All of us are getting old(er) but when does it happen? How does it happen? Do we know we are getting old?
Most of us have had grandparents or parents that we saw growing older and older. We really never thought much about it on a personal level since it wasn’t happening to us. As kids we believed our parents were super people that could do anything, solve any adversity that was thrown at them and always be there for us. We knew Grandpa walked a little slower but still could play golf and catch fish and always seemed to have ice cream money for us.
We grew up, went off to conquer the world (’til we got married) and then had kids of our own. Suddenly our own parents were grandparents! What the hell is up with that? They must be getting old!
If they are getting old what does that say about us? When do we or did we get old? Well, I’m gonna relate those things that I experienced, indicators that tell me I’m old on a daily basis.
The physical changes are subtle but are happening to all of us as I speak. Yeah, you and me. When I was 40 I was playing driveway basketball with my kids, I was still taller and could out rebound them.
When their friends came over I got to play if the sides were uneven and would sometimes get chosen first (unlike high school). A couple years later my son was taller than I, had better skills and the boys relegated me to my daughter’s team. By my mid 40s it was like, “Hope your Dad isn’t going to play, he screws up too much.”
Then one day I went to Seattle to work for a few weeks, I found I couldn’t tell the difference from an 1/8 to a 1/4 on a tape measure, what was up with that? In the evenings at the motel I couldn’t read, my arms had gotten too short. A few weeks later I checked into the local optometrist and got my first pair of glasses, it was a miracle! I could see again, I was 47 years old. Along life’s journey my boss made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, if I would stay ’til I was 55 I could retire and enjoy some benefits that we had worked out.
My wife and I had bought some rural property earlier and remodeled a rundown cabin. We started building a retirement home two years before retirement, working every weekend, every vacation and every day I could sneak off from work. When the big day came we moved into our home and finished it out, hell, I was a young guy, right, 12 hour days were something I’d grown accustomed to and was no big deal.
The days went by, growing a big garden, cutting fire wood, the fishing and hunting, traveling. My daughter got married, started making babies and now my wife and I were grandparents, what the hell is up with that? Where did the time go? Then my son got married and divorced before the ink was dry on the marriage license.
Life was good, until I got a phone call, a classmate had died and the funeral was…. Then another and another. Every few months. I began to look at my friends and classmates more critically, I’m guessing they were looking at me the same way. I was thinking I was still the same person, but the testosterone was telling me different. Some things were NOT the same! Mrs Fourscore started staying up late, TV was more interesting than me. The side effects of the purple pills were as bad as the hangovers I’d had before I quit drinking.
If one has 2-3 good friends consider yourself lucky. I have my bestie from 3rd grade and two from 9th grade. These are guys that you would loan all the money in your billfold without worrying about getting it back or ever getting it back, and vice versa. I consider myself very lucky and we’re all the same age. A year or two ago I found myself sort of shuffling my feet as I walked outside. I started paying attention and I was dragging at least one foot, not serious but still…. Then I saw one of the boys with the same problem. Another has osteoporosis. I have been falling down a couple times a year, always looking around to see if anyone has seen me ’cause I would be embarrassed.
My work days are shortened to a couple hours in the morning, couple hours in the afternoon. Bending over cutting firewood with a chainsaw is tougher, running a splitter is in 45 minute spurts. Dressing out a deer requires having a tree nearby to help me stand up. We’ve been doing flyin fishing trips to Ontario for the past 21 years, after this last one in June we had to admit we’re just not able to do it anymore. The drive is 9 hours, getting in and out of the boat is difficult and dangerous. It doesn’t hold the mystique that previous years have had.
I only have one prescription pill, a beta blocker that regulates my heart. I run 44-48 BPM, even after exercise I can only make about 60 BPM and is quickly restored back to normal. I use an 81 mg aspirin, any slight scratch or cut bleeds profusely. A calcium and vitamin round out my pill popping.
I’ve had a few surgeries, hernias, varicose veins, 25 years ago had a bone growth removed from my heel. A few years ago I developed a sticky trigger finger and had it repaired, two years later same problem other hand. BTW these would not have been done with single payer, while the fingers were painful and annoying it was not life threatening. Had cataract surgery, resulted in no improvement in vision. A couple years ago I was having deteriorating vision problems, many check ups, new glasses, consultations. The prognosis was not good. Then a few months ago I got my last prescription and suddenly I could see, read, drive safely, it was finally a usable prescription. I’ll be in my deer stand in November.
The psychological part of aging is something that preys on my mind. There are no more surprises in life. I don’t worry about my kids (well, OK, I do) but there is nothing I can do. I can’t worry about my grandchildren, they have youth on their side. I’ve outgrown politics by becoming a libertarian many years ago. All politicians look the same to me. Like many others here I am an introvert, took a long time to learn to like myself. My wife and I have structured our assets in a trust, ’cause my family is mostly dysfunctional.
My two older brothers died 7 years ago, making me the patriarch by default. It’s an easy task, since no one pays attention to me anyway. One older female cousin in bad health, a few younger ones but most with serious health problems. The greatest worry is the mental deterioration. So far, so good.
We’re having our annual Honey Harvest on Sep 16th. I’m hoping the MN glibs and any local lurkers will attend. All glibs are invited, but unless you are in the area it’s not worth the effort. We will spin out the honey, eat lunch, tell lies and we’re family friendly.
As someone who sees his sphere of friends dwindling and mobility increasingly becoming a problem, I am truly grateful to those running this site and all those who contribute to making my days a little brighter. I have a lot of new friends that I’ve never met.
No man is an island, entire of itself…any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. – Decebalus, king of Dacia
But Pie! Thought experiments are dumb! you will say… Well possibly, but they can be vaguely useful and I was always particularly fond of this one, as it was somewhat foundational for my views back in the day. So this is about The Desert Island. It is my attempt to see if this though experiment is or can be made useful as a tool to talk to non-libertarians about certain fundamentals. I will give my own interpretation, open to corrections, addenda and whatnot.
The thought experiment I would say is one on individual rights. Humans, after birth, sign a contract and get to live in a society of sorts. Due to all these messy social interactions, it is sometimes hard to see the border between individual and group – everyone who has been in a 6+ people orgy knows this. The point of this experiment is to simply isolate an individual from the rest and analyze.
So the way this goes, let’s say someone lives alone on an island. In this case there are no constraints on behavior outside of nature –gravity still gravitates. If you build that, you got it, if not, you don’t. If you brought with you your book and record (mixed tape whatever), and no one takes them they are yours to keep. Otherwise do without. Of course, as you don’t have electricity you cannot listen to the music anyway, but if you could, it could be real loud, no one would complain. You can yell obscenities or vocally support Trump – freedom of speech would be quite absolute-, worship whatever interesting rock you see on the island or the local volcano or lightning or some weird notion of an transcendent god.
Basically live as you choose in the limits of you possibilities and possessions, as long as no other human acts against you. Life, liberty and the pursuit of coconuts one might say. In this scenario there are no obligations to others, nor from others to you. No right to things not produced, by the simple fact that there are none available, but absolute right to those you have or make.
Such a human is free from aggression, as there is no one to initiate it. The only issue may be if his island is truly his – that is if he paid the required single land tax. So I consider these a sort of tire 1 rights, purely individual.
Off course, if any of us were in this situation, sometimes we would feel we’re gonna break down and cry, nowhere to go, nothing to do with our time … lonely, so lonely, living on our own. Anyway… In the end coconut oil only gets you so far. So people seek other people. And this is where the average no libertarian will tell you the experiment is useless and there is no point to it, not even making loneliness and lubricant jokes. But I disagree, I fell it helps to see the lone individual in itself. So let us say each human is an island – metaphorically speaking off course.
Let’s say there are other islands all around – with other people. And you can meet them, shoot the shit, trade some, talk, you can even show them your coconuts. Off course, they may be selfish bastards and not want to do all hose things with you. And here is where the philosophy part kicks in. The essence of libertarianism is that those tire 1 rights – the ones the humans have in themselves, as individuals, absent all others – should be preserved in the presence of other people, society if you will. Furthermore these should form the basis of social organization, as unobstructed as possible. The other philosophies of the world beg to differ.
Humans under a certain level of wealth do not live each alone on his island, there simply are not enough islands to go around. So I am going to switch metaphors in the middle of the text … hmmm… people are boats, that works. And boats on the water can run into each other. Some at this point would tell libertarians absolute freedom liberty cannot exist. As if libertarians do not know this… It is implied liberty for all that you cannot be at liberty to infringe upon others’, as my liberty to swing my oar ends at the tip of your boat. So societies create various rules in order to solve or prevent conflict – either codified into legislation or as unwritten rules of society – manners and morality. The purpose of these rules is in much debate by various ideologies. From a libertarian standpoint, the goal is to preserve liberty as much as possible and to minimize infringement of individual rights – defined as rights of individual absent the group.
Life liberty and the pursuit of coconuts
On various levels the conflict is true of a society as a whole, as it is of people living together in the same home or friends going together to a restaurant. You can no longer do anything you want, you have to take into account others and compromise, even if you may end up in a place serving Hawaiian deep dish. Although, to be sure, all people have some limits to the amount of freedom they are willing to give up. So most ideologies at least vaguely pretend to care about some level of individual rights and liberty, because it does not sound good not to. Off course they mostly lack any clear definition of these rights, which end up being whatever someone likes at a given time.
Which aspects of life are the business of the individual alone, which of the group or family, which of society, and which of government institutions if such institutions exist is the main question of politics. Or, in other words, where the line is drawn – over this line government and/or others do not cross, do not interfere. And this is where such a thought experiment can be useful, although not sufficient.
So this thought experiment got us nowhere in the end, beyond presenting the idea that a human can be seen as a thing in itself, outside society. Isn’t this just preaching to the choir round these parts? Well, maybe, but still. A blog needs posts, does it not? So I dunno, comment or don’t, as is your right
Socialism in the USA can happen any time now and I’d be cool with it.
Seriously. It can happen any time that the Socialists in the USA want it, all thanks to Capitalist technology. And the Capitalists shouldn’t even mind.
The Socialists can design a Meetup/Hookup-type app that matches Socialist Makers with Socialist Takers. Members would either be a Maker-Seeking-Taker or a Taker-Seeking-Maker.
Those numerous guilty well-to-do Socialists, the Makers, those convinced of their regretful privilege, who have excess income/possessions/accounts/shoes/value can register on the site as Makers-Seeking-Takers. Likewise, the suffering masses of Socialists, the Takers, upon whose backs the Makers have trod in their patriarchal white-male-cishetero (regardless of whether or not you are such a thing, for if you’re a Maker it’s this oppressive identity class that forced you to be unwittingly successful) pursuit of greed, will register as Takers-Seeking-Makers.
The Makers will be subject to the “From Each According to Its Ability” questionnaire to determine their Bougie-ness, their level of unacceptable indulgence. And in their turn, the Takers will complete the “To Each According to Its Need” profile, so as to determine their level of Victim’hood. The app will then find matches among these Socialists, appropriately pairing equal levels of Bougie-ness to Victim’hood. The ensuing orgy of wealth transfer will be epic!!!
Naturally, the affluent Democrats suffering from white guilt will flock to the site, abandon their “you first” approach to benevolence, and shed their damning excess. No longer will obstructionist conservative legislators force Socialists to take lavish vacations, own expensive homes, patronize Starbucks. The Socialist Makers will finally be free to voluntarily give away to the Takers all that they are able. Existing charities already accepting donations and aiding the less-fortunate will cease to be a hindrance to the Socialists’ attempts at uplifting their fellow [insert preferred pronoun here].
That’s all the brainstorming I’ve time for. I entrust the Glibs to naming the app, adding features, etc.
In October 2012 I went to the local gun show in New Bern, North Carolina with my sons (10 and 16). A gun store dealer had a steel .45 caliber Baby Eagle for $600. I had shot one of these a couple years before and had been looking to buy one. My younger son told me, “Just buy it, it’s your money, you don’t need to ask Mom.” But, luckily for me, common sense prevailed and I called my wife. She gave me permission, but she wasn’t happy about it. My wife is Japanese and was used to my rifles, but she is not a gun person.
Best $600 .45 you can buy IMO
Since it was a gun show, and I had never bought a new gun before I was surprised and a little irritated that they had to do a background check on me. I had always heard of the “gun show loophole” and was stupid enough to believe it. As Suthenboy always says, “Gun grabbers lie, it’s what they do.” But I went through with it (never again) and was approved. The only loophole was as an active duty Marine I needed permission from my Commanding Officer, but this doesn’t apply to gun shows.
I was due to deploy to Afghanistan in January, so I planned on getting my North Carolina Conceal Handgun Permit(CHP) when I got back. While I was deployed, I started looking into the laws and requirements for the CHP. As I did the research it was grinding my gears, and I kept thinking this is not something you should have to ask permission for. One of the websites I found was www.opencarry.org and there I learned that a permit was not required if you open carry in North Carolina.
I was unfamiliar with OC and really looked into the pros and cons.
OC Pros:
Comfortable, I don’t have to dress to hide the gun.
Easier to access the weapon in emergency
Deterrent factor, if a bad guy sees it, I’ll be more likely to be left alone.
NO PERMIT REQUIRED! (in NC, VA, and 29 other states)
OC Cons:
Potential target, this is the one most often mentioned by CC advocates, but if you look at statistics it is a minuscule risk.
Attract attention from law enforcement, this happened to me once and it was scary and enraging.
People reacting negatively, hasn’t really happened, most people either don’t notice or care.
Prohibited from certain stores, happened to me once, but I’m ok with this. If you object to my being armed, I assume you don’t want my money.
Losing the “element of surprise,” this is another one you hear from CC’ers, I would rather not shoot someone that tried to rob me because they thought I was unarmed, but that’s just me.
I decided OC was the best option for me, and since June of 2013, I OC everywhere outside of work, since I work on a military base. The first time it was like a 13-year-old boy with an awkward boner, you feel like everyone is looking at you. Over time it gets easier as you realize nobody cares. My wife is used to it, and even my proggy Mom doesn’t complain when she comes to visit.
I’ve had several comments and the overwhelming majority have been positive. As I look over the list below, there are some that were negative, but I’ve forgotten many of the nice things random people have said to me. 99% of the time no one says a word and I think most people don’t even see it.
Custom FIST Leather holster with thumb break
Here is a rundown.
Went to the Wicked Superstore in Havelock NC to look for a costume for my 11 y/o son. We weren’t in there for more than a minute when a guy who worked there came up to me:
Guy: “The owner wanted me to ask if you were law enforcement?”
I’m wearing work boots, jeans , a long sleeve black t-shirt with a Spartan helmet on the front and MOLON LABE on the sleeves and an old Penguins ball cap, so I don’t look like a cop.
Me: “No, just a normal guy.”
“She said if you’re not then you need to put the pistol in your truck.”
“Then we’re leaving”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been to a lot of different places and never had a problem.”
“It’s her property.”
“I know, guess we’ll go somewhere else.”
“Sorry about this.”
“I don’t care, we’re going.”
So we left and drove to the Halloween store in Morehead. I wish I could have taken a receipt back to the Havelock store, but my son was getting into the too cool for Halloween stage and we ended up not buying anything.
At a Hardee’s in Fredericksburg VA, I had a man walk up to my table.
Man: You can carry like that here?
Me: Yea, totally legal.
Man: You got a permit though, right?
Me: No, not required and I don’t want to jump through hoops for other people’s feelings.
Man: I’m not used to that, we’re from Jersey.
Me: Feel sorry for you, that is on the list of states I won’t move to.
Man: OK have a good one.
Me: you too
Later he came back and was amazed when I told him there were no limits to the number of bullets I could carry, I finished with, “Freedom is awesome”, and he replied with “I guess,” although I did hear him tell his wife they should move here “to get away from the Nazis.”
Chick-fil-A in New Bern with my wife, had the following conversation.
Some Guy: Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you a question?
Me: Not at all.
SG: Are you a cop?
M: No.
SG: Do you ever get hassled?
M: No, been kicked out of one store, but that doesn’t bother me.
SG: So the police leave you alone?
M: Yeah, I’ve eaten in here right next to two state troopers and been at another place with a couple county sheriffs and they didn’t say a word.
SG: Cool, I let my concealed lapse, since I didn’t want to take the class again, so I was OC’ing earlier, but put it in the truck before I came in here since I thought it would create a scene.
M: I go all over the place in New Bern and Havelock and 99% of the time people don’t notice or they have nice things to say about it.
SG: That’s good, I’ll let you get back to your lunch. Have a good day.
M: You too.
Dryer quit one night, so my wife and I went to the coin laundry in New Bern. There were two people plus the attendant, no one said anything and about 15 minutes later the other people left.
Now that it’s just my wife and me, the attendant calls me over.
Attendant: Do you have a permit for that?
Me: Nope, don’t need one to open carry, only if you conceal it. It’s still mostly a free country.
A: You can’t be in here, what if someone tries to take it and shoots us?
M: That never happens, are you telling me to leave?
A: Yes, I’m not comfortable with you in here.
So I stood outside on the sidewalk while my wife was inside (clothes were in the dryer at this point). Little later he came out.
A: It’s illegal to carry that without a permit.
M: No it’s not, can you tell me the actual company name?
A: Why?
M: I want to email the corporate office and find out if it’s their policy or just your policy.
A: It’s my policy, but I’m in charge so I say you can’t be in here.
M: I am not arguing that, I am just trying to find out where this comes from.
A: You can’t be in here.
Then he mumbled something about permits and walked back into the laundry. So I figured I could Google the company and find out. Five minutes later he comes back.
A: I’m not trying to be a dickhead, I tried to call my supervisor, but she’s not answering. You can go back in if you want.
M: OK, I’m not trying to cause a problem.
So I went in and he wanted to talk about problems with other people not listening and bringing dogs in, I said my gun will cause less problems than a dog. He asked why I didn’t get a permit, so I told him I don’t believe in asking permission, so I open carry.
All in all, minor inconvenience, and when I went back one more time he didn’t say a word, just nodded a greeting.
I got thanked in Popeye’s for “exercising your 2nd Amendment right.” I wasn’t quite sure what to say, went with, “do it everywhere I can.”
This one still pisses me off. Went to the Havelock Chili Fest, ate some good chili and walked around for a while. I think we were there for an hour, but as we were leaving a pair of Havelock cops came over to me. Only one cop did all the talking.
Cop: You can’t be armed here.
Me: Why not?
C: It’s illegal.
M: No, it’s not.
C: This is a festival.
M: So?
C: You can’t carry here, not even concealed, just like a place that charges admission, or a parade.
I jokingly point to their pistols and say, “but you’re carrying.”
C: You’re just a citizen.
M: This isn’t a parade or demonstration, so it’s legal.
C: No, it isn’t and you can either cooperate or….
He shrugged his shoulders a little and gave me a look. He didn’t say it, but I knew what he meant. I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut though.
M: I carried here last year. I also carry at the seafood fest and mum fest; cops definitely saw me.
C: If they didn’t stop you they are wrong. Are you going to put the weapon in your vehicle or not?
M: (deciding on not being arrested) We were leaving anyway.
I just started walking towards the parking lot and they didn’t say anything else. My wife says I need to work on my “angry face,” and I know I talked a little more than I should have, but at least they didn’t try to ID or disarm me. Spoiler Alert: I was 100% legal, but I was retiring from the Marine Corps and job hunting so I wanted to avoid having to answer “YES” on the “Have you ever been arrested” questions.
At Flatwoods Outfitters in Jacksonville NC, the RSO made me go back to my truck to unload and then hand carry my empty pistol to the line. It is illegal to OC if admission is charged, he admitted it was stupid, but the law is stupid and makes you do stupid things.
I went to the NC seafood festival, not sure why: food was too expensive and there were way too many people. But on the bright side, there was not a single reaction to my pistol (except my wife). She started with, “there are so many people, if something did happen, you couldn’t do anything.”
I explained that if someone started shooting, most people would get down and it’s not like I would go looking for them, but if they were coming towards me it would be fairly obvious who the BGs were. Then she told me that I was the only one with a gun, so I said that’s not true, I’m just the only one you can see. No big deal, for the most part she leaves me alone about it.
The gun did protect me while walking to the festival, there were two ladies sitting outside of the Democratic Party HQ and they stopped the people about 100 yards in front of me, but when I got to them they didn’t say a word.
At a HESS in Ahoskie or Oriental (it was a long trip, not sure) a man says, “You can carry like that up here?”
Me: That’s the only way I carry, since I refuse to get a permit.
Him: That’s legal? I’m from Florida so I’ve never seen that before.
Me: Totally legal, most people don’t notice or care.
Him: My man! I’m all about that.
Me: Freedom is awesome.
Him: We need more like you.
Me: Carry yourself. NC is a good place for it.
Him: Maybe I will, I keep mine in the truck.
It was nice to get a positive reaction, although no reaction is just as nice.
In 2015 we went to the gun show again. There were some nice guns and accessories there and the usual group of booths. I entered a few raffles and bought both of my boys a knife. One booth had a raffle for a free CC class and when the guy asked me if I wanted to enter, the conversation went like this:
Me: No, I carry open and don’t want a permit.
CC’er: Really, well what if the you go to CVS and the minimum wage worker freaks?
Me: I’ll leave and contact management.
CC’er: What if she calls the cops? (starting to get himself hyped up about something)
Me: Not breaking the law.
CC’er: What if he doesn’t know that and takes you to jail?
Me: I’ll sue their asses.
CC’er: Well, you be careful, that doesn’t seem like a good idea to me.
Me: I am, never had a problem (as I’m walking away, no patience for this).
It struck me as strange that a legal activity that doesn’t affect him at all was such a big deal. He was a little agitated when he got into the “what if” scenario, but it could have been worse; I thought he was going to start with the, “you’ll be the first guy shot” thing. My kids thought it was funny especially after I put it into the “two types of people”* discussion. It was funny to me because I’ve seen these types of discussions on the Internet, but this was my first experience in real life.
*There are two types of people, the ones who want to be left alone and the others who refuse to leave them alone. I always try to stay in the first group, but a lot of people jump back and forth depending on the issue at hand (drugs, healthcare, guns, religious freedom and so on).
If it doesn’t hurt anyone else I believe there is no reason to join the second group.
I was in Truckers Toy Store in Morehead City and no one complained, but I did have a customer come in and loudly say, “What the hell is going on here, we got guys with guns!” The lady behind the counter looked up a little startled and said, “WHAT! Oh yeah, he has his,” then she kind of shrugged and after he left she said “sorry about that.” I don’t know why people feel the need to bring attention to themselves trying to make a stupid joke. But it really didn’t bother the staff so it’s all good.
Since I’ve moved to Suffolk, Virginia and have been OC’ing all over Hampton Roads, I’ve seen some other OC’ers and haven’t had a single negative reaction. I always try to encourage OC’ing instead of CC’ing, but I think most people think it’s crazy. If you carry and it’s legal for you, maybe this will at least help you think about letting your freak flag fly.*
Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away. No, wait. Wrong story.
Let me start again.
In a former life, I was the owner of a hard-won and extensive set of healthcare credentials issued by the State of New York, and some other granting agencies and organizations. After I left NYS, I decided not to continue in that line of work and consequently did not transfer my credentials elsewhere to keep them active. This turns out to have been a huge miscalculation.
For reasons too mundane and numerous to list, I’ve now decided that perhaps I want to get back into a very narrow segment of the field. The very specific skills and knowledge needed are ones for which I was universally lauded, and were a tiny portion of my previous scope of practice.
Looking around at various job openings, I see that I am very well-qualified…except I don’t have the standalone piece of paper now needed for this.
OK. So, how can I obtain the piece of paper? Take a certification exam. Excellent. I kick ass on certification exams, and my skills and knowledge are more than compatible with the current standards. I can do the work and can pass the exam, I should be able to get the gig.
Nope. Can’t sit for the exam unless I have a different piece of paper from an “approved” program, attesting to my successful completion of a certain number of hours of training under the accredited program, the curriculum of which I could actually teach…and, in fact, used to teach in NYS.
But, OK. I get it. This isn’t too different from the first time around. I’ll find a program at a college and enroll.
Within a day of applying to the closest institution of higher education offering the required program this autumn, I was accepted. Awesome, no?
No.
I received a packet of information via email with the requirements that must be met before I can even register for the specific courses needed for the credentialing program.
WTF? I can’t register for the courses even though I was accepted?
No.
First, I must attend an orientation session for the program. Well, that seems OK.
There is only one offered this entire summer for a program beginning at the end of August. Still, I’m thinking, good thing I found out about it in time! I’ll sign up for it.
Nope. No reservations or sign-ups taken, even though there is limited seating. But if you don’t get a spot in the room, you are out of luck until…next summer!
[REDACTED EXPLETIVES]
OK, so I’ll add it to my calendar, make some arrangements that are disruptive to the entire household, and will make sure I am there a couple hours early.
In the meantime, let’s take another look at the list of requirements and see what else I can check off.
*double take*
They want…my ACT and SAT scores and high school transcripts? I graduated from high school in the early 1980s (and they know this), and I took those exams my junior year of high school. Why in the world would they want those?!
To prove “English proficiency” and “Algebra readiness.”
Now, I am a regularly published writer and professional editor with tear sheets, books, and lists of credits. I took higher math (unavoidable with a math professor dad!), but there is absolutely no math, and indeed, very little arithmetic, needed in this field. WTF?
You guessed it, my Glib friends! Turns out those are some kind of government mandate. Being a published writer in English language magazines is not considered “proof” of English language literacy. Why? Because that isn’t on the list from the government.
(Digression. High school guidance secretary, after several email exchanges: What was your name when you were here again?
Me: Same as it is now.
Secretary: Um…ok, I was…um, just checking. I’ll have to get back to you.
Me: *head desk*)
Ever dealt with the SAT and ACT folks trying to get nearly-40-year-old records? Gee, I have now. I don’t recommend it. Expensive. And takes weeks longer than I have to obtain the results.
Because, remember, I can’t register for the courses before I get this info. Oh, and, hey, there is only one section of this program being offered at a time I can take it. And, “don’t delay on sending in your requirements as courses tend to fill quickly.”
(I hear you wondering, “Why can’t she just use her college transcripts?” Because in the honors program I was in, we could design our own curriculum and neither English comp nor math had any place in what I was studying so aren’t on those transcripts.)
Well, this is silly. I’ll research in what other ways I can “prove” these things.
Turns out I can take placement tests. Seriously. Well, OK, if I have to, I can do that sooner than the other stuff will arrive.
Except. That costs money. And the tests can only be done supervised, on-site. During limited hours which are, again, household disruptive. With an appointment that is weeks out, really pushing my registration window.
Hmm. Before I spend any more cash, I better call the program chair and find out if there are even any openings in the course sections for which I need to register.
“We don’t really know.”
“Isn’t it shown right there in the computer roster?”
“Well, things change a lot over the summer, so we can’t really know right now. I would advise you to keep going through the process and then try to register.”
[MORE REDACTED EXPLETIVES]
Back to the damn list.
Proof of Residency. Check!
Proof of Citizenship. Two for two!
New student orientation. Crap. “NSO will teach you how to succeed in a college environment!” At least as a “non-traditional” student, I will be able to complete this as a series of webinars. With tests for each section and a final exam which must be passed with over 70% correct answers. Truth. Could I make that up?
Meeting in person with academic advisor in counseling center. Really? For a certificate program? Yes! Mandatory, because it additionally grants college credit. Daytime hours, limited for summer, no appointments.
Required tests and/or immunizations for healthcare programs, which must be done at the institution’s health center (yes, limited, daytime hours):
TB 2-Step (9-day process) $9 ea
OR T-Spot (1-2 Business day) $54 ea
Hepatitis A Titre $22 ea
Hepatitis B (series of 3) $46 ea
Hepatitis B Titre (quantitative antibody) $35
Hepatitis C Antibody $22
Measles (proof of two) $78
Measles Titre $35
Mumps (proof of two) $78
Mumps Titre $52
Rubella (proof of two) $78
Rubella Titre $17
Varicella Titre $46
Tdap $46
Flu Shot $35
Notice something about many of those? If the titre doesn’t provide a satisfactory result, the shots are needed. They are mostly series. Which must be spaced out by several weeks. Which takes me out of the registration window completely. (Did I ever have rubella? Doubtful. Can’t ask Mom, she rudely died a few years ago, not anticipating the inconvenience to me now.)
Drug Screening – 10 panel, $50. Must be paid first at college cashier’s office after standing in line (daytime only hours, “limited for summer” !, then paperwork and receipt delivered to program secretary’s office, who will then issue the paperwork (“within 3 or 4 business days, but not Fridays during the summer”) to take to an off-site, non-local provider, with…yes, you know it, limited daytime hours, walk-ins only, no appointments.
Sheesh. This is starting to add up. Oh, yeah, and I have to pay for all this stuff before knowing if I’ll get a spot in the program.
Back to the list.
Fingerprinting $28 – outside vendor, not local, limited daytime hours, walk-in, no appointments. *sigh*
Background check $45 (Did I remember to list every address I’ve ever had?)
Healthcare Provider CPR/AED – off-site through AHA. This one, at least, will be easy to meet as the classes are routinely scheduled for evenings and Saturdays at loads of local venues.
Oh, look! Here’s another little wrinkle. This program is only offered with an August starting date. All the above requirements have to be met within 12 months of beginning the program in August. If I go ahead and pay for everything, get all the documents and tests completed during July to increase the chances of being able to register before the program is filled, and ultimately there is no space in the program this autumn…I have to do it all again to try to get in next year, because July is not within 12 months of next August.
But, hey, that’s the end of the list!
There is a cheery little message at the bottom:
Notification will be sent to your email account when you have been granted permission to register for the program courses. If you have met all other program requirements, you will be able to register for any section that has availability, as long as the registration window is still open. Remember: enrolling in one course does not mean you will be able to enroll in the other courses required for the program. You may have to register for those courses during a later program year.
TL:DR – I’m beginning to see why there is a shortage of healthcare workers, yo.
I mentioned to everyone I went to Mexico right? No big surprise.
From where I am, it’s only a 3-4 hour drive depending on whether or not you follow Mexican traffic laws. To be honest the route I take goes through something called a “hassle free zone”, but I have seen Federales there so I’m not about to chance it. I keep it around three times the speed limit.
This is my review of New Belgium The Hemperor.
On my way there I received a voicemail in a town I never have signal.
“Hi this is Kelly from Swiss Corpse International Industries.” I guess Anna didn’t last a week.
“Swiss wants me to relay a message to you. He says, ‘the Old Man and the Sea will find you in Mexico. I can’t read this….it isn’t very nice.”
“It’s not meant to be nice!” I thought I heard in the background.
“He also wanted me to relay the message, ‘thanks for nothing, asshole, now I’m going to Neverland to find…Steve Smith?’”
“Neverland?” I asked myself out loud.
“Netherlands! Its crystal clear, read the damn memo!” I heard in the background. Oh no, this call was recorded for training purposes. “Netherlands, its where the Dutch people live!”
“I thought Dutch was what Germans called themselves?” She asked.
That’s one way to get a Narrowed Gaze on your first day at work.
The voicemail continued. “…um…Swiss…wants….wants” Her voice was trembling. “…he wants you to know that you signed a contract, next time read the fine print, ha ha ha ha….ha. He really wanted that last one. Five ha’s. Just go along with what they say. I know how much you hate…Argentines? Do I really have to say that last one?”
“Just fucking do it.” I definitely heard Swiss yell faintly in the background.
“…so this really benefits you. They have too much on you. It’s not worth fighting it, don’t be stupid…” The voicemail ended.
They can’t find me in Mexico. It’s a fishing turned resort town populated by Sammy Hagar types and a few Jesse Ventura type retirees. Both constantly complaining about the government but completely ignore the ridiculous overreach the Mexican government takes on a daily basis. Apparently, police presence in the form of machine gunners in the back of a pickup truck is okay, because you get a discount on your taxes if you pay them three months early…..
“They can’t find me, there’s too many Mexicans. I blend in.” I reassured myself. I put the phone in the glove box and finished gassing my car.
_____
“Room no ready yet.” The woman at the concierge desk informed me. “Come back one hour, need clean.”
“Thank you.” I assumed I can probably find something to do for an hour.
_____
“Necesitamos limpian su cuarto. Damos una otra hora, por favor.” The man at the concierge desk informed me an hour later.
“Muchas gracias.” I guess I can probably find something else to do for an hour.
_____
“Esta aqui. Trescientos quince.” Finally, they handed me a key to room 315. The concierge looked hauntingly at the back corner, and handed me an envelope. I turned and saw a shadowy figure wearing a hoodie in the corner, under the AC duct of course.
He pointed at the figure and the envelope and shuffled off to the back room waving his hands in the air. Clearly not wanting anything to do with either the hooded figure or the envelope. I opened it.
“Pollos.”
You have to be kidding me. I turned it over and looked back for the hooded figure. He was gone.
“Just kidding, LOL. We’re at Playa Bonita, it’s easy to find. The only white house on the point near the tide pools.”
I knew the house. It has that ‘drug lord’ vibe to it, with its high walls, iron gates and the enormous dog walking around the property. It seemed a little too out of place but left intentionally in plain sight.
“Come by at 4:20. Bring a dessert.”
I decide to take Swiss’ advice and not fight it…yet. As I drove down the dirt road I noticed a number of ultralight aircraft landing in the dry basin, exchanging small items and taking off towards the sunset.
I pulled up to the house and dismounted. I pushed the blue button on the intercom.
Bzzzzzz
“Good afternoon. You’re right on time.”
“I try to be.” I answered back, not having anything better to say.
“What’s in the box? It’s a dessert right?”
I held up the pink box I got from the panaderia in town from the baker with one arm. “It’s a tres leches cake.” I replied. “Con fresas. Last one he had.”
The cast iron gates to the compound slowly opened and stopped just wide enough for me to squeeze through. Ever wary of the enormous dog attacking me in the courtyard, I approached the pristine, white house.
_____
The house itself had clean, white walls. The floors were wall to wall saltillo tile as was typical in this part of the world, arranged in a visually stimulating hexagonal mosaic. Imposing columns with a tasteful, off-white texturing held up the vaulted ceiling. This was designed intentionally to be intimidating.
“Good afternoon…mexican sharpshooter.” A voice echoed from within the hallway. I turned and saw a comparatively smaller man than I. Not a dwarf, but certainly nobody that would be confused with Warty. He had a black, but graying beard that appeared to have never been trimmed, but was well kempt and combed to tuck neatly under the chin. He was wearing a white, loose fitting garment with sleeves that covered both his hands while they were in a gently closed position. His arms were not crossed. The garment appeared to be painstakingly obvious it was made from a single source of crisp, linen fiber.
This man was very familiar with the Laws of Leviticus.
“It’s rather dusty outside. Please, remove your shoes.” He said. I noticed he too was barefoot, and obliged. “Can I interest you in a glass of Romanian wine?” He motioned to a room with a glass door; hundreds of bottles of wine were neatly placed on wooden racks. With a child, aged 12, inside dutifully turning one a half turn.
“I’d like that, however I am not a wine drinker. Please don’t waste anything ‘good’ on my account.” I replied, removing my shoes.
“Left shoe first.” He said.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked.
“I SAID—take off your LEFT SHOE first.” He said sternly. “Goddamn Catholics.” His demeanor changed back. “Yes, you are certainly more of a beer guy. That’s why we called you here today. I still have to pay you back for that bottle of spiked pig urine you sent me.”
“So you’re the Old Man?” I asked.
He nodded and motioned to a crystal bowl filled with lemon drops set on a table. “Candy?”
“I’m —“
“Good? Yes. Please join us in the parlor.” The Old Man said.
_____
The parlor was equally impressive. Its walls were mostly bookshelves alternating with displays of small artifacts. I immediately centered in on a massive cuneiform tablet.
“Please don’t touch.” A woman’s voice said behind me. “It’s very old, I would hate to have to do as it instructs, and remove your hand with a rusty tin can lid.”
“I can imagine that.” I said.
“It’s the Code of Hammurabi.” She said. “One of the world’s first examples of the imposition of freedom.” I could see her hand was trembling in her attempt to suppress rage. “I had to have it.”
She wasn’t dressed nearly as unnervingly as the Old Man, even though she was also dressed in white. Her hair was tied back neatly and she wore thick rimmed glasses. Under her arm was a small laptop she carried around. She had a glass of wine with a volume similar to my head carried gently in her other hand.
“Yeah, that was a fun day. The British Museum can suck it.” Another man walked into the room. He was wearing a hoodie, he pulled it back to reveal a blue mohawk.
“Don’t mind the Mad Scientist.” She looked at him. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
The Mad Scientist nodded and scurried out of the room.
“He’s completely out of his mind, but he’s the best grease man in the business. I wanted this tablet. He set off a small explosion in the London Underground last year. The diversion was enough to occupy the London Metro police long enough for Warty to walk in and steal it. He picked up the 1500kg stone tablet and placed it here in my vacation home.”
She was interrupted by the sound of an angle grinder in the garage. “Ha ha ha ha ha. Suck it!” Mad Scientist shouted.
“I was at the British Museum six months ago, the Code was—“
“They have a forgery. You didn’t see it there, because it is here in my parlor. I suppose you want to know why we called you here today. I need a favor, but first, can I interest you in some falafel?”
_____
The Old Man clapped his hands twice and six Mexican children dutifully marched into the room carrying trays of food into the dining room. They looked like Oompa Loopas, just slightly less creepy.
“So I am supposed to be on vacation. Why did you call me here?” I asked.
The Old Man began. “We have been plotting to legalize drugs for the past thirty years. We set up several operations here in Mexico, Columbia, Cambodia, The Gambia, and Arkansas that will all be poised to corner the market upon legalization. The only problem is—“
“Arkansas?” I had to interject.
“It’s a holdover from Whitewater. Hillary lost her nerve so we cut our losses in the 90s, but the operation remained. They looked the other way when we showed them our satellite photos of Hillary riding Web Hubbel like Seabiscuit in the early 80s. Even in the low resolution photos that were typical of the time, they had to admit it was her. Nobody else is stupid enough to get a tramp stamp of Che Guevara.” The Old Man explained.
I choked for a moment on my falafel.
“At any rate. She got too dangerous during the last election. I duplicated her email server twice, sending one to our friend Julian Assange, and putting the other in a bathroom in Colorado.” She explained. “To keep Trump in line, we have a small explosive charge in his MAGA hat. He’ll sign the bill if and when it comes to his desk, unless he wants to level Trump Tower.”
“That’s small?” I asked.
“Small enough.”
“So S—
“No.” The Old Man stopped me.
“No, what?”
“Do not say her name out loud. She has many aliases. The avatar you know her as, ‘The Hacker,’ ‘The Hand of God,’ ‘Guccifer,’ ‘Guccifer 2.0,’ ‘Pablo Escobar,’ and ‘La Lívida Reina.’ You may not say her name out loud.” I looked over and saw that she smiled at me sweetly.
“All hail the livid queen!” Mad Scientist shouted as he got the skillsaw going. “Ha ha ha ha ha, Suck it!”
“…Señor Escobar, how does any of this legalize drugs?” I asked.
“We needed a mechanism to get enough people addicted to the compounds the Old Man has been working on since he poisoned our rival, William Randolph Hearst.” She explained.
“You poisoned him?” I asked.
“With falafel. Here, have some more.” The Old Man added another three to my plate.
“Enough people demand the drugs, they will have no choice but to legalize. Especially with enough congresscritters addicted themselves. We just needed the right carrier.” She explained.
“A solvent, if you will.” The Old Man added.
“Then in 1973, while on holiday in New Delhi, the Old Man drank something called an India Pale Ale.”
“It was dreadful.” The Old Man said.
“But it was perfect.” They held hands. “Because you can’t smell or taste anything else while drinking it.”
“So this compound. What is it?” I asked.
“It’s a hallucinogen.” The Old Man explained. “That’s all you need to know.”
“Have you tested it, to make sure you don’t kill anyone?” I asked.
“Of course we did!” She answered. I might have offended her, based on her tone. “We tested it on Riven. She was absolutely adorable and they call her ‘Giggles’ now.”
“Look, there’s going to be a few…hundred million…broken eggs, but it’s okay.” The Old Man added. “It’s just culling the herd if they don’t want to be safe about it, and quite frankly it was their decision to like IPA.”
A small explosion shook the walls, with a small amount of plaster dust falling down. “IPA! Ha ha ha ha ha! Suck it!” Mad Scientist was up to something in the courtyard.
“Besides.” She added. “WE did not create IPA. We just created the hop arms race. Then we began licensing beer infused with CBD and our compound. The first out to market was called Breaking Bud.” She looked disappointed. “Sadly, that one got us in a lawsuit with SONY pictures.”
“Copyright infringement.” The Old Man said. “They sued our Swiss holding corporation.
“A Swiss holding corporation?” I asked. This was getting weird.
“You’re familiar with it.” She explained. “Swiss Corps International Industries.”
“You’re a pawn, just like Mad Scientist. Swiss Servator doesn’t know who he really works for, but is more of a bishop. Deal with it.” The Old Man said. “Here, have some more Romanian wine.”
The lights flickered, followed by the unmistakable sound of arc flash and the Mad Scientist’s sadistic laughter. “Ha ha ha ha ha. You’re a pawn! Suck it!”
“Its okay though. I got back at them by hacking them, leaving North Korea’s greasy fingerprints all over it, and distributing a movie on the internet before its release. It was a terrible movie.” She said.
“Don’t read Business Insider, dear. They’re idiots.” She replied.
“Duly noted. What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“What you always do. Drink beer. Talk about something silly and tell the Glibs it’s amazing.” The Old Man said.
“I’m pretty honest about my opinions. They already know I don’t like IPA, and they’re going to call me on that.” I argued.
The Old Man clapped his hands twice. A Mexican child walked in with a six pack and a clean chalice. “You’re going to try it right now. You’re going to fall back on your previous history of being honest and tell them you like it. The Glibs will buy it. They get addicted to our compound, and tell their friends about it. You’re going to make us very wealthy.”
“You really expect me to tell them I like an IPA?” I asked.
“No Mr. sharpshooter–I expect you to die.” She said. “Oh my. I’m so sorry, that came out wrong.” She was a bit flustered. She took another sip of Romanian wine before composing herself. “If you don’t, Lionel Messi is going to kill you and your family. He has pretty good cardio.”
“The soccer player?” I was confused.
“Part of our fortune was made on sports betting. We have the entire Argentine National team in our pocket.” The Old Man explained. “He owes us millions of Pounds from fucking up the round robin stage of the world cup. Iceland was only supposed to beat the spread, not tie them. Fucking Argentines, you can’t trust them”
“If you can’t trust an Argentine Striker…” I said.
“Just wait until you see what happens to Sergio Aguerro. We put an explosive charge in his knee last year. Remember how he had an injury late in the year, and they lost to Liverpool? You didn’t think Liverpool could beat them on their own, did you?” She said. “Oh and by the way, it was no mistake that STEVE SMITH broke into your house and kidnapped the tiny ass dog.”
“A ha ha ha ha ha. Suck it Liverpool!” Mad Scientist shouted in the foyer.
The Old Man nodded to the Mexican child. She opened and poured the New Belgium Hemperor into the chalice.
“If I say no right now?” I asked.
The Old Man pointed to the corner, where their enormous, apparently half dog, half polar bear was gnawing happily on an uncooked brisket.
“It’s in the contract you signed to publish on my site. You can’t tell us no.”
_____
It poured amber, had little head, and it smelled like bong water. I took down half the hemp infused IPA in a long swig. Yup, it tasted like overhopped bong water. A second swig finished it off.
Then. It. Happened.
I found myself walking through a field of grain. I was in Iowa or something, because I could see a sign that said, “Des Moines 20 miles,” with black smoke billowing from a small city in the distance.
“Who would burn down Des Moines? I mean I can totally see somebody burning down Atlanta, but what’s in Des Moines that’s worth burning?” I asked out loud.
ZARDOZ SPEAKS TO YOU HIS CHOSEN ARSON QUESTIONING ONE.
“What?”
ZARDOZ IN SQUABBLE WITH NEIGHBORING FARM. BRUTAL FARMER TAKES MY PRIVATE ROAD ACROSS MY PROPERTY TO ACCESS HIS. NO BIG DEAL REALLY, UNTIL I ASKED BRUTAL TO HELP COVER THE COST OF REPAIR AFTER HEAVY SNOW LAST WINTER, AND HE REFUSED. I MADE THE REPAIRS ON MY OWN AND FILED A REQUEST WITH THE STATE HE CEASE AND DESIST USING MY ROAD.
“Understandable.”
THEN THE STATE INFORM ZARDOZ, BRUTAL NEIGHBOR FILED FOR AN EASEMENT ON ZARDOZ’S PRIVATE ROAD.
“Judas Priest, what an asshole.”
BRUTALS IN THE STATE APPROVED THE EASEMENT 2 YEARS AGO.
“That’s terrible, do you have any legal recourse?”
ZARDOZ HAVE LEGAL RECOURSE, BUT ONLY REASONABLE ACTION WAS TO GO TO THE STATE HOUSE IN DES MOINES AND CLEANSE THE BRUTALS THAT GAVE AWAY ZARDOZ’S PROPERTY.
“Sounds reasonable. Is that why the entire city is on fire?”
ZARDOZ GOT IN A GROOVE. ONCE ZARDOZ START CLEANSING HE JUST KEEPS ON GOING UNTIL THE JOB OF CLEANSING IS DONE.
“I can relate. What about your neighbor?”
ZARDOZ HAVE BIG PLANS FOR NEIGHBOR.
“It involve cleansing?”
NO. MORE LIKE CLEANSE MY PATHETIC NEIGHBOR.
“My bad. You have any idea why I am here?
ZARDOZ BELIEVES YOU DRANK THE OLD MAN’S SERUM. THIS ENTIRE EPISODE IS OCCURRING WITHIN THE CONFINES OF NOW YOUR EXPANDING MIND.
Yeah, I recall drinking something. Can you do me a favor and not call it that again?
ZARDOZ PROMISE NOTHING. BUT HE CAN PREDICT PAIN IF YOU DO NOT FULFILL THEIR MORE THAN REASONABLE REQUEST.
“Really?”
YES. ARGENTINE SOCCER PLAYERS WILL ATTACK AND OVERWHELM YOUR DEFENSE WITH SYSTEMIC PRECISION. SHOULD THAT FAIL THEY WILL ATTEMPT AN APPEAL TO THE AUTHORITIES AND FRAME YOU FOR ATTROCITIES YOU DID NOT COMMIT. IT HAPPENS TO THE BEST OF US, HONESTLY. THEY DID IT TO ZARDOZ IN THE EARLY 70S.
“Really?”
YES. SP GATHERED DIRT ON ZARDOZ AND USED IT AS LEVERAGE IN A PLOT TO BRING GMO CHICKPEAS FOR SALE IN MIDDLE EASTERN AND MEDITERRANEAN MARKETS. ZARDOZ FAILED TO CLEANSE BRUTAL GREEK COURTS BLOCKING THE MOVE. AS A RESULT OF MY FAILURE, SP EXPOSED ZARDOZ’S AFFAIR WITH THE SIRENS OF TITAN.
“Those statues were real? I thought Vonnegut was just being a total crackpot.”
BRUTAL VONNEGUT ISA TOTAL CRACKPOT. HE MAKE THE SIRENS SLENDER WHEN THEY ARE CLEARLY THICC AF. THAT IS NO MATTER, YOU NOW HAVE THE CHANCE TO PREVENT THE SCOURGE OF BRUTALITY FROM FURTHER PLUNGING US ALL INTO THE ABYSS. DO NOT LET THE CHANCE SLIP.
“I hear you. I thought you were against the whole…breeding…thing?”
ZARDOZ LEARN LESSONS OF THE PAST. MESSAGE ON THE EVILS OF THE PENIS IS LESSON ZARDOZ LEARN THE HARD WAY. HE PASSES THIS LESSON ON TO YOU, HIS CHOSEN ONES. ZARDOZ HAS SPOKEN.
“You know, you’re not so one sided. You’re a much deeper character than people give you credit for.”
Then ZARDOZ unexpectedly coughed.
A Lee Enfield SMLE spun through the air, and butt-stroked me in the face.
_____
I fell back in the chair and struck my head against the tile floor.
“Ow! Fuck me!” I shouted.
“Hey genius. You’re not supposed to drink all of it at once.” The Old Man said.
“Noob! Ha ha ha ha ha. Suck it!
What if he were coming…for you?
I want everyone to go out right now and buy New Belgium The Hemperor. Right now, before you leave a comment. You will not get props for cheating and being first. It is available where ever New Belgium is sold.
This beer is delicious. It does not smell like bong water. Do not let the phrase IPA on the label fool you; it is amazingly balanced. I cannot describe to you how absolutely amazing this beer is. It is totally worth the $14.99 for a six pack; I will even go so far to say it is a bargain.
Please buy it, because I have absolutely no qualms with shooting Lionel Messi in self defense or any Argentine, really. New Belgium The Hemperor scores a very respectable 10/5.
The next morning I discovered the last indignity from the motel. There was no hot water. Not even a drop. I had to settle for washing my pits and crotch and using clean clothes to face decent society.
Having seen the results of the dinner buffet, I wasn’t expecting much for the breakfast buffet and my pessimism was correct. Same bored guy behind the counter took my breakfast order. I took the opportunity to re-check the board for the cavern tours and was pleased to discover that I had mis-read it; the $50 tour was for another area and the standard tour was only $20, and I even got a discount for AAA when I bought the ticket. The cavern tour made up for all of the hassles that I had endured with the motel and restaurant. It was simply magnificent.
I was almost solo with my attractive tour guide but at the last minute a family from somewhere in Eastern Europe joined us. I can usually pick out a language (even though I cannot speak it) from its sounds and a few vocabulary words that I can recognize. I never knew for sure but they sounded Slavic to me.
Like Carlsbad Caverns the entrance to the cave was not the original entrance. An elevator took us down (and back up), followed by a walk of a mile or so. It is a “dry” cave (unlike Carlsbad) and therefore has a different sort of cave formations. The walk also took us by the old Civil Defense fallout shelter and a hotel room located 250 feet below the surface. Our guide said that she had spent her honeymoon there and the total darkness and total silence was actually too much to take! They had to turn on a nightlight in order to remain the night!
I finished the tour around mid-morning and resumed my trip on US-66. Someone, I’m guessing the Tourist Bureau from the Seligman area, has sponsored a series of signs along the road, similar to the Burma Shave signs of the past. I thought that this was a clever way to promote the historic road. There is a lot of interest nowadays for the promotion of US-66 of bygone days, as my trip was discovering. I think that Americans are missing a lot of their heritage by blasting by on the limited-access Interstate Highway. A forgotten America still exists on the back roads that is not part of the Interstate Exit conglomeration of chain motels and fast food restaurants.
At Seligman I climbed back on the freeway to deal with the truck traffic.
I took the exit to drive through Ash Fork, as the road had diverted in the past. I had not remembered the Ash Fork was famous for its stone quarries, particularly shale and flagstone. Most of the houses in town were made of stone and many of them looked to be quite old.
I wanted to see the statue that Winslow had erected of the guy “standing on a corner in Winslow Arizona” and missed it on the westbound trip so I exited the freeway and drove through the town in the other direction
I recall hearing the refrain, “Spend the night in a wigwam!” ever since I was a child. One of the few remaining authentic Wigwam Motel ™ franchises was located in Holbrook Arizona and, since I was committed to doing the “tourist thing,” I reserved a wigwam. I am so glad that I did.
The original design was from the 1930’s and the park in Holbrook is one of three remaining in the country. The layout is quite clever with a surprisingly large bedroom and a bathroom with shower at the rear. The park has numerous old cars parked at nearly every room, adding to the nostalgic flavor of the place.
As I sat in the lengthening shadows of my last night on the road I used my cell phone to call my buddies who were gathered for our weekly poker game. A bit later I was finally got to visit with some neighbors who were having a little party in the parking lot. We chatted for a few minutes, then they moved on to a party downtown and I moved on to my bed in the wigwam.
Day 6
I had breakfast where the locals eat, Joe & Aggie’s Place. All that one could ask for, large helpings of terrific food and a bottomless pot of coffee.
In the parking lot there was a family of foreign tourists apparently taken by my motorcycle. When I walked up in my leather chaps and vest they were enthralled. The husband asked if I would pose with their children and I suggested putting the son on my bike for the photo. It looked like the daughter wanted her picture taken, too, (and I would have been glad to oblige) but I think that the parents felt that they were putting me out by the photo op. Hell, I didn’t care, it was fun being thought of as “an American biker.” I got an extra internal kick from knowing that my Harley-riding friends would be in distress by the foreigners being impressed with a biker on a Japanese bike.
After my encounter with Stogie I looked for other motorcyclists to ride with. On the way back I caught up with a fellow on a Honda 350. I held with him for a few miles, but he was traveling much slower than I wanted to so I said, “See ya” and went on. At Continental Divide I stopped at the Stuckeys for fuel and, upon leaving, encountered my friend on the Honda. We stopped for a few minutes to chat and then I went on.
To avoid the truck traffic on I-40 and to bypass Albuquerque I planned my trip across the reservation from Gallup through Crownpoint to Cuba. Again, wonderful scenery on a two-lane blacktop with no traffic. The road meanders from small town to town as it winds toward Cuba.
I was only a few miles away and had the lunch from El Bruno’s on my mind as I followed the Rio Puerco into town. Suddenly my reverie was interrupted by the impact of an insect on my exposed neck and the instant application of pain. I had run into the business end of a bee and the sting was rapidly swelling. I’m pretty sure that I’m not allergic to bee stings but I was still worried that the swelling might cause my windpipe to close. Fortunately the pain and swelling subsided in a bit and I was able to enjoy my lunch.
After spending the night again with Bruce I headed east toward home. The trip back was uneventful until I arrived back on my home turf in Albuquerque. I hit the freeway at the peak of rush hour. I had heard horror stories about the horrible traffic jams in Los Angeles, yet the worst traffic that I encountered was right in my home town!
I pulled into home right at dinner time. The family came out to greet me and hugs were liberally spread around. As I had been riding the hard saddle of the dirtbike almost non-stop my first words upon arrival were, “My butt hurts!”
I was home.
The last leg of the trip was in sight. A while back my uncle sent me a copy of a column from a motorcycle magazine where the author gave tips about road trips. One of the tips was a reminder that the last day of the trip is still part of the trip and one should not hurry the finish. A suggestion was to stop at the local bar on the way home and savor the trip just before it is over. I stopped at Los Ojos for a beer and found some folks to listen to my tales before heading up the hill for the last 20 miles.
First off my apologies for the delay in getting this part out, but I’ve been busy what with building homes and whatnot1. Assuming we passed the rough-in/framing inspection we now get to cover everything up and get to finishing. First comes the insulation. We have always subbed out the insulation, in the early days we did so because installing insulation is a nasty, scratchy job and more importantly the big companies could do the job for little more than what the cost of the insulation alone would be to us, economies of scale, FTW. I hear the insulation isn’t as itchy these days and sometimes they use the sprayed in fibrous and/or foamy stuff. Today it’s still cheaper to let the pros do it, plus we now have stricter standards on just how much insulation we need and we have to “prove” that we meet those standards. One “proves” this by submitting forms filled with calculations that I’d wager no one even checks2, but it’s in the file, so it’s all good. The insulation companies have people who fill out these forms, so we let them, it costs more but at least the homeowners know that their homes are nice and tight.
Speaking of which, with the house wrapping, caulking every crack, and the better insulation, some areas started seeing “Sick Home Syndrome,” a situation where people would get sick simply from being in certain buildings too long. Turns out all these energy efficiency regulations were making homes too tight. The answer – require a pressure test and add air exchangers so the houses can breathe3. Government – breaking your legs so it can supply you with crutches.
After the pink stuff comes the grey stuff.4 Drywall is another trade that we have always subbed out, apart from very small jobs it’s just not worth the hassle. In ’88 we used a couple of brothers who hung and finished the jobs themselves, they used hammers and nails but the screw guns were only a few years away. Most drywallers today seem to specialize in either finishing or hanging, the guy we use today doesn’t even employ hangers; he hires a crew that works for two or three other finishers. There are not many codes concerning drywall, we have to hang fire-rated boards on any walls between living spaces and garages but that’s about it.
After the grey stuff comes the stuff that’s whatever color you want it to be5. In the early days I spread a lot of paint6 but as my skill/value in other areas increased it became wiser to sub out the painting and staining. Which isn’t to say that painting is easy and that any hillbilly can do it. In fact, one of the most conscientious tradesmen I have worked alongside of was our long-time painter and wood finisher. Outside of the exemption in footnote #57 there aren’t any codes regarding paint…yet, you can still paint your farmhouse kitchen some shade that’s almost blue or your imperial bedroom an off yellow. I don’t know much about the technological advances in paints; what I do know is that over thirty years the cost has skyrocketed. It could be market driven, but since most things seem to come down in price over time-unless artificially manipulated- my money is on government intervention. Admittedly, this is a personal bias; I’ll gladly defer to anyone with actual knowledge of the ins and outs of the paint game.
Outside it’s time for siding, these days that means vinyl siding and cultured stone. For the first few houses, we used T-111 sheathing and later cedar. T-111 is cheap8 and the cedar expensive, both require maintenance, so vinyl and stone it is. Other than styles, not much has changed in siding; vertical is popular right now and they have some halfway decent looking fake shakes and stone products. The tools might have improved but the application is still the same, likewise with the stone; we’ve used the same masons for 25 years and they’ve always done things the same way.9
The Big Finish
From here on out it’s mostly cosmetics; technically all you need for the final/occupancy permit is a WC, hot water, and a kitchen sink. This is also about the time the owners start to get happy feet, the exterior is done and all the ‘big’ steps have been taken, but there is still plenty to do. I imagine if you had a big enough crew-or separate crews-installing cabinets, hanging doors, and trim, putting in the various floor coverings and such you could finish up quickly but we10 do all that stuff ourselves, so it’s going to take some time. Back when I did our electric, I would start with the lights and outlets, as it makes finishing easier when you don’t have to drag lights and extension cords everywhere.
Other than carpeting, which one likes to install dead last, I like to get the hardwoods, laminates, and ceramic down next; saves having to undercut doors and work around cabinets. Styles and products have changed over the years, laminates are the most popular now, and they have improved a lot. People still like hardwood and ceramics, but the cost difference is substantial. After flooring I like to set the cabinets; they, too, have improved mostly in the hardware, soft close hinges, full extension drawers and such. Countertops are mostly granite or quartz, and those farmhouse apron sinks are all the rage. I use a laser to level the cabinets, and the countertops are digitized and cut on CNC machines.
After the countertops are installed, the plumber can return and finish up, while I move on to hanging doors and trim. All these little things seem to go on forever, installing latch sets, door stops, towel bars, closet shelving, and the inevitable “favors” we do for the homeowners- hanging the wall mount TV brackets they bought or that big mirror and heavy pictures or the swinging porch chair… But then one day it’s done, the inspector can come by and stick his tester in a few outlets11, flush all the toilets and make sure the water at the sink is hot, but not too hot. We gather up any tools and materials still around and move on to the next job.
I know this section comes across as sparse, but other than styles and aforementioned improvements in tools and products finishing, a house hasn’t changed all that much during my 30-year career. To make up for that here’s some argument-starting clickbait type opinion stated as fact.
Every Tom Waits Album12 Ranked Worst to First.
Proof I’m not selling wolf tickets
The Black Riders
Blood Money
Real Gone
Foreign Affair
Alice
Closing Time
The Heart of Saturday Night
Franks Wild Years
Bad As Me
Small Change
Bone Machine
Nighthawks at the Diner
Swordfishtrombones
Raindogs
Heartattack and Vine
Mule Variations
Blue Valentine
That’s it for the penultimate part. Next time will be the last time. I’m going to attempt to wrap all this up with some observations about what all this has to do with libertarianism, or perhaps better said, how it has influenced my particular take on libertarianism. If you have any questions or would like more details about some particular area hit me up in the comments and I’ll endeavor to address those issues as well.
1. Mainly trying to drink all the beer Riven sent me.
2. Not one time have I seen an inspector refer to any of the various forms we must submit while he’s doing the inspecting
3. Just like they used to.
4. That might be a euphemism…I’m just not sure for what
5. Except for outside, but I’ll get to that next time
6. [waggles eyebrows]
7. see footnote 5
8. But not inexpensive.
9. Recently retired, maybe the new masons will have new tricks.
10. With Dad pushing 80 that really should be “I”
11. Now, there’s a euphemism!
12. Yes, Nighthawks is technically a live album, but since it’s all original songs (aside from the Red Sovine cover) that aren’t on any other studio albums I include it here.
(Note to the Glibsters: This was originally written with publication in a local newspaper in mind, after I had communicated with the editor of that paper several months ago, with her saying she wanted some different (i.e., not so picayune) editorial material submitted. Well, I messaged her about this finished piece and she never wrote me back, so… her loss is the Glibs’… um… ‘gain.’ Anyway, that’s why it’s written in such a stodgy, formal manner and doesn’t have any cursing or STEVE SMITH references.)
This past Saturday (June 23rd 2018), the U.S. Association for Library Service to Children (or ALSC) decided to rename the award they give now and then to writers and illustrators of outstanding contributions to children’s literature. Previously known as the Laura Ingalls Wilder Award (or Medal), and named after its first winner, the author of the Little House series of books, the honor will now be referred to by the more generic title of Children’s Literature Legacy Award.
This sounds perfectly innocuous, on the face of it. But why rename the award at all, given that Wilder’s books have been widely read and loved by probably millions of readers, most of them children? Well, it turns out that, all this time, the Little House books were racist: they sometimes contained unflattering depictions of Native American and African-American characters.
Certainly, these are not the first or only books written for children which have received widespread success and recognition, but which also aren’t quite acceptable by modern race-acceptance standards. Sam Clemens’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn are often cited as containing uncomfortable material, though the latter in particular can be read as particularly anti-slavery. L. Frank Baum, the author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, might not have shown much in the way of racism in his fictional work, but wrote several editorials for his local paper, the Aberdeen [South Dakota] Saturday Pioneer, calling for the extermination of Native American tribes. There are others, but these are the most frequently cited examples.
It should be noted that each of these authors was born in the 19th century. Clemens, of course, became famous starting in 1865 when he was about thirty; Baum’s famous first novel of his Oz series was published in 1900 when he was in his forties; and Laura Ingalls Wilder’s first book of her defining series, Little House in the Big Woods, appeared in 1932, when the authoress was in her mid-60s.
Each of them, therefore, grew up, and lived their young adult years, in a world completely different from our own: a world without automobiles, television, or even radio, a world where even such mundanities as electricity and indoor plumbing were uncommon, usually reserved for the well-to-do. They lived through the eras of the Western expansion, of the coming of the telegraph and the railroad. They were alive when the gunfight at the O.K. Corral would have been a current news item.
Why, then, do we think it would be a good idea to judge their written work by our modern standards? They lived their lives in a world so different from our own that they might as well have been from another planet. Our era is not only separated from theirs by technology, but also (much more so) by sociological ideas. The idea that, for example, female or gay or black persons ought to receive the same rights and privileges as white men, would have been considered outrageous in the late 1800s. Simply expressing it might get one run out of town on a rail, if not prosecuted on some moral statute.
Much of the world has moved forward on such things, of course, and rightly so. One can hardly expect any society to take a look at its accepted ideals and say, “All right, we’ve come as far as we can; we don’t need to ever change how we feel about anything.” A society’s morals and values are always in flux and changing, moving forward, or at least in one direction or another. To declare that things are now fixed and correct, never to be changed, is ridiculous.
But isn’t that what’s happening now with situations like the award name change? We’re taking an item from a different time, judging it from our current standards, and, finding it unacceptable, tossing it over our shoulder onto the ash heap of history. It’s inevitable that we would view things through a modern lens. But where things become unsettling is when we decide that such items not only fall short of modern sensibilities, but must be purged from our sight altogether – not merely ignored or even seen as a quaint anachronism, but all mention of it wiped out completely.
Certainly, no one is currently calling for the Little House books to be pulled from store and library shelves, or copies burned during some nighttime rally. But this is exactly how such things begin. (Keeping Wilder’s name on the award was apparently considered such a problem that a survey was sent out to members of the ALSC -as well as “ALA ethnic affiliates,” whatever those are- who voted for the change, 305 to 156.)
If this incident were happening in isolation, we could shrug it off as a curious anomaly, chuckle at the stupidity of the ALSC, and almost immediately forget about it. But in the current cultural climate, it isn’t. Everything, it seems, is being dragged through a crucible process of sociological fitness according to currently-favored values (which are subject to change, but not necessarily subject to internal consistency); and very few artistic works of the past, as one can imagine, are coming out unscathed.
This is all well and good, as society’s ideas must, again, keep moving forward. But while it’s perfectly all right to judge things according to modern standards, it’s particularly dangerous to do away with them completely, in the name of whatever banner our cultural betters might be waving currently. Judge them, chuckle at them, dismiss them if you like: these are all perfectly acceptable behaviors. But it is a horrible mistake of hubris to go so far as to start removing them completely – to start dismantling the old to make way for the new. In doing so, one denies others the ability to make that choice for themselves; after all, another person might decide he likes some of the old stuff just fine, thank you very much. And the reason for much of such destruction, it could be argued, might just be to deny others the chance to disagree with the destructor.
There is no scientific barometer for social correctness. The soft “sciences” aren’t like the disciplines which can prove their hypotheses mathematically. In other words, we can never know when we are absolutely right or wrong. That’s why societies change their ideas over time. As things shift, people decide that, well, maybe they’ve been a bit too hard on this or that social group that they’ve been prejudiced against all these years. And maybe the heroes of the previous revolution don’t look quite so virtuous as they used to. People change their attitudes: but it’s far preferable for such attitudes to change gradually, by virtue of logic and experience, rather than by force or shame.
So, judging 19th century authors by modern social standards –standards which, really, haven’t been in place very long– is a bit imbecilic. Could a person of the previous century have been able to see into the future, to our modern day, to see what ideas are in vogue? Of course not. Would she even change her own attitudes, if she could see into our world? The very idea is preposterous. Would she even understand what we’re talking about? More than likely, our society would seem like a mad anarchy to her. After all, she lived in her own world, not ours; so why would we not expect her to generally conform to our values? Again, the entire premise is ridiculous.
But, wait. What if current authors are going to be judged by our future society? What if the cultural critics of, say, 2137 decide that we’re all just a bunch of barbaric rubes? Absent any time-travel technology, shouldn’t we put our finest historians, our most decorated social critics, to the task of figuring out what future persons will think of us, and then change our opinions so as to please them?
No. Because that would be completely stupid.
Stop trying to dismantle the past and rewrite history. Let people make up their own minds. After all, we’re all of us going to be history quite soon enough.
(Note: a pdf outlining the ALSC’s decision-making process can be found here)
Yesterday’s winds were gone, the air was clear and cool, and I was looking forward to a nice day of riding. Traffic was light and I could spend time looking for landmarks that I could remember. There were not many of them as the whole area has built up over the years.
I was in awe as I followed I-10 to I-5. I had never seen such roads! At Claremont there was a triple flyover; four levels of road in one place! I had never seen such sights!
I had also never seen grooved pavement and the wiggles gave me a bit of worry as I tried to get used to it.
On the way to the exit that I needed I passed one for “Olive St.” Later that trip I would encounter the sign for “Roscoe St.,” exits with the names of my paternal grandparents.
The low fuel light had come on sometime back and, as it didn’t look like I was going to make it to the Sunland Blvd exit, I pulled off the freeway and promptly got lost. I refueled and figured my way back to the freeway.
In an apparent effort to discourage gasoline use, California has a new type of nozzle on gas pumps and they do not work well with motorcycles, shutting off too early and not allowing any further fill. The entire time I was in the state I was always about a gallon short of a full tank after gas stops.
At last! Sunland Boulevard, and many memories of the area came rushing back, such the gas station on the corner at the exit. As I made my way up the road I could see many familiar sights. Often the only difference was that the area has grown up over the years. The Viennese-styled restaurant is still there and the Von’s supermarket is in the same place, even though it’s now called “Ralph’s”.
The intersection at Mt. Gleason St. was unchanged, right down to the convenience store on the corner and the restaurant across the street. Hill was a couple of 4-way stops away and there I was at 7743. I’d made it.
Lynn had given me directions to get there and I followed them right to the house. 7743, that was the address. I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. I’d made it.
* * *
I parked across the street from the former von Groff house and rested while I took some pictures and lit a mini-cigar in celebration. Sadly, no one was home and I had to be content with photos of the outside.
When I knocked on the door Lynn’s mom, Mona, answered. “Lynn’s still is school,” she informed me, “She’s got one week left.”
I was flabbergasted. In my worldview, school had already gotten out. All schools had already gotten out. I had not considered the possibility that hers had not.
While Mona went back to her vacuuming, I tried to decide what to do.
I was now officially halfway through my trip and had made my primary goal. I had a nice ride up Big Tujunga Canyon ahead of me but first I wanted to get some lunch. I had passed the Jack-In-The-Box where Lynn and I shared our first kiss so I decided to eat there.
I didn’t know what to do. I had planned on spending only a few days with Lynn, then on to Frisco. I had arrived on Monday so I decided to spend the week there and play the trip back by ear. Again, I had planned to camp out, but the von Groffs graciously allowed me to sleep on their couch.
While Lynn finished her semester I spent the next few days riding around the Los Angeles area, taking in the sights. One day I took the Universal Studios tour, another I worked with Lynn’s dad, Jim, at his mechanic’s shop.
Afternoons and evenings there was Lynn, adorable, lovable, Lynn. One of the first days I helped her practice for her track meet on the upcoming Saturday. We’d ride the San Fernando Valley, stopping in at Jack or Shakey’s Pizza for something to eat, with kisses in the parking lot.
That weekend the family attended the track meet where both of the daughters were participating. Here was taken the only photograph of the entire trip, with me, Lynn, Mona, and Lynn’s sister Cheryl. Lynn was quite the runner. While in high school she set the state record for the 440 yard run for high school girls.
The von Groffs had a bathtub instead of a shower and I was so shy that I declined to bathe the entire time that I was there. I must have had some pretty good BO by the time the weekend rolled around!
Saturday evening there came a phone call. Jim’s old friend, Al, was calling to see if there was an extra boy hanging around. Jim handed the phone to me and Dad explained that Mom was worried about me and, wasn’t it about time that I came home? I meekly protested that I hadn’t gone to Frisco yet but Dad convinced me to head back. I started back the next day, returning over the same route.
The last time that I had ridden a motorcycle up Big Tujunga Canyon I managed to run out of gas and Mona had to rescue me. This time I fueled up before the ride but had a different worry. Severe forest fires had devastated the national forest the year before and many roads in the area were closed. Checking the web I could find no specifics and, starting up the canyon, I didn’t know if the road went through to Palmdale or not.
Much of the ride was familiar as the road climbs from the canyon bottom. The road quickly climbs up the steep sides, several times crossing impressive bridges spanning deep ravines. Lots of curves and very light traffic enhanced the pleasure of the ride.
Evidence of the fire was everywhere. I had recalled a pine/juniper forest but most of the landscape was barren, testimony of the intensity of the conflagration. To me, though, the scenery was reminiscent of the desert and held a stark beauty of its own.
And the road was mine. I only saw a few cars on the entire trip. I felt a bit of sadness when the curves came to an end and I encountered the traffic of the Antelope Valley. After a bit of traffic I entered I-15 to Barstow and my hotel for the night.
When traveling I like to eat well and avoid the “greasy spoon” type of places. Criss-crossing the west as I have over the years, I have started a running joke; someone will mention some out-of-the-way place and I’ll pipe up, “Dell, Montana? I know a good place to eat, there!” Well, Barstow has one of the best steakhouses in the west.
I returned to the motel and once again sat outside sipping a drink and smoking a cigar. No one came by so I turned in for the evening.
Day 4
Another disappointing breakfast at the Days Inn, but I had read about a place in Amboy that was semi-famous so I figured I could grab an early lunch there. No such luck. The grille was shut down, as I guess it was past tourist season. I had my choice of candy bars and soda. I chose a bottle of water and went on my way.
As I mentioned, I prefer to take loop trips, this year, however, I wanted to ride the original routes. I-40 ended at Newberry Springs in 1970 and picked back up at the mountain pass above Needles. After topping off fuel I exited the freeway onto Historic Route 66.
Of the four trips that I made between New Mexico and California in 1972-73 only the last was over the newly-completed freeway from Barstow to Seligman. One was over the 89A/I-10 route and the other two were over old 66 in California and Arizona. The biggest frustration was the traffic behind trucks on the two-lane and traveling at night was iffy because of the lack of 24-hour gas stations at the time. When crossing the newly-completed I-40 in the early summer of 1973 the traffic was so light that I was able to stop on the middle of the road in the middle of the night to take a leak.
Almost immediately I ran into trouble. The macadam of the road had deteriorated and was badly in need of repair. Many tire-sized cracks were in the road and I continuously had to watch for gaps that could break a sidewall or bend a rim. I decided that if the road was this bad past Ludlow then I would have to abandon this portion of the trip by necessity and return to the freeway. To my great relief, the road conditions improved greatly at Ludlow.
In the ghost town of Bagdad I found another Whiting Brothers station surrounded by a fence and junkyard dogs. It was in pretty poor shape and the demise of Bagdad was one more example of a small town vanishing.
Back in 1970 I had first noticed the displays beside the road. The white sand of the flat desert of the dry lakes along the road had messages laid out in the black volcanic rock from elsewhere. In later years I’d seen the same thing in the salt flats along US-50. Most were of the “John loves Mary” variety although there were a few political messages (“End war now”) and even an enigmatic “RP fuck it”. I thought of leaving my own statement but I didn’t collect any rocks from elsewhere and I didn’t want to disturb any of the other messages. Some were obviously old, some were shrines with cairns and crosses but most were made of local rock. Surprisingly many were obviously made of stones from elsewhere, brought a large distance to make a statement.
It was on this stretch of road that I realized that I was in the perfection of enjoyment. I could see the road before me, going over the hill twenty miles hence. I was stopped in the middle of the highway and not a single soul was coming or going. “I like this,” I decided. I want to do more.
The road connected back with Interstate 40 at the top of the hill above Needles. I was low on gas and had planned on fueling there but as I approached I decided that I could make Arizona handily and could avoid one final encounter with the worthless California gasoline nozzles.
I had to backtrack slightly to get to the turnoff to old 66. The road from the freeway was a winding track, over hilltops and across arroyos towards Oatman.
Another great ride! Turns and dips through the arroyos and no traffic! Oatman is known for the wild burros that inhabit the town and there were several burros (and considerable burro-droppings) in the center of town. I had looked forward to a cold beer in the local version of Los Ojos but the intense density of tourists dampened my thirst. I pushed on.
Tight turns around ridges and ravines, with spectacular vistas all the way. When researching the road I learned that travelers in the 1930s would often hire a local to drive their car down the road, as the hard turns and drop-offs were too intimidating. Today, even on a motorcycle, one has to be totally aware of the road as the turns are frequent and the drop-offs are steep.
Too soon I reached the end of the mountains and crossed the valley towards Kingman. Taking the back way into Kingman I was reminded that I-40 bypassed one of the prettiest little canyons in the area. Old 66 wound through the valley next to the train tracks and into the original downtown. A few of the buildings looked familiar as I turned onto Andy Devine Blvd, following the original route.
The traffic was light heading up the valley and I could take time to enjoy the view. The area was growing and it was easy to see why; clean air, mild climate and glorious vistas.
Every time that I had driven the US-66 loop I passed by the Grand Canyon Caverns and each time I told myself, “I’m going to stop one of these days.” Well, this trip was the excuse that I needed and I booked a night at the local motel. The ads on the Internet looked promising, the motel featuring a bar and cable TV, and the local restaurant advertised buffets for dinner and breakfast along with a full menu to choose from.
I pulled into the motel parking lot under a banner that proclaimed “Bar Open.” At the front desk I told the girl, “You’ve got my two favorite words on your sign outside!” She looked uncomfortable and replied, “Well, the bar is only open on Fridays and Saturdays.” Disappointing, but she did have some package beers available so I could wash the down the dirt from the road.
Got into the room and discovered surprise #2. Not only did they not have cable TV, the local channels were barely viewable. Not a big problem, I had plenty of music on my computer to listen to for the evening’s entertainment.
By now it was dinnertime and I was ready for some good grub. The restaurant was at the top of the entrance to the caverns a mile or so from the motel. On the road there were signs proclaiming, “Steaks!” I was looking forward to a large piece of dead animal flesh.
I knew that things were not as I had been led to believe when I entered the dining room and saw their advertised buffet totally empty. In fact, the whole place was mostly empty except for the bored guy behind the counter.
“What’ll ya have?”
“A steak and a beer?”
“Well, the only steak that we’ve got is a chicken-fried steak.”
“I’ll take a burger. You got the beer, right?”
“Yeah, that we’ve got.”
While waiting for dinner I looked over the place and saw the board with the prices for the cavern tour. The number that I saw was $49.95. Fifty bucks for an hour’s walk? I reconsidered my plans as I munched my dinner.
Again I sat outside of my room smoking a little cigar, waiting to visit with my neighbors. As this was off-season, I had no neighbors and I went inside to bed.
The physical changes are subtle but are happening to all of us as I speak. Yeah, you and me. When I was 40 I was playing driveway basketball with my kids, I was still taller and could out rebound them.
My work days are shortened to a couple hours in the morning, couple hours in the afternoon. Bending over cutting firewood with a chainsaw is tougher, running a splitter is in 45 minute spurts. Dressing out a deer requires having a tree nearby to help me stand up. We’ve been doing flyin fishing trips to Ontario for the past 21 years, after this last one in June we had to admit we’re just not able to do it anymore. The drive is 9 hours, getting in and out of the boat is difficult and dangerous. It doesn’t hold the mystique that previous years have had.
The thought experiment I would say is one on individual rights. Humans, after birth, sign a contract and get to live in a society of sorts. Due to all these messy social interactions, it is sometimes hard to see the border between individual and group – everyone who has been in a 6+ people orgy knows this. The point of this experiment is to simply isolate an individual from the rest and analyze.
In a former life, I was the owner of a hard-won and extensive set of healthcare credentials issued by the State of New York, and some other granting agencies and organizations. After I left NYS, I decided not to continue in that line of work and consequently did not transfer my credentials elsewhere to keep them active. This turns out to have been a huge miscalculation.
I pulled up to the house and dismounted. I pushed the blue button on the intercom.
“It’s rather dusty outside. Please, remove your shoes.” He said. I noticed he too was barefoot, and obliged. “Can I interest you in a glass of Romanian wine?” He motioned to a room with a glass door; hundreds of bottles of wine were neatly placed on wooden racks. With a child, aged 12, inside dutifully turning one a half turn.
“With falafel. Here, have some more.” The Old Man added another three to my plate.
I found myself walking through a field of grain. I was in Iowa or something, because I could see a sign that said, “Des Moines 20 miles,” with black smoke billowing from a small city in the distance.
This past Saturday (June 23rd 2018), the U.S. Association for Library Service to Children (or ALSC) decided 
While Lynn finished her semester I spent the next few days riding around the Los Angeles area, taking in the sights. One day I took the Universal Studios tour, another I worked with Lynn’s dad, Jim, at his mechanic’s shop.
