It turns out; some things are mysterious for a reason. Douglas Kavanaugh discovers this the hard way. As his story unfolds, he faces circumstances which lead him into the political arena. He meets the love of his life. Then ultimately, he is forced into exile. It is from there that he reflects on the journey of his lifetime.
As a young boy, he grew up with a sense that he in some way, shape, or form had been here before. He seemed to know things that perhaps he shouldn’t at his age. When his mother died, this life changing event put him directly on course to fulfill his dream. As a research scientist, Douglas incorporated traditional medicine and certain laws and principles associated with quantum physics. The result of which produced a vaccine that cured a particular disease in which an inordinate percentage of the world’s population was suffering from.
Unfortunately, the side effect of the cure caused each recipient to become aware of the exact time and date of their eventual death. There was nothing anyone could do to change how they would pass on from this life to the next. As you can imagine, this bit of privileged information turned the world upside down. War raged and unparalleled panic ensued. Husbands turned against wives, brothers against brothers, and so on. The consequences of this knowledge made Douglas a hated individual. But time does heal a multiplicity of wounds. Thus the day came, when not the quantity, but the quality of life was more important. And appropriately, to live to the fullest became a person’s only option.
Through Douglas’s endeavor, the question and the quest were unquestionably answered and heeded. Even now, years later, he is remembered and revered as the man who brought new meaning to the catchphrase that caught on. Which of course was: ‘It Will Set You Free.’
Targeted Age Group:: 18 and over
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I was inspired by the thought of reincarnation, politics and quantum physics all mixed up into one story. Then I sat and sat and sat and pondered it. then I wrote what I imagined.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I came up with the characters by just imagining and assigning them interesting qualities that reminded me of people that I’ve encountered along the way in the journey of my life.
Book Sample
ONE
Exiled
Though the night before was wrought with trepidation and treachery. The fact that my fall from grace fell on Friday the 13th; this only seemed to justify what was unjustly seen as justice. Superstition and civil war didn’t necessarily get along. At least, that’s what I thought. Timing being everything, they did, however, collaborate in equal measure, to undo what I had done in less than a lifetime. I was not oblivious to the impending conditions that accompanied the oblivion I’d have to oblige. Most certainly, some in my position would be obstinate when faced with obstacles standing in the way of them and the life they’d grown accustomed to. I on the other hand, felt obligated to my humility. As a result, my objective was simply to observe an opportunity to obsess over what I had set my heart on.
So on the morning of February 14th, a day of love and courtship, imagine me, a man in my forties with silver streaks and eyes as green as envy. I lifted my spirits and my body out of bed then ambled over to an open window. I gazed out, and from my vantage point, I saw a sunrise that had nothing to compare it to. I laughed slightly and softly made mention.
“Well, nothing except the radiance from the woman who lights up my world.”
Right then and there, I retraced my footsteps to where
my dream girl chased her dreams. Caught up in the moment, I knelt beside our bed and gently stroked the dark strands of her hair. I didn’t want to disturb her serenity. Then again, I couldn’t help myself. I put my face behind her ear and inhaled her scent. She tossed and moaned, as if there was something pleasurable going on in her subconscious. I mumbled a curious,
“Umm…” then I carefully pulled away. Of course, the passionate parts of me had already hardened. Still, I played it straight. I hung in there and waited. When it seemed she had dozed off and doubled back to dreamland, Feeling a little guilty, I muttered to myself.
“I should just leave her alone and let her rest.”
I knew me better than that. Another part of me whispered.
“When have I ever?”
I resumed my ‘Before Play.’ And as the tips of my fingers traced the contours of her skin, the warmth of my touch and whatever else it was that aroused her, roused her, and she awakened.
“Good morning,” she said as she smiled at me.
“Come again,” I told her with a teasing tone.
I leaned over and kissed her neck. She sighed and I said slyly.
“Now it is. It’s one hell of a morning, baby.”
“Why is that?” she asked with a probing eye.
“It’s because you’re in it.”
“If I wasn’t, would it still be?”
“I don’t know,” I told her with a straight face. “You got me on that one.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? She uttered distressfully. “Why don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t exist without you, so none of this would matter.”
She found that pleasing to hear.
“Good answer,” she said. “My darling, you are learning.”
I nodded and said simply.
“I figured you’d think so.”
I held her hand, helped her to her feet and pulled her close to me. I caressed her with the sum of a man in love’s ambition.
“Douglas,” she whispered in my ear, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I couldn’t resist and neither could she. We kissed ourselves into forever. And just as I began to rub her thighs and she grabbed hold of me, in that all too familiar way, our passions were swiftly halted, by booming sounds that echoed throughout the corridors. They stopped and all at once our bedroom doors swung open. Standing in the entrance, in their night-night clothes were the miniature versions of my wife and me, mixed and mingled. It was our little curly haired boys, Veritas and Valor, ages six and five, along with their baby sister, the fair-haired Venus, only three. They were surrounded by seven gun toting soldiers in full regalia. Our young ones were frightened. They ran straightaway into our parental embrace then stood beside my wife and me defiantly. In that instant, as if timed to meet perfection, into the fray marched Ulysses Verdict. Dressed in his highly decorated white military uniform, the tall and handsome thirty-something General with a smidgeon of mousse smeared in his crew cut, was much more seasoned and ruthless than his youth would lead one to believe. He surveyed the room then the arrogant steely eyed Brit focused his sights on me.
“The day of reckoning has arrived, Mr. President. The will of the people has spoken.”
“I’ve only heard the sound of their fear and silence, ushered in by manipulation and artillery.”
“That would be the process.”
“No General, it’s forcing your will on what you can’t reckon with.”
“I reckon so. But no matter, it’s over. I win you lose. No reconciliation.”
“And my staff…”
“Your staff is useless. They were disposed of. And let me save you the trouble of asking, a similar fate was thrust upon the heads of each Region. One-by-one beautifully executed.”
“Why?” I yelled as I consoled my loved ones.
“You can’t be that naïve, but let’s just assume you are. In the throes of war, certain modifications come with the territory. Put yourself in my position.”
“I’m not a dictator.”
“That would explain your current predicament. Think about it. Isn’t it customary, when one overthrows a Government that the previous leader’s associates are killed immediately and replaced by someone the incoming Regime favors? Or shall I say controls? I’m sure, somewhere beneath your empathetic exterior, you do understand, this is how it is done, when you do it right the first time.”
The General’s revelations were more than my ears were prepared to accept. I held steadfastly to my wife and children and braced myself for what was yet to come. And what was to come came quickly.
Relishing complete victory, Verdict’s first official act was to not let me go peacefully into the night. Surrounded by members of the Press, and with The
White House as his backdrop, the General made his intentions known.
“On this the day we acknowledge Saint Valentine, our former sainted President, Douglas Kavanaugh and his family shall be cast into exile. There they will live their wretched lives, until death, or the day I see fit to allow them re-entry into Free World Society, whichever comes first. This is my Verdict.”
My wife, children and I were given forty-five minutes to pack our belongings. Each of us managed to grab the things we cared most about outside of ourselves. Then unceremoniously, we were marched onto a cargo plane by a dozen armed and rugged soldiers. In our most harrowing hour, the five of us were flown to a prison just off the coast of Cuba, near Guantanamo Bay.
After a not-so-comfy landing at Mariana Grajales Airport, the next mode of transportation was a military convoy. On that cloudy afternoon, our rickety midsized truck and the five escorting Humvees pulled into a facility known as ‘La Casa Del Fuego,’ or ‘the Fire House.’ We were greeted by The Warden, Leo De La Ventura; a Cuban of African descent. At the time, he was thirty-four years old.
He had slicked-back black hair, cocoa skin, wiry sideburns, a mustache and a scruffy unkempt beard.
Draped in his light brown, heavily starched prison garb, he was a twig like figure around five foot two,
weighing in at one hundred and eighteen pounds soaking wet. I didn’t let his size fool me. Leo was a badass for sure. Puffing on a fat Cuban cigar, he blew a ring of smoke in the air. With his thick accent, he
greeted us warmly.
“Que paso la familia de Kavanaugh, welcome to mi casa. Ju want a cigar? I got many. I share, por favor,
please do me the pleasure, senor.”
I hesitated then replied cordially.
“Yes… of course.”
Leo reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small handgun. Embarrassed, he turned toward my wife and children.
“Lo siento mucho,” he said sincerely, “So sorry to bring this weapon out into jour innocent view.”
He paused, looked at me and requested.
“Would ju hold this for me please?”
This is when he actually gave me his gun to hold. While once again, he reached into his coat pocket to find the perfect cigar.
“Si, this is the one!” he shouted with satisfaction.
“Ah Senor Kavanaugh, we exchange now.”
I gave him his gun back and he handed me a huge Cuban cigar, shaped like a torpedo. He also offered me a vintage lighter. It had a picture of Che Guevara on one side and Fidel Castro on the other.
“Thank you,” I said graciously. “This is very nice of you.”
Suddenly, his mood darkened.
“No problem,” he replied sharply. “Now we get down to business. Aqui, there is one rule solamente, only one. That one rule is if ju don’t start no shit, there will be no shit to start with for me to finish and life here will be todo esta bien. Si, si, Ju understand?”
We stood speechless as Leo cast an in depth and deliberate gaze upon me and each member of my family. Altogether, the five of us responded with two nods in the affirmative. After which Leo turned to me and in a much brighter disposition he said.
“I hope ju don’t mind, Senor Kavanaugh, but I would like to escort jour lovely esposa.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly.
He in a jovial fashion replied.
“Gracias, El Jefe.”
Leo placed my wife’s right arm around his. As a gentleman would, he escorted her, my children and me into the main house, where we earnestly, embarked upon our experience in exile.
Around the clock, there were twelve armed guards posted inside and out, protecting the perimeter. These men and women took their orders seriously. They were no nonsense types. Though they’d been loyal to me when I was President, I was no longer Commander and Chief. Therefore, I was expected to toe the line and be a model ‘prisoner,’ and/or ‘houseguest’ of La Casa Del Fuego. Our confines came with a cook, a housekeeper and a tutor for the children. It was all quite civilized. But no matter how civil it seemed to be, we could never forget, this sprawling five bedroom two story Tudor house, equipped with all the comforts of home, was still a prison compound, built to accommodate high profile inmates, such as the disgraced and newly deposed Ruler of The Free World and his family. We made the best of what detention had to offer.
In a short time, like anything else that becomes familiar, we learned to live with it with blinders on. But even with them on, how could one not see the effect it has on one’s children? Freedom cannot be
overstated, overrated, or overestimated. My life
became a life filled with remembrances. Though
consumed by the task of pretending not to notice the
decline in my positive perspective, to maintain sanity,
I looked back and reflected. Like my wife, I could see
mentally how far I had come. I possessed a tangible
past to compare my present to. The inability to purge it made matters worse, for I had done great things. I was once considered a giant among men. To be reduced to a footnote, which could easily be swept away, like rubble and ruins a matter of time forgets, this became unbearable and yet the cross I had to bear. I too had been hailed a savior of the world, but not one like the one who died and rose the third day. I could not be resurrected nor raptured up. Only ruptured and let down by those who followed me, then betrayed me for what they thought was a cloudlike silver lining. Thus ends the parallel my humanity pointed out.
I wondered who should be held responsible for my fall from grace. Should it be General Verdict? Or was the responsibility mine and mine alone? I labored intensely, in torment, exiled even from my family who begged to differ. To them, I was the perfect husband and father. But in my mind, where it counted twice as much, I could no longer provide them with the lifestyle they deserved. Therefore, I was a shadow of the man I used to be. I kicked off my shoes and rid my humanity of the garments I wore. I sat alone on the dirty floor of a cold and dreary empty room.
I grabbed hold to myself, curled me up into a ball and deflated all illusions. I infused my paranoia with the angst of utter disappointment. From there, I set my thoughts adrift, as a castaway, cast upon a charted course, to re-live the shattered essence of my life.
TWO
Coming of Age
I sat up in my crawl space. When I did, I noticed Leo squatting on the concrete in front of me.
“El Jefe,” he said with concern. “I no want to disturb jour intimate business. I just wonder why ju lay here. Is this where ju escape to get away from what ju were brought here to endure?”
“You can say that.”
“Ah… jour coping mechanism, I see. Does jour familia know ju are here?
“No. I sneak off to have a moment alone.”
“Don’t worry, I no tell. I just want to make sure ju no kill yourself, or do something stupid.”
“If I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Of course, I’ll be the first to know. I’ll be the one to find jour corpse. Ju no die on my watch.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“What a man plans to do and what he does are two different things.”
“True.”
“But since I am here, I’m interested. Tell me, what ju think about when ju rest your head in the dirt.”
“I don’t know, really, a multiplicity of things.”
“Esta bien, jour life that I know of is fascinating. But there are many facets I don’t know. So ju tell me, I listen.
“I don’t wanna impose.”
“Ju got that wrong. Ju no impose. Ju are deposed. So I pose my question again.”
“You don’t have to. I got it.”
“Good. I light a cigar. I give ju one when ju finish.”
“I’d like that.”
“Es Cuban.”
“Perfect.”
“I know.”
Well Leo, when I was eighteen, I enrolled at Cal State University, Long Beach. I declared a major in Microbiology with Emphasis in Clinical Laboratory Science. At that time, I was a skinny acne laden geek with disheveled long, dark and wavy hair. My clothes were semi-stylish, and they fit me. I bobbed my head up and down to rap music, but I couldn’t really relate to it on a deeper level. I was a white boy, wanting to be cool. Then I met the Petrova Pachinko. She was a Russian exchange student, triple majoring in Philosophy, Science and Religious Studies. This blue eyed brunette with a heart of gold had a grasp on the unexplained. Once she held my attention, it was impossible to relinquish the mindset her influence captured. Between classes and lectures, she and I hung out in the University Library and at the Spidell Technology Center. We discussed things I’d never consciously considered. Petrova called me ‘Moy droog,’ which in Russian means, ‘My Friend.’ Her accent was like waves dancing above bottomless water, in route to kiss the shore. Wherever we were, we sat side-by-side, near the furthest window, in the corner of the room. One day, from that exact vicinity, she looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes and said.
“Spirituality is an ever evolving concept.”
I leaned in closer to her pierced ears and replied.
“You’re suggesting it’s evolutionary, aren’t you?”
She turned her face toward mine, as if to kiss it and then not. Instead, she whispered.
“Da, I am suggesting that it is evolutionary, and as mankind moves toward an age of higher and deeper reflection, it will become self-evident.”
That’s where she lost me. I began twirling split ends around my finger while I deferred to my own intrinsic source. Going with the flow, it was as if I inadvertently tapped into an endless oil reserve. The wildcatter in me dug beyond my expectations.
“Nyet,” I yelled.
This annoyed a few students adjacent to where we were. I didn’t care. I banged on the table as I emphasized my point. “No way, the concept doesn’t evolve. Our perceptions evolve. Accessible truth remains constant.”
Petrova playfully punched me on the shoulder.
“You have arrived moy droog,” she said excitedly.
She hugged me in a cordial way and hastily let go, as if she didn’t wanna go there. I wanted her to hug me again. Or at least, just wrap one arm around me. Nonetheless, she contentedly continued.
“The greater purpose of this life will be articulated in the constraints of simplicity, through a series of interactions and conversations.”
Like verbal diarrhea, without missing a beat, these meticulous words spewed out of me.
“I agree, but it isn’t as complexly simple as Einstein’s E equals M.C. Squared. Nor is it as simply complex as his Theory of Relativity, as it relates to the symbiotic metaphysical omniscience engineered by The Creator of All Things.”
With my mouth wide open, I paused and gawked at
Petrova while she looked intently into my outlook.
Confused, I scratched my head and asked.
“Where is this coming from?”
“From inside you,” she said with a smile that seemed to warm my soul. “You are now open to receive.”
My mind was blown. This was new to me. I knew things I didn’t know I knew. Petrova was enraptured by my sudden grasp on the intuitive.
“What about Edgar Cayce?” she asked.
“The psychic, yes,” I answered. “He tapped into the divine and while in a form of trance, he performed readings through which he gave medical advice to over fourteen thousand people, who upon heeding his recommendations were cured of their ailments.”
Petrova applauded and declared.
“Moy Droog, you will do much more.”
Rendered red faced by the compliment, I said simply.
“Thank you, from your lips to God’s ears.”
She winked and I damn near fainted. From there, the two of us hustled off to class.
Petrova and I enjoyed several in-depth interactions. Each was more insightful than the last. Although I was enamored by her beauty and her brain, she built an invisible wall around her heart. Having that part of her impenetrable, I didn’t mind so much. I was happy a girl like her gave me a slice of precious time. Just that alone was enough to make my day.
Sadly, by the time spring break rolled around. Petrova was on a plane headed back to State
University in Moscow. In her absence, she left an
indelible imprint on how I’d perceive myself from
that day forward.
In my junior year, I dramatically came into my own. The extraordinary allowed me to travel further inside myself. Consequently, Quantum Mechanics was as familiar as Early American History. I was as switched on as the lights in Time Square. Other than me, no one noticed it more than my Microbiology instructor, the fearless and feisty Professor Jane Conrad. This sixty year old woman with a nervous twitch didn’t miss a thing. She actually didn’t need a microscope. She could see each and every minuscule particle with her own two eyes. In fact, she could stare at my face and see right through me, straight into the fabric of my soul.
Professor Conrad was scheduled to give a lecture on ‘How the Comparative Study of Microorganisms is More Than Meets the Eye.’ The topic was intriguing, so I made sure I was in attendance. Midway through while she was hypothesizing, she looked up from the podium and caught sight of me in the second row. She immediately perked up and sustained her focal point. I was more than a little uncomfortable. There were one hundred and forty nine other people in the audience, and all they could see was this prominent professor, speaking as if the validation of her entire life’s work hinged on my acceptance.
When she was winding down, she closed her notebook and took a sip from the water bottle that had been sitting there the whole time untapped. She blushed afterwards then proceeded to say.
“You’ll have to excuse me, but there’s a person among us that I’d like to acknowledge. I’ll probably come across like a young school girl, metaphorically speaking. In all my years of engaging in the pursuit of academic excellence and the perpetuation of the principles and disciplines associated with higher learning, never have I been so fundamentally challenged by a student than I have been this semester by Douglas Kavanaugh. Douglas, stand up and take a bow.”
Coming from Professor Conrad, this was huge. She had gained the reputation of being a real ball buster. Behind her back, students and faculty referred to her as ‘The Bitch of Steel.’ With this in mind, I hesitated. Then bashfully, I stood up and slowly pivoted toward the audience. After I had done so, I did exactly as she asked, I bowed. Out of respect for the Professor, the audience clapped politely. A few seconds later, I sat my ass back down. When news of my moment of glory spread, I became both a mighty lion and a dancing monkey. The subject of academic curiosity, I figured the novelty would pass, about as fast as a fart in the wind. When it carried over throughout the year, I learned firsthand, exactly what it feels like to live life under a microscope. Frankly, it stunk like hell.
The thing that provided sweet relief and ingratiated me with my fellow students was ‘The Frog Episodes.’ This was when we had to dissect them. I would bring in between 12 to 15, obviously alive. I’d choose one. Then I’d use chloroform to anesthetize it. While it lay under a deep sleep, I’d remove its kidney, heart and liver. I’d show them to everyone, so they could verify they were severed as I had claimed.
“They’re gone, right?” I exclaimed like a host at a carnival show. “What we have here is a little mother croaker, missing a few vital organs. Are you with me?”
“Yeah!” the class would yell.
Then while the frog continued to lay there sleeping, I’d surgically re-attach the organs. When the anesthesia wore off, if it did not awaken, we’d confirm it croaked and I’d have to kiss the frog. But if it awakened and lived to ‘rib-bit’ another day, I would be the handsome prince and all the girls would have to kiss me. Over the course of three semesters, I performed this procedure seventeen times and seventeen frogs happily hopped around when I was done. The other students combined performed it one hundred and twenty seven times. One hundred and twenty seven frogs croaked in their sleep and hopped away in spirit to Mr. Toad’s Heavenly Lily Pad, up there in the swampy sky. Most students and teachers alike thought I cheated. That it was some sleight of hand or something faster than the eye and mere reasoning could explain. The overall consensus was, ‘If I could perform this trick, or surgery, or whatever I called it, why not go for the gold and become a surgeon?’
“Do you really want me to answer that?” I replied smugly, whenever someone brought it up. With my lipstick laden co-eds lined up in a row, my other kissy faced response was simply.
“The greater challenge lies in rendering surgery obsolete.”
This leads me to the summer before my senior year. I was interning in the University’s science lab, to earn extra credit and offset the ever increasing cost of my education. Conceptually, this was a grand idea. Except for one small detail, I was working for a tyrant. His name was Dilbert Mitchell. Like most tyrannical figures, he had a little man’s complex. At thirty-one, he was a Napoleonic sized five footer and a handsome guy. But twice divorced and scarred for life. Compare that to my six foot one, skinny, single and unblemished frame. To him, my life was just beginning and his was already over. And yes, I may have been a bit too cocky. With a high pitched squeal, Dilbert tossed me a broom and demanded.
“Clean the rat cages you asshole. Then sweep the floor after that butt wad!”
“Why do you always have to go there?”
“Because I fucking can, and you know, you can quit anytime you want to.”
“You know I can’t do that! I need this job!”
“You didn’t seem to need it when you insulted me under your breath! I heard you mumbling something to the effect that you wished I would curl up in a ball and die! Well, I ain’t dying. But I’m gonna damn sure make you wish you were dead. Now clean the mouse shit, sweep the dog shit and cut the dumb shit!”
Maybe I was a smartass and a little too self-assured. In any event, cleaning animal poop humbled me. Well, for a minute or two anyway. When the coast was clear, I found myself murmuring under my breath.
“Dilbert’s a dickhead and one of these day’s he’s gonna get his.”
Suddenly the phone rang. The dickhead answered it.
“It’s for you, butt face!” he screeched. “And don’t yap too long. This is a business, not a damn social club.”
“Hey dad, what’s up?”
I listened a few seconds then I panicked.
“Mom… What about mom?”
Sensing something was terribly wrong, Dilbert looked at me.
“Go!” he yelled. “Get outta here!”
I took a bus, straight to my parent’s house, nervously biting my nails all the way.
When I arrived, mom and dad were in their bedroom. She was lying down and her gray haired ‘Southern comfort’ was sitting in a chair beside her. With multiple bags under their eyes, they carried more burdens than I could imagine. They looked as if they had aged beyond this lifetime. Especially mom, the woman my dad once referred to as ‘The Blonde Bombshell.’ She was haggard and frail.
“I’m glad you made it son,” dad said with deep concern. “I’m a let you sit a spell with your mama.”
He got up slowly and eased out the door. Then he thoughtfully shut it behind him.
“Good to see you Dougie,” mom said wearily. “I’m not feeling so perky today.”
“What can I do for you?” I asked while fighting back tears.
“Nothing baby, just let me hold your hand.”
She held it and what I learned to my overwhelming dismay, for a year and a half, my hero, champion and
the woman I compared all others to, she’d been
suffering from stage IV ovarian cancer. Neither she
nor my father informed me. I’d been living on
campus just fifteen minutes away. But I was hardly
ever in their neck of the woods. So the pact they made between themselves was not to worry me. The two of them agonized over the whole ordeal, alone. They assumed I wasn’t strong enough to handle her prognosis, juggle a job and maintain a 4.0 GPA.
During the course of her illness, radiation treatment, chemotherapy and holistic medicine were offered to my mother, but she refused. It’s ironic because she spent the majority of her adult life working for doctors. She had an almost religious belief in the power of a prescription pad. Facing mortality led her to a crossroads, and from that place, she chose prayer instead of pharmaceuticals. She told my dad, “If God wants me to be healed, God will heal me. If not, I’ll just let nature take its course and the angels take my soul.”
As she laid there withering away, she gave me a look only a mother can give. Straining to speak, she whispered.
“I love you son.”
“I love you too mom.”
She shushed me and squeezed my hand a little tighter. Barely audible, she mouthed each syllable one-by-one.
“There is no gift I received in this life better than the one I got when you were born.”
Losing strength in her grip and almost out of breath, she wheezed a bit as she continued.
“I enjoyed being your mother more than anything else I would have, could have, or should have been. What I was, it was all I ever wanted to be, a source of hope, strength and inspiration for you.”
Those were her final words.
My mother died. I don’t want to say she passed away. Nor do I want to make light of it by saying she transformed and moved on. She died. It hurts too much to put it any other way. To color it with a New Age catchphrase does nothing to soften the burden of the loss I had to bear. My daddy rushed in to comfort me and I wept like a baby in his arms. In that distressing hour, I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t bring her back, but I could save somebody else. So I decided I would find a cure for cancer.
About the Author:
About The Author
As an author, philosopher and spiritualist, Tony’s books include; Spiritchilism By Definition” “Spiritchili, Recipes For Life,” “A Few Poems From Words I Found In Divorced,” and “This Has Everything To Do With My Life.” He has also co-written a book with Karyn White called “Carpe Diem, Thoughts & Affirmations to Seize the Day.”
As a songwriter, his songs have been recorded on over 200 albums, selling in excess of 60 million copies worldwide. These songs have earned him 60 gold and multi-platinum awards, as well as several ASCAP Awards. Artists that have recorded his songs include; Bobby Brown, Robert Palmer, Jeffrey Osborne’s, Karyn White, Earth, Wind & Fire, Al Jarreau, Regina Belle, Go West, SOS Band, George Duke, Evelyn Champagne King, Peabo Bryson, Kool & The Gang, The Temptations, Isley Brothers and many others.
Tony has authored 34 books based on the Warner Bros. Looney Tunes characters. He’s written and produced audio projects featuring Pinky & The Brain, The Animaniacs, Bugs, Taz, Sylvester & Tweety, etc… He is currently writing and developing several television series.
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