by Darin Lowery

On that awful day in 2001, when the Twin Towers of New York’s World Trade Center collapsed in a furious mass of deadly smoke and debris, the keening at my office was out of control. No one understood what was happening, despite the nonstop news coverage gleaned from an antiquated, rolled-in Motorola. The state of shock was palpable, a numbness shared with the rest of the country. A heavy smoker then, I found my lighter and headed out the side door but was stopped by a tear stained, anxious young woman in a too-bright print dress. Oh my God, she said, why do they hate us so much? Why do they hate us so much?  I shrugged and ignored her. The Pentagon was in flames, a tight lipped reporter droned; another plane had crashed in the Pennsylvania countryside. The 1993 Trade Center bombing was reviewed in depth- it had been a matter of when, not if, another attack would transpire.

Why, indeed, do they ‘hate us so much’? To answer that it’s important to look at who we are- an almost impossible task (as most introspection is) when one is an American who resides in the United States. As an American- a white male, no less- the privileges are unlimited and explanations for our behavior are rarely expected. As a society, we expect a high standard of living as our due, regardless of our level of education or work experience. One result is credit card debt which amounts to $2,000-$15,000 per household, depending on which report you believe. Who really owns all of ‘our’ stuff, and why is it so important that we have it? Currently, the richest 1% of people in the world receives as much as the bottom 57%, according to the University of California/Santa Cruz Atlas of Inequality. Is anyone else shocked by this statement?

‘It is saddening to tell you that you are the worst civilization witnessed by the history of mankind… let us not forget one of your major characteristics: your duality in both manners and values; your hypocrisy in manners and principles. All manners, principles and values have two scales: one for you and one for the others.’

-Osama bin Laden, 2002

(Full transcript available at: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2002/nov/24/theobserver)

While I do love this country, I sometimes don’t like it. Our priorities are not in focus with what’s important elsewhere in the world- one can turn to almost any television program to see the inanity, the insanity of what we deem worthy. Media is a mirror and this reflection is beamed all over the planet. It was cute when it was simply Coca-Cola, blue jeans and rock ‘n roll. We are what we eat, but we’re also what we buy and frankly, most of it is garbage. Who am I, if I don’t consume?

‘Keeping up with the Joneses’ was an early consumer trap Americans embraced; it has since morphed into a desperate, vulgar grab for the newest, biggest, and shiniest. We eat like there’s no tomorrow yet take it for granted that when the knees give out or the blood pressure goes through the roof it’ll be magically fixed through medication or surgery. At times it seems it’s our right, as Americans, to take no responsibility for our health, our spending habits, our depletion of the planet’s resources in the name of immediate gratification.

Still, it’s an amazing time to live, and the United States is a Paradise for those who can afford it. At least for now. The 1950’s taught us to reach for more- and we did. Problem is, we’re drowning in it. What we discard daily would sustain other families for months. Empires do not last forever, and we can look to the ancient Egyptians, the Romans- hell, even the Third Reich- to bear this truth out.

I understand our ‘necessity’ to maintain our way of living (thereby keeping the politicians and bankers rich) and the need for security (never give the keys of the kingdom to the unwashed masses because they’ll fly airplanes into your skyscrapers) but oftentimes wonder how many of us truly understand the way in which other people live in other countries, and how completely different it is from our own way of life. It was a shock for me, as a child living in Asia, to watch what people ate and drank, how they bathed and where they slept. We flourish while others suffer, and if you don’t believe that you are casting a blind eye about you. We practice noblesse oblige only when it benefits our own blueprint.

Ultimately, bin Laden’s message was about respect, responsibility and accountability. I am not a radical Muslim- I’m not even a ‘good’ Catholic. Bin Laden did not speak for all of Islam. We are good people who sometimes behave badly because we do not have the facts, and we cannot depend upon the media or the government to inform us. Sorry, but Fox News doesn’t cut it, and if you’re watching that rubbish then you really have no idea what’s happening in the world. ‘Patriot’ is a strong word, loaded with meaning, but in the end it means honoring and defending one’s country. If in fact our lives have ‘gone global’, doesn’t that at least suggest a sense of responsibility to and for others? Sure, we write the checks- but if we continue to consume and subsume everything under the sun, what’s left for anyone else?

The Twin Towers are gone; perhaps there are plans for another sort of attack. We need to remain vigilant and aware. We can, in the meantime, begin to examine how we interact with each other, what values we possess and teach our young. We can ensure our inclusiveness and acceptance of those different from us. We can start by spending time with our kids, by skipping the mall and the squawking television set with its gratuitous violence and casual sex. In short, we- you and me, our friends and families, our neighbors, co-workers- even our ‘Facebook Friends’ –can change. Because by helping others we help ourselves, and through this, hate is dissolved into love.

Only then will the question, ‘why do they hate us so much’ have lost its meaning.

Of course, there’s growth for the sake of things like housing and entertainment, say, and then there’s growth with the possibility of employment opportunities. We’ve learned an important lesson over the past year and a half about a scenario seeming like an opportunity for growth (JOBS! JOBS! JOBS!), only to discover (if one did a bit of research) that this ‘opportunity’ would’ve actually been a death knell, a swan song of the most tragic sort. If a thousand-bed private prison was actually built in our area, we wouldn’t just be kissing off tourism and future incoming businesses- a lot of us would’ve packed up and left. I know I would have.

And now, interestingly enough, the Arizona Republic’s Bob Ortega has just concluded a four-part expose on the private prison industry- the gore, the graft and the greed. Thank God the citizens of this community- not the City Council, and not the County Supervisors-had the sense of duty and clear thinking to stop it.

You know what the new joke is around town? The City Council is welcoming bids from nuclear waste management firms… because the medical waste management people went elsewhere.

Frankly, I’d love a few new stores around town, and while I bitch about chain stores and restaurants in general, there is the uniformity thing to consider- in atmosphere and in manner. How great it is to be thanked for my business- how nice when I am acknowledged as I enter a shop. Granted, most of our Globe shopkeepers, waitresses and clerks are terrific. I’ll tell you flat out there are one or two stores in town I wouldn’t set foot in if my hair was in flames and they sold fire extinguishers. But overall, I feel more comfortable on Broad Street than I ever did at a Valley strip mall.

I make it a point to be friendly- it’s who I am- and I genuinely enjoy meeting other people. This is why I work in retail myself- it’s sort of a prerequisite. It’s actually nice to be nice- and if I forget that for a minute, I remind myself that without our customers I wouldn’t have a job.

As far as more choices, my needs are different. I live alone. I’m middle-aged. I’ve done all the nightclubbing I ever wanted to do, and I did it a helluva lot better than the kids do today. I’m also not a big shopper. ‘Retail Therapy’ sounds like a bad reality show. Then again, I don’t have a wife and six kids who like to eat out and buy lots of stuff that’ll break in a few weeks. That’s why God put both McDonald’s and Wal-Mart in Globe. I can understand why folks drive to the Valley- it’s all about choices- but if in fact one looks at patriotism from a slightly different angle, isn’t shopping locally the All-American way to live?

Word is the Chamber of Commerce held a Customer Service seminar a week or so ago- kudos to them; it’s a great idea, and I hope they offer further sessions. When your customer is comfortable, secure and satisfied, chances are he’ll keep coming back. What we sometimes forget is that we’re all each other’s customers at some point, whether cash is exchanged or not. We work with and for each other. We help each other out, look out for each other, and take care of each other. This is why it’s important to know what’s happening in our community, to ask the tough questions and demand honest answers. Personally, I’ve learned a helluva lot by going to City Council meetings- I’ve seen who has the guts to say what’s right, and have heard those who whine, rationalize and dictate. It’s an education, believe me.

It takes a village to raise a village is what I’m saying, and we are all responsible for what happens to us in the end.

This is an open letter to Globe’s Mayor which was recently published in the SilverBelt, Copper Country News and – here.

The purpose of this letter is to set the record straight about your statements quoted in the June 15,
2011 issue of Copper Country News. You stated, “I think it is sufficient to say that Mr. Moss was notified
that his initiatives as written pose several concerns and he was advised to review them with his legal
counsel.”

Your remarks to CCN validate why I do not have confidence in your credibility. Now, here is the truth of
the matter.

On Thursday, June 2, we filed our official Ballot Initiative paperwork with Globe’s City Clerk. That same
afternoon, I received an e-mail from the City Clerk that reads as follows: “We have concerns regarding
the proposed text for your initiative petitions, please consult your legal counsel.” May I assume
the “We” to be you and the City Attorney?

Friday morning, June 3, I visited with the City Clerk. I asked for an explanation of the cryptic e-mail
message. The Clerk revealed the nature of your concerns by explaining that the texts of the Initiatives
far exceeded the 100-word limit specified by law. I informed the Clerk that we were aware of the
100-word rule, and that the rule applies specifically to the number of words permitted on the Petition
Form itself. I explained that the full-page documents we submitted were ‘attachments’ to the Official
Petition, and that only the summary language of 100 words or less, would appear on the front of the
Official Petition. The City Clerk did not raise any other “concerns”.

Several days after I had confirmed with the City Clerk the subject of your misplaced “concerns”,
you decided to play games by tossing out words to local media that insinuate the Ballot Initiatives
have “deficiencies”. And, you referred to the e-mail quoted above as your official communication to
inform me that “deficiencies” were inherent in the Ballot Initiatives. Yet, you refused to identify the
nature of the supposed deficiencies to me or the Copper Country News. So what was your purpose for
making such claims? Could it be that you were trying to create public confusion and thereby interfere
with our Ballot Initiatives Campaign?

This is reminiscent of your remarks on September 13, 2010 at the conclusion of our Citizens
Presentation to City Council. You attempted to confuse constituents by asserting, “I don’t think we (City
Council) could stop this prison project even if we wanted to.” You knew then, as you know now, that
your statement was false. Since then, you have done everything in your power to bring a big private
prison to Globe, no matter how many residents voice opposition.

It should also be noted, Mr. Mayor, that I have met, spoken, or corresponded with you and City
Attorney, Mr. Graves, on several occasions during the past nine months with the specific intent of
working together to put the private prison issue on the ballot — so that the people could decide. During

this entire time, you have done nothing to facilitate such discussions, or to find a cooperative remedy.
Instead, you have engaged in political gamesmanship to try to score a ‘WIN’ for your personal agenda –
- rather than seek common ground by working with citizens to create a Ballot Referendum. Apparently,
Mr. Mayor, you fail to appreciate the fact that the good citizens of Globe do not consider this important
public policy issue to be a mere political game.

To a certain extent, our town’s year-long ‘private prison debate’ has become a secondary issue. Now,
an even more serious concern is about ‘good government’. Good government requires elected officials
to genuinely listen to the voice of their constituents, demonstrate integrity, and respect the democratic
process. Regrettably, Mr. Mayor, your words and actions during this long private prison debate have
not measured up to these basic principles of good government.

Jim Moss

Globe Resident & Business Owner

This letter was recently published in the SilverBelt, Copper Country News – and here.

In last weeks’ letters to the editor, Jerry McCreary once again showed how stone deaf and disingenuous he can be when it comes to presenting the facts as he would like you to believe them.

He says in his letter,  “…we have not with held any facts about the project.” Did he forget? Or intentionally mis-represent the facts? He conveniently avoids The Fact that at the very  beginning of this whole debate,  Ted Lake, who writes for the SilverBelt, did an excellent piece on how the EDC held a closed door meeting in which the press was not invited and Councilman Terry Wheeler was told he “wasn’t welcome.” (That piece is posted here EDC under Fire.

Or that reporters with the local radio station Gila 101.9FM were not allowed to a luncheon with two state law makers and representatives of the medium security prison complex.

McCreary also seems to forget that the “debates” published in the SilverBelt, between Bob Zache, representing the EDC, and Jim Moss representing Citizens Opposed showed clearly that Zache was parroting the words of the private prison industry. The “study” which Zache quoted by the Reason Foundation which showed positive results from private prisons was a bit self serving. The Reason Foundation, it turns out, was established in 2004 and is funded by the private prison industry. Other independent sources are not so kind in reporting on the supposed value of private prisons citing more problems and unintended consequences for communities which host such an enterprise.

The “open book, full disclosure” about the benefits of this project which McCreary and others often refer to comes directly from a 3 page “Talking Points” memo from the Emerald Companies. Globe’s Mayor and several Councilmen and McCreary have not wavered from these points.

This is not debate, or leadership, or measured differences of opinion. This is stone deaf arrogance to force something on the people of this community who have been speaking out against it since it was first discovered last June.

So, here we are.

Because our leaders won’t listen, we have taken the democratic option available to citizens in this country to force the City, our elected leaders who should be listening to the voters, but aren’t – to put it to a vote on the next regularly scheduled election.

And then McCreary has the audacity to ask you not to allow that vote!

Lest anyone make the mistake of thinking this is just a few rabble rousers, just consider that those opposed to this idea gathered over 900 signatures of registered Globe voters in ten days to put the issue to the voters. That is not just ‘rabble rousers.’ And it is not, as has been suggested, just the Mosses who have been instrumental in so many ways of giving local citizens the clout they need to make leaders listen. You don’t get the signatures of 900+ citizens without the substance to generate that kind of response!

The Globe citizens who have signed the ballot initiatives cross all political boundaries and include Republicans, Democrats and Independents. They represent a wide range of social and economic backgrounds and concerns. But they are united in wanting a voice in whether a private prison comes to Globe. And thanks to the hard work of many volunteers in this community and a democratic society where these things are made possible – the Citizen’s Ballot Initiative will go forward.

Linda Gross

So the question is- who knew? Who knew when we sat down for breakfast in the mid-Sixties and poured milk over our Cheerios that one day someone would actually covet the cereal box? To add insult to injury, some of those very boxes- the ones we threw in the trash because no one even thought of recycling in those days- may sell for up to $1400 on eBay. I suppose the larger question for most people would be how did any of these even survive?

I can tell you from personal experience that I have a stack of cereal boxes- sadly, they’re only a decade old- which I used as filler between picture frames as I packed for my big move to Arizona. These boxes- flattened and in perfect condition- are in a safe place and will one day pave the way for my happy and prosperous retirement. I hope.

Prices for pedestrian cereal boxes in good condition run from $1-$25. At the low end is a twenty year old orange ‘Kix’ box; mid-level, for eight bucks, a 1980’s ‘Mr. T’ box; higher end is a nice taxi-yellow Cheerios cereal box. If you’re looking for a 1978 ‘Frosted Rice’ piece, hawked by Tony the Tiger, expect to pay about $98. A ‘Sugar Smacks’ box from the same period will set you back only $43.

The Big Daddy of cereal boxes as of this writing is a 1972 ‘Alpha Bits’ box featuring Michael Jackson and the Jackson Five- it’s listed at $1399 and, as yet, has no takers.

I knew a guy, years ago in Chicago, who was obsessed with anything breakfast-related. He liked Aunt Jemima stuff, Quisp and Quake cereal boxes, and anything related to Tang Breakfast Drink (“It’s what the astronauts drink” was the tagline: they actually mixed the powder with water produced as a by-product from one of the life support devices to make it taste better). This man was obsessed- so much so that it got to the point I’d try to avoid him. One can talk about pancakes and powdered fruit drinks for only so long. The same can be said of cereal boxes.

Still, one never knows what future generations may prize. Therefore, I’ve decided to keep everything and throw away nothing. Perhaps one day soon you’ll see me on that ‘Hoarders’ television show. After all, I’ve got my retirement to think of.

In the dream, I stepped onstage to accept the check for my winning lottery numbers- the largest amount ever to be awarded- of four hundred trillion dollars. Payable all to me and me alone. Sweat ran down my face and the makeup people began to fuss- this was, after all, being televised ‘live’ around the world- but I brushed them aside and bounded up to the presenter. Grinning like a madman, glazed eyes rolling back into my head, I reached out my right hand to grasp the check being proffered by the lovely blonde in a fire engine red sheath and then- WOOOFWOOOFWOO-

I sat bolt upright in bed. This must’ve been how the folks in Hawaii felt when Pearl Harbor was being bombed, when a sixteen car pile-up on I-10 stops Valley traffic, when sniper fire rattles through the predawn quiet of an Iraqi village. WOOOFWOOOFWOO- My alarm clock read six a.m. I climbed out of bed and went to the window- no small feat, as I sleep in a converted attic and the window is at the end of a seven foot tunnel. Crawling through this tunnel, naked as a newborn and just as outraged, I looked out into my neighbor’s yard and there, indignant, sat the three month old caramel beagle which would alter my life forever.

He’s a cute pup alright- liquid eyes, a pouty little mouth and a wiggly-waggly tail which any human with a heart would giggle over. But it was six in the morning. Now wide awake and desperate for coffee- or Dexedrine- I trudged downstairs and let my dogs out, hoping they might be just hungry enough to jump the fence and have the little snack next door. Instead, they decided to join Joyboy in choir practice until I yelled for them all to SHUT THE HELL UP or I was going for my guns.

Seeing as how it’s mandatory in my world to sleep as late as possible on my days off, and now knowing this would be constantly thwarted by a four legged psychopath with no conscience, I got dressed and proceed to water every living thing outside and to vacuum every square inch inside. Five loads of laundry later, with clean tile floors in both the kitchen AND the bathroom and seven- count ‘em, seven- bags of groceries in the cupboards, I glanced at the clock and realized it was only ten o’clock. In the morning. If it was ten in the evening then things would feel normal, and I’d be getting ready for bed after accomplishing as little as possible, relishing the thought of being able to sleep, snug as a drugged slug, until I… WOOOFWOOOFWOO-

It has now been eight days of getting up around the time the sun begins its daily ascent. There are dark circles under my eyes like kohl rings, I have a pronounced and premature slouch, and there are times I’m totally incoherent. But my house is not only clean- it glitters. The living room has been painted twice, the carpeting is almost threadbare from constant Hoovering, and I finally found the jar of coleslaw I ‘lost’ in the refrigerator a half-decade ago. There was so much dust from all of the cleaning- billowing clouds of the stuff wafting high over High Street- that WeatherWatchFive sent out a camera crew to film the ‘dust storm’. Seventeen cups of coffee keep me going and the heart murmur hardly ever bothers me. Losing that pesky extra twelve pounds was actually good for me, and really, in the Grand Scheme of life, did I really need all that lustrous, gorgeous hair?

Truth be told, I still hate to get up in the morning- but I am amazed at how much time I was wasting by sleeping my life away. In fact, I – WOOOFWOOOFWOO-

Oh, Hell. There he goes again. Maybe I’ll build a carport this morning.

by Darin Lowery

The Prelude:

In 1987, my Administrative Assistant- let’s call her ‘Debi’ because her real name was unpronounceable- slammed the door to my office as she left, snarling over her shoulder. “Now I have to wash my hair tonight. Again. This happens every time I have a date.” Her voice rose in exasperation. “It’s like a house fire in his office! I can’t take it anymore- HE SMOKES LIKE A BROKEDOWN CHEVY VAN!”

Sadly, ‘Debi’ left our employ for health reasons. She wanted to keep breathing.

The Agony:

Just the thought of quitting smoking- after thirty five years- was paralyzing. I would’ve rather stuck my left arm under a power saw. Instead, I looked at the positives- this usually helps when everything feels like a negative. If I put down the Marlboros, people wouldn’t stand eight feet away from me when we spoke. I would actually be able to see the street through my windshield. Most important, I might even be able to make it to middle age without a respirator.

The first wake up call was attempting to run for a flight at O’Hare Airport. There I was, bent over, chin on the floor, gulping for air like a koi on concrete. The plane took off and I watched the flight attendants giggling as they waved bye-bye. I was embarrassed, humiliated and filled with shame- so much so that I found the first exit and chain-smoked for the next twenty minutes.

My biggest concern was an inability to function- at work, at home- anywhere- without simultaneously hacking my lungs out, burning holes in my ‘lucky’ shirt, and developing smoking-related symptoms and illnesses.

My Mother died of lung cancer, at sixty. This was not a picnic by any stretch of the imagination. While she didn’t seem to be in major pain, the morphine had her reliving events from before I was born. We still don’t know who ‘Dirk’ is, or if she really was an undercover agent in Budapest. It was difficult and heartbreaking to see this formerly energetic, focused woman reduced to a sad and wasted end.

A doctor summed it up for me by saying, “Darin, we can get you to 70, 75 years of age- no problem. But your quality of life will be compromised.” That sealed it. While I was 48 years old when I heard this, I still looked thirty five and usually acted like, you know, eighteen. A life spent hauling an oxygen tank- which goes with absolutely nothing in my closet, then hosing up with inhalers just to tie my shoes- was not a life I wanted. I coveted an ‘Active Senior’ award ceremony, if I got that far.

The Ecstasy:

In 2003, through a Smoking Cessation Program offered by a Valley clinic, I finally flipped my Bic rather than flicking it, put down the smokes, and threw out my ashtrays (except for the way-cool 1950’s one that looks like an aerodynamic sting-ray). I did this with group support (some folks very helpful and committed, one or two lunkheads, plus one very disturbing woman who cried non-stop for the duration of the three week program). I did this by first using the nicotine patch, then moving on to nicotine lozenges, and then switching to nicotine gum, until I had blown out five gold crowns and three mercury fillings. My dentist, of course, loved the fact that I had stopped smoking.

The Postscript:

I still chew the nicotine gum. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but on ‘bad’ days it feels as though World Peace depends on my level of bloodstream nicotine. There will come a day when I take THE FINAL STEP. This means spitting out the gum and sucking it up like a man. In the meantime, I buy my little box of gum every week and go about a very nice life. Walking fast is a joy- dancing like a lunatic, sublime. I’ve taken the art of breathing to a new dimension- it’s like getting high. My dogs love to run with me at the Bark Park, and I don’t pant afterwards like they do. No more air kisses at parties for me- I plant a flying lip lock on my friends and paramours. And the only time I really cough is when someone walks by, smoking a cigarette.

Isn’t that a laugh. It turns out I’m allergic to cigarette smoke.

Spring is right around the corner- I can feel it. We’re sure to have a few more weeks of cold weather, with those few odd, uplifting days of promising sunshine and tepid breezes, but I can wait. Spring means soft tee shirts and planting stuff in the ground and sitting outside drinking iced tea while waving back at folks in pickup trucks who honk a howdy. Even my dogs know it’s in the air, this promise of change, the reminder that we really do have ‘seasons’ in Southeastern Arizona.

My hands have been frozen solid as a Stouffer’s entrée since October. While other people might cook meatloaf and mashed potatoes in a toasty kitchen, or build a cozy fire and watch reality shows, I keep moving around to stay warm and to keep my mind occupied. I don’t cook (it’s all about patience and I missed that gene) and while I did set a fire once, the charges were later dismissed. For every degree I raise the thermostat, the gas company charges me an additional thousand dollars (or something like that) and so to keep the blood flowing I began a physical exercise regimen three months ago. This isn’t resistance training and free weights, kids- it’s more along the lines of squats, curls and crunches- which sounds like something you’d munch on while watching reality TV. There is now a spring in my step to go with the coming Spring in the air, and I now grin at everyone and usually don’t mind waiting in line at the Safeway, even if I’m stuck behind a teenaged mom with three crazed keening kids. Life feels- renewed. Relaxed. Reinvented and re-imagined. And really, really good.

I’ve met someone (can you tell?) and while prior experience and (hopefully) a particle of wisdom has taught me not to put the U-Haul trailer before the sedan, this simple thing- connecting with another human being again- seems to have made some dramatic and dynamic changes in the way I view Life lately. It’s as if Life was seen through a dirty windshield, and then a crazy guy with a squeegee and a plastic bucket popped up out of nowhere and wiped all of the grime away. We talk- for hours- and it feels so good to laugh again. Lucky me, lucky us.

Perhaps a trip, then- somewhere exotic and different, someplace fun and new, yet politically stable. I guess that would be Cleveland, given world events as of late. We’ll go on a trip and send home lots of glossy, garish postcards- having a wonderful time, glad you’re not here (our friends will understand) and we’ll use ‘Forever’ stamps because- it’s scary to think it- maybe this will be ‘forever’.

Once home, Spring will fold into Summer and the hollyhocks will be a series of exclamation points against a perfect sky. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since moving to Globe, it’s that digging through nine yards of caliche is more than worth it when the blooms burst forth from the ground. Porchulacha, lantana, my four o’clocks- even pansies and impatiens. The irises will be up again, only this time in a double dose, and the butterfly bush I put in last year will certainly do its best to earn it’s name. The ornamental pear Linda gave me is already starting to bud- little pink gems the color of a baby’s lips- and when the kaleidoscope of snapdragons rise again, I’ll be as surprised as I am every year that this occurs so quickly.

I am surprised even now, at this early stage, to feel this fortunate. Spring is actually early this year.

I’ve spent my whole life bracing for the crash- sometimes it happens; most times not, but I am always ready for the unexpected, for that big scary fatal moment. Perhaps this has contributed to my thorough enjoyment, most days, of each day. Life is a transient thing, a passage, the road from birth to death. Now is the time to stop and sniff the Cyclamen because they could be vaporized at any moment. While some have called me morose or melancholy- and those who don’t know me have thought me crazy, it is who I am- an amalgam of life experience and overall expectations.

Every decade a major event occurs which changes the feel, the scope, the focus of the moment; this is usually defined by the media as catharsis, a sea change or sometimes a single blip which has long-lasting repercussions. For anyone with half a brain, it’s called Life, and there’s only one way around it. Besides the Korean War, the JFK assassination is one of the earliest memories I have.

Before Dallas there was the Cuban missile crisis. This came to a head in October of 1962 when the US discovered Russian missiles on that tiny island off the coast of Florida. Kennedy and Khrushchev went head to head and finally worked it out after scaring the pants off everybody. I was seven years old at the time, and I was terrified.

As a concerned young man in the early Sixties, my Dad designed and built bomb shelters. There is a 16mm film he shot which shows my Mom conducting a tour through one of his bunker designs at a Chicago trade show. The refuge was grey and spartan and small and, by today’s standards, primitive. Perhaps they thought I was too young to understand their conversations late at night over the kitchen table, but I’d heard enough about Hiroshima from my Japanese teacher Mr. Suda to know radiation wasn’t a laughing matter. I worried so much about this that in 1964 I volunteered my Saturdays at a Civil Defense site, filling fifty-five gallon water drums and hoisting boxes of hardtack rations. I still have a Letter of Commendation from the Mayor of our town. During the week we had ‘Duck & Cover’ drills at school. By the time I was in sixth grade I was a wreck.

At this point we lived in Bangkok, Thailand- a serene, breathtaking city filled with simple joys- but with the escalation of the American war with the North Vietnamese, my Mom took to scanning the skies when we left the house. I was tense and irritable and no one wanted to smoke cigarettes with me.

Slowly I began to relax, and by the late Eighties my life was centered on career and relationships. When we were all ready to party like it was 1999, however, the looming shadow of Y2K darkened my days and reignited all of the old fears. With the twinkling lights of our computerized society extinguishing overnight, there would be no money, no food. Cities would be torn by riots and I would lose my parking space at the office. My response was to fill a hall closet with enough food, water, liquor, cigarettes and chocolate to last a few months. When the ATM spit out my daily twenty on the first morning of the year 2000, we had a really swell shindig at my house that night.

A year later the celebration turned to grief when the Towers came down in billowing plumes of blue-black smoke, and I was on high alert once more. This feeling didn’t last, though, because with all of the sadness and the anger over the attacks, I realized it was time to make a decision. I could either live my life in fear and dread of the awful and unexpected, or I could expand my boundaries to encompass a measure of hope, of peace, and maybe even of happiness. By choosing to be positive- most of the time- the negative is diminished, and the crash and dash of Life can be bracing instead. A little play on words, yes, but sometimes a switch gives new meaning.

When the financial crash hit last year, I didn’t even bat an eye.

Believe me, this isn’t an Ode to Oprah; there will be no vocal spasm, no verbal vomit in confessing ribald tales of family abuse, drug addiction or credit problems. My double-wide is firmly grounded and my kids turned out just fine. Actually, I live in a drafty old cottage with my dogs, having ‘forgotten’ to have children because I was having too much fun carousing- but you get my drift. Even if I did push Grandma down the stairs or let my father shoot me up with heroin, I wouldn’t go on national television and weep over it. It’s just too common.

Most of us have something in our lives which we will never share with another living human being. Perhaps Uncle Norman enjoys wearing peach lace panties beneath his denim overalls, or maybe Mama took out a gaggle of Viet Cong in ‘Nam, summer of ’67, when her Nurse’s Unit was blitzed and she got her hands on a grenade launcher. One just never knows. I am amazed, however, that whenever I stand in line at the Safeway people feel compelled to fill me in on a long-overdue hysterectomy or the fact that everyone knows about a certain community member and his boytoy. Maybe I look like the Father Confessor type, or maybe it’s our State of Egocentricity: we share because we assume everyone has a burning interest in what goes on in our lives.

In the early Seventies I did my shopping at a grocer near my apartment in Chicago- it was one of the last Mom ‘n Pops in business. Then came Urban Renewal- when cities demolished charming vintage neighborhoods in the name of ‘progress’. Nowadays they call it Gentrification- it’s the smart bomb approach, getting rid of the impoverished while leaving the buildings standing. They are then extensively renovated for people who wear plastic fingernails and drive cars you have to plug in. Anyway, the owner was elderly, a European Jew, and she was always polite but not terribly friendly. One day she leaned towards me over the counter, handing me my change, and I saw the faint blue numbers tattooed on her arm as her sleeve moved up. Having read a lot of Holocaust history as a kid, I wanted to ask questions but was afraid to intrude and so I grabbed my bag of groceries and heard the bell on the wooden door tinkle quietly as I left.

My own ‘past’ was nothing compared to incarceration in a concentration camp, but it wasn’t exactly Snoozeville, either. I was a Party Boy, first and foremost, and I loved the nightlife. I loved it so much I slept all day so I could dance in the dark ‘til dawn with lots of strangers. Sort of like an alcoholic vampire, but without the puncture marks. When it finally got to the point where I had more vodka in my system than water (which I finally understood meant one is pretty close to death), I decided to clean myself up and become a useful member of society.

The ‘devil inside me’ is now close to what it was when I was twelve years old. Perhaps this is a full circle thing, which happens all the time in Life, like having no teeth when you come into the world and being toothless when you leave it. My nights are now filled with lots of ice cream (rather than Bristol Cream, or Crème de Menthe- you get it); staying up late and watching old movies, running pell mell down the Hills of Globe with my dogs; wearing a pair of jeans until the knees look like Shredded Wheat. When girls smile at me I get nervous and when boys do the same I wonder if they wanna ride bikes with me. It’s a terrific life, considering I should’ve been dead at twenty. There are boxes and trays and shelves in my house with all sorts of cool guy stuff- things I wish I had at twelve- like marbles and old wire and faded postcards. Because I’m an adult, I now have a Visa debit card which makes all of my dreams come true.

The devil inside me couldn’t possibly go on Oprah. I’d have to share my Secret Stuff in front of lots of strangers under bright lights, and I doubt they have ice cream in the Green Room.