BETTER DEAD THAN RED

Posted on December 7, 2015 by Zachary Klein

Zachary Klein

I’ve never lived in a Communist country. Never lived in a Socialist country either. But in our capitalistic United States, money is the gift that keeps on giving—even after you’re dead. Money for nothing, (but the chicks ain’t free).

Admittedly, this isn’t the way I usually think about dying, but since I don’t believe in heaven or hell, the notion of money pouring in post mortem, (something I rarely experienced in my lifetime), may lift my thoughts when I see the White Light.

Over the years I’ve ranted and railed against vast wealth accumulated in too few hands. That hasn’t changed. But I just don’t see much downside to lining my pockets from six feet under.

Here’s a look at some people who have been partaking in death’s affluence for decades. All figures are approximate since different sources report different amounts—but with these numbers…who’s counting?

Albert Einstein, dead since 1955, squared away $10,000,000 last year alone. And this before the supposed line of scientific instruments, tablets, and computers bearing his name hit the market. I shoulda’ gotten a degree.Let’s face it, no matter how political I am or ever will be, no one will ever mistake me for a White Bob Marley. I can’t hold a fucking tune. And though he’s been dead since 1981, no matter. Mr. One Love chilled with a cool $18,000,000 last year. That kind of scratch scores some really, really good shit. But even with all that money, he might have a difficult time finding a dealer. Now that would hurt.

Believe me, Marley isn’t the only singer who no longer has to sing for supper.

John Lennon, who died in 1980, does pretty well at $12,000,000 a year. This for a guy who curled up naked and used to warble All You Need is Love.

And it’s impossible to speak about love, death and money without noting that Elizabeth Taylor (2011) rakes in $25,000,000 per. Imagine if she also got alimony.

To put her yearly earnings into perspective, the entire estate of Richard Burton (dead since 1984) was estimated in 2013 to be worth a paltry $50,000,000 total.

I guess it’s better to slug down pills AND alcohol.

Of course, many other actors have their hands out, even if it’s in front of their headstones. The “King of Cool,” Steve McQueen, who died way back in 1980, earns a nifty $9,000,000 yearly.

A pretty good reward for making his Great Escape.

And please, let’s not forget Marilyn. Her medicine chest gets replenished with the $15,000,000 a year. I’m guessing that JFK and the Yankee Clipper are gritting their teeth with envy. Or, given their lives, maybe not so much.

Lest you think that only pop culture superstars and actors get this gig (and, yes, these days Einstein is exactly that), think again.

Dead since 2004, Ray Charles manages to earn a solid $10,000,000 a year. In fact, Ray’s earnings have risen since his death.

Theodor Geisel (aka Dr. Seuss) dumps about $9,000,000 into his hat every year. No wonder the Doctor’s cat has a smile like the Cheshire’s.

And believe it or not, the cumulative net worth of Rodgers and Hammerstein has also been upwardly mobile. (Oscar died in 1960, Richard in 1979). Does $235,000,000 sound like Some Enchanted Evening to you?

There are so many dead people earning that I can’t list all. But I would be incredibly remiss if I neglected “The King” despite the fact that Elvis, who died 1977, isn’t the highest annual earner. That honor goes to yet another “King,” Michael Jackson who, since his death, 2009, has earned close to a billion dollars.

Now that’s one hell of a lot of toys—if he can use them. (And enough to fund some new exquisite videos). Still, the “original” King is making $55,000,000, which ain’t exactly chump change. That’s over $150,000 a day for being dead!

I guess Stephen Sondheim (alive, but expected to earn after death as well) knew what he was talking about when he wrote:

I like to be in America, Okay by me in America, Everything free in America ~ West Side Story (1958)

YET AGAIN

Posted on October 5, 2015 by Zachary Klein

Zachary Klein

(Substituting for Susan Kelly)

Okay, we have another month mugged with another mass shooting, this time at Umpqua Community College in Oregon. How many times can we as a society feign shock or surprise? Since the 2012 tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, there have been 142 school shootings in the United States. That’s an average of almost one school shooting per week. To be fair, there is some disagreement about the specific number, but there is absolutely no argument about the FBI’s conclusion that there’s been a “sharp rise” in mass shootings since 2000 through 2013.

Let’s be honest. The numbers just confirm what we already knew and the tired old gun control arguments once again have hit the fan.

On one side stand those who argue that “guns don’t kill, people do.” Many “anti-gun control” advocates add that the real issue is the mental health of the person(s) who pull the trigger. Problem is, our political representatives have been unwilling to adequately fund mental health programs. In fact, though most Americans believe mental and physical health are equally important, about one-third of those surveyed see mental health care as inaccessible, and 40 percent see cost as a barrier to treatment—according to a new survey released in September.

Worse, many states have been slashing funds. Between 2009 and 2012, states cut a total of $4.35 billion in public mental-health spending from their budgets. So, if those who truly believe it’s all about mental health really want to reduce the slaughter, put your fucking money where your mouth is. How about instead of signs and politicians screaming, “No New Taxes,” we increase our social service spending? I’m sure there is a Republican candidate for president who’ll support significant funding for mental health, right?

Because they sure won’t support any rational regulations regarding gun control. Again, to be fair and balanced, George Pataki not only supports it but, as governor of New York, also passed what was, according to the New York Times, the strictest gun control legislation in the country at that time.

All those who believe Governor Pataki has a legitimate chance at winning the Republican nomination, please raise your hand.

But there’s no reason to stop with Republicans. Before the Brady bill was finally signed into law in November 1993, Democratic presidential candidate Bernie Sanders voted against it. Moreover, in both 2003 and 2005, when he was in the House, Sanders voted in favor of a measure to prohibit lawsuits against firearm makers, though after last week’s shooting in Oregon, he did call for “sensible” gun control laws. (Whatever he meant by that.)

But in all honesty: “A new Rasmussen Reports national telephone survey finds that just 34% of Likely U.S. Voters believe laws regarding the ownership of guns should be the responsibility of the federal government.” Says something about the nature of the American beast. Especially in the face of:

We have little or no qualms about passing laws that have evolved into frontal assaults on the rest of our liberties in the name of the “War on Terror.” Is it my eyesight or is something is wrong with this picture?

And how about this picture? America has 4.4% of the world’s population, but almost 50% of the civilian-owned guns around the world.

Of course the gun didn’t pull its own trigger in Oregon. The fucker that did, however, allegedly owned a large number of firearms. Now, I happen to believe in people’s right to bear arms, but I also believe in laws that are as least as reasonable as the ones that regulate car ownership:

Point of sale background checks in real time for each and every purchase and those checks include sales at gun shows, mail orders, and the elimination of any “secondary” market that cannot or will not adhere to all these reforms. That is, individuals who sell guns to another person without that person’s compliance with licensing laws.
A seven day wait for each and every purchase to receive a firearm for all purchasers regardless of a clean background check.
Passing a gun safety test before the purchase of any firearm.
Passing a marksmanship test before the purchase of any firearm.
Passing a psychological exam before the purchase of any firearm.
Serious prison time for “straws.” (Those who are qualified to purchase guns and do so for another who may or not be qualified.)
Strict regulation of firearm production. Production not to exceed legal licensees plus some small percentage above, along with lifting the prohibition of lawsuits against manufacturers who, in fact, overproduce.
Mandatory liability insurance to cover all accidental and purposeful shooting incidents. No insurance, no permit. Period.

Ahhh, but here’s the rub. I’ll be dead and buried before any of the above come to pass—if ever. And by any, I’m talking about the increase needed in mental health funding and accessibility along with reasonable gun regulations. Our society is sliding into social psychosis and fast approaching the point of no return–but Americans just don’t seem to care.

Yes, there are some voices howling against the madness, but sadly, they are few and far between.

To mourn those who have fallen victim to our collective insanity and inaction, the following is a list of just the school shootings since the Sandy Hook massacre.

Don’t Like Me on Face Book; Don’t Follow Me on Twitter

Posted on August 10, 2015 by Susan Kelly

Susan Kelly

…And, for Gawd’s sake, don’t expect me to post any photos on Instagram.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I should get with the zeitgeist. But for whatever reason, I just can’t. At least in terms of social media.

It’s not that I’m a Luddite. I love technology. I love the Internet. I love being able to take my cup of morning coffee to the computer, sit down, and read any newspaper in the world that has a website. (I lived in Scotland for four years while in graduate school, so anything going on in the U.K. is interesting to me personally beyond the regular attention I pay to world affairs.) I love being able to go to the Mayo Clinic or Massachusetts General Hospital online for medical advice. I love IMDB for movie reviews, goofy as some of them are. I love the website that told me that one of my ancestors, whose name I never knew before the site posted it, was injured at the Battle of Gettysburg, mustered out the following September, and then re-enlisted in the Union Army the following December, presumably having recovered from his wounds. (Either he was a true Union man, or he thought being shot at by the boys in gray was better than facing another Vermont winter. But no matter.) I love email. I’ve participated in some lively political, literary, and cultural online forums. There are many more things I love about the process of instant worldwide communications. It’s made my life so much richer.

But I just can’t get into social media. All writers are supposed to have Facebook pages, or sites, or whatever you call them. Publishers insist on it. In fact, I have one. It’s there for the sole purpose of advertising my books. I don’t think it sells many books. When I glance at it, which may be once every six months, if Facebook is lucky, the “news feed”—whatever the hell that is—is filled with messages from total strangers posting photos of baby animals, places they’ve been to, birthday parties they threw for their two-year-old kids, some fabulous bargain they got at T.J. Maxx, a review of some restaurant I’ll never go to because the cuisine sounds appalling, and painfully (as opposed to painstakingly) detailed instructions on how they trained their kitty-cats to use the litterbox. I don’t know these people. They don’t know me, but they insist on sharing the intimate details of their lives with me. I live in dread that the next time—maybe sometime in 2018—that I check my FB page, I’ll be treated to a graphic description of someone’s menopause, supplemented with captioned photos of clots. Or a home video of a prostatectomy.

I have been assured that there is a way to control who sees your Facebook page, and who posts there, and who doesn’t. But the point is, as an author with a product to sell, I’m supposed to keep the page open to all comers. Perhaps there’s a way to limit the comers to people who want to talk about books. But if there is, at this stage in my life, I’m too bored and busy to find out what it is.

I have a Twitter account. I have posted exactly one message on it, which instructs people to visit my website (www.susankellywriter.com). As far as I know, I have no followers. I also have a LinkedIn account. When I started it, I got bombarded immediately by people advertising their self-published self-help books. There would be—and I am not kidding—at least 40 messages apiece from the same three or four people, none of whom, of course, were known to me. The same message. Over and over and over again. I resented the fact that they were using my account to advertise their products. That put me off looking at my LinkedIn account for at least a year or two.

As with Facebook, there’s probably a way to control LinkedIn and Twitter. But again, as with Facebook, I’m too bored by the whole prospect to do whatever work is involved to find it. And, mind you, this is coming from someone who has been asked by others to fix their computers when there was some sort of glitch, who’s test-driven academic software, and who has the kind of psychotic patience required to read through an 800-page trial transcript and take notes on it.

I used to blog on my website. But I got bored with that, too, because it seemed as if I was talking to myself, although I knew I wasn’t. And I am still very happy to respond to any questions or comments people post there. I ignore, of course, obvious raving lunatics; those who promise to tell me who the real Boston Strangler was if I meet them in a dark alley at midnight; and any person who asks me for a date that involves the deployment of squirt-can whipped cream and chainsaws.

Here’s the final irony about my Facebook site: People I actually know, personally, who’ve looked for it say they can’t find it.

So if you want to read me, follow me, like me–I’m here at Zach’s website, which seems to me more like a small magazine for a select readership, one to which I’m pleased to contribute.

And remember: No canned whipped cream, no chainsaws.

House Hunters

Posted on July 13, 2015 by Susan Kelly

Susan Kelly

Several years ago, whenever I was in need of a laugh, I’d tune into the madly popular HGTV show House Hunters. In case you’re not familiar with it, House Hunters is a reality show that purports to follow individuals, couples, or families on their quest to acquire the perfect accommodation. Although the program’s longest-running host, Suzanne Whang, is a stand-up comic, I’m not sure whether the show was intended to be funny. It sure turned out that way.

A lot of the humor of the show derives from the fact that it showcases the screaming bad taste of a certain segment of the American public, or at least that segment of the American public that enjoys exposing itself on reality shows. One episode I remember vividly featured a young couple searching for their dream house. The real estate agent showed them a perfectly preserved Victorian/Craftsman. This place was stunning. The woodwork was to die for: built-in bookshelves, built-in hutches and china cabinets, wainscoting, beautifully carved mantels on the fireplaces…you get the picture. I’d settle for the oak floors alone.

The wife looked around at the hutches and bookcases, made a face, and said, “All this old stuff has to go.”

I’m pretty sure I screamed.

Another of my favorite episodes was the one starring a family looking for a nice big house in the suburbs. Not an unreasonable choice. Certainly it’s a choice that millions of people have made, and lived happily ever after having made it. But this particular hunting party was obsessed with having a huge kitchen. I mean a kitchen the size of a basketball court. Every other consideration appeared to be secondary. Very secondary. I began to wonder if they were undercover location scouts for Iron Chef.

Well, no. It turned out they wanted a colossal kitchen so that all their relatives and friends could assemble in it with them while Mom and Dad were preparing whatever meal was to be served to the merrymakers.

(Wanting to have hordes of people underfoot while you’re trying to make dinner is, by the way, an ongoing obsession with a lot of House Hunter participants. Beats me why. I don’t know about you, but the absolute last thing I want when I’m trying to baste a turkey, whisk a sauce, sauté a veal scallop, broil salmon, or mash potatoes is twenty-six people breathing down the back of my neck.)

Well, anyway, the family did find and buy a house with a huge kitchen, cooing about all the entertaining they were going to do, and rhapsodizing about how Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to miss any of the fun because all the guests would be in the kitchen with them while Mom and Dad were cooking.

The final scene of every House Hunters episode I’ve seen shows the Hunters du jour happily ensconced in their new abode. This episode was no different. The camera panned over a party scene in the enormous kitchen, guests happily milling around the linoleum-laiden acreage. (No, basketball hoops hadn’t been erected at either end of the room. Nor hockey goals. Though there was a flat screen tv the size of Rhode Island.) Then the camera zoomed in on the food preparation area.

On the counter were…four gallons of jug wine and six pizza boxes.

Maybe this is what “cooking for family and friends” means in the new millennium: ordering take-out to feed the multitudes. There’s something almost New Testament about it.

But I did learn something from watching House Hunters. This is the abiding lesson:

It is impossible to live decently in a house or condo lacking a) an open floor plan, b) a kitchen the size of Madison Square Garden, c) a “spa tub” in the bathroom of the “master suite,” d) double sinks in the bathroom of the “master suite,” e) a walk-in closet in the “master suite,” f) granite countertops, and g) stainless steel appliances. No self-respecting House Hunter insists on anything less.

I wonder how many of these folks really want those things, or want them only because they’ve been told by advertisers that they want them. The latter, I suspect.

I could go the cheap and easy route and blame this situation on Madison Avenue and modern American culture. But I would be remiss in so doing. There were advertising men (and women) practicing their craft in ancient Rome, and apparently quite effectively. The ruins of Pompeii are notable for graffiti promoting garam, a stew composed principally of decayed fish. (It occurs to me that this is the ideal dish to prepare if you wish to keep your friends and relatives out of the kitchen while you’re cooking.) Prostitutes touted their services. The four preoccupations of advertisers, back then, were money, sex, politics, and food.

Tell me what’s changed since.

So let us now imagine Roman House Hunters—or, I suppose, villa hunters—Episode XVII. Octavius, a newly elected senator, and his lovely and talented wife Flavia are seeking a starter villa in an upscale neighborhood off the Appian Way, rural in character, but convenient to shops, temples, usurers, slave auctions, gladiatorial combat venues, baths, and soothsayers. It’s been a tough slog, but Octavius and Flavia have finally found the perfect place.

The vomitorium has granite countertops.

ANOTHER TAKE ON CRIME WRITING

Posted on June 8, 2015 by Zachary Klein

By Zachary Klein

I’m an outspoken pacifist. I cover my eyes while watching most violence I see on television or in the movies. And I continue to believe in humanity, despite the gruesome reality that surrounds us.

I also earn my living writing about murder, betrayal, greed, and as much of the dark underside in our society as I can possibly perceive and understand.

What’s wrong with this picture?

Nothing. Writing is an art and I believe that every type of art gives all of us the space to experience the truly ugly strands of human nature without having to act them out. I’ll go even farther. It doesn’t have to be art. I believe the same about pornography, politically incorrect movies, and any “make believes.” I feel exactly the same about video games—though I haven’t played one since Tetris.

I know the argument that viewing/reading violence, sex, and the politically incorrect, actually encourages people to act out their inner uglies. I just don’t believe it. Worse, arguments like those have tightened control on what we can see, listen to, write and produce. We’ve lost a serious amount of creative space, not added. In fact, I think that throughout history, restriction and censorship has done more damage than what it tries to condemn.

A few nights ago Sue and I were flipping through mainstream channels, spotted the film Airplane, and stopped to watch—though we’d seen it a boatload of times. The movie had been released in 1980 and, at the same moment, we turned to each other and agreed that it would be impossible to make that movie now. “Have you ever seen a grown man naked?” pilot Peter Graves asks a little boy. (Not allowed to crack wise about pederasty these days.) A stewardess blows a rubber doll. (Where besides a fetish flick can you watch that?) An airport manager sniffs glue. And much, much more that defies our current cultural zeitgeist. Nothing in the movie was sacred. Oh, Airplane was rated PG.

The politically incorrect parts were making fun of and lambasting racism, sexism, drug use etc, rather than promoting it. Know what? Our kids did not grow up traumatized from sexual innuendo. (Who do you know that became a racist after watching Blazing Saddles?) No matter how you slice it, there’s a loss here.

I’ll grant my belief that every type “make believe” as a space to allow the worst of ourselves to be harmlessly encountered is difficult to conceive. Especially since we live in a world with an amazing amount of violence and perversity that has always, and continues, to exist. It’s tough to see how crime writing has reduced crime when crime is rampant. That writing about murder has reduced killing. But I believe it’s tough to see because the gift of imaginary freedom has always been buried under reality. And reality isn’t particularly pretty.

We’ve been socialized to think entertainment is simply that. For fun. That art is something to read, watch, and sometimes feel. And it’s that socialization which has reduced the power of “make believe” and I believe added to real life’s crushing brutality.

So before we can get an honest answer to my proposition, we actually need to eradicate the social/political/poverty and race issues that cause the actual violence in which we live. Only please don’t hold your breath waiting for that to happen.

Even if we were magically able to staunch the blood flow, there will always be an underside in everyone and that’s not going anywhere. Except into imagination which I as a reader and writer hold most dear. For the “make believe” we read in crime fiction or see in violent movies or hear in some dark music is a space that allows us to visit, explore, and treat the worst parts of ourselves—harmlessly, and then come back to our normal lives and sit down at the dinner table.

I’m not saying I write detective fiction simply for the good of humanity. In past columns I’ve mentioned the wonderful similarities I see (and sometimes get to enjoy) between playing jazz and writing detective fiction. (To be honest, probably more traditional jazz than total free-form.) The excitement of taking a paradigm and pushing at its boundaries. The novelist’s pleasure of bringing their audience into unknown places and unexpectedly intense situations.

But more than the personal enjoyment, I believe that, without proof, our work as crime writers contribute to the hope of a better, less violent, more tolerant world. And whether or not we collectively, cognitively, acknowledge it, all the multiple forms I mentioned above give promise to that hope.

We need imaginary violence. We need a place for kinkiness, we need a space in which we can safely (for ourselves and others) try out anything we want to be—without actually being it and without fear of reprisal.

We need more Breaking Bads, Sopranos, Deadwoods, Big Sleeps, Red Harvests, and especially more movies like Airplane.

You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus ~ Mark Twain