Punching Jesse Ventura in the Face

Clint Eastwood's adaptation of Navy SEAL Chris Kyle's 2012 memoir, "American Sniper" was released on Christmas Day, 2014. Why anyone who go an see such a depressing thing on Christmas is beyond me. As if the suicide rate isn't high enough during the holiday season.

Texas born and bred Chris Kyle was a burly, blue-eyed, All American serviceman and elite sniper with SEAL Team 3. He survived a four-term bit in the Iraq War, including being shot multiple times and nearly dying in at least one roadside bombing, a daily occurrence during the war's hottest years. Kyle is perhaps one of the most prolific snipers in the history of modern warfare, clocking a confirmed 160 kills. Though the number is possibly higher... especially if you believe Kyle himself.

So what does this have to do with  anything? The man's a war hero. Alright... yes... a war hero. Bingo. He accomplished something few soldiers ever could or would. He shot dead at least 160 insurgents threatening American servicemen stationed in Iraq. Or did he? He himself admitted to killing not only Kalashnikov-toting terrorists, but as well, mothers walking with there children, old men, and possibly children. All Iraqi civilians who were unlucky enough to draw the short straw that day when they crossed his cross hairs. Even more heart-rending was his own admission in his memoir that he enjoyed the killing. Driven by bloodlust and a good ol' boy's complete and utter confidence that the mission was noble and good, Chris Kyle became by far the most prolific sniper since man began hunter man with a gun.

Without the slightest bit of sarcasm, Chris Kyle admitted to enjoying his work. In his memoir he described the those he killed as "savages" and never once regretted what it was that he did. Not even conceding as so many warriors do, to his actions as terrible but necessary. After his book was published, he made multiple appearances on television news and talk shows, speaking candidly and matter-of-factly about those he killed, and his record as a sniper. He spoke about the violence he encountered, witnessed, and perpetrated like a pro talking shop. With no regret and no doubt and no reflection he never once doubted the war. He even revealed himself to be a braggart, exaggerating the number he killed and gloating about punching ex wrestler and open critic of the Iraq War, Jesse Ventura in the face. An incident Ventura denies. Kyle even claimed to have shot and killed several victims of Hurricane Katrina, though this was never confirmed.

Like any leopard, the light reveals his spots.

Perhaps the greatest casualty of war is the human heart. Those who survive, survive. Those who don't, don't. No one who experiences war comes-out the whole person they were before. It's an experience that shatters even the hardiest country boy and the toughest camp whore. It leaves a void in the psyche and in the emotional core... an emptiness in the soul that most likely is never again filled. What Chris Kyle saw... and did... in Iraq, was a horror greater than its face value. What he lost there was more than his blood and his time with family. What he lost was something more profound.

At least, we would like to believe that. The truth is more likely less than happy. Chris Kyle's darkness lived long behind his eyes. Like so many young men who live by the gun, he was not only capable of violence... he probably enjoyed it. He enjoyed leaving victims in his wake.

Like any braggart, his brag ultimately landed him a challenge. He was sued by Jesse Venture in civil court. Ventura ultimately won his suit, leaving Chris Kyle's estate on the hook for atleast half a million dollars.

In 2013, the man who saw mankind down the sight of his barrel, found himself on the other side of the bore. He was killed at a shooting range in Erath County, Texas. Shot to death by a fellow veteran whom he was attempting to help the only was he knew how to... shooting targets.

Chris Kyle was no hero. He was no winner. He was a murderer, a warrior, a liar, and a cruel narcissist. More over, he was a victim. A victim of a war, a victim of a system, and a victim of a way of life. He was victim long before Iraq. Chris Kyle was a victim, and like so many victims he left behind victims.

Thoughts about Christmas: An Op-ed

Somethings about life are unchanging. The seasons, for instance. They change, but the they only change in a cycle. So long as you live in a temperate, northerly neck of woods, you can always count on the cyclical change of atmospheric pressure. The weather gets cold, then it warms-up, then it gets hot, then cools-off again, and finally plummets back into the soul-murdering fridge of January. 

Such is the Christmas season. It comes... it goes... but it always comes back. Black Friday comes and America's shopping hordes flock to the stores where the yearly ritual of blood lust, deals on crap, and man's cruelty towards man is carried-out. We raise our synthetic trees. We festoon our homes with lights. Some are less a display and more of an explosion. We indulge in food and liquor to the limit of diabetic shock, knowing but not caring how much our asses will shake come January. We buy, and spend, and wrap, and stack beneath our trees. We give to and receive from the one's we love. That's if we have one's to love. And finally we reach that New Year, and the grey, cold morning hung-over and pickled. That day of anxious despair before we must face the cold doom of a new year... the future. 

When I was a child, the entire season was one of pleasure and anticipation. But as I grew older and found that most of what I loved most about the holiday was mostly a series of lies, I had to face the reality of Christmas for adults. That absence of magic. That emptiness. I was nine. Now I have only to find pleasure in the chores of the season. Hanging the lights. Putting the tree together. Listening to the sounds of the season. My favorite is the Phil Spector Christmas album. Indulging in the treats made by loved one. That's some mighty find fudge packing, Kim. And finally watching my programs. My two favorite Christmas flicks have to be "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and "A Christmas Story"... and maybe the "A Christmas Carol" starring George C. Scott.

Something about "A Charlie Brown Christmas" has always struck me. Perhaps the five-and-dime animation, or the wry humor, or maybe just the story of poor Charlie Brown trying to find meaning the holiday that every year seems to have less and less. I identify with Charlie Brown. I was the same way as a kid. I was too smart for my age and not particularly good at anything. It robbed me of a lot of happiness. Then again, I'm still that way as an adult. So what the fuck, life? Throw me a bone. Or at least my own Christmas special.

A Christmas Story... I fell in love with it from the time I first saw it. I think Jean Shepherd captured something about life that nobody before and probably since has been able to. I remember what it was like to be a kid... to want something THAT badly and to face the probability of failure at every turn. Poor Ralphie Parker, he could never catch a break. But he did get that gun, and he did almost shoot his eye out. As is life. The man who got what he wanted had it blow-up in his face. But he also got to enjoy Chinese duck. 

Perhaps that's what the season is all about. No matter how shitty your year has been - and as you get older, they usually get shittier - so long as you have warmth, and people, and some chinks on the table, your holiday is everything it needs to be. 

Tom G Reads: Legion

Recently, I read William Peter Blatty's "Legion". Or, maybe not read it... I devoured it; cover-to- cover, every page, in order, word-for-word. That's the sign of love in my reading experience. I don't finish most of the books I start, and rarely do I read them with so much enthusiasm and commitment. Very often, I read them out of order... perhaps it's an un-diagnosed dyslexia?  But Legion was too good. Blatty made it too easy to read this novel and to love every minute of reading this novel.

"Legion" is the sequel to Blatty's 1971 best-seller "The Exorcist". Originally, "Legion" was written as a treatment for a movie sometime in the late-1970's. The movie, however, did not come to fruition then and so Blatty reworked it as a novel. "Legion", the novel, was published in 1983, and I've had to privilege of reading a 1983 print of the book.

Set in the Georgetown area of Washington D.C., Legion centers around Lieutenant William Kinderman, the supercilious, wry homicide detective from "The Exorcist", as he investigates a string of bizarre murders fitting the MO of a long-dead serial killer, explores the nature of evil and divinity, and finds that he is dangerously close to the homicides.

Like almost all of his work, both in film and literature, William Peter Blatty injects a wry wit and dark humor into this work, which, like "The Exorcist" is filled with the most entertaining, enlightening, and engulfing conversations between some very believable characters. One can tell that Blatty knows the setting and content well and he treads them with an abundance of verisimilitude. He manages to make the most far-out plot totally convincing. You can feel the cold of March. You can feel the damp weariness of these characters. You can picture the pale, ambient light of colorless hospital corridors. You can picture shadowy, oak paneled Catholic spaces.

There is, however a very surreal quality to Legion that I enjoyed thoroughly. Like "The Exorcist", Blatty takes the reader to the edge of a dark and bottomless chasm and lets us peer in. The corridors of the book's hospital are stalked by something of a malevolent nature. Like the demon from "The Exorcist", this specters watches... it sees... it prays.  It sees the inner world of those who confront it and uses it like a weapon and a sign. It inhabits the shattered and uses the useless at a weapon. But like The Exorcist, Blatty never confirms or denies or suspicions. He tells us what we wan to hear but plants seeds of doubt in our mind, He lets us look into the abyss and judge for ourselves.

As much as I love this book, and would read it to my kids before bedtime... if I had kids... I must say that I feel that the plot is a little unbalanced. The antagonist of the book is only really revealed to us in the last quarter of novel. He's not even hinted-at before then. There is only an unknown entity that may or may-not be human committing this series of ritualized murders. Blatty just sort-of drops the reveal on us out of nowhere. And while I understand the need to build mystery and suspense behind the reveal, I feel that it doesn't work as well in a book as it might in a short-story or a film.

Given all, I must say that I recommend "Legion" to anybody looking to read a solid, well-written, dark, intelligent novel. As a writer, I highly respect Blatty's use of the medium. He doesn't describe every little thing. He explores the unknown and the unknowable and forces us to face it ourselves. He forces us to turn-on our minds, our imaginations, and our hearts.

Tom G Reviews: Silent Hill 2

Happy Halloween, Peeps and Peepettes. It's that time of the years once again. When the dark crap I immerse myself in all year long is actually seasonable instead of just morbid. This time we're doing something different. This time we're looking at a video game.

Now, I'm by no means ANY kind expert when it come to video games. But I've played them and I enjoy the one's that I enjoy. I also no a thing-or-two about horror and psychology. Not that I'm any kind of expert. Tonight's creeping journey into darkness is a 2001 game that combines the three in what can possibly be considered one of the best horror games thus far. Tonight, we'll be looking at "Silent Hill 2".

Produced by Konami, "Silent Hill 2" follows protagonist, James Sunderland, as he follows the trail of a mysterious letter written by his now deceased wife across and into the heart of Silent Hill, an abandoned, fog-blanketed American Town. You play as James, finding clues, solving puzzles, and surviving the many grizzly manifestations that infest Silent Hill. As you progress and as you go deeper... literally... the story of James and why he had come here unravels.

Silent Hill 2 is the follow-up to 1999's "Silent Hill". And while I've never played the first game, I've seen enough of it to know that the sequel takes what worked about the first game and brought it to another level. And while it lacks action, Silent Hill 2 more than makes-up for it in atmosphere, story, character development, and a sheer psychological plunge. The Silent Hill series is notable for its use of surrealism and psychological manipulation. Silent Hill is very much a reflection of the protagonist in each game. The environments and the ghouls that inhabit them are arguably more figurative than "real".

The Silent Hill of Silent Hill 2 is James Sunderland. Instead of exploring a tangible place, he is exploring himself and his reason for being there. From a vacant apartment building to a blood-splattered hospital and even into the depths of a nightmarish labyrinth... into the maw of hell itself, the darkness you (James) will encounter is the darkest imaginable. James will face an abyss where he'll see nothing but himself.

Silent Hill 2 is also noteworthy because of its antagonists. Creative, grizzly, surreal, and disturbing, Silent Hill 2's cast of ghouls and spunkies ranges from a chubby glutton on a hair-trigger to the most menacing manifestations of sexual frustration, guilt, and violence.

Silent Hill 2 does the same thing that the franchise is renowned for and that very few video games will do or do successfully. Silent Hill 2 obliterates the line between real and unreal. Does James explore a forgotten place or does he explore a dreamscape? Are those he encounter real, or are they just memories of the past? Is the terror he faces a threat, or is it no more than a reflection of himself?

Silent Hill goes to the very core of horror. To the genre's atomic structure. No place is scarier than that place inside the self.

Japanese Happiness Soup

Robin Williams died recently. He committed suicide in his home, alone, he was 63 years old. At least that's the word on the news. Apparently he struggled for years and years with addiction, he also struggled with depression... probably for much longer. One could always picture him doing himself in. He was the type, after-all; a blazingly intelligent, manically comedic, tremendously talented performer who could conjure hilarity and heartbreak in the same role. There was a humanity in his performances that nobody could ever fake, not even himself. A humanity that only comes from within. In interviews with the likes of James Lipton and others, one could tell that Robin Williams struggled to fake a kind of Hollywood superficiality. He was a real person, even when he played a role.

Robin Williams ended his life as so many comedians do, either intentionally or not. It's been speculated that Laughter is mankind's original coping mechanism. So what does that say about comedy? What pain and insecurity can drive comedy, especially when it becomes a person's career? What happens when you can't laugh anymore? Where does the funnyman find solace? Where he find cover from him, or her, self? The late John Belushi probably fell victim to the same. He was a master of laughs but could not cope with himself, so he found shelter in excess that ultimately killed him. Ironically enough, Robin Williams (a close friend of Belushi) was one of the last people see him alive on that day in 1982. John Belushi's death supposedly convinced him to go cold turkey and fight-on, which he did until Monday.

Contrary to popular belief, suicide is not a short-term crisis. Normally the idea sparks many years in advance and as one grows older and rambles on through life it either diminishes or blossoms and grows up the walls of the heart and mind and becomes realer and realer. In short, people seldom commit suicide because of one bout of depression or one major letdown. It's a long build-up of a lot of little things. Little disappointments, little addictions, little things that people say, the sun growing a little dimmer everyday. Most likely, the pain and disillusion that made Robin Williams so brilliantly funny and so humane both on stage and in life is most certainly what he could no longer handle.

According to the latest statistics, Lithuania has the highest rate of suicide in world at 28.6 cases per 100,000 people. South Korea is second at 26.3 cases per 100,000 people. China and India beat-out Japan. Of course Japan is the best known country for suicide. Aokigahara, or "Suicide Forest", is a 30-odd kilometer expanse of forest at the base of Mount Fuji known as a hot spot for suicides. People go in and never come out. It's a problem that the Japanese seldom address, either because they consider suicide a legitimate way out or because it is simply too negative to think about. Japanese thinking strives towards happiness. Suicide isn't happy.

All anyone can do is talk about it. Unlike the advice of certain doctors named Phil, nobody can stop a suicide. There's no jumping into action, family intervention, or breakthrough moments. People will do as they will do, for better or for worse. All we can do is talk about it, and think about it, and talk about it some more. All we can do for those who struggle is to be there and to listen. All we can do is remember the laughs they left us with.

Jimmy Hoffa, the Mafia, and Morbid Curiosity...

It's been 39 years since Teamster Union Leader and folk anti-hero, Jimmy Hoffa, went missing. It was a balmy summer day in 1975 when Jimmy Hoffa told his wife that he was going to meet a friend at a Detroit area restaurant, got into his Pontiac Grand Ville, drove off and was never seen again. It's one of the most famous missing person cases in the history of the world.

Now, he was most definitely murdered by enemies... or possibly friends... among the nefarious and notorious cast of characters whom he had developed ties with over many, many years in the labor movement. There are a million theories as to who killed him, why he was killed, how he was killed, where the body is or isn't, and some speculate that he wasn't killed at all. Some theories make more sense than others, and many make no sense at all. A death scenario was portrayed in Danny DeVito's 1992 film, "Hoffa", in which he is killed in this extremely elaborate plot involving, ironically, a semi truck. Now while it was well shot and interesting to watch, Hoffa's death was most likely FAR less poetic.

Over the many decades, a number of Teamster officials have been murdered and disappeared, but none have gained the attention that Hoffa's death has. There was something about Jimmy Hoffa -- who had gone to federal prison and upon his release found that he had been ousted by his own following -- that fascinated people, and his death tantalizes, even to this day, that dark place in the psyche. This, despite the fact that if we knew how he died, we would probably be repulsed.

Part of Hoffa's legend, aside from the fact that he broke heads on the picket lines and faced-off against Prince Kennedy, is that he played with demons. He had ties to organized crime syndicates. His legend is part of the larger, greater myth. That myth of bootleggers and silk-suit clad urban bandits... the Mafia. There's a morbid place in our psyche that attracts us to the idea of the Mafia, despite that is really is -- if it ever really existed -- less "The Godfather" and more of a twisted urban feudalism. The idea of living beyond normal society and its rules is a turn-on for some. A social order driven by personal relationships and money, and defined by a swift and brutal sense of justice can lure our imaginations and entice our dark side. Hoffa was part of that legend and that world, and I think that ideal even enticed him... despite reality.

People, even flag-waving federalists, are inspired by the legends that form around certain kinds of folks. Just as some countries have their legends of poet warriors and ravishing damsels, America has cowboys and gangsters. It was an idea about Hoffa, just like an idea about Al Capone, or an idea about Billy the Kid that cemented him into the consciousness. The truth about people, especially dashing, daring, fearless people, is often far less romantic and far more heartbreaking than the man of faith can bare. And it is true that we see what we want to see and we hear what we want to hear.

So, the FBI looks and listens for tips as to where Hoffa's body is. They dig holes and file reports and come-up with nothing. Not many personalities could lure the FBI into chasing phantoms. Hoffa's legend endues, even after his body is long gone. Calcium oxide (quicklime) can destroy the flesh, but it can't destroy the idea and the imagination.

Rest In Peace, Rockford

For those of you who haven't heard, James Garner, the actor who played (among MANY roles) Jim Rockford on the TV series, "The Rockford Files" died on July 19th. I could talk about Garner's career widely, but "The Rockford Files" is his performance I know best, as well, I just feel like talking about "The Rockford Files".

For those of you who are too young to remember "The Rockford Files", let me just give a sketch. "The Rockford Files" was a weekly episodic crime/action series that ran on NBC from late 1974 until about January of 1980. The show focused on ex-con, Jim Rockford (James Garner), a private investigator in Los Angeles. Episodes usually involved Jim getting hired by some desperate client who couldn't pay him but because he was a nice guy, he always helped them out. Jim's clients usually needed his help because they were being chased by some drug dealers, Mafiosi, white collar criminals, government spooks, the police, jealous lovers, and sometimes all of the above. Each week, Jim used his street smarts and PI skills to find, elude, confuse, entrap, and ultimately overcome the rogues gallery that troubled his clients.

Tough crime and investigation-oriented shows were  pretty popular in the 1970's. For instance, you had Columbo, McMillan, McCloud, Cannon, Streets of San Fransico, Baretta, and so on. And while all of those were good, solid shows in their own rights, The Rockford Files broke the mold. What all of the previously mentioned shows had in common is that their protagonist(s) was/were always law enforcement. There were always the good guys with the badge, following the television dogma established by shows like The Untouchables and later, Dragnet and Adam 12. Jim Rockford was no law enforcer. He was a wrongfully convicted ex con who often butted heads with the police and the FBI when chasing goons around LA's seedy underbelly. In fact, lawmen were often portrayed as misinformed, incompetent, and even antagonistic (bad) on The Rockford Files.

The Rockford Files wasn't a procedural. It was "Noir". Think of those movies from the 30's and 40's but in double-knit polyester. Every week, Jim was in the middle. He took-on cases not knowing if he would get paid, laid, arrested, or killed. And as much as Jim complained about the money, he did what was right. And I think that was James Garner's real gift to the character. Rockford was a sly, cynical smart-ass, but he was above all human and decent. And really, that's the greatest challenge ANY actor faces, especially in television. How to make this fiction seem real? Garner somehow did it. Week-after-week, that hackneyed gumshoe didn't seem so hackneyed. He was often neurotic, frustrated, cheap, and regularly got the shit-kicked-out of him. Rockford wasn't Sam Spade... he was the guy next door.