return of the fujifilm x10

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This is what happened. At some point over the last few months I began to miss the feeling of using a camera. I missed holding a camera in my hands. I wasn’t dissatisfied with my phone; it takes excellent photos. But it’s not the same; it’s a multi-use device that also happens to take photographs. I missed using a tool designed solely for the purpose of making photographs.

So a couple of weeks ago I opened up a cupboard and looked at all my abandoned cameras. I don’t have a camera collection; I just have some cameras I’ve stopped using. Some are film cameras, some are digital. I picked up a few and handled them. It was one of those Goldilocks moments; this camera was too big, this one was too heavy, this one would require a substantial investment in film and processing.

I pulled out the last camera I’d bought–a Fujifilm mirrorless camera. I was surprised to find the battery still had a charge. So I shot a few frames around the house. It felt awkward in my hands. Worse, I’d forgotten all the familiar menu pathways. I couldn’t remember how to make the cameras do what I wanted it to do. When I put the camera back in the cupboard, I noticed the very first Fujifilm camera I bought. A small X10, the first model of the compact cameras with the letter X and two digits in the product name. I bought it back in 2012 and wrote a blog post about it.

Out of curiosity, I did a quick file search and found the last photo I shot with x10. It was from August 15, 2016 at the Iowa State Fair, at one of those rides designed to toss people around and give them the illusion of danger. I liked the photo; you can see anxiety and bravado, you can see the clinched-butt need to appear calm and unfazed.

Iowa State Fair 8/15/2016

That photo was the spark I needed. So I dug around in the cupboard until I found the battery charger and charged the batteries. It had been so long since I’d used the camera that I had to re-set everything from scratch, including the date and time. I even tracked down the manual for the X10 online. I’m sure I must have at least glanced at the manual when I bought the camera, but I was unaware of some of the things the camera could do. For example, I created a custom setting for black-and-white shots, which is something I’ve never done before (and I’ll come back to that in a bit).

A man in a bright red vest and hoodie standing outside a barber shop.

Yesterday I set out to see if I could remember how to use a camera. Well, that’s not entirely true; I set out to go geocaching with my brother, but I used the excursion as an opportunity to re-acquaint myself with the X10. The little camera was a tad too big to slip into the pocket of my jeans, but it slid easily into the pocket of my hoodie. It weighed next to nothing. While my brother did the grunt work of geocaching, I watched a guy in a red vest fidget outside a barbershop in a Latino neighborhood. And the camera felt right.

Dead end road across the river from the minor league baseball stadium.

The camera felt right but the final results were…mixed. The first thing I had to re-adapt to was the parallax effect since the X10 is a sort of retro-designed rangefinder camera. I suspect a lot of folks have never used a rangefinder camera and are wondering, “Greg, old sock, what the hell is this parallax effect?” Unlike your basic single-lens-reflex camera, which allows you to see the scene through your lens, a rangefinder viewfinder is only near the lens. So you’re not seeing exactly what the lens sees: that’s the parallax effect. You have to learn to adjust to the small shift between what you see and what the lens sees. The closer you are to the subject, the more drastic the effect.

Kid riding a bike, seen through a public art sculpture.

In the photo above, I wanted to catch the rider in that patch of sunlight between the shadow and the tree. I was a fraction of a second late with the shutter as I panned to follow the kid, but I want to claim the tiny amount of parallax exacerbated the problem (DISCLAIMER: it almost certainly did not exacerbate the problem, but it’s a convenient thing to blame). If I was a fraction of a second too late releasing the shutter in the photo above, I was a fraction too soon in the photo below.

A city employee cleaning up litter and leaves.

I’d hoped to catch the street cleaner at a point just beyond the sign identifying the location as the Civic Center. I was a tad too quick on the trigger. Much of the day was spent confronting the reality of the Ferris Bueller School of Photography. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it. I was lucky not to miss the look of disdain by this privileged white woman as she watched a black man securing some home furnishings in the back of a rusty pick-up.

A man secures some home furnishings in his pick-up while a woman walks by and watches.

I mentioned earlier that I created a custom setting for black-and-white shots. This is one of the advantages of digital photography. With a film camera, you either have to change from color film to black-and-white film or carry two cameras. With a digital camera, you just turn a dial or change a menu option. I decided to try to create a setting that would sorta kinda almost mimic Daido Moriyama’s Provoke period. High contrast, high ISO, high grain. (Of course, digital imagery doesn’t have grain; it has noise, which isn’t remotely the same…but what the hell, I set the noise allowance as high as possible).

And hey, guess what. It didn’t work.

Two people walking behind some townhomes.

It wasn’t really a surprise that it didn’t quite work. Partly because Moriyama wouldn’t photograph a couple walking behind some upscale trendy townhomes. Partly because I didn’t see many high contrast scenes. And partly-mostly because I’m no Daido Moriyama. I shot maybe a dozen frames (okay, digital imagery doesn’t actually have frames either) using the custom setting. Most of them, like the photo above, are painfully dull.

I was only pleased with one black-and-white shot. Frankly I’ve shot MUCH better black-and-white photos with my cell phone (which, if you’re interested, you can see in a post about practicing photography in public). These photos were less black-and-white and more black-and-shite. But I intend to experiment more. Maybe I’ll figure out how to get the camera to give me the b&w photos I want.

Cyclist checking his stats.

At the heel of the hunt, though, I’m happy with the old X10. I’m reminded that my approach to almost everything I do is grounded in the same attitude. I want to do things well, but so long as I’m enjoying myself, I’m not that concerned with the results. And folks, I had fun with that little X10. I plan to start toting it around with me more often. In fact, I just ordered two extra batteries.

naw, wasn’t zorro

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According to the patriots on FreeRepublic, history has been destroyed. Again. The first time it was destroyed was in July of 2021, when the statue of…somebody, I can’t quite remember who…was removed from the Market Street Park (I think the park used to be named for a person, but nobody seems to know who that person was) in Charlottesville, North Carolina.

You may (or possibly you’re unable to) remember back in 2017 when that statue was first ordered to be removed. A group of white supremacists, neo-Confederates, neo-fascists, white nationalists, neo-Nazis, Klansmen, and far-right militias gathered in a Unite the Right rally to protest the removal. A counter-protest ended when one of the white nationalists drove his car into the crowd, killing one and wounding 35.

The statue…I think there was a horse involved, maybe?…was apparently removed (assuming it actually ever existed, who can say?) and put into storage. No reputable museum wanted to take possession of a large bronze statue of…some random guy who was maybe riding a horse. The statue was ordered to be destroyed–melted so the metal could be repurposed to create a new statue of somebody or something else.

There were a number of lawsuits opposed to the destruction of the statue of…whoever it was. Somebody with a horse; I’m certain there was a horse in it. A cowboy, maybe? Possibly a circus performer? Anyway, those lawsuits failed and recently…wait. Pony Express rider! I’m just guessing here, but that’s a real possibility.

Doesn’t matter. The lawsuits failed and just a few days ago, history was re-destroyed when the statue was melted and this person, whoever he…or she, or they (which seems more than likely because really, there’s a BIG push to remove non-binary people from history) was became completely and utterly erased from history. Nobody will ever know who they were, or what war they lost, or which nation they betrayed.

Oooh, Zorro! And his horse Tornado! I bet it was probably…but no. I remember Zorro. Don Diego de la Vega, in his mask and that wonderful sombrero cordobés, fighting valiantly against the corrupt and tyrannical officials of California. So no, not him. Whoever the statue was of, I’m guessing that person wasn’t fighting for justice.

a candy corn centrist

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Every year around this time I feel the need to eat candy corn. And every year, after I eat a few pieces, I find myself wondering why. Because of that, I find it impossible to take sides in the ‘candy corn’ debate. I feel about candy corn the same way I feel about some of the more esoteric sexual practices: if you enjoy it, have at it. If you don’t, you still have lots of options.

But for fuck’s sake, people, don’t try to stop others from enjoying their candy corn, and don’t shame them for liking it. And candy corn aficionados, don’t try to force your candy corn on anybody who doesn’t want any. This is NOT complicated.

Candy corn has a long history in the US. It’s been around since the late 1880s. As far as I can tell, the company that’s been continuously making candy corn the longest is Jelly Belly, which was originally called the Goelitz Confectionery Company (and I have to say, I think the name change was an unfortunate decision; some poor bastard is now forced to introduce himself as the CEO of Jelly Belly, and you know all the other CEOs are laughing).

The Goelitz brothers began producing candy corn in 1898. Unlike the white, orange, and yellow candy we’re mostly familiar with, Goelitz candy corn (also apparently referred to as ‘chicken feed’) was white, brown and yellow. I’m sure there was some rational corporate explanation for the change in the color scheme, but I’m going to assume it was because orange is simply a more jolly color.

The commercial manufacture of candy corn was NOT the most unfortunate event of 1898. Henry Lindfield became the world’s first fatality from an automobile accident on a public road (his car rolled down a hill in Purley, England and struck a tree–which is less embarrassing than having to introduce yourself as the CEO of Jelly Belly). And the USS Maine exploded in Havana harbor, sparking the Spanish-American War (which, although it was fought primarily in the Caribbean, resulted in the US owning Guam and the Philippines; the US also annexed the Hawaiian islands that year, which was unrelated, but you have to wonder about the sudden desire of the US government to own islands located way the fuck away from the mainland). And Caleb Bradham invented Pepsi-Cola (so named because it was intended to relieve dyspepsia, whatever that is).

I seem to have lost track of my point, which is that despite the attempts to vilify it, there is absolutely nothing wrong with eating and appreciating candy corn. Even ordinary decent citizens (such as myself) have been known to enjoy it (or at least wanting to enjoy it, even if afterwards it turns out we do not). Nobody needs to justify their taste for candy corn.

Licorice, on the other hand, is an offense to the gods.

just another news item

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Here we are again. It’s been five months since I’ve I written a post about a mass murder. Oh, there have been plenty of mass murders to write about in those five months, and even more mass shootings, but how often can you repeat the same weary commentary?

Because it IS always the same. Every single fucking time, it’s the same. The names of the victims and shooters are different, the locations are different, the numbers of the dead vary, but the bodies are all dead in the same way and the guns involved are at least similar. I noted in my last mass murder post, that I’d already written 36 earlier mass murder posts. Three a year for 12 years. This will be my third in 2023. Let’s hope there won’t be another, but hey, we’ve still sixty-some days left. Plenty of time.

Hope. That’s pretty fucking useless, isn’t it. As useless as thoughts and prayers. As useless as writing blog posts. I mean, it’s true that I really do seriously hope there won’t be another major mass murder in the next two months, but it’s also true that I don’t have any hope at all. How can a person both hope and be hopeless at the same time? But here I am.

The early reports are that the butcher’s bill in Lewiston is at least 22 dead and maybe 60 wounded or injured. The actual numbers will likely change. They usually do. Over the next couple of days we’ll learn their names; we’ll see their photographs, we’ll see interviews with some of their families, we’ll see photos of the usual memorials–flowers and notes and teddy bears–at the crime scenes. We’ve seen all of this before and we’ll almost immediately forget it, because this is how we live in the United States.

We all know why this happens. We’ll ask the question, of course. Why does this keep happening? But c’mon, we know why. It’s the easy access to semi-automatic weapons and high capacity magazine and Republican lawmakers. It’s not a mystery.

Mass murder in the US isn’t really a tragedy anymore. It hasn’t been for years. It’s just another news item.

EDITORIAL NOTE: I’ve been reminded that earlier this year I won an Edgar award for Best Mystery Short Story. It was called Red Flag; it’s about a man–a survivor of a mass killing event–who moves to Lansing, Michigan, where he learns of a person talking about committing a mass murder. He tries to find some way to prevent it. It’s about Red Flag laws, the laws that some states have passed allowing the authorities to temporarily remove weapons from people believed to be a danger to themselves or others.

Michigan doesn’t have a red flag law. The day after I learned the story was going to be published, there was a mass murder event in Lansing, Michigan. How creepy is that?

The alleged shooter in Maine had apparently been committed to a mental health facility for a couple of weeks last summer. He was reportedly hearing voices and had talked about committing a mass shooting at a nearby military training base. This is precisely the sort of situation for which red flag laws are intended.

Maine doesn’t have a red flag law.

except for the wind

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It was a lovely day for a bike ride…except for the wind. A sunny Monday (which meant all the decently employed people were off at work, leaving most of the bike trail almost empty), just a few days past peak foliage season, unseasonably warm (fuck you, climate change, there’s no reason for it to be 70F in the Midwest in the third week of October). So yeah, a lovely day for a bike ride…except for the wind

But the wind…lawdy. Steady 15-17 mph; gusts over 30. That kind of wind at your back is grand on a bike; it just pushes you along. But riding into that wind is a massive pain in the ass. And cross-wind? Fuck me with a chainsaw. If you need another reason to dislike the wind, it rips away the autumn foliage. Still, a bike ride seemed like a good idea.

Besides, I’d never ridden across the High Trestle Bridge. I’d ridden most of the High Trestle Trail many times, but the bridge is inconveniently placed near the end of the trail. I like to ride loops; you know, the sort of ride where you circle back to the beginning. The HTT isn’t a loop. It starts in on town, goes through a few other towns, then just ends. When you get to the end, you just turn around and ride the same trail back. That would be fine, except a big section of that trail is what cyclists call boring as fuck. It’s a long, ruler-edge straight, former railroad track that’s almost completely exposed to farmland. Which means there’s absolutely no protection from the sun or the wind. It’s awful.

But you can put up with the dull sections so long as there are interesting sections. So we hauled my bike to the far end of the High Trestle Trail and I rode home. The first few miles were lovely; a tree-lined, leaf-strewn trail. Quiet, peaceful, mostly protected from the wind. Then I came to the bridge. It’s a former railroad bridge, spanning the Des Moines River Valley. Half a mile long. One hundred and thirty feet high in the center. Absolutely beautiful. Absolutely exposed to the wind.

Did I mention there were gusts over 30 mph? Did I mention those were cross-winds on the bridge? Even on weekdays, the HHT bridge gets plenty of traffic. The far trailhead is within a few miles of the bridge, and there are bike pubs on both sides. It’s a popular cycling spot. Yesterday was no exception. But those winds.

I saw cyclists start on the bridge, then turn around and come back. I saw a four-bike collision in which it appeared the wind blew one cyclist into another, and two other cyclists piled into them. I saw some cyclists get off their bikes and walk them. And there were a few of us who just put our heads down and rode. I’d originally planned to stop at a couple of the observation areas on the bridge–slightly wider spots where you can dismount and enjoy the scenery. But it was too windy. The bridge is wide enough for maybe three bikes to ride side-by-side, but it felt awfully narrow in those winds.

Once across the bridge, the trail became friendlier. It’s a beautifully maintained paved trail, lined with trees, passing by or through a few small farming towns. It was the very best part of the ride; the part in which most of these photos were taken. But then the HHT turns southward and, aside from a few small sections, it’s almost entirely open to the wind. I’ve never been so glad to own an ebike.

My bike has five levels of pedal-assist. It’s so easy to ride, I’ve never felt the need to leave the first level of assist. But into those headwinds, I toggled up to pedal-assist two. Around ten miles straight into steady 15-17 mph headwinds, with gusts of 30 mph. There were very few cyclists riding into the wind; maybe half of the riders I encountered were riding ebikes. The ones who weren’t, looked miserable. I didn’t even think about stopping to take photos.

One of the many nice things about the High Trestle Trail is that there are lots of places to stop and rest. Benches every few miles, small towns with parks, people who live along the trail set out chairs and small tables. I saw at least three bike maintenance locations along the trail, with air pumps and a selection of tools. There are trailheads at both ends of the HHT, with restrooms, picnic tables, and repair stations. The trailhead at the southern end even has porch swings.

It wasn’t a terribly long ride. Less than 30 miles. A hefty chunk of it was unpleasant and more strenuous than I’d like. But any day you get to spend on a bike is a good day. Yesterday was a good day. Except for the wind.

sydney powell in the car with a plate of shrimp

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I had a ‘plate of shrimp’ moment this week when Sidney Powell got in the car.

Okay, that sentence probably needs some explanation, doesn’t it. I mean, it’s got two wildly diverse idiomatic phrases: ‘in the car’ and ‘plate of shrimp.’ Let’s start with the former and I’ll include an editorial note at the end to explain the latter.

In the car — it’s an out-of-date phrase used by police and criminal lawyers. It meant ‘cooperate with the authorities.’ “Will this guy get in the car?” “Can we keep him in the car?” “Motherfucker is thinking about getting out of the car.” Like that. If somebody is in the car, they’re cooperating with the State. They’re along for the ride.

I wrote about this almost six years ago in regard to Lt. General Michael Flynn, who was Donald Trump’s National Security Advisor for 22 days. Flynn was forced to retire from that post for lying (to the FBI and to VP Mike Pence) about conversations he’d had with the Russian ambassador to the US. It’s not a crime to tell a lie, but it IS a crime to lie or conceal material facts to a federal investigator in connection to a federal crime.

So Mike Flynn got his ass charged. And hey, he got in the car. He agreed to plead guilty to a single count of lying to the FBI and to testify truthfully in the Mueller investigation of Russian interference in the 2016 election. In exchange, he’d get a lenient sentence. Accused criminals get in the car because it’s to their advantage.

But Flynn didn’t stay in the car.

In 2019, Flynn fired the lawyers who’d arranged his plea deal, withdrew his guilty plea, and hired a new lawyer. Sidney Powell. That very same day, Powell asked Trump’s Attorney General, Bill Barr, to drop the charges against her client. In the movies, of course, you see prosecutors say, “I’m going to drop the charges” and those charges just disappear. Poof, they’re gone. But in real life, a prosecutor has to file a motion to dismiss the charges and a court has to agree. Barr filed the motion to drop the charges, but the presiding judge, Emmett Sullivan, was reluctant. So Powell asked the DC Circuit Court of Appeals to force Sullivan to drop the charges. The court said, “Nope, not gonna do that.” So Powell went higher up the food chain. And in 2020, then-President Trump issued a presidential pardon to Flynn.

That’s right. Trump pardoned a guy who’d originally agreed to testify against him. Hell, he pardoned a bunch of guys who were in a position to get in the car and testify against him. If you’re a criminal, it’s good to be POTUS.

Sidney Powell, booking photo

Also in 2020, Powell joined Trump’s legal team and played a major role in his attempt to overturn the legitimate results of the 2020 election.

In August of this year, Powell (along with 18 others, including Trump) was indicted on seven felony counts for various types of fraud and election interference under Georgia’s Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization law. And hey, guess what.

Sidney Powell got in the car. On Thursday, she pled guilty to some misdemeanor crimes in exchange for testifying truthfully in regard to the RICO crimes. Will she stay in the car? Probably. Unless Trump somehow manages to get re-elected as president. Then it’ll be presidential pardons all around.

Plate of shrimp, right?

EDITORIAL NOTE: Right, plate of shrimp. It’s from a scene in the film Repo Man in which an eccentric mechanic name Miller sort of semi-explains the concept of synchronicity to punk-apprentice-repo man Otto.

Miller: A lotta people don’t realize what’s really going on. They view life as a buncha unconnected incidents and things. They don’t realize that there’s this, like, lattice of coincidence that lays on top of everything. Give you an example; show you what I mean: suppose you’re thinking about a plate of shrimp. Suddenly someone’ll say, like, plate, or shrimp, or plate of shrimp out of the blue, no explanation. No point in looking for one, either. It’s all part of a cosmic unconciousness.

Otto: You eat a lot of acid, Miller, back in the hippie days?

Professor Plum in the conservatory with a candlestick. Sidney Powell in the car with a plate of shrimp. It’s all part of a cosmic unconsciousness.

done and dusted

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A few days ago I mentioned I was actually busy, that I’d found myself in “one of those rare instances when I’m working under a deadline.” Some folks wondered about that deadline business. Allow me to splain.

Twelve days ago (on Tuesday the 3rd) I noticed a post on Bluesky (which, by the way, is by far the most engaging and positive (and frequently very weird) social media platform I’ve ever encountered) stating that Uncanny Magazine had opened submissions for short fiction. Uncanny has been publishing science fiction and fantasy fiction for about a decade. The magazine itself and the fiction it’s published have won numerous awards. Uncanny has published short fiction and novellas by a LOT of the big hats in the SFF biz.

I don’t write science fiction or fantasy. I write detective/crime stuff. I’ve always read SFF, and I’ve occasionally banged out some ideas for SFF novels, but I’ve never followed through. So when I saw the post about open submissions, I said to myself, “Greg, old sock, why not give it a shot?”

The obvious response was, “I’ll tell you why not. First, you’ve never written SFF in your entire semi-wicked life. Second, you’ve got less than two weeks to come up with an idea and write a short story, which is another thing you’ve never done. Third, there are a million other things you actually WANT to do instead of sitting alone in a quiet room making shit up. It’s October, for fuck’s sake, and you’ll want to ride your bike and see people and go on long drives to look at autumn foliage. Fourth and finally, let me repeat that you’ll only have two weeks to write a story in a genre you’ve never written and it’s the best two weeks of autumn, you massive idiot.”

So I decided to write a story and submit it.

Which is exactly what I did.

Finished it last night, formatted it this morning, just submitted it moments ago. About 9500 words in eleven days. It doesn’t sound like a lot. Less than a thousand words a day. But that includes coming up with the idea, envisioning the story world, populating it with believable (I hope) characters, ensuring the plot holds together, arranging the scenes, and putting all those words in a row. I’ve never written an entire short story, nose to tail, in such a short period of time.

I have absolutely no idea if it’s any good. I mean, I was satisfied enough with the story that I submitted it, but Jesus suffering fuck, 12 days? And, of course, the fact that I’m satisfied with it doesn’t mean a damned thing. The folks who’ll send you the contract and cut the check, they’ve got to be satisfied…and who knows what they’ll do?

But THIS is the part of the writing gig I’m really very good at: letting go. Most writers I know tend to fret about the stories they’ve submitted. Me, once I submit a story for publication, I basically forget it…until I get an acceptance or a rejection. Out of sight, out of mind. Done and dusted.

Which may be good for my mental health, but is a terrible business practice. Because if a story gets rejected by one publisher, you may want to submit it to another. This actually almost happened to me last year. I’d submitted a story to Alfred Hitchcock’s magazine and immediately forgot about it. Well, I forgot about it until I was ready to submit another story to different magazine. Then I remembered, “Hey, dude, it’s been maybe 3-4 months and you haven’t heard about the other story; that ain’t right.” So I sent an email saying ‘Don’t want to make a fuss, but if you’re not going to accept the story, let me know so I can sell it elsewhere.’ The magazine responded with a contract. That story eventually won an Edgar award. Go figure publishers.

Anyway, the story is written. It’s been submitted. And I feel liberated. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go for a bike ride.

it’s the same coin

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I’m almost never busy. I don’t live a busy life. But this is one of those rare instances when I’m working under a deadline. So of course RIGHT NOW there’s a LOT of really awful and really interesting and really important stuff happening everywhere. Stuff I’d ordinarily be writing about because, as you know, I have thoughts about things.

The most awful thing is the terrorist attack by Hamas on Israeli civilians. No matter how much a person might support the rights of Palestinians, no matter how much a person might despise the treatment of Palestinians by the Israeli government, no matter how much a person might understand the frustration and anger and boiling hatred Palestinians may feel toward Israeli policies, there’s absolutely no possible justification for an attack designed to slaughter civilians. And there’s no possible reason to celebrate such an attack.

But this is why terrorism exists, and why it works. Oppressed people strike out–not directly against the government that oppresses them, because they don’t have the military power to harm the government. They strike where they can do the most damage, and they do it KNOWING it will result in two things: 1) outrage against them and their cause, and 2) a massively one-sided retaliation. The retaliation always reveals the social and political conditions that sparked the terrorism.

Right now people are talking about Gaza. Right now, a lot of people are gleeful about the demolition of Gaza, because ‘they’ deserve it. But many people are also hearing for the first time Gaza referred to as ‘the world’s largest open-air prison.’ We’re seeing in the starkest possible light, the people who allow their anger and resentment to turn to brutality–the terrorists and the retaliators.

And because I’ve said This is why terrorism exists and why it works, some people will argue that I’m validating the attack by Hamas. So let me repeat this: There’s absolutely no possible justification for an attack designed to slaughter civilians and there’s no possible reason to celebrate such an attack. I could also say–and it would be equally true–that brutal oppression works. We’ve seen that in totalitarian regimes throughout history. That’s not a justification of brutality.

Brutality works for the brutal, terrorism works for the terrorists, racism works for the racists, patriarchy works for men, cruelty works for the cruel, selfishness works for the selfish. In all cases, ordinary decent people are the ones who suffer.

This is all deeply ugly. So it’s important to remember this: the Israeli government doesn’t represent all Jews. It’s important to remember this: Hamas doesn’t represent all Palestinians. It’s critically important to understand that oppression and terrorism the opposite sides of the same coin.

EDITORIAL NOTE: We must burn the patriarchy. If you’re wondering what the patriarchy has to do with the situation in Israel and Gaza, then you don’t really grasp the extent to which patriarchy infects culture. We need to burn it to the ground, gather the ashes, piss on them, douse them in oil and set them on fire again. Burn it and keep burning it, over and over. Burn it for generations. Then nuke it from orbit. Then have tea and cookies.