Nov 29, 2011

“I am a rock; I am an island…and a rock feels no pain; and an island never cries.” –Simon and Garfunkel

We turned on to the road at a perfect time.  Headed almost straight east, the sunrise unfolded for us through our windshield as we fled toward Needles. Just enough smog overflowed into the desert from the LA Basin to the west to allow the sun, from its hiding place just below the horizon, to color the sky a gory red. It backlit the saw tooth mountain ridge which was our horizon, and cast just enough light to purple the lesser ridges lined up in front of the first, each veiled slightly by the haze. The vast foreground for this show was flat empty desert, blessedly devoid of manmade light, and thus still black as night.  

I have this special set of nerve endings for such moments. Groupings of said nerves are aligned along my shoulders, scattered about the back of my neck, loosely attached to the hair on my head, embedded deep in my chest, and buried in that special vault somewhere in the center of my belly. When stimulated, they go all gonzo, and they let me feel quite tingly and warm. They lie in these places, patiently waiting for the excuse, slowly building up the charge until ya gotta wonder how they can hold it. And then a such moment comes along, the trip wire goes tripped, the poles depolarize, the synapses hook up, and it’s Oh Goodie time. Often the levees are broached, (the ones inside, built up over the years, whose job it is to make sure I don’t let myself get too happy), for they are designed only for the usual floods and not the once in a long while weather event. The overflow triggers the seventh cranial nerve, which, as we all know, cannot help itself. The seventh cranial nerve operates the “muscles of expression” in my face, so this becomes the secondary trigger, and from its stimulation we get a smile. 

So with the cruise control locked on an expedient 73 MPH, the Jetta purring contentedly in 6^th gear at 2000 RPM, and while the satellite radio provided our old music, I watched the free show through the window. I exulted in the presence of the desert, experienced my pleasure, and sported my smile. Oh, and I got to thinking.

An artist might wonder at such a time how she might find the perfect clay to mix with some salts and minerals and a little oil to exactly match that luscious red color when she applies it to canvas or fine pottery. And the scientist might marvel at the refraction angles of light intermixing with smog, or the rod to cone ratio of our retinas, or even the cholinesterase levels flying around our nerve connections that allow us to see this scene. Meanwhile, the tortoise over there might only wonder how long before the sun would warm up a fellow enough for him to wiggle his toes.

But me…I chose to wander about inside my head, and therein I found a can of worms. And why not open a can of worms? I utilized this spectacular moment to wonder if all this exhilaration running around inside me meant that there really is a God, or not. Cause that’s what a gory red sunrise in the desert can do to a man.

I have no problem with the notion that so many religions got their start with folks who wandered about in deserts. I have tried to capture the beauty of the desert with mere words, and I don’t know enough words. So I guess I could say that the desert is something so wonderful that it defies description. The desert is also a bit harsh. It can and will kill you. And it doesn’t need a reason. Since much of what a god is supposed to do revolves around trying to explain the unexplained wonder of the world, and also the horror of it, where better could you find a place that almost demands such contemplation?

Many of these founders of religions wandered without food or water for extended periods in the desert before they began to observe what they thought they saw. A few sought or at least found visions. Some talked with bushes or went off their meds and then heard the voices. Others fermented grapes in goat stomachs or beer in the wash tub, or they nibbled on peyote buds or jimson weed to expand their awareness, and fine tune their synapses. So they were, shall we say, receptive to wandering about in their heads. Maybe this is how they concluded from all this that there must be a God, or several lower case g-gods, running the whole thing, because they sure weren’t.  

I was a bit sleep deprived, hadn’t had breakfast yet, and was more than half way through a Grande from Starbucks, so I wasn’t in my right mind either. I knew I was watching something I considered beautiful and exhilarating. And I could recognize those feelings generated in my nerve endings. I have a passing familiarity with the physiology and know that there are physical reasons why I felt so good, and thus I couldn’t credit a desert god pouring a bucket of rapture over my shoulders for this thrill. So I had no interest in starting a religion out of gratitude. But I did wonder if those nerve endings came about due to some random natural selection that favored an ancestor who enjoyed happiness in pretty places, of if just maybe a god put all that wiring in there as her gift to us lucky folks. So I caught myself thinking stuff that could get me into an argument with many different folks.

And right then that Simon and Garfunkel song slipped out of our radio, and I did the flashback. To 1966. I barely knew the girl who gave the valedictorian speech at our high school graduation. It was a small graduating class, but was clearly defined by its divisions, and I was relegated to one of the others. My group was small, insignificant, unwanted. So when this girl used that song as the theme for her speech, and she argued against the teen angst desire to become a rock and an island in defense against the unfairness of life, I figured she should shut up and go away. 

And I remembered how I felt at the beginning of that commencement ceremony, for all those gathered in the gym were expected to enjoy a prayer, and I had no use for that, either. I had just turned seventeen, so I figured I knew everything. I had things figured out, for when that girl’s favored social group was out having fun, I was spending time wandering about the inside of my head, concluding stuff. Among all the other stuff I knew without a doubt, I knew that there was no God. So why should I waste any more of my time with the trappings of religion?

I’m a bit older now, and hopefully some smarter, and I’ve opened my mind to some other thoughts. Mostly, I’ve noticed that I have fewer answers and far more questions than when I knew it all. I guess I’m allowed to play around with my questions when I wish. And I’ll admit that I now don’t know if there is a God, or gods, or just how this whole thing works.

Someone far wiser than me once wrote that if there were no God, people would invent one.  Most people, if they give this notion a thought, would have to agree. The there-is-no-god crew would suggest that every god or God people have come up with is an example of such a fabrication. And the my-god-is-the-only-true-God people would simply conclude that the fools who know other gods all brewed up theirs. Somebody out there may be right, but how might you tell? 

This conundrum often reminds me of the do-flying-saucers-exist(?) discussions. Some people fervently believe in them. Others tend to wonder if those people who believe in flying saucers are a bit off. I always figured I would believe in a flying saucer when I actually saw one for myself. Up to then, I’ll be skeptical, but not religiously so. For how, in the end, do you prove the negative? 

Meanwhile, if I sometimes wonder about the wonder of it all, while watching the sun rise over the Mojave or a thunderstorm booming from the top of some mountain, please lose no sleep over it. Cause if I do finally come to some absolute truth for me, it still won’t matter one whit to anyone else.

 “And the Colorado Rocky Mountain high,

I’ve seen it rainin’ fire in the sky

You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply” –John Denver

Or not.

Nove 20, 2011

All the times I’ve talked of how a column of mine starts out in one direction, putters around a bit, and then takes off only to end up way over there somewhere…well that was never more apparent than the one I sent around on Thursday. Ya see, I never intended to do much more than mention the occupy people in Oakland, with their core of old worn out communists still rankling over the 60’s and 70’s, when they blew their chances to take over the world, and the latest delusional young generation living the obligatory we-can-save-the-world-and-Marx-is-the-way mantra which has been drummed into them by ALL those overpaid university and college professors. No, I was simply reacting to their harsh noise in support of Obamagenda, and of course, in the process, their need to reject the American way of life and that embarrassing successful capitalism thing. I know they simply want to save the world, which is a good thing, if impossible, and I cannot trifle much with that, for I was once that naïve myself. And besides that, they are probably going to win in the end, to all of our detriment.

No, I didn’t intend to spend the day riled about that. But I get carried away. You all know this.

What I wanted to eventually talk about was the simple logistics of saving the world. And that would mostly be the reality of paying for it. I didn’t have to invest all that energy in rehashing that same old stuff, cause ya’all already know it, and either nod your heads yes, or get all aghast when you disagree. No middle ground there, whatsoever.

My reference to leaping off a bridge had far less to do with the revulsion I feel for the rockthrowingshower-needingdisrespectfulmob, than it did with one phone call with one dimwitted but very persistent monotone speaking robotic clog person in the bureaucracy. And in that column I never got around to telling you about it. Sorry about that.

So, here’s what got me all stirred up…

Our mail comes, when it does, to one of those aluminum 8 boxes on a stick just down the street from our house.  I drive right past it every day coming home from work, but I’m usually too tired to stop. When I finally get round toit, the box is generally crammed so full of junk mail that ya gotta tear that all to heck just getting it out. Which you have to do to find those three bills and the bank statement you’ve been waiting for to see if you can afford to hit the Safeway tomorrow. So I finally got round toit on Wednesday night. And I carried two armfuls of shredded junk and my three bills and yea! my bank statement into the house. And I carefully picked through the junk before tossing it unread into the recycling bin, because every once in a while there is a fourth bill hidden in there, and you know how embarrassing that can be when you don’t pay that one. Very carefully I searched.

And I found something. It was a nondescript but official looking letter addressed to the two of us living in our home. And for some reason, I opened it. Two words on page one caught my eye. FINAL NOTICE. They were in large print and highlighted in a BLACK BOX, so I guess somebody wanted to catch my eye. Maybe, they should have done something similar on the envelope, but that is another argument. 

I don’t get many FINAL NOTICE letters, except from those out there who wish to refinance my home or in some other way put my money into some other pocket. And this was no different. Only this was to be a government pocket, so FINAL NOTICE takes on another meaning. Credit card companies can’t hurt me if I don’t want their card. Governments can.

The letter was a not so social, nor polite, request for a response from us, mostly me, since I had ignored all those other letters the city had sent to me in the past, and boy were they going to go serious on me now. Besides the HUH? part, as I have not received any such letters, I felt that little sense of outrage I tend to get when the government wishes to communicate with me. It’s that boot on my neck feeling.

The letter suggested that I should finally send in the money for the business license that the CITY OF CONCORD politely requested. Onna countof that home business that I run out of my home. You remember, the one I don’t run. Cause you see, I don’t run a business from my home. Oh, and don’t forget the 50% penalty because I’m so late. And while I’m at it, don’t forget to pay for the years 2008, 9, and 10. So with 11 tossed in there, that adds up to….let’s see…. That will be $366.00. Before 12/12, or we will start fining you up to $500.00 a day thereafter. ACK!!!

I’m still kinda naïve, so I dialed up the CITY OF CONCORD FINANCE OFFICE at the supplied number, for, ah, clarification. I was her first caller of the day. I was very polite, in the beginning. Marisol filled me in, and the call ended, abruptly. I applied for an exemption for 2011, per their rules. Maybe they will argue with that, cause I didn’t turn 62 until the year was part gone. I guess we will see. I’m doing my part to fund my government, and getting used to the fact that I’m gonna need to grow real comfortable with a lot more of this as we descend toward the future utopian world. 

Meanwhile, here is the letter I sent in, as the CITY OF CONCORD needs my version of an excuse to shirk my responsibility in this matter. I’ll have someone let ya know if I end up in jail over this.

11/16/2011

Robert G Hallstrom DVM

Delta Animal Clinic

295 E Leland Road

Pittsburg, CA 94565

925-XXX-XXXX

Dear City of Concord, California

My name is Robert Hallstrom. I own and work full time at the Delta Animal Clinic in Pittsburg, CA. I spend nearly 60 hours a week in that building. I sleep at YYY  XXX Place, Concord CA.

I am requesting an exemption from the Concord Business License Tax for the year 2011. I marked the exemption box for “I am 62 years of age, operating my business from home, and I make under $3600 per year.” under protest for I do not operate a business from my home.

I most certainly do not earn more than $3600 from any business in my home. And I am 62 years old. Ask my mother if you need verification.

I do attempt to write and once wrote a weekly column for the East County addition of the Contra Costa Times, for which I received the princely sum of $40 a week. I no longer write for this esteemed rag. And on one (1) occasion I sold a magazine article, but that was last year, and my income from writing this year (2011) will be zero.

I write in my office in Pittsburg, in my trailer while camping on the coast near Mendocino and in the Mojave, and only occasionally while staring at the ceiling of my bedroom in Concord in the dark of night when sleep will not come. I have never conducted the “business” of my “business” from my home in Concord. I have never emailed my newspaper column to my former editor at the newspaper from my home. I have never received payment at my home. None of my correspondence or phone calls with my editor were received at my home, and none of the tax related forms descending from my writing came addressed to me in my home. And the throngs of well-wishers clamoring for more of my writing rarely clog the street in front of my home.

If you wish to call my writing efforts a business, feel free. You flatter me. But I do not run a business from my home.

I do file state and federal income tax annually. And I dutifully included the small fortune I garnered from my writing when I submitted said tax forms. And I included my home address when I filed, figuring those folks expect that. If this means to you all that I run a business from this humble home, you have a much looser definition of business than anyone I can imagine, and frankly I think you should be ashamed of yourself.

But since you clearly hold the proverbial gun to my head, I shall pay your Business License Tax for the requested years: 2008, 2009, and 2010. I cannot afford to argue with you, and certainly do not wish to increase your booty to the tune of $500 a day simply because you get to write the rules. I would however, like to take advantage of your rule exempting us old folks from your victim pool, hence my request for this exemption.

I won’t be standing in Todos Santos Plaza with a sign, after skipping my showers for a week, in protest of this situation. But I do thank you for the inspiration as I write my next submission for my blog. In case you are wondering….you folks won’t come off well.

I apologize for contacting you folks so late in this process, but I have never received any previous notification from you regarding this little matter of a business license tax. And since I do not run a business in Concord, it never crossed my mind to ask. The young lady in the Finance office, Marisol, who answered my phone call this morning, was very patient and polite and you should laud her. She sounded a bit tired when I finally let her go. I hope I didn’t ruin her entire day. None of this nonsense is her fault, and I trust I wasn’t too hard on her. In fact, I kinda feel sorry for her, having to bite her lip as she implements her superiors’ mandates.

I retain my sense of humor. My editor at the paper fired me because my final column submitted was a defense of two of your fine Concord police officers. My editor was never in favor of complimenting any police officers, but since I have made the acquaintance of so many of your officers, I like to give them praise when I can. And I shall continue to do this. But I do find it ironic that the city these dedicated officers work to protect has so poorly managed its affairs that it feels it must stoop to this level of chicanery to extort money from its residents.

Thank you ever so much for your time

Bye the bye, this is written in Pittsburg, CA…not my home.

Robert G Hallstrom DVM

Nov 18,2011

I’m not even gonna apologize if this comes across as grumpy. This has been the week for getting used to the way the country is going to be. And I’m just about ready to make my reservation on the bridge. I figure lots of decent folks will be jumping with me, and I will want to book an early departure. Once all these people are gone, the feces will really hit the fan, for who will pay for the entitlements then?

The occupation is dragging on, and not everyone is thrilled with this. Some wish that the filthy mobs would just go home. And a few cities have reached and passed their tolerance for this nonsense. But the shouting begins as soon as the authorities step in to clean up the mess.

Civil rights are trampled across the nation, if you believe the hype. Imagine, peaceful civil disobedience crushed by excessive police force. What has become of the nation when peaceful exercise of 1^st amendment rights brings down the rain of police brutality? But one question, and then maybe I’ll shut up….

How big do the rocks have to be, ya know…the ones the “peaceful” demonstrators are throwing at the police, before a demonstration can no longer be labeled as peaceful? Cause some of these rocks were kinda large. And while we are on the subject…all the unfortunate people those demonstrators put out of work when they forced the closure of small businesses in the neighborhoods they are degrading with their squalid shanties, filth, and ranting…would this simply be collateral damage, perfectly justified casualties of the revolution? Has anybody asked those collateral victims how they feel about a bunch of career anarchists and troublemakers ruining the lives they once enjoyed?

These ragged demonstrations are destroying small businesses, but the demonstrators don’t care about that. But why should they? The guy they want to re-elect as president doesn’t much care if he runs every small business into the ground. Small businesses stand firmly in the way of the America he wishes to create. He disregards people who can think and work for themselves. He needs the people who are accustomed to and prefer government control.

The radical Left needs to make a point, for they must show Obama that they can carry the election after the Republicans recapture the center of the electorate that is so nauseated by the guy’s intentions. Which plays right into Obama’s supporters plan.

Wander around a bit through the “progressive” blogs on the net, and get a whiff of your future if these people succeed in tearing down our country. They aren’t even trying to hide their Marxist roots anymore. Most are very confident in their president and his agenda.

You folks can go on line right now, if ya want, and donate to a fund that will supply cold weather clothing so these protestors can continue their rant against capitalism well into the winter. Doesn’t that warm the cockles of your heart? And the unions will be helping all they can to deliver this clothing, because they want to see that guy re-elected, too.

Check out firedoglake.com    the occupy supply link.

They tell us that we need to redistribute the wealth, ya know. Make it fair. For everybody. Stop letting the rich punishing those folks who aren’t rich. It’s not their fault. Must be somebody else’s fault, for surely somebody must be at fault.

The American dream has been redefined by America’s enemies into the myth of:  “anybody who works hard will become rich”. And how few actually make that cut? Make the dream a myth and America becomes the myth. I remember it a little differently. I remember a version that stated that anybody who works hard can become rich. This subtle difference has been brought to you by the entitlement folks. The make-it-fair, everybody-the-same, folks. The Marxists.

They claim the new version of the American dream is bogus, which of course it is, the way they state it, and that this is simply an excuse for the haves to oppress those at the lower end of the sliding scale. They claim that if folks are poor it’s not because they are lazy or stupid. Oh no! It’s because of those people with all the money keeping them down. We may have the richest poor people in the world, but somebody is doing better than them, and that ain’t fair.

Well, I’m no expert, and I certainly haven’t met every singe poor person in American, but I have met a pot full of poor people. And I’ll even let the entitlement folks define “poor” for this argument. Pick a number. Doesn’t matter to my argument.

The poor people I’ve met are a bit harder to define than the Marxists would like. Some of them are victims of bad circumstances, and of things well beyond their control. The various illnesses and injuries that take people out of the game come into play. And some folks have legitimately been screwed by others and left in the dust. But the vast majority of poor people don’t fall into these categories.

The vast majority aren’t lazy or stupid either. Those are the Marxists words for what they think folks like me might say.

What I might say is that a fair percentage of poor people end up poor because of an unrelenting series of really bad decisions they have made through their lives. I’m not saying lazy, but I am laying blame. And this is not anybody else’s fault.

And some poor people are truly poorly equipped in the talent and intelligence departments, (if you can call Bush stupid, I can say this) and they simply cannot compete. 

And a lot of the rest have simply chosen not to vigorously play the game of life, because they are not interested. They simply don’t care. They are happy with their path. And more power to them. No one should be taking shots at these folks, just so long as they realize that the guy in the mirror knows why they are where they are.

This prompts me to ask…since the Marxists demand that society become equal, that all wealth must be redistributed, that all those people at the bottom simply need to be provided with the wealth stolen from them by the rich, and all would be right with the world. And of course, they get to define who the rich people might be, as well. So after the revolution, when the top is dragged down and the bottom nets the riches, what next?

Maybe paradise? It’s been tried many times before. Didn’t happen anywhere yet, but if they keep trying…maybe. Maybe you can bring the bottom up to meet the top.

More likely you fail to bring the bottom up to meet the top, but instead simply bring the top down to meet the bottom. Maybe ya give the wealth to the bad decision makers, the folks so lacking in any real talent, and those who don’t much care. That would be true redistribution. What then? What do they do with this new wealth? Just maybe they change the world. Or not. And this is what the Marxists want. For then they end up in control, either way. And weep for the poor all you wish, but it is power and control that is the goal of these folks.

Most likely, that wealth simply dribbles away. And the folks on the bottom remain on the bottom. And everybody loses. Oh, except America’s enemies.

Yeah, that’s what we need.

Addendum:

I’m waiting for the vermin from the occupy Oakland pestilence to migrate up to Vallejo to protest the arrest of that criminal yesterday. All he did was rob a bank and shoot a cop in the back, killing him. Banks and cops. Enemies of the PEOPLE.

This enemy of the PEOPLE served his country in the marines, his state in the highway patrol, and his city in their police department. He leaves a wife, three kids, plus the children he adopted when two friends passed away. Loved and respected by everyone he met. I’m sick to my core.

Nov 13 2011

I thought I was going blind. They say you start losing your night vision as you become ancient, and since I am fast approaching that definition, I figured that must be what was happening. When ya can’t see where you are going, it can be a bit disconcerting.

Where we were going was east on the New York State Thruway. We managed to catch the tail end of the evening commute, and the locals who knew where they were going were going there rapidly. Apparently, those speed limit signs on the shoulder are just for decoration, kinda like they are around here, and to stay in line I disregarded the traffic law and adopted the law of the jungle. So we motored on, in the dark, in the rain and the spray, in the traffic, at extra legal speed, and I couldn’t see squat. I couldn’t see the lane markers. I couldn’t see the shoulders. I set my sights on a pair of taillights and kept my foot in the throttle. It was an act of faith that I did not enjoy.

My blindness under these circumstances confused and annoyed me. Other folks seemed to see well enough to power through the darkness without care. Couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. Finally panic took over from where common sense had left off, and I pulled off the road for the night. And I concluded that I was simply too old for this nonsense any more.

Then two nights later I turned on the headlights while parked behind another car. And only half of that car lit up. Duh! The Jetta was a perdiddle. In case you don’t remember, a perdiddle is a car with one headlight burned out. And we was one. No wonder I couldn’t see in the dark. The Jetta needed a new headlight.

So I was sitting in the Volkswagen dealer in Springfield, Massachusetts making a cup of coffee in that little sitting area where they park the waiting folks, and thinking to myself that I needed to buy one of those coffee makers like they had, onnacountof how well it worked, and I looked to my left and there sat the new cars. I think they do that on purpose. Because right then and there a seed was planted. So while they changed out my old Jetta’s oil and put in a new headlight, I checked out the new models.

Once we arrived home, I wore out the internet looking at cars, and comparing features, and memorizing things like 140 horsepower and 236 foot pounds of torque, with EPA rating of 30/42. Then I put it all on the shelf, cause we really didn’t NEED a new car, and despite rumors to the contrary, I am a practical kinda guy.

During the drive to Boston, by the time we were cruising across North Dakota, we had realized that the nimble little Jetta had some advantages over the big diesel pickup truck on road trips, so long as said trips didn’t involve pulling the trailer. It was quieter, rode out the bumps better, and burned far less fuel. And we had amazed ourselves with how much stuff we had crammed into the back of that thing with the backseat folded down. So we added the possibility of touring with a small car after we retired, figuring on picking up something like the diesel Jetta sportwagen when the old Jetta died, so we’d even have room for the kayak and some camping gear for those times when we didn’t want to haul the trailer. It fit in well with the other dreams we hold for retirement time.

 Anyway, after taking our first two week vacation in over 14 years, and enjoying just how good that felt, we showed up back at the clinic to face the crush of catching up, the whining from those who couldn’t let us off the hook for slacking off when they needed us, the quiet resignation that we had years of six day/ 55 hour weeks to weather before we could even consider trying to retire, and the realization of all that settled around our shoulders with the subtlety of a 50 pound pigeon turd dropped from above. So rather than dutifully waiting patiently to grow old and die, we began discussing the possibility of having some fun before that happened.

Last Sunday we took the new Jetta for a nice long scenic drive to see a site that had been on the list of places to visit for decades. And it was wonderful! The weather cooperated with intermittent showers, cloud shows, cool weather, rainbows, and sunbeams highlighting the hills and valleys. Pinnacles National Monument lived up to its billing as a sparsely visited, well preserved, teaming with wildlife, and populated by rock spires and chaparral lit by fall color kind of place.

Did I mention that we bought a new car? Well, we did. We went for the sedan rather than the sportwagen, to enjoy a more nimble feel. We sprang for the turbo diesel for longevity and way better fuel economy. With the six speed manual transmission, satellite radio and GPS. And it rocks!

The way we figure it, the new Jetta will be nearly paid off by the time we might retire. So my practical side can sorta explain away this endulgence. The little diesel purred along at over 40 miles per gallon on this tour, which should improve after we get her broken in. And we are laying plans to actually take off a weekend every month and go do fun stuff, rather than just talking about doing this. And sometimes we will take the trailer, and sometimes we will fly low and fast in the new Jetta. We’ll see ya when we get back.

 

Nov 7 2011

We were talking about Michael Vick, and that whole nasty dog fighting business his wealth sponsored.  The we being a client and I, and the whole discussion was about how difficult it was for some to grasp the viciousness that resides in people in this day of advanced civilization. I ended up telling her that she wasn’t privy to half of the evil that went down on that property Vick owned, and that what he and his friends did to those dogs would turn the stomachs of folks far harder than her. 

My client suggested that Vicks’ mea culpa and public service excursions made the man look almost human, but his motives, whether he truly felt remorse or simply wanted to again enjoy the millions he would reap if he talked his way back into professional sports, are known only to him. 

You don’t have to walk very far to find people who will make all kinds of excuses for Vicks’ misdeeds. It’s cultural, you know. They will tell you it’s not his fault, for his entire background, and the background of his circle of friends encouraged such horrors for their amusement. They will tell you that many cultures enjoy violence and the infliction of pain on innocent animals. Those who promote and participate in cock fighting enjoy similar entertainment.  Blood, gore, pain, terror, and all that amuse them. And sadly, those who excuse this as cultural are mostly right.

The reality of the world today is that it contains a multitude of cultures, and very few of these are as sensitive about violence as the version of culture enjoyed by my client. The behaviors that so upset my client are the norm for much of humanity.  And even her own culture is not immune from this.

Heck, one of the most popular cultural pastimes these days pits two fierce humans against each other in a cage, and pays them to pommel, kick, and strangle each other senseless to sate the blood lust of millions. And that would be the premiere culture of this place. 

Yeah, we are an advanced civilization, but our civilization represents a very thin veneer. What lies under is the ole savagery many thought we left behind when we moved indoors and turned on the TV. 

The recent snowstorm in the Northeast pointed out again the vulnerability of modern civilization. A few inches of wet snow fell, and the trees came down and brought the power lines with, and thousands were without light, heat, and hot water for several days. Those in charge of repairing the damage were overwhelmed by the storm, and many people have been a bit miffed by all this.

Those responsible this time were public utility companies, that interesting consequence of trying to combine private enterprise with government control that results in such intense regulation to keep the private side in line that in the end these companies cannot do anything right.

 I haven’t heard too many reports of mass fatalities from this storm, for it did not arrive in the dead of winter, and thus inconvenienced more folks than it froze, but it sure exposed how poorly prepared the infrastructure and its caretakers were to handle this mess. And the average Joe, in this day of just flick a switch, looked out his window at a cold world knowing he didn’t have handy what it takes to deal with it either. 

We get to see the veneer of civilization peel off pretty fast when people get truly desperate.  New Orleans after Katrina demonstrated this well. Thousands of people accustomed to not needing to cope for themselves discovered that great disappointment you feel when your government doesn’t step in to take care of you when things go so wrong. And when the chips were down in the days following that storm, the many acts of civilized people trying to help others get through that mess were far overshadowed by the sub-human savagery of so many others.

I suppose you could make the argument that such storms are only temporary situations that merely put a dent in civilization. Which is true. But I suggest that such dents are an indicator of the vulnerability of civilization. And as we put more and more of our civilization at the mercy of the inconsistency of government control, or the unreliability of technology, we may find these dents will have greater impact.

Used to be ya kept your important documents in a safe deposit box at the bank or in that fireproof safe in the closet. The family bible held the dates of generations of the family’s births and deaths, marriages and celebrations. You kept your old checks to prove you paid that bill. The Mason jar buried in the garden held enough cash to get you through a weekend. And periodically, somebody sat down with the photographs spread out on the dining room table and names and dates were put to the faces long dead, so a piece of history persevered.

I was reading just yesterday about what our future holds for us. Checks will soon be a thing of the past. They say that plastic in your wallet will do a better job. Money will be a few electrons moving about. Photographs already are rarely more than electric impulses. And even all those documents, financial and insurance records, and the thoughts of lifetimes will leave paper and settle into electrical memory. It’s all faster and cheaper this way.

They promise that even the mechanical stuff we own to keep track of this electrical memory will soon disappear, and everything we commit to electrical impulses will settle in some cloud somewhere. And all of society’s eggs will be in one perfect basket. I’m sure this will all be perfectly safe and reliable. Aren’t you? You will never have to worry about someone carelessly exposing the film before the photos are developed. The house fire won’t destroy the insurance documents. No one will steal the Mason jar, or forget where they buried it. Gosh, things will be so convenient and safe you won’t be able to stand it. And we will relax and enjoy the fruits of our advanced civilization. 

Until…

One electromagnetic pulse. One clever criminal hacker or terrorist cell. One disgruntled guy with his finger on the right switch. Or a simple snow storm. And all that electrical memory goes vulnerable. And we will suspend our civilization for a bit as all that important stuff we need to run it simply evaporates. 

And then that other side of humanity will emerge yet again. Who will be ready for this? Look around at how poorly we’ve done lately with only those hiccups. Think the government will fix it in an hour? Think maybe those who know how to cope will know how to settle for a slightly less comfortable lifestyle? What of the majority who have no idea how to cope?