When Non-entities Go Bad: Netflix’s Adolescence

Okay, right up front: SPOILERS herein.

These first paragraphs are safe. Then you’re on your own. If you haven’t watched Netflix’s mega-popular four-episode crime drama, and you don’t want to know what happens, stop reading when I say, “STOP.”

I am not recommending that you watch the series, by the way. It is intensely disturbing and will probably haunt you. I am not saying not to watch it, either. It is very well-made and the acting and camerawork are first-rate. Each episode was shot in real-time as one take, so you’re basically watching four expertly filmed plays. The plot: a thirteen-year-old boy is charged with murdering a classmate. Four episodes show the impact on the suspect, his family, his school, and the police officers and psychiatrist who investigate the case.

STOP! SPOILERS.

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Moms and Dads and Sociopaths, a Literary Exploration

How much of literature depends on undiagnosed sociopathy?

Better question: Does conflict in classic children’s literature depend on undiagnosed sociopathy?

The stories we read as kids—and, for many of us, continue to enjoy as adults—often feature the child protagonists being treated, well, badly by the adults around them. From Tom Sawyer to Harry Potter, from Hansel and Gretel to Oliver Twist, stories in which kids are disrespected, abused, even subject to being fattened for the slaughter, are popular. Perhaps that’s because kids tend to live in a world they don’t understand, but which often seems hostile to them?

Some of these stories depict characters like Voldemort, or Hansel and Gretel’s cannibal witch, who are just deranged and evil. But almost all of these stories also feature “normal” people who don’t receive a villain’s comeuppance, who are also pretty awful to the kids. The Dursleys in Harry Potter, not to mention a lot of Hogwarts faculty members, and the stepmother in—well, damn near any fairy tale. Anderson and the Brothers Grimm obviously were not concerned about their fiction being inclusive for blended families. (The Stepmothers sometimes did receive comeuppance.)

Voldemort and the witch are psychopaths, obviously. But do these stories not also depend on a subtler kind of evil, an evil accepted by the “normal” and well-meaning adults in the children’s lives–poor, dim adults that they are? By the standards of the times of Twain, the Grimms or Dickens, such people, who loved God but hated children, may have been considered “upstanding citizens.” But were they, in fact, sociopaths?

A sociopath is popularly defined as a person who lacks a conscience or empathy, but sociopathy is just that—a popular term, not listed in the DSM V, which is the authoritative listing of recognized mental disorders. What is in the DSM V is Antisocial Personality Disorder, and it aligns with the popular concept of sociopathy, being “characterized by a long term pattern of disregard for, or violation of, the rights of others. A low moral sense or conscience is often apparent, as well as a history of crime, legal problems, or impulsive and aggressive behavior.” (Wikipedia)

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Does That Make You Less My Friend?

This weekend is Farpoint, my annual Star Trek and science fiction convention, which is why the blog is two days late. The last-minute planning for a three-day event tends to eat up all the days in the week before. Especially when you just closed a show the weekend going into that week. If you missed it, I just performed The Seagull with the Rude Mechanicals. So I’m the emcee for Farpoint’s opening ceremonies. I don’t always give an actual speech, but, given the tenor of the times, I wanted to say a few things to my local S.F. community. I had actually planned to use them as the basis of this week’s blog, and that decision was reinforced when more than one audience member asked me to do just that. So here is my opening address to Farpoint 2025.

I started this con when I was 27.

I didn’t start it alone, but I was the one that year who jumped up and said, “Hey kids, let’s put on a con!

People thought I was too young and reckless and feral to run a con, but, here it is and here we are, and  This year I turn 60.

It’s been a long and eventful journey for me, for Farpoint, and for Baltimore fandom. We’ve gained new friends and we’ve lost dear old ones. We’ve seen new incarnations of the thing that brought us together originally, which was the three-season 1966 series Star Trek. 

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I Am Mister Oed

Oedipus did nothing wrong. This must be distinctly understood, or else the wondrous snark I shall direct at this story may never be appreciated. (The Dickens you say.)

It all starts with Oedipus’s birth father, Laius, eventually King of Thebes. Laius’s father, a grandson of Thebes’s founder, Cadmus, died while Laius was a child. The throne was seized by usurpers, and little Laius was unfortunately smuggled out of the city before he could be executed by the new administration. I say “unfortunately,” because no good came from Laius. Literally everyone he touched died tragically.

Laius grew up in Pisa, the ward of King Pelops. Pelops no doubt had sympathy for a child who had escaped execution because, well, Pelops hadn’t. Pelops had been murdered and butchered into stew meat as a child, by his own father, who wanted to impress some important dinner guests. (Okay, they were the gods of Olympus.) His guests were not impressed. They restored little Pelops to life so he could become Poseidon the sea god’s lover (you can’t make this shit up, even though someone probably did). Pelops led a charmed life which culminated in his becoming a king. Then he welcomed The Omen into his house.

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Nobody Wants to Chase the Beagle – Reflections on Being the Bad Guy

I’ve been accused of eliciting tears with some of my stories. I wrote this piece eight years ago, and I think it’s one of those stories. I didn’t share it before because It’s sad, and it might sound self-pitying. It also might result in my receiving a lot of “Dude, are you okay?” messages, not to mention recommendations for therapists. I assure you, I’m okay.

I offer this account, first to break a cycle of second-guessing myself and fearing everything I write will somehow backfire on me. Second, I aim not to dwell on the negatives of my life, but to add some depth to my overall story. I think, publicly, I’m a positive person. I accomplish things. I help people. A lot of people say I’m supremely confident. Well, I’m not. Not always. There are internal negatives there. And I think it’s important to know that we all have them. Finally, hope this story will help remind the reader that no human being is meant to be a tool. No matter how useful we are, we should be considered as people first.

And now, about this beagle…

I guess I was twelve, maybe thirteen. We had two dogs—Benji and Lady—who were born in the Spring when I was nine. Lady would stay with us until I was in college, but Benji, well, he was an unaltered male. He wandered. Sometime around the Summer of ’78 he left us for good. Before he did, though, he brought home a girl from his travels. The girl was a beagle. She was a very nice dog, friendly and well-behaved. Personally, I wanted to just let her stay with us.

We had a problem, though. Lady was used to having Benji’s full attention. She didn’t want him to have a wife or a girlfriend or whatever the beagle was. But, as happens with dogs, someone’s the Alpha, and that someone made the decisions. That someone was Benji. He was married now, or engaged, or shacked up, or whatever, and his sister needed to make the best of it.

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I Voted for Governor Larry Hogan. I Hope You Will Too

Well, friends, I’ve been a bit quiet about the world scene. About politics. I went through a few years of losing friends around the madness of the Covid pandemic, and that made me gun shy. It seemed every time I opened my mouth to comment on an issue that mattered, I lost a friend.

But there’s a little cartoon voice in my head saying, “If they don’t respect your opinions when you talk about the issues, they never respected you at all. And, if they don’t respect you, they were never your friends to begin with.”

Yep. Kindergarten-level stuff, right. Turns out we all tend to forget what we learned in kindergarten.

So, blocks and unfriendings be damned, I’m here tonight to say that I am supporting Governor Larry Hogan in his campaign for U.S. Senate, and I think you should too. I think this especially if you’re concerned that the Republican Party will take control of the Senate. I think that takeover is inevitable in this election. When it happens, our state must be represented, not by a partisan operative, but by a strong, ethical and courageous leader who has a history of putting his constituents ahead of political expedience.

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Eulogy for Evelyn Briggs Wilson

As with my father, I was asked to deliver the eulogy for my mother’s funeral. What follows is the text from which I worked last Saturday. I can’t promise that this is exactly what I said, but it gives the reader the general impression. And if you’re just catching up because Meta has failed spectacularly in the duty it assigned itself to be the principle medium of the communications of life events: My mother, Evelyn Briggs Wilson, born Elizabeth Evelyn Briggs on December 7, 1926, died on August 25 of this year. Her obituary related the facts of her life. And now for a more personal perspective:

My mother with her parents, Dawson and Clara Banks Briggs, and her uncle Virle Briggs

Do you ever lie awake at night,

Just between the dark and the morning light,

Searching for the things you used to know,

Looking for the place where the lost things go?

Memories you’ve shared, gone for good you feared,

They’re all around you still, though they’ve disappeared.

Nothing’s really left or lost without a trace.

Nothing’s gone forever, only out of place.

Those words aren’t mine. They were written by a man named Scott Wittman for the Walt Disney film Mary Poppins Returns. It’s sung to children who have lost their mother. We saw that movie on Christmas Day in 2018, on one of our last Christmas trips to Rehoboth Beach, one of my mother’s favorite places.

The memories we’ve shared are all around us right now. Dementia changes people, but some prominent traits were with her to the end: her concern that everyone was getting fed, and that everyone had a bed to sleep in; her insistence that all the bills be paid on time–she was sure to the bitter end that she owed someone eight hundred dollars, and that her taxes were late. I never told her that the Maryland Comptroller had mistakenly sent her to collections this Spring for a tax bill she didn’t owe.

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Open Letter to Meta – This Time Your Algorithm is Personal

Meta, via Facebook, has taken the place of the newspaper in society. In the pre-Internet days, newspapers did significantly more than report on foreign wars and partisan multi-generation duels. Newspapers were the backbone of our social network. From the newspapers we learned which old classmates had died, who was getting married, who was holding a picnic, what the local schools were up to. Newspapers were critical to our engagement in the community.

Then came social media, and, let’s face it, to most of the American public, that means Facebook. Those who once relied on newspapers moved to this new technology for sharing community news. Newspapers required days of lead time and were not free. Facebook made it painless to announce meetings, deaths, births and marriages, and even to request help in crisis. Papers lost this folksy market, and, predictably, people also stopped subscribing.

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Rational Rebel: When Did This Happen?

My apologies to the handful of you that already read this under a different title. The fact is that most of my traffic comes from the social media site that’s recently added a new algorithm to “curate” content. A fair number of pieces of content that I’m very proud of have been getting buried. So I’m experimenting with titles and posting styles.

From the Rational Rebel Blog

I started The Rational Rebel a couple of years ago to share thoughts related specifically to my home in Howard County, Maryland. These may not be of interest to all my regular readers, either because of the specificity or because of my political philosophy; but I’ve decided I will start sharing them here so you’re aware they exist. This essay was inspired by a recent trip Renee and I made to Niagara Falls, a return, after 35 years, to the site of our honeymoon.