I went to WV Free's Gala tonight, went to see Joycelyn Elders (a personal favorite of mine) and listen to them celebrate a women's right to choose. I've always been conflicted on the subject. On the one hand, it's murder and I can not be convinced it is otherwise. On the other hand, a person ought to have the right to decide what grows or does not grow inside their body. You have to belong to you first. I don't like it, but abortion should be legal and hopefully, rare.
I didn't want to mingle. Everyone was having a good time, shaking hands, having drinks and making friends. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to talk about the organization, the good they do or even hear about the weather. I was just there for the show. In the meantime, I had my hands full and there wasn't a soul in the place who could help.
I remembered five years back when someone I knew was pregnant and she came to stay with my wife and me while she got an abortion. I remember we offered to take the child. We offered to let her stay with us if she wanted, cover the medical costs and raise the kid. We could do this permanently or temporarily. We could adopt officially or unofficially, but there was no discussion. She turned us down cold. All she wanted was a place to crash until she could get it taken care of.
I still think about it with resentment. She takes in cats and dogs. She won't eat meat or wear leather. She's environmentally conscious, cares about social justice and while we've never discussed it, I'd bet she's a staunch opponent of the death penalty --but abortion as casual birth control is okay? I don't get it.
Go back a little further to Amanda and me in college. We fucked like rabbits. We never used protection and not to get gross, but I've got really good aim. History has born this out. Given the basic math, the odds of her not having been pregnant by the time she left school are thin. We talked about having kids several times. We talked about having kids young, discussed names and imagined what they might be like when they were our age. We were just stupid, but completely out of our heads in love at the time. I'll never know because I'll never find her --I don't even know where to look any more-- but I think she had an abortion, maybe within a month after she left school, when we were still talking on the phone just about every other night.
A little farther still... there's me waiting the hour between my intro to bonehead physics and my intro to bonehead biology, sitting out in the hallway, looking at a glass case full of babies in jars. Every one of them was labeled: six weeks, eight weeks, ten weeks, eighteen weeks. If you stood at the correct angle, you could look on the back of the labeling cards at the brief notes explaining how a particular specimen had come to be there. No abortions. They were all miscarriages. Many of them seemed to have been caused by auto accidents.
I remember the horror of it. The bodies were intact. You could count their fingers and toes. It was all so casual, so clinical. I still dream about the glass case sometimes, just dream about looking on the shelves at the jars.
So, this is what I thought about while I took down notes, while I tried to do a good job reporting the event without coloring it with my particular baggage. Dr. Elders was funny and honest. The people at WV Free believe they're doing a good thing and the food was pretty decent.
Everyone was pleasant, but it was the loneliest assignment I ever took.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Best day
My best day was almost five years ago. The specifics aren't really that important, but it was just a quiet day when nothing was rushed. I saw just about everybody I could have wanted to see and was given the one thing I'd wished the longest for. I remember I had pancakes for dinner. There was no laundry to take care of, no dishes to wash and no job requiring my attention. My ears didn't hurt and I didn't want to be anywhere else. I got some nice shoes and the weather was beautiful -sunny, but not too hot.
I could really use another best day. It's been a while.
I could really use another best day. It's been a while.
63, 62, 61
Three this week.
Dean & Me: A Love Story: Jerry Lewis -I've always had a passing interest in the Rat pack and that generation of entertainers. These were very talented men, but also very flawed. To almost a man, they cheated on their wives, associated with murderers, rapists and thieves and they had egos bigger than the moon. Nonetheless, they were fascinating.
Jerry and Dean were what came before. They had all the flaws, but still entertained a generation of people in post-war America. Dean was the smooth, older guy with the charm and the nice voice. Jerry was the monkey. Jerry got all the press. Dean played golf.
The book spans the length of the duo's career, their personal lives at the time, and what led to their break-up. It seems like a frank portrayal of who they were. Jerry Lewis is foul-mouthed, crusty, but still funny. I don't know that I buy the humility all the time. He shoulders a lot of responsibility for how things worked out, but I get the impression the end of their partnership and the loss of that friendship for 30 years or so was a heavy burden for Lewis.
It's an interesting read and a nice overview of the celebrity culture of the late 1940s and early 1950s without a decency filter.
The Tell-tale Lilac Bush: Ruth Ann Musick -For years, when I worked at the bookstore, high school kids would come in looking for this one. It was part of a reading list and a book we never seemed to keep in stock when needed.
This is similar to the Foxfire books. It takes the oral tradition of telling ghost stories and puts it to paper. Some of the stories are fun. Others are duller than dirt, but it makes for some thought-provoking reading. According the Musick's editorials in the book, there aren't as many vengeful or evil ghost stories in West Virginia (I'm summarizing). They're more helpful or sad. These stories are largely that. Somebody meets with a gruesome end, but they don't come back to get even or if they do, they only do it in a kind of half-assed way: rattle some chains, glow and moan a bit. Occasionally, there is some punishment, but usually it's just a lot of spiritual bitching and encouragement to move. It sort of parallels the state's justice system.
Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom: Corey Doctorow -Philip K. Dick can do wonders making the unbelievable and outright bizarre seem plausible and lived in. Doctorow can't do that, but he still has glimmerings of brilliance.
In some not entirely distant future, most of the ills of the world have been eliminated. People are spreading out among the stars. Hunger and disease have been effectively wiped out. Cloning has been perfected, as well as the ability to digitally transferring consciousness and human memory, essentially removing the need for anyone to die. When you get sick or injured, you grow a new body and the last back-up of your mind is implanted. This is pretty convenient in the event you're killed hang gliding or murdered by rivals in a theme park. People also kill themselves off to be reloaded to avoid minor inconveniences, like having a cold. They also occasionally "dead head," kill themselves off and take a vacation from being alive.
Real money has been replaced by the wealth provided by esteem. The more people like, respect and fear you, the more important you are in the system. This is calculated by computers, which everyone has embedded in their heads.
People don't so much earn a living as find interesting things to do to amuse themselves and others.
Doctorow never quite sells me on his post-human world, but provides some ideas for what might happen if wealth and want were eliminated.
Dean & Me: A Love Story: Jerry Lewis -I've always had a passing interest in the Rat pack and that generation of entertainers. These were very talented men, but also very flawed. To almost a man, they cheated on their wives, associated with murderers, rapists and thieves and they had egos bigger than the moon. Nonetheless, they were fascinating.
Jerry and Dean were what came before. They had all the flaws, but still entertained a generation of people in post-war America. Dean was the smooth, older guy with the charm and the nice voice. Jerry was the monkey. Jerry got all the press. Dean played golf.
The book spans the length of the duo's career, their personal lives at the time, and what led to their break-up. It seems like a frank portrayal of who they were. Jerry Lewis is foul-mouthed, crusty, but still funny. I don't know that I buy the humility all the time. He shoulders a lot of responsibility for how things worked out, but I get the impression the end of their partnership and the loss of that friendship for 30 years or so was a heavy burden for Lewis.
It's an interesting read and a nice overview of the celebrity culture of the late 1940s and early 1950s without a decency filter.
The Tell-tale Lilac Bush: Ruth Ann Musick -For years, when I worked at the bookstore, high school kids would come in looking for this one. It was part of a reading list and a book we never seemed to keep in stock when needed.
This is similar to the Foxfire books. It takes the oral tradition of telling ghost stories and puts it to paper. Some of the stories are fun. Others are duller than dirt, but it makes for some thought-provoking reading. According the Musick's editorials in the book, there aren't as many vengeful or evil ghost stories in West Virginia (I'm summarizing). They're more helpful or sad. These stories are largely that. Somebody meets with a gruesome end, but they don't come back to get even or if they do, they only do it in a kind of half-assed way: rattle some chains, glow and moan a bit. Occasionally, there is some punishment, but usually it's just a lot of spiritual bitching and encouragement to move. It sort of parallels the state's justice system.
Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom: Corey Doctorow -Philip K. Dick can do wonders making the unbelievable and outright bizarre seem plausible and lived in. Doctorow can't do that, but he still has glimmerings of brilliance.
In some not entirely distant future, most of the ills of the world have been eliminated. People are spreading out among the stars. Hunger and disease have been effectively wiped out. Cloning has been perfected, as well as the ability to digitally transferring consciousness and human memory, essentially removing the need for anyone to die. When you get sick or injured, you grow a new body and the last back-up of your mind is implanted. This is pretty convenient in the event you're killed hang gliding or murdered by rivals in a theme park. People also kill themselves off to be reloaded to avoid minor inconveniences, like having a cold. They also occasionally "dead head," kill themselves off and take a vacation from being alive.
Real money has been replaced by the wealth provided by esteem. The more people like, respect and fear you, the more important you are in the system. This is calculated by computers, which everyone has embedded in their heads.
People don't so much earn a living as find interesting things to do to amuse themselves and others.
Doctorow never quite sells me on his post-human world, but provides some ideas for what might happen if wealth and want were eliminated.
Monday, April 20, 2009
65,64
After last week's fun fest of real-life murder and gore, I thought I'd read a couple of books that didn't involve psychopaths sodomizing young boys or child soldiers cutting the throats of other children. Just a little light reading to cleanse the palette.
Shambling Towards Hiroshima: James Morrow - It's an alternate world take on what might have happened if some of the mad science in the movies of the 1950s wasn't so mad. Syms Thorley is a monster movie actor who gets hired by the U.S. Government to don a rubber monster suit for a presentation to the Japanese delegation toward the end of World War II. The U.S. doesn't want to send troops in, for what would be a costly battle, and that other project they're working on to end the war --the Manhattan project-- is a little stalled. You see, the rubber monster suit is just a presentation. The government has grown three giant sized, fire-breathing lizards out in the desert. They are itching to unleash them on on Japan and unless Thorley is very, very persuasive as his pretend monster, that's exactly what's going to happen.
Shambling Towards Hiroshima is a fun romp. It's funny. It's weird and reads a bit like a slightly self-effacing Philip K. Dick story, where you know, in your heart of heart, this is all nonsense, but for a little while it seems like believable nonsense.
Vulcan's Hammer: Philip K. Dick -I've been a fan of the guy since, seemingly, forever. I never got much into the whole Bladerunner/Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep thing, but instead like books like "The Man In The High Castle," "Dydedtown World," and "Dr. Bloodmoney." He's at his best when he takes the improbable and gives it a feeling of authenticity.
Vulcan's Hammer is about an earth society where people have submitted their will to a computer for governance. The computer is designed to look at problems objectively and without passion. Eventually, Vulcan begins to suspect people mean to destroy him and he begins plotting against humanity, which leads to a battle between people and machines. Each side essentially fulfills their own prophetic belief that the other is out to get them. It also touches on the failings of dogmatism belief, but without making those who find themselves caught up in the rules and regulations as evil or stupid.
Not one of my favorites, but still a fair read.
Shambling Towards Hiroshima: James Morrow - It's an alternate world take on what might have happened if some of the mad science in the movies of the 1950s wasn't so mad. Syms Thorley is a monster movie actor who gets hired by the U.S. Government to don a rubber monster suit for a presentation to the Japanese delegation toward the end of World War II. The U.S. doesn't want to send troops in, for what would be a costly battle, and that other project they're working on to end the war --the Manhattan project-- is a little stalled. You see, the rubber monster suit is just a presentation. The government has grown three giant sized, fire-breathing lizards out in the desert. They are itching to unleash them on on Japan and unless Thorley is very, very persuasive as his pretend monster, that's exactly what's going to happen.
Shambling Towards Hiroshima is a fun romp. It's funny. It's weird and reads a bit like a slightly self-effacing Philip K. Dick story, where you know, in your heart of heart, this is all nonsense, but for a little while it seems like believable nonsense.
Vulcan's Hammer: Philip K. Dick -I've been a fan of the guy since, seemingly, forever. I never got much into the whole Bladerunner/Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep thing, but instead like books like "The Man In The High Castle," "Dydedtown World," and "Dr. Bloodmoney." He's at his best when he takes the improbable and gives it a feeling of authenticity.
Vulcan's Hammer is about an earth society where people have submitted their will to a computer for governance. The computer is designed to look at problems objectively and without passion. Eventually, Vulcan begins to suspect people mean to destroy him and he begins plotting against humanity, which leads to a battle between people and machines. Each side essentially fulfills their own prophetic belief that the other is out to get them. It also touches on the failings of dogmatism belief, but without making those who find themselves caught up in the rules and regulations as evil or stupid.
Not one of my favorites, but still a fair read.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Snake handlers and Blonds
Looks like I can't post the chapter. For whatever reason, Blogger doesn't like the text and hairballs the whole thing. So... until I figure a way around it, I guess it stays off the web.
Meanwhile, since someone asked, let me tell you about the twins.
My senior year in high school, I went through an ugly breakup with the girl I'd been dating. Shortly after the break-up, I got a job over in the next county at a steakhouse. I washed dishes, but it was better than that. I was hanging out with a lot of college kids and people from Blacksburg. I didn't have any history with them. I wasn't the weird kid with the silly role playing game books. Nobody cared who my parents were or how much money I had. I wasn't remembered as "Susan's stupid brother" (the words were uttered on more than one occasion) or the goon with the on again/off again stammer. I got a clean slate and I relaxed (Which also reduced the stammer). I was just a kid who worked real hard, had his funny moments but was generally very likable.
Anyway, my first day, I met Angie. She was this slender, athletic blond (later, I found out she was a cheerleader) who had started the day before. She was friendly, funny and very, very smart. We hit it off incredibly well.
The second day, I met Traci. They were identical twins. Angie came in one day. Traci was there the next. Angie hadn't mentioned she had a twin. So, I'm very friendly and goofy and Traci is sort of staring at me, wondering who the hell I am. Eventually, it all unraveled itself. It was all explained. The joke, for them, was a familiar one.
We became friends and they were great. I was closer to Angie. In truth, I had a massive crush on her and maybe she liked me a little, too. We never moved into that direction. I was a coward, never pressed the issue, never even tried. The only thing that came out of my thinking about getting to know Angie better was I took up smoking. At parties, we'd talk and cut up, but after she had a couple of beers, she'd want a cigarette. Off she would go, in search of one. This broke up our conversation. So, I took up smoking. I bought the brand she liked, went home and asked my then 15 year-old sister how to smoke. She always knew these things.
Anyway, with Angie, I think there might have been a couple of openings for something more substantial than friends, but I was 17 and a goon --as opposed to the suave sophisticate I became. I was just intimidated by her being so smart, so funny and so amazingly pretty. She may have figured this out, too.
I didn't go to prom. There was no one I wanted to ask and that's the truth. At the time, all I wanted was to get the hell out of school and go someplace else --any place. I think if I could have lived in the parking lot of the steak house and not come home those last few months, I would have. By then, the only place I was really happy was at work, where I'd see Angie and Traci some of the time.
Prom night, I didn't make a big deal about it. I didn't tell anyone at work I wasn't going. I didn't ask for any time off and I don't know for sure if Angie and Traci knew, but it was a Saturday night. We finished up late, as usual. I was covered in slime, but they asked me if I was doing anything after. So, after the boss cut me loose, I met them out in the parking lot. We road around back roads, drank wine coolers and listened to a mix tape. Traci and a friend, whose name escapes me, sat in front. Angie was in back with me. I remember she sat very close to me and smelled like flowers, while I reeked of hamburger and bleach.
I don't know how long we were out. We had some laughs, listened to some music, drank sparingly, then eventually it was time to part ways. Before she got out of the car (we dropped the twins off), Angie kissed me on the jaw, just beside my ear, and told me good-night. The driver took me back to my car and I went home. My whole body was humming. It took me hours to get to sleep.
Eventually the twins quit the steakhouse and I left for the formative, but disastrous year in Tennessee. We were going to keep in touch, but we drifted after I took a semester off. I felt a bit ashamed to be out of school while they were still working on becoming accountants or whatever it was they were doing. I felt failed and lost.
It wasn't until six months ago, when I started screwing around with Facebook that I got in touch with Traci. I went looking for both of them. Traci and I exchanged a few e-mails, but they sort of faded out. I didn't ask about her sister. Twenty years is a long time and it would kill me if she didn't remember me quite as well as I remember her. I'd really like to think someone remembers me, not as a goofball, but as a sweet kid, who liked to make people laugh and wasn't the troll he believed himself to be. At least, this is how I hope she remembers me.
Meanwhile, since someone asked, let me tell you about the twins.
My senior year in high school, I went through an ugly breakup with the girl I'd been dating. Shortly after the break-up, I got a job over in the next county at a steakhouse. I washed dishes, but it was better than that. I was hanging out with a lot of college kids and people from Blacksburg. I didn't have any history with them. I wasn't the weird kid with the silly role playing game books. Nobody cared who my parents were or how much money I had. I wasn't remembered as "Susan's stupid brother" (the words were uttered on more than one occasion) or the goon with the on again/off again stammer. I got a clean slate and I relaxed (Which also reduced the stammer). I was just a kid who worked real hard, had his funny moments but was generally very likable.
Anyway, my first day, I met Angie. She was this slender, athletic blond (later, I found out she was a cheerleader) who had started the day before. She was friendly, funny and very, very smart. We hit it off incredibly well.
The second day, I met Traci. They were identical twins. Angie came in one day. Traci was there the next. Angie hadn't mentioned she had a twin. So, I'm very friendly and goofy and Traci is sort of staring at me, wondering who the hell I am. Eventually, it all unraveled itself. It was all explained. The joke, for them, was a familiar one.
We became friends and they were great. I was closer to Angie. In truth, I had a massive crush on her and maybe she liked me a little, too. We never moved into that direction. I was a coward, never pressed the issue, never even tried. The only thing that came out of my thinking about getting to know Angie better was I took up smoking. At parties, we'd talk and cut up, but after she had a couple of beers, she'd want a cigarette. Off she would go, in search of one. This broke up our conversation. So, I took up smoking. I bought the brand she liked, went home and asked my then 15 year-old sister how to smoke. She always knew these things.
Anyway, with Angie, I think there might have been a couple of openings for something more substantial than friends, but I was 17 and a goon --as opposed to the suave sophisticate I became. I was just intimidated by her being so smart, so funny and so amazingly pretty. She may have figured this out, too.
I didn't go to prom. There was no one I wanted to ask and that's the truth. At the time, all I wanted was to get the hell out of school and go someplace else --any place. I think if I could have lived in the parking lot of the steak house and not come home those last few months, I would have. By then, the only place I was really happy was at work, where I'd see Angie and Traci some of the time.
Prom night, I didn't make a big deal about it. I didn't tell anyone at work I wasn't going. I didn't ask for any time off and I don't know for sure if Angie and Traci knew, but it was a Saturday night. We finished up late, as usual. I was covered in slime, but they asked me if I was doing anything after. So, after the boss cut me loose, I met them out in the parking lot. We road around back roads, drank wine coolers and listened to a mix tape. Traci and a friend, whose name escapes me, sat in front. Angie was in back with me. I remember she sat very close to me and smelled like flowers, while I reeked of hamburger and bleach.
I don't know how long we were out. We had some laughs, listened to some music, drank sparingly, then eventually it was time to part ways. Before she got out of the car (we dropped the twins off), Angie kissed me on the jaw, just beside my ear, and told me good-night. The driver took me back to my car and I went home. My whole body was humming. It took me hours to get to sleep.
Eventually the twins quit the steakhouse and I left for the formative, but disastrous year in Tennessee. We were going to keep in touch, but we drifted after I took a semester off. I felt a bit ashamed to be out of school while they were still working on becoming accountants or whatever it was they were doing. I felt failed and lost.
It wasn't until six months ago, when I started screwing around with Facebook that I got in touch with Traci. I went looking for both of them. Traci and I exchanged a few e-mails, but they sort of faded out. I didn't ask about her sister. Twenty years is a long time and it would kill me if she didn't remember me quite as well as I remember her. I'd really like to think someone remembers me, not as a goofball, but as a sweet kid, who liked to make people laugh and wasn't the troll he believed himself to be. At least, this is how I hope she remembers me.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Odds, ends, etc...
I'm still a bit slow to the punch. A lot is happening and I'm catching up from last week.
As promised, here is the list of publishers I'm sending my own work to.
The Invisible College Press
Dialogue Publishing
Dragonon Inc.
Hill Street Press
I only found four last weekend that fit the category of what I've written. I also ran out of stamps and had to consider budgetary constraints. Postage, printing and materials ain't cheap.
Meanwhile, to help focus, I've all but abandoned Facebook. It's too much of a distraction and I enjoy screwing off there too much. It's like video games. I love them, but I don't have any room for them. As usual, once I swear something off, I get some bit that makes it tempting to go back. The twins I spent prom night hanging out with were diagnosed with MS a few years ago. I didn't know. Facebook can be very superficial. At best, it's just an introduction.
Anyway, they're doing an MS walk in DC this weekend and while I'm not going to dig back in, I think I can find twenty dollars to send for the walk. It's the least I owe them for taking the edge off what might have been a lonely and bitter memory. Really, why would I give a fuck about prom when I got to ride around, drinking wine coolers with two gorgeous twins? It was a wonderful night, not because it ended in some kind of awkward porno scenario, but they wanted to spend some time with me. Hell, they didn't even know it was the prom.
Tomorrow, I'll post some pages from the thing I'm working on now --which is more of revision/fine tuney thing than a new project. I'm at 50,000 words again. It will probably go 80 to 90 before it's finished, then we'll go back in. Since I've done this before, maybe it get easier and faster.
The new blog is fun, though so far, 304 hasn't added it to the list. I've sent a couple of requests to be added, but maybe I have to be discovered... (sigh) I'll never be a star.
As promised, here is the list of publishers I'm sending my own work to.
The Invisible College Press
Dialogue Publishing
Dragonon Inc.
Hill Street Press
I only found four last weekend that fit the category of what I've written. I also ran out of stamps and had to consider budgetary constraints. Postage, printing and materials ain't cheap.
Meanwhile, to help focus, I've all but abandoned Facebook. It's too much of a distraction and I enjoy screwing off there too much. It's like video games. I love them, but I don't have any room for them. As usual, once I swear something off, I get some bit that makes it tempting to go back. The twins I spent prom night hanging out with were diagnosed with MS a few years ago. I didn't know. Facebook can be very superficial. At best, it's just an introduction.
Anyway, they're doing an MS walk in DC this weekend and while I'm not going to dig back in, I think I can find twenty dollars to send for the walk. It's the least I owe them for taking the edge off what might have been a lonely and bitter memory. Really, why would I give a fuck about prom when I got to ride around, drinking wine coolers with two gorgeous twins? It was a wonderful night, not because it ended in some kind of awkward porno scenario, but they wanted to spend some time with me. Hell, they didn't even know it was the prom.
Tomorrow, I'll post some pages from the thing I'm working on now --which is more of revision/fine tuney thing than a new project. I'm at 50,000 words again. It will probably go 80 to 90 before it's finished, then we'll go back in. Since I've done this before, maybe it get easier and faster.
The new blog is fun, though so far, 304 hasn't added it to the list. I've sent a couple of requests to be added, but maybe I have to be discovered... (sigh) I'll never be a star.
Monday, April 13, 2009
68, 67, 66
Three this week.
City Dharma: Arthur Jeon - There are a lot of Buddhist-flavored self-help books out there. Some are good, some are bad, some are just confusing. This one is good most of the time, but veers occasionally into "what's the point?" territory. Jeon doesn't identify as part of any particular Buddhist lineage, something I like since I don't identify with any particular lineage as I find it a little pointless outside of countries where these lineages originate. He has some good advice on dealing with attachment and accepting the obvious sacredness of ordinary experience. He is also, evidently, a buddy of Damon Lindelhof, one of the producers of Lost, which makes him a-ok with me.
A Long Way Gone: Ishmael Beah -War is never pretty, but it's downright ugly when viewed through the eyes of children. Ishmael Beah's country, Sierre Leone, descended into chaos and civil war. Beah was only a boy, separated from his parents, who became a refuge after armed conflict between the rebels and the army destroyed his village. By almost accident, at the age of about 13, he found himself turned into a soldier. He was fed drugs, American action movies and taken out on long patrols into very dangerous places. Beah, like all the other boys, became a killer almost overnight.
What is remarkable is Beah doesn't shy away from what he did. He cut the throats of men and boys. He helped torture rebels. He burned, looted and murdered at the order of his company commander and by his own thirst for revenge.
Eventually, he and many of the other boys are rescued from their violent lives, taken to the capitol city and rehabilitated. The process is long, slow and difficult.
Truly, a remarkable story charting the malleability of the human condition and how someone can come back from a life of brutality.
Nothing is Strange with you : James Jeffrey Paul - Real Crime books tend toward the salacious and scummy. This one is one of the scummiest. Gordon Northcott was a monster. In the mid-1920s, he convinced his sister to let him take his nephew from Canada to California with him to start a chicken ranch. Northcott then proceded to horribly abuse the boy, turned him into a slave and regularly sodomized the kid. Northcott then went on to prey upon local boys, coaxing them into his car, bringing them back to his ranch, where he molested them before allowing them to leave. Eventually, this escalated into murder.
He was one of the strangest sexual predators this country has ever seen.
At the very least, Northcott kidnapped, raped and murdered three young boys and one young man. He forced his nephew and encouraged his mother to participate in at least one murder. Disposal of the bodies was grisly. He lopped off heads, dosed them in quick lime and moved the remains when he thought they might be discovered.
He was caught and tried in a bizarre trial where his nephew and niece damned him, his parents tried to defend him and Northcott's behavior just became plain weird. At one point, he took over the defense.
It was an engrossing story, though mostly because of the tale itself and not necessarily the presentation. Paul's narration dragged and he includes an unnecessary chapter about the future warden of San Quentin (Clinton Duffy), who met Northcott in prison and might (though he admits to it being unlikely) have been able to save Northcott from the gallows. Warden Duffy did, however, write a few books of his own, which did talk about Northcott and the futility of the death penalty.
City Dharma: Arthur Jeon - There are a lot of Buddhist-flavored self-help books out there. Some are good, some are bad, some are just confusing. This one is good most of the time, but veers occasionally into "what's the point?" territory. Jeon doesn't identify as part of any particular Buddhist lineage, something I like since I don't identify with any particular lineage as I find it a little pointless outside of countries where these lineages originate. He has some good advice on dealing with attachment and accepting the obvious sacredness of ordinary experience. He is also, evidently, a buddy of Damon Lindelhof, one of the producers of Lost, which makes him a-ok with me.
A Long Way Gone: Ishmael Beah -War is never pretty, but it's downright ugly when viewed through the eyes of children. Ishmael Beah's country, Sierre Leone, descended into chaos and civil war. Beah was only a boy, separated from his parents, who became a refuge after armed conflict between the rebels and the army destroyed his village. By almost accident, at the age of about 13, he found himself turned into a soldier. He was fed drugs, American action movies and taken out on long patrols into very dangerous places. Beah, like all the other boys, became a killer almost overnight.
What is remarkable is Beah doesn't shy away from what he did. He cut the throats of men and boys. He helped torture rebels. He burned, looted and murdered at the order of his company commander and by his own thirst for revenge.
Eventually, he and many of the other boys are rescued from their violent lives, taken to the capitol city and rehabilitated. The process is long, slow and difficult.
Truly, a remarkable story charting the malleability of the human condition and how someone can come back from a life of brutality.
Nothing is Strange with you : James Jeffrey Paul - Real Crime books tend toward the salacious and scummy. This one is one of the scummiest. Gordon Northcott was a monster. In the mid-1920s, he convinced his sister to let him take his nephew from Canada to California with him to start a chicken ranch. Northcott then proceded to horribly abuse the boy, turned him into a slave and regularly sodomized the kid. Northcott then went on to prey upon local boys, coaxing them into his car, bringing them back to his ranch, where he molested them before allowing them to leave. Eventually, this escalated into murder.
He was one of the strangest sexual predators this country has ever seen.
At the very least, Northcott kidnapped, raped and murdered three young boys and one young man. He forced his nephew and encouraged his mother to participate in at least one murder. Disposal of the bodies was grisly. He lopped off heads, dosed them in quick lime and moved the remains when he thought they might be discovered.
He was caught and tried in a bizarre trial where his nephew and niece damned him, his parents tried to defend him and Northcott's behavior just became plain weird. At one point, he took over the defense.
It was an engrossing story, though mostly because of the tale itself and not necessarily the presentation. Paul's narration dragged and he includes an unnecessary chapter about the future warden of San Quentin (Clinton Duffy), who met Northcott in prison and might (though he admits to it being unlikely) have been able to save Northcott from the gallows. Warden Duffy did, however, write a few books of his own, which did talk about Northcott and the futility of the death penalty.
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