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Orient Beach, the setting for Happy Bay did not make the cut. Odd.
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Book Excerpt Cole Bay Band

From a personal standpoint, Lori was disappointed in the lack of camaraderie offstage with Jimmy’s musical group. Although their love for performing together was obvious and infectious to the audience, the quintet divided into factions during the day. Jimmy partnered with Junior nearly every day in his song writing sessions and Cici was spending most of her time at her home rather than the villa. This left Sam, who Lori was welcome to tag along with on day trips around the island. She was relieved Sam had gotten over her failed advances towards her.

Sam had little problem taking it in stride, as she made new friends every day on Orient beach. She would walk the length, clad only in a G-string or tiny wrap, armed with postcard-sized promotional band pictures to hand out to tourists. This was an excellent tactic, as it brought customers to their performances in droves. Sam’s propensity towards hooking up with single guys and couples during the day left Lori frequently stranded, though, so she eventually limited her time with Sam to the car ride there and back.

Although she was lonely, Lori found comfort via a ferry boat that carried her to Pinel Island. The conversations she would have with tourists on the short trip were enough pedestrian interaction for her. She would hike around the tiny landmass, exploring the nearly deserted beaches in favor of the largest one at the ferry’s dock. In was in these places that she could enjoy body freedom without recognition or interruption, contemplating her future and reflecting on her past. She found solace in the peaceful rhythm of the surf and the tranquil sky above. She was a regular for lunch at one of the two restaurants on the main beach. The wait staff all knew her by name, but was not aware of her growing island fame. Lori was grateful for the anonymity; she was glad she had proven Jimmy wrong, but attributed her personal success to being just another cog in the wheel that was the Cole Bay Band. Plus there was always the fact she was really only a big fish in a small pond.

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Book excerpt from Cole Bay Band

“Give him your shoes,” Jimmy said.

“Are they going to be here when I get back?” she asked warily.

Both of the men laughed. Lori reluctantly handed over her hundred and fifty dollar designer running shoes and looked up to see Jimmy already trotting towards the shoreline. She set off after him, but he was a good ten yards ahead of her by the time she got there.

The beach arced in a broad crescent. It looked to be at least a mile in length, at least as far as she could see. There appeared to be beach umbrellas far off in the distance past a slightly imposing rock jetty. She hoped that would be the extent of their run; the sand was not particularly soft, but it did give way under her feet as she trod along, trying to lessen the distance between them.

She was sweating profusely by the time she reached the jetty and understood the shoe removal request/order when she watched Jimmy run into the water to get around it. She glanced at the small Plage Naturiste sign as she ran by it. Lori knew what plage meant; it was obviously a beach. But a natural beach? Aren’t they all natural?

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Class-ism and a tolerance for murder

Let me begin by saying I believe we live in possibly the most hypocritical society on the planet.

This country was founded on the principal that all men are created equal; that we would gladly take in those who felt persecuted and betrayed by the limitations imposed on them by uncaring and self-serving bureaucracies.

As a government, we have failed to meet that promise, but as a society we have failed on a much deeper level. Democratic policies are not taking us down. Republican policies are not taking us down.

Class-ism, isolationism, and an increasing tolerance for murder is taking us down.

We spar over who deserves to live here while Wall Street pillages our investments.

We battle on abortion while the government hands even more of our money to the thieves in the name of keeping the ship afloat.

We fret and worry if we will make enough to survive, while others have simply given up.

There are people out there that want to take as many of us as possible into the afterlife. To them,  they are bestowing the gift of eternal freedom from this hell they believe we all experience on some level.

The rich count their coins as we load our bullets. The former know they will never be touched. The latter seek to protect themselves from their own neighbors.

And when wars become boring, we gather round the television to gape in astonishment at the unspeakable horrors perpetrated on the innocent by individuals who never have, nor ever will hold any value to human life.

Class-ism at its very core. Barren of soul, driven to madness by media, and completely unrelatable to other human beings, they huddle in basements and rent their U-Hauls in a twisted attempt to say to the world: “I know I am nothing. This is what I think of the rest of you.”

I know a self-made millionaire who used to say: “I’m a no better than you. You a no better than me”.

How many of us think on that level anymore?

There are far too many of us thumbing their noses at the drivers of 15 year-old cars, convenience store employees, and street musicians. Just surviving isn't good enough for us anymore. We are on a much higher plane of existence than this subspecies.

You people may serve us, but do not for a minute think we are equals in any way.

Think of the Roman gladiators sacrificing themselves in a celebration of gore in order to entertain the great unwashed while the wealthy watched with smug satisfaction, knowing the audience was, at least temporarily, diverted from the wretchedness of their existence.

Today, we have taken it a step further. We gather around the television to watch the latest slaughter of the innocent. We shake our heads in disbelief that men could stoop to this level of inhumanity. The network gets ratings, the sponsors sell more product, the owners invest in lobbies and campaigns, and the politicians puff out their chests and posture for the best sound byte to serve their master’s cause.

Our tolerance for murder is becoming far too great. As predictable as an approaching summer storm.

We spend too much time wondering how people can become this way and not enough time wondering if we are contributing to the problem.

And the problem is; we are looking straight into the eyes of unspeakable evil. And we feel powerless to stop it.

To find the true source of this evil is the first step towards eliminating it.

Look inward first. Did you flip off a driver on the road today? Did you admonish a bag boy for smashing your bread? Did you consider the wearily quiet and oft-ignored coworker might just be at the end of their rope? Did you brush against someone on the street today, and not bother to say "excuse me" because their clothes were from a resale shop?

For any of these people could be the one that wakes up tomorrow and decides they have had enough.

And God help you if you are in their path tomorrow morning.

Chapter One

Jimmy turned from his eighty-eight key music synthesizer and squinted through the sunlight pouring from the screen door of his Echo Park apartment. He had chosen this neighborhood in haste, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. The area was renowned for its history of creative residents, and the current inhabitants took great pride in maintaining a positive image for Los Angeles as well as the rest of civilization. Of course, criminality was a factor, as it is in any urban area, but Jimmy felt relatively safe most times. He hoped the spirits of Steve McQueen, Art Pepper, and Frank Zappa would guide him in this new environment and spur him on to success.

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