I'm curious like you are to see how Aaron Sorkin does Harper Lee. Previews begin November 1. Opens December 13. 'When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.'
Friday, September 14, 2018
Two blocks is all I have to walk from my apartment to this public library branch. On my way I pass by a CVS, two darkly-lit Irish bars I used to go to, three big Goodwill stores, one where I got the J. Crew corduroy pants I'm wearing now. I go by a busy bodega, a new Greek diner that replaced an old Greek diner, my coffee shop, an Urgent Care place. Across the street is the School for the Visual Arts where Asian students sometimes smoke out front, and a public high school where only sign language is used. That school is where I voted at 6:00 yesterday morning.
I'm in the library now on a computer I can use for 45 minutes. Mine is being fixed. I like being in a library. I like that one's close to me.
Thursday, September 13, 2018
'Actually, there's no such thing as not voting.'
-David Foster Wallace
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
I've watched three episodes of this documentary, America to Me. It's on Starz which I get because a friend lets me stream things from his subscription. I mentioned the show after I watched the first episode. It's all-interesting, all-involving. Big progressive high school in Oak Park, Illinois. Race a big theme, the big theme. Conceived of and directed by the guy who did Hoop Dreams which you saw.
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
This was in the latest New York Review of Books:
Aquarius Rising
By Jackson Lears Central Press/Getty ImagesA rehearsal of the musical Hair at the Shaftesbury Theatre, London, September 1968
1.
Certain
years acquire an almost numinous quality in collective memory—1789,
1861, 1914. One of the more recent additions to the list is 1968. Its
fiftieth anniversary has brought a flood of attempts to recapture
it—local, national, and transnational histories, anthologies, memoirs,
even performance art and musical theater. Immersion in this literature
soon produces a feeling of déjà vu, particularly if one was politically
conscious at the time (as I was).
Up to a point, repetition is
inevitable. Certain public figures and events are inescapable: the
tormented Lyndon Johnson, enmeshed in an unpopular, unwinnable war and
choosing to withdraw from the presidential stage; the antiwar
candidacies of Eugene McCarthy and Robert Kennedy; the intensifying
moral challenges posed by Martin Luther King; the assassinations of King
and Kennedy; the racially charged violence in most major cities; the
police riot against antiwar protesters (and anyone else who got in their
way) at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago; the emergence of
right-wing candidates—George Wallace, Richard Nixon—appealing to a
“silent majority” whose silence was somehow construed as civic virtue.
And the anticlimactic election: the narrow defeat of Hubert Humphrey by
Nixon, who promised to “bring us together” without specifying how.
What
togetherness turned out to mean was an excruciating prolongation of the
war in Vietnam, accompanied by an accelerating animosity toward
dissent. The effort to satisfy the silent majority by exorcising the
demons of 1968 would eventually lead to the resurgence of an
interventionist military policy, the dismantling of what passed for a
welfare state, and the prosecution of a “war on drugs” that would
imprison more Americans than had ever been behind bars before.
Revisiting
this story is important and necessary. But difficulties arise when one
tries to identify who those demons actually were. The conventional
accounts of radical protest all feature the usual suspects: Tom Hayden,
Mark Rudd, Abbie Hoffman, the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS),
the Black Panthers, the Maoists, the Yippies, the devotees of Che.
According to this narrative, nearly all the white protesters are
privileged draft dodgers from a northern tier of universities that
stretched from Cambridge and New York through Ann Arbor and Madison to
Berkeley. As hopes for electing an antiwar president fade, they descend
into pseudo-Marxist posturing and self-destructive fantasies of violent
revolution. A few hapless Weathermen, sectarian spinoffs from the SDS, provide a coda to this story by blowing themselves up in a Greenwich Village townhouse in 1970.
This
account provides a comforting balm for supporters of status quo
politics, but it misses the larger meanings of radical protest—its
pervasiveness, its heterogeneity, above all its religious roots and
significance. The religious dimension of American radicalism was what
separated it from the student uprisings in Paris and other European
cities during the spring of 1968. American radicals lacked the
anticlerical animus of Europeans; priests, rabbis, and ministers
enlisted in the front ranks of the civil rights and antiwar movements.
King’s decision to bear witness against the war was central to
legitimating resistance to it, while provoking government counterattacks
as well as denunciations from both liberals and conservatives.
“Religion”
may be too solemn a word for many 1960s radicals, but it helps to
capture the depth of their motives: above all their longing for a more
direct, authentic experience of the world than the one on offer in
midcentury American society. What made radicals mad, what drove their
deepest animus against the war, was their sense that it was a product of
the same corporate technostructure—as John Kenneth Galbraith called it
in The New Industrial State (1967)—that reduced everyday life to a
hamster cage of earning and spending. The tribunes of the
technostructure were men like Robert McNamara, who shuttled from the
Ford Motor Company to the Defense Department to the World Bank, and who
seemed to know everything about managerial techniques but nothing about
their ultimate purpose, if indeed there was one. Elite managers were the
high priests of an orthodoxy with a blankness, a vacancy, at its
center.
The fundamental expression of this vacuity was the war
machine that multiplied corpses in Vietnam and nuclear weapons
throughout the world. King acknowledged the connection between
managerialism and militarism at Arlington Cemetery in February 1968,
when he said, “Somewhere along the way we have allowed the means by
which we live to outdistance the ends for which we live.” A society of
means without ends was a society without a soul. Antiwar radicals,
recoiling from soullessness, challenged the church of technocratic
rationality. Taking this challenge seriously, recovering the mood of an
extended moment, requires beginning earlier and ending later than 1968.
Cultural upheaval cannot be confined by the calendar. At least one
contribution to the literature, the music industry executive Danny
Goldberg’s In Search of the Lost Chord, treats 1967 as the
defining moment when “the hippie idea” still held transformational
promise, and countercultural protest had not yet succumbed to police
violence, undercover provocateurs, or media caricature—while 1968, in
contrast, was a dark time of assassinations, riots, and the resurgence
of the right.
Goldberg’s
perspective, though true to the events of the time, neglects the deep
historical roots of the 1960s counterculture. Its philosophical lineage
stemmed from the Romantic critique of Cartesian dualism’s separation of
the knowing scientist and the knowable inert matter of the natural
world; hippies who had never heard of Descartes were reenacting earlier
utopian efforts to move “back to the land” and live more harmoniously
with nature. The countercultural impulse arose as well from the
antinomian Protestant tradition, which urged believers to withdraw from
institutions that obstructed a direct relation with the divine, and it
flowed more immediately from Christian existentialism, which celebrated
the renewal of personal meaning and purpose through the risks of
independent religious commitment. King himself preached in the Christian
existentialist tradition.
The countercultural state of mind could
foster profound aspirations (like King’s) but also trivial ones. The
critique of technocratic expertise could lead to a rejection of
universities and professions as mere servants of power—an understandable
conclusion that nevertheless risked anti-intellectualism and sometimes
led to sheer inanity. But countercultural politics could also pose
alternatives to dogmatic ideology; it could help radicals avoid the
portentous posturing, the romanticizing of revolutionary violence, that
increasingly characterized the New Left as its leaders moved (with much
fanfare) from protest to resistance. Less dramatic gestures
characterized countercultural politics in places like Austin, Texas, or
Chapel Hill, North Carolina—antiwar rallies and teach-ins, protests
against university policies of racial exclusion and mistreatment of
employees. This ferment spilled into the coffeehouses outside Fort Hood
(Texas) and Fort Bragg (North Carolina), which revealed that antiwar
dissent was pervasive within the military as well as outside it. On superficial inspection, the impact of countercultural politics was painfully short-lived. Goldberg writes:
The
efforts of millions of peace activists were sometimes overshadowed by
the destructive, violent acts of a few dozen delusional radicals. An
earnest spiritual movement became obscured to most observers by stoned,
pontificating buffoons.
Pirkle Jones and Ruth-Marion Baruch/Firelight FilmsBlack Panthers at a ‘Free Huey’ rally, Oakland, California, 1969; from Stanley Nelson’s documentary film The Black Panthers: Vanguard of the Revolution, 2015The
question of how the counterculture became trivialized and demonized
deserves a closer look, which would reveal the actions of FBI and CIA agents provocateurs as well as sensationalist media. In
the longer run, much of the countercultural ferment was absorbed into
the therapeutic culture of self-realization or frittered away in the
fragmentation bred by identity politics. A countercultural sensibility
survives behind the ecologically informed awareness that humans must
accommodate themselves to the natural world rather than simply master
it, but that sensibility remains untethered to any capacious critique of
technocratic rationality—one that would include, for example, the
ever-increasing defense budget or the nuclear arms race. The creators of
our public discourse need to recover the countercultural critique of
the technocratic ethos, which still legitimates the national security
state. Without that critique, debate over foreign policy—though
conducted in moralistic rhetoric—remains devoid of moral seriousness.
Revisiting the religious dimensions of 1960s protest allows for the
recovery of a forgotten and necessary part of our past.
2.
For
Goldberg, 1967 marked “a period of communal sweetness” when hippie
youth enjoyed “an instant sense of tribal intimacy one could have even
with a stranger”—such as “a young guy with long hair who looked cool” at
the San Francisco airport. The barefoot Goldberg had been refused
permission to board his flight; he asked the stranger if he could have
his shoes; the stranger handed them over. This would not have been
possible, Goldberg says, a year later. Susan Solomon, who was briefly
married to Gary “Chicken” Hirsh (drummer for Country Joe and the Fish),
recalled, “There was a sense of possibility” in 1967 and into early
1968. “People felt that they could change the world with love—and
briefly, it worked.” Joe Boyd of Boston, a countercultural evangelist
who brought the hippie idea to the London music scene, recalled, “An
atmosphere of agape was pervasive in 1967; people were fundamentally
quite nice to each other.”
The equation of agape with
niceness suggests Goldberg’s limitations. For him the religious longings
of the counterculture (or at least the ones he cares about) are nearly
all traceable to the use of psychedelic drugs—mescaline, peyote, and LSD.
He quotes Aldous Huxley on mescaline, which produced a “sacramental
vision of reality…a world where everything shone with the Inner Light,
and was infinite in its significance,” and Grace Slick (of Jefferson
Airplane) on peyote, which “made everything and everyone seem equally
important. Suddenly I could see no isolation, no overabundance. It was
all just energy, exhibiting itself in infinite dimensions.” Yet as
Huxley acknowledged, the mescaline experience did not constitute “the
realization of the end and ultimate purpose of human life:
Enlightenment, the Beatific Vision”; rather it was an instance of
“‘gratuitous grace,’ not necessary to salvation but potentially helpful
and to be accepted thankfully, if made available.” Timothy Leary, the
Harvard psychologist turned psychedelic evangelist, made no such
distinctions: for him LSD offered a sustained look at infinity.
Despite
Leary’s overblown rhetoric, there is no doubt that acid trips were
often the first stop on a spiritual journey away from Western
rationality, toward a cobbled-together Eastern alternative. Richard
Alpert’s self-transformation offers a telling example. A professor of
psychology at Harvard, Alpert describes himself in 1961, before his
first LSD trip, as
an adult in a world
that was defined by the intellect. The high priests of America were
scientists and intellectuals. What was valued is what you knew you knew.
Introspection was rejected. What was respected was what could be
measured from outside, not from inner experiences. Anything you couldn’t
measure was treated as irrelevant.
One could hardly find a better summary of the positivist creed that ordered the midcentury technostructure. Alpert
and many of his contemporaries found reductionism spiritually
impoverished and fled it when they glimpsed another way of being
shimmering from the East. After Alpert met his guru Neem Karoli Baba, he
became Ram Dass (“Servant of God”) and returned to the US in 1969 to
create what Goldberg calls a “linkage between hippie culture and ancient
spiritual cosmology,” conveyed in Alpert’s best-selling Be Here Now. (My brother owned a well-thumbed copy, and once gave me one for my birthday.)
Other
commentators on the counterculture preferred a more familiar religious
idiom. Paul Goodman, who had been lionized by the left for his Growing Up Absurd
(1960), recognized toward the end of the decade that what the restless
young were seeking was a “New Reformation,” a revival of genuine
spiritual experience in the face of a corrupt positivist orthodoxy. What
really alienated young white rebels from their affluent society,
Goodman wrote, was its “nauseating phoniness, triviality, and
wastefulness, the cultural and moral scandal that Luther found when he
went to Rome in 1510.” (Young black Americans had more precise and
palpable complaints.)
The greatest scandal was that “science,
which should have been the wind of truth to clear the air, has polluted
the air, helped to brainwash, and provided weapons for war.” Reformation
“does not involve destroying the common faith [in science], but to
purge and reform it.” What was needed was technical modesty,
fittingness—“the ecological wisdom of cooperating with Nature rather
than trying to master her.” The crisis of professional authority was
part of a larger crisis of modernity; Goodman wanted to salvage the
promise of modernity by reforming the professions.
Theodore Roszak wanted to go farther. In The Making of a Counterculture
(1969), he coined the term “counterculture” to try to capture the
wide-ranging significance of youth rebellion, for which he wanted to
find a legitimate lineage, even an intellectual history. He refused to
reduce the countercultural ferment to a mishmash of sex, drugs, and rock
and roll, dismissing Leary’s eschatological fantasies as a “counterfeit
infinity.” At its most profound, Roszak argued, the counterculture
arose from a Romantic and existentialist tradition preoccupied with
sustaining authentic existence in an inauthentic society—a tradition
stretching from Blake and Wordsworth to Martin Buber and Paul Goodman:
The
stereotypic beatnik or hippy, dropped-out and self-absorbed, sunk in a
narcotic stupor or lost in ecstatic contemplation…what lies behind these
popular images but the reality of a sometimes zany, sometimes
hopelessly inadequate search for the truth of the person?
Countercultural
seekers confronted an “orthodox culture” that was “fatally and
contagiously diseased,” Roszak wrote. “The prime symptom of that disease
is the shadow of thermonuclear annihilation beneath which we cower.”
Unprecedented technical means, decoupled from any humane ends, produced
an array of weapons that could destroy the world and “make the rubble
bounce,” in Churchill’s phrase.
Raymond Depardon/Magnum PhotosA protester at a demonstration against the Vietnam War during the Democratic National Convention, Chicago, 1968Roszak
implied that the countercultural critique of technocratic rationality
could have immediate political consequences—among them a refusal to
participate in the Vietnam War and a firm stand against the use of
nuclear weapons. US military policy, and particularly the nuclear arms
race, revealed the ultimate consequences of what he called “the myth of
objective consciousness”—the reduction of everything “out there”
(including human populations) to mere objects or numbers, rendering them
available for mass destruction.
I first read Roszak (along with Buber, Albert Camus, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and King) in my bunk on the USS Chicago,
a cruiser that carried missiles armed with nuclear warheads (which the
Navy officially denied). I was a cryptographer with a Top Secret
clearance and would have been required to decrypt the message that let
those birds fly. Roszak’s critique resonated powerfully with me.
Eventually I refused my scripted role, was stripped of my clearance, and
honorably discharged. And my refusal was by no means unusual among
junior officers and enlisted men, black and white—including several of
my shipmates. If I ever experienced any of the “communal sweetness”
described by Goldberg, it was probably in the antiwar counterculture of
San Diego.
3.
King was a major presence in the world of
military dissent (applications for conscientious objector status often
depended on his ideas), but he was less influential among the
self-consciously hip outside it. Would-be white revolutionaries
preferred secular firebrands like Stokely Carmichael to a Christian
pastor whose nonviolence seemed inadequate to address the poverty and
despair of young blacks in cities. Yet despite the assumptions of
Carmichael and other critics, King was no sentimental idealist: he had a
hard-nosed understanding of how the waste of resources on imperial
adventures abroad sustained persistent poverty at home—with black people
disproportionately represented among the poor. For him, the civil
rights crusade flowed naturally into the antiwar movement. As the
leading religious leader in the country, his presence in antiwar
demonstrations provided legitimacy to other clergy who opposed the war,
and to the antiwar movement as a whole.
King had always vowed to
“meet physical force with soul force” in the struggle for racial
equality. By early 1967 he was ready to put that strategy in a larger
frame. On February 25, he denounced the Vietnam War, deploring its human
costs: “Young men…sent home half-men—physically handicapped and
mentally deranged.” He opposed the war, King said, out of love for
America, which he wanted to be “the moral example of the world” rather
than “the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today.” He
repeatedly challenged the American conflation of power and virtue—the
assumption that “we have some divine, messianic mission to police the
whole world.” And he warned that “the shirtless and barefoot people of
the land are rising up as never before,” linking US support for the
heirs of French colonialism in Vietnam with the “domestic colonialism”
in northern US cities.
Announcing in February 1968 that he would lead a
Poor People’s March on Washington in May, he targeted the web of
connections linking capital, race, class, and the garrison state,
infusing his moral critique with religious conviction. “The judgment of
God is upon us today,” he announced at the National Cathedral in
Washington on March 31, 1968. Less than a week later he was dead. Before
his martyrdom, King’s turn against the war provoked a torrent of abuse
from liberal journalists and stepped-up snooping from government
agencies. Indeed all the fiftieth-anniversary accounts of 1968 devote
much space to FBI and CIA infiltration of
antiwar protest and surveillance of American citizens. Amid pervasive
subterfuge, it was not always easy to know who was on whose side. The
historian Richard Vinen notes:
When the dean at Louisiana University [sic]
was shouted down by a group of students, an undercover policeman in the
crowd handed him a megaphone. But the leader of the shouting students
was himself an FBI agent.
Lyndon Johnson was as convinced as J. Edgar Hoover that the antiwar movement was riddled by foreign subversives, and he set the CIA
to work (illegally) on finding them. The agency came up empty-handed.
Antiwar activism was as American as cherry pie, as one could tell from
even a glance at the Boston Five, a handful of prominent educated
professionals (including the pediatrician Benjamin Spock and the Yale
chaplain William Sloan Coffin) whose efforts to help young men avoid the
draft provoked the Justice Department to bring them to trial in January
1968.
Resistance to the draft intensified, often under religious
auspices. On May 17, 1968, two women and seven men entered the Selective
Service System offices in Catonsville, Maryland, pulled hundreds of
files out into the parking lot, poured homemade napalm on them, set them
on fire, and began to pray for peace. The Catonsville Nine described
themselves as “Catholic Christians who take our faith seriously.” They
included two priests, Philip and Daniel Berrigan, who became leading
figures in the antiwar movement and major targets of the FBI.
4.
Through
the summer of 1968, frustration and anger mounted on the left and
right. Black nationalists and white cops sniped at each other with
high-powered rifles in the streets of Cleveland; more young men were
dying in Vietnam every week, and more were coming home ravaged mentally
and physically; antiwar demonstrations attracted hundreds of thousands
of marchers but also provoked outrage among pro-war believers, who
viewed the antiwar counterculture as an undifferentiated mob of hippies.
It is important to recall the venom directed against them: “DIRTY HIPPY BASTARD—HOPE THE VIET CONG CUTS YOUR HEAD OFF AND PUTS IT ON A POLE”
read a worn graffito I encountered in 1969, scratched on a metal picnic
table in Balboa Park, San Diego. This ferocity was routine in the late
Sixties; some of the silent majority harbored murderous thoughts.
The
antiwar counterculture affected many people one would never have
expected it to touch. An incident from my own experience is
illustrative. In a class on leadership in the Naval Reserve Officers’
Training Program at the University of Virginia, our instructor, a
nondescript lieutenant, was warning us that there were likely to be a
lot of political demonstrations in the weeks leading up to graduation,
and reminding us that we were not allowed to participate in them in
uniform. A hand shot up in the back of the room. It belonged to a
scholarship student in electrical engineering from the mountains of
southwestern Virginia. “But what if it’s a demonstration for peace?” he
asked. After a long silence, the lieutenant muttered something
unintelligible and changed the subject.
The engineer’s question
was naive but morally serious. He wanted to hold power to its moral
pretensions. The motto of the Strategic Air Command, composed of B-52s
that were pounding North Vietnam, was “Peace Is Our Profession.” From
the engineer’s point of view, we ought to be able to demonstrate in
uniform for peace. This insistence on moral consistency pervaded the
antiwar counterculture, which demanded that policymakers enact their
professed ideals and denounced their failure to do so.
The idea
that white male southerners in uniform might have been influenced
(however indirectly) by the antiwar counterculture is inadmissible to
the conventional narrative of the Sixties. One would never know from the
standard account that antiwar convictions shaped the worldviews of many
people who had never gone to an SDS meeting, chanted
Maoist slogans, dropped acid, or worn a Nehru suit. The only Nehru suit I
saw in Charlottesville was worn as a joke by one of two successful
anarchist candidates for Student Council. Their choice of the anarchist
label signaled their belief that playfulness had a place in politics,
and that absurd policies sometimes demanded absurdist gestures of
protest. The anarchists won by daring to say publicly what
everyone knew privately: that university politics was controlled by a
handful of fraternities composed of privileged boys from a handful of
prep schools. Student Council elections were an empty ritual until the
anarchists injected a dose of absurdity to unmask the pretensions of the
powerful—a characteristic countercultural move. They also brought class
and race into public discussion, perhaps for the first time at that
self-consciously traditional university, by demanding that the (mostly
black) food service and hospital workers be allowed to form unions. At
a conservative southern university, what mattered was the protest, not
the clothing it was dressed in. But when neatly dressed protesters
staged an antiwar march in Richmond, the television news focused on a
single rabble-rouser in a purple cape and a floppy cavalier’s hat. The
caricaturing of the counterculture was well underway.
5.
Yet
despite the caricatures, some political consequences of 1960s
radicalism were significant, at least for a while. One of the most
hopeful was the growth of popular skepticism of the FBI and the CIA.
As revelations of unconstitutional domestic surveillance proliferated
in the early 1970s, even Congress began to realize the need for reining
in the intelligence agencies. A Senate committee headed by Frank Church
(a Democrat from Idaho) explored the vast extent of illegal surveillance
and concluded, “Too many people have been spied upon by too many
government agencies, and too much information has been collected.” The
Church committee also found abundant evidence of CIA crimes abroad, including assassinations of foreign leaders.
Though
there was a brief flurry of public concern, the policy outcomes of the
investigation remained minimal, and within a few years the intelligence
agencies had reasserted their claim on public legitimacy. Today, in a
major historical irony, the dream of impeaching Trump has driven much of
the Democratic Party into an uncritical embrace of the FBI and the CIA.
The institutions that have conducted illegal surveillance of American
citizens for decades have been suddenly transmuted into monuments of
integrity.
The late Sixties can also be searched for antecedents
of social movements that later came to fuller fruition. The Stonewall
Riots in summer 1969 signaled the arrival of the Gay Rights movement;
feminists staged the first protest at the Miss America pageant; the
American Indian Movement was founded; and Edward Abbey published Desert Solitaire,
which became a bible for environmentalists. Seeds of an ecological
consciousness were sprouting among the back-to-the-land sectors of the
counterculture.
Along with the self-righteous inanities that no
doubt flourished in some rural communes, a more enduring countercultural
sensibility survived. Its evaporation into New Age bromides and its
fragmentation into a thousand trendy “alternative lifestyles” have
become a familiar story. But the core of resistance never disappeared
entirely, and the countercultural search for alternatives to
technocratic rationality remains more necessary than ever. The corporate
technostructure survives, increasingly deregulated, no longer even
pretending to provide the job security that was available to more
fortunate workers at mid-century. Police brutality toward black people
has been militarized, facilitated by the use of sophisticated weapons
and riot gear, while the legal rights of defendants have receded with
the rise of mass incarceration. Serious debate on foreign and military
policy has largely retreated to the margins of public life, experts
continue to justify endless wars abroad, and our nuclear arsenal awaits a
trillion-dollar modernization. Revisiting the Sixties leads to a
sobering conclusion: everything has changed, and nothing has changed.
'We go to college to be given one more chance to learn to read in case we haven't learned in high school. Once we have learned to read, the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.'
I’ve been a schoolteacher. Right after college in 1969, like a lot of guys, I taught school as an alternative to serving in Vietnam. I was married with a week-old daughter on graduation day. I taught grade school English in Cleveland, Ohio for six years. After that, I ran, eventually owned, a longstanding bookstore in downtown Cleveland. It felt something like Three Lives in the West Village. I went on to found an alternative weekly paper like the Voice, also in Cleveland. It lasted 12 years. Twenty-one years ago I moved here, armed with an idea and a prototype for a national book magazine. Like a Rolling Stone for books. I never raised the huge amount of money I needed. I then worked for a media company, editing a couple of neighborhood weeklies, more than once using my editor’s space to talk about city kids and reading. Between the editorial jobs, I taught English for a year here in Manhattan at a Catholic boys’ high school with mostly minority kids. I was terrible at discipline. But sometimes when we found a book or a story we liked, it all came together.
gunlockeb@yahoo.com