smokestacks and cigarettes, an analogy

I can’t completely take credit for this post. I’m going to take an idea that Hollee had the other night and expand on it. Since I do fancy myself a writer, I will change about 20 percent of what she said and then claim it as my own. That’s what we do. We steal.

Looking at everything going on with current environmental concerns and policies, I fail to understand the lack of ability to grasp simple science by conservatives. What I’m hearing is a lot of fear mongering and claims that this is all about liberal control of Americans. I’m also hearing a lot of grown, educated adults simply discounting the evidence placed before them in the name of capitalism, when the fear should be placed on irreversible damages to the planet that sustains us.

Here’s an analogy. Decades ago, the American public had a very different view of cigarette smoking. Despite government warnings, millions of Americans ignored the dangers and lit up. As time has gone on and we learned more about the dangers of cigarette smoking, lobbyists and donations from big tobacco went to work to keep government regulations at a minimum. In the meantime, healthcare costs continued to rise for non-smokers as a result of issues caused by those who chose to smoke.

Today, while millions of Americans continue to smoke, laws have been put into effect to protect the health of others, such as smoking in public places. These rules are mandated by the government and generally aren’t scoffed at by non-smokers.

This is similar to environmental issues. The Earth is like a person. When foreign chemicals and toxins are introduced into its environment (such as cigarette smoke inhaled into the lungs), negative impacts occur (such as emphysema and lung cancer). You would sound foolish to now state publicly that the inhalation of cigarette smoke does not cause any negative impact to the human body; however, this is what people were saying just a short time ago. Similarly, to state that introducing toxic chemicals into the Earth’s atmosphere does not cause any negative impact, should sound equally foolish.

Environmental rules and regulations mandated by the government are necessary to protect those who choose not to purposefully damage the planet. The laws that are going into effect do not impair the day-to-day function of normal Americans but rather protect us. Corporations whose very existence results in environmental devastation will rape the Earth in the name of the almighty dollar if government does not step in. Just as big tobacco would risk the health of all Americans in the form of second-hand smoke rather than allow the government to decide where people can and cannot smoke.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard a non-smoking conservative complain about taxes on cigarettes. It seems their defense of basic American rights without taxation is selective to only the issues that suit them. Like cigarette taxes, environmental taxes and policies, such as cap and trade, will not only be a deterrent to those who wish to make unhealthy choices, but it will also help offset the costs of damages caused by those who make those choices at the expense of others.

Also, similar to cigarette smoking, many people who smoke are trying to quit. Such is the case with many Americans and our dependence on environmentally damaging resources, such as oil. Every smoker knows that each puff has the potential to cause devastating effects to their body. Such is true with many and their environmentally unfriendly habits. As Americans, we feel that we have the right to do whatever we want at whatever cost to the rest of the world. This egocentric view of our place in the world (both in the human world and the animal kingdom) will come back to bite us, just as the general opinion of the adverse health effects of smoking has.

The biggest complaint I’ve heard from the right is cost. Taxes will increase and costs of goods and services of companies forced to pay penalties will increase. My belief is that this is a short-term effect and things will even out in the long run, as we lessen our dependence on dirty fuels and increase awareness and usage of clean-energy-producing options. I don’t understand the concern with short-term tax and cost increases with disregard for long-term costs that are sure to arise as we decimate the planet beyond repair. Surely, if you look back at cigarette smoking, had taxes, penalties, and rules been put into effect earlier, millions of health care dollars, as well as lives, could have been saved.

Why does the right continue to ignore simple science? How can anyone deny that introducing toxic chemicals into the natural environment is not healthy? The same people who have been taking money from large corporations who need this denial to make a profit, I suppose. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

went to the moon in a soda can

Last Friday, Hollee and I met up with one of my very best friends in the world, Adrian, in Moab, Utah, to see Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band. This is significant in my life for several reasons.

First, let’s talk about Adrian. Adrian and I have been friends for a long time. Not as long as most people think, but a long time. Now that I think about it, I think this year marks our 20^th year as friends. Happy anniversary, buddy.

Adrian and I have gone to a lot of shows together, going back to the early 90s. And we’ve traveled to see shows together, meeting up in various places just to see a concert. It’s how we stay in touch. Conor Oberst in Moab, in a 250-seat theater, was not one we were going to miss. And even though our schedules are both tight and we pretty much only saw each other long enough to get dinner and see the show, we always know there’s a next one coming up around the bend.

Second, Hollee loves Conor Oberst. I’m convinced that if he asked her to jump on his bus with him, she’d be gone from my life forever. And I couldn’t blame her. He’s artistic and good looking and pretty fucking cool. My man-crush on Conor Oberst has provided us great topics of conversation and hours of listening in the car.

But who is Conor Oberst? Say his name to most people and you’ll be met with a blank stare and a “who?” Tell them that he used to be Bright Eyes, and they’ll just shrug their shoulders. So my break down of Conor Oberst’s music is most likely going to be lost by most readers. But here goes nothing…

Hollee and I saw Bright Eyes on the Cassadaga tour in 2007. It was an extremely artistic and high-tensioned set. Conor’s past Bright Eyes albums had been mostly about his frustration with the world around him. Cassadaga was a departure from that and he turned inward, exploring his own existence and spirituality. He was also a control freak, trying to take on way too much artistically. At one point during the encore, a microphone cord got caught on something and he threw the microphone down and walked off stage. That was it… the end.

I love Cassadaga, and it remains my favorite Bright Eyes album. However, when his first solo album came out, it was clear that he had cut the restraints that held him back and he just let go. Working with musicians who were as talented or more talented than he allowed him to release some of the control and focus on the big picture. Enter the Mystic Valley Band.

Hollee and I saw them in San Diego last October, two days after we got married. I was sure it would go down as the best concert of my life. Then came Moab.

In this small, intimate venue, literally leaning against the stage, we had a front-row view of the dynamics of the band. Stoned out of his mind for the first two songs, once he mellowed out a bit, Conor Oberst put on the most amazing show I have ever seen. Rarely do you see someone display the kind of emotion and passion on stage that Conor Oberst throws out there. You can see his pain in his face and feel his love in his music.

Plus, the guy can just rock. And with the band around him, including a baby-faced Taylor Hollingsworth who plays guitar like a 65-year-old blues veteran, it’s just an incredible experience.

So here’s my suggestion to you since you have probably never heard him. Go out and buy the albums. Listen to them. Let them become part of your life. Then give me a call. We’ll talk all night.

P.S. I should also add to this that the next night in Salt Lake City, the show had a completely different feel. It was outside just after a rain storm and the sunset was casting a strange light down through the clouds. We just chilled out on a blanked on the lawn and watched. It was still really good, just completely different.

[Photos Credits: Adrian and Hollee]

who you gonna call?

I don’t have the closest relationship with my dad. I’m not going to go into specifics, but if you know me, you know my issues. If you don’t know me, you just need to know that I have issues. He has made decisions that I have never been able to understand. However, as I’ve grown older, I realize that I was just a kid and unable to grasp the concepts and complexities of life when everything went down. And I’m not going to tell you that now that I’m an adult, I completely understand. Because I don’t. But what I can tell you is that I no longer blame myself. Or him. It just is what it is.

What I have recently come to realize is that while my dad and I have never really had a close father/son bond, I’m not sure that at this point in time, I can count on anyone to come through for me more than him. Over the past few years, he has always been there to break any fall and soften any blow that life may deal me. We’re still not exactly friends or have a relationship close to where I’d like it, but I always know that I can depend on him to come through when I make that call.

I’ve been trying to think of why that is. What I’ve come up with is that the rest of my family doesn’t really know me. They have their beliefs and their religion and it doesn’t quite jive with my way of thinking. I feel that some of them think of me as a heartless shell, looking for the next opportunity to fuck something up.

I don’t get that feeling from my dad. He gets me. And as time goes on, I’m finding this less strange. If you’d have told me at any point in the last 20 years that I would grow up to be like my dad, I would have responded with an “absolutely not.” But here I am. More alike than not alike. I hope he looks at me and can see how I’ve made different choices than he did at my age and that he is proud of them. That I learned from some of his mistakes. That I tried to break a pattern. That I tried to be an example.

And I know that he would go back and do some things differently if the technology existed. But it doesn’t. So all we can do is continue to make the choices ahead of us, learning from the choices we’ve already made and the choices of those around us.

When all is said and done, we are all just people trying to find our places. Trying to make sense of it all. Doing what we can to survive another day. We both understand this.

I hope that one day we will have a relationship built on more than me calling when I’m in a bind and him bailing me out. But until that day, I sleep a little better at night knowing that he’s out there and that he’ll answer when I call.

a most excellent adventure (or not so excellent)

So… last week. It was quite a grand adventure and I have a lot to say. I think the best way to do this so that you don’t lose interest with at novel-length blog entry is to give you the basics of the past week, then go into more detail over the next few days about some of the observations and conclusions I’ve made as a result of these events. Sound like a plan? Cool.

We headed out last Friday (June 19) to Moab to see Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band play at Star Hall (an old pioneer theatre that only seats about 250 people). Hollee and I love this band and Conor Oberst has played a significant role in several aspects of our relationship, from connecting to Bright Eyes (his previous band) lyrics while dating and seeing Bright Eyes play in Salt Lake City, to seeing him play in San Diego when we got married. We met up with my friend, Adrian, there and saw one of the most incredible concerts I have ever witnessed. We were so close that Hollee was able to go all Marsha Brady and claim that she would never wash the spot where Conor spit on her again. I guess you could say that Conor Oberst is her Davy Jones.

After the show, we had to head straight back home. Hollee is a florist and she had a wedding to deliver on Saturday. So we drove through the night and got home a little after 3 am. A few hours later we were up preparing the wedding, which we delivered that afternoon. We had tickets to see Conor Oberst again that night in Salt Lake City. This was an outdoor concert, and through the day the rain clouds started to gather. About the time we delivered the flowers for the outdoor luau wedding, they opened up and dumped. It was sad to see all the preparation for that wedding end up a soppy mess. I’m sure they made the best of it, though.

We finished up the wedding flowers and had just enough time to grab a bite to eat and head to the show. To ensure the rain would stop, we stopped and bought rain parkas. Sure enough, they were never used. The night ended up being pretty nice (though somewhat brisk) and Conor put on another amazing set. This time, we didn’t worry about proximity to the stage and just relaxed on a blanket on the lawn. It was very nice.

The next day (Sunday morning), we picked up all our kids from their respective other parents’ houses and headed out to Lake Powell (about a 7-hour drive from our house). My in-laws met us at the marina and took us out to the three-houseboat setup where we would camp with a large group of friends and family for the next 3 days.

On Monday, we set out for Rainbow Bridge in a three-boat caravan. It was pretty amazing, and I dragged my whining kids up the measly 2/3-mile hike that most of the adults refused to do. As we were leaving Rainbow Bridge, the boat’s fuel pump crapped out and we had to be towed to the nearest marina. With darkness setting in, we left the boat there, loaded up into the other two boats and went back to camp. The next morning, my father-in-law went out with a couple friends to fix it. He was gone most of the day, but did return with a functional boat and immediately relieved the kids of their boredom.

Wednesday, my in-laws dropped us back off at the marina and we headed for home. I turned to Hollee and said, “and now for the exciting conclusion of our grand adventure.” I spoke too soon. We stopped just outside Wahweep Marina for gas, where I noticed the coolant dumping out all over the ground. We jumped back in the car and drove into Page, Arizona (7 miles from where we were). The service manager at Lake Powell Ford (extremely nice people and if you are ever in need of a Ford in Page, please buy one from them) sat down beside me like a doctor about to give his diagnosis. The good news was that it was only about a $200 fix and would only take an hour or so once they had the part. The bad news was that they couldn’t get the part until Friday.

So there we were in Page, Arizona (known for the Glen Canyon Dam and Church Row [with 12  religious denominations lining one street]), with four kids, waiting for a part. Hollee had a $300 flower order being delivered to the house the next day and a wedding to prepare for before Saturday; I was supposed to be at work the next day; and the kids were sunburned, tired, and hungry. We got lucky and found a cheap room with three beds, fed the kids, and turned in for the night. This only happened because some people came through for us in a pinch (Thank you, Dad. And thank you, Nick) (more on this in later posts).

The next morning was frantic, trying to get a hold of someone to pick up the flowers that were being delivered to our house and get them in water. Unable to get anyone else on the phone, Hollee’s grandpa went to the house and picked up the flowers. We were also able to get a hold of someone from the group that was camping with us who was going home that day to give Hollee and the girls a ride home so she could get her wedding put together before Saturday. I stayed behind with my son in Page and waited for the part.

On Friday, about noon, Lake Powell Ford fixed my car and I was on my way home. Just in time to drive through a fairly intense thunderstorm. But it was ok. I was on my way. Saturday, our kitchen sink clogged and I spend the day Sunday tearing into walls and dealing with old pipes. Never a dull moment.

The important thing is that we made it through. We relied on some people who came through for us and today, life moves ahead, business as usual.

Sorry for the long, boring, expository post. I promise to pop and lock tomorrow. That’s right, I’ll break it down, yo.

[Photo Credit] [Photo Credit] [Photo Credit]

flash

A flash in the pan and his image was set on film. That’s how he would be remembered. The man in the hat. With a beard and a sad eyes. Hopes and dreams hidden behind paper.

Fifty years later, his children will have long since forgotten him.

Eighty years and his great-grandchildren will wonder what happened. Eighty years and a day, he will return to forgotten.

A flash in the pan. An image on film.

pound dog

Murray took the kick like a pro. He knew it was coming. He’d been a bad dog. It was the only way to get his master to touch him.

Shit on the rug. Piss on the sofa. Chew up a pair of designer shoes.

He’ll never stop. Not till you pet him.

finding my place

It’s not easy being a male blogger. Women get to write about the cute things their kids do and how annoying their husbands are. And it works. We laugh and we cry and we recognize their plight.

It’s a lot harder to feel sorry for a man. We are generally idiots and people don’t tend to sympathize for a man forced to put down the toilet seat. It’s not as easy to feel the pain of a man who gets the kids fired up before bed and then leaves them to his wife to deal with.

So as a male blogger, I have a few choices. I can be crude and funny or I can be political.

I like to be crude and funny and I think I’m pretty good at it. The problem is that my mom checks this site from time to time, and while I’ll never censor my ideas and stances on life and politics for her, I try to keep it higher brow than your standard frat house. I’m always ready to talk politics, but I fear my political opinions get boring and grate on people’s nerves.

So where does that leave a male blogger? We are circus performers, walking a fine line between boobs and boredom. We are forced to balance between farts and freedoms. We juggle fire and knives and anvils. And at the end of the day, we are the circus freaks who want to be part of the paying crowd.

Because who is going to believe that my life is really a whirlwind of working and laundry and children? You don’t want to read that. Instead, I play the tortured artist, so sensitive to the pain in the world, and at the same time… did you hear the one about the dog, the cat, and the penis who were sitting around a camp fire one night?

[Photo Link] [Photo Link]

i think there’s a bryan adams song about this… in fact, i’m sure of it

I don’t really know everything. Sure, I claim to, but really deep down inside, I really don’t. I know you don’t really think so, either, so thanks for pretending that you think I do. It means a lot.

When it comes to matters of the heart, I’ve learned a thing or two. Do I always do the right thing? No. Rarely ever. But do I know what the right thing is? Yes. Usually.

I’m just going to throw this out there to all the men in the world. Show your lady some special attention this weekend. Let her know you appreciate the fact that she ignores your hair and lumps and general disgustingness. Show her that you realize that guys like you are a dime a dozen and that you need her more than she needs you. Treat her like you don’t want to lose her. And don’t expect anything in return.

I know, it’s hard. As men, we are wired to grunt and posture. We want to eat and shit and generally be left alone. We want things done our way. We don’t want to think or feel or think about feeling. So when our women cook us dinner or clean the toilet, we don’t complain. And we don’t reciprocate. So reciprocate now and then. I know you have it in you.

To the ladies in my life—my wife, my daughters, my mom—thanks for putting up with me. My wife is a saint. St. Hollee, the patron saint of retarded men. The fact that she’s put up with me for so long proves she is certifiably crazy and should probably be locked up, which I guess means I’m lucky. I hope they never find the cure. I hope she continues to tolerate me.

And to the men of my life… umm… er… football (scratch, scratch, fart).

old men and archaic ideals first

I really need you to educate me. I just don’t understand. What exactly is it that conservatives want? Really! What do you want? What would you like to see happen with America? Please, enlighten me.

From what I can tell, you want nothing more than to be the captain of the Titanic, ordering the orchestra to continue to play as the ship sinks into the sea.

Am I missing something? Is there something more?

searching the ether

I find genealogy fascinating. Not to the point that I want to spend my weekends looking through old records for family history, but enough that if someone comes across something, I like to hear about it. Some fairly interesting characters dot the landscape of my family’s heritage, or so I’ve been told. But one person has always been a mystery to me. My great-grandfather.

From what I remember of the stories that my grandparents told me, my great-grandparents came to America from Germany. When my grandfather was a child growing up in Los Angeles, his father just disappeared. Without a trace. Into the ether. They didn’t know if he’d had enough and gone back to Germany or if he owed some gambling debts and was murdered or if he tripped into a ditch and starved to death unable to walk and was just never found.

A few weeks ago, my wife got a genealogy bug and spent a few days looking online for her ancestors. She had been told that they had roots back to the Tudors and she was determined to find out. After a few days, she grew bored and abandoned the project.

But what she did find was some information on my great-grandfather. She found his World War I draft card and his death certificate. It turns out that my great grandparents used to live in Salt Lake City. All the stories of my grandfather’s youth are from Los Angeles and I assumed his parents went straight there from Ellis Island. My great-grandfather’s draft card listed his employment in 1913 as a waiter at a café. This café would have been located directly across the street from where I used to work and about a block and a half from where I currently work. He walked the same streets on his way to work that I do.

His death certificate places him in Chicago. This rules out a few of the theories of his disappearance but opens a few more.

It also makes me realize how connected we all are, whether we know it or not. We walk the streets with ghosts. We live our lives in the shadows of our family names. We create stories for future generations to uncover. We cycle through the process, put our stamp in the passport, and wait to be discovered by our children.

[Photo of Salt Lake City in 1913]