The Chowline

I’ve just about wrapped up all my time here alone in Bruges – I arrived Tuesday in the afternoon to an overcast sky, but the rest of the week has been gorgeous.  I’ve spent the greater part of the last four years researching this city, and returning to it since being here last in the summer of 1995 has been quite an experience.

I will admit, it is not quite as I’ve remembered and envisioned it, and my mind has spent a good deal of time stripping away the existing brick and mason work to try and reveal the past, as it may have been, or as it will be in my mind and in my writing.  As I’ve revealed to those poor, unfortunate sods who have been in my company as I’ve wandered around the city this past week (thank you David, Mike, and Jeremy), the city has changed immensely since the 14th Century.  Much of the canal system has been filled in – or in some areas, merely paved over with the the water ‘flowing’ (since the system is so controlled, perhaps ‘sitting’ is a more appropriate description) beneath our feet – to create more space for buildings.  The vast majority of this ‘improvement’ happened within the last 300 years, following Bruges’ ‘Golden Age’ in the 16th and 17th Centuries.

This is not without some irony to me – Bruges, and its citizens, have no illusion regarding what it is – a sleepy romanticized Medieval Gothic City home to renaissance masters and picturesque (and romantic!) canals.  The allure is strong, and I find myself easily drawn into its relaxed and subdued mentality.  The museums, cafes, and shops all barely bring attention to the dormant reality: that Bruges was a hustling, bustling, burgeoning international Medieval crossroads some 700 years ago.  All these picturesque perspectives were designed and built for a reason, to facilitate trade and ‘industry’, the source of the means of wealth that would allow for the aforementioned ‘Golden Age’ to exist.

The somber, poignant reality is that these romantic snapshots have endured because the flash of brilliance was relatively short-lived for Bruges.  As the Zwinn (the water-way access connecting Bruges to Damme, and then to the Scheldt River) silted up,  the economic pendulum swung towards deeper, more navigable waterways, letting Bruges be eclipsed by other ports – Antwerp and Amsterdam, for starters.  This encapsulated Bruges, stuck in a time warp of the 15th, 16th, and 17th Centuries, so-much-the-better for romantic poets and star-crossed lovers.

But as I said, Bruges has no illusion of its identity – they don’t want to revel in their short-lived economic heights of power, but rather instead magnifies the artistic excellence that the power allowed for.  The museums speak little of this history, in lieu of instead highlighting the artistic prowess of its venerated (and often times anonymous) masters.

If I have one disappointment, it is that.  The history is secondary to the culture, to the art, to the romantic ideal.  And why?  Because it sells!

Oh…   Happy Birthday, to me.

The excitement builds.  I’m sitting in Chicago O’hare airport, laptop plugged into one of the few outlets hidden throughout the terminal – I’ve only found two in my immediate gate area, which I think to be somewhat strange.  Another oddity?  I’m using my Cell Phone for internet – something I’ve never done before!  Signal strength is workable, but not outstanding.  I figured I should take advantage of the ‘unlimited’ data plan I pay for through T-Mobile before I arrive in Europe, where I will be charged outrageous fees for merely thinking about the internet on my phone.

My flight remains on time, which is good news.  The dramatic eruption of the Icelandic Grimsvötn Volcano has not appeared to interfere with my travel plans, but I fear that if it continues to erupt in the following weeks that it will complicate travel matters somewhat.  My friend in England has already informed me that prices for the Eurostar Chunnel train between London and Brussels, Belgium spiked to 210 British Pounds.

I’m scheduled to arrive in London at about 8am, local time.  I’m hoping to acquire my baggage, negotiate customs, and be on the ‘Tube’ to the city by around 9:30am or so, if things go smoothly.  From there I hope to drop off my baggage and then make my way to the Museum of London for my first of many museum visits on this epic journey.

I spent a good deal of time trying to think of an appropriate word to best represent my emotions at this point, and the only thing I can think of is ‘Horrido!’, a German expression with ‘hunting’ roots that I would loosely translate (meaning: bastardize) to ‘Geronimo!’

No, Native American readers – this is not some sort of slight towards your ethnicity or cultural heritage.

More, soon, later.

:: An Eight Year Old ‘First’ ::

At about 2:00am on a Saturday morning in the recent past, one of my bartenders – ‘Merch’ – got my attention by the main bar and asked me to accompany him to find a patron whom he thought should be escorted out.  The individual, wearing a ‘Neon-Green’ shirt, had evidently ordered a round of drinks and then skedaddled without paying for or picking them up. We scanned the ‘upstairs’ quickly, without finding him, then proceeded to the stairs to peer on the lower section. Whilst there, I turned to Merch and said, “I’ll check the bathroom.”

I make my way to the men’s restroom, and sure enough, there’s two guys wearing green shirts. Jackpot, right? I return to Merch and ask him to check to see if one is ‘the guy’. He confirms that the one at the nearest urinal is in fact the individual we are looking for. Nodding my acceptance, Merch heads back to the bar and I return to the bathroom to wait for the right moment to approach the individual.

Upon re-entering, I’m confronted by loud, off-key singing. It’s ‘my guy’, Mr. ‘Neon-Green’ himself, singing horribly while using the facilities. I stand idly, waiting for him to finish…

“It’s time to go home, bud.” I say as he finally turns around from the flushing urinal, drink in hand.

“Yeah, right!” he responds incredulously, following it with a sip from his drink. A muted “What time is it?” comes from the only toilet stall off to my left, followed by chuckles from those in the bathroom listening, but trying not to stare [Edit: double entendre/hidden meaning?].

“Its time to go home,” this time, louder, “but for the rest of you, its 2:00am.”

A couple snorted laughs follow, and then the bathroom goes quiet as the other ‘pee-ers’ slowly comprehend the reality of the situation: I am asking the ‘singer’ to leave the bar, a fact he isn’t quite ready to accept.

I’m sizing him up – he’s about 6’2″, solidly built with shaggy black hair, and thankfully, for my sake, he’s not quite maintained his sense of balance (drunk indicator ‘numero uno’). Summed up: borderline sloppy, but there’s still some risk involved.

“Nah, I’m good.” He contends, examining my employer’s logo on my fleece.
“No, really. I work here. It’s time to go home.”
“Well, I’m going to wash my hands.”
“Fine by me,” I gesture to the sink, glancing over my shoulder at the guy behind who is waiting to wash his hands, who promptly nods and backs up.

“You are out of toilet paper,” ‘Neon Green’ says, and I assume he meant paper towel. Drunk indicator ‘numero dos’ has been received.

“It appears that way. Let’s go, man.”
“Do you have a blow dryer?”
“No, sorry. Let’s go, man.” Wiping his hands on his pants, he picks up his drink and reluctantly walks out through the bathroom door. Backpedaling, he’s chatting at me while we continue down the steps towards the hot-dog ‘window’, where the 800 to 1,000 free hot-dogs are given out on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.

“Nah, man,” he continues to plead, “Why you kicking me out?”
“The bartender specifically told me to remove you.”
“Why? What did I do?”
“As I understand it, you ordered a bunch of drinks and didn’t pay for them, and then disappeared.”

‘Neon-Green’ shirt-guy’s friend, ‘Orange Basketball Jersey guy’ (a short skinny kid, not registering very high on the ‘threat-ometer’) chimes in: “What’s going on?”
“Your buddy has got to go.”
“Oh,” ‘Orange Jersey’ seems to remember me from denying another friend earlier in the night for trying to hide a beer in his pocket (right in front of me). The reminder must’ve been sobering, because he doesn’t argue the issue, and instead says, “Lets go.”

“Nah, man,” ‘Neon Green’ begins again. He is walking now, which makes it easier for me – as I’m trying to keep the momentum in my favor, “I’m good. You don’t need to follow me out.” He stops.

“I have to, its my job.”
“Nah… why don’t I go this way,” he says, pointing, “and you go that way,” indicating the other direction.
“That won’t work, sorry.”
Reversing his hand gestures, “What if I go that way, and you go this way?” I notice Ethan – the 17 year old son of my employers – watching the exchange intently from the confines of the hot-dog window.
“Sorry, I’ve got to walk you out, it’s my job.”
“This is bullshit, man.”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s not a big deal,” I try and neutralize things, “Trust me. Let’s just go.” This seems to relax him some, as he turns away from me and begins to try and nonchalantly – and cool-ly – ‘mosey’ towards the door.

As he passes other patrons, I try and make subtle ‘step aside, please’ hand gestures to the people whom I make eye contact with. We turn at the end of the ‘Service Bar’, pass two tables, and now we’re faced with a straight shot to the exit door, where fellow bouncers Bieb’ and Chase are standing. Bieb’ sees me approaching with ‘Neon-Green’ and steps forward. We exchange quick glances, and he understands I am kicking ‘Neon-Green’ out (eight years of Bieb’ and I working together leads to some very good non-verbal communication skills). Chase is on the door.

‘Neon-Green’, still clutching his drink, crosses the threshold through the inner of the two doors. Chase - with his hand open, in front of the drink – stops ‘Neon Green’ and says, “You can’t leave with that.” ‘Neon-Green’ proceeds to squeeze the drink, spilling it all over the entryway. He blames Chase.

“Alright, man. Time to head home.” I say, trying to neutralize this before it gets out of control. Chase steps back as I step forward. ‘Neon-Green’ continues through the entryway, opens the exit door, and then turns.

“I’m leaving man,” he says, “but don’t you come one step closer!”
“Ok,” I respond, “I won’t.”
“I’m serious. Don’t come one step closer.”
“Right.”
“Not one step.” He’s trying to be ‘tough’ now, I suppose. A “schtick” that has been old for years. I smile at him, and do a little ‘hop’ in the entryway, mocking the inferred threat.
“Good night, man.” I say, following it up with two more hops, for good measure.
“Yeah right, asshole.” he’s still just blowing bravado through the breezeway. Not an uncommon occurrence, unfortunately. “Don’t come out, asshole!”
“Alright man, seriously. Just go home.” Now I do take a step forward, and he recoils with the door somewhat.

At this point, ‘Orange Jersey’ guy comes flying up from behind me and blind-sides me, spearing into my back. I stumble forward, but maintain my footing, exploding out onto the sidewalk. ‘Neon-Green’ jumps out of the way. Chase and Bieb’ come spilling out behind ‘Orange Jersey’, with Chase immediately grabbing ‘Orange Jersey’ in a head lock and spinning him around to the ground.

Now, I’m wired differently than most bouncers. You cuss at me? I don’t get mad. You punch me? I don’t get mad. You bite me (remember ‘Rough Night at Work, Part I’? I don’t get mad.

‘Orange Shirt Guy’ has just blindsided me, and I’m still not mad. I’m actually upset that Chase is mad for me as he is trying to drag the guy to the ground!

Bieb’ intercedes before I can stop Chase, saying, “He’s got this.” As Chase wrestles with ‘Orange’, ‘Neon Green’ – who had dropped off my radar briefly – finally finds his ‘cojones’ and returns to action.

“It’s cool, it’s cool!” he pleads, “We’ll go home!” As he finishes this last word, he cocks back his right arm to swing on Chase (both Bieb’ and I were dumbfounded by this as we talked about it later – I maintain ‘Neon Green’ was/is not smart enough to use such a bit of misdirection as that, and was rather just … well, stupid).

Bieb’ and I tackle ‘Neon Green’ and take him to the ground, with Bieb’ maintaining the upper hand, and me kneeling on his legs as he flails about.

An of-age Purdue Football Player has seen this deterioration and calls out to me, “Adam, you ok?” I look up, quickly scan around and find him by the wall just as he continues, “You need help?”
“No, we got it.” I respond, and the defensive end disappears from my view as I return my attention to ‘Neon-Green’ who has been lying still beneath Bieb’ and I.

I pull out my radio and call for the manager, “Jolene, get to downstairs door, now!” Looking north down the sidewalk, I see a West Lafayette Police Car sitting at the intersection. The light changes and the car rolls forward, stops, and then turns on its cherries. I am relieved as it reverses back to enter our parking lot.

“Police are already on the way, Jo-Jo,” I finish the call with our pet-name for Jolene, the radio already moving back to the holster on my belt. ‘Neon-Green’ must have heard what I said about the Police as he soon starts to struggle, fueled by the realization that he is about to get in serious trouble. He, amazingly, gets to his knees, spilling me off. Bieb’ comes up with him, spinning ‘Neon-Green’ around, and both go careening back towards the entry door. Bieb’ has disengaged somewhat, so I shoot in and wrap the guy up in a rear-naked choke, rolling him over so I am under with him somewhat on-top. His face goes red and he starts to try and ‘Three Stooges’ bicycle around (afterward I noticed that we had rotated 100 degrees from where I shot in) in an attempt to wiggle out, so I snake a leg over his and constrict. He promptly stops resisting.

The door – which has now been seemingly teleported behind my head – cracks open, and I see Jolene peering down at me. “Are you ok?”
“I’m good.”

A second head has just appeared above hers, pushing past Jolene. Its some random dude in a white shirt, and he’s suddenly an expert in public disturbances, like this one.

“Dude, let him go! He said he’d leave.”
“He’s not going anywhere.” To be honest, I can’t remember who said this – Jolene, or me.

A policewoman – one I recognize, but don’t typically have fond memories of, as she is usually combative towards us and a general pain in the ass (I think she works days mainly, and sees us as not on ‘her’ side) – has approached, leisurely. Yes, I said ‘leisurely’. She isn’t showing any indication of doing anything to help as of yet.

As she approaches, I give her the thumbs up – “Thank you,” I say, “Are you ready?” Inferring that I would like her to take ‘Neon-Green’ into custody, as he has begun to resist while I speak up.

“Stop fighting,” she commands, “both of you.”

Jolene, the manager, begins to explain the situation. At the policewoman’s insistence, I release ‘Neon Green’ and stand up. She calmly starts talking with him against the window.

I’m simply awestruck.

Three more officers have approached – these aren’t our usual Friday night guys whom would have tackled these guys much like we would have and then turned around and thanked us for it! I recognize these ‘newcomers’, but they aren’t familiar faces like I’d like to see. I am, however, relieved to see they are cuffing Chase’s guy promptly, with him face down on the concrete.

I slowly pull away from the policewoman and inch towards an officer who is aside, soaking it in. The question I’ve been waiting for finally arrives: “So, what happened?” he asks.

I gather my breath and proceed to spill the beans, explaining how I was asked by a bartender to remove a patron, I searched for and found the patron in the bathroom – singing – how he was reluctant to leave, how he spilled his drink, and how his friend instigated the physical portion of the exchange by blindsiding me.

After hearing all this, the police officer continues to ask the usual, necessary questions – “You ok? He hit you?” Yes, I’m fine. “No cuts or bruises?” No, sir. “Do you want to press charges?” I slowly look up towards Jolene who now stands beside my employer, who has approached during my explanation, and she responds for me.

“Yes, and both for trespassing.” My employer nods in agreement. The officer heads off to his car for the necessary paperwork as ‘Orange Shirt’ is hauled up and dragged off to another. ‘Neon Green’ has been moved towards the parked police cars, as well, and is finally ‘in custody’.

My employer looks me over, “You ok?”
“As always,” I say, smiling. He laughs. Jolene starts dusting me off – I’d apparently rolled all-over an up-ended bag of popcorn during the scuffle. I clasp Chase on the shoulder, nodding appreciatively. “Thanks.”

Turning to Bieb’, I pop him in the arm and nod, and he nods back. Our conversation – and my thanks – having already been exchanged, unspoken. Smiling incredulously as I address all of them, “In eight years of doing this, that was the FIRST time I’ve ever been blindsided.”

Chase immediately pipes up with his account of the fracas. ‘Orange Jersey’ definitely took the brunt of the wrestling. Nothing permanent, of course. The Police charge ‘Orange Jersey’ with assault (for striking me) and take him to jail; ‘Neon Green’ is charged with Public Intoxication and also heads to jail.

As this happens, a regular customer spills out of “Five Guys Burgers and Fries” two doors down the sidewalk, loudly cavorting about. A petite Asian gal wearing an Eta Beta sorority shirt squeals gleefully at his approach. He picks her up right in front of our door, throws her over his shoulder, and spins, narrowly missing the plate glass window.

All the Jake’s employees are exchanging stunned glances and eying the cops to see if they will notice or do anything. Bieb’ jokes to the customer, “Uhm, that’s how windows get broken.”

The couple frollick down the sidewalk for about twenty feet before the guy turns – still carrying the gal – and walks up to a trash can. He deftly places the petite Asian directly into the trash can, and she sinks up to her mid-waist inside it. It must not have been very full.

Jolene, the first of us to speak between the awestruck looks and chuckles, says in a matter-of-fact tone to no one in particular, “People puke in there.”

Suddenly the trashcan is illuminated as the officer returns with the trespass paperwork, his flashlight in hand, head shaking back and forth in disbelief. And what do I say to people who ask me how my night is going, daily?

“Another night at the office.”

“I mistrust all systematizers and avoid them.  The will to a system is a lack of integrity.” Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols.

Nietzsche side-stepped the pitfalls of allowing his ideological musings to be misaligned within some sort of intellectual system through this admonition, and my affinity has only grown for this quote since I first read it a decade ago.  Deliciously simple, these two sentences typify Nietzsche’s desire to “say in ten sentences what everyone else says in a whole book”,  but how quickly is this quote misapplied (this, in itself, being quite ironic) to be some sort of declaration of anarchy?

People love order, structure, and rigidity – and yet our environment is constantly changing, being in contention with the rigid order that many appear to require.  Objects of irregularity are constantly the subject of attempts at control – attempts to harness the inherent power, strength, and capabilities that are so desirable individually, but are the very reason the object remains untamed.

“Empty your mind, be formless, shapeless – like water. Now you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup, you put water into a bottle, it becomes the bottle, you put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Now water can flow or it can crash. Be water, my friend.”

As I said in the previous post – my adventures in early August did not end with attending a spectacular air show in Michigan.  In mid July I was contacted by a close ‘re-enacting’ friend regarding being an extra in a film being produced in Michigan.

This friend had be contacted by a film studio – Ten West Studios – to discuss the viability of providing uniformed reenactors as extras in an up-and-coming WWII movie they were producing.  The film, Return to the Hiding Place, follows the exploits of Dutch Resistance fighters during the German occupation of Holland during WWII.  Principle shooting was to occur in Holland, Michigan as well as at the historical location of Harlem, in the Netherlands.

My friend was able to locate a good number of volunteers to participate in the filming, but additional people were required – and to say I was flattered when he called me to see whether I was interested or not is an understatement.  Thankfully my work schedule – and already existing plans to be in Michigan during the scheduled shooting dates – allowed for me to participate without much problem.  After finalizing details of my involvement and arranging for needed uniform changes (the uniformed extras were to be wearing SS uniforms, which I don’t have), I made the requisite plans to attend.

Arriving on location on Wednesday afternoon, I was informed that all the uniformed reenactors scheduled for that date were ‘On Call’ for shooting that evening, and that I was to remain with the rest and wait for the call arrive on set.  We spent the majority if the evening playing cards and getting to know one another – a few of the faces were familiar to me, but a few hours of losing at playing cards and making inappropriate jokes with one-another builds a considerable amount of camaraderie.  At around 3am, we considered ourselves off the hook and many of us attempted to sleep.

Thursday we spent enjoying the sights and sounds of downtown Holland, Michigan.  This quaint little town has amazing architecture and a thriving artistic element.  I couldn’t believe the amount of street performers that arrived to entertain on what appeared to be a veritable ‘shift’ system.  I spent the majority of the afternoon at ‘JP’s Coffee House’, which also is home to the MidWestern Barista School.  JP’s offered WiFi internet service through a contracted company called WEBbeams.  While I am not a fan of ‘Pay-to-Play’ WiFi internet usage at commercial locations, I understand the profitability that is possible through harnessing this as a consumable product (especially when you consider that WiFi as a consumable product may not exist for long before it is eclipsed by Mobile-Hotspot enabled devices [read, Cellphone or other peripherals]).  The service was satisfactory, if not expensive.

Thursday night, we were told to arrive on set in the early evening, and we were all eager to do so.  Actor Gary Moore visited us upon our arrival and posed for pictures, his excitement and wonder at our gear and equipment quite evident.    We then posed for a group shot in front of Holland’s replica Windmill, giving ‘Windmill Island’ where were shooting its name.

The German 'Extras' pose before the Windmill in Holland, MI - the author standing at left.

The shot we were being used in that night involved our German element proceeding down a rural road with one of the trucks (the one that I was riding in) transporting eleven civilian prisoners, ostensibly for their incarceration or execution.  Our three vehicle convoy comes under attack from elements of the Dutch resistance led by the main character, Piet Hartog (played by actor Craig Robert Young).  In the ensuing firefight, I am killed in particularly spectacular fashion by the main character when I snatch up one of the civilian passengers and attempt to use her as a human shield.  This sequence of  shots was filmed from twenty or so different camera angles and required the entire night’s worth of filming.  It was exhausting, but absolutely exhilarating.

Friday morning I left Holland, MI and journeyed to visit friends about an hour north in the Grand Haven area for the afternoon, before continuing on to Ypsilanti for the Air Show until Sunday afternoon.

From the airshow I spent a night south of Jackson, MI with friends, before carpooling on Monday with another extra to Manistee, MI.  Tuesday we arrived on set at the Douglas Valley Organic Vineyard Community north of town for a sequence of shots spanning the afternoon and into the evening.  It was there that I had my first encounter and experience with ‘Make-Up’ for a film production, with Daniel Phillips covering up my blemishes and powdering my nose.

The Author being filmed.

The Author relaxing (center) with the principle antagonist of the film, at right.

Near the end of filming on Tuesday, I was approached by the movie’s Visual Effects Supervisor, Dustin Solomon, regarding whether I would feel comfortable delivering some lines the following day.  With excitement – and also some trepidation – I accepted.

The final day of shooting found me quite nervous – I spent the majority of the afternoon pacing by myself in an empty section of the cavernous 10 West Studios main soundstage – an old Iron Foundry near downtown Manistee.  We recorded my scene in the afternoon, captured it from multiple angles, and later re-recorded my dialogue in a ‘soundbooth’.  The final shot for me on set was a sequence of me and two other uniformed extras patrolling the ‘city street’ built within the foundry’s main sound stage.

I can honestly say that I was absolutely floored by my involvement in this production, and how exciting and amazing the whole experience has become.  The simple advice given to me by a close friend before my involvement -

• Say ‘Thanks!’
• Volunteer.

… was perfect.  I can only hope to be so lucky to experience something like this again.

I’d like to extend a sincere ‘Thank you!’ to all who made this a reality.

As many of you are aware, I’m a WWII reenactor.  I’ve been participating in this awesome hobby since the fall of 2000, and the experience has been nothing short of exceptional.

I’ve met amazing people, traveled across the US to attend events, and been given back-stage access to amazing collections and museums.   I’ve participated in public displays and shows for crowds as large as 40,000.  I’ve met veterans with emotional stories, met celebrities, and been up-close-and-personal with priceless vehicles and aircraft.  Yes, its an expensive hobby – but the rewards have far out-weighed the cost!

The group I’m a member of – the reenacted 2. Panzer Division (HRS) – is comprised of 50-something members from all walks of life and vocations.  I have told countless people how exciting it is that my hobby brings together people from across the spectrum:  where else will you find a garbage truck driver rubbing elbows with an art teacher, a retired railway police officer, someone making six figures beside someone who is unemployed?  And then, for all those individuals to share a common bond and enduring friendship and companionship, despite their diversity?  Its an incredible group!  This exceptional group has, in addition to its amazing membership, an incredible collection of original vehicles and weaponry – worthy of inclusion in many outstanding military collections around the world.

Unfortunately my work schedule precludes me from attending most events anymore – as our busiest days are weekends – but I still do my best to attend our ‘big push’ events.  This summer I was fortunate enough to attend ‘Thunder Over Michigan’, an impressive Air Show held in Ypsilanti, Michigan.  For the duration of the event I was in ‘command’ of my group’s element in attendance.  Safety remains my one of my primary concerns for all involved parties, and this role – primarily being responsible for everyone and ensuring their safety -  is something I welcome without much complaint (it is no great mystery why good friends refer to me as ‘Captain Safety’).   The event wasn’t just work, work, work, however – there were some lighter moments:

Thunder Over Michigan Pipe interview with \’SovietTaco\’

In addition, some great photographs were taken at the event:

The author photographed at 'Thunder over Michigan', leaning on the Opel Blitz truck of 2. Panzer Division

But wait, there’s more!  In addition to this great Air Show, I was fortunate enough to be asked to participate in a movie production.  More on that in our next post.

Things are fixed.  Time to resume regular posting!

Thanks, MindPackStudios!

Musings on an online financial forum from 8/24/2009:

“Even during the American Revolution, there was a large measure of the population who were either indifferent or unwilling to stake their livelihood on the balance of the struggle.

I think a general misunderstanding many of us have is that this – whatever it is we are expecting will happen – will cause the great majority to stand up and unanimously decree that change within our governmental policies is needed. I don’t know that that is realistic.

The ‘struggle’, if you want to call it that, will need to snowball, much as it is doing now. I still say the greatest thing that you or I can do at this point is just simply talk to our friends, family members, and most everyone who will listen. This has been my mantra for the last two years in regards to my misgivings regarding the two party system and the political process, the war in Iraq, Torture as a state policy, etc. Too often I feel that people are too ambiguous as to their own beliefs on the matter – either from lack of definitive information (because they haven’t really looked for it), or outright ignorance. This has to change, and it can’t be forced down their throat – they have to seek it out.

Unfortunately, too many people haven’t needed to search out for the answers, or looked beyond the end of the month in regards to seeing the big picture. This blog has helped me immensely in questioning the data that I was receiving – it has has helped me formulate my positions on various topics that directly influence or correlate to fiscal responsibility – it has helped me understand where I stand as a citizen in this country.

We just need other people to do the same on their own volition. We can’t wait for circumstance to force them to change their ideology. We need to communicate with them and help them find out for themselves. Invariably we may not agree with each other on all the finer points, but I firmly believe that a level of self-realization is required on the parts of a great multitude of the US citizenry before any tangible headway can be found.”

Followed by a further addition:

“I further think the public conception of the ‘Revolution’ is that it was some sort of sudden ‘paradigm shift’… The shift happened, but I think it happened gradually as the public leveraged one way or the other. There were flash-point moments that accelerated the process (and ultimately led to outright rebellion), but before that occurred there were whispers and conversations in the taverns, commonhouses, and sitting rooms throughout the Colonies.

Maintain the public discourse.”

The Market Ticker, and its Forum.

New netbook laptop, new motivation, fast approaching New Year.  Seems to be a sufficient time to begin a new drive to write and publish thoughts, musings, and snippets of work for the web to chew on.

Winter is always an interesting time for me – I become restless yet reclusive.  The cold weather makes me want to remain at home as much as possible, only venturing out when I absolutely have to.  At the same time, my mind becomes agile and agitated – thoughts bounce off of experience and new input, converging and de-converging on new concepts faster than I can sometimes comprehend.  A select few friends receive the brunt of this intellectual excitement as I regurgitate my musings to them often ‘out of the blue’.

In years past, I have used this time to great advantage by focusing this creativity into specific outlets – lets see if I can do the same in the early Spring.

Here’s to a fresh start!

The following was a note I found while perusing through some files on my computer.  Although time stamped to over a year ago, I found it to be an interesting piece now.  Enjoy.

————–

Stop –

Look at your hands.

What do you see? If you are like me, they bear the scars of a life definately lived. They’ve been cut, bruised, ripped up, chewed up, squished, smooshed, you name it.

But there are other scars, the ones that don’t show on your hands, but are there. The scars of action. The scars that reside from where you know what your bones, deep in the marrow, know they can do. What they can take. What they can give.

I was at a Re-enactment a couple weekends back… my buddy Dane was joking about how I ‘know my body’. I know when I need to eat, when I need to shit. These may seem like relatively primitive concepts that we all have mastered years ago… but I dunno, its somehow different – in the morning, I was dangerously dehydrated. I gave myself a time-out and sat for a bit, quickly devouring 3 cans of pinenaple and all the syruppy goodness. I could feel the energy return to me.

The we moved. Hiked. ‘Fought’.

Later in the day, we trudged on. Tired. Out of water – I was at my apparent end.

Dane knew, as always, that there was a reserve hidden inside me. A burst of energy, waiting to come out. And it always does. It surges forward, some sort of explosion of that thing that lurks in the marrow of my bones.

He and I chatted about all number of things last night, as we usually do as he works from home, managing some installation at whichever one of his bonehead clients isn’t where they need to be (hence warranting his excessive long work day).

I talked to him about that energy that sits inside. I have trouble talking about it, just ‘willy nilly’ with just anyone. Most who know me think I’m probably just full of shit, or talking out of my ass about being the proverbial ‘Johnny Badass’. But its not that.

I don’t know what it is, but it baffles me – and scares me, at times. Were it a voice, I would not think it was a inherently ‘bad’ voice. I don’t feel like it whispers into my ear that I should terrorize my neighbors and destroy without control. But rather, the voice pipes in, every once in a while, that there is something more there. That I can always turn to that other solution.

Checking that surge, and controlling it, is something I’ve grown used to my entire life.

Fundamentally, it comes down to applying the right pressure, at the right moment. That single monumental moment that allows for maximum effect.