MAGIC BUS

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic” – Arthur C. Clarke, science-fiction writer,  futurist

I’ve enjoyed almost 70 years of conscious existence on this small blue marble. A really good one was 1970, when I was a high school Freshman taking a Senior-level class in Cultural Anthropology at La Puente High School. 

I’ve mentioned this class in a previous story. Please humor me.

On the first day of school, I entered the classroom and saw a pile of desks in the middle of the room, with other students sitting or standing along the walls. The bell rang with no teacher in sight.

After a few minutes, I began pulling desks off the pile and setting them upright. Some of the other guys began to do the same, and soon all the desks were facing the chalkboard, with everyone seated. 

As if on cue, teacher Alan Eggleston walked in with a giant toothy grin and mocked us for being programmed by society to set up the desks in a culturally- acceptable schoolroom format. That first day set the tone for the next two semesters of serious, mind-expanding education.

This story is about a very special day in Alan Eggleston’s Cultural Anthropology class in September of 1970.

We’d been discussing the concept of human culture, how mankind developed it, and why certain benchmarks of that development were so vital. In preparation for an upcoming class project, Mr. E announced a field trip we’d soon be taking. Very early one Saturday morning, we piled into a school bus and rode East on the San Bernardino Freeway and into the desert, somewhere between Cabazon and Palm Springs.

The driver slowed down, crossed the freeway’s dirt median and parked the bus on the Westbound side of the road. We got off the bus and trekked up the gentle slope of the alluvial plain that stretched in front of us. We hiked about a half mile, far enough away that we couldn’t hear the cars cruising on the freeway below us. The bus looked small and distant.

We stopped walking and were surrounded by rocks and scrub. After a few quiet moments, Mr. E addressed us as a group, his words muted by the wide-open desert:

“OK, you know we’ve been learning about how early man struggled every day to survive and thrive, which required him to fashion the tools to meet those needs. We’ve also studied how he learned to make them out of the natural environment he lived in.”

He raised and stretched his arms out to the desert.

“This… is the kind of place where ancient stone tools have been found. Today I want you to make your own stone tool using anything you can find that's a part of this environment. Take your time, consider the tool, how you’ll use it, and let’s get started!”

The search began for each of us to find an appropriate type of rock that would flake off when struck by a harder hammerstone. We formed search groups, and within 30 minutes everyone had the materials needed to start fabricating their tool. I chose to make a large cutting tool for skinning prey, which needed a sharpened side to slice and a rounded side to grip.

We started working away, sitting on the ground or on top of large rocks. There were a few banged fingers and rocks that shattered on first strike. We talked and laughed and made comments about each other’s poor chipping method. Soon the talk and laughter stopped, and the only sound was that of humans chipping on rocks.

Mr. E walked among the group, watching us chip away, quietly suggesting better ways to use the hammerstone, assisting those who were struggling.

 I was making progress and my cutting tool was taking shape. Suddenly, I had a strange feeling... almost an epiphany. I looked up from my work and listened to the sound of humans sitting in the desert, chipping on rocks. It was an ancient, visceral, primeval sound. I became unstuck in time. This is what it sounded like twenty-thousand years ago, when the Chemehuevi or Serrano or Mohave or Cahuilla or Tongva people were inhabiting these desert places.

                          

I felt a connection to those ancient people... people I would never know, but whom had suddenly come as alive as the people around me here in the desert. I got emotional thinking those deep thoughts, and it took me a few moments to re-focus.

I will never forget that feeling.

Alan Eggleston knew exactly what I was experiencing: a psychic pull across two hundred centuries. That’s why we were here. That’s why this trip to the desert, and his class, mattered.

Eventually, the morning waned and the heat rose, so Mr. E called time on our work. We gathered around, discussing and comparing our tools and their uses, with surprisingly good results for a bunch of teenagers. We headed back down to the freeway, ate box lunches in the shade of the bus, then boarded and began the long drive back through time. 

There were other class projects during those two semesters that dragged us back and forth across centuries, connecting to a shared humanity and opening our minds to new ways of thinking. I've always felt lucky that Alan Eggleston was a guide in my Freshman journey, and grateful that he remained a valued mentor throughout my high school years. 

Several Junior and High School teachers were critical to my formation into a thinking, questioning and understanding human. Without them, I could easily have veered off in another direction. I owe so much to Ruth Pechota and Scott Mitchell (Willow Junior High School), Alan Eggleston, Jim Ellis, and Carlos Magallanes (La Puente High School). It’s impossible to imagine my education without them.

Education is the Magic Bus that takes us to places we can’t get to on our own. Teachers are the Magicians that guide us along the way. They're far more important than any politician, corporate oligarch or religious leader. 

Look to the teachers for the way forward, into the future with open eyes and an open mind.

“The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.” – Plutarch, Greek philosopher, biographer

“I can make you the hamburger, but I can’t eat it for you. You’ve got to eat the hamburger for yourself!” – Ruth Pechota, Social Studies educator

Bus, alluvial plain and ancient peoples images, Gracias de Google images; Educator images, Gracias de Willow Junior High School (1970) and La Puente High School (1974) Yearbooks, from the writer's library: The Who 'Magic Bus' video, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.

SEATAC SHUFFLE (a.k.a., Adventures in Modern Air Travel)

Google Images photo

This is a true story. The Artist and I traveled to Boise, Idaho a few weeks ago to spend a few days celebrating my dad’s 90^th Birthday with him. The trip to Boise and the visit were great. The trip back to SoCal… not so much.

As our Alaska Air flight from Boise landed at Seattle’s SeaTac Airport and began to taxi towards the terminal, I noticed that jets were parked at every Gate around the terminal. I smiled at The Artist sitting next to me and said, “Hmmm… that seems odd. Wonder why the Terminal is packed with jets, and none of them are moving.”

It was a sign, and not a good one.

The Pilot keyed the intercom: “Folks… this is your Captain. It seems there’s a full ground stop at Alaska’s SeaTac Terminal, so we’re gonna taxi over to an open Gate on the other side of the Terminal. I’ll have more information for you once we reach the Gate.” A few minutes later we slowly drew up to an open jetway and stopped.

Once again, the captain spoke: “OK, folks… I’ve been informed that we’ve landed in the middle of a nationwide ground stop that has affected all of Alaska Air’s flights across the country, so no flights are leaving SeaTac until further notice. It’s an IT issue that has everything grounded for now. We found an open gate, but there’s no Gate Agent available to assist with disembarking the aircraft, so we’ll have to sit tight for a few minutes until we get some more information. Thanks for your patience.”

Although we’d landed at 5pm as scheduled, our connecting flight home to Orange Country was scheduled to board at 5:40pm, so this was the last thing we wanted to hear. 30 minutes later, the captain said “OK folks… still no Gate Agent available, so we’ll have to hang in there until we get one. Sorry about the delay.”

As we sat there in our jet, 5:40pm came and went. We were not amused.

Finally, at 6pm passengers began to disembark. I had nervous thoughts about our carry-on luggage, whisked away in Boise to be checked because there wasn’t enough room in the overhead storage. Once in the terminal, the Departures screen didn’t list our connecting flight, which likely meant we missed it. We began the long trek to the far side of the Terminal to assess the travel damage and see what we could do.

After walking what seemed like two miles, we arrived at the terminal Gate we were supposed to depart from, but our flight wasn’t listed on the Gate monitor. I went up to the kiosk and spoke with the Agent:

Me: “Hi… we just got off our connecting flight and I’m wondering if we’ve missed Flight 717 to Orange County?”

Him: “Hi… no, you haven’t missed your flight because everything’s backed up now due to the ground stop. Your flight is scheduled to depart from this Gate, but the time is still to be determined. We’ll let you know once we have more information.”

The Gate area was packed with people who were in the same situation as us. We found two seats, parked ourselves and waited. It was now 6:15pm.

People kept streaming into the Gate area, and it was filled with the sound of hundreds of conversations, dogs barking at each other from their portable kennels, crying babies and continuous PA announcements of flight delays and cancellations. As flights were canceled, people stood up, sighed heavily and headed out to claim their bags. The place was jammed.

At 7pm, our flight info flashed onto the Gate monitor and the Agent spoke over the PA: “Attention passengers for flight 717 bound for Orange County. Your aircraft is at the Gate and will be disembarking in preparation for you to board, so please stand by for the boarding call.” The Gate door opened, the passengers walked out, and the door closed behind them.

By 7:30pm, I had a sinking feeling. Since Santa Ana’s John Wayne Airport has an 11pm curfew for arriving flights, we’d need to board pronto for the three-hour flight to arrive before the curfew went into effect. Our Gate door was still closed. At 8pm, just as I realized we wouldn’t make the landing curfew, our flight info disappeared from the Gate monitor and another flight was displayed. I jumped up to look at the Departures screen and saw that flight 717 had been canceled. The Gate Agent announced that we could claim our luggage in Baggage Claim carousels numbers 13 and 14. We looked at each other, sighed heavily, stood up and headed back across the terminal to claim our bags.

Google Images photo

When we arrived at Baggage Claim, the place was chaotic. Hundreds of people were crowding the carousels, bags were pouring out of the chutes and Agents were pulling luggage off and stacking them in piles against the walls, roughly separated by flight numbers, with more luggage pouring out all the time. Many people were sitting on the floor along the walls. “Why is there no seating in here”, I wondered. I jumped between the two carousels, hoping to see our two bags, marked with bright red and green bandanas wrapped around the handles.

After about 30 minutes, we found a small side alcove where The Artist could sit on the floor away from the scrum. I headed back into the mess, looking for our bags on the carousels or in the ever-growing luggage piles. The Artist watched hundreds of pairs of legs shuffling by.

Photo by The Artist

By 10pm, I was getting desperate. We had no bags, no flight, no hotel room, and the thought of us spending the night on the floor of the Terminal filled me with dread. I decided to take another lap of the room and after only a few moments found our bags sitting next to each other on the far side of a new luggage pile, the colorful bandanas proudly announcing their arrival. I whooped out loud, grabbed the bags and brought them over to The Artist with a huge grin on my face. She smiled big, stood up, we hugged and headed off towards Ticketing to try and rebook another flight home.

As we trudged past the Alaska Air First Class Check-in area, I noticed an Agent standing there looking at her phone and went up to her.

Me: “Hi… can you help me locate the Ticketing area? We need to rebook our flight.”

Her: “Hello! Ticketing is down that escalator over there. Has your flight been canceled?”

Me: “Yep, it was canceled at 8pm. We’ve been in Baggage Claim for almost two hours waiting for our luggage and just found them.”

Her: “OK, well… so sorry for all the inconvenience, it’s been a madhouse since the ground stop began, but I’m sure you already know that. Let me give you some info. There’s a two-to-three hour long wait in line at Ticketing to rebook flights. You could try calling the toll-free phone line to book a flight, but I’m told there’s a five-hour wait to speak with an Agent. The online app is also not functioning properly, so booking online will be very difficult.”

Me: “Omigosh… that’s incredible!”

Her: “I know, and I’m very, very sorry about that. I have some advice for you.” She stopped for a moment, looked around, then continued softly. “If I was in your place, I’d work right away to book a hotel room near the airport, because they’re filling up FAST. Give yourselves some space to breathe, rest up, and try to rebook on the phone or the app from your room in the morning. At least you’ll have a good place to knock out after all this turmoil.”

Her advice turned out to be GOLDEN.

At this point I want to be very clear: every single employee we encountered at SeaTac was exemplary in how they managed an awful situation, one that happens far too often these days. They were helpful to a fault, upbeat and friendly, and never once lost their cool when confronted by anxious and upset travelers. Even the Agents in Baggage Claim, where a tsunami of tired travelers and luggage washed over the place, were patient, understanding and empathetic to a fault. They all deserve raises!!

We found an open seat for The Artist to rest while I called around for a hotel room. I was almost able to book a room at the Airport Hilton, but the phone agent said the room literally disappeared from her screen as we were finalizing the charges, and there were no others rooms available at that location. She offered to find us another hotel among the few that still had rooms and was able to book us into the Ramada, about three minutes from the terminal.

We jumped onto the Ramada shuttle and in a few scant minutes were standing in the hotel lobby. When Lobby clerk Jordan heard about our escapades, he said, “I’ve been working here since 2019, and although I don’t want to jinx anything, every year around Halloween there’s a huge ground stop at SeaTac airport. It’s kind of weird how it keeps happening!”

The hotel was sketchy, but the room was clean and well-appointed, with a coffee maker and a fridge and a big, beautiful bed. While The Artist got situated, I went downstairs to rustle up some grub. The small restaurant next to the lobby was already closed. The vending machines were out of bottled water, and the closest thing to actual nutrition I found was a Grandma’s chocolate brownie cookie that turned out to be excellent! The hallways on the first and second floors reeked of weed.

Back in the room, while munching on vending machine cookie, freeze-dried Boise peaches and some nut mix we brought with us, we tried to rebook online and on the phone. The five-hour wait on the phone was still in effect, and the online app wouldn’t allow us to book anything for the next day. After 30 minutes of no luck, I logged onto Expedia.com and within 10 minutes had us booked on a Southwest flight leaving at 1pm the next day, connecting through San Jose and on to Orange County. SUCCESS!!!

Picture this: two hours earlier, we were stuck in the SeaTac baggage Claim area with no luggage, no flight tickets and no hotel. Now, we were lounging on our hotel room bed, bags opened, clothing arrayed, sipping on a couple of Heinekens and rejoicing our newly booked flights home. How quickly the Wyrm turned!

Photo by The Author

After a solid five hours of sleep, a quick brekkie of dried peaches and the remnants of the excellent cookie, we boarded the hotel shuttle and arrived at the Terminal at 11am for a 1pm departure. The TSA line was long but fast, and the Agents were all in good spirits considering the Federal government shutdown meant they weren’t getting paid. We grabbed some McDonald’s, trekked to our departure gate, found an excellent uncrowded seating area, munched our lunch and waited to board the flight home.

The flight from Seattle to San Jose was fine. There were small babies on three sides of us in the cabin, but they were mostly OK. The flight from San Jose to Santa Ana included an eight-week-old puppy in a carrier one row behind us, but Mom had given her a Doggie Downer before the flight, which the rest of us really appreciated. By 6pm we’d landed in The OC, had shuttled to the car in the offsite parking lot and began the trek home, stopping only to grab some Orange Chicken and fried rice for our ‘welcome home’ dinner.

Photo by The Author

In the two weeks since our trip, air travel has become exponentially worse across the country due to the Federal government shutdown. All things considered, we lucked out. Sometimes, timing is everything.

 

Total cost for the 24-hour delay traveling home: $850, including new one-way tickets, hotel and parking. I’m just grateful we had the funds that allowed us to make alternate plans so easily. Many people did not. I’ve submitted a claim to Alaska Air for compensation, but I’m not holding my breath that we’ll see a penny for our troubles.

This journey gave us a number of new insights regarding modern air travel.

Why don’t they have seating in the Baggage Claim area? Surely the airlines know people have to wait for their luggage to appear, so why make them all stand?  Some of us are Olds, right?

How is it that every flight is now ‘completely full-up’ as we heard every Gate Agent announce. I remember not too many years ago there were ALWAYS open seats, so it’s obvious the flights are being overbooked to maximize profits. At all five Boarding gates on this trip, the Agents made announcements asking for volunteers to give up their seat for cash and prizes.

Loading and unloading passengers has become a royal pain in the ass. Why? Carry-on luggage use has skyrocketed because airlines are now charging passengers to check baggage, which means more people than ever are opting for carry-ons. This slows the process of getting in and out of the plane to a crawl while people struggle in the aisle and try and stash their bag up into the storage or find and pull it down out of storage. We’ve all been through it.

Airlines should wave fees for checked bags and instead charge for carry-on bags (not the ubiquitous personal item). This would incentivize passengers to avoid bringing their luggage aboard unless they really REALLY need to have it with them. Decreasing the number of carry-on bags will dramatically reduce the time wasted while loading and unloading the aircraft, allowing better scheduling all around.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, travelers should be as friendly, funny and empathetic as possible towards everyone involved with the airline travel process. Ticket Agents, TSA workers, Gate Agents, concession staffers, baggage handlers, janitors, shuttle drivers… ALL of them. They, like police officers and healthcare workers, are forced to deal with human beings at their worst, all day and every day. Watch a TSA worker smile big when you say “Good Morning, thanks for being here, NICE SHOES!” You may have been the first person that day to acknowledge their humanity, and that (as Martha Stewart says) is a GOOD THING.

“The key to a better life: Complain less, appreciate more. Whine less, laugh more. Talk less, listen more. Want less, give more. Hate less, love more. Scold less, praise more. Fear less, hope more.”  - Michael Josephson… philosopher, attorney, writer

Shelby Lynne 'Gotta Get Back' video, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube.

"What once were vices are now habits..."

"It may seem difficult at first, but everything is difficult at first." - Miyamoto Musashi... samurai, artist, writer, philosopher (1584-1645)

According to the latest year-to-year statistics, as of mid-September there were 10,480 gun-related homicides in the United States. Averaged out, that means approximately 43 people in this country were shot to death on Wednesday September 10^th, 2025.

One of those people was Charlie Kirk.

The motive of Kirk’s (alleged) shooter is irrelevant. Purposely killing another human being with a gun, even in war, is an act of temporary insanity. We’re the only species on the planet that kills each other with guns just because we can. In a nation with 350 million people and 400 million guns, what else can we expect?

A gun is a tool, designed to kill. However, guns don’t kill people… people with guns kill people, for reasons that typically don’t make sense to anyone but themselves. It could be for reasons of anger or rage or sadness or passion or hatred or malice or depression or because they’re drunk or high or stoned or sleepy or distracted or stupid or confused or just in no condition to be in possession of a loaded weapon.

This country is suffering from a dangerous addiction to guns and violence. We celebrate and glorify violence of every kind, and our reverential attitude towards guns makes it far too easy to use one in a violent outburst of insanity. Humans go temporarily and violently insane daily, because every aspect of our modern society is marinated in violence: movies, TV, video gaming, sports, social media, politics, religion, news, business, music. 

Implied, inherent and actual violence is in everything, everywhere, all at once. Guns make it far worse.

Violence with guns is our new religion. All kneel at the altar in The Church of the Blessed Bullet. Holy, Holy, Hole-y. Body of Glock (Amen). Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!

Many local police forces look like soldiers patrolling Fallujah. Children with Kevlar backpacks in hardened schools are drilled in how to respond to active shooters. Politicians use public funds to create private security shields to protect themselves from the guns they refuse to regulate for the public. Magnetometers are increasingly common at many public events.

Unregulated and unfettered access to guns creates this reality. Question: how many mass-shootings have occurred in the US since September 10^th? Is one enough? Are six too many? Inquiring minds want to know.

In his now-infamous 2023 statement, Charlie Kirk said, “I think it’s worth it. I think it’s worth to have a cost of, unfortunately, some gun deaths every single year so that we can have the Second Amendment to protect our other God-given rights.” I should note that both The Bible and The Constitution were written by men, not God. 

I feel terrible for Charlie’s wife and children, because their loss is horrible. I hope they’ll find the strength, support and courage to weather this tragedy. Many Americans are forced to do the same every single day.

The one thing… maybe the ONLY thing… that we can do is to finally accept that we’re living in the year 2025, not 1791. Needless death by gunfire should be unacceptable to every American. We must enact meaningful, comprehensive and intelligent laws relating to gun ownership in our hyper-violent modern society: training, licensing, registration, liability insurance and severe penalties for misuse. 

Make sure that modern humans, who are fragile and fallible and prone to bouts of temporary insanity, are as responsible for owning a gun in the same way as owning a car – no more, no less.

It won’t eliminate gun deaths, but it can and will reduce the carnage. It won’t be easy. The question is: Can we or will we do this?

Magic 8-Ball says the answer is unclear.

Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1791 to the Bill of Rights:

“A well-regulated militia, being necessary for the protection of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

Remember: we’re not shooting each other with muskets.

Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; Musket loading and Lynyrd Skynyrd 'Saturday Night Special' videos, Muchisimas Gracias de You Tube.

Rules of the Road

Note: this essay, has been updated from the original that was posted in 2015.

I used to engage in an extremely dangerous activity almost every workday that had the potential to seriously injure or kill me, no matter what I said or did.

I tried not to think too much about it during those twelve years.  I accepted the risks and did everything possible to increase my chances for survival. The odds were in my favor, but eventually my luck would run out and there wasn't a damned thing I could have done about it.

What was that dangerous and unavoidable activity that had me concerned about my personal safety?

It’s called ‘driving my van to work on the freeway’.

Think about it: I’m driving a 3500-pound projectile at 75mph alongside dozens of other projectiles, all being driven by people who could be drunk or high or stoned or sleepy or depressed or distracted or angry or upset or insane or were in no condition to be driving a projectile at high speed. I took it on faith that the dozens of projectiles surrounding me would continue to stay in their lanes, and that the operating humans would pay attention and not crash me into oblivion.

Unless they're texting, in which case all bets were off.  Dumbasses.

Thankfully, this life-threatening activity so many of us do is considered dangerous enough to be heavily regulated to mitigate disaster which, for the most part, drastically reduces the carnage.

But those regulations cannot and will not eliminate the carnage… they can only reduce it.

Our high-speed projectiles are regulated in many ways. There are seat belts and air bags and warning lights and crush zones.  Regulations to ensure the tires don’t explode, the fuel doesn’t self-ignite, the seats don’t fly apart, the headlights shine far and bright enough, the glass doesn’t shatter or implode, the interior fabric doesn’t suffocate us, the fasteners don’t slip off or fail, the exhaust doesn’t poison us, the electrical system doesn’t electrocute us, ad nauseum.

As a result of these regulations, the projectiles have become amazingly safe to operate at high speed without spontaneously exploding into thousands of pieces, turning our fragile bodies into a red gooey mist. 

But it doesn’t end there. There are also regulations pertaining to the humans who pilot those projectiles, all in the interest of reducing the carnage, which can never be 100% eliminated.

Anyone can buy one of these projectiles, but the regulations pertain to their legal ownership and operation. Owners are required to study the established rules for the safe operation of that projectile, taking a written and operational test to ensure the education was effective, whereupon a license is issued to drive the projectile, which must be renewed at regular intervals.  

The projectile must be inspected and registered to ensure it is safe to operate. The owner must acquire liability insurance just in case they operate it drunk or high or stoned or sleepy or depressed or distracted or angry or upset or insane or are in no condition to be driving a projectile at high speed, which can result in injury or death.

All of that is before they even begin to think about heading out onto those dangerous freeways populated with speeding projectiles driven by other humans who may very well be drunk or high or stoned or sleepy or depressed or distracted or angry or upset or insane or are in no condition to be driving a projectile at high speed.

We all depend on laws and regulations to make sure the projectiles are safe, and that the humans driving them have been trained in the safe and operation of their projectiles.  There are no guarantees, but overall the system of laws, education and personal adherence to the laws means I had a pretty damned good chance of doing my 50-mile daily commute without tragedy.

My high-school Driver's Ed teacher always spoke about 'The Rules of the Road'. I totally understood what he was talking about, even way back in the dark ages of 1972.

If a driver acts lawlessly or with negligent disregard for others and someone gets injured or killed as a result, more often than not they're charged with 'assault with a deadly weapon' or perhaps 'involuntary manslaughter' or some other nasty legal term. The price paid for that transgression can be serious... not always, but usually.  That's what happens when you break the law, man.

You know where I'm going with this, don't you?

Try as I might, I've been unable to think of anything that we humans use that has as much potential for death and destruction to ourselves and others as cars and guns. However, one of those potentially deadly weapons is heavily-regulated, while the other is so wildly unregulated as to be essentially regulation-free. 

We accept that cars can be dangerous, so most of us also accept the myriad rules and regulations so we can feel somewhat safe while driving our projectiles at 75mph in close proximity to each other. That's the price we pay to have piece of mind in a civilized society.

Sadly, it ain't the same with guns.

Thanks to a seriously flawed misunderstanding of The Second Amendment to our Constitution, along with an insane lust to fondle and revere deadly weapons, our Exceptional America is experiencing a gun-driven bloodbath unique among the world's industrialized nations. It's so easy to obtain a gun in the US nowadays that the idea of owning one is almost blase'.

Our country now has 300 million people and 400 million guns.

The Federal government's actual knowledge about gun violence, its causes and results are woefully inadequate by design. Oversight of purchases and mis-use are almost non-existent given the volume of guns purchased, and don't even get me started on the insane idea that you can buy a gun and use it without ANY training or testing or licensing or liability insurance.

This has to stop.

Lots of words have been written on this subject, and I'm surely not the first rabid wolverine to pound this stake into the blood-soaked ground. The time has come to treat guns the same way we treat cars, which are both devices that we use while in close proximity to each other that have the potential to injure or kill ourselves and those around us.

This has nothing to do with quashing individual freedoms, government tyranny, watering the Tree of Liberty with Type O Positive, black helicopters, the wild-eyed fanaticism of every ilk/persuasion/religion/political bent, or any of the archaic reasons spouted by The Armed Ones about why more gun laws won't make a difference.

IT WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE.

All over our gun-obsessed nation, we're forced to be around people who are carrying loaded guns but may also be drunk or high or stoned or sleepy or depressed or distracted or angry or upset or insane or are in no condition to be armed. 

We don't know if that person has just been angered by an online opinion, been audited by the IRS, been informed their spouse is gay, been fired from their job of 25 years, been called a pussy by their teenage son, found out they have cancer, had their paycheck garnished for child support, had their home taken away by foreclosure, dropped their Big Mac Combo Meal on the floor at lunch, had to work a 24-hour shift... whatever.

We don't know where or how that person got their gun, if they understand how it works, if they've ever fired the gun, or even if they understand the deadly force they have concealed in their pants, especially if they don't like the way you looked at them while standing in line at Starbuck's.

On the freeway, we have a pretty good idea that everyone around us is trained in the basic operation of their speeding projectile and have accepted the legal and ethical responsibility for doing so.

On the other hand, we have no clue if the person packing heat in your proximity has the faintest notion of how/when/why their weapon could or should be discharged. 

WE SIMPLY DON'T KNOW.

However, we do know that in the same way humans get VERY AGGRESSIVE when they put their hands on the steering wheel, guns have the unique ability to convince their owners that they are superheroes, imbued with special powers of invincibility and hubris that often ends in needless bloodshed. 

 

Extra Credit:  the next time you're in your speeding projectile on the freeway, think about how many of the drivers around you are doing so drunk or high or stoned or sleepy or depressed or distracted or angry or upset or insane or are in no condition to be driving a car... AND are carrying a loaded gun.

SCARY.

The answer is actually very simple. Treat ownership of a gun the same way we do as a car... nothing more, nothing less. Make it as rote and bland as going to the DMV (if there's one still open LOL).  Require the potential gun owner to be more personally invested in their choice to own a gun, to understand the responsibilities of owning a gun, to accept the personal liabilities that come with owning a gun, and to think hard about their choice.

If you're screaming "BUT BUT BUT... SECOND AMENDMENT!!!!" right now, just remember: this is about our personal survival and civility in the MODERN WORLD. We're not shooting each other with fucking muskets, you know. This is the year 2025, not 1875, and the deadly matte black death sticks that are currently all the rage are at least as dangerous as any speeding projectile on the freeway. 

Cars have come a long way since the Cugnot Steamer (don't be lazy, look it up!), and we all benefit from almost two centuries worth of scientific and technical advances that make cars amazing tools for daily driving... yes, even the lowly and much-derided Mitsubishi Mirage kicks all kinds of ass over most cars built in the 80's. The owner's challenge is to keep up with all the things modern cars can do, but also the responsibility of legally owning and driving one.

So it should be with guns.

This form of boring regulation won't end tragic gun deaths... nothing could, because human beings can be stupid and will do stupid things, especially when they're armed while drunk or high or stoned or sleepy or depressed or distracted or angry or upset or insane or are in no condition to possess a loaded gun. 

Car-like regulations WILL prevent people who have no business owning a gun from being able to legally obtain one, and will also reduce the flippant ownership of one.  Could they get one illegally? Of course they could, just like they could also own and drive a car illegally, but the odds are against them doing it for very long, and most law-abiding citizens will do anything they can to avoid being law-breakers.

As for the 'open-carry' fans, when we see that weapon on your hip or strapped to your back, swinging around like a metal penis, at least we'll know that you did your due diligence, followed the rules and passed all the tests necessary to allow you to openly display that Steely Dan.  Good for you, nice job, enjoy your death stick.  But if John Law sees your metal penis and asks you to prove you have a license and insurance and you don't, well... you have your metal penis confiscated and maybe you even go to jail if it's not your first offense. That's what happens when you break the law, man.

Just like a car.

This fundamental change won't be easy, and there will be much screaming and teeth-gnashing and upheaval from The Armed Ones, but that's the price they must pay to keep their Beloveds with them at all times, like a deadly security blanket. That's the price we all must pay to survive and thrive in a modern civilized society.

"We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools." -- Martin Luther King, Jr. (1929-1968)

Lead image, gracias de drgrobsanimationreview.com; Deep Purple 'Highway Star' and Goofy 'Motor Mania' videos, muchismas gracias de youtube.com.

"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.