Green Hell

Thoughts Engendered by Staying Up Past One's Bedtime Whilst Refusing to Act One's Age

     A couple of weeks ago, I received a Facebook message from Sean Healy, one of the old crowd of "Bulldog Bogtrotters” from my days at the University of Georgia.
     As you may have gathered, Healy and I go way, way back – almost thirty years’ worth of way, way back, to be precise. We ran into each other during the fall quarter of ’85, and discovered that we had much in common: gaming, Sci-Fi and Fantasy, collecting every obscure piece of Heavy Metal ever recorded (are Witchkiller, Brocas Helm, and Virgin Steele obscure enough for you?), and lousy taste in booze and women.

    We’ve been very close friends ever since. (And on a positive note, our taste in booze has improved markedly.)
    In his message, Sean mentioned that he was going to be in Atlanta on the 13^th, and asked me if I wanted to catch a show at the Masquerade.
     Although I’ve been working an incredibly early shift for the last few months, I hadn’t seen a live band in quite some time. And as Sean lives a couple of states away and has a real job, we don’t get to see each other as often as I’d like.
     
     I said “What the hell?” and asked him which band or bands would be playing. In reply, he hit me with three names I’d never heard of.
     “What kind of music do they play?” I asked.
     “I suppose the best way to describe it is ‘power/progressive/symphonic Eurometal’.”
      “Again, please? And in the King’s feckin’ English this time?”
       That’s a slight exaggeration, but whereas I’ve been listening to metal since I was a kid, I’ve long since lost track of all the oddball subgenres. I understood simple concepts like hair metal, thrash metal, death metal, speed metal, and black metal – but then things went loony on me. Moreover, I don’t follow scenes, as such. I listen to bands I like, and I don’t give a rat’s ass for the way the rest of the world classifies them. To make matters worse, even some of the terminology with which I was familiar has changed over the years, to the extent that I have no fucking idea of what contemporary metal aficionados are talking about half the time.
     When I was a kid, for example, there wasn’t much difference between Death Metal and Black Metal. Venom’s second album, after all, was entitled Black Metal, even though they sounded nothing like modern Black Metal bands. Kind of odd that the phrase they coined in the first place is no longer applied to them, isn’t it?
      As I understand it, Black Metal is primarily played by Norwegians in corpse-paint, and features pompous, grandiose arrangements, and vocalists who sound like castrati. Death metal, on the other hand, is played primarily by Swedes who sound like Cookie Monster singing to his own accompaniment on a chainsaw. Or something like that.
     I was also told many years ago (as if I gave a shit), that there’s considerable bad blood between Norwegian Black Metalers and Swedish Death Metalers, the magnitude of the conflict being comparable only to the justly notorious blood-feud between Kentish Buskers and Shropshire Skilffle-players. Whatver.
     I still have no idea of what the other kinds of metal are. Besides, at my age (and in my nastier moods), there are only two kinds of metal: NWOBHM and everything else.
      “But what they hey?” I asked myself. “This could be interesting.”

      Healy pulled up a couple of hours after I’d finished my workout, and we spent the next few hours catching up, bewailing the sorry state of contemporary politics, and having a look at the photos he’d shot at the Wacken Open Air Festival in Germany. In time, I cast about for something to fix for dinner (“Hope you like Chinese, dude…”), and settled on a Fukien recipe: chicken braised with leeks. Maggie arrived home from work just as we were finishing up, but as the show began at seven, we didn’t’ have much time to chat.
    When she declined our invitation to accompany us, I wasn’t surprised. I don’t think post-70s metal of any sort is her cup of tea, and at 57, she could hardly be expected to enjoy piling into a club with a horde of screaming, headbanging kids. Before we left, Sean mentioned, in passing, that the last time we’d been to the Masquerade together was when we attended a Hawkwind gig twenty years earlier. Her jaw bounced off the floor with each laugh as she said, “Oh my God! You guys have actually seen Hawkwind?”

    Well indeed we have
    Don’t ye’ know we have?
   Too-me-right-fol-loo-ra-laddie
   Well indeed we have…

    Once we extricated ourselves from the 24-7 gridlock yclept “Roswell,” the drive to North Avenue went swiftly and smoothly said swiftness and smoothness greatly enhanced by the long-overdue removal of the toll-gates on GA 400.
     “Dude, too bad we’re not going to Lenox Square.”
    “Why’s that?”
     “Because we’d be there by now.”
     “No kidding?”
     “None whatsoever. Exit right there, take a left, and there you are. Remember how long it used to take to get to Sword of the Phoenix from Roswell?”

    Never mind that Sword of the Phoenix vanished down the memory hole some time ago. As we merged onto 75/85 South, and exited onto North Avenue a few minutes later, it occurred to me that quite a bit had vanished down the memory hole. I couldn’t help noticing, as we made our way to the club, that the neighborhood had been gentrified beyond recognition. Not a wino or crackhead to be seen, and there were even white college girls jogging half an hour before sundown.
     The negative, pessimistic side of me wondered what had become of the street people. I didn’t imagine that they’d all miraculously been rehabilitated and plunged headlong into the Wonderland of gainful employment. More likely they’d been swept under the rug, as had been the case during the ’96 Summer Olympics.
    The positive, optimistic side, however, countered that perhaps they were working as TSA baggage-screeners at Hartsfield: “If you want to professionalize, you must federalize.”
     “You know the same thing happened to Little Five Points,” I said to Sean – momentarily forgetting that he was from Chicago. “Sorry. Once upon a time, it was the ‘Bohemian’ quarter. These days, it’s nothing but BoBo yuppies and trust-fund babies. A real ‘starving artist’ couldn’t afford to live there.”
   This led to a bit of grousing about the state of the world on my part.
   “Boomers with ‘golden parachutes’ at the top, unemployable ‘Millennials’ coming into their own, and 40 or so million Gen-Xers holding up the entire fucking edifice. Perhaps we should show ‘em the true meaning of ‘Atlas Shrugged.’ Twenty years ago, the same people who looted the economy and drove the National Debt through the fucking roof were calling us ‘slackers.’ How did it go? You’d spend four or five years working at McDonalds, or a comic shop, or a record store to pay for college – and then when you graduated, you’d spend four or five more years working at McDonald’s, or a comic shop, or a record, store, because everything had been downsized, outsourced, and offshored. Now they’re asking us to make allowances for the feckin’ ‘Millennials.’”
     I then explained to him that I’d seen a set of guidelines being circulated by a company I’ll charitably decline to name. The “white paper” was entitled: “Working with Millennials.” In summation, it declared we were to excuse their poor performance and utter lack of a work ethic because they thought differently.
     In that respect, I had to agree. Using emotions as tools of cognition is ‘thinking differently’ – in that it doesn’t, strictly speaking, constitute thought at all. Neither does treating subjective, ephemeral preferences and opinions as causeless, irreducible primaries. Moreover, it seemed that the inability or refusal to think long-term, and to defer immediate gratification for the sake of greater gains in the future is also a “different” way of thinking.
     Odd, that. In my day, we didn’t call it “different”; we called it “infantile.”
     It wasn't lost on me that those of us who were born at the tail-end of the Baby Boom and during the beginning and middle of Generation X were not encouraged to lower our own levels of performance – only our expectations of the next generation’s. Apparently, the erstwhile ‘flower children’ were now seeing the logical and predictable consequences of raising their children on a steady diet of deconstructionism, postmodernism, and relativism, and were now counting upon the “No Future!”, “Die Yuppie Scum!” “slackers” of the ‘80s and ‘90s to take up the little darlings’ slack.
     “Poor babies,” I sneered. “I suppose the threat of global warming is just too much to bear. We had it easy, don’t you know. All we had to worry about was being nuked off the face of the earth.”
    
    Although I cheered up as we parked and made our way to the club, the generation gap was still on my mind. A cursory glance at the people in line around us revealed that we were the “senior citizens” that evening. We’d both turned 47 last month (our birthdays are so close, we used to celebrate them together when we were in college), and whereas we both still “let our ‘freak flags’ fly,” ours were streaked with silver, while mine was the only cowhide jacket in evidence. Even the content of our conversation differed from the young’uns’. Despite repeated assurances that the new generation was “cosmopolitan” and “multicultural,” we were the only ones discussing the countries we’d visited, and bemoaning the fact that we’d forgotten so much of our French, German, Latin, Cuneiform Hittite, or what-have-you.
    The armchair anthropologist/sociologist in me also observed that the youngsters were even more clannish and clique-prone than we had been, the realization underscoring the horror of putting into practice Ornstein’s and Ehrlich’s dubious assertion that the past is no longer prologue.
     I gathered that in the future, the various specialized organs of the body politic would enjoy even less congress than they do today – and it was not a pleasant thought.

    When we finally entered the club, I was surprised at how little it had changed. Sean and I, as I’ve mentioned, hadn’t been there together since the Hawkwind show twenty years earlier. I myself hadn’t been there for ten years, but I still remembered my way around. The only difference was that the place seemed smaller.
    Of the two of us, Sean is more given to attending concerts. I stopped going to shows at major venues during the late ‘90s, when the Omni was demolished, and the action shifted to Lakewood. Between ’03 and ’04, I even had to give up catching local bands at clubs (this is for another post, but it pains me to ponder the sheer volume of genuine musical talent forever denied the recognition it deserves, precisely because the truly gifted musicians eschew the “braid, braid ferlie” of commercialism in favor of the rocky and narrow trail blazed by their muses) when the hip-hop invasion destroyed the scene.
    Since then, I’d contented myself with catching the odd rock band at Dragon Con (I’ve seen some good ones there, mind you: Michael Bruce, Iced Earth, GWAR, the reconstituted Misfits, and quite a few others), ass-kickin’, shit-kickin’ bluegrass outfits at fairs and festivals, and purveyors of traditional Irish and Scottish musical fare at various and sundry watering holes.
    Aside from a Motorhead show at the Fillmore in Charlotte, back in ’09, I hadn’t been to a real concert in quite a while. This would be a change of pace.

     The house lights went down, and the stage lights came up. After a recorded prologue (which I thought right cheesy), the first band hit the stage.
    To reiterate, the outfits we’d come to see played power/progressive/symphonic Euro-metal. Although I was still grappling with the first three modifiers, the third was spot-on. The acts on the bill were Xandria (German), Delain (Dutch), and Sonata Arctica (Finnish).
    I don’t mean to get ahead of myself, but the show conformed to what, for me, has become a familiar pattern: the opening acts fuckin’ totally smoked the headliner, dude! My assiduously cultivated refusal to harbor expectations – whether positive or negative – yielded fruit when I found myself enjoying the hell out of Xandria. Their music was indeed progressive, in the classic sense of the word. It was symphonic, in that the band paid close attention to dynamics, composition (no three-chord wonders, these), and melodicism; and powerful in that the guitarists were serving up nice, chunky, crunchy riffs.
    The egotistical old fart in me noticed that they weren’t doing anything I couldn’t have done at their age, but the musician in me appreciated the fact that they’d built upon what had gone before, and done new and exciting things with it. Unlike some “progressive” bands, they kept the chords simple – barre and power chords, no exotic voicings – but steered clear of the I-IV-V formula. In this respect, I was very favorably reminded of classic Iron Maiden, Praying Mantis, and Fates Warning. Better still, the singer had a beautiful, powerful voice – and spoke impeccable, cultured English. This being America – and the Southeast, to boot – I’m only being half-facetious when I say that her English was probably better than most of ours.
    It was a far cry from the old days of Udo Dirkschneider shrieking away, sounding like nothing so much as Peter Lorre after zipping his dick up by accident, or Klaus Meine und ze poyss in ze Schkorpionsss asking if ve vere retty to rrrrrrock und rrrrrroll.

     And yes, my Celtic-American, I-was-a-bachelor-until-I-was-forty-and-old-habits-die-hard dirty old man did put in an appearance that night. The male/female ratio was far more balanced than in my day, and there were some very attractive young ladies in attendance. Being a married man, though, I wisely adopted a look-but-don’t-touch attitude, and left my arsenal of NLP techniques and other “Jedi mind tricks” sheathed and holstered.
    Even so, I was glad that I’d overdressed. The Mulciberian heat inside the venue soon had me sweating like a whore in church, and afforded me a plausible excuse to feed my ego-demon by removing my jacket – thereby displaying the beneficial effects of pumping iron upon the traps, delts, and lats. It also afforded me an excuse to traipse off to the bar and order the first of several ridiculously overpriced beers ($4.50 for a pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon is beyond highway robbery – it’s thievery on the Bernie Madoff/Lloyd Blankfein scale).

   When I made my way back to Sean, I marked that the singer’s face was as lovely as her voice. Upon closer examination, I marked that the singer’s face was also rather young. I made the same observation when Delain hit the stage. Both of the singers looked very young.
      Young enough to be my daughters, as a matter of fact.
      I’m getting ahead of myself again, but when I returned home and looked up the bands online, I discovered (to my horror and residual Catholic guilt) that this was literally the case. The singer for Xandria was born in 1985, the year I graduated high school, while the singer for Delain was born in 1987 -- my junior year of college. The self-loathing begotten by this most uncomfortable of mindfucks was enough to send me rummaging through the basement in search of my leper’s bell.
    
     Unclean! Unclean!
 
    I became even more acutely aware of my impending dotage when Sonata Arctica began their set. They weren’t bad in any sense of the word, but their performance lacked the tightness and energy of the preceding acts. In their defense, they’re some years older, and the Atlanta gig was one of the last dates on the tour. Ergo it’s entirely possible that they were just road-weary, but I got the distinct impression that they were a bit full of themselves, and were resting on their laurels. The impression deepened when they played not one but three encores, despite the fact that the crowd began thinning like my hair after the first. I did give them points for having a “synthtar” on stage, though; I hadn’t seen one since Devo became yesterday’s news.
    
    I suppose this brings us to the crowd itself.
    For all that I don’t understand the younger generation, and don’t approve of their personal and mental habits, I was favorably impressed by their behavior. Despite the close quarters, they had genuine respect for each other’s “personal space.” There was no shoving, no brawling, and no dick-waving. Even three hours into the show, the vast majority of them appeared to be sober, and unless appearances well and rightly deceived the shit out of me, they were just there to enjoy the music and have a good time.
    I don’t know that they’re typical of the current crop of metallers, though. All three bands were musically and conceptually sophisticated, and it could very well be that their fans are cut from the same cloth.
    Sean and I both noticed that the audience was much smaller than Hawkwind crowd of which we’d been a part twenty years earlier – at the same venue, though – and it occurred to us that perhaps these bands attracted a different kind of listener. It wouldn’t have surprised me, come to think of it. Our own overlapping musical tastes don’t change the fact that even Sean and I have rather different personalities. It would be pointless to deny that I’ve always been the rowdier of us, but even “back in the day,” he did his share of slamming, moshing, and pogoing right there with me.
   The Masquerade that night was the polar opposite of a mosh pit, a fact which served to remind me of the generation gap yet again.
    Let’s not jerk ourselves off: during the 1980s, a triple-bill metal show would have degenerated into a bloodbath halfway through the second act’s set. I noted as much in a post-gig notification I posted on Facebook, and added the tongue-in-cheek remark: “And you call this metal?”
    But I was kidding on the square. There were no fights, no overdoses, no stage-divers, and most tellingly, no cops. Apparently, house security was enough – and that’s a good thing. At the Motorhead show in Charlotte, by comparison, there were five squad cars and two paddy wagons (and probably an APC carrying a SWAT team) in the parking lot. Several of us –myself included – were wanded and frisked before we entered the building, and it seemed perfectly normal to us.

   Here, in stark contraposition, I only had to go on “yellow alert” once in the course of the evening. During the first and second acts, it came to my attention that some bozo was trying to eyeball-fuck me. Although I was certain I’d never met the guy before, he looked familiar enough to put my guard up and keep it up. Once again, I’m not sure where I’d seen him before – perhaps on the Post Office wall, but that didn’t matter. And if you’ll pardon another digression, the sheer speed with which one can assess a situation is breathtaking. Taller. A little younger. Reach and weight advantage. No tats – let alone jailhouse tats. If he’s packed, he isn’t printing. If he’s looking for a fight this evening, he doesn’t do it often. Keeps his weight, his shoulders, and his chin too high. Balance isn’t very good, and I’ll bet I’m a little faster. Doesn’t have the sense to take his glasses off. If I go under and in, I can nullify the reach advantage in short order, and lock this guy up like Fort fucking Knox. No threat, no sweat.
    Nothing came of it, needless to say. The only “Jedi mind trick” I played that night was keeping him my peripheral vision, which allowed me to return his gaze – with a Mona Lisa smile – whenever he turned to look at me. Strictly kindergarten stuff.
    He apparently left the building before Delain left the stage (Who knows? Perhaps he had a plane to catch…), and I was able to enjoy the rest of the show in peace.

    I still had the age bit in mind as Sean and I drove back to Roswell.
    “You know,” I said, “the last time we were here, we were their age.”
    “True – but Hawkwind was the same age we are now – and Brock was even older.”
    “Yeah, those were the days, huh? Remember the chick who jumped onstage? ‘Sure and that ain’t Stacia!’”
    The observation served to underscore another difference between eras. At the Hawkwind show two decades earlier, a couple of girls had doffed their tops, jumped onstage, and begun dancing as the band cranked one of the long, improvisational jams for which they were renowned. The only mind Brock, Davey, and Chadwick paid them was moving closer to center stage and giving them room to do their thing. I didn’t suppose we’d ever see the likes of that again, and whereas neither of the gals’ endowments could hold a candle to Stacia’s boner-inducing, fertility goddess physique during the Golden Age, it was  cute tip of the hat (or bra, if you prefer) to what had once been a Hawkwind institution.
   I wondered if any of the acts we’d seen would match HW’s longevity, and if any of their fans would match ours.
   I went to bed that night, and took my three hours’ rest before the beginning of my shift, contenting myself with the thought that if nothing else, a new crop of progressive metallers had taken the torch passed to them by the bands we enjoyed during high school, and carried the music in a new, but still thoroughly enjoyable direction.

    “I am the Master of the Universe,” I half hummed, half mumbled through an imbecilic, nostalgic half-smile as I drifted off to sleep. “The wind of time is blowing through me..." 

Yet Another Inspirational Quote

     "Of all those who make attacks on a tyrant's life, the most to be watched and feared are those who reck nothing of their own life provided they can take his. Therefore he should be wary of such men when they think that they are ill-used. When anger is the spring of their action, men are unsparing of themselves. As Heraclitus once said, 'Anger is a difficult enemy; he buys with his life.'"
                                                                         ~ Aristotle, The Politics, V xi

    I agree. Anger is the equivalent of a car-bomb: a weapon of impulse, here one moment, gone the next, unstable, likely to inflict "collateral damage" and as dangerous to the user as to his intended target. Hatred, on the other hand -- pure, molten, slag-free hatred -- is the opposite: patient, enduring, capable of precise targeting, and loosed by the wielder only under optimum circumstances.  

So Much for "Feelgood" Christianity

     I’m still uneasy about the implications of Matthew 5:31-32. Moreover, I have a few nagging questions. I’m not being sarcastic, incidentally. Although I was regularly exposed to Catholic doctrine when I was a child (my mother is Catholic, my father was Baptist), I spent far more time in the Southern Baptist tradition. To a Baptist (and I’m only half-kidding), the only real sins are drinking and dancing. Everything else is kosher – and if something happens not to be; just tell Jesus you’re sorry, and promise not to do it again. (How, exactly, this attitude differs from the antinomianism practiced by the nastier sort of Calvinist, or the “Sin today, confess tomorrow, and it’s all good” Catholic mindset is something no one ever bothered explaining to me.)

     From 1986 until 2001, I was everything but a Christian. Polytheism, Deism, Pantheism, Atheism, Buddhism, Taoism, Hermeticism – even Diabolism – were all hats I tried on at one time or another. I may or may not post the details of my long, often misty and rocky path to conversion in the future, but for now, I’ll say only that I’ve always hated hypocrisy. As I wasn’t living even a remotely Christian life in those days, and as I had no intention of doing so, I was damned (pun fully – if grimly -- intended) if I’d preach what I didn’t practice, and double-damned if I’d preach what I didn’t believe in the first place.
   
    When I did regain my faith, in 2001, I began reading the Bible again – but without shedding the theological blinders I’d had put on me as a child.
     I grew up Baptist. Baptists maintain that divorce is hunky-dory. Therefore, Matthew 5:31-32 are merely examples of the hyperbole and/or parables Jesus was wont to employ, and not meant to be taken literally. Thusly primed (or disarmed, perhaps) I let the text go “in one eye and out the other,” if you will.
     As it happens, though, neither verse, when examined textually and contextually, makes the hyperbole/parable mark.
    Yes, hairsplitters, I did look them up in my Greek-English interlinear version. Although I’m a still in the process of learning Greek, it’s not a baffling isolate like Basque or Ainu: It is quintessentially Indo-European, and shares many, many features with the Germanic, Celtic, and Romance tongues with which I’m more comfortable. Moreover, picking it up is nothing compared to the relative hell of hacking one’s way through an Altaic language like Turkish, with its vowel-harmony, agglutinative structure, and SOV syntax.  
    Pardon the digression. My point is that there’s precious little interpretive wriggle-room in English, or in Greek when it comes to 5:32. Ego de lego hymin ho apolyon ten gynaika autou parektos logou porneias poiei auten moikheuthenai, kai hos ean apolelumenai gamese moikhatai (pardon me if I missed any of the rough breathing marks while I was transliterating) is downright brusque in its straightforwardness. If anything, I’m doubly impressed by the forcefulness of the statement, especially in the light of etymology. Apolyon, the word employed for “divorce” suggests destruction or ruin. It’s far more serious than the Latin equivalent, derived from the verb divortere. The latter is gently euphemistic in comparison, implying as it does a mere turning aside or separation of paths.  Pornein, for “adultery,” is even more loaded, owing to its derivation from the word porne, “whore.”

     If our Lord and Savior, after His Ascension, could confer the gift of tongues upon his evangelists, and could, even as a child, confound the Scribes, Pharisees, and Sadducees with his uncanny understanding of the Law (Think of Him as the ultimate TAG student); it stands to reason that learning and expressing Himself fluently in the idioms (Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, Latin, etc.) to which He, as a resident of the eastern portion of the Roman Empire, was exposed, wouldn’t have been a difficult undertaking. Hence, I’ll assume that he was fully cognizant not only of the literal content of his words, but of the cultural bells and whistles, as well.

   According to no lesser an authority than the very incarnation of God, the Second Person of the Trinity; a man and his wife are one flesh – this confirmed and reaffirmed by his apostle in Ephesians 5:32. Although I have irreconcilable theological differences with the Roman Catholic Church, I’ll have to admit that the Catholic position on divorce is scripturally correct, while my fellow Protestants have subjected the Book to private interpretation.

    The Lord says that a man who puts aside his wife for any cause other than adultery/fornication makes an adulteress of her, and adulterers of her future husbands. In short, nothing shy of adultery dissolves the spiritual/physical bond between man and wife. Now if a man puts his wife aside for adultery/fornication, she’s already an adulteress by definition, correct? If so, then a married woman who dallies with another man – a man for whom she ultimately leaves her husband – makes perpetual adulterers/esses of them both, n’est ce pas? Mark 10:11-12 state that this is indeed the case. And if the spiritual/fleshly bond is sundered by infidelity, do the children of such a fractured union or the adulterous unions that follow it become bastards by default?  

     At any rate, I do wish He had clarified and expanded upon the point. Given my situation, I hope you understand why the verses keep me up long into the night. And until now, I’d thought Augustine’s unnervingly cogent argument that suicides are damned (see The City of God) was a sleep-wrecker…

Training Notes (7/18/14)

Running Man – or Rain Man?

     If revenge is a dish best served cold, then humble pie is most palatable when brought directly from oven to table.
     To switch from culinary to literary metaphors, this is to say that in the time-honored manner of Greek tragedy, my hubris (pride over my physical accomplishments of the last few months) led to ate (the insane assumption that since I look rather like I did when I was twenty-six, my athletic performance should follow suit), which, in turn (not to mention justly and inevitably) led to nemesis: the Powers That Be reprimanding me for my folly, and putting me in my place.

     Because thine heart is lifted up, and thou has said “I am a god…” (Ezekiel 28:2, KJV)

     Please don’t take this a show of false humility, by the way. “Too humble is half-proud,” as we say in these parts, and I am proud of what I’ve managed in a relatively short time. The pendulous gut is gone (even when wearing my old 32” jeans, I need a belt to hold them up), my weight is holding at a steady 175, and I’m increasing the poundage, the reps, or both, with every workout. Even if I say so myself, that ain’t bad for a guy who’s closing in on 47.
     But when I remind myself that when he was my age, Socrates humped full hoplite panoply, and took his place in the Athenian phalanx during the Peloponnesian War, or that Julius Caesar was a year older than I am when he finally subdued Transalpine Gaul, I realize that I still have a long way to go.

    Driven by the examples of two men I admire (admittedly, I esteem Socrates far more highly than I do Caesar), I am sometimes discouraged by my inability to keep pace with them. Whenever frustration threatens to overwhelm me, though, I recall the words of the 17^th century samurai, Jocho Yamaoto: “Until you are age fifty, you are preparing, and all the hardship should be cause for joy, for you are being given a chance to develop skill, confidence, and courage”; and those of the 19^th century German mentaller Friedrich Nietzsche: “That which does not kill you makes you stronger.”

     I don’t suppose it ever occurred to ol’ Freddy Boy that that which does not kill you may also leave you in a fuckin’ wheelchair; but then again, post-Enlightenment philosophers are hardly renowned for their viselike grasp of reality.

     A few days ago, what I imagine is justifiable satisfaction in an accomplishment (the internal reward that invariably accompanies knowing that one has succeeded and performed to the best of one’s ability) gave way to the aforementioned sin of the ego. This is to say that I wasted little time in “crossing the Hubriscon,” if you’ll pardon the awful pun.
     As I’ve mentioned earlier, my physical appearance (minus the thinning hair and careworn face – I’m afraid there’s no non-cosmetic remedy for either) is roughly the same as it was when I was in my mid- and late twenties. In terms of lifting weights, my strength is also on a comparable level. If I’m dissatisfied with anything, it’s that last, tenacious bit of belly-fat, the adipose anaconda that constricts the gut at the level of the lower tan t’ien, and refuses to yield to training.

     Visible abs are not enough, dammit! I want the same “washboards” I had when I was twenty-seven!

    Although -- thanks to our open-border policy -- I’d have no trouble obtaining them, I don’t think my wife would be very happy if melted off the last few pounds with the aid of “Mexedrine,” a.k.a. “Mexican Jumping Beans.” (Diet pills manufactured south of the border. I don’t know if any of you are old enough to remember “leapers,” a.k.a. “midnight runners,” but it’s the same substance.) Since “better living through chemistry” wasn’t an option, I decided to fall back on the second-best fat-burner of all -- aerobic exercise.

    From 1995 onward, I had no choice but to endure quite a bit of it: a two- or three-mile run every time I tested for a higher belt. This was before the belt-test-proper even began. As the first test nearly killed me (after the run, I hammered out somewhere between forty and sixty crunches and pushups in a minute per set – and spent the next ten minutes in the john, bocking up the Carbo-Force ™ and Up Your Gas ™ I’d downed half an hour before), it occurred to me that perhaps my endurance needed a bit of work. Consequently, I took to running a mile a day on weekdays, and two miles a day on weekends.
     Not exactly the Boston Marathon, but it served to get my cardiovascular system into better condition, and to remove what little lard remained on my Hillbilly/Irish ass.

     Last week, I reasoned that what worked once would work again. Sound, as far as I’m concerned. But then I reasoned that all other things being equal, a brisk mile should be a mere bagatelle to a man of my newfound vigour.
     Goodbye, Reason – hello, Ate and Nemesis.    
     As I have no excuse for forgetting; it’s one thing to hammer out three sets of rapid-fire squats, and another entirely to run. Although you’re employing the same muscles, the movements are completely different, and even activate different fibers, as well: slow-twitch for running, fast-twitch for weightlifting. More importantly, the former is aerobic while the latter is anaerobic.
     This is to say that I made it to J.R.’s house (that wouldn’t mean anything to most of you – but it’s an embarrassingly short distance) before getting a cramp in my calf and a stitch in my ribs. To make matters worse, I’d taken along a quart canteen of water on an old LC2 pistol belt. With all the jouncing and jolting, my side was bruised as well as stitching. (During the manic episode that ensued, I came up with a truly brilliant plan for an improvised hydration pack. I’ll share it later).
     Ultimately, I ended up running for one minute, then walking for one minute, by turns. While the Powers That Be mocked me for my presumption, I trudged my way around the block, well and rightly chastened.
     “How did it go?” asked the wife when I limped through the kitchen door.
     “Aaaaagh! Where’s the jow? Call Bruce and ask if it’s actually possible to reroute a meridian by accident. And how much do we have in the Incidentals Fund? If I’m gonna keep doing this, I need a supporter, fer feck’s sake.  My ---”
     “I get it,” she said, raising a hand. “I don’t need any more information.”
     Through the haze of pain and fatigue, I somehow recalled that when she lived in Winston-Salem, Maggie and her daughter used to run marathons for charity. I suppose you know the deal – one sponsor or another agrees to chip in a certain amount of cash for each mile the participants manage. (Perfect setup, if you ask me – it allows rapacious, corporate sadists to contribute to charitable causes without violating their basic, let’s-fuck-somebody principles…) So for the second time that morning, I swallowed my pride.
      “OK, Miss Party Animal. How did you train for them marathons?” I asked her. “We both know damned good and well you didn’t just lace on a pair o’ Nikes and go tear-assin’ across the state.”
     As it happened, she did exactly what I did: she’d run for a minute, then walk for a minute, ad infinitum, gradually decreasing the interval between runs until she wasn’t walking at all. Being a decade my senior (almost to the day), she was the same age I am now when she took up the hobby.
    
      So there I was, asking my wife (Did I mention that she’s older than I am? See, guys? Watching all that “Mature and Hot!” porn while you’re in your twenties and thirties will warp your fragile little mind…) for exercise advice, while the gods howled with Olympian mirth. I emerged from the experience having learned two lessons: 1.) You can learn something from damn-near everyone; and 2.) Just when you find you’re getting really good at one thing, the universe will remind you – in no uncertain terms – that you really suck at something else.

Encouraging and Soothing the Savage Beast, By Turns

    Like many guys of my acquaintance, I prefer working out to music. For my part, I find that nothing helps me bull my way through that last set of whatever like an aggressive tune with a fast tempo and a nice, crunchy guitar riff. If you’ve guessed that I prefer metal and hardcore punk for this very reason, give yourself a cigar. 
     I am, however, a singularly perverse bastard. Given my personality-type, I find that many of my greatest victories  -- the accomplishments of which I am genuinely proud -- were sired in the bedroom of defeat (wherein, as often as not, what were once generally-agreed-upon notions of justice, decency, and civilized conduct, wound up on the receiving end of an “AHF” gang rape).
     This personality disorder affords me the chance to add variety to my playlists, and to derive equally potent (if slightly different) inspiration/motivation from bad memories.
     The last few years have witnessed an endless struggle for dominance between my faith and my cultural patrimony. Christ said to the Pharisees: “For, laying aside the commandments of God, ye hold the tradition of men…” (Mark 7:8), and at times, the reproof rings loudly in my own ears.  On the one hand stand conscience and conscious conviction. On the other stand custom and usage, as it were. No matter where I turn, I’m confronted by the inherited values and attitudes of numerous revenge- and honor-centered cultures: Irish, Scottish, Norman, Cavalier (dueling well into the 19^th century), Hillbilly (think: “Hatfields and McCoys”), etc. I may choose not to act upon certain atavistic urges, but the decision in no way implies that I don’t feel them.
     If there’s a bright side to this, it consists of my refusal within recent years (said refusal strengthened by the aforementioned religious beliefs) to cultivate or hold any new grudges. On the dark side, I still have trouble letting the old ones go. Fortunately, I hold only three – and word has reached me through the grapevine that the object of one of them, as Scipio reported of Carthage, delenda est.

     Which brings us directly (if not neatly) back to music. 

     According to the Gospels, thinking of an unlawful (in the Divine sense) act is as grave a sin as actually performing it. (See Matthew 5:28. And if you think that’s bad, believe me – verses 31 and 32 of the same chapter still keep me awake long into the night…) Be that as it may, I haven’t learned to dismiss the unseemly thoughts – only not to act on them. Evil or not, fantasizing about payback whilst listening to music that reminds me of the offense in question seems to enhance my performance in terms of pumping iron. Hence the rather eclectic playlist for this week (note that my taste in music hasn’t caught up with my religious convictions, either):

“Evil” – Mercyful Fate
“The Heart Beneath” – Celtic Frost
“Cry Wolf” – Venom
“It’s Electric” – Diamond Head
“Die, Die, My Darling” – Misfits
“Last Caress” – Misfits
“The Nightingale” – Julee Cruise
“There’s Only One Way to Rock” – Sammy Hagar
“Heavy Metal” – Sammy Hagar
“White Flags” – Blue Oyster Cult
“Far and Away” -- Enya
“See You in Black” – Blue Oyster Cult
“Anarchy in the UK” – Sex Pistols
“EMI” – Sex Pistols
“Questions in a World of Blue” – Julee Cruise
“She’s Just Killin’ Me” – ZZ Top
“Layla (Unplugged Version) “ -- Eric Clapton
“Free Speech for the Dumb” -- Discharge 

Miscellaneous

CELEBRATING EXISTENCES

Happy birthday to Gerry, John, Justin, Dianna, and anyone else I may have missed.

NULLIFICATION RIDES AGAIN!

Just received another jury summons. Whereas I'm not averse to civic duty, I wonder why, in a county of 1,014,932, I'm called up every two years. Suffice to say that the statistical probability of drawing the short straw this often is rather low. In short, I feel put upon. If nothing else, though, it's an opportunity to pit God's law against man's and take the first steps towards a kinder, gentler, Erasmus- influenced version of Sharia.  Fortunately, the State Constitution (Article I, Section I, Paragraph XI) guarantees my right to do just that. Just damn! I feel like a Protestant version of Abe Foxman!

A REVOLTIN' DEVELOPMENT

Stopped by the precinct on the way home from work Tuesday, to vote against "Pinocchio" and "Countess Bathory."

A few weeks of researching Albers for an article left me with an overwhelming urge to bathe in Listerine -- and to bribe his doctor to put him on sodium pentothal for life. This is unusual for me, as I despise politicians as a rule and usually expect the worst from the disgusting little rodents. Albers, though, somehow escaped my notice.  Until the Milton cell tower battle began in earnest, I knew only that he had visions of the 56th District State Senate seat dancing in his head. As he lives in Roswell (a few doors down from my '80s garage band's drummer, interestingly enough), his presence at a Milton City Council meeting was noteworthy, to say the least. The fact that he'd filled out a public comment card was even more noteworthy. When he advanced to the podium (resembling nothing so much as Woody Woodpecker dressed up as a funeral director), the wife and I exchanged "What-the-fuck-is-this-guy-up-to?" glances, shrugged, and -- via the uncanny telepathy certain married couples develop -- simultaneously concluded that he was trolling for votes. (In this business, it behooves one to cultivate a "seventh sense": good, old- fashioned cynicism.)

During "silly season," trolling for votes is a given -- it goes with the territory, and that's that. Attempting to sway the pitchfork-and-torch crowd by way of dubious claims, though, is another matter entirely -- especially when said claims insult my intelligence. For the record, I'm nobody's Tesla. As I've admitted time and time again, I don't like anything more mechanically complex than a bolt-action rifle. In my defense, though, I'll mention that I earned a B in high school electronics (perhaps it was a case of "race norming" -- "Aww, spot the Mick a few points if his strobe light works after he whups it with an empty beer bottle..."); that I learned to construct functional RF ignition/detonation systems during my sophomore year of college; and that if you can't use a voltmeter, you probably have hairy legs and don't love the Lord (apologies to the late, great Ludlow Porch).

At any rate, whilst currying political favor by shielding Milton (should an SCA chapter arise within the city limits, one hopes its members would dub themselves "The Shire of Horse's Arse") from the very "growth" prescribed to Roswell and 'Tater Patch as a cure-all for Suth'n provinciality, Albers did the seemingly impossible, and trod (metaphorically speaking) upon his miniscule tally-whacker.

An hour or so after his impassioned speech against T-Mobile (the gravitas thereof enhanced by his oft-touted expertise; gained during his stint with AT&T), the wife and I were on the phone with one of our dearest and staunchest friends.

Who just happens to be a Senior Systems Engineer at PolyCom...

The ensuing conversation revealed that the nature of electromagnetic radiation cruelly mocks Karl Rove's "We create our own reality" credo.  Albers pissed on a veritable forest of legs that evening-- and then tried to tell us it was raining. Needless to say, this rather irritated me. As Jack Nicholson once noted, "You should only lie to the cops and your girlfriend. You should tell everyone else the truth." Truer words are seldom spoken, as "everyone else" includes muck-raking barflies who hold politicians and the bullhead clap in equally low regard.

 I'm not a hard-ass, for the record. Human beings are inherently dishonest, and I've taken indecent liberties with the truth, myself -- especially when I was younger.  (Hell, during my senior year of high school, I actually feigned illness and broke a date with my girlfriend to attend an all-night war-gaming session with my buddies.) And every teenager lies about sex. Boys who've never received so much as a handjob do their level best to convince their pizza-faced buddies that they're latter-day Casanovas, while others who've torn it off with everything in skirts from puberty onward swear to their purity the moment they fall in love. I can't condone the habit, but denying it would be folly. To err is human -- and to cover one's ass all the more so. Shit happens -- or, as the boss often says, "It is what it is." But there's a limit, and when lying becomes habitual, it's indistinguishable from insanity.  

The deeper we dug, the more obvious it became that Albers and the truth were as chummy as Al Franken and Ann Coulter. After compiling a Library of Congress-sized file of his bullshit, the boss and I picked the best four or five whoppers and ran with them -- to no avail. "Pinocchio" won the runoff by 200 votes -- which -- if nothing else -- demonstrates that Adlai Stevenson was right about people getting the government they deserve.

If you read the Beacon, you're well aware of my beef with Handel. This is to say that when I drive all the way to Dunwoody in rush hour traffic to cover a fucking story, I don't appreciate being snubbed over Fredericks's editorial decisions. Reporters don't design covers -- but since most newspapers don't run pieces on monster trucks or pro "rasslers," an Upper Marlboro SMIB like Handel can perhaps be forgiven her ignorance of the business.  Moreover, I stand by John's choice of covers. Johnson's double-digit rise in the polls was both surprising and newsworthy -- hence the headline, "Dark Horse." Handel's reaction was so spiteful, petty and vindictive; it shocked even me. Granted, I nurse grudges for years (or even decades) -- but then again, I'm not running for public office. I can only subject one "mark" at a time to my disordered personality, whereas a governor can piss on millions of parades simultaneously.

Although I especially dislike Albers and Handel, I'll admit that this year's Republican primary was an all-around Hobson's choice. Swindlers, psychopaths, egomaniacs -- and even Ray McBerry turned out to be a baw'bag. His alleged affair with a high school girl was apparently BS (charges were never filed, and the story vanished shortly after doing the intended damage to his reputation), but he was very rude to my wife on one occasion. This put him at the top of my shit list, and guaranteed that he wouldn't get any coverage from either of us. I'm sick of these arrogant, entitlement-minded nabobs, and I have better things to do than wasting time and print on them.  And when the general election rolls around, I suppose I'll vote for John Monds -- or perhaps that fire-and-brimstone preacher. Anyone who hates Elton John that intensely can't be all bad...

Aside from the fact that this year's roster of candidates is a veritable Lesser Key of Solomon, this election has been noteworthy in one other respect. In addition to checking drivers' licenses against the rolls (a sensible anti-fraud measure), the poll workers also scanned the bar codes on each license before issuing ballot cards. Presumably, the measure is intended to weed out phony licenses, but I don't like it. I don't trust computerized voting, I sure as hell don't trust Diebold, and I wonder if this isn't just an underhanded way of undermining our collective right to vote by secret ballot.

MORE S. 510 NASTINESS

There's a disturbing piece on the implications of S. 510 here. As far as I'm concerned, it's nothing but a government/agribusiness attempt to create a food-production oligopoly -- and an act of economic terrorism against small farmers.

"Dead White Male" Gets It Right

In certain respects, Aristotle was completely full of shit. His disdain for self-sufficiency was imbecilic, his assertion that the state is a creation of nature is dubious at best; and his snarky pronouncement, “-- the natural outcast is forthwith a lover of war” is demonstrably false. And yet aside from Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius and what we know of Socrates (via Plato and Xenophon), he’s one of my favorite “Grecian philosophizers,” as our last president might have said. Love him or hate him, Aristotle definitely had his moments. Here are two of them:

“Lack of experience diminishes our power of taking a comprehensive view of the admitted facts. Hence those who dwell in intimate association with nature and its phenomena grow more and more able to formulate, as the foundations for their theories, principles such as to admit of a wider and coherent development, while those whom devotion to abstract discussions has rendered unobservant of the facts are too ready to dogmatize on the basis of a few observations.”

“Their first end and aim is to break the spirit of their subjects; they know that a poor-spirited man will never plot against anybody. Their second aim is to breed mutual distrust. Tyranny is never overthrown until men begin to trust one another, and this is the reason why tyrants are always at outs with the good. They feel that good men are doubly dangerous to their authority – dangerous first in thinking it shame to be governed as if they were slaves; dangerous again, in their spirit of mutual and general loyalty and in their refusal to betray one another or anyone else. The third and last aim of tyrants is to make their subjects incapable of action. Nobody attempts the impossible. Nobody, therefore, will attempt the overthrow of tyranny when all are incapable of action.”

Florida II

Despite my gratitude to Maggie’s uncle and his girlfriend for having me in their home, I’m afraid I was too quiet. Like my moods, my gregariousness is cyclic. One moment, I’ll chug-a-lug beer and raise hell with complete strangers; the next, I’m reserved to the point of shyness. One moment, I’m violently assertive; the next, I’m bitterly withdrawn. Fortunately, I didn’t experience any of the extreme moods so characteristic of MDI during the roadtrip. I was, however, injured, sick, tired, and in the midst of a mixed episode. Therefore, the combination of fatigue toxins and artificial stimulants in my bloodstream only intensified the analytical detachment that often accompanies mixed and minor depressive episodes.

When our hosts offered me a beer, I accepted it and thanked them, but focused my attention upon the degree of carbonation, the "hoppiness," etc. When they offered us a selection of imported cheeses and crackers, I was likewise polite, but couldn’t refract my consciousness into more than three or four wavelengths. Certainly, I was aware of everything around me (in minute detail, at that), but for whatever perverse reason, the mildness or sharpness of any given cheese, the species of mold used in the ripening process, the cheese’s country of origin, and subtle nuances of taste and texture (Hmm…This one’s coarser than it should be. Was it overheated when the curd was separated from the whey? Aha! What’s this, a hint of ammonia? Well damn! I reckon it is! Some unscrupulous baw’bag must have reworked this piece…) partially occluded all else. It was as if some strange body that -- while not actually opaque – was, at best, translucent, had eclipsed the "sun" of sensory perception.

I managed to avoid the dark pit of "culinary Cartesianism" ("I eat Danish cheese and English biscuits; therefore, I am…") – but not by much. My then-fiancée and her loved ones served as focus points of sorts, but I still had hyper-analytical "tunnel vision." I shudder to remember some of the questions I asked, and I’m sure they thought me completely insane.

However odd they may have considered me, they were no less hospitable for it. In addition to putting us up for the night, they took us out to eat. Now I’d never been to Fort Myers before, so I had no idea what to expect. As, however, our hosts had already impressed me with their taste in food and drink, I trusted their judgment. We were, moreover, their guests. Being both omnivorous and somewhat old-fashioned, Mags and I would never squawk: "Oh, no! We’re vegans! We couldn’t possibly eat in meat-serving murder factory built on nematode-infested earth -- the poor, helpless things! Crushed to death for man’s greed! " or "Are you sure the shark steaks are remora-safe?"

Their check -- their choice of eateries, as far as we were concerned.

Upon eying the bill of fare, though, I became more than concerned. Our hosts had selected a charming Italian restaurant in downtown Fort Myers. It was small, homey, intimate, inviting – and expensive. I’m not sure why this is (if you’ll pardon the digression), but for some perverse reason, the latest trend in restaurant décor seems to be inexpensive "mom and pop" furnishings – and ludicrously overpriced fare. The combination of plain, wooden chairs, checkered linen tablecloths and fifteen-dollar appetizers is so incongruous; it leads to cognitive dissonance – and perhaps even petite mal epileptic seizures. A cursory glance at the menu left my jaw hanging so low; I had to apply a wristlock to one of the busboys to keep him from sweeping detritus into it and dragging it off to the dumpster.

Yes, I’m a Virgo – the stingiest sign of the Zodiac. Yes, I’m of Scottish descent. And yes, we’re called "the Jews of northern Europe" for a very good reason. "Tight as a Scotsman’s purse strings" is a perfectly valid expression -- and I wouldn’t have things any other way. Given the state of the economy, I’m damned proud of my people’s "negative" cultural inheritance -- and of us, as a matter of fact. Dourness and frugality are never so deleterious to a nation’s long-term health as frivolity and extravagance.

Whilst trying to justify the establishment’s prices (a fool’s errand…), I saw extravagance morphing into exorbitance. I also saw the irresistible force of common sense on a collision course with the immovable object of hospitality. Agonizing over the menu, I remembered a (possibly apocryphal) story I’d heard as a boy, in which an American/English/other foreign tourist popped into an Edinburgh grocer’s, hoping to purchase turtle soup.

"Do you have turtle soup?" he asked the proprietor, who answered in the affirmative.

"Well, then I’d like to buy some," said the tourist.

"Och! Ye’ maunna’, sir!" exclaimed the grocer, "It’s far tae expensive!"

To reiterate, I’m a cheapskate. Be that as it may, though, fourteen bucks a plate for capellini con aglio, olio e pepperoncino was highway robbery. Feeling as if I’d picked my host’s pocket detracted from my enjoyment of the meal, needless to say.

(A few days ago, for the record, I served the same recipe to Ma Bean, Mags and Yours Truly. In addition to the pasta, I made us a seafood dish: shrimp and homegrown broccoli, sautéed until just done in a mixture of extra virgin olive oil, real dairy butter, homemade tomato sauce, onions, garlic, white wine and fresh-ground black pepper; garnished with black olives. The entire dinner – for all three of us – didn’t cost anywhere near fourteen bucks. And Mags opined that like my roast duck, my mussels and a few other dishes, it was better than any she’d had in any restaurant.)

My horror at the restaurant’s prices aside, I was also worried about keeping up the conversation. Unless I’m hypomanic, I’m not much of a conversationalist (and even then, the racing thoughts make chatting very difficult). When I’m in a mixed episode – forget it. My only choice is pick a single subject and stick to it until it’s as worn-out as Paris Hilton’s -- you know.

Maggie’s uncle is, once again, a judge. During the ‘90s and early ‘00s, my father was a practicing attorney. In addition to tax law (his specialty, and a field he enjoyed very much – being a certified tax preparer as well, he was very good at it) and whatnot, he did indigent defense for Clayton County. From ’94 until ’98 or thereabout, I worked for him, proofreading various documents, transcribing taped affidavits, etc. Therefore, one would think the judge and I would have a few things to talk about. Unfortunately, as a friend once said, "I don’t think there’s any statute of limitation on some of the shit we did when we were younger." I received the distinct impression that the good judge had met any number of guys like me during the course of his career, so I decided to play it safe and keep the conversation dull. Luckily, he and his girlfriend are both avid gardeners. This allowed me to do just that.

After dinner, we had a pleasant walk back to the car (although it isn’t very old, the "historic" section of Fort Myers is quite pretty), went home, and retired for the evening. I zonked out the moment my head touched the pillow, and slept the sleep of the dead.

For me, the real fun began the next morning. Daylight lent the place an entirely new aspect, and after a quick shower, I headed outside to take in the sights. Our hosts’ home, as I’ve said, is directly on the bank of the Caloosahatchee River. Like the Halifax River on Florida’s Atlantic coast, the Caloosahatchee is brackish, receiving, considerable "backwash" from the Gulf. Unlike the Halifax, though, it doesn’t stink; and touching its waters doesn’t cause leprosy, typhus, cholera, cancer or birth defects in the next twenty generations of one’s descendants. Leaving the veranda, I wandered across the backyard (their grass was so tall, lush and green; I almost felt guilty about walking on it) and down to the shoreline to investigate the shallows.

By day, the mangroves were even more amazing than by night. Having adapted to saltwater, they gradually extend themselves outward from the shore into the water itself, thereby effectively extending the shoreline in turn. Observing their progress, I was reminded of the Dutch and the north Germans, who had essentially claimed much of their countries from the sea centuries ago. Here was a plant that did the same thing. Balancing myself upon the arching roots and peering into the water, I noted that they sheltered tiny fish and other aquatic life. I next investigated the shoreline itself, and was amazed at what I saw. Not two yards out were beds of oysters and clams -- alive and well, to all appearances.

I love Georgia, and never intend to leave it. I’ve called it home for my entire adult life and much of my childhood, and I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Florida, though, sorely tempts me at times – and this particular part of Florida more than most. Like anyone born in Maryland, I acquired a taste for seafood – and shellfish, in particular -- at a very early age. In short, I’m every bit as fond mollusks and crustaceans as I am of hocks and greens. And now, here I was, looking at free food just a few feet from the property line. As I poked around at the water’s edge, new marvels vied for my attention: mummified-looking coconuts, encrusted with barnacles and salt crystals; coconuts that had actually germinated; tiny lizards that scampered back and forth between the shore and the trees, and a bewildering assortment of alien plants.

In addition to a breathtaking variety of palms, our hosts had oranges, grapefruit, loquats and other citrus trees – many laden with ripe fruit – on the property. The kicker, though, was a pair of papaya trees growing at the foot of the veranda. Not only won’t Papayas grow in Georgia; they cost a fortune -- unless one buys them on Buford Highway, where they average $0.89-$0.99/lb. In Florida, though, the damned things are considered ornamentals – rather like crabapples or cornelian cherries are here. Our hosts also had a lovely herb garden beneath the veranda. Now Mags and I had a similar one at the head of the driveway. Like her uncle and his girlfriend, we grew them in oversized pots and half-barrels. Unlike our hosts, though, we face a daily struggle against aphids, mealy bugs, spittlebugs and a host of other chewing, gnawing, sucking (I’ve got something the li’l arthropod bastards can suck, by the way…) and otherwise destructive creepy-crawlies. By early spring of this year, things had gotten so bad that we had to transplant our rosemary, sage, marjoram and catnip into the main garden. Our hosts – as I noted from the enviable health of their plants – had no such problem.

Just as one man’s trash in another man’s treasure, though, one man’s paradiso is another’s inferno. And the light is always more divine on the other side of the gate, as I suppose. A chat with Maggie’s uncle revealed that south Floridians needn’t contend with the same pests we Georgians do. They do, however, have some nasty ones of their own. Their soil is generally sandy and neutral to slightly alkaline, so they have fewer problems with such fungi as verticillium, fusarium, damping off, early blight, late blight, etc., as well. Nematodes, as it happens, are another story – and a nasty one, at that.

In Georgia, the little shits aren’t much of a problem. I suppose our dense, red clay isn’t very hospitable to them -- for all that radish maggots, onion maggots, peach borers, cutworms, cabbage loopers, and every other multi-legged moth- or fly-larva on earth think of it as Six Flags and a titty bar rolled into one. To Floridians, on the other hand, nematodes are an invasive and frequently expensive nuisance. As a guy who’s spent the last several years shooting, squashing (I once became so incensed with a hornworm; I slapped him off one of my tomato plants and dropped a pumpkin on him, at which point he burst wetly, greenly and satisfyingly), poisoning and otherwise abbreviating the lifespan of undesirable organisms in his beloved garden, my heart went out to my host. A nematode, for the benefit of any non-gardeners reading this post, is a near-microscopic, worm-like creature. As the Biblical Goliath learned at David’s hands, though: size ain’t everything. Like viruses, certain bacilli, pinkos, neocons and other pathogens, just a few of these diminutive parasites can destroy an otherwise healthy, productive plant.

Unfortunately, I could only advise my benefactor – and imperfectly, at that. Nematodes, as I’ve mentioned, aren’t much of a problem in Roswell. The few times (once in a blue moon, for the record) they’ve managed to colonize my plot, I’ve driven them off by planting African and South American marigolds. As it’s worked for me, I suggested that he give it a try. As his soil and mine are so different, though, I also mentioned the "nuclear option": purchasing the eggs of parasitic nematodes. Like pushers or politicians, they prey on their own. I don’t know whether or not I successfully released Maggie’s uncle from the clutches of his nemeses, but I hope my advice helped.

Before we left, our hosts served us breakfast – typical morning fare, plus a wonderful perk: fresh-picked oranges and grapefruit from their backyard. As we left for the opposite coast, they plied us with a box full of the same fruit and an invitation to drop by whenever we were in the area. Since winter’s as good a time as any to flee to Florida, I suppose we’ll take them up on it when the weather turns cold, grey and pissy again. By way of repaying their kindness, we’ll have to take them a large sampler box of the pickles, relishes, sauces and preserves we make from our own produce.

They also suggested that we visit a place called Echo Farms before we left Ft. Myers. Heeding their advice, we entered the address (17430 Durrance Road, North Fort Myers, for the benefit of the curious) into our GPS and were there within half an hour. Echo Farms is, in a word, incredible. Shortly before we went to Florida, Mags had read a book entitled Lasagna Gardening, and was keen to give it a try. I’d like to see the author make some money, so I won’t divulge any of the book’s secrets. Like any system, the "lasgna" method has a few flaws and drawbacks, but one can easily overcome them with a little tinkering and tweaking. For this reason, I’ll give the book a four-star rating -- and mention that the title No soil? No Problem! would have been equally appropriate. We’d discussed the book with her uncle the evening before, and he’d mentioned that we might find Echo Farms interesting, as their "no till" approach to gardening was very similar.

Before I relate any of their methods, I’ll also state that I approve wholeheartedly of Echo Farms’ raison d’etre and mission. In their own words: "Echo is a non-profit, interdenominational, Christian organization dedicated to the fight against world hunger. We accomplish this by providing consultation, agricultural information, and seeds to those working in the Third World with peasant farmers or urban gardeners. ECHO receives no government help and depends upon public donations to carry on its work."

Amen. It’s nice to see a Christian organization "walking the walk" instead of just "talking the talk" for a change. Unfortunately, they weren’t conducting tours that day, but that didn’t prevent the wife and me from "walking the walk" in our own way. Pretending to be lost, we wandered the main garden until an attendant cordially – and very politely-- invited us to fuck off. (Being a warped son of a bitch and an associative thinker to boot, I was reminded of a line from the Clancy Brothers’ "The Poor Young Man"-- for all that nothing of the sort actually befell us: "All she said was ‘Heaven bless you"/ and left a mark upon his brow/ with a kick that she had learned/ before she was saved…"

What we saw before being ushered out of the main farm was both amazing and inspiring – for all that it shouldn’t have surprised me. If the Gentle Reader will pardon yet another digression…

One summer evening in 1978, my kid brother and I – obnoxious, hyperactive li’l Scots-Irish DOD brats with soles like ten-ounce latigo and mouths like sewers – were sitting in my backyard; roasting ants with my magnifying glass, swatting mosquitoes; shrieking, "Kiss my ass, mackerel-snapper!" and similar pleasantries at the Catholic kid who lived behind us, eating boiled peanuts and wedges of fresh "icebox" watermelon my Da had purchased at a roadside produce stand that very afternoon, and (I’ve mentioned that we were obnoxious little bastards, right?) spitting the seeds at each other.

What can I say? We were bored out of our skulls-- and probably waiting for J.R. to show up, so that we could ride our bicycles off the diving board at the neighborhood pool when the lifeguard wasn’t looking, draw peckers on so-and-so’s driveway in colored chalk (we were artistically gifted little shits, even then…), take a squirt in some particularly hated foe’s mailbox, make prank phone calls while J.R.’s Ma was off to Wednesday night services at the First Baptist, or trash a rival club’s "fort." Thirty-one years later, I can’t remember why, exactly, my brother and I were fragging arthropods; treating a neighbor to a lathering of obscene, bigoted invective and spitting watermelon seeds at each other -- but we were.

As fate would have it, we were a wee smidgen too close to Da’s compost heap; a mountain of horse pucks, "rabbit raisins" and decomposing vegetation, surrounded by a wall of cinderblocks. Within a week, seedlings were popping up like utter wanktards (as workable a synonym for "stupid, fuckin’ jerk-offs" as any, to my mind) at one of Obama’s campaign rallies or one of the so-called "tea parties" that bring tears to the eyes and bulges to the trousers of the Republican party faithful. By my brother’s birthday in August, we were the proud owners (and devourers) of four lovely "icebox" watermelons. Far from being angry with us for violating the sanctity of his compost heap (and we were both shaking in our cheap, Sears-Roebuck cowboy boots over our indiscretion, you see), Da said, "Let ‘em grow. We’ll see what happens."

He thinned the seedlings, of course, and pruned the fruit down to the healthiest one on each vine – but neither of us received a whuppin’. Far from it, to be sure: the dreaded belt remained about his waist and never crossed our impudent, unruly arses even once. Being children – and thusly too naïve to appreciate our own accomplishment – we consumed the fruits of our inadvertent labor, probably had a fist-fight or two before sundown, and eventually fading out of consciousness in front of the television.

As Maggie and I made our way to the bookstore/office, it occurred to me that "Echo Farms" was an appropriate moniker, in that I could almost hear the voices of my father and brother so many years later. These good folk had raised our youthful accident to an art and a science, and had managed to employ even unfinished compost as a growing medium par excellence. I suppose it goes without saying that I liked what I saw from the moment I crossed the threshold. The bookstore was small, but filled to brimming with an eye-popping selection of gardening manuals. The sight of neat rows of books and pamphlets; the muted sound of polite conversation, and the mingled scents of the dried herbs the facility offers for sale made for a paradoxical, synaesthetic mélange – gently overwhelming; stimulating and sedative in equal measure. To be sure, the atmosphere was very different from that of the old feed-and-seed stores my father frequented (they were always musty and dim – to my eyes, they appeared half barn, half warehouse -- and smelled of the pink and blue insecticides used to treat bins of bulk seed), but the sights, sounds and scents evoked a host of pleasant, half-forgotten childhood memories. We bought a few books, made a modest contribution to the farm (I couldn’t have done otherwise), and set out for Dawn Scoville’s house.

This leg of our trip saw us leaving Fort Myers and driving all the way across the state to Palm Springs – with expired tags and drivers’ licenses… I add this only because what would otherwise have been an uneventful drive became an exercise in melodrama every time a "roller" fell in behind us. Although not directly connected thereunto, my fear of getting pinched by the blue meanies surged to the forefront of my consciousness during yet another engagement in the interminable "Krystal Wars."

Since that probably makes no sense whatsoever, I’ll take a moment to explain. In some respects, I’m an incurable "food snob." In others, though, I crave toxic garbage as much as the next guy. My vice’s siren song invariably leads me to one of two restaurant chains: Waffle House or Krystal.

I’d imagine the former needs only a cursory explanation. Like any late ‘80s/early ‘90s boozehound or stoner, I often favored Waffle House with my custom at "zero dark thirty." In addition to serving cheap, filling grub to aimless young degenerates in search of caffeine and short-term respite from the ravages of one or more psychoactive chemicals, Waffle House afforded one the chance to indulge in what Desmond Morris called "manwatching."

Of all the terrestrial mammals, H. sapiens is by far the sickest, most dysfunctional and most interesting. As luck would have it, the sickest, most dysfunctional and most interesting specimens of humanity are often nocturnal – and just as often eat at Waffle House. Granted, our greasy spoon of choice wasn’t Carver Homes or Bankhead Court, but it provided ample opportunity for "freakwatching" and similar diversions.

Let’s face it, Gentle Reader; when, at four a.m., one craves steak, eggs, hash browns and the chance to observe an unwashed, spittle-spewing nutcase as he gesticulates wildly and complains of Pleiadean mind-worms hosting a Led Zeppelin reunion around his anus, Waffle House is the only way to go. It’s the AK-47 of all-night eateries, actually -- when you absolutely, positively have to kill every last motherfucker in the room, accept no substitutes. In many respects, as a matter of fact, it’s like a 24-7 MARTA train.

My buddies and I were too young, naïve and arrogant to bask in the warm, glowing aura of irony and hypocrisy that enfolded us, though. At forty-two, it occurs to me that every time we sprawled in our booth, shoveling down gobbets of barely cooked beef, eggs and fried starch, snickering: "Look at the fuckin’ losers over at that table, dude! What a bunch of douche-bags!" -- the fuckin’ losers at the other table were probably saying the same about us.

I’ve heard it said that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones – and my friends and I didn’t. No, by God, we built functional, full-scale onagers, catapults, and trebuchets…

Becoming such an obtuse, clueless asshole isn’t easy, but it is possible -- with the aid of cheap suds (Hamm’s, Schaefer, Iron City, Olympia, Carling Black Label and "the Beast" – a.k.a. Milwaukee’s Best – are especially conducive to this end) and marijuana. Now I was never a heavy-duty pothead, Gentle Reader. I could take it or leave it. To be sure, I smoked my share of "wacky tabbacky" -- and your share, your wife’s share, your kids’ share, etc.-- during my wayward youth, but I much preferred Valium, Fiorinal, Percodan, and any upper, from "dexies" to meth. Oh yeah – and booze. That fact, however, is so well known; it merits no further mention.

In the penultimate sentence of the last paragraph, I mentioned crystal meth. Under normal circumstances, I could smoothly glide from "crystal" to Krystal, but I’m not normal – and doing so would be predictable and irritating. Besides, I was discussing marijuana, which is much less expensive than methamphetamine, and leads to short-term memory – uh, what was I just saying?

Therein,

then, lies the transition. Bluntly put, there’s no reason to eat at Krystal unless one is stoned out of one’s gourd and damn-near broke (often a direct consequence of blowing one’s last few shekels on dollar drafts and a quarter-ounce bag of skunkweed).

To be sure, marijuana is a "gateway drug" -- insofar as its side effects provide a "gateway" to cholesterol-laden fast-food.

Yes, I’m referring to the munchies.

As I’ve said, the munchies -- an empirically observable consequence of smoking one "bad Oscar" too many -- share a direct connection (whether causal or merely corollary is still hotly debated among those who’ve boarded the "Hooterville Express" and risked short-term memory -- Uh, what was I saying again?) with abject poverty.

Before I got hitched, I was completely unacquainted with abject poverty – in all but the moral and ethical senses of the word. Let’s get real, folks, shall we? From ’92 until ’00, our country enjoyed an "employee’s market," period. As the Japs remarked of their own economic "bubble" (until it burst, mind you): "Only idiots and gaijin didn’t get rich." Granted, I never got rich (being an idiot, a gaijin, and a gun-toting anti-materialist simultaneously; I suppose it was inevitable) -- but I lived very comfortably.

Even in those days, though, I knew the "unbearable lightness of the billfold" at times. Now when one is stoned and broke (even too broke to eat at Waffle House), there’s no place like Krystal. At this point, another digression is in order. Weed, as I understand it, isn’t physically addictive. I smoked my last joint over thirteen years ago and haven’t even craved the stuff since then. This being the case, I concur with majority opinion: "reefer madness" is a myth.

Krystal, in sharp contrast, is as addictive as crack or China white.

For the benefit of the uninitiated, Krystal is the Southeast’s answer to White Castle. A Krystal is a square, vaguely meat-like patty, roughly the size of a Midland G-series walkie-talkie, served on a square bun with chopped onions, mustard and pasteurized, processed cheese food product (for a few cents extra, of course). In the old days, they were something like a quarter each, and one could fit several dozen of them into a shoebox. Calorie-dense and inexpensive, they were the last word in stoner-chow. As a matter of fact, a night of five-card/blackjack/craps, boozing and sparking up without a bag of Krystals was as unthinkable as a crisp autumn evening without the soft glow of a harvest moon – or a day without gunfire on the Southside.

And the Krystal monkey -- more’s the pity -- is still very much on my back: shrieking, turning somersaults, making an awful row with a pair of cheap cymbals, and flinging turds at passers-by. My wife’s "junk-food Jones" usually compels her to scarf down a Big Mac at her fast-food opium den of choice, McDonalds. Mine, however, sees me creeping through the shadows, dodging the vicious pit-bull of public opinion and rapping at the back door of the "Krystal Krackhouse."

As fate would have it, McDonalds franchises outnumber Krystal franchises. The ratio of the former to the latter is approximately equal to the ratio of Vietminh to French at Ia Drang.

Bluntly put: This sucks long, green donkey dicks, accepts American Express by way of remuneration, and gives change.

Because the spousal unit and I spend several days per month watching our pickup truck light up and piss out an interminable series of line-segments, rendered with Abstract Expressionist monotony in white and/or yellow highway paint upon the "endless black ribbon," we sometimes eat fast food. Because (to reiterate) McDougall’s, Burger Khan, Taco Vato and Pizza Hovel outnumber Krystals, we usually end up eating at one of the above – unless I wax exceeding stubborn and hold out for a Krystal. (As I hold the purse strings on these outings, that’s not as difficult as it sounds.)

By the time we began feeling peckish, we were over halfway to our destination. We were driving along the south shore of Lake Okeechobee, staring at acres of what appeared to be sugarcane and launching verbal sling-stones at one another. Somewhere between La Belle and Shawnee, we’d had another argument (a daily occurrence while we were dating). The combativeness, like Miracle-Gro on friable soil, had seeped into our discussion of where and when to eat. We drove into Clewiston between noon and one, at which point Maggie’s truculence simply dissipated. Her facial expression, as a matter of fact, was identical to the one she’d sported when (quite against my advice) she’d insisted we try selling jewelry at a flea market just south of the Federal Pen in Atlanta. She took one look at some of the characters wandering the main drag and said, "Ohhh no! No way. We are not stopping here!"

"But dear," says I, "I simply must find out where that fifty-ish gentleman leaning against the lamppost got those tats. The black cat, the eight ball and the dice showing ‘snake eyes’ are especially quaint an’ noteworthy. And just look at those lovely Harleys! And so many of them! That must be a very popular bar! Hmmm… I wouldn’t mind a beer, myself, come to think of it. Oh! And look at those young Mexican gentlemen over there. They’re wearing color-coordinated plaid shirts. I’ll bet they’re members of the high school glee club."

Now my wife isn’t the most alert critter on earth, but since taking up with me (thereby befriending Marc MacYoung and a rogues’ gallery of like-minded riffraff), she’s learned to recognize a bad neighborhood when she sees one – even when the signs aren’t obvious. She still has trouble distinguishing mere "creepy-crawlies" and the "walking wounded" from actual predators, but she’s learned to spot the obvious predators – and those who wish to be perceived as such. All the aforementioned "castes," if you will, were well represented that day.

To my mind, the place merited only "code yellow," but it was refreshing to see Mags go into "code red" – without any prompting on my part.

Clewiston, Florida (essentially a wide spot in the road) is nothing compared to Atlanta, Columbus, or even parts of Dekalb, Gwinnett and Hall Counties. Hell, there are infinitely nastier neighborhoods in Fayetteville, Columbia, Jacksonville and Birmingham, to be honest. This particular stretch of blacktop and its inhabitants, however, didn’t appeal to me any more than they did to her. Granted, it wasn’t Bedford-Stuyvesant, south Philly or Detroit, but it was a bit of a shithole, for all that. Moreover – and more important, by far – it was an unfamiliar shithole. Even if we’d seen far worse elsewhere, we were "going in blind," in this case -- and we both knew it. We lacked the "home advantage" on this playing field (to a reasonably intelligent, resourceful human being, familiarity breeds far more than mere contempt – "Study deeply upon this," as Musashi wrote…); and I was proud of my wife for having "grokked" that so quickly.

Since this post has already degenerated into a digression-ridden free-for-all, I see no reason not to rocket off on yet another tangent – leaving the usual trail of sparks and smoke in my wake.

In NLP terms, acknowledging the validity of Maggie’s perceptions (even though I’d done so flippantly – hardly an aid to communication) resulted in a positive "feedback loop" and instant rapport. We left town as quickly as we’d entered it, sheathed our swords, and actually communicated with each other. This is an unflattering admission, to be sure (especially in the case of two aspiring writers), but the wife and I have become so intimately acquainted; we exchange information via grunts, gestures and facial expressions at times. (See my forthcoming book, How Love Brought Out My Inner Neanderthal.)

"Hmm!" says Mags.

"Hmmm!" says I.

"Mmmmh, mmmh, mmmh!" says Margarita, her delivery enhanced by an exquisitely alien, Finno-Ugric pitch contour and the hand-gestures so widely favored in the Latin world. (This, cultural trait, incidentally, can prove both inconvenient and hazardous – especially when any given son/daughter of said world is driving a straight shift.)

"I just can’t see how anyone would want to live that way," she continued.

"I can’t see m’ anus, on account o’ m’ pants cover it. That don’t mean it ain’t there," says I. "An’ I hope ye’ kin see that light turnin’ red."

"I’m serious, Jeff."

"So am I."

"Are you just being an asshole again?"

"Probably. I’m a creature of habit. Being an asshole works most of the time."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do."

A moment of silence followed.

I broke it.

"You say that you can’t see how anyone would want to live that way. But what if they can’t see any other way?"

"That’s awful."

"No shit, sister. You ain’t just whistlin’ ‘Dixie.’"

"But why?"

"We’ll ever know why – an’ I don’t much give a rat’s ass. Pancho’s Ma says: ‘Cada cabeza es un mundo,’ an’ that’s fuckin-A right, as far as I’m concerned. Piss on ‘why?’ It’s a useless question. ‘Why’ is a matter of opinion -- end of story. And opinions are like assholes: everybody has one."

Having signed a tacit armistice at this point, we drove for a few miles more, each lost in thought. I stopped thinking and began shrieking, "Left turn! Left turn! Left turn!" the moment I caught sight of a red-and-white sign.

A Krystal!

I could scarcely believe my luck. I can’t remember if it was in Lake Harbor or South Bay, but there it was…

To be continued

Florida

Being a narrative, in three or four parts, of our lawng-ha’ared hillbilly protagonist’s 2008 trip to the land of citrus fruits; palm trees; murderous, Caribbean- and Latin-American-based drug cartels, and Lynyrd Skynyrd; wherein he and his then-common-law wife (I love

that expression – it’s just gloriously fookin’ trashy…) ultimately partied hearty and talked shop with Immortal Bonds author, Dawn Scovill.

Although it sometimes confuses non-Georgians, North and South Georgia are completely different worlds. The terrain is different; North Georgia’s consisting of heavily wooded uplands, and South Georgia’s of flatland (whether wooded or cultivated), gently rolling plains and coastal marshes. The accents are different; that of the southern portion of the state being softer and less "twangy" than that of the north.

And the people are different.

During the War Between the States, South Georgia was a hotbed of Confederate sentiment, while North Georgia was staunchly pro-Union. Politically, North Georgians have tended to vote Republican since the 1860’s, while South Georgians were very much a part of the Post-Reconstruction "Solid South" engineered by the Democrats. Only in the last thirty years has this begun to change -- and only incrementally, at that.

I’ll admit to painting with very broad brushstrokes, but few well-traveled Southerners would dispute that; in general, South Georgians are friendlier, politer, more laid back, tidier, more modest, and less aggressive than North Georgians. As a rule (and there are certainly exceptions), South Georgians – even the poorest of them – are possessed of a certain refinement and gentility one seldom observes in their northern neighbors.

Not to knock North Georgians, though – God forbid. They more than compensate for what they occasionally lack in grace, polish and tact with grit, ferocity, patriotism, loyalty to friends and family, independent-mindedness, and refreshingly blunt honesty. In short (and without coming across as overly flippant): If you need someone to cover your six in a bad neighborhood or seedy bar, go with the North Georgian – and then hire a South Georgia lawyer to keep both of your asses out of the slammer when the dust settles.

None of this, needless to say, is "front-page news" to Georgians or to the historically minded. Upon reading this sketchy observation, a member of either group would likely paraphrase a line from a Hindu folktale: "Ye need not stop work to tell us. We knew it many seasons ago."

Nothing exists without a cause (or causes), least of all the aforementioned cultural differences between North and South Georgians. The State of Georgia, as the Gentle Reader will recall, was colonized from two different directions, and by two different peoples.

If I may once again paint with broad brushstrokes, South Georgians owe their cultural inheritance to the English "Cavalier" culture of the southern Atlantic Seaboard. From Savannah, Darien, and Frederia (the latter two of which, admittedly, boasted a substantial Highland Scottish population, while the former – like Baltimore, Maryland and Charleston, South Carolina -- eventually became home to quite a number of "mere" Irish) among other settlements, these colonists and their descendants gradually migrated northwards and westwards. Under James Oglethorpe and successive governors, they enjoyed favorable relations with the Muskogee Creeks, and – prior to the American Revolution – acquired their lands peaceably, through treaties and legitimate purchases.

North Georgia, on the other hand (like much of the Upper South), was largely settled by the so-called "Scots-Irish" (I won’t debate the legitimacy of the term. It "works for me," as the saying goes. I will, however, note -- along with David Hackett Fischer -- that the Upper South owes nearly as much of its cultural and ethnic makeup to Scottish Borderers and northern Englishmen – Northumbrians, Cumbrians, and, to a lesser extent, Westmorelanders – as to Ulster Scots-proper), who wandered southward through the Appalachians, from Pennsylvania, Virginia, Tennessee, and the western Carolinas.

Despised and reviled ("the scum of two nations" and "the scum of the universe" were only two of the choice epithets applied to them) by Quakers, Anglicans -- and their fellow Calvinists, the Puritans -- for their truculence, uncouthness, and stubborn refusal to "know their place," they were encouraged to migrate to the hinterlands. There they served as a buffer against potentially hostile Indians.

Accustomed to centuries of medieval "total war," hit-and-run guerilla raiding, and "scorched earth" policies, as they were; these men and women – who, in the years between 1610 and 1775, had traded in their progenitors’ "steel bonnets," lances and broadswords for coonskin caps, tomahawks and long rifles – were eminently suited to the role assigned them by fate and their putative "betters."

Being frontiersmen (from one border to another; or "out of the frying pan, into the fire," as the saying runs), they bore the brunt of the atrocities and massacres of the French and Indian Wars. Being North Britons, they "gave as good as they got," even when contending with the Cherokees; formidable warriors in their own right.

I don’t suppose every man ruminates upon these matters whilst bleedin’ the lizard in a gas station men’s room on the outskirts of Valdosta -- but I’m not every man. And because ephedrine does odd things to the ol’ prostate (not to mention the brain) I had ample time to think.

It’s a weird and somewhat indelicate matter to discuss, but the john in this place was immaculately clean and free of suspicious characters, as they always are in South Georgia. Therefore, I didn’t need to devote much thought to defending myself against potential muggers, telling dope dealers that I wasn’t interested in purchasing their wares, or rebuffing the unwanted advances of the odd "pirate." As a guy who, of late, has spent quite a bit of time on the road, I appreciate little things like that. I likewise appreciated the friendly, cheerful manner of the clerks, and South Georgia’s Zone 8 climate.

When Maggie and I left Atlanta, a few hours before, we bundled up in thermal Henleys and our trademark black leather jackets – and were still freezing our asses off. As it was late February, the temperature was somewhere between 36 and 38, while the sky, a sheet of murky, mottled grey; pissed down rain, which a bone-chilling wind then drove into our faces. We’d braved the same foul weather again on the outskirts of Macon, when we ducked into a Waffle House for a bit of breakfast. By the time we reached Perry, it had become a torrential downpour, reducing visibility to a few yards and the pace of the traffic to a crawl.

"Well," said Mags, with a laugh and a resigned shrug, "Here we go again."

I could only shake my head groan in agreement. I’m not sure why, exactly, but every time she and I hit the road – and I do mean every time – we encounter a fookin’ monsoon. Neither the time of year nor our intended destination matters a whit.

Hell, had she and I been dating during the ‘80s, we probably could have saved thousands of Ethiopian lives by driving the length and breadth of the country. (She probably could have been tossed into the pokey for banging a minor, as well – bless her li’l cougar heart -- but I reckon that’s neither here nor there…)

Suffice to say that it looked like business as usual.

An old bit of ‘80s office humor (one of the Xeroxed/mimeographed "chucklers" that adorned the walls of damn-near every small-to-midsize business in the country before the Political Correctness Inquisition began in earnest) read: "When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember that you came to drain the swamp."

Whereas the Reptilian-American community undoubtedly considered it an offensive, insensitive reminder of the "Jim Suitcase" era (hence its eventual banishment to Outer Darkness), the adage rang true. As gale-force winds assaulted the truck with elemental fury, rocking it to and fro and winding the windshield in a funeral shroud of blinding rain, I thought of it and asked myself why the hell I was doing this in the first place.

Then, as another bone-cracking muscle-spasm wracked my arm, I remembered. Mags had two goals in mind: visiting her uncle and meeting Dawn Scovill, author of Immortal Bonds. Coughing up a softball-sized "lung oyster," I grudgingly conceded the necessity of the journey and steeled myself. And believe me, it took some steeling…

Generally speaking, Mags loves road trips, while I hate ‘em. I enjoy seeing different places, mind you (especially when they’re historically significant) but long-distance driving sends me to the far side of batshit. The sheer monotony of watching white and yellow lines pass by bores me to tears, and being trapped within the cramped confines of a vehicle for hours on end is maddening. To a "squirrel" like me, the interior of a car or truck is like unto a malfunctioning sensory deprivation tank: When I’m stuck inside one for any length of time, I receive just enough input from the outside world to remind me that I’d rather be any-fucking-where else than inside the vehicle.

When my brother and I were just little shits and my Da was dragging our family from one end of Europe to the other, Christopher and I would relieve the ennui of long-distance drives with never-ending sessions of "I got you last," "Ma! He put his foot on my side of the car again!"; and -- being crude little bastards -- farting contests. Daddy, of course, would inevitably backhand us (for a guy with bursitis, the range of motion in his right arm was impressive as all hell -- he could reach over the seat and clean both of our clocks with a single swat), but even that was better than boredom.

Unfortunately, I was forty at the time, and on this particular jaunt, my then-fiancee was my sole companion. Both conditions effectively precluded the "I got you last!" game as a boredom-buster (winding up in a ditch on the side of the Interstate is every bit as enjoyable as having an abscessed nut lanced -- sans anesthesia), and ruled flatulence-as-civil-disobedience right out.

Physical discomfort and tedium are only the tips of the road trip "iceberg," though. Alas and alack, one finds that one must needs share the freeway with a cavalcade of double-digit IQ retards, most of whom, one suspects, obtained their Goddamned drivers’ licenses from boxes of Cracker Jacks.

Bluntly put: The majority of travelers on any given interstate highway drive as well as quadriplegic nonagenarians fuck – while blind drunk and trippin' balls on ‘shrooms. In Georgia, they drive as well as the aforementioned -- with the additional "hurdles" of advanced Alzheimer's Disease and Down's Sydrome to overcome.

I’m not the world’s best driver, mind you; nor do I claim otherwise. I had a "fender bender" back in ’88 and narrowly missed getting a DUI in November of ’93, and I’ll freely cop to both. Mea maxima fuckup in both cases, and I’ll bid a not so fond ite coitum (my Latin’s a tad rusty, but I reckon that rendering of "Git ta fuck!" does said tongue little violence) to them who would hold either against me.

Having said that, I’ll add that overall, I’m a polite, considerate guy ("A gentle man, of philosophic joys," to swipe a line from My Fair Lady -- a veritable "Henry Higgins of the highway," c’est moi…) when driving. I often cede right-of-way to left-turning drivers, to relieve gridlock. I allow others to merge from on-ramps, and to exit without incident. I seldom, if ever, exceed the speed limit, and I don’t consider public thoroughfares my personal Daytona Speedway.

I do not, however, suffer inconsiderate, un-chivalrous cocksuckers gladly. When some ill-bred, low-consciousness asshole’s wretched driving pisses me off, I become "road rage" personified. For all the above reasons, I leave the driving to Mags during our soirees into the wilds of darkest America. She’s less temperamental than I, and far less inclined -to correct the odd, unmannerly heathen’s piss-poor etiquette with fist, boot, or tire iron.

I’d been perusing Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations for some time (I usually pack a shitload of reading material when traveling), but on that grey, pissy, lousy-driver-plagued day, I felt anything but stoic. Laying it aside, I chose to devour a few chapters of John Sadler’s Border Fury. An engaging, well-written, well-researched chronicle of four centuries of pissing contests between England and Scotland, its overall tone was far more in keeping with my mood.

A cyclothyme’s moods, like the Good Emperor’s assessment of existence, though, are as ephemeral and transient as the weather -- especially that day’s weather. By the time we stopped for gas in Valdosta, the sun was peeking through the clouds and the temperature necessitated removing our jackets, as the cab had become uncomfortably warm.

Neither of us is given to junk-food binges, (I prefer everything fresh and home-cooked), but since we were on the road, we indulged ourselves. Mags likes Cheddarwurst, and I’m putty in the capsicum-laden hands of a Jalapeno-dog, so we joyously (and in true Discordian fashion) partook of a pair of each before roaring out of the station in a blaze of onion-breathed glory.

When, some time later, we crossed the state line, I was ready for yet another a breather. (The staff of the rest stop was no doubt wishing I’d stop breathing altogether – or at least that I’d do so in another direction: I do love onions…) I was also painfully aware of the distance we had yet to cover. Florida, as it happens, is one big ol’ long-ass state, and we were headed for the southern part of the peninsula. It seemed as if we’d been driving all day, but when we took a break just north of Lake City, it occurred to me that we were still only halfway to Fort Myers. It also occurred to me to ask what kind of purportedly merciful God would distribute four climate zones amongst two states…

It wasn’t just warm; it was actually hot. Cursing the fact that I’d worn the Henley in the first place, I unbuttoned the neck all the way and rolled the sleeves up to my elbows before hopping out of the truck – and nearly falling on my face in the process.

This brings me to another reason for hating road trips: the havoc they wreak on my lower limbs. For whatever reason, sitting in the same position (especially when said position entails having my thumb up my ass) for extended periods affects me more adversely than it does others. All the more so when I develop the dreaded "no-reason boner." (Yep. Forty-two fucking years old, and I still get as many of 'em as I did in tenth grade. P'raps I've been a tad lax in practicing my qigong...)

Taking my first stiff (make of that what you will), awkward steps across the parking lot, I felt (and probably looked) like a newborn colt with rickets and muscular dystrophy -- after enduring several hours of advanced Yoga classes.Turning to my significant other as quickly and smoothly as a badly rusted weathervane, I said as much, in nearly as many words.

"Honey!" said she, her eyes widening, "Yogis don’t use that kind of language!"

Kidding aside, I was extremely uncomfortable from sitting still for so long, and welcomed the opportunity to stretch my aching legs. At first, the heat seemed unpleasant. As I became accustomed to it, though, I had to admit that it was a welcome change from the alternating spells of cold, grey drizzle and catch-your-death, ice-water deluges some 300 miles behind us.

Back home, it was undeniably winter. In Florida, though, it looked and felt like spring. I’ve been there often enough to know that the weather gets downright chilly on occasion, but I get the impression of perpetual spring/summer whenever I visit. Perhaps it’s the fact that everything remains green, while in North Georgia, nearly everything that’s neither a conifer nor a surly, incompetent bureaucrat is dormant at that time of year.

Once I’d restored circulation and muscular function to the lower half of my poor, long-suffering body ("If I’d known I was gonna live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself," as the saying goes) and sent a gallon or so of Gatorade off to be recycled (I’m just waiting for Sonny Perdue to blame the drought on vacationing Georgians "shaking the weasel" in Florida instead of into Lake Lanier or the Chattahoochee – "Every time you take a leak at a Florida rest stop, you deprive Georgia of water, and a Georgia waste-water treatment specialist of a job!"), I took a few moments to have a smoke and enjoy the scenery.

At first glance, the term "Florida scenery" may seem oxymoronic – unless one calls its northern neighbor home. I’ll allow that overall; the landscape is less eye-catching than that of the piedmont or the Appalachians. The entire state is flatter than your buddy’s perpetually dateless sister, as a matter of fact, but the amazing variety of flora more than compensates for the topographical uniformity. Being a "plant guy," I was like a kid in a candy store: photographing the amazing variety of palm trees, jabbering into my tape recorder, and – for the next two or three hours, at any rate -- annoying Mags (who, by now, was becoming irritable) with an "Oooh! Looka that’n!" every other mile.

Margarita loves plants as much as I do, but she was stuck behind the wheel, and we’d been arguing intermittently over my ever-so-slight vindictiveness since we’d reached Tifton. At the time, I was convinced that a few fleurs du mal needed immediate and radical pruning, while she disagreed. To my mind, several parties had wronged her unforgivably. Payback was, therefore, a necessity of the first order – not merely as a matter of clan and personal honor, but of principle, as well.

"Fail to shoot a thief, and you encourage the breed!" as H. Beam Piper wrote in First Cycle.

Mags, being the sweet thing she is, thought otherwise. For all that she’s the one who’s watched every installment of the Saw series several thousand times, I’m more likely to behave like said quadrilogy’s antagonist when some mouth-breathing fuckwit disrupts my bodhisattva-like tranquility.

Pardon the dripping, self-mocking sarcasm in the last paragraph, Gentle Reader. Suffice to say that I’m a kind-hearted, sentimental, friendly guy, and one who’s willing to extend the benefit of doubt to even the nastiest of our species – until the fuckin’ lice prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that they need smutching. At that point, dropping the hammer on ‘em (metaphorically, of course) or letting ‘em hang ‘emselves with the very rope of bullshit they’ve woven is as easy as popping a rabbit, squirrel, crow, or other varmint -- or lopping a diseased tree-limb.

As our penultimate and ultimate destinations lay on opposite coasts of the peninsula and amounted to twelve hours on the road, we reached an uneasy truce and let the matter rest. Long distance driving is miserable enough; long distance driving whilst bickering is absolutely intolerable. Nor could we have made a wiser decision -- by the time we hit the outskirts of Orlando, the sun was an orange-red tetherball hanging low in the western sky, and travel-fatigue was kicking in. To make matters worse, a traffic jam -- the origin of which we never discovered -- restricted southbound traffic to snail’s pace for most of the distance between Orlando and Tallahassee.

When – after a seeming eternity – we finally reached the Fort Myers exit, night had already fallen and I was so tired; I was only dimly aware that I was now as far south as I’d ever been. When my synapses fire that slowly, it’s a sure sign that I’m on my way to Comaville -- one of my least favorite vacation spots. I should also mention that I was nursing a nasty case of bronchitis and an injured arm at the time. Both conditions exacerbated my already crabby disposition, lowered my resistance, and sapped my stamina and mental clarity.

I remember relating the geo-trivia to Mags, who seemed surprised.

"Really?" she asked. "I thought you came to Florida all the time."

"I do," I replied, "but usually Pensacola. It’s only a five hour drive from the house."

Not being entirely bereft of reason (and with our wedding only months away) I thought it best to remain silent about Daytona. As I dozed off a time or two, I suppose I remained silent about other things, as well – unless I’ve taken to talking in my sleep again. When the external world came into focus again, Mags informed me that we were lost.

In truth, we were anything but "lost" – we simply hadn’t reached our destination and didn’t know how to reach it. The inability to find the route to a certain point is hardly the same thing as being lost, as any reasonable person knows. A quick look at a roadmap revealed where we were, and -- by logical extension -- where we weren’t. Moreover, we were on a north-south traffic artery in a major metropolitan area. There’s nothing "lost" about that, Gentle Reader, and we quickly solved the problem with a single phone call.

This leads me to a digressive observation on women. Generally speaking, they have terrible senses of direction, aren’t very good with maps, and – in my experience – are stubbornly resistant to the very notion of learning to navigate. I’m sure the structure of the female brain, estrogen and a host of other biological factors are to blame, but it still pisses me off to no end – especially when women panic over being "lost." Genetic predilection be damned: navigation is a learned skill, and if women can learn to read, write, perform mathematical calculations and nudge males out of the job market by under-bidding them salary-wise; they can learn to navigate, too.

And I’m being too stiff-necked. In this day and age, most men can’t determine direction very well, either. I also have a few "unfair" advantages over most people. I learned to read a map when I was seven years old, and to navigate by the sun when I was twelve. I acquired the habit of noting landmarks whilst playing in the woods as a child and – after reading the story of Theseus and the Minotaur at the age of nine -- to leave my own route-markers. My father was a Marine back in the late ‘50s, and I learned the basics of map and compass use (to this day, I carry one everywhere) from his old training manuals while I was still a kid. Time and research (including the astronomy classes I took in college to fulfill my science requirement) taught me to determine even the time of day to within ten minutes (this drives Mags nuts, by the way; she thinks it’s some kind of sorcery) by noting the sun’s position and allowing for the earth’s seasonal axial tilt.

To reiterate, these "unfair" advantages put me well ahead of most of the competition. Before I proceed, though, let me plead, in my atypical ass’s defense, that there are soldiers, forest rangers, and backwoodsmen whose navigational skills leave me in awe. If I can achieve even a fractional degree of their competence; then so can anyone.

Regrettably, this fact (which is a fact; not an assumption -- barring cognitive dysfunction, physical blindness, etc., on the part of the "directionally-challenged") often leads me to judge others too harshly. In short, the fact leads me to an assumption: if I know something; everyone else does -- or should. I suppose that’s fine and dandy (Who the fuck cares what I think, after all?) – until I apply it to my wife. Unfortunately, I do just that -- and more often than I should.

Actually, I shouldn’t do it at all, as it’s grossly unfair. Returning to the matter of gender, though, I think women’s overall inability to navigate is as much the result of culture as genetics. The simple fact is: we don’t expect women to perform certain functions; therefore, we don’t teach them to.

Beyond X- and Y-chromosomes and societal expectations, Maggie and I have also lived very different lives. In addition to being ten years older than I, she was born and raised in the "Rust Belt." Her father came to this country from Mexico with a degree in engineering, and went to work in the auto industry as an engineer. Her mother is from Nicaragua, and was born into the class of people we call "quality" in these parts. No reasonable man would expect a woman from such a background -- especially one who grew up on the outskirts of "The Motor City" -- to be Grizzly fuckin’ Adams.

I, on the other hand – well, if you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you know my story. At various times in my forty-one years, I’ve hung my hat in the ‘burbs, the boondocks, and the big, bad city – on two continents. My father’s people were from East Tennessee, where they’d lived since the 1760’s. My father was brilliant, well educated and very well traveled. (Besides his stint in the USMC, he went to work for the DOD shortly after I was born. Consequently, he spent twelve or so years stationed in Germany and the UK, while TDY took him to Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Israel, the Northern Marianas and Japan, among other places.) His accomplishments notwithstanding, he never lost touch with his roots – and took pains to ensure that I never lost touch with them, either.

Without realizing it, I received a strange education of sorts: he provided me with a knowledge base that bridged the gap between the modern and the "old fashioned." With the passage of time – and because I’ve used and expanded that knowledge base – I’ve come to take it for granted. When, after performing some "miracle" (chuckle…), other people ask, "How do you do that?" I usually reply, "How do you get through life without knowing this shit?" I never receive a satisfactory answer, so I’ve just come to accept that the natural world is completely alien to most modern Americans – especially women.

I’ve admitted to being too hard on Maggie at times, and it’s wrong of me. For a woman who’s lived as she has for as long as she has, she’s doing very well. She’s learned to make a fire with a single match, and she’s learning to get her bearings by observing the sun’s position. She’s still working on telling time via the same method, but that’s a little trickier – and even now, she can call it to within an hour.

The sun, however, had already set. The Fort Myers area map in our road atlas was very sketchy, and recent road construction only "confused" our GPS. This, by the way, is one reason I refuse to depend on them. They have their uses, but all machines malfunction at times. This being the case, one should always have a backup plan and the ability to "stay found," even if the GPS goes completely "Chernobyl" and has to be hurled from the vehicle in the interest of self-preservation. Moreover, I believe machines should be time- and labor-saving devices, not substitutes for actual skill and knowledge. As used by most people of my acquaintance, a GPS is definitely the latter. And last, but not least: In order for a GPS to inform one of one’s location, the tracking satellite with which it communicates must know it, as well. I’m not very comfortable with that, for obvious reasons.

Since we were neither exploring some remote, Southeast Asian jungle, nor lost in the Andes, the GPS malfunction didn’t matter. We simply called Maggie’s uncle, who drove out to meet us and had us follow him home.

And what a home…

Maggie’s uncle, a judge, has done very well for himself. So has his girlfriend. The house in which we stayed was simply beautiful. Palatial, airy, and suggestive of a British colonial bungalow, it sat directly on the bank of the Caloosahatchee River, near the estuary of the Gulf of Mexico. The driveway was lined with the biggest palm trees I’ve ever seen – Royal Palms, they’re called – and the lawn sported (among other things) a cluster of Sable or "cabbage" palms, all floodlit, in sharp contrast with the blue-black sky. From the backyard, one could smell the distinctive tang of saltwater and hear the current lapping against the shore. Through a stand of mangroves (eerie and bird-footed in the darkness, looking for all the world as if they were trying to uproot themselves and walk away) at the river’s edge, I could see the lights of Fort Myers-proper in the distance, glistening on the surface of the ebon water.

Needless to say, I was very, very impressed.

I’d be even more impressed when day broke, but that was still hours away.

To be continued

Glittering Generality #376,923: "Chicks Who Smoke are Easy!"

Not long ago, I had the dubious "privilege" of hearing an utter fuckwit disseminate yet another irritating urban legend. With a perfectly straight face, the low-grade moron informed all within earshot that a woman who smoked was more likely to put out than a non-smoker.

Most of the time, I just sigh and pray for a so-called "extinction level event" when I hear glittering generalities of that sort, but I’d heard other imbeciles bearing similar tidings in the past. From his appearance and overall physical condition, I concluded that the speaker couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse (even with a pocketful of Krugerrands), and that therefore, he spoke whereof he knew not. But once again, I’d heard variations on the general theme before.

In the ‘90s, for example, popular wisdom held that women who smoked cigars -- remember the "cigar craze"? – were more likely to "smoke" something else. The mental image of a woman spitting out her El Ropo before going to work on one’s Johnson is incredibly un-sexy in the first place (the mind, given its undisciplined tendency towards the phantasmagoric, paints hideous pictures of her cutting off the tip before lighting it…) but beyond that, the end of the cigar fad didn’t inspire a wave of tunes with titles like "Where Have all the Blowjobs Gone?"

And it certainly never kept me from getting ‘em.

It’s entirely possible, from a psychological standpoint, that smoking, eating lollipops, nail-biting, chewing gum, etc. are indicative of oral fixation, and that the orally fixated might, in fact, be more inclined towards a cannibalistic diet of "one-eyed granddads" than the average woman. Cigar smoking, though, would be only one of many behavioral cues to suggest such a fixation.

The alleged connection between cigarette smoking and willingness to jump into the sack falls into the same category: divorced from context, the act itself conveys very little absolute, immediately discernible information.

(Hit on the wrong woman, for example and she might extinguish her cigarette in your eye and "clean your clock" with her ashtray for your pains. I add this because I once had the pleasure of seeing an asshole, acting on a similar assumption – that women who drink are "easy" – have a martini tossed into his face for his inability to place the behavior in an overall situational context. Hell, my own wife once used a Mag-Lite to bludgeon a mook into unconsciousness for drawing an equally erroneous conclusion.)

Aside from the fact that empirical observation has led me to conclude the opposite (in my experience, the health club-types are easier targets, and I’ll explain why in a moment), it sounded suspiciously like one of the rumors the "Ban everything now!" crowd so delights in spreading.

Whilst listening to the radio a few weeks ago, I inadvertently stumbled upon the source of the rumor. Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t some fanatical group of leftist, "Even vegetarianism is murder!" killjoys, but rather Atlanta’s own "Talkmaster," Neal Boortz.

Lest anyone who knew me "back in the day" call bullshit on me, I’ll admit that I was an avid (some might say "rabid") Boortz fan until ‘04. I may or may not chronicle my apostasy from "The Church of the Bald-faced Lie" in a future post, but suffice to say that this self-proclaimed "Libertarian" is essentially a shill for the Republican Party’s neocon faction.

Politics aside, facts, reason and truth are largely irrelevant to him. Like humans in general (and ideologues in particular), Boortz is a thrall to his preferences and his emotions. And for whatever reason, he has a hard-on for smokers. (I suppose this is why his once-enthusiastic ballyhooing of Atlas Shrugged has become less strident of late: Ayn Rand was a heavy smoker, as were the protagonists in her novels.) Moreover, one needs only a nodding acquaintance with linguistics and the behavioral sciences to realize that Boortz’s anti-tobacco diatribes are anything but dispassionate and disinterested. His tone of voice and choice of words simply aren’t those of an objective observer. Therefore, anything he says about smoking or smokers needs to be double-checked.

Well, I became rather curious, and decided to research the hard, cold facts on nicotine and other chemicals, and their effects –if any – on hard, hot sexual performance. What I found was that inhaling nicotine triggers the release of norepinepherine (remember the "head rush" you experienced the first time you lit up?), which the body rather enjoys. This, incidentally, is why quitting the damned things is so difficult – the addiction is partly physical.

It is, however, also partly psychological. For some, smoking is a nervous habit, rather like nail biting or hair-twisting. ("It relaxes me," "It gives me something to do with my hands," etc.) Since it’s easier to seduce a relaxed woman than a nervous one, a smoker is a poor choice of targets. (Just try playing Don Juan with a chick who’s keyed up over anything. You’ll likely discover that she "Don Juan" to have anything to do with you… Hell, try getting your significant other to put out when she’s strung out. This is why all the Getting Laid for Dummies-type books recommend making ‘em feel at ease before making it with ‘em),

It’s also worth mentioning that nicotine (a poisonous alkaloid, which can be fatal when extracted from tobacco leaves and administered in large doses – Remember Black Leaf 40? That was nicotine sulfate) is a vasoconstrictor, which means that it inhibits the flow of blood (and therefore oxygen, oxytocin, endorphins and other good stuff) to the organs and tissues.

If I have to tell you this, you’re probably both a nerd and a lousy lay, but sexual arousal ("getting in the mood") in the female of the species is largely a matter of increased blood flow to – ahem – the "bearded oyster."

Decreased blood flow to the ol’ "hoot ‘n’ scoot," on the other hand, would actually render women less "boinkable." This implies that a smoker would require more "jump starting" if you will, and be less likely to "go from zero to sixty" in a short period of time – unless she also happens to be a nymphomaniac.

This doesn’t surprise me, as smoking has been linked to impotence in men. "Erectile dysfunction" (and I hate that fucking term – just come out and admit that you can’t get one up) is little more than a dearth of blood in the ol’ tallywhacker, while nicotine, to reiterate, is a vasoconstrictor. Put two and two together...

"What’s sauce (or lack thereof…) for the goose is sauce for the gander," as the old proverb maintains; so it’s logical to assume that the absence of "broth" leaves us with burnt roux and dry meat…

(Hint: If you must try to pull a smoker, go for the chick smoking the Carlton, not the one puffing away on the Marlboro Red. There’s less nicotine in the former.)

Smoking also had deleterious effects on the olfactory/gustatory systems (it impairs the senses of smell and taste), thereby diminishing the normal female response to male pheromones, and (in conjunction with the impaired circulation) to the serotonin, dopamine and adrenaline-derivatives exchanged whilst engaging in the "lip lock."

(Pardon the digression, but here's a piece of advice for all you chowderheads who're lousy in the sack, from a guy who's never had any complaints. Understanding how the human body works actually makes you a better lay. Until I began researching this piece, I didn't realize it, but women's preference for foreplay isn't purely psychological. There are chemical processes at work whilst you're swappin' spit an' otherwise foolin' around. It's also worth mentioning that the happier you make them, the happier they'll make you.

Back in the mid '90s, shortly after I began training in martial arts, I picked up a book called The Tao of Health, Sex and Longevity, by a gent named Daniel Reid, and I'd recommend that the "nookie challenged" do likewise. Even if you dismiss everything else in the book as superstitious, unscientific garbage, read the chapters on sex. However "woo-woo" some of the material may seem, the techniques work like a charm, as I can attest from personal experience. Learning a little acupressure and NLP -- yeah, I know: I'm always ballyhooing NLP-- doesn't hurt either... End digression.)

And there's more. In time, smoking overtaxes the cardiovascular system, leading to a decline in overall health.

Numerous studies have shown that healthier people enjoy healthier and more frequent sex (probably because they enjoy it more), and that regular exercise (including, interestingly enough, sex itself) releases endorphins and other "pleasure chemicals" into the bloodstream. This probably accounts for the "runner’s high," and for the heightened sense of arousal many fighters report after participating in matches (They’re not bullshitting, either. I’ve come out of fights hornier than a styracosaur.) Most heavy smokers, in my experience, seldom (if ever) offset the negative effects of their habit with regular, vigorous exercise. All of these imply that a female smoker would actually be less inclined to enjoy making "the beast with two backs," and therefore less inclined to seek it.

The bottom line: Sorry, "Talkmaster." Physiology doesn’t bear your pet theory out.

And to the Gentle Reader: If you want to score, stay away from smoke-filled bars. Join a gym instead. (In the meantime, I'm gonna look into getting "the patch"...)

Bars, Schools and Gobshites

In December of '08, the wife and I had yet another of our screaming fight/heartrending makeup scenes -- all in the space of two hours. Said drama, while irritating, portended neither the end of the world as we know it (God is entirely too displeased with me to do me a favor of that magnitude…) nor of the relationship. It was just a predictable consequence of Latin and Celtic tempers meeting head-on and engaging in the ultimate "communication breakdown." By the time the tears (and blood) dried, we'd effected a meeting of the minds (exposed grey-matter is especially conducive to that end, by the way) and renewed our commitment to a project that had long been a bone of contention between us.

Since there's no better way of letting bygones be bygones than hoisting a tankard at the local boozer, we did just that. A pint or two of Miller Lite and Bass Ale later; all was well with our world – for all that we waxed exceedin' dismayed over the fucked-up state of the world in general. (Waxin' exceedin' dismayed over the fucked-up state of the world in general is our favorite pastime, by the way...)

As we backed out of the driveway en route to the watering hole, I noticed a folded piece of paper taped to our mailbox. Aquiver with curiosity, I retrieved and opened it. Scurrying for the shelter of our pickup truck, (it was colder than a witch's tit that Friday), I perused the contents aloud, the better to share them with Mags. What I read was as hilarious as it was nauseating: an urgent bulletin from the homeowners association, summoning all and sundry to a pitchfork-and-torch session in defense of local property values – and the chiiiiiilllldren, of course.

As if I give a flying fuck about either – especially the latter.

The late W.C. Fields perfectly expressed my attitude towards children: "Go away, kid. Ya bother me."

  Children are annoying, expensive, and an acute pain in the ass. If I had a dollar for every time some hyperactive crib-crawler made an already miserable flight doubly so by kicking the back of my seat; for every time some squalling brat's temper-tantrum upset my digestion (the very sight of an ankle-biter in a restaurant is enough to send me screaming into the night); and for every shopping trip upon which I've barely avoided colliding with some sticky-faced, skate-shoe-wearing, Ritalin-popping pork-pie, I'd be richer than George Soros (but less of a power-crazed, sociopathic, narcissistic baw'bag, I hope).

Beyond these (and other) glaring character flaws, children are – well -- nasty. They belch, break wind and pick their noses at inappropriate times and in inappropriate places – and they do so unconsciously. Situational context notwithstanding, they behave in ways that would shame a six-month-old puppy or kitten – but for no apparent reason. I can tolerate (nay, applaud) mooning, streaking, or farting into megaphones at politicians' funerals as forms of social protest. I can't, however, abide some rugrat mining for nose-gold while I'm trying to polish off an already unappetizing, extortionately overpriced wad of unagi.

The last straw for me, though, was when most Roswell bars banned smoking. Granted, children weren't to blame (they can't hold public office, thank God…), but no sooner had the ink on the bill dried than local parents began dragging their genetically blighted progeny with them when they went out on the town. Needless to say, this obnoxious trend took a king-sized corn- and peanut-studded shit on my riff. The few times a year I play (bar)fly on the wall, it's to focus my bloodshot, multifaceted yeën on the darker elements of the human condition – not to watch a veritable sounder of five-year-olds play tag amongst the stools and tables, upend the jukebox, or play Hyperkinetic Refined Sugar Power Rangers with the fucking pool cues.

(Beyond the "annoyance factor" -- if the Gentle Reader will pardon the digression -- I wonder what the fuck goes through whatever passes for their parents' "minds." Why would any reasonable person want to take a child to a bar in the first place? Is there some semi-secret timetable, according to which kids should be exposed to substance abuse, profanity, off-color humor, informal gambling, chemically induced/enhanced violence and casual sex by a certain age? And if so, isn't that why we have public schools? Just curious…)

"Well, l'il Brandon's nearly seven now, hon. And Brittany's six. I suppose it's high time he got into his first real knock-down, drag-out and scored a piece of ass. And she might as well learn to fend off Jarquecius 'Thunderbird' Washington and the local chapter of the Hog-Ridin' Rumpkins in the meantime."

At least there's still Mazzy's – thank Dionysus. A true bar in the best sense of the word, it's dim, smoky, cavernous, and has no shortage of dartboards, pool tables or interesting characters. Sadly enough, it's a near-anachronism in this sick, sorry, smoke-free, politically correct day and age; a game preserve for that most endangered of species, the North American Blue-Collar Barfly, with nearly all the features of its natural (and vanishing) habitat – and I'm glad it's that way. In short, the only thing missing is the hardwood floor – and the kids. It'll probably be a cold day in hell before I see any in Mazzy's – knock on wood. And have I mentioned that I don't like kids?

In addition to being killjoys (even if inadvertently), children are cruel. Whether pulling the legs off insects, tying cans to dogs' tails, or singling out other children for abuse and ostracism, rugrats' blood-thirst leaves mosquitoes, hagfish, leeches, chupacabras and Elizabeth Bathory's ghost pea-green with envy.

Hopefully, eight paragraphs of anti-rugrat invective have established that I ain't over-fond of the little bastards. When they get their collective shit together and take my quality of life into account, I'll reciprocate. But not a nanosecond earlier.

Quid pro quo, folks. Quid pro fuckin' quo. 'Nuff said?

This brings us to the matters of property values and the homeowners' association's call to arms. This degenerate, bastard descendant of the Anglo-Saxon folcmod -- like the degenerate, bastard descendants of Anglo-Saxons who authored it – didn't even bother to do its own dirty work. Pale and limp as a post-2006 necocon's dick, it simply flapped in the wind, hoping to be noticed. Mistaking it for some poor, self-employed slob's bid for work (and thus as a courageous act of defiance against the homeowners' association and a few draconian local and federal laws), I gave it the once-over.

By way of repaying my courtesy, it "gied me a scunner."

Apparently, the Fulton County Board of Education's latest redistricting scheme had tied many an upwardly mobile pecker in a knot, and placed many a nipped-and-tucked tit in the wringer.

Lest I appear too flippant or dismissive, I'll concede that in Alpharetta -- which faced the same problem – many parents were justifiably concerned. In a move nastily reminiscent of the '70s busing fiasco, the BOE planned to "fix what [wasn't] broke" by shipping children willy-nilly to schools miles away from their neighborhoods. In the cases of the Coventry and Gatewood subdivisions, both of which are within walking distance of Cogburn Woods Elementary School, this thinly disguised social engineering project was especially sickening: local children would be bused to distant Manning Oaks Elementary.

As is usually the case when treating with the government, obtaining the whys and wherefores required the services of the Delphic Oracle, a visit to Mimir's Well and a metric shitload (that's 1.2 Avoirdupois shitloads) of crystal balls, ouija boards, and tarot decks. Apparently lacking these resources, the local catbox liner (The Alpharetta-Roswell Revue and News) sent one of its intrepid staffers to chat with board member Katie Reeves.

According to the ARRN: "Reeves said the system's redistricting plan is based foremost on hard data, thereby removing arbitrary changes. Planning staff considers four primary criteria when drawing lines, then considers secondary criteria when a clear outcome is not present."

As the esteemed Ms. Reeves neither cited the "hard data," nor delineated the "primary and secondary criteria," her statement was – well – rather arbitrary, if not downright tautological: ("We use undefined criteria and unspecified data to prevent arbitrary changes.")

Thanks, sweetheart. That's ever so fucking reassuring…

Three more Reeves "gems" were especially noteworthy:

"We do not have a vote on the maps from the community, we have comments." (Translation: "Fuck you. We, the local government, know far better than you what's best for you, your communities and your children.")

"The Planning Department is making the maps –not me." (Translation: Don't bother me with this shit. It isn't my problem. I'm passing the buck.")

And I've saved the best for last:

"It is kind of a slap in the face to everyone who participated in the process to have a board member go in and change things."

Como se dice, "What the faaaaahck?"

Heaven forefend that any board member should receive even a slap on the wrist, let alone a slap in the face. No, in Katie's elitist world, the li'l duck feelings of silly, pretentious nabobs are far more important than the "petty" concerns of the parents whose children are the Almighty Board's lawful prey and property, to be disposed of as its members see fit.

Care to run that one by me again? Who, exactly, is slapping whom in the face? Jesus Christ! A psychologist could have a field day with that one…

"projection (prə -jĕk'shən)n. 7. Psychology. The naïve or unconscious attribution of one's own feelings, attitudes or desires to others." -- American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language

Having admitted that my own feelings, attitudes and desires parallel the Alpharettans' in this case, I'll turn my attention toward Roswell and the HOA's bulletin. Had the HOA voiced the same concerns, I'd have been equally sympathetic. Unfortunately, the "God-Bless-Our-Investment-doormat-crowd" chose hysteria and cheap shots, which I'll address in order.

Hysteria materialized as the dread spectre of plunging property values. Apparently, the fact that property values were already lower than snake-shit – nationwide-- somehow eluded this fuckin' "brain trust." Its members (who often remind me of the "member" danglin' 'twixt m' front pockets) are likewise oblivious to the fact that the laws of the market preclude perpetual growth as absolutely as the laws of nature forbid perpetual motion or free energy. When a house becomes a mere investment instead of a home, its "real-world" value fluctuates according to the laws of supply and demand. All investments entail risk, as a result of which some result in gain, others in loss. Houses are no exception to the rule.

End of fuckin' story -- and welcome to Economics 101.

Moreover, since all systems tend toward entropy (welcome to Physics 101, Heisenberg, Punk Rock and public schools…), the current situation was predictable. And does any rational person truly believe that redistricting will be any more detrimental than overbuilding (which began in the '90's with those jerry-built Torrey subdivisions -- each a slum waiting to happen), failure to keep infrastructure apace with growth, or the wholesale conversion of Crabapple Road to strip-malls and "assisted living" communities?

Pardon my Tocharian-B, but gimme a fuckin' break.

Having dismissed the hysteria as just that, I'll tackle the cheap shot – which I suspect is the heart of the matter.

Apparently, the HOA's real worry is the fact that ESL (English as a Second Language) students will be bused in from beyond the Alpharetta Highway "Pale." In their own words: "One of the options currently proposed would overcrowd our elementary school, bring a large number of ESOL [sic] (English as Second Language) students and significantly lower our property values." (Emphasis mine.)

Given local demographics, the HOA obviously doesn't mean the Hmong, the Amish, the Seminoles or Gaelic-speakers from the Outer Hebrides when it says "ESOL [sic] students." The cunts are employing a mealy-mouthed euphemism for "wetbacks," and we all know it.

Having no children of my own –and no reason to give a rat's ass about the local propaganda mill's ethnic composition, I've no idea (and once again; no reason to give a rat's ass) as to which kids attend which schools these days.

When I was a larva (a very, very long time ago), Roswell had 8,500 inhabitants and four or five elementary schools. Roswell Elementary took in the riff-raff from Frazier Street, Oxbo Drive and the tiny cluster of gub'mint housing off Oak Street. North Roswell Elementary served the MMC and UMC kids from Hollyberry, Saddle Creek, Northgate, Greenway Hills, Land O' Lakes, etc. – and the odd, mentally gifted cow from the farms north of Etris Road. Mimosa catered to LMC and MMC children from the Warsaw/Old Roswell Road area, and Mountain Park was the preserve of the insufferable snobs from Brookfield West.

(I haven't the foggiest notion of where the kids from the Dickensian/Swiftian world of Raintree and Martin's Landing went to school – if they did at all. Perhaps they attended hedge- or mission schools, or were sent off to workhouses to die of silicosis or brown lung. Perhaps they raided the RIF Bookmobile when not otherwise occupied by begging for bread in the streets or waylaying passers-by… Just kidding, of course -- the area east of GA 400 was "Indian Country" until I got my driver's license at seventeen, so I can't comment.)

As the population has since increased tenfold, I'm sure more schools have been built -- although I know neither where, nor who attends them. The elementary school nearest my house is Sweet Apple, on Crabapple Road – quite a walk from "Little Tijuana." If I'm not mistaken, there's another not far away, at the corner of Elkins and Hembree – although that one might be a middle school. Having (to reiterate) no children, I don't really care.

And speaking of not caring: I don't plan to sell my house, but rather to will it to one of my younger kin (or a deserving, decent family) when the Grim Reaper comes 'round for me. Therefore, its resale value is irrelevant. In a way, I might even benefit from lower property values, as they'd lead to lower property taxes.

You make your investments and I'll make mine, fellow citizens…

Leaving my "personal economy" (Thanks, Herman! I like that term…) aside, I'll return to the matter of the "ESOL [sic] students."

When I read the line aloud to Mags, who is both Hispanic and ESL (until the age of five, she spoke only Spanish), neither of us knew whether to laugh or barf. Since she's created more wealth than most of the HOA wankers could ever hope to, their half-assed, "Nazi lite" appeal to racial purity pissed both of us off.

"Heaven forefend, dear!" says I, "Next thing you know, they'll demand that we rent to the Irish, share our drinking fountains with Negroes, admit Jews to the Country Club, and allow tradesmen the use of the front door! The horror! The horror! Whatever is the world coming to?"

Now I'm the last guy on earth to bleat the "R-word " -- and with good reason. Nowadays, the term "racist" is utterly meaningless. In modern, real-world parlance, a putative "racist" is simply a Caucasoid who offends the "delicate" (Gwine shub mah fo'ty up da ho'bag a-yuss) sensibilities of his darker brothers. Should one truly suspect a recently arrived cabbie who reads neither his/her own native idiom -- nor an English-language roadmap -- of leading a rich, fulfilling intellectual and/or spiritual life, I'd invite said worthy to befriend the critter.

No takers? I didn't think so. And I think even less of using the "racist" tag to demonize personal tastes insofar as "acceptable" behavior is concerned.

"Racism?"

Please…

Ask a recently arrived Haitian Voodoo priestess not to change her kid's diaper on the salad bar at Ryan's, for example, and presto! You've just become a "racist." (Interestingly enough, my wife doesn't call me a "racist" when I get on her nerves -- she just calls me an asshole.) Furthermore, some of the most blatantly racist (in the old, literal sense of the word) behavior I've ever seen has been non-white on non-white. This neatly shit-cans several the left's cherished myths – unless one lacks sensory organs and a measurable IQ.

By now, I hope I've made it clear that I'm anything but a touchy-feely, multi-culti, starry-eyed pinko. I reject the asinine "villains & victims" model of history, for the most part. I don't buy into "cultural relativism," I don't believe we can "all just get along" (most of human history indicates otherwise), and I'm convinced that like good fences, good borders make good neighbors.

But this just takes the fucking cake. As nearly as I can tell, the HOA is upset over having Latin American kids bused in from nearby apartment complexes. They weren't, I note, reluctant to have these children's parents mow their lawns and paint their houses on the cheap. They didn't oppose the immigrant tide when it only lowered hourly wages and/or put native-born labor out of work. They turned a blind eye to the increase in crime and the decrease in quality of life – as long as neither impacted them directly. But the worm has apparently turned. Distraught at the prospect of li'l Brandi and Dylan rubbing shoulders with li'l Juanita and Enrique, they'd now deny the latter the "better life" they once assured us their parents were seeking.

Given the prevalence of Bush- and McCain-worship in this part of North Fulton, this isn't surprising -- just disgusting. It's one thing to tout the alleged "benefits" of diversity on the letters page of The Roswell Neighbor, and another entirely to experience it firsthand, it seems. Bluntly put: these opportunistic wankers would have applauded the abortive McCain-Kennedy amnesty coup – provided that their own little, lily-white ones could be kept away from Bush's "little brown ones."

Racism and hypocrisy rolled into one steaming package, unmistakably redolent of bullshit. I suppose they've somehow forgotten that "Family values don't end at the border." (And it's possible that they don't -- I'll ask the next vato I find loitering behind the bowling alley how he defines "family values" and then get back to you.) I suppose they've forgotten that our burgeoning immigrant community exists only to do "jobs Americans won't do," as our retardate of a former president incessantly reminded us. And I further suppose the HOA is a passel of fucking hypocrites.

Now hypocrisy is natural. No human being – including Yours Truly – is immune to it. Therefore, I exercise patience when confronted with the milder sorts.

My patience, however, ends at the border of principle and pragmatism. This brings us to the matter of illegals' alleged contribution to the economy. Until redistricting became an issue, the typical North Fultonite was content to parrot the Tweedle-Dee/Tweedle Dum party line: importing unskilled foreign labor benefits the economy, and diversity is our strength. How, exactly, large numbers of poor, semiliterate foreigners are good for the economy as a whole –especially given its current state – was never specified. As no one has yet explained how diversity will make us any stronger than Rwanda, Lebanon, Northern Ireland or Yugoslavia, I don't imagine it ever will be specified.

Accepting on faith that our annual $13,000,000,000.00 cash hemorrhage (most of which flows into Mexico) is, in fact somehow good for us, I'll return to the matter of our "guests'" contribution to the economy and add a little personal history.

Owing to choices I made twenty years ago (I sometimes regret reading Atlas Shrugged immediately after being dumped – but not that often…), I've been in intimate, daily contact with the 43% of the population that, according to various talk-radio luminaries (all of whom are quite popular here in North Fulton), doesn't pay income taxes.

Among this chunk of the Great Unwashed (bear in mind that 20% of the populace, as per the 2008 Time Almanac, is under 15 years of age and can't be expected to pay income taxes) are many illegal aliens -- and some of the legal ones, as well. Granted, I'm the smartest redneck in the trailer park, but even my inbred neighbors understand that if these people use tax-funded social services without paying taxes themselves, they constitute a net drain on the economy. The HOA, however, didn't understand it – until redistricting reared its ugly (and melanin-laden) head.

So I'll leave it to them (and to Mort Zuckerman) to hash out, and stick to actuality, as opposed to the "reality" the neocons once claimed to create. I'm bound to trouble my beautiful mind in the process, but then again, patriotic duty has ever been a thankless task…

As my own earnings have never exceeded $25,000 per annum, barring one year in which a SWAG ("Scientific, Wild-Ass Guess") of an investment paid off 10:1 and kicked me into the next tax bracket, I honestly pity the poor, immigrant bastards; their children -- and the country as a whole.

My wife made seven grand last year, from which she paid 10% in federal income taxes. Just federal, mind you: this didn't include Social Security, Medicare or state income taxes. I made ten, from which I paid 11.1%, excluding the same built-in mordidas. (We don't just preach the simple life, by the way. We fucking well practice it…).

Unless the pundits are fibbing, nearly half the country – native and immigrant alike -- lives on $17,000 a year or less. Odd, as the total population is an estimated 299,330,000. That 299,330,000 is subdivided into 109,270, 000 households with an average number of 2.6 persons (amputees – ya just gotta love 'em…) per household.

By my primitive long division, incidentally, this makes for 2.73 persons per household – and reinforces my distrust of statistics. (I mean; what happened to the other fifteen million poor souls? Does a single-occupancy room in the Mogen-David Arms now constitute a "household"? If not, the combined population of several Baltic and Scandinavian countries has apparently fallen through the cracks, for the love of God! And that's just the tip of the iceberg.)

I'll try reconciling the claims of the chattering classes with available – and frequently contradictory -- stats in another post. How, for example, 43% of a 109,270,000 household country with a median income of $42K, a per-capita GDP of $37,610.00 and an average household size of 2.6 can avoid paying income taxes is incomprehensible.

Bear in mind that a median figure is the midpoint in a distribution of values, with equal values to either side. If, for example, we take Oprah Winfrey (we'll be very conservative and assume she makes $10,000,000.00 a year), a single real-life "Dilbert" at $42,000.00 a year, and ten thousand winos, each of whom panhandles a grand a year (presumably from Oprah and Dilbert), we conclude that median income is $42,000.00.

It's mathematically true, but not a reflection of the real economic situation. In actuality, we have one multimillionaire, one cubicle-bound Babbitt, and ten thousand chemically dependent "urban nomads" chipping into the post-Locke pot. This renders median figures every bit as misleading as mean figures (by the mean method, everyone winds up with roughly $2,000.00 -- thereby delighting pinkos who've never tried to live on $2,000.00 a year), and probably explains why statisticians love both.

"Figures don't lie, but liars figure," as the saying goes…

So I'll leave them to lie and figure to their hearts' content.

Mags and I have old-fashioned values (mine are downright Elizabethan…), above-average IQs, and a knack for handicraft, bartering and bargain hunting. Therefore, living on next-to-nothing is easier for us than for others. Being halfway decent people (well, my wife is, at any rate…), we actually pity the 43% of the population -- native and immigrant alike -- who make even less than we do. Who are we to deny their children an education – especially when they're living on less than $17,000 in metro Atlanta, in which a cheap apartment costs nearly ten grand a year?

Moving beyond Atlanta, 299,330,000 x 0.43 ≈ 128,700,000. 128,700,000 x .20 leaves us roughly 2,574,000 downtrodden rugrats – presumably of all colors and ethnicities -- to educate, nationwide. Among these, to reiterate, are the children of many of our Gastarbeiter. As it happens, many of them live right here in Roswell, and many of them no-speaka-da-Eenglish.

Granted, educating them will be expensive, but no more so than ladling out welfare and having them use emergency rooms as de facto clinics for the rest of their lives. And it'll certainly prove cheaper than "winning hearts and minds" abroad by plying every Iraqi and Afghan tot with copies of Daddy's Roommate and Free to Choose.

So much for mathematics and abstractions: when pink fairy and neocon troll alike stop spinning data to "prove" their own predetermined conclusions (and stop pissing on my leg whilst trying to tell me it's raining), I'll stop calling bullshit on them.

If the 43% figure North Fulton's "achievers" so love is correct; there are quite a few desperately poor, underachieving immigrants in our fair city - many of whom will do anything to ensure a better life for their children. Since Roswell, as a community, didn't mind spending its taxes on free health care for 'em in exchange for their "lowball" labor, it shouldn't mind educating their kids. Consider it an (admittedly shaky) investment in the future.

Given the IQ and income gaps (see IQ and the Wealth of Nations, by Richard Lynn and Tatu Vanhanen) between North Fulton's "Minions of Honk" and our rapidly multiplying immigrant community, the latter group of children will probably benefit more from contact with the former than vice versa – assuming that they assimilate. I don't think we'll approach economic or educational parity within the next few decades, though.

Heredity, culture and the demands of survival are unforgiving masters. Should the Gentle Reader doubt this, I'd invite him to study the survival/success story of the Ashkenazi Jews -- the most intelligent human beings on earth, as a whole. Legally barred from farming and similar occupations in much of Europe, many turned to education, finance and the arts and sciences -- with predictable results: survival of the smartest."

But the shtetl and the barrio are very different places. Separated by time, culture, geography and genetics, it's unlikely that they'll develop along parallel lines. Moreover, the "jobs Americans won't do" are largely menial, requiring little abstract intelligence. In all probability, we'll end up with yet another disenfranchised, unassimilated, permanent underclass. Said underclass is already here, as a matter of fact. And they aren't going anywhere. That particular horse has long since escaped, and it's much too late to close the barn door. Roswell's choice, then, is not whether the new underclass remains, but whether or not it remains unassimilated and permanent.

Exposing these children to the hard, cold world of intellectual competition would only benefit them – and us, in the long run. To restate an earlier point: The pool of cheap labor is here to stay. The "anchor babies" said pool produces are American citizens, and entitled to the same "rights" as the rest of us – even as their non-citizen parents are apparently entitled to certain social services, the "nickel and dime" nature of which prevented most North Fultonites from perceiving them until it was too late.

When they did, though, the HOA needed my Mexican-American wife and me to act against the children of the competition they had forced us to subsidize (broke as we are, we're still part of the 57% who pay taxes…). To say that the prospect neither inspired her to unprecedented levels o' hyphenated patriotism nor rocked my hairy, Scots-Irish balls is an understatement. Worse still, the shit-weasels wouldn't even admit that they'd fucked up, or that their addiction to ultra-cheap goods and services was part of the problem.

In a way, they reminded me of the tech-geeks who began pissing and moaning when their jobs were either outsourced to India or given to H-1-B Visa-holders. I'd have felt sorry for them – had I not heard so many of them smugly declare that blue-collar slobs facing a similar problem should just accept that we live in a changing world and find new lines of work. Needless to say, the attitude hardly warms my Grinchy li'l Hillbilly heart.

And neither does the HOA's. I have no patience with those who protest when their own oxen are gored, but don't give a shit for their neighbors'. To continue with the livestock metaphor, my oxen have been gored so often; they're long dead. The bitter irony is that I'm not the one who's been demolishing the fences in order to open the pasture to donkeys and other, less expensive beasts of burden. Therefore, I sure as hell ain't gonna help the erstwhile vandals rebuild 'em -- especially when they're only being built to keep Hispanic children out of "our" (the HOA's term, not mine) schools.

"Attend the final redistricting meeting to stand with us and voice your opinion. Wear a light blue shirt," read their flyer.

"Blue shirts," says I to m'ownself. "They were popular in Ireland a few decades ago, if memory serves me correctly." I then made a wisecrack about brown and black shirts to my wife. She laughed, and in the end, we did voice our opinion – by tossing the flyer into the trashcan (where such dross belongs) and going to the bar.

G'night.

Thoughts for the Day (10/13/08)

Consider the Source…

 

Several months ago, I was perusing the content of a thoroughly unpleasant website (one of the many to which I refuse to link). Most of what I read indicated that the author had drunk deeply of a toxic cocktail of ideological Kool-Aid, media mythology and political propaganda. Most of his claims (this “gent” listed heavily to the left, incidentally – surprise, surprise!) were easily refuted. Most of his logic was anything but logical. And most of his arguments consisted of setting up and knocking down straw men.

 

Even worse, nothing I read indicated that the “puir bit crathur” could actually do anything but bitch about economics and politics. Tragic, as his understanding of both was disturbingly limited, and seemed to derive from public high school textbooks. Bluntly put, he was no more conversant with Marx or Machiavelli than with Locke or Lao Tzu. Not that I suppose it bothers him: a typical, anonymous “Internet creep,” he doesn’t allow comments and doesn’t provide contact information.

 

“Where do they find them – and why do they send them here?” as was often said on You Can’t Do That on Television…

 

(His “essays,” incidentally, reminded me of my college days, during the mid- and late-1980s. At the time, I commuted daily from Roswell to the GSU campus in Atlanta. As it happened, the most convenient way of doing so was to drive to the Lenox or Brookhaven MARTA stations and ride the subway to Five Points. When taking any form of mass transit, needless to say, one meets some “colorful” characters -- and in this respect, MARTA was no exception to the rule.

 

One of the more memorable specimens in this menagerie of misfits was a shabby young man, perhaps five years older than myself; best described as one of nature’s crueler jokes upon itself. He was of medium height and somewhat paunchy, with a shock of greasy, straw-blond hair; unfocused blue eyes behind smudged, coke bottle lenses; and a perpetual five o’ clock shadow. His molasses-drawl – low, but with a permanent, whining undertone – hinted at congenital retardation, while his obliviousness to even the simplest social graces left the mark of bad breeding writ large upon his sweaty brow.

 

Despite the fact that he had trouble forming complete sentences, he lectured all within earshot on the virtues of socialism  -- a subject he obviously didn’t understand. Occasionally, he handed out mimeographed leaflets – in this case, probably not of his own authorship – until someone actually expressed interest. When this happened, he apparently became convinced that They were “out to get him,” as he’d stuff his pamphlets into his grungy overcoat, clutching them to his un-bathed breast as if they were original copies of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

 

I suppose the associative connection between this creature and the blogger is obvious: both wave their antennae furiously – until someone actually pays attention to them. When the light of inquiry is shone in their direction, they scuttle pell-mell for the comforting darkness beneath the metaphoric refrigerator.)

 

A few of the blogger’s passages, though, merited further investigation. Something – intuition, perhaps – moved me to conduct a bit of additional research. Upon doing so, I found that of the lunatic’s many claims and allegations (most of them absurd), these few were factually correct.

 

The moral of the story: Even lunatics and idiots can speak the truth. Discernment consists of the ability to separate truth from bullshit, and to assess not only the credibility of the messenger, but the content of the message, as well. (The inability to do so, by the way, is why the gullible are easily misled by “experts.”) Yes, I know it’s a lot of work – but then again, no one ever claimed that critical thought was easy…

 

“A wise man will learn more from a fool than a fool will ever learn from a wise man.”

 

-- Japanese proverb.

 

Remarkable Men

 

Whenever someone whines about “Eurocentric” history, I usually roll my eyes and reach for the antacids. Nine times out of ten, the aggrieved party is either a confused weenie, fresh out of public school and with a head full of half-baked notions about life beyond the pale of Christendom; or the same sort of half-educated, agenda-driven fuckwit who can chirp (merrily and ad nauseam) about Constantine and the Council of Nicea – but who goes completely “blank” when the term “canonic authority” is tossed into the (usually one-sided) conversation.

 

Occasionally, though, the complaint rings true. As most of what we consider “history” in this modern Dark Age adheres to the ideologically driven “deify/demonize” model, much of what has transpired beyond the Urals for the last few centuries is either swept under the rug, or inflated beyond its actual historical significance. (Exactly which depends upon whether the “historian” loves or hates the West. Most, as nearly as I can tell, fall into the latter category, these days.) The few who dare “oppose” either camp usually do so by treating history as a mysterious set of “processes” and “forces,” and portray the world as a chessboard, upon which human beings are mere pawns.

 

This is tragic, as history – minus humans – is mere paleontology. True history is a record of the actions and interactions of various individuals and groups. Some, it’s true, leave larger “ripples” than others, but establishing a meaningful perspective entails taking the whole “pond” (or such of it as we can see, at any rate) into account. Nowhere is the failure to do so more evident than in the history of the Eurasia. As students of Eurasian history generally adhere to one of two equally silly schools of thought: the Ex Oriens, Lux school; and the Drang nach Osten school the situation is unlikely to improve in the near future.

 

While pro-Eastern lotus-eaters dreamily prate of the “ancient” civilizations of Southeast Asia (perennial favorites of theirs, it seems), blissfully unaware that Thais, Vietnamese and Burmese – for example -- migrated to their current stomping grounds well within the Christian era, displacing the native Malay and Mon-Khmer people in the process; pro-Western beef-eaters try to prove that fair-haired, fair-skinned Scythians and Tocharians single-handedly civilized Asia, until their light was cruelly snuffed by the native barbarians.    

 

Both camps seek demigods and demons, villains and victims within history’s pages – and both are completely full of shit. Neither is willing to weigh and measure any given culture against another – honestly noting its’ virtues as well as its vices, its strengths as well as its weaknesses. Lest anyone think I’m espousing relativism; I assure you that nothing could be farther from the truth – as modern “relativism” isn’t relative at all. When compared relatively, some cultures, civilizations, and even individuals can indeed be considered superior to others. Some nations are happy, peaceful, prosperous, and long-lived. Others are brutal, war-torn, poverty stricken and ephemeral. Whether the purpose of a nation is: 1.) Self-perpetuation or; 2.) Protecting its citizens’ rights and freedoms, the former are unquestionably superior to the latter -- relatively speaking. Modern “relativism,” though, scrupulously avoids such comparisons, stating categorically that all things are equal. (Except Western civilization, which is thoroughly wicked. Isn’t it neat how “relativists” think in absolute terms, betimes?)

 

Modern relativism, alas, will be with us until the last relativist discovers -- preferably through firsthand experience -- that pork and plutonium are not equally nourishing. As for the EOL and DNA schools: I’d suggest gladiatorial combat, but it’s probably better (and more moral) to pity -- and ignore -- the benighted souls. Fortunately for those of us who are interested in piecing together what really happened, rather than feeding our own prejudices, a few brave souls have taken great pains to disperse the artificial mist dividing East and West. Giving the lie to Kipling’s bold assertion, they’ve demonstrated that the twain have oft met, and under interesting circumstances, as often as not.

 

The most recent of these is British historian David Nicolle, Ph.D. Whereas Dr. Nicolle’s name is hardly a household word; the quality of his work speaks for itself. Most of it, to the best of my knowledge, is confined to a few excellent volumes in Osprey’s Men at Arms and Elite series – a shame, as he deserves a broader audience. Being exhaustively researched (many of the photos were taken by the author in situ, during his travels, and the bibliographies are guaranteed to occupy the curious for months) and beautifully illustrated by Angus McBride, Nicolle’s “no-frills” military histories are a feast for minds and eyes alike. My only criticism is that he leans a little too far in the EOL direction (excusable in a scholar whose interest in his subject is both passionate and genuine, mind you), but ours is not a perfect world, after all.

 

I first became aware of his work during the mid-‘80s, when I purchased and read Arthur and the Anglo-Saxon Wars, The Age of Charlemagne, and The Vikings.

 

To say that I was deeply and favorably impressed would be a gross understatement. Here was a man –a respectable and legitimate scholar, at that -- who was neither a dismayed classicist, apologizing for the Dark Ages as if they were an embarrassing stain on the fabric of European history; nor a “Gothomaniac,” yearning for some mythical “Golden Age” of heroic barbarism. Here was a man who studied – objectively and rationally – the rise and fall of various tribes and nations, their strengths and weaknesses, their influence upon their neighbors, and their neighbors’ influence upon them. Having suffered the “slings and arrows” of SCA stupidity for years, I came to think of Dr. Nicolle an oasis of truth in an intellectual/historical desert: a man who wrote of the Middle Ages as they were; not “as they should have been.”  

 

A few years later, I obtained Hungary and the Fall of Eastern Europe, The Normans, and Attila and the Nomad Hordes. At the time, I was an avid student of Asian martial arts; albeit one whose previous and ongoing study of history, archaeology, linguistics, genetics and cultural anthropology (at times, academic; at others, independent) led him to question not only the wisdom of his putative teachers, but that of the recognized “authorities” in the field, as well. At best, most of the aforementioned “authorities” were bigots. At worst, they were fools, liars, intellectual cowards, or completely impervious to facts.

 

Nicolle to the rescue, once again!

 

Here was a man who, to the best of my knowledge, had never taken a marital arts course in his life. He had, however, studied archaeology and history, as a result of which – contrary to Draeger and Smith’s assertions – he noted that the “barbarians” of the steppes “gave as good as they got,” exercising an equal (if not opposite) influence on Chinese culture and technology in the process.

 

Smith eventually conceded  -- however grudgingly -- that the Manchu were “warriors, in their own right.”

 

Right charitable (if slightly condescending) of him, that...

Nicolle, on the other hand, pointed out that Turco-Mongol strategy, military technology, and martial acumen usually eclipsed those of their “civilized” subjects; and that acculturation and absorption (both civil, rather than martial processes, incidentally) did more to liberate the Chinese from foreign oppression than any number of renegade Shao-lin monks or shady “triads.”

With all due respect to the self-styled lo han and the spiritual descendants of the lin kuei, I’ll note that in the absence of popular discontent (ultimately, the Yuan and Ch’ing dynasties owed their respective collapses to the selfsame, unruly critter), neither group could have succeeded as it did – for better or worse.

The very notion of “waves” of this sort flowing in one direction or another is, sadly, every bit as alien to the deracinated, modern “post-American American” as the notion of objective reality. Like a millennial Byzantine, he envies the barbarians at the gates, but has neither the balls to join them, nor the intellect to recognize the threat they present.

This bring us to Rene Grousset’s Empire of the Steppes, a sadly – and perhaps fatally -- neglected book

Grousset, being a modern Frenchman – and closet commie; one suspects; it “goes with the territory,” after all -- decided that the flux of Eurasian history was irreparably disrupted by Euro-colonialism, and that “prehistory” ended with the founding of the late, unlamented USSR, and with Mao’s de facto ascent to the throne of the “Middle Kingdom.”

Como se dice, “Fumbling on the one-yard line?”

For all that Grousset never foresaw the collapse of the USSR; the PRC’s gradual shift from communism to fascism; or the pan-Islamic resurgence, Empire of the Steppes is mandatory reading for anyone with a genuine interest in bypassing the East/West rockpile  -- not to mention “grokking” the dichotomy between mutually beneficial interaction and irreconcilable differences.

Defining “irreconcilable differences,” though, is a challenge in and of itself.

In the absence of physical and philosophical inquiry, it’s damn-near impossible, as a matter of fact.

As nearly as I can tell, Jonathan D. Spence chases neither rabbit. His magnum opus – a translation of the autobiography of the Chinese emperor, Kiang-Hsi – leaves Gurdjieff’s Meetings With Remarkable Men “sucking wind,” insofar as it paints a portrait of a truly remarkable man; a man who -- on the surface -- was one of the most powerful men on earth, but understood his own mortality and limits, all the same.

Emperor of China: A Self Portrait of Kiang Hsi is an edited collection of the journals, letters, and edicts of Kiang Hsi; as genuine a “renaissance man” as Washington, Franklin or Jefferson – especially when his “barbarian” origins are taken into account.

Kiang Hsi, the son of a nomadic, steppe/taiga conqueror, refused to disarm his newly acquired subjects – especially the non-Han Miao and Yi : “Without their bows, how will they feed their children?” in his own words. He likewise refused to disarm the Han-proper, noting that all of his subjects (he was no republican, admittedly) had the right to defend themselves against the depredations of bandits and rebels.

Aside from noting that a long-dead Eastern despot trusted his conquered subjects more than the US government trusts the “governed,” from whose consent it purports to derive its powers, I’ll shut up and leave the Gentle Reader to do his own reading and draw his own conclusions.             

 

Religion and Politics, or: “Silly Season” is Ycumen In

 

Well -- almost. In a few days, it’ll be time for the “sheeple” to traipse off, baaing and bleating, to the political slaughterhouse. Depending upon my mood, I may or may not be among them. Mags plans to resort to write-ins, as a protest of sorts. I’ll accompany her to the precinct, but unless Baldwin makes it onto the ballot in Georgia, I won’t be voting for president.

 

We both refuse to vote for Barr – politically speaking, his support for the patriot act is “the sin that will not be forgiven, in this world or the next,” as far as Maggie and I are concerned. Assuming that the “Islamo-fascists” really do want to “take our freedom,” the patriot act is sheer – if bitterly ironic – absurdity.

 

“Envy thou not the oppressor, and choose none of his ways.” (Proverbs 3:31)

 

Nor will we vote for McCain or Obama. Neither represents our concerns, our moral values, or our political convictions, and we’d rather not vote at all – or even “waste” our votes -- than share in the responsibility for electing either.

 

I’ve heard all the boring, panicky arguments (all of them from Republicans) against doing either – and dismissed them.

 

I made my choice during the primary. That choice was Ron Paul. Unfortunately for Mr. Paul, the Republicans’ dominant, neocon wing ignored him, then maligned him, misrepresented his positions, and finally resorted to insulting his “followers,” while referring to the rest of the scabby, diseased, ersatz-conservative herd as “supporters.”

 

This, by the way, was an interesting choice of words, and indicative of unbelievable degrees of denial and projection. It was propagandistic wordplay worthy of a Clinton-era Democrat, and a sterling example of the neocons’ penchant for attributing their own negative traits to their perceived “enemies.”

 

Well congratulations, boys. You’ve just turned your perceived enemies into real ones.

 

“Devise not evil against thy neighbor, seeing he dwelleth securely beside thee. Strive not with a man without cause, if he hath done thee no harm. (Proverbs 3:29-30)

 

“Followers?” Interesting. Ron Paul’s campaign (while severely hampered by McCain-Feingold) was largely a grass-roots effort. Freedom-lovers –whether conservative or libertarian – aren’t known for being “followers.” We aren’t the ones who constantly squeal about the need for “leadership” – you neocons are.

 

Worse still, after 2003, anyone who deviated from the party line in any way was simply dismissed as a “turncoat,” a “traitor,” “unpatriotic,” or worse. It goes without saying that these are unforgivable insults, all more so because they’re lies. No true patriot – no man with any backbone at all, for that matter – will ever vote for anyone who’s blackened his name in this way.

 

Neocons, though, being neither true patriots, nor men (except in the physiological sense; and this includes their women, as well), simply don’t understand this. But without offering even a hint of an apology, they now demand our votes. I’m not sure which is more disgusting: the sheer audacity or the implied sense of entitlement.

 

To hell with both. I respect neither. To steal a pet phrase from one of their sillier pundits, I’m going to be a “rugged individualist” and say, “Get bent. You need me far more than I need you – all the more so, because I don’t need you at all.”

 

So much for the “Well, those are your choices” argument. Once again: Get bent. I made my choice. Now be men enough to accept the consequences of your choices – even if said consequences include losing a few votes.

 

To those who whine, “But the Democrats will win”: yet another “Get bent.” You should have taken that possibility into account, and picked a less repulsive candidate. One who opposes gun control, open borders, tax-funded abortion, and rampant government growth might have been a good idea, as your support base is ostensibly conservative. Unfortunately, you neocons aren’t exactly renowned for the quality of your ideas. Well, stupidity carries a heavy price, babydolls. Study deeply upon this.

 

“But what about the war on terror?” is the lamest plea I’ve yet heard. “Terror” is a tactic, boys and girls. Like fuckwit Obama’s pet shibboleth, “change,” it’s a fucking process. Treating abstractions as concretes, and processes as objects has always led to failure and will always lead to failure, as it seeks to deny the nature of reality.

 

“Terror” exists, it has always existed, and it will always exist (the Assyrians were masters of the art, as were the Romans, Huns, Avars, Vikings, Pechenegs, Magyars, Mongols, medieval Scots, feudal Japanese, and Timurids, just to name a few), as all but the most ignorant know very well. Like war, poverty, and intoxicants (upon all of which the US has declared “war” at one time or another – with a 0-3 record, I might add) “terror” is simply a fact of life. It is no more preventable or eradicable than death itself, and the best we can do is hold it at bay.

 

“Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” (Matthew 6:34)

 

Call me “Mr. Skeptic,” but I don’t think complete dependency upon Mid-East oil for energy and Chinese goods for life’s essentials serve the purpose of attending to the evil of the day very well. Nor do I consider open borders and unlimited immigration the marks of wisdom or strategic genius. “War on Terror?” Yeah, right. You lot couldn’t win a barroom brawl, for the love of God…

 

Next, we come the “But there’s no perfect candidate!” ploy, so beloved of Herman “Not all Muslims are terrorists, but all terrorists are Muslims” Cain.

 

Ignoring the impossibility of taking a man who actually believes that the IRA, UDA, ETA, Tamil Tigers, Sendero Luminoso and FARC are Muslims, seriously (either he’s monumentally ignorant, he’s a liar, or he thinks you’re stupid – Hmmm. That sounds vaguely familiar…), I’ll call bullshit on his assertion. It’s utterly false. What he’s attempting, in essence, is to persuade his audience to abandon their own standards and adopt his: in other words, to settle for far less than second best.

 

Before my wife and I made up our minds to support Ron Paul, we thoroughly investigated his voting record and his political platform. The only thing either of us could hold against him (besides his hairstyle) were a few minor matters of application – not of principle. In short, he was our “perfect” candidate. Sorry, Herman.

 

“When sinners entice thee, consent thou not.” (Proverbs 1:10)

 

I’ll conclude with the “wasted vote” non-issue. Just bear with me: I’m one of those ever-pesky Christians – so pesky, in fact, that unlike certain ostensibly “Christian” talk-show hosts, I’m not squeamish about mentioning the name Jesus -- so this will take some explaining. I’m not a very good Christian, and I’ll be the first to admit it. I do, however, recognize the ultimate authority of God – even above the ultimate authority of the US government, the UN, the Republican Party, AIPAC, and the latest winner of American Idolator.

 

“Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.” (Exodus 20:3)

 

‘Nuff said?

 

Scripture often refers to the necessity of social order, and the importance of cooperating with temporal authorities in the interest of justice and stability. No Christian, least of all myself, objects to just and limited government. Rendering unto Caesar what is Caesar’s is second nature to us. Unfortunately, “Caesar” has become increasingly demanding of late. Not content with his lot, he covets God’s more and more – even to the point of demanding that we hold his law above God’s. For the first hundred-and-forty years of our nation’s existence, his law and God’s were seldom, if ever, at odds.

 

Welcome to the wonderful world of change. Where once “Caesar” sought only to prevent the establishment of a state-sponsored religion, he now demands that we abandon the free exercise and expression of our own in public. Where once “Caesar” taxed us to keep the government running, he now taxes us and uses our money to support unconscionable causes. Where once Caesar asked only that we defend our country, he demanded, during three of the last four major wars; that we take up arms and strive without cause against those who had done us no harm.

 

Even Caesar’s current war, in shifting away from Afghanistan (home of the Taliban, and hidey-hole of Osama bin Laden), to Iraq, and thence to remaking the Middle East in our own image is only a hair’s breadth away from demanding that we put aside God’s law in favor of his. There’s no draft – yet, thank God.

 

Non-existent “yellow-cake” uranium. Non-existent weapons of mass destruction. Non-existent ties between Iraq and September 11. Even the feeble “Yeah, but Hussein was a monster” excuse rings false. He was always a monster, and we knew it from day one –even when we supported him against Iran, during the ‘80s.

 

“Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the way of evil men.” (Proverbs 4:14)

 

And yet the new “war” widens and continues, and American boys – some of them Christian – will eventually be pressed into service to continue it.

 

“These six things doth the LORD hate; yea, seven are an abomination unto him: A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood. An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.” (Proverbs 6:16-19)

 

Taking all of this into account, I refuse to vote Rebublican, as it means more of the same. The same party that abandoned a just war and duped us into an unjust one. The same party that erases our boundaries and culture, while “nation building” abroad. The same hubristic party that slandered and marginalized the only candidate who might have made a difference – because he wasn’t “with the program.” To vote for them is to condone their actions; just another way of helping Caesar usurp God, and I refuse to do that.

 

“He that justifieth the wicked, and he that condemneth the just, even they both are abomination to the Lord.” (Proverbs 17:15)

 

As for Mr. “Change”?

 

Not on your life. Anyone (and I do mean anyone, not just Republicans) who treats a process as an object is an utter moron and beneath contempt; the more so if he treats it as an object of worship. For this reason alone, I’d never even consider voting for the Democrats’ would-be messiah. Add the facts that the Democratic Party has long been rotten to the core; that their “Golden Boy’s” “clinging to guns and religion” crack was a display of arrogance and ignorance worthy of Bush himself, and draw your own conclusions, Gentle Reader.

 

Obama symbolizes the very culture of self-worship and unaccountability that has rotted the country from within. Moreover, I’m none too fond of puffed-up, substance-free, semi-retarded megalomaniacs. Suffice to say that I’m no more impressed with the “leadership” qualities of a cliché-spouting simpleton than I am with those of a man best known for being captured by an enemy; and for voting to disarm his countrymen, abolish his nation’s borders, and silence dissent. Both represent the new, secular, statist god – to whom I refuse to bow, as I much prefer the real God.

 

See you at the polls. I’ll be the one shaking his head sadly and laughing out loud, by turns.

More Pissin' an' Moanin' 07/13/08

Mispronunciation

Generally, I don’t bust others’ balls for mispronouncing words (including proper nouns) derived from other languages. Many languages contain phonemes that simply don’t exist in English, and which an untutored speaker has little hope of reproducing accurately. I can’t, however, abide the deliberate or ignorant mispronunciation of proper nouns, especially from politicians and media figures; who should know better. I can draw two sterling examples of deliberate mispronunciation (for propaganda purposes) from Gulf War I and Gulf War II.

During Gulf War I, it took the media (whom one would expect to be reasonably well informed) and even ranking members of the Bush I regime weeks to stop emphasizing the wrong syllable in Saddam Hussein’s given name.

As anyone with even a nodding acquaintance with Semitic languages (I’ll add, for the benefit of the hopelessly unlettered, that Arabic is a Semitic language) knows, emphasis generally falls upon the final syllable in a given word. In short, the late, unlamented "Thief of Baghdad’s" name is pronounced Saddam, with the emphasis on the second syllable. When the first syllable is emphasized, though, the name sounds like "Sodom" (as in the Biblical Sodom and Gomorrah), and whereas the speaker sounds like an uneducated fuckwit, he conjures up a nasty, subconscious image/association in the minds of even less educated fools. Granted, it’s propaganda of the crudest and most transparent sort, but – alas and alack – it works.

When Gulf War II broke out, I discovered -- to my astonishment -- that the tiny nation of Qatar (pronounced Ka-tar – emphasis likewise on the second syllable) had been re-christened "cutter" by the media, especially Fox News. The implication was both crude and obvious: It would be used as a staging point to "cut" Saddam and his tottering regime to pieces. (It also gave the great unwashed an opportunity to toss around the name of a country most of ‘em couldn’t locate on a map, a fact of which the military/industrial/media complex was doubtless well aware. It seems Ellul was "right on the money" when he remarked that a propagandist would inevitably come to feel utter contempt for his audience…)

If nothing else, the "Cutter" bit was interesting, as said country isn’t at all close to Iraq. Geographically, it’s much closer to Iran: 100 miles (give or take a few) across the Persian Gulf. I’ve also noticed that when one draws an imaginary line from its capital, Doha, to Ashgabat, the capital of Turkmenistan; one cuts Iran into two roughly equal pieces. This leads me to wonder if there wasn’t an implied threat of sorts in the mispronunciation. So much for deliberate mangling in the interest of propaganda. Let’s move on to ignorance.

If I hear another media moron vocalize the “g” in Turkish PM Recep Erdoğan’s name, I’m gonna start shitting mortar rounds. In Turkish, the letter "ğ" (yumuşak ğ"), when following a "back" vowel (a, ı, o, u), serves to lengthen the vowel preceding it. It has no sound of its own. Now get it right.

Inconsistent Pretentiousness

Every so often, some moron -- trying to impress other morons by "showing his ass" – sends unfamiliar foreign words flying about like a short-order cook slinging hash at the local greasy spoon – and yet never consistently. This infuriating breach of propriety, as nearly as I can tell, was first committed by the usual suspects – the chattering classes. From the toilet-papered groves of academe, this plague of pretentiousness soon spread to the "Fourth Estate," where it was adopted with great relish – and greater inconsistency. Suddenly, Eskimos became "Inuit." The Sioux became "Lakota." Peking became "Beijing." The Ivory Coast became "Cote d’Ivoire" – and I became apoplectic every time I heard some nutsack wallowing in the muck of arbitrary renaming. I understand that in some cases, the "new" nomenclature is based upon a given people’s name for itself, and that in some cases it reflects native pronunciation more closely. Would that it did so always – but it doesn’t. Being the fair-minded guy I am, that really pisses me off.

If the Eskimos can become "Inuit" and the Sioux "Lakota," why can’t the Blackfoot, Crow, Creek and Apache, for example, become "Siksika," "Absaroka," "Mvskoke" and "Dineh," respectively? Why can’t the Hungarians become "Magyar," the Germans "Deutschen," and the Japanese "Nihonjin"? If we’re going to call Peking "Beijing," why don’t we refer to Gothenburg as "Göteborg," Moscow as "Moskva," and Munich as "München"?

Are some peoples, countries and cities "more equal than others"? Just curious.