Marilyn Monroe vs. Laurence Olivier: A Steel Cage Match

Shocking revelation I just learned online!!

Sir Laurence Olivier–one of the most highly regarded actors and directors of our time–found working with Marilyn Monroe on “The Prince and the Showgirl” to be excruciating. The guy who has four Oscars (two honorary, two for Hamlet) also directed the film and was frequently purple-faced with rage, since Ms. Monroe was always late, never knew her lines, and acted like she had no idea what she was doing.

Granted, Olivier is considered possibly the greatest Shakespearean actor of the Twentieth Century, whereas Ms. Monroe might have heard of Shakespeare at some point (probably confusing The Bard with Spencer Tracy). Indeed, one of the highest honors in the storied British theater world is now called “The Olivier” in his honor.

Then again, Andy Warhol never made iconic art containing Olivier’s face. To my knowledge, nobody has an image of Olivier portrayed on their body–not his face, his signature, or any iconic picture of a subway grate blowing wind up his trouser legs and blasting his genitals.

Without a doubt, Olivier is a once-in-a-lifetime actor, with boundless talent and an incredible work ethic, while Marilyn’s finest acting was probably making third husband Arthur Miller think he’d actually made her cum (her acting was so erratic, though, that she might have acted the big O while the couple did dishes or gardened or something). Olivier was an actor’s actor, one whose work contemporary stage geniuses like Kenneth Branagh or Chiwetel Ejiofor study and try to emulate. Marilyn Monroe?
I can’t imagine a serious actress alive who’d try to copy the Monroevian acting technique (which seemed to be breathless lines, giggles, and conical boobs). Sure, MM hit the occasional cinematic home run, typically in comedies–Seven Year Itch? Some Like it Hot? Bloody brilliant–but again, if you’re looking for an actress role model? Meryl Streep would be a good place to start, or pick a Hepburn, either Hepburn.

Which brings me to the point. Nobody cares that Olivier couldn’t stand working with Marilyn Monroe. Nobody who’s not a film nerd or, especially, a theater geek will remember Sir Laurence on the 100th anniversary of his death. On August 5, 2062, I guarantee there will be news reports, retrospectives, etc, all noting Marilyn Monroe’s legendary, enduring status. In 2062, there will probably still be women getting various Marilyn tattoos on their various parts, even if they’ve never seen her movies.
In college, I took a course called “Shakespeare’s Later Plays” for my major. These included many of his most celebrated tragedies, and it taught me one thing, if nothing else. Ye gods, it must be nigh-on impossible to memorize and perform one of those damned plays. The dialogue and soliloquies flowed off the tongue as naturally as…well, something that doesn’t flow naturally off of the tongue, like epoxy or roofing nails or something. Brilliant plays, and beautiful language, but how do you manage to get those words out without sounding like you have a huge stick up your ass?
Olivier did. Indeed, one English playwright noted that Laurence Olivier could speak William Shakespeare’s lines as naturally as if he were “actually thinking them.” That’s some skill. Serious skill and talent. AMAZING acting, but I doubt anyone (except Turner Classic Movies, if they’re still around) will have a big retrospective July 11, 2089. (If they do, I imagine they’ll note the pinnacle of his career not as his King Lear, Henry V, or Hamlet, but when he worked with Marilyn Monroe in “The Prince and the Showgirl”)

There are legends, and then there are those for whom “legend” is not a sufficiently large word. You’d need something like “super-legend,” or “ultra-legend,” or “Immortal.”

Sir Laurence Olivier was a true legend. As an actor, he had few people even approaching his level, like Secretariat, only slower and not as well-hung. He was simply that good.

But Marilyn Monroe is a super-ultra-legend, a true Immortal. There is not a performance she ever gave on screen that some other actress couldn’t have done better, technically speaking. She had that dreadful baby-girl voice, and she always came of as kind of addled to me. Yet she had something Olivier–for all his gravitas and talent–never had.

She had star-power.

Olivier was a legendary actor, winning awards for stage, screen, and television. He was a legend.

But Marilyn was a star. No. Marilyn IS a star. She’s been dead nearly fifty-four years, but nobody pops to my mind who has replaced her as being the ultimate movie star. Oh, there have been scads of better actresses, more beautiful women, etc., but they were merely good actresses and pretty women.

Eva Marie Saint, for example, gave one of my all-time favorite performances in Alfred Hitchcock’s 1959 classic, “North by Northwest.” Her character was smart and very sexually forward (for 1959, especially), and she showed more acting ability there than Marilyn ever did. Eva Marie Saint won the Supporting Actress Oscar for playing opposite Marlon Brando in “On the Waterfront.” These are two amazing performances, two of the best ever, but I can’t imagine anyone reading this and thinking, “Oh yeah!! Eva Marie Saint! Now SHE was a movie star!”

She wasn’t. Marilyn Monroe is a movie star.

Marilyn Monroe is THE movie star.

As I watched this silly Top Ten Movie Couples Who Truly Loathed Each Other thing on YouTube, I was mildly surprised by some of them. Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey in “Dirty Dancing”? Okay. Hmm. Weird. Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes in “Romeo and Juliet”? It was funny how they described their dislike: Claire thought Leo wasn’t serious enough when they weren’t shooting—he was joking around with the crew, etc.—while Leo found Claire to be priggish and uptight. I get that. Richard Gere and Debra Winger in “An Officer and a Gentleman”? Hardly a surprise: two great actors, with egos as big as their careers were at the time.

But when the countdown hit Sir Laurence and Marilyn, I laughed my ass off. “Of freakin’ COURSE they didn’t like each other!! He’s possibly the greatest stage and screen actor of last century, and she has all of the acting skill you’d expect from the 1947 Miss California Artichoke Queen!” (To be fair, Olivier was knighted by the Queen of England, but he was never an Artichoke Queen, or King, or Jack, or whatever the male equivalent is when dealing with artichokean honors)

Levity aside, Marilyn Monroe had one thing working for her that other glamorous stars of her age never did. I had a film professor say once—and while I understood what he meant when he said it, I could really only really grasp the truth years later (like now!)—that the absolute best thing James Dean ever did as an actor was die in a spectacular car crash at age twenty-four. Harsh? Cold? Yes, undoubtedly,

But think about how amazingly sexy and vibrant Marlon Brando was in “Streetcar Named Desire” and “On the Waterfront.” He held-up fairly well through middle age, I guess—at least in “Last Tango in Paris”—but he became a bloated parody of himself toward the end of his life. Elizabeth Taylor—considered one of the most beautiful women of her age—aged horribly before our shocked eyes. We saw her grow old and frail, her body shot from drugs and alcohol. She kept the Betty Ford Clinic in business for years, and we saw her being pushed around in a wheelchair, such a far cry from the young, beautiful girl who’d ridden horses so gracefully in “National Velvet,” and who had such beauty and chemistry opposite Rock Hudson in “Giant,” alongside James Dean.

Rock Hudson ended up wasting away from AIDS, and Elizabeth Taylor had this slow, sad spiral toward the inevitable old lady’s death.

But James Dean never got old. Oh, they aged him (badly) with makeup on “Giant,” but that was just a movie role. When “Rebel Without a Cause” came out, that’s the image forever cemented in our minds of James Dean. Young and handsome, not sure where he was headed yet, but crackling with energy and Zeitgeist. It’s different for men, too. Olivier grew old gracefully, dignified, not like Elizabeth Taylor.

Like James Dean, Marilyn Monroe never grew old. She was thirty-six when she OD’d, and yeah, she had lost some of her wattage. The drugs and stress were taking their toll on her, but in the end, it didn’t matter. We never had to witness her aging. Or dying an old woman’s death.

Their legacies are the point here. Nobody will ever be able to take anything away from Sir Laurence Olivier. Nobody can say he didn’t deserve his accolades and his sterling reputation. His body of work speaks for itself. He had natural gifts, but he also worked amazingly hard. He made perfection look easy, even if it wasn’t always, and the roles he made look so easy were some of the most difficult ever in the English language.

If there is a Hell, it would probably be having to watch Marilyn Monroe play Lady MacBeth. (To be fair, on the other screen in Hell would be Lord Olivier playing the Tony Curtis role in “Some Like it Hot”)

But God, what a movie star. I just tried to think of an equivalent movie star, and I couldn’t. She made thirty films—that’s it. Thirty. In the first four months of 2016, I’ve seen three films with Robert DeNiro. A third of a year, and that was 10% of Marilyn’s entire output. And most of her work was forgettable. She wasn’t like Harrison Ford, where every film is an epic.

But for sheer movie stardom? She’s the one whose candle really won’t blow out, despite the lyrics to “Candle in the Wind.” “Your candle burned out long before, your legend never did.”

That candle will stay alight forever. Unless and until some miraculous confluence of events occurs, the candle that burns representing Marilyn Monroe’s untouchable stardom will never be snuffed out. The legend, of course, will be never-ending. There will always be framed posters, and expensive, beautifully rendered tattoos.

Really, the latter seems most fitting of all. Marilyn’s immortality is forever emblazoned on our psyche, that it’s not a big stretch to have her immortal image forever inked into our skins.

When Laurence Olivier died, I remember the People Magazine cover, because it had the most perfect headline: Good Night, Sweet Prince. It’s from Hamlet, Act V Scene 2: “Good night sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

As perfect as that headline was for Olivier, all of “Candle in the Wind” is the perfect tribute to Marilyn..Bernie Taupin and Elton John’s composition is one of the best pop ballads ever. As much as it’s a fitting tribute to Marilyn Monroe, my favorite line is the very first. “Goodbye Norma Jean…”

Norma Jean—or whatever tiny shards remained of her—SHE died in 1962. Norma Jean was the 1947 Miss California Artichoke Queen. What she became, this huge force of nature—Marilyn Monroe? She will never die. She will never age. She will never fall to pieces. She will always sparkle.

And regardless of Laurence Olivier’s opinion of her, she will always be the brightest star in the Hollywood sky.

On Football, Fashion, and the Glorious Magic of Being Young: A 1000 Word Comment on a Five Word Post

My friend, Alicia, made the following post on Facebook tonight:

Alicia S. shared Steamed’s photo.

5 hrs · 

Wow. This is beautiful

 

I felt compelled to comment. I kind of lost control. What was essentially supposed to be a simple, “Damn, hon. That really IS gorgeous :-)” ended up taking me on a journey I hadn’t anticipated. The comment:

Tom S: Truly beautiful! The model’s figure doesn’t hurt, of course, but that is a gorgeous design.

When I was at FSU, I dated a Fashion Design major. She was a little nuts, granted–okay, so was I–but I’ve never seen anyone that amazingly talented. She used to cash-in around formal time, creating gowns for some of the sorority girls–all of the gowns were beautiful, and they were all her own design. She could have charged a whole lot more than she did, but she loved doing it. A gorgeous, custom designed gown for $50 or $75 and the price of supplies? That’s a steal.

I used to stop by her apartment (two doors down from mine) and say good morning before I walked up the long hill for my ninety minute German class (Neunzig Minuten Deutschunterricht–I didn’t forget EVERYTHING from college. Hah!). It was about a fifteen minute walk each way from our complex to the Diffenbaugh Building.. During the time between when I left her, and when I stopped back by, she’d have made some sort of cute outfit for herself. She was hugely gifted.

Anyway, the point is that she’d see some sort of beautiful dress or outfit or other sort of garment, and she’d take it as a personal challenge to duplicate or improve upon it. That’s the first thing I thought of seeing this dress: the LR-HG (Little Red-Haired Girl) would loooove to take a swing at it! I bet she could probably come damned close to nailing it, too. I can see her now, dragging me to Cloth World in Governor’s Square Mall–all the ladies at Cloth World knew me, which was kind of cool and embarrassing at the same time. The proper color and type of fabric in hand, we’d road trip over to Panama City Beach, and hit one of the tourist trap stores so she could find the right shells.

Anytime we went to PCB, she insisted on stopping at this one particular biker bar. It was cool and dark and sleazy, a nice change from the hot and bright and tacky world outside. We’d drink a few gloriously cold Bud longnecks, and shoot a few games of pool. She’d kick my ass, then we’d drive back to Tally.

Back to the dress, I’m not sure how, but I know she’d find a way to create the netting on her own. And when she finished working her magic, the dress would be divine. Probably not as perfect as this creation, but better than anything anyone else in Tallahassee had. I’m not sure who she’d get to model it, though. She had a nice figure, and all–kind of a tomboy, appropriately –but, being a natural redhead, she was one of the few people around paler than I was. Watching her get obsessed with this dress, then becoming personally vested in her obsession to make it perfect…that was the kind of adventure I really miss now.

I guess in college, you think life will always be like that, that even years later when you’re adulting, things will be the same. I mean, taking fifteen hours each semester is the same as working forty hours a week, right?

Yeah, right. Her folks covered her bills–this was before tuition skyrocketed. I supplemented what my parents kicked-in by working Midnight to 6am at the #1 radio station in the market. This was my dream job, which turned into a dream career, for a couple decades anyway. I loved sitting at her table on a hot summer evening, reading an assignment for one Lit class or another, and watching her work. She used to love coming up to the radio station in the middle of the night, watching me do my thing. She couldn’t believe I was actually an honest-to-God announcer. To be honest, I couldn’t either.

My favorite thing of all was watching football with her. She had this gigantic 1980’s console TV that weighed about a thousand pounds. We’d order a pizza, crack a couple beers, and sit on her living room floor. I don’t know how she learned it all, but the LR-HG had probably forgotten five times as much about football as I’ve ever known.

The teams would line up for a play, and I’d see two teams lined up for a play.

She, however would shake her head ruefully. “See what they’re doing wrong? The offense is in the slot-left formation, but the defense is in the Delta five zone, with three DB’s on flex-coverage widget patrol.”

“What does that even mean, hon?”

She’d sigh. “It means the weak-side linebacker will intercept the pass, and probably return it at least five yards deep into the red zone before the QB can run him down. But with the QB coming off that pulled hamstring two weeks ago, he’ll be favoring that leg, and push off with his left foot, which will screw-up his angle of attack, and he’ll separate his left shoulder. That isn’t his throwing shoulder, granted, but it’ll still sideline him for two weeks. Why? What do you think will happen?”

“Um, the really big man in the middle will hike the ball to the rich guy, who will probably hand it off to one of the small, fast guys behind him, and he–”

“Honey, IT’S A PASSING DOWN!! You think they’ll run up the middle on third-and-eight? I love you, but are you nuts?”

Guess how the play would pan out. Sure as shit. Returned to the fourteen yard line, six yards deep into the red zone.

In the end, though, I prevailed! It would end up taking the poor quarterback’s separated left shoulder THREE weeks to heal. HAH! I showed her!

Ah, hell. Now I wonder where she is, and what she’s doing. I haven’t seen or heard from her since we broke up senior year, back in 19…um, 2008? (Reagan was still in the White House in 2008, right?)

Anyway, I’m sorry this is so long. But your post sparked a whole bunch of memories, a sense of how much we used to enjoy even the simplest things before real life left us jaded, waiting for something like this to brush away the cobwebs so we can remember vividly, and maybe–just for a few minutes–feel that magic again.

Have a good night, Alicia. Thank you, and you’re right—that truly is beautiful.

Reading, Writing, and Being Blocked

Most anyone who’s tried to write has experienced writer’s block. Whether it’s a brief college paper or a full-length novel, you sit there, staring at a blank screen, the cursor blinking at you almost mockingly.

I’ve discovered something equally nefarious in my life: reader’s block.

For the past few years, I’ve suffered from severe bi-polar disorder. One of the more difficult symptoms for me has been lack of concentration. Sadly, with this lack of concentration has come the inability to focus long enough to read a novel. Hell, sometimes I can barely get through a magazine article, much less a 300 page book.

We heal, though, and with the help of various medications, I’ve gotten my focus back.

I can’t tell you how liberating it has been to start a book, then actually read it through to the end. Even better, to read, then be able to write a cogent review for Goodreads or my book blog (BooksAndMoviesAndCrap.com)—sheer bliss.

My book-blogging Maven went through a period of reader’s block a while back. She devours a book a day, and she hit a wall, too, so I don’t feel bad.

Where I feel bad is that it was almost six months between book reviews—I hadn’t posted anything this year. I may as well have just shut down my blog altogether.

Happily, the reader’s block has been lifted, at least for now. The fog has cleared, and I’m once more free and able to participate in one of my greatest pleasures: reading.

As a book blogger, I have a bunch of review copies, both in my Kindle and stacked on my desk. To some, plowing through them would seem like a daunting chore. To me, it’s a challenge of love. I want to read and review them, and finally, I am able.

I’ve always taken reading for granted, all the way back to when I was nine and devouring a Hardy Boys mystery every day. I’ll never take it for granted again.

The reader’s block has been intermittent, retreating and attacking over the past three years. This past bout was the longest and worst yet. I’m hoping it’s been vanquished once and for all. In the meantime, I plan to spend my free time with my nose in a book (or staring at my Kindle screen).

Reading has always been my friend. Girlfriends have come and gone, and I’ve had close friends leave my life so thoroughly that I can neither recall their names nor visualize their faces. But books have been steady companions. Sometimes, I’ll see a title somewhere in my blog or on Goodreads, and I won’t remember what the book is about. Once I read the first few sentences of the review, the whole story comes back to me, as rich and real as it was the first time. My real-life memory should be so acute.

I guess this is just a paean to my love of reading, and my lament that it left me for so long. Be the Gods of Literacy willing, this will never happen again.

I’ve also neglected both of my blogs. With the lack of focus came the inability to write anything longer than a lame-ass Facebook status, or the occasional pithy comment. I promise I’ll use some of this renewed focus to do more than drabble out some nonsense every few months. I used to be a reasonably good blogger—at least, I was reasonably frequent. Lately, I’ve had nothing. Here’s hoping that, too, can change going forward.

Anyway. Thanks for taking the time to read this. And thanks for your patience. I plan to be back doing what I love to do, and doing it anon. Happy Wednesday.

Focus: 2014 to 2015

It’s the end of another year, and bloggers everywhere are writing their “2014 Year in Review” posts, or “What I’m Fitna Do in 2015” posts. Most of theirs will be better than mine.

One big goal for 2015 is to stop neglecting this blog. I have my book blog, and–while I haven’t read that much this year–I’ve kept up with that better than this one. I feel bad for this blog. Seriously. It has provided so much fun and support–and some awesome readers–going back to the good old Vox days. I started this thing in 2007, and really started taking it seriously that year when I was literally almost dead in the hospital. I miss this blog; I miss having snark, or making batches of Mental Chex Mix.

The fact is, my brain’s been broken for the past couple years, so I haven’t had much game, writing-wise, especially purveying quality snark.

So one good thing that’s happened in 2014 is that my brain has healed for the most part. I’m bored, quite honestly. Boredom is a good thing, for it means I need more stimulation. I’ve volunteered at a couple places, and I wish there were more hours available, just to keep me busier. I still take a goodly number of meds, but Dr. Ricardo Montalban and I seem to have hit the winning combination.

Okay, my psychiatrist isn’t really Ricardo Montalban. This is fortunate, for the State of Florida requires all practicing physicians to have medical training and a valid medical license. Also, physicians must have a pulse. God rest him, the actual Ricardo Montalban sailed off to his own Fantasy Island nearly six years ago.

Suave as hell, but not a psychiatrist.

Nonetheless, I’m sure he would have been an excellent psychiatrist.

No, my actual -iatrist (as opposed to the -ologist) sounds exactly like Ricardo Montalban, which is amazingly reassuring, especially when he’s writing large Valium prescriptions for me.

So Doctor not-Montalban and I have done good work the past nearly three years since my mind blew up, and I’m finally feeling bored, like I’m ready to move back into my life.

Last time I saw him, incidentally, I was having trouble maintaining focus on tasks. This was in October. He promised that the focus would come back on its own, and that I’d be as good as new focus-wise, sort of like after the astronauts fixed the Hubble, and it went from being fuzzy to clear:

Pre-repair Hubble Image

Hubble Image Post-Repair

Sorry. I lost focus and got silly for a moment.

Anyway, in November, I participated in NaNoWriMo, where one is compelled to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. I passed 50K in twenty days, and finished my 54,000 word manuscript in twenty-four.

That was a wee dram of focus, as one of Darby Karchut’s Irish characters would say (nb: I don’t think focus is measured in drams, but it seems as good as any other unit of measure (I refuse to consider a cubit, deciliter, or dodecahedron as a unit of character (especially since a dodecahedron isn’t even a unit of measurement, but a geometric construct (you could presumably have a dodecahedron measuring one cubit in diameter, or perhaps a dram of dodecahedrons (holy shit, I’ve lost my original point somewhere in a mire of nested parentheticals (good thing I’m a master of nested parentheticals, or I could be lost in here forever (maybe the Hubble would have to be used to find me (okay, this silliness has gone on long enough, so I must attempt my nested parenthetical dismount (here goes nothing))))))))).

Whew. I stuck the dismount. Here it is again in slow motion, just in case you missed it: )  )  )  )  )  )  )  )  )

So I finished this 54,000 word manuscript, revised the piss out of it as much as possible (not that there was any actual piss in it), and submitted it to a publisher during an open submissions period. This is where they accept manuscripts from those of us poor souls who have no agents. Happily, my manuscript made it past round one without being voted off the island. And yes, I meant it that way: my manuscript was happy not to have been willed to the cornfield, where its existence would remain uncertain. The novel has taken on a life of its own, and it wants to take over the world, in its own insidious way.

I swear to you. I was just a pawn, no more responsible for its creation than was John Hurt in “Alien” when the alien crawled out of his abdomen.

Then again, to be perfectly honest, I can’t actually remember the original “Alien.” I’m sure I saw it, but I’m also sure I was really zorched on something, it having been during my college daze. I do know that something crawled out of his abdomen in “Spaceballs,” so that’s what I’m going with.

Anyway, where was I.

Ah. So, the novel made it to round two, where it joins a bunch of other novels to be poked, prodded, biopsied, hammered with mallets (hammered with mullets too, for that matter), and otherwise evaluated by a large group of readers. If they like it, it goes on to Final Jeopardy, or whatever it’s called.

Anyway again, where was I.

Ah! 2014.

So my brain focus issue seems to have been repaired, since there’s no way I could’ve written 50,000+ words about a single, non-Casablanca subject without having laseresque focusing ability.

Also in 2014, I quit smoking (finally), and I lost a lot of weight (also finally). Which brings us to 2015…

I’m not one for making huge lists of New Year’s Resolutions ™ (I mean, if “Happy Birthday to You” is copyrighted, I’m sure somebody owns “New Year’s Resolutions, LLC”). Typically, I resolve to do things I already don’t do. For example, I’ll resolve to quit participating in Iron Man triathlons, eating raw yams, and shooting heroin between my toes. That sort of thing.

For 2015, there are actually a few things I want to do.

First off, continue to lose weight. I shall do this by eliminating unnecessary carbs from my diet, and exercising.

Oh! I got a Fitbit Surge Wrist Alien for Christmas. This is basically a prisoner tracking device you wear, and it scolds you for insufficient walking, eating too much, sleeping for shit, or not drinking enough gin. I mean water. (Sorry. I lost focus momentarily) One thing that got me through NaNoWriMo was all the bar graphs, pie charts, and statistical data available on my dashboard. I mean, there it was, staring me in the face every afternoon when I sat down to write, so I had my target to shoot for every day, lest I incur the wrath of the pie charts.

The irony of the Fitbit’s pie charts is that I won’t be able to eat actual pie if I want the pie chart to look ever in my favor. Truth be told–and who ever prevaricates in their blog?–I don’t ever seek out pie. HOWEVER, if there’s a pie in the house, I feel it’s my responsibility to remove as much temptation as possible from my home’s other residents. It’s a family service kind of thing, this pie eating.

Second, I need to find a new job. This working from home/running my own crappy internet business thing isn’t working, so it’s time to go work for somebody else. I’ve worked for somebodys else since I was fourteen, so this shouldn’t be an issue, provided I can find a good job opportunity and slam-dunk the interview.

Third, I need to buy pants that fit, before I actually attend a job interview. My current ones could fit me and an Olsen twin inside them. (This would look odd, and make walking in a reasonably non-drunken-looking state nigh on impossible (slam-dunking an interview with an Olsen twin in your pants is definitely out, though probably entertaining for the interviewer and me alike))

Fourth, more exercise. I know this falls as a codicil to “First off,” but I need to walk more. Meaning outside walking, not just walking to the fridge and back. The Fitbit Wrist Alien insists upon this additional activity, so I may find myself powerless to resist, lest it smite me. (Fear of smiting is a great motivator for me)

Fifth, read more books, and write more reviews. In 2013, I read over 160 books–not Kelly-level at all, but still pretty good. I read books, posted reviews on Goodreads, Amazon, my book and movie blog (booksandmoviesandcrap.com). Some reviews even made their way on to various bathroom walls, but only high-falutin bathrooms, like the ones at movie theaters and Sunoco stations. This year? I’ve maybe read thirty books, if that. Not good.

Sixth, write more in here, Dispatches from The Tom Zone. I need to use my acerbicity (and make up new words), and essentially try to make my writing sharp again. It’s been a long time since I blogged with any frequency, and 2014 was pathetic. I shall endeavor to be more attentive to the blog, as well as my tens of readers.

Seventh, I will try to stop ripping off Kelly (i.e., “…my tens of readers”). This is because it’s not right to copy from Kelly. It’s also because Kelly would either kneecap me or machete me if I piss her off too bad.

Kelly’s Machete

 

So that’s it, basically. That’s my brief 2014 recap (vs. kneecap), and my plan for 2015. Thanks for bearing with me all these relatively dark and silent months. I hope we’ll have more fun next year.

Wherever you are, I hope you have a safe and happy New Year’s Eve–remember, it’s Amateur Night on the roads–and that your 2015 contains all the best things in The Universe (including pie–you can have my share). Happy New Year.

Oh. One more resolution:

Number Eight, know when to wrap up a blog post.

And that time is now.

 

 

A Halloween Reply to My Friend Kara

Kara: Like an Oreo, our beginning and our end is a sure thing. It’s all the crap in the middle that trips us up.

You got that right, Muggle. That’s where all the great and terrible things happen.

Most things that happen, though, are routine and mundane, safe, not dangerous.

Mr. Ollivander in the first Harry Potter novel was talking about Voldemort. “He has done some great things. Terrible, but great.”

I bet most days, Voldemort doesn’t do bad stuff

He probably wakes up, shaves whatever parts of his face grow hair, if any, takes a shower, and puts on his robes.

I bet he makes breakfast, or maybe has a minion-maid cook it for him, then reads The Daily Prophet, and probably the Daily Mail or The Guardian, just for muggle-based amusement.

Maybe he has a squash court in his mansion, and he has friend/minions over to play. Maybe he drinks a few beers after. Maybe there’s a Death Eater Country Club, and he’ll go play 18 holes before having a club sandwich and a Sapphire and soda for lunch.

Maybe Voldemort doesn’t fly everywhere. Maybe he has a Lamborghini Countach he runs up to 175 on the freeway home.

Maybe being evil is just a part-time thing for him, or a work-from-home business.

You can’t tell me the guy does evil stuff 24/7/365. I mean, even with horcruxes, you’d wear yourself out.

But all Harry Potter seems to do is scheme and plot against Voldemort. I’m not defending Voldemort, of course–the guy is evil, as we know. I just think he lives a normal life, puts in a few hours of work being evil, and kicks Lucius Malfoy’s ass in chess during the afternoons.

Voldemort is like the owner of Evil.

He delegates most tasks to his underlings, and saves the really big stuff for himself. I mean, he wasn’t at the big Death Eater rally at the Quidditch World Cup.

Granted, he was too weak at the time, but the job got done, and the non-Death Eaters were scared out of their wits.

Once he got his body back, he could’ve killed Harry Potter any time he wanted. Potter’s walking to Hogsmeade on a Saturday afternoon, Voldemort swoops in, and BLAM. Before you can say “EXPELLIARMUS,” Harry Potter is dead.

He wouldn’t have bothered with Ron Weasley, but Hermione–being a mudblood (pardon my vernacular)–would be toasted.

Then Voldemort could fly back to the Death Eaters Golf & Country Club in time for his eleven o’clock tee time

I think we’re not our true selves every minute of every day, no matter how much it seems like we are.

When I start National Novel Writing Month tomorrow, I’ll be somewhere other than where I usually would be–killing time..reading a book, or something else.

I don’t know who or what I really am, sometimes, but I know what’s real and what’s unreal in my soul.

I don’t always listen, of course, just like Voldemort should’ve smited Harry Potter long before their ultimate showdown–let’s face it; Harry Potter is an idiot without Hermione.

And what does Hermione think? “Oh, for the love of God! What’s WRONG with these idiots? Why am I dragging them through Hogwartts? Why can’t they do their own homework, and get O’s like I do??”

And why doesn’t she help Seamus Finnegan, and the other Gryffindors? Only Potter and Weasley.

What’s inside Hermione’s soul? Inside her heart?

She didn’t always like Ron Weasley. I don’t know when that started, but she was definitely a little hooked by Goblet of Fire, and positively homicidal by Half-Blood Prince.

How did she put up with Harry’s whining in Order of the Phoenix? How did anyone? Did it ever occur to anyone that Harry Potter–while being “The Boy Who Lived”–was a simpering twat?

The kid couldn’t do anything without people helping him. What if he’d failed in the end? He nearly did. He died, until Dumbledore sent him back.

All those people would have died for nothing. And if Voldemort ruled over all the wizarding world, why would anyone have to worry? They’d be fine, as long as they toed the line.

Germany was fine under Hitler until he started WW2 in 1938 (Unless you were Jewish, of course). Well, except for the SS & Gestapo occasionally screwing around with families, sort of like Death Eaters.

Hitler created jobs, got the economy moving, stamped out hunger, reinstated a sense of pride–he did great things.

But, like Ollivander said, “Terrible, but great.” That’s how he turned out.

It’s no secret that the Harry Potter books so closely resemble the Nazis rise to power.

And Mudbloods would be the equivalent of Jews in Hitler’s Germany. If you were even part-Jewish, you were looked down upon. It’s like in Potterland: if you were pure-blood magic, you were fine. If you were half-blood, you were suspect. If you were a mudblood, God help you, for you’d be persecuted by the Malfoys, Crabbes, and Goyles of the magic world. You could try to fight back, but they’d have you outnumbered, and you couldn’t stand a chance.

And thus, I have to write a novel in November. Writing starts on November first, which is 142 minutes from now. I spent my entire Friday creating an outline, chapter by chapter, fleshing out characters, doing all the prepwork, the equivalent of dicing the celery and mincing the onions before you cook stuff.

It will be about a high school girl who summons a vengeance demon, who just happens to be her next-door neighbor and BFF’s dad.

He wreaks vengeance on people who do her wrong, smites a kid, then she pushes things a little too far, and she gets the vengeance hammer herself.

I have it all sketched out. Now all I have to do is write 50,000 words in November, and I’ll be set.

If I apply myself, I can do it in way less time than that–or write more, if it needs it–but it’s still 1667 words a day for thirty days. For non-fiction (or long, rambling PM’s ) that’s nothing.

For writing original fiction, that’s a bit more daunting.

I’ve written a bunch of stuff centered around Casablanca on my blog, and that was fun to do. I could probably write 50,000 words about my Casablanca (which overlaps the film, of course) with relative ease.

Creating something new out of whole cloth…that will be scary.

But I’ll wake up, make a pot of coffee, pop a nicotine lozenge in my mouth, and sit down at my workspace (my b/w cover photo is my workspace), and at least stare at the big monitor.

Oh, I quit smoking. Ergo, the nicotine lozenge. A few of those a day, and I’m good.

And thus, I shall join millions of people all over the world, all trying to write a novel in November.

Each of us is different–different lives, jobs, different religions and customs, different souls–but for a few hours a day, we’ll all be doing the same thing.

Banging out words that probably nobody will ever read.

If you ever read this far, God bless you. I know you’re tired as hell, and sore, and probably drained from Hallowe’en.

I don’t know why I went off on a tangent like that. Oh. The Oreo analogy you made: We’re born, and we die. All the rest of the shit that happens is the cream smooshed in between.

That, and I was just wondering what Voldemort would’ve gone as for Halloween.

Love you, Muggle,

t

(PS: This is my 950th post in Dispatches from The Tom Zone. Thanks for reading, both the good ones and the crap. Just…thanks)

Aja, 2004

Back in 2003, or thereabouts, I got a new neighbor in the apartment across the breezeway from me. Her name was Aja. I first met her when I was coming home from doing mid-days, and she was coming back from the swimming pool. Some women like to use cover-ups when they walk back from swimming, but not Aja. Good Lord, why would she? She had a flat tummy, long legs, large natural breasts, and a lovely face.

She was friendly, too. Every time I saw her, she said, “Hi, Tom,” and I  was somehow ensorcelled that she remembered my name. Many times, I saw her come back from the pool, all healthy pulchritude and youth.

And every time I wondered at the tattoos on her body. Covering her beautiful skin were tattoos that were violent, with sharp corners, horrible shapes, almost like she was punishing herself.

I know a lot of women with tattoos, and some of them are lovely–some truly beautiful. Sometimes it’s a lover’s name tattooed in a heart, or children’s names, or a Chinese symbol the tattooed woman thinks means “power,” but really means “common prostitute,” or “beef lo mein.” (nb: this really happens a lot, so be careful, kids)

But Aja’s tattoo’s reflected self-hatred to me, like she saw her beauty, and wanted it destroyed, wanted to disfigure herself.

Aja was a waitress at Applebee’s. I know this because I found one of those little book things they write your order in lying next to her car, wrapped in an Applebee’s apron. I knocked on her door, but there was no reply, so I just left it on her doorstep. I hope she didn’t get into trouble.

In 2004, I was involved in a heavy program of drinking bourbon. I was working nights, seven till midnight, and as soon as I got off work, I was off to the liquor store. I tried to drink Evan Williams as much as possible, but when my funds were low, so went my taste. If I got a bonus? Hooray! Barrel proof hand-crafted! But Evan Williams was my go-to, because it was good-enough, and it didn’t cost that much.

Once I got home, I’d log on to the computer, and write my best friend a letter. I’d write on the same letter for months. One he got was 110 pages long. He swears he read it all. (If so? Dude, I apologize.)

After I became too drunk to type anymore, and Van Morrison’s “A Night in San Francisco” had finished for the night, I’d turn on MY guitar. I had a 1950’s remake Fender Stratocaster, that I ultimately had to pawn to pay rent or buy more bourbon, one. I also had a little ten-watt practice amp. So what I’d do is play a bunch of rock music with one cup of my Sony MDR-7506 headphones over my right ear, and listen–fairly loudly–to the music coming out of my amp. I was okay–neither great nor bad–but I could get crunchy metal out of that amp, or the warmest tones you’d ever want to hear.

The bottom line is that I was essentially immune to any outside noise, and God help my neighbors, who probably weren’t immune to mine.

One night, there was screaming outside my apartment. Screaming and pounding on a door. A door across the breezeway from me.

The pounding was Aja’s boyfriend. They were fighting constantly, and moving toward an ugly breakup.

Aja was a club kid. I saw her plenty of nights going out in dresses so cut-out, that they were almost fishnet. She’d be drunk and on high–really high–heels. She’d be going out at half past midnight after her shift to get wasted, and I’d be coming  home at half past ready to get wasted myself. Different techniques, granted, but we both got our buzzes working.

Aja and her boyfriend apparently had a huge fight one night. She was already wasted–not just on alcohol: she dabbled in other things as well. Aja finally told him that she was just sick of everything, and she was going to end it. The boyfriend sped over, and reached for the key Aja always kept hidden atop the door-frame molding.

The key was gone. The boyfriend was scared shitless, and started pounding on the door, screaming her name, trying to get her to open the door. The boyfriend called the apartment complex’s emergency number to get a key, but nobody would be able to help him till 8:30 when the office opened. The office opened. The community director drove the hysterical boyfriend–who expected the worst–to Aja’s apartment, and let him in.

It was the worst.

Aja had OD’d on heroin. She was cold, dead, right on the living-room carpet, one of her club outfits on, her phone turned off.

I never blamed myself. These apartments had really sturdy doors, and there’s no way even my Hagridian bulk could’ve crashed through the deadbolt.

But I never heard the boyfriend screaming. If Aja was at that point, and she needed someone to talk to, I couldn’t have heard her knocking. I was living what I called my life back then.

For those of us whose control of grain-based liquid substances gets out of hand (*raises hand*) there are special 28-day “resorts”;-) you can stay in, and when you come out, you will have stopped using those grain-based liquid substances. The trick is to continue to avoid using them, lest ye be back where ye were, which–for me–was the corner of Soulless and Nowhere.

Once you leave the special resort, there’s a secret club full of other people trying to avoid various toxins. For the first five years after I left the “resort” ;-), I went to the secret club regularly. Then I changed jobs, and I stopped going. I’ve been fine, with no urge for grain-based liquid substances for the nine years I’ve been clean. Recently, I started going to meetings again, just to get out of the house and be around interesting–and sometimes frightening–people.

I had a shite day today. I went to the doctor, where I had to wait an hour and fifteen minutes beyond my scheduled 10:30 appointment. Then I had to go back at 3:00 for Physical Therapy, which leaves me sore, but not in pain. But with the broiling heat and the stress….No way I was going out again.

I went out again. This meeting is a meditation meeting, where we read the St. Frances Prayer, and meditate on one of it’s positive affirmations–“where there is darkness, let me bring light,” e.g.–and there’s usually a small crowd, and it is nice to direct the meditation, and the room was silent. We’re supposed to meditate on the obvious things.

All I could picture in my mind’s eye was that beautiful, healthy girl walking up those stairs, looking like perfect nineteen-year-olds do. I wonder where she is today? A Heaven? A Hell? Reincarnated? Energy spread back into the Universe? Part of all of us somehow?

I’ll never know.

Aja might have been a sculptor’s wet dream on the outside (except for the tats), but she was a psychiatrist’s nightmare on the inside. I don’t know why I couldn’t stop thinking about her today during meditation. Maybe it’s because she’s from such a lifetime ago–most of my adult life, anyway–and it was her turn to flash on my mind’s eye so brightly,that I had to remember her, to lament her, to wonder what she’d be now at thirty-three. Married with kids? A junkie on the streets? Someone who cleaned herself up, took classes, and became a teacher?

It’s funny, I had friends in grade school I remember for a brief flash, then they’re gone to that “former acquaintance shred file” we all have.

Aja took her time, but when she came back to my mind, it was a Babe Ruth-esque swat. I always loved her as one loves ones cool neighbors–in a non-gross way–and I was sad that she took this way out. My life went on apace, and I continued to drink myself inflammable.

After my stay in the “resort” ;-), I found a group that I really liked. They met at seven in the morning. This sucked ass for me, because of my schedule, but it was worth it.

A nice couple moved into Aja’s former apartment–Ryan and Collete, and don’t ask me how I remember their names because I don’t know. Sometimes, I’d be sitting in the Nimitz, trying to convince myself to go to this meeting, when Collete would pull up in her car. We’d chat till I had to go. She was a sweetheart. One early morning, she asked me about the people who lived there before.

I think I looked away from Collete’s green eyes and said simply, “She was a beautiful girl, but I never really knew her.”

 

Another Goodbye to Another Good Friend

Jolan Albritton, a long-time family friend, died Thursday. She lived in constant pain for years, with autoimmune and skeletal diseases that baffled doctors for literal decades. She was in that capital-p Pain most of us never have to live with, certainly not an entire adulthood.

The great triumph of Jolan’s death is that her pain has stopped. She had a huge family, who supported her and loved her, and she had friends who cared. Pain is the worst isolation, because nobody can be there with you. They can offer bromides like, “I’m sorry, is there anything I can do?” as if every doctor in the State of Florida missed something–“OH. Just take an Advil and an Alka-Seltzer, and you’ll be all fixed”—or bringing a shiny balloon will ease the hurting. It’s nice to know they care, but…

People mean well, but pain–that true, three o’clock in the morning dark night of the soul pain–you are left to face that alone.

Jolan faced her pain with aplomb and grace. She hurt, but she still cared about others. In many ways, that’s triumph over sickness: you can ravage my body, but you can’t touch my soul, damn you.

Jolan’s life was far too short, and certainly far too difficult, more difficult than most people could stand.

My idea of Heaven is an infinite resort in Vegas. Your room is dependent on how well you lived. If you were okay, but kind of a jerk, you get a crappy little room between the elevator and the ice machine. If you were evil, you’ll be up to your elbows scrubbing dishes for all eternity.

Jolan would have a giant penthouse, with all the luxuries imaginable, right down to the solid gold toothbrush holder. It would be a penthouse where she could throw parties for her innumerable friends and family, with the finest catered food and drink, a pool for the kids, and lots of conversation and fun.

But that penthouse would remain empty much of the time. You see, its tenant wouldn’t be there. She’d be down in the ballroom, dancing up a storm, her pain not even a vague memory anymore.

This is the paradise she deserves. I hope and pray this is the paradise she’s enjoying today.

Requiescat in Pace, my former babysitter. Save a dance for me in a few years.

With love,

t

Merry Christmas from Cynical Bastard Land

Alana’s Kiss

Alana’s Kiss

Sleep Sonnet 1

The Angel called Alana whispers by,

And wrests away your day’s unpleasantness.

The wings–so soft, so strong, their flight is nigh,

A journey Morpheus will surely bless.

Shades: people, places, faces, books, combine

With triumphs, stress, your day’s routine events.

The Angels blend your thoughts, distilling wine

Unique to you in taste and bouquet’s scents

This wine they place upon your tongue reserves

Your seat upon the train that passes through

A broad pastiche, a vault of thought that serves

To magnify, create a story, too—

 

A Yahtzee cast of dice within your brain

A tale both wild and rich, if half-insane

 

Sleep Sonnet 2

 

Your grandma taps and twirls with Fred Astaire,

While Gwyneth Paltrow gloms a rare roast beef.

Bob Dylan hugs a purple grizzly bear,

And Billy Graham—so high—chews coca leaf.

A unicorn devours the grassy knoll,

Kate Hepburn, hands the Yahtzee dice to you

You score a straight! Then Elvis takes his roll.

The dice spell out, “Grab hugs and mem’ries too.”

Your sad good-bye so quickly seems to come,

To choc’late rivers, trees that laugh and sing;

To cocoanuts pre-filled with spicy rum,

To tumbleweeds who—tumbling–loudly ring.

 

The train’s familiar whistle beckons you

To look around and bid this world adieu.

 

Sleep Sonnet 3

 

A dozen colored lambs soft-gently lead

You to your station platform, sere and stark;

Bob Dylan and his bear bring books to read.

Ms. Hepburn slips you chocolates white and dark.

Your grandma waltzes up for final hugs—

Her feel, her scent familiar as your hands—

She brings a tiny swarm of lady bugs

To guide you safely through these foreign lands.

Too quickly sounds a bell—its toll complete,

Your friends all raise a heartfelt parting cheer.

Soft angel hands escort you to your seat,

Past rows and rows into the coach’s rear.

 

Dear friends who saw you off, through windows fade.

Your dream retreats, your ticket punched and paid.

 

 

Sleep Sonnet #4

 

No fantastic journey this–just gray.

The faces of your boss with projects due

And classless slime who’ll stab your back today.

Cruel traffic jams are tailored just for you.

Spoiled rotten clients slam your latest work:

“Rank amateurs could do a better job.

“We’re just not going to pay,” declares one jerk.

If only you could run away and sob.

Your grandma charges through the heavy mist.

Her face is stern, her dancing joy dissolved.

“You disappointing whore, do you exist

“To be a one-night-stand, no ring involved?”

 

You scream out in your coach, “This once was nice!

“What happened here?” Your blood runs cold as ice.

 

Sleep Sonnet #5

 

The mist retreats, as morning sunlight burns

And reassures you, now you’re safe from harm.

Your angel–glowing, beautiful–returns.

You melt into her smile; she takes your arm.

Soporific Hypnos, god of sleep,

And Morpheus—his son—the god of dreams

Relax upon the floor on pillows deep

Your angel brought you to this place it seems.

“Your pitiful subconscious mind is sure,”

God Morpheus explains with rolling eyes,

“That Grandma dearest—gag—was certain you’re

“On track to waste your love on men whose lies,

 

“Whose promises mean nothing: they won’t leave

“Their wives, and when you die, no one will grieve.”

 

Sleep Sonnet #6

 

In his left hand are cards of glowing blue

“Upon these cards appear deep-seated fears

“That Grandma—Gag, again—died thinking you

“Will cry away your life with bitter tears.”

In his right hand are cards of glowing red.

“Upon these cards appear dear Grandma’s place

“In Heaven, where the righteous go when dead,

“And reap rewards for lives of love and grace.

“With lemon sun and endless fields of flowers,

“Eternity of joy so pure,” he drawls,

“That time is gone. Not minutes, days, nor hours

“Will limit them: no clocks, no curtain falls.”

 

The Dream God yawns, blasé, “This heaven’s where

“Dear grandma cuts a rug with Fred Astaire.”

 

Sleep Sonnet #7

 

“Now take thy leave,” said Hypnos. “Go away.

“Just clasp thy angel’s hand, and board thy train.

“Go home. Go out for breakfast. Start thy day.

“To us, ’tis no concern, thou human stain.”

Alana takes your hand; you pull away

And shout, “But all these things I’ve seen

“Which ones are real? The terrors in the gray?

“That lovely world with meadows lush and green,

“Where grandma (Morpheus gags) could laugh and dance?

“Where ev’ryone was glad, the sunshine bright–”

“Dear Zeus!” He spat. “What vomitous romance!

“Both Heav’n and Hell have crossed your path tonight.

 

“And real?” He strew your cards upon the floor.

“Your answer’s there; I’ll tell you nothing more.”

 

Sleep Sonnet #8

Your angel called Alana takes your hand

And leads you ‘cross the platform to your train,

Which carries you through rich and verdant land.

The clacking wheels tap out a jazz refrain.

You point back toward the station. “He’s a jerk!

“Just who the hell–” “Respect please! He can be

“Abrasive, yes, but quite adept at work.

“For he’s the god who shows what you can’t see.”

You ponder for a moment. “What’s that mean?

“Explain to me just what I cannot see.”

“The forest for the trees,” she said. “You’ve seen

“Your deepest fears, and hopes for what will be

“When you have crossed the veil and learned your fate.

“You’ve seen your dreadful hell and heaven great.”

 

 

Sleep Sonnet #9

 

Alana’s words have fogged your weary mind.

The train continues, steady, through the hills.

Your angel’s smile is warm; her gold eyes, kind.

“Poor humans and the gods, with clashing wills.”

Amused, she shakes her head. “You never learn

“The sway immortals hold in daily life.

“The dream gods play, and leave you to discern

“What’s fact or fiction, peace or endless strife.”

Alana says, “In dreams, you sort it out.”

She kisses you good-bye and fades to light.

You cry, “Don’t go!” She says, “I must. Don’t pout.”

“I’ll see you when we go again tonight.”

 

You wonder if the gods see you, alone,

Inside this coach, where once your angel shone.

 

 

Epilogue

I

Your destination slowly nears

The station lovely, it appears

As sunlight creeps toward the dawn.

You wish that you could journey on,

But you’re aware the trip ends here:

No glowing joy nor crippling fear

 

II

You frown, confused, and wonder how

You reached this depot, empty now,

But brightly lit, so blindingly,

As mem’ries fade fast, fleetingly

“I must remember them, I must!”

And still they crumble into dust.

.

III

So weary, now, at journey’s end.

You battle Hypnos, hope to fend

Away this urge to curl and sleep.

Inside the station blares a beep.

It’s keeping you awake, you fume,

From in your bed, inside your room.

 

IV

You brush your teeth; you take your shower,

And curse the early morning hour.

A dreary, mortal’s day for you,

And so the cycle starts anew.

You wipe the mirror clear of mist,

And rub the spot Alana kissed.

 

(tom sanchez, Saint Petersburg, Florida, November 2013)

 

 

 

(We continue our JFK series with this book from Anthony Summers. Research-wise, this is on par with “Case Closed” from yesterday. A very different conclusion, though)

The other night, I was chatting online with my friend, Amanda. She asked what I was doing, and I told her I was reading a book about the JFK Assassination. There was a long pause while she thought and typed.

Her reply: One thing I don’t understand, and don’t want to read a bunch of books to find out, is why people are still so caught up with the assassination. JFK? The ONLY thing I know about him is that he was shot in the head. And that his wife is named Jackie, and for some reason I know that he was Catholic Why do people still care about him?

For her, that’s a perfectly valid question. Amanda is 24. She was twelve when 9/11 happened; The Cold War—such a big part of JFK’s administration—was over before she started school. For Amanda and her peers, 9/11 is their defining event, her generation’s equivalent of the JFK assassination.

I wasn’t alive when JFK was killed, but I grew up with the legends of Kennedy’s Camelot, of his vitality and wit, and of that terrible day in Dallas. My parents talked about JFK when November 22nd rolled around. My teachers—also Baby Boomers—talked about it. What I told Amanda was that for a couple generations of Americans, the day JFK died, something in America also died.

For Amanda, that day tolled shortly after 9/10/01 turned over to 9/11/01. That was when her generation’s innocence was lost, and it’s understandable why the Kennedy assassination doesn’t resonate with her.

For me, though, it does. Since I was in middle school, I’ve read books about JFK, his administration, his family, especially his assassination. My conclusions aren’t important here. My point is that for millions of Americans, JFK still matters.

And most Americans don’t buy that a scrawny Marxist nutball named Lee Harvey Oswald—acting alone—killed the most-powerful man in the free world.

The government’s official findings—The Warren Report—say there was no conspiracy in Dallas: that Oswald killed JFK, period.

In the preface to “Not in Your Lifetime,” author Anthony Summers quotes a 2009 CBS News poll that says 76% of Americans believe there was a conspiracy. Similar numbers think there was a government cover-up to hide the truth from the American people, and that we will never know exactly what happened that day.

“Not in Your Lifetime” is Anthony Summers’s intelligent, scholarly study of the JFK Assassination. It was originally published in 1983 under the title, “Conspiracy.” Since then, Summers has repeatedly updated his original work, essentially rewriting it by now. He changed the title to jibe with what Chief Justice Earl Warren said to a reporter asking when all of the information would be released: due to security concerns, “Not in your lifetime.”

Over the past fifty years, documents were released here and there, until the early 1990’s, when tens of millions of pages were released regarding the JFK Assassination.

Summers has examined many of these, as well as other fresh sources. He has conducted dozens of interviews with key players in the JFK assassination. Summers has a theory as to what happened on November 22nd, 1963, and he explains it here, with impeccable documentation.

Could one man kill President Kennedy from a sixth-floor warehouse window? Or was there an intricate plot involving various groups inside and outside the government?

While today’s twenty-somethings may have moved past the day JFK was shot and Camelot crumbled, millions of people still chew-over facts and fairytales, trying to make peace with what happened. As long as the debate continues, we can hope Anthony Summers keeps updating his wonderful book, “Not in Your Lifetime.”

Highly Recommended

(nb: I received an Advance Review Copy from the publisher via NetGalley)