Back to Home Page: Upperleftcoast

Adventures and Ramblings

 

September, 2008

 

Dear Funny Times Editor,

 

OK, so you didn’t print my last contribution on the Future of Sports even though I thought it was superb.  Sigh.  OK, so I didn’t include a stamped, self-addressed envelope… surely that wasn’t the only reason that fine piece of prose wasn’t printed in your fine publication. Sigh and sigh again.

 

Nevertheless, undaunted, I humbly submit the following….along with a stamped, self-addressed envelope…..although the fine-print didn’t specify to whom the self-addressed envelope was to be self-addressed to. 

 

Nevertheless, hope you enjoy the following enough to give it some ink in a future Funny Times.

 

 

Most Sincerely,

 

Gregory Books,

Aka: Rusty Peavy

 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

January Surprises

By Rusty Peavy

 

As Lame Duck season approaches, one must wonder what January surprises out-going president W. Bush will spring on us before he vacates what is left of the White House.  His handlers and advisors have recognized that unless he makes some drastic moves in the waning days of his administration, his legacy will worth about as much as Barry Bond’s home run record.  So in order to improve his soon-to-be historical record, he will no doubt make some important decisions before the January 20^th deadline.

 

After consulting with several reliable soothsayers, futurists and crystal balls, I submit the following as viable possibilities:

 

All National Wildlife Refuges will be privatized under the joint supervision of Mobile/Exxon and the National Rifle Association.

 

All National Forests will be made available to the public in five to 20 acre parcels via eBay.

 

From those sales, everyone who paid federal taxes in the past eight years will be given a full retroactive refund, starting with the top incomes and working down until the funds are exhausted.

 

The government support of ethanol for fuel will be expanded to include methanol for fun.

 

Iraq will be given to Haliburton.

 

To bolster stocks of military suppliers, Iran will be slowly invaded, with great shock and awe.

 

Moscow and all Russian military posts will be nuked, just because.

 

The country of Georgia will be declared the 51state and renamed The Other Georgia.  A security fence with their neighbors will not be necessary. (See above.)

 

All Americans with funny sounding names will be re-christened with normal sounding names; for example golf-ace Vijay Singh will then be Vinny Smith, baseball-star Ichiro Suzuki will then be Chip Jones, and ex-politician Barak Obama will then be Bob O’Brien.

 

Offshore drilling will be authorized off all shorelines, both fresh and salt-water.

 

To further bolster the economy, The Environmental Protection Agency will be disbanded.

 

The Endangered Species Act will be nullified to stimulate resource development.  Administrative savings will then be used to establish the Stem Cell Protection Act.

The Clean Air Act and Clean Water Act will be put under the auspices of the Federal Trade Commission so that air and water can be traded as futures commodities.

 

To prevent the spread of Avian Flu, all migratory birds will be declared game species with no bag limits.

 

There will be a national bounty on wolves, coyotes, bears and owls; just because.

 

Fishing will be open all year round with no limits or license requirements.

 

Whales will be declared organic health food and served in federally subsidized school lunches.

 

New Mexico and California will be returned to Mexico in exchange for banning all undocumented aliens from the remaining states.

 

Both the U.S and Mexico will jointly administer Arizona.

 

Washington State will be traded to Canada in exchange for Ontario.

 

Texas will regain its former status as an independent country.

 

Texas borders will be modified to include Oklahoma and Louisiana.  Combined, they can now join OPEC.

 

The U.S. dollar will be put back on the gold standard.

 

The White House will relocate to Ft. Knox, Kentucky.

 

All coins minted after 1964 will be turned in for new ones made once again of 90% silver.

 

All recreational drugs will be legalized for people over the age of 65.

 

Three years of military service for all 18 year olds will become mandatory.

 

All persons applying for bankruptcy will be sent to Guantanamo Bay (renamed Camp Fresh-Start) for water-boarding and re-education.

 

The Democratic Party will be declared a terrorist organization.  Howard Dean, Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden and Nancy Peloski will be sent to Guantanamo Bay (See above.)

 

But Possibly the most dramatic and exciting January surprise would be for Dick Cheney to arrange for George W. to be declared mentally incompetent, forcing Vide-president Cheeny to take over as commander in chief.  His first act as the new president will be to declare martial law due to impending terrorist threats (See above.), and as such suspending the Constitution as well as the results of the previous fall’s election. In a matter of days, we’d have all forgotten about George W. bush’s reign as commander in chief.

 

A variation of this would be to fake George W.’s assassination (perhaps Squeaky Fromme and/or Sara Jane Moore could be granted a three-day furlough and given an Olympics starter pistol), thus leaving Dick in charge much more efficiently than going through the formalities and legalese needed in the previous surprise scenario.  George W. would take on a new obscure identity, perhaps as a Seattle Supersonics memorabilia distributor.

 

 

So fellow Americans, put on your protective headgear, and button up your overcoats; this January is bound to be one exciting toboggan ride.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Future of Sports

Aug. 2008

 

Sports are getting a little weird these days.  For example, the International Olympic Committee recently announced that body fluid samples taken from athletes during the 2008 Beijing Olympics will be stored for up to eight years.  This will facilitate subjecting the specimens to illegal substance detection tests that have not been invented yet.  Presumably, this means that in six years, a 2008 gold-medalist could be disqualified for taking an illegal substance that is currently undetectable.  The athlete could even possibly be disqualified for taking a substance that becomes illegal in the future.  Future Olympic competitions will be so closely scrutinized for chemical foul play that a sense of purity in the human form will become honestly appreciated.  When someone sets a new high-jump record we will all know that only real human muscle, effort and training are involved.

 

On the other hand, despite the increasing sensitivity of testing, athletes continue to seek a chemical edge to enhance their competitiveness.  The urge to compete well and win still drives some athletes to risk the professional consequences of being caught, as well as the physical consequences on their own bodies.  Medical technology is also making astounding discoveries in the fields of bio-chemistry and prosthetics.  More and more, officials are forced to consider new rules on tough questions such as whether an athlete wearing an artificial leg compete as a runner.  Such a case was recently ruled in favor of the athlete with an elegant, high-tech prosthetic device from the knee down.  This ruling has the potential of opening several cans of worms.  So, if wearing eye-glasses while playing basketball is fair, then so is running with the aid of a titanium tibia.

 

Clearly, like so many things in our 21^st century world, sports are changing quickly.  Soon, the Olympics will have to split into four separate divisions.

 

Division One, “The Organics”, will be for athletes who are 100% human with no enhancements, like the sports of today strive to be.  Testing in the future will have become so thorough that there will be no chance of athletes taking steroids, stimulants or any other chemical deemed inappropriate or “unnatural”.  They will have regimented and supervised diets and not only blood and urine samples, but also DNA testing to make sure they are all human. 

 

Division Two, “Enhanced”, will be for athletes with artificial body parts.  The same chemical and genetic rules and testing will apply as in the Organics Division, but technological prosthetics and add-ons are included.  These will, of course, go way beyond the replacement limbs that are starting to show up these days.  Imagine what hydraulic arms and legs could do in field events; imagine swimming with mechanical lungs that get oxygen directly from water, or para-glider wings on ski-jumpers, or Kevlar body-armor for wrestling and boxing.  Rules stipulating what energy sources are fair will perhaps need consideration.  Also, rules for what percent of the athlete must still be human may be needed, or the division will become just robotics vs. robots.  Perhaps there will be a Division Two-R just for athletes who are more than 85% robotic.

 

Division Three, “Chimeras and Mutants”, will be for athletes who are composed of genes from non-human species or genetically modified human genes.  The same chemical and prosthetics rules and testing will apply as in the Organics Division, with the exception of DNA composition.  New mutations from genetic engineering will greatly increase human leg and arm capabilities.  Genes from other species may also be included in with the athlete’s DNA code.  Wings, gills, fins, horns, tusks, tails, multiple-limbs, multiple-eyes will all be allowed, as long they are a part of the athlete’s metabolic system.  Living tissue must make up the enhanced body parts.  Legs of runners, arms of wrestlers, eyes of archers; all could be enhanced as chimeras.  Imagine an athlete with gazelle legs lining up against an athlete with cheetah legs.  Imagine wrestling matches between athletes with python genes.  Imagine a linebacker who is part-Doberman Pincher.  Imagine a ski-jumper with bat wings.  Imagine a water-polo goalie enhanced with some octopus genes, or a swimmer who is part-dolphin, or even an ice dancer with some graceful swan genes included.

 

These first three divisions will be fascinating to watch, won’t they?  But they will all perhaps be over-shadowed by Division Four, “Unlimited”.  Unlike the heavily regulated sport of Unlimited Hydroplanes, this division of future sports will truly be unlimited.  In Division Four, there will be no testing of any kind.  “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” will be the motto.  Competition will be among athletes of all kinds; chemically enhanced, genetically modified, robotically assisted…anything goes.  Just imagine the Division Four 100 meter dash.  Who ever, or what ever, poise at the starting line…the gun goes off, and in a blur of motion, the athletes zoom toward the finish line.  Fur and feathers fly, legs and appendages of all kinds beat and pump until one rocket-assisted man/antelope crosses the finish line barely ahead of the jackrabbit/motorcycle hybrid. The crowd goes wild as the new record is announced.  Losing teams gnash their teeth, slam their laptops and rattle their radiators as their geneticists, chemists and engineers start planning for upcoming events.

 

So if you think that sports are getting a little weird now, just wait a couple years.  In the words of the late, great Hunter Thompson: “When the going gets weird, the weird go pro.”     

 

Time Warp

Geez, no time for new entries all winter..... must slow down ... must slow down.

May 08

 

 

Tag, You’re It

Aug. 07

Frank Zappa has been dead for over 13 years now, but last Friday night his spirit was certainly among us as five tremendously talented musicians, including the legendary Ike Willis rocked The Church House.

Ike not only played in Zappa’s band from 1977 until Frank’s untimely demise in 1993, he was also Frank’s friend and confidant.  It is Ike’s distinctive baritone voice which is heard on classic albums such as Joe’s Garage, and excellent tunes such as Outside Now and You Are What You Is. They shared surveillance by the FBI among other experiences.  Just a week before Frank died of prostate cancer Ike met with him, and was told quite explicitly, that Ike was to keep the spirit alive. 

 

“Tag, you’re it”, said the dying FZ.

Keeping the spirit alive is not particularly easy.  Frank’s compositions are extremely complex and vigorous, and they are also not part of the public domain, far from it.  The legal rights to all of Zappa’s work are owned, controlled and protected by his family and
estate.  It is difficult to keep a spirit alive when it is corked in a bottle.

This pains Ike to no end.  He’s been hassled by the estate similarly to the way he and Frank were hassled by the FBI.  How ironic.  The Zappa estate probably thinks they are protecting Frank’s work from the Business Abuses that he railed against so emphatically.  Frank’s battles with the music industry are well known, so it is not surprising that his legacy is carefully guarded.

But Ike and his fellow musicians are as close to the Real Thing as probably exists today.  They walk the walk and talk the talk.  They not only know the songs and play the notes; they too are very aware of the spirit of Zappa and do a superb job of mixing spontaneous craziness with disciplined musicianship.  The Church rocked for three hours without a break, stunning and delighting the blessed guests lucky enough to be in the audience.  The band wasn’t just a Zappa band knock-off, pretending to be Frank and his cohort of merry-makers.  They used the spirit; they lived the spirit; they let the spirit take them to the place where creative juices mix with technical expertise to create the musical magic, which only comes from Frank himself.

Ike’s voice is still strong although the years have left some scars and road-wear.  His guitar playing is uniquely his own, but he is so knowledgeable of Frank’s style that at time the hands which made the guitar scream and wail didn’t seem to be his own.  The drummer had the energy of Bozzio and the precision of Wackerman.  The vibe/flautist had the amazing speed of Underwood and also the rockin’ voice of Mann.  The keyboardist looked more like a fresh college-student than the outlandish Mars, but the riffs and licks were all there.  Mentioning the musicians’ names is a temptation because they certainly deserve some recognition for their astounding accomplishment, but legalities being what they are, prudence suggests they remain anonymous.  They’ll get their just rewards sooner or later; talent like theirs doesn’t go unnoticed or unrewarded for long.  Their soulful rendition of Outside Now was particularly memorable.  Unlike his playful jolliness on some of the lighter, more humorous pieces, Ike’s powerful vocals communicated the pain felt while by a man stuck in jail, as the relentlessly repeating background pattern in (in 11/4) reflected feeling the burden of time, ticking away slowly as the days pass. 

Like a cross, Ike carries the burden of Frank’s final instructions.  After the show he told stories as he and a few of the guests mingled in the Church House kitchen.  I listened with awe as he described how he met Frank, how they worked together, and how the government harassed them for Frank’s outspoken ridicule.  It was fascinating.   Ike confessed that doesn’t read music, and so had to learn the complex riffs and patterns by being told what notes to play, and how many times to repeat each phrase.  From his performance it was obvious that his sharp mind and discerning ear learned the music well.  Transcribers then had the task of recording the specific notes for the other musicians to learn. Later in life, Frank of course wrote note whole symphonies, but in the beginning it was just the guitar, the ear and the mind.  This is probably why Ike can conjure up the spirit so easily; it is engrained in his cerebral tissue.

And the Church House?  What is this all about?  A very benevolent and generous artist/computer programmer purchased a falling down church and invested his time and money into its restoration.  Restoration isn’t really the right term for what he’s done.  Salvage and remodel are more descriptive terms.  The place is amazing.  The chapel is now a large concert/dance hall, decorated with large, realistic looking squids and unique wire silhouettes of abstract faces.  The many bedrooms are comfortable and cozy.  The kitchen and bathrooms are elegantly simple.  The master bedroom is heavenly and several nooks, crannies and side-rooms are set aside for meditation, reflection or working on art projects.

 

The owner and his partner are wonderful hosts, humbly welcoming guests and catering to their needs with smiles and hugs. 

 

As Frank might have written and Ike may have sung, “We need some mo’ like dat.”

 

 

The Gravity of the Situation

August 2007

 

So Jennifer, not her real name, OK maybe it is her real name, it doesn’t matter, stepped off the trail into space.  Nothing was beneath her pretty L.L. Bean hiking shoes.  No rocks, no trail, no little pine needles: nothing except air.

 

Gravity, of course, took over immediately, pulling her lithe mass downward towards the earths massive mass.  The collisions of the two masses left the earth only slightly scraped, but it left Jennifer scraped up quite a bit.

 

Why did Jennifer step off the nice forest trail into the air?  Because the view here in the park is so totally magnificent that she was distracted from looking where she was walking.  She is lucky to only be scraped up a bit rather than have her molecules rearranged to the point where life-supporting metabolism ceases to function.  Considering how magnificent some of the vistas are around here, it is surprising that stepping out into the air isn’t more common.  But Jennifer was distracted by the view and did indeed step out into the air and became rather scraped up.

 

So there she was, lying at an awkward angle on the steep, gravelly slope, bleeding from one knee.  The epidermal layer of her hands, elbows and the other knee had been quickly removed by the gravel as gravity pulled her toward earth massive mass.  Raw dub-dermal skin was exposed and coated with a thin layer of soil.  A few bits of gravel were imbedded, and ground painfully into exposed nerve endings.  Dendrites, they’re called, and although Jennifer may not have know this bit of biological jargon, she knew quite clearly that pain was shooting to her brain from multiple locations.  She was not a happy camper.

 

Here at the park, we greatly prefer happy campers to unhappy campers.  We also greatly prefer campers who are not scraped up and bleeding to those who are scraped up and bleeding.  Fortunately for Jennifer, she was not hiking alone.  Her friend, let’s call him Chad, which may or may not be his real name, helped her scramble up the slope, limp back down the trail, get into their cute little Honda and drive down to the park registration booth where they politely asked me where the First Aid Station was.

 

Rather then tell them that there is no First Aid Station, I first inquired if this was enough of an emergency to warrant calling 911.  No, they just wanted some first aid.  When I have had to call 911, I’m always amazed how fast they get up here and how truly professionally they are able to handle all sorts of medical emergencies.  But Jennifer was adamant, saying that just a little first aid would be fine.  After parking the cute little Honda over by the firewood bin, she hobbled over to the registration booth with the helpful assistance of Chad.  He seems to be a keeper.

 

Once inside, I looked her over quickly, and was almost tempted to tall 911 with or without their consent.  Not only was she scraped up and bleeding, she looked a little woozy, as if shock was just around the corner.  I don’t mind a little bleeding, but I’m not well equipped to deal with shock.  She was speaking coherently though, so I directed them back to the restroom and instructed them to first wash the soil and gravel out as best they could using the anti-bacterial soap and some paper towels.  Meanwhile I got out the first aid kit.  A few minutes later, they emerged and she sat in the chair in the lobby as directed.  She was in a very cooperative mood and was looking forward to some relief.  Putting on my “AIDs” gloves (one can’t be too cautious in these situations), I first sprayed a mild antiseptic/anesthetic on the scrapes.  It only stung a little and brought near instant relief from the rash like skin abrasions.  Then I gave her an antiseptic swab and instructed her to use it to scrape out the remaining gravel and dirt.  She would have preferred that I do this chore, but no, she has to do it because only she knows how much pressure to exert on the exposed tissue, and because frankly I don’t like touching strangers under any circumstances, not even Jennifer.

 

She obediently did as I instructed while I got out some bandages.  After applying a bit more of the cooling spray, I wiped off the wounds with a sterile gauze cloth.  It hurt, but Jennifer was brave and knew what had to be done.  Soon the wound appeared more or less cleaned out and I applied some sterile compresses to her knee, some band-aids to her hands, and a bit more spray on her elbow.  Two drops of blood stained her L.L Bean hiking shoes to remind her of her indiscretion.

 

Once patched up, I had Chad write up a report on the incident, knowing that my boss would want a full report for his files.  He then gently helped her walk back to the cute little Honda, and carefully helped her into the passenger seat while cooing condolences.  Yep, he’s a keeper and my guess is that Jennifer knows it.

 

So what is the moral of this story?  Prudent hikers should stop and gawk at the beautiful vistas rather than walk off the trail into air.

 

 

 

 

Two Sides of the Coin

August 2007

 

Heads:

 

Save now; invest now; retire later.

Work and work now, relax and breathe later.

Fifty-two and a half and counting.

Sixty-five is only twelve and a half years away.

This year’s second graders will be graduating.

Scrimp now to live free later.

 

Stock market is down.

IRAs are losing value.

Where does the money go?

 

Trust the market.

Pay income tax later.

Give hard-earned income to strangers.

Hope for the best.

 

Bears eat, bulls charge.

They battle on our turf.

 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

Tails:

 

Live now; spend as needed; retire never.

Work and play now, relax and breathe now.

Fifty-two and a half and feeling strong.

Sixty-five may never come.

This year’s seniors need to graduate.

Live well now to live well later.

 

The stock market is irrelevant.

IRAs are an illusion.

The money is in my pocket.

 

The market is a liar.

Taxes are inevitable.

Spend hard-earned money on friends and loved-ones.

Live for the best.

 

Bears and Bulls: both are edible.

They battle far away.

 

 

 

The Great Secret of the Tao Te Ching

July 2007

 

An old friend resurfaced recently.  From out of the small, but chaotic assemblage of material good in my position, a pocket-sized paperback edition of the Lao Tsu’s Tao Te Ching came back into my grasp.

 

Intentionally dog-eared page corners mark particularly memorable passages from previous encounters.  What is the Tao?  This New English version is by Stephen Mitchel, and has been used by simply opening it up as randomly as possible and see what words are offered.  What is the Tao?  I just randomly opened it to #70:

 

My teachings are easy to understand

and easy to put into practice.

Yet your intellect will never grasp them,

and if you try to practice them, you’ll fail.

 

My teachings are older than the world.

How can you grasp their meaning?

 

If you want to know me,

Look inside your heart.

 

 

It teaches how to be.

We are, after all, human beings, not human doings.

Liberating in its approach to life, the Tao allows a person to lead without leading, to teach by not teaching, to own everything by having no possessions; to leave nothing undone, by doing nothing.  In the preface, the author makes the analogy to when an athlete performs superbly while not having to consciously think about and force the movements.  There is an elegant flow to being in the zone, as Michael Jordan and others have described.  When the hoop seems as big as a car.  Playing jazz is like this, too.  When the vibe is flowing, nothing is really being done.

 

Stephen Mitchel explains, “The teaching of the Tao Te Ching is moral in the deepest sense.”  “Lao-tsu’s central figure is a man or woman whose life is in perfect harmony with the way tings are.  This is not an idea; it is a reality, I have seen it.”  The Tao shows “the central truths to the art of living”.

 

Nice.

 

So from time to time, this old paperback has been picked up and often with eyes closed or at least looking away, it is opened.

 

One day, however many years ago, probably while studying to be a teacher, the following passage was revealed.

 

For example, here is a dog-eared page, #17, which tells about the art of governing:

 

When the Master governs, the people

Are hardly aware that de exists..

Next best is a leader who is loved.

Next, the one who is feared.

The worst is one who is despised.

 

If your don’t trust the people,

You make them untrustworthy.

 

The Master doesn’t talk, he acts.

When his work is done,

The people say, ‘Amazing:

we did it, all by ourselves!’

 

And now, after watching many, many students achieve and excel in my science classes, it is obviously true.  Facilitating learning is not the same as instructing.

 

As one lives the way of the Tao, a strong suppleness develops rather than a stiff resistance to life.  This is not really surrendering to adversity, but rather effectively thriving.

 

Men are born soft and supple;

dead, they are stiff and hard.

Plants are born tender and pliant;

dead, they are brittle and dry.

 

Thus whoever is stiff and inflexible

is a discipline of death.

Whoever is soft and yielding

is a disciple of life.

 

The hard and stiff will be broken.

The soft and supple will prevail.

 

Many analogies to life can be read into this verse.

A nagging question, of course, is whether like beauty, the wisdom of the Tao only exists in the mind of the beholder.

 

Last semester the class was shown a video on evolution in which a series of simple line drawings elegantly flowed from one being into another, reflecting the changing life forms found in the fossil record.  A team of small bacteria-looking creatures morphed into a primitive cell shape, which morphed into a jellyfish, then a worm, then a fish, then an amphibian, then a mammal, then a monkey, then a human.  A baroque style cello tune accompanied the cartoon.  It fit the changing images perfectly.  One morning, the video was played with the class stereo on rather than the TV sound.  This time a jazz piece fit perfectly with the morphing images.  We tried it again, with a full orchestral version of a Bach fugue.  The morphing images fit even more perfectly.  We tried other music.  They all fit.

 

Our minds were making them fit.  Our mental need to make sense of the sounds and images created parallel moments, so that regardless of the music, the images seemed to fit.

 

Perhaps the Tao is similar.  Perhaps the passages are so indistinct and amorphous that our minds make them seems astoundingly pertinent to the parallel chaos in our lives.  Just as our minds need the changes in the drawings to match the changes in the music, perhaps too our minds seek out random moments of synchronicity between the Tao and our problems and challenges that the inspiration we seek is achieved.  Needing and wanting to be a teacher, I gained some insight by randomly bumping into Tao phrases and applying them.  The need creates the solution.

 

Reading the Tao selectively, one eventually covers it all.  There is an overriding theme of achieving contentment in life by letting go.  The best leaders lead without leading.  The best teachers teach without teaching.  The best way to seek is to not seek.

 

What would a country be like if the citizens lived by the Tao?

 

If a country is governed wisely,

its inhabitants will be content.

They enjoy the labor of their hands

and don’t waste time inventing

labor-saving machines.

Since they dearly love their homes,

they aren’t interested in travel.

There may be a few wagons and boars,

but these don’t go anywhere.

There may be an arsenal of weapons, but nobody ever uses them.

People enjoy their food

take pleasure in being with their families

spend weekends working in their gardens,

delight in the doings of the neighborhood.

And even through the next country is so close

that people can hear its roosters crossing and its dogs barking,

They are content to die of old age

without ever having gone to see it.

 

Wow.  My summer job in the local State park wouldn’t even exist.  Everyday I see hoards of people desperate to get away from where they live, hungry to smell the trees, hear a brook and see a deer.  They plot and plan for months, buy expensive gear, tolerate clogged highways and long ferry lines, and finally they arrive at my little registration booth, tired and awed.  Days later, they trek back to their urban jungle, refreshed, but depressed at the thought of facing their forced lives in a place they don’t want to be.  Perhaps the planet is too small for us all to within the Tao.  Perhaps people just need to tend their gardens a little more and surf the Internet a little less.

 

Other sections of the Tao seem to imply other perspectives, but with the same underlying themes.

 

A good traveler has no fixed plans

and is not intent upon arriving.

A good artist lest his intuition

lead him wherever it wants.

A good scientist has freed himself of concepts

and keeps his mind open to what is.

 

What is a good man but a bad man’s teacher?

What is a bad man but a good man’s job?

If you don’t understand this, you will get lost,

however intelligent you are.

 

It is the great secret.

 

Or perhaps is it all just self-fulfilling prophesies.  Is the Tao like the daily Horoscopes in the paper, so vague that believers can read into the words what they want to hear? 

 

Or perhaps is it a form of synchronicity.  The seeking of the secret creates the secret.  Hmmm. Now that is a rather Taoist perspective.  In that case, the only way to find it would be to not seek it, but rather just look within and Be.

 

 

 

 

I’m Not Sorry

June 2007

 

Each New Year’s Eve, I make a resolution for the following year.  Sometimes this resolution has an impact on my life, and sometimes not.  Most of them I can’t even remember at this point. 

 

One memorable resolution was to try to stop saying the word “I”.   That is a very interesting exercise in mental control.  According to one English analyst, “I” is the most common word used in the English language, an interesting reflection on how self-centered our modern culture has become.  From time to time, this exercise is still attempted, and many times it is very interesting to note this pattern of speech in others.  Teens are especially guilty of this pronoun usage, possibly because from their developing perspective the Universe revolves around them.

 

One year the words “would”, “should” and “could” were avoided, because they all revolve around the concept of guilt.  That was difficult, but an interesting challenge which continues to perk up every now and then

 

But this year’s resolution is similar, and has been very interesting and continues to be a challenging philosophical exercise.

 

The resolution was to stop having to say, “I’m sorry.”

 

The goal was to live life so deliberately and so thoughtfully, that saying I’m sorry would never be necessary.  To never do stupid things, to never hurt someone’s feelings, to never have to wish that time would reverse itself so that the moment could be redone better.  Living without regrets is the goal, and working toward achieving this has caused a great deal of reflection and at times inspiring behaviors that have turned out to be quite beneficial.

 

There are many examples of how this has developed.  One of note is when I accidentally bump into people.  If being clumsy or not paying attention caused the bodies to collide, a polite “excuse me” would work, but to say “I’m sorry” implies a sort of remorse.  There is no remorse.  We bumped.  It happens all the time.  Sometimes I’m clumsy; sometimes I don’t pay attention and bump into people.  It happens.

 

A more specific example is here at my summer job of registration ranger at a state park.  Campers must drive up to the little booth, give me their booking number or name, and their reservation comes up on the computer.  If they don’t have a reservation, they may still stay in a campsite if one is available.  In either case, a required bit of information is their vehicle license number, their license plate. As in a hotel or motel, knowing which vehicles are supposed to be here is a part of security.  Here in the state park this is particularly important because there is a limited amount of space, and only two vehicles are permitted on each site.  So all day, I record their license plate information and in the evening the park rangers who patrol the campsites get a printout of all the sites showing which vehicles are supposed to be in each site.

 

Along the little driveway leading up to the registration booth is not one, but two signs which clearly state that drivers need to know their license plate information for registration.  The need for this information is also clearly spelled out on the information page that comes with their site reservation.

 

So, as you can perhaps predict, many drivers still don’t know their license plate information when it comes to that part of the registration process.  When I ask for their plate numbers, they are clueless, and must either fumble through their glove-box looking for the vehicle registration form, or get out of their vehicle, walk around to the back of their vehicle and look at the license plate.

 

In the past, I’ve said, “I’m sorry” when they are forced to fumble around or get out and walk around to the back of their vehicle.  Apologizing for the inconvenience seemed to just roll out of my mouth.  But not any more.

 

They were clearly warned that this information was needed.

 

It is no fault of mine that they ignored the page that came with their site reservation.  I’m not sorry that they must now scramble for the information, having ignored the two signs along the little driveway.  I’m not sorry that they have to fumble through the chaos of their glove box.  I’m not sorry that they actually have to get out of their vehicle and walk around to the back and look at their plates.

 

I just look at them and patiently say that this information is needed for registration in the state park and then wait until they provide it.

 

This feels so refreshing, so honest, so clear, and so straightforward.  I’ve done nothing to apologize for, so no apology is necessary.

 

Another example is talking about the stock market.  The market took a real tumble this week, falling over a hundred points.  This caused my humble investments to lose a significant amount of value.  In conversation with others, saying I’m sorry is so absurd.  Those investments were made knowing full well that the market goes up and the market goes down.  It can even disappear completely, wiping out years of investments.  It can also go up, earning me money for doing do real work at all. Regretting the decision to make those investments is just beating myself up unnecessarily.  The risks were known, the market fluctuations were expected, so to say that I’m sorry for having made the investments or that I’m sorry that the market took a tumble this week is inappropriate.

 

Bad things can happen to people.  One nice lady had her new car’s transmission die half way up the mountain this week.  I almost said, “I’m sorry” when she told me her sad tale and described how very expensive and inconvenient the solution to this problem was going to be.  Not that I’m cold hearted.  I’ve had vehicles break down and truly empathized with her problem.  But I’m not sorry.  I have nothing to regret.  Instead, I just helped he make a whole lot of phone calls and wished her well as the solution was worked out.

 

This little game of avoiding “I’m sorry” has also been very beneficial in my day-to-day life.  Several times, when making choices about this or that, I make the decision based on the outcome having no chance of making me regret it.  It makes me think a second time before taking an action or speaking a thought.

 

Here is an example of a very difficult decision that came up recently.  I’m in a very fun band, know and The Sons.  This band consists of three saxophones and a drummer and we can rock.  I play baritone sax, holding down the bass line of our repertoire of funky/punky jazz while the lead and harmony parts are superbly played by two much younger sax players.  None of sings lyrics, although some of the songs we play do have lyrics in the original versions.  Recently, the other guys wanted to do a medley of Prince songs.  Fine.  Prince has composed some very good tunes which we could do fine versions of to the delight of our audiences.  The boys wanted to shout the lyrics in the middle one song though, and those lyrics contained the F-word, and not only the F-word but also the maternal version of the term.  I am not in favor of this.  Not only am I a respected member of our closely-knit community, I’m offended by anyone publicly using the F-word except under extreme circumstances.  Extreme circumstances are why foul language exists.  To include such vile profanity is not necessary in my opinion and I loudly voiced this opinion to my fellow band members during rehearsal.

 

The other members of the band are significantly younger than me, and significantly more rebellious.  They are also not as concerned about social respectability as I am.  We had a heated argument, which is unusual for us.  In the end, I decided that I would of course not join them in singing this refrain, but would not boycott the performance.

 

At the performance, the song was played and when the refrain came around, the other loudly sand the profanity.  They reminded me of immature junior high boys being naughty.  While they, in my opinion, made fools of themselves for no good reason, I turned by back to them and continued to just play the bass line.  At the next break, several members of the audience told the other sax players how much they enjoyed the raucous rebelliousness of us playing the controversial song.  Other, older members of the audience, who know me well, came up to me and said that they noticed that I was not part of that vile immaturity.  I was embarrassed, but did not apologize.  I didn’t write the song, I didn’t participate in the vulgarity, and using body language made it obvious to the audience that I didn’t approve of the others’ behavior.

 

I have, however, decided that I’ll not play that song with the band in the future.  Such rebellious immaturity is not in my nature at this middle age, and either I’ll sit out that song or quit the band entirely.  Am I sorry I stayed on stage during the vulgarity?  No, I needed to see what the effect would be.  Having gone through it once, I’m sure that it is an experience that is not worth repeating.  I have a line of respectability and if crossing it means not playing along with these otherwise brilliant musicians, I’ll quit the band with no regrets.

 

So in conclusion, this year’s resolution has proven to be very insightful.  Next I may combine all three mental exercises and avoid saying “I”, “could”, “would”, “should” and “I’m sorry” all at once.  That would really force me to think about what words come out of my mouth, and perhaps teach me more about living deliberately: Maybe next year.

 

 

 

Café At the End of the Earth

April 2007

 

Being a more or less round planet, any location upon Earth’s surface could equally claim to be at the End of the Earth.  However, the Doe Bay Café on the northeast shore of Orcas Island is remote enough and unique enough to have special claim to the title.  Not only is the view out over the north Puget Sound stunningly scenic, not only does the Café ooze with alternative culture, but also it was my pleasure to be there on an open mike night.

 

The gently tattooed cook/waitperson explained the procedure for procuring some sustenance; request orders at the counter, glasses are over there.  On each forearm was a coil, like a watch spring, each not quite a mirror image of the other. Pizza and salad made up most of the fare, so I ordered a salmon and green chili pepper pizza and a cup of passionate peach tea.

 

Not seeing either of my fellow Sons, I picked up a thick science fiction book lying invitingly on a small table near the door.  Settling into the booth near the stage, I scanned the intricate cover.  Space ships came and went from a dense city of domes and towers beneath a huge planet on the horizon.  I opened the thick book at random and began reading about a faraway place in a faraway time.  The book was a best-of-the-year compilation from 2005, and after several random passages were ingested, I did marvel at their skill in writing.  Excellent lacing of details with just the right amount of convoluted sentence structure and intricately laced sub-plots.

 

Soon my piping hot pizza and passionate peach tea arrived.  Moving the burner onto an adjacent chair (did I mention that I brought a portable CD recorder along to Open Mike Night?) I settled in for some dinner.  Most of the booths were occupied, most were locals, but about a third may have been from another planet:  off-island.

 

Orcas Island is an island, you know.  A real one, with no bridges to the mainland at all.  The ferry trip from Anacortes, Washington takes more than an hour in the big, lumbering boats.  Doe Bay Café is so far out on remote Orcas Island, that most locals probably don’t even know there is an Open Mike Night on Mondays throughout the winter.  The Café is so far out there that analogies to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’s Café at the end of the Universe seem natural.  Relatively speaking, Dr. Einstein of course would note that each part of a multidimensional and quite feasibly infinate universe is equally likely to be the center or the most distant point….depending on one’s relative position and velocity.  So why not here?  Why not now?

 

The pizza was outstanding: thin crust, perfect size for one hungry guy, and the combination of salmon and green chili peppers was uniquely delicious.  Baked to perfection, the topping was just short of seared, and beneath the array of cheeses, the Northwest salmon and Southwest chili peppers blended like practiced dancers doing a jazzy cha-cha.  It was yummy.

 

Before the last piece was enjoyed, fellow Son, Al bounced into the Café with a newly shaved head contrasting a sparse and scruffy beard, carrying his tenor saxophone casually.  After mutual greetings and salutations, he suggested we retire to a practice room below.  So grabbing my baritone saxophone (did I mention that I’d brought along a baritone saxophone?  A 1971 King Super-20 baritone saxophone?), I followed him out the Café’s front door, across the courtyard bathed in the gentle, February evening drizzle, down the algae-slippery steps, into a small, long room lined with books and games arranged loosely on shelves.  A row of windows no doubt opened onto a world of coastal forest eye-candy, but tonight the view might just have well have been into the bottom of a deep space black hole.  To morph prose from both Charles Schultz and Douglas Adams, “It was a dark and stormy night, at the Café at the End of the Universe.

 

Two very polite and self-proclaimed gay men sang together on the sofa.  Their voices were rough, and blended only tangentially, but what they lacked in musical talent they compensated for with bubbly personality.  From down south in Olympia, Washington, they had traveled way out to the edge of Orcas Island to play at Open Mike Night.  Flaunting the limits of the improbability drive, they planned to perform two tunes later in the evening by Prince, accompanied loosely by mandolin.

 

Interesting and unique, but Al and I had work to do.  Whipping out his tenor saxophone as I assembled my baritone saxophone, we soon blasted that wimpy mandolin into nether ether.  It wasn’t even a fair fight.  No match at all.  As Al and I rehearsed a couple of our Sons’ sax jams, about all the gay guys could do was stare slack-jawed.

 

Somehow, Madrone’s name came up.  You know Madrone?  He’s one of the Sons?  The mandolin player giggled his way through a tale of dancing chest to chest with Madrone just a couple weeks ago at a hot and sweaty 70s night revival at a loud club in Seattle.  While not openly gay or even bi, the Amazing Madrone is no stranger to alternative behavior at party occasions.  And as the lead singer and wash-tub bass player for the intergalactically renowned Slappy Tubbs band, he ecstatically lives out the wildly abandoned, free primal being that his audiences can only enjoy vicariously.  But no, he’s not gay as far as I know, just free of inhibitions.  More on him later.

 

The practice room was too warm, not quite as bad as Venus, but far from comfortable.  A gas stove needed its thermostat turned down, even the Prince singers were too warm and we all returned up the algae slippery steps, through the Northwest drizzle and back into the lively Doe Bay Café at the end of the universe.

 

The host, Carlos, got things going with some acoustic guitar folk singing.  It was bad.  OK, maybe it was good, but I have a low tolerance for any music remotely like Niel Young strumming away about pathetic drug addicts.  I don’t know if Carlos’ lyrics were about drug addicts, but the strumming seemed to go on for multi-dimensional millennia.  I refilled my cup of passionate peach tea and waited out the storm as all the other extra-terrestrial beings in the room nodded in appreciation of Niel’s Bore.

 

Al and I continue to strategize.  OK, first, I’d open up with a rambling solo and then settle down into a perky, jazzy, no-particular key bass line loosely based on the key of G.  He’d then join in and we’d warm up for a while and call it a first tune.  Then we’d rip into our funk/punk jazz set..  And when Carlos finished his five or six forgettable songs, we did just that.  We hoped that Madrone would show up to add his alto sax energy, and before too long, he did just that.  In the cosmic café packed with strange looking aliens, we raised the roof.  Hair and antennae were swept back in the saxophonic onslaught.  Force fields were adjusted and gravity shoes were turned up a notch.  No mournful strumming here and now:  full speed ahead, set phasers on stun.  To boldly go where no sax has gone before …..

 

Up next, alien figures with mandolin take on a Prince medley.  Fasten your chin-straps and secure your gravity boots.  The Café at the end of the Universe is starting to twitch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and the beat goes on... December 9, 2006

Geez, it has been over a year since I updated this website.... where does the time go????

Yes, lots of adventures have been had and enjoyed, but time to write about them seems so scarce.  One of my New Years' Resolutions is going to be to write more for this site.  Thanks to the readers who contacted me and asked for more of my words.  Makes me blush.

So today I added new sections on Music and School work, and updated the photos.

Next, I'll find some time to write..... maybe over the holiday break....whew... time sure zooms by in a blur.

 

gb

 

 

 

For Dad, who passed away on October 21st, 2005

 

Dear Friends and Family,

 

Thank you all for coming today.  I'm sure Woody is pleased to look down and see you all having a good time in his remembrance.

 

Woody and I first met way back in the 50s.  Although I can't remember the first time we met, my early memories of him are all good.   He always provided safe shelter, warm clothes, good food, presents under the Christmas tree, and a warm, loving home. He was a strong father, but never, ever abusive or rude.  I've now been a school teacher for more than 20 years, and the more I see how badly many other fathers do their duties, the more I appreciate his parenting style.

 

Through the turbulent 60s I remember him as being a stable. hardworking man, dedicated to work and family.  He was constantly improving our house, but also took the time for travel and fun.  Looking back, it is hard to imagine how much planning and work it took to take a family with young kids to places such as New England or Yellowstone.  Many fond memories linger of those times.

 

In the mid-70s I moved away, but always kept in touch.  Although he never really told me what to do, he was always there when I needed his help.  Although frugal, he was always generous with help when it was necessary.  Without his sacrifice and dedication, I'm sure that college would not have happened for me.

 

Since then, he evolved into a trusted ally.  Our relationship has been friendly and light, our conversations usually revolved around everyday things like home improvements and sports.  Every year we made $2 bets on sports finals, NBA, MLB and NFL.  He always let me pick whatever team I wanted, and in all those years I only remember winning perhaps once or twice.  We joked about this bizarre losing streak, and frequently credited my choice with dooming the chosen team.

 

In later years, our communication switched from phones to e-mails, and him being a writer made for a deeper level of discussion.  His concern for others usually dominated his writings, but also his love for keeping the home looking good and functioning came through often.

 

My last live memory of Dad was of him sneaking a cigarette in the parking lot of the hotel in Ohio last June.  Damn that tobacco.  What an evil it is.  I could tell that he both enjoyed it and hated it at the same time.  Yes, as a youth I stole smokes from him, but luckily managed to get that monkey off my back over 20 years ago.  I'm sure that smoking contributed to his demise, but on the other hand, living to nearly 80 is above the norm.

 

But living beyond the norm is little consolation when it comes to losing a man like Woody.  He was always kind hearted, good spirited and supportive.... it is an honor to be his son and to have inherited his genes.  (Odd how both of our middle names are Gene,,,,,,,,)

 

My last contact with Dad was just a couple weeks ago, when he offered to send some money to help pay for my mountain of home improvement projects.  It would have been nice to pound a few nails with him out here,,,,,

 

So here's to a fine Dad, a good friend and a trusted ally.  If there is a heaven, surely he is there today.

 

Thank you again for your presence here today.

 

 

 

Peace and Love to all,

 

Gregory Books

gbooks@upperleftcoast.com

360-376-5463

 

 

PS.  I'll take the Astros for $2.