Just Listen

There was not a lot of rock and roll to listen to on the radio when I was a mere slip of a lad.  I have very vivid memories of calling the request line at KIMN to beg them, at my older brother's insistence, to play "Yellow Submarine" one more time. KIMN was 950 on your AM dial, because what else was there? If you lived in the Denver Metro Area in the sixties, and I did, if you wanted to hear pop music, you listened to KIMN. 

Back then, the only people listening to FM radio were beatniks and hooligans of some sort. It wasn't until the mid 1970s that real rock and roll came to airwaves that I could access. There was a lot of fuzz out there on the dial, but if you twisted it all the way to the right, you would run into KBPI, and then KAZY, 105.9 and 106.7 respectively. 

If you were the safe, commercial type, you could feel comfortable listening to KBPI, who claimed to "rock the Rockies." You would get a steady diet of Bob Seger, REO Speedwagon and the occasional throwback to the Beatles and Stones. KAZY didn't have a lot of use for TV ads. They were out there on the edge of the dial, playing Pink Floyd, Jethro Tull and Rush. For my money, KAZY rocked a little harder than their neighbor. I liked to imagine the DJs at KBPI were probably tossing back a few beers while they were playing music for the masses. The jocks at KAZY were probably toking up during those Album Side Weekends.

No matter, for my purposes when one went to commercial, I would flip on over to the other until my needs for background music for my teenage ambitions were no longer being met. And every so often, when I was feeling the need for something more melodic or heaven help me romantic, I might spin all the way down to 103.5 for a little bit of the softer sounds of Q103. This is also where I might on occasion find Doctor Demento's show on Sunday nights, only to return to my home base of KAZY to start my week. 

And somewhere in there around the turn of the decade, my music tastes changed, or rather they expanded. I was listening to DEVO and Elvis Costello and Jimmy Buffett and Queen and all sorts of things in between. There was no format that fit my palate, so I began programming my own playlists with the aid of cassette tapes. I used this machinery to inculcate my friends and even my mother, imagining that I was providing a service that FM and AM could not. My car radio was supplanted by my cassette player. 

Somewhere in there, I got old. I started listening to a station out of Boulder, 97.3 KBCO. Their free-form programming eventually became packaged and sold across the country as "World Class Rock." When I landed in Oakland, I was surprised to discover that just across the Bay a station called KFOG had bought that package and was spreading it across Northern California. A hop skip and a jump up the dial from them was the "Modern Rock" of Live 105, KITS. Now I had my comfort music like Barenaked Ladies on one channel and scarier stuff like Jane's Addiction on the other. 

Eventually, I stopped listening to the radio. Because it was predictable. Because of commercials. Because I didn't know what I wanted anymore. 

Now, every so often, I find myself seeking out a station that I can stand for that trip across town. The one that won't make me sad. There are a lot of those. 

What We Hold Dear

 The focus this summer has been unburdening. Thirty-plus years of living in the same spot has allowed us to acquire and maintain an extraordinary amount of stuff. We were able to offload a great deal of our more useful appearing material that had become detritus without actually breaking down. It just sat in boxes and plastic tubs, on shelves and in drawers, in the garage and in the basement. 

The actual debris was simple enough. We are fortunate to live in an area that excels in reusing and recycling. We loaded up the back of the car and took our mess to someone who knew exactly what to do with it. With a good conscience, we left it with the experts. Creating empty spaces only encouraged us to make more. The garage in particular became a favorite destination for those asking the musical question, "Why are we holding on to this?" There were some faint responses along the lines of, "Well I was going to..." but that was not enough to slow the gale force of our cleaning storm. 

Then, at last, there was calm. I became aware of just how full our shelves and cupboards continue to be. In particular, I was stuck staring at the two pharmacy cabinets that stand on either side of our living room TV. The drawers of those cabinets are stuffed full of my CD collection. 

You remember CDs, right? Just after LPs and cassettes, slightly before MP3s? 

I love music. I always have, ever since my older brother handed me his used 45 of Elvis singing "In The Ghetto." 45s were little records with one song on either side. Elvis was a really cool guy until he suddenly wasn't. 

After Elvis, I kept collecting music. First on vinyl, then a brief flirtation with 8 tracks, and a lengthy love affair with cassettes created from those albums I kept filed carefully in my room. Then in crates that I hauled from my parents' house, to college, to a variety of apartments, then across country to my new home in California. 

It was long about this time that the standard began to shift from those bulky records to the compact disc. This also coincided with my getting sober, and suddenly I found that I had plenty of extra cash to spend at expanding my music collection. At one point, it became necessary to jettison all those plastic jewel cases to conserve space, and all those discs were slipped carefully along with their covers and liner notes into clear sleeves. 

Alphabetically, of course. 

Then music began to stream into my house, and all those relics called "physical media" became relics. Ironically, this changeover occurred right about the time that we acquired our first car with a CD player. 

We sold or gave away a ton of stuff in the past three weeks. But those twin towers of CD music remain, partly out of stubbornness, and partly out of a tribute to the purchasing power of sobriety. 

And somewhere in there is a disc with Elvis singing "In The Ghetto." 

In Defense

 I try not to fall for them, but certain bits of clickbait hanging out there on Al Gore's Internet are just too juicy for me to avoid. The example I can point to today is the story I was initially going to scroll past, but instead I ended up giving up a few moments of my valuable time I spend every day attempting to read only the harshest of realities on this article: "The 'World's Worst Tourist Trap' Is A Wildly Popular California Destination Full Of Shops And Attractions."

I have a similar affliction when it comes to seeing the word "Colorado" in a headline, but I confess that "news" regarding my adopted home here in Golden State will cause me to stop and find out the truth. The truth that can only be found in the overripe density of what passes for "news." I want to believe that I am saving you time here by encapsulating the article that I read, but I know that I am only furthering the problem created by my short attention span theater. The subject of this bit of investigative journalism was Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. 

You've never been? That's okay because according to the report, some thirty-three thousand people make the trek across the bay or the country or the globe to visit this tribute to San Francisco's fishing industry every day. These are not Disneyland type numbers, but given the rather confined space and the oddly limited theme for the shops and opportunities to itstare at sea lions. Overpriced T-shirts can be found at virtually every other door and you could be confused by all the choices that can be found for the "original" sourdough bread bowl of clam chowder. 

I have a confession in two parts: First, I will often suggest this as a destination for folks who come to visit us here by the Bay. Secondly, I avoid the place like a plague during my daily business by that previously mentioned Bay. 

This is not due to any particular aversion on my part to overpriced seafood, and it most certainly is not because of any personal disdain I have for "tourist traps." As a matter of fact, I was a little let down once I had clicked on the article and found that they were talking about Fisherman's Wharf and not The Mystery Spot. If one were to judge purely by the number of ubiquitous bumper stickers promoting the only true gravitational anomaly found in the Redwoods of Santa Cruz that sells bumper stickers, you might believe that everyone within the state of California has made the pilgrimage already. 

Or maybe they just have better promotion than Confusion Hill, located some two hundred fifty miles up the coast from The Mystery Spot. Or the Oregon Vortex found still further north, its Mystery House should not be confused with the Trees of Mystery located on that same highway, just a little further south. 

How do I know about all these places? Because my wife and I made special note on a trip north a few years back to stop at any and all so-called tourist traps primarily because we were adults who no longer had to listen to our parents complain about their existence. We could stop and admire all of the overpriced T-shirts and shot glasses while experiencing all of nature's wonders. And as for all those Mystery Spot bumper stickers? I've heard tell that employees of that destination used to go out into the parking lot there and affix them to cars of visitors who were otherwise occupied on the tour of gravitational anomalies. 

Nobody at Fisherman's Wharf is doing that.

Suspect

 A gunshot is heard. Then, "Halt or I'll shoot!"

This grim little bit of Americana first found its way to me back in the 1980s from the mouth of Robin Williams. At that time, it was a pithy observation of imporoper police procedure. It was a bit of a throwaway since Officer Involved Shooting had yet to become the acronym in current use, OIS. 

Last week there were three separate incidents involving ICE goons shooting unarmed citizens. Two of these were murders of individuals not under warrant or investigation. They just happened to make the ill-advised reaction of running for their lives. Joan Sebastian Durán Guerrero and Lorenzo Salgado Araujo were not the subjects of any ongoing immigration investigation. They were the recipients of gunfire for the crime of identity. They were identified as targets by poorly ttrained, trigger happy monsters.

So maybe you're thinking that these ICE monsters were attempting to maintain security on our Southern border. Mister Salgado Araujo was killed in Houston, six hundred seventy miled from the border. I don't suppose I need to explain how ridiculous the distance that same border is from Maine, where Mister Duran Guerrero was killed. 

Then there was the little matter of the protester in Colorado who was shot in the foot by an off-duty ICE monster who was attempting to "de-escalate" a situation. By shooting the protester in the foot. Emma Landis was wounded after a verbal confrontation outside a detention center in Aurora. The name of the "officer" was not released because he was arrested and booked on suspicion of attempted second-degree murder, first-degree assault and other charges by local police. Local police who did not shoot at their suspect or arrest him without probable cause. We don't get to know the off duty ICE monster's name because he is part of an ongoing investigation. 

We do, however, get to know the name of the goon who killed Joan Sebastian Durán Guerrero: David Brouillette. Mister Brouillette, it turns out, has a long history of violent behavior including threatening and assaulting the women in his life. According to one of his ex-wives, he once threw boiling water at her while she was holding their child. The happy news in this case is that Mister Brouillette did not have a gun at that time. 

I can understand if you read all this and wonder how I can make snap judgements about a person who I have never met. 

Just like these ICE monsters do every day. 

Evidence

 In a speech carried by several media outlets including (checks notes) The Home Shopping Network, a convicted felon who incited insurrection five and a half years ago insisted that we should all live in fear of an election process that is being run by China. 

Bad news there, chum. If it were being run by China, it would be oppressive but it would be efficient. 

Some of you may have lost track of just how ridiculous things have become. This guy, who got to live in the White House a second time and then proceeded to tear it up, wants us all to know that the election was stolen. Not the one that put him in a position to destroy and defame our national monuments and trust, but the one that was held in 2020. You know, the one that the pillow guy went bankrupt trying to prove that extraterrestrials came down from the stars and put us all in a trance that allowed that guy (checks notes) Joseph Robinette Biden to break up the monopoly the Orange Worst had on the office. Or maybe it was the voting machines that were manipulated by the electric car guy whose rockets keep blowing up and whose trucks can't go through a car wash. 

It was more than just a touch embarrassing to hear the convicted felon remind us that even though we somehow managed to find our way out of the nightmare that was the First Trumpreich that the election where we were cheated of the "correct" outcome was the one that stuck a slumlord and adjudicated rapist back into the Oval Office. The guy who has lost a lot more lawsuits than he has elections would like us to believe that the system that put him back in office is broken. Former Vice President (checks notes) Kamala Harris who (checks notes again) has a history of winning lawsuits, chose not to contest the outcome of the 2024 election, even though the results have been proven to be nothing short of catastrophic to our country and its standing in the world. 

A cursory look at the "evidence" that suggests that the only way this twice-impeached former game show host could keep himself out of jail was to get himself elected again and begin using the powers that a conveniently sympathetic Supreme Court allowed him to get to cover up his serial misdeeds. The two broadcast networks who are not fully insinuated within the feedback loop instituted by the ministry of disinformation, ABC and NBC, chose not to use up their valuable time with this summer rerun. NBC chose to continue airing its documentary series titled, The Americas. ABC filled their time with a game show called Press Your Luck. 

I leave that last bit as a bit of irony that could not, unlike the tales of fraud spun by the convicted felon, be made up. 

Puzzled

 What are words for? This is the musical question that was asked by Missing Persons in a previous century. 

This is a question I find myself returning to frequently as I wander through this tired existence, but I would like to reflect briefly on my own experience: I feel that words are pieces of a puzzle. 

And now, as I am prone to do so very often, I digress. One of my daily rituals is to sit in front of my computer and push myself through the five daily challenges presented by Microsoft's Casual Games version of solitaire. Each of these challenges comes from a different variety of the game. Klondike, Spider, Free Cell, Pyramid and Tri Peaks. Depending on the day, one of these variations is labeled "hard" or "expert." These are the ones that capture my attention first, but I will plod through all five games each day in the effort to gain a month's rating of perfect. This requires that all five challenges be completed each day for the entire month. This is yet another example of my obsessive compulsive nature, and it is also a series of tests of my brain function. These are mildly difficult puzzles that all have a solution, I just need to place the virtual cards in their proper order and I am free to go about the rest of my day. 

A little over a month ago, I happened upon a Free Cell game that announced itself as "Expert." I have been hammering away at this arrangement of fifty-two cards in order to solve the problem they present to my sense of order. To no avail. So each morning I have returned to the game, finish off the day's challenges and then return to that one game that has me stuck. 

I could just let it go. That would be rational. No one would know. Except you now. 

And this is what keeps bringing me back to these words. Arranging them in a particular order in hopes of solving the puzzle that is communication. Each morning I sit down with the intent of sharing thoughts and ideas in the hopes of creating more understanding. Each morning I push away from the keyboard secure in the feeling that I have expressed myself and brought more meaning into this confused world. 

Except when I don't. A missing word or misspelling can cause all that effort to tumble into jumbled code that cannot be deciphered. Sometimes I even make the mistake of sharing ideas that only I find compelling. All those words stacked up just to confuse and confound my readers. 

Sorry for that. But I suppose that is what tomorrow is for: One more puzzle. 

Gender Affirming Care

 Hey folks, just a reminder that these United States are currently at war with Iran. 

To that end, the Secretary of War, "Pistol" Pete Hegseth has decreed that all service members over the age of thirty will be screened for testosterone deficiency. "As we know, the modern battlefield is brutal and unrelenting. It requires and demands maximum psychological and mental readiness, and by addressing these health markers early, we're keeping you on the leading edge of lethality, and giving you the same level of support that you give this nation – the absolute best."

It's probably just me, but I'm thinking that keeping a group of human beings "on the leading edge of lethality" is pretty much what got us into this fracas in the first place. The eighty year old convicted felon lives on a lot of edges, dementia for one, but his bloodlust is not something that gets the attention it truly deserves. As for the rest of our enlisted "Warfighters" (Pistol Pete's term), if you fall below that killing level of testosterone, you are eligible for hormone replacement therapy to get us back to berserker levels. 

My guess is that the adjudicated rapist and former game show host would like his soldiers to be every bit as bloodthirsty as his secret police of ICE goons. We have become familiar with the arrest quota to which these goblins are charged, but l suspect there is probably a body count goal hidden just out of public view. 

Except we can see it. We have a much better window on the killing fields here in America than we do in Iran. After the initial casualties were announced, including the one hundred sixty-eight school girls were murdered at their school in Minab and the first wave of US military casualties, there hasn't been a lot to report in terms of human loss. 

All the more reason, it would seem, to get those soldiers in the field all juiced up for the purpose of taking lives. Maybe now would be a good time to bring up the other edicts made regarding our armed forces by the Second Trumpreich: No "Beardos," which includes no further exemptions for religious reasons or for medical conditions that make shaving difficult or painful. Interesting, since facial hair is one of the most significant signs of "proper" testosterone balance. And as far as hormone replacement therapy goes, the Orange Worst has declared that trans soldiers are no longer allowed in his army. Which seems to necessarily include those transitioning to male in hopes of living life on the leading edge of lethality. 

So I'll just toss this out there: A study published in the National Library of Medicine found that testosterone levels of your average rapist or child molester fell within the "normal limits." High levels of testosterone were found in inmates who were jailed for homicide. 

No mention of facial hair for any of those.