Earlier this year I read an amazing novelette, 1989 by Vince Omni. Published earlier this year, 1989 won the CRAFT 2025 Novelette Print Prize. The book that has stayed with me long after I finished the last page, and I’m incredibly excited to see what Vince does next.

So without further ado, here is the interview. (And an accompanying transcript)

Transcript

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (00:01)

Hello, hello. My name is Ricardo and I’d to welcome Vince Omni, the author of an amazing novelette, 1989.

Vince Omni (00:12)

Thank you so much.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (00:14)

Yeah, I read this book, I forgot, it like a month or two ago. Right, I think right around the time it just came out ⁓ and I was ecstatic. And I also just love short books. Not every book needs to be two or 300 word pages. This is just my opinion. ⁓ But yeah, if you wanna ⁓ introduce yourself, Vince, talk a little about who you are and how this kind of book came to be.

Vince Omni (00:40)

Sure, yeah. yeah. First of all, Ricardo, thanks for having me, inviting me to this interview. I’m very grateful for an opportunity to talk about 1989 with you. I mean, I tell my students ⁓ that, you know, one of the things I love to talk about is myself and the things that I’m working on. So I teach at Lake Forest College in Lake Forest, Illinois. I teach African-American Lit and Creative Writing. I like to write fiction, short stories, novels, some dabbling in screenplays. I kind of have a, I feel like I have like a cinematic bent to my writing, and I think that’s from spending way too much time in front of a television screen, so yeah.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (01:18)

Okay, well, no, we’ll definitely get into that.

Vince Omni (01:34)

So yeah, so there, that’s a little bit about me.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (01:38)

And then 1989. So the book is very interesting for a few reasons. One, so for those that don’t know, 1989 is a novelette, so it’s a little shorter than traditional novel. But also it’s set in a very specific place, Late 80s, Denver, that I’ll be honest, I have not seen too many of any books set in that, especially like the black community in that time. So I feel like you can you know, there has to be like some reason or, know, for how that came to be.

Vince Omni (02:12)

Yeah, for sure. Yeah, I could talk about that. Yeah, I grew up in Denver. I was born in California, but my mother was a Denverite. I was raised in Denver, Colorado from like age two or three until I left for high school at age 18. And then I was still a resident. Like I went to college back and forth to a small college in Minnesota called St. Olaf. But I would come home for the summers and I actually, this continued to live there sporadically off and on, but I haven’t lived there as a resident probably since 19, the mid 1990s, 90s, 96, somewhere around there.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (02:58)

And we’ll get into like the setting of Denver a little bit later because I do want to talk more about that. But I also want to read. I want to get to the book and why. mean, one of the reasons I love it. But for those it’s it’s a book, I guess. I mean, it’s a book about basketball, but also about like so many other things you just rarely see basketball in like a story in a literary form. I think I read, you know, Hanif Abdurraqib’s book a year two ago, but I haven’t, I think this is the only, the second book I’ve ever read that includes basketball, which I loved as a kid. Detached a little bit more as I got older. So how did you end up writing like a basketball?

Vince Omni (03:48)

Yeah, you know what, it’s funny because first of all, I love basketball. I was never in danger of being a tremendous talent on the basketball court. Right? But I grew up. I grew up with a group of, you know, like, I grew up in a generation where everyone thought, man, a lot of men thought, you we’re gonna grow up, we’re gonna be ballers, we’re gonna be hoopers, we’re gonna play for the rest of our lives. And that worked out for a lot of folks, just not for me. Just not for me.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (04:29)

That’s funny. I have a similar story. I mean, anybody that’s met me in person, I’m 5’7”, I’m not a tall guy, right? But I was actually pretty good. Not to toot own horn, but I remember my sophomore year of I made the team, my freshman year in high school, was trying out for my sophomore. The coaches loved me because I was like a defensive player, I had a lot of grit, right? And I could take a punch. But I remember I went to my basketball coach my sophomore year and ⁓ I told him, I was like, hey coach, you know, I was thinking of playing again this year, but there’s also these like business and math club that I was going to join. And I think those honestly take me further than basketball will. And then my coach, he grabs, he puts his arm around my shoulder, looks at me he’s like, Ricardo. I’m trying to think if I should curse. Yeah, why not? He’s like Ricardo, you’re the smartest motherfucker on this team. He’s like, I wish everybody thought like that. But yeah, a lot of people, especially in Chicago, like my team won the city championship, Gwendolyn Brooks Eagles, right? So everybody and two of the guys, like both the guards ended up playing D1, right? ⁓ I don’t know what happened to them after that, but they did play D1. Yeah, I come from like a very competitive, very intense, like basketball school environment. So when I was reading it, I was like, oh God, it’s like being in high school again.

Vince Omni (06:06)

You know, and I played a little bit of high school hoop. I played a year of college at a D3. And you know, I just loved the game. I did. I still do. still follow the pro game, especially around this time of year when the playoffs, when things are amping up for the playoffs. You know, so you know, that’s when I start to really tune in a lot. But I keep track of my hometown team, the Denver Nuggets, you know.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (06:35)

Okay, I’m not going to get into, I’ll ask Nugget’s questions at the very end because I do think we could easily turn this into a basketball chat. But so the novel, so one of the things I find, one of the central themes or ideas behind the novel as well, in addition to basketball, is you have this queer basketball player whose story is kind of being told secondhand, right? Church, through Davyon’s interview and I was curious like what kind of led to that decision and like that kind of narrative and I’m very interested because there’s not like it’s I mean, you know, but like in sports, especially basketball like there’s I think only been one Like openly gay basketball player Jason Collins. I don’t know of any others that have been And no act no none since. So I’m curious how you like approach that and how you decided to like, you know explore that kind of queer narrative in

Vince Omni (07:15)

So, I I heard a lot of questions in there, so I’ll, I’ll just...

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (07:38)

Answer whatever, which one ever you want.

Vince Omni (07:40)

I’ll start with like kind of like the motivation like the the inspiration for it like I was I was I was you know I Was a teenager playing at the King Center in Northeast Denver Park Hill is the same neighborhood where Chauncey Billups came out of. And so I was there I was it was summer we were playing you know some pickup games. And there was a coach. He wasn’t my coach. He was just a coach. He was a guy in the building watching kids play hoop. And he kept doing the same thing that Church does to Davyon at the beginning of the book, which is calling him out his name. Using these gender-based slurs to kind of know, infuriate him. And I was a kid at the time. I mean, I’m ashamed to admit that that worked for me. But he kept doing that to me. And then later he told me on the sidelines that we did I kept saying that because you know see a lot of potential in you I want you to work harder this that the third yada yada yada And he actually turned out to be a helpful person like he actually turned out to be a helpful person in fall as far as like you know Basketball knowledge is concerned like you know helping me to increase my basketball IQ. Helping me understand the things that I need to do if I want to continue to play basketball. He really became a helpful person. But I always wondered, like, I was curious about interrogating that kind of, you know, that frame of thought, that motivation. Yeah, like, why motivate me in that way? And not just that, but the 80s, that was just a very, like, there was a lot of toxic masculinity going around. was, you know, where I grew up in Denver. This is the era where the Crips and the Bloods came to town from Los Angeles. And so there was a tradition of, or shouldn’t you say a tradition, was a, there was a point where the guys in my neighborhood went from fighting with their fists to shooting each other. You know what I’m saying? So there was just a lot of, there was just a lot of hyper, what we would call, what would be considered by society hyper masculine behavior going around. And I wanted to push back on that and to interrogate that and to learn more about the motivations for it. And I was curious, what would have motivated someone to take that particular approach with me to motivate me to play harder. And I just kind of arrived at, what if this guy, and I’m not trying to make any speculation about this person who was heckling me on the sideline because I don’t know anything about their sexual history or their sexual, you know, how they identify themselves. But I was just, I just wondered like, what if this was like a, you know, kind of like a mask for this person? And if it was a mask, what would it mean? What did that mean for him and for his life and the way he moved through the world?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (10:47)

Yeah, I mean. I know I deeply like empathize with that. remember like when yeah, when I was growing up, so I played on like the school played near the school park, right? But I was at the time, I was probably like 12, 13, right? But I would play with like grown men, right? And you would think like an older like a grown man, like somebody my age would see a 12 year old and think, oh, let me treat him like a 12 year old, but like no grown men on the court will try to fight you. They’ll fight you and they’ll call you names and they’ll do this and that to make you, you know, to make you tough. Right. And it’s and it’s always, you know, the same tired excuse. Right. Like, look at, look at, look at, they did it to me. Look how I turned out. And it’s like, no, you’re fighting a child. Like you didn’t turn out well if you think fighting a child on a basketball court is great. But so, yeah, I think it is. I mean, I’ll be honest, like one of the reasons I stopped playing as when I got to like my twenties, I loved it as a kid, but like the toxicity is like, it’s crazy. Like at my age, I’m not, can’t, I’ll never be a pro, right? But I’m on as a 20 year old, like I’m playing against people that think that they were pros had their chance. like, it is, it is like people taking like their insecurities out on you, right? ⁓ And I wish we, especially men could just acknowledge that that’s really where comes from and not lay the blame on someone else because you missed your shot.

Vince Omni (12:36)

I think that, know, and I can’t really, I can’t really even begin to speculate like for men of my generation. Because, you know, I’m 54, so, you know, and of course, the title tells you I was in high school in 1989. In fact, I was a year away from graduating at that point. So I’m sorry, my window was open and there’s a truck out here. But like, you know, think, you know, hoop dreams die hard. Hoop dreams die hard. And I think for people who love the game and who gave a lot of themselves to the game of basketball, the idea of stepping on a court and not, you know, and differentiating your level of play for others, especially, you know, younger players, just feels like something that, that, that, that they can’t do. And I guess to a certain extent I could see that, but I think when you’re talking about how there are guys who get on the court and they treat it like going to war, and we’re just playing Noonball, or we’re just playing a pickup game, like, you know, calm down, calm down, calm down.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (13:50)

Mm-hmm. Yeah. Exactly. Yeah, exactly. That’s what saying. Like, it’s hard for me now to get to play basketball and pick up game with people that are like in their 20s and 30s because it is war. Like, to people, it is war. It’s like, this is my time to shine. and I think it is, you know, value, right? Like, a lot of people think I’m not valuable outside this court, so now I have to show up.

Vince Omni (14:21)

I mean, a lot of athletes, male, female, they dedicate a lot of their lives to learning a game, learning how to play a sport, and oftentimes lose their identities in that process. so understanding who you are off of a basketball court or off of a soccer field or off of a volleyball court, that’s also important, right?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (14:47)

Exactly. So one of the things when I was reading it, one of the quotes by Pemi Aguda was in the beginning, she said she talked about, and this was in the foreword, she loves when people that are deeply passionate about something kind of like wax poetic about it and she kind of compared your novel to like her electrician friend talking about wiring. And I really love that because I’m the same way. Like I can listen to anybody nerd out about a very specific subject. I might not understand, but I’ll listen with joy. And one of the passages she quoted, I’d like to read aloud.

Vince Omni (15:16)

All right.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (15:34)

A riot of purple, pink, and orange filled the darkening sky. Like the gods were running a pickup game and one of them sank a once in a lifetime shot. Dr. J leaping from one side of the court to the other, his arm sweeping the ball beneath the backboard and kissing it off the glass before falling back to earth. And this is not the only time that you just like create such vivid imagery about like, you know, basketball and you kind of like create a sense of place with Denver. But yeah, like what, are you drawing from outside of your childhood experiences to like create this book, right? Like are there games, specific games or basketball moments that you recall, movies, ⁓ film, as you said you’re big into. But where is that inspiration coming from? And because I’m sure other people would want to know, like where do get these beautiful...

Vince Omni (16:25)

Yeah, yeah, I mean that’s a great question. Like for instance, that particular pass is right there. I’m thinking about the Dr. J shot, right? The one where he brings the ball under the backboard and you know, it’s like an iconic shot. He leaps from one side of the court to the other under the backboard, like swishing, know, swinging his arm underneath the backboard and laying up on the other side against the Lakers. And that’s like, you know, that’s an iconic move right there. And that’s also a Ross Gay. The poet Ross Gay, yeah, he writes about that in a book of poetry called Beholding. And so I think that’s just, that’s how iconic that particular shot is. So for that particular moment, that’s one of the things I was thinking about. But I think in general, like, you know, it’s 1980s basketball. It’s like, it’s considered to be like a golden era in basketball, you know.

Vince Omni (17:31)

You had the Showtime Lakers, you have ⁓ the Celtics, have the Michael Jordan who’s ascending. He’s taking over the NBA. The Detroit Pistons are coming up. ⁓ They’re poised to win back-to-back ⁓ championships in the late 80s and 90s. so it’s like, there’s a lot of basketball happening. And so I think about, for instance in that first part of the book, have ⁓ Davy on and his uncle Jr. are watching like tape and they’re watching the 1987 game five of the 1987 Eastern Conference finals between the Detroit Pistons and the Boston Celtics where Larry Bird steals Isaiah Thomas’s inbound pass and dishes is off to Dennis Johnson for the layup. Like that’s an iconic moment. That’s seared in my brain because I was so angry i love like outside of the denver nuggets when I was growing up outside of the Nuggets and you know Alex English, Fat Lever, Kiki VanDeWeghe, you know all those all those players the the the detroit pistons the 1980s bad boys was my team like all my friends wanted to be like Mike and i just wanted to be like Isaiah Thomas or Joe Dumars and

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (18:49)

No.

Vince Omni (18:54)

And so, yeah, so I was so, that was so devastating for me when I saw that. I was like, my God, I’m just, I was crushed. I was crushed. So that made it in there as well.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (18:57)

Yeah, I was thinking I did look at, was, when I saw the title, I was like, I was wondering, was like, is this book because you’re a Pistons fan? ⁓ But yeah, my era, was, it was very fun, very different. So I grew up, when I grew up, Derek Rose was becoming popular and I’m from Chicago.

Vince Omni (19:20)

I am, I am, yeah.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (19:36)

So Derrick Rose actually grew up like in the similar neighborhood as me, actually same neighborhood down the street. But yeah, he was like, and still is basically like Michael Jordan level status in Chicago, right? Like it’s like Michael Jordan, Derrick Rose, like untouchable. But then, you know, injuries and all that, but yeah, there’s, it’s an art form that lends itself to such, there’s so many, so many like. So much vivid imagery.

Vince Omni (20:07)

D. Rose was such a talent, like, you know, like to watch him play, to watch him play, that was just amazing, right?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (20:17)

That was a, I miss it. But in another, yeah, another question I had for you about this book and I thought it was very interesting about the format. So the book, it’s actually told in an interview kind of format, right? Like, or the premise of it is an interview. The protagonist is being interviewed about, you know, his time, you know, decades ago back when he was in high school. And I’m curious how you kind of came to that structure and how you kind of decided like you wanted to do that as opposed to just like a more linear, you know, story of just Davyon in high school.

Vince Omni (20:58)

Yeah, that’s a great question too. So in the early stages of this story, like when I would give it to people to read, some beta readers, my friends basically, people I meet at workshops, you folks I’ve met at workshops, the folks I’ve met in programs, they were like, yeah, this is a great story. But you know, have you considered like, is the occasion for Davyon relaying this story? Like why? Why is Davyon at this point in his life talking about these things? What’s going on? And I kept getting that feedback and I was like, that’s really a good point. And so I wanted to create a narrative frame that would allow him to be retrospective. And I think the interview is the classic sports sports conveyance. So much that we learn about athletes is conveyed through interviews. ⁓ And I started just tinkering with that idea. It would be a great way for Davyon to reflect about his time with Church. It would be a great way for Davyon to also update readers about what’s happening with Davyon 25 plus years later. How did his life turn out?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (22:33)

And one of the things that think you did well that ⁓ also Pemi Aguda mentioned was that like, even though it is, you know, 25 years later, like it’s not as if he’s like retelling it he has like all the answers. He’s not like, I knew exactly what I was doing. I did it right. This is, I would do it again. Like, and that kind of narrative also is like a little bit more boring, right? Like somebody’s, you know, saying like they, figured it all out, but you have somebody who like made mistakes in high school, understands them to a degree, is like kind of replicating them even in the future in a different vein, but doesn’t necessarily like recognize that. Right. And I think you kind of like show that how like people change to a degree, right? Like they change and then they, you know, there’s a plateau, right? Like there’s only so much, right. And yeah, it kind of leads me to, and I don’t want to spoil the ending, but I think from one of the things I got from the ending, one of the ideas I kind of took away was this idea of like redemption, grace, forgiveness, right? of, I don’t know, not spoil it, but because of certain decisions made, certain people had to live out the consequences of their actions and some turned out better than others, but they’re ultimately like learning how to accept the decisions they made and how to accept this person that they are. So I know if you, I mean, if you can kind of talk a little bit about like, you know, how we, how that came to be, right? Like how these characters ultimately ended up, but not like giving it away.

Vince Omni (24:17)

That also is a great question. You know, I think that, you know, it would be disingenuous for Davyon to have all the everything figured out. For Davyon to have all the answers and for Davyon not to question any of his motives or any of his, you know, the things that were driving him during this period of his life as a teenager. And I think, you when we think about human development, like we know that, for instance, that, you know, our minds are, you know, that the prefrontal lobe is not fully developed until, you know, mid twenties. So oftentimes we’ve made very adult decisions before we’ve had a chance to fully develop, right? And for men, I mean, some people might argue that for men that’s longer than that.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (25:14)

I’d argue that. I’d argue that.

Vince Omni (25:18)

So like, so we make a lot of decisions that impact the rest of our lives before we’ve even had a chance to fully develop. And so I think for characters like Davyon, for a character like Davyon, you have this, you know, this chance to look back on your life and reflect upon it and realize, hey, you still have questions. Hey, you still have, you still have some residual pain, you know, and then the idea of, you know, his father, Davyon’s father, because, I mean, that’s the rub, right? We have a young man in 1989 who’s been, all intents and purposes, cast out of his home because he and his, you know, his father is an abusive man, you know, right? His father is an abuser. So he’s been exiled to a new city, a new school. And he’s trying to find his footing and basketball is his end. You know, that’s his thing. And I think that knowing that, having a chance to look back on that and then have his father resurface in the front story, right? Have his father going through this, come to Jesus. You know, I’m born again. I’m trying to make amends type of situation.

Vince Omni (26:44)

You know, that is also something that is like messing with him, right? Like he’s like, this dude, like, he’s really, this dude’s really fucking with me right now. I don’t have time for this dude right now. It is really, it was really meant to be like, you know, an opportunity for him to reflect, but also an opportunity for him to see, well, what kind of patterns do I engage in? What kind of patterns from then do I still engage in now? What kind of trauma am I still dealing with? And that’s kind of what led me to that. so having the answers is not, having the answers when you are still being inundated with new data, being inundated with new circumstances and new choices in life. You know, it’s disingenuous to think that he would have the answers.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (27:45)

And I think that like, it also like raises also like a very, very touchy question, right? But like this idea of like, what, to what do we owe the people that have like hurt us? Cause I remember to that end, there was like a line towards the end. I don’t remember the exact line, but somebody’s talking to Davyon on and they say, well, you your mother has forgiven your father. So like, why can’t you? Right? Like, and it’s a hard question, right? And I’ll pose it to you, like to what do we owe the people that have hurt us, right? Like it’s in regards to forgiveness, especially when you have all these kind of like these men that are constantly like hurting each other in ways they don’t understand, like, you know, how, how, where do you draw the boundary? Where do you find acceptance? Like, you know.

Vince Omni (28:44)

You know, I think that’s something that everyone has to answer for themselves. I can’t tell like another person, you know, what they owe someone else who has hurt them, who has caused trauma to their lives. ⁓ So I think that’s an individual question. I think what we owe ourselves is a lot of like grace, a lot of understanding and then an opportunity to be accountable for any of the harms that we may have perpetrated as well. I think that’s what we owe ourselves. As far as like, when we forgive other people, that’s only something, or if we forgive other people, right? Because sometimes there are some things that people just don’t come back from, right? Some acts of violence, some acts of trauma that just for certain people are just unforgivable. And so, you know, I think whenever someone is dealing with that internally, when they do that or if they decide to do that, that’s something that’s up to them. But I think that we owe ourselves like some grace. We owe ourselves some understanding and we also owe ourselves an opportunity to just be reflective and try to have, try to be honest with ourselves about how these things have hurt us and how they may have impacted the way we move through life. And are we repeating patterns, for instance? And if so, what can we do to disrupt that, to interrupt it so we don’t pass it down to anyone else?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (30:17)

Okay, I will say 1989 is essential reading for any young man in this country, especially now. I am very, very happy we got the chance to talk about it. And I have one last not a serious question. But who is winning the NBA championship this year?

Vince Omni (30:36)

Oh, boy. Well,

it’s hard to say. It’s hard. You know, I’m pulling. I’m pulling for the Nuggets, but they’ve had a lot of injuries this year. They haven’t had a chance to kind of regroup and become a cohesive unit yet. You know, who’s going to catch Oklahoma City? Right in the West, who’s going to catch Oklahoma City and San Antonio?

Vince Omni (31:21)

Like those are some major teams right now. And in the East, you know, the Pistons are firing or were firing on all cylinders, but then Cade Cunningham went down and I’m not sure what the, you know, what his health prognosis is like right now. But it does, you know, that’s, I would be really concerned. You know, I would be really concerned. So yeah, it’s hard to say. It’s hard to say, but I think it’s going to come out of the West. I think the winner will be, you know, from the Western Conference.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (31:36)

You know in the spirit of talking about talented yet toxic men my favorite NBA player and team is Anthony Edwards at the moment So I know he’s got issues off the court, but I love watching him play and I am becoming a Minnesota bandwagoner by the day

Vince Omni (32:05)

Anthony Edwards is an amazing talent. I don’t know a lot about his off court experiences, but I know on the court he’s an amazing talent. I know Nas Reed is also, know, Nas Reed, Di Vincenzo, you have, you know, that’s a pretty, and then there’s a couple of younger players, Bones and, well Bones isn’t that young, but he’s youngish, but you have Bones Hyland and somebody that they just got from Chicago, right? A guard.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (32:45)

Wow, really know, you really, you’re keeping up.

Vince Omni (32:49)

Like I said, I love the game. I do. It’s something that I love, but I could also recognize some of its, I could recognize its faults. And I recognize how ⁓ it could chew people up and spit them out. The process, these hoop dreams, they last a long time, they die hard. And you know, there’s always a lot of support for people who are aspiring but when it’s all said and done, what do you do? Like how do you re-enter a life where basketball is not the focus of your world?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (33:27)

And I mean, in a way it is like war, right? We support them as they’re going to war, but as soon as they need help in their recovery and they come back, we forget about them, right? So in a way they’re right about that, I’ll say.

Vince Omni (33:42)

Right. But I try to keep it in perspective. you know, I’ll tell you a story. So when I was growing up in Denver, I used to work at Jack in the Box. Okay, it’s Super Bowl Sunday. My supervisor, forget which year. I think this is like, it was the year that the Denver Broncos were playing the team from Washington. So, Doug Williams would have been the quarterback in Washington. And he was having an amazing year. so I was asked to work at the Super Bowl shift at Jack and the Boss. And my manager was like, I’ll let you bring in your little TV. You could watch it, watch the game. It’ll be quiet. And it was, and I was happy until, you know, Douglas Smith got loose, until the Washington team’s running game got loose, and then the Brom by halftime, it was pretty much a miserable situation for Denver. ⁓ And so somebody comes through my drive-thru at halftime, and I’m the only one there, so I take the order, I make the food, I give them the food and give them back their change, and... ⁓

And this guy gets out of, you know, he takes the food. He drives over, parks the car, comes into the lobby. And then he hands me this document, you know, in triplicate. And he’s like, I’m quality control for Jack in the Box. And, right? I’m quality control for Jack in the Box. And,

Vince Omni (35:34)

You know, this is your score for today’s encounter. You have an 89. You would have scored higher if you weren’t snarling at me when you gave me my food. And so ever since then, I tried to just like, I really haven’t watched football much since then. So I kind let the Denver Broncos go and football in general was like, I had to let that go. And when I watch basketball, which I love, like I said, it’s a sport I love. So I keep watching, I continue to watch basketball, but I try to remind myself that, you know, these are millionaires who get to play a game they love for an obscene amount of money and so it’s not worth that kind of heartache when there are more, there’s other stuff happening in the world that’s more important, more important. ⁓

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (36:30)

Yeah, I wish a lot of Bears fans had that perspective, I feel like it’s the only thing that matters here. Yeah. Yeah, for the... mean, it’s okay. We’re talking Bears fans. They’re not going to be watching this anyway.

Vince Omni (36:38)

I’m not commenting on any bear fans I don’t want that smoke. I don’t want none of it. No, no. Bears fans, I didn’t say that bears fans. Don’t come looking for me.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (36:59)

You can come find in me, I live Chicago. You know where I’m at. Anyways, thank you so much, Vince. This has been so fun. Yeah, this has been great. And yeah, everybody, I just want to reiterate, Vince Omni, 1989. if you have any, I will say, I want to reiterate that in all seriousness, if you have any young men in your life and you’re watching this,

Vince Omni (37:06)

Yeah, man. Thank you, Ricardo. I appreciate it. I really do.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (37:27)

Please, please, please give them this book, Because I do think it speaks to a certain kind of young man that it could really benefit. So thank you once again. Yeah.

Vince Omni (37:43)

Thank you for having me. I enjoyed myself. Thank you so much. And thank you for reading the book and reviewing it. It’s great.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (37:50)

Yeah, I mean, I’m sure we’ll be seeing, I’ll be seeing you around.

Vince Omni (37:55)

Yeah, we’ll see. No, we are bound by our experience at Storyboard. So, So yeah.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (38:02)

Right? Yeah, yeah. Thank you so much. Well, I hope you have a great rest of your day and enjoy the beautiful weather.

Vince Omni (38:11)

You too, take care. Thank you.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (38:13)

See ya

For the past few months I’ve been part of this excellent literary podcast, The Stacks by Traci Thomas, and this year Traci and the crew has decided to host an annual meet-up day for fellow book-lovers. Folks across the world (Sydney, London, Toronto, etc..) will all be congregating in person to chat and talk about their fave books and meet other book worms in their area. I’m lucky enough to host the Chicago meet-up.

You don’t have to be a fan of the podcast to join, hell, you don’t even have to be an avid reader. If you just want to hang out, make some friends in a cozy bookshop, that’s cool too. The meet-up is this Sat at 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. at the Book Cellar in Lincoln Square. It’s a free event and you’re welcome to bring a friend if you’d like.

So if you got a couple hours to spare this Sat, come hang out with us for a bit, would love to see you ❤️

RSVP Here

When an author’s prose effuses passion, we have no problem jumping into their palm and being carried for a ride because we know they’ll handle us with as much care as they would a dove, or their last dime. Vince Omni is one of those authors, and 1989 is that kind of story.

The story begins with a simple plot that soon unfurls in all kinds of delightful ways. Davyon, now a middle-aged man, is being interviewed by a journalist interested his brief encounter in 1989 with the closeted ex-NBA player, Church. While practicing for his high school basketball team, Davyon comes across the sadistic, yet talented baller, Tyree. He challenges the bully in a one-on-one and loses, but Church admires the kid’s gumption and takes him under his wing. Their relationship is delicate and spiky; Davyon harbors his own thinly-veiled prejudices and flinches at times when Church gets close to him, but over time they loosen up and become sincere with one another, and their relationship becomes a substitute for the one Davyon never had with his father.

The imagery in this story is so rich and poignant that I felt nostalgic for the era, even though I wouldn’t be born for another five years. Campus campaigns against apartheid, boxers worn over shorts, the Arsenio Hall Show. The book is poetic, and an essential read for everyone, even if you don’t know anything about the sport. Omni approaches basketball the same way Richard Powers approaches trees, with so much zeal and care that even a novice could be moved. As Pemi Aguda notes in the foreword.

At times Omni’s rhythm matches the ball’s movement, quick and concise. But he can also build an atmosphere, and draft a beautiful scene when needed.

If at any point the year 2026 proves to be too overwhelming for you, then I’d suggest spending some time with Vince Omni’s dazzling, capacious novellete, 1989.

I arrived in Palm Springs a day early, largely to give myself some time to relax and explore. The campsite was an hour away from the airport, so I figured a respite before the retreat was called for. Shortly after landing in the balmy resort town, I unpacked my things, changed, and went straight out to explore.

Downtown Palm Springs consists of a simple squat plaza in between two highways, Palm Canyon Drive and Indian Canyon Drive. The strip vaguely reminded me of Andersonville here in Chicago, because of how kitschy and overpriced everything was. Record slash coffee shops, bar slash lounge, a randomly placed Sephora. I walked aimlessly up and down the stretch, oohing and ahhing and trying to adore the tourist trap without getting ensnared in it. But on a street where all the shops are ostentatious and greedy for your attention, it’s the ones that are boring and ill-defined that tend to stick out. So when I passed by this low-lit jewelry store with no signage, I felt compelled to check it out.

I walked in, and an older couple in the back absent-mindedly waved me in. The store had the charm and layout of an alleyway jeweler. The light was too low for the pieces to shine; gold appeared bronze, silver became tin. The timepieces were a bit gauche; looking like something a timeshare salesman would wear. Nothing caught my eye until I found a string of pearls dangling from the wall. Eighteen inches long, seven millimeters in diamater, and dazzling against the faded ochre wallpaper.

An older woman came from out back to help me try it on. We talked about the shapes and merits, and she tried to oversell me a little on something that I was already intent on buying, when in the middle of our conversation the door opened.

Two police officers came from off the street and interrupted our conversation to do a “check-in”. One white, one latino. The latino one lead the way and domainated the conversation.

The older woman expressed her amazement that they’d come in all of a sudden for a wellness check, I kept my thoughts to myself. I stood right next to them but they didn’t say a word to me the entire time, and instead talked to her, nodding and smiling and asking how she was doing. I was there to be observed, monitored, but not acknowledged.

Their conversation was painful and banal, as racism usually is. Not a single piece of personal info was exchanged, just repetitive “how are you doings” until they were both reluctant to say another word. After their glib exchange of reassurances the cops left. I was angry and humiliated, but also emboldened. No one’s gonna scare me out of looking fresh, especially the police. So I overpaid for a pearl necklace whose clasp broke a week later.

I left downtown Palm Springs and went back to my hotel where I sat by the pool, trying to forget the entire ordeal, until my phone buzzed. I got a text.

Another one of the members of the retreat had also flown in a day early and told me to meet her downtown. I was reluctant to spend another dime in this town, but I was too excited to meet this person to sit idly by. How often do you get the chance to hang out with someone who’s also crazy enough to go on a reading retreat in the desert?

We met at a crystal shop, and perhaps it was simply her vibrant energy (or maybe the crystals?), but the rest of my day was filled with a spate of endearing encounters that started change my mind about this city.

The cashier of the store told us all about hematite and obsidian and all the ways these tiny rocks could help us turn around our lives. Her spiel was effortless, clearly rehearsed, but I could tell from the way she delicately handed me a rose quartz bracelet that she earnestly believed in it’s power.

Afterwards, we stumbled upon a queer art shop run by an ex-Manhattan lawyer. The store was filled with gleaming, rainbow colored wine glasses, golden fruit, and goofy socks with sex positive messaging. Playful, unserious, yet tastefully curated. Walking through reminded me not to take myself or others too seriously.

We talked with the store’s manager about his life as a lawyer, the artist behind the work, and the trajectory of palm springs. I left with a bag emblazoned with “cult leader” on the front, a tote that would soon gain a lot of attention in the days to come.

It was late afternoon, the sun started to dip along with the temperatures, and I’d had my fill of shopping, but my new friend told me that the Palm Springs Art Museum was opening for free tonight to the public. And it’s hard to say no to free.

I didn’t expect a massive, sprawling structure to be attached to such a small town, but the Palm Springs Museum was a goliath. Spanning 15,000 square feet, with multiple floors (and an underground level) the sprawling complex rested at the bottom of a rocky hillside that is attached to the much larger Tahquitz Canyon. The building cooperated rather than competed with the desert landscape, with its rubble textured walls, and sandy brown accents. The color and craftsmanship was endearing, but it’s mid-century modern style reminded me of villain’s lair, or the complex of an aging Hollywood scion.

The first exhibit we saw was that of Howard Smith, a black visual artist of the 20th century. Smith’s career is similar to that of Baldwin and so many other black-american expats, who felt he had to leave his home in order to tell the truth about it. In Finland Howard Smith found fame working with a wide range of mediums: paint, fabrics, metal, to tell the story about what was happening to his people in the states.

The piece of his that I adored most was this little blue bird named Timo. It’s part of his Parvi or Flock series, and though most of his works accompanied an excellent description or backstory, there was little context given to these pieces. Maybe I was drawn to them because the police incident was still fresh in my mind, and I needed a bit of joy at the time. Hard to say. I read the date of creation, saw that it was made in the early 1990’s, and thought about what was going on at the time. The pieces were made around the LA riots in ‘92, maybe they were made the year I was born in ‘94.

After Howard Smith’s exhibit we come across another artist that I soon come to adore, Mickalene Thomas.

Born in New Jersey, Mickalene Thomas is a queer black woman whose paintings and collages are equal parts dazzling and mesmerizing. Her exhibit is paired with another artist I forget, but a theme I do not; bodies, agency, and erotic beauty. The work reminded me of my class I took over the summer about sex and bodies. A visual expression of Lorde’s use of the “Erotic as Power”. Her work requires time to appreciate the myriad of colors and textures. Sequins, black and white magazine cutouts, and the old masters occupy equal space. The piece that commanded my attention most was “le déjeuner sur l’herbe: fort green1”. The dresses of the women and their subtle expression captured a peaceful, fleeting moment that made me wistful, and recall all those summer evenings I spent at the lakefront with my friends.

Our streak of good fortune continued as we left the museum and discovered a night festival going on right in the middle of the street. The sleepy tourist trap of a street was filled with children and families as they rushed through the stalls of donuts, candles, and glassware. It was the “Palm Spring Village Fest” a night market hosted by the city every Thursday Night2.

The two of us searched for a bite until we found this nice little Filipino spot (god I wish I remembered the name). Each of us bought a veggie pancit, lumpia, and a bibingka and for $17 we got more than our money’s worth. Our styrofoam containers were overflowing and nearly bulging from the top. I spilled a little pancit on my shoe as I sat down to eat at the shabby little table next to the stall. The woman next to me noticed me struggling and made more space for me at the table and introduced herself as D, a Palm Spring local. D, was easy to talk to and while we stuffed our faces with pancit (which was good, but not better than the pancit in Chicago), she told us all about her life and aspirations. The summers here were unbearable, but the people were kind. Small-town mentality as she described it. Yet, as much as she loved this place, she told us her dream was to one day pack up her little dog, and drive ‘em both to a place on the ocean. Someplace where the people are just as kind, but the summers are a bit more gentle. Everyday she and her little dog would walk down to the shore, and play in the sand until one of them gave out, but from the way she described her bouncy little partner, it wouldn’t be him. And although the place she described was nameless and ill-defined, I felt I could see it perfectly.

D finished her food and soon said her goodbyes. We wished her the best and thanked her for sharing a table with us and my friend and I walked around a bit longer, looking at the handcrafted picture frames, and churros, and leatherwork. When the sun had fully set, and the adrenaline of adventure fully wore off, we decided to call it a night.

We both had to rest up, because in the morning we’d have to leave for the campsite where the retreat would finally begin.

When Vigil begins, we meet the young, resolute spirit, Jill “Doll” Blaine, as she descends from the heavens. Her goal is simple; provide comfort to the dying in their last moments, and her latest “charge” (ethereal speak for client) is KJ Boone, a former oil tycoon. A man who even on his deathbed, manages to find ways to berate and harass anyone he deems inferior. At one point Boone leaves his wife in tears at his bedside and she exclaims “I finally understand how his employees feel”. But as much as Jill abhors this petulant little man, she takes her job as a spirit seriously, and is determined to provide him comfort in his final moments.

Initially we learn little of Jill, we’re only told that she was a devoted wife that died young. So young that she never had the opportunity to define her purpose, or experience life’s wonders. Yet as dispiriting as this is, she’s managed to find peace by settling into a fatalist philosophy. Her life and all the lives after her are predetermined by God, part of a grand design. After all, if she never died so young, then she would have never found purpose as a spirit, guiding doomed souls to the afterlife. Her thesis provides her with the necessary solace to continue with this important work, that is until she meets KJ Boone.

KJ Boone, the ambitious pigheaded boy from the Midwest, has been able to work his way up the corporate ladder to become the titan he is today. He’s schemed and strong-armed his way through industry and public opinion to build vast riches. Although he’s pilfered the planet and sold off our future, he’s done so in service of his family, so he feels no remorse. He is quick to write off or berate anyone that tells him otherwise, because if he truly lived life wrong, then why has he been rewarded so handsomely for it? Jill knows little of Boone or climate change at first, but over time she starts to understand the magnitude of his sins.

Although the novel and its implications are deeply unnerving, Saunders weaves in his trademark humor through a zany cast of characters. Nuclear scientists with juvenile humor, a ghost that literally goes up its own ass, a restless spirit known only as “The Frenchman”. Saunders has cited the Christmas Carol as a source of inspiration, and it clearly shows.

But by the end, when we reach the highly anticipated denouement, there is a troubling twist. One that will leave readers with more questions than answers. Vigil is a delightful and frustrating novel that resists giving an easy, satisfying answer to the problems we face. Instead of answering the troubling dilemmas of our time, Saunders trusts that you, the reader, can find both the wisdom and foresight to think about the big question. How do we deal with the end of the world, and the people that caused it?

Lincoln in The Bardo

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5/5

I picked up Lincoln in the Bardo because I was scheduled to go on a reading retreat to read Vigil. I’d known George Saunders was a highly regarded writer, but had never read any of his work until this one. What makes this book (and George Saunders) an incredible craftsman is that he’s able to incite the full gamut of human emotion in one story. Tremendous scenes of heartbreak, juvenile humor, rancor and blinding rage. This book about Lincoln and the death of his boy will take you on a helluva ride and have you weeping at times, but I will warn you, it’s not the easiest one to follow along to. There are dozens of characters, and much of the story consists of primary sources stitched together to craft a historically accurate tale. I was definitely lost for the first hundred pages, but once I started to adapt and understand his techniques, it became much easier to follow.

Saltcrop

⭐⭐⭐☆☆ (3/5)

I was immediately drawn in by Saltcrop’s premise: an international thriller set in a dystopian, climate ravaged world. While the setting and its characters were tantalizing, this one dragged on a little longer (372 pages) than it needed to. Towards the end I found myself uninterested in both the plot and it’s hastily introduced characters. Although Yume Kitasei is clearly a talented writer, I wish this book was cut down a bit more. Would’ve been a great one if it were a hundred pages shorter.

Girl on Girl

⭐⭐☆☆☆ 2/5

Sophie Gilbert takes us through the 90s and early aughts to provide us with an extensive survey of the key pop culture moments that have gone on to shape the world as it is today. I was initially excited about this book because I love it when journalists write about subjects they are deeply immersed in. And while this book is clearly well researched, it does feel like it lacks a clear thesis. Gilbert quotes anti-porn activistis and talks at length about the effect of porn on pop-culture, but never goes on to say explicitly that she’s against porn. It feels like she has a clear opinion of the problem, but refuses to make any claims. It’s a book that could’ve been excellent if it had a stronger thesis or a stance in general.

My Year of Rest & Relaxation

⭐⭐⭐⭐☆ 4/5

At no point reading this did I ever feel like something good was about to happen. The story follows a woman who is hellbent on spending as much time as possible sleeping. And while the title and premise sound relaxing, the story is anything but. Ottessa Moshfegh’s style is chaotic, and incredibly unsettling. I’d recommend this book to anyone except those struggling with severe anxiety, because it may actually make it worse.

Crazy Rich Asians

⭐☆☆☆☆ 1/5

When I saw the movie a few years ago, I was pleasantly surprised. Although the characters in Crazy Rich Asians were enormously wealthy, they still felt wholesome and relatable and worth listening too. So recently I decided to read the book and see how it compares. And this is perhaps the only time I’ve ever said this but please watch the movie, and skip the book. It feels very much like Wolf of Wall Street without the self-awareness. So far this is the worst book I’ve read this year (not to mention it’s also +500 pages), and I doubt there will be a close second. I’d gladly watch any other movies based on a Kevin Kwan novel, but you couldn’t pay me to pick up another of his books.

Vigil

⭐⭐⭐⭐☆ 4/5

I have a longer review of this one coming, so I won’t say too much about it now. But what I will say is that while this book isn’t as magnificent as Lincoln in The Bardo, it’s still a great, short read for anyone looking for a climate story with strong themes of religion and philosophy. If you haven’t read any of Saunders’ works, then this one or his short story collection may be a good start. I haven’t listened to the audio of Vigil, but from what I’ve heard from others, it’s quality rivals the novel.

The Sympathizer

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5/5

Every now and then I come across a writer that I regret I haven’t read sooner and Viet Thahn Nguyen is one of those writers. The Sympathizer is a fictional account of one spy’s life during the Liberation of Saigon. The spy is a double agent, and mixed race man of “two face“ who accepts the contradictions inherent in living within an empire that you’re also trying to take down. Not since Gabriel Garcia Marquez, have I seen a writer takes aim at U.S. imperialism while being endlessly entertaining. Nguyen is an inspiring figure because he demonstrates to writers and artists everywhere that you can hone your craft, reach the pinnacle of the profession, and still have something important to say about the world at large.

The film Mountains opens with a shot of Xavier, a Haitian demolitionist, as he watches an excavator eviscerate a quaint little flat. Although the metal beast is only a few feet away blasting through boards and tearing through shabby windows, Xavier has the solemn mien of a consummate professional; the look of someone numb to the devastation. We later learn that he and his company is paid to demolish homes and historical landmarks in Little Haiti. They’re paid to pave the way for something and someone new. And although we never meet the people who will live on this freshly decimated land, it is easy to infer.

The work of a demo-man is back-breaking, thankless. Although Xavier’s coworkers are man-children prone to temper tantrums, and his boss is a petty, anti-black tyrant, he never lets his professionalism slip. He keeps his head down, does his job without complaint, and even mediates when he must. His stoicism and diplomatic nature make him the perfect worker but when he gets home he lets the mask slip.

When Xavier is with his wife, he becomes tender, playful, and a bit boyish in his mannerisms and charm. His eyes light up when he sees her, and hers light up when she sees him. Though their relationship is not without fault, they do fight about money from time to time, their bond is unquestionable. But when their son Junior, walks into the home, Xavier tightens up, puts away his playful ways, and becomes the worst version of himself. Authoritative, rough, and emotionally distant.

Junior, a college dropout, becomes a target for his father’s repressed anger because he has not yet embraced the typical hallmarks of manhood. He’s well into his twenties, living with his parents, and sneaking out late at night to perform at comedy clubs that barely even pay. He has no wife, no mortgage, no nine to five. He’s trapped in the same catch-22 that plagues his generation, untethered from the material world, but also fiercely dependent on his folks for survival.

Esperance, Xavier’s wife, then embraces the role of mediator between the two. While she may agree with her husband that Junior is a bit aimless, and needs some financial stability, she approaches him with the tenderness that he deserves, rather than with the authoritative tone her husband sees fit. She often reminds Xavier how much the two of them are alike in both temperament and ambition. Xavier fails to listen to her advice at first, but much later, when his own dreams fail to materialize, he internalizes her prescient observations.

Much of the film revolves around the family as they all reconcile their dreams with their increasingly precarious financial situation. Every moment comes to be defined by labor and the stress it brings. Every step forward comes with two steps back. A bill is paid, a problem is solved, a mountain is climbed, but when they look beyond the horizon, they only see more mountains.

But in between hardship we’re blessed with these many tiny, brilliant vignettes of family life. Dominos violently crash down on a picnic table as Xavier and his cousins discuss politics. Esperance and her husband hold each other close under the sienna dusk sky and whisper about their future. At night, the whole neighborhood joins in on a spontaneous march down the street where they dance and laugh and forget themselves. Hardship remains on the horizon, but the people of Little Haiti refuse to yield. In Monica Sorelle’s directorial debut, she shows us that the spirit and will of the Haitian people is as boundless as the mountain range that lay before them.

The woman that was murdered was 37, recently married, and according to community members, she moved to Minneapolis because she wanted a safe refuge from the Trump regime.

I can’t accurately describe the woman’s life in a few words, nor will I try.

But what is known about her is that she was a kind, gentle person. The type of person that wanted to play a part in protecting her community.

Renee Nicole Good was a legal observer, a volunter who used her last moments on earth to make sure her community was safe. She was the kind of women who kept stuffed animals in her dashboard. And I don’t know why or how it’s relevant but that last fact is what nearly broke me.

I’m no stranger to wanton violence, I’ve had my life threatened before for many reasons, protesting, speaking my mind, being black, etc… But still, reptition does not make me numb to it. I’ve refused to numb myself to the extreme violence that has become so common in our country because I’d like to retain my humanity, my softness, the part of me that can still cry when I see a teddy bear next to a bloodstained airbag.

Renee Nicole Good’s murder hits me particularly hard right now because I’ve spent a considerable amount of time these past few months doing the same thing she’s doing; working with my community to keep people safe from ICE. And while I understood that this type of community work could be dangerous, I can’t say I’m comfortable with the idea that I could lose my life for it. I don’t intend to be a martyr, nor a symbol for others. I’d like to live a long, comfortable life alongside those I love.

The vigil last night did not make me feel better. I never feel hopeful when a life is taken. I didn’t in 2020, and I don’t now.

However, what the vigil does do is it reminds me that I’m not alone in my feelings. It was a necessary reminder that Americans have not yet been fully anasthesized to the loss of life. It reminds me that while I may be hurt and pissed off and tired of these fascists, I’m not the only one.

Perhaps the only idea I can find hope or comfort in is that the end of the regime is inevitable. Everything dies, evil or otherwise. It may be in ten months, it may be in ten years, but at the very least I know it will end. I won’t make any predictions, nor hold my breath for that fateful day. Until then, I’ll continue to write and help out my community where I can.

Unlike the homogenous chains we’ve come to know, the coffee shops of the time varied widely in intent and theme. Rainbow Coffee House became a refuge for freemasons and french refugees. Jonathan’s Coffee House, founded in Exchange Alley, was frequented by merchants and businessmen and became the home of the London Stock Exchange. Others became the birthplace of life insurance, or assassination plots.

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The congregation of the masses was and has always been seen as a threat to thin-skinned rulers, so even though these coffeeshops did little to combat the conservative norms (patrons were still largely white men), they were still perceived as an affront to polite society.

“…disturbance of the peace and quiet realm,”

King Charles II on Coffee and Coffee Drinkers

They were the college campuses of the time, deeply unequal institutions that were believed to foster radical thought and just like college campuses, they became the prime target of conservative forces.

“..beatniks, radi­cals and filthy speech advocates”

Ronald Reagan on College and College Activists4

In 1674, the “Woman’s Petition Against Coffee”5 penned by “A Well Wisher” started to make the rounds. In addition to its fantastical takedowns of the male anatomy, the petition is filled with all sorts of jabs aimed at coffee drinking men.

Coffeehouses sometimes doubled as brothels, or at least helped encourage certain kinds of matchmaking activities. If a man came home after a late night and smelled like coffee, it was hardly different than him having lipstick on his lapel. So the theory goes that the author of this letter was the wife of an unfaithful man, a woman who took issue with the infidelity of the male species, and needed to let the world know.

She attacks their trousers and says:

They come from it with nothing moist but their snotty Noses, nothing stiffe but their joints, nor standing but their Ears.

Well Wisher, Women’s Petition Against Coffee

She talks about how annoying it makes a man.

For besides, we have reason to apprehend and grow Jealous, That Men by frequenting these Stygian Tap-houses will usurp on our Prerogative of tattling, and soon learn to exceed us in Talkativeness: a Quality wherein our Sex has ever Claimed preheminence.

Well Wisher, Women’s Petition Against Coffee

And finally she even takes aim at the brew itself

“[men]..spend their Money, all for a little base, black, thick, nasty, bitter, stinking, nauseous Puddle-water.

Well Wisher, Women’s Petition Against Coffee

Although, there was likely little disagreement on her last point6; British coffee was known for being an abhorrent, yet suitable alternative to alcohol or the fetid water flowing through the tap. Still, the author must’ve hit a nerve because shortly thereafter, a man’s answer to this petition was released7. The reactionary piece leans heavily on an acerbic, self-righteous type of prose, written by exactly the kind of man the Well Wisher warned us of. Talkative, with nothing to say.

Yet, as entertaining as these caustic missives are, there’s another theory89 that perhaps the petition and it’s resulting discourse serves an ulterior motive. In 1675, one year after the Women’s Petition Against Coffee was written, King Charles II tried to ban coffee through an edict10. It then appears to be too much of a coincidence that the will of the King, a man with nearly a dozen mistresses, aligns with that of this fed-up housewife.

In his book, Elite Capture, the philosopher Olúfẹ́mi O. Táíwò writes about how identity politics has become weaponized to serve a select few11. Elites have learned that rather than fight progressive politics, it’s far easier to incorporate them and water them down to diminish their value.

One can only speculate, but I believe that the Women’s Petition Against Coffee is an early attempt at elite capture. While it began as an honest list of objections to the patriarchal culture of coffeehouses, it gained infamy perhaps through the support of the crown and other elite forces that are less interested in equality, and more interested in the squashing of dissent.

Footnotes:

I had no intention of changing my ways, but then something interesting happened to me over the summer. I was accepted into a workshop on Sex and Bodies taught by and for a week I biked over to a small classroom to share my ill-conceived, generative exercises with some incredibly, INCREDIBLY talented writers.

And if you don’t know vulnerability, you sure will after you share your hastily crafted sex poems at 9 in the morning with a bunch of folks you admire.

Yet, the more I shared, the more I gained by the way of friends, conversations, and lessons. I received some endearing words of encouragement by some amazing human beings, found myself breaking through my own walls, showing my ass more often, so to speak. Then, with the encouragement of this same group of writers, I started this weird little newsletter so I can learn how to become a public writer.

And I’ve found that as I mess around with essays on fractals or evil music companies, I find myself more motivated than ever to continue the vital work of fiction writing. Dreaming of Kafka has become an endless wellspring from which I can draw because playing around propels me forward.

So this upcoming year I can promise you nothing other than that. More playing around, more joy, more aimless wandering.

Fiction will always be my bedrock, my home, but every now and then I’ll continue to take the occasional stroll, kick over a stone or two just to see what’s underneath. Here’s a few things I got in mind.

Travel Writing

This past year I finally started got out the house and went to London and then Vegas. I didn’t write about London because it was a rather dark/busy time for me. ICE was raiding my neighborhood so I spent most of my free time helping with patrols and such. I’ll revisit this period in a future piece, when I have a bit more distance from it.

But I did write about my brief week in the waning sin city. Travel writing had never been on my vision board until then, but after that trip, I’ve been hooked. My next trip is already lined up.

In a few weeks, I’ll be going to Joshua Tree for a reading retreat (yes it’s exactly as it sounds, a bunch of folks traveling across the country to read a book together) run by PageBreak.nyc. We’ll spend the weekend reading Vigil by George Saunders, have nice drinks and food and convos. I’ve been so giddy about this trip, I can’t believe it’s real. Apologies in advance to all those who will have to hear me talk about it over and over and over again 😁

Books Reviews

I never thought I’d be in the business of writing book or movie reviews, but these short pieces have been a lifeline for me. Largely because almost everytime I write about a new book or film, someone reaches out to me and tells me how much they enjoyed my analysis or review of a piece. Thank you.

I’ll continue the work of talking about books, film, and art that draws me in. I also have some exciting collabs in mind that I think you’ll all appreciate, so stay tuned.

Additionally, if you have a book or movie or show that you’d like me to write about, let me know! I always love a good rec. 😉

Craft, Class & Retreats

As someone that’s never pursued an MFA (nor has plans to, it’s expensive AF 😂), I feel it’s necessary to continue my literary education by taking classes or workshops when I can. They help me feel tied to a larger writing community and nourish my creative spirit. So this upcoming year I’ll be taking a once a month writing class with at Story Studio.

I also plan on applying to all those workshops/retreats that I once thought were outta my league, because you never know until you try.

Fiction Writing

Ironically, since I’ve started this newsletter I haven’t shared much of my fiction writing.

I have a good reason though, I promise!

Over the past year I’ve been busy working on the first draft of my novel, and 59k words later, I’m finally done. 🎉

This upcoming year I’ll be spending quite a bit of time editing and ultimately pitching it to agents, so unfortunately it’s unlikely that any of you will read it for awhile…

BUT!

I do have quite a few short stories written that I’ve never released, and I plan on releasing more of those soon. I’m currently editing this short thriller that I hope will be ready by the end of next month. No promises, but I’m aiming to make short/flash fiction a more recurring part of my newsletter. We’ll see how much time I have leftover after editing the novel 🙃.

All The Stuff In Between

I hope to do more writing about the odd and fascinating things that I can’t stop thinking about. The esoteric things that may defy category, but are still worth sharing. The first of which is a fun little piece I wrote along time ago about coffee shops and brothels that I aim to release soon. Some of my long-time readers may remember this one.

And lastly, I want to thank everyone who’s taken the time to read my work, share it, or support me financially. To all those paying subscribers, you’re the realest.

I don’t take for granted the small audience I’ve built in a short period of time, and I’m happy that I’ve gotten the chance to share my work with each and everyone of you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you again to all my readers. There wouldn’t be a me without you.

I hope you have a safe and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

The Coin by Yasmin Zaher is easily one of my favorite novels of the year because it contains the two things I love most: a surreal plot with an unhinged protagonist.

The story begins with an unnamed Palestinian woman living in NYC who’s obsessed with dirt. She abhors its ubiquity and all the places it can seep into: nails, clothes, the dark corners of the room. Naturally this one-sided rivalry clashes with her NYC lifestyle, but rather than succumb to a filth-induced ennui; she carves out power for herself as a teacher in an upscale elementary school where her students become her subjects, tools for her ego, and she gradually molds them in her image.

Though her methods are self-serving, and at times discriminatory (the protagonist herself has expressed her disdain for the poor, Mexicans, immigrants, brown people, etc…) there’s a universal appeal to her. Because as Zaher reminds, there are many ways that the disempowered react to global horrors. Sometimes they’re freedom fighters, sometimes they’re working toward building an egalitarian society, but often they can become petty tyrants who yearn for control over others in and outside their community.

Though, shortly after our protagonist becomes an adolescent ruler, the story takes a more surreal turn. Her obsession with dirt catalyzes into an unnerving journey of self-actualization and ego-death. When reading, I was reminded of The Vegetarian by nobel prize winner Han Kang. In both novels, we have women faced with extraordinary violence who gradually “decline” in ways that are initially imperceptible at first, but ultimately cataclysmic in the end. Yet, as we spend time with them, and see the world through their eyes, it becomes unclear whether or not they are unraveling or the world around them is. After all, when one is faced with extraordinary violence on a daily basis, then what exactly is the proper response?

The whirlwind plot of The Coin takes us through the streets of Paris, a childhood home in Palestine, and finally in an upscale apartment in Brooklyn where the story unravels in an extraordinary fashion. Our protagonist’s grief for her homeland, fear of poverty and decay and dirt all collide into one another, and give us an ending that I promise you’ll neither guess nor forget.

Audition by Katie Kitamura

Every year there’s always one book that I talk about so much that someone buys it just to shut me up. Last year it was James by Percival Everett, this year it’s Audition by Katie Kitamura.

I’ve been a fan of Kitamura’s keen, contemplative prose since Intimacies, but what made this book my favorite of the year was how it was able to both shock and delight. The story follows an actress and a young man who believes he is her son, as they both struggle to navigate the roles they play to live up to each other’s expectations. I won’t spoil it but partway through the novel there’s a twist that is perhaps unlike anything I’ve ever read.

The Coin by Yasmin Zahar

I have a writeup about this book coming soon, but it makes my top five largely because of its surreal, unwinding plot coupled with a deeply flawed protagonist, the type of book I love most. The story is largely in the first person POV, and feels confessional in nature. It’s not a book I’d recommend to everyone, but if you enjoy atypical narratives and being taken for a long walk in the dark, then this story is for you.

The Thief by Fuminori Nakamura

The Thief is pitched as an “existential crime novel” and while I was skeptical at first, Nakamura exceeded my expectations. I’d describe it as more of an atmospheric thriller than an existential one. The story largely takes place in the mind of the protagonist where paranoia proves far more frightening than any of the violence that takes place. Nakamura has cited Kafka and Dostoyevsky as influences, and I’d like to think that if either of those writers read a modern crime novel, they’d enjoy his work as well.

Mood Machine by Liz Pelly

I’ve written a bit more about this one here, but I’d like to add that I love it when journalists compile years of their work into a single piece of art. The book is packed with so much music history, that every time I finish a chapter, I’m compelled to pick up one of the dozen other sources in the footnotes to learn more. Props to Liz Pelly.

Secret Lives of Church Ladies by Deesha Philyaw

This collection of short stories was one of the highlights of my summer. I read this book during my morning bus rides to work, and I remember having to put it down a few times because of how it made me blush. It’s a delightful, poignant and rich debut from an author I’ve come to admire. I later had the privilege of participating in a workshop taught by Deesha Philyaw over the summer, and all I gotta say is that the class and instructor are both nonpareil.

Upcoming TBRS

Here’s a sneak peak at some of the books I have lined up next 😉

Vigil by George Saunders

I have some ulterior motives for choosing this as my most anticipated read. In about a month I’ll be going to in Joshua Tree, CA to read this book with a few others for a reading retreat. It’s such a strange concept, going to a campsite to read a book with folks you don’t know, but I can’t think of a better way to spend my time. 😀

Saltcrop by Yume Kitasei

Eco-thriller, climate collapse, and a missing sister. The premise was enthralling enough for me to buy this on a whim and I’ve been hooked since I got it. I anticipate finishing it in the next couple of days, and if it’s as good as I hope, then you’ll see a review coming soon. Fans of Richard Powers and Ursula K Le. Guin will find a home in Saltcrop by Yume Kitasei.

Fish Tales by Nettie Jones

Recommended to me by Deesha Philyaw, I recently learned that this book was first acquired by Toni Morrison at Penguin, and reissued a few decades later (Feb 2025). The story follows a young black woman in the 1970s as she navigates the party scene in Detroit/NYC. The distinct setting coupled with this the party-loving protagonist is too magnetizing to resist.

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

Not long ago I narrated an essay by Zora Neale Hurston, How It Feels to Be Colored Me. And while I already knew Hurston to be an excellent writer, no one ever told me how funny she could be. There’s one line in particular that I remember fondly.

“Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.”

The essay has inspired me to spend this year becoming more familiar with her work. Ashamed to say I haven’t read much of her till now.

The Morning Star by Karl Ove Knausgaard

I was influenced to pick up this book by Brandon Taylor, a writer with unquestionably great taste. While in London I picked this up and started barreling through the pages, unfortunately I got sidetracked with patrolling for ICE raids in my neighborhood, so I stopped reading briefly, but I have every intent to get back at it and go through the rest of the books in the series. I’m always entranced by writers who can use terse, declarative prose to build ever-expanding worlds.

These past few months have shown me how much I missed writing and talking about fiction and film and art in general. 2026 will be the first full year of me writing Dreaming of Kafka, and I’m grateful for every single one of you that’s joined the ride. Let me know in the comments if there are any books or films that you’re looking forward to this upcoming year or that you’d like me to write about. I always love recommendations as well 🙂

The Doer of Good

It was night-time and He was alone.

And He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went towards the city.

And when He came near He heard within the city the tread of the feet of joy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness and the loud noise of many lutes. And He knocked at the gate and certain of the gate-keepers opened to Him.

And He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair pillars of marble before it. The pillars were hung with garlands, and within and without there were torches of cedar. And He entered the house.

And when He had passed through the hall of chalcedony and the hall of jasper, and reached the long hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of sea-purple one whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips were red with wine.

And He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder and said to him, ‘Why do you live like this?’

And the young man turned round and recognised Him, and made answer and said, ‘But I was a leper once, and you healed me. How else should I live?’

And He passed out of the house and went again into the street.

And after a little while He saw one whose face and raiment were painted and whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her came, slowly as a hunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colours. Now the face of the woman was as the fair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were bright with lust.

And He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young man and said to him, ‘Why do you look at this woman and in such wise?’

And the young man turned round and recognised Him and said, ‘But I was blind once, and you gave me sight. At what else should I look?’

And He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman and said to her, ‘Is there no other way in which to walk save the way of sin?’

And the woman turned round and recognised Him, and laughed and said, ‘But you forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way.’

And He passed out of the city.

And when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by the roadside a young man who was weeping.

And He went towards him and touched the long locks of his hair and said to him, ‘Why are you weeping?’

And the young man looked up and recognised Him and made answer, ‘But I was dead once, and you raised me from the dead. What else should I do but weep?’

A Continuity of Parks begins with a man sitting down in his velvet green chair to read a novel. We can glean from the book’s passionate, harrowing prose that it’s a romantic thriller of sorts. Images of blood, kisses, and a rivulet of snakes foreshadow a deadly denouement. But then, something peculiar happens. The story shifts in perspective and we’re no longer reading about the man in the velvet green chair, but rather the man in the novel itself. Our neat, parallel narratives gently converge like ephemeral streams, and we find ourselves in the midst of something familiar, but new.

The clandestine lovers in the novel part ways just as a yellowish fog of dusk descends. With nothing but conviction and a dagger in hand, our new antihero covertly moves under the shield of night. He pushes past a cabin door, steps through a parlor, a gallery, and ascends a carpeted stairway, until he’s hovering over his target; a man sitting in a velvet green chair, reading his novel.

When I first read this story a decade ago I was utterly confused, lost in its miasmic structure. It was only when I confronted my discontent, that I realized it wasn’t the story, but rather my preconceived notions of fiction that had caused me such unease. Plot, structure, the linear nature of time. Once I put away those silly ideas and reread without prejudice, then Cortazar’s skill and tact became self-evident.

And while rereading and analyzing this short story I stumbled upon a quirky, logical construction that seemed to expand beyond the world of fiction.

Recursion.

Suddenly, the scientific and literary worlds collided like the metanarratives within the story. My curiosities pulled me further and further into a rabbit hole that led me to nature, computer programs and art. And now I’d like to share some of what I’ve learned with you.

Read more

I am colored but I offer nothing in the way of extenuating circumstances except the fact that I am the only Negro in the United States whose grandfather on the mother’s side was not an Indian chief.

I remember the very day that I became colored. Up to my thirteenth year I lived in the little Negro town of Eatonville, Florida. It is exclusively a colored town. The only white people I knew passed through the town going to or coming from Orlando. The native whites rode dusty horses, the Northern tourists chugged down the sandy village road in automobiles. The town knew the Southerners and never stopped cane chewing when they passed. But the Northerners were something else again. They were peered at cautiously from behind curtains by the timid. The more venturesome would come out on the porch to watch them go past and got just as much pleasure out of the tourists as the tourists got out of the village.

The front porch might seem a daring place for the rest of the town, but it was a gallery seat for me. My favorite place was atop the gate-post. Proscenium box for a born first-nighter. Not only did I enjoy the show, but I didn’t mind the actors knowing that I liked it. I usually spoke to them in passing. I’d wave at them and when they returned my salute, I would say something like this: “Howdy-do-well-I-thank-you-where-you-go-in’?” Usually automobile or the horse paused at this, and after a queer exchange of compliments, I would probably “go a piece of the way” with them, as we say in farthest Florida. If one of my family happened to come to the front in time to see me, of course negotiations would be rudely broken off. But even so, it is clear that I was the first “welcome-to-our-state” Floridian, and I hope the Miami Chamber of Commerce will please take notice.

During this period, white people differed from colored to me only in that they rode through town and never lived there. They liked to hear me “speak pieces” and sing and wanted to see me dance the parse-me-la, and gave me generously of their small silver for doing these things, which seemed strange to me for I wanted to do them so much that I needed bribing to stop, only they didn’t know it. The colored people gave no dimes. They deplored any joyful tendencies in me, but I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the county—everybody’s Zora.

But changes came in the family when I was thirteen, and I was sent to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville, the town of the oleanders, as Zora. When I disembarked from the river-boat at Jacksonville, she was no more. It seemed that I had suffered a sea change. I was not Zora of Orange County any more, I was now a little colored girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my heart as well as in the mirror, I became a fast brown—warranted not to rub nor run.

But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all but about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.

Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said “On the line!” The Reconstruction said “Get set!” and the generation before said “Go!” I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think—to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.

The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting.

I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background.

For instance at Barnard. “Beside the waters of the Hudson” I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again.

Sometimes it is the other way around. A white person is set down in our midst, but the contrast is just as sharp for me. For instance, when I sit in the drafty basement that is The New World Cabaret with a white person, my color comes. We enter chatting about any little nothing that we have in common and are seated by the jazz waiters. In the abrupt way that jazz orchestras have, this one plunges into a number. It loses no time in circumlocutions, but gets right down to business. It constricts the thorax and splits the heart with its tempo and narcotic harmonies. This orchestra grows rambunctious, rears on its hind legs and attacks the tonal veil with primitive fury, rending it, clawing it until it breaks through to the jungle beyond. I follow those heathen—follow them exultingly. I dance wildly inside myself; I yell within, I whoop; I shake my assegai above my head, I hurl it true to the mark yeeeeooww! I am in the jungle and living in the jungle way. My face is painted red and yellow and my body is painted blue. My pulse is throbbing like a war drum. I want to slaughter something—give pain, give death to what, I do not know. But the piece ends. The men of the orchestra wipe their lips and rest their fingers. I creep back slowly to the veneer we call civilization with the last tone and find the white friend sitting motionless in his seat, smoking calmly.

“Good music they have here,” he remarks, drumming the table with his fingertips.

Music. The great blobs of purple and red emotion have not touched him. He has only heard what I felt. He is far away and I see him but dimly across the ocean and the continent that have fallen between us. He is so pale with his whiteness then and I am so colored.

At certain times I have no race, I am me. When I set my hat at a certain angle and saunter down Seventh Avenue, Harlem City, feeling as snooty as the lions in front of the Forty-Second Street Library, for instance. So far as my feelings are concerned, Peggy Hopkins Joyce on the Boule Mich with her gorgeous raiment, stately carriage, knees knocking together in a most aristocratic manner, has nothing on me. The cosmic Zora emerges. I belong to no race nor time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads.

I have no separate feeling about being an American citizen and colored. I am merely a fragment of the Great Soul that surges within the boundaries. My country, right or wrong.

Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.

But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of miscellany propped against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a jumble of small things priceless and worthless. A first-water diamond, an empty spool, bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since crumbled away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still a little fragrant. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the jumble it held—so much like the jumble in the bags could they be emptied that all might be dumped in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place—who knows?

“The world projects onto Las Vegas an idea of opulence and luxury, so it becomes true, the city is a place for indulging and gambling, sailing up through skyscrapers, and an endless meal at a buffet. But the city struggles against itself. There’s a version of Las Vegas that wants to be a shining, glamorous star, and there’s another version that crawls toward entropy, towards natural equilibrium, towards a slow life.” - Blossom, 149

When I landed, the first thing I noticed was the air. It was rich, and clear in a way Chicago could never be. If you ask more Chicagoans about the air pollution, and how they deal with it, they’ll likely look at you with a blank stare. City living requires you to endure and adapt so often, that at times the problems you’re avoiding become invisible.

Las Vegas is unapologetically car-centric, and has molded itself in the image of commerce. Walking to the store or out for lunch is simply unheard of, unless you’re in the strip or on Fremont Street, or one of the other tourist traps. I’d hope that the residential areas are far different, but judging from how many of my coworkers owned a car, I doubt that’s the case.

I work in tech, so most of my coworkers are male and/or white, so many of my non-work related conversations were simple to the point of almost being a stereotype: stock market this, coding that, hey isn’t Taylor Swift overrated.

Married men tend to be an exception. They’re a bit less aggressive, their sharp edges have been smoothed out by a wife or daughter. And they often think before they speak, conscious that their words reflect/impact not just them, but the community that relies on them. While this isn’t a universal truth, there are certainly trash husbands out there, the difference between manners and house training between a married man and a single one is stark. Like the difference between a family dog and a hyena.

None of this applies to black men though. Tech as an industry is as racist as it is sexist and in my seven years as an engineer I’ve never worked with a black engineer (man or woman). Ideally the streak ends soon, but I remain doubtful.

On day three, I ventured out to the strip with a few coworkers, and although my expectations were lower, they were still too high. Tourists were sparse, the massive hallways of the casino felt daunting, a bit haunted without the people to fill them. Workers looked bored, and desperate as they made eye contact with every person that passed by. When I talk to folks that live and work in Vegas, they often say that the city is in a slump, that things aren’t as good as they used to be. But ironically, when I talk to my family from Maine, or people who live in the burbs of Chicago, they say the same thing. So while Vegas may have been disproportionately impacted by our country’s decline, it is certainly not alone in its suffering.

During one of my Lyft rides back from breakfast one day I was picked up by a man with a “47” hat and an American flag on his sleeve. Years ago, I’d probably be more wary about being in the presence of a Trump supporter, but the conservative men in my family have worn down my fear into indifference. I wasn’t eager to start a conversation but this man was curious about me and my work so I told him a bit about what I did. It didn’t take long before the conversation somehow turned into “illegal immigrants getting free healthcare on the American dime”, which was odd because I neither talked about immigration nor healthcare. I tried to steer the conversation back from the Fox news talking point into what I viewed as the larger issue of affordability, and how no state in this country, red or blue, offers citizens free healthcare. But the man said he didn’t have health issues, and had no kids (reinforcing my aforementioned point) so why should he have to pay taxes for others. I briefly thanked him before checking out of my hotel.

The food in Vegas was probably one of the high points of the trip, especially Hawaiian food. I learned from some locals that Vegas has been called the “ninth-island” because of its large Hawaiian population. They tell me it’s because there used to be a highly attractive direct flight that went straight from Sin City to the islands, but I know enough about colonialism to know this isn’t entirely true.

There’s still so much of Vegas I haven’t seen. I didn’t see any museums, or wildlife, or learn much about its origins. I don’t know much about the city and where it’s been, but I’ve learned quite a bit about what it is; a prototypical American city. A city that exploits and abhors its immigrants. A city with poor infrastructure due to segregation. A city unlikely to change its ways until it has no choice. Vegas, as Vera Blossom says, is a city that tries to exude wealth and glamor, even as it crumbles toward entropy, toward sameness.

Death By Lightning, is a four part miniseries on Netflix that deftly depicts the violence of men and the political climate that emboldens them. Based on the book, Destiny of the Republic by Candice Millard, this historical drama examines how political rhetoric has contributed to what historian Richard Hofstadter calls, the Paranoia Style of Politics, a uniquely American phenomenon that ultimately led to the assassination of our 20th president, James A. Garfield.

The opening scene begins in 1969 with a few movers shuffling boxes around at the Army Medical Museum. One of the careless workers tips over a wooden crate, and out rolls a jar filled with a murky white liquid. They pick it up to discover a floating brain labeled “Charles Guiteau”.

“Who the fuck is Charles Guiteau.” One of the men exclaims.

Flashback nearly a hundred years, 1880, and we meet Garfield’s soon-to-be assassin, played by Matthew Macfadyen, as he’s rotting away in a Manhattan cell for a petty crime. His professional career is sparse, but his schemes are numerous: fraud, plagiarism, failed business ventures. Ultimately he has dreams and plans of becoming a politician, a man of importance. And if Guiteau had been a Republican in 2025, then maybe he’d be successful, perhaps even secure himself the highest office in the land, but America was less hospitable to scammers and failsons in 1880 than it is today.

Hundreds of miles away, woodworking on his quaint farm in Mentor, Ohio, we meet another man with great political ambitions, but from a much poorer background, James A. Garfield. Michael Shannon’s depiction of this flinty, progressive politician is both revering and hope-inducing. Parables or playful metaphors litter the dialogue of this even-keeled man. Rarely do we get outbursts of anger, loss of control, but even when we do, those feelings are in accordance with the occasion. Shannon’s portrayal of the oft forgotten president reminds me a bit of Daniel Day-Lewis’ Lincoln, but with much less self-righteousness.

Though, as kind as Shannon’s portrayal of Garfield is, the historical drama has no problem eviscerating other politicians of the time. Chester Arthur, (Nick Offerman), is a bumbling drunk, with few original ideas of his own, but many deep political ties. The most formidable of them being a conniving womanizer, Roscoe Conkling, played by Shea Whigham, who has managed to gain complete control over the Republican Party because of corruption and cronyism.

What I enjoy most about this show is that it doesn’t make any idealized claims about what American politics was like then or now. Throughout each episode, we see the predominantly white men in charge of running our country hurl invectives at one another, unconcerned about the reverberations of their language. Conkling and Arthur are especially guilty of fomenting mobs against this new progressive president as he tries to do away with the “spoils system.” Newspapers happily reprint their bogus claims that he’s “missing” or “running the country” into the ground, and then one of those newspapers lands into the lap of a disgruntled office seeker, Guiteau himself.

In 1969, Richard Hofstadter wrote an essay in Harpers called The Paranoid Style in American Politics, that has come to define conservatism ever since. Written in the shadows of the Red Scare, Hofstadter claims that the American right wing (though not exclusively), has wielded the language and tactics of conspiracy to provoke the dispossessed. Their propaganda has largely proven fruitful as communism and socialism are viewed poorly by most Americans, even those that don’t know the definition of either. American liberals historically have been pro-capitalism, so while they don’t explicitly repeat right-wing talking points, they largely agree with them in principle and endorse them by silence. But the cost of this conspiratorial rhetoric has proven to be disastrous.

Out of the 45 U.S. presidents, 4 have been assassinated, and an additional three have been shot. This means 15% or roughly one out of seven U.S. presidents have either historically been killed or shot at. By most occupational standards, the role is perhaps one of the most dangerous ones out there. Many of the aforementioned assassins have made bold claims that they are saving the nation from the threat within, utilizing the same populist, anti-communistic talking points that are parroted by the conservatives and endorsed liberals alike.

Macfadyen’s portrayal of Guiteau is as illuminating as it is horrifying, because although the man has a dubious professional career, and a weak relationship with the truth, if we closely examine his character and his politics, we find that he’s not too different from many modern Americans. His material suffering, coupled with his indomitable faith in god, lead him down what he believes is the righteous and necessary path for saving the country. When he experiences self-doubt and starts to question his plans, he turns to the papers, turns to the politics of the time and finds himself emboldened once again. Scientists examine his brain post-mortem, and try to find a clinical excuse for his heinous crime, but find nothing. The truth, unfortunately, is far more implicating. Only America, a country as rich as it is cruel, could routinely produce a man like Charles Guiteau, an armed white man with few opportunities, and outsized ambitions.

Charles Guiteau and James Garfield are two sides of the same coin, but the truth is that both of them, in their pursuit of legacy and relevance in a deeply divided nation, are as American as they come.

SOON as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
But the west glories in the deepest red:
So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,
The living temples of our God below!
Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,
And draws the sable curtains of the night,
Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,
At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;
So shall the labours of the day begin
More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,
Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

Mood Machine by Liz Pelly is a story about how Spotify has monopolized streaming, razed the music industry, and homogenized the culture.

When the story begins, we learn about the origins of the lime green app and its plans for the “revolution” or “democratization” of music. But as Pelly digs deeper it becomes clear that akin to most tech companies, the story is far more banal than portrayed. The co-founders of Spotify originally got their start in ad-tech and during the early days of its founding, they conceived of a platform that would suit their skillsets. Advertising first, content second. It just so happened that due to piracy laws at the time, music was one of the cheapest forms of content around. Thus, Spotify was born.

The company was initially an illegal operation that gained legitimacy over time as they acquired both funding and traction. The founders secured deals with major labels through their investing partners, mercilessly negotiated down the rates they paid to indie arts, and eventually became the Digital Service Provider (DSP) they are today. But Spotify’s ruthless ascension to become a streaming giant is probably the least interesting part of this tale, because what makes the Mood Machine so compelling isn’t the muckraking (although I do enjoy a good ole fashioned takedown of an oligarch) but rather its revelation that Spotify is single-handedly changing the shape of music.

In the 2010s, right as the company was preparing to go public, Spotify executives searched for every possible way to increase profitability. They analyzed the listening habits of their listeners and discovered that many users of the app weren’t actively listening or searching for the best possible music they could find, but rather music that fit a certain occasion. Studying music, driving music, relaxing music, sleeping music. The company stood to gain from the public’s over reliance on background sounds and their fear of silence.

This passive-listening discovery was pivotal because it meant that the music no longer needed to be good, but rather it just needed to be good enough to help ward off the existential dread-inducing silence its consumers feared. Enter PFC, or perfect fit content.

Through various subcontractors, Spotify hired “ghost artists” or sometimes desperate indie artists, to produce hundreds of tracks for pennies on the dollar. The tracks produced were given loose requirements, but ultimately had to fit a mood or theme of the company’s choosing. Once those tracks were recorded, they were shuffled around on various B-tier playlists until the algorithm picked up the ones most likely to go viral, and put them in the limelight. This system allowed Spotify to both create and distribute music for a fraction of the cost. And while the economy for artists was being decimated, so was the musical landscape.

While Spotify’s data-driven approach to music curation increases user engagement, it comes at the expense of the broader music community. Because as the algorithm assembles these mood-based playlists, it does so with little to no historical or cultural context. This means that every single user is being served a, uniquely vapid listening experience that only they can relate to, a musical silo of sorts. This individualistic approach to listening makes having conversations and building communities around music much more difficult.

Occasionally a listener could have their silo breached by a viral hit, and even if the music was terrible, it is still more comforting to have a glib conversation about a bad song, than no conversation at all. But in a way this virality reinforces isolation, and vice-versa, because when a “top hit” graces a user’s feed, they engage, and immerse themselves in it, not because they care, but because they want to be part of the conversation, part of the community of people that do care. The Spotify algorithm in effect profits off of both the isolation it imposes, and the tenuous communities it creates around these viral, TikTok coded tunes.

Yet, as harrowing as the musical landscape is, Liz Pelly leaves us with a few reasons to be hopeful. Across the world, artists and laborers are engaging in collective action so that they can build a more equitable future. In 2020 the United Musicians and Allied Workers (UMAW) was formed to help fight for a more just industry, the Spotify Workers Union was formed in Sweden to advance employee interests, and in 2024 the “Living Wage For Musicians Act” was introduced by Rashida Tlaib. Even as the company records record profits in the tens of billions, you can still count on artists, workers, and everyday people to fight for the right to live a life of dignity. The Mood Machine may have run amok, but it hasn’t run us over.