It’s been a challenging 24 hours, beloved reader.  Sparring last night, I got punched in the mouth.  I totally had it coming – I dropped my guard whilst attempting a question mark kick and got smacked.  It wasn’t a big deal, but it left me with a pretty sizable fat lip today.  I don’t know if anybody noticed, and don’t particularly care, but I knew it was there and it pissed me off.  Then last night I could not fall asleep, for no good reason at all.  I maybe got two hours of sleep, then had to get up to deal with an overly full day of what seemed mostly like bullshit.  Maybe I was just cranky from too little sleep, but my fuse was definitely short today.  When I finally got back to the Safe House, I was completely exhausted, but still had a 2000-word deliverable due to Mgmt, which, badass that I am, I somehow managed to complete.  I’m pretty completely spent, and I should by rights just fucking collapse at this point, but there are still a couple things I have to do.  One is to sign for a big weird delivery that is “supposed to arrive before midnight.”  The other is some international Dead Poets business, so let’s get to it while I’m still somewhat coherent.

First up is a big happy birthday to Hans Christian Andersen who was born on this day in 1805 in Odense, Denmark.  Those of you who were brought up before the last two or three snowflake generations will undoubtedly remember Uncle Hans for his fairy tales.  Those of you who are unfortunate snowflakes, don’t let the fairy-tale label fool you – this dude was not spinning fluffy bedtime stories.  Take The Little Mermaid: she doesn’t get the prince, loses her voice, and ends up as sea foam after contemplating murder.  Or The Snow Queen with its icy, ruthless edge.  Andersen’s stories are dark, poetic gut punches, born from a life of poverty and rejection.  He clawed his way up, and his pen bled defiance.  My man!

Another happy birthday to Emile Zola, born in Paris on this day in 1840.  This French titan used his pen to wage war on hypocrisy and injustice.  His Germinal (1885) dives into the brutal lives of coal miners, exposing exploitation with realism so vivid it still packs a punch today.  Kinda like the one that gave me the fat lip last night.  His “J’Accuse…!” letter in 1898, defending Alfred Dreyfus, got him convicted of libel and forced him to flee France.  He risked it all for truth, which more than warrants a permanent place on the D.P.S. Honor Roll.

Finally, we turn to Japan, where on April 2, 1971, Yukio Mishima’s The Sea of Fertility tetralogy wrapped up posthumously with The Decay of the Angel.  Mishima was an absolute force obsessed with beauty, honor, and Japan’s lost soul.  After finishing this epic, he tried to overthrow the government in a failed coup and committed seppuku in 1970.  The final book hit the shelves months later, a haunting capstone to a life lived on the edge.  More than just literature, it’s a samurai’s last stand.   Goddamn right.

N.P.: “Purple Haze 2025” – Frank Palangi, Henry Chauhan