A very happy birthday to F. Scott Fitzgerald, the roaring writer who partied like Gatsby.  Scott was one of my favorite literary hellraisers whose life pretty well mirrored the decadence and drama of his novels.  Born on this day in 1896, Fitz didn’t just write about the Jazz Age; he almost embodied it with reckless abandon.

First off, he had one of the more chaotic romances in literary history (which is not exactly known for its stable romances…a lot of them seem to end in gunfire) with Zelda Sayre.  Their relationship was the stuff of literary legend, filled with passion, drama, and enough public fights to fuel to make most current tabloid headline stars look like amateurs.  Zelda was Scott’s muse, partner-in-crime, and co-star in his escapades.  Together, they were the original celebrity couple, turning heads and bring The Ruckus wherever they went.  Zelda once interrupted a ballet performance, demanding to dance onstage.  Yeah, she was that kinda chick.

Fitzgerald didn’t just write about the high life; he lived it with a passion that rivaled his characters.  He was known for his extravagant parties, where the only rule was that there were no rules.  Like an early (and far more tame) version of Diddy’s White Parties.  The couple would crash pool parties, dancing till dawn, and driving through the streets of Paris like they were in the 1920’s version of The Fast and the Furious.  Fitzgerald once jumped into the fountain at New York’s Plaza Hotel.  Because that’s what writers do, goddamnit.

Of course, as is usually the case, underneath the hard-partying persona was a writer of extraordinary depth and talent.  The Great Gatsby wasn’t just a novel…it was a mirror reflecting the rise and fall of the American Dream.  It wasn’t as well-received as it should have been when it was first published, it has since become a timeless classic exploring things like longing, wealth, and the pursuit of something more in a particularly American way.

For all his success, Fitz’s life had plenty of struggle.  He was an alcoholic, which alcoholism often fueled his reckless behavior, and despite his fame, he seemed to be broke a lot of time.  He spent his final years in Hollywood, trying to break into the film industry.  But, as I have pointed out before, the artist thrives in conditions of adversity, and so even in adversity, Fitz penned some of his most poignant work.  Again, because that’s what writers do, goddammit.

Cheers, dear reader.

N.P.: “Move” – Prototyper

It is time for us to do what we have been doing and that time is every day.  ~ Kamala Harris

Hot damn, dear reader…today is the first day of Fall.  This fills my heart with joy.  If the seasons were a weekend, Fall would be my Friday: once you get through the first half, you can use the second half to go raise hell.  And once it ends, you’ve still got Saturday (Winter) and Sunday (Spring) yet to come.  It’s a great time of year on the Gallaway calendar.

I’m also glad to see the arrival of Fall because this entire summer, I’ve been in a bit of a funk.

It was already pissing me off in May, and it’s only seemed to alleviate in the last week or so.  I think I’ve pinned down the cause(s), but that’s pretty irrelevant: the last few months have been a frustrating pain in the hole.

It’s put the writing a bit behind schedule, but if I keep having weeks like last week, I’ll be caught up in no time.  At our recent planning meeting, we got the everything scheduled for the next two years.  It is a rather audacious plan, admittedly, but if I can implement it effectively…it will be glorious, dear reader.  The next six weeks will be telling.  My plan is to just keep my head down and grind.

Things you should know about September 22: on this day in 1791, British physicist, chemist, and all-around badass Michael Faraday was born.  The first issue of National Geographic was published in 1888 (see Gen Zers, there used to be these things called magazines….).  September 22 was also the end of the Salem Witch Trials in 1692, with the last executions taking place on this day.

N.P.: “Heavy Boots” – Dalbello

We are the United States because we are united.”  ~ Kamala Harris

Today is, at long last, the final day of summer.  Good riddance!  Enough of this ridiculous heat!  To be honest, dear reader, the summers are getting less impactful and torturous, and this year was decidedly so, despite actual temperatures were higher than previous summers.  This has nothing to do with any acclimation on my part, nor does it have anything to do with any climate change nonsense, but can be directly attributed to the grotesque perception of the speeding up of the passage of time in my wine-dark psyche.  The summers here used to be so completely wretched simply because they used to last an eternity.  Now that weeks are passing as days used to, months are passing as weeks once did.  So three-month summers that used to last an eternity now pass in what used to be a month.  So even though July was intolerable by any metric, with more consecutive 100+ days than I can ever remember, this entire summer flew by relatively painlessly.  Which is great, except for the reason that my perception of the passage of time is changing significantly as I get older.

Today not just significant meteorologically, but also literarily.  September 21st is a day when the literary starts align and open the portal to some pretty fantastical worlds and historical escapades.

First up, we have the original “time traveler” himself, H.G. Wells, born in 1866.  Wells practically invented the “what if?” genre, taking us away to Martian invasions and time machines.  Most of us would have been satisfied having written “The War of the Worlds” and “The Time Machine,” but not Wells.  He penned a lesser-known but awesome novel called “The Island of Doctor Moreau,” which would go on to be made into a movie in 1977, which movie I saw in the theaters as parr of a double-feature with something called “She-Beast” as the second feature during a grade-school slumber party.  Also, Wells totally predicted the Internet.

Fast forward to 1947, when the world welcomed Stephen King, for better or for worse.  With classics like “Carrie,” “The Shining,” “The Stand,” “Salem’s Lot” and “It,” King has made us all a little more cautious about prom nights, isolated hotels, and red balloons.  Then in 1999, King was walking on the shoulder of a road in Maine when he was run over by one of those wretched Dodge Caravans.  As happens with all authors who are run down by minivans, King was reduced from a horror-literature powerhouse to an insufferable twat who is now content to express his oddly womanly opinions on social media.  Alas.

On a more upbeat note, today we also remember Sir Walter Scott, the granddaddy of historical novels, who bowed out of this world on this date in 1832.  Scott wrote books about chivalry and adventure, namely “Ivanhoe” and “Rob Roy”, which you likely didn’t read unless you were an English major.  But you should have: they were damn fine books.  Despite financial woes and health struggles, Scott never stopped writing (the true artist thrives in conditions of poverty and suffering).  He finally died from a series of strokes.  His health, as just mentioned, had been declining for some time, exacerbated by the stress of the financial difficulties (also mentioned supra) and his relentless work schedule.  Despite his ailments, Scott continued to write and manage his affairs until his condition worsened, leading to his passing at his home in Abbotsford, Scotland.

In summary, a very happy birthday to H.G. Wells, finger to Stephen King, and pour some out for Sir Walter Scott.  Alright…enough of this bilge, dear reader…time to get back to work.

N.P.: “Crazier” – Numan and Rico

Let’s come together with the character that we are so proud of about who we are.  ~ Kamala Harris

A double-barrel of literary birthdays today, dear reader!  Today, we celebrate the birthdays of Upton Sinclair, who entered the stage in 1878, and George R.R. Martin, who graced us with his presence in 1948.  Both men gave us stories that linger in our minds, albeit for very different reasons.

We’ll start Upton Sinclair, shit-disturber extraordinaire.  His most famous work, “The Jungle,” published in 1906, shone (shined?) a light on the meatpacking industry that would lead to the passage of the Pure Food and Drug Act and the Meat Inspection Act.

Fun fact: Sinclair ran for governor in California, promising to “End Poverty in California.”  He didn’t win.  As an apparently permanent resident of this shithole, I kinda wish he had.

But never mind that.  Fast forward several decades, and we have the man who brought White Walkers and political intrigue to our living rooms: George R.R. Martin.  Born in 1948, Martin is obviously best known for “A Song of Ice and Fire,” which, I don’t need to tell you, informed reader, inspired HBO’s “Game of Thrones.”

Where Sinclair showed us the gritty reality of industrial American, Martin introduced us to the equally cutthroat world of Westeros, where winter is always coming and weddings are never boring.

Happy birthday, gentlemen.

N.P.: “Walkin’ Shoes” – Tora Tora

We are expanding access to transportation. You need to get to go and need to be able to get where you need to go to do the work and get home.  ~ Kamala Harris

A very happy birthday to William Golding, an author who could unravel the human psyche with as much finesse as a tiger unraveling a ball of yarn.  His was the first significantly anti-Disney voice I was exposed to, and I ate it up.  I knew Disney was full of shit.  I knew their version of the world was, entertaining to little children as it may be, was moronic bullshit.  So when Golding came along with the question, “What happens when you leave a bunch of kids alone on an island?” and his answer was not s’mores and campfire songs and everybody getting along and living happily ever after, I was on board.

Golding’s magnum opus, “Lord of the Flies,” wasn’t just a book; it was a rite of passage in high school.  That book didn’t just explore the darker side of human nature…it built a summer home and started receiving mail there.  The story of stranded boys descending into tribalism and chaos scratched a lot of psychological itches…at least for me.

Contrary to contemporary opinion, Golding wasn’t a one-hit wonder.  He wrote “Sea Trilogy,” beginning with “Rites of Passage,” which won the Booker Prize.  I’ve always found it amusing that Golding was once a schoolteacher (which likely informed his opinion on the truly dark nature of children).

And for you frustrated novelists: Golding was initially rejected by 21 publishers before “Lord of the Flies” was finally sold.  The establishment wasn’t quite ready for the lesson that the scariest monsters are the ones we see in the mirror.

N.P.: “Run Like Hell” – Soulidium

I grew up understanding the children of the community are the children of the community.   ~ Kamala Harris

Today, most attractive reader, is Samuel Johnson’s birthday, born September 18, 1709.  If you don’t immediately recognize the name, I will include you in my nightly prayers.  But, also understanding not everyone majored in English, here’s a very brief breakdown of this badass.

Johnson’s most well-known work, his magnum opus, was the “Dictionary of the English Language.”  Yep…he compiled the first truly comprehensive English dictionary.  And he did it with style.  Published in 1755, the Dictionary was compiled in nine years, which is pretty much warp speed in writer years.

I actually got significantly drunk in a bar in London where Johnson would drink at night whilst working on his dictionary almost 300 years prior.  I’m pretty sure he did some drinking as he was working…Johnson knew his work was going to be literally definitive for a long time, and knew the power that gave him, and took full advantage of his position to imbue his definitions with his own completely subjective opinions.  The weak are sometimes offended by this, but it’s important to remember he was always rather self-deprecating: he described a lexicographer as “a harmless drudge.”  In another instance, a lady exclaimed she couldn’t believe he had defined “oats” as food for horses and Scotsmen, to which Johnson retorted, “Yes, madam; and where else will you see such horses, and such men?”

Beyond his dictionary, Johnson was a prolific writer, essayist, and a poet.  His works include “The Lives of the Most Eminent English Poets” and “Rasselas,” a philosophical novella that explored things like happiness and purpose.  Because there were no phones or internet in the 18th century…the only entertainment was pondering existential crises.

We can’t talk about Samuel Johnson without mentioning James Boswell  Boswell was Johnson’s wingman.  Boswell was the Watson to Johnson’s Holmes, chronicling his life with an enthusiasm typically reserved for Instagram influencers documenting bottomless mimosa brunch.  Boswell was the ultimate biographer, and if you’re going to do any reading on or study of Johnson, you must start with Boswell’s biography.

Samuel Johnson was considered eccentric in his day.  He wore odd, mismatched clothes and was notorious for his tardiness.  And he talked to himself in public.  But who hasn’t?

Happy 315th Uncle Samuel!

N.P.: “Rooster” – Howling Giant

I grew up in a neighborhood of folks who were very proud of their lawn.  Ya know?  ~ Kamala Harris

There is a new name on my People I Want To Fight list: I want to fight the Pope.  Not just whomever happens to be the Pope at any given time…no.  The current Pope Francis.  I wasn’t a fan of his predecessor, Benedict either, but I don’t recall really wanting to fight that guy.

My contempt for the present pontiff is only a symptom of a larger disease that has been eating away at and weakening the Church for several decades now.

For decades, former “true believers” in the Holy Roman and Apostolic have dropped off of the  rolls as the Church pathetically lowered its standards and expectations and completely eliminated any real strictures in a woefully misguided attempt at “inclusion.”  The Church is weak and almost completely irrelevant.  The world has become completely comfortable insulting, mocking, and blaspheming against the Church and all that is holy.  This is unacceptable.  A church says, “We believe in a, b, and c, and this is how we put that belief into practice.”  It is not for the people to dictate those things to the church, and then have the church conform!

In an effort to be reasonable, I will agree to not fight the Pope if Pope Francis resigns immediately.  As soon as the Conclave picks a better Pope (I am available), the new Pope should order the following:

1. The entire Catholic world immediately reverts to the Latin mass.  Conversational Latin should also be pursued.
2. Any Catholic who has not attended mass in the last year is excommunicated.  These excommunications can be appealed if the defendant agrees to immediately conform to the new strictures.  A five-year probationary period would begin.  At the end of that five years, if the defendant has properly adhered to all rules, full membership can be restored.  If, at any time during that five years the defendant lapses and/or breaks significant rules, the excommunication stands, without possibility of return.
3. Opus Dei will be militarized and every parish will begin training a militia: they shall serve as  Defenders of the Faith against heretics and to provide much needed but noticeably absent security for mass attendees.
4. The Second Crusade.

If these measures are implemented, the Catholic Church can return to its former glory and power this time next year.  You’re welcome.

N.P.: “Better” – Infidel inc.