It was snowing when I left Spearfish. I had just said my goodbyes to Lola and we were tearful. Feelings of guilt washed over me as I looked into her 92 year old eyes. I would be back in almost exactly 2 months so that made things a bit easier. Pulling out of the driveway it was hard to believe things would be hot and summery in just 60 days. Snow and sleet slapped at my windshield. Driving west toward Wyoming the precipitation picked up and the fields began getting whiter and whiter. By the time I got to Sundance, the look of winter prevailed (It was April 29.)
I turned south toward Newcastle and advanced toward my goal of Denver. I was at least six hours away. It had been years since I made this drive and it was incredible how the countryside had changed so little. To my left sat Inyan Kara Mountain blanketed in powder. One of General George Custer's men was buried on its summit. The general and an army of over 1,000 had passed through here in 1874 looking for gold so a settler's rush could open up the country for development. One of his prospectors found couple of big nuggets near present day Custer, South Dakota. Their discovery did the trick and the Indians lost big time.
A few miles from the coal mining ghost town of Cambria, I pulled over and took in a sweeping canyon below. It was biting cold and blustery. The door of the Buick was ajar and I could hear Wyoming Public Radio blasting Teri Gross as I photographed the Black Hills expanse that lay beneath. How fun to have been a hawk or eagle and just glide off over such rugged terrain. I shivered and jumped back in the car.
Newcastle was dry and on the brink of dusty. The 3 or 4 inches of snow had run out near the 4 Corners area west of Ice Box Canyon, about 20 miles before. The wind was raging across the Wyoming plains and barely a glimpse of spring had brushed this country. Green grass was sprouting in the barrow pits and that was about it. This stretch of highway was remarkably frozen in time. Just about everything looked like it did the first time I rode with my parents to Denver in 1965. It was great to see and made my drive feel timeless. At one point I stopped and took a picture of the infamous "Boner Ranch" sign. It is pronounced "Bonner" but the uninformed wouldn't know.
I passed through Lusk (also in amber) and glanced at the gas station who's owner had allowed my friend Debra and me to give him an IOU back in 1973. She and I had just been in Denver visiting my sister and her aunt. I was a junior in high school and she a college freshman. Believe it or not both sets of our parents agreed to let us take my mother's car (A 70 Cadillac Sedan DeVille) and spend the weekend! Talk about trusting. When we pulled into Lusk to fill up we realized we had spent all our money. The owner gave us his address and Debra's mother sent him a check the next day. I can't image that happening now.
It was time for lunch so I stopped at the cafe on the south side of town. I was the only one in the dining room and the waitress seemed just as stressed as if there had been 30 diners. A fundamentalist Christian cook with a shirt that read "Jesus is the Answer" came out of the kitchen and looked over a pretty high school girl's application. "What you thinkin' you want to do?" said the cook. "Probly waitress but aneh-thing will be fine...but I'd like to waitress."
The stressed waitress brought my food and I examined the tattoos on her upper arms displaying vines interspersed with rosebuds. As she placed my club sandwich in front of me she smiled and walked away quickly. She then started up where she had left off talking about her one day road trip from Lusk to Guernsey to Wheatland and Douglas and back. She had taken lots of photos. I could see this girl moving to Denver in a year or two and hanging out with some artsy crowd. By the time I left at least 10 people had suddenly appeared and the poor tattoo'd server was needing Xanax.
Driving through eastern Wyoming gives you plenty of time to think and let your mind wander. The cinemascope panoramas are meditative. The sky is immense and one feels pretty humbled. Mostly you see ranch exits and tumble weeds bouncing across the highway as you roar 80 miles between towns. It's a good place to have an audio version of an Oprah Book Club selection or memorize your lines for a Dostoyevsky play. There were many times when I was younger and drove this stretch completely tranced out. I would pull into some place like Lingle and not remember any of the last 40 miles. Today was different. I was acutely aware of the shards of light as they arbitrarily lit the tops of pine splattered mesas and terraced tables. The landscape had a bright whiteness to it backed by turbulent gun metal skies. Castle rock spires perched up to catch rays while their craggy slopes lay shadowless and gray.
As I passed through high plains farmlands between Torrington and Cheyenne the wind was approaching hurricane strength. My newly acquired Buick Century was getting pushed around a bit as the gusts bucked my gait. Wyoming is synonymous with wind. Rarely have I gotten out of my car anywhere in the state and not had my door almost ripped off its hinges. If your hat isn't pulled down it will end up in Laramie by sundown. The power of the air being pushed around in this part of the country could light up the state of Texas and possibly Mexico. Why Wyoming concentrates only on coal instead of wind is beyond me.
I made a quick stop in the state capital of Cheyenne and sped on towards Denver. It was late afternoon and the Rocky Mountains were a lush blue silhouette to my west. Driving south on I-25 I passed through extraordinary development in the Fort Collins area. What had been farm and ranch land was now inundated with cracker box housing and acres of shopping centers. Some of the new housing had yards that were literally feet from the freeway. The homes were practically an arm's length apart and the development was crushing. I became very melancholy when I saw the overbuilt ridiculousness in the Black Hills foothills but this was taken to a whole new level. America has lost millions of agricultural land in the last 50 years. The front range of Colorado has been slowly eaten alive in that process. Open fields along this corridor have become a rarity. It was almost shocking after driving through the vastness of Wyoming.
Around 6 or so I caught my first glimpse of the Denver skyline. It had noticeably grown since my last visit 8 years earlier. A spitting mix of rain and snow pelted my car as I angled onto the I-70 on-ramp. This part of the city (Commerce City) had not changed in decades. Refineries, cinder block warehouses and industrial abstract expressionism engulfed me as I flew east towards Aurora. The interstate was bumpy and cracked. I guess the stimulus money had not reached this stretch. I veered off onto Colorado Boulevard and passed old motels and rag tag convenience stores. Eventually I got into the Denver I remembered that lay east of downtown. Passing over Colfax I saw the old Jewish hospital and looked for 'The House of Pies' which had been converted into a Mexican chain restaurant. Neighborhood street signs started to look familiar. I pulled off Colorado and into the Hilltop neighborhood. Suddenly I was amidst large Tudor homes and handsome lawns with tall spruce. I passed a beautiful park with joggers and dog walkers. Roger's home came into view. He described it as a post-modern structure built in 1941 designed by the architect who put up the old Rocky Mountain News building in downtown Denver. It is a prominent sight that sits handsomely on a corner lot.
I parked in back and he buzzed me in. His extremely friendly Standard Poodle Billie jumped all over me with excitement. We sat in his modern kitchen and I told him of my Wyoming travels. Through the long bank of tall windows we watched the snow whip a bit outside. Later I was shown to my room. I entered it after ascending a Joan Crawford staircase of streamlined design. The place was beautiful and I felt like I was staying in Beverly Hills during the early days of WWII. It is one of the few homes I have ever been in with a true sunken living room. Elegant understatement appeals to me and had I my smoking jacket this would have been the room to wear it.
The next day Roger took me all over downtown and lower downtown to show me Denver's changes. Some of the makeover was truly astounding. The central core of Denver had transformed. Historic preservation complimented new architectural wonders. The city was finally "cool." I had often consterned about this city's potential when I lived here in the 70s and 80s. The potential was so potent in my head. Over a ten year period I watched most developers go the wrong way and tear down incredible 19th and early 20th century structures and in their place construct awful inferior glass nothings. I knew the railyard area could be transformed into an urban living space with mixed use. A lot of great stuff was lost and it ripped at my soul. It was not hard to leave in 1985 because I had finally had my fill. I thought the city would never get 'it" and would become increasingly mediocre and hollowed. Luckily I was wrong. Much of the city's great old edifices were sacrificed in the center of downtown but farther west in the warehouse district, the annihilation ended. Not only was it saved but revived with a vitality of life few would have envisioned. The best part is that it didn't stop there and continued across I-95 to the Highland area and beyond. Light rail stations were mixed in. Denver finally saw its unique qualities and saved a lot of itself at the 11th hour. The heart of the place can now compare itself to places like Portland, Oregon. It continues to evolve in this pattern. I would now return even though I am no longer a fan of the cold.
Late in the afternoon Roger and I met with Ann. She had been my sister's partner for years and Roger's travel agency had booked many of her world trips. Ann had been all over the globe from Mongolia to the Serengeti. She had recently returned from Nicaragua where she had gone with some people to teach English in small villages. Her dress implied that she could leave after our chat and go climb a mountain in Denali National Park.
That night Rog and I ate at a great Mexican restaurant called El Diablo. It sat across the street from the restored Mayan Theatre that I helped save back in the mid 80s. After eating we drove down Broadway until we located this funny gay bar that neither of us had been to for at least 20 years. It's called BJ's Carousel. We walked into a room packed with people cheering some of the worst drag queens ever recorded in modern human history. Onstage was a competition of some kind so we sat down to watch. The crowd was equally bizarre. It was a combination of a Fellini movie, the HBO show Carnival and Priscilla Queen of the desert meets Eraserhead. I have been to a lot of gay bars and drag shows in my day but this ranks in some very special category. Margaret Mead would have been very happy to take notes here. I had a camera on me but was fearful of taking it out. It just seemed like we had entered into some kind of sacred rite that should only be handed down by tongue, generation by generation.
Most of the drags were older and when I say old I mean prior to Hitler invading Poland. One of them looked like she had just had a hip replacement but it hadn't taken. She leaned at an odd angle with the shape of a motorcycle tire wrapped around her mid section. Maybe she had meant to have liposuction but opted out for whatever procedure she was offered. The pancake on her face was thick enough to spackle a remodeling project in your basement den. She was about 89, honey blonde and trying desperately to not be distracted by her sticking false eye lashes as she sang Cher's "Half Breed." A younger performer (about 60) jumped onstage singing Juice Newton's "Queen of Hearts." She weighed about 57 pounds and had some kind of protruding groin bone that figured quite prominently through a red spandex jumpsuit (that sported peek-a-boo holes.) Her eyes were too close together and it was hard to look at her because one of them shot off toward Pike's Peak. She was agile and ran all over the room. Roger and I had to busy ourselves and pretend we were texting when she danced into our quadrant. Her lip synching was exquisitely awful and she had no problem doing it right up in people's faces.
The MC duties were shared by the drags and overseen by a thin and tiny weathered leatherman who must have gotten his uniform at Baby Leather Gap. His ginger head of hair was sprayed tightly to his head and his nipple rings sparkled in the colored spots that periodically spilled over him. He was very adept at explaining the night's line up while walking in teeny black cowboy boots.
We finally agreed that the people sitting closest to us had either just performed in a local production of Cabaret and had not bothered to get out of costume or maybe this WAS their own hybrid version we had unknowingly walked into. No one resembled Liza so we gave up on that theory. After being alternately scared, delighted, stunned and confused we jumped up and walked briskly to the door. Patrons frowned at us as we passed because we obviously were not supportive of good talent. When we got into Roger's car it was apparent our body's chemistry levels had been altered and we might never be the same.
The next morning I had a bit of breakfast with Roger and Billie (still reeling from the drag show extravaganza) and then motored a short distance to my old friend Leslie's place. She and I had known each other since our freshman year in college. I was a bit wary given the poor thing had been going through some pretty rough domestic stuff the last few years. Hard times had fallen upon her and life as a talented writer had not gone well. Luckily her husband was at work so the visit wouldn't have an even weirder dynamic.
I could see a bit of what life had been dealing her when she answered the door. She burst into tears as her adorable Schnauzer-mix Woody jumped and barked at me. It had been a long time since Leslie had seen an old friend and feeling the warm hug of me just overwhelmed her. She made us coffee and showed me her extensive doll collection that she was selling off piecemeal. Some were Barbies that had never been taken out of their boxes from the 50s and early 60s. Next came a Limoge porcelain vase that she wanted me to inspect for its authenticity. A stamp on the bottom confirmed and she was thrilled as she had talked to a collector who was interested. There were other treasures like Royal Haeger, Roseville and McCoy vases that she had placed around the house. It was so sad that she was having to sell such beautiful pieces just to make ends meet.
We walked her garden and she compulsively pointed out every plant and flower that was sprouting or had been planted over the years. Conversations with Leslie are like walking a labyrinth of digressing pathways. You never know where you might end up but somehow you find your way home. We laughed when her old funny side came to life and became quite sober when she cursed her current unhappy marriage. It was sad to see such a gifted soul live with such uncertainty but sweet to have a few hours together because we rarely had the chance. She insisted on showing me some restored 1930s streamline homes in the neighborhood before I left. They were worth the photographs and I dropped her back at her place. I hoped her happiness would return one day as she and Woody stood in the doorway and waved goodbye. I punched in my Kansas destination site on my GPS and made my way east out of Denver. The day was sullen and dark. It had been hard to leave Leslie and I was now 2 hours behind schedule and my goal was to make Dodge City, Kansas that night. I slurped down a 5 hour energy drink mixed with Coke Zero and set my sights toward the brown Colorado plain. The Mile High City eventually evaporated behind me as I settled in for a very long day of incredibly austere scenery. Lonely strips of pavement with sagebrush dotted knolls would be my visuals for what seemed an eternity.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
I am road hard (My spring road trip / Part 1)
I just returned from a road trip that took me from South Florida to South Dakota and back. My reason for traveling was to swap cars with my mother. She no longer drives and her Buick Century is more appropriate for my business than was my Toyota Corolla. The Toyota is still in good shape and will suffice for my sisters or brother to drive her to appointments and doctors visits. The following gives you impressions about my journey that took me approximately one week and 2,500 miles one way. It was a somewhat tiring experience but well worth the escalating gas prices I endured.
Seeing a good chunk of this country via two lane highways, truck stops and anti-abortion signage overkill can be highly entertaining. I listened to a lot of local radio. FM and AM was an audio plastering of right wing misinformation and fundamentalist Christian blather. When I stopped at local cafes or truck travel centers, FOX News beamed brightly on suspended Platforms for all to mindlessly gaze. I heard only one progressive FM station and that was in Chicago. A Little Rock station had a surprizing edition of "Democracy Now." That was it! Fortunately I could pick up NPR in most areas so I didn't feel a total sense of alienation. Vast regions of this country are saturated by over-zealous propaganda spouted by Limbaugh, Hannity, Savage, Beck and other lesser known asshole Righties. It is no wonder this Tea Party crowd has their dander up. They collectively get their news in a bubble and the bubble is gigantic and stupid.
My route took me through a good chunk of the deep and middle south and then through the midwest and eastern edges of the west. I stayed with old friends I had not hung out with in years. Each of their accommodations were unique and comfortable...a guest house in Gallatin, Tennesee, a mid-century gem in Chicago, a post-modern beauty in Denver and a Victorian delight in Little Rock. Loving architecture, I couldn't believe my luck. It was like a tour of American vernacular where I was assured a bed and more than breakfast. People I loved owned these places and I could roam them at will.
I left on April 16 from our place in Ft. Lauderdale in 78 degree sunshine. My first day took me as far as the Atlanta area (Locust Grove.) It already looked like summer. I ate at a truck stop near my motel. It offered two trucker chapels. You never know when your patty melt might be contaminated and asking God for help against e coli might have been doubly necessary. Day two took me to Tennessee. I passed multitudes of blooming white Dogwood as I curved around mountain roads. When I got to Gallatin my friends Trent and Serena put me up in their guest cottage. It even had a pool but it was too cool outside for a dip. I am not the kind to really use a pool anyway. Being overly caucasian I often have to check local zoning to see if my reflection might violate some kind of ordinance. I saw Conway Twitty's former Twitty City (Now occupied by evangelical studios and shops.) This part of the country is unofficially a theocratic state. My friends discussed their difficulty with living in a southern Christian based economy that seemingly permeates everything. They have learned to abide the loss of open minded thinking and pine for the old days when they could easily find solidarity in southern California. You don't casually mention you are pro-choice or friendly towards gay marriage in these parts. I certainly wasn't going to wear my South Park t-shirt.
I spent the next morning with Trent. He saw me off and when I entered Kentucky my first encounter was with a drive-in theatre a mile or two over the state line. It was immaculate and still in use. Across the highway was a big serious Indian welcoming me to the Dixie Trading Post. (He was wooden and carved badly.) Continuing through Indiana I made several quick visits at rest stops to use facilities. It was one of those caffeine days that messed with my urinary functions... I got into Chicago late and was welcomed by my good friend Teri who made me feel right at home by offering me left-over Chicago pizza. We quickly got caught up and then she filled me in on the harsh realities of being in stage 4 cancer. Sciatica in her lower back had been adding insult to injury. In spite of her off and on pain we laughed a lot and had some deeply affecting talks. The day before I left she got good news that her latest round of oral chemo had been working. We went out for a drink. She had a Cosmo and I had a Diet Coke. When I left the next day it made it easier knowing she was feeling a bit of optimism.
After the north shore Chicago suburbs my route took me west to Galena, Illinois where I spent an enjoyable few hours photographing Federal, Gothic, Queen Anne and Victorian wonders of all kinds. The historic town was a gorgeous piece of Americana. I walked on General Grant's lawn and strode into the DeSoto House Hotel where Lincoln and Douglas had spoken to crowds. Grand old homes lined the terraced streets. The town had been a hub for steamship travel between St. Louis and St. Paul and known for its galena mines. When the ore ran out and the Galena River became unnavigable for steam ships, its prominence slipped away. Close by was Dubuque. It too had seen better days as a river and manufacturing town. Vestiges of is former success were sprinkled around and I got some amazing pictures of a few high Victorian homes.
Motoring on I moved into Iowa's farmlands just as the sun was lowering. My GPS insisted on taking me on a narrow two lane highway that ran parallel to I-90 only 40 miles above in Minnesota. I stuck it out as I passed dozens of grain towers, gigantic farm houses, "Kum & Go" convenience stores and endless implement dealers. Just about the time I was entering Spencer I got a call from Raphael in Fort Lauderdale. We exchanged our daily experiences: His Saks Fifth Avenue customer nightmares and my up close and personal viewing of convenience store clerks with amazingly bad teeth. I assured him I was safe and not tired and would call him when I crossed into South Dakota. About an hour and a half later I did cross into the Buffalo State (former Sunshine State and Coyote State as well. They keep changing it. In fact, it may be the Mt. Rushmore State now. I can't keep up...) and whisked myself through Sioux Falls. I called him as I stopped at the first motel I came to. The night clerk was so friendly that I practically had to peel her off me as she spoke about everything from her cleaning techniques to the free breakfast I would receive. South Dakota has this certain kind of almost aggressive friendliness that is possibly unique. Even Southern hospitality doesn't wear you down like this kind of "Hello pardner! How you doin'? Want to know everything about you and here is the weather forecast and look what happened when I took my grandmother to Walmart...!" type of talking. I finally got away and piled into my cozy, warm room. When I awoke it was a foggy, dreary day. I ate my free continental breakfast. FOX News blabbered lies at me while I slurped my cereal in the breakfast room.
This was the day I had been looking forward to. Once before in the late 80s I had driven some state highways in South Dakota. I loved the small towns and subtle beauty of its open space. I pulled off I-90 and drove north to US Highway 34 as I took myself west. Farms and lowlands were flooded with water and in some areas it came right up to the bottoms of bridges. Waterfowl was teeming and ducks and geese were delighted with their good fortune. Small towns that had once been prosperous farming communities now stood shabbily breathing on life support. There was often one bar, convenience store or maybe a community hall still in use. A few had surprisingly well kept late nineteenth century homes or maybe a manicured park. A few hamlets still had their preserved WPA era county courthouses. Interstates had killed these burgs long ago and their glory days were a thing of the past.
Woonsocket, South Dakota (the home of George McGovern's wife, Eleanor) boasted that it was "The town with the beautiful lake." It said so right along side the Pepsi sign on the abandoned Masonic Temple building. It was true. The town did have a nice lake and you could tell that every ounce of pride that was left went into maintaining its shores and surrounding walkways. A huge tidy brick basilica sat across from it. It was obvious that one either put their extra bucks into the lake or supported the Catholics. For a town of less than 700, they did their best to keep up appearances.
Driving on I ran into intensely thick fog near Wessington Springs. It was like a wall. I could barely see the town's outline as I pulled into its business district. About 10 miles west I suddenly emerged from the murkiness and onto the open rolling prairie. The sun popped in and out and the lighting was beautiful as it spotlit the undulating plains. Suddenly, I could see for miles. At one point I pulled over and took pictures of broad panoramas. Far vistas of grass blowing in the South Dakota sun was marvelous. The wind started getting intense. It was more like a gale force. Gusts must have been in excess of 50 to 60 miles per hour. I was amazed my Corolla did as well as it did. Some curious Angus cattle came up and inspected me as I perused the countryside for shots. They felt familiar. They were the breed my father had raised.
My next destination was Pierre and it was still many miles away. At one point my cell phone rang to tell me I had a voicemail. Cell service across South Dakota was patchy at best. When I listened I found that my sister Susan had called to tell me that I should probably make a bee line for Spearfish. A winter storm was approaching. I decided I would stop in Pierre, snap a few pics, grab a bite and then bolt toward the Black Hills as fast as possible. As blustery as it was with the wind coming out of the west, it made sense that some kind of weather change was on its way.
I stopped in a tiny place called Stephen on the Crow Creek Indian Reservation. A handsome cowboy was pumping gas and trying not to notice that I had Florida plates. A young Native American guy did the same opposite the cowboy. The woman behind the cash register was as rugged and weathered as the landscape surrounding the station. The farmers at the coffee counter were shy and nodded at me with just a hint of smiles. This was not a place you would ever get a latte' or discuss the latest Almodovar film. Life was harsh and unyielding. So, when I entered Pierre it felt like a relief in some ways because there was hustle and bustle and the familiarity of fast food and the local Verizon store. But in spite of its energy and spirit, it was also depressing to think that this was the state capital. It was a bit rough and tumble. Sure, the capital grounds were manicured but the usual detritus of corporate America surrounded it like a ring of dirty foam in a bathtub. Muddy pickups and enormous SUVs commanded the streets. The old downtown was dying and the newer strip was full of convenience and junk food. A once majestic hotel looked pitifully abandoned even though I think it still operated. It might have been the fact that the beauty of spring had not yet arrived. Everything was still brown and cold. I should have hit this town in summer. Had time allowed, there would have been some discoveries in the residential neighborhoods. Pierre is very historic and traces its roots back to French fur trappers in the early 19th century. Its river breaks setting can be beautiful. This was not one of those days. It looked hopelessly provincial, monochromatic and not what I wanted for my home state capital. I also had come into this town with an attitude. The new governor and rabid right wing Republican legislature was one of the most neanderthal in the country. It gave me the creeps to think what laws were being debated or passed as I lingered outside the state house. I wanted to stop into the governor's office and ask him if he would make an exception about having to make me wait for an abortion. Luckily, a blizzard awaited me and I had to book out of there via a quick stop at Hardee's.
The town of Philip came just in time because my bladder was full and one of its gas stations fit the ticket. When I walked (ran) inside a group of farmers were all sitting in a circle in the back laughing and talking in their overalls. They all stopped and kind of stared at me. One of them murmured something and then they all laughed. This is not uncommon in South Dakota. It is a throwback to the old general store days when locals would hang out around the woodstove and gab. After a very satisfying pee I asked how far to Wall and a very pretty high school girl gave me perky directions. I jumped in the Toyota and sped off. As I drove away I thought of Scotty Philip who had rounded up some of the last remaining buffalo and kept them alive. From his herd a slow replenishment of bison built from extinction. Any vestiges of that herd were gone around Philip. All that was present were countdown signs to Wall Drug. ( One sign had a coiled snake proclaiming: "Don't Misssssssssssss Wall Drug."
In a little over an hour I passed through the ghost town of Cottonwood and then came to Wall. There was no time to stop and see the mechanical cowboy band at the drug store or sit on the giant Jack-a-lope. It was onto Rapid City. I was now on I-90 and would make good time. About 25 to 30 miles east of Rapid City I caught my first glimpse of the Black Hills. They looked mysterious and shiny on the horizon. Dramatic clouds and reflections were swirling over them. It was snow flurries I assumed. The wind continued to howl and late afternoon sun reflected brightly on the pavement.
Approaching Rapid City was bittersweet as always. The outskirts of the town are a modern slum of old trailer parks and cheap subdivisions. Development is hodge-podge and the zoning for residential and commercial is a confusing mess. The setting was so beautiful and it will be forever mired. You know you are finally almost home but the disgust of poor land use makes you want to vomit. I tried to focus on the forested mountains in the distance and concentrate on their beauty.
Around 30 miles from Spearfish I began to hit snow. I knew that if I did run into any, this would be the place. It is a spot called Tilford which used to be a railroad stop in the early 20th century. You come up out of Piedmont Valley and go over a mild pass. It is just high enough that in the winter you get blowing snow conditions and in the summer you can enter wild thunderstorms or hail. People call it the Bermuda Triangle of the Black Hills. It is just uncanny how many times people hit bad weather there when everywhere else it might be fine.
The snow wasn't blinding but it was wet and coming down in a sloppy mess. The farther west I got the more it began to stick. My sister was correct to call me and warn me. By the time I stopped in Sturgis to put in gas, it was a cold winter day. I shivered as I pumped in my last tank's worth. It must have been around 30 degrees with a windchill of about 12. Spearfish was only about 20 miles away at this point. When I pulled into my mother's driveway, my hood and grill were completely covered in snow and slush. The yards were getting white. The sky was grey and low. My once shiny car was now filthy from semi trucks that had splashed me mercilessly. I pulled my computer bag from the backseat and yanked down on my baseball cap. The biting wind hit me like little daggers as I rushed from the car to the door.
Inside sat Lola, my 92 year old mother, watching TV. I could tell she had just gotten her red hair styled and it was all poofed out. Her body had shrunk even more since last Thanksgiving and looked tiny and frail. She turned with her oxygen tubes cascading down her bright green sweater. and smiled as her face brightened. I told her not to get up as I hugged her very carefully so as not to press her sore shoulder that continually aggravates her. Her low gravely voice peppered me with questions about the wintry driving conditions. I poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. Old tired eyes inspected me eagerly. I was finally home.
Seeing a good chunk of this country via two lane highways, truck stops and anti-abortion signage overkill can be highly entertaining. I listened to a lot of local radio. FM and AM was an audio plastering of right wing misinformation and fundamentalist Christian blather. When I stopped at local cafes or truck travel centers, FOX News beamed brightly on suspended Platforms for all to mindlessly gaze. I heard only one progressive FM station and that was in Chicago. A Little Rock station had a surprizing edition of "Democracy Now." That was it! Fortunately I could pick up NPR in most areas so I didn't feel a total sense of alienation. Vast regions of this country are saturated by over-zealous propaganda spouted by Limbaugh, Hannity, Savage, Beck and other lesser known asshole Righties. It is no wonder this Tea Party crowd has their dander up. They collectively get their news in a bubble and the bubble is gigantic and stupid.
My route took me through a good chunk of the deep and middle south and then through the midwest and eastern edges of the west. I stayed with old friends I had not hung out with in years. Each of their accommodations were unique and comfortable...a guest house in Gallatin, Tennesee, a mid-century gem in Chicago, a post-modern beauty in Denver and a Victorian delight in Little Rock. Loving architecture, I couldn't believe my luck. It was like a tour of American vernacular where I was assured a bed and more than breakfast. People I loved owned these places and I could roam them at will.
I left on April 16 from our place in Ft. Lauderdale in 78 degree sunshine. My first day took me as far as the Atlanta area (Locust Grove.) It already looked like summer. I ate at a truck stop near my motel. It offered two trucker chapels. You never know when your patty melt might be contaminated and asking God for help against e coli might have been doubly necessary. Day two took me to Tennessee. I passed multitudes of blooming white Dogwood as I curved around mountain roads. When I got to Gallatin my friends Trent and Serena put me up in their guest cottage. It even had a pool but it was too cool outside for a dip. I am not the kind to really use a pool anyway. Being overly caucasian I often have to check local zoning to see if my reflection might violate some kind of ordinance. I saw Conway Twitty's former Twitty City (Now occupied by evangelical studios and shops.) This part of the country is unofficially a theocratic state. My friends discussed their difficulty with living in a southern Christian based economy that seemingly permeates everything. They have learned to abide the loss of open minded thinking and pine for the old days when they could easily find solidarity in southern California. You don't casually mention you are pro-choice or friendly towards gay marriage in these parts. I certainly wasn't going to wear my South Park t-shirt.
I spent the next morning with Trent. He saw me off and when I entered Kentucky my first encounter was with a drive-in theatre a mile or two over the state line. It was immaculate and still in use. Across the highway was a big serious Indian welcoming me to the Dixie Trading Post. (He was wooden and carved badly.) Continuing through Indiana I made several quick visits at rest stops to use facilities. It was one of those caffeine days that messed with my urinary functions... I got into Chicago late and was welcomed by my good friend Teri who made me feel right at home by offering me left-over Chicago pizza. We quickly got caught up and then she filled me in on the harsh realities of being in stage 4 cancer. Sciatica in her lower back had been adding insult to injury. In spite of her off and on pain we laughed a lot and had some deeply affecting talks. The day before I left she got good news that her latest round of oral chemo had been working. We went out for a drink. She had a Cosmo and I had a Diet Coke. When I left the next day it made it easier knowing she was feeling a bit of optimism.
After the north shore Chicago suburbs my route took me west to Galena, Illinois where I spent an enjoyable few hours photographing Federal, Gothic, Queen Anne and Victorian wonders of all kinds. The historic town was a gorgeous piece of Americana. I walked on General Grant's lawn and strode into the DeSoto House Hotel where Lincoln and Douglas had spoken to crowds. Grand old homes lined the terraced streets. The town had been a hub for steamship travel between St. Louis and St. Paul and known for its galena mines. When the ore ran out and the Galena River became unnavigable for steam ships, its prominence slipped away. Close by was Dubuque. It too had seen better days as a river and manufacturing town. Vestiges of is former success were sprinkled around and I got some amazing pictures of a few high Victorian homes.
Motoring on I moved into Iowa's farmlands just as the sun was lowering. My GPS insisted on taking me on a narrow two lane highway that ran parallel to I-90 only 40 miles above in Minnesota. I stuck it out as I passed dozens of grain towers, gigantic farm houses, "Kum & Go" convenience stores and endless implement dealers. Just about the time I was entering Spencer I got a call from Raphael in Fort Lauderdale. We exchanged our daily experiences: His Saks Fifth Avenue customer nightmares and my up close and personal viewing of convenience store clerks with amazingly bad teeth. I assured him I was safe and not tired and would call him when I crossed into South Dakota. About an hour and a half later I did cross into the Buffalo State (former Sunshine State and Coyote State as well. They keep changing it. In fact, it may be the Mt. Rushmore State now. I can't keep up...) and whisked myself through Sioux Falls. I called him as I stopped at the first motel I came to. The night clerk was so friendly that I practically had to peel her off me as she spoke about everything from her cleaning techniques to the free breakfast I would receive. South Dakota has this certain kind of almost aggressive friendliness that is possibly unique. Even Southern hospitality doesn't wear you down like this kind of "Hello pardner! How you doin'? Want to know everything about you and here is the weather forecast and look what happened when I took my grandmother to Walmart...!" type of talking. I finally got away and piled into my cozy, warm room. When I awoke it was a foggy, dreary day. I ate my free continental breakfast. FOX News blabbered lies at me while I slurped my cereal in the breakfast room.
This was the day I had been looking forward to. Once before in the late 80s I had driven some state highways in South Dakota. I loved the small towns and subtle beauty of its open space. I pulled off I-90 and drove north to US Highway 34 as I took myself west. Farms and lowlands were flooded with water and in some areas it came right up to the bottoms of bridges. Waterfowl was teeming and ducks and geese were delighted with their good fortune. Small towns that had once been prosperous farming communities now stood shabbily breathing on life support. There was often one bar, convenience store or maybe a community hall still in use. A few had surprisingly well kept late nineteenth century homes or maybe a manicured park. A few hamlets still had their preserved WPA era county courthouses. Interstates had killed these burgs long ago and their glory days were a thing of the past.
Woonsocket, South Dakota (the home of George McGovern's wife, Eleanor) boasted that it was "The town with the beautiful lake." It said so right along side the Pepsi sign on the abandoned Masonic Temple building. It was true. The town did have a nice lake and you could tell that every ounce of pride that was left went into maintaining its shores and surrounding walkways. A huge tidy brick basilica sat across from it. It was obvious that one either put their extra bucks into the lake or supported the Catholics. For a town of less than 700, they did their best to keep up appearances.
Driving on I ran into intensely thick fog near Wessington Springs. It was like a wall. I could barely see the town's outline as I pulled into its business district. About 10 miles west I suddenly emerged from the murkiness and onto the open rolling prairie. The sun popped in and out and the lighting was beautiful as it spotlit the undulating plains. Suddenly, I could see for miles. At one point I pulled over and took pictures of broad panoramas. Far vistas of grass blowing in the South Dakota sun was marvelous. The wind started getting intense. It was more like a gale force. Gusts must have been in excess of 50 to 60 miles per hour. I was amazed my Corolla did as well as it did. Some curious Angus cattle came up and inspected me as I perused the countryside for shots. They felt familiar. They were the breed my father had raised.
My next destination was Pierre and it was still many miles away. At one point my cell phone rang to tell me I had a voicemail. Cell service across South Dakota was patchy at best. When I listened I found that my sister Susan had called to tell me that I should probably make a bee line for Spearfish. A winter storm was approaching. I decided I would stop in Pierre, snap a few pics, grab a bite and then bolt toward the Black Hills as fast as possible. As blustery as it was with the wind coming out of the west, it made sense that some kind of weather change was on its way.
I stopped in a tiny place called Stephen on the Crow Creek Indian Reservation. A handsome cowboy was pumping gas and trying not to notice that I had Florida plates. A young Native American guy did the same opposite the cowboy. The woman behind the cash register was as rugged and weathered as the landscape surrounding the station. The farmers at the coffee counter were shy and nodded at me with just a hint of smiles. This was not a place you would ever get a latte' or discuss the latest Almodovar film. Life was harsh and unyielding. So, when I entered Pierre it felt like a relief in some ways because there was hustle and bustle and the familiarity of fast food and the local Verizon store. But in spite of its energy and spirit, it was also depressing to think that this was the state capital. It was a bit rough and tumble. Sure, the capital grounds were manicured but the usual detritus of corporate America surrounded it like a ring of dirty foam in a bathtub. Muddy pickups and enormous SUVs commanded the streets. The old downtown was dying and the newer strip was full of convenience and junk food. A once majestic hotel looked pitifully abandoned even though I think it still operated. It might have been the fact that the beauty of spring had not yet arrived. Everything was still brown and cold. I should have hit this town in summer. Had time allowed, there would have been some discoveries in the residential neighborhoods. Pierre is very historic and traces its roots back to French fur trappers in the early 19th century. Its river breaks setting can be beautiful. This was not one of those days. It looked hopelessly provincial, monochromatic and not what I wanted for my home state capital. I also had come into this town with an attitude. The new governor and rabid right wing Republican legislature was one of the most neanderthal in the country. It gave me the creeps to think what laws were being debated or passed as I lingered outside the state house. I wanted to stop into the governor's office and ask him if he would make an exception about having to make me wait for an abortion. Luckily, a blizzard awaited me and I had to book out of there via a quick stop at Hardee's.
The town of Philip came just in time because my bladder was full and one of its gas stations fit the ticket. When I walked (ran) inside a group of farmers were all sitting in a circle in the back laughing and talking in their overalls. They all stopped and kind of stared at me. One of them murmured something and then they all laughed. This is not uncommon in South Dakota. It is a throwback to the old general store days when locals would hang out around the woodstove and gab. After a very satisfying pee I asked how far to Wall and a very pretty high school girl gave me perky directions. I jumped in the Toyota and sped off. As I drove away I thought of Scotty Philip who had rounded up some of the last remaining buffalo and kept them alive. From his herd a slow replenishment of bison built from extinction. Any vestiges of that herd were gone around Philip. All that was present were countdown signs to Wall Drug. ( One sign had a coiled snake proclaiming: "Don't Misssssssssssss Wall Drug."
In a little over an hour I passed through the ghost town of Cottonwood and then came to Wall. There was no time to stop and see the mechanical cowboy band at the drug store or sit on the giant Jack-a-lope. It was onto Rapid City. I was now on I-90 and would make good time. About 25 to 30 miles east of Rapid City I caught my first glimpse of the Black Hills. They looked mysterious and shiny on the horizon. Dramatic clouds and reflections were swirling over them. It was snow flurries I assumed. The wind continued to howl and late afternoon sun reflected brightly on the pavement.
Approaching Rapid City was bittersweet as always. The outskirts of the town are a modern slum of old trailer parks and cheap subdivisions. Development is hodge-podge and the zoning for residential and commercial is a confusing mess. The setting was so beautiful and it will be forever mired. You know you are finally almost home but the disgust of poor land use makes you want to vomit. I tried to focus on the forested mountains in the distance and concentrate on their beauty.
Around 30 miles from Spearfish I began to hit snow. I knew that if I did run into any, this would be the place. It is a spot called Tilford which used to be a railroad stop in the early 20th century. You come up out of Piedmont Valley and go over a mild pass. It is just high enough that in the winter you get blowing snow conditions and in the summer you can enter wild thunderstorms or hail. People call it the Bermuda Triangle of the Black Hills. It is just uncanny how many times people hit bad weather there when everywhere else it might be fine.
The snow wasn't blinding but it was wet and coming down in a sloppy mess. The farther west I got the more it began to stick. My sister was correct to call me and warn me. By the time I stopped in Sturgis to put in gas, it was a cold winter day. I shivered as I pumped in my last tank's worth. It must have been around 30 degrees with a windchill of about 12. Spearfish was only about 20 miles away at this point. When I pulled into my mother's driveway, my hood and grill were completely covered in snow and slush. The yards were getting white. The sky was grey and low. My once shiny car was now filthy from semi trucks that had splashed me mercilessly. I pulled my computer bag from the backseat and yanked down on my baseball cap. The biting wind hit me like little daggers as I rushed from the car to the door.
Inside sat Lola, my 92 year old mother, watching TV. I could tell she had just gotten her red hair styled and it was all poofed out. Her body had shrunk even more since last Thanksgiving and looked tiny and frail. She turned with her oxygen tubes cascading down her bright green sweater. and smiled as her face brightened. I told her not to get up as I hugged her very carefully so as not to press her sore shoulder that continually aggravates her. Her low gravely voice peppered me with questions about the wintry driving conditions. I poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. Old tired eyes inspected me eagerly. I was finally home.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Nutcaseheadliosis
November 2 could be the day that America willingly chooses to perform a substantial lobotomy on itself. If the lying, misinformed, new GOP 'Tea' totalers find success and distract this country by getting into power; it could be the beginning of a dimness we didn't think possible. Who would have ever thought we could suffer anything worse than the Bush years! When the W reign began, I thought to myself, "Oh Christ... This is scarier than the Reagan years. I didn't think that was possible." I am learning. It seems things can always get a whole lot worse before they ever get better.
Any thoughtful, far reaching vision of 'doing the right thing' is so bedraggled and morally strangled that I am not certain we ever will truly progress and allow this country to lead the way through a coming century of dire possibilities. We are already 20 years behind on legislation that should have seriously curbed carbon emissions back in the 1980s or earlier. With a very conservative Republican run House of Representatives, we will lose at least another two years with nothing getting done. Teaheads like Ken Buck of Colorado have no problem at all spouting that climate change is a hoax. As he states such alarming commentary, (not to mention he thinks gay people are the equivalent of being alcoholic) he does so with cavalier smugness showing zero regard for science and the people who devote their lives to such research. His disdain for anyone who would believe and understand the evidence that has been presented time and time again is brushed aside like a little girl who wants to show daddy her crayon drawing. People like him embrace intellectualism and higher learning like a vampire who wakes up in the park at daybreak. In essence: they run the hell away! It's like, "Let me say the most irresponsible, sophomoric thing I can come up with and eventually bring our nation to its knees through willful ignorance." To say he is deplorable is cutting him some slack.
Unfortunately, Buck is not an anomaly in this coming election. Sharron Angle, Christine O'Donnell, Rand Paul, Joe Miller and John Raese appear to be the leaders in Nutcaseheadliosis. And just think, if these yahoos get in (O'Donnell won't. Even she is too much of an embarrassment for Republicans), they can join forces with our current line up of stupidity mongers like Jim DiMint, Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck and Michelle Bachman. Luckily Carl Paladino is so hot-headed and lame brained that he's been pulled off to the rest stop for the remainder of the race.
To the liberal people in my camp (and we may have to put barbed wire around us and move into a secluded valley in Vermont soon), we know all this. It's my Republican friends (do I really have any?) who are already dancing in the streets and celebrating the continued loss of brain cells and greed that I worry about. Case in point: Log cabin Republicans have always been an unsettling presence within the gay community. However, it was one thing when they were supporting Bob Dole or Mitt Romney. Now they are practically jubilant that they can be part of a power base that partners them with some of their most vehement opponents. It is more than mind boggling. It is shameful. Bizarro World doesn't get much better than this. It's like a McDonald's worker giving donations to the Anti-minimum wage Club of America. I have never gotten them. I never will. How about all the seniors who want the health care reform peeled back but will undoubtedly scream if their Medicare or Social Security is taken away as proposed by Alaska's Joe Miller?
Those are just two examples of what the mindset of the hypocritically challenged purport. I could list dozens as you well know.
The bottom line is this. Until the two houses of Congress and all of their constituents figure out a way to change the laws so that true campaign finance reform is enacted, we are screwed. Now that corporations can funnel as much money as possible into elections without any consequences, things will only get worse. Both parties are dependent on corporate money and now they can fill their private pools with it. Republicans are without a doubt more diabolical in their use of cash but an equality in limited public spending needs to apply to both ideologies. When and if that happens, this country may have a real chance to get something done. The scary thing is, no one sees that reform anytime soon. We are already paralyzed with polarity. Extreme conservatives appear to be winning the battle at present. Significant progress could conceivably be stalled for a decade unless a concerted effort by both sides comes about. I don't see it. The Republicans want the power forever and if they can hold it, nothing will change.
I will be the first to admit that I have had my frustration with Obama and the Democrats the last two years. He has largely ignored his base and the mandate that swept him into office. Allowing the minority party the ability to steer us to where we are now is really quite unforgivable in many ways. There were times when the President was left without choice because the blocking began the moment he took his hand off the Bible on that cold, January day in 09. Still, the White House messaging team has done a very poor job of listing whatever accomplishments they did achieve and now the Right has muddled everything so badly that the uninformed simply do not know.
Certainly governing is much harder than campaigning but Obama's leadership and vision were manipulated when both could have stayed strong. All we can hope is that Mr. President will go for broke the last two years. I would rather see him crash and burn doing the right things than give in anymore to the lock-stepping plutocrats who are about to take over. It would be beautiful to see him finally find his mojo and become the hot mess he is supposed to be. Maybe this country will come out of its coma and see that electing crazy people is not the answer to being upset about a poor economy and our tax structure. The President walked into a flying blizzard of excrement. Sure he lost his way at times but who wouldn't when the Republicans were dead set against helping him really solve the problems beyond the raging storm. I just hope we don't pay too high a price for the emotionally immature tantrum voting that these jerks excelled at every chance they had.
And as far as the screaming about national debt and over spending goes, I am in the Krugman Klub. We should have made the stimulus even bigger with more flashy projects. Instead of some meager sign touting 'The American Recovery Act' for an anonymous bridge being rebuilt in Florida, a Tennessee Valley sized solar energy project in the Nevada desert would have been nice. The New Deal worked for Roosevelt until he caved to the Republicans in 1937/38. The Works Progress program put multitudes to work. When it was cut back, the economy slid precipitously until World War II came along.
In the end, it may take a 'true' revolution that is not run by dumb people in colonial tri-cornered hats who misinterpret the constitution. If we don't get this country on the freeway to Smartsville and catch up to the rest of civilized society, we may become a very large Banana Republic that only brags about its extensive variety of reality shows numbing our masses. A broken class of people could very soon be living off the scraps of modern Marie Antoinettes. American Feudalism is just around the corner and no one seems to care as long as a Kardashian is fighting with her sister.
"Let them eat IPods and give me another tax break!"
I try to be optimistic but this time really is pretty downright spooky. At a time when we very much need our best and brightest working in Washington to figure out a complex future, we are left with some true idiots who shouldn't even be running for student council. The Tea Pod People are really going to set us back if too many get into power and metastasize. They could not have come along at a worse time. If I weren't agnostic, I would say "God help us." The best I can do is "Gaga help us." I'll take a woman in a meat dress any day over a meathead who dresses like Paul Revere and thinks our constitution was divined by God. How very mortified Mr. Jefferson would be.
Any thoughtful, far reaching vision of 'doing the right thing' is so bedraggled and morally strangled that I am not certain we ever will truly progress and allow this country to lead the way through a coming century of dire possibilities. We are already 20 years behind on legislation that should have seriously curbed carbon emissions back in the 1980s or earlier. With a very conservative Republican run House of Representatives, we will lose at least another two years with nothing getting done. Teaheads like Ken Buck of Colorado have no problem at all spouting that climate change is a hoax. As he states such alarming commentary, (not to mention he thinks gay people are the equivalent of being alcoholic) he does so with cavalier smugness showing zero regard for science and the people who devote their lives to such research. His disdain for anyone who would believe and understand the evidence that has been presented time and time again is brushed aside like a little girl who wants to show daddy her crayon drawing. People like him embrace intellectualism and higher learning like a vampire who wakes up in the park at daybreak. In essence: they run the hell away! It's like, "Let me say the most irresponsible, sophomoric thing I can come up with and eventually bring our nation to its knees through willful ignorance." To say he is deplorable is cutting him some slack.
Unfortunately, Buck is not an anomaly in this coming election. Sharron Angle, Christine O'Donnell, Rand Paul, Joe Miller and John Raese appear to be the leaders in Nutcaseheadliosis. And just think, if these yahoos get in (O'Donnell won't. Even she is too much of an embarrassment for Republicans), they can join forces with our current line up of stupidity mongers like Jim DiMint, Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck and Michelle Bachman. Luckily Carl Paladino is so hot-headed and lame brained that he's been pulled off to the rest stop for the remainder of the race.
To the liberal people in my camp (and we may have to put barbed wire around us and move into a secluded valley in Vermont soon), we know all this. It's my Republican friends (do I really have any?) who are already dancing in the streets and celebrating the continued loss of brain cells and greed that I worry about. Case in point: Log cabin Republicans have always been an unsettling presence within the gay community. However, it was one thing when they were supporting Bob Dole or Mitt Romney. Now they are practically jubilant that they can be part of a power base that partners them with some of their most vehement opponents. It is more than mind boggling. It is shameful. Bizarro World doesn't get much better than this. It's like a McDonald's worker giving donations to the Anti-minimum wage Club of America. I have never gotten them. I never will. How about all the seniors who want the health care reform peeled back but will undoubtedly scream if their Medicare or Social Security is taken away as proposed by Alaska's Joe Miller?
Those are just two examples of what the mindset of the hypocritically challenged purport. I could list dozens as you well know.
The bottom line is this. Until the two houses of Congress and all of their constituents figure out a way to change the laws so that true campaign finance reform is enacted, we are screwed. Now that corporations can funnel as much money as possible into elections without any consequences, things will only get worse. Both parties are dependent on corporate money and now they can fill their private pools with it. Republicans are without a doubt more diabolical in their use of cash but an equality in limited public spending needs to apply to both ideologies. When and if that happens, this country may have a real chance to get something done. The scary thing is, no one sees that reform anytime soon. We are already paralyzed with polarity. Extreme conservatives appear to be winning the battle at present. Significant progress could conceivably be stalled for a decade unless a concerted effort by both sides comes about. I don't see it. The Republicans want the power forever and if they can hold it, nothing will change.
I will be the first to admit that I have had my frustration with Obama and the Democrats the last two years. He has largely ignored his base and the mandate that swept him into office. Allowing the minority party the ability to steer us to where we are now is really quite unforgivable in many ways. There were times when the President was left without choice because the blocking began the moment he took his hand off the Bible on that cold, January day in 09. Still, the White House messaging team has done a very poor job of listing whatever accomplishments they did achieve and now the Right has muddled everything so badly that the uninformed simply do not know.
Certainly governing is much harder than campaigning but Obama's leadership and vision were manipulated when both could have stayed strong. All we can hope is that Mr. President will go for broke the last two years. I would rather see him crash and burn doing the right things than give in anymore to the lock-stepping plutocrats who are about to take over. It would be beautiful to see him finally find his mojo and become the hot mess he is supposed to be. Maybe this country will come out of its coma and see that electing crazy people is not the answer to being upset about a poor economy and our tax structure. The President walked into a flying blizzard of excrement. Sure he lost his way at times but who wouldn't when the Republicans were dead set against helping him really solve the problems beyond the raging storm. I just hope we don't pay too high a price for the emotionally immature tantrum voting that these jerks excelled at every chance they had.
And as far as the screaming about national debt and over spending goes, I am in the Krugman Klub. We should have made the stimulus even bigger with more flashy projects. Instead of some meager sign touting 'The American Recovery Act' for an anonymous bridge being rebuilt in Florida, a Tennessee Valley sized solar energy project in the Nevada desert would have been nice. The New Deal worked for Roosevelt until he caved to the Republicans in 1937/38. The Works Progress program put multitudes to work. When it was cut back, the economy slid precipitously until World War II came along.
In the end, it may take a 'true' revolution that is not run by dumb people in colonial tri-cornered hats who misinterpret the constitution. If we don't get this country on the freeway to Smartsville and catch up to the rest of civilized society, we may become a very large Banana Republic that only brags about its extensive variety of reality shows numbing our masses. A broken class of people could very soon be living off the scraps of modern Marie Antoinettes. American Feudalism is just around the corner and no one seems to care as long as a Kardashian is fighting with her sister.
"Let them eat IPods and give me another tax break!"
I try to be optimistic but this time really is pretty downright spooky. At a time when we very much need our best and brightest working in Washington to figure out a complex future, we are left with some true idiots who shouldn't even be running for student council. The Tea Pod People are really going to set us back if too many get into power and metastasize. They could not have come along at a worse time. If I weren't agnostic, I would say "God help us." The best I can do is "Gaga help us." I'll take a woman in a meat dress any day over a meathead who dresses like Paul Revere and thinks our constitution was divined by God. How very mortified Mr. Jefferson would be.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Aging is only a number and blah, blah, blah.....
Birthdays, Schmirthdays.... They just don't feel as celebratory as they once did. If one likes cruel reminders once a year as to how your body is quickly grinding to a halt; they're just peachy-keen.
I turned 54 a few weeks ago. That is exactly ten years older than 44 (and that was a year prominently situated in middle age that appeared to have somewhat crisis oriented numerals.) Now I find myself in my mid-50s which is essentially 60, since six years will go by in a rheumy blink of an eye. And that little fact is not only wrong but uncalled for. I want my money back and a Botox special thrown in. In approximately 10 years I will be collecting Social Security (unless the Tea Party dumps it overboard) and receiving Medicare (unless the Tea Party yanks it too and forces us to barter with chickens for health care.) I mean, I will BE a senior citizen and most likely driving a K-Car while wearing over-sized sunglasses. R.E.M. will be playing on my car speakers and I will be confused.
The process of aging is looked upon a bit overly optimistic. People always say "Oh, it's just a number...." Tell that to my mother who turned 92 this past summer and has no choice but to take a daily water pill and scoot back and forth in her walker several times to the bathroom because she has neuropathy in her feet. Congestive heart failure requires her to keep her lungs clear, thus the need to release moisture from her body. She wears two hearing aids, has a shoulder that is a constant aggravation and must be on oxygen at night to keep her O2 levels up during the day. She tires easily after enjoying lunch with friends and must return for at least a 45 minute nap. But, it's only a number. A number that is a lot different than 36 or even 76, in her case. Luckily her mind is good and she has most of the personality she had when I was a kid. In some ways it is a curse too because she knows exactly what her limitations are and it can be very frustrating. I admire her tenacity. Giving up would have been easy but she pile drives on. Per perseverance has a deep well.
I guess age does bring some fringe benefits. You get called "Sir" a lot. That's kind of fun. Next year I will get a discount on the menu at Denny's. I can correct people in their 20s when they are trying to be authorities on anything before 1975. For instance, one day I was talking about the night the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan. The kids were impressed until I wandered into other guests I had also seen on the show like Mrs. Miller and Topo Gigo. The last two caused them to feign checking text messages.
Oh sure, it could be worse. It can always be worse. Even my mother can say that. Still, it is not a process I am readily willing to accept. Not yet. Once my body completely sags and black socks with crocks are my favorite shoe wear then maybe I can give in a bit. Until then I will keep 'Just for Men' in business, moisturize myself intravenously and maybe get away with looking 42 in candle lit rooms.
So, here's what I'm left with.....one 'wicked' and inspiring act (As in Elphaba sings to Glinda.) "I think I'll try defying gravity and you can't pull me down!"
I turned 54 a few weeks ago. That is exactly ten years older than 44 (and that was a year prominently situated in middle age that appeared to have somewhat crisis oriented numerals.) Now I find myself in my mid-50s which is essentially 60, since six years will go by in a rheumy blink of an eye. And that little fact is not only wrong but uncalled for. I want my money back and a Botox special thrown in. In approximately 10 years I will be collecting Social Security (unless the Tea Party dumps it overboard) and receiving Medicare (unless the Tea Party yanks it too and forces us to barter with chickens for health care.) I mean, I will BE a senior citizen and most likely driving a K-Car while wearing over-sized sunglasses. R.E.M. will be playing on my car speakers and I will be confused.
The process of aging is looked upon a bit overly optimistic. People always say "Oh, it's just a number...." Tell that to my mother who turned 92 this past summer and has no choice but to take a daily water pill and scoot back and forth in her walker several times to the bathroom because she has neuropathy in her feet. Congestive heart failure requires her to keep her lungs clear, thus the need to release moisture from her body. She wears two hearing aids, has a shoulder that is a constant aggravation and must be on oxygen at night to keep her O2 levels up during the day. She tires easily after enjoying lunch with friends and must return for at least a 45 minute nap. But, it's only a number. A number that is a lot different than 36 or even 76, in her case. Luckily her mind is good and she has most of the personality she had when I was a kid. In some ways it is a curse too because she knows exactly what her limitations are and it can be very frustrating. I admire her tenacity. Giving up would have been easy but she pile drives on. Per perseverance has a deep well.
I guess age does bring some fringe benefits. You get called "Sir" a lot. That's kind of fun. Next year I will get a discount on the menu at Denny's. I can correct people in their 20s when they are trying to be authorities on anything before 1975. For instance, one day I was talking about the night the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan. The kids were impressed until I wandered into other guests I had also seen on the show like Mrs. Miller and Topo Gigo. The last two caused them to feign checking text messages.
Oh sure, it could be worse. It can always be worse. Even my mother can say that. Still, it is not a process I am readily willing to accept. Not yet. Once my body completely sags and black socks with crocks are my favorite shoe wear then maybe I can give in a bit. Until then I will keep 'Just for Men' in business, moisturize myself intravenously and maybe get away with looking 42 in candle lit rooms.
So, here's what I'm left with.....one 'wicked' and inspiring act (As in Elphaba sings to Glinda.) "I think I'll try defying gravity and you can't pull me down!"
Monday, September 6, 2010
South Brakota: Year one of an unusual merge
September 7 is Raphael's and my one year anniversary. (It is also Brazil's Independence Day. I'm sure there's some irony there somewhere.) 12 months ago he captured my heart when I saw him drive up to my place in his red beetle. He jumped onto the driveway and I was quite smitten. The guy looked like a million dollars in his white shirt, vest and tight black slacks. My heart rate increased immediately and the rest is history.
It's been quite a year. We moved in together, traveled to Brazil and found a shared appreciation for the color red and 'Dexter' (how odd that they would go together so well.) He has learned to tolerate my political rants and I have learned to be patient with his confusion concerning American satire. Where he comes from, you don't skewer your political figures quite so openly. There are no Bill Mahers or Steven Colberts.
Raphael and I find each other equally exotic yet our backgrounds both share sexy guys on horseback. (Gauchos on his end and the Dakota cowboy for me.) And yes, I believe it was foreshadowing that I wore a pair of Gaucho pants to school in 1971. Never mind that they belonged to my mother. When I found them in her bedroom, I thought they were an early birthday gift she had left unwrapped for me...Oh a confusão!
I lucked out on the food wheel of fortune. My Brazilian is a great cook and every night I sit down to my own installment of 'Top Chef.' The same cannot be said about me. (However, I am amazed what one can do with Spam, a blender and a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos....magic!) My cleaning up efforts are commendable. I specialize in 'shiny' and do it quite well. He is also an avid fashionista and has helped me considerably with outfit abnormalities. I can now run to Walgreen's for multiple vitamins and Grape-nuts and look fabulous. We don't always agree on music but I love that his is so important to him. His IPods have more songs than Sao Paulo has occupants. I enjoy hearing him sing Samba favorites while he makes me quiche. It can be very sweet. The Carmen Miranda hats are a bit much while slaving over a stove but that's his choice. His face turns a bit ashen when he walks in from work and I am listening to Gillian Welch or some other Alt-country/rock/folk artist. Brazilians aren't really wired for anything Nashvilleish. Wait til he catches me listening to the hardcore stuff like Blue Grass. That might be a deal breaker.
The guy is also an amazing salesperson and should be negotiating rainbow pride accessories/ manufacturing deals between the US and emerging third world gay populations. He could sell sand to Bedouins. If we ever buy a house, a car or barter for an African baby, he will be very handy. I lucked out with having such a cutie too. Still, I am jealous that he has a lot more hair and better legs. On the other hand, my parallel parking skills are exceptional. However, my skill level of knowing how to separate the recycleables; possibly getting up by noon and making a fairly good cup of coffee are superior.
He also puts up with my need to sing karaoke from time to time. I have a tendency to pick inappropriate ballads for the wrong crowd. Performing 'Good Morning Heartache' between two guys singing drunken renditions of 'Poker Face' and 'Highway to Hell' doesn't go over too well.
Both of us are big fans of Chelsea Handler. We like to watch shows like Weeds, Breaking Bad and Nurse Jackie. Family Guy is a favorite. Tosh.O always reels us in. (How can you not be with Daniel's great smile and his devilish demeanor.) We like foreign and independent film. I am a huge enthusiast of Stewart and Colbert. He's not as political as I am and prefers the Food Channel. That Paula Dean is revolutionary in her own way. I'm just not sure what her cause would be. (Most likely a coup d'etat involving butter with some fatback thrown in.) When we are feeling we want to scrape the barrel of popular culture, our guilty pleasure is Cheaters. It's a cautionary and episodic tale that any decent couple should be repelled and drawn to simultaneously. Both of us try to read but get distracted by old Will and Grace episodes or falling asleep. We both enjoy the Huffington Post and a good Vanity Fair article. I feel my job is to keep us informed as to the state of the nation. As of late, it's a depressing job but it needs doing. When it all gets too overwhelming, we go to the beach. He tans and I reflect.
In the future we will definitely do some traveling. ( I will have to sit him down and be firm: "No steamer trunks...We're just going to Sarasota for the weekend...." Italy is a goal. (Not to mention Weeki Wachee.) Our trip to Brazil was great fun and we did well with no fights. I think we'll have a blast when we take off for other corners of the world. (It is often fun for us to just go to Costco and watch people in mismatched outfits. (There's lots of bejeweling in such places.) Plus we can pick up paper towels in bulk and eat hot dogs.)
Most of all, Raphael is wonderful to me. He takes good care of this guy and puts up with my sometimes squally moods. The man is very loving. I couldn't ask for more. I love him too and we watch out for one another. He also laughs at my jokes and that's important. (although, sometimes he just seems like he is laughing at me so it gets confusing. Either way, he seems happy.) It is a pleasure to wake up next to his handsome, sweet face unless its bad morning breath day and he had Jambalaya the night before. He shows me respect and has taught me so much about truly caring and sharing. At almost 54, I have grown up a lot this last year. He has kept me going and held me aloft during an often difficult time of shaky economic and potentially dark political shifts. I can go dark and need to be drug out of the basement from time to time.
So, there you have it. Hopefully, this gives you an idea as to who we are (or aren't.) Happy Anniversary to us and here's to year two! Love you Raphael.
It's been quite a year. We moved in together, traveled to Brazil and found a shared appreciation for the color red and 'Dexter' (how odd that they would go together so well.) He has learned to tolerate my political rants and I have learned to be patient with his confusion concerning American satire. Where he comes from, you don't skewer your political figures quite so openly. There are no Bill Mahers or Steven Colberts.
Raphael and I find each other equally exotic yet our backgrounds both share sexy guys on horseback. (Gauchos on his end and the Dakota cowboy for me.) And yes, I believe it was foreshadowing that I wore a pair of Gaucho pants to school in 1971. Never mind that they belonged to my mother. When I found them in her bedroom, I thought they were an early birthday gift she had left unwrapped for me...Oh a confusão!
I lucked out on the food wheel of fortune. My Brazilian is a great cook and every night I sit down to my own installment of 'Top Chef.' The same cannot be said about me. (However, I am amazed what one can do with Spam, a blender and a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos....magic!) My cleaning up efforts are commendable. I specialize in 'shiny' and do it quite well. He is also an avid fashionista and has helped me considerably with outfit abnormalities. I can now run to Walgreen's for multiple vitamins and Grape-nuts and look fabulous. We don't always agree on music but I love that his is so important to him. His IPods have more songs than Sao Paulo has occupants. I enjoy hearing him sing Samba favorites while he makes me quiche. It can be very sweet. The Carmen Miranda hats are a bit much while slaving over a stove but that's his choice. His face turns a bit ashen when he walks in from work and I am listening to Gillian Welch or some other Alt-country/rock/folk artist. Brazilians aren't really wired for anything Nashvilleish. Wait til he catches me listening to the hardcore stuff like Blue Grass. That might be a deal breaker.
The guy is also an amazing salesperson and should be negotiating rainbow pride accessories/ manufacturing deals between the US and emerging third world gay populations. He could sell sand to Bedouins. If we ever buy a house, a car or barter for an African baby, he will be very handy. I lucked out with having such a cutie too. Still, I am jealous that he has a lot more hair and better legs. On the other hand, my parallel parking skills are exceptional. However, my skill level of knowing how to separate the recycleables; possibly getting up by noon and making a fairly good cup of coffee are superior.
He also puts up with my need to sing karaoke from time to time. I have a tendency to pick inappropriate ballads for the wrong crowd. Performing 'Good Morning Heartache' between two guys singing drunken renditions of 'Poker Face' and 'Highway to Hell' doesn't go over too well.
Both of us are big fans of Chelsea Handler. We like to watch shows like Weeds, Breaking Bad and Nurse Jackie. Family Guy is a favorite. Tosh.O always reels us in. (How can you not be with Daniel's great smile and his devilish demeanor.) We like foreign and independent film. I am a huge enthusiast of Stewart and Colbert. He's not as political as I am and prefers the Food Channel. That Paula Dean is revolutionary in her own way. I'm just not sure what her cause would be. (Most likely a coup d'etat involving butter with some fatback thrown in.) When we are feeling we want to scrape the barrel of popular culture, our guilty pleasure is Cheaters. It's a cautionary and episodic tale that any decent couple should be repelled and drawn to simultaneously. Both of us try to read but get distracted by old Will and Grace episodes or falling asleep. We both enjoy the Huffington Post and a good Vanity Fair article. I feel my job is to keep us informed as to the state of the nation. As of late, it's a depressing job but it needs doing. When it all gets too overwhelming, we go to the beach. He tans and I reflect.
In the future we will definitely do some traveling. ( I will have to sit him down and be firm: "No steamer trunks...We're just going to Sarasota for the weekend...." Italy is a goal. (Not to mention Weeki Wachee.) Our trip to Brazil was great fun and we did well with no fights. I think we'll have a blast when we take off for other corners of the world. (It is often fun for us to just go to Costco and watch people in mismatched outfits. (There's lots of bejeweling in such places.) Plus we can pick up paper towels in bulk and eat hot dogs.)
Most of all, Raphael is wonderful to me. He takes good care of this guy and puts up with my sometimes squally moods. The man is very loving. I couldn't ask for more. I love him too and we watch out for one another. He also laughs at my jokes and that's important. (although, sometimes he just seems like he is laughing at me so it gets confusing. Either way, he seems happy.) It is a pleasure to wake up next to his handsome, sweet face unless its bad morning breath day and he had Jambalaya the night before. He shows me respect and has taught me so much about truly caring and sharing. At almost 54, I have grown up a lot this last year. He has kept me going and held me aloft during an often difficult time of shaky economic and potentially dark political shifts. I can go dark and need to be drug out of the basement from time to time.
So, there you have it. Hopefully, this gives you an idea as to who we are (or aren't.) Happy Anniversary to us and here's to year two! Love you Raphael.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Here is your brain. Here is your brain on Snookie...
In a recent Facebook posting, I stated that "Snookie was proof that the end was near." I stand by my statement. By 'the end', I don't necessarily mean seeing people fly into the sky as they depart their abandoned cars all over the freeway or the way Mayans intended to ruin Christmas for us, on December 21, 2012. My 'end' refers to the ceasing of entertainment common sense. The more you were not meant to be a celebrity, the more you appear to become one. (not only is this absurdly unfair; it's seemingly permanent.) How did we ever get to this point of nutcaked culturerama? We certainly can't blame all of it on Snookie and her NJ buddies. She is just the steaming spectacle pulled from the oven; the result of a recipe gone bad.
The UK can be credited with having the first authentic reality show. It was called 7-Up and came out in 1964. The production began with 14 English school children who were all age 7. Every 7 years, new installments have come along with updates on their lives. I loved An American Family when it appeared on PBS in 1971. Who knew that Lance Loud's lisp would spawn such a hideous animal (and he doesn't even procreate.) 1992 brought The Real World and it would cement the pathway. I admit I was a fan of this show in its early days. It was voyeuristic glee to watch attractive young people thrown together in cool, city lofts yelling at each other because Puck didn't do the dishes. Real lives were made dramatic. It all felt novel and edgy. There was a tacky goo left in my psyche after watching but I thought little of it. The so-called 'real world' temptations were the exception and definitely not the rule.
But that was way back during the early Clinton administration. What seemed a little silly and train wreck light would take some time to build into a tsunami of 'actuality' garbage rivaling Pakistan's recent water woes. The seemingly endless cretin show is now hideous. Rewarding mediocrity, impetuousness, ignorance and spoiled brattiness has gone far beyond code red status. These show's mutated cells keep multiplying faster than they can be produced. Cussing, lying, narcissistic dopes and their irresponsible actions are now the pop icons young people emulate (not to mention the parents and other adults that encourage their elicit behavior.)
OK, OK.......sorry to get so preachy. "Just don't watch" you're saying. Trust me, I try not to. Admittedly, there are times when it is just too hard to turn away. On occasion, I tune into one or two of them to get an update on the ever expanding modern culture meltdown. Other than that, House Hunters is about as far as I go. (I enjoy seeing a decent three bedroom condo with an updated kitchen and good closet space!)
Alright. I'll come clean. There's a few I have watched quite a few times. (I self flagellate when I've licked clean the popcorn bowl) Its particular guilty pleasure reels me in a special, twisted way and It may be the worst of the lot....the most base..... and truly deplorable. This production fascinates me because it is so mortifying and devoid of boundaries. (No, not the O'Reilly Factor.) Everything from the creepy voiced host (No, not RuPaul) to the poor, 'raw to the bone victim' of seeing his or her lover caught in the "Oh no you dint'" act is mesmerizing. Give up? That's right: Cheaters. It is a show completely centered on humiliation, lust, betrayal and innumerable Motel 8's. Could it get any lower? The only thing that's missing are the philandering partners getting their heads blown off. (Maybe next season...when the Tea Party gets into power, they can dismantle the FCC AND broaden the 2nd Amendment: zero government regulation and do as you please firearms can rule the day!) Oh wait.....but that would mean there might be the possibility of a show about a gun toting, gay couple from northern Idaho who run a day care center/interior design firm. They would never go for that. Never mind. But I digress.
Cheaters wins in my book as one of the all time worst (best) reality horrors (or whores) worthy of dubious accolades. It's magnetic grossness hypnotizes. It is just the kind of show that scares me the most. You can't turn away from it... Your wife might have just broken water and you make her wait until LaQueena catches a nude Tyrone with Shaquita in the whirlpool at the local La Quinta.
Guilty pleasures are a human trait. They just shouldn't become an obsession.
As my mother would say, "Let's get down to brass tacks." America is pretty much a numbed out landscape of stalwart dullards: The United States of Stupid. Our shrinking brains cannot handle the overload of vomit our remotes plug us into daily. Yes, times are hard. We need escape. We desire anesthesia. Feeding off of the too rich dregs of society like the Kardashians and anything New Jersey offers, is not going to bring us back to sober. If we aren't going to read, can we at least go outside and play? Is a game of Clue too much to ask? Will we ever pick up a National Geographic article and stick to it until the last word is absorbed? (The Mauritius Islands need to be understood!) Can we sit and have an hour's conversation without tweeting or checking a Facebook be(de?)friending message on our IPhone? And if the inevitability of TV is going to rule our worlds, can we at least try to find something worthwhile to view between Hoarders and The Littlest Groom? (The latter in reruns only.) The Bachelorette will still find a husband whether we watch or not.
All is not lost. Test drive that clicker. There's still a lot out there to see in spite of the piles of glittering litter. Choices abound. Perhaps the most amazing thing about present day television is that it couldn't be more of a dichotomy. Some of the very best and worst shows in TV history are currently available. The polarization of tastes is astounding. One can watch the incredibly well written and riveting Breaking Bad or click on Kendra. The digital cable universe offers you Mad Men and The Real Wives of Orange County. Consider Frontline over Bridezillas. Alright, maybe those examples are a bit extreme. You get the idea. I'm just saying that if you make yourself watch Charlie Rose once a month instead of Tool Academy, you might be surprised what you'll learn. You can go right back to Sextuplets Take New York. I promise I won't tell. Your brain will thank you and send a sweet little gift of new neurons.
Friday, August 13, 2010
July Turtleneck. My last day in Porto Alegre: Part four and the last entry about my trip to southern Brazil.
Our last day in Porto Alegre was cold. I bundled up the best I could but never did feel adequately layered. Luckily, it was bright and sunny but the wind made the chill enter deep. What I needed was long underwear. If I ever go to this part of the world again during their winter; you can be assured, two sets will be packed. It's that kind of freezing feel when in San Francisco in August or even here in Fort Lauderdale when it gets down below 50.Raphael and I took a cab to the Public Market and had lunch. The structure was a marvelous neoclassical edifice built in 1869. It reminded me of a much scaled down St. Peterburg's Winter Palace. It has around 100 stores and stores. Numerous fish purveyors, produce vendors, restaurants and fruit shops were present. A well known ice-cream parlour was popular but had little appeal with the brisk air temperature. Upstairs, a vast eating area assembled several restaurants that came together to make a robust dining experience. Most of the light was natural from an atrium design.
We ate lunch in a famous old place that looked like it went back at least 100 years. It reminded me a bit of some old New York restaurants. We had tasty steaks with sunny side up eggs on top.
After our meal, we walked around and I took a lot of pictures. At one point we ducked into a cheap clothing store so I could buy a turtleneck. It helped with my layering but it was apparent a parka was what I desired. As we moved about, we found ourselves in the nerve center of downtown Porto Alegre. There were droves of people everywhere and all were bundled up. The walking mall (called Rua da Praia ) was like a breezy canyon with tall buildings on both sides. Some great architecture graced the street. Early on I had to decide that I would only be able to take a smattering of pictures because the amount of subject matter would be too much.
Raphael stopped and bought a pair of shoes and then we strolled to Claudia's restaurant to warm up and get a bite to eat. It felt great to get into her cozy nest and have a hot cup of coffee. Feeling rejuvenated, we continued our downtown journey and passed a variety of cool residential buildings that dated from the 30s into the 60s. It was a pleasure to look upon them as most had not been marred by graffiti.
It was along this stretch that we passed all of the military headquarters for the city. Uniformed sentries stood outside as we passed. We saw several handsome soldiers, pilots and naval guys. I wanted to take pictures but was too intimidated. Across the way was a commanding white cathedral with a tremendous amount of steps leading up to its doors.
When we got to the end of the street we entered another art museum that was housed in an old electric works building. The place was huge inside. We viewed a few galleries and then walked outside to the river. The sun was in its last hour and it warmed us as we stood in its glow. We would have stayed to watch it set but we had to get back to Claudia's and do our packing and prepare for the last night in town.
We stayed in our last evening. Claudia made us scrumptious edibles and we sat huddled near the fireplace. We watched TV and enjoyed our last hours together. Claudia and Naiara's rather disagreeable Shih Tzu, Shimoky , continued to hump her soiled, fluffy bear into the night. The dog had been fixed years before but it didn't stop her from being a compulsive rapist of stuffed animals.
Eventually after filling up on several plates of Brazilian snacks, I turned in. We would get up around 3:30 to be at the airport by 4:30. I was exhausted and I knew the bed was the warmest place in the flat. I said my goodbyes to Naiara as I would not see her in the early AM. Raphael stayed up and watched TV and I drifted away quickly.
The next morning Claudia walked us downstairs to wait for our cab. We hugged and kissed goodbye in the frigid, early morning air. It was 33 degrees but felt like 15. The cab picked us up and whisked us away to the airport. The little Renault blasted heat and I was in heaven. The trip to the airport was fairly quick. We would fly out by a little after 6. Our in-flight TAM experience was not as comfortable as the trip down. The return plane was a bit older and more cramped. I had a periodic snorer behind me and a woman to my left who liked to speak loudly in Portuguese about what rides she would jump on at Disney World.
I never thought I would be so happy to be back in a sweaty, heavy Florida day. When we walked outside to get our car at Miami International, it must have been well over 90. My bones relaxed and I sucked in the swelter.
In the coming days, I would ponder my week in southern Brazil. The experience seeped in quite strongly. I liked it down there....as long as you have an emergency Snuggie in July. It was a complicated place with a lot of decay yet showed promise with a stable, independent economy not vulnerable to the world's economic conundrums. They didn't experience the economic collapse that many countries were weathering. Brazil employed its own people...made their own shoes and jeans and didn't outsource like the U.S. Their middle class was emerging quickly and there was a sense of hope. A presence of energy was pervasive. Of course, I live with a part of Brazil every day: Raphael. He embodies that spirit. Through him, I understand it more and more.
I would look forward to my next trip back. I just hope Bruno is locked up.
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