In 845, a Viking raid on Easter Sunday forces Paris to pay its first ransom in gold. It won’t be the last. As Charlemagne’s empire collapses into civil war, West Francia fragments into chaos—and the Vikings come.

Follow the story of an empire divided at the Treaty of Verdun, the desperate fortification of Paris’s bridges, and the legendary Great Siege of 885-886 that lasts nearly a year. Watch a young count named Odo defend his city against impossible odds, then rise from the ashes to become king. And discover how the threat from the north reshapes medieval politics forever, leading to the Treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte and the dynasty that would rule France for the next 800 years.

This is the age that made modern Europe. This is Fire and Fury.

I have been writing these letters to you in my head almost from the moment you died. There is no real theme, or end-goal with them; they are just my way of saying the things I would say were you still here. You are the best friend I have ever had so, of course I would want to talk to you about anything and everything happening in my life.

I never bothered writing them down before because I knew some would worry that I was “working through things” and offer unsolicited advice. And you, more than anyone, know how much that makes me want to throat-punch a motherfucker. I’ve learned to rein in that urge. That, coupled with my wife being gone for a long, long time, made me feel that now is the time to get the words in front of my eyes and out of my head.

But too, I wanted to put these words out into the world for people navigating their own shit. Not just grief, but all of the cochinada that throws at us all.

There’s this kid I know and love who got some of my words in my shitty hand-writing tattooed onto their body. The tattoo artist had to make my writing a little more legible (I am so glad you’re not here to give me shit about that), but still — my words. After some imposter syndrome passed, I realized that sometimes my words do matter. If these letters can make anyone feel less crazy, less alone, and closer to centered even for a moment… well dad, I think we will have done a great thing.

You want to know something I didn’t expect when I started this little endeavor last week? I didn’t expect the usual nagging voice in my head — that little fucker that reminds me of every single shortcoming, mistake, and failure in a lifetime full of shortcomings, mistakes, and failures — I didn’t expect that voice to becomes so dimmed. I did not expect that writing to you would bring me your voice in my head.

Your voice is so much better for my soul.

In case I haven’t told you, and just in case you can read this over my shoulder from wherever you are, I want you to know: you were never anything less than everything I needed in a father. I was a hard child and you were a safe place to land. I was too serious so goddamn always and you did everything you could to encourage me to hold onto my childhood. I didn’t know how to tell you that the childhood was the hardest part without making you feel like it was somehow your fault.

That thing that was broken inside of me wasn’t because of you. The misfortune of your vicinity made you the bearer of the brunt of my anger. I will always be sorry for that.

I told you all of this when you visited me in Ohio. I am so fucking glad I got that opportunity.

You told me to stop talking because you knew. You knew when I was four and beating on you to get away from me because I wanted what I didn’t have. You knew all the times I ran away that I was running from the one thing I couldn’t ever get away from - myself. You knew when I chose my step-monster over you because you understood that, even though she was fucking awful to me, she was at least there. And you knew the day I moved out — the day after graduating high school.

You ate a lifetime of shit served by a mini-you.

I know at times it broke you. But you hid those as best you could.

When I tell people that my dad is the strongest person I have ever known it isn’t because you can beat the shit out of their dad (which, let’s be honest, you could totally do), it’s because you had the hardest son in the history of the world to raise. A boy who would have permanently broken any other type of parent. I was not easy. I was rarely kind to you. I wanted so fucking much to make everyone else feel the cavern of empty within me. I wanted to be loved. Then when I was loved I wanted it to come from someone else.

God, I was a bitch of a child.

So when I finally called you that one day not long after moving out to thank you for making me so much stronger than any of my friends seemed to be — needing mommy to help them set up their dorms, send them money, wipe their ass in college — I was mostly fine.

And a bit of a pretentious twat, apparently.

I would say we fought, but let’s be honest: you were letting me think we were fighting when I had already seen you snap a grown man’s let in half with one punch and put another man in the hospital when you beat him with your forearm because you had already broken your hand on his face.

So, thanks for not killing me. There were plenty of times when you should have because, Jesus I was a little shit.

And while you may not have killed me when you probably should have, you did let me fly, fall, and throw myself against any number of hard surfaces. You were there to pick me up, kick me in my ass when I needed it, dust me off and hug me when I needed that, and reel me back in when I needed that, too. I didn’t realize you were letting me try and potentially fail in the safest possible way.

You never did something for me, though. No, that was a solid black line you never crossed and sometimes I hated you for it. But that day I finally called you to thank you… it all made sense.

In a million lifetimes, dad, I would pick you again every single time.

I had been sober a few years and living in Ohio when I got the call the that you were in the hospital, the result of a drunken night and a brawl in a bar. Or outside the bar. Or who cares where it was, really.

I flew home in time to get to you before checkout. You told me that some assholes were picking on some young gay kid, and you intervened. For your efforts, you got jumped.

Honestly, dad, I was not used to seeing you on the receiving end of a beatdown. My entire life was filled with you doling it out to bigger, seemingly stronger dudes. Here you were in a hospital bed broken by other men.

Once grandma’s fear subsided it gave way to that passionate Latina anger. She. Was. Pissed. At the assholes who did this to her son, sure. But mostly, she was angry at you.

So you checked yourself into outpatient rehab and told me to go back to Ohio - you had this. I said no. I said I would stay as long as it took for you to get your feet under you again. I went with you to a few meetings, saw you putting in the work and, after a couple of weeks I started looking at plane tickets.

You told me my sobriety inspired you. That my example was enough for you to stay on the path of sobriety. I thought that was enough.

This is where my regret begins.

I should have stayed. I should have moved back home right then and there. I should have walked through your sobriety with you. If I had done that, you would still be here.

But we all know how the movie ended. I didn’t move back to California like a dutiful son. I went back to my life in Ohio. I stayed in almost constant contact with you and with grandma — just to make sure I was getting the unvarnished truth. And I went on with my life.

I didn’t stay sober. The how and why of my drinking again is unimportant for this letter. All that matters is that I was drinking again. I was drinking when you came out to visit me. I was drinking when you fell in love with my little piece of the midwest. I was drinking when I decided — and made a grand gesture of telling you — that I was going to buy a house big enough for you to come live with me once you retired.

I wanted to repay you for all you did for me. It became something of an obsession for me. To the point where I put down money on a place on a lake the next county over.

Then I got that call.

And I got very, very drunk very, very often in the days leading up to your funeral. I behaved in ways that I am so glad you weren’t alive to see, honestly.

We buried you. I went back to Ohio. I kept drinking. I promised I would quit, but that was a lie. When I was sober I was miserable. I would catch myself thinking about all of the what-ifs. When I drank I was miserable until I was numb. Then I was a monster.

I eventually got sober again. The how and why aren’t really pertinent to this letter. What is important is that getting sober meant dealing with my own guilt, my own regret.

Once I started drinking again, it gave you permission to begin drinking again. At least, that was what the voice in my head had convinced me of. The monologue in my head went something like this:

If you’d just moved back to California to be with your dad when he was getting sober, he might still be here. You could have walked him through his sobriety and, in the process, kept your own. Failing that, you could have simply NOT started drinking again. You were a beacon to your father; an example of sober living. But no, you had to be a selfish prick, and this is the natural end result. It’s as much on you as it is on your dad. You could have saved him. You piece of shit.

Dad, I don’t tell you this to make you feel bad. I tell you this because I need you to see that this is not where my story ends. The guilt, the self-abhorrence, the overwhelming desire to drink again - none of that beat me.

Yeah, maybe if I had moved back to California when you first tried getting sober - MAYBE you would still be here. Maybe if I had never started drinking again you would have held onto my example, or at least you would have called me before ever picking up again yourself. And MAYBE you would still be here.

But maybe is a nothing word; it’s a way to pretend a world into existence that is never going to be real.

What is real is that you drank again. And you died as a result. No maybe can change any of that.

I am sober.

Maybe there were any number of times along the way I should have died. Maybe.

But I didn’t.

I wish I had never picked up again. I wish I had moved back to California to be with you while you got sober. I wish you were still here and you could visit us in Paris and you could fall in love with my wife and my city.

And maybe, in some parallel universe, that is exactly what happens.

Maybe.

I wanted to tell you - I wrote a book. Two so far, actually. For kids because your niece little warrior face inspired me.

Since I cannot draw I have had to utilize AI to create images for me. I would explain AI to you dad, but you’d probably make some lame joke like, “AI can’t draw either!” Then laugh way too hard at your own joke.

As I was gathering some images together this morning I caught myself thinking of some of the old photos I have of you. So I dropped this one into ComfyUI and asked it to clean it up. Suddenly, this faded image of my two heroes in the time before my existence came through a lot clearer. I was not prepared for the tears that would come as I sat here staring at my MacBook.

I never asked what lead to this photo of you two, or even how old you were here. I only know it was before my time because Uncle Charlie was away in the military by the time I came along.

Now you’re both gone.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot since last night’s letter. My two heroes are dead and gone to wherever we go next. I know Uncle Charlie was a believer. I know that it filled him with self-loathing because he was a gay man trying to please his church full of fuck-heads who did not approve. I remember when his ex, R- got married to a woman. I thought it was strange. That’s when I learned about conversion therapy. I met R’s wife once at grandma’s house not long after Uncle Charlie died. She was sweet, demure, just sort of there.

I ended up with his journals after you died. He struggled with his faith and homosexuality big time. I hated reading it. The self-loathing of it all was enough to make me wish god was real so I could kick Him in the fucking teeth for causing this kind of pain in a man I knew to be better than almost every other man gracing this big, blue ball.

When you died, grandma took small solace in believing that you and Uncle Charlie would be reunited again. You weren’t the believer that he was. Your god was less defined, less ecclesiastical. Your god seemed to be the connection with… all of us? Nature?

We never really talked about it except that one time I tossed out the Book of Mormon. You weren’t angry that I chucked in the garbage so much as that I did it to prevent you from reading it. I was heavy into my own religious bullshit at the time and, as young believers often do, I believed my faith was the only faith.

You, on the other hand, were always curious. Always searching, but never really explaining what it was you were looking for. You told me you don’t pray to a god in heaven, but you “do pray, or meditate, or whatever you wanna call it,” when you’re alone. That sometimes you removed yourself from places just to do that very thing. You tried explaining that you didn’t need a god in a book when you can see god reflected in the world around you.

I don’t know if you expected to see Uncle Charlie again. When Jen died you didn’t feed me the usual line of “she’s in a better place,”

just,

“she’s gone and I am so sorry, mijo.”

I know that, save for memories and dreams, I don’t expect to see you again. When I die I expect - hope - that the energy that fills my soul will return to the stars and dance around the universe until the stuff of me is needed somewhere else. Not in some reincarnation way; in an energy never dies, it simply transforms sort of way.

That’s why I spend so much of my time looking up, honestly. I like to imagine that the stuff of you is floating around Orion while Uncle Charlie is lingering near the moon. I don’t know why, I just know that when I look at either I think of each of you and you seem not so far away.

I must have been about four when Grandma Lupe died. What was she? 103? 130? To the four year old mind those numbers are interchangeable. What I remember is that she was old, tiny, in a wheelchair, and her hands were soft and blue. Her skin was loose and cool to the touch.

By the time I was five my best friend in the world died. I didn’t know BeeBee was Jewish when we were playing on Augusta. It wasn’t til he died and I saw him with that funny hat in his casket. I thought I was Jewish, too. He was my best friend so, obviously we were the same. I wanted a hat to match his. I don’t remember when I learned it was actually called a yarmulke. He looked like a beautiful porcelain doll. I was too afraid to touch him because I was convinced I would break him.

And, of course, we shared a brick wall with a cemetery in those days.

Death was so much with us.

So were ghosts.

I had an asthma attack and you rushed me to the hospital. Once the doctors took care of me and sent us on our way I was surprised to see BeeBee on the elevator. I thought it was funny that I could see him and you couldn’t. The elevator still had a seat from the old timey days when it had an operator and I had to stop you from sitting on BeeBee’s lap.

There was a lot of death between Grandma Lupe’s time and yours. Gangs, drugs, old age, suicide, accidents, AIDS, and even malaria.

So much death in one lifetime.

You would think it would make me angry, or cynical.

I was angry for a time. When you died. We both know you didn’t have to go. You should be here to see your gaggle of nieces and nephews. You should be here to meet your son and daughters-in-law. We won’t ever know if you drove your motorcycle into that wall on purpose or because you were drunk. We do know that you got drunk on purpose, so…

The anger of you leaving when and how you did subsided long ago. It was easy to process once I accepted that you have so many of the same demons in your head that I have in mine. You have the same doubts and self-loathing that comes of being unwanted by the person who should love you by default.

In your case it was your father.

Where I chose not to have children in part out of fear of becoming my mother, you had me in spite of having one of the worst fathers in recorded history. And you excelled beyond even the most lofty aspirations. All of your broken bits made you the perfect man to raise me with all of my sharp edges.

But that’s not what this letter is about.

Forgiving you for leaving us the way you did was difficult work, but easier to do than forgiving you for how you left one of my siblings believing it was his fault. ‘If’ is one hell of a burden for someone left behind.

IF I had gone with him to the bar…

IF I had called him back…

IF…

He’d still be here.

Watching my brother, C- carry that around with him for years was a little harder to get over. You did that to him. You put your son in a position to carry an unfair, overwhelming burden.

A good father doesn’t do that to his son. Not on purpose, at least.

So I had to convince myself that there was no way you rode into that wall intentionally, right?

Right?

My brother is okay now. Married to a feisty little thing he’s been in love with most of his life. Seeing him happy is one of the best things I have ever seen.

You really should be here for that.

Tomorrow is Veterans Day. You always called me on that day. Which is funny to me because you served, too. I think it was an excuse to hear my voice.

I remember a call you made to me on September 11th. Yes, THAT September 11th.

I was not prepared for the sound of your voice to be so full of fear. You are the strongest man I have ever known so as I sat in that parking lot talking to you on the phone, hearing you almost broken, pleading with me not to re-enlist I found myself detaching from my own mind. I felt my fingers dig deep into my truck’s steering wheel. I wanted to hurt something, someone for what was done on that day.

I have to do SOMETHING, dad.

Not that, mijo. Not that.

You knew I was an idealist. And reckless. Not a good combination.

Honestly, how the hell did you stay sane raising me?

I didn’t re-enlist. Between you and me, I am not sure they would have even taken me back. Being invited to leave the military- not kicked out - just told, “we want you to stay, but we’re not sad you’re leaving,” is a weird breakup.

When Dick Cheney died last week I wished I could call you. I played the conversation in my head.

Dick Cheney died, dad.

I saw the news.

The world’s a better place.

Not for everyone, mijo. I’m sure his daughter is going to miss her daddy.

Yeah, well-

Yeah well nothing. A little girl is burying her daddy, whatever you think of him.

And I would have said something smartass and you would have reminded me that I was lucky not to be close enough to smack.

Then… well then we would have had the real talk. The hundreds of thousands dead because of him. The love of money guised as love of country. And my belief that, as I observe what has become of my beloved country, the terrorists have finally won.

And you would listen. The silence would hang between us for a moment that feels like an eternity.

You wouldn’t disagree with me. You would simply remind me that I am still here. I still have love and beauty in my life. You would say something like the type of government we all live under doesn’t change any of that. If it ever does change that it will be because I allow it to change me.

Your peace is your responsibility, mijo.

Why do you always have to be right, Viejo?

And you would laugh that big laugh of yours that fills the entirety any and every space you occupy. Then some part of my soul that I wasn’t even aware was lacking would fill to the brim again.

It’s a Sunday in Paris. I have been here a little over two (three) years now. I sometimes remember how surprised and impressed you were that I wanted to move here after Jen died. You, more than anyone, seemed to understand that I was adrift and needed something, anything, to steer by.

And Paris seemed like a good idea. You tried to help, but money was always tight.

So I changed course and joined the Air Force. And honestly, could you really see me sticking with Disney for any length of time? That insufferable little twat mouse and all his annoying friends; and so many children. So I went to Texas for six weeks instead.

But your boy did eventually make it to Paris. With the help - honestly, because of - a beautiful woman who somehow celebrates those parts of me that I have always felt I had to hide away. I’ll tell you all about her in another letter.

Within days of arriving in Paris one of your other sons showed up for a visit. We’d barely had time to put towels in the guest room when A- showed up with his little minion.

Dad, you should see her. Your granddaughter has the beautiful oval face of a Mexica warrior. She is fierce like one, too. Maybe a bit too surly for my brother’s liking, but she reminds me a lot of me. She’s a young girl with an old soul.

Nobody is born with an old soul. ‘Old soul’ is one of those misnomers that hides the reality; she grew up fast because she had to. My niece is being forced to grow up without a mama. A kid needs their mama and when they are forced to go without a part of them breaks and never heals quite right.

You saw that with me and I could see it immediately with her. This amazing little girl was carrying a burden without the ability to really articulate that so someone might help just a little. I tried to be for her what I needed at her age. We had one of the best talks, ironically enough, at Disney. Waiting for A- and my wife to get through one of those horrible rides that drops you so suddenly your stomach is still a few stories above you when you land. We sat - I on a bench and her on the ground - and talked about so many things.

My amazing niece let me in ever so slightly and I saw it.

I saw the broken bits and the beauty.

I wanted to scoop her up and assure her that it will all be better one day, but the more she talked the more I heard my wife remind me that sometimes a woman doesn’t need a man to fix anything, she just needs him to shut up and listen. So I got down on the ground with her and did just that.

Honestly dad, I caught myself hoping the other two would be in line for hours and hours. There is a part of me that is always going to live in that moment. She talked about, well, things that are hers to share so I will only say she gave me a part of herself that I cherish more than a thing that can be bought in any store. Even a Parisian store.

Throughout their time visiting - and especially after that little conversation I started to notice something beautiful.

I noticed that your son and your granddaughter are the best of you.

Don’t come at me with your, “I love all my kids equally,” bullshit. This isn’t that; this isn’t about quantity.

My baby brother is the father you would want any of us to be. He is the man who exceeds the lot of us. I watch him with my niece and think, “my god, he doesn’t even realize how good he is. He just thinks he’s doing what he’s supposed to and nothing more.” So many parents can’t even be bothered to do the minimum and here is your son creating a world for your granddaughter to thrive in.

And in the time since they’ve visited I have watched your granddaughter take flight and find her wings and her voice. You would be so amazed by her. My baby brother - your son - is raising a warrior queen and I wish you could see it.

I wish you could stand on the periphery with me and, from time to time, put a hand on A-’s shoulder and whisper, “I am so proud of you, of the man that you are, of the father you’ve become.”

I don’t really like babies. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with them, it’s just that, as someone who does not possess the parental inclination I find them rather dull. They don’t really do anything. They’re these demanding little human burritos who cry when they need food or their butts wiped.

Until they’re actually old enough to be influenced by their dear, sweet, AMAZING uncle Rudy I prefer them in photos than in person.

Of course, once those babies become kids I tend to be easily influenced myself. My niece, for example, has had a profound influence on me in ways she likely won’t fully comprehend for years.

Her story is ultimately hers to tell, but she is a fierce little thing. Truly an impressive human being. She looks the part, too. I remember thinking, she looks like that princess in that one picture we all saw growing up.

That picture is of the painting Grandeza Azteca by Jesus Helguera and growing up it was everywhere. The image depicts the Legend of Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl.

The story goes something like this: the emperor sent Popocatépetl off to war, promising him Iztaccíhuatl as his wife when he returned. Iztaccíhuatl’s father presumed he would die in battle. Meanwhile, Iztaccíhuatl was told that Popocatépetl had died in battle when in fact he had not, and believing the news, she died of grief. When Popocatépetl returned to find his beloved dead, he took her body to a spot outside Tenochtitlan and kneeled by her grave in grief. The gods covered them with snow and changed them into mountains. Iztaccíhuatl’s mountain is called “Sleeping Woman” because it resembles a woman lying on her back, and it is often covered with snow. Popocatépetl became an active volcano, raining fire on Earth in blind rage at the loss of his beloved.

I wish I could tell you that I remembered that story from my childhood. And it is very likely I was told it at some point, but I still had to look it up. In my memory she was a warrior, not a princess. My niece is both.

I would never have bothered researching that story were it not for her.

It ended up being the beginning of a sort-of obsession for me. I wondered what else I didn’t know about my own ancestors. I know that chocolate, avocados, corn and a whole lot more came from them, but I wanted to learn about the parts erased.

As an atheist who loves religious mythology I started with a simple question: Who were our gods before christians destroyed them?

You guys, I discovered a pantheon that rivals that of ancient Greeks and the Norse Vikings. Creation stories, bickering gods, a robust and multi-layered after life.

I was initially angry that so much of our culture and rich history was all but erased and replaced with some white-washed version of a middle eastern hippy in order to exert control. But that gave way to excitement because I am preternaturally curious and have devoured anything I can find on our lost gods.

I also realized that I could not possibly be the only middle-aged Chicano who was never taught about our ancestors so…

I decided to create something. A book. At first. Then it bloomed into two books - one in English and the other in Spanish. Then it morphed into a series.

A series of kids books.

The First In a Series

So my nieces and nephews never have to wonder where they came from. Frankly, so I can learn more about my own ancestral history. And it won’t be confined to just the gods - although that could take up an entire lifetime. No, there will be ancient stories reimagined, cultural history.

This is just the beginning. If the gods are as kind as my curiosity is relentless, I’ll go further back—to the Olmecs, the Toltecs, and all the stories in between. My nieces and nephews deserve to know. And honestly, so do I.

I had written an entire piece about the events of the last few days, but as I got to the end of it I realized it is not going to change anyone’s mind. If people want to mourn a dead bigot they are going to mourn a dead bigot.

In the end I found myself mad at myself for giving those few fuckheads my energy. I should have focused on the people I knew would become targets because, let’s face it, they are the same people who Charlie Kirk hisownself targeted. Seriously, fuck that guy.

The queer kids, the trans kids, the black and brown kids, the jewish kids, the muslim kids, the kids who simply don’t fit into the neat little gentrified, christian, Charlie Kirk/Stephen Miller/Nick Fuentes/Ben Shapiro/MAGA worldview - those are the ones that deserve my attention.

And when I said “kids” I don’t just mean those of you that are under the legal age. I mean all of you, even my elders. You deserve to have a country that allows you to live and breathe freely. To exist without fear of being demonized, or threatened by weak men who scapegoat you to make up for their own shortcomings. I guess I use the term “kids” because so many of you are young enough to be my child and I wish so much that you were all protected and safe from the likes of the dead bigot.

I am so sorry that we didn’t create a country worthy of you.

You deserve a world where you’re not othered. Where all of things that make you different on the surface are recognized for what they really are - a beautiful contribution to the delicious and gorgeous mosaic that makes up humanity. You deserve a world where you are never questioned for succeeding, but are celebrated and admired. You deserve a world where you can love freely, openly, and without fear.

Until we can have a country - a world - like that, I promise to have your back. I see you and as long as I exist you have at least one ally. If the bigots come for you, they’ll have to come through me. And when we finally get a world like that, I’ll celebrate so loudly you’ll beg me to stop embarrassing you in front of your friends.

When I was four or five I lived on Fletcher Drive in LA across the street from some park whose name I forgot long ago. I was in that park one day when a film crew was shooting something. I watched from a distance and decided I wanted to do that too. So I marched over to the guy I thought was in charge and asked if I could. He was amused and told me I needed a parent’s permission so I ran my happy ass across the street to our apartment and interrupted my dad’s Dodgers game. A massive no-no; Dodgers games were my dad’s time to himself.

Dad was annoyed and disbelieving. But I was a pain in the ass about it and he knew his son was a relentless little shit, so he acquiesced and walked across the street with me. I don’t remember what was said, or if anything was signed. I do know that two weeks later we were in Hollywood recording a back to school commercial for The May Company.

I wanted to do a thing so I did the fucking thing.

When I was in little league I was always infield. I hated it. Pony League tryouts were coming and I told my dad I wanted to play centerfield. He warned me that it was going to take a lot of hard work. I said okay. He ran my legs off shagging flyballs until I couldn’t walk and carried me home. For days and days. I ended up starting centerfielder on the eventual league champions.

I wanted to do a thing so I did the fucking thing.

My brother suggested I try my hand at stand-up comedy after dad died. “You’re funny and you could do some Christopher Titus type shit about dad.” I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote some more. I went to the San Jose Improv on an open mic night and the place was packed (if you know comedy, this is not typical for open mics) because they brought in a headliner who was a massive draw. The kid gonig up before me was scared when he saw the size of the crowd. It was his first time, too.

“Are you nervous?” he asked me.

“Nope.”

I wasn’t remotely nervous. “I have an army of people who love me and whatever happens tonight, that isn’t gonna change.” I got on stage and killed. Turns out telling stories about my old man was as funny as it was healing. It ended up being my job for a few years.

My point is simple, I decide I want to do a thing and then I fucking do the thing.

And sometimes I fail.

When that happens I get in a dark hole and forget who the fuck I am.

And today I am in that hole because for the last month I have been busting my ass to become something and I failed. It was a job I really, really wanted but did not get. Not for lack of trying. Not because I am not good enough - if I had been hired I would have kicked ass and made the powers that be so fucking glad they chose me.

I tried. I failed.

And that happens. We - you, me, everyone - tries, and gets knocked on our ass from time-to-time.

It suuuuuccccckkkkksssss.

But it happened. I sat with it. I let the emotions wash over me; let the knot in my stomach keep me from a delicious breakfast; let myself feel like absolute ass for an hour.

Now it’s time to get on with it. Now it’s time to remember exactly who I am.

I am the kid who ran his legs off til I couldn’t walk. I am the kid who said, “I can do that,” and then fucking did it. I am the guy who killed at every room in the Comedy Store.

I am my father’s child.

Postscript - I want to apologize for neglecting to write the story I started. I need to work and I allowed that to consume my time over the last several weeks. I promise to get back to it with a fervor.

-R

This article is from the original Chicano in Paris recently moved here to its new home.

It’s not something I keep a secret from people: I am an alcoholic.

I also feel like I have shared my story so many times that it feels like I’m on autopilot anymore when I tell it.

I woke up in the middle of the California desert with no recollection of how I got there in my wife’s car. I was shirtless for some reason. I had so many missed calls and messages on my phone I just deleted them all after listening to the first couple. My wife looking for me. My brother looking for me. My sister looking for me. I started the car and drove home, flashes of my shitty behavior the night before coming back.

My god, I was a shit. To my wife most of all. But to everyone who loved me, really.

I got home and my wife was waiting. Fear giving way to relief, then anger. I had failed and hurt her in ways I would consider unforgivable.

“Fix your shit, or get out.”

And that was day one of my sobriety.

Of course, I am leaving out a lot of the gory details in this re-telling. My wife may read this and she doesn’t need to relive one of the worst nights of our life together. Plus, the shame I still feel is really none of your fucking business. I share those details when it is appropriate at meetings in a church basement in Paris.

—

I had tried sobriety once before. Made it six years and a few months before I duped myself into believing that what was true about me was a lie despite all the evidence.

I can have this glass of wine.

I can have this shot of tequila.

I can have this case of beer in one sitting.

I did rehab the first time I got sober. Against my will, but still, I went and participated. Once I got out I skipped the whole recommended regimen of 90 meetings in 90 days. Fuck the Big Book. Fuck sponsorship. I just need to not drink.

How hard could that really be?

And, being the arrogant prick that I am, I relished my sense of superiority. “Oh my god, *person* is so embarrassing when they drink,” while conveniently forgetting the time I woke up in a mess of myself in my own driveway.

“I don’t do that anymore so, clearly, I am superior to *person*.”

I was what some call a dry drunk.

I did no work on myself. NONE.

My thinking went: if drinking was my problem and I am not drinking, clearly I have eliminated the problem.

But drinking wasn’t the problem. Drinking was a symptom. It took my ass sitting in a psychologist’s office for two years to realize that I was an alcoholic. Of course, by the time I hit the shrink’s chair, I was already drinking again. Can you imagine that?

I was willing to do the work to fix my broken bits, but I also wanted to keep slamming the hammer against my own skull, never thinking that I should stop that.

I can have this glass of wine.

I can have this shot of tequila.

I can have this case of beer in one sitting.

You see, therapy was amazing at forcing me to deal with the damage done to me by outside forces. Nothing could stop the damage done to me by me.

Except for me, of course.

—

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So on that first day of my second sobriety I had to choose.

Fix my shit.

Or get the fuck out.

I was in the guestroom for the foreseeable future. So I wrote the things that were in my head, went to meetings, and got to work on doing the work.

I hated meetings at first. Remember what I said about being an arrogant prick? I sat there with these drunks telling their stories still believing that somehow I was better than them.

Then I would come home, go to my room, and write. I would force myself to take the demons out of their box and poke at them. Remember the game Operation? In my mind’s eye that is exactly what it was like. Only, there was no little buzz for hitting an edge. If I hit an edge I could lose myself again to the self-hate, the belief that I was as worthless as drunk me liked to remind me that I am. If I hit an edge I would be reminded of all the fucking horrible shit I did when I was drunk.

For me, the only way it could really work, was to write it down, look at it, acknowledge that yeah, I did this shitty thing to *fill in the blank*. I told my sponsor - an old fucker who fellated his own shotgun once or twice as drunk him reminded him of his own worthlessness before he decided it was time to fix his shit or get the fuck out.

“This is a good exercise, really. But it can’t be all of it because if you’re not careful, if you only focus on the shitty things you did, you’ll spiral into the self-hate that helped get you into this mess in the first place. You are not ONLY the bad things you do when you drink. You have good in you, too. Maybe when you write you can try to remind yourself of something good about yourself. And if that’s too hard, maybe just write something good about your wife or your favorite sports team - just, write something good to hold onto. Eventually, you’ll find it easier to write good, gentle things about yourself.”

So I did.

And all these years later, though I do not journal everyday anymore, it is the first thing I do when I feel myself slipping into those thoughts of self-doubt because those thoughts turn into self-hate really quickly. And like *sponsor* said to, I make it a point to write something good. To remind me.

—

That’s the heart of what this is really about. We don’t stay sober just by not drinking — we stay sober by doing the work, even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.

That’s why I created the 90 Days Strong Journal. It’s not some perfect solution or polished workbook. It’s just a place — a simple structure — for anyone navigating early sobriety to show up every day, face the hard stuff, and still find a way to hold on to something good.

If you’re just starting out, or starting again, or walking with someone who is, this journal might help. That’s all it’s meant to do.

You can check it out here: 90 Days Strong

And soon — very soon — there will be an online web-app to accompany the journal. The web-app will be free, store none of your personal data save for your login.

If you’re trying to get sober I am cheering for you. Give yourself grace. Be patient. If you stumble, get back up, dust yourself off, remember that you are a badass, and get back after it.

If you love someone struggling with getting sober just know you are not alone.

I have been writing, just not here. It’s nothing personal, I just haven’t felt like I have anything to say in the long form that hasn’t already been said better by any number of more talented writers.

Also, I am just tired. The world is such shit right now. It feels so much like the bad guys are winning. It’s even worse when people who tell you they love you are supporting the very bad guys that would demean you for who you love, the color of your skin, your gender, your faith - or absence of it. I know love is not always a simple, or even an easy thing, but I do believe that love is NOT siding with those who make it okay to dehumanize those you profess to love.

So I’ve been stuck. Is this world even worth fighting for?

Then as I was organizing my photos after spending the weekend out and about snapping shots around Paris I stumbled across an old meme I’d saved.

That first sentence carries so much, don’t you think? Seems I have forgotten lately that I don’t have to fix the world. It’s arrogant to think I can. Sure, I can make my small part of it better, but anymore that feels akin to shoveling water off the Titanic with a shot glass.

So I sat there staring at this image. Reading it. Then reading it again. Then hearing that voice in my head remind me that, yes, I have read this in the past countless times and forgot. And I will likely forget again.

But for now it is that gentle reminder that I need. This is my life and, while the world has decided to lose it’s goddamn mind, I still owe it to myself - and to Joan - to live it. My end is much closer than my beginning so I really should get back to it.

The world being a huge blue ball of suck is not an excuse.

It’s late in Paris and today was a hot one. Triple digits according to my Frameo. But now it’s back to the 70s and people are outside at the bistrot across the street enjoying the respite from the ungodly heat. I can hear the laughter from the patrons outside and the music from within.

I kept Dexter inside most of the day except for incredibly short walks to do his business so tonight we’ll be taking a midnight stroll through this magnificent city.

Then… I will sit in front of this MacBook Pro of mine and type up some words for a story I have been working on for quite some time… in my head mostly, but still.

Here’s a few of my favorite photos from this weekend.

Thank you so much for bothering to read my nonsense.

Paris in June

One of my oldest friends is coming to stay in our apartment next month. I’ve known Stephen since I was in seventh grade. By the time I met him I had already attended six different schools in Los Angeles County. When I got to High School I would eventually end up attending three of those before graduating.

I am from LA.

The question that usually follows when I say that is, “oh yeah, what part?”

That question isn’t concerned with what part of LA I am actually from so much as it’s a challenge - “are you really from LA?”

I dunno man, my birth certificate says Los Angeles, the first home I remember was a duplex abutted against the Beth Israel Cemetery in East LA where I used to go play hide and seek as a kid.

In my time I’ve lived everywhere from East LA, to summers in Boyle Heights, to time spent living on Fletcher Drive (twice), to City Terrace, to the San Gabriel Valley, before finally moving out to just the other side of LA County into Upland, CA.

I’ve walked home along the railroad tracks and LA River at 2:00 AM. I’ve interrupted filming of television shows in my front yard so I could ask to be on TV. I’ve stolen change from the fountains in Olvera Street. I’ve snuck into movie theaters on Hollywood Blvd with my cousins. I’ve gone swimming at the pool at Roosevelt and gone fishing at Hollenbeck Park. I’ve cut class to go to Newport Beach. I learned to drive by going up to Mt. Baldy for make out sessions.

What part of LA am I from?

The fucking 10 freeway, how’s that?

What can I say? My dad had a good union job and every time he got a pay raise we moved to a slightly better neighborhood.

I tell you all of this so you can maybe understand what I am about to tell you.

Not long ago - like, maybe a few weeks ago - my wife and I were talking about whether or not the United States is even worth fighting for. Spoiler alert: it’s really not.

But I added a caveat.

I would fight for California. I am, after all, a Californian first. I am an Angelino most especially.

Los Angeles is, to me, the most American City in the world.

Those beautiful brown, Spanish speaking people? They’re not immigrants, they are the descendants of the people who were already here when the first immigrants showed up on their boats from Europe. But nobody remembers that because of cultural erasure.

That’s a topic for a post another day.

LA has our delicious mix of browns, our different flavors of Asian, a smattering of Indian, Albanian, Jewish, Arab, and more. We have our rich history of LGBTQIA+ giving us that dash of flare. And we have an entire fucking history of black culture and resistance to inspire us.

We have a seat for everyone at the party because we know that everyone brings something.

The mistake a lot of people make is thinking LA is just Paris Hilton without realizing Paris Hilton her damn self was just playing a part and that down deep she is a real human being; smart, and to borrow from Tupac, she got a little bit of thug in her.

And that’s LA. Real. Smart. Thug.

People mock LA. People shit on that glorious city because, they say, it lacks substance and culture and blah, blah, pretentious fucking blah. Those people sound a lot like the asshole at the bar who talks shit about the beautiful girl who doesn’t want to fuck him.

Nah, LA is love. She embraces those that may be deemed unlovable and shows them how to shine. Just don’t show up thinking that city owes you something.

She is the city that exemplifies The New Colossus the way the current administration could never comprehend. People from all over the country who can’t find a home in the place that made them come to LA and find an army of people just like them. It’s the City where weirdos and castaways can find a family and acceptance. You can be a freak and at worst the reaction will be, “oh, yeah, you’ll have that.”

So when I started seeing videos and images of ICE showing up in LA the hairs on my neck raised. When I started seeing the people of LA rise up my heart swelled with pride. It also put a knot in my stomach that hasn’t left all weekend.

Two months ago I applied to volunteer to go to Ukraine and fight. The world was shit and I needed to do something. I haven’t heard back and that little voice in my head has started trying to convince me that maybe it’s because I may need to go back to LA for whatever is coming.

Maybe.

All I know is my heart hurts and I have a raging fury inside of me.

I want to show up at immigration court and get as many of the ICE agents to chase me as I can because at least then there are less of them harming actual immigrants. It’s funny and it’s chaotic good. In my head I hear Yakety Sax playing as I run around at double speed and ICE falls down over and over and over again.

I also want to take a Molotov cocktail to every fucking ICE vehicle I see.

What can I say? I am a complex motherfucker.

Mostly, I want the current administration to get the fuck out of my City and State. And I am watching closely for what comes next. There was a time when I once swore an oath and went wherever the United States sent me. All while being a Californian first. If California needs me…

Will I return to LA if need be?

You bet 47’s tiny orange dick.

It’s a strange thing about some sports fans - their need to destroy things when expressing what should be joy. I am a sports fan. But I have never been prone to destroying things when my teams win.

The Chargers have never won, Rudy.

Look, asshole, the Chargers are not the only team I cheer for.

I always thought it was a uniquely American attribute with some exception for English hooliganism. As the only real soccer played in the United States is played by women their fans aren’t the drunk, testosterone-fueled dickheads overcompensating for something else.

My own experience with football in Paris has been nothing but fun and celebratory whether it’s Paris-St. Germaine, the French National Team, or the Olympics. The most raucous thing I have ever experienced was Brazil fans shutting down Blvd. Murat and turning it into one of the best parties of my life.

Seriously, if you ever get a chance to go to a Brazil National sporting event - do it. Their fans are loud, fun, warm, and possibly the most beautiful humans I have ever encountered. And holy fuckballs can they party.

I’m getting off track. Sorry about that.

I live a three minute walk to Parc Des Princes which happens to be the home stadium of PSG Football Club. For those of you who are not sports fans, the PSG FC just won the biggest game in Europe - UEFA Champions League.

The entire city was a party in the days leading up to the match. I quite expected the country of joie de vivre would celebrate, win or lose, with their usual panache and irreverence; fireworks and singing all around!

But there were clues along the way.

Fireworks everywhere. Shops closing early. Businesses boarding up storefronts.

Clues. Everywhere.

I watched the match in my living room, but I could hear the crowds outside. In fact, there was a group of young men and boys across the street watching through a window who seemed to have the game stream a few seconds ahead of what was on my television. They let me know when PSG scored before I saw it. At halftime I went out to my second story balcony (3rd story in the US) to have a smoke and watch this guy shoot off fireworks.

Just after I snapped this photo the group of young men and boys left their viewing party and started walking towards fireworks man and chased him off. I thought it was odd. Later it occurred to me that what those boys were doing was self-policing. I would see it a lot that night.

The second half of the match was a blowout. I could hear the celebration from the stadium and the streets. I was ebullient and needed to get out with the crowd and share this joy with others who were feeling the same. I expected it would feel like the Olympics - two weeks of strangers treating each other like best friends. There were no losers, only cultural exchange and a united humanity.

In hindsight I think that expectation is what lead to my crushing disappointment and subsequent melancholy over what happened next.

What happened next was that I grabbed my camera and headed out into the maddening crowd. And therein lies my mistake.

I headed up Michel-Ange and could see the revelry from a hundred meters away. Fireworks, chanting, horns blaring. It was, from a distance, joyous, boisterous, and nothing unexpected. Fireworks and dancing. I thought, that’s whassup and picked up my pace. By the time I got to Place de la Porte Saint-Cloud I was almost floating.

Everyone seemed so fucking happy!

Then I saw it.

My gut said, go take a photo and get the fuck out. I should have just stayed home.

I rounded the circle and crossed at Blvd. Murat to the front of Sainte Jeanne de Chantal church where the cars were burning.

I took my video and some photos when all of a sudden there was a stampede. It was not my first stampede so I stepped up onto the stairs of the church, behind a pillar and waited for the crowd to be gone. I was about to keep walking towards the stadium when three boys asked me to take a photo of them with my camera so I snapped those off, gathered the kid’s email, and promised to send them to him.

Please, do not @ me with your indignation. A teenage boy who did not set the fire is not the enemy here. He was a dumb kid with his friends out and about wanting a high resolution capture of this moment for himself and his friends. Frankly, I was impressed at his mental acuity. I offered to take it with my phone and text it to him, but he wanted the real thing.

In the time it took to snap a few shots and get an email address there came another stampede. This one was different than the first in scope. My path to the church steps was impeded by hundreds of people running so I found a tree and ducked. My eyes started to burn.

Fuck.

A young man confirmed it. GAZ! and pointed for me to run. I stayed to the side, walking briskly with my shirt over my face. I knew it didn’t help, but I wasn’t thinking. I made it to a quieter stretch and saw people helping one another flush their eyes with water. That was my cue—it was time to go home.

The streets in Paris all have amazing stories. They are named after famous people, or cool places. The little side street that completes the circle of my block is named after a retired General who joined the French Resistance until he was captured by the Nazis and killed at Dachau. I think about that story every time I walk Dexter down Rue du General Delestraint. I was thinking about it now. It was a safe place, a way to get out of this sudden shitstorm.

There were scores of cops blocking it. Shit.

If I stay on Murat I would be with the masses in their stampede and I would be getting closer to the stadium which, by now was the last place I wanted to be. I saw a lone cop - the only one unmolested - and said in my broken french, j’habite a Michel-Ange. He looked me up and down nodded and let me through.

All told I was gone maybe twenty minutes, half-hour tops. I was glad I left Dexter at home. I rinsed my face and went to my balcony a little heartbroken. I lit a smoke and some hooligans set off fireworks that caught some trash bins on fire. A battalion of motorcycle cops showed up.

The police in Paris were not unnecessarily violent (looking at you, United States). People on the streets celebrating, or walking to the metro, or just existing were left largely alone. Even asshats throwing bottles at them didn’t provoke violence. Sure, setting cars on fire will get the tear gas out, but c’mon, even I have to side with the cops on that one.

In the end I had to wait til four in the morning to take Dexter out for his nightly bedtime bathroom break. He’s a good boy. As I drifted off to sleep I found myself thinking, so Paris isn’t perfect after all.

And that made me sad for a bit, honestly.

Then I remembered Boston after the Red Sox won their first World Series. Or Los Angeles when cops who beat a black man senseless are acquitted. Or Detroit… or Philadelphia…or… and I love those cities. So yeah, Paris had a bad weekend and a lot of people did a lot of stupid shit. But you know what?

The good so far outweighs the bad that it isn’t even close.

Bad things happen in big cities.

Anyone who has ever lived in a big city knows that.

But so few big cities have so much magic.

I never needed Paris to be perfect. She has grace enough to let me be imperfect I suppose I can do the same for her.

Anyone else feel that malaise?

Last night I went to bed early (for me) and on my way to the bedroom I clicked on Apple News and saw that story about the FSU shooting, then the story about Juan Carlos Gomez-Lopez. That was all it took for me to lose the sleepy feeling and lay there, eyes wide open, filled with dread and contempt.

Eventually I did fall asleep, but when I woke this morning I felt that too familiar knot in my stomach.

And now I am sitting here one hour away from taking a WhatsApp call from a woman looking to escape the United States who would like to pick my brain about how we did it. That’s what America has become: a place to escape from for the marginalized masses singled out by the current administration. I fucking hate it.

Of course I will help anyone I can. It’s the bare minimum I can do.

But I keep thinking about conversations - actually, a singular conversation - I have had with my wife. First some background for those who are reading this with zero knowledge of our background. I am a veteran - one term, multiple deployments to the Middle East and Bosnia. She is a twenty-six year retiree with more deployments than I can count. Service to country is something we both take very seriously and our oath to the Constitution is… was… once upon a time it mattered above all else.

That conversation over a meal at one of our new favorite local places was about whether or not it would be worth going back to the US and fighting. We swore an oath after all.

Fight for what? For a country that has shown us the back of its hand? A country that is full of liars who drone on about ‘support our troops’ voting for a guy who has consistently shit all over anyone who serves? A country that decided a woman does not have any right to control her own body? A country that elected a man who stands against everything we swore to defend?

It would be one thing if he took control by force. It is another thing entirely for a country to watch him try to do that, fail, then not only not hold him accountable, but then vote him back into power.

Nah, that is not a country worth fighting for. One spends a lifetime fighting for a country that won’t fight for them and suddenly there is a moment when, well, one just decides they are done.

So yeah, every time I read the news it’s like reading about someone you once loved - an ex you thought was the one, a brother you grew up with, a parent who raised you better than that - succumbing to their worst instincts. Anyone who has ever been in a toxic relationship can tell you about the time they realized it was time to walk away. They may not, however, mention that when they see the painful behavior continue it still hurts. Sure, there is relief that they made the decision to leave, but… love doesn’t just stop. Seeing someone you once loved continue to hurt themselves is a sort phantom pain like a missing limb, or, more appropriately, a piece of your heart that’s been broken off.

And the grief is ever evolving.

I am tired. I am emotionally spent. Every single day there is some new bullshit that man and his supporters are putting the world through. The worst of us is on display constantly and that is either numbing you or killing your spirit.

But really, I think I just need to stop reading the news before bed.

A twenty-year-old barbarian warlord stands at the gates of Paris. His name is Clovis. He’s just defeated the last Roman holdout in Gaul. And he’s about to change everything.

This is the story of how Paris became a capital for the first time. How a pagan warrior king met an elderly saint named Geneviève who somehow convinced him to show mercy when mercy wasn’t in his nature. How his devout wife Clotilde and that saintly nun worked together to bring him to Christianity—not just any Christianity, but the Catholic faith that would unite his kingdom.

We’ll follow Clovis to the battlefield at Tolbiac, where—facing defeat—he makes a desperate bargain with a god he doesn’t believe in. We’ll witness his baptism at Reims on Christmas Day, with three thousand warriors following him into the font. And we’ll watch him build the church where he, his queen, and Saint Geneviève would all be laid to rest—the church that became the heart of medieval Paris.

Clovis was ruthless, brilliant, and politically savvy. He united the Franks, conquered most of Gaul, and founded a dynasty that would rule for 250 years. But more than that, he made Paris matter. He made it a royal city. He made it Christian. He made it the seed from which France would grow.

The Merovingian age begins here. Long-haired kings, bloody family feuds, and the birth of a new world from the ashes of Rome.

The Parisii lost. Now what?

After the defeat at Alesia, the world of the Parisii will never be the same. Rome doesn’t just conquer - it transforms. Watch as Celtic villages become Roman cities, as druids disappear and Latin replaces Gaulish, as a people’s entire identity shifts across three generations.

This is the story of what happened to the Parisii after conquest. It’s about grandfathers who remember freedom teaching grandchildren who only know empire. It’s about the painful beauty of survival and adaptation. And it’s about how a muddy settlement called Lutetia becomes a proper Roman city - complete with baths, amphitheaters, aqueducts, and all the infrastructure of civilization.

But nothing lasts forever. When Germanic tribes breach the Rhine frontier and the empire crumbles, Lutetia retreats to a fortified island. The stones of the amphitheater become fortress walls. A new faith - Christianity - takes root. And an elderly nun named Geneviève saves the city from Attila the Hun through sheer force of will and faith.

Rome is falling. But Paris is being born.

So begins a deep dive series into the complete history of Paris.

Paris wasn’t always Paris. Before the Eiffel Tower, before Notre-Dame, before croissants and café culture, there was a Celtic tribe living along the Seine who had no idea they were about to give their name to one of the world’s most iconic cities.

The History of Paris takes you on an epic journey through over two thousand years of drama, conquest, transformation, and survival. From Celtic warriors to Roman emperors, from Frankish kings to medieval cathedrals, from revolution to modernity - this is the story of how a muddy island in a river became the City of Light.

Each episode dives deep into a specific era, bringing history to life through vivid storytelling that feels more like your fascinating friend telling you a story over drinks than a dusty textbook. We’ll meet the people who shaped Paris - the famous and the forgotten - and explore what their lives were actually like. No boring lectures, no skipping the good parts. Just great stories, historically accurate and deeply human.

Whether you’re planning a trip to Paris, obsessed with history, or just love a good story spanning millennia, join us as we uncover the layers of one of humanity’s greatest cities.

Paris wasn’t built in a day. But we’ve got time.

In the coming weeks we will begin a deep dive into the history of one of the most iconic cities on earth. Beginning with the Parisii who gave the city her name, and onto the Romans, through Frankish kings, through revolution and all the way through today we will take the next several weeks and explore the rich, gorgeous history of Paris.

Join me.

When I was a kid, like every other Chicano in L.A., I was shoved into catechism almost as soon as I was in school. I didn’t fit in very well; because English was my primary language and I was an avid reader I was always tasked with reading out loud. Unfortunately, I also had a mouth and a brain so I questioned a lot of the stupid shit in King James’ tome of myths. Eventually I got my first communion done and dad left it up to me if I wanted to continue onto my confirmation.

I did not want to.

This did not stop gramma from dragging me from this church to that. I loved the black church in inner-city LA lead by Brother Abraham. Black people have CHURCH, boy. I hated some of the other churches. Ugh, the Seventh Day Adventists were a snooze-fest. Then one day she dragged me to a Pentecostal church. There was a metal band and girls. I liked both so I stuck around. The pastor looked like Eric Clapton and he was smooth, so I kept sticking around.

To paraphrase Gandhi, I like Jesus I just am not a fan of his people. I liked Jesus so much I considered entering the ministry. Can you imagine how rich I would be if I could park my morals and dupe people out of their money by… never mind. Eventually, I was invited to leave the church and if I am honest, it wasn’t a terribly difficult break-up for me.

When I left I still loved my god, whatever that meant, but I really, really could not stand church. In the thirty plus years since then I have met so many different humans with so many different faiths that I came to realize that there is beauty in almost every faith and absolutely every faith can be (and likely has been) used as a cudgel to hurt, control, and even exterminate others. There have been thousands of gods1 worshiped in human existence. Despite the fact that you’ve likely only heard of a small handful, there are still hundreds, if not thousands worshiped today.

This got me wondering about all of the gods that existed and died throughout human existence. How many gods have we never heard of because her worshipers were absorbed by another group tens of thousands of years ago? Then it hit me like a pot of boiling water in the face: my ancestors had gods that were all but wiped off the face of history thanks to a bunch of syphilitic Spanish Catholic ass-clowns.

But then I remembered I am alive at a time when I literally have the entirety of human information at my fingertips so I got to typing away on my keyboard and devouring whatever I could find about the gods of my ancestors. And while I am nowhere near done learning about the many, many gods that make up the Mexica pantheon, there are definitely a few that have piqued my interest.

Coatlicue is a badass goddess who wears a skirt of writhing snakes and a necklace of human hearts and hands of those sacrificed to her. What? Some gods dress like hippies, and other gods dress for the job they want. My favorite description of her, though, was that she was the soil that grew the maize and the grave the consumed the dead. This was a theme with the Mexica, this belief that life was all a part of a never ending cycle of birth-death-rebirth. Not necessarily in a sort-of-reincarnation, we’re all coming back as someone else and were all the King of England in a previous life sort of way, but in a rich, beautiful, illustrative of the second law of thermodynamics sort of way; energy never dies, it just transforms.

That’s just my take on it, but I’ve been sitting with it for awhile and it makes sense.

Take the god Huitzilopochtli, the child of Coatlicue. Dude was born fighting for his mama because he was conceived in a Mexica version of immaculate conception - a ball of feathers fell from the sky and impregnated her - and her older kids were all, “nah,” and tried to shame kill her. Our boy Huitzilopochtli decided to pop out early, armed to the teeth, and whoop on his siblings for trying to hurt his mama. He straight up rips his sister’s - Coyolxauhqui - head from her body and tosses her down a mountain, fwa! Then he shatters his brother - Centzon Huitznahua - into pieces and tosses him into the night sky, bam! His siblings become the moon and stars respectively while Huitzilopochtli himself becomes the Sun God and the God of War.

You gonna tell him no? I didn’t think so.

And the Mexica believe the battle between siblings is played out every dawn and dusk as the day gives way to night gives way to day. Cyclical.

Even the story of creation itself is a cycle. We are currently in the Fifth Sun2; the fifth cycle of creation. After the world was created and the Sun and Moon hung in the sky, the earth itself was still not much more than a beautiful void. There were no people. Well, there were, but they were all dead, killed at the end of the Fourth Sun in a flood. So, no, we’re not even the first humans. Nope, the one god you may have actually heard of, Quetzalcoatl, the Morning Star, had to steal human bones - humans killed at the end of the Fourth Sun - in order to create, well, you and me.

“Why does a god have to steal human bones?” you ask. Well, after the Fourth Sun ended the human remains were hidden away in the Land of the Dead. A place called Mictlan. And Mictlan was guarded by two gods, the Lord and Lady of the Dead themselves - Mictlantecuhtli and Mictlancihuatl - who were not exactly in a hurry to give up their precious bones.

But seriously, how cool would it be for your title to be Lord or Lady of the Dead? Can you imagine?

“Hello, what do you do for a living?”

“Me? I’m a lawyer/doctor/whatever. What about you?

“Oh, I am the Lord of the Dead and I can’t wait to have you over at my place. Soon. Very soon.”

*Insert evil laugh* annnnnddddd scene.

Getting to the bones meant getting to Mictlan and getting to Mictlan meant getting through nine levels of the Realm of Death. Fortunately, our hero Quetzalcoatl didn’t have to go it alone. Xolotl, the Evening Star and Quetzalcoatl’s twin, lead the way through the Land of the Dead and down the Nine Levels. Down they went where they made a deal with Mictlantecuhtli and Mictlancihuatl (I really want to call them M&M, but I won’t) for the human bones.3 Of course, the story wouldn’t be worth telling if Quetzalcoatl and Xolotl were just handed the bones and left to scurry away. Nope, the Lord and Lady of the Dead had no plans to let the Brothers Star leave with their precious bones.

As soon as Quetzalcoatl took the bones and He and His brother turned to leave, the Dead Royalty sent their army of dead after them. Even gods don’t wanna mess with the dead chasing after them. And in classic Hollywood slapstick style Quetzalcoatl trips and falls onto the bones shattering them. But being the best brother in the Pantheon, Xolotl scooped his brother up and dusted him off, “bro, we’re gods, we can put these bones back together, better, stronger than before.” Without another look back at the Army of Dead, they headed back up the Nine Levels and through the Land of the Dead. Had they not, you would not be reading this, so, you know, maybe show some gratitude.

That’s a lot of gods and we haven’t even scratched the surface. But I think next week I want to talk about the Mexica themselves. They weren’t a monolith. Nope. Next time we’ll discuss how they wandered for years looking for a home, how they were made up (mostly) of three distinct tribes, and how they took a lake and turned it into a city that rivaled Paris by the time the Spaniards arrived. They were amazing. Obviously. They made me.