Monday, July 31, 2006

If Ignorance IS Bliss

Than these are some very happy people...

I pulled into a parking spot at the Albertson's the other day and glanced at the truck next to me to make sure I'd given it enough room: It was the kind of rig I refer to as a PET - a Penis Envy Truck - You know the type... Where, purely from appearance, you just assume that the owner thereof is a mean spirited, shitty driving, tobacco chewing, Miller Lite drinking asshole with a teeny, tiny little cock, and he's trying to make up for it with his rig... You know, those trucks: Huge tires, ridiculously jacked up suspension, big chrome brush guard, light rack, bumper steps, gun rack, and after-market logo brake light covers?

What caught my eye, though, was an accoutremént; one of those cute little ‘Piss On’ stickers. Once again, you know these – You see them a lot on PETs. They have a little Calvin-like character, (A la Calvin and Hobbes, neither of whom would approve of such use, I’m sure), pissing on something – When they’re on a Ford, he’s pissing on a Chevy symbol, or a Dodge, etc, etc. These are the same dipshits who have license frames that read, ‘Built To Smoke The Powerstroke,’ ‘Get in, sit down, shut up, and hang on,’ or ‘Cash, Grass, or Ass – Nobody rides for free!’ Get the picture? Ok... Still think I meant it when I called those stickers cute? Ok, good…

Well this particular sticker had the little Calvin fella pissing on the words WAR PROTESTERS. OK, now… Maybe it was real hot and I was pissy, or maybe I’m overly sensitive… or maybe it just really pissed me off. I leaned against the trunk of my car, waiting, because I just had to see what the owner of this piece of shit looked like… I watched the people coming out, picked a couple of likely looking redneck males, but… Nope. Finally, here came a rail thin bleached blonde with a 38D chest bursting out of her husband beater T-Shirt and three ragged kids in tow. As she started loading kids and groceries, I noted a tattoo on the back of her neck; the number 24 inside a heart with a lightning bolt through it, and Jeff printed underneath. I’m not even close to a NASCAR fan, but I assume it to be an homáge to Jeff Gordon.

I said, “How y’all doin’?” and she just nodded warily, (Which is highly unusual for Texans, frankly.) Now, I am a fine actor, and I was puttin’ on my best full-bore friendly Texas good ol’ boy redneck vibe, and I look and can play the part. I said “Man, I jus’ love that li’l guy, where’d y’all get that sticker?” She pushed the last kid into the truck, wheeled toward me and said, without missing a beat, “You got a problem with it? Go fuck yerself!” She jumped in the driver’s seat, fired up the diesel, and blasted on out of there.

I stood there watching, kind of blown away, actually. She flipped me off as she hit the end of the parking lot, cab full of kids and all…

I had a very contemplative shopping trip, thinking about this little exchange. I’d noticed that Calvin was the only sticker on her ride; no troop support ribbons, no God Bless America, nothing, (And that’s unusual in Texas too...) What had caused her to be so angry and defensive? Had that many people flipped her shit about it? It’s possible, actually, (If you don’t live here, you don’t know, but Texas is much more open minded than you think.) Had she lost somebody over there? A husband, a brother, sister, or father? That could make anybody and maybe elicit such a response... Or last but not least, was she just a hateful redneck asshole? After all, there’re plenty of those, too…

In any case, I wasn’t too likely to give her the benefit of the doubt. Anybody who would act like that in front of their kids doesn’t strike me well. Anybody who would put that sticker up and defend it doesn’t strike me well, either…

The right to protest, to disagree publicly without fear of reprisal is a seminal principle in this country. Had we lost the Revolutionary War, our Founding Fathers would have been hung for treason. Hell, the dang Declaration of Independence is a protest. I heard a woman on the Diane Rheem show this morning praising Hezbolah and condemning Bush as a war criminal for supporting the killing of her countrymen in the Gaza Strip; she lives in Chicago. In a lot of places in the world today, you're more likely than not to be arrested, tortured, or killed for expressing such sentiments, or even for being assumed to be a certain race, faith etc.: She can do that here, because this country is based on such rights...

How could anyone who considers themselves a proud American deny another the right to protest the senseless loss of life war represents? Obviously, that’s what pissed me off. I’ve served in uniform; I’ll concede that rarely, war is necessary, but not this one I absolutely protest this war and everything associated with it. I pray for the protection and wellbeing of soldiers every day. I mourn the loss of 2500+ American lives and many, many more Iraqi and Afghani civilians, every day. I support the people willing to put their lives on the line for their country, but I do not support this war. I support the right of Israeli, Palestinian, and Lebanese people to live in peace, but I don’t support that war either. To be honest, the only war in recent history that I believe was worthy of being fought was World War II, (And I’ve read a lot of war history…).

I understand grief, anger, and frustration. I understand that some people think war is good, right, and necessary; I just don’t agree with them. I respect their right to their beliefs, but I don’t agree with those beliefs. I understand that some people actually hate those who are different than they are, because of their beliefs, race, skin color, or sexual preference; any one of a myriad of things – I just don’t agree with that kind of hatred, and I never will. I understand that this sort of sentiment exists, but I just don’t support it. I can grasp their hatred and even some of the reasoning behind it, but I don’t believe in it, and I don’t think it should be supported or promoted. I just don’t tolerate such things well, because I don’t like it, plain out and simple. There are, of course, generally accepted terms for this sort of thing: Bigotry, racism, hate-speech, and narrow-minded stupidity come to mind... I understand it, but I don’t respect it or condone it, and I don’t care whether or not it’s acceptable to say that.

I guess I believe that if you put a sticker on yer rig that expresses, ‘Piss on War Protesters,’ you’ve just put it out there as a Big Fuck You to see if anybody will challenge you. Realizing that, I think I understand why that woman was defensive. It’s the same reason that racists and bigots and Neo Nazi’s are defensive: They understand, fundamentally, that they are indeed flying a Big Fuck You at society in general, and they simply don’t care. Rather than feel anybody out, it’s easier to assume that everybody’s gonna be pissed off at you and act accordingly. The fact is, most people are decent, peace loving creatures, and as such, sentiments like that are going to be generally perceived as offensive and vulgar; hence the expected reaction is negative…

And yet, they still put them up there on their PETs…

You know what? This brings to mind one of my favorite bumper stickers of all time: I’ve not seen one in a while, but maybe it’s time to hunt one down.

It reads, simply, MEAN PEOPLE SUCK.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

True Crime Stories

Any cop who's been around has funny stories. I have tons. I started writing about them many years ago, and just kinda stopped, but I'm thinking I might have to resurrect the concept and punch out a collection of vignettes... In my opinion, they're often closer to the mark of real life than gory, horrendous tales of woe are - They're certainly more prevalent. Anyway, here's one of my favorites...

I was working graveyard shift on patrol; 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. It's generally loved by young officers, because it's a relatively target rich environment. Why, you ask? Let's face it, at 3 am in a small city, there ain't much of anybody on the streets other than cops and criminals. You do, however, have to deal with domestics and drunks, neither of which are a lot of fun. So, I tensed a bit when we got a suspicious circumstances call at about 12:30 a.m. - Dispatch said it had been a female caller, and that it sounded like a prowler call, or possibly a domestic, so we put pedal to the metal and booked right over there. Oh, yeah, it's easier and funner to drive fast at night, too, 'cause there are fewer people in the way, and you can go lights out when you get close, (On cop cars, you can drop all the lights, including brake lights, which makes it much easier to work Auto-Prowl, and to play Opticom tag, but those are other stories...). So we arrive, Stopping a couple houses away from the address, and walk in, checking out a small house in a quiet neighborhood. I'm the assigned unit, so after not seeing anything going on, I head cautiously for the front door, and right about when I get there, the light snaps on, the door opens, and a young woman in a robe tells, me, "It was a mistake Officer, everything's fine, I don't need any help..."

I noticed that she's flushed, very red in the cheeks, and looks nervous, eyes kinda darting around a bit as she talks to me... OK, so time for a quick common sense test: If you were the cop, would you just leave at this point? Of course not!
If this is a domestic, she could be hiding the offending Significant Other, or she might be at gunpoint on the other side of the door for all we know - An irate partner or a rapist just waiting for us to leave so they can cap her, or... Anyway, you get the idea - We're still goin' in...

So I ask her, politely, if she indeed made the call, and she says she did but that, again, she, "Made a mistake and everything's fine." I explain that, due to the nature of the call, we have to come in and make sure that everything is fine, and would she move please? She does, reluctantly, and I ask if anybody else is inside. "What?" she responds, "No.... There's nobody else here, just me..." My backup and I exchange glances and we don't believe her, so I gently say, "Are you sure there's nobody else, because we're going to look, and we don't need any surprises." Her eyebrows go up and she shakes her head and says, "No, really, it's OK, there's nobody else..." So we search and there doesn't seem to be anybody else, but... There's a pillow in the middle of the upstairs hall, and all the covers on the bed look like they've been violently thrown aside. My backup is downstairs with the caller, and I think to myself, Uh huh, what we got here is a li'l ol' do-mestic spat that erupted in bed - He stalked off in a huff, she threw a pillow at him , he scared her, she called 911, he split, now she's protecting him - Got it...

So I head back downstairs, brief my partner, then turn to our caller and say, "Ma'am, I saw the bedroom, I think I know what really happened, and, well, you're not doing yourself or him a favor protecting him, so, you want to tell us the real story, please?" She looks shocked, even more embarrassed, gathers the collar of her robe to her throat and looks down, saying quietly, "It's not like that, it's not what you think..." I'm thinking, what's not like I think? Was it a woman instead of a guy, somebody's husband, what? So I say, "I'm sure nobody meant to hurt anybody, and we just want to help, so just tell us, who are we looking for?"

She sighs, shakes her head, covers her face with her hands, and laughs... Laughs, and then she says, "Well, shit, I'm in it now, aren't I?" She looks up, smiling, still shaking her head and says, "It's not who you're looking for, it's what!" then she laughs some more.

And now... The rest of the story.

See, our caller is a graduate student, and while she has a very nice boyfriend, he wasn't there that night. She got in to bed after a long night studying and started to drift off to sleep. She was pleasantly surprised to find her big ol' boy kitty cat had snuggled under the covers and was at her feet, all nice and warm, (He likes to do that, she notes). She reaches down with her toes to give kitty a scritch and then thinks; man, his fur feels rough, what's with that?

She peeks under the covers and sees...

A full grown Possum. She screams, exploding out of the bed, the Possum screams and scrambles for the door, she wings a pillow at it as it careens off the wall headed for the stairs. She calls 911...

We searched the house without success. Kitty was under the bed in the guest room looking a bit spooked. The possum, we assume, went out the cat door he came in the first place.

Truth is often stranger than fiction: And funnier...

Monday, July 24, 2006

And So It Begins... Maybe...

I wrote a book once, did I mention that? Yep, a whole cop mystery novel; ended up 750+ pages: Took four years to write in my spare time. Finished it, and then put it away and didn't touch it for a year, (Can you say, burned out, fried, done in, kaput?) Later, I pulled it back out and started pruning: I took off about 100 pages and cleaned it up in general and then felt it wasn't too bad.

Then I had to figure out what to do with it. Nothing, and then the writing of it was the goal achieved, or... Market it, and see if anybody would pay to read it: And if so, how and where? I was told by those who read parts of it, and in no uncertain terms, that I needed to see if it could get published. So I set out to find out how that gets done...

Fortunately, I'm blessed with friends and family members, (My big sis, Annzie), who are professional writers, (As in, they genuinely make their livings by writing). What I found was this: Things ain't the same as they used to be. Once upon a time, an author could market themselves directly to publishers. Michael Thomsett told me he, "Used to just show up door to door in New York and walk in unannounced,” and that said process actually worked – He actually sold some books that way. He went from magazine pieces to books. Annie went from restaurant reviews to newspaper pieces, to a book.

Nowadays, however, and especially if you are a ‘U’ word writer, (Unpublished), you don’t get to see no publisher without an Agent, and that’s that. That fact, of course, presents another layer one has to navigate through.

Now, first things first, you have to determine who the real agents are, and who they ain’t, as well as what and how they get paid, and get this: A bunch of ‘em charge you to even read your stuff to determine if they even wanna talk to you any more or not… And on top of that, not that many Agents deal with unpublished authors any more. So, I waded through all that and all them and came up with three I felt comfortable pitching my book to. All three are reputable, established, and don’t charge fees for what they do – They get paid a percentage of what you make if and when you get sold to a publisher – And that’s my kind of deal.

So, I sent in three application packages. First step, for all three, you’re sending in a brief outline of what you did, your bio, and a synopsis of the book – And that’s where you do your selling – You gotta make it short, sweet, and potentially attractive. So what happened? Well, so far…
Of the three I submitted to, I’ve heard back from two, and they’re both interested. Both now want to see the complete manuscript, read/review that and we go from there. I haven’t heard back from the third yet.

Holy shit…

Now, both stressed several times that there’s no promise of success, no guarantee that this means you’re good to go: It just means you passed the initial cut. From here, I’ll find out if they really think that it'll sell to a publisher, i.e. if people would pay to read it. And, of course, they need to know if the author, (That’s me), is willing to work on the book the way they think it needs to be worked on. All three Agents stressed that, in so many words, first-time authors who think their stuff is ready to go; who believe that they don’t need any help shaping their creations are, well… wrong – and out...
So, a big part of this process is determining who’s willing to work with them, who’s willing to listen to suggestion and direction, and who will carry through and actually do what is suggested and directed.

I’ll tell you what I told them: I learned from writing op/ed pieces in newspapers that editing happens; it is and will be, and is as much a part of the process as the writing is. An author doesn’t publish in a vacuum – A team effort makes it happen. I’m comfortable with that, and frankly, I believe that anyone who is willing to help me become a truly capable working author is somebody I like and respect.

So, I’m in.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Go For a Skate, Eh?

I’ve been playing hockey for… 41 years now. I started playing organized hockey at 5, and played pretty much with the same bunch of guys from then until I moved to Spokane when I was 15. I played there, then in college, and was into local men’s leagues in Bellingham by the mid 80’s. Where I grew up, in Concord, Mass, hockey was religion, almost as intense as it is in Canada. At that time, there were far fewer NHL teams than today, and New England and the Midwest were the two places in the U.S. that pro caliber players came from. Hockey was way more important than football, baseball, or basketball, hands down, bar none, game over, man…

We played year ‘round – Ice hockey in leagues, outside, and school from fall through spring, street hockey or occasional rink hockey otherwise. Several neighbors had backyard rinks, but that wasn’t really necessary. Across the river on either side of Nashawtuc Road, the fields flooded and froze every year, and then Peanut McCone got his little cat out and cleared the ice. It froze under the trees in the adjacent forest, too, and you could skate through there, using the trees as would-be opponents, and we did, honing our puck handling skills.

I was more interested in fencing, though, and probably could have gone fairly far in that sport, had I not moved. Fortunately or otherwise, fencing was pretty non-existent in Spokane, though, while hockey was well established – So, you go with what you got, of course. As such, I was never as good a young hockey player as I could have been, had I applied myself, but I got better and better through college and into my 20’s.

I got good enough that I ran into a few opportunities to play against some genuine pros along the way. The first time was when a local ‘All Star’ team played the visiting Vancouver Canucks Old Timers. Now, at the time, I was in my early 30’s, and some of these Old Timers were younger than I was. Some weren’t, though, and among them was Orland Kurtenbach. Now, if you’re not a hockey fan, you don’t know who Kurt is, but I sure as hell did. He played 13 NHL seasons, scored 119 goals, had 213 assists, and had 628 penalty minutes. See those numbers? Get the picture? Whataya think Kurt's bailiwick was, huh? Kurt is flippin’ huge, probably 6’ 6” and 250, easy. He was the Canucks first Captain, in 1970, which was his 9th pro season. He was generally known as the most fearsome fighter of his era. He was a genuinely mean son of a bitch, the kind of guy you’d love on your team and hate otherwise. He'd retired in ’74 because of an ongoing back problem. When I met him, in the early 90’s, he was in his 50’s, was still huge, and still… Well, you’ll see.

I was thrilled to play, and psyched to get to see what real pro’s felt like. When the NHL struck in ’94, I played some pick up games with a local pro or two playing along; Tim Hunter was there pretty often. I’d learned that Hunter, who was considered an instigator and not a great hockey player in the grand scheme of NHL pros, could out skate, out shoot, and out play us with one arm tied behind his back, and he was gracious about it, too. Once in Spokane, playing with the Chiefs Old Timers, I was lined up against Perry Gonchar, who had retired maybe a year or two earlier. I was supposed to “Break up his rhythm,” though I pretty much spent each shift following him around and trying not to look too stupid…

Anyway, to get to be on the ice with a whole team of ex-pros was a real treat. They were being easy on us most of the game, but when they wanted to, or when we threatened to score, they turned it up pretty close to pro pace; and then the play developed faster than you can believe; the pass was made, puck was stripped, move was made, play was gone, puck was in the net before you could think, most times. Our best goaltender looked like an empty net. They made amazing moves that faked us out of our skates; we were a bunch of pylons… I saw real defensemen back-skate faster than most of us could attack going forward.

What I’ll always remember most fondly was my first shift out there at that all star game. I was lined up against Kurtenbach. I looked at him, big, stupid pro-struck grin on my face and said, “Fuckin’ A, you’re Orland Kurtenbach!” He looked at me like I was stupid for a moment, (No shit? My name’s on the back of my sweater, idiot…), then grinned crookedly, remembering where he was, and says, “Yeah, you know who I am, huh, kid?” I nodded and said, “Hell yeah, first Canucks Captain and one mean sonofabitch, I loved watching you play!” The whistle blew, the puck dropped, and Kurtenbach stepped in, stuck his stick in my side, dumped me on my ass, looked down smiling and said, “Yeah? How about now, kid?” and then skated off to the play. And there you have it, how many non-pros can say they got dumped on their asses by Kurt and lived to tell about it?

It was a total blast. Oh, and by the way, we lost big time – No surprise, that - The Harlem Globetrotters don’t loose either…

Monday, July 17, 2006

Yeah, I Really Did...

Read my friend Dave Cory's latest Blog - And actually had caught part of the same This American Life piece, (Love that show...). Both got me thinking about my dark past, and... It's time to fess up.

Yeah, I used to be a cop. And yeah, it's true - I could probably write a book filled with stories from those days; no exaggeration needed, 'cause truth is stranger than fiction... And here's the one they got me thinking about.

In CopSpeak, a 481 is the radio code for a Mental Person, (A Nutbasket, whacko, Looneytoons, etc). They're usually either annoying or scary calls to answer, depending on what's going on. One night when I was a patrol guy, I got a 481 call for problems up on Samish Way, by KVOS, the local TV station - A guy in the street ranting at passing cars and snarling traffic. Now, being an experienced cop, I put two and two together and made an educated guess that this was the annoying variety of the 481 call. How did I know, you ask? Because the call came from the vicinity of the TV station, of courseHuh, you ask? The TV station, gang, a 481 by the TV station – Happens all the time, because there are big ol’ satellite dishes there, and they often interfere with the brain waves of your 481 types – get it?

OK, well, I was right, because when I got up there, here was some poor lost soul yelling at the passing cars about “Interference” and gesturing at KVOS. I pulled up, lit the lights, hopped out and beckoned the guy to the curb. He was nice enough, but absolutely adamant that KVOS was messing with his thought process, and he wanted it stopped right now – Said he didn’t want to watch I Love Lucy reruns in his mind’s eye, he just wanted to go to sleep. He’d whanged on the front door some, but nobody answered, (They, along with a driver or two, had called 911, however…)

In conversation I learned that this was Jerry, who wasn’t drunk, was staying at the Mission, wasn’t on meds, and really didn’t want to hurt himself or anybody else; he just wanted the TV signal redirected away from his brain frequency. Now, as far as the law goes in Washington State, unless you are a clear and present dangers to yourself or others, you’re perfectly welcome to be nuts. So, needing a quick and effective solution to our mutual problem, I mentioned meditation to Jerry; how Monks and others who practice it could manipulate all kinds of things just by concentrating: He’d heard of it, and seemed pretty jazzed to give it a try. So I suggested he get farther away from KVOS, (Which weakens the signal strength of course), start up an Om Mani Padme Hum chant internally to derail the satellite signal, and then things would be great. He smiled, nodded, agreed to go for it, thanked me, and headed off down toward the Mission. I left thinking I was pretty sharp, indeed. For about 20 minutes, that is, until the next call came in.

Now, it was Friday night in the summer, around dusk, and I was working Paul 5, the downtown area. That is a busy place and time, and I really didn’t have time or a whole ton of patience for this… So back I went to KVOS and there was Jerry. When he saw it was me, he was apologetic, kinda sheepish, even: he said he’d really tried the meditation thing, but on the half hour when the program changed, there was Gilligan's Island, right between his eyes where it didn’t belong. OK, I thought, time for the bad cop approach… I explained Trespassing and Disorderly Conduct to Jerry, and told him he was a thin slice away from jail. He listened attentively and nodded soberly as I outlined what was gonna happen if he didn’t get this squared away and fast. When I was done, he said, “Well, I’ll sure try Officer, but you need to know, this isn’t my fault, and I think you should put them in jail…” I reinforced my point, scooted Jerry along toward town and the Mission and hoped the second time was a charm.

Twenty minutes later, it was not to be… Heading back up, I realized Jerry had called my bluff: Whereas I could take him to jail, I wasn’t gonna, because, well, it wasn’t right, and it would take a couple hours of my time to do and write up, and well, what’s the point? So I needed a realistic, long term solution, and as I arrived, it came to me.

Jerry dutifully shuffled over to the prowl car as I stepped out. I put my arm on his shoulder and guided him to the sidewalk with a conspiratorial whisper. “OK, Jerry,” I nodded, “I can see you’re not fakin’ it here, so I owe you an apology.” Jerry looked confused, so I continued, “See, Jerry, we get a lot of people who claim to be getting brainwave interference from KVOS, but there are very few of you who genuinely have the problem, ya know.” He began to smile a bit. “So, Jerry, now that I know you’re real, I’m gonna let you in on the solution, but you gotta pay attention, and you gotta swear you’re gonna follow my directions to a T, OK?” Jerry nodded solemnly, “I swear Officer, if you help me, I’ll do it!” “Alright man,” I smiled, “I believe ya, so here it is: What you need to do is head down there to the store; here, you’ll need this,” and I gave him two bucks, “Now, remember, this is important – You gotta go get a big ol’ roll of the heavy duty aluminum foil – The heavy stuff, Jerry, the wide, heavy stuff for baking, OK? And then you gotta make a suit, man – I know, it sounds goofy, but do it up like a suit of armor, OK? Legs, arms, your core to protect your vital organs, of course. and last but not least; you gotta make a hat, Jerry – Now, personally, I believe that the pirate hat shape, ya know, like we used to make out of newspaper when we were kids? I believe that shape acts just like a stealth bomber and deflects those signals like nobody’s business – Are ya with me, Jerry?”

Jerry smiled a smile of genuine warmth and relief, thanked me, promised to comply, and headed for the supermarket. I left on another call as things started to heat up for the evening. It didn’t occur to me for almost two hours that there had been no more Jerry calls. Then I heard the crusty, road weary voice of my Sergeant come across the airwaves; “Sam 3, Paul 5, can I see you please?” I answered, he named a spot, and I headed down for the meet.

He was waiting in a dark corner of a downtown parking lot, car blacked out, just the glow from his pipe showing from the driver’s side. I pulled up right next to him, driver’s window to driver’s window as you see cops do, shut down the rig and asked, “What’s up?”

“Please tell me, Atwater,” he started slowly, tamping and relighting his pipe as he watched me over the top of the flame, “That you did not tell a local nut job to dress himself in tin foil, and paid for the stuff as well – Please tell me you didn’t do that?”

“Ah, well shit Greg – Ah…. Actually, I did. But, you know those repeat 481 calls we were getting? There hasn’t been one since I got him cured.”

Seems a concerned and helpful local citizen had seen Jerry in his suit and stopped to see what was up, (This is western Washington State, and a liberal college town, so there's a lot of concerned, helpful citizens…). When Jerry cheerfully told her how I’d cured his problems, said outraged citizen had called 911 and asked for a supervisor, to complain about this obvious abuse of a person in need of help.

I outlined all the things I’d done and all the things I hadn’t done that could have made Jerry’s life tougher, and finally pointed out that he’d been happy when the citizen contacted him, so… What’s the problem?

The Sarge looked at me for a long time, obviously torn between chewing my ass, laughing, or maybe both. Finally, he took his pipe out of his mouth, knocked it upside down on his door and then clamped it back between his teeth.

“Oh, fuck it….
I’ll make it go away. Atwater? You ever do this to me again, you’ll be working Paul 1 on graveyards until you’re old and gray – understand me, son?”

“Yessir, thank you sir!”

I saw Jerry off and on for about another week or so before he moved on somewhere else. He recognized me when I’d honk and wave as I went past, and once I stopped just to shoot the shit for a minute or two. He was happy, quiet, and doing OK… And he was still wearing his suit, though he’d modified the hat into a sort of helmet that would fit under a stocking cap, so it wouldn’t blow away.

Oh, and by the way – The shows he’d claimed had been invading his brainwaves? He was right on the money – I checked the TV schedule later that night.

Monday, July 10, 2006

Coffee, Tea, or Me?

Marketing...

Easy word, hefty concept. In the realm of goods, (As opposed to services), we're talking about figuring out how to get the buying public interested in what you've got to sell. And in my case, that's guitars. Now, if you're familiar with hand-made guitars, there's two things you know right off the bat:

1. They ain't cheap, and

2. There are more Luthiers, (Guitar Builders), than there are flies on a garbage truck.


So now, when we think marketing in light of those considerations, where are we? If you browse thoroughly through maybe 100 Luthier websites as I have over the last few months, you'd find a few surprises and a lot of things the same. Standard woods? Mahogany or Rosewood. Standard designs? OM, Orchestra, 000, Dread, maybe a parlour. Model names? All over the map. Prices? From a bunch to breathtaking, and everything in between. Common features? A Handmade guitar from the heart and mind of (Your name here).

Of course, some of these sites belong to names any serious guitarist will recognize - They're legendary builders, and for a good reason - They build amazing guitars. As such, you'll pay dearly to own, say, a nicely inlaid Grit Laskin, or a cutting edge Charles Fox, but you'll have an amazing guitar built by a true artist - This is the equivalent of buying a Cezanne during the artist's lifetime, in my opinion. Oh, and you'll also wait probably 3 to 5 years to get it...

So, other than the already famous, what's different? There are nice touches here and there that differentiate builders - A unique Philosophy, proprietary techniques and designs, that sort of thing - It's those kinds of things that would grab my eye were I shopping for somebody to build me a guitar, frankly.

And so it's the necessity for something truly unique, I think, that sets one apart in this world. My colleague Michael McBroom has found such a niche. He specializes in 10 string classical guitars: This is a performance genre to which some very serious composers and players dedicate their work. Michael had an interest in this guitar, studied it and the players, carefully waded in, and in something like a year, has gone from just starting out to introducing a Janet Marlow model at this year's International 10 String Guitar Festival. Janet is generally considered the most accomplished living 10 string player in the world, and Michael's efforts are nothing less than a wonderful coup. Not only did he introduce the model at this year's festival, but he presented the first one to Janet, who loved it so much that she played it at her featured concert. All I can say is, congratulations, my friend, and Wow!

And for the rest of us, there are choices: One can be discouraged by the sheer volume and perceived saturation of the plethora of builders out there already, or one can choose to be inspired and enlightened by Michael's example. Me? I'll take the latter.

Granted, guitars look wonderful, especially truly unique, hand-made ones. A lot of players get caught up in appearance as the first and foremost consideration in buying a new guitar. But of course, that's not their primary function - They're built to make music, to sound wonderful. Any guitar that's gonna actually appeal to a serious player needs to have a voice that reaches them. My primary advantage wading into the pantheon is the fact that I make great sounding guitars: I had one in the hands of a very capable professional the other day, and was, (Stupidly), telling him all the things on it I'd do better next time. He finally turned to me with that "You dumbshit" expression and said, "Man, when a guitar sounds like this, I don't care what it looks like..." He's on my building schedule now, by the way...

Anyway, the other thing I'm looking to make a name for myself with is wood - Yeah, appearance; it does make a difference, of course - Maple doesn't sound like Claro Walnut, which doesn't sound like Mahogany, and so on. Unfortunately, the woods which made most of the legendary 20th century guitars, Brazilian Rosewood and Honduran Mahogany, are both endangered now because of sustained, barbaric logging practices. You pretty much can't get new Brazilian Rosewood any more: What's available was bought and stored for many years, and if not, quite possibly could be illegal, (It's CITES regulated).

Therefore, we builders can either bemoan materials gone by or look elsewhere. Again, I'll take the latter: There's a lot of wood, American wood, harvested responsibly by small wood farm owner/operators, that sounds great, even if it's not commonly associated with guitar building.

And so far, that's what I've got - It's not much, but it's a start. I'm not asking for the moon, after all; I'll always be a one-man shop, so there's not going to be much more than a 12 guitar a year output. That's not asking for too much, really, is it?

Friday, July 07, 2006

From Whence They Come...

A few entries back, I was talking about the most recent doings in the Episcopal Church of the United States, (ECUSA), and where I stack up in the mix. I paraphrased Father Fred Barber's sermon that week, wherein he had emphasized that, "We're called to do the work of the church - To help those who need to be helped, live as we are called to live, be the people that Christians are supposed to be, and love and respect one another in the process. He said that both sides, liberal and conservative, are wrong to push things too hard, wrong to castigate the other, wrong to make this issue paramount over all." I then went on to say that I thought he, "Got it just right, and dead wrong."

I stand corrected once again.

When I wrote that, I was angry and responding to The Network's sabotage and subterfuge campaign surrounding the ECUSA General Convention, and not thinking about the root causes of the whole mess. I forgot what I know about who is doing what, and why it's really being done; so it's time for a little clarification.

In the 60's, when racism and voting rights were being fought, then later, when the Vietnam war was being protested, the liberal Protestant Churches, (Episcopal, Presbyterian, United Methodist, and Lutheran), were among the most-present and most oft heard forces of opposition. Conservative political and religious factions didn't like that. In '80, when Reagan took the White House, they set out to make sure it didn't happen again.

Then, and now, they're embodied in the organization known as The Institute on Religion and Democracy, (IRD). Don't let the name fool you; the IRD doesn't have anything to do with freedom of speech, protection of rights, or the fighting of good fights. They are the conservative rights religious power wing, tagged with not only keeping the liberal Protestant Churches in line, but with crushing those institutions completely by undermining their foundations and replacing them with puppet regimes loyal to the IRD's tenets. Their war plan is classic, simple, and effective - Divide and conquer. This organization was and is literally staffed by ex-spooks, and they have no morals or ethics as we know them. They will do and say anything to achieve their goals - the truth, right and wrong, and the damage done in the process means nothing to them. They are dangerous zealots, and they're coming for your churches.
At a time when global issues are perhaps more destructive than any other, when war, disease, famine, poverty, and government-sponsored wholesale abuse of humanity is widespread, the mainstream Protestant churches are not involved as they could and should be in the good fight. Why? Because we're busy fighting for our lives with a bunch of well funded conservative assassins bent on destroying the very fabric of our faith.

Check out their website: On the first page, you'll find the Weekly Poll - This week, it says "The Episcopal Church and the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) at their recent conventions, have continued to move away from traditional Christian teachings on marriage and sex. What do you think will happen to these denominations? Go take the poll yourself, and see what the options are for answering - What do you think will happen? Beneath this little gem are pieces about 'The Conflict Within the Episcopal Church,' (You guys aughta know, you engineered it... ), Presbyterian action, United Methodist action, Religious Liberty - Go in there and read this horseshit, (And if you don't think its horseshit, my apologies, and go somewhere else and affect discontent, OK? This is my rant...)

Why does the Far Right do so well? Why have they gotten so powerful? Because they have good organization, and they key in on issues that promote fear, hatred, narrow mindedness, and the mean spirited ability to bully anyone and everyone through power and money. They have proven, time and again, a willingness to lie, cheat, steal, and bully their way through any issue or fight, and they do it well: Sad but true fact - A lot of people respond to being scared, and they like the idea of someone powerful dealing with the things that scare them. Think I'm wrong? Check your polical history again, then...

Why does the Democratic Party and the good side of the fight not do well? Because they try to fight fairly, and they have and maintain morals and ethics, and don't believe that you do and say anything to win. And that dog don't hunt in this fight.

Were you reading what I wrote above? Did you hear what the IRD is and does? This is not conspiracy theory, friends, this is reality. This is a shadow company that was designed to allow the Reagan government to fight its little coups in Central America in the 1980s. These people are ex-CIA spooks who know how to do this kind of thing; it is real, folks. They will do and say anything to win. They don't fight clean, they fight to win.

I know personally about this kind of thing. I worked narcotics for the feds. I know how things really work. Do you understand why gang units, dope units, and special investigations units in high crime areas get the job done, and occasionally get in trouble? Because we're badder than the bad guys. Because we fight to win, not to fight nice. Ever thought about fighting a cop? Let me tell you exactly what is said to people who considered that: We'd say, "You know, you might be able to take me - But there are more of us than you, and we don't fight clean, we fight to win, to survive - So, you are going to get the living shit kicked out of you, thrashed to within an inch of your life, and then your sorry ass is going to jail - Still wanna take me on, pal?" Get the picture? That's their mindset, gang - That's the kind of macho horseshit Cheney and Bush throw around the ol' oval office when discussing Iraq, and that's how those shitheads at the IRD operate. Do you get the picture?

That is what is leading the fight to destroy liberal, socially conscious, caring churches. That is what is keeping us from doing the good work of the church. That is why we are busy fighting for our churches.

Do you think I'm extreme? Do you think I'm exaggerating? Do you think this whole thing is blown way out proportion? If you do, I have a message for you: You're wrong; dead wrong. You're naive. Ask somebody who was at the ECUSA Convention - The IRD was openly present and operating - They ain't afraid, they don't even have to pretend that someone else is pulling the strings - That's how powerful they've become... Do nothing, pretend it's not happening, and you're going to lose your church and the values and institutions you hold dear. The hardcore right is going to roll over you. They're going to take your voice and your faith if you don't get off the pot and protect them. Do you get the picture?

If you still think I'm outrageous, start googling some of this - Read what they say, find out who they are, trace the power and the money, and when you see the light, you can come admit to me that you were wrong. In the meantime, get off your ass - It's time to stand up for what you believe in.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

I Like To Watch...

The Iidiot Savant: Savant is French for Learned One, and Idiot? Well, every village has one and mine's looking for me as we speak...

Dichotomous you say? Like military intelligence, government efficiency, or jumbo shrimp? I think not...

In his book Frame of Mind, Harvard Prof. Howard Gardner defines intelligence as, "The ability to solve problems or to create a product." By that definition, I'm a genius, (And I ain't no genius, folks...). Oh, don't get me wrong - I am the guy you want for solving problems, and I've made guitars, created songs, training programs, all kinds of stuff. I took an IQ test about 3 years ago and was told I scored a 173, which, by definition, means I can't be an idiot savant, (I believe that requires an IQ of around 25...) So am I smart? My answer is, not necessarily - All this kind of thing measures is what intelligence can do, not what it is...

Dr. Lee Warren points out in a piece for the Plim Report in '96 - With recent advances in Quantum Physics, "Intelligence is far too vast to be limited exclusively to the physical body or located primarily in the brain." Now there's a thought for you, (Pun intended...)

Idiot savants can't care for themselves, can't read, write, or learn in classic sense, yet they can and do know truly vast amounts of things about stuff - Math, zip codes, phone books, music, and other esoterica: If they can't learn, and if they're technically idiots, how do they know all this stuff? Dr. Joseph Pierce, in his book Evolution's End, states that, "The savant has not acquired, could not acquire, and is quite incapable of acquiring, the information he so liberally dispenses." So where's it come from? Pierce goes on to point out that the savant, when asked how he or she knows what they know, would be confused by the abstract nature of the question and unable to answer. These folks can solve huge mathematic equations almost instantly, play a complex musical composition back perfectly after hearing it only once, or build perfect scale models of a things they've only seen once - It is pretty stunning, especially when one ponders from whence it comes...

There have been attempts to explain the phenomenon via Quantum Physics, (Basically, seeing specific intelligence as a field not unlike electromagnetism), which is kinda off the deep end of my thought process. Dr. Warren, who appears to be an intelligent design kinda guy, seems to think that savants are a perfect example of divine inspiration; the holy spirit pumping intelligence into folks who are otherwise incapable of learning. Hey! Maybe that's why I can recall, verbatim, the script for Monty Python and the Holy Grail, most early Saturday Night Live Skits, and more songs than you can shake a stick at! Frankly, I find his theory farfetched at best: I mean, I believe that God moves in mysterious ways, but that kind of gift would be more of a cruel joke than anything else, and that's not the God I know...

It is, nonetheless, a fascinating phenomenon that raises many more question for me than I have found plausible answers for.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

It's Cool to Ask...

Monica says she just about never prays for herself. When she told me that, it struck me as funny that I will forget to do so when it counts the most...

I've been getting fairly desperate to get out of the line of work I'm in, and have written about it a couple of times. I've also started blogging pretty regularly, and let everybody know that. My oldest brother, Timmy, who's a Methodist Minister, read 'em all and came up with a couple of comments: First and foremost, he doesn't think the trout in the Stillwater was longer than 15", (I disagree, I measured that sucker...), and he reminded me that I apparently had neglected to pray about my needs for a job/career change: He said that it was not only proper to do so, but important - God will help, or make it clear which way to go, but you have to remember to listen for the response...

I'd had zero response, movement, anything from my job search prior to Timmy's comments: As soon as I did start to pray about it, I got a response from one outfit who said they're in a holding pattern, but will definitely interview me when they get out of it, and I got an interview for another spot scheduled this week. Call it what you want - Chance, serendipity, hard work, perseverance, whatever... I call it a small miracle and proof that God works in mysterious ways. Nothing's answered yet, of course, but there is positive movement, and that's huge - That's always been the sign of good things to come, and I believe it will be again.

In retrospect, I don't pray for myself that often at all. I have a routine, taking time at the beginning and end of each day for prayer, as well as anything in the intervening hours that seems to need it. But it occurred to me that I had become routine in what I pray for as well as when, and that just might be a contrary effort. Prayer needn't be just be a rote list I repeat each and every night; it probably should be about the people and things that really need prayer that nightTimely prayer I guess you'd call it…

I was reminded of a very, very dark time in my life, long ago and far away, when I considered checking out, in the big-picture sense. It was that bad, or rather, I thought it was that bad – I agonized and suffered and dug the hole deeper and deeper until I saw no way out. And then, one day, literally curled up on a couch in the fetal position, I heard a little voice literally say, “Let he who is thirsty come to me and drink” – All you have to do is ask, and I did, then and there. And just like that, all the weight left me; mental, physical, spiritual, it was all taken away. It was, in fact, my epiphany, the day that I changed from a person of spoken faith to one of true faith.

Of course, what’s happening now is in no way as profound, in any sense of the word. I’m fine, in fact, thanks to my wonderful wife and family. I am happier than I’ve ever been, and absolutely jazzed about the future. I just don’t want to waste any time in a place where I’m not happy and productive – It’s unhealthy and unnecessary. So, I’m asking, because I should: I guess we all need reminders now and again, to listen for the quiet voice of God in a loud world…