Half a Foot Between the Halo and the Noose.

We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the world, a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not just whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us. No redeeming social value. Just whores. Get out of our way, or we'll kill you. Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having all this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush? They are the same ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American character. They are the racists and hate mongers among us; they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down the throats of these Nazis. And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them.

~Hunter S. Thompson, 2004.

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Just finished a mediocre book by best-selling author Wally Lamb. An underwhelming read indeed. The book is called "The Hour That I First Believed", or something like that. I can't remember. This fictional novel explores the massacre at Columbine High School in 1999, and the aftermath of it for those left behind. Sounds like the basis for a challenging, touching and searing narrative. Don't be fooled.

I suppose that being endorsed by that corporate sink-hole, Oprah Winfrey, has helped Wally Lamb with the sales of his books to at least the tune of a few million copies. Probably many more. But is that the point, or the antithesis of being a writer? Would it feel better to have sold millions of copies of a book that has no characters - protagonists or otherwise - who are genuinely endearing? A story that fate threw up like a floating, looping pitch in a baseball game, which instead of swinging out of the park for a home run, you edged away for a foul ball? You still get the kudos and the cash, because you do - after all is said and done - have a novel that is part of "Oprah's Book Club". Whoop-dee-doo.

Or would it feel better to have written a book that is truly what you set out to make? I don't know Wally Lamb, or anything about the man, but I can't get my head around the idea that he could truly be happy with this colourless, pedestrian pap. The Columbine Massacre is a true tragedy. The actions of Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris were sick, depraved and sadistic. The lives of the victims, and the lives of many others that were claimed in the aftermath of their actions - through PTSD and other haunting afflictions - deserved better than what was served up by Wally Lamb and his publishers, editors and agents. If you are going to use a tragedy that was world-wide news as the basis for a novel, you had sure as hell better make it a good one.

But Wally, you failed, mate. You did no such thing. You exploited the memories of the deceased, and sullied the lives of those people trying to get on with theirs in the wake of that horrid day. You wrote a shithouse book, with shithouse characters. You used the ghosts of that April, 1999 day to script a novel with no true heart, and even less soul. You sold out. But I guess those royalty cheques and other monetary endorsements will ease any guilt you might feel. Not to mention the sycophantic ravings of literary douchebags like Oprah Winfrey and the legions of equally vacuous housewives who will buy your book at Oprah's behest. I guess you saw those two psychopaths as your ticket to a more financially secure future. Congratulations to you.

Then again, I could easily be wrong. Maybe Wally Lamb is simply an average writer who struck a rich vein of luck. It could be that he is just so damn good that the likes of me miss the subtleties, the nuances of his writing. I doubt it though. I'm guessing he's just one of those people in life that manage to find a way around the pitfalls to get to success. I suppose I can't begrudge you that, Wally. That would be ungracious of me, and I would rather not be known like that. Either way, I wish you luck, Wal. Here's hoping your next effort eclipses your last.

Oh, what fun. I should become a critic. What a soul-destroyingly inviting vocation that beckons as. But enough. I finally shaved my head today, and it don't look half bad. I am used to it already, strangely enough. The beard remains affixed to my face though, thankfully. I am loathe to rid myself of this beautiful display of testosterone. Hot damn, this facial hair thing is good fun.

What a beautiful summer day today. Took the little bro and little cousins to the lake for their first taste of the spot. To my utter dismay, the tree I spent my teenage years throwing myself out of has been cut down and cast into the lake like some piece of trash. Rich people must have some part of their wiring all out of whack. If I owned some flash lakeside property on land that was unlawfully commandeered by settlers in the early days of our country's history, I would want as many jump-out-of-able trees as I could get.

But maybe I don't know enough about being rich to understand the beauty of a fallen tree. Yeah, that's probably it. I mean, c'mon. I grew up on the shores of a lake surrounded by family. I spent many of my formative years living in a designated Maori Village. My mother often struggled to make ends meet when her DPB barely stretched far enough to cover the costs of raising, feeding, clothing and educating two small boys without a husband or father there to contribute a pay cheque. But she was probably just lazy. I mean, I was at kindergarten before she finally got her shit together and went back to work. Damn, those solo mums sure are a burden on society.

Or at least that is what our current government would have you believe. Them, and people like the ones who cut down our beloved tree. I bet they all feel the same. Cut down those things that you can't control, or who don't contribute to your sense of what society needs. Ah, what a glorious rant. What a fun day it has been. The waters of the lakes, man. They're where it's at.

What was your favourite nursery rhyme growing up?