Since Oct 30, 2003

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What's this thread about? | ZOT!...We Can! | Bride of the Undead Thread | Moving | Landing | Last Post | ZOT! Part 2
Beer Run | Edinburgh | Off Again | Launched | Irish Sea | Dublin | Loaded | Lift-Off | Loch Lomond | Beer Run (Finale)
Recap | Update | ZOT! (Part 3) | Wet Mars (large image) width=600 | Nuclear Space Ship | In the Beginning... | My First UT?
Moon Launch | Lunar Launch | Return to Earth | Mars or Bust! | Flight Profile | Flight Update | Journey Update |
Midway to Mars | Adjustments | Mars Orbit | On Mars | Leaving Mars | Lift-Off from Mars | Leaving Mars Orbit |
Thrust Ring Telescope |

Mars with Oceans ...

(Hey, it's Mars. It needs warming.)

Consider it a before and after picture.

I'm here. As Head Ticket Scalper for the Church of Bob,

I'm passing the collection plate around, and this time, I want it back!

The original Undead Thread ...

The Bride of the Undead Thread ...

Spawn of the Undead Thread, the August Chronicles ...

Note: The links below will take you to our entry points into high-jacked threads,
which are our monthly continuations of the Undead Thread.

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My FRiend, Pippin has my phone number, if you can contact her...

Short Stories

At the Aiport (06/19/2004) ...
Cold Heart (09/12/2004) ...
Dream (09/18/2005) ...
Tabula Rasa (08/17/2005) ...
The Story Candler of Jason’s Harbor (04/23/2005)...
Your Weight And Fortune (01/30/2005) ...
Timmy (12/29/2013) ...

Books and Poems

Published Books:
Outlandish! (ISBN Number 1-4184-4089-2) is book one of a trilogy (Oops, make that Four!) that will be available soon.

Outlandish!Brian B. Hawthorne
The Day of Magic RainBrian B. Hawthorne
Action!Brian B. Hawthorne
Reaction!Brian B. Hawthorne
Ethereal -- A Boy, A Monster, Joy! Brian B. Hawthorne

Completed Books:
Outlandish! ... Fairhome, a world isolated in space and time, where women rule, and men -- there are none! Just a poor but useful substitute...

The Day of Magic Rain ... Change has come to Fairhome. But is the Race of Women ready to rejoin the Human Race?

Action! ... A tale that mind-bendingly mixes everyday reality with science fictional unreality, as the Future comes to the Present!

Reaction! ... What else? The sequel to Action!

Ethereal ... Mind over No Matter, except what matters!

Books Being Written:
Cage Kittens of Hyper-Space ... Yes, you read that correctly. A Science Fiction Romp in the old style!

This is my Pen Name ... and this is a book that I wrote...
Brian B. Hawthorne:
Outlandish! A World of Women, and Their Servants...

A Raunchy Tale of Sexual Inversion!
He was a slave ... but he thought that he was in Paradise ...

Tell Me More
A dollop of monster Frankenstein, a dash of Peter Pan,
Who, dangling like Pinnochio, can never be a man.
Who is this creature? Tell me more. What is his rending tale?
Can gentle nature win somehow? And can his love prevail?

A factory of serving sons, and loveless incarnation,
Presented for a pittance price, subject to all temptation.
Can love exist in this low place? And can love ever die?
He does not know he should not love, and therefore, he will try.

The binding of his heart to those who use him as a tool,
Has welded loving to his chains, and makes the master fool.
Short-changed of any manhood, and yet he stands there, proud.
Surrendered to all dishabille, encircled by the crowd.

He is a fabrication, his world a nightmare dream.
A gentle touch, his sole defense, soft voice instead of scream.
He does not know he should not love, or is he right to be,
The gentle answer turning wrath, and setting more souls free?

The answer to these questions, is shortly to be found.
I’ll take you on a journey, beyond conventions bound.
You’ll get a chance to know, for your command will be my wish.
This is a story you can have, I call it Outlandish!

NicknamedBob . . . . . June 12, 2004
-- I would submit that it is not for everybody.
But it may be for some. For additional details and titillation,
see the information near the bottom of this screen.

. . . . Before There Was Dirt . . . by NicknamedBob. (Put your mouse cursor over my name!)

When I was a little kid, a real long time ago,
We didn’t have a lot of things that you have come to know.
There was no clothing fashion, because no one wore clothes,
We spent our time just looking ‘round, and saying, “Look at those!”

A boy without a pocket means a boy without a frog.
We had a sort of clubhouse. We called our place “the log.”
The grown-ups never scolded us, we didn’t have the words.
I got a lot of credit then, for coming up with “birds.”

We summered in a place they called the briddish isles,
The briddish folk who lived up there seemed generous with smiles.
The little hopping critters that had grown their feathers out,
Seemed happy, so I called them brids, a word that went about.

The word got twisted round a bit, and so it came out bird,
But we were very language poor and needed our new word.
The job of giving names to things was one for senior folk,
And I was so much younger then, they took it as a joke.

But still the word got out and I got better known,
And in a way because of it, I got one of my own.
They gave me tufts of feathers, and tied them in a knot,
A rumper-sticker that said Bird-On-Board was something else I got.

After a while just B-O-B was stuck upon my rear,
And when I left somewhere they said BOB has been here.
We traveled around the world back then, or what we knew of it.
Some places seemed to be real nice, and some we quickly split.

There was one place that many thought was very fine and grand,
They dug their caves in nice soft rock, it was a holey land.
The sun shone down too brightly there, some guys became a pain,
Or maybe it was something else that drove the folks insane.

There was a kid who lived down there who played a game on sand,
His hoard of aggies proved he was the best one in the land.
Methuselah, he called himself, and challenged me to play,
I could afford to lose a few, and think I made his day.

I haven’t seen him lately. I think he may be gone.
Young kids like him could never seem to keep their britches on.
It wasn’t that he seemed to be the nervous type,
He just needed to be patient, and then to get more ripe.

I used to like a place that was a little North of there,
We still had warmer weather, and breezes filled the air.
A peaceful fishing village, somewhere they broke a dam,
We left some really bad words there when we went on the lam.

And so we wandered on a bit and learned to cope with life.
I grew somewhat stronger when I first encountered strife.
It was the prudent thing to do, to turn the other cheek,
One cheek too many though, could mean that you were weak.

I learned how to handle, those ones who’d be my foe,
It wouldn’t do to travel on, with nowhere left to go.
You make a man respect you, and he can be your friend,
And if he cannot live with that, you bring it to an end.

On the whole I’m peaceful, and settled in my ways,
And I didn’t really hanker for the more exciting days.
So I stayed pretty busy, avoiding getting hurt,
And life was pretty good to me, before we dealt with dirt.

Life was so much cleaner then, before the dirt arrived,
We strolled about the planet. Our numbers grew. We thrived.
We didn’t have much in the way of automatic toys,
But we had girls to chase, and they had all us boys.

And so our numbers went on up, more people every day,
The “planning” folks were not around to interfere that way.
Some had funny notions, and lived the way they wished.
Others took it easy. They hunted and they fished.

The animals around us seemed to give us lots of room,
Except for certain hungry ones, and meeting them was doom.
Some of us didn’t like that. We set out to fix their wagon.
We came back wearing nice warm skins. The others left, tails draggin’.

Without the dirt, we didn’t know, about the bathing reason,
We thought the little odors were, someone was not in season.
The animals didn’t look on us in “fawning” admiration,
They actually avoided us with our protective odoration.

It took a long time to discover which ideas beat the others,
Some folks lived on other’s work. Most treated men like brothers.
In the marketplace of thought, many notions came to flower,
And you never knew which one would be the flavor of the hour.

We all had lots of time to sit around and think,
My suggestions fell quite flat, because like me, they’d stink.
But I got better as I went, and sometimes had a thought,
That could have saved us trouble if the others would have bought.

My plan for building Stonehenge was to make it as a star,
With North and South along a line that went so far,
And lines to mark the point to which the sun would make its way,
In winter’s slow migration up until the shortest day.

Too bad the guy in charge did not see things my way,
Or folks would not be looking on, and scratching heads today.
But he insisted circular, and folks began the work,
My stellar plans were set aside. He was a circle jerk.

I left that merry England, and others left there too,
It wasn’t all so merry then, too many folks were blue.
The pyramids were much more fun, the competition brisk,
We raced those stones on up the ramps and didn’t mind the risk.

I laugh to think about the thoughts that we used “rays.”
Life was so much simpler then, it’s how we filled our days,
With building competitions, instead of fighting wars,
Why else would we pile up stones, without a trace of doors?

We’d clap an arc of wood upon each face of cubic block,
And then we’d get it up to go, by pushing up the rock.
Then toss a rope around it, and take it for a stroll,
Let me tell you, we knew then, just how to rock and roll.

Someone asked of getting sick. We had a simple plan.
My way of dealing with it was, avoid it if you can.
If you called attention to yourself, when feeling ill one day,
Others would take notice soon, and go the other way.

It wasn’t a matter of cowardice, or feeling no remorse,
It’s just that lacking training, there was no other course.
The wisdom of the action, can still be proved today,
For how could AIDS be what it is, if folks weren’t turned wrong-way?

Political Correctness, was not so big a deal,
We knew it wasn’t only wrong, we knew it wasn’t real.
When you reward someone, for doing something dumb,
You just create a person who’ll be nothing but a bum.

The old ways were not always the best way to abide,
But we learned before we threw them out, to set them side-by-side,
Before we tossed out customs, where errors may have lurked,
We tested them to see results, and find which system worked.

So when did dirt arrive? I guess you ought to know,
It’s been a thing that’s bugging me, since oh so long ago.
It was the stupid insects, those little robot bums,
“They’ll do the work of twenty men, and all of it for crumbs.”

Another bright idea, at least it wasn’t mine,
The first designs were clever, and seemed to work out fine.
But when the bug got busted up, it wouldn’t go away,
Instead the parts got smaller, and turned the dust to gray.

And every time you’d smack one down, or step upon a few,
You’d find a nasty substance, encrusted on your shoe.
You think they get recycled? Just trust me when I say,
The very first bug ever made, you’re walking on today.

The knowledge of unmaking them was limited to few,
The scrolls at Alexandria told us just what we should do,
So naturally, disaster fell, and no one knew quite why,
But I can tell you this, it was some stupid firefly.

I miss those simpler times when we all could get along,
We had our bread and wine, and in the evening, we had song.
Our musical devices could plunk out a pretty tune,
And more personal fulfillment could be found behind a dune.

But every day since I’ve been born has been a joy to me,
And I still get real excited with each new thing that I see.
I’ve still got time ahead of me and I’ve worked out all the math,
And I’ve even gotten used to knowing when to take a bath.

NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .February 28, 2004

I don't believe in getting sick; I think it's unhealthy.
I don't believe in getting old; there's no future in it.
As far as I'm concerned, it doesn't concern me.

I make up a lot of stuff. If it sounds stuffy, pretentious, and vaguely familiar, I probably made it up.

The purpose of women is to civilize men. The purpose of men is to preserve civilization.

Like that.

Necessity is the mother of invention chastity.
Laziness is the mother of invention.

Hey check out this cool shirt St. Louie1 gave me!!!
Okay, I lost my shirt. Shucks, now I have nothing to wear ...

Nothing to Wear

She organized the closet,
And threw out all my stuff.
She said she needed lots more room,
And that I had enough.

I had to compromise a bit,
With all the nothing there.
My costume thus became a hit,
For I was wearing air!

I've heard them say "dress for success,"
I know what that's about.
It was my favorite way to dress,
Until I wore it out!

NicknamedBob . . . August 29, 2004

(Hey Bob... I got a poem you can add to your home page.)

Doctors are whipper snappers
In ironed white coats
Who peer up your rectum
And spy down your throat
I used to believe them
Did all that they said
'Til I learned what they learned on
was already dead!

539 posted on 01/16/2004 By RikaStrom(Though I don't think she wrote it...Whippersnappers? Ironing? Miz 'Rika, that HAS to be older than you are!)

This one's mine:

At Sunset

Every day at Sunset, the Angels spill their paint,

Across the largest canvas, and work without complaint.

Although few eyes are watching, and light is fading fast,

They create a marvelous portrait, as if it were going to last.

But this beauty is so fleeting, you have to watch it grow,

And when the light is gone at last,

it will leave you with a glow.

September 2, 1999 (Sniff ... Ain't it purty?)

Here's another, from 18 January 2004...

My Frequent Prayer

My eyes are stained glass windows,
God's light shines to my soul.
With every breath I take,
I thank God for my role.

I have a part to play, you see.
With loneliness around.
For every only child I know,
A brother he has found.

There’s music in the world, I hear,
A drumbeat booms within my chest.
I’m mindful that God wrote the score,
With every drummer’s rest.

And flutes there are, and fifes so sweet,
That glide across the day.
The feathered players know the tunes,
And never ask for pay.

My friends go by, they’re off to church,
And pray that I will follow.
But water becomes wine to me,
A sacrament to swallow,

And every crust of bread, to me,
Is sacred to behold,
And every coin that comes to me,
I feel is made of gold.

I’m thankful for each breath I take,
With every word I say,
I just wish folks could understand,
That this is how I pray.


Soar on the wings of eagles? Or dragonflies? No, not.
The luna moth of Doctor's fame must never be forgot.
I'd choose a butterfly for me, to dance about the day,
My mini-bucking bronco, fluttering each and every way.

It would be fascinating, to hiccup as we glide,
And dusting flakes of rainbow onto people as we ride.
The butterfly, a gentle soul, seeking sweetest nectar,
Daintly dipping in to sip, I think we all respect her.

And children would be looking up, and laughing as we go,
And grown-ups too, would shyly smile, enjoying us also.
I'd carry along wind chimes, like sleigh bells for the sun,
The tinkling music fills the air behind us when we're done.

What else could I take along? Some perfumes for the nose?
I'd spread them out, as we flutter about, and fill the air with Rose.
And Lilac, other sweetness, to sprinkle as we fly,
'Til dogs would all be sneezing, and smile as we go by.

And if your spirits lifted from the turbulence of my wake,
I hope you understand it was exactly for that's sake.
One day perhaps we all can laugh, and love, and sigh,
In spirit-lifting loveliness, 'til all of time goes by.

(written and posted February 15, 2004)

(from Bentfeather)
Welcome to The Lair BOB

Later, on my birthday, I wrote this...

February 27, 2004

With sussurant cloak and creaking stride,
He grins with humor cast aside.
The greeter of all has tracked my spoor.
And lifts his scythe beside death’s door.

No trace of hope, no sign of eyes,
My plea for pity he’d despise.
I snatch a look into his face,
And worriedly step up the pace.

His costume dark, his soul to match,
I will not be an easy catch.
I am not winded, I am strong,
But he is used to marches long.

He will not tarry or delay,
And knows that there will come a day,
When my steps falter, joints aflame,
And he will beat me at this game.

He’s never lost a soul they say,
For all are lost who go his way.
While I am running for my life,
He calmly whets his thirsty knife.

The time has come, betwixt the fests,
We stoutly sing in lurid jests.
To celebrate a year’s demise,
As flames leap up into the skies.

So patiently they do the job,
“The candles are lit now, Uncle Bob.
Blow them out, and make a wish!”
(Try not to listen for the swish.)

For unseen, he has entered here,
I feel his presence hovering near.
One of these years he’ll get his man,
But I’ll keep running while I can!

. . . . . How old? See top poem...

Tag Line Repository:
GOOD_____! Choose one A. Morning B. Afternoon C. Evening D.Bye. Now can I go back to my book?
I wouldn't be judgmental, if people weren't so STUPID!
Heck! Give 'em string. Let 'em make their own rope. . . . Why waste good rope?
Tag line roulette wheel spinning ... spinning ... Free Spin!
~~^~~^~~~~^~~^~~~~~~~~~~(ssip, Ahh!)~~^~~^~~~~^~~^~~~
I'm a Red Cross Viagra donor, and proud of it.
I once thought that I would live forever, but that was an eternity ago!
God should not be under house arrest. How about a work-release program?
I'm in favor of laziness, as long as it isn't too much trouble
Hey! Where's all the witty repartee? Is that darned modem stuck on Half-Duplex again?
I had a good one, but I forgot it. Oh well, if it won't stick in my mind, why put it in yours?
LOL... sick and twisted (RikaStrom) (sniff...) I'm not worthy...
Is this tagline still fresh? (sniff, sniff ... ) ... Hmmm. ... Let me look around here.....
You can’t judge a book by its cover. But can you judge it by its back cover?
When you and your friends see a man or a woman in uniform, tell them Thanks!
Dr.Phil"The only difference between you and a three-year old kid throwing a tantrum is your height."
You can judge a man's worth by his ability to distinguish temptation from opportunity.
I'm not in Mensa. I'm not in AARP. And I'm NOT a Democrat. But I am an old smart ass. (Priceless)
Too many folks never put anything into the collection plate, yet they still expect change.
If the Supreme Court has "Judges for Life," why is there any question about Roe vs Wade?
Subliminal messages, no hidden charges. Double entendres, half-off. Menage-a-trois, get one free.
Better to remain a fool, and seem silent, than to doubt and remove all speak.
If you're Happy and you know it ... we can cure you!
I'm a poet warrior. For every evil deed, I write a poem to balance. I'm ahead on poems, so watch it!
Has anyone seen my original tagline? I know it's at the bottom of a pile here somewhere...
Obama's economic agenda failed, not because it was stopped, but because it was passed. P. Ryan

"Australia: Every animal is one of three types: Dangerous, Poisonous, or sheep." Rorschach's Blot
"Everest could only be more tacky if they put in an escalator to a Starbucks" -- Perfect Lionheart

Information about my book, Outlandish! (Click to go to Publisher's Description...)

About the Author:

Brian Hawthorne lives with his wife and two children in Maryland. One of those “quiet types” that you would never suspect.

As an avid reader and Science Fiction fan, he is following a prescription written by Dr. Isaac Asimov; that any reader, after long enough, will want to write. To that end, he writes for his own entertainment, and that of his readers. With creative exuberance, he tells of relationships, ingenious conveniences, and stubborn human behaviors.

Published Books:
Outlandish! (ISBN Number 1-4184-4089-2) is book one of a trilogy (Oops, make that Four!) that will be available soon. He also writes ... poetry! So if you decide not to buy this book, you may still someday get to read his words in a greeting card.

Completed Books:
Outlandish! ... Fairhome, a world isolated in space and time, where women rule, and men -- there are none! Just a poor but useful substitute...

The Day of Magic Rain ... Change has come to Fairhome. But is the Race of Women ready to rejoin the Human Race?

Action! ... A tale that mind-bendingly mixes everyday reality with science fictional unreality, as the Future comes to the Present!

Reaction! ... What else? The sequel to Action!

Books Being Written:
Cage Kittens of Hyper-Space ... Yes, you read that correctly. A Science Fiction Romp in the old style!

Selection from Chapter One ... (Outlandish!)

On the day that Berry had been delivered to her, she had arisen early and was waiting at the gate when the van arrived. Two sturdy women wheeled the travel box into the entrance hall. They had insisted that she read and sign the delivery ticket, and had then quickly departed. Releasing the sealed locking mechanism, Miranda heard a hissing sound as the controlled environment inside the box released its gasses. The lid rose automatically, and Miranda saw a small body folded compactly inside the container. A breathing mask detached itself and retracted. Then there was quiet, and the body lay very still. Miranda reached out and stroked the smooth skin of the curving back. It was reassuringly warm.

Soon she saw that he was breathing more deeply, and beginning to stir. Silently, he raised his head and sat up. Stretching his arms and breathing deeply, his eyes grew bright and alert. Carefully he climbed out of the travel box and stood to the side, stretching first one leg and then the other. Then he turned to face her, bowed and said quietly, “Lady Miranda, how may I please you?” He stood up, straight and proud.

Miranda looked at him. Completely naked, he was dressed only by the artful tattoo which she and her sister, Marissa, had designed, the twining serpent and vine which covered a large portion of his anatomy. There was neither a hair nor a blemish anywhere on his body other than the colorful imagery of his tattoos. He stood calmly as she gazed at him....

Selection from a bit of action later in the book...

“ ... and then they will ride out and strike you down with swords as if they were mowing wheat!” The women recoiled in shock at the ghastly images. Adam clenched his hands into fists and looked down at the floor.

Mother Elisabeth was ashen-faced, “This can’t possibly happen, it would be inhuman. All of our plans, our hopes!”

Rosita would not relent, “You planned very well for staying hidden, to remain in the shadows. But tell me how your plan for a confrontation would be any different from mine?” Rosita stood her ground. They talked among themselves for a time, gradually becoming more and more quiet as the truth of their powerlessness struck them. When a depressed silence fell, Rosita stood just a little straighter, and looked around defiantly.

Mother Elisabeth spoke quietly, “I know you are speaking the truth, in of all things, a parable. But it is equally true that they will not shoot us with arrows, or use boiling oil. What is the truth of what they would do?”

Rosita looked up, beyond the ceiling and the roof of the building they were in, “Up there, in carefully planned orbits, are satellite forts designed to protect this peaceful world from the occasional stray meteor or asteroid. They’re based on the meteor shielding that was used on the starship which brought us here. But they could just as easily be turned planetward, and all your homes and cottages would be turned into smoking volcanoes. Then they would send out military rescue squads, carefully instructed to report no survivors! Especially survivors of a particular sort.” She looked at Adam.

Mother Elisabeth had regained a touch of her color, “Child, you bring visions of cataclysm and destruction that verges on the biblical, surely you are the first prophet of the Sisters of Life. Is there no way we can prevent this calamity?”

Rosita took in the concerned, pleading faces, and suddenly smiled at them, “Oh sure! We just switch places! We’ll be in the castle, and we’ll let them come to us.”

Back Cover of Dust Cover

Arden looked at his son. Beneath the curly brown hair, adoring and trusting eyes looked up at him.

“When this world was settled, hundreds of years ago, there were only women in the landing. And for a hundred years, only women lived here. The terrible killings that occurred on their way here made them fearful of all men. When they decided to use the genetic storage banks to re-introduce males, they did it in a way to guarantee that the males would not be dangerous to them. They made sure that their males could only be servants ... They made the males to serve their needs, in their homes, and in their kitchens, and in their bedrooms...”

To: K1avg

65,533 posted on 12/31/2004 11:44:41 AM EST by A CA Guy (God Bless America, God bless and keep safe our fighting men and women.)

To: tuliptree76

Last Post

65,534 posted on 12/31/2004 11:44:42 AM EST by Dead Corpse (Cum catapultae proscriptae erunt tum soli proscript catapultas habebunt.)

To: Dead Corpse

The very last, Last Post

65,535 posted on 12/31/2004 11:44:43 AM EST by NicknamedBob (I wouldn't be judgmental if people weren't so STUPID!)

Where to start reading about grape-squishing

Uniform Descriptions

Adequate Freedom of Movement

What Purpose?..


Prototype Request...