Ronald Reagan: Dead For Decades, But Reaganomics Are Still Alive, Unfortunately

 

Lance Storm vs. "The (Literal) Million Dollar Man" Ted DiBiase, Jr.

 

Shoot Your Shot

Shoot your shot, you’ve got nothing to lose

Except your self-esteem when she says, “I refuse”

Except a lawsuit where you never stood a chance

It's a permanent ban from a life of romance

 

I never took the time to show you how to do it

Flirting should come naturally, but you never knew it

Everything you know about the birds and the bees

Comes from online porn and erotic fantasies

 

I thought you would’ve learned from all your interactions

In your math classes while you’re learning subtraction

In your chemistry course about magnetic attraction

But you kept to yourself to protect your mental health

 

It’s not like you grew up with some Pulitzer winners

Who would ever invite you to a Met Gala dinner

They were bullies who punched down as a source of laughter

Why interact with people when it’s peace that you’re after?

 

You graduated college, but you don’t have any knowledge

On matters of the heart, because you don’t know where to start

You have to start somewhere, but you can’t find the bottom

Except in economic status and apartments so rotten

 

It used to be easy when the chemicals in their brains

Made the girls hot and horny, absolutely insane

It’s a little harder now that you don’t have social status

The ladies raced to the top and they were always the fastest

 

I bet you wish more people tried to understand

That it’s hard as hell to hold another woman’s hand

You could be movie star handsome and funny as fuck

But if she says no, then you’re shit out of luck

 

Now I understand why there’s a lock on your door

On the world wide web, you can’t be ignored

Press the play button and checkmark the loop

Nothing can stop you from shooting dude soup

 

You jokingly call it DIY lovemaking

When it comes to virginity, no volunteers are taking

You want something done right, you do it yourself

Hyper-independence comes from traumatized hell

Welcome to the World, Gunther Golan

VERSE 1

After nine months of tummies being swollen

Welcome to the world, Gunther Golan

Can’t find your momma? Neither can I

Like a broken resolution, kiss her goodbye

Even I don’t know how you came to me

Must have been a night of drunken misery

But I can’t stand the taste of Budweiser

Another drug kept me from being the wiser

VERSE 2

Sorry for the disappointment, my little guy

Don’t have the patience or money to raise you right

Only resource I have is a life full of baggage

Potential turned to shit like eating too much cabbage

I could get a nice job flipping other people’s burgers

But that won’t offset all my fantasies of murder

Even if I had a million dollars in my bank

The screams still grated, the diapers still stank

VERSE 3

I can’t afford a car to drive you to school

So they give you D’s and C’s and label you a fool

Only option for you is to join the military

Where survivor’s guilt is their burden to carry

Another piece of meat for the sausage grinder

Another statistic in the government binder

This could have been avoided with a simple abortion

But instead the system plotted all this extortion

VERSE 4

After all the trauma and the baby mamma drama

All I had to show was a check from Obama

That was years ago, time flies like a vulture

Makes meals of us all, it’s American culture

We all had dreams at one point or another

Maybe you dreamed of having your own brother

But your legacy ends here, Mr. Gunther Golan

An endless stream of shit like cancer in the colon

FINAL LINE

But I’d give anything to bring you back…

Bawitdaba

VERSE 1

I start my truck by breathing into a tube

I drive around high school looking for boobs

You call it statutory? I call it mandatory

Like making a poncho out of Old Glory

And wearing it while playing for my man W

And doing it again for his far-right substitute

My skeleton key can open anyone’s lock

Now get in my bed and try to love Kid Rock!

CHORUS 1

Browitdabro

The camel toe

Licky, licky, licky

Until your leggy-weggies become sticky

VERSE 2

The reason why my tickets sell for so damn cheap?

‘Cause y’all work at Wal-Mart seven days a week

I relate to the struggle in my comfortable mansion

While poverty kills like a family of Mansons

I got a tennis court and a swimming pool

And a hummer that runs on hundred dollar fuel

You can look for answers, but you know it’s a crock

Now get in my bed and try to love Kid Rock!

CHORUS 2

Blahwitdablah

The biggie bra

Jiggy, jiggy, jiggy

Until my peter becomes a stiffy

CHORUS 3

Blewwitdablew

Come on to you

Sicky, sicky, sicky

You don’t have to be so damn picky

BRIDGE

Love!

Is what I hate!

Don’t need no peace!

War!

CHORUS 4

Byewitdabye

I want to cry

Crowbar city

I’m in jail, it’s such a pity

Nowhere to Live

CHORUS 1

Government benefits were slashed in half

Homelessness doubled, it’s simple math

Paper white politicians say they’ll clean up the streets

While they rest comfortably in linen sheets

Nowhere to live, nothing to give

Nowhere to die, nothing to try

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

VERSE 1

It’s never been about shit on the sidewalk

It’s about outlining more bodies in chalk

It’s never been about screaming at thin air

It’s about naysayers too brainwashed to care

It’s never been about who’s smoking the crack

It’s about looking for new ways to attack

It’s never been about saving taxpayer money

But keep laughing it off like it’s so fucking funny

CHORUS 1

Government benefits were slashed in half

Homelessness doubled, it’s simple math

Paper white politicians say they’ll clean up the streets

While they rest comfortably in linen sheets

Nowhere to live, nothing to give

Nowhere to die, nothing to try

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

VERSE 2

A dollar bill can go for a thousand miles long

A hug and a smile can keep humanity strong

New laws to pass can kick greed in the ass

Need a closer look? Just go touch some grass

Look around at the world that you’re living in

Not everyone can take a Maserati for a spin

Not everyone can eat a steak dinner at night

It ain’t the answer to pull those boot straps tight

CHORUS 1

Government benefits were slashed in half

Homelessness doubled, it’s simple math

Paper white politicians say they’ll clean up the streets

While they rest comfortably in linen sheets

Nowhere to live, nothing to give

Nowhere to die, nothing to try

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

VERSE 3

The empathy and sympathy are long gone

The psychopathy and hatred are so damn wrong

This is how we treat those below the elite

We laugh at the paper shoes on their feet

Society is a bitch ball gagged by the rich

If you dare try to snitch, you’ll lay in a ditch

This is what it means to have a heart so cold

Piss the people away like they’re urinary gold

CHOURS 2

Division continues to be slashed in half

Prejudice has doubled, it’s simple math

So much for cleaning up the city streets

It was never a system that was easy to beat

No one to love, no shelter above

No one to embrace, just another dirty face

No one to love

No one to love

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

Run Like a Ninja

The growling in Ashley Garcia’s stomach resembled a demon thirsting for souls. She didn’t care if what she was doing was just as evil as that hell-spawn creature. A bowl of steaming hot ramen took priority over holy-rolling. A loaf of bread swimming in garlic butter was more important than praying on a medieval book for forgiveness. The rumbling in her stomach echoed in her brain like schizophrenia and even a wafer-thin mint would be a perfect antipsychotic. The rattling of her visible ribcage needed to be contained for good and the sacred scroll beneath her would be the key to that lock.

Being a Halfling afforded her the dexterity and balance that she needed to scale down the rope she threw down into the temple’s scroll room. Ashley didn’t want to go too fast for fear of alarming any monks, but slowing down wasn’t an option for her calloused hands and large dirt-covered feet. Just a few more inches, she told herself. A little more. Easy. Easy. Don’t make a sound. Don’t give the monks a reason to wheel kick a thief’s head off.

When she was close enough to drop to the wooden floor, she did so with a feather’s gentleness and breathed a silent sigh of relief. And just like that, the scroll was right there in front of her, resting easily on a piece of ceramic pottery. Ashley’s eyes widened and her hungry stomach settled in anticipation of the lunch money this would bring. When she snatched the scroll from its resting place, she didn’t even bother opening it up. She knew she had what she wanted. She knew any sucker would be lucky to buy such a holy artifact. Ashley would never starve again with this kind of money and that brought a smile to her gaunt face.

And then the sound of a dog growling permeated her fantasies and caused her to swallow a lump in her throat. Slowly she turned around to face the monk she pissed off the most: the captain of the guards himself, Yang Chow. 

He didn’t come armed with any weapons, because his limbs were destructive enough. He didn’t come with any harsh words, because his angry bulldog visage and monstrous growling said everything they needed to say. He didn’t come dressed in thick metal armor, because his red and orange robes were light enough to keep him nimble during times of combat. With his arms folded and his gorgon death eyes locked onto Ashley’s jittery form, it was time to get the fuck out of dodge.

Scroll tucked away in her back pocket, Ashley hopped up the rope and scaled as fast as she could. All the motivation to push her body beyond its limits came in the form of Yang barking up a storm and snapping his teeth like a bear trap. She was almost certain she would lose a foot to this maniacal dog demon. She was almost certain a piece of skin fell from her big toe. But she kept climbing even if it meant aggravating that wound and making it sting like a thousand wasps.

Ashley cursed to herself in a rapid-fire cadence as she made it to the rooftop, Yang still nipping at her heels. With the diagonal curvature of the temple’s roof, she knew this was a perfect time to curl into a ball and roll down the decline like a rogue wheel. And off she went, the shingles scraping against her skin the faster she rolled. Her back burned as though a volcano would erupt from her body, which was a better fate than having her head kicked off by a martial arts puppy-duppy. Still, his barks were no less distant than they were before. They just grew louder and more frustrated.

And then the sudden incline at the bottom of the roof launched her wheel-like body into the air and onto the busy streets below. Ashley landed with such grace that going splat on the concrete wasn’t even a possibility. But the minute she leapt to her feet, dizziness turned her brains into mush and her vision into a splotchy mess. She would have fallen on her ass if not for Yang’s barks becoming even louder than before. 

Even in a sloppy zigzag, she ran down the streets with the agility of a ninja warrior. She flipped over garbage cans. She baseball slid underneath an old man’s legs. She leapfrogged over a food delivery bicyclist and nearly knocked him over. Knowing Yang could chew her like bubblegum gave her the adrenaline boost she needed to run along the walls of a restaurant before flipping over a trolley.

Her heart thudded in her chest like a bomb ready to go off. Her brains rotted into mush on account of not giving herself a chance to recover from dizziness. Her legs and back burned as though someone had branded her with a glowing red iron. Her feet could have fallen off long before she got gangrene from not wearing shoes. And yet, Ashley kept on running and dodging. She leapfrogged over another bicyclist. She flipped over a guardrail. She ran along an awning that almost collapsed under her thunderous force.

Ashley had no destination in mind. She couldn’t even think clearly enough to come up with one, because Yang’s barks and growls were like a screwdriver shoved in her ears. When her eyes watered to the point of blindness and her mind faded to funeral blackness, she crashed face-first into a brick wall and flopped on her back, the sacred scroll rolling out of her grasp. The sound of her nose crunching resembled potato chips she would probably never know the taste of. She breathed heavily despite blood running down her nostrils. If overworking herself didn’t kill her, Yang surely would.

Her vision was obstructed by the heavy pus dumplings under her eyes, but even she knew Yang’s angry face when she saw it. There he was standing over her soon-to-be corpse, arms folded, scroll in hand. He reached down to Ashley, presumably to rip out her heart. Or the least likely scenario of them all, to pull her up to her feet. She could barely stand underneath the weight of body-shredding pain. She couldn’t even look Yang in the eyes, blackened pus pockets aside.

“Aren’t you at all curious as to what this scroll says?” asked Yang in an uncharacteristically soothing voice.

Ashley’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Um…what?”

“You mean to tell me that you stole this scroll from my temple and you don’t even know what it is?” Ashley tucked her head in shame. “Look at me, young lady.” Yang opened the scroll and revealed that they were coupons for restaurant food. Five gold pieces for two octopus burgers. Ten gold pieces for a gallon of broccoli cheese soup. Two packages of beef stew and rice for only one gold piece. Shame hit Ashley in the gut worse than any martial arts punch from Yang would have…even though she no longer expected him to beat her ass.

Yang knelt down to meet her Halfling level and put a hand on Ashley’s shoulder. “Young lady…you didn’t just steal a document hoping for a quick buck. You did it at the expense of other impoverished people like yourself. The temple where I work isn’t just a religious institution. It’s a shelter for those who need it the most. If you wanted the coupons, we would have shared them with you.”

Ashley’s tears stung her pus lumps like a scorpion tail. “I…I’m sorry…I’ll just…I’ll find another way to…” 

“Enough. I don’t need your apologies. I wouldn’t know what to do with them anyways.”

“What?...What do you mean?”

“Young lady…what you did was as rotten as the food you find the dumpster. It was evil. It was low even for a desperate street thief like yourself.” Ashley’s tears developed into little floods to mix with her nose blood, giving her the ultimate mask of guilt, shame, and defeat. But then Yang said…”I understand why you did it.”

“Huh? You do?”

“You think you’re the only one to try and steal from us? Look around you, young lady. The economy doesn’t favor the poor at all. Impoverished folk are unfairly categorized as lazy while the rich who live off of their backs are lionized to god status. To take the focus away from their own horrific deeds, the rich have the poor fight amongst themselves, steal from each other, treat every meal like it’s a competition. Stealing is the only life you’ve ever known, because you have no other way.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me, dog man. I doubt you would trust me again if you knew what I was capable of. I’ve slit many throats just to stay alive. How do you know I won’t slit yours?”

“My martial arts training aside, you know deep down that slitting my throat wouldn’t bring you closer to another meal. Prison food doesn’t count. You deserve better than a prisoner’s life, young lady. When was the last time you even experienced a loving home?”

Ashley swatted Yang’s hand away. “Love? You think love is going to give me something to eat every day? You think it’s going to keep me from sleeping in a dumpster? What makes you think love is going to do anything for me?”

Staying true to his bulldog nature, Yang licked the tears and blood off of Ashley’s face, which made her produce even more tears. The more Yang licked, the more pieces Ashley’s heart broke into, which was saying a lot considering the near-death exercise she put herself through. In a rare act of gratitude and love, Ashley hugged her stubby arms around Yang’s neck, breaking into a full-on crying spell over his orange and red robe.

“Thank you, dog man. Thank you so much! Please, don’t leave me here!”

“I won’t, young lady. In spite of what the privileged believe, nobody gets left behind on my streets. Come with me. Let’s get some food in your stomach.”

The dog monk and Halfling thief walked hand in hand together, Ashley’s waterworks never once drying up. In a world that didn’t care about her, she found someone who did. Life was very much worth living even though she had to learn how to do so all over again. There would be no more thievery and dishonesty, because they weren’t necessary in a truly loving home.

Clown Music

CLOWN MUSIC
A ball on my nose, a smile on my face
Big red shoes stepping all over the place
Bright green overalls to complete the look
Comedy routines from a high school joke book
Who’s ready to laugh? Who’s ready to dance?
Who’s ready to wet their own underpants?
I’m throwing the pies, riding one-wheel bikes
We can party and giggle for as long as we’d like

COMING HOME
It’s getting pretty dark around the trailer park
Wipe off the makeup, frown the shape of an arc
A bottle of jack and some pills for my back
A pizza for dinner, another heart attack
Another episode of Wheel of Fortune
Another news story about the ban of abortion
Fall asleep on the couch, cancer stick in my mouth
I’ve got no rhyme or reason to be fucking proud

BACK TO WORK
Sunbeam aggravates my pounding headache
Still laying on the couch like I’m dead weight
Can’t put on another smile for the little brats
Can’t put on the overalls, I’m too damn fat
Can’t let them know that my magic is gone
No more faking happiness, no more being strong
Where did I put that damn nine millimeter?
I don’t care if you call me a coward or cheater

BANG!
Suicide attempt didn’t go as it was planned
But I’m still walking amongst the damned
Extra hole in my head, brain dead as can be
Little kids cry as they take a look at me
Mommies holding them, daddies glaring
The love is there, but nobody’s sharing
I am a monster in the eyes of the young
No cracking jokes, no birthday songs sung

Joker

MOVIE TITLE: Joker

DIRECTOR: Todd Phillips

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Psychological Thriller

RATING: R for violence, swearing, and disturbing themes

GRADE: Extra Credit

Humanizing a violent criminal is a tall task in and of itself. Getting sympathy for any kind of character is harder than it looks (trust me, I’ve tried). When you watch this movie, not only will you have sympathy for Arthur Fleck a.k.a. The Joker, but you’ll cheer for him as well. There’s more to building a sympathetic villain than throwing in a tragic back story and calling it a day. This movie went above and beyond in developing the Joker character. He’s mentally ill, he’s rejected by society because of his awkward behavior, he’s impoverished, and he’s the target of violence just as much as he’s the instigator. While people wouldn’t under any circumstances condone his violent behavior, they will at least understand it. They might even learn to treat fellow members of society with respect. Nobody starts out as an evil person. They’re slowly built into one by the forces around them. Again, it doesn’t excuse Joker’s murders nor does it give the incel community an idol to look up to. But the more we see each other as human beings, the more we act like human beings.

Of course, none of this sympathy would have been possible if not for the brilliant acting work of Joaquin Phoenix, who played The Joker. In fact, Mr. Phoenix might be telling Heath Ledger to hold his beer (no disrespect to Mr. Ledger). The pathological laughter, the nervousness around strangers, the poor cadence of his jokes, the sadness when he’s alone, they all looked believable coming from Joaquin Phoenix. Mental illness is a lonely obstacle for someone to overcome. Nobody wanted to be around The Joker when he was at his worst and the actor brought that loneliness to life through his character work. It took a lot of studying and reading in order to get this villain down perfectly. Mr. Phoenix’s passion for what he does is obvious in his roles. If he doesn’t get an Oscar for this performance, I’m going to be very surprised and upset. Granted, I won’t give the Army nervous fits with my level of disappointment and nor should anybody else. You hear that, terrorists? Be nice!

Somewhere in this nature vs. nurture debate, there’s a modern day dystopia happening all around The Joker. Garbage is piling up, rats are infesting the city, the disenfranchised are being bullied, social programs are being cut, and poverty is at an all time high. When politicians and oligarchs use their influence to enrich themselves at the expense of others, distrust starts to build between the social classes. It doesn’t always end in riots and violence, but sitting down and doing nothing doesn’t cross their minds either. In many ways, the dystopian politics of this movie reminds me a lot of what’s going on in the real world under the Trump administration. So we have a realistic Joker and a realistic political system. Superhero movies get a bad rap for being cartoonish and comical, right? You know what Joaquin Phoenix and the rest of the crew says to that? “Hold our beers.”

Everything that could go right with this movie did go right. It’s gritty, it’s real, it’s dark, and nothing was out of place. Keeping a smile on your face all of your life is close to impossible. It’s okay to feel bad sometimes. Toxic positivity did nobody any good. But if you must rage against the machine with a nihilistic point of view, don’t cross the point of no return like The Joker did. An extra credit grade will go to this modern day masterpiece. Now THAT’S something worth smiling about!

"Through the Shattered Glass" by Jeanie Clarke

BOOK TITLE: Through the Shattered Glass

AUTHOR: Jeanie Clarke (with Bradley Craig and Neil Cameron)

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Wrestling Memoir

GRADE: Mixed

Whether you know her as a villainous valet in WCW and WCCW or the one who told Steve Austin to drink his tea before it got “stone cold”, you will get an even deeper look into Jeanie Clarke’s life in this hard-hitting memoir. Toxic marriages to wrestlers Chris Adams and Steve Austin, seventeen years of pill addiction, estrangement from her daughter Jade, and a miserable living situation have all taken their toll on this poor woman to where she contemplated suicide at one point. Going through a successful rehab in her home country of England along with telling her own story was exactly what Jeanie needed to exorcise her psychological demons.

As compelling as Jeanie Clarke’s story is, the way it was written didn’t give me the chance to feel her emotions and turmoil early on. Typos aside, the writing style felt a bit rushed, like I was bouncing from situation to situation without being allowed to settle in. I like a good fast-paced style, but not at the expense of sensory details and showing instead of telling. I realize this is a celebrity memoir, but a fast pace and descriptive writing don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Don’t believe me? Ask Chris Jericho.

The rushed writing style only lasted for the first half of the book. Meanwhile in the latter half, the stories Jeanie tells about drug addictions, being stalked, living with racist neighbors, and having a borderline abusive marriage with Steve Austin are easily the most terrifying her memoir has to offer. She took all of those pills as a way to cope with her stresses and it soon spiraled out of control. I know it’s easy to judge people who choose drugs as a way to get over their problems. But to borrow a phrase from Dr. Phil, “I don’t look at her and ask why is she doing this. I look at her and ask, why not.” You want to cheer for Jeanie to get better and have a solid foundation for her children. Spoiler alert: she’s been clean for years now. It’s safe to say she earned her ending, and then some.

If you want some insight as to how the wrestling business works, you’ll get plenty of that from this memoir. The exhausting travel schedule, the injuries, the constant pain, and being creatively stifled are just some of the problems wrestlers face on a day-to-day basis. Taking prescription pills is just one of the ways they cope with it all. This was happening long before WWE started their Wellness Policy in 2005 following the untimely death of Eddie Guerrero. If stricter drug testing had been implemented earlier, who knows how many lives could have been saved. It’s depressing to think about and you feel that depression near the end of the book when Jeanie almost dies of drug-induced shock.

While a mixed grade isn’t the most desirable one I could give, I don’t want it to turn you, my audience, away from this book. Jeanie’s story is one worth listening to despite the rushed writing style. Drug addiction isn’t just something that “weak” people go through. It’s a universal affliction with so many psychological triggers that it’s amazing anybody can be rehabilitated at all. If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, seek help before it’s too late. Jeanie Clarke found help and she’s a better woman for it.

Toilet Cleaner

VERSE 1

The glass ceiling is lower than the floor

I earn my check, yet I always need more

Scrubbing your toilets spic and span

Not much of a future, not much of a plan

I could never be a real family man

Then again, how could I give a damn?

Power is something you’re born with

Every other talking point is bullshit

CHORUS

Toilet cleaner!

American dreamer!

Toilet cleaner!

Silent screamer!

VERSE 2

It’s not the smell that assaults my nose

It’s that my grave won’t earn one rose

It’s not the work that destroys my back

It’s being left behind in the corporate pack

It’s not the graffiti imprinted on the walls

It’s the thanklessness of scrubbing the stalls

Honey, I’m home! Oh wait, I’m alone

These slothful sins I shall never atone

EXTENDED CHORUS 1

Toilet cleaner!

American dreamer!

Toilet cleaner!

Silent screamer!

Bathroom bitch!

The new non-rich!

Restroom junkie!

Low-grade flunky!

BRIDGE

I drop the mop!

Say fuck it to the bucket!

I quit this shit!

I school these fools!

My path of wrath!

The edge of dredge!

Bow to the cash cow!

Never forever!

EXTENDED CHORUS 2

Master of my destiny!

Master of my enemies!

Slave to my deepest rage!

Beast inside a steel cage!

Toilet cleaner!

Megaphone screamer!

Bathroom bitch!

Pull the kill switch!

"Born a Crime" by Trevor Noah

BOOK TITLE: Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood

AUTHOR: Trevor Noah

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Apartheid Memoir

GRADE: Extra Credit

Before he replaced Jon Stewart as the host of The Daily Show, Trevor Noah had a difficult childhood in both Apartheid and post-Apartheid South Africa. Having a white father and a black mother, Trevor was already the product of racist laws that could have kept him and his parents imprisoned for several years. He spent most of his childhood in hiding to evade the police, which included not being around his white father as often as he wanted in order to keep the subterfuge alive. With poverty, an abusive stepfather, and life in general working against him, Trevor still managed to keep his sense of humor intact with the help of his jovial, yet strict mother, who he credits as his number one fan.

This glimpse into Trevor Noah’s life is as educational as it is entertaining. It’s a firsthand look into how structural racism worked in Apartheid-ruled South Africa and how it’s still alive in the world today. Racism isn’t just about calling somebody the N-word or beating black and colored people to death. It’s psychological torture as well. The whites in charge purposefully divided their non-white peers into separate groups and treated them as less than human. The education was watered down, the living conditions were crappy, poverty was by design, and violence became a social norm. None of that changed after Apartheid was over, in the same way that structural racism never ended after slavery in America. You can change the laws all you want, but the damage has already been done. The damage continues to be dealt in subtle ways behind the scenes of politics. The one thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history.

Because Trevor grew up with an abusive stepfather named Abel, his memoir also gives us a glimpse into how psychologically torturous domestic violence is. Abel was regarded as a nice guy around town who would always help out those in need. That was the disguise he needed in order to secretly beat Trevor and his mother and get away with it every time. Trevor’s mother was met with skepticism from the police every time she tried to file a report. Abel would always be apologetic and life would go on happily for a while until the next beating. The scary thing about him was that he was always calm and collected when he struck his family. He wasn’t as psychotic as The Joker or dramatic as Darth Vader. He was just a regular guy with a good reputation outside of home. Even when he would drink himself into stupidity, he always came across as a cool guy. Those are the worst kinds of villains that are too realistic for superhero movies. Trevor Noah was haunted by this man’s evil deeds for many years to come. Abel is still walking around South Africa today as a free man. How sick is that?

Through all of the racism, violence, and troubled times, Trevor Noah never let any of those things strip away his individuality, morals, or sense of humor, all of which he got from his loving disciplinarian mother. She always taught him how to question everything and never lose sight of who he was. And that’s the thing with Apartheid: the education quality for blacks and colored people is significantly reduced for the sake of maintaining the status quo. Without an educational mother who bought him books and allowed him to explore the world beyond his impoverished home, Trevor wouldn’t be the well-informed man he is today. There are none so blind as those who will not see, and Trevor Noah’s eyes were wide open. He had a rough childhood, but without it, his worldview would have been watered down to where he could never fill Jon Stewart’s shoes, let alone live his own way. Trevor lives life with no regrets and that’s something we all need to learn if we’re to move forward.

The eye-opening educational aspects as well as the humorous writing style make Born a Crime a must-read for anybody who wants to explore the world without actually being in the crossfire of South African racism. Trevor Noah went through hell so that he could nourish the world with love and thoughtfulness. His story is genuine and his emotions are passionate. He could never be bitter, because bitterness would strip away everything he worked so hard to become. An extra credit grade is what this book deserves, nothing less, maybe more.

Believe

Believe in the beauty of rock bottom failure

Believe you can cross rough waters like a sailor

Believe this world is yours for the taking

Believe in the beauty of the art you’re making

Believe your heart is made of pure gold

Believe you can crush the lies you are told

Believe your soul can never be sold

Believe the fire inside can never go cold

Believe in your own battle-tested story

Believe normalcy is so damn boring

Believe conformity is never the answer

Believe indifference is the ultimate cancer

Believe passion is more powerful than a pistol

Believe true love is stronger than a missile

If you know something in your heart to be true

Sitting back and watching isn’t the thing to do

You have a voice; it’s time to make your choice

Make a bold statement or just make some noise

Believe in your power to shake the landscape

Look beyond the train wrecks and bad days

Believe in your power to never give up

Despite the many days that just might suck

Believe the end is only the beginning

Believe this is truly a life worth living

"Swamplandia!" by Karen Russell

BOOK TITLE: Swamplandia!

AUTHOR: Karen Russell

YEAR: 2011

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Magic Realism

GRADE: Mixed

In the Everglades-based theme park Swamplandia, Hilola Bigtree wrestles alligators for a live crowd of stereotypical tourists. The entertaining action is enough to keep the Bigtree clan financially stable. And then one tragedy after another strikes the family. Hilola gets cancer and passes away. Hilola’s husband, simply known as Chief Bigtree, ventures out to the mainland for a “business trip” (which feels more like crazy abandonment). Grandpa Sawtooth becomes senile and is confined to a nursing home. The eldest son Kiwi tries to earn the minimum wage at a rival theme park called World of Darkness. The middle child Oscela becomes obsessed with dark magic and runs off with a ghost to marry him. And now it’s up to Ava Bigtree, Hilola’s daughter and understudy, to bring them all back together and save Swamplandia from becoming foreclosed on.

If I could use one word to describe the mood of this novel, it’s heartbreaking. One moment of depression snowballs into several other tearjerking moments. Losing a mother is bad enough. But then the financial burdens stemming from her loss become all too real for any reader. We’re currently living in an economy where homes are being taken away, people are becoming broke from healthcare costs, and the only people who are hiring the new blood are minimum wage employers. Sometimes, working to exhaustion isn’t the answer no matter how many times the Republican Party says it is. In fact, exhaustion is what makes this novel so depressing, because we see the aftermath of trying to scrape together enough money and stay alive. It’s stressful to think about and I wouldn’t wish this kind of poverty on my worst enemies. In terms of putting together a realistic picture of economic worries, Swamplandia does that job perfectly.

I know the World of Darkness theme park is supposed to be a horrible place to work judging from how poorly Kiwi Bigtree is treated by everyone there. It is, after all, a hell-themed amusement park. The swimming pools are dyed red (to resemble fire), the merchandise has devil horns on it, the food is fattening (because gluttony is a sin), and all of the rides are basically comparable to being swallowed by a ferocious, fiery demon. While I condemn the working conditions of the World of Darkness, I praise Karen Russell for inventing such a place in her novel. I am a dark fantasy nerd and the diabolic themes of this place make me think of barreling through Diablo II: Lord of Destruction dungeons with a dual-wielding barbarian. But I know why Karen Russell had this theme park in her story: because she wanted to parody Disneyworld and hold a mirror up to their horrible working conditions. It tickles my dark fantasy urges and depresses me at the same time.

However, there is one thing that irks me about this novel and it’s the reason I’m giving it a three-star review instead of a four or five-star one. The pacing of Swamplandia feels like I’m dragging my eyes across sandpaper just to make it to the next chapter. In other words, it’s slow and it’s tiring. I don’t know if I should owe the exhausting pace to the purple prose writing style, the obscure references, the over-thinking and overanalyzing, or the constant dips into the past. I can’t quite pinpoint what makes this book such a slow read, but if Karen Russell wanted me to feel just as exhausted as the main characters after they work their fingers to the bone to protect their theme park, then mission accomplished. It may have been by design, but that doesn’t mean it’s an effective technique.

If you want to read a story about Murphy’s Law on steroids and have the patience of a saint, I would gladly recommend Swamplandia to you. A warning to the wise: if you manage to make it towards the middle and you haven’t figured out if this is a fantasy or modern day drama book, I don’t blame you. The only reason why I know it’s labeled “Magic Realism” is because I looked it up on Wikipedia. Maybe the genre confusion is all part of the suspense. That would have been a great tactic if the suspense wasn’t reserved for the near-end of the book. A mixed grade goes to Karen Russell’s debut novel. Will I ever pick up another Karen Russell book again? I haven’t decided yet.

Medusa

VERSE 1
The eyes of Medusa turn you to stone
Chilling your skin right down to the bone
For all of your sins, it’s too late to atone
The palace gates are your brand new home

CHORUS
Snakes for hair, ice for a heart
Demonic flesh for body parts
Look at her face, it’s time to embrace
Your final fate in this human race

VERSE 2
The fangs of Medusa chew through your throat
Spilling your blood and guts in the acidic moat
The tongue of Medusa says her goodbyes
As she glares at you with those devilish eyes

CHORUS
Snakes for hair, ice for a heart
Demonic flesh for body parts
Look at her face, it’s time to embrace
Your final fate in this human race

HOOK
She’s the twenty-first century heartbreaker
She’ll lead you straight to the undertaker
Into the hands of your own damn creator
How much will it take for you to hate her?

VERSE 3
The soul of Medusa is empty and frozen
She is the one that you’ve clearly chosen
Seduced into a life of poverty and hell
You don’t have the urge to kiss and tell

EXTENDED CHORUS
Snakes for hair, ice for a heart
Demonic flesh for body parts
Look at her face, it’s time to embrace
Your final fate in this human race
The underworld gods are laughing
The hellhounds’ claws are slashing
Was any of this lust worth it in the end?
Be sure to give her your regards to send

Chehalis Memoir

Somewhere between 2007 through 2009 when I was holed up at Western Washington University in a cloud of lonely depression, I wrote a piece of creative nonfiction called “Go Bearcats”, where I lament the time I spent in Chehalis because I had lots of friends then. Fast forward to 2011 and I write a piece of creative nonfiction called “The Jennifer Conspiracy”, where I wonder why the hell I would ever miss that rundown place due to the even worse time I had in my freshman year of high school. Forget friendship, because there were a hell of a lot more enemies back in those days. Being alone in my dorm room with nobody to talk to from 2007 to 2009 was better than being verbally abused from 1999 to 2000. It’s just simple logic. I bet you’re expecting me to write an entire book about my experiences in Chehalis and make millions while exploiting my own heartache. Truth is, there isn’t much to tell that hasn’t already been told about the small town of Chehalis. Everybody who’s been there knows how bad the bullying situation is. Everybody who’s gone to Chehalis Middle School in the mid-90’s knows how disgusting the desks are because of all the graffiti on them. Everybody who’s taken a sex ed class from any school the city has knows that abstinence therapy is full of shit. Knowing everything we know about this black hole of a city, it should come as no surprise that people who want to get away from it all venture toward Olympia, the capital city of Washington. If they can’t afford the gas for a whole road trip, they usually go to the Matrix Coffeehouse to see a local band and eat hippie food. Do you know why The Matrix is a good place to escape to (given the 1999 movie of the same name, I tried not to laugh at that last statement as well)? Do you know why many flock to Olympia to get the hell out of Chehalis? Those same people know that Chehalis needs two things in order to improve: more diversity and less religion. White rednecks and brown Mexicans are two separate races that occupy Chehalis (hehe, I said Occupy Chehalis), but it’s not enough to be considered a diverse area. If anybody from another race even peeks from behind the corner, they get bullied. Hell, if you’re not 110% like everybody else in some way, shape, or form, you get picked on by the masses. Contrary to popular belief in Chehalis, God will not help you. Trust me, I’ve tried asking for his help when I was a freshman. Didn’t work. Surprise, surprise, puppy surprise. Too much religious conservatism and not enough diversity of ideas. If you want to know what would be included in a Chehalis memoir (preferably written by someone who is an A+ student somewhere other than there), this would be it. Poverty, racism, bigotry, ignorance, and maybe some inbreeding. If you ever ask me to talk about my memories of Chehalis in person, don’t expect an elaborate answer. What happens there deserves to be buried forever in that solemn graveyard. Who knows? There’s a graveyard on a hillside on the far end of town, maybe you’ll find a good memoir there.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“She said, ‘I can’t take this place. I’m leaving you behind.’ She said, ‘I can’t take this town. I’m leaving you tonight.’”

-Green Day singing “Letter Bomb”-