San Fran's North Beach - Broadway

When we hit Broadway, looking for some place decent to stay, I was not aware of just how little some things have changed in San Francisco. I had read about the insanity that surrounded the city back when it was in the grips of the opium dragon’s teeth, during mid-to-late 1800’s, but I had assumed that lifestyle had been replaced by technophiles and aging hippies. Eh, not so much.

Broadway in the North Beach district, in year 2000 of the Christians, was definite evidence that the tendency of San Fran to dip into addiction had not been pushed out by internet or hemp developments. Standing on the street, trying to find the storefront of a youth hostel we were told was nearby, I noted a man lying on the sidewalk across the way. To the left of him was a porn theatre, to the right was some closed shop, presumably a liquor store. He was eagle-spread on his back in front of an alley opening, resting his head on the sidewalk curb. He was indeed alive. Well, in some sense he was alive. I could see him squirming a bit, loosening the rope on his trousers so he could piss. While still lying down.

The stream moved its way to the gutter, along and through the dirty cracks of the pavement. Passersby simply stepped over the urine flow, as if they had some sort of auto-sensor for such things. I watched in awe, alone, at how this man was comfortable enough to LAY in the middle of a sidewalk, in front of a public alleyway, as if this was normal and acceptable behavior. And on top of that: he was so relaxed with it all, that whipping out his dick to relieve himself in front of anyone interested to watch was of no concern to him.

Fascinating.

I realize that there is a segment of every population, in every major city, which falls under the definition of “homeless”, and I would guess that this man would fit the requirements. But in every other city I have visited, before and since San Fran, I have never seen one produce any sort of excrement or urine like that without any fanfare, police intervention, or at least some mild scolding from a local business owner. Nothing. He finished pissing all over that little piece of civilization, and rolled over, just slightly, to fish something out from beneath him.

And it was then that I was truly taken aback.

He sat up slowly, stretched out his left arm, and plunged a syringe into it… like, no big deal.

I have a thing with needles. And by “thing” I mean: desperate fear.

A Word on Expectations.

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I’ve been struggling with Expectations recently. Specifically, the Expectations that people place on one another, and when/why they are accepted. Of course, I am doing this because I question the validity of many people’s Expectations (of themselves, of others, of me), along with wondering what it is that I expect. More to the point, I wonder why I expect different things from myself than I do other people. On top of that, I wonder why others expect things from me that I simply don’t see as reasonable or obligatory.

It’s probably just a selfish phase I’m going through. But I’m going to barf up the beginnings of my quest for clarification here, just because I can. Kinda long, so feel free not to bother. I don’t expect anyone to read any of this at all. Just so you know.

I believe there are many different levels of expectations, and everyone plays around amongst and between these levels, picking whatever suits their fancy for a particular moment. In an effort to understand why people get frustrated with each other over these expectations, I have decided to list out the varieties of expectation that I have witnessed during my time here.

There are two levels of what I believe are Macro-level Expectations. Ethical and Moral. These are typically spelled out by laws and enforced by threat of punishment, generated and delivered by specific populations.

The first is Ethical Expectations.

These are expectations which I consider to be universal to the vast majority of cultures and populations, regardless of their religious or ethnic affiliation. For simplicity’s sake, I will refer to these as Ethical Expectations. To be clear, I believe there are two parts of ethics: one of which transcends all cultural or religious boundaries and is inherent to being human (the desire to procreate and defend humanity in general, as in: against alien invasion\takeover) and then there is morality. Morality is the collection of any subgroup of humanity’s moral tendencies (which differ from group to group, year to year, or between People Magazine issues), better known as Social Mores. One group’s mores may differ wildly from group to group, religion to religion, region to region, all over the board.

I am not talking about morality. That is not near as broad and sweeping as our White House would have us believe. I am speaking of ethics in the Preservation of Your Fellow Man and our Collective Sense of Civilized Behavior. Generally speaking, of course.

Back to Ethical Expectations.

Pretty basic expectation leveled from one person to another (or between a population and its individual constituents). Do not injure or kill another person without agreement of population. Do not steal another person’s shit (husband, house, loose property, dog, whatever) without agreement of population. Do not make contracts (marriage, sale/purchase, etc…) with others if you do not intend to see them through, unless you have the agreement of the population. Do not blah-blah unless you have the agreement of the population. These pretty much follow the general code of civilized society which everyone EXPECTS of each other in order for the society to outlast its membership (again, the definition, but not necessarily the examples, is universal, as what constitutes “property” in one place might not be in another, and vice versa). Note that the constant exception to every EXPECTATION involves getting approval from everyone else. You can kill whoever you want, provided “everyone else” is behind your doing so (declaration of war, death sentence, crime of passion, “well, retarded kids just kinda do that sometimes”, whatever – this is another topic for another post though, because I’m blabbing about expectations here, not the general hypocrisy one lives with in order to function properly in a civilized society).

So that’s the top level of what is expected of me, you, and everyone around you. Umbrella-style.

Drilling down a bit further, I find what I call Moral Expectations.

These are the ever-changing rules that are applied across a population that codify and compartmentalize certain behaviors, pointing out (specifically) what is INAPPROPRIATE to do in a more discrete and local sense. Farting in a court of law. Cursing at an agent of government. Punching the face of a child as a form of discipline. Women showing skin in public. Men shaving their beards. Yelling out “God is a fraud!” on a public train. Running a stop sign. And on, and on.

These social mores are more related to manners, honestly. They are always couched by the intent to protect the general welfare of a society as a whole, but really, they’re just the codified preferences of a specific population. One group’s effort to get everyone to follow patterns of some sort.

For example. Not all countries have the egalitarian notion of stop signs in traffic (bigger vehicles have right-of-way, or royalty/wealthy always have right-of-way, whatever), making it more of a manner, or preference of the population. Most western (westernized) countries have adopted the use of stop signs either for their simplicity or because they all share the same notion of manners.

So, Moral Expectations are far more regional, and certainly more abstract than the Ethical Expectations.

As a slight, but pertinent aside… Depending on the culture in question, there is another layer of Expectations which I have come across in my life. In most Western countries/societies, there is a Consumption Expectation which is not necessarily written into law, but is definitely there. In a roundabout sense, it is defended by the execution of certain laws which protect or promote capitalism (especially in tax law). In Barter Economies, Fiefdoms, Bedouin Markets, etc… the responsibility to consume may be downplayed to the point where it really only exists as a slight part of Moral Expectations (when paying tribute with a goat in exchange for bails of wheat or protection, said goat must be proven fertile enough to provide milk, or some shit like that) because it is not the focal purpose of that population. But in pure market economies such as those we live within in Western countries, there is a RESPONSIBILITY to consume. If you aren’t consuming, then you are supposed to be saving so that some entity which is producing things to be consumed, can borrow your savings to make shit for you to consume once you’ve stopped saving and re-started your expected consumption. It’s a very strange system of expectations, driven by the need for positive investment growth, fueled by the promises of investment return, and jolted around by the (somewhat contrived yet never challenged) volatile business cycle. But the idea of Consumption Expectations, in Western countries specifically, blend themselves through and amongst almost all the lower levels of expectations, listed below.

Even further down the line, I run into an even more convoluted expectation set: Chivalrous Expectations.

These are the sad remains of a time and place where men and women had very specific roles to play in Western society. I am not familiar with the Eastern equivalent to chivalry, as these things are not readily advertised. I do, however, assume that there is a roughly equivalent set of expectations leveled upon a Sudanese man on how he should properly treat and/or court a lady (along with what would be acceptable responses from her) as compared to those of the Western world. But for now, I’m going to plead ignorance of such things, and breeze over the Western set.

Chivalry is a quaint idea, from a much, much more brutal time where proof of ability to protect and secure was a chief burden of men who wanted to woo a gentile woman (read: NOT a laborer or woman of the lower castes, who probably received little to nothing in return for their services as wife). Times are much more kind, and even more complicated in today’s world. Chivalry is the buggy whip of modern interaction. Those who desperately hold on to it because it is an expectation, rather than just plain thoughtful, are not only unnecessarily complicating an already complicated existence, they are also being insufferable pains in the ass. If you want to hold the door open for a someone (male, female, shemale) because you want it to be seen as a gesture of respect, then feel free to do so. To get mad at others because they do not make efforts to display respect by using uncreative door-holding, which inevitably makes things awkward for all the strangers trying to pass in front and behind you, is a waste of time.

Not long ago, I was complimented for a particular door-opening act of supposed chivalry. I didn’t even notice I was doing it, because I didn’t consider it chivalrous or extraordinary. There were three of us passing through some door, so I opened it, and then held it open while they went through. No big deal. I’ve held doors open for dudes, friends, girlfriends, old folks, toddlers, and other people’s pets. One time, I held the door open at Pier One Imports so that these two crazy Nigerian dudes could steel a big-ass piece of table glass. I had no idea it was a heist. So much for random kindness. Another time, I got stuck holding a door at Grand Central Station for what felt like fifteen minutes because I opened it for a lady and the masses just kept…on…streaming though that fucker. My random “chivalry” quickly turned to thoughts of random violence on people I had never met, when really, they were doing me a favor. That strange woman took it for granted that I would be holding that door open, as did EVERYONE else, as soon as she saw me approach all chivalry-ish. So, unless I want to hold all doors open for all people, all of whom are perfectly capable of doing so themselves, then I am wasting my time by doing it even once. It’s an empty gesture in today’s world, as are most all acts of chivalry, when they are done only for chivalry’s sake. If you want to be nice and carry some burden for someone else (which is what chivalry really is), then do so. But expecting it from others is nothing less than rude and selfish, the same thing most chivalry ignorers get accused of.

Think about it.

Below the aged-beyond-prime Chivalry Expectations, comes Common Courtesy Expectations.

These are the most rudimentary of Expectation sets, and just like Morality Expectations, are conditioned on the basis of region/historical era. I’ll only discuss what I believe are the standard Common Courtesy Expectations set forth in the regions in which I have lived or have been long enough to gather decent information. Because these are so specific and many times completely esoteric in origin (and ironic, since they are referred to as “Common”), they are the most interesting of the Expectation sets to me (even more interesting than the Consumption Expectation, which is more frustrating than interesting, because it is so two-dimensional in nature).

As examples:

When on public transport (or anywhere, really), it is expected, as a Common Courtesy to give up your seat if an elderly person, individual with mobility issues, or a parent with children hanging off them, happens upon you (if it’s a young, healthy woman and you cede your seat, then you are acting out of Chivalry, not Common Courtesy, to correct what I believe to be a common misnomer). This act of Common Courtesy is expected because everyone has a right to sit, but others have a more pressing NEED to sit. This example is intrinsic and obvious, not convoluted or based on long-forgotten rules of public interaction. It is more a question of efficient economy of comfort.

A more esoteric Common Courtesy Expectation involves the formation and adherence to lines (or queues, as the Brits prefer). In some regions of the world, lines form naturally. People look for them, and follow or form them when necessary. This isn’t the case everywhere, as it is not a question of Ethics, Morality, or Chivalry. Even within the same region, one might fall into a line at a fast food restaurant but then leave there for a bar where it becomes “every man for himself” to get a drink order filled. The need for lines is fairly obvious when they work properly: orderly movement toward access to something that is apparently scarce (food, merging traffic into a single lane, entrance into a stairwell during a fire drill, whatever). But not always, and certainly not in all places.

To take the merging traffic example: In some cities (towns, more often) it is expected that all who are involved in the merging of two lanes into one will do so in an organized fashion. A one-to-one car blend, because that is the Common Courtesy that is expected amongst and between people who probably know each other. In Houston, there is no such Expectation applied to such situations. In the anonymous gridlock of Houston traffic, no one is expected to signal for a lane change, let alone file in an organized manner through merging lanes. In fact, no line is expected at all. What is expected is that everyone around you is trying to get theirs, and lots of honking will be involved (maybe some middle fingers, maybe some retaliatory gun shots).

I could go further with the Common Courtesy Expectations, but there are an infinite number of them, and they tend to be so regional that I have trouble discussing them in a universal way.

Damn. I didn’t expect it to take me so many words to describe what feels so simple in my mind. What a mess…

Morning Chill and the Pavlovian.

We’re in the 80’s here in Texas, temp wise. That’s a 20 degree drop, over night. Sweet Jesus, I might sleep outside tonight. On my front lawn. I might even be sober this time. Huh? Right.

This cooler (seriously, 80 degrees is COOLER) weather kicks my long-term memory up a bit. Extreme changes in temperature do that to me. Odd little (pointless, yet fascinating to me) fact about Craig: when I’m in the shower (no this isn’t filthy), if I turn up the heat to steaming and hang my head under the faucet so that the water beats the back of my neck and head, I get crazy flashback memories. Of my childhood. Weird situations that have no bigger story, they’re just… “as of” situations. Or views. The most common flashback I get is of the view looking out a bay window into the backyard of some woman’s house. I was probably three or four years old, and we only went to this woman’s house once. She was some acquaintance of my mother, possibly through church. I don’t really know. But I must have stared out that bay window, cataloguing her fence line and crape myrtle trees for an eternity, because the image is crazy vivid.

Yeah. It’s pretty fucked up. I can’t remember the name of someone standing in front of me who I’ve known for over three years yet I remember how those myrtles listed silently dancing in unison against a rain-ravaged fence amidst a St. Augustine lawn that desperately needed some serious trimming. My brain very well may never work properly, and I’m okay with that. We all have our issues.

So, the memory that was triggered by my brain this morning was from way back. Back from my elementary school days. Back then, as soon as we hit autumn in Alief, all the kids would run outside and play some random sport. Baseball, soccer, volleyball, basketball, and of course: football. I was around seven at the time, so I was not yet aware of how little I cared about all of these sports, save for basketball. Back then, all the boys in the neighborhood would meet down the street at the Winkler’s house to play whatever the game-o-the-day was. This particular day, it was football. Fucking football. Oh, glory be.

The leaves had just started to fall off of some trees (like, two trees, because all the others were pine trees, or evergreens), and you could smell a hint of winter in the air (someone burning garbage somewhere, probably). It had to have been mid to late October, because it wasn’t winter enough to warrant long sleeves (no need for a “coat” in Houston, except for style). So the grand ol’ sport of organized gang-warfare had hit the Monday night lineup, and football was being pumped into all the delicate little brains of all the little boys in the neighborhood. Well, a couple were saved from this poison by being the frontrunners of the pale-skinned, ADD riddled “Nintendo Generation”, but we barely saw those joystick jockeys outside. They were almost a suburban myth at that time.

Anyhow. Friendly neighborhood game of football.

None of us really knew how to play this game, but we tried anyway. Again, I was seven, so I was just getting good at tying my shoes without parental aide. “Downs”, “hikes”, and “runs” described various diseases in my little world, not elements to a street game. We also had no concept of the “touch” or “flag” variations of football. We went “full contact”. Knowing of those variations probably would not have mattered since the organizers of these games, I believe, to this day, very well may have been questioning their own sexuality at the time. There would be much contact, much rubbing, and half of the guys involved would probably end up shirtless by the end of it all. The pre-confusion of pre-puberty is awesome like that. Regardless, we were small kids with no clue what we were trying to accomplish as far as the game went. So when this group of middle school boys showed up (with their sideline heckling girlfriends, no less), we got broke-the-fuck-down with a quickness. They were HUGE to us. Gargantuan creatures with fuzzy faces and volcanic acne. They scared the hell out of me with their high-fiving and cracking-voiced grunts. They talked mad shit to each other, and to us. That’s right. These dudes were about twice my age, and felt the need to talk shit [I’m gonna fuckin’ OWN you kid] as we lined up for plays.

Oh, the “plays”. Right. In the wonderful world of seventh grade-dom, every boy thinks he’s the star. There is no teamwork, only highlight reels of savagery committed by one man-boy against everyone else (this goes for soccer, basketball, cricket, dominos, and tic-tac-toe). Especially when the opposing team is comprised of kids half your size and age. It’s survival of the most ruthless ball-hogger. So, these dudes just took turns as quarterback and simply RAN US DOWN. No passing, no blocking, no strategy. They’d hike the ball, and whoever got it would run STRAIGHT AT US with the intention of breaking all our limbs. We were the pins and they were the bowling ball. Elbows to the shoulders, fists to the face, kicks to the chest. It was mad brutal. No one even bothered to keep score. After the third grass-stain to my face, I started to wonder why the hell I was bothering to play with these cats. It certainly was not fun. Well, of course, they were enjoying themselves thoroughly. They were having a blast trying to crack the collar bones of second graders in order to impress their head-banging, Aqua-net addict girlfriends sitting on the sideline. I really hope one of them earned a handjob out of that disaster. Something for our pain. Something, anything.

So there I was, getting battered and then immediately standing back in line for more. Like a moron lemming. Silently, I was questioning the point of the whole game, but no one else on our team was pussing out. You could see it in their faces. Resolute to beat these guys, against all odds, without a clue as to how. No one was willing to back down. Even in the face of an absolute and utterly embarrassing slaughter, none of them had the notion to just say “fuck this shit, I’m gonna go play Frogger” except me. Well, I couldn’t let them down and just sulk my way back home. Even at seven, I had a fleeting understanding of the code of brotherhood (which is total bullshit, for the most part, by the way) and refused to abandon my post. Yet, I was getting a bit weary from these assholes and their repeated efforts to loosen all my teeth.

On the next play, this particularly big fellow planned to run the ball at us. Blond, wearing a fairy-ass half-shirt, gym shorts and fucking football cleats. Football cleats? I was probably barefoot for this particular game. He even pointed at me to let me know I was his target. What a sweetheart. They hiked the pigskin to him and he leaned forward with his right arm straight out, like a jousting lance of bone and meat, kicking up lawn as he barreled right at me, other seven year-olds bouncing off his thighs. I was seriously tempted to turn around and just run my broken ass home, but I’m pretty sure he would have kept up and eventually ran right over me and my ruptured spleen. In my living room, if need be. So what did I do? I curled up into a ball, like the complete pussy I am, covering my head with my hands, and prepared to be punted, if not worse. I braced for the impact…

Apparently, this particular tactic was (and is still) not very popular in Football. Some might say it is a sissy move. Whatever. All I know is that beefcake had no clue as to how to handle the situation and tried to hurdle me instead. His leg caught the arch of my back, and hit the grass like a fat person, with no hands out to catch himself. The ball popped out and was picked up by a fellow second grader who quickly ran it down to other side and scored our first and only point of the game.

A small victory amongst a crushing defeat, sure, but it was much more than that in our minds. Suddenly, we were using all kinds of tactics to stop them. Ganging up, punching dicks, kicking knees, we’d try anything outside the standard rules (which had us being beaten like slaves earlier in the game). Things got interesting. They started having to run plays, which were very successful, but at least we weren’t being punched in the ears anymore. We felt like we were actually playing the game instead of being played by it. It was fun, for a few plays anyhow.

It all came to an end for me when, that same missing-link motherfucker got a hand off and ran straight at me again. I tried to trick him with the whole “duck-and-cover” routine but his ID-driven mind knew enough not to repeat that mistake. He picked me up by my right arm as he ran by, dragged me maybe five feet, and slammed me into a pine tree on his way to score another point. That might have been the first of many minor concussions I’ve earned so far in life. I don’t remember the trip home, but I certainly left soon after that play.

Awesome.

I’m sure there’s a lesson in there somewhere. Something about ingenuity, perseverance, or not letting your children out of the house before they’re thirty years old, but I didn’t really glean too much from it. You lose some, you lose some more. Perhaps I should have learned to cut my losses, abandon hopeless situations, or only play games that I completely understand. But even now, many moons later, I still haven’t learned any of that for sure. I honestly haven’t been able to make a discernable pattern after lacing together similar situations throughout my life. It’s more chaotic than that, apparently. Not so hard-and-fast. [love that phrase!]

Besides, it’s just a memory, triggered by the cool weather, on my way to work. Right? Right. Coffee time.

To the Scale.

It is sad when you realize that you cannot run anymore because your knees just cannot handle it. It is sad when you realize that you cannot travel, visit most places of interest, or anything else that requires resources because your bank account cannot handle it. It is sad when you realize that the wide swings between highs and lows are because of each other, and your body simply cannot continue to handle the punch with any real resilience. It is sad when you realize that all your previous youthful possibilities have turned into the standard opportunity costs everyone has to grapple with to the grave, dancing with the shittiest of partners: regret.

It is happy when you find that you can pick up swimming instead of running. It is happy when you find that there are many free experiences that can be had, which are even more interesting than those hidden behind the colorful exterior of carnival tickets. It is happy when you find that those highs and lows which will never again be obtained as they were when you were able to properly distill them together, never actually balanced each other out nearly as well as your mature, wine-wise mind keeps balanced. It is happy when you find that nothing you have ever done really had any negative costs, because the end result of one’s life, along with everyone else, is death, and nothing worse than that.

One’s life is never wasted if it was lived, for better or worse, during their time, to the best of the liver’s ability. No judgment can be made. Just as there is no profit at the end of one’s life, there are no remaining costs. If the bill is guaranteed to be paid in full by the end of its term, then it should matter not where the balance may sit during its duration.

Repeat until either calm or insane.

ACL AFTERPARTIES on Saturday Night! Free!

Both are on Saturday night, so there's a slight conflict, but I plan to attend both anyway. Even after an entire day in the sun with the beer and the burn and the dirty feet. Yes.

The first, is with Austinist (that's that online zine that I write for, periodically) and Trojan condoms: and it should be much fun since all the bands are quality local acts. That's right. Rubbers. Get there early to make sure you're covered.

ZING!

It's at the Velvet Spade, next door to Club Deville (ahhhhh, Club Deville...).

Here's the flyer

The Second, is at Karma Lounge, and it will feature Ceeplus (Eric, for those who actually know him) and a couple of the guys from Boys and Girls Club in Houston. If you are familiar with the B & G crew, then I need to add nothing more to this invite. Beautiful insanity. Tommie Sunshine is the headliner, but to be honest, I am not familiar with his work. So there's that.

Print out whatever you need, and be sure you get however many jimmy hats you require. No lists to get on. Just show your ass up. Word.

Blending the Stroke.

To an old relationship, an old lover who knows too much.

Ahem.

On Black

Why you gotta beat me like that?
Why I gotta return and return and return to this shit?
Yes, why?
You’ve caused me immeasurable harm.
The money. The time. Oh, the wasted time.
You’ve taken what matters most to me: my pride.
No, not really. No one can do that to me.
But you DID set the stage for me to give that shit away.
Like a con game.
Like date rape.
Like a man who wants to believe he knew what he was doing.
When he obviously didn’t.
And yet my companions and compatriots are drawn to you.
They think you’re so funny and charming.
They do whatever they can to be near you.
They love the way you make them feel, how you see only them.
But it’s their reflection they see, not your eyes.
You have eyes for no one.
You are no one.
You are a dead relationship to me now.

On White

But you are so pretty.
So graceful in your movements and so well respected.
So cultured and educated!
And your cooking is beyond compare.
When we’re together, I feel like it’s all for me.
Like I’m special.
Like what I do matters to you, and when with you: everyone else.
We have so much fun together, you and I!
We never needed anyone else back then.
Just us.
Alone together, passing our days locked in constant caress.
That sounds really gay, but you know what I mean.
We’re more than that.
We’re more than ourselves when we’re together.
Like Wonder Twins, when we unite… it’s so on.
I still dream about us.
All the time.
Even though years have passed.
I will never get completely over you.
I don’t think I want to.

On Grey

Really, this is ridiculous.
We keep doing this to ourselves.
To me.
I keep doing this to me.
Because there never was an “us”.
And that’s okay.
Sure, we had some great times.
And we’ll have more, if we see each other again.
But we’ll never be as intimate as we were then.
We were new to each other, and that has weight.
Well, you were new to me.
You had seen guys like me a million times over.
Old hat.
And that’s fine. I hold no grudges, for that is who you are.
And I still love you anyway.
I cannot help myself.
You will always be carried in my soul.
But we will never carry one another again.
And I know that now, more than I would admit before.

Thank you for everything NYC, you filthy bitch of a fuck hole place that I cannot help but love with all my might with every bone and every fleshy cell of my body. Fucking fuck, you can be such a shit sometimes. Such bullshit... Such. A. Shit. And so can I.

Okay then. Now that I have that out of my system, let’s stay friends in the grey. Cool? Cool.

Love,

Me (you asshole)

Saaaaaay WHA?

I have successfully returned from a couple of weeks out and about. I LOVE to travel. Seriously, it makes life in a smallish, townish-type city worthwhile. It helps to relieve the pressured, sinking feeling I begin to acquire after being planted here for so long. Perspective is a great gift that you can give yourself, for free, just by paying some attention to wherever you happen to be. My travels, lately, have not been fruitful in the same ways as they were before. I’ve been picking up a-lot more thought than airport trinkets and hangovers. I’m not sure how I feel about it all just yet.

Regardless: lots of recent traveling!

Two weekends back: Amarillo for a wedding. Fantastic wedding between two fantastic people. I seriously doubt they would ever read this blog, so I do not feel obligated to give them a whole-hearted shout-out. It would be a lost sentiment. Suffice to say, they were worth me driving over 1,300 miles round-trip, through shit-hole north Texas towns, while gas was cha-chinging between $3 and $3.30 a gallon. And I would do it again if requested. My love for them runs that deep.

Moving along.

MY LORD, Amarillo is an interesting place. If you’ve never heard of it, you are far from alone. Most of the modern and moving parts of the world have not either. But here in Texas, Amarillo is a pretty sizeable fish. Thar be oil in them thar plains.

I don’t really know the complete history of the city, nor do I particularly care. It’s in the middle-of-nowhere panhandle (insulated from the outside world by the sheer and understandable disinterest everyone else has in visiting), there’s an obscene amount of oil money there (held by like, ten families), and it is quite possibly the most conservative place I have ever had the displeasure of hearing people express themselves in. One comment I heard (NOT overheard, as this comment was specifically directed to me for response):

Well, you know, the real shame about the New Orleans “situation” is that a city like that, with, you know, “elements” such as those who stayed behind, is that it’s kinda like a rock. New Orleans is. And when you pick up a rock, well, there are cockroaches down there, hidden most of the time. And it’s a shame that this is how we have to see them.

Whoa. That one really threw me back. I said nothing in response. What the hell can a person say to THAT? I mean, all cities have their share of disenfranchised, underemployed, addicted, criminal, or just plain lazy people. And… uh, so what? Takes all kinds in this world, and to even try and classify such things based on CNN coverage seems beyond brash and cavalier. Hell, it borders on straight-up, textbook prejudice (potentially racially based, depending on what video footage or personal experiences birthed her insect metaphor).

Well, if I could have gotten over the shock of the thing, I suppose I could have asked what I honestly wanted to know: “are you seriously comparing those who are stuck in New Orleans to filthy insects which we only associate with disrepair and waste? ‘Cause that’s mad-fucked-up if you are.” And it would be.

And I think it was.

She was in her late fifties I would guess. Very well-off. Probably educated up to at least the lower collegiate level. Hell, she is probably fluent in French and collects genuine Egyptian obelisks (along with an astonishing amount of Elizabeth Arden interior décor, which as a side note: makes me want to vomit in a cotton candy gin while tightening a vice on my dick - it's that unpleasant for me). But obviously not terribly active in the day-to-day workings and recalculations of a modern and moving society composed of an ever-increasing and ever-heterogeneous mix of races, nationalities, and socio-economic backgrounds. In other words: at the risk of fighting accidental ignorance with brazen ignorance, I pose that her viewpoint is not a minority viewpoint in Amarillo. Further more, I am tempted to believe that such an insulated community, having more than enough financial resources to avoid coming to terms with the real world can and will remain that way. I see no motivation in and amongst similar populations for advancement in perception. If your Daddy (Pappy, Lord of The Manor, whatever) or your Daddy’s Daddy was a bigot (as historically, most of the white folks you’ll ever meet are familiar) and you essentially live in the same if not MORE comfortable environment touting as much… then I’m just not sure how something so culturally anchored would miraculously fix itself. In an experience vacuum.

And it worries me quite a bit.

We live in a Red State. Texas is blood-red-Republican, politically. Now I take no issue with our state’s political leaning, regardless of my personal feelings, because I do believe in the rule of the majority… to a point. If I lived in a place where the MAJORITY of the population beat their dogs with aluminum bats and believed that the Chinese were all too mentally deficient to live outside of holes in the ground… well, that would kinda fuck up all that faith in the “will of the majority” now wouldn’t it?

Sometimes, I wish there were some sort of requirement, as awful as it sounds, which provided a measure that would ensure that anyone in a position of authority, political influence, or financial wealth, had to have a testable understanding of the necessity and beneficial interest behind diversity: different countries, languages, customs, religious practices, skin colors, sexual preferences, favorite Star Wars movies, whatever.

Because it seems to me that with the influx of that information and experience comes understanding. And with that understanding, comes acceptance (NOT “tolerance”, which to me is a bullshit word used to establish majority/minority relationships, which is hollow unless you intend to capitalize on those lines, making it an even deeper bullshit word) which leads to collective involvement, which eventually leads to a reasonably educated and rational political base. A well-groomed, intelligent, and logical political base which will make decisions without being confused or manipulated by the use of subtle metaphors which may or may not be dehumanizing for those who lack the means to rebut.

Better yet, a well-groomed, intelligent, and logical political base which would never say something so casually callous. A political base that would know better than that. Better.

But for the record, all the friends of the happy couple were cool as shit. Well, except for that one dude who smoked with me out front when everyone else was too scared to look like a dirtbag in front of the families (who all smoked it up after they got blasted). He was cooler than the rest of them.

Word.