Place In History

There have been only a few “Where were you?” moments in my lifetime.

9/11.  President Obama’s inauguration.  These are the watershed moments in my lifetime, events that changed my perception of the world.  And eight years after the last one, another inauguration is poised to do that yet again.

Say hello to President Trump.

I’m going to make this as non-partisan and non-political as I can.  This is a “Where were you?” moment.  It is the end of an historic presidency with one of the most universally-beloved public figures in recent history, and the beginning of a new one, with someone who is one of the most divisive figures in recent history.  It is a history-making moment in ways that are too numerous to count.  And while I will not watch the actual ceremony, nor will I watch the ball afterwards, I will be entirely cognizant of where I am when he takes the oath of office, whether I’m taking a nap, or making a sandwich.

However, I encourage you all to be aware of where you are, because for better or worse, the world you live in is going to change.  It may not change all at once, or even in ways that are immediately noticeable, but change is most definitely imminent.  And we should all be aware of not just where we are, but what we’re doing and how we got there.

I remember when I was in high school, and I talked to someone who remembered where they were when Kennedy was assassinated.  I remember talking to people who remembered where they were when Reagan got shot.  Hell, I remember where I was when the Notorious B.I.G. was murdered.  And I’m sure we all remember the events in our lives leading up to and immediately following the first tower impact, as well as what we were doing when Barack Obama took the oath of office.

This is one more of those times.

Take stock of where you are and what you’re doing, because you’re going to want to tell your children about this.  This is going to be historic.

No one said all history we make must be good.

Ferguson.

In line with my new directive to actually speak my mind...

The police officer didn't get charged with a crime by the grand jury.  I'm not entirely surprised.  Putting aside my personal feelings on the subject, without incontrovertible video proof, there was no way that grand jury was going to charge a cop for shooting a black kid.    And as Ferguson, MO burns in rage and goes to war with itself, the narrative now changes to the media head-shaking about the violent and uncivilized citizens of this broken-hearted city, all while subtly implying that somehow, he deserved it.  That, like Trayvon Martin, if he just decided to be Black somewhere else, none of this would have happened.

Okay, maybe that was a little more personal feeling than I intended.

The problem for me is that the narrative should be concern about the increasing militarization of our police force.  The fact that police seem to seek confrontation more than ever.  That there is shockingly little psych evaluation of police officers before they fire a shot, instead of after the fact.  That racial profiling, that many men and women of color-- including myself--  have had to endure, is still the go-to method of determining likely criminals.  But we will likely hear none of this.

We instead hear the garbage spewed forth by people like Rudy Giuliani, stating that police brutality or overreaction isn't the issue, black-on-black crime is the issue.  This is somehow our fault.

I'm going to sidestep the racial issue.  I'm going to table the police brutality issue.  A city burns tonight.  We should all be concerned as to why.

I Know I Said I Wouldn't Talk About It...

I made a promise to myself that when the book came out, when I would start to promote, I would tone down the political stuff that came out of my head and ended up in my blog.  I would tone down my comments on racism,  I would stop spreading my unsolicited liberal opinion.  I made the conscious decision to make no comment on perceived injustice in this country, in the news, in any viewpoint.  I'm a fiction writer, not a political journalist.  I stopped watching the news, interested myself only in the sports pages.

Unsuprisingly, I've had very little to write in this blog for quite some time.

Then came the Jordan Davis trial.

I heard that Michael Dunn was convicted of everything but murder 1, to the outrage of most.  I didn't understand why, so I read up on the trial.  Horror crept into my mind.  We've got another Stand Your Ground case.

Short version:  White dude drunkenly tells SUV full of black kids to turn their rap music down.  Black kids politely (maybe not so politely) tell him where to go.  Drunk white dude goes thinks someone is pointing a shotgun at him, goes back to his own car, grabs a gun and caps off 10 times into the SUV.  Nine shots hit, one kid dies.

It makes me want to puke writing it.

I'm not even going to talk about the verdict.  That is it's own animal.  I'm going to rant for a second on the horrific racial injustice inherent in the murder and the racist nature of the SYG law in and of itself.  It speaks to an era we convinced ourselves ended when Martin Luther King Jr. marched on Washington.  It speaks of a mindset people declared over with the election of President Obama.  The idea that you can blast someone when you feel threatened is not universal.  Those kids in the car were threatened.  If they produced a weapon and shot Mr. Dunn, would there be any doubt as to the treatment they would receive in the legal system and in the media? There would be referendum on the violence inherent in rap music, a call to arms to stop this scourge to our youth, and oh yeah, those kids would ALL be put away for life.  Trayvon Martin was shot dead in his own neighborhood because a white guy, who we now know is batsh** crazy, saw his hoodie and decided he was a threat, and for half a minute people blamed the hoodie.

I think we can agree that a law is unjust if it is not or cannot be applied evenly, which was the driving force behind eliminating the "Separate, but Equal" thinking behind the Jim Crow laws.  The Stand Your Ground laws are of the same ilk.  It punishes people for being Black, assigns a threat level to being Black, makes it okay for citizens fearing a phantom menace to police you for being Black, and to what end?  So that we'll tip our caps to every white person walking by and greet them with a "Good mornin' suh" to put them at ease?  So that we'll keep to "our own" neighborhoods with people who look like us and therefore stay where we're supposed to be?

If you've never met me or spoken to me, I'm a threatening looking Black guy -- 6'4", 260 pounds give or take.  I like wearing hoodies.  I like rap music.  Have I signed my own death warrant? Like the quote says, "There ain't much I can do about being big and Black at the same time."

You Got What You Wanted. Are You Happy Now? (short post)

Welcome to the era of sequestration.

The political grandstanding between the Tea Party and the Sane People have come to the point where, due to the fact that they couldn't agree on a budget, on tax cuts, on anything, taxes have been arbitrarily increased and spending has been arbitrarily slashed.  Some of the more egregious cuts?

Education: Goodbye Head Start and other programs that were federally funded.  Hope you parents can find a way to deal with your kids after school.

Healthcare:  In my home town, 3 major hospitals are closing in high need areas: SUNY Downstate, Brooklyn Hospital, LICH.

Immigration: several thousand illegal immigrants that were being detained in advance of obtaining paperwork have been released.  Take that Arizona!

Defense:  The military took huge and deep cuts, slashing it's size by at least 10%

Unemployment and Social Security:  Both saw cuts of 6%, meaning the amount and duration of these benefits have been cut.

Oh, yeah, something like a million jobs have been lost in the process.

Now, the same people who were clamoring for smaller government are hamstrung and are wondering where the government support is.  And the legislators who let this happen seem convinced that government is supposed to be run like a business, and turn a profit.  They're wrong.  Whenever government has extra money, it's not called profit, it's called surplus.  There's a reason for that.

Well, now that TP has gotten what they want,  I wonder if they'll be happy now?

Review: No Flesh Shall Be Spared

I wasn't sure about writing this review for two reasons: I don't usually dig zombie books, and the author, Thom Carnell, is a friend of mine.  I read this book a little more than a year ago, however, and loved it despite those very same reasons.  There's no reason, then, to not defy convention.

Carnell's debut novel, "No Flesh Shall Be Spared," places the reader in an interesting situation.  The Zombie Apocalypse happened. It's over and done with.  What happens next?  In this world, there's only one answer: Zombie Pit Fighting!  Contestants are placed in an arena with hordes of the dead, using the weapons at hand, their fighting skills, and their wits to survive.  Winning grants you money and fame.  Losing makes you hungry for flesh.

The story follows the rise of Cleese, the new face of zombie pit fighting, as he is recruited into this lucrative sport and trained in the fine arts of Zombie-killin' for sport.  Cleese is trained by Monk, who essentially plays Mickey to Cleese's Rocky, and sticks to his side as he kills his way to the top.  Along the way Cleese runs afoul of the league's corporate sponsorship and falls in love with a sexy she-slayer.  As the story progresses, we find out background on almost every character with a speaking part through the liberal use of well-placed and well-paced "Before..." chapters, which serve as a look into what it was like at the beginning of the Zombie uprising, a profile on certain characters, and a peek at the origins of America's newest pastime.

No Flesh Shall Be Spared is brash and ballsy, and a fresh take on the Walking Dead scenario we've seen time and time again since the remake of Dawn of the Dead in the last decade.  Take one part Gladiator, one part Night of the Living Dead, and one part Escape from New York, and you have this fun zombie action tale. The only complaints I have are a very slow start and an overuse of f-bombs, but these do nothing to detract from the overall enjoyment of the story.  I started out reading it because the author is a friend.  By the third chapter I was reading because my friend wrote a damn good book.

Noteworthy: Two words:  Zombie Mass.  That is all.

Rating: 9 of 10

Brave New World

So here we are, New Year's Day, and we're all still here.  The world didn't end, we were not all consumed in hellfire and Brimstone.  Those kooky Mayans pulled one over on us.  Since we're past the date of the scheduled Apocalypse, that makes this a post-apocalyptic world.  What shall we do with this brave new world?

Every year, we go about the task of making resolutions, of stating in grand fashion the things we would like to change or improve of fix.  This year... meh.  It's 2013.  I'm 34 years old, and minus a few tweaks here and there, I'm basically the person I'm going to be.  So, what now?  Well, instead of thinking of the things I'd like to change, there are things I'd like to actually do.  The Mayan Prophecy, as illusory as it was, gave me a bit of perspective.  The world could end tomorrow.  It's not likely, of course, but anything could happen.  And even if the world is still spinning, my time -- our time -- on it is finite.  This is a wonderful world, and we should not be afraid to do the things in it.

Like snowboard.  Or sky dive.  Or parasail.  Or succeed.

We try sweeping changes looking for a big win.  I came to realize in the last year that it doesn't work quite like that.  Very few people hit the lottery.  The "big win" that we observe from the outside is a combination of little wins, medium losses, and big lessons from all.  Nothing comes without effort, and effort doesn't come without guts.  So I "resolve' to have the guts to at least do some of the things I've never been able to do for fear of failure, embarrassment or death.

Happy 2013, everyone.

Benediction (short post)

Okay, so it's the closing hours of... well everything.  The Mayans, who couldn't predict their end at the hands of the Conquistadors, foretold that the world will end sometime in the next 24 hours.  Of course, this is nonsense, but let's assume for a second that they're right, and all my efforts to save the world (basically drinking and partying) fail.  I'm not worried about how it'll happen, or what it'll be like.  I'm worried about dying and not getting to say what I have to say.  The most important thing I'll ever say, ever again.

I love you.

And you.  You too, over there in the back.  All of you.  Even you, right there.  All the family, the friends I've had, the loves, the haters, the critics and the supporters.  I love each and every last one of you.  More than any of you can possibly realize.  The experience of knowing you, of being in the presence of your words and emotions, good and bad, has shaped me into who I am and who I've tried to be.  Even if I haven't spoken to you in years, or we just talked yesterday.

I'm going to do everything I can to save us (read: party and drink).  In the event I'm not successful, you should know this.  And if I am successful...

Th world as we know it should end.  The hatred should be replaced with love.  The apathy should be exchanged for compassion.  Division should be countered by unity.  There's more that we have in common than we have different.  Remember that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a world to save.