Stephen Shaiken's Blog, page 12

Cirque du Cambodia, Joel Gershon’s Award winning Documentary Film.

Joel Gershon is a friend whom I met in Bangkok when he was teaching at Thammasat University. He’s now with American University in Washington, D.C. Joel spent years making this beautiful documentary about two young Cambodian men who dream of  becoming international circus athletes. It’s difficult enough to perfect those skills under the best of circumstances, and starting out  in Cambodia made it more of a challenge, and almost insurmountable one..

It’s easy to see why this film wins awards.

No spoilers, so watch the film! 

I’ve sen this film several times, and I encourage you to do the same.

Click here for link to “Cirque du Cambodia.”

WATCH DON WINSLOW’S SHORT VIDEO ON FLORIDA’S FAILURE TO STEM COVID

Don Winslow is a succesful author of mystery and thriller novels. He’s also a political activist. Mr. Winslow just released a short video that documents the horrors Florida Governor Ron DeSantis has visited upon his state; Winslow compares DeSantis’s failed anti-science COVID policies to the Vietnam War. 

Click here to watch Florida’s Vietnam, by Don Winslow

Florida's Republican Governor, Ron DeSantis. Photo courtesy of Tampa Bay Times

Learn about Don Winslow, his books, and his world view. Click here to visit Don Winslow’s website.

DeSantis is a mad dog who must be heeled and brought to bay.

#DumpDeSantis2022

#VoteBlue4Ever

THANK THE ORTHODOX RABBI WHO CALLED OUT ANTI-VAXXER CONGREGANT

The Times of Israel, an outstanding and objective English-language paper produced in Israel, reported how an Orthodox rabbi in Israel took to task an vaxxers congregant. My religion has always venerated science and medicine; one of our most venerated historical figures is the philosopher Moses Maimonides. Since the outbreak of COVID, religion in America has all too often been a source of anti-science and dangerous thinking, where congregants are fed a line about their religious beliefs being an effective weapon against a virus. The result? More people who have died because of bad religious teachings.

Click here to read the Times of Israel article  (you’ll get much more out of this post if you do!)

My thoughts after reading the article: A spiritual leader who accepts science is itself a blessing to the world. (Conversely, one who does not is an obstacle.) The Dalai Lama is famously quoted as saying “If science proves a Buddhist teaching to be wrong, we go with the science.” I’m glad to see there are other spiritual leaders sharing the same rational approach.They can reach an audience others cannot. Religious folk ought to understand that science is not our enemy; it’s our friend, and when it comes to vaccines, our savior. That’s science, not religion. Two entirely different things. Science may not be designed to bring inner peace in the spiritual sense, but it sure can stop a pandemic. Religion can bring that inner peace, but is useless against COVID 19, and becomes outright dangerous when used to dissuade vaccination. Spiritual leaders who use their influence to convince people to get vaccinated are indeed holy, because there’s nothing holier than saving a life. Those who use it to dissuade vaccines are doing the very “Devil’s work” they rail against.#TrustScience 

BAGELNOSE GOES TO COLLEGE : A Short Story About Life In Queens

                                                      

  

Drawing by How to Draw a Nose

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Ut elit tellus, luctus nec ullamcorper mattis, pulvinar dapibus leo.

                                          BAGELNOSE GOES TO COLLEGE

(c) 2021 by Stephen Shaiken

Every neighborhood has one: a person struggling to escape the prison of their being. In Macbeth Heights, where I grew up, that person was Kenny Pelko. The Kenny Pelkos of the world spend their lives trying to fit into spaces where they do not belong, like a man trying to squeeze into a suit that is too tight.

Pelko was a short, stout lump of a fellow, built like a fire hydrant.  His head was too big for his squat torso, his limbs too short,  his eyes small and close together, his ears too small. Thin lips were fixed in a perpetual scowl that made him look like a rat.

It was his nose that drew the most attention, a puffy, bulging proboscis, resembling a bagel set upright like a wheel. He was called Bagelnose, but only behind his back. 

Macbeth Heights was one of hundreds of New York neighborhoods. No one knew why a working class redoubt was named after a Shakespearean character, and a murderous psychopath at that.

The streets of Macbeth Heights were lined with older American cars. The people dressed in cheap clothing, their ill-fitting garments the uniforms of life’s also-rans.

A New York City cop once told me,”Macbeth Heights is where life’s losers wind up.” I never found reason to doubt him.

Almost four hundred working class families lived in a clump of four apartment buildings perched atop a steep hill. The sole college-educated resident in the development, an engineer, asserted that the construction and materials used were of the lowest quality, and would age prematurely. Indeed, within a few years, pieces of brick chipped away, window frames cracked and warped, and the lawns sported more weeds than grass.

The developers of these apartments expended no effort on public relations, and the four Stalinesque buildings bore the elegiac titles of Buildings One, Two, Three, and Four. The residents of each tended to graft hidden meaning onto their building number. Those in One claimed superiority over Two, Three, and Four. Doug Plotkin of Building Four argued that the higher the number, the better the residents. “They checked everybody out before they assigned apartments, and the best people got sent to Four,” he declared. 

My family lived in Building One. Our neighbor, Mr. Goldberg, swore that only the best people were sent there. 

“Why else would they call it Building One?” he asked.

In a community of smart, young Jewish people striving to better themselves, Bagelnose, of Building Three, stood out as as the dolt. He was always in the slower classes, and showed none of the intellectual curiosity that propelled the rest out of Macbeth Heights, into more affluent lives. Bagelnose possessed no discernible skills aside from brute force. He was accepted by some, disliked by many, respected by none.

Bagelnose had one close friend, Max Flugel, known as The Weasel, or just Weasel. Max  feigned friendships, then incited others to torment his alleged friends. The Weasel could insult a person mercilessly in public when surrounded by his bully minions, but when it suited him, reignite the friendship. I did not spend much time with Weasel. He was my age, but a year behind me in school, as I had skipped a grade in junior high. This made me a year younger than most fellow seniors, a big difference as a teenager.  

Max was short, thin, and buck-toothed, with beady eyes, and swarthy skin inherited from his South American mother. His parents took frequent trips, leaving Max an empty apartment, which enabled him to throw parties, where he recruited the bullies who did his bidding. I was never invited to any of the parties, but was occasionally bullied.

Weasel often encouraged Bagelnose to commit assault and battery, though Bagelnose needed no enticement. He was infamous for jumping victims from behind, or punching them in the gut without warning or provocation. Anyone but Weasel might be a victim.

I avoided Bagelnose whenever possible. When in proximity, I kept an eye out for telltale signs of an imminent outburst. He would fidget, crane his neck, and snap it down to his chest like a snapping turtle in the midst of a seizure. In the most severe cases, he bit his fingers, hands, or upper arms. I often feared he would bite me. Bagelnose always had a ready excuse for his assaultive behavior, sometimes self defense, or a slur on he or his family, but no one ever believed him. Bagelnose was forever telling lies.

                                                                             #

In 1966, Bagelnose and I were seniors at different high schools. I attended a prestigious special school for high achievers, and Bagelnose the local high school. He claimed to be in their college preparatory program, although no one actually in the program recalled seeing him in any classes. It was rumored that Bagelnose was enrolled in the General Studies program, a  simple and basic program for students not deemed college material.

All graduating seniors in Macbeth Heights aspired to admission at one of the respected New York City public colleges, extraordinarily competitive, because they were excellent schools and tuition was free. As a senior in a special school, I could count on acceptance at the public college of my choice. 

I decided against joining my fellow Macbeth Heights seniors at City College, in Upper Manhattan, allegedly the crown jewel of the system. Most  had served stints as Weasel’s bullies, and I wanted them out of my life. On my City University of New York application, I checked the box for Queens College, confident I was  the only one choosing this campus. I did not inform any other neighborhood seniors, fearful  one might decide to switch their preference to Queens.

In truth, it was doubtful they gave any thought to which college I attended. By the start of our  senior year, we had a mutual disinterest in each other. No tears were shed by anyone when we drifted apart. I was Bob Dylan, anti-war, pre-Earth Day environmentalist, caught up in the Civil Rights Movement. They were cardigan sweaters, Four Seasons, homes in the suburbs, where there would be no black people. Bagelnose and the Weasel were huge racists, and often taunted me about my feelings. 

Unbeknownst to me, Bagelnose announced that he had applied to Queens College, though no one took him seriously. For most of my senior year I was unaware of his claim, or what it held in store for me.

                                                                           #

In early April, just after Passover, the decision letters arrived. Rumors swirled about what type of envelopes signified acceptance, and which foretold rejection. Beginning the last day of March, I returned home from my after-school job and checked the mail, looking for the official word. It finally came in a perforated document which I promptly ripped open. It was an acceptance at Queens College. Despite my ongoing confidence, I felt great relief.

I walked outside my apartment building, looking for someone with whom I could share my good fortune. I felt so good  that just about anyone would do, aside from Bagelnose.

I walked only a few score feet when I spotted a knot of my peers gathered along the sidewalk, my friend Shaul among them. Shaul was a quiet fellow who feared no one. We were friends since kindergarten, and he was the only fiend with whom I still occasionally exchanged Yiddish phrases.  On one occasion Shaul intervened to spare me from assault by Bagelnose or other bullies. After that, Bagelnose wouldn’t start trouble with Shaul around. 

Next to Shaul was Martin Krazloff, a lanky, lantern-jawed senior at the local high school, a spindly figure who stood six foot one. He was given the monicker “Manny” because of his long, narrow face and thin body, which looked like it could be folded up and carried away. His physique indeed suggested a praying mantis. Krazloff was prone to speaking in a faux British accent, in imitation of William F. Buckley, for whom he expressed great admiration. He occasionally represented himself to strangers as the scion of a wealthy family, once claiming to be a Rothschild. He often wore expensive sport coats, which I later learned he shoplifted from upscale department stores in Manhattan. We had been friends through junior high, but when I was accepted at my special high school and he was not, the friendship cooled.

Mixed in the knot was Bagelnose, gesticulating as he spoke with Albert Robinson, the only fellow in Macbeth Heights uglier than he. Everyone called him Brooks, after the great Baltimore Oriole third baseman, Brooks Robinson. Our Brooks had a face that could stop a clock, pimply and snaggletoothed, with eyes set too deep and a nose that protruded like a broken pipe. Brooks walked around with his shirt tails hanging out, and pants that never fit right. He thought nothing of passing gas anywhere, anytime. It was questionable how often he bathed or showered. To this day when I think of Brooks, what comes to mind are the smells of fart and body odor. 

I was surprised when Weasel greeted me.

“So, you joining the boys at City?” he asked, in a tone implying he knew the answer. Perhaps my mother told his mother, I thought.

“No, Max,” I gleefully replied. “I’m going to Queens. You’re the first person I’ve told”

“Congratulations That means you’re going to be seeing a lot of Bagelnose,” Max retorted. Max alone could use that name in the owner’s presence. I learned only then what Bagelnose had been claiming for months. I did not believe it, and certainly did not want it to be true. 

Bagelnose heard Weasel and turned towards us. 

“I wouldn’t be seen with this guy,” he snorted, jabbing a stubby finger in my direction.

Knowing Bagelnose’s propensities, I moved back several steps. He once jumped me from behind while I was leaving a candy store, and on another occasion punched me in the stomach while I stood in line for a movie. I was never unaware of any deep seated animosity he held towards me in particular, and assumed he was angry at the world. This time he specifically directed his outrage at me. 

“It’s a big campus,” I replied. “We don’t ever have to see each other.” 

The Weasel laughed. I didn’t

“So what’s next?” he asked  “You have to sign up for classes or get some orientation?

“Both,” I replied, looking over my shoulder at Bagelnose. “They said I would get a catalogue in June. Orientation is in August. Then we register for classes.”

“Well, I’m really happy for you,” Weasel said. “I’ll be checking in with you.

“And Bagelnose too,” he added.

Bagelnose bit down on his upper lip and moved his shoulders up and down. Never a good sign, I thought.

“It’s really nice of you to be so happy for me, Max” I said. “I have to go upstairs and finish some homework.”

“See you around,” Max called out as I walked towards Building One. 

“Bagelnose, say goodbye to your classmate,” he added. 

#

Over the next few months, when I passed the neighborhood crowd, we sometimes exchanged greetings, and other times ignored each other. If Bagelnose and The Weasel were together, the latter was sure to ask me about Queens College.

 “Bagelnose says he hasn’t gotten anything from Queens,”  Weasel told me when I encountered the two of them standing at the bus stop. “You hear anything?”

“Sure Max, I got the catalogue last week. I’ve been looking at classes,” I replied.

“Bagelnose hasn’t heard anything,”Max responded.

“I’ll have to call them tomorrow,” Bagelnose interjected, glaring at me with burning eyes.

“You can look at mine if you like,” I volunteered. I didn’t know why I said that, and knew immediately I should have kept quiet.

“I don’t want nothing to do with you.” Bagelnose barked.

“Now, now, Bagelnose,” Max said, patting Pelko on the shoulder. “He’s just trying to be nice to a classmate.”

Bagelnose stuffed his hand in his mouth as he clamped his teeth on his fingers.

“I’ve got to go,” I announced. “See you around campus,” I called out to Bagelnose as I briskly walked away. I asked myself why I had to make that comment. The idea was to avoid conflict with that psycho. 

                                                                           #

Graduation came and passed, and we entered the last real  summer of our youth. The fortunate few were hired as waiters in Catskill Mountain resorts, the runner-ups as camp counsellors. The rest of us left to scramble for whatever summer work we could find. As a final gift, my high school placement office found a job for me in the stockroom of a local hospital. It was a short bus ride away from home, and while the work was tedious and physically draining, it paid well, and was only thirty hour a week. As an added bonus, lifting countless boxes of saline solutions and other IV fluids built up muscles which I fantasized might allow me to deliver strong blows to the faces of Bagelnose and the Weasel, thoughts kept to myself.

A good portion of my spare time that summer was spent planning my schedule for the Fall. In the pre-computer era, students had to draft several alternative schedules, and incoming freshman were never assured of their first choices. I passed hours substituting English Literature for Contemporary Civilization, and Art Appreciation as an alternative to Music. I had heard somewhere that if a freshman chose German instead Spanish or French, they  could have whatever class they wanted. I reasoned that would also allow me to read Kafka and Hesse in the original.

Chance encounters with my neighborhood peers were unavoidable, despite my best efforts. They congregated nightly in a spot I had to pass whenever I left home. Crossing paths with Weasel and the others was inevitable, and especially unsettling if Bagelnose was in their midst.

One evening Weasel greeted me with a smile and invited me over for a few words. I complied out of either politeness or fear that he might sic Bagelnose upon me.  

“Still working on your schedule?” he asked. “Must be a bitch,” he added.

“I’ve had worse happen,” I replied each time, my exchanges with Bagelnose in mind.

“Why don’t you and Bagelnose compare notes?” he asked. “Come on, Bagelnose, tell him what courses you’re trying to squeeze in.”

Bagelnose squirmed and said nothing.

“Speak up, Bagelnose,” Weasel ordered. “This man does not have all night.”

After a pause, Bagelnose squeaked out a reply.

“Chemistry and Biology,” he said.

I heard a few chuckles among the crowd.

I wanted to ask if he had taken college level calculus in high school or passed the math examination required for Chemistry, or, but self preservation restrained me.

“I have a great idea,” Weasel said. “My folks are out of town this weekend. I’m having a party. How about the two of you come over with your papers and work together on this stuff?”

This was the first time Weasel ever extended me an invitation, which I promptly accepted without thought. I would finally experience what had been cruelly withheld.

Bagelose demurred.

“I may have date this weekend,” he stated. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“What do you mean, might have a date?” Albert Robinson chimed in. “Either you do or you don’t.”

From the corner of my eye I saw Bagelnose place his finger in his mouth.

“I have to go now,” I announced. “Thanks for the invite, Max. See you tomorrow.”

                                                                        #

Saturday was a hot New York day in late June with fuzzy blue skies and a soft yellow sun. I spent part of the day going over class schedules and pondering how to avoid Bagelnose if he came to the party. His presence had not been considered when the invitation was accepted, nor were Weasel’s motives. I considered not going, but my good friend Dale Horlick, nicknamed Horse, counseled otherwise.

“You’ve never been to one of Weasel’s parties,” he reminded me. “He usually has lots of girls there. Now that you’re about to be a college man, they’ll be crawling all over you,” he said authoritatively. He emphasized that he would be there with me.

Horse was a good friend, and like Shaul, not easily cowed. Like Shaul, he had intervened to spare me attacks by Bagelnose and the rest of Weasel’s bully brigade. He gave Bagelnose a bloody nose, but let Weasel off with a warning, because Max broke down and cried after seeing Bagelnose run off with fingers clutching his odd-shaped nose, blood seeping between the stubby fingers. When Horse spoke, I listened. We agreed to go together.

That evening, Horse came by my apartment and we walked to Building Two. Horse rang Weasel’s doorbell. Brooks Robinson opened it,  gave us a lopsided smile and waved us in. I held my breath as I passed Brooks.

“Weasel will be glad to see you,” to told me. “Bagelnose may not be so happy.”

“I thought he wasn’t coming,” I replied. It didn’t sound good.

“Oh, I guess his big date fell through,” Brooks said with  a grin.

I saw Weaselin the living room,  talking with Manny Krazloff, Doug Plotkin, some young ladies . When Weasel spotted Horse and I, he rose to greet us.

Before Max could say a word, Bagelnose barreled across the room. He placed a hand on my shoulder and started to push me back.

“You get out!” he yelled. “You got no business here!” His face was red and there were drops of spittle glistened across his upper lip.I felt my stomach tighten and a slight wave of nausea came over me. My grand introduction to Weasel’s party scene was about to be demolished, possibly ailing with me.

Horse instinctively moved between us, glaring at Bagelnose. I saw Shaul emerge from the crowd. I wasn’t afraid any more

Max the Weasel ended the trouble.

“Pipe down, Bagelnose,” he ordered as he placed an arm around my shoulder. “He’s here as my guest. Anyone who gets into Queens College deserves some respect. Same respect we’re giving you.”

Bagelnose stamped his foot so hard I feared he would go through the floor.

“Screw you all!” he screamed, his face beet red.

He stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. 

Everyone stood silent for a moment and then Albert “Brooks” Robinson spoke.

“He’s not really going to Queens College, is he?”

Max The Weasel turned to me.

“What do you say?” he asked.

“Next time you see him, ask him for his registration number,” I replied.

I immediately regretted saying this.

Like all incoming freshman, I had received a letter with a code starting with the first letter of our last name, followed by two numbers, then another letter and another two numbers. If Bagelnose had really been accepted, he would rattle off something similar that started with the letter P for Pelko. 

If Bagelnose failed this test and found out who set it up, I would need Horse and Shaul with me around the clock.

Horse had brought a six pack of Coke and he offered me a can. I opened it and sat down on the couch, next to a somewhat pudgy girl with a trace of acne on her face. I recognized her as Laurie, a high school junior from Brooklyn who had been the girlfriend of Shaul’s good pal Henry Merkel. 

Henry was Shaul’s next door neighbor, few years older than us. Since graduating high school, he worked for the City as a mechanic. He had his own car. Henry was always friendly to me, and had given me several rides to the subway station. Henry claimed to have had carnal knowledge of Laurie, but in those days, it was common to make such false boasts. Bagelnose also claimed to have lost his virginity, which was greeted with universal derision. I doubted Henry, and assumed without question that Bagelnose was lying. 

Shaul insisted that Henry would not lie to him. Not long before this party, Shaul confided to me that after Henry tired of Laurie, he had enjoyed her favors. I never doubted Shaul.

Laurie started the conversation.

“I heard you say you were going to Queens.”

I told her I was and I looked forward to it.

“I’ve never gone out with a college guy,” she said. 

I did not know how to respond, so I changed the subject. Just before the party wound down, when no one was watching, I asked for her phone number. Neither one of us had pen or paper, so she repeated it a few times while I memorized it. I have always had a near—-flawless memory.  As soon as I got home I wrote it down, down, impressed with my courage.    

                                                                          #

A week later I was at home after dinner when the phone rang. My mother picked it up and called out my name.

“It’s Max Flugel from Building Two,” she announced, as if there were a Max Flugel in some other building.

I took the receiver. Max the Weasel had never called me before. I didn’t even know he had my phone number.

“Bagelnose says his number is one thousand two hundred fifty three,” he said, carefully enunciating each syllable of the number. 

I paused for a moment. I feared Bagelnose as much as I despised him, but Max had invited me to his party where I had enjoyed myself and gotten my first telephone number .

“Any letters?” I asked.

“Nope,” Max replied. “Made sure there was nothing else.”

“No way,” I replied. “No way at all.”

“Thanks,” Max said politely. “See you around.” He hung up.

                                                                      #

I heard nothing more from Max. I once saw Brooks Robinson and Doug Plotkin walking on the other side of the street and Brooks called out “Say hello to Bagelnose at Queens!” They both laughed. 

Shaul informed me that Max was organizing a Labor Day affair in Rockaway Beach. The idea was to rent out a bungalow or two, and party through the weekend. He told me that Bagelnose was advising everyone not to invite me. 

“What did you ever do to him?” he asked.?”Get into Queens?”

I had no answer and just shrugged. If Bagelnose intended to hurt me he had failed.

I was preoccupied with something else.

My parents and brother took a road trip to visit relatives in Florida. Since I had a job, I could not join them. For the first time in my life, I had the apartment to myself, for two entire weeks

The day before my family left, I retrieved the paper with Laurie’s number and called her. We chatted for fifteen minutes, and she agreed to visit me the following night, when my family would be somewhere between New York and Florida.

The next two weeks transformed me from a naive young boy to an experienced young man. I had a far more experienced teacher. I stole some condoms from the hospital pharmacy and Laurie showed me how to use them. She was a pudgy and unattractive girl but in my mind, I was sleeping with Bridget Bardot. Laurie came by every night after work, and a few times stayed over. 

I promised Laurie I would keep our dalliances secret, but I told Horse and Shaul, demanding strict confidence. I never knew if they told anyone.

My parents came home and life returned to normal. I had a few telephone conversations with Laurie, and then we lost touch. 

A week or so after my fling, right after Labor Day, I began the arduous task of registering at Queens College. In order to avoid the draft, I was required to enroll in a certain number of classes. Freshman came last and had to grab whatever crumbs were left.

As I approached the patio between Buildings One and Two after a long day at Queens, I saw a small crowd gathered. I had no way to avoid them so I smiled and walked past them.

Max the Weasel called out to me.

“How’s school?” he asked.

“Trying to register,” I replied. “Driving me crazy.”

At that moment Bagelnose charged up to me, his malformed nose inches from my own.

“You get away from me,” he shouted. “You didn’t come to our Labor Day party. Think you’re too good for us just because you’re in Queens College?”

“No one ever told me about it,” I replied, terrified that he was about to explode. Then I saw Shaul and Horse, and my fear subsided.

“Besides,” added, “Why would I think that? You’re going to Queens too.” Once again, it dawned on me that keeping my mouth shut around Bagelnose was always the wisest option. I didn’t understand why I could not follow my own sound advice.

“Not quite,” Max gleefully interjected. “Tell him what happened.”

Bagelnose stood still as a pond for what seemed like an eternity. A bright pink glow came over his face. He clasped his hands before him as if to hold them in place before he spoke. Every facial muscle was tight. Then he spoke in a strained voice.

“It was my father. He graduated Illinois State and wanted me to go there even though I wanted Queens. Last week he made me hop on a plane to see if they would let me in at the last minute. They would not, and I missed the registration at Queens, so I can’t go there either.”

It sounded like he had memorized this speech.

I could have  mentioned late registration, where he could still find some classes, but not while  Bagelnose glared at me with eyes like burning red coals. I bid everyone goodbye and left.

Shaul and Horse walked me to my apartment.

I heard Brooks yell, “What airline did you fly, Pelko?” 

“Never know with Bagelnose,” Shaul said as we left the crowd behind.

“He’s pissed because with you were around, his story fell apart,” Horse added.

“No one ever believed him anyway,” Shaul said. “”Max just wanted trouble between you and Bagelnose. That’s what he does. Looks like he succeeded. Good thing you won’t be seeing much of Bagelnose anymore. 

“Bagelnose’s mother told mine a while ago that he was not accepted anywhere,” Shaul continued. “He might take night classes at Staten Island Community College. He’s on their waiting list. I think he wants to be a cop now.” That was news to me, as I never heard of a Jewish kid who wanted to be a cop. In Macbeth Heights, that job belonged to the Irish.

“He’s too dumb to be a cop,” Horse opined. “There’s a test.”

“Well, maybe after a while he’ll stop being so be pissed at me,” I told them, more a hope than a prediction.

“Unless he finds out you got laid before he did,” Shaul said. He and Horse laughed.  I did not.

                                                                    #

Bagelnose’s social status eroded as we marched towards graduation. We graduating male seniors already saw ourselves as college men, a stature that demanded a change in behavior. Bullying and demeaning were out, wit and sophistication in. Most could easily make the transition.

Not Bagelnose. His unrestrained violent nature and limited intelligence had no place in this new world order. Without academic achievement and worldliness, Bagelnose could no longer function as a peer. Max the Weasel no longer called upon him, and even modified his own style to fit the new wave. He stopped making racist comments. Bagelnose had outlived his usefulness to everyone, Max included, included, and had no place in the reconstituted pecking order.

Two weeks after Bagelnose’s Queens College explanation, his situation had deteriorated beyond any hope of redemption. He was unquestionably the Town Fool. Doug Plotkin called him ‘the world’s dumbest Jews.’ His bullying role was cancelled, and he became the stuff of which laughter is made. His public appearances grew increasingly infrequent, and by the early frosts of November, Shaul told me had disappeared from sight. I still lived at home, but never saw anyone else except Shaul and Horse, and that grew increasingly infrequent. Within a year, Bagelnose had largely absented himself from my thoughts and memories.

                                                                              #

The years were good to me. My time at Queens College was as hoped. Friendships lasting to this day were formed on its pleasant campus. 

I lost contact with everyone from Macbeth Heights except Shaul. He moved to rural Vermont my junior year at Queens. In those days, long distance calls were expensive, and Shaul was not a letter writer, so our contact was limited.

I did travel up to New England to visit Shaul a few years after graduation from Queens College. We spent several glorious days smoking weed and listening to music.

One night, while  we were sitting on his couch, very stoned, Led Zeppelin playing in the background, Shaul brought up Bagelnose. I hadn’t thought about him in years.

“Remember I told you that Bagelnose would be pissed if he found out you got laid before him? Definitely true,” Shaul said.

“One night just before he dropped out of sight for good, we were outside talking like guys do, and I told him about me and Laurie. 

“Problem was, I didn’t know he had started seeing her and they were engaged,” Shaul continued. 

“He started taking swings at me, yelling that I was lying.

“I told him he could believe what he wanted but maybe he ought to ask her,” Shaul continued. “I had to give him another bloody nose, just like Horse once did, and just like that time, he ran off holding onto it with his fingers, like he thought it might fall off, or something.

“That was the last time I saw him,” he added. “They got married and moved away. But I hear he’s still crazy with jealousy, and wants to beat up anyone who ever touched his wife.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” I asked.

Shaul coughed out a lungful of smoke.

“Didn’t see any reason to worry you,” he said. “Bagelnose was gone. Let sleeping dogs lie. But don’t worry, I never told him about you.”

“Do you think he could have found out?” I asked. I believed my best friend’s word, but worried he had inadvertently let Bagelnose know of my past frolicking with his wife. The thought of once again Bagelnose made me feel uneasy,  just as in the past. Knowing that he harbored hatred towards any man with intimate knowledge of Laurie haunted me. Bagelnose could be the kind of psycho who holds a grudge for years until it explodes with in him like a volcano, spilling deadly lava in its wake. Crossing paths with him was unlikely, but not impossible. How often do we run across someone by happenstance we thought we would never see again?

“I didn’t tell him,” Shaul repeated. “That’s all I can say.”

That didn’t comfort me. We were talking about a violent and possibly deranged man. Once a psychopath, always a psychopath. What if he had found out some other way?

“Anyway, you haven’t seen him in what, ten years? Probably never see him again,” Shaul said. “I hope not, anyway,” he added.

That night I dreamed of a beet-red Bagelnose gnawing on his hand as he chased me through the streets of Macbeth Heights. The memory of the dream stayed with me all that next day.

                                                                       #

Five years after my visit with Shaul, I encountered Max Flugel at New York’s La Guardia Airport. I had last seen him the day Bagelnose gave his fatal explanation. I was on my way home to California. and Max was off to see his parents, who had moved to Florida. He invited me to join him for a beer. We sat down at a small bar in the terminal.

I was lawyering by day and writing by night. I hadn’t sold my first screenplay. Max was a newly minted MBA. 

“Baruch,”” he proudly informed me, referring to the City University’s respected business school. “Got my B.A. There too.

“You were Queens College, of course?”  

“Me and Bagelnose.” I said as the waitress delivered our beers in frosted glasses.

“Bagelnose,” Max called out as he hoisted his glass. I raised mine and we clinked. “Haven’t thought about that loser in years.”

“I thought you guys were friends,” I said.

Max threw me a puzzled look.

“Friends? I just felt sorry for the poor schmuck,” he stated. “Such a liar,” he added.

“You know, once it got out that you were going to Queens, his game was up,” Max continued. “No wonder he was so pissed at you. How did he expect to get away with it with you around? Someone was bound to apply to Queens. Bet he never thought of that. And it didn’t take much to get you to help get out the truth. You never liked him at all, did you? He was always giving you a hard time. Payback must have felt good.”

I took a long slug of my beer.

“Anyone know where he is these days?” I asked.

“We never saw or heard from him after he graduated high school,” he said. “Heard he applied to be a cop and got turned down.”

“Of course,” I replied. “He was a psycho. Guy like that is not getting a gun.”

Max laughed.

“You’ll never guess who he married,” he said.

I let him tell me.

“Imagine that,” Max said, shaking his head. “Marrying the town pump. Ugly but hot, I have to say.” 

“You ever get any?” he asked.

“Never,”Never.”” I replied. With a gentleman, what happens between the sheets stays between the sheets.

“Good for you,” Max responded. “Bagelnose was insanely jealous. Came to blows with Shaul over Laurie. He’d kill you if he thought you did her, even after all these years. You being the cause of his downfall,” he added.

“Here’s to the Bagelnose’s of the world,” Max toasted as we again clinked glasses.

I looked at my watch. I had ten minutes to get to my gate. I thanked Max for the beer and we shook hands, but did not exchange phone numbers.

I shouldn’t have told Horse and Shaul, I thought as I waited to board. But then again, Laurie could have told him,I reasoned.  There was no way to be certain I would never going to be caught in Bagelnose’s crosshairs. 

The beer made me sleepy, and I dozed off on the plane. I awoke when we were landing. I sensed I had dreamed, but could not remember a thing. A knot lodged in my stomach, painful, like a Bagelnose sucker punch. 

THE END

        

 

FLORIDA MOURNS THE DESANTIS DEAD, KILLED BY ITS PRO-COVID GOVERNOR

Photo ourtesy of Tampa Bay Times Photo courtesy of Newsweek

No author could write a science fiction thriller as frightening as Florida’s current reality. In most plague novels, earnest government officials lead a war against the deadly pathogens, fighting with every ounce of strength to save their constituents from the ravages of a pandemic. Not in Florida, where Republican Governor Ron DeSantis – known not-so-affectionately as “Trump’s Mini-Me” – governs with a pro-COVID ideology.

Florida leads the nation in COVID infections, hospitalizations, and deaths, mostly the new Delta variant, and almost exclusively among the unvaccinated. We are about seven percent of the U.S. population, yet we have twenty percent of all the new cases. This seems to be just what our governor wants.

     DeSantis’s policies are causing the deadly Delta variant to spread. This is crazy but intentional.         

If you doubt me, take a look at his most recent actions: suing cruise lines to prevent them from requiring vaccination for all crew and passengers; suing to prevent any Florida business from imposing a vaccination requirement; fighting to prevent school districts from mandating masks. Sounds like Big Government and Socialism to me! Not to mention dangerous and unscientific.

Did I mention that on his website and in personal appearances, he touts Republican Party t-shirts denouncing Dr. Fauci, as he urges Floridians to ignore what the world’s greatest expert tells us we need to do to be safe? Instead, he argues, we should listen to crackpots like he and Tucker Carlson. This morning, DeSantis took to the air to push a totally unproven “cure” for COVID, which even its strongest backers claim is at best a treatment that may increase survival odds, and nothing ,more. Why not tell people to get vaccinated and wear masks and socially distance when appropriate? Why deny the severity of the pandemic, why push fake “cures” when near-total immunity is readily available? This is Trump with his hydroxychloroquine and bleach all over again!

Those are the actions of one who denies all science and is waging a war on the medical experts instead of on the virus! These are the policies of a pro-COVID Republican governor. Money comes above all, even human life. The problem is that their crackpot idea kills both people and economies.

   When did Florida Republicans stop believing in “limited government” and “local control”?

What happened to the old Republican mantras of “local control”, “less government regulation” “freedom of choice” (unless you are a woman seeking to terminate a pregnancy, or a member of the LBGTQ community seeking any equal right), and “get Big Government off our backs”?

Like Trump, DeSantis is an authoritarian. He  orders businesses to operate according to his dictates, and steals local control from elected school boards; he also got his lap-dog Republican legislature to pass laws requiring the collection of students’ political views, restrict the right to protest, and fight hard to keep African-Americans from voting in the Sunshine State.

Many out-of-state businesses moved to Florida because of its reputation as a business-friendly state, where owners could operate with minimal government interference. I bet they never counted on Big Brother DeSantis poking his nose into their every decision, dictating to the most minute detail how they must deal with their customers and employees. He is also attempting to render local governments powerless, by devolving all decision-making to the state government in Tallahassee. Cities and counties cannot make their own decisions about public health in their locales, and must take orders from big Brother in Tallahassee. We see how that worked out.

    DeSantis never accepts personal responsibility; he’s Trump’s Mini-Me” in every way.

There’s one other way in which DeSantis mirrors his mentor, disgraced ex-President Trump: neither will ever accept personal responsibility. The out-of-control pandemic in Florida is not because of his failed policies, DeSantis bellows; it’s the fault of the weather, Joe Biden, the media, the liberals, China, even other Republicans who criticize him, like the Republican Mayor of Miami and the Governor of Arkansas. None of it is his fault, none at all. Just what we’d expect to hear from Trump. No surprise. He is “Trump’s Mini-Me” after all.

The good news is there is an election in November of 2022, about fourteen months away. Floridians have the opportunity to oust DeSantis and cut down the huge Republican majority in the two state legislative houses. Democrats have two fine candidates for the office: Congressman and former governor Charlie Crist, and current Agriculture Commissioner Nikki Fried, who in 2018 became the first Democrat to win a statewide office in twenty years. Charlie Crist was a Republican governor, then briefly an independent, and has been a strong leader of Florida Democrats since elected to Congress in 2016. Either would be a huge improvement over Trump’s Mini-Me.[Disclosure: I am a supporter, contributor, and volunteer for Charlie Crist.] 

There are numerous other reasons to replace DeSantis next year: his refusal to declare a state of emergency or take any serious action against the Red Tide that threatens our coastal waters and the nearby residences and businesses; the broken unemployment claims system which has still not resolved issues going as far back as April, 2020; rising sea levels and other consequences of global warming, which DeSantis will not directly address; acknowledging the obvious and admitting that Joe Biden won a fair election. None are as pressing as ending DeSantis’ pro-COVID policies as soon as we can.

We can try to pressure the lap-dog Republicans in Florida into forcing some policy changes, but that’s highly unlikely in a state where Republican means being a Trumpie, and drinking a few gallons of his deadly Kool-Aid. In Florida, we’re happy when we can say is a Florida Republican is not an insurrectionist and pervert like Donald Trump or Matt Gaetz! Not much chance the Trumpies who run the state GOP will do anything to stop DeSantis’ pro-COVID polices. They like them, even though it kills them at much higher rates than it kills sensible, vaccinated Democrats. We don’t like these crazy policies, and we have to vote out DeSantis and the Republicans next year. 

#DumpDeSantis2022 #VoteBlue4Ever

Photo courtesy of CNN

How to Kill a Florida Lubber

Photo by Stephen Shaiken

The delightful creature above is a Florida lubber, a disgusting-looking member of the grasshopper family. They love to destroy thicker-leaved plants. I have found them on citrus trees, Ti plants, bushes and shrubs. This one was clinging to a sampaguita (jasmine) plant, not especially thick-leaved. These guys are really hard to kill; I do not use chemical pesticides, and even if one does, they have to spray it directly on the lubber. Fortunately they are relatively few in number. I tried organic products that made everything smell like a pizza and kept them away temporarily. I found another organic spray that weakens then enough to knock them off their perch-they cling like nothing I’ve ever seen- and then smash it to smithereens. No mercy for these guys.

JORDAN PETERSON: STILL CRAZY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

First he was treated for drug addiction in Serbia and Russia. Then he returned to Canada, and claimed that an all-meat diet cured his depression. He next popped up in Belfast, from which he fled after  becoming  a witness in the unsolved  death of a teenage boy , dead shortly after receiving a private Twitter message from Peterson. The peripatetic Mr. Peterson refuses to meet with Toronto police, as requested by the Belfast law enforcement authorities. 

After surviving ordeals that would have finished off most other self-help gurus, Jordan Peterson has returned to his roots: writing awfully-written books promoting misogyny, homophobia, bigotry, and a return to a glorious yesteryear that never actually existed.

The May 18, 2021 issue of The Nation magazine contains an article by Katha Pollitt about Mr. Peterson’s latest tome. She describes Peterson and his crackpot views better than I have, characterizing  him as: 

“…one whose work is crammed with references to Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky, the Bible, ancient Mesopotamian deities, Jesus, and Jung, and which, under a lot of sexist, conservative, mythological/biblical/evolutionary/animal-behavior folderol, basically tells men to grow up and grow a pair. Work hard, be responsible, demand more of yourself, make your bed. Peterson dragged that simple message out for 370 pages of unbelievably clotted, dreary prose, proving once again that your creative-writing teachers were wrong: Nobody cares about the quality of the writing if the message is what the reader wants to hear. Apparently there are a lot of men (most of his fans are men) who want to be told exactly how to stop making such a mess of their lives (Rule 1: “Stand up straight with your shoulders back”) and also that human beings are a lot like lobsters, programmed for hierarchy and combat. You can buy “Hail Lobster” T-shirts, pillows, limited-edition neckties, and even smartphone covers on his website. Scientists have said he’s got lobsters all wrong, but whatever. I will never feel guilty about eating a lobster roll again.”

Click here to read Katha Pollitt’s review  of Jordan Peterson’s new book in May 18, 2021 issue of The Nation .

Our posts on Mr. Peterson have consistently been the most followed and most controversial blog entries. Peterson, a Canadian with no skin in the American game, is a favorite of Trumpists and other “culture-war” Republicans, white supremacists, neo-Nazis, religious extremists, and people interested in rewriting history. Unfortunately, a number of well-intended young people, lacking a broader knowledge of philosophy, psychology and history, accept Peterson’s psycho-babble as legitimate scholarship or philosophy. It is the latter group I hope to reach by presenting my own arguments against Mr. Peterson’s views, at the same time showing that there is a substantial body of respected journalists coming to these same conclusions. Minimal investigation will persuade any rational person that Peterson is a crackpot, a fraud, and a hater.

If you like Donald Trump, you probably love Jordan Peterson. If you’re a normal person, you probably feel as I do.

Check out the three previous posts on Mr. Peterson: 

EXPOSING JORDAN PETERSON, PSEUDO-INTELLECT SUPREME OF THE FAR RIGHT AND WHITE NATIONALISTS;   

Updates: BLM Protests,Exposing Jordan Peterson, Works Of Historical Fiction;   

JORDAN PETERSON: THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING

A tribute to an unsung hero of the Revolutionary War

Happy birthday, America! Two hundred forty five years ago, a group of visionaries began the process that led to the most powerful nation in all of human history. There were  many bumps and worse along the way, but we  managed to keep moving forward and expand the horizons of freedom. The concepts of liberty and representative government were indeed revolutionary; they just had to be applied beyond a small circle of wealthy white men. Our history shows it was, constantly improving, and when there is a threat of backsliding, we correct direction. That is truly one of our greatest strengths, and why we remain a magnet for people the world over.

I thought I knew all the important stuff about the era of the Founding Fathers, but recently learned this fascinating bit of Americana about a man referred to as the “Paul Revere of the South.” Francisco Salvador was a Sephardic Jew from South Carolina who was politically active in the quest for independence, and died on the battlefield fighting for the new nation. He was the first Jew to die for America, but he was certainly not the last. In this era of rising antisemitism, where malevolent people try to paint Jewish-Americans as outsiders and usurpers, history tells a very different story. It is a great historical lesson that America was already a nation of many religions, none of them expected to be exalted above the others; it’s also instructive to understand that the first American Jews had names like Francisco Salvador. 

Click here to read about Francisco Salvador, the First American Jew to die fighting for our country.

Have a safe and happy Independence Day, and if you have not been vaccinated, please do so ASAP! And if you feel you must use fireworks, please do so with the utmost care! Every American is important!

Happy Fourth of July!

FREEDOM FOR WRITERS UNDER SIEGE IN FLORIDA

Florida Governor Ron DeSantis is at it again. There’s no bastion of freedom of thought and expression he isn’t prepared to assault.

Our anti-science governor found time to take on such non-existent problems like transgender girls in sports (never a single problem case in Florida), sanctuary cities (we don’t have any), critical race theory (not taught anywhere in Florida, and besides, it is a law school book and doctrine, not part of any lower school curriculum), election security (after correctly declaring the November election to secure, safe and perfectly run.) Not a word about the very real algae tide that threatens the tourist industry and environment, not a word about the broken and unfair unemployment system.

Now his latest target is the minds and thoughts of Florida’s college students. The threat to writing is real and imminent if not stopped by the courts.

College students are among the world’s most prolific writers, and many become great masters.If the DeSantis program is allowed to proceed, every student writing for campus publication, or a class paper or exam, will know that Big Brother is keeping tabs on how they think. While many writers will rise to the occasion despite the oppressive nature of this scheme, many more will be silenced. 

We don’t need the kind of blacklists and public denouncements that we saw in the nineteen fifties. We don’t need DeSantis’ thought police. We don’t people telling us what we ought to believe, or monitoring our thoughts. 

Click here to read the Washington Post article about Florida Governor Ron DeSantis signing a law to compile the views and thoughts of college students in the state.

DeSantis claims he’s doing this to promote diversity of thought; this from a guy who banned sanctuary cities, curtailed academic discussions of race,  and promoted the right of angry motorists to run over protesters. (None of these are expected to survive court scrutiny.)

DeSantis is governor of America’s third largest state, and is a leading candidate for the GOP Presidential nomination in 2024. His embrace of these neo-fascist laws are part of a frightening national trend by the Trump Republican Party. 

Stop him before he takes away more freedom!

The State will monitor and “categorize” what people think? Big Brother really is watching! Does anyone doubt there will be pressure to state one thinks the same way as the intrusive government? Does any sane person accept that the government collects people’s views only because they want to promote diversity? This is what they do in North Korea, Cuba, and Iran! I wonder what a self-professed libertarian Republican like Rand Paul has to say about this.

WE CAN STOP DESANTIS IN HIS TRACKS NEXT YEAR

We still have free elections in America, though Republicans like DeSantis are working overtime to end this practice. Don’t let them! DeSantis is one of several right-wing, extremist Republican governors up for reelection in 2022; others include Greg Abbott of Texas, and  Brian Kemp of Georgia.)

Florida is always a close state in nearly all elections. The last three gubernatorial races were decided by less than half a point. DeSantis barely squeaked by Andrew Gillum in 2018. There’s no doubt DeSantis is popular with the Trump wing of the GOP, which is the entire party in Florida, and he comes into the election a slight favorite. There are two fine candidates seeking the Democratic nomination: former Governor and current Congressman Charlie Crist, and current Agricultural Commissioner Nikki Fried. Either has a proven record of accomplishment and either would make a far superior governor than the current occupant of the office. 

Even if you do not live in Florida, you can still help remove this threat to civil liberties. You can contribute to the eventual Democratic nominee, or right now  to one of the primary candidates. You can do the same if you live in a state with its own far-rightist governor. You can contribute to the organizations (like the ACLU) challenging all of these unconstitutional laws in courts around the country. 

A Direct Threat to All Writers

A writer does not have to be a college student to feel the threat to our freedom. Once these far-right Big Brother fascists can monitor the thoughts of one group, they’re not stopping there. Indeed, all Americans should see this as a direct threat to our Constitutional liberties of free expression, freedom of association, and privacy rights.

#SaveThe FirstAmendment #DumpDeSantis2022 #VoteBlue4Ever #Fight4FreedomOrLoseIt

COMING THIS FALL: THIRD NOVEL IN THE NJA SERIES

First things first. Thank you to all who read my book, especially those who take time to review and rate it. Nothing helps a writer more than genuine feedback from a reader. (There are times authors don’t feel that way, but good writers learn to appreciate any feedback that genuinely expresses a reader’s reactions.)

Between sales, Kindle Unlimited readers, and Amazon giveaway days, several thousand copies of each novel have been read, with hundreds of ratings and reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. Several readers have contacted me directly, though sadly, few by posting on this blog. The posts are being read; that’s established by analytics, but few comments or likes. Both are valuable guides in determining what interests readers the most. The numbers do tell me which posts and short stories drew the most visitors and how long they remained, but don’t tell me if they liked or disliked the piece, or their reasons why. 

On the other hand, I am more than pleased with reader response to the two novels in my NJA series, Bangkok Shadows and Bangkok Whispers. Sitting down and writing two novels taught me more than I ever learned in school, books on writing, or all-night bull sessions with poseurs. I learned at least as much from reader feedback. A serious writer is constantly seeking to improve, and there is no ceiling on how good one can become. (Nor is there any floor as to how bad one can become if they grow sloppy and disinterested.)

A writer who steadily produces work, while considering what readers are saying, is far more likely to improve  than one who ignores anything but their own opinion.

Note the distinction between “improve” and “grow.” They are related but different. A writer improves by becoming more adept in structure, and learning to keep readers interested through  whatever device they use to prevent the reader from closing the book less than halfway through. These  include stakes, risks, unresolved conflicts, mysteries to be solved, dangers to be avoided. Improvement does not happen in total isolation; constructive criticism is a must. There are technical and procedural means which you will learn and they will improve the quality of dialogue, teach you to edit out unnecessary words, and stay on track with the plot. These must be mastered if a book is to have any chance e of pleasing readers. There are ways to learn; go out and find them!  It is essential for the beginning writer to have some group or person to fill this role. Writers groups are an available way to obtain constructive criticism from other authors. The advice varies, like the quality of the writers. I was fortunate to find perfect writing group when I became serious about this stuff. (See KEYBANGERS BANGKOK). 

Being technically more proficient dos not necessarily make the content better.Technically perfect writing, following every rule of gramme,  can be incredibly boring if it lacks the essence of good fiction: plot, tension, dialogue, character, description. Fiction needs a soul,  not always easy to locate, even in one’s own work-in-progress. Writers groups and proofreaders will not fill this role. Only readers will do for this.

A writer grows by seeing what works with readers and what does not. Readership numbers are only one indication, and if you are nor doing well, the numbers don’t say why. (If your book is dong well, you’re likely to stick with what is working.) What readers say about a book is quite different than what you gain from the constructive criticism of other writers. Readers generally provide less “technical” or “professional” feedback. nor do they offer marketing tips or advise on how to secure an agent; they are far more likely to inform what they liked and did not like, which is what an author needs to hear. Readers will never waste your time with pseudo-literary gibberish like “information dump” or “arc of the story”, nor will they push books on writing they swear will lead to a best-seller. (Though never for them.)  Readers will  tell what they liked and didn’t like.

I’m not going to give away the plot of the third novel, tentatively titled Bangkok Blues, but I am delighted to share some interesting features that will make this book similar yet different from the first two novels:

Bangkok Blues Is Written in the Third Person

Bangkok Blues and Bangkok Whispers were written in the first person, told through the eyes of American expat criminal lawyer Glenn Murray Cohen. Glenn is wealthy and intelligent, yet so often  hopelessly insecure and conflicted, often oblivious to  the obvious. Part of the fun is seeing Glenn come to understand what is happening, and rise to the occasion through his brainpower. 

First person is a perfect vehicle for developing a protagonist, certainly easier for a writer, especially a first or second time novelist.There’s only one point of view to consider. Human beings are generally programmed to go for the easiest option. Of course, in writing as in life, nothing is quite as it seems, and first person presents obstacles as well as benefits. It’s harder to reveal the thinking and feelings of characters other than the protagonist, as every one of their words and deeds are seen and interpreted through the main character. Thanks to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Nick Carraway, narrator of The Great Gatsby, readers never know if the protagonist/narrator is totally reliable.

Everything we know about the other characters in the two novels is what Glenn wants us to see. It is all his view, his take on things. We can accept what Glenn tells us, or question his observations, but it is all dependent on him. 

In Bangkok Blues, readers will travel into the minds of the General, Oliver, Sleepy Joe, Wang the Cook, Edward the Money Launderer, and a host of brand new characters, Thai and expat, male and female. Readers will learn what these people think of Glenn, each other, themselves, Thailand, and the world at large. If readers know them know, they will know them even better!

I gave great thought to this shift in point of view. My goal was to provide deeper understanding and context for my characters, without changing their essence or the way they relate to each other. Would knowing how each person really feels change the relationships? Will it change the way readers receive them? 

The answer is that no one knows until the book is written.I believe it will be the best of the three books, but then again, I may be slightly biased. 

I have enjoyed the change to third person. I have gotten to know the supporting cast in the same way readers of the first two novels came to know Glenn: through his own words and recollections. This is the first time I’ve gone directly into the minds of Sleepy Joe, Oliver, the General and the rest of the permanent cast. In Bangkok Blues, I meet them where they are, not where Glenn perceives them. I’ve worked with all of these people through two books,  and know them as well as anyone; they are my creations, after all. Yet many times, after setting up the circumstances of a scene, I am  surprised where my muse takes them. This is fiction writing at its most most rewarding, at least for me. 

Glenn Will Continue Expressing his Political Views

Glenn Murray Cohen holds strong political views; he is  an outspoken progressive Democrat, virulently anti-Trump. (Not entirely unsurprising, considering his creator.) A few readers have commented unfavorably on Glenn’s references to our not-so-dearly-departed former President, particularly Glenn’s references to Russian interference in the 2016 election, and the Tump campaign’s collusion with them. Their rhetoric is standard Trumpie, from angry people irked that Glenn accepts these facts,  declaring Trump an incompetent,  corrupt racist. (I may be writing fiction, but these are facts.)

In Bangkok Blues, Glenn’s political views will continue to be expressed, unabated. The setting is late 2019, early 2020, pre-COVID, just as the America election cycle heats up. I’m not going to change Glenn-or any character- just because their views annoy a few Trumpie crackpots. Besides, I have a well-informed and educated speculation that for every Trumpie who is enraged, there are dozens of normal readers who share my views, or understand them as the feelings of one character in a novel that isn’t even a political work. In the real world, people have political opinions; why wouldn’t this be true of characters in a novel?

Other characters in both books express views distinctly at odds with Glenn’s. Oliver, his dear friend and source of any needed information, is a staunch supporter of the Australian Conservative Party. The General is a retired military officer, a monarchist and member of the wealthy Bangkok elite, fiercely anticommunist, strongly pro-American, enamored of Ronald Reagan and the Israeli Defense Force. Rodney Snapp, Glenn’s “frenemy” in the CIA,  is a fascinating character, a seemingly decent and patriotic man who is willing to commit terrible and criminal  acts on behalf of his country, sometimes as bad as the people he is fighting, rationalizing them all the while. Rodney ‘s code is diametrically opposite Glenn’s yet the two men respect and like each other beneath the layers of mutual suspicion. Sleepy Joe, Glenn’s best friend and male soulmate, is a professional killer who shares little of Glenn’s humanitarianism and compassion. Yet these strange and diverse men band together as brothers, willing to de for each other if necessary. No political views ever come between them. The novels show how people of different backgrounds and cultures grow to respect and love each other like brothers. (I’d like to add “sisters”, but aside from Glenn, these guys are hardly feminists. Recognizing this, I try to add several women characters in each book, as diverse as the men. Namwahn, the trained killer who became Sleepy Joe’s girlfriend by the end of Bangkok Whispers, is thus far the only woman to make it into the guys’ inner circle. It helped that she can use an assault rifle and is a trained firearms instructor.)  The Trumpies’ cultish obsession with their disgraced hero has prevented them from seeing this. They cannot imagine a world where people who think differently get along so well. They wouldn’t be Trumpies if they could.

Glenn may be a principled and decent man, but like all of us, he is a great hypocrite as well. He came to be independently wealthy by stealing a  dead drug dealer’s money before the police found it, and used his gray-market lawyer buddy, Charlie, to hide his money and live without Uncle Sam knowing. Glenn increased his wealth dramatically by working for the CIA, where he engaged in just about every action he otherwise condemns. Glenn had his reasons, but doesn’t everyone? The fun part of both writing and reading fiction is untangling these crossed strings, and coming  appreciate the depth of interesting characters. 

Readers may wonder what qualifies me to state what expats in Thailand thought about American politics. I lived in Bangkok during the 2016 primaries and electionsand the following few years, and learned firsthand what expats thought and said.  The race for the Presidency, and the subsequent disaster of the Trump Administration were constantly discussed among expats of all nations, and few were shy about expressing their opinions. Everything my characters say about politics was absolutely said in some similar form at one point or another by voices I  heard. One cannot write a novel about an American expat living abroad during the election cycles of 2016 and 2020, and completely ignore American politics. It plays roles in why people are expats, and whether they will ever return home. It effects the eternal longing for the homeland, even among those who claim otherwise. 

Now, it is entirely possible that an agent or publisher might tell a writer to keep their politics to themselves, because they might offend some readers. Isn’t that the case with any topic a writer chooses? What good is the First Amendment if we are not able to exercise it? That’s why I am a proud independent, published author, writing what I feel, not for an agent, not for a publisher, surely not for the Trumpies. 

Any writer should be pleased when something in their work prompts a strong response from a reader, even if the response is not favorable. (Consider the source and the reasons.) I’m pleased if I cause any reader to think about my work, and if it pisses off a Trumpie, that’s icing on the cake

It's Not a COVID Novel

Since it seems every other writer in the world plans a COVID 19 novel, I decided to pass. Bangkok Blues takes place just before the pandemic was fully  realized as such; there are a few brief mentions, but the virus plays no role in the plot or action. 

There is an other reason for this, besides trying to stand out from the crowd. Many readers and reviewers have praised thew two novels for bringing the reader into Thailand, and allowing them to met the people and learn a bit about the culture and history along the way. A few kind folks have actually said they felt as if they had been taken to Thailand! In both novels, the characters  travel about the city and Kingdom, meeting and interacting with Thais and foreigners in a wide range of situations, usually the kind that occur only in Thailand. It would be exceedingly difficult to this again if the characters are in a Thailand  subject to lockdown and travel restrictions. Right now, that’s not how I want to write about Thailand.

There Will Be a Box Set

Of course there will be a box set,  for e books and print on demand. (I’m considering adding audiobooks as well,) The box set will be sold at a discount. I do a lot of giveaways, mostly the first book, Bangkok Shadows, so many readers will be purchasing the box set to read the other two books, and there should be a deal for them. Not to worry. I’ll be running regular sales where the three book box set will be available for less than the price of two separate books. Like any obsessed author, I want as many people as possible to read my books.

Once Again, Thanks for Reading!