Trumping America

"It's amazing to me. A guy with the worst spray tan in America is attacking me for putting on makeup.”  "Donald is not going to 'Make America Great.' He's going to make America orange!"

~ Marco Rubio on Donald Trump

Historically presidential election years are characterized by truths and half-truths, partisanship, accusations, a fair bit of slander and enough melodrama to fill up several seasons of daytime TV.  They’re a Machiavellian daytime soap.  It’s popular to look back longingly at elections past and glorify them for having the dignity that never was.  And so we always try to lean on that nostalgia and the pretense that each upcoming election will rediscover statesmanship.  Yeah this election has squashed any hope of decorum. This election year a process that has at least historically pretended to having dignity has all of the decorum of a rolling barrel of random trash.  And that barrel was set in motion by the antics of one Donald J. Trump.  He came onto the political scene with all of the grace and tact of an exploding gasoline truck. 

Brief Notes from a Political Dreamer

I’m a dreamer apparently.  I’ve always thought of myself as being pretty matter of fact; pragmatic to the point of being stodgy.  I guess not.  Since I’ve hitched my political wagon to one Bernard Sanders I’ve been relegated to the ranks of the starry eyed idealists; Utopians with big ideas and small chance for success.  I’ve been told by the Hillary crowd that a vote for Sanders is tantamount to a vote for the GOP.  “We like Sanders," they say in that patronizing, I'm talking to an 8 year old tone.  "He’s got good ideas but they aren’t realistic.  Hillary has a better chance of beating Trump.”

The Quadrennial Games

It’s time once again for the quadrennial party.  You know the one.  That over the top orgy of backbiting, name calling, sore losers, graceless winners, allegations of cheating, actual cheating, xenophobia, jingoism, backroom deals, payoffs, under the table money and other assorted bad behavior.  Thought I was going to write about the Summer Olympics didn’t you?  Maybe another time.  This is about the presidential elections. 

Mountain Musings

“I believe that a man gets closer to God out there in the big, free West,”  ~  William F. (Buffalo Bill) Cody.

There’s something both invigorating and spiritual in sitting on a porch in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, listening to the gurgle of a creek not 10 yards away. Aside from that creek the only sounds are the wind and the occasional screech of a circling hawk.  I’m alternately reading and glancing up from my book at the red cliffs that overlook the cabin.  Bighorn sheep clamor on those cliffs.  Downstream the green, yellow and orange leaves on young aspens shiver in the cooling autumn wind.  They shine and shimmer like colored coins. 

Wow I guess I didn’t fully appreciate the quiet until I got back home to the San Francisco Bay Area and went to my gym a week later.  The noise was like getting whacked in the face with a baseball bat; clanging steel, grunting and shouting and of course the dreck and cacophony that the tone deaf call music.  Walking in I hunched over from the sheer weight of the din.

             Ante Up! Yap that fool!

Ante Up! Kidnap that fool!

It's the perfect timing, you see the man shining

Get up off them god damn diamonds! Huh!

Ante Up! Yap that fool!

Ante Up! Kidnap that fool!

In the locker room I got ready for my work out and said to myself in disgust that “I could eat alphabet soup and shit better lyrics.”  Maybe a little too loud as the guy a few lockers down shot me a look.

High mountain valley

Gridlock

                                                            

Jackson Hole - Horse Thieves and Celebrities; Cheap Beer and Overpriced Pretzels

We’d pulled into Jackson late on a Saturday night a bit disoriented, very hungry and too dog tired to worry about food.  Well the wife didn’t worry about food but I opted for some overpriced room service; but I repeat myself because room service is culinary grand larceny.  What we found in the morning when we headed into town was not the Jackson that I remembered from childhood when we visited on a family vacation.  Understand that I don’t have the faintest recollection of my childhood Jackson but I can state with positive certainty that my childhood Jackson was not this Jackson. I couldn't imagine that the Jackson that my parents brought me to was a haven for the 1 percent. 

The Little Cabin in the Woods

“My God, this place is at the end of the world,” worried the wife.  It did seem like a long ride up the mountain from the main highway.  It was unpaved and pocked with ruts and holes but it wasn’t horrible.  Hell, highway 880 in Oakland has worse stretches and deeper holes with the added hazards of drivers texting, putting on makeup and fussing about the morning coffee that just sloshed onto the console.  The rain was a bit worrisome.  How bad would this thing be if this light shower turned into a gully washer? 

Dropping Benjamins in Jackson

It was a 14 hour pull from Nevada to Jackson, Wyoming.  We limped into Jackson at about 9 on a Saturday night.  The grand plan had been to leave Fernley early and drive as far as we could and get a room for the night.  As far as we could drive turned out to be Jackson and Jackson apparently had no room to spare.  We drove past hotel after motel after inn and every one displayed that increasingly depressing NO VACANCY sign.  Uh, this was a problem.  My Jackson reservation was for the next day; at 3 PM to be exact.  I frankly had expected that we would end up spending the night in Pocatello or American Falls in Idaho but the allure of Wyoming and the Grand Tetons provided the adrenaline to keep me going.  Well, that and a river of Dr. Pepper. 

Goin to Jackson (Wyoming)

I'm goin' to Jackson, I'm gonna mess around,

Yeah, I'm goin' to Jackson,

Look out Jackson town. – Song “Jackson” ; Billy Ed Wheeler and Jerry Leiber. 

Okay, the song that Johnny Cash made famous wasn’t referring to Jackson, Wyoming but the tune rambled through my head as we made our drive.

It was a long pull getting to Jackson, Wyoming from Fernley, Nevada where we spent our first night.  Fourteen hours on the road but not all of it driving.  We stopped for photos, for food, for coffee, water or soda.  We stopped to stretch and we stopped to relieve ourselves of the coffee, water and soda.  We left Fernley in the black of the morning and arrived in Jackson in what seemed a blacker night. 

Teasing Tatanka and Other Travel Plans

Tatanka – Lakota Sioux word for American Bison (buffalo)

If a bear charges you after a surprise encounter, stay still and stand your ground.  National Park Service Advisory

The plans are pretty much in place.  The accommodations are all booked, the basic itinerary is set and in less than two weeks it’ll be time for us to over pack, throw fishing and camera gear and mountains of other stuff and junk into the car that we won’t need and will never touch and head out on vacation.  I’ll leave the boilerplate “out of office” email message that says I’ll have no cell phone or internet service while I’m gone.  You see this is all part of the new American work protocol in which your employer expects you drop everything, leisure, kids's birthdays, sex and death (a family member's or yours), if and when duty calls.  By saying that you don't have any service you're trying to sound like you're saying, "Gosh I'd really like to but I'm in the wilderness."  But what you're really saying is "Fuck off:" Everyone leaves the same basic message, “Hi, I’m sorry I missed your email but I’m at Silicon Valley and there’s no internet or phone service here.”  I mean really how many places are left where you have no phone or internet service?  Actually I know of one.  That will be the cabin in Montana we’re renting for 5 nights out of the two weeks we'll be gone.  It’s about 20 miles from the nearest town and there really is no phone or internet. 

Evacuating Suburbia

Throw out them LA papers

And that moldy box of vanilla wafers.

Adios to all this concrete.

Gonna get me some dirt road back street

~  From L.A. Freeway, Lyrics by Guy Clark

“Concrete and cars are their own prison bars”

~ From Toes, Written by Zac Brown, John Driskell Hopkins, Shawn Mullins and Wyatt Durette

Retirement talk has been revolving around the domestic circle a lot lately.  Mine, not the wife’s.  You see she’s been retired and according to her it’s the shit (that’s urban slang for she likes it).  I know this because she tells me it’s the shit all the time, quite often after I've dragged my worn out bones into the house after a day at the office and an hour on the freeway with a few thousand of my fellow Americans feeling like shit; about 10 pounds of it in a 5 pound sack (which is old school for suburbia blows).  

Reno Rambling - Too.

Reno's Peppermill; a mile or so from what’s left of The Strip's glory years.  In the sixties the strip was a glittering string of casinos and hotels; Fitzgerald’s, The Sahara (which would become the Flamingo Hilton), Mapes, The Nevada Club, Cal Neva, Harold’s Club and a full deck of smaller players. The strip has since been stripped. 

Reno: Rambling

Alright so it was less rambling and more gambling but I felt as if before we even got to Reno; before I’d finished booking a room, that I’d gambled and been snookered by our hotel/casino – The Peppermill.  The Tuesday and Wednesday before the 4^th of July were advertised at $59 and $69 respectively.  A good deal I announced to the wife and she said, “Book it,” and so I clicked BOOK IT.  The next page showed me that my grand total was over $180.  What the hell?  And there was the $15 dollar per day compulsory resort fee telling me that if I wanted to use wi-fi, the fitness center and pool, have a bed and get toilet paper in my room I would have to pony up.  Okay the last was an exaggeration but if the fee is compulsory why not put it up front in the cost of the room?  Oh but I know the answer to that question.  Because at first blush $59 looks a lot more inviting than $74 and so you rush to click the BOOK IT icon before anyone else gets YOUR room.  And now you’re at the page where it’s time to pay up and excitement has taken charge and you say “screw it” and you tap in your credit card number.  Oh I had second thoughts but in the end I reasoned that, hell its only 30 bucks.  Of course that’s how things get expensive.  You keep tacking on the “its onlys” until you've racked up the national debt – it’s the American way.  And so before even leaving the house it was Peppermill -1, American Boomer – 0.  

The American Adventure - The Open Road

It's July, 2013 and my wife Cora and I are taking a driving trip through Northern California and into Oregon. 

The wife and I have embarked on that great American summer adventure; that annual migration of the dog days; that paean to the interstate, the motorcar and fuel consumption; the modern day version of the pioneers’ tale – the road trip.  We've headed north from the San Francisco Bay to a distant, uncharted and exotic land – Oregon.  Okay, it’s not distant; it’s only 300 miles or so.  And it’s hardly uncharted.  After all I went out recently and bought a GPS so Oregon, the rest of this land and all of hell’s half acre are all pretty well charted.

A Terrorism of Indifference

"I would invite anyone in Washington to come look my patients in the eye and tell them that waiting for a flight is a bigger problem than traveling farther and waiting longer for chemotherapy."  ~  Dr. William Nibley, of United Cancer Specialists in Utah.

It came home to roost this past week.  The IT is sequestration.  You remember sequestration don’t you?  It’s only been about 8 weeks since President Obama and Congress foisted the sequester on the folks they’re paid to serve, and for the most part it’s been almost forgotten; by the public, by the media and most of all by the men and women who are responsible for it.  Perfectly content and comfortable with sequestration conveniently out of the news, they were no doubt equally disappointed when it came back to the headlines with something of a vengeance.

Glove Story

Donning a glove for a backyard toss, or watching a ball game, we are players again, forever young.~ John Thorn; baseball historian.

Its baseball season again.  Time to dig into the closet and pull out the glove.  I did that last year about this time and went through some moments of panic when I couldn’t find it, tearing the closet apart, shouting at my wife, "Cora, Where in hell is my glove?" 

"I don't know. I don't play baseball." she yelled back. 

Then I remembered that I’d loaned it to my son.  I asked him to give it back which gave me an idea for a present for his upcoming birthday. 

A Convenient Epiphany

In the capitals of our nation a person’s worth is defined by the size of his bank account, his clout or his political expediency.

There has been a mass epiphany within the ranks of the Republican Party's politicians.  For many in The Grand Old Party, the notion of gay marriage no longer poses the threat to western civilization that it did about 5 months ago.  Let me think, just what was it that happened 5 months ago?  Oh yeah, I remember, that was along about the time of the last election when the self-described Party of Lincoln got shellacked when it came to garnering votes from just about everyone who isn’t an old white guy.  And just for the record I'm an OWG myself. I just happen to be an OWG who doesn't relate at all to the GOP. 

What's Happened Here?

When did it all change?  Why did it all change?  How did it all change so much?  I grew up in the suburbs of San Mateo.  It was a middle class neighborhood in the hills above the town, on the San Francisco Bay Peninsula, about 30 minutes south of San Francisco itself.  It was the fifties and sixties; a time when we boomers lived the American Dream defined by well-manicured lawns, ranch style homes and the notion that we, the children, would live in a better America. 

A Sunday Stew

For many here in the States, the best part of Sunday is football.  Not so for me.  I’m partial to Sunday supper.  Sunday supper has its origins in Britain and Ireland where a hearty meal of roasted meat was served with a bounty of sides after the Sunday church service.  It’s remained popular to some degree in the former colonies, including The United States. 

Sequestering Morality

Emergency responders like the ones who are here today — their ability to help communities respond to and recover from disasters will be degraded.  Border Patrol agents will see their hours reduced.  FBI agents will be furloughed.  Federal prosecutors will have to close cases and let criminals go. 

~  Remarks by President Obama on Sequestration, February, 19th 2013

"A culture that victimizes it's weakest members is a culture in decline."  ~  John Barry of The Southern Tier AIDS Program.

We’ve been sequestered!  Or is it sequestrated?  I don’t know; either way it comes out to the same thing.  We’ve been screwed.  By our government.  Again.  Actually I couldn’t say whether or not I’m actually part of the “we” that’s being screwed.  I’m in the comfortable middle class and I imagine I’ll come through this without really noticing much.  If I decide I want to take a flight somewhere I might have to show up at the airport a little earlier; so I lose a little sleep.

Stepping Away from the Clif

“I don’t want to go to work on my last day,” she said wistfully.  “I just want to disappear.  I don’t want the sad goodbyes.”  It was the first emotion that I had really heard from her on the subject. 

It’s been a month since that conversation, though it seems like nearly half a year has passed.  We were driving to her office Christmas party; her last.  My wife’s last day at Clif Bar was just two weeks away.  She was retiring from the company that had just 32 employees when she first started 15 years ago; when it was still in the shadow of Power Bar.  Now Clif is a major player and the company boasts over 300 employees and still growing.