Stephen Shaiken's Blog, page 14
January 3, 2021
WHAT’S AHEAD FOR MY WRITING IN 2021
My cat, Curious, who keeps me company as I struggle to create.A welcome goodbye to 2020.
We have just bid farewell to the worst year America has endured over my lifetime, and I was born during the second Truman Administration.
2020 ended with numerous new historical records we’d hope to never see: a raging, worst-ever, out of control pandemic, a brutally blundered and mismanaged vaccine rollout, greatest number of jobs lost, greatest number of food deficient people since the Great Depression, more Americans facing eviction or foreclosure than ever before; hospitals overwhelmed everywhere, resorting to triage. Did I mention the Russians are wandering about our cyber-secrets as if they owned the place. (With Donald J. Trump in the White House, they sort of do-but for only sixteen days more.)
It is no surprise the American people elected a new President; what is unfathomable is the number of Americans who refuse to accept this, and spout delusional conspiracy talk that Trump’s landslide victory was denied him by Venezuelans, some deceased, and conservative Republican officials.
Amidst the death, illness, and suffering, there wasn’t a great deal to applaud in 2020. Knowing there are vaccines, and that a rational government is being empowered in two weeks, was certainly a more uplifting end to a dismal year. Tampa Bay sports fans have been thrilled with the Bolts winning the Stanley Cup, the Rays making into the Series, and the Bucs…well, they have Tom Brady, what more need be said?
Since the pandemic gave us its first slap in the face back in March, yours truly has been pretty much isolated. I’ve kept in touch by Skype, Zoom, and Whats App, and used some of the free time to improve guitar (no place to go but up.)
I also spent more time on my writing. Bangkok Whispers, the second novel in the NJA Club series, was released in late August, and since then, the first book, Bangkok Shadows, has dramatically improved in sales and KU readers. What I care most about is having readers, and hearing from them in some form. I’ve given away thousands of free downloads of both books, and it’s worked well, each promoting a sale of the other. There has been a big jump in reviews and ratings on Amazon and Goodreads, overwhelmingly favorable, very few unhappy. Readers enjoy following the adventures of American expat lawyer Glenn Murray Cohen, and his mysterious friends from Bangkok’s strange NJA Club. That’s good, because I assure, you, some time this year, the third NJA novel will be released. Glenn, The General, Sleepy Joe, and Oliver will face new and equally dangerous challenges, in what the author describes as “exotic noir thrillers”.
Over the last few months of 2020, post release of Bangkok Whispers, I began working on a very different kind of novel, set in New York City in the late sixties and early seventies. I’m not giving away much more right now, other than to say it is best described as “literary” or “historical” fiction. (The latter genre was discussed in WHAT MAKES WRITING “HISTORICAL FICTION” ? ) This untitled and unfinished novel will be released sometime this year, after the third NJA book. It will be interesting to see if readers of the Bangkok series are drawn to this new and different novel, and if readers of the new book are drawn to the NJA series. Quite likely both, because while the settings and genres may be different, the author’s voice remains the same.
Looking at 2021.
A goodly chunk of 2021 has been discussed above: the release of a third NJA novel sometime this year, to be following several months later with the release of the work-in-progress. I will be doing a lot more as well.
It is my intention to engage more with readers. This blog is one avenue, and there will be more posts, both literary and political subjects, plus travel, once we are able to do so again. There is also a plan to expand my email list, sent a few times a year when there is a new work or other news to report.
2021 will be devoted to novel writing, rather than short stories. Until I wrote Bangkok Shadows, short stories were all I’d written; one or two half-hearted attempts at novels went nowhere. Less time than before will be spent on short stories. Novel writing requires an intense concentration, especially where there is some research required. Getting short stories published requires a considerable investment of time: researching the right publications, sending them off; sometime the magazines will allow simultaneous submissions, but others want the exclusive option, which prevents others from looking at it while they take their time. They won’t even let you post your story on your own website until they say you can! The author is likely to submit to several places, and wait months for a reply, then, if accepted, months to see it published. After all of this, unless the magazine is a well-known and well-read publication, total readership of the piece never exceeds a few score, if that many. More people read my stories on this blog, and they are always available. I have a healthy backlog of stories, most ready to be published, or close to it. I will periodically put one up on this blog, secure in the knowledge that shortly after pressing the send button, people will be reading it. However, I am eternally grateful to small publications that first published my post- retirement work, and send them stories to consider, because I like them and respect their mission of publishing unknown as well as recognized writers.
It would be most pleasing if these efforts yield more interaction with readers, which includes anyone reading this post! There’s a comment space at the end of this post, in addition to posting on Amazon or Goodreads.
Please scroll to the bottom right of this page. At the very bottom, you will see white boxes where you sign up for the newsletter. Above that is a separate box to enter your email to subscribe and receive new posts on this blog.
Make 2021 the year you share your thoughts with this author.
There is nothing an author wants more than to hear from their readers. It’s the only way to really know how their work is received. Sales might be a result of a good book cover, good will from prior books, effective promotion. Who knows how many actually read it cover-to-cover? Readers telling you what they liked or didn’t like, what they’ like to see more of, or just to weigh in on literary, political, or travel thought expressed by me-that is what any author hopes to experience. After all, we write for our readers, and would love to know what they thought. It can be a comment on this blog, or a rating or review on Amazon or Goodreads, whatever works. I just want to har what you thought of my work or my posts.
Wishing all a safe, healthy, and prosperous 2021!
In 2021, let’s beat the pandemic once and for all, and restore the economy and sanity in America and elsewhere.
It’s no secret that I’m a progressive Democrat who believes Donald Trump belongs out of the White House and into the Big House. Whatever one’s political beliefs, we must all strive towards this goal of beating the pandemic. In a matter of two weeks, the lies end, the anti-science drivel will be replaced by Dr. Fauci as Chief Medical Adviser, and the hard-hearted willingness to let people die for the Dow or Trump’s reelection gone back to the sewers from whence they sprung. Since the pandemic emerged, I’ve been regularly tweeting the hashtags #TrustScience, #FollowThe Fauci, #VoteBlue4Ever.
I see little reason to discontinue those hashtags.
Things we all look forward to this new year when we beat COVID:
Hugging loved ones. Dining out. Traveling the nation and the world. Attending concerts, sporting events, going to clubs and coffeehouses to hear live music in small venues. Museums. Going door-to-door and setting up tables to advance my politics. Attending religious and cultural events.
Going to the gym and yoga classes. Playing music with others. In person writing groups.
Putting my masks in the souvenir section of my closet.
December 11, 2020
FLORIDA AG MOODY MUST EXPLAIN HER SUPPORT FOR DEMOCRACY-SUBVERTING SCAM LAWSUIT
November 22, 2020
ANOTHER NOVEMBER 22……MEMORIES OF JFK & THAT DAY
Photo courtesy of www.goodfreepohotos.com
It was November 22, 1963. I was a sophomore at Stuyvesant High School in New York City. Early that morning, before classes, we students held a raucous rally against DeWitt Clinton High, one of the best football in the State, whom we would play that weekend. A few seniors grabbed a bucket of ice off a passing truck, and tossed it in the street, which by SHS standards, was a near-riot. (Also may have been my last sighting of an ice truck.) That day, my seventh period class was Chemistry, taught by the inimitable Colonel Wilson. No one knew how he came to be called Colonel, except maybe because he spoke in a deep Southern accent, and we New York kids thought anyone with gray hair and a Southern accent must have been a colonel at one time or another. (BTW, he was a great teacher, and everything I know about chemistry,I learned from him.) We were preparing sulphuric acid in test tubes, and someone released their tube into the air, nearly asphyxiating an entire row of students, which included me. As the smoke cleared, and we could breathe again, the PA system announced that all students were to go to their lockers, take what they needed, and go home. We assumed it was to prevent another rally, and we were relieved to vacate a lab that smelled like Lucifer had just paid a visit. After exiting the subway, while waiting at the bus stop,(it was a long trip from Maspeth, Queens to Manhattan) a grown man with a transistor announced amidst sobs, that President John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas. My initial reaction was that this could not be true, until I heard it myself coming from that little radio, the words piercing my heart like daggers. JFK was my hero. Smart young men in America were proud to have as their President a handsome, athletic, intelligent, witty, and brave young man. I rode the bus home and walked the half mile from my stop, in a catatonic trance the whole while. Men like JFK did not die in parades in Texas; they survived war and injury, stood up to bigots, and got elected President. There weren’t many yong guys I knew who did not want to grow up to be just like JFK. When I arrived home, my father was back from work, and he commented that he was surprised how calm and composed I seemed, considering how much I loved JFK. (As we all did; JFK’s picture was prominently displayed at the apartment for decades.) I explained that I was just being strong, just as JFK would have wanted. Of course, that was not true; young men growing up in NYC back them didn’t cry, at least not in public. Needless to say, that night, when the lights were out and the covers drawn, I cried my heart out, along with most of America. Sometimes I wonder if we who lived it have ever stopped.
October 31, 2020
Read My Latest Short Story:”A Well-Dressed Man”
Why does a short story, whose title suggests a sartorial theme, start by showing a picture of a smiling crocodile? You’ll have to read it to find out!
After publishing the second novel in my Bangkok-based NJA Club series ( Click here to visit Bangkok Shadows page, and Click here to visit Bangkok Whispers page,) I knew I had to get back to writing about other places, because the stories I have to tell are set in many locales and in many times and eras. One of my favorites is the fictional working class New York City neighborhood of Macbeth Heights, which allows me to reveal a world most readers could not have experienced, simply because they’re not as old as me!
A few of these stories were published in small magazines, others on this blog. Since I’ve determined that more people read my stories here, I’ve dispensed with submissions to them and am putting all new short stories on this blog. (We are in the third decade of the twenty first century, after all, and readers have found new ways to connect with authors.)
If you like this story, and crave more tales of Macbeth Heights, check out some stories on this blog: Teddy and His Mother, A Shot in the Ass, Bagelnose Goes to College.
Enjoy! (And feel free to leave comments, and sign up to this blog and my e mail newsletter. You can sign up on the bottom right of this page.)
A WELL-DRESSED MAN
by Stephen Shaiken
© 2020
Manny Krazloff told strangers his mother’s maiden name was Rothschild, usually in a fake British accent. Mark was amazed at how often people believed him. Manny used this ruse more frequently as time passed, and he became more practiced at the art of deception.
Manny’s real name was Herbert, but since third grade, he was Manny, because his tall, thin body reminded his friends of a praying mantis. At sixteen, he was six feet tall, lantern-jawed, thin as a rake, and looked like he could be folded up and carried away.
Mark and Manny became friends their sophomore year at high school. Manny was a year older, so they never shared any classes through junior high. Then Mark skipped the eighth grade, and entered high school at the same time as Manny. They quickly became constant companions during lunch and in the school yard recesses. Manny spoke endlessly on subjects in which his peers, Mark excepted, showed no interest. They cared not at all for art, literature, cinema, or any music not played on the top forty stations. Mark found in Manny an island of sophistication and intelligence amidst an ocean of ignorance. Manny was the only one of the older boys who treated Mark well, and many treated him poorly, except when he was with Manny. Mark was elated to have such a friend, having enjoyed few thus far, and Manny enjoyed filling Mark’s ears with his accumulated wisdom. He also enjoyed borrowing five dollars every Friday afternoon, when Mark was paid for his part-time job at the neighborhood pharmacy.
The two young men shared mutual awe of JFK. “Dripping with class,” Manny would say whenever President Kennedy appeared on a television screen. Mark was dazzled by the constellation of JFK’s achievements: war hero, author, scholar, brave liberal Senator, youngest man elected President, stirring speaker, and aggressive touch football player. He didn’t believe any of those stories that JFK was really in bad shape. “Republican lies,” his father called them.
On that sad day in November of their sophomore year, students were inexplicably sent home early, but a classmate with a transistor radio told them the news as they walked home from the bus stop. Mark began to cry, and some of the older boys laughed at him. Manny gently placed his hands on Mark’s shoulders and briefly massaged them.
“Be strong,” he whispered.”That’s what the President would want.”
#
Manny dressed well, despite his family being no more affluent than anyone else in working class Macbeth Heights. The Borough of Queens ranked low on the New York City prestige scale, and Macbeth Heights ranked low among Queens residents. Manny told strangers he came from Forest Hills. Mark figured this was because no one would believe a Rothschild lived in Macbeth Heights, but Forest Hills was a possibility. After all, he told Mark, everyone knew about their famous tennis stadium, and tennis was identified with wealth. Mark couldn’t say, as he knew no one one in Macbeth Heights who played tennis. In truth, the Krazloffs lived in a two bedroom apartment above a delicatessen. The scent of pastrami perpetually lingered in the Krazloff household.
Mr. Bennie Krazloff, the family patriarch, was perhaps Macbeth Height’s most controversial resident. He worked as a modestly- paid manager of a hardware store, but in a genetic predictor of his son’s behavior, dressed as if he were Undersecretary of State. His wardrobe exceeded what his economy justified. In the eyes of the neighborhood, Bennie was just a fool, who would eventually have his day of reckoning. And indeed he did.
After Bennie served many years as treasurer of the local American Legion Post, a serious cash discrepancy was discovered. A long train of funds could not be accounted for, annual statements could not be reconciled. Such a thing had never before happened, not while Hilly Flusterman served fifteen years as treasurer, or the six years before then when Irving Glapsner kept the books. A special committee was appointed to investigate, and at the next Legion monthly meeting, its Chairman asked Bennie for his books. Bennie stormed out, went home, and burned every page in his kitchen sink. For days, the aroma of charred account books seasoned the smell of pastrami in the Krazloff home.
The Post imposed a special assessment on its members to cover the missing funds. Everyone paid except Bennie, who quit the Post without uttering a single word in his defense. For several years thereafter, he was the neighborhood pariah. As nearly all male heads of household were veterans and members of the post, the Krazloff name was caked in mud, some of which never flaked off. The scuttlebutt around the neighborhood was that the American Legion paid for Bennie’s fancy wardrobe, noting that after the missing funds were discovered, Bennie’s wardrobe remained static. The community eventually relented to the extent of allowing a nod in recognition upon sighting Bennie, but nothing beyond. Some parents prohibited their children from associating with Manny, simply because he was a Krazloff, but Mark’s parents never went so far as to ban contact.
Aside from spending time with Manny or working at the pharmacy, Mark’s main activity was spent at the local pool hall. Mark did not play very well, and rarely took to the table, but once he discovered the Heights Poll & Billiards he became a regular, visiting three or four times a week. It was a short walk from home. The old timers took a liking to the shy, diminutive young man, and regaled him with tales of bygone days and the great confrontations between legendary hustlers. Many of these old men were not particularly skilled players, and were there to bet or kibitz, or like Mark, enjoy the company. Mark never grew tired of hearing these stories. He promised himself that one day he would write them down, in a collection of stories, like John Steinbeck did with Tortilla Flats.
One Spring day in final semester of their senior year, Manny accompanied Mark at the neighborhood pool hall after classes. Manny never showed any interest in the game, and told Mark he couldn’t understand what he saw in a bunch of old geezers who blew their pensions betting on pool. He offered Mark no explanation for his sudden change of heart, and Mark was happy to spend the time with his friend.
Manny wore a dark green sport coat with shiny gold buttons. It fit him perfectly. A middle aged man watching the same match as Manny and Mark commented on the coat.
“Pretty snazzy, kid. Got your own tailor?”
Manny looked down at the man, a half a foot shorter. “More or less,” he replied,
When walking home with Mark, Manny suddenly laughed and explained the coat’s origin.
“Walked into Bloomingdales, tried it on when no one was looking, walked around examine a few other items, and walked out like a captain.”
“Weren’t you scared someone was watching?” Mark asked.
“Nah, they only watch colored people and gypsies,” Manny said. “And I just would have said I was looking for a cashier. They would let me off with a warning.”
Mark recalled his mother warning him to stay away from Manny.
“The father is a crook and I’m sure the apple does not fall far from the tree,” she declared. “Your father paid for a bunch of Bennie’s ties.”
“He’s my friend,” Mark countered. “He’d never do me wrong.”
“People like the Krazloff’s don’t have friends,” his mother replied. “Just people they can use.
“Besides, he’s got that crooked, crocodile smile, just like his father,” she added
If Mark expected any succor from his father, it was not forthcoming. When Mark once mentioned he was a going to spend an evening with Manny, his father issued a stern warning, more forceful than his mother’s.
“Has that Manny Krazloff ever done an honest days work? All you kids have part-time jobs and summer jobs, and this guy just hangs around, dressed like a movie star. Something’s not right.”
Mark grew up hearing these stories about Bennie Krazloff, but still looked up to Manny. Mark absorbed what there was to be learned from Manny Krazloff: Edith Piaf, Charles Aznavour, Camus and Sartre, Ionesco. Mark pledged to emulate Manny and read every word of Winston Churchill’s History of the English Speaking People. He was nonetheless glad he had not told his parents about the loans to Manny. There were now fifteen, totaling seventy-five dollars. Manny told him he would be writing a book review for the New Yorker magazine, and he would be able to pay him back then.
“They book their writers a year in advance, so it may take time, but you’ll be paid.”
#
One spring day in their senior year, Manny pulled up in front of the pharmacy just as Mark was leaving, as he had promised during lunch. Mark expected to see Manny on foot, but he sat behind the wheel of a blue Pontiac Catalina parked illegally in the bus stop in front of the pharmacy . The car looked to be about three or four years old at most.
“On long-term loan,” was all he said.
The car was air-conditioned, with a built-in-stereo. Mark savored the cool air blowing across his cheeks and ankles, though the noise of the fan obscured the jazz station. Manny spoke loudly.
“Remember that if they catch us, you take the blame. I’m over eighteen and I might not get off as easy as you. You hang on to everything. If they ask why the bigger size, tell them it’s a graduation present for a friend.” High school graduations were in full swing that second week in June, and Manny had indeed just turned eighteen.
Manny walked him through the routine several times as they drove to Westbury Mall, considered by Macbeth Heights residents to be where the elite shopped. Id didn’t take much to appear as an elite to someone from Macbeth Heights, Manny Krazloff excluded.
“It’s upper middle class, but not really rich, the way I’m gonna be some day,” Manny said as he breezed along the Long Island Expressway, crossing the border between the New York City Borough of Queens into suburban Nassau County.
“As you’re walking, every so often you crane your neck like you’re looking for a cashier. Might even be a good idea to ask some salesperson on the floor which way to one. That way, if they do grab you, you can say you looking to pay, and you have someone to back you up.” It seemed pretty clever to Mark.
An hour later, Mark wandered the Men’s section of Macy’s, carrying two pairs of pants, three shirts, a sport jacket, and a belt, all Manny’s size. A Greek fisherman’s cap sat perched on Mark’s head, the kind Bob Dylan wore on the cover of his first album, which Mark played at least once a day. That was for him. He followed Manny’s instructions, and when a pretty sales woman pointed towards a cashier, Mark walked in the other direction, towards the door, where Manny would be waiting outside.
Mark was no more than twenty feet from the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a deep voice asked him to stop. Mark turned around and saw a stocky six-footer in a tight gray suit and a hound dog face. “I’m going to have to ask you t come with me please,” he said in a soft but firm voice. The young woman who had directed him to a cashier stood next to the big man. She stepped forward and took the clothing from Mark’s hands, a stern look other face. She looked at Mark for a few seconds, and he felt relief when she turned away.
In the little office next to the fitting rooms, the six-footer faced Mark across a metal table. Other than the table and chairs and a telephone, the room was bare.
“You came back clean,” the big man said. “No shoplift records with the cops or the stores. And you look like such a twerp, I can almost believe you were just looking for the cashier when you absent mildly wound up by the doors to the street. But one thing holds me back. That tall drink of water you were seen talking to before the spotter reported you to me. Who was he? How’s he mixed up in this?”
“Just some guy I knew from school. Were in a few classes together sophomore year. Said he had to go meet his mother for his ride home.”
“Funny, he didn’t have any packages,” the big man said. That stuff you had could fit him, not you. I’m not buying that they’re gifts for your graduating friends. It don’t work that way.
“I don’t know what his story is,” Mark replied.
The store detective rose from his chair and stared down at Mark.
“I think we both the story. He was using you kid, and he don’t give two shits what happens to you.”
Mark’s hands shook and his knees wobbled.
“But I do,” the man said. “I know you’re a good kid, never do anything like this unless you got manipulated by some prick. And I know you figured that out, so I’m gonna let you off with an informal warning. You’re not even banned from this store. Come back any time you want, just be prepared to pay. Agreed?” He reached his big hand across the table. Mark grabbed it.
“And we’ll be watching you,” the detective said.
#
It had grown dark. The only lighting in the vast parking lot came from scattered underpowered lampposts, and the lot mostly empty. Most stores were closed. Mark remembered exactly where Manny had parked, confirmed by the closed chain store directly ahead and, the dim lamppost immediately to the left of this last-in-row spot. It was empty.
We forgot to plan for this, Mark thought. Manny must be somewhere around. He wouldn’t just leave me here like this. He began the first of several circular trips around the lot, interspersed with long walks between nearly deserted lanes. He longed to find Manny, to tell him how strong he had been, how he stood by his friend when the going got tough. After an hour, he gave up. Wherever Manny was waiting, they weren’t going to find each other.
A workman taking out the trash directed him to the nearest Long Island Railroad Station. “Maybe two miles right up that road,” said. He pointed to the big street fronting the mall.
“Shouldn’t take more than half an hour,” he added. “You should easily make the last train.”
The worker was right. During the last ten minutes, it started to rain, at first a gentle drizzle, but by the time Mark reached the platform, it was coming down heavy, and was starting to seep through his thin jacket and shirt. The last train was on the tracks, and he scurried to board before it left. Mark paid the premium for buying his ticket on the train, but it was off-peak, and he had just enough change in his pocket to pay for the trip to the Woodside Station.
Mark sank into a cushioned seat and let his head rest on the back. He felt something rubbing against his head. He reached up, and felt the cap he had put on. Mr. Brilliant detective never even thought about this, he thought. Manny will get a laugh out of that one.
Five minutes later, he wasn’t so sure.
THE END
September 25, 2020
FAREWELL TO OUR NATION’S SISTER, RUTH GINSBURG
Justice Ruth Ginsburg’s Jewish identity informed her of a basic truth: there are people whose life and liberty require more than just nice words and good wishes; they require the protection of the law. Of course, one who is not African-American can never feel the exact pain that community must live with every day, but as a Jew born when Hitler took power, Justice Ginsburg understood one commonality: what it is like to be born into a world where large numbers of people will hate you, even want to kill you, because of characteristics you cannot and should not have to change, and which have nothing to do with what kind of a person you are. Only the genuine protection of the law can prevent them from experiencing discrimination and harm.
This principle compelled Justice Ginsburg to seek the protection of the law for all people, not just the rich and powerful. Every sincere Jew understands this, and that is why she was so special to us. Plenty of politicians talk about “Judeo-Christian” values; I can’t comment on the Christian part, but I can say with absolute confidence that Ruth Ginsburg embodied the Jewish values that we treasure. She understood that it is not possible to say that all people are equal before G-d, but not in the eyes of the law. Justice Ginsburg fought her whole life for women, but equally so for all who needed the protection of the law: minorities, criminal defendants, prisoners serving unjust sentences, immigrants unable to explain their asylum claim to an officer who does not speak their language, young women facing an unwanted pregnancy alone and afraid, the mentally ill, workers being cheated, harassed, and endangered on the job, whistleblowers facing retaliation, Native Americans, and anyone else generally ignored or underserved by the legal system. There can be no justice where there is no compassion. Ruth Ginsburg certainly had compassion. Jewish people have lost one of our most cherished sisters, and the world has lost a dear friend.
#RuthGinsburg #SupremeCourt
September 21, 2020
EXPERTS AGREE: TRUMP IS A NAZI SYMPATHIZER
For years, I’ve been saying Trump is a racist and a Nazi sympathizer. Looks like I’ve got some expert opinion on my side.
Trump’s gene comments ‘indistinguishable from Nazi rhetoric’, expert on Holocaust says
Tom Embury-Dennis,The Independent•September 21, 2020 Huffington Post, Mr Trump, before becoming president, denied that “all men are created equal”.“Well it’s not true, because some are smart, some aren’t,” he said.
In separate footage, Mr Trump said: “I’m proud to have that German blood. There’s no question about it.”
September 8, 2020
DISNEY SHOULD NOT HAVE FILMED MULAN IN XINGIANG
Boycotts for any reason are tough issues for artists. Our lives are directed towards enticing others to hear what we have to say, in whatever art form we employ. Boycotts obviously interfere with this two way process between artist and audience. Recently, with the release of the animated work, Mulan, calls have been raised to boycott this Disney production. Boycotts, even for compelling reasons, are problematic for artists.
I have adamantly opposed banning controversial artists from America or any country, and have spoke out loudly against the racist and Nazi-inspired BDS movement, which apes the Nazis in refusing to have any contact with artists or intellectuals who are Israelis or Zionists.
With that in mind, I am not suggesting a worldwide or nationwide boycott of Mulan. I’m not even asking anyone to refrain from seeing the film. What I am asking is that before running off to the theater (or eventually streaming at home), think about the choices Disney had, the decisions they made, the impact of those decisions, and whether you personally wish to effectively approve of them by forking over a hugely inflated price to view it. Should you decide to see it, all I ask is that you consider the consequences of your actions. The Chinese government’s genocidal policies will continue, with the approval of a major American corporation, and apparent approval of American citizens.
This is not some political difference we are talking about; we are watching Germany in the late 1930’s happening all over again.
Genocide is different. The Chinese government is arresting Uighurs and sending them off to concentration camps where they are either brainwashed or they die. Their entire culture, from language, to religion, to clothing, to food, to literature and music, is being wiped out and replaced by Han Chinese people and culture and of course, Mandarin Chinese. After the Nazi-like genocide in Bosnia a quarter century ago, it boggles the mind that the wold sits by idly.
Well, at least I don’t!
I haven’t watched a Disney film in decades, and their products never appeal to me. Apparently I’ve been in a minority up till now, but maybe it’s time for people to rethink their support. Disney, by their actions, are legitimizing and economically supporting a racist regime carrying out genocide against the Uighur people, in the very region where Disney filmed. They could have chosen any locale in the world, and they chose this. How would we feel about a film that was made in Nazi Germany circa 1938, and praised the Nazi leadership as well as handing them millions of dollars? Even if you don’t agree with me that what Disney puts out is not really cinema, you should refuse to reward them for this horrible behavior.
Even if you don’t agree they make bad films, you should be able to agree they make very bad moral decision. Then it’s up to you.
September 1, 2020
AT LONG LAST: BANGKOK WHISPERS RELEASED ON AMAZON KINDLE – Sequel to Bangkok Shadows Is Another Exotic Noir Thriller
It’s been a more than two years since Bangkok Shadows was released on Amazon as an e book and print on demand. It was my first novel, as well as my first run at self-publishing. I learned a lot about marketing, and hopefully used what I learned about writing and promotion in Bangkok Whispers.
Bangkok Whispers features the same characters as the first book, and introduces a few new faces, two very intriguing and very strong women for starters. The protagonist is once again American expat criminal lawyer Glenn Murray Cohen, and he’s still smoking weed, brewing gourmet coffee, and looking for love in all the wrong places. His main man, Sleepy Joe, still looks like a left-over hippie, but fights like Bruce Lee. Oliver, the all-knowing Australian partier, the conniving and controlling General, and the understated Wang the Cook are all called back into action when Glenn’s life is placed in danger because of Gordon.
This novel is somewhat darker than Bangkok Shadows, but retains a similar sense of humor, irony and sarcasm. There is more violence, though it is still a book that tries to hold readers by plot, pace, characters, dialogue, and of course, background.
No spoilers allowed, but I can say that the story revolves around the troubles of Gordon Planter, a mysterious grifter from Glenn’s past, running from peril in America that follows him to Thailand, and which he will not honestly disclose. Glenn and his friends are dragged into a nightmare involving drug dealing, North Korean spies and hitmen, and questionable allies from the CIA, as they duck bullets, find love, and seek the answers to the many questions raised about Gordon and why and from whom he is on the run.
I started writing Bangkok Whispers shortly after Bangkok Shadows was released. I enjoyed the constructive critiques of the writers at Keybangers Bangkok, my favorite writing group ever. While in Tampa, I was able to have several thousand words critiqued by the Tampa Writers Alliance, a truly fine group of serious writers.
I’ve been pleased at the number and level of ratings and reviews Bangkok Shadows received on Amazon and Goodreads, and for all the comments and e mails sent my way. I only wish more people would do the same. Writers will only learn how their work is received when someone tells them. Even sales or other distributions do not provide those answers; every reader owns or borrows books they never read. One reason why we independent authors periodically offer our e books for free is the hope that some folks will feel it’s only fair to leave a review. (It doesn’t really work.)
So what will I do now that Bangkok Whispers has been published? Start writing something new, of course. I’m taking a break from the NJA Club, to work on some short stories, and the start of a different kind of novel. Do not despair, fans of Glenn and company: a third novel is in the works as soon as Americans are allowed back into Thailand! (For these books, I have to be there to get the gears turning. But I love Tampa as well, and there will be some stories set right here on the Gulf Coast, with steamy intrigue and mysteries of its own.)
Bangkok Whispers will be offered free as an e book on Amazon Kindle on September 1 and 2d. (After that, it’s a mere $2.99). Click here to visit Bangkok Whispers Amazon page.
Hopefully, you’ll grab it for free, and let me know what you think, by comment on Amazon, Goodreads, or here.
August 17, 2020
Revisiting Past Posts: Black Lives Matter Protests, Jordan Peterson, Historical Fiction
LOOKING BACK & UPDATING SOME PAST POSTS
It hasn’t been all that long ago since I posted my support for BLM protests, and my concern that even the most diligent safety precautions might not prevent a spread of the virus, which none of the protesters wanted. (See MY HEART IS WITH THE PROTESTERS AND I WANT THEM TO BE SAFE 06/04/20).
Fortunately, none of my fears were realized. All available information says BLM protests did not spread COVID19. See “Black Lives Matter protests did not cause an uptick in covid 19 cases”, The Economist, 06/30/20; “Black Lives Matter protests haven’t lead to COVID-19 spikes,” NBC News, 06/24/20; “Research Determines Protests Did Not Cause Spike in Coronavirus Cases”, Forbes, 07/01/20
That is welcome news, as there has been no letup of the systemic racism being protested, or the nefarious use of racism and division as a campaign tactic by Donald Trump. Sound scientific evidence proves that an outdoor protest where masks and social distancing are heavily promoted, can avoid spreading COVID. This is markedly different than the crowded indoor and unmasked Trump rallies, which have been known to have infected dozens of people thus far: Secret Service agents, White House staff, Trump campaign workers, and of course, attendees.
One prominent Trump supporter, Herman Cain, who openly scoffed at masks and social distancing at Trump rallies, sadly contracted the virus and did not survive. Herman was a fascinating character, and whatever one thought of his political ideas and his idiotic “9-9-9” tax plan, he was a very likable and personable fellow who to radiated enthusiasm and joy. He was a very successful CEO, and made a surprisingly strong run for the 2012 GOP nomination, only to be derailed over allegations of an extra-marital affair. (He was four years too soon for the GOP religious right, who threw all their stated values out the window as they became co-joined twins with Donald Trump.) In truth, Herman should be remembered as a person who showed that African-Americans are as capable as whites, and that a Black man could lead multinational corporations and do it better than most of his white counterparts. (Herman was also the only CEO to ever sing parody of John Lennon’s “Imagine”; who can forget that baritone voice singing out “Imagine there’s no pizza, it’s easy if you try…”) I only wish that in confronting COVID19 Herman had drawn upon the same intelligence and analytical capabilities that made him a superstar CEO. He saved failing companies, and kept many Americans employed. Had Herman been faithful to science instead of Trump, he’d still be with us today. Herman Cain died because he fell for Donald Trump’s anti-science lies. That is a real tragedy, but keep in mind, Herman’s Trump-induced death was publicized because of his fame; how many others Trump rally victims died without a news article?
I like to think we who seek change are on the side of the angels, and are protected, but if you protest, make sure to wear a mask, practice social distance whenever possible, and take care of your overall health. We’ve just seen how much of a difference that makes when we compare the safety of BLM protests with the infections and deaths caused by Trump rallies. No one wants any more Herman Cains to die needlessly trying to appease a madman. Hopefully on November 3, America votes for change.
THE STRANGE SAGA OF JORDAN PETERSON
Photo by Mark Peterson, ReduxIt’s been almost two years since the blog featured a post on far-right cultural figure Jordan Peterson. The gist of the piece was that behind his alleged conservative, traditional values spiel, Peterson was willingly and consciously aiding and abetting far- right extremists, including white supremacists and neo-Nazis. (The centerpiece of Peterson’s spiel is that our Western civilization is crumbling under the weight of feminism, LBGTQ rights, religious tolerance, and civil liberties.) I wasn’t sure many people would be interested in such a subject, as nothing Peterson says is either new or insightful; you can get it on any FOX talk show. Surprisingly, it remains one of the most-visited posts on this blog. See EXPOSING JORDAN PETERSON, PSEUDO-INTELLECT SUPREME OF THE FAR RIGHT AND WHITE NATIONALISTS
Apparently, Peterson has quite a few passionate supporters and detractors. That’s fine; this is a fiction blog, not a political one, and with any fiction writer, thoughts on any subject in the real world work their way into short stories and novels. One can’t write about the world if they don’t try to live in it. Writers like to share their ideas; isn’t that what makes them writers? If my writing provokes people on either side to think and react with their minds, I’m pleased. I’m delighted people continue to read it. I am always longing to hear what a reader has to say. Who knows, it may wind up coming from the mouth of a future character!
Not long after I wrote the post, Peterson inexplicably went radio silent. Disappeared without a trace, like Judge Crater or Ambrose Bierce. It took a while, but a picture of his situation emerged. It is nothing like what we would expect from this ultra-conservative, far right, traditional values guru. We could say it was completely out of his self-professed character.
Peterson became dependent upon legally prescribed anti-anxiety medication, though his camp insists that he was “habituated” as opposed to being “addicted”. It may seem strange that such a condition afflicts one who preaches the virtues of strength, discipline, self-reliance, and stoic fortitude in the face of adversity, but anxiety, depression, and drug dependency know no social or philosophical barriers, and all sufferers deserve our compassion and support. (That would even apply to Peterson’s fellow fountainhead of far-right gibberish, Rush Limbaugh, who became addicted to opioids, and in classic right-wing cowardice, used his maid to make his illegal purchases; unlike Peterson, Limbaugh did not limit his drug intake to legally prescribed medications.) Perhaps what many like myself see as Peterson’s hateful and divisive nonsense are a product of his mental anguish and drug abuse. Presumably, this self-declared major thinker will at least consider such possibility.
Peterson sought treatment in Russia and then Serbia, of all places, as they are not generally known to be in the forefront of treating substance abuse; there’s never been a convincing explanation for seeking drug rehabilitation treatment in those two countries. In fact, no one has ever seen any proof that Peterson was ever treated, successfully or otherwise. He is now back in his native Canada. where all news about the man and his condition is released only by his daughter, a self-proclaimed nutrition blogger with no medical or health science credentials. Peterson has announced that he is on the mend, and will soon be back in full mode. However, this “diagnosis” must be taken with more than a grain of salt; in 2018, around the time we posted our Peterson piece, he appeared on the Joe Rogan Experience podcast, where he declared that he had been following the carnivorous “paleo” diet favored by many right wing extremists, and announced that he had lost fifty pounds and had seen his lifelong depression cease. (See, “Meatheads: How red meat became the red pill for the right”, by Edward Whelan, The Nation, 06/29/20).
We may never know the truth or anything close about this bizarre interlude in the career of a controversial psychologist-philosopher of the far-right, but certainly, we all hope Mr. Peterson is receiving appropriate treatment from qualified experts in mental health and substance abuse, and that he brings his personal problems under control. Just because we disagree with someone’s views does not mean we discount them as human beings. All we want is for these Peterson and his followers to change the way they think; we’re not going to gain any pleasure from their suffering. If we do, we become just like them.
I’ve always considered Peterson to be on the fringes, quite out of the mainstream, and this recent series of events does nothing to dissuade me. Whatever I may think of Mr. Peterson and his values, I sincerely wish him a speedy and complete recovery, and may he overcome whatever demons possess him.
If you are interested in learning more about this strange turn of events in the life of an already strange person, read “What Happened to Jordan Peterson ” (New Republic, 03/10/18) and “Jordan Peterson says ‘I’m back to my regular self’ after drug dependency” (CTVNews, 0702/20)
MORE ON HISTORICAL FICTION
Naguid Mahfouz
Elizabeth Cobbs
Susan Elia MacNeal
James Baldwin
Keith Richards
James McBrideI recently posted a piece that grappled with the definition of “historical fiction”; turned out I’ve been writing some and didn’t know it. See WHAT MAKES WRITING HISTORICAL FICTION. (And while you’re at it, READ MY MOST RECENT PUBLISHED STORY, “A SHOT IN THE ASS”.
I still have no definitive answer to my own question, but however one defines “historical fiction”, I’ve been reading a lot of it lately. I am comfortable with the working definition my fellow writers at the Tampa Writers Alliance developed when they reviewed my story: the setting is in period at least a generation before us, and mixes real events and people with fictional ones. Knowing writers, there are undoubtedly different opinions. Rather than pontificate on meaningless distinctions or classifications, I thought it wiser to simply tell you about books I’ve recently read and loved, all of which meet the TWA definition. Here are the last seven works of “historical fiction” I’ve read over the past couple of months. These aren’t book reviews; they are a writer talking about work by other writers they respect and admire. I have included in brackets the historical era or subject matter of each novel. I greatly enjoyed every one of these books.
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The Good Lord Bird, by James McBride [Civil War, Abolitionists, Slavery, John Brown’s Raid]. This account of John Brown’s raid on Harpers Ferry is told from the perspective of a hundred year old man recounting how as a young boy, he masqueraded as a girl to escape slavery, and wound up maintaining the charade as a member of Mr. Brown’s army. McBride skillfully portrays the controversial abolitionist as deranged and violent, yet principled and cunning as well as charismatic. His portrayals of some other historical figure, notably Frederick Douglass and Harriet Tubman, are sure to provoke, delight, or confound the reader. The world of this novel is populated by characters of both races who are good, bad, or somewhere in between. It presents slavery from a slave’s perspective, with all the dismal choices that oppressive state afforded. An engrossing tale whose pace, characters and dialogue will hold your attention from beginning to end.
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The Hamilton Affair, by Elizabeth Cobbs. [Revolutionary War, Constitutional Convention, Early Days of the Republic]. Just about everyone knows of the affair between Alexander Hamilton and Maria Reynolds, courtesy of the great Broadway musical. The actual history may be less rhythmic, but is actually more interesting. As a lawyer who dealt with the Constitution on a daily basis, and a college history major who never relinquished love of the discipline, this was a delightful revisit and retelling of the life of this brilliant Founding Father, with of course, special emphasis on the scandalous. Other figures from the Revolution dash through the pages: Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Adams….and Ms. Cobbs makes each come alive as believable humans, not distant mythical figures. Readers will learn American history the easy way while enjoying a fine novel.
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Life, by Keith Richards. [Rock & Roll, Sixties, Counter Culture, Music, Blues]. Okay, this was written “with James Fox” , but it is all Keith all the time. This is the best rock and roll history I’ve ever read. Of course; who knows the rock scene from the sixties on better than this Rolling Stone? If you want to know what life is like for a rock and roll superstar, you’ll find a fair amount of this in the book, but really, Life is about Keith Richards and his music, especially the blues. I’ve always thought of the Stones as a blues band that turned to rock, and this book confirms my view. Keith Richards has been one of the most knowledgable and most proficient blues artists over the past half century plus, and it comes across loud and clear. You’ll learn all about how Keith and Mick hooked up, what role Brian jones played, how does Keith view his fellow Stones and other rock luminaries. For me, as a failed and struggling amateur blues guitarist, Keith’s thoughts on blues, guitars,, and how to appreciate and play the blues, were the best parts of the best rock and roll book I’ve come across. A must read for any serious rock or blues fan, and Stones fans shouldn’t even think of not reading it.
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Mr. Churchill’s Secretary and Princess Elizabeth’s Secretary, by Susan Elia MacNeal. [WWII, Britain, Winston Churchill]. Alright, these are two books, both by a skilled writer of historical fiction, mystery, and suspense. These are the first two novels in a series featuring the brilliant, beautiful and talented Maggie Hope. In the first novel, Mr. Churchill’s Secretary, despite her fine education and obvious intelligence, the only job offered her is as a lowly typist, but as luck would have it, she is assigned to take dictation from the famous Prime Minister. Once inside the War Room, her talents enable her to break open a traitorous plot at great personal danger. This novel was published in 2012 and won the prestigious Edgar in the category of Best First Novel by an American Author, awarded by the Mystery Writers of America. Read it and you’ll see why.
In the second book, Princess Elizabeth’s Spy, Maggie is now a full-fledged agent with MI5, the fabled British intelligence service. She is assigned to protect the future Queen of England, who as we can imagine, was a top target of the Nazis, as the Royal Family inspired hope and courage among their subjects. (Hardly the case today.) Thanks to Maggie’s detective skills, her courage and some luck, both she and the future monarch survive the machinations of the Nazis.
I read these two books, in order, right after returning from a visit to the UK last summer, where I had the great pleasure to spend an afternoon at the Churchill War Room, scene of much of the action in the first book. I am an unabashed admirer of Sir Winston, not blind to his faults, but confident he passes the Great Person Test: was the world a better place because of them? I dread to think of how the world might be today had we not had giants like Winston Churchill (and FDR) as heads of state during WWII. (We se what it is like facing crisis with Boris Johnson and Donald Trump. ) I have read extensively about the man and his life, have listened to as many of his recorded speeches as possible, and have read a small portion of his unbelievable output of history. (I claim it impossible that any one person has read it all.) And of course, I thoroughly enjoyed Dunkirk and The Darkest Hour. In the latter film, Gary Oldham played Sir Winston exactly as I imagine him, based on my studies. Susan Elia MacNeal accomplished the same in her first novel.
Ms. MacNeal captures the feel we expect in war time London. Her characters, real and imagined, breath the breath of real life, and they speak precisely as we imagine British people of that era and of various classes, sounded. I cannot recommend these books enough, whether one is attracted to the history, the mystery, the literary quality, or all three. The good news is there are around a dozen Maggie Hope books, and I’ve only read two!
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Three Novels of Ancient Egypt, by Naguib Mahfouz. [Ancient Egypt] This Egyptian writer, a Nobel Prize winner, is at the top of my list of great modern writers. Most of his novels are set in contemporary times, or close to it, but in these three novellas, the master places the stories in the ages of various Pharaohs. However, this is not a novel for those looking for detailed history or descriptions of life in these ancient times. The characters act and speak exactly as people of today, and their situations and reactions are the same ones people face today. Of course, that’s the whole point. Mr. Mahfouz writes in his native Arabic, but no doubt a writer of this stature has the best translators working on his books. You won’t think of this as a foreign work translated into English, the translation is that good. Nevertheless, I am certain it is even more of a pleasure to be able to read Naguib Mahfouz in Arabic.
Mahfouz skillfully avoids historical details and archeological soundness. There is some historical accuracy, at least in the time periods where the various Pharaohs ruled, but without doubt, the author is instructing us on human behavior, not ancient history. When you are done reading all three novellas, what will come to mind is the old French expression, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” People of today really are not all that different than people who lived three or four thousand years ago. Technology may have changed, but we haven’t.
This novel is not typical of Laureate Mahfouz’s novels and short stories, because of the setting, but it is just as good. If you have never read this Egyptian spellbinder, this is as good a place as any to start.
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Another Country, by James Baldwin. [Mid twentieth century America and New York,; life during the Eisenhower era]. Mr. Baldwin is another of the writers at the top of my list of the greats. I’ve been a fan of his ever since I first read him in college, but I think I was too young to fully appreciate the depth of his insights, or the beauty of his writing style, and besides, a lot of his work was still in the future. I’ve since read (and reread) everything he wrote, often when I am traveling for enjoyment and have plenty free time on my hands. (One of my favorite memories is reading Go Tell It On the Mountain while soaking in a mineral bath at a hot springs outside of Chiang Mai, Thailand.)
Baldwin, like Mahfouz, is a “great” writer; by that I mean just about anyone would agree that the man knows how to use the language in ways we writers strive our entire lives to match. (Except, as English speakers, we read exactly what Baldwin wrote.) That’s okay; I have just praised a slew of books by outstanding and talented writers who are not on the same pedestals as Mahfouz or Baldwin but are still fantastic novelists. There is good literature for everyone. (Remember, some people even like my fiction.)
If you happen to be an artist, especially a musician or singer, writer, actor, or on the business side, this book is for you. Every artist will feel the self-doubt, the fear, the joy when something goes right, the support but also envy and competitive nature of fellow artists. As with other masters, Baldwin raises multiple issues and weaves them tightly together. Race, sexual orientation, class, love, hate, support and betrayal blend seamlessly with the struggles of singers, writers, actors, and people caught in relationships that harm them but they don’t know how to resolve or escape.
Another Country is a look at America-specifically New York City- in the nineteen fifties. Baldwin tackles controversial issues which most Americans did not wish to address, or didn’t know how. Baldwin’s characters face the racism inherent in American society, with much racism mandated by law or at least societal pressure back then, especially in inter-racial relationships. He confronts the reality of being gay in a very repressive society. He instructs us that the dynamics of a same-sex relationship are the same as in a heterosexual one, except that same-sex couples faced specific unconscionable bigotry and oppression in those days. Sexual orientation, race, marital status, are delicately woven into the tale of artists struggling to succeed in their art while at the same time struggling with societal and personal demons. Suicide, domestic violence, mental illness, writers block, all rear their heads. This is not a pleasant story, nor is it meant to be. Baldwin was a writer who could provoke, and enjoyed doing so. His readers, for the most part, want to be provoked to think about the world we live in and how we fit in. Some consider this to be his masterpiece; I like so many of his novels that I could never choose one above all others. What I can say is that anyone who reads Another Country will almost surely read more Baldwin, and more power to those readers!
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Robert Hunter, the brilliant lyricist for the Grateful Dead, wrote one of his beautiful lines in Ripple: “If you want to lead, you must first learn to follow…” (On the 1970 album American Beauty.)
I’m sure the late Mr. Hunter would agree that if you want to write, you must first learn to read. So now we see what this writer has been reading. It does not matter what “genre’ one reads, because it is rare that a novel sticks with but one. (Mysteries can have romance, sic-fi can have suspense, suspense can have great literary qualities, any genre can produce great characters, dialogue or plot. In “historical fiction”, there may be specific time period, but the way that people act, speak and think is the same in every period. That’s what we learn from all good fiction, historical or other, and every one of the novels I discussed above meet these standards. I wouldn’t recommend them if they did not!
If you are not a writer, you have even more time to read!
Enjoy!
June 30, 2020
WHAT WILL IT TAKE TO CONVINCE THE HOLDOUTS THAT TRUMP IS A RACIST?
How is it possible there are still those who deny Trump is a racist? How many times can someone propagate hateful messages, before it is clear they are not mistakes?
Retweeting neo-Nazi propaganda (HRC dripping with dollar signs and Jewish stars), calling white supremacists and neo-Nazis “really fine people” (Charlottesville and recent armed takeovers of state capitols), advancing classic antisemitic tropes like sending out memes with four Jewish economists and financiers, alleging world domination (he included Janet Yellin and Robert Rubin), spreading the antisemitic lie that George Soros and Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society were smuggling in criminals and terrorists (this was cited by the neo-Nazi who murdered eleven Jews at prayer in Pittsburg, and even after Dr. Fiona Hill explained this and asked Trump to stop, he continued), telling legislators who are women of color and all U.S. citizens (three born here) to “go back where they came from”, posting a Nazi symbol in a campaign ad last week, waving a Confederate flag the week before, now boasting that his supporters are white supremacists…..what more will it take to wake up these fools who can’t see that the President of the United States is a gutter level racist, and a man who sympathizes with neo-Nazis and white supremacists?
Anyone who still supports him is enabling racism. I do notice that the virulent Trumpies who use to leap to Trump’s defense, no matter how absurd, have suddenly gone radio silent. Maybe they have seen the light or are just too ashamed. I certainly hope they haven’t harmed themselves with hydroxychloriquine or bleach!
#BlackLivesMatter #VoteBlue4Ever #RejectRepublicanRacism #Biden2020
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