The Meaning Of Life

“There are some kind of men who are so busy worrying about the next life, they’ve never learned to live in this one.”
–Harper Lee, writer

When I start to think about my life, my existence, my waking consciousness, I get a little weak in the knees. That’s because my view of how all this came to be and what it means is based upon science and knowledge and reality, not religious dogma or superstition or spiritual voodoo. Of course, there are many people who would simply shake their heads and feel sorry for me because I haven’t ‘found God’, their be-all end-all answer to the great questions about The Meaning Of Life.

That being said, I totally understand why so many humans have made the decision to accept their religious teaching of choice, I really do. Life can be so complex, so venal, so cruel… sometimes only the gentle poetry of religious belief will salve a wounded soul, shredded and bleeding from the slings and arrows of daily life. I’ve always understood that our ancestors knew so little of the world they lived in, it was natural for them to create a spiritual context in which they could place themselves at the center, with everything else revolving around them. It’s the curse of being human, using that self-awareness to torture ourselves with.

Let me explain.

I’ve often shared my firmly-held belief that, as modern science (YAY!) has quantified, we humans and our Terran roomies live and die on an astral dust speck in the vastness of the Universe. Heck, it’s not even a dust speck… our Earth is an atom of a molecule of a dust speck that floats among the hundreds of billions of other dust specks that reside in the celestial ‘hood. Our puny little solar system, a galactic sweet spot that allows us to survive and plunder each other, is so spectacularly tiny as to be inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Are there millions, perhaps hundreds of millions of other molecular dust specks like ours where ‘life’ of some sort also thrives? Of course there are, but we’ll never have the chance to find out since we’ll probably kill each other off before then.

When I think about the amazing fortune that I/you/we have living here, sitting pretty with an oxygen-rich atmosphere, I am gobsmacked to realize how incredibly lucky we are to survive at all. The odds are against us, what with gamma rays and radiation and meteor missles and all the astral nasties that are out there, waiting to bring us to a fiery end. But no… here we are, having sex and shooting each other and poisoning that very life-giving atmosphere, seemingly oblivious to the oblivion that awaits us just outside that skinny little band o’ goodness we breathe. When I think of my existence within that context, I feel giddy and powerful and infinitesimal and obscure and terribly, terribly small.

And yet… we survive, by some weird and wonderful stroke of luck. It is invigorating to ponder how it worked out in our favor, and doing so makes me feel more alive, more grateful, more human than any dogma or doctrine could possibly provide. It makes me laugh out loud when those of the religious persuasion try and place themselves and their deity in the center of that vastness, as if their religious belief can somehow overcome and negate the powerful physical universe. Humans have used that same hubris for thousands of years, and yet they still persist, ignoring science and knowledge and wisdom, all in an effort to confirm their certainty. I say more power to them… but it is a fruitless, pointless task that only we humans waste our energy on. It’s that self-awareness thing again.

Think about our atmosphere… the life-giving, radiation-reflecting, moisture-bearing oxygen ocean that we live in every day of our conscious being. Using that most-excellent scientific method, it has been determined that the thickness of our atmosphere in relation to the size of Earth is the same as the thickness of the skin that covers an apple. Yep… THAT thin. So little is really known about how and why this skinny band of life stays glued to Earth’s surface, it’s a bit humbling to realize how tenuous our lives are, bathed in that apple skin-thin oxygen ocean, breathing in, breathing out.

And that’s just the start of it. The oceans of coalesced water molecules that cover our planet are made up of the same ones that existed at the very beginning of Earth’s transition from a ball of molten rock to a beautiful garden of habitation. Same for the resulting breathable atmosphere, recycled millions of millions (billions?) of times through the gills and lungs and mitochondria of myriad species. All the water and all the oxygen we’ve ever had is what we still have, reused, recycled, restored into the stew of life on which we all thrive. We ain’t getting any more from the black vacuum, that’s for sure. All we have is all we have.



Think about that for a moment. We breathe the same air as the dinosaurs did so very long ago. We sup from the same pool of water that a Brontosaurus peed in while grazing on swamp grass, somewhere on Pangea, perhaps in a vast wetland that we now know as Kansas. This isn’t supposition or theory. We KNOW the dinos existed, we KNOW where they lived, we KNOW what they et. Only those humans who deny an ancient Earth could muster an argument against these facts, and yet… some humans do. I am more than amused at recent attempts of high-viz religious folk who want to twist scientific history to fit their faith.

And so it goes… the chemical merry-go-round that supports our lives on this planet, all with little or no help from us humans, with the notable exception of our insatiable desire to pollute and deforest and deface and deplete. Maybe, just maybe, if more people considered our incredibly finite natural resources and apple skin-thin atmosphere, they’d think differently. But no, we humans don’t like to go there, because it allows our self-awareness to consider our own mortality, and we dinna like that not one bit, NO SIR, NO MA’AM.

For me, it’s different… WAY different. See, I have come to grips with my life, my pending and unavoidable death, and my place in the whole grand Circus Maximus we call civilization. In my world, devoid of religious fables or dogmatic belief, we each have only one life to live, our conscious life. We are borne by other humans, created via the tried-and-true method of sexual procreation, and we live this conscious life until our bodies are no longer able to regenerate skin and bone and infection-fighting white blood cells. When I die, and I surely WILL die, my conscious life ends and… well, that’s the end of my conscious life. There is no ‘afterlife’ to speak of, there is no heavenly paradise awaiting me or anyone else. I be dead and gone, and nothing can or will change that fact. Others might disagree, but they simply cannot prove what their belief systems tell them, because they have ‘faith’ that tells them what to believe. How human, how self-possessed, how self-aggrandizing that is.

However, in my world, the incredible energy that pumped my heart and powered my brain and allowed the wondrous capability for me to actually live… that energy will not be wasted, oh no. That energy, just like all the water and all the air… that energy will be recycled into the amazing ephemeral grid that powers our atmosphere, allowing it to cling to this small Blue Earth with a tenacious grip. My life’s force will be absorbed and reused in some other way that matters not a whit to me, because I’ll be DEAD, because my conscious life will have ended. Mixing with the filtered radiation and sunlight and oxygen and water molecules, that invisible ocean in which we live… that’s where my energy will survive and thrive. I dinna care if it’s used to sustain a human or a tree or a rabid wolverine or (shudder!) a Republican or a patch of kelp floating off the Cali coast. I couldn’t care less how my life’s energy force will be utilized, but I know it will be, and it will not leave this Earth.

We are surrounded and infused by the energy, the life force, the primal motivation of every living thing that has ever lived and died on this Earth. The unseen ocean of atmosphere is chock-full of goody, filling our lungs and eyes and ears and hearts, a steamy and fragrant cocktail that we all sip on, every second of our conscious lives. And when we finally take the dirt nap, we unwillingly donate our energy essence to those we leave behind, those not yet born, to drink deeply from our collective pool of chemical funk. Yum!

Does any of this make you uncomfortable? Have you ever given even the smallest amount of time thinking about this type of spectral philosophy? Does your religion of choice prevent and/or discourage musing on alternate views of birth and death?

I reckon my philosophy could be construed as being based on reincarnation or Buddhist teachings, but I don’t see it that way. This Earth, this planet, this massive object hurtling through space… it is a living thing, and it feeds off of the teeming bacterium of life that covers the land, fills the oceans and spews crap into the atmosphere. We live, we die, we live, we die, we live, we die… and our Terra is the best recycler there is, at least in this tiny corner of the galaxy. It takes all we can give it, and when we have finally dessicated the surface and used up the resources and destroyed the ozone… when the surface of our world can no longer support ‘human’ life (and we haven’t blown it to bits with our self-aware bullshit), it will regenerate another type of life that can and will survive in the crappy environs we’ve left behind.

I rather enjoy the idea of that. Of course, it won't matter to me, because my energy… OUR energy... will power whatever life forms that survive and thrive in the hellscape we self-aware humans created.

Soooo… The Meaning Of Life. I could be trite and say it’s ‘to love one another’ or something insipid like that. Nope, ain’t gonna do it, I want to be honest here. For me, TMOL is simply to live every moment, every second, every day with verve and vigor and purpose and conviction, because no matter what you might think or believe, we only get one shot at a conscious existence. Anything that happens before or after this conscious life is of no consequence, because none of it… NONE OF IT… can be proven or established as fact. Doesn’t matter how grand or banal your life and times may be, the important thing is to derive all the maximum mental, emotional and philosophical joy you can.

Do you dread having to go grocery shopping? Not me… I love to walk the aisles, picking and choosing the items that will make me a happy wolverine come mealtime. Talking with strangers who need help figuring out how to tell if a cantaloupe is ripe. Shagging a cart that some miscreant left in the middle of a handicapped parking space. Checking out the Hot Wheels display, looking for that vintage Corvette Stingray to add to my collection. It is ALL GOOD.

Hate cleaning the bathroom? OMFG… you need to read my last essay titled ‘You’re Soaking In It’ to know how much enjoyment can be had with a sponge and some Comet.

Unhappy with how your life has turned out, even though you've tried to fix it? THEN CHANGE IT. Holy crap, our time is so short on this planet. Change your job, find a new mate, tell your kids to suck off someone else's money teat for a change, move somehwere else... just DO IT. Do what you need to do to make yourself happy, even if it hurts, even if it is hard, even if it costs you everything you own.

"So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they're busy doing things they think are important. This is because they're chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning." -- from Mitch Albom’s ‘Tuesdays with Morrie'.

You get the picture.

Like the song says, “Love this life… don’t wait until the next one comes.” Breathe in deeply, walk in the rain, grab your honey’s butt just because you can, do a good deed daily. Make every second count, even the ones spent without reason or direction. Wake up in the morning and be glad a meteor didn’t take us all out overnight, that the atmosphere is still so clingy, that the coffee you make doesn’t taste like Stegosaurus pee (or does it?). Our waking and conscious lives are chock-full of amazing and wonderful things to eat/drink/taste/touch/feel/hear/smell… don’t waste a second of it being a typical self-aware humanoid. Be like the birds overhead, the descendants of those peeing dinosaurs, flying and spinning and chirping and jumping and living in the moment, living the life they live, without fear of the unknown. Because in the end, it is all unknown, all undeciphered, all uncontrollable. We are just Bozos on this celestial bus, squeaking each other’s noses as hard as we can.

"Life's journey is not to arrive safely at the grave in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting ‘Holy Shit... What a ride!" – Mavis Leyrer



TMOL lead image Gracias de sapientology.com; Quicksilver Messenger Service 'Fresh Air' and Crowded House 'Love This Life' videos, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.

You're Soaking In It

I have a confession to make: I LIKE TO CLEAN.

There… I said it. I LIKE TO CLEAN. I’m not just talking about the typically male-centric auto detailing or yard work or garage stuff. Oh no, this is far more serious and could jeopardize my standing as a solidly heterosexual male to those who know me on a casual basis. I’m referring to cleaning bathrooms, kitchens, vacuuming (I'm not allowed to dust because I'm clumsy and break things)… the type of cleaning that sends most men running from the house at the very thought of having to actually touch human hairballs or hold a mop or scrub a toilet.

When The Artist started her home-based business, it behooved me to take over some of the cleaning chores so she could spend more time on the weekends with her paint brush in hand. No sweat, it just required some adjustment of my Saturday activities. Here's the thing: now, I actually look forward to cleaning, scrubbing, mopping... all of it. Once I slap on my ipod Shuffle, the chore is no longer a chore, but an excuse to play air guitar with a wet sponge in my paw. Weird.

The crux of the biscuit: cleaning bathrooms. Is any housekeeping chore more despised, more reviled, more avoided? I think it's really about the process, and being responsible. I'd like to submit my procedure to those who shudder at the thought of having to clean a bathroom. This process works for me, and it's my humble offering to the long-suffering mates of the ‘cleanophobes’. You know who I'm talking about

How To Clean A Bathroom

Preparation
Make sure the bathroom is empty of all living entities. Gather your cleaning materials of choice... my favorites are Comet powder, Soft Scrub, Comet Bathroom Cleaner, Windex, Tilex Mildew Remover, a sponge, a green scrubby pad, a short stack of old cloth hand towels (do not use paper towels!), broom, dustpan. Don your favorite cleaning gear, which for me is shorts, sneaks and my ‘crazy houseboy’ hat, a freebie chef’s hat with the top rubber-banded into a snappy-looking point. This is the best hat I’ve ever worn to clean house with because the wide headband really soaks up the sweat (chefs already know this), and the snappy point on top reeks of ‘weirdo Mexican’. With the hat on, I become a lean mean cleaning machine. Crank up the ipod tunes and let’s clean the bathroom.

Process
1. Empty the bathroom of all non-essential elements and put them in the next room. Rugs, towels, candles, tchotchkes, health and beauty products, combs, brushes, hairdryers, plants, rubber bondage gear… all of it. The only things that should be left in there are the floor, fixtures and counters. Then (and this is the worst part), make a small pad out of toilet paper and wipe down all the surfaces to pick up stray hairs… you know they will be there. Wipe down the toilet tank and rim, the counters, even the shower floor, and pull them suckers out of the drain grill or grate. It might gross you out at first, but since you’re letting the paper do the wiping, your fingers won’t be touching the gross hairs… YOUR hairs! Being bald allows me the satisfaction of knowing that all those long Brown ones ain’t mine. Toss that new hairball in the trash, and now you won't have to worry about catching all those hairs in your cleaning towels. Yuk.

2. Sweep the floor really well, getting in the corners and behind the bowl. Flush the toilet and once it’s refilled, sprinkle a liberal amount of Comet powder all over the inside of the bowl. Rinse out the sink and dust it with Comet too. Run the shower for a few seconds, then dust the shower floor with Comet and squirt a good amount of Soft Scrub all over it. The shower doors will come later, but don’t forget to scrub the shower walls every month or so, depending on how much of a dirty beast you are.

3. Using a wet sponge, scour the sink first, all around and under the rim of the counter and including the drain plug and ring, then rinse it out to a shiny cleanie niceness. I like to also scrub the faucet, handles, countertops and then wipe them down, but we have cheapie countertops, so no biggie. Next… THE TOILET BOWL. You’ll note that I did not list rubber gloves as part of the materials list. That’s because rubber gloves are for PUSSIES. None of the cleaning products you’re using will damage your skin, and all the cleansers and stuff are already disinfecting things, so the gloves just get in the way (only those with expensive manicures are allowed to use rubber gloves). Grab the sponge and begin scouring the inside of the bowl, under the rim and down into the deep-dark outlet hole. Don’t be afraid, nothing in there will hurt you, and don’t be a wuss and use one of those lame scrubbing brushes instead of your awesome arm/hand combo… nothing scrubs as good as what you already have attached to your shoulder. Once done, flush and marvel at your handiwork. That’s right… YOU scrubbed le toilette!

Special notes: Whatever your cleaning style, DO NOT get on your knees to do any of this work unless you wear knee pads. Your knees are the most complex joint in your organic superstructure, so be nice to them!

Also, it it totally acceptable and appropriate to break into a short dance any time during the cleaning session, especially if 'that song' comes on and you are overcome with bliss. Waving arms, snapping fingers and twirling is also recommended... just don't be flinging cleaning products all over the place. Dancing is GOOD.

4. Now for the shower floor, sometimes a worse grime and gunk location than the toilet bowl. Using the green scrubby, scour the floor really well, especially if yours has drainage channels. Don’t forget the upper edges of the shower floor where it meets the wall… if you have a tub instead of a shower enclosure, the process doesn’t change. I usually scrub the shower floor twice as long as I think it needs, because it gets a lot nastier than you might realize. When you’ve scrubbed yourself silly, crank on the water and rinse the whole place out, spray the edges and corners with the Tilex Mildew Remover, then admire your handiwork. I recommend either opening the window or running the exhaust fan during this step.

5. After completing the serious scrubbing and scouring, time for the general cleaning. I like Comet Bathroom Cleaner because it works really well and leaves a nice aroma, not too pungent. Use whatever you wish, just as long as it doesn’t leave a nasty after-smell... The Artist absolutely HATES the smell of Pine-Sol and Mr. Clean. Spray the cleaner on the counters and wipe down with a cloth towel… didn’t I tell you NOT to use paper towels?!?! Do the same with the toilet tank and outside of the bowl, remembering to clean ‘back there’. Now is when you’ll be glad you swept really well, otherwise you’ll come up with a towel filled with, well… you know. Spray and wipe down the outside of the shower enclosure and all the baseboards, and don't forget to wipe down the vanity cabinet and adjacent walls. Then give the floor a quick wipe to grab any leftover hairies. Ew.

6. Some people mop their bathrooms, but mine has vinyl flooring so I like to use the Comet Bathroom Cleaner instead... I spray the floor and use a fresh towel to wipe it down squeaky-clean. Then hit the mirrors and any glass with Windex and the cloth towel and you’re ready to reset the room. As you bring in each beloved bathroom accessory, wipe it down and then place lovingly just so in its place of honor. Don’t forget to drain out that nasty toilet bowl brush holder… a good idea is to run the brush and holder through a dishwasher cycle every so often to keep it free of germies.

7. For the inside of the shower door, the easiest way is to clean it while taking a shower. Squirt a little Soft Scrub on the doors and scour them down with the scrubby, then rinse with the sponge, all while the water is running and you’re standing in there all nekkid and wet, heh heh heh. Avoid the urge to invite your better half to join in the fun. I mean, you ARE cleaning, right? Best not to get distracted from the job at hand, unless you are all done and ready for distraction. Then again, perhaps you like to be sexy and covered in Comet and Soft Scrub... who am I to judge?

OH… MY… GOSH. Look at what you’ve done! YOU CLEANED THE BATHROOM, and it wasn’t scary or nasty or anything like you’d thought it would be. Naturally, if you have expensive fixtures, floors and countertops, you'll want to use cleaning products that won't scratch or otherwise damage anything. This whole process might sound like a lot to do, but it really does get automatic after a few times. You’ll find yourself thinking about the music or what you want for dinner or having Comet-covered sex or lots of other things, all while you’re cleaning a very important part of your home.

Did I mention that I also enjoy ironing clothes and grocery shopping? Never mind... that's a subject for another posting.



'Rose Royce 'Car Wash' video, Gracias de YouTube, hideous bathroom image gracias de spencerneal.blogspot.com. Orale'.

Thicker Than Water

I miss my brother Chuck.

Four years younger than me, he died in 2005 from complications of alcoholism which included a ruined liver, failed kidneys and finally gangrene settling into his wounded legs. His death was ugly and painful and tore up everyone who knew him, because he was well-loved by many. I was especially slaughtered over his passing since just a couple of years earlier we had forged a long-overdue truce and became closer than we’d ever been. Dad still grieves over the loss of his second son. Thus is how it always seems to be for the families of alcoholics.

That being said, I find my memories of Chuck are mostly good ones, even great ones, spread across time and space. Years we spent first as childhood antagonists, then as distant adult siblings, and finally as seasoned brothers-in-arms, united against the stupidization of America. In his final years, we would have long phone conversations about politics, auto racing, music, family, business, women, pot, sports, television, our mutual and separate pasts… the subject matter always changed, but the best part was that we were, you know... talking.



It wasn’t always that way. The bloody internecine battles we humans wage can be a lifelong struggle for dominance, often at the expense of those we love most. My wife and I laugh often about the fact that honestly, every family is dysfunctional to one extent or another. No one is exempt from the petty silliness that can come between siblings, mates, extended family members. It usually blows up after years of quiet tolerance, clenched jaws and strained neck muscles, yearning for release and revenge. The revenge part is the most devastating and satisfying… as one sage commented, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’

Chuck was a force of nature, as smart as a whip, yet he never graduated from high school. He read several newspapers each day, absorbing information that would be filed away in his cerebral hard drive, ready for withdrawal at a moment’s notice. He could talk at length about complex social and political issues with certainty and a great eye for the absurd. He was the funniest guy I ever knew, coming up with quips and comments and observations that would put me on the floor. He bore a complicated soul, with internal demons that most certainly lead to excessive drinking as his way of dealing with them.

In 1995, while our Mom was unconscious in a hospital intensive care ward due to alcohol poisoning (yeah, her too), I convinced Chuck to fly down and see her because I wasn’t sure she was gonna make it. He was silent during the very brief visit, holding her hand and just looking at her lying there, with a feeding tube down her nose and IV's stuck in both arms. On the way home from the hospital, he asked if we could make a stop. At a liquor store. Yeah. He came out with a bottle of Hornitos tequila and a six-pack of Dos Equis. I was stunned.

Me: "DUUUDE... how can you even THINK of pounding down so much booze after seeing Mom in the hospital, pickled and comatose on cheap vodka?"

Him: “Don’t worry, I’m a big boy, I know what I’m doing”.

He flew home the next day.

It was the last time he ever saw Mom. In early 2005, she was languishing in a nursing home with another feeding tube stuck in her belly (see my previous essay titled ‘The Long Pink Tube’). I drove up to where he lived in Northern Cali to try and drag him down to see her before she died, but no dice, he refused to go. I soon learned that he too was extremely ill, liver failing and stomach ulcerated and weight shedding from his frame. He couldn’t bring himself to see her in the final throes of her life, because it would have been a cruel mirror, reflecting his own pending demise. Mom died in April, Chuck seven months later in November. I reckon his actions made sense to him, but I didn’t understand it then. I certainly do now.

But guess what? As stupid and cruel and pointless as Chuck’s self-destructive behavior was, it pales in comparison to the incredible goodness of his heart, the way he ALWAYS put the needs of others above his own, how those he cared about were the center of his attention, often to his own detriment. His loyalty and friendship and love wasn’t in vain, as demonstrated by the hundreds of people in attendance at his memorial service, a standing-room-only affair that was filled with laughter and tears and a really great soundtrack. Six years gone now, I recall someone had suggested that his mini-truck be parked out front of the chapel, windows down with the stereo blasting Metallica, as if he had just stopped in for a minute. Did that happen? Can’t remember… was in too much pain… but if it did, it RULED.

Chuck was a music freak like me, and he was the one who turned me on to bands like Grand Funk Railroad, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple… rock stalwarts of the early 1970’s. For some reason, it took his early-adopter musical taste to get me hooked, and that hook is still set deep and strong. The really funny thing is that he absolutely LOVED The Jackson Five (5ive?) during their heyday, a fact that he was loathe to admit as an adult. Yep… a total J5 fanboy. T-shirts, posters, every album and 45 they released. He knew every word to every song and played them incessantly on his crappy little record player, their vinyl banned from my badass (ha!) turntable.

To burnish his musical fanaticism, he attended literally hundreds of concerts in his lifetime, surely more than anyone I’ve ever known. He collected souvenir t-shirts from those shows, and although I don’t know what happened to them once he’d passed, I know his closet was filled with concert t-shirts on hangars. He wanted to be able to grab one with precision if the subject came up and could tell you the date, place and level of inebriation he attained during the event. Although he was always what I would consider a heavy-metal/hard-rocker type, his tastes began to range widely in later years. During my last few visits to his home, I found music by Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Los Lonely Boys, stuff like that. His last musical crush was on songstress Diana Krall, whom he’d seen once in concert and became obsessed with her look, her sound, her style.



You know, I don’t want this whole thing to sound maudlin, but the more I think about Chuck, the more I keep getting images of him in my head, memories both banal and special. Weird. Chuck was a big guy, owing to the gene pool from Mom’s side of the family. When I say he was big, I don’t mean he was a fat slob or anything like that. He was mebbe 6’3” or thereabouts and somewhere North of 250 lbs. at his best fighting weight, but he’d fluctuate and began to shrink as he grew ill. For most of his life, he was a big, burly mammoth dude with a full beard and semi-long wavy hair… I always likened him to a Mexican Steve Reeves. At family campouts and gatherings, Chuck was ‘The Enforcer’ and used his imposing hulk as a warning to outsiders looking to crash the festivities. In reality, he was an extremely kind and gentle soul, only showing aggression when he was drunk.

What really drove me towards this subject was the darker side of Chuck’s life, the internal struggles and torment that gave him the rationale for his downfall. I think it really started when he was only about 14 years old and got kicked out of Dad’s house after lots terrible behavior and trouble. He stayed with friends for a while, then crashed at my apartment and used it has his party central. I’d come home at 1AM from my swing shift job and find him and a bunch of his friends, all wasted and sprawled on the living room couch and floor, the refrigerator emptied and a heavy cloud of pot smoke filling the room.

I never found out if he could have gone back to Dad’s on his own accord, but once Dad moved to Northern Cali, that option was eliminated. Methinks Chuck took the ousting as a serious rejection, one he never got over. Eventually he moved to Northern Cali and worked in Dad’s restaurant, but the jagged little pill of rejection had grown into a massive spinning carbuncle of razor blades, shredding his insides so badly that only copious amounts of booze and pot could numb the pain.

There’s more to the story… much more than I want to delve into now. Suffice it to say that Chuck was slaying demons his entire life, both real and imagined, and he was only partially successful. During that horrible summer of 2005, after Mom died and before he followed suit, my wife and I were sitting in his living room, talking and laughing and working hard to be upbeat. He was jaundiced and ill and had bright yellow eyeballs and his skin was only slightly less yellow. With her typically direct manner, wife asks “So… Chuck… knowing your health situation and all, was it all worth it? All the booze and drugs and partying… was it worth it?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “HELL YES it was worth it. I’ve spent my life partying and working and going to concerts and being with my friends and having fun. If my life is over, so be it. At least I’ve had a great time while I was here.” I remember thinking he was speaking with a bravado that masked his fear of death, but that was him to a tee. He rarely lifted the curtain on his secret personal life, always giving off the air of confidence and self-assuredness. He wanted others to view him with respect and admiration, regardless of the truth he held closest to his soul.

I would only see him alive once more, lying in a hospital bed after yet another bout of alcohol poisoning, boasting that he’d be able to get a liver transplant and would beat the odds by getting sober once and for all. Didn’t happen. Sucks.



Here’s the really funny part of all this: I UNDERSTAND. The whole arc of Chuck’s life makes perfect sense to me, all of it, start to finish. I sit and think of him and remember flashes and images and scenes. The summer vacation road trip when, as a 9-year-old, he held the map the whole time and calculated the mileage between each of our stops, dead-nuts every time. The half-hearted attempts to get him interested in the Indian dancing activities that our Boy Scout troop excelled at, which he HATED. The rare vinyl records I had stashed in my apartment closet which he snagged and sold to buy more weed and beer. The glasses of milk and half-eaten bologna sandwiches he’d stash under his bed for days until the stench got Dad’s attention. The washed-out Polaroid image of him and me, aged around 5 and 9, wearing scratchy new sweaters, Mom in her Red dress, all standing in our Grandma’s driveway in East LA, beaming on a Sunday morning.

The apartment neighbors from Oklahoma who were convinced the baggie of oregano he’d sold them was Class-A weed.

The ’71 Chevelle he and his friends painted Flat Black with spray cans, a car that barely ran but sure looked BAD-ASS rumbling down the street.

The video of my in-car racing driver school sessions he constantly ran in his restaurant, telling his friends ”DUDE… THAT’S MY BROTHER!”

The way he looked on his wedding day, decked out in a light Blue tux with tails, wearing white sneakers.

All of it. His incredibly loud laugh, the same one I let loose out of my own big pie hole. His goofy smile and angry scowl and the passive stoney stare when he HAD you, man. OK, now it’s getting to me, so I think I’ll stop before I go all gooey and start to weep like a little girl. Yep, there will never be another one like him, and I dunno if that’s good or bad, but it doesn’t matter. Like all those who I’ve loved that are now gone, he is with me right now, telling me to get bent, blowing smoke in my face and laughing that laugh.

Each of the songs I've posted in this essay were played at Chuck's memorial, and whatever they meant to me before, they now bring him closer to me each time I hear them. He did that to people, weaseling his way into their hearts and souls until they NEEDED him in there, man. Like a junkie needs a fix.

I miss him. Dammit.



'Samba Pa Ti' by Santana, 'Temptation' by Diana Krall, 'In My Life' by The Beatles, 'I'll Be Around' by Joan Osborn... todos muchismas gracias de YouTube. La Puente scout image, muchismas gracias de Manuel Macias.

Sarah Palin Is A Good American

“Appreciation is a wonderful thing: it makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well.” – Voltaire, French philosopher and writer (1694-1778)

One of the greatest gifts in my life has been the ability to understand and appreciate those with whom I may have little if anything in common. It has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with my foundational belief that no matter your race/creed/color/political/sexual/ philosophical orientation, we are all just Bozos on this Earthly bus and simply want to live our lives to the maximum before we take the dirt nap. That appreciation allows me to love the family and friends with whom I share almost no like-mindedness.

Former Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin is the perfect example of a person with whom I seemingly have not a single molecule of agreement with on anything, but nevertheless appreciate and find endlessly fascinating and entertaining. For those who know me personally, via Facebook or this blog, that statement may come as a surprise, because my status as a Hardcore Progressive Liberal DemocRAT would have me at complete odds with anything that Ms. Palin would say, think or do. They would be 100% correct in that observation, but it would also mean I have a one-dimensional, single-minded view of this new Conservative American icon, and I most certainly do not.

When Grampy McCain blew up the 2008 elections by choosing her as his running mate, no one could have known the scope of her impact on the national psyche. She was brash, beautiful, polarizing and the perfect foil to spoil Barry’s huge Denver nomination party, held the night before her presentation to the national stage. She sucked the air right out of the Obama campaign, and they fought like mad to counter her dramatic visage right up to election night. It was Grampy's Hail Mary pass, and he succeeded in making the Presidential election a very close race with her by his side.

Fast-forward three years and look at what’s happened. Sarah has become a Conservative firebrand, a media darling, the Teabagger heroine, a political gadfly of the highest order. Just the mention of her name sparks intense adoration and/or hatred, and the kind of buzz that modern politicians have tried to generate since the Kennedy-Nixon debates. There’s been lots of thoughtful analysis about why she’s had such an impact on our media and political discourse. Some have said it’s because Conservative women dream of being her, while Conservative men dream of having sex with her. She is their ideal, their manna, their godhead… they idolize who and what she is, what they believe she stands for. Many Republicans publically dismiss her, but secretly they fist-bump her efforts and silently cross their fingers that she will keep doing exactly what she's doing.

Before I go any further, let me be clear on where I stand regarding Sarah Palin: I think that she is a dangerous moron, a barely-educated simpleton who has no business being a political icon, let alone a person who should consider herself suitable for the office of President of The United States of America. Her worldview is based on extreme religious fundamentalism, bumper-sticker rhetoric and a lack of inquisitiveness that makes George W. Bush look like a Rhodes scholar. I shudder to think of her wielding actionable political power... she wears her ignorance and venality like badges of honor. She inserts her overwhelming dumbness into every aspect of our modern political dialog, spewing the kind of regressive word-salad moralizing that marks her as a truly awesome idiot.

WHEW… now I feel better.

All that said, it does not lessen her importance to our political discourse. As much as it pains me to admit it, she has a strong resonance with a segment of our society that actually believes her regressive ideology. Her coronation as Queen Teabagger is a direct result of her influence, and this can be a powerful tool for liberal progressives when trying to figger out what makes her tick, if they would bother to hold their noses and look closely. As has been happening all over the country since the election of Barack Obama, conservative ignorance, lies, fear and hatred of ‘the other’ has yielded massive gains in Republican power from local city councils to the halls of Congress. Sarah Palin has tapped into the fear-mongering quasi-Reaganish ‘American Morning’ baloney that conservatives want to believe is the American ideal.

And that’s why I understand and appreciate Sarah Palin, because no matter how vehemently I disagree with her, I also believe that she is a Good American.

We have a two-party political system in this country and, as much as the Teabaggers (who are in truth just severe-Right Republicans), the Greens, the Peace and Freedomers, Whigs and any others might bitch and complain, it’s really all about Republicans and Democrats. Sorry, that’s just the way it is at this point in time. We practice a form of scorched-earth adversarial politics that has become truly awful and heartless and vicious. Everyone demonizes everyone else, and it tends to push moderates of both parties into one extreme camp or the other. Once that push is done, it’s easier to convince the faithful of either party that the other side is hell-bent on destroying them. It’s all so childish and poisonous, but it works.

Sarah has staked out her territory on the farthest edge of the Far Right ideology, and it doesn’t matter what the issue is, you can know with certainty where she’ll stand on it. She has every right to do so, and the people who support her have every right to do so, too. It makes me crazy to see them flail around in their blinded sense of purpose, but it is of no consequence to them. She is simply fulfilling The American Dream, and for that I am truly thankful. She offers us evil libruls an excellent benchmark of crazy conservatism, and I’m sure we provide the opposite-side same for them. That is a good thing, because it offers context for both sides as a measurement of the other. How we interpret the context is another matter entirely.

For most Lefties, Sarah is the perfect example of unfettered conservativism run amok. For many Righties, she is a magnificent standard bearer of the one true American way. I view her with a mixture of contempt and awe and admiration, because I see in her the best (and worst) of what our country is made from, of what makes us vital and strong, even though I know to my core that her political philosophy is dead wrong. I also know that she views DemocRATs, liberals and progressives as a treasonous cancer that must be smashed into submission and forced to follow her God-approved Amerikkan values. She certainly does not view President Obama as a Good American… she likely doesn’t even think he’s an American citizen at all.

She would definitely not consider me a Good American. I am a staunch defender of every woman's right to decide for herself whether or not she wants to give birth. I support marriage equality, no matter the sex of the people involved. I reject the concept of organized religion or religious dogma of having influence on our government in any way, shape or form. I support an expanded immigration policy that promotes and supports immigrant rights and provides a streamlined access towards citizenship. I support national efforts to eliminate oil and petroleum products as the central aspect of our energy policy. I reject the antiquated concept of gunboat diplomacy when dealing with our international allies and adversaries. I support increased restrictions towards individual gun ownership, sales and use.

You get the picture. In each case, Sarah Palin supports the diametric opposite view, and because of that I am not a Good American, at least in her eyes. I honestly think she is so severely limited in her world view that she can't even imagine the merits of opposing viewpoints. It could also be a clever ruse, but I doubt she is that calculating. I firmly believe she is who she purports and presents herself to be.

It is a sad fact that highlights the current and unfortunate differences between conservatives and liberals, Republicans and DemocRATs. For the most part, liberals will accept their opposites as simply having a different viewpoint, will try and rationalize that difference and see how a consensus can be developed. You know... pussies. Not so with modern conservatives, who openly seek to destroy every vestige of liberalism, remove the liberal dialog from the national conversation and prevent it from having any impact on the New Conservative American Morning. Don't believe me? Try watching Fox News for a day and you'll get a face-full of the 'search and destroy all liberals' message every minute, every hour, all day long. Ew.

Will Sarah run for President in 2012? My gut feeling is a resounding NO, because her track record of work experience shows her to be a weak leader, ready to cut out at the first sign of trouble or distress or difficulty. I believe she likes the position she holds right now, because she can spout and fume and bloviate and screech whatever her pea-sized brain can generate, and she’ll be paid handsomely for those pea-sized fulminations. She’ll have no real responsibilities, can rake in the Benjamins and avoid doing any real hard work… you know, like reading and stuff, also. Too.

I kid.

I want Sarah to go for it, to run for President of The United States of America. She's a Good American, and I thank her for having the chutzpah to jump into the deep end of the political pool. As much as I disagree with her regressive policies and insane theocratic vision for our nation, I have a deep appreciation for her willingness to put herself out there, to suffer the slings and arrows, to bask under the intense heat of our dubious electoral process. She seems to revel in it... I reckon any political figure these days has to, otherwise, why bother? I have often considered running for local political office, but I have far too many skeletons dancing in my closet, am too liberal and outspoken, tend not to pull punches. I would not make a good politician in these perilous times. I don't want to wear a target when surrounded by 'patriots' with guns, knowwhatImean?

But Sarah and me... we are both Good Americans, even though I don't reside in the 'Real America' that she panders to. Sarah may think I am the enemy, the anti-American, the problem which must be eliminated, but that's OK. In this country, we can have our individual opinions and speak and write them (mostly) with immunity, with freedom, with salience and conviction, without fear of retribution. If Sarah had an understanding of our individual rights regarding free speech and the First Amendment, maybe she would focus on that learning thing a bit more before she opens her pie hole and once again demonstrates that stupid is as stupid does.

Yep, Sarah may be dumber than a bag of rocks, but it doesn't change the fact that she is a Good American. Just like me.


'Stupid Girl' by Garbage vid, Gracias de Youtube; Sarah Palin image Gracias de treehugger.com.

Enchiladas: Like Heroin, Only Tasty and Nutritious!

"Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon." -- The Dalai Lama

Since I'm in the process of trying to write a Mexican food cookbook, I figgered with the length of time it might take to write/edit/re-write/re-edit/fund/publish/distribute a dead tree-based document, why not throw a morsel out and see who jumps in to scarf it down like a hungry wolverine (wolverines are COOL).

This recipe is the culmination of years devoted to experimentation, disastrous outcomes and piles of half-cooked food tossed into the dumper because I lost focus and messed it up. That, plus some really good advice from my Dad. Thankfully, the reader will benefit from my mistakes and, as long as the recipe is followed somewhat closely, the result will be KILLER ENCHILADAS. Natch, there are countless versions of this dish, all of which will be claimed are better and/or more authentic than mine. Guess what? I DINNA CARE. This one works for me, and as long as my wife likes my enchiladas, I am a happy wolverine.

INTRO
The amazing dish known as enchiladas (en-chee-la-das) is one of those multi-purpose players in Mexican cuisine that is delicious when prepared correctly, horrible when prepared incorrectly, and subject to change without notice if cooked without the right planning and/or ingredients.

Basically, an enchilada is a corn tortilla that has been briefly fried in oil, dipped in a sauce, filled with cheese and other assorted ingredients, then rolled into a tube. For the classic recipe, a whole bunch are made up and laid into a roasting pan side-by-side, where they are drenched with more sauce and cheese, then covered and baked before being served to a table of hungry wolverines.

There are popular variations to this basic recipe, which include Sonora-style (tortillas stacked like pancakes with a fried egg on top) and chilaquiles (chee-la-kee-les), a Mexican home-cooking favorite that is basically an enchilada casserole. Both of these variants will be detailed later, but we’ll begin with the traditional classic rolled enchilada. Once you have this recipe down, it will be requested for EVERY pot-luck lunch or dinner you are invited to for the rest of your life. Have no fear… your enchiladas will RULE.

UTENSILS:
Short stack of cloth kitchen towels (NOT the good ones!), deep fryer or high-sided frying pan, medium-sized sauce or frying pan, dinner plate, 13”x 9”x 2” roasting pan (or disposable aluminum equivalent), various large cooking spoons, cooking tongs, spatula, aluminum foil, cold beer, peanut gallery

Note: I use a Presto 'Fry Daddy' deep fryer for all my recipes that require deep frying. I'm on my second one, as the first finally packed it in after frying zillions of tortillas. It was hard to let go, being a gift from my wife and all, but the new one was only $30 from Wal-Mart. I've made funnel cakes, fresh tortilla chips (NOM!) and fried shrimp in it. If you like to cook Mexican or fried foods, this unit is a good investment in kitchen appliances.

INGREDIENTS:
Three (3) dozen fresh (packaged, non-frozen) corn tortillas, 2lbs. Cheddar or Longhorn cheese, four (4) cans of chopped Black olives, one (1) each large and small can of Las Palmas (or your favorite) ‘Mild’ enchilada sauce, vegetable oil, cooking spray, onions (if you must), additional stuffings (pre-cooked beef, chicken, pork, chiles, etc.). If you use frozen corn tortillas, which I do quite often, separate and lay them out on towels until they thaw completely, which only takes about 15 minutes. Be sure to flip them over a few times during the thaw and keep them as flat as possible.

WORK STATION:
This is one of the more complicated (but not difficult) Mexican food dishes to cook and assemble, but with the right tools and workstation layout, the process goes quite smoothly. In fact, I sometimes draft my wife to assist with making a big batch of these, although I can perform solo with no problems – it’s just more fun with two.

My kitchen is laid out with a stovetop on my left and sink on my right, with a counter top in between. As I am right-handed, I work from left to right with the cooking and assembly, laying out the utensils with my assembly strategy in mind. I also like to cover the whole countertop area with cloth towels to lessen any spillage mess. Hey, we’re cooking, right?

PREPARATION:
1. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.

2. Grate 1lb. of cheese, empty all four cans of chopped olives into a single container, chop your onion, unwrap the corn tortillas and fan them out on the counter to allow any excess moisture to evaporate. Stash the cheese and olives in the fridge until right before you start cooking.

3. Pour the large can of enchilada sauce into the saucepan and simmer for around 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. This is an important step, as you must cook the sauce down a bit before it will be thick enough to properly coat the tortillas. Be sure to give it a taste and season as you wish, or add a little water if too spicy for you and yours… no shame in avoiding an end product that no one will enjoy because it’s just too spicy.

4. Line your roasting pan with aluminum foil and spray the bottom and sides with cooking spray. If using a disposable tray, you can eliminate the foil but be sure to spray the pan anyways.

5. Once the sauce has simmered and is ready to use, plug in your deep fryer, add 2 inches of oil and wait a few minutes for it to heat up. To test, drop a small bit of tortilla into the oil – if it begins to sizzle crazy and cook right away, the oil is hot enough to begin. If using a frying pan, add the oil and heat up on medium-high until the tortilla bit sizzles as described.

6. Set out the cheese, olives, onions, stuffing meats and chiles on your workstation to prepare for assembly.

7. Take one long swig from your cold beer, wave to the peanut gallery watching, and get ready to roll!


(Click to play cool cholo-style recipe-reading music)

LET’S MAKE ENCHILADAS!
1. Using the cooking tongs, immerse one corn tortilla into the oil, allowing it to cook for about 5 seconds, then grab and flip it around and cook for another 5 seconds. Once done cooking, grab the tortilla and hold it over the fryer to drain off any excess.

2. Immerse the cooked tortilla into the enchilada sauce, covering it completely – no need to turn it over. Once coated, GENTLY lift the tortilla from the sauce and place it on the dinner plate.

3. IMPORTANT – wipe off any excess sauce from the cooking tongs NOW before you make the next enchilada. You DO NOT want to dip the tongs back into the oil with sauce still on them unless you enjoy hot oil splattering all over your head and shoulders. If you have two sets of tongs, use one each for the oil and sauce – otherwise, DON’T FORGET TO WIPE (heh heh heh).

4. Take a small handful of cheese and place it in a line onto the sauced tortilla, adding a small amount of chopped olives and any additional chiles or meats you want to include, but do not overfill. Using your hands, gently roll the tortilla over and around the filling. You have just made an enchilada!

5. Using a spatula, pick up your newly-rolled morsel and place it into the roasting pan.

6. Wipe your hands off, and repeat these steps until you have rolled enough to make one complete layer in the roasting pan. Carefully ladle additional enchilada sauce from the pan over the entire layer, then continue until you have rolled all three dozen corn tortillas… it’s OK to layer them into the pan. You may need to grate some extra cheese during this process, but it will be used anyway, so no worries. If the sauce begins to run low, empty the small can of sauce into the pan and simmer for 15 minutes before continuing. Have another beer.

7. When the roasting pan is full of your rolled enchiladas, ladle some more of the sauce on the top layer, cover the whole shebang with more cheese and scatter the remaining olives over the cheese.

8. Cover the pan o’goodness with aluminum foil, place into the pre-heated oven and bake for 30 minutes. The aroma of your efforts will drive you mad with enchilada desire after about 15 minutes, but be patient… soon come.

9. Remove from the oven, uncover and serve to the assembled ravenous wolverines. AMAZING.

SONORA-STYLE VARIATION
The process for making Sonora-style enchiladas is similar to the classic rolled style, but instead of rolling each tortilla with cheese and other goodies and placing them in a pan, lay each sauced tortilla flat on an oven-safe dinner plate and sprinkle your cheese and stuffings in a thin layer on top, then place another sauced tortilla on top of that, continuing on until you have a ‘short stack’ of flat enchiladas. Make up enough plates for your dinner guests, then stash them in a warm oven to melt down the cheese while you fry up a few eggs, sunny-side up or over-easy. Remove the plates from the oven, sprinkle the stacks with cheese and olives, then lovingly place a fried egg on top of each stack and serve. ZOWIE!!

CHILAQUILES VARIATION
According to people who know these things, the enchilada variation known as chilaquiles (chee-la-kee-les) is the real old-school recipe for enchiladas, all done in one frying pan. There are two justifications for this simple method: 1) what else can you do with leftover enchiladas, and 2) can you image a mamacita rolling up dozens and dozens of enchiladas for her entire family while the kids are running around and papacita is calling for another cerveza (beer) and the abuelitas (Grandmas) have just arrived for dinner? I don’t think so.

If you have leftover enchiladas and want to do something different with them, just chop and toss them into a hot frying pan with a little oil, cook until crispy on the edges and serve. To make them from scratch, this recipe is a simple casserole consisting of corn tortillas, enchilada sauce, cheese and olives – other chiles and meats are best left as side dishes, and you’ll understand why once you’ve made these for the first time.

UTENSILS:
Short stack of cloth kitchen towels (NOT the good ones!), large frying pan with lid, spatula, another cold beer

INGREDIENTS:
Three (3) dozen fresh (packaged, non-frozen) corn tortillas, 1lb. Cheddar or Longhorn cheese, two (2) cans of chopped Black olives, one (1) each large and small can of Las Palmas (or your favorite) ‘Mild’ enchilada sauce, vegetable oil

WORK STATION:
Unlike the rolled enchiladas, this dish is prepared in one large frying pan, so with the exception of having a few kitchen towels around, the workstation is all about your stove top.

LET’S MAKE CHILAQUILES!
1. Cut the corn tortillas into chip-style triangles – the best way is to take a stack of tortillas, cut them in half, then cut each half-stack into three sets of triangles.

2. Grate the cheese and prepare the olives as before.

3. Place your large frying pan on the stove top and heat up for a few minutes on medium.

4. Pour a few tablespoons of vegetable oil into the pan, allow to heat up for a minute and place the tortilla triangles into the pan. Toss the tortillas a few times to coat them with the oil and cover the pan.

5. For the next 20 to 30 minutes, remove the lid and toss the tortillas and cover again every 5 minutes. After a bit, the tortillas will begin to brown slightly and start crisping up, but this is a good thing! You may need to add a bit more oil to the pan while the tortillas are reaching cooked mega-deliciousness. While we’re not making tortilla chips, it is important for all the triangles to get thoroughly cooked and firm for the sauce and simmer stage coming up next.

6. When the tortillas are semi-crispy and slightly browned, sprinkle a handful of cheese over them and toss until the cheese is melted.

7. Open a large can of sauce and SLOWLY pour over the tortillas. There will be some spatter and mess, but it will be minimal if you take your time. Gently turn over the tortillas until the sauce has integrated throughout, allow the sauce to begin a medium simmer, then reduce the heat to a low simmer and cover again.

8. During the next 30 minutes, remove the lid every 5 minutes and gently turn the tortillas before covering again. You will see the sauce begin to cook down the liquid and the remaining sauce will become thicker and richer. DO NOT STIR THE MIXTURE – gently toss. This is why the tortillas were cooked so much before the sauce was added, otherwise the whole thing will turn to mush. Tasty mush, but mush nonetheless.

9. When you are satisfied with the consistency of what is now officially chilaquiles, reduce the heat to LOW, place several handfuls of cheese on top to cover the mix and sprinkle on some olives. Cover and let sit for another 5 to 10 minutes or until the cheese is completely melted.

10. Pop that lid, breathe in the aroma of the gods and SERVE!!!!!!

LEFTOVERS
Something my wife discovered after the first time I made her a batch of traditional enchiladas: THEY MAKE AWESOME LEFTOVERS. Naturally, a second or third meal from all your cooking efforts is a welcome surprise, but our personal favorite is to munch them served with eggs. Whether for breakfast, lunch or dinner, this combo is hard to beat.

I know… it may sound a little weird, but you have my personal guarantee on this – fry up a couple of eggs, heat up any leftover enchiladas or chilaquiles, toast up some bread and plate it all up with some sour cream and cheese and YOU WILL BE HAVING THINGS. You know, wolverines love fried eggs.



So... enchiladas. Mexican soul food. One of the singular best delicacies I have ever stuffed into my pie hole. When I make them, I feel closer to my Aunt Peggy and Grandma Silva and Dad and all the people who instilled me with a deep and abiding love of this style of cooking. Make them... eat them... savor them... love them.

El sabor de mi vida loco.

Videos of 'Viva Tirado' by El Chicano and 'Sabor a Mi' by Eydie Gorme y Trio Los Panchos, Muchismas Gracias de youtube; image of enchiladas and eggs by Oblio.

Dancing In The Dark

Several months ago, I wrote about how certain songs can push me into a mental time-slip, allowing me to instantly travel to a specific place in the distant past of my 55 years. I wish that I had some control over this phenomenon, but it just sorta sneaks up and goes BOOM when one of those songs drifts into my conscious state. I am powerless to stop it. I just let it roll and see what mental images, sights, feelings and emotions pop up from my gray matter’s hard drive.

As I’ve only recently discovered, the musical time slippage is usually keyed to a strong emotional happenstance. It doesn’t seem to matter if the connection is good or bad, pain or pleasure, because none of those emotions are wrong, they are just… human. Methinks they are what really separates us from the rest of the life forms on this small Blue Planet. At least, the acknowledgement of those emotions, because I believe there are many other life forms dwelling here that feel emotions, but are not quite capable of understanding the resonance they hold. Wasted effort compared to, you know, surviving.

‘Born On The Bayou’ by Creedence Clearwater Revival is one of those songs, and when I hear it I whip back to the same place, every time.

‘Born On The Bayou’, released on their 1969 ‘Bayou Country’ LP, had become a major hit for the band. As a fevered 8th grader at Willow Junior High School in Southern California, I was enthralled with this new ‘swamp rock’ sound, all moody and slow and a little sleazy and sexy. So it was no surprise that on a certain evening in late 1969 or early 1970, I was among a gathering of guys and girls who found themselves together, dancing in the darkened Willow choir rehearsal room to a stack of vinyl 45rpm singles, moving as only junior high schoolers can.

I don’t know if it was a normal practice for other teens in dem days, but for some strange and wonderful reason I remember being at lots of dance parties, sometimes at a friend's home or in a school cafeteria, and always with the ever-present chaperones hovering on the fringes. This time, though… I cannot recall there were any adults around, and I remember the electricity in that beautiful darkened room. There was likely a single bank of accent beams glowing just to keep the place from going totally dark. Oh yeah.

I remember the girls were all cute in that junior high way, wearing mini-skirts or culottes or some other junior high-approved fashion of the day. We guys had crushes on the girls, and I’m sure they knew it and played us like little fiddles. All we knew was that cute girls were dancing with us, fast and slow, and they smelled good and moved good and were smiling and laughing and clapping their hands and spinning around and flinging their hair and they made us a little crazy.

And there we were, perhaps three dozen guys and girls, about the same age of 13 or 14 years young, dancing and moving and flirting and swaying and posing and trying to be cool. Most of us knew each other, so there was no veil of anonymity. We’d done this before, so the familiarity helped with the mood of friendly teenage lust, the kind junior high schoolers used to have all the time before rampant libidos and unfettered freedom and electronics smashed down the borders we shared. There we were, dancing, and one song ended and the next single dropped onto the spinning platter and the needle drifted gently down and clicked into the groove.

That’s when the magic happened. I will never, ever forget it.



(Click to play for a relevant sountrack)

The first sounds of ‘Born On The Bayou’ are a stretched guitar chord that morphs into a sequence of notes and chords, and it slowly choogles into the melody, pure rock sexuality. We had been dancing in a scattered fashion all over the place in that barely-lit room. But for some reason, when this song came on, something came over us. As the intro filled that room, we began to form two long lines, one of guys, one of girls, facing each other with about ten feet between us. No one spoke, no one said ‘HEY… let’s get in a line!’ Nope, nothing like that... it was unspoken and it just happened. We were all dancing in place, and the guys were facing the girls who were facing the guys. Our parents would have recognized the set-up for ‘The Stroll’, but we knew nothing about that. It just happened.

The song was swampy and sexy and we all danced facing each other across that ten foot space. Then, without a word, one guy and one girl at the far end dropped into that space and began to dance side-by-side and slowly danced to the far end of the line, then took their place in line again. How we all seemed to move in synch evades me now, maybe we weren’t in synch at all, but I remember everyone swaying and dancing in a weird unison. The ‘inside’ couple were a matched pair, shuffling and dancing along between the lines, with the rest of us whooping and clapping and doing the same where we stood. Eventually, it came time for me and my female other to ‘drop in’ and so we did. I think during that 5-minute plus song, we rotated thru the lines at least twice, each couple taking the limelight in a room with very little light. When the song ended, another single dropped and began to play, and the lines scattered and some of us danced and others went outside or went… someplace else?

Why this song, this moment, this memory? What made it so special that I whip-saw through time when this song plays? Was I smitten with puppy love for one of those cute dancing girls? I know that sometime during that party, one of those girls and I snuck into the small adjacent storage closet and necked for a few minutes… nothing serious, just goofy French kissing and, you know, necking… nothing more. For the life of me, I can’t remember who it was, but I know that I was over the moon for the rest of the evening, and her sweet perfume stuck to my Pendleton shirt like the nectar of the gods. How many other couples snuck off like we did, creating a vibrant memory or (more likely) none at all?

I don’t remember who all was dancing in that room, but I know they were all my friends, my classmates, guys I liked and girls I wanted to ‘go around’ with. I know that many of them were among my classmates in high school, and mebbe I even dated a couple of the girls when we got older. Some of them disappeared into the time/space continuum, never to be seen or heard from again. I can sit here at my keyboard, close my eyes and see the choir room and people dancing, but the 41 intervening years have fogged the names and faces in my mind's eye, perhaps now gone forever. But the two lines dancing, the moving, the necking, the music... it never fades, never leaves me, always stays with me and offers a mental anchor to another time, another place, another person that was me.

Was it a simpler time? My first reaction would be 'Yes', but it's really a matter of measure. Compared to our parents, we were all little rebels with flared pants and untucked shirts and hair over our collars, or too-short skirts and nylons and heavy eyeliner and mebbe a pack of smokes hidden in our locker. We thought of ourselves as awkwardly unique, as so totally different and misunderstood. Such has it always been for each succeeding generation of youngsters who sneer and sniff at the previous pack, all old and responsible and, you know, parental.

I'm glad that I was in junior high in 1969 and 1970, because now I know that it was a time of major change and upheaval, of so many new things to see and touch and eat and love and hate and want. It was all good, and I was barely a teenager and every day was filled with youthful anticipation. And now, as I recall those teenage minutes and hours and days, I get it. It is with me instantly, every time I hear 'Born On The Bayou' and the guitar chords progress and time slips and I am once again in that darkened choir rehearsal room, dancing and laughing and feeling strange and gawky and alive. Just like right now.

Choir rehearsal room image, Gracias de chestnutst.org; 'Born On The Bayou' vid by Creedence Clearwater Revival, Muchismas Gracias de youtube.com. Keep On Chooglin'.

NASCAR Is Not Evil

A great quote often attributed to Ernest Hemingway goes like this: "There are only three true sports – bullfighting, deep-sea fishing, and motor racing. Everything else is just a game."

I am a motorsports fan. I love almost every form of two- and four-wheeled racing, with the notable exception of motocross, which bores me to tears. Road racing is my passion… open-wheel formula and closed-wheel sports cars make my eyes spin just watching them slice from apex to apex, exhaust blasting and dust flying and bits of exotic rubber shredding off at every corner. I’ve been fortunate to spend time at the wheel of many different types of road and race cars during track days, autocrosses, off-road tours and racing driver schools. Driving a race car on-track is third on the list of things I enjoy most during my life’s waking hours.

That’s why I wince whenever another racing fan disparages NASCAR as not being ‘real' racing. It’s a very common feeling among fans who believe their series is far superior than anyone else’s, and nowhere is that divide more pronounced than between the road racers and the oval racers. Think the Farmers and the Cowmen. The Skiers and the Snowboarders. The Hatfields and The McCoys. The Conservatives and the Liberals. You know… a simmering resentment that borders on (and sometimes turns into) open hostility. Thankfully, there are some of us who look at all racing disciplines (including motocross) as a uniquely vibrant symbiosis of man, machine, science, chance and luck.

NASCAR racing, and the premier Sprint Cup Series in particular, is a singular example of that symbiosis… professional racing that has been cooked down to its most brutal and elemental format. There are many people, including hard-core race fans, who don’t seem to grasp the nature of classic oval racing that is central to NASCAR’s existence and popularity. “All they do is go fast in a circle for hours and hours” is the most common criticism of the genre, which is woefully uninformed about the incredible effort it takes to go fast in a circle, sometimes for hours. A bit of understanding goes a long way towards gaining an appreciation for the sport. Let me help.

The most popular lore about NASCAR’s history refers to mid-20th century Southern moonshiners in their souped-up cars outrunning the revenooers while trying to deliver their cargo of White Lightnin'. While this historical episode is absolutely true, the oval racing phenomenon has its roots much, much further back… back to horse races at 19th century American county fairs, to the bareback match races in dusty Arabic town squares, to the chariot races and nascent Olympic stadium foot races in ancient Rome and Greece. Yep, it goes that far back, and the connection is not just passive. Men have competed in the oval format, with and without their mounts, for millennia. It is human nature to test ourselves against each other in a closed-course environment while spectators cheer and drink and gamble and fight and puke and enjoy the spectacle.



A modern top-echelon Sprint Cup racing machine is NOT a 'stock' car, even though NASCAR stands for ‘National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing’. The name harkens back to 1949 when the organization was formed and they really did race cars that were essentially stock or barely modified for competition. In them days, the racers also had guns and knives and fistfights in the pits so the they could handle on-track disagreements, and they were lucky to win enough prize money to pay for their race expenses, especially if a car got wadded-up. These days, like all other mainline professional sports, it’s all about The Benjamins for the mega-bucks multi-car teams with expensive equipment and personnel and rigs and sponsors that demand free tickets and team clothing and fresh flowers on each hospitality center table while they dine on gourmet food.

Today’s Sprint Cup race car is a purpose-built, handcrafted, tube-framed, metal-clad, mega-horsepowered speed device that owes its existence to science, technology, human endeavor and sheer madness. The cars are an exercise in building a machine to stringent technical specifications which allows them to reach speeds in excess of 200mph while competing with 42 other cars on the track at the same time. Depending on which track they're at, their engines can produce as much as 800 horsepower. Their eggshell-thin sheet metal bodies are formed and tweaked and massaged to reduce drag, increase downforce and promote aerodynamic efficiency. The chassis is fabricated from thick-wall metal tubing that can withstand a crash where an impact can measure to 100 times the power of gravity, or 100G’s, all while protecting the flesh/blood/bone driver strapped inside.

Once the cars are inspected to ensure they meet the technical and safety specifications, the driver proceeds to lap the track as fast as the laws of physics will allow. The science involved is the part that has me so enamored with racing in general. Combustion. Torque. Friction. Gravity. Geometry. Inertia. Momentum. Aerodynamics. Thrust. Thermal expansion. Deterioration. Turbulence. Calculus. Metallurgy. Chemistry. The mind reels at the complexity involved in order to ‘go fast in a circle, sometimes for hours’. My years working in the performance tire industry taught me about how tenuous the connection is between the tire and track surface at the limits of adhesion. The tire tread surface literally melts when it contacts the ground at speed, morphing into a gooey patch that just barely maintains friction, keeping the car moving forward but almost losing the safety of friction-based traction. SCIENCE, BABY.



Another distinction of the Sprint Cup Series: these are endurance races, as opposed to a shorter ‘sprint’ races. Most of the oval races are 400 or 500 miles long, with a 600-miler run at Charlotte (NC) each year on Memorial Day weekend. The smaller ovals usually run lap counts as opposed to miles due to their slower average lap speeds (100mph is slow?), but the challenges are no less daunting. This format is unique to NASCAR, as the US-based open-wheel and sports car series run only a few high-mileage endurance events each year.

The endurance nature of the NASCAR events are where the real racing challenge happens. Visualize this: 43 cars and their teams have qualified for a race, and they all compete at maximum speed on the track at the same time, requiring multiple pit-stops for new tires and fuel… FOR 500 MILES. Each lap is another opportunity to mess up and crash or get spun out. Each pit stop is another opportunity to get it wrong, drop the car off the jacks before the tires have been mounted, stop in the wrong pit (yes, it happens), drive into or out of the pits too fast, run over a tire or air hose or some other infraction and incur a penalty. And always... always, there is the chance for mechanical failure. There are myriad ways a race can go into the dumper, and it all happens while the race is progressing at high speed.

The ever-present danger that accompanies NASCAR competition brings with it an edge that fans and spectators are hesitant to admit is like a narcotic. While it’s been almost a decade since the last spate of crash-related deaths in the series, the chance for a horrific accident is always there, waiting to snatch the life of an unlucky driver while everyone watches. Having witnessed life-ending race crashes in person, I can speak from personal experience – it changes you.

Remember the comparison I made earlier to the chariot races in Rome? Modern technology has made the racing vastly safer than even 10 years ago, but like Steve McQueen’s character, race driver Michael Delaney, said in the classic movie ‘Le Mans’: “Auto racing is a professional blood sport. It can happen to you. Then it can happen again” When asked why men race and risk death, he responds, “Racing is important to men who do it well. Racing is life. Everything before and after… is just waiting.”





On the negative side of the typical NASCAR Sprint Cup extravaganza, there is a real over-the-top true-blue American carnival atmosphere to the events, and the entertainment aspect has begun to make it seem just a wee-bit saccharine, a tad contrived, a little overly-patriotic. Most of the drivers now have to be clean-cut corporate shills, always remembering to name-check their sponsors while on camera, have cookie-cutter cute blonde wives, love God and country and bow their heads in prayer during the pre-race invocation. Gone are the rough-and-tumble types that built the sport from a strictly regional series. The sanctioning body also has a reputation for meddling with qualifying results and making questionable calls during the races. Yes, sometimes the races can be boring if one team hits the right set-up and runs away from the field, stinking up the joint. All that is true, but overall, it's still the real deal.

The TV broadcasts are another matter. Sometimes the commercialism involved with the sport can be overbearing, with sponsor logos on absolutely everything. In fact, there are times that the racing action is limited to only half of the screen, with the rest taken over by the running order scroll, banner ads, several screen 'bugs' and at least three different sponsor logos. A recent development has the race in a small screen portal with no sound while the commercials are rolling, mostly ads with the drivers hawking everything from auto parts to furniture rental to boner pills. Sometimes we'll record the race and watch it later that day or the next, speeding through the commercials and turning a 3-1/2 hour broadcast into a much more viewable 2 hours. I'm not the type to go bonkers if I find out who won before I watch the damned thing... at least not all the time.

As I write this essay, the 2011 Daytona 500 is only hours away and, thanks to a newly-repaved track surface, race official's meddling and last-minute changes to the cars, it seems as if there will be a very odd type of race, where two cars can 'pair-up' nose-to-tail and run almost 10mph faster than the field. The practice and warm-up races have yielded an unfortunate race strategy, so it remains to be seen what will happen on Race Day. Oh, I'll watch it all right, even though I have a sinking feeling the race will wind up with a bunch of paired-up cars drafting around the track, all keeping their distance from each other so they can make it to the last few laps and then shoot it out for the Checkered Flag.

That's what happens sometimes. I've also seen boring football and baseball games, but methinks even if the Daytona 500 is less than stellar, the next race will see the competition get back to normal.

NASCAR racing is not evil, is not dumb, does not ask the fan to think too hard, but offers limitless opportunities to revel in the classic American sport of stock car racing. Yes, they race at high speed in a circle for hours, but when you have a better understanding of the challenges involved, it creates a drama and excitement that few other sports can equal. Make it a point to give NASCAR racing some of your valuable time, and remember the incredible amount of science involved, the sheer courage required, the risk of death and the reward of finishing First. It might... just... snare you. You're welcome!

UPDATE: As I suspected, the 2011 Daytona 500 turned into a race dominated by two-car drafting pairs, which were able to lap faster than individual cars or an entire pack of them. The drivers were allowed to communicate with each other via their on-board radios so they could set up their strategic pairings while whizzing along at 195mph. Although I was disappointed at this turn of events, the race was really exciting and yielded a surprise winner: 20 year-old Trevor Bahne, racing in only his second Sprint Cup race. Driving the Wood Brothers #21 Ford, Trevor was fast all day, drafted like a champ and held off several veterans to capture NASCAR's crown jewel. It was the first win in 10 years for the Wood Brothers team, who last won the 500 in 1979.

I am not a fan of this new type of 'drafting pair' speedway racing, yet I know it will happen again the next time they visit Daytona in July and during both upcoming races at my beloved Talladega (boo hoo). I reckon I'm old skool in many ways. I figger that every car is out there to beat every other car. When drivers can work together to gain an advantage, whether they're on the same team or not, well... that just doesn't seem to be in the spirit of ANY type of motor racing. The reviews on the race were mixed. I dinna like it. Oh well... that's racing!

'Thunder Road' trailer, Michael Waltrip In-Car Camera clip, 'Ben Hur' clip and 'Daytona 2009 Finish' clip all MUCHISMAS GRACIAS de youtube.com. Talladega image courtesy of markjbelis.com.

Happiness Is A Warm Gun

So, the next Great Debate is upon us: our national obsession with guns and violence. Yep, all it took was another in a long series of ostracized outsiders/lone wolfs/mentally unstable yahoos with a Glock and 31 Wal-Mart bullets to cap a bunch of citizens in a grocery store parking lot. This time, tho… Fine Young American Jared Loughner had the bad luck of choosing Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords as his primary victim, so he’s gonna get hammered by the legal system no matter how crazed or demented his mental state was/is. Thankfully, Gabby is getting better every day… all my positive vibrations go out to her and the other survivors. I grieve for the dead and their families.

This situation leaves me with a feeling of disgust, because although there is mewling and bloviating and screeching from all sides on this horrid crime, we’ll likely see nothing of substance change with regards to gun ownership, sales, registration, shows, accessories… nothing will change. I’ll be gobsmacked if ANYTHING gets through the Congressional Star Chamber to alleviate this firearms firestorm.

But that’s not what has me contemplating my navel right now.

What has me mystified is this: what is it about guns that has such an addictive hold on so many of our citizens? Why do people feel the need to arm themselves with enough weaponry to stage a small coup? What is the mindset that pursuades people to strap a heater on their hip and mosey into a coffee shop, daring someone to question their ‘freedoms’? What is the attraction of posessing the capability to end another human’s life with the simple pull of a trigger?



I’m not gonna wade into the legal and political issues of gun ownership. What intrigues me is the personal and philosophical side, the muse that beckons, the siren’s call to hold and caress and fuss and fawn over an instrument of instant death. How romantic, eh? This is an important distinction, because although I am by no means a gun guy, I understand the nature of our society, one that has at its very core a deep and abiding love of the speeding bullet. It is pervasive. It is apparent in every aspect of our modern culture, our media, our collective psyche.

If you doubt that we are a gun-obsessed nation, watch a few hours of network television on any given night and count the number of times you see a gun being pointed and/or fired. It might surprise you to see it over and over and over and over. Even the commercials make it a point to show the gun… point the gun… shoot the gun. Are you and/or your kids fans of video games? If so, sit down with your collection and count how many of them are first-person shooter games. Do you have a movie collection? Count how many of them have a central character that will ultimately resolve the plot development using a firearm.

Pervasive... ingrained... ubiquitous.

OK, maybe you don't agree with my premise, which is counter to popular opinion, especially knowing there are almost as many weapons as there are people in this country. However, my goal here is to help myself understand the gun thing... if the reader gets a tiny nugget of clarity as well, then I am a Happy Camper.

First and foremost, guns are for killing. They are designed, manufactured and sold with only one capability: to render lifeless that which is at the receiving end of the bullet thrown at high velocity from the end of the barrel. Yes, you can use it for hunting or target shooting or Russian Roulette (a.k.a. 'self-protection'), but it really doesn't matter what the individual purpose may be. It doesn't issue warnings or threats, it doesn't convince or cajole or demand, it doesn't posit or pontificate. It's a gun... it's designed to kill. That's why I prefer my version of the old saying, "Guns don't kill people. People with guns kill people." Dying by bullet is a crappy way to go, because it was another human being who pointed that gun and pulled the trigger.

I've often commented that if we treated gun ownership in the same way we treat automobile ownership, i.e. educating, testing, licensing, registering, insuring, re-testing, restricting... we'd be much better off. That concept illicits howls of derision and contempt from my gun-owning friends, who mostly feel that there should be absolutely no oversight to their weapons fetish. "Dude, it's in the Second Amendment! Besides, cars kill people too!" I love it when they say that, because my first comment is that cars are designed to transport humans and cargo... they typically only kill when the humans involved fail at their task. My second comment is to ask if they've actually read and understand the Second Amendment to The Constitution as it relates to gun ownership, but that's another essay entirely.

When I was in Boy Scouts, I earned my Marksmanship merit badge by learning proper gun etiquette, demonstrating my prowess on a gun range with a variety of weapons, and answering questions about handling them. In later years, I would have additional chances to blast away at targets and junked cars, but for some reason the gun bug never bit me. I've never owned a gun, never had the desire to own a gun, never had the situation where I needed a gun for self-protection. I only have to think about guns when confronted by someone else carrying one or when I have to walk in front of the business next door that sells semi-automatic weapons to large males driving large American trucks with large piles of ammo cases in the back.

Typical Gun Ownership Rationale #1: The Second Amendment to The Constitution of The United States of America.

'A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.'

The Second Amendment was written before this country had a standing military or local police forces (Thanks, socialistic tax revenues!), and it's a subject that could be argued for days. Suffice it to say there are wildly divergent ideas about the meaning, intent and interpretation of The Second Amendment. You may already know where I stand on it. I'll not belabor the issue here.

Typical Gun Ownership Rationale #2: Self-Protection.
My life has been negatively impacted by guns exactly twice: 1) when my two Uncles were killed in a shootout with police after a failed grocery store robbery, and 2) when my gang-banging cousin was capped on a SoCal street. That's it. In both cases, the individuals were exercising poor judgement and wound up, you know, DEAD. Of all the other family and friends that I know (or know of), none has ever been threatened or in a dangerous situation where they needed a heater in their hand. I'd submit that the vast majority of gun owners fall into this category as well. Where you live, what you do, the company you keep... all these things can increase your chances of needing or being at the receiving end of a gun. (I bet that went over well, right?)

My gun-owning friends, of which there are many, all say the same thing: "HA! Wait until you need to protect your home from an intruder, or someone holds you up, or you're attacked. Then you'll wish you had a gun!" My response is always the same: "So... how much time of each day do you spend worrying about something that, as statistics prove, will most likely never happen to you?" When I start asking them if they are also constantly worried about driving on the freeways or of a ladder accident or eating raw seafood-- all circumstances that are far more likely to cause injury or death -- they insist that I am changing the subject. BANG ZOOM!



Typical Gun Ownership Rationale #3: Personal Freedom (Part 1).
In this case, as it relates to the notion of 'open-carry'... that is, the ability to carry a unconcealed and unloaded weapon in public. The open-carry proponents argue that if everyone was armed, no one would be a victim (?!?!). That if there had been more armed citizens in Tucson on that fateful Saturday, fewer people would have been shot and killed. That an armed populace encourages lawful behavior. These rationale demand adherence to the idea that 'our freedoms' give us the legal right to carry a piece in public... anytime, anywhere. Don't like it? Don't tread on me, friend.

I live in Orange County, California... a bastion of Deep-Red Republicanism with a seething hatred of taxes, President Obama and 'them damned illegals'. I do not live in a war zone. I do not live in a crime-ridden city. I do not live in Tombstone, Arizona circa 1880. I also just found out that it is legal to open-carry in this lovely slice of the country. I DO NOT WANT GUNS ANYWHERE NEAR ME, DAMMIT!!!! Unless you are a law enforcement officer grabbing coffee or giving me a ticket, keep your death stick away from me. There is no sane or logical reason for anyone OTHER than law enforcement to pack open heat in The OC. Honest!

My new awareness of local open carry was raised via a recent gathering of Open-Carry OC, a patriotic bunch who decided to gather with their warm guns at a local breakfast spot on a Saturday morning. Their goal was to demonstrate that their 'freedoms' are law-abiding and perfectly normal. As you can guess, they knew exactly what the reaction was going to be. Some people were supportive, but most were upset that their morning family ritual was exposed to gun-toting strangers creating a stir in the 'hood.

The eatery Manager, unaware of the event until it happened, made the right choice and asked the Po Po to stop in, grab a java and make sure all the weapons were unloaded. No bullets in chambers, but the law doesn't say they can't carry ammo, only that the weapon be empty. Open-Carry OC makes the point on their website that although an unloaded weapon isn't much good, "it only takes 2 seconds to load and be ready for action". Nice. Eventually, Eatery Manger asked the OCOC boys and girls to hit the road, as they were pissing off his customers and making a scene. He VERY brave. Again, that was exactly what OCOC was hoping for... they were prominently featured in a Sunday paper article the very next morning.

Scenario: I am inside The Daily Grind waiting for my Joe to come up when someone walks into the room with a gun holstered on their hip. I have three choices: 1) ignore the gun, avoid eye contact with this Fine American and hope like hell my order is almost ready, 2) smile and ask the Fine American if the piece is unloaded or, if unsure about my safety, ask the Manager to inquire or call John Law, or 3) immediately exit the building, hopefully with my coffee, but at the very least, with my life.

I don't know this armed individual. I don't know if he/she is sober or drunk or drugged or stoned or angry or crazy or depressed or suicidal or hates my shirt or thinks I cut him/her off in the parking lot or that I look too much like his/her ex-spouse or whatever. What I do know is that I am now in the presence of someone who, if they so choose, can instantly kill me with no discernable reason or explanation. Is the gun loaded? What, you think I'm gonna ask?!? I certainly ain't gonna stand there, ignore the death stick's presence and calmly wait for my coffee. Nope, me sees a gun, me exits the room, PRONTO. My personal 'freedom' to buy an overpriced hot beverage has been taken away by a stranger who decided today was the day to strap-on and feel like a god. My choices are now subjugated, my safety is in question, and my decision could make the difference on whether I live or die.

Leave your gun at home, where it belongs. In a civilized society, is that too much to ask? The answer, apparently, is YES.

Typical Gun Ownership Rationale #3: Personal Freedom (Part 2).
This time, it's the concept of owning as many weapons as you get your hands on. The gun hoarding thing is really, truly confusing and scary. However, we are a nation who loves excess in all things, as demonstrated by our other national obsession: food. All-you-can eat pancakes... triple-meat cheeseburgers topped with pastrami... 3-cheese pizza with cheese baked into the crust... 40-ounce soft drinks... the Double Down. We'll stuff absolutely anything into our pie holes and go back for more, burping and belching and scarfing down antacids in anticipation of the next round. No wonder a third of our citizens are clinically obese.

Same for the gun thing. There are many among us who feel their only means of protecting themselves, their family and belongings is to amass a cache of weapons. These are the true believers, the ones who are sure their government is hell-bent to turn them into Socialist zombie-slaves. They might be living next door and you'll never know they have dozens and dozens of firearms, some likely loaded at all times just in case the Tax Police try to knock down their door and send them to indoctrination camps.

I kid... but not really.

The people I read about who actually do have a weapons cache are the quintissential anti-government types who think they will be compelled to fend off an un-American assault on their freedoms by the Communist/Fascist/Socialist/Marxist/Muslim/Usurper/Illegal Alien Comrade Obama, so they are READY. It doesn't matter that the facts don't support their reality... perception is 9/10ths of reality, so perception WINS!

But seriously, the gun hoarding seems to be a reaction to baseless fears and anxiety of 'the other', which is a uniquely American pasttime, as noted in the fine cartoon posted earlier in this essay. Hey, if having one gun is cool, having twenty is downright chill. I have heard a personal story about someone's ex-spouse where gun hoarding had gone to the extreme, which included dozens of loaded weapons stashed in the attic, buried in the backyard and several stashed in the bedroom. Why? Well... WHY NOT? I can't think of anything more conducive to rowdy wedded sexuality than loaded guns under the bed, can you?

Maybe it's simply a matter of going to excess, and if that's the case, so be it. It's been going on for quite some time now, and we are all familiar with the news stories about local police finding a massive collection of wepons in a seemingly quiet neighborhood home. The locals all tut-tut how they never had a clue about their neighbor's predeliction to collecting firearms and how shocking it all is. It could also be a reaction to the crazy directionless world that seems to surround us all, and the pile of warm guns gives us a feeling of security and safety.

Whatever. I... just... don't... get it.

So here I sit, having peeled my brain open to seek an understanding of the American gun lust. I'm not sure if I am any closer to gaining any insight, but at least I finally have a firm grasp on MY perspective, which was the point all along. As a hard-core Radical Progressive Liberal Democrat, I will always champion the notion of an individual's right to own weapons, but within reason and with a hefty dose of social consciousness and civility. As a human being, I am apalled at the casualness of our relationship with the death sticks and the destrucion they cause, but I dinna expect anything to change in my lifetime. As a Father and Son and Husband and Grandfather, I hope like hell that I never again suffer the loss of another to a bullet.

Guns are an integral part of The American Psyche, and anyone who thinks that banning them will solve the problem is fooling themselves. Ain't gonna happen. On the flip side, anyone who believes that the government is trying to take their guns away is just not paying attention. That fact is confirmed by a massive gun-buying spree from sea to shining sea, and sales of 9mm Glocks, just like the one used to pierce Gabby Gifford's brain, are breaking records because the citizenry are certain that they'll soon be separated from those lovely death sticks.

I hope that somewhere in this mass of words, my perspective has offered a note of clarity. I don't seek to change anyone's mind about guns, only to create a space for introspection and consideration. It's what we humans do best, next to polluting our planet, procreating and killing each other. But HEY... like I always say, every day above-ground is a great day.

As always, your comments are most appreciated, but PLEASE... put the piece away first!



'Happiness is a Warm Gun' by The Beatles, 'A Brief History of America' from Michael Moore's 'Bowling For Columbine' and 'Saturday Night Special' by Lynyrd Skynyrd, all via www.youtube.com... Girls with guns image courtesy of www.freakingnews.com