A long time ago…

1977 actually, in a sticky-floored movie theater in Garland, TX.  I don’t remember wanting to see this new space movie everyone was talking about, but I’m sure I had seen the commercials and bugged my parents into taking me.  And I hate to sound cliche’, or make a bigger thing out of a movie than it should be; but my life actually changed when I first saw Star Wars.  George Lucas gave me a world with which to fill my imagination, a place to go in my head when reality was either too much or not enough.  I learned how to daydream, how to escape.  And yes, escapism is the reason that movies, books, plays and songs exist for us humans; but maybe this film just hit me at the right time and stuck with me for good.

In the pre-VCR and cable days, all you could do when your favorite movie wasn’t at the theater was beg your parents for the toys and create or recreate the story on your bedroom floor.  It also meant that when I saw the TV ad for the theatrical re-release of what was now called “Episode IV”, I actually leapt up from the couch and ran around the house screaming like I was on fire.  And in the pre-internet days, finding information about new movies could be considered a Herculean task by today’s standards.  You might see something on the news, or more likely Leonard Maltin would mention it on his show.  I remember scanning magazine racks regularly for any mention of Luke, Leia, Han, Darth, Jedi, Rebellion… basically my brain knew how to do a visual keyword search decades before “hashtag” was a word.

But let’s back up a second.  Episode IV?  But I thought it was the FIRST movie?  And here we have the beginnings of what was – either accidentally or not – the most ingenious way to hype what would become a series of a rumored NINE chapters of this “space opera” from the mind of Lucas.  It certainly kept my mind reeling for many many years.  Once we found out that there were definitely three movies coming out, those years in between seemed like light years, but in the late 70’s and early 80’s we didn’t have hyperdrives in Texas.  So we waited, and waited, and waited in line for hours to see the Empire Strikes Back.  And the cliffhanger ending was more excruciating than anything a nine year old boy should have to endure, especially since Han had firmly established himself as my favorite character the second he took off on that Tauntaun in search of Luke.  [Brief aside: I’m typing this with my dog Harrison snuggled in my lap]
Of course by the time Return of the Jedi came out, it was common knowledge that this was a trilogy of films.  But why chapters IV-VI?  Eventually we learned that Lucas had “written” a huge backstory around the first filmed chapter, but repeatedly claimed that the other six chapters would most likely never see the light of day.

Jump through hyperspace to 1997ish: Episodes I-III are being made!!!!!!

Fast forward to 1999.  Uuuuuhhhhh…..what the fuck did I just watch?  Yeah, let’s just cruise on past 2002 and 2005 and say that while there are supposedly 9 parts to this story, only 3 are worth watching more than once.  So far.

Present day, December 2015.  In less than two weeks, me and billions of other people will have finally seen the beginning of the final three chapters in a story that we’ve been waiting a lifetime for.  And I think it’s fair to say that despite the letdown of those other three movies, hopes are high.  J.J. Abrams has done some wonderful things and is so much a fan of the material that he refused the job at first for fear of failure.  But from what we’ve seen to date, it does look astoundingly awesome.  Yeah, trailers are supposed to do that.  But when I saw that first one, although I didn’t quite jump up off the couch screaming I did get major goosebumps, a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes and a huge smile on my face.

And so I wait.  Again.

And if you think this is all a bit ridiculous, just think about what makes you giddy like a child.  Puppies?  Sports?  Drugs?
We all need something to distract us occasionally, because for most of us dealing with reality 100% of the time is just too much.  And maybe some people take the distraction a little “too far”, but it’s harmless fun at the end of the day.  At least in that galaxy far, far away the war is imaginary. The death is not real.  But you can still love and hate, and cheer and hope, feel fear and victory, or just forget about this world for a little while.

I’ve never actually said this phrase before, but since I’m fully flying my geek flag here:

May the Force be with you. Always.

Religion kills. (My thoughts on the events in Paris, etc.)

Ok. So…. I first saw the news of the Paris attacks on the evening of my wife’s 40th birthday.  We were out celebrating with 4 of her closest friends, having dinner and a smoke at a hookah bar in the French Quarter when we saw it on TV.  We didn’t talk much about it, as we were trying to make the most of our short time together and enjoy the moment.  But it’s been on the back burner of my brain, and now that the festivities are over and I’ve stewed on this a little bit I’m ready to spew my thoughts on the tragedy that occurred this weekend and a few related things. So brace yourself, and at the risk that the following words may offend you please know that if you are reading this, you probably already know that I do not see your personal beliefs in a negative light.  If you are someone I respect, I would never insult your religion, dogma or whatever you do in the privacy of your brain or home.  But on this topic, I will not hold back.  To me, this is everything that has ever been wrong with the world regarding the human race.  Religion. Race. Geography. Forgetting that we all come from the same place, biologically speaking.

Here’s my take on organized religion, in a nutshell: thousands of years ago, before we had science and knowledge to explain a very large part of how stuff works, our ancestors concocted mythical beings and events to make people feel not so confused and scared about the unknown.  Supposed answers to questions about life after death, the weather, the sun and moon and where did we come from and what’s it all about.  For some reason, certain humans are slightly more intelligent or at least more believable than others, and so the rest of the mostly hairless ape descendants just bought what they were selling and slept soundly.  Over time, there were obviously different versions to all of these stories, and eventually people started to segregate themselves over which version they found to be the most comforting and “sensible”.  Now, no disrespect to Americans (meaning “Native Americans”, or “Indians”… the ones who were here waaaay before whitey invaded) but for quite some time some of the indigenous peoples of North America believed that thunder was caused by a giant bird flapping its wings.  And we all now know that that’s completely ridiculous because a Thunderbird is either a really cool old car or a member of a very silly world saving secret organization comprised of marionette puppets with awesome vehicles.

So this, in my opinion, is what the root of the problem with religion is.  What one person sees as totally believable and life-affirming and all that, another sees as fantasy.  Silly, preposterous, dangerous, radical, scary…. see where I’m going?  And let’s not forget that the three major religions of the world all stem from the same place and the same man, Abraham. Just about every organized religion today is some super diluted, over translated version of the same damn belief system which was initially a bunch of fairytales made up to make humans believe that there’s a reason for all this.

Now I’m not saying there isn’t a reason.  In fact, I consider myself an agnostic, not an atheist.  I can’t help but think that there is something more than the physical. But I absolutely believe that our tiny minds are not capable of comprehending whatever there is beyond our five senses.  But let’s get back to Paris…

I guess that as far as we know right now, ISIS are claiming responsibility for the mayhem in Paris. Shocker.  But for all we know, it’s the French government killing its own civilians to justify a lucrative war against…. whoever.  And hey, why not?  The good ol’ U.S. of A. did that with fantastic results and many many dollars and deaths later, the majority of American citizens and countless service people are still wearing ribbons and visiting ground zero and think that Dubya was awesome and did the right thing and all that bullshit.  Damnit, I just realized that I’m getting away from my point entirely.  ISIS.  The “self proclaimed” Islamic State.  These dudes are clearly mad about something.  Not exactly sure what it is, but it seems like they’re mostly out to kill Westerners with more or less Christian beliefs.  Or whoever “The Infidel” is.  Right?  I don’t really know, and honestly I’m too lazy to read all of the information out there – nor do I have the energy to decide how much of it is believable.  All I know for sure is that all of this death is IN THE NAME OF RELIGION. And you know what?  Over the course of human history, religious belief and the disagreement over the countless interpretations of various versions of basically the same thing has been the cause of so much death, destruction and suffering that I have to ask: does this really make us sleep better at night?

I believe, as many non-religious people do, that you can absolutely have morality without spirituality. And you can have spirituality without organized religion. And I also feel that it is possible for people who follow different religions to respect each others’ beliefs or lack thereof. It’s that fucking simple. But when you add human selfishness and quite literally the tendency to feel “holier than thou”, mix in a few weapons and maybe a territorial dispute… you get death. Lots and lots of pointless death.

I don’t know or yet understand what exactly motivated the self-proclaimed ISIS attacks in Paris this weekend.  But I do know that it wasn’t because somebody was pissed off because they couldn’t get tickets to the concert, or that those concert goers had actually done anything to insult whatever version of Islam those perpetrators defend so violently.  All I know is that in those sick heads there is a god who tells them it’s okay to slaughter innocents in its name. And theirs isn’t the only god who says that.  Maybe the one that most “good Christians” follow doesn’t currently condone reckless violence, but some version or versions of that same god has most certainly been responsible for its fair share of death.  And yes, there are plenty of extremist “Christians” right here in ‘Murica who believe that homosexuals should be put to death. (The Bible also says that working on Sunday is punishable by death, fyi. Exodus 35:2)

Which brings me to today’s news that at least seven United States governors are calling for a halt to or at least intensive background checks on Syrian refugees coming to this country.  Allegedly some (or maybe just one?) of the attackers in Paris had a Syrian passport. But as I understand it, the vast majority of those fleeing Syria are doing so because of religion fueled violence. So once again we have so called “leaders” of our government forgetting that this country was built on religious freedom – in addition to genocide and slavery of course.
[Note to self: find out if Bobby Jindal’s parents had background checks.]

And it’s this kind of attitude that gets in the way of peace when these people need it the most.  “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”  Just not the dark-skinned ones who may have a very small chance of being a radical religious terrorist.  We have plenty of homegrown white ones, thanks.

According to some polls, younger generations are increasingly unsubscribed to any form of religion.  To me this is good news for the future of humanity.  Not that there aren’t several other problems such as global warming, overpopulation and economic disparity to be worried about.  But this rant is about religion, and if you haven’t stopped reading this by now, I’d like you to take a minute and think about a world where nobody’s belief system was considered “wrong” by anyone else. And think about how many conflicts would just disappear.  The human race will never agree on one god, but the more people choose to not pick one, the more we can get on with disagreeing about other things.

One last thing.  I, as many of my fellow humans do, wish peace to the families of those killed in Paris. I wish peace to anyone who has been affected by human conflict; past, present, or future.  And I wish there was a way to go far back in time and replace god with common sense.

Dylann Roof, the flag, the new $10 bill and so on…

I’ve been stewing over the thoughts in my head these past days since the killing of nine innocent people in their place of worship – a place which is sacred, and should be safe and free of hate.  This is of course not the first race-related tragedy to occur in recent years and I’m not going to go off about my feelings regarding police violence, etc. But what’s foremost in my mind lately is the reactions I’ve seen from the media, my friends and strangers on social media.
One sentiment I’ve heard a lot of amidst the back and forth is one that seems to cut to the heart of the matter.  It’s not about gun control or keeping tighter tabs on people with mental illness, or whether it’s inappropriate for the Confederate flag to still be a thing.  It’s the question of “fixing” racism.  And my question is this: can it be fixed?
Ok, let’s narrow it down to white on black racism for simplicity’s sake.  And let’s keep it in America for topical purposes.  This country was birthed by religious freedom, and fed on the blood of people from a far away continent who didn’t know and didn’t care about most of the world outside their lives.  But the English, Dutch and others ripped them from their homes to supply a labor force to build the New World.  And what a great new world it is.  Let’s forget the slaughter of native people and the forced labor we picked up on the boat ride over.  Let’s shoot off fireworks and sing a song at baseball games that glorifies war.  Let’s continue to observe a national holiday for the Italian explorer, conqueror and slave driver that didn’t actually discover this country in the first place.  And when we’re feeling a little shameful, let’s dedicate the shortest month of the year to remember black history.  I think putting Harriet Tubman’s face on the $10 bill is great, but I also felt pretty awesome the night Obama got elected.  These things don’t mean shit.
So how do we “fix” racism?  I don’t believe we can. Straight up. Idealistic me says it’s a lost cause. This shining city on a hill we live in is built on the corpses of not only native people and slaves, but their hopes, dreams and lineages that never had a chance.  And although the smarter ones among us know better, the ingrained idea that people of color are lesser than white people is just that – ingrained. It is passed down through generations and never gets diluted, no matter how many black presidents get elected or how many black heroes find their way into our wallets. In fact, I’d bet that it only fuels their ignorant fire. (Did you read the comments on Obama’s twitter account when he first launched it?)
So people are talking about gun control.  Another laughable debate. This country was born of war, it shall live in war and damn you if yer gonna take ma friggin’ guuns away! [insert sound of spitoon ricochet here]
And people are talking about mental illness. But only after the fact. Columbine. Sandy Hook (?). Denver. etc.  And even if you have gun control or stricter background checks, how the hell do you think that would stop some sociopath from getting a gun anyway?  Unless we become a police state a la George Orwell, I don’t see how we can predict hate crimes. Let alone prevent them.
Going back to Columbine, I have to say that my strongest feeling at the time and one that NOBODY else even dared to mention was the parents’ culpability. Klebold and Harris were still legally their parents’ wards at the time of the Columbine killings. Sure, a lot of other factors may have been involved and their psychosis most likely fed off of each others’.  But I guaranfuckintee you that if their parents had been held criminally responsible for their sons’ actions, a lot more parents would pay a lot more attention to the behavior of their offspring.
Now, Dylann Roof is 21 years old, therefore not legally his parents’ responsibility.  And I will admit that I haven’t read all the articles out there regarding his racist behavior, although I can’t avoid the photos of him posing with the stars n’ bars, wearing an aparthied-era badge on his jacket and all that. But I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say it’s a good bet his parents are maybe a little racist too.  Or maybe just good ol’ southern folk who don’t think there’s anything wrong with the Confederate flag… or that haircut.  Fair enough.  But even if you yourself are not capable of the level of unsubstantiated hatred it takes to wipe out innocent lives based solely on the color of their skin, you should at least be sentient enough to suspect that your son might just be.  And if you’re not, well maybe you shouldn’t have had a son. At the very very least, you should not have given him a fucking gun for his birthday.  And now that he has done what he has done, I think you should fucking hang and burn in public to atone for the actions of the monster that you created, but more importantly to set an example for any other parents who either passively or actively condone such hatred.
Am I reacting to hate with hate?  From one point of view, yes. But my hatred comes from reason. You cannot judge a person’s worth by his or her DNA. But you can judge them by their words and actions.  Black lives matter. White lives matter.  But some lives are worthless. Meaning that they do not contribute to the betterment of society.  Execute the killers.  Castrate the rapists.  Lynch the lynchers.  Let Dylann Roof suffer at the hands (and other appendages) of his black prison mates.
I don’t think we can fix racism.  Not in my lifetime.  But maybe we can eventually eradicate the stupidity that breeds it.  As long as we hold the hatemongers fully responsible for their actions… and inactions.

Libraries full of keys

Haven’t written Jack Shit here for a long time, but I’m sitting here all disgruntled with work, high on bourbon and music and feel like writing all of a sudden. More specifically, I’m listening to Peter Murphy’s “Love Hysteria”, which long ago earned its place in my top 10/desert island discs/whatever, and will always be one of those albums I can not live without.
I love telling the story of how my sister, 3 1/2 years older than me, was one of the major influences on my musical tastes. She was one of the 4 or 5 “punks” at the very small high

Setlist from Peter Murphy’s 1988 show at Starplex Amphitheatre, Dallas.

school we went to, the girl who got pulled over and given a bogus seat belt ticket pretty much because she was the only person in town with an orange mohawk. This probably wouldn’t happen today in Wylie, TX… or many other places for that matter. But I never thought my sister was weird. When I transferred from private school to public school, I immediately identified with her friends – the black leather jackets, crazy hair and all that.  Admittedly, I also gravitated towards the heavy metal crowd, maybe too afraid to subject myself to the outcast role wholeheartedly.  Maybe I wasn’t brave enough to really be “punk”.  Maybe my dad wouldn’t let me have electric blue Gary Numan hair.  And though I still love (early) Metallica, and have a soft spot for a little Crue & Ratt, my heart would inevitably lead me towards what was once legitimately called “alternative rock”.  I wore Chuck Taylors and drew little DK and Black Flag emblems on them, but was still afraid to go full bore.

But I always loved the music. It was in my sister’s tape collection that I first stumbled upon the Pixies.  I could jam out to the Smiths or Echo & the Bunnymen just as easily as I could rock out to Bon Jovi, Dokken, or… god forbid W.A.S.P.   *ahem*…. but I digress.

I vaguely recall, in the summer of ’88 – just 5 years after their demise – that I really didn’t know that much about Bauhaus. My ubercool big sis, with her record store job and good music taste and all that says, “Hey, I got tickets to see Peter Murphy & the Church at Starplex this weekend, you want to go? “Ummm… yeah, I guess…”.
Little did I know.
I still remember that concert better than the 100+ I’ve seen since. 4th row seats. Shitty amphitheatre, awesome show. This was my first real introduction to the world of Murphy/Bauhaus. The Church put on a damn good show as well, and I’ve been a fan ever since. Oh, and Television’s Tom Verlaine was there too.  But Peter goddamn Murphy. What a showman. Perhaps even a shaman. Sometimes the best way to hear a musician or band for the first time is to see them live. He even covered “Purple Rain”, which I didn’t recognize until the chorus. In the years to come I would be fortunate enough to see Mr. Murphy on stage several times (even affording me a very early NIN experience along the way – hell, I even saw a yery young, yodeling Jewel open for him once). Bauhaus have reunited a couple of times, and I was lucky enough to catch their astounding “last” show at Coachella in 2005 (they kept touring and released a half-assed album after that).  Unfortunately, my wife and I went to see Murphy performing all Bauhaus songs on the Mr. Moonlight tour last year in Baton Rouge, and well, it was sad… just sad. Some things are better left in the grave.

But that’s not why I started writing this [dark] entry.  I found myself listening to the entirety of “Love Hysteria” tonight, and I thought you should know that it really is quite a superb album.   Shortly after Bauhaus’ breakup, while the future Love & Rockets were doing their thing, Murphy recorded one album with Japan’s Mick Karn under the name “Dali’s Car” – very 80’s synthy stuff.  His first proper solo album, “Should the World Fail to Fall Apart” wasn’t all that bad, but my personal highlight is a cover of Pere Ubu’s “Final Solution”, if that’s any indication.  I think he was just finding his groove.  By the time “Love Hysteria” happened, he had pretty much branded himself as the mystic pale white duke of neo-gothic rock, and not undeservedly so.  From uplifting, poppy drum-driven songs like “Time Has Got Nothing to Do With It” to the radio-friendly “Indigo Eyes” to my personal favorite dirge of “Socrates the Python”, this is just a very well-rounded album showcasing Murphy’s vocal and lyrical talent to its fullest.  He also had picked a very good backing band who were superb live as well.  His later albums in my opinion never quite lived up to this one, slowly descending into more world music influenced, less accessible material album after album.  He did have a little “mainstream” success with his 3rd album “Deep”, which I would call his second best.  I haven’t really kept up with his recent work, but have just acquired his last album “Ninth”, which I’ll probably listen to now… and then decide if I’m going to buy “Lion” when it comes out.

I’m still undecided as to my actual 10 “desert island discs”, but am absolutely positive that “Love Hysteria” is on that list.  Call it post-punk, goth-pop, whatever you want, but rest assured that it’ll be the first thing I grab if the house catches on fire… after the wife, cats & dog of course.

Land of the Lost

Holt Cemetery in New Orleans was established in 1879 and is still currently accepting new arrivals. It’s one of the only cemeteries in the city that consists of mostly below ground burials – most of the dead in New Orleans aren’t actually “buried” due to the marshy ground. And because of the proximity of ground water here, the residents are only buried 4 1/2 feet deep. A plot here costs the family $450, and as long as they maintain it they can keep putting fresh bodies in that same spot forever. Burials have to be a year apart, but because of quick decomposition, they don’t just pile up. Some of the homemade headstones we saw had over 10 names on them. This is considered sort of a “Potters Field” which is where they bury the unclaimed, indigent and sometimes prisoners without families to speak of. Obviously a lot of these souls’ families could probably barely afford the $450, so the handmade crosses and graveside accents don’t have the same aesthetic as the fancy marble sculptures at Metairie Cemetery, just blocks away. However, I have to agree with other descriptions I’ve read – it’s that same aesthetic that makes this a truly unique New Orleans “city of the dead”; and just because it’s not fancy doesn’t mean that this place isn’t overflowing with love… and sometimes bones.

A vial of what appears to be blood, hanging from a tree in Holt Cemetery, New Orleans.

Dear Diary

   

Not bad for a first time wedding photographer, huh?

I started my new job in the big city this week, and boy is it just grand!  All of the people I work with are so nice and friendly, just like I knew they would be.  Most of them are of African descent, and were born and raised here in New Orleans or nearby.  The way they talk is so fascinating!  Every day they shake hands and exchange greetings like they haven’t seen one another in months even though it’s only been a day.  Sometimes when they get to visiting and laughing I have a hard time understanding what’s so funny, and sometimes I wonder if one even knows what the other is laughing about!  But I get along with them all just dandy, and they seem to like me, even though I’m not from here and didn’t “come up” the way they did.

It’s tough getting up before ol’ Mr. Sunshine and driving across that big scary bridge, but I’m sure I’ll get used to that.  We meet up at the warehouse early in the morning and then head out to different stores to work.  And when we get there, the “good mornin”s and “how you doin”s start all over again!  There are all these sweet older African-American ladies who make you feel like you just walked into their house for dinner – and boy would I love to actually do that some day, because you know I love Southern home cooking!  Speaking of food, I discovered the neatest thing about my job is that a few times a day when we get to talking with the nice men who bring in the bread, potato chips and these delicious locally made fruit pies, we can trade soda pops with them for food!  Not only that, but in the back of the grocery store it always smells like a spicy seafood boil.  It’s really hard not to be hungry all day, but if I’m lucky I’ll be good friends with Mr. Hubig Pie man in no time!  The only thing I don’t like about it so far is that it gets real hot down here.  But it’s cooling off, and I’ll tell you a little secret, Diary: we don’t actually work all that hard. Shhhh!
On my way home from work, I drive right past the place where the local football team practices.  I actually saw them the other day kicking the pigskin around!  I guess they’re kind of a big deal around here, because they won a big tournament a couple of years ago and everybody has their stickers on their cars and wears their shirts all over town.

Another really great thing I got to do last weekend was making pictures at a wedding for my dear friends Josiah and Angela.  Not only was it just a super fun wedding – they are really wonderful people and I couldn’t have imagined the ceremony any other way – but I think I did a pretty bang up job.  It was a whole new experience, and I feel honored that they trusted me enough to do it for them.  I might even consider trying to do it for money.  After all, making a living out of a hobby was one of the reasons I always wanted to live here.  It also got me pretty excited for my own wedding, which is still pretty far off, but that just means we have plenty of time to decide who’s good enough to take pictures for us because I sure as heck won’t be able to!

Alright Diary, thanks for listening again. I should probably wrap this up and get outside to enjoy some of this beautiful weather!

You can see more of my photo skillz at http://500px.com/SeanSolo

So here we are, sitting pretty on the North Shore of Lake Pontchartrain – about 30 miles north of New Orleans.  I get to say things like, “you wanna drive across the lake and hang out in the Marigny today?” and shit like that.

It’s weird. I’ve been wanting to live here since I was 18. And now I do. Not disillusioned in the least – but it just hasn’t really sunk in yet I guess.  the whole worrying about money and finding a job thing was a bit distracting. Hard to settle in when there’s a possibility of ending up with the gutterpunks on Frenchmen Street.  But we have jobs now, and paychecks coming soon.  We’ll be living in this fabulous house in Mandeville until January, so we have plenty of time to find a kick ass apartment to rent down there.

 

My fiancee asked me the other day, “So are you happy now that you’re here?”.  Well, I can be happy anywhere with her, but I think she meant “was the wait worth it?”.  I’m old enough now to not be ‘starstruck’ by this awesome city that I’ve been in love with for 22 years, and realistic enough to know that just because I’m here doesn’t mean life is going to be instantly magical.  So when I answered her question, I realized something rather profound.  I think a lot of people who haven’t lived in places like New Orleans (and some who do) have this image of an idyllic, dynamic, artistic playground.  Yes, it can be those things, but when you live somewhere, you have to embrace the reality of where you are – you have to get a job, you have to be aware of how you interact with people, you have to plan ahead… you have to treat it like your home, not like a rental car or hotel room.  I think a lot of my friends may have thought that it was just a daydream for me because I talked about it for soooo long.  That maybe once it became reality it would lose its luster.  But that’s just it – the one thing I love about this city more than anything is that it is so real to me.  On my 10 visits here I never felt like a visitor. I never felt like a tourist.  I’ve always felt that I belong, and now I am enjoying the reality that I longed for.  I can’t get giddy and excited about it, just relieved.  That may seem like kind of a downer if you don’t get what I’m saying, but you’re supposed to get giddy and excited about sports, concerts, amusement rides, tropical vacations, shit like that.  Temporal things. This is my reality, and I am very very satisfied with it.

Children become bullets.

Red Five, over & out

I guess I haven’t written anything here in a while; because well, nothing much has been happening.  Nothing until last Saturday morning, when I think I almost died on a frozen highway.  I say “think” because I wasn’t even injured, but when I look at the pictures of the car and go over the thing in my head, I shouldn’t have walked away from that.  Yes, I was wearing a seatbelt, and driving a very safe boxy SUV – but I flew off the interstate sideways at almost 70 miles per hour!

I was on my way to work at 4:45 am.  There had been a thin blanket of snowfall that morning, but as far as I could tell the roads were not slick.  Trucks were trucking at their usual speed and there’s not a whole lot of traffic predawn on a weekend anyway.  So I was driving my usual speed (65-70) to get myself to work on time.  I’m not stupid, and I’m not a bad driver.  I’m not one to risk my safety for a shit job counting groceries.  I was driving along a perfectly straight stretch of highway, singing along to “Looter’s Follies” by Destroyer.  A very calm, swaying song – the kind of music that can make you forget that you had to get up that early to work a stupid job on a Saturday.  And then I was going sideways.  I knew what was about to happen. I used to black out when things like this happened, but not this time.  I was aware, and I remember every moment.  As I veered from the right lane into the left and tried to turn into the spin, something in me was instantly resolved to the impending chaos.  It wasn’t a ‘life before my eyes’ kind of thing, because I also knew I wasn’t going to die.  I don’t think I even thought it was going to hurt, just that it was going to be messy.  As the music played, I said “OH SHIT” several times but had the presence of mind to relax my body and duck my head.  I knew I’d be rolling over, and I can remember the silent half-second while the Jeep was upside down inches above the snow covered median.  At that point I had my eyes closed, so it was “crunch-crunch-crash…. buzzzzzzzzzz”.  That sound of a 15 year old car telling you that your keys are in the ignition but your door’s open.

I had turned over once and landed right side up, in what I’m thinking was sort of a funnel-shaped spin, the brunt of the impact on the front left corner of the hood and driver’s side roof.  It caved in pretty good, so much so that I had to climb out the passenger side.  I had slid/rolled to the edge of the opposite side of the highway, a couple of feet from oncoming traffic.  The body of the whole thing was twisted – totaled.  There was stuff everywhere.  I think something from the backseat may have hit me in the head, but other than a little soreness and a bruised shin I was not hurt. No other cars or objects were involved.  Maybe that’s what saved me.  Maybe it was the seatbelt.  Maybe it was my amazing ability to go limp and lower my head to avoid a good spine crushing.

Maybe I’m just supposed to stick around a while.  I think I should be feeling some sort of epiphany from this, some kind of life-affirmation or something.  I am happy to be alive, but I’ve never really taken that for granted.  I don’t believe in any gods, and this won’t make me start.  I don’t know if it means anything at all, or maybe it just hasn’t sunk in yet.  Maybe it was just a car crash.  But it was a mighty fine one.

Chicken shack

As I sit here listening to a mix of old and new blues and Americana music on a rainy June afternoon, it feels like I’m living in a Tom Waits song. About 20 feet outside the door of this ten by four foot shed, there’s a chicken pen; behind that are a couple of goats, three cows, some ducks and turkeys. On the other side of the windowless wall are about 20 huskies which our hosts mush in the winter. Otherwise I’m surrounded by verdant Wisconsin farmland.

To use a Palahniukism, the way I got here is this:

My girlfriend Maureen – who turned my life from post-engagement vapidity to endless unforced smiles – has a good friend who lives nearby. She knew we were planning to move to New Orleans, and suggested that we come up here to Door County where we could get jobs among the flood of seasonal tourism that this part of the state thrives on in order to save up some moving money. So after being mysteriously rejected by a couple of housing opportunities, the friend mentions that she knows a couple who own a farm where they take on borders every summer. There are rooms in the house, but they were all taken. So here we are in the chicken shack. It’s small but comfy, and once we got used to waking up to the sound of roosters and trying to sleep through the occasional howling of the Siberian dogs, things are pretty damn okay. Weird, but good. Mo had already landed two jobs before we got here, and I ended up cooking full time at a pub down the road. We are surrounded by good country folk, most of whom know each other of course. I think we’re both happy to be out of Madison, as good as it was for us. And we are making progress towards our goal of landing in the Big Easy and finding ourselves home at last.

Mo justifiably quit one of her jobs, keeping the more lucrative of the two. With only one car between us and the way our schedules work out, it’s tough for us to both have more than one job each. So I’m going to try to supplement the income by selling photography. The tourists who come up here have nothing but money to spend, and I think I can make a little scratch off them with fridge magnets and notecards of the local scenery. So, without further ado, or permission from George Lucas, I hereby officially announce the meager beginnings of Kessel Run Photography. Wish me luck.

Our neighbors.

Heartland

In this heartland, there are rolling green hills and rows of corn.
There are vast expanses of land that gives up its wealth for humans to consume.
There are miles of highways, scarring the plains and bridging waterways.
There are pastures full of cattle, flicking their tails, oblivious to passing cars.
There are wide open spaces, dotted with homesteads and crumbling barns.
There are calloused hands, barely able to feed their own while feeding millions.
There are cemeteries beneath whose soil lie innumerable untold stories.
There are rotting motels and smoky dive bars.
There are gas stations owned by people whose ancestors saw Ghandi walk to the sea.
There are billboards telling me that god will hate me if I have an abortion.
There are dogs barking as an Amish buggy passes.
There are towns just big enough for one cleverly-named hair salon.
There are rusted tractors and empty campers being swallowed by tall grass.

In this heartland, there are too many roads, and not enough time.

taken at a friends family cabin near Gays Mills, WI