Thursday, March 26, 2015

Thoughts From The Marsh: What Have We Lost?

4:30 AM:

Walking home from a friend's I decide to stop at the store (about the half-way mark) to get some coffee and visit with my co-graveyard-shift and fellow-employee who works the four nights a week that I don't.

I was surprised to find the manager there instead. I shouldn't have been; she often fills in for employees who need time off for various reasons. She's a good boss.

I buy coffee, we chat, and I head off towards my next homeward bound stop: The cattail marsh, my favorite neighborhood haunt. I'm rarely there at night. Everything's different at night. I like visiting places at all hours, throughout the year, in all conditions, for many years, to become more intricately familiar with them and move past infatuation to true love. I love the cattail marsh.

As I approached I went into stealth mode. Or at least tried my best. I walked deliberately in the wet grass, putting my toe down first -- slowly, softly and cautiously -- then the heel . . . then pausing and listening . . . then repeating with the other foot, and so on . . . as if I smelled elk upwind; as if I were back in Marine Force Recon on patrol. I pretended to be the great gray heron I had observed and photographed in this very marsh a few days prior; nothing moves more patiently. I felt as if I were sneaking back into my childhood home hoping not to wake my mother (but which, of course, along with being in Force Recon, had more severe consequences than waking waterfowl.)

I failed. A duck sounded the alarm. Many others repeated it. The geese started honking. Busted. The place instantly became acoustically alive, as if I had turned on a sound switch, which I guess in essence I did. None of them sounded happy. QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! . . .  HONK! HONK! HONK!  I guiltily interpreted it as, "You bug us enough in daylight, damn it; leave us the fuck alone; let us rest for God's sake; get the hell out of here!"

As photogenically, semi-tame as these ducks may be, they obviously retain their instinctive alertness and responses derived from evolving as prey to others. I didn't feel too much a loser; foxes are stealthy above and beyond human ability, yet even they fail stalks an estimated 80 percent of the time. Far easier to attack from above, like an eagle, or from below, like a bass. (The biggest northern pike I ever caught was fishing late at night with a lure that imitates a duckling, temptingly and titillatingly swimming above large hungry shadows.)

I wish I could hone my predatory and evasive evolutionary instincts as well as a mallard. I try. But then again, I live in a safe, heated house down the road and, while perhaps not as much as most Americans, I am nevertheless detached and often obliviously blinded to the real world around me -- around us. Nowadays we're only prey to societal-created obligations, expectations, stresses, and the mostly all-around bullshit we call the modern world. We pretend to be free while enslaved. In gaining comfort and average-length-of-life-spans we've lost a lot. I want some of it back.

Just the previous morning I sat several hours on a wet, cold bed of pine needles atop a ridge in a ponderosa forest hoping to see wild turkeys. I saw two. They, too, busted me quickly and disappeared even quicker. They, too, are intuitively attuned to life in the presence of predation.   

Grizzlies used to roam in and around this marsh (fortunately, they still exist just north of here in what little remains of once wild America.) They likely dug beavers out from their dens for snacks back when this tiny remnant of a marsh covered much of this side of town. The Salish once camped along this marsh every spring to gather bitterroots on nearby south-facing hills now covered with homes. That was back when the marsh was part of a larger,  more healthy and intact wild watershed -- before people pulled into a 24-hour convenience store driving fossil-fueled vehicles on pavement to purchase gas, snacks, booze, cigarettes, soda and bottled water at all and any hour they desire.

Convenient indeed; but worth the tradeoffs? Worth the loss?

We humans want to control it all, even those of us who claim otherwise. Roads, houses, buildings; asphalt, concrete, trails; signs, maps, guidebooks; cell phones, GPS units, flashlights; bear spray, safety plans and search and rescue teams. We want safe, sanitized "wild" experiences. As Jack Turner so passionately puts it, we've rendered the wilds an abstract. We've rendered freedom an abstract. Even many hunters I know who feign being "in touch" with the wilds want to alter, shape and control it to suit selfish desires. Many want to eradicate wolves. (They don't want elk to be too wild, to behave and react too much like elk.)

Elk without wolves; ducks without foxes. We're suppressing and denying vital evolutionary innate knowledge and instincts -- not to mention creating a boringly dull and docile world. I want some of it back.

Maybe that's why I feel so damn alive in the presence of wild grizzlies. It's why the cattail marsh felt so alive in the wee hours of this morning -- primordial energy as invigorating as lightning; as powerful as a flood; as intense as a wildfire. It's not always pleasant, but essential for a healthy world. We evade it at our loss, perhaps even our peril.

We say society advances, but what are we leaving behind? What have we lost? 

Such were my thoughts from the marsh early this morning.  

In a few nights I will be selling snacks, booze, cigarettes, soda and bottled water to people driving fossil-fueled vehicles on pavement at all hours of the night -- and right on the edge of this remnant cattail marsh where grizzlies once snacked on beavers and the Salish camped every spring to gather bitterroots on nearby hills. 

What have we lost?

Monday, March 23, 2015

"Are You Insane?"

4:30 AM:

A slow, quiet, pleasant Sunday night now turned early Monday morning. I had completed my numerous chores fairly early; compiled the shift and daily reports; just finished mopping the floors and was anticipating a soon-to-arrive delivery when a car pulls up to the pumps. 

A man comes in and puts a $100 bill on the counter and gruffly demands, "Put $30 on pump two." He seems impatiently hurried.

"Do you by chance have anything smaller than a $100?" I ask. "Unfortunately, I don't have much in the till right now. But I can drop more out of the safe if you can wait a few minutes?"
"I don't have a few minutes," he says. "Just put $30 on pump two."
"I am sorry but I do not have enough in the till right now to give you change," I say.
"You don't have $70 in the till?" he asks.
"No, I do not."
"Why the hell not?"
"We don't keep much in the till this time of day," I explain. "It deters robbers."

He shakes his head in disbelief and says, "What are you a moron?"
"I don't think so," I reply. "But I am stronger in some subject areas than others . . . I never did like algebra or calculus . . . I had to take a course called Math for Marines before being accepted into demolitions school . . . I also . . "

He cuts me off.

"I don't have time for this."

He puts the $100 back in his wallet, pulls out a $20, throws it on the counter and says something to me as he begins to leave, but I couldn't quite make it out.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you. I assume you want to put $20 on pump two?" I ask.

He stops, turns, looks at me and says, "Clean your ears. Are you deaf and stupid?"
"I cleaned my ears yesterday," I reply. "I used Q-tips, although they aren't actually Q-tips brand, so I suppose I should more accurately say cotton swabs, generic. Anyway, as a matter of fact, my hearing is not so good. I blame the Marine Corps. My son sometimes says, 'Dad, why don't you get a hearing aid?' to which I will reply, 'Why don't you speak correctly,' all in good fun, of course, and we both get a kick out of it and laugh and . . . "

He cuts me off again.

"You're an idiot," he says.

He heads out the door and toward the pumps. I go around the counter and follow him outside.

"So I assume you want $20 on pump two?" I ask again.
"Isn't that fucking obvious, you moron," he says.
"The only thing obvious to me is what a miserable asshole you seem to be," I reply.

I hold out his $20 to him and say, "Here's your money back, why don't you just leave now."

He gives me an incredulous look.

"Excuse me?"
"You can leave now," I say again. "Get out of here."
"Do you know who I am?" he asks. "Do you know Mr. Store Owner?" 

(Mr. Store Owner, of course, is not the store owners real name, but his real name is reflected in the store's name and I have agreed with my boss to not mention such details. Besides, Mr. Store Owner is actually now Mr. Previous Store Owner, having sold his stores to Mr. New Store Owner who has kept Mr. Previous Store Owners real name on the stores.)

"No, I do not know who you are," I reply. "But you seem like an arrogant asshole. I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Owner, but I hear he is a great guy."

He moves closer to me, somewhat aggressively.

"Are you insane?" he asks.
"Maybe," I reply.

He glares at me for a bit, backs off, and says, "Your boss is going to hear about this!"
"Yes, she will," I reply. "I will be telling her about it when she arrives later in the morning."

Which I did.

Her response:
"Dave, don't worry about it. I don't expect you to put up with that kind of thing."

I have a good boss.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

A Civics Lesson

According to an enlightened and angry custumor, the current President of the United States of America is a "communist" because "he raised gas prices" to more than $2.00 per gallon. He is also a "Muslim" and "Socialist."  Apparently, our President dabbles in a variety of religious and political beliefs. 

Friday, March 20, 2015

Melodative, Stimulative

1:45 AM: A young guy comes up to the counter with a six pack of Coors Light.

Young Guy: "What rhymes with innovative?"
Me: "Um . . . give me a moment . . . Irritated? Constapative? Laxatative?  . . . I guess any word that ends in 'tive,' even if you just make it up. Why do you ask, are you writing a rap or something?"
Young Guy: "Yes."
Me: "Really?"
Young Guy: "Yes. Want to hear what I've got so far?"
Me: "Sure! Why not?"

He proceeds to rap. I wish I could recall it all, but it was kind of quick. There was, indeed, a lot of words that rhymed with innovative. Here's a few phrases I did catch, I think:

"Yo yo, mo fo . . .
Haters gonna hate . . .
Hate is their fate . . .
I Ain't gonna procrastinate . . .
Ain't gonna manipulate . . .
(He may have said "Ain't gonna masturbate," but not sure.)
I'm gonna stay fresh and innovate . . .
'Cause I'm creative . . . and innovative . . . "

Apparently, that is where he got hung up and his mellifluousative, melodative tune came to a sudden end.

Young Guy: "What do you think so far?"
Me: "Nice! So far so good. It's definitely innovative . . . and creative . . . not hated . . . I find it stimulative."
Young Guy: "Stimulative?"
Me: "Yeah, stimulative!"
Young Guy: "That's a good one!"
Me: "It's all yours."
Young Guy: Thanks dude!"

Sunday, March 15, 2015

An Irrational Night


"It can be of no practical use to know that Pi is irrational, but if we can know, it surely would be intolerable not to know." 
                              -- Edward Charles Titchmarsh

Saturday, March 14, 2015:

It was π (Pi) day, celebrating the mathematical constant approximated as 3.14159265359.

This year's event had particular significance because the day, written as 3/14/15, contained all the first five digits of Pi.

To winnow the significance down to seconds, some say the times 9:26:53 (am and pm) were particularly special moments because they could be expressed as 3/14/15 9:26:53, containing the first 10 digits of Pi.

But here's where the Pi fight came in: Others argue that 9:26:54 was the more significant time, because the 11th digit of Pi is 5, so when expressed in only 10 digits, the 10th digit 3 should be rounded up to 4, hence, it would be expressed as 3.141592654, best represented at 3/14/15 9:26:54.

I sided with the rounded team since pies are generally round (with Pi as the ratio of their circumference to their diameter.) 


Regardless, everything at the store -- every purchase rang up; every exchange of money; every calculation; every number added, subtracted and multiplied; every number recorded in the shift and daily reports . . . everything seemed to come up Pi.

Nothing is more American than pie, and at the store we sell All American Pies. They're rectangular, not round, but better than cake. Between 9:25:53 pm and 9:25:54 pm I rapidly and piggishly ate a blackberry pie, a lemon pie, a cherry pie and approximately 14.1 percent of an apple pie.

It was an odd night; everything and everybody seemed unusually irrational.

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Opening the Floodgates: The Meaning of Matthew

Matthew Shepard, 1976-1998
The other night a custumor came in who, by appearance alone, let loose in me a flood of powerful emotions. He looks just like Matthew Shepard.

A brief summary: Matthew was a 21-year-old University of Wyoming student who, on the night of October 6, 1998, was brutally beaten, tortured and left tied to an old fence post near Laramie, Wyoming. Six days later he died in a hospital from head injuries. He was murdered by Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson who are now serving two consecutive life sentences in prison.

There are some witnesses who say McKinney pretended to be gay to lure Matthew away from a bar and rob him. Others say the crime was drug-related and based more on greed than homophobia. McKinney's girlfriend first said McKinney became enraged when Matthew made "sexual advances" towards him, but she later recanted her story. In a well-researched article for The Advocate, a national gay right magazine, Aaron Hidling wrote that investigators had "amassed enough anecdotal evidence to build a persuasive case that Shepard's sexuality was, if not incidental, certainly less central than popular consensus had lead us to believe."  But Dave O'malley, the Larmie policeman who led the murder investigation, said: "I feel comfortable in my own heart that they did what they did to Matt because they had hatred towards him for being gay."

Fred Phelps, the hateful leader of the Westboro Babtist Church, certainly believed Matthew died because he was gay, and seemed to credit God for the murder; he organized a picket at Shepard's funeral of ignorant church members holding signs with statements such as, "God Hates Fags!" (Although Phelps is now dead, his Westboro group still maintains a despicable website depicting a photo of Matthew surrounded by flames stating "how many days Matthew Shepard has been in hell.")  In one of the most thoughtful, well-executed anti-protests ever conceived, Matthew's friends dressed as angels at his funeral and surrounded the Westboro protesters, blocking them with giant outstretched wings. (The organizer, Romaine Patterson, has since formed an organization called Angel Action.)

Matthew's murder rallied activists all over the world to raise awareness of abuse and mistreatment of gay people and push for hate crime legislation. Matthew's parents, Dennis and Judy Shepard, became (and remain) prominent gay-rights activists and led a successful battle for passage of the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd, Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act (commonly called the Matthew Shepard Act) which was signed into law by President Obama on October 28, 2009.

There was a time I did not understand or support "hate crime" legislation. After all, a crime is a crime; assault and murder are already illegal. I've since changed my mind. When a certain segment of people are targeted for and become victims because of who and what they are, such as being gay, it keeps others fearful of being and expressing who and what they are; at times it can keep people afraid of even going out in public. It suppresses freedom and liberty. It is a form of terrorism. The aftermath of Matthew's Shepard's murder helped me understand that better. 

Judy Shepard also formed the Matthew Shepard Foundation. There have been numerous books, plays, songs and films made about Matthew's murder and the aftermath. (I recently read a powerfully moving book called, "The Meaning of Matthew: My Son's Murder in Laramie and a World Transformed," published in 2009, and written by Judy Shepard -- a remarkably strong and courageous person.) 

Sadly and unfortunately, it sometimes takes tragedy to create awareness and action.

I first learned of Matthew Shepard the day he died when I returned from an elk hunt in the wilds of Montana. I was still closeted and married — fighting, denying and suppressing my attraction to men, often leading a secret, shameful double life. The news hit me hard, on several fronts; at one point in my life, I had been the stereotypical homophobe who hated in others what I hated in myself. I broke down sobbing. My wife (now my former wife who remains my best friend) was a bit surprised it hit me has hard is it did. Now she understands.

These floodgates of emotion opened up again when Matthew's look-alike came into the store the other night to buy beer. He looked at me kind of funny.

"Wow, you look like Matthew Shepard," I told him.
"I get that all the time," he said.
"I hope you take it as a compliment; Matthew Shepard was a beautiful man," I replied.
"Thank you," he said. "It used to bother me, but then I learned about Matthew and now I am pretty proud to look like him."

Such is the meaning of Matthew.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Where Did Our Love Go? (Where Did Our Country Go?)

He's back -- the hateful custumor who blamed President Obama for high-gas prices last summer, looked at me like I was stupid when I said I didn't think a president had much control over gas prices, and then looked at me like I was even more stupid (stupider?) a few months later when he was elated about lower gas prices and I asked if he credited Obama for the drop in costs. (See Feeding the Beast?)

He's back; back to hatefully blaming Obama again.

Why? Because gas recently jumped from to $1.98-9/10 a gallon to $2.09-9/10 a gallon.

(Ever wonder why gas prices usually end in 9/10 of a cent? According to the National Association of Convenience Stores -- yes, there actually is a National Association of Convenience Stores -- it's a mixture of legality, competition, marketing and history. "It really harkens back to 80 years ago when a one-cent change in the price of gas was a big jump and fuels dispensers had become sophisticated enough to measure out precise volumes," the association claims. "Intense price competition plus some regulation has institutionalized the practice to the point where anything other than 0.9 cent pricing is unusual in the United States."  To learn more, click here: NACS.)

Ever wonder why gas prices are going up yet again?  According to the hateful customer, it's Obama's fault.

"I can't stand Obama," the hateful custumor said. "I hate him. I can't wait until that socialist moron is gone and we get our country back. When we get our country back, gas prices will stay down."

He left me wondering, Where did our country go? So I Googled the question. The first four "hits" were links relating to the 1964 hit song by The Supremes, "Where Did Our Love Go?"

It's a good question.