Whiskey Tango Foxtrot by David Shafer – a book review
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot – David Shafer – (actual words on parchment) 7/10 – I had read some endorsements of this book on facebook and asked for/received the book for my birthday back in August. It sat on my nightstand for 5 months until I finally cracked it and read it in less than 2 weeks.
To summarize, it’s a kind of conspiracy theory adventure novel with a love story thread woven in. It’s skillfully done and quite original in many respects. Continue reading
Dave Grohl is guilty of ‘betraying one’s punk rock roots.’ A high crime in my book.
So what, you say? There are a million shitty bands that aren’t worth paying attention to. And life is too short to waste your breath on something one deems not worthy, correct? Well, you’d be right about that, but Dave Grohl was in Nirvana! And Nirvana was my favorite band. Ever. Of all time. As such Dave spent years in close proximity to my favorite artist.
Like a Vietnam vet, “He was there, man!”
So… This has not been a good year for me, reading wise. As I’ve contemplated putting this post together over the last couple of days I can’t help but feel like I’ve forgotten a title or three somewhere, but, after two days of mulling I suppose if the missing tome(s) hasn’t shaken loose by now then I’d better just get on with things and do the math.
It appears I have read only 18 books in 2014. The previous year (2013) that number was 25 and I thought that was a poor performance. I also listened to 9 novels on Audible in 2014. Listening to books is a new thing for me and being old fashioned, I feel like it doesn’t really count as reading. But, as I need the help with the numbers I’ll say I’ve “read” 27 books.
My walk from home to work, from Avenue C and 4th Street to 5th Avenue just below 23rd, takes a little more than a half an hour. It can be a real bitch of a walk, especially on a cold day like today. There’s no subway that helps to cut down the travel time in any substantial way, so I’m stuck hoofing it twice a day, every day, unless I spring for a cab, which I’ve done like… once, maybe. Continue reading
The black people won’t stop coming. One after the other I kill them. I dole out a torrent of hyper-accurate punches, kicks and head-butts. I take blow after blow in return – to my face, body, kidneys and spleen – but in the end I vanquish the mother-fuckers. I’m the one left standing atop my assailant’s corpse. Still, there’s always another black man behind the one I’ve just bested.
You can read part one of this entry here.
I come to sitting on the living room couch. It’s time to leave for work. Despite the clouds outside the tall windows and high ceilings in the loft allow for plenty of ambient light. It’s almost too bright. The apartment is disgusting. You can clearly see a sheen of dirt on the hardwood floors. My rush is over. Not that it was all that much of a rush to begin with. I’m in maintenance mode. I shot just about a half a bag of dope a couple of hours ago. Which is really not very much, but it’s the state of the state these days. It beats withdrawal.
“What we doin’?” The 9-year-old Zachariah asks as he gets in the front seat of my Honda Civic. He confidently pulls the seat belt across his thin frame and secures the buckle. He awaits his answer. Zachariah is black. He’s got close-cropped hair with a little boy’s rat-tail – where he hasn’t allowed the hair to be trimmed in some time – it sticks out at the base of his skull. He’s wearing black jeans and some cute black Vans knock off sneakers. He’s a handsome kid. In contrast I’m a 42-year-old white guy. We are as unlikely a pair as you will find anywhere. Continue reading