Thursday, August 02, 2007
Remembering the Sixties
Yesterday I had the privilege of presenting Civil Rights training to staff in one of our offices. It made me think of the civil rights struggles of the sixties. The lunch counter sit-ins, the freedom riders, the bloody crossing of a bridge and Bull Connor, the bombing of a Birmingham church and death of four young girls inside, all the marches including the “I have a Dream” march on Washington. The material I shared at training included hate calls to a young college athlete marrying his fiancee of a different racial heritage, the racial divide over Barry Bonds and housing discrimination in Montana. Civil rights protests of the 50's and 60's achieved a lot, but there are still a lot of hearts and minds that still bear prejudice.
I was seven years old when the sixties began. I remember the presidential election of 1960. My parents had portraits of the two candidates in a tri-fold with President of the U.S.. printed in the middle. You could turn the folder to show your preference and obscure the other candidate. Our parents had Kennedy prominently displayed. I remember some church member expressing surprise we were supporting a Roman Catholic. Funny, how that isn't even a concern now. What promises of hope that administration projected at the start of the decade. I remember our family listening half the night to the returns on our radio and going to bed knowing JFK would win although the numbers still lagged at the time.
I remember meeting both George McGovern and Robert Kennedy in Pine Ridge. I had been putting up posters for Gene McCarthy and favored him for the presidency, but also had put up re-election posters for McGovern as Senator. South Dakota's primary was the first Tuesday in June, the same as California. The next day Bobbie would be shot in LA by Sirhan Sirhan, the nation's first awakening to radical Arab/ Muslim influence.
Those years I regularly read Time magazine every week and watched Walter Cronkite on the nightly news. I remember the daily body county from Viet Nam. We had friends who went to the south to march for civil rights, register voters and otherwise be involved. I remember a black pastor from Florida coming to stay with us and visit churches on the reservation. I also remember seeing the bohemian when we traveled to the east early in the 60's and later the flower children in Berkeley. I read about the summer of love in '67 and Woodstock in '69. Later I would see the movie the same day as our senior party on the Niobrara River. I didn't have any exposure to psychedelics or even marijuana until '71, but I did learn to make home brew using various ingredients available as commodities to the native population, dandelions and bread yeast. I spent the day hitchhiking and drinking homemade wine when Buzz Aldrin took his “one small step for man and a giant leap for mankind.”
I turned 17 as the decade ended and Nixon was president. He recovered from his defeat in 1960 and again was defeated in his race for Governor of California in 62. Yet in between those years the Vietnam War escalated, Reagan was elected Governor of California we had three assassinations that rocked the country as well as an escalation of racial tensions with riots in the second half of the sixties.
Those events I experienced as a child of the sixties have influenced my entire life. Values of equality, the need to work for justice and fairness for all. Also questioning the dominant culture and an appreciation for other cultures, those of the Lakota, the African-American and those who sought a better life for all.
And how about the music, Dylan, the Byrds, the Beatles, Jefferson Airplane, Janis and Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison, but that is another day and another blog.
Yesterday I had the privilege of presenting Civil Rights training to staff in one of our offices. It made me think of the civil rights struggles of the sixties. The lunch counter sit-ins, the freedom riders, the bloody crossing of a bridge and Bull Connor, the bombing of a Birmingham church and death of four young girls inside, all the marches including the “I have a Dream” march on Washington. The material I shared at training included hate calls to a young college athlete marrying his fiancee of a different racial heritage, the racial divide over Barry Bonds and housing discrimination in Montana. Civil rights protests of the 50's and 60's achieved a lot, but there are still a lot of hearts and minds that still bear prejudice.
I was seven years old when the sixties began. I remember the presidential election of 1960. My parents had portraits of the two candidates in a tri-fold with President of the U.S.. printed in the middle. You could turn the folder to show your preference and obscure the other candidate. Our parents had Kennedy prominently displayed. I remember some church member expressing surprise we were supporting a Roman Catholic. Funny, how that isn't even a concern now. What promises of hope that administration projected at the start of the decade. I remember our family listening half the night to the returns on our radio and going to bed knowing JFK would win although the numbers still lagged at the time.
I remember meeting both George McGovern and Robert Kennedy in Pine Ridge. I had been putting up posters for Gene McCarthy and favored him for the presidency, but also had put up re-election posters for McGovern as Senator. South Dakota's primary was the first Tuesday in June, the same as California. The next day Bobbie would be shot in LA by Sirhan Sirhan, the nation's first awakening to radical Arab/ Muslim influence.
Those years I regularly read Time magazine every week and watched Walter Cronkite on the nightly news. I remember the daily body county from Viet Nam. We had friends who went to the south to march for civil rights, register voters and otherwise be involved. I remember a black pastor from Florida coming to stay with us and visit churches on the reservation. I also remember seeing the bohemian when we traveled to the east early in the 60's and later the flower children in Berkeley. I read about the summer of love in '67 and Woodstock in '69. Later I would see the movie the same day as our senior party on the Niobrara River. I didn't have any exposure to psychedelics or even marijuana until '71, but I did learn to make home brew using various ingredients available as commodities to the native population, dandelions and bread yeast. I spent the day hitchhiking and drinking homemade wine when Buzz Aldrin took his “one small step for man and a giant leap for mankind.”
I turned 17 as the decade ended and Nixon was president. He recovered from his defeat in 1960 and again was defeated in his race for Governor of California in 62. Yet in between those years the Vietnam War escalated, Reagan was elected Governor of California we had three assassinations that rocked the country as well as an escalation of racial tensions with riots in the second half of the sixties.
Those events I experienced as a child of the sixties have influenced my entire life. Values of equality, the need to work for justice and fairness for all. Also questioning the dominant culture and an appreciation for other cultures, those of the Lakota, the African-American and those who sought a better life for all.
And how about the music, Dylan, the Byrds, the Beatles, Jefferson Airplane, Janis and Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison, but that is another day and another blog.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
SO OSAMA WALKS INTO TO THIS BAR, SEE?
by Greg PalastMonday August 14, 2006
So, Osama Walks into This Bar, See? and Bush says, "Whad'l'ya have, pardner?" and Osama says...
But wait a minute. I'd better shut my mouth. The sign here in the airport says, "Security is no joking matter." But if security's no joking matter, why does this guy dressed in a high-school marching band outfit tell me to dump my Frappuccino and take off my shoes? All I can say is, Thank the Lord the "shoe bomber" didn't carry Semtex in his underpants.
Today's a RED and ORANGE ALERT day. How odd. They just caught the British guys with the chemistry sets. But when these guys were about to blow up airliners, the USA was on YELLOW alert. That's a "lowered" threat notice.
According to the press office from the Department of Homeland Security, lowered-threat Yellow means that there were no special inspections of passengers or cargo. Isn't it nice of Mr. Bush to alert Osama when half our security forces are given the day off? Hmm. I asked an Israeli security expert why his nation doesn't use these pretty color codes.
He asked me if, when I woke up, I checked the day's terror color.
"I can't say I ever have. I mean, who would?"
He smiled. "The terrorists."
America is the only nation on the planet that kindly informs bombers, hijackers and berserkers the days on which they won't be monitored. You've got to get up pretty early in the morning to get a jump on George Bush's team.
There are three possible explanations for the Administration's publishing a good-day-for-bombing color guidebook.
1. God is on Osama's side.
2. George is on Osama's side.
3. Fear sells better than sex.
A gold star if you picked #3.
The Fear Factory
I'm going to tell you something which is straight-up heresy: America is not under attack by terrorists. There is no WAR on terror because, except for one day five years ago, al Qaeda has pretty much left us alone.
That's because Osama got what he wanted. There's no mystery about what Al Qaeda was after. Like everyone from the Girl Scouts to Bono, Osama put his wish on his web site. He had a single demand: "Crusaders out of the land of the two Holy Places." To translate: get US troops out of Saudi Arabia.
And George Bush gave it to him. On April 29, 2003, two days before landing on the aircraft carrier Lincoln, our self-described "War President" quietly put out a notice that he was withdrawing our troops from Saudi soil. In other words, our cowering cowboy gave in whimpering to Osama's demand.
The press took no note. They were all wiggie over Bush's waddling around the carrier deck in a disco-aged jump suit announcing, "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED." But it wasn't America's mission that was accomplished, it was Osama's.
Am I saying there's no danger, no threat? Sure there is: 46 million Americans don't have health insurance. IBM is legally stealing from its employees' pension plan and United Airlines has dumped its pensions altogether. Four-million three-hundred thousand Americans were injured, made sick or killed by their jobs last year. TXU Corporation is right now building four monster-sized power plants in Texas that will burn skuzzy gunk called "lignite." The filth it will pour into the sky will snuff a heck of a lot more Americans than some goofy group of fanatics with bottles of hydrogen peroxide.
But Americans don't ask for real protection from what's killing us. The War on Terror is the Weapon of Mass Distraction. Instead of demanding health insurance, we have 59 million of our fellow citizens pooping in their pants with fear of Al Qaeda, waddling to the polls, crying, "Georgie save us!"
And what does he give us? In my own small town, the federal government has paid for loading an SUV with .50 caliber machine guns to watch for an Al Qaeda attack at the dock of the ferry that takes tourists to the Indian casino in Connecticut. The casino dock is my town's officially designated "Critical Asset and Vulnerability Infrastructure Point (CAVIP)." (To find the most vulnerable points to attack in the USA, Al Qaeda can download a list from the Department of Homeland Security -- no kidding.)
But that's not all. Bush is protecting us from English hijackers with a fearsome anti-terrorist tool: the Virginia-class submarine. The V-boat was originally meant to hunt Soviet subs. But there are no more Soviet subs. So, General Dynamics and Lockheed Martin have "refitted" these Cold War dinosaurs with new torpedoes redesigned to carry counter-terror commandoes. That's right: when we find Osama's beach house, we can shoot our boys right up under his picnic table and take him out. These Marines-in-a-tube injector boats cost $2.5 billion each -- and our President's ordered half a dozen new ones.
Lynn Cheney, the Veep's wife, still takes in compensation from Lockheed as a former board member. I'm sure that has nothing to do with this multi-billion dollar "anti-terror" contract.
Fear sells better than sex. Fear is the sales pitch for many lucrative products: from billion-dollar sailor injectors to one very lucrative war in Mesopotamia (a third of a trillion dollars doled out, no audits, no questions asked).
Better than toothpaste that makes our teeth whiter than white, this stuff will make us safer than safe. It's political junk food, the cheap filling in the flashy tube. What we don't get is safety from the real dangers: a life-threatening health-care system, lung-murdering pollution production and a trade deficit with China that's reducing mid-America to coolie status. Protecting us from these true threats would take a slice of the profits of the Lockheeds, the Exxons and the rest of the owning class.
War on Terror is class war by other means -- to keep you from asking for real protection from true menace, the landlords of our nation give you fake protection from manufactured dangers. And they remind you to be afraid every time you fly to see Aunt Millie and have to give up your hemorrhoid ointment to the underpaid guy in the bell-hop suit with a security badge.
Oh, hey, you never got the punch line.
So, Osama Walks into This Bar, See? and Bush says, "Whad'l'ya have, pardner?" and Osama says, "Well, George, what are you serving today?" and Bush says, "Fear," and Osama shouts, "Fear for everybody!" and George pours it on for the crowd. Then the presidential bartender says, "Hey, who's buying?" and Osama points a thumb at the crowd sucking down their brew. "They are," he says. And the two of them share a quiet laugh.
*****
Greg Palast is the author of the just-released New York Times bestseller, "ARMED MADHOUSE: Who's Afraid of Osama Wolf?, China Floats Bush Sinks, the Scheme to Steal '08, No Child's Behind Left and other Dispatches from the Front Lines of the Class War" from which this is adapted. Go to www.GregPalast.com.
by Greg PalastMonday August 14, 2006
So, Osama Walks into This Bar, See? and Bush says, "Whad'l'ya have, pardner?" and Osama says...
But wait a minute. I'd better shut my mouth. The sign here in the airport says, "Security is no joking matter." But if security's no joking matter, why does this guy dressed in a high-school marching band outfit tell me to dump my Frappuccino and take off my shoes? All I can say is, Thank the Lord the "shoe bomber" didn't carry Semtex in his underpants.
Today's a RED and ORANGE ALERT day. How odd. They just caught the British guys with the chemistry sets. But when these guys were about to blow up airliners, the USA was on YELLOW alert. That's a "lowered" threat notice.
According to the press office from the Department of Homeland Security, lowered-threat Yellow means that there were no special inspections of passengers or cargo. Isn't it nice of Mr. Bush to alert Osama when half our security forces are given the day off? Hmm. I asked an Israeli security expert why his nation doesn't use these pretty color codes.
He asked me if, when I woke up, I checked the day's terror color.
"I can't say I ever have. I mean, who would?"
He smiled. "The terrorists."
America is the only nation on the planet that kindly informs bombers, hijackers and berserkers the days on which they won't be monitored. You've got to get up pretty early in the morning to get a jump on George Bush's team.
There are three possible explanations for the Administration's publishing a good-day-for-bombing color guidebook.
1. God is on Osama's side.
2. George is on Osama's side.
3. Fear sells better than sex.
A gold star if you picked #3.
The Fear Factory
I'm going to tell you something which is straight-up heresy: America is not under attack by terrorists. There is no WAR on terror because, except for one day five years ago, al Qaeda has pretty much left us alone.
That's because Osama got what he wanted. There's no mystery about what Al Qaeda was after. Like everyone from the Girl Scouts to Bono, Osama put his wish on his web site. He had a single demand: "Crusaders out of the land of the two Holy Places." To translate: get US troops out of Saudi Arabia.
And George Bush gave it to him. On April 29, 2003, two days before landing on the aircraft carrier Lincoln, our self-described "War President" quietly put out a notice that he was withdrawing our troops from Saudi soil. In other words, our cowering cowboy gave in whimpering to Osama's demand.
The press took no note. They were all wiggie over Bush's waddling around the carrier deck in a disco-aged jump suit announcing, "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED." But it wasn't America's mission that was accomplished, it was Osama's.
Am I saying there's no danger, no threat? Sure there is: 46 million Americans don't have health insurance. IBM is legally stealing from its employees' pension plan and United Airlines has dumped its pensions altogether. Four-million three-hundred thousand Americans were injured, made sick or killed by their jobs last year. TXU Corporation is right now building four monster-sized power plants in Texas that will burn skuzzy gunk called "lignite." The filth it will pour into the sky will snuff a heck of a lot more Americans than some goofy group of fanatics with bottles of hydrogen peroxide.
But Americans don't ask for real protection from what's killing us. The War on Terror is the Weapon of Mass Distraction. Instead of demanding health insurance, we have 59 million of our fellow citizens pooping in their pants with fear of Al Qaeda, waddling to the polls, crying, "Georgie save us!"
And what does he give us? In my own small town, the federal government has paid for loading an SUV with .50 caliber machine guns to watch for an Al Qaeda attack at the dock of the ferry that takes tourists to the Indian casino in Connecticut. The casino dock is my town's officially designated "Critical Asset and Vulnerability Infrastructure Point (CAVIP)." (To find the most vulnerable points to attack in the USA, Al Qaeda can download a list from the Department of Homeland Security -- no kidding.)
But that's not all. Bush is protecting us from English hijackers with a fearsome anti-terrorist tool: the Virginia-class submarine. The V-boat was originally meant to hunt Soviet subs. But there are no more Soviet subs. So, General Dynamics and Lockheed Martin have "refitted" these Cold War dinosaurs with new torpedoes redesigned to carry counter-terror commandoes. That's right: when we find Osama's beach house, we can shoot our boys right up under his picnic table and take him out. These Marines-in-a-tube injector boats cost $2.5 billion each -- and our President's ordered half a dozen new ones.
Lynn Cheney, the Veep's wife, still takes in compensation from Lockheed as a former board member. I'm sure that has nothing to do with this multi-billion dollar "anti-terror" contract.
Fear sells better than sex. Fear is the sales pitch for many lucrative products: from billion-dollar sailor injectors to one very lucrative war in Mesopotamia (a third of a trillion dollars doled out, no audits, no questions asked).
Better than toothpaste that makes our teeth whiter than white, this stuff will make us safer than safe. It's political junk food, the cheap filling in the flashy tube. What we don't get is safety from the real dangers: a life-threatening health-care system, lung-murdering pollution production and a trade deficit with China that's reducing mid-America to coolie status. Protecting us from these true threats would take a slice of the profits of the Lockheeds, the Exxons and the rest of the owning class.
War on Terror is class war by other means -- to keep you from asking for real protection from true menace, the landlords of our nation give you fake protection from manufactured dangers. And they remind you to be afraid every time you fly to see Aunt Millie and have to give up your hemorrhoid ointment to the underpaid guy in the bell-hop suit with a security badge.
Oh, hey, you never got the punch line.
So, Osama Walks into This Bar, See? and Bush says, "Whad'l'ya have, pardner?" and Osama says, "Well, George, what are you serving today?" and Bush says, "Fear," and Osama shouts, "Fear for everybody!" and George pours it on for the crowd. Then the presidential bartender says, "Hey, who's buying?" and Osama points a thumb at the crowd sucking down their brew. "They are," he says. And the two of them share a quiet laugh.
*****
Greg Palast is the author of the just-released New York Times bestseller, "ARMED MADHOUSE: Who's Afraid of Osama Wolf?, China Floats Bush Sinks, the Scheme to Steal '08, No Child's Behind Left and other Dispatches from the Front Lines of the Class War" from which this is adapted. Go to www.GregPalast.com.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
WAYLON - An Autobiography
I just finished this interesting read. Three things jumped out at me. “Walking in high cotton”, “Entertainers shouldn’t be role models” and Waylon’s first date with Jessi, a road trip to Tuba City, Arizona to play for the Navajo people. Here’s my take.
A lot of folks in West Texas were poor sharecropper and any cash money they made was from growing and picking cotton. The Jennings family was dirt poor and picked their share of cotton. Johnny Cash once said huge swatches of the blues and country music came straight out of the cotton fields. Cotton grows low to the ground and picking it is back breaking work. You drag a nine foot sack and never stand up straight. It is easier when the cotton grows taller, thus the expression I’m walking in high cotton and the picking is easy! Here is an explanation I found on the web.
Ask Grandpa, “How are you?” and his answer would be, “I’m walking in high cotton.”
This was not just a pleasantry, but a philosophy of life well earned and recognized as such by the cotton farmers of Boot Heel, Missouri, back when King Cotton was the cash crop. If a newcomer seemed puzzled by the reply, Grandpa would explain:
“Well, it means you have a good piece of bottom land, the rain has been just right, no boll weevils, the cotton has grown waist high shading out weeds, can be picked without stooping over, and is selling for 55 cents a pound on the Memphis Exchange.” In today’s parlance: “It doesn’t get any better than this.”
Waylon had a lot of natural talent for guitar playing and singing, but he was never “walking in high cotton”. In fact, most of his career it seems he was trying to work with one arm tied behind his back and a ball and chain around his leg. His addiction to methamphetamines pretty much handicapped him as far as making anything easy. Waylon had a lot of success, but financial and personal relationships were always strained and neither he nor his musical partnerships really enjoyed their success as much as would have been possible without the ever present addiction. Reminds me of a Johnny Cash tune, “I Never Picked Cotton”, the upshot of the song was that even though he hadn’t picked cotton he was still handicapped by his heritage and it led to his downfall. Going through life with the handicap of an addiction isn’t pretty.
Entertainers, especially musicians seem to be plagued by addictions. Thus their lives aren’t really much of a positive role model for audiences and fans or anybody for that matter. This seems to be the case almost universally in the music business. Some of the angst of their lives is the material of their music, but the self destructive lifestyles go way beyond that. It destroys relationships and there is no real joy in their lives! I have experienced some self destructive behavior myself, but don’t feel I’ve ever lost anything since then on the creative side in twenty-six years of sobriety. In fact, what creativity I have has only been enhanced in my humble opinion. A saying in recovery is that addicts don’t feel and don’t share. Addiction pretty much stops any emotional growth or development of maturity. I am still learning about acknowledging and expressing feelings that should have occurred in my teens and twenties. It is unfortunate Waylon didn’t find a drug free life until after four marriages and the peak of his creative and performing years. Although Waylon and Johnny Cash were close friends for many years and roommates for a short time, Johnny was able to quit the pills in the ’60 and Waylon not until the ‘80’s. “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys” will never become “My Heroes Have Always Been Addicts (or Alcoholics)”. Sometimes we chose negative role models and our emotional development suffers.
Tuba City, Arizona was where Waylon had a gig to play before a packed house on the Navajo Reservation. Waylon noted that the Navajo have been some of his greatest fans ever since he recorded “Love of the Common People” in the late ‘60’s. Waylon adopted the back beat from early Rock ‘n Roll in his music being one of the first country acts to incorporate the use of a drummer. This created a lot of his controversy between Waylon and the Nashville music industry and their Countrypolitan image. No doubt Waylon’s musical development was influenced by his early touring with Buddy Holly. That same beat was prominent in early rock tunes by the likes of Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley and Little Richard who claim to have invented the genre. That beat was later prominent in early Sun Record recordings by Elvis, Jerry Lee, Roy Orbison and Johnny Cash. The steady beat of rock as well as anything Johnny Cash sang has always been popular with our Native brothers and sisters. Perhaps it is the closest thing in modern music to the drum beat that is prevalent in traditional Native music. It is said the drumbeat is the beat of life, the heartbeat within each of us, the very heartbeat of Mother Earth, our creator and sustainer. Perhaps, this beat is what kept Waylon going through all those difficult years. Perhaps, it what keeps us all going and sustains life itself!
I just finished this interesting read. Three things jumped out at me. “Walking in high cotton”, “Entertainers shouldn’t be role models” and Waylon’s first date with Jessi, a road trip to Tuba City, Arizona to play for the Navajo people. Here’s my take.
A lot of folks in West Texas were poor sharecropper and any cash money they made was from growing and picking cotton. The Jennings family was dirt poor and picked their share of cotton. Johnny Cash once said huge swatches of the blues and country music came straight out of the cotton fields. Cotton grows low to the ground and picking it is back breaking work. You drag a nine foot sack and never stand up straight. It is easier when the cotton grows taller, thus the expression I’m walking in high cotton and the picking is easy! Here is an explanation I found on the web.
Ask Grandpa, “How are you?” and his answer would be, “I’m walking in high cotton.”
This was not just a pleasantry, but a philosophy of life well earned and recognized as such by the cotton farmers of Boot Heel, Missouri, back when King Cotton was the cash crop. If a newcomer seemed puzzled by the reply, Grandpa would explain:
“Well, it means you have a good piece of bottom land, the rain has been just right, no boll weevils, the cotton has grown waist high shading out weeds, can be picked without stooping over, and is selling for 55 cents a pound on the Memphis Exchange.” In today’s parlance: “It doesn’t get any better than this.”
Waylon had a lot of natural talent for guitar playing and singing, but he was never “walking in high cotton”. In fact, most of his career it seems he was trying to work with one arm tied behind his back and a ball and chain around his leg. His addiction to methamphetamines pretty much handicapped him as far as making anything easy. Waylon had a lot of success, but financial and personal relationships were always strained and neither he nor his musical partnerships really enjoyed their success as much as would have been possible without the ever present addiction. Reminds me of a Johnny Cash tune, “I Never Picked Cotton”, the upshot of the song was that even though he hadn’t picked cotton he was still handicapped by his heritage and it led to his downfall. Going through life with the handicap of an addiction isn’t pretty.
Entertainers, especially musicians seem to be plagued by addictions. Thus their lives aren’t really much of a positive role model for audiences and fans or anybody for that matter. This seems to be the case almost universally in the music business. Some of the angst of their lives is the material of their music, but the self destructive lifestyles go way beyond that. It destroys relationships and there is no real joy in their lives! I have experienced some self destructive behavior myself, but don’t feel I’ve ever lost anything since then on the creative side in twenty-six years of sobriety. In fact, what creativity I have has only been enhanced in my humble opinion. A saying in recovery is that addicts don’t feel and don’t share. Addiction pretty much stops any emotional growth or development of maturity. I am still learning about acknowledging and expressing feelings that should have occurred in my teens and twenties. It is unfortunate Waylon didn’t find a drug free life until after four marriages and the peak of his creative and performing years. Although Waylon and Johnny Cash were close friends for many years and roommates for a short time, Johnny was able to quit the pills in the ’60 and Waylon not until the ‘80’s. “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys” will never become “My Heroes Have Always Been Addicts (or Alcoholics)”. Sometimes we chose negative role models and our emotional development suffers.
Tuba City, Arizona was where Waylon had a gig to play before a packed house on the Navajo Reservation. Waylon noted that the Navajo have been some of his greatest fans ever since he recorded “Love of the Common People” in the late ‘60’s. Waylon adopted the back beat from early Rock ‘n Roll in his music being one of the first country acts to incorporate the use of a drummer. This created a lot of his controversy between Waylon and the Nashville music industry and their Countrypolitan image. No doubt Waylon’s musical development was influenced by his early touring with Buddy Holly. That same beat was prominent in early rock tunes by the likes of Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley and Little Richard who claim to have invented the genre. That beat was later prominent in early Sun Record recordings by Elvis, Jerry Lee, Roy Orbison and Johnny Cash. The steady beat of rock as well as anything Johnny Cash sang has always been popular with our Native brothers and sisters. Perhaps it is the closest thing in modern music to the drum beat that is prevalent in traditional Native music. It is said the drumbeat is the beat of life, the heartbeat within each of us, the very heartbeat of Mother Earth, our creator and sustainer. Perhaps, this beat is what kept Waylon going through all those difficult years. Perhaps, it what keeps us all going and sustains life itself!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Walking and Meandering
Today is the first day of summer. We had a light frost on the windshield this morning. The weather has been great for walking though. Our annual spring fitness has seen the formation of a team. Our team, of which I am the fearless leader, is called “Lookin’ for a Fix on Route 66”. Our team goal of collective miles is Chicago to Albuquerque of which I am proud to say we have achieved with two weeks remaining to be recorded. My personal goal is to exceed the 500 miles I logged in last years’ 8 week timeframe. It looks doable at this point with five days of walking remaining in this years’ 8 week span.
We made a jaunt to the Black Hills for what I called a walking vacation. That weekend was the Crazy Horse Volksmarch and the Deadwood Marathon. I did the 6.2 miles to the top of Crazy Horse. I touched the face of the carving with my walking stick with the colored ribbons representing the four sacred directions (Black – West (Fall), White – North (Winter-Snow), Red – East (Spring) and Yellow – South (Summer)) also representing the four great races of our planet. That is a journey I have desired to make since I first learned of the Volksmarch. I didn’t enter the marathon although I have been casually training to walk that distance. We wanted to attend church at Emmanuel Episcopal in Rapid City on Sunday, which was the same time as the marathon. I did get to walk on the Mickelson Trail however which is where the race was held. I walked from Rochford to Mystic, an 8 mile jaunt. My wife got lost and it took her 8 miles to drive the same distance. There isn’t a road sign marking the Mystic stopover and there isn’t much there. Then after the Crazy Horse Volksmarch I walked from Hill City to Custer, about 16 miles. The Mickelson is the old Burlington Route from Edgemont to Deadwood. Mickelson was governor of SD in the last part of the 20th century and proclaimed a year of reconciliation between the Caucasian and Native populations in SD. He was tragically killed in a plane crash before he completed his term of office. Janklow, the infamous speeder who was bounced out of the House of Representatives after killing a motorcycle rider when running a stop sign, succeeded Mickelson, saw the completion of the trail and named it after Mickelson. I consider this to be Janklow’s one redeeming act of public service. Janklow was first a legal aid on the Rosebud Reservation, later a DA and AG, before becoming the governor. His relationship with the Native population has never been very popular.
Last week I was in Billings for work through Thursday and I was able to walk ten miles each night and some distance at noon also. I ended up with fifty miles before I left town. I made a loop twice along the eastern edge of the city on the banks of the Yellowstone, to the Heights, over the Rims and back down 27th to my motel which becomes a pre-release center next month. The second time I reversed the direction going up 27th and climbing the rims directly up the face (and finding the hidden steps.) Then on Saturday I followed the old Milwaukee route from Butte to Warm Springs. The internet said the distance between these two locations was only 21.84 miles so I thought it would be an easy jaunt. It turned out to be 31.75 miles. I made a little detour at Rocker to go to town pump and get a Jamocha shake, forgot my walking stick and had to backtrack to the truck stop after I had crossed Silver Bow Creek and gone a considerable distance down the route between the Rarus and BNSF tracks. Later the Rarus “Copper King Express” tourist train passed me going into Butte by Ramsay and then passed me on the return to Anaconda as I was midway into Durant Canyon. The trip took a total of 9 plus hours with the final portion being in high wind along the Warm Springs Settling Ponds. I had to add an extra two miles at the Warm Springs end because there was no crossing on the Clark’s Fork and I didn’t want to wade the stream. My average was still 3.45 miles an hour though.
Today is the first day of summer. We had a light frost on the windshield this morning. The weather has been great for walking though. Our annual spring fitness has seen the formation of a team. Our team, of which I am the fearless leader, is called “Lookin’ for a Fix on Route 66”. Our team goal of collective miles is Chicago to Albuquerque of which I am proud to say we have achieved with two weeks remaining to be recorded. My personal goal is to exceed the 500 miles I logged in last years’ 8 week timeframe. It looks doable at this point with five days of walking remaining in this years’ 8 week span.
We made a jaunt to the Black Hills for what I called a walking vacation. That weekend was the Crazy Horse Volksmarch and the Deadwood Marathon. I did the 6.2 miles to the top of Crazy Horse. I touched the face of the carving with my walking stick with the colored ribbons representing the four sacred directions (Black – West (Fall), White – North (Winter-Snow), Red – East (Spring) and Yellow – South (Summer)) also representing the four great races of our planet. That is a journey I have desired to make since I first learned of the Volksmarch. I didn’t enter the marathon although I have been casually training to walk that distance. We wanted to attend church at Emmanuel Episcopal in Rapid City on Sunday, which was the same time as the marathon. I did get to walk on the Mickelson Trail however which is where the race was held. I walked from Rochford to Mystic, an 8 mile jaunt. My wife got lost and it took her 8 miles to drive the same distance. There isn’t a road sign marking the Mystic stopover and there isn’t much there. Then after the Crazy Horse Volksmarch I walked from Hill City to Custer, about 16 miles. The Mickelson is the old Burlington Route from Edgemont to Deadwood. Mickelson was governor of SD in the last part of the 20th century and proclaimed a year of reconciliation between the Caucasian and Native populations in SD. He was tragically killed in a plane crash before he completed his term of office. Janklow, the infamous speeder who was bounced out of the House of Representatives after killing a motorcycle rider when running a stop sign, succeeded Mickelson, saw the completion of the trail and named it after Mickelson. I consider this to be Janklow’s one redeeming act of public service. Janklow was first a legal aid on the Rosebud Reservation, later a DA and AG, before becoming the governor. His relationship with the Native population has never been very popular.
Last week I was in Billings for work through Thursday and I was able to walk ten miles each night and some distance at noon also. I ended up with fifty miles before I left town. I made a loop twice along the eastern edge of the city on the banks of the Yellowstone, to the Heights, over the Rims and back down 27th to my motel which becomes a pre-release center next month. The second time I reversed the direction going up 27th and climbing the rims directly up the face (and finding the hidden steps.) Then on Saturday I followed the old Milwaukee route from Butte to Warm Springs. The internet said the distance between these two locations was only 21.84 miles so I thought it would be an easy jaunt. It turned out to be 31.75 miles. I made a little detour at Rocker to go to town pump and get a Jamocha shake, forgot my walking stick and had to backtrack to the truck stop after I had crossed Silver Bow Creek and gone a considerable distance down the route between the Rarus and BNSF tracks. Later the Rarus “Copper King Express” tourist train passed me going into Butte by Ramsay and then passed me on the return to Anaconda as I was midway into Durant Canyon. The trip took a total of 9 plus hours with the final portion being in high wind along the Warm Springs Settling Ponds. I had to add an extra two miles at the Warm Springs end because there was no crossing on the Clark’s Fork and I didn’t want to wade the stream. My average was still 3.45 miles an hour though.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
A Million Little Pieces reviewed by an Alcoholic - Truth or Lies?
I finished reading the aforementioned book by James Frey. I found some of the descriptions of the disease of addiction, withdrawal and recovery to be true. User dreams where the recovering addict vividly imagines “using” his/ her drug of choice are a reality. I had them for years. I would imagine being on the verge of taking a drink and awake in a cold sweat. Later, I progressed to the point of imaging taking that drink and losing my sobriety though I haven't had a drink for 26 years, 3 months and 28 days. Frey talked about blackouts where he would have no memory of activities taking place while drinking. These are very real and scary when you wonder what you may have done the night before. These were an all too familiar experience during my drinking years. Frey talks of the physical reactions the body goes through when deprived of alcohol and some of the damage resulting from abuse of drugs and alcohol. These are all realities.
He also mentions that he wanted to write a realistic book about addiction, not a romanticized version like he has seen in the popular press and glamorized by rock stars and Hollywood. This statement seems to be contradicted by many things James Frey goes on to say in A Million Little Pieces. He seems to have embellished some of his escapades prior to his entrance into the Hazelden treatment center. Smoking Gun.com could find no evidence of his version of his arrests as well as his supposed involvement in a train wreck that killed a friend of his. His statement of oral surgery without any pain medication seems incredulous as well as the cast of characters he meets in treatment including an underworld gangster, a federal judge and a washed up boxer. Such exaggerations seem to be an attempt to portray himself as the baddest of the bad, kind of a negative glamorization of the addict's life. I'm badder than you, so I must be a bigger addict, alcoholic, criminal, etc. This seems to be a form of the very glamorization of addiction that he speaks against. In my estimation, he appears to be a college kid from a farely well off family who had gotten too deep into his addiction and sought treatment. Not too bad an actor, but somebody not that different from you or I.
His other strong statement is his opposition to the 12 step method of recovery, but yet we find him completing many of the steps though he doesn't portray them as such. He acknowledges his addiction, step one. He doesn't acknowledge a traditional higher power, yet derives a certain strength from teachings of Tao, certainly a form of spirituality outside oneself and then turns control of his life to those teachings, step 3. He completes a confession and shares it with a priest, steps 4 and 5. He admits his past mistakes and seeks forgiveness from his parents, steps 8 and 9. He accepts responsibility for his actions, continues to read the Tao and leaves the facility to find his friend Lilly and bring her back to treatment, portions of steps 11 and 12. He is released and lives his life one day at a time. I would say he is pretty committed to the 12 steps even though he works very hard at professing not to believe in them. I didn't think much of the steps and slogans when I was first introduced to AA. I have grown to the point where they provide me direction on a day to day basis.
My take on A Million Little Pieces. Frey is still stuck on an ego trip of having to be the baddest of all and still surviving without giving credit to a source outside of self. This very refusal to humble oneself is a sure step towards a slip down the line. The old saying of Pride goeth before the Fall has a great deal of meaning. Addiction and alcoholism are nothing to be glorified. They cause pain to all around including the addict. Recovery is a long and hard road. A journey we must walk all our lives.
I finished reading the aforementioned book by James Frey. I found some of the descriptions of the disease of addiction, withdrawal and recovery to be true. User dreams where the recovering addict vividly imagines “using” his/ her drug of choice are a reality. I had them for years. I would imagine being on the verge of taking a drink and awake in a cold sweat. Later, I progressed to the point of imaging taking that drink and losing my sobriety though I haven't had a drink for 26 years, 3 months and 28 days. Frey talked about blackouts where he would have no memory of activities taking place while drinking. These are very real and scary when you wonder what you may have done the night before. These were an all too familiar experience during my drinking years. Frey talks of the physical reactions the body goes through when deprived of alcohol and some of the damage resulting from abuse of drugs and alcohol. These are all realities.
He also mentions that he wanted to write a realistic book about addiction, not a romanticized version like he has seen in the popular press and glamorized by rock stars and Hollywood. This statement seems to be contradicted by many things James Frey goes on to say in A Million Little Pieces. He seems to have embellished some of his escapades prior to his entrance into the Hazelden treatment center. Smoking Gun.com could find no evidence of his version of his arrests as well as his supposed involvement in a train wreck that killed a friend of his. His statement of oral surgery without any pain medication seems incredulous as well as the cast of characters he meets in treatment including an underworld gangster, a federal judge and a washed up boxer. Such exaggerations seem to be an attempt to portray himself as the baddest of the bad, kind of a negative glamorization of the addict's life. I'm badder than you, so I must be a bigger addict, alcoholic, criminal, etc. This seems to be a form of the very glamorization of addiction that he speaks against. In my estimation, he appears to be a college kid from a farely well off family who had gotten too deep into his addiction and sought treatment. Not too bad an actor, but somebody not that different from you or I.
His other strong statement is his opposition to the 12 step method of recovery, but yet we find him completing many of the steps though he doesn't portray them as such. He acknowledges his addiction, step one. He doesn't acknowledge a traditional higher power, yet derives a certain strength from teachings of Tao, certainly a form of spirituality outside oneself and then turns control of his life to those teachings, step 3. He completes a confession and shares it with a priest, steps 4 and 5. He admits his past mistakes and seeks forgiveness from his parents, steps 8 and 9. He accepts responsibility for his actions, continues to read the Tao and leaves the facility to find his friend Lilly and bring her back to treatment, portions of steps 11 and 12. He is released and lives his life one day at a time. I would say he is pretty committed to the 12 steps even though he works very hard at professing not to believe in them. I didn't think much of the steps and slogans when I was first introduced to AA. I have grown to the point where they provide me direction on a day to day basis.
My take on A Million Little Pieces. Frey is still stuck on an ego trip of having to be the baddest of all and still surviving without giving credit to a source outside of self. This very refusal to humble oneself is a sure step towards a slip down the line. The old saying of Pride goeth before the Fall has a great deal of meaning. Addiction and alcoholism are nothing to be glorified. They cause pain to all around including the addict. Recovery is a long and hard road. A journey we must walk all our lives.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Mental and Physical Ramblings
I walked today at lunch. I went somewhere I haven't been before. It struck me that this is the 5th time in working for our agency I have been stationed in Anaconda. I have been on the 2nd, 3rd and 4th floor of our office building. That's 8 jobs in Anaconda from 1972 to 2006 (Social Worker I and III, Elig Sup, Acting County Director, County Director and now Field Manager plus Juvenile Probation in 73-74 and Warm Springs State Hospital in 72)
Anyway, I walked up Birch St. to the top. This is the steepest street in Anaconda. I have been up the street numerous times, but never walked past the last house and up into the gulch. There is a trail that follows the flume that runs from Storm Lake to the Smelter and on to Butte. I had driven the trail years ago, but never climbed the hill on foot. The street is steep, and then the trail becomes even steeper. I believe the south hill at that point is steeper than the north hills above the golf course where there are real walking trails. I have been told the kids used to have keg parties up there as you can see all directions and escape before the police arrive. An associate tells me he missed one party in high school when the police sealed off all the avenues of escape and were able to make numerous arrests. Also in days past kids would ride their sleds and toboggans down the Birch Hill and all the way across Commercial and the BAP tracks. Several years ago a couple of kids floor boarded their car coming down this hill and T’boned a police car on Commercial Ave.
I followed the trail across the “C” hill to Sheep Gulch behind the courthouse. From there the descent becomes gentler. Across the Sheep Gulch road I followed a trail that winds up the hill and parallels road. It is nice being in Anaconda. I am able to walk most days I am here. I also am finding a lot of memories over the last 34 years. I remember working at WSSH and missing our AFSC work party near the end of the summer. I had gone into Anaconda with Johnny Cheek and drove around all afternoon. He was director of the recreation department at Warm Springs. I got back and one of the girls I worked with felt sorry I missed the party. She took me back to Anaconda to have a pizza at the Hofbrau. After a few beers we decided to drive up to the smelter. We went right through the guard station! Security soon caught up to us and turned us around. No other consequences!
I walked today at lunch. I went somewhere I haven't been before. It struck me that this is the 5th time in working for our agency I have been stationed in Anaconda. I have been on the 2nd, 3rd and 4th floor of our office building. That's 8 jobs in Anaconda from 1972 to 2006 (Social Worker I and III, Elig Sup, Acting County Director, County Director and now Field Manager plus Juvenile Probation in 73-74 and Warm Springs State Hospital in 72)
Anyway, I walked up Birch St. to the top. This is the steepest street in Anaconda. I have been up the street numerous times, but never walked past the last house and up into the gulch. There is a trail that follows the flume that runs from Storm Lake to the Smelter and on to Butte. I had driven the trail years ago, but never climbed the hill on foot. The street is steep, and then the trail becomes even steeper. I believe the south hill at that point is steeper than the north hills above the golf course where there are real walking trails. I have been told the kids used to have keg parties up there as you can see all directions and escape before the police arrive. An associate tells me he missed one party in high school when the police sealed off all the avenues of escape and were able to make numerous arrests. Also in days past kids would ride their sleds and toboggans down the Birch Hill and all the way across Commercial and the BAP tracks. Several years ago a couple of kids floor boarded their car coming down this hill and T’boned a police car on Commercial Ave.
I followed the trail across the “C” hill to Sheep Gulch behind the courthouse. From there the descent becomes gentler. Across the Sheep Gulch road I followed a trail that winds up the hill and parallels road. It is nice being in Anaconda. I am able to walk most days I am here. I also am finding a lot of memories over the last 34 years. I remember working at WSSH and missing our AFSC work party near the end of the summer. I had gone into Anaconda with Johnny Cheek and drove around all afternoon. He was director of the recreation department at Warm Springs. I got back and one of the girls I worked with felt sorry I missed the party. She took me back to Anaconda to have a pizza at the Hofbrau. After a few beers we decided to drive up to the smelter. We went right through the guard station! Security soon caught up to us and turned us around. No other consequences!
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
My Top Ten Hitch – Hiking Songs and Favorite Lines
- Take it Easy/ Eagles
Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy,
Lighten up while you still can, don’t even try to understand
Just find a place to make your stand and take it easy.
Well, I’m standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona and such a fine sight to see. It’s a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford slowin’ down to take a look at me.
Double-Click for a larger view of Standin' on the Corner Park
- Take it Easy/ Eagles
Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy,
Lighten up while you still can, don’t even try to understand
Just find a place to make your stand and take it easy.
Well, I’m standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona and such a fine sight to see. It’s a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford slowin’ down to take a look at me.
Double-Click for a larger view of Standin' on the Corner Park
