If you don't have it already, get the album Snakehouse by The Cliks. Notice how that's spelled. Some record stores have it entered in their computer as a self-titled album. You'll probably have to dig through The Clash and The Click Five, since it won't be right upfront on the shelf.
If you've never heard of this band, that's okay. Now you have. You'll wonder how you ever listened to music before. Warning: as far as I'm concerned, vinyl records are still the technology du jour. Expect CDs, no matter how many times I say LP, B-Side, 45, or needle skip.
The lead singer, Lucas Silveira, has an amazing voice. I don't care who you are, when the lyrics start and you hear him singing, your heart is gonna skip a couple of beats. I pretty much guaran-damn-tee it.
Their cover of Cry Me a River and the song Oh Yeah are the two most famous singles off of this LP, but they are by no means the best songs. As always, the very best songs on an album are the ones you don't hear on the radio very much. Listen to Soul Back Driver or Misery and tell me that the atmosphere of these songs wasn't perfect. Tell me truthfully that you didn't feel like you'd lost your soul, or feel that feeling of being so down, hating yourself so much that you can hardly keep going, but not staying there; instead pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and looking this whole damn world right back in the eye.
I must admit, until I finally got the album, I would not have anticipated their blues chops. Maybe the music is a bit more technical than delta blues, has just as many overtones of Syd Barrett jamming with Tony Iommi and Rush as it has in common with Texas blues boogie, but it is BLUES at its roots. They have combined dissonance and melody, both in turns and at once, into a unique style that fits the outpouring of pain perfectly. A sound all their own. If you can come up with a way to play any of the musical parts better, please, let me know. Or even if it's just different. We'll get together and jam or something. I'd love an excuse to sing Lucas' lyrics some more.
Oh, god, can he be sexy.
Just for the record, that's probably the only time you'll hear me say that phrase. Take a photo or something.
______________________________________
If Jesus walked the world today, he'd probably be a hillbilly.
Those are the words in the chorus in Alan Jackson's song "If Jesus Walked the World Today." Common man of men, and the king of many, indeed. The song's off of his latest album, Good Time. I've heard some reviews say that it lacks a toe-tapper, foot-stomper like Chattahoochee, but I have to disagree. Crank up the title song, Country Boy, 1976, Long Long Way, or If You Want to Make Me Happy and haul ass down a country road, truck bed full of buddies. I include If You Want to Make Me Happy in that list, even though it's more melancholy. In fact, the whole album sounds best with the volume cranked to 11, all the windows down, and a load of rednecks. I'll admit it, white people cram their redneck buddies into the back of a truck like some Mexican dudes I know can cram people into their sedans. I've seen David pull up and unload nine people out of a Ford Taurus. Sedan. Figure that one out. But seriously, next time you see a mid-sixties good ol' American truck, fog lights up top, lift kit, covered in mud and a roll bar across the back of the cab, count how many guys are in it. Hell yeah.
I believe that riding in the bed of a truck should be legal. In Colorado it is if you're over 18, but if you'e a minor, you can only ride in the bed if you're wearing a shoulder and lap belt. What the hell? I ain't equipping no truck with shoulder belts. My grandpa would put his five kids in the bed going to and from a jobsite. When we used to go visit him, I got to ride in the back of his El Camino when he was hauling builing materials up to his retirement house (built it with his own hands). He'd haul ass around the winding Cascade roads, but my cousins and me were never close to falling out. You're more likely to fall out of some convertibles than the bed of a pickup. As long as you're not an idiot, you're perfectly safe, except in the event of a rollover, in which case you're glued, screwed, and tattooed in a convertible, too.
But to get back on track, Good Time has great country love ballads, songs of sorrow, and good ol' fashioned dance songs. Alan Jackson, ever the gifted wordsmith, used that talent in spades when he wrote this album. He can get complex songs and complex concepts across in such a way that you'll be able to understand and remember them, even if you happen to be hearing the music five minutes before last call. Somehow, Alan can lay down a chorus, go miles off track in the process of getting to the point, and then bring it all back to that same chorus. The songs just fit together. Every song I've ever heard by Mr. Jackson has painted a picture of that scene in my mind at 1080P.
The shining star of this fantastic album, though, is Sissy's Song. Bring Kleenex. I know when I tossed a few CDs in the disc changer and hit shuffle, I wasn't expecting anything terribly touching, just something to stomp my foot to while I raced my Charger on the Xbox. I wasn't expecting a slideshow of memories to get called up during a road race. I wrecked that damn Charger, cost me a fortune to fix. But it's only virtual money in a virtual world.
Why did she have to go/So young I just don't know/Why things happen half the time/Without reason/Without rhyme/Lovely sweet young woman/Daughter, wife and mother/Makes no sense to me/I just have to believe/She flew up to heaven on the wings of angels/By clouds and stars and passed where no one sees/and she walks with Jesus and her loved ones waiting/and I know she's smilin'/Sayin' "Don't worry 'bout me."/Loved ones she left behind/Just tryin' to survive/and understand the why/feelin' so lost inside/Anger shot straight at God/Then asking for His love/Empty with disbelief/just hoping that may be/She flew up to heaven on the wings of angels/By the clouds and stars and passed where no one sees/And she walks with Jesus and her loved ones waiting/And I know she's smilin' saying "Don't worry 'bout me."/It's hard to say goodbye/Her picture in my mind/Will always be of times I'll cherish/And I won't cry/ 'cause she flew up to heaven on the wings of angels/By the clouds and stars and passed where no one sees/And she walks with Jesus and her loved ones waiting/And I know she's smilin' sayin', "Don't worry 'bout me."
Alan always has top-notch musicians in his band. The pedal-steel on this album will blow you away, and so will the fingerpicked guitar. Not to mention Alan himself: that smooth baritone register he delivers his lyrics in.... if it ain't magic, it's close to. Get the album. Hear the song. Now wipe your eyes and blow your nose.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The real family values
Why is it that senators who run on a platform of "family values" and one-man-one-woman marriage law are always the ones who get caught with an intern or in the airport bathroom, or maybe soliciting an "escort"? Why is it that people are so damn afraid of people unlike them? Or even more, people like what they're afraid to be?
Please, someone, anyone, explain these things to me. Why in a nation where the separation of church and state is a part of our law, we have let our law be dictated by the Bible? Why any religious group except for mainstream Protestant Christians faces more challenges, prejudice, and persecution?
The Mormons were declared heretics and cast out. They found a home (what kind of God declares a lake home to his chosen people if it is too salty to even drink from and sustain life?), and established their own society according to their beliefs. That's how the colonies got started in the first place. Now it is only a splinter group that still practices polygamy, but just because the idea of polygamy makes the "family values" people feel uncomfortable, they persecute this group every chance they get.
I'll admit, I won't let a Jehovah's Witness in unless there is nothing good on TV. That's actually more than a little bit cruel, now that I think about it. But would you rather spend two hours knocking on doors and getting turned away, usually rudely, or talking about god and the afterlife with someone who doesn't believe one word you say, but will listen, entertain the idea, and bring you ice tea and snacks? I appreciate the fact that these people feel that they are duty bound to attempt to convert others. They honestly believe that they are saving souls. That's a noble thing to try to do. But I always wonder, while we're discussing the fine points of Genesis, is there someone down the block that would actually be listening and believing what this person has to say? Am I preventing this person from actually "saving a soul?" I don't know what to believe when it comes to religion, but I do believe that everyone is entitled to believe and practice whatever they want, without interference from other people.
I do know that religion is a very sophisticated brainwashing system. Brainwashing is one of those terms that depends on perspective. It's education when your side does it. It's indoctrination when the other guy does it. Religion, regardless of any basis in facts, organizes people, gives people something to think, say, and do (or tell others to do, even as they sin themselves). Religion is a necessary part of society.
But is bigotry a part of that, too? Must there always be an enemy, a subversive? This country has been jumping at shadows. It makes me angry. Jaded, too, and at times resigned to "this, too, shall pass." But then I see a loving couple who by all rights should be married by now. Or I hear someone explain their own twisted version of "morality." If only I could count the number of times I've wanted to kick in the television in the process of kicking the pundit or politician on the screen, when they began discussing that is or isn't immoral. I'll tell you what's immoral. It's deciding that people whom you have never met, who have never done anything to you, whose personal conduct does not have any bearing whatsoever on your life, that they are not equal. That they are not entitled to the same rights as everyone else.
We've seen it over and over again through history. Racism. Sexism. Social elitism and either a legal or de facto caste system. Heteronormativity.
Yeah, that's a big-ass word. That's fancy speak for straight people deciding that anyone who isn't like them, who doesn't feel or think like they do, is by definition inferior. That one man can only love one woman, and that anything other than that system is not only immoral in their eyes, but actually worthy of active defamation, persecution, and legislation against it.
Walk around on any given day, and just listen. Listen to how many times "gay" is used as an adjective synonymous with "wrong," "perverted," or "stupid." Any given day. Roger Waters has a new song, for which there is a comic strip projected behind the stage, helping to tell the story in the song. It is the story of how in the early 1960s, Waters went hitchhiking to Lebanon. I love his musical work, both with and after his time with Pink Floyd, don't get me wrong. At one point, when he was sleeping on a porch, a man who had lost a leg in WWII came up and asked him if he'd like to come back to his place for dinner and a roof over his head for that night. He said that his wife cooked very well, and would be delighted to have a guest. In the comic, there is a thought bubble from the young Waters' head which reads "Thanks God. Monopod, but not queer." I will admit, the prospect of getting taken to someone's home and raped is an unpleasant one, but really, the vast majority or rapists and pedophiles are straight men. In prison, maybe, male-on-male rape is relatively common, but that is a special case.
There is no arguing that homophobia and animosity toward gays is pervasive in our society. This is a part of people's learning from an early age, and to many people is as natural as male chauvinism or support of Jim Crow laws and distrust toward non-whites in decades past.
It is interesting, though, that although blacks and women generally enjoy an equal legal footing with the rest of society after their respective liberation movements, even after "gay liberation" in the 80s, we still face legal (not to mention social) roadblocks toward health plans, employment, adoption, foster parenting, military service, and marriage.
There was an unprecedented conservative backlash when the concept of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender equality really gained popular support. I have said before how much I admire and stand in awe of the right-wing propaganda machine. This is no different. Their ability to play on people's fears, deliver misinformation and straw-man arguments, instill new fears, drum up hate, and all the while pass themselves off as being pro-family values, protecting the masses, and most of all, not be seen my many was the hatemongers they are is staggering.
Let's talk about family values. More than half of all children are now born out of wedlock. Divorce rates are over 50%. Obviously, most people don't take the old-fashioned family unit seriously unless they happen to be voting to "protect it." Lemme tell you something, if it is so fragile that it can be destroyed by gay marriage, we are obviously not talking about the same "family." Sprechen ze englisch? Are you sure? We're both talking about the same kind of family where there are two parents, a house, 1.7 cars, a white picket fence, and 2.7 kids? Where they are still "family" to one another for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do them part? Well, it's true, 63% or American families are now considered dysfunctional according to the L.A. Times.
Let me tell you, two women or two men are far more likely to be good, prepared parents than your average two yahoos who had some fun one night and she got knocked up. They are more likely to be good parents than a married couple who decided that maybe they'd like a baby, but didn't think it through (it happens a lot). Think about it. There is so much red tape to adopting a child, you really have to want to adopt that kid (unless you're celebrity in Hollywood....). Now think about all the extra red tape gay couples face. It's true. It's part of the administrative decision checklist: are they "morally fit" to raise this child? What the fuck do you think? Becoming a foster parent is even worse. In many states an municipalities, it is actually illegal for a same-sex couple to become foster parents.
That is especially not right. The foster care system in this country is overworked and overbooked. Foster parents are underpaid for the responsibility, but if they raise the tax breaks, more people will do it just for the money, with no real regard to the people. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Many children fall through the cracks. Turning away qualified, caring foster parents is downright criminal.
While we're at it, let's talk about transgender rights. The laws are patchwork laws, and are often on the wrong side of things anyway. Most of the law is a gray area up to individual judges, and we all know how bad that can be.
Have you ever walked into a bathroom (or out of one) and had people either tell you you're in the wrong bathroom, or stare, glance away, and say something to someone near them? It doesn't happen terribly often, but just plain weird looks do. Double takes, basically.
Funny story. About two and a half weeks after freshman year started, I stopped to use the toilet in between classes. Then when I went to the sink to wash my hands, another girl came out of a stall and started washing her hands at the sink next to me, at about the same time. We had seen each other around campus. We both looked up, looked at each other, and said, "I thought you were a guy."
It's less fucking hilarious when someone says "get outta here, dyke." That's when the asskicking happens. It don't care if your dad has threatened to kill me before, tell me that and I'll rearrange your face before he can get here. And the unconscious don't make phone calls.
Please, someone, anyone, explain these things to me. Why in a nation where the separation of church and state is a part of our law, we have let our law be dictated by the Bible? Why any religious group except for mainstream Protestant Christians faces more challenges, prejudice, and persecution?
The Mormons were declared heretics and cast out. They found a home (what kind of God declares a lake home to his chosen people if it is too salty to even drink from and sustain life?), and established their own society according to their beliefs. That's how the colonies got started in the first place. Now it is only a splinter group that still practices polygamy, but just because the idea of polygamy makes the "family values" people feel uncomfortable, they persecute this group every chance they get.
I'll admit, I won't let a Jehovah's Witness in unless there is nothing good on TV. That's actually more than a little bit cruel, now that I think about it. But would you rather spend two hours knocking on doors and getting turned away, usually rudely, or talking about god and the afterlife with someone who doesn't believe one word you say, but will listen, entertain the idea, and bring you ice tea and snacks? I appreciate the fact that these people feel that they are duty bound to attempt to convert others. They honestly believe that they are saving souls. That's a noble thing to try to do. But I always wonder, while we're discussing the fine points of Genesis, is there someone down the block that would actually be listening and believing what this person has to say? Am I preventing this person from actually "saving a soul?" I don't know what to believe when it comes to religion, but I do believe that everyone is entitled to believe and practice whatever they want, without interference from other people.
I do know that religion is a very sophisticated brainwashing system. Brainwashing is one of those terms that depends on perspective. It's education when your side does it. It's indoctrination when the other guy does it. Religion, regardless of any basis in facts, organizes people, gives people something to think, say, and do (or tell others to do, even as they sin themselves). Religion is a necessary part of society.
But is bigotry a part of that, too? Must there always be an enemy, a subversive? This country has been jumping at shadows. It makes me angry. Jaded, too, and at times resigned to "this, too, shall pass." But then I see a loving couple who by all rights should be married by now. Or I hear someone explain their own twisted version of "morality." If only I could count the number of times I've wanted to kick in the television in the process of kicking the pundit or politician on the screen, when they began discussing that is or isn't immoral. I'll tell you what's immoral. It's deciding that people whom you have never met, who have never done anything to you, whose personal conduct does not have any bearing whatsoever on your life, that they are not equal. That they are not entitled to the same rights as everyone else.
We've seen it over and over again through history. Racism. Sexism. Social elitism and either a legal or de facto caste system. Heteronormativity.
Yeah, that's a big-ass word. That's fancy speak for straight people deciding that anyone who isn't like them, who doesn't feel or think like they do, is by definition inferior. That one man can only love one woman, and that anything other than that system is not only immoral in their eyes, but actually worthy of active defamation, persecution, and legislation against it.
Walk around on any given day, and just listen. Listen to how many times "gay" is used as an adjective synonymous with "wrong," "perverted," or "stupid." Any given day. Roger Waters has a new song, for which there is a comic strip projected behind the stage, helping to tell the story in the song. It is the story of how in the early 1960s, Waters went hitchhiking to Lebanon. I love his musical work, both with and after his time with Pink Floyd, don't get me wrong. At one point, when he was sleeping on a porch, a man who had lost a leg in WWII came up and asked him if he'd like to come back to his place for dinner and a roof over his head for that night. He said that his wife cooked very well, and would be delighted to have a guest. In the comic, there is a thought bubble from the young Waters' head which reads "Thanks God. Monopod, but not queer." I will admit, the prospect of getting taken to someone's home and raped is an unpleasant one, but really, the vast majority or rapists and pedophiles are straight men. In prison, maybe, male-on-male rape is relatively common, but that is a special case.
There is no arguing that homophobia and animosity toward gays is pervasive in our society. This is a part of people's learning from an early age, and to many people is as natural as male chauvinism or support of Jim Crow laws and distrust toward non-whites in decades past.
It is interesting, though, that although blacks and women generally enjoy an equal legal footing with the rest of society after their respective liberation movements, even after "gay liberation" in the 80s, we still face legal (not to mention social) roadblocks toward health plans, employment, adoption, foster parenting, military service, and marriage.
There was an unprecedented conservative backlash when the concept of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender equality really gained popular support. I have said before how much I admire and stand in awe of the right-wing propaganda machine. This is no different. Their ability to play on people's fears, deliver misinformation and straw-man arguments, instill new fears, drum up hate, and all the while pass themselves off as being pro-family values, protecting the masses, and most of all, not be seen my many was the hatemongers they are is staggering.
Let's talk about family values. More than half of all children are now born out of wedlock. Divorce rates are over 50%. Obviously, most people don't take the old-fashioned family unit seriously unless they happen to be voting to "protect it." Lemme tell you something, if it is so fragile that it can be destroyed by gay marriage, we are obviously not talking about the same "family." Sprechen ze englisch? Are you sure? We're both talking about the same kind of family where there are two parents, a house, 1.7 cars, a white picket fence, and 2.7 kids? Where they are still "family" to one another for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do them part? Well, it's true, 63% or American families are now considered dysfunctional according to the L.A. Times.
Let me tell you, two women or two men are far more likely to be good, prepared parents than your average two yahoos who had some fun one night and she got knocked up. They are more likely to be good parents than a married couple who decided that maybe they'd like a baby, but didn't think it through (it happens a lot). Think about it. There is so much red tape to adopting a child, you really have to want to adopt that kid (unless you're celebrity in Hollywood....). Now think about all the extra red tape gay couples face. It's true. It's part of the administrative decision checklist: are they "morally fit" to raise this child? What the fuck do you think? Becoming a foster parent is even worse. In many states an municipalities, it is actually illegal for a same-sex couple to become foster parents.
That is especially not right. The foster care system in this country is overworked and overbooked. Foster parents are underpaid for the responsibility, but if they raise the tax breaks, more people will do it just for the money, with no real regard to the people. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Many children fall through the cracks. Turning away qualified, caring foster parents is downright criminal.
While we're at it, let's talk about transgender rights. The laws are patchwork laws, and are often on the wrong side of things anyway. Most of the law is a gray area up to individual judges, and we all know how bad that can be.
Have you ever walked into a bathroom (or out of one) and had people either tell you you're in the wrong bathroom, or stare, glance away, and say something to someone near them? It doesn't happen terribly often, but just plain weird looks do. Double takes, basically.
Funny story. About two and a half weeks after freshman year started, I stopped to use the toilet in between classes. Then when I went to the sink to wash my hands, another girl came out of a stall and started washing her hands at the sink next to me, at about the same time. We had seen each other around campus. We both looked up, looked at each other, and said, "I thought you were a guy."
It's less fucking hilarious when someone says "get outta here, dyke." That's when the asskicking happens. It don't care if your dad has threatened to kill me before, tell me that and I'll rearrange your face before he can get here. And the unconscious don't make phone calls.
Drug lectures and two left feet
I learned several things today. No, wait, that's a lie. I just confirmed what I already knew. I already know I can't work a glowstick (or glowsticks on a string), and fortunately, I didn't actually whack myself in the head with a glowstick on a string today. I just watched other people manage to avoid head-glowstick contact. They made it look easy, but I know it's not.
I also try to avoid techno and raves altogether because I honestly can NOT dance to that stuff. I have tried. Four different people have tried to explain it to me at various occasions in my life. Go ahead, try again. But when you're completely exasperated, let me try and explain to you how to square dance. That won't work well either.
I can dance a bit. The chicken dance and the macarena are two that I will never be able to forget no matter how hard I try, after all the years of having to do them to pass gym class. I can do the cowboy two-step pretty good. I can square dance well enough to get away with it on a good day. Techno dancing is not on that list.
I also don't do MDMA, which unfortunately, is generally in integral part of most raves. It's been a long time since I was high (even a contact high at a concert. Wait no, make that contact HIIIIIGGHHH. They sure smoked up at CSNY). I'm not going to give anyone a drug lecture; that falls under the category of "it's your body, it's your mind, it's your life." Do it if you want. Just make sure you really want to. I'll admit, I've done a couple of things a couple of times. But if there's anything that really annoys me, it's pushers. You know the Steppenwolf song. He don't care how he hurts and who he kills. That's true of most of the dealers and pushers at my school.
Especially the kids that push things on other kids. If you go looking for it, by all means, do it. But don't actively recruit, especially if, like most of the dealers I'm acquainted with, you are a complete and utter IDIOT. Know your drug, know your source. If you don't know how pure it is, or even what it might be, don't do it. That takes most street drugs out of the equation. If you know where it came from and the person selling it is completely trustworthy, then go ahead. name a dealer who you trust with your life, health, safety, and mind. I'll let you think about it.
That's what I thought.
There's a kid at my school, sells shrooms, or at least tries to. Apparently shrooms are very popular around there, but y'know what else? I know what any hallucinogen can do to you. These people are not paying attention to set and setting. Almost every Monday, there's a story of a really bad trip at a party. Think about the worst nightmare you have ever had. Now make it ten times worse, and you can't wake up from it. That's a bad trip. Psilocybin trips last 4-6 hours. The average nightmare or dream only lasts up to an hour. LSD and LSA trips last 6-12 hours, with off-baseline feeling reported for up to a day.
Set and setting are very important. Don't just eat a magic mushroom pizza at a party. If you do and you get eaten by the couch, sucked into a black hole, and ripped to pieces by ethereal demons, don't come crying to me. That is an actual trip report. From a teacher at our school, back when he was in college. When used with the right intent, expectations, and environment, psychedelics can be an amazing experience. Unlike many drugs, they have the potential to go either way, though. They are what you make of them, and what you let them be.
Plus, I know the guy who grows and sells the mushrooms. Not well, but I know him well enough that I wouldn't trust him to cook a hamburger right, let alone do the entire mushroom-growing process correctly. Any small amount of contamination can be deadly. If you're growing them yourself, you will be more careful than if you're out for a quick buck. If you're out for a quick buck, you're likely to ignore or try and harvest around a yellow or green spot, or god help the people who eat them if he ever does ignore a black spot. If you wouldn't eat the mold that grows in the toilet, don't do shrooms from a source that you don't trust with your life. Just don't risk it.
If I ever decided to do magic mushrooms, I would not buy from this guy. It wouldn't be worth it. Even if you decide to do a different drug, be it cannabis, hash, peyote, LSD, morning glory, magic mushrooms, heroin, cocaine, speed, crystal, PCP, GHB, ketamine, or ecstasy, know your source. If it's just some random dude passing something out, don't do it. You have too much to lose, and the risk is too great. Some of those drugs are by definition dangerous, even if you do them once, get an uncontaminated dose, and dose "correctly." Others are safe if used responsibly. Ecstasy, or MDMA, will permanently alter your brain activity patterns, but it won't kill you in normal doses, and the potential for a horriffically bad trip is "low." I'm not going to say it will damage your brain, but is a distinct and very real possibility. Fact is, brains of people who used to roll light up differently on scans than brains of those who don't.
Know your body, know your mind, know your substance, know your source.
Never get high and drive. Never get in a vehicle with someone who is even slightly high, and don't let a high person drive, period. Do whatever the hell you want, as long as you know the risk you are taking, are prepared to accept the consequences if that risk goes bad, and don't put anyone else at risk.
I also try to avoid techno and raves altogether because I honestly can NOT dance to that stuff. I have tried. Four different people have tried to explain it to me at various occasions in my life. Go ahead, try again. But when you're completely exasperated, let me try and explain to you how to square dance. That won't work well either.
I can dance a bit. The chicken dance and the macarena are two that I will never be able to forget no matter how hard I try, after all the years of having to do them to pass gym class. I can do the cowboy two-step pretty good. I can square dance well enough to get away with it on a good day. Techno dancing is not on that list.
I also don't do MDMA, which unfortunately, is generally in integral part of most raves. It's been a long time since I was high (even a contact high at a concert. Wait no, make that contact HIIIIIGGHHH. They sure smoked up at CSNY). I'm not going to give anyone a drug lecture; that falls under the category of "it's your body, it's your mind, it's your life." Do it if you want. Just make sure you really want to. I'll admit, I've done a couple of things a couple of times. But if there's anything that really annoys me, it's pushers. You know the Steppenwolf song. He don't care how he hurts and who he kills. That's true of most of the dealers and pushers at my school.
Especially the kids that push things on other kids. If you go looking for it, by all means, do it. But don't actively recruit, especially if, like most of the dealers I'm acquainted with, you are a complete and utter IDIOT. Know your drug, know your source. If you don't know how pure it is, or even what it might be, don't do it. That takes most street drugs out of the equation. If you know where it came from and the person selling it is completely trustworthy, then go ahead. name a dealer who you trust with your life, health, safety, and mind. I'll let you think about it.
That's what I thought.
There's a kid at my school, sells shrooms, or at least tries to. Apparently shrooms are very popular around there, but y'know what else? I know what any hallucinogen can do to you. These people are not paying attention to set and setting. Almost every Monday, there's a story of a really bad trip at a party. Think about the worst nightmare you have ever had. Now make it ten times worse, and you can't wake up from it. That's a bad trip. Psilocybin trips last 4-6 hours. The average nightmare or dream only lasts up to an hour. LSD and LSA trips last 6-12 hours, with off-baseline feeling reported for up to a day.
Set and setting are very important. Don't just eat a magic mushroom pizza at a party. If you do and you get eaten by the couch, sucked into a black hole, and ripped to pieces by ethereal demons, don't come crying to me. That is an actual trip report. From a teacher at our school, back when he was in college. When used with the right intent, expectations, and environment, psychedelics can be an amazing experience. Unlike many drugs, they have the potential to go either way, though. They are what you make of them, and what you let them be.
Plus, I know the guy who grows and sells the mushrooms. Not well, but I know him well enough that I wouldn't trust him to cook a hamburger right, let alone do the entire mushroom-growing process correctly. Any small amount of contamination can be deadly. If you're growing them yourself, you will be more careful than if you're out for a quick buck. If you're out for a quick buck, you're likely to ignore or try and harvest around a yellow or green spot, or god help the people who eat them if he ever does ignore a black spot. If you wouldn't eat the mold that grows in the toilet, don't do shrooms from a source that you don't trust with your life. Just don't risk it.
If I ever decided to do magic mushrooms, I would not buy from this guy. It wouldn't be worth it. Even if you decide to do a different drug, be it cannabis, hash, peyote, LSD, morning glory, magic mushrooms, heroin, cocaine, speed, crystal, PCP, GHB, ketamine, or ecstasy, know your source. If it's just some random dude passing something out, don't do it. You have too much to lose, and the risk is too great. Some of those drugs are by definition dangerous, even if you do them once, get an uncontaminated dose, and dose "correctly." Others are safe if used responsibly. Ecstasy, or MDMA, will permanently alter your brain activity patterns, but it won't kill you in normal doses, and the potential for a horriffically bad trip is "low." I'm not going to say it will damage your brain, but is a distinct and very real possibility. Fact is, brains of people who used to roll light up differently on scans than brains of those who don't.
Know your body, know your mind, know your substance, know your source.
Never get high and drive. Never get in a vehicle with someone who is even slightly high, and don't let a high person drive, period. Do whatever the hell you want, as long as you know the risk you are taking, are prepared to accept the consequences if that risk goes bad, and don't put anyone else at risk.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Another public service announcement
I've been told that I'll probably die in an incredibly horriffic motorcycle crash. That's probably true, and odds are, my driver's-ed instructor (who has been an EMT and Paramedic working I-70 from Morrison to Evergreen for 20 years) will be peeling me off of the pavement, or pulling me and my bike out of the ditch.
Just to let you know, in Colorado, "ditch" means bottom of steep 200-foot embankment. In most spots along that stretch of road, it's more.
What do you call a young male motorcycle rider, especially on a sportbike (Buells or Japanese crotch rockets)?
An organ donor.
It's true. More than half of all hearts donated in this country come from braindead bikers, under age 25, predominantly male, predominantly sportbike riders (or guys who decided to take their Screamin' Eagle through the mountains--Harleys are cruisers, and when you ask them to do anything else, you're not just flirting with Disaster, you're taking her back to your place for a nightcap). Most of them weren't wearing a helmet.
Odds are, you will fall or lose control, and regardless of any road rash you may get or things you'll crash into (or have crash into you), if you die, you will die of blunt force head trauma. But your major organs will be just fine. That's the way most bikers die: head trauma.
Helmets can't prevent death that way, but they go a very long way towards preventing it. No helmet can prevent death in all situations, but in those situations where the helmet did jack shit, you'd be dead of other injuries. Wear a brain bucket, and odds are, you'll live. It doesn't make you Superman. You can still die a death of your own making, and you can still get run over by a semi.
Colorado has a sensible helmet law. Minors must wear a helmet, period. But once you are legally an adult, it is your life, and your business whether you wear a helmet. That's the way it should be. Not wearing a helmet won't kill anybody but you. It doesn't put anyone else at risk. The law shouldn't get involved in situations like that, and in Colorado, it doesn't.
I'm not here to tell you to ride safely, sanely, or with a helmet on. I'm just telling you two things: don't put other people in danger, and sign an organ donorship card. If you like to go 100 down the highway on your Big Chief 45, that's your business. If you want to take your Scout 101 up Pike's Peak in June to practice for the race, that's your business. If you want to go from Denver to Buena Vista in 45 minutes, by all means, do it. But make sure that you are not even remotely putting anyone else at risk. Families like to drive Pike's Peak. If you come out of the Picnic Area at 120 and even tag their station wagon, it will be worse tha hitting a deer. Hitting a deer in a car can be fatal. Hiting an idiot hellbent on thrills head on, with a closing speed of 150 will kill that idiot on the bike instantly (that's you, asshat). He won't have to suffer. The people in the front seat will probably die on impact. But the kids in the back won't. Oh, don't get me wrong, they'll die. But they'll die of their injuries, slowly, excruciatingly. Help won't get up that mountain in time.
Then when the ambulance does arrive, they will have to search for the wreckage. Don't think that that accident will stay on the road anywhere in the mountains, let alone on the Pike's Peak highway. You will all go off the cliff, down a "hill", and into a ditch. Remember what "ditch" means in Colorado?
Go ahead and take a corner too fast, on flat land or especially in the mountains. Just don't take anyone else with you. Remember that family you hit while you were getting your thrills? It'll be a closed casket funeral. As a matter for fact, for you and the people in the front seat, it will look like you drove over a land mine.
Go ahead and lay it over at 25 over. Go ahead and die a death of your own making. Just don't kill anyone else in the process. And while you're at it, save a life. Donate your organs.
No matter whether you wear a helmet or not, no matter whether you ride reckless or not, if you're on two wheels, check the organ donation box on your driver's license application. Each day, about 77 people receive organ transplants. However, 19 people die each day waiting for transplants that can't take place because of the shortage of donated organs. You are 32 times more likely to die on two wheels than on four. Whether or not you take that risk is up to you, but if you do and one day things go horribly wrong because of something you or some other bonehead did, your organs could save or improve up to 50 lives. Think about that. It's not like you'll be using your body anymore.
_________________________________
While I'm at it, let me tell you a story. Back in the mid-60s, my uncle was 14, and was riding passenger on a friend's motorcycle. His buddy rode safe and sane, and still got hit. The offending car was about the size of a Ford Fairlane, doing 90 miles an hour, drunk driver at the wheel. I don't think the driver even saw them, or if he did, didn't react.
The feller driving the bike just had some minor road rash. The drunk driver was fine. He t-boned the very back end of the bike. My uncle was thrown 250 feet, landed, and skidded another 50. One of his shoes was at the scene, still tied. The other was 500 feet down the road, also tied. He was wearing a brand-new, extremely puffy vinyl winter coat. That must have cushioned things quite a bit, but not enough. As it was, his whole back got ripped up and little bits of gravel imbedded in it. That wasn't the worst part, though. Think about the forces involed i getting hit, flying at 90 mph 250 feet through the air, then landing (pavement ain't soft, folks) and having enough momentum to skid another 50. Damn right. Paramedics were quick on the scene, and were able to start treatment quickly because someone at the scene could look through all the blood and say "That's Dale Trumbo!" He is now pinned together in three places; his right shoulder, his right leg, and part of his back. He was in a body cast for three months, and in a wheelchair for another six. Only by the grace of God did he survive.
Don't ever, EVER drink and drive, or get in a vehicle with anyone who has been drinking. Even if they're only slightly buzzed. If someone has been drinking, take their keys, call them a cab, or, if you're completely sober, drive them yourself. Do not let them operate a motor vehicle. If you wouldn't hand them a shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot, don't let them keep their keys.
As a matter of fact, if you are at a party, visiting or hosting, work the door. Take keys as a condition of entry. Even two cans of beer will put a full-size adult over the legal limit for DUI.
And even if you are driving sober, remember this rule: CHECK TWICE, SAVE A LIFE. MOTORCYCLES ARE EVERYWHERE!
Just to let you know, in Colorado, "ditch" means bottom of steep 200-foot embankment. In most spots along that stretch of road, it's more.
What do you call a young male motorcycle rider, especially on a sportbike (Buells or Japanese crotch rockets)?
An organ donor.
It's true. More than half of all hearts donated in this country come from braindead bikers, under age 25, predominantly male, predominantly sportbike riders (or guys who decided to take their Screamin' Eagle through the mountains--Harleys are cruisers, and when you ask them to do anything else, you're not just flirting with Disaster, you're taking her back to your place for a nightcap). Most of them weren't wearing a helmet.
Odds are, you will fall or lose control, and regardless of any road rash you may get or things you'll crash into (or have crash into you), if you die, you will die of blunt force head trauma. But your major organs will be just fine. That's the way most bikers die: head trauma.
Helmets can't prevent death that way, but they go a very long way towards preventing it. No helmet can prevent death in all situations, but in those situations where the helmet did jack shit, you'd be dead of other injuries. Wear a brain bucket, and odds are, you'll live. It doesn't make you Superman. You can still die a death of your own making, and you can still get run over by a semi.
Colorado has a sensible helmet law. Minors must wear a helmet, period. But once you are legally an adult, it is your life, and your business whether you wear a helmet. That's the way it should be. Not wearing a helmet won't kill anybody but you. It doesn't put anyone else at risk. The law shouldn't get involved in situations like that, and in Colorado, it doesn't.
I'm not here to tell you to ride safely, sanely, or with a helmet on. I'm just telling you two things: don't put other people in danger, and sign an organ donorship card. If you like to go 100 down the highway on your Big Chief 45, that's your business. If you want to take your Scout 101 up Pike's Peak in June to practice for the race, that's your business. If you want to go from Denver to Buena Vista in 45 minutes, by all means, do it. But make sure that you are not even remotely putting anyone else at risk. Families like to drive Pike's Peak. If you come out of the Picnic Area at 120 and even tag their station wagon, it will be worse tha hitting a deer. Hitting a deer in a car can be fatal. Hiting an idiot hellbent on thrills head on, with a closing speed of 150 will kill that idiot on the bike instantly (that's you, asshat). He won't have to suffer. The people in the front seat will probably die on impact. But the kids in the back won't. Oh, don't get me wrong, they'll die. But they'll die of their injuries, slowly, excruciatingly. Help won't get up that mountain in time.
Then when the ambulance does arrive, they will have to search for the wreckage. Don't think that that accident will stay on the road anywhere in the mountains, let alone on the Pike's Peak highway. You will all go off the cliff, down a "hill", and into a ditch. Remember what "ditch" means in Colorado?
Go ahead and take a corner too fast, on flat land or especially in the mountains. Just don't take anyone else with you. Remember that family you hit while you were getting your thrills? It'll be a closed casket funeral. As a matter for fact, for you and the people in the front seat, it will look like you drove over a land mine.
Go ahead and lay it over at 25 over. Go ahead and die a death of your own making. Just don't kill anyone else in the process. And while you're at it, save a life. Donate your organs.
No matter whether you wear a helmet or not, no matter whether you ride reckless or not, if you're on two wheels, check the organ donation box on your driver's license application. Each day, about 77 people receive organ transplants. However, 19 people die each day waiting for transplants that can't take place because of the shortage of donated organs. You are 32 times more likely to die on two wheels than on four. Whether or not you take that risk is up to you, but if you do and one day things go horribly wrong because of something you or some other bonehead did, your organs could save or improve up to 50 lives. Think about that. It's not like you'll be using your body anymore.
_________________________________
While I'm at it, let me tell you a story. Back in the mid-60s, my uncle was 14, and was riding passenger on a friend's motorcycle. His buddy rode safe and sane, and still got hit. The offending car was about the size of a Ford Fairlane, doing 90 miles an hour, drunk driver at the wheel. I don't think the driver even saw them, or if he did, didn't react.
The feller driving the bike just had some minor road rash. The drunk driver was fine. He t-boned the very back end of the bike. My uncle was thrown 250 feet, landed, and skidded another 50. One of his shoes was at the scene, still tied. The other was 500 feet down the road, also tied. He was wearing a brand-new, extremely puffy vinyl winter coat. That must have cushioned things quite a bit, but not enough. As it was, his whole back got ripped up and little bits of gravel imbedded in it. That wasn't the worst part, though. Think about the forces involed i getting hit, flying at 90 mph 250 feet through the air, then landing (pavement ain't soft, folks) and having enough momentum to skid another 50. Damn right. Paramedics were quick on the scene, and were able to start treatment quickly because someone at the scene could look through all the blood and say "That's Dale Trumbo!" He is now pinned together in three places; his right shoulder, his right leg, and part of his back. He was in a body cast for three months, and in a wheelchair for another six. Only by the grace of God did he survive.
Don't ever, EVER drink and drive, or get in a vehicle with anyone who has been drinking. Even if they're only slightly buzzed. If someone has been drinking, take their keys, call them a cab, or, if you're completely sober, drive them yourself. Do not let them operate a motor vehicle. If you wouldn't hand them a shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot, don't let them keep their keys.
As a matter of fact, if you are at a party, visiting or hosting, work the door. Take keys as a condition of entry. Even two cans of beer will put a full-size adult over the legal limit for DUI.
And even if you are driving sober, remember this rule: CHECK TWICE, SAVE A LIFE. MOTORCYCLES ARE EVERYWHERE!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Forever in our hearts
This is probably the closest to an obituary that my aunt Mary will get, outside of the Sacramento newspaper. I've had some time to get a grip on myself, and to get some perspective, and I feel I owe it to her to say a few words.
My aunt Mary was an adventurous, artistic woman, with a love for life. She had a healthy portion of her father's stubbornness, plus a little more. But even more than that, she had an infectious smile, the kind of smile that would put you at ease even before you jumped out of an airplane.
In fact, she did that once. To hear her tell it, it was a damn good thing that the chute would automatically deploy, because the first time she jumped alone, she wasted no time in passing out. I hear it was fun anyway.
We visited thrice, but I only really got to meet her once. Once I was too young to remember anything, and once I was saying my goodbyes, fresh off a last-minute flight, days from the end. The third time was when we really got to meet. I was 12, maybe 13, and all the kids were in Colorado Springs to sell an old settler's cabin we owned in Cascade. I say "we," but I should say "they." I'm one of the grandkids, and had no stake in the deed to the land. I got to be involved anyway, though, for which I am grateful. The cabin may have been a financial drain, an eyesore piled with junk, and a health hazard to occupy, but dammit, it was ours. The man who bought it was a good man, and appreciated it as it was. He didn't want to bulldoze and build a townhome. He wanted to evict the mice, drink from a well, live in a cabin, shit in an outhouse, and restore and maintain the building in a way the kids never could, after Grandpa shut down his construction company. He had the money. Asked how much we wanted, tacked on five grand, and signed the check. In the time that everyone was in town to coordinate, we didn't get to swap many stories, but we did get to swap impressions of one another, to get a snapshot of their personalities and outlooks. I'm glad I got that chance.
Seeing as my parents and I never kept in close touch with my dad's family, I don't know much about my aunt's life as it was for thirty some years, as we all agree we would prefer to remember her. I know it is an awful, evil feeling to remember someone you knew and cared about in pain, wasting away, suffering; not vibrant, joyful, very much alive. Funerals are too somber in our society, and they remember the wrong part of life: the end of it. It is no coincidence that Mary's memorial was likely closer to an Irish wake than your average American funeral. I'm still sure that there was not a dry eye, though. I wasn't there, not for the California one, which was held this past Saturday. Come hell or high water, though, I will attend the Colorado memorial, and do my best to remember this woman's life, not her death. If you don't know what it's like to have to do that as you watch a casket or an urn be lowered into the ground, and with it a part of you, be thankful. Be thankful that you haven't yet held the hand of a loved one as they looked into your eyes and mustered the energy to thank you being there, just being there, and seen all the things, the regrets, the joys, the melancholy in their eyes that they just can't find the words for.
Be glad that you haven't ever heard someone whisper "I wanted to tell you..." into their brother's ear, but too weak to finish the thought.
But I hope, I hope and pray, that you will get the chance to do all of that. That you will get the chance to say goodbye, no matter how much it will hurt, because trust me, if you have the chance and waste it, it will hurt even more. And if you don't get the chance, I hope you do get the chance to say goodbye, even if it's just to a set of words carved into Pikes Peak granite.
Mary was a talented artist, working in many mediums, including charcoal, pen & ink, paint, and sculpture. She saw beauty in her surroundings everywhere she went. She and her partner of many years, Debbie, traveled every chance they got. If I said she lived even a mildly dull life, I'd be a liar. Even as she knew she was dying, Mary insisted upon going to see Zion and Bryce Canyon. It was a tremendous effort, but they managed it. I can only imagine how much better it must have been to be able to see the desert southwest during a time when most people would only be watching the other wall at home. If you've never seen the rock formations of Utah and you ever get the chance, take it. Just take it, because you might not get another. They are breathtakingly beautiful, and have an almost spiritual air to them.
It tears me apart to know that even her last wish was cut short, that aunt Mary never got to see Bryce. But I know that almost everyone Mary cared about was there for her before the end. I saw the pure love with which Debbie looked upon my aunt, and even though she was a pillar of strength in front of everyone, I'm sure she cried the most of all of us. But I'm just as sure that she never let Mary hear her do it.
The last time I saw her alive, if that state of limbo can truly be called life, was on June 3, 2008. I'm not all that religious, but the fact that I met a minister on the plane back home is no coincidence in my mind. I didn't tell him why I had been in Sacramento, and he didn't ask. I didn't cry on the plane, but he could tell that something was bothering me, and had just the right thing to say. Mary Dwyer passed away at approximately 7:00 in the morning, June 6, 2008, with Debbie by her side. May she rest in peace, and join her mother in heaven.
She was not a sinner, and I'll thrash anyone who says otherwise.
There is a flickr page of photos of my aunt Mary, enjoying vacations, birthday paries, and the company of old friends. Email me if you'd like the link.
My aunt Mary was an adventurous, artistic woman, with a love for life. She had a healthy portion of her father's stubbornness, plus a little more. But even more than that, she had an infectious smile, the kind of smile that would put you at ease even before you jumped out of an airplane.
In fact, she did that once. To hear her tell it, it was a damn good thing that the chute would automatically deploy, because the first time she jumped alone, she wasted no time in passing out. I hear it was fun anyway.
We visited thrice, but I only really got to meet her once. Once I was too young to remember anything, and once I was saying my goodbyes, fresh off a last-minute flight, days from the end. The third time was when we really got to meet. I was 12, maybe 13, and all the kids were in Colorado Springs to sell an old settler's cabin we owned in Cascade. I say "we," but I should say "they." I'm one of the grandkids, and had no stake in the deed to the land. I got to be involved anyway, though, for which I am grateful. The cabin may have been a financial drain, an eyesore piled with junk, and a health hazard to occupy, but dammit, it was ours. The man who bought it was a good man, and appreciated it as it was. He didn't want to bulldoze and build a townhome. He wanted to evict the mice, drink from a well, live in a cabin, shit in an outhouse, and restore and maintain the building in a way the kids never could, after Grandpa shut down his construction company. He had the money. Asked how much we wanted, tacked on five grand, and signed the check. In the time that everyone was in town to coordinate, we didn't get to swap many stories, but we did get to swap impressions of one another, to get a snapshot of their personalities and outlooks. I'm glad I got that chance.
Seeing as my parents and I never kept in close touch with my dad's family, I don't know much about my aunt's life as it was for thirty some years, as we all agree we would prefer to remember her. I know it is an awful, evil feeling to remember someone you knew and cared about in pain, wasting away, suffering; not vibrant, joyful, very much alive. Funerals are too somber in our society, and they remember the wrong part of life: the end of it. It is no coincidence that Mary's memorial was likely closer to an Irish wake than your average American funeral. I'm still sure that there was not a dry eye, though. I wasn't there, not for the California one, which was held this past Saturday. Come hell or high water, though, I will attend the Colorado memorial, and do my best to remember this woman's life, not her death. If you don't know what it's like to have to do that as you watch a casket or an urn be lowered into the ground, and with it a part of you, be thankful. Be thankful that you haven't yet held the hand of a loved one as they looked into your eyes and mustered the energy to thank you being there, just being there, and seen all the things, the regrets, the joys, the melancholy in their eyes that they just can't find the words for.
Be glad that you haven't ever heard someone whisper "I wanted to tell you..." into their brother's ear, but too weak to finish the thought.
But I hope, I hope and pray, that you will get the chance to do all of that. That you will get the chance to say goodbye, no matter how much it will hurt, because trust me, if you have the chance and waste it, it will hurt even more. And if you don't get the chance, I hope you do get the chance to say goodbye, even if it's just to a set of words carved into Pikes Peak granite.
Mary was a talented artist, working in many mediums, including charcoal, pen & ink, paint, and sculpture. She saw beauty in her surroundings everywhere she went. She and her partner of many years, Debbie, traveled every chance they got. If I said she lived even a mildly dull life, I'd be a liar. Even as she knew she was dying, Mary insisted upon going to see Zion and Bryce Canyon. It was a tremendous effort, but they managed it. I can only imagine how much better it must have been to be able to see the desert southwest during a time when most people would only be watching the other wall at home. If you've never seen the rock formations of Utah and you ever get the chance, take it. Just take it, because you might not get another. They are breathtakingly beautiful, and have an almost spiritual air to them.
It tears me apart to know that even her last wish was cut short, that aunt Mary never got to see Bryce. But I know that almost everyone Mary cared about was there for her before the end. I saw the pure love with which Debbie looked upon my aunt, and even though she was a pillar of strength in front of everyone, I'm sure she cried the most of all of us. But I'm just as sure that she never let Mary hear her do it.
The last time I saw her alive, if that state of limbo can truly be called life, was on June 3, 2008. I'm not all that religious, but the fact that I met a minister on the plane back home is no coincidence in my mind. I didn't tell him why I had been in Sacramento, and he didn't ask. I didn't cry on the plane, but he could tell that something was bothering me, and had just the right thing to say. Mary Dwyer passed away at approximately 7:00 in the morning, June 6, 2008, with Debbie by her side. May she rest in peace, and join her mother in heaven.
She was not a sinner, and I'll thrash anyone who says otherwise.
There is a flickr page of photos of my aunt Mary, enjoying vacations, birthday paries, and the company of old friends. Email me if you'd like the link.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Crown of Creation
Ever since I was young, and I mean really young, I've been fascinated by nuclear war, mutual assured destruction, fallout, nuclear winter, radiation, missile silos, and all the paraphernalia of the one technology that mankind has to effect his own, complete destruction. I'm the only person I know who thought the last few minutes of WarGames was freakin' hilarious. With all our modern technology, social justice (and injustice), evolution, ability and enlightenment, that we would destroy ourselves in an accident of arrogance, all I could think to do was to laugh. Subsequent times that I watched the movie, the sheer hilarity and tragedy of the situation faded, as I knew that the good guys would win, but the idea that a few big horn sheep butting heads over what their economic systems look like could blow up an entire nonconsenting planet was actually kind of comforting. No matter what problems we have, if we can't solve them, they can just be wiped off the face of the universe. We could take the coward's way out as a species. So no matter how bad you think things are, they could be worse. You won't even have time to hide under your desk. We could turn ourselves into dust in the vacuum of space with just the push of a button, and it would be obvious that all our petty problems were nothing in the scheme of things. As the Merry Minuet says, they're rioting in Africa/They're starving in Spain/There's hurricanes in Florida/and Texas needs rain./The whole world is festering with unhappy souls/the French hate the Germans/the Germans hate the Poles/Italians hate Yugoslavs/South Africans hate the Dutch/and I don't like anybody very much./But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud/for man is endowed with the mushroom shaped cloud/and we know for certain that some lucky day/someone will set the spark off/and we will all be blown away.
There's a second verse, but you get the point. "What nature doesn't do to us will be done by our fellow man."
Nevil Shute's novel, On the Beach, is an incredibly touching tale of the entire population of the Southern Hemisphere having to come to terms with their imminent deaths. For them, there would be no quick vaporization. Instead they get the curse (or perhaps grace) of having to wait for the radiation to arrive, knowing that they will die a slow, painful death, down to the last man. I'll spare you the details, but I can name off the effects of various doses of radiation like Jeopardy contestants can name obscure inventors. And I'm okay with that. It makes me feel good.
Nuclear war is one of the most all-reaching, imminent, and evil ways of having your life cut short, before you thought you'd go. It's most evil because it was another person that decided to do it, and they're doing it to everyone. It's not a force of nature, a natural part of life. It's murder. All the things that we don't do because we will have the time to do them later, those are the things that we will regret when the doctor tells us we have two weeks to live, or when they drop the Bomb. The more time you have once your stone has been carved before you will have to lie under it, the harder it will be, unless you have enough time to get ready. As Tim McGraw sang, "I hope someday you have the chance to live like you were dying." It's in the middleground where the heartache and sorrow lies. When you have enough time to regret, but not enough time or energy to address those regrets. Or when you have enough time to get ready to face the firing squad, so to speak, and then you are given some more time. Enough time to build up some more regrets, before your time on this rock is finally revoked. That's where the evil lies. My late aunt had to deal with the first case. The people in Shute's book have to deal with the second. I don't know which is worse.
Don't read this book if you're having a good day. It will ruin your week. But if you're a little down, or more than a little, by all means, enjoy the fact that it could be worse. You could be in Falmouth a year after World War Three.
Feel better? I do.
There's a second verse, but you get the point. "What nature doesn't do to us will be done by our fellow man."
Nevil Shute's novel, On the Beach, is an incredibly touching tale of the entire population of the Southern Hemisphere having to come to terms with their imminent deaths. For them, there would be no quick vaporization. Instead they get the curse (or perhaps grace) of having to wait for the radiation to arrive, knowing that they will die a slow, painful death, down to the last man. I'll spare you the details, but I can name off the effects of various doses of radiation like Jeopardy contestants can name obscure inventors. And I'm okay with that. It makes me feel good.
Nuclear war is one of the most all-reaching, imminent, and evil ways of having your life cut short, before you thought you'd go. It's most evil because it was another person that decided to do it, and they're doing it to everyone. It's not a force of nature, a natural part of life. It's murder. All the things that we don't do because we will have the time to do them later, those are the things that we will regret when the doctor tells us we have two weeks to live, or when they drop the Bomb. The more time you have once your stone has been carved before you will have to lie under it, the harder it will be, unless you have enough time to get ready. As Tim McGraw sang, "I hope someday you have the chance to live like you were dying." It's in the middleground where the heartache and sorrow lies. When you have enough time to regret, but not enough time or energy to address those regrets. Or when you have enough time to get ready to face the firing squad, so to speak, and then you are given some more time. Enough time to build up some more regrets, before your time on this rock is finally revoked. That's where the evil lies. My late aunt had to deal with the first case. The people in Shute's book have to deal with the second. I don't know which is worse.
Don't read this book if you're having a good day. It will ruin your week. But if you're a little down, or more than a little, by all means, enjoy the fact that it could be worse. You could be in Falmouth a year after World War Three.
"And they can't do anything about it?"
"Not a thing. It's just too big a matter for mankind to tackle. We've just got to take it."
"I won't take it," she said vehemently."It's not fair. No one in the Southern Hemisphere ever dropped a bomb, a hydrogen bomb or a cobalt bomb or any other sort of bomb. We had nothing to do with it. Why should we have to die because other countries nine or ten thousand miles away from us wanted to have a war? It's so bloody unfair."
"It's that, all right," he said. "But that's the way it is."
There was a pause, and then she said angrily, "It's not that I'm afraid of dying, Dwight. We've all got to do that sometime. It's all the things I'm going to have to miss...." She turned to him in the starlight. "I'm never going to get outside Australia. All my life I've wanted to see the Rue de Rivoli. I suppose it's the romantic name. It's silly, because I suppose it's just a street like any other street. But that's what I've wanted, and I'm never going to see it. Because there isn't any Paris now, or London, or New York."
Feel better? I do.
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