I've counted myself a friend of Billy Beck for 20 years. I've read nearly everything he has written. But I grow weary of the snippy types who will - Jesus Christ what IS IT with you people?! - find the photo they feel does him least justice and use it as an indictment.
Are you each and all so goddamned sophmoric that you cannot look beyond the hair, and listen to the only sense in this whole fucked up world these days? Think, you, of how much I hate it when yet another moron with a badge gives him ammunition against the job.
I detest when his words are torqued around so that they fit an agenda, or allow someone to rationalize their own ambitions. Let his words stand, try like hell to understand them when he is obtuse (he won't give you a teat to suck on, damn it - work at the language!), and deal with the argument at hand. I believe he speaks the clearest truth there is if you want to make the effort to get it, and that's the thing about the truth - it fucking hurts.
I wish he'd have goddamned kids so that, when he is gone, that logic, the sweet, clean stream of fucking thought isn't whisked away. I wish he could find something worth saving in this entire fiasco. Hell, I wish I could do what he does in the name of personal freedom. But I am, admittedly, a chickenshit. I can't do it. I won't risk what he does. I know my limits of rebellion and, for now, they suffice. I live with the assumption that some day they will not and I shall be dragged from my comfortable hearth into the melee.
But you know how I manage when his words hurt me and mine? I remember that he has - and always has had -our collective six. I believe with all my heart that someday all those words will be held as a sort of primer for a new manner of thinking by others who have seen too many of them come to life - terrible, dark life.
Christ, it's almost embarrassing to write this. He needs no help from me, I assure you. And I am always rather mortified at the - yes, sophmoric - nature of my uneducated thinking. I am horribly illiterate. I cannot debate. I can hardly track along when he gets really stoked. But sometimes a person just has to stand up and say it: the truth hurts, sometimes. And sometimes it's your ox getting gored. And too often it's mine.
The difference is - I blame the ox.
Addendum: As always, he stoops to conquer. HA! See the photo here that is so much more suited to their needs. Bless him and his humility...