I wrote this about a year ago. After my friend and comrade Trey died of an overdose.

Last week I was taking to comrades who, like me, are around 30 about our radicalization.

9/11 jolted me into awareness of the fact that the world is a big place and that history is something that is always happening. I soon learned, in the imperialist adventures in the Middle East that America is not the good guy. And the decade was bookended by Occupy Wall Street, which cemented my passage into socialism.

I met Trey there. We talked briefly, once he questioned me and another comrade when we set up an ISO table at the encampment, but we didn’t get to know each there too well. He was dedicated, but, as happened a lot in occupy, once we were evicted we lost him.

Occupy taught me that it’s one thing to be a socialist, but you need theory and organization to be effective. Occupy lacked both of those things. Over the course of the next few years, alongside some new comrades, I started to learn what that was.

About halfway through 2012, when I had finally resigned myself to the movement’s demise, I began to talk with Trey again, first online and then in person. He was very interested in his own radicalization and full of regret over wasting any time as a liberal. He devoured book after book and always wanted to talk or debate. I had to work hard to keep up with him.

And, at the risk of glamorizing his life, he had a unique attachment to the struggle. On and off drugs and alcohol, always housing and job insecure, something he stupidly valorized, he had a material appreciation for the grind that those at the bottom of our society face. In his sober stretches, this all made him a formidable activist and a challenging comrade.

It was also in those days that he became most introspective, most plagued by the shame and guilt of the trouble that he sometimes caused others. I wasn’t there when he was at his worst, and I know that others have different memories of him because of what he put them through thanks to his addiction and illness. He confessed to me that it was these thoughts that inevitably pushed him back to drinking and using drugs.

Probably homeless or in and out of treatment for a quarter of the time I knew him, he often needed a place to crash, and he slept on my couch more times than I can count. In the mornings, as I would leave for work, he would leave too even though he knew he could stay, not wanting to be a burden if he could help it. So he would leave and give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek like he did and I wouldn’t hear from him for a few days.

As payment, he would cook, which he was pretty good at, and we would sit out on the fire escape at my place in Corryville and talk about stuff. Politics, music, Trayvon, addiction and treatment, what to learn from Occupy, Godard films, MLM. We would probably eat ice cream. He taught me my first chords on the guitar, taught me some basic scales and progressions that are still probably 90% of what I know. “I’ll teach you to play rock songs.”

Once I visited him in a halfway house on vine. He has just gotten back from a treatment center after ODing and was in good spirits. That was a time when I was going through some hard stuff in my life–a mixture of political burnout, having to abruptly move, several deaths of people around me in succession and job issues–and my friends will remember it as a time when they barely saw me in the course of a few months, the worst stretch of depression I have ever felt.

We spent an afternoon talking about what he was going through and he was interested in how I was too. The first person to directly ask about what I was going through. He told me not to fee shame over mental illness, something he was relearning with the 12 step program. I was so relieved just to tell someone what I faced and to get validation and a hug at the end of it helped immensely.

Trey is one of the few people I felt comfortable enough to talk to about those things. He was completely open and disarming and used his own vulnerability to relate to whatever it was you were going through. He helped pull me back from the edge in a real way, and I made some real changes in my life after that to become healthier.

And that winter it was Trey who helped pull me back into political work. The last major organizing we did together was around tenant work in OTR. We pulled together some very militant fliers and put up maybe 1000 of them, talked to a lot of people in the street and had a meeting where I ended up losing my shit on a landlord who came and said we were attacking him. I would not consider this successful but it was a bridge to BLM and later SA and without it, I may have never returned to active politics.

He moved away soon after and we since he was without a phone, we lost touch aside from occasionally catching up on Facebook.

Trey was furious at the conditions he saw around him and demanded that we all fight to fix it. He was a revolutionary, but he ended up being as much a victim of the system and the times as anybody else. Even so, he was beautiful and funny and kind. We became comrades together. I love him and will miss him every day.

He had the fire in him.

Understanding Joni Mitchell


The beginning of my “Understanding Joni” playlist.

This playlist is meant to provide an entry point to Joni Mitchell in addition to offering a more profound exploration of her work. It goes far beyond the singles and her early successes, which are brilliant in their own right, to get at the tracks that are easily missed, overlooked, or overshadowed.

For Part 1, here are 12 songs that span the breadth of her career, stylistic changes, and themes.

I’m starting with Little Green, possibly a familiar song, off of Blue (1971), because it holds the key to understanding much of the melancholy that marks Joni’s work. While obvious in hindsight, at the time of it’s release it wasn’t known, beyond a few individuals, that Joni had to give up her daughter, Kelly, about whom this song is written. We get rich imagery of nature, seasons, sadness and celebration, and an unaccountable man–all of which are central themes throughout Joni’s career.

Continue reading

Cincinnati pride Socialist speakout: build lgbtq/immigrant solidarity


Right now there are thousands of immigrant children and parents sitting in cages, separated violently by ICE. They might never see each other again. Though the separation policy was rescinded, its not retroactive. Raids on businesses and neighborhood sweeps will continue to rip families apart. Zero tolerance continues and new families arriving will be thrown in prison camps together.

What does this have to do with Pride? It wasn’t too long ago that LGBT families were torn apart by the state and reactionary vigilantes. It wasn’t too long ago that just being LGBT was criminalized.

Those victories are fresh and setbacks like the bathrooms bills and continued violence show they aren’t permanent. We should also acknowledge that the recent resurgence in violence against lgbt people came alongside the attacks on immigrants. And it’s shameful!

We have to fight back! We need mass movement that link up our struggles. We are here because we are saying make pride political!

This month, corporations plaster rainbows over their logos. But these measures are only surface level–take it from me, I work in marketing–providing cover for the fact that their material interest—the pursuit of profit—go against that of working people.

There is so much wealth in the world, but inequality is worse than ever. Jeff Bezos, CEO of amazon, is the richest man in the history of the world. This month his company is running pride stories on their homepage. Bezos personally spoke out against a measly tax that would build public housing for homeless people in Seattle. He sunk hundreds of thousands of dollars into a repeal effort that scared 7 democrats on the city council into a repeal.

All workers face historically high rates of homelessness or lack of affordable housing, of joblessness or underemployment, of lack of access to healthcare. And for LGBT people, the problems are compounded.

We are 40,000 units short of affordable housing in Cincinnati. And finding good housing or a good job is harder if you’re black or trans and have to face bigoted landlords and bosses. 50,000 families were evicted in the last few years here. 800 lgbt youth face homelessness in Cincinnati each year, a problem so bad that lighthouse youth services opened a shelter just for LGBT teens. Nationally, 40% of homeless youth are LGBT.

The rich will exploit you for your labor and pay you a measly salary. What’s worse, immigrants, undocumented or not, along women and lgbt people are sometimes forced to work criminalized jobs to make ends meet all while laws are passed to make our survival harder. Capitalism forces you to live your life a certain way. When you look or sound different, bigots will kill you or lock you in cages.

This much us true: if we let them get away with rounding up immigrants, of ethnically cleansing through criminalization and deportation, don’t expect them to stop there.

How do we fight back? Though we face the wrath of Donald Trump, the solution isn’t to allow ourselves to be used as props by opportunistic politicians and businesses try and get reelected or sell their products, nor is it for us to cast damage control votes and stop there.

A socialist transformation of society is the only way to challenge the underlying motives that use lgbt people and immigrants as bargaining chips in the petty battles of the ruling class.

Equality means nothing if we can’t make ends meet!

Solutions could start with taxing the rich and corporations and funding Medicare for all and housing for all. This benefit everybody in the 99%, but especially lgbt people, women, people of color and immigrants. We can fight against the laws that criminalize trans kids and dreamers, fight for protections for sex workers and undocumented workers.

LGBT people aren’t just allies–we have to be accomplices in the replacement the system we have today with something better and more just.

What does that look like? Let’s take an example. In the case of marriage equality, though it was the court that made the decision, WE won in the STREETS. We posed a threat to the ability for business as usual to continue.

Strategies that relies on court decisions aren’t viable in the long run. We’ve seen how the foothold that was left for pro-life forces in “Roe v Wade” has been torn open in an all out assault on privacy and reproductive justice that reaches far beyond pregnant people. Lobbying and professionalism aren’t substitutes for mass action.

Instead, a mass movement fighting for a socialist program is the only alternative that can turn the tide of the oppression that hurts all of us as long as it hurts one of us. Liberation for LGBT people is tied up with the liberation of immigrants.

Pride is political, it’s a celebration and a protest!

We will not stand silent as families are torn apart, as people sleep on the street, as people die from lack of health case, as abortion is criminalized. And we sure as hell won’t go back into the closet.

What is our next step? Come out on June 30 at 1pm at Washington park for a mass rally calling to reunite families and protect immigrants! Bring a sign and be ready for more actions in the future.

Visit Socialist Alternatives table for more information.


When immigrants are under attack, what do we do? Stand up fight back!

When trans people are under attack, what do we do?

When working people are under attack, what do we do?


We need to build a movement that demands

  • an end to the separation of families, for end to the mass incarceration and gestapo tactics by ICE.
  • For taxing the rich and corporations, including many represented here today,
    • And using this money to build quality affordable housing and medicare for all, including abortion and reproductive coverage.

First Lady, First Time Traveler


I recently discovered that Stephen King wrote a book about time travel and the Kennedy assassination. I wrote a short story with a similar plot line months before that book was published. I have no way of proving this, and this has nothing to do with the usual content of the blog, but here is the story. The substance (and quality) is more “Kilgore Trout” than “Kurt Vonnegut.” Also, Dear Stephen King: go to hell.

First Lady, First time Traveler

Jackie Kennedy Onassis Fan Fiction by Ben Stockwell

“Mrs Kennedy, it’s time.”

“Okay, I’m coming. Just one. Last. Adjustment.” She moved the pillbox cap across her head, centering it just so. Always one to look good, especially when she knew there would be cameras.

“We leave in a few minutes, we’re all waiting for you.” That’s the way he always spoke to her. Affirmative, strong. “Any longer and we’ll miss the chance.”

“I said okay,” Jackie shouted back as she walked out of the powder room and past the man. “Where do we go from here?” she asked, still walking, aggressive, and yet unsure of where she where she needed to be. She turned back around, “I guess I’m just a bit-” she paused, the pillbox cap was slipping. Adjusting it, she went on, “unsteady.”

“Right through the door, darling, and down the hall,” John smiled at her, “the hat looks fine, but we’re going to be late.” He grabbed her waist. “We don’t want to have to rush, now do we? The whole world is watching.” He kissed her.

“Dallas at least.”

A third voice called from the other side of the door, “The governor is ready, Mr. President.”

Jackie held onto John’s hand and looked at him smirking as they walked through the door and down the hall. “Almost 3 years as first lady and I still don’t get it, why would the world be interested in a short drive we’re going to be taking down a street in Dallas?” She wasn’t complaining.


“Mrs. Kennedy, it’s time.”

“Okay, I’m coming. Just one. Last. Adjustment.” She moved the pillbox cap across her head, centering it just so. Always one to look good, even when it wouldn’t matter.

“You leave in a few minutes, people, the world, are waiting for you.” That’s the way he always spoke to her. Affirmative, strong. “Any longer and we’ll miss the chance.”

“I said okay!” Jackie shouted back. She looked at herself in the mirror; her life had come to this. Still hurting from her husbands death, really the deaths of both of her husbands, though nothing hurt as bad as Jack’s. And now with everything that had happened, they expect her to just go along with whatever plan they might have. She paused, collected herself, and walked out of the room and straight past the man she’d only just met. She turned toward him, “I guess I’m just a bit-” she paused, the pillbox cap was slipping. Adjusting it, she went on, “unsteady.”

The man looked at her fondly, this was the woman who had been there the when it happened, right next to him. What she must have seen and heard. He regretted having to put her through this, to have to make her relive the event. As if she hadn’t already had to relive it in her mind a thousand times from the moment it all occurred. She had told them to call her Mrs. Kennedy after the shock of the whole circumstances rolled over her. If she was successful, then there “was never going to be a Mrs. Onassis,” she declared weeks before. “Alright, Mrs. Kennedy, it’s alright. You’ll be done in no time, and you’ll forget this ever–”

“I won’t ever forget that day.” She quipped, her eyes watering half out of the anxiety of the moment, half out of her permanent sadness.

“I understand. I’m sorry.” He moved towards the door and opened it for her. “But you have to understand that you very well may forget it, our scientists believe, as do I, that should you succeed, well, maybe you’ll wake up next to President Kennedy, and everything will be normal to you. We’re not even sure how it all works, since you’re the first one. Hell, if you change things enough, we might not even get around to inventing this.”

They entered a large room white room, 20 or 30 meters across, containing only a matte black tube, just big enough to fit a small woman like Jackie, and a thick cable of wires snaking from the object to a panel on the wall across the room. The tube stood foreboding in the center of the room and seemed to suck in all the light that hit it making appeared bigger than it actually was. Next to the door was a one-way mirror which Jackie assumed contained all sorts of men, probably some Russians, who always wore lab coats and chain-smoked Pall Malls. Jackie peered around and braced herself as a another wave of anxiety washed over her. She’d been in the room before in the weeks she had spent with the man and his “colleagues,” but this was the last she would see of this time. She hadn’t noticed how the linoleum floor creaked and cracked as she walked across it, or how the wire formed a wave, oscillating this way and that. She’d hated the emptiness of the room itself. Why would such an important place have nothing to signify its status? she wondered. She took a few steps and then stopped. “How does that thing work?” she asked for the hundredth time.

“Well,” the man said, reading some notes off of a clipboard, “as I’ve told you before, and you learned in the briefings–the researchers know more than I do. Well let’s just put it this way, it’s my understanding that it ‘shifts’ you.”

“‘Shifts’ me?” Jackie asked. A group of scientists and secret service agents had explained the process to her just a day prior, but she couldn’t grasp the concept.

“Right. Moves you to another universe. Technically, this universe ceases to be, because it’s different, and another one is put in its place, everything besides whatever is in the machine here moves to that one, and to this moment. While the new universe is created, the contents of the machine get dropped off in time and space wherever they need to be.” He looked at her enthusiastically, “You get to experience all of creation and destruction–all of time–in the blink of an eye.”

She had known that she was going to be moving somewhere else, but she didn’t know how, and it wasn’t any clearer now that she’d gotten the wide-eyed, sci-fi explanation. “Well, if the machine is ready to send me, I’m ready to go,” she lied. For the entire time she had been at the facility, Jackie had been dealing with waves of shock at the ] whole situation, in the previous week, her level of anxiety had shot been unlike any she had experienced in her life. First, her husband had been taken from her, now, thirty years later, she was supposed to fix it? They began walking toward the tube again. “I just need to know that everything will be taken care of here.”

“Mrs. Kennedy.” The man paused, knowing what to say but uncertain if he should say it. “You died, they had your funeral on national television. Things have already been taken care of.” He had watched the funeral, the procession and seen the guard lowering of her casket at Arlington National Cemetery just two weeks before. By that time the trip was finalized, and there would be no turning back. He was amazed that they were able to convince an otherwise healthy woman that they knew still had a good twenty years of her life ahead of her, to fake her own death. Of course, after Mr. Onassis died, she just hadn’t been the same in public, and he wondered how her private life had been for the almost twenty years she lived without a husband. Putting the clipboard down on a console next to the machine, he looked at her again, the anxiety and, if he was judging correctly, sorrow, filled her eyes. “But, you have my word, if anything comes up on this end, I’ll take care of it personally.” The man waved toward the one-way mirror and a moment later the door to the tube swing open revealing an even deeper black inside.

There were no controls for Mrs. Kennedy to operate, no switches to flip, there wasn’t even a seat for the trip. The tube fit her dimensions almost perfectly, any bigger, and it would have been a squeeze. Well, I certainly won’t be bringing anybody back with me, she thought. Not that that was an option anyway. She knew all the theories postulated that the machine wouldn’t even come with her; she would probably just be dropped off as it “whizzed toward infinity,” as one particularly eccentric physicist told her.

Jackie stood in front of the opening, she stared in and pure blackness stared back at her. “So, this is it, then.” She shrugged. This is it. Come on, Jackie old girl, your whole life you’ve been wanting to change what happened, and this is your chance. Without giving it another thought, she rushed into the tube, and shouted “Go!”.

The agent entered another set of command into the console and gave a thumbs up toward the one-way mirror. “Okay, Mrs. Kennedy, remember, you have one hour to get set up. You’ll end up just south of Dealey.” He moved away, and just as the door was sealing Jackie inside, he shouted “Good luck!”

She closed her eyes and clutched her purse, uncharacteristically oversized, filled with the extra luggage she would need. Enough cash for her to settle anywhere, just in case things don’t go as planned; keys to several cars that the CIA had determined were in the area for a getaway if needed; and most importantly, the rifle she had been trained to use over the course of the past week. The rifle that had technology that would be decades ahead of anything around in 1963. The rifle that would take out Lee Harvey Oswald, and change history.

She saw a bright flash, then nothing, then daylight.


Agent Martin watched Jackie exit along with the lead tube that would deposit her in the past. He stood on the spot that the tube had sat in for several years, the last time the section of floor had been exposed was when the pilot program was beginning in the mid-eighties. The development was a slog since they were relying on the nearly incoherent ramblings of an incoherent old woman to put the thing together. Back then, they knew they had a lot of work to do in a short amount of time, but that they could do it. Technically they already had. If he’d had it his way, they would have just arranged to send the tube back in time to themselves, solving their own problem. Almost a decade of work was now complete, and his own future, though guaranteed to be interesting thanks to his experience, was uncertain. Where do you go after time travel?

Good, Martin,” said an older man entering the room. It was Martin’s boss, Rick Murphy, a retired Navy Admiral, the manager of the project and the only person other than Martin to see the program though from beginning to end. “We’re still here, I guess that about does it.”

“Yes, sir, the timeline worked out the way it was supposed to.”

Rick raised his hands in the air, channeling Charlton Heston as Moses, and walked toward Martin and shouting, “The prophecy has been fulfilled!”

“Alright, alright, amen,” Martin muttered, “wanna go for a drink?”


Jackie emerged from the darkness exactly where she expected, a place she remembered. That afternoon on Dealey Plaza hadn’t faded at all over the years, but had rather been burnt in. The memory was darker and more gruesome with each passing year, she’d only wanted to erase that one thing, the day her life, and her family’s life changed forever.

The day was just like she remembered. The sky was blue and the people had begun to gather along the side of the road. Right about this time, an hour before Jack died, she was with him, speaking together with the Governor and first lady of Texas. She remembered what she was wearing, but so did everybody else because of the playback the famous recording had gotten in the 30 years since the shooting. No, you mustn’t think of that, Jackie. It’s not 30 years later, it’s now, it’s before. You can change it.

She surveyed the plaza for another few minutes, taking time to look for a place to move, but deciding the best place to be to get a clear shot at the depository would be where she was. She knew exactly where Oswald would reveal himself in the window and would only need to let her rifle to lock on. The gun would basically shoot itself and that was good, because she had never gotten used to shooting. Even back when she had training from the secret service, she never really caught on, probably because she never really cared. She stationed herself a few meters beyond a wall that bordered the plaza but was away from the road, deciding nobody would be coming there, especially when they could be right up on the sidewalks below.

She looked at her watch, specifically built to display a countdown until zero hour. There was still 30 minutes until the president and his wife would roll around the bend in their car and she would be able to get a clear shot at her husband’s killer. The crowd was larger than she remembered, certainly the different vantage point gave her a better perception of the entire situation. She hadn’t noticed that large police presence as she was always buffeted by the secret service, nor had she seen, until now, the vast expanse that her husband’s last drive covered. She wondered, in hindsight, why they had taken the trip in the first. She knew it was for publicity, she had practically invented political publicity, but why? It was the same question she has asked herself everyday for 30 years.

The crowds lining the streets were getting restless and her watch showed that there was only a few minutes left. She could see by the rustling that up the road, just north of Dealey, that the crowd had identified the president’s car and it would be within view soon enough. Not long after, Oswald would peek out of the window and take his shots. The motorcade creeped down the hill toward her, and for the first time in 30 years, she saw Jack alive. A rush of emotion filled her like nothing she had ever felt, she had to save him. She had to save her other self, also coming into view, from the pain and torture of burying her husband. From the struggle of explaining death to her young children. She had to save herself from this nightmare she’d been living in. Promises by the agents told her that she would be transferred into almost another dimension where the shooting never happened, but it was up to her to make the history change.

She picked up her rifle and pointed it at the assassin’s window. The gun was already loaded with the futuristic rounds that were still simple enough not to be suspect in the 60’s. She watched as the motorcade moved closer to it’s location of death, almost as if she was watching an opera that had haunted her for years. In exactly 5 seconds, Oswald would begin to make his move, coming close enough to the window to get a clear shot, and also open himself up to Jackie’s targeting. She braced herself for the most important split second of her life.

There he was, Oswald moved into view and raised his gun to shooting position. They both took their final aim. She pulled her trigger before he did. Her first shot rang out and she was thrown back by the recoil. It missed. It missed‽ She braced herself again for her second shot. Running out of time to aim, she just pointed the gun, and pulled the trigger. And that was it. The president was dead, and it was his wife that killed her.

“What have I done,” she screamed. But her screams were lost in the thousands who witnessed the terror on Dealey. At least they would only have to see it once. Both Jackies entered a state of shock at what had just happened.


“It’s just amazing how well it worked out. I mean, it’s like theater. We found her, we questioned her, and we developed our own scheme,” said Admiral Murphy, whisky in hand.

“It is interesting how much she believed us, being entrenched in lies for years,” replied Martin. “She actually believed that she could change things.” He thought about the crime on Mrs. Kennedy’s intelligence they had perpetrated and years of manipulation of the elder Jackie, the one they had discovered and captured in 1980.  She died, for real, a few years later, and they reconnected with her again in the early 90’s. Though they didn’t know the elder Jackie, she knew them. She recognized their faces and the program and resisted, but after a short time, stockholm syndrome set in, and she willingly gave out all of the details they would need, even hinting how the time machine worked. Captured wasn’t really the right word for what they did to her, you don’t capture octogenarians so much as you coerce them into companionship. By the time she died, the woman had accepted that this was the role she would play in her life. That this is how it had been before, and somehow it was probably how it would be again.  “I’m just amazed that she had never been able to make contact with herself.”

“Well, she tried, but the secret service had always thrown the notes out, deciding they were written by a lunatic.” The Admiral laughed, “It’s actually quite funny. I never told you this, but right after the event, the President got reports of a crazed woman who we can now identify as Mrs. Kennedy. We could have found her out then and there. Then again without the letters, she would have never made herself known to us, and we wouldn’t be here.”

Martin shrugged, “I like to think history has a way of fixing itself. The President would have been killed that day, whether or not we sent Mrs Kennedy back in time, only to find her later.”

Murphy took a drink and thought for a second. “Maybe so, but it’s interesting how the whole drama played itself out in the end. I like to think of us as the playwrights in all of this, crafting a story like nothing ever before it.”

Agent Martin motioned for another round. “It’s just too bad that’s all we get with the time travel, you’d think we could have used that to change something bigger, like World War II.”

“But realize we didn’t change anything, this is where your course correction falls flat. No, our actions were what caused everything to happen, we had to do it. Because of this program, you can say that, yes, the CIA was behind the death of the president–the CIA 30 years later. We sent our trained assassin to the grassy knoll to shoot the man dead. She thought she was saving him, but she put too much trust in technology. This is CIA technology after all. Because of us, things are the way they are supposed to be.”

The bartender filled their glasses, and Murphy drank to “normalcy.”

August 2010