In the Black
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The Sixties — The decade you love to hate or hate to love. Hippies & War; Sex, Drugs, & Rock ‘n Roll; Free love and a man on the moon. Yada-yada-yada.
This novel has been fermenting for way too many years and strangely enough the times seem ripe for a story about that infamous decade. After all, the radicals are the establishment now — just check the White House Visitor Log. For me the decade was a flesh wound. I made it out relatively in tact having spent most of my time with a Gibson SG Special and a series of tube amps of ever increasing size and wattage. History pretty much kept in my peripheral vision as I was focused on Clapton, Beck, Hendrix, et al.
Later in life, I became a splotch of grease (not even a cog, a nut or a screw) in the Military-Industrial Complex as I haunted the Special Project Offices at Wright Patterson Air Force Base and the Army’s Aviation Command in St. Louis, not to mention the Engineering Departments at Boeing, Beech Aircraft and McDonnell-Douglas on behalf of Litton Industries, then the fifth largest defense contractor in America, which no longer even exists today having been swallowed up by Northrup-Grumman in 2001. I survived those experiences, too — though not without some (hopefully) cosmetic scarring of the soul.
Anyway, I’ve been asked if In the Black is autobiographical (especially by siblings). I find if you pay attention and sometimes step back and spectate, life happening all around you can be quite entertaining, if not always rational and coherent. While certainly some of the characters, scenes and lunacy have been inspired by real people, real events and real lunacy, it is a work of fiction. But, remember, while victors may get to write history, novelists get to write reality.
As you read, please be advised that the lawyers for Comedy Central and Owl Works neither condone nor encourage this behavior. Enjoy.