I am shit and so are you.

The title of this post is going to annoy, anger, and bruise some egos. Considering how little I post, not something I’m going to lose a second of sleep over. But this essay or rant’s been brewing for a minute, so I figure it’s time to let it out.

I am shit. A simple sentence. But it’s true, it the most literal sense. We all are crap eventually. We can preserve part of it, roast it into a fine powder even. But even in those processes, part of us goes into the can, or down the drain. As a culture and society, we turn a blind eye to it, unless you work in an industry that deals directly with it.  We flush, we toss, then we wash our hands and walk away.

As much as I could do an entire post on our relationship with those natural processes, I’m talking in a metaphorical sense today. I’m talking about art. Whether you’re a dancer, writer, artist, or musician, you’re all shit. At least 99.9 percent of you are.

I can feel the hate coming from here, but I stand by my words. I’m famous for saying that 95 percent of any art form is garbage, I used to say that in a condescending manner, my music or movie snobbishness at a high when I did.

Most people will read those words and think I mean them in the negative. And they’ll agree. Some will even name names. And like I used to be they’ll be dead fucking wrong in their usage.

My road to this conclusion began with a magazine. It’s called Razorcake, and it’s the best DIY punk rock magazine out there. They’re awesome, and I’ve been subscribing for years. Back in issue 125, their editor wrote a column about art and permanence. It shook me to the core and made me rethink my assumptions.

Here’s an assumption many in the arts make: my work is rock. It must be rock. It must stand for the ages, it has to mean something, it has to matter for eternity. Like most assumptions, it’s mostly wrong, and I’ll tell you why.

You’re not Stephen King. Your band is not Metallica, and your choreography is not Alvin Ailey. For most folks, this is true, and will remain so. And for many, that idea, that your work won’t be famous, or last, is what scares them to the core. It drives them into a frenzy of perfectionism, depression, and egomania. All of which are enemies of creativity.

I want this idea to go die in a tire fire. I wish society would stop setting this as the goal. Most real professionals don’t have that as the goal. They aren’t going to turn it down, but most of them know that isn’t likely.

Which is why I want to have creatives say to each other: I am shit. Why? Because the ego kills creativity. Because it stops art and joy dead in its tracks. And because shit is good. Shit is needed. Shit makes things grow. You need dirt to grow things, right? Dirt ain’t nothing but dead things and insect shit.

So come on down, dear reader. Bring your art, your music, your dancing. Because it’s needed, now more than ever. Our success driven culture makes it seem that unless you’re number one, you are nothing. Number two is bad, in so many ways. But society is wrong. We need that stuff to add to the pot, to the soup of what makes us all human.

If the last year has taught me anything, it is that nothing lasts. My father passed. My family moved out of the only home my youngest daughter has ever known. But even when people die, and we move, we bring part of them with us. And that is the shit.

I’m leaving you today with a quote from the Razorcake article, which sums up what I’m trying to say in a less shitty fashion.

“Perhaps the best thing creative work can do is to compost into the soil, so that unremembered, it becomes the food of a new era, or rather, devoured, digested, the very consciousness of that era. Marble lasts, but soil feeds”-Rebecca Solnit in Recollections of My Nonexistence.

November Coming Fire

I remember talking to my mother once about 9/11. I tried calling her that day but couldn’t get a hold of her until later. I told her about my fears for the future, that my country was under attack, and that people I know might die.  She laughed. This surprised me. She said that after Korea, Vietnam, and the Cuban Missile Crisis, she wasn’t too worried about a couple of buildings,

“You had a time like Vietnam, or the Cuban Missile Crisis, where it seemed the entire planet could go at any second. After that, terrorism seems like a small problem.”

I never understood her answer, not really, until this year. Even in the dark days of the 80’s, nuclear war seemed just too crazy to me as a kid. It didn’t really scare me until high school, but then things like perestroika and glasnost pushed it to the side.

I have never been as afraid for my country as I am right now. I’ve never been as afraid for my family and children as I am right now. I started a new anti-anxiety medicine this week, and it might be the only thing holding me together.

In the next 24 hours, we’re holding an election that is going to decide the fate of our country. I say this not as hyperbole, but as grim reality. We have a government that cares not if we die of a plague spreading faster than ever. The same government wants to get rid of my family’s health insurance, make my daughters prisoners of their gender, and tear loving families apart at an even bigger scale than they already have.

What upsets me the most are not the people angry about this. It is the people who don’t think this might be the end of this country. They’ve never been taught history or cared to learn. And they are the ones who will be just fine with the country going bye bye, until it’s their own family dead in the ditch.

There’s a photo making the rounds of laughing happy people during World War II. It seems completely normal until you’re told they’re the staff from a concentration camp. I used to think that people like that didn’t exist anymore. That we had advanced beyond that.

Then I started working again. And I met those people. They are everywhere. I have co-workers who tell me Covid-19 is going to disappear after Wednesday. That say things like “gay parents shouldn’t be able to adopt.” I’m about 90 percent one of them has tomorrow off to harass people at the polls.

It makes me want to scream at them, but it won’t matter. You try reasoning with people who never voted until Trump, and make over 50K a year. I wish you well. I have ibuprofen for when you’re done.

And I am not in the sticks, despite what my co-workers seem to think. I can be to the airport from my house in twenty minutes, even faster if my wife is driving. But I talk to these people, and feel like I’m back in the middle of Minnesota in the 1970’s.

You ever seen the movie Clerks2? That scene where Jay keeps using all types of racial slurs, just because he doesn’t know any better? And the more Jay keeps talking, the more insane and racist he sounds? I have had that conversation twice in the last two weeks at work.

Honestly, the only thing keeping me sane is RTJ4 by Run the Jewels. I’m sorry, but two guys, one white, one black, have made the record for 2020.Killer Mike and El-P have put together the perfect soundscape to encapsulate the fear, anger and dread most of us feel.

The numbers coming in so far keep me cautiously optimistic. (After Hillary, I’m never fully optimistic about polls ever again). But between lawsuits, poll watchers, intentional obstruction of voting in minority communities, I think it will take a small miracle for a clear victor by Wednesday morning. If the Dems surrender b y then, I may never vote Democrat again. Democrats did not fight in 2000, 2004, and 2016. If they don’t fight now, they’re nothing but controlled opposition, the children of Colmes, and the Washington Wizards in cheap suits.

Tomorrow night, my plan is not to watch any TV or doom scroll Facebook. If something comes up locally that requires group action, I’m hoping someone will message me at least. If this goes the way  people like Sarah Kendzior say it will(if you aren’t reading her yet, please do so ASAP, and give copies to friends) many of us will need to put our marching shoes on.

Lastly, don’t take this post as me losing hope. I still have it. I’m just worried for so many suffering right now, who might continue to suffer or worse if things implode in my country the way they might. I fear for my family and friends. I’ve already lost some of both to COVID-19, and there may be more to come.

I hope there’s better after this. There will still be work to do even if Biden gets in on January 20th. America lost its taste for holding those in power’s feet to the flames.  It needs to get it back again. We can’t dream of an America that once was, that left so many behind. We need to move ahead to a better America, one that walks its walk, talks it talk, and provides for everyone, regardless of color or creed. I think it’s coming; I just don’t know when. Good night.

Someone Somewhere Wake Me Up.

In the winter of 1998, I almost died. My then best friend and I were headed to a Goth Night at a sports bar in Mall of America. Don’t judge, it was a blast. The weather outside was not. Snow, ice, and sleet made every inch of road treacherous, and it had been that way for days. And if my roommate and I had to spend another evening in the apartment together, one of us would have gone to jail the next morning.

We were on I-494, creeping our way through the snow and ice, when I happened to glance behind us. A city bus had bene there most of the way, but had lost control, and was now sliding sideways down the highway at increasing speed. I turned to my roommate, told him to punch it. He looked at me like I had lost my mind, until he looked in the rearview. Punch it he did, and we mostly hydroplaned our way to the mall.

I think of that moment often. When depression and low self esteem hit me hard, it feels like I’m on that bus, sliding towards a cliff. I’m just waiting for us to crash into the ground below, helpless in my path towards failure, death, and destruction. I was getting the better of it last year, then 2020 happened.

To say that the last 90 days of 2020 have been a kick in the teeth is an understatement. I’ve had bad years before, but oddly those years were also balanced out by personal triumphs as well. This year feels different. Those years felt like the Tower card in Tarot (my signature one), where great change is wrought by everything falling apart.

2020 is only halfway done, and most people feel like they’ve lived a decade already. Everything feels slower, that you walk through cotton candy to engage anyone or anything. It’s almost as if the whole world has become a small town, where everything is done by sundown, and we’re all concerned over who’s calling on everyone else. Everything shuts down by seven now, and gods help us if the internet shuts down.

When Covid first hit, I’d wondered if the slowdown of the world would force folks to take a long hard look at their world, their neighbors, and then think hard about the way they’re living. I included myself in that group.

Instead, we fell deeper asleep, especially in the thinking department. Who had armed revolt against mask wearing on their card for this year? Anyone? Would anyone know who Carol Baskin was if not for the virus? A lot of us are sleeping, and now is nightmare time.

But maybe this year is the Tower card after all. But it’s not for me, it’s for my country. Covid has forced us to rethink how we work, eat, and treat others.  The resurgence of Black Lives Matter would not have happened if not for Covid. If you don’t believe me, ask the families of people like Philandro Castile. And Breon Taylor’s killers still haven’t been arrested.

Just this week, entire industries have been overrun with sexual harassment victims coming forward. More and more people are starting to turn on Trump. Election and voter reform are now nationwide topics. Maybe while some of us are groggy, it’s because others are waking up. We all influence the sleep of those around us at home, maybe it’s starting to do that on a country wide level? I will say most of my neighbors, I really don’t need to see in their PJs.

The tile of this post comes from Revolting Cock’s “Attack Ships on Fire.” I had the poor taste to play that the morning of a naval disaster. That was the first time I was suspended from being a radio DJ, and it wouldn’t be the last. The line about waking up, to me, is about wanting someone to wake up my sleeping body while the ship is on fire. I may be groggy these days, but me and others have smelled the smoke, and are looking for the extinguishers. Please join us, shake off your sleep, and help us all before the ship goes down. 

Goodbye, Larry.

On Tuesday, May 26 Larry Hund went from this world to whatever happens next. He was my father-in-law, though that title really does not do him justice. He was my mentor, sounding board, and most importantly, my friend.

Most people would pass Larry on the street, and not think too much. He wasn’t a big strapping guy, or loud and outgoing. But much like the hero of his favorite movie, Forrest Gump, once you sat down and talked with him, you discovered the kind, salt of the earth man he was.

Larry was born in Midland, Michigan in 1942. He never said too much about his childhood to me, but I hope it was happy. He talked to me more about his high school years, where he was a troublemaker. He got one of those judges who gave him a choice: jail or the military. And off to the Army he went.

Larry was a proud veteran. How could he not be? It had given him the love of his life, my mother-in-law, Jennie. Together they raised four children, traveled the country, and settled down in Waukegan, Illinois.

This is where I met Larry for the first time. I’d been friends with his daughter Lianna (now my wife, only took me twenty years to get her to date me), and his younger son, Brett. But Larry worked third shift, so I never saw him when we’d go to his house to play D & D. But then we all went to prom, and Larry offered to drive us in his big black Caddy. And he’d dressed for the part, donning a suit coat and chauffer’s cap. He was all jokes and smiles, which was his natural state most days.

I can’t speak too much about him as a father, except that it must have been excellent, considering how his children turned out. My favorite example of this was my senior year of high school. Me, my friend Todd, and Brett had all gotten bad progress reports. I was going to be grounded until college, and Todd thought his old man was going to whup on him. Brett? “My dad is going to be so disappointed in me.”

I’d see Larry at many events after that. Some were happy (Terri’s wedding) and some were horrible (the funeral for Larry Junior). But I don’t think I really got to know him until I started dating his daughter in 2001.

I will never be able to thank Larry enough for the woman he raised. But he was part of the package as well. He’d come over to see his grandkids and kids, and his face would just light up. He never really had a cross word for them, even when they got wild and crazy.

The more I hung out with Larry, the more I learned form him. He taught me patience with my children and others. He led by example, making sure his family did stuff together, and always trying to see the world. One of Larry’s favorite songs was “I was born under a wandering Star” from the movie Paint Your Wagon. I find that funny because Larry sure loved being at home sometimes.

I think I really got to know Larry after he retired. Him and Jennie moved to the Charlotte area to be close to Terri and Lianna. He and I would go do things together, to get out of our wives’ hair. My favorite was going to the movies.

Larry liked action and war movies. We’d go see stuff like the Expendables and Fast and Furious and lose a few brain cells. I was looking forward to doing it for a good decade. The universe, unfortunately, had other plans

It was after Larry went into the hospital for sever pancreatitis that everyone first noticed it. He’d forget things or lose his place in a movie. We chalked it up at first to getting older, losing a step, like everyone else who ages. Then the diagnosis came in.

Alzheimer’s to me, is a serious argument against the existence of a loving God. To take a healthy, older man, full of life, and rob him of his mind? It’s nothing but cruel, nature red in tooth and claw. It robbed my family of a husband, father, grandfather, and great grandfather.

But even in his end, he kept his spirits up. He loved watching Forrest Gump and always had a pleasant word for people. I should mention why Forrest Gump was his favorite movie. Like Forrest, he’d been on the ground in Vietnam, had encounters with famous people, and loved a woman named Jennie with all his heart. Don’t believe me about the famous encounters? He was the first soldier to hear that Gary Powers was shot down over Russia, and I still remember him coming back from the Opry with an autograph from some lady named Taylor Swift. I hear she’s done quite well for herself.

Now, the family is gathering to say farewell to Larry. Folks are coming from across the country to say goodbye. Afterwards there will be tears and stories. I have a feeling Forrest Gump will be watched. After that, I’m going to hold my own memorial for Larry.

I’m going to sit in a recliner, pop open a beer (or cider) open some peanuts, and watch a movie called Drive Angry. It’s a Nicholas Cage movie, a funny supernatural thriller. It’s also the last movie I went to with Larry in the theatre. It was after the diagnosis, and I decided to stop the car before letting him off. I thanked him for being my father-in-law, for giving me his children as friends and family, and for showing me what family really was. He shrugged it off. I’m sure it made him uncomfortable, but if Larry taught me anything, it’s that to tell the people you love you love them. Now, today, because nobody is promised tomorrow.

I like to think there’s something after this. I don’t know what it’s like. I don’t know who or what runs it. But I like to think that somewhere Larry is sitting on a park bench, in a white suit, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette, because he can. He’s like Forrest, just sitting on a sunny day, waiting for his Jennie.

Goodbye Larry, I love you.

Flash!

Just something I wrote the other night. Not really edited, but at least I spell checked and grammar checked it. hope you like it.

Al Noble looked at the cashier, wondering if he could outrun him. Al’s draw had run out the week before, due to tipping Jasmine, his favorite dancer at Cockeyed Willies. He’d managed to stash a tallboy under his arm, and was deciding between  nachos and a hot dog to steal before he ran out the door.

A hand fell on hi shoulder, and Al turned slowly. Like his daddy, Al was small and fast, but awful in a fight. Seeing it was his Uncle Josephus, Al relaxed. Josephus had looked after Al’s family after the Landis cave in took his daddy and fourteen other men.

“Son, ripping off gas stations is no way to go through life.” Josephus took the tallboy from under Al’s arm, then lumbered up to the cashier. He was a big man, taking after Al’s Pappy rather than his MeMaw. Al had often wondered how those two fit, but they’d had ten kids, something worked.

Josephus paid for the tallboy, nachos, two hot dogs and a pint of Wild Turkey. They walked past Al’s wreck of a Subaru to Josephus’s shiny black pickup, its chrome reflecting in the lights. Josephus let him scarf food, taking a few sips off the pint. Josephus was head of the union at the local mine, the richest man Al knew. As Al finished his nachos. Josephus spoke.

“Boy, you need to stop shaming this family. By the time I was your age, I was already running shine for Lonnie Fargo between shifts at the mine. You need some ambition, some vision. And we’re going to go get it.

“Right now?” It was near midnight, and everything in this part of the Carolinas closed by dark. “Is it in a strip club?” Al had always wanted to own one of those. He’d feature Jasmine every night, maybe be a big man like his uncle.

“No, you dipshit, it ain’t in no titty bar.”  Boy had a one-track mind right through his pecker. “You know Larry Ludlow?”

Al nodded. Everyone knew Larry. His daddy had been in the same cave in, but his mom had gone nuts. Loser Larry, the town troublemaker, crazier than a preacher in a whorehouse.

“Larry’s daddy was just as crazy, or so I thought. Larry talk about the family lamp?”

Al nodded. Larry swore his family had been fine, thanks to a magic lantern lamp forged back when they were opening the mines here in the hills. Larry’s great grandpappy had formed the first union in the county but vanished out looking for gold by Albemarle.

Josephus handed Al a folder. Al looked at the contents, confused. Education had never been his strong suit. Seeing his confusion, Josephus went on.

“It’s the location of an abandoned mine tunnel. Rangers found it looking for those city folks that wandered off a month ago. I normally wouldn’t care, but some university folks got to wanting it opened. Some of my men got it open, found a body.”

Al looked at the picture in Josephus’s hand. It was a skeleton sitting in a tunnel, a lantern in its bony grip.

“Hell, Josephus, that could be anyone. ” Skeletons creeped Al out, ever since his cousin had thrown a fake one into his bed one night.

“Not according to the pow wow spell from my wife. We killed a chicken, said the right words of God, and his light shone upon that very area.”

Al snorted. Folks up this way took pow wow and sometimes hoodoo seriously. AL believed in only what he could see and touch. Unless it was Jesus because everyone knew Jesus was real.

Josephus clapped Al hard on the head. “Don’t you diss pow wow! How do you thin k I got this successful?” AL suspected it had more to do with favors and ass kissing, but kept his mouth shut.

“Tonight, we’re driving up there, and getting that lamp. I’m in over my head with some folks, and Park Rangers don’t come cheap, I need that Lantern, and you’re small enough to fit in the hole. Understand me?” Al shook his head, not wanting to get hit again.

“When I get the lamp, we’ll be shitting in tall cotton. I’ll put you on as my aide, and there’s a brand-new double wide in it as well.”

They rode up to the mine entrance, the truck’s halogens making it daytime bright. It was almost closed, except for a small hole at the top. Al climbed up Josephus’s shoulders, slithering into the hole, then falling to the ground.

Panic set in, then a flare flew through the hole, casting red everywhere.

“Hurry up and get that lantern, Al! I’ll drive you to a strip joint myself after this!” Josephus slipped the snub nose out of his belt as he waited. What was one more body here in this place?

Al looked down the tunnel, spotting the corpse. Christ, it smelled in here. After a few minutes, he spied it, the lantern now wedged under a large rock. AL pulled and pulled, the smell getting worse.

Josephus, s head snapped up, a frightening smell now coming from the hole. Josephus started to holler at Al when the world went white.

Al woke up confused. He had been pulling on the lamp when he’d felt very warm. He hoped he wasn’t getting some crud from the gas station hot dogs. One of those had killed his math teacher when he was ten. Also, why was it green in here? Then Al realized two things: he was not in the cave anymore, and he was not alone.

“Oh good, you’re awake. Your ass being dead would have complicated things.”

The voice was not as deep as Josephus and attached to a pair of shiny black shoes. Al followed those up a suit to a dark-skinned face. He was the best dressed black man he’d ever seen.

“What happened? Where am I?” Al rolled over, his hip bumping into the lamp.

“What happened is that your cracker ass took a flare into an abandoned mine cave and blew his own ass and his uncle’s ass to kingdom come. Fortunately for you, you got the lamp, which meant I had to save you.” The man produced a card from inside his jacket, Al looked at it, white with a single word on it: Idris.

“What the hell kind of name is Idris?” He wondered if this guy had killed his Uncle for the lantern.

“Most popular name right now for a black man, so I’m using it. Apparently, word of the name has not reached the Opry.” Idris walked over to a pile of flesh and clothes, pointed at it. “This is what’s left of your Uncle if you want it. I wouldn’t. Asshole was going to put a bullet in you soon as you came out with the lantern.”

Recognition dawned on Al’s face as he scrambled to his feet. “Holy shit, you’re a genie!”

Idris growled. “I am a jinn, son of an ifrit, and older than your entire species. I am to those cartoon fools as you are to chimps.”

“So, what do I get for freeing you? Three wishes?” Maybe his strip club dreams would finally come true.

“No, you get two. Or I can go back in time and not save your pasty self. Now what would you like?”

Al thought for a minute. He’d get money for sure, but that wouldn’t guarantee happiness. Al thought for a second, then decided. “Take me to Cockeyed Willies.I’ll use my last two wishes there.”

“I can’t decide if you’re crazy or stupid. But at least I’ll get to see some breasts. It’s bene near a hundred years.”

In a blinding flash, they appeared in Willie’s. Al was now in clean clothes, and they were in the VIP section. A waitress strolled up and stared at Al.

“Al? What are you doing in VIP? You win the lottery?”

“Yes, he did, sweet thing”. Idris answered. “I’ll take a bottle of rum, and tip yourself twenty on top of it. You want anything, Al?”

Al scanned the club. “Is Jasmine working tonight? I don’t see her dancing.”

Sherry groaned inwardly. Al’s fondness for the girl was well known, even though she was a bitch to all the other dancers.

“She’s off tonight, but drinking at the bar. I’ll tell her to come over.”

Idris interrupted. “There’s an extra fifty in it for you if she comes. And double that if I do too.”  Sherry stared at the man. Normally that line of BS wouldn’t work, but a man in a suit in this joint meant serious cash. She almost ran to get Jasmine.

While they waited, Idris admired the girls dancing. Nothing compared to Babylon for sure, but pleasant enough. And he’d been in that lantern way too long.

Someone bumped their table, both Idris and Al looked up. Al’s face turned to pure joy when he saw who it was.

Jasmine was a tall woman, covered in tattoos. She wobbled on clear heels, a short skirt and tube top completing her ensemble. A half empty bottle of whiskey was in one hand.

“Al” she slurred. “You’ve come up in the world.” Idris frowned. He’d been around to see alcohol created, and nothing good ever came of it. Islam had been smart banning it. Idris sensed danger about this situation.

Sherry came with the rum. Jasmine grabbed it off the table and flopped down beside Al, who’d never been this close to her without a week’s pay going gone. H stared, enamored, as she chugged from the bottle.

“Praise the maker, she’s drunk.” Idris remarked. Al just laughed.

“Yeah, ain’t it great?” He turned to Jasmine. “Hey baby, guess what I can make all y our dreams come true. Not in the future, today.” Jasmine just snorted.

“How? You suddenly got a million dollars and a way out of this hellhole town?” Jasmine wondered if he’d taken up drug dealing. Guy he was with was not local, not with those shoes.

Al explained about the lantern, and Idris. Jasmine’s drunken brain decided to go along with it, see what happens. Then he got to the wish part.

“I get two wishes, baby. And I’m giving one to you.” Al looked at Idris. “I can do that, right?”

Idris was silent a moment, then nodded. “I cannot tell you how much of a bad idea this is. But if you will it, so be it.”

Al turned to Jasmine. “There you go, honey. One wish. Make a dream come true.” Al was entranced by her, his brain truck stupid with the possibilities of their life together. To his horror, she started laughing. It wasn’t a funny laugh.

“One wish? Yeah right! You walk in here with some pimp looking fuckhead and tell me my wishes can come true? How stupid do you think I am? Is the roofie in the drunk next? I wake up on some boat? If I could make a wish, I’d kill every black asshole in a fifty-mile radius like your friend here.”

Idris stared at her in horror. He could feel hi flesh starting to melt. “AL, you stupid redneck motherfucker”

Before he could get another word out, his face slid off his skull, leaving it gaping. Blood and rot smells filled the air, and as Shery came over, she saw Idris and began screaming. She’d never stop again.

Two hundred men died that day, but Al was only blamed for two. At the trial, he tried not to weep as he was sentenced to death. Jasmine was not there, having run off with a prepper she met during her talk how tour.

While they strapped him to the gurney, Al was still thinking of Jasmine. But next life, maybe he wouldn’t fall for a woman with a rebel flag tattoo across her chest. Then the guard flipped the switch, and he was gone.

J

Every new beginning came from some other beginning’s end.

Greetings from the end of the world! Or at least, you can see it from here. We’re facing economic ruin, a pandemic the likes of which hasn’t been seen in a century, and our planet is quickly becoming uninhabitable. It’s as if the universe played multiple choice and cheated its ass off. Putting the Cheese Hitler in charge was just cruel, though

What’s an old liberal like me to do? Hoard like one bunch of fools, or run around in public, like the other group of fools? I could just sit home and worry about everything, but I did that before the apocalypse. Also, if it is the apocalypse, how will we know? I’m sure no one at Pompeii saw that coming.

I’m going to do something incredibly stupid, according to my reptile section of the brain, and be hopeful. That’s right, I said it.  I’m hopeful. I’m not pie in the sky, navel gazing hopeful, though. It’s a levelheaded, seeing the best in people during this time kind of thing. And it all starts with ends and beginnings, hence the title of this post. And once again, points for you if you can name where I stole the title from. Let’s begin!

Beginning: Respect and the realization that we need all parts of society to be treated well and fairly. IF you’d told most people that Walmart stockers and truck drivers were going to be the most important people during a collapse of society, they’d have laughed at you. Not anymore. At this point, they’re one of the few things holding the whole thing together. If we don’t get them a decent wage, decent health care, and decent treatment, we’ve missed the point of this whole experience.

Ending: Bailing out giant corporations and the stock market. People in big business like to talk about free markets, and how only the strong should survive. But when the crap hits the fan, they suddenly become socialists. One and a half trillion dollars they took from you and me and blew it in fifteen minutes. Even Charlie Sheen on coke can’t spend like that. That was enough to end student debt, or fund Medicare for All in perpetuity. The Fortune 500 took Trump’s tax break last year and spent on themselves like a Kardashian after their first show check. Time to let them follow their own rules, and not bail out their house of cards.

Beginning: Americans are finally starting to acknowledge we have different social classes, and they’re not liking it. Most Americans, even when poor, act like temporarily inconvenienced billionaires. If the money spent on Wall Street didn’t wake people up, then the imbalance in COVID-19 testing rollouts sure did.

Ending: The idea of for-profit medicine in America. If you’re watching the USA’s readiness for COVID and cringing, you’re paying attention. Ever since Nixon unfettered hospitals from non-profits in 1972, we’ve slipped down in health care quality. When Saudi Arabia is regarded as a better place to get sick, we have fucked up.

Beginning: The cracks in the Trump Administration and the GOP. If delaying aid, outright lies, and thousands dying due to federal incompetence, malfeasance and greed aren’t enough to boot them out of control, it’s time for armed revolt.

Ending: The ridicule of Medicare for All and UBI as ridiculous ideas. The Trump Administration is planning to spend 30 trillion to shore up the banks in this country. After that, we have no excuse for homelessness, crushing debt or anyone dying of starvation or homelessness. We’re going to come through this as more caring, more aware people, or we’re going to die in masse. There is no excuse anymore. No decision about us, without us, period.

International Intervention

Welcome, and please come in and sit down. I’m sure you recognize the rest of us. Some of us are old friends, and some of us are new. But we’ve all come together, much like you came together at the start. But this is an intervention, and it’s needed. I’m sure the diplomats and therapists would rather we put this delicately, but you’ve always been about being upfront, so I’m just going to put it out there:

America, you have a cock problem.

Not like in those blue pill ads. You’ve proven you’re very capable in the fucking department. Just ask those Kurds and kids in cages.  No, this has been an ongoing problem, and we’re here to discuss it. Now, have a seat, and we’ll explain.

When you truly burst on the world stage, we didn’t mind you wagging your bits about. I mean you smacked Hitler nicely in the face, and polite company means we can’t even discuss what you did to poor Japan.  Thanks for that, by the way. The rest of us were having some problems in that department at the time.

Hell, we didn’t even care when you and USSR got into a protracted sword fight as it were. We did object to you bringing in other folks to measure and take pictures, but once old Boris surrendered, we figured you’d settle down and put it back in your pants.

But you didn’t, did you. You just dressed it up in church clothes and put on a show. You waved it around the world, expecting us to applaud. And when people didn’t you hit them about the head with it. You sold it like a cheap trollop, two shows a day, and three on Sunday.

It was the church clothes we found annoying. Have any of your leaders ever read the Bible? Did they miss the part about Matthew 6:7? You took Jesus and hollowed him out, so he could be run by America’s real god: money.

With the turning of the century, we hoped you’d show some decorum. I mean, you even busted that one leader for too much weenie wagging. It looked like you were beginning to grow up, that some maturity was going to come into the American pecker show.

Then 9/11 happened.

We get it. We’ve all been there, a time or two. Someone knocked you down, embarrassed you, pretty much pointed and laughed. And we were all trying to be supportive, to help you carry on, to help Stella get her groove back.

But your response was so ridiculous, so stupid, it took even Italy by surprise. And they wrote the book on stupidity on the world stage, centuries before you lads showed up. At first it seemed normal. They slapped you in the face with their dick, you were going to slap back.

Imagine everyone’s surprise when you turned over to another country and not only slapped them in the face with it, you kicked them in the head with your balls and pissed all over their backs. And worst of all, you were proud of it.

That’s when we became worried. Most of us, when we’ve shown our bits, have only done so when the occasion calls for it, or when we’ve had too much to drink. But you lot lost your minds. You were so hell bent on whipping it out, you didn’t even care why. You were hurt, and drunk with power. So, we all sat back and waited for you to sober up.

Then you didn’t. You kept going. And after eight years, you had a leader finally, who appeared ready to zip up, clean up the mess, and talk like adults. Problem was that half of you didn’t like that idea.

Half of you wanted to keep going, you liked being proud and loud. You liked being cock of the walk. Some of you are so proud, you plaster your body, your home and your vehicle with metaphorical cocks. It’s funny for a minute, then it becomes embarrassing.

America is now like that old guy at the club. You think you’re hot shit, and you keep waving it about, but the rest of us have seen the lights come up, and it’s not a pretty picture.

The worst part of this is how blind you’ve been to some of the other cocks out there. The USSR is sneaking in your backdoor, and trust us, they won’t use lube. Just ask Chechnya.  China’s is like a dragon, slithering around you when you least expect it.

The last straw was you putting a literal cock in charge. He’s out of control, easily hurt, brightly colored, and has no emotion other than the urge to fuck someone up and embarrassment. Sounds like a cock to me.

We’re begging you, USA, put it away. Get a new leader, one who isn’t a walking pecker. Quit turning yours into a cross and waving it out and about for too long. I mean, we think the Scots do it too long for Xmas, and you’re running yours into nearly a quarter of the year.

And once you zip up, you might see things a little clearer. Turn off the anger porn at Fox and talk to each other, and then to the rest of the world. Time is up, and the world needs grownup who can think rationally, and look beyond the next news/election/ratings cycle. Once you’re talking, then you get into real relationships, and it’s so much better than those cheap affairs you’ve been having.

If you decide not to go along with this, we have no choice but to shun you. Cut you off, as it were. Treat you like the asshole you’re being. You might be prepared for a fight, but we won’t fight you. We’ll just ignore you until you go away.

That would be a shame, because America has always prided itself on its openness, until lately. Half your language is from other languages. So is most of your food, for that matter.

The choice is yours, America. Keep showing us your dick, and we’ll turn away. We won’t buy your goods, or your culture. And then where will you be?

One last thing before we go. Knock it off with the big metal cock replacements. Nobody’s impressed, and you’re killing your own way too much with them. Good night.

“Collected:A Cybil Lewis SF Mystery Collection” by Nicole Givens Kurtz: A review

“Collected” is the latest Cybil Lewis book from Nicole Givens Kurtz. The subject of three novels (soon to be four), Cybil Lewis is a hard-edged detective in The District, a post-apocalyptic version of our nation’s capital.

If you’ve never read Kurtz’s stew of noir and future doom, this is a perfect jumping off point. The stories weave in and out of the character’s history, with characters showing up in multiple stories.

I’ve read the novels, and they’re rich banquets of noir, sprinkled with commentary about life, love, race and what the future might hold for us. These stories are no different, but do provide a great introduction to Cybil, while also filling in parts of her backstory that may not be known to those who’ve read the books.

Cybil is not the grim, loveless anti-hero of most apocalypse fiction. She’s an older woman who knows what she wants and works hard to get it. Even after the world falls apart, people will still be people, and Cybil encounters emotional drams and complexities that most sci-fi apocalypses don’t touch.

This is a fine collection, and the artwork by Julia Lacquement puts faces to characters really enhances the product. If you like noir mixed with post apocalypse, this is worth checking out.

“Blood, Sweat and Blaster Bolts”: a review

Released today, “Blood, Sweat and Blaster Bolts: Adrenaline Charged Tales of Speculative Fiction” is a new collection of stories by author Ronald T. Jones. It’s published by South Carolina’s own Mocha Memoir Press.

“Blood, Sweat and Blaster Bolts” collects eight stories, and clocks in at a nice 225 pages. This is a nice introduction to a new author in Afrofuturism, and the tales mostly live up the title, with lots of action, space battles, and drama. But the stories also manage to not bury ideas in the all the action, which puts it ahead of many hard sci-fi collections.

The first tale. “Outpost” is about the last outpost of a crumbling empire, and the last person in the army. Unlike many of the tales of this ilk, it manages to end on a hopeful note, and went places I didn’t expect it to.

“Freebooter” is next, a thrilling tale of survival that manages to touch on issues of colonialism and immigration. “Safeguard” is a nice little tale about religion and the survival of humanity. “The Formula” is a nice little spy romp with touches of steampunk. “Approaching a Day of Reckoning” is a great read, full of action, and taken from the viewpoint of the oppressed, “Tyler’s Goddess” takes the trope of a man from an advanced technology being dropped among primitives and does some fun things with it.

“Mission to Gined” and “Mist Lord” the final two stories, take up almost half the book. “Mission” is a great ride, and once again turns a noted trope, soldiers versus an intractable enemy, on its head. “Mist Lord” is not as action packed as the rest of the book, but is also far grittier, dealing with corrupt governments and drug dealing, while in a space setting.

This was my first exposure to Ronald T. Jones’s work, and I was impressed. His stories have a unique viewpoint, and his world building was well done, as was the action. If I have one quibble it is that most of the stories seem to be set in the same science fiction universe, but other than similar races and events, there’s nothing that really ties them together. If there’s another collection of stories like these, maybe a timeline or a summary of the history can be included.

“Blood, Sweat and Blaster Bullets” does exactly what it’s supposed to. It gives you lots of action, memorable creations, and well written ideas. It’s well worth checking out.

If you wish to purchase this collection, here’s a link to it on amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07YJ7N83K?pf_rd_p=183f5289-9dc0-416f-942e-e8f213ef368b&pf_rd_r=SJ39N0AWPP37Q13Z8ZFM

And if you’re interested in more Mocha Memoirs books(and you should be) you can visit them at:  http://www.mochamemoirspress.com

Lie to me, say I’m the only one: A #HoldOnToTheLight post

My name is Trevor, and I’m a liar. Been lying since I got away with pulling a prank on my mom April Fool’s Day 1979. (I put sugar in her saltshaker, and salt in the sugar. Morning coffee was chaotic.) I’ve lied in my personal life, I’ve lied in church, and I’ve lied in several professions. I was in sales, after all. And as an aspiring writer, I use lies to tell truths. But the person I lie to the most is myself.

“I should die.” “I’m worthless.” “I don’t have any talent.” Those are the top three, but the lies take many forms.  It’s a continuing litany, a peanut gallery and a hallelujah chorus. It was constant since I was in high school. It’s only since going through therapy, getting some meditation techniques, and anti-anxiety medicine that I get some peace.

We live in a society that lies to itself about its lying. Is it any wonder we lie to ourselves? Some of those lies are necessary, like it or not. Some are the grease that allows society to function. If people didn’t believe they could reach something, they wouldn’t ever try. And yet we praise those who “keep it real”. Most people who use that term are insensitive assholes who use their version of the truth to harm others. And what they think is the truth damages and forms lies in other people’s skulls.

“Be real, you’re never going to be a journalist.” “You’re not good enough to make the NFL.” Young people and children get told this, and some of them start to believe it.  They stop trying. They give up and go work in a faceless office somewhere. Or worse, they cope with the nagging feeling they could do something better, or do something creative, by numbing themselves with drugs, bad behavior or endless consumption.

I know that path well. I spent a good decade and a half drinking, fighting, and trying to kill myself slowly through nihilism and apathy.  I thought I was being hard by not caring. What I was doing was not engaging, sleepwalking through things.  When the pain was bad, I’d enter what I call “survival mode.” It was when I was feeling the numbest, when the voices were loudest. I spent that time in flight, when I thought I was fighting.

It took getting married to a woman raising three kids to start me down the road to really healing. A single mom has no time for your self-pity, or bullshit excuses. Your insomnia does not matter to three kids who need to get to school. Your terror about finances will not keep the lights on. It was a crash course in reality. But it came with people who believed in me, who put word and deed together in that department.

So, I owed it to them to get it together. And it is a battle I fight every day. Some days are a win, some are not. But I tell myself things which are true, but part of my brain thinks is a lie, in an effort to someday make the lies go away.

“I am worth something.” “I am somebody.” “I am loved.” These are truths. I know this in my heart. But there’s still a part of me that doesn’t believe. So, I lie my ass off to it. I tell it what it wants to hear. That I think I’m scum still. Anything to shut that inner asshole up.

And that’s my best advice today. Yeah, the truth hurts. Sweeten it up a little. Take joy in believing in yourself, even if it isn’t true. Believe you’re headlining WrestleMania when you’re only in some high school gym. Let every sketch be Kirby, every written word be Proust. Yes, you’ll need a reality check at some point, but learning to tell good lies to yourself will get you through some dark truths. Believe me, I’m a good liar.

Bonus section: First person to tell me the artist and name of the song the title of this piece came from gets their name added in here. I can only offer glory, not cash.

#HoldOnToTheLight is a blog campaign encompassing blog posts by fantasy and science fiction authors around the world in an effort to raise awareness around treatment for depression, suicide prevention, domestic violence intervention, PTSD initiatives, bullying prevention and other mental health-related issues. We believe fandom should be supportive, welcoming and inclusive, in the long tradition of fandom taking care of its own. We encourage readers and fans to seek the help they or their loved ones need without shame or embarrassment.

Please consider donating to or volunteering for organizations dedicated to treatment and prevention such as: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, Hope for the Warriors (PTSD), National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Canadian Mental Health Association, MIND (UK), SANE (UK), BeyondBlue (Australia), To Write Love On Her Arms (TWLOHA) and the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.

To find out more about #HoldOnToTheLight, find a list of participating authors and blog posts, or reach a media contact, go tohttp://www.HoldOnToTheLight.com and join us on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/WeHoldOnToTheLight