Hot damn, dear reader!  Finally, after long last, it is October!  The degree to which this pleases me cannot be overstated.  Honestly, I’m fucking giddy.

There were some dark times over the summer when I doubted we would get here, but got here we did, dear reader.

So here we are again, staring down the barrel of October 1st, a date that hangs in the literary calendar like a loaded question mark, dripping with both high-octane dread and the faint, sweet smell of decay.  A real Janus-faced bastard of a day.  It’s the kind of day that makes you want to pour a tall glass of something brown and unforgiving before the sun has even bothered to punch its timecard, just to steady the hands, but that could be said for any day, lately.

On this day, back in 2013, the big man himself, Tom Clancy, cashed in his chips.  He checked out, shuffled off this mortal coil, and presumably went to that great Situation Room in the sky.  Pour one out.  The architect of the modern techno-thriller, a man who could probably field-strip a nuclear submarine with his eyes closed, left the building.  His books were like weaponized instruction manuals wrapped in plot, and I remain a big fan.  Page after page or acronyms, ballistics data, and the kind of geopolitical chess games that make your teeth ache.  He was the undisputed king of a certain kind of meticulously researched, hardware-heavy America mythmaking.  A legend.

Also on this day, way back in 1915, a quiet, neurotic Czech genius named Franz Kafka unleashed The Metamorphosis upon an unsuspecting world.  While Clancy was building worlds out of steel, sonar, and sheer patriotic will, Kafka was busy documenting the quiet implosion of one.

Think about it, dear reader.  On one hand, you’ve got Jack Ryan saving the world from nuclear annihilation with a clear-eyed certainty that is a refreshing thing these days.  It’s a universe of good guys, bad guys, and the unbelievably cool gear they use to blow each other up.

On the other hand, you’ve got poor Gregor Samsa, a traveling salesman who wakes up one morning to find he has become a monstrous insect.  Not a hero.  Not a spy.  Just a guy, now a goddamn bug.  A giant, disgusting bug.  His big conflict isn’t stopping a war; it’s trying to roll over in bed without his new carapace getting stuck.  His existential crisis isn’t about the fate of nations; it’s about his family locking him in his room and occasionally shoving scraps under the door.

October 1st gives us both the ultimate external thriller and the ultimate internal horror show.  The hero who controls everything, and the victim who controls absolutely nothing, not even his own body.  It’s the duality of the modern condition served up on a single, surreal platter.  One narrative is about mastering the complex machinery of the outside world, and the other is about being utterly betrayed by the simple machinery of your own self.

It’s enough to give a man whiplash.  One minute you’re deep in the Pentagon, mapping out strike patterns, and the next you’re stuck on your back in a dusty room, wiggling your new antennae and wondering if your dad is going to try to kill you with an apple again.  It’s the whole damn human experience, from global domination to personal disintegration, all crashed together on a single autumn day.

So today let’s raise a glass to Tom Clancy, the master of the mission.  And raise another to Franz Kafka, the patron saint of waking up and realizing the mission is FUBAR.  They’re two sides of the same debased coin.

N.P.: “Thor” – Errrilaz