Roy L. Pickering Jr.'s Blog, page 13

THE SAXOPHONE MAN

                             The Saxophone Man


                                           Short Story by Roy L. Pickering Jr.



What am I going to say to Ellen?  How will she react when I tell her I’ve been fired?  I suppose there’s no point in asking myself rhetorical questions.  I know exactly what she’s going to say.
 “Howard, how could you let this happen?  How are we going to pay our bills?  I’m extremely disappointed in you.  You’ve always been such an underachiever.  You always settle for second best from yourself.  I bet you’ve been daydreaming, or hallucinating, or whatever you want to call it, instead of focusing on your work.  Didn’t any of what Dr. Seagram had to say sink in?  I suppose not.  To think of what I gave up for you.  I could be married to Barry Frugesi, living in a mansion with servants catering to my every need.  But no, like a fool I let emotion override common sense and chose you.  Now here I am closing in on middle age, and instead of being secure, we have to start all over again.”

None of this will be fair of her to say.  First of all, I’ve worked my tail off for McDermott and Lynch Realty.  It’s not my fault that I’m in a slump.  Not entirely, anyway.  I can only perform as well as the economy dictates.  For a considerable number of years I was their top salesman.  At one point I accounted for nearly sixty percent of their sales.  There wasn’t a house on the market that I couldn’t sell, even if it was little more than a cardboard box held together by duct tape and loose wiring.  Now that I’m not doing so well, do they show me loyalty?  I suppose it was pure folly to expect any.  Loyalty has gone the way of chivalry and penny arcades.
Backstabbing from employers is one thing, but the reaction from Ellen that I fully anticipate is shameless.  How dare she complain about our bills being paid?  We’ve never paid a bill the entire time we’ve been married.  I’ve paid the bills.  I’ve single handedly supported my family from day one, never mind that gratitude has been expressed at a faster dwindling rate than marital affection over the past decade or so.  My output at work has declined by no less a degree than Ellen’s output in the bedroom, not that bringing this up will strengthen my case any.  Ellen is living a comfortable existence courtesy of my earning and investing efforts, but all she cares to highlight are my supposed inadequacies.   Her complaints are based on the paranoia instilled in her youth by a penny-pinching father.  The truth of our situation is that we’d need the Hubble telescope to find the poorhouse she’s routinely prophesying is one bad break away from becoming our residence.  As for the legend of Barry Frugesi, if she throws him in my face one more time I’ll have no choice but to sternly express that - “He was a pompous, self-centered ass, not to mention that it was he who dumped you, Ellen.  And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, darling, but you left middle age behind in your rear view mirror a few years ago.  Embrace the downhill slope.”

What am I doing?  I’m walking down the street talking to myself, that’s what I’m doing.  I need to get a grip.  It’s a good thing this is Greenwich Village or else I would be attracting a lot of stares.  As it is, I’m just one more raving lunatic in the crowd.  This area of the only city I’ve ever lived in, the greatest city in the world, bares little resemblance to the way it was when I was a child.  That was before NYU moved in and took over, gentrifying the neighborhood building by building.  Times in general have changed a great deal from when I was young and on top of the world.  I suppose everyone’s on top of the world when they’re young, and by its very definition, times have little choice but to change.  Still doesn’t stop me from fondly reminiscing and profoundly missing days gone by, one of my biggest faults according to Ellen, though certainly not the only one she recites.

As I turn onto Broadway, a beautiful and eerily familiar melody flutters in the air.  I spy a black man across the street standing in front of a 24-hour deli playing a tenor saxophone.  The scene is typical, but the virtuoso performance he’s giving is anything but.  Before my mind can recall where I have heard this song before, he stops and starts to play another one.  This composition I instantly recognize as a Dexter Gordon masterpiece that the street musician is interpreting flawlessly.  Being a huge jazz fan and having nothing better to do than procrastinating further before heading home to inform Ellen of my unemployment, I cross the street to listen closer.


The sax player looks about fifty-five years old, which would make him five years older than me.  He has a salt and pepper afro and possesses a complexion like hot chocolate, his radiantly white teeth putting me in mind of marshmallows floating on top.  The feeling of warmth exuded from his eyes puts one instantly at ease in his presence, even as they dance in rhythm with the music he brings forth.  His fingers glide across the keys with a fluidity I can’t help but marvel at.  Here is a man who was born to play the saxophone, but not on a street corner with an open case lying on the ground next to him containing about three dollars in change.  This guy belongs in Lincoln Center or Carnegie Hall.  He should be performing for kings and queens, not pedestrians with too much on their minds and too little spare time to recognize the genius they’re racing past.
The music transports me back to a better time, a wondrous one during which I handled a saxophone pretty well myself.  I must have played close to a hundred nightclubs.  That sax of mine helped pay my way through college.  It got me more dates than I could have ever hoped for.  Ellen fell in love with me, despite having superior offers on the table, largely because of the passion and sensuality that I exuded on stage.  Was it really so long ago when I last went out on the fire escape to set loose a melody after making love to Ellen on that creaky old bed in our tiny apartment in SOHO, back when we were delirious newlyweds?

The Dexter Gordon tune is brought down to a graceful landing.  I respectfully applaud and toss a dollar into the musician’s case. 
“Much obliged, mister,” he says in a throaty pack-a-day voice, flashing a broad smile with his practically glow-in-the-dark molars.                     
“You’re incredible,” I tell him.  “Much too talented to be out here playing on the street.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with the streets.  You’re always guaranteed a sell out audience, rain or shine.  Even if most people don’t stop to listen, they still hear me as they walk by.  All in all I’ve played for thousands of folks.  And every so often one of my songs touches someone’s heart and makes their day just a little brighter.  Guys and dolls on Wall Street might make a lot more money than me, but how many opportunities do they get on the job to make someone smile?”

“I suppose you have a point there,” I say.  “I used to play the sax years ago.  Nothing quite like standing before a crowd and knowing I had them in the palm of my hand, that I could take them on a journey of my own making simply by breathing my dreams and aspirations into that brass tunnel.  The feeling was worth a lot more to me than the paychecks.”
“Of course it was.  That feeling is called happiness.  A shrink or a thesaurus could give you some alternate words for it, but I think the one I chose works just fine.  I might not have a lot of money, but it doesn’t take much effort to put a grin on this old mug of mine.  The same can’t be said for you, sorry to report.”
A quizzical expression must fall upon my face, because before I can ask the old musician what he means by this, he proceeds to answer my unspoken question.


“I can see it in your eyes.  Your whole life has revolved around providing for the well being of others at the expense of your own contentment.  You’ve worked for years in a job you hate so your wife could wear fashionable dresses while dining at exclusive restaurants.  You made sure that your son was able to go to the best schools, even though you knew that he’d goof off and flunk out.  You arranged for your daughter to have her dream wedding, never mind that you couldn’t stand the guy and accurately predicted it wouldn’t last a year.  Their needs were taken care of, but what have you done for yourself?  The truth is you haven’t really been happy since the last time you played your saxophone.  When you put it up in the attic you tucked away a large piece of your soul.”
I can do nothing but stare with astonishment as this complete stranger recounts my life story.  I am both frightened and fascinated.
“Where are you getting this nonsense from?” I manage to stammer, afraid to confess to the accuracy of his words, or perhaps ashamed to admit it to myself.


“Like I said, I can see it in your eyes.  It’s a gift.  Some people create paintings, some write novels, others sing or dance or solve complicated mathematical equations.  There are even a few extraordinary individuals who can juggle while riding a unicycle.  As for me, I play the saxophone and read people’s eyes.  Some of them tell the saddest stories ever told.  The truly tragic ones I put to music and play their tears.  It isn’t too late for you to change your song, you know.  Sometimes what looks like a setback is actually an opportunity.  Don’t let this one pass you by.  Life is too short, and there’s a whole mess of beauty to take in if you have the right frame of mind to see it.  Most folks waste time examining their sorrow, trying to make sense of it, trying to bend it to their will.  I say just toss it aside to make room for a prettier picture, for a song with a groove that you can dance to.”
I’m not sure how to regard this fortune cookie advice.  Since he knows so much about me, superficial details as well as knowledge that seems to require inside information, perhaps he actually is qualified to counsel me.  He may merely be some down on his luck guy playing saxophone on a street corner for castaway coins, but his advice rings truer than that given to me by those in much loftier societal positions, including Dr. Seagram who charged armed robbery by the hour to listen to my woes and then regurgitate the irrelevant opinions of Sigmund Freud.  Listening to the musician, mesmerized by the creases in his face that remind me of rivers on a map of Africa, I feel as people do upon reading their horoscope in the newspaper for amusement and finding that it neatly coincides with whatever they happen to be going through. 

After college, I wanted to pursue a full time career in music.  But Ellen, who was pregnant with the child who hastened our sprint to the altar, insisted that I enter a more secure line of work.  On the recommendation of her father, some would have called it extreme prodding but I knew better than to offend the daughter who doted on him, I chose the real estate game.  I turned out to be pretty good at it, needing simply to transfer my stage presence to one-on-one charm, especially in the beginning when it was new enough to capture my interest.  But it was only a matter of time before dissatisfaction settled in.  My vocation was lucrative, my home spacious, my finances secure, my loved ones were protected from their complacency, but still …               

One morning about seven years into our marriage, an impulse led me up to the attic in search of my abandoned saxophone.  I found that I had forgotten all the songs once played from memory with such ease.  I had traded my soul to the devil in exchange for domestic tranquility, and my soul, in the shape of a tenor saxophone, had become dust covered and foreign to my touch.  As I headed to work shortly afterwards, I realized it wasn’t so much playing the sax that I missed as it was the sense of freedom I associated it with.  When I was a young man, the whole world lay before my eyes for the taking.  Now as a not so young man, I could scarcely believe how little I had elected to grab hold of. 
The process of manufacturing a lifetime is a tiring one, or at least that has been my experience to date.  The quotas I was professionally obligated to reach pulled increasingly further away over the years.  The degree to which I allowed myself to care about this waned in direct proportion.  One year ago I had what experts termed a nervous breakdown.  Therapy and time were supposed to rejuvenate me and increase my sales figures in the process.  I tried to care.  I failed.  Eventually I was fired.  No hard feelings.

This street musician is right.  Today doesn’t have to be an end for me.  It can be a new beginning.  Maybe I’ll start my own business, open up a music store.  And I could take up playing the saxophone again, not to earn a living, but to make the process of living a little sweeter.  What nobler cause to undertake a venture can there be?  But before doing any of this I’ll go on a world cruise with Ellen, check out all the places we once talked about longing to see before getting caught up with keeping up with the Jones’, whoever they happen to be.  What’s stopping us?  We have enough money saved to tide us over for a good while.  Our kids are grown now and more or less independent; Rachel having married and then divorced herself into country club money; Herbert lucking into business partnership with a former college classmate and now earning a small fortune not through intelligence, skill or diligence, but solely due to being in the right place at the right time - the American way. 


My thoughts are interrupted.  The musician is once again playing the song I first heard him performing, the one that lured me to him like a child to the Pied Piper.  I allow its sweet melody to caress my senses and find myself humming along.  Suddenly I realize why the tune is so familiar to me.  I composed it twenty-six years ago.  It is the song I wrote for Ellen when I was courting her.  This cannot be, and yet it most definitely is.  I clear my throat to ask how he could possibly know this particular arrangement of musical notes, but then decide against it.  Some things are best left unknown.  I continue to listen until the saxophone man finishes my song, after which he grins so brightly that I nearly need to shield my eyes. 
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says.  “Now it’s time for you to go home and play it for yourself.”
“I think you’re right.”
I remove a twenty from my wallet and place it in his instrument’s case.  Then I head across the street towards the nearest subway entrance.  I can’t wait to get home and discuss with Ellen my wonderful plans for the adventurous future I’ve envisioned for us.  She’ll no doubt resist at first, wanting me to be practical, to get back onto the safe road.  But I’ve played it cautious long enough.  I’m confident that if I stick to these relocated convictions and probe deeply enough into my wife’s heart, I will eventually find the free spirit lurking beneath, long dormant but not yet expired. 

The chain of mellifluous chords snakes between the oxygen and nitrogen that comprise the surrounding air.  With each step I take the music grows louder and sharper, the acoustics of this street corner defying conventional wisdom.  The saxophone man is accompanied by a most unique set of band mates generating sounds only to be found on a New York City street, the ultimate jazz improvisation.  Then an unpleasant chord is struck, a high pitched screech that spoils the toe tapping groove.  I turn my head just in time to see the alarmed face of a truck driver slamming his foot on a break pedal.  But the vehicle has gained too much momentum, and the distance between us is too small.  The tires stop spinning, but the grill of the truck moves towards me at a catastrophic rate of speed.  An instant later all fades to back. 


When I awaken, it is in a state of profound confusion.  I do not know how long I have been asleep.  Perhaps I’ve been in a coma.  I am relieved to find that my limbs are fully operational.  A quick pat down of my torso fails to reveal anything missing, or even hurting.  My health appears to be fine.  I must have recovered from whatever injuries I suffered while lying unconscious in this hospital room.
“Looks like you were having quite the dream.”
I turn towards the voice that has startled while informing me that I am not alone.  Seated to my right is Dr. Seagram.  I wonder why my former psychiatrist has come to pay me a visit.  It isn’t as if we became good friends while I was under his care.  In fact, during my sessions I made little effort to mask my disdain of him.  My wife and kids should be here by my side, not this Freud obsessed fool.    
An image from hospital bed scenes in various movies springs to mind.  Fearing to discover that while my body is fine, my face is encased like a mummy, I run my fingers from ear to ear and hairline to chin.  No bandages or scars are to be found.  It seems that I am completely uninjured.  Perhaps the truck merely tapped me and I was knocked out when my head hit the ground.  Or maybe I passed out in fright, a reasonable reaction to the circumstances.  It has become clear that I was certainly not plowed into.

“How did I get here?”
Dr. Seagram smiles in that way of his that I have frequently longed to smack from his face, for it toes the line beyond which is a smirk, without quite crossing it. 
“You blacked out in your office after…  After you were fired, Howard.  Do you remember being fired?”  
“Of course I do.”  Oh, how I loathe Dr. Seagram’s condescending tone of voice.  My guess is that rather than coaxing patients back to mental health by lending an ear and dispelling sound advice, his technique is to drive them off his couch and back into the chaotic world that loosened their marbles through the overpowering force of his obnoxiousness.  


“And I remember leaving the office, having a great conversation with this black guy playing the saxophone on a street corner, and then I think I was hit by a truck while crossing the street.”
Dr. Seagram pulls on his beard, one of his many very annoying habits.  I can almost literally see the wheels spinning in his head as he tries to psychoanalyze me.
“What you’re describing is what you must have just dreamt, Howard.  The truth is, you collapsed in the office of your employer after you were let go.  An ambulance brought you here.  Therefore you could not have had a conversation with a musician, black, white, purple, or green.  And there was no truck accident.”
The words spoken by Dr. Seagam shake me.  As much as I dislike him, I also know him to be a straight shooter.  Playing con games is not his style.  So I’ve little choice but to accept that his version of events is the true one.


“But it seemed so real.  He seemed so real.  He inspired me to make major changes in my life.  I was looking forward to taking his advice.  No offense, Dr. Seagram, but ten minutes spent talking to him was far more motivating and clarifying than all of my sessions with you combined.”
“No offense taken, Howard.  After all, it’s pretty hard to compete against a figment of one’s imagination.  Under the circumstances, I think you should give serious consideration to resuming our sessions.  I recommend two per week to start.  Going back on medication is probably a good idea as well.  You have much work to do when it comes to dealing with stress.  It’s no wonder a day like this one pushed you over the edge.  Not that it’s anything to be embarrassed about.  There’s no easy way to cope with being fired from a job you’ve had for decades and being left by your wife on the same day.  You have a tendency to hide out in a fantasy whenever reality gets too difficult for you to handle.”
“Left by my wife?  What are you talking about, Dr. Seagram?”


“Oh my.  Apparently you’ve blocked some of what happened this morning from your memory and replaced it with what you merely imagined.  I hate to be the bearer of such bad news, but Ellen moved out of your home.  She’s taken up with another man.  I’m rather embarrassed to admit that the man she left you for is my colleague, Dr. Robertson.”
Talk about information overload.  If only this conversation was my nightmare instead of the awful state of affairs I’ve awakened to.  I close my eyes in order to picture the psychiatrist that Dr. Seagram shares a practice with.  Our paths only crossed a handful of times.  He’s African American, about half an inch taller than me, mid fifties, a short salt and pepper afro with a complexion like hot chocolate and prominently white teeth.  My eyes open wide, as does my mouth to utter three syllables.
“Oh my God.”  Remembrance is crashing down upon me.  The real events of today are assaulting my awareness with perfect clarity, in technicolor.  Ellen curtly informed me that she was leaving for good.  Unlike prior occasions, it was not merely a bluff for attention.  She actually walked out the door this time, out of our marriage, without taking the briefest glance of regret back.  Pathetically, I could think of nothing better to do in response than go to work, where as bad luck would have it, I was fired.  I did not leave the office on my own terms, or even on my own feet.  There was no encounter afterwards with a wise black man who plays the saxophone like an angel.  But I didn’t dream the guy up entirely, not his physical appearance anyway, for he does exist, he is in fact the man that Ellen left me for – Dr. Robertson. 

I close my eyes again, this time in sweet surrender.  My senses shut out all stimuli, so if Dr. Seagram is offering words of wisdom or apologizing for his colleague’s behavior or trying to fit future sessions with me into his calendar, I am blissfully unaware.  My state of concentration pays off and I am able to bring back what I long for.  The music of the saxophone man is washing over me.  It will get me through this.  The uncaring world that I desperately need protection from has disappeared. Only this glorious music is left behind like a Chesire smile.

                                                         THE END 

We Will Just Have To Agree To Disagree

Social media has taught me that plenty of people hold strong opinions that I consider to be quite bone headed, and the reverse is equally valid.  Below is a Top Ten list of issues where others are in disagreement with how I see the world.  That said, I respect your opinions, all the more so if we engage in debate and you handle your end in a respectful matter.  I try my best to be mature when taking my stances and I forgive you for being wrong.   


* N word usage: I'm not in favor of it being said by anybody. It's firmly entrenched in our culture as a hateful insult and I do not believe the misguided attempt to claim the word for ourselves (primarily by ending it with "a" rather than "er") has been successful in removing its sting.  Otherwise nobody would get upset when a non-black person said it.  It can't be denied that the N-word has successfully ingrained itself into black culture though.  African Americans, particularly under a certain age or under a certain degree of educational achievement, will continue to use it.  They won't mean any harm.  It's like a cigarette habit, mostly self inflicted damage with some second hand smoke level injury.  I believe that to be respected by others it is important to show you respect yourself.  Referring to yourself by a derogatory term is not what Queen Aretha was referring to by R-E-S-P-E-C-T.


* Feminism needs to be broken down into race categories?: My Twitter mentions blew up the other day on account of this question.  I carelessly RT'd someone who said something that seemed sensible to me and BOOM went the dynamite. Look, I get that people from different cultures have different struggles.  A hardship that applies to a black woman's day-to-day may not impact a White or Asian or Latina woman in the same way, and vice versa.  But certainly there are a sufficient number of issues that are woman based, regardless of race/skin tone/religion, for Feminism to serve as an umbrella cause covering women in general. To say that feminism is strictly for white women seems very short sighted to me, though I have no doubt there are white feminists who give little thought to certain matters that only tend to affect a woman of color.  Even so, women of all backgrounds have many shared hardships.  They deal equally with sexual harassment in the workplace; catcalling on the street; lower pay for equal work; less representation in top corporate positions, needing access to birth control; considering abortion to be a personal choice over one's own body rather than a decision handed down by politicians; breastfeeding shaming; slut shaming; body image shaming; possibly having to choose between motherhood and career in inflexible workplaces; etc. etc.  So with all of this being shared, I don't believe the differences that exist are enough to disqualify feminism from catering to womankind overall.  There is more than sufficient common ground. And there is strength in numbers.  Why shrink the volume of your collective voice?  One doesn't even need to be a woman to be a feminist.  If you're a man who happens to have a mother/sister/daughter/girlfriend/wife/ or friends of opposite sex then you should consider being a feminist too, regardless of your race.  Lastly, agreeing with someone who has a similar view of feminism (or anything else for that matter) is not "caping" for them, not protecting them from big, bad bullies.  It's just agreeing with them.

* Hashtivism / Semantics / Which Lives Matter?: I believe that activism by hashtag has led to oversimplification of what it means to be supportive of a cause.  Inclusiveness seems to have become a vulgar concept.  Consider what I just said about feminism.  Yes it's true that certain issues pertain to people of one race more than another, but that doesn't mean we can't still be in the fight together.  Yes, there are issues being brought up about mistreated black lives that have caused people to proclaim that "Black Lives Matter".  I repeat, #BlackLivesMatter, for of course they do.  Do all of the other racial categories of lives matter as well?  Of course they do.  Granted, when we're specifically talking about black lives we should try to stay on topic.  We can talk about the struggles of Native Americans and Eskimos some other time.  That's fair enough.  But if someone happens to say ALL rather than black, there is no need to assume that the speaker is saying black lives DO NOT matter.  Saying ALL does not mean that issues of particular importance to African Americans are being ignored.  It simply means that all people are created equal, we all have the same inalienable rights, so in situations where a particular group is getting the shaft, that's a problem in need of remedy.  When asked about a specific racial injustice if somebody chooses to wave it off as unimportant, then we can conclude that their definition of ALL is more limited than it should be.

* Police: We need significant revamping of the screening/training/sanity maintaining of police officers in departments throughout the USA. I do not believe all cops by nature are evil.  I do not believe all white cops are racist. I do believe that cops who walk a beat have stress inducing jobs that can sometimes lead to hair trigger overreaction. There are plenty of cops who need to be weeded out as they are unfit for the duty of protecting and serving everybody equally.  There are plenty of officers who act decently 99 days out of 100 who may screw up royally under pressure on the exception day.  Hopefully the result won't be the needless loss of a life.  We can't allow the police to police themselves for they have shown inclination to protect their own over making sure that justice is served.  Bad apples must be tossed out before they spoil the bunch.  But not every cop is a bad one, and not every situation that arises and makes the news is the result of a cop gone wild.  Sometimes the one being arrested is the bad guy as it is supposed to be.  We need cops to do their job properly, and more often than not, that's what they do.  The success stories don't get much press, only the incidents where something goes horribly wrong.

* Cultural appropriation: People copy aspects of ethnic cultures other than the one they were born into from time to time.  This is not a federal crime, nor is every single example equivalent to black face.  Cultural borrowing, typically temporary, can go in any direction.  It isn't a one way street of whites ripping everybody else off.  Every couple months it seems a new celebrity is being accused of underhanded cultural appropriation. Miley Cyrus was the focus of ire for awhile.  Iggy Azalea is a white woman from Australia who somehow sounds like a black woman from Georgia when she raps.  This is certainly peculiar and clearly a calculated decision on her part to capitalize on a certain sound that isn't native to her.  But it doesn't mean she is the enemy of blacks, including the black guy she agreed to marry.  Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.  So if Kylie Jenner wears her hair in cornrows for a day or two it's not like she's leading a lynch mob, she's just a girl trying on a different look for size.  If you agree with me here but draw the line at Rachel Dolezal, I can't say that I blame you.  Rachel went several enormous steps too far by making a conscious effort to pass for black and somehow managing to take her masquerade all the way to heading a chapter of the NAACP.  Had she stopped short of the NAACP I probably would have just shrugged, but apparently Rachel is not the sort of person who does anything halfway.  Yet I'm not pissed off at her and I don't feel she did much harm to anyone other than herself once secrets were revealed.  We got some good laughs at her expense.  We should now be able to move on.

* Interracial relationships: They happen. In every variety of way. With celebrities and with everybody else.  It's not a trend and isn't going anywhere.  So get over it. Being involved with somebody of a different race is not proof of self loathing.  One does not abandon what they were born by being involved with someone of another race.  Just as people can walk and chew gun at the same time, they can be themselves while loving another.  If you're not in the relationship it's none of your business.  If I'm not in it, it's none of mine.

* Privilege: Yep, white people in the USA have it.  Especially the males.  Most especially those who aren't broke.  This isn't the only kind of privilege of course.  Things are set up more for the convenience of right handed people than lefties.  Able bodied people are in a better situation than handicapped.  Tall and skinny usually works out better for a person than short and tubby.  Being considered attractive comes with perks that being considered NOT does not.  Whichever of these and other privileges you may be in possession of, chances are that you didn't have much choice in the matter.  As for categories where you got the short end of the stick, c'est la vie.  Deal with whatever it is you need to deal with and go be great.  Nothing is stopping you except maybe for you.  Privilege is just there chilling, not caring how much of it you ended up with.  So stop whining about it 24/7.  Didn't you know that privilege is blind and deaf to your protestations?

* Stop declaring every belief by a black person that you disagree with to be an example of hotep/Uncle Tom'ing: People curse because they lack the vocabulary to make an intelligent argument.  The same can be said for referring to someone by an insulting term for the sin of having a different opinion than you.  This is done to an exhausting degree in the black community.  Within any other ethnicity, if one person has liberal left leaning beliefs and the other has conservative right wing beliefs, they'll disagree on a lot of issues.  They'll vote for candidates in different political parties.  When arguing over a particularly heated topic they may not like each other very much, at least temporarily.  But typically neither of them will call the other anything like an Uncle Tom or a hotep, which are terms that mean a black person is acting in a traitorous manner against his own race (see interracial relationships).  Feeling strongly one way or the other about a matter has nothing to do with racial identity for most people.  But if a black guy happens to feel that black-on-black crime is as much of a problem as police brutality, he is called an Uncle Tom.  Perhaps we'll eventually modernize that low blow to Uncle Don in honor of Don Lemon. Don receives as much name calling / abusive meme treatment as anyone these days.  Disagreement is inevitable and won't always be kept civil.  But it's possible to not agree with much of what someone such as Clarence Thomas stands for, to dislike him vehemently, yet still not pull a card having anything to do with race when expressing distaste.  Consider him to be a jerk. State that you think he's dead wrong. Leave it at that.  As Chris Rock once said, I have some things I'm liberal about and some things I'm conservative about.  Most grown-ups feel similarly, even if in their younger days it tended to be all one or the other. It's not a matter of jumping back and forth between being conscious and being a so called hotep.  It's simply a matter of being a complex human being who judges situations on a case by case basis.

* Black Twitter: It's not actually a real thing:  Neither is Black facebook, black instagram, etc.  There was (maybe still is) a Black Planet, I'll grant you that.  Social media is one for all and all for one.  There are plenty of black people on Twitter.  Among them I don't believe there is 100% consensus on anything.  The LA Times has put a writer on the case, think pieces are written on a monthly basis, books are in the works, all about Black Twitter.  One may as well write about Bigfoot, Loch Ness Monster, visiting space aliens, and mermaids.  They all make for fascinating stories but nothing can be proven so it must be considered fiction.  I'm black. I have a Twitter account.  Does that make me a member of Black Twitter?  Not necessarily, as apparently not every black person tweeting is in the club.  Also, I've read you can be in Black Twitter without even being black.  I wonder if Rachel Dolezal was in Black Twitter before being outed.  Do I have to hold certain beliefs to be in Black Twitter, 100% compliance to whatever the rules of engagement are?  If so, where are the guidelines?  Hidden like stations of the Underground Railroad?  I doubt it.  Have I forever disqualified myself from Black Twitter membership by writing this blog post? Surely it goes against several core BT principles?  Or maybe it doesn't.  I have no idea because I have no idea what Black Twitter is exactly, no clue what it represents, and neither does nobody else no matter how much they've written about it and swear they know the deal.  Black Twitter is the ghost in the attic, the fairy in your garden, the angel on your shoulder.  Nobody can get a picture of it but they swear it's real.  It's not. Until someone registers BlackTwitter.com - it's nothing more than a phrase that people use to pigeonhole. One more completely unnecessary label.

Beyonce: This last one isn't important at all but I wanted to have an even count of ten items and this is a legitimate peeve of mine.  I don't get Bey idolatry, particularly when it goes beyond that from girls in their early to mid teens.  She is admittedly stunning looking, but so are plenty of performers.  She's half of a super cool marriage, but the Beyhive was firmly in place before Jay Z locked her down.  She is a great stage performer but there are quite a few of those.  Nobody does pop music without putting on a spectacle these days.  The music is just one ingredient in the stew.  And that brings me to my final point.  I find Bey's playlist to be mediocre.  Plenty of past and current pop stars have generated a higher number of a catchy hit tunes on a more consistent basis.  Beyonce holds her own at best against fellow stars of today such as Rihanna, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Kelly Clarkson, Taylor Swift.  And I don't think she holds a candle to the catalogs of pop legends like Madonna and Janet Jackson.  She is no Whitney Houston.  None of this is to say that Beyonce is a slouch.  She's one of the brightest stars out there, a future Hall of Famer, no doubt about it.  But does she stand head and shoulders above the competition?  Certainly not musically.  So why is her broad fan base fanatical about her well beyond the degree to which other stars are adored?  I have no answer.  I'm genuinely perplexed.  Beyonce has transcended pop stardom. She is Marilyn Monroe, Princess Diana, Elvis and the Beatles all rolled into one.  I just don't get it, but no big deal. If she's the chosen one, she's the chosen one.  I can live with that while listening to much better music by Sade and Amy Winehouse.












R.I.P. Sandra Blank. May the full truth be unearthed and justice prevail.


And now for some book reviews:


Mary Poppins by P.L. Travers
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I knew from the movie Saving Mr. Banks that a personality overhaul was given to Mary Poppins when Disney adapted this book into a film. She's all sweetness and light in the film, quite the hard ass in the book. She's rather vain in the book as well. I suppose I'd be vain too if I could fit furniture into a suitcase and fly by umbrella. I learned from Wikipedia that the reason so much that happens in the movie is not in the book is because there are 8 Mary Poppins books and the movie is based on events taken from the first four, plus some stuff added by Disney. I can't say that I loved this classic book that spawned the much more charming movie. I'm giving 3 stars rather than 2 because without the books, starting with this one, there is no movie.

View all my reviews

How the García Girls Lost Their Accents by Julia Alvarez
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This is a beautifully written book. But it's one of those works of fiction that isn't really about anything in particular. Readers spend time with alternating Garcia girls in random order throughout a portion of their lives. There is no plot to speak of. The chapters are connected by the fact that one or more Garcia girl is featured in each of them, but you could read them in any order you wanted without impacting the reading experience. The chapters/scenes hold your attention in standalone fashion as well as loosely connecting with the others. I didn't grow attached to anyone in particular. I cared about what was happening when it was happening and then the book moved on to something else. How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents is a well written series of scattered moments in the lives of girls who become women who become the memory of a book you once read.

View all my reviews

The Ruins by Scott B. Smith
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Seriously creepy stuff. What do you do if you and a group of friends end up on a hill in Mexico that is crawling with vines from hell. They can think, plot, see, hear, deceive, mock, physically and mentally torture, invade your body, destroy your soul before eventually, inevitably stripping your bones clean? You hold out for as long as you can in hopes that the cavalry will arrive before it's too late. If one of you happens to be an Eagle Scout, perhaps you can figure out ways to last longer than most. But no matter. It was too late the moment you took one step upon that hill. This is a dreams haunting kind of book.

View all my reviews

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Extraordinary. The Goldfinch is a deeply satisfying blend of gorgeous literary writing with a thriller style plot and Charles Dickens-esque range of scope. Theo Decker is a character we watch from boyhood to manhood, in peril for much of that time, in possession of a cherished gift. It's a gift meant for all people who appreciate art and beauty, not just for him, but it ends up in his hands to secretly protect and preserve. After surviving an explosion that takes his mother's life he moves through his days recklessly. As a teen in his father's careless charge he immerses himself in drugs. As an adult who has somehow managed to secure a comfortable lifestyle with the seemingly non perilous job of selling antique furniture, he is continually drawn to danger. His mindset is practically suicidal, we readers care about him more than he seems to care for himself. He is also cared for by those in his inner circle: his best friend Boris, father figure Hobie, and Pippa, the girl whom he loves from first sight but has no idea what to do about it. Theo protects a masterpiece meant to be displayed on museum walls much as he guards memories of his mother who was taken too soon. Memories never have to be surrendered, but eventually we all find ourselves needing to let go.

View all my reviews

To Kill a Mockingbird - And Revitalize a Brand

My original review of To Kill a Mockingbird

Updated review: It was all a dream, Atticus NEVER read Word Up Magazine.

So in case you haven't heard, and of course you have, Harper Lee has a "new" book out.  It reads as a sequel to her classic 'To Kill a Mockingbird', showing us an adult Scout and a very much changed Atticus. The lawyer with a heart of gold who championed the cause of justice in a racist society is now a bitter, garden variety bigot. You probably also already know that Go Set a Watchman was not written as a sequel to Mockingbird, but is actually its first draft.  At editorial suggestion Harper Lee focused on a flashback to Scout's childhood, and from that piece of advice the book we all read in school was born.

Harper Lee famously said that she did not want to publish another book. So why at age 89 would she decide to let Mockingbird's first draft be published as a book in its own right after the missing manuscript was supposedly discovered by her lawyer?  Your guess is as good as mine.  The purpose of this post is not conjecture about whether Harper Lee had a late in life change of heart or is being taken advantage of by a publishing giant.  Let others shout "Liar Liar - pants on fire" if they wish.  I'll buy this version of the story until/unless someone proves it to be false: From Mockingbird to Watchman

And perhaps there is more to come, for here is A New Account of ‘Watchman’s’ Origin and Hints of a Third Book

See Where ‘Go Set a Watchman’ Overlaps with ‘To Kill a Mockingbird,’ Word-for-Word http://t.co/1XlfNV0gfG pic.twitter.com/oBweho1MTa— Publishers Weekly (@PublishersWkly) July 15, 2015

Some readers are conflicted:

I am not at all tempted to read 'Go Set a Watchman'. 'To Kill a Mockingbird' was a significant book in my journey... http://t.co/kBQi5R8k3e— Susan Whelan (@ReadUpsideDown) July 14, 2015

Reasonable. I'm torn. Will likely read it as a writer doing research on the draft revision process > as a reader. https://t.co/4OBEx5Fifx— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 14, 2015

But perhaps we should simply read Watchman and judge it on its own merits. Doing so without comparison to Mockingbird is of course pretty much impossible. Harper Lee's 'Watchman' Is A Mess That Makes Us Reconsider A Masterpiece

Not that this is preventing it from selling like hotcakes. Go Set a Watchman Breaks Book Selling Records

The release of Watchman has people re-examining Mockingbird with new eyes. In the #BlackLivesMatter era does Atticus Finch still come across as a civil rights hero?

Publishers Weekly: Rethinking ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ http://t.co/ijAhtUBpIU #books— The Oakenquill Blog (@Oakenquill) July 17, 2015

Namely, it never crossed my mind that Atticus was any kind of hero.— Monica Odom (@modomodom) July 16, 2015

Probably because I was focused on the black characters and how they were portrayed and what that meant for me and my family in present day— Monica Odom (@modomodom) July 16, 2015

Can't say I felt the same. Anyone willing to oppose popular commonly held opinions that are WRONG, to stand alone in being RIGHT, is heroic— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 16, 2015

But I do agree that the point of a narrative is not necessarily who the hero is, but the cause they are being heroic for. Equality. Justice.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 16, 2015

@AuthorofPatches But also, justice is his job, that he was getting paid to do. The complexity of it all is very much with exploring!— Monica Odom (@modomodom) July 16, 2015

@modomodom I always saw the point as being if 1 generation (Atticus) simply did its job, next generation (Scout) would actually be > humane.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 16, 2015

It's also tough to think about Mockingbird the book without comparing it to Mockingbird the movie.

@AuthorofPatches Good way to put it. I think there's also a discussion about realism vs. idealism to be had here.— Monica Odom (@modomodom) July 16, 2015

Yep. The book (especially 1st draft it now seems) featured more realism, movie won hearts with more idealism https://t.co/lmcC1zkXW8— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 16, 2015

My favorite thing about release of Go Set a Watchman by far is that the main topic of conversation in publishing right now is a BOOK.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 16, 2015

I'm tired of print vs ebook debate, could care less that soccer moms are into poorly written fan fic erotica & definitely sick of downsizing— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 16, 2015

A "new" Harper Lee title with Mockingbird characters comes out & for a few days at least book news isn't what bookstore/publisher went under— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 16, 2015

For the past couple days a portion of my timeline has been a ginormous bookclub discussion and that's A-OK with me.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 16, 2015

A search for more hidden gems may now be underway as result of the discovery of Watchman:

What's the Next 'Go Set a Watchman'? Lost works of Joan Didion, Marilynne Robinson and other writers | New Republic http://t.co/VbdhGnl6EL— Publishers Weekly (@PublishersWkly) July 17, 2015

Instead of publishing books by established authors that they did not want to see light of day, perhaps pub something worthy by an unknown?— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 17, 2015

Just a thought— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 17, 2015

After all, if an author chose to stick manuscript in a drawer rather than sending to agent, maybe there was a good reason we should respect.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) July 17, 2015

Number of times people in the store this week have referred to "To Kill A Mockingjay" - more than you'd expect— Josh Christie (@jchristie) July 17, 2015

LOL

Watch the critics clobber GO SET A WATCHMAN. "Thou shalt not monkey with our scared literary cows." For the rest of us: you go, girl!— Stephen King (@StephenKing) July 11, 2015

Chapter One of Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee

Will trade a Benjamin for five Tubmans

Should Jackson Stay on the $20 Bill? http://t.co/m8AsTU7VY4 Take Andrew Jackson Off the $20 Bill http://t.co/bkC0T1rJCc— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 13, 2015

One of These 4 Radical, Badass Women Could Be on the $20 Bill http://t.co/N4X3TJUVPQ - Solid list of contenders— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 13, 2015

Make it happen "@washingtonpost potential replacement 4 Andrew Jackson on $20: Harriet Tubman http://t.co/kNVXus6dBG pic.twitter.com/CrDmrxfTTY"— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 13, 2015

Harriet Tubman with rescued slaves- Auburn, NY, circa 1887 pic.twitter.com/eI0rjRH2fs— Historical Pics (@VeryOldPics) May 12, 2015

When I saw this article I was a little surprised but mostly disappointed that some people seem to find the negative angle in everything. WHY WE SHOULD KEEP HARRIET TUBMAN AND ROSA PARKS OFF THE $20 BILL

Why we can't have nice things. Roosevelt & Mankiller are like: Okay great, honor one of us then. https://t.co/NpTLPyDiLR— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 13, 2015

More negative reaction to idea of Harriet Tubman on $20 bills.  Keep Harriet Tubman – and all women – off the $20

How do we turn this honor (a potential one as it hasn't even happened yet) into an insult? Think it out. Scribble it down. Press Send.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 13, 2015

Tubman's face on a bill would be a powerful statement on what US economy was founded on, how far we've come, & how far still to go. #TheEnd— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 13, 2015

So we only want people on $ bills who were pro slavery, anti woman, members of ruling class? No matter how much has changed & how much change we're still striving for, we want to cling to the ugly past and not acknowledge those who fought for a greater America?

So the bigots & the super conscious blacks are in agreement that nothing would be worse than Harriet Tubman on $20 bill? Okay, that's nice— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

As for me, I can think of no one more worthy than Harriet Tubman for the honor. Her legacy IS America. She should be on $1, $5, $10, $20...

Put Harriet's beautiful face on all my pocket change too. She did her part to make right what was horribly wrong. Remind us daily of that— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

There was a time when a black person's money was no good in some establishments. Fast forward to a black woman's face on the money. Whoa!— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

Key word in that last tweet was "forward". I believe in moving forward. One of the ways we do that is by honoring the BEST of our past.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

Women were 2nd class citizens in the US way too long. Still not caught up. Imagine Hillary in the White House & Harriet on the $20. Go on, do it.

Imagine the future impact that will have on our not yet born daughters. On our unborn sons too. Immeasurable.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

You want to reduce street harassment? Men respect money. Put women on it. Change $20 bill from paper given for lap dance to a testament.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

Kids not yet born could have a black man & white woman as most recent Presidents plus a black woman on money. This affects thinking.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

Post racial is a dumb phrase but do you know what reduces racism? Respectful exposure. Harder to look down on people in exalted positions.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

Most of the impact will not be immediate. Changing mindsets takes time. Some of what we do today is meant to make tomorrow better.

Why would anyone be against that? Those on opposite sides come together sometimes & then cynicism is indistinguishable from ignorance.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

Harriet Tubman is #BlackGirlsRock poster child. But don't forget the underground railroad was homes of white abolitionists with conscience.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

So Harriet Tubman doesn't only symbolize resistance. She also symbolizes the best of all of humanity in the worst of times.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 14, 2015

#BlerdBookClub Poll's up for June! And it's all #Blerds Show em some love and vote! https://t.co/MbK8fUoqJi pic.twitter.com/qOysxnZn3i— Thelonious Legend (@TheLegendBooks) May 8, 2015

Just Uploaded! AEC Entry #22: "Patches of Grey" by Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) https://t.co/yRP27a7mag #BuzzAEC— Buzz Books (@phatsunny) May 11, 2015

A reading from Patches of Grey

How do I stand up against the other Author Excerpt entrants at Buzz Bookstore's contest?

My entry is lucky # 22.  Happy reading/listening.

Don't be shy.  Let me know what you thought.  Maybe, just maybe, you will propel my excerpt to victory.

Perhaps one day I'll get around to recording a reading of the entire novel, at which point I'll be able to offer Patches of Grey as an audio book.  Until then, the print edition and Kindle edition will have to do.  You can enter the contest at Goodreads before May 20th for a chance to win a copy of the former.  As for the latter, it will be available for free at Amazon 5/21 - 5/23.

Your votes for Patches of Grey in the #BlerdBookClub poll would also be greatly appreciated.




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Goodreads Book Giveaway Patches Of Grey by Roy L. Pickering Jr. Giveaway ends May 20, 2015.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads. Enter to Win

#BlerdBookClub Poll's up for June! And it's all #Blerds Show em some love and vote! https://t.co/MbK8fUoqJi pic.twitter.com/qOysxnZn3i— Thelonious Legend (@TheLegendBooks) May 8, 2015

Murders and Riots and Misdemeanors

I was pleased when Marilyn Mosby chose to file charges against the six police officers who appear to be responsible for the injuries that led to the death of Freddy Gray. But when people on social media suggested that this is an example of JUSTICE brought about by RIOTS, this struck me as taking things too far. There will be no peace without justice. But disruption of peace is not what brings justice about.  It's nothing more or less than a vivid demonstration of our frustration, the "language of the unheard".  We don't need rioting.  What we need is rehabilitation of a very imperfect system.  R.I.P. Freddie Gray.

"He was handcuffed and placed in a transport van in good health. He emerged a quadriplegic." http://t.co/i0RIlvwhdd— jesseWilliams. (@iJesseWilliams) April 29, 2015

                                                          THE DIRTY HALF DOZEN



We immediately assumed white cops needlessly assaulted black victim. One look at the picture above says all you really need to know.  Everything in life is not a simple black & white matter.

If you must judge by color, seems to me that we need > regulations on boys/girls in BLUE. Also, life sucks if you have insufficient GREEN.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

I know we're gung ho over protests these days but they aren't the reason charges are filed or are not filed. Very recent history says this.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

It's all case by case, prosecutor by prosecutor situation. 6 Baltimore cops were not charged b/c owner of burned CVS insisted.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

I don't claim to follow the logic of who will or won't be indicted. Of the various recent cases, Eric Garner's seemed like easiest slam dunk— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

#Ferguson was splashiest story (due to protests) until #FreddieGray (due again to protests). Indictments in one, goose egg in other.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

No charges filed in killing of John Crawford either. Many cases to pick from. Most didn't result in national guard being called in.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

I support peaceful protest when evidence points to a crime, but no arrest takes place. And protesting does not equal justice gets served.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

George Zimmerman is the one case where it seems pressure was needed just to get an arrest and it succeeded. Not that a conviction resulted.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

Pressure got DOJ to look into death of Mike Brown. But cop not arrested & DOJ basically agreed that this was just.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

Other than someone winning a Pulitzer for taking photos in #Ferguson (a very camera friendly crisis) who won what there?— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

In Baltimore we did get arrests. Convictions may be a long shot though. Who has won what? How has it been proven that protests work?— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

Folk should ease up on being self congratulatory every time an incident mildly resembles a win for justice. Check dictionary for definition— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

Justice for victim = the person who is guilty beyond doubt being punished accordingly per letter of law.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

When all said&done I doubt we'll get highest % of arrests/convictions in cases where there were protests. Protesters have iffy track record— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

Whether you call it a riot or an uprising (which is simply a matter of branding) the song remains the same.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

We challenge the curfew because it is meant to show the power of the state to manage bodies. This isn't freedom. #BaltimoreUprising— deray mckesson (@deray) May 3, 2015

Kid got half a million dollars bail after turning himself in (by parental demand) for breaking a police car window.  Did Mookie from Do the Right Thing set the Wrong Example? Shouldn't curfew for alleged killers be higher than that earned for an act of heated vandalism?  SMDH.

Tragedy in Baltimore has been followed by a whole lot of stupid from all sides.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 3, 2015

But at least people are making all kinds of new unlikely friends. People seeing each other as people rather than foreigners or enemies is the only true path to justice consistently being served.

A Line A Day: No Justice - No Peace - No Think Piece - Just Grief http://t.co/DVPY3Bbfuv— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 2, 2015

How far away are we from a better day? #Ferguson to #Baltimore and Beyond https://t.co/TtYeroqTsf— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) May 3, 2015

A reading from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE - Audio Excerpt

I hope this blog post finds you well, and with five minutes to spare.  Eventually I wish to be standing before you in a bookstore or some other literary setting, reading from the words I set down on paper for my second novel.  For now, simply hit the play button found below in the privacy of wherever you are (after putting on a pair of headphones if you wish, and perhaps pouring yourself a cup of coffee or glass of wine, depending on time of day) and kindly listen to my recording of an excerpt from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE.  I doubt it sounds effortless because it certainly wasn't.  But I got through it relatively unscathed.  Enjoy!









As soon as the publication date for Matters of Convenience arrives, I'll be sure to shout it out to the world.  If you are a book blogger who would like to receive an advance copy for review, leave a comment below with your site address and I'll get back to you when the time comes.  Until that day arrives, if you haven't already read my debut novel Patches of Grey perhaps you would care to check it out.  Just head on over to Amazon.  This sentence is a shortcut link that will take you there.

If FREE is the price tag most in line with your book obtaining budget, enter the contest at Goodreads for the chance to win an autographed copy of Patches of Grey.  Access to the entry form can be found below.  For those of you who don't win a copy of the print edition, and who like to read in electronic format, the Kindle edition will be free to all (not just kindleunlimited members) for three days: May 21st - May 23rd.  Be sure to mark your calendars, not only for my book giveaways, but also of course because this month gives us Mother's Day . If your mom is anything like mine - she loves her children and grandchildren, she loves flowers, she loves chocolate, and she loves books.









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Goodreads Book Giveaway Patches Of Grey by Roy L. Pickering Jr. Giveaway ends May 20, 2015.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads. Enter to Win

PARMESAN CHEESE - A #ShortStory

PARMESAN CHEESE
By Roy L. Pickering Jr.                                      



"You want some Parmesan cheese, man?"
These words welcome me back to the world of consciousness.  Each of my senses is being assailed.  Nerve endings from head to toe throb with pain.  A marching band strikes up a show tune, every member playing my ear drums.  The light of a thousand suns pries open my protesting eyes.  My saliva is at least eighty proof, my stomach doing somersaults.  And a horrific smell engulfs me - the divine intermingling of a backed up urinal, a gallon of sweat, stale beer, morning breath, and cheese.
A man hovers overhead, peering into my face, hand held out with the aforementioned cheese.  He is unwashed, unshaven, wearing tattered rags that would make the skin of a rhino crawl.
"Where am I?"
"You're in my alley.  You want this cheese?"
My eyes are growing accustomed to the light.  He wasn't lying. This is definitely an alley.  I put my brain on rewind to recall what turn of events placed me here.
I went out drinking last night.  Why didn't my friends see to it that I got home safely?  Because I was alone.  Why was I ...  Oh yeah, now I remember.  I'm in mourning.  My girlfriend dumped me.  Why would Nicki do that?  We had a great thing going.  We were ...  My memory is returning with a vengeance.  She found out that I slept with her best friend.  Or did she find out I slept with her sister?  No matter.  I got busted doing something with somebody.  Now I'm depressed all over again.
I try to stand but a wave of pain keeps me horizontal.  My ribs are sore.  My jaw isn't feeling so hot either.  Was I mugged?  No, that’s not it.  I was talking to a redhead, making pretty good progress.  One problem though.  She was the bouncer's girlfriend.  Suddenly I'm ricocheting off walls, the floor, the ceiling.  I got the feeling the redhead was amused.  She probably does this sort of thing regularly, the psycho.  Makes me glad to have someone like Nicki. Oh yeah, I forgot.
"You got the time?", I ask, nagged by suspicion that I'm supposed to be somewhere, though I cannot recall where or why at the moment.
"No.  I have Parmesan cheese.  You want any?"
"How about some tequila?"  That's what I was drinking last night.  Aspirin will be of little use.  No hangover this intense can be combated with non-prescription medication.  A hair of the dog is what I need.
"Poco loved Parmesan cheese."
My wedding!  I'm supposed to be at the church by twelve o'clock.  Nicki and I are getting married.  At least that was the plan before I screwed up. 
"Nobody loved Parmesan cheese like Poco." 
My folks are going to flip out.  My father may even cut me off financially.  He’s threatened to often enough, but I’ve always placated him by promising to get my act together.  That might not be good enough this time.  If not, I can say goodbye to my cushy job in the family business, my penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, my Jaguar, my floor seats at the Garden where I cheer on the Knicks a few feet over from Spike Lee.
"He could eat a whole can of the stuff in ten seconds."
As if I don’t have enough problems, this rancid, raving lunatic is going on about how much someone named Poco loved Parmesan cheese.  Maybe I can get Nicki back.  I’m willing to grovel.  Women like her don't come around every day, a fact my father reminds me of constantly.
A filthy blanket is draped over me.  I push it off.  My beautiful cashmere coat has spent the night soaking in booze and vomit.  The dry cleaner won't be able to do anything with this.  How bad can things possibly ..."
My wallet!  I had over seven hundred dollars on me.  I spent the night lying comatose in this alley.  There's not a chance in ...  It’s still here.  But what about the money?  It's here too.  My credit cards as well.
"You can have it if you want.  Go ahead, take it."
The bum is offering me a can of Parmesan cheese.  Why didn't he rob me?  Maybe he's retarded or something.
"Is this your blanket?"
"Yes it is.  It was cold last night.  Those men threw you out here soaking wet and beaten up."
"So you loaned me your blanket?  You took care of me?"
"Sure.  You seem like a nice man.  I think Poco would have liked you."
"Poco?"
"Poco was my dog.  He died last night."
Maybe there's still time to sweet talk Nicki.  I can smooth things over with jewelry, or perhaps extend our honeymoon another month.  As pissed as she was, I know how much she was looking forward to this day.  Barnum & Bailey couldn't have put together as big a show as our planned wedding, and she gets to be the star.  If I move quickly enough I can ...  This crazy man is crying.  He's crying over his dog Poco.
"He was a great dog.  He loved Parmesan cheese."
I used to have a dog when I was a kid.  Sparky was a great companion, and thanks to him I was never lonely growing up as an only child in a huge house.  My dad was always somewhere else doing whatever had to be done to get richer by the day.  My mother was either off shopping in ritzy boutiques, having lunch with friends, or doing charity work for obscure projects like saving endangered species of butterfly.  It was made clear that I was mostly a nuisance to them.  Nothing personal, but children demand a certain amount of selfless devotion, and that is what they felt nannies and maids were for.  They made certain I wore the finest clothes, played with the fanciest toys, and attended the best schools.  But they didn't have much attention to spare.  
Sparky passed on while I was in college.  That was probably the most upset I’ve ever been in my life, including last night.  Sure, I did the traditional depressed guy routine after Nicki dumped me.  But I was mostly just mad at myself for blowing such a sweet deal.  Nicki has the looks of a runway model, speaks five languages, and her dad's almost as loaded as mine.  That's a pretty tough hand to beat.
"I hope they have plenty of Parmesan up in heaven."
It doesn't matter though.  I don't love Nicki any more than she loves me.  Love can be stumbled upon, disregarded, cherished, discarded, trumpeted or muted.  But it cannot be arranged.  Otherwise why would I be here instead of putting on a tux in preparation for wedded bliss with a woman who is all I'm supposed to want? 
Perhaps I did love once, and knew what I wanted, what real happiness is.  The time was brief, and such brevity is probably what keeps it imprinted on my brain.  Maybe if it had not ended so abruptly, and against my will, I would be able to accept the loss.  But my will was just an extension of what my parents chose it to be, and my one possibly true love did not have sufficient fortune or come from the right class of people.  My feelings for Paula, whatever name applies to them, were not frivolous enough to be tolerated.  So I was given an ultimatum.
Sabotaging the marriage my parents carefully set up will cause a firestorm. Technically our wedding was supposed to unite two people in love.  But in reality it was to be the merging of two empires.  My indiscriminate behavior will be seen as another act of unoriginal defiance.  The way I see it though, what I possibly want, who I may or may not love, has to count for something. 
"I think Poco would have liked you.  Anyway, you look like you can take care of yourself now, so I'll be going."
"Where to?"  Why did I ask him that?  What do I care?  He points to a garbage bag.  I don't need to ask what's in it.
"To the city dump.  Poco deserves to be buried proper.  I'll dig him a hole with my hands if I have to.  He would have done the same for me if I went first.  You want to come?"
Not bothering to wait for an answer, the bum slings the bag over his shoulder and walks away.  There is an inexplicable aura of dignity about him as I watch him exit his brief stay in my existence.  I manage to rise in spite of protests from various aching body parts and stagger out of the alley.  
 A couple walks by and I ask them what time it is.  The look in the man's eyes reminds me of a newly neutered pet.  Primeval urges to conquer and spread his seed have been domesticated out of him.  He is worn on his woman's arm like a fashionable purse.  It's only ten o'clock.  There's still time.  I know I can earn Nicki's forgiveness. 
Oh what the hell.  "Hey, wait up."  I suddenly have a craving for Parmesan cheese.






And now for some book reviews...


Ghana Must Go by Taiye Selasi
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A virtuoso performance. Taiye Selasi is an author to reckon with. Her prose is a lullaby, taking its sweet time drawing us into the lives of the characters who populate Ghana Must Go. The narrative flits among members of a fractured family, each of them nursing their specific heartaches. What they share along with the ties of blood is abandonment, which leads to separate paths. A return to Africa to bid farewell to the man who left them is what brings them back together. Along the way we learn their secrets and sources of pain. Scattered moments throughout their lives fit together to form the image of a family, one that has been broken, but not irreparably. The arrival of death signals an ending, as well as the opportunity for new beginnings.


 

Labyrinth by Kate Mosse
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I can never read too many grail quest yarns. This one doesn't have quite as infectious a pace as The Da Vinci Code. The style of prose ventures closer to literary than Dan Brown's strictly commercial blockbuster. Labyrinth also had me struggling to remember my high school and freshman year of college French lessons, for whatever that's worth. The narrative provides readers with two stories to follow (somewhat similar to Raymond Khoury's The Templar Salvation), one taking place in the present and the other in the distant past, the two racing to reach a point where they will merge. There are a good deal of characters to keep track of (perhaps a couple too many for my taste) with prime spots going to women. So I suppose this is the most feminist of the grail chase books I've read to date. It won't be the last, as I simply can't get enough of them. And I may return to the fiction of Kate Mosse someday, because even though this novel didn't quite wow me, it was crafted well enough to have me hooked to the end.



Fortunately, the Milk by Neil Gaiman
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Hilariously absurd. Entertainingly original, in spite of the fact that this book basically has the same ending (spoiler alert) as one of my favorite movies - The Usual Suspects. Wacky illustrations perfectly match the zany tone of the prose which will have you and your little ones laughing out loud (very loud) throughout. Even the title is awesome.




The Pilot's Wife by Anita Shreve
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Oprah was right. This is an exceptionally well written story. Some of it I saw coming. Some of it I didn't. All of it was masterfully executed.

View all my reviews

SUPPORT INDIE AUTHORS

I went on a brief Twitter rant the other day about self published / indie authors, inspired by the claim of Sarah Taylor that Self-Publishing is no longer a dirty word.  True?  Depends on who is saying it, I believe.

“Self-Publishing is No Longer a Dirty Word”: Sarah Taylor’s Indie Book Fair Keynote Address http://t.co/CqkJl7Gwot #selfpub #amwriting
— IndieAuthorsAlliance (@IndieAuthorALLI) 

Perhaps not. Yet about 98% of the time I find a new book blog & check out its Review Policy, it says "I do not review self pubbed books".
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

So the stigma is still there. Most book bloggers are not here for indie authors even though they themselves are indie book reviewers.
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

To thrive as an indie author your best bet is to have a pre existing platform other than writer of fiction. Sell yourself first.
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

If you're not comfortable with this, if you just want to write stories & let them speak for themselves - good luck with that!
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

If ur a blogger who LOVES books, I assume u support indie stores, indie authors, print. You don't just accept electronic ARCs from Big 5.
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

Shout out to Libraries too but I couldn't fit them into 140 characters.
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

My ODE TO THE LIBRARY



This is work for white people and people of color to do, sometimes together, sometimes apart. It’s work for writers, agents, editors, artists, fans, executives, interns, directors, and publicists. It’s work for reviewers, educators, administrators. It means taking courageous, real-world steps, not just changing mission statements or submissions guidelines. ~ from Diversity Is Not Enough: Race, Power, Publishing

Powerful facts based MUST READ piece by Zetta Elliot on Black Authors and Self-Publishing

Starting someplace, any place, is a good start. Good compared to not starting at all and just maintaining status quo anyway.
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

If many black authors can't get agents/publication deals, so they self publish, but you as a book blogger won't review self pubbed books...
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

...Then consider yourself part of the problem, part of the reason that we need to cry out #WeNeedDiverseBooks
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

A Line A Day: Response to Garrison Keillor's position that: When everyone's a writer, no one is http://t.co/QJ0rZKdCBU
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

Any reviewers or book clubs, perhaps interested in finding indie gems by authors of color, care to check out PATCHES OF GREY?
— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) 

Next up from me: MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE

Check out the interview I conducted with indie author, Todd Keisling.  If support of indie authors is hard to come by from various parties in the publishing industry machine, at the very least we need to support each other.  Below are reviews written for a few books I've read that were self published.  One of them took off (no, I'm not talking about 50 Shades of Grey) in a big way.  Perhaps it's just a matter of time for the others.





Ferryman by Carole Sutton


They say the devil is in the details and you will find a rich supply of them in this mystery novel, transporting you to 1970's Cornwall, England, racing aboard a sleek yacht or attending a fancy costume ball where far more than meets the eye is there to be discovered by those in search of answers. One of the people following trails both hot and cold is Steven Pengelly, a man wrongfully convicted of murder who gains his freedom after two years of imprisonment when the body of the woman he was supposed to have killed surfaces from the depths of the sea, freshly deceased. Although he has no further need to clear his name, the sister of a woman gone missing convinces him to join her desperate rescue mission. A man who does need redemption is Alec Grimstone, the detective who saw to it that Steven was convicted and now must follow the only path that will lead to a clean conscience, and to the true abductor/killer behind an escalating series of crimes. I will delve no further into the plot, with Ferryman being a mystery that I don't wish to spoil for anyone. Better to pick up a copy for yourself and follow the twists and turns that lead to a villian whose perversity is only matched by the clever measures he takes to maintain his depraved secrets. If you are a whodunnit fan, and who isn't to some degree, be sure to add Carol Sutton to your reading list.

View all my reviews

The Time Cavern by Todd A. Fonseca

This book transported me back in time to when I was an avid 10-year old reader, which is both ironic and apt since it features 10-year old time travelers. But I’ve gotten ahead of myself (yet more time traveling) as I pen this review about a most wonderful young adult novel – The Time Cavern by Todd A. Fonseca. I typically do not read much fiction geared towards pre-teens and those in their early teenage years, having left that period of my life decades behind. Prior to The Time Cavern I suppose the last book I read that fit this bill was the first Harry Potter book. There was a tiny bit of buzz about Ms. Rowling’s wizardry series (perhaps you’ve heard of it too) so I decided to check out Part I and found it to be an enjoyable read, though it did not inspire me to pick up additional titles in the saga. I appreciate the ultimate achievement of the Harry Potter books beyond making Rowling a gazillionaire and launching a number of movie star careers. Millions of young people in their formative years who may not otherwise have been turned on by reading in a day and age where one’s phone provides as much entertainment as an arcade decided to check out a book (and then another and then another) because tremendous buzz made it a trendy thing to do. No doubt a good many of them moved beyond the Potter books and became lifelong readers, just as the Jules Verne books I read as a grade school kid sparked my addiction to books, not only as a vociferous reader but also as a writer. Young people lucky enough to stumble into The Time Cavern will be similarly affected. In it, a bright, curious, mechanically inclined boy named Aaron moves to a new house in a rural area with his family. Initially he feels like a fish out of water but his acclimation to a new home is sped up when he befriends Jake, a classmate who is not crazy about her real name “Jacqueline” or about being passive and stereotypically “girlish”. She has a spirit nearly as adventurous as Aaron’s, which is a good thing because they soon find themselves on an adventure upon discovery of a century old diary page that eventually leads them to a most extraordinary tree. Throughout the course of this briskly told tale Aaron and Jen become detectives on the trail of a case that is simultaneously ancient and futuristic. Their interest in scholastics, particularly science, serves them well as they unearth clues in a number of inventive ways, including a most ingenious use of a tanning bed. The backdrop to their caper (which also put me in mind of the Dan Brown blockbusters but featuring considerably younger protagonists and minus the violent aspect of adult thrillers) is an Amish community, people who Aaron comes to learn have basically suspended time with their lifestyle choices rather than joining the progressive march of technology. Whether it’s a trip to a cornfield or to a planetarium, each experience throughout the narrative is learned from and the knowledge is used to propel Aaron and Jake’s progress into uncharted territory. Fonseca cleverly intertwines the following of time honored traditions with science fiction elements to generate an enthralling plot that is sure to lure any young reader away from his wii game system. As this book shows, kids today may be considerably different than kids of even just one generation prior, but what kids of all generations and all ages have always been drawn to is the opportunity to embark on a thrilling adventure. The Time Cavern showcases masterful storytelling that will immediately be passed forward to one of my nephews. I highly recommend picking up a copy for the young explorers that you love.

View all my reviews

From Where the Rivers Come by Terin Tashi Miller

Set in the not especially distant past, Terin Tashi Miller transports readers to India. You'll feel as if you are walking the streets of Benares or Dehli, tasting the food, experiencing the heat, brushing away the dust, inhaling smoke from the funeral pyres, experiencing the claustrophobia of jam packed train rides, and taking in the vividly detailed sights. The first person narrative comes from the perspective of a journalist who is foreign to India by birth and race, but has been immersed in the culture long enough for it to be ordinary rather than exotic to him. He is not so much stranger in a strange land as an observer who has seen what India offers, recognizes the differences and similarities between his American homeland and the country from where his paychecks are earned, and accepts them with minimal judgement as the ways of the world. Miller's novel is neither plot heavy nor a character study, but rather, a story of place and slow to change times which subtly indicates the fine line between escaping where you are and who you are.

View all my reviews

Elf on the Shelf by Carol V. Aebersold

An instant charmer. We'll see if it results in more nice than naughty behavior from my spirited 3 year old daughter over the couple weeks leading up to Christmas. She has definitely bought into the idea (after a little skepticism at first - "it's just a toy") that there's a scout elf situated in our home who waits until after she goes to sleep to fly back to the North Pole and file a report on her actions, then heads back to our house to be found the following morning in a different spot.







Whether it's independently published or not, when you discover a great new book (even it's only new To You) please be sure (word of mouth on and off social media is enormously appreciated by authors) to SHARE THE LOVE.       Reviews are awesome!!!

By any other name he would still be PETE ROSE

Ten years ago I asked...


Should Pete Rose be made eligible for induction into Major League Baseball’s Hall of Fame? 
This is a thorny question to grapple with, and one that won’t go away easily. At least not so long as Charlie Hustle is alive and kicking and reminding us that he just may have been the greatest ever to play the game. Professional baseball is plagued by numerous problems. Compared to the surge in popularity of the NFL and the NBA, baseball is going through troubled times. Had the players’ union gone on strike this past season, it may have been enough to cripple the sport for good. That disaster was narrowly averted. But how far away is the next crisis, and will it be the storm that baseball cannot weather? Major League Baseball needs to do something to demonstrate its strength and assert its position as the great American pastime. The woes of the league are symbolized by the fact that its all-time career leader in hits happens to be shunned by the institution that celebrates the best ever to play. As long as this situation remains, there will seem to be something wrong about baseball, something missing from its grandeur. But should the situation be remedied, a bandage applied to the sport’s wounds, if the situation is a just one? This is the dilemma that has been faced ever since Pete Rose’s banishment for gambling by then commissioner Bart Giamatti, and it is likely to resurface time and time again until resolved for good.

There is little doubt that Pete Rose did gamble on professional baseball games, including those played by the team he happened to be managing. Supposedly he only bet on his own team to win, which many point to as a factor in his favor. After all, if he was throwing games that he played in or managed, the case would be overwhelmingly open and shut. Not even the most diehard supporter of Rose would claim that even though he engineered his teams to lose games in order to make money for himself, he still deserves to be enshrined based solely on his statistics. Betting against himself is what “Shoeless” Joe Jackson allegedly did along with his teammates in the Word Series many moons ago. Despite Jackson’s protestations and numbers indicating he was in fact doing all he could to win, the shoeless one remains outside the pantheon of the immortals. This is an accepted state of affairs by baseball enthusiasts, no matter how many movies are made that cast a flattering light on Jackson. 


There have been no movies made as of yet to support Rose’s cause, not even a made-for-TV one, and they makes those about pretty much everyone. Pete Rose by and large has to speak up for himself, something he has been very willing to do over the years. But every so often, an occasion will arise when the fans get to voice their opinion on the matter. Each time, the sentiment has been strongly pro-Rose. There was the moment during the 1999 World Series when he was introduced as a member of baseball’s All-Century team (he was permitted on Turner Field in Atlanta because Pac Bell sponsored the event and insisted he be included) and received the loudest ovation of the players assembled. Jim Gray interviewed Rose before the second game and asked him whether he might now admit and apologize for gambling in order to end his suspension. Rose complained during the interview about Gray’s aggressive line of question, feeling it was an inappropriate place and time. Fans sided with Pete and Jim Gray was soon afterwards made to publicly apologize for the crime of doing his job. Then there was the ceremony to honor baseball’s most memorable moments that took place before Game 4 of the most recent World Series. Rose’s 4,192nd career hit, which surpassed Ty Cobb’s long standing and seemingly indelible mark, earned him the No. 6 spot on the list. The voice of the people has been repeatedly heard on this subject. They feel Pete Rose belongs in the Hall of Fame, end of discussion. 


Induction into the Hall of Fame is not a mere popularity contest like some run-of-the-mill All Star game, however. Not that the imposing of morality has a great deal to do with who makes it into the Hall either, for the place is filled with racists, wife beaters, alcoholics, drug users, etc. It appears than when it comes to Hall of Fame induction, baseball has just one cardinal sin that it will not tolerate. Thou shalt not gamble, particularly on baseball itself. It doesn’t matter who you are, there are no exceptions to this rule. Gambling by baseball players is the equivalent of Eve eating that forbidden apple, a serious no-no. When Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays did promotions in Atlantic City long after their retirements, they were told to stay away from baseball until they disassociated themselves from the gambling industry. Now if baseball is willing to banish the Mick and the Say Hey kid, it’s pretty clear that they mean business. Their heroic achievements on the field did not matter. Their championships did not matter. Their status as legends and ambassadors of the sport did not matter. Baseball simply does not want to be connected with gambling, and if you can’t follow this rule, consider yourself an outcast. 


But Major League Baseball under the reign of Bud Selig is not in quite so strong a position as it was under the reigns of Giamatti and his successor Fay Vincent. Baseball needs the approval of its fans now more than ever. The fans support Pete Rose. Something and someone has got to give. For this reason, Pete Rose’s application for reinstatement in 1997 is at last under consideration. Pete is being asked to confess and apologize, or as he no doubt categorizes it, grovel for forgiveness? He certainly won’t be allowed to just waltz in. After all, there’s not doubt that Rose did something wrong, even if it’s unclear to outsiders precisely what. He did plead guilty to tax evasion charges, for which he spent time in a halfway house. And most incriminating, he did agree to a lifetime ban back on August 23rd, 1989. Why would someone who so loves the game agree to forever be banned from it, unless he was guilty as hell? Unless there was a mountain of evidence that he was unable bury. Best to accept the harshest of punishments, lay low for a few years until the public has forgotten that he was a bit of a jerk back in the day, and then come back when their strongest collective memory is that he was one of the greatest to ever step on to a baseball field. Now when Pete stands before thousands of fans for a ceremony, he receives nothing but adulation. In other words, he comes off smelling like a rose. 


Recent word has it that much progress has been made in this matter. Reportedly, Rose has indicated to Selig that he's willing for the first time to admit he bet on baseball and would also be willing to apologize for his 13 years of denials, and even serve a probationary period of "good behavior" in order to gain reinstatement and Hall of Fame eligibility for 2004. Rose is said to be encouraged by progress in talks among his lawyers, Selig, and current Hall of Famers who were teamates of Pete, Mike Schmidt, Johnny Bench and Joe Morgan. An agreement may indeed be finalized and announced within a couple months. But supposing these reports to true, my initial question still remains unanswered. Does Pete Rose deserve to be in the Hall of Fame? 


My opinion on the matter is that if you did the crime, you should shut up and do the time. But the duration and harshness of the punishment should be appropriate to the seriousness of the ill-advised deed. Let’s not treat a pickpocket the same as we would a mass murderer. If there is hard evidence or documented admission by Pete Rose that he bet on his own team to lose, this is enough to warrant his lifetime banishment from the sport. If he only bet on his own team to win and on other games he was otherwise uninvolved with, a suspension was certainly in order, but not a permanent one. He should make a public statement of wrongdoing, and once this is done, be put on the Hall of Fame ballot. After that, if he’s voted in, he’s in. The famously stubborn Pete Rose has to give a little, and so does Bud Selig. If they both truly love the troubled sport as much as they claim to, they will do right by it. They will give acknowledge that Pete Rose, regardless of his abrasive personality and personal vices, played the hallowed game of baseball the way it was designed to be played.



Now here we are in 2015 and I ask you the same exact question.  Should Pete Rose be made eligible for induction into Major League Baseball’s Hall of Fame? My own opinion remains unchanged from the words stated above.  He has been hustling just like back in his playing days towards eligibility for a long time.  I think it's time to wave him in and see if he can make it safely home.