Well, I know for sure that at least one person has bought MEMORIA NERA from Pulpbits, and that
is Maggie, a woman I knew slightly a long time ago when I was editor of Nuclear Notes.
I took her picture as she stood near the Susquehanna River on a hill that overlooked the power
plant. She was wearing tight blue jeans that showed off her long, slim legs and nicely rounded
tush. Barbara saw the wet print hanging on my darkroom's drying line and immediately concluded
I was fucking this girl. But I wasn't, and emphatically said so. But Barbara didn't believe me. She
just knew I took the picture to torment her, a habit I developed twenty years earlier when we got
married in Amarillo, Texas.
Back then I could not have imagined I would eventually write and publish a memoir laying out
every detail of my troubled relationship with my father, as well as about a series of subsequent
failed romantic relationships, and that Maggie would actually buy the book as a PDF download
using a credit card on a thing called the internet.
When I was a boy TV was in its primitive infancy. I built crystal sets, and took apart radios that didn't
have transistors but vacuum tubes. Extremely high-end modern stereo amplifiers still use these
glowing artifacts because they render sound better than semiconductors.
Remember long-playing records made of shiny black vinyl? And those donut 45s? Audiophiles
insist that an LP, despite the pops and scratching, makes richer music than the somewhat brittle
sounds of a CD player.
As a boy I read Popular Science, Popular Mechanics, and Scientific American. One day I told my
father that very soon we would put an artificial satellite into orbit around the earth. He scoffed. That's
just a bunch of made up stuff, he said. Science fiction. I pointed to an article about Wernher von
Brauns's Vanguard project. Naw, he said, that ain't never gonna happen
Of course I was wrong only in the use of the word "we." The Russians beat us to it with Sputnik.