The ancient Greeks had a hero, born of a goddess, that was dipped in the River Styx, and in the process became nigh invulnerable. He was the great hero of his day: both his beauty and his rage were unmatched among gods or men. Battles turned on his actions, rivers were choked with the bodies of his slain enemies. So deadly was he that a host of gods was called upon to defend the city of Troy, lest his attack result in the pillaging of the city, a city that Fate itself had decreed should stand. So great was his skill, so powerful his rage, that he possessed the ability to upset the balances that were set by the very creators of the universe. Continue reading The LeMonic Iliad
There was a time, not long ago, when men could take pride in the work at hand, and when finished, could stand back and look with satisfaction at what the sweat of their brow and the blood of their knuckles had created. Society has moved on, and now men are trapped on the hamster wheel of corporate culture, spinning endlessly at a dead-end job in a service-based economy, with nothing to show for their efforts at the end of a 60-hour week except for carpal tunnel and another donation to a shrinking 401k.
In the course of human existence, there are generational touchstones that result in a uniform experience that transcends the barriers of race, of creed, of culture. For our parents it was the day the first man landed on the moon. For our parents’ parents it was V-E day, or V-J day, or any of the many other moments, frozen like iron in the consciousness of that Greatest Generation.
And what was that rallying moment for our generation? Our generation, this Lost Generation of latchkey kids, of Just Say No, of Alf, the Smurfs, Turbo Teen? Of Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids, of Jell-O Pudding Pops? Rainbow Brite, He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, the SuperFriends? Of C3POs? The cereal?
It was all that, and nothing more.
Continue reading The November Wind
To whom it may concern,
I have been enlisted, through threats, bribes, blackmail, and the bartering, crossroads-like, of one slightly under-utilized and threadbare soul, to entreat you, through the use of eloquent and mellifluous prose, to allow the entrance of one Team Huey Newis and The Lose into the hallowed and oil-stained halls of the LeMons. This is a Sisyphean task that I take to with neither joy nor relish; but like the man who has sat down to consume a jar of mayonnaise at one sitting, I will dree this grim weird one spoonful at a time. Continue reading 1980s: The Team