so choose: theaters, airplanes, bars, malls and restaurants at large. That certainly was freedom, without the attachments provided by the benevolent (with a question mark) hand of the law.
Now, many years later I’m middle age, I look back with nostalgia and yeaning and I envy those days of old. Thus, I find myself wondering what happened along the way, in conjunction with the hypocrisy associated with the ‘powers that be’ and the heavy weight they pretend to carry on their bare, shameless shoulders.
It is not enough for law writing morons to have taken away all the liberties of smokers ‘by choice,’ but they had to stamp their ugly feet, deeper than ever, into the very chests of their income. Yes, income—because the tobacco industry pays the government billions of dollars every year, so that stupid politicians and ‘yes men’ at large can take their ‘not deserved’ vacations along the sunny beaches of the Caribbean or some European country where smoking is not considered a crime. On the contrary, it is a form of entertainment, a social duty and fashion trend all rolled into one. Were Bogart here to see what this world has become, he would faint mainly from dastardly pressure, then come back up and curse them all to hell.
Where would all the greatest actors in Hollywood be and the best writers and artists and scientists and inventors and producers? A James Dean, a John Wayne, an Elizabeth Taylor, a Marilyn Monroe, a Sophia Loren, a Luciano Pavarotti, a Frank Sinatra, a John Lennon, a Van Gogh, an Alfred Hitchcock, a Mark Twain, an Albert Einstein, an Alexander Graham Bell, a Thomas Edison, a J. Robert Oppenheimer, and countless others, too numerous to even mention here. Smoking was chic and classy. There was nothing sexier than a smoking Rita Hayworth.
And for that matter where would Pierce Brosnan and his James Bonds persona be? The latter complains he has to travel to London to enjoy cigarettes and alcohol with friends, because the anti smoking law has destroyed pub culture in his homeland. And Keith Richard from the Rolling Stones famous warning: ‘Smoking may cause the best Rock & Roll ever.’ How about that one?
And let me put in an anecdote worthy of note, about 'Poor, lonesome cowboy' Lucky Luke. His Belgian creator, Maurice de Bevere (Morris), let him quit smoking in 1983. On this subject he said: "The reason why I took away Luke's cigarette, is the fact that children usually have a tendency to imitate the heroes whose adventures they read." This sounds good, but why didn't he take away his pistol as well? Warning: Firearms are more deadly than tobacco! Indeed.
You see, those ‘powers that be’ started slowly up the latter or down as the case may be. First, smoking was prohibited in certain establishments, but not altogether. Oh, no. Restaurants had a smoking and nonsmoking sections at first. You could choose. And that was all right with me and every other smoker, though we felt separated, avoided and made to feel like an insect trapped in a glue trap. Hell, if you’re not a smoker, I don’t want you to suffer my bad habit, right? Perfect.
Then all of a sudden, smoking was not permitted at all, under the enclosed walls and roof of any eating establishment anywhere. Well, I said, might as well, I’ll eat on the patio; but you see, it was not the ‘same.’ I was to love going into Friday’s, sitting at the bar, guzzling a couple of beers and watching the game. When this happened, I stopped going into Friday’s.
Who was the loser? The poor retailer and its employees who profited from me and many others from going there. I believe, hundreds upon hundreds of restaurants across the nation closed their doors, because patrons could not smoke anymore within their precincts. Yes, believe it or not—and I talk from experience, since I worked in the restaurant business for twenty years—the best customers and all-around tippers were smokers who remained seated after they had finished eating and spent more in after dinner drinks, wine, champagne, coffee and desserts than they had in their whole meal.
But the whole mess didn’t start just there. The unforgiving jaws of law clamped down first on theaters and malls, then airplanes—though it has been proven that no damage whatsoever can come to a plane from people smoking in it, and yes, secondary smoking is nothing but a myth. My grandfather lived to be ninety-six and died of old age, even though he smoked and chewed tobacco for eighty-five years, that is since he was eleven.
I was and so was all of my family surrounded by chronic smokers. And I mean chronic, nonstop smokers o the worst kind. I remember being a kid and asking my grandmother to please stop smoking. PLEASE. And you know what? I guess I got used to it, and you know what else? None of them died of cancer or smoke-related causes. My grandmother died last year of old age.
You know what kills people? ‘Gasoline’ burning exhausts and petroleum combustion engines of all sorts. You don’t see the fumes but they’re there just the same. But hey, it’s big business, so what the hell, let it be! Someone is getting a slice of the money pie.
The most outrageous thing that ever happened me—concerning smoking that is—is beyond human understanding. Sure, it makes total sense not to smoke in an enclosed room full of nonsmokers, but in the open air? Come on, it is a joke! Yes, an uncommonly whispered bad jest to top them all. Well, it happened to me not once, but twice. It never happened again after that. I would not stand by something, with which I totally disagree. I am tolerant to a certain degree but I’m no fool, neither do I want to be made one.
So here is the ridiculous caper of the century. Twice I went to a ball game to catch my San Francisco Giants against the Marlins in Miami (both victories, so I can only guess the whole world was not against me after all) and twice I was reproved by ushers when I pulled up and lit a cigarette. Mind you, open skies, not a wall or roof around anywhere. So I put out the cancer stick and asked him where could I smoke. He pointed so this area or that, I dutifully went there.
It was an enclosed, air-conditioned room. Well, I said, now we’re talking; let us truly enjoy this fumes-infested room. What a prank. The joke is on them, I said, or is it not? Here we are in the lap of luxury surrounded by walls like prisoners getting ready for the slaughter in the gas chamber. I’m bound to believe that they take us all for a bunch of blubbering idiots and an infection to boot. Though I might disagree with the latter, since I possess an average IQ of 186. Nothing to sneer at.
Ah, but now, those same ‘powers that be’ are never happy enough with ruining someone’s day or week or whatever, (yes, I missed at least a quarter of each game with my frequent visits) so this was their next logical step: ‘Let us kill them bastards, they’re all going to die anyways.’
So they said that to avoid about 800 accidental fires and deaths every year caused by burning cigarettes, were going to murder a few million of us smokers in return. That is, they had—the government and federal law that is, not the tobacco companies—introduced a new chemical in our cigarettes, (invisible bands in the paper) that would make cigarettes stop burning very often. Now these new chemicals are not only harmful, in spite of what the law makers say, but they make cigarettes go off in the most inopportune of times. Then relighting the thing is disgusting to say the least. And people at large in the smoking community have been complaining of nausea, uncontrollable coughs and even vomiting and so on, due to this wonderful new chemistry introduced by our wondrous lawmakers.
So if you are a nonsmoker but love someone who is, put your pretty penny forward and do something about it. Smoking ‘may’ not be good but people do have choices. Some are compulsive eaters, some are gamblers and still some are homosexual or bisexual or whatever. And some are considered the black sheep of their families, but hey, they’re your kin, your friends and to hell with all the rest. Speak up now or forever hold your peace as the old saying goes.
And to top it all, recently I opened a new pack of Marlboro Lights 100's, my brand of choice, and what did I find you may ask? A black and yellow slip, stating that new federal law required that the words: lights, ultra-lights, mild, etc., could not appear in the covers of the packs or advertisements of any kind concerning the brand in question. What?
Well, I guess they figured people were being mislead into believing that cigarettes with the ‘lights’ sign meant they were less dangerous to their health, (after all grilled meat is less likely to produce a tummy-ache than let us say one cooked in a thick, oily sauce.) Yes they state that all cigarettes are created equal and they all have the same effect on someone’s health. What these morons don’t realize is—or maybe they do and are just playing the old-school hooky—that people already know that. And that those words refer to flavor and nothing else. After all these idiots, or should I say smart idiots who get paid for doing absolutely nothing worth of notice, in congress at one time spent eight whole months trying to figure out if the health warning in cigarettes packs of all types should state ‘causes lung cancer’ or may cause lung cancer’ and we, the brutally disregarded even by those who should serve and protect, tax payers are paying them for this? Hell!
Now, I said, what are they going to do next? What are we going to do? How do I go about asking for my favorite brand? Naturally I though of colors first, since smokers usually refer to the regular Marlboros as ‘Red.’ So I called up just the same, the Phillip Morris 800 number provided on the slip to make sure. Pure curiosity I should say.
The PM agent who I talked to was very courteous, as well he should be, and after asking me a myriad and one questions—most probably required by federal law as well, to make sure I was twenty-one years of age (although kids can go to war and get slaughtered in the process but cannot drink a single beer, preposterous to say the least, but that is a subject I will address in another blog) he proved my theory was correct. “Yes,” he said, “your cigarette will still be the same (with its frequent going-offs and all, I added this last, between the parentheses signs for a dose of irony,) they’re going to be packed in a gold box very soon with the name of your brand and the 100's description but there will not be any other words like lights, mild, etc.on the package. But not to worry they still will taste the same.” I thanked him and hung up.
Really? After not being able anymore to enjoy my favorite places and my coffee with a cigarette. A cigarette that doesn’t go off every few puffs? Either they’re crazy or I’m crazy or the whole must have gone completely raving mad!
Nuts!
So I have taken a decision: I’m going to start rolling my own cigarettes with imported paper without any chemical, fire retardant, bands in it, then I’m going to open my own sports bar in my patio to replace TGI Friday’s, buy my own airplane and private theater. And I’m really going to enjoy it then. Wishful thinking? Perhaps no.
And thanks for not to the feds, congress and senate.
Was J. Edgar Hoover here to see it, fed or not fed, he would rightfully call this a ‘commie invasion of the first kind.’ In the end the Empire, I so admired since I was a child, crumbles to the ground. What a shame!
Enough said.
I rest my case.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
"A Philosophical Treat on the Nature of a Published Author."
"Riches and Poverty, Fame and Anonymity, Critics and Fans and the Odd Man Out."
by Ken Pauls Milano
In the above heading, there are two analogies, though they are not paired as they should be—that is, riches and fame go hand in hand, just like poverty and anonymity draw from parallel circumstances; as the old cliché goes: they are like two peas in a pot.
On the other hand, critics and fans are as different from one another as it can only be imagined; they are utterly detached from each other’s frames of mind, and as dissimilar as a dog and a rainbow—to use another cliche I think I just invented, but despite that undeniable fact, many readers unaware that they’re being manipulated fall many times into the traps of the ill-advised and evil pennings manufactured by so-called critics.
I won’t disparage the whole of the critics’ community in this article, because that would be totally unfair. They are paid professionals that fulfill a niche in the publishing industry, and many of them are eloquent, fair-minded individuals that perform a contentious but otherwise benign surgery of the anatomy of the literature in front of them
Moreover, there are times when constructive criticism can be a plus but there are also times when immoderate criticism can be a double-edged dagger that can severe the arteries of the written speech and do more damage than help the intended target: namely the lone wolf that is the author himself.
And to be just, there are fans that take it into their heads to be cruel critics as if they had been cheated out of a huge inheritance, even though as a unit they are a more wholesome and forgiving community than that of the critics. Furthermore, fans’ critique can be very illuminating, since they are the backbone in any author’s career., even if that backbone is fickle and unstable at times like the shifting orbits of an asteroid field in the deepest reaches of space.Any writer, no matter what genre he’s in—can draw precious jewels out of the healthy criticism of his fans and the substantial harvest, he can reap after the seeds of judgement that had been sown down deep into his soul.
But I will digress now and ponder on the analogies I mentioned at the beginning of this article. By doing so, I believe I may yet untangle the web of uncertainty and mystery surrounding those subjects. I will analyze the ins and outs of riches and fame as well as poverty and anonymity in the publishing industry—a touchy subject of heated argument that spurts unequivocally in some circles concerning those subjects, and I will also dissect the direct effects they can have on an author, by either shrouding him with a veil of doubts or one of assuredness as they case may be.
A real writer should never write a single word with the sole purpose that money and fame will follow in his wake—it defeats the purpose of good and unselfish writing. Thus a real writer should mold and shape his words on a paper because he truly loves his craft—because he really loves to share his ideas and stories for the world to enjoy, and not the fame and riches that his work will eventually afford him. There’s no better feeling, than to hear a reader, unaware that you are listening, say commendable things about your work. That feeling can’t be beaten, not all the money in the world could buy that electrifying state of mind.
Of course, sometimes an author falls victim into the inevitable blackened, open pit that is poverty and anonymity and he anguishes and prays for a spark of recognition that never seems to materialize, which is a perfectly normal and human experience. Anonymity especially can brew dark doubts into an otherwise healthy mind and bring on the dreaded envy—enemy number one of any man no matter what his profession is.. Therefore, everything starts to revolve in a vicious circle from which is very hard to escape. However, the circle can be broken. The writer must maintain a positive attitude at all times and against all odds, even when everything seems to be conspiring against his person. His motto should be: "There will be better days, when my talent will be finally recognize." And he has to truly believe in it.
In a nutshell, and to finalize this article I must add that the author, well, he’s the odd man out. He gets to be thrown around amid the hurrahs and complaints of each contender, and you can guess already who’s doing all the hurrahs.
A last piece of advice. Hang in there buddy, your time of reckoning with the unpredictable business of publishing and money and fame and all that will eventually come, and you will take it by the horns and wrestle it down to the ground. Nary a wimp out of you from now on. Forward!
by Ken Pauls Milano
In the above heading, there are two analogies, though they are not paired as they should be—that is, riches and fame go hand in hand, just like poverty and anonymity draw from parallel circumstances; as the old cliché goes: they are like two peas in a pot.
On the other hand, critics and fans are as different from one another as it can only be imagined; they are utterly detached from each other’s frames of mind, and as dissimilar as a dog and a rainbow—to use another cliche I think I just invented, but despite that undeniable fact, many readers unaware that they’re being manipulated fall many times into the traps of the ill-advised and evil pennings manufactured by so-called critics.
I won’t disparage the whole of the critics’ community in this article, because that would be totally unfair. They are paid professionals that fulfill a niche in the publishing industry, and many of them are eloquent, fair-minded individuals that perform a contentious but otherwise benign surgery of the anatomy of the literature in front of them
Moreover, there are times when constructive criticism can be a plus but there are also times when immoderate criticism can be a double-edged dagger that can severe the arteries of the written speech and do more damage than help the intended target: namely the lone wolf that is the author himself.
And to be just, there are fans that take it into their heads to be cruel critics as if they had been cheated out of a huge inheritance, even though as a unit they are a more wholesome and forgiving community than that of the critics. Furthermore, fans’ critique can be very illuminating, since they are the backbone in any author’s career., even if that backbone is fickle and unstable at times like the shifting orbits of an asteroid field in the deepest reaches of space.Any writer, no matter what genre he’s in—can draw precious jewels out of the healthy criticism of his fans and the substantial harvest, he can reap after the seeds of judgement that had been sown down deep into his soul.
But I will digress now and ponder on the analogies I mentioned at the beginning of this article. By doing so, I believe I may yet untangle the web of uncertainty and mystery surrounding those subjects. I will analyze the ins and outs of riches and fame as well as poverty and anonymity in the publishing industry—a touchy subject of heated argument that spurts unequivocally in some circles concerning those subjects, and I will also dissect the direct effects they can have on an author, by either shrouding him with a veil of doubts or one of assuredness as they case may be.
A real writer should never write a single word with the sole purpose that money and fame will follow in his wake—it defeats the purpose of good and unselfish writing. Thus a real writer should mold and shape his words on a paper because he truly loves his craft—because he really loves to share his ideas and stories for the world to enjoy, and not the fame and riches that his work will eventually afford him. There’s no better feeling, than to hear a reader, unaware that you are listening, say commendable things about your work. That feeling can’t be beaten, not all the money in the world could buy that electrifying state of mind.
Of course, sometimes an author falls victim into the inevitable blackened, open pit that is poverty and anonymity and he anguishes and prays for a spark of recognition that never seems to materialize, which is a perfectly normal and human experience. Anonymity especially can brew dark doubts into an otherwise healthy mind and bring on the dreaded envy—enemy number one of any man no matter what his profession is.. Therefore, everything starts to revolve in a vicious circle from which is very hard to escape. However, the circle can be broken. The writer must maintain a positive attitude at all times and against all odds, even when everything seems to be conspiring against his person. His motto should be: "There will be better days, when my talent will be finally recognize." And he has to truly believe in it.
In a nutshell, and to finalize this article I must add that the author, well, he’s the odd man out. He gets to be thrown around amid the hurrahs and complaints of each contender, and you can guess already who’s doing all the hurrahs.
A last piece of advice. Hang in there buddy, your time of reckoning with the unpredictable business of publishing and money and fame and all that will eventually come, and you will take it by the horns and wrestle it down to the ground. Nary a wimp out of you from now on. Forward!
Monday, March 2, 2009
"An Honest Letter of Admonishment to Writers Digest's Staff."
"A Gender Specific No Contest Debate."
To whom it may concern:
I was a member of WD for a short while until I realized the obvious, and though it had been staring me in the face from the very beginning, I had not seen it—yet.
Funny, how it happened. I was reading one of their books, and suddenly—I would stop and ask myself, what happened? I wasn’t sure. I kept on reading, and I would stop again and again and think about what I was reading. I picked up another one of their published books, and the same thing kept on occurring over and over again. With all the stops, it was infuriating to lose the thread of what I was reading, to say the least. Why was this happening to me? Had I lost my concentration? Did I have any personal problems that interfered with my thoughts? It could be anything. I wasn’t sure, but I persevered.
By pure chance I picked other books, not published by WD, and it stopped happening just like that—finger clap. I asked myself, why was this occurring with some books and not with others? I didn’t have the slightest idea. I was beginning to have serious doubts about my mental equilibrium—that is until I put one and one together and got me an eleven in the bargain.
Eureka! Suddenly, it dawned on me. I had figured it out, at last. It was all a simple ‘case of mistaken identity.’ The common accepted pronouns were being switched invariably—on purpose, I may add. That is: He for she, his for hers, and him for her. It was convoluted to say the least. I asked myself then, why, would ‘anyone’ do that? After all, if WD wanted to make a case out of the masculine pronoun used as a rule, and they wanted to be fair to both sexes, then they should have used: ‘one,’ ‘they,’ ‘everybody,’ or whatever. But no. Instead, they used ‘she.’
Well, I thought, if we men, are to be considered chauvinist ‘pigs’ because literature has always been written using the male pronoun when referring to an unknown, third person entity, then we should consider WD to be a sexist, feminist organization that doesn’t care about its readers, besides all the confusion they have created with their outrageously silly use of pronouns. Even Agatha Christie, a woman and a great writer I have always admired, would be crying murder about now.
After all, ‘Mankind’ will always be mankind, not ‘womankind.’ (The latter sounds goofy, doesn’t it?) Man was created in the image of God, not woman. Don’t argue with me. It is written in ‘The Book.’ There is a son of God, not a daughter, right?
I may add, that my wife, daughter, mother-in-law, females in my family and friends of that persuasion, all agree with me. But enough of rhetoric, I will end this short rebuke by injecting here some words uttered by the renowned professor, William Strunk, Jr., author of the indispensable, “The Elements of Style.”
“The use of he as a pronoun for nouns embracing both genders is a simple, practical convention rooted in the beginnings of the English language. He has lost all suggestion of maleness in these circumstances. The word was unquestionably biased to begin with ( the dominant male), but after hundreds of years it has become seemingly indispensable. It has no pejorative connotation; it is never incorrect. . . . No one need fear to use he if common sense supports it. The furor recently raised about he would be more impressive if there was a handy substitute for the word. Unfortunately, there isn’t—or, at least no one has come up in one yet. If you think she is a handy substitute for he, try it and see what happens. Alternatively, put all controversial nouns in the plural and avoid the choice of sex altogether, and you may find your prose sounding general and diffuse as a result.”
The former quotation by a man who really knew the essence of his bread and butter, is in itself very clarifying and enlightening to boot.
Moreover, and to add a few logs to the fire—what if all of a sudden, everyone started to refer to cars, ships, earth and the like, as ‘He’ instead of ‘She’ , it would be pretty foolish, wouldn’t it? Consider the next few sentences:
1.- ‘His’ name was Christine. ‘His’ curves were dauntingly scary. ‘His’ frightening bumper spelled trouble a mile away.”
2.- ‘The mother-ship took them all into ‘his’ hold. ‘He’ was a very large and modern vessel.”
3.- ‘Behold the fruits of mother Earth. ‘He’ is the giver of things. ‘He’ shall feed you and preserve you.
OR IF WE WERE TO SWITCH THE ROLES:
4.- Ask God for a miracle. ‘She’s all knowing, and ‘she’ might yet concede your wishes.
5.- To boldly go, where no ‘woman’ has gone before.
6.- We may consider the invention of radio, television and the light bulb among ‘women’s greatest achievements.
SOUNDS PLAIN SILLY, DOESN’T IT?
I rest my case. Period.
Ken Pauls Milano
Science Fiction Author
To whom it may concern:
I was a member of WD for a short while until I realized the obvious, and though it had been staring me in the face from the very beginning, I had not seen it—yet.
Funny, how it happened. I was reading one of their books, and suddenly—I would stop and ask myself, what happened? I wasn’t sure. I kept on reading, and I would stop again and again and think about what I was reading. I picked up another one of their published books, and the same thing kept on occurring over and over again. With all the stops, it was infuriating to lose the thread of what I was reading, to say the least. Why was this happening to me? Had I lost my concentration? Did I have any personal problems that interfered with my thoughts? It could be anything. I wasn’t sure, but I persevered.
By pure chance I picked other books, not published by WD, and it stopped happening just like that—finger clap. I asked myself, why was this occurring with some books and not with others? I didn’t have the slightest idea. I was beginning to have serious doubts about my mental equilibrium—that is until I put one and one together and got me an eleven in the bargain.
Eureka! Suddenly, it dawned on me. I had figured it out, at last. It was all a simple ‘case of mistaken identity.’ The common accepted pronouns were being switched invariably—on purpose, I may add. That is: He for she, his for hers, and him for her. It was convoluted to say the least. I asked myself then, why, would ‘anyone’ do that? After all, if WD wanted to make a case out of the masculine pronoun used as a rule, and they wanted to be fair to both sexes, then they should have used: ‘one,’ ‘they,’ ‘everybody,’ or whatever. But no. Instead, they used ‘she.’
Well, I thought, if we men, are to be considered chauvinist ‘pigs’ because literature has always been written using the male pronoun when referring to an unknown, third person entity, then we should consider WD to be a sexist, feminist organization that doesn’t care about its readers, besides all the confusion they have created with their outrageously silly use of pronouns. Even Agatha Christie, a woman and a great writer I have always admired, would be crying murder about now.
After all, ‘Mankind’ will always be mankind, not ‘womankind.’ (The latter sounds goofy, doesn’t it?) Man was created in the image of God, not woman. Don’t argue with me. It is written in ‘The Book.’ There is a son of God, not a daughter, right?
I may add, that my wife, daughter, mother-in-law, females in my family and friends of that persuasion, all agree with me. But enough of rhetoric, I will end this short rebuke by injecting here some words uttered by the renowned professor, William Strunk, Jr., author of the indispensable, “The Elements of Style.”
“The use of he as a pronoun for nouns embracing both genders is a simple, practical convention rooted in the beginnings of the English language. He has lost all suggestion of maleness in these circumstances. The word was unquestionably biased to begin with ( the dominant male), but after hundreds of years it has become seemingly indispensable. It has no pejorative connotation; it is never incorrect. . . . No one need fear to use he if common sense supports it. The furor recently raised about he would be more impressive if there was a handy substitute for the word. Unfortunately, there isn’t—or, at least no one has come up in one yet. If you think she is a handy substitute for he, try it and see what happens. Alternatively, put all controversial nouns in the plural and avoid the choice of sex altogether, and you may find your prose sounding general and diffuse as a result.”
The former quotation by a man who really knew the essence of his bread and butter, is in itself very clarifying and enlightening to boot.
Moreover, and to add a few logs to the fire—what if all of a sudden, everyone started to refer to cars, ships, earth and the like, as ‘He’ instead of ‘She’ , it would be pretty foolish, wouldn’t it? Consider the next few sentences:
1.- ‘His’ name was Christine. ‘His’ curves were dauntingly scary. ‘His’ frightening bumper spelled trouble a mile away.”
2.- ‘The mother-ship took them all into ‘his’ hold. ‘He’ was a very large and modern vessel.”
3.- ‘Behold the fruits of mother Earth. ‘He’ is the giver of things. ‘He’ shall feed you and preserve you.
OR IF WE WERE TO SWITCH THE ROLES:
4.- Ask God for a miracle. ‘She’s all knowing, and ‘she’ might yet concede your wishes.
5.- To boldly go, where no ‘woman’ has gone before.
6.- We may consider the invention of radio, television and the light bulb among ‘women’s greatest achievements.
SOUNDS PLAIN SILLY, DOESN’T IT?
I rest my case. Period.
Ken Pauls Milano
Science Fiction Author
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Ken Pauls Milano's Future Universe
" FICTION "
“ABOUT THE BOOK”
SHIPWRECK CRUSOE
Book One of the Lunium* Age Trilogy
Rhe Carmus had it all—money, fame, prestige, youth, health and hordes of followers in his booming political career, as counselor for the Empire Common Wealth. The problem with Rhe Carmus was his conscience; his monies were badly conceived, his fame infamous and his prestige, well, quite the opposite. He had lied, cheated and embezzled his way all the way to the top of the Empire’s highest echelons. And yes, he didn’t have a friend he could call a friend, nor a woman he could call his lover, for the sake of love alone. For all his accomplishments, he was a lonely man—living in a world of dark fantasies—until one day . . .
One fateful day, when a harrowing and nearly mortal experience changed all that, including his perception about himself, that of those around him and the world at large. That day, he took a sudden decision, which would propel him into one of the most fascinating and dangerous adventures in anyone’s living memory.
As if by the gods’ sanction, he crash-landed on an unknown and dangerous planet. A planet that did not appeared in any of the galactic charts of his time, where nothing was what it seemed, where barbaric creatures swept the skies, crawled the land and swirled through its treacherous waters. And amid those nightmarish surroundings a new and terrifying truth would arise. And it was human.
* * *
The tribulations of an unlikely hero, adamant beauties, improbable traitors and a virgin world full of dangers and wonders, where human intrigue, suspense and sacrifices will soar to new heights until the most astonishing of all conclusions takes you suddenly by surprise—startling your senses. Relentless action-adventure—by a master of the genre—laced with an impossible romance and terrible secrets.
©Copyright 2009 Ken Pauls Milano
The Trilogy Continues . . .
“BASTIONS OF THE FOE”
Book Two of the Lunium* Age Trilogy
It’s been a few years since Rhe Carmus—the hungry ex-politician and counselor for the Empire Common Wealth—has returned from his brutal tribulations in Luniumland where he had crash-landed aboard the Crusoe. His life seems to be perfect in every way. He is totally in love with his wife. He loves his job. He is a happy man. But throughout all these years, something has kept on nagging at him: Who he really is. Nevertheless, he has kept his worries on hold in the back of his mind, as an afterthought. He doesn’t want to disrupt the delicate balance his new life has afforded him. He wants to forget the past and live the rest of his life in the bliss that yields from pure ignorance.
Yet, fate is fickle as he very well knows and the past reels back to haunt him once again. Nothing is what it seems, and nothing makes sense as he thought in one occasion it did. His secret has been compromised and the lives of loved ones are in extreme danger. He has but a very tiny window of opportunity to put things right. The major obstacle: He doesn’t remember his past before the attempt on his life in his days as a politician—hypno-tracing has taken care of that; a necessary procedure that if not performed in time would have otherwise made him a puppet of a higher command from a very powerful and cryptic organization with nothing to lose.
Now, Rhe Carmus must find out his true identity, but before he can do that, he must travel through a maze of deceit, murder and mayhem to unravel the ultimate mystery concerning not only himself but his wife as well. However, to do so he must go into the bowels of the Split proper: Rogue City. A city built over the cavernous guts of an extinguished volcano, where every crook and crevice of the crater’s outer walls are fortified with lethal terra-to-space cannons that can demolish any unwanted incoming traffic, before they are even aware of their proximity to danger. The Split is a venomous universal nest of crime, where cutthroats, pirates and renegades make their home, and where every vice known to man and then some is practiced ‘legally’ and almost anything goes unpunished. He must enter the most depraved, decadent and vicious city in the entire history of the human race, perform a miracle, and live to tell the story.
ACCLAIM
“This book sizzles with excitement, pounding action and suspense. If anything, it’s better than the first installment.”
“Sci-Fi lovers, hold on to your seats! Milano will simply mesmerize you. Spellbinding storytelling by a master of the genre. Don’t miss it!”
©Copyright 2009 Ken Pauls Milano
“ABOUT THE BOOK”
SHIPWRECK CRUSOE
Book One of the Lunium* Age Trilogy
Rhe Carmus had it all—money, fame, prestige, youth, health and hordes of followers in his booming political career, as counselor for the Empire Common Wealth. The problem with Rhe Carmus was his conscience; his monies were badly conceived, his fame infamous and his prestige, well, quite the opposite. He had lied, cheated and embezzled his way all the way to the top of the Empire’s highest echelons. And yes, he didn’t have a friend he could call a friend, nor a woman he could call his lover, for the sake of love alone. For all his accomplishments, he was a lonely man—living in a world of dark fantasies—until one day . . .
One fateful day, when a harrowing and nearly mortal experience changed all that, including his perception about himself, that of those around him and the world at large. That day, he took a sudden decision, which would propel him into one of the most fascinating and dangerous adventures in anyone’s living memory.
As if by the gods’ sanction, he crash-landed on an unknown and dangerous planet. A planet that did not appeared in any of the galactic charts of his time, where nothing was what it seemed, where barbaric creatures swept the skies, crawled the land and swirled through its treacherous waters. And amid those nightmarish surroundings a new and terrifying truth would arise. And it was human.
* * *
The tribulations of an unlikely hero, adamant beauties, improbable traitors and a virgin world full of dangers and wonders, where human intrigue, suspense and sacrifices will soar to new heights until the most astonishing of all conclusions takes you suddenly by surprise—startling your senses. Relentless action-adventure—by a master of the genre—laced with an impossible romance and terrible secrets.
©Copyright 2009 Ken Pauls Milano
The Trilogy Continues . . .
“BASTIONS OF THE FOE”
Book Two of the Lunium* Age Trilogy
It’s been a few years since Rhe Carmus—the hungry ex-politician and counselor for the Empire Common Wealth—has returned from his brutal tribulations in Luniumland where he had crash-landed aboard the Crusoe. His life seems to be perfect in every way. He is totally in love with his wife. He loves his job. He is a happy man. But throughout all these years, something has kept on nagging at him: Who he really is. Nevertheless, he has kept his worries on hold in the back of his mind, as an afterthought. He doesn’t want to disrupt the delicate balance his new life has afforded him. He wants to forget the past and live the rest of his life in the bliss that yields from pure ignorance.
Yet, fate is fickle as he very well knows and the past reels back to haunt him once again. Nothing is what it seems, and nothing makes sense as he thought in one occasion it did. His secret has been compromised and the lives of loved ones are in extreme danger. He has but a very tiny window of opportunity to put things right. The major obstacle: He doesn’t remember his past before the attempt on his life in his days as a politician—hypno-tracing has taken care of that; a necessary procedure that if not performed in time would have otherwise made him a puppet of a higher command from a very powerful and cryptic organization with nothing to lose.
Now, Rhe Carmus must find out his true identity, but before he can do that, he must travel through a maze of deceit, murder and mayhem to unravel the ultimate mystery concerning not only himself but his wife as well. However, to do so he must go into the bowels of the Split proper: Rogue City. A city built over the cavernous guts of an extinguished volcano, where every crook and crevice of the crater’s outer walls are fortified with lethal terra-to-space cannons that can demolish any unwanted incoming traffic, before they are even aware of their proximity to danger. The Split is a venomous universal nest of crime, where cutthroats, pirates and renegades make their home, and where every vice known to man and then some is practiced ‘legally’ and almost anything goes unpunished. He must enter the most depraved, decadent and vicious city in the entire history of the human race, perform a miracle, and live to tell the story.
ACCLAIM
“This book sizzles with excitement, pounding action and suspense. If anything, it’s better than the first installment.”
“Sci-Fi lovers, hold on to your seats! Milano will simply mesmerize you. Spellbinding storytelling by a master of the genre. Don’t miss it!”
©Copyright 2009 Ken Pauls Milano
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