It's Not Your Father's Oldsmobile

Bob’s 1st Quarter Newsletter



It’s not your father’s Oldsmobile.

Have you paused lately to consider how much things have changed in the last few years?

I’m not talking about: When I was your age, I walked five miles through the snow; but just within the last few years. Let’s take cell phones for example. Cell phones have been around longer than most people realize. In fact, cell phones were used by the military as early as the 1950’s. However, they were not used commercially until 1973, and didn’t become the rage until the 1990’s. I know that’s twenty-four years ago, but it seems like yesterday to me.

Well, you might be asking, what in the world does that have to do with writing and publishing?

When Beneath a Buried House, the second Detective Elliot novel, was released in 2010, it was still pretty much a brick-and-mortar, paperback world. By the time Footprints of a Dancer – a widely misunderstood work of art – was released in 2012, things had begun to change with the e-book quickly gaining in popularity.  And now, in 2014, the publishing world has been turned on its head with well-known authors dabbling in the previously forbidden, dark science of self-publishing: Since their large publishers still refuse to grasp reality by pricing their e-books at hardback prices while trying to pay the author a mere 15%. The revolution has also caused formerly unapproachable agents to act as friendly advocates and enablers of self-publishing.

Say it ain’t so, Joe.

On the brighter side, some things never seem to change. I was shopping in Walmegamonopoly over the weekend where I saw a display offering the ultimate Valentine’s Day gift: A pair of pink, aloe-infused socks. Nothing says I love you like a pair of socks laced with the extract of the Aloe Vera plant.

Finding the obituaries morbid and depressing, I never read them. However, I actually heard this on the radio. Some famous or at least well-known Oklahoma rancher had passed away and his family had him cremated. The ad, if you can call it that, told of the memorial service to follow, which was to be a barbeque out at the ranch. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.

Like my good friend, Chuck Sasser always says, “You can’t make this stuff up.”

Stopping for a cappuccino at the intersection of Highway 51 and 81st Street – I now live in this area and you really should add visiting this intersection to your things-to-do list – I saw a girl wearing bright, pink pajamas and cowboy boots; a young mother with black clothing and chemically-black hair adorned with a red flower, pushing a baby carriage. The baby was dressed the exact same way; a heavyset man who kicked his leg in the air. He’d take several steps and kick, several more steps and do it again; and finally a man with a long, grey beard, wearing pants, which appeared to be made from the American flag. Not only was he a disgrace, but looked like Salvador Dali’s rendition of Uncle Sam.

Okay I admit to not seeing this all at the same intersection, but not to not seeing it at all.

And now for something completely different: With the ethereal mist of Footprints softly lingering, I am on the brink of solving and bringing to fruition the age-old problem and nemesis of the alchemist: How do you successfully blend the normal – if there’s such a thing – with the paranormal? Becoming impatient, Detective Elliot shook me by the collar and showed me the way. With his next book, which I’m feverishly working on – even the title is proprietary – he’ll reveal it to you as well.

I want to thank everyone who has signed up for my newsletter. I hope you enjoy reading it. If you know of someone who might enjoy it, too, please email it to them. Thanks.

I also give programs for writing groups, reading groups, or any group that’s interested. If you belong to a club, which needs program speakers, keep me in mind.

You have permission to reprint, forward, or use the contents of this newsletter in your newsletter or e-zine. The only requirement is the inclusion of the following footer:

This article was written by Bob Avey, author of, Twisted Perception, Beneath a Buried House, and Footprints of a Dancer.


Reality Check - Book Review - Eyes Wide Open


Through the exploits of Christy Snow and Austin Hartt, the heroes of Eyes Wide Open, Ted Dekker explores the nature of reality as defined by individual or personal experience.

Diving quickly into the story with an informal but engaging style, Ted Dekker immediately pulls the reader into wondering what will happen to Christy Snow, a likeable but somewhat naïve character. Eyes Wide Open was my first reading experience with author, Ted Dekker, who is not only known as a Christian author, but a New York Times best-selling author as well. After reading his work, I am not surprised. While the book contained numerous metaphors of good and evil, Dekker’s style is certainly not heavy-handed. I could imagine someone, who had not heard of Mr. Dekker, reading Eyes Wide Open without realizing they were experiencing Christian fiction. And I mean that as a compliment. Ted Dekker’s books are described as thrillers, but Eyes Wide Open had a fair amount of dark fantasy woven into the story.

I was a bit disappointed in the way the story ended, but I would highly recommend the book to preteens through adult readers who love a good story.

– Bob Avey , author of Footprints of a Dancer



A Nightmare on Elvis Street

Like most people, I’m intrigued with the dream world, and occasionally, when a personal mind warp warrants further analysis, I’ll post the gist of it on this blog.

With this dream, I was more of an observer than a participant, a rarity for me, but certainly not a rare concept. I’ve spoken with many who’ve had this type of dream. Most often this type of mind-wandering unfolds for the dreamer as if they were watching a movie. With this dream, which I call the Elvis Dream, my role was more like the old Fly on the Wall routine.

In the dream, I become aware of a room, which serves as both a living and dining area, in a small house. The house belongs to a middle aged woman who is hiding in the bedroom, attempting to set up a type of sting operation with the aide of two police officers. Suddenly the front door opens and Elvis Presley walks in, not the often imitated, gracefully aging Elvis in sequined, white jump suit, but the younger, dynamic, rock and roller.

Elvis, who I intuit has been invited, immediately suspects that something is up. He sees a row of shoes along the wall near the dining table; a black pair, a red pair, and some house shoes. “Looks like a set up,” Elvis says. He then sits in one of the dining chairs where he takes off his shoes and puts on the house shoes. Elvis then gets up and walks into the kitchen where he sees a young girl, about three years old, sleeping on the floor beside the refrigerator. A large rattlesnake is slithering across the girl’s body.

At this point, the police officers come out of the bedroom, guns drawn and approaching Elvis cautiously, as if to make an arrest.

Elvis, appearing calm, even stoic kneels beside the young girl. He begins to pet the reptile, muttering, more to himself than anyone else, “I love snakes.”

I fear that Elvis will allow the snake to bite the young girl, but instead, like an expert snake-handler he grabs the rattler, one hand grasping just beneath the snake’s head while the other holds the tail. Elvis stands up, holding the snake outstretched over his head, and walks toward the front door.

At this point, I wake up.

Anyone care to venture an explanation of this dream?


A Tireing Subject


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Never let my son, David, look at your car tires.

Seriously. At first I thought he just had a sharp eye for details, being able to spot the head of a nail on the surface of the rubber at a glance. However, through the years the number of such occurrences has proven too much for coincidence. Most of my relatives and some of my friends are aware of it and they take pains to avoid his casting a fatal glance at their tires. I’ve even wondered if David has developed some rare form of subconscious telekinesis, unaware of his causing the destructive spikes of metal to materialize, embedded in the helpless treads of rubber.

Out of necessity, I’ve learned to keep my son occupied with conversation whenever we stop and get out of the car, distracting him with eye contact to keep his dangerous gaze from falling where it shouldn’t. However, a few days ago I must have let my defenses down. It was Monday night and after an enjoyable though exhausting day, as I snuggled beneath the covers I heard a soft knock at my bedroom door. It was David. “What is it?” I ask.

“Mom’s car is sitting crooked,” he said. “I think I saw something in one of the tires.”

Begrudgingly, I got out of bed and tiptoed in my PJ’s into the garage. Sure enough Kathi’s car was leaning hard to the left. I walked around the car and found the rear tire on the passenger side half flat. Deciding I was just too tired, mentally and physically to change the tire, I thanked my son for his diligent observation and headed back to bed, telling him and my wife that I would deal with it in the morning. If the tire was flat, I would change it. However, if it still had air in it, I would drive it to QT, put some air in it and deal with it during lunch break at work. The latter proved to be the case.

Due to the sharing of duties in taking my son to work and picking him up, Tuesday through Thursday I get up at the inhuman hour of 5:30 AM in order to get to work at 6:30. That morning, with Kathi’s car still drivable, I headed for the nearest QT to air up the tire. Finding the air machine I pulled up next to it, got out of the car, tripped over my own feet a few times, but managed to find and push the red button, which starts the machine. It’s quite dark at that time of the morning in October but I soon determined that there was no hose attached to the contraption. Compressed air hissed noisily though uselessly into the atmosphere. Rattled but determined, I climbed back into the partially crippled car and drove to the next nearest free air depot. Upon finding the next epitome of commercial convenience, I located the air device. Not wanting to waste my time, infringing upon being late for work, I looked first for a hose. Seeing that the machine did indeed have the proper fittings, I sprang from the car, hit the red button, grabbed the hose, and, feeling a twinge of pain fitted the air hose onto the air stem of the tire. With air now going into the tire, I pulled my hand back a bit to inspect the source of my pain. The metal sheathing around the end of the hose had become frayed, and now red, since I was bleeding upon it. Fighting through the pain, I finished airing the tire and sped off to work.

At 11:30 AM, I met Kathi – we work for the same company – at the car. With the establishment where we’d purchased the tires being a few miles away, we decided to use our lunch hour to remedy the situation. We’d drive over, get the tire repaired and that would be that.

The tire personnel were friendly enough, though so caught up in their work that it was quite difficult to get their attention. With the keys handed over, Kathi and I risked our lives crossing a wide and busy street and later dined on Mexican cuisine while our car was being expertly cared for.

After lunch and back at the shop, Kathi and I reclined with magazines in the waiting area. Two magazines later, exchanging an understanding glance, Kathi and I called our work to report that we might be a few minutes late. If only that would have been the case, my few degrees of lost sanity might still be intact. About an hour later, the shop worker who’d checked us in appeared in the waiting area. “I’ve got bad news,” he said. “We can’t fix the flat. In fact both of the rear tires on your car are shot.”

I wanted to ask him why it had taken him an hour and a half to come to that conclusion, but being the congenial guy that I am I said. “How much will that cost me?”

He quoted me a price that might take a few pumpkin pies off the table. “Go ahead and replace all four,” I said.

Another hour later, the man again returns to the waiting room. I jump up, quite relieved that it’s finally over.

He shakes his head. “We’ve just now put your car on the alignment rack. I see now why the back tires were so bad. The cars seriously out of whack.”

“What does that mean exactly?” I ask. He starts talking about toe-ins and cantors. Apparently my wife’s car is pigeon toed. To make matters worse, the car was manufactured without an adjustment device for the rear of the car. He’d have to order aftermarket parts, specifically designed to compensate for the manufacturer’s lack of foresight. “Just put it back together the way it is,” I said. “We need to get back to work.”

At that point, with Kathi and I being the only people left in the waiting area, Hotel California began playing over the intercom. There had been no music before. With increased trepidation, I paid special attention to the song lyrics: You can check out anytime you want, but you can never leave.

I ended up having to take one half day of vacation. I barely made it in time to pick up my son, David, from work, arriving a little after 4:00 PM. “Did you get mom’s car fixed?” He asked.

I muttered a soft, “Yes.”

“How about the tire?”

“We got new ones,” I whispered. In a louder voice I added, “Hey, I know you’ve been looking forward to decorating the house for Halloween. How about you and I get started on that when we get home?”


What Does it Mean to be Christian - Part II

A few months ago, listening to a Christian radio station as I drove to work, I heard a broadcast that sent a chill through me. The basis of the sermon was that God had turned away from his people once, and He could do it again.

The concept of such a thing stayed with me throughout the day, and the more I thought about it the more frightening it seemed. It occurred to me, as I contemplated a world without God, just how horrible such an existence would be. I cannot think of anything worse. Indeed, being separated from God might just be the true definition of hell.

If you’ve ever experienced God’s love on a personal level, you’re probably shaking your head, yes, right about now. If you have not, or if you’re just not sure, please read on. Perhaps we can change that.

I often hear comments like: “You so called Christians, act like you’re perfect, and then you do this, and that.”

Or a modified version of the above that goes something like: “I could never be a Christian. I’m just not good enough.”

I’m not amazed at this because I used to be right there with you. Here’s some breaking news: Christians aren’t perfect. Nobody is. What’s more, you’re not expected to be.

Another common misconception is in believing that if you’re a good person, God will see that the good things you’ve done outweigh the bad.

In this case, I do want to be the bearer of what some might consider bad news, and explain that it just doesn’t work that way. It’s not a balancing act. No one is good enough to earn salvation based on their own merit. We are all sinners who have fallen short of God’s glory.

I believe that many of the misunderstandings and misconceptions concerning Christianity actually stem from reading the Bible. The problem arises in reading only pieces of God’s holy word. To understand the Bible, you have to read it in its entirety. I’ll offer some advice that a good pastor once gave me. Start with the New Testament. Read it several times until you begin to understand what the text is saying. The Old Testament deals with harsh times and harsh subjects, and having a reasonable grasp of the New Testament will make it understandable. If you will do this, I believe you will begin to see a pattern. Everything in the Old Testament points to the message of the New Testament: That Jesus Christ is our Lord and Savior.

There’s another attitude I’d like to address. It’s the old sticking your head in the sand routine. Many people believe that if they just don’t think about it, everything will work out. In light of that, let me offer this. One’s belief or non-belief in God has no bearing upon His existence. With the giving up of Christianity for another religion, or relinquishing belief in anything spiritual altogether, you might experience a false sensation of liberation, but the freedom exits only in your own mind. You are still responsible for your actions and accountable for your sins.

However, I did not create this blog post to be downbeat. There is a path to salvation. I believe in the Trinity, that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are one and the same, and yet are all able to act independently. God realized our imperfections, and in His love and His grace he created for us a way to salvation. God sent his son Jesus into the world. Jesus was conceived by the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. In this way, Jesus experienced all that we experience. He experienced birth as we do. He lived life on earth, along with all of the emotions and problems that we face, except He did it without sin. And He experienced death, but He defeated it through His resurrection.

If you believe in God, creator of Heaven and earth, and in His only son, Jesus who came into this world so that we might have salvation, you are a Christian and you are saved. But you have to be sincere in your belief, and in your faith.

I offer you a challenge, if you’re brave enough to accept. Ask Jesus to come into your life and see what happens.


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