In-depth Beer Review I: Santo, from the Saint Arnold Brewing Company.

Houston isn't really known for it's beer and  sip after sip of this delicious brew will make you wonder why. Saint Arnold's, who's doors opened here in 1994, labels Santo as a "black Kölsch" - A kind of beer that doesn't actually exist. Or at least didn't, until Santo.

Beer number one - 

Santo has a deceptively light mouthfeel for it's darkness. It pours nicely and with a good thick head that releases it's gorgeous and enticing floral bouquet that teases with hints of fruit and caramel. Far from black in the glass, Schwarzbier is a deep, dark, rich chestnut. A sip brings all of this together with hints of chocolate and notes of toasted bread.

Beer number two - 

Oh man. I already liked you, little buddy, you didn't need to keep getting better! Not that I might, of course.

The caramel and chocolate seem to become increasingly noticeable the more I drink, making me wish for something beefy and cheesy to pair it with, and the beer goes down so smoothly now. Looking at the remaining four beers in the six pack has me wishing I'd gotten a twelve, instead. C'est la vie and on to three.

Beer number six - 

Beer number six, which is apparently more beer than I, a grown ass fucking man, should drink is probably the best one of the bunch. My only criticism? I can still hear her bitching. Never mind it's the fucking weekend, I bought it, and, last I checked, you're not my mom, Cheryl, but I'm trying to work. For fuck's sake, if I'd known that being married really meant getting a new mother I might have thought harder about condoms. Or become a eunuch. I mean, yeah yeah yeah. My dad was an alcoholic. I fucking get it. Maybe it's because his wife sounded like mine.

Yeah, I said it.

The beer, by the way, is good as fuck. Not just with taco bell, either. I've been chasing whisky with it for an hour and it's served me bravely throughout. Now, however, it mostly, it now smells like my shattered dreams and tastes like all the wasted time I've spent arguing with a woman that hates my fucking guts.


Overall rating: 8/10. 

Would drink again. And probably will right now because someone will not shut up. Whatever, at least I bought a comfortable couch.

What's More Corrosive Than Racism?

Today, four students were attacked with acid in Marseilles. I'm sure that everyone has seen this being blasted across twitter by white supremacists that need to spread their xenophobic hate speech and, if you read my twitter, all over my timeline while I do the opposite. I'll just recap what is known thus far.

Names of victims - Courtney Silverling, Charlotte Kaufman, Michelle Krug and Kelsey Kosten.

Name of attacker - Unknown.

Weapon - A spray bottle filled with Hydrochloric acid.

Time of attack - 9am local time, Central European Standard Time, which is +2 GMT, making it 2am here in Texas.

Scene of attack - Gare de Marseille-Saint-Charles, Marseilles main train station.

Reason of attack - Unknown. The police say that the woman is "disturbed" and has a history of mental illness. After the attack, she remained at the scene until the police came and then talked to them about being attacked with acid once herself.

The victims are reported to be in good health.

Is it terrorism?

Well, a lot of the arguments I've seen revolve around the idea that any attack perpetrated with acid is a terror attack. Right wing twitter is especially abuzz with this new definition of terrorism. Disregarding for a moment that the actual definition of terrorism is "the unlawful use of violence and intimidation, especially against civilians, in the pursuit of political aims" and just accepting this new narrative for the sake of argument, I have to wonder why the right only cares about brown terrorism.

I mean, I already know the answer... But apparently it's important to debate racists these days. I hope
this helps.

Meet John Tomlin.

This lump of pure England allegedly threw acid on two Muslims at a traffic light in East London. Resham Khan, 21, and her cousin Jameel Muhktar, 37, were left severely injured in the attack. Without going into too much horrific detail, and the details are horrific, Tomlin allegedly pulled up on them and motioned that they open their window. When he first began throwing the acid Jameel Muktar apparently thought it was a practical joke. Then he realized that Resham was burning. A moment later, he too was burning. Jameel attempted to drive away but, blinded by acid and I'm sure great pain, he crashed the car into a fence. The two then stripped from their burning clothes and begged local residents for water and help before being taken to an area hospital. The two do not appear to know Tomlin.

“My plans are in pieces; my pain is unbearable, and I write this letter in hospital whilst I patiently wait for the return of my face,” she wrote.

It was Ms. Khan's birthday and they were out celebrating. Khan is an aspiring model and a Manchester Metropolitan University student. Her facial injuries are substantial. She is a beautiful woman and I wish her well on her long road to what I hope will be a full recovery.

*Trigger warning* The pictures are rough.

Help her here.

"If this was an Asian guy like myself, going up to an English couple in a car and acid attacking them, I know for a fact and the whole country knows that it would be classed as a terror attack".

Mr. Muktar fared no better. After the attack he was put into a medically induced coma because his injuries were so severe. Since the attack he has become terrified to leave his house. He's also deaf in one ear now. I hope he, too, makes a full recovery.

Help him here.


So, is this terrorism?

If so, why isn't John Tomlin a household name? Why aren't the right wing Christians of twitter, of the fucking world, rallying to the cause of Jameel Muktar and Resham Khan? Is it because acid attacks aren't automatically terrorism? Or is it because it's only terrorism when a brown person does it? John Tomlin looks like a skinhead to me. The cross facial tat is a very common thing among English skinheads and while I'm not sure about the teardrops I know what they mean here!

What about this poor guy?

This man was also attacked by acid. His name and identity are being concealed because apparently acid attacks are under-reported in England due to fear of reprisals. No outrage for him? I wonder why.

Or what about this man?

This is the only picture I could find of this man. No name. No arrests. No outrage.

Or what about this case? 

The victim named, Jabed Duzzahuru, is just a delivery driver that was randomly attacked. Never heard of him. Weird. They even protested for protection from these attacks.

London has an acid attack problem. It's currently the acid attack capital of the world. Per this Guardian piece, In 2016 there were 455 crimes in London where a corrosive substance was used or threatened to be used. A quarter of these were street robberies. Are robberies terrorism if you use acid? If so, why aren't people screaming about these terrorist attacks?

Is it just because it's expected in London? Perhaps. It happens there a lot. So let's try another country. How about Germany? Earlier this year, a man on a bicycle was riding around Berlin spraying chemicals at random women. Why wasn't there outrage about this?

It is not yet known whether the six cases are connected, but the modus operandi appears to be the same: A man on a bicycle rides up to a woman walking at night and sprays her with a liquid.

This is what happened to a 41-year-old walking late on Monday around midnight in the eastern Prenzlauer Berg district, police report. 

The woman told police that a man rode by her and sprayed an as of yet unknown substance in the direction of her head. Police said that luckily the woman acted quickly to use her scarf to block the liquid from hitting her, meaning she was left unharmed.  

The man then rode away, but the woman was able to give police a description: He was between 35 and 45 years old with light skin, of medium height and a strong-looking build.

Oh.

Either it's all terrorism or none of it is.

If, when a brown person throws acid on someone it's automatically Islamic terrorism, then when a white man with a cross tattoo on his face throws acid on a Muslim it is also terrorism.

If, when a white man throws acid on someone it's not automatically Christian terrorism, then when a brown man throws acid on a white man it is also not terrorism.

Pick one.

But they won't. The main victims of these "terror attacks" are brown people and right wingers don't care about those victims because right wingers don't care about brown people. 

Unless they're guilty of something, of course. 

My 9/11

"WAKE UP!" 

It was my dad. Why the fuck was he in my room? He never woke me up. I didn't work today. My head was throbbing from a killer hangover, I'd got in sometime early that morning, and my first thought was "What the fuck do you want?!". Instead, I just ask "What?".

"Turn on the TV!" He said as he turned on my TV and flipped through the channels. I stared at him dumbly. It's finally happened, I mused, he's cracked. It was only a matter of time.

The pictures I saw on the television didn't make any sense to me. There was the World Trade Center's north tower. American Airlines Flight 11 had already smashed into it, but I didn't know that yet. and smoke was pouring out of it. Someone was talking frantically about something I couldn't understand. Suddenly, from the side of the screen a large passenger jet, United Airlines Flight 175, appeared. It disappeared just as suddenly on impact, transforming into a ball of angry orange flames, thick black smoke, and falling debris.

"What movie is this?" I asked him.

"This isn't a movie." He told me solemnly. "This is happening right now. They're saying it's a terrorist attack. Two planes hit the world trade center."

I didn't understand even then what he was talking about. I remember sitting there stunned and watching the footage over and over and over again. Even when the first tower fell I was in a state of complete disbelief. Even when I heard of American Airlines Flight 77 had hit the Pentagon, even when United Airlines Flight 93 fell from the sky and into a bare, green field in Stonycreek township, and even when the second tower fell, I just couldn't get my mind around it.

I remember walking to the store some time later that day. It was a gorgeous day in Dallas. The sky was bright and blue, as it usually was, and the sun was shining. I looked up at it and realized that it was empty, there wasn't a single plane, and that's when the magnitude what had happened finally hit me. The realization of the tragedy I'd just witnessed came so hard and so fast that I could barely function by the time I arrived at the store. I don't remember what I bought, probably cigarettes, but I remember fighting back tears when I did. I walked home again under that clear, silent sky and wondering if anything would ever be the same again. It wouldn't.

A year later I was chased off of a bluebird bus in Fort Benning, Georgia, by a screaming drill sergeant.

9/11 changed a lot of lives. For me, it got me off of my ass and into the fight. It was the wrong fight, they were Saudis and not Iraqis, but my dumb ass didn't know that at the time. Still, I wouldn't trade those years for anything. It's strange to look back on it now and reflect on the profound change that event had on me. That morning, a sleepy Tuesday for a lazy slacker, altered the course of my entire life.

I'll never forget it.

Coincidentally, a piece that I read back then, and have read over and over again since, is what inspired me to write. I'll leave you with it.

Struggling with the terms of the struggle.

I watched a video, posted on twitter by someone complaining about BLM, and I felt the need to write this post.

The video -

First of all, nothing she says in this video is wrong. Second, I think the push back against it is based solely on people misunderstanding the terms that we use to describe things that occur in American society. So, let's discuss some of those terms that people seem to struggle with on a daily basis.

White privilege -  

White privilege is a term for societal privileges that benefit people identified as white in Western countries, beyond what is commonly experienced by non-white people under the same social, political, or economic circumstances.  

Source.

White privilege doesn't mean that all white people have things easier than all people of color. A rich black man, for example, may have more privilege than a poor white woman. The black man having the privileges of being male and rich vs the woman having the disadvantages of being poor and female.

Lots of white people seem to think that when someone says white privilege what they're saying is "You don't have to work for things because you're white." This is not what it means. It just means that you have the benefits of being white in a white country. I would imagine that being *blank* in a *blank* country is always a benefit, wouldn't you? Being Chinese in China, for example, would be more beneficial than being black.

The anger that I see at the use of the term white privilege brings me conveniently to another concept that people misunderstand. Ironically, the reason they misunderstand it is because of it's existence.

White fragility - 

White Fragility is a state in which even a minimum amount of racial stress becomes intolerable, triggering a range of defensive moves. These moves include the outward display of emotions such as anger, fear, and guilt, and behaviors such as argumentation, silence, and leaving the stress-inducing situation.

Source.

This isn't an attack on white people - the woman that wrote the book is white. It's just a term for a thing that happens. Here's an example of white fragility -

Melissa Francis was so overwhelmed by this conversation that she broke down into tears and effectively ended the discussion. This is exactly white fragility. This comes up often when discussing race with white people in America. I say in America specifically because honestly white people in other parts of the world are far more comfortable having conversations about race than white people in the United States.

This doesn't mean that all white people are fragile or that you're a weak person for experiencing this phenomenon. It's just a thing that exists in American society because of the history of racial tensions in the US and it's the reason that terms like white privilege cause white people here to bristle. 

And, speaking of terms that rustle jimmies...

White supremacy - 

White supremacy is the belief, theory, or doctrine that white people are inherently superior to people from all other racial groups, especially black people, and are therefore rightfully the dominant group in any society.

Source.

The United States of America was founded on white supremacist principles. This should come as no shock to anyone that has read the words of Thomas Jefferson or sung the song of Francis Scott Key. Hell, this is Washington, D.C. in 1925. 

Black people were barely people until 1964 and people are still angry about it today. White supremacy is part of the US. It's woven into the systems that people of color must navigate. It's the reason that being white in America is such a privilege and the reason that white fragility can even exist in the first place.

It's why this is a thug - 

And this is a patriot - 

It's why this is a riot - 

And this is a peaceful protest - 

And it's the reason that this is unacceptable - 

But this is a-ok - 

Simply saying these terms is not an attack on white people. Saying that white privilege, fragility, and supremacy exist is not the same as saying all white people are privileged, fragile, or believe in their supremacy. They're just terms to describe things that are. You do yourself a disservice by refusing to understand these terms. 

If you really want to help people of color in the United States, and the world, the first step is to listen. You can't listen if the terms we must use to describe the things that we must discuss shut you off from what we're actually saying. 

Knowledge is power. 

I love you, white people! Get on the bus! 

Sessions in Hell.

It wasn't at all what he'd expected. There was no fire. No brimstone. Instead of sulfur he smelled magnolias. Instead of a blazing inferno it was just a regular June day in Alabama. Hot, to be sure, but certainly not enough to cause him to wail and gnash his teeth. It wasn't dark and gloomy, either. The sun was shining, the birds singing, the bees a-buzzing, and everywhere around him was the sound of laughter. Their laughter burned him up faster than any hell fire ever could.

One might not think this was damnation, he thought bitterly, if not for the company,

"Boy, why are you standing there staring at the clouds? Ain't you got work to be doing?"

The voice startled him. The sudden fear that rose up inside him at the sound of it filled him with hatred, for them and himself, but he dared not give it a voice. "Yessir." he squeaked weakly, shuffling off to get another tray of hors d'oeuvres, as peals of laughter lashed at his bent, scarred back.

The kitchen hummed as usual. There was no shortage of food or drink to be taken out to the party guests, who had endless appetites, but he was the only server here. The cook, his only collaborator in this endless and goalless endeavor, glanced at him with desperate, bloodshot eyes as he entered and was immediately scolded by the kitchen master.

"Get back to work!" her overseer, a monster of a woman with skin like mahogany that loomed over her always, bellowed at once. She jumped visibly at the shouted command and, returning her attention immediately to her monstrous sixteen burner gas range, continued to stir her many pots.

"You see this here, Jeffy?" The overseer said to him in a mockingly conspiratorial tone, "Paula thinks she's special. Maybe this kitchen isn't hot enough for her. What do you think?"

"I don-"

"Shut the fuck up, you little elf looking bitch!" She screamed at him immediately. "No one cares what you think! Get the fuck out of my kitchen!"

He grabbed another of the large silver serving platters and exited the kitchen quickly. Her cackles seeming to physically push him from the room. 

Outside again, Jefferson Beauregard Sessions the Third began to move from one group of party goers, seated in groups of six or so and scattered across the gigantic lawn, to another so that they could graze from his tray. Most of them ignored him completely. He preferred that. It stung him a little when they waved him away without looking at him, dismissing him as though he were an animal, but he said nothing. Any protest would be followed swiftly by all manner of harsh punishments. 

Sometimes they put him in the stocks. Other times, he was flogged. Once, when he'd struck a party goer for tripping him and sending his tray flying onto another, he'd been forced to wear an iron collar with three long sharp prongs that protruded from it. They'd engraved a big "J" on the front of it just for him, they'd said with glee as they'd fastened it around his neck, because he was their special guy. Once they'd removed the collar, some weeks later, they had hung it up above his bed in his quarters. It was the first and last thing he saw each day. 

"Come here, boy!" That voice again. He broke out into gooseflesh immediately. He knew who it was even before he turned to look upon the speaker. He stared hard at Jeff over his steepled fingers. 

"Y-yessir!" Sessions replied in a meek voice as he rushed over to offer up his tray.

"Mmm! These look good!" The man said approvingly as he plucked a fried green tomato slider from the tray. "You ever try these, boy?" The question was followed by giggles from the other guests at the table.

"No, sir." 

"Aw! That's too bad." He replied, mockingly. This exchange happened in one way or the other every single day. Or what seemed like a day to Jeff. Time was funny here. "Why not, boy? Why can't you eat?" More chuckles followed.

"Because this food is for people, sir."

"That's right, Jeff. This food is for people. And what are you?"

"I'm just a pasty little savage. A white devil that deserves nothing but hatred. A rabid cloven hoof animal that is no better than a cow, goat, or pig." Jeff knew the words now. They'd been hard to learn, at first, but he couldn't forget them now. They were as seared onto the surface of his brain as their brands were on the surface of his skin. 

"Run along now, boy." He said, as the chuckles turned to roars of approval and amusement.

"Yessir, Mister Malcolm, sir." He said, relieved to be dismissed, and turned to leave. Suddenly, the air was pushed from his lungs as a heavy fist drove up into his diaphragm with impossible force. The punch lifted him high into the air and sent his tray spinning through the air. As he crashed to the ground at a sickening, bone crushing velocity his vision dimmed and he almost rejoiced at the loss of consciousness that was surely coming. Alas, it did not. Gasping for air, tears streaming down his face, his every bone and muscle screaming in horror, Jeff looked up at his assailant.

"I'm a bad man!" He yelled down at him, throwing back his head and howling with glee. 

"As much as I abhor violence in all it's forms, that shit right there is pretty damn funny."

"You're not wrong, Martin." Malcolm said.

"I don't know, man. It just seems so heavy. Like, is this guy really that bad?" 

"You're smoking entirely too much grass, Jimi." Martin replied. "This man is the very scum of the earth. His entire existence was spent making life harder for our people and easier for his own. He trampled the very freedom that we all fought for, that we all lived for, and that we all died for. As far as I'm concerned, he deserves every torment, trial, and tribulation that the after life can provide."

"Ok, man. Whatever. He's bad. But look. This is heaven, man. Heaven, you dig? And we're spending it being mean? It just seems wrong." Jimi ended his short speech with a long drag of the joint that was forever in his hand.

"Pffft. Man, fuck that. Punch that bitch ass motherfucker again, Ali."

"Of course, you would say that, Pac!" laughed Malcolm. "What about you, Jesus? What do you think?"

All eyes turned to the bearded, dark-skinned man at the far end of the table. He'd been quiet during the entire exchange, neither talking nor laughing, and he looked at them now as if seeing them all for the first time. Jeff looked up at him, hopefully.

"Brothers," Jesus said, "This is your heaven and his hell. Everything you see here is for you to enjoy. That includes the suffering of this evil creature that lies here before us. He was cruel, wicked, spiteful, and vicious. He lacked all kindness, honesty, and empathy. He loved nothing but wealth and cherished nothing but power. He served false gods and worshiped false idols. His damnation has been commanded by my father and yours." Jesus reached out and snatched the joint from Jimi's fingers. He took a long, thoughtful pull from it, and, smiling broadly down at Sessions, said "Punch that bitch ass motherfucker again, Muhammad."

Grinning, Ali lunged at Jeff, who was still prone, and planted a devastating right hook in his dumb, shocked face. This time the darkness did take him. He let it slide over him like a warm blanket and drifted into oblivion. 

Rapper, Actor, Gangsta, Spy.

0000 hours.

September 8th, 1996.

Beneath the Las Vegas strip.


The faint sound of sirens drifted down to him from above. Even down here, in the dark, he could hear the chaos that he'd created. The crisis actors they'd employed were right now screaming to the police about the murder they had just witnessed. Hundreds of them. A fake homeless man was telling an LVPD detective about where he'd been when the shooting had started. Two women, planted to portray groupies on the way to the club, were being interveiwed by another about the chase and shoot out that they'd been caught in the midst of. A group of four KBG agents, disguised as South Side crip gang members from LA,  lurked nearby in order to be spotted at the scene. Below it all agent Oleg Abram Romanoff smiled to himself with great satisfaction. After ten long years undercover he was finally able to return home. He longed to shed this identity and be himself again. Still, he would miss it.

It was a lot of fun being Tupac.

1427 hours.

May 23rd, 1985.

Leningrad, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

He'd been a very youthful looking seventeen years old when the operation had started. He'd been finishing his eleventh year at St. Petersburg High School 281. On an unremarkable Thursday afternoon he'd been summoned via the loudspeaker from his English class to the principal's office. When he'd arrived he'd found the room occupied not by his principal, Kira Petrovna Gribanovskaya, but by a severe young man in an expensive tailored suit. He was reclined in her chair with his feet on her desk.

"Sit down, Oleg." He ordered him. And sit he did. "Why are you here?"

"You sent for me." He responded simply.

"Ah. Indeed." The man nodded approvingly. "But I do not mean in this room. Why are you here? Why are you in this place?"

"I am here to learn."

"To learn what, exactly?" The man asked with a smile.

"I am currently taking English, Latin, Russian military history with an-"

"No. Stop. This is not what I mean either." He interrupted.

Oleg was puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I know. We will change all of this." Smiling again. He removed his feet from the desk and leaned forward. "I want to know why you are wasting your time in this school reading books you have already read and answering questions you already know the answers to instead of being of use."

"I suppose... I suppose I just haven't found my next step." Oleg admitted reluctantly.

"Yes!" He shouted as he slammed his palms down on the desk. "This is what I suspected! You have not yet found a purpose! Is this not so?"

"Yes. It is so."

"Of course. As I said." The man stood, rounded the desk, and leaned on the front edge of it. Standing between it and Oleg he took a more intimate tone. "Oleg, what if I told you that I could make you one of the biggest stars that the world has ever seen? That your unfortunate skin condition could be your greatest asset?"

Oleg didn't have a "skin condition". Oleg was black. Still, in Russia it was almost accepted that being black was a disability. Luckily for Oleg, he'd been the smartest person in every room he'd ever stepped into since he could walk. At this moment, however, he was not so sure. A million questions swirled around his head. He asked none of them. "I'd ask you where to sign." He said instead.

The man roared with laughter. "Fantastic!" He bellowed, taking Oleg's hand into his own and shaking it, and Oleg, vigorously. "You are doing a great thing for your country. For the world."

"I want nothing more..." He let the last word hang and the man picked up immediately on the implied question.

"Yes, of course. My name." He grinned from ear to ear and reached into his jacket. "My name is Vlad. I will be your handler for this entire operation." From his coat he produced a Walkman.

"Is that... Is that a Sony?!" Oleg asked, impressed despite himself.

"Yes. It's for you, Oleg." He handed Oleg the coveted object. "But more important than the Walkman is the tape inside it. Press play."

Oleg placed the headphones on his ears and hit the play button. From the tiny speakers blared music that he'd never heard the like of before. There was rock guitars, heavy drums, keyboards, and all manner of strange instruments that he couldn't place. Over all of it, in time with the beat, was heavily American accented talking.

"What is this?" Oleg asked, yelling over the music that only he could hear. Vlad laughed and pulled the headphones gently from his ears.

"Run DMC." Vlad said.

"Run what?"

"It's called Hip Hop, Oleg." He said, laughing.  "It's going to change the world. And you're going to help."

Vlad grabbed him by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet so that they were face to face and eye to eye.

"I am going to make you the biggest rapper that ever lived, Oleg. I'm going to make you a legend. I'm going to put all eyes on you." He turned back to the desk, plucked his hat from it's surface, and put it on. "Come on, my boy. It's time we make some changes."

To serve.

He stared up at the sun defiantly as the moon began to move in front of it. Standing here atop Fort Knox his view of the eclipse was perfect. More importantly, his celestial alignment was at it's maximum potency for the ritual.

"Steve, your glasses."

He turned and blinked at his assistant, Reece. The poor boy was doomed. He was fine at assisting but that seemed to be the extent of his talents. He was holding everything Steve needed but in a way that infuriated him. His camera was pinched to his body with the right elbow, the strap hanging down near the ground dangerously. His coffee cup was in his right hand held from underneath precariously. He offered the eclipse glasses, held between two outstretched fingers, with his left.

"Fuck it." Steve sneered, turning his attention back to the spectacle above. "Did you do the thing?"

"Yes..." Reece replied. "Why did you make me d-"

"I didn't make you do anything." Steve snapped.

"Ok." Reece said quickly. "But it was weird. At first, the doll wouldn't burn and then it suddenly caught fire. It burned so quickly and brightly. But only... After I..."

"After you said the words."

"Yes."

"Good." As the eclipse reached it's climax above them he held out his hand to Reece, who then handed him the coffee cup. Removing the lid, Steve threw the contents, ashes created by Reese's ritual, off of the roof and into the wind. "Seder pe’ulat ha-yetsirah." He said.

"Seder pe’ulat ha-yetsirah." Reece muttered, automatically.

Steve's eyes stung as he watched the sun reappear from the moon's shadow. Probably destroyed my eyesight, he thought absently. Good thing Moshiach was near. None of it mattered anymore. He looked out across the water and sighed.

"Reece, what is your purpose?" He asked him.

"To serve you, sir." He replied immediately and with absolute conviction.

"Good." Steve said, nodding. He stepped towards Reece swiftly, grabbed him by his belt and his collar, and tossed him from the roof. To his credit, Reece fell silently to his death. As he smashed fatally against the ground below Steve admired him for that. So many die screaming and without dignity.

"You're welcome." He said down to his lifeless body. Doomed, he thought, but at least he had a purpose.  So many more would die clawing for that and never achieving it. Reece had been lucky. Suddenly, his pocket was full of Wagner. He reached into it and retrieved his ringing cellphone.

"What?"

"Did you see the news?" It was Miller, his man in the White House, and he never called with good news.

"What did our naked emperor do?"

"He stared directly up at the eclipse like a dumbass. Three times. The press is having a field day with his senile ass."

"Is that all?" Steve laughed.

"This stuff is adding up. It matters, Steve." Miller insisted.

"Oh, I don't know." Steve said. He looked down over the edge of the building and saw Reece staring back up at him. He was standing in the pool of blood he'd created after he'd been thrown completely motionless save for the movement of the wind in his long black hair. "Maybe he's like me. Maybe he's just saying 'Fuck it.'."

Miller began to speak again but Steve hung up and returned the phone to his pocket. He spoke down to Reece in barely more than a whisper.

"What is your purpose?" He asked him, again.

"TO SERVE YOU!" It roared back up to him in one voice that sounded like one hundred.

"That's right." He told it with a grin. "Now, go get the car."

He gave the sun a final glance. It was finished. The sun was whole again and blinding as always. For now, at least. Crescent shaped artifacts danced across his vision after he tore himself away from it.

"Fuck it." he said, and headed for the stairs.

When the levee breaks.

I've never liked Houston. It's too big. It takes too long to get anywhere. You can't even walk to the store here unless you're fully committed to a 30 minute (min) hike one way. The public transportation is garbage. Traffic is usually awful. It's hot all the time, and it's a wet heat, except when it's freezing cold, and it's a wet cold. It sucks.

But the last few days have really highlighted the one thing about this city that I don't hate. The people. They're just regular Texans. And I love Texans.

Steve Perez, a 60 year old police officer with 34 years under his belt, left his home on Sunday to report for duty. His wife asked him to reconsider. The roads were terrible and things were only getting worse. "I've got work to do." was his reply.

His body was recovered from his flooded police cruiser Tuesday at 8 am. He'd driven two and a half hours trying to find a route to do his duty only to be stopped by rising water at Beltway 8 and Hardy.

Here is a gofundme set up by the SBA for his family.

Samuel Saldivar attempted to brave the flooding to pick up six family members on Sunday in his van. Suddenly, a strong current caught the vehicle and swept it away into Greens Bayou. He tried to get everyone out via the back door but it was too late. Only he survived.

"I'm just hoping we find the bodies." He said later. When the waters receded they did. All of them were still trapped inside the van.

Here is their gofundme.

In Beaumont, just to the east, Collete Sulcer was trying to drive west on an interstate 10 service road with her young child when it became too treacherous for her to continue. She tried to pull into a parking lot nearby but was unable. Exiting her car, she was taken by the strong current, and swept into a canal. Rescuers saw her floating body, her daughter clinging to her still, and managed to catch them both just before they went under a trestle. With the help of a civilian in a truck they were able to get them both to an ambulance. The girl is hypothermic but alive. They were unable to revive the mother.

According to Beaumont police Officer Carol Riley Sulcer "Absolutely" saved her daughter's life.

Here's her daughter, Jordyn's, gofundme.

Alexander Sung, Sixty-four, stayed behind to mind his store. Alexander had been working with clocks for his entire life, as his father before him, and came from China, the youngest of five boys, in his twenties. He'd been working at Accu-Tyme for thirty years, a clock and jewelry repair store, and now owned it. He wasn't leaving it to flood or be looted. "Sweetie, I have to call you back!" He told his daughter Alicia on Saturday evening as he rushed to barricade his shop against the rising waters. His body was found Sunday afternoon, still inside his shop. His last words to his daughter came about fourteen hours prior via a text.

“I love you sweetie,” He told her. “You guys are all I have.”

Andrew Pasek ventured out to save his sister's Maine Coon. He stepped into rising waters electrified by a live wire. His dying act was to push away his friend and say simply, "Don't touch me. I'm dying.".

Here's his gofundme.

Noah Delgado suffered an asthma attack during the flooding that was too severe for his rescue inhaler. Help couldn't get to him soon enough. By the time rescuers got him to the hospital he was not conscious. He would not wake again. They tried. He went from North Cypress Medical Center to Texas Children's Medical in a helicopter too full to take his mother.

On her way to be with him she was trapped by floodwaters. This terrifying ordeal ended in rescue, she thinks by the National Guard, and she eventually found herself at Texas Children's. Upon her arrival, she was greeted with grave news. From the ABC Houston article about him -

She would like Noah remembered as the loving boy he was: a son, brother, friend, classmate. She says he was an "A" student just about to begin the third grade. She describes him as a "character."

"He just loved. He didn't care what you looked like, who you were," she lamented.

Through all this she does not blame anyone else for the circumstances which lead to her son's death. "If anybody, I blame myself...because I'm supposed to keep anything from happening to him," she said.

Here's his Gofundme. 

I'll be adding gofundme links and stories to this as I find them. I compiled the list that follows from everything I've read so far but I'm pretty sure, unfortunately, that it is not yet even close to complete.

Manuel Saldivar, 84 - Gofundme
Belia Saldivar, 81 - Gofundme
Daisy Saldivar, 6 - Gofundme
Xavier Saldivar, 8 - Gofundme
Dominic Saldivar, 14 - Gofundme
Devy Saldivar, 16 - Gofundme
Agnes Stanley, 89
Travis Lynn Callihan, 45
Alexander Sung, 64
Noah Delgado, 8 - Gofundme
Batool Qasem, 76
Benito Cavazos Juarez, 42
Calvin Oran Montalbano, 54
Andrew Pasek, 25 - Gofundme
Jorge Raul Perez, 33
Colby Henry Osorno, 25
Victor Manuel Acevedo, 67
Ruben Jordan, 58
Wilma Ratcliff Ellis, 73
Ruben Clifford Jordan, 58
Martin Salazar, 49
Michael Tucker, 66
Keisha Monique Williams, 32
Yahir Rubio-Vizuet, 45 - Gofundme
Gustavo Hernandez Rodriguez, 40 - Gofundme
Collette Sulcer, 41 - Gofundme
Joshua Feuerstein, 33
Efrain Angel, 26 - Gofundme
Lisa Jones, 60
Donald Rogers, 65
Rochelle Rogers, 58
Ronald Zaring, 82
Ola Mae Winfrey-Crooks, 82

Here is a general link to hurricane Harvey related gofundme pages.



Houston needs all the help that it can get right now. I'm thankful that it's a place full of people that are more than willing to do so. This is a city of heroes and in the shadow of this tragedy that's something we can all draw a little strength from.