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Retrophisch Review: The Man Who Never Was

The Man Who Never Was cover

I do not recall how I first became aware of British author Mark Dawson. Given his prowess at web and email advertisements which inevitably lead one to one of his books’ Amazon listing, it could very well have been via BookBub, but I do not discount other methods of discovery. However I came across Dawson’s early John Milton books, I was an immediate fan. So much so, that when Mark started his beta reader program, I was in. The chance to read the next Milton book before it was released? Sign me up! Dawson has expanded his Miltonverse with the Beatrix Rose and Isabella Rose series, both of which I also recommend.

Which brings us to The Man Who Never Was, the 16th novel in the John Milton series. Milton, who frequently goes by the nom de guerre John Smith, is formerly of Her Majesty’s Special Air Service, and the ultra-black and, so far as we know, entirely fictitious Group Fifteen. Tormented by the many dirty deeds he did in service to his nation, Milton drops out of the life, gets himself into AA, and now lives attempting to balance the scales. Balancing the scales is foremost in his mind in The Man Who Never Was, where we find Milton going after the drug cartel figures he feels are responsible for the death of a friend. The novel picks up a few weeks after the previous one in the series, Bright Lights. When a damsel in distress turned out to not be entirely who she seemed, it resulted in the death of Milton’s friend, Beau Baxter. Now, he wants justice for his friend, and it goes beyond the man who pulled the trigger.

Starting in the night life of Amsterdam, playing the role of an up-and-coming drug distributor, Milton, with the help of a small cadre of associates, including Beau’s son, infiltrates the cartel’s network. He manages to wreak a little havoc and find himself face-to-face with the boss herself in the jungles of Colombia. And it’s there that Milton learns things really aren’t what they seem, and the tension and action ratchet up.

If you’re new to the John Milton novels, I would not recommend starting with this one. Most of the time, you can pick one up and enjoy it for what it is without having read any of the previous ones, but that is certainly not the case here. To really understand Milton’s motivations, some of the characters, and the full weight of the plot, you should read the prior entry in the series. In the case of The Man Who Never Was, it is a solid brick in the John Milton wall, but not a must-read like some of the others. At some points of this book, I felt like Dawson wrote it simply because he felt he had to, due to the way he’d left things at the end of Bright Lights. Nevetheless, I enjoyed it, and cannot wait for the next John Milton adventure.

3.5/5 fins

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music that's life

College Memories Abound Tonight

In January 1990, the first week of the semester at LSU, my best friend, on his way home from a night class, was hit by a drunk driver. Twenty-four hours later, the head trauma Brett had sustained in the incident was too great for him to overcome. With zero brain activity being registered, his parents made the difficult decision to end the life support being provided by medical equipment, and would go on to bury the second of their two children, both killed by drunk drivers.

Brett and I met our freshman semester in August 1988, in AFROTC. We were assigned to the same flight, and along with John, formed a quick but deep bond over our love of country, LSU, and hard rock/heavy metal music. John and I, along with our friend Drew, were three of Brett’s pallbearers. AFROTC Detachment 310  led the way, with participation from our Army brethren across the hall, in giving Brett full military honors, inasmuch as we were able to for a bunch of college kids. After the funeral, John and I stood in Brett’s bedroom at his parents’ house in Abbeville, and one of the memories John brought up was how Brett’s left foot was always pounding out the bass beat when he was driving. Brett was a drummer, and it never stopped. Not when he was driving, not when he was sitting in a booth at Pizza Hut after that week’s marching on the Parade Grounds, not when he was sitting and studying.

John would drop out of ROTC before I did. We gradually lost touch, connecting once or twice through the years. Drew is still a good friend; until three years ago, we had spent the previous 15 years living in the same neighborhood, two short blocks from one another. We have literally watched one another’s kids grow up. And there was a fifth member in all of this, and that’s Liz.

Liz was the flight commander for me, Brett, and John that first semester in AFROTC. She became a friend, a big sister none of us had ever had. Brett’s brother had been older, and John and I both had younger siblings. Even as we each went our own way, Liz remained a common star we orbited around. One of the highlights, at least for me, of our family’s annual trips since 2012 to Horn Creek in Colorado, is to take one day to go meet up with Liz, who lives in Colorado Springs with her family. It was Liz who, after I fell down a mountain in the Garden of the Gods in 2016, sat with me at an urgent care in Colorado Springs, waiting until I could get x-rayed and see how broken my arm was, so my wife could take our boys to get lunch. We may be able to only see one another once a year, if that, but there’s Facebook for keeping up with one another, and calls and texting.

One such text came a couple of weeks ago. She was working on a spring cleaning of the house, and found a bunch of Brett’s CDs she’d taken from his apartment. His parents had let those of us who wanted to take things to remember Brett by. I kept his Fudpucker’s t-shirt, acquired during our base visit to Eglin AFB just the semester prior. Liz chose his music. But now they needed to go, and she wanted to know if Drew or I wanted them. Drew passed, but I accepted. Guess what arrived today?

Courtesy of my college big sister, college memories abound tonight.

So tonight I’m going down a rabbit hole, thanks to Ozzy, AC/DC, Van Halen—Brett loved Van Halen—and the rest. Memories of that year and half together are strong, as well as memories made after Brett’s death:

  • the LSU basketball game John, Drew, and I went to later that semester, meeting up at the ROTC building before heading across the Tiger Stadium parking lot to the PMAC
  • seeing The Hunt for Red October in the theater with John, Liz, Drew, Marshall, and Connor (he always went by his last name)
  • testifying, to no avail, at the trial of the drunk driver who killed Brett, then road-tripping to Houston to go to Astroworld with Liz, Trish, Carey, Connor, and I don’t recall who else to drown our sorrows at the injustice in roller coasters and theme-park camaraderie
  • the visit to England AFB in Alexandria, LA, where Carey’s dad was a flight leader with the 23rd Tactical Fighter Wing; we got to go to the gunnery range and watch A-10 pilots practice their craft
  • watching Star Trek: The Next Generation at Drew and Carey’s apartment
  • Liz’s graduation party at her apartment, then her commissioning ceremony the next day

Finally, it was at Brett’s funeral that a young lady in the Angel Flight auxiliary (now Silver Wings) first took note of one of the pallbearers. They would meet a couple of times over the next three months, but it was a mutual friend who set them up on their first date for the ROTC Military Ball that April. They have been together ever since.

First date.

So I will kiss my bride and raise a toast to you, Brett. Rock on, brother. Rock on.

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Retrophisch Review: Savage Son

Savage Son cover The third book featuring Jack Carr’s protagonist James Reece is indeed his best yet. It’s a must-read for anyone who is a fan of the thriller genre.

After the events of The Terminal List and True Believer, Reece finds himself Stateside, beginning to carve out a new life for himself. Taken in as a second son by the Hastings family, and being courted by the Special Operations Division of the CIA, Reece has options. He also has an agenda of his own, and his thought process is to align those with continuing in service to his nation. What he doesn’t know is that he is in someone else’s crosshairs, and things get wild when the hunter becomes the hunted.

Hunting is the main theme of the book, which is an homage to Richard Connell’s The Most Dangerous Game. Carr has stated in numerous interviews that Savage Son is the book he’s always wanted to write, but knew it couldn’t be the first book he wrote. As with his previous novels, Carr brings his own experience as a 20-year veteran of the Navy SEALs to the text, and adds his love of the outdoors and hunting game. As he is hunted by the Russian mob and elements of Russian intelligence, Reece and his adopted family must find a way to turn the tables.

I’ve heard Jack speak at two book signings, and I follow him on social media. He is not shy about showering praise and gratitude on authors he feels taught him how to write books such as these: David Morrell, Daniel Silva, John Le Carré, Louis L’Amour, Truman Capote, and Nelson DeMille, to name but a few. With Savage Son, I would say Carr has clearly taken the best of what he has learned from these masters and poured it into his work. You can sense the progress as an author from The Terminal List, through True Believer, to now. This doesn’t read like a third book by a relatively new author, but rather like the 10th or 12th by a seasoned pro.

There are certain authors whose books are automatic purchases for me these days: Lee Child, Daniel Silva, Mark Greaney, Nick Petrie, and Robert Kroese. Jack Carr has definitely joined that list. If you love the works of Brad Thor and Brad Taylor, you will love Jack Carr.

5/5 fins, a must-buy

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podcast

The Empowered Parent Podcast Shelters in Place

Like most of our listeners, our families are sheltering in place, doing our best to remain in coronavirus quarantine except for venturing out for groceries and food. Ryan, Kayla, and I got together over Zoom to record a pair of episodes about our experiences, and I shot a promo video for these with my boys.

You can listen to the first of these two episodes here: https://empoweredparent.podbean.com/e/shelter-in-place-s07-e01/

I’ve also been informed this episode was downloaded over 1,000 times in the first 24 hours!

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Retrophisch Review: The Dark Continent

The Dark Continent coverEvoking plot elements from Justin Cronin’s The Passage, Scott Reardon’s The Dark Continent opens with CIA agent Karl Lyons looking for an ultra-black government project gone awry, one he had been a part of but was now on the outs with. The heavily obscured project, Prometheus, has taken a turn for the worse: on an abandoned oil rig off the coast of Alaska, scientists have begun injecting human subjects, and not just any human subjects. These are the worst of the worst: rapists, serial killers, death row inmates. Sound familiar, readers of The Passage?

Yet Reardon has his own twist on what happens to the test subjects, one that comes across as far more believable than Cronin’s vampires, but is just as terrifying. Defying the odds to escape from Chinese imprisonment, Karl joins forces with Tom Reese, the protagonist from Reardon’s first book, The Prometheus Man. I should note that I hadn’t read this first novel before diving in to The Dark Continent, but it was not an issue. Reardon gives enough backstory from the first book sprinkled throughout the second to get you up to speed and keep you engaged. After the test subjects escape, Karl and Tom must enter the heart of darkness the killers have created in middle America to take down the enhanced humans before they end life as we have become accustomed to it.

This was probably not the best choices of books to read during a pandemic and the inherent fears that go along with one, but I could not put it down. It is a “just because we can do something doesn’t mean we should” thriller that grabs hold of you and doesn’t let go. From the beginning, I was deeply invested in Karl and Tom, and Kronin (a nod to Justin Cronin?) has to be one of the scariest fiction characters since Cormac McCarthy’s Chigurh. Reardon has crafted an engaging, suspenseful story that should make one think while being entertained.

4.5/5 fins, definitely recommended

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God music parenting

He’ll never leave you or forsake you

I help administer a private group on Facebook for foster and adoptive dads, and posted this today for encouragement, because I needed it myself:

So lately I’ve been struggling with the strong wills of my boys, and of my own. The constant tug-of-war. My wife and I were talking about it over lunch today, because she shares in the frustration (she’s strong-willed as well), and I reminded her, as much as myself, that they act this way because they feel securely attached to us.

“Well, it would be nice if they weren’t complete JERKS about it!” she sighed. She didn’t use the word “jerks,” but I’m trying to keep this family-friendly.

I mention this because I know I’m not alone in being a dad frustrated with the behaviors of his kids from hard places. Especially when they’ve been in our home for so long (birth for two of them, 9 months old for the third, and they’re 16, 11, and 8 now), and it just doesn’t feel like things are getting better.

Then God decides to plant a reminder on you in an unexpected way. In an email newsletter unrelated to parenting, there was this verse of encouragement from Hebrews, “I will never leave you or forsake you.” God always has our back, and we just need to go to Him with our frustrations, seek His peace.

And because I’m an ’80s metalhead, this verse and the feeling behind it will always be enshrined for me in the opening song from Rage of Angels’ self-titled, 1989, debut album:

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food that's life

An Ode to Our El Chico

It is not hyperbole to say the Flower Mound location of El Chico has been very important in my life and that of my family. I have been going there since before my children were born. The first time Kelly and I ate there, we hadn’t yet bought a house in Flower Mound. We stopped in for dinner while driving around the town, getting a feel for it as we started the house-hunting process in the fall of 2001.

It cannot be understated how it affected me and the boys when it closed over a month ago, while we were in Colorado. “Where are we going to go on Thursday nights now?” our youngest asked. (More on that in a moment.) It was something Kelly and I figured was coming—again, more on that in a moment—but it still surprised me when it finally happened.

New signage is up at the Flower Mound El Chico.

In the beginning

What cemented my relationship with the restaurant was an incident that occurred in 2003, before our oldest was born. We had been coming to get our Tex-Mex fix there often, but not yet to the point where I would consider us “regulars”. The fact was, it was the closet Tex-Mex restaurant to our then still-new house, and was easy to get to. But on that night in 2003, we walked in, and one of the cooks was turning over chicken breasts on the grill. This location had an open-to-the-public kitchen. You could literally walk right up to one of the grills, separated from it only by an eight-inch thick counter, and watch them work. The smoke generated by the turning of the chicken wafted out and over the waiting area, and my pregnant wife turned to me and said, “We have to go. Now.” And she turned around and left. I followed.

It would be months, maybe even years, before she set foot in there again. Whatever pregnancy-hormone weirdness had affected her that night imprinted a feeling of nausea on her whenever she thought about El Chico.

So I started going by myself.

Shortly after our oldest was born, I lost my job. It was the first of many rounds of layoffs to hit the newly-formed Verizon, and it was, from a financial and incentive standpoint, the best round to have been in. I miss the people I worked with, though I have managed to remain friends with a few. I don’t regret getting laid off.

For one, I became a stay-at-home dad. And that allowed me to start going to lunch at El Chico whenever I liked, which shortly became a weekly occurrence. Through the vagaries of restaurant seating priorities, I eventually came to have a regular server, Kim. It reached the point where I would either ask to be seated in her section, or she would see me walk in and seat me herself or inform the hostess to put me at one of her tables. Some times, I would be seated in her section, and the first time I would see her, she would be bringing me an iced tea and informing me she’d already put my order in. In those days, I tended to get the same dish every time I came in. The dish was called the Manzanillo on the menu. It was a crispy taco with ground beef, a cheese and onion enchilada, a chicken enchilada, and sides of Mexican rice and refried beans. This was my staple.

Years went by, and as is the case in the restaurant business, changes ensued. One was that the Manzanillo disappeared from the menu. Fear not, Kim told me, for it’s still in the computer, and the kitchen staff all still know what it is. I continued ordering it, even after Kim moved on to (hopefully) bigger and better things, and new servers were hired. “What’s that?” they would ask, confused when I ordered it. “Don’t worry,” I’d reply, “it’s in the computer.” Sure enough, they’d come back confirming it was so, and I kept getting my favorite dish.

The long-term relationship

Eventually, our oldest outgrew baby and toddler food, and we began ordering off the kids menus when we went out. It was no different at El Chico, except that on Thursdays, kids meals—the $4.99 ones—were 99 cents. Not just at night, but all day. So Thursdays became the day we ate at El Chico. My boy could get a quesadilla, rice and beans, and a beverage, all for a buck. Oh that this same child could eat so cheaply today; he’s sixteen, and has all of the appetite such an age entails for the male of the species.

This continued as Boy2 was added to the family, and because of our regularity, we got to know James, the assistant manager, and Tonya, the general manager. They celebrated birthdays with us, and the adoption and homecoming of Boy3 when that happened in 2011. The first place I wanted to go the day after we got back from Rwanda, after being on the African continent for nearly a month, was El Chico. The salsa content of my bloodstream had gotten dangerously low. Our youngest, who had had mushed avocado first in his home country, then again in Kenya while we awaited his U.S. visa, continued to eat it when we got slices at El Chico. He’s not so much into it today, at age eight, as then, but it remains, to me at least, a reminder that it was the first food I associate with Tex-Mex he ate both at his first home and his current one.

Brotherly love

The boys grew older, started school, but every Thursday night, if we were in town and didn’t have any other engagements, we were at El Chico, where I could feed all three boys for three dollars. “Miss Tonya” would spoil them on occasion, bringing, instead of the cherry Jell-O included with their kids meals, vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup, and not charging us extra. James would always stop by our table and check on us if he was working. We had a bevy of servers, male and female, who recognized our family on sight, and even if we weren’t in their section, would stop by to say hi. They would go out of their way to help new servers with us. It was a place of comfort for us. Tonya and James helped our Cub Scout pack sell popcorn at the car show event the restaurant sponsored. We talked about partnering on a school backpack drive for underprivileged kids, but our pack—and I take full responsibility for this—never got it off the ground.

I first met in person Paul and Greg, creators of Tweetbot and Drafts, respectively, two apps I use daily, at El Chico. Both were local to me, Paul moreso, living in the same town but on the south side while we were on the north. I invited them to lunch and to watch a WWDC keynote together, and they accepted. While not a developer myself, I was keenly interested in their take on such announcements, they having a different perspective of such than a regular user like me. This became at the least a yearly occurrence, at times one of them being unable to make it, and our being joined by other Mac nerds or developers in the area, including once or twice my friend Patrick, before he went to work for Apple, and Dave, before he went to work for Amazon.

Proof that @tapbot_paul (left) does leave his hermit hole. @agiletortoise checking live blog of iPad mini announcement.

I couldn’t tell you how many meals the hetero life mate, Brent, and I had there. When he was working at the nearby church we attended, we were easily meeting for lunch a couple of times a month. Or when he was getting a vehicle serviced at the Driver’s Edge franchise two doors down. A lot of our friendship was cemented at the tables of El Chico. Frustrations shared, advice offered (mostly by him), lots of laughter and talk of music, bands, concerts. Would the Rangers ever get a pitching staff to complement the offense? (Yes, for two glorious seasons, though they fell short of the ultimate prize.) The similarities and differences of our college experiences (LSU for me, Auburn for him, and four years before mine), mutual hatred for the Crimson Tide. Can the Stars get back to the Stanley Cup Finals? Prayers for our marriages, prayers for our kids, sharing of our children’s triumphs and failures, our spouses’ ups and downs. The two of us had great times there for the better part of a decade.

Bangin' spoons

And every Thursday night, if we were in town and not otherwise engaged, the family was there for kids’ night.

The decline, and the end

When the teenager asked the other day why the restaurant closed, one of the things I told him was, “The only constants are death and change.” Nowhere is this more true than the restaurant business.

I’ll be honest: when it comes to Tex-Mex food, El Chico’s hasn’t been the tops. It’s good, but not great. I like Blue Goose’s quesadillas and brisket tacos better. I like Cristina’s salsa and rice way, way, way better. I like El Fenix’s enchiladas better. But because of its proximity, compared to all of the others, it was where we landed first and most often. At some point, the Manzanillo was removed from the computer, too. Not to worry, I was assured. I could basically order the same dish, just order a two-enchilada plate and add a taco a la carte. It was slightly more expensive than the Manzanillo had been on its own, but it was worth it to keep my dining experience the same.

Artist at work.

About four years ago, the first signs of trouble began. The staff turnover was tremendous. They couldn’t keep anyone for long. There were a couple who stuck, like Felipe, who became one of our favorites, and was with the restaurant until the very end. (More on him in a moment, too.) There was the young lady, whose name I cannot remember, but wish I could, whose first language was Spanish, not English, though you wouldn’t know it to listen to her. She was delighted to find out Boy2 was learning Spanish in elementary school, and would work with him on pronunciation during her trips to our table. Finally, there was Sam, a friendly, affable young man who shared a first name with one of our kids. We became regulars of his, too, and our kids loved interacting with him.

Tonya told us James was in an auto accident, and the next week he was back at work, in a walking boot. The boys asked him how he was feeling every time they saw him after that. James told me stories about going out to eat with his friends, and how he more and more didn’t like going out to other restaurants. He felt he and Tonya had a great system working at this El Chico location, that that was one of the reasons it had survived for so long when other locations had closed. He could feel out how things were set up and working at other restaurants, and it wasn’t like what they had going. After those conversations with him, I could tell what he meant when we went other places.

Tonya had shoulder surgery, and our kids would ask about her and fuss over her when she came back with her arm in a sling. She asked our oldest about hockey, Boy2 about swimming, Boy3 about basketball and hip-hop. Kelly and I would ask her about her physical therapy, and getting back to “normal”. Tonya was very frustrated that she wasn’t personally operating at peak efficiency. She really cared about her restaurant, and the staff she’d been entrusted with.

It was Tonya who told us about the sale, and that she was losing her job. Corporate had decided to divest itself of underperforming locations, turning them into franchises rather than close them outright. The owner of the Cantina Laredo in nearly Lewisville bought our El Chico, and brought in a friend in the business to run it, ousting Tonya. James had seen the writing on the wall months earlier and left for greener pastures. That was two years ago.

Last year, when Patrick was in town from California, he was trying to eat out at all the places he missed from living here. One of those places was El Chico, and we met up at the Flower Mound location for a late dinner. We closed the place down, and the gracious staff allowed us some extra time to visit and catch up.

In the end, whatever had ailed our location for so long proved to be insurmountable. Sam left, and we learned from a close friend that he ended up at another restaurant, one that isn’t in danger of folding any time soon. It should allow him a steady income while he finishes school. I ran into Felipe at Cantina Laredo when I stopped in for a solo dinner after a meeting. I wasn’t put at one of his tables, but after learning we had a relationship, my server turned me over to him. He had been on his way to work the week before when the owner had called him, told him he was closing our El Chico location. But he didn’t want to lose him as a worker, and he should go to Cantina Laredo instead. Two days of training on the different menu and systems, and he was back on the floor full time.

The weekend we returned from Colorado, Paul asked me on Twitter: “Did El Chico shut down?” I told him yes, and that I was overwhelmed with grief. He replied that this had totally ruined his lunch plans. I may have used some hyperbole about being overwhelmed with grief, but the sense of loss was and remains real.

Moving on

We moved two and a half years ago, a mile and a half from our old house, and there’s a year-old Tex-Mex place within walking distance we really like. The boys haven’t eaten there nearly as much as Kelly and I have. They have a kids menu, but not a kids night, and with the teenager off kids menus anyway, we have to save our pennies when it comes to going out.

I have James and Tonya’s phone numbers, back from when we were planning stuff with our old Cub Scout pack. I’ve texted with them since they each left, but it’s been months since the last communication, and I’m not sure what any of us would say now about the closing that wasn’t already said between us.

It didn’t take long for the landlord to take down the El Chico sign. It was there the weekend we got back from Colorado, and before the week was out, it was gone. Only those of us who have lived here for a certain amount of time will remember what was there.

I cannot speak for anyone else in our town, but our family will always have fond memories of it. Not because it was the closest, or the food, but because of the people who worked there, and the relationships we had with them, even if was only for an hour a week. Some will say it was just a restaurant, but for a long time it wasn’t just that for us. It was an extension of our home.

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site

So long, comments

Occasionally, those follow-a-link-from-a-link-from-a-link blog trains land you in a thought pattern that ends up in a situation of “Why didn’t I think of this sooner?” And so I have arrived at disabling all comments on the blog. Jon Saddington’s post convinced me to take the plunge, and I even used the plug-in he suggested. Took less than three minutes. Easy.

Why do this? I don’t expect a lot of comments, for one. I don’t post often enough for conversations to happen, unlike my friend Michael’s blog. Second, I don’t need another time-wasting distraction that is approving or not approving comments, or going through the ones marked as spam looking for false positives. If there is a need for reader interaction to take place, they can hit me up on any of the major social platforms, or use the contact form linked at the top of the page. Finally, this blog should be about me writing what I want to write, not writing what I think people want me to write. Disabling comments helps that focus to happen.

And now I have one less thing to worry about.

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Retrophisch Review: Last Tango in Cyberspace

Last Tango in Cyberspace cover

I was afforded the opportunity via NetGalley to read an advanced reader copy of Steven Kotler’s Last Tango in Cyberspace. It’s a near-future science fiction novel in the vein of William Gibson’s later works, though there are nods to Neuromancer and his earlier works, as well as references to Blade Runner throughout. I found it fun and engaging, and definitely worth the read.

I have heard of Kotler’s earlier work, mostly non-fiction, such as The Rise of Superman, Stealing Fire, Tomorrowland, and others, but I have never read these before. That will likely change having finished Last Tango in Cyberspace.

Lion Zorn is a new kind of human, an empathy tracker. His skills allows him to feel the future, spotting trends before they happen. He makes a living giving companies a yes or no about the possible futures they are working on. Lion is hired by a multinational conglomerate named Arctic to help with the possible launch of a new kind of pharmaceutical, but he quickly finds himself investigating a possible murder while ducking the very latest in cutting-edge surveillance.

4/5 phins, recommended

Categories
tech

My Personal de-Google-fication Continues

Google Photos is no more for me. I deleted all the photos in that account, then cancelled my Google One subscription. I removed the app from my iOS devices.

I’m not totally killing my Google account and Gmail address, however, as much as I might want to. There is still stuff with Docs and Drive for podcasting collaboration I need to maintain an account for. I do have to think about others in that particular situation. But the Gmail app is coming off devices, too.

I believe this means the only Google apps I’m left with are Translate and Waze. I’m sure I could find a replacement for the former, but no other app gives me what I need for dealing with Dallas/Fort Worth traffic like Waze does. I’d like to be Google-free, but it’s just not in the cards as things currently stand. I’ll settle for now with this being the best I can do.