13: Orig post Sat June 9,2012

13.

Inspired by Jon, on another Blog.

I grew up in a small, but pretentious river town in Illinois on the Mississippi River.  It was pretentious, because its residents were fond of saying that our town was founded before St. Louis(1817), old only by American standards, and it was a quirk of fate that we weren't St. Louis.  Also, about 80% of the 40,000 were proud that they weren't farmers, but considered themselves city folk.  After all, they shopped at the Stix, Baer, and Fuller in St. Louis, (my mother had a Stix box with the signature pastel butterfly logo, full of pillbox-era hats ) ate at Italian restaurants on the Hill, saw sophisticated St. Louis movies almost every weekend, like Bonnie and Clyde, The Graduate, and Paint Your Wagon.  They smoked and had cocktail parties: highball glasses  on boomerang tables. Had Tiki bars in the basement,  bowled on Monday night (at least Dad and Grandpa did), while the kids played pinball in the neon, starlit lobby.

Being 13 there, however, was magic , as long as you were away from the house, your parents, school, and church.  Usually this was accomplished by running off to the woods or a field of some sort where you'd meet up with other escapees from house, school, church.  We were full of schemes. One of our schemes was to get into the Guinness Book of World Records  for the longest game of hotbox, right on the street in front of my house.  We set up the bases, collected extra gloves, even a lefty for me, back-up baseballs in case one landed in the sewer as they often did, so we wouldn't have to waste precious record time retrieving it, made an elaborate, five day schedule,  brought out a cooler so we wouldn't have to go in anyone's house--

"Hollis, you can pee in the woods, man! If you go inside your mom's gonna...."

 Then someone got bored with the idea,  (for the record, not me--I was the last man standing, calling the others a bunch of candy ass quitters who needed their moms to make them some pudding).  Once we were going to make our own tree house village out of scrap lumber--a Utopian village with our own laws!  We could live there all summer!  We did get one tree house, built--I visited it for the last time during my senior year of college, during Thanksgiving vacation, listening to "Alice's Restaurant" for company.  And me, I was always organizing plays to be put on in various basements and garages--usually around Halloween, so my sister got eyeball grape peeling duty.  One was called "Hannah-pot."  What??  What a weirdo I was.

Hollis, "Hollis-oil", "Woo-Dagoo", James Bond aficionado and later Eagle Scout, was the second boy  I kissed when I was 13, on the roof of his house, for some unremembered reason. He was better than the first.  I coulda married him:  he taught me how to play chess, and used to come out of his house and play "The Stripper" on his trombone at me as I walked home from the bus stop.  It really aggravated me on the surface, but underneath I think I was just glad someone noticed I was a girl.  He and his family moved not long after this.

The first  was Mike "the Perv", who convinced me earlier that year to go "out-of- bounds" during a game of Ditch for a half an hour while the little kids looked for us hopelessly--we could hear them calling us whinily in the distance, saying, "Mommmmm sezzzz..."  I remember iconically swinging on a lamppost ala Singing in the Rain Gene Kelly afterwards, then  admonishing myself..it's Pervavich..you don't even like him!  Yet for a month or so I was obsessed with him and the idea that he kissed me. His teeth were slightly recessed, like David Bowie's, (before he got them fixed).  Prominent eyeteeth, like a vampire.  That was the main thing I found charming about him.  I do remember this: we were so young and stupid we didn't know how to French kiss.  He must have had some vague notion of it, though--without understanding the general mechanics, because he kept saying to me.."Try opening your mouth."  But then there we were, both of us stupidly with our mouths open, not knowing the next step.  Makes me wonder who he'd been talking to.  Or maybe it was just some sensual instinct for him.   However, he was from near Chicago and actually liked the Cubs.   He left secret codes in the handle-bars of my banana seat bike, and why in the world did I even think to look in them?  He must have said something.  I think I thought I had crossed over to new worlds.


The scheming life of kids away from parents always has fascinated me: it's how the world evolves, to my mind.  Maybe we got it from the historical vibrations of the ground we were covering.  Maybe it was the ominous influence of the Piasa Bird, mythological bird with deer antlers and lion's claws,  painted originally by the Illini, on the limestone bluff face overlooking the River.  Maybe it was in the infinite recesses of murky Blue Pool, where the truly crazy dived from the cliff above (not me)--it was rumoured to have a train car rusting away in its bottom that no one had touched. The Illinois Central tracks ran by, not 100 yards away.

My town is a tangled nerve of contradictions dating back pre-Civil War. It was home to an ardent abolitionist lost in the mists of time, Elijah Lovejoy, who pressed his antislavery  paper on our side of the Mississippi, to the chagrin of the local business owners, and was eventually murdered by slavery supporters. The town embarrassedly erected a statue to him in a backwater cemetery, and nobody visits it.  We do not have an "Elijah Lovejoy Day", that I'm aware of .  He is viewed as even  crazier than his partner in crime, Mr. John Brown, whose body "lies a'moulderin' in the grave".

I was surprised to find, and I imagine the politics of this worked similarly in other"free" states like Illinois, that, although slavery was illegal in the state then , it was lawful to keep another man in indentured servitude (no wages) for up to 99 years.  Slavery essentially, although the owner perhaps had no rights to the progeny of the servant.  Bet they figured a way around that too.  Another prestigious citizen of our town was  James Earl Ray of Martin- Luther -King- assassination infamy.  For us kids, he haunted our imaginations like one of the excrement-smearing Snopes in Faulkner: we imagined him living in the roof-wrecked house at the bottom of the gully on Belle St., where the colored lived, haunting the nearby woods, looking for a way to get a shot off across the street.  My brother and I once got in a car-wreck (he was letting me try out his MG) right at the crossroads of that very spot, and I illogically blamed James Earl.  You know, it just occurred to me--that's the place the real crossroads of Robert Johnson, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Stone Roses fame,  HWY 61 X 49 downriver, ought to look like.

Our town was also a stop on the underground railroad, however, conveniently located up river from Cairo, (pronounced "Kay-ro" , like the syrup, for you great unwashed: this is not Egypt!).  It turns out some actual Christians (not the kind who go to Church a'Sunday to point out how fat so-and-so had gotten), some actual Christians at one point held some wealth and power in town, and, rather than rock the boat politically on the slave question, decided to secretly take matters into their hands.  They collectively began purchasing land back in the woods, decent farmland if cleared, but off the town's beaten path so that rumours of Indian sightings still worked the town's imagination.  They brought in runaway slaves from all over the South via the River, and gave them the land.  They even staged an Indian attack way back on Rocky Fork Road, the ingress to this other world, to scare white people away.  Who knew Christians could be so hilarious?

A black boy named William used to catch the school bus with us off of Rocky Fork Road, at the entrance to the boy scout camp.  He talked differently than the other African-Americans in town, and was much more friendly.  We used to wonder where he came from. There were no African Americans in our neighborhood, and he always came out of the woods. My sister loved him because he would loudly and unself-consciously sing the Pepsi jingle of the times:

"Nickle, nickle, a doobie a dat-dat..Pepsi-Cola, value pack, brings a nickle serving back/ Every serving that you pour/ Costs a nickle, not a penny more!"

The stupid things roaming around one's brain.  I can still hear him. My sister and I would sit in the very last seat of the bus, near William. And my sister would say, "Sing 'Nickle, Nickle', William!!"  That is, until Ann Slaughter and Tina Crupi tried to beat us up and stole the back seat from us...they were bigger and meaner.  Anyway, at some point it occurred to me that William must have been the descendant of one of those free men who had farms way back in Rocky Fork.

Rocky Fork Road.  I know, it sounds like I made that name up, and if you knew I was a Faulkner fan, you would have good reason to be suspicious.  However, I can assure you it's the real name of a real road...you can look it up if you are so inclined...but, it was one of the parameters of my childhood playground.   I told you we were playing on sacred ground.

Our woods were full of ghosts, and most of us hadn't read Twain.  It was just town lore.  Jean Lafitte the pirate was seen swinging his lantern through the woods in Hop Hollow, looking for the treasure he'd buried off the banks of the Mississippi. There wasn't a straight road in the whole town, except the River Road, ( I am using the term "straight" loosely here; it, naturally, followed the curves of the Mississippi, which, due to an unlikely curve at Alton, made the Muddy one actually SOUTH of us rather than WEST like you would think, forever contributing to my wonderful sense of direction...) But, it had straight stretches, and it, eventually, if you went far enough South, would lead you to the crossroads of Robert Johnson fame.  The terrain all through town was strange, up and down, hills and valleys in stark contrast to the Midwest plain states surrounding us..as if it defied gravity.   It added to the spookiness, particularly at night, as you could rarely see around corners or up and down hills.  The scientific answer to this phenomenon was no less poetic: earthquakes.  We were on the San Madras fault line, and the land showed the trauma: some wit named our "city" "Little San-Francisco".

Hop Hollow is also where you could get easy crossover status as a badass in Alton, if you dared: the rite of passage involved your Daddy's car.  Or any car; most of us had our daddies'.   You entered Hop Hollow from the top of one hill, which immediately dropped straight down, then rose rapidly uphill, to exit at the top of the opposing, equally high hill.  It was a rush to teeter your car on the brink of one hill, in neutral, and let the car drop...you were not allowed to touch the brakes....until you got to the top of the opposite hill.  Of course this had to be done at night, ideally a moonless night.  Some brainless friend of the devil once added this to the mix, and it became part of the ritual.  Regardless of the time of year, cold or no, you had to open all the windows, so you could take in  all the night sounds of owls, crickets, batwings, lonely riverboat foghorns,...turn off the radio, which , in my world was probably blasting Zeppelin or Pink Floyd or maybe Jeff Beck..from KADI or KSHE.  Then.....put out the lights.  Take in the sounds of night , for suspense.

Throw the gear into neutral.  Detach your foot from the brake, and keep your hand well away from the handbrake...

At 13 I had performed this ritual too many times in the backseat of someone else's car.  But I knew it didn't truly count for points in heaven until I was the driver.  I think I had a reputation for being a bit of a Prince Hal...hung around a certain element for the vicarious thrills, but only observed their dirty deeds, cheaply done.  All my friends smoked, but I did not.  ( I didn't acquire that habit until I was 27, and immediately became a pack a day girl--which I have since quit.)  So one star-filled night, I took my Dad's yellow Volkswagon, my friend Barb, and the Twins, Doug and Dennis, to Hop Hollow.  Now in my mind's ear a revered punk song was playing on the radio,9353's "Famous Last Words"---

"It's okay/ It's not loaded/ I'm a good driver/ don't worry, honey...",

But in reality that song didn't exist yet.
What about Iggy Pop?
"Well, I am your crazee driver--I'm sure to steer you wrong.."

  Nope, don't think we had that one yet either, although it existed,  but  not on KSHE.  A little magical realism.  Anyway, we woulda had to turn it off, according to the ritual.  I believe some alcohol was probably coursing through my veins as well.

 What if there's someone on the other hill, getting ready to do the same thing?  Aww, what's the chances of that?   Put out the lights..and then, put out the lights....

Naw.  We survived that night, although my heart was pounding like a big bass drum.  What a dope.  I now know I have a weird heart condition, an arrhythmia, and when my heart gets going too fast, it shuts down and I faint.  When I was 13 it happened to me in study hall, where I was clandestinely reading The Exorcist, got to the crucifux scene, and fainted.  What if I had fainted that night, with three other people's lives in my hand?  Ah,  Catholic guilt, it stays with you long after the last time you light a candle.  Unfortunately, some kids in my brother's class, four years later, weren't so lucky--was it the 13th?  Exactly everyone's greatest fear, two cars at once with the same destructive idea, but they didn't hit the way we imagined, at the bottom of the hill.  One car turned over into a ditch in the woods, and crushed the occupants.

That winter, Doug was driving all of us; I was back in the backseat.  It had been snowing, we had been imbibing.  Soundtrack?  The Feelies: "Loveless Love."  It had already snowed so there was icepack on the road, but a new layer had been building foot high drifts.  Doug says slurrily, in his Monty Python voice," Let's drive like we're in England!!" I started to get a queasy feeling, in the backseat..hey, I'm not in control: how do I stop this?  He switches lanes on the two lane road, accelerates, and within five seconds we were in a skid.  In 45 seconds we were in a snow drift ditch, the stationwagon was stuck good.  I wasn't 13 anymore.

And I haven't even had a chance to tell you about Lover's Leap, or The Twilight Zone.

Feb 1, 2019:  Wow so cool.  Answers some of the mysteries of my life and deepens others.

https://simplecast.com/s/811d5930?fbclid=IwAR0Y_uYnJ-LrJ66d6KOyxLAKTjprbxna57gFgYlnQPu6EyfRCLZ1pKufQP0

Why Malta? Orig Post Sat June 9,2012

Why Malta?

The title from my blog comes from a place I was taken to in Rome that forever caught in my imagination: the garden of the Maltese brotherhood.  A native of Rome walked us up through a beautiful neighborhood on the Aventine hill, one of those surrounding the city; she was very mysterious..not letting on where we were going..she tended to be like this.

We never actually entered the garden, merely peered through the keyhole in the garden gate, a keyhole with the classic bell-shaped hole of a lock that would open with a skeleton key.

What do you see when you peer in?  A long vista of hedges, cut precisely in the design of the hole, that seems to somehow stretch to infinity, like one of those infinity pools you see in upscale architectural magazines.  Very surreal.  And at the end of the vista--lined up and framed perfectly by the keyhole and matching hedges?  St. Peter's Dome.  The Vatican.

Just amazing to me the artistry, the thought put into creating this singular view--and preserved all these years.  The human spirit can be remarkable when it isn't busy destroying itself.  My desire is to be this thought provoking, but I'm not sure if I will ever accomplish that.

Wow, so I'm watching one of my secret old lady pleasures--Monty Don, the rather eccentric English gardening guy who does shows where he helps people make extraordinary gardens in small spaces, but also has gardening tourist shows.  One catches my eye: all about Italian Gardens.  The first episode is Rome  il mio amore---

So he has some quick cuts of various Roman tourist sites: the Colosseum, , the Forum, St. Peter's.  Then he stays on St. Peter's and notes the money and power the Church had to build outrageous gardens.  Then...

A quick shot of my Key of Malta.  Without explanation.  I'm wondering if I will finally hear the story behind this extraordinary human endeavor--no t sure if I'm happy to know the Church was its  midwife.

Why? Original Post June 9, 2012

Why?

This looks like the numerous journals stacked on a shelf in my bedroom closet.  They date back to my 20's , which would have been during the 1980's.  Written in Florida, St. Louis, Europe, wherever I found myself traveling.  

Most of my life, I've been writing...mainly in black and white cardboard composition books like the one pictured in my profile. I have a whole stack of these together with a few fancier, leather or other journals I've been given as gifts, or caught a moment's whim. The two that rest in my mind most frequently, however, are not in my closet.

The last time I saw them, they were burning. In the big farmhouse style kitchen sink of the old 1914 house I lived in then, (even though I was about to move...didn't know that at the moment). I set them on fire myself, with my hand ready on the faucets in case the fire got too far gone.

Why did I burn them? At the time, I was trying to keep them from someone, and this was the best way, the only way. These manuscripts would burn, and never be seen again. and gratefully, I don't really remember what was in them. He, even though he was legally barred from doing so, kept sneaking into my house, taking things. I knew it was him because of what he took, not anything of monetary value, like cameras or jewelry or televisions like a normal thief--but my most personal--the things that meant the most to me..only he would know.

One item was my great-grandfather's gold pocket watch,nonworking, with the glass face loose and removed, engraved with his name and the date of his retirement from the B&O Railroad. I knew my journals were next, even though I had hidden them, and knew he would be diligent, knew the secrets of the house.

So, that was the last time I wrote in the formal way, recording the date with a line across the page:

-------------------Jan. 25, 1992-----------------

as I usually did in my black and white books. I was too paranoid about his intrusion in my life, too angry about the invasion of my privacy in such a soul possessing fashion. Angry that he had destroyed a habit that had given me solace for decades.

Of, course, I kept writing, just in different outlets. And now I think I've outgrown the need for the particular service those books gave--I never read them, by the way--the ones I have. I don't write for auto-psychoanalysis, my aims now are more decadent. To indulge in my private concept of the beauty of words, and there I am willing to be more public, hence this blog suddenly seemed the bed for such things.

Time? Original Post Tuesday, Nov 13, 2012

Time?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=biJkDn5dVoY

I'm not really sure what this post will be for.  Something to do with my rant against time.  It may be one of those that goes nowhere.

Everyday, when I come home from work, the first thing I do to feel relaxed is take off my watch.  It feels like my prison and slavery.

Even during school, I often take off my watch and leave it on my desk like it's some sort of weird miniature enemy.  Mostly I do this when I have time to play guitar, because it gets in the way.  I don't understand how so many people play with a million obstacles : rattly watches, bracelets, scarves, fringed jackets,  long hair in their eyes, hats....all that would bug the crap outta me.  I hate having things on my forearms, anyway, which is why I usually have my sleeves rolled or pushed up.  Hate things around my neck, too--feels like I'm suffocating.  I think it has something to do with being sorta hot blooded:  the veins and arteries in my neck and wrists feel like they need to breathe.

There is nothing I like better than a long stretch of days where I have the luxury of avoiding time--no alarm clocks, no dinner time, long walks to nowhere going who knows where for how long---not being accountable to anyone or anything.   Sometimes I think I'd be willing to walk all the way to Alaska this way, as long as nobody told me what to do.

 My family seems to be immersed in an inordinate love of time--gettin' up time, goin' to school time,  rehearsal time, going-to- the- store time, laundry time, dinner time,  goin'to bed time...I am secretly always rebelling against these for some ridiculous reason.  How can someone be so enamored of routine ??  -Retch-

I've already said on another post, my favorite watch featured a hologram that looked like someone shot the clock face to stop time.

I think one of my favorite features of being tipsy/drunk is that it temporarily gives the illusion of timelessness.   I'm sure that is one of the elements that draws in the addict of many substances.

It's also why I frequently stay up past my bedtime. And take walks at random hours.  And love the timeless feeling of dreams.

And despise meetings of any kind.  Especially if they require "Minutes".

Of course, there is this irony, that one of my favorite parts of life (Music)  is completely dependent on time.

Which I am not good at.  But which I secretly admire as the most important element of music--which--I am not good at.

Hah!  I just noticed that for whatever reason, this post recorded it's initial posting time at least 2 hours off.  That should make me happy.  After all, time is relative.

One of the things that bugs me about time is how much I still feel myself, as I get older.  In fact, whenever I have the chance to look back at my younger thoughts, it impresses me how much I actually haven't changed, although my circumstances have.  I need to give my younger self more credit--  Dealing with different outside bullshit, reacting to the same old me.  I should be used to the outside treating me like an alien by now, and perhaps I am more comfortable than that now--more willing to dismiss the outsiders as lost souls. Yet I realize the outside world views me differently.

So--this makes me think about Dr. Who.   I love Dr. Who--especially David Tennant.   I wanna be a time lord.  Except I hear it's really lonely, knowing all the people will go before you, and you may be the cause of their demise.  Imagine, though,  being able to go to any time or anywhere in the universe.  That would be so boss.

For some reason, this is the part  that really gets to me these days, though. It's when Dr. Who meets someone he really feels a tight bond for, but then one of them time travels so that they are now awkward for a relationship, because one's so much older.  Yet the feelings are intact.  So odd and sad.

Something so strange about the Dr. Who writers:  they have this laser-pointer ability to show people forming eternal bonds in a matter of seconds.  Such heavy emotional content for a sci-fi show.  I suppose that is what I love, the romantic in me that believes in the importance of these things.  Dr. Who loves Rose, (in a Platonic way?  Dunno, there's a waterfall of sexual tension in their scenes, but it never gets culminated in the story--perhaps the best way;) but also seems to feel deep feelings for Mrs. Moore ( a fake name so she can fight the cybermen incognito),   who left her husband to save him, and then died for the cause.  The cause, you say?  Yes, good question.  It seems to have something to do with those bonds.

I think my rebellion against time has to do with my quest to not be placed in a box.  To be free from anything but my own soul.  Not entirely realistic, but still an indefinable, and yet, sought after, goal.    Part of my purpose, to distill down to me.   Nothing irritates me more than to watch people participate in some standardized ritual of how they think they  should behave.  Then give the impression they have grounds to judge.  Because they themselves are good citizens of the box.

Ironically, I have had several people in my life of late seem to try to nail me in a prefab box--for  disparate reasons, I think.  Some might be misunderstandings, projections, miscalculations, preconceived notions planted and strewn about like so many weeds in our cultural consciousness.  So many people think they can understand me.  Hehheheh-heh. ?  Shall I sing some Alice in Chains?  But I'm not a man.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAqZb52sgpU

I don't even really like this song that much, except perhaps the chorus, when he kicks in with, "SAAAAAyyyeeyeyeyaaaaave me..... Jesus Christ"....

 I defy you, starry.  Maybe it's best you don't know.

Strange the dichotomy of wanting and not wanting to be understood.


As Hamlet says, "We've all a heart to our mystery", and I feel no obligation to sound mine--- unless I feel so moved .  "Is it safe," outside the box?

I don't know.  I feel myself getting stranger and stranger.  More alone, and happier in that.   I find I  look most forward to having a few hours alone, so I can fully immerse myself in my own thoughts, my own choice of music, my own fantasies and visions and pretend connections--well, they have some basis in reality, but... not much.  Time out of joint.  Good place to be.  I know I have an obsessive personality that tends to chase good ideas, people, down to the nth degree--but I am welcoming that lately--while working on a modicum (whose word is that--hah! John!) of control.


  One my students told me today that I was the smartest person said student has ever met---not sure whether or not to be flattered by this.  Said person's perspective??  We have a much better relationship than I had imagined--but mostly because I figured how to  play it, and I'll be damned if I wasn't right....not that I particularly enjoy "playing"people in this fashion--but if it greases the skids of my life and causes my little microcosm to hum in harmony, why not?  Better than being perverse.  What did Descartes say?  Use it for good, not evil...  The universe seems to be singing my song: I didn't even get caught being irresponsible today--didn't even need my ready-made excuse...

Rude, not ginger:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EGs_ryZ9bfY

I saw a strange little movie last night that discusses a new idea for me.  God wants us out of time. Up with him.  Time only exists, history goes on, from our constant rejection of this offer (which includes death).  In the movie the idea is presented that death is a dream state from which you can't awake.

Jan 25:  Wow, can't remember what movie that was/\.  Sounds cool ,though.  Why didn't I write dow the title?!
May 6, 2018:--(this is out of time, haha--a break in the space time continuum..)  I finally found the name of this movie--it's THE BRAND NEW TESTAMENT!

So, lately I've been discussing with myself this strange idea that I'm not in the same time loop as the people around me.  It's really stupid.  I think I must be delusional, or ready to have some sort of psychotic break, but I just don't feel like I'm aging at the same rate as other people around me.

You would think this would be a good thing, but it's very disorienting.  It makes me feel like I bond better with people who are NOT my age.  This makes me feel like a creep.  I'm starting to feel sympathy with, like, all those creepy old men who like younger women.  I understand why they feel incompatible with people their age who want to naturally slow down.  But I don't. Ewww!

 The people I know, my age, seem so incredibly fragile about things they once wouldn't think twice about.  I feel immune to this.  I know, we are all growing older: our bodies slower, fatter, droopier, less attractive, more rest and sleep oriented.  Getting joy from food. Sitting.  And sitting.  Having health issues. Unable to get interested in the more curious things in life.  Less experimental.

I must be the contrary one, once again.  I want more!!!  Ok, I can't run like I used to.  I have a few health issues, but other than altering some small behaviors, I hardly ever think about this, because it's not a daily problem.  My knees are starting to bother me regularly, but I feel better walking. And I don't think that's denial--I think I'm exceptionally healthy--always have been.  Ok, I can't run like I used to. But I was nuts then. I'm definitely heavier--but not in an entirely awful way.  I still get...nevermind.

I actually feel like my brain is speeding up, instead of slowing down.  Is that normal?  I've been putting even more things in it than I used to. More books, more music, more guitar, more movies, more words, more ideas.  For example, in the last 4 years, I have, for the first time in my life, gotten decent in a foreign language:  Italian.  Ok, I'm not fluent, like reading Dante cold or whatever, but I'm decent for basic conversations?  So now I took on a second language--Russian.  So much harder, so much different from my native language.  And.  I'm learning it faster than Italian.  AND--??  I never even took a class, like I did with Italian--just learned it on my own on the Internet. I'm already trying to read a book in that language.  Again, I am quite, quite far from fluent, but, WTF?  What does this mean?

So, to misquote Hamlet, what are creatures, caught twixt heaven and earth, like myself, to do?  Do I have to suck up to convention and deflate myself with the old folks?  Or should I put up my shields full tilt, and face the derision of wading into the younger world..  Zigzag between both?  It's not like I've ever wanted to do anything particularly subversive--drugs or promiscuous sex or anything.  But, I do want to continually live, rather than die in life.

Eh.  Most people bore me, anyway, not just the older ones. 98% of the young ones,  too.

Oh, crap.

So, This is a test.  It seems like I won't be allowed to edit my old posts under my new e-mail address, just read,  share, and make new blog posts.  More investigation....

This is one of the things that bothers me --losing access to my own work.

Dec 17, 2018:

Thank god I did this-- would have lost everything when they disabled my account today!!  Now I have lost editing privileges for all the other posts.  I'm wondering if I take off the other e-mail address if it will change my status -worth trying.

It can't be done since I no longer have the account.  So now, I just went through and copied every goddam post so I can still edit them if I want.  And now I have double posts for everything.  But I'm curious of how this will effect traffic.  Will the old ones no longer get hits at all?  Will the new ones have less traffic because they're unknown?  Curious.

Weird--can't access the stats page anymore?

10:57p.m.--so, the video teacher thing rejected me.  Who am I kidding, I would not have liked that job.  I felt awkward doing it, and now I feel humiliated.  I really didn't like how it was set up--I had all of 12 hours (less really) to put a presentation together, with no idea of how long it would be or what the evaluation would be about.  Turns out I got criticized for having bad camera angles, for not getting through the lesson (it didn't say how long it would be, until an hour before--you couldn't access the site to practice before that!)  Plus, I'm not used to dealing with very young kids, like a 5 year old!  I mean, the evaluator was right, this wasn't a good match for me, but how was I to know what they wanted without any information given.  I asked if they had older student, and she said they did, but I don't think that's a big part of their program.  It sounds kinda like a not so great company in spite of its ratings.  Chinese kids have to have other ways to learn basic conversational English that is more productive.  A 15 minute lesson, and all you learn is about 6 words?  I wouldn't buy into that for my kids.  Oh, well.  Chalk it up to experience--maybe other tutoring businesses are better.  I was just impressed with myself getting all the technology lined up in time.  I guess I was supposed to have practiced timing the lesson, but screw that.

 I suppose I was a little over-confident that this would be a shoo-in for me.  I think Ken better brace himself for the fact that I'm now a loser, that ageism is real, and he needs to downsize his spending habits.  That's the thing.  If it was just me to consider, I'd take my little ol' retirement and go live a frugal life somewhere.  Not Ken--he's always been a bit on the gluttonous  side.

Faith

December 15, 2017

This morning as I was walking to school, I was scrolling through my phone, looking for some entertainment to pass the time.  I saw someone's essay on Goodreads, on a review about Bertrand Russell's Why I'm Not a Christian, which I read years ago, and put in the vault along with all my other thoughts about philosophy, God, religion and the great existential questions.

Not to mention, all the great literature I've read throughout my life, from all over the world, that reinforces and elaborates on these ideas.

Since I taught a British lit class that  I felt needed a walk through Western culture, its philosophies and evolution of cultural ideas, I often got this question from students, usually after we had long left the comforts of Medieval and Renaissance Christianity and were delving into Scientific Rationalism and Existentialism--so, what do you believe?

Short answer, I would say, if I didn't want to get into it, or read the room as a bit aggressive:
      "It's Complicated".  Or, "Well, I was raised Catholic..."

I think some of my students read my very intimate and extensive knowledge of Catholic ritual and history as belief.  My faith, so to speak.  They would be right on a very surface level.  Catholicism is a piece of my soul I cannot remove or deny, just like I can't avoid being Italian, Irish, British, and some other Eastern European bloodline.  I can't erase 17 years of my life or even my family's continued pressure.  They are definitely Catholic, most of them.  Others kinda see-saw.

There is something about the richness and awe in the ceremonies and churches of Catholicism. It just sort of amazes me that fairly primitive human beings came up with such a concept, to civilize and pacify humanity's violent tendencies.  And, in some cases, it worked--Kings were not rebeled against, men reeled in some of their baser animalistic natures, particularly for sex.  Women were revered (in theory--when they weren't being abused) on some level and protected. Of course, there were all those Church fueled wars. However, there was also a facade of politeness that was reinforced by the church structure.

In these days of incivility I can respect that.

And Jesus.  I like Jesus, but not in the same way these redneck Southern baptists do. I don't emblazon him on my truck and drive like a madman disregarding others' safety. As a general principle I have much greater respect for the older, more traditional religious practices: Catholicism, but also Eastern and Greek Orthodox, Judaism.  See, these are solid, steadfast, and not mutating all over the place.  Although I don't agree with the Pope on things like birth control and such, but he always maintains the same baseline.  Who's the biggest peacenik in the world?  The Pope, through Vietnam, Middle Eastern messes, nuclear war,  terrorism, North Korean threats, he always reinforces Jesus' message of peace, in defiance of the politics of the times.  That's cool. And poverty--he's the only world figure going to bat for the poor these days.

I have less and less respect for the myriad forms of Southern Christianity in America.  In fact, I would like to state that I can see, in the very public forms,  very little that exhibits Christian morality in their ideas and practices--as they mutate into a thousand political forms. All that bullshit about being blessed and superior as an excuse for being rich and cheating people--God wanted them to do it-He sanctioned it!   Cart before the horse thinking.

And those dip shits marrying and blessing their guns!!WTF!!

First, here's the baseline I was taught, and still believe in:

• #1--The Golden Rule:  Do Unto Others as You Would Have Them Do Unto You. 

It's like the Christian version of Karma.

Where has this idea disappeared to?  I was taught this should be the center of morality--if you followed this faithfully, you were a decent, moral person.  Of course, everyone has their lapses--that's what confession, prayer is for--moments of meditation, to really think about what you had done or said, especially if it bothers you in some way--possibly you did something wrong that needs working out.  Notice that the Golden Rule is all about fostering compassion for others, walking in their shoes, being a thoughtful, considerate person--not a guard dog constantly on the attack.  You are supposed to police your own soul, not others.

And this is where the Southern Christians (and many Republicans) go so far off the rails----

with a little help from their money-grubbing, political friends.  To paraphrase Fiddler o n the Roof--"God Bless and keep the NRA, far, far away from me..."  ( the original was the Цар).

I'm not saying all Southern Christians are like this, but it is the message that is publicly seen from them, and I don't see too many having the guts to stand up and contradict their rabid, and rich, leaders. 

• #2-  The Seven Deadly Sins:

             ---Pride
             ---Envy
             ---Anger
             ---Greed
             ---Gluttony
             ---Sloth
             ---Lechery, Lust

And, every reinforcing piece of literature, from medieval times on, that illustrates how these can enter human life. Pride, of course, being the devil's own sin, and #1 one of what not to do in order to be a good person.  I admit struggling constantly with my pride; of my knowledge, schooling, pov, skills and abilities. I do try!  One problem about this in the modern world is humility--the opposite of pride--is seen as weakness.  I suspect it has so much to do with why powerful men have decided it's their birthright to control the "weaker" women in their lives.  ( And people of other races, backgrounds). But see how medieval thinking (maybe not actions--these were ideals, of course) used to undercut those grandiose ideas?  Even the simple idea of courtesy, of the big, bad knight dedicating his service, platonically, to a lady?  That whole unrequited love trope.

Greed is the interesting one for the day.  And echoing that New Testament adage:  "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man to get into heaven."  It doesn't say it's impossible (how big a needle, how big a camel?)  But you can see the tipping point--greed.  All these folks who believe they are using their hard-earned money for the greater good: are they?  I can see someone convincing themselves they are contributing to the greater good by, say, contributing to a political party, but are they really just lying to themselves about fattening their own cushy lives? Or  using a tax break--which substantially takes away from others--claiming they are going to be "job-creators".  I think it's awfully hard for a businessman who feels he's worked very hard for his bread, deserves his cushion, fears a fall and is providing for his children--so many ways to play the compassion game--and I do think fear is an intense motivator, the forgotten underlying motive, that fuels an unconscious need to keep acquiring more and more.  I do understand the pressure to get your child properly educated and prepared for adulthood, but it seems there is a  better way than merely giving them things; you should also give a little hardship, motivate and teach, possibly even with a little deprivation.  The endgame is self-reliance, no? which does not come in a box.

 I have students with 4 I-phones, all active.
Seems there's just an awful lot of unnecessary crap that comes in a box.


Labels are so easy to take on.  Generalizing and judging.

• #3 Judge not, lest ye be judged.  That's the smartest idea of all.  And one we all miss on regularly.

• #4 (Roy Moore's sin of Pride): The 10 Commandments

     -Worship no other gods but the Almighty-no false gods
     -Do not take the Lord's name in Vain
     -Keep holy the Sabbath
     -Honor your father and mother
     -Do not kill
     -Don't commit adultery
     -Do not steal
     -Do not lie
     -Do not covet your neighbor's goods
     -Do not covet your neighbor's wife

Of course, in all of these, the devil is in the details.  What is adultery, killing, lying, stealing? Keeping holy the Sabbath?   Thousands of years of traditions for differing religions have been built out of the different answers to these questions.   Many of us think Roy Moore has broken several of these, but he doesn't think so.  Maybe he wanted that big monument up to remind himself.  But why did it have to be on Government property?

Can I make an argument that the GOP taking away their neighbor's healthcare is covetous and stealing?
   
I don't think too many clear headed people would argue with the spirit of these ideas,  even if they might argue the letter of some churches' interpretations.  Atheists might argue against the false gods, Sabbath, and Lord's name commandments, but I think if you consider the spirit in them, even an atheist should see the sense as pertains to the rhythms of a good, thoughtful life: have a day of rest and contemplation.  Swearing is usually done as insult--don't do it.  Don't be taken in by Messianic bullshit, including churches who worship--eh, L. Ron Hubbard or their false creation of business "Jesus".

I'm big on taking this to a sensible level to a plane of mutual understanding, not some church's devilish details, including the Catholics'.

So am I really Catholic?  It's complicated.
Do I believe in Scientific Facts?  Most certainly, the ones that have been proved and seem logical.
Am I an Atheist?  I don't think the atheist, scientists have evidence there is no God, as they should if they want to take that route. Can't prove a negative in logic, right?  DT needs to learn that.
Am I agnostic?  Possibly.  But I like the feel of believing something better is possible even if it's almost impossible.
I also feel truth in Buddhism, although that's harder to break down into moral behavior, except also to sacrifice yourself and understand your relationship to the other in life.
I still think these rules stated above are good ones, until we come up with something better.

I do believe, in spite of the news and appearances of the world, that good  will out over evil, or bad, or negativity, whatever you want to call it.  I think most people have an instinct for it.  I think people can change, even if you shouldn't help them reinforce their most negative qualities, perhaps by helping them too much.  Let them have their own responsibilities to ruin or redeem their lives. I believe in love, as I have stated elsewhere, and although it's terribly hard to define--eros? agape? Fraternal or motherly??  I'm certain it exists, is not a figment of romantic imaginations.  I have faith that the majority of folks are on an upward trajectory of reaching towards the light.

Dec 19:  The Young Pope shall send this thread in a strange direction.  More after digestion.

I do want to get to the place where religion goes wrong, where it becomes rigid and inflexible, when it fails at complexity, that is looking at life's complexities.  Then, there is fanaticism.  A word that has been watered down to fan.  Fan of--um, Kiss, or Miley Cyrus, or Depeche Mode.

A fanatic is much worse.  Akin to a terrorist.  In its sense of extremism. Its tendency towards the black and white, love and hate.

Hate to resort to this sort of thing, but here's a dictionary definition for fanatic:
a person filled with excessive and single-minded zeal, especially for an extreme religious or political cause.

Much of the world's problems are bred in fanatics. Monomaniacs with a narrow view.

Jan 10:  However, I have a particular distaste for the points of view of the people I know who are atheists.  In seems to become stronger in those who may have been forced into religion early in their life, by family or culture.  It irritates me to death that some atheists, especially two I know too well, think this philosophy is bred from some superior intellect, some superior objectivity that is guiding their, um, non-soul.  Prove it, say I.  Prove there is no God.  no spiritual force, unseen, working in the universe. What is it?  Lessee, isn't there some maxim in logic theory that you cannot prove a negative? * So, therein lies the flaw in their logic--D.O.A.  So, they usually resort to the ad hominem argument that religious people are fools, deceiving themselves.  Not exactly an objective argument.

* see Betrand Russell's argument about the teapot in outerspace for a rebuttal, but then there are plenty of rebuttals to his rebuttal...

I think perhaps just like you can have religious fanatics, you can have atheist fanatics.  They are obsessed with the idea of proving spiritual ideas to be wrong, most commonly by using a lot of straw man arguments--pointing out the idiocy of snake-handlers and Pentacostals and violent Christians who don't turn the other cheek, the greed of the Medieval Church preaching that greed is the root of all evil and taking everyone's money--sure, they did that.  All those things may be true, but it's only the far side of the spectrum--doesn't prove that spirituality, or any particular religion has no merit whatsoever.  It's just another extreme view to me.

I showed my Drama class today several clips about MLKing, Robert Kennedy, JFK, to give them some context about the 60s, and the upcoming MLK holiday for which we are getting a day off--except for me who stupidly volunteered to get up early to go with the group taking the boarders to Cape Canaveral to the Kennedy Space station before I knew I coulda had the day off.  Eh, I'm kinda glad I'm going--besides sleeping in, what would I have done with myself?  I like my boarder kids this year.  It made me feel nice when some sparked up to know I was going with them.  ))

But back to MLK/JFK/RFK.  I had pulled up the "I Had A Dream" speech b/c one of the Chinese kids had asked why we had Monday off and who was MLK anyway? So, since this class still has a lot of AWOL Holiday people, and this group sorta works independently, I figured I could show the video and they could watch it or not while they did their work.  Honestly, if you are paying attention and have any humanity, any notion of the context, I don't know how any sentient being could not help being moved by that speech.  Add to it the "I Been to The Mountaintop"speech, knowing he's gonna die that week...

Well, when my Drama kids walked in, who are 60% or more African American--some are mixed race--I purposely left the MLK speech up, wondering if they'd ask to see it--thinking they are making the teacher go off topic (beware the guile of teachers planning a teachable moment.)  They asked, I started it up, and one had the temerity to ask--so, that was during the Reagan administration right?  It was a very sincere question, and I explained it was the 80s when Reagan was Pres: this was the glorious and terrible 1960s.

So, recognizing the appalling lack of knowledge our school system had afforded this curious African-American young man, who regularly spouts pop culture references to Malcolm X and the Black Panthers, but doesn't seem to know why they existed, I launched into a mini-history lesson that featured my personal time in these historical moments.  My first stop was RFK's announcement, during his  jump into the  1968 Presidential Campaign as a last minute candidate, of the assassination.  He made a quite stirring and emotional speech, that only he could have made, in his place in history, having the arduous task of telling a huge crowd of his supporters that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., on that night in April, had been shot and killed (I added the detail for my audience that the horrid shooter was a man from my small home town in Illinois).  To the questions about the racist nature of my town, I explained what I knew about the complicated racial history of my town, the white landowners who before the Civil War bought land and gave it to runaway slaves who came to our town through the Underground Railroad up the Mississippi. And actively made rumours of "Indian sightings" to keep nosy slave-catcher types away.  About the white abolitionist who was murdered by other white men, the laws in Illinois that weren't exactly "slavery", but allowed one to keep another man or woman in indentured servitude with no pay for 99 years..

I could see RFK's speech had had the desired effect, and explained that he himself was assassinated two months after.  Then I showed the Zapruder film in all its blurriness, so they would understand why Robert had the moral authority to tell Blacks to use reason, not attack all white men, because he had experienced the same sort of violence at the hands of a white man--and everyone felt the weight of those words. I let it run a little into a short clip about the magic Bullet theory and why it was wrong, but explained how Americans were feeling, why there was so much skepticism to believe authority.  Then we went back to "I Have a Dream", after I gave some local history of life in St. Pete for blacks pre-LBJ, who gave himself Vietnam nightmares so he could pass Civil Rights legislation.

Can you believe?  I had a kid thank me for sharing all this with them, in the way I'd done it.  I really felt like I'd accomplished something.  I said, those were the kind of politicians America used to have.

The future--ten kids at a time.

This is why I believe in something beyond us--something made MLK, made Robert Kennedy the fulcrum of a powerful historical moment.  They were not perfect men, but they stood for something.  It may be forgotten, the world may throw shit on it.  But, maybe not.

Jan 24:  To Congress and the executive branch:

You, sir, are no John Kennedy.  (Nor Robert, neither).

Jan 31, 2017:  
So I was asked a deeply profound question:  "Can I (or anyone) change?"  In keeping with my , uh, faith, I have to almost instinctively say "Yes!"  It's that old question the Determinists ask if people truly have free will.  My philosophy is, they do.  We may have to fight the science in our bodies, but we still have a choice.  Maybe I only believe this because I think the other option is so very ugly.

But now I have to think about why that is right, and of course it also relates to my personal troubles--which I think I have already perhaps had success with by making some small, but significant changes.  Like not letting other people control me so much.  They can't control what doesn't comply, Да?  Better for both.   I take the time for my own consumption --what I'm going to put in me both physically and mentally.  I'll have a big challenge in a week or two when the in-laws come.  She ain't gonna push me about.  Can that one change?  Addendum--I think she's getting too broken to push.

But why can people change?  Let's take something obvious, and science based,  like an addiction.  Drugs, porn, sex, alcohol, love, internet addictions.  OCD addictions like flicking the light switch.  A need: for speed. A manic's need for change, new sensory experiences. Obviously people have gotten themselves off these addictions.  Cynics might say they just substitute another behavior, a better addiction.  Religion for Booze, via the 12 steps.  Lessee, did I do that when I quit smoking?  I don't think so.  What did I substitute?

Can't think of anything.  Had another baby?  Nah.  Work?  Possibly, but I already worked when I smoked.   I think some people do swap out one thing for another, like strict exercise routines after a cocaine addiction.

But I think I mean more deeper, profound changes.  For example, I think maybe I perhaps didn't like myself as much when I was, say, 20. Bucking the system, and getting negative feedback.  I made superficial changes, for example,  by being more punk/rebellious in a place where that was not quite acceptable.  Maybe that sorta forced me to change, but further down the road, when I watered it back more.

Going through a real hardship, like possibly losing my daughter via the divorce--emotionally, was more a crucible for real change for me--knowing I could only count on myself to believe that she will understand where the truth of our terrible situation lies.  It's one of those things that just comes with time, repetition, solidness of character. It was a mantra to me--just be yourself, the truth will show itself.  And it did.  And it did force me to choose exactly those things that were most important, most me.

I think that is really the answer to why I believe.  Because I told myself it would happen, and it did.

  Maybe I need to work again on what exactly it is that I want, especially from my creative self.  I'm bored with playing by myself, and bored with the repetition band.  But, see, here's the tricky part.  Being bored is certainly not new for me--my whole life has been me searching for something outside of the boredom.  I think I need to look less outside myself for the boredom busters.

It's in my head, right?  The kingdom of heaven..

Feb 1:  Threading the needle morally, so that you don't destroy others but make yourself happy, is really, really difficult.  And takes subtlety.  I don't mean subtle like the serpent man.  But being open and looking at all the rabbit holes and time tunnels you might be making in your life--anticipating the consequences.  Trying where you can.

And actually knowing what it is you want.  There was a scene in the season 4 finale of Californication  that maybe gets close--the family and friends just laughing, relaxed (a little high, granted) and feeling the love of each others' company.  That's what I want, I think.  And don't have.
Why don't I have it?  Or, better, why do I feel like I don't have it?  Maybe I do. Nah..I spend too much of my free time alone.  But I do have my moments..

Train! Traayyyyyyenn!! Train I ride....

August 10, 2017:  



Thought I would make this its own post, although it also appears in my Soma thread.

Might I suggest a cross country train trip in lieu of the the golden Soma pills?  I'm in the last hours of a 50+  hour train ride: that's not counting an overnight layover in Chicago, the BIG train city, due to a missed connection.  I must be getting mellow in my age: even though this made me late for work ( I should be in a faculty workshop at this very minute), and there were a lot of hassles on the way, little of the problems really bothered me.  I just went with it, figuring it would work out, and it did.  I suspect hitting a mudslide in Denver is a pretty good natural disaster excuse.

Oh, so I took the California Zephyr from Emeryville (part of the SF/Berkeley/Oakland Bay area--it's the more suburban one full of the Targets, Home Depots, etc. that the rest of the Bay Area is too cool or ethnic for)...from Emeryville to Chicago, the full ride. This was unquestionably the best part of the trip.  Then the Capital Unlimited from Chicago to D.C., only missing the part that goes to NYC.   Then the Silver Star, down the East Coast, from D.C.  to Tampa, missing the terminus of Miami.  I love how the trains still have names, and even their corresponding numbers are low, unlike the airlines: our was 6, 30, and 91 respectively.  Old fashioned and easy to remember. Probably the cheapest way to see the whole country there is, if you go Coach, like we did.

There was so much good on this trip to outweigh some of the minor bad.  I'll get the bad out of the way first--in case anyone else is considering this romantic sounding (it is, though) journey.  First, sleeping is probably the worst part.  You have to sleep in your seats, like on a plane--but they are bigger, with better adjustments and footrests.  The other passengers can be a pain during the sleep phase: we got two snorers,  one worse than the other, some other various strange dudes. One train had this horrid squeak right above our heads.  The first two trains had no WiFi, so I ate up my data  plan on my cell phone taking pictures and movies, watching movies, texting and killing time.  The last train, the Silver Star, claims to have WiFi, but it only kicked in halfway, and then my power source for charging went dead.  The food situation is not great--sleepers get a package deal, but if you go coach like we did you have to pay for every meal, and they ain't cheap.  The least expensive dinner was a very dry chicken breast succotash, and a starch--for 17.00.  It went upward there to 26.00 for a steak dinner, 36.00 for steak and shrimp, the ultimate bougee meal.  Joe and I only ate on the dinner car once--the rest of the time we made do with microwaved pizza, burgers and dogs from the cafe, which had a variety of convenience store stuff including booze.  Later we got smart and brought our own food with us. The bathrooms are very much like on a plane, some bigger, though, no showers, and some with additional human smells.  Bring your own drinking water source, too.

I got myself yelled at during lunch service in the dining car because it was my first hour on board, and I didn't yet know the layout of the train--I was looking for the cafe car which was on a lower level.  I tried to go through the dining car and got the big freeze from the wait staff cos I didn't have a reservation.  I explained what I was looking for and got sent in the other direction, only to meet Joe, who insisted what we were looking for was on the other side of the dining car.  When he saw me coming again, this black host/waiter just went all sarcastic and starting talking like I wasn't there to hear," Well, I guess I just don't know what I'm talkin' about..",  he said to no one.  He was nicer later when we had a real reservation.

But, for someone like me, the crazy passengers, admittedly some who were trouble, are part of the charm of train-riding.  First of all, you get to know them much better and for longer periods than on a plane--there's some sort of tradition of train friendliness that happens.  I didn't get too involved since I had Joe with me and he doesn't go in for that sort of thing, but there was a lot to observe and pick up on in brief encounters.  If you really want to see America, its real citizens, get on a train.

 For example, the train staff, conductors (my great-grandpa was  one, for the B&O, I think ) are so much more human and humane than airline staff.  They run around actively troubleshooting everyone's problems, although they don't "wait" on you, like in the sky.  They definitely don't seem so corporate, holding down a bunch of stupid rules to maintain the bottom line.  Sue (see, I know her name!  was one of those great, gruff, jolly old gals with a smoker's laugh, and a no nonsense attitude like a good, benevolent schoolteacher).  She was sick the whole trip, but still went out of her way for so many passengers, just one of those salt-o-the earth types.  The airlines should take note.  She just had a common sense approach to things, rather than corporate rule following.  For example, in the Eastern parts of rural Cali and western Nevada, as night came on, Joe snuck across the aisle to an empty seat to sleep more comfortably.  We thought Sue hadn't noticed, but she had, she was just being compassionate.  As dawn came and we were approaching a bigger city, with new arriving passengers, she quietly informed Joe he'd have to go back to his seat to make room for the new people, after the stop.  Lovely way to handle that, and the same thing happened on the Silver Star in Florida.

We had two different Cafe ladies--the first one was a bored chubby  tattooed millennial who raced through her train announcements in an almost indecipherable  monotone, like a disengaged kid trying to get through his turn reading aloud as quickly as possible. She perked up for me when I gave her a 3 dollar tip for a drink.  The second one was a real peach.  She  had this overweight middle aged drunk guy: two mornings in a row he was drinking beers and buying rounds for some black ladies, one who I think was a transvestite with the signature elaborate hairdo and scarf?  They were treating the Cafe Car like it was their personal watering hole, and she cheerfully played bartender to them while simultaneously dealing with the long line of customers like me.  Saw him this morning in the diner car at 9am with a full Corona in his hand surrounded by an entourage of new dark ladies yucking it up.  To look at  just a picture of him, you would have taken him for the most deeply red-necked, seed-cap wearing bigot, but here he was with his preferred company.  The Cafe lady--this is on the Silver Star--was very nice and accommodating.  She filled up Joe's big hiking water bottle to the brim with ice, and when I tried to buy a cup of two-dollar coffee, then told her sadly I had the option of  my sad single dollar, a $20, or a credit card, she promptly transferred it to a slightly smaller complimentary cup, said, on the house, and I, in gratitude put my sad single in her tip box.  She said, taken aback, "Oh, no, I didn't do it for that!"  I said, "I know, that's why!"

After the mudslide fiasco, the whole train was treated to a free dinner of beef stew, mashed potatoes, rolls, drinks, and the ubiquitous succotash.  It was better than the paid for meal.

Other characters:  on the California Zephyr, we had a whole carful of Amish, of all ages.  There was a whole family of blonde girls, plus their mother, dressed in identical eye-popping bright turquoise  homemade dresses that made them stand out from the rest in dark and blue.  They were the exception of travelers with no electronic  devices at all--they all had worn books with them for entertainment--noticed one was the old-timey religious book Shepherd of the Hills.  Some of the kids had coloring books, one lady was doing needlepoint.  A big gang of them was playing cards, speaking some hybrid of German and English which I guess was Pennsylvania Dutch.   They were laughing and having a fine old time, men and women together. Yet, when they talked to us "English", they easily slipped into almost unaccented American English. Some young Amish couple was sparking alone in the club car away from the others--his moustache-less beard less developed than the others'.  I saw one middle aged Amish guy in the observation car deep in conversation with an Asian man--perhaps exchanging ideas about their thoughts on American culture. On the smoke break stops I noticed two Amish men would get out on the platform and light up.  I thought maybe they had some home-grown tobacco with Roll-your-own papers, but no, they were smoking standard American cigarettes with the telltale brown filters.

In general, the train is where all sorts of ethnicities and races blend and go out out of their way to get along.  I got nothing put politeness and sunny smiles from the African Americans on the Silver Star--the mix was about half, with some Hispanics thrown in.  On the Capitol Ltd., Joe and I ate dinner with a man from Nigeria--we had a great conversation once we got passed the uncomfortable introductions.  He told Joe he could see in his eyes how intelligent he was--how well he would do at Cyber Security.  At another meal we sat with a Chicago suburban social worker and her deeply autistic son who "loved trains" and who was having some conversation with himself concerning mileage and other train minutiae.

There was one poor old black lady who spent the majority of the California Zephyr ride in the club Car with her head glued to the table, smothered in a colorful blanket.  I thought she was sick: every time I went down there, even with hours passing, there she was in the same position. Several other passengers inquired thoughtfully about her health, which she brushed off politely. Finally, at one point she perked up, and started laughing uproariously at some thought: she was having the time of her life alone.  This went on for more than 15 minutes!  Joe and I were surprised to see her on the next train too, even with the layover.  It seemed like the train staff knew her, and I wondered if she just spent the remainder of her life riding around on the train.

The other eccentrics:  there's some young 20 something boy on here wearing charcoal colored touring shorts, an old fashioned long sleeved shirt with a string tie and  a large scrimshaw etched bolo the size of a Victorian brooch, long soft chestnut hair and a Eastern European linen cap with a leather bill, like out of an old movie. Seemed like he was trying to look Dutch.  Lots of weird and strange leathered boots on some men.  A 40ish  guy all in a black metal T who got on drunk at Reno, who called poor Sue a "Cougar he didn't need" out of earshot when she was just trying to be friendly and helpful , then proceeded to describe his pot-smoking escapades to two underage girls across the aisle who were too naive I suppose to recognize he was trouble in a silver bottle.  I anticipated some big mess happening from him, but thankfully he fell asleep after 30 minutes of non-stop braggadocio, and got off two stops later.  Another potential  troublemaker went up and down the cars during the mudslide (we got stopped for 5 hours because of a hail induced mudslide outside of Denver in those clay canyons, and no one was allowed to get off because "FTA regs") : seemed like he was trying to strike up a rebellion to get the conductor to go further backwards to civilization where we could get off--I suspect he was one of the smokers.

Contrasting black and white cowboys ( not by hats, but by skin color)--one looked pure African.  The white,  long-haired and carefully dressed cowboy looked like a magazine cover, and seemed to be a bit of a ladies man--quite flirtatious.     A 250+ lb young girl with a baby who was an unfortunately very untalented mother.  She seemed self-conscious about having a potentially squalling baby on such a long trip. The baby was pretty good really, sleeping most of the way, but every time she made the slightest whine this inexperienced mother just yelled  at her to be quiet. Other passengers were giving her tips to keep the baby (under one yrs. old I'm guessing--I never actually saw it, but it wasn't even babbling yet, let alone talking)  happy, like taking her to the observation car to look out the window, to keep her from being bored, but the young mother was disinclined.  She herself seemed unimpressed with the dramatic landscapes rolling by out the window.  Maybe she had troubles on her mind.

 Then there was the guy in front of us, all night, on the Capitol Ltd.  First of all, he was a twitchy mess.  The guy sitting with him would talk to him in English, which he seemed to understand, but then he answered in some strange language I could not discern--he looked European, dressed like a red neck American in a red t-shirt and Jorts.  When he got on at 6:40 pm he immediately jammed (and I mean jammed!) his seat down into the sleeping position and left it that way the whole trip, bouncing my laptop, meals, etc. off my tray in a precarious way, talking to himself in this odd language every time  he tossed and turned every ten minutes or so. Once it got dark, though, he did this really crazy thing--he whipped out one of those aluminum foil looking space blankets and covered himself in it.. this just upped his annoying factor by tenfold since this blanket made loud, crinkly noises every time he turned or moved, which was a lot.  I spent the night thinking I was hearing an open mike with wind blowing across it in a blustery place, say, SF or Chicago down by the lake.  I thought he was snoring, too, but it turned out to be the weird pink haired girl on the other side, who later was yelling, "WHAT?!" into her phone every 2 minutes.  Give it a rest, sis.  Later, I figured out on my Amazon Music on my phone that I had these long recordings of Nature Sounds..I put on the Ocean one in repeat mode and slept pretty decently.  Poor Joe did not, plus he seemed to have gotten a bug from someone on the train.

Would I do this again, in coach?  I'd prefer a sleeper. and I'm pretty sure I'm going to consider this complete route a once in s lifetime experience that I'm glad I did.   For others, just guess it's a matter of how adventurous you are, how willing to put up with discomfort.  Young people, sure, should do it, for the price and all you get to see. I think I just probably hit the outer most reaches of the age where I can deal with this, especially with my stomach.