I was gifted a Masterclass lesson on writing for my birthday. It’s being taught by Neil Gaiman, who I absolutely love as a writer. No, I don’t get to sit in a class with him. I don’t think I could handle that. It would be like taking bass lessons from Geddy Lee.

One of the asssignments was to write a new version of an old fairy tale. This is my attempt at it. Feel free to tell me what you think.

Once upon a time, or seven days ago, there lived a man named Jerry Flynn. As these stories usually go, he was walking in the woods. It was something Jerry had no business doing, but he was doing it anyway. Earlier that day, Jerry’s mother had instructed him to take some chemicals to his grandfather. Now, Jerry hated his grandfather. Jerry had been born with bright red hair, and his grandfather always called him “Red.” Jerry always hated being reminded of his hair color, mainly because it was the only thing his father had left him, other than a rather average cock and a propensity to burn if he stood in the sun too long.

But Red’s grandfather lived in a trailer out in the woods, cooking meth, so off Jerry the Red went to his grandfather’s place. He hoped the old fart wasn’t smoking weed, since it made his allergies go off. But Grandpa had to make a living, so he cooked meth.

As he walked through the woods, he noticed a woman following him through the woods. She had long black hair, bushy eyebrows, on top of a very muscular body. Jerry stopped walking, and the man strode up to him.

As he drew closer, Jerry swore the woman had the longest hair he’d ever seen. And set below that hair was the biggest set of blue eyes he’d ever seen. It made Jerry feel funny down in his tummy. The woman smiled at Jerry, and Jerry turned as red as his hair.

“What are you doing out here?” Jerry asked.

“My name is Wolf.” The woman pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Jerry’s head. “Your grandpa is stealing business from me. I need that to stop.”

Jerry no longer felt funny in his tummy, he felt nauseous. He racked his brain, panic setting in. “You can’t do that. These chemicals will blow us sky high.”

Wolf holstered her weapon. “I’d hate to shoot you anyway. Cute guys who help their folks are not usual in this business.” She threw a rubber band wrapped envelope at Jerry’s feet. “Give that to your grandfather. Tell him that’s his to keep if he stops.”

Jerry bent down to get the envelope. He opened it, seeing it was filled with rolls of rubber band wrapped bills. It was more money than they’d seen in the last year. As he counted, he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck, and his world went black.

Wolf pulled the body off to one side, leaving the envelope. Half the money was counterfeit anyway. She searched Jerry, finding the gate code to the cook house. She memorized it, then put it back where she’d founded. She ran over to a nearby tree, where she’d stashed her dirt bike under a camo net. She kicked the lever once and rode off to the cook house.

The sun was setting as she rolled her bike up to the gate of Grandpa’s house. Wolf crept up to the house, careful not to trip any wires or shake anything. Meth had a habit of being unstable, and its dealers even more so. She pushed open the door to the trailer. An old man was pacing back in forth, clad only in dirty boxers an taking hits off some sort of inhaler.

“Where is that boy? Where is he?” Grandpa was behind on a shipment to the Pagans, and he prided himself on delivering on time. And the Pagans were very violent in their complaints about customer service.

He turned towards Wolf, frowning. “Who the fuck are you, cunt?” It was the last word that sealed his fate. Wolf took one step forward, her movements practiced and fluid. She pulled out her buck knife in one hand and held the old man’s wattle in the other. She sliced once, blood spraying her and the old man. To her surprise, the old man kicked her right between the legs. It wasn’t as painful for women, but the pain, combined with a now blood slick linoleum floor, caused her to fall to the side. Grandpa ran past her and out the door. Wolf scrambled to her feet, annoyed this was not going according to plan.

She jumped out of the trailer, scanning the are for the old man. It didn’t take long. He’d made it four steps before bleeding out. Wolf smelled his death, a mix of blood and shit. Now she needed to clean up the place before anyone got here. Thankfully, she’d bought a hazmat suit, so she could not get anything on her outfit. She’d clean up, torch the place, and everyone would assume Jerry had gotten stupid and greedy. Especially when she told all of Grandpa’s dealers that Jerry had approached her about joining forces.

Wolf had just about sprayed down the blood from Grandpa when she heard steps coming from the forest. She cursed that the boy had gotten free before she could get clear.  Bolting inside the trailer, she looked around frantically for a weapon to kill Jerry with. She spied a hazmat suit, and an idea sprang to mind.

Jerry walked into his grandfather’s yard, hurting and confused.  Grandpa was dressed in Jerry’s hazmat suit. Jerry used it for dumping waste chemicals into the barrels buried in the neighbor’s back forty.

“Hey Grandpa, what’s going on?” Jerry asked.

Wolf said “My old ass dumped some chemicals out here.: He said.

“But why the hazmat suit? What did you dump?”

“I had some old benzene that was no longer useful.” Wolf replied,

“Is that why you have my boots on?” Jerry asked.

Wolf cursed under her breath. “Yes, mine were dirty.”

“And why do you have the hose when we have the kitty litter?” Jerry asked, inching toward the trailer.

“The better to make it clean, Jerry.” Wolf replied.

“And how much did you spill, Grandpa? You’re spraying a lot of water.”

“I figured I’d water the grass while I was at it” Wolf replied. She was sweating gallons inside this suit. She needed to get her knife out of her pocket, so she could kill this kid and jet.

She reached her left hand inside of the suit, inching it slowly toward the knife. She could feel it under her rubber covered fingers. Just a little more…

Her world exploded. Something had hit her head, knocking the hood askew. She staggered around blindly for a few seconds, then her knees went out from under her as a metal bar hit her knees from behind

Jerry reached down and pulled the hood off “Grandpa”. Wolf laid there dazed and confused. Jerry had hit her with the softball bat he kept out in the yard. Grandpa never mowed his grass or gave a shit about lawn care.

“How did you know? Wolf asked in a slurred voice.

“You called me Jerry. Grandpa never called me that. You kill him?”

“She tried.” The voice was raspy and weak, but there stood Grandpa.

Wolf’s eyes widened in confusion: I killed you.”

Grandpa laughed. “Shit. You think you’re the first motherfucker to try and slit my throat? All I had to do was lean away from the blade. You missed, so to make it look real, I shit my pants on the way down. “He looked at Jerry “Guess who’s got laundry tonight.”

Jerry threw down the bat. “Fuck that shit. I’m going to go work as a truck stop cashier. Its safer than this. “Jerry stalked off, wondering what he was going to tell his folks.

Grandpa staggered after him, kicking Wolf in the head as he did. “Wait, Red, I can do better.”

He never got the chance. Flood lights lit up the trailer and field bright as daylight. A dozen four wheelers drove into the compound, right through and over the fence. Someone with a bullhorn shouted over the cacophony:

“DEA! NOBODY MOVE!”

Later that night, Jerry sat in a speeding car, on his way to a Federal safehouse. He’d agreed to testify against his grandfather and Wolf. In return, he’d be put in Witness Protection where no one would ever, ever call him Red.

I turned fifty on July 16^th of this year. I spent it in a beach house on the Outer Banks. (Thanks again, Rob and Jess!) I did not awaken that morning with some ancient knowledge suddenly revealed unto me. The Gnomes of Zurich did not bestow upon me great wealth. I was honestly confused, as I am every big birthday. Why me? Why am I still here, when so many others didn’t make it this far? I didn’t expect to live this long, or be anywhere near as blessed as I am. I have an amazing wife, four amazing daughters, and a roof over my head. I honestly didn’t expect to be here. I expected to be either dead or in a mental hospital. Out of the four of us on the block I grew up on, two of us have felony records, and one of us is down for life in prison.

What does one do at fifty? Some go skydiving, some get tattoos. I almost did one, the other is never happening unless it’s an emergency. Instead, for fifty, I’m going to post fifty quotes and things I’ve learned over the last fifty years. Yes, a list really isn’t writing, but you try coming up with fifty things you’ve learned over the years without sounding like crap. I don’t know if I’ll succeed in that, but if I entertain you, or make you think, then I’ve succeeded in some way. PS. If I attribute something wrong, feel free to holler at me.

1. Family is not blood. I have brothers who don’t share DNA.
2. You can’t eat half a shit sandwich-Spider Robinson
3. Keep passing the open windows-John Irving
4. You can’t change the system by standing outside the castle and pissing in. You can only change it by being inside and pissing out-Paul Heyman
5. Nothing makes a mother sleep easier than having all her children under one roof safe and sound, no matter the age.
6. Punch up, not down.
7. Travel. Books are fine, but nothing in a book will better you the way travel does. Meeting different people, eating different foods, even if it’s still in the same country.
8. STEM is fine, but we need civics, art, gym, shop, home econ, and a class on media awareness/critical thinking for our kids, starting in grade school. Do you want your nuclear engineers to think Qanon is real?
9. Art is hard. Pay for it. If you can’t, go to the library.
10. Hope is the bravest rebellion-Sandra Swan
11.  Magic is the art of getting shit done-Sandra Swan
12. I think God is a giant sided die, and we all can only see one side.
13. Give your wife a desk, and then keep out of it-Robert Heinlein
14. If you’re in an argument with your in-laws, and realize you’re right, apologize at once-Robert Heinlein
15. Pro wrestling is best when it’s personal feuds, executed by believable wrestlers, one of whom you hate, and the other who you like.
16. While being real is good in the arts, showmanship counts. Kiss sucked once the makeup came off.
17. Never bet on an inside straight.
18. My dad has a really big rake.
19. It’s the little things in life. That beer at the end of the day. A touch from your wife as she passes you. Cards with friends.
20. The supernatural is real. I’ve experienced it, and nothing else explains Old Town Road.
21. Show and don’t tell. Especially when instructing kids.
22. Budget the luxuries first-Robert Heinlein
23. If you’re feeling down, go lift someone else up. It helps.
24. Love is great, but poisonous without respect.
25. Fnord.
26. If you love someone, tell them now. No one is promised tomorrow.
27. “You want to get Capone? I’ll tell you how to get Capone. He pulls a knife; you pull a gun. He sends two of yours to the hospital, you send two of his to the morgue. That’s the Chicago way!”-Sean Connery in The Untouchables
28. Why hate someone for the color of their skin, when there’s so many other good reasons to despise someone? -Emo Phillips
29. Prostitution and drugs should be legal and regulated.
30. I’d rather have a person who came two thousand miles to get to freedom next door, then some entitled schmuck who thinks it’s his birthright.
31. Solar panels should be on every roof in America.
32. “The problem with people studying sociopaths is their methods. Don’t study prisoners. They’re failures. Go study Wall Street. That’s where the best ones are”-Andrew Vachss
33. I’m too stupid to fail-John Hartness
34. “Why are you going after him now, after three decades?” “It was not time. Now it is time.”- The Grandmaster, in Grandmaster by Warren Murphy
35. Not all who wander are lost- J.R. R. Tolkien
36. Honesty is my only excuse-James Hetfield, “Damage Inc”
37. Girls date their daddies when they start dating. They don’t date the adult version of you, they date the dumb teen version of you.
38.  I don’t practice what I preach, because I’m not the man I’m preaching to-Ivan Stang
39. Lemmy is God.
40. A mall or downtown without a bookstore isn’t worth the powder to blow to hell.
41. Hydrox are better than Oreos.
42. In any emotional decision, the right one is the hardest. Always.
43. Have goals.
44. If you fall down, fall down on your back. If you can look up, you can get up. -Les Brown
45. Chance favors the prepared mind-Stu Feiler
46. Be nice to everyone. Today’s intern is tomorrow’s CEO.
47. Moderation in everything, except moderation.
48. Anger is an energy-John Lydon, “Rise”
49. All we are waiting for is something worth waiting for-KMFDM
50. “Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Here’s Tom with the Weather.”- Bill Hicks

Let me start off this post by saying things are going to get weird. If you can’t handle discussions of the paranormal, mysticism, or general high weirdness, just pass this post on by. Also, if you can’t handle that sort of weirdness, what are you doing even knowing about me?

I originally wanted to write this blog post in May, as a tribute to the passing of my favorite ufologist, Stanton Friedman. The date of his passing came and went, and I shelved this idea until I saw today was World UFO Day. Stanton was not only my favorite ufologist, I think he was one of the best in the field. He was responsible for the re-discovery of the Roswell incident, and without that, I think ufology would be decades behind where it is now. He was a former nuclear physicist who went at UFO’s (and UFO researchers) with the hard, cold eye of a man used to science, and had no patience for people who were into things like past lives and channeling. And he was the only UFO researcher to win a bet with James Randi and Skeptic magazine. Stanton was also responsible for restoring my faith in the UFO community, and the paranormal community in general. But let us go back to the beginning.

Growing up, I was a sheltered, sickly kid. I had comics, TV, library books and very few friends. I had a love early on for the program “In Search Of”. It was one of the few programs my folks would allow me to watch that was designed for kids. It was probably a bad idea, since it put some crazy ass ideas in my head (I worried about killer bees for a decade). At the library, the books of Daniel Cohen about UFOs, Bigfoot and other cryptids filled my head.

And then, when I was eight, came Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I didn’t get to see it, but it brought an explosion of UFO magazines to the local stores. I devoured these. I found out about Project Blue Book, Allen J. Hynek, and got freaked out about a movie called Hangar 18, about the supposed UFO hidden at Wright-Patterson air base.  All of this would likely have faded away, like many of my youthful pursuits, like disco and parachute pants. But then I saw one.

 I didn’t have many friends growing up, and when we moved to a small town called Antioch, IL, I lost all of them. I was too poor for the rich kids, and too clueless for the poor heshers.  But one night, I was out running around with some neighborhood kids, and one of them pointed at the sky and said, “What the fuck is that?”

It looked like a balloon, with a red light stuck in the middle. It moved around the sky in circles, I’d thought it was a laser at first, but the light shone that there was a craft of some sort behind it. It was doing maneuvers I’ve never seen any plane do, before or since. Then it stopped dead in the sky, cycled through five colors, moved in four diagonal directions, then took off.

None of us who were there spoke of it, ever. I tried bringing it up at the bus stop the next day, and got my ass handed to me for it. I’ve checked UFO reporting group records from around that time, and several people reporting seeing similar objects, but it was an isolated incident.

I’ve wondered ever since that night, what I saw. I wonder if it was a drone of some sort, or a test flight of something. But the beating left me with no desire to discuss it further. Like much of my childhood, I shut it away and locked the door.

Let’s move forward a decade, give or take a year.  I’m a teenage nihilist, soured or society and humanity in general. I’ve discovered the high weirdness of Robert Anton Wilson’s Illuminatus trilogy, the Church of the SubGenius, and Discordianism. “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke” becomes my mantra. I immerse myself in a world of conspiracy theories, mysticism, and alternative spirituality.

During this time, my stance on UFO’s is that it’s folks on hallucinogenic, or with mental issues. The burgeoning New Age movement falls apart against the bulwark of my youthful cynicism. This lasts even through discovering Art Bell, my late-night hero. He’s way too nice to some of these people, in my opinion at that time.

In 1996, I’m living in Mankato, Minnesota. I’m engaged to a woman who I generally refuse to discuss unless I’ve had at least three shots.  We’re bored one night, when she mentions that a guy is giving a lecture on UFOs at Mankato State, the local college. I agree to go, figuring it’ll be good for a few laughs afterwards with the fiancé.

Giving the lecture is Stanton Friedman. And he blows the top of my head off. He’s rational, erudite, and outlines a logical and rational response to the UFO phenomenon. It’s the first time I hear about Roswell, and Area 51. His speech makes me think, and when I find out he’s signing his books at the Barnes and Noble the next day, I go.

He was even more impressive up close and personal. He was kind, rational, and answered many questions. He turned me on to using a scientific, non-mystical response to the phenomenon, and I devour his books(I personally recommend his book Flying Saucers and Science, and defy you to read it and refute his arguments) and immerse myself in the world of ufology. A world that has been exploding since a show that went on the air a couple years prior, named the X-Files.

To say that the X-Files changed the UFO research community is like saying that Protestantism changed Christianity. People came out of the woodwork to discuss the phenomenon, and to make money off it.  Chris Carter had based the series off a book called Behold a Pale Horse, by a guy named William Cooper.

That book is arguably the most popular conspiracy theory book ever published, next to the Protocols of the Elders of Zion. And like that book, it’s pure garbage and poison. I used to be amazed at its popularity, especially among minorities. Rappers would quote from it in lyrics. This, despite containing a copy of the Protocols (the notorious ant-Semitic text that Hitler used to justify the Holocaust) as an appendix, up until this year. The new publisher of it would apparently like you to forget the two were related.

That book, and the X-Files, divided the UFO community. It was very popular among those who were more paranoid and favored a darker strain of thought about UFOs. The number of US militias who favored that book always amazed me. The New Age, “fluffy bunny” side of the community soon found themselves out of favor. It was less Urantia, more Whitely Strieber, less Robert Anton Wilson, more David Icke and his lizard royal family.

UFOs were now big business. The government tried to dismiss Roswell and failed spectacularly. Area 51 became a tourist trap. And the folks hawking high colonics a few years before now sold fake devices to help you attract UFO’s.

After a few years, I became disenchanted with the UFO community. It, and the conspiracy field in general took a hard-right turn after 9/11. Alex Jones, who used to have rational arguments, became the Fox News of conspiracy theorists. Where before 9/11 it seemed like we were on our way to government disclosure, afterwards many of the UFO community smelled the money in paranoia and went after it.

I still kept tabs on the conspiracy and UFO community. Art Bell got forced off the air three times, and I hated his replacement. If I thought Art was occasionally too soft on his guests, he was a rusty saw compared to George Noory who used Art’s fame to shill products and every bullshit idea that became popular.

But several things brought me back to ufology. First off, in a Wired magazine article, I discovered the Georgia Guidestone, a hidden gem of conspiracy theory.  Go look them up, it’s as strange a story as you’ll get in this country. After discovering them, the wife and I talked about going to see them, on our way out to New Mexico to visit my daughter and grandkids.

I call that trip the Great Conspiracy Theory road trip. Not only did we go visit the Guidestones, we stopped at Dealey Plaza, site, of the JFK assassination. And as the crowning conspiracy moment, we went to the Roswell UFO Festival.

It was there that I ran into Stanton again. He remembered our meeting in Mankato, since so few people showed up to the signing. Stanton gave a talk that afternoon about UFO investigation processes and ripped a few things in ufology a new one. It was sublime and hilarious.

And now, here we are in 2019. If we didn’t have Trump and global warming to contend with, UFO’s would be on the front page. Tom Delonge of the band Blink-182 has gotten people in the US government to disclose that they’ve been investigating UFO’s again. People are coming forward again. I can even do six degrees of separation with him, since I know the person, he co-writes his fiction books on the matter, AJ Hartley. FYI pick up all those books, fiction and non-fiction. Peter Levenda, a serious researcher, has done an amazing job (with Tom) of changing the way people ought to think about UFO’s.

Where do I stand on the matter today? I think the US government knows much more than it’s telling. I think this has been proven time and time again. People say the government can’t keep secrets that long, but I tell those people to go look up Project Paperclip and MK-Ultra, then get back to me. I think the phenomenon probably has multiple explanations. I think the idea that the craft are extra-dimensional explains some of them. I think advanced government craft explains several other ones. I also think there’s a distinct possibility that some of the craft are extraterrestrial in nature, but whether they’re aliens, or remnants of an advanced human civilization, hasn’t been determined.

What I reject is aspects of the phenomenon that have no scientific basis. If someone comes at me with aliens channeling into their body, I walk away. I reject much of the contactee community, especially since it’s been revealed that the phenomenon can be produced in the brain with magnetic waves. But I’m also open to the idea that much of the phenomenon may be our brain’s reaction to seeing the inconceivable.

Happy World UFO Day, people of Earth. I hope that one day we’re ready to really explore the phenomenon as a culture and mature adults. That the disinformation engineers and governments will peel back the layers of secrecy and share what they know. But until then, I’ll keep watching the skies.

Since the first of the year, I’ve been working on a new novel/novella. I workshopped the content using Tim Clare’s Couch to 80K Writing Course. (It’s free on his website, FYI) The impetus for this was the following idea:what would a modern day version of Doc Savage look like?

I came up with the concept of DJ Blank and the Furious Five. The idea behind the name was that most DJ names suck(no one is ever going to beat DJ Pink Glazed Donut With a Glass of Milk from the group Bloodhound Gang), and that the first time the main character was asked for one, he couldn’t come up with one.

I’m still writing it as we speak, and all I can say is that the story will involve Nazi artifacts, a pissed off Ojibwe crime lord, secret societies, and the fate of Chicago. Today’s post is not from that book. Rather, this is an interlude, part of the character’s origin. I came up with this idea while getting drenched by rain out walking on Saturday. I hope you like it, or at the very least, are entertained by it.

John Cisewski’s last thoughts before he passed out were that those were some amazing shoes. The shoes were, like John, in front of Fritz’s Corner. Fritz’s sat on the edge of Zion, a dry city, doing a busy trade in people escaping to and from there.

Said shoes were boots, covered in silver glitter. If John had bothered to stay conscious, he would have wondered what those boots were doing at Fritz’s. These were not suburban boots, these were boots for clubbing, dancing, and other things foreign to this patch of the Midwest.

A tall man was attached to the boots, his clothes further placing him as not local. Versace suits were rare here. His brown skin also suggested an otherness to him. Not to say that the people at Fritz’s were racist. But the head of the Illinois Klan lived right down the road in Winthrop Harbor, and anybody who wasn’t a WASP wasn’t safe there after dark.

But all of this was unknown to the brownish man with long black hair. All he knew was that they needed a DJ here. And a DJ was what he wanted to be. Squaring his shoulders, he opened the door, stepped over John, and peered into the darkness.

Inside, a couple of heads turned as Edward walked in. A couple others glanced over, then went back to their beers.  They were engrossed in that afternoon’s Cubs game, playing on a small TV above the bar. The two with their heads turned stared, their faces stone. Edward stared back, then smiled. Neither of them smiled back.

“Can I help you?” A woman in her late forties was behind the bar, pouring a shot for someone. Edward smiled at her, trying to be impressive and polite.

“Hello. My name is Edward. I saw your ad in the News-Sun about needing a DJ.”

She looked Edward over. “Where did you come from?”

Edward smiled. “I’m from Chicago, born and bred. I’m just starting out, but I went to school for this, and I have references.” Edward reached into his coat, withdrew an envelope.

“Inside are my references and resume. Are you the manager?” Without a word, the woman took a stein out from under the bar and set it on the envelope.

“Sonny, I don’t know what sort of DJing you were hoping to do here, but I can take one look and tell you won’t work out.” She picked up a nozzle and streamed beer into the stein. She slid both he beer and the envelope back to Edward.

“The beer is on the house for your troubles. I just don’t think you’re what we’re looking for.” And with that, she turned and headed back down the bar, where one of the lumps was waving some money at her.

Edward took a seat, then picked up his wet envelope and peeled it off the beer. He took a sip of the beer and made a face. He preferred European beer, not this watered-down crap. But free is free. While he sipped, he pondered his options for the rest of the day, trying to think of any other places to ply his trade at.

He’d about made up his mind when someone sat down next to him, hard. The man’s bulk bumped into Edward, almost spilling his beer. Edward turned to say something, then noticed the muscles. The man was a solid brick of them. There was a thin layer of fat, but this was someone who’d spent some serious time on the weights.

A dirty ball cap covered his head, some car brand barely visible through the grime. He had the Midwest spring uniform of t-shirt and jean jacket, though the jacket looked like it might burst. Alcohol and sweat competed to fight out of his pores.

Edward was a hair over six foot, but this guy had at least four or five inches on him. The man looked down at him and fixed him with a glare.

“What are you looking at, boy? Never seen a real man before?” Edward seethed. He didn’t need this, not today. Time to be elsewhere.

Edward thought about picking up his beer and clocking the guy, but he was at least a good half hour from anywhere he’d feel safe. Instead he stood, pushing back his chair. He reached in his coat to get his keys and bumped the living wall again.

“God damn, don’t you vegan sissy boys know how to walk?”

Edward stared. “Excuse me?”

The bulk stood. “You’re dressed way too nice for here, so you must have gotten lost on your date. You smell like flowers, so that makes you either a limp wristed sissy, or a wimpy little vegetarian boy.” Edward watched him crack weathered knuckles almost as big as his head. “Been a while since I kicked a vegan’s ass.”

Edward had been called many names, growing up mixed race. But this was a first: he was about to get his ass kicked over diet. Rumors would spread later that the man’s last girlfriend had left him for a yoga instructor at a local natural foods store, but this was never confirmed.

Many people have that moment where they truly become who they are. It may happen at work, it may happen to them, or be caused by them. To his close friends, this was the moment where Edward became DJ Blank.

Edward smiled at the man, which confused him. “I bet you’ve kicked a lot of vegan ass. Bet you could kick any vegan’s ass in town.”

The man smiled, a horror of rotted teeth and cigarette stained lumps. “I can kick any vegan’s ass, anywhere, any time. Pansy asses don’t have any strength.”

“I disagree. In fact, I know a vegan that can kick your ass, and I don’t even have to leave the state.” Edward voiced this at the top of his lungs, loud as he could.

Stillness snapped into place, as all eyes now focused on Edward. They all thought Edward was going to try and fight the large man, and with practiced barfly eyes, they all knew Edward would not fare well.

“Really? A shiny ass little boy like you? You going to kick my ass? Edward could swear the man was drooling. He stared in fascination as one string slid down an unshaved cheek. Then he shook his head. Knowing he had to stay on top of this, or he was going to the hospital, if not the morgue.

“No sir, you’d break me.” Edward winked, knowing full well, this would piss the guy off.

“Where is he then? I’ll go kick his ass!” Edward could see the glass starting to crack in the man’s hand.

Edward pulled out his (now useless) envelope, scribbled down an address. “Meet me here tonight, at 9 PM sharp. Don’t be late.”

Edward ran out the door and jumped in his tiny Nissan Sentra. The man had his address and phone number, so Edward had to come through. He smiled to himself, knowing that if he pulled this off, it would be one hell of a story.

North Avenue Beach was normally crowded, but only during the day. The best beach in Chicago, it was jam packed on weekend days during the summer and even some spring and fall days. But this had been a cold day, and the beach was mostly deserted.

This was where Edward was sitting, perched on the bumper of a one-ton rental truck. He’d told the large man to meet him here by the north corner of the volleyball courts. Most nights they’d be interrupted by police patrols, but Edward had arranged for a friend who was sweet on the park cop pick tonight to follow him around. They would not be interrupted.

A Humvee pulled in next to the truck. Edward smirked. Of course, this guy would have a car as big and obnoxious as he was. And out of the vehicle the man emerged, cleaner than earlier, wearing loose shorts and a Marlboro shirt. He strode over to where Edward sat.  Edward smelled the booze again, but no sweat. He wondered what shower could fit this man.

“I’m here.” The man spat brown juice on Edward’s shoes. “Where is this mystery fighter?” He looked at the truck. “Is the wimp in there?”

Edward looked down, annoyed. He’d never get these clean.  In a quick move, he turned around and pulled up the back door of the truck.

The behemoth peered into the unlit rear compartment, then his eyes went wide.

“What the fuck is that?”

A large mass of fur strode out of the darkness, then jumped down onto the ground.

“Asshole, meet Samson. He’s the newest silverback gorilla to be added to the nationally renowned Lincoln Park Zoo. “

“Why the fuck is he here?” Samson sniffed at the air, then bared his teeth at the large man.

“Why, you said you could beat any weak ass vegetarian in the state. He’s a vegetarian. Kick his ass.” The massive man was shaking, making Edward think of his mother’s gelatin desserts.

“I meant humans!” The shout came with the stench of urine, as the man’s bladder failed him. “This isn’t fair!”

“Fuck your fair, you bigoted pile of shit.” The man turned away from Samson, trying to flee. Samson caught up with him after about fifteen steps. pouncing on his back. Piteous cries rose from the man as Samson began raining blows on his back. Edward let him beat on the man for about two minutes, calmly walking to the front of his truck and then back, retrieving a dart pistol from the passenger seat.

Edward took aim and fired. Samson turned, enraged at the surprise attack. He lunged toward him, loping forward until the drugs took hold. With a soft moan, Samson fell over.  Edward wondered how he was going to get him back in the truck.  He’d call his friend from the zoo, who’d taken Edward’s cash without question. It had made Edward uneasy how quickly the guy had agreed, but it wasn’t his concern right now.

He walked over to the behemoth, now bleeding from a broken nose among other places. The man was wheezing, might have popped a rib or two. Edward crouched down by the man’s head.

“Now, I want you to think about this the next time you open your mouth. If I ever hear about you so much as breathing wrong on somebody, this will seem like a fraternity hazing.”

Edward stood, planning to just walk away, then the man-made gurgling noises. They didn’t seem happy.  Edward turned and kicked the guy in his ribs, which caused the man to start sobbing. Edward almost felt sorry for him. He went to the truck, called his friend and waited.

It was the next day that the police came for him. He made the news, of course. The papers implied he’d tried to kill the man, which wasn’t true. It’d have been a bigger story, maybe even made the front page, if not for a crew punching a hole in the bottom of the Chicago River and flooding the downtown.

A month later, he stood in front of the judge. He’d already made a deal to go serve his country in return for probation. The judge believed in doing things the old-fashioned way.

His story was odd enough that he attracted attention and rumors from his first day in basic. It was those rumors and stories that attracted the people who would become the Furious Five.

I was in the shower this afternoon(sorry for the mental picture) and the idea for this story popped into my head. I had to get it out. If you like it, the people to blame for inspiring it are Henry Rollins and my late great great uncle, William Henry Porter. I think it’s too long to be flash, and too short for anything else. I hope you like it.

Disposable Heroes

Todd was staring at the fence posts when the elderly man collided with him. Collided was too strong a word, he just bumped the guy. They both stepped back, taking each other in. Rail thin and weathered, the elder man narrowed his eyes for a second, then nodded. Todd muttered a brief “sorry”, then kept perusing the materials. He was looking for the cheapest, fastest way out of this task. He’d had his fill of outdoor work in the Army, and just wanted to get back to the couch and the Bears game.

“You putting in split rail or wire fencing?” Todd turned around, expecting to brush off some pushy salesman. To his surprise, it was the old man. He was smiling now, exposing teeth yellow with age.

“Repairing, actually. Have two posts that have rotted away.” As he looked the posts over, the man just stood there. Todd wondered if the guy was delusional or lonely. He’d encountered both on trips to the store.

“Make sure there’s creosote on the bottom, that’ll help with the rot. Don’t cement them either, holds the water in and makes them rot faster.” Todd pondered this for a second.

“Never thought about it. Thanks for the tip.” Todd found said posts, put three in his cart. When he was done, the man looked over his lumber approvingly.

“That looks like some good lumber.” Todd noticed the man was wearing an American Legion pin on his shirt.

“Thanks for the help, and for your service.” Todd liked acknowledging other veterans, sometimes all some people needed was that little moment. Surprisingly, the man reached out, grabbed Todd’s hand, and shook it.

“No son, thank you for yours.” With that, he turned around and shuffled down the aisle. Todd watched him go, wondering how he knew. An older woman was waiting at the end, and they both went around the corner.

Todd drove home, and the man faded from his mind. He went home, installed his posts, then slept through most of the Bears game. His life went on, work and home, nothing unusual.

A few weeks later, he arrived home to find a visitor. A woman in her 60’s or so, dressed in an overcoat, with a hint of a suit underneath. She was staring at his door like it was going to bite her.

Todd pulled into his driveway, and still the woman stood staring at his door. He opened his car door, got out and stood next to her. She was still staring.

“Can I help you?”

Todd never figured an older woman could jump like that, let alone scream like that.

“Holy shit, lady! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She looked at Todd, her eyes so wide Todd thought they’d pop out. Her voice was an awed whisper.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, no wonder he talked to you.”

“He who? What are you talking about?” It’d been a pretty bad day at work, and crazy was not something he wanted to deal with.

The woman reached in her purse, and Todd tensed, not sure what was happening. Her hand came out with a piece of newspaper, which she handed to Todd. It was an obituary for one Ernie Schledorn. The picture was of a man in Army dress blues, much younger than the sixty-seven years posted in the obituaries. He was familiar looking, but Todd couldn’t place him.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. What does this have to do with me?” Tears were already on the woman’s cheeks, and she spoke very softly, trying to hold back the tears.

“You were so nice to him in the store. You didn’t ignore him. You were polite, not condescending, and kind. It was only a minute, but it was the world to me.”

It clicked for Todd at once. “He was the guy in the lumber yard. Gave me good advice on my fence posts.” She nodded, tears still flowing out of her eyes. Todd looked confused. “I just did what anyone should do, is all.”

“But it was something more, Todd.” She wiped her eyes. “It was so much more.”

Todd felt his irritation growing. “How do you know my name? And why is this such a big deal?”

She smiled. “I looked you up, and how I found you will be clear in a minute. But you must understand. Those were the first words he’d spoken in twenty years.”

Todd’s mouth fell open, then he shut it. “You have to be joking with me. Who set you up for this? Did one of my old army buddies put you up to this?” He looked around. “Where’s the camera?”

“That day was one of the best of my life. I’d missed his voice so much. Twenty years of silence, no one to talk to at night. I was living with a man who was dead in so many ways.”

She pulled out a hanky, wiping down her face. “It was so good. We talked, we laughed, and then just when I had him back, the world took him away. “

Todd didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry for your loss. He seemed nice. I still don’t know what it has to do with me.”

Her laugh was bitter. “This life has taken the two men I loved more anything else in the world from me. I sometimes wonder why, if it was something I did, or if life is just random and cruel.” She smiled for a second. “But then, I had those last few weeks, and think this life is stranger than we ever knew.

“So how did you find me? I still don’t know how your husband knew my name.”

She reached into her purse again, pulling out a manila folder. “I wondered that too, until I found this.”

Todd opened the folder. Inside was some old photocopies of records, and printouts so old they were on dot matrix. To his shock, the photocopies were of his military record. He glanced at the printout, which was of an email from a Private Schledorn to his father, Ernest. All it said was “look what I found!”

Todd was really confused now, and angry at the violation of privacy. “Why did your son have a copy of my military file? Who was he?”

She trembled, forcing her words out. “He was in the records department. It wasn’t what he wanted from the Army, but he wanted money for college. The boy figured he’d spend two years pushing paper. He was on his way home when his transport crashed. When the men came to our door, Ernie greeted them. It was the last words he spoke for two decades.”

“I tried everything. The doctors said there was nothing they could do. The psychiatrists gave up after the first decade. Nothing until you.”

She reached in her purse again, pulled out her wallet and flipped it open. “And this is why he talked to you.”

A photo was there, sealed under plastic. Todd paled, disbelieving. He had to check the details to make sure it wasn’t his old photo from basic graduation. It was like looking into a mirror of his past. He looked up at Mrs. Schledorn, words failing him.

“What the… I can’t even…”

“I wish I had an explanation, sir. I don’t. All I know is that one random chance gave me one last burst of happiness. And for that, I thank you. “She removed the picture from her wallet and handed it to Todd.

“Keep it” she said. “I’ve got so many more in my head. “

With that, she walked to a car across the street, opened the door, and sat down in it. As she started the car, she looked at Todd again, then shook her head at all. All Todd could do was sit down on his stoop with the picture. After a while, he stood and went inside, and went about his life.

I’ve talked about making this blog post for years, but it is finally here: The Trevor Scale. What is it? It’s a 10-point scale for conspiracy theories. The more we are connected, the more noise drowns out the signal. Much like there’s a 10 point for human sexuality, I think conspiracy theories should be ranked the same way. One will be the lowest, and ten will be the highest. A ten rating is one that either I or most folks agree on is likely true. The lower the number, the more likely we’re dealing with material I refer to as crackpotia. This is my generic term for things I will buy books or read articles on, that I don’t think are true, but it is fiction fodder and sometimes damn entertaining. To illustrate, here’s my examples of each number on the scale.

10) Things I believed to be true that have been backed up by facts, or that a person has had personal experiences with. In my case, it’s that UFO’s are real. Others that are ranked ten in my book are that the official stories on the Kennedy and King assassinations are garbage, that there are ghosts (personal experience), and psychic phenomena.

9)These are ones that I’d like to believe are true, but don’t have as strong a belief in as I used to, or don’t have the evidence to back it up. Examples here are that the 9/11 official story isn’t the full story, and that Jim Morrison faked his death (I told that one to Patricia Keneally Morrison, and she hasn’t spoken to me since)

8)These are theories that I find plausible, or that many people believe in that I’m not sure of, but that aren’t too bizarre. My examples of this for me are the idea that all major sports are fixed, or that the Masons influence the running of the US government.

7)Now we’re getting closer to fiction, but they’re also I’d like to hope are true. Ones I would put at this number are energy healing like Reiki, Bigfoot, free energy, and the work of both Rupert Sheldrake and Graham Hancock (look them up).

6) There are no theories ranked number six. Fnord.

5) I generally put ones here that I find could be true, but the evidence just isn’t there. Examples of this are possession, past life regression, talking to the dead, most cryptids, and that there was a race of giants before man.

4)Now we are rounding the curve straight into a tunnel of bullshit. Theories I’ve given a four to include: Elvis being alive, the moon landing being faked, and alien transmission folks like Adamski.

3)Pure bullshit. If you buy anything Dr. Oz says, it’s probably down here, along with the Illuminati, fluoride in the water, anything from Goop, copper bracelets and cleansing diets.

2) This level is known as: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Top theories at this rank include David Icke’s reptilian royal family nonsense, sexual encounters with aliens or sasquatch, flat earth people, Nation of Islam theory about the creation of white people, and anyone who says they’re a real-life vampire or werewolf.

1) My last level has specific criteria. Theories in this basement must be shown to have real life consequences. Pretty much everything Alex Jones has said in the last decade is down here. All the racist, sexist, and homophobic theories are down here. The Protocols of the Elders of Zion are down here, alongside Sandy Hook truthers, Qanon deep state tools, birthers, and the works of Elizabeth Clare Prophet.

I hope this clarifies some things for you and can help you give some measure of how to judge some of the crap on the net. Or at the very least, can help you put some perspective on it.

Today is Memorial Day. Most folks get it confused with Veterans Day, and wave flags, put crap on sale and have picnics. But it’s supposed to be for those who have fallen in war. One such person was my grandfather, Archibald Edwin Curtis. The big difference was that it took the war fifty years to kill him.

My grandfather, in my mind, was a pot bellied old man, gruff but kind. He could be a bear, but cried one time when I came home from school and didn’t say hello to him becuase I’d had a bad day. I keep a picture of him on my nightsand, of me at about five, sound asleep on his lap in a lawn chair at his house. I could spend hours telling you about him, how he was my first real role model as a man, but that isn’t the point of today’s post.

He died in 1983, on an operating table in Norfolk, Virginia. When my father, who’d flown from our home in the Chicago suburbs to be there, called to tell me the news, it was the first time I ever heard my father cry. I was numb for months. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I found out much about my grandfather’s service, a tale both amazing and horrifying.

My grandfather left for the army in 1943. His number got called up, even though he was a father of two, with my uncle Harvey sitting in my grandmother’s tummy. But he did his duty and left. He spent a year over there or so, details are fuzzy. He was wounded there, rescuing a fellow soldier pinned down between two machine gun nests. He received the Bronze Star for the rescue.

There’s a funny tale that I used to think was bullshit until i ran into one of grandpa’s fellow soldiers, who showed me a pic from that time. General Patton used to visit hospitals and give Purple Hearts to the wounded.He tried to give one to my grandfather, who refused. When Patton started in on him, my grandfather pointed to a man across the aisle who’d had both legs blown off by a mine. My grandfather told Patton to give his medal to him, but all the medal he needed was his wife and kids at home. He was that kind of man.

I think that rescue and being in a squad that had to help count the dead at Buchenwald death camp were what killed him. Folks who knew him say he came back a changed man. Grandma certainly felt so. He drifted between jobs, trying to feed three kids. He was a farmer, a policeman, and finally became a contractor and carpenter. I can use Google Earth on his hometown and still see houses he built with his bare hands.

It was while he was doing this that he had his first real mental health issues. He went in for depression, and they used electro convulsive therapy on him. They didn’t have the words for PTSD, but that’s what it was. He’d fight the black dog and mental health issues most of his life. He snapped one day and chased my father aroudn the yard with an ax, believing him to be a German soldier in his half delusional state.

Where it really impacted him was how it caused physicians to regard him. Every time in the late fifties and sixties, if he complained of heart problems or physical ailments, the local doctors would just tell him it was all in his head, and to go back to the VA. On one of those trips, they tried insulin shocking him, and as a result he devolped diabetes.

By the time I came around, he was retired. He spent weeks at a time in hospitals. I remember finding out he was one of the first ten people in America to recieve a triple bypass in open heart surgery. He had a second one, and that was the one he couldn’t survive.

My grandfather was a veteran, who the VA failed in their handling of him. The medical examiner who did his autopsy said he’d suffered at least four strokes and seven undiagnosed heart attacks before he’d gotten treatment. But I respect,love and honor the veterans who serve, they deserve better.

My grndfather never made too big a deal about his service, except to join the American Legion and the VFW. He loved parades, and when I’d spend summers with him, we’d go to at least one every weekend. I still salute folks who are wearing their Legion hats or VFW colors.

But today, while I’m thinking of him, I’ll also be doing my best to honor him. I’ve volunteered at the VA before, and I give to various veterans groups when I can. I’ve seen up close and personal what modern warfaare does to humans.

Much to my father’s annoyance , my biggest way to honor my grandfather is to protest whenever this country goes to war. My family has suffered horribly because of war, and we’ve seen the cost. I respect those who serve, and condemn those who would use them to further political agendas set out by religion and corporations. Right now, we have hawks in office who are looking at Iran like the last piece of chicken in a KFC bucket. We don’t need to go in there, and anyone who says we do, I tell them to send themselves and their kids first.

Gods rest you, Archibald Curtis. I miss you, and I’m also sort of glad you didn’t live to see what’s become of your country and your party. I think you would have hated Trump’s draft dodging guts. I think you would have tried to respect your enemies better. You’d have approached everything with some common sense. You’re gone, but I’d trade a dozen of my days in this world to have one more with you. Goodbye.

I really didn’t want to write this, but my hand was forced. One, I’m a slave to procrastination, and I’m under deadline. And two, I have a rule:if you fuck up one of my fandoms, you’re allowed a pass. But if you’re going to fuck up two, then I have to say something.

History is not going to be kind to David Benioff and D.B. Weiss. These two have been running the biggest genre show in history, Game of Thrones. And they’ve managed to screw it up by taking a fairly unpolitical show and indulging in Donald Trump’s three favorite things:xenophobia, racism, and sexism.

I’m sure George R.R. Martin didn’t intend for his story to be used this way, but he’s checked out and cashing his checks. While I’m sure the books will have a more nuanced and interesting ending, the showrunners, in putting thier own interests forward, have forgone character development for shock and violence. I’ll let others tackle the pacing, lighting and other issues. Let’s bring up the three I discussed.

First up is the xenophobia. Game of Thrones starts off taking intelligent, well reasoned approaches to issues like borders, showing us the human side of the Wildings, that desperate people are still people. Then we get to season eight. And all that disappears, especially in episode five, where the Unsullied and Dothraki follow Danaerys into a blind fury of killing and rape(more on that later). Foreign invaders coming from the south to destroy our way of life and rape our women, then kill our kids. Was this HBO or Fox News?

This leads us into Game of Thrones next problem: skin color. Every single brown person on this show is either weak or an asshole. Dorne is shown to be full of conniving sluts who only want to screw and poison us. The Unsullied are only fit to be slaves, and the Dothraki murder and rape. The first five seasons gave us people in these lands with character,flaws and hopes. By the eight season, they’re sterotypes. Again, I don’t blame Martin for this, I blame the two showrunners. These are the same two who wanted a show where the South had a stalemate with the North. Wonder who’d they’d get to write that, Steve Bannon or David Duke? Also, these fierce warrior have all been kept at bay for centuries, but are all liberated by a white woman.

Which brings me to GoT biggest problem since they left the Martin plot. This show is as sexist as the day is long. I really didn’t want to think it, but there’s way too many signifiers. A show where the producers added extra rape scenes was bad enough, but the idea that being raped builds character? Really? I’ve worked in domestic shelters and on crisis lines, and that is some straight up bullshit there. Also, why develop the love story of Brianne and Jamie, only to have her get left when Cersei comes calling. Guess if you’re not classically beautiful, you can be horrible and still get some.

And then there’s Danaerys. A woman who was orignally trying to free people after they’d been enslaved. A woman literally called the Breaker of Chains? And what does she do? She snaps, and starts incinerating innocent people. And they showed it repeatedly, over and over. Even in that part fo the story, strong women like Arya and unknown mothers are shown to be failing while the men get away.

I was going to be slient about all of this. But this is my wife’s favorite show. And they’ve completely shit the bed on the ending. I knew my wife was going to be sad when the show ended, but not before. People have been following these characters for years. I’m generally against owing something to your audience, but also, don’t take those characters and destroy them just to get it over with.

I hope D.B. and David can pull it off and give us a decent ending next week, but I’m not hopeful. This show used to be about the best ideas of humanity, fighting for existence. That ideas like freedom, equality and treating people decently, regardless of wealth or skin could be rewarding. Now, all we are left is with the idea that people are ugly and never change for the better. That no one is redeemable and that people from foreign lands are only here to hurt us. This show used to represent the America we hope to be. Now it’s representing the America that Trump thinks we ought to be. And I don’t want to be that.

Finally, one of the factors that went into me writing this was the news that GoT’s showrunners are doing a Star Wars trilogy. I don’t know if I want to see it. I don’t think Star Wars needs less female heroes or less brown ones. I don’t think we need the first Jedi being sexually assaulted on screen. Yeah, that’s harsh. But I’ve given these two chances for the last two years, to diminishing rewards. If I want a Game of Trumps, I just need to check my Twitter feed.

This si going to be a rant. Shocking, I know. But I’m turning fifty in three months, and life is pissing me off. My knees are going, I can’t find a day job worth a damn, and my daughter is turning into a young lady right beofre my eyes and that terrifies me in this country, let alone this world. So what’s the last thing I need in my life, let alone in my writing and fandom world? A sphincter of assholes.

We have lots of terms for multiples of things:A swarm of bees. A herd of cattle. A murder of crows. I’m adding a new one:a sphincter of assholes. Because frankly,I need that term for the amount fo them I’m encountering online, running some of the aspects of fandoms.

To be fair, these are not people I’ve really encountered in person. Most of the people I’ve encountered running things at cons aren’t assholes unless you force them to be. People like Misty Massey, Joey Starnes, Matt Starnes and John Hartness have all gone out of their way to treat people like they want to be treated. And yes, they’ll be blunt when they need to be. I get that, especially as a parent. Some days you need milk to herd cats, some days you need barbed wire fences to prevent a stampede.

My problem is with people I’ve encountered this past couple of weeks who have repped their positions as panel runners, track runners or show runners in their profiles, and then gone out of their way to be dicks online. I get there should be a separation between our private and personal lives, but here’s a newsflash: most of the time,there isn’t.

So why should we care, Trevor? You’re just a struggling writer, who’s only ever managed to get two stories published, and neither of those paid. You’re turning fifty anyway, why should we care about anything that happens to your WASP(White Angry Swede Pagan) hide anyway?

Because that’s me, today. Tomorrow or next year, I might get lucky and hit that major publisher contract or story getting published. I might be the guy you want at ___Con 2021. How many people were clamoring for Patrick Rothfuss before Name of the Wind? Not saying I’m that good, but I might get there, if I work at it.

I told my kids a story before they all left to go to college or out int he wide world. I’ll tell you it now. In 1992, I was a new student at Columbia College in downtown Chicago. By fortune, my teacher for a Communications 101 class was the legendary Terry Brunner, director of the BGA, an awesome investigative body. He ended up turning me on to journalism, and taught me so much in this world. He isn’t important to this story(but the BGA is, if you live in Illinois and love good journalism, go donate to
https://www.bettergov.org/ ) but his class is. We had a kid in our class, a young filmmaker right out of Krakow, Poland. We’d never seen is stuff, but he was there on scholarship, and struggling with writing, since English was not his native language. You cna see where this is going, but that guy’s name is Janusz Kaminski. He’s got a grip of Oscars, and is Spielberg’s cinematographer. Don’t blame him for allthe lens flares though, that’s Abrams idea.

My point is. to quote Michelle McNamara(RIP), it’s chaos. Be kind. Think before you speak or post anything online. I know , I know, there are folks saying, why don’t you take your own advice, and they’re right. But I’m trying. I’m getting out there more and doing more. I’ve run things at gaming cons before, and I’ve been a dick at times,but I had much more of a hair trigger then. Hard to believe, I know. But if you see someone you know in those positions being an asshole, and you’re their friend, don’t let it slide. Cut it off at the pass. Because people remember, folks. And yeah, you might be big and bad right now, large and in charge, but guess what? That passes. Everything ends. And people like me, who are small and just finding that voice? We remember.

So take a chill pill folks. Think before you speak, and have some regard for your fellow person. Manners are the lubrication that eases the social gears, so use them. Be the Preparation H to the sphincters of assholes out there now.

On March 31, 1999, I staggered drunkenly out of the theatre that sits on the third floor of the Mall of America. This wasn’t the first or last time, but it was the only time I did it without alcohol.

What the hell was that? A bunch of work friends had dragged me to the theatre after a computer malfunction(oh the irony) had cut our day short. We’d all just been paid,so after a food court lunch, the crew had decided to hit the theatre. I was unconvinced. The Matrix. One of the dudes said his roomate had heard about it and it seemed good. I was aiming more towards hitting the game and book stores in the mall.

I didn’t know then how big an event I was witnessing. I say the Matrix was the biggest thing to hit science fiction films since Star Wars, and I stand by it. It had everything. A great soundtrack with Rob Zombie and Junkie XL. The amazing fight choreography of Yuen Woo Ping. And the bullet time effects, which would be abused more in the next few years by action cinema than a Tom Cruise stunt double. It would be a great movie even if it only included those elements.

But it was more than that. It was the first movie I saw that treated reality as an illusion, something I’d only ever seen talked about in philosphy books or Illuminatus by Wilson and Shea. It had a great script , with lines that I can still quote to this day: “Take the blue pill”, “There is no spoon”,and my personal favorite:”There’s a difference between knowing the path and walking the path”.

To say that the movie resonated with my conspiracy theory loving soon to be thirty self would be an understatement. I have a Matrix quote on my laptop save screen. I own all the movies(yes, the others exist, and no, I won’t be discussing them today), and have action figures of Morphues in his chair and the tentacled monster(designed by the artist Geoff Darrow). But as I sit here, I think about how much the Matrix symbolizes so much for people today.

Its terminology has been co-opted by extreme people on both ends of the political spectrum. The irony of so many folks using the term “red pill” while being on the trans hating tip, while ignoring the fact that a trans duo created it, is not lost on me. The idea that I, and many others, look at some folks as delusional for the reality they seem to feel is real. I’ve bee na public fan of people who create their own reality(Emperor Joseph Norton, Church of the Sub Genius, etc), but I’m not a fan of people who seemed to think they should impose that reality on others(Evangelicals, the alt-right,White Sox fans, etc.) When teachers like Leary talked about reality tunnels, they didn’t suggest forcing everyone into the same tunnel.

While I was coming up with this, it came across my desk that today is Trans Visibility Day nationwide as well. The Wachowskis are arguably the most succesfull trans people in the movie business, ever. The synchronicity of the anniversary of the Matrix being on the same day is proof that reality is not only stranger than we know, but stranger than we can know.