So I’m in a weird place right now, you know? I’ve just finished a rough draft for a novel. I think it’s good – or at least entertaining, which I classify as “good,” though I’ve run into plenty of other writers who draw a distinct, bold, Berlin Wall-sized line between entertaining and good. But this puts me in the position of having to wait a couple of months before I start editing it, you know? The strategy, picked up originally from inhaling Stephen King’s On Writing when I was in high school, then bolstered by dozens of other people through the years, is based on the idea that you need to put some distance between you and the thing you’ve been working on. If you try to edit it right off the bat, then you’re going to be too close to the material and won’t have the presence of mind needed to think, “Does a human who is not me understand this sentence?” 

So, then, what to do with the time between now and then? Because my fiction writing has been focused entirely on that damn book for the last, ah, two years, I don’t have any story ideas in the chamber. (Or if I do, they’re buried in a Google Keep note somewhere on my phone. I need a better system for those, because hoo boy, Keep is trash.) And yet, I don’t want to abandon my practice of writing every morning. I came perilously close to doing that last year, when I was well and truly stumped by both the book and being stuck in a personal rut, and that’s the last thing I want to deal with again. 

I thought about that earlier and recalled that the advice I keep giving people whenever they ask is consistent enough to stick in my head. I then think that, if I don’t follow my own advice, what good is it? So, that advice: Just write something every day. Doesn’t matter if it’s trash, or unpublishable, or something aping Joyce’s stream-of-consciousness in a beleaguered attempt to just keep the gears going. Just write something every day. 

So why not? 

I thought back to my publishing history on my blog, or website, or whatever this is, and how it’s been beyond sparse over the last few years. That’s partly down to the book, partly down to the horrors of the pandemic, partly down to the horrors of an emboldened and growing American fascism, and partly down to the realization that not every damn thought I have needs to be broadcast on the Internet. (That last one’s been a hard lesson to internalize. Seems like I grew up in the first generation to grow accustomed to that, and it is only through the grace of God that my LiveJournal and Xanga are lost to the aether.) But would it kill me to post occasionally? 

So what I’m saying is that I figure I’ll post a few times, here and there, maybe queue up some ideas. Maybe in doing so, I’ll have some thoughts on short stories to write, tuck away for a bit, edit, and try to get published. Cause it’s like any form of exercise, you know? The more you do it, the easier it is to branch into other things. With writing, that has – for me – typically meant that the more I get in the groove of jotting something down on paper (or bits or bytes), the easier it is to come up with other ideas. It is, I think, the only explanation for why Stephen King wrote “The Mangler.” The guy just had to write something, lest the demons in his own brain consume him. 

So what’s on my brain and what is transmittable? Well, the main thing that’s been on my brain – safely compartmentalized so I don’t forget it, but also don’t give in to depression every time I think about it – is the ongoing genocide in Gaza. I’ve spent a lot of time over the last few months thinking about how various groups have tried to mold my relationship to Zionism throughout my life. Those groups ranged from my rabbis, to youth groups, to Taglit Birthright, to the left-wing organizations I ALLEGEDLY IN MINECRAFT have worked with, to people at parties who cornered me about being Jewish and how that, obviously, means I support an apartheid state. It’s been a lot to consider and I’m not going to start going through it now – not this morning – but I think that’s going to be at least something I throw up here. I don’t have any illusions that anything I write here will sway anyone one way or the other, but I do feel like it’s worth saying something about, in some manner that I can point to and say, “I assure you, I wasn’t completely twiddling my thumbs.” 

(On the note of not completely twiddling your thumbs, you should all find organizations like Medial Aid for Palestinians or Doctors Without Borders or someone [who’s not the Red Cross, because oof] on the ground in Gaza and throw resources their way, because governments all around the world are failing Palestinians yet again.)

Of course, there’s nothing as solipsistic as blogging about something and calling out to the world, “I’m doing something!” Part of that writing exercise will, thus, be self-flagellation for not doing much more and me thinking about why I haven’t done more. I’m sure I’m going to feel real great about myself afterward and this will do wonders for my already-bleak outlook on humanity and the state of the world. Trust me, I’m as psyched as you are.

So anyway, I’m hoping that I’ll have more things pop into my head aside from bleak reflections on reality, but from such things come short stories. (Sometimes.) So I’m hopeful that something’ll pop in there.

Barring that, I’ll wade through the horror-show of Keep notes and try to find my list of story ideas that I came up with a few years ago. 

I’m writing this the morning after a momentous event. One of history’s literal greatest monsters, Henry Kissinger, died on November 29, 2023. A man whose policy advice, consultation, and naked grabs for power, wealth, and authority led to the deaths of millions and the propping up of a world structure that allows for the continued slaughter of religious and ethnic minorities has finally died. He was over 100 years old which, really, is the big shande, here. 

But this isn’t an obituary. If you want one of those, you should go read Rolling Stone’s obit which slaps. (Or this article in The Atlantic, which is more reserved, but is also good.) What this is is a brief reflection on celebrating death.

See, the last time I was this happy that someone died was when Rush Limbaugh croaked. While Limbaugh didn’t have as much of a negative net impact on humanity as Kissinger, he was a repellant human being whose on-air persona did more than we talk about to prop up America’s burgeoning fascists. It was a role he never dropped. Why? Because it made him money. 

At one point, Henry Rollins – in a podcast, I think – talked about a time when he was at one of William Shatner’s parties and Rush Limbaugh walked in the room. Rollins told Shatner that he, Rollins, couldn’t be in the same room as Limbaugh, and Shatner lectured him about separating who Limbaugh was on air from who he was as a person. It should, of course, be known that Shatner was, by all accounts, a real shithead to work with throughout his entire career. Someone who treated (treats?) people he worked with like dirt and needed to be reminded that such behavior is intolerable at every turn. (I recall at one point hearing that Michael Dorn threatened to kick his ass after Shatner was a dick to Wil Wheaton on set.)

The point being, I thought of that after Limbaugh died. I, along with a couple of other people, toasted his death. In reaction, a couple of other people I was with said that doing so was wrong and immoral, and was not much better than anything Limbaugh said or did.

We, the toasters, laughed at that.

Of course it’s better than that. Limbaugh was a terrible person and we are, in fact, allowed to rejoice at the removal of terrible people. For, you see, there are people whose continued existence makes life worse – in many cases, almost irreparably worse – for many, many people. In Limbaugh’s case, it was because he continued to provide talking points, ammunition, and ideologies for the worst kinds of people in America. He set up at least 30% of the country – based on how voting shakes out – to see their ideological opponents as less than human and only worth mocking. He did it all for money and fame and there is no way that one can argue it otherwise. The only opposing argument is that he believed in the things he was saying, and I’m not sure which is worse. 

See, here’s the thing: We live in a fundamentally unjust world. Our society – and, of course, I’m speaking of American society, though this statement broadly applies to “Western” nations – is built upon an economic and political structure that hinges upon exploitation. Regardless of what is being exploited, be it people, natural resources, or good-will, the methods and outcomes are the same. The ruling class is, more or less, incredibly stable and steadfastly opposed to bringing new people in. This does, of course, happen. Look at the Obamas as an example. When new people are brought in, they are successfully enveloped in the ruling class and become just the same exploiters as the rest of them. This is not a magical, wondrous thing: It’s just the way humans are wired.

Humans, at our genetic core, are fundamentally neurotic and set up to act as if we are on the constant edge of starvation or depravation. It takes a lot of willpower and resilience to get past that, but when faced with a downward shift in one’s status (i.e., moving from an upper to a lower class), one embraces brutality in order to retain one’s status. This is why we see on a daily basis people acting like monsters: We are all, every one of us, terrified of losing what we have and, when faced with that possibility regardless of whether or not such a possibility is realistic, we turn into crabs in a bucket. Again, this behavior can be trained out of us, but it takes a lot of time and effort. 

As long as our economic and political structure is set up the way that it is, this behavior is enabled. Capital’s stranglehold on resources and people props up this line of thought because, ultimately, it’s good for the stock market and the elite’s bank accounts. This behavior prompts the majority of Americans to go out and view themselves as consumers rather than people, to think about things in terms of scarcity of food or housing, when we walk past fruit and veg rotting on vines or in dumpsters, or when we walk past luxury condos sitting empty because of ill-placed bets on the real estate market. And every day, as we allow ourselves a wide range of excuses for allowing our worst behavior and impulses, we all prop it up. I’m not saying this to shame people, because after all, I’m typing this on a laptop that was undoubtedly created using exploited labor and, thus, I’m as culpable as everyone. I’m saying all of this to point out that our society is rotten to the very core. 

I could spend some more time talking about how we need to change that, and how changing that is possible, but I won’t. I will, though, put out a killer Ursula K LeGuin quote: “We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art, the art of words.”

Instead, I just want to say that, yes, things are bleak and unjust. 

Kissinger, to return to the point of this thing, lived to be 100 years old. He set up and encouraged mass-bombings of civilians. He tried to orchestrate coups and civil wars in Africa. He allowed genocide to happen in South Asia in the name of a convoluted plot to open China, which was, ultimately, unnecessary. He was a man without principles beyond attaining power, from a family and a time that should have taught him that power is ultimately abused to slaughter the innocent. Instead, he took the worst possible lessons: That power can and should be used at all costs, especially slaughtering the innocent, in order to prop up that power. He was a man who allowed the deeply primal human fear of change to excuse mass murder, and was celebrated by the establishment until the day he died. Probably afterwards. I haven’t looked at the New York Times yet, but I imagine their headlines are appropriately ghoulish. 

Kissinger and his cadres of psychopaths did things that resulted in vast swaths of Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam being poisoned to this day. There are decades of reporting on this, but here’s a single article from The Atlantic as a preview. Kissinger’s legacy is one of pure, unadulterated evil and all it takes to realize that is a cold, honest look at the human cost of what he did. If, as a human being, you value human life on an even plane, then you must acknowledge that. If you do not acknowledge that, then it’s time to take a hard look at what you really believe.

The world is unjust because Kissinger was celebrated his entire life. He opposed the International Criminal Court, a body in front of which he should have appeared but never did. Perhaps, sometimes, people were mean to him in public. As far as I’m aware, that hypothetical is the extent of the repercussions he suffered for mass murder. It was not enough. The world is unjust because that may have been the most he went through for everything he did.

It is in the face of an unjust world that we must take the victories where we can get them. Often, that takes the form of little pleasures. Small indulgences we allow ourselves in the course of the day to feel better about ourselves or our choices. Sometimes, the little pleasures come in the form of a reminder that, no matter how much of an evil fuck you might be, you will one day die. By dying, you may no longer hurt another person. That is what is worth celebrating. The realization that Kissinger will no longer give advice to someone in power. The realization that Kissinger will never go on to cable TV and give an asinine interview to a fawning media that will, never, bring him closer to the justice he deserved. Celebrating the death of people like him may be petty, but it is a small joy in life, a reason to go out to a pub and give someone a high five and shout “Kissinger finally fucking died!” as the Dead Kennedys’ “Holiday in Cambodia” blares from speakers. 

Talia Lavin wrote on BlueSky that there’s a Jewish saying for evil bastards like Kissinger, the opposite of righteous humans: “May his name be erased.” 

It is in these times that we owe ourselves a modicum of joy, because these deaths are a reminder that people like Kissinger are mortal. These people whose lives and impacts seem inconceivable are as flesh and blood as the rest of us. Just as they put structures up, we can take them down. It is in people’s power to work together to create a world in which an age of mass murder is forgotten, where the effects of chemical warfare are erased, and where allowing individuals such huge amounts of power is inconceivable.

Celebrating the death of such people is a reminder that their names can be erased and replaced with things much better.

So yeah, go out there and toast to the death of Kissinger. Or better yet, donate to the International Refugee Assistance Project, or organizations that clear land mines from Cambodia, or – more news-relevant – Medical Aid for Palestinians. Do something to try and offset the pure evil that people like Kissinger put out into the world. It’s your duty as a human being.