Notwithstanding my incredible luck that has allowed me live as I do, and and to move about the world in relative comfort as I have done, there are certainly a great many people out there in a America especially who are living lives full of great suffering.
One can feel it in many places around the country---in small hamlets and faded towns where the last public structures are the post office and a small church, in decaying old cities of rotting downtown structures, in the overrun-by-homeless sidewalks and parks of beach towns, and even in the places that look beautiful on the surface---suburbs with palm trees where the big box parking lots are full of cars one missed payment away from repossession, sparkling capitals where bureaucrats burn tax money, and buoyant college towns driven by massive piles of unpayable debt. Most of the prosperous towns in America have felt like Potemkin villages of digital-wealth-driven mirages for many years now.
There is a critical mass of this kind of feeling right now in America that makes it feel like the default American vibe. It feels like desperation, or at the minimum a raw struggle. Only certain areas are genuinely immune from it, in my experience. Watford City, North Dakota is one place where you don't feel it, for example. There you get a sense of what it must have been like to live in America before, 1957, which is about the year the Great American Unwind started to kick in.
Traveling around, it is truly heartbreaking to sense this vibe of deprivation in what seemingly should be a time of great plenitude. We live the Cornucopian Age. Even the poorest person in America could, with a few lucky breaks, wind up living like a king. Most don't, of course. Most never will. The poor you will always have with you, as someone once said.
When I lived in want, my material situation was a direct reflection of a poverity of spirit. Back then, had someone given me this job I have, and the modest bankroll I have, I could not have handled living the way I do now. I had to climb each step one by one. Sure I have afforded myself more things, perhaps, and certain challenges would have been easier on the surface, but overall I know I would have found a way in the same small bubble of fright. I knew only the way of poverty.
To get to the next level, and the ones beyond that, first I had to unwind the parts of me that were keeping me from giving myself permission to go to that higher level. I had certain strategies for doing that which turned out to be successful.
In a broad sense, there was apparently only one way to do it---to dive into the fear and the challenges in a way that was highly personal to me. The specific instruction manual I created for myself along the way would probably seem unintelligible and useless to someone else, I suppose.
Or maybe it is useful after all. That notion probably what keeps me writing this blog at this point, as I mentioned before.
Friday, June 27, 2014
America at Nadir, and my Cultural Marxist News Feed
Everyday on Facebook, thanks to my "likes" of various news sources, I see a nice flow of Cultural Marxist articles. That's not surprising, since it's the dominant ideology of academia and the media in the U.S. at this point.
Almost of these articles have the same theme and purpose, which is to create shame. Creating shame is the hallmark of Cultural Marxist messaging.
You are of course supposed to feel angry too. Very angry if you are one of the oppressed groups. But also angry if you are an oppressor. If you are an oppressor, you are supposed to feel angry on behalf of other people---the oppressors. But if you are among the oppressors, you are also supposed to feel shame.
Look what other people like you have done, or are doing! Tsk tsk tsk. Speak out about, but only when we tell you, and in the matter we tell you.
It's this division between the two-types of readers---oppressors and oppressed---that is the hallmark of Cultural Marxist thought.
In the of the Cultural Marxist version of Environmentalism, the oppressors become all of humanity, and oppressed becomes the Earth, an incarnate victim absorbing all of Humanity's sins.
Fortunately for you, the Cultural Marxists already have the solution lined up for all of the ills for which they are evoking outrage/shame. It basically involves giving them more power over your life.
This strategy has worked very well for a long time.
This guy wrote about how to do it, of course, and become an icon for a lot of people in the 1960s. This person wrote a senior thesis about him as an undergraduate.
I expect America on the whole will have to swirl down this toilet of Cultural Marxism for a little while longer before we get our act in gear.
But in the meantime, on a personal level, I think is perfect legitimate to say "phooey" to all these phonies. In fact I think it's probably mandatory, if you are going to live a life right now that is not consumed with pathetic and stunting emotional drama, and acting out scripts created by someone else for their own power games.
In some ways, it's indeed a shame that one must do this. For there is injustice in the world, and ecological dangers. So long at the CM's have a stranglehold on the rhetoric, however, all the solutions have only one ultimate goal: more power for them, do what they want and need to do, for whatever purposes they decide are necessary to use that power.
Almost of these articles have the same theme and purpose, which is to create shame. Creating shame is the hallmark of Cultural Marxist messaging.
You are of course supposed to feel angry too. Very angry if you are one of the oppressed groups. But also angry if you are an oppressor. If you are an oppressor, you are supposed to feel angry on behalf of other people---the oppressors. But if you are among the oppressors, you are also supposed to feel shame.
Look what other people like you have done, or are doing! Tsk tsk tsk. Speak out about, but only when we tell you, and in the matter we tell you.
It's this division between the two-types of readers---oppressors and oppressed---that is the hallmark of Cultural Marxist thought.
In the of the Cultural Marxist version of Environmentalism, the oppressors become all of humanity, and oppressed becomes the Earth, an incarnate victim absorbing all of Humanity's sins.
Fortunately for you, the Cultural Marxists already have the solution lined up for all of the ills for which they are evoking outrage/shame. It basically involves giving them more power over your life.
This strategy has worked very well for a long time.
This guy wrote about how to do it, of course, and become an icon for a lot of people in the 1960s. This person wrote a senior thesis about him as an undergraduate.
I expect America on the whole will have to swirl down this toilet of Cultural Marxism for a little while longer before we get our act in gear.
But in the meantime, on a personal level, I think is perfect legitimate to say "phooey" to all these phonies. In fact I think it's probably mandatory, if you are going to live a life right now that is not consumed with pathetic and stunting emotional drama, and acting out scripts created by someone else for their own power games.
In some ways, it's indeed a shame that one must do this. For there is injustice in the world, and ecological dangers. So long at the CM's have a stranglehold on the rhetoric, however, all the solutions have only one ultimate goal: more power for them, do what they want and need to do, for whatever purposes they decide are necessary to use that power.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Whatsoever Victory May Come
Watching the World Cup lately has been during a lull in the great frenzy of activity and travel I have undertaken lately. It was as if I wanted to try out this new-found ability to live this way, to take a victory lap of sorts.
I feel so far away from where I was even two years ago. Somehow whatever journey I started out on, really did have the salubrious result of catapulting me several chapters forward in life.
Old wounds that dogged me for years have melted away. Things that happened long ago, but which still ached in my soul as if recent, now seem to be far away in the past, as they are.
I can't deny that I feel like one of the luckiest people on the planet. No, I don't mean in the quasi-religious Cultural Marxist sense of what they call "privilege," except as it pertains to being an American, born about the time I was, give or take a couple decades.
Each one of us that falls into that category---no matter what your station or situation---is amazingly lucky in a comparative sense to how most of the rest of humanity has lived, is living (although somehow it has produced in the West one of the greatest historical epidemics of whiny belly-aching of all-time, yours truly not excluded).
Rather when I say "lucky" I mean it in a more personal sense---of having the pleasure of meeting the people I have met, and gotten to know. Also in getting some personal lucky breaks at very opportune times.
Above all I mean "lucky" in the sense of having stumbled, by the Grace of Something, upon the secret of forward and upward propulsion of one's spirit through the cosmos towards some state of being more satisfying, more enriching, more alive than anything I could have consciously imagined when I started.
It's about getting from Point A to Point B, really, by the force of will, and by spontaneous imagination, and by the mercy of the Whatsoever-force-churns-fate.
It's very individual. It's very subjective. For me, it took getting in a car and taking to the road for a while. There was also lots of self-reflection, and at times very painful reorientation of the way I perceived my self and my role in the Giant Beyondselfness in which we all navigate. For others it would be different, I suppose.
Whatever I get to write about my life from here on out, that anyone else might read, I hope it's a testament to what I just said. Anything less seems like it would be a waste of time.
I feel so far away from where I was even two years ago. Somehow whatever journey I started out on, really did have the salubrious result of catapulting me several chapters forward in life.
Old wounds that dogged me for years have melted away. Things that happened long ago, but which still ached in my soul as if recent, now seem to be far away in the past, as they are.
I can't deny that I feel like one of the luckiest people on the planet. No, I don't mean in the quasi-religious Cultural Marxist sense of what they call "privilege," except as it pertains to being an American, born about the time I was, give or take a couple decades.
Each one of us that falls into that category---no matter what your station or situation---is amazingly lucky in a comparative sense to how most of the rest of humanity has lived, is living (although somehow it has produced in the West one of the greatest historical epidemics of whiny belly-aching of all-time, yours truly not excluded).
Rather when I say "lucky" I mean it in a more personal sense---of having the pleasure of meeting the people I have met, and gotten to know. Also in getting some personal lucky breaks at very opportune times.
Above all I mean "lucky" in the sense of having stumbled, by the Grace of Something, upon the secret of forward and upward propulsion of one's spirit through the cosmos towards some state of being more satisfying, more enriching, more alive than anything I could have consciously imagined when I started.
It's about getting from Point A to Point B, really, by the force of will, and by spontaneous imagination, and by the mercy of the Whatsoever-force-churns-fate.
It's very individual. It's very subjective. For me, it took getting in a car and taking to the road for a while. There was also lots of self-reflection, and at times very painful reorientation of the way I perceived my self and my role in the Giant Beyondselfness in which we all navigate. For others it would be different, I suppose.
Whatever I get to write about my life from here on out, that anyone else might read, I hope it's a testament to what I just said. Anything less seems like it would be a waste of time.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Lunchtime with the French and Swiss
Watching the World Cup. France is hammering Switzerland. Two goals in the matter of a minute.
The television is on Univision, the Spanish-language channel that comes over the air free to our digital antenna in Hillsdale. All the games we have watched have been in Spanish this way. I have practicing the cry of "goooool" from the announcer. It's easy to stereotype, but there is an art to getting it just right.
The French team's great play reminds me of my friends in France, in particular Jean. I haven't seen him for almost five years now. He doesn't get to North America much anymore.
I want to write and tell him that a commercial on Univision playing during the World Cup uses a cover of the old pop song "Born to Be Alive." That was on the radio briefly in 1979, when Jean first came to the U.S.---to Houston, as a junior high school student. His dad was in the oil industry. He remembers that particular song as being his welcome to America. Ironically the song is by a French guy.
The version in the new commercial is slowed down and wan. Half speed or less, like everything in America these days (the U.S. team looks like scraggly and unhealthy, and were lucky to win that match).
At least the French are playing well today, with great spirit. They sang the Marsellaise at the beginning with alacrity, even some of the players on the field.
Aux armes, citoyens... Can't believe they still sing that line.
Now the Swiss are counterattacking. They are not letting the French take the game so easily.
The television is on Univision, the Spanish-language channel that comes over the air free to our digital antenna in Hillsdale. All the games we have watched have been in Spanish this way. I have practicing the cry of "goooool" from the announcer. It's easy to stereotype, but there is an art to getting it just right.
The French team's great play reminds me of my friends in France, in particular Jean. I haven't seen him for almost five years now. He doesn't get to North America much anymore.
I want to write and tell him that a commercial on Univision playing during the World Cup uses a cover of the old pop song "Born to Be Alive." That was on the radio briefly in 1979, when Jean first came to the U.S.---to Houston, as a junior high school student. His dad was in the oil industry. He remembers that particular song as being his welcome to America. Ironically the song is by a French guy.
The version in the new commercial is slowed down and wan. Half speed or less, like everything in America these days (the U.S. team looks like scraggly and unhealthy, and were lucky to win that match).
At least the French are playing well today, with great spirit. They sang the Marsellaise at the beginning with alacrity, even some of the players on the field.
Aux armes, citoyens... Can't believe they still sing that line.
Now the Swiss are counterattacking. They are not letting the French take the game so easily.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Apogaea 2014
Amidst all my recent movements, I had a chance to spend four days recently at this year's Apogaea, a Burning Man-type event in the mountains southwest of Denver.
I went with my old pals Okki and Ashwin "Ash". We had quite an adventure, the three of us. I took off a couple day's work to attend the whole shebang.
Apogaea lived up to the concept of being a Burning Man event. But it was quite different from Burning Man in many respects as well, not the least of which was the geography and location---at 8000 feet on the flank of the mountains above the Platte River canyon.
The size of the event is much smaller, in the low thousands, much like Burning Man was a couple decades ago. As an attendee one camps on rocky, moist uneven ground amidst pines and fires, instead of on a dry lake bed. It gets cold at night. It rained multiple times during the afternoon.
And the people are different. The vibe is different. It made for an interesting long weekend, trying to figure all that out, and enjoy ourselves at the same time.
I went with my old pals Okki and Ashwin "Ash". We had quite an adventure, the three of us. I took off a couple day's work to attend the whole shebang.
Apogaea lived up to the concept of being a Burning Man event. But it was quite different from Burning Man in many respects as well, not the least of which was the geography and location---at 8000 feet on the flank of the mountains above the Platte River canyon.
The size of the event is much smaller, in the low thousands, much like Burning Man was a couple decades ago. As an attendee one camps on rocky, moist uneven ground amidst pines and fires, instead of on a dry lake bed. It gets cold at night. It rained multiple times during the afternoon.
And the people are different. The vibe is different. It made for an interesting long weekend, trying to figure all that out, and enjoy ourselves at the same time.
The Front Door of Portland
For our soiree at Jimmy Mak's, we stayed the night at the Benson, the grand old deluxe hotel in thick of downtown Portland. It opened in 1913 and is still going strong, front and center along the vista up Broadway and you go up Burnside.
Valet parking took care of the car. The lobby was truly welcoming and open, with lush attention to detail. If you want to sneak into a hotel, for whatever reason, then best go to the Heathman. At the Benson, you are front and center at the welcoming portal of Portland itself.
Our corner suite looked out over Broadway, going up the hill to Nordstrom's and beyond. We could see half a dozen other hotels from our window. This is the carotid artery of the city.
Valet parking took care of the car. The lobby was truly welcoming and open, with lush attention to detail. If you want to sneak into a hotel, for whatever reason, then best go to the Heathman. At the Benson, you are front and center at the welcoming portal of Portland itself.
Our corner suite looked out over Broadway, going up the hill to Nordstrom's and beyond. We could see half a dozen other hotels from our window. This is the carotid artery of the city.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Yachtsmen at Jimmy Mak's
What a great concert Red and I went to, last in the Pearl District in NW Portland. The Yachtsmen, a band founded in part by my friend John McIsaac, who plays bass, rocked the house with soulful 80's-era classics. The dance floor was really jumping---the surest and most foolproof method of determining the calibre of music in my opinion.
Molly on Her Dad
In honor of father's day, I'm going to link to this nice little tribute that my friend Molly wrote about her dad.
Coop Wins an Emmy
My friend Coop has just won an Emmy Award for his work.
I have such amazingly talented friends. I am very lucky that way.
I have such amazingly talented friends. I am very lucky that way.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
The King of Austin
A couple weekends ago I had the pleasure of flying down to Austin to spend a few days hanging out with my old and dear friend James.
It was great to see him again. The last time I saw him, two years ago, was just at the start of a long road trip around the country. A lot had changed in both of our lives since then.
When I got to town, I texted him right as I was getting into my hotel. I was staying downtown this time, in a big highrise that hadn't even been built, when I lived in Austin.
From the window I could see down at the rooftops of Sixth Street, the buildings of which were all the same as back in the day, but probably grimier and more worn. A few of the business names were recognizable---Esther's Follies and a few bars, but most of the establishments had probably undergone more than one changeover since James and I last went down there to tie one on and listen to Rockabilly.
James is the King of Austin, to me. We stayed on after I left and built his life here, amidst the giant experiment that the city strives to be.
That evening we went out amidst the crowd, which looks exactly as it did back then, but with more tattoos. We wandered up Red River, past the old site of Emo's, which is still a bar of the same type, but with minor alterations. We went looking for a Bar Rescue bar, which turned out to be shuttered, despite the "rescue." James had remembered it from before its crossover.
On Sunday I took a cab up to his place, The little bungalow he owns in in North Hyde Park. Actually it wouldn't have been called that back in the day, but the defnition and culture of Hyde Park had accreted new territory. The restaurants and boutiques along North Loop feel like direct extension of the kind one saw on the Drag (Guadalupe) back in the day.
"We never should have left," we both agreed, in reference to the neighborhood, and our having had to relinquish our awesome place of Duval in the spring of '92. Our place after that had been over by Shoal Creek, in a very unwalkable quarter of the city. Both of us had been later reduced to using the local bus system at once point, which as the vernacular says, sucked.
But that's Austin---trying to appreciate the slackitude coolness, while being judgmental of one's surroundings in a way that strives to make it even cooler. One strives to balance the desire to slack out versus that to analyze and improve. But really I guess I'm just describing myself back then.
We really saw a good chunk of it together, James and I.
It was great to see him again. The last time I saw him, two years ago, was just at the start of a long road trip around the country. A lot had changed in both of our lives since then.
When I got to town, I texted him right as I was getting into my hotel. I was staying downtown this time, in a big highrise that hadn't even been built, when I lived in Austin.
From the window I could see down at the rooftops of Sixth Street, the buildings of which were all the same as back in the day, but probably grimier and more worn. A few of the business names were recognizable---Esther's Follies and a few bars, but most of the establishments had probably undergone more than one changeover since James and I last went down there to tie one on and listen to Rockabilly.
James is the King of Austin, to me. We stayed on after I left and built his life here, amidst the giant experiment that the city strives to be.
That evening we went out amidst the crowd, which looks exactly as it did back then, but with more tattoos. We wandered up Red River, past the old site of Emo's, which is still a bar of the same type, but with minor alterations. We went looking for a Bar Rescue bar, which turned out to be shuttered, despite the "rescue." James had remembered it from before its crossover.
On Sunday I took a cab up to his place, The little bungalow he owns in in North Hyde Park. Actually it wouldn't have been called that back in the day, but the defnition and culture of Hyde Park had accreted new territory. The restaurants and boutiques along North Loop feel like direct extension of the kind one saw on the Drag (Guadalupe) back in the day.
"We never should have left," we both agreed, in reference to the neighborhood, and our having had to relinquish our awesome place of Duval in the spring of '92. Our place after that had been over by Shoal Creek, in a very unwalkable quarter of the city. Both of us had been later reduced to using the local bus system at once point, which as the vernacular says, sucked.
But that's Austin---trying to appreciate the slackitude coolness, while being judgmental of one's surroundings in a way that strives to make it even cooler. One strives to balance the desire to slack out versus that to analyze and improve. But really I guess I'm just describing myself back then.
We really saw a good chunk of it together, James and I.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Gold Discovered in Northern Jefferson State
We finished up our Memorial Day road trip through central and southern Oregon with a stay at the lovely Ashland Springs Hotel, in downtown Ashland, which is the first town of any size across the border from California on I-5.
We explored the downtown on foot. Lots of California money here.
Red found the mineral springs fountain that I would have missed. After dinner we walked up along the park by the river, and sat watching children play in the pool created by the stream.
"Reminds me of Asheville," I said. She agreed.
"And Hot Springs, Arkansas," I added. "And even Boulder."
"Power likes these kinds of places..."
The next day we drove back to Portland on I-5. We felt so lucky to have been able to have this trip.
On the way back we stopped for lunch in the little town of Jacksonville, off the Interstate by Medford. The boutique shops and wine stores on the main street were in buildings that over a century old.
"Reminds me of a Colorado mountain town."
It's where they discovered gold.
We explored the downtown on foot. Lots of California money here.
Red found the mineral springs fountain that I would have missed. After dinner we walked up along the park by the river, and sat watching children play in the pool created by the stream.
"Reminds me of Asheville," I said. She agreed.
"And Hot Springs, Arkansas," I added. "And even Boulder."
"Power likes these kinds of places..."
The next day we drove back to Portland on I-5. We felt so lucky to have been able to have this trip.
On the way back we stopped for lunch in the little town of Jacksonville, off the Interstate by Medford. The boutique shops and wine stores on the main street were in buildings that over a century old.
"Reminds me of a Colorado mountain town."
It's where they discovered gold.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
The Great Indian Road Trip to Crater Lake
In the afternoon we headed south on U.S. 97, down into the valley of the river that feeds into Upper Klamath Lake. We spent the night in Klamath Falls at a charming little motel, the Golden West, that I found online. It was run by a delightful Italian woman. We dined in downtown at a creamery that had been turned into a brew pub.
In the morning we drove north up to Crater Lake. Red had never been there, so she was eager to see it. We wound our way up to the lodge at the rim and found what seemed to be the only parking spot in the lot. The lodge was crowded with tourists, with many foreigners.
As we drove along the part of the rim that was open, and stopped several times to look out upon the lake below, we both couldn't help notice that there were a great many Indian-American families there. The American contingent heavily consisted of long caravans of motorcycles on a weekend cruise.
The issue of the Indian-Americans took on deeper meaning that evening when we got to our motel in Weed, California, in the shadow of Mount Shasta along I-5. The motel was run by Indians, which is not unusual, but int he diner across the main street, we saw three different groups of Indian young men, foreign-born---foursomes. They seemed each to be on some road trip, and they were stopping over in Weed for dinner.
Red and I debated the meaning of all this, and decided that Crater Lake, for this year at least, must be a popular vacation destination for Indian-Americans as a community. Many come up from California, including groups of male tech workers, riding together in SUVs.
We felt as if we'd stumbled into some hidden bit of contemporary Americana. It was delightful to notice it.
I remarked how the idea of four young male Indian tech workers taking a road trip to Crater Lake over Memorial Day weekend would make an awesome Hollywood movie.
In the morning we drove north up to Crater Lake. Red had never been there, so she was eager to see it. We wound our way up to the lodge at the rim and found what seemed to be the only parking spot in the lot. The lodge was crowded with tourists, with many foreigners.
As we drove along the part of the rim that was open, and stopped several times to look out upon the lake below, we both couldn't help notice that there were a great many Indian-American families there. The American contingent heavily consisted of long caravans of motorcycles on a weekend cruise.
The issue of the Indian-Americans took on deeper meaning that evening when we got to our motel in Weed, California, in the shadow of Mount Shasta along I-5. The motel was run by Indians, which is not unusual, but int he diner across the main street, we saw three different groups of Indian young men, foreign-born---foursomes. They seemed each to be on some road trip, and they were stopping over in Weed for dinner.
Red and I debated the meaning of all this, and decided that Crater Lake, for this year at least, must be a popular vacation destination for Indian-Americans as a community. Many come up from California, including groups of male tech workers, riding together in SUVs.
We felt as if we'd stumbled into some hidden bit of contemporary Americana. It was delightful to notice it.
I remarked how the idea of four young male Indian tech workers taking a road trip to Crater Lake over Memorial Day weekend would make an awesome Hollywood movie.
Rednecks Get Their Volcano Fix
On the second day of the road trip, we went down to Lava Butte, drove up to the top, and walked around the rim of the cinder cone. You get an awesome view not only of the Sisters, but also of the lava fissure in the earth that stretches several miles southeast to the rim of the blownout Newberry Crater, a shield volcano like a pustule on the lave plane.
Later that afternoon we drove up into the crater itself---it was easy enough to get to the interior, where two beautiful snow-melt lakes sit side by side. We parked and strolled around the rocky edge of East Lake, by the ancient summer resort with its bank of canoes, and watched by folks out in their boats with poles and lines in the water. It was very peaceful, especially with the cool gentle breeze off the lake.
The peaks of the crater rim---the Paulina Mountains---are craggy and laced with snow. They remind me of Glacker Park, diminutive in scale compared to other high ranges, and thus seem strangely accessible despite, like a model of a mountain range. Still it would be a trek to reach the top.
"This is a destination spot for Memorial Day weekend for people that live in Central and Eastern Oregon," I told Red. "I had no idea it was so civilized inside. I thought it would be wildnerness."
Later that afternoon we drove up into the crater itself---it was easy enough to get to the interior, where two beautiful snow-melt lakes sit side by side. We parked and strolled around the rocky edge of East Lake, by the ancient summer resort with its bank of canoes, and watched by folks out in their boats with poles and lines in the water. It was very peaceful, especially with the cool gentle breeze off the lake.
The peaks of the crater rim---the Paulina Mountains---are craggy and laced with snow. They remind me of Glacker Park, diminutive in scale compared to other high ranges, and thus seem strangely accessible despite, like a model of a mountain range. Still it would be a trek to reach the top.
"This is a destination spot for Memorial Day weekend for people that live in Central and Eastern Oregon," I told Red. "I had no idea it was so civilized inside. I thought it would be wildnerness."
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