Because I Said So, THAT’S WHY!

23 Thursday Feb 2012

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This movie has nothing to do with this post.

“‎Because I said so” is frustration given veto power. It’s dismissive and unfair. Parents should never say it. Agree or disagree?

That’s what I posted on Facebook yesterday. As you can imagine, it generated more than a few comments. Parenting issues–especially one as universal as the dreaded Because I said so–are popular topics among my Facebook friends. Mostly because my FB friends are my age and aren’t looking to max out their chill at DJ Teddy RXpin’s mad rave this weekend and don’t roll so much with the homies. (Does anybody really roll with homies anymore?  Probably not. We have an underground nation of sad, lonely homies out there, don’t we? Poor, poor homies.)

Even friends without kids felt the need to opine. It seems just about everybody has either said “Because I said so” or been on the receiving end of it. But why?

Probably the best point made in the favor of Because I said so was that if you’ve got a kid with the pester gene, sometimes that’s the only answer they’ll accept. Makes sense to me.

I think, ultimately, you need to give your kids the respect of an explanation. That’s how they learn. “Why?” is often an annoying question, but it’s a good one. It’s a question that deserves taking some time to answer (so long as it’s asked in sincerity and not repetitively and disrespectfully).  But there are times when military-like obedience is required and, to me, that’s what Because I said so represents.

For example, running around in the kitchen when the oven is open. If my child seeks an explanation first before stopping, she might very well end up with some serious burns at best, or end up as dinner at worst (only if my second cousins, The Cannibals, are over, but you never know when they’re gonna drop by). But if my child understands that, until she’s an adult, she must obey me regardless of reason, then she’ll stop immediately “because I said so.” The explanations can come second.

I think the trick is building up the faith and understanding enough so that when you say Because I said so it really means something and it’s not just a last resort. If my child knows I care about her and that answers will always be forthcoming at some point, then I think she’d be more likely to take my word as law and never, ever be so totally incorrigible that I’ll be tempted to utter the words Because I said so in total frustration.

Also, I’m pretty sure Pollyanna is totally a true story.

What do you think? Is there every a time when Because I said so is appropriate? Or do you try to ban the phrase from your vocabulary?

…Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Jar Jar in 3D

21 Tuesday Feb 2012

Posted by in Family, Life Stories, Movies, Pop Culture

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Jar Jar Binks is a terrible character. Let’s get that out of the way first. From the way he talks to his appearance (which, even if we’re speaking just in terms of technical advances, has not aged well) to his ability to suck the life out of any given scene with his “comedy,” he makes it hard to sit through Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace as an adult. So, I use my kids as an excuse.

I recently appeared on a podcast in which much of the discussion centered around the (then) imminent release of Episode I in 3D. Memories of the original release were shared and finally, thirteen years after the fact, I was able to articulate accurately my reaction to seeing the movie for the first time after being, quite literally, a Star Wars fan my entire life (I was born the same year the original Star Wars was released): I didn’t know I was disappointed.

Only those of us who stood in line for six hours for tickets (this was before Fandango) can even begin to understand how it’s possible to be so completely out of touch with your own feelings that you return to the cinema six more times over a six month period to try to figure them out (yes, I did that). Trying to wrap my head around my own disappointment with the film was like trying to comprehend a slow leak when I desperately needed water. I didn’t want to believe what my eyes were seeing because I was so thirsty and the bowl looked full enough that I fooled myself into believing the levels weren’t really going down. But Star Wars was going down. The magic just wasn’t there in the same way anymore.

Did you see that? I didn’t say “the magic wasn’t there.” I said, “the magic wasn’t there in the same way.” Big difference. One my daughter would insist upon. She digs The Phantom Menace. Even though we already own the movie and she’d seen it several times, she wanted to see it again, in 3D.

Blame–and thank–Jar Jar. She thinks he’s hilarious. He says “doo doo” and she laughs. She’s smart–might be smarter than me one day–but she’s 9. This is how she rolls. And can I fault her for that? Of course not. When I was a kid, I coerced my dad into taking me to see the Garbage Pail Kids Movie. I deserve whatever fresh hell my kids can drag me into.

But (and this is between you and me), I didn’t completely dislike Episode One yesterday. It was kind of cool seeing the pod race on the big screen again. And that lightsaber fight at the end? Man, you can’t beat it.

The 3D was well done, I can’t deny that. It didn’t have View Masteritis like the John Carter trailer that ran before it. It looked more like the 3D in the trailer for the upcoming The Amazing Spider-Man–slick, rounded and consistent. Time and care was put the conversion and whatever E1 may lack in charm, I can’t deny that it’s a visual splendor and the 3D added to the experience.

Am I blinded by time and age? No, if anything I’m blinded by my kids. Seeing things fresh again through their eyes is one of the great treats of parenthood. They soften my cynicism and my criticisms. I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

I’d rather enjoy things than not, on whatever level.

The McDonald’s Song

16 Thursday Feb 2012

Posted by in Family, Life Stories, Memoir, Personal

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Most times, when I drive by a McDonald’s, I think of hookers.

Let me explain. My father was big on car games. One of his favorites was to predict when the traffic lights would change from red to green. It was a magic trick. He’d say “1… 2… 3… lights change!” and then they would. Every time, without fail. Whenever I or my brothers would try it, nine times out of ten we’d get it wrong. It helped that Dad was playing against 8-year-olds. We didn’t understand until years later that he was just watching the traffic lights of the cross traffic to make his “predictions.”

Another game was spotting McDonald’s restaurants. Now, I’ve seen the documentary Super Size Me and I don’t really like to eat there, but there was a time when seeing a McDonald’s was exciting. The trick was to be the first to see it, however far away it was. If you did and you sang the song, you won.

McDonald’s… McDonald’s…

Duh da da duh duh duh

Duh da da duh duh duh

This, of course, was a game we could play multiple times during even the shortest of car rides. So America’s struggle with obesity does have its perks.

Dad’s absolute most favorite game was one only he played because it wasn’t really a game. It was torture. Dad liked to pick out random, ugly women walking the street and tell my brothers that they were my girlfriend.

When you’re pre-adolescent, the worst thing in the world is girls. You know you’re gonna have to date and marry one eventually, but the thought of it makes you want to vomit and stick bugs up your nose. You hope, at the very least, that she’ll be pretty. That will at least make it somewhat tolerable.

“Look guys, there she is!” Dad would say with fantastic delight. “It’s Brock’s girlfriend! Look, it’s BROCK’S GIRLFRIEND!” And then he’d making loud kissing noises. And then he’d laugh. And so would my brothers.

I’d protest, but the more I did the worse the taunting got. Dad never chose women in other cars or attractive ones on billboards, so invariably I’d end up “attached” to bag ladies and, yes, hookers. This is how I learned who was pretty and who was not. And I became deathly afraid of liking a girl who wasn’t pretty. I didn’t want to be made fun of.

Memory confuses things and puts things together that don’t necessarily go together. When I’m driving through town and I see a prostitute walking the street, I think about about those car games. I think about traffic lights and McDonald’s. Conversely, when I see a McDonald’s, I think of hookers.

Huh. Maybe that’s why I don’t like to eat there.

The Killed Darling

13 Monday Feb 2012

Posted by in Family, Life Stories, Memoir, On Writing

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There’s a maxim all good writers know, attributed to William Faulkner, that goes a little something like this: “In writing, you must kill your darlings.”

A darling is that piece of writing–a passage, a turn of phrase, a scene–the writer has fallen in love with. The thinking goes that if a writer loves  a piece of writing so much, he may be blind to the fact that the darling does not make the point the author thinks it does. The darling’s actual worth to the story is often disproportionate to the author’s love for it. Thus, it must be deleted. It must be killed.

The early drafts of my memoir, Raised By a Dead Man, included the following passage. No trace of it remains in the current draft. I’ll explain why afterwards. Enjoy.

"What's the Frequency, Kenneth?"

“No, man, don’t kill ‘im. C’mon, let’s just take the money and get out of here.”

“Naw, man. He seen us. Let’s kill ‘im.”

Sometimes I’ll watch movies—bad ones, admittedly—and I’ll think to myself: No way. There’s no way that criminals are or sound that stupid. But you know what? That’s how Dad told the story and I believed him.

It was during his college days, at Fresno State. He was walking home at night and the two desperate muggers pulled him into an alleyway at the point of a gun. They moved Dad towards the darkness and the garbage and told him to hand over his wallet. Dad obliged them, having no movie camera over his shoulder and no cape under his coat. He expected a simple transaction to take place, the sum of his wallet in exchange for his life. But math hard.

“I don’t think we should kill ‘im. All we wanted was the money. We don’t want any more trouble than we got already.”

“I say we kill ‘im and no one will ever know it were us.”

“I say no.”

“I say yes.”

My father, his sense of self-preservation overwhelming his curiosity at the outcome of this intense debate, turned tail and ran for the back of the dark alley and the promise of safety. It took a moment for the muggers to realize what was happening. One of them—presumably the more homicidal of the two—raised his gun and fired. The shot rang in Dad’s ear and his heart skipped a beat. Just as he was turning the corner to make it safely out of sight, the bullet nicked the nearby building, barely missing him. He was home and wallet-free.

I wish I could say it was an atypical day for him.

And that’s how, at one time, my book began. No foolin’. You just read what was once the very first–albeit short–chapter.

There are some things that now make me cringe. And you never start a story with disembodied dialogue. It’s off-putting and confusing. But, reading it back now, there are some turns of phrase I really love and that are quite clever. And I do still love the story.

So, why did I kill it? Well, the only real point being made is that Dad faced down danger a lot. That’s not terribly deep. Sure, there’s a bit of sly meta commentary on the nature of storytelling and memory that serves as a primer for what a memoir is and does, but that’s weak sauce for the beginning of a book. No one but my writer friends would care, if they noticed it at all.

Dad did face down danger a lot, but that’s a bone cold fact, nothing more. The meat on those bones is how he faced it down (without fear) and why (with faith). That’s in the rest of the book, but not here. So I cut it. I killed my darling–the very first thing I wrote and what launched the whole book–and I let it go.

And how do I know I made the right choice? The book is better. As a whole it is better and that, at the end of the day, is all that matters.

What do you think about what Faulkner said? Are YOU a killer?

Making the Rounds on the Web (and Why)

08 Wednesday Feb 2012

Posted by in Books, Family, Life Stories, Movies, On Writing, Pop Culture

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Hey everybody, I’ve been poppin’ up in some spots you may have missed and I wanted to give you all a heads up!

First off, I recorded a podcast last week with my good friends, Tom Racine and artist Marc Lapierre. The ‘cast was mostly about the online comic Marc and I do together, The SuperFogeys, but we also talk a bit about my memoir and, of all things, Star Wars 3D. In any case, it’s a chance for you to make fun of my voice. You can listen to it right now.

Second, just yesterday one of my blogs from a couple weeks back, What is a Memoir? (And Why I Wrote One) has been passed along to many a person, and Wayne Groner just went ahead and reposted it to his site in full (with my permission, of course–Wayne’s an upstanding guy).

Lastly, power blogger Angie Mizzell invited me to do a guest blog for her as she gets ready for the birth of her third child and I was only too happy to oblige. That guest blog, which went live today, is entitled Cami and is a rewrite and update of a piece I wrote up years ago about my special needs daughter and the awkward conversations I sometimes have about her. I’m particularly proud of this one.

Why is this all happening?

One of the purposes of this website is to try to get myself out there a little more and to be more, well, known. When my book comes out I’d like it to see some success (imagine that) and the only way to do that these days isn’t just to have a great book that’s well-written and well represented by a terrific agent (though I have both of those things and they’re very, very important), it’s to have PRESENCE. Or, if you’d prefer I didn’t use my own word to describe a known thing, a platform.

To that end, I’d like to put it out there that I’m available for guest blogging, podcast shows, link exchanges, etc. Hit me up in the comments or contact me directly and we’ll see what’s shakin’.

Failing Towards Success

06 Monday Feb 2012

Posted by in Life Stories, On Writing, Personal

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I based a lot of my early life goals around a misreading of the television show Family Ties. My hero was Alex P. Keaton, played by Michael J. Fox. Alex valued the accumulation of wealth above all, enjoyed making fun of his ex-hippie parents and looked up to Richard Nixon. I didn’t get that he was a conservative caricature. I took everything he said as gospel. I decided that, when I grew up, I’d be a Wall Street trader or a banker or something–anything–to do with money. I was 12.

Years later, as a confused young adult still trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, I remembered that old goal and decided to give banking a shot. I applied and got a job working at a call center for Bank of America.

That job sucked.

Not because B of A was a horrible employer, but because my mind was ill-equipped for the task. I had a mental block towards all things banking and couldn’t retain anything I learned about it. I flamed out after three weeks. Never even made it out of training.

I thought I was a loser. A chump. Destined to fail at everything.

It was the slap in the face I needed to finally understand something very basic about myself. Something everyone who knew me was already well aware of, but that my inner Alex P. Keaton had long refused to admit: I was a creative person.

I hadn’t just failed at banking, I learned I was never going to be successful at anything that required repetition, facts, memorization, protocols or math. That’s just not how I’m put together, however badly I may wish otherwise.

I understood, finally, that I needed to invent, explore, paraphrase, create and dream.

Within a couple of years I landed on my major in college: Graphic Design. Amazingly, at a time when most of my peers were biting their nails over the possibility that there might not be any opportunities for them after college, I was blessed to get a job in my chosen field a year and half before graduation. Been there ten years now.

The job pays well, good benefits. It’s a 9-to-5′er and I’m an insomniac, so I started using my nights to create even more. I collaborated on a (fully written, but since abandoned) graphic novel with a friend. I started blogging. I created The SuperFogeys and then Monsterplex. I wrote a book. I’m not a rich man, but I’ve done things worth doing and I think greater success is ahead of me.

My fake internet friend Angie Mizzell writes a blog that’s all about redefining success, which I suppose is what got me thinking about this. She was going to be a big time news reporter. Now, she’s a mom. Big change, and one she argues is for the better. I can’t disagree.

Alex P. Keaton would probably make fun of me for being “artsy” (if he were, y’know, real and hadn’t lost everything about four years ago when the real estate bubble burst) and shame me for not caring so much about money. But screw that guy.

I never would have figured out what really mattered to me without without that one, simple, absolutely miserable three week failure. Smart as I thought I was, I had my limits. But knowing those limits? It set me free towards more possibilities than I never would have imagined otherwise.

What about you? Do you have any failures that were key to later success?

The Monster Among Us

02 Thursday Feb 2012

Posted by in Life Stories

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Last week, a longtime teacher at an elementary school near where I live was arrested on child pornography and molestation charges. Thankfully, he was not a teacher at our local elementary. But his wife is my daughter’s principal.

My heart immediately went out to her. I can’t imagine what it would be like to discover your spouse has that dark a secret. I wondered how much she knew or if this was a total surprise to her. I wondered about her two children. But, initially anyway, there wasn’t much to know. Only what the News was telling us.

Yesterday, my wife and I attended a special meeting at the school. Select parents were invited and told that recent events would be under discussion. When we got there, the meeting turned out to be a regularly scheduled parent-teacher meeting, this time with police. Ten minutes had been set aside for a representative from the school district and the Captain in charge of the investigation to speak and answer questions. Whoever thought ten minutes would be enough was clearly delusional.

The Captain explained that Mrs. Yang had no knowledge of her husband’s true nature. He was a predator, and a smart one at that. He’d used a school laptop but switched out the hard drive and did all of his illegal activities away from the school’s network. There was no way for anyone to know what he was doing. He truly was “a monster among us.” The only reason he was discovered was because a student he moletsted spoke up and her parents called the police, launching the investigation.

The district representative told us Mrs. Yang was on leave, but her job was secure and she’d be back at work once she felt able.

What came next was a bloodbath. Hands shot up and voices rang out in opposition to the very idea that Mrs. Yang would ever be allowed back into the school. “How could she not know?” one parent asked.

“What does it say about her that she didn’t know?” said another.

“We’re really all just assuming she didn’t know, wouldn’t we rather be sure? Shouldn’t she not be allowed to keep her job so that we can be sure?”

“If she couldn’t figure out what her own husband is doing, how is she going to protect our kids?”

The Captain assured everyone Mrs. Yang was just as much a victim in this as anyone else. He sees it all the time. Predators are good at what they do. They can hide things from spouses, colleagues, friends. Anyone.

Didn’t matter. When one parent finally said that the school district would break a fundamental trust with the parents in the community if they allowed Mrs. Yang to keep her job, the applause shook the room.

I was seething. I get concern, but this was just fear run amok and turned ugly. Blaming the victim for anything–and Mrs. Yang is absolutely a victim in all of this (I take the Captain in charge of the investigation at his word; I assume he knows more than me) and you don’t heap more abuse and suspicion on the victim.

I raised my hand. I wanted to publicly support Mrs. Yang. I don’t know that she’s the greatest principal ever–I’ve even been a little critical of her since she took over in August–but the pitchforkery on display in the cafeteria yesterday was clearly, unequivocally, wrong. I was disgusted by what I heard and disappointed in my fellow parents.

As it happened, a friend of ours sitting next to us, Kristie, was called on before me and said exactly what I was going to say. Then another parent raised her voice in support as well.  Many, louder voices went up against hers and there was a clear divide in the room. The meeting was ended abruptly and any parents with further concerns were told to see the district representative afterwards.

As Kristie headed out, a parent representing the Hmong community thanked her for speaking up. They were afraid that this had become a racially charged issue. Kristie could only say that, at least within her circle, that simply wasn’t the case.

Now, a day later, I’m just sad. If I were Mrs. Yang, I’d take my two kids and move. Far, far away. I don’t know that I’d want to swim against a tide that strong and I don’t know what the point of that would be. But if she chooses to come back to work? She’s got my full support.

I hope what I heard yesterday was simply unprocessed fear. I hope that, with time, those parents can calm down. My heart goes out to the brave little girl who spoke up and her family, but Mrs. Yang has suffered and will suffer much in the next several months. She and her family remain in my prayers as well.

Why My Kids Have the Names They Do

30 Monday Jan 2012

Posted by in Life Stories, Family

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I always hated my name. “Brock.” It sounds like you’re starting to say a vile word and then got punched in the throat. I think it’s that hard vowel sound followed by the rock solid wall of double, redundant consonants that does it. And then there’s the “broccoli” thing. When you’re five-years-old, the last thing you want to be called is a vegetable.

So, when it came to naming my own kids, I had some rules.

1. It must not be a name that can be made fun of easily.

2. The name must be unique but not overly strange.

3. The name must be wonderful.

And then I got married and another rule had to be added:

4. The name must be decided by unanimous vote. 

So, no Apple. No Moon Unit. No Pilot Inspector. But also, no Michael or Hannah or Hailey or Andrew or Megan. If the purpose of a name is to differentiate oneself from others, then what’s the point of a common name? I’ll tell you: it’s to be like everybody else. Not my kids. Not on my watch.

ELORA

I wanted our first daughter, Elora, to be named “Tendra.” My wife, Erin, wouldn’t go for it. No way. She hated it. Tendra is a Spanish word meaning “will have” and ever since I learned the language at 19, I liked the sound of it. Also, I was nuts.

“Elora” (pronounced Uh-laura) I got from Elora Danan, the infant everybody is after in the 1988 fantasy movie Willow. Even though I was only 11-years-old when the movie came out, I remember thinking quite clearly that Elora was a great name for a girl. I never thought Erin would go for it, but she LOVED it.

I loved that it was a name I’d never heard used outside of the movie. The universe, less impressed, put a little girl named “Alora” in Elora’s class this very year. Same pronunciation. Go figure.

CAMI

Cami’s real name is Campbell, after my wife’s maiden name. We thought naming her Campbell was a great way to pay tribute to that side of the family. Plus, it’s very different from Elora. That was our fifth rule: our kids can’t have names that begin or end the same way. We didn’t want our kids to ever be confused. Elora got the “uh” sound. That was all hers.

We knew of a few people with Campbell as a first name, but most of them were male. One TV reporter, Campbell Brown, was female, and that was enough for us to think it a worthy girl name.

Besides, dude, if your name ends in “bell” then you’ve have a girl’s name. That’s a fact.

The problem was that Elora, who was just 2-years-old when Cami was born, couldn’t say “Campbell.” She called her “Camel.” This would not do, so Campbell became Cami. I must say, despite our hard “no nicknames” rule, it works. Cami has special needs and doesn’t grow like other kids do. She’s super, super tiny. Cami is a little pixie name. Fits her perfectly.

VIOLET

Our newest addition, not even one year old, got her name from a dream. Having another kid after Cami was a big decision. We love Cami, but her needs took over our lives and emotional states the day we found out she was different from other kids. Could we risk doing it again? Then Erin had a dream in which she held a beautiful, healthy little baby named Violet.

Rule number 4 was broken. We were going to have another baby, a girl, and her name would be Violet. End of discussion.

It took me a while, but I love the name now. Yes, it’s an old name everybody knows. Most people associate it with Willy Wonka, but that’s okay. It’s a beautiful name and we’ve never told it to someone without them remarking how wonderful it is and how well it suits her.

Names are extremely important to me. I think a lot of our identity comes from the sound and appearance of our names. Brock, as a name, is much more in fashion now (making me appear younger on paper), and yet is still unique enough to make me stand out. What once sounded ugly to me, now sounds strong and powerful. To my mom I would say: Sorry for all the grief I gave you over the years about it. And… thanks!

Hopefully my kids will one day be able to say the same.

What is a Memoir? (And Why I Wrote One)

24 Tuesday Jan 2012

Posted by in Memoir, On Writing

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Whenever I tell people I’ve written a memoir (not something I do with great regularity–it’s usually my wife who does the telling), I often get the question, “What is a Memoir?” I usually begin my response by saying that it’s an autobiography that isn’t an autobiography, but that only confuses them more. So let’s unpack this properly.

A memoir is a person’s written, first person account of their own life, or, more typically, a portion of their life. A memoir’s focus is usually narrow. Maybe it’s a coming-of-age story that focuses on the author’s youth like The Glass Castle or Growing Up Amish. Maybe it’s an account of the Mormon dating scene in New York or the author’s experiences working undercover for the ATF. Or, as in my case, it’s about dealing with the dual tragedies of death and growing up. Memoir usually picks a theme or an certain perspective and sticks to it. It’s not trying to tell the whole story of a life, only one of its more interesting stories.

To really understand what a memoir is, you’ve got look at that root word, “memory.” A memoir doesn’t report the facts. That’s not to say that a memoir is full of lies, but a memoir is not about what happened so much as how it happened. To the author.

A memoir’s only priority is to share the author’s perspective. Nothing else matters. No research required. Only digging deep and pulling out out thoughts and feelings from the deep recesses of the brain.

And because of that… a memoir may not be all true. Think about it: are your memories factually accurate? Of course not. Chances are, your mother and father and brothers and sisters have different takes on some of the great stories of your life. For a memoirist, it is no different. The only thing a memoir can report on accurately is the memory of the author. What actually happened is known only to God and video cameras.

This is why you’ll sometimes hear memoir described as a cross between fiction and non fiction. In fact, even though memoir is filed under non fiction, it’s pretty much sold and written as fiction. Why? Because, like a novel, a good memoir will have a strong and propulsive narrative with an emphasis on character and plot. An autobiography can get away with presenting a life as a series of events and facts and figures. A memoir has to tell a story.

Of course, there are pitfalls to this. The temptation to exaggerate or even fabricate is great for the memoirist. That’s how you get guys like James Frey who fooled a great many people (including Oprah) with his is-it-true-or-is-it-not memoir, A Million Little Pieces. There’s remembering things a certain way and then there’s saying you served 87 days in jail when you did not.

Having now written a memoir myself, I get why this happens. A memoirist has two equally important priorities: tell the truth and tell a good story. They can occasionally butt heads. Only a very skilled and principled writer can navigate the battle successfully.

So why go there? Why write a memoir? Is it vanity? Lack of imagination?

For me, no. I don’t lack for imagination. I actually find fiction to be quite a bit easier than memoir. I wrote my book for two simple reasons: I knew it was a good story and I was compelled to tell it. Before I even knew if I was capable of writing a book, I knew this was something I had to do. And when you get promptings like that, I think you have to follow them. It usually means there’s somebody out there you can reach or help. I see the writing of my story as a sacred responsibility. One I could not ignore.

I imagine many memoirists probably feel the same way.

Book Review – Under and Alone: The True Story of the Undercover Agent Who Infiltrated America’s Most Violent Outlaw Motorcycle Gang

23 Monday Jan 2012

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William Queen’s Under and Alone: The True Story of the Undercover Agent Who Infiltrated America’s Most Violent Outlaw Motorcycle Gang knocked me right out. If you’ve never read a memoir before, you could do a lot worse than to start here.

Queen is a former undercover agent with the ATF who had worked many deep cover cases before he joined up with The Mongols–an outlaw biker gang so fierce that even the Hell’s Angels know to fear them. But the two and a half years Queen spent posing as the rough-and-tumble Billy St. John proved to be the most difficult and riskiest case of his career.

The Mongols are known for their predilection towards violence, gun running, murders with witnesses who refuse to talk, and willful misuse and abuse of theirs and other people’s women. They make no pretenses towards respectability like the Hell’s Angels, rather they encourage their reputation as outlaws by brandishing their colors openly and not giving two figs who sees them do their thing. They’re not in it for the profit, they’re in it just to do whatever the #@$% they want.

I should mention that the book is (bullet) ridden with profanity. Usually, I’m fairly well bothered by profanity. But, the way Queen presents it, it’s just part of the texture of the despicable world he inhabited in the name of justice. Queen endured a lot to bring down a sizable chunk of the Mongols organization (which he likens in size and scope to the Mafia), and somehow that made it easier for me to accept the frequently rough language his antagonists use.

The story is remarkable and thrillingly told. Queen knows how to reduce a story down to its bare bones and pace it in such a way that you absolutely cannot wait to see what happens next. As someone who prefers books that don’t get bogged down in detail, I appreciated his spare approach.

I probably wouldn’t have believed the story was true unless the cover told me so. Under and Alone reads like a page turning novel–which is just about the highest compliment I can give a memoir.

Highly recommended.

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