My home is in the Blue Ridge mountains
and I ain’t comin’ back here anymore

Towns Van Zandt

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As you blow another candle today may you keep on keeping on, Mr. Revelant of yesterday, today and tomorrow.

This morning the mood was different at this Starbucks, however. Quieter.

I ordered my brand of brew and proceeded with the fixings relieved by how smooth the ordering process was. After a couple of sips my ability to lift my head upright and grapple with others improves and immediately I am awakened by a hand-scribled chalkboard across the room.

What could this be doing in as sterile environment as Starbucks? I inquired. The barista stepped away from behind the counter over to me in discretion. Solemnly she explained it was a memorial for an employee at this location who recently passed. “He was younger than me,” the young lady soberly observed.

His name was Dayton Moore. Dayton said goodnight to his work buddies one fateful night on February the 6th, 2011 and did not return the following day for his scheduled shift. The cause of death was car accident. Sometime during the night between work and getting home he skidded off the road and bashed into a tree. Alcohol or drugs were not involved. Dayton was 17 years old. The farewells scribed on that wall seem to flatten the young man’s life and reduce it simply down to a three-sentence obit. Then, I realized that up on that wall was non other than the carrot-top, freckle-faced smart ass I wished to avoid this morning. A shiver of guilt passed through me.

It was way too early for metaphysics. As I stared at the wall in silence another co-worker wearing eye shadow too dark for this time a day aproached as she adjusted her apron. “It happens. Things like this happen.”

Indeed. I guess they do. But one can’t get away from the fact that a seventeen year old boy, or a 40-year old for that matter would never have foreseen such fate for oneself. Or evade questioning why it happens to some and not others.

Alright, I thought– whatever – failing to understand the implication.

“Your shirt,” she clarified, “I agree with what your shirt says,” as if a light bulb had gone on in her head about everything she’d seen happening around her.

I came to such agreement when I first picked it out at a local shop, selling select closeout merchandise in Wilmington, NC, of all places. Size large and one in stock the bright yellow shirt read WEIRD TIMES in pixelated black lettering.

This about wraps it up, I thought.

For someone who abstains from wearing any kind of logo, I was delighted to slip this shirt on immediately. I changed right in the shop and walked home with it on. Proudly representing the two words pressed against my chest and belly.

Still, if the shirt called any attention to itself it wasn’t my doing. I was still trying to understand and trying to keep it under wraps. It knew it summed up everything I cared to flesh out in detail. Detail I hadn’t fully uncovered yet. The shirt came to stand as a secret emblem of my looming departure.

Coast-to-coast I was, then, remiss of the shirt’s attributed meaning. It now had visible stains that wouldn’t wash out and its brightness faded with wear-and-tear. I had finally made it to the West, but the idea hadn’t settled in me.

I was walking along a new frontier and nothing was certain. No frame of reference.

Here I was in Malibu, of all places. A place I’d only known as an ideal. A place known synonymous with success. The Dream. A place where petty little grievances made by pouting teenagers may be considered obscenely benign by teens in less affluent parts of the country. Or, so I thought.

When the young gal concurred about my trademark, she brought it all back home.

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Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing;

Land where my fathers died,

Land of the pilgrims’ pride,

From every mountainside

Let freedom ring!

My native country, thee,

Land of the noble free,

Thy name I love;

I love thy rocks and rills,

Thy woods and templed hills;

My heart with rapture thrills,

Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze,

And ring from all the trees

Sweet freedom’s song;

Let mortal tongues awake;

Let all that breathe partake;

Let rocks their silence break,

The sound prolong.

Our fathers’ God to Thee,

Author of liberty,

To Thee we sing.

Long may our land be bright,

With freedom’s holy light,

Protect us by Thy might,

Great God our King.

Written by Samuel Francis Smith

The Republic of California. Not exactly synonymous with patriotism, but this here site may transform preconceptions.

Takes place on Pepperdine University’s lawn for three consecutive  years. This year it was left up a bit longer for whatever reason. Each flag represents each of the fallen of 911.

Evidenced in the powerful visual, even more spellbinding is the sound the flags make with the strong current blowing through. Each banner individuating and thrusting into one seamless Zen-like soundtrack.

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San Francisco Window

San Francisco, CA––I’m sitting smack in the middle of the steps of City Hall downtown. It’s Sunday and I’m in meditative mode. If it had been any other day it wouldn’t be possible. But on Sunday, church day, that’s the day to be here. It reminds me of mornings spent in Wilmington, NC. Where the day almost never got kick started without the proper reinforcements.

Yes, it’s Sunday, I remind myself, church day, in most places at least, and Fog City is no different. San Francisco can use some prayers. The Mayor of San Francisco surely may need a prayer to two to win the gubernatorial race in California. The laying of hands, perhaps. If he actually believed in such a a thing. Which, one has to, in order for it to work. But I suspect he doesn’t.

Facing the wide open space a larger than life multi-armed deity cast in bronze centers the plaza. It looks as if it’s having a hard time keeping its balance. Behind the statue and dead center of the square is a building that reads T R U T H in mural-sized letters that look as though they’ve been directly typeset right on there.

It’s easy to forget where you are in as much as it is to remember that people are the same everywhere. Ditto for red double decker sightseeing tours. “Hop on, Hop off” inscribed on the side of the bus makes it seem altogether effortless. People need a place to go. Tourists need sites to see. The only trouble is people don’t know the place they want to go. Tourists don’t know which sights they want to see. Till someone else is there first. Let’s go there; they come wandering, what’s over here?

Uh, that would be City Hall. But it doesn’t really matter what it is. What matters is competition. I don’t want it until someone else has it.

Has what? You ask. The scruples, perhaps, not to pass on a chance to take a spot up on these steps with almost a bird’s eye view out into the city.

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Ken, a retired L.A. cop,  hired gun and Brittany Spears’s former bodyguard, took me out shooting at the Los Angeles Gun Club today. We picked out a corner booth in the 50 foot indoor range. The club has been around since 1988 and it’s frequented by professionals in the force and the L.A. Police Academy. Ken gave me a few pointers introducing me to his 9mm semi-automatic before we took turns at the target. The gun had a nice kick to it for a lightweight handgun.

The name of the game is to release the pressure, don’t hold on to it too tight as you press the trigger. And sort of move toward the shot.  Being indoors with multiple shooters at a time there two things that can throw you off the sound even with the required ear protection and the smell of burning through ammo could turn your stomach, but as time wore on it didn’t have the same effect.

I made some very calculating shots at first, taking way too long to aim. Ken, a trite-and-true professional, handled the piece by removing it from my hands carefully,  switch pin safety on before placing it on its side on the table. He performed this ritual over and over in zen-like precision. Inside the booth, he mindfully contained his movements within the limits of the red line. Needless to say, he coached my looser movements by placing his hand over the barrel to lower it and align me into similar habits prior to putting the gun to rest. With good measure he reloaded and placed it back on the table and on its side. I took my place behind the line, pick up the gun, switched safety off, adjusted my weight and fired. Ken aimed for the head while I shot straight for the heart. After a couple of turns, I got a little warmer and little faster, taking the ten rounds in the cylinder to task.

“What was going on there?” Ken asked, “what were you thinking about, you looked like you went somewhere with that one.”

I’m not sure. But it felt good.

I like golf, but the exhilaration of holding a hunk of metal between your fingers, and that thrust that can easily throw you back when you make the shot is a different kind of aim sport and some kind of head rush, indeed.

And the results on paper weren’t bad, either. It isn’t often you get impress a professional.

Afterwards, we kept up with tradition by loading up on sweets at Randy’s drive-thru. Good times.