"What are words for, when no one listens any more?"

I’ve been thinking about ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’, our country's National Anthem. Did you know the first stanza of the anthem is a series of questions?

"O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, o'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?"

The context of the lyrics change when you know they're questions.

According to de Wiki, "the lyrics come from 'Defence of Fort M'Henry', a poem written by American lawyer Francis Scott Key on September 14, 1814, after he witnessed the bombardment of Fort McHenry by the British Royal Navy during the Battle of Baltimore in the War of 1812. Key was inspired by the large U.S. flag, with 15 stars and 15 stripes, known as the Star-Spangled Banner, flying triumphantly above the fort after the battle."

As a Grade school kid during the 1960's, every time the National Anthem was played we all sang it out. I felt a strong sense of patriotism when singing it with a bunch of other kids, and I still sing it at public events every chance I get. When was the last time YOU sang the anthem? If it’s been a while, there are reasons:

1. The anthem melody isn't easy for many folks to sing due to its wide range. 

2. People are embarrassed to sing aloud in public, worried they have a bad voice, can't stay on-key or might forget the words.

3. Event promoters like to have the anthem performed in different ways to spice up their show. Whether sung or as an instrumental, it might use the standard tempo, be slowed waaaaaay down, or changed up so much that it's almost impossible to sing along with. 

I can sing the ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ really well, and was once given an opportunity to perform it in front of over a thousand race fans.

It was the final day of personal watercraft (jet-ski) racing at the 1996 IJSBA Skat-Trak World Finals in Lake Havasu City, Arizona (pictured above). The singer we’d hired to perform the anthem before the Pro Finals canceled at the last-minute due to illness. I was in the Announcing Tower when we got the news, and our Managing Director asked for a volunteer to sing it. 

I sang him the first line to prove I could do it, so he announced that I'd be a stand-in to sing the anthem. I belted it out over the PA system, on-key and without mistakes, and received a standing ovation from the crowd.

My heart swelled to three times its normal size that day.

At most U.S. sporting and public events, presenting 'The Star-Spangled Banner’ before the event begins is a time-honored tradition. It’s also common around the world for that country’s National Anthem to be played at the start of their events.

This past June, The Artist and I watched a big-time NASCAR race on teevee from Mexico City, and I witnessed the very thing that’s had me thinking about our National Anthem. 

The pre-race grid of cars was packed with American race team and NASCAR personnel, American drivers and their American families, friends, support staff and media. The race promoters played a traditional instrumental version of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’, but none of the Americans on the grid were singing it. They just stood there, some with hands over their hearts, silent and waiting for it to be over so they could start the race.

The promoters then played an instrumental version of the ‘Himno Nacional Mexicano’, and it appeared that every Mexican fan in the grandstands were singing out their own anthem, loud and proud. The contrast was startling.

I've seen it happen over and over. Every time ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ is played at U.S. public events, almost no one sings it. The crowd stands there, some with hands over their hearts, silent and waiting for it to be over so the event can begin.

Why is that?

In my humble opinion, it's because many people have apparently forgotten what it means to be an American in arguably the most successful democracy in the world.

Being an American is about a collective identity among a wide-ranging and eclectic Republic; one we all belong to. It transcends ideological turf squabbles and origin stories. It’s about an idea that different people can agree on a shared vision of hope for the future and working together towards that vision. 

That’s a big ask, especially now, but it's important.

Over 800,000 people each year apply for American citizenship, but that doesn't mean they aren't already Americans. In fact, you don't have to be a citizen to be an American. 

Our undocumented immigrant farmers and construction workers and gardeners and healthcare workers and cooks and office workers and painters and carpenters and mechanics and small-business owners and Moms and Dads and janitors and welders and arborists and teachers and food servers and secretaries and pet groomers and housecleaners and all the rest are a part of the American workforce.

The National Anthem’s lyrics are about a specific historical event, but time has given them more context and meaning than Mr. Key could have anticipated. Singing it aloud with others in public, celebrating our shared journey and vision, is an overt way to build a foundation of national unity and declare that we’re all in this thing together, no matter what.

As gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson would say, “This MEANS something, dammit!”

Every time The Artist and I attend a public event, you can bet that I’m singing our National Anthem, loud and proud. Occasionally someone else will join in, but I’m usually the only one around belting it out. I’ve even gotten smirks and dirty looks from people who think I’m showing off. Those people can pound sand, because they just don’t get it. 

Being an American is beautiful and complicated because democracy is also beautiful and complicated. It requires intelligence and dedication and honesty and hard work, and it doesn't matter where you or your parents came from.

The next time you’re in a public setting and the 'Star-Spangled Banner' is played, don’t worry about your lousy voice or forgetting a few words. Rejoice in the opportunity to sing out your appreciation for the democracy we all share, one that is always a work-in-progress, one that is ours... if we can keep it.

"A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort." - Herm Albright

(Special Note: when I found and listened to this version of 'The Star-Spangled Banner', I got a little choked-up. What can I say... it's amazing!)

All images, Gracias de Google images; National Anthem facts, Gracias de Wikipedia; 'Star-Spangled Banner' video by the United States Army Field Band and Soldier's Chorus, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube;  America... FUCK YEAH!

Meaty, Beaty, Big and Bouncy

"History doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes." - Mark Twain (allegedly)

Two recent news headlines sent me into the Mr. Peabody's Wayback Machine.

The first was about legendary rock band The Who performing concerts at the Hollywood Bowl this coming August, as part of their 2025 North American Farewell Tour.

The other was a story about the aftermath of their 1976 concert at Anaheim Stadium in Southern California. Shortly after that show, the stadium's Groundskeeper was surprised to find over a hundred small marijuana plants sprouting in the outfield, the result of seeds dropped on the turf by concert goers.

At the time, stadium officials joked that the economic situation at the stadium was not so bad that they needed to start growing marijuana.

I attended that 1976 concert by The Who at Anaheim Stadium.

During my second year of junior college in March of '76, a classmate named Steve mentioned that he'd bought Who tickets for himself and several friends. One of them had flaked out and do I wanna buy the ticket? The $10 price was right so YEAH. The show would be headlined by The Who, supported by The Steve Gibbons Band, Little Feat and Rufus featuring Chaka Khaaaaan. 

 THE SET-UP

The night before the show, five of us met up at Steve's house at 9pm, jumped into a large station wagon and drove to Anaheim. Suitably high, we landed in the parking lot and got in line behind hundreds of others. The gates would open at 6am and the concert would start at 6pm.

 My canvas backpack held bananas, a Hickory Farms summer sausage, three joints, matches, binoculars, a pocketknife, and a leather bota bag filled with Mad Dog - Mogen David MD 20/20 fortified Red Grape wine, a college favorite. Bottled water wasn't a thing in the old days.

The first few hours of waiting in line were cool, with everyone partying, hitting on each other and hanging out to see THE WHO, MAAAAAN!!  Around 3am, a guy who'd been drinking Screwdrivers out of a plastic gallon jug began to spin in circles while projectile vomiting, spraying a 10-foot circle of boozy puke on everyone around him. Luckily, we were 15 feet away.

When the gates opened at 6am sharp, thousands of people poured out of the parking lot and swarmed the gates, so we became just a part of the mass pushing to get in.

It took us almost 2 hours to get within eyeshot of the gates. Everyone was being searched as they went through, with lots of alcohol and drugs being confiscated and tossed into dumpsters. Right before they reached the gate, people would take a final chug of booze out of an alcohol-filled gallon jug, then hand it overhead to those behind them. It was hilarious to see dozens of jugs being passed back to waiting hands, over and over as they got closer to the gates. The jugs seemed to float over the crowd.

My backpack had the bota bag and joints in the bottom and my flannel, the food and other stuff on top. Lucky for me the Security Dude only glanced inside and passed me through. When I finally got in, I'd been separated from my group. I wouldn't see them again until after the show when we gathered at the wagon for the drive home.

The Concourse was jammed with people streaming towards the field for a spot as close to the stage as possible, located at the wall in Center Field. I didn’t want to spend all day in that mess, so I scoped out a great vantage point on the second-level grandstand tier, right behind Home Plate, with a perfect view of the whole place. This seating choice would prove to be super-smart.

After a squirt of Mad Dog, a toke and a snackie, I settled in for a very long day. I scanned the crowd to try and find my group, but it was pointless. Far better was scoping out all the cute girls, watching the circus and staying high all day.

SNAPSHOTS

One: It became obvious that most of the people around me were winging it. They ran out of money right away because the beer and hot dogs were expensive, so they'd walk around begging for food. I was glad to have a bunch of bananas, and the summer sausage was a perfect protein to accompany the fine wine. I made sure not to flash my grub stash to entice beggars, but I shared my joints. There were always lit fatties being passed around to help maintain a constant Gumby head from so many different kinds of weed.

Two: Early that afternoon while scanning the mass of humanity on the field, I noticed a long-haired dude leaning heavily on a barricade next to a row of outhouses. He was wearing only shorts and sandals; his head was hanging down and he seemed to be very wasted. After a bit I noticed that he’d fallen to the ground. For the next two hours, I saw him there on his back, seemingly unconscious and broiling in the sun, with people stepping over him as if he didn’t exist. Finally, someone noticed he wasn’t moving, and he was carted off in a stretcher by paramedics, who had to push through the crowd to get to him and then push their way out.

Three: A few hours before the show began, I went to find a bathroom, finding only crowds of people and long lines. I kept looking and found one with a short line that seemed to take forever. Once inside, we saw the urinals were clogged and overflowing. People in some of the stalls were doing drugs and fucking, not even bothering to close the stall doors. A guy in line yelled SCREW THIS!, dropped his pants, took a dump in one of the sinks, splashed water on his ass and left. OK then… I pissed in an open sink and left too.

Four: The show started with a forgettable set by The Steve Gibbons Band, a UK-based group. Little Feat sounded good but seemed out-of-place in a stadium venue. Rufus with Chaka Khaaaaaan were brilliant and had the crowd dancing, waving their arms and singing along to their mega hit ‘Tell Me Something Good’. I watched their entire set with the binoculars and Chaka Khaaaaaan was a great stage presence in paisley bell bottoms, feather boas and a huge Natural hairdo tinted red.

Five: When the Who finally hit the stage, the place erupted in a frenzy. Fans were holding up signs that read ‘BEHIND BLUE EYES’ and screaming that request between each song, but the band never did play it... I wonder why? Dozens of people tried to climb the stage, only to be grabbed by Security goons and hustled off to the sides. When the band broke into ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’, the whole stadium seemed to be shaking. Our grandstand tier began to slowly bounce up and down because so many people were jumping up and down to the beat.

I was in the first row of seats at the handrail and watched the rail move up and down almost a foot. YEAH… NO. I scrambled up to the mezzanine, where the gap between the concrete tier and mezzanine floor also opened and closed. I watched the rest of the show from the mezzanine, convinced the whole tier would collapse. It didn’t. 

I was sailing in a blur of weed smoke, Mad Dog and rock music.

EPILOGUE

When the Who’s set ended, the hordes began to leave the stadium. It took me about an hour to get to the wagon, and soon all the others found it too. Steve was angry that I’d separated from the group, claiming that I’d ditched them on purpose. We all crashed out on the drive back and then he was mad about being the only one awake in the car.

It took almost a week for my gut to recuperate from eating all those bananas and a whole summer sausage in one day. You’d think the Mad Dog grape wine would be a good natural laxative but noooooooooooo.

I’d gone to a few other big concerts while in college, notably Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, Todd Rudgren’s Utopia and Alice Cooper. The New Year’s Eve Zappa show was great; the ushers in the stands took our booze bottles and emptied the contents into large plastic cups so we wouldn’t hurt anyone.

The Rundgren show was a surprise. His guitarist had an injured hand, so it was announced their set would be given over to Dr. John, who turned in a really cool performance.

Alice Cooper’s show was loud and fun and weird. He was guillotined on-stage for the final encore.

Lead image, Gracias de Google Images;  Alice Cooper 'Under My Wheels', video, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.

Cast Your Fate to the Wind

A few months ago, Hummie Mom started building her nest in the potted Ficus, about five feet from our den’s sliding glass door. The Artist watched her progress, both pleased and worried.

The Artist: “Those tree branches aren’t very strong, and the spot she’s chosen is really exposed and visible. What if a crow spots the nest and grabs the eggs like that one time time?”

Me: “Well… I reckon we just gotta trust her natural instincts and hope for the best. At least the feeder is only about a foot away from the nest and will be very convenient for her.”

Over the next week Mom fabricated a lovely nest, well-anchored to the slender branches, and then laid two small white eggs in the downy bottom of the nest. The last time another Hummie Mom built a nest there, she laid only one egg, which was a sure sign it probably wouldn’t hatch. It didn't.

Mom spent the next few weeks planted in that nest, leaving only to feed or avoid us when we opened the sliding door. We learned to s-l-o-w-l-y open the door so as not to spook her, but she'd always fly away when we stepped out. Every time I walked through the side yard by the tree she'd split, so I made squeaky hummie sounds to say ‘Hello’ because I knew she was nearby. 

I’m weird that way.

We watched the nest, waiting for the eggs to hatch like expectant parents. A stormy weather front moved through the area, causing the branches to dance around in the wind. Mom hunkered down and hung in there, protecting the eggs. After a few days, The Artist asked me to have another peek to see what was going on. Using a stepladder, I peered into the nest and was relieved to see two tiny bebbehs nestled in the found down. YES.

Mom sat in the nest most of each day for a week. Then we watched her feeding the kids, their tiny yellow beaks wide open, begging for more, with Mom zipping in and out all day. She might be gone for an hour or longer, knowing their warm little bodies could handle her absence. She looked almost regal when she plopped on top of them for a rest. At one point, she added about a quarter inch of height to the top of the nest to accommodate her growing family, the room addition a totally different color of found materials.

One day a severe windstorm hit our area.

As we watched the 50 to 60mph winds lash at the trees outside the den that evening, we worried about Mom and the kids. It was already dark, so using a flashlight we could spot the nest. The tree branches were being whipped around in the wind and the nest looked like a bouncing ball. If they were meant to survive the savage weather, they would. Nature can be like that.

The next morning, the nest was still there but Mom was gone. The Artist noticed a strange clump on another branch near the nest and asked me to have a look. On closer inspection, the nest appeared to have been snagged by an adjacent branch. I grabbed the stepladder to see if the kids were okay.

The kids were gone.  Were they launched into the windy oblivion by a snagged nest catapult? Did one of the local crows, who sometimes fly through the side yard, pluck them out as a tasty snack? I looked around the yard for little birdie bodies, to no avail. Mom didn’t return to the nest. 

The Hummie family was no more.

We were bummed that we wouldn’t get to see the kids grow and fill the nest with their little bodies, squeaking for Mom to bring them more food until they fledged and split from her pad. That’s how the circle of life works for the animals that live among us, surviving adjacent to our human world but totally dependent on nature, instinct, tenacity and luck. They either make it or they don’t… there’s no in-between.

The Hummie family got me thinking about human families.

In the USA, humans don't typically use found materials for building a home in which to raise their young. Birdy babies mature quickly and leave the nest after only a few short months. Humans require years of nurturing, time, money and effort before they leave the nest. It takes lots of money and dependence on every aspect of modern society for humans to safely survive and thrive.

Society provides the means and, in some cases, government assistance as needed. Food, shelter, medical care, education, employment, money… all the things that humans require. The government assistance is the result of a society having basic levels of empathy, compassion and understanding for its citizens. That's what taxes are for. Taxes are the price we pay for a civilized society.

Some countries do human compassion better than others.  If you want to understand what a government thinks is important, look at its budget to better understand its priorities and spending decisions.

I shake my head in wonder at how much of our country's critical social infrastructure has been and continues to be dismantled and deleted by the current Administration under the guise of eliminating waste, fraud and abuse. They slash away at the crucial support that every human needs to survive, all in the interest of saving money to rationalize gigantic tax breaks for the wealthiest one percent of us

They value money over people. Wealth is more important to them than the health and well-being of human beings. They act as if all the money is theirs, not ours, and they'll use it to enrich themselves at our expense.

Trickle-down economics, as usual. It's the Number One reason that a government should never be run like a business.

I can't predict what's gonna happen next for us humans.

What I do know is that another Hummie Mom has already started to grab parts of the nest, most likely building her own in a nearby tree. She prolly saw ours while feeding a foot away from it, so good for her. She's keeping it in the 'hood, and I love the fact that so many critters have chosen our small patch of Earth to make their homes in. 

Mother Nature provides for the creatures who depend on her, using their own instincts, determination, luck and will to survive. Results may vary. Nature can be like that.

Humans need more. Much more. Of the millions of species on this planet, humans are the only ones that require the direct intervention and support of society to survive. I wonder if and when we'll ever finally realize it and treat each other with the dignity and respect every human being deserves? 

Magic 8-Ball says:

"It is well to remember that the entire population of the universe, with one trifling exception, is composed of others." - John Andrew Holmes, poet and educator (1904-1962)

Magic 8-Ball image, gracias de Google Images; all other images by the Author and The Artist; Vince Guaraldi Trio 'Cast Your Fate to the Wind' video, muchisimas gracias de You Tube. 

Freedom of Choice

 

                   

Dateline: Inauguration Day, January 20, 2025

Starting today, Donald J. Trump will be the 47^th President of the United States. I’m not happy about it, but that’s how democracy works.  As Jon Stewart once said, “Losing an election is supposed to taste like a shit sandwich.”

Elections have consequences, right?

Starting today, we'll embark on our journey with a Convicted Felon as the Commander-in-Chief.  With that in mind, I’ll be adjusting to the impending crazy in my own way.

Starting today, I’ll always carry copies of my Birth Certificate and Social Security card.  I never thought that’d be necessary in the country where my father and I were born.  47’s threat of mass deportations for undocumented immigrants and their families echoes the threats made by the Nazis in 1930’s Germany.

Don't believe me?  Look it up. 

Starting today, everyone with a Hispanic surname like mine will be profiled and suspect, especially here in California.  Although not a guarantee I won’t be whisked away by a Tom Homan Goon Squad, at least I’ll have documents indicating my citizenship as a hedge against being thrown in a deportation camp.

Starting today, I'll consider anyone who supports 47 as being members of a cult. That's the only rational explanation for why they chose a liar, a predator, a racist, a traitor, and a convicted felon in November. Their choice could have been for a former prosecutor, District Attorney, Attorney General, Senator and Vice-President. You know... someone with strong moral character and a belief in the rule of law.  

They chose 47 instead because they’re in a cult. Again.

Starting today, I'll treasure the unbreakable bonds I have with many MAGA family and friends.  We've all lived different lives with different experiences, and politics is just a sliver of our shared existence. My love for others is far stronger than the turbulent seas of political ideology, and I need them to help me stay on the course that I chose. We all do.

Starting today, I’ll find ways to help the Yoots learn more about American History. I might read history picture books to Little Ones, or present speeches by American historical figures at middle schools or participate in roundtable discussions at high schools and libraries.  I hope the amazing true stories of our nation’s journey will spark their interest in American history and, with any luck, help to create enlightened, informed and active participants in democracy.

Starting today, I'll thank every immigrant I meet for choosing the USA to live, work and thrive in. They're a bigly part of what makes America great. We’re a nation of immigrants, and we must all realize how much we depend on the humanity of everyone else. It doesn't matter where we came from. We are here... together.

E pluribus unum.

Starting today, I’ll do everything I can to push back against the violent and unhinged rhetoric of MAGA World.  As Isaac Asimov said, “Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.” 

What are we… rabid wolverines?

Starting today, a Convicted Felon will be leading our nation. I’m not happy about it, but that's how democracy works. I can’t control much of what’s gonna happen. However, starting today I choose to be as informed, engaged, upbeat and positive as possible... to be the best citizen I can be... and to work as hard as possible to keep the rabid wolverines at bay.  These things I can do.

That’s my Freedom of Choice.

Todas las imagenes, gracias a Google Imagenes; videos de DEVO 'Freedom of Choice' y The Beach Boys 'Sail On sailor', muchas gracias a Youtube.

The Way I Walk

I love to walk. I'm a Walking Man.

My 89-year-old Father walks several miles every morning, unless the Idaho winter or a gimpy leg keeps him indoors. He's a Walking Man.

My Grandfather was a long-time Walking Man at 93-years-old until an errant driver tagged him while crossing the street.  He survived but knew being confined to a wheelchair wasn't for him, so he stopped eating and rolled into eternity. He was a Walking and Rolling Man.

My Great-Grandmother was (we're told) walking from Mexico City to the Texas border when my Grandfather was born. She was a Walking Mom.

My people... we walk.

Picture this: a typical school day morning in La Puente, California in the late 1960’s.

Our house was located just outside the zone where the school buses transported kids. This meant I walked (or rode my bike) to school almost every weekday until I got my license at 16. My schools were all about a mile from home, so walking was no big deal, even as a third-grader.

I attended Willow Junior High School from September 1968 to June 1970. The daily morning walk was down Sunset Avenue, then onto Nelson Avenue for a mile to the corner of Nelson and Willow Avenue, where the school was located. I don’t recall ever riding my bike to Willow.

I wonder why?

I normally left the house around 7am. Walk the block, then right on the street with neighborhood border walls on my side and commercial buildings on the other. In fact, that side of Nelson was in the City of Industry, with the middle of Nelson serving as the borderline with La Puente. There were no sidewalks on that side of the street.

When I reached Tonopah Ave., I turned right and continued to Roger’s house, where I’d ring the doorbell and his mom would let me in. She was really nice. Their living room was open and bright, with jazz or classical music playing throughout the house. We’d leave and pick up Donnie next door, and sometimes Don would join us if he saw us rounding the cul-de-sac in front of his house. As we made our way back to Nelson, sometimes Rick would join us.

Kenny also lived on Tonopah, and occasionally we all loaded into his older sister’s Volkswagen Beetle for a ride to Willow before she went on to school. Her car had semaphore turn signals built into the b-pillars, which always cracked me up when they popped out.

Most mornings we walked together down Nelson, talking about cars and girls and telling jokes and just being Youngs. At Orange Avenue, across Nelson and just behind the liquor store, was a pickle factory with high fences that protected giant wooden vats of brining pickles. The aroma of vinegar and dill was VERY strong at that corner, all the time.

After another quarter-mile, we’d reach an open gate to the school at the corner of Nelson and Willow. During the daily 10am nutrition break, a catering truck would park on Nelson at the open gate and we could buy donuts, fruit, snacks, juice and candy. What the school didn’t know was the driver also sold small matchboxes filled with weed shake for a dollar. I knew a few guys that bought the weed-filled boxes, although I never did. 

I wonder why?

I walked this walk almost every morning and afternoon. Occasionally I’d walk a girl home from school, which could take me in a completely different direction. 

One afternoon, there was a big ruckus in the liquor store parking lot at Nelson and Orange, with police cars and fire engines in the street. When I reached the corner where a bunch of people were standing, I saw a burned-out Mercury Cougar sitting in the middle of the lot, still smoking heavily and being doused by a fireman. The driver’s door was wide open, where a totally burned-up body sat behind the wheel, looking like a giant pile of used charcoal. We learned later that the guy had come out of a bar in the adjacent strip mall, got into his car and torched himself. It was shocking and tragic, but also very weird and cool.

School buses... or rather, the seeming lack thereof... prompted this story.

I rarely see school buses anymore, with the notable exception of the short buses that are mostly reserved for special-needs students, just like they always were. Many parents now drive their kids to school, which results in long lines of cars queuing up at schools in the mornings and afternoons.

A local Christian school near my home, situated deep in a residential area, is causing real problems for the homeowners because of all the cars clogging the streets to line up for the daily offspring transport. This gridlock has led to blocked driveways, harsh words, flipped fingers and the occasional bumper nudge to make a point. Cops have been called on occasion, with brawls usually avoided. Usually.

I know it’s prolly different in other areas, but that’s not this.

Most newer residential neighborhoods have fewer local schools within walking distance. The e-bikes zipping around everywhere are a good way to get there, and it’s rare to see kids riding old-school pedal-power bikes anymore. I reckon the daily private limo ride to school is a natural solution for lots of them, with long lines of cars as a result. 

What happened to daily school buses for kids who don’t live close enough to walk?

Most of the blame lies with the venerable Proposition 13, which has limited property tax increases in California since 1978. Even though the state's population has skyrocketed, funding for school transportation hasn't and schools are no longer mandated by law to provide buses except when equity access issues are involved.

Short buses.

According to the Federal Highway Administration, only about 2% of California students use a bus to get to school, while 68% ride in a private vehicle.

The costs associated with maintaining, staffing, operating and insuring a fleet of buses is astronomical. Since we fund public schools via local tax dollars, there’s a huge disparity of funding based on income, and schools struggle to make ends meet. It stands to reason they'd leave the task of getting kids to school up to the parents.

The only solution to this issue is money, which most parents aren’t willing or able to cough up. Legislative efforts to change the laws and increase school funding have failed repeatedly. For the time being, there’s no incentive for local, state or federal powers to help public schools beyond what is required by law.

I wonder why?

When I think about the kids in those long lines of cars, I feel bad for them. Buses would help bigly, but that ain't gonna happen anytime soon. Walking to school is one of the few ways left for kids to socialize in an uncontrolled environment without parental or authority figures around. Sadly, with small neighborhood schools a thing of the past, walking to school also seems to have fallen out of favor.

The memories of walks to and from Lassalette Elementary, Willow Junior High and La Puente High are bright 8mm films in my head, daily journeys that represented freedom… autonomy… self-reliance… self-confidence. 

These days, my early-morning Old Man Walks resonate with those school days, and I relish a brisk walk in the breaking dawn. Most important now is to stay on my side of the walkway, lest I get clipped by one of those kids on an e-bike... zipping along at 15 mph, handlebar in one hand and mobile phone in the other, living their best life before they've even realized how crazy lucky they are.

If I was their age, for sure I'd be on one too... slicing through traffic, popping block-long wheelies, rolling in co-ed wolf packs... the stuff of modern youthful exuberance. When I wanna roll, I'll stick to my $10 yard sale pedal-power beach cruiser, with a bucket on my noggin and a big grin on my mug. 

I'm just glad I still love to walk and have the desire and ability to do so. That's why I walk the way I walk... one foot after the other.

I'm a Walking Man.

All images, Gracias de Google Images; Robert Gordon & Link Wray 'The Way I Walk' video, Gracias de YouTube; motivation to walk every day, Muchisimas Gracias de Manuel A. Macias Sr. and Manuel A. Macias Jr... Veteranos.

The Four Commandments

 

I first learned about the Four Commandments as a high school Freshman taking a Senior-level Cultural Anthropology class in 1970. Thanks to my Junior High school Science teacher and so-called 'high scholastic potential', I was able to take the class as part of the MGM (Mentally Gifted Minor) curriculum. 

You know... science geeks.

On the first day of high school, I entered that classroom and was confronted by a large pile of desks in the middle of the room, with other students standing along the walls or sitting on the floor. Eventually the room filled up and the bell rang, but no teacher was in sight.

After a few uneasy minutes looking at the desk pile, I decided (as a stupid Freshman and Boy Scout) to start pulling desks off the pile and setting them upright so the girls had a place to sit. Some of the other guys did the same thing, and in five minutes all the desks were righted and fashioned into a ragged semi-circle facing the chalkboard, with everyone seated. 

A few moments later, teacher Alan Eggleston walks in and mock-berated us for being soooo programmed and conditioned by society that we subconsciously set up the room in the culturally-acceptable schoolroom format. That first day of class set the tone for the next two semesters of a fantastic educational experience.

Mr. Eggleston's class was an eye-opener for me, but the Four Commandments I learned wasn't from the class per se. Rather, it was from a few issues of 'National Lampoon' Magazine that a classmate loaned me to read.

Typical Lampoon Cover

One of them had a satirical article about modern society under the Nixon Administration, how the Vietnam War would last forever, and that many young American males had decided to go full-nihilist and follow four simple lifestyle rules to protest their new role as draftable cannon fodder:

1. Eat it.  2. Smoke it.  3. Fuck it.  4. Break it.

This totally cracked me up, and National Lampoon became a reading staple for me through high school, college and beyond.

Fast-forward to the latter stages of 2024 and the alarming results of the recent Presidential election. 

There's lots of blame going around about how this happened, but it really doesn't matter. What DOES matter is that while over 150 million people cast ballots this year, almost 100 million eligible voters didn't even bother to vote. That fact seems to have slid by almost unnoticed, but I think it may be the most important.

Why don't all those people vote? After much consideration, I have a plausible answer: they simply don't care that much about voting, the single most-important role every American citizen must play in a functioning democracy. That leads to the next question: why don't they care about voting? IMHO, that's an easy one to answer.

They don't vote because they have little to no understanding about why it's such an important aspect of our civic duty as American citizens. Big 'D' Democracy has no discernible meaning or impact in their lives, so they blow off voting because they CAN... no biggie, right?

That's a direct link to the new Four Commandments.  The old Ten Commandments are officially null and void, especially considering the character of the person who'll be running the Gummint starting in January 2025.

A large swath of Americans aren't invested in voting because they know almost nothing about why they need to know. We've allowed an entire generation of students to graduate from high school without a basic knowledge of U.S. history, government, or civic responsibility. 

A high school Diploma is no longer a guarantee that Graduating Seniors have a clue about how and why their government works. It doesn't really matter to them one way or the other, because what they don't know is a lot.

 The Four Commandments:

1. Eat it: consume whatever you want, as much as you want, whenever you want, no matter what it is. Deny yourself nothing, make sure you get yours and to hell with everyone else. 

2. Smoke it: tune out and turn off reality in any and every way possible. Ignore anything that doesn't specifically impact your life. Become a slave to the digital algorithm overlords and dig your individual rabbit hole to live in. Nothing matters if you can't/don't/won't see it.

3. Fuck it: Screw anything that moves, physically or otherwise. Use it up, burn it out, wear it out, make it yours and no one else's because why not? If your individual wants and needs are fulfilled, WINNER!

4. Break it: If you don't like something, go ahead and destroy it as long as it doesn't directly impact your life. Zero-sum game, baby. If someone else gains, you lose... so make sure you break it and at least THEY won't get it.

These are self-inflicted conditions that have festered for decades. High schools have become teen babysitting factories that generally produces barely-educated, non-reading, clueless adults to be sucked into the labor pool that needs (for now, anyways) placid and compliant worker drones to create wealth for the monied oligarchs. Is that harsh? Boo hoo, too bad, so sad.

"If a Nation expects to be ignorant and free, it expects what never was and never will be." - Thomas Jefferson

The solution: begin at the beginning. Rethink the way we teach all students about their civic responsibility as citizens. Make it matter. Raise the level of American History and U.S. Government studies in every public Grade and High school in the country to the same level we now focus on digital skills and sports. With that fundamental knowledge in their brain's soft drive, at least they'll know why their vote is important when they reach voting age. 

Note: this is not indoctrination - it's education. This is what public schools are supposed to do.

Maintain a high level of Civics education all through high school. If a student can be a Letterman in Football or Wrestling, why not a similar achievement award for U.S. History or Citizenship? Aren't those areas at least as important to incentivize as sports?

Boy Scout Citizenship Merit Badges

Prior to graduating, every high school Senior must also pass the same random 10-question test that every immigrant must pass to gain U.S. Citizenship. As I mentioned before, a high school Diploma is no longer a guarantee that the Graduate has a clue about how and why their government works. I firmly believe this kind of foundational knowledge will resonate with students for the rest of their lives.

Question: do you think our newly-elected POTUS could pass the U.S. Citizenship test?  Could you? Just for giggles, here's a link to that test:

https://www.uscis.gov/sites/default/files/document/questions-and-answers/100q.pdf

As as nation, we're already past the tipping point when it comes to the lack of civic knowledge held by a large number of citizens. Starting that Civics education as early as possible will eventually reap benefits towards everyone's future as an engaged voter. Not doing so will only ensure that we continue to devolve into the turgid mass of compliant drones the oligarchs demand. 

"The philosophy of the school room in one generation will be the philosophy of government in the next." - Abraham Lincoln.

DEVO was right all along.

Yeah... I know. The chances of changing school curriculums to focus more broadly on U.S. Government and American History has about the same chance as the Bible being taught in public schools or a convicted felon being elected to be President hahahahaha. Oh... wait.

Thanks to the many excellent educators I've had in my life, I have a love for history, the machinations of government, the complexity of culture, the mysteries of the physical universe and an everlasting fascination with the vagaries of human behavior. I believe educators should be among the highest-paid people in the country. Perhaps someday they will be, and our citizens will once again honor the hard work and wisdom required to teach the Yoots.

Until then... well, those desks aren't gonna unstack themselves, right?

All images, Gracias de Google Images; Iggy Pop 'I'm Bored' and Sam Cooke "What A Wonderful World' videos, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube; Teacher Teacher... teach me more!! Thanks to Alan Eggleston, Carlos Magallanes and Jim Ellis for changing my life.

No Country For Old Men

A day in in the life in early 2001.

It was a clear and sunny morning at Willow Springs International Raceway in Rosamond, California, an oasis (of sorts) located halfway between Mojave and Palmdale, in the dry upper desert West of Edwards Air Force Base.

As a Performance Marketing Specialist with Yokohama Tires, I'd been tapped to help shake down several new open-wheel race cars that would be used in the nascent Suzuki Formula Hayabusa Racing Series. Based around the Hayabusa motorcycle engine, a 1300cc monster that pumped out 174 horsepower, the lightweight 1,000 pound single-seaters promised to be a handful.

I'd spent the night before in a nondescript motel in Rosamond, my only real memory of it being the heavy footsteps of the giant Japanese guy from Suzuki's corporate office who was in the room above mine. He was easily 300 lbs., affable and funny when we met earlier that evening, and he seemed to stomp from one side of my ceiling to the other... all night long. 

Early the next morning, I showed up trackside with helmet in-hand to inspect the cars we'd be lapping on the Streets of Willow Springs, the so-called 'small track' at the facility. Our task: to ensure the cars were solid and ready to be leased out to prospective Andrettis with enough cash money to participate in the series.

The cars gleamed in the morning sun while being prepped by Suzuki technicians, eager to see how they'd perform in their first stateside track test.  My initial inspection of the cars revealed a surprise: the motorcycle-style manual sequential shift lever was on the LEFT side of the cockpit, Japanese-spec, so I'd need to get used to that for sure. Otherwise, a sweet little rocket that I was informed only really grabbed power above 8,000 RPM (!!!).

The plan was to do a few dozen hot rotations on the skid pad, in both directions, to heat up the Yokohama race slicks enough to head out onto the adjacent track. Then a lap or two of recon before serious hot-lapping. Simple enough, right?

I geared up and was strapped into a Red car like the one pictured above. While the techs started and warmed up the engine, I got acquainted with the cockpit. Test-shift the sequential gears up and down, test the clutch and brake pedals, snug up the 5-point belts and helmet strap, memorize the gauge placement and rev band, adjust the mirrors and wait for the wave-out onto the Skid Pad. Snick into 1st gear, revs up, slowly release the clutch and I'm rolling. The first dozen skid-pad clockwise circles go fine, so I reverse direction and do another dozen at higher speed, the Yokies squealing but sticking. Time to head onto the track.

I drove the first lap counter-clockwise at slow speed to familiarize myself with the track, an undulating asphalt surface that rises and falls, left and right, with a nice long straightaway. I kept my left hand on the shifter the entire lap to get used to it being on my left side, opposite most of the other manuals I'd driven before. At the end of that first lap, I decided to get my speed on.

OMG... it happened soooo fast.

No sooner had I accelerated into the second lap, I started the turn and reached down to grab for the downshift... with my right hand. In that split-second, I reached for the shifter that wasn't there, realized my mistake and attempted to switch hands, but it was too late. I missed the turn-in point, tried to brake but the semi-hot tires just didn't have enough traction and I left the asphalt, spinning out into the dry trackside runoff area, dust and gravel flying everywhere. An 'off' at the First Turn on the first hot lap.

A fair representation of the spin-out.

Once the car came to a rest, I sat there feeling humiliated and embarrassed, with the dust and dirt settling all over the car and inside the cockpit. How stupid was I, forgetting about the opposite-side shifter?! And on the first hot lap?! Surely, everyone on-hand watched me toss the car into the dirt, and I felt my face grow beet-red inside the helmet. I raised my right arm straight into the air to indicate I was dead-stick and needed a tow. Within a few minutes, I was at the end of the tow strap being hauled outta the dirt and back to the pits.

Before I'd even climbed outta the car, the techs were assessing the damage. Luckily, it was limited to a mildly pranged front wing, which they immediately took a rubber mallet to and banged back into shape. I felt awful, messing up their brand new race car, so when they finished up, I grabbed a detailer's towel and proceeded to wipe the car back to clean and shiny.

Suzuki Tech: "Hey man.. don't worry about that, we'll get it ready for you."

Me: "NO WAY... I tossed it off and bent it, so cleaning it up is the very least I can do."

That cracked up the tech, so I didn't feel so bad. For the rest of the day, I was the self-appointed Wipe-down Boy for all the cars, which I'm sure the techs appreciated. 

Humility is a good thing to have around race cars.

Within 15 minutes of my off-track excursion, I was back in the car and doing hot laps, mindful of the leftie shifter the entire time. After a while, it became muscle-memory and I didn't miss it again. When we switched to doing laps in the clockwise direction, the track felt more accessible and I started being able to really make speed, lapping faster and faster, finding apexes with ease. It took some realigning of my senses to keep the Hayabusa engine in the upper rev ranges, but that too became second nature.

The car was spectacular to drive fast, feeling like an extension of my body, going exactly where I wanted, giving me feedback when I pushed too hard. My head filled with the sounds of a high-revving engine, squealing tires and that sequential shifter snicking up and down, down and up. I was among a couple of other drivers that morning, and we jumped in and out of the four test cars for several hours, hot-lapping the whole time.

After a series of really fast laps in my original Red Beast, I pulled into the pit and climbed out of the car.  A tech called over to me saying "HEY, who do you think you are... Nelson Piquet?! Your lap times are great!" I had no idea they were timing us, but of course they were.

(Sound of my head swelling three times it's normal size)

Nelson Piquet, handsome Brazilian 3-Time Formula One World Champion

We broke for lunch, and thankfully it was on the light side because cornering G-forces and heavy braking can wreak havoc to a full stomach. Then it was back into the cars for more hot-lapping. So far, all the track time had been for serious testing and evaluation, with the results headed back to Suzuki Motorsports for analysis. At around 3pm, we pitted and the Formula Hayabusa's were rolled into the garage to be prepped for loading into the transporters.

Now it was time for some fun. Parked alongside the pit garage all day were several brand-new Suzuki Aerios, small 5-door hatchbacks in Easter egg colors, waiting patiently for us. These cars were bone-stock 5-speed manual sub-compact grocery-getters, not designed for being anywhere near a racetrack. Heh.

We jumped into the Easter eggs and proceeded to thrash them around the track in a buzzy gang, skinny tires squealing while cornering, inside rear tires lifting at the apexes, us drivers stirring the long shift handles, looking for gears. The speeds weren't that high, but it was absolutely hilarious trying to outdo each other around the track, sawing away at the steering wheel to stay on the asphalt. The term 'swatting at bees' is a good description of how much steering wheel input these cars required.

The crew watching us careen the Easter eggs around the track said afterwards that it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. 

I thought it was AWESOME.

By the time we finished having our way with the Aerios, the sun was ready to drop below the horizon, so we parked the Easter eggs and marveled that none of them had a scratch. Many of the Suzuki staffers were spending another night in Rosamond, so I said my goodbyes and headed out for the three-hour drive back home.

As a teenager in the early 70's, all I could think about was cars and auto racing and girls. As an adult, I lucked into a thirty-year career working in the automotive performance and motorsports industries, which accorded me the chance to drive all kinds of cars on everything from autocross courses in parking lots to high-speed race tracks. I could never have imagined I'd be lucky enough to have a day like the one I just described, let alone many many more just like it. Although I'm now semi-retired, I still have my helmet and fire suit. 

Legacy mementos... and they both fit, too. 

Right now, I'm looking at the K1 Speed indoor karting gift card on my desk, taunting me. Yep... it's gonna get used very soon. I'm an Old Man now, but  I can't wait to strap a bucket to my head and get my speed on again. 

Going fast RULES.

All images, Gracias de Google Images; Commander Cody 'Hot Rod Lincoln' video, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.