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

Phoning It In

By cracky, sometimes it’s hard to believe that I will soon be 55 years old, that I even made it this far… many others in my life weren’t so lucky. Nothing spikes me in time like the technology that we now take for granted as integral to our daily lives. I love the idea that we can communicate and ponder and research and discover almost anything imaginable. We are a digital, mostly-wireless nation that has learned to harness information technology and wring its neck to give us what we crave: knowledge and (mostly) understanding.

Web Definition: Luddite -- 1. A Luddite is a person who dislikes technology, especially technological devices that threaten existing jobs or interfere with personal privacy. 2. A Luddite is someone who is incompetent when using new technology.

I have often joked that I am a Luddite when it comes to hand-held technology like i-phones, i-pads and all the neat-o whizzy devices that are everywhere. Making this statement may seem a bit hypocritical, seeing as how I’m banging away on this keyboard and looking at my color screen while listening to Pandora Radio streaming Grand Funk Railroad.

Having said that, I have serious issues with a wave of digital servitude that is overtaking us at a pace that no one could have foreseen. That debbil is the reason so many people walk and sit and drive and eat and drink and otherwise operate daily with their heads down, looking at the little screen held in their hands. You know what I’m talking about.

Drive along any street and you’ll see otherwise intelligent folks staring down intently at their devices, tapping and sliding their fingers on the little screen, oblivious to their surroundings while strolling on the sidewalk, crossing the street or just being stationary. They’ll likely also have at least one, if not both ears filled with hi-fi ear buds, further insulating themselves. Their consciousness has been reduced to the little screen they hold, their fingertips dancing away.

It’s the same in parking lots, at the mall, in grocery stores, at the movies… literally everywhere, people are tuning out anything that isn’t on the little screen in their hands. It doesn’t matter where they are, because the screen dominates… the screen tells all… the screen is the new reality. It beckons with amazing color and graphics and games and access and information retrieval of the type never dreamed of until now. My fear is that the price being paid -- the cost of not paying attention -- is happening without anyone seeming to notice or care.

Don’t EVEN get me started about using mobile phones while driving.

There’s a teevee commercial for a company whose name rhymes with 'horizon' that features a lovely young thing who leaves her apartment and commences to walking around her town, all while staring down at her little screen, never once looking up to see where the hell she’s going. Every time that commercial comes on, I’m reminded that everyone near that young woman is now responsible for her well-being and safety, because she is totally oblivious to her surroundings… at least, that’s how it appears. She’s not looking out for cars or making sure she’s not gonna fall into a manhole or off the curb. She’s not watching for an errant cyclist or anyone walking directly at her. She’s not paying attention to anything except the little screen in her hands.

I partly blame our national addiction to video games… we were entranced as kids, and as adults we are addicted to the amazing technology in our smart phones and pads. Sorry, but that’s how I see it. It’s simply too easy to drop into that little screen for work, games, videos, porn, Twatter, Fleecebook or whatever is beckoning our short attention span. My gosh, Congress is gonna allow hand-held devices 'in session' for the first time. What… the stuff going on in there isn’t important enough for them to pay attention? They didn’t get enough Fleshbot in their office before session?

But the lack of awareness, of situational aptitude, is only part of my concern… do I sound like Grampa Simpson, yelling at clouds? The other important aspect of this hand-help PC phenomenon is the seeming ease with which one can find out almost anything, locate any place, confirm any fact… simply by fingering that little screen. It’s not the access that troubles me, because I use the intratubes every day in my work. It’s the concept of knowing HOW to find out information, HOW to figure out the process by which information is retrieved, HOW to go about collecting that data in a meaningful way and gleaning out the answers.

A blogger that I follow is a college professor who gives his students a test in thinking beyond the little screen:

"There is an activity I like to do in class from time to time in which I force students to turn off their spacephones and laptops and, as a group, accomplish some basic tasks and answer a few questions without the benefit of mobile electronics. I call it "A Trip Back in Time to 1993" (I'm sure the odd laptop could be spotted on campus back then, albeit without wifi). Since we can't leave the classroom and start running around campus, I ask them to formulate a plan to accomplish these tasks.

I present them with some very simple if somewhat random questions. What are the last 5 bills that came up for a floor vote in the House? Which president signed the Posse Comitatus Act? Give me directions from campus to Washington DC. What is the weather in Moscow today? Is the Supreme Court hearing oral arguments today, and if so, what case? Stuff like that. Nothing complicated.

The answer in 2010 is simple and identical for every question – whip out the wireless internet device of choice and ask Mr. Google (although as an aside, many of them seem unable to get that far. If I get one more email along the lines of "How do I find sources for…" I am going to adopt a needy child and throw pies at it. But I digress.) Problem solved. Without those devices they are quite helpless. I am a bad person for enjoying it, but I legitimately get a kick out of seeing them try to figure out how we Neanderthals managed to uncover these kinds of secrets just 10 or 15 years ago. We didn't have instantaneous access to everything yet somehow we survived.

Roll Call or Congressional Quarterly would bring us lists of bills in the House (lagging a few days, of course, to accommodate publishing things on a dead tree). Encyclopedia Britannica revealed who signed which bills into law. Rand McNally gave us directions. All three of those required a trip to the library. The weather and Supreme Court questions required picking up the phone and calling someone to get the information quickly or waiting a few days to get it from secondary sources." (from www.ginandtacos.com)

When was the last time you were in a library? Do you remember how to use the Dewey Decimal System? Good for you! Naturally, even libraries must utilize digital technology because, well… just because. It isn’t really necessary, it’s just easier to locate a book on the screen than in a card catalog, and it’s a good use of the most basic digital technology. But think about it: if all the information you could want is accessible from where you sit at this exact moment, what would you need a library for? Why would you ever even go into one to find, you know… a book? To read? Why research a subject that requires sitting down and reading pages and pages of printed text when you can just Google the question and get 270,000 answers in less than .025 seconds?

Catch my drift here?

Last summer, my delicious wife changed my life when she bought me an i-pod Shuffle, my first 100% digital music device, a small shiny bit o’metal and silicon that has radically changed my personal listening dynamic. I think she really bought it because she was embarrassed to see me working in the front yard with my ancient Discman slapping on my hip. Anyways, I was able to upload 4 gigs of music from my CD collection, over 40 of my favorite CDs. My friends ask why I didn’t just download the music for free, or at least for a small fee per song/release, instead of taking the time to dump all those discs into my i-tunes file and synch the i-pod. What am I, stupid?

Here’s why: I don’t buy into the concept of downloading individual songs from the intratubes, whether for a fee or for free, for two very specific reasons. First, the majority of people I know get their digital music for free on de web, which totally cheats the artist from getting paid for their work. Even the fee-based downloads pay a paltry amount of royalties to the artist, far less that they receive from the sale of a hard disc. As usual, the creatives gets the shaft in the whole commercial music thingie, and thus has it always been. Perhaps being married to an artist gives me a unique perspective on this, I dunno.

The second reason is more about me… when I buy a CD by an artist, I am buying a vision they assembled for their muse, their career, and for my enjoyment. I listen to ALL the songs on a CD and, while not every song is great or even good, I still get a solid view of the artist’s vision. If I download a single song without hearing the entire release, I’m cheating myself out of exposure to music that might actually be better than the single release, or whatever track is being pushed by the label. Those unheralded songs also give me additional insight towards the artist’s reason for recording the thing. Ask around… I’ll bet that over 90% of those you know who listen to digital music NEVER download an entire release and only buy/steal a couple of tracks from any given release, tops. For me, some of my favorite songs are not the hits, but are instead the hidden gems deep in the track listing.

Now do you get it? I do the work, listen to the whole release, benefit from the artist’s efforts and enjoy all of it, not just a small slice. The slice is only a taste, the entire release is the whole enchilada, and I had to work for it to appreciate the body of work. I like making and eating enchiladas, comprende? And so it is with the hand-held PC... er, smart phone.

By not learning how to ‘do the work’ (which the little screen does for them), a person is not learning the process of learning. They are just getting the answers. One of my teachers in junior high had a perfect analogy for what she called ‘cheating your education’ that I will never forget. She used to tell us ‘I can buy you a hamburger, but I can’t eat it for you. You have to eat the hamburger yourself to get anything out of it.’ The major flaw in our modern public educational system is that we are teaching to the test, but not teaching analytical skills, the ability to process information to find the answers, to DO THE WORK.

Ya… I know. I sound like a Luddite, but really, I’m not. I too crave all that the ‘information superhighway’ has to offer but, as on any highway, you have to pay attention to what you’re doing or you’ll wind up in a ditch. If you’re walking around in a parking lot at Wal-Mart with your face glued to that little screen, eventually you’re gonna get run over by an SUV whose driver was not watching where you were walking, even though you weren’t watching either. Whose fault will that be?

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: pay attention to life around you, beyond the screen. Don’t fill every free second with that little screen as the center of your world. Use it as needed, especially if your job demands it, but be aware that it is not a mandatory aspect of your life. Every so often, stash the device and walk outside and see the traffic and watch the birds and breathe the air and smile at that cute guy/gal whose eye you just caught. Go to the library and, just for fun, pick a topic that you are interested in and do some research on it. Burn-in some new synapses, forge some new paths for your brain to work in.

If you find yourself in a coffee shop or the DMV or waiting for someone at the airport, don't do the easy thing and bury your eyes into the little screen. Keep it stowed and do something novel, like talking to the person next to you (unless, of course, they are already head-down into their own little screen). Connect with another human being on a verbal level. Listen to an old codger (like me, heh heh heh) tell a story about his shoes. Really, it's the best part of life, this communication thing. It's what we humans do best and, with that little screen, worst as well.

DO THE WORK.

Just so you know, my personal mobile device is an ancient (4 years old) cell unit with no camera, no mobile internet access and no touch-screen. All I want it to do is make and take phone calls… I don’t even use it for texting. That’s the way I like it. Am I a Luddite? I would say not so much, but others may differ, and that’s OK with me. However, if you're one of those who walk around, head down, staring at the little screen, oblivious to the cars and people and everything around you, well... what do you think?

Image courtesy of www.grahamten.wordpress.com.

The Cosmic Christmas Conundrum

It started as a comment during a recent conversation I was having with my Dad. I was describing the process and materials that were used in the construction of my wife’s latest ‘alternative Christmas tree’, a yearly tradition with the crazy artist I married.

Me: “It’s built with bamboo skewers and gift wrap and tissue paper and hot glue. We didn’t want it to look like a Christmas tree, but still have that feeling.”

Him: “You know, you can’t really call it a Christmas tree.”

Me: “Why not?”

Him: “Well, it doesn’t have anything to do with the letters C-H-R-I-S-T in ‘Christmas’, does it?”

Me: “You’re kidding me, right?”

I wanted to ask him WTF a newly-dead tree, covered with ornaments and standing in the living room, awaiting a spark to catch on fire and immolate everything, has to do with C-H-R-I-S-T-mas. I wanted to, but was momentarily dumbstruck over the magnitude of his statement, at what he was inferring. He’s pretty conservative in most ways, being 75-years-old and all, but it was the matter-of-fact tone of his comment that stopped me cold.

It happens every year nowadays, this whole argument about what the Christmas holidays actually mean, what it stands for, what we should be celebrating. It rages on the teevee and in the newspapers, on the blogosphere and around dinner tables. It’s one of the singular hallmarks of our modern American discourse, meant to divide believers from everyone else, a litmus test to see how devoutly American you are.

I have my own opinions about how and why so many people have accepted the lyrical allegory of The Bible (or The Qu’ran or The Talmud or whatever) as their dogma of choice, their marching orders for access into the afterlife. I get it, really I do. We humans fear death more than anything else, so it’s natural to accept the promise of ‘life everlasting’ in exchange for emotional and spiritual servitude on this mortal coil.

As for the meaning of Christmas, an invented holiday which was nicked from the Pagan Winter Solstice bacchanal in the first place, the most vocal adherents to the biblical interpretation are clear: it’s all about the birth of Jesus, their Lord and Savior. The Immaculate Conception, the Star of Bethlehem, the Three Wise Men, the sheep and cattle in the manger, the whole star-spangled glory of it all. The Bible is the be-all end-all Book of Answers… nothing else need be considered, because it is the WORD OF GOD and, after all, God is infallible, as is The Bible. Case closed, move along, nothing more to see here as you try to salvage your dirty soul in this life while preparing for the next.

(Side note: the stop-motion animated Comedy Central series 'Robot Chicken' has the most outrageously hilarious segment regarding the whole 'Away in the Manger' story. Deeply disturbing, fall-down funny stuff.)

It got me to wondering about the basis for the myth, the legend, the lowdown on the birth of Jesus. Now, I like to think of myself as an informed person with an expanded consciousness about our existence. Why not use some of what I think I ‘know’ and extrapolate that into an understanding of how this notion of a child born to save the world could be so all-consuming and important to so many followers. It’s a subject that has been bouncing around in my head for some time now, but Dad’s comment started the cogs turning and the synapses firing and gave me the inspiration for this little exercise.

To begin: although not a concept accepted by many (if any) Christians, I hold dear to the notion that our Earth is but a microcosmic speck of dust in the vastness of our spectral universe, which plays host to billions of other stars far greater and more important than our own little Sol. My life as a supporter of all things scientific has taught me to accept that amongst those billions of stars are also hundreds of billions of planets circling them. The likelihood of other life forms holding sway over the surface of many of those planets is an easy concept to grasp, at least for me.

That’s right… other life beyond ours exists in the universe. Deal with it. It could be a single-cell protozoic society of flagellates, or it could be horrific blobs of acid-spewing multi-faced time-warping octopodi, or maybe even bi- or tri-pedal upright skin bags like us. Not important what they are, but they are… out there. I like the idea of that, first and foremost, because it makes me feel like we have neighbors. And some of them are also very likely to be WAY MORE ADVANCED than we can ever hope to be.

Anyways, here’s my point: assuming there are other far more superior life forms out there in the Cosmos, how far-fetched would it be to consider that the story of Jesus’ birth was the retelling of an actual event that occurred when his Mom was ‘visited’ by an off-worlder? I mean, wouldn’t that give new meaning to all those ‘NOTW’ stickers being proudly displayed on the back windows of SUVs? Think about it – an immaculate conception is one that could have occurred when she was unconscious and inseminated by one of them sneaky aliens, for whatever purpose. The Star of Bethlehem? Yup, a hovering spacecraft. The ‘angels on high’? Right again… more of those guys. It would also explain a lot of the stories about Jesus… healing the blind and disabled, water into wine, walking on water, rising from the grave… all of it.

Does this mess with your sensibilities a bit? Dunno why it should… from my perspective, the assertion that alien visitors were behind the story of Jesus makes a whole lot more sense than the purported acts of magic he performed as the ‘Son of God’. Now, I will agree that it would mean those visitors were pretty awesomely talented to perform such acts, but assuming they were able to traverse the distance from their rock to ours must also allocate them some majorly strong juju. The more I think of the Jesus story within this framework, it only seems more plausible, not less. MORE PLAUSIBLE… NOT LESS.

A point of fact: I am NOT an adherent to the idea that there ever was a Joseph or Mary or baby Jesus or any of the stuff that believers believe. I think the Bible was a very craftily-written morality fable, an allegory to be used on a vast uneducated mass of people who did not have anything better to believe, so… why not the Bible? Like the earliest man, we have always sought to understand who we are, why we’re here and for what purpose. Naturally, those cagy early religious leaders knew the way to get the unwashed masses on their side, to control and manipulate and oversee them, to convince them of the gravitas of their story, a story that I believe was created out of whole, unwashed cloth. However, taken in the context that the story was a legend passed down verbally for generations before it was set to papyrus, the only semi-plausible explanation would be… VISITORS.

Are you howling at me with anger and hostility right now? Are you incredulous at the insanity of my supposition? Are you falling to your knees, praying hard to delete this concept from your conscious thoughts and for me to be damned to hell? Or… are you quietly thinking a bit more about the stars, the universe, the vastness of space and all that it contains? Knowing far more now than anyone knew when the Bible was written, can you envision a series of events as I described? Honestly… doesn’t it make more sense than the talking snake-burning bush-begat begat poetry? It does for me.

As I’ve written before, I do not fear dying or death, the great nothingness that awaits every last one of us. I do not believe there is a conscious afterlife that can be seen or tasted or touched. I believe that we have only one conscious life, and that everything before and after is unknowable. When my bell is ready to be rung, I know that my life’s force and energy will be absorbed into the natural machine that powers our Earth, just like the billions of lives that have been here and gone before me. Our cumulative energies are what makes this mysterious planet work and survive, and it may also be to our peril if we keep ruining it. It has less than nothing to do with a magical being who supposedly died on the cross so that we could continue to live and worship him.

BUT… if I were to ascribe to the notion that the story of Jesus was based upon ancient fact, I would find it far more logical to buy the astral connection rather than the magical mystical one. It just makes sense. In fact, a few years ago we built a 'tree' that celebrated alien visitation, the kidnapping and 'probing' of a certain ex-President, and the spawn of a new generation of little Green men. It was COOL.

In a sweeping circular motion, I come back to the idea of the Christmas tree and what it represents. For my wife and I, the alternative trees are a way to tweak the notion of the holidays to our satisfaction, for our enjoyment. Yes, we’ve had real trees too, but only a couple, and we’ve not used any traditional holiday decorations in years, save perhaps for the weird Pink and Black and Red fluorescent aluminum mini-trees that we prop up around the house. We celebrate the idea of loving compassion, the importance of family and friends, the message that we are all more united by common cause than divided by fear and uncertainty. That's what Christmas means to us.

None of these things are secular or sectarian… they are human. If you believe that Jesus was a real person and take comfort and solace in the poetry of the Bible, you have what you need to revel in the Glory of Christmas. If you have questions or even none at all, then keep seeking the truth, your truth, from the world around us. Celebrate Christmas in any way that suits you, or not at all. The most important thing to keep in mind is that we have free will to believe what we choose, or not to believe.

A friend posited this question to me: If, upon my death, I learn that there is indeed a God and Heaven and Hell, what will I say to God as my defense for not believing? My answer would be: "Hey God, many thanks for the free will and open mind you gave me. It has served me well, has allowed me to forge my own path, and live the life of my choosing. GO FOR IT."

I am not afraid of what I don't understand, but I am the first person to admit that what I don't know... is a lot. I'm OK with that, and it helps me live every day with joy and purpose and happiness, as if it is my last day... or even Christmas Day.

To see the alternative Christmas trees mentioned in this post, please log onto http://www.misguideddesigns.com/, then click on MD Xmas Trees. To catch a whiff of my metaphysical leanings, read Arthur C. Clark’s novella ‘2001 – A Space Odyssey’ and then watch the film immediately afterwards. Alien Crucifixion image courtesy http://www.freakingnews.com/.

American Exceptionalism?

An excerpt from Howard Zinn’s excellent book, ‘A People’s History of The United States’. This unvarnished look at the plight of Indians, women, blacks, poor whites and immigrants during the formation of our country should be required reading for every high school Junior. Except in Texas, where The Bible is seemingly the only educational document accepted by that learned populace:

Under (President) Andrew Jackson, and the man he chose to succeed, him, Martin Van Buren, seventy thousand Indians east of the Mississippi were forced westward. In the North, there weren’t that many, and the Iroquois Confederation in New York stayed. But the Sac and Fox Indians of Illinois were removed, after the Black Hawk War (in which Abraham Lincoln was an officer, although he was not in combat). When Chief Black Hawk was defeated and captured in 1832, he made a surrender speech:

“I fought hard. But your guns were well aimed. The bullets flew like birds in the air, and whizzed by our ears like the wind through the trees in the winter. My warriors fell around me… The sun rose dim on us in the morning, and at night it sunk in a dark cloud, and looked like a ball of fire. That was the last sun that shown on Black Hawk… He is now prisoner to the white men… He has done nothing for which an Indian ought to be ashamed. He has fought for his countrymen, the squaws and papooses, against white men, who came year after year, to cheat them and take away their lands. You know the cause of our making war. It is known to all white men. They ought to be ashamed of it. Indians are not deceitful. The white men speak bad of the Indian and look at him spitefully. But the Indian does not tell lies. Indians do not steal.”

“An Indian who is as bad as the white men could not live in our nation; he would be put to death, and eaten up by wolves. The white men are bad schoolmasters; they carry false books, and deal in false actions; they smile in the face of the poor Indian to cheat him; they shake them by the hand to gain their confidence, to make them drunk, to deceive them, and to ruin our wives. We told them to leave us alone, and keep away from us; they followed on, and beset our paths, and they coiled themselves among us, like the snake. They poisoned us by their touch. We were not safe. We lived in danger. We were becoming like them, hypocrites and liars, adulterous lazy drones, all talkers and no workers…”

“The white men do not scalp the head; but they do worse – they poison the heart… Farewell, my nation!... Farewell to Black Hawk.”

Image of Chief Black Hawk courtesy of http://www.americanart.si.edu/

Let's Do The Time Warp Again!

Advance notice: this is a very long post, but seeing as how it’s my first at Gort Nation on the subject of music, one of the single most important influences in my life… well, it just turned into something more sizeable than I had originally intended. I hope you’ll find a way to read until the end, then let me know if you thought the time you invested was worth it or not. Don’t worry… I have no ego in this regard, I’m a big boy. If it's crap, so be it.

So here goes...

I am always amazed to find out that there are humanoids around me that are not music-centric. They tell me “I listen to music, but I don’t really pay attention to it.” After I pick myself up off the floor, I begin to start questioning about how that can be? How can a person not have an affinity for music… OF ANY KIND? How is it possible to be nonchalant at best, uninterested at worst, about music and singing and all the pleasing arrangements of lyrical sound? HOW CAN THAT BE?!?!?!

Mebbe I need to think about this, wrap my head around what it is that makes me crave the sounds of musical talent, of the ability to manipulate an instrument, flex dem vocal chords, assemble notes on a page that can be re-interpreted by another for countless mediums. It starts me to thinking about my own musical history… no, not the horrific guitar playing or the junior high school choir. I’m talking about my sonic muse, the thing that drives me off the cliff when I hear a certain song, a type of voice, a harmonic convergence of instruments and sounds. Why me?

I blame my Father. Yep… it's all his fault, and he cannot deny culpability for his part in my musical addiction. In my mind’s eye, I can see his massive dark wood stereo cabinet in my childhood home, all ten horizontal feet of it. It held a turntable and radio tuner hidden in the center and several feet of shiny black vinyl records on either end, stashed inside cardboard sleeves covered with all manner of artwork. Some were innocuous, some were so suggestive that I would hold the sleeve in my hands, staring at it while the music played. Was I the only one who did this? The cover of the Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass 'Whipped Cream & Other Delights' LP displayed a lovely young Latina, sitting there, covered with (apparently) nothing but whipped cream, her hand held up to her smiling mouth, tasting. Oh boy, that was a good one.

Herb Alpert… Wes Montgomery… Dave Brubeck… The Baja Marimba Band… Antonio Carlos Jobim… Sergio Mendes & Brasil ’66… June Christy… Getz & Gilberto… The Ramsey Lewis Trio… Eydie Gorme y Trio Los Panchos. I know there are more, but these are the artists I remember most, the ones I would pull from Dad’s collection, spin and listen to, rapt with a newfound awe and inspiration. The long version of Brubeck’s ‘Take 5’ with its extended drum solo, cool and precise yet free and wild. The jazzy live version of ‘The In Crowd’ with clinking glasses and female laughter and scattered applause while Ramsey Lewis' hands danced over the keyboard. Eydie Gorme… I think that maybe her version of ‘Sabor a Mi’ is the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard, hands down, with its classical Spanish guitar and simple percussion and spare production value. Stunning. This stuff affected me, all thanks to my Dad’s love of music... it stained and varnished my soul.

My earliest fanboy recollections always go to The Beatles, first and foremost. They are the signature start of my musical odyssey, the touchstone that drives my insatiable need for tuneage. I recall how I was completely taken over when I heard ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’ and ‘She Loves You’ on my transistor radio… does that tell you how freaking old I am? I can recall my best friend Billy Burger and I sitting on his front lawn on Conlon Avenue in La Puente with both our radios tuned to KHJ-AM, blasting as loud as those batteries and tiny speakers could handle. WE LOVED THE BEATLES. I think there was a Beatles song on the radio every half-hour, all day, every day, and I couldn’t get enough of them.

But of course, that was just the beginning. My very first vinyl records were the ubiquitous 45’s… ’96 Tears’ by ? and The Mysterians, ‘Wooly Bully’ by Sam the Sham & The Pharoahs, and ‘Psychotic Reaction’ by The Count V. I’d stack those babies up on my cheesy little portable record player, play them one after the other, then re-set and play them again. I’m sure it drove my Dad crazy, but so what? A series of full-length LPs followed... The Ventures, The Challengers, The Beach Boys, more Beatles. I built my record collection all through grade school, junior high and into high school and college, but still my quest kept me seeking and searching, looking for new sounds and expressions of musical talent and genius.

Certain songs and lyrics are time-travelling vehicles, and I think it must be the same for anyone who claims to be a true music fan. There are songs that send me to another place within seconds of hearing the first few bars or notes or intro, it never takes longer than that. I always thought it was a bizarre reaction, my instant mental journey to another time, another place, like Billy Pilgrim in Vonnegut’s ‘Slaughterhouse 5’, becoming unstuck in time and whip-sawing back and forth. I can’t control it. It just happens. I love it.

‘Knockin On Heaven’s Door’ – Bob Dylan
In 1973, I was a Junior in high school, and my girlfriend (a Sophomore, for cryin’ out loud!) and I were in her room, on her bed (oh yes, but fully clothed), locking lips and hanging onto each other for all we were worth. Her Mom: gone bowling, her sister… somewhere else for hours. The room was dark except for (I swear!) a red lava lamp glowing on her dresser, and this song was drifting over us, all spacey and dreamy and far away. The words to the song weren’t relevant, but the melody and the production were from another world, and we were the only two people in that world. I hear this song, I close my eyes, I’m RIGHT THERE AGAIN, every damned time. Did I really unhook her bra so deftly with one hand, or did she plan it all along? I’ll never know, I dinna care. Excellent. The Mazzy Star tune ‘Fade Into You’ is a scary-close clone to the Dylan song, and there are echoes of that magic moment when I hear it, but that’s as far as it goes.



‘The Blue Danube Waltz’ – Soundtrack to ‘2001 – A Space Odyssey’ performed by The London Philharmonic Orchestra
Summer of 1970, before the start of high school and all that followed. Consider a series of ill-fated junior-high schooler decisions, another fine lassie, a fall and resulting huge gash on the back of my head, many stitches and going AWOL from a Boy Scout troop meeting. As the result, I found myself and my Dad at the Eastland Theater in West Covina, watching the theatrical release of ‘2001 – A Space Odyssey’. Little did I know that a film, a movie, a director's vision would shake me to my foundation. When ‘The Blue Danube Waltz’ began to play, those images of a sleek transport craft and rotating space station, circling the Blue Earth, a ballet of metal and science in the gorgeous black vacuum… it changed me. I sat in that darkened theater, big-eyed, transforming completely without Dad even noticing. I would never be the same, because I had just read the Arthur C. Clark novella and now, with those mental images come to life in front of me, big screen stylie, my personal path was forever altered. Within days I would go to church as a believer for the last time. Dad still says it was the worst movie he’s ever seen.



‘Only The Lonely’ – The Motels
During the summer of 1982, the newfound relationship with my better-half had begun and, although still in the early stages, we found a deeply nuanced simpatico that was almost scary. One night after work, we drove through a warm, stormy night to The Wherehouse record store and bought the new Motels LP, then drove back to the house where I was renting a room. The boys were all out so we mixed up some wine coolers, fired up the stereo, popped on the LP and when this song came on, we got up and began to slow dance in the living room. Very few lights on, a steady rain and some thunder outside, and Martha Davis crooning words that mattered... it created a very intoxicating brew. We had no idea, dancing there, that we'd still be together 28 years later... that moment was a fevered grasp for something real, something honest, something with substance. Guess what? We succeeded. We RULE.



‘Love On A Two-Way Street’ – The Moments
WOW... this one was really tough! As a very emotional 8th grader circa 1969, I was madly in puppy love with a 7th grade knockout (?!?!) who I was hoping would agree to 'go around' with me... does that make sense? I'd walk her home from school most afternoons, hoping to get a kiss goodbye, but it rarely happened. Imagine my glee when she invited me to a party at her house... at night! Well, once I got there I discovered that she'd also invited several other guys that were sweet on her, and we were all gathered in her enclosed back porch, with colored lights and munchies and punch and a record player stacked with 45's. She danced with all the guys, but only once with me. For some reason, I was the odd-geek out, and she barely acknowledged my presence. When this song started to play, with it's words of heartache and longing and lost love, I was crushed, watching her dance with the other guys all evening. I remember walking home that night weeping, knowing that I'd been humiliated, hearing those very relevant lyrics in my head over and over and over and over. OUCH.



Special note: OK, I'm sensing a pattern here... are you? Not surprisingly, there are serious emotional touchstones in every case where a piece of music is burned into my psyche. I had never thought about it until now, but it makes perfect sense. You can't plan out how things happen in your life... no one can. You can only make choices and react the best way you know how.

‘Take 5’ – Dave Brubeck Quartet
My Dad's love of jazz was truly inspiring, and once I found the LP with this cut sometime in (I think) 1967-68, I came up with a secret plan. I'd wait until I was home alone (a pretty rare occasion) so I could drop the needle on this instrumental classic. I'd turn the volume up as high as I dared and sat directly in front of the huge stereo cabinet with my eyes closed, hearing each instrument separately, but all playing at once. The piano, the sax, the bass, the drums, the echo of studio blackness. Oh my gosh... those drums, with a cool syncopation that had me air-drumming like a crazy person. Sitting there in our living room, with the glossy black ceramic crouching panther statue and the green 7-piece sectional sofa and the flowered wallpaper... I was actually sitting on-stage, smack in the middle of the Dave Brubeck Quartet, jamming, floating.



‘I Can’t Tell You Why’ – The Eagles
Sometimes, a song has lyrics that are so relevant, so perfectly attuned to an individual's plight, it almost seems mystic. Pain and pleasure can be extreme opposites, and in this case, pain was all I could draw on. In 1980, my (then) wife and I were having a terrible time of it, with nothing in common except a toddler and much negative angst between us. This song was in constant rotation on the radio, with THOSE WORDS mocking every person whose relationship was on the downward slide. Natch, we'd had yet another horrible, emotionally disfiguring argument... she demanded that I get the hell out, so I grabbed a suitcase, threw in some clothes and began to walk (since we only had HER car) the 2 miles to my friend's house and beg for a place to stay. All during that walk, I could hear the words to this song hammering the inside of my skull. At one point I became so angry that I pulled off my wedding band and tossed it into an empty field. The next day I went back and, lucky for me, found it so that I could try to salvage whatever was left of our marriage, but it was doomed. Even now, this song fills me with the same terrible feeling of failure and wretchedness, but it is fleeting and I'm left with the knowledge that the past is past.



I don't know if these time-warps are the same for others, but I have to believe that in some way, each of us has our moments of personal reflection that are spurred by music, sounds, words or some combination of the three. Of course, there are many other songs that cause me to time-slip, but for some reason I don't have more recent examples of music that does the same thing, dunno why. Lack of emotional torment, perhaps? There's no question that although the last 28 years have had some ups and downs, the constant and loving presence of my wife has brought a serene happiness and giddy love of life that overcomes the trying times in every way. I'm a Lucky Monkey.

What music makes you stop in your tracks? Does it allow you to loosen the ties to reality and drift across time and space? Does it have relevance and meaning, or is it simply a soundtrack? Writing this post has brought clarity to my musical muse, perhaps for the first time, and I'm glad that for all the important (and non-important) times in my life, there was music to help plant a mental anchor there. Mebbe you too have a song or piece of music that spirits you away... I'd love to hear your story of time-travel, so don't be afraid to share your comments. We're all adults here, for the most part... heh heh heh.

This much I can say: my life would be much less full and complete without the music that stirs my soul and fills me with happiness and excitement and pleasure and pain, all examples of the human condition. Art is what it's all about, and artistic expression is the best example of how the creative spirit can be shared with the rest of us. We are better for it, and must never take it for granted.

As always, Muchismas Gracias to YouTube.

Now... where's my i-pod?!?!

The Long Pink Tube

While ruminating on the Republican surge in the House of Representatives earlier this month, I am reminded that for many voters, history seems to have started on January 20, 2009. You know, the day that Barack Obama was inaugurated to be the first socialist communist marxist fascist illegal alien arrogant usurper President of the United States. Kenyan, also. Too.

The House of Representatives will soon be controlled by esteemed politicians who (for the most part) deny the phenomenon of climate change, deny the scientific facts of evolution and natural selection, and deny that our gay brothers and sisters are, you know, equal to everyone else.

I mention these facts as preface to a commentary I wrote in 2005 regarding the sad tale of Terri Schiavo, the Florida woman who languished in a nursing home for 15 years in a persistent vegetative state. Her husband Michael tried for 7 years to fulfill her wishes to prevent 'heroic measures' to be used in order to keep her alive.

Naturally, the Republicans in power at the time screeched and pitched and foamed over the issue. They condemned Michael for his choices, questioned his morality and intent and even convinced then-President Bush to cut short one of his numerous extended vacations to sign a bill that sought to interfere with the rights of private citizens Terri and Michael Schiavo.

I wrote this commentary to try and emote how I was feeling at the time, because I was also deeply involved in a similar situation, albeit without all the publicity. I submit this now because I want people to remember that the Republicans all boast about being the party of individual freedoms, but will jump in your shit and screw you (us) over if your personal individual choices don't match with their narrow viewpoint. The more things change, the more they stay the same... how sad and pathetic a realization that is for me now, looking to January 2011 and the resurgance of the Right-wing 'moral authority'.

THE LONG PINK TUBE (2005)
As Terri Schiavo lies in her Florida hospice bed, slowly winding down a life filled with tragedy and loss, I am left pondering the reality that soon enough I, too will have to make decisions about life and death, tube or no tube, to be or not to be…. not for me, of course, but for my Mother, who lies in a Santa Ana nursing home with a feeding tube stuck into her belly.

I feel horrible for Michael Schiavo, and not just because his wife has become the central figure in the latest battle over whose morals will emerge victorious in our Red vs. Blue Nation. Michael has made a commitment to do for Terri what he knows in his heart is right, what Terri asked him to do, no matter how many people call him a murderer or a lousy husband or an evil person. The law is apparently (supposedly) on his side, but that doesn’t matter to the ‘Let Terri Live’ zealots who have decided they know better than he does, regardless of how little they really understand his situation and what it means to him emotionally, philosophically and spiritually.

I know what Michael Schiavo is feeling, albeit to a lesser extent. Over the last two years, my Mom’s declining health has seen her go from living independently in a small duplex apartment and into a series of hospitals, assisted-care and nursing homes. My role as her eldest son (and the only family member she hasn’t yet burned) has mutated into sole guardianship for her, or ‘representative payee’ as the Social Security Administration now officially lists me on their computerized records. For good or ill, I am now a specialist when it comes to government entitlements and benefits, MediCal issues, nursing home administrators and the relative costs of adult diapers.

Mom’s life story has been run, and five decades of alcoholism and cigarettes and multiple strokes and falls and broken bones have left her debilitated and frail, reduced to a bed-ridden 75-lb. shadow of her former self. Her litany of aliments reads like a search result from WebMD.com – hypertension, diabetes, osteoporosis, failed kidneys, failed liver, anemia, aspiration, stroke-related loss of her arms and legs, inability to swallow food or fluids – a real witches brew of maladies.

On top of everything else, her new wheelchair has arrived just in time to roll her down the Alzheimer’s Highway. Her journey includes reverting to her native Mexican language, loss of recognition for her remaining family and the blank stare darkness that we should all dread while we can. The Long Pink Tube continues to flow nourishment into her stomach and, for the time being, she is still mostly awake and alert enough to smile at me when I visit her twice a week, although she doesn’t remember the last time I visited and it takes her a while to remember who I am and why I'm sitting at her bedside.

I think of Michael and Terri Schiavo a lot these days, especially after my visits to Mom when she has been crying and flailing and calling out to her older brother who died five years ago, or just gives me ‘the look’ and moves her mouth with no sounds coming out. How long will her body survive when her mind has totally gone away and left her as an empty shell, her stomach sucking on that Long Pink Tube and giving her another day/week/month/year of empty existence?

I think to myself, “Self, how will you deal with the decision on whether Mom should continue to live a lost life or to die with dignity? When is too much life enough? Isn’t she really already gone, save for the final series of days filled with tears and anguish and heartache?” The decisions to come are MINE ALONE… I am by-default the person who will have the buck in hand when it stops. Neither George Bush or Tom DeLay or Randall Terry or Jeb Bush or the United States Congress has a say in the matter, and I have the official paperwork to prove it.

Only those who are forced to experience the sorrows that end-of-life decisions can bring will know how deep the burn can be… just look into Michael Schiavo’s eyes during yet another television interview and see the sadness this whole insane saga has burrowed into his soul. I see him looking at me from the TV screen and I can see myself in his eyes, grappling with the same choices he’s had to fight to make. Only difference is, my decisions will go totally unnoticed and will be made without the glare of notoriety… at least I have that to look forward to.

I love my Mother more than I can say, and will do what I feel is right for her when the time comes, especially with the knowledge that her ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ form is already signed and on file at Nurse’s Station #1 in Santa Ana, California. I also know that as she slides into the cerebral ether, she can trust my judgment as her #1 Son. Right now, for both her and me, that’s all that matters... everyone else can just bugger off.

POSTSCRIPT
Mom passed away quietly in the night a few weeks after I wrote this commentary, but earlier that day my wife, myself and my Aunt (Mom's former sister-in-law and best friend) spent several hours at her bedside, talking and crying and laughing and reminiscing about Mom's life and struggles. Apparently she'd had another stroke the night before and was unconscious for the entire time we were there, but that fact is that WE WERE THERE, whether she knew it or not. I didn't have to make 'the decision', but clearing out her belongings the morning after she died was an exercise in bemused sorrow and guilty relief.

I shudder to think that once again we'll see a revitalized Republican Party inserting their skewed vision of morality into our lives, telling us who we can or cannot marry, who is or is not a 'patriot' or an 'American', or what private and personal medical decisions can or cannot be freely exercised. They are the same people who were screaming last summer about death panels and unplugging Grandma and branding universal healthcare as socialism. They are the ones who decided they knew best for Terri Schiavo over the legal, ethical and moral perogatives of Michael Schiavo.

I think of Mom every day, and I miss her terribly... her nasty but funny sense of humor, how she used to flip me off as I was leaving her bedside, how she would laugh and gag as we'd watch her telenovelas with the sound off while I made up my own insane dialog. Those were the times when I knew that she knew that I would make things OK for her when she was no longer able to.

R.I.P. Alicia Teresa Macias

(Image courtesy of www.mrdestructo.com)

On The Importance Of Refried Beans

The following is an excerpt from my upcoming first honest-to-goodness book, titled (for now) 'The Official Manny's Chile Bowl Cookbook'. Dunno when it will be published, but I'm shooting for sometime next year if I can maintain discipline and keep writing cooking writing cooking writing. Also, the Manny I refer to (my Dad) has yet to actually, you know, READ this stuff, so I expect him to have a few specific issues when he gets the first draft. Oh boy.

'Beans, Beans, the Magical Fruit...'

Make no mistake about it: Mexican food is what it is because of beans and rice, those two staples of starchy wonderfulness, those foundational pillars of every Mexican food lover’s cravings. The smell of them cooking can send me into a time-warp, right back into my Grandma Silva’s kitchen, back to when I was just a kid and helped her clean and rinse the whole beans, then watch them slowly bubble away on the stove for hours, turning brown and beautiful.

I’ve told this to many people who scoff, but if you drive on the I-5 Santa Ana/Golden State Freeway though East Los Angeles on a Sunday morning, the overwhelming aroma of refried beans whacks you in the head, makes you sit up and salivate, makes you want to careen off the freeway and find the first tortilleria that is open and beg them for a plate of fresh beans and tortillas to scarf down in an instant. I know that sounds extreme, and maybe it is… maybe.

When Grandma Silva was gone from our lives, we’d get a fresh pot of whole beans from my Aunt Peggy every week, along with a huge stack of hand-made flour tortillas… que bueno! When Dad made fresh beans himself, he would cook the beans exactly the way those two amazing women did, and the aroma would make me think of Grandma Silva and Aunt Peggy all over again.

Naturally, we would eat the fresh beans for dinner that night, but the next night Dad would ladle a mass of them into a frying pan, mash them up, add some oil and cook them again. ARRIBA… refried beans!!! What didn’t get eaten would stay in the pan to be covered and stashed in the fridge until the next night. He’d add some more beans and mash and cook them again… RE-refried beans!

By the end of the week, the older refrieds and the newer refrieds were all mixed together deliciously, and (I know this sounds gross) a fantastic crust of refried beans would form around the inner edges of the pan, only to be scraped off and mixed in with the mass and cooked again. This… this is the stuff that makes me crazy for Mexican food, that allows me the ability to measure the quality of refried beans that are served up in restaurants against the best ones I ever ate, the ones I ate as a kid at home. I figure, if a restaurant can do really good frijoles refritos (refried beans), then the rest of their menu must be great as well.

As I’ve covered elsewhere in ‘The Beans and Rice Story’, there are two ways to make refried beans: old skool from scratch (crazy labor and time-intensive) or, as I do these days at home, using the modern savior of Mexican cooking, CANNED REFRIED BEANS. Yes, I know… how could CANNED REFRIED BEANS be in any way as tasty and/or delicious as scratch-made beans? Well, unless you are possessed of the world’s most delicate palate, I dinna think you’ll honestly be able to tell the diff, especially with a few tricks to turn the canned beans into really great ones. Besides, one of the reasons I'm writing this cook book is to de-mystify the art of cooking honest Mexican food and make it something that you’ll look forward to with anticipation rather than dread, if at all.

So, here’s the simple, fast-and-tasty method to whip up La Puente-style refried beans. Place a small saucepan on the stovetop, burner set to medium. Open a can of refried beans of your choice (mine is Rosarita Traditional, avoid those other poseurs) and pop them into the sauce pan. Add a big handful of freshly-shredded Longhorn-style cheddar cheese (Aunt Peggy’s fave) and a couple tablespoons of vegetable oil. Stir to incorporate and bring the congealed mass to a slow bubble, then lower the heat and simmer for about 10 minutes, stirring and scraping the bottom and sides every few minutes. The aroma will be heavenly, and I guarantee you will stir the mass and lick the spoon every time, tho I NEVER do this when cooking for guests… HONEST!

That’s it! You will have a gorgeous pot o’ refried beans to use for making tostadas, burritos, nachos and as a side dish for a faboo breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, beans and tortillas, simply the best brekkie there is. If you make a big batch of beans, save the leftovers for another meal, and be sure to scrape that crusty loveliness from around the edge the pot and mix it into the rest, then be prepared to enjoy real Mexican soul food. Cooking like this allows me to follow my bliss, honor the memories of Aunt Peggy, Grandma Silva, and especially the efforts of my Dad to feed us right when we were kids and offer some of the finest ‘home-cooked’ Mexican food in Northern California to his customers for over two decades.

R.I.P. Manny’s Chile Bowl!!!
(Image courtesy of showmethecurry.com)