tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28094596163626600962024-03-18T14:43:03.008-07:00Gort NationOne nation dedicated to motorsports, politics, music, social commentary, weirdo art, science fiction, home repairs, cooking and counterculture ephemera.Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-46310416845179333302023-09-24T18:03:00.009-07:002023-09-25T13:34:09.376-07:00Throw Down Your Arms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh55LQixF6L83SckHREwzLhzgYGFXrKsAqto6qVJCFwZejfupVQNbIaG_UDxXI_35JqC-91tlneAWEE6WT0V-F2Xj9ox3Vs6VNDqq0vBbIQujq3cIg97DtJkPUUMtIVYOwPtLuiGEMrJxb9ogKpvTwL88Xvr1wGquDvVbPdvm-QeIuZYmJcz4VmeSJecT9R/s600/Sinead.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh55LQixF6L83SckHREwzLhzgYGFXrKsAqto6qVJCFwZejfupVQNbIaG_UDxXI_35JqC-91tlneAWEE6WT0V-F2Xj9ox3Vs6VNDqq0vBbIQujq3cIg97DtJkPUUMtIVYOwPtLuiGEMrJxb9ogKpvTwL88Xvr1wGquDvVbPdvm-QeIuZYmJcz4VmeSJecT9R/w400-h400/Sinead.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Much has been written and said about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sin%C3%A9ad_O%27Connor" target="_blank"><span style="color: #04ff00;">Sinead O'Conner</span></a>, both during her life and now after her untimely death. I've been a huge fan since I first heard 'Mandinka' from her 1987 debut LP 'The Lion and The Cobra', a truly excellent first effort.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I admired her as an artist and a strong proponent for peace and equality. She was also a polarizing voice and garnered much hatred and antipathy when she tore up an image of the Pope on <i>Saturday Night Live</i> in 1992 after performing an <i>a capella</i> version of the tune 'War', first made famous by Bob Marley and The Wailers, to protest corruption in the Catholic church.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I remember watching that performance and cheering her on, knowing how much she would pay for an act of open defiance on live television. She was a self-professed protest singer, and I loved her for it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This post is about what I consider her finest release, the 2005 CD titled 'Throw Down Your Arms', also known as her 'reggae album'. Recorded at Anchor and Tuff Gong Studios in Kingston, Jamaica, it was produced by reggae studio heroes Sly and Robbie and includes amazing session musicians that give every tune the rock-solid honesty they deserve. She donated 10 percent of the sales profits to support Rastafari elders in Jamaica.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">'Throw Down Your Arms' has become one of the all-time favorite CDs in my collection, a real go-to no matter the mood or occasion. Here's a sampling of several tunes from that release which I believe exemplify her reggae cred.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div><b style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">'Marcus Garvey' </span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Written by Burning Spear from their 1975 LP of the same name.</span></div> <iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/y47V8MNcRbc?si=8JxztZFPQDtoTDAE" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></b></div><div><b style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">'Y Mas Gan' </span></b></div><div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Written by The Abyssinians from their 1976 LP titled 'Satta Massagana'</span></div><div><br /></div></div> <iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YEV7l45TYxY?si=zBh3iPBqV-PwnHXS" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><b style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">'Throw Down Your Arms' </span></b></div><div></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Written by Burning Spear from their 1977 LP 'Dry and Heavy'.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div> <iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/btmqe27GfL8?si=vOyGo40wwjKHrsL2" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><div><b style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">'War' </span></b></div><div></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Written by Allen 'Skill' Cole and Carlton Barrett, it first appeared on Bob Marley and the Wailers' 1976 LP 'Rastaman Vibration'. The lyrics are almost entirely based on a <a href="https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Haile_Selassie%27s_address_to_the_United_Nations,_1963" target="_blank"><span style="color: #04ff00;">speech</span> </a>made by Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie before the United Nations General Assembly in October of 1963.</span></div></div><div><br /></div> <iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/31m-gqxhkrU?si=hlzGON6mg7rD5Gzi" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><div><b style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">'The Untold Story' </span></b></div><div></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Written by Buju Banton from his 1996 LP 'Til Shiloh'.</span></div></div><div><br /></div> <iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7UcVxsZQ9zA?si=rbSQJn03Zh1u2kbB" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">"Thanks first and foremost to the great men who wrote and performed these songs and whose inspiration has kept me nourished with strength at times when I might otherwise have lost faith in myself. These men were part of a battle fought for self-esteem and for the freeing of God from religion. </span></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">"As such, they are my heroes, my teachers, my masters, my priests, my prophets, my guides, and my godfathers. And I could never in a million words or years express the love and gratitude I feel towards them, for the truth and rights which they benevolently taught through their music and which raised God from the dead in the soul of a little Irish Catholic woman. Nor could I express the influence they have had on my own singing and songwriting. </span></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>"The originals of these songs can never be bettered, and so all I can hope in recording them, is to honour the composers and pass on their teachings, in the hope that doing so will carry the message of Rastafarai to some who might otherwise not know that God and religion are two very different things. And that God is alive in, and around all of us." </i></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;">Sinead O'Connor liner notes </i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;">'Throw Down Your Arms'</i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;">Kingston, Jamaica, 2005</i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;">*******************************************************</i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;">Extra-credit tunes for those who took the time to read this entire post.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal;"><div><b style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">'Mandinka' </span></b></div><div></div></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Written by Sinead O'Conner from her 1987 LP 'The Lion and The Cobra'.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></i></span></div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5TsSJ_TJ2iQ?si=WFQ34Kdyf8lBtwQ7" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal;"><div><b style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">'The Emperor's New Clothes' </span></b></div><div></div></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Written by Sinead O'Conner from her 1990 LP 'I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got'.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/a8LdQ5lxzZE?si=l9AZl3Ykx1KGMBzT" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal;"><i style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; all videos, Muchisimas Gracias de You Tube.</span></i></div></i></div><div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></i></span></div></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-73730804730749031362023-09-05T12:42:00.007-07:002023-09-07T07:19:27.102-07:00The Old Man in the Tortilla Mask - Chapter Two<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal7zXUN5utT4Q_WO1FpDQsuhv4pwMIWwagVmzB8s5McpD90Z3FjvbG6TWosJqBOeqUAiGajrv8i-u0lKGTWzqNU37MMjMDdFGLrcrKqeOcTcWdquxlRPyDG9wcZlkQMfC8gWABv0RleWIHPdQdj8yrPuU2LJbTjDD4sCj4lrfz8g0OuTkKsbYzKuEVyBj/s1200/Flour%20Torts%20Best.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal7zXUN5utT4Q_WO1FpDQsuhv4pwMIWwagVmzB8s5McpD90Z3FjvbG6TWosJqBOeqUAiGajrv8i-u0lKGTWzqNU37MMjMDdFGLrcrKqeOcTcWdquxlRPyDG9wcZlkQMfC8gWABv0RleWIHPdQdj8yrPuU2LJbTjDD4sCj4lrfz8g0OuTkKsbYzKuEVyBj/w457-h306/Flour%20Torts%20Best.jpg" width="457" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /> El Viejo had gotten used to the hallucinations he'd been having over the last few months. They were so consistent that he knew <i>when </i>they'd occur, but he still didn't understand <i>why</i>. He refused to think that he was losing his mind, but he was worried he'd just learn to accept it. This he would not do.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">However, he had his suspicions.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Every morning he'd wake up before sunrise, walk across the dark yard between the house and his shop and check on the fresh pinto beans that had been slowly cooking overnight. Then he'd begin grinding wheat flour from the bags of grain he'd harvested from his field, turning the wooden handle that rotated the grinding stone as the sun rose on another day.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">This was his normal ritual, and he rarely hallucinated during those times. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The rest of the day could be filled with hallucinations that came and went, and he was both comforted and alarmed by them. If he was taking a break outside behind the shop, the chickens and dogs in the yard all appeared to be chicks and puppies, and his wife would appear to be 50 years younger. While he worked, his customers would look and sound like children. The visions came and went, yet by the end of each day, they stopped and everything appeared normal.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">He'd even gone to see the town Doctor under the pretense of feeling poorly, hoping for some insight. He was pronounced as healthy as a mule, given some vitamins with a smile and a pat on the shoulder and sent home.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">On a quiet Sunday morning, with his shop closed and his wife gone to do some shopping in town, he sat in the shade of a tree on on the far edge of his wheat field and brooded about his situation. He'd not told his wife about the hallucinations for fear she'd worry about his mental state. He wanted to tell her, but he also wanted to be sure about the cause before he did. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">The more he thought about it, the more certain he was about why these visions kept happening. At the same time, his certainty was more worrying than the visions themselves. He rolled the facts over and over in his head and considered everything he knew. </span><span style="font-family: times;">The answer was so shattering, he forced himself to say it out loud:</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">"Es el trigo. Estoy cultivando trigo que me hace ver cosas, alucinar. Dios mio, es el trigo! Que voy a hacer?!?</span></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">(Translation: "It's the wheat. I'm growing wheat that is causing me to see things, to hallucinate. My Lord, it's the wheat! What will I do?!?")</span></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">He was now certain the flour he ground in his mill that was causing him to hallucinate. There was no other explanation for it, and he used his <i>El Viejo</i> wisdom to figure it out by listing the reasons in his head:</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">1. He never had the visions in the mornings before he began his work.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">2. The visions happened only on the days that he ground the wheat grain into flour in his shed, which caused flour dust to build up in the air that he was breathing.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">3. Soon after grinding the wheat into flour, he would start to have the hallucinations that his wife, animals and customers appeared to be far younger that they actually were.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">4. Later in the day, the visions stopped and he was back to normal, which meant the flour effects had worn off.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Once he was convinced that it was the flour, he began to have many other worries. Was it just the flour dust, or was he causing his wife and his customers problems when they ate his tortillas? Was the flour toxic, or could it cause serious illness? Why didn't the flour dust cause the problem years ago, as opposed to just the last few months? What made the wheat he grew do such unusual things to him? Did the <i>ranchero </i>who gave him the original seeds so many years ago know about it too?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">He knew one thing for sure. He had to find out why the wheat he'd grown for decades was now creating a problem for him and if there was anything he could do about it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">He sat under the tree for hours, thinking about his situation. When he'd finally decided what to do, he went back into the house and waited for his wife to return. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The next morning he followed his normal routine. When it came time for him to mill some grain, he did two new things: he opened the shed's window to allow more air flow that would keep the dust to a minimum, and he wore a bandana tied tightly across his face to filter out any floating dust. Then he set to work, furiously milling the wheat grain into a fine white flour.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">He kept the bandana on his face while he brought the flour into his shop's kitchen and mixed in the ingredients that turned it into dough. Only after he was done making the dough, opened the windows and made several dozen fresh tortillas did he remove the bandana. Then he went about his usual chores to get ready for his lunch customers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">He did NOT hallucinate that day!!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">He followed the same morning procedures for the next two days and the hallucinations did not return. Once he felt the answer had been found, he went back to his regular activities on the fourth day and the visions returned. Now he KNEW what was causing the visions, but he was more concerned than ever.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Was his tortilla flour dangerous?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">He decided to have the wheat grain and milled flour analyzed to find out if they contained any bad or dangerous elements, and the results would help him to figure out what to do next. It was a risk because if the wheat or flour was found to be bad, his thriving burrito shop... his entire livelihood... would be lost. He knew in his heart it was the only way to make sure he wasn't harming anyone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Using his new precautions, he milled some freshly harvested wheat into flour and placed it in an airtight container, doing the same with a handful of grain. The next day he told his wife he needed to go into town to look at some new restaurant equipment, which she'd been trying to get him to do for months. He made a small sign that read 'Closed until tomorrow, please come back!' and taped it to the inside window of the shop door. The he got into his old truck and slowly drove into town.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">His plan was simple. Since there were many small working farms in the valley, the local co-op had a lab where all kinds of tests were done on agricultural products to ensure they were safe and grown in a manner that was approved for human consumption. He knew the lab technicians well, as they were all from the valley and many had stood in line for his burritos.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">As he drove, he practiced his cover story to make sure he sounded concerned but not worried, just another farmer with a problem to solve. He'd noticed his tortillas had a slightly different flavor lately, nothing serious but... different. Was it the way he was fertilizing his field (organically, of course)? Was he milling the grain too soon or too long after harvesting? Could it be the lard causing the flavor change? Was he cooking the tortillas at the right temperature? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">He would explain that after all, he was just a <i>viejo </i>and didn't know about all of these things. He just wanted to make sure his customers were happy with his burritos.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">He pulled into the co-op parking lot, stopped his truck and sat there, talking to God.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><i>"Mi Señor... Me pregunto por qué me has peusto a esta prueba? </i></span><i><span><span style="font-family: times;">(My Lord... I wonder why you've put me to this test?) </span></span></i><i style="font-family: times;">No te he exaltado y alabado siempre? </i><i><span><span style="font-family: times;">(Haven't I always exalted and praised you?) </span></span></i><i style="font-family: times;">No estas seguro de mi lealtad y fe? </i><i><span><span style="font-family: times;">(</span><span style="font-family: times;">Are you unsure of my loyalty and faith?) </span></span></i><i style="font-family: times;">He hecho algo en mi vida que hace que me crees esta dificultad? </i><span><span style="font-family: times; font-style: italic;">(</span><span style="font-family: times; font-style: italic;">Have I done something in my life that causes you to create this difficulty for me?) </span></span></span><i style="font-family: times;">Solo peudo esperar que mi honestidad e integridad sean dignas de su aprobacion. </i><i><span><span style="font-family: times;">(I can only hope that my honesty and integrity are worthy of your approval.)</span></span></i><i style="font-family: times;">"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">After a few minutes he felt comfortable with his story, got out of his truck and went inside the co-op lab with his containers of grain and flour.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">(To be continued...)</span></span></p> <iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xDDpq2UH9lE?si=lVsPQamP7OXq3BpD" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><i>Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; Tower of Power video, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.</i></span></p></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-35735752949374590462023-07-20T11:00:00.033-07:002023-07-21T13:54:25.626-07:00Nanook of the North<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSr--zYQzInNPgCWFq8AugYPj0NDqYemcWdnDs29tN0hZqaoM24PViZeg5wTOipVWwFcvVGz0uAULU62sxN3glECXaLSYylRzi9ENBZlai7zf2k1UYjEKXbdm0hkvWYLGZkrSua1mil_qJo33pLoFO3F4RI9_hzNOylvE-8SM9wtcByyqCjq6QiGmyfpI/s594/Fox6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="594" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSr--zYQzInNPgCWFq8AugYPj0NDqYemcWdnDs29tN0hZqaoM24PViZeg5wTOipVWwFcvVGz0uAULU62sxN3glECXaLSYylRzi9ENBZlai7zf2k1UYjEKXbdm0hkvWYLGZkrSua1mil_qJo33pLoFO3F4RI9_hzNOylvE-8SM9wtcByyqCjq6QiGmyfpI/w590-h295/Fox6.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">1994 was a strange year. It was also the year I attended and endured the most extreme motorsports event in my performance marketing career: The World Championship Snowmobile Derby in Eagle River, Wisconsin. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">In January... IN WISCONSIN.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Let that sink in for a moment.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">As the Technical and Motorsports Manager at NGK Spark Plugs, I was sponsoring several amateur and pro 'sled' racers with dollars and product. It was decided I'd be on-site to support the competitors and our Regional Sales Rep who wanted a corporate presence for the 1994 event. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The Plan: I'd fly into Minneapolis to meet with Sales Rep Chris, we'd pick up a rented RV and, after loading it with food, gear and corporate goodies, I'd drive the rig North to Eagle River with Chris leading the way in his company car. We'd park the rig in the race pits as our base camp and spend several days spreading the gospel according to NGK. A typical race event plan, no biggie... except NORTHERN WISCONSIN IN JANUARY.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">My arrival in Minneapolis was met with extreme cold and snow, and even though I'd been in town the previous year right before Christmas, I was shocked at the huge snow banks everywhere. I'd already learned about indoor self-service car washes, which seemed strange until my education about how ice, snow and mud can pack a car's chassis and needs to be removed with heated and pressurized water. Otherwise, it can fall off in large chunks on the freeway and impact cars following too closely.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO0qd6Ou5223X_cvU91RNZinTJMDbsh45caFePTtAavElyLlECBQPMqZqBu8eHs8b3qucMvwyYNZ4Mae-WW7rIfMR-RzlQWR74GJAY1Psj-2eLeAZTUAQe1YKPPSOrMGEwmxnKCrjDq6tD1Vro4WpY8ACCeoMBamZfrOQREwDx1JJbAwVSUGlRNg2XA6Su/s1024/Fox2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO0qd6Ou5223X_cvU91RNZinTJMDbsh45caFePTtAavElyLlECBQPMqZqBu8eHs8b3qucMvwyYNZ4Mae-WW7rIfMR-RzlQWR74GJAY1Psj-2eLeAZTUAQe1YKPPSOrMGEwmxnKCrjDq6tD1Vro4WpY8ACCeoMBamZfrOQREwDx1JJbAwVSUGlRNg2XA6Su/w433-h325/Fox2.jpg" width="433" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Chris' advice about driving the rented RV on icy roads was very helpful:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">1. Accelerate from stops slowly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">2. Never stab the brake pedal.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">3. Use the 'thousand-yard stare' while driving.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">4. When approaching a stop, begin braking at twice the distance than normal, with half the pressure on the brake pedal than normal.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The trek to Eagle River went well. The weather held off and gave us a clear run, covering the 275 miles without incident. I slid the RV only a couple of times, keeping it nice and straight. We arrived at the track on a sunny and clear zero-degree afternoon, parked the rig in the pits and made our way 20 miles North to the hotel in Land O' Lakes, hard on the border with the Michigan UP. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Thankfully, I'd borrowed a pair of high-end snow boots and had NGK snowmobile clothing, goggles and other cold weather gear to keep warm. I had no idea how critical this kit would be over the weekend. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The day we arrived in Eagle River would be the warmest and clearest we'd see for the entire race weekend. Nighttime temps would drop to minus-35 degrees, and I learned that Chris always parked his car with the nose partially buried into a snow bank. This prevented the wind from freezing the engine block solid and allowed the engine block warmer to actually warm the engine enough to start safely.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The next morning, Chris and I headed to the hotel restaurant for a hearty brekkie. We'd just ordered when a guy sat down at a table next to us. I glanced over, then looked again and realized it was Stan Fox, a notable sprint car and IndyCar driver from Janesville, Wisconsin.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Me (whispering): "Chris... do you know who Stan Fox is?"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Chris (whispering): "Yep, sure do... but why are you whispering?"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Me (still whispering): "Well, Stan Fox just sat down at the table next to us."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Chris (still whispering): Oh man... that's so COOOOL."</i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndd8yzu9mfax_E4YicnGV-VAUcinq_IbCDHdNlEtq2llDjg5I8jvPgvFNSxJlN-wbfk5Gjz1Csb9FAQqFdg-qh2zTo4L5cEugsLGJhvWm_LKaa4_LsLuhwzTmOmWmjAmCmaZTuMEV8v_kpryTd3iQ4L0_kv__kwQHaev9Z9-Pxprng3aMHyRNPqJNmOgK/s421/Fox5%20edit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="250" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndd8yzu9mfax_E4YicnGV-VAUcinq_IbCDHdNlEtq2llDjg5I8jvPgvFNSxJlN-wbfk5Gjz1Csb9FAQqFdg-qh2zTo4L5cEugsLGJhvWm_LKaa4_LsLuhwzTmOmWmjAmCmaZTuMEV8v_kpryTd3iQ4L0_kv__kwQHaev9Z9-Pxprng3aMHyRNPqJNmOgK/w266-h448/Fox5%20edit.jpg" width="266" /></a> </span></div></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Without missing a beat, I went over and introduced myself to Stan, who couldn't have been friendlier and accepted my invitation to eat with us. It turns out he was a MAJOR sledding fan and attended The Derby every year, was staying at the same hotel, and wound up meeting us for breakfast each of the following mornings before heading to the track (we both loved oatmeal). He also loved NGK spark plugs and used them exclusively in all of his personal toys. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Snapshot: The Derby track is a self-contained high-banked half-mile oval of snow and ice, where several classes of sleds (snowmobiles) race at speeds of up to 100mph. The 'hot pits' is a Staging area just outside of the track where sleds and riders line up to enter the track and then cool down after each race. During my first walk through the Staging area, I noticed hundreds of small wads of multi-colored tape littering the area and asked Chris what they were. His answer: pieces of duct tape the racers stuck to their faces underneath their head socks, helmets and goggles to prevent facial frostbite while racing, then pulled off and discarded after each race. OUCH.</i></span></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mtHCdz5ig-c" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> 2021 Eagle River Derby Pro-Mod 800 Final Highlights</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Snapshot: One evening just before dusk, Chris and I went to dinner at a family restaurant/bar overlooking a frozen lake. Before ordering, we heard what sounded like a flock of angry chainsaws. We looked out the expansive window and watched a group of six sledders speeding across the lake towards the restaurant. They stopped and came into the adjacent bar to tilt a few. After about an hour, the drunk sledders left the bar, mounted their rides and blasted off across the pitch-black frozen lake at high speed. This seemed pretty dangerous to me, but Chris said it was normal Derby-time behavior. "They're filled with anti-freeze and if they crash, they'll feel no pain."</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Snapshot: We attended the Friday night grudge match races between the Super Stock and F-1 sleds, a very popular event. With the wind chill, the temperature was about minus-40 degrees and the ground was so cold that I couldn't stand in one place for more than a minute before my feet began to hurt. The solution: bounce back and forth from one foot to another, which everyone standing around the track fence was doing, resulting in a crazy group dance. Every time the sleds raced by, we had to duck below the top edge of the fence or we'd be instantly enveloped in a thick coating of ice dust and wind up looking like a weird snowman. Note: the track fence height has been extended since my visit.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Snapshot: We spent Saturday morning visiting every race trailer in the pits to hand out spark plugs, contingency stickers and ball caps in minus-25 degree weather. We took a break inside the RV to warm up and have lunch. Without a word, Chris dug out a hibachi and some charcoal, pulled a big pack of bratwurst outta the fridge and started a barbecue outside the RV. I was stunned at the idea of grilling brats in such cold weather but it was normal for him, a Minneapolis native. We grilled brats and shared them with anyone who came walking by. We ran out of brats.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUpXF3Cbv9VYDyTS2vsEsS9Vu3hcyDspgl-TKGHjoKfuyq7K1jt-ybhxqcIHlcRIPp2DsfFIlX4AZc5PFppNVE_EzAye4SSNAtJrhTINiv5jqm34M-Oe9MmKI1IZbsfY5n-v07RRI0hawgh4Trx1wTeDrG1Rqf9bb1ULBHx6M6YiQ2OMnQiVGnkQtzQiPC/s1023/Fox9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="685" data-original-width="1023" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUpXF3Cbv9VYDyTS2vsEsS9Vu3hcyDspgl-TKGHjoKfuyq7K1jt-ybhxqcIHlcRIPp2DsfFIlX4AZc5PFppNVE_EzAye4SSNAtJrhTINiv5jqm34M-Oe9MmKI1IZbsfY5n-v07RRI0hawgh4Trx1wTeDrG1Rqf9bb1ULBHx6M6YiQ2OMnQiVGnkQtzQiPC/w485-h325/Fox9.jpg" width="485" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Not the actual brats, but a reasonable facsimile.</span></div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">When we arrived trackside on Sunday morning, the weather had turned ugly enough that Chris suggested we bug out early or we'd never make it back to Minneapolis before dark. We were soon on the road South in a horizontal snowstorm, and the temperature was still around minus-25 degrees. The RV's heater was useless, and the full-blast defroster kept one square foot of windshield semi-clear. The engine belts kept freezing up with a loud squeal, then would heat up and work only to freeze again, over and over and over. The volt gauge kept bouncing from zero to 18 and back again. I was wearing ALL of my cold weather gear but still froze inside that cavernous RV.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">As I carefully drove through the blizzard, the road ahead was covered with icy snow, visible only by two barely perceptible tire track lines. I drove like this for hours, thinking the whole time that I'd skid off into the forest and die, get buried by the snow and be found only after the Spring thaw. Luck was with us and we arrived at Chris' home before dark, so we drank several beers to celebrate not dying in a blizzard.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Epilogue: Stan Fox entered the 1995 Indianapolis 500 and was involved in a truly horrific crash that ended his racing career.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwPpiYG-eAuvPZr_Y2vgOO4p-93EKfUyfMCcSGdDd_-uGhFU0RkNq33HrKjRSXeDBg0Q3RlYhgx44aa0rohY9DLrl4GzAm8-O0wIAThG_se56bpl4gpQPYRmDzJhbuCdlzo46qtej-4bznfsKFT6jiYHJxxrfyO5SZblfmz8X7u54CdWv3eGbpmkJHikA/s750/Fox1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="750" height="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwPpiYG-eAuvPZr_Y2vgOO4p-93EKfUyfMCcSGdDd_-uGhFU0RkNq33HrKjRSXeDBg0Q3RlYhgx44aa0rohY9DLrl4GzAm8-O0wIAThG_se56bpl4gpQPYRmDzJhbuCdlzo46qtej-4bznfsKFT6jiYHJxxrfyO5SZblfmz8X7u54CdWv3eGbpmkJHikA/w477-h361/Fox1.jpeg" width="477" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">He was severely injured and in a coma for a week but survived. In 2000 he was killed in a head-on road collision while driving to a race meeting during a visit to New Zealand. R.I.P. Stan Fox. So it goes.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">By the end of 1994, I'd lost my job at NGK and Mom was rehabbing at our home after suffering an alcoholic coma. 18 months later I was supervising regional personal watercraft (PWC) racing events for the <a href="https://ijsba.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #04ff00;">IJSBA</span></a> all over the country, and my spark plug technical background made me a very popular guy in the pits. So it goes.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I've been incredibly lucky to have enjoyed a long career that was so directly involved with the automotive </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">performance</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">and motorsports industries. I have Dad to thank for my love of racing, which he infected me with at a young age. Many people think race fans only like to watch because of the crashes. They're 100% wrong in every conceivable way.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Motor racing of any kind can be exhilarating and dangerous, and the threat of mayhem, injury and death is always there. However, as Steve McQueen's character Michael Delaney said in the film 'Le Mans': </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>"Motor racing is important to men who do it well. For them, racing is life; anything that happens before and after... is just waiting."</i></span></div><div><br /></div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/p-yRu5jbt3Y" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>All images, Gracias de Google Images; all videos, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.</i></span></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-80418446021122928912023-07-05T11:20:00.041-07:002023-07-06T09:36:37.738-07:00California Dreaming<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg19fjkV1m2IuPubdftl3jSzQcDnMdL9Qi1ELbgXvKkK_qmJKoAwgbn4BE_kSu-XGfDcgLzqDEke160XmqX4CW73k_40AQq3u06Y3YztZs08MlldGG6I_goXUP9_LNKHaDPHZ4rLV0uXRFXRAGOF9TI853l324rWJJ7TdL6wRkXDXyKUQHv5Rqnc5p98W-l/s2072/Early%20California.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2072" data-original-width="1700" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg19fjkV1m2IuPubdftl3jSzQcDnMdL9Qi1ELbgXvKkK_qmJKoAwgbn4BE_kSu-XGfDcgLzqDEke160XmqX4CW73k_40AQq3u06Y3YztZs08MlldGG6I_goXUP9_LNKHaDPHZ4rLV0uXRFXRAGOF9TI853l324rWJJ7TdL6wRkXDXyKUQHv5Rqnc5p98W-l/w310-h377/Early%20California.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">One recent Saturday morning during our bi-weekly visit to the Mother-in-law's house, I walked by several yard sales in the local 'hood </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">before I started my housecleaning chores</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">. I enjoy yard sales and always search for books, music and other items the sellers have decided they can live without.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I bought some cool stickers for $.25 each at one house, shopped a few others and on the way back stopped at the last yard sale between me and the vacuum cleaner.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I knew this house well, as the owner always parked a mid-60's Volvo Sedan out front and a rough-but-very-cool Ford E-100 Van, also mid-60's vintage, normally sitting in the driveway but now gone. I notice these things.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Among the car parts, toys and other items displayed in the driveway was a folding table with several books and magazines. The book pictured above titled 'Early California' was there too, so I picked it up and began to leaf through the pages because I Love History.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The spine was slightly torn, the cover stained with a sticky ring from a cup, and some pages were starting to come loose from the binding. What jumped out at me was the inside cover and first page illustration, repeated on the back cover and last page.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVuMKvfy4szoEsPWuWWY4Q83srwUVfw7WtzQ9FllOqwwwkIEsQt4sqw3wLOAVd4IM-PQS1pIdt2yRvfW-Y7PoniLG7a6n7PfKMw9EI6w8DqXtv0B6Xt-f9ziUhjYSZ_nDRfK_r9nPoivyik5NWssbFj979HGwrLqlSs6WveFayNjdjuAvywAMxNGnBJ2UB/s1729/EC%20Inside%20Graphic%20edit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="985" data-original-width="1729" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVuMKvfy4szoEsPWuWWY4Q83srwUVfw7WtzQ9FllOqwwwkIEsQt4sqw3wLOAVd4IM-PQS1pIdt2yRvfW-Y7PoniLG7a6n7PfKMw9EI6w8DqXtv0B6Xt-f9ziUhjYSZ_nDRfK_r9nPoivyik5NWssbFj979HGwrLqlSs6WveFayNjdjuAvywAMxNGnBJ2UB/w655-h371/EC%20Inside%20Graphic%20edit.jpg" width="655" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The illustration was a well-designed vertical timeline, starting in the year 1492 and progressing to 1850, with several drawings from each period about key events during that time. It was a simple yet evocative preview of the text to follow.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">As I leafed through the book and saw the numerous drawings, photos, maps and illustrations, I had to have it and gave the owner $1. I also found out he'd sold his beloved Ford van but didn't regret it in the least. I returned to the homestead, showed the booty I'd bought to the girls and began with my Domestic God duties.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">A few weeks later, I grabbed the book to read while eating breakfast. I like to read every morning before my 50-foot commute from the kitchen to my desk in our second bedroom, where I've worked remotely since the Year of Covid 2020.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I discovered 'Early California' was a State school textbook published in 1950, originally allocated to the Monrovia (CA) School District with additional markings inside showing it was used in the San Marino (CA) School District. A Google search of author Irmagarde Richards yielded little information, except that she'd written other textbooks and had a 1921 bestseller titled 'Modern Milk Goats'.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Over the following weeks, I read and read and read, captivated by the basic yet beautifully-descriptive writing and the way the author created scenes of life that were easily pictured in my mind's eye. The following is from the first page of Chapter One, titled 'Flying Over California Long Ago' about wild ducks leaving their winter home in Mexico:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>"The ducks rose up into the air. They flew in a circle high above the water. Then they turned North in a great flock. They flew away from that beautiful lake in Mexico where they had lived all winter... On the third day they left behind them the land of Mexico. Now they were flying over the California land. The ducks knew that this was where they would find a good summer home. They knew it was a good place to raise their families."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;">"When they came to California an old duck led the way. Perhaps in their bird way he said 'Let us fly toward the west, toward the ocean. I have been over this land before. Near the ocean it is cool. There are little streams and good places where we can rest. We shall find food there."</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUQJGAHv9v0aaR1Uc3hpHS1sLFiMnMC0BtXm6S8Id6FQ2usRmChI9WRRtd31IgRisv3VQXi9vOPtFya5Av3jB2tJyrK4SC8dBw88WNE5yUdw9outW5-4H5PBNYsE2IqEI-iFqgdJbCUNGu3mAwGm2p1qx59eiQOSu_15uRoHtpQuPFKIjuoSolmVyd2ET/s1344/Ducks%20edit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="1344" height="477" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUQJGAHv9v0aaR1Uc3hpHS1sLFiMnMC0BtXm6S8Id6FQ2usRmChI9WRRtd31IgRisv3VQXi9vOPtFya5Av3jB2tJyrK4SC8dBw88WNE5yUdw9outW5-4H5PBNYsE2IqEI-iFqgdJbCUNGu3mAwGm2p1qx59eiQOSu_15uRoHtpQuPFKIjuoSolmVyd2ET/w534-h477/Ducks%20edit.jpg" width="534" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><p></p><p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This style of simple, lyrical writing is what hooked from the very start of the book. Every Chapter that followed was filled with descriptions and imagery and illustrations and facts that brought the story of Early California not just to life, but into reality. More text nuggets:</span></p><p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>"Indians came to America from Asia. They did not come in big ships across the Pacific Ocean. They came most of the way by land. A globe shows that Asia and North America came close together in the North. Between these two lands are many islands. The Indians came across these islands to America."</i></span></p><p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>(snip)</i></span></p><p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>"Indians thought boys fourteen years old were ready to be men. They were old enough to do all the things that men do. If they passed the tests, they were called men. They had to show that they were strong and brave. They had to go without food for two or three days. They had to go out into the woods and stay alone through the dark nights. If a boy was not afraid, alone in the dark, the Indians believed some good spirit would come to him. This spirit would be his friend and would help him all his life."</i></span></p><p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; widows: 2;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The story of Indian boys in the woods resonated with me. It closely describes a Boy Scout ceremony I went through </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">in the San Bernardino (CA) mountains </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">called an Ordeal. It was required to earn entrance to the Order of the Arrow, an honor camping society based on Indian lore. The Good Spirit that befriended me during the Ordeal still helps me all these years later.</span></span></p><p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; widows: 2;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVluBGQ8tf6IUHV6pNCCkYiAHy9Yqx8HTAyY-BDfhPdDQSeY6IfUj1707fI0-nlFgMtLL7xSWfzfhUiBPhzhrwKlZ7bJSH9t6AxjpJKwmgDV6gJAp2ccpqJqQ4BMS0WKVPr9-HIKxN7LUeH8nzdi5drVMWe9oRORL7CS1U3tK7Gdcf1AI-CenV8-5kvBI9/s1876/Ordeal.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1876" data-original-width="1579" height="503" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVluBGQ8tf6IUHV6pNCCkYiAHy9Yqx8HTAyY-BDfhPdDQSeY6IfUj1707fI0-nlFgMtLL7xSWfzfhUiBPhzhrwKlZ7bJSH9t6AxjpJKwmgDV6gJAp2ccpqJqQ4BMS0WKVPr9-HIKxN7LUeH8nzdi5drVMWe9oRORL7CS1U3tK7Gdcf1AI-CenV8-5kvBI9/w423-h503/Ordeal.JPG" width="423" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Author, circa 1969</div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; widows: 2;">As I read on, the famous names and events from history kept coming: Cortes, Cabrillo, Drake, Viscaino, Portola, Serra, Anza, Sutter, Bidwell, March. The era of Spanish exploration. The search for a huge mystical bay that eluded the Spanish for years, which they eventually found and named Yerba Buena, later renamed as San Francisco. The founding of the Spanish Missions. The Russian and Yankee foreigners that arrived to trade Asian goods for furs and food, and Spain's loss of the territory to Mexico.</p></span></span><p></p><p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Then came the Americans and the discovery of gold, which brought with it a tidal wave of (mostly) white people hoping to get rich, forever changing the land in just two short years. Eventually, Mexico lost the land when the Republic of California was established in 1846 and became a member of the United States in 1850, where the story ends.</span></p><p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; widows: 2;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDa6c7Qpc4bzr5Mp26HBfsb_jUHkwAQJoOJ3DmddMe3P8pxMd__ei8iB58tmW5kC9njcCmsynlYdjbF3Zj6lPcmsDuJrQNyGII8Uaaveg4VxfqBCW_hr930BHEFfcHskzZWf9UJw9Ah0_AVxk1oz2_-D5zjId1gD3els8xdCk_MFRzKklQ7rCMOGUV6Dwq/s1346/CA%201848.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1107" data-original-width="1346" height="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDa6c7Qpc4bzr5Mp26HBfsb_jUHkwAQJoOJ3DmddMe3P8pxMd__ei8iB58tmW5kC9njcCmsynlYdjbF3Zj6lPcmsDuJrQNyGII8Uaaveg4VxfqBCW_hr930BHEFfcHskzZWf9UJw9Ah0_AVxk1oz2_-D5zjId1gD3els8xdCk_MFRzKklQ7rCMOGUV6Dwq/w573-h471/CA%201848.jpg" width="573" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">When I finished the the book, it left me wanting to know even more about California history, which is exactly what a well-written textbook should do. I also had questions about the textbook's history. What Grade Level was it written and used for? My best guess would be 4th or 5th Grade. How long was it used as a textbook? What replaced it in State's curriculum, and when? </span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I wrote emails to both the Monrovia and San Marino School Districts but got no response. Then I emailed the California Department of Education. Their response was friendly but they found no record of the book or author in their database. I shouldn't have been surprised, because it was published over 70 years ago, and no one keeps records for that long.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I even contacted a university professor with a Ph.D. in California History who </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">runs the <a href="https://www.californiafrontier.net/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #04ff00;">California Frontier Project</span></a>, a website that </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">provides teaching materials and information to state History teachers</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">. He'd never heard of the book but said my email piqued his interest and he was gonna buy a copy.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">My takeaway from the book is complex. The stories about the Indians, how they lived and the way their society thrived before the arrival of the Spanish explorers is in stark contrast to their subjugation by the missionary priests, even if their lives became somewhat less difficult.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I enjoyed the stories of how early California trade began to prosper between the Indians and Spaniards and Russians and East Coast Americans, an eye-opener because of how symbiotic the relationship was for everyone involved.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">And of course, the stories about how White people came flooding into the State, first to homestead and then to plunder the gold and commandeer the natural resources. It demonstrates how progress can cause history to careen in directions no one could have predicted. Thankfully for the students reading this book in a 1950's schoolroom, the results were left to be detailed later as they got older and better-able to understand the consequences of discovery.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I'm amused to think how this 70-year-old school book would be perceived in today's context of parental rights over educational content and the wildly divergent views on race, culture and diversity we're experiencing. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I imagine that Irmagarde Richards wasn't worried about context. She simply wrote an excellent Grade school textbook and provided a public service by documenting real California history... supporting education, knowledge and an understanding of how our State came to be. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I Love History... yard sales, too. Thank you, Irmagarde!</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>"The philosophy of the school room in one generation will be the philosophy of government in the next." - Abraham Lincoln</i></span></div><div><br /></div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9YicQtP-xyg" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/p65xs9KpxQA" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Historical images courtesy of 'Early California' textbook; lead image by the author; Scouting Ordeal image, Muchisimas Gracias de Manuel A. Macias, Jr.; all videos, Gracias de YouTube. </i></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-10926284896653757172023-06-20T14:59:00.068-07:002023-06-25T09:17:01.506-07:00The Pointless Forest<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzc_oq-O9ntlQnt5IM-fEDjjJyRAkO7-bkTPCiyJMAqR4I1LkKh7ft9yWZbTjM1s-b1SNQ2X1j7dGX4ggatW4NKDZtCAVe0DU5VLgwq1rdOVTfYLoMjCWgSsPe-8XnSNqV_b4BzeYdOIMoyI0xo7y2JD0WyzFY2w5dqMFllL4p-BxEhkKWS6offiD8sA/s741/RW1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="741" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzc_oq-O9ntlQnt5IM-fEDjjJyRAkO7-bkTPCiyJMAqR4I1LkKh7ft9yWZbTjM1s-b1SNQ2X1j7dGX4ggatW4NKDZtCAVe0DU5VLgwq1rdOVTfYLoMjCWgSsPe-8XnSNqV_b4BzeYdOIMoyI0xo7y2JD0WyzFY2w5dqMFllL4p-BxEhkKWS6offiD8sA/w454-h220/RW1.jpg" width="454" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">People are usually different than they appear to be. My Mother-in-law told me that even though I was a 'non-believer', she thought I'd make a really good Christian. A co-worker stated in all seriousness that I was the gayest straight man she'd ever known.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In both cases, I took those statements in the same way they were offered - as compliments, with appreciation and gratitude.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cisgender" target="_blank"><span style="color: #04ff00;">cisgender</span></a> heterosexual male. I didn't choose that condition... I just <i>am</i>. During early gestation in Mom's belly, I had an equal chance of being male or female, and only a rise in testosterone over estrogen sent me on the path towards maleness. I also had the nascent beginnings of both male and female genitalia, eventually set by the aforementioned rise in testosterone.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">During my belly time, Nature could have caused the estrogen hormone to gain traction instead of testosterone, with the result being a female me. Nature could also have very easily created a cocktail of both estrogen and testosterone, shaken (and not stirred) it, thus impacting the formative me and how I would pop outta Mom's oven, irrespective of which set of genitalia would eventually develop.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">These are scientific facts. EVERYONE starts out this way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">These scientific facts have nothing to do with ideology or belief. They have nothing to do with who or what my parents were, how I was raised, the books I read in Grade school, or the people I knew and dated in high school and college.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well-educated people understand that our knowledge of science can be misinterpreted, misunderstood and/or imperfect. During the Middle Ages, scholars proclaimed that humans were solid inside like a potato. <a href="https://thereader.mitpress.mit.edu/hole-in-the-head-trepanation/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #04ff00;">Trepanation</span> </a>was used for millennia to resolve all kinds of physical and mental ailments. Modern medicines and vaccines are lifesaving miracles of science but can also have serious, life-altering side effects.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Luckily, we now have an expanded view on the science of life, and for the most part accept the foundational aspects about how and why we are who and what we are. </span>However, there are many among us who can't accept that Nature... like science... is sometimes fickle and imperfect and doesn't always operate within the commonly-accepted parameters.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Science also tells us that sexuality and gender are not the same thing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It's no one's fault. Science... like Nature... is sometimes fickle and imperfect and doesn't operate within the commonly-accepted parameters.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I highlight these gestational issues because they've been on my mind lately, the result of a national (international?) hysteria over what defines a male or a female, the difference between sexuality and gender, whose definitions are correct or not, and why it doesn't really matter in any substantive way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Point (Vinyl LP 1970; Film 1971)</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjb_8yBx2ubNQLoXfsNRYO1dGtkvHlPbpIZgbB6SiCodFAGBZXPlrRV0q-Kq522smityC3mJjxkFysPARk8ELaC4_YjspvcyxIeXtpSB9_GtDTMPLBNxrssYxxuWoSv6xV4ICvTP2UioH34zSaNykAMeSGqDexV7I4APlA5Qj6KYacz-x5IFLySP4LHQ/s599/The%20Point%20LP.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="593" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjb_8yBx2ubNQLoXfsNRYO1dGtkvHlPbpIZgbB6SiCodFAGBZXPlrRV0q-Kq522smityC3mJjxkFysPARk8ELaC4_YjspvcyxIeXtpSB9_GtDTMPLBNxrssYxxuWoSv6xV4ICvTP2UioH34zSaNykAMeSGqDexV7I4APlA5Qj6KYacz-x5IFLySP4LHQ/s320/The%20Point%20LP.jpg" width="317" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>This wonderful animated film, based on the 1970 Harry Nilsson vinyl LP, tells the story of a boy named Oblio living in the mythical Land of Point, where every person is born with a pointed head and everything else has a literal, physical point. Unfortunately, Oblio was born with a round head. He didn't choose that condition... he just <i>was</i>. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span><span>As he grows up, his Mom knits him a pointed cap to help assimilate at school, but it doesn't really help. </span>After winning </span>a game of Triangle Toss against the Son of the evil Count, the Count convinces the King that Oblio's pointlessness violates the law of the land, which states that everyone and everything must have a point. Oblio and his dog Arrow are convicted of breaking the law and banished to the Pointless Forest, where they have a fantastic journey of discovery.</span></div><div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/guqFqcV4Po0" width="320" youtube-src-id="guqFqcV4Po0"></iframe></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div><span style="font-size: large;">Of course, during his journey Oblio learns that everything in the Pointless Forest actually has a 'point', so he rightfully concludes that he must have one too.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>This film had such a profound impact on my young self that immediately after seeing it at the movies with Mom, I begged her to buy me the record, which I still have in my collection. The foundational message about diversity, equality and the inclusion of others (D.E.I!!!) was burned into my mental hard drive, and I believe 'The Point' should be required viewing in every Grade school, because this isn't rocket science. Thanks, Harry.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi01ZqwZGbAuH8EC_ttlOHyONPYEDm4Mku3DTRq6loEQI7M-R0SZXI1hhjr91R3JCZ3E-inBVJ40xGuN37RTdFFBxYx1GUNv-3hHAJjuUAXKV4yFTde4MQoomQlsK0a26lNnRLjOtGyqh5iv33HRfvClvySp_v7YwNLcGcWw00ZJgiVcBqsleoLg8oXcA/s800/HarryNilsson_6_18.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi01ZqwZGbAuH8EC_ttlOHyONPYEDm4Mku3DTRq6loEQI7M-R0SZXI1hhjr91R3JCZ3E-inBVJ40xGuN37RTdFFBxYx1GUNv-3hHAJjuUAXKV4yFTde4MQoomQlsK0a26lNnRLjOtGyqh5iv33HRfvClvySp_v7YwNLcGcWw00ZJgiVcBqsleoLg8oXcA/s320/HarryNilsson_6_18.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/V6Qnd5vnpN0" width="320" youtube-src-id="V6Qnd5vnpN0"></iframe></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">'The Point' - complete movie</div><p></p><p><b style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></b></p><p><b style="font-size: x-large;">Jazz Hands</b></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was a Drama geek in high school but was clueless about gay folks. It wasn't until my first year in Junior College (1974) that I had many gay classmates at school and in the Theater Arts Department. My exposure to their reality was, in a word, dramatic.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Neil was a tall gay ginger in Theater Arts, and he was the first 'out' gay person I'd ever met, totally flamboyant and exuberant. I enjoyed his dark sense of humor during convos when we'd all gather in the Green Room. When he learned that I'd been an Indian Dancer in Boy Scouts, he suggested that I take a class in Modern Jazz Dance like he was to strengthen my stage chops. I took his advice and registered for the following semester.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Neil and his partner hosted a house party one Saturday night and invited everyone. At first I was a bit nervous about going to a gay party, but it turned out to be as raucous and fun as any other college party and I danced, drank and laughed a lot. I had a blast... these were my kind of people!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">On my first day of dance class, I quickly learned two things. First, Neil was a semester ahead of me and wouldn't be in the same class, so I was the only guy in a studio full of women! Second, the instructor said I needed to wear a leotard. After much pleading, she agreed to let me wear cutoff sweatpants and a tank-top instead. WHEW!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>The stretching and warm-ups at the start of each class were accompanied by the Chi-Lites tune 'Oh Girl', and </span>every time I hear it now, I think of that room of languidly-stretching humans.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OCLxVG2E7mo" width="320" youtube-src-id="OCLxVG2E7mo"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">Class consisted of instruction and practice on many different dance moves and techniques, but we also worked on a group routine performed to Labelle's 'Lady Marmalade', another tune that time-warps me right back into the dance studio.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/O3IRPBwqKCo" width="320" youtube-src-id="O3IRPBwqKCo"></iframe></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: large;">Dance class really helped me with stage presence and smooth, sure movement. One night after taking a date to see a play at school, she demanded that I perform my dance class routine in her driveway, which I <i>nailed </i>while lit by<i> </i>the headlights of my Triumph TR4A. Although this all happened a lifetime ago, I'll always be grateful to Neil for convincing me to take the class, which also helped in my later career as an automotive technical training specialist, where I performed over 200 classes, presentations and speeches.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My programs were NEVER boring!<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*****************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Dad taught me that everyone is important... that everyone matters, regardless of who or what they are. My Boy Scout experience taught me to treat others with the honesty and respect they deserve, regardless of who or what they are. My life has been filled with all kinds of people, many who were and are part of the LGBTQ+ milieu, and in almost every case I've become a better person for having them in my life. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Whomever a person chooses to love and/or spend their life with, or how they choose to present themselves to the world are deeply personal decisions, and it shouldn't matter what others think about it. Sadly, in 2023 it's become an issue for some with power and influence who try to mandate and legislate human behavior and interpersonal relationships based on their own narrow-minded vision and beliefs, along with their willfully ignorant confusion about sexuality and gender. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Don't be like them, because they're as wrong as they can be. </span>It's really not their fault. Humans... like nature and science... are fickle and imperfect and don't always operate within the commonly-accepted parameters of behavior.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"It may seem difficult at first, but everything is difficult at first." - Miyamoto Musashi, swordsman and philosopher - 1584-1645</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/IpkIGGJMHBA" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i>All images, Gracias de Google Images; all videos, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.</i></span></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-40952533846707215752023-05-24T14:10:00.045-07:002023-06-01T08:23:45.216-07:00I Know You Are, But What Am I?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWjsoG-lgX46mrpsYXbGiTrjx0ctFhZqZqwI3ZOYcQv4JQOUry-G5nT-shCYKD4kcBwIanj_SjfLzKbIIWiW1D7TYSH6s6k8I9tBNLU9_ttc_hjXoJYMp4QOWAKMiB_tEsXt4jSvk_TpJYHlqSxsqGXsYNduX3nFDuHJZM8DGUwC7Ljy-Tvogt1WLLw/s1200/Ignorance1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="628" data-original-width="1200" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWjsoG-lgX46mrpsYXbGiTrjx0ctFhZqZqwI3ZOYcQv4JQOUry-G5nT-shCYKD4kcBwIanj_SjfLzKbIIWiW1D7TYSH6s6k8I9tBNLU9_ttc_hjXoJYMp4QOWAKMiB_tEsXt4jSvk_TpJYHlqSxsqGXsYNduX3nFDuHJZM8DGUwC7Ljy-Tvogt1WLLw/w447-h233/Ignorance1.jpg" width="447" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Not long before he passed away almost 20 years ago, my younger brother Chuck and I were talking about how so many of our friends knew little or nothing about anything except for what they could see with their eyes or put in their mouths. He called it 'the Stupidization of America'.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">From science to civics, from history to grammar, from common sense to basic life skills... Chuck's view that Americans were mostly unable to comprehend or understand facts and reality still holds true today and, IMHO is far worse than we're willing to admit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">In a society that has all the information in the </span><span style="font-family: times;">world </span><span style="font-family: times;">literally</span><span style="font-family: times;"> </span><span style="font-family: times;">available at our fingertips, we're becoming increasingly uneducated, uninformed, ignorant, willfully ignorant, clueless and stupid. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>UNEDUCATED </b>(adjective)<b> - </b>Lacking an education; poorly educated. <i>"Larry had never heard of a wolverine."</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>UNINFORMED</b> (adjective) - Not having or showing awareness or understanding of the facts. <i>"Larry couldn't figure out why the wolverine kept trying to bite him."</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>IGNORANT</b> (adjective) - Lacking knowledge or awareness in general; uneducated or unsophisticated. <i>"Larry didn't know wolverines made bad pets."</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>WILLFUL IGNORANCE</b> (noun) - A decision in bad faith to avoid becoming informed about something so as to avoid having to make undesirable decisions that such information might prompt. <i>"Larry didn't care if wolverines made bad pets."</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>CLUELESS</b> (adjective) - Having no knowledge, understanding or ability. <i>"Larry assured himself that raising a wolverine would be easy."</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>STUPID</b> (adjective) - Having or showing a great lack of intelligence or common sense. <i>"Larry decided to bring his wolverine to the birthday party."</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">For this essay, let's agree that none of these terms are inherently derogatory or abusive, but are simple descriptions of human cognitive conditions. </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">They apply to many people, mostly a result of the current national apathy and hostility towards a comprehensive primary and secondary public educational system, K through 12. </span></p><p><span style="color: #eeeeee; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><i>"If you think education is expensive, wait until you see how much ignorance costs in the 21st century." - </i><span>Barack Hussein Obama</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">Charter schools have no overall discernable advantage towards education, nor do they produce better-educated students than public schools. Check out the following report:</span></span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.brookings.edu/policy2020/votervital/what-are-charter-schools-and-do-they-deliver/"><b>https://www.brookings.edu/policy2020/votervital/what-are-charter-schools-and-do-they-deliver/</b></a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Private schools are the antithesis of public education. They bar students whose parents can't afford the cost to access the (supposedly) highest-end educators and facilities. That's Capitalism, baby!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Faith-based schools are the American version of Middle East madrassas. Students are marinated in a religious <i>au jus</i> which affects their worldview for the rest of their lives, but HEY... they'll be in Heaven eventually, so why worry about it, right?</span></p><p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TuRo6SLY44k" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Most of my public school teachers were committed to generating young adults with questioning minds, strong critical-thinking skills and an understanding of our collective social history, structures and moral guardrails. At present, we're losing qualified public school educators at a rapid pace, as they're choosing to give up on a cherished career path. It's the same with healthcare workers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe they're just burned out. Maybe it's because educators have grown tired of being treated so poorly by ignorant parents and clueless school boards. Maybe they're not thrilled about having to be both educators AND armed guards tasked with repelling school shooters while earning a measly salary as unappreciated and derided 'woke' educators. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Maybe... just maybe... they see themselves as skilled and certified public servants who are treated like domestic servants that babysit students for ignorant parents who couldn't pass a U.S. Citizenship test if their lives depended on it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">As an aside, why is it that immigrants seeking to gain US Citizenship are required to verbally answer 10 random questions from a 100-question test, but US high-school students aren't required to pass that same test to earn a diploma? Just for giggles, h</span><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">ave a look at the US Citizenship Test questions and answers:</span></span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: times;"></span><a href="https://www.uscis.gov/sites/default/files/document/questions-and-answers/100q.pdf" style="font-family: times;">https://www.uscis.gov/sites/default/files/document/questions-and-answers/100q.pdf</a></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Regardless of how educators feel about their role as glorified babysitters/armed guards, the impact of the public's apathy and conservative antipathy towards public education has real-world results. I can't blame educators for the situation we find ourselves in.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span><span style="font-family: times;">It's a generational decay that's been on the radar for decades, and it's becoming a national tragedy. </span></span><span style="font-family: times;">We're now surrounded by an alarming number of citizens who, to put it bluntly, are just plain ignorant. At the same time, public school districts across the country are, at the direction of willfully ignorant school boards and local politicians, forcing teachers to use textbooks and study plans that are whitewashed of 'uncomfortable' historical facts and context, and instead are injected with simplistic, revisionist pablum.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">Also too... they're banning books. </span></span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">(Sigh... facepalm).</span></p><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Many citizens basically know nothing about US History or how our government functions. </span></div><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">They don't know the difference between the National deficit and National debt. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">They don't really know or care much about voting. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">They know nothing about other countries, geopolitics, or the global environmental crisis. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">They don't know why the Civil War, World War 1 or World War 2 were fought. They don't know who Medgar Evers, Norma McCorvey or Clarence Darrow were. They can't explain the difference between capitalism, socialism and communism. They can't explain the difference between democracy, autocracy, theocracy and fascism.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">You see where I'm going with this, right?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dhQVX3E-c-XnfrRyEu-3sJfas-7q_hVsHUnLwDCLQeCkRF-NMzmFmxDn2dC4L-NzcPLIM25HAEH0lOIPQapFmiztiCc7QRD3gJ70ikz1eimn9rHZlOeYrBXibqMcZOubi5wWR8XtSptQ8ToG16eDaVX85DQPxkoQhyXY1gA7CpuaNm6xTWQBLaYwNg/s520/Ignoranceedit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="520" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dhQVX3E-c-XnfrRyEu-3sJfas-7q_hVsHUnLwDCLQeCkRF-NMzmFmxDn2dC4L-NzcPLIM25HAEH0lOIPQapFmiztiCc7QRD3gJ70ikz1eimn9rHZlOeYrBXibqMcZOubi5wWR8XtSptQ8ToG16eDaVX85DQPxkoQhyXY1gA7CpuaNm6xTWQBLaYwNg/s320/Ignoranceedit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The nuclear-grade levels of fear, suspicion, hate and mindless violence we're seeing all over the country are directly tied to the overwhelming ignorance of our citizens. The societal guardrails are being removed, and now many citizens will believe almost anything because, well... they know almost nothing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I can understand why some folks are uneducated or uninformed, especially if they've never had access to a well-rounded primary and secondary education. On the other hand, ignorance is unacceptable, and willful ignorance is a plague that needs to be ended pronto because it leads to cluelessness and stupidity. And the danger of having a nation of clueless and stupid people is that they're too stupid to know how stupid they are, so they'll try to keep wolverines as pets.</span></p><p><i style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #eeeeee; font-size: large;">"The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled." - Plutarch</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">As leaders and citizens continue to devalue education, everything else becomes expendable, including the value of a meaningful existence. When that happens, the wolverines will have an easy time of taking over and keeping stupid humans as pets.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">There's only one thing that can prevent this:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b>NO-COST COMPREHENSIVE PUBLIC EDUCATION FOR ALL, INCLUDING COMMUNITY COLLEGE</b>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">We dismiss the value of public education at our own peril, and that scares the shit out of me, but I'll likely be dead and long gone before the wolverine overlords usurp human authority.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">At least I hope so. I really, really hope so.</span></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/O9eNTgAuMls" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><p><i style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">All images, Gracias de Google Images; </span></i><i style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">all definitions, Gracias de Google Dictionary; </span></i><i style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">all videos, Gracias de YouTube. All hail the Wolverine Overlords!!</span></i></p><p><i style="font-family: times;"></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZ6cQelHbE8HCiIUdKFqGdapNhYRHJ5uZJvaUfdAsGNiwDokrW4FtcKkkqQPmxQ3wrgVYrwYkZpS3KoMqvh2cDPnoAqhso20ZIW_fo5lC6P9L15de0rzaTK5h7ZImcGl3ytRF1U5V4Po3FJzJ3uDdgmLwr043XS6wXQrr66-DX7B0dmJO1YDi4rOtgg/s800/rabid-wolverine-teeth.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="800" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZ6cQelHbE8HCiIUdKFqGdapNhYRHJ5uZJvaUfdAsGNiwDokrW4FtcKkkqQPmxQ3wrgVYrwYkZpS3KoMqvh2cDPnoAqhso20ZIW_fo5lC6P9L15de0rzaTK5h7ZImcGl3ytRF1U5V4Po3FJzJ3uDdgmLwr043XS6wXQrr66-DX7B0dmJO1YDi4rOtgg/w378-h198/rabid-wolverine-teeth.jpg" width="378" /></a></i></div><i style="font-family: times;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i><p></p></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-65556392841742444082023-04-11T11:54:00.048-07:002023-04-17T07:25:11.987-07:00Stitching One Together<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNET1eiBr2LLPnQsODNFa3VGBCEYBFxSpqO2pKfAthn9FQJyyLc5heXyuawedaD1uglxiuPatBeu4NLYzvGtcbp3_azLTjDTFbNnG0-lChk3UGV12uDvXryXScawdU8y4j168Eu2KHM8Hr-3_oPEaJvwlX86juM21YnoZECWjpUTLQZ2i_abvgPOtf6w/s1600/Needle%20track.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNET1eiBr2LLPnQsODNFa3VGBCEYBFxSpqO2pKfAthn9FQJyyLc5heXyuawedaD1uglxiuPatBeu4NLYzvGtcbp3_azLTjDTFbNnG0-lChk3UGV12uDvXryXScawdU8y4j168Eu2KHM8Hr-3_oPEaJvwlX86juM21YnoZECWjpUTLQZ2i_abvgPOtf6w/w446-h251/Needle%20track.jpg" width="446" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">This story is about sewing, and the image above will become relevant as you read on. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Sewing by hand is becoming a lost art, and I'll be damned if I let it go without a fight. T</span><span>he dance with needle and thread has impacted me in many ways, and I'm grateful to the those who taught me how to replace a button... attach a patch... set a hem... repair a rip.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It's a quiet and singular activity that, much like ironing, can push a certain button in certain people. I like to iron too, but I'm weird that way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Aunt Peggy</b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5rGlZjqm4rkDFBIATu9KNTvajsNob8d-NSe_yWR52sRlFl1gPa2UV-dFRMhjsIbbTfegDtJIICnnETWLDMmbZ8UI--X2q0a3F2qZN_BRloLM0RjjDSk04AYr50NRi3qlVUOdI1ziNzEdSBdNAiGJANubF2lz_0FuzKSsP6PeR_1ldokd_YbNgOYr0A/s1028/Needle%20ironing%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1028" data-original-width="925" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5rGlZjqm4rkDFBIATu9KNTvajsNob8d-NSe_yWR52sRlFl1gPa2UV-dFRMhjsIbbTfegDtJIICnnETWLDMmbZ8UI--X2q0a3F2qZN_BRloLM0RjjDSk04AYr50NRi3qlVUOdI1ziNzEdSBdNAiGJANubF2lz_0FuzKSsP6PeR_1ldokd_YbNgOYr0A/s320/Needle%20ironing%20(2).jpg" width="288" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">During Grade school, my younger brother and I lived with Aunt Peggy and Uncle Tony while Dad worked hard to create a new space for his two young sons. This is a common arrangement in many families, yet the benefits of that time so long ago are still with me.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">To help ends meet, Peggy took in laundry and ironing work, and her small home was always filled with clothes. Regular walking trips to the laundromat were a part of my days from 2nd to 5th Grade, and the rules for using a laundromat were burned into my hard drive at an early age. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After school, I'd sit and watch her iron and learned how to do it (I'm still an Ironing God). She also taught me the basics of hand-sewing, and sometimes she'd let me sew missing buttons onto a dress shirt before it was starched, ironed and hung, ready for pick-up. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I was a weird kid, too.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Father Sews Best</b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjylJeI8Mzk_rMhmyq_YZO11uA1Qxbw0cDch_zH6XwCBiBG3ZeqMFk_wwhe4snIY1VIeHc48kJnHoCdkm5LfBngdkikWfZjKMKtNsVfCbj-GvcHBwj2h2KUNQUMAvMVbgOe9UGzI7j9wfCmvpiIjFD9SAZdZA9wwxDakU3hrP2RewZsr1XGQRpJfv3lpw/s2057/Needle%20Coat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2057" data-original-width="1609" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjylJeI8Mzk_rMhmyq_YZO11uA1Qxbw0cDch_zH6XwCBiBG3ZeqMFk_wwhe4snIY1VIeHc48kJnHoCdkm5LfBngdkikWfZjKMKtNsVfCbj-GvcHBwj2h2KUNQUMAvMVbgOe9UGzI7j9wfCmvpiIjFD9SAZdZA9wwxDakU3hrP2RewZsr1XGQRpJfv3lpw/s320/Needle%20Coat.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">My Dad is a jack-of-all-trades, so it wasn't a surprise that he was also pretty good with a sewing machine. When I landed the role of 'The Peddler' in my Junior High School production of 'Oklahoma!' during the 7th Grade, he figured out how to use Grandma's ancient machine to fashion a sporty suit coat out of leftover material scraps. He fabricated the coat while I hovered around him, watching it come together. I told everyone "My DAD made this coat!!"</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii3pggC2aSgAo0flhGt5z4TugLfvdK7Nv_jHLTjQNIRMvr4FccJrohEAuEySEgtuF3XE7HMefcklbObxQHqcWyGNS8rSISsbDFEtA2J7aaAj-7pISXIZxD_Cxz4bTHJtUZrRhvnYlA8uZfmLik2MVu_keSdH2hKYkTL5ikdhUgE5EtTkKjPAKi8IgAXw/s1922/DSC00068%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1922" data-original-width="1244" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii3pggC2aSgAo0flhGt5z4TugLfvdK7Nv_jHLTjQNIRMvr4FccJrohEAuEySEgtuF3XE7HMefcklbObxQHqcWyGNS8rSISsbDFEtA2J7aaAj-7pISXIZxD_Cxz4bTHJtUZrRhvnYlA8uZfmLik2MVu_keSdH2hKYkTL5ikdhUgE5EtTkKjPAKi8IgAXw/w257-h397/DSC00068%20(2).JPG" width="257" /></a></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">During my Boy Scout years, Dad was heavily involved with (among many other things) starting an Indian dance team for our local Order of the Arrow chapter. With me at his elbow, he fabricated the entire costume I wore for several years at performances all over Southern California. He also sewed-up and decorated the full-sized 'tipi' seen in the image above, which our team used at Camporees and pow-wows. </span><span style="font-size: large;">My Dad RULES</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">.</span><div><div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Camping Capitalism</b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJdljb2SJUDnTwy6WEAlr5Jt7xci5W4deZ-C27T0k3w-YxYqmU0_Dmx4KwE6omfZjUMdhKRppxrrULwnU5EnB_GMSuEl2BXjKFDj2Lqrm0jaNCfTyF3h_xmrasjo9W3Gi8528vJy5j73ysjOxYMNwT44m5uvpj8vaCDmAkzdnDMbwGDaejN-L6xwz0g/s1720/Needle%20Camp%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1381" data-original-width="1720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJdljb2SJUDnTwy6WEAlr5Jt7xci5W4deZ-C27T0k3w-YxYqmU0_Dmx4KwE6omfZjUMdhKRppxrrULwnU5EnB_GMSuEl2BXjKFDj2Lqrm0jaNCfTyF3h_xmrasjo9W3Gi8528vJy5j73ysjOxYMNwT44m5uvpj8vaCDmAkzdnDMbwGDaejN-L6xwz0g/w398-h320/Needle%20Camp%20(2).JPG" width="398" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span>The image above was taken at Holt Scout Ranch (a.k.a. Camp Cedar Canyon), located in the San Bernardino (CA) mountains. During the summer of 1970, </span>I was a Summer Camp Junior Staffer there and lived at camp for over two months on my own. </span></div><div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Scout Troops would arrive at camp on Sundays for a week of outdoor activities, campcraft classes and fun, departing on the following Saturday. As a Junior Counselor, I conducted First Aid classes and helped the senior staffers to keep things humming. I washed a LOT of dishes in the Mess Hall.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My sewing skills came in handy. Workers in the Camp Store (pictured at left above) knew I could sew and would send visiting Scouts </span><span style="font-size: large;">that needed emergency clothing repairs to find me. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My typical charge was $1 per repair, and Scouts would gladly pay me to fix their torn clothes, sew a newly-earned merit badge onto their sash, or attach an official Camp badge on their Red wool Scout jacket. I always had extra cash to spend at the camp store.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>The really cool part was that camp staff lived in large individual tents </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">on raised wooden platforms, with electricity! I had a portable record player, an incense burner and my 'Easy Rider' poster in there. Many evenings found me sewing by lantern light, blasting 'Inagaddadavida' into the surrounding forest.</span></p><p><b style="font-size: x-large;">Stitching One Together</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8oEdl7ADDGnsCHx9GrXP72XWkdjrHQbxOGFsoNB9zdhfDtObAD3A6THv-905klVNmky_1-U1UGPJgTDa9CiEwoB3CK1tmGHy8JOpnqMzeaQzBNEb8338bb7Po_x2bnXlqBnWX6671k2ovjmDqJB4GPsC_o0Ld3N-muF0h21HmmMDAG8e_u4ESR7-nRA/s206/Bob%20SP.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="206" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8oEdl7ADDGnsCHx9GrXP72XWkdjrHQbxOGFsoNB9zdhfDtObAD3A6THv-905klVNmky_1-U1UGPJgTDa9CiEwoB3CK1tmGHy8JOpnqMzeaQzBNEb8338bb7Po_x2bnXlqBnWX6671k2ovjmDqJB4GPsC_o0Ld3N-muF0h21HmmMDAG8e_u4ESR7-nRA/w308-h308/Bob%20SP.jpg" width="308" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">I've been lucky to have spent quality time in fast cars on different kinds of race tracks. During my first session at the Jim Russell Racing Driver's School in Sonoma (CA), I unlearned as much as I learned about car control.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>In the first classroom day, the instructor kept saying: </span>"The goal is to stitch together a good lap, and then do it over and over again." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This relates perfectly to sewing, and the title of this story.</span></p><div><span style="font-size: large;">In motorsports, every turn is another opportunity to screw up the lap. When producing autocross-style tire testing events, I'd do a track walk with the participants, stopping at the entrance of each turn to recommend where the car should be placed, when to brake, when begin the turn and when to accelerate out of the turn. My favorite advice (Thanks, Mark Richter!) was, "Anyone can drive fast INTO a corner. The secret is being able to drive fast OUT of a corner."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Note: watch this vid on 'full-screen' It'll be worth it.</span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/O6WVWcVFS7A" width="320" youtube-src-id="O6WVWcVFS7A"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Not me.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Anyone who sews knows that every stitch is vital to the integrity of the finished product. A missed or incorrect stitch can weaken the whole, with failure as a likely result. In the autocross video above, each cone turn is another chance to mess up the lap, and the driver messes up a few of them. He's trying to 'stitch one together'... to take each turn just right to keep up his speed and momentum, thus achieving a quick elapsed time.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">When I'm patching a pair of jeans, I make double-doggone-sure every stitch is where it needs to be so the repair doesn't fail and the patch stays where it's supposed to. In motorsports and sewing, the goal is to make every stitch count.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Heart-shaped Box</b></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzZB0AURROftvVG0Quw2kRF2RTUQ3koKYnRoetQGYvIYtni0ijUN1I0c3wgL_AviwfugSI-pc7t0ZhMCFAJIs0y9QCFuOgEbNQMjcQUlYYNZZhtM8o-7td0hVYpCkJkQm2FMHEQzhtLGQoqP225MjLuMeWCwuOqRSl-LU6yUPxE6AYo5DfOPUdbjCJoA/s911/Needle%20Box.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="911" data-original-width="698" height="363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzZB0AURROftvVG0Quw2kRF2RTUQ3koKYnRoetQGYvIYtni0ijUN1I0c3wgL_AviwfugSI-pc7t0ZhMCFAJIs0y9QCFuOgEbNQMjcQUlYYNZZhtM8o-7td0hVYpCkJkQm2FMHEQzhtLGQoqP225MjLuMeWCwuOqRSl-LU6yUPxE6AYo5DfOPUdbjCJoA/w278-h363/Needle%20Box.jpeg" width="278" /></a></div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The sewing kit shown above is the reason I was inspired to write this essay. It belonged to The Artist's Grandmother Lila, and I loved her dearly. When she passed many years ago, we inherited both her sewing machine and this sewing kit, which I use all the time.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span>When I sit down </span>and open the lid to repair a piece of clothing, Lila's with me. When I use a needle or thread or scissors or thimble or stitch ripper, it's like I'm communing with her across time and space. Holding those precious things in my hand gives me joy for having known and loved Lila so much, and I think about her all the time, even when I'm not sewing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The vintage plastic case is now old and fragile, and my head was filled with slow-motion visions of the handle breaking and the kit crashing to the ground, exploding into a thousand pieces. I taped down the handle and cradle it in my arms when carrying it.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div>*************************************************************************</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Sewing isn't for everyone. Neither is ironing. Both are becoming irrelevant, but I dinna care. I get satisfaction from doing both and will continue until I'm no longer able. Whatever happens to Lila's sewing kit when I depart this mortal coil is of no consequence because I won't know. I hope that another person who loves the intricacies of sewing will see the kit as I have: as a time machine... an homage to human skill and ingenuity... as a way to help their favorite jeans last just a little bit longer. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">(again, full screen).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/y78DI2bDudQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="y78DI2bDudQ"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Definitely not me.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Images of Peddler coat, Indian costume, summer camp and sewing box by the Author, all other images Thanks to GoogleImages; All videos Thanks to YouTube.</i></span></div></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-37723046339149052792023-03-10T14:15:00.016-08:002023-03-14T05:00:25.138-07:00"Can you make my nipples pinker?"<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs6s-ANai94vHBKwiebPLXjLLK8tV5mNwaQ8mEprWAGohHWSnxzf9Ibmo_OpPv6xIIWvX9vspJEUllP0Hoy8HjaVkJzAIxDnjFU8pwpdPGD0We66a16baJKt81j8XXk8iZyvZijN2TZ2Xee3GI0vE6M2wOnF2MfpPYZKAnGx2sGajLSIVaHx-AnYXFsA/s1000/Leon%20Russell.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="992" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs6s-ANai94vHBKwiebPLXjLLK8tV5mNwaQ8mEprWAGohHWSnxzf9Ibmo_OpPv6xIIWvX9vspJEUllP0Hoy8HjaVkJzAIxDnjFU8pwpdPGD0We66a16baJKt81j8XXk8iZyvZijN2TZ2Xee3GI0vE6M2wOnF2MfpPYZKAnGx2sGajLSIVaHx-AnYXFsA/s320/Leon%20Russell.jpg" width="317" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This true story is dedicated to my friend, Rhae Lynn.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">It started with a conversation about the album cover pictured above for Leon Russell's 'Carney', released in 1972. I'm pretty sure I still have this vinyl in my collection.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Our conversation took place at a company I worked at for over 12 years. The business specialized in automotive film production services and our facility included a full-sized photo studio that hosted shoots for both still photography and videos. The shoots were mainly centered around the vehicles from our primary client, a Korean auto manufacturer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">That's where I met Rhae Lynn, who was crewing as a make-up artist for a photo shoot. She stood 5 feet tall, was several years older than me, and we became Green Room friends right away. She was one of the regulars in a production crew that used our studio throughout the year, and we remained friends after I left the company. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sadly, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">she passed away after a sudden illness in early 2022</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">, but not before we'd begun talks for me to write an autobiography about her lifelong career as a make-up artist. She'd already chosen the title of her book, but since it never happened I use it here in her honor (more about that title later). </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">O</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">ur rambling talks about her career piqued my interest in the famous make-up artists that inspired her to take up the profession.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Max Factor. Ben Nye. George Westmore (and his sons Monte, Perc, Ern, Wally, Bud and Frank). Jack Dawn. William Tuttle. Jack Pierce. If you've seen any of the classic Hollywood films, you've seen their work, from 'Frankenstein' to 'Planet of the Apes', from 'The Wizard of Oz' to '2001: A Space Odyssey'.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">These names (and many more) were the Hollywood legends that gave Rhae Lynn the passion to become a make-up artist. Over the past several years, my wife and I have become big fans of the 'film noir' genre that took place in the 40s and 50s, so now I read the film credits like a treasure map, searching for those names. They matter to me now, too.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCm3bX8YgE4ioBHDmiQzQw9VoLw5rfYjY6tCPyvSnqY91Btb6ioFqmtx0t8LbYrFjp3lm_TS0Lprmy4pWipBLVYZRDKudd5q96aXNFCM14l5kFmsC4d8hnYLSAPSPtgnvUX2fmDW2DvLxZzShKwF9YUQupk_laTILitQMyJt71xffy33Gp_KJV7MS59g/s800/MU%20Max%20Factor.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="800" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCm3bX8YgE4ioBHDmiQzQw9VoLw5rfYjY6tCPyvSnqY91Btb6ioFqmtx0t8LbYrFjp3lm_TS0Lprmy4pWipBLVYZRDKudd5q96aXNFCM14l5kFmsC4d8hnYLSAPSPtgnvUX2fmDW2DvLxZzShKwF9YUQupk_laTILitQMyJt71xffy33Gp_KJV7MS59g/s320/MU%20Max%20Factor.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Max Factor</div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">According to de Wiki, since make-up was already used in the theater, the early film industry used those same techniques but found them to be sorely lacking. The combination of the crude celluloid film stock used and how the theatrical make-up colors translated onto film wound up looking like grotesque masks. It was Max Factor who developed the more subtle colors and application methods to tone down the looks. Along with his invention of Pancake make-up, his gentle application methods and the higher-quality film stocks being used, his products and methods became the benchmark for everything else that followed in the make-up industry.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvSzZTctqKOsqfTyXEq-vEkirOzpkkQQoSb3LPTdKvBqYMZ9QsDp-Jiq4whpOYm68AjlwpySvbaEfMZ-4c_Bkz4JiTG6V1cXweea_vaEVY6vBGU6ffemYkw17LaTptx1Ppa6zYwcePV_jeOXPakww_06-HdwdBE7Y_p6iDm5YFOpCTMBUACSJXJBQEg/s761/MU%20George%20Westmore.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="761" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvSzZTctqKOsqfTyXEq-vEkirOzpkkQQoSb3LPTdKvBqYMZ9QsDp-Jiq4whpOYm68AjlwpySvbaEfMZ-4c_Bkz4JiTG6V1cXweea_vaEVY6vBGU6ffemYkw17LaTptx1Ppa6zYwcePV_jeOXPakww_06-HdwdBE7Y_p6iDm5YFOpCTMBUACSJXJBQEg/s320/MU%20George%20Westmore.jpg" width="252" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">George Westmore</div><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">It really took off when film stars began to appear off-screen in the same make-up they wore in front of the cameras. When that happened, Pancake make-up became essential for any woman who was conscious of her appearance.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIj4ASdfYRg_BsHgb6oHXoI60MKE85sbnSFYhEIPfxa53lGtq_gFDf-bLRtpG4WkbPsGfeNOhxsqPCdHJ3A4ZByK39Cmw8GB3gZwHittUIZ9xXd-rTl-zSKq5-W6oYAUEdXu4J0J3-ItSeg40VbN9r5KJVdpzuLiwnM7MUkU1Se-tYSm3-Sxbl75xrvw/s639/MU%20Jack%20Pierce.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="639" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIj4ASdfYRg_BsHgb6oHXoI60MKE85sbnSFYhEIPfxa53lGtq_gFDf-bLRtpG4WkbPsGfeNOhxsqPCdHJ3A4ZByK39Cmw8GB3gZwHittUIZ9xXd-rTl-zSKq5-W6oYAUEdXu4J0J3-ItSeg40VbN9r5KJVdpzuLiwnM7MUkU1Se-tYSm3-Sxbl75xrvw/w343-h180/MU%20Jack%20Pierce.jpg" width="343" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Jack Pierce</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she decided as a teenager to become a make-up artist, Rhae Lynn's family was horrified. They were sure she'd never be able to make a living that way and tried to change her mind, but no dice. She was short and fiery and had made her decision, so a long and successful career was the result of her choice.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">In one of our conversations, she admitted it wasn't an easy career choice. At first she felt like a nomad, following production crews around while trying to pierce their insular world, trying to convince someone... ANYONE... that she had the skills. Once she broke through, the job she'd dreamed of became a decades-long grind of location shoots, endless studio days and equally endless periods of waiting by the phone for the next job, the next chance to earn some money and keep going. </span></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">But she loved her chosen profession. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">She especially loved the people she came into contact with: production crew members, location managers and techs, and especially the talent and clients. She told me about working on a young actress in a shlock horror film who would be almost nude while on-camera. After an arduous make-up session, the actress inspected herself in the mirror and asked "Can you make my nipples pinker?" Thus, Rhae Lynn's autobiography title was born, along with the title of this homage.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The story that resonates most was about the photo shoot for the 'Carney' LP cover.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/d2Z9qN8R9Bg" width="320" youtube-src-id="d2Z9qN8R9Bg"></iframe></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">She was still in her early twenties and just getting her foot into the studio door. She was tapped to do make-up for a photo shoot where the primary tech had to bow out at the last minute. Although still a newbie and not sure what to expect, she gladly took the job.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">She arrived on-set and was directed to a small trailer. She stepped inside and came face-to-face with Leon Russell </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">(whom she'd never heard of)</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">, a Southern blues rocker and hard-partier. He was slouched in the make-up chair, holding an open can of beer, drunk. She introduced herself and he belched in reply. "Oh Lord", she thought to herself, "What have I gotten myself into?"</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">She reviewed the production notes for the make-up application and started, but Leon was abusive and obnoxious, burping in her face as she worked and spitting beer at her. She was ready to drop her brushes and run out, but kept calm and kept working on him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">When she was almost done, he shouted "FUCK THIS!!!", jumped out of the chair and stormed into the trailer's tiny bathroom, slamming the door so hard it shook the trailer. She was mortified and began to pack up her gear, certain that she'd be fired for pissing off the talent. She was ready to leave when the bathroom door opened. Leon came out with a big smile and said "Hey... you did a GREAT job, I look FANTASTIC!!" He thanked her and went outside, leaving her dumbfounded.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">She told me that's when she knew she could be a real make-up artist.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiorolryrtK5gnOrlwQusNXGWQRuNq4DLbdC0DSRfGyhk60ADpNYe0ifxdjfl2XZ1J_HNR6U_4vxYQ12KGkkre9TTX2zgfG5LgHDymqOnbmwauH0EL6lKBdo1nY3zIWeX91CQBpeSashB1VvrTMDKW8tSzJwJlbMAEqNRRFmAD2sVp6wjssHKl6qahopg/s612/MU%20Leon%20Trailer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiorolryrtK5gnOrlwQusNXGWQRuNq4DLbdC0DSRfGyhk60ADpNYe0ifxdjfl2XZ1J_HNR6U_4vxYQ12KGkkre9TTX2zgfG5LgHDymqOnbmwauH0EL6lKBdo1nY3zIWeX91CQBpeSashB1VvrTMDKW8tSzJwJlbMAEqNRRFmAD2sVp6wjssHKl6qahopg/s320/MU%20Leon%20Trailer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Leon and the trailer.</div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I regret not being able to write her autobiography. I can't remember the countless names she dropped of celebrities she'd worked on, their eccentricities and her interaction with them. I missed out on the chance to write her story, but her smiling face and raucous laugh are always with me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Thanks, Rhae Lynn... for being my friend and cohort, for opening my eyes to your profession, and for being an awesome human being. I'll never forget you.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEiJqJQWrYKKlxKHjHvX7Wulo0XottcJVMIVMorDs9fiZeG8bMq5Xnmm9nM-E6W2neocjkGtoqNLPD4dFImesF3ChYZkGHflQXLxaXMBWpCOltRuBvS975fYRTdu7ZEhWFvm8P0byPsuZ3POaD7Yxf4wNNzGrGd8e44spGm-2bsu8FRqRsl8eHLpmFfg/s664/MU%20Rhae%20Lynn%20Stitt%20A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="664" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEiJqJQWrYKKlxKHjHvX7Wulo0XottcJVMIVMorDs9fiZeG8bMq5Xnmm9nM-E6W2neocjkGtoqNLPD4dFImesF3ChYZkGHflQXLxaXMBWpCOltRuBvS975fYRTdu7ZEhWFvm8P0byPsuZ3POaD7Yxf4wNNzGrGd8e44spGm-2bsu8FRqRsl8eHLpmFfg/s320/MU%20Rhae%20Lynn%20Stitt%20A.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">R.I.P. Rhae Lynn Stitt (19?? - 2022)</div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/tn-br0h4rZk" width="320" youtube-src-id="tn-br0h4rZk"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>RLS imagen, gracias de Facebook, todos las demas fotos, gracias de Google Images; todos las videos, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube. "We're lost in a masquerade."</i></span></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-1686166323932521542023-02-28T15:11:00.001-08:002023-02-28T15:17:47.682-08:00"One Small Step for a Man..."<p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEje9eVZOZjieE0zyq-4cJ0tMsNavYsXcCYrMVtbELnJP1T8aFWRlBragvT4XbEI4BS_ajPm6Zo25hK8k29QuOk9aT4fa6DXhB1KqjYLYRuEd2Vlz2Gt0_7YT-v3voaZwPQPz2JuAsV7gkeKoSgrClUqEGocB9LnJju2oGmOtU0pCJYgTynzmco6aNkeNQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEje9eVZOZjieE0zyq-4cJ0tMsNavYsXcCYrMVtbELnJP1T8aFWRlBragvT4XbEI4BS_ajPm6Zo25hK8k29QuOk9aT4fa6DXhB1KqjYLYRuEd2Vlz2Gt0_7YT-v3voaZwPQPz2JuAsV7gkeKoSgrClUqEGocB9LnJju2oGmOtU0pCJYgTynzmco6aNkeNQ=w410-h308" width="410" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">This story is 100% true.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">1969 was a year of massive change that reflected and resonated all across the country. From Woodstock to the Moon landing, anyone above the age of 8 knew things were different and would only continue to be new, weird and exciting.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The Summer of '69 saw me as a 12-year-old heading into the 8th Grade, obsessed with drag racing, MAD Magazine, rock music and GIRLS. I'd been a Boy Scout for almost 2 years and our Troop was one of only a few that regularly held dance parties with local Girl Scout Troops, some hosted at my house since Dad was our Scoutmaster. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">It was COOL.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I had my very first job that summer, a referral from the Willow Junior High recreation department. It involved volunteering at a local library in a shopping center near the school, helping with book returns and reading to kids and general cleanup. It was only a few hours a day, a few days each week for a couple of months, and Dad thought it would be a good way to keep me occupied during those long hot no-school days.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Bg0tFRea0wA" width="320" youtube-src-id="Bg0tFRea0wA"></iframe></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Volunteering at the library was fun, especially since I'd recently discovered the world of science fiction and was inhaling books by Asimov, Heinlein and Bradbury. I had to wear dress clothes and shoes (remember those?) so I felt like I belonged in that clean and quiet space... pushing around a cart filled with books to be shelved and helping visitors navigate the dreaded Dewey Decimal System.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">One day a girl came in looking for a book and I was stopped in my 12-year-old tracks. She was my age, pale and pretty with long straight blonde hair and dark eye shadow, wearing a plaid mini-skirt and white go-go boots, looking like a teenage Twiggy. She asked for help finding a book, and after missing a beat while I stood there slack-jawed, we hit the card catalog and I found the book for her in the shelves. With a big smile and fluttering eyelashes, she thanked me and went to Check-out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I wasn't the same for the rest of the day.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I didn't get her name. </span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I knew nothing about her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">And against all odds, the next time I worked at the library, she came in again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Now, I didn't know if it was a coincidence but this time I made sure to talk to her as much as I could. She told me her friends called her Spooky (?!?), she went to a rival junior high near the library, lived just a few blocks away and read a lot of books but no sci-fi. Before I knew it, she was gone... POOF!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">We wound up seeing each other over the next few weeks. Sometimes after I was done at the library we'd walk to the Thrifty Drug lunch counter in the shopping center to grab a fresh-dipped ice cream cone and just talk. We blabbed about school and friends and books and laughed a lot, all very junior-high but I was crushing on her. It felt like she could be my first real possibly maybe girlfriend and we were 'going around'! She wouldn't let me walk her home, so we'd stroll to the edge of the shopping center, rolling my 10-speed bike between us, before she'd split across the street when the light turned Green and... POOF, gone again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Then it happened. Once after the ice cream and the goofy talk and the stroll to the intersection... before she left, she kissed me. I mean, </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">a real honkin' French Kiss </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">with tongue and everything! Hoo boy, it felt great as we kissed right there on the corner for the whole world to see. WOW.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/pKfASw6qoag" width="320" youtube-src-id="pKfASw6qoag"></iframe></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>The next time we met, she asked me to stop by her house later that evening to hang out. I clearly remember getting ready in my room, lying to my Dad that I'd be racing slot cars with a Scouting friend nearby and then riding my bike to her house, SO NERVOUS. Would her folks tell me to leave their daughter alone? Would she invite me inside to watch TV and make out? What if she wasn't home? I didn't even know her real name!</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The streetlights had just come on when I arrived in front of her house, a slightly rundown place with a dirt front yard and a ratty covered porch. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I could see the lights were already on inside t</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">hrough the front window, covered with torn drapes.</span></span></div><div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I rang the doorbell and after a looooong minute, she opened the front door and came out onto the porch, quickly closing the door behind her. Naturally I thought she'd hug or kiss me but instead we both just sat down on the porch bench. We were there for a few minutes, not saying anything, and then she told me she couldn't hang out and that maybe I shouldn't have come over. Then I heard someone inside the house shout:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">"HEY... SPOOKY!!! WHATCHOO DOING OUT THERE?? GET BACK IN HERE!!!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Me: "Soooo... who's that inside calling you? Is it your Dad or your Brother?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Her: "No, it's my boyfriend. I wasn't expecting him tonight and I didn't have your phone number so I couldn't call to tell you not to come over."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Me: "Your... boyfriend? He sounds a lot older than us."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Her: " He is... he's a Senior in high school."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Me: "WHOA... he's a LOT older than us. Does he know I'm here?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Her: "Yeah, but I told him you were a just a friend dropping off a school book. He's pretty jealous, so you'd better take off before he comes out here and gets mad and beats you up."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">And that was it. Without another word, she went inside the house and I jumped on my bike and pedaled away, feeling hurt and betrayed. I rode around in the dark neighborhoods and after a while went home to my room, turned on the radio real loud and cried like a big stupid baby.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">She didn't come into the library again, and even though I knew where she lived, I never rode by her house and then my Summer library job was over. It all happened in the span of about a month, so after a while it seemed like it never happened at all. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">And then it was time for 8th Grade... the cute girls, Friday afternoon sock-hops, Saturday night dances and all the stuff we took for granted. For the longest time I tried not to think about Spooky again because it hurt, but even that eventually faded away and I knew it wasn't supposed to be. She knew it too.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I'll never EVER forget that kiss with Spooky on the corner of Amar and Orange Avenues in La Puente, California in the Summer of 1969, near the Food Giant and the library, only a few miles from home but a million miles from everywhere.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Qpo9KZYJ4sA" width="320" youtube-src-id="Qpo9KZYJ4sA"></iframe></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Epilogue: all the tunes above were on the radio in the Summer of 1969, and now they sound simple and beautiful and meaningful. In fact, I recently heard all these songs on a Spotify feed in one afternoon, which inspired me to write about Spooky. For me, everything began to change in 1969, and I mean EVERYTHING. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I know this much: I'll always be grateful to have been 12 years old in 1969.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><i>Lead Image, gracias de Google Images; all videos, muchisimas gracias de YouTube. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-66837969198307846422022-05-05T13:00:00.002-07:002022-05-05T14:49:04.219-07:00Female Trouble<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ25sdkiP8TCKOtrudoBEaR3_2YsmWxS27B9ikKIMY4jbaUI44xClZ7uVMqZqvIBKO5inEUdUKaC1OTP1egs1BEFvHfW9gqxT5QhEXG1i5ztLEVqM0QQAxoGQJckcL_V0u1vvdsHg_r1Ho/s1600/crucified_woman_by_eric_drooker.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5737943765251801250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ25sdkiP8TCKOtrudoBEaR3_2YsmWxS27B9ikKIMY4jbaUI44xClZ7uVMqZqvIBKO5inEUdUKaC1OTP1egs1BEFvHfW9gqxT5QhEXG1i5ztLEVqM0QQAxoGQJckcL_V0u1vvdsHg_r1Ho/s400/crucified_woman_by_eric_drooker.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 396px;" /></a><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">May 5, 2022 - The relevance of this essay from 2012 (now updated) is a sad testament to the insanity that surrounds the issues of female self-determination, family planning, contraception and abortion, seemingly the most important things in the world to the conservatives among us. With the SCOTUS poised to eliminate federal protections for abortion rights, my observations from a decade ago are still painfully obvious and devastating - Oblio<br /></span></i><div><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></i></div><div><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Preface: this is a rant about the systematic misogyny and anti-woman legislative attacks being carried out by the Regressive Conservatives in Congress and state houses across the country. If you don’t believe there’s a ‘War On Women’ taking place in our modern political discourse, then you're either not paying attention, don’t care, or live in a world without women (a sad and lonely place, indeed). </span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'm not a woman, so I'll assume that some of the nuances involved in this essay will never EVER be completely self-evident to me. However, I feel like I have more female-centric empathy than the Average Bear. A staunchly conservative female co-worker once described me as ‘the gayest straight man’ she’d ever known, and I took that as an honest compliment because that's how she meant it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I don't understand the current hysteria being screeched by Conservatives over family planning, contraception, abortion and the subject of women’s healthcare. It’s the antediluvian mindset that's brainwashed those who would limit, restrict or eliminate a woman’s right to make decisions about her body. The entire (mostly male) segment of our Right-leaning politicians and citizenry are bound and determined to take us back to the days when women were chattel, owned outright by their male overlords. Don't forget... it wasn't until 1920 that women were allowed to vote.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><i>“If men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament.” – Florynce Kennedy</i> </span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">It isn’t simply a case of Regressives not wanting ‘their’ tax dollars used for things they don’t really consider healthcare. It’s actually an overreaching ploy to establish and maintain authority and control over women’s individual rights and life choices. Regressives need to feel they have control over women, and the fake-pious Rethuglicans keep sticking their size 10’s into their mouths with every pronouncement of how they'll assert control over female bodies, specifically the uterus. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">It's fascinating that the same folks who espouse the concepts of Smaller Government and States Rights and Personal Freedom and all that… want the federal government to force women to simply roll the dice when it comes to having sexual relations. If they wind up preggers, oh well… GOD’S WILL. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">They don't just want to eliminate family planning, contraception and abortion. They want theocratic control over women’s physical lives to match a stilted vision of 'How Things Should Be', as directed by that Great Eye In The Sky and his minions on Earth who wear dresses in church and rape young boys in the small rooms behind the altar, with the visage of a mythical dying man nailed to a torture device, hanging on-high, exalted. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Is that too harsh? Too bad… deal with it.
I have no patience for uninformed, narrow-minded religiosity when it comes to the issue of women's reproductive rights. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bzVHjg3AqIQ" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Fact: 98% of women in this country use, will use or have used some form of contraception in their lifetimes. Since they're uniquely equipped to give birth, it only stands to reason that each and every woman must have the ability... the right... the choice to conceive and give birth or not as they see fit, and this is specifically a women’s health issue. It has nothing to do with religious freedom.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><b><em><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><span style="color: red;">"Keep your rosaries off my ovaries" -- anonymous bumper sticker</span> </span></em></b></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">
Let me be clear on something before I continue with my little rant: I totally accept that there are lots of people who consider every aspect of my viewpoint on this issue as a non-starter. For them, anything that interferes or obstructs the natural process of conception is an abortifacient. For them, anyone who willfully terminates a pregancy before giving birth is guilty of MURDER. I understand their arguments, but as has been confirmed (up to now LOL) by the Supreme Court and in countless surveys, studies and polls, the vast majority (70%+) of Americans are pro-choice and support a woman's right to choose whether or not to conceive and/or give birth. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I will always respect an individual's right to believe what they choose to believe, but there's only one set of facts here. Facts and reality do not support those who, as the result of their own personal beliefs, vehemently oppose and want to eliminate access to family planning, contraception and abortion for everyone else. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">OK, back to the ranting. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I hate to break it to the forced-birthers out there, but here’s a news flash: contraception is a modern woman’s RIGHT, not a privilege or some special gift that requires anyone’s approval or blessing. Limiting and/or eliminating access to family planning, contraception and (as a natural progression) abortion services does NOTHING to advance the role of women in our society. Limitations to these services only holds women back, hostages to their evolutionary role as progenitors of the species. Women aren't simply walking uteri, mammalian vessels whose sole purpose is to give birth and make dinner, a concept championed by the uber-religious on behalf of their Unseen Sky Wizard and his ghost-written magnum opus. </span></div><div><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></i></div><div><b><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><i>“If men could get pregnant, they’d sell do-it-yourself abortion kits at Home Depot.” – anonymous bumper sticker</i> </span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Women are half of our citizenry. Women are more than half of our workforce. Women deserve to be treated with the same respect as men at every level of our society. HOWEVER… since men will never EVER be put in a position to have their bodies taken over by the process of childbearing, women also have a far heavier burden of responsibility towards procreation. Therefore, since women are solely responsible for gestation of the unborn, it's logical to conclude that ONLY women should decide whether to conceive and give birth or not, and must have at their disposal every option and opportunity to exercise that choice. It's the only civilized response to their singular status. It’s not that difficult a concept to grasp. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I've often posed the concept that women, as a member of the species <i>homo sapiens</i>, are just a tick further evolved than men. That statement is usually met with sneers of derision from men (and affirmative head nods from women) until I list the facts: </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">1. Women live longer than men. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">2. Women can handle pain better than men. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">3. Women regenerate blood and sinew faster than men. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">4. Women are all, to a certain extent, psychic (sorry, guys… you know it’s true). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">5. Women have an incredible level of sensitivity and intuition. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">6. Women can engage multiple layers of conscious thought streams simultaneously. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">7. Women have their reproductive organs on the inside of their bodies. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">8. WOMEN CAN GIVE BIRTH. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">9. Women have the ability to make men completely wall-eyed and stupid(er) with a simple word or deed. A push-up bra also puts men into full-tilt chimp mode (sorry, guys… you know it’s true). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">These are only a few of the the facts that IMHO establish women as the more-evolved of the species, as the people we single-minded testicle-dragging meatheads must offer as much deference to as possible. Conversely, these facts are also why, in almost every human society since the Stone Age, women have been oppressed to control their influence and quash their voice. In almost every religious doctrine now being practiced on this planet, women are treated as second-class, second-rate, second-in-line. Women have been cast as the lesser of the species, subject to the vagaries of their ‘stronger’ male counterparts, when in fact men have always oppressed women because they secretly feared the power of the uteri-laden. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><em>"For a woman to get half as much credit as a man, she has to work twice as hard, and be twice as smart. Fortunately, that isn't difficult.” -- Charlotte Whitton</em> </span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'm reminded me of a favorite scene from the film ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’, where patriarch Gus Portokalos, called out over another instance of his dunderheaded ways, pronounces “MAN… is the HEAD of the family!" As an aside, his wife tells their daughter, “The man may be the head of the family, but the woman is the neck, and the neck can turn the head ANY WAY it wants to”. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Soooo... now that you have a pretty good idea of where I stand on the issue of women's reproductive rights, you may be asking yourself what you can do about it The answer is simple: SPEAK OUT. VOTE PRO-CHOICE. Don't stand by and allow the regressive theocrats to take another step towards the oppression of every American woman. Our wives, girlfriends, sisters, daughters, Mothers and friends need every voice to be raised in support of their singular and ongoing struggle to control their own lives, to be in charge of their individual futures.
This isn't really a partisan political issue, although the battle lines do seem to be drawn in shades of bright Red and Blue. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sad to say, in the year 2022 we're still having a heated national argument over women's reproductive rights. I remain optmistic that we'll eventually reach a point of agreement/understanding on this issue, although it promises to be a knock-down drag-out battle in the upcoming primary and Presidential election seasons. I know this much: when it comes to the subject of women's rights, I'm a foot soldier on their behalf, ready to lead the conga line towards a more equal society. Come dance with me, won't you? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><b><em><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">"If you can't trust me with a choice, how can you trust me with a child?" - anonymous bumper sticker</span></em></b></div><div><em><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></em></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b>Click the links below to find out more about these issues:</b></span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b>National Abortion Rights Action League (NARAL)</b></span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://www.prochoiceamerica.org">www.prochoiceamerica.org</a></b></span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b>Planned Parenthood</b></span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://www.plannedparenthood.org">www.plannedparenthood.org</a></b></span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b>Freedom From Religion Foundation (FFRF)</b></span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://ffrf.org">ffrf.org</a></b></span></div><div><em><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family: verdana;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/b8kaBRfKi1c" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family: verdana;">Lead image 'Crucified Woman' by Eric Drooker, Muchismas Gracias de globalvoicesonline.com; Garbage 'Sex Is Not The Enemy' and Monty Python 'Every Sperm Is Sacred' videos, gracias de youtube.com</span></em></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-18503166384096280872022-04-22T13:50:00.001-07:002023-09-05T12:31:07.176-07:00El Viejo Con La Mascara de Tortilla (The Old Man in the Tortilla Mask)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAls1I1mtEumnAjgYwox1mIzQPz9DCY-e_-BqBmrgfozFBesyRU0nEHGXOO7hdRkyF9yaW-oo8sKO_P1KOg8N56Y1IP8GDzvizdkCKmzTFc-hdNCxdUggdV7t43C6MrfkHF3AmrQcjOb4R/s381/Tortilla1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="381" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAls1I1mtEumnAjgYwox1mIzQPz9DCY-e_-BqBmrgfozFBesyRU0nEHGXOO7hdRkyF9yaW-oo8sKO_P1KOg8N56Y1IP8GDzvizdkCKmzTFc-hdNCxdUggdV7t43C6MrfkHF3AmrQcjOb4R/s320/Tortilla1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Note: this fictional story was inspired by my Father.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><b style="font-family: verdana;">CHAPTER ONE</b></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">El Viejo wasn't sure what was happening to him, but he knew it wasn't normal or like anything he'd experienced during his long life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He was mystified and alarmed... but also surprised and grateful!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He'd been out on his property, harvesting the latest crop of wheat he'd grown from seeds gifted to him by an old farmer when he first arrived in the valley.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> He also grew pinto beans and Hatch chiles for the </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">chile verde</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> burritos he sold from his small shop that were a favorite among the locals and made all the </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">abuelitas</i><i style="font-family: verdana;"> </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">jealous.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He even milled the wheat into flour, using an ancient hand-operated stone mortar and pestle he'd found on a long-defunct local farm.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Lately though, he'd been feeling exhausted when he woke in the morning darkness, pulling himself out of bed while his wife snored. He wasn't used to feeling so old... so worn-out... so damned TIRED all the time. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He sat </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">drinking his first cup of coffee </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">at the small kitchen table and realized he'd have to cut back on the huge amount of work it took to raise the food and run the shop. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">"What the hell is happening to me?" he thought. "I guess I'm just a worn-out old man... soon I won't even be able to make the tortilla flour."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">All of this was running through his mind while he milled some of the wheat grain that morning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He heard his wife call out to him from the back door of the house for some hot <i>champurrado</i> and fresh <i>pan dulce</i>. He stepped out of the mill shed, looked over and saw... a beautiful long-haired young woman standing there. He blinked his eyes, rubbed them hard and looked again, but she was still there. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">She shouted at him:</span><i style="font-family: verdana;">"Entonces... que estas esperando, una invitacion firmada? Ven a buscar tus bocadillos o se los dare a los perros!" </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">(Translation: "So... what are you waiting for, a signed invitation? Come and get your snacks or I'll give them to the dogs!")</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He stared at her, trying to understand what he saw. This beautiful woman with long black hair and fiery Brown eyes was his wife as she looked when he first met her!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He was confused and captivated. He slowly walked up to this amazing creature and stood before her, looking her up and down without words.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Before this vision disappeared, he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her with a fervor he hadn't felt in years. For almost 30 seconds they kissed so passionately that when he finally released her, she took a step backwards and sat down heavily on the doorstep, her eyes wide and face flushed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">She looked up at him, standing in front of her with his leathery brown skin and wavy white hair and bristly salt-and-pepper moustache, dressed in his working whites, his hat cocked dangerously low on his forehead... and her eyes grew even wider.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He wolfed down the snacks as he stood there, never taking his eyes off the beautiful young woman, thinking he must be hallucinating or suffering from some kind of mad delusion.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He thanked her, turned and headed back into his milling shed. He didn't look back for fear she would disappear.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">His mind reeled. What in the hell had just happened? How could his wife suddenly appear to him as a 16-year-old maiden? Was he losing his mind or having a stroke?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He went back to milling the wheat, his hands on the large wooden handle that turned the old wooden gears which slowly rotated the stone pestle. He was lost in thought, trying to understand the strange vision of his young wife, a woman he'd slept with most of his life!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He raised his eyes to see the morning light streaming through the shed's window, the fine flour dust in the air beautifully illuminated by the sun. He felt honored that his Lord had smiled on him enough to grant him such a beautiful day, a beautiful life... and a newly-beautiful wife, even if he knew her youthful appearance was only a mirage... an illusion... a trick played on his mind.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">After he'd milled enough flour, it was time to start a batch of dough to make his daily dozens of fresh tortillas. In only a few hours his small shop would open to a line of patiently-waiting customers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He emptied the freshly milled flour into a large bowl, picked it up and walked out of the shed... and was stopped by what he saw. The yard between his shed and kitchen, normally filled with chickens, was instead covered by dozens of tiny chicks scurrying around, peeping loudly. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">"None of my chickens has hatched any chicks", he thought to himself, "yet the yard is full of them!" He heard dogs barking and then saw three of them come running from behind the shed... but they were all puppies! They jumped and barked and chased the chicks, with El Viejo standing in the middle of it all, his mouth wide open.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">All at once, he was gripped with a fear that he was going insane insane. "NO!", he said to himself out loud. "I'm not insane and I refuse to be insane!" With the large bowl of flour still in his hands, he looked straight ahead, walked into his kitchen and began preparing the tortilla dough.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Several hours had passed since his morning hallucinations, during which he'd made at least six dozen fresh tortillas, opened his shop and sold many burritos. He refreshed the simmering pot of burrito mix consisting of green chiles, potatos and steak, transferred a fresh pot of pinto beans onto the stovetop to begin slowly cooking for the next day, and made a few dozen more tortillas for the customers he knew would soon arrive on their way home from work.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As she did every day, his wife came through the kitchen door behind him with a fresh batch of meat to be cooked down for tomorrow's burrito mix. Without turning around, he felt her arms surrounding his waist and her gentle kiss on the back of his neck. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>"Mi amor", </i>she whispered into his ear,<i> "... parece que tuviste otro gran dia. Estoy muy orgulloso del trabajo que haces, trayendo tanta alegria a nuestra ciudad con tu deliciosa comida!"</i> (Translation: "</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">My love... it looks like you had yet another great day. I'm so proud of the work you do, bringing such joy to our town with your delicious food!")</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He turned to embrace her and saw not the 16-year-old apparition, but the wrinkled face and ample figure of his wife of almost fifty years. He looked deeply into her eyes and gently kissed her, closing his eyes with relief that he was no longer hallucinating. It didn't matter that she was old and gray like him, because in his mind's eye she would always be the beautiful young bride of his dreams... the same one he'd seen that very morning!</span></p><p><i style="font-family: verdana;"><b>TO BE CONTINUED...</b></i></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-20715357003144285802021-11-14T06:03:00.010-08:002021-11-16T14:58:44.772-08:00The Mule<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4rs2cfLd_jyhCYf6V6Bo2WUeeefpQu0r9W6KDz0UV3f3vrdwMV6gh4Fd2kvyW9gFz3A7kNIt14EPJg-KTSnmjAtDYrpSzbl5_hjX6Ok101Tt3m9-IZTemKighf2uPEctzJE21X8Ozwe3b/s1140/Mule.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="641" data-original-width="1140" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4rs2cfLd_jyhCYf6V6Bo2WUeeefpQu0r9W6KDz0UV3f3vrdwMV6gh4Fd2kvyW9gFz3A7kNIt14EPJg-KTSnmjAtDYrpSzbl5_hjX6Ok101Tt3m9-IZTemKighf2uPEctzJE21X8Ozwe3b/w439-h247/Mule.jpg" width="439" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We're all unstuck in time at some point in our lives. The essence of a human being relies on memory and comprehension and a certain amount of self-consciousness about our time and place on this mortal coil. We may be the only species on Earth that can't survive without those traits.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I write these words as a 65-year-old man, thinking about a book I received as a boy from a man who probably wanted to have sex with me. That book, written before I was born, is about a future history of human strife and upheaval that resonates with the current malevolence swelling in the hearts of many humans, especially here in the United States.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">How's THAT for being unstuck?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCu84TysZMkEFoj5YbJozA8y1UJSKrB-4UWnF9FGEb1Gfulx8kBmHjLzhlpD9w0YJQIfLsFlTW7tdTR_TkRGfv97-zftqjZq1yD6QMGwlNndPBa8J-1OJaXNJp27gIxwP-fulpSmRjzRTw/s1140/asimov.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="712" data-original-width="1140" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCu84TysZMkEFoj5YbJozA8y1UJSKrB-4UWnF9FGEb1Gfulx8kBmHjLzhlpD9w0YJQIfLsFlTW7tdTR_TkRGfv97-zftqjZq1yD6QMGwlNndPBa8J-1OJaXNJp27gIxwP-fulpSmRjzRTw/w376-h235/asimov.jpg" width="376" /></a></div><p><i style="font-family: verdana;">"The saddest aspect of life right now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom." - Isaac Asimov, 1920-1992</i></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The book in question, Isaac Asimov's <i>The</i> <i>Foundation Trilogy (TFT),</i> is a benchmark of 20th century science-fiction spanning a thousand years of future human history. It should be required reading for every high school Senior to help them better understand the world they'll graduate into. They need to become unstuck in time to understand the future they'll help to create as thinking, feeling, emotionally complex human beings, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">even though the story covers vast distances in time and space.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My hardcover copy of <i>TFT</i> is worn out from multiple readings, its spine held together with packing tape, the pages yellowed with age. I was around 12 or 13 years old when it was gifted to me by one of the male Boy Scout leaders involved with our troop after he found out I was inhaling science-fiction novels. The guy didn't have any kids.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I came to understand much later that this man - unmarried, pasty-faced and overweight - was likely a pedophile who involved himself in scouting to groom young boys for sex. I remember the day he presented the book to me as our Troop gathered at my house for an event (Dad was our Scoutmaster), signing his name on the inside cover and telling me he knew I'd enjoy reading it. Thankfully, he disappeared from our orbit soon after, who knows why (I think I know why).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Side Note: Pedophilia has ALWAYS been on the fringes of Boy Scouts. It's not a new phenomenon, and IMHO seemed to have increased as churches became more prominent supporters of Scouting activities. I never saw or knew anyone in my Scouting life who was abused or molested by a leader, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">So it goes. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He was right about the book. I read it right away, then a second time to revel in the fantastic saga of science and galactic war and space travel. What I didn't grasp... and wouldn't until I read it again as an adult... was that the story was actually about human interaction, human emotion, human loss and human achievement, cloaked as a space Western... a galactic 'Dallas'... a sci-fi 'How The West Was Won'.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The central theme of <i>The Foundation Trilogy</i> revolves around the science of 'psychohistory' and a man named Hari Seldon, a university mathematician living on the planet Trantor (as Earth would be called in a future time). He developed and championed a theory that could foresee the future of humankind solely based on human psychology, emotion and predictability. His predictions also included thirty-thousand years of galactic turmoil and war unless certain things happened at certain times, which relied on human beings being just that: HUMAN.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">However, he couldn't know that his barely-accepted theory of psychohistory (and the entire galaxy) would be threatened by a mutant possessing incredible mental powers that could control the thoughts and actions of others across the vast distances of space. Known only as 'The Mule', the mutant would wreak havoc and threaten to upend the human race with the aforementioned thirty-thousand years of war and death and mental servitude.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">No one really knew when The Mule was exerting his powerful mind control. They just 'thought' with seeming free will, but were in fact being manipulated by an unseen force that bent them to his bidding with literally no effort. Entire fleets of men and warships were controlled in this way, and planetary systems fell one after the other to The Mule.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Naturally, I ain't about to give away how the story ends, but OMIGOSH is it a great ending.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I re-read </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">TFT</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> again last year while the 'Rona raged around the world, and the story resonated with me more than ever, forging a strong connection between the malevolence of The Mule... a powerful tyrant who controlled the minds of others... with our 45th President, Donald J. Trump.</span></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'm NOT the only person to make this connection, as I've read a couple of articles that connect DJT with The Mule in concept.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here's the rub: whereas The Mule used his incredible powers of mind control over others without their knowledge, DJT has created a 'cult of personality' that's been accepted, codified and practiced by his followers, seemingly with their full knowledge and approval. BUT... are his followers fully cognizant of the control he seems to have over them?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In fact, the idea of a 'Trump cult' is gaining traction due to the way his acolytes ignore science and facts and information which completely refute everything he says and does, yet they still pledge allegiance to him. Some are even claiming he was 'sent by God to smite those who don't believe in Trump, the one true savior of our country.'</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5NTMO-wsLQ6zn84TuwWRGGwL15WjJZYZ6_iHZU2bDwHZv7CbNBKZ1cZFY2_QGDxOZfaDJTO1upD_g0wBIdIHmjuSH92sc1XXLT__Ns7WqtbuMkmfX0Jpq_hotXdRdns9IwunmIuumWHL/s1800/Face.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1013" data-original-width="1800" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5NTMO-wsLQ6zn84TuwWRGGwL15WjJZYZ6_iHZU2bDwHZv7CbNBKZ1cZFY2_QGDxOZfaDJTO1upD_g0wBIdIHmjuSH92sc1XXLT__Ns7WqtbuMkmfX0Jpq_hotXdRdns9IwunmIuumWHL/w412-h232/Face.jpg" width="412" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Really, truly scary.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A pathological liar, tax cheat and failed businessman with hundreds of millions of dollars in personal debt to foreign banks.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">An aggressive philanderer, misogynist and accused rapist with dozens of women credibly claiming he'd abused and assaulted them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A man who displayed a stunning level of ignorance of science, history and politics. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A bully who would personally abuse, insult, demean, debase and denigrate anyone he pleased.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">And finally, as a failed Presidential candidate, an instigating traitor who fomented an insurrection against the U.S. Capitol to support 'The Big Lie' and stood idly by, watching on TV from the White House, while his violent mob threatened the lives of lawmakers and law enforcement and tried to force the 2020 election results to be overturned. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>"Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent." </i></span><i style="font-family: verdana;">- Isaac Asimov, 'Foundation'</i></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Donald Trump was and is all of these things... and yet he's still revered, supported, promoted and defended by a large swath of the GOP and the citizenry.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Willful ignorance? Brainwashing? Mass psychosis? Latent stupidity?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">None of this is mind-control on the level displayed by The Mule in </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">TFT</i><span style="font-family: verdana;">, but what can explain the counter-intuitive behavior of so many people? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I think there are several things at work here which may not be considered mind-control <i>per se</i>, but in concert manipulated the thinking and opinions for millions of people. This includes a slavish devotion to celebrity, the aforementioned willful ignorance, pernicious misinformation and the </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gish_gallop" style="font-family: verdana;" target="_blank"><b><span style="background-color: #666666; color: #01ffff;">'The Gish Gallop'</span></b></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">, barely-disguised criminality, an unchecked and unregulated social media, FOX NEWS, and a Congressional GOP that's degenerated into the Disloyal Opposition.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7FKv5QLa8q8" width="320" youtube-src-id="7FKv5QLa8q8"></iframe></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Think about it: every one of these conditions set up a Foundation of Mass Misinformation that was absorbed and shared by millions of people, duped by their own inability to know the difference between facts and bullshit. Since they couldn't (or wouldn't) question their own belief systems, they decided to follow DJT while he attempted to steer the Ship of State over Niagara Falls. He almost did and still might if given the chance.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I could (and should) go on... but you get the picture, right?</span></p><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mind-control writ large. The Mule, reincarnated as a criminally-malevolent political terrorist.</span></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">TFT</i><span style="font-family: verdana;">, there were people determined to stop The Mule by any means necessary, but they were beholden to something he was not: humanity. They were checked in many ways by their own inability to overlook their essential humane-ness, the very thing that separates us from the other non-human inhabitants of our small Blue Marble. They had two crucial human traits: EMPATHY and COMPASSION.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Has ignorance, venality, vengeance and violence now become the hallmarks of conservatism in the United States of America?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We'll know in a year or two if this country learned a valuable lesson about putting a criminally-malevolent political terrorist in The White House. We'll find out if our collective humanity can prevent an inhumane leader from once-again gaining power in and control of our nation.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here's what I've learned: the past is ALWAYS prologue, and we usually get the leaders we deserve. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The sci-fi novels I read as a youth are still important to me, mostly because I can read them now with the eyes and perspective of a seasoned Old.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Isaac Asimov... Arthur C. Clark... Ray Bradbury... Harlan Ellison... Kurt Vonnegut... Kim Stanley Robinson... Robert Heinlein... these writers held the wild future of the human experience in their big brains and shared it without trepidation or hesitation or apology. They put forth ideas which, with the passage of time, are now more real than ever.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The youth I once was, star-struck and inspired by the fantastic future these brilliant people created, gained an open mind and open heart and a willingness to question everything. That questioning mind rejected the simple-minded poetry of religious belief and chose instead to ask a lifetime of questions that result when asking hard questions without easy answers. I've not regretted that decision for a nanosecond ever since.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The grizzled adult I am now can still see that wild future with the same youthful open mind and open heart, regardless of the willful ignorance or the mindless religious fervor held by so many around us. The future of our Nation will rise or fall as the tides of political and sectarian turmoil ebb and flow, constantly rebuilding or eroding the foundation we stand on, literally and figuratively. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As revealed in Isaac Asimov's story, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Foundation </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">was shackled by a </span><i style="font-family: verdana;"><b>fear of ignorance</b></i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> and tethered to an ideology that valued knowledge, empathy, humanity and the certainty that civilization would eventually find it's way to universal peace through education and enlightenment.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A single hardcover sci-fi novel has given me a lifetime of reading enjoyment, filled my head with questions about mortality and continues to offer a peek towards a vast future history as yet unwritten.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It doesn't matter that my life will end sometime in the next 20 to 30 years, because I've already seen the wild future, or at least several versions of it. I'm a spectral mote of dust, insignificant and expendable. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">At the same time, I'm made from the stuff of stars, living a singularly unique life on this small Blue Marble that spins around a dying star on the far edge of a galaxy intermingled among millions of other galaxies.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It just doesn't get any better than that, nor should it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="305" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0ZoSYsNADtY" width="367" youtube-src-id="0ZoSYsNADtY"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><div style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>"Scientific truth is beyond loyalty and disloyalty." - Isaac Asimov, 'Foundation'</i></span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>All images, Gracias de Google Images; Living Colour 'Cult of Personality' and 'Blue Danube Waltz' videos, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube; Do not fear death or the unknown... always look it straight in the eye and laugh mightily.</i></span></p></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-16670942980837232512021-10-05T14:11:00.004-07:002021-10-07T13:52:14.917-07:00Flying Low<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcStkjijkdq21JilGgWGf0QGSg98N5RO63je__LljK5hLdKH6kb2z8wVDjUTc5WPdu44KW4i-0AoRxf3EJCY2GwJdzway26ru2wNK0RvnSM_5GgBh_6RV1aA6NcZUeNqUrr_3nXV5Jjb_j/s500/RR.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="500" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcStkjijkdq21JilGgWGf0QGSg98N5RO63je__LljK5hLdKH6kb2z8wVDjUTc5WPdu44KW4i-0AoRxf3EJCY2GwJdzway26ru2wNK0RvnSM_5GgBh_6RV1aA6NcZUeNqUrr_3nXV5Jjb_j/w369-h275/RR.jpg" width="369" /></a></div> <p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The exact date in 2005 is lost to me now, b</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">ut the memory is seared into my brain.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It started out as a long Sunday night drive from Northern California. I was heading home to SoCal after a solo turn-n-burn trip to visit my ailing younger brother Chuck in Paradise, a small town nestled in the Sierra foothills 75 miles North of Sacramento.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It would be the last time I'd see Chuck alive, but that's another story.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was rushing home so I could be at work the next day. The Artist hadn't made the trip because it was too long a drive for her over a single weekend. I'd done it several times over the years, so it was no biggie for me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My Black '93 Toyota SR5 Xtra Cab was a total Highway Star for drives like this, owing as much to the strong V6 engine as to the long wheelbase and excellent road-going suspension. That baby could ROLL.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVOhUHAaruJvVbLDQOUbKjUWAl2SuECs54RZKzsd_EIOdYqXx-toP15uPzbPxkqmMb7IoUuTfbmlTf_SKtzOyLQLHGJDsGZdVx8kIHqMXHmp1l1XvYFSv_P9Ngo6K9Sfq5mrIiR7xe1z5l/s320/Truck.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVOhUHAaruJvVbLDQOUbKjUWAl2SuECs54RZKzsd_EIOdYqXx-toP15uPzbPxkqmMb7IoUuTfbmlTf_SKtzOyLQLHGJDsGZdVx8kIHqMXHmp1l1XvYFSv_P9Ngo6K9Sfq5mrIiR7xe1z5l/w371-h278/Truck.jpg" width="371" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The run from Paradise, through Sacramento and on to Stockton only took about two hours, with light traffic most of the way. I stopped at a decrepit gas station in Stockton to fuel up and grab a Mountain Dew and a bag of Chili Cheese Fritos, my road food combo of choice.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Once back on the Southbound I-5 freeway, the traffic disappeared and civilization fell away. I was cruising at about 65mph because the area was a known speed trap and I didn't need a ticket.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As I made the Tracy Cutoff, I could see one or two cars waaaay up ahead of me, so I nudged the throttle and settled in at 80mph. Soon enough, the Cutoff blended onto the main two-lane I-5 Southbound. I was now going about 90mph with a couple of cars about a quarter-mile ahead. I also noticed a car in my rear-view mirror, about a quarter-mile behind.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My sled was cruising along so smoothly that, just for fun, I squeezed the throttle a bit more and was now going 100mph, smooth as butter. Watching the roadway ahead, the two cars in front of me used the inside lane to pass a slower car, so I did the same when I caught the crawler, as did the car behind me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">After a few minutes at this excessive velocity, I realized the cars in front and behind were doing the same speed as me!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Eventually, our high-speed auto caravan grew to six cars, all of us keeping to the same speed, catching and passing slower cars in a nighttime freeway ballet. It was amazing to watch us all sweep around slower cars and trucks, one after the other, at 100MPH!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now, don't get me wrong - this kind of driving was totally illegal and dangerous, and any single thing could have led to disaster. But after a while it seemed so natural... the starry nighttime sky, the headlamp-lit highway streaming underneath, the tunes pumping from the speakers, my concentration cranked up to 11... perfection. A shared celestial moment between drivers who knew nothing about one another except that we were hauling ass.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was MESMERIZING.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuXFhL7OZ9mNSyVXrgw_QdRn0vzBSu3tqiLlMsY71DA4OBoCjzkVGC5RzF4k0vAB5vu2CvwgZbeENUon9WC-xZnvktdI5HW_xB93irucVQXhl0ipXqTlwsQRL9FZDhLAATCw_AOtHvjSpv/s375/driving-at-night.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="375" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuXFhL7OZ9mNSyVXrgw_QdRn0vzBSu3tqiLlMsY71DA4OBoCjzkVGC5RzF4k0vAB5vu2CvwgZbeENUon9WC-xZnvktdI5HW_xB93irucVQXhl0ipXqTlwsQRL9FZDhLAATCw_AOtHvjSpv/w368-h248/driving-at-night.jpg" width="368" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We sped along like that for almost 90 minutes... at 100mph... at night... on the freeway... slicing through the Northern San Joaquin Valley like so many <i>bolides</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I imagine the other drivers had the same shit-eating grin as me the entire time, whooping out loud when we each caught and passed another car, flowing from the outside lane to the inside lane and back to the outside lane. I don't recall there were very many semis on the road that night.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Eventually it had to end, so when the exit signs announced the Kettleman City offramp (gas/food/lodging), two of the cars ahead signaled their exit and, as we flew past, popped their hi-beams and flashers in a sign of shared law-breaking exuberance.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Not too long after we blew by Kettleman City, our Night Train dwindled down to just me and one other car.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We'd done the 130 miles from the Tracy Cutoff to Kettleman City in less than 90 minutes, but now we were approaching the southern half of the valley and on the run to Bakersfield. The traffic grew a bit heavier and I backed down to 85mph. My compatriot behind was lost in the mix, probably doing the same with a new-found abundance of caution.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The rest of the drive... flashing past Bakersfield, over the Grapevine and dropping into overnight SoCal traffic and civilization was an 85mph blur of lights and cars.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fABPQj5seZ-HKGAmkn6eAStMVbblNh1D8dP9aAPgo2-XAmw6GCBQvIthaBp3iQyvqg2aHoxYYRNZFe4yNsWcAu50YITzWi12VW974GAfhxiDgq1ZBLxoct8pFcbImtUaa6pZN-SYhtmC/s450/nite.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="450" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fABPQj5seZ-HKGAmkn6eAStMVbblNh1D8dP9aAPgo2-XAmw6GCBQvIthaBp3iQyvqg2aHoxYYRNZFe4yNsWcAu50YITzWi12VW974GAfhxiDgq1ZBLxoct8pFcbImtUaa6pZN-SYhtmC/w372-h248/nite.jpg" width="372" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>I made it safely home, grabbed a few hours of sleep and headed off to work.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">BUT... that magical 90 minutes was still buzzing in my head. Had it really happened? </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Yep, and it wouldn't happen again.</span></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Stupid. Exhilarating. Illegal. Fantastic. Dangerous. Spectacular. Wildly inappropriate. Wholly enjoyable.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I've had the good fortune to drive real race cars on real racetracks, but that insane high-speed nighttime I-5 drive stands out as a truly singular experience, one that gives me pause when I realize exactly what I'd done, how much risk I took and how little it seemed to worry me at the time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'm an old fart now and wouldn't do anything like that on the open highway again. However, in my mind's eye I can still see that freeway ballet, performed when no one else existed in the world except me and my temporary road warrior compadres in our speeding projectiles, hurtling through time and space.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I wonder if any of them remember that night the same way I do?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="295" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MBUfNxfc2w4" width="355" youtube-src-id="MBUfNxfc2w4"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Todas las imagenes, gracias a Google Images; video de Commander Cody & His Lost Planet Airmen 'Hot Rod Lincoln', muchas gracias a YouTube; Recuerda volar bajo y evitar el radar!</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-31833858092212118542021-09-14T12:58:00.008-07:002021-09-14T13:29:12.642-07:00The Mothers-In-Law<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6j5N1TSYqnwPLojyAvQiNadlqIxShcsVd-68f7HWHq5d_BsNw4SXLEpDnNaAJZvB-aqo8g1FT-DoVOkpKnOZOQDpJ17Q8aQ7UlI-gbRTppSYlPQq1ad92zjsEbCnebJ9pGRTUgiL_zYXg/s646/TMIL1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="646" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6j5N1TSYqnwPLojyAvQiNadlqIxShcsVd-68f7HWHq5d_BsNw4SXLEpDnNaAJZvB-aqo8g1FT-DoVOkpKnOZOQDpJ17Q8aQ7UlI-gbRTppSYlPQq1ad92zjsEbCnebJ9pGRTUgiL_zYXg/w466-h242/TMIL1.jpg" width="466" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">"I've had two awesome Mothers-In-Law in my life."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">When I make that statement, 99.9% of the response is either complete disbelief or an incredulous LOL. "SUUUURE YOU HAVE!!!" they howl, "...and HOW long have you been off your meds now?!?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The common wisdom says almost nothing good about Mother-In-Laws (MILs) and most often characterizes them as either meddling interlopers, scheming manipulators or bossy know-it-alls... sometimes all three at once!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I suppose that's true in many (most?) cases, but let me offer an alternate to the common wisdom. I've been lucky enough to have shared my life with two awesome MILs who enriched me, made me laugh and feeling grateful for them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">*********************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><i>MOTHER-IN-LAW #1</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It didn't start out that way with MIL #1. In fact, it got really bad before it got really good and it was a long, strange trip. Our first meeting at her home for Thanksgiving dinner in 1977 was weird and troubling and should have been a portent of the emotional mayhem that was to follow. I was just too dumb and lovestruck with her daughter to see it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In short order, I struck out at the plate:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Strike #1 was that her wonderful Jewish American Princess daughter was dating a Mexican.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Strike #2 was that her daughter was pregnant only 6 months after she started dating the Mexican.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Strike #3 was that her daughter was marrying the Mexican who impregnated her. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was OUT!!!!!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">#1 hated my lack of responsible family planning, my unskilled non-collegiate background, my sketchy heritage and that I wasn't Jewish like she'd always dreamed her Son-In-Law would be. She never relented, denigrating and insulting me in the same passive-aggressive ways she'd been eviscerating her long-suffering Husband with for so many years.</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqCOyM5hSNefWycFNDRKe6em0anz8a-pg6-O0EAgoxM4bKJ1-Jt2rLA1E8HcN7OEgwbRkIOdGMCzsimVFf_21hVwU5Y_zImkF-fKegnG0M8XSc1R7tOqq98Egp10bI5jVe0eAi9XGCOAk/s1024/1004877903-original.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="819" data-original-width="1024" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqCOyM5hSNefWycFNDRKe6em0anz8a-pg6-O0EAgoxM4bKJ1-Jt2rLA1E8HcN7OEgwbRkIOdGMCzsimVFf_21hVwU5Y_zImkF-fKegnG0M8XSc1R7tOqq98Egp10bI5jVe0eAi9XGCOAk/s320/1004877903-original.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>During that tumultuous 4-year marriage and eventual divorce (1978-82), she even accused me of abuse and neglect, all of which was completely false but it was how she rolled. What I didn't know and wouldn't for a while was that she was in the beginning stages of a serious illness that would eventually take her out.</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The divorce was brutal and messy and difficult, and I floundered trying to get my footing back. Luckily I met The Artist around that time, and she gave me the love and purpose and meaning I needed to reboot and regain my stride.</span><div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Over the next several years of child visitations, court proceedings and the wreckage of an ugly divorce, things slowly began to change for #1 and me. During a birthday party for my daughter at their duplex, #1 and I finally connected in a wide-ranging conversation lubricated with a lot of Asti Spumante. Over the course of that afternoon, she began to laugh more, talk more and even admitted that I was a pretty good provider and father to her only Grandchild.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was thunderstruck, to say the least.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Soon afterwards, her health issues began to turn serious with a diagnosis of systemic Lupus. She was in and out of hospital, and during one kid weekend when we went to see her at Cedars Sinai, young daughter and I spent several hours at her bedside, with daughter held tight in Grandma's arms and me next to them in a chair, all of us laughing and chattering and feeling really, really glad to be together.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">That turned out to be the last time I'd see #1, who'd spend the next 20 years slowly dissolving away from the powerful, crazy, hilarious woman she'd always been. I'm glad my last vision of her was sitting in a hospital bed with a huge smile on her face, waving goodbye.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><i>MOTHER-IN-LAW #2</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">How can I describe the galactic difference between MILs #1 and #2? Unlike #1, #2 was loving, accepting and gracious to a fault right from our first introduction. She was completely open to bringing me into her family fold when I started dating her third daughter (The Artist), who was also in the final throes of a failed marriage.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The fact that #2 was a Virgo like me bonded us almost immediately, but even though she's deeply religious she never EVER proselytized to or judged me, using her personal example as the gold-standard of her being. She'd raised a family of 4 kids astride her Husband of over 60 years, a stoic-yet-hilarious man who loved to diss and bait me, always giving me his sideways smirk to let me know he was only kidding. They were the classic first-wave Boomer Couple.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">When The Artist was seriously injured in a 1988 car accident, which required wearing a halo head/neck/back brace for three months, #2 and I actually got into a several arguments about who was gonna be the primary giver of loving care and support. Those semi-heated arguments always ended in tearful laughter and hugging acknowledgement that we were just trying to out-do each other. Soooo typically Virgo!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">When #2 was struck down with a mysteriously debilitating illness in 2011, The Artist and I shifted into overdrive to save her life, an episode you can read about in my essay titled <a href="https://gortnation.blogspot.com/2012/11/slipping-into-darkness.html" target="_blank">'Slipping Into Darkness' </a>. I was manic about making sure we did absolutely everything we could so she didn't wind up dead or in potato mode at some stupid nursing home. We made the 80-mile round trip from our home to her hospital rooms every day for weeks on end, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">fought like hell to convince the Doctors to do a final test that miraculously uncovered the reason for her illness, and </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">cleaned her house every weekend for months during her rehab.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">She survived!!!!!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">True fact: decades ago she asked me to carve the turkey for the family's annual Thanksgiving feasts because she said hubby always butchered the bird. This was high praise in my book, and for years I carved with gusto and appreciation for her loving gesture.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">#2 has become one of the Most Important People in my life, and although she's now 86 years old and adjusting to life without her Man (lost in November 2020), I would move heaven and earth for her. She RULES.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">*********************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">So often, married couples deal with and suffer from the kinds of unfortunate parental relationships that can torpedo a newly-hitched duo in ways both seen and unseen. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">This phenomenon has historical precedent, but that never makes it easier to handle.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">According to De Wiki, the phrase 'Mother-In-Law' comes from the Middle English phrase </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">'modyr in lawe'. The term was first used in the 14th or 15th century, and the idea behind it is that your MIL has the same rights and duties as your biological mother and is given those rights and duties by the legal pact of marriage.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NYFI1-FTw94" width="320" youtube-src-id="NYFI1-FTw94"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;">Funny, but not funny, but actually funny... amirite?</span></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">All too often, prospective Sons/Daughters-In-Law are blinded to the whims and vagaries of their future MILs because the prospect of signing on to a turmoil-filled marriage JUST CAN'T HAPPEN. It may be wishful thinking, willful ignorance or simply a lack of foresight when a guy or gal finds themselves at the receiving end of the bad juju that comes with a bad MIL relationship.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">None of this seems to be relevant to Father-in laws, who are usually A-OK unless they're just dickheads. Go figger.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I can say this much: based upon my first meeting with #1, if I'd not been so stupidly in love with her daughter I'd have listened to my gut and run from that place and never again dated my soon-to-be-ex-wife.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hindsight... 20/20... and all that.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My advice to anyone who intends to bring a MIL into their lives is simple: never EVER forget that marriage is a painful way of showing parents how very much a child has grown and maybe doesn't need them any more. This can trigger all sorts of reactions ranging from sorrowful loss to spittle-flecked anguish and resentment, all wrapped up in seething hostility and outright hatred.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Let all of that go by the wayside. Focus on being the most loving, most attentive, most supportive spouse you can be and the rest will eventually take care of itself. Diffuse any animosity with kindness, compassion and understanding... unless you have one of those "OH MY GOD WTF AM I GETTING INTO?!?!" moments like I did in 1977 when I should have listened to my inner alarm screaming RUN, NOW.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Because someday you too will be in their shoes, greeting a child's new Significant Other who may just turn out to be The One.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b>"I told my Mother-in-law that my house was her house, and she said 'Get the hell off my property!'" - Joan Rivers</b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Dypv4SLyAfg" width="320" youtube-src-id="Dypv4SLyAfg"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Todas las imagenes, gracias a Google Images; videos de 'Monster-In-Law' y Los Beatles 'She's Leaving Home', muchas gracias a YouTube.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-36559219291622149482021-08-31T10:27:00.009-07:002021-08-31T10:57:32.743-07:00Flight of the Phoenix<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIPb2D__bv7ZPl9Qy-xyIxaOCpNVUQC9FZSs9aESURlSreCe8qUDD_bSCe0x5949Qqgs1fCPVewFnuH11VcGLF7vWjqXHGtuyUVnMKPamRIyBOXyPR5_R4K_syD42WM_jJdGmJPrzmdM01/s300/Phoenix_cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIPb2D__bv7ZPl9Qy-xyIxaOCpNVUQC9FZSs9aESURlSreCe8qUDD_bSCe0x5949Qqgs1fCPVewFnuH11VcGLF7vWjqXHGtuyUVnMKPamRIyBOXyPR5_R4K_syD42WM_jJdGmJPrzmdM01/w364-h364/Phoenix_cover.jpg" width="364" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I don't know about you, but discovering new music has a way of planting me right into the ground on a specific day or time or place and it never wavers, not even a little bit. I hear a tune and I time-travel to that time-stamp, RIGHT NOW.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Kurt Vonnegut called it 'being unstuck in time'. I tend to agree.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Grand Funk Railroad's 'Phoenix' LP, released (surprise!) on my birthday in September of 1972, is one of those seminal vinyl pressings that has aged very well and grown almost as important to my audiophile foundation as records by The Beatles or the Stones or Stephen Stills or Janis.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hyperbole, you say? Let me try to explain. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">First, a little background is in order.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In September of 1972, I turned 16 years old and almost immediately got my First Car and my First Paying Job. As a newly-minted high school Junior, I'd soon discover the joys of cruising Whittier Blvd. on Saturday nights, drive-in movie dates and having to work a steady job at $1.65 an hour to keep myself clothed and my car fueled-up and insured.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Musically, I was all Beatles and Stones and Doobies and Led Zep and CCR, but Grand Funk Railroad (GFR) wasn't on my radar. However, my younger brother Chuck (R.I.P.) was all over GFR, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath and lots of other bands that hadn't yet pierced my bubble.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I recall the day he brought home 'Phoenix', closed the door to his room, played it loud once and was disgusted by it because they'd committed the Cardinal Sin of trying something new. "THIS RECORD FUCKING SUCKS!", Chuck yelled in his room. A few seconds later he tossed it onto the floor of my room as he walked out the front door, headed somewhere to smoke something with someone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Curious, I slapped that disc onto my turntable.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As the band's 6th studio LP, it was the first one they'd produced themselves after having fired long-time producer/manager Terry Knight. That alone was a huge shift, but they also decided to experiment with a new sound, new instruments and a new production style that would lose fans but gain them many new ones.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">New fans just like me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">*******************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here's a tune sampling of one of my favorite LP's... EVER.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/IukaDTAMpoc" width="320" youtube-src-id="IukaDTAMpoc"></iframe></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>'Flight of the Phoenix'</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The opening track of this LP showcases Mark Farner blazing away on the keyboards and guitar in a bluesy hot-rod boogie of an instrumental, with Mel Schacher and Don Brewer ripping up the rhythm on bass and drums. Thickening up the boogie goo is new member Craig Frost on backing keyboards with a brilliant cameo by famed fiddler Doug Kershaw on his electric violin. This was complete heresy to GFR's loyal fan base (STRIKE ONE!!). Although there's an extended mix of this tune available, the LP's original track is the best one.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/tn68jinqGMQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="tn68jinqGMQ"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">'Trying to Get Away'</span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">True to their original sound but with so many more layers of sonic depth, a classic tune about being on the road and how much it can sometimes both suck and blow simultaneously. Again, the keyboards are front and center and the groove they develop is just so fine. Mark Farner's vocals are perfect.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bRq5CLryFTc" width="320" youtube-src-id="bRq5CLryFTc"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>'Someone'</b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A power ballad about loving a person who doesn't love back, the basis for so many tunes written by so many heartbroken souls. Great vocal harmonizing, cool and sweet, and Mel Schacher's bass is really highlighted.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LxkhBt7s5Cs" width="320" youtube-src-id="LxkhBt7s5Cs"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>'She Got to Move Me'</b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Another bluesy rock boogie about that scourge of the road-traveling rocker: underage groupies on the make. Like so many of the tunes on this LP, there's a jazz-inspired thread that makes it move.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mUJxM9-AcgM" width="320" youtube-src-id="mUJxM9-AcgM"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>'I Just Gotta Know'</b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A surprisingly political stance is taken in this one, with the theme of all youth pitching in to make the world a better place, no matter what it takes. Classic rockin' be here.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TrW4uE18kRg" width="320" youtube-src-id="TrW4uE18kRg"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>'Rock 'N Roll Soul'</b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">One of their biggest hits and released as a single, this tune rose to #29 on the <i>Billboard Hot 100</i> in 1972. These guys knew what they were doing in the studio!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">****************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">For a 'hard-rock' 70's band, they also had several Top 40 hits that included 'We're an American Band', 'The Loco-Motion', 'Some Kind of Wonderful' and 'Bad Time', were produced by Todd Rundgren and Frank Zappa, and survived intact through to their first breakup in 1976.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">If this music speaks to you, find 'Phoenix' and play all the tunes for a peek into my time-warp mode. You'll be glad you did!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Special Bonus Track: 'Out To Get You' from their 1976 LP 'Good Singin'/Good Playin', produced by Frank Zappa who also shreds on lead guitar. This tune kicks so much ass.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0cPJxtWDGZI" width="320" youtube-src-id="0cPJxtWDGZI"></iframe></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">"<i>You cannot talk about rock in the 1970's without talking about Grand Funk Railroad!"</i> -- David Fricke, <i>ROLLING STONE</i> Magazine</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Lead image, Gracias de Google images; todos los videos, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.</i></span><p></p>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-45294426144848508462021-08-04T13:48:00.003-07:002021-08-07T06:19:58.141-07:00Police On My Back<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYApMAgr3X5tfv8KmYsVECly8yB53vBi1Xq38qf3bidoz4BpApn_oPh3TBDLkak9_7EUK5ghOw9YKfhwT7JuonsootWRxTa25ONqJSWiU43-3IHTsKJumMWJM76rWIN5rUr8ZyM2FHuUL0/s800/PD.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="800" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYApMAgr3X5tfv8KmYsVECly8yB53vBi1Xq38qf3bidoz4BpApn_oPh3TBDLkak9_7EUK5ghOw9YKfhwT7JuonsootWRxTa25ONqJSWiU43-3IHTsKJumMWJM76rWIN5rUr8ZyM2FHuUL0/w426-h229/PD.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">What I don't know is a lot, but I'm convinced of at least three things: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We have gun, racism and policing problems in this country, and they ain't necessarily exclusive of each other.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">These are far more complex issues than most people are willing or able to deal with, so the fallback position is to let political persuasion, ideology, social standing, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">ethnicity or personal</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> situation set the tone for our own mostly-unexamined opinions.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">That's the wrong thing to do, but you know... HOOMANS.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'd wager that other than the occasional traffic stop for a moving violation, most 'Murricans have little to no interaction with law enforcement, and la-de-da good for them. I wish I could count myself among those 'Murricans, but that ain't the case.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">*********************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Real World Cop Stop #1:</b> It was sometime in late 1974 or early 1975 when my Cousin and I were chowing down some fast-food while sitting in my '57 Chevy in my hometown of La Puente, California. All of a sudden, several police cars raced up and and surrounded the car, the cops jumping out and pointing their guns at us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We were both frozen in mid-bite, eyes wide open, when a voice over the loudspeaker said "REMAIN CALM AND DON'T MOVE!" </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">We complied. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A few moments </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">later we were outside my car, food dropped on the ground, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">bent over the trunk lid with </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">hands cuffed behind our backs. A few minutes later, they were uncuffing us and apologizing for their mistake. It seems a grocery store had been robbed less than 30 minutes earlier and the APB went out for two dark-haired young men driving a brown '57 Chevy... we fit the description. However, while we were cuffed and our records were being run, a radio call came in saying the real culprits had been snagged.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">No harm no foul, and the cops were really nice to us afterwards. They left and we stood there, stunned and still hungry.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">*********************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We depend on the police to deal with law-breaking criminals and to leave the rest of us alone so we don't have to think about those criminals. We expect cops to be judicious and objective with their authority, to know in advance how to correctly handle every situation they respond to and to never break any laws while doing so.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This is very hard because of HOOMANS.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here's the conundrum: Policing is an extremely difficult career choice that only a certain kind of person is willing to take on. Once badged, cops are asked to deal with the very worst examples of humanity on everyone else's behalf, yet are expected to maintain a high level of empathy and professionalism even though they're exposed daily to the worst examples of humanity.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Cops are HOOMANS, too.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Try this on: you have a job that requires constantly dealing with awful people doing awful things who would prefer that you don't exist, which means it can be difficult to remain objectively judicious with your authority, to not overreact, to not resort to base instincts. It's the same for anyone who served in the military on an active field of battle.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">After a while of dealing with awful people doing awful things who would prefer that you don't exist, pessimism and antipathy and anger begins to seep in. What was once a noble calling becomes a debilitating exercise in survival, leaving you filled with trepidation and angst and anxiety and a daily fear for your own life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A soldier in battle knows it boils down to 'kill or be killed'. For law enforcement, that mindset becomes dangerous when dealing with the public, especially if you know the likelihood that those awful people doing awful things who would prefer that you don't exist are armed, oftentimes more heavily armed than you.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">So... there you are, a duly-sworn law enforcement professional filled with all the bad juju that dealing with The Awfulness brings, regularly confronting situations that YOU JUST KNOW is gonna get out of hand.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">That right there is what we refer to as a MINDFUCK, and it often turns all bad real fast. Why? Because HOOMANS.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7L9bpcuLGKx_bAxX4f7bhgAXY43vsbA5O4EO_joDwsZ37qxgW5HxBaMzGmSY_vhWh22-9NGC2FCivriMyx0Kl7J3mRjqAdITpD5Q6qriDmL7G-TBPaUpvNU6mlpHNRp1Qa9dKpoc9glNI/s500/Barney.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7L9bpcuLGKx_bAxX4f7bhgAXY43vsbA5O4EO_joDwsZ37qxgW5HxBaMzGmSY_vhWh22-9NGC2FCivriMyx0Kl7J3mRjqAdITpD5Q6qriDmL7G-TBPaUpvNU6mlpHNRp1Qa9dKpoc9glNI/s320/Barney.jpg" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">*********************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Real World Cop Stop #2:</b> In 2002 while working at a tire testing autocross event in a Phoenix suburb, my co-worker and I were driving back to our hotel after having dropped off our clients and their rental car at Sky Harbor Airport. There we were, two bald-headed Mexicans cruising the nighttime Arizona freeway in a Yellow Corvette convertible that I'd rented for the autocross shootout. Top down, tunes up, rolling at the speed limit because <i>Yellow Corvette</i>, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the offramp to our hotel literally within sight.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLTGHmOaTB2uKrpXVWPFjeMY-zrACcurPuIq9_oWUg250KFEiwY-1isp9wlmcnGxsgVc-EM74fp0GhC6aokol_-v1evBDk7gc_ivpMrf0FC2Xcb4xbdAwSuypbcKDaGybM2_VpeJg2Kwp/s259/corvette.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLTGHmOaTB2uKrpXVWPFjeMY-zrACcurPuIq9_oWUg250KFEiwY-1isp9wlmcnGxsgVc-EM74fp0GhC6aokol_-v1evBDk7gc_ivpMrf0FC2Xcb4xbdAwSuypbcKDaGybM2_VpeJg2Kwp/w339-h254/corvette.jpg" width="339" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p>I hadn't noticed the police car pulling up fast behind me until he lit up the night with his gumballs, strobes and spotlights, so I quickly pulled over to the shoulder. Within about a minute, four more cruisers joined us by the freeway, two of them sliding in front of the Corvette, blocking our path. A minor freeway jam-up ensued alongside.</p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Loudspeaker: "DRIVER AND PASSENGER... STAY INSIDE THE CAR." </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">After a long couple of minutes, two cops approached both sides of the car with their right hands resting on their guns.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him (to me in the driver seat): "Sir, is this your car?"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: "Good evening, Officer... no Sir, this car is a rental that I picked up in Tempe several days ago."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him: "Sir, do you have proof of that?"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: "Yes Sir... right there in the console."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him: "Sir, please give me your license, proof of insurance and the rental agreement... and do it slowly."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Once he had my papers, I was asked to exit the car and follow him back to his cruiser. My co-worker also got out but was asked to follow another cop to his cruiser in front of the car.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We spent the next 30 minutes individually fielding myriad questions about the car, our work, why a Yellow Corvette, where we lived, yatta yatta yatta all to allow them lots of time to run our licenses and the car's registration to see if they could trip us up by giving conflicting answers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Eventually they seemed satisfied that we weren't gang-banging car thieves, gave us back our docs and without a word, jumped back into their cruisers and blasted off, leaving us there in the dark by the side of the freeway.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">*********************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">These days, people are afraid of the police. Of course, NO ONE wants to get pulled over, but the general feeling among many civilians is that the protocols, protections and guidelines we always assumed were endemic to law enforcement when dealing with the public... well, they seem to have gone MIA.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Yes, we hear inflamed and overhyped accounts via the 24-hour 'no sparrow shall fall' news media about every single thing that happens across our vast nation involving law enforcement, but it seems we've lost a valuable sense of trust in the men and women who choose to wear the badge.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">That is a BAD THING.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The more we mistrust law enforcement to do right by us, the less likely we are to understand and accept the vital role they play in our lives. Once lost, that trust is woefully difficult to rebuild, and anyone who lives in an area with a crime rate above 'almost zero' will attest to how strong that mistrust, apprehension and suspicion can be.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I have relatives who worked in policing during the 70's and 80's, and they were amazing examples of all that is good about law enforcement. One of them worked as a Detective at the infamous Rampart Division of the L.A.P.D. and witnessed some of the most egregious acts of policing misconduct ever documented.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Even though he'd just recently retired from the force, that same relative was shaken and scared at the results of Rodney King's 1991 beating, the ridiculous trial and the public outcry and violence. He feared for his comrades... and for the rest of us, too. He knew where it all came from.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">*********************************************************</span></p><p><b style="font-family: verdana;">Real World Cop Stop #3: </b><span style="font-family: verdana;">About 12 years ago, my wife and I were leaving her parent's home in Lakewood, California in her 2000 Blue VW Beetle. I was driving towards the freeway on a surface street and exceeding the 35mph speed limit by a mind-numbing 10mph, when out of nowhere a police cruiser jumped in behind us and lit up his 'pull over now' lights.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Once stopped, I waited for the officer to come up to the car, my license and registration at the ready. When he did arrive, his right hand on his holster, he asked me to get out of the car and follow him to the back of it. Once there, he asked me if I'd mind putting my hands over my head so he could handcuff me 'for my own safety'. Natch, I did.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">At this point, I still had no clue why he stopped me, let alone cuffed me. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">He inspected the car's interior and informed us he stopped me for exceeding the speed limit and that another guy with my name had an outstanding warrant. He never did explain the cuffing or car inspection, admonished my speeding and let us off with a warning before letting us go.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">WEIRD.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">*********************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'm technically a 'person of color' who doesn't appear at first glance to be anything other than a vanilla white dude. However, I have no doubt... NO DOUBT... that if I'd been of a darker skin tone, those Cop Stops could and probably would have gone much MUCH worse. That's not conjecture, but many vanilla white hoomans who deny that reality simply haven't experienced the stomach gut-knot when The Man decides to pull you over and you ain't a white dude or chick.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">And now... a bit of comic relief:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Real World Cop Stop #4:</b> In 1975 while attending junior college, I was dating a really lovely and wholesome girl that I'd met I can't remember where, and for our second date were headed to The Ice House comedy club in Pasadena.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsAaBqfbw73_w-qr5TQHlVOEJUUEDgyg20umF4jv5ftixRrrDccqPaSw7DqxrdI3nMKlfS89YPV0liSJF3rorqvt7qWlyJBWwO7aLiOpYmV5L9RxsYWI6fbehH7hMvh3koVBePwlltcKI/s1024/DM543-fmgaqltt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsAaBqfbw73_w-qr5TQHlVOEJUUEDgyg20umF4jv5ftixRrrDccqPaSw7DqxrdI3nMKlfS89YPV0liSJF3rorqvt7qWlyJBWwO7aLiOpYmV5L9RxsYWI6fbehH7hMvh3koVBePwlltcKI/s320/DM543-fmgaqltt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">We were rolling in my bitchin' BRG 1968 Triumph TR-4A, a really cool but absolutely awful car that would eventually cost me a great job because it kept breaking expensive British parts. My date loved the car, and we enjoyed the drive that evening from West Covina to Pasadena, the night filled with promise until I got lost and did an illegal U-turn within blocks of our destination.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I got pulled over in a nanosecond by one of Pasadena's Finest, so I figgered to get an embarrassing ticket and then drive away, but NO. After The Man took my license and registration to run, he came back to the car:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The Man: "Sir, do you know you have an outstanding warrant out for your arrest?"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: "Wait... WHAT?!?"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The Man: "Yes sir... a warrant's been posted for 'non-compliance of vehicle equipment violation' for this very car."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: "BUT BUT BUT... that violation's been cleared! It was for missing windshield wipers and I got it signed off and everything!" </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">At this point, I gestured towards the new windshield wiper arms that had been on order from the U.K. for months and had just arrived a few weeks earlier. Didn't matter.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The Man: "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to arrest you on this outstanding warrant. You should have made sure it was cleared up before you drove this car."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Within a minute or so, I was handcuffed and pleading with him to please reconsider but no dice. He then told me that my car would be towed to a yard unless the young lady would be willing to drive the car away. She didn't know how to drive a manual transmission but would call her Dad and Brother to come out and retrieve my car.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">So on our second date, her and I (me cuffed) were in the back of a police cruiser headed for the Pasadena Police Station. AWESOME. She called her Dad, explained the situation, and I heard a huge peal of laughter over the station pay phone... he though it was hilarious. To his credit, her Dad and Brother drove all the way out to Pasadena on a Saturday night, picked her up at the station, retrieved my car and drove them both home. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The following 12 hours of incarceration in the Pasadena jail are a story for another time. Suffice it to say I didn't go to L.A. County jail the next morning with the other Saturday night lawbreakers, and I bailed out soon afterward with the help of my Uncle Rick. The feeling of walking out of the police station on a Sunday morning was exhilarating.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">*********************************************************</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I don't pretend to know first-hand what it feels like to be a considered suspicious person simply because of the color of my skin or where I live or the people I associate with. I can only imagine what it feels like to be a law enforcement officer, considered by many with contempt or derision or fear, any time they find themselves involved in a traffic stop with the public, the most dangerous thing cops have to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Nevertheless, I do know we have a long way to go, as a society, before we can honestly say we treat each other with compassion or understanding or empathy. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It doesn't have to be that way. I think we can all do better. I know I can.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b>"I think we all have empathy. We may not have enough courage to display it." - Maya Angelou</b></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0tCx11ITaiY" width="320" youtube-src-id="0tCx11ITaiY"></iframe></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Todos las imagenes, gracias a Google Images; video de The Clash 'Police On My Back', muchas gracias a YouTube; Apoye a su policia local.</i></span></div><div><br /></div></span><p></p>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-85686761394645843042021-03-23T15:32:00.051-07:002021-03-24T14:58:03.641-07:00Stingray Stomp<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMuHl75nhhBWW3273ZwvdIHLqnkXL19Q_8XqkJhfOR3u9L2pMLuxg5m_9ukpGZjlTYX-jmskpHUulmaJ-EsvIZBD5jPqjveoYH2qIzRMXzEjwhzGKE-gwgp-ef68tZqzAuygS_l95pY8r0/s1500/91a-seY%252B-ZL._SL1500_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1500" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMuHl75nhhBWW3273ZwvdIHLqnkXL19Q_8XqkJhfOR3u9L2pMLuxg5m_9ukpGZjlTYX-jmskpHUulmaJ-EsvIZBD5jPqjveoYH2qIzRMXzEjwhzGKE-gwgp-ef68tZqzAuygS_l95pY8r0/w385-h380/91a-seY%252B-ZL._SL1500_.jpg" width="385" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The phone call I made to Epitaph/Epitone Records in early 1997 started out really weird:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him: "Good morning."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: "Hi... thanks for taking my call, it was hard finding your number! I want to get some information about a surf band on your label named Blue Stingrays. I just bought their CD and really love it, but I have no idea who they are and I'm hoping you could help."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him: (says nothing)</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: (after a few seconds) "Hello... are you still there?"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him: "Who IS this?"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: "... uh, excuse me? My name's Bob, I live in Mission Viejo and I'm trying to get some info on the Blue Stingrays."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him: "Are you a reporter?"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: (stunned) "What?"</i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/o4MJvGCPzpQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="o4MJvGCPzpQ"></iframe></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"> 'Brave New World' - Blue Stingrays<br /></span><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The day before that phone call, a random search through the CD racks at my local Borders Bookstore uncovered a mystery that was like catnip to this music geek.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'd been searching for some cool surf tunes in preparation for a music taping project. I was planning to record six hours of music (all drawn from my personal digital and vinyl collection) onto cassette tapes for use during the 1997 International Jet Sports Boating Association (IJSBA) personal watercraft (PWC, a.k.a. jet-ski) racing season.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As the IJSBA Regional Event Supervisor, I'd be working at all the National Tour and World Finals races during the year, so having a say in the kind of music being played would be AWESOME.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Our Competition Director asked if I'd be up for the project, which I agreed to in a nanosecond.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My goal: mix one 90-minute tape of semi-mellow music for morning practice sessions, then mix three more tapes of rocking music for the qualifying sessions and races. Although compact discs were already a thing, the players were very finicky and prone to jamming in outdoor environments. Cassettes were low-tech but very reliable, so that was the medium of choice. The tunes would be played over the race site PA system to get the crowd amped up during the morning pre-race rituals and competition events.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">One problem: I didn't have that much surf music in-hand, so off to Borders I went.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/QzLnFqFb3kg" width="320" youtube-src-id="QzLnFqFb3kg"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">'Goldfinger' - Blue Stingrays</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">After scanning through the 'Surf' music section at Borders, I'd already pulled out 'Bikini World', a compilation of surf tunes by bands from around the globe. Otherwise, the pickins' were slim.</span><div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">That's when I found 'Blue Stingrays Surf-N-Burn'.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Never heard of this band, but I recognized a few of the song titles and decided to buy it and take a risk. Plus, great CD cover image... always a good sign.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I cued up the CD when I got home and was blown away at their sound: totally old-school, crystal-clear with lots of reverb, and marinated with a sense of humor and homage to the surfing lifestyle that we native Californians of a certain age have in our DNA. The kind of tunes we heard on our transistor radios.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">An added bonus was the cool dark blue guitar pick with the band logo on it that fell onto my lap when I opened the jewel case. WINNER.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My confusion began when I started to read the liner notes. According to their bio, Blue Stingrays was the original California band that started the surf music trend in 1959. Once the genre began to blow up, they rejected stardom and moved to a Tahitian island for 30 years to hone their sound, with 'Surf-N-Burn' as the result. T</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">he other LPs in their discography were no longer available. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now... I've listened to a LOT of surf music in my life but had never heard of this band or their music, which was odd because they were supposedly the first to break out the signature surf sound.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I had to find out more about Blue Stingrays.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/U6kSuwYFIYs" width="320" youtube-src-id="U6kSuwYFIYs"></iframe></div><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;"> 'Stingray Stomp' - Blue Stingrays</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was able to locate a phone number for Epitaph Records in Hollywood, the company that released the CD under the 'Epitone' name.</span><p></p></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">That's when I made the phone call that took a decidedly weird turn.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him: "I said... are you a reporter?"</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: " Nope... not a reporter. Just a surf music fan who found this CD by a band that I've never heard of. I'm making a mix tape for the upcoming jet-ski racing season and want to add some surf music. I have to know more about the Blue Stingrays... they're GREAT!</i></span><i style="font-family: verdana;">"</i></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him: (apparently satisfied with my answer) "OK, I appreciate your honesty because this is a brand new release. Do you know who The Heartbreakers are?"</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: "You mean Tom Petty's Heartbreakers? His backing band?"</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him: "Yeah, that's the one. Tom's been on a hiatus, so the guys... Benmont Tench, Mike Campbell and a couple of others... they wanted to do a side project during their downtime, and since they all love surf music they created a fake band name and bio as a cover to record under so no one would know."</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Me: "Wait a minute. You mean the liner notes... the bio... the discography... it's all fake? That is SO COOL! They sound so original, and the music is just fantastic!"</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Him: "I'm glad you like it, they had a lot of fun recording new stuff and creating the bio. The music is first-rate 'cuz those guys are all great musicians. That's why I asked if you're a reporter... the CD was released unannounced a few days ago and we're trying to keep it quiet so Tom's record company won't get all pissed off. You must've bought one of the first copies on the market!"</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/DenHbVEYPko" width="320" youtube-src-id="DenHbVEYPko"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">'Surfer's Life' - Blue Stingrays (my favorite cut on this CD)</span></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">We talked for a few more minutes and he asked me to be low-key about the music for at least a few weeks, because the news would get out soon enough. I agreed and thanked him for letting me in on the secret. I mean... he didn't have to tell me squat, right?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The mix tapes? They were played over the PA system at all eleven of the IJSBA National Tour races that summer and all eight days of the World Finals in Lake Havasu City, Arizona that October, where we hosted over 1,300 professional and amateur PWC racers from all over the world. It was AWESOME.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">A Regional event promoter who helped with announcing at the World Finals admitted to me he'd dubbed copies of the tapes to use at his own events during the next racing season. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hearing my mix tapes blasting from the PA at race event sites all over the country was a pretty special feeling for this lifetime music geek.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/sn67F11P82E" width="320" youtube-src-id="sn67F11P82E"></iframe></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"> 'Zuma Sunset' - Blue Stingrays</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">If you love great surf music, there's a lot more on the CD than the sampling here, and knowing the genesis of this 'fake' band only makes it easier to appreciate the craftsmanship and skullduggery it took to create Blue Stingrays.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sometimes, only certain kinds of music will work for my state of mind, the task at hand or the situation. 'Blue Stingrays Surf-N-Burn' is that kind of music. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Every time I hear 'Surfer's Life', I see a video in my head of the jet-ski races... the snap of the Starting Line band, a dozen boats at speed aiming for the first buoy, a stand-up racer dragging his leg in the water on a hard turn... all in super slow-mo, the water flying away in sheets from the hulls in a massive spray, catching the sun and sparkling, just like the music.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Download this musical release and you'll be rewarded with a gift that crosses time and space. Better yet, find and buy the CD and read the liner notes about a band that never was... but will always be.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Plus... FREE GUITAR PICK!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then imagine what it was like to hear bitchin' surf music on a transistor radio!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">*********************************************************</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Special Bonus Track -- The other CD I bought at Borders was titled 'Bikini World' (Relativity Records) and featured music by surf bands from all over the world. This tune by The Fathoms, a Boston-based group, is one of my faves from this excellent and eclectic collection.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YHvSW6q6Tpc" width="320" youtube-src-id="YHvSW6q6Tpc"></iframe></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"> 'Fathomless' - The Fathoms<br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Imagen principal, Gracias de Google Images; todos los videos, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube; cuando cae la goma, la mierda se detiene.</i></span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Special Dedication: This post is dedicated to Snackie, Blake (my brother from another Mother), Jonny Ya-Ya, Connecticut Steve, Tim, Mark, Mike, Tony, Shawnie and all the IJSBA brothers and sisters for some of most memorable working days of my life. I've never worked as hard or had as much fun as we did during those halcyon racing days... the IJSBA Traveling Circus.</span></div>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-30378059283040131162021-03-12T07:25:00.017-08:002021-03-12T13:56:34.569-08:00The Matador<p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4VCDOPl1WgMUXIxGL3DsfZzxvrXei6opbs8BhLIzkNC1_IuTIZptgKz8HiiCKNow1wLdZCfQwKRS3a8cZQFwd5-NXRwONz-g3LTCE4qd1S-08iwPpMUL9cqCBXkQDSHJXeSeTCgi059S/s1370/Bully-for-Bugs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1370" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4VCDOPl1WgMUXIxGL3DsfZzxvrXei6opbs8BhLIzkNC1_IuTIZptgKz8HiiCKNow1wLdZCfQwKRS3a8cZQFwd5-NXRwONz-g3LTCE4qd1S-08iwPpMUL9cqCBXkQDSHJXeSeTCgi059S/w407-h298/Bully-for-Bugs.jpg" width="407" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>This story is 100% true... none of the names or places have been changed to protect anyone or anything.</p><p>That's just how I roll.</p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">1. SACRAMENTO BLUES</span></b></p><p>Sometime in mid-1980, I found myself at loose ends. It happens. </p><p>Having separated from my soon-to-be-ex-wife, I used a job transfer while working for a hydraulics distributor to move to Northern California to work the service counter at their West Sacramento branch. My new gig was to intake mud-caked valves and shit-covered pumps for the area's rice farmers, sketchy manufacturing plants and even sketchier service techs.</p><p>I'd found a small apartment in the nondescript suburb of Citrus Heights, directly across from the Birdcage Mall, a nondescript indoor shopping cavern that I avoided like the plague. I had also bought a very clean 1971 AMC Ambassador from the family of an old dead guy who had cherished that sled. It was Yellow with a black vinyl top and constantly reminded me that everything eventually dies.</p><p>For reasons that escape me now, I lost my job and spent the next few months working as a temp all over the valley. Sometime during that period, I also had to sell the dead guy's Ambassador so I could pay my rent. I did a lot of walking, hitchhiking and riding the buses that never ran on time.</p><p>(I later found out that because the notorious Folsom State Prison paroled prisoners directly into the local area, anyone who made a habit of hitching rides was probably going to get murdered sooner rather than later. I didn't get murdered, so yay for me.)</p><p>After a month of being non-vehicular, my neighbor Kevin mentioned that he was going to a State auction to buy a car for his girlfriend who lived in Redding. This was news because he was living in the apartment next door with his wife Karen... Kevin had seeeeecrets. With a serious wad of $100 to spend, I went along with him on the following Saturday morning.</p><p>We drove into downtown Sacramento and found the auction lot filled with cars, trucks, buses, forklifts, heavy equipment, trailers and every type of State-owned conveyance. We found the auto corral and walked up and down the long rows of cars that would be up for bid. Most of them were in decent shape and well outside my price range, and after an hour I figured I'd be outta luck finding anything to bid on.</p><p>That's when we came upon The Matador. It was the last car in a long row, with the passenger side directly up against the chain link fence separating the corrals.</p><p>At first glance, this wasn't a car anyone would want. Vintage 1972 AMC four-door bathed in Institutional Green. The hood was dented, the grill was broken, and both driver-side doors were caved in. On the plus side, the rest of the sheet metal was in perfect condition. It had good tires with matching wheel covers, twin A-pillar mounted spotlights, and the interior was decent. </p><p>I mean, how much could they want for this thing, right?</p><p>I got inside and was hit with the stench of old beer. I turned the ignition key and it started right up, the engine running so smoothly I wasn't sure it was actually running. I lowered all the windows and sat in there, thinking it wasn't as bad as it first seemed. Hell, even the A/C and radio worked! The odometer showed a reasonable 80,000+ miles, much less than the wrinkled exterior would indicate.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFF9SrjscOTK5fPFIt7ktooA7o6-2kRFidb5Y6uBMABmT1b_a79ZRJT1FP7d_hc61u7-gZ4OVh1Af4npTuFQzaBIKD-GUyNEJqf50V771UJPgpxyykOt-PRGoPfGLkwiL3enhqp_9C89Y/s399/Matador.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="399" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFF9SrjscOTK5fPFIt7ktooA7o6-2kRFidb5Y6uBMABmT1b_a79ZRJT1FP7d_hc61u7-gZ4OVh1Af4npTuFQzaBIKD-GUyNEJqf50V771UJPgpxyykOt-PRGoPfGLkwiL3enhqp_9C89Y/w373-h219/Matador.jpg" width="373" /></a></div> (Not The Matador, but the exact same make/model/year/awful color.)<p></p><p>After a few hours of car grazing and a really bad roach coach burrito, we walked over to the auction area for the bidding. Kevin was interested in a couple of cars but nothing really looked promising to me. About a dozen cars rolled through the auction and were quickly snapped up before The Matador rolled in, with the damaged side and nose most prominent.</p><p>The Auctioneer quickly read off the car's stats and then said "Bidding on this car starts at $50." I stood there waiting but no one bid on it! Maybe it was the exterior damage and 'that color', but nope... silence. I looked around for a few seconds and then raised my hand. </p><p>"$50 bid from that young man... do I hear a raise?"</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>"No more bids? OK, the bid is $50 going once... going twice... SOLD!"</p><p>I had a car! I followed it to the Sales trailer, gave them the $50 plus another $5 for the admin fees and walked out with the pink slip. Kevin was outbid on all the cars he'd wanted, and I drove my bitchin' new old car back to Citrus Heights with the windows all down to air out the stench.</p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">2. MIDNIGHT EXPRESS</span></b></p><p>Shortly after I bought The Matador, everything went to crap.</p><p>The apartment property managers announced our complex would soon be turned into condos and anyone who wasn't planning to buy would have to move out in 30 days, and I was already a month behind in rent.</p><p>I was broke and my new job at a surveying equipment store wouldn't pay enough for me to cover the back rent, so I made an executive decision: I was gonna skip town in the middle of the night and head back to L.A.</p><p>On my last day in the Sacramento delta, I went to work and lied to the owner about an overdue child support payment and convinced him to give me an advance on my next paycheck. It was a terrible thing to do, but desperate people yatta yatta yatta.</p><p>(To this day, I'm still ashamed of lying to my Boss and taking his money.) </p><p>That same night and with $150 in my wallet, I quickly loaded as much of my shit as possible into The Matador, leaving behind all the furniture. I had to slide the front bench seat all the way forward to fit everything, and the suspension was so overloaded the car looked like an insane homeless guy's lowrider.</p><p>The whole time I was loading the car, I fretted about the one obstacle that could botch my plan: the Southbound I-5 Grapevine Pass incline, rising to 4,100 feet above the San Joaquin Valley floor. In my mind, that steep roadway loomed large as a car-killer, and knowing The Matador was overloaded and old and all, I was almost certain that it wouldn't survive the climb. Now out of options, I figgered it was worth the risk.</p><p>The last thing I loaded was my cat Dinky, a jet-black refugee that a neighbor left behind when she moved away. I'd set up a small litter box on the rear floor for him, but once inside the car he buried himself somewhere in the loaded rear seat and began to howl with displeasure.</p><p>With Dinky continuously howling somewhere in the back seat and me jammed up against the steering wheel in front, I slowly pulled away from the apartment parking lot, the car's suspension bottoming out every so often to remind me of what was going to be a fretful trip.</p><p>The long drive down Highway 99 through the dark night was filled with dread, even though The Matador seemed to be cruising along A-OK. Around 3am I pulled into a gas station outside Bakersfield to fuel up. I was resigned to whatever might happen during the run up the Pass, with visions of exploding water hoses and clouds of black smoke filling my mind's eye. Dinky never once stopped howling the entire trip, he was SO MAD.</p><p>I finished fueling and pulled out onto the freeway, and after a few minutes I could see the line of red tail lights in the distance, all negotiating the steep Grapevine climb. </p><p>Cruising at about 65mph, with the incline getting closer and closer, I started to panic. Had I made a really stupid mistake by trying this midnight run in a $50 car? What am I gonna do if the car breaks down halfway up the slope? Who would stop at 3am to help someone driving an insane homeless guy lowrider Matador?</p><p>I flashed past the tiny burg of Grapevine and started up the hill. It looked like a vertical wall of roadway but I was committed and knew it was boom or bust. As the hill got steeper, I gently pressed the accelerator and The Matador shifted down a gear and picked up speed.</p><p>For the next 15 uphill minutes, I was in a frenzy but shouldn't have been. That fucking car just CRUISED up the Grapevine incline, keeping a constant speed, shifting down every so often but then back again, not missing a beat. By the time I made it to Fort Tejon and over the summit, I was whooping and shouting and crying and laughing, all at once. Oh, and Dinky was still howling in back, not realizing how lucky we both were.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizwNoLNk4nWySYxzsMVAgzBZEt9omV1rMpT0RBoXjMX8vRv-AjWPDDdn34m9xiPz8Du1zMdg_jeQScZ8JSGVVUW1p1ecxDasH31mH0bzKM5AaundErMzY7j6BooYa-6eQohS71igs5JksV/s400/283d0454-903e-4b69-8262-53ba0b28c8a7_d.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="343" data-original-width="400" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizwNoLNk4nWySYxzsMVAgzBZEt9omV1rMpT0RBoXjMX8vRv-AjWPDDdn34m9xiPz8Du1zMdg_jeQScZ8JSGVVUW1p1ecxDasH31mH0bzKM5AaundErMzY7j6BooYa-6eQohS71igs5JksV/w364-h312/283d0454-903e-4b69-8262-53ba0b28c8a7_d.jpg" width="364" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The dark early-morning downhill roll into Castaic, through the San Fernando Valley and all the way to the San Gabriel Valley was a blur of emotion, exhaustion, exhilaration and the expectation that no matter what happened next, I'd be OK.</p><p>The Matador came through.</p><p>I pulled into my Mom's driveway in Arcadia at around 6am, turned off the car and with Dinky still howling, fell asleep. I woke up about an hour later, got out and checked my Institutional Green 1972 AMC Matador. It still looked like an insane homeless guy's lowrider, but it was bee-yootiful.</p><p>$55, well-spent.</p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">3. THE END</span></b></p><p>I never did register The Matador, not in Sacramento or the entire time I drove it in SoCal. I'd semi-repaired the caved-in doors and bent the hood back into shape right after I bought it, so the car appeared official and screamed "NARC!!!" right down to the twin spotlights and that color. In fact, I'd be driving to work in my shirt and tie and sunglasses and a cop would cruise up next to me, we'd meet eyes and he'd always give me the head nod and keep on going. I could have smuggled guns and drugs in that car and no one would have been the wiser.</p><p>I stupidly got back together with my soon-to-be-ex-wife about a month after my return to SoCal, and she hated The Matador so much she refused to ride in it, which was fine with me. One day I bought some matte black spray paint and sprayed 'THE CLASH' in huge letters across both the wrinkled driver-side doors, complete with a giant black star. That made her hate it even more, and somehow I never got stopped for having no plates or registration. I did get lots of honks and thumbs-up from other drivers.</p><p>After a few months of daily 80-mile round trips between our Covina apartment and my job in Rancho Dominguez, The Matador started running rough. One morning the engine was really struggling to stay running. I popped the hood and smelled hot fluids, so I checked the oil and noticed it was watery and light brown, a sure sign of water in the oil (which is BAD), prolly a cracked block or a blown head gasket. Realizing the car wouldn't be reliable enough for the long daily commute any more, it had to go.</p><p>One problem: I'd never registered the car and even though I had the pink slip, it would be difficult to sell with a mortally wounded engine. I located a wrecking yard that would take the car and title, no questions asked, so with my s-t-b-e-w (and 3-year-old daughter) following me in her '72 VW Fastback, I drove The Matador to a location deep in an industrial area of Monrovia. The yard guy looked over the car and offered me $100 cash for it. We traded title and keys for cash and left in the VW, and I watched in the rear-view mirror as the guy got into The Matador and drove it into the back.</p><p>After all that, I'd doubled the money I paid for The Matador.</p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>EPILOGUE</b></span></p><p>About 6 months after The Matador went to its Great Reward, my relationship with the s-t-b-e-w crashed and I found myself sleeping on the couch. One Saturday morning while she was out with our daughter in the VW (our only car), I decided to take a walk and clear my head. I left our Covina apartment and headed West, not really thinking about where I was going... and I kept on walking. </p><p>After a couple of hours of Westward trekking, I realized I was halfway to Mom's house in Arcadia so... I just kept on walking. I wound up walking 15 miles to her house, spent the night there and she loaned me her sweet Blue '74 Camaro to use for a few days.</p><p>I drove back to Covina the next afternoon and discovered the s-t-b-e-w had removed all of my belongings from the apartment and dumped them on the curb for the next day's garbage pickup. I scrambled for my clothes, audio gear and record collection and stuffed it all into the Camaro, with the s-t-b-e-w holding our daughter and screaming at me for being a piece of shit. I had to slide the driver seat all the way forward to fit my stuff in back, so I jammed myself behind the steering wheel and drove away. </p><p>I spent most of the night just driving around, winding up parked in the driveway of my good buddy Jerry's house in La Puente at around 2am. I shoved the seat back as far as I could and fell asleep until his Mom came out around 6am, knocking on the window to wake me up, dragging me into the house for some breakfast.</p><p>I was once again broke and at loose ends, but the story would eventually have a happy ending.</p><p>*************************************************************************</p><p>I think about The Matador every now and again, amazed that it cost so little but was such a reliable ride and really saved my bacon. The days of being able to buy and drive a $50 car are long-gone, and I've developed a weird appreciation for AMC vehicles... especially Pacers.</p><p>In fact, just a few years after The Matador left me I was lucky enough to buy a recently-repaired 1962 Rambler American 2-door from my friend Tim's Dad, and it was basically the same color as The Matador. Three-on-the-tree shifter, an OHC 6-cylinder engine with electric overdrive, bench seat... that sled could cruise at 80mph in overdrive. The first real road trip The Artist and I took in it was to Northern California, including a run through Sacramento.</p><p>She really didn't like the American's color that much, but I thought it was bee-yootiful.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1UYnDFDmCru2iarRAdaMksoZo0kYLjdhApPjltf_6BXBDixMlSr9U8fxNXkBxLIlwJ9kA70JpiwY_XTYbOBz9lJzv5fRT7Rq8thcw9MgonY27TBAXEUE7UEci8zjRrkFVbqqH7NjPspyX/s500/1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1UYnDFDmCru2iarRAdaMksoZo0kYLjdhApPjltf_6BXBDixMlSr9U8fxNXkBxLIlwJ9kA70JpiwY_XTYbOBz9lJzv5fRT7Rq8thcw9MgonY27TBAXEUE7UEci8zjRrkFVbqqH7NjPspyX/w371-h278/1.jpg" width="371" /></a></div><p> (Not the The American, but the exact same make/model/year/beautiful color.)</p><p>Sometimes, it's the little things in life that can make the biggest difference. Things like a $50 car, a can of black spray paint, a long walk or even an overnight drive. You just never know what they'll bring to your conscious existence, which always becomes richer as a result.</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="332" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/srCiQOzMo4k" width="399" youtube-src-id="srCiQOzMo4k"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><i>Todos los images, Gracias de Google Images; Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass 'The Lonely Bull' video, Muchismas Gracias de youtube.com.</i>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-59037358427108474542020-07-08T11:53:00.000-07:002020-07-10T07:11:58.694-07:00Dear Mr. President...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-4tO5jAJwBXUcl8PkihS1CMtt3BF4yv3vNyQWrmSUysPJWnOB9HeV4UmIsFaGfPK0U_TUrZSOsKyaZdD3HbBmUHxXt6MMSUn3gTEIwuOeUYVS_Va8S3CeOZU1IGRE3JWY1B9840V84Ok/s1600/Dump2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="1160" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-4tO5jAJwBXUcl8PkihS1CMtt3BF4yv3vNyQWrmSUysPJWnOB9HeV4UmIsFaGfPK0U_TUrZSOsKyaZdD3HbBmUHxXt6MMSUn3gTEIwuOeUYVS_Va8S3CeOZU1IGRE3JWY1B9840V84Ok/s400/Dump2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Dear Mr.
President,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">I don’t know you personally, nor am I a psychologist or trained in human behavior, so the following observations are based strictly on your public persona, my interpretations of you as a public figure, and my own understanding of people.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">I am an American
citizen of Mexican heritage, born in <st1:city w:st="on">East Los Angeles</st1:city>,
<st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state> to parents who were also born in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">United
States</st1:country-region></st1:place>. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">I consider myself to be a member of the middle-class. I have some college education, have worked hard since I was 16 years old, am lucky to own a nice home and enjoy a long and successful marriage.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">My personal and emotional foundation was formed as the result of the strict, disciplined and engaged parenting I received, as a child and a teenager, from my
Father and many of my relatives. That kind of upbringing is typical of almost all
Mexican-American families, and I’ve always been grateful for that good start on
my life’s journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">I was raised in a home where my Father was responsible for single-parenting
my younger Brother and me, a role he never envisioned for himself. Although we
never had much money, we were always well cared-for and Dad made Boy Scouts a
central part of my youth, a gift for which I can never thank him enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">With the help of
Dad and Scouting, I learned the basics tenets of decency, empathy and
compassion towards others that still resonate with me today, as embodied by the
Twelve Scout Laws:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">“A Scout is
Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful,
Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">To this very day,
I live my life striving to achieve the benchmarks of positive humanity as outlined in
those twelve laws. They have never steered me wrong.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">The question I have is this: where did YOU go wrong?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Much has been
spoken and written about what motivates you to display the kind of negative, divisive and demeaning behavior you
do as an adult and the leader of our Nation. There's many opinions about the parenting you
received and the wealth and privilege you were born into, and how that all shaped your adult mindset.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Whether a janitor,
a warehouse worker, a business executive, a puppeteer, an astronaut, a waitress or a
politician, we all have a learned set of internal guidelines that help us get
through our adult days and (hopefully) will not result with winding up in the
hospital or in jail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Those learned
internal guidelines are cemented into our behaviors. Sometimes we must break
them apart and reassemble them in ways that will allow us to be successful
adults. Sometimes, even though we try our hardest, nothing can change those
behaviors, no matter how hard we try.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Not changing bad
personal behaviors doesn’t necessarily mean a person wouldn’t be a
successful adult, but it does mean that person will never truly be all they can be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">It’s part of
being a complicated humanoid in the 21<sup>st</sup> Century. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">The thing that
most puzzles me about you, apart from our diametrically opposed politics, is
how you seem to embody the worst traits of human behavior which any normal
functioning adult would have long since shed, especially for someone of your
age and education and status. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">My guess is that
you behave the way you do because you’ve never experienced a normal life… a
normal existence… the kind of life that the vast majority of Americans deal
with on a daily basis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">You were born
into wealth and privilege. I'd reckon you never once spent a day (or perhaps even a
minute) having to think about food or shelter or clothing, worrying about paying for
tuition or childcare or health insurance. You were given every advantage money
could buy, sent to the finest schools, were fronted a million dollars
by your Father to start your first business and bailed out by him several times when your business acumen failed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">That entitled upbringing gifted you with the ability to avoid dealing with life’s
harsh realities. It also allowed you to develop a sense of superiority over all others, which
is how things often work for the wealthiest among us. That superiority
breeds hubris and antipathy towards those whom you feel are ‘lessers’ and the
resulting lack of human compassion and empathy they deserve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">There’s a modern
word for the malady that I firmly believe you suffer from: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Affluenza"><b><i>Affluenza</i></b>.</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Wikipedia notes
that Affluenza can be defined as ‘a quasi-illness… an inability to understand
the consequences of one’s actions because of financial privilege.’ I would
suggest this condition has been a part of your life from the very beginning and
has ingrained itself so deeply and completely in your soul that you're
literally blind to the effects it has on you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">I don’t blame you
for the parenting you received… no one can, for themselves or for others. It
would seem that you are who you were raised to be, but therein lies the
problem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">As we become
adults, slogging our way through the emotional turmoil of maturity and
responsibility, we have two paths forward: continue on with the emotional tool
kit we collected through childhood and adolescence, or re-tool and revise our
tool kit to deal with the realities of adulthood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Clearly, you
chose the former and it worked well-enough because of your special stature as a
wealthy while male… someone who received every break and entitlement and
privilege available.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">What you didn’t
learn, as indicated by your behavior as an adult, are the critically important foundational traits of decency, empathy and compassion towards others. In your words and actions, you seem to lack even the basic
knowledge of what it means to be anything other than what you are: a self-centered and narcissistic Master of the Universe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">A person with no
concept of what it means to struggle to survive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">A person who has most
likely never cleaned a bathroom, mowed a lawn, shopped for groceries or rode a bus to work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">A person who
looks down on others who don’t share your social standing, your heritage, your
financial success or your idea of what Americans are supposed to be.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">A person who freely insults, denigrates and diminishes anyone who you feel doesn't live up to your self-defined levels of success and patriotism.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">It would be very easy to dismiss your divisive and destructive behavior if you were just another fabulously wealthy and powerful media personality, but you're not. </span><span style="font-family: "century gothic";">You're the President of The United States, and although you seem not to realize it, the rest of the World looks to you as an example of American ideals, morals and leadership.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">And therein lies my problem with you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Your actions... your words... your behavior... your demeanor... are all hallmarks of a spoiled child. It seems your maturity level has never risen above that of a 7-year-old who refuses to eat his vegetables, clean his room or play nicely with others.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">I know this much: if I displayed any of your behaviors when I was growing up, you can bet that I'd catch a belt whipping from my Dad that would leave welts which faded only after several days. I also know that if I acted in the same childish and immature manner as an adult like you do, I'd have been fired from most of the jobs I've held and certainly wouldn't still be married to the same amazing woman for 34 years.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">So once again, I ask the question: where did you go wrong?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Have you ever even once in your entire life questioned your personal behavior as it relates to others? Has it ever occurred to you that normal adults don't actively insult and demean others without consequences? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Most importantly, does it ever bother you to know that your son Barron is watching every single negative and insulting thing you say and do and is learning from your example?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">No... I didn't think so.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Your supporters always dismiss and rationalize your aberrant behavior by saying, </span><i style="font-family: 'century gothic';">'Well... his remarks and behavior aren't helpful but I hope he'll turn down the rhetoric and start to act more Presidential.'</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">That's a lie. They know you're incapable of changing your behavior and are just making excuses for you. No one should have any allusions about you magically changing stripes at this time in your life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">But you're a grown man with a teenage son, so if you have even a shred of decency or compassion, please... think about what your behavior is teaching your son. Think about how you could be creating someone with the same stilted, inhumane and indecent feelings towards others that you seem to be so proud of.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">It's obvious what happened to your older children, who seem to be the same kind of awful human beings as you are. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">But Barron is still young enough to work with and save.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Think about Barron, if you can.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">We as a Nation can vote you out of office, and I hope with every fiber in my being that you'll be swept out of power in November. But Barron... he's stuck with you for the duration, so for his sake you owe him at least the chance to grow up with a Father he can look up to... can be proud of... can aspire to emulate. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Someone who respects others, who can offer understanding and empathy and compassion without regard for their differences. Someone with a sense of decency and humanity, irrespective of their station in life or their heritage or their philosophy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Don't let Barron suffer the same fate as an adult that you and your other children have... only you can do that for him. Otherwise, he'll become exactly what you've raised him to be... a</span><span style="font-family: "century gothic";">n adult just like you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">Can you do it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">No... I didn't think so.</span><br />
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<br /></div>
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<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/dQOaUnSmJr8" width="560"></iframe>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; CSNY 'Teach Your Children' video, Muchismas Gracis de YouTube; Vote Blue in November.</i></span>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-5511977973632736372020-05-06T10:47:00.001-07:002020-05-06T14:14:20.735-07:00Leave The Driving To Us<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXy50kfm3QzcClc_9nHcuoLyCG7gfcPetfePym5WEZM-QKHbG60PJcEDnjeIVFP4i01sUIQwJjvPzIpMhG6LBGNyNPiH1xjkWG9i5qw5kD7SpL5jJ4L0bhYn2hWpQ0NA8-0ZJTTinv8zU/s1600/Bus+Road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="591" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXy50kfm3QzcClc_9nHcuoLyCG7gfcPetfePym5WEZM-QKHbG60PJcEDnjeIVFP4i01sUIQwJjvPzIpMhG6LBGNyNPiH1xjkWG9i5qw5kD7SpL5jJ4L0bhYn2hWpQ0NA8-0ZJTTinv8zU/s400/Bus+Road.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This ridiculous story is 100% true.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In early 1976, I had decided to move to the town of Paradise, California and leave SoCal behind for good. I'd help Dad run his recently-opened Mexican restaurant in that sleepy mountain burg nestled in an oak forest within view of the Sierras. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At least that was the plan. I wound up leaving Paradise and returning to SoCal less than 18 months later, but that's not the subject of this story.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Before moving North, my good friend Patti had set a date for her upcoming marriage and demanded that I come back to participate in the festivities. Of course I said yes. Since it would involve a 3-day quick trip turnaround, Dad gave me that Friday and Saturday off and I decided to take a Greyhound bus rather than put more miles on my sweet '72 Capri. That way I could be as high or hungover as possible on Sunday and not have to worry about keeping it on the asphalt for the trip back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I left my car at the Greyhound terminal in Chico (about 12 miles from Paradise) early Friday morning and started my journey with only three scheduled stops during the 8-hour trip on Interstate 5: once in Sacramento for a transfer, once in beautiful Kettleman City for a rest stop and the final destination in Downtown Los Angeles.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For the uninitiated, back in the 70's Kettleman City was only rest stop on I-5 between Bakersfield and Sacramento, a stretch of over 275 miles. Kettlemen City smelled of pesticides and manure. Otherwise, the I-5 corridor was a desolate sea of agriculture.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'd planned to stay with Mom during the weekend, so she picked me up in LA and after I dropped her off at home, I used her new Camaro as my sled for the festivities.</span><br />
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Just like Mom's Camaro!</div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The wedding was great, we partied like monsters and I was indeed very ragged on Sunday morning when Mom dropped me back at the LA Greyhound bus station. I staggered into the terminal, confirmed my ticket and crawled onto the bus. I was barely conscious as we pulled out onto the freeway around 9AM when the driver made an announcement that woke me right the fuck up:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen... thanks for choosing Greyhound. We hope you'll enjoy this express shuttle that will make scheduled stops all along Interstate 99, with our planned arrival in Sacramento at approximately 9PM tonite. Welcome Aboard!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Holy Crap!!! How did I wind up on a shuttle that would take 4 hours longer for the return trip?!?! I scrambled for my ticket and sure enough, it said 'Express Shuttle'... I'd picked the wrong bus for the ride home and would be lucky to get home to Paradise before midnight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The trip to Sacramento was unending. No booze, no weed, with stops in literally every city along I-99. I had pretty much calmed down somewhere near Glendale, resigned to the long ride and just slept off my hangover for most of the trip, waking up each time the bus pulled into a dusty terminal near the freeway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We arrived in Sacramento ahead of schedule (!!) just before 8:30PM and as I was exiting the bus to hit the restroom and get some snacks, I asked the driver if the same bus was headed up to Chico, he said yes and for me to leave my bag on board.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">BIG MISTAKE.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I returned to the bus (with a new driver aboard) and settled in for the 2-hour run to Chico, my car and home. The bus made its way onto the freeway around 9PM, heading North on the I-5 when the driver made the following earth-shattering announcement just outside Sacramento:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen... thanks for choosing Greyhound. We hope you'll enjoy this non-stop express bus, with our planned arrival in Redding at approximately 1AM. Welcome Aboard!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I jumped up out of my seat and ran up to the driver.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me (trying desperately to remain calm): "Wait a minute... did you say our next stop is in REDDING?!?!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "Yes Sir, we'll be there right on schedule."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me: "But that's impossible! The last driver told me this bus would continue on to Chico!!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "It was, sir... but there was a schedule change due to a mechanical issue and the Chico route is being handled by another carriage."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me: "WHAT?!? But but but the other driver told me..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "Sorry sir... perhaps you should have double-checked the updated schedule at the Sacramento depot. This bus rolls on to Redding and then back to Sacramento, non-stop both ways."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was frantic, standing there at the front of the bus, knowing the driver was probably getting pissed, knowing most of the other passengers were watching to see if I was insane or drunk or violent and needed to be restrained for my own good.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I looked out the front windshield and saw that we were fast approaching the exit from the I-5 to the I-99/I-70 road that would lead to Chico and home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me: "Please stop the bus and drop me off at the upcoming I-99 exit."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "SIR... I'm not able to do that, it isn't safe!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me: "PLEASE, I really need to get off this bus because it's headed in the wrong direction from my home!!! I can't go all the way to Redding because there's no way I'll make it to work in the morning!!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "Sorry Sir, that's just not..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me: "PLEASE!!!!!!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few moments later, the bus stopped to drop me off on the side of the freeway, then slowly drove away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And there I was, standing alone with my bag beside the desolate freeway interchange at 9:30PM on a Sunday night, 10 miles North of Sacramento and almost 80 miles away from my car in Chico. I stood there for a few minutes, wondering what the hell I'd just done, really pissed at myself for this revolting development.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After about 5 minutes of mental self-flogging, I picked up my bag and started walking down the I-99 exit. Once I got off the exit incline and onto level ground, I did the only thing I could do: I stuck out my thumb in the hopes of hitching a ride.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I stood there for about 30 minutes while cars whizzed by until one slowed down to pull over and pick me up. I ran down the road to jump in... it was a Black Pontiac Trans-Am with the t-tops out and the giant 'Screaming Chicken' decal on the hood. I looked inside at the driver, a dude with a buzz-cut, sleeveless t-shirt and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me: "Hey man... thanks for the lift! How far you going?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: (obviously totally drunk, with a can of beer in his hand): "Oh hey, maaaan... howyadooin'? Ahm going back to Beale Air Force Base outshide-a Marysville, that cool with you?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me (alarmed but desperate): "That sounds great, but... are you OK to drive?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "SHUR I YAM! Hop in and let's boogie!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I tossed my bag into the back seat, climbed in and buckled the seat belt. He stomped the accelerator and peeled outta there, fishtailing and throwing up a rooster tail of gravel and dust.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPHdyZJ2j065AQOfsrphFXzK0qfr_8QOcPBnph0KfXbBNPdF5C3-jckJEsDLm_7JdgNOjzHVYkwDnAlTER0t9XiDnIlQktWgD7hzGk72K_TTBblav_JLG29ZoWPio5lisTiEijLpmbzo4N/s1600/Bus+TransAm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="611" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPHdyZJ2j065AQOfsrphFXzK0qfr_8QOcPBnph0KfXbBNPdF5C3-jckJEsDLm_7JdgNOjzHVYkwDnAlTER0t9XiDnIlQktWgD7hzGk72K_TTBblav_JLG29ZoWPio5lisTiEijLpmbzo4N/s400/Bus+TransAm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Just like the drunk Air Force guy's Trans-Am!</div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was petrified. Here's this drunk Air Force guy, driving along a desolate four-lane country highway at 85 miles an hour, barely keeping the car in the lane, talking to me with slurred speech while the radio was blasting so loud the music was distorted, pounding down a beer and laughing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "HAW HAW HAW... Good thing I picked yew up, I almosht din't see you there standing by the side of the road, what th' hell are you doin' thumbing in the middle of nowhere, anywaysh?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I started trying to explain my sitch, but decided not to distract him from the task of trying not to drive into the deep irrigation ditches that bordered both sides of the roadway. He just kept on drunkenly talking to himself, drifting from the one side of his lane to the other, barely conscious and alert.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">By some miracle, we made it all the way into Marysville and I asked him to drop me off at the corner of 9th and B... B Street turned into I-70 once it left town and would eventually get me to Chico. I jumped out and he once again peeled out, covering me in dust and tire smoke.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was now about 11PM and I was almost halfway to Chico. I decided to grab something to drink at the small restaurant/bar located on the corner, so I stashed my bag behind some bushes and went inside.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was smoky and noisy inside but not too crowded, so I sat at the counter next to a couple of half-drunk girls and started talking to them. They laughed at my predicament and said they'd be glad give me a ride to Chico where they lived. What luck!!!! I bought them both a beer and we talked for awhile before they decided to go to the restroom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I sat at the bar for about 15 minutes waiting but they never came back. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They ditched me. I'd been had.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now it was past Midnight and I was still only halfway home. I walked outside, grabbed my bag and walked up B Street about a quarter mile, stopped in front of an all-night gas station and stuck out my thumb again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After about 15 minutes, a ratty green Dodge truck pulled over to the curb in front of me. I opened the door and looked inside to see the driver was a grizzled older Black guy wearing a stained cowboy hat with a cigar in his mouth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "Howdy, Son... need a lift?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me: " Uhhhh... sure... thanks for stopping! How far you going?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "Well, I live in Gridley... where you goin'?" (Gridley is about halfway between Marysville and Chico).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me: "I'm trying to get to Chico, but I'd really appreciate the lift to Gridely."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I got into the truck. He sat there smoking for a moment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "You know, I jus' flew into Sacramento from Europe this evening and ahm pretty tired raht now. If you don' mind driving so's I can take a nap, you kin drive all the way to Chico and ah'll jus' turn 'round and head back to Gridley. How does that sound?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me: "WOW... that would be amazing!!! I'd be happy to drive, and THANK YOU!!!"</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCjasrQ3Br1u63c15q9y6hVrP8Kqf0rMCkZ6mLjAVo0BZwH929AaOsDtr4DicMHNpaRQOC_zfQrmMA38wrmJvNZ7uAbQU0UEHH1SNbuQso6o0-wcbWsq1x-PpgCvg_fPVaY6ojvlnse8Sb/s1600/Bus+Dodge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCjasrQ3Br1u63c15q9y6hVrP8Kqf0rMCkZ6mLjAVo0BZwH929AaOsDtr4DicMHNpaRQOC_zfQrmMA38wrmJvNZ7uAbQU0UEHH1SNbuQso6o0-wcbWsq1x-PpgCvg_fPVaY6ojvlnse8Sb/s400/Bus+Dodge.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Just like the old guy's truck!</div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few minutes later I was driving the truck out of Marysville with the old guy smoking away in the passenger seat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "Yep, been a long week. I play harmonica and been in Germany doin' a few shows, just got back into Cali tonite."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me (suspiciously): "Germany, eh? Did you do any recording there?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "Sure did! Here... pull over and look'a diss."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Once I'd stopped the truck, he pulled out several newspaper articles and copies of playbills from under the seat featuring him, <b><i><span style="color: cyan;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andy_Rodgers_(musician)" target="_blank"><span style="color: cyan;">Andy Rodgers</span></a> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andy_Rodgers_(musician)" target="_blank"><span style="color: cyan;">(click the link)</span></a></span></i></b> a world-renowned harmonica player who was famously known as the 'Midnight Cowboy' and had done session work with musical legends for decades. He gave me a couple of the copies to keep.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivYy_dIenR532Zeha-IpZ5raVuug3wWrPnN2nkpUJ7y4XTFX3nVxLJQKc21Kh-OOK2qf3UzYybVyt7wLpv19azZrTSXXp8wBMXaTQakyY_scC7hpJv-sNQD74lBTCCMFS0tp1WHv434Q_E/s1600/Bus+Andy2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="319" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivYy_dIenR532Zeha-IpZ5raVuug3wWrPnN2nkpUJ7y4XTFX3nVxLJQKc21Kh-OOK2qf3UzYybVyt7wLpv19azZrTSXXp8wBMXaTQakyY_scC7hpJv-sNQD74lBTCCMFS0tp1WHv434Q_E/s400/Bus+Andy2.jpg" width="398" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was floored, amazed and humbled that this famous human being was willing and able to be so nice to me, a total stranger, in my hour of need.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After a few minutes on the road, Andy fell asleep while I drove through the dark Northern California countryside on a winding two-lane road, bordered by trees and farms and small isolated communities. I kept my speed at about 45mph so as not to take a curve too fast and wake him up. He was leaned up against the passenger door, hat covering up his eyes, snoring loudly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">About 90 minutes later, I slowly pulled into the Chico Greyhound terminal and parked next to my Capri. It was well past 2AM. I woke up Andy and in just a minute or so, he was in the driver seat and I was shaking his hand like crazy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Me: "THANK YOU, ANDY!!! You have no idea how grateful I am that you helped in in such a big way. I'm so glad to meet you and will never forget you!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Him: "You welcome, Bob... ahv had many people help me in mah life, so I jus' wanna' return the favor as often as I can. Maybe I can get mah wife to come up to yo Dad's place in Paradise sometime! It ain't that far from Gridley!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">With that, Andy slowly drove away, waving his arm out the window at me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I stood there in the empty terminal parking lot, leaning on my car, taking a few hits off a joint, thinking about the 16-hour journey I'd just been on. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The bus ride to Sacramento was endless, thanks to my own stupidity. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was really lucky to get a ride outside of Sacramento and not to have died in a fiery alcohol-fueled crash on the way to Marysville.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And I was especially lucky that Andy Rodgers, world-famous harmonica player, took the time to stop and help a brother out. I got into my Capri and drove the 12 miles home up on the ridge in Paradise.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I wasn't worth a shit at work the next day, and Dad made sure I knew it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I wish I still had those playbill copies that Andy had given me, but they went MIA in the many years since like so many things do in our lives. He never made it to the restaurant, and by the end of 1977 I had moved back to SoCal where I'd soon meet my future ex-wife.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Hitchhiking is now a thing of the past, relegated to behaviors that we just couldn't or wouldn't do in our modern world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But I did a lot of it in the 70's, when the world seemed so much bigger and other people seemed far less mean and dangerous.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">R.I.P. Andy Rodgers (1922 - 2004).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>"The great thing in the world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving." -- Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>All images, Gracias de Google Open Images; CCR 'Sweet Hitchhiker' video, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube; All vehicle images are indicative of vehicles referenced in this essay and are NOT the actual vehicles involved, M'Kay?</i></span>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-35029658898542987172020-04-14T13:12:00.000-07:002020-04-15T09:06:22.209-07:00Orange Apron Confidential #2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdXPsNZc_gan3PbS1suDnb9bHV_4hQd-xNA_Dnlo65tceKB0dDRwYZSj4rZjPsZ2SLU4jOWkYMU0m7q3tbhxC1EKp6bCmH9hokkEnGwSmU4BocxJm39RhkZuaOnCbxOYaYQThAnFeNxyT/s1600/HD+Gloves4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="429" data-original-width="600" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdXPsNZc_gan3PbS1suDnb9bHV_4hQd-xNA_Dnlo65tceKB0dDRwYZSj4rZjPsZ2SLU4jOWkYMU0m7q3tbhxC1EKp6bCmH9hokkEnGwSmU4BocxJm39RhkZuaOnCbxOYaYQThAnFeNxyT/s400/HD+Gloves4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Pandemic Polka</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">These are interesting times to be a Lot Geek at Home Depot, with The Galloping Crud lurking everywhere and the social tension thick enough to cut with a Milwaukee SawZall. The good news is that most people are in an upbeat 'be nicer to each other' mood, similar to the social atmosphere during the holidays. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I always wished we could have that same holiday feeling year-round, but the circumstances for that phenomenon now suck pretty badly. Still... I'll take it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">With that in mind, I'd like to offer my humble suggestions for anyone who finds themselves needing to shop for essentials during this time of Crud Avoidance:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>1. Please... dispose of your used sanitary wipes, face masks and latex gloves properly.</i> Do not (I repeat) DO NOT discard these items inside the shopping baskets or (worse) simply drop them onto the parking lot. Don't be a fucking pig, OK?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Discarded latex gloves have become a hallmark of these pandemic times, and it also shows an incredible lack of consideration for others (like ME) who have to go around picking up your cootie-laden crap. Leaving your shopping basket in the middle of a handicapped parking space is bad enough; dropping your (possibly) virulent trash on the ground is not only littering, it's UNSAFE AND POTENTIALLY DANGEROUS.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">BTW, a discarded clear latex glove looks exactly like a huge used condom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Ew.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If you can't find a trash can close by, just dump those items in your trunk and dispose of them when you get home. Show some empathy for others and we'll all be better off.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>2.</i> <i>Don't be a line asshole.</i> We all know it sucks to have to wait in lines to shop for essentials like bondage gear, razor blades or wolverine chow. The lines also seem longer because of the six-foot social distancing mandates. Keeping a cool head while in the cue is really important, because people are generally a bit nervous right now anyway. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If you get antsy and impatient and start complaining or yelling at the store personnel who meter customers through the front door, you have marked yourself as a CoronaAsshole and will have rightly earned the derision of others in line.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When one my my co-workers prevented a guy from cutting the line and going directly in the store, the guy lost his shpadoinkle and screamed "YOU BITCH!!" at her. She calmly told him to go to the end of the line or get the hell out of the parking lot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was a long slow walk to the end of that line heh heh heh.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>3. Pay attention to the 6-foot spacing</i>. Everyone should assume they're infected since there's no NO MASS TESTING yet (sigh... facepalm). That way you'll be more aware of making sure to steer clear of others in every situation while you search for that new bondage gear.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>4. Wear a face covering, dammit!!!! </i>No one looks cool in a face mask, and those of us who choose to wear a bandanna look like insane cowboy bank robbers (The Artist says I should wear a cowboy hat too... she's funny!). Stop worrying about how you look and cover your face in a sign of cooperation and and consideration for others. Remember: assume you're infected and it will be more meaningful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>5. Be nice to your cashiers.</i> You have no idea how much hassle and grief the cashiers and checkers go through to help you buy a 25-pound bag of wolverine chow. Also too, since you're likely infected (right?) it's also potentially dangerous for them to help you and that's a hard bargain for the $12.50 an hour cashiers get to face off with your uncovered mug. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There are more pandemic behaviors you could adopt, but you get the picture. If you assume you're already virulent, all these suggestions will be easier to keep top-of-mind. Of course, <i><b>YOU </b></i>aren't virulent (are you?) but none of us know who the carriers are because NO MASS TESTING (sigh... facepalm).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Orange Auto Show</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Here's some images of the cool cars I've seen lately in the HD parking lot. No rhyme nor reason nor particular order... I just like 'em. Pardon the poor image quality of my ancient dumb phone.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghdsEKbIwCBHZjneRjSdNLuzA4N3T5tKhzbnxm567g0DxTj9bgUIbeeK5IQAChhzP_f1R7Ls3pEL1Vx2DcbWlOCUAbM5PZOrQp3HjCBKtpaNf1YFhTcKUJL9ZBN2IBXy19joToP3wp-hKD/s1600/HD+66+Bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghdsEKbIwCBHZjneRjSdNLuzA4N3T5tKhzbnxm567g0DxTj9bgUIbeeK5IQAChhzP_f1R7Ls3pEL1Vx2DcbWlOCUAbM5PZOrQp3HjCBKtpaNf1YFhTcKUJL9ZBN2IBXy19joToP3wp-hKD/s400/HD+66+Bird.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>1966 Ford Thunderbird Convertible</i> -- not concourse perfect but a beautiful wire-wheeled ride nonetheless. The Geezer driver had owned it for decades and was wearing wraparound shades.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJII1n6xDYCPh8RGu5lMxLYSuwVcWmC095XCO-QRqtpEzJWjNufEv-O1-Se-reR0s_hVtFOi0pv8qyxQfhSLRNZJgMXZiDYu7ECJbnG27gQn2MJL0wm2mB0QH5DXoBZnk6Rn-rN7r4ssu/s1600/HD+68+Olds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJII1n6xDYCPh8RGu5lMxLYSuwVcWmC095XCO-QRqtpEzJWjNufEv-O1-Se-reR0s_hVtFOi0pv8qyxQfhSLRNZJgMXZiDYu7ECJbnG27gQn2MJL0wm2mB0QH5DXoBZnk6Rn-rN7r4ssu/s400/HD+68+Olds.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>1968 Oldsmobile Cutlass 442 Convertible</i> -- almost perfect condition, really stunning car.The Dude-bro owner had it for 3 years and just finished his restoration. The engine loped like a monster and he romped on it when he left the lot. Guys... amirite?</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTs6jz2raQiHVi9gXOTpGh6w68VTbI88E0AqL2JF4_8O-pPOKgWYweSmDapoiVogX4rZ2EALygkD9xaqYpBEEE6qxA7ScIZ4JMUNhMpEwaAxHWP1JLD8lB4Cux1Ou1ZzZzCQW7zqWi3zVq/s1600/HD+74+Caddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTs6jz2raQiHVi9gXOTpGh6w68VTbI88E0AqL2JF4_8O-pPOKgWYweSmDapoiVogX4rZ2EALygkD9xaqYpBEEE6qxA7ScIZ4JMUNhMpEwaAxHWP1JLD8lB4Cux1Ou1ZzZzCQW7zqWi3zVq/s400/HD+74+Caddy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>1974 Cadillac Coupe de Ville</i> -- the millenial Latino couple were taking pictures of their short when I showed up with my dumb phone, just a sweet sled that suited them perfectly. The whitewalls were awesome.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwa5u4T4Y9pHCKze8c0y1xC183qtNrAkMbFP4yD4jEvfWJ6zaY6kYJRoiRntxcmI0fmNShf_mg-c-dwRzeDQ-K_LW-tC3M8q6DF7shsr77hOijNqzo9EqVcKHDG_ni7gt7pwdCQFEXLgSB/s1600/HD+74+El+Camino.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwa5u4T4Y9pHCKze8c0y1xC183qtNrAkMbFP4yD4jEvfWJ6zaY6kYJRoiRntxcmI0fmNShf_mg-c-dwRzeDQ-K_LW-tC3M8q6DF7shsr77hOijNqzo9EqVcKHDG_ni7gt7pwdCQFEXLgSB/s400/HD+74+El+Camino.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>1974 Chevrolet El Camino</i> -- two-tone yellow and white, Cragars, lifted in the rear. A high school wet dream ride.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LmZ0BWnlmRYjDcUKh-1ZzSFijUxaXXMr2sqVVJfxyPg4_Se26EowSLrz_pf2oKGFF4ZnDYoBwVkLToUheqRZ9DVsJKCcdey69wXn05jpK_q4ThN-N2i6Ko4ozUOdZbDoA1VFva2jJSA8/s1600/HD+74+Porsche.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LmZ0BWnlmRYjDcUKh-1ZzSFijUxaXXMr2sqVVJfxyPg4_Se26EowSLrz_pf2oKGFF4ZnDYoBwVkLToUheqRZ9DVsJKCcdey69wXn05jpK_q4ThN-N2i6Ko4ozUOdZbDoA1VFva2jJSA8/s400/HD+74+Porsche.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>1974 Porsche 912 Targa</i> -- gorgeous little car that totally overshadowed the new Black Porsche 996 parked just a few spaces away. Steve McQueen drove a similar car in the film 'Le Mans'.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1TR1ezImQFTVDWT36Wfj59-2J5y5IOoPd3KpBDifH2MLue9tgKEsMJ21h4oyw_qUJH74H_2aPPSSsiqAdyFR3VvqN0u26el4pH_8JVxRvw19g_GMg8W_ch6wfxiKyL0S8hAM1eFIt-2x/s1600/HD+80+Ram.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1TR1ezImQFTVDWT36Wfj59-2J5y5IOoPd3KpBDifH2MLue9tgKEsMJ21h4oyw_qUJH74H_2aPPSSsiqAdyFR3VvqN0u26el4pH_8JVxRvw19g_GMg8W_ch6wfxiKyL0S8hAM1eFIt-2x/s400/HD+80+Ram.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>1980 Dodge Ram</i> -- this goat roper was literally flawless, the owner's Dad had bought it new and the Son had restored it to better than new. Even the custom bed cover and spare carrier were OEM factory options.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-bW6yXFe3m5ygq0fVtvKSSqQ0nliUZbUn1x_eQO-dFdsFPEAF4oKoyXhkUjLB6RmaTzNjrOMYGzhe75kjg7A-P-7CM5kBV9wYUPWkcq4HuUaciT610nCY00bf6jlIo77q87csjbbI0278/s1600/HD+GTO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-bW6yXFe3m5ygq0fVtvKSSqQ0nliUZbUn1x_eQO-dFdsFPEAF4oKoyXhkUjLB6RmaTzNjrOMYGzhe75kjg7A-P-7CM5kBV9wYUPWkcq4HuUaciT610nCY00bf6jlIo77q87csjbbI0278/s400/HD+GTO.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>1967 Pontiac GTO</i> -- another classic that was obviously a daily driver, not perfect but very beautiful. The body color and vintage American mags were exactly the right combination.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RCncXrDfcXPccsvqi5PWrASe2JZNfiEqCp-wk6FIHjYgN4DTzASmXkBbj-copeKDoihkT_BQOjBJuucZd7ntf7sjCOlPkLWd4E_36TxuXbIeoDo4RuVj2LMUTUt_OsnJeo04mPfbGCI4/s1600/HD+Zombie+Van.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RCncXrDfcXPccsvqi5PWrASe2JZNfiEqCp-wk6FIHjYgN4DTzASmXkBbj-copeKDoihkT_BQOjBJuucZd7ntf7sjCOlPkLWd4E_36TxuXbIeoDo4RuVj2LMUTUt_OsnJeo04mPfbGCI4/s400/HD+Zombie+Van.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>2002 Ford E-250 Zombie Apocalypse Van</i> -- this image doesn't do it justice... festooned with lights, rocket launchers and assorted weaponry. The owner also has a Mercedes 4-door Sedan that's decked out in the same fashion and says his car customization the only hobby his wife will let him enjoy. Totally nuts and awesome, it was surrounded by admirers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Zen Lumber</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now that HD is closing every night at 6pm (my usual arrival time), my job functions have shifted dramatically. I still wind up clearing the lot of carts and baskets, but it seems that now I've become the person mostly responsible for power-washing all the carts and baskets every evening so they'll be freshly disinfected for the next day. I don't mind at all, and it totally beats fronting product shelves.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Once I've finished the de-crudding, more often than not I'm asked to 'flat-stack' the lumber area, which involves straightening out the piles of wood that shoppers annihilate every day. The purpose of flat-stacking is two-fold: reset the wood so it's easier to search through and improve the appearance of the lumber area.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Heh heh heh... I said 'wood'.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's a task not many people are willing to do, but I enjoy it. There's something very satisfying about starting at one end of the lumber aisle and flat-stacking everything within sight so that when finished, the lumber and wood stacks are clean and neat, a visual confirmation of actual physical work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Don't kid yourself... it really is work, and I get sweaty real fast from the effort. Also too, if I don't concentrate the result is a massively bonked head or a dropped 8 x 8 on my hand or foot, so I gotta pay attention.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The other factor is that the task is strangely calming, prolly because I can let my brain shift into Neutral while I'm moving wood around. I find myself reaching an almost zen state of mind with the repetition, moving from one stack to the next, working steadily all by myself. It's amazing how much wood I can move in an hour, and seeing the results that are at once wholly transient yet strangely gratifying is a weird sensation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Plus, I really like the aroma of freshly-stacked lumber. Who knew?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Coda</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Once again, I'm struck with the realization that my part-time HD gig offers more than just some extra shekels during our Global Pandemic Polka. It's a great way to feel relevant in uncertain times and stay connected (yet socially distanced) from other people who are also just trying to find their way through this unnerving crisis.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The overwhelming good nature that most people display is heartening. That we have a collective desire to help make things better for each other gives me hope for our post-Crud future, even though we'll be covering our faces for much longer than anyone thinks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I've opined before that the human race resembles a virulent infection covering the surface of our Mother Earth, sucking up the life force while leaving devastation, destruction and death in its wake.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It doesn't have to be that way, and we know it. Our brush with Covid-19 should help us to see more clearly that we're all just Bozos on this collective bus, and we gotta be better stewards of our planet so we can keep tweaking each other's noses.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The question is: how far are we willing to go to make our future worth living on this spinning Blue Marble?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>"The Earth is just too small and fragile a basket for the human race to keep all its eggs in." -- Robert A. Heinlein</i></span><br />
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<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/F8bAIXm5VbI" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Lead image, Gracias de Google images; car images, courtesia de Oblio: 'Big Yellow Taxi' y 'Polka Never Dies' videos, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube. WASH YOUR HANDS!!!!</i></span>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-87295278546586627472020-03-27T12:41:00.000-07:002020-04-01T07:47:57.563-07:00The Elephant Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidb6AzJVerFd62w800_xVUimroATo95H8kO4oroeX-FXXD_F4ifzYGmRDF1tfeyVpRUNvXBLi0WU6BO7ANp2BKB7GBZYmHQvLOz9ksjGO2O9GsToqPTADUxgKVOe2s-Yoi-QvhS_Tz4ryo/s1600/Popcorn5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="852" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidb6AzJVerFd62w800_xVUimroATo95H8kO4oroeX-FXXD_F4ifzYGmRDF1tfeyVpRUNvXBLi0WU6BO7ANp2BKB7GBZYmHQvLOz9ksjGO2O9GsToqPTADUxgKVOe2s-Yoi-QvhS_Tz4ryo/s400/Popcorn5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>"OMIGOD!!!! BOB!!!! LOOK AT THIS!!!!"</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We'd been watching a movie on the teevee, probably something from the <i>film noir</i> genre that has recently captivated us, and she'd been munching on a fresh bowl of popcorn. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">An outburst of this sort from The Artist is a sign that her creative radar has just scanned a target.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Quick", she said... "tell me what this looks like to you."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I joined her on the couch and stared down at the piece of popcorn in her hand. It had an unusual shape but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. She saw the questioning look on my face and said </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"It's the head of an elephant, you dummy. Can't you see it?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Once she said that, it was clear what she'd seen in that popped kernel of corn that almost made in into her mouth. Yep... two obvious large flappy ears, a truncated trunk and elephant-ish head. An elephant!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"I'm gonna create an art project around it", she declared. "I can make a new shadow box or framed piece. It'll be cool!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm used to this by now. She can see art potential in almost anything, which sets her mind into overdrive to figure out exactly how the project will be developed. She's the only person I know who can walk down an aisle at The Home Depot and point out potential art projects made from miscellaneous hardware items... ON EVERY AISLE.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The Quest Begins.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Art is a very subjective thing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Throughout human history, great art is considered crap by some and crappy art is lauded by others. Every true artist understands this brutal fact and lives with the constant realization that no matter how much creative effort they invest in their medium of choice, it will likely as not be met with criticism and derision.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Vincent Van Gogh didn't sell a single painting until the final year of his life. Claude Monet's early attempts at the new style of art known as '<i>Impressionism' </i>were laughed at and derided as crap when shown at a Paris salon in 1874. It took another two decades before his brilliant talent was finally... <i>finally</i>... recognized.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Claude. Monet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">All artists carry the burden of rejection with them like a gunny sack tossed over their shoulder, filled with negative comments and misinterpretations of their work. Doesn't matter if the medium is paint, granite, ink on paper, music, dance, glass, macaroni, recycled cardboard, plastic flatware or dryer lint. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The artist's vision knows no bounds except the limitations of their chosen medium. However, their creative output is often limited by society's insatiable need to equate art with a monetary value before it's valued at all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That's why the <i>vast majority</i> of artists never sell a damned thing, yet they continue to create what they see in their mind's eye. They're driven to do so... it's an almost uncontrollable desire.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's also why so many artists, after failing to recreate the perfection their mind's eye has seen, suffer from anxiety and depression and occasionally remove themselves from this mortal coil.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Creativity as a crucifix... self-nailing, too!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The amazing woman in my life, referred to here as The Artist, has lived with this burning creativity her entire life. She too carries a gunny sack filled with the veiled criticism and constant rejection of her work. For over three decades, I've witnessed the struggle to realize her passion and become a working artist who actually sells her art, and she's finally achieved that hard-sought goal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Although she creates commissioned art like a Boss, her personal output isn't for everyone (nor should any art be!) due mostly to the fact that she's semi-demented and has a wonderfully weird sense of humor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Like all artists, she sees things the rest of us 'normies' don't. That's why she RULES.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The next day, she had a vision.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"It's 'The Elephant Man'! I'll make a small shadow box using the popcorn as the head and paint the background to match."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My mind began to reel with the myriad possibilities. The misshapen popcorn head did indeed look like an elephant and the unfortunate real-life Joseph Merrick, but I was wary about how it might be perceived or if people would actually understand the reference.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"It'll have to be kind of a small piece", she said. "I'll make sure the head isn't overwhelmed by the size of the box or frame or the background painting."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That same morning, she established it would be a shadow box so a shopping trip was planned to the local craft stores to find what she was looking for. This was a regular occurrence: once the vision is revealed, the challenge is bringing it to reality with exactly the right materials. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She closely examined the popcorn elephant head. "This thing is pretty delicate. I'll bet it'll fall apart once it dries out, so I'll apply some kind of sealer or coating to make sure it stays in one piece."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I agreed that was probably a good idea and didn't give it a second thought. She's really good with paints and sealers and uses them with discretion. A few minutes later, I heard a terrible sound:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS HAPPENED!!!!!!"</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I raced through the house to her studio. She was standing there, head down, obviously dejected, and held up the popcorn elephant head for me to look at.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Only it wasn't a popcorn elephant head any more, just a small shriveled-up food bit. The chemical sealer she'd applied reacted to the popcorn and shrunk it down into an unrecognizable mass.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"My Elephant Man... GONE!" she wailed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"I'm sorry", I said... "I should have considered what the chemical sealer would do to that organic popcorn."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She sat down, her head still down, shoulders sagging. "Gawd, that head was perfect and I'll never ever find another one like it."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I offered to make some more popcorn, but her massive artist brain was already in overdrive. She was on fire.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"No, this is still a project I can do, just without the popcorn head, which was cool and unusual but the damage would have happened eventually anyways. I can make the head out of something else."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That something else turned out to be paper, a medium she's used for many singular art pieces that have been sold to discriminating clients who love her work and bent perspective. We did our craft store scavenger hunt and found a perfectly sized square wood tray with angled sides to make it a suitable shadow box.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">SCORE!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It happens at every art show where we set up the Misguided Designs display booth. We see four kinds of people:</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#1 -- People who casually walk by the booth, barely glancing our way without stopping to look at anything.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#2 -- People who walk by the booth, stop directly in front but don't step in under the canopy. They look inside, grimace with displeasure and continue on.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#3 -- People who walk into the booth, slowly scan the artwork on display and leave without saying a word.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#4 -- People who walk into the booth, start looking at the art on display and say <i>"Omigod... I love this work!"</i> or <i>"This is the best booth in the show, thanks for being here!" </i>or <i>"Hold on... I gotta get someone over here right away to see this!" </i>or <i>"Where in the world did you get the idea for that?"</i>. These people linger under the canopy looking at everything, talk with others about how much they enjoy the work, buy one or more pieces and/or talk to The Artist about a special order or commission. Handshakes and hugs, warm fuzzies, money in the till.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The Artist creates art for herself and for the #4 people... the ones who have an alternative sense of humor, who see things others don't, who appreciate a slightly bent perspective, who aren't afraid to laugh out loud over a piece that cracks them up.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The rest of them? They'll catch on eventually... or maybe never.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Not all art is for everyone, nor should it be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the end, 'The Elephant Man' came out really cool, yet another in a line of Misguided Designs mixed-media pieces made from wood, paint and paper. Sadly, no popcorn was used in the fabrication of this one-of-a-kind art piece.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYZ9PuseVbOp7oTsisKLLKXDDYQGv9o4xlbYOQDnVT4iXM8lAUSidDeTMOM7WraAwiYURbSClMJNd7hgk6N0vOOfCjQtL7t6GeB2jwMPiQhhjukttw69VMrz_QSZDSnIB4W1o9YXqpgpBe/s1600/Elephant+Man+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1279" data-original-width="1369" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYZ9PuseVbOp7oTsisKLLKXDDYQGv9o4xlbYOQDnVT4iXM8lAUSidDeTMOM7WraAwiYURbSClMJNd7hgk6N0vOOfCjQtL7t6GeB2jwMPiQhhjukttw69VMrz_QSZDSnIB4W1o9YXqpgpBe/s400/Elephant+Man+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRn4Xq5cBd53lQ9njdNIrY-5_FcphVOCwyWcVPNPopZ9qqvNx7744tLNzugxzzZ_rpz_KYEyOIc8f8KvrUlbPC9PnQLNYjujPnXafSBFXgn0FfreJMBgU271d8Rfv5ix3yV__ua1_oFVg/s1600/Elephant+Man+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1382" data-original-width="1469" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRn4Xq5cBd53lQ9njdNIrY-5_FcphVOCwyWcVPNPopZ9qqvNx7744tLNzugxzzZ_rpz_KYEyOIc8f8KvrUlbPC9PnQLNYjujPnXafSBFXgn0FfreJMBgU271d8Rfv5ix3yV__ua1_oFVg/s400/Elephant+Man+3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The greatest joy of my life is being married to The Artist. Though her creative quests, our lives are filled with amazing music and film and art and food, all the things that inspire and intoxicate us with an overwhelming love of life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Several years ago, we had the chance to take our teenage Niece to visit the L.A. County Museum of Art (LACMA), a very special occasion since <i>she'd never been inside a museum before.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In addition to exhibits revolving around the films of Stanley Kubrick and a display of mid-century modern furniture and sculpture, she had the chance to experience 'Levitated Mass', the massive 240-ton boulder exhibit that allows you to walk underneath it.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9ZcCUOUaZJYxLESSkJdKw21Ma6qdmtaOiG1hXZ0a9ivGQ1Qj8CJeDpNyNB_sN1RxKI6_m-2SfDIxU97p4N3nP-G6nvcQcBpc2wyioPvvK_mSdnJHbnleXvTT567h4kBt4sTuSsjoYoH2/s1600/Levitated+Mass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9ZcCUOUaZJYxLESSkJdKw21Ma6qdmtaOiG1hXZ0a9ivGQ1Qj8CJeDpNyNB_sN1RxKI6_m-2SfDIxU97p4N3nP-G6nvcQcBpc2wyioPvvK_mSdnJHbnleXvTT567h4kBt4sTuSsjoYoH2/s400/Levitated+Mass.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The best part of the day? It was watching her walk around LACMA with her jaw perpetually dropped after viewing one incredible exhibit after another. She was experiencing art at its finest for the first time, and it was our way of gifting her with the reality and purpose of art in every medium.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Meaningful art will always elicit an emotional response, whether positive or negative. Dealing with that response is another matter entirely.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Support artists of every type as much as you can. Attend art shows and boutiques and don't be afraid of looking at everything. Ask questions about what you see... artists love sharing their creative vision with others. You never really know what kind of art will smack you between the eyes and make your jaw drop and the money fly out of your hands.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Don't fear art... embrace it with the zest in which it was created. You won't always 'get it' but that's not really the point. Creative output gives us all a fleeting glimpse into the heart and soul of the person who dragged it out of their psyche and made it real.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As The Artist likes to say:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>"I don't dream <b>in </b>color... I dream <b>about </b>color."</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Click on this link to see more <a href="http://misguideddesigns.com/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: lime;">'Misguided Designs'</span></b></a>.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; 'Levitated Mass' image, Gracias de LACMA; Don McLean 'Vincent' video, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.</i></span>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-1429950002401277002020-03-18T12:55:00.000-07:002020-03-18T13:29:12.236-07:00"That Is Not My Dog."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I like dogs. Dogs are cool. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For some reason, dogs are generally drawn to me in a way which can surprise their owners.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Wow", they'll say... "Spartacus normally doesn't like ANYONE but he seemed to like you enough not to rip you to shreds when you tried to pet him!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Thanks, Spartacus.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I mention this up front because my next statement tends to piss off dog owners: I really really DO NOT like it when people bring their dogs into places where I'm shopping. This has become a real issue with me lately, and dog owners are aghast and offended when I say how much I wish they'd left Spartacus (or Muffy or Champ or Weensie) at home or in the car instead of dragging them into the store where I'm at.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I remember about fifteen years ago when this phenomenon first became visible here in Orange County (CA) at a notoriously high-end outdoor shopping mall in Newport Beach. First one store, then another and another, starting putting out bowls of water for animals being walked by their owners.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">OK, fine... that seems reasonable for the pet owners walking their expensive purebred hounds at an outdoor mall. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Over time, the water bowls were placed inside the store entrances as a way to get the owners inside the store. Then all of a sudden, people were bringing their dogs with them while they shopped.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was horrified at this turn of events.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When did it become OK for people to bring dogs into stores? Once again, I understand a retail shop trying to get customers with dogs into the store, but what about the rest of us?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm standing in the 'Just Socks' aisle looking for some wool lederhosen and in you walk with your Doberman (or Chihuahua or Dachshund) on a leash, oblivious to the fact that I may not like dogs or may be allergic to dogs or, even worse, that you dog may not like me or my smell.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I don't know you or your dog, and your dog certainly doesn't know me. What makes you think your dog won't walk by me, dislike something about my clothing or scent or proximity, freak out and bite me?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You don't know and you won't be able to stop them. And that's the problem.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Oh sure... Muffy would NEEEEVER bite someone! She's a good dog!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But Muffy is a dog, and sometimes dogs simply don't like someone and if that person is close enough, the biting begins.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">While working my part-time Lot Geek gig at The Home Depot, I notice that many customers bring their dogs of all sizes into the store, which the store seems to be OK with. What gets me are those who put dogs into the shopping baskets, with some actually putting a blanket or dog bed into the basket and then placing Weensie in there too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If there was ever a reason to regularly disinfect shopping baskets, dog blankets/beds/ass would be one of them</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So... OK, I get it. People love their dogs and take them almost everywhere. But dogs aren't universally loving of other humans, and sometimes they'll chomp down on an unsuspecting human's hand and then a very awkward situation begins. That's because they're DOGS. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I use the 'dog bites man for no apparent reason' example to highlight the fact that sometimes, humans react to other humans just like dogs do (heh heh heh... dog doo... get it?).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sometimes, a human simply does not like another human, and for no apparent reason. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I recently came face-to-face with this situation in the office where I worked for eight months before getting laid off due to a business downturn.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'd only been working there a few weeks when they hired a guy temporarily to be our truck driver. He was the future son-in-law of the company CFO and was living with his fiancee' in the CFO's home. The guy had been chronically unemployed, having been fired from a local petting zoo, Home Depot and Disneyland (I swear this is true).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When we initially engaged, he seemed strangely quiet and standoffish, which the CFO said was his normal M.O. as he was very shy and reserved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">However, after a few weeks of putting on my best 'supportive co-worker' face, he wouldn't speak to me and was becoming uncooperative and antagonistic, not consulting me on projects that were my responsibility and going instead to his future Mother-in-law (FMIL) for guidance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The guy simply did not like me. No reason, no rationale... he never spoke to me. Somehow he'd decided I was the enemy and he would refuse to engage or even acknowledge my existence. The kidz call that 'cancelling out' or 'ghosting' someone... he'd walk in and I'd say "Good Morning" and he'd walk right by, looking straight ahead, ignoring my greeting as if I was invisible.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Very weird.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then one morning, our off-site Office Manager (I know, I know) requested that I inspect the day's deliveries once the driver had loaded the truck because there'd been 'problems'. I asked the driver to please delay his departure until I had a chance to review the load. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He went berserk.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He started yelling that there was no reason for me to check his load, and when I told him I was only following orders, he called me a liar. When I climbed up into the truck to begin the inspection, he screamed:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><i>"I DON'T LIKE YOU!! I DON'T LIKE WORKING WITH YOU!! I HATE YOU!! I DON'T RESPECT YOU!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I asked him please to tell me why he felt that way. Instead of answering, he raced back into the office to complain to his FMIL. I finished my inspection, went inside and while he was complaining away, told him the load looked great and thanks for waiting. He glared at me and left without a word.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few minutes later, I went in and explained to the CFO what had happened and that I had tried everything possible to engage with the driver. She said it was inexplicable and that she'd try to reason with him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That's the last time she ever mentioned it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Over the final months I spent employed there, the driver's immature behavior caused us all lots of extra work and effort because he refused to follow office protocol for documentation and reporting. His behavior only got worse, so when we lost a million-dollar client and I was told I'</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">d be laid off, I was actually very relieved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'll bet he's still working there, also too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Because I have lots of miles on my odometer, I never once sank to his level of behavior, antagonism or immaturity. I never yelled at or argued with him, was always upbeat and supportive, and did my level-best to make the best of a horrific situation. In the end, it didn't matter but at least I KNOW that I tried, dammit... at least I tried.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What DID bother me was that never... not even once... in my professional career had I encountered a negative co-worker situation that I wasn't able to diffuse and turn around. In fact, I've had the ability to gain the trust of co-workers who were otherwise reviled by everyone else, a gift that I've always been thankful for.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Our current National 2020 Viral Semi-Apocalypse is creating a shit-ton of misery for most regular 'Murricans. One positive side-effect is that for the most part, people standing in lines to buy toilet paper are in upbeat moods, open and talkative across the 6-foot 'social-distancing prerogative', and exuding the classic 'We're all in this together' spirit that gives me faith in human nature.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I know there have been reports of clashes in cues and guns drawn over who gets the last of the Charmin, but overall we hoomans are getting along pretty damned good, helping others in need and lifting each other up when necessary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We can continue biting each other later... for now, I'll pet Spartacus without fear and be grateful for a shelf full of butt-wipe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>"A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort." -- Herm Albright</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; 'Inspector Clouseau' and 'The Stooges' videos, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.</i></span>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-6348277349264098752020-02-12T08:17:00.000-08:002020-02-14T13:24:43.642-08:00Life By The Quarter-Mile<br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The Admission
gate opened at 9AM, but we were always there at the front of the line, waiting…
waiting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Saturday
morning circa 1969, ready for a full day of drag race spectating at Irwindale Raceway,
hard by the 210 freeway in Irwindale, California. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There with me was younger brother Chuck, neighbors Mike P. and Frank R. and
sometimes John E. from up the street. Dad dropped us off at
around 8:30 in his ’64 Pontiac LeMans, a sweet 326 c.i. 2-door Aqua-on-Aqua ride. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On
subsequent Saturday morning trips to the drags we’d ride our bikes there, no
need for the Dad run since it was only 10 miles away. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Growing up was COOL.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Each of us had $5 for the day… $1.50 for Admission, $1 for a Pit Pass and $2.50 for enough
food to keep us well-fed until Dad picked us up at 9PM when the races were
over. Hot dogs and Cokes were $.25 each.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Five bucks to cover a twelve-hour day at the drags... best deal in town!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Once the
gates opened, we ran… RAN… up to the Grandstands
closest to the Starting Line for a bleacher seat as close as possible to the
track. From our raised vantage point, we could see the cars lined up in the
Staging Lanes, each line of similarly-classed cars side-by-side with other
classes of cars, waiting for their turn to make a qualifying run down the
quarter-mile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A through
M-Stock… Super Stock… Motorcycles... Gassers… Funny Cars… Dragsters… multi-colored <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bolides</i> in every shape and size, engines
loping with a wild cam profile cadence, open headers blasting our ears, leaded
fuel and alcohol and nitro fumes burning our eyes. They’d roll up to the
pre-staging lanes, one car in each lane, then do a short bleach-box burnout
so the rear tires would be nice and hot for the start. Then a sloooow forward creep to
get staged, mind games, the Staging lights glow and then the Christmas Tree
sequences down: Yellow Yellow Yellow <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">GREEN</b> and <b><i>R</i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH</i></b> both
cars blast off in a cloud of burning rubber and hot exhaust, straining through
the gears and fighting to stay straight all the way to the Finish Line
to get the Win light.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We'd sit/stand/jump at every qualie run, shouting out who we thought would win. After a bunch of cars ran, we'd leave the grandstand and make our way to the Pit Entrance Gate, buy a pass and go in. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">How can I describe the delirium of a 12-going-on 13-year-old walking around all those crazy race cars in the pits, with nothing separating us from the cars and drivers and mechanics? Some cars were on trailers, some were on the ground with their engines in pieces being worked on. Some were being warmed up, the mechanic repeatedly pulling on the throttle arm <b><i>RAMP RAMP RAMP RAMP</i> </b>to make sure the engine was tuned to within an inch of its life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The names of the cars and their drivers were the stuff of boyhood dreams: King Kong, Tweety Pie, Skipper's Critter, C&O Hydro, Jungle Jim, Pure Hell, Pure Heaven, Ramchargers, Little Red Wagon, Chi-Town Hustler, Bronco Buster, Gas Ronda, 'Dandy' Dick Landy, Arnie 'The Farmer' Beswick, Stone Woods & Cook, The Hawaiian, 'Big John' Mazmanian, Hemi-Under-Glass, Blue Hell, Hayden Proffitt, Candies & Hughes, 'TV' Tommy Ivo, Don Prudhomme, Tom McEwen, Shirley Shahan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One doesn't forget these things very easily.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After crawling around the pits for what seemed like hours, we'd make our way back towards the Grandstand side of the track via the pit access lane, which ran directly behind the Starting Line. If we were lucky and timed it right, we could stand along the access lane chain-link fence during the first Elimination runs of the top classes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The gassers, funny cars and dragsters would <b><i>ROMP ROMP ROMP ROMP</i></b> their way from the staging lanes to the pre-stage boxes, set up and do burnouts to heat the tires, spewing burnt rubber clouds and unburned fuel directly back at us, standing there at the fence line, covering us in bits of rubber and fuel and choking smoke. And we'd stand there, breathing it all in, run after run after run.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">IT WAS AWESOME.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Back to the Grandstand side, in the stands or crowded along the fence for the Eliminations, watching car after car, race after race, matching skills and speed and reflexes, one winner to the next round and one loser on the trailer. Sometimes there'd be a break in the action for one of the specialty wheel-standers like the Little Red Wagon, an Irwindale Raceway regular driven by Bill 'Maverick' Golden. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He'd stage and get the Green and <b><i>RAAAAAAAAAAAA </i></b>would pop a wheelie and hold that thing on the rear wheels all the way down the track, letting the fronts down only once he'd crossed through the Finish lights, turn around and <b><i>RAAAAAAAAAA </i></b>wheelie all the way back to where we were, dropping down just in time to stop in front of the crowd who were going wild!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The picture right there, with all those people jammed along the fence watching the Little Red Wagon taking off... I could very well be in that picture, jammed up against the fence, blissed out. Free.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Like all good things that must end, the Final Eliminations would be run and the Winners would be crowned and the Trophies would be awarded and the Trophy girls would be kissed and we'd have to leave, the sounds still ringing in our ears and the smells in our noses and absorbed into our clothes. We'd be waiting outside the Main Entrance Gate for Dad to pick us up, or we'd be making the long bike ride back home. Funny thing... even in the dark of a Summer Saturday night, that long pedal home was exhilarating, the sense of freedom like a drug.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Every Stop light we came to, we'd line up and someone would yell '<b>YELLOW YELLOW YELLOW <i>GREEEEEEEN</i></b>' and we'd take off, pedaling like maniacs to beat each other to the next Stop light, where we'd do it again. All the way home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We kept going to the track regularly until it became a victim of creeping commercialism, the place razed in 1977 to make way for a Budweiser brewing plant. I remember driving there one day with some friends, parking on the Irwindale Avenue overpass (now long gone) that looked down on the track, watching them tear it up. One of the guys brought a couple of beers and we toasted the track that we'd grown up with.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The end of an era.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I wrote this essay for two reasons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The first is because I wanted to coalesce memories of foundational experiences from a bygone age when I was young and life seemed simpler, when we were able to enjoy a kind of freedom that doesn't exist any more. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The second, and more important reason, is because I wanted to thank my Dad for the lifelong gift of my love for motorsports. Dad is the reason we went to Irwindale Raceway... 605 Speedway... Riverside International Raceway... Ontario Motor Speedway... where I was infected at an early age with a passion for racing that has only grown stronger through the years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Along with so many other positive influences he brought into my life, I can never thank him enough for allowing me to share his love of racing as a small boy, as a youth, as an adult. Every time I'm at the races or watching them on TV, I feel like he's with me even though he lives a thousand miles away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Thanks, Dad.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>"There are only three sports: bullfighting, motor racing, and mountaineering; all the rest are merely games." -- Ernest Hemingway</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>All images, Gracias de Ron LeForce and Google open source images; 'Irwindale Raceway 1971' video, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.</i></span>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2809459616362660096.post-82989817319360357762020-01-30T15:14:00.001-08:002021-02-17T18:32:18.626-08:00Today Is The Greatest Day I've Ever Known<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Death and dying is a touchy subject for us hoomans.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Doesn't matter if you're 'saved' and will spend eternity with your Lord and Savior, or you don't have a clue about why in the hell we live just to die. The specter of your life ending, no matter what you say or do, is disturbing and unsettling and scary.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">That's because unlike literally every other life form on this planet, we're acutely self-aware of our conscious existence and can comprehend that life and living will eventually end and leave us in a state of rigor, desiccation and decomposition.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">That's a lovely mental image, innit?</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">How we spend our final days is a subject of trial and tribulation, especially when we factor in the serendipity of how we live and how quickly and easily life can be taken from us against our will.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">People die all around us, every minute of every hour of every day, in every conceivable way.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Old age.... disease... accidents... suicide... addiction... crime... war... pestilence... ignorance... all of these and many more make up Death's Hit Parade.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">And of course, our preference is to choose the method by which we'll end up taking the Dirt Nap if we get the chance to do so. Here's mine:</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Once I know I'm toast, I will take in hand a previously-acquired heavy dose of deadly narcotic and drive (or be driven) as far up into the mountains as possible. I'll then ingest the heavy narcotic and begin walking into the forest until I lose consciousness and fall over and die. The local animals will rip and tear me to shreds and eat me all up, then they'll shit me out and I'll become compost for the living forest. Maybe they'll be lucky and get a good high from eating my narcotic-infused organs.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Organically Recycled Hooman... not Soylent Green!</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4UPDUpjkHg0" width="560"></iframe>
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<br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">BTW, if you've never seen 'Soylent Green', I suggest you do so. Great social dystopian commentary, and it was Edward G. Robinson's last film.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Here's something to ponder: you know those flocks of birds that are everywhere, all around us, every day? Ever wonder why, with so many thousands of birds all around us, every day... why don't we ever see dead birds lying around everywhere too? They have a short life, maybe a couple of years max, so you'd think our streets and lawns and parks would be littered with crow and sparrow and pigeon carcasses.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">But no.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">We can never know how aware those birds are of their brief lives, but the conventional wisdom is that when birds feel unwell or sick, they find a secluded place to either recover or die. Their small bodies are then eaten up or simply desiccate and decompose where they fell, becoming organic compost.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Sound familiar?</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It may be nothing more than ancient instinctual behavior, but it seems to work pretty well for us hoomans with our streets and lawns and parks that aren't covered in bird carcasses.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Same goes for squirrels and possums and lizards and raccoons and coyotes and all the other 'wild' animals that share our suburban habitat. They may not be cognizant of their place in the grand scheme of things, but they know when the time has come to separate themselves from their group and let nature rule.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It's far more complicated for hoomans. For one thing, our bodies are much larger and take longer to naturally desiccate and decompose. And then there's the smell. And the idea of hoomans seeing other hoomans lying there, dead and decomposing, eyes and mouth wide open, belly distended, taunting their mortality.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">That's why 'modern' man buries the dead, to hide the stench and remove the carcass from sight or from being et. All the other ceremonial brouhaha over burials is made-up dogmatic baloney to salve our self-awareness of Death's Hit Parade. </span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Jdf5EXo6I68" width="560"></iframe>
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Ancient man used the same instincts as animals when it came time to croak, walking away from the group to expire alone, unseen and un-smelled and ready to be ripped and torn to shreds and eaten up by the local animals, who then shit out the hooman organic compost.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I... I'm sensing a theme here.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">The subject of Final Days came to me while watching the coverage of the untimely death of basketball great Kobe Bryant, his daughter Gianna and several friends and associates. Losing their lives in a helicopter crash was an awful way to go since it's highly likely there were several terror-filled minutes experienced by all aboard before plowing into that Calabasas hillside.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">On the other hand, Kobe routinely chopper-commuted from his Newport Beach home to points all over the Southern California for (by his own estimation) over 17 years, putting himself at risk every time he strapped in. Yes... driving the freeways is also dangerous and can lead to a fiery death, but it beats falling out of the sky in a malfunctioning or errant aircraft, watching the impending impact with big eyes and a clenched heart.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">This is why we'll never have flying cars as personal transport. Crashing while at ground level dramatically increases the chances for survival.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Here's the thing: much has been made of the fact Kobe and Gianna spent their last morning alive together in church, which brings a sense of comfort to those mourning their loss. Father and daughter spent that morning praying to their deity of choice, not anticipating their impending demise.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It got me thinking about the final day I spent with certain loved ones that I've lost over the last 20 years or so.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My Grandfather Manuel roamed the earth for 94 years until getting hit by a car on one of his daily walks. He survived but was confined to a wheelchair and decided he'd lived long enough and didn't want to be a burden, so he just stopped eating. After a week or so he slipped into unconsciousness, so our family gathered around him on that final night to cry and share memories and be together. We all crammed into his room as he took his last breaths, watching him leave, wanting him to stay but knowing he could not. Although his life's force left his body in front of our eyes, I could swear it entered all of us and we were energized with his love and the force of his nature.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My wife's Grandmother Lila was another force of nature, irascible and thorny and perfectly wonderful because she really liked me and I her. Well into her 80's, she suffered a series of strokes that left her in a nursing home bed, unable to walk or speak. The last time we saw her alive, it was during the holidays so we took her a small green dinosaur plush doll wearing a Santa Cap. She grabbed that thing and held it tight next to her chest, eyes beaming and glistening and showing a giant smile. She knew we loved her a lot. She passed only days later, and we took home one of the gift plants from her memorial that thrives in our living room, huge and green, and we call it Grandma. I also have the dino doll too!</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">At only 64 years old, my Mom spent her final day unconscious in a nursing home, having stroked out the night before, the latest in a series of strokes that resulted from a lifetime abusing alcohol and cigarettes. My Aunt Yolanda (Mom's best friend since grade school), my wife and I spent several hours at Mom's bedside that day, reminiscing and laughing and crying and holding her hands and talking to her and feeling lots of love for each other. Mom passed at 11 that night, and I recall the searing reality of loading her wheelchair and few remaining belongings into my truck the next morning, knowing I'd never see her again.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">At only 43 years old, my younger Brother Chuck's lifetime of alcohol abuse meant his health was shot... liver failure, infected bloodstream, gangrene... he was a mess. When I got the call he'd been admitted into the hospital again, I raced up to Northern California to see if I could help. There he was in the hospital bed, skin and eyes yellowed with jaundice, ranting that he'd be fine once he got a new liver. He rejected the idea he'd need to stop drinking for at least 6 months before he'd get on a donor list, calling me stupid for saying that even though we both knew it was true. We'd re-established our brotherly bond only a few years before, but this final visit was filled with acrimony and anger, accusation and denial. I left knowing he'd be gone soon... and sure enough, he was.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I read a sci-fi story once about a doctor who'd secretly invented a machine that could predict exactly how long a person would live. The machine would take blood samples and the results looked like a long pink tube that could be measured in days. He became famous and then infamous, which forced him to go into hiding because the insurance industry had a bounty on his head since his invention would put them out of business. He held them off long enough to get run over by a bus, because he already knew when his time would come and he wanted to keep the machine out of the hands of those who would exploit it.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">We don't know how long our conscious existence will last... the length of our pink tube.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">We don't know if there's an afterlife or if reincarnation is a thing or if believers will spend eternity with their savior of choice. Anyone that tells you otherwise is lying because they don't really know either.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">We know there are many easy ways to extend our own lives by eating better, sleeping better, taking care of our health... stuff like that. However, we don't do those things and so we die much sooner than we need to, even though we know how not to die sooner. Stoopid hoomans.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I like to say that each day above-ground is a great day, a precious gift, a thing of value not to be squandered. It can be a challenge trying to remember that because life can be distracting and mean and venal and heartbreaking. </span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">The secret is to think about that last day of conscious existence, that final day of breathing and seeing and loving. </span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Chances are, we won't know when that day arrives because death can sneak up behind us and snatch our conscious existence right out from under our feet.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">So make sure that today and every waking moment is spent doing something that gives you purpose and meaning, no matter how grand or trivial it may seem. Take each day by the scruff of the neck and shake it... HARD.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I like to think that in the final seconds of his life, Kobe knew in his heart he'd done exactly that.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Be like Kobe. Live large, kick ass, take names.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>"Razors pain you; </i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>Rivers are damp:</i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>Acids stain you; </i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>And drugs cause cramp.</i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>Guns aren't lawful; </i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>Nooses give;</i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>Gas smells awful;</i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>You might as well live."</i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i> -- 'Resume' by Dorothy Parker</i></span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; 'Soylent Green', 'Monty Python & The Holy Grail', 'Monty Python-The Meaning of Life - Death' and Smashing Pumpkins 'Today' videos, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.</i></span>Obliohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532981638701035491noreply@blogger.com2