The 'L' Word

                  

Note: this essay has once-again been updated from it's original posting in 2012, because reasons.

I AM A LIBERAL.

There… I said it, and I meant it. Don’t like it? Too bad for you, boo hoo.

It’s not easy being a LIBERAL these days because the meaning and inference of the word LIBERAL has been cast as a red flag, a scarlet letter, a degrading moniker to be assigned, ridiculed and dismissed with malice. With all due respect, I beg to differ (with thanks to www.dictionary.reference.com):

“lib•er•al (adjective) 1. favorable to progress or reform, as in political or religious affairs. 2. noting or pertaining to a political party advocating measures of progressive political reform. 3. of, pertaining to, based on, or advocating liberalism. 4. favorable to or in accord with concepts of maximum individual freedom possible, especially as guaranteed by law and secured by governmental protection of civil liberties. 5. favoring or permitting freedom of action, especially with respect to matters of personal belief or expression: a liberal policy toward dissident artists and writers. 6. of or pertaining to representational forms of government rather than aristocracies and monarchies. 7. free from prejudice or bigotry; tolerant: a liberal attitude toward foreigners. 8. open-minded or tolerant, especially free of or not bound by traditional or conventional ideas, values, etc. 9. characterized by generosity and willingness to give in large amounts: a liberal donor. 10. given freely or abundantly; generous: a liberal donation. 11. not strict or rigorous; free; not literal: a liberal interpretation of a rule. (noun) 14. a person of liberal principles or views, especially in politics or religion.”

For context, here is the same source’s definition of ‘conservative’:

“con•serv•a•tive (adjective) 1. disposed to preserve existing conditions, institutions, etc., or to restore traditional ones, and to limit change. 2. cautiously moderate or purposefully low: a conservative estimate. 3. traditional in style or manner; avoiding novelty or showiness: conservative suit. 4. of or pertaining to the Conservative party. 5. having the power or tendency to conserve; preservative. 6. a person who is conservative in principles, actions, habits, etc. 7. a supporter of conservative political policies. 8. a member of a conservative political party...”

Am I missing something here? After reading through both definitions, I can't think of a personal philosophy that would suit humanity better than being considered LIBERAL.  I know this much: nothing short of (another) lobotomy would convince me to schwing over to the Dark Side and embrace conservatism. Only removing the remaining portions of my frontal lobes and cerebral cortex would do it.

I choose to live by the precepts set forth in the popular definition of the word LIBERAL. I strive to integrate these concepts into every aspect of my life. To do any less seems mired in the smelly goo of Dark Age regressivism.

I AM A RADICAL PROGRESSIVE LIBERAL.

I want a political system that serves the interests of ALL the people. In our ADD-addled country, we need to make sure we govern with compassion and strength, with wisdom and empathy, with intelligence and humor and maturity. I dream of the day when our current brand of scorched-earth adversarial politics will be replaced by a lively consensus government made up of people from all walks of life, from every income level and every strata of our great country, but where money does NOT buy influence or votes and is no longer a viable political weapon.

I AM A MEXICAN-AMERICAN LIBERAL.

I want true equality among the many vibrant lines of ethnic heritage that make us the most diverse and unique country in the world. I hope to live long enough to see our country become a place where, as Bob Marley wrote, “the color of a man’s skin is of no more significance than the color of his eyes.” Before I take the dirt nap, I hope the last vestiges of racism and racial inequality will be tossed into the dumpster of history, replaced by the reality that we are indeed 'one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.'

I AM A PRO-CHOICE FEMINIST LIBERAL.

All women must have complete bodily autonomy, and be released from the primitive shackles of forced childbirth and unwanted children. I want every woman who CHOOSES to give birth to do so without having to worry about their health and well-being, and that they will never want for food or clothing or shelter or healthcare or education. Every young girl should have a path to create any future they choose, whether at a jobsite or in a racecar or as a homemaker or in the Oval Office or in orbit around Mars. Young girls need to learn in school that they will grow up to be a woman in control of her own destiny, equal to boys in every way (even though she knows she really is better than any smelly boy hee hee).

I AM A FREETHINKING SECULAR LIBERAL.

I want practitioners of every religion, spiritual philosophy and belief to know they have the freedom to hold that faith close to their heart, knowing they will never be branded as ‘the other’ simply because of the icon they wear around their neck, the piece of cloth on their head or the house in which they worship. At the same time, our government must also be strongly secular in thought, word and deed in order to ensure that no single faith holds sway over any other faith, nor against those who choose to hold no sectarian faith at all. 

You know, like ME.

I AM AN EQUALITY-LOVING LIBERAL.

I want every LGBTQ+ person to be considered as an equal to everyone with whom they share this country. Ask me if I chose to be heterosexual and my answer will be “I didn’t choose to be hetero... I just am.” It eludes me how anyone could convince themselves that our LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters chose their sexuality and the terrible stigma of hatred and vilification that comes with acknowledging and asserting their sexual identity. What are we… ignorant rabid wolverines? As my religious friends like to say, ‘God don’t make no junk.’

I AM A CAR-WASHING, LAWN-MOWING LIBERAL.

I support all people from other countries who come to our shores to seek freedom, earn a living, pay taxes, support their families and make a life for themselves here, regardless of their nationality. We should be grateful to anyone who chooses the United States as their homestead, and make it far easier for them to gain their legal status and citizenship, if that's their desire. No human being should ever be classified as ‘illegal’, and every immigrant who works hard at their job is as vital, as needed, as important as any American citizen. No matter what job a new émigré takes on, they are an important cog in the giant machine that drives our common fortunes forward, adding to the foundational strength of our nation.

I AM A BLOOD-DONATING LIBERAL.

Every single person living in this country should never be without affordable, accessible and competent healthcare, no matter how much or how little money they have stuffed in their mattress. We must strive to ensure that no one ever lies awake at night, worrying about how they'll pay for the hospital and doctors and nurses and specialists that are caring for them or their loved ones. When a college grad strikes out on her own, she should be able to do so knowing that her dreams won't be stymied by an unplanned illness or accident or pregnancy that could devastate her savings and livelihood. When we all share in the costs to support universal healthcare, we all reap the benefits of a healthy, happy and motivated society of non-rabid wolverines.

I've been called many degrading and insulting names in my lifetime. I suspect we all have at one point or another,  and recent events have me thinking about how casually we tend to label those with whom we have alternate points of view. Our current seething political brouhaha has created an environment that incites name-calling, whether justified or not. 

Think about it: if you're a conservative and want to offer a dismissive categorization of the opposite thinker you're jousting with, no word is better suited than calling them a LIBERAL and then crossing your arms and smiling... job done, NAILED IT. It doesn’t work the other way around. Trying to stuff someone by calling them a (gasp!) CONSERVATIVE gets nothing but blinking eyes and a sense of ‘Yeah… and?’ I’m often confused about how The ‘L’ Word came to wield such negative force.

I'm not ashamed to call myself a LIBERAL.  I'm not concerned when someone calls me a LIBERAL, whether their intention is upbeat or not, and I don't shrink away from it.  It is what I am, and since words matter, I'm more than pleased the active online dictionary defines the word LIBERAL in such a positive manner.

I'm proud to be a LIBERAL.

Conservatives will never stop trying to poison the waters with their vilification of all things LIBERAL, but that's just how they roll, innit?  They fear change, they fear the unknown results of doing things differently.  They like everything being the same as it always was, because it is a known known.  The problem with conservative philosophy is the stagnation that results from never changing, doing things the same way, day after day, year after year.

"Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future.” ~ John F. Kennedy

For myself, I'll keep on pushing for the egalitarian, diversity/equality/inclusion-infused society that I will likely not live long enough to experience.  I'll strive to support anyone who sees injustice, inequality and unfairness as the old way of doing things, the way that I do every day as a self-proclaimed LIBERAL.  I'll continue to educate myself with the facts of modernity, while never ignoring the past for fear of repeating it.  

I AM A 100% MOTHERF**KING LIBERAL.

Don’t like it? Too bad for you, boo hoo.



Lead image, gracias de Google Images; ZZ Top "I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide" and Johnny Cash "The One On The Right" videos, muchisimas gracias de youtube.com. Ride the wild surf!!

Them Changes

I have an announcement to make.

With my 70^th birthday right around the corner, it’s important to be open about a fundamental transition I’ve made in my life as a cisgender male. Transitioning is never easy and often misunderstood, even by those who claim to be open-minded. It’s a change that society mostly rejects, as it goes against social constructs and the perceived ‘way things should be'.

I’m happy with the immediate impact it’s had on my life, and I hope that my family and friends will understand.

With the approval of my wife of 40 years, who loves and supports me in every way, this essay will be my declaration to the world about my choice. So here goes:

I’ve decided to no longer urinate from a standing position, and have transitioned to urinating from a sitting position on the toilet.

THERE… I’ve said it.

This realization was long in the making. The tipping point came one day about six months ago while I was cleaning the bathroom I normally use… she uses the Master bathroom, mine is off the hallway. I’ve cleaned bathrooms my whole life and have written about this important activity before.

https://gortnation.blogspot.com/2010/12/hi-my-name-is-bob-and-im-cleaner.html

I was cleaning and wiping down the toilet when I realized something, maybe for the first time: when a guy pees from a standing position, tiny drops of water and urine splashes on everything – the toilet rim, the seat, the seat lid, the floor, the tub and curtains adjacent to the toilet – literally everything within a foot of the bowl gets splashed with watery urine.

Think about it: peeing while standing is quick and easy but it also means the urine stream falls about two feet to the bowl water, impacting the surface and causing tiny droplets to eject up and out of the bowl. 

SCIENCE. 

Not my bathroom.

I thought to myself, “It doesn’t have to be this way!!”

From that day on, I’ve peed while sitting down and haven’t regretted it. The transition didn’t take long, but I learned that old habits are hard to break. I’ve also had additional thoughts about this fundamental life change.

While urinals seem to be an easy answer to the splash quotient, most of them exist only in public places and unless you're careful, splash-back still occurs and impacts your clothes and the adjacent fixture separation walls. A quick look at those (usually) metal walls often display corrosion and peeling paint due to the caustic nature of human urine. Males have blithely pissed in urinal stalls for decades, seemingly unaware they’ve been splashed by their own piss.

I once worked at a job where the Men's bathroom urinal stall walls were unusually close to the fixture, and they were so corroded by piss that they looked like an ancient archeological dig.

Standing while urinating, whether in private or public, also subconsciously demands the act be completed quickly in order not to have one’s genitalia exposed for too long, a fear endemic to nearly all males. In addition, rushing the act of urination also increases the chance of miscellaneous drippage of leftover urine, which occurs more frequently as men get older and the prostate gets lazier. Underwear mitigates the problem, but just barely. I reckon that's the role underwear plays, right?

                                         

As an aside, I’ve never understood the poor ergonomics of 'briefs' underwear with the front flaps to allow the standing pee to occur with an unzip and reach through the flap. I hated wearing those 'tighty whiteys' as a kid, never used the flap and stopped wearing them 50 years ago. They're still wildly popular and sold everywhere.

This I know: shaking it two or three times before stuffing and zipping is no guarantee against drippage, unless you don't care.

Also too, I have an unnatural fear of being an old man who smells like pee.

Now that I urinate while sitting, I'm more relaxed and able to take my time, releasing the initial flow, then waiting a few seconds for my aged prostate to reset and let that last bit go. In addition, my bathroom no longer has the faintest whiff of piss, even if I miss a regularly scheduled cleaning. 

Liberating might be a bit of overstatement, but maybe not. I can wipe! No more splashing! No more dried urine spots on the floor!

We recently watched an episode of the streaming series ‘Girls’, where two of them were talking while one was on the toilet.  After some conversation, the one not peeing asked the other, “Are you done yet? Why are you still sitting on the toilet?!” The other says “Yes, I’m done, but I like to wait and make sure every last drop is gone. It makes me feel confident I won’t have any leakage.” 

YES.

I’ve read this sitting-while peeing phenomenon has been adopted by some men who've been asked by the women they cohabitate with to please sit while peeing so as not to make a mess. This ask can create discord and emotional havoc if the male involved allows his ego to resist the change. Choices… amirite?

As I age and my soft machine’s functions ramble on towards eventual malfunction, I try to stay connected to my physical self and make the changes needed to continue to be a successful and happy human. 

Sitting while peeing seems like a small thing, but the transition has given me more context about my conscious existence.

"Life is funny... skies are sunny... bees make honey." - Alvin Lee, '10 Years After' guitarist, songwriter (1944-2013)

“It may seem difficult at first, but everything is difficult at first.” – Miyamoto Musashi, swordsman/philosopher/artist (1584-1645)

All images, Gracias de Google Images; Buddy Miles 'Them Changes' video, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.

"If the shoe fits..."

                  

When The Artist and I saw the movie ‘Conclave’ during its theatrical release in 2024, we knew it would be an Oscar contender. It was an amazing film to watch on the big screen, with a thought-provoking storyline, an excellent cast and stunning cinematography.

I loved the movie, and it resonated to another film I’ve cherished since I first saw it at The Star Theater in La Puente (CA) during its theatrical release in 1968. 

‘The Shoes of the Fisherman’, a geo-political thriller based in and around the Vatican, stars Anthony Quinn as Kiril Lakota, a Ukrainian Catholic Bishop and political prisoner, who is challenged with far-reaching questions of faith and humanity. 

Released from a Siberian gulag after 20 years of hard labor, he is tapped to become a Cardinal, then unexpectedly finds himself elected to be Pope after the sudden death of the previous pontiff, all while the world is on the brink of famine, global conflict and imminent nuclear war.

I was twelve years old when I sat in that theater, absorbing complex philosophical issues that were already percolating in my junior-high school brain. I went to see it two more times to make sure I understood the larger messages it presented. 

The Star interior. The colorful Mardi Gras wall graphics were cool and kinda creepy.

The film spoke directly to me... good films will do that. The Star Theater, a quasi-historic building, was demolished in 2019. So it goes.

In 1968, I’d just begun the journey of leaving my religious faith behind, inhaling library books about the world I lived in and wild science-fiction stories about a future I could only dream of. 

The process of de-coupling from Catholicism was fraught, and at first I struggled with the notion of becoming a non-believer. My struggle was very similar to a young priest in the film whom Kiril befriends, a writer accused of heresy by the church for highlighting the conflicts between traditional spiritual faith and modern reasoned skepticism. 

‘The Shoes of the Fisherman’ was recently scheduled for cable broadcast, along with several other biblical films like ‘The Ten Commandments’ and ‘The Robe’. The Artist recorded it and we watched it (appropriately enough) this past Easter Sunday morning. I whipsawed between the prescient themes it presented, the thematic similarities in ‘Conclave’ and its reflection to our current reality.

I haven’t stopped thinking about this film, especially given the state of play in the world today.

My youthful journey away from religious belief was bolstered by a 'religious' film that spoke to the dichotomy between faith and reason. It helped me to understand where my skepticism came from and why it mattered. 

Having the ability to follow a life path without religious faith is one of the benefits of free will. Living in that mode has filled me with joy, love, empathy, compassion and understanding for other people, especially those who choose a different path.

The messenger may change, but the message never does: remember your humanity, and forget the rest.

I’m grateful that Anthony Quinn embodied such an intelligent and thoughtful human as Kiril Lakota in ‘The Shoes of the Fisherman’. He gave me license to explore thoughts about my own existence, and act accordingly.

Be like Kiril.

5 Stars.

'Star' images, gracias de Google Images; 'Shoes of the Fisherman' and DEVO 'Gates of Steel' videos, muchisimas gracias de YouTube; DEVO was right all along!

POETRY MAN

Back in the long-ago of 1967, I was a 6th-Grader at Lassalette Elementary in La Puente, California.  A few times during that year, our class had opportunities to order youth-oriented paperback books from a service called the Scholastic Book Club. 

There were lots of titles to choose from, but I bought only one book that year. It was a book of poetry, first published in 1966, titled 'Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle... and Other Modern Verse' (Dunning/Lueders/Smith). I think I paid thirty-five cents for it. 

I didn't know this book was an award-winning anthology, or that it presented modern poetry in a way that would appeal to young people, or that it would become a classic and widely used in high-school curriculums. It just looked interesting.

I literally inhaled the book. It changed me, and fundamentally changed the way I looked at the world. I even memorized a couple of the poems and can still recite them at the drop of a hat.

This past Christmas, The Artist gifted me with a beautiful hard-bound edition of 'Reflections', and I've now read it several times. I'm finding great pleasure in leafing though the pages and reading a random poem out loud.

Here are several of my favorites. They still move me in ways that I would not have expected, just like they did when I was in 6th Grade.

A note from the book's Forward:

"Read each poem slowly. Give every poem a chance to speak to you. Reread. Read aloud. Make your ears and your eyes work on each poem. Expect to find surprises - then read slowly enough to enjoy them."

How to Eat a Poem  (Eve Merriam)

Don’t be polite.

Bite In.

Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that

may run down your chin.

It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are.

You do not need a knife or fork or spoon

or plate or napkin or tablecloth.

For there is no core

or stem

or rind

or pit

or seed

or skin

to throw away.

Why Nobody Pets the Lion at the Zoo  (John Ciardi)

The morning that the world began

The Lion growled a growl at Man.

And I suspect the Lion might

(if he’d been closer) have tried a bite.

I think that’s as it ought to be

And not as it was taught to me.

I think the Lion has a right

To growl a growl and bite a bite.

And if the Lion bothered Adam,

He should have growled back at ‘im.

The way to treat a Lion right

Is growl for growl and bite for bite.

True, the Lion is better fit

For biting than for being bit.

But if you look him in the eye

You’ll find the Lion’s rather shy.

He really wants someone to pet him.

The trouble is: his teeth won’t let him.

He has a heart of gold beneath

But the Lion just can’t trust his teeth.

Resume’  (Dorothy Parker)

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren’t lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

August from My Desk  (Roland Flint)

It is hot today, dry enough for cutting grain,

and I am drifting back to North Dakota

where butterflies are all gone brown with wheat dust.

And where some boy,

red-faced, sweating, chafed,

too young to be dying this way,

steers a laborious, self-propelled combine,

and dreams of cities, and blizzards –

and airplanes.

With the white silk scarf of his sleeve

he shines and shines his goggles,

he checks his meters, checks his flaps,

screams contact at his dreamless father,

and, engines roaring,

he pulls back the stick

and hurtles into the sun.

Ancient History  (Arthur Guiterman)

I hope the old Romans

Had painful abdomens.

I hope that the Greeks

Had toothache for weeks.

I hope the Egyptians

Had chronic conniptions.

I hope that the Arabs

Were bitten by scarabs.

I hope that the Vandals

Had thorns in their sandals.

I hope that the Persians

Had gout in all versions.

I hope that the Medes

Were kicked by their steeds.

They started the fuss

And left it to us!

War  (Dan Roth)

Dawn came slowly,

almost not at all.

The sun crept over the hill

cautiously

fearful of being hit

by mortar fire.

Too Blue  (Langston Hughes)

I got those sad old weary blues.

I don’t know where to turn.

I don’t know where to go.

Nobody cares about you

When you sink so low.

What shall I do?

What shall I say?

Shall I take a gun and

Put myself away?

I wonder if

One bullet would do?

Hard as my head is,

It would probably take two.

But I ain’t got

Neither bullet nor gun –

And I’m too blue

To look for one.

The Garden Hose  (Beatrice Janosco)

In the gray evening

I see a long serpent

With its tail in the dahlias.

It lies in loops across the grass

And drinks softly at the faucet.

I can hear it swallow.

For a Dead Kitten  (Sara Henderson Hay)

Put the rubber mouse away,

Pick the spools up from the floor,

What was velvet-shod, and gay,

Will not want them any more.

What was warm, is strangely cold.

Whence dissolved the little breath?

How could this small body hold

So immense a thing as death?

Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from 

a Friend Called Felicity  (John Tobias)

During that summer

When unicorns were still possible;

When the purpose of knees

Was to be skinned;

When shiny horse chestnuts

    (Hollowed out

     Fitted with straws

     Crammed with tobacco

     Stolen from butts

     In family ashtrays)

Were puffed in green lizard silence

While straddling thick branches

Far above and away

From the softening effects

Of civilization.

During that summer –

Which may never have been at all;

But which has become more real

Than the one that was –

Watermelons ruled.

Thick pink imperial slices

Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues

Dribbling from chins;

Leaving the best part,

The black bullet seeds,

To be spit out in rapid fire

Against the wall

Against the wind

Against each other;

And when the ammunition was spent,

There was always another bite;

It was a summer of limitless bites,

Of hungers quickly felt

And quickly forgotten

With the next careless gorging.

The bites are fewer now.

Each one is savored lingeringly,

Swallowed reluctantly.

But in a jar put up by Felicity,

That summer that maybe never was

Has been captured and preserved.

And when we unscrew the lid

And slice off a piece

And let it linger on our tongue:

Unicorns become possible again.

Lead image courtesy of Oblio; 'Reflections cover, gracias de Google Images; Phoebe Snow 'Poetry Man' video, muchisimas gracias de YouTube; THANK YOU, KIM!!!!

MAGIC BUS

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic” – Arthur C. Clarke, science-fiction writer,  futurist

I’ve enjoyed almost 70 years of conscious existence on this small blue marble. A really good one was 1970, when I was a high school Freshman taking a Senior-level class in Cultural Anthropology at La Puente High School. 

I’ve mentioned this class in a previous story. Please humor me.

On the first day of school, I entered the classroom and saw a pile of desks in the middle of the room, with other students sitting or standing along the walls. The bell rang with no teacher in sight.

After a few minutes, I began pulling desks off the pile and setting them upright. Some of the other guys began to do the same, and soon all the desks were facing the chalkboard, with everyone seated. 

As if on cue, teacher Alan Eggleston walked in with a giant toothy grin and mocked us for being programmed by society to set up the desks in a culturally- acceptable schoolroom format. That first day set the tone for the next two semesters of serious, mind-expanding education.

This story is about a very special day in Alan Eggleston’s Cultural Anthropology class in September of 1970.

We’d been discussing the concept of human culture, how mankind developed it, and why certain benchmarks of that development were so vital. In preparation for an upcoming class project, Mr. E announced a field trip we’d soon be taking. Very early one Saturday morning, we piled into a school bus and rode East on the San Bernardino Freeway and into the desert, somewhere between Cabazon and Palm Springs.

The driver slowed down, crossed the freeway’s dirt median and parked the bus on the Westbound side of the road. We got off the bus and trekked up the gentle slope of the alluvial plain that stretched in front of us. We hiked about a half mile, far enough away that we couldn’t hear the cars cruising on the freeway below us. The bus looked small and distant.

We stopped walking and were surrounded by rocks and scrub. After a few quiet moments, Mr. E addressed us as a group, his words muted by the wide-open desert:

“OK, you know we’ve been learning about how early man struggled every day to survive and thrive, which required him to fashion the tools to meet those needs. We’ve also studied how he learned to make them out of the natural environment he lived in.”

He raised and stretched his arms out to the desert.

“This… is the kind of place where ancient stone tools have been found. Today I want you to make your own stone tool using anything you can find that's a part of this environment. Take your time, consider the tool, how you’ll use it, and let’s get started!”

The search began for each of us to find an appropriate type of rock that would flake off when struck by a harder hammerstone. We formed search groups, and within 30 minutes everyone had the materials needed to start fabricating their tool. I chose to make a large cutting tool for skinning prey, which needed a sharpened side to slice and a rounded side to grip.

We started working away, sitting on the ground or on top of large rocks. There were a few banged fingers and rocks that shattered on first strike. We talked and laughed and made comments about each other’s poor chipping method. Soon the talk and laughter stopped, and the only sound was that of humans chipping on rocks.

Mr. E walked among the group, watching us chip away, quietly suggesting better ways to use the hammerstone, assisting those who were struggling.

 I was making progress and my cutting tool was taking shape. Suddenly, I had a strange feeling... almost an epiphany. I looked up from my work and listened to the sound of humans sitting in the desert, chipping on rocks. It was an ancient, visceral, primeval sound. I became unstuck in time. This is what it sounded like twenty-thousand years ago, when the Chemehuevi or Serrano or Mohave or Cahuilla or Tongva people were inhabiting these desert places.

                          

I felt a connection to those ancient people... people I would never know, but whom had suddenly come as alive as the people around me here in the desert. I got emotional thinking those deep thoughts, and it took me a few moments to re-focus.

I will never forget that feeling.

Alan Eggleston knew exactly what I was experiencing: a psychic pull across two hundred centuries. That’s why we were here. That’s why this trip to the desert, and his class, mattered.

Eventually, the morning waned and the heat rose, so Mr. E called time on our work. We gathered around, discussing and comparing our tools and their uses, with surprisingly good results for a bunch of teenagers. We headed back down to the freeway, ate box lunches in the shade of the bus, then boarded and began the long drive back through time. 

There were other class projects during those two semesters that dragged us back and forth across centuries, connecting to a shared humanity and opening our minds to new ways of thinking. I've always felt lucky that Alan Eggleston was a guide in my Freshman journey, and grateful that he remained a valued mentor throughout my high school years. 

Several Junior and High School teachers were critical to my formation into a thinking, questioning and understanding human. Without them, I could easily have veered off in another direction. I owe so much to Ruth Pechota and Scott Mitchell (Willow Junior High School), Alan Eggleston, Jim Ellis, and Carlos Magallanes (La Puente High School). It’s impossible to imagine my education without them.

Education is the Magic Bus that takes us to places we can’t get to on our own. Teachers are the Magicians that guide us along the way. They're far more important than any politician, corporate oligarch or religious leader. 

Look to the teachers for the way forward, into the future with open eyes and an open mind.

“The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.” – Plutarch, Greek philosopher, biographer

“I can make you the hamburger, but I can’t eat it for you. You’ve got to eat the hamburger for yourself!” – Ruth Pechota, Social Studies educator

Bus, alluvial plain and ancient peoples images, Gracias de Google images; Educator images, Gracias de Willow Junior High School (1970) and La Puente High School (1974) Yearbooks, from the writer's library: The Who 'Magic Bus' video, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.

SEATAC SHUFFLE (a.k.a., Adventures in Modern Air Travel)

Google Images photo

This is a true story. The Artist and I traveled to Boise, Idaho a few weeks ago to spend a few days celebrating my dad’s 90^th Birthday with him. The trip to Boise and the visit were great. The trip back to SoCal… not so much.

As our Alaska Air flight from Boise landed at Seattle’s SeaTac Airport and began to taxi towards the terminal, I noticed that jets were parked at every Gate around the terminal. I smiled at The Artist sitting next to me and said, “Hmmm… that seems odd. Wonder why the Terminal is packed with jets, and none of them are moving.”

It was a sign, and not a good one.

The Pilot keyed the intercom: “Folks… this is your Captain. It seems there’s a full ground stop at Alaska’s SeaTac Terminal, so we’re gonna taxi over to an open Gate on the other side of the Terminal. I’ll have more information for you once we reach the Gate.” A few minutes later we slowly drew up to an open jetway and stopped.

Once again, the captain spoke: “OK, folks… I’ve been informed that we’ve landed in the middle of a nationwide ground stop that has affected all of Alaska Air’s flights across the country, so no flights are leaving SeaTac until further notice. It’s an IT issue that has everything grounded for now. We found an open gate, but there’s no Gate Agent available to assist with disembarking the aircraft, so we’ll have to sit tight for a few minutes until we get some more information. Thanks for your patience.”

Although we’d landed at 5pm as scheduled, our connecting flight home to Orange Country was scheduled to board at 5:40pm, so this was the last thing we wanted to hear. 30 minutes later, the captain said “OK folks… still no Gate Agent available, so we’ll have to hang in there until we get one. Sorry about the delay.”

As we sat there in our jet, 5:40pm came and went. We were not amused.

Finally, at 6pm passengers began to disembark. I had nervous thoughts about our carry-on luggage, whisked away in Boise to be checked because there wasn’t enough room in the overhead storage. Once in the terminal, the Departures screen didn’t list our connecting flight, which likely meant we missed it. We began the long trek to the far side of the Terminal to assess the travel damage and see what we could do.

After walking what seemed like two miles, we arrived at the terminal Gate we were supposed to depart from, but our flight wasn’t listed on the Gate monitor. I went up to the kiosk and spoke with the Agent:

Me: “Hi… we just got off our connecting flight and I’m wondering if we’ve missed Flight 717 to Orange County?”

Him: “Hi… no, you haven’t missed your flight because everything’s backed up now due to the ground stop. Your flight is scheduled to depart from this Gate, but the time is still to be determined. We’ll let you know once we have more information.”

The Gate area was packed with people who were in the same situation as us. We found two seats, parked ourselves and waited. It was now 6:15pm.

People kept streaming into the Gate area, and it was filled with the sound of hundreds of conversations, dogs barking at each other from their portable kennels, crying babies and continuous PA announcements of flight delays and cancellations. As flights were canceled, people stood up, sighed heavily and headed out to claim their bags. The place was jammed.

At 7pm, our flight info flashed onto the Gate monitor and the Agent spoke over the PA: “Attention passengers for flight 717 bound for Orange County. Your aircraft is at the Gate and will be disembarking in preparation for you to board, so please stand by for the boarding call.” The Gate door opened, the passengers walked out, and the door closed behind them.

By 7:30pm, I had a sinking feeling. Since Santa Ana’s John Wayne Airport has an 11pm curfew for arriving flights, we’d need to board pronto for the three-hour flight to arrive before the curfew went into effect. Our Gate door was still closed. At 8pm, just as I realized we wouldn’t make the landing curfew, our flight info disappeared from the Gate monitor and another flight was displayed. I jumped up to look at the Departures screen and saw that flight 717 had been canceled. The Gate Agent announced that we could claim our luggage in Baggage Claim carousels numbers 13 and 14. We looked at each other, sighed heavily, stood up and headed back across the terminal to claim our bags.

Google Images photo

When we arrived at Baggage Claim, the place was chaotic. Hundreds of people were crowding the carousels, bags were pouring out of the chutes and Agents were pulling luggage off and stacking them in piles against the walls, roughly separated by flight numbers, with more luggage pouring out all the time. Many people were sitting on the floor along the walls. “Why is there no seating in here”, I wondered. I jumped between the two carousels, hoping to see our two bags, marked with bright red and green bandanas wrapped around the handles.

After about 30 minutes, we found a small side alcove where The Artist could sit on the floor away from the scrum. I headed back into the mess, looking for our bags on the carousels or in the ever-growing luggage piles. The Artist watched hundreds of pairs of legs shuffling by.

Photo by The Artist

By 10pm, I was getting desperate. We had no bags, no flight, no hotel room, and the thought of us spending the night on the floor of the Terminal filled me with dread. I decided to take another lap of the room and after only a few moments found our bags sitting next to each other on the far side of a new luggage pile, the colorful bandanas proudly announcing their arrival. I whooped out loud, grabbed the bags and brought them over to The Artist with a huge grin on my face. She smiled big, stood up, we hugged and headed off towards Ticketing to try and rebook another flight home.

As we trudged past the Alaska Air First Class Check-in area, I noticed an Agent standing there looking at her phone and went up to her.

Me: “Hi… can you help me locate the Ticketing area? We need to rebook our flight.”

Her: “Hello! Ticketing is down that escalator over there. Has your flight been canceled?”

Me: “Yep, it was canceled at 8pm. We’ve been in Baggage Claim for almost two hours waiting for our luggage and just found them.”

Her: “OK, well… so sorry for all the inconvenience, it’s been a madhouse since the ground stop began, but I’m sure you already know that. Let me give you some info. There’s a two-to-three hour long wait in line at Ticketing to rebook flights. You could try calling the toll-free phone line to book a flight, but I’m told there’s a five-hour wait to speak with an Agent. The online app is also not functioning properly, so booking online will be very difficult.”

Me: “Omigosh… that’s incredible!”

Her: “I know, and I’m very, very sorry about that. I have some advice for you.” She stopped for a moment, looked around, then continued softly. “If I was in your place, I’d work right away to book a hotel room near the airport, because they’re filling up FAST. Give yourselves some space to breathe, rest up, and try to rebook on the phone or the app from your room in the morning. At least you’ll have a good place to knock out after all this turmoil.”

Her advice turned out to be GOLDEN.

At this point I want to be very clear: every single employee we encountered at SeaTac was exemplary in how they managed an awful situation, one that happens far too often these days. They were helpful to a fault, upbeat and friendly, and never once lost their cool when confronted by anxious and upset travelers. Even the Agents in Baggage Claim, where a tsunami of tired travelers and luggage washed over the place, were patient, understanding and empathetic to a fault. They all deserve raises!!

We found an open seat for The Artist to rest while I called around for a hotel room. I was almost able to book a room at the Airport Hilton, but the phone agent said the room literally disappeared from her screen as we were finalizing the charges, and there were no others rooms available at that location. She offered to find us another hotel among the few that still had rooms and was able to book us into the Ramada, about three minutes from the terminal.

We jumped onto the Ramada shuttle and in a few scant minutes were standing in the hotel lobby. When Lobby clerk Jordan heard about our escapades, he said, “I’ve been working here since 2019, and although I don’t want to jinx anything, every year around Halloween there’s a huge ground stop at SeaTac airport. It’s kind of weird how it keeps happening!”

The hotel was sketchy, but the room was clean and well-appointed, with a coffee maker and a fridge and a big, beautiful bed. While The Artist got situated, I went downstairs to rustle up some grub. The small restaurant next to the lobby was already closed. The vending machines were out of bottled water, and the closest thing to actual nutrition I found was a Grandma’s chocolate brownie cookie that turned out to be excellent! The hallways on the first and second floors reeked of weed.

Back in the room, while munching on vending machine cookie, freeze-dried Boise peaches and some nut mix we brought with us, we tried to rebook online and on the phone. The five-hour wait on the phone was still in effect, and the online app wouldn’t allow us to book anything for the next day. After 30 minutes of no luck, I logged onto Expedia.com and within 10 minutes had us booked on a Southwest flight leaving at 1pm the next day, connecting through San Jose and on to Orange County. SUCCESS!!!

Picture this: two hours earlier, we were stuck in the SeaTac baggage Claim area with no luggage, no flight tickets and no hotel. Now, we were lounging on our hotel room bed, bags opened, clothing arrayed, sipping on a couple of Heinekens and rejoicing our newly booked flights home. How quickly the Wyrm turned!

Photo by The Author

After a solid five hours of sleep, a quick brekkie of dried peaches and the remnants of the excellent cookie, we boarded the hotel shuttle and arrived at the Terminal at 11am for a 1pm departure. The TSA line was long but fast, and the Agents were all in good spirits considering the Federal government shutdown meant they weren’t getting paid. We grabbed some McDonald’s, trekked to our departure gate, found an excellent uncrowded seating area, munched our lunch and waited to board the flight home.

The flight from Seattle to San Jose was fine. There were small babies on three sides of us in the cabin, but they were mostly OK. The flight from San Jose to Santa Ana included an eight-week-old puppy in a carrier one row behind us, but Mom had given her a Doggie Downer before the flight, which the rest of us really appreciated. By 6pm we’d landed in The OC, had shuttled to the car in the offsite parking lot and began the trek home, stopping only to grab some Orange Chicken and fried rice for our ‘welcome home’ dinner.

Photo by The Author

In the two weeks since our trip, air travel has become exponentially worse across the country due to the Federal government shutdown. All things considered, we lucked out. Sometimes, timing is everything.

 

Total cost for the 24-hour delay traveling home: $850, including new one-way tickets, hotel and parking. I’m just grateful we had the funds that allowed us to make alternate plans so easily. Many people did not. I’ve submitted a claim to Alaska Air for compensation, but I’m not holding my breath that we’ll see a penny for our troubles.

This journey gave us a number of new insights regarding modern air travel.

Why don’t they have seating in the Baggage Claim area? Surely the airlines know people have to wait for their luggage to appear, so why make them all stand?  Some of us are Olds, right?

How is it that every flight is now ‘completely full-up’ as we heard every Gate Agent announce. I remember not too many years ago there were ALWAYS open seats, so it’s obvious the flights are being overbooked to maximize profits. At all five Boarding gates on this trip, the Agents made announcements asking for volunteers to give up their seat for cash and prizes.

Loading and unloading passengers has become a royal pain in the ass. Why? Carry-on luggage use has skyrocketed because airlines are now charging passengers to check baggage, which means more people than ever are opting for carry-ons. This slows the process of getting in and out of the plane to a crawl while people struggle in the aisle and try and stash their bag up into the storage or find and pull it down out of storage. We’ve all been through it.

Airlines should wave fees for checked bags and instead charge for carry-on bags (not the ubiquitous personal item). This would incentivize passengers to avoid bringing their luggage aboard unless they really REALLY need to have it with them. Decreasing the number of carry-on bags will dramatically reduce the time wasted while loading and unloading the aircraft, allowing better scheduling all around.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, travelers should be as friendly, funny and empathetic as possible towards everyone involved with the airline travel process. Ticket Agents, TSA workers, Gate Agents, concession staffers, baggage handlers, janitors, shuttle drivers… ALL of them. They, like police officers and healthcare workers, are forced to deal with human beings at their worst, all day and every day. Watch a TSA worker smile big when you say “Good Morning, thanks for being here, NICE SHOES!” You may have been the first person that day to acknowledge their humanity, and that (as Martha Stewart says) is a GOOD THING.

“The key to a better life: Complain less, appreciate more. Whine less, laugh more. Talk less, listen more. Want less, give more. Hate less, love more. Scold less, praise more. Fear less, hope more.”  - Michael Josephson… philosopher, attorney, writer

Shelby Lynne 'Gotta Get Back' video, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.

"What once were vices are now habits..."

"It may seem difficult at first, but everything is difficult at first." - Miyamoto Musashi... samurai, artist, writer, philosopher (1584-1645)

According to the latest year-to-year statistics, as of mid-September there were 10,480 gun-related homicides in the United States. Averaged out, that means approximately 43 people in this country were shot to death on Wednesday September 10^th, 2025.

One of those people was Charlie Kirk.

The motive of Kirk’s (alleged) shooter is irrelevant. Purposely killing another human being with a gun, even in war, is an act of temporary insanity. We’re the only species on the planet that kills each other with guns just because we can. In a nation with 350 million people and 400 million guns, what else can we expect?

A gun is a tool, designed to kill. However, guns don’t kill people… people with guns kill people, for reasons that typically don’t make sense to anyone but themselves. It could be for reasons of anger or rage or sadness or passion or hatred or malice or depression or because they’re drunk or high or stoned or sleepy or distracted or stupid or confused or just in no condition to be in possession of a loaded weapon.

This country is suffering from a dangerous addiction to guns and violence. We celebrate and glorify violence of every kind, and our reverential attitude towards guns makes it far too easy to use one in a violent outburst of insanity. Humans go temporarily and violently insane daily, because every aspect of our modern society is marinated in violence: movies, TV, video gaming, sports, social media, politics, religion, news, business, music. 

Implied, inherent and actual violence is in everything, everywhere, all at once. Guns make it far worse.

Violence with guns is our new religion. All kneel at the altar in The Church of the Blessed Bullet. Holy, Holy, Hole-y. Body of Glock (Amen). Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!

Many local police forces look like soldiers patrolling Fallujah. Children with Kevlar backpacks in hardened schools are drilled in how to respond to active shooters. Politicians use public funds to create private security shields to protect themselves from the guns they refuse to regulate for the public. Magnetometers are increasingly common at many public events.

Unregulated and unfettered access to guns creates this reality. Question: how many mass-shootings have occurred in the US since September 10^th? Is one enough? Are six too many? Inquiring minds want to know.

In his now-infamous 2023 statement, Charlie Kirk said, “I think it’s worth it. I think it’s worth to have a cost of, unfortunately, some gun deaths every single year so that we can have the Second Amendment to protect our other God-given rights.” I should note that both The Bible and The Constitution were written by men, not God. 

I feel terrible for Charlie’s wife and children, because their loss is horrible. I hope they’ll find the strength, support and courage to weather this tragedy. Many Americans are forced to do the same every single day.

The one thing… maybe the ONLY thing… that we can do is to finally accept that we’re living in the year 2025, not 1791. Needless death by gunfire should be unacceptable to every American. We must enact meaningful, comprehensive and intelligent laws relating to gun ownership in our hyper-violent modern society: training, licensing, registration, liability insurance and severe penalties for misuse. 

Make sure that modern humans, who are fragile and fallible and prone to bouts of temporary insanity, are as responsible for owning a gun in the same way as owning a car – no more, no less.

It won’t eliminate gun deaths, but it can and will reduce the carnage. It won’t be easy. The question is: Can we or will we do this?

Magic 8-Ball says the answer is unclear.

Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1791 to the Bill of Rights:

“A well-regulated militia, being necessary for the protection of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

Remember: we’re not shooting each other with muskets.

Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; Musket loading and Lynyrd Skynyrd 'Saturday Night Special' videos, Muchisimas Gracias de You Tube.