A Promise is a Promise

Posted: January 19, 2016 in Uncategorized

You ready for that hot fire?

On Sunday, I told you I’d be releasing Come Hell or High Water through this blog. Well, I keep my promises – and this time I’m being timely about it.

So here’s how it goes: I’ve dropped the first 3 chapters of Come Hell or High Water (that’s #CHOH for you cool kids) on WattPad, an online social writing/reading service. Every week, on Tuesdays, I’ll leave you another snippet and we’ll get through this thing together.


That’s the important part. Don’t just read the story and hang out until the next week. Leave a comment. Jump on the Heaven Falls Facebook and ask a question. Tweet about it. Let me know what you think, what you like and hate, and what you hope to see.

And thanks for checking it out at all.

That said, here’s your first installment of Come Hell or High Water: The Book of Raphael.

Oh, and here’s the back cover text to whet your whistle:

I swore to protect you. And I will until my dying breath. I will because I love you. Because He loves you.

Because I said I would.

Because it is my fault. Lucifer is among you. Michael is coming. The war will follow.

My name is Raphael and I loosed the Devil upon the world.


I love my story. I love the things Lucifer, Michael, Gabriel and Raphael have shown me about me, about life, about faith and love and vengeance. I published The Road to Hell in 2011 and since, Lucifer’s whispers have filtered into my dreams, I’ve felt Michael’s anger in my fists, the compassion of Raphael has overwhelmed me at times.

But it’s been 5 years.

I actually finished Come Hell or High Water in July 2013. Somewhere on my other blog Crooked Letterz, I even posted a picture of the binder, thick with printed pages, as I tore into edits and rewrites. I convinced myself over the last 18 months that it was broken, that Come Hell or High Water was incomplete or ineffective or simply bad storytelling. I hemmed and hawed, found other things to focus on, and eventually stopped writing all together.

The truth is, I’m frightened about what happens next.

See, I LOVE The Road to Hell, warts and all. It has grammar issues and places where I could have tightened things up and incomplete ideas. But it has some amazing insight into the human condition and our relationship with God. I love that book. Come Hell or High Water has a lot of heart—it’s a love story in my own wicked way and it’s big and expansive and full of moral ambiguity. It hits much closer to home. Much closer to me. I see myself in its pages. Parts of myself I’m hesitant to show the world.

A long time ago, someone asked me about writer’s block. I said then that I didn’t believe in writer’s block, that it usually means there’s something we need to say and aren’t willing to be honest about it. I still believe that. The writer’s block I have isn’t about the book that’s complete. It’s about the next one. Damned If I Do is the third book in this series and it’s Michael’s story. He’s a pretty dark cat. I know I started with Lucifer—and he’s the Devil—but Michael the Archangel is something else. Something worse. I’m scared of what I’ll find in his head; I’m more scared of what I’ll find in mine.

But that isn’t a reason to delay Come Hell or High Water anymore. It isn’t a reason to keep the story from all of you. So I’m not. Not anymore.

On Tuesday, January 20 (like two days from now), dropping like a hot fire mixtape, I’m releasing the first few chapters of Come Hell or High Water. I’ll drop it on Wattled, post the link here. And then, every Tuesday after that, serial-style like The Walking Dead, you’re going to get a little more. Until the end. The whole book. Totally free. No charge. No cost. Nada. And like Talking Dead, as you read it, let’s talk about it. There’s a Facebook page right here. I’ll be on it everyday—Like it, post a comment, and I’ll respond. Promise.

As much as I love this serialized approach, I’m having trouble with the “tune in next time” part. Last night, about 106 words in, I woke up in my wife’s recliner (because recliners are AWESOOOMMMMEEE!), with slobber on my cheek and a trail of gibberish on my screen. Chalk it up to a side effect of trying to straddle 4 time zones.

Antywayz, when I left off last time, my family was doing the stanky leg because we were getting the hell outta Florida. While these cats were doing the Nae Nae to the Jefferson’s theme song, I was descending into a panic-stricken bundles of nerves. In the week leading up to the move, this was me:

I’d lost the “let’s get Mikey to move us! Yeah Mikey likes it! He really likes it!” feeling and was deep in the “Damn, I gotta drive” dumps. Movers had my $1700 deposit, which meant I couldn’t drop another deposit on another moving company, which really meant me and U-Haul were about to be best buddies.


My wife, the over-enthusiastic WTF Camper comes at me like she’s Chris Hansen from To Catch A Predator. “Sit down,” she says, “sit down over here.” I sit and take a cookie (there were always cookies, right?). “I made you a reservation for the truck and the dolly so you can pull the Destructi-Car. I know you’re not happy about it but I did get you something: movers!” And she said it with jazz hands.

Movers? I thought I had movers. Wasn’t that what this whole shit was about? Isn’t that why I don’t have my deposit? Actually, she didn’t get me movers; she got me loaders. U-Haul offers Navy SEAL-caliber ex-UPS truck loaders to come to your house and pack your shit. She wasn’t confident with my pre-selected but customer service challenged moving company but we’re good with some no-names to move her Kitchen Aid mixer and Christmas tree?


So I’m crazy anxious, living in a cardboard box colony, and now a bunch of Craigslist rejects are coming to load my stuff. This is a Lifetime movie waiting to happen. I know we’re going to end up on Discovery ID behind this. But whatever, the one luxury I don’t have is time: my primary coping strategy was to act like nothing was going to happen. Yep, took a page out The Boy’s handbook and just kept taking calls and doing my job and working with clients like I wasn’t actually moving to the other side of the world. I only stopped working when they came and took my desk. But I’ll get there in a minute.

For me, the best defense is a good offense. I’ve gone through the 5 stages of grief and accepted that, yes I am going to drive the truck through the mountains, and, yes, it is an unlikely—but VERY real—possibility I might die. But it has to happen. So I put my best Wesley Snipes Blade impression on, say some dumb shit like “Some muthafuckas always trying to skate uphill”—by the way, what the hell does that mean and what does it actually have to do with the movie? Have you seen Blade? This is the shit he says before doing some crazy roundhouse kick to send syringes of blood exploder into a Blood God. Now that I type that out, the skating uphill shit is sane compared to that plot point. Anyway, I get my brave face on, go get the truck, and, the morning of the move, load approximately 24 boxes in 32 minutes while I wait on the movers.

Anyway, I’m the garage, me and the Boy have loaded our 24 boxes, a grey Ford Escape rolls up and 3 dudes jump out. Now I am hyper-vigilant because I don’t want to be the star of The First 48: Tampa on moving day and I don’t trust the whole “I hired people vetted by U-Haul to come move our stuff” idea. It’s 3 guys, young and strapping, and think “well, maybe” until the one who I thought was the most normal looking asks me what they should load. “Everything,” I say. “Everything?” I give him the blank stare because I’m trying to figure out where the struggle is with everything. That’s a pretty simple word I would think. And, as a moving professional, you should have a good handle on what the fuck I want to load. Let’s start with the shit in boxes and then maybe move on the furniture. How about that?

The second dude needs a helmet. And a good pair of glasses. His eyes are like two mad spouses in the bed, facing different directions. And one of those directions is wherever Skipper is. We actually had her leave so he could focus. Seriously. He doesn’t speak and I’m not certain he can.

Now the leader of this motley crew is drinking a Starbucks mocha Frapuccino (don’t say anything, I live in Seattle—I know what the drink looks like) with a straw. Remember, I’m hyper-vigilant, First 48. You ever see something out the corner of your eye and then start to pay attention to it because if you actually saw what you think you saw you know it’s going to be messed up but now you have to know if it was real? Like if you watched or happened to walk by while someone was watching Dancing With the Stars when Paul McCartney’s wife, Heather Mills, was on there and you didn’t know she had a prosthetic leg, so then you had to stop and watch because does that woman really have a fake leg? And she’s on a dancing competition? and now you have to know? OK so that shit happens to be ALL THE TIME! Here’s what I saw: most people, when they pull a straw out of their mouths, move their jaw—you gotta open your mouth the get the straw out, right? No jaw movement here. It just slid out. I caught him saying something to one of the guys and saw like a side-tooth. I don’t think my man has teeth! Since the first dude doesn’t understand what has to go and the second guy only understands blondes, and I have to know what’s happening on the tooth front, I decide to give my complex instructions to Frapuccino. I extend my hand and say, “Okay, so…” and then he smiles. And I can see clear to the back of his throat.


My man showed up to the party with 4 teeth. FOUR. 2 incisors on the top, a bicuspid on the bottom. Maybe a couple molars in the back. The scene was BLEAK! And there was nothing—NOTHING—in the center. He can never eat a steak or an apple. Like any food he approaches, he has to come at it from the side. Those are key teeth! Like key to everything! Girls, jobs, lunch. When he asks us to leave them a review so they can get a higher rate, I almost said, “So you can get dental?” But I kept it to myself.

I’ll say this though, teeth or no, helmet or no, they knocked it out. I’m talking about my whole house, including the shit I was sitting on, packed and on the truck in 2 ½ hours. They packed a 26-ft truck in 2 ½ hours. And when they said that load wouldn’t move, they weren’t bullshitting. 3200 miles over rivers, bridges, mountains and valleys, for 6 days, and shit didn’t budge. He might suck at flossing, but he can pack a truck.

Up Next, Why Are We Stopping Here?

So if you are just joining, I’m talking about our ridiculous decision to make ANOTHER move across the country. After 370 days in Florida, where we endured life on the surface of the sun, braved the swarm of rabid, flying roaches, and successfully survived the worst freaking drivers in the developed world, me and family were like:

This was all well and good until I really started thinking about the move itself. The prospect of moving my life back across the continent was giving me heart palpitations, particularly since I’d done this once with less than stellar results. Actually, it gave me nightmares—seriously. Once we settled on actually moving back to Seattle, I started having dreams where I would drive the truck off the side of a mountain and die in a fiery death. It was bad enough, I started having palm sweats and shaking hands whenever I thought about driving.

This is an actual post I made back when we were planning the move:

Screen Shot 2015-08-18 at 8.37.36 PM

Now I don’t generally make decisions out of fear because I don’t routinely put myself in situations where this is a thing. The scariest thing I do is the corn maze in October when we go to pick out pumpkins. Why is it scary? It’s a corn maze and I’m a black dude—I’m like 67 times more likely to get murdered in October when walking through a corn maze. Don’t let it be after dark (it never is) because my death potential goes up to like 127%–I am guaranteed to die.

We moved to Seattle in April 2007 and, by then, I had genuinely forgotten about the whole “volcanoes are real AND they’re here” thing. The last time Mount St. Helens erupted, I was 7 and the only time I’d ever heard about human beings dying from a volcanic eruption was Pompeii. It wasn’t a concern. I was, however, wholly unaware of the whole earthquakes thing. THAT is not on the brochure.

Like 2 days after I’d started my new job, I was in the office in downtown Seattle overlooking the Sound and some chunky dude in a polo shirt and a construction helmet said something about getting under your desk for the earthquake drill. Of course I didn’t pay attention to him because he was some dude in a construction helmet. It wasn’t until went to the office next door to say something to Karen—ain’t that an office-y name? Karen…sound like she think she shift lead or manager or something, huh?—that I noticed everyone was gone. And I mean Left Behind gone. Vanished.

It wasn’t until I heard that harsh whisper-yell from a cubicle, talking about “Chris! Get down!”

Me: “The fuck are you doing under your desk?”

Cubicle: “Earthquake drill! Get under your desk! Don’t you see the flashing li—“

Me: “Earthquake drill? EARTHQUAKE drill? Y’all get earthquakes here? And we’re on the 33rd floor?”

It didn’t go well. My fears about earthquakes were quickly dashed by the news that Mount Rainier, WHEN it decides to blow, will kill us all.

Anyway, if fear was a motivating factor, I would have left Seattle then, that day. But I don’t generally let fear rule my decision making.

Until we got to the move.

After the series of nightmares and day-mares and general unease, I decided that I wasn’t gonna drive shit anywhere: I was gonna hire movers. Yeah, movers.

The Wife says I gotta get 3 estimates before she will be comfortable with me hiring anybody to move our artificial Christmas tree, 4 TVs, and Marvel movie collection so I start filling out online forms. 862 moving companies respond IMMEDIATELY. I take the first call, your girls sounds decent, her price is ok and I get an estimate. The next 3 people I talk to say, “I don’t know if I can help you—the end of July is the toughest time. Can you move it?” Can I move it? What kind of shit is that? Have you ever been flexible with your moving plans? And we’re moving ACROSS THE COUNTRY. Like I’m gonna say, “Oh yeah, you know, Seattle will be there. Fuck it. What works for you?”

So I’m back to the original estimate I got and because I’m having nightmares and I have the money, I’m like “Cool! Take my money.” $1700 deposit sent. I rest easy that night.

My wife though is not like “Cool.” She’s just got enrolled in Camp WTF and she’s an enthusiastic camper. I didn’t get the 3 estimates, didn’t let her use her subscription to Consumer Reports, didn’t really discuss the whole thing. But she’s serious when it comes to her Marvel movies and her money so she does her investigative journalism and in 24 hours, she’s unearthed every single negative review in the last 3 years, and has done an interview with one of the previous customers. Seriously.


Now I gotta cancel the movers because the Wife is NOT gonna let some clowns she’s never met pack up her Marvel movies and Christmas tree AND overcharge her and hold her stuff hostage on the other end. Nope. That’s a negative, Ghost Rider.

I have 7 business days to cancel my move to get my refund back. I write the required email at 11:56pm with my cancellation. The next day, muthafuckin Ray from the moving company calls us up, screaming at us about “we ain’t gonna get our money back” and “you cancelled too late” and, since I sent my email at 11:56pm, he actually Googles what constitutes a business day WHILE WE’RE ON THE PHONE. My man is crazy professional.

I actually can’t pull a Blue Sky Journeys on this one cuz we’re still working on it. But this turn of events means I HAVE to drive the truck. Dammit. I gotta get my Xanax prescription refilled.

Next up, On the Road or Moving Help Wanted, Teeth Optional



I said I wouldn’t do this shit again.

If you recall, about a year ago, I carted my monkey ass across this great nation of ours, from Seattle to Tampa. We were a caravan of a 26-foot truck, 3 kids, 2 cars and a dog. I lost my shit in the mountains, my niece lost part of her car in Idaho, Montana, and South Dakota, and my wife lost her mind in Tennessee.

Things didn’t get much better once we got to Florida.

They say “be careful what you wish for; you just might get it.” My wife wanted to see the sun. Tampa, Florida is the HOTTEST place I have ever seen. Ever. I saw children melt at the bus stop, just puddles of Nikes and backpacks. I used to wake up at 7am and the temperature would be 93 degrees. 93? At 7am? We start at 93?

Long story short, no one was happy: it was entirely too much sun for the wife (see the heat comment above) and the FLYING FUCKING ROACHES were an instant turn off. The roaches can fly. Say that slowly and realize how freaking terrifying that really is. And they are big. Like top of the food chain big. I lived in Florida for a year; I saw roaches everywhere. I saw only 3 spiders. Three. The kids weren’t any happier. Skipper loved the beach…until a flesh eating bacteria and great white sharks shut that shit down. The Honey Badger loved the continuous summer but the “socioeconomic disparities” were tough for her (read she went to school with the People from Walmart—all of them). That girl just replayed her 6th grade year. I was especially touched when the band teacher called his students “losers” (that really happened); when she recorded a full on argument students had with their social studies teacher for his refusal to teach; and when the boys on the bus wanted to beat her up for wearing her Beats—seriously. The Boy spent the entire year like this:

I’ve told you before The Boy has a hard time with reality. This cat didn’t even believe we were actually leaving Seattle until we were in Spokane. He decided then and there he wasn’t gonna make a friend, wasn’t going to smile, wasn’t going to enjoy himself EVER until he got back to Washington. And it was true! That kid made one friend—his girlfriend, the Lil Camel (more on that later).

Even the dog was mad. Do you know how hard it is to piss off a golden retriever? Have you ever seen a golden retriever? This is my dog:

Lady Smile

This is an animal that was born with a smile, that gets scared of her own farts, that really enjoys licking her own butt. The dog is easy to please. She was pissed at Florida. And then she got fleas because Florida has fleas. Like the whole state. By the time we left, she had to get muzzled just to get her nails clipped.

Anyway, the Sunshine State was a fat fucking fail for everyone involved and after 12 hot ass, sweaty, poor, Starbucks-less months, this was us:

So we left. My wife, 2 kids, the dog, Skipper and her fucking Destructi-Car, and me in a 26 ft truck.


In our next episode, we’ll talk about the Movers That Never Were, optional teeth, the Lil Camel, and why you don’t let 16-year-old unload your shit.

Avengers-age-of-Ultron-poster-the-avengers-age-of-ultron-37434941-1024-1453Welcome back! And today, we’re talking the about Avengers. And, for real, do I have to put the “spoiler alert” on this? Seriously? I gave you 2 ½ weeks—you know I was in the theater the day before it came out—okay, fine, I’m probably gonna fuck it up so if you haven’t seen it don’t click on blogs that talk about it. Got it? Good.

Waaaaaayyyy back in 2008, when the Honey Badger was in love with My Little Pony, not boys, Marvel, a fledgling comic book company, decided to get into the movie business to try and stave off bankruptcy. They didn’t have much–$50 million and a dream, the most popular superhero (who they didn’t have the rights to), and a crazy idea: bring the serialized, episodic storytelling approach of monthly comic books to the sliver screen. They made a gamble on a second-tier character and cast some unknown actor (Roberty Downey Jr—you might have heard of him but don’t go crashing IMDB to figure out who he is now). The gamble paid off and now, 7 years down the road, they’ve unleashed 11 movies (including the 3rd and 4th highest grossing of all time), branched into both primetime and streaming television, and changed the nature of cinematic storytelling.

And that’s the thing: Marvel changed storytelling onscreen. We’ll get there in a sec.

I’m not gonna do a review of the movie because there’s really too much and I want to talk about something else but let me hit just a few items:

  • “Please be a secret door, please be a secret door – Yay!”
  • Ultron’s birth captures the essence of the character immediately: “Where is your body? This is weird. Give me a second.” And then, “Why do you call him a sir?” In James Spader’s voice you get a unique take on the villain right off the bat. I’ll have to do a separate villain review—do you really think I wouldn’t? Come on, it’s me
  • Thor’s face when Cap moved the hammer. Priceless.
  • I mean, Hawkeye? For real? Yeah, Hawkeye.
  • Ultron ripping that dude’s arm off—“Ooohhh! I’m sure that’s gonna be okay.” He RIPPED HIS ARM OFF! I couldn’t stop laughing.
  • You know I’ve watched the lightsaber fight between Anakin and Obi-Wan in Episode III plenty of times. It’s visually stunning and has some pretty emotional overtones. But guys, tell me, does it get better than the Hulk vs. the Hulkbuster? “Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep!”
  • The Vision! Let me pause here: in Spider-Man 3, there is a really beautiful scene when the Sandman comes together for the first time. There’s no words, just a soaring score and we watch this sand-creature try to pull himself together to grab his daughter’s picture. It’s honestly the best scene in the film. The Vision’s origin is pretty similar in effect. I loved that scene, a violent birth, then peace, floating in that window looking at his reflection. Becoming himself
  • “Oh, for God’s sake!”
  • Nick Fury is a beast!

It’s that last one I want to talk about. Nick Fury is a beast. Nick Fury has been the audience proxy through the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe (Guardians of the Galaxy excepted), walking us through the characters and providing connective tissue to a larger story. At the end of Iron Man, he actually tells Tony “Mr. Stark, you’ve become part of a bigger universe.” Fury recruited Tony Stark, sent Tony to get the Hulk, sent Coulson to debrief Thor, found Captain America, and manages Hawkeye and Black Widow. That’s 10 movies and 3 television shows connected through this one proxy, not only introducing us to the world but pushing the narrative forward.

Marvel isn’t the first to create a shared universe. Universal did it a long time ago with their monsters and the whole Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman and Abbott & Costello nonsense. The closest, and best, example of this is Star Trek—the 5-year mission of the starship Enterprise spawned 4 television shows and 9 movies across 3 different centuries and 2 different time continuities. Connection isn’t what makes Marvel unique.

It’s cohesion.

Marvel didn’t make a connected universe; they made a cohesive one. A single story, made up of multiple vantage points and points of view; one story that looks both past and present. You might think you’re watching the combined story about how Tony Stark as Iron Man and Bruce Banner/Hulk and Captain America and Thor and SHIELD got together over 5 movies to battle Loki and the Chitauri. You’re not. You’re watching Thanos trying to get the Infinity Stones and witnessing the repercussions of his machinations on Earth. You’re not watching Agent Carter breaking sexual stereotypes 60 years in the past; you’re watching the fall out of the pursuit of one of those Infinity Stones on Earth and the organizations that rose to fight for and against its use. You’re not just watching Matt Murdock whop on thugs in Hell’s Kitchen (though he beats the living shit outta people—for real, you see him beating them Russians in the hallway?), you’re watching the rise of a vigilante in the shadow of a city torn apart by the Avengers when they fought Loki and Chitauri, which we now know is really the repercussions of Thanos trying to get the Infinity Stones. You get all that?

Age of Ultron is really just the next chapter in the story. That’s the biggest complaint everyone has about this movie and they’re right. It is an advertisement for what’s coming. But it always has been. It’s just the 2-hour Friday night Law & Order crossover event. It doesn’t change the overall story but it does alter the narrative trajectory of our principal characters.

Marvel has been telling one story that traverses time and space and each episode uncovers another layer to that one story. By the time they’re finished with this one story, they will have released 21 films and 7 television shows. In 12 years. And they’ve made $8B in the process.

And they did it all through 2-minute button scenes after the credits began to roll.

That, my friends, is how you change storytelling.

Remember this? And if you do, your age is showing.

Since I’ve been giving you some weighty, Debbie Downer style posts since I got back, I figure it’s probably time for me to give you something a little lighter, a little more fun, a little more…me.

Y’all remember the Honey Badger, right? Cute kid, does what she wants to do—you remember her, doncha? The Honey Badger is 12 now (well, for the next 2 weeks). For me, 12 used to be cool. It was all Transformers and dirt bikes, Thundercats and–hey, wow, Tiffany is really growing up–and He-Man. It was just like that. You saw it, or her, while playing with your Matchbox cars. You certainly noticed at recess when certain girls stopped playing kickball. Hell, maybe you even tried to sneak away and catch a Skinemax movie late at night when you didn’t get that channel and the screen would be all squiggly, hoping to catch a boob (I know I am clearly dating myself). But that was it.

If you were a boy, that is.

As other fathers can attest, 12 is the WORST year to be the father of a daughter. All kinds of stuff happens at 12, shit that is NOT in the brochure (ladies, if your man is looking confused, help him out), shit that boys and men are WHOLLY unprepared for. I’m already having a tough time with the whole thing and, yesterday, this girl drops a bomb on me.

This chick is finally participating in her last band concert of the year and while I’m talking to her teacher (who I feel some kind of way about), I find out that this big ass kid I met last week is her “boyfriend” now. Sssskkkrrtttt! Hold up, what? You’re all of 12 and you think you’re dating now? Hard pass, home girl. For real, I met this kid last week (with his mom) and his lanky ass got out his mama’s van with a dirty little mustache that’s thicker than mine. I was like, “How old are you?” You know how your voice goes up 2 octaves when you’re upset? Yeah, that was my intro. And here he come with his deep ass, “Fourteen.” Yeah, I got your 14, kid. I also got a truck, a shovel and a pretty innocent face. Fuck around, kid. Fuck around.

Tomorrow, we’re gonna talk the Avengers: Age of Ultron. I actually have to write it tonight because my family is making me go see the new Poltergeist movie and I think I’ll be too traumatized to say anything…

Son, we need to talk. We need to talk about Mad Max.

And I’m kinda disgusted I have to have this conversation at all.

Actually, we need to talk about the women in the new Mad Max movie. Seriously. There is actual outrage because the woman are strong in Fury Road’s post-apocalyptic dystopia where food, fuel and water are scarce and civilization has devolved into leather-dressed, awfully tanned men with face tattoos and scantily-clad woman doing deadly car chases in mutant death-machines across the Australian desert. Okay, it might be about more than that but the original Mad Max came out in 1979 (along with Superman: The Movie and Alien) and featured Mel Gibson before anybody knew who he was. I was 6. My memory is fuzzy. The only other thing I remember is the Tina Turner video for Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome and Tina with that snatch-back hairline.

Regardless of what I remember, there can’t be a whole lot listed in the above synopsis for outrage, can there? Really? But there is and the issues are coming from men having a problem with women in action movies.

See, here’s what happened:

I peruse a movies site called Screenrant because…well…because—don’t judge me. They have stuff I like. Today, I came across an article about the new Mad Max movie. The article talks about how George Miller, the creator of Mad Max and the writer/director of all the movies, consulted with Eve Ensler (writer of the Vagina Monologues) to make sure he created female characters that were more nuanced and well-developed than the stereotypical tropes of abuse victims we generally see. Better characters generally equal a better story. George Miller was trying to create a better story. Ensler called the resulting film (which has a 98% Fresh rating on RottenTomatoes.com) a “feminist action flick.” That went over incredibly well. Here’s a smattering of the comments that received:

ScreenRant Mad MaxAnd that’s only a few comments.

There’s more. ScreenCrush and WeHuntedTheMammoth  are also tracking this outrage from men needing to boycott the movie because Charlize Theron “barks orders at Mad Max” and she’s in front of him on the poster. For real.

Mad Max Poster

This is a real thing.

I thought about dismantling these arguments, about refuting the inherent ignorance in the idea of boycotting a movie because the women play a stronger role than what you expected on the poster. I thought about attacking the ridiculous notion that women can’t be leads in action movies or that some incredible injustice has been done to everyone with a penis because Charlize Theron is a badass. I thought about—dude, it’s Mad Max, not Citizen Kane. This isn’t a cinematic jewel, man, it’s Tom Hardy and Charlize Theron and sand and death. I thought about saying all kinds of things but it really isn’t worth my time and talent.

These are arguments without merit, foolish exhalations into ether. They are the cowardly diatribes of the fearful. You and I know there can be no bad end to treating everyone as equals. There can be no adverse affect to my daughter growing up to believe she is as worthy as any of her male counterparts. I cannot see the how encouraging my child to believe the she change the world or save it is a bad thing.

But these trolls do.

And they are trolls, certainly, but they’re trolls with platforms. See, that’s the problem: they’ve found a platform. Someone is listening to the commentary, feeding the trolls, perpetuating the nonsense. I read these arguments and assertions on Huffington Post and Yahoo News and ScreenRant and ScreenCrush. Law & Order did an episode highlighting the whole GamerGate thing where female gamers, game designers, and critics are being targeted with violence, death threats, privacy invasions, and threats of rape.

This is real. These are grown men—someone’s son or brother or uncle. This is someone’s father. A friend. A co-worker. A roommate. While this particular issue is about a movie, it’s part of a larger culture that makes boys threaten my 12-year-old on a schoolbus or call her all kinds of names in the classroom. It’s part of a larger problem that turns Usher’s I Don’t Mind into a top ten hit and makes boys believe it’s okay to execute a gang rape on a drunk girl on a public beach in broad daylight AND RECORD IT.

These aren’t men. These are boys. Boys scared of the dark and their shadows and girls. Scared of the very thing they berate. Remember in second grade and you’d hit the girl you liked and then run away? This is that, but much older, much more sinister, much more pervasive. These are boys desperately in need of ass whippings. These are boys in need of men to show them how to be men.

We gotta do better, you and I. Us and them. We gotta do better. We gotta be better.

Good talk.

I am pissed.

I’m supposed to be talking about the new Avengers movie (which I’ve seen 3 times already) or even that wack-ass Mayweather-Pacquaio fight (I REALLY want my $100 back) or even talking through Netflix’s amazing Daredevil show. But I can’t. There’s bigger fish to fry.

And pissed doesn’t even cover it. Pissed is when you step in dog shit or drop your $600 iPhone or when your kid forgets their clarinet after you’ve driven 20 minutes to school in a Florida torrential downpour and they don’t let you know until you just walk back in the door. That’s pissed. It’s an inconvenience. An unfortunate turn of events.

I am angry. And I’m angry at this:

If you don’t know, that’s Baltimore. At the time of this writing, the city of Baltimore is closing out a week of protests, riots, curfews and a full-blown state of emergency that saw 4000 National Guard troops brought in to quell the disturbance. Some 200 business were destroyed, community centers and local shelters burned, 486 arrests made, and more than 100 officers injured.

And a man is dead, his spine severed. Six police officers are charged with his death.

It’s easy to blame the victims in all of this. It’s easy to point fingers at those protesting and rioting, easy to question, “Why destroy your own community?” or call those involved “idiots” and “thugs”. It’s easy to sit on our computers and phones, healthily removed from the fray and tweet or craft memes that poke fun or share Huffington Post articles about the right and wrongness of it all. It’s easy when you’re not there, when you don’t have to be there, when you don’t actually have to get your hands dirty, and pretend to be enlightened and judgmental and then turn from coverage to watch the 2-hour finale of Grey’s Anatomy or rush out to the Thursday showing of the Avengers: Age of Ultron (I did—I am complicit as well).

It’s easy to be the rest of us.

But a Black man is dead—again. In a poor community—again. And police are to blame for his death—again.

It’s the “again” that bugs me and the ambivalence the rest of us can hold in the face of such a tragedy. That part is troublesome. We don’t care because we don’t have to. We don’t care that this is a community with more than 50% unemployment, nearly 10 times the national average. We don’t care that this community closed multiple rec and community centers, depriving its youth of positive outlets and activities. We don’t care that the Baltimore public school system has an active school-to-prison pipeline, accounting for 90% of Maryland’s juvenile justice system referrals.

We don’t care. And that’s the problem.

No one cares.

When the school systems or government agencies fail you; when your community organizations are unable or unwilling to provide the resources you need; when your federal government stands a whopping 45 minutes down the road and chooses to turn a blind eye; when generational poverty becomes the norm and you see opportunity after opportunity denied to you; when you continually see those who look like you become victims of those who are sworn to protect you—it only takes a little push to see that powerlessness and frustration spark into a violent outrage, a marching, yelling, screaming, looting, burning maelstrom of human emotion.

I’m angry that another Black man is dead. I’m angry that the police are complicit in the death of this man and we have to go through this stupid exercise, with bated breath, to see if justice will actually be done. I’m angry that people have found a CVS to matter more than Freddie Gray, more than the lives of the residents in Baltimore. I’m mad that the news only chooses to show Black rioters and protesters, that it has the audacity to call them idiots and thugs while glossing over the white rioters looting for the sake of looting. I’m angry that these same news organizations flash past the gang rape on the beaches of Florida over Spring Break or the fraternity members spitting on Wounded Veterans, but are perfectly comfortable calling people who look like me, who feel powerless like me, names. I’m angry that the mother who beat her child into making better choices, who chose to parent her kid on national television, is subject to character assassination on the O’Reilly Factor and is the target of a CPS investigation. I’m furious that fucking Facebook REALLY wants me to give to earthquake relief in Nepal but seems oblivious to the emergency on our own shores.

And I’m angry because a man is dead, the police are charged for his murder, and, now that the curfew is lifted and the National Guard is leaving, in a week, no one will care.

I missed this place…the sights, the smells. The Swoaps. I probably should have cleaned up though.

But I have to say, it’s kinda nice to be missed.

As writers, we pray that our words touch someone, impact them in some way. We hope the things we write matter to someone outside of ourselves. That’s the point, right? To give something to someone and affect them. Right?

I walked away from this whole writing thing a year ago, not because I dissatisfied or disillusioned, but because I ran out of things to say. For my second book, Come Hell or High Water, I finished the third or fourth draft (yes, it is actually finished) and hit a roadblock: it felt broken to me and I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. I didn’t feel like I had what it took to tell that story—at least not the right way. I put it down, put it away. I was loving blogging but hating the responsibility of it: life was a pesky, persistent thing then and when writing became a chore instead of a joy, I didn’t want it anymore. And I didn’t know what to talk about. Every article online tells you an author should have a reason for their blog, something they are trying to say or achieve or provide—something coherent that would bring people back again and again. I had villains and DMFRH and How We Broke DisneyWorld and the Swoaps—oooh the Swoaps, my favorites! But my blog seemed like a hodge podge of random thoughts without discipline.

So I stopped.

I moved on. I focused on helping people. I was good. Until you dragged me back into this freak show.

OK so that’s Bruce Banner’s line from the Avengers (had to see if you’re paying attention) but it’s not entirely untrue. I did move on. Like far. While I was away, I moved my family from the lush grayness of Seattle to the sunny clusterfuck that is Florida (sorry my Florida friends but you know I’m right). 3509 thrilling miles with The Boy, the Honey Badger, the Wife, the niece (I think I introduced her as the Fox but we renamed her to Skipper—she loves it!), and the Damn Dog—2 cars (1 of which lost a part in every state), a 26-foot Penske truck (that I crashed at a gas station), and a trailer (that actually came off of and got stuck under the truck 1 mile from my return spot). Talk about fantastic.

But I did focus on helping people. Kinda. Ok no, I didn’t. Instead, I quit my job, started my own consulting firm (a firm of one—holla!), and watched my wife launch her own travel agency. We have one kid who has to get homeschooled now since the state of Florida cannot calculate a GPA that low (guess who?), another who is allergic to college, and a third who wants to do her schoolwork while jumping on a trampoline with roller skates on. It’s been an interesting year to say the least.

Until you dragged me back into this freakshow.

A couple of things happened: my father-in-law let me know that he’d been reading my blog and was missing it and its connection to me. I’d often said that if you wanted to understand me, read the things I’ve written (I’m horribly honest). I didn’t think someone actually would. But he did and his words poked my heart. Then we had the Season 5 finale of The Walking Dead. Stay with me, it’s gonna make sense in a second: I wrote a Facebook post recapping my reactions to the finale—with spoilers—and not only did I love writing it, it had a little bit of virality (that’s a word now, dammit). I mean it was like pink eye in the daycare viral (and yes, I know pink eye is a bacterial infection–let it ride, Nurse Ratchet) but still, I got enjoyment and so did the readers. One of the comments was, “I can read anything he writes!” Anything? Huh…I’d never considered that people were reading the blog for whatever the hell I was gonna say, not because I was focusing on villains or breaking Disney or cussing about my kid. It really didn’t matter what I wrote…hadn’t thought about that before.

So fine, I’m back, bitches! What? Too soon? Ok, I’m just back. And we’ll see how it goes. I still have that villainy goodness—you know Avengers 2 comes out next week and Ultron seems ripe for a review. I still have the Boy—DMFRH is the gift that keeps on giving. I still have my books—for all you Heaven Falls fans, not only am I determined to release Come Hell or High Water this year, but the Honey Badger actually gave me both the central conflict and the overall theme for the 3rd book. Right now, Damned If I Do, seems like a fitting title. And I have whatever else comes to mind: I want to talk about those Unsung Other Dudes like John Oates and the guy from Wham! and the dude who used to host American Idol back in Season One. I’ll talk about The Walking Dead because…it’s The Walking Dead and it’s amazing! Whatever comes to mind is a topic we can explore.

In short, I’m sorry I left you (without a dope beat to step to). Seriously, I’m really sorry I left without saying goodbye. That won’t happen again. Hang with me and I’ll hang with you and we can have some fun. Deal?