Not only in Canada, but right here in the U.S. This is absolutely worth 10 minutes of your time.
God Bless this woman.
Not only in Canada, but right here in the U.S. This is absolutely worth 10 minutes of your time.
Not only in Canada, but right here in the U.S. This is absolutely worth 10 minutes of your time.
God Bless this woman.
I found this over at Instapundit this morning, and I won’t copy the whole thing here so as to drive the traffic to them they deserve. I will leave a few choice quotes from the piece though – but you should go read the whole thing. Nevertheless, this is a great critique of our current military “leadership” (yes, the quotes are intentional and mean what you think they mean), with some critiques of the politicians thrown in. I’m not sure if there is any difference between the two at this point.
We should blame President Bush, not for the decision to attack into Afghanistan following 9-11, but for his decision to “shift the goalposts” and attempt to reform Afghanistan society. That was a fool’s errand any student of history would have recognized. And yes, we should place blame on President Obama for his decision to double down on failure when he “surged” in Afghanistan, rather than to withdraw.
However, most of the blame belongs to the leadership of the US military, and the Army in particular. The Washington Post’s “Afghanistan Papers” detailed years of US officials failing to tell the truth about the war in Afghanistan, “making rosy pronouncements they knew to be false and hiding unmistakable evidence the war had become unwinnable.” That report was two years ago, and the stories within it began more than a decade before that. Afghanistan was, and always will be, “unwinnable”.
In fact, Afghanistan was worse than Vietnam in that at least the Vietnam War was tangentially related to the effort to stop the global spread of communism during the Cold War. Afghanistan was worse than Vietnam in another respect: the military’s leaders of the Vietnam era had no precedent to dissuade them from a disastrous path. Today’s military leadership has the precedent of not just Vietnam, but also Iraq, Lebanon, Libya, Syria, and Yemen. That much obtuseness must be punished and removed from the system.
Let me conclude with one last thought: the generals, the intelligence analysts, the defense contractors, and the pundits all leveraged America’s rarest resource: the American serviceman and woman. They are the ones who fought, and sweat, and bled, and died for what is now clearly a failed strategy and a doomed mission. Even after its failure was apparent to their leaders, they continued to enlist and reenlist, largely because their superiors—the experts—assured them that success was possible. It was not. It never was. Absent American support, Afghanistan collapsed over the length of a long weekend. That is proof enough that the last 20 years were in vain, and proof enough that the system is broken from within.
As I said, hit the link and go read the whole thing.
It seemed on one hand to be so familiar … and on the other hand, so new. Launching astronauts into orbit? Been there, done that. Launching a new type of capsule-type spacecraft into orbit? Started doing that in 1961. Two astronauts in a spacecraft? Gemini 4, with two astronauts, took off from the Cape in 1965. Launching astronauts into orbit from Pad 39A of Cape Canaveral? Many times starting in the 1960’s … including the most famous liftoff of all time. And despite all that … it was all so new.
It was new in large part because of who was doing it. SpaceX is not a traditional NASA contractor. The Falcon 9 rocket which pushed Bob Behnken and Doug Hurley into orbit today was developed almost entirely with private funding, and without any guarantee of a NASA contract for services rendered. It was the same for the Dragon spacecraft that flew atop the Falcon 9. The propulsive-landing first stage was also developed by SpaceX. Thus, in another first, the successful landing of the Falcon 9 first stage marked the first human spaceflight in which the booster stage was propulsively landed, with the possibility of use again in the future.
The Dragon spacecraft itself was something that is sleek, new, and modern, even for the Space Age. Replacing a dizzying array of switches, buttons, knobs, and analog gauges were an array of touchscreens, neat, clean, and orderly. The tour of the Dragon given to us by the astronauts earlier this evening showed a spacecraft that is much roomier than the Apollo command module could ever hope to be. And the entirety of the assembly that roared off Pad 39A was smoother than any crewed launch vehicle to date.
But more than that, this just felt different. For a mission that was, on one hand, not much more than a simple mission of sending astronauts to the International Space Station, it attracted an inordinate amount of attention. This might not have been like watching Apollo 11 leave for the moon, but it did seem to garner the same level of interest present when John Young and Robert Crippen took the space shuttle Columbia on its maiden flight in 1981. There are reasons – transcendental ones – that go well beyond the historic nature of a private company developing and successfully launching a rocket and crewed spacecraft, largely independent of any governmental space agency, that made this mission different.
Elon Musk and SpaceX have made space cool. Sure, there was a lot of interest in the topic when I was a kid, growing up during and later, in the wake of the Apollo moon landings. Back then, space was seen as the proper province of government programs and not private entrepreneurs. And kids like me that were interested in it, well, we were kind of the nerdy ones. Then public interest faded for decades, with only us die-hards maintaining any real interest in the goings-on off-planet. Nowadays, Musk’s tireless advocacy for truly opening up the final frontier – backed by his actions in founding SpaceX and leading it to and through days like this – is having a cultural impact that could go far beyond that of Apollo. Culturally, the impact of that program began fading when Armstrong and Aldrin left the moon on that glorious July day in 1969. It fell straight off a cliff when Eugene Cernan and Harrison Schmitt left the moon for what was (at least for now) the final time in December 1972, relegating Apollo to museums and history books.
Instead, Musk has got people talking about space. Not just tech geeks, but average people with no particular reason to be interested in the topic. My wife, for one, received a text message from another housewife friend today letting her know that the launch was imminent. That came from a source I would not have expected, which made it’s arrival all the more satisfying.
Moreover, through the heavy lifting (pardon the pun) that Musk and SpaceX are doing, people can now actually talk about sending humans to Mars and living there permanently without the snickering and eye rolls of what not too long ago was considered pie-in-the-sky naivety. When a guy says he wants to send people to Mars and then founds his own rocket company that designs and builds rockets and crewed spacecraft and actually sends them into space, you can no longer brush it off with snide remarks. When he crushes launch costs and leaves former industry heavyweights like Boeing and Lockheed in the dust, it’s time to stop laughing. At that point, it’s time to stand up and take notice.
In that vein, one of the most satisfying phenomena I observed today was something that occurred multiple times on Facebook. Pictures, posted in various groups and pages, by proud parents of their young children, dressed up in homemade space suits, manning the controls of their makeshift spacecraft, waiting for this real-world launch to undoubtedly be followed by their own (for now) imaginary journeys into space. One little girl even used an iPad for an instrument panel, which was particularly fitting given the description above of the Dragon spacecraft.
You’ll have a hard time convincing most parents that their kids taking such an interest in opening the final frontier is a bad thing, especially given all of the focused study and knowledge that one needs to attain to get there. Thanks to Musk and his brilliant employees at SpaceX, these kids – unlike the generation of Apollo – may actually get to see the final frontier truly opened, the door kicked in never to be closed again. These kids, thanks to happenings like the one today, have a real chance of making their dreams into a permanent reality.
Godspeed and Ad Astra.
Every now and then you read a book that really impacts you. A book that simply sticks with you, one that, for days after you finish, you can’t get it out of your head – and don’t want to. It can be a novel, or maybe a non-fiction book, maybe something about history that makes you look at the world in a different way, or stretches you mind into a previously unknown shape. It may also become something about which you feel absolutely compelled to tell others. For me, the book that currently occupies that space is the incredible story of a defector from the prison-state of North Korea.
Originally published in 2015, Hyeonseo Lee’s The Girl with Seven Names is not merely a harrowing tale, it is a collection of them. These are stories that are all too real for the millions born in North Korea and for the intrepid few who dare to seek freedom by attempting escape from its bondage.
Ms. Lee’s book is subdivided into three parts. The first part chronicles her life from birth until her eventual escape. It includes multiple moves until her family finally settles in the town of Hyesan, on the North Korean border with China and within sight of the city of Changbai – they brighter lights of which eventually became a lure to the author. Some of what is revealed is unsurprising – the forced indoctrination, the public executions, the atomization of society, the forced reverence for the pathetically insecure “Dear Leader”. Other aspects were more surprising – such as a border with China that was frequently crossed in both directions, the amount of smuggling that occurs, and so on. In retrospect, one should not be surprised that a system as oppressive as that in North Korea produces so much bribery, black market commerce, and general corruption that filters all the way down to the lowest levels of society.
And speaking of the levels of society, the author educates the reader on the North Korean system of songbun, in which people are ranked within society in one of fifty-one gradations spanning over three broad categories – loyal, wavering or hostile. Ms. Lee rightfully notes that the system of songbun had created a society more stratified than that of a feudal society, and one in which upward movement is nearly impossible. Like all communist animal farms, that of North Korea is one in which all animals are equal, but some are most definitely more equal than others.
As Part One nears its conclusion, the author’s disillusionment with her home country grows, particularly during the famine of the mid-90’s which left about a million dead. Nearing the end of her high school years, facing college and adulthood, and the aforementioned allure of the lights of Changbai, the Ms. Lee decides to take a short trip across the river to get just a small taste of freedom before returning home to begin the next phase of life. As this first part ends with a walk across the frozen Yalu River, in what eventually became a one way journey.
Part Two chronicles Ms. Lee’s life as an illegal in China. In short order, the author finds out that while she is technically free from the bonds of North Korea, she is still not truly free. In addition to a myriad of other human rights abuses, the Chinese government’s miserable record on human rights includes the repatriation of North Korean defectors, sending most of them to a back to their prison-state and leaving them to a fate of hard labor, execution, or both. Thus, the author’s existence during her decade in China was a precarious one, forcing her to adopt new identities with the frequency of a spy in a John LeCarre novel (hence the seven names to which the title refers). In numerous instances she is nearly caught, escaping arrest with a combination of guile and luck. To complicate matters further, she managed to stay in communication with her mother and brother back in North Korea, bearing the weight of guilt regarding loved ones left behind. More than once her mother implored her to come home, assuring her the right people could be bribed to make her return a safe one.
I’ve mentioned elsewhere that my own mother is a defector from East Germany, crossing into West Berlin with her family when she was age 10. While the train ride she and her family took in 1953 was not without risks, their freedom was assured once they had crossed into West Berlin. Such was not the case for Ms. Lee, as crossing the border into China was only the beginning of a very long journey, one that was fraught with danger every step of the way. The fact that she did not go home despite the continuous hazard of being an illegal in China is a testament to her courage – and the incredible difficulty of escaping North Korea.
The third part of the book finds the author finally making it to Seoul, South Korea, and her eventual convincing of her mother and brother to defect. She returns to China and the border near her hometown and escorts them over 2000 miles into Laos. Along the way, the hazards of being caught are as ever present as they were in her previous decade as a Chinese illegal, only with higher stakes by having her mother and brother in tow. In Laos, her mother and brother are arrested and held in jail for months, although thankfully, not repatriated (apparently even the government of Laos is more humane than that of China – a low bar to hurdle). After exhausting all her options and running out of money to bribe the Laotion authorities, serendipity intervenes in the form of an Australian man who decides to help for no other reason than it was the right thing to do. Even a hardened misanthrope would have to reconsider his outlook after reading about this incident. With Ms. Lee receiving the funds she needs, she is able to spring her family from jail and finally get them into Seoul. Free at last.
Today, Ms. Lee spends a lot of her time as an activist for North Korean defectors and human rights in general. She wants the world to know the true fate of North Koreans, both those that remain and those that defect – both successfully and unsuccessfully. She has done multiple TED talks, one of which is embedded below. While North Korea still suffers under the boot of a third generation “leader” in Kim Jong-Un (or, as I refer to him, Pudgy Bucket of Baby Fat with the Worst Haircut Ever), Lee and others like her seek to shine the light of the international community on the horrible conditions imposed on North Koreans, the savage human rights abuses, and above all, a form of government for which no decent, civilized human being should give any quarter. Her goal is to see the Korean peninsula re-united, with the people of the North living under the banner of freedom. We should all say a prayer for the North Korean people, and root for Ms. Lee to one day to witness the realization of her dream.
Jared Max, former host on ESPN Radio and currently with Fox Sports, gives his own special tribute to Neil Peart and Rush through his description of last weekend’s action in the divisional round of the NFL Playoffs:
There are drummers, and then there are really good drummers. And then there is Neil Peart. It’s almost fitting of Peart that his death was not announced until today, January 10th, three days after his actual death on January 7th. Whereas others did things in simple time and merely kept the beat, Peart’s timing – in drums and in life – was never conventional. Hence the announcement of his death not on the day he died, but three days later. The beats never fell quite where they were expected.
There is not much I can say about Peart, the drummer, that hasn’t already been said. Just about every superlative imaginable has been used to describe his drumming, and a few have probably even been made up. Peart was simply so good at what he did that new words needed to be invented if one wanted to give an adequate description. And still, it fell short. You just had to listen to him play, and if were lucky, see him. Peart set a standard the drummers everywhere have been trying to live up to, with only a few able to even get within the ballpark. That’s not a criticism of those that can’t.
Part of the reason Peart was such an incredible talent on the drums has to do with his own philosophy for living. Whether by temperament or practice, Peart was a Stoic’s Stoic. He comported himself in a way that would have made Epictetus and Marcus Aerelius proud. Far from indulging in the perks of fame and fortune and losing his head, Peart shied away from the excesses of the rock star lifestyle. Instead of flying in a fancy jet between tour dates, as would be common for rockers of his stature, Peart rode his motorcycle between cities, choosing instead to indulge himself in nature and the world around him. Instead of chasing groupies and destroying hotels, Peart would sit quietly in his room, reading books, filling his head with knowledge.
And as an artist, he valued his integrity above all else. He was never content to simply go through the motions for a given song or a given album. It had to be his best. Nor would Peart, the chief lyricist of Rush, chase hits with sappy love songs and the like. He deplored the excess commercialization of rock music, as spelled out in the lyrics of one of Rush’s more popular songs, The Spirit of Radio.
From a personal perspective, the timing of the arrival of both Rush and Peart into my life was most serendipitous. In the spring of 1979, I purchased their breakthrough album, 2112. As Rush fans are well aware, 2112 revolves around themes of the individual vs. the collective, totalitarianism, and the human spirit’s unshakeable yearning to be free. Around that same time, I was having numerous, lengthy conversations with my maternal grandmother who, along with my grandfather, aunt, and mother, were defectors from the communist hellhole known as East Germany. Whereas Peart’s lyrics from 2112 introduced me to a fictional world in which the human spirit was crushed by a totalitarian government, the talks with my grandmother introduced me to one that was all too real. Individually, 2112 and the talks with my grandmother both left strong impressions on my. Together, those impressions reinforced one another to leave an indelible mark.
My story is just one of perhaps millions with regard to the influence of Neil Peart. The impact drummers have on their fans is through their drumming, and little more. They set an example of how to play drums. Peart, on the other hand did so much more. He set an example on how to live, how to maintain one’s self when the surrounding world is pulling in different direction, how to maintain one’s integrity through the ups and downs that life throws at all of us. And thankfully, so much of that is recorded for posterity.
Thank you, Neil, for being a shining example for all of us.
We’ve been waiting. Oh man, have we been waiting – over thirteen years, to be exact. I had begun to believe that the title of the their last album – 10,000 Days – was Tool telegraphing us the time it would take to see the next one. Thankfully, they beat that by a good fourteen years. Better yet, what they have finally delivered has made the wait all the more worth it.
Fear Inoculum – the digital version, anyway – clocks in at a hefty one hour and twenty-seven minutes. Not only is the album itself long, but six of the album’s ten tracks eclipse the 10-minute mark, with the longest clocking in at over fifteen. But it’s not merely the duration of the album or that of the individual tracks that is significant here. Every second counts on Fear Inoculum, which is more consistent in its excellence from start to finish than any of their previous releases.
Lyrically, the album continues the trend of introspection and contemplation started on 2001’s Lateralus, while dispensing with the rage-fueled catharsis of previous works dealing with institutional decay (Intolerance), the decadence of Los Angeles (Aeneima), or humanity’s lamentable will to fight each other over any and everything (Right in Two). On Fear Inoculum, Tool focuses in on the inner struggle of facing one’s fears (the title track, 7empest) and dealing with one’s aging and mortality (Invincible, Descending).
From a musical perspective, Fear Inoculum is stunning in its quality. The soloing in Adam Jones guitar work is as dynamic as its every been, while in plenty of other places he dishes out scores of power chords as meaty as a thick, sizzling ribeye. Danny Carey’s drumming exceeds even his own typical excellence, combining the rhythmic intricacy of Bill Bruford at his best while also employing plenty of Bonham-esque heavy thuds right when appropriate. Justin Chancellor’s bass work provides a nice, thick bottom to the music, wrapping perfectly around Carey’s drumming while keeping the listener engaged in guessing where the next beat will fall.
Although the album is stacked with good tracks, there are two in particular that stand out for me. Invincible is the first of these tracks. This one is positively infectious; it just gets into your bloodstream. The first seven minutes are a textbook example of slowly building tension. After the explosion, the song slows down, although Carery’s heavy drumming is active underneath, before the band makes one final, mad dash to the finish line. Throughout, the aging warrior tries to hang on to what was as Father Time strips it away.
Tears in my eyes chasing Ponce de Leon’s phantoms.
So filled with hope I can taste mythical fountains.
False hope, perhaps,
But the truth never got in my way before now.
Feel the sting. Feeling time bearing down.
7empest is the penultimate track on the album and possibly the ultimate track in Tool’s catalog. In its fifteen-plus minutes of running time, it encapsulates virtually everything that makes Tool great. After a delicate intro of about a minute and a half, Jones guitar snarls and lets the listener know that go time is rapidly approaching. Carey’s drums join in, and soon enough, the band punches it, the g-forces pushing the listener back into their seat from the sudden acceleration. The music builds to a first climax, before transitioning into a middle phase notable for Jones’ hypnotic, exotic soloing. Meanwhile, Carey’s drumming and Chancellor’s bass work provide a solid underpinning. A brief, (relatively) mellow interlude follows before the song picks up the pace and the band brings it to a close. It’s a very satisfying listen.
In fact, the whole album is a very satisfying listen. Fear Inoculum is an album that breaks enough new ground to sound fresh while still having the recognizable Tool sound. Lyrically, it is by far the most mature album they have made, perhaps owing to the wisdom accumulated over the years (most definitely including those from the last album to this one). After such a long delay, it’s fair to wonder when we will see the next Tool album, much less if we’ll see another Tool album. Should this turn out to be Tool’s swan song, they will have gone out on the highest of high notes. You can’t ask for much more than that.
I’ve been interested in the 50,000 foot view of what has been going on in the last several years politically and culturally with respect to things like the election of Trump, Brexit, the populist surge sweeping across Europe, an so on. Also, I am a podcast junkie, and listen to quite a number of them on a regular basis – arguably too many. Although I need to add yet another podcast to my list just slightly less than I need a really bad case of malaria, I have nevertheless stumbled across one that is particularly suitable for the interests discussed above – The Realignment, which you can find at the link. The first and only episode (so far) is an absolutely fascinating interview with JD Vance, who was the author of the equally fascinating Hillbilly Elegy from 2016. If you are into podcasts and into understanding what’s going on in the world right now, then this is one you won’t want to miss.
“It would be very interesting to speculate on what the human imagination is going to do with a frontierless world where it must seek its inspiration in uniformity rather than variety, in sameness rather than contrast, in safety rather than peril, in probing the harmless nuances of the known rather than the thundering uncertainties of unknown seas or continents. The dreamers, the poets, and the philosophers are after all but instruments which make vocal and articulate the hopes and aspirations and the fears of a people.
The people are going to miss the frontier more than words can express. For four centuries they heard its call, listened to its promises, and bet their lives and fortunes on its outcome. It calls no more” – Walter Prescott Webb, The Great Frontier
Webb’s prediction was correct, just as he feared.
We do miss the frontier more than words can express. We miss it so much that few can even contemplate its absence. But clearly, something is amiss. The political earthquakes presently rumbling across the planet are just symptoms of something bigger. Sure, we can validly attribute a multitude of causes to the present day state of the world. But undoubtedly, we miss the frontier. Man, do we ever.
Fifty years ago this July 20th, a five year old boy (yours truly) stood ossified in front of a black and white television in a living room in Lewiston, Idaho. While he didn’t fully appreciate the significance of what was happening, he knew it was a big deal. The cues from the adults in the room were ample evidence of that.
What the moment led to was a lifelong interest in space exploration, which included the devouring of one book after another on the topic, building plastic models of spacecraft, flying model rockets, and anything else that could satiate my appetite for all things space. More than that though, it created a hopeful anticipation for a certain future, a future of unlimited possibilities. Unfortunately, that future has yet to arrive. As Andy Tillison of the British progressive rock band The Tangent stated, the future was not as good as the book. Or, as venture capitalist Peter Thiel surmised, “we were promised flying cars, instead we got 140 characters.” Queue the golf clap.
What happened to us since that glorious day 50 years ago?
I always knew I’d do book reviews here someday. What I didn’t anticipate is that the very first one would be a book authored by Nikki Sixx, whose claim to fame is as the bassist of the now-retired heavy metal band Mötley Crüe. Spirit of Cecilia is not the place you would expect to find a review of a book authored by a heavy metal musician, particularly one from a band with a reputation as notorious as the one which is his claim to fame. Yet, for reasons I will discuss below, this powerful book is more relevant today than upon its original publication in 2007, and maybe even relative to the 10th Anniversary Edition (the one I read) released in 2017.
As the title suggests, the bulk of The Heroin Diaries is just that – entries in a diary. In particular, these are diary entries recorded by Sixx between Christmas 1986 and Christmas 1987, while he was in the midst of a vicious heroin addiction. It was an addiction that nearly cost him his life – and in fact did, for two minutes on December 23, 1987, before a determined paramedic revived him with two adrenaline shots to the heart. Interspersed the book’s diary entries are contemporaneous thoughts and accounts from people around Sixx, including bandmates, managers, and his mother (with whom his relationship was strained, to put it mildly), among others.
The opening entry finds Sixx alone in his mansion on Christmas Day 1986, shooting up, or as he describes it, “watching [his] holiday spirit coagulating in a spoon.” It’s not hyperbole to call it a depressing beginning. The events of the year that follows include the recording of an album, a tour, numerous misadventures, and an absolutely insane amount of drug consumption. This drug consumption went well beyond just the heroin which had him in its grip. It was the rock star lifestyle on steroids.
The diary entries range from lucid and clear-headed at one extreme to the mad ramblings of a mind spiraling out of control at the other. The more lucid entries show Sixx as someone keenly aware of being captive to something from which he desperately wants to be free. There is a point in the year in which he was able to get away from heroin in particular and drugs in general for ten days or so, but eventually the addiction sucks him back into its vortex. With regard to the more rambling entries, we find Sixx often times consumed by paranoia, hiding in his closet or flushing his stash (and effectively, hundreds of dollars) down the toilet for fear of being watched through his windows by the police, only to realize later that nothing of the sort actually occurred. This is followed in some instances by calling his dealer to obtain more drugs, becoming paranoid again after getting high, flushing the drugs again … you know the drill. Lather, rinse, repeat.
As a quick aside, one of the criticisms I have seen from a few reviewers of this book is that it somehow glorifies or glamorizes addiction. That opinion is, for the lack of a better term, bat-shinola crazy. Many of the various diary entries and associated anecdotes in the book range from repulsive, disgusting, to horrifying, to heartbreaking, and other emotions that are far removed from anything resembling glamour. Nobody with a modicum of sanity would find glamour in drug addiction after reading this book.
Among the cast of characters surrounding Sixx in his race into hell are numerous enablers that will enrage the reader. Chief among them are the record company types and assorted managers and others who were only too happy to indulge Sixx in his addiction as long as the band (for which he was the main creative force) was making them money. Then there are the dealers who made their living by preying on Sixx’s weakness. I’ll except his bandmates from this dishonorable mention, since all of them were dealing with their own demons at the time. This applies most keenly to the band’s guitarist (Mick Mars) who has long suffered from a particularly debilitating form of arthritis known as ankylosing spondylitis.
On the flip side, a hero of note in the book is a man named Allen Kovac, Sixx’s personal manager. Subsequent to the events of the diaries themselves, Sixx had one brief relapse with heroin in which Kovac issued an ultimatum – you can work with me or you can have your heroin. But not both. In one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for Sixx, Kovac’s tough love served as the catalyst for his final break from this nasty drug, and was instrumental in leading to full sobriety.
While the diary portion is extremely tough reading, Sixx’s chronicling of his life subsequent to the events of 1987 serves as a happy and uplifting ending. As he states in the book, the beauty is in the recovery. In the 10th Anniversary edition, the “posthumous” adventures, as he calls them, come in two parts, the first leading up to the book’s original 2007 publication, and the second covering the remaining time up to 2017.
Reading through the author’s description of his post-addiction life, it is at times hard to reconcile that it’s written by the same person who scribbled the diary entries describing the insanity of Christmas 1986 to Christmas 1987. While some of difference can be attributed to wisdom and maturity gained over the years, it is also apparent that the clarity of a completely sober mind is a significant (if not the dominant) factor. At the end of the story we find Sixx enjoying marriage and fatherhood far more than he ever enjoyed any rock star excess, and we find a man indulging in creative passions including his love of photography instead of sinking into a debilitating drug addiction. The contrast between the Nikki Sixx of today and the one from 1987 could not be more striking.
Ultimately, The Heroin Diaries is a story of redemption.
One might wonder why Sixx would chose to bare his soul as he did in The Heroin Diaries; why he would want to show himself at his absolute worst. Some of this undoubtedly is spurred by the opioid crisis currently ravaging parts of the country. Understandably, as a recovering addict, he wants to help others through prevention and recovery. On the prevention side, a reading of the entries in his diary would be more than enough to dissuade almost anybody from trying heroin, cocaine, or other hard drugs. On the recovery side, the reader will know that if Sixx can climb out of the hole he was in then there is hope for anyone that truly wants to break the chains of addiction. The opioid crisis will be solved one person at a time, by preventing people from starting down the road Sixx traveled and by demonstrating to present addicts and those around them that their situation, no matter how bad it seems, is not hopeless. With lives being ruined and families being torn apart by the scourge of opioid addiction, this message is needed now more than ever.
Thank you for sharing, Nikki.