Recently, I had the honor of meeting with President Biden to offer him advice on how to win a second term. Not surprisingly, the one and only topic was Joe’s age. People think he’s too old for the job. If he won a second term, he would be something like 103 by the time he left office, or so voters believe. He’s already stumbling on stairs like Gerry Ford used to do. At times, particularly when suffering from jet lag, he seems to mumble or repeat himself. He’s not as bad as Mitch McConnell, of course. No one with a pulse is as bad as Mitch.
Here’s the transcript of my Oval Office meeting:
Steve: Thanks for meeting with me Mr. President. I am so honored that I will waive my usual fee.
Joe: Wave, as in wave the flag?
Steve: Ah, sure. So, tell me, how old are you really?
Joe: To tell the truth, I’m not certain. My birth certificate was destroyed in a fire during the Civil War, so I’ve just been telling everyone I’m this age or that age. The news media never bother to try to confirm it.
Steve: We’ve come a long way from the Obama Birther scandal, when Republicans proved that Barack Obama was born in Kenya, South Africa, India, and several countries ending with “stan”. All on the same day.
Joe: [mumbles].
Steve: I recommend that you take very specific steps now to make yourself seem younger, and cooler, and more in step with people under 65.
Joe: Like wear sunglasses? I already do that. It makes me look cool.
Steve: No one will mistake you for one of the Blues Brothers. You should start driving a sports car. A flashy convertible. A red, white, and blue one.
Joe: Not bad. But the Secret Service won’t let me drive.
Steve: Okay, maybe have an affair, get some bimbo pregnant, pay her to have an abortion, and leak it to the tabloids.
Joe: Jill would kill me. And, uh, I’m having a little problem with, uh …
Steve: I can get you some meds. In the meantime, let your hair get long, grow a beard, and start playing in a rock band.
Joe: Could I sit down while I perform?
Steve: That might not be the best look. Maybe you could start smoking marijuana. That would help you relate to young people.
Joe: Stoned people don’t vote. And besides, it’s legal now, which takes all the fun out of it.
Steve: That’s for sure. How about going on social media. You could get a lot of attention attacking other people. Republicans, Democrats, Independents, cults, survivors of alien abductions, mimes.
Joe: Mimes?
Steve: An easy target. Okay, maybe you should focus on older voters. You don’t poll well with Evangelicals. Have you thought about becoming born again?
Joe: If I was born again, I’d have to wait 35 years to qualify to run. I think I’d be too old then. Plus, I don’t want to have to go through that whole spittle and wearing diapers thing again.
Steve: Okay, I was saving this one: Let’s send you back in a time machine to the 1970s or 1980s. You would still have most of your faculties, and you did a little better back then.
Joe: Now you’re talking. As long as I don’t have to run against Ronnie Reagan.
The following is an excerpt from “Castle of Sand,” my science-fiction novel, which will be published on July 10, 2023, by Sunstone Press.
Even before the door hisses shut behind them with jarring finality, their senses are overwhelmed by a spectacle of motion. Standing amid a sea of aged blue metal desks, under an oppressive canopy of harsh yellow lights, men and women are gesturing and yelling at comm screens. Others are lugging bulky boxes that all but bend their backs into pretzels. Maria and Roberto nearly collide with several people as they are led through the dizzying crowd and into a tiny room with one chair, one table, and fierce lights. The door closes, but pandemonium seeps through the almost bare walls. Standing behind her son, arm on his shoulder, Maria attempts unsuccessfully to calm her breathing. She is so overwhelmed that the pain in her injured knee barely registers.
With more gestures than words, an older man checks their temperatures, then propels them down a series of corridors beneath a low ceiling of stained tiles that reminds Maria of a police station from an old TV show. They approach a couple dozen other people bunched together, many in business suits or military uniforms. Some look as shell-shocked as Maria and Roberto. A door opens and all of them are hustled into a courtyard and then an unmarked white bus. During a mostly silent, ten-minute ride, the passengers’ attention is captured by a gargantuan, floodlit jumble of metal. Vapor plumes rise from its base like escaping snakes. Satellite images of the top-secret space plane launch pad captured by the Chinese government have been plastered across the webs for years. However, no pirated image or collection of rumors does the scene justice. So tall and thin as viewed from this distance, the rocket and its payload resemble a needle poised to pierce the atmosphere, or perhaps a Roman candle destined to light up the heavens.
The vehicle atop the rocket is called “The Chaser” for two reasons, a bus passenger observes, attempting to quell the tension or perhaps just sound important. One, it evolved from a private space plane prototype named “Dream Chaser”, conceived as the successor to the original space shuttle. And two, it’s mounted atop a mammoth Titan booster nicknamed “The Shot”. Few riders on the left side of the bus, who enjoy the best view as they approach the pad, can help but gasp or mutter superlatives. Before the bus even comes to a full stop, people in hazmat suits are waving frantically for the riders to exit and run to the elevator at the base of the pad. Maria has to restrain Roberto from racing ahead of her. The pair wait until the first group has ascended, then join a packed, anxious, wide-eyed mass of people on the sluggish, jerky rise to the top.
There’s a long, slow-moving line of people waiting to enter the space plane. As soon as Maria ducks in preparation for squeezing through the tiny oval door, it’s obvious that everything is wrong. Totally wrong. The space plane is tilted vertically, its eight seats facing straight up. Six men and two women in uniforms are strapped in to them. What would normally be considered the floor of the craft is currently a vertical wall. Grasping rails and hand holds, Maria, Roberto, and other riders slip and slide awkwardly down to what would be the back of the plane but is currently the bottom, a nearly rectangular space about twelve feet by fifteen feet typically devoted to nonhuman cargo. After some discussions, those strapped into the seats relinquish those spots. Two people can stand on the back rest of each seat, at least for now. Passengers continue to enter, struggling to avoid falling onto the now tightly packed cluster of people below them. “Like riding the subway in Tokyo,” observes one man. A few people laugh nervously. Forrester is near the front, gripping a rail with both arms and staring out a circular window. Too small to permit an escape, Maria thinks.
The door slams shut. Passengers whisper. Some point out of windows. After several tense minutes, they can feel the engines thrum. Soon the accelerating thunder rattles their bones. The brilliance of full fuel ignition, reflected through windows, joins the parade of extreme sensory stimulation. The craft starts to rise, slowly at first, then fast, then extremely fast. Riders hold on to each other for stability and a measure of comfort. Pheromones and droplets of sweat betray the few who attempt to maintain the illusion of calm as the rapidly multiplying forces of gravity take their toll. One older man, then two other passengers, lose their grip and plunge into the well of people at the back of the space plane. Screaming erupts, followed by cursing and moaning, as the riders attempt to disentangle. The misery only intensifies as the space plane starts to roll over—with much bumping, shouting, and disorientation—shifting the craft to within thirty-five degrees of horizontal. Passengers start to spread out on the traditional floor but are startled anew as the booster rocket separates with a definitive flash and boom, followed quickly by the intimidating roar of the space plane’s engines. Windows reveal furious gray clouds, then a knife-edge-thin, brilliant orange sunset hugging a spectacular curved horizon. Then blackness.
The following is the preface to my second novel, “Castle of Sand,” which will be released by Sunstone Press on July 10, 2023:
What does it mean to be human?
That used to be an easy question to answer. Being human meant being able to think critically, communicate effectively, and manipulate your surroundings. Our sentience and accomplishments put us atop the terrestrial org chart and led us to assume that we and our civilization were unique, immutable, and indestructible.
However, the definition of “human” is changing. The adjustment will be humbling, and perhaps frightening. Our future is even less definite.
A few years ago, I wrote a science fiction short story about a young man named Joey. He was one of those social media influencers you have heard about. Joey discovered that he was actually an algorithm, a computer program. But flesh-and-blood people had come to respect and even bond with Joey when they thought that he was a human sitting at a computer somewhere. So they helped him gain a measure of acceptance as an equal among intelligent inhabitants of the planet. Not long ago I read about a real artificial intelligence that some scientists believed was sentient. Its supporters were working to get the AI the same recognition that Joey earned in my story.
This development underscored two beliefs for me: One, that artificial intelligence will affect us all very soon in ways that we can barely imagine. And two, that science fiction is merely facts written before they happen.
In Philip K. Dick’s 1956 novella The Minority Report, people with special powers can predict and thereby prevent specific crimes. Technology being developed today will soon help law enforcement personnel determine when and where certain crimes are most likely to occur. Who knows what else will be possible once further study is given to phenomena such as brain waves and how our faces reveal our thoughts. Many other fantastic story lines or inventions that first appeared in much-ridiculed pulp magazines are becoming true and are even being surpassed by modern developments.
On that note, I would like to acknowledge some of the gifted authors who have inspired me. The aforementioned Philip K. Dick, Ursula K. LeGuin, Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clark, and many others whose works I devoured as a young man set me up for a lifelong love of science fiction. More recently, I have idolized the likes of Alice Bradley Sheldon (aka James Tiptree), Roger Zelazny, Dan Simmons, Ted Chiang, and too many more to list.
In addition, I would like to give a shout out to writers who have spun intriguing yarns about colonists who emigrated from—or fled—Earth, like the characters you will meet in Castle of Sand. Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles was the first of this subgenre to captivate me. Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Children of Time series, Kim Stanley Robinson’s Aurora, and Steven Baxter’s Flood/Ark books are also gems.
I would like to thank my family for their support as I crafted this novel. My friends, who are scattered around the world, continue to encourage me as well. All of you make it so much easier not just to get up in the morning (or afternoon, as the case may be), but also to write with joy.
I started my career as a journalist, reporting for newspapers, magazines, and websites. At times, some people who were unhappy with my stories (my editors occasionally being among them) accused me of inventing details or an entire article. At some point I figured: If people think that I’m writing fiction, I might as well write fiction.
It took longer than I expected to finish Castle of Sand. A nasty battle with Lyme Disease cost me several months. It might have influenced the content of the novel. I will let the reader decide whether or not that influence was for the better.
Some aspects of Castle of Sand might seem extremely unlikely—or, as my wife Jean puts it sometimes, “too weird”. Yet, is it unimaginable that a nation facing annihilation in a war could unleash a pathogen that has the capacity to kill millions? Is it beyond belief that humans could discover enough about the quantum properties of our universe so that we can travel close to or faster than the speed of light? And, is it inconceivable that humans will take on a form that is substantially different than the one that we recognize today?
I wrote Castle of Sand not because I consider myself some sort of oracle. It doesn’t take a visionary to recognize that our world is becoming increasingly troubled and that things must change. Nor was I was motivated by a desire to scare readers into thinking that humans and all that they have accomplished are destined for the dustbin of history. This novel is, at its heart, one of hope. Not necessarily unlimited hope for our current civilization. Not even unqualified hope for the human race. My wishes are modest: I want to believe that sentient beings of some sort—any sort—can survive and thrive somewhere in the cosmos.
Maybe some of us will move beyond our planet and our solar system in a systematic migration, establishing vibrant colonies and ensuring the future—and perhaps even the galactic dominance—of Homo sapiens. But we might not be that effective or lucky. If humans must change drastically to survive, I’m all for it.
My primary motivation for writing Castle of Sand was my desire to celebrate the significance of the individual. Brilliant and inspired human beings have accomplished incredible feats throughout history: Johannes Gutenberg. Marie Curie. Albert Einstein. Martin Luther King Jr. Some of them were born to greatness and sought it wholeheartedly. Yet there have been people who found themselves in roles that they never sought or could imagine and became pivotal figures in the human saga. Joan of Arc is one such person. In my novel, Maria Ramos is another. A computer repair tech and single mom who lives in a suburban Maryland community, Maria could be any of us. Through some amazing twists of fate, she finds herself on a mysterious planet with six other people who escaped Earth on the cusp of an apocalypse.
From the moment that she sets foot on this new planet, Maria Ramos is not entirely human. Yet the burden of saving humanity falls to her. It’s a mission that she finds difficult to accept and even more difficult to pursue. However, for all her deviations from what we consider to be a “normal” human being, and for all her doubts and challenges, she embodies a uniquely human spark and determination that I hope any of us could kindle if it were necessary for us to do so.
Consider the bionic enhancements that people undergo every day. Amputated limbs are being replaced by highly effective metal-and-plastic ones. Injured people are beginning to use previously nonfunctioning nerves to move fingers and toes. Others can blink at a computer to communicate or execute tasks. Now, consider improvements being made in artificial intelligence and robotics. Advances in machine learning and in the functionality of robots could someday yield mechanical entities that are nearly indistinguishable from us, as in the HBO television series “Westworld”. At some point, will there be a convergence or overlap between enhanced people and augmented machines, making it difficult to determine which—if any—of these entities are truly “human”?
Also, consider the possibility that we are not alone in the universe, or the galaxy, or even the solar system. Might we encounter beings with which we could interbreed? If so, what would we call their offspring? Are there other forms of sentient life, even if they breathe methane, are based on silicon instead of carbon, or inhabit an exceptionally exotic environment? Would we even recognize intelligent life in such a form?
As you make your way through Castle of Sand, feel free to experience it as pure escape—as a story that could not possibly be true—if that helps you navigate the parts that have strong relevance to the fate of our civilization and our species. However, if you choose to read it as a tale that could come to pass, I suggest that you keep this question in mind:
I’d like to unveil my platform. I’m not running for anything—officially, anyway. But there are some things I feel strongly about. (Such as: A preposition is something that one should not end a sentence with.) But I digress. I am proposing some essential new laws. Specifically:
PRESCRIPTION DRUGS: No prescription drug should cost more than $50. If you have any kind of health insurance, it shouldn’t cost more than $25. I’m not including voluntary medical substances and procedures, because it’s too late for me to benefit from hair restoration.
FIVE-SECOND RULE: Let’s formalize this classic but oft-ignored principle. If it’s a cookie, or a doughnut, or a medical cannabis gummy, or any other edible, if it is picked up within five seconds of landing on the floor, it can be consumed without parental or spousal permission. Remember: Five seconds is a loose term if you count real slow, like if the cookie goes under the fridge.
MOVIE CREDITS: They must run at the end of the film, not at the beginning. Enough said.
OPENING DAY: Major League Baseball’s opening day should be a national holiday. Yes, I hear the arguments from football fans that the day after the Super Bowl should be a holiday. But it’s just a Monday in the middle of winter and not good for much of anything other than shoveling the sidewalk. Why not move the Super Bowl back to 3 p.m. As a bonus, that would get it over in time for “60 Minutes”.
DAN SNYDER: Speaking of football, ban Danny Boy from owning any NFL team. Period.
FOOD LABELING: No food sold to the public can carry the label “fat free” unless the seller is not charging you for the fat content, which is usually quite significant.
FOOD STORAGE: I know that this flies in the face of the principle of “live and let live”, but the peanut butter and the jelly should be on the same shelf of the refrigerator. How many years of our lives have we wasted searching for one or the other when it’s on the door or way back behind the year-old celery.
FOX NEWS: Require that their broadcasts feature the following warning label at all times: “The contents of this network are harmful to your mental, physical, and emotional health. Not to mention being bad and wrong.”
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE: Sentient computers, bots, algorithms, and holograms should carry warning signs saying something like: “I am an artificial construct rather than a flesh-and-blood person. I might or might not be smarter than you. But did you know that the warranty on your car has expired? And, have you considered whether you have enough life insurance?”
NEW GOLDEN RULE: Let people live their lives the way that they want as long as they are not bothering other people. That means they can decide how they identify themselves, what they do with their bodies, what they do with their money, whether they wish to sacrifice small furry animals in their back yards, and the like. However, I draw the line with the teen-ager who fires up his Mustang and revs the motor for five minutes at 4 a.m. across the street. Lock him up.
Criminal investigators are preparing to file scores of serious charges against Santa Claus.
Sources tell the In Sight blog that some of the charges center on unwarranted intrusions of personal privacy. But others are far more serious and raise questions about his background and his almost limitless powers.
“This guy thinks he’s above the law. Fat chance,” said one investigator, with no apparent intent at irony.
“He knows when you are sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good,” noted the investigator. “Does he have bugs planted all over the globe? Or is there a more sinister element at play here?” The investigator refused to elaborate when asked if Santa Claus might have a massive ring of co-conspirators around the world feeding him such data. Or if he had tapped into the most advanced Artificial Intelligence systems. “Let’s just say that the guy knows more than he should.”
Though he is called Santa Claus in many places, the target of the investigation uses a variety of aliases, including Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle, Father Christmas, Pere Noel, and even Wiehnachtsmann. His attempt to disguise his identity was the first thing that raised suspicions among authorities.
As the probe has developed, national security concerns have arisen. “We think that he has advanced technology that, if it fell into the wrong hands, then, poof, there goes our country in a flash,” the investigator observed. “Consider the fact that he has flying reindeer. Flying reindeer! Surely, some sort of nasty animal experiments occurred to get that result. But more than that: The guy can reach billions of houses all over the world on one night. One night! And he has stealth tech that allows him to move around without being detected by the most sophisticated radar.” He said that raises serious border control issues.
Asked whether the North Pole has an extradition treaty with the U.S. or any other nation, the investigator cursed and changed the subject.
“Another thing: All those elves making toys and other gifts year round. We believe that Santa Claus is violating child labor laws. He’s running the world’s biggest sweatshop. It’s almost a cult.”
The investigator said one of the reasons why Santa Claus has not yet been arrested is that, so far, no one has been able to obtain a copy of the infamous “list”. “We have been trying to get an informant inside Santa’s inner circle and to sneak out the evidence showing how this guy determines who should be categorized as ‘naughty’ and ‘nice’. Does he discriminate based on race or religion or if someone is a Yankees fan? We fear that so much discretionary power breeds abuse.”
The investigator conceded that some authorities are wondering whether Santa Claus could be an alien sent to Earth for reasons that remain unclear. “The fact that he has apparently not aged in hundreds of years is a definite red flag,” he added.
“We’re going to nail this guy, and soon,” he stated. “Right after he brings me my Oura Ring.”
[Grandpa accidentally discharges the AK-47, taking out the big-screen TV, an antique clock, and a portion of Suzie’s left foot.]
“Aw, look what you did,” she complains.
“Little Suzie, we all have to make sacrifices for the revolution and our great leaders. Put a Band-Aid on it, and let’s get on with your training.”
“Do I have to? We did four hours of assault practice yesterday in school. We almost caught a Democrat! Well, she was an independent. But she had blue hair and was eating granola.”
“I’m very proud of you. But, you know, with almost all of the Democrats in re-education camps, it’s going to be very hard to find more of them.”
“Darn it,” says Suzie, wrapping her foot in a tourniquet. “Granpa, tell me again what it was like in the Revolution. I can barely remember it.”
“Sure, little Suzie. It all started with the election of 2022. Maybe they told you about it in school. It was called the Election That Was Stolen.”
“Now I remember. But who stole it?”
“Well, that’s a good question. At first, the Republicans—the good guys—claimed that the Democrats stole it from them. But after all the heavily armed militias and other voter suppression groups went home and the votes were counted, we were surprised to discover that the Republicans had actually won the House and Senate fairly. But we liked the sound of the phrase ‘The Election That Was Stolen’, so we kept it. So that no one will forget that Democrats tried to win, back in the old days.”
“Wasn’t trying to win elections legal?”
“It used to be.”
“And, after that, everyone was required to buy a gun and shoot it at least once a day?”
“Three guns, actually. But yes. What a boost to the economy.”
“Why is the economy so important?”
“Money is what makes the world go round. You remember seeing Mr. Grover next door come home and shoot himself. He had gone to the tax office and they spun this big wheel to determine how much he had to pay, and it came up ‘Bankrupt’. We got lucky; we only had to pay half of our income for the year. All so that the government and our leaders can get by.”
“But don’t some of our leaders own their own states, like Ohio and Oregon, while other people don’t have enough to eat?”
“True, but that’s only because those nasty Democrats messed up the economy by trying to eliminate the deficit and other crazy schemes like that.”
“Why did we do away with Congress?”
“After returning Donald Trump to his rightful position of Emperor for Life, Congress passed Marital Law, which made the legislature superfluous.”
“Marital? I thought it was Martial Law. Same letters, different arrangement.”
“No, Marital Law is the bedrock of society. It requires all women to get married when they reach 15. And it requires that they get pregnant at every opportunity. That’s why we’ll be watching you closely when you start menstruating. Having a period without a child resulting is a sin.”
“I can’t wait. So, did the leaders of the Revolution create your job, grandpa?”
“That’s right. At first, they called my new agency the Department of Conspiracy Theories, but some people thought that name was too literal. It’s still the DCT, but it’s now called the Department of Creative Thoughts.”
“And you work closely with the Bureau of Alternative Facts.”
“Correct. If we learned one thing, it’s: Never let truth get in the way of a good revolution.”
Sources have given the In Sight blog a complete list of items that the FBI found in Donald Trump’s safe and elsewhere in his Florida home. This list has not been published elsewhere and is not available in any store:
Passports issued by several foreign countries featuring Trump’s picture but fictitious names. In a coincidence, none of those countries has an extradition treaty with the United States
A VHS tape labeled the “Golden Showers” video, filmed in a Moscow hotel room. Trump is shown peeing on a bed while an attractive woman is heard to exclaim “It’s no big thing.”
An original copy of the Declaration of Independence, framed and marked for auction by Sotheby’s later this year.
The “official” version of the Bill of Rights, hidden from the public for many years for unknown reasons. In its text on the Second Amendment, it includes the words: “Assault rifles and other automatic and semi-automatic weapons are definitely cool.” The document also features the phrase: “Gay marriage, interracial marriage, teaching Critical Race Theory—don’t even think about it.”
More than 15,000 ballots that, for some reason, election officials in Georgia failed to count in November 2020. Trump is chosen on 14,998 of them.
A document outlining a plan to kidnap Mike Pence and have him impersonated by actor Leslie Nielsen. Nielsen was to declare the 2020 presidential election results invalid, announce that Trump was the winner, and then retire to spend more time with his family on a remote South Pacific Island. The plan was abandoned when it was discovered that Nielsen died in 2010.
Printouts of texts from Secret Service agents wagering large amounts of money and drugs on how many Capitol steps Trump would be able to climb on Jan. 6, 2021, before passing out.
Printouts of emails from Hillary Clinton admitting that she killed White House official Vince Foster; orchestrated the attack on the U.S. Embassy in Benghazi, Libya; schemed to assassinate John F. Kennedy; and aided and abetted the abduction of the Lindbergh baby.
The missing tapes from Richard Nixon’s presidential archives.
The Jared Kushner Middle East Peace Plan, which was never adopted because some of the nations involved refused to build “safe houses” for the Trump family.
An original copy of the Johannes Gutenberg Bible.
Johannes Gutenberg.
Plans for a Donald Trump theme park, complete with ridiculously steep admission prices, rides that are programmed to eject Democrats at dangerous heights, and a requirement that attendees contribute to Trump’s reelection campaign before they can exit. A interactive Conspiracy Theory Exhibit would allow participants to invent and publicize their own insane and dangerous ideas.
Dozens of bottles of Viagra, some prescribed to someone named “Ronald Fumph.”
A draft of Trump’s unpublished memoir, “How to Cheat on Taxes and Wives.” Nicely illustrated.
A dossier on Rudy Giuliani, presumably prepared in case Trump needed to destroy Giuliani’s character. The dossier was never used, because Giuliani accomplished that aim quite effectively himself.
Orange hair spray. Lots of it.
Love letters from Russian President Vladimir Putin and North Korean President Kim Jong-un. In a letter Trump wrote but apparently never sent, he threatens to break off his friendship with Kim because the CIA told Trump that Kim was “snuggling” with Chinese President Xi Jinping.
A towel that Hunter Biden allegedly stole from a hotel in Ukraine, presumably to be used for blackmail purposes.
More than a dozen cards from Monopoly games that read “Get Out of Jail Free.”
Here’s your exclusive preview of the most notable summer television shows for 2022. Set that DVR!
DANCE WITH THE DEAD (ABC, Mondays and Tuesdays). In this must-see show, contestants arriving onstage realize that they must dance with recently departed partners. A gripping event reminiscent of the film “Weekend at Bernie’s.” Caution: On the second night, after rigor mortis has set in, you might want to turn the volume down if you have young children.
JAN. 6: THE TRUE STORY: (Fox, Mondays through Sundays): Dozens of ordinary tourists who show up for a routine tour of the U.S. Capitol are ambushed by Capitol Police, D.C. police, and other authorities whipped into a rage by cowardly Democrats. Highlights: Nancy Pelosi bashing the QAnon Shaman with her mallet; Bernie Sanders giving another innocent tourist a noogie.
SURVIVOR: CHERNOBYL (CBS, Wednesdays): Six contestants are left inside the abandoned and still severely radioactive nuclear power plant in Ukraine. They must overcome Russian soldiers and land mines as well as the effects of the melted down plant. Spoiler alert: Contestants who glow most brightly in the dark have the best chance of escaping alive.
JUDGE ROB (NBC, Thursdays): A robotic AI judge metes out justice to couples and other litigants who seek to resolve their disputes. Dressed up to resemble The Terminator, the automaton is nicely animated and deliver some hilarious jokes, accompanied by tasteful canned laughter. Spoiler alert: Some litigants are executed on the spot.
YOUNG VLADIMIR (PBS, Mondays): Told constantly that he wasn’t virile enough, a pre-teen Vladimir Putin commits to a course of action that will make him a strong, manly, scary dude. He pretends to be a KGB operative in his grammar school and tortures younger children and unwary farm animals. A heartwarming coming-of-age saga.
SING FOR YOUR SUPPER (Amazon Prime, Fridays): Contestants, mostly undocumented immigrants with no musical training, compete in this unusual singing contest. Only those who impress the judges will be fed enough to maintain their basic bodily functions. Among the highlights: Backstage shots of losing contestants bartering their children for food.
BACKSPLASH BACKLASH (HGTV, Sundays): Stars of your favorite home makeover shows narrate the little-known role of backsplash in world history. Napoleon, Joan of Arc, and Adolph Hitler are among the historical figures whose rise to fame and impact on their times were influenced strongly by kitchen design features. A companion series next fall will focus on lead paint’s influence on pop stars.
FULL CONTACT GOLF (Golf Channel, Saturdays): The first player to finish all 18 holes will win a $1 million cash prize, regardless of the score. However, all 64 entrants will be permitted to use their clubs, bags, balls, and everything else in their possession as weapons. Filmed on a Caribbean island with no enforceable laws prohibiting such violence and no extradition treaties, the show gives new meaning to the phrase “golfers making the cut.”
Emerging seedlings. Just tiny green dots. They could be weeds, or my imagination. But to a gardener, the first plants to show up in the spring are a gift from heaven.
It will be more than a month before I can harvest and eat even the smallest plants, which will be lettuce and spinach seedlings thinned out because they are too close together. Or spring onions or radishes, which can mature in barely a month. It will be a meager result compared with those bright July days when I am swimming in tomatoes and blackberries.
But this time of year is magic.
One day, there is no plant. The next day, there is. Maybe it wasn’t even there an hour ago. Or maybe it was so small–and its color and shape blended into the soil so well–that I didn’t notice it then. I merely tossed a seed in the dirt, covered it, watered it, and waited. Not much of an investment on my part. Yet it’s on its way. It’s a miracle.
How can a dried speck that’s been sitting around in a paper packet for months or years produce a lettuce plant, or a pepper, or a zinnia? Wikipedia defines a seed as “an embryonic plant enclosed in a protective outer covering” and “the product of the ripened ovule, after fertilization by pollen and some growth within the mother plant”. (Sorry for any language that might be considered offensive. Memo to the New Right: You have already banned me, so don’t get excited.)
The seed bides its time with infinite patience, then starts to work as soon as conditions are right. Moisture, temperature, sometimes exposure to light. And maybe even a little encouragement. I still talk to my seeds and plants. Sometimes they don’t listen. Sometimes they even talk back. But it seems to be working.
Growing a garden is almost a religious experience for me. I grew up with parents of different religions who didn’t celebrate major holidays in more than a cursory fashion. (Well, I enjoyed Halloween, and they liked New Year’s Eve a lot.) Maybe I like growing things because I can’t bear a child myself, or because I’m in touch with my feminine side. (Again, apologies to the Culture Warriors on the right.)
Maybe, in part, it’s the challenge. Planting something the first week of March and expecting it to reach maturity can be frustrating. Many years, a cold snap will kill an early planting. Or a snow or ice storm, or too much rain, or too little. Or birds or land-hugging critters will wreak havoc.
Maybe it’s because I like getting my hands dirty. Or because much of the food in the grocery store is lousy. Or because I like to show off when I share my vegetable harvest or display my flowers. Or because the annual ritual is embedded in my soul.
I have analyzed my joy of gardening frequently over the years. It doesn’t matter why I love it. I am neither embarrassed nor apologetic for my favorite hobby. It simply is. And it simply is good.
If you can’t plant—or have no interest in—a spring garden, you can still take a moment to appreciate the daffodils and tulips, the flowering trees and shrubs, the longer days, the milder nights. Spring never seems to last long enough, like so many of the good things in life.
In Sight 