Author Archives: Dave Koch

About Dave Koch

Father, writer, entrepreneur, web coder, 2008 Presidential candidate, husband and friend. Sometimes I play guitar.

A Pirate Looks At 50

Even (or espe­cially) against where I was even a month ago, I see how lucky I have been. The past month has been very good to me. (Maybe this is why today is no longer filled with dread a small voice speaks). Con­tinue read­ing

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Hey Joe!

I sat down and played the Mar­tin, and that sealed the deal. I plucked one note, a sin­gle string with­out press­ing my fin­gers on the fret­board. As the string vibrated, the most heav­enly note swirled up out of the sound hole. It held and expanded and filled the whole room. Over­tones emerged, enhanc­ing and expand­ing in the air like a good wine on the palette. I looked at the bronze string vibrat­ing, and I played another. It rose in har­mony to the first, then took over, burst­ing pure and free and full of joy.

I was stunned. And awed. Con­tinue read­ing

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Welcome Back!

Bill, you look amaz­ing”, I said to him as he passed by.

He just grunted a reply, not so much from rude­ness, but because he was used to syco­phants; he expected every­one to say nice albeit untrue things to him always, so he was used to pass­ing such com­ments off.

No, I mean it”, I con­tin­ued as a trailed behind him. “You look like a new man. You look healthy as an ox.”

Again, he could only grunt in reply; I was not get­ting through to him. I looked at him, I tried to look deeper than the tan. His eyes were more alert, the wrin­kles gone from his face. And he had…

Bill”, I con­tin­ued, “Do you real­ize you have hair?” Con­tinue read­ing

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Dream House

I went deeper into the room as Lisa went to check out the mas­ter bath. She opened the door and there was a blood-curdling scream. It seems we were not asl alone as we thought we were! The own­ers were still there, one in bed, and his wife in the bathroom.

Out of my house!,” she was scream­ing at us. Con­tinue read­ing

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Inner Revolution

The fur­ther down the path we went, the darker our world became. The clouds thicken and bruised the sky. We came to a point where the path was blocked. Side to side, they had strung razor wire across out path. We had expected this; we had a way around the wire: We went under­neath it. As soon as we had cleared that bar­rier, we saw our next problem.
Slowly, lum­ber­ing up the hill toward us was a giant rocket on a mobile launch vehi­cle. The white gird­ers of the launcher were heavy and unwieldy. The weight of the rocket sunk the wheels of the trans­port into the soft earth, mak­ing progress slow. The diesels push­ing the launcher up the rise moaned under the stress, the ground rever­ber­at­ing in sym­pa­thy with their labor­ing. Slowly, delib­er­ately, the back end began to swing around as the pushed the launcher into its final posi­tion. Con­tinue read­ing

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Wood and Strings

We hopped in a golf cart, and headed along a path that fronted the course. The run­ners would start off through a gate and run in a park on the other side of the chain link fence. At the first cor­ner, they would head to the right; we sat at the cor­ner and watched them pass. The chil­dren were run­ning past now; I rec­og­nized Clara as she waved and passed us by.
While I had thought I had plenty of time– Jim had assured me I did!- I heard the call for my start. We raced back to the start­ing line in the golf cart. I went to where I had removed my race shoes, and they were gone. Con­tinue read­ing

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Of Mice and Magicians

He knew I was com­ing; he could see me and watch me at his whim. When I arrived, he looked at me hard. He was not wor­ried about me, and not scared. He was not amazed, nor was he star­tled. He was not warm or invit­ing. Like the rocks around him, he just was.

He nod­ded slightly to me, invit­ing me to fol­low; he turned and went into his home. The door was old, once red, but the paint worn and faded. In many placed the paint was com­pletely worn through to the wood beneath. But the door was thick and solid. It would have to be to seal off the home from the rav­ages of the sand storms it was there to but­tress against. Con­tinue read­ing

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