Author: Dennis O'Neil

Dennis O’Neil: Tribes

Be prepared

And be careful not to do

Your good deeds when there’s no one watching you…

Tom Lehrer, Be Prepared

Back about a half-century past, when the streets of New York were grimy and enchanted and I first tiptoed into the supply side of popular culture, I would occasionally ride the subway to alien parts of the city to socialize with science fiction fans. Nice folk, these were. Sometimes they’d ask me about the science fiction books I was reading – and I read a lot of them in those days – and we’d chat. But, I eventually wondered, why weren’t they reading the stuff that I was? Didn’t they identify themselves as science fiction fans?

My memory is, as always, hazy, but I think I finally decided that what they called fanac had become more important than the fiction that had originally inspired it. The clubs, the meetings, and amateur publications – fanzines, of course – and the conventions occupied their leisure minds and the genre that was identified with the fanac – fan activity, as you have by now guessed – had a lesser place in their concerns. It was useful – it provided a reason for the gatherings and magazines – but the fanac was the thing. Fandom took on a life of its own and there was nothing wrong with that.

Much, much later, when I was seeing socially a lovely young woman who was part of that world (and whom I should have treated way better, and if she’s reading this, I apologize) I realized that fanac served noble purposes: it gave the participants private mythologies to share and elaborate; it gave them a social sphere in which to meet and sometimes mate like-minded others; it gave them places to go and things to do. In short: it gave them a tribe.

I remembered my fanacking friends and their tribal rites when, a couple of days ago, I read that over a thousand Boy Scout leaders were accused of sexual misconduct and their supervisors very seldom blew the whistle on them. Getting to be an old song, isn’t it? Clergymen and educators, make room on the bus for the BSA, and it’s off to hell we’ll go…

Evolution wants us to have tribes and most of us need them. The problems arise when the tribe becomes, to its leaders, more important than the reasons for which the tribe was formed: the football program is a vital part of the university and any young athletes who are harmed are collateral damage, and that is too bad; the church is God’s earthly avatar and its well-being, including its reputation, must be protected at all costs; and don’t the Scouts teach our youth proper values and skills and surely a bit of psychological damage here and there is justified by all the good…

Yeah.

Let us agree: we need tribes. But now, let us ask most earnestly: what do the tribes need?

RECOMMENDED VIEWING: The Meaning of Life – Perspectives from the World’s Great Intellectual Traditions, presented by Jay Garfield and available from The Great Courses. If you take only one philosophy course…

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases’ Wartalk

 

Dennis O’Neil: Green Arrow and Lance Armstrong

Okay, sue me. Last week I blathered on about trying to know as little as possible about movies and television shows before seeing them. So comes Wednesday, the day the new Green Arrow series, catchily titled Arrow, was to debut and what to my wondering eyes should appear, in the arts section of the New York Times, but a review of that same series. What the hell, right? I read the piece and very favorable it was, too, and later I was in front of the set, tuning it to the CW, waiting for the latest incarnation of the emerald archer. And waiting. And waiting. Because what I was seeing was two hours of programming about football.

Football?

I mulled scenarios. Somebody screwed up getting Arrow and the show scheduled to follow it to the various broadcast outlets? Something in both of them outraged some easily offended poo-bah with enough clout to kill hundreds of thousands of advertising dollars? The football lobby got the shows pulled so it could hype images of big dudes bumping into each other?

The next morning, Mari met a friend at the swimming pool she frequents. Friend told Mari how much she’d enjoyed Arrow. Friend lives in our area.

Time to get seriously paranoid. I was having an acid flashback and I only imagined I was watching sports…The universe was punishing me for not keeping faith with the ComicMix readers…

Maybe not. But then, what? As of right now, I don’t know. If any explanation of the hijacking of the archer by the gridiron mob has appeared, I missed it.

But I did see a story about another hero that appeared on the front page of the Times and jumped to the sports section. It concerned a real-life American athlete who won cycling’s most prestigious event, the Tour de France, seven times.

And doped himself for at least two of those wins and maybe more.

And pressured his teammates to use performance-enhancing drugs.

And lied.

Lance Armstrong, take a bow, and try not to moon the crowd while you’re doing it.

So I missed Arrow and that might be a bigger cause for lament than it, at first glance, seems to be. Because maybe fictional heroes are the only ones we have left. The people we once admired – priests, law-enforcers, athletes, lawyers, and especially politicians, both in and out of office – seem to have feet of clay up to their eyebrows. Admire them? Hell no. Despise them, maybe.

Green Arrow wouldn’t have done what Lance Armstrong did. Unless he was a real human being and the pressure to compete,, to win, was so great that he virtually had to use any means necessary. Then he might go seeking an affable pharmacist. You might be right behind him and I’d be there, too, holding your coat, waiting my turn.

RECOMMENDED VIEWING: The Teaching Company is my favorite business organization. Wiggly, mind-wandering me has never been easy in classrooms – unless I’m standing at the front of them professoring, in which case I enjoy them ­but I kind of like knowing things. So, with its Great Courses program, The Teaching Company fills a vacuum for me. At very modest cost, it sends me audio and/or video recordings of the teachers you wish you’d had doing what they do best. The range of courses is long and large, and most of those I’ve sampled were terrific. I particularly want to recommend Big History: The Big Bang, Life on Earth, and the Rise of Humanity. Presented by David Christian. Absolutely the best course I’ve ever taken, in or out of school.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

 

Dennis O’Neil: Arrows

So okay, we can get our superhero fix without leaving the house. (And isn’t this what we all desire? And pass the chips…) SyFy’s Alphas, which is watchable, is back doing its weekly thing and this week we’ll see the debut of Arrow, based on a character who’s been around for 71 years. I mean, of course, Green Arrow created by Mort Weisinger and George Papp and, shall we say, “inspired” by The Green Archer, first a novel by Edgar Wallace and later a movie serial, and further inspired by the success of another costumed vigilante, Batman, who was getting mighty popular along about 1941.

I know very little about the television incarnation of – let me confess – my favorite arrow slinger beyond this: the TV folk are using the character’s first origin story, which has Oliver Queen, one of those soigne millionaires who littered the pop culture of the pre-war era, shipwrecked on a deserted island and learning to be a whiz with a bow in order to survive. That’s what I know. I don’t want to know more.

We are saturated with information about our entertainments and I wonder if that doesn’t get in the way or responding to them as evolution intended. We know that this actor is feuding with that actress and they’re both mad at the producer and… I guess we can still perpetrate a willing suspension of disbelief (which your English teacher told you was vital to enjoying fiction). But maybe such suspension doesn’t come as easily as it did in the pre-information age and maybe we bring to the story expectations fostered by show-biz venues which influence, for better or worse, how we respond to what we’re being shown. Maybe it’s becoming a chore to bring to the enterprise what some meditators call “bare attention” – simply responding to, and being amused by, what’s there in front of us. As for being surprised by plot twists and the like, once a staple of light drama… good luck!

Am I blowing smoke? If I am, I’m blowing it into a fan.

I used to enjoy Mel Gibson movies. But I can’t, not any more, not after his anti-Semitic ravings and espousal of Neanderthal Catholicism, all of which was thoroughly reported in the media.

A few months ago, I saw a Batman movie. I thought it was a fine movie and I still think so. But I knew that Talia – let me confess – my favorite daughter of a maniacal mass murderer, was in the story somewhere and I kept trying to jump ahead of the screenwriters and guess exactly when she would appear who she would turn out to be. (I was wrong.) Yep, nifty flick, all right, but maybe my enjoyment of it was just a bit dimmed.

On the other hand…Marifran said that if she’d known that the cult portrayed in the fine new film The Master was based on Scientology, she would have enjoyed it more.

It is not a one-size-fits-all universe.

But, dammit, I know that there’s information about Arrow available on the net. And I’m not going near it.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

 

Dennis O’Neil: Son of Naughty Words

With apologies to my friend Martha (and more on this anon)…

Now where were we? Oh, yes. We were discussing naughty words. Last week, I mentioned that every civilization seems to have had them, though their content changed from culture to culture and even from time to time within the same culture. And the kinds of things they referred to – and still refer to – wasn’t consistent either. At one end, and forgive the pun if you dare, they refer to the stinky stuff that comes out of your alimentary canal, what television’s Dr. Oz refers to as “poop,” and at the other end, well…God or god, depending on whether we’re talking about my religion or yours. They have uses. The aforementioned Dr. Oz, on his TV show, actually recommended that they way to unwind is to shout s#%t! (I may have the gralix wrong – and note that the suitly fellows at Fox Broadcasting seem to feel that “poop” is acceptable, but “shit” would corrode the souls of the innocent.)

To a writer, they can be useful, these verbal no-nos, regardless of exactly what they are, because they’re rare. Save them for the big moments and then, when you drop the bomb, you get your audience’s attention and they indicate that whichever character uttered them is seriously disgruntled.

There’s an analogy to violence here. Once, in what we might (smirkingly?) call “classic dramaturgy,” violence was used to relieve tension or, again, to indicate that a character’s more than just upset. Now – it’s often just screen clutter. We’ve all seen what I think of as video game movies, in which the good guy slaughters evildoers in wholesale lots, faceless cannon fodder who exist solely to be slaughtered and demonstrate the hero’s aptitude for mayhem. Exciting as watching a faucet drip? Well, no. The stuff involves movement and noise, both of which we’re wired to respond to, but the prevalence of these scenes deprives writers of the earlier uses of extreme action.

Same with the words. If “fucking” is the all-purpose modifier, it loses its capacity to signify emotion extremity.

It was once used to indicate that the speaker was either a thug or a tough guy or at least someone of low estate. But, hey, if altar boys use the word…

A screenwriter of my acquaintance observes that this is how modern people talk and if your story is to be realistic, your characters can’t sound like refugees from a Jane Austen novel. No argument. I’m just reporting, not pushing an agenda.

And what might happen if, from overuse, naughty words vanish from our vocabulary? Anyone else find that an interesting question?

Two last items: “Gralix” is what cartoonist Mort Walker, of “Beatle Bailey” fame, calls the miscellaneous symbols that stand in for ^&##$%* words he isn’t allowed to use in family newspapers.

And finally… Martha, I’m sorry I poached your turf. I wrote last week’s column before reading the very similar one you wrote recently, and first. Mea culpa...

THURSDAY: The aforementioned Martha Thomases!

 

 

Dennis O’Neil: Naughty Words!

Fuck!

And now that I’ve established my bona fides, let’s get to today’s topic: naughty words.

They aren’t new, these verbal no-nos. Virtually every culture has had them, though their content, even allowing for translation glitches, is not always the same. (My doo-doo is your Number Two?) I don’t know how far back on civilization’s continuum the use and misuse of these words goes.  Did the early farmers, about thirty centuries ago, have them?  How about the hunter-gatherers?  The guys who made the cave pictures?

Maybe some of you have answers; I don’t, but I do know that ever since we homo sapiens started hanging around in cities and having politics and organized games and such, we’ve been able to let go of frustration by uttering, or shouting, some syllables that redden mom’s ears.

Even within my brief lifetime (okay, not so brief) these expletives have evolved a bit.  When I was a nipper, the word “hell,” and even more-so “damn,” were not to be uttered in polite company.  (When father spoke them from the Sunday morning pulpit, he was just doing his job – letting us know, maybe, what would happen to people inclined to use said expletives.)  And you never – and I mean never – heard them coming from screens and speakers.  (And the little sophist in the corner carps, “What about the last line of Gone with the Wind?  And I reply that the exception proves the rule and then ask, ‘Pray tell, sophist in the corner, are you a politician?’”)

Today, hell and damn are common broadcast currencies, bouncing off our living room walls even well  before ten p.m. which once marked the temporal divide between family and adult. (Did this presume that adults are not part of families?)  In some cable television venues, mostly those we have to pay extra for, nothing utterable seems to be off-limits, and even on basic cable and its cousin, broadcast TV, lips are getting a lot looser.

We’ve come a long way since Norman Mailer coined the word “fuggin” to approximate soldier dialogue in his World War Two novel, The Naked and the Dead. (I was once part of a group of sailors who were cautioned, when home on leave, not to ask granny to “pass the fuckin’ salt.”)

Does this bring us to comics?  I guess it might as well. Naughty words haven’t been used much in mainstream comics, though in the so-called undergrounds apparently anything went.  We have inched away from the time when editors and publishers were perpetually running scared, afraid to offend anyone (and good luck with that!) and thereby trigger another witch hunt of the kind that decimated the comics  business in the fifties.  How far have we inched?  I don’t know.

But it seems likely that we’ll inch further unless gents like Rick Santorum and Paul Ryan actually get the power they obviously covet.  Then?  Again, I don’t know.

But maybe the more interesting question is, should we inch further?

This horseshit will continue in a week.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

 

Dennis O’Neil’s Autumnal Time Warp

The sunshine is warm, but the air carries a tiny bite of chill. The trees are still green, except for a pioneering dogwood in the front yard, which is in the process of color changing. And our teacher friends are back at work. So is fall about to glorify the geography? Indeed.

What are we waiting for? Bundle the crowd into the car and let’s go down to he Chevy dealer’s to inspect next year’s models and after that we can go to the Ford dealer and we’ll still have time to visit the Chrysler showroom before supper. Then maybe we can stop at the soda fountain for a malt and wonder if the St. Louis Browns will ever climb out of the American League cellar…

Oooops. Time warp. I’ve been revisiting my childhood. The debut of new cars is no big event, not anymore. Oh, savvy shoppers may be aware that September is a good month to hunt the elusive bargain, but there’s not much hoopla attached to auto shopping, no balloons, no clowns, no big red signs. (The Edsel Is Here!!!) New sleds are just something that happens.

Same with television. Sure, (like a lot of you?) I scan the TV listings and make a mental note of premiers of shows I might want to sample. If we again time warp, we’ll see an era when the three networks (not counting the occasional wannabe) presented their wares pretty much simultaneously in early autumn like the car guys, and it was pretty darn stimulating to meet the folks who would keep is entertained while the snow fell. But with the coming of King Cable, shows pop up throughout the year, and some of our favorites are limited series that run in the summer. (Has anything recent been better than Newsroom?)

In the land of comics, back when comics cost maybe fifteen cents, the big moments tended to be in early summer when the oversize publications known as “annuals” graced the newsstands because, the wisdom went, readers weren’t busy during the warm months and had more time, and maybe more disposable income, for the funny books. At summer’s end, well… we got the things out and expected a slight dip in circulation. Later, when hardcover graphic novels became a factor, we had to have them almost done by September because, again nodding to conventional wisdom, we had to have the in stores by Thanksgiving to catch customers who might want them for Christmas gifts. If they weren’t ready for the printer by October, trouble was looming. In any case, autumn equaled doldrums.

I’d better quit blathering because I’ve got to get this to Mike so I can free the evening for television watching and… wait! What’s this? An unfamiliar vehicle in my driveway? What has that wife of mine been up to?

RECOMMENDED VIEWING: When Mike Gold and I initiated the Recommended Reading feature in The Question, lo those many years ago, most of my good information came from books. That’s less true now. So instead of recommending a book, let me direct you to a movie which you can rent from Netflix: Carbon Nation. Everyone should see this.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases and Living Better in Reality

Dennis O’Neil: Have A Heart

Tomorrow (as I write this) is the big day, a day as important as my birthday and for a similar reason, and yet I don’t know how to celebrate it. I don’t even know what to call it. “Lazarus Day?” That’s certainly appropriate, but it carries some lumpy baggage. “Resurrection Day?” Same problem: “resurrection” has acquired connotations I’d rather avoid.

Why the fuss over a rather undistinguished September Monday? Why do I think it deserves special notice? Well, for you, it probably doesn’t, but for me? Ten years ago, on September 10, 2002, while having lunch with Mia Wolff and her son Virgil at a restaurant in Piermont, New York, I fell off the chair and lay dead on the floor. According to Mia, I’d been talking about the afterlife and my lack of faith in it when I went down. She thought I was trying to be funny. But after a while, she looked at me and knew something was very wrong. Her call for help was answered by the restaurant’s owner, John Ingallinera, whose other job was being a New Jersey fireman. John could identify a corpse when he saw one and he knew that next door there was a portable defibrillator. He ran to get it, and with the help of Lizzie Fagan, Michael O’Shea and Bryan Holihan, put the paddles on my chest and pressed the button – three presses – and then my heart was beating and the paramedics had arrived.

I was laying in an unfamiliar bed and Marifran was leaning over me, asking if I knew what had happened to me. I didn’t and so she told me. The rest went by the book: western medicine is superb at certain tasks, and cardiac surgery is one of them. A short stay in a local hospital, an ambulance ride across the Hudson to another hospital, doctors, tests, a trip to an operating room on a gurney and… some cool looking scars and recovery.

Anything special happened while my cooling self was cluttering up John’s floor (and probably playing hell with his lunch business)? Nope. No bright light at the end of a tunnel, no disembodied entities hovering around, no long deceased relatives welcoming me to the Other Side. Just: sitting in a restaurant/lying in a hospital. Like a splice in a film.

Marifran says that maybe I had to be a believer before I could see what believers see. Okay, so we’re dealing with an economy size Catch 22 here. I can’t get the evidence I require to believe something unless I already believe it?

All right, then did the experience change me? Transform me into some kind of secular saint? Make me cherish every breath I take? I wish. But, no.

But I am grateful for these past ten, good years and I want to celebrate them. I have no memory of being born, but being reborn? A lot of that I remember and I want to cheer, to testify that, although I’m often oblivious to it, each moment is all we have.

We’ll probably think of something.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases, Neil Gaiman, Grant Morrison, Kyle Baker, Garth Ennis, Paul Pope and… Men’s Fashion?

Dennis O’Neil: We Can Be Heroes

In my moment, it’s Labor Day. (In your moment…watch me shrug.) That being so – that Labor Day reality – it seems appropriate to think of unions and a cause dear to my heart.

Unions have not been consistent, not in my limited experience. An anecdote? Right after graduating from college, my friend Don Tonelli and I went to San Francisco. No agenda, just a long ramble to somewhere we’d never been. While in the Bay Area we visited my uncle Oscar, whom I’d seen once very briefly when I was a tot, and who was the subject of a bemused mention at clan gatherings. Oscar was a marvelous old man who kept us entertained and fascinated for most of a week. Among his entertainments were stories of the early days of the unions, when he and other skilled craftsmen went to meetings in large groups, armed with rifles, defying the fat cat bosses and their goons, demanding decent wages and working conditions. Back then, unions were the good guys.

But by the time Don and I shared wonderful hours with Oscar, unions had changed. Not for the better. The story went like this: unions had been infiltrated by criminals and had becomes nests of bullies and mobsters. Pretty damn shady enterprises, all in all. We baby blue staters grouped them with society’s ills. We didn’t consider that they provided insurance plans and pension plans and sundry other benefits, including a sense of the pride in working for a living. We were young. We were slow to look at both ends of a question. And, besides, it felt righteous to be pissed off.

Lately, I’ve grouped unions with the good guys again. They are among the few sources of campaign financing that can compete in fund raising with the billionaire-favored superPACs, and so they help blue collar voices to be heard. And they still provide those benefits. Those benefits are important.

We comics guys have never had unions. The closest thing to a union in our world was the Academy of Comic Book Arts, created by a motley crew of freelancers in 1970. ACBA, as we fondly called it, didn’t attempt to negotiate with the publishers, though that was discussed at early meetings, and in the end, did little to provide those important benefits. What it did do was present yearly awards for exemplary work, and that is no small task. But those awards weren’t of much use if your kid was sick or the rent needed paying.

No unions, no benefits. Good luck.

And this brings us to my heart’s dear cause: The Hero Intiative. Which is what, exactly? Here’s a paragraph from the organization’s website:

The Hero Initiative is the first-ever federally chartered not-for-profit corporation dedicated strictly to helping comic book creators in need. Hero creates a financial safety net for yesterdays’ creators who may need emergency medical aid, financial support for essentials of life, and an avenue back into paying work. It’s a chance for all of us to give back something to the people who have given us so much enjoyment.

If you get a chance to help H.I., you should take it.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases Goes Gangnam Style

 

Dennis O’Neil: Who Are You?

You don’t exist. So I can advise or even scold you without worrying that something I say will, down the line, cause you to hide behind a therapist’s couch and whimper. (Yeah, I know that the Bhagavad Gita tells us that we have no control over the outcome of our actions. Stop showing off!)

You don’t know who you are? Okay, I’ll tell you. You’re a young comics artist (albeit a wholly imaginary one) and you’re trying to make your way – that is, get work. We’ve all been there. And someone has told you that you must establish your “brand” and you guess that this means you should make many people – hordes! armies! – aware of your existence and of the kind of work you do well. (Who’s your idol? Kirby? Kelly? Adams? Who would you pray to if you believed in prayer?) So, you suppose, you’ve got to get out there, raise your head above the foxhole (where, trust me, someone will shoot at it), clamor, shout, even grandstand like Tom Sawyer walking that fence for an admiring Becky Thatcher.

Since we can assume that you can’t afford television advertising, full page ads in the New York Times, or a great big billboard smack dab in the middle of town, you’ve got to work the internet, Get busy tweeting, Facebooking, all that cyberstuff.

But be aware that there’s a downside, here. No, not the cyberstuffing per se. Though I find such behavior slightly distasteful, believing, like other greybeards, that a gentleman does not call attention to either himself or, especially, his achievements, there is considerable precedent for tooting one’s own horn in the arts. I mention Walt Whitman, Mark Twain and Freddy Nietzsche and invite you to complete the list.

But here’s what I wonder: Do you have enough time for both the self – promotion and the learning of your craft, particularly the storytelling aspects? (We know that you’re already a maestro of the number two pencil and the india ink bottle.) That can be tricky, that storytelling, and while it’s not rocket science, it is something that should be thought about and practiced. If a course is available in your area, take it. If not, find some books – and look at how your favorite predecessors managed the job. And will you have time to do that learning and still bask in the glow of the computer screen? You can network and tweet until your fingerprints vanish and you can tell yourself that your just doing your job.

The basking puts your own ego at the center of the enterprise, which is where the ego loves to be. What should be there is the work. The late, great Alfred Bester said it best: “Among professionals, the job is boss.”

I think that one reason our legislative apparatus is so shabby is that to acquire public office you’ve got to be a full time politician – that is, a good politician – maybe the most ego demanding of professions and one that requires a different skill set from being a wise and just governor. It’s a treacherous and vastly complicated world out there and to make decent laws for it you should be curious and well – read, anxious to be of service, and willing to learn, and not merely a gladhander and fund raiser with nice haircut.

Good politician, meet bad comic book artist.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

Dennis O’Neil: Fantasize

First, check out John Ostrander’s column, found somewhere near the stuff you’re reading, and then imagine me shouting Amen into the Grand Canyon and listen to the seemingly endless echoes and finally consider this a small gloss on John’s work.

John cites the old how-to-write chestnut: Write what you know. Okay, first a slightly snarky hypothesis that’s not intended to insult, or even question, my pedagogical colleagues, just raise the tiniest bump in the dialogue: Maybe those who teach the aforementioned chestnut write what they know because that’s all they, themselves, can write. That’s not a knock: we’re all wired a bit differently and who’s to say that a talent for writing, if talent it be, doesn’t manifest in as many different ways as, say, a talent for music? No good or bad, just different. (Who’s your fave, Mozart or Bob Dylan? Oh – lucky you! – can you dig ‘em both?)

It seemed to me, back when I was giving this kind of matter some thought, that until recently there’s been a cultural bias against imaginative storytelling. “Realistic” (note punctuation) equals good: fantastic equals bad. So Hemingway is a good writer because he wrote about going down to the café in the afternoon to drink the good wine, and Bradbury is bad because he wrote about… Martians and stuff.

Second, a confession that, with any luck at all, will segue into an observation: Despite my having written 200 or so Batman stories, I have never waited on a shadowy rooftop for a heavily armed psychopath to arrive so I can give him such! a smack. I’ve never bent steel in my bare hands or changed the course of mighty rivers either, but I’ve written Superman stories. The Batman stories were easier and more fun.

Here we circle back to the chestnut. I think the reason I was more comfortable with Batman than with the undoubtedly estimable Superman has to do with writing… not what I know, but what I fantasize. Batman lives near my dreams: Superman, not so much. I’ve never daydreamed about having godlike powers – and let’s face it, Superman is a demigod, at least – but I could imagine, oh…running a marathon in 2:10? Punching out that bosun’s mate who clocked me solid at that bus stop in Cuba? We’re talking about feats that are difficult and even extraordinary – he was one tough bosun’s mate – but that are within human capabilities. Did you watch the Olympics this year?

Let’s revisit the chestnut one last time…No – let’s toss it out altogether and substitute a few words from Henry David Thoreau: Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.

Maybe Hemingway dreamed of those cafés. And Bradbury? All those wonderful Martians…

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases Flies Back

 

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