by Eric Hoffer. I've begun that book twenty times and can't finish it. I bought the slim volume at a used bookstore in Wichita. Inside the front cover I read:

"Pat Shiner, U. of Missouri, August, 1967."

I don't know Pat. Pat doesn't know me. We're connected thru a book I can't finish but Pat may have finished and we're connected thru the stampeding slugs of change that threaten to crush every possibility of simple living any of us ever dared aspire to.

Isn't that what change in the 21st century feels like—a stampede of slimy spineless globs that feast on decay.

Pat, if you're out there, get in touch. I'll brew a pot of coffee and we'll work on inventing a humongous shaker we can employ to sprinkle table salt over the rioting herd of oozing change.

I'm not a cruel person. As a boy, I never poured salt over the backs of slugs and watched them twist themselves inside out but I can't say I never saw it happen and I can't say I never stopped it from happening. Yet, I'd be the first to torture the shell-less gastropods of maniacal transformation if I could envision a device to perform the task.

Pat, I can feel the decay that's moving in from the fringes of my simple way of life. It won't be long before the smug snails of reconditioning and reforming sense the banquet waiting for them here at the DEAD RABBIT RANCH.

I could use your help.

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Frank Sloan is an ex-firefighter, ex-beat cop, ex-dirt farmer/cowhand/bouncer, and current garden center flunky. He lives and writes at DEAD RABBIT RANCH located near the heart of the American empire.