Just because you're not paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

There’s a good number of gun-toting, gov’ment fearing, independent minded folks that live in these thar hills. Their houses are tucked away out of sight and they don’t have mailboxes, street addresses or an easy way to track them down. Folks value their privacy and aren’t afraid to protect it, perhaps by any means necessary.

Ironically, birds of this feather flock together. And you better believe it when I say this place has got somewhat of a bit of a reputation. But, the ethos is one of ‘live and let live’. Or, at least, ‘leave us the heck alone’. It shouldn’t be any of our business how they choose to live their lives. There’s enough deer and elk to go around.

The attraction is a heady mix of solitude and privacy. Many of us get anxiety attacks in crowds and we’re either stubborn enough or rude enough to be picky about whom we rub shoulders with. And, just one look at the denizens of the big burg is enough to know that that isn’t them. Invite folks in for a cold one, or three, but make sure the truck is parked pointed downhill. Peace and quiet must rein each night at the ranch, or there’ll be hell to pay.

The road into town is long, indeed, and the winters are even longer. An independent toughness, a fortitude of heart, mind, and bottle is required. Folks learn to struggle in silence, to find inner resources, or else they move away. Toss in a certain reserve, a touch of Godliness and it is no surprise to find the local ethnic mix is predominantly Scots-Irish, Scandahoovian, and assorted religious refugees (Mennonite, Amish and Latter Day Saint). Their forebears were poor, persecuted, and persistent in their beliefs. Shall it be the down-trodden that inherit paradise?

These sort of circumstances lead to equal doses of frugality, humility, and introspection. Life is more than mere brutishness, but the pleasures are still simple and corporeal. Hunting, cheap beer, and big trucks. Or better yet, all three. Full bore, one might say: “open her up and let ‘er rip!” We’re gonna have a good time and we’re not gonna wait for some pantywaist from Hollywood to entertain us. We’ll make our own fun, thank you very much.

I’m somewhat convinced that this will always place such self-willed sorts on the outskirts of society. Exiled to the fringes, isolated from poisoning the mainstream, it just wouldn’t do for these ideas to get around too much. Everyone would expect such freedom and independence. Our collective would never, thus, learn to get along.

Perhaps, then, in our increasingly crowded and complicated world, it is counterproductive to value peace ‘n’ quiet and natural beauty. Even though the wilderness may well have been the forge of the American character, as Teddy Roosevelt was all too convinced, today’s competitiveness requires more complicity, more passivity, and perhaps more gullibility. But, I don’t think so. There’s a realness out here. A fresh perspective on what might be essential and true.

And, this year I think I’m gonna learn me to shoot a rifle. So, y’all be warned, now!

I love Rock and Roll

I love rock and roll crowds. I love the smell of someone else’s armpit, in my face. I love the refreshing shower of someone else’s beer, drippling down to my socks. And I love the crush of humanity that sways to and fro without any semblance of rhythm. Really I do.

I spent New Year’s Eve among the bright and brightest of New Zealand’s youth. Amidst the sartorially-challenged, I fitted right in. Beneath the moon, in the crisp December air, the sounds of Salmonella Dub and Cornerstone Roots floated over the bluestone ramparts of one of the oldest buildings in Christchurch. We rocked and we rolled. And as the beer flowed, the stupidity followed, and another imperfect meeting of minds and bodies was begun.

Live music is essential. It is the proving ground that winnows out the auteur from the merely angry. It feeds the artistic soul, both literally and as a participatory sport. Live music is music at it’s rawest, with all of the flaws and all of the beauty. On a magical evening, it is transcendent. On an earth-grubbing occasion, it epitomizes banality and self-indulgence. This night had a bit of both.

So, I’m in the midst of the crowd. Have you ever noticed how difficult it is to maintain your position in a particular spot? I mean, what is it that people feel the need to push up against you, placing you in the dilemma as to whether you should push back (with distinct frottage overtones) or whether to just go with the flow and drift aimlessly wherever the crowd should take up. Someday, I suspect I will find myself on the stage, wondering, well, how did I get here?

Ah, but there is something about mass movements of mindless morons. In the middle of all that peer group pressure, there is a crowd identity and with it, a crowd moment. It is easy to get swept up in it all. You let go. You give up. And in doing so, you find nirvana. The pulse of the moment, the pleasure of being lost in something bigger than yourself. One has become all, and all has become one.

And I find that moment addictive. I keep searching for it, always looking for the next great high, the next great band, the next great concert. I love losing myself in my music, and I am constantly hungry to discover what will be my next great obsession. Because that is where you’ll find me, lost in the crowd, searching for something. Maybe for my wallet or my cellphone, which I swore used to be comfortably in my pocket before some dickhead decided to liberate it from there. I guess I'll just go get another beer ...

Horatio, We Hardly Knew You!

One of my friends recently proclaimed, “I don’t do the Facebook thing.” Trying hard to look suitably stunned, I waited for the inevitable rant of how Facebook/MySpace/Twitter/etc. are no longer what they used to be. Now uncool. For people without a real life. Dominated by lecherous twelve year olds. The last hope of the unloved and unlovable.

Instead, they gave a more nuanced reply. Formerly, he enjoyed the sense of staying connected and of staying in touch with his friends. But, the constant profile updating and other assorted cyber-preening became tiresome. In the end his network’s frequent inquires as to his whereabouts and general good health (since he hadn’t posted anything for, oh, over a week) was what did him in. The shallow demands of his buds drove him to drink … and the pub welcomed him back into its sticky, lubricated womb.

Everyone say humans are communal creatures and that we all crave frequent interaction. We need to feel as though we belong and that we are part of something bigger than our own meager selves. Many folks don the colors and cheer on their favorite corporate enterprise, err team. While others gather together at the nearest railway cross for a tad of train spotting. Both are equally pointless, if but only for the sheer unresponsiveness of the target of attention. But, the inanity is, at least, in the company of fellow besotted. Bracketologists. Whatever.

So, imagine my surprise to find genuine community online. A place to share enthusiasms, for sure. A place to air grievances and seek solace. A place to be real and work through life’s ups and downs. At this place, there’s folks with out-of-control political opinions. There are those who talk too much about sex. And, then there’s the cat fetishists! But, in all of what appears to be the random ravings and just plain I-want-to-be-heard-and-belong, we find real people. Real people who hope, and dream, and cry. Good men and women I now care about, even if I’ve never met their fleshy selves.

And as this online Isle of Misfit Toys becomes part of the backdrop of my life, I wonder what would drive me away. What would it take to be alienated from these people. What perceived slight, what misunderstanding, would lead to my excommunication? Call me perverse, but if this motley collection of strangers are as ever changing and relevant as they seem, then what would it take to piss me off, sufficient to say that I didn’t belong. In this cynical and jaded online world, what would cause one to say that I’m not what I seemed, to make one pause and wonder whether I really knew him at all?

Who needs angels when you have geosynchronous satellites?

At a time when the world seems to be spinnin' hopelessly out of control,
There's deceivers an' believers an' old in-betweeners,
That seem to have no place to go.
- Willie Nelson, "Hands on the Wheel"

My bias has been to think of the satellites that orbit our planet in military and commercial terms only, but the below photo and blurb from io9.com gives us a positive side of big brother. It also poses a few dicey questions - the kind you get when philosophy and practicality collide head-on.

This is what a mass evacuation from a city looks like from space. Using satellites orbiting over Africa, human rights groups published UNOSAT satellite imagery to show, in very simple terms, the human cost of violence in the Chadian capital city of N'Djamena. Over 10,000 people are crammed on a bridge, trying to escape into the neighboring nation of Cameroon. The black dots are people, and the yellow dashes are vehicles, most likely trucks and buses. It's a chilling portrait of the human future, wracked with violence and recorded via space-based surveillance devices, taken on February 27.

The degree to which our activities can be (and often are) unnecessarily tracked by the state in all its forms - not to mention corporations who have even less real accountability - has made me deeply uncomfortable for years.

And so it's nice I suppose to see satellite imagery being used for more altruistic purposes. Park an orbital camera over the evil men who think they are far removed from prying eyes. Maintain a perspective on what's really going on in a hot spot long after your assets in the region have been reduced to a skeleton crew of diplomats, spooks and marine embassy guards.

Technology is generally supposed to make things easier, and I wonder if those of us with the greatest exposure to it don't consequently allow ourselves to sometimes fall asleep behind the wheel of the large morality automobile. How often in this world is the "right" thing done out of fear of being tripped up by a camera or database rather than because it's simply the "right" thing? How would you even begin to guess the percentages on that?

Their value as tools cannot be denied or understated, but when satellites function as U.N. observers, do we allow them to excuse us from a more rigorous and preemptive brand of diplomacy? I wonder sometimes.

How can you even fully trust any electronic image anymore? You can't of course. What about the entity that obtained the image - or possibly even tweaked or fabricated it - and then deliberately released it along with a prepackaged blurb of interpretation and a side of fries? Can you believe them? I dunno, but I'm willing to bet a round of drinks that the answer is "sometimes, but not as much as we'd like."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why trust will never go out of style. Why trust will never be made obsolete by the technology of today or tomorrow. Why the profoundly organic virtue of trust is as important today as it's ever been, made even more so by technology - not less.

We're drowning is a flood of digitally transmitted words and pictures. If we're as sharp and savvy as we aspire to be, then we already have the tools to interpret the raw data and arrive at presumably intelligent conclusions. Or at least put ourselves in a position to ask some probing and meaningful follow-up questions. But how do we know the raw data is valid unless we've directly observed it? "Are these figures accurate?" "Are these photos real?"

Fact is that we don't know, so we have to defer to the people are on the ground. We have to rely on the independent corroboration of our fellow human beings. We have to rely on people we can trust. A tough gig on a planet with more than 6.7 billion points of view, but you gotta start somewhere.

If this post has a frayed end or two, it's because I'm still mulling some of this over. There's once thing I can assure you of though, and that is if you're reading this then you're someone Bronco Billy trusts.* And I don't trust just anybody.

Sleep well, good citizens!


* The execption being Zed when he's liquored up on that low-grade thermonuclear hooch he brews in his basement. The man's a veritable loose cannon in that state. Or loose boomerang. Whatever.

The WSJ loves Zed ...

See, I have a confession. I read the Wall Street Journal, and I like it. Maybe I'm beginning the inevitable slide into age-appropriate conservatism. Say it ain't so, Huck! But, dang, its become a great newspaper. Predictable, it is not. Entertaining, certainly 'tis that. Challenging and confronting, check. And, opinonated! After all, it is the Wall Street Journal.

In an era where news has become so thoroughly homogenized and commoditized, the WSJ now stands out. Frequently, I am left wondering how the heck they manage to report on that - some obscure, fascinating, and frequently perverse topic. Often I find the discussion of economic or political decisions to be considered, terse to the point of clarity, and yet offering insight that is indicative of a studious and enthusiastic mind.

Now, admittedly I am a media junkie and must own up to a fetishistic fascination with the form itself. But, although I came to this daily habit through necessity rather than choice (its the only
national paper I can get delivered in PDN. So, I have fed the addiction through a regular diet of opinion, reportage, and whimsy. May my countryman, Rupert, not distract the Journal from its current course. Because I love the WSJ just the way it is, and that's true love if ever I saw it!

Most popular articles on WSJ.com on some particular day:

1. Monks: Thou Shalt Not Buy Too Much Beer
2. Ethanol .. Craze Fools as Doubts Grow
3. Head of Rove Inquiry in Hot Seat
4. Sharp Blows at Republican Debate
5. Some Colleges Cut, Eliminate Student Debt

p.s. I particularly like Joe Morgenstern's film reviews:

"'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly' is unsparing and inspiring in equal measure. The camera immediately puts us in the position of its hero, a man regaining consciousness after a catastrophic stroke that has left him lucid but almost completely paralyzed ... no premise for popular entertain could be more improbable. Yet, Julian Schnabel's magnificent French-language film, like its true life subject, transcends reality's prison with surreal buoyancy".