The kindest person I ever met was a drunk Irishman on a street corner late one night in June, 2005.
I remember it so well because it was just a day or two after my best friend, Sal, had died. Sal, who was only 18 years old, had been feeling sad and confused. I knew this because I talked to him just the day before he died. The next night, Sal took his father’s .22, pressed the barrel to his forehead and pulled the trigger. It was two weeks before his high school graduation.
I’ve been having these really weird dreams lately, and I figured I’d share them here. What’s a blog for if not TMI, right?
In my dream, I’m walking down a winding spiral staircase that seems to be carved into stone. The walls are cold against my hand as I walk down the cyclonic stairs. In my other hand, I’m holding an old, gas-fueled lantern.
In his book “American Gods“, Neil Gaiman describes mead as tasting like “a drunken diabetic’s piss.” And as true as that may (kind of) be, I love mead.
I love it so much, I decided to make some.
Previously on Lost.
I remember when millions of people around the world would gather around their televisions every week, waiting to hear those words. Lost wasn’t just a TV show — it was a phenomenon. And a good one, too. People kept tuning in every week find out just what the hell was happening on that island.
The reason I bring up Lost now, months after its last episode aired, is that I received the complete series on DVD (which, as far as DVD sets go, is pretty freaking crazy), so I’ve been watching the show from the beginning. Oh, from here on out, there will be spoilers.
I am what people call a “gamer.”
That means that games are my hobby. All kinds of games — board games, card games, dice games and table-top RPGs. But my real love is video games.
Here it is, the first real post on the blog. For my first interview, I spoke to William Wheeler, one of World War II’s original Tuskegee Airmen. I had spoken to Wheeler for a previous story and loved talking to him. I also thought it would be a good place to start in light of February being Black History Month.
Unlike most people at the time, when William Wheeler signed up to fight in World War II, he hated America.
A black man growing up in Detroit in the 1930s, Wheeler was subject to prejudices that he couldn’t believe, let alone tolerate.