G.A. Johnson

Occupy Denver

2011-11-06T09:44:00.000-08:00

DENVER, CO--"Mic Check!" a young man shouts at a crowd in Civic Center Park. His face is covered with a bandanna and he is clutching a neatly folded American flag. It's the same flag that was carried at the front of a march through the financial district of downtown Denver. "Mic Check!" he shouts again. This time the crowd shouts back, "MIC CHECK!" The crowd repeats each phrase he shouts at the top of their lungs. The crowd is an organic public announcement system. Protester after protester takes a turn at the steps of the amphitheater, they share their stories, and they chant phrases to raise the morale of the effort. It was not a rally against republicans and conservatives, it was not a pro-Obama function, it was a group of young and old unified in anger towards a system of greed that they believe was on both sides of the isles in congress. They shouted against what they saw as evil corporations pulling the strings on the president (current and previous) as if he were a puppet. Police were present on the edges of the protest, and a few infiltrated the outer circle. Besides the occasional whiff of Marijuana being smoked, and a few girls dancing on the American flag (not the same one carried through Denver), there was no law being encroached upon. The police would not spring in action against Occupy Denver until the protesters tried to put up tents in the park. This sparks the violence that the nation expects when the right to peaceably assemble is exercised in this day and age.

I don't know if the riot squad assembled to push the protesters out that night. When I left the protest in the afternoon, a group of people were singing "give peace a chance" while protesters took turns with the microphone. I wanted to stay, but my body had reached its limit. The protest started at Skyline Park on the 16th Street Mall that morning. Occupy Denver respected the Veteran's Day parade going past the capitol, and agreed to relocate until it was finished. Their forces were mustering when I arrived. I'd almost swear a third of the crowd was photographers and videographers--but I know that is an exaggeration. I committed myself to working away from the main hoard of photographers and I'm fairly satisfied with my product. Once their forces were gathered they took to marching around the financial district and then back to Civic Center Park to reclaim it. I ran, jumped, and shot so that I thought my heart would explode. I was a the front of the march, I was above the march, I was in the middle of the march, I was everywhere. I stood on trash cans, ran backwards in front of police, I went to the second floor of a cafe to take pictures from the patio. By the time the march filled the amphitheater I was sure I'd collapse. And I would have been glad to die at such a time. At least most of the people there would have mistook me for a real photojournalist. I limped to one of my favorite hangouts downtown to edit my pictures. I felt on top of the world. By the time I finished editing I realized I had no one to share them with. So I've decided to throw it on this blog as though it were my electronic message-in-a-bottle. Someone will get it...

Damnend if you don't...(Ethics IX)

2011-04-17T19:01:00.000-07:00

On Friday April 14th it had been a couple months since I started my investigation on catalytic converter theft. I interviewed people from every angle on the subject--save for one. I sat at my desk Friday morning and was satisfied knowing that the final piece of my story would soon be finished.

Shirley woke up Thursday morning and when she turned over the ignition to her 98 Toyota 4Runner her vehicle sounded obnoxiously loud. When a converter is removed from a car's exhaust system the muffler cant silence the engine's sound. She went to Exhaust Pros on East Colfax to have her Toyota repaired. The shop owner, called me in response to a flier I'd sent to a group of muffler shops. On Friday morning I sat at my desk knowing that I had an interview scheduled with a victim of converter theft. After a couple of months with no luck I had begun to believe my investigation had single-handedly put an end to converter theft in Denver. Friday morning I had the one person I needed to tie the story together,and by Friday afternoon six converter thefts would be reported to me by muffler shops--all Toyota 4Runners.

I sent an excited e-mail to my professor to give him an update on my investigation. The tone of my e-mail was joyous.

Where had I gone wrong? At the start of the week I was hoping for converter thefts like a farmer praying for rain. When the rain hit I danced in it with total loss of abandon. How did I forget that I was hoping for and celebrating something that cost innocent people a minimum of a couple hundred dollars to fix. In the beginning I had hoped to help stop converter theft with my investigation, and now I had stooped to rooting for it. My only explanation is that my ethical egoist had kicked in. At the start of the semester I chose a topic to investigation that my peers sneered at or dismissed. They chose the usual broad topics that are ever present to be investigated (prostitution and the like) while I picked something I was sure hadn't been investigated before. As the semester ends my do-gooder illusions have eroded away. I cannot stop converter theft, and even if I were a real journalist with an audience, my investigation could not stop the popular trend in theft.

Saturday morning I examined blood shot eyes in the mirror and prepared to conduct my final interview.

While driving to Aurora I realized there was only one thing that I had the power to do regarding converter theft. I could warn 4Runner owners that their vehicle was the preferred target. I could even tell them about a product that could protect their converter. Outside Shirley's house I took pictures of her Toyota and where it was in relation to her front door. Then I crawled under it to snap pictures showing where the converter was and illustrating how easy it was to reach. Shirley didn't wake up from the sound of a sawzall removing her converter, and she didn't wake up when I called her phone either. Although I scheduled an appointment to interview her, and called to confirm it the night before, she decided to sleep in. I finished the photo's and drove to the muffler shop who gave me the lead. After a few minutes conversation with one of the shop's employee's he looked outside to a vehicle parked in front of the shop. He tells me that those converters are worth twice as much as a 4Runner's and just as easy to get to. Once the thieves figured it they wont bother with 4Runners anymore, according to Sean. Then it dawned on me--I could be the one to tell the thieves about it. In an attempt to warn people from what could happen I may also be giving priceless intel to people who wish to do harm.

Should I publish photo's of where a converter is on a 4Runner? For every person I warn to protect their converter, how many people do I instruct on how to commit the crime. Considering that the only place this article could be published (Undercar Digest) I wouldn't be telling my audience anything they didn't know already. Considering the recent outbreak of 4Runner victims I feel this could be newsworthy on a larger scale.

Prior to this minute I had felt reservations about trying to push this story into the market. It is true that if I did get this published on a larger scale it could spawn more thefts. But I realize something now. Criminals can be as chatty as a group of cheerleaders. News of easy ways to make money spreads like wild fire. Even if the media never acknowledged it converter theft would still be popular. However, I can do a great service to people who at risk of being victimized by this crime.

Therefore if I'd be damned if I didn't...

The Times with Ted Terrones (Undercar Digest)

2011-03-18T09:13:00.000-07:00

Ted Terrones stands with his 1952 Buick street rod. Below is a photograph of the garage Ted owned when he bought the Buick; the building in the background was the Social Security office.

When Ted Terrones opened his Conoco garage in June 1966, leaded fuel was 23 cents a gallon and “Paint it Black” by the Rolling Stones was the No. 1 song on the charts. Back then Pueblo, Colo., was a steel-mill town with a modest but strong economy. Ted recalls that the steelworkers bought new vehicles every year, and if not their cars’ mufflers would rust out once a year. The steel-mill workers loved Ted’s custom dual exhaust, and his little shop had a steady stream of jobs, because Ted had a knack for it.

As a boy Ted was reading about cars when most kids were burying their faces in comic books. However, as a young man he planned to open a restaurant but spent his weekends working on cars with a friend. The passion of his youth continues to this day.

The front of Superior Tire and Muffler is reflected in the hubcap of J.R. Terrones’ 1939 Chevrolet. Ted and his 1952 Buick are in the foreground.

“I eat, breathe and live street rods,” he said.

Ted was working for pleasure, but his friend was on the clock at Pete Holst’s garage. Pete came to Ted one weekend, perhaps feeling guilty about the free labor he received, and offered him a part-time job. Holst sold the shop to Ben Hills, but both owners prepared Ted to strike out on his own.

“Every good employee you have will someday be your competitor,” Ben told him, and surely it was as much a compliment as a good piece of advice.

The first years of business saw Ted in the shop from 6 in the morning until 9 at night. “That’s why I wasn’t around much,” Ted says to his eldest son, J.R., who carries on the family reputation for custom exhaust at the shop. Back then he installed Walker dual-exhaust kits and made custom exhaust using the cutting-edge performance muffler of the era – the glasspack. He did it all without a hydraulic bender.

Vincent Torrones, Ted's son, cuts off a bad converter.

“I heard about a bender from a guy in California…” Ted says with smirk. 1966 was a year full of hard work and fast learning, but it was also the year he met his soul mate. She was beautiful to say the least: a long body, curves in all the right places, a complexion dark as midnight and a real smooth ride. Her best feature, however, was the Buick “Fireball Eight” engine under the hood. Ted may have never owned the beauty had he not followed another golden piece of advice from his mentor;

“To keep a customer for life treat them as you want to be treated. Be honest and fair…” Pete Holst advised a young Ted.

An elderly woman brought the black 1952 Buick to Ted’s shop for a battery. At the time his shop was across the street from the Social Security Administration. “I’d like to get a six month battery for this,” she asked. Ted informed her that he didn’t carry six-month batteries for that car, but he’d give her a good deal on a five-year battery. “Well I’d like something cheap,” Ted recalled her saying. He asked why—marveling at the sedan. The woman informed him that she could drive for only another five months; her license was being revoked because of her eyesight. Ted told her that he would gladly buy the car when she was done driving it and reimburse her for the battery in addition to what she thought was a fair price for the car. It was deal.

Brian lifts a Dodge Stratus to check the brakes.
Superior Tire and Muffler is a full-service undercar shop.

Decades rolled on with Ted. He got a bender, in addition to other equipment, and changed locations a couple of times to accommodate his business needs. In the early ’80s Ted bought into The Superior Muffler and Tire franchise and moved to his present location. The franchise went out of business shortly thereafter, so he changed the name of his shop to Superior Tire and Muffler. Around the same time one of the other shops in town was struggling and had to cut one of its employees.

“They said they had a kid they didn’t want to let go,” Ted said. “He was a real good worker, but they didn’t have enough work for him.”

Brian Johnson has been at Ted’s shop for 29 years now. Ted built the shop’s reputation for exhaust excellence, and Brian brought the reputation for suspension and front-end work to the same level. The Buick, Brian and the shop’s reputation have remained constant, but much about the business has changed since then.

George Carrillo writes up a ticket

for one of the shop’s fleet accounts.

Parked out front is a green Chevy work truck loaded with an air compressor and tools. Ted had a contract with the railroad and telephone company to work on their large fleets of trucks, but to get the contract he had to be mobile. Today the railroad company and the telephone company have downsized like most of the businesses in Pueblo. Ted’s crew rolls with the punches. The pickup is now a courtesy service to customers. If a customer who lives nearby has a flat tire, the truck is available to go change it so the customer can bring the car to the shop. Courtesy is just one of the reasons why Ted has weathered bad economies and cut-throat competition – and, yes, some of the competition used to work for him. But they didn’t heed Ted’s advice of “Charge for what you do.”

Brian replaces brakes on a Dodge Stratus.

Brian has worked at Superior Tire
and Muffler for more than 29 years.

Former employees who struck out on their own thought being cheap would bring them success through volume. But they found themselves buried under jobs and bills they couldn’t pay. Bottom-dollar prices will bring people to the shop, but quality work doesn’t come cheap. A few vehicles have been brought in to fix his competitors’ mistakes. “I’m not the cheapest, but I’m the best,” Ted says.

Brian looks out from his alignment bay at unseasonably warm weather.
Tire sales have surpassed exhaust sales
since 2008; the shop is waiting for a big snowstorm to bring
in another rush on snow tires.

Quality labor is the sum of expertise and good equipment. George Carrillo, an employee of Ted’s for more than 10 years, proudly demonstrates the shop’s latest tire equipment. Brian also has new alignment equipment in his bay. Ted had contemplated retirement 10 years ago but decided against it and has updated his equipment twice since then. Although he doesn’t plan to work forever, his youngest son, Vincent, is being groomed to take over the mantle of “Superior” customer service. Ted’s advice: “Get out of the shop.” When Ted focused on management as opposed to being under the car, he found that business took off.

Eight presidents have taken the oath of office since Ted opened his first garage, fuel has moved from leaded to E-85 and biodiesel, and “Teenage Dream” by Katy Perry is at the top of the Billboard charts. The world is different, to say the least, but Ted still has the knack. He’s collected quite a few lifelong customers over his 40-plus years in business. In fact, they’ve started a gang – “The Outlaws.” You can find “The Outlaws” cruising the Pueblo area in their assortment of classic street rods – and the 1952 Buick often leads the pack. She looks and sounds as good as she did in 1966 – if not better.

Members of “The Outlaws” street-rod club make their annual trip down Colorado Highway 115 from Pueblo to Colorado Springs. Ted leads the pack with his 1952 Buick. Most club members are longtime customers of Ted’s. During the summer they cruise to hamburger joints, but on this trip they are getting brunch at the Cheyenne Mountain Resort.

Superior Tire and Muffler
1315 Berkley
Pueblo, CO 81004
719-545-8592

Commitment's End (A submission to a short story contest)

2011-03-14T16:07:00.000-07:00

Will was stuck in orbit. He got out of bed tired each morning and he returned to bed each night in the same manner, and it seemed as endless as an asteroid's eternal circle around the solar system. He shoved a small velvet box into the hip pocket of his jeans, flung his school bag into the car, and then drove off to join the asteroid belt orbiting the highways to redundant destinations. Though each rock travels together they are separated by icy solitude, he thought. Will saw red tail lights ahead, the stream of rocks bunched closer together without touching. An asteroid had veered from its path and crashed into a light post. A girl in green was walking toward a bus stop a few feet ahead of the steaming wreckage. She did it, Will thought.

Despite the accident, Will got to the campus early as usual. Commitment and stability were stamped onto his mind like the silver impala emblem on the hood of his car. Good parking spots were plentiful because his classmates didn't arrive until the last moment. A few would show up even later, because they mixed in too much social life with their academic diet the night before. Will’s diet was bland, and he rarely tasted anything from life’s table that wasn’t set before him by others.

The classroom slowly filled in. He checked his schedule on the Blackberry his mother bought him for Christmas. “An early graduation gift,” she said beaming with pride. School from eight to noon, work from twelve-thirty to five, and a dinner appointment at six. His girlfriend made sure to help select a steak restaurant that would impress her parents. In his hip pocket was a proposal to make in front of a large audience of people sipping wine and chewing New York strip.

Five minutes after class should have begun, students poured in like a bag of rocks being emptied on the ground. He was a piece of quartz in a bed of gravel. Dr. Khan passed out the weekly exam, and Will finished it before she had passed the last quiz out. He began to fixate on the dinner appointment, and then contemplated what his life would be after it. Dr. Khan interrupted his nightmare by starting to squeeze conversation out of students who preferred to remain fruit.

“What is significant about the cat’s cradle, in Vonnegut’s novel,” she asked with a pleading stare at Will. Normally he was eager to perform for the faculty, but looked up from his desk with an air of resentment. “The string in the child’s game looks nothing like a cat or a cradle. It is symbolic of the fact that we are content to let people tell us what the meanings of things are without us questioning them. We commit ourselves to playing a part in a grand charade, and only those who can believe in it are spared from the awful truth of life’s meaninglessness.” He returned his glossy stare to the desk and zoned out as students began to chime in their opinions.

           Sunlight reflected off a Zippo outside the glass hallway of the King Center. Will’s trance was broken when he looked out the class's door and saw the girl in green outside the window. Her green blouse was low cut and he reddened realizing that he was following the line of her cleavage upwards. She flipped her long black hair behind her shoulder and met Will’s gaze. The white of her eyes sparkled around her brown irises, and he felt something pulling him toward her. He looked back at Dr. Kuhn, but sheepishly continued to glance in her direction. His head twitched from the classroom to the girl convulsively like a cat tracking a fly buzzing around its head. His eyes could no longer fight the urge to look at her. His head was a compass needle, and she was magnetic north. Letting out another cloud of smoke she continued to stare at him, and he had a sudden urge to smoke, although it had been two years since Alisha made him quit. As Will rose from his seat it screamed out interupting the discourse of another student. He strolled out of the classroom attempting to look debonair, and he could feel her watching him walk down the glass hallway toward the exit. He ran through a dusty list of conversation starters and decided that bumming a cigarette would be the best opening line.
       She was gone when he got there. Will sat next to her vacated spot and felt the trace of her body heat on the cement bench with his hand. He looked inside and saw his backpack staring from under the desk like a puppy under the dining table. His classmates stared blankly like a meeting of lobotomy patients. I should go back, but he felt the sunlight braze his skin making the hairs stand up, and he decided against it. She didn’t go far. I’ll go to the computer lab, and I bet she’ll be waiting with her headphones on. I bet we like the same music. He didn’t know why he was sure, but after a diet of Faulkner, Vonnegut, and Hemingway he didn’t think anyone was sure about anything. The backpack whimpered as it watched him cut across the lawn towards the Tivoli.
She wasn’t in the computer lab. He sat down and checked the messages on his Blackberry, positive that she would sit next to him eventually. His boss sent a frantic text:
William: get here after class ASAP. Two of the crew didn’t show up, and we had a shipment arrive. You might need to work late~Bob.
His thumbs hammered out an obedient response, but never struck the send button. A flash of radiance passed by the large window to the entrance of the computer lab, and he knew it was her. Of course! She probably has to finish some reading before going to class. She’ll be upstairs on one of the couches. A message from Alisha made the Blackberry vibrate. It convulsed on the computer desk like a baby watching its mother abandon it. Will hurried upstairs.
         Groups of students slept on couches and chairs like guests at a hostel that had ran out of beds. Strangers slept next to each other separated by a wall of sound in their headphones. She was not on a couch or chair. He sat down in one that had been recently vacated. What the hell. I might as rest up before stocking a thousand boxes at work. The fabric was still warm from the last person to be there, and he thought he could smell perfume mixed in with the stench of food and body odor. Students orbited around him, and it tranquilized him like a mobile over a crib. He began to dream:

They were at DIA heading toward the concourse gates on the moving platform. The green clad beauty tacked and jibed between idle travelers like a sail boat navigating a rocky shoreline. He tried to keep pace with her, but then she was no longer a boat, but became a river. The travelers became boulders in the stream. Her warm current pulled him around them until he was dashed upon one.

“Will?” The pock faced boy kicked the chair. “Did you sleep through Shafer’s class? You were supposed to present with us today,” the boy continued but Will was not affected by the whines. Will rubbed his eyes then looked at his watch—it was nearly one-thirty. “Shit!” he kicked his legs off the arm of the chair. The boy dodged backwards to avoid being run over as Will ran for the stairs.
      While rushing to the parking lot he imagined Bob sweating profusely at his desk with his eyes glued to the clock. Bob rarely left his office after hiring Will three years ago. The young man was so eager to please management that he did the work of two for the price of one. The best part, Bob thought, is that he is too scared to ask for a raise.
       The abandoned Blackberry had been adopted by another student by the time Will realized it was gone. Meaning to call his boss at first, then he felt a different tinge of remorse, Mom was so proud of her gift. He jumped into the car and shoved the key into the ignition, but never turned it over. A gleam of light shined through his rearview mirror as the Lightrail pulled into the northwest campus station. She was waiting at the station, took a drag off her cigarette, and then crushed it out under her Chuck Taylor’s. Without a second’s hesitation, he sprinted for the station. The keys dangled from the ignition franticly like a swing dancer whose partner let go of her.
     Will was an excellent runner before his father told him there was no money in it. “What about my scholarship?” Will defended. “Yeah. Your legs helped pay for your tuition, but the school isn’t going to give you a bachelor’s degree in running—kid,” his father drew out the last word before sharply interjecting his last point. “They give you a degree for a job. You legs served their purpose, now use your brain,” his father tapped himself on the head to illustrate his point.
     Will was a few yards from the station when the Lightrail belched out its electronic warning, Whrrrrt Whrt Whrt Whrrrrtt!. Their eyes locked once more, and it almost pulled him onto the tracks. After the train passed, he felt her pulling him with an invisible string from the window seat. He chased after with long, powerful, strides and his lungs began to franticly grab for air. He knew that the train was often stopped at a red light at 7th street before it continued to the southeast campus station. Suddenly he found a gear that he hadn’t used in years and lurched forward with additional speed. The train was stopped at the light. His lungs were like bellows sucking and blowing, his heart a blacksmith's fire, and his feet pounded the cement like hammers at a slab of hot iron. Then an anvil threw itself in his path.

“What da Fuck!” the homeless man yelled while tumbling into the gutter. Will had fixated on his eyes on the finishline and never saw the man coming. He planted his right shoulder into the man and kept going for afew steps afterwards, before slowly coming to a stop like a truck that had smashed its radiator against a deer. The man was still cursing as he tried to lift himself off the ground. Will walked back and offered him an apologetic hand, but the man spat at it. “Fuck yahself! You kint jus tackle ole Samson like you Mean Joe Greene an asspeck me ta foegit it like dat! Bullshit! Na I think I gots to git mahself to da ER,” Samson continued his verbal retaliation, but Will stopped listening. She pulled past him again as the Lightrail came into the station. His compass followed her, and his body turned to start running again. Before he could take the first step something crashed against his temple. His ear was ringing when he turned to see Samson swinging a cane wildly, “No ya ain’t walkin off like dat. Ya disrespectin Samson like dat?!” Will shoved his hand into his hip pocket and pulled out the velvet box. He tossed it in an upwards arch, and Samson snatched it from the air with one hand. Will was squeezing through a closing door when Samson opened the box. His eyes spread open like the aperture of a camera lens, and then he touched the diamond engagement ring with a dirty finger. Samson looked up again, and the Lightrail was gone.

     She was in the back of the train, but he could not make his way to her. Passengers filled the Lightrail like boulders in a collapsed mine shaft, and he could only see glimpses of her light. At the first stop he got out of the train, but stayed close to the doors. She didn’t exit and he jumped back on. The boulders shifted forward in the train as it braked to make the second stop. The door opened at 18th and California. The boulders poured out throwing Will from the train. He tried desperately to swim upstream back inside. He jumped and strained against misfortune like a salmon heading for its breeding ground—then a bear paw swiped him from the air.
“What’s up dude? Come eat wit us! I haven’t seen you since last semester!” Elliot pressed Will against his massive chest in a hug, and the flung him back. Will was on the brink of emotional destruction and the edge of insanity—his only response was a confused glare. “Will you ah’ight? Where you been?” Elliot asked. The corner of Will’s mouth curled upwards like a wolf bearing a blood thirsty grin, but instead of barking, Will gritted out a response, “Yeah…El…I’ve been busy with my last semester ya know.”
“How you an Alisha doin?” Elliot asked with a hand on Will’s shoulder.
“Great El…I got to run,” Will said pulling away from Elliot who nodded quizzically.
Elliot’s massive jaw dropped as he watched Will sprint down 18th street with no regard for traffic. He blitzed down the sidewalk with a vision of her pulling him forward. Rationale thought was left behind at 18th and Curtis Street. By the time he rushed past Larimer, he was raving mad. She is my dark haired Rapunzel! She is trapped just like me! Together we can take back our independence! After a few more blocks he could no longer think, he was a comet hurtling through space, and he would have continued indefinitely if not for a newspaper stand at 18th and Blake Street.
     The sidewalk was icy as he lay on his back and watched people and clouds float past him silently. Audrey Hepburn stood above him. Her poodle was sniffing his crotch as she tried to talk to the young man. “ARE! YOU! OKAY!” she stressed each word as if shouting down a mine shaft. Will sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. She was not Audrey Hepburn, but the black dress and up-doo hairstyle made her a convincing stand in. “MAYBE! YOU! SHOULD! GO! INSIDE! SITDOWN!” She shouted into his blank face. He nodded and staggered to his feet. “Sorry, it’s been a rough day,” he excused himself and walked inside the nearest bar.
     He felt cold as he stood at an empty counter the bartender was busy wiping down. “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked continuing to look at the counter. “I’m not sure. I usually have water,” Will said looking at the collection of bottles in front of the large mirror. “How bout a jack and coke, but make it a tall one, lots of coke,” he said perching onto a barstool. A half-hour passed before the icy skeleton of the drink was revealed. His elbow propped on the counter, head cradled in hand, he stared at a murky reflection of himself in the mirrow. Well, I’ll never see her again. I’m not even sure she was real. I can’t be sure about anything right Vonnegut? Then he realized that he would have to attend an important dinner soon. They will be expecting him to read the script they prepared for him. He wished that the decretive chandelier above would crash down on him and spare him from selling out again. A new bartender came by and refilled his glass with coke. The chandelier hadn’t budged in fifteen minutes, and he gave up on mind over matter. Alisha I’m sorry, but I won’t be ready in time for dinner. I know your parents are waiting for this, but I need a little more time. We need more time…apart. I need time to be myself…he continued to apologize internally as the seats around him sporadically filled in. Then he decided to get it over with. There is no sense in fighting it. I could call the restaurant and tell the hostess I’ll be late. There is time to go clean up at school. Maybe buy a new ring down the street. “Can I borrow your phone,” he asked the bartender. The bartender pulled a cordless phone from his apron as if it were a holstered revolver. He laid it in front of Will. His hand hovered over it a moment as he debated the consequences of his actions. He dialed a number from a gilded card in his wallet…then placed it to his head. He winced as if each ring were the click of an empty cylinder approaching a bullet. The hostess answered on the other end. Will pulled the trigger, “Yes I have a reservation at six…Langston…can you give a message to my party when they arrive…well…”

The bar’s door opened and a flash of light bounced off the mirror. He looked up and saw the girl in green stand in the doorway surrounded by light. She was like an emerald Madonna descending from the sky.

The bullet misfired, and the hostess asked him for the message again. Will’s voice gathered strength, “Tell my party that I cannot fulfill this commitment. I’m sorry.”

END

Bucking Conventions (Undercar Digest)

2011-03-13T22:40:00.000-07:00


Chuck the cowboy has replaced the Mountain Muffler spaceman as company mascot.

Golden, Co.--Mountain Muffler had a cult following outside of its loyal customers. They lived nearby in an apartment complex, and paid tribute to the Mountain Muffler spaceman once a year. The annual Halloween party had made a tradition of dressing up as the renegade mascot of Ford St. The spaceman was out of tune with Golden, Colorado’s “Wild West” tourist theme, he stood proud and tall above passing traffic with a blue cape, space helmet, sunglasses and disregard for the cowboy town that Coors Brewing Company calls home.
Mountain Muffler’s owner, Steve Fuller has a reputation for a maverick attitude as well. He once turned down a contract with a large fleet account because they demanded that their cars go straight onto the rack when arriving at the shop. First come first serve; the individual customer is just as important as a big company to Steve.

Steve works on a 1937 Oldsmobile

He has been criticized for not being obsessed with profit. Steve never turns down a simple job because it isn’t worth his time. He recalls one customer who brought their car to him after being sent away from another shop several times. The car had new belts that were squealing, but the shop that put them on said the belts were fine and the customer needed a new water pump. Steve found that they forgot to put on a simple nut that tightened the belt system. Making a customer happy with a minor repair pays off in the long run. But, sometimes making a customer angry works well too. Steve has learned that the outcome of an action isn’t always what you expected.
He had one of his most difficult customers within a year of buying the shop in 1985. Bill brought in his car and asked if he could watch Steve while he worked. Eager to please, the young shop owner agreed and began to bend the tailpipes for the observer. Bill watched silently as the tailpipes were installed, and when the job was finished he informed Steve that the job wasn’t done correctly. The dispute was over a few fractions of an inch in the way the pipe hung.


The Oldsmobile's owner wanted an exhaust system as close to the original design as possible.

“Everybody makes mistakes. I assure everyone that if I make a mistake I’ll fix it at no cost to them. That tends to be impressive,” Steve says.
Although there was no overt mistake made in the job, Steve cut a small section out and replaced it so the pipe would hang the way the customer wanted. Again, Bill watched silently until the work was finished. Then Bill stated he wanted his tail pipe to be one piece. Steve had reached his limit, and told the man that any more work would come at additional cost. When presented a credit card for payment, Steve informed the customer he could not accept cards. Another dispute followed forcing Steve to insist the car would not leave the shop until he was paid in cash. The two ended up driving to the bank to complete the transaction. A disgruntled Bill turned and informed Steve that his business was finished, and that Bill would tell all of his friends not to come.

“The funny thing is that was the year my business exploded,” Steve said.

A 1937 Oldsmobile L37 with straight-eight engine and a three on the floor transmission owned by Jim Humphrey.

Bill would often drive down Ford Street. Steve and the colossal spaceman would wave at him as he passed by. Much to Steve’s surprise one of Bill’s friends came in for work on his car explaining that, “Bill doesn’t know what he is talking about.” Steve says that a shop owner should bend over backwards for a customer, but when the customer takes advantage of you its best to stick to your guns.
After 26 years in the business, Steve still has the swagger of a young man who is impervious to worry. His dry sense of humor and tendency to prank the unsuspecting does not let on to the fact Steve has faced some serious challenges in life.


Steve installs a stainless pencil tip on a 87 4Runner brought in by Jake Ward. Ward says that he brought his vehicle to Steve because Mountain Muffler got good reviews on Yelp.com.

Steve makes a call to one of his parts suppliers.

Gran Mal Seizures have caused Steve to lose consciousness and have convulsions. His first seizure came when he was 21 years-old. At that time doctors could not find anything wrong with him. Then, when Steve was in the process of buying Mountain Muffler, he had another massive seizure while stopped at a red light. From the car behind, his wife Mary Ann watched Steve make a left hand turn into a light post. After being hospitalized Steve learned that he had an egg-sized tumor in his brain. He underwent surgery to remove the tumor, but it did not cure him of the seizures. The tumor had been blamed for putting pressure on his brain and causing the seizures, but Steve explains that the area where the tumor had been is now like wires covered by electrical tape—every so often they will ground out.
Seizures have never held Steve back, because they only happen once every couple years, and although he has had a couple attacks on the job, he doesn’t worry. Steve’s rationale is simple, why be held back by worrying about what you cannot control. Besides, the seizures were not as big a problem as the medication was.Prescription drugs caused a change that Steve didn’t like and he noticed it had affected his business negatively. Sometimes the outcomes are not what you expected, and in Steve’s case, the cure was worse than the disease. His mood became uncharacteristically angry and he found that his vocabulary had suffered,

Steve participates in yoga classes once a week to relive back pain.

“I’d hear myself talking and think to myself, you sound like a…”

He decided to go against doctor’s advice and dropped most of his medication. So far, everything has worked out well for him.

Alternative medicines are one thing Steve recommends to shop owners dealing with their own medical problems. In addition to his seizures he also has a bad back stemming from an injury he had as a child. There have been times where all he could do at work was sit in a chair,

“That is the joy of owning your own business. You get to go no matter what.”

He has been to chiropractors, massage therapists, and “pill peddling” doctors, but has found his best relief on a yoga mat. He attends yoga classes once a week at Christian Leeby’s yoga studio in downtown Golden. He doesn’t worry about people questioning his masculinity, because Steve has never let opinions sway him much.

Except when, Chuck, the previous owner of the Mountain Muffler complained about the infamous spaceman’s paint. Steve bowed, at last, to convention, changing the spaceman into a giant version of the previous owner, who happened to be a cowboy—and Steve’s father. The Halloween cult at the apartments near-by expressed disappointment over the mascot change. Steve never knew about the tradition before then. Sometimes being a bit unconventional wins you a few fans you don’t even know about—even in the Muffler business.

Mountain Muffler
2200 Ford Street,

Golden, CO 80401

Phone: 303-278-2043

The News Can be Hard to Swallow

2011-03-13T21:29:00.000-07:00

Gin martini, up, with lemon made by Jake Killingbeck at the Peak Lounge.

The chasm of preference between a kettle of chai tea and a pint of cheap vodka may seem wide as the Grand Canyon, but there is one subject that can bridge the gap--local news.The bartender whose manicured fingernails clasp around a straight scotch and the customer whose hair is in danger of falling into his glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon may be trying to project different vibes about their persona, but they both raise their drinks up in a unifying vote of criticism against local news coverage.

Neon Sign for Paris on the Platte

"I have champagne looks with beer tastes," Jon Cole said to his companion as they finished their cigarettes. The two smokers were starting a night of interviews regarding the local news. Cole is field application engineer at a data storage company; he believes that one cannot be judged simply by the drink they order or the location of the barstool they perch on.
    Outside the Paris on the Platte wine bar the conversation between the two smokers is interrupted by the sound of clicking over the bar's speakers. Cole points out that the noise was the bartender changing the music on his iPhone--Paris on the Platte is a hangout for hipsters. Inside the bar college students are studying. Luz Vasquez and Devin Johnson's table was covered with books and diagrams relating to electrocardiograms. Next to Vasquez was an empty glass where a latte once steamed and by Johnson a cup of Chai Tea was half full. They are both EMTs. Vasquez has responded to car accidents and emergencies of every nature; "I stopped watching the news for that reason" she said. Some of the emergencies she has responded to have brought her into direct contact with television news crews.
    One incident happened in June of last year. A electrical transformer caught fire knocking out power to nearby Rose Medical Center. The hospital's back up generator malfunctioned and patients in serious condition had to be transferred to other hospitals. Vasquez was called to transfer patients to Swedish Medical Center, and said that news vans and reporters had taken up so much space at Rose Medical Center, that ambulances had difficulty finding parking. She said camera crews shooting images of patients being loaded into the ambulances and got in the way of the EMTs duties. Vasquez questioned the need for people to know the gory details about some of the emergencies she has responded to, but her companion, while pouring another cup of Chai, related it to a bell curve.
    Johnson explained that his interest in news peaks on one end with national and world events that affect a large group of people, but as the news gets more local his interest slides down until the news finds a subject that affects him directly and peaks his interest again. However, he felt that local news was filled with too much "sensationalist crap" and often represented a biased opinion. In a tongue and cheek manner, Johnson expressed an interest in watching Al Jazeera news if his television service provider offered it.


Kyle Howington finishes a glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon at Gabor's.

The two smokers left Paris on the Platte for an underground bar in the Capital Hill district. Gabor's has no windows, plenty of mirrors, low lighting, and red vinyl booths to create a distinct underground atmosphere. At the end of the bar next to a jenga tower Kyle Howington sipped a Pabst Blue Ribbon after hard days work as a mechanic. Howington also expressed a similar sarcastic desire to watch Al Jazeera. He felt that local news was too biased due to corporate influences in the media. Most of all he was disturbed by the way stories transitioned, "a woman was brutally raped today...and now a surfing dog" he said mockingly. The bartender pulled a block out of the teetering jenga tower, she also had a strong distrust of the news, so strong that she asked to be referred to as "Sherry Mcgillicuddy."


"Sherry Mcgillicuddy's" shot of Macallan 12 scotch.

Compared to her former hometown of Los Angeles, she felt that Denver's local news was "square and uptight." Mcgillicuddy is a big fan of Diane Sawyer on ABC news, and occasionally leaves on the local broadcast. She is tired of disturbing stories that don't advance the public good. Her friend committed suicide, and if that had made it into the news, Mcgillicuddy would have written a strong letter to the editor. Cole bought her a glass of her favorite scotch, Macallan 12, and closed his tab.

Jon Cole's gin and tonic at Gabor's

   The two smokers sauntered out of the elevator at the Hyatt Regency into the Peak Lounge, which sat 27 floors above downtown Denver. Cole ordered a pair of gin martinis (up, with a lime) from Jake Killingbeck. News makers such as Al Gore, Chevy Chase, and Samuel L Jackson have ordered drinks from Killingbeck, but politics and Hollywood in the news don't bother him. He wishes that the local news would give more coverage to lacrosse. He wanted a Crown Royal on the rocks, but wasn't allowed to drink while on duty. An hour before midnight had struck on the Larimer Square clock tower when the two smokers decided to drive up Colfax to Pete's Kitchen for a late meal.
They passed a few police cars with flashing lights; East Colfax and Aurora often appear in local news broadcast stories about gang related shootings, drug busts, and prostitution. The other smoker remembered talking about the news with his co-worker Earl Mack. The way his part of town is represented in the media bothers Mack--he lives in Aurora. His opinion is that crime is everywhere, but he can't understand why certain areas receive more coverage. Like Killingbeck, Mack is a Crown Royal enthusiast. He won a half pint of it from his co-worker betting on the Pittsburgh Steelers during the NFL playoffs.
   The two smokers sat in front of plates of greasy breakfast items and two large glasses of ice water while trying to digest the news opinions they received. Earl Mack's opinion was amplified by a man who ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon at Paris on the Platte. Mike Toney is from Chicago, and said that what makes front page news in Denver "wouldn't have made page two in the Tribune." Car accidents and crimes in Aurora make the Denver news seem shallow to him. "Chin Chin" Toney said after finishing his thought then walked away.
The two smokers stuffed a few more bites of their midnight breakfast and wondered how the news stayed in business when so many people claimed to hate it.Perhaps it was just fashionable to be critical of the news in a social setting, they pondered. Some people didn't have a negative opinion, because they never paid attention. Ryan Valero, a mutual friend of the smokers, spends eight hours a day in a van delivering parts. He is never tempted to turn on the radio for news. He keeps his iPhone handy if he thinks he needs to know about traffic or weather conditions. The other smoker commented that the most favorable opinions came from people who spent the day within the confines of their home.
   Bill Johnson, the other smoker's father, is a retired construction worker and disabled Vietnam veteran. He lives in the small town of Paulden, Arizona where his daily routine consists mostly of listening to the radio while drinking his daily pint of cheap Vodka--the kind in a plastic bottle. Johnson doesn't own a television, and wishes he knew more about what was going on in his former hometown of Denver. He relies heavily on National Public Radio and news commentators such as Dennis Prager. The way the news is presented doesn't bother him as much as what the news is about. He admits that listening to too much of news on the radio puts him in a bad mood. But, like his daughter-in-law, he would feel isolated without it.
   Becky Johnson was drinking a diet Coke when the other smoker poured himself through the front door. Jon Cole dropped him off headed home to get a good rest before flying back to San Jose, California for work. Unlike her husband, who is a journalism major, she likes the local news. "I like to know what's going on around me," she said. Taking care of her four year-old son William requires her to stay inside most of the day, and when she isn't in the house cleaning up after her Tasmanian devil, she doesn't get away long. She watches both evening broadcasts of Fox 31 news religiously. Every so often she is disappointed by fluffy stories that don't live up to their teaser.
   She interrogated her husband about how he conducted his research. Then he passed out in the bed downstairs with the opinions in his head making the room swirl with doubts about his future profession. He woke up with his clothes still on the next morning, poured a glass of water, opened a bottle of aspirin, and then turned on the local morning news broadcast.
   Sometimes the news is hard to swallow, and objectionable or irritating things about the news can leave the viewer with a hangover. However, a hangover is seldom enough to keep people from coming back for another taste.

Downtown Denver and the Convention Center seen from the Peak Lounge.

Ethics VI (El Burrito Hombre)

2011-03-03T08:02:00.000-08:00

“Breakfast is ready! You want a some?” Fransico asks bursting in through my office door. He shows up at eight-thirty each day, and is more punctual and reliable than most of my co-workers. His smile beams like a white lily defiantly springing up from the sun scorched earth of his face.

“tienes carnitas con papas y salsa verde?” I ask with the best Spanish I can muster from sleeping through nearly two semesters of it College.

We walk to his beat up car in front of the office and he opens the trunk to unveil piles of burritos neatly wrapped in aluminum foil. He picks out two because he knows I like a big breakfast.

“I don’t have any money today Paco,” I tell him while letting the burritos act as hand warmers against the chill breeze.

“Es O. K. you pay nex time” he shut’s the lid and then gives me another smile.

“Senor, how is school?”

I explain to him, between spurts of foul language, that things are not going well. I’ve fallen behind, I’m stressed, I barely see my family, and work is killing me.

“Do not worry senor” He leans back and spreads his hands out as if to show me a landscape on the horizon.

“In not long time you will be sitting on the beach in Hawaii drinking cervesa.”

Fransico is the only person I look forward to seeing on the mornings I work. He is the only person I can bare to look in the eye. So I decided that someday I’d like to write a story about him.

I’ve never really wanted to be a hard news journalist, because the things I enjoy reading are the writings of one of my idol’s—Columnist Greg Lopez. I imagined doing a Lopez style piece on spending a morning with Fransico. How does he manage to put on a smile each day and drive from warehouse to warehouse selling his goods? What does he do afterwards? Does he spend the whole night assembling the pile of food motivated by love for his family? What dream is he working towards or is he living it?

I thought I could make a nice human interest story. Then I had an ethical dilemma.

What if Fransico is an undocumented immigrant, who sells burritos that are made without proper licensing from the health department? What if none of the $2.75 each burrito sells for goes to taxes? Can I handle the truth about the burrito guy?

Let say the “what if” is fact. I never intended for my story to focus on the issues of immigration, taxes, or health code, but they would be important elements that most journalists would include. I could include them without using Fransico’s last name, and offer him some protection from repercussion. However, then I could be an accomplice to helping someone continue illegal practices. Do I have the right to decide what to ignore?

If choose to ignore something because I don’t want to create an unpleasant situation, then how many journalists are doing the same thing? If they are as human as I, then I don’t know that I could ever trust the news.

As a journalist I am an observer, but my observations can create actions from the audience.

I’ve always struggled with the issue of detaching myself from issues by hiding behind my job title. In the Marines you are taught that you do not murder the enemy—you kill them. Of course there is always the following orders defense against a guilty conscience.

I can’t handle the thought of immigration services waiting at my warehouse to haul the man away—although I doubt they would make the effort. Conversely, I’d be equally regretful if I sidestepped the issue of how he makes his burritos and then later found out that his burritos started making people sick. I suppose the safest thing to do is not write the article at all. Safe never won anyone a Pulitzer Prize though. However, when writing for the purpose of publishing perhaps it is wise to select subjects that you don’t see on a daily basis.

Ethics V (My Death as an Example)

2011-02-27T13:08:00.000-08:00

I cruised down Colfax in my car Thursday afternoon, looking for a moments reprieve from the mounting stress upon me. My was horse galloping at full speed. Every moment rushed past quickly, and I no longer held the reins. I've fallen from the saddle, my foot caught in the stirrup, and life continues dragging me along at a feverish pace.Until I crossed Wadsworth.

A red Honda blew the red light, and t-boned my car at forty-five miles per hour. The truck behind me was unable to stop. Brakes squeal and metal shouts as the truck plows a path separating the Honda from my Impala.

Glass and debris from our vehicles flew upwards like confetti shot from a cannon at a football game.

I wished life would slow down, and then it stopped completely. Ambulance lights and sirens filled my crumpled car, and the world continued to spin as though I was in the tilt-a-whirl at a carnival. Then all went silent for me. I never saw the news team arrive on the scene.

It was another slow day for news in the Denver area. Live shots from the scene of my death were shown on the five o'clock broadcast. The person in the red Honda would get the privilege carrying my blood on their hands for the rest of their lives. However, she would have plenty of time to move on. At sixteen years old you can still sleep at night with the consolation of the word accident.

I had always been opposed to the local news airing stories about deadly car accidents.Why should the public know about the three car accident on Kipling and Colfax? Obviously it should be mentioned on the traffic report so that commuters will steer clear, but what good is it to devote a few seconds to showing my blood on the asphalt?

After my story, the Anchor touches on a murder in Boulder. A 33 year-old man killed his mother, and had been arrested by police. The 20 second spot was comprised of exterior pictures of the woman's house, and a few interviews with older neighbors who were quoted saying they thought the son was a "polite boy."

Next was the daily roll-call of shootings, car jackings, and arrests in Aurora. The death toll of the latest bombing in Iraq scrolled across the bottom of the television screen. One might find Iraq to be a much safer place considering the fact a new list of crimes in Aurora will be aired in the next broadcast .

An earthquake in New Zeland has taken it's place in the world tragedy spot. A place once inhabited by places such as Hati. Quickly the Anchor touches on the latest battle of hypocrisy in Washington, and then it is on to the sports segment.

My wife and son watched the broadcast, but they missed the live coverage of the car accident. I had been told that movies and video games were far to violent for children. Yet, a description of a man kicking his mother's brains in and pictures of bodies sticking out from under earthquake rubble didn't rate any warning from the FCC. Perhaps the FCC knows that if you turn into the news you've already expected to see the worst, and if you're a regular watcher you are desensitized to every crime imaginable. Or at least you think you are until a new sensational murder case raises the bar again.

My wife and son don't know I'm dead yet because television news doesn't tell you anything specific that you need to know. My family now knows about a man who killed his mother. He has confessed and has been arrested. The police doesn't need any help from the audience to close the case, but the news editor felt it was something Denver needed to know about. Police in Aurora don't mind the coverage of the latest crimes in their area, because sometimes it helps the overwhelmed precinct.

It also helps keep stereotypes alive.

Perhaps one of the judgments Ill be facing will require an explanation for the shameful thoughts I had when driving through Aurora. Could I tell the Lord that local news was to blame for my outlook on others. The news is why I thought every person walking down the street was on crack, and that each car blasting a lot of bass was on their way to a drive-by shooting. I suppose news coverage of Aurora serves some sort of informational purpose--people know which apartment complexes to steer clear of.

What good is bad news?

I can understand the need to tell the community about things that could be a danger to them. No one wants to hear about rape, but if the suspect is still on the loose, then women in that area should be warned. But I still don't understand the purpose of showing the television audience where my head shattered the windshield.

My wife gets a phone call. Someone recognized my car, and is about to shock my family. I suppose the news has saved a police officer or hospital official from having to make an awkward phone call.

The news day is still slow, and they air a follow up to my accident on the next broadcast.

The truck driver is at home with his family, and I am obviously dead. The 16 year-old, Lindsay, is recovering from a broken collar bone at Luthern Hospital. Her parents say that she is a straight "A" student, and all star on the volleyball team. She also likes to text message her boyfirend while driving. Lindsay will probaly be giving speeches to other kids about not texting and driving--unless the media makes an example out of her first. Adults love news stories that prove a point to thier kids. Then for ten seconds people outside my family get to know that I existed. They learn basic details about me, but I'll never cross their minds again. I'll have to hope Lindsay does a better job of telling my story to strangers in the future. But the news has also done my family a convenience. My wife wont have to pay for an obituary now. A few people I haven't talked to for a while saw the news broadcast, and they are calling people who also used to know me. I guess the odds are good that my funeral will have more than ten people at it, and I can thank the news for that.

I never appreciated bad news in the media. I had grown tired of hearing about death and crime constantly, and my outlook on life had suffered from it. We all feel inconvenienced having to hear about other peoples woes on a daily basis--until the day comes for our woe to be in the spotlight. Then we eat our hypocrisy with a spoon. We hope that someone who saw the news will care, and that someone will helps us. Perhaps journalists are just playing a game of statistics. If they air one-hundred stories about death and sadness, perhaps one will have good news come from it.

A stranger saw the story of my death sitting in his leather lounging chair. He saw a picture of me and my son playing together, and it looked like a picture he cherished from his childhood. He remembered the pain he felt when his parents were killed in a car accident--back then seat belts were optional. He was alone, but he believed that his parents could see all of his deeds on earth. He put himself through Harvard Law while busing tables at night to make them proud. Years later he still wanted to make them proud.

A week later the news broadcasts a story about a retired lawyer paying my funeral costs and setting up a trust fund for my son's education.

Bad news is pointless until someone decides to care about it.

The $100 Organic Challenge

2011-02-20T22:43:00.000-08:00

Picture a family of three sitting around the kitchen table with pen and paper. In the background CNN is airing coverage of teachers protesting budget cuts in Wisconsin, meanwhile the family is discussing their own financial situation. Written in red ink is $100 for their weekly grocery budget. It is $5 dollars more than what the U.S. Department of Agriculture says can feed a mother, father, and 4 year-old boy on a "thrifty" budget. That's according to the USDA's latest cost of food index. The family has to reduce their spending on food, but they don't want to give up organic, all-natural, and local foods.

That was the scenario Metro State Investigative Journalism students assumed this past weekend. They set out to King Soopers, Wholefoods, and a farmer's market to see how much organic, all-natural, and local food they could buy at each location with $100.

With a list of 16 basic food staples, and few preconceived notions, the team headed to The Denver Urban Homesteading farmer's market on 200 Sante Fe Ave. Farmer's markets offer the best opportunity for local organic food, but because of the winer season the team assumed that the market may not have enough to fill the list. That notion was dispelled after walking into the bustling indoor marketplace.

Product samples are at most booths, and a shopper may not have to worry about lunch that day if they make enough stops. While serving out samples of succulent pot roast, Bill Flentje with Ranch Direct Foods explained that supermarkets aren't the only places with special bargains. Ranch Foods Direct has hourly specials on different meats. At the time it was 20 percent off New York Strip. However, without being "on sale" Ranch Food's Directs organic ground beef was a dollar a pound less than the same grade of meat at King Soopers and Wholefoods.

However, a few items might have induced sticker shock to a real family of three. Eight dollars for a 16 ounce jar of tomatoes with rosemary was double the cost compared to organic pasta sauces at the supermarkets, but "the taste is way better here than anywhere else" according to Kazia Jankowski, who bought an eight jar assortment from MM Local. Stickers on the lid of each mason jar proudly displayed which Colorado farm the food came; a quality that was lacking at the next stop for the team--Wholefoods at Lakewood's Belmar shopping center.

The Denver Urban Homesteading Market isn't the only place to find an enthusiastic endorsement of product, Wholefoods employee Michael Balzano was quick to recommend Rip's Big Bowl Cereal.

"It helps me get into gear early in the morning," Balzano said.

The cereal was $11.99 for 40 ounce bag, but Wholefoods wasn't all sticker shock as the team expected. The large organic market has an affordable store brand called 365 Organic which helped fulfill most of the grocery list. Wholefoods didn't have as much local products as the farmer's market, but its selection was so large that the team was able to check off the list and pick up a few extra items while staying under budget. They forgot the Jam however.Next stop, King Soopers.

Unlike Wholefoods, the familiar local grocery chain didn't have isles and isles of organic products to choose from, but it managed to fill the shopping cart more. King Soopers was also cheaper than Wholefoods on the same brands in certain cases; Amy's organic soups were .30 cents less at King Soopers than at Wholefoods. However, King Soopers was the only store to force a compromise. It did not offer organic or all-natural orange juice.

Each location would have given the student journalist's hypothetical family a similar receipt, but the groceries in their trunk would have looked very different from location to location. King Soopers would have filled the trunk with a little over 38 pounds of food, but with the least amount of certified USDA organic or local organic food. Wholefoods also provided a few additional items while keeping the bill at $96.43, but most of the purchased products were not local. Some products were from other countries, which raised questions about the standards met to be called organic. The farmers market was behind on quantity of items, a little more than three pounds shy of King Soopers total weight, but the farmer's market exceeded the competition in a category that cannot be measured in ounces and pounds or dollars and cents--information. Vendors at the farmer's market would have given the family the best opportunity to ask about the qualities of the food they were buying.

The family is sitting around the kitchen table discussing their experiences at each market place. A CNN commentator is discussing the impact of Egypt and Libyia's revolutions of oil prices in the background. The family's weekly gas budget has been underlined in red ink. They would prefer to purchase from the farmer's market, but King Sooper's and Wholefoods are closer to home. Would they feel more confident about purchasing from the larger stores if the knew more about where the food came from? This is the next scenario for the student investigative journalists.

Ethics IV (To Catch a Predator)

2011-02-18T09:43:00.000-08:00

The gauntlet was thrown in class…somehow our discussion turned towards MSNBC’s “To Catch a Predator” and professor Schafer dared us to explore its ethics. I have to admit I’ve watched numerous reruns of this show late at night, and on its face it seemed like a good program. However, there are some serious legal and ethical concerns that must be addressed. Before I play devil’s advocate let me say that I have little to no pity for the many deranged people I’ve watched Chris Hansen rail on that show. If there is honor among thieves, than its evidence lie in the fact that in prison sex-offenders (especially pedophiles) are targeted for harassment (to put it lightly). Now, let me also clarify that I have only vowed to remain unaligned on issues of politics, but I will try to be objective about this as possible.

“To Catch a Predator” has not aired a new series since 2008, and if you are unfamiliar with the series it is a sting operation operated by Perverted Justice (a watch dog group) to catch online sexual predators seeking minors. Perverted Justice volunteers pose as underage boys and girls in chatrooms. After the predator engages in sexual discussions the decoy invites the predator to a house on the premise that both parties would engage some sort of sex while the adults were gone. The predator shows up at the house, and then is often charged with a crime (the name of the crime varied from state to state) immediately or after leaving the sting house or when Perverted Justice sends a file to the police. Then MSNBC stepped into the picture and decided to tag along for the sting operations, but not as an observer; NBC (MSNBC’s parent company) sent Chris Hansen to be a part of the sting. Instead of meeting directly with the police the predator would meet Chris Hansen who would try to interview (pry a confession out of) the predator. The encounter then aired to a national audience.

Entrapment is the first legal issue one must discuss about this show. Here is an example of entrapment: an undercover police officer comes to you with a set of “stolen” speakers, and then uses a high pressure sales tactics to get you to buy them, then slaps a pair of handcuffs on you afterwards. This is a sting: an undercover police officer comes to with a set of “stolen” speakers, he asks you if want to buy them, you think about it and pull out your wallet, and then he slaps cuffs on your wrist. The idea is that the undercover officer can offer you something, but not manipulate you, and you must choose to accept that offer. The rule of thumb is that the offer would be something a reasonable person would know is illegal. Perverted Justice has covered their bases fairly well to maintain that fine line although allegations were made that the decoy was the first to bring up the subject of sex, and if true the dynamic of catching predators changes (I’ll get into that later). The real question doesn’t lie with entrapment but with, in my opinion, what a reasonable person is. Many of the people I’ve seen on the show were clearly mentally deranged. However, I only excuse crime on grounds of mental disorder in few cases. Someone who is severely cognitively disabled and walks out of a 7-11 with a candy bar because they don’t know what money is would be instance. Some people caught on this show certainly had a mental problem, but they were a threat to society in a sense, and needed to be caught. What manner of punishment or treatment given afterwards is for the courts to decide. Such persons are easier to spot, but what of the average man?

We all harbor a deep secret, a forbidden desire, which beckons us from the inner regions of the mind. Some of those are less vulgar to the public eye than others. I’d say the prototype of this would be the man who constantly deals with the temptation to cheat on his wife. The temptation is there, but he doesn’t seek to act on until temptation presents itself to him. At that point the man finds out how strong he is.

Perhaps this was the case of Louis William Conradt. Conradt killed himself after being involved with one of the Perverted Justice decoys. Conradt was a district attorney in Texas when he began chatting with a factious 13 year-old boy online in 2006. After chatting online, exchanging sexual pictures, talking on the phone and texting with the decoy Conradt broke off contact. According to a lawsuit filed by Conradt’s sister, Perverted Justice then advocated police to arrest him anyway, and as his home was surrounded by S.W.A.T. members Conradt ended his own life. His sister’s lawsuit sought millions of dollars in reparation of emotional suffering (to the sister). The plaintiffs also argued that Conradt was aggressively targeted by NBC and Perverted Justice and it drove him to commit suicide. Chris Hansen and a camera crew were on site when officers attempted to arrest Conradt.

I am going to, begrudgingly, throw out some hypothetical situations. First, perhaps Conradt never intended for his perversion to go beyond the chatroom. Now, if the decoy was an actual child (who seemed to have the same disposition as Conradt) then exchanging inappropriate pictures would be a crime. Maybe he indulged a taboo desire for the first time (there is no evidence of prior activity), and came across a decoy that was willing to play along. Would a reasonable thirteen-year old boy be so quick to offer himself sexually? If so, then is this a case of two, possibly sick, people taking advantage of each other? I am not condoning this, but it doesn’t sound like a true predatory case to me. If you drew a few lines of coke on a table in front of a man fighting coke addiction would you be surprised if they take a hit? Would that be sufficient for MSNBC to run a series called “to catch a coke fiend?” Conradt committed suicide and conventional perspectives would say he was afraid to face charges, but is it possible that the man crumbled after making his first mistake and used that handgun as a last act of remorse? Maybe he would rather die than face a television crew waiting to air his arrest to an audience. Conradt is dead and we will never hear his side of the story. His sister’s lawsuit was settled out of court, and we will never know how a jury would have ruled on this.

MSNBC’s manipulated the desires of struggling, possibly unreasonable, people, but my beef is that they did it for the sake of ratings. “To Catch a Predator” presented its self as a reality T.V. show where there were only losers and Chris Hansen was the conceited host. I think an ethical journalist would have done a long feature on Perverted Justices stings, stayed an observer, and never sought to make the investigation a hour long program that ran once a week. However, one could argue that the show may have served the same purpose as a public hanging—it deters future occurrences in reasonable people. The constitution does protect us from cruel and unusual punishment. As a former Marine, I lived in an environment of public humiliation for minor offences, and I find it to be more effective than cruel. However, we can’t all be Marines and we can’t we be sure what was truly in the mind and heart of each person who had to face Chris Hansen’s snide remarks. As I’ve said before I don’t believe in a person who is pure evil.

Well, I’ve looked at this issue from as many perspectives as I can handle. I think I’ll take an hour long shower to remove the icky feeling I have—now I know how a defense attorney feels at times.

Ethics III (USA PATRIOT ACT)

2011-02-15T07:57:00.000-08:00

Here is a subject that, when dropped in group conversation, will reveal avid Bush fans and critics. Unsurprisingly when brought up in class last week, a dozen critics voiced their opinions. The outspoken consensus was that the USA PATRIOT act was as unethical as selling a dead parrot to a blind boy (yes that is a reference to Dumb & Dumber).

How do I define my position on this subject without “taking sides” as I’ve vowed. That’s easy because this piece of legislature is something I never took a strong like or dislike to. Let me impart to you why I’m so complacent:

I have no faith in the ability for government to completely eradicate anything; the Civil Rights act didn’t completely eliminate racism or discrimination, prohibition didn’t end alcoholism, and the USA PATRIOT act will not stop all terrorism. But that doesn’t mean the government shouldn’t try. My point is that I’m not so invested in the USA PATRIOT act that I’d live in constant fear if it were dismantled.

Now, I also feel pretty secure that the CIA, FBI, NSA and the Department of Homeland Security aren’t subscribing to my blog (although I wonder if repeated use of the phrase “USA PATRIOT act” will make by blog surface on their radar). Many opponents to the act assert that the Bush administration heralded in the first step to Orwell’s Big Brother, and that we have lost all privacy. While I do believe the language of the act, as explained to me by my professor, could allow for such a scenario, I don’t have that much faith in government efficiency. The government doesn’t have the resources to snoop deeply into all of our affairs (yet?). The people who have garnered the attention of the government as a result of the USA PATRIOT act must have been saying or doing something rather flagrant. We have seen a few instances where the act has been credited with stopping potential terrorists such as Najibullah Zazi. As of yet I don’t know of a legal case against the government for unlawfully prying into an innocent citizens life resulting from the USA PATRIOT act, but I admit my knowledge of case law is sophomoric at best. Can we be sure that politicians aren’t using this as a weapon to investigate and harass their enemies? We can be sure that politicians have been guilty of that in the past anyway (Watergate), what difference does the USA PATRIOT act make? Politicians will always abuse the system to secure their positions.

However, one thing makes me wonder about this act; the Democrats didn’t repeal it once they took office in 2006. Criticism was abounding from the proponents of the left, but with a majority in congress, and a democrat president, the act was not repealed. Certainly it would have been easier to repeal that than pass Nationalized Health Care. The fact this bill still exists could mean one of two things: the act is helping protect the nation or both isles in Washington love the power it has given them. Maybe it is both. Subscribe to whichever makes you happy.

I’d also like to offer a “what if scenario” to those who oppose the act. What If the target wasn’t terrorists (the bad guys of “Bush’s war”), but was instead, Crypts and Bloods, then would this be a good bill. What if this act targeted bigoted groups who hate homosexuals and racial harmony (which Islamist Terrorists do incidentally), then would it seem more favorable? We must keep in mind that our attitudes towards the term terrorist will influence our opinion on the act. Not every citizen feels threatened by Islamist extremists, but we all feel threatened by something. Imagine that the group you fear was the focus of the USA PATRIOT act, then how do you feel about it.

Now, I realize many people have serious problems with this act on a non-partisan level. There are legitimate arguments that it is unconstitutional, but there are legitimate arguments that many bills passed since the founding fathers have been unconstitutional as well; constitutional interpretations are as abundant and diverse as biblical interpretations.

Speaking of the founding fathers…I’m not sure where in the constitution it affords the same privileges to non citizens as it does to citizens. I’m not condoning inhumane treatment to any non-citizen, but why are we so sure that every person detained via the USA PATRIOT act is an innocent victim of our government? Historically speaking, we’ve made some serious mistakes trying to protect our nation; Japanese internment camps should be recalled as a huge miscarriage of justice. Is it not reasonable to believe that our system of governing has learned from such mistakes? Do we truly believe that the CIA is nabbing every non-citizen of middle-eastern origin and throwing them in Guantanamo Bay? Of course it is possible that there are some innocent people imprisoned just as it is certain that there are some innocent people sitting in federal penitentiaries. Does that mean we should dismantle the entire justice system? As I’ve said in previous discussions, there are few laws that will not inadvertently victimize an innocent person. As the saying goes, “don’t throw out the baby with the bath water.” Bath water is slowly being let out, as we’ve seen congress let several pieces of the act expire. Will it lead to the entire act being dismantled slowly? Perhaps the recent tragedy in Arizona will only cause the USA PATRIOT act to transform into a program that seeks to stop a future Jared Loughner.

If the USA PATRIOT act has lead to many serious infractions of constitutional rights, and it has not made the country safer, then it will be up to honest journalism to bring that to our attention. Until then, I cannot advocate for either side of this debate with full commitment. But, if I should suddenly find myself targeted by government agencies as a result of this post I will fully retract my neutrality—and buy the class a box of doughnuts.

Ethics II

2011-01-24T22:11:00.001-08:00

I felt the outcry of my non-existent audience regarding my last post and decided to expand on my discourse on ethics. I could not sleep thinking that your fragile opinion of me would only be based on that last entry. Let me take a topic from my ethics course to expand on my position. The esteemed Mr. Schafer touched on the history of laws against abolitionist media prior to the Civil War. His point was that such laws were evidence that the south's culture was clinching tighter to it's practice, and that, to paraphrase my professor, the belief that south would have eventually outlawed slavery on its own is *crap*. Now lets pretend that I am a journalist in that era, what is my position regarding abolitionism in the newspaper? I'm afraid that my last post would have led you to believe that I would have sat on the side-line during the biggest ethical dilemma of our nation's history. That would be a gross miscalculation of my character.

Let's restate my position first: when I wear the title journalist, as a priest would wear the white collar, I renounce my political affiliation. I would not side with the abolitionist movement because they may have been enlightened Republicans such as Abraham Lincoln, but I would side with them because they were right. If I were devoted to defending a political party's agenda what have I been responsible for if I were a registered Jacksonian Southern Democrat? Not only would I have condoned the trail of tears in its time, but I would have also defended states rights regarding slavery. By not letting political platforms and talking points guide my ethics my moral vision is unobstructed.

How would I have covered slavery for the newspaper? Posting inflammatory comments about slave owners would not have been my style. I would have focused on the lives of the slaves: those who still live on the plantation and those who have escaped to freedom. How I would have gained access to a slave still on the plantation is beyond me, but I would have tried.

Anyway, let me say that slavery was an injustice. "What! Didn't you say that what is just to one may be unjust to another!" Yes I said that. That is my belief regarding issues as national health-care, welfare, immigration reform and the many other highly debated subjects of our time. However, I believe somethings can be clearly called injustices; those such as the holocaust.

Now let me offer myself a rebuttal; if there are clear injustices in the would, then why do people commit them? Good question. My response: political fanaticism. I don't believe in a purely evil person, but Hitler ranks high at a good 95% on the possession scale. Hitler was a captivating speaker who espoused the beauty of national socialism (which appealed to a nation that was depressed economically and spiritually). People (but not every German) allowed the holocaust because they blindly followed a political agenda. They stuffed the whole cake in their mouth and swallowed the cyanide pill inside it.

Back to the journalism side of things. What is my position on censorship? In the case of the south outlawing abolitionist papers in the south, it is bad. However, as I stated in my previous discourse--evil exists for good to overcome it. The censorship of abolitionist papers didn't succeed in preserving slavery. What is good and true will always float to the top of the murky waters--despite the weeds that would try to entangle it.

Mr. Schafer also covered the sedition acts (censorship of criticism of the government). I encourage criticism of the government, but it should be done unilaterally. I've grown very tired the media outlets being henchman of their preferred political parties. I'm tired of the Bill Mar and Rush Limbaugh (but truthfully I don't consider them journalists). I don't need the government to make a law censuring such fools when I can censor them myself; it's as simple as turning off the radio or changing the channel on the television. However, these days the places I can change the station to are dwindling. There is simply too much opinion and commentary in the news! My gift to the media audience is to be one less opinion in a very crowed argument.

Is that an ironical statement? Arent I writing an elaborate opinion right now? Allow me some audacity to say that I think I know what is good for journalism (maybe)--but solving the country's mess is above my pay-grade.

More discourses on ethics to follow!

A tought on ethics.

2011-01-17T22:58:00.001-08:00

On Wednesday I will be taking an ethics course in Journalism. In anticipation of said course, I thought it appropriate to explore what my ethics are (at least for this moment).
First, few truths are self evident in my mind. One truth is that humanity will never be unified by a single philosophy, and the attempt to do so is in vain. We can expound common ideals such as love, justice, and righteousness as our guiding principles, but our biases will always make us exclude some group of people from those principles.

Second, no polictical or religous philosphy can disprove another without doubt, but niether does this make them all invalid either.

In my short life I have undergone many religous transformations. I have prayed salat at the Masjid of the Colorado Islamic Society. I have sung in drum circles of pow-wows and danced with my Native bretheren--although my own native blood is debatable if not dubious. I have contemplated the teachings of buddha at my stepfather's behest and explored the depths of atheism with my mother. In presence of Mormon missionaries I've consumed glasses of whiskey while discussing the possibility of a new book of Christianity. In the future I intend to spend time at the synagogue and after that I will learn about one of the world's oldest religions--Hinduism. I have respect, nay, love, for all religions whose wisdom teaches love. I pray each night that all of the beautiful people I've known will find an afterlife of happiness and rest.

But allow me a flagrant hypocrisy. That all who are honest with one's self will discover a state of hypocrisy on many levels of thier beliefs is my third evident truth. My declaration of catholicism is paradoxal regarding my prior statements. I converted to the Church after watching my own blood pour out of me as Christ once watched his. I too was risen from death in a sense. I believe that Christ is physically present in my communion. I believe in the saints. I believe that Christ is the only way I can come to know God fully. But let me reiterate the "I" in my last statements. I accept that we may all be traveling to the same destination through different paths. Certainly the dogma of my church would reject my notion. I have no intention of converting the masses. I can only be of religious assistance to those who are sent to me by a higher source because they are were destined to be of the same faith as me. I deny all religous fanatism, but I don't deny it will always exist.

To touch briefly on my religous stance is important to elaborate on my political stance. Apply all of what I have just said about religion to politics with one exception--I renounce all political affiliation. But do not label me as an independent. I am politically agnostic. No matter what mode of politics is dominate at the time it will inevitably oppress someone. If I were to take sides with any one political philosophy then it would only be matter of time until I become committed to eliminating the voice of those who disagree with me. I experienced my own political fanatism in the last decade, and it is something I do not care to revisit. That is not to say I don't have political an ideology, and that those biases don't still surface. I am human. However, to become a fair journalist I believe I must set those biases aside. Just as a priest must put aside the desires for the flesh.

Allow me another hypocrisy: I am not saying that activist journalism has not done good for the world or that it should be eliminated. I do believe that journalism should seek to eliminate injustice, but that I am not sure that we can always be sure of what injustice truly is. Sometimes what is just to one group is an injustice to another.

What kind of journalist will I become? I believe some will label me a coward regarding my lack of political agenda. My desire is to document life and allow those more confident in there ability to judge right or wrong to interpret my witness. Therefore I hope my best known works of journalism will be my photography. I am sure from time to time I will disagree with thier interpretation. But like any artist who places thier work in the public eye--I must be able to shoulder that reality. Time will tell If I am that strong.
I have one agenda however, and allow this as my last hypocrisy; I want to convince people of the beauty that exists in life even in the most dire circumstances. I'd like to show the world that evil does exist, but there is no such thing as an entirely evil person. And that evil exists only to allow good to triumph over it. I do not speak of triumph in the sense of nations declaring victories in battles "for good", but instead at a much smaller level. I seek to write about the triumphs of the indvidual soul in the face of adversity. I seek to write about profound generosity found in the everyday person. I seek to write about things that will make you smile because every smile you give is a triumph over evil. I will also write of things which will bring tears to your eyes, because every act of compassion is also a victory against indifference.

Here is the most basic explanation of my ethics as a Journalist. Journalism is my chosen vocation--it is not a job. As I proceed into the media world I hope to live up to what I have written now. And as my witness I hope you will help me adhere to these ethics--even if you do not agree with them. There is a place for my personal opinion, religion and bias. That place is not in a newspaper, magazine or telecast.

Muffler Art

2010-12-02T23:13:00.000-08:00

Here's a few photos I've had published in Undercar Digest.

Upcoming Project

2010-12-02T23:04:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I've made any major postings on the blog. The last few months have been very busy, and thankfully full of opportunities to create art and observe life. I'm putting together a photobook with stories about the summer I spent Documenting life around Last Chance, Colorado. Here is a few pictures that will be apart of the final project.

Geared For Perfection (Published in Nov. issue of Undercar Digest)

2010-12-02T21:42:00.000-08:00

Hank and John Shetler TIG Weld
a flange onto a downpipe for a ’53 Ford Panel Truck.

It’s more like a research-and-development laboratory than the everyday exhaust shop; customers don’t go to Hanksville Hot Rods for a quick in-and-out job—they go to have their imagination brought to life. Some customers never step foot in the shop. They send a CAD (Computer Aided Design) diagram of their creation to the shop, and then have it shipped to them in the form of stainless steel. It may be more convenient for those customers to deal with the shop over the phone, but not meeting the shop’s owner is a definite loss. The diploma from Wyotech Institute says Henry Padilla, but he is known as Hank. And Hank is known for mandrel bent, TIG welded, stainless steel perfection. His goal is to give the customer “the last exhaust that car is ever going to need.”

Henry “Hank” Padilla in front of his RMD MB-350
programmable, numeric-controlled rotary draw mandrel bender.

The mandrel bender is being prepared for stainless steel pipe.
Bronze dies are used for stainless steel,
and chrome dies are used for aluminized steel.

Formerly a risk management consultant, Hank spent his free time modifying cars like many of his customers. He studied collision, refinishing, and specialty auto fabrication at the Wyoming Technical Institute. After graduation Hank and his wife Jennifer opened shop and turned a passion into a career. However, the purchase of a mandrel bender sent them down a path different from other exhaust shops. Mandrel bending requires a different mindset. Watching good exhaust technician use a press bender is like watching an artist sculpting a piece of pottery. That tech is in control of the material, and his hands are always in motion as he continually manipulates the pipe. Conversely, watching Hank operate a mandrel bender is like watching a rocket scientist prepare for launch. The stages of preparation are critical to the success of the project.

Inside the shop’s show room
a collection of u-bends and elbows
are ready for sale to walk in customers.

The first step before launch is the mockup stage. For more complicated designs, Hank will go to his scrap table and make a prototype. “Our scrap mandrel bend pile is almost worth a fortune,” Hank says pointing to a plethora of different degree bends in a variety of shapes and sizes. The mandrel bender is in complete control of the pipe and the technician cannot manipulate it on the fly. Therefore every element of the pipe must be mapped out in advance and the scrap pile helps choose the exact bends needed for the project. Hank compares it to learning to think in three dimensions. Next, he creates a bending card and enters it into the bender’s computer. Then he prepares the tooling and the pipe for action. The die on a Mandrel bender are designed to cater to the type of material as well as the diameter of the pipe, Hank selects a bronze die for the stainless steel pipe he is about to bend. The pipe must be well lubricated with special grease because mandrel bending pulls the pipe around the die as opposed to pressing it against it. “It all needs to be adjusted just right otherwise you compromise the quality of the bend,” Hank explains as he reaches the final step, pushing the button—blast off! The bend has now been created.

Hank discusses bending technique with John.

The precision of his mandrel bends are complemented by TIG welding. TIG welding is a slower method, but one that gives the tech greater control over the weld, and a cleaner weld in the long run. TIG also allows a greater diversity of metals to be joined together. Obsession with flawless seams is only the beginning. Flanges are carefully sanded down to make for perfectly flush mounting, and many of his components are water-jet cut for better fit. Hank also seeks quality in the products he doesn’t build himself such as Magnaflow tips and mufflers as well as Flowmaster mufflers. “The idea is to get it really, really good. Not just good enough,” Hank says. However the trade off for quality is time. It’s not unusual for an exhaust job to take days to complete.
One might ask, “why not just buy a mandrel kit from a manufacturer, take it to a shop, and have installed in a couple hours?” Hank loves that question. A typical customer at Hanksville Hot Rod’s may be considered a problem customer at other shops. They are the customer who has a show car with a lot of time, pride and money invested into it. The type of customer who’s car may have better living conditions than the customer’s spouse or children. Such a breed of customer will bring back their prized possession to a shop because the tips in the manufacturer’s mandrel kit are a quarter-inch off from being perfectly aligned. This is the type of customer Hanksville caters to. Others come to Hanksville because no mandrel kit has been made for their vehicle: a common occurrence for cars that have had many modifications or are completely custom-built. The shop also specializes in offering more exotic materials such as polished T-304 stainless steel and cold-rolled steel. Hanksville’s also services commercial customers in addition to the public.

Hank and John inspect the cut on a couple of freshly bent pipes.

The mandrel bender has opened up a niche market for mass producing elbows and other bends that are too uncommon for other manufacturers to bother with. Hank is especially proud of his extra tight radius u-bends (such as a three-inch u-bend with a three-inch radius). He also has a tube notcher and industrial bead roller which allow him to build complex pipes for his customers. The idea is not to try and compete with manufacturers but to supplement them instead. Hank feels the same way about other exhaust shops. His goal isn’t to run other shops out of business because he can profit from helping them instead, and so it’s common for Hanksville to build pipes for other shops to install. However, exhaust products are just the beginning of what Hanksville has to offer: competition quality roll cages are another one of their specialties.

Hanksville’s roll cages are manufactured with a rotary-draw bender that operates similar to a mandrel bender. Each roll cage is made with a commitment to quality and durability. Many of the shops roll cages feature an extended style bar to offer better protection from side impacts. A collection of dented door panels are on display in the shop; customers who have seen the cages tested in action have sent them back as a memento. One panel has a note written on it, “You’re my boy Hank.” It’s not just the production quality of the roll cages make them competition worthy, but the fact they’re designed by a certified SFI tech inspector with the NHRA. Hank’s concern with the performance of his cages is personal—he is present while some of his customers on the track.

The list of products continues ranging from custom built headers, sheet metal fabrication, lexan widow installation, lifts for junior dragsters, stands for glass tables and the list goes on. The diversity of product he offers comes from a large investment in production quality equipment, but Hank will be first to tell you it’s a low return investment. What’s the best investment he has made? The time he takes to educate the customer before they purchase his product. He is proud of his shops work and he wants the customer to be just as proud of their decision to do business with him. Their word of mouth is what keeps Hanksville Hot Rod’s staff passionate about their products and geared for perfection.

The Hanksville Hot Rod’s Crew Left to Right. Chris Nixon, Jennifer Padilla, Hank Padilla, John Shetler.

The Milk Biz is No Gravy Train

2010-05-11T21:32:00.000-07:00

BYERS—On the Ebert family farm a solitary grave lies in the lush green grass , the grave is testimony to the hardships of an agricultural life.

After being thrown from his horse, George S. Cary broke his neck and was buried on his land in 1907. Kres Ebert and his family are now breaking their backs on the same land.

Kres and Julie Ebert have three children; Meghan (6), Krayton (2), and an eight month old infant named Tessa. The Ebert’s also have 30 milk cows, 150 chickens, and 1,750 acres of demanding agricultural land that feeds a select clientele.

The Ebert family farm is unlike the average dairy for two major reasons; raw milk and real relationships. The farm offers a cow share program, and has three hundred customers the Eberts know on a personal level. They’ve been providing raw milk, beef, pork, and eggs for nearly five years.

Five years ago the Ebert’s bought a herd of milk cows from a dairy farmer who could take no more. “Take my cows, take my business, we’re done” is what the herd’s previous owner told Kres over the phone.

Cattle are challenging in general but the raw milk business makes life on the farm even more interesting. Raw milk is illegal to sell in stores or in any retail setting therefore the Ebert’s must be both farmer and grocer.

"We also have to focus on customer service because not only do we have to deal with the farming, we have to deal with the 300 customers, who want their milk now, don’t want their milk now…want it here and there” says Kres.

The farm receives an average of 60 e-mails a day and dozens of phone calls from customers. Kres’s brother, Kasey, delivers milk in a weathered Chevy to locations between Ft Collins and Denver.

The labor of a dairy is staggering, but raw milk dairies also have risks. Because the cow share program exploits a loop-hole in Colorado law raw milk farmers are weary of any legislation that can upset the status-quo.

Many raw milk dairies also make products such as cheese, yogurt, butter, and kefir for their customers—which is also illegal. Raw milk products are important to the operation because they are recommended as a stepping stone for people who’ve never consumed raw milk before. “Don’t drink the tequila, try the beer first” Kres chuckles.

The Ebert’s know of a fellow farmer who received a letter from the state ordering the dairy to stop producing. But the punishments for continuing such practices are unclear in Colorado. The Ebert’s are thankful they don’t live on the east coast where states such as Pennsylvania raid raw milk farms, and confiscate equipment.

Even eggs are not free from stringent government regulation. “They [the FDA] want you to wash the eggs in chlorine, like Clorox. I’m like, that doesn’t make any sense at all. I don’t want anything washed in Clorox. I don’t want to eat it” Kres says.

The beef and pork they sell also must jump through its own legal hoops. In order to sell the meat it must go to certain butcher to receive a USDA sticker. However, the Ebert’s could take their meat to any local licensed butcher if they were keeping the meat for themselves. The difference between the two butchers is distance, price, and stickers according to Kres.

“The government has been telling people what to eat, when to eat, and how to eat it for years” Kres says with an air of angst. “The food revolution has begun; this is the movement of our time.”

Even the government is a minor threat compared to the land itself. While driving out to check his cows Kres points to a wooded area on his property. To the unwitting observer, the trees appear to follow a river bed. Kres explains that the trees are a result of a massive flood in the 1960’s. The water was 30 feet deep and a mile wide in some areas.

Today the Ebert’s worry about the land drying up. “Irrigation is uncertain at best out here”, Kres says. Nearby the farm a well has gone dry recently, and the cost to re-tap the well would total nearly 50,000 dollars.

Water is welcome to keep the grass lush for the Ebert herd, but storms pose their own threats. The remnants of two destroyed buildings are evidence of severe winds from a thunder storm last month. The Ebert’s believe it could have been a tornado, and feared they could have lost their home.

As dangerous as life a can be at times the Ebert’s are committed because they are proud of their produce. Kres doesn’t hesitate to brag about the quality of his milk compared to pasteurized milk in grocery stores.

“It used to be milk. Then they fried it and now it’s not milk anymore—it’s just white water.”

The Bullrider

2010-05-11T21:06:00.000-07:00

FT LUPTON, CO--It's the third bull of her rodeo career, and Lauren Young (16) plans to cover many more.

Young is the only girl in the group of junior bullrider's that practice at Byran Olson's bucking chutes on his ranch outside Ft. Lupton.

Young and her father Rick pose before her high school banquet. She attends Mile High Academy a Seventh Day Adventist school. While she is dressed for a dancing, but no such activity will be allowed by her religious dogma. But with baited breath the Youngs allow their daughter to ride bulls .

"I guess I am not the average girl. I hate shopping and doing girly things, I'd much rather hang with the guys- play football, go muddin, or other out doorsy things-I love sports and gettin dirty. I grew up at a summer camp- my dad was the manager there and I volunteered as a wrangler during the summers, that was an amazing experience.

Young may be a rookie bullrider, but she shows veteran calm in the bucking chute. Her eyes reveal focus and determination whenever she is near the arena.

The bulls will never embrace the presence of their spurring adversaries, but Lauren will have to deal with a different antagonist-tradition. Bullriding is traditionally a male dominated sport in rodeo, and only time will tell what the future of rodeo holds for Lauren Young. She relies on her faith to overcome any obstacle that may come.

"I am a Christian and I love God with all my heart, it's challenging at times but those challenges bring me closer to God."

Country Bar

2010-04-06T20:15:00.000-07:00

Denver's cow-town days may be over, but in Fort Collins country is still going strong at the Sundance Saloon off Highway 14. It's the only steakhouse, saloon, dance-hall, and rodeo area you'll find within a forty-five minute radius of Denver. The Sundance features REAL Bull Riding in the back, a mechanical bull inside the bar, and a good-time in between.
Dancers who like to two-step across an open dancer floor had better get to the Sundance early. By closing time, the Saloon's dance floor is pummeled by a large crowd.

"Colorado's Country Angel" Ashley Buchart performed on April 3rd. It was her first gig at the Sundance,

Buchart performed music from her debut album "Trouble in a Pair of Shorts" such as "Honky Tonk Fun".

Chelsey Strode (right) and Janae Rainer (left) catch a breath and a beer after line dancing.

How about a dance with the toughest male to wear spots at Sundance? Kayne Boswell partnered up with the Bull Corp. mechanical bull, and put on a display. Boswell considers the mechanical bull child's play; he rides the real deal in the arena behind the bar. Boswell will be riding bulls in the upcoming Wild Bunch Summer Bullriding Series beginning in May. But, the mechanical bull isn't just for real bullriders...

Ryan Valero gave his best to hold on for eight seconds. It was his first attempt at taking on the bull, and going to a country bar. "Five years ago, if someone told me I'd a ride a mechanical bull I'd say 'F that'. But, I'm not going to lie...it was fun".

Many rookie mechanical bullriders needed a drop of courage from Kathryn Beley, "Shot Girl". Beley's holsters are loaded with liquid fire. She roams the bar looking for customers to sling a shot to. You can go to the bar or the bar will come to you at the Sundance, so it's easy to see the world from staggered perspective. However, customers who don't want to end the night with a road-side sobriety check have three options: Get a designated driver, use Sundance's free shuttle service, or get a ride home with the Sundance Stagecoach. For more information visit thier website at http://www.sundancesteakhouse.com/

Grandfather-Grandson

2010-04-03T23:19:00.000-07:00

Over the years, Bill Johnson became familiar with many different looks from people who passed him by. There were looks of disgust, mistrust, and even pity for a man who's exterior had been weathered down by years of construction followed by bouts of homelessness. But, once a year Johnson experiences a different look from those passing by. The look of those who witness the exterior of a hard man being eclipsed by gentleness while in the presence of his grandson.

Bill Johnson lives in Paulden Arizona, a town a few miles west of Prescott. He endures solitude year long except when he receives a visit his family, and the grandson named after him.

The public park in Prescott, Arizona is not a place Bill visits often. Bill was homeless in Prescott until he was able to receive housing at the Veterans Affairs hospital. Generally the park reminds him of sleeping in the back of a 1992 Toyota pickup truck, but with little William those memories are far away.

Not far from the home Bill bought through the USDA home loan program is a small canyon with a river. Skipping stones like a carefree child is not an activity many can imagine Bill doing.

A week long visit, and then Bill goes back to being just an anonymous man to a largely upper middle class population in Prescott. But, those who saw him during that week know there is more to him than his callused skin and stoic expression.

Yoga For The People

2010-04-03T22:37:00.000-07:00

In a society where self help gurus are making millions of dollars to give people peace of mind, one gets the impression that even good advice isn't free anymore. But, there are a few giving souls left in the community who offer help for the satisfaction of benefiting humanity. Kate Ross, founder of Yoga For The People, is one of those giving souls.
Ross was inspired to start sharing Yoga after her husband had been diagnosed with cancer. Ross had worked in the social worked industry, and was unhappy with the fact Yoga was not an affordable option for treatment. Since then, Ross offers Yoga classes to the underprivileged youth at Denver public housing projects. Classes are also offered at Denver Health Medical Center Tuesday and Thursday evenings from 5:30 to 6:30.

Ross leads a class at Denver Health Medical Center. Students are employees of the hospital who use yoga as a way to maintain balance in a stressful work environment. Patients also attend the yoga session. The doors are open to anyone who wishes to attend, donations to the program are encouraged but not required. Ross envisions having Yoga for the People having a facility where classes would be offered throughout the day. The facility would also serve as a center to educate new yoga teachers, and to support active ones. Before that goal is accomplished, Ross hopes to be able to provide child care for her classes to make the program even more accessible.

Classes are designed to accommodate people of all levels of ability. Ross teaches a "gentle style of Vinyasa yoga, which is a form of yoga that links all postures together". However, advanced yogis have ample opportunity to use postures and positions that suit them best. A healthy amount of improvisation flows with the different energy of each class.

Ross guides her students to reach for their higher self, and to let go of any emotional obstacles.

"Yoga is a gift...you give it to people", Ross says. It's a philosophy that could turn the multi-billion dollar "self-help" industry on it's head. Because a different perspective on the purpose of teaching, Ross has greatly impacted a number of lives. Student testimonials on the Yoga for the People's website are evidence even a stalwart skeptic can't ignore.

Wok Down to West Colfax's Best

2010-03-30T12:09:00.000-07:00

Nestled in the Westland Plaza shopping center, on Colfax Ave and Robb St, Chinese Gourmet has been serving the Lakewood area since 1995. Quality food and warm hospitality keeps bringing customers in, even in rough economic times.

Amy Leu immigrated to the United States from Taipei, Taiwan in 1985. Since then she has served the Denver Metro area with traditional recipes. Previous to her current location, Amy operated restaurants at Southwest Plaza, and the 16th street Mall.

Amy's son, Kevin Yein, also hails from Taipei. Kevin helps the family business Friday through Sunday. Kevin has also started pursuing a business degree at Red Rocks Community College.

Orders are fresh out of the kitchen, unlike chain chinese resturants where food sits in steam trays of hours.

Customers can pick up to-go or get a delivery, but those who don't dine in are missing out.

Those who dine in can sample a variety of imported Chinese beers, plum wine, or Saki.

Chinese Gourmet · (303) 238-4523

1545 Quail St Ste 1 · Lakewood, Co 80215

Rock! Paper! Scissors!

2010-03-20T20:27:00.000-07:00

DENVER--Every third Tuesday of the month, Bands For Lands hosts a battle royale at the the 3 Kings Tavern. Proceeds go to Bands for Lands goal of promoting conservation in Colorado.

The RPS entry fee is five dollars, contestsants check in at 7PM. Specators pay a 2 dollars at the door. If RPS action is too much to handle, one can take cover behind one of the tavern's pool tables or pinball machines.

Renee Na'Vi throws a rock. Melanie King referees the battle.

The brackets fill as challengers fall, and champions move forward. Melanie King creates the next match up.

The line is drawn, then the referee shouts "engage", and the action begins. Best two out of three, then best three out of five determine the round's winner.

Cash prizes are given to the top three contestants. After playing a few rounds of RPS one can end up paying for a few rounds at the bar. Jeremy Gregory, founder of the event, annouces Kirstin Swallows as champion. Swallows walked away with enough cash to buy a round for all her friends.

Ranchers and Farmers are asked to return millions of dollars to Colorado Department of Revenue.

2010-03-17T07:28:00.000-07:00

Hundreds of Colorado ranchers and farmers tried to protect their land for generations to come, but are now threatened with losing everything.

Jillane Hixson, a rancher outside Lamar, is one of over three hundred Colorado ranchers and farmers being asked to return massive tax incentives received from donating conservation easements.

Hixson put her story on YouTube. “My family came here in 1903”, Hixson told viewers she was the fourth generation to farm her family’s land. One hundred years later, in 2003, the Hixson family farm suffered crop failures due to drought. Hixson was in dire straights, “We owed everyone” she tells viewers. The conservation easement program seemed like the solution. Now Hixson says she’d have to sell her farm to repay the money she used to save her farm, “It would bankrupt us”.

To procure an easement, an owner must pay several thousand dollars. The costs include a 10,000 stewardship fee to the Land Trust the easement is donated to, and fees to obtain property appraisals and geological and biological surveys. Once enacted, a conservation easement forfeits the right to develop or subdivide a property. However, in the case of agricultural land, the owner can continue to farm or ranch. The easement dramatically reduces property value, but Colorado offers a tax credit up to 375,000 dollars to compensate for the loss.

“It’s not a subsidy”, John Swartout with the Colorado Coalition of Land Trusts explains. “It’s the same as me donating a piece of art to the metropolitan museum. The government is compensating me for that gift”, Swartout said. Land trusts are the entities which receive the donation of the conservation easement, and then are responsible for ensuring the land remains in its natural state.

Most ranchers and farmers do not have income large enough to use the conservation easement tax credits. Therefore the tax credit was made transferrable so that tax credit brokers could sell the credits (for a commission) to wealthy buyers such as Phil Anschutz or Denver Nuggets players (at a discount). The tax credit buyer can then claim a 375,000 tax deduction on their income tax, even thought they paid less than 375,000 to the landowner. Landowners seldom get the full amount of the tax credit they were eligible for.

Hixson saw the conservation easement as a godsend to save her farm, but it later turned into a nightmare. “We spent a good deal of money to make sure we had dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’ so that we were in complete compliance with the state program”. What happened to her next is not an isolated incident, but one shared by hundreds of farmers and ranchers who used the program.

“In 2004 we received a letter from the state of Colorado and then subsequently the IRS that our land had zero value, that our conservation easement was invalid and that our appraisal was invalid”, Hixson explains in a wounded demeanor. She, like many others, began receiving demands for repayment of the tax incentives with penalties and interest. Recently Hixson’s wages have been garnished by the IRS. Landowners, including Hixson, are also being sued by the tax credit buyers. The buyers can no longer claim the incentive because the state says the easements are invalid.

Properties need current appraisals to determine value prior to the easement to decide the value of the landowner’s donation. Several appraisers were fingered by the state as overvaluing properties easements were placed on. The State is disputing lands that included gravel, water, and developmental value into the appraisal. The state says the lands only had agricultural value.

Bill Milenski is one of the appraisers Director Erin Toll, of the Colorado Division of Real Estate, had named as overvaluing numerous properties. Milenski’s appraisal license was revoked on May 1st 2008.

In 2008, Toll began a sweeping investigation into appraisals done on conservation easements. In southeastern Colorado, easements held by Noah Land Conservation and Greenland’s Reserve came under scrutiny. The number of questionable easements held by the two land trusts totaled nearly two hundred—one of which belonged to Jillane Hixson.Since 2008 a number of reforms were enacted to ensure future appraisals would be thoroughly reviewed by the Division of Real Estate before a conservation easement could be finalized. Colorado House Bill 08-1353 created state oversight and clear guidelines to keep the conservation easement program from being used to defraud the state. The bill also required land trust to be certified by the state in order to hold easements, a provision aggressively pursued by John Swartout.

Despite the reforms, many of the landowners are unsatisfied. Landowners are angry for being held responsible for a program that had so many flaws prior to 2008. They also didn’t understand why they were being held responsible for mistakes made by state licensed appraisers. Allegations of fraud still lingered, causing angst for many landowners.

“To prove fraud they have to prove intent. A mistake is not fraud”, Rancher J.D. Wright says. Wright paid over twenty thousand dollars to place an easement on his ranch 35 miles east of Pueblo, but because of the controversy, he cannot sell his tax credits.

Wright is also the President of Land Owners United LLC. The group was formed by southeastern Colorado ranchers and farmers to fight for their land and vindication. Wright says that LOU members never received the second appraisals the state says it used to determine which easements were overvalued. Wright also says that second appraisals that the landowners turned into the state, to back up the original appraisals, were disregarded.

“Value is what they are holding over our head, but they can not prove value” J.D. Wright says echoing many LOU members. In the case of many southeastern Colorado easements, gravel was one item taken into account when appraising land. Landowners were told their property had mineral assets such as gravel and sand which could be sold to mining companies. The same reasoning was applied to easements on land that had water. While the landowner was sold on this rationale, others weren’t.

“If someone tells you what you own is a thousand times more expensive than you think it is. Do you do it? They [landowners] should have known” John Swartout says. Swartout also added that gravel companies could have bought the land and the mineral rights for less. Jillane Hixson says that would only be true if the land were for sale. A landowner could retain the land and sell the mineral rights or the lands resources for a profit.

Landowners were told their land had little to no conservation value for a variety of reasons. One of the reasons cited in Hixson’s case was that her property was not being threatened by development. In her YouTube video, the camera pans around her farm to show a golf course nearby, and a large housing development. “We are baffled on how the state can begin to say this is an invalid easement.”

Much of the conservation value is in the eyes of the beholder. The Division of Real Estate contends southeastern Colorado ranches, farms, and open space have little developmental value. According to John Swartout, Nature Conservancy (a state certified land trust) considers the short-grass prairie in southeast Colorado a top priority to protect

A Colorado Open Records request was sent to the Division of Real Estate by Land Owners United. The group wanted to find out exactly what was improper about their appraisals, specifically those done by Bill Milenski.

“First they told us to come pick up the thousand page file…then they told us they file had been lost” J.D. Wright says. Later Land Owners United (LOU) was denied their request. Land Owners United legal team Mark MacDonnell and Paul Zogg requested a CORA hearing to bring the Division of Real Estate to court.

Jillane Hixson, also a LOU member, could not attend the hearing at the Denver County Courthouse. Although she was in the same building on February 26th 2010—she was at her own IRS hearing. A dozen other LOU members were in attendance, including rancher Ed Hiza who testified about the long complicated process to enact a conservation easement.

DORE Director Erin Toll was subpoenaed to testify at the hearing. When questioned by the LOU legal team Toll admitted that she did not recall reviewing any of the six CORA requests submitted by LOU. Toll named Marcia Waters, Director of Investigations and Compliance for DORE, as being in charge of responding to the requests.

“Would it surprise you to know that LOU received no documents”, Mark MacDonnell asked Waters regarding the first CORA request submitted. “There was difficulty finding one set of files”, Waters later responded.

Waters was questioned by MacDonnell about CORA definitions regarding sensitive information, to which she responded “I don’t have the definition committed to memory”.

MacDonnell later questioned why files weren’t given with sensitive items redacted. The Division of Real Estate’s legal team, Colorado Assistant Attorney General Lisa Brennan-Friemann and Senior Assistant Attorney General Jack Wesoky, contended that redaction is a choice not a requirement.

J.D. Wright believes that Land Owners United will get a favorable ruling from Judge Shelia Rappaport. Wright believes if LOU receives the information it seeks, then it can make a stronger case to prove its member’s lands were not fraudulently appraised. The hearing is set to reconvene March 26th, 2010.

As the CORA hearing plays out, other solutions to finalize the easement problem are being explored.

John Swartout believes that the people who aggressively promoted the easement program to desperate landowners should be held responsible; “Their [landowners] way of life was in peril. On the gravel stuff that was a thousand percent inflated they believed something that wasn’t true. These people [promoters] were running around saying you got to do this! These people should pay. They victimized those people [the landowners].”

According to LOU, a lawsuit is currently being drafted to sue the promoters connected to land trusts such as Noah Conservation Trust and Greenland’s Reserve, but litigation time is estimated to be three to five years. The lawsuit is being pursued by Jay Winner, the head of the Lower Arkansas Valley Water Conservation District.

Governor Bill Ritter has proposed a mediation process where former judge Bill Neighbors would be hired to work an agreement between the state and landowners. However, many view this as the state settling on a lesser amount of money, not clearing landowners of fraud.

State Representative Wes Mckinley and Speaker of the House Terrance Carroll have sponsored a bill that LOU’s board of directors strongly support. House Bill 10-1169 would give amnesty to easements done before reforms were passed in 2008.

House Bill 10-1169 is set to go before the state finance committee. Land Owners United’s newsletter gives an ominous feeling the impending committee hearing, “First committee to vote on HB-1169,… if it fails with this committee,…THE END!”

Many landowners have been fighting against the states accusations since 2003, a battle that has waged as long as the war in Iraq. Jillane Hixson has endured the struggle with added complications. Recently she was laid off her job of 28 years, and has been diagnosed with breast cancer. She looks to proposed house bill 10-1169 with hope to see a resolution soon.

Shop 2.0: Social Networking

2010-01-31T15:43:00.000-08:00

The business card, it’s been standard issue for generations of business owners. Shop owners buy business cards by the thousands, set hundreds out on their counters, and hope customers will hand dozens out to their friends and family. A few cards get pinned to message boards in hopes they will be spotted amidst pictures of lost puppies and ads for weight loss products. What if there was a way to hand a business card to one customer, and have the information instantly broadcasted to that customer’s friends and family? Update your business card to a Facebook.com business profile, and it can be possible.

People who are more accustomed to a wrench than a mouse in their hand often have two conceptions about the social networking site Facebook; it’s for kids, and that sort of technology isn’t applicable to a muffler and brake business. Shop owners with teenagers may be well acquainted with Facebook, their teenager may be spending hours on the site as opposed to doing their homework. While it’s true there are a large number of youngsters on the social networking site, the more surprising truth, according to insidefacebook.com, is that over 45% of the sites members are twenty-six years old and over. That’s 45% of 350,000 million active users according to facebook.com’s latest statistics. With numbers that large, odds are the customer standing at the service desk, also surfs facebook.com from their computer desk.

Social networking sites give shop owners a unique opportunity to get found on the internet, and to connect with potential customers. The first step is visiting www.facebook.com and creating a free business page. The business page provides a space to advertise shop information such as its phone number, address, and hours of operation. When potential customers use a search engine to look up a muffler shop in, for example, Ogden Utah, they will see the Facebook page listed for Reed Muffler and Brake. If a user clicks on that link, and has a Facebook account, they will be taken to Reed Muffler and Brakes’ business page. On the page is the shop’s information, a list of their 85 fans, and the latest posting; “we have brand new welded polished stainless thrush mufflers in stock!!!!!!!!!!!!!! come check them out”. The business page acts as a salesman for the shop, showing that other people were satisfied enough with their service to become fans. It also works like a billboard, allowing the owner to advertise specials to customers who have chosen to be fans. The page also does something that the business card never could, once a customer becomes a fan of the shop on Facebook, their choice is instantly broadcast to all of the customer’s friends and family.

Shops that choose to use the Facebook business page should be aware of a few hazards. First, Facebook only allows a person to have one account. So if a shop owner already has a personal profile, then they will have to give it up so the shop can have a profile. Second, randomly sending invitations to Facebook members would be a violation of the Facebook user agreement. Shops must entice people to become fans of the page. Offering a discount on future services is one way to create a long list of fans page, “become our fan on Facebook and get ten-percent off your next brake service” could even be printed on those out dated business cards. Neglect is largest hazard to avoid on a Facebook business page because pages that do not get updated will not be revisited by fans. Updating is not as tedious as it may sound. The user friendly software on Facebook gives shops a showcase to highlight jobs they are proud of, which would be an excellent choice to update the page with. Shops can create photo albums on their page highlighting custom exhaust jobs, before and after pictures, and even the occasional celebrity who had work done at the shop. Any time a shop adds pictures or posts information on the page, the new update will be broadcast to all the fans of the site. Again, not only does updating with these items keep fans paying attention to the page, but it can also work as a sales tool.

As with all marketing techniques, Facebook can only give shops back, what the shops put into it. Business cards are a passive way of spreading a shops name around, whereas social networking can be dynamic, and even fun. A Facebook page costs nothing to the shop owner except an investment of time, and with time shop owners might come to understand why their teenagers spend so much time social networking online.

NIF Defector

2009-11-11T09:25:00.001-08:00

DENVER--The National Ignition Facility's (NIF) quest to create clean nuclear energy with laser technology has gained public support from leaders such as California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. But one of the scientists who worked for the program fears it may lead to a new weapon of mass destruction.
While Governor Schwarzenegger is touting NIF as a groundbreaking technology for clean energy, Jessica Taves hopes it is groundbreaking only in the metaphorical sense.

Taves worked as a photonics technician who specialized in perfecting the optic technology the NIF's laser lenses use. Taves left the project after what she described as a conflict of conscience. She acknowledged that, if successful, the project could power a city for months with just one fission reaction. But should the reaction not remain stabilized, Taves says "Livermore, Sacramento, and San Francisco would burn."

Taves expressed reservations to a panel of journalism students at Metro State College. One of her major concerns was the role the government would playing the projects future. During her time as a technician, she held top-secret clearance and got the impression the military had become interested in the project for its more destructive applications. She also felt uneasy about the low public profile the project kept, and the need-to-basis many employees worked under. "It's fascinating work, but being tested every six months for beryllium poisoning is a tough, tough thing", she said with an uncomfortable laugh.

Previously, Taves' work in optics had been directly applied to the Global Predator Aerial Drone, used to deliver missiles in places such as Iraq and the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. "I may have not been the one who pulled the trigger, but my optics have killed a lot of people", Taves said. Her fears of the government "seeing the power" behind the NIF are reminiscent to Robert J. Oppenheimer, one of the fathers of the atomic bomb, who said, "The optimist thinks this is the best of all possible worlds. The pessimist fears it is true."

War Photographer

2009-11-10T13:14:00.000-08:00

I felt great apprehension as Mr. Wyotkins announced that the class would be watching a documentary about a war correspondent. Seeing horror through the lens of a photojournalist is no pleasure, but I understand the necessity.
I didn't have to speak her language, to know what the woman felt as she climbed out of a military truck in Kosovo; it registered immediately that tears in her eyes were for the burnt out complex, that used to be her home. It didn't take long for my eyes to tear up either; seeing children throwing flowers on body bags was enough to get me. I wanted to close my eyes, but I forced myself to endure. The photojournalist, Jim, had a mission--and to endure was the least respect I could show him.

What I couldn't respect was the indifference of some of my classmates. The people who committed the acts of war on screen were no more callous than a student who would rather chat on facebook instead of giving a moments notice to the suffering of others. I wanted to throw their laptop across the room, and force them to look at the woman wailing as her son was being buried. Before the modern age of journalism people couldn't help but be ignorant of the atrocities being committed miles away from them, but for this student to choose ignorance is astounding. How would Jim feel watching these student have the film in front of her, and deliberately ignoring it? Would it dishearten him in anyway? Can I invest so much of my soul into journalism knowing that time after time my stories will fall on deaf ears?

The documentary moved from Kosovo to Rwanda, and my anger continued to intensify. Piles of machetes stained with blood, half rotted corpses of children, and people dying in the refugee camps--it was a glimpse into hell. I saw the look on the face of one of my classmates, it said "why don't we do something about this?" I agree, but what can we do? Saddam Hussein gassed thousands of Kurdish people, and left their bodies to rot in ditches. The United States ended Saddam's oppressive regime, and now my classmates believe we should have never went to Iraq. Some say the war has only made life in Iraq worse. Is an open conflict worse than a government that would gas it's own citizens? Certainly talking to these oppressive governments doesn't do anything? The UN couldn't beg the Hutu to stop the fighting. So what actions do these pictures ask us to take? Or can it only serve to give us perspective?

The scenes of poverty in Jakarta made me realize how spoiled we are in this nation.The homeless in Jakarta are different than the homeless who live in the United States. In Jakarta the destitute have jobs but still cannot afford homes, they are not dysfunctional members of society. I saw pictures of beautiful families living in the gravel pits between the railroad tracks. One man had four kids in that gravel pit, but only one arm and one leg. That man is nothing like the able bodied twenty-year-old who asks me for change each day at the gas station. The children in Jakarta scavenge the dump each day looking for scraps to sell, they earn about 85 cents a day. Many more of these people die of malnutrition and common illnesses daily. Then I think of the politics in this country and am sickened. We talk as if our conditions are the same as Jakarta. Are thousands of Americans dying in the street because we don't have universal health care? We act as if the swine Flu is the black death.The media describes the conservatives in this country as if they are the Hutu people in Rwanda. How can people be led to believe this country is in a crisis when they see the real crisis's taking place around the world. Maybe its becuase spend to much time on facebook, instead of facing reality.

Football and Dementia

2009-10-09T21:04:00.000-07:00

Head injuries are not uncommon for National Football League (NFL) players, but those athletes’ risk for dementia is uncommonly high according to a recent study conducted by the University of Michigan’s Institute for Social Research.
The study, commissioned by the NFL, concluded that former NFL players are 19 times more likely than the nation population to be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, dementia, and other memory disorders.

The University of Michigan’s findings were similar to other studies done independently concerning former NFL players and the lasting effects of head injuries. For its part, the NFL denied that its former players were suffering from cognitive disorders due to playing in the league, “The survey makes no link between concussions and memory disorders,” an NFL statement said on Wednesday.

The chairmen of the West Virginia University’s neurosurgery department, Dr. Julian Bailes, told the New York Times that he believed the new study “is a game changer—the whole debate, the ball’s now in the NFL’s court.” Dr. Bailes is also a former physician for the Pittsburgh Steelers, and conducted his own research on the issue four years ago with similar results.

Greg Aiello, a spokesman for the NFL, questioned the study’s use of phone surveys to gather information. Aiello told HealthDay that, “[phone surveys are] not necessarily reliable. It’s self-reporting and in the case of some, the wife was answering, because the guy wasn’t in great shape’. Aiello said that the NFL has taken measures to prevent head injuries to its players, and has worked to treat such injuries better.

Aiello indicated that the NFL would take the study into consideration, but that the NFL would also conduct further research. “memory disorders affect many people who never played football or other sports,” Aiello told The New York Times. “We are trying to understand it as it relates to our retired players.”

Some NFL players, such as Sean Morey of the Arizona Cardinals are advocating research relating to head injuries and cognitive disorders. Many believe that the NFL is the role model for other football programs, regarding player welfare. Morey told The New York Times that “this is about more than us—it’s about the high school kid 2011 who might not die on the field because he ignored the risks of concussions.”

The Age of Convergent Media and “Swiss Army Journalists”

2009-09-15T21:06:00.000-07:00

“It’s the end of the world as we know it”, rock group R.E.M. declared in 1987, and in the media world these lyrics were prophetic.
In 1987 newspapers, television broadcasts, and magazines were major competitors for the information and advertising markets. Not far from 1987 three communications giants would rise to join the competition; cell phone technology, the internet, and cable television. Today individuals are accessing news and information in ways unimaginable in 1987, and it has changed the world. Cell Phones and laptops with wireless internet give users access to nearly all types of media from nearly any location; they can read The Wall Street Journal online, watch Bill O’Reilly clips on YouTube, get podcasts of Rush Limbaugh’s radio show, and then discuss their opinions on a variety of blogs and social networking sites. Radio, television, and print news outlets are now incorporating both old and new technology under large media corporations. The media corporations are utilizing the digital world to ensure that users can access their programs (and their sponsor’s advertisements) on a variety of formats. This is the age of Convergent Media.

Digital technology has made information access apart of the “instant gratification” culture; readers are unlikely to wait 24 hours for today’s big story on tomorrow’s paper. Moreover, many viewers aren’t able to fit news broadcasts in their schedule. The updated information of digital media is choice for those with access. If it’s not preferred, then it’s the most convenient medium for a number of people who find themselves in front of a computer at work, school, or carry cell phone with internet access on their person. Information is not only becoming more accessible but it’s also becoming personalized. The new era of Web 2.0 is creating an internet with a plethora of options users can access. Not only do conservatives and liberals find their prospective represented on cable networks and websites such as Fox News or MSNBC, but a libertarian ,Asian American, single mother can find a her interests represented in one of many blogs online—or she can start her own.

With the proliferation of digital technology the rise of Citizen Journalists has impacted the media scene. Recent events in the world, such as the Mumbai massacre and student uprisings in Iran, have been covered by citizens with camera phones and Twitter accounts. Any person with internet access can create a news blog, and many wonder if citizen journalism will put the professionals out of business. While it’s true that news corporations are cutting back on staff and production, it’s also true that advertisers will continue to sponsor the most used and respected news sources. Citizen journalists will be able to attract narrow audiences, whereas the mainstream media will have the capitol to attract broader audiences. However, the success of alternative media and mainstream media will depend on the refined journalistic abilities instilled at universities.

The age of convergent media demands journalists who are akin to Swiss Army Knives; it is no longer adequate to be skilled in just one aspect, but convergent journalists must posses a variety of tools. However, most Universities do not offer a degree program for “Swiss Army Journalists”, where can students turn for the competitive edge? Enter the Individualized Degree Program (IDP) at the Metro State College of Denver (MSCD) as an option for “creating tomorrow’s degrees today”. By allowing students to select courses from a variety of disciplines they build a multifaceted degree suited to the challenge of today’s media job market. Gary Johnson, a 23 year old student attending MSCD, felt compelled to choose this program; “I was researching journalism jobs online and I found that many small newspapers were only posting entry level positions for reporters who could double as photographers, and some postings also required basic web knowledge”. After consulting with MSCD journalism professors Ken Bisio, Bruce Kennedy, and the Department Chair Kip Wotkyns, Gary was encouraged to investigate the IDP. “After learning about the IDP process I was really excited…I’m putting a degree together that incorporates traditional journalism courses such as Investigative Reporting and Photojournalism, with communication courses such as Multimedia Production, and speech courses such as Broadcast Writing.” Gary also included public relations courses, “I think having diverse training in different media styles will give me the best chance of finding a job after my degree is completed”. A “Swiss Army Journalist” may be a “jack of all trades” in various production aspects (i.e. web, video, and photography), but they will be masters of the writing trade. By learning reporting, broadcast, blog, public relations, and print writing styles these journalists will be well rounded communicators. The job market for entry level journalists in the age of convergence is highly competitive, but this does not deter Mr. Johnson, “My step-father has worked at the Denver Newspaper Agency as a union press operator for nearly thirty years, and I’ve heard a lot of gossip about the closing of the Rocky Mountain News and the shaky future of the Denver Post. I know it’s going to be tough, but I think the work ethic I picked up as a Marine has prepared me for the challenge, and I know that my personality and the degree I’m pursuing will make me tough competition for other students entering the job market”.

“Swiss Army Journalists” with web ability are finding a world of opportunity in both traditional and alternative media sources. Web 2.0 applications such as blogs, wikis, and social networking sites have proven that savvy journalists and communicators can capitalize on the entrepreneurial possibilities of the internet. Advertisers are partnering with blogs, wikis, and social networking sites as they prove that thousands to millions of viewers access their site each day. Journalists who saw a niche for an underreported subject have bypassed publishers, editors, and investors by creating their own blogs highlighting those subjects, and through programs such as Google Adsense these freelance journalists are profiting from their ventures. Blogs that have a large readership and a reputation for accuracy are becoming legitimized by the traditional media sources such radio broadcasts. AM Radio hosts, such as Hugh Hewitt and Ed Schultz, often use blogs as sources for their programming, and interview the blog writers from time to time. These blogs move beyond the supplementary income Google Adsense provides, and allows freelance journalists to make a living. Similar to the westward pioneers of the United States in the 19th century, Web 2.0 has an adventurous spirit; it is a place where independent thinkers operate without heading criticisms of traditional minds. Web 2.0 pioneers can amass fortunes, scratch out an earnest living, or have the satisfaction of “giving it a shot”. There are no guarantees for success in the Web 2.0 frontier of convergent media, but many are flocking to it.

Blogs are booming, YouTube is posting thousands of videos each day, social networking sites are making private information increasingly public, and the traditional media is monitoring these new sources for stories. This means there is an increasing amount of exposure and scrutiny for corporations, public officials, and celebrities. “Swiss Army Journalists” with public relations skills can market themselves as the ultimate investment for those with an image to protect. “Swiss Army Journalists” will be able to utilize the internet, radio, television, and print media to their employer’s advantage. Web 2.0 applications such as MySpace have allowed upstart music bands to attract audiences cheaply; it has also been a resource for groups to organize events such as protests or fundraisers. The internet has proven effective in posting press releases on company or government websites. The Division of Wildlife, for example, can post up-to-date information on a wildfire for the public and the media to utilize. Likewise, companies can post infomercials, tours for investors, or announcements on their websites and YouTube.

Future journalists like Gary Johnson at MSCD may be trained to carry a camera, set up a website, or stand in front of a television audience, but one fundamental trait remains the same for journalists past and present—their goal. Objectively illuminating the human condition, and providing the facts the world makes its choices by, will always be the goal no matter how technology changes the way it is accomplished. “I have a deep desire to bare witness to the world and write about those who are overlooked. I don’t think a career grading high school English papers will satisfy that. Journalism is a career I can be proud of.” Mr. Johnson said when asked about his career choice. The age of media convergence is witnessing mainstream media sources being bought by a small group of corporations. The line between Infotainment and information gets blurred as celebrity deaths and American Idol updates dominate newscasts and articles. Perhaps the greatest benefit for those who choose to be “Swiss Army Journalists” is their unique ability to preserve the integrity of their craft. These Journalists have the tools to start their own alternative media outlets where ethics can be upheld—should they choose to do so. Or, as highly employable professionals they can defend ethics within the corporate world of the media; just many of their predecessors did before them.

NYT Journalist Freed

2009-09-10T07:13:00.000-07:00

Helicopters cut through the Afghani morning sky carrying Special Forces to the aide of kidnapped New York Times reporter Stephen Farrell.
Farrell and his Afghan translator, Sultan Munadi, were taken hostage by Taliban fighters near the village of Kunduz four days ago. A British soldier was killed during the intense firefight, as was Munadi: "He was three seconds away from safety, " Farrell said "He just walked into a hail of bullets". Farrell took cover in a nearby ditch, and was soon rescued.

The beginning of the two journalists' ordeal was nearly as chaotic as its ending. Farrell and Munadi were driving to the wreckage of two fuel trucks bombed in the NATO air strike. The journalists and their driver were discussing the anger of the villagers and the possibility of being kidnapped by the Taliban. Militants have targeted journalists previously; New York Times reporter David Rohde, who also worked with Munadi, had also been captured by the Taliban earlier this year, but escaped. While in Kunduz the Farrell and Munadi were interrupted during an interview by the sound or rifle fire. Moments later scared villagers announced the approach of ten Taliban with automatic rifles. During the panic the journalists and their driver were separated, after fleeing the area the driver received a phone call--the journalists were captured.

Just as they had done during Rohde's kidnapping, the New York Times suppressed the story hoping to ease tensions with the captors. But after negotiations with a Taliban commander failed, British Prime Minister ordered action to save Farrell, a British citizen. As in many military operations, lives were lost for the sake of saving lives. 48 Taliban fighters were killed according to one of their commanders. Prime Minister Brown praised the fallen British soldier, saying "[He] acted with the greatest of courage in this most dangerous mission". David Rohde remembers Munadi, a 34-year old father of two, "He represented the best of Afghanistan...It was an honor to work with him." And for his part, Farrell is grateful to his fellow journalist, "He was trying to protect me up to last minute", he said.

Matthew Robert Hamm (1983-2009)

2009-08-19T18:20:00.000-07:00

There are certain things in this world we think we can count on; the sun will shine in the day or the stars will come out night; but someday the sun will fade, and the stars will fall away. There is one thing I know that never fades, and will never fall away—Matt’s love.
Over the last five years I had a rough relationship with Matt, we were too alike and too different at the same time. Every time we got together something happened, we argued, I cursed him, and I walked away thinking we’d never talk again. Guess what—Matt would call me the next day or the next week. No matter what we said or did to each other, Matt never quit loving me even if I didn’t want him too. I know there is some of you here today who can relate to that. The most beautiful soul is the one that loves unconditionally. You didn’t get a choice with him, when he took you into his heart there was no escaping it. In recent years I fought that reality in vain, I remember when his love was my jewel—when we were brothers.
There was a time, not so long ago, before Matt and I tasted the bitterness of life to its full extent. Whether it was at the townhouse on Asbury, a home on Holly, or the backyard of Chase Ct. we lived in a world still flavored with the dreams of our heart’s desire. There was plenty of hardship around us, but we didn't notice it—our eyes were fixed on hope's horizon. Our families struggled throughout the years, but Matt wasn't disheartened--not to far off in the horizon a bright future shown for him. We all saw it, and for my family he was shining light in a dark world back then. His competitive nature and his charm made him the guy to watch in all events he took place in; twikando, football, wrestling, baseball, and numerous others. I remember going over to the house on Holly and seeing a whole kitchen table of full of trophies proudly on display. Matt was the first person I ever envied, the first person I ever idolized. That's how it is for little brothers, and Matt was my big brother in that not too distant past. We were two only children, but you wouldn't know it with all the times we lived together, and even when we weren’t in the same house, every summer and weekend I tagged along with my big brother hoping I would be like him some day. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. I'd tried so hard to follow his example that at T.J. High School they referred to me as "Little Hamm" when I was the ball boy on the football team. My adoration of him wasn't in vain; he was everything a big brother was supposed to be. I was an awkward nerdy boy then, but Matt was never ashamed of me. He never thought twice about taking me out with his friends, and he was the first to stand up for me or brag about me. When things got tough in our family, especially on a dark September day in 1999, he protected me, comforted me, before he thought of himself. That never changed…but the hope on his horizon dimmed after it.
I couldn’t possibly tell you all how much he meant to me, regardless of how we acted in recent times. I wish I could speak those volumes today, but not so you would know—so he would know. Seldom do we get a chance to express our feelings to our loved ones before it’s too late, and I am left thankful of few times in that last year we did recapture the old days. I owe Anthony for two of those occasions. Before I leave this podium I have just one more thing I want to tell you. Don’t consider Matt a tragedy….we can’t see the seeds of triumph he sowed…but you will. His love never leaves those of us he gave it to, and most of all to his little Jenessa. Every good thing she goes on to accomplish he’ll be standing there with her basking in the glory. I’m too damn proud of my cousin to call him a tragedy. I can’t say that me, or any of us, could have handled his burdens any better. I love you Matt, and I’m sorry I never told you these things before.

Macbeth’s Transformation of Conscience

2009-07-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

Introduction

A character’s growth or decline within a plot is fundamental to the success of a play and without doubt Shakespeare set a high standard for a character’s decline in Macbeth. One must keep in mind that growth and decline of a character is not merely a tool for entertainment but it is an accurate representation of people in real life. Therefore one most examine Macbeth beyond typical stereotypes and shallow observations; not a static character whose homicidal acts were easily predicted by his role as a warrior—this is literary profiling. Taking fundamental psychology into account, one realizes Macbeth’s transformation into one of drama’s most infamous villains coincides with a profound transformation of his conscience—to a point where he has none at all. Throughout the play Macbeth makes a journey from following a moral ethic, implementing a flawed ethic, and arriving to a point where he had none at all.

Warrior Ethics and Conscience

The introduction of Macbeth establishes him as an honorable warrior; “Like valor’s minion, carved out his passage till he faced the slave; which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, till he unseamed him the nave to th’ chops” (Act 1. sc 2..21). This account of combat gives a violent impression, but it should not paint the combatant as wholly violent. Some warriors separate themselves from the deeds they commit for the sake of their conscience; a warrior is not a machine which kills because it is programmed to do so. When upholding honor on and off the battlefield, honor becomes a delicate veil that covers conscience from stain.

Criteria must be met in order for one to kill in combat and still maintain honor—to not be a murderer. The criteria which comprises a warrior’s ethos are, “kill or be killed”, killing without emotion, equal opportunity manslaughter, and serving a political entity (country, king, etcetera). This is a bittersweet ethos and its motivations are not pristine; “where it rises above concern with the body, valor in war is often motivated not by love of the good itself, but by the love of honor—the desire to cultivate the opinion of others” (Stacey and Thomas Hibbs). Social standards are set by the desire to be held in good esteem by others; the warrior’s ethos deals with escaping the label of violent and inhumane. First, there must be eminent danger to one’s life and the lives of his compatriots; this is known as “kill or be killed”. When Macbeth kills MacDonwald, there is no question of this scenario when the captain states, “[Macbeth] carved out his passage till he faced the slave”; this description shows that Thane of Glamis faced eminent peril from opposing foes. Second, a warrior has no emotional connection with his enemy; meaning that he does not kill to fulfill a blood debt or other personal agenda. Thus there is no need for Macbeth to acknowledge his foe as human; “ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him”. Third, one must face a foe who is equally armed—both bearing swords—not an unarmed victim. There are two important factors to this criterion, Macbeth could have been killed by his foe, and he used a warrior’s weapon to vanquish the foe—it was equal opportunity manslaughter. Fourth, the ultimate condolence for all combat veterans—“I did it for my country”—is implied by the fact Macbeth is killing to thwart a threat to his king. When he acted according to this code he upheld the warrior’s ethos, and was protected by the warrior’s conscience.

Macbeth’s progression into violent deeds do not coincide with his service as a warrior, nor does it make him a more likely suspect for committing such acts. In her essay “Macbeth: A Modern Perspective”, Susan Snyder asserts that Macbeths behavior can be blamed on his service when analyzing Lady Macbeth’s role in goading Macbeth into murdering Duncan, “Adopting instead a warrior ethic apart from social morality, she presents murder not as good but as heroic” (200). This assertion is indicative of one who analyzes warrior ethics without ever having served in the military or in combat. By analyzing the criteria of a warrior’s conscience in conjunction with the introduction of Macbeth, Snyder’s statement is disproved. The behavior of the ethical warrior is exemplified as not being maliciously brutal, as Snyder might argue “sociological critics are disquieted by the way we are introduced to him [Duncan], as he receives news of the battle…In response we see Duncan exulting not only the victory but in the bloodshed..Yet the mild paternal king is nevertheless implicated here in his society’s violent warrior ethic” (204). Her statement blankets all combatants as enjoying combat instead of simply surviving it. It is commonplace for civilians, even veterans, to assume that combat creates violent individuals. However, David Lykken explains in his article “Pyschopathy, Sociopathy, and Crime”, that because of an underdeveloped sense of fear and inhibition certain types of people are attracted to dangerous situations such as combat. It may not be necessary to defend Macbeth’s image as one begins to view him as a psychopath, but in fairness Banquo he should not be lopped into the same category by virtue of a flawed perspective on warrior ethics

When comparing Banquo and Macbeth, after they meet the weird sisters, one see’s that Banquo adheres to warrior ethics where Macbeth moves away from it. During military service, it may have been hard to distinguish between the Macbeth and Banquo; Lykken explains this best, “A child with a low fear quotient, whose parents nonetheless succeed in instilling the essentials of good citizenship, would grow up to be the kind of person one would like to have on when stress and danger threaten. I believe, in short, that the hero and the psychopath may be twigs on the same branch” (Lykken). Snyder’s references to “warrior ethics” as blindly condoning violence discounts the many warriors, who adhered to the criteria of the warrior’s conscience, and then lived moral lives after combat. One should consider Banquo as the model warrior, and Macbeth a developing psychopath who forgoes the moral system he was indoctrinated with.

While debating the murder of Duncan, Macbeth contemplates how his act will violate the first criteria of the warrior’s conscience, “First, as I am his kinsman and his subject…then, as his host, who should against his murder shut the door” (Act 1. Sc.7.13); there is no “kill or be killed” scenario to warrant Macbeth’s attack on his king. Here also he acknowledges his emotional connection to the life he would extinguish. In order to give an even greater contrast to the second criteria, which was broken, consider the death of Duncan’s chamberlains; in the battle it is known that “[Macbeth] ne’er shook hands, or bade farewell” to his foe, but in the murder he hears the prayers of his victims, “One cried ‘God bless us’ and ‘Amen’ the other” (Act 2. sc. 2.36). Witnessing emotion from one who is about to be killed troubles the warrior’s conscience. The dagger itself is the violation of the third criteria, because it is the assassin’s weapon unlike the sword which is the warrior’s weapon. A dagger is only effective in killing unarmed opponents in close proximity; it is designed to be plunged into the flesh and cannot repel a counter strike—this was not equal opportunity manslaughter. Finally, it is self evident that Macbeth did not kill Duncan in service of his country, because Duncan is described as “clear in his great office, that his virtues will plead like angels, trumpet tongued, against the deep damnation of his taking-off” (Act 1 sc. 7.18). To add even more emphasis on this fact, Shakespeare creates the imagery of the land in upheaval as the murders take place (horses eating horses, and etcetera). It also represents the internal dissonance as Macbeth has stripped himself of the honor and clear conscience a warrior is compelled to uphold.

Macbeth cannot slumber peacefully after he has taken these three lives, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep’—the innocent sleep…sore labor’s bath, balm of hurt minds” (Act 2. sc. 2.56). The guilty Macbeth paces the hours of the night away, and his soul cannot be absolved by the “bath” or “balm” provided by the warrior’s conscience. This scene agrees with Lykken’s theory of a secondary psychopath who, unlike the primary, is not completely at home with his evil acts; “he is anxious during or after the commission of his crimes…the secondary psychopath is likely to show anxiety, irritability, and tension because of the lure of temptation” (Lykken) This is the departure point from which Macbeth’s guilty warrior’s conscience begins to transform into a new mode.

This transfiguration is not complete in an instant, although it is easy to distinguish the two modes of conscience in Macbeth before and after the murder of Duncan. It would be inaccurate to say that the murder itself transformed Macbeth because this omits the element of ambition, and how it plays into unhinging the warrior’s conscience. A.C. Bradley keenly observed the underlying ambition in Macbeth when he and Banquo first meet the witches, “Banquo, ambitious but perfectly honest, is scarcely even startled by them, and he remains throughout the scene indifferent to them. But when Macbeth heard them he was not an innocent man. Precisely how far his mind was guilty may be a question; but no innocent man would have started, as he did, with a start of fear at the mere prophecy of a crown, or have conceived thereupon immediately the thought of murder” (344). The warrior’s conscience is undone by ambition for political power; it is akin to a mortal sin in Catholic dogma. Being a double edged sword, ambition violates the second and fourth criteria of the warrior’s conscience, and it makes it unlikely the individual will up hold any of the criteria. Robert Boyle touches on the dangerous nature of ambition in relation to honor as he extensively examined Macbeth’s soliloquy in Act.1 Scene 7, “I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself”; “Unlike the trustworthy intent, ‘vaulting’ ambition is worthy of a good soldier’s contempt. It is not a competent, reliable animal. It will leap over obstacle, but will outdo itself, leap too far, and fall on the otherside” (Boyle 135) As Bradley states, one cannot know to what degree Macbeth is ambitious at first, yet there is sufficient evidence to see it grow from that moment (when he becomes Thane of Cawdor as predicted), and its growth is the key catalyst for Macbeth’s transfiguration into a new mode of conscience.

Villain Ethics and Conscience

One may argue that Macbeth’s reign and its end were predetermined by dark nature—this is speculative. Whether his demise was predetermined or not does not change the fact his departure from the ethos of a warrior was the vehicle for his tragedy, in the first scene of the third act, a soliloquy establishes a drastic change in Macbeth’s character. When on the cusp of murdering Duncan, Macbeth’s conscience urges him against; now on the cusp of Banquo’s murder it urges Macbeth forward. “There is none but he whose being I do fear: and under him my genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. He chid the sisters when they first put the name of king upon me…They hailed him father to a line of kings. Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown and put a barren scepter in my grips…for Banquo’s issue have I filed my mind: for them the gracious Duncan have I murdered” (Act 3 Sc 3.58-.71)

The antitheses of the warrior’s, the criteria for the villain’s conscience creates a dark doppelganger; “kill them first”, justify personal reasons for killing, “do onto others as they would do unto you”, and self service are the mode of thought for a villain’s conscience. In the warriors conscience honor is what allows for absolution to exist off the battlefield. Conversely, paranoid-delusion allows for justification in the villain’s world—which is a battlefield. The events of act three, scene one, illustrates Macbeth’s growing paranoid delusion. “Thou has it now—King, Cawdor, Glamis, all as the Weird Women promised, and I fear thou played’st most foully for ’t” (Act 3 Sc 1.3), Banqou says aside. Macbeth, sure that Banquo will expose him, feels justified in his decision to murder his former companion—“kill them first”. Second, a villain has no problem killing for personal reasons if convinced he is the victimized party. Macbeth asserts that Banquo made Macbeth kill Duncan because Banquo spoke to the witches first, and caused them to curse Macbeth, “They hailed him [Banquo] father to a line of kings…for them the gracious Duncan have I murdered.” The third criterion is to “do onto others as they would do onto you”; Macbeth does not plan to vanquish Banqou in equal combat, because he believes Banqou would be equally treacherous; “There is none but he whose being I do fear: and under him my genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark Antony’s was by Caesar”, by projecting his evil characteristics onto Banquo it becomes pragmatic for Macbeth to hire assassins. Where once Macbeth killed in service of the king, now he is the king and kills in service to himself. The fourth criterion brings about an interesting conundrum; if Macbeth is justified in self preservation, why not execute Banquo publicly as a criminal? As established, Macbeth suffers from delusion, and no longer comprehends the immorality in his actions. Fed by paranoia, he is convinced that his “righteous actions” would be viewed as heinous if he executed Banquo as a prisoner, “Every minute of his being thrusts against my near’st of life. And though I could with barefaced power sweep him from my sight, and bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, for certain friends that are both his and mine…that I to your assistance do make love, masking the business from the common eye for sundry weighty reasons” (Act 3 Sc 1.134-143). While Macbeth speaks the truth, the truths is clouded because he doesn’t recognize the outrage for an execution of Banqou is justified, he instead attributes it to conspiracy. Cleary the true intent of Macbeth’s actions were not in service of the country or his legitimacy as king, but he acted out of self preservation for fear of losing his power.

Just as ambition was the catalyst for the disintegrating of Macbeth’s warrior conscience, self preservation is the element which fuels his villain’s conscience. The change of his intent coincides with his change of title from Thane to King. Ambition serves to achieve a goal; whereas once the goal is achieved there is now a need to defend it. Interestingly the second encounter with the witches seemed to neutralize Macbeth’s need for paranoid-delusion and self preservation, “Then live Macduff; what need I fear of thee? But yet I’ll make assurance double sure and take a bond of fate. Thou shalt not live, that I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, and sleep in spite of thunder” (Act 4. Sc. 1.93-97). There are two possibilities to explain Macbeth’s continued bloodshed; paranoid delusion and self preservation are too embedded in him to let go, or that Macbeth moves away from a need to hold a mode of conscience at all.

Macbeth the psychopath

Other literary critics have analyzed Macbeth in favor of the latter possibility but failed to conclude Macbeth had become a primary psychopath. David Lykken gives anecdotes from his case work to present the description of the primary psychopath; the following authors have given very similar accounts regarding Macbeth. James O’Rourke, in “The Subversive metaphysics of Macbeth” hits on Lykken’s theory that primary psychopaths typically repress memory of ill acts committed; “the psychological dimension of the dramatic absence of the murder [Duncan’s] becomes clear; the play is representing Macbeth’s avoidance of any thought of the act…’repression’ as the explanation for why Macbeth never discloses an adequate motivation for the killing of Duncan” (O’Rourke). This agrees with the idea that at the beginning of the play Macbeth is not wholly psychopathic, but as Lykken describes only having “talent for psychopathy”, but as he continues to kill the acts take place on stage which argue in favor of Macbeth moving towards primary psychopathy. Stacy and Thomas Hibbs keenly point out the increased lack of conscience towards the end of the play; “at the end of the play Macbeth confesses that he has ‘forgot the taste of fears’ (5.5.9), this is hardly a sign of progress; indeed by this point Macbeth has become something inhuman, something nearly diabolical to his indifference to the good” (Hibbs). Not only does this point reaffirm the fact the Macbeth transgressed beyond all modes of conscience, but it reiterates Lykken’s philosophy that primary psychopaths have relatively no sense of fear. The nihilistic statements at the end of Macbeth’s life make the transformation complete; “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” (Act 5. Ss. 5.27)

Conclusion

On first inspection, Macbeth’s downfall into murderous behavior seems the product of a “violent warrior society”. However, once the true nature of warrior ethics is provided, and Banquo adherence to such ethics compared to Macbeth clearly disprove this assumption. Although there are many theological theories for why Macbeth transforms from a “good” to “bad” character, no matter what the cause his transformation was a physcological process, and Macbeth fits the build of both a secondary and primary psychopath according to David Lykken’s scheme. True to human nature, no person becomes a psychopath on the flip of a switch, but their state decays; Macbeth’s journey from upholding a warrior to a villain’s conscience illustrates this reality. The villain’s conscience served Macbeth as a mode to blame his crimes on others while denying his own responsibility, but as victims increase his need to hide behind any mode of conscience decreases. Perhaps the most definitive proof of Macbeth’s psycopathy is the fact he never sincerely followed any mode of conscience; his transgression from each mode is a journey of self discovery that arrives at the revelation he had no conscience at all.

Works Cited

Bradley, A.C. "IX Macbeth." Shakespearean Tragedy. N.p.: Project Gutenberg, 2005. 331-66. Project Gutenberg. 13 May 2009. Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. 10 July 2009 .

Boyle, Robert J. “The Imagery of Macbeth” Modern Language Quarterly 6.2. (1955): 130 Academic Search Premier. EBSCO. Auriaria Library. 10 July 2009

Hibbs, Stacey, and Thomas Hibbs. "VIRTUE, NATURAL LAW, AND SUPERNATURAL SOLICITATION: A THOMISTIC READING OF SHAKESPEARE'S MACBETH." Religion and the Arts 5.3 (2001): 273-96. Academic Search Premier. EBSCO. Auriaria Library. 10 July 2009 .

Lykken, David. "Psychopathy, Sociopathy, and Crime." Society 34.1 (96): 29-38. Academic Search Premier. EBSCO. Auriaria Library. 10 July 2009 .

O'Rourke, James, L. "The subversive metaphysics of Macbeth." Shakespeare Studies 21 (1993): 213. Academic Search Premier. EBSCO. Auriaria Library. 10 July 2009 .

Snyder, Susan. "Macbeth: A Modern Perspective." Macbeth. Folger Shakespeare Library. New York: Washington Square Press, 2004. 197-208

The Death of Tom

2009-07-10T14:22:00.000-07:00

Reaching for the brass door knob of his mahogany double doors, Tom pulled the BMW key chain out of his pleated Armani charcoal trousers, but found that his keys weren’t needed. The door was unlocked.
Tom paused a minute before walking in. The vastness of his hardwood floors made his grand piano, flat screen TV, and black leather furniture set look like islands in a deep brown sea. Stepping into his hallway closet he slipped off his shoes, and paused again to listen to the emptiness of his Manhattan flat. What are you listening for, he thought, the wife and kids have been gone for three years; no one will be hugging your legs tonight. Quickly he emptied his pockets out; his cell phone, wallet, keys, and a Colt .45 automatic; the latter was taken from a shoulder holster-reluctantly.
Leaving his personal effects on the letter desk by the closet he went up the spiral stairs to his penthouse bedroom. Upstairs his bedroom was adorned with objects imported from Palermo. A mix of heirlooms from his mother, and others were picked up by his wife’s carful eye. Including a four post king size bed with carved classical reliefs of a vineyard; the bed was a wedding gift from his uncle. The linen drapery of the bed fluttered with the cool wind of fall blowing in from his patio--the sliding door was left open. Pausing a few more beats Tom scanned the room, but with only a half hearted effort. His surroundings were all too familiar, and everything was in its place, just the way she left it three years ago. In front of the mirror of the master-bathroom marble vanity, Tom studied the newly arrived wrinkles in his olive skin and the wisps of white in his jet black hair. Carefully he removed his gold Rolex and placed it neatly in an oak jewelry box lined with crushed red velvet. It was a hideous piece of work; a gift he stole from antique store for her when they started dating fifteen years ago. Next came of his wedding ring which was neatly placed next to his watch. From the Armani tie came his least valuable (monetarily) accessory; a Marine Corps tie clip, the same one he had been issued in boot camp and wore ever since. Just as he began to loosen his tie, the movement of a silhouette snagged the attention of his peripheral vision. Quickly looking up he saw the reflection of a man standing outside the sliding door.
"Come in" Tom said in a casual tone. As the man stepped into the low light of the room his youth was revealed. "Christ…after all these years they send a fucking kid? Where’s the respect?"
The boy was noticeably shaken being discovered, and confused by the way Tom spoke to him.
"Well" Tom said turning to meet the young mans gaze, "Who sent you…lemme guess…it’s my mustache Pete Uncle Sammy. Yeah, that’s it, only he we dishonor me in death by sending a fucking rookie to grease me."
The boy was sweating as Tom stared him in the eyes. He was dressed in a baggy pink polo shirt, baggy jeans, with a black Yankees cap cocked slightly to the side matched with a gold Yankees necklace. The front pant pocket bulged with a .38 snub nose, and his hand hovered in front of the pocket with the gun-shakily. Seeing this Tom smirked, "Whaddah ya going to fucking draw on me? You think you’re the spick Clint Eastwood or somthin?"
The young man desperately cleared his throat and spoke in as deep as a voice he could muster. "No one else would take the contract." The boy said.
"Bullshit" Tom replied. "They all refused the contract because they would rather let some young punk trying to prove himself go down for whacking me. Everyone knows the feds have my place on surveillance twenty-four seven, and taking me down is a sure ticket to Riker’s island. Of course you won’t have to stay long cus you’ll be dead before you can plea bargain your sentence by giving my uncle up."
The boy answered, as if answering a teacher in class, "Mr. Camporelli didn’t send me, and I’ve never met him."
Tom turned his back to the boy and walked over to the glass liquor cart next to his bed to pour himself a drink. Tom chuckled, and the chuckle snowballed into a belly laugh as the young man pivoted to track Tom’s movements. Taking a sip of his brandy Tom looked up at the ceiling and shouted. "You hear that you fucking FBI! He’s never met Mr. Comporelli!" Then he looked down at the boy, "Of course you haven’t met him, neither has the guy who contacted you, or the guy who contacted him, or the guy who called the guy who contacted him. Whadda think we are a bunch of amateurs here? Well, are going to pull out your weapon or not?" The boy continued to look perplexed and walked backwards towards the sliding door. Tom bullied him "What are you going to jump fifteen stories into a fucking swimming pool you dumb shit? What kinda fucking dope head is given a key to a guy’s apartment and forgets to lock the door coming in so I wouldn’t know you were here? How bout next time you try and ambush someone close the fuckin’ sliding door you’re hiding behind? If you did you’re fucking homework you’d know I smoke a cigarette on the patio and have a drink before I go to bed! You think I got a way with forty-five, (yelling to the ceiling again) FORTY-FIVE jobs by not doing my homework before I kill a man!"
The boy was sweating profusely now and stumbled over himself falling backwards on the floor. He awkwardly pulled the .38 out of his pants and tried to steady it at Tom to no avail. The boy shouted "Shut up man! Just shut up already!"
Tom ignored the frantic boy, slugged his drink, and went back to the cart for another. He sniffed the brandy and smiled at the bite of its bouquet and then looked at the young man with an air of sympathy. In a fatherly tone he spoke gently to the boy who was still on the floor, "Get up kid. I’m not going to kill you, and you won’t kill me. You don’t have what it takes to kill son. Sit on the bed." The boy carefully stood up pointing the weapon at Tom. Tom continued, "Look my holster is empty. I left my piece on my desk. Sit down and talk to me a minute."
The boy lowered his weapon then looked at Tom carefully and spoke, "Why?"
"Why? You’re the last person I’ll ever talk to before I die. The bug in my fucking ceiling doesn’t have a speaker to go with that microphone" Tom replied.
"If I don’t kill you they’ll kill me" The boy said apologetically.
"They’ll kill you no matter what. Why did you take the job? Don’t you know who I am?"
"Yes sir, I do. I need the money for my girlfriend."
"Why"
"She’s pregnant sir"
"Yeah? I know that dilemma. I killed a fat man named Joe Delany to pay the hospital bill for my first daughter. Seemed like a good idea then, and I did the job so well Sammy went on the record for me. I did six more jobs that year, and they opened the books for me. Yeah, it was a good idea then. You on the other hand ain’t no good at this line of work. Even if you were, you’d end up just like me."
"What do I do?"
"Go down stairs and go to the phone in the kitchen, call the police."
"What! So I can go to jail!"
Tom lost his patience and bull rushed the young man stripping the .38 from his hand and knocking him to the floor. Tom stood over him and pointed the weapon at the young mans face. The young man put his hands up to cover himself. Tom causally walked over to his dresser, the weapon remaining fixed on the boy, and took out an envelope. Tom threw it on the ground next to the boy then leaned down to whisper in his ear. "That’s my payroll. The key is to a safe deposit box at National Bank in Queens, put it in your pocket. Don’t say anything, if they hear they’ll take it from you." The boy let his arms down from the defensive position and stood up. Tom’s gentle tone returned, "Go call the police and wait in the kitchen. If you leave the guys hired to tail you are just going to pick you up and dump your body in a cement mixer. You’ll spend the next thousand years in the foundation of my Uncles new office. When they get here tell them what you were sent to do, and what happened. The bug in here will verify your story, and you’ll get off the hook with probation. Leave the town with your girlfriend and never come back."
Picking the envelope off the floor the boy was more relaxed, "What you gonna do?"
"Don’t fuckin’ worry bout it and get the fuck down stairs before I change my mind!"Toms bellow sent the young man scrambling down the stairs.
Sitting down on the bed, he laid the .38 on his thigh; then Tom bowed his head, made the sign of the cross, and began to pray out loud.
"Lord, remember the life I just spared. Remember the sin I am going to spare another soul from committing. Forgive me the sin I must commit to accomplished this. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit-Amen".
Down stairs the boy dialed 911. He paced back and forth nervously the stopped to look at a family picture of Tom, his wife, and two girls at Disneyland. Tom was bent over squeezing the two girls, one in each arm. The three of them had Mickey Mouse hats on with smiles so wide and bright it could have been a poster for crest toothpaste. His blonde wife leaned over the three with a slightly less congenial smile. The boy picked up the photo and continued to stare at it when the dispatcher answered his call. He stumbled over his words "Uh…I…I’m at Tom Camporelli’s apartment…no I don’t know the address…Briar Ridge Manor I think…Uh I’m not sure what the emergency is…no this isn’t a prank call." BANG! The report of a .38 snub nose echoed off the walls and hardwood floors. The boy was startled and the dispatcher asked him what happened twice before he could summon an answer. "I think he’s dead." The boy hung up the phone and his back slid down the front of the cabinets as he sat on the tile floor. Still looking at the photo he began to sob.

On the Erudition of Dirty Humor

2009-06-09T09:16:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in the United States a time capsule was buried, maybe twenty or more years ago, with an issue of Mad Magazine, Playboy Magazine (for the articles of course), and the Screenplay for Caddy Shack inside. Imagine this capsule being discovered five hundred years from now…how different will the English language be then? Perhaps this generation will succeed in having the word “like” replace “and” as a conjunction. This aside, how will today’s dirty humor, naughty stories, and political satire be judged by the English professor’s of the future?

Obviously it would be a gross injustice to categorize Chaucer with the lowbrow satires of contemporary times (or is it?), but it should be noted that his use of lowbrow comedy did add to the longevity of his works, and perhaps the popularity of them among his patrons. One cannot speculate how well a screen play from a Bill Murray flick would be judged if revisited in the future, but if it reaches that destination it will do so because of its lowbrow humor not in spite of it.

Consider Martin Luther for a moment: he too found a many great inequities with the Catholic Church as Chaucer did. Unlike Chaucer, when Luther put pen to paper it started wars and put Luther in peril. The Ninety-Five Theses is not read for pleasure except by perhaps the most fervent anti-Catholic (it would be found on a poster next to their official Pope Benedict XVI dartboard). The difference is that Chaucer found irony whereas Luther found inequity. What makes irony easier to sallow than inequity is humor. What Chaucer understood, and contemporary satirists know, is there are two keys to criticizing powerful organizations without causing bloodshed. First, make the organization laugh at itself. Second, write satire so outrageous that if (when) charged with treason, heresy, and etcetera, then the author can plead “it’s just a joke”.

The Pardoner from The Canterbury Tales has a very controversial profession in the church. It is not a simple artistic preference or random choice when Chaucer satirizes the Pardoner he only focuses on that specific individual and not the Pardoners in general. It would have been very risky to have said in his prose that all pardoners are storefront preachers and snake oil salesmen, and in fact Chaucer states quite the opposite “But of his craft, fro Berwik into Ware, Ne was ther swich another pardoner”. If a student were to read this tale without knowing European history or having their teacher explain the controversy involved, then the student would have no reason to doubt this particular Pardoner was one of a kind. The point is to allow the reader to make accusations or comparisons to other pardoners, thus Chaucer has made the weapon but allows the reader to point it at whom they wish (Guns don’t kill people. People kill people). Chaucer’s careful choices as a satirist would have made it possible for a priest or even a bishop to laugh at The Pardoner’s Tale; it was a criticism of the Church, but Chaucer wasn’t overtly jabbing a literary finger in their face.

If one does not appreciate lewdness in their literature and beholds crude characters as unbecoming of an intelligent writer, then one should be reminded that brilliant sculptors use crude instruments to make works of art. Low comedy is a crude instrument, but when used by a sculptor of political satire like Chaucer it can serve a dual purpose: it protects and perpetuates. The antics of the fanatical puking Pardoner at the end of his tale are a wild departure even from off-color actions of the Pardoner previously for a specific reason; when satire comes under criticism it is better to allow the work to be marginalized than the artist, and even better if the artist can marginalize the work first. Imagine Chaucer being confronted about the Pardoner by a member the clergy, he could defuse the situation by saying, “Your eminence, certainly you wouldn’t take a story about a puking, homosexual, alcoholic, mad man seriously? Such things are only meant for entertainment.” In a larger scheme, The Canterbury Tales’ reputation for lewd material (in addition to Chaucer’s mastery of the English Language), can shield it from criticism in general. Mad Magazine often makes outrageous caricatures of members of society, especially politicians, but one isn’t likely to be offended because such material is expected from Mad Magazine. Is it not then possible contemporary critics of Chaucer might have given his works a free pass in the same manner—what else would they expect from him? Conversely, when a respectable (depending on ones perspective) magazine such as Time puts out an outrageous caricature on its front page, as they did during the election with then Senator Obama and his wife, the maneuverings are different; they claimed they were satirizing the perceptions of other people.Chaucer could have easily done the same regarding any of his literary caricatures if his contemporaries didn’t give him a free pass.

The Miller’s Tale is notable for a high content of lewd humor and low content of politics. While it lacks political importance it would be folly to believe it detracts from the rest of the works; in fact it helped the more politically charged works reach readers. Had Chaucer written tales that hit only on the ironies of social stratification, then certain readers would have been turned off. One should never underestimate the power lowbrow comedy has on making sophisticated subjects more appealing. Considering that Chaucer's works were pre-printing press there was a need to be inclusive as possible with comedy (incorporating both high and low forms) to ensure his works would be passed around. One patron may not be enthusiastic about a lengthy spoof on chivalry in the Knights tale, but they may love a good story about three drunken rioters on a mission to kill death. When Chaucer can attract readers to his more outlandish tales, then he has a good chance of getting such readers to continue reading the more sophisticated or tame tales. Consider the ribaldry in the Canterbury Tales as a sort of “carrot and stick” approach to keeping readers interested in subject manner that covers very serious social issues.

It’s not impossible to believe that naughty pictures can keep a man turning the pages of a Playboy towards an article on a piece of important legislation coming up for a vote on the Senate floor. If this possibility is unimaginable, consider that if such a legitimate article was ever included in Playboy then it only continues to be read because the lewd content of the magazine perpetuates its existence. Men are lying when they say they buy Playboy for the articles, and likewise scholars are lying when they say the read Chaucer just for his masterful prose. Students and scholars read Chaucer for the various degrees of comedy, especially the naughty, and they use Chaucer’s “finer points” to justify their enjoyment of his vulgarity.

Far off in the future when a time capsule opens in Somewheresville U.S.A. don’t be surprised that English professors will be kinder to satire that was considered mere entertainment in contemporary times. The Canterbury Tales is evidence that dirty jokes and sexual escapades can age like wine in the eyes of the literary scholar. Will students be examining the ironies involved with the cast of Caddy Shack? Scores of students each semester will Safely Assign themselves to reanalyzing the “finer” points of Chaucer’s works, but one most dare to see the craft behind a well placed fart in literature. It’s no coincidence that one of the oldest pieces of English literature is also one of the funniest.

On Death and Literature

2009-05-18T21:16:00.000-07:00

Death Should Never Be Wasted

It’s coming…with every breath released…every tick of the second hand…Death moves closer. Many souls lay in bed at night with thoughts spiraling about this fact; wondering in what form their death will descend upon them. While some dread a painful end, others fear dying alone, a writer despairs over the possibility of a meaningless death. There isn’t much one can do to chose how life’s final moment will unfold. The need for control over situations one has no influence over is oft an unfulfilled desire, but writers have an advantage—they can’t control their own death, but they can carefully plan the death of their characters.
In the real world seldom does one find classic last words at the death bed. Not oft does one witness magnanimous ends to tragic lives and self sacrifice. In the literary world, characters whose lives were so meaningfully created seldom end without classic last words or a noble act. If the character’s death doesn’t serve to teach a moral, or make a point about society, then it’s likely it will cause the reader to ponder a deep thought. Examine the finales of characters like Arthur Dimmesdale, Uncle Tom, and Bartleby the Scrivener, and see that writers like Nathaniel Hawthorn, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and Herman Melville aren’t inclined to waste a death in their artwork.

Famous Last Words

Even in the cheapest form of literature, movie dialogues, a main character’s death without a meaningful exchange of dialogue would be akin to breaking the natural laws of gravity. Oftentimes the purpose of famous last words is to release the struggle of a character, to sum up the overall theme of the story, or leave a lasting impression on the mind of the reader. The final moments of Hawthorne’s Arthur Dimmesdale, in The Scarlet Letter, serves all three of these purposes. Hawthorne’s major theme in this classic novel hinges on the dynamics of a sin confessed verses a sin is left festering inside the soul. The central character of the novel, Hester Prynne, has no opportunity to hide her adultery—Pearl is her confession. The story begins with Hester’s moment of shame holding her baby Pearl on the scaffolding before the condemning eyes of the town. Absent from this scene is Hester’s accomplice in sin, Arthur Dimmesdale, who is unwilling to damage his position of shepherd of the flock with his deed. Hester rises above her condemnation, and her branded bosom, into a functioning member of society. In contrary motion, Dimmesdale sinks into a cycle of self punishment as a result of his guilt. Aided by Roger Chillingsworth, Dimmesdale’s transgression erodes his mind and body. Above all, Dimmesdale struggles with being a fraud; he is sickened by the pedestal of holiness the town holds him on and the knowledge that he is not worthy to be held in this regard. His final years are spent in self imposed penance through physical depravity, but his last moment serves as his contrition and benediction:

“He turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his arms. ‘Hester’ said he, ‘come hither, come my little Pearl!”…He again extended his hand to the woman of the scarlet letter. ‘Hester Prynne’ cried he, with a percing earnestness, ‘in the name of him so terribe and so merciful, who gives me grace, at this last moment, to do what—for my own heavy sin and miserable agony—I withheld from myself doing seven years ago, come hither now, and twine thy strength about me!...Come Hester, Come Support me up yonder scaffold!’” (1513)

The scene concludes with the dramatic revelation of his own scarlet letter etched into his sunken frame, he collapses into Hester’s arms, and utters his famous last words, a response to Hester’s question if they will meet again in heaven:

“’The law we broke!—the sin here so awfully revealed!—let these alone be in thy thoughts!...when we violated our reverence each for the other’s soul,--it was thenceforth vain to hope that we could meet hereafter, in everlasting and pure reunion. God knows: and He is merciful! He hath proved his mercy, most of all, in my afflictions. By giving me this burning torture to bear upon my breast!...By bringing me thither to die this death of triumphant ignominy before the people! Had either of these agonies been wanting, I had been lost forever! Praised be his name! His will be done! Farewell!’ That final word came forth with the minister’s expiring breath” (1514-15)

Only in literature does a man exist with strength enough to give a monologue like that moments before entering darkness. Within in this monologue the theme of the story is recalled through the sin of adultery, and then it is capped off with a release of Dimmesdale burden through confession. Dimmesdale leaves the world thanking God for the terrible affliction befallen him, and seeing it as his salvation. His last words teach guilt as more than mere punishment; guilt is the whip which drives a soul forward like a beast of burden into confession, or destroys the beast with its sting—Dimmesdale experiences both. The scene on the scaffold is his act of contrition, and his famous last words are his benediction.

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

The final moments of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom, in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, is full of famous last words just as in The Scarlett Letter. The difference between the two is that Dimmesdale’s death, and his final words, served only himself and expressing the morality of the story; Uncle Tom’s final moments are in sacrifice to the lives of two escaped slaves, it brings his former master to an important realization, and calls the reader to action. It is no mistake that Stowe paralleled the crucifixion of Christ with the scourging of Uncle Tom in her novel. Slavery is one of the greatest tragedies a writer can endeavor to present to her audience; the tragic life of Uncle Tom serves to better amplify the magnanimous act of self sacrifice in his death. All Tom has to give is life and his love, he pours both out willingly:

“Legree drew in a long breathe: and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said in a terrible voice, ‘Hark ‘e, Tom!—ye think ‘cuase I’ve let you off before I don’t mean what I say; but this time I’ve made up my mind, and counted the cost. You’ve always stood it out again me: now, I’ll conquer ye or kill ye!—one or t’ other. I’ll count every drop of blood there is in you, and take ‘em, one by one, till ye give up!’ Tom looked up to his master, and answered, ‘Mas’r, if you was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I’d give ye my heart’s blood; and, if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would save your precious soul, I’d give ‘em freely, as the Lord gave his for me. Oh, Mas’r! Don’t bring this great sin on your soul!’” (1785)

Stowe chose not to give detailed account of the terrible flogging Uncle Tom receives, but chose that moment to underline the fact Tom’s death is meant to bring the reader to action against slavery; “Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart…What brother man and brother Christian must suffer cannot be told to us…it so harrows up the soul! And yet, O my country! These things are done under the shadow of thy laws! O Christ! Thy church sees them, almost in silence!” (1795). The punishment Uncle Tom takes serves not only to cause an epiphany in the reader, but Stowe’s other characters are brought to a great revelation in witnessing Uncle Tom’s end. Sambo and Quimbo, who willing obeyed Legree, and carried out the blood bath on Uncle Tom are brought to salvation in awe of Uncle Tom’s faith in Christ; “He [Tom] poured forth a few energetic sentences of the wondrous One,--his life, his death, and everlasting presence, and power to save. They wept—the two savage men. ‘Why didn’t I never hear this before?’ said Sambo; “but I do believe—I can’t help it! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us!” (1786). Tom’s death is drawn out, as he lies in a shed immobilized from the beating—there is a purpose to his lengthy passing.

The point of Tom’s death, in relation to the other characters of the novel, is to save George his former master; who after a long search conveniently finds Uncle Tom, just a moment before death. “You sha’n’t die! You must n’t die, nor think of it. I’ve come to buy you, and take you home,’ said George, with impetuous vehemence. “Oh Mas’r George, ye’re too late. The Lord’s bought me, and is going to take me home,--and I long to go. Heaven is better than Kintuck’” (1788). The farewell scene between the two continues the tone of Tom’s forgiveness of the crime committed against him, and his joy to go to God. After the tearful dialogue has ended, Tom passes, “A sudden sinking fell upon him; he closed his eyes; and that mysterious and sublime change passed over his face, that told the approach of ther worlds…The expression of his face was that of a conqueror. ‘Who—who—who shall separate us from the love of Christ?’ he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weakness; and, with a smile, he fell asleep” (1788).

Uncle Tom, true to literary form, leaves behind famous last words, but they are a vehicle for action unlike that of Arthur Dimmesdale—George vows to right the wrong of slavery having heard Tom. Stowe doesn’t leave the importance of Uncle Tom’s death up to speculation, but ends the chapter with a clear explanation, “Pity him not! Such a life and death is not for pity! Not in the riches of omnipotence is the chief glory of God; but in self denying, suffering love! And blessed are the men whom he calls to fellowship with him, bearing their cross after him with patience. Of such is written, ‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted” (1789-90). When death is so carefully crafted, and filled with so much biblical allegory, a writer would find it hard not leave their own words to make sure the point came across to even the simplest mind.

Leaving Behind a Question

Certainly not every literary character’s death can be filled with religious overtones, or with noble acts, but even without these traits death can have meaning. Dimmesdale’s death is his redemption, Uncle Tom’s death redeems others, and Bartleby the Scrivener’s death condemns both the Narrator and reader to scratch their heads in perplexity. It should be noted, however, that Bartleby’s death is the most realistic in the sense that at face value it has no meaning. Bartleby would have ceased to exist in the world had he been a real person, but since he is the creation of Herman Melville his pointless death will be forever remembered. It should also be noted that Bartleby’s life was as pointless as his death, and this is a stark contrast to the other literary characters discussed. It may seem awkward to even mention Bartleby in the same context as Dimmesdale and Uncle Tom, but it is important to make this contrast. While the deaths of the other two have overt significance, and evoke strong emotion out of the reader, it does not mean that these deaths are better, or more artistic than any other. The genius behind Melville’s Bartleby is that the death isn’t meant to cause strong emotion, but to evoke a pattern of thought from the reader. Therefore the point of Bartleby’s death is to make one think about how pointless death can be, and this is a fantastic feat for a writer to achieve.

Bartleby’s greatest achievement in life was to be the subject of controversy within the small arena of an office building. From his introduction to his departure in the story, both reader and The Narrator learn relatively nothing about Bartleby’s history or his inner thoughts. While this causes great annoyance in the Narrator and some readers, it is also more true to life than the literary norm. There is no way to see through a person, to read their thoughts, or to know their history in the real world unless that person chooses to reveal them. How often does one encounter a person for a period of time, and knows nothing about them save that they exist? In this regard people know more Bartleby’s in the real world than they do the more symbolic and noble characters discussed. What makes Bartleby unique is his unexplained refusal to work, then his unwillingness to vacate his work space, and in the end his decision to simply quit living. No point is offered and no clarification supplied to Bartleby’s actions except that he simply “prefers not to”. Therefore the enigma attracts The Narrator and the reader to and find an explanation, and the curiosity on The Narrator’s part brings him to witness the death of his former employee., who after being removed from the office building after loitering there sometime after being fired, was sent to a prison. Yet, he was not sentenced, and could leave anytime he wished.

“It was not I who brought you here, Bartleby,’ said I keenly pained at his implied suspicion. ‘And to you, this should not be so vile a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is the grass.’ ‘I know where I am,’ he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I left him. As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron, accosted me, and, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, said—‘Is that you friend?’

“Yes.”

“Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare, that’s all.” (1550)

He did want to starve, even after the narrator pays the grub man to bring him appetizing food. Bartleby’s starvation is perplexing in the fact it had no aim. Ghandi starved in protest to violence, monks have starved to heighten awareness for the suffering of others, some fast to cleanse their spirit; Bartleby starves with no goal in mind—just to stop eating. One cannot even be sure it’s intentional suicide, except that Bartleby has quit doing anything that would give his existence a resemblance of life, then its natural he should stop eating too. One might even wonder if Bartleby is dead before his body has expired—such questions are what Melville meant for the reader to raise. The Narrator and the grub man return another day to find Bartleby, “Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying on his side, his head touching the cold stones” (1552). Here is a rare instance where the dead has left no “famous last words’, but this is completely intentional. The point is that in human natures vain effort to give meaning to the meaningless would cause the Narrator to supply some poetic words for the dead Bartleby. When the grub man asks if he is sleeping, the Narrator responds ‘With kings and counselors,’ murmured I” (1552). A simple “yes” would have done well, but when no meaning or significance is present mankind will create it. In a brief afterword, the Narrator tries to supply an explanation for Bartleby, but admits that it is merely a rumor and proves nothing anyway. The final words given, in face of failure to explain the meaningless death of Bartleby, are “Ah, Bartleby! Ah, Humanity” (1552). Therein lies the point of creating the death of a character like Melville did.

Death is not the Conclusion

As far as natural science has provided evidence for, Death is the conclusion—everything afterwards is nothingness. Depending on the Author’s perspective, there may be an afterlife—or not—in the real world, but they all can agree one on fact: Death is not the conclusion for a literary character. In literature death isn’t the unavoidable and random end of life, but it is the well planned and desired moment to define the life of their Characters—even when their death portrays random meaninglessness. The story of Arthur Dimmesdale, Uncle Tom, and Bartleby would be pointless without their deaths. That is where the literary character has the advantage over the reader, because odds are society will continue to discuss the death of the character for many years to come—but the reader’s death is likely to be without a point. However, there are a lucky few who will, and have, left behind famous last words, died to save others, or left the world asking “Why?”, but even these true deaths need a writer to ensure the future generations to come will know about them. No matter how one dies, or whether one’s existence was fictional or fact, if their death is found in the pages of literature, then Death is not the Conclusion.

Works Cited

Beecher Stowe, Harriet. "The Martyr." Uncle Tom's Cabin. Ed. George Perkins. 11th. Vol. 1. The American Tradition in Literature. New York: McGraw Hill, 2007. 1784-86.

Beecher Stowe, Harriet. "The Young Master." Uncle Tom's Cabin. Ed. George Perkins. 11th. Vol. 1. The American Tradition in Literature. New York: McGraw Hill, 2007. 1786-90.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "The Revelation of The Scarlet Letter." The Scarlet Letter. Ed. George Perkins. 11th. Vol. 1. The American Tradition in Literature. New York: McGraw Hill, 2007. 1510-15.

Melville, Herman. Bartleby the Scrivener. Ed George Perkins. 11th. Vol 1. The American Tradition in Literature. New York: McGraw Hill, 2007. 1528-1552.

Sympathy for the Devil

2009-04-25T21:21:00.000-07:00

After the fall of Puritanism, and prevalent with the rise of the sexual revolution, Satan has been given a make over. In popular culture he is portrayed in a less despicable but as a sexy conman who posses great magical power. Movies, theater, television, and even the Rolling Stones have contributed something to an image of a Satan who is more a man than a creature devouring souls in the pit of Hell.

Humanizing Satan isn’t an entirely new concept to modern culture (although more common place in this era), “Et nox facta est” by Victor Hugo is a dramatic presentation of the fall of Lucifer. This Epic poem follows the transformation of Lucifer into Satan in the form of a great fall into the abyss, which is symbolic of his fall into sin. Satan is given a face that is unlike the classical descriptions where he is almost robotic in his demonic mission to destroy man. Instead Hugo’s picture of Satan is of an angel who is scorned, afraid, and transforming into an agent of vengeance. There is also an amazing negative imagery (like that of photography) of the bible, where Satan’s power isn’t akin to magic, but on a level of God’s own power. Victor Hugo might not be the first to create a Satan that almost evokes a sense of sympathy, but it’s likely his is the best.

Complete lack of control is unique to Hugo’s Satan. The beginning of the poem introduces the black one spinning into the abyss, desperately trying to fight his fate “Never had he yet managed to grasp a peak, nor lift even once his forehead” (850). There is a brief moment where he clings to a rock and looks up toward heaven speaking with a defiant tongue, but shortly there after he falls again. It is after he cast down further that Hugo specifically states, although already implied, that Satan is afraid; “Lower! Lower, and still lower! Everything presently fled from him; no obstacle to seize in passing…Nothing, shadow! And from fright he closed his eyes” (850). This image is a complete contrast to the traditional views of a dominate Satan who rules over Hell, and who is often the largest object of his domain. Hugo’s Satan is the first victim of Hell, and he bounces between fits of terror and outbursts of rage. The fading light of the stars is the major cause for Satan’s unbalanced emotions; “eyes fixed upon the stars. The suns were far off, but were still shining” (850). It’s not often contemplated, yet logical, that Satan would feel a connection for the stars since his former identity, Lucifer, meant “light bearer”. So when a curse is hurdled down at him that the light world fade around him, it’s not surprising his attachment the stars is displayed. It’s his desire to hold on to the light that creates some of the most vivid images of a helpless Satan; “He hurled himself, leaping from peak to peak…like a bird from bush to bush…He ran, he flew, he shouted Star of gold! Brother! Wait for me! I’m running! Don’t go out yet! Don’t leave me alone!” (853). Satan runs after the light as if he were a small child running, with tears streaming, after a puppy that deserted him.

During Satan’s desperate acts of trying to stay in the light at one moment he becomes exhausted, and he experiences another uniquely human experience that Hugo attributes to Satan—the act of dreaming. “Then the dreadful being called Never dreamed. His forehead sank between his guilty hands” (852). One should note the body language, of despair, Satan is displaying; this is a contrast to the laughing and arrogant Satan often depicted in modern culture. Satan dreams symbolically, and see’s his transformation into a new persona; “In an instant he felt some horrendous growth of wings: he felt himself become a monster, and that the angel in him was dying, and the rebel knew regret”. It’s significant to the humanization of Satan that his fall into evil isn’t a physical transformation, but an emotional one instead. He is like a man punished for his crime, but the punishment serves to create more anger and hatred instead of reforming him. At the end of the dream Satan, who as far as we are concerned still has the physical appearance of an archangel, makes a declaration of his resentment; “so be it! Still I can see! He shall have the blue sky, the black sky is mine. Does he think I will come weeping to his door? I hate him” (852). Again Satan seems to have the attitude of a tearfully angry child who resents the punishment of his father, almost as if he were saying “go ahead! Send me to my room! I don’t care! I’ll never come out”. It’s important to note both body language and emotion, which Satan displays at the end of the poem after he loses the will to fight against his situation, “Satan, wild and out of breath…beat with wing, opened his hands and then shivered and cried: Despair! See it growing pale! The archangel understood, as does the mast in its sinking, that he was the drowned man of the shadows flood”. Satan’s struggle to keep the light, and his being consumed by anger, gives one the sense of a prisoner aimlessly beating the walls of the cell and then sinking to the floor in defeat—accepting his solitary confinement.

Although he is defeated, seemingly helpless, there is an interesting attribute Hugo gives to his Satan—the ability to create. Satan’s ability is similar to God’s in the sense his words create, but the creations are opposite of Gods in their nature and their intent—as if Satan is the negative image of God. In the very first of the poem, and in the title of the poem it self, there is an allegory to Genesis. In the first book of the bible God say’s “Let there be light” and it marks beginning of life. In the first chapter of Hugo’s poem Satan marks the beginning of evil with a similar oration, “He cried: “Death!” his fists stretched out in the empty dark. Later this word was man and was named Cain” (850). Although this version of Satan is more human in his emotions, he is more God like in the ability to create. Most often culture only associates destruction with Satan, but Hugo blurs the lines between Angel and Devil in this poem. In one of his characteristic outbursts of anger Satan yells out in response to a threat of darkness from heaven and at the same instance creates again; “Someone, from on high, cried out on him: “Fall! The suns will go out around you, accursed!...Satan raised his head and spoke, his arms in the air: “You lie!” This word was later the soul of Judas” (851). One of the more interesting creative acts of Satan comes in the fourth Chapter; “And the archangel felt himself become a phantom. He shouted: ‘Hell’ This word later made Sodom” (852). It’s likely that all of the words Satan utters were not meant to intentionally create anything, but were meant only to be defiant. In a sense this also contributes to the human qualities of Hugo’s Satan, whereas people are often unaware of the actual consequences of their words and actions.

Modern culture has created an image of Satan that makes him more likable, but only Hugo is successful in making him pitiful. It is completely fitting that the tale of Lucifer’s fall should be a tragedy, because the destruction of anything beautiful most certainly is. However, what is important about Hugo’s epic, and the humanization of Satan, is the way it brings home the morality of the fall. Lucifer is thrust into hell because of his pride, but he doesn’t become Satan until he allows himself to be consumed with anger and resentment for his punishment. The lesson to be learned is that humankind or the individual man too can allow its pride to bring shame upon itself, but the shaming should act to inspire humankind or the individual man to repent and try harder. Only when one rejects repentance, and burns inside with resentment for just punishment, does one become a monster. His fate and fault is his own, but at least in the version Victor Hugo created, one still feels a measure of sympathy for the Devil.

Works Cited

Victor Hugo. "Et nox facta est" The Norton Anthology of World Literature. 2nd ed. Vol. E. New York: Norton and Company, 2002. 850-56

America's Mid-Life Crisis

2009-04-07T10:46:00.000-07:00

In the mid 1800's our great intellectuals searched for a national identity, after all we had only been independent from England for a little over a half century. This was also a time when the largest number of European Immigrants began to come to the land of opportunity. The United States was coming of age; moving towards an industrialized nation and moving away from the simple ways. Some men were ready to move forward into "adult world", but some were ready to be bachelors for a spell longer.
Thoreau’s journey into the world reminded me of the idealistic young man, not ready to be forced into complete responsibility. He said it himself, "I would say to my fellows, once and for all, As long as possible live free and uncommitted. It makes but little difference whether you are committed to a farm or the county jail." This is the advice that boy's like me were given by their father's (although his words were more specific to marriage), but didn't follow. Therefore it is those of us who rushed headlong into responsibility who are left most affected by the story of Where I lived, and what I lived for. The overall theme I gathered from this was security through simplicity. Thoreau wouldn't be asking for a bail out package, or a savior to take from the rich and give to the poor, he was content to have little. Thoreau discussed owning a farm by simply taking in its beauty and jotting down a poem. His mansion, fit for gods and goddesses, was an unfinished shack with no door or windows. The only house he owned was a tent. When you are unafraid to loss what little you have, then you are secure from any harm in this world. There is a story I would tell about a Buddhist monk who had the world's biggest ruby, but I've probably bored you enough already. What I liked best was his hate for progress; it reminds me of a few trust fund hippies I know. Thoreau expounds a deep hate for the railway system, and describes the timber in that tracks as men being hammered to the ground. I can feel that, but at the same time I know this is a philosophy that could only be held by the young and the young at heart. My 93 year old great grandmother, who just passed away, would laugh in your face if you asked if she would like to go back to a time without our modern advances.Emerson is who I found the most appropriate then and now. His truth can be described in just a few words, "Books are written on it by thinkers, not by man thinking: by men of talent, that is, who start wrong, who set out from accepted dogmas, not from their own sight of principles. Meek young men grow up in libraries, believing it their duty to accept the views which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke and Bacon were only young men in libraries when they wrote them”. Emerson’s point is that the knowledge schools will give you can only take you half as far as what you can learn from life. Anyone who knows me personally can attest to the fact that I have no love for school. One reason was illustrated to me this semester when my teacher, in an email, told me I could NOT disagree with Erickson’s theory on child development. Would Erickson have a theory if he hadn’t disagreed with Freud? I responded to my teacher’s statement by saying “You can tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll accept it. However, no one can tell me I can’t disagree. I paid for my first amendment rights as a Marine.” I detest the idea that everyone should have a college degree. Not too long ago it was respectable for men like my Father to be a carpenter, or my Grandfather to be a mechanic. Now we are told that a piece a paper determines our value in society, and the Jobs my forefathers were proud to have are “the jobs Americans don’t want”—what ideology is responsible for that truth. The more people believe that, the more devalued your college education becomes. Thirty years ago a bachelor’s degree was excellent, but now we need a master to compete in the big leagues. Soon so many people will be going for PHD’s that academia will have to come up with a new degree level. The point is, we waste so many years of out lives in the shelter world of schools, that it becomes a scramble to learn life’s lessons. This naïve brood produced created the other problem Emerson, and I, have with the nation. We spend too much time wishing we lived in other eras. He talks about people in his time want to go back to the revolution or the romantic era. Why? Why waste the gifts of today? It is true that I’m not great fan of the modern world, but I’ll find fault with any era. In fact I’m glad I live now, because it gives me so many subjects to write on.
Our country seems to be in a constant mid-life crisis. We want to be young and full of adventure again, but we are too unwilling to give up comforts to do so. Sure we would love to live in the Wild West, but are you ready to give up the government pacifier? Can you live without roads, or social security, and twenty years from now you’ll probably be unable to imagine a country without universal healthcare (I’m assuming this will come to pass). “Well son, back in two thousand aught nine we lived different, there was still excitement in the world—danger all around. Only the tough survived” Do we need to go back to into the woods today and rediscover ourselves? Only if you feel lost. How do you do it? Listen to men like Emerson and value the lessons life gives you over the ones you buy at a college.

On Individuality

2009-03-15T19:44:00.001-07:00

Americans have a tendency to miss use their vocabulary. Love is supposed to be a powerful word that expresses one of the purest emotions we know, but how often do you over hear a person saying they “love this pizza” or “love this shirt”. Conversely we take a word like individuality, a state we exist in from birth, and make it something people search for.
Even identical twins are individuals from the minute they are born. In fact you could take two perfect clones with the exact same personality, and unless they moved the exact same way at the same time, then you still wouldn’t be able to strip them of their individuality. Two perfect clones who moved the same way at the same time would still be individuals because one would be on the left, and the other on the right. Individuality is nothing more than what distinguishes you from other people, and there are billions reasons to distinguish one from the other. In order for a person to feel like they aren’t different would require a bit of insecurity; the same insecurity that causes a person to wish they were “normal”. People create all sorts of illusions to fool themselves into a state of pride or sadness, and in this nation American Individualism is a very common illusion.
Most people couldn’t even explain what American individuality is but they could tell you who it is, and the answer might be someone like Davy Crocket, Eddie Rickenbacker, Muhammad Ali, or Peyton Manning. Americans put a very specific brand on their idea of individualism, they admire rugged individuals. Everyone is an individual not everyone is a strong leader, charismatic, fearless, and self reliant. It’s hard to judge yourself against those standards, but it’s even harder to judge yourself against men who are legends. The many icons that embody American rugged individuality have been dehumanized in a way that makes them seem more like superheroes than ordinary men. Therefore it’s easy to feel insecure about when comparing your life to a giant in American culture. When you are unable to do amazing feats like the celebrity idols Americans worship, then you may feel like you are insignificant. The insignificance you have makes you feel like you are no longer an individual. The problem isn’t that you aren’t different enough from the person next to you, but that you and the person next to you aren’t celebrities or heroes. We are like children who have been given a nice bicycle, but see an even better one on television and don’t want to play with the one we have anymore—we let the image spoil our reality.
We know that individuality is the natural state of each person, and we know that some individuals are even more distinguishable with certain labels—like rugged. What other labels receive a lot of attention in American culture? We need people to hate as much as we need people to admire; the greedy individuals are a perfect target. True greed and what we see as greed are two different things. Being rich does not simply make you greedy, and some of the greediest people I’ve ever known are poor. We use labels like greed just as we use other pejorative terms to slenderize people we envy. I recall a member of my crew ranting about rich greedy white men like Bill Gates who have more money than they need should give it to poor people. Like a fool, I asked if super rich rappers with five cars and multimillion dollar mansions should be held to the same standard. We obviously had different ideas of what greed is. My definition of greed: desiring things that you have not earned, or expecting more than you are worth. The difference between a rich greedy individual and a poor one is a combination of cleverness and luck. Greedy people are motivated by envy, and the types of individuals they envy are the industrious kind. Industrious individuals are the most important people to society by far. They provide services and products to the body of society as well as jobs. These people are not always rich in a monetary sense, but are usually rich with the satisfaction of creation. Obviously industrious people can only see their plans realized with the labor of individuals. This fact is the foundation of the American dream we’ve all been told about.
Not everyone in a capitalistic society can be a successful industrious individual, but everyone can make a living helping others being successful. The idealized suburbs of the 1950’s weren’t filled with a bunch of Bill Gates’ or Donald Trumps, but with people who worked to make other peoples’ businesses successful. The suburbs of the 1950’s symbolize the happiness and comfort that is the reward of being a productive individual in society. I don’t believe those suburbs glimmered with happiness they way my father remembers them. People who measure the “American Dream” by owning a home, a car, and having 2.5 children will be disappointed more often than not. In order for there to be winners, there must be losers. The American Horror comprises the losers. Why do people lose? I could write a book about that, and maybe someday I will. One way is being destroyed by illusions—the same kind of illusions that fool us into believing we aren’t individuals. Illusions can be a good thing too, as long as we control them. We decide what our “American Dream” is. I choose to be happy even though I’m a poor individual, and I do it by creating the illusion that money can’t buy happiness; a rich man chooses not to be happy by using the same illusion.

(about this piece)

The thoughts and feelings I’ve expressed above are motivated by my rejection of class warfare. Class warfare is the “us vs. them” attitude between the rich and the poor that is cultivated by politicians and other facets of society. My step-father has worked for thirty years at the Denver Post as mailer (a part of production), and his union has been forced to vote on a bill that reduces their wages down to a level they haven’t seen since the 1980’s. I sympathize with him, but I don’t buy into his belief that Mike Singleton is failing on purpose. I don’t believe that the owner of The Denver Post is running the business into the ground just to screw the production staff. Jim (my step father) believes that Mike Singleton should sell his ranch, cut his own pay, and all of the pay for the people at top positions before lowering the wage for the production staff. I could argue both sides of that position, and I’m not sure which side I agree with. What I know is that it isn’t necessary to agree with either. The happiness of individuals who work for industrious individuals will always be in turmoil as long as happiness is measured by a pay scale. Its unfortunate Jim is losing a dollar an hour, but he is also lucky to have a job, and he can retire anytime he chooses. Dr Wayne Dryer once said, “When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change”. I’ve also rejected the notion that people must become individuals. Instead we must become aware that we are individuals. We can never achieve that so long as we look to other individuals to define our own individuality; that mentality leads to a group of gothic teenagers stating they are different while blending in with each other.

My thoughts on "Bartleby the Scrivener", by Melville.

2009-03-13T12:20:00.000-07:00

(a question posed by my professor: explain how Bartleby is a symbol of American Individualism, or what obligations we have to the collective, and how you fit in the machine?)

I’d like to take a second and point out what I see as the importance of the choice of vocation of the cast of Bartleby The Scrivener; imagine the world before the copying machine. Think of the profound monotony involved with a profession that comprises copying, proofreading, and distribution of paperwork. A very tedious task indeed, and for your hours of labor involved, there is no solace in knowing your work will ultimately be burned or thrown away.
Meaningless is such work, and I believe it can kill the soul. Men of character aspire as boy’s to do things that matter to the world; doctors, police officers, professional athletes, and so on. How many of us grow to see that desire fulfilled? Not many find themselves glad to awake each morning and begin their labors—including myself. Life is not meant to be a glorifying experience; “life is suffering”, as Buddha said best. Those who are condemned to be the cogs of society, when they would prefer to be bells and whistles, have few options to cope with the hand they are dealt. Some can ascribe some kind of excuse to their shortcomings, the narrator of this story that “I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is best”, he is in affect declaring his complacency. Many Americans march off to professions they feel no fire for, and never consider other possibilities, because they are complacent. Others are not so tranquil, consider the character of Turkey, whom starts the day balanced, but as the sun rises in the sky “flares” into a mood. Turkey is not complacent, but is obstinate with is fate instead. Turkey’s vices, most prominent his drinking, suggest there is a rage within against his circumstance. Think of how many Americans cap off their meaningless week by obliterating their mind and liver with binge drinking. They drag themselves into work with hangover because they cling to an idea that they are needed. Turkey refuses to leave work at noon declaring himself the right hand man of our narrator; Turkey often acts as a servant bowing down to his employer like the stereotypical Chinese butler. Turkey’s purpose is to justify wasted life by the notion that he was needed. Ginger Nut and Nippers move forward with hope of moving to better things—they are young and naïve. This how most people live through the dullness, it is pocked with trivial joys, such as the ability to tell other cogs what to do (like our narrator), or other highs (love, money, drugs).Bartleby finds a different, unique solution. He is too well programmed with morality to become a thief, typical bum, or abrasive personality so he is without the normal escapes from thankless work. Bartleby simply seizes, like an engine without oil, and is no longer able to continue. I think we read too much, or in the wrong way, his persistent reply “I prefer not”. I don’t see it as defiance in a meaningful way—he is no Gandhi. I feel like his response is pure honesty—the same sentiment we all have at times. However, he knows not what to do from there. He can refuse to work, but without moving to other occupations he has only one option-to die. In his death does he have a triumph because he has ended his serfdom to society? It’s a victory without spoils I think. I could wake up tomorrow, decide against work, and blow my brains out instead. What have I won? Do I retain my individuality by refusing to be a part of the machine? Not in my mind. Individual pieces, gears and cogs, make the machine run. If you take a spring out of a watch it is nothing but a spring, when it used to be a watch. Turkey may be a simple gear in the machine, but he is an individual, like a gear that squeaks. Our unique personalities distinguish us from the rest of the pieces surrounding us, making it possible to be both an individual and a component in the machine. This is what I believe American individualism is about. I’m not sure how we classify Bartleby as the embodiment of American Individualism. Maybe because he was arrogant, in the tradition of American culture, to exercise his free-will to the most extreme end. However, I see the true individualism embodied in the other characters—those who endured the frivolity of their work. It’s not glamorous to be a human copy-machine, but it served a purpose. Turkey, Ginger Nut, and Nipper gave color to their drab scenery with their personalities. Bartleby would have completely been wiped from history had the Narrator not chose to make him immortal in story. So I have to say I must be a dolt, or a shallow mind, because I can’t really answer the question posed. I can’t explain how Bartleby is a symbol of American Individualism, or what obligations we have to the collective, and how I fit in the machine. Or maybe I prefer not to…

My American Landscape

2009-02-12T21:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I look in the rearview mirror of my truck, on the way to work, I gaze at the mountains behind me. I watch the furious winds of the Front Range blowing the fresh snow, and I feel my heart pulling me towards the wilderness. There was a time when men conquered the perils giants of rock and forest, and they accomplished it with iron will, leather saddles, and self reliance.
That was a time when men could accomplish great deeds without the government’s aide. Anyone can conquer those giants now, on paved government roads, in the comfort of their iron cages with leather seats. The giants have been weakened by towns and roads, like tumors on a once beautiful body.
I look forward, I hate my truck. Automobiles killed the “wild west”, and mutated the American spirit. As I get on the highway, on the way to work, I pass a car dealership. It’s adorned with brand new iron cages, like bulbs on a Christmas tree. Banners hang from the glass building, pushing slogans about “freedom” and feeling the wind through your hair. Who could have known a transparent building could hide so many lies. I see the highway, a line of red tail-lights stretching out towards the rising sun on the horizon, and I see no freedom. I see a line of ant like drones marching to work—to pay for their iron cages. Should any of them have money left over, and need help deciding what to spend it on, there is a billboard advertisement every quarter mile to help.
Sometimes I can’t stand it though, having materialism flashed through my windshield like a slide show, and I get off the highway. The neighborhoods tend to be more cheerful, but all is gloom during a dry winter in Denver. Without a white blanket covering the ground, dead grass and litter is the only scenery. Cities are decorated with redundancy, with the billboards on the highways, but in the neighborhoods its feels like a merry-go round. You pass a Church, a Pawn Shop, a Bar, then a Church again, and a Porn Shop, another Bar, a Church—It seems never ending.
I could end it though…In America I can make certain choices for myself. Maybe one day I’ll stay on that highway, and when my exit for work comes up, I’ll hit the accelerator. Rumbling along at 5,000RPM, the iron cage will become my steed; my American addiction—Oil—will pump through my veins like push of heroin. I’ll have those hallucinations of “freedom”, and it will be enough to keep me moving forward with my escape. Out of the city billboards will dissipate like the smog. Two-thousand miles north of here virgin land is waiting, and I am its suitor. Maybe I’ll roll this truck off a cliff, and let nature have its revenge; The Alaskan wilderness will swallow me like Jonah’s whale. I won’t pray for deliverance.
I dream of freedom, but I never act on it. My commute to work ends with the same scene everyday, a homeless man at the top of the off-ramp. Every car veers in the lane furthest from him. As I pass each car to meet my friend I see the many bumper stickers; “Free Tibet”, “Co-exist”, “Equality”, “Habitat for Humanity”. I think of Matthew 6:2 “Therefore, when you do a charitable deed, do not sound a trumpet before you as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory from men.” The people look away from my friend—ignoring his presence. I always pull up closest to him, but I don’t roll down the window today; what I’ve got to give doesn’t require that. We smile at each other, and I look him in the eyes. I acknowledge him, as an entity. The light turns green, and the people around me sigh relief from the embarrassment of having their hypocrisy stare at them--with his dark brown sorrowful eyes.
In the parking lot I light a cigarette, and procrastinate a moment like an inmate being transferred to a new cell block. One more glance back toward the mountains, and what used to be. Maybe tomorrow I’ll escape to the last bastions of a loving, breathing, natural earth—today I will serve my purpose in the American machine.

About this piece: One of the first movies I can remember seeing, and my favorite, is Jeremiah Johnson directed by Sidney Pollack, and starring Robert Redford. I’m an only child, and what you call a “lock and key” kid. I walked home alone from school, and let myself in to the house, and was alone until my mother came from work. Sometimes my father was there, but most often he was drunk, and avoided him. Coming home from school, I’d look at the mountains, and dream of escaping. I wanted to leave it all behind, and live like Jeremiah did. Many nights I lived in that movie to hide from my reality. That was elementary school, and it seemed an achievable dream then. By high school, when I walked home, I knew those mountains didn’t exist anymore. I was told my place in the world was to be a working member of society. There are no wild mountain men who live off the land in this society. In those years I had begun a musical journey that shaped my philosophy in way, or at least defined it. When my Uncle David died of a drug overdose in the basement of my home, they played “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd at his funeral. I bought the album, and studied the lyrics. That’s when I was influenced by the idea of society being a machine. Today I realize there is no real escape, but only imaginary voyages to take while your body goes through the motions day to day. That is what I tried to illustrate here.

America

2009-01-21T11:22:00.000-08:00

So school has begun, and my first question to answer in my Survey of American literature class is "What does it mean to be an American?" Fiver years ago, when I was a Marine, I might have had a very idealistic answer to that.
Maybe I would have said that Americans are individualistic people, who love freedom, and work to provide freedom to those who are oppressed. I used to believe that at heart we are all patriotic people, who respect our military, president, and our laws. That's what I might have said five years ago, but nowadays I'm not sure anymore. The only truth that seems to fit anymore is that America, and Americans, are only what they perceive themselves to be. America is what you want it to be. If you want this to be the land of opportunity, where anyone can achieve great goals, then it will be. In recent days, since President Obama's rise to power, the words "America's Promise" is thrown around quite a bit. I don't believe there is any promise this country can offer you. The only promises to be made are the ones to yourself, the country has nothing to do with it. If you want to be successful, go out and work for it. That's how it is anywhere in the world. Those of us who don't work hard enough, or at all, towards the promises we make ourselves need scapegoats. In America we like to blame the country, or the president, or whatever is convenient. If want to perceive this country as racist, then it will be. If you want to see the country as too greedy, then it will be. We could be like Holden Caulfield, and see our society as a bunch or frauds. So in short, what we perceive this country and "being American" to be is a reflection of ourselves. I'm not sure, like I said, what kind of American I am anymore. I'm neither idealistic nor detrimental towards the country. I don't believe that any government, or the persons who comprise it, will determine how my life will be. The election of any politician does not suddenly give me hope, or pride. Pride and hope are things that only I can provide myself. Maybe in a sense, I've become like Hemingway, in my heart; the label of a nation holds less importance to me, than the label of my character.

Converstations I never Had (an epilouge to Marker 135)

2009-01-06T10:33:00.000-08:00

"How bad do you want it?", he asked looking out of the corner of his eye to where she sat in the passenger seat of the truck.

"Want what?", she retorted less playfully.

"A cigarette", he began tapping on the steering wheel to the rhythm of My Girl.

"You said you would have one waiting for me."

"Well...usually after you come back from your parents it takes a week for the brainwashing to wear off before you'll smoke. I guess there'll be no holy rollin' this time?" His smirk widened to a grin. Ignoring the comment, she watched the other traffic pass them on Pena boulevard. "What's wrong with you?" she asked.

"Nothing...I feel really good actually", he said in cheerful tone.

"That's what bothers me."

"Why?"

"What did you do this weekend while I was gone?"

"Nothin'."

She got excited, as if catching him in a lie, "You did something Saturday."

"I don't recall." He continued to tap more heavily on the steering wheel.

"You said you went to your mother's...she was cooking you dinner."

"Yeah, I ate and left."

"Why didn't you stay?"

"I didn' feel like drinking, I just wanted to go home", now he couldn't help but chuckle as his wife looked at him in disbelief. It was then he opened up the feelings he had be guarding so closely,
"It's a funny thing, but something happened while you were gone."
"What?" She asked expecting bad news.
"I stopped being afraid." He stopped a second, like a young child hesitating to jump off a diving board, and then plunged in. "I grew up alone...I didn't mind it so much. For a long time it was the only way I knew how to live. Maybe I liked it...I don't know. What I do know is that since my accident life was hell. I was afraid to be alone, but I couldn't be a round people either. I was too embarrassed I guess. When I was alone all I could think about was being hurt again. Lying there bleeding to death, and no one coming to save me. Then we got married and I didn't have to be alone, or around people I didn't trust. Whenever you left though, I couldn't stand it. I had to drink to sleep. Booze doesn't keep the nightmares away. Nothing is worse than staying on a couch all night sobering up...and going right into the hangover. That was before this week...I'm not sure how to explain it. After that drive home in the snow, and helping that injured truck driver I guess something changed. I wasn't scared anymore. Maybe helping someone who was stranded and hurt, the way I once was, was a kind of release for me. Somethings changing, I'm not sure what it is, but I feel a weight being carried off me. I'm starting to remember what it was like to be truly proud...happy with myself."
He continued driving in silence for a few moments, neither one of them knew what else to say.

"Marker 135"

2009-01-03T18:30:00.000-08:00

It was an impulse, he thought, that compelled him to leave San Francisco shortly after midnight on December 26th. Bud was known to follow his impulses without second thought, but as he loaded his red F-150 with luggage and presents even he was uneasy of what lay ahead. It wasn’t the first time he had driven a great distance in snow, and he reassured his wife and in-laws that he would be fine making the journey alone. An hour and a half later, having missed the turn off for I-80, he was on highway 50 approaching Placerville. Hitting a few patches of black ice, and nearly spinning 90 degrees on the road it was the last time he would see the speedometer climb over fifty-five. It didn’t pass over twenty-five miles an hour until he had winded through the Sierra’s to Lake Tahoe, and finally down to Carson City.

Four-thirty in the morning he pulled into the parking lot of the Quality Inn. Having just enough funds to pay for gas and food he didn’t enter the hotel, but eased the driver seat back to sleep. “Well, I’ve got plenty of time. No deadline to fill. A few hours of rest won’t hurt”, Bud said setting his cell-phone alarm for eight. It never had a chance to wake him. He rose at six in the morning, with the impulse to keep driving. Letting out a haggard yawn, he lay back and tried to ignore the knotted feeling in his stomach. Lying awake with his eyes shut he thought about his wife and son. They were flying home to Denver the next week where he would be waiting eagerly. When he had planned the Christmas trip months before, the cost of round trip tickets for the three of them was too expensive, and the drop in gas prices made driving a better option. Now he regretted not spending extra money for plane tickets for him self. Pulling the driver seat back into position he turned the truck on and flipped through the AM radio stations looking for a weather report. The green glow of the digital clock on his dash read ten after six when he heard the bad news. A large storm had dropped six to ten inches, and in some places more than a foot of snow along highway 50. The same storm was now in Utah closing parts of I-70-where he was headed.
Hours later, the loneliest plow, on the loneliest highway, passed him going the other direction. “Haw up there Cliff, Haw up!” he shouted to she truck hoping that he could will the vehicle from sliding off the road. Talking to the truck made him feel easier, just as talking to his horse Wildfire had done years ago. Gripping the wheel with one hand, and spiting into a Dr Pepper bottle with the other, he touched the brake pedal lightly as the truck descended down the mountain. “Ho Cliff. Hooooooo. Easy now, lets not get ahead of ourselves.” A great basin lay ahead as he turned the last corner of the downgrade, and the next set of mountains (more like hills compared to the Rocky Mountains he grew up next to) seemed like islands far off in a sea of white. The sage brush mixed in with the snow gave the illusion of waves, and for the next sixty miles the road seemed tranquil. Thoughts drifted in and out of his mind, like small chunks of ice floating in the Atlantic; they were precursors to an iceberg he hoped to avoid.
The iceberg was the memory of the previous week which had ended at an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. The Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs was the last place he had expected to be ordered to by the United States Marine Corps to evaluate Bud’s status on temporary-disability-retirement. The doctor would do one of three things: recommend him for permanent-disability-retirement (if the condition was worsened), recommend him for release from retirement without return to active duty (if the condition was bad, but not bad enough to receive benefits), or return him to active duty. Bud had spent two years hoping to improve enough to be returned to active duty, and he groveled pitifully like a boxer trying to convince his manager he could finish another round. “Sir, I’d say my knee is eighty percent better than where I was when discharged. I still have problems running, and it aches like a son of a bitch in the cold. My flexibility is much better, but I’m sure with a knee replacement I could go back to duty. The Major told Bud that there was no way he could recommend him for a return to active duty, and the bone loss lateral-condyle would make a knee replacement more complicated than a usual arthritis patient would experience. It was explained to Bud that he would have to have the missing bone replaced with bone from a cadaver, not just plastic and medal. The words still echoed in his mind, “You’ve done a tremendous job rehabilitating your knee Lane Corporal, but we have to think about what’s best for you. There are two people I must consider. There is you who wore the uniform a while back and there is you with the bad knee today. If I put today’s you in the uniform of yesterday, the you of tomorrow could be crippled (correcting himself)-handicapped-worse,” the Major smiled thinking himself to be very illustrative. That’s it? Bud shouted internally. You’ve sunk my ship, and you did it with some ridiculous analogy that barley made sense! However, such words never ventured past his lips. “Yes sir, thank you. Good morning sir”, was all he could muster in response and exited the room behind the Major.
The front end of the truck slid fifteen degrees the right, and was quickly corrected as Bud took his foot of the gas pedal-“Whoa Cliff, Whoa” He said softly. Then the iceberg hit with full force against his fragile ego; he had begun to dwell on his knee. He thought of the dream he had of being returned to active duty, and serving gloriously in the last moments of the war. Of returning home proudly with his medals and showing everyone without a doubt what a brave man he was. He could be killed, but even that would be better he believed; at least then his son could be proud of a heroic father who died for his country. Instead he would have a living father, who missed the war because of an accidental gunshot wound to the left knee. His son would have a father who ended up a joke, the stupid Marine who shot himself on accident; who in one week he went from being the rising star of his unit, to the lampoon. I was a damn good Marine. I just never got to prove it. His heart sank as he indulged in self pity. Not much later the iceberg had left his mind, along with the other drifting thoughts, and there was nothing but the ocean of snow around him.
Hours passed with frustration, cursing, and he treated his truck as an emotional punching bag. “Haw up there! Damn it! Come on Cliff!”, and the truck sloshed forward up the hills and through the valleys until they reached Ely Nevada. Pulling into town, Bud had been sapped of the strength to even talk to the truck. It was time to fill the gas tank; he nearly fell out of the driver’s seat as he stepped out of the truck. Five-hundred miles of keeping his body tense and alert for the slightest slip of tires left him feeling limp and light headed. Sauntering into the station to pay for the gas he was reminded of how little money he had left, and continuing through town the hotels and motels seemed to mock him. God, what I’d give just to stretch out in a bed for a couple of hours. Before the thought was completed the horn of a pickup blasted- he had ran a through a red light at the intersection. Again his body locked with tension and he pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store. Moments later his eyes lifted from the floor board to see the Bank of America sign on the stores blonde brick exterior wall. Could they be open on the day after Christmas? They were, and he checked the balance of his account hoping for just enough to afford a cheap motel.
There was no such funds, only enough to pay the up coming bills and groceries. His bad leg was going numb and he tried to walk it off as he circled the produce isle weighing his options. I could sleep in another parking lot, but its freezing cold outside, and to keep the heat on in the truck would cost me at least a half tank of gas. Well….Dan and Kathy wanted me to stop at a room, and offered to pay. He appreciated his in-laws offer, but to accept it would bitter his mouth with shame. Asking for money was something he was never comfortable doing, and almost never did. Before he could talk himself out of calling, Dan answered his cell phone. Bud beat lightly around the bush and talked of the roads and the weather then came to his point, “Dan, I’m going to need a room to stay in. If I could borrow fifty dollars I’d really appreciate it…I’ll send you a check on Friday when I get paid.” True to form, Dan agreed and Bud thanked him. Then, Kathy called back and told Bud that they had put one-hundred dollars in his account and it was “their treat”. It made him uneasy, but he was very thankful. He withdrew the money from the teller after the conversation was finished, and left the store in search of a room.
After driving through town he passed half dozen motels, but never pulled into one. He planned to turn around at the end of town and go back to the motel the seemed best, but the impulse was back. Now the impulse was more than a twisting feeling in his stomach it was a voice shouting in the depth of his mind-Keep Going! He answered it out loud, “I’m too damn tired!” At the same time his foot eased into the accelerator as he passed a mileage sign that read: DELTA 160. It was pitch black night when he passed another mileage sign announcing Delta Utah was only fifty-four miles away. The road was the driest it had been since he left San Francisco, and just as the truck edged over fifty miles an hour it was quickly slowed as Bud beheld a ghastly sight. A deer lay to the side of the road, freshly killed, its neck burst with white muscles and blood. His nerve lost, it took another hour and a half to reach Delta as he scanned the darkness for cattle and deer wandering onto the road.
The O on the neon sign of the Delta Motel was burnt out, and Bud waited for nearly ten minutes in the musty lobby after he rung the buzzer. The manger, a squatty woman of her late forties, tossed a key to him and asked that he leave the thirty-nine dollars on the counter. The stench of old shag carpet mixed with cigarettes drove him out after leaving two twenty-dollar bills on the table. Room 119 had the same bitter and damp aroma as the lobby, and one look at the dingy bedding sent Bud back to his truck. Moments later he returned with three quilts his wife’s grandmother, Marion, had made for their son. A stiff cold wind pushed through the single pane window, and overpowered the warmth emitted from the heater. Bud noticed, and debated turning up the thermostat. He fell asleep before deciding to act.
Like a bubble surfacing from a dark ocean, the iceberg rose from the waters of his mind in a dream. Bud dreamt of boot camp, and dead Fred. He dreamt of the drills each recruit did carrying the 180 pound sand bag dummy to safety. On any obstacle course a recruit navigated, if their body touched red paint on the wooden beams, then they would have to carry dead Fred. Bud dreamt of taking dead Fred through a field of snow for what seemed like miles. Reaching a ditch, Bud began to scream with terror, dead Fred started to bleed profusely. The screaming became reality for Bud. The impulse had returned, and he hurriedly repacked his luggage. Instead of returning the blankets and suitcase to the shelter of the tonneau covered bed of the truck, he threw the items into the passenger seat of the truck. Like a racecar pulling in for a pit stop he jumped out of the truck to return the motel key to the lobby, and then squealed out to the road. His heart pounded with unknown excitement for two hours as he left highway 50, drove a few minor highways, and finally saw a green sign pointing to Denver. He had forgotten the dreams of the previous day and night as his mind submitted wholly to the feeling in his stomach driving him forward.
Road conditions were favorable for the red F-150 even after Bud had reached I-70 where the blizzard had been the day before. However, the dry pavement was short lived. A few miles ahead of him an eighteen wheeler came into view. At first the white trailer seemed to be perfectly parked in the median of the highway, but as Bud drew nearer he saw tire tracks that told a different story. A small man stepped into the road crossing his arms over head to wave down Bud, who slowed to meet the man. A look of panic met Bud through the window as he rolled it down to speak, “You okay?”
The small Mexican pleaded immediately in a thick accent,
“Please sir, call 911. Please sir, do you have a cell phone?”
“Sure”, Bud answered as he stepped out of the tuck and ruffled through the console for his phone while the Mexican stepped in place like a spooked horse. Bud looked up at him while feeling for the phone, “Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance”
“Yes! Yes Sir, call an ambulance!”
Bud was confused, the Mexican seemed uninjured, and from where he stood he could see no damage to the truck. Pulling the phone from the pile of papers it had sunk under he looked behind the truck and saw the debris scattered behind the trailer. Then it dawned on Bud, “Do you have someone with you?”
“Yes! Yes Sir, my partner! He was sleeping in the back. He hurt bad. Please call 911!”
Bud was surprised to even have the poor reception his phone gave in the isolated area, and as the dispatcher answered the below zero chill began to chew on his hands. “Yeah, I need to have an ambulance sent out…A wrecked semi…I think it slid off the road on ice….its white…it’s a SWIFT truck…one in the truck is badly injured…I’m not sure…the driver seems to be fine…no I haven’t seen the injured man…The truck is in the median on the westbound side of 1-70…” Bud began to walk around the front of the truck and saw the front of it had been disintegrated against the rocky wall of the median. The front axle was torn off, the engine was wedged under the cab, and the windshield was broken in. Bud was silent as he took in the sight, “Yes I’m still here…Mile Marker? No I don’t see one…My name? Bud Johnson…No I’m just somebody who stopped to help-Wait. I see a marker on the other side of the road. We’re at marker 135. Look I’m going to let you go and check on the man in the truck. Yes you can call this number” Bud hung up and waded through the snow to the driver’s side door that hung barley on its hinge. The smell of diesel fuel permeated as it continued to spill out of the punctured tank behind the cab. Climbing inside the cab Bud heard a moan and saw a skinny white man in the fetal position wedged between the two seats. Then before he knew his mouth was moving, something took control of him, and Bud began to speak, “You’re going to be okay. I’m here to help you…I’m a Marine.”
Bud slid onto the drivers seat and put his hand on the moaning mans shoulder, “What’s you’re name?”
“Rich”
“Okay Rich, where are you hurting most.”
“My Back, My Back. If I try to move it hurts too bad”
“Okay Rick, pain is better than nothing with at all, now can you feel your legs.”
“Yes”
“Can you move them?”
“Yes but it hurts too bad”
“What hurts? Your legs?”
“No my back”
“Okay Rich, relax the ambulance is on the way.”
“I’m cold. I’m really cold” Rich pleaded as he rolled slightly towards Bud to see his face. It was then the gash on Rich’s forehead revealed itself to Bud; he climbed back down from the cab “Rich I’m going to get some blankets hold tight.”
The Mexican was pacing frantically around Buds truck calling his company dispatcher on Buds cell phone. “Is he okay”, the Mexican asked. “He’s hurt his back pretty bad, and he’s got some deep lacerations on his forehead. I’m going to bring him some blankets, It’s pretty Damn cold out here. Maybe you should sit in my truck until the ambulance arrives. When did this happen?”
“Just before you come sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. I’m Bud.” He said grabbing the blankets from the passenger side of the truck. “Are you hurt?” The Mexican nodded and handed the cell phone back, “My knees are starting to hurt. I hit them hard against the truck when we crash. Cell phone range is very bad here. Are you sure the ambulance is coming?” Bud remembered that the dispatcher was cutting in and out when he called, but he held the information back. “Look, the thermometer on my truck said its eight below, why don’t sit inside while I go to your friend”, Bud said heading back for the semi. The Mexican complied.
The Quilts Bud had brought were made for his son, and one had fabric patterns of Sponge Bob Square Pants. Rich noticed them as Bud began to swaddle him, “My grandson loves that cartoon”.
“Yeah? So does my son. Rich are you dizzy?”
“A little, but I’m cold mostly. Do you think you the ambulance will be here soon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is Pablo?”
“He is sitting in my truck”
“Can you take me there?”
Bud’s heart sank as the sandy blonde man looked up from him pitifully. “Look Rich, if you’ve hurt your back bad the best we can do is not to move you much.”
“I’m so cold” he answered. Bud wondered if it was shock setting in, and if there was another injury that he couldn’t see. Then he remembered the gas leaking out of the punctured tank. Diesel fuel gels up in the cold; then it’s barely flammable. The front of this rig is mangled up bad. Something could spark the fuel lines, and then the punctured tank would be a problem. Bud made his decision, “Rich I’m going to get you out of this rig.” The driver’s side would have been too hard to carry anyone from. Bud knew the rig was pinned against the rocks, and climbing in cowboy boots wasn’t a good option. He tried to open the passenger side door, but it was jammed. After kicking it a few times it budged loose. “Rich do you think you can sit up and get on the seat over here?”
“I’ll try”, Rich’s moans became muffled shrieks as Bud helped him onto the passenger seat. “Okay lets wrap these quilts around you real good…there…now I’m going to come around to this side”, Bud jumped out from the drivers side and rushed around the truck in the high snow he trotted like a Clydesdale. Placing on foot on the step of the rig he pulled up close to Rich. “Now Rich, this is going to hurt like a bastard. Put your arm around my neck and slide over.” Rich did and Bud got his right arm under Rich’s legs, and his left around his back. He stepped down carefully and waded through the snow. Pablo saw Bud carrying Rich, who looked like a bundle of laundry in Bud’s arms, and rushed out to meet them. “You okay Rich? Do you want me to help sir?”
“Start my truck and turn the heat on full blast. Open the passenger door first.” Bud asked, and Pablo obeyed each order quickly. After setting Rick in the passenger seat, Bud reclined it all the way back; “You need to lie back so we don’t put much pressure on your spine Rich. Pablo open the bed of my truck, there is some water bottles in the red cooler, bring one here.” Bud grabbed some paper towels from the glove box and instructed Pablo to clean Rich’s forehead, and let him drink a little. Bud went to the rear of the truck and looked for an ambulance, but found a highway patrolman instead-fifteen minutes later.
The gold name tag on the dark brown uniform read MCGRUE. Sergeant McGrue took a small duffle bag out of his patrol car, then put a pair of blue latex gloves on before walking over towards Bud. “Are you the driver?” he asked pulling the sunglasses of hi face to rest on his head. “No Sir, the driver and injured man are in my truck staying warm.” Bud replied. “Did you witness the accident?”
“No Sir”
“Did you see this truck pass you earlier?”Bud thought that he did, but didn’t commit to it, “Well, I’ve been passed by a few trucks the last couple of hours, but I can’t say for sure if this was one of them.”
“Okay.” The patrolman said as he continued to the passenger side of the truck to asses the wounded man. Bud paced back and forth at the rear of his truck as the patrolman conducted his business; often walking back to his patrol car to radio information. Minutes later a sheriff pulled up in a white SUV, and began taking pictures of the wreckage. Then Bud’s toes went from stinging with cold to growing numbness. “Shit”, he said as he looked down to see his brown cowboy boots had been soaked in the snow. The wind kicked up with a howl, and blew the powdered snow across the road like sand in an hourglass turned sideways. Bud stomped his feet in vain, and then remembered that his sister in law had bought him a pair of hunting socks. Tearing through the boxes in the bed of the truck Bud searched for his Christmas stocking. He pulled out the socks and took off his boots and sat on the tailgate when the Ambulance screamed in. His toes were white and blue, and it wasn’t a moment to soon before he changed the socks, and then sat in the back seat of his truck warm up. He watched as the paramedics rolled out the gurney and put a neck brace on Rich, dropping the plastic bags of their instruments on the floor of his truck as if it were their trash can. They asked all the same questions Bud had done earlier, and he felt the flames of pride growing in him. Pablo limped over to the ambulance and waved to Bud before he climbed in the back. Moments later Rich was rolled over to the ambulance, and he yelled back to Bud “Thank you!” Bud got out of the truck and went to the passenger side to fold up the quilts neatly then he jolted up hitting his head on the roof of the truck when the patrolman started shouting. “Slow down! Slow down!” Sergeant McGrue nearly jumped in front of the blue SUV as it sped towards the group of emergency vehicles. It was the first travelers to pass since Bud had been waved down by Pablo. Sergeant McGrue pointed towards the ground emphatically as he shouted and cursed the travelers, “Slow the fuck down!” The SUV skid a little as it hit the brakes past Bud, the Sheriff, and McGrue. Then it sped back up, “Do you want me to get him John!” the Sheriff asked. “Go get that son of a bitch!” McGrue shouted and in an instant the sheriff tore off with lights flashing. The Ambulance followed slowly after, and as McGrue walked back towards his patrol car he saw the disabled veteran license plates on Buds F-150. McGrue walked past, Bud who was still tidying up his truck, McGrue was huffing with anger when he looked back and saw the Semper Fi bumper sticker on the truck. The passenger door slammed shut and Bud walked around his truck to leave before McGrue stopped him.
“How long have you been with these guys?”
“Probably an hour and a half now, maybe forty-five minutes before you got here sir”, Bud replied looking back at the wreckage.
“That man might have frozen to death if you hadn’t stopped.”
“Maybe so”, Bud said shyly.
The McGrue put his hand out, “You did a damn good job Marine”.
Bud shook his hand, “Thank you sir”
Still grasping Buds hand McGrue slapped his shoulder, “Drive safe”.
Bud Smiled, “You do the same.”
They parted and Bud warmed his feet in the truck watching the patrol man go. After his feet were warm he continued to sit on the side of the road, warming his soul with the pride swelling inside. “I am a good Marine.”
Seven Hours later he was in Denver, safely, calling his wife with joy in his voice she hadn’t heard in a long time. Bud Johnson left California just after midnight on what he thought was an impulse. He battled frustration and detours for nearly a thousand miles, and he thought it was bad luck. After Mile Marker 135 he knew it wasn’t impulses or bad luck he had been dealing with, it was God making sure he would make an appointment on time. A divine appointment: to save another man, and recapture love for himself.

END

Brainstorm

2008-08-27T21:42:00.000-07:00

Clink! Clink! Clink! The ice seemed to sing to him as he poured his magic thinking potion. The brown nectar of the half pint rushed out of the bottle into the glass, and he rocked the drink back and forth a few times. Clink! Clink! Clink! The glass rang out, but more muted than before. The frosted glass, which resides in the freezer all day, began to sweat as he stepped out of his townhouse onto the four by six foot piece of concrete to smoke.

What a day, he thought to himself, how did I know we’d do a group exercise in class this morning. Brainstorming huh? Seems like some of these kid’s brains are cloudy enough- why add a storm too? Kids-I call them kids, and yet I’m the same as most of them. I look in their eyes and see a healthy dose of confidence and ignorance, a recipe Twain said would make success. I wonder how many of these kids can be successful when their major three concerns in life are being cool, having fun, and getting laid. Why pick on them? I’m a bit jealous I suppose, I never had such a blissful life where I was devoid of responsibility. Nope, at seventeen years old I was in charge of lives in the Marines and now at twenty-two years old in marriage. It’s better to think less of those kids. It’s the best way to avoid jealousy.

Crushing out the cigarette he coughed, and then threw the butt into the bushes by his porch. After a few moments of looking up at the night sky the felt the thinking potion begin to take effect. His shoulders unloosened the knots which were tied from lifting a couple hundred mufflers, and a few hundred more sticks of tubing. His neck muscles, so tight they could snap, loosened as if they were strings on a guitar being tuned. Then his brain stopped struggling with the problems of the day, and relaxed with the rest of his muscles. The ideas began to pour out of his head like a bottle of whiskey being emptied.

Well, I have yet another research paper to write. Gotta make a list, gotta storm the brain for the sake of earning a piece of paper that declares I’m smart. Maybe I could just ask the Wizard of OZ for a diploma. I wonder if the scarecrow got a better job with the one he got? There’s a topic. What happened to the cast of “The Wizard of OZ” after all these years? Wait…that’s too easy. Judy Garland became a lush and the Munchkins travel from mall to mall signing autographs. Munchkins eh? Maybe I could do a paper on dwarfism. Nope. That’s to factual for my taste. Well, I could always fall back on the lame topic brainstormed during class. If I have to hear one more presentation or read one more paper on China I’ll cry. (Sarcastically)Maybe I can do the history of something! The history of the CIA, computers, the Internet! Or better yet I could do a paper on the history of “The Clapper”. Of course! What an important invention, and I could talk about the horrors of being a senior citizen before its debut. Oh, and then I could talk about the future of “The Clapper”. Perhaps Viagra and the Clapper will collaborate for the sake of the elderly. Boy that would give “clap on clap off” a new meaning. Huh, then again having the term “The Clapper” partnered with a sexual performance drug might not be a good advertising campaign. Advertising! I could do a paper on advertising. I could do a paper on political advertising. No I better not. After three semesters in school I’ve learned my lesson about speaking my mind on politics. (As if reciting algebra) In college conservative plus Catholic equals wrong. Well, maybe I’ll settle on some easy, crappy, topic like the space program. What’s the point in trying to be so original?
Sipping down the last of his drink he sucked in an Ice cube to chew on at the same time. Before he reentered his humble abode an arm jutted out of the door holding a bag of trash. “Yes babe”, he said taking hold of the garbage. “Take the diaper can out to the trash too please”, she said in a sweet tone. Maybe I can do a paper on the sanitation industry, he smirked to himself; and then followed her orders like a good Marine.