Been dark for a time. Life happens. And I’m sick of other bloggers/writers, etc. whining about blogs being dark. Not to be mean, but, to use The Eagles’ Hell Freezes Over LP tune: “Get Over It!”
In a nutshell: two dear friends–one an author, the other, a radio talk show host–crossed the Jordan within months of one another, and their deaths are still resonating with me. Both were expected to recover from their health concerns, but God had other ideas. This year’s been one shitastic laugh-riot after another regarding the economy, politics and the rigged system, clear evidence against regular Jos like me being held back for more sinister motives. I’m also fed up with reading books by authors who follow a checked-box mandates in their plots, and I was seeking fresh stories (thankfully, I found them, and should make forthcoming posts on the few gems I’ve discovered.) I’ve been helping my man settle his sister’s assisted-living affairs and getting her aboard the literacy train, budgeting my time/funds for JERSEY DOGS’s final release; my bed-frame and needed fixing–rockin’ the Casbah helped, thank you!–and I’ve been scouring ads for a needed new-to-us vehicle (did you know you can’t rent a car in Pennsylvania without purchasing a round-trip plane ticket for the privilege? Un-REAL!!!). And the microcosm of all this life drama included my eradicating bedbugs.The upshot: I dropped some LBs going up/down stairs and walking to and from the laundry. Gotta make that Dinesh D’Souza lemonade when life slams its best lemons at you, after all.
So. As I’m pressed for time and stressed in other ways–I write erotica, too, so use your imaginations for that one–this blog’s will be divided into two parts. Read carefully which you’d like to follow. If you’d like to read both, awesome. If not, wait for the weekend edition for the personal, kaleidoscopic, textured, on occasion book review, and ever-shifting landscape of this writing life of mine part of the publishing landscape. But as today is the mid-week edition … let the games of “My Non-Conformist, Politically Incorrect, Everything Outside-of-My-Writing-Life” begin!
You know it’s said: “Never talk about anything religious or political?” That’s gonna stop with me. Sure, I’m about book sales and being read. But money, propriety, saving face, keeping friends, and slowly censoring myself because my views could, might, or will ruffle feathers, shouldn’t trump my principles. Authors should be the last ones to self-censor. We wouldn’t have fabulous works by Chaucer, Bradbury, Nat Hentoff, Orwell, Heinlein, Keourac, Ayn Rand, Salman Rushdie (who is still being hunted for his 1987 release, The Satanic Verses, incidentally), et al, if they stilled their voices. It’s HOW these authors expressed their concerns for society through their works that drove home a hegemony, a position, a stance, a need for a new way of life, right or wrong. And unlike today’s far Left political class (and the spineless, Casper-the-Friendly-Ghost RINOs and other weenies on the right who love them), they didn’t trash a swath of the populace in their beliefs in one breath, but didn’t mind taking their money when that demonized target purchased the author’s works. If that’s not the epitome of hypocrisy, I don’t know what is. But see, the ideological idiots who kept throwing out the “don’t talk religion and politics” maxim used as a statement to shut down ALL discourse, in my view. They can’t effectively argue, feel uncomfortable to defend their positions on the shifting sand of their ideologies, and so will simply shut down ALL debate because their positions are baseless.
Not me. Or not mine.
So now you know all that, you’ll know also:
• I’m pro-life, and pro-death penalty on a case-per basis. We’re in 2016, and there’s no excuse for those on death-row to keep languishing there with the forensics technology available to exonerate some of these men and women. Thing is, they’re being made a political example, or they’re innocents out of money, time, resources, friends, and clemency. Sadly, they die. We’re a better society than that. Some acts deserve death (pedophilia, child sexual predators, and through-the-bone corrupt politicians, anyone?). All we need to do is take the time to make this happen–if people involved wanted to.
• I’m a sexual libertarian. Meaning whatever goes on between two or more consenting adults is none of my business, nor is it any of anyone else’s. Including the government’s. And any Polly and Patrick Pea-Hen Christians’s. If they’re into that level of hedonism, their prerogative. Leave them be, leave me be, they, and I, will do the same for you. Just don’t run your sexual perversion(s) up a flagpole and expect me to salute that, okay? Meaning, if more people lived and let live, and acted so in a wise fashion, the world would truly be a better place.
• I’m pro-gun (as in self-defense and for hunting purposes; we all need to eat and we all don’t live in Mayberry, RFD). I’m pro nationalism (yes, I’m about MY country first, and everything in it. Any sane nation is.). And I’m pro God. Yes, God. Not Allah, not Birthday Cake Creator, not an Intelligent Designer. G-O-D. The Gideon/David/Father-to-the-Son-of-God, God. That God. You’re not pro-God? Your prerogative. Just don’t tell me I don’t have to be; I don’t insist you believe if you elect not to, do I? Extend that same courtesy, please, and UI thank you for understanding.
• I’m bisexual. I support folks like Milo Yiannapolous speaking his mind against those who claim tolerance and support the #1stA, mean it for themselves and for speech they approve of and agree with. And similar to the pro-God, pro-gun, etc. above, I don’t flaunt what I do to you, nor do I expect you to salute my choices. That’s the beauty of living and let live: you leave each other alone and agree to disagree, agreeably. How is that kind of mosaic of differences a problem, again?
• I’m a verbal straight-shooter. I shouldn’t have to, nor will I when warranted, curb what I say because a bunch of sissies in charge have a boy-in-the-bubble EQ (emotional quotient) intolerance of my views, my noting their hypocrisy, then claim I’m a bully for speaking my mind. If you’re read this far and are short of your fuse blowing up that cannonball, good. That’s NORMAL to feel angry. It’s NOT normal for you to be upset enough with me to censor my words or insist I do, however much you hate them. That’s how free speech and the free and open exchange of ideas works; some are discarded. Some are embraced. A rising tide raises all boats, from the battered dinghy to the super-sized yacht. The dinghy has no use, but the yacht does. And neither boat should tell the other its not valued in some capacity. That’s us.
There’s more, but over the course of the duration this blog is active, you’ll get the idea of my views, stances, and convictions. Especially on this last.
I remember during my childhood when I played outside and couldn’t wait for sleep-away summer camp sessions. I got dirty, ran around with kids all day, actually played in gigantic green dumpsters the NYC Sanitation lifted to dump the trash, brought home junk I thought I useful and could tinker with–including a set of chrome handlebars without a bike my mother made me throw back out. But I got my exercise, sun on my face, scraped knees, bruises all over, kicked ass when somebody picked a fight with me or picked on my sister (that was my job, haha), once beaned with a softball-sized-rock as big and I was lights out for a few minutes. I ran foot races, played hide-and-seek; tag, freeze tag, and TV tag, caught fireflies, fell out of trees; fell off walls; argued; got each other in trouble made up or sometimes didn’t, and came home when the street lights went on. I left the tub twice-bathed (the first time I was filthy and needed fresh water) and left a ring in the tub, but clean in my favorite pajamas, and ready for bed, barely able to keep m eyes open. But I discovered sunsets, the softness of twilight, a first (of many) kiss, after-dinner dance parties in the boys’ cabins during camp, and how I either played recorder or sung Taps over the camp’s PA for the close of day. And sung a tune for a girl to ease her post-break-up blues.
That was a time of wonder, promise, and adventure. When music–okay, four-on-the-floor disco, but that was on the outs and it was better than the slop out today–was the Eagles, Boz Skaggs, Gerry Rafferty, The Doobie Brothers, Supertramp, Heatwave, Crystal Gayle, and a little Michael Jackson. We knew not to take things past the point of know return, too scared of the unknown, never the serious ever too seriously, and too scared of the butt-whooping we’d get if we did go there. But none of this present nanny-state existed. None of this you-get-one-I-get-three quid pro quo was even on the horizon. Least not as kids. When people are free to do as they wish, what’s on the seamy side is exposed and rights itself, when left to be exposed. Too many cooks spoil the broth and if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it are relevant for a reason. Nobody likes a helicopter parent. Don’t become that. And don’t insist authors do this because Mr. and Mrs. Molly-Coddled, Never-Told-No-Before can’t handle life outside their bubble-wrapped worlds, scared they’re too fragile for a “No,””Some other time,” or a flat out “Get the f— away from me!”
Freedom isn’t ever free, paid for in the price of lives laid down on any given battlefield. But the price of censorship is far greater, and those lives cost are in the form of creativity, beauty, inspiration. Which is worse: a lost life–or grey walls of dulled souls no longer vibrant and thrumming with the birth of song, or color, or life, of art? Of poetry, or love, of the heroes in the words that still men’s hearts, cold and quiet, unfeeling as concrete?
I’ve chosen. What say you?