Filthy had passed out in the field next to my truck. He seemed comfortable enough in the grass. He is still holding his beer upright in his hand… Instincts. His friend tried to rouse him as he was ready to return to their camp. It proved to be impossible to get any response out of him. I told his friend I would take care of him. That night we wandered about the camps at the Weiser Folk and Fiddle Contest in Weiser Idaho. Filthy was carrying his bouzouki and I was with my accordion which had seen better days… but none too good as long as I have had it. It should either be retired to some museum of bad ideas or completely overhauled. We wandered into a camp of old timers playing Saint James Infirmary. Filthy stepped up and bombarded them with bouzouki. I don’t know if what he was playing was in the right key or had any relation to the song in any way. The old timers looked at him as if he had just blasted them with Tzaziki from outer space. Then it was my turn… Toot? Toot. Toot… A couple of mandolin players joined us while we played for the taco stand. The young woman tried to figure out what key we were in. “C harmonic minor something something…” she said. I said we just play music. No rules. After Filthy passed out, I overhear a woman at the next camp talking about some guy with a cigar box guitar to a group of kids. I thought to myself, I know that guy so I dug it out and brought it over. I showed them a song I was working on and then let the children take a turn at it. They could have gone on playing it for hours without getting bored of it but the woman their announced that they were already up way passed their bed time. It has begun to drizzle. Filthy is unfazed. Out cold. Beer can safely held upright. He isn’t even wearing a shirt. Just a vest. I have seen him do this before… out in the desert outside Moab… with the monsoons coming down. Elisha and I calling him to come inside the tent but no. He lays out in the sand somewhere. A dog and his banjo. I am not worried about Filthy but I am worried about his bouzouki so I brought it in the truck. Then it starts to pour. I know I am going to have to do something now and sure enough Filthy is up crying “Cold! Cold!” I am not sure if he is awake or wandering asleep in some nightmare where the sky is falling and everything is black. He tries to pull blankets out of my truck. I push him away. “That’s my fuckin’ bed!” I put him in the cab of my truck. “I got this” I tell him. “Thank you” he says. I pull out my tent and set it up in the storm. I toss in a sleeping bag and then put Filthy in it. I am not sure how my cheap tent will weather the storm but I am confident that Filthy will survive the night. I sleep for maybe an hour or two and then I am awake. Insomnia. This sucks. I have a long drive in the morning. I worry that the sun will be up all too soon baking my truck making it impossible to sleep. Bad things happen on the road when you don’t get enough sleep. Fortunately, for me at least, it is still stormy and cold in the morning. This… will… work. I spin… out of my body… over the truck… over the camp… I am a bit woozy from the spinning but I give myself up to it. Let my body be carried up. Naked. I am far above it all. I can see the White Light. When I get closer I can see that in order for me to reach it I have to crawl through a small dark tunnel… like a drainage tunnel that runs under the highway… filled with black muck… no doubt rocks, sticks, thorns and I am to crawl through naked. That is what I have to do. That is what I am doing but today is not the day to reach the Light… to surrender to the bliss and terror of oblivion… I wake to see Filthy wandering towards the honey buckets sipping that beer he protected through the night. It is still raining so I am going to have to pack up some wet gear. The joys of outdoor living. I have been through this. I have been through all sorts of weather. Rain. Snow. Sun. It’s fine. The cloud cover will make for good driving weather.

Tour Notes IV: Open Mic Quarrels

I wasn't planning on going to an open mic in New Braunfels Texas. I just happened to be there with nothing else to do that Sunday while my friend Matt was busy with his laptop at the coffee house. I grabbed my guitar from the truck and walked into the Phoenix Saloon. I was barefoot. I didn't mean to make a stir by it. I had some shoe-like things in my pocket but putting them on is a complicated operation. It is best done when there is no guitar in your hand. When I set the guitar down where other musicians were awaiting their turn in the limelight and old timer started in on my about my feet. "This is a restaurant!" he informed me. That really doesn't make much of an impression on me to tell the truth. I am often told how my feet are supposedly a "health hazard" even though literally billions of people prepare and consume food in their bare feet every day and, to my knowledge, NO ONE has ever gotten sick by it. You have better odds of getting struck by lightning in a basement on a clear day while holding a winning Power Ball ticket in your hand than getting sick because I am barefoot near where you are having lunch. "It's the law!" he insisted. "I doubt it." I hear about laws and health codes a lot. They don't exist. "Are you a lawyer?" I usually get that from the police. Somehow there is an assumption that even in this information age that no one can possibly do legal research without passing the bar exam. I told him no but I can READ. At this point, I started to get "old manned". This used to happen quite a bit when I was a young man but I was a bit taken aback by it now that I am well into middle age. You might be familiar with being "old manned". It is when you are given that John Wayne style dress down. "You have an attitude problem." "You don't have any respect." "You think you know everything and you don't know shit...." and so on. I told him, quite simply, that I am just a truth seeker. I believe this to be true. When people tell me things... like say going barefoot spreads disease.... I do some research and find out whether it is true or not.... rather than believe random strangers... who... thanks to my previous research... I have found that they quite often don't know shit... even if they are old men. "You're not a truth seeker. You're a rule breaker!" I suppose he was half right there. The existence of a stupid rule doesn't motivate me to follow it. "Let me ask you... Are you gay?" Damn. Here I was going on about being a "truth seeker" and, as such, I suppose I needed to be honest in the name of consistency. Still, I was really curious as to where lying and telling him I was gay would take this argument. I am not sure what set off his faulty gay-dar... my bare feet? The fact that I am middle age and still in decent shape? That I was relatively clean and had a nice hat? I told him "No." I still regret that. "I bet you're not married either. You can't keep a girlfriend." I am getting a little pissed here. No, I am not married but, actually, I do pretty well pretty well with the ladies for someone who lives in a truck... just sayin'. I really was getting to the point where I had enough of being "old manned"... being told I was arrogant... I was a know-it-all... and such. "So what's more arrogant than thinking you know everything about a person you met thirty seconds ago? All this time, I never once supposed that I know anything about you or what your life is about." We left it that. He got up with a friend and performed. I think his friend was at The Woodzie and knew a little about what I do. Before their last song, the "old man" publicly apologized for giving me a hard time. I accepted. He seemed a little taken aback... like he was expecting some attitude or something but I am not one for grudges or cheap shots. I just play the fucking guitar... I got up and performed a little set. I was very good and it turned heads a little on that sleepy Sunday afternoon. I was barefoot... as always. That's just how I move through this world. It won't hurt you. That's the truth.

Tour Notes V: Alpine Texas

There is that long stretch of nothing along the I-10 between San Antonio and El Paso. Fortunately, I had a plan to break it up as I returned from my Texas Tour. We got off the I-10 and cut Southwest to a little town called Alpine. Now to someone like myself who is traveling from the high mountains of Arizona the town of Alpine is anything but alpine. No snow or pine trees. It is high by Texas standards (4,775') but it is certainly no Telluride. The one thing you will find in Alpine is a lot of cowboy hats, boots, belt buckles, country music blaring out the bars and trucks... plenty of pickup trucks. After spending the better part of the week in the big cities of Austin and San Antonio I had finally arrived in... well... Texas. You might think that a weird artsy sort of musician would dread coming to a small redneck town like Alpine. You might imagine that my night would end being dragged behind a truck or something... but this is never the case. In truth, I actually dread the ho-hum of the hipsters in the big cities where you can never be cool unless someone cool said you are cool. In the big city I am just another Wednesday night touring band. In the small redneck towns I am the goddamn circus... and they are happy to see someone do something different. I had no idea what to expect at the Crystal Bar. It was a pretty informal booking. I wasn't even sure if they remembered booking me at all. When we got into town I stuck my head inside just to see what it was like. It was huge. They told me that people would bring their horses inside sometimes. It is that sort of place. Country music blaring. Cowboys looking at me with that "What the hell is with this barefoot guy?" They're gonna kill me... The owner was nice enough though. Jeanne had inherited the place from her husband after he died suddenly on Thanksgiving. Really. She also ran a restaurant and told Matt and I to go and have dinner on her... which we did. I ordered steak. I am not really the biggest fan of steak but when in Texas... Besides, I already had Texas barbecue in Austin. I had a green chile cheeseburger in New Mexico. It was time to sample that other cuisine the great state of Texas was known for: Steak. A New York Strip in my case... with some mash potatoes... Well... being a touring musician isn't always the healthiest thing... but I love experiencing life too much to be a vegan in a Texas steakhouse... just sayin'. Well fed, I came back and gave them a show. The place was too big and empty that night for my taste. I wish I had sent Jeanne some flyers instead of sending them to the hotel that booked me the next night (and they didn't even put them up). Still, I was treated generously and made some badly needed cash which put this tour into the black after some disastrous gigs in Austin and San Marcos (money-wise anyway...). I'll admit I did sort of fade a bit in the end... too much free beer... and I was getting a little worn out from touring. Still, Jeanne seemed to enjoy what I did and wanted me back. The rednecks didn't lynch me. They even got up and danced a little. There's a star on the wall there with Waylon Jenning's signature on it. I put my signature nearby. I had finally found Texas... and... much to my surprise. I like Texas and I think I will return someday. The next night I played the lobby of the old Holland Hotel. I had planned to play in their magnificent courtyard but then there was a storm. A real storm too. I went outside and saw a funnel cloud in the distance. It didn't quite come down but plenty of hail and lightning did. So I played an acoustic set in the lobby. It was a bit weird. Everyone was in the bar which was on the opposite end of the building. I played to myself for awhile but, eventually, some folks gathered around to hear what I was doing. I was asked to play Waylon Jennings. It was about the twentieth request for him I got since coming to Alpine. The only song I know of his is the theme to the Dukes of Hazard. I guess I have some homework to do. They dug my blues though. I even played them some of my country songs. Normally, when I play "Chain Drinker" no one pays attention but they hung on every word and laughed at all my double entendres. "Don't know how I got into this rut. I might be able to get out but not with this beer gut... cause I'm a chain drinker and problem smoker and I can't seem to get my shit together..." Yessir. I write damn good country songs. That is a well kept secret. Too well kept.... but at least, some folks in Alpine know that now. When I looked into my tip case Ulysses S Grant was looking back at me. Yeah. Don't fear for my sake in these little redneck towns. I will be fine...

Tour Notes I: Bisbee (Part One)

Kicking it at The Grand Hotel in Bisbee Arizona. Day Three. I threw myself out here on this tour knowing anything could happen and so it has. My friend Matt decided he would like to join me on this leg. After all, it begins and ends in Northern Arizona where he lives and this is a good season for him to take a trip. Whipple’s Vagabond Adventures has a new client. I was stoked because my journey into Texas was, for me, a high risk and low rewards. No solid guarantees and a lot of miles. If my truck decided to give out in the vast wasteland of West Texas I would be fucked. I was leaning towards canceling the whole lot of them in the interest of saving my skin but now Matt was offering to drive his newer, more comfortable and reliable truck. Texas is on. Or is it? Launch day. Matt’s son is having severe abdominal pains. It sounds like appendicitis. He is headed to the hospital. For whatever reason, Matt has decided that he needs to stay with his family as his son goes through surgery rather than fuck around with me on the road. I plead with him to get his priorities straight. Well… No. I don’t. Boys needs his father and Matt is a good one. Boy goes into surgery. He is recovering now. I head to Phoenix alone in my trusty little Toyota. We make it. I play an acoustic gig. I am rusty and it is a bit rough. Something only I would really notice. I had been focused on moving out of my great little space in Flag and trying to get some work in at the last minute. I hadn’t touched my guitars in weeks. The next morning me and the Toyota hit the freeway. Neither of us like it much. The truck doesn’t really do the 75 MPH superhighway well. It’s a little shaky. No cruise control. No reclining bucket seats. It coughs and sputters a little. Southern Arizona is dull and monotonous. It is pure mercy when we finally reach our exit leading to Tombstone and Bisbee. I am a lover of the divided highway myself. Give me a road that slows down for the little towns on the way. I love the little offerings of the places on the way. The burger joints. The quirky cafes. The antique shops. The churches. I like to think about the lives I am passing by. It gives me hope. It gets me down the road. I arrive in the quirky town of Bisbee in the early afternoon. I am trying to scrounge up some more gigs. Matt is talking about joining me here in a couple of days. I have to improvise. Find a place to stay or least a shower or something. I busk out on Main for a little while. I make one dollar. I stop. I need to save my strength. I am playing at a hotel but they offered me a choice between money and a room. I took the money. I need the money… any money… desperately. Some folks offer me a space down the street. I get a shower and try to wash off the high desert sun. I am worn out from the drive… the sun… the stress… the lack of sleep the night before… I want to take a nap but there is no time. I have work to do. I play and because I don’t know any better, I kill myself doing it. I always do. I know I am going to pay for it after the endorphins wear off. I know I am going to be sore in the morning. I am going to be a wreck but, like I said, I don’t know any better. When I perform I give you fucking everything. You should really appreciate that more than you do. My performance changes things. I get the room upstairs and the money. I make some new friends and get closer to connecting to more gigs in town. In the morning the owners of The Grand Hotel come out to greet their guests personally while we are treated with a “made from scratch” breakfast. The owners heard good things about my performance. They offer to put me up the rest of the weekend. It pays to be good… sort of anyway. So for the rest of the weekend I am going to wing it. Sing for my meals wherever I can. It’s going to work out. Somehow. I’m just putting this out there to Great Goddess of Fate. If my truck is to break down let it be in a quirky artist colony like Bisbee. I could live here. for awhile anyway….

Tour Notes II: Bisbee

I meet up with a writer for breakfast. She lives like I do. Another post-Millennial gypsy. Drifting from one friendly town to the next with the weather. Bisbee is one of those “friendly towns”. Her dog is sick and needs an operation. Her fridge is broke. Life is expensive. She just found out her book was nominated for an award. That could be a bit of a game changer for her. That’s how it is for us gypsy-artists. It seems our lives are hopelessly adrift but there is always that faint hope of a friendly wind to carry us towards home. Maybe that friendly wind is going to fill her sails now. I hope so. It has been a long road for her. She is in her sixties now. Decades ago, she walked away from a default career because she didn’t want to be part of the war machine. That is a bold and courageous move. I can believe she is a strong writer. There is no turning back from these self imposed exiles. I know this is true for myself as well. I pick her brain for awhile. People tell me I am a good writer. You are reading something I wrote right now. I believe you all but I know from my experiences as a musician that being “good” doesn’t mean much. There is no telling how many masterpieces of literature are sitting in closets buried under dust and rejection letters from publishers. I have already collected enough rejection in my life but, for better or worse, we have less need of the gatekeepers today. We can put out our own music and literature. Getting people to listen or read it… well… that’s a trick I hope to figure out soon. I know it really has more to do with you than me. The hotel is full tonight but I have backup. A spare room above Va Voom. The hotel owners offer to put me up Sunday and Monday though. This place is like Burning Man. Put your mind to what you need it will manifest itself. I belong here. Anyone can see that. It will have to wait though. I am just starting this journey. At the saloon I open up the old piano. It’s pretty broken down. You almost need a hammer to play it. I love it. We will make some music tonight. There is lots to do here but I don’t want to do any of it. I wander into The Copper Queen and sit with a beer listening to Terry Wolf. This works. I can sit and listen to Terry’s songs about unruly Western characters all afternoon. “All I know about men I learned from my dog” she sings while her fiddle player companion, John, cries out “Oh no!” This is good. All I need now is another beer. Someone who saw me perform last night buys me one. Solved. People have told me that I should take some medication for depression. I don’t agree. I do get depressed… sometimes it’s intense… but I think it is quite natural. My life can be very fucking rough. I am impressed that I actually get up out of bed sometimes. Still, I find something wrong with the idea that I should try to make myself artificially happy in a shit storm. But if, while sitting on the balcony at the Copper Queen sipping a good free beer listening to good musicians play their hearts out on a beautiful day in Bisbee Arizona… if I was depressed at this moment… THEN there would be a problem… but I am not depressed. I am quite happy here. This is perfect. Any happier I would cry. I feel happiness just as deeply as sadness. If anything, I feel too much and I am sure the pharmaceutical companies would be more than happy to give me something to take the edges out… take away the blissful light and the terrifying darkness… but no thanks… and fuck you. I only get one shot at this shit… just like all of you. I am going to live it.

Tour Notes III: The Woodzie

I reckon good people are not too hard to find if you know where to look and it is easy to find bad people if you don’t. I thought The Woodzie would be a good place to find good people and I was right about that. It is a small, family style, folk music festival between San Antonio and Austin that takes place every spring on John and Jimmie Bell Whipple’s land. That’s right. It is run by John Whipple. John Whipple isn’t the most uncommon name in the world. The first John Whipple I ran into was on the internet. He is a photographer and he grabbed “johnwhipple.com” before I could. Bastard. Another John Whipple came to one of my shows in Portland. He seemed a good sort too. I haven’t met a John Whipple I didn’t like. I encountered John Whipple, the folk musician from New Braunfels Texas, on the internet as well. It was inevitable that we run into each other having the same name and both of us playing music. I learned about the Woodzie a few years back and had been meaning to go but Texas is so very far. This would be the year. My friend Matt was traveling with me and driving his much more comfortable truck. It is a long long barren haul across the I-10 from El Paso to… well… anywhere. It took the entire day and it was dark by the time we entered “Whippleworld”. (yes, that is what this place is called). There was a song circle going around a fire so I picked up my guitar and joined in. I always find it is best to introduce myself through music. I was explaining to Matt that life gets better after I play. Before I perform I am just another stranger… another tourist… another barefoot jerk. After I perform things are very different. People bring me food and drink. Some even welcome me into their home and give me a nice place to lie down for a night. People smile and wave as I pass. Life gets better. So I introduced myself as “John Whipple”… which startled everyone. I actually go by “J.P.Whipple” now but I couldn’t resist having fun with this situation. Though I play a lot of acoustic music I don’t play like most of the pickers there. I am self taught… guided by instincts… good and bad… when it comes to my guitar playing. I lean heavily towards jazz, blues and funk. It is an odd and somewhat idiosyncratic style but that is what happens when you pick up the guitar for one purpose only: To write songs. The folks around the fire appreciated it though. I had performed. Things would get better. John Whipple came and sat down nearby. “Hello John Whipple” he said and I replied “Howdy John Whipple”. He played a song with his wife Jimmie Bell joining in. I would later hear his son sing a song and I would see his sister perform some gypsy jazz the next day. We are a musical bunch, the Whipples. I heard there were two brothers Whipple who got off the boat in the Colonial Days. Each started a family and their descendents went forth and multiplied. John Whipple’s son theorized that we both descended from the same brother who was known throughout the colonies for his musical prowess… or something. My mother traced most of our ancestors to the Old World but, as far as I know, the Whipple’s are still a mystery. I can only go back to Park Whipple, my great grandfather, who I have taken my middle name from. I have no idea where he came from. One thing we modern Whipple’s all do share is the bane of Mister Whipple, a fictional character played by Dick Wilson who was featured in toilet paper commercials for something like forty years. Any Whipple growing up in those years heard this catch phrase over and over: “Mister Whipple, please don’t squeeze the Charmin!” In the morning, I took a walk around Whippleworld. At most every campground I was invited to sit ad hear someone perform a song. Then I would be asked to play one myself. Then I would be offered food, drink and maybe something else. This is the way of The Woodzie. Hear a song. Play a song. Enjoy some Texas hospitality. Repeat. There was an official stage with great sound brought in, set up and ran for the entire festival by a generous local engineer. With so many singer-guitarists performing I decided it would be best to give them a taste of the one man band. A little something different… So I did a quick set… changing instruments every song. I think they enjoyed that. People brought in Barbeque, deserts, salads and exotic dishes of all sorts. Everything I tried was good. I went a little crazy for the BBQ myself. When I went back to the communal table for thirds… or fourths… or whatever it was by then (there were some kegs flowing too…) an exasperated woman said “You are welcome to try the salad.” Apparently it wasn’t the favorite dish there but for me, it was a terrific idea. It was all family style. I walked by as a father held his son’s beer so his son could light his bowl. That’s family values I can get behind. Children were playing. Beer was flowing. The food was great. Musicians were sharing. As an introduction to that foreign land that is Texas I could not have possibly done better. At sunset, Jimmie Bell Whipple brought us all to an open field and we gathered in a circle to introduce ourselves. When my turn came I shouted: “I am John Whipple!” And proud of it, dammit.

Tour Notes VI: Austin

Austin. I am not sure if I’m actually in Texas anymore. No cowboy hats. No boots. No spurs. No Texas drawl. There is a lot of music. It seems every place that is open has live music. Every bar. Every coffee house. I wouldn’t be surprised if a laundry mat there has a house band. “Live Music While We Change Your Oil!” We walk down into the Elephant Room for happy hour and some jazz. There is an old guitarist I recognize from Asylum Street Spankers playing with a clarinetist named Jon Doyle. They are great. The sort of act you would expect to be bringing in a crowd but not here. There is just a half dozen or so hanging out. I have heard so many times from old timers and even not so old timers about Austin’s “glory days”. Sure, Austin today is as young and hip as any American city. It feels more like Portland or Seattle than anywhere Texas. Quirky shops line the famous streets… lots of bicycles… plenty of homegrown character… but I can tell that the thousands of people bringing their song-dreams here are just winding up at open mics or dead bars and coffee houses playing for tips just like my friends here at the Elephant. There used to be money in this game. There used to be room to grow. Yeah. The glory days of the self proclaimed “Live Music Capital of the World” are fading… but not just for Austin. It is everywhere. All the DJ’s… Karaoke machines… big screen TVs… home theaters… cable TV… DUI gauntlets… the yuppies buying up condos in hip neighborhoods and then complaining about the noise… it all takes a toll. It just gets harder for some barefoot song-poet to find a place to beat out the rhythms of his heart on six strings, wood and voice hoping to get just enough out of it to keep going. I played for four people in Austin. Only one of them actually came to see me play. Michelle Stewart, another gypsy songstress, with a fire in her eyes who I met the previous night at an open mic. We hit it off from the start. The sort of connection I wish I wasn’t going to put several hundred miles behind me the next day. That’s how it goes when you’re a gypsy. Someday, I hope and pray (in my way) that I will have room for more than one in my caravan but it’s tough out here for a barefoot song-poet… and it seems to be getting tougher.

Tour Notes VII: Home

Bisbee. Again. My truck was safe and sound where I left it two weeks ago. I unloaded my gear from Matt’s truck back into mine. This is where Matt and I part ways. He is continuing on to Flagstaff. He has kids to see. A bed to sleep in. A wife to have sex with. I have none of those things waiting there except a place to stay for a week so I am taking my time getting back. I am a bit worn out. Three gigs in as many days. All said I played nine gigs over the last two weeks… plus a couple of open mics and all those songs around the fires and such at the Woodzie. “That ain’t working!” as the old Dire Straits song goes but it is, for me anyway. For every J.P.Whipple Show I bring two guitars (usually my Guild and my Dobro), plus a banjo, my lap steel, accordion, amp and my trash drum set… with all sorts of accompanying equipment. I don’t have to. Most one man bands usually stick to one guitar and drums but I like to give the audience something more than what most others do. That’s just how I roll. I respect my audience and want to entertain the hell out of them. It is a lot of work. Booking all these gigs. Traveling. Carrying all my shit in and out of places. Playing my ass off for three hours every night. . I hope someday it works for me and I get something back. I sit down and start my computer at The Grand Saloon. I look up at the TV that has everyone else transfixed. Someone bombed the Boston Marathon. Really? I can never understand the madness of this world. Killing random people. For what? I drive my old Toyota north rather than taking the obvious route through Tucson and Phoenix. I am too tired to drive all the way to Flagstaff like Matt. My truck is not as comfortable as Matt’s… with cruise control and air conditioning and nice seats. My truck is hot and shaky. The spring winds are fierce. I battle my way a couple hundred miles and stop in Saffron where there are some hot springs. There is a little place there called “Essence of Tranquility”. They have some cheap campsites and private pools. Sounds perfect. I stop for the night, strip naked and let the miles float away in the warm water. For a tour that almost didn’t happen. My first adventure into Texas went as well as I could expect. A few of the shows were duds but everyone treated me well. I met some great people. I met many talented musicians from Michelle Stewart in Austin to Jack Pledge and all the folks at the Woodzie… including the other “John Whipple”. I seem to have a few doppelgangers down there too. Not just the other John Whipple who people confused me for (even though I now perform as “J.P.Whipple”). I learned in Alpine that someone is going around as “Barefoot John” too. I had to convince someone that the “Barefoot John” who sent them a CD was not me. I am just a John that goes barefoot. I do have the domain “barefootjohn.com” but that is only because I think it is much easier to remember than “jpwhipple.com”… which I also own. I considered using “Barefoot John” as a stage name before but I think that is the sort of name that leads one to draw certain conclusions about my music… which would almost certainly be wrong. Besides, someone else is apparently using that name. I take the back roads back to Flagstaff. I avoid Phoenix and I-17. I try to avoid the superhighways any chance I get. I like to slow down for the little towns. I like to see the Main Streets… the little shops and cafes… I like to see where people live… what makes them proud to be where they are. I will take that over blurring past a fucking Pilot truck stop every fifty miles any day. I got time to get to where I am going. The road is my home. I will spend a few days in Flag. I have to paint another house. Get a little extra cash for the next trip. Summer is coming so I am heading North. Taos. Colorado. Utah. Idaho. Washington. Oregon. Montana. Minnesota. This is a long one. I have no idea how things will go or where I will end up. I don’t know where I am staying or how I will get by between gigs. I am just going to check the oil, put some air in my tires and go… and go. That’s how I roll.

Tour VIII: Land of the Free

If the cops catch wind of this they'll throw my ass in jail. I was told never to return here... because I am a "transient"... because I am homeless... therefore I have no right to camp in the National Forest or on BLM land. I am a treaspasser on private property. A treaspasser on public property. I have no right to occupy space. This is America. Land of the Free as long as you can pay for it. I came here to the same spot where I was confronted by the Forest cops... so determined to arrest me... who went through the contents of my truck convinced that there was pot in there somewhere... because their dog smelled "something". It was all in vain. There was no pot but they wrote me a ticket with an egregious fine I could not pay for being homeless on public lands. That was the end of the road for me in 2011 but I am back here... because I have a gig the next day just a few miles down the road at a winery... and because... fuck you. I should have the same rights as the rich old farts in that RV across the road. I suppose I should have learned my lesson. They had already tried to teach me before... that povery is a crime. The only night I spent in jail was in Sarasota Florida. I was staying with my brother in his studio which was near a housing project. Nearly every night I walked through the neighborhood the cops would stop and frisk me. Being from a Middle Class family I wasn't used to being treated like a criminal... especially when there was no clear evidence of a crime being committed nearby... so I resisted. I argued. Things got heated. The last time they chased me into the local bar. Bad idea. I had an audience now and there was no stopping me. I am skilled at debate. They gave me a scholarship for it. It is best not to argue with me in a public space... especially a bar... if you are a cop. "I smell bacon..." "Oink!" Clearly the audience is on my side. There is only way this could have ended: With my face slammed into the wall and my body dragged out in handcuffs. A night in a cage certainly wasn't enough to break me but inside jail I could see how the system could wear me down systematically. Those projects are prisons. The cops that swept me up nightly and put me against the wall are the guards... making sure no one gets out. If I grew up in those projects... with a different skin tone... headstrong as I am... where would I be? There are really only three options: Jail. Death. or Escape. Would I be The Lucky One somehow using my intellect to excel through school, get a scholarship, a degree and leave the project behind? Or would I pick I fight with the authorities who already had it in for me... like I did that night... and lose... and waste a lifetime in and out prisons? I think the latter is more likely. The cops didn't catch me this time. In the morning I walked barefoot through the desert gathering wood for a breakfast fire. I put a can of corn beef hash and some eggs in the Dutch oven. Delicious. Before the fire died I burned the rest of a sage bundle I bought from the Hopis just before I was "busted". It was probably the reason the dog "indicated". They say burning sage cleanses the area of negativity. Perhaps it can cleanse the negativity of what happened here that night two years ago. Perhaps it can cleanse the negativity in my truck... my faithful steed... who I know I am pushing now never having the money to properly maintain it. Perhaps it will cleanse the negativity within myself... the negative roles I have taken on. "John the Homeless." "John the quasi-criminal." "John the Poor." I travel lighter than anyone and yet there is still baggage. There's always baggage... even for John the Musician... Traveler... Artist... Writer. "Get behind me! Get behind me Poverty! Get behind me Failure! Get behind me Desperation... Depression... Homelessness... Obscurity. Sweet sage take these screams into the loneliest canyons of this desert... where its echoes can go on forever and not be heard!" Now is the time for my Song.

Tour Notes IX: Drought

"Where's the water?" Matt asked as we crossed the ditch that was supposed to be the Rio Grande just south of Las Cruces. Apparently, the orchards of New Mexico are taking the last of it. El Paso Texas? Fuck El Paso. Not that Texas is going to take this lying down. They have been known to cut off gas heading up to New Mexico in retaliation. Water Wars have always been a part of the politics of the American Southwest. Arizona and California fighting over the Colorado... which often dries up before reaching the Sea of Cortez. Colorado, New Mexico and Texas fighting over the Rio Grande... which has also disappeared into the sand a few years back. This is only going to get worse. I cannot understand climate change "debate". There was no "debate" all those years ago in grade school when I first learned about the "greenhouse effect". It's fucking science. There isn't any debate in the Southwest. I am a fly on the wall in the bars and cafes as I tour through this country. Take a seat in any bar or cafe in New Mexico... Southwest Texas... Colorado... Arizona... chances are you will overhear some folks talking about drought. It doesn't matter whether you are in the liberal or conservative parts of those states. They are all talking about how the rivers are low... the snowpack down... the chances of another catastrophic fire season high. Nearly every year it is the same. You might overhear some of the old timers talk about the way things were. The epic snowstorms. The wet monsoons. The floods. Those days are long gone and they know it. I spent a few days with a lovely cowgirl in Arroyo Seco New Mexico. By "cowgirl", I mean it in the real sense. I watched her with her still wild horses. If they kick at her she kicks back. She put me on one of her more gentle horses, Charlotte. "The Unicorn" she calls it. I suppose that it is fitting I should ride the unicorn... or rather... try to ride her. It has been many years since I have been on a horse. Just a few miles north, Colorado has cut the Rio Grande down to a mere trickle. My new friend here wonders when the Great Migrations will begin. I think everyone hear senses deep down that this drought could last generations. "Follow our barefooted friend" said our guide. I had somehow gotten ahead of the rest of the group touring "The Grand Palace" in Mesa Verde National Park. There was once a large thriving community up here. Then, many centuries ago, they suddenly disappeared. No one knows why for certain. Their descendants only say: "It was time to leave." The Hopi people continue to this day to look for the Center of the World... where they belong. Almost all the old stories speak of a "Promised Land". I believe we found it. It is just that we broke our end of the bargain. Throughout America you can hear the warnings... the canaries in the coal mine... their ominous songs fill the air if you are willing to listen. And we should listen. It might not be too long before this drought that the farmers and ranchers have been dealing with for decades starts to threaten the big cities too... Tucson... Albuquerque... Phoenix... Los Angeles. And what about the drought that hit the Midwest last summer? Our bread basket. The Song of Drought is one of many ominous songs in America today. What about the Song of Detroit? All those songs from the ruins of our Great Industrial Past... warning us that we are being left behind... that our American Way of Life is obsolete. As our fields turn to dust and our industry fades to rust, how long before we listen? Forget what they tell you. That climate change is a hoax. That we can save ourselves by drilling the seas and fracturing the land. That the market is up. How are you?

Tour Notes XIII: End This

“Where are all the people?” Not the question you want to hear after driving three hours to play a gig somewhere. This is going to be another long night… “This place was packed last night.” Two hundred miles… rattled… sleepless… to perform at this place. I know I am not well known and had never been to this town. I am trying to build an audience but there’s not much you can build out of the two town drunks and the bartender. Someone said I was the hardest working musician he knew… probably the most masochistic too. One man bands are enough trouble but mine is especially burdensome with four different guitars, a banjo, accordion, trash drum kit and all the miscellaneous pieces that put it all together. When discussing my rates I will usually say I will play for free but I charge at least a hundred dollars to carry all my shit in and out of the venue. Like most people who haven’t found success, my instinct is always to work harder… practice more… add more to my act to make it more unique and entertaining. All that work is surely evident to the people who witness my act. The problem is no one does. Where are all the people? It’s Friday night at one of the few waterholes in town and just about the only one with any live music but it is still empty. The bar I played last night was slow too. Unusually so, they said… as if I am some sort of curse… I feel cursed. I’ve been doing this for years. Getting better. Getting great even… and I am still playing these same gigs… for no one. Every gig is my tenth birthday party all over again. The one nobody showed up for. The one that made me cry to find I had no one to share my toys with. End this. End this. That becomes a mantra in my head. End this. I think I have learned my lessons from failure well enough. I know what it is like to be broke… unwanted… I know what it is like to have no one come to my gigs. Those experiences have played over and over again like a fucking broken record. I’ve heard that song already. I wrote that goddamn song already. Over the years of my repeated failure I have grown… gotten better than I ever imagined becoming… I even impress my relentlessly self-critical self at times… I got it all going now. The material. The chops. The act. I am ready for something different now but where the fuck is everyone? End this.

Tour Notes XI: American Dreams Lost and Found

We were on our way back from the parts store. For whatever reason, my five speed truck has a four speed’s universal joint. Maybe that is why it was about to give out after a measly 180 thousand miles. “Uncle Dave” talks nonstop about cars he is putting together and cars he plans on getting. I speak just enough Gearhead to fake an understanding. He tells me in his thick Alabama manner about his plan to dig up some gold in Eastern Oregon. He has got it all figured out. If his calculations are right he will soon be able to take care of all his kin and all those who are close to him. None of them will have to trouble over money anymore. I am not much help as he crawls back under my truck. I just find some shade and drink some of the PBR’s I bought for him. He doesn’t have a garage. My car is up on a neighbor’s ramp out on a side street in Southeast Portland. I can’t afford to take it into a shop. I have to get everything through Adventure. A tiny old lady comes by to collect our empty cans. They are worth a nickel a piece here in Oregon. She is distraught. Members of her family have been dropping faster than major characters in a Game of Thrones episode. Her mother. Her sister. Her sister’s son. Gone. Gone. Gone. Of her nephew she says in her thick Eastern European accent “He have no money. He have no job. He have no food. He kill self.” She puts her hand over head to grab an invisible rope. We get the picture. I know that jazz. Being unemployed and feeling worthless… unable to take care of yourself… that hopelessness knowing there is no help for you. It sounds like a typical American Tragedy but given her accent I had to ask her where this happened. Perhaps this disease is spreading throughout the world now. “In Atlanta” she answers. I had just read that the Atlanta Metro has seen their poverty rate rise 160% during the last decade. Stocks are up, right? “No money. No job. No food…” … I sit at a table just off Mississippi in NoPo having coffee with my friend Jen. Years ago, we made a ritual of having lunch together when we both had “real” jobs downtown. Our lunches together were pretty much the highlight of our day. I kept that job for almost two years. It was okay work. My boss treated us like individuals. He played to our strengths. Like everyone else there, I was good at some things and not so good at others. He tried to keep me busy doing what I was good at. Then the economy dropped out. Rome was burning, banks were imploding and yet somehow the heads upstairs decided it was our fault that no business was coming in. The replaced my boss with someone they brought in from California. He was full of Big Talk. There would be no more treating us like individuals… no more playing to our strengths. We were just machines now. When I was assigned something I was not only bad at but aggravated my tendonitis I decided I was not a machine and walked out. They told me to think about it over the weekend. By all their metrics, I was one of their most productive employees. I had been there long enough to see all the inefficiencies. The older workers were all set in their ways and resisted innovation. I decided I would express my observations on how things were run in an email. I thought I was doing them a favor but when I came in to talk about my decision I was treated as if I had called in a bomb threat. Even after all these years I guess I never learned. This is a culture of Big Talk. We are all supposed to get into line as chest puffing paper tigers. Keep your head down. Don’t ever question what you are doing, how you are doing it or what it all leads to. Honesty is a bomb in that room. Call security! Just like that I went from being offered a management position to being a “rotten apple”. Don’t hire John Whipple. He is a troublemaker. No one has hired me since. On my way home that day I threw my shoes in the garbage. This is done. … Jen wasn’t too far behind. She had been making and giving away art for years but now she was having a go at an artist’s life. It hasn’t been easy. Every month is a scramble to get just enough to keep going… keep that roof over her head. It has been an adventure. A leap of faith. That afternoon we both agreed it had been hard but we are both happier now. Unlike the doomed soul of that old lady’s nephew in Atlanta the job market no longer tells us what we are worth. As scary and insecure as our lives have become there is value in every step of this journey… because this journey is ours. My American Dream was never about things. You can keep your big houses, Xboxes and televisions. I don’t give a shit about any of it. I dream of a life worth living. Shit. When someone asks what my goals are I reply it is to play in places where people come to see me. I want to sell tickets. I want to be able to put on my rider “No fucking televisions” and “Don’t hassle me about my bare feet”. Yeah… a bigger RV would be nice but mostly I just want to be honest. Dream on Uncle Dave: May that gold be there waiting for you. Dream on Jen Berry: May you continue to find salvation through creation. Dream on J.P.Whipple: May you find your audience. Dream on all my great friends who chase the life that is meant for them… who follow their path… their bliss. I don’t meet people with those old corporate dreams anymore… the ones who dream of promotions and mortgages. They are the ones who stay home. The road is for the living.

Tour Notes XII : The Godforsaken House of Love

In Portland I found myself in the home of a good friend. She happens to live in a nice old Victorian home just off Mississippi in NoPo and has a furnished bedroom open up the stairs. Stylin’. I have known her for many years through more than a few ups and face down in the dirts. Perhaps these are the “ups”… at least for her. She has a man living with her now and that is a new thing. She is an intelligent and strong woman… a force of nature all to herself. Not too many guys can hang with that. Apparently, Troy is doing just that. When they left town for an event up in the Cascades last weekend, I stayed behind to hang out with the cat, Inu. The home is a Turn of the Century Victorian with high ceilings and wood floors. It is the sort of space that just loves an acoustic musician. I can sit on the couch in the living room with a guitar and the sound opens up all the way into the kitchen and up the stairs before returning back to my ears. Beautiful. Having the whole place to myself I felt it would be a good time to write some songs. Usually when I am in the mood to write I just start playing my instruments and let them sing back to me. If something sounds good I will see if I can build something with it. That weekend, everything that came back was beautiful… too beautiful. The songs my instruments wanted to sing were all soft and tender. Too sweet for my tastes. I feel that a good song should have both dark and light. A full spectrum. If you let the song get too soft you wind up with Air Supply or Paul McCartney without John Lennon to cut down on all that awful sickening sweetness. Still, every time I tried to put an edge on a groove I was working on it was as if I was playing music into a cloud. Sweet… soft… tender…. Blech. The next morning I realized what was happening. This house was full of love. I could feel it. The walls were full of it. The wood of my guitars were soaking in it. I was drenched in it. I don’t know if I believe in things like ghosts or spirits as actual things… like the restless soul of a long dead person… but reverberation… that is a real thing. When something emotional happens in a space the walls just soak it up. Some things can reverberate for generations… for centuries. I spend my life as something of a professional guest. I am always staying in different homes usually for just a day or two. I am always aware of the energy… the reverberation. Most of the time it is warm and welcoming. On rare occasions, it can be edgy and I can’t wait to leave. In this home it was love… pure and simple. It was no surprise at all when Tiffany returned and announced that she was engaged. So I wasted a perfectly good weekend with my guitars puking Air Supply all over this godforsaken House of Love. I am okay with that.

It Takes a Busload of Faith to Get By

What’s Your Story? (It Takes a Busload of Faith to Get By) Ross Douthat has been on a book tour with his book Bad Religion: How We Became a Nation of Heretics. He argues that even though people have been abandoning traditional churches in droves we are just as “religious” as ever. We have just moved away from the old churches to what he calls “heresies” whether it is one of those “Churches of Prosperity” where the Good Lord has some cash waiting for you or some version of a New Age Spirituality where we can learn to harness the great energies of Cosmic Love. Truth is it is pretty likely people will always be believers in something. We need a story to believe in. We are storytelling creatures. We need a story because we think in language. Thinking in language is a double edged sword. There is little doubt that if we suddenly lost our language skills depression would all but disappear. If someone out there has not seen Jill Bolte Taylor’s Ted Talk about her journey, thanks to a stroke, into the blissful realm of experience without language I cannot think of a more worthy twenty minute video on the web (http://www.ted.com/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight.html). Blissful as it might be, if we didn’t have language skills we would still be naked and living brief and savage lives. That is a bit of a trade off. I am not sure which life I would prefer but I guess I am stuck with my storytelling brain for now. So what’s your story? Just the facts, mam’. That’s one approach. We can try to see the world for what it is as best we can. We certainly need to do this to some extent. If you don’t you are going to end up on the roof with a cape believing you are a flying super hero. That is unlikely to go well for you. Seeing the world for what it is can be troubling too. To quote from the scene at Elvis’ grave in the movie Spinal Tap there is such a thing as “too much perspective”. Taken as “objectively” as possible the world can be seen as a pretty terrible and, at best, indifferent place. Even those “real life” Hollywood Ending stories are only triumphant if you stop following them when they reach that “happily ever after” moment. Keep reading and things often don’t go so well. “Yes Johnny was a big star at last but then he got older, beauty faded and fashions changed. Now the money is gone and he is doing Reality TV’s Has Been Circuit.” Many a great mind has been lost trying to come up with a way of dealing with the overwhelming tragedy of our brief lives in an indifferent universe. This is not a great story to tell yourself in the morning if you want to get out of bed. According to your story, you have already lost. Lying for the Win! It has been said many times that the trouble with the world is that the stupid people are certain and intelligent people are full of doubts. The fact that you can find very similar quotes on this very topic from Yeats, H.L. Menken and Bertrand Russell suggests this is hardly a new phenomenon in the world and is unlikely to change anytime soon. The rub is that even though the world really is terribly complex and usually way beyond our comprehension those that “delude” themselves into thinking otherwise usually win. This, of course, has had disastrous results in politics as practical solutions that try to address the very real complexities of an issue are, more times than not, swept aside in favor of the simple program built out of idiotic certitude. There can be little doubt why the black and white worldview of Fox News annihilates MSNBC’s more nuanced “liberal” view in the ratings. This isn’t just a numbers game that backs that common conceit of the intellectual that there are simply a lot more “stupid” people. On a more personal level, people guided by certainty and a good dose of self deception tend to triumph over realists and doubters. Psychologist Joanna Starek did a study of competitive swimmers that showed that swimmers that lied to themselves swam faster than those who did not. There is a great episode of WNYC’s Radiolab that highlights that story as well as many other fascinating aspects of lying and how lying can make people happier and more successful (http://www.radiolab.org/2008/mar/10/lying-to-ourselves/). So perhaps the story we should tell ourselves shouldn’t necessarily be “true”. There have been plenty of studies to suggest that people who involve a personal god or spirituality in their story tend to do better in life as well. Many great battles were won because the soldiers on one side had a compelling story that allowed them to cast aside their doubts and fears and throw themselves completely into the task at hand. Belief in a higher purpose is an essential ingredient of self sacrifice. Perhaps having a god or some sort of “spirituality” on your side can not only give you some direction but also confidence to move forward in an often frightening and dreadful world. I see nothing wrong with that in itself. The problems arise when people fashion tyrannical gods imbued with our basest and most petty qualities. There are two religious or spiritual paths. The High Road and the Low Road. On the Low Road, the gods are there to serve you. Because of your devotion to them they will champion your causes. They will bring money and love into your life. If you remain faithful enough they will even deliver you from death. Sadly, this is the road “more traveled”. It is a veritable superhighway compared to the High Road. On the High Road, you know you are sacrificed. Still, on the High Road instead of retreating to the empty promises of the Low Road you accept the sacrifice even if puts nails through your wrists (or, in our slightly more civilized age, plastic handcuffs). Of course, not everyone is meant to be a political or religious martyr. The High Road is all about following the journey of the heart. You know this path already. It is the deepest and truest story of all the stories you tell yourself. It is much deeper than our selfishness. It is a story that is open to the world… that involves the world and seeks to elevate it even if only in a small way. You might say, “Wait a minute! Where’s the reward? By starting out admitting that you are sacrificed and then giving yourself up, are you not just telling yourself that dreadful ‘realist’ story?” That is the beauty of it. It is a “true” story. Where is the reward? It is in the life that is really lived. When you admit you are lost you can throw yourself into your life completely. You have nothing to lose by living as full as you can. You are free to “follow your bliss” as Joseph Campbell would often say. By completely immersing yourself in your life you can experience the fullness of it: the ecstasy, bliss and terror. You are no longer down here on earth contemplating the sacred. You are sacred and every moment of your life is sacred (though, no doubt, some moments will be more sacred than others…). It’s a beautiful story but remember life is a pretty epic and complicated novel. There is plenty of room for subplots. So, go ahead, write the rest your own way. Give yourself plenty of room for happy endings. Write in gods and goddesses too if you like. Just make them Higher Gods and Goddesses that embody beauty, justice and love. Leave some room for the rest of us and our stories as well. That is all I ask. Maybe we will even write a chapter or two together. And remember: “It takes a busload of faith to get by”.

I'm With Stupid.... The Intellectual Gap

We all know it exists. It has existed for decades and today it is probably more pervasive than the traditional divide between conservatives and liberals or as some would like us to frame it: between Democrats and Republicans. I am speaking of the intellectual divide.

I got into one of my many internet arguments today (I get into these daily. I admit I enjoy it.). This time it was originally about Kirk Cameron and his stating some crap about homosexuality being “wrong”. On the thread I posted that the dude is just “STUPID” and no one should pay attention to him in the first place. Someone who apparently shares some of his Bible-based worldview was offended. Eventually, she pegged me as one of those “intellectual snobs” that is always lecturing and looking down on her.

Admittedly, there was nothing I could say. After all, I opened with that S-bomb. I confess that Kirk Cameron is the sort of person that makes me physically ill. I find few things more threatening to our future as a race than the willful use of religion to propel ignorance. It is my opinion that if your faith in God depends on ignoring the discovered facts of our universe then your faith is weak and your God is small.

Sadly, this small God is a powerful political force and the ignorance it carries threatens our ability to evolve and prosper as a nation. This small God is thrown in the face of gays. It is thrown in the face of women. Even worse, there are the attempts to use this small God to corrupt our youth and weaken our education.

Now a caveat: I am not a Bill Maher or Christopher Hitchens. I don’t think everyone that believes in a God is an idiot. I have too many intelligent Christian friends. I prefer to think that God and Science are not at war. I like to think each new discovery makes God greater. Evolution is miraculous. If a God came up with that, He truly is amazing. Science, as a whole, has made the Universe greater. Looking in and out, we have discovered that the Universe is far larger than we could have possibly imagined. I would think that this would make God greater. Instead, so many people insist on limiting God to the tiny and dark world we inhabited when the Bible was written thousands of years ago.

This is only one line of the intellectual v. anti-intellectual divide. We are “debating” climate change. There is a battle over history. Increasingly, ideas are not debated based on objective facts. Instead of arguing based on how things are people are arguing based on how they think things should be. People are choosing their reality and then demanding you accept it as a starting point for debate. It’s no wonder these arguments go nowhere. How can people come to any agreement when they live in two completely different realities?

This brings about the tricky part. How can this divide be bridged? I have heard from Obama critics that he always sounds like he is “lecturing”. Indeed, he is a practiced lecturer. Sadly, I think Obama is actually going through some pains to explain why he believes certain things. He is making a reasoned argument. In other words, he is being an intellectual snob. Perhaps that is one of his faults. Bush would never make much of a reasoned argument for anything he did. He would usually just say what he believes and leave it at that. Sometimes he would throw in a hyperbole: “The mushroom cloud” that Iraq was threatening us with for example.

This is where I get into trouble too. How can you make a reasoned argument without sounding like a prick? And what is it about our education system that leaves so many with such a disdain for learning? Are people ever resentful of those “honor students” who would go on to college and become successful? Has the old paradigm of high school bullying in which the jock beats up the nerd been replaced by the nerds taunting the jocks for being stupid? Has our schools’ insistence of putting students on “tracks” early in childhood, labeling some kids “gifted” and others “average” led to adults having nothing but disdain for both learning and the educated?

If you can’t reason with people then how can you reach people? Is it just a sad fact that people will cling to their beliefs in spite of any and all evidence to the contrary? No doubt this is true for a lot of people. This is not a left v. right or intellectual v. anti-intellectual condition either. People on all sides become rigid in their positions. The easiest way to tell them from the rest is by noticing when the argument breaks down into personal insults. “You’re too… sold out, stupid, ignorant, etc to understand” and the like is a sure sign that an impenetrable wall has been put up. No reason could possibly get through.

So what makes Americans so “anti-intellectual”? My guess is that people don’t like to be told what to think. That is totally understandable. I don’t like being told what to think either. On the other side, the “intellectuals” tend to approach these clashes with the point of view that the people they are arguing with don’t think. It is insulting but maybe understandable too. After all, the evidence for something like evolution is overwhelming and it is hard to respect an argument against it. Still, if you give a person a chance to explain his position you might find it more nuanced and reasoned than you expected. Maybe not but opening with the “S-bomb” is a sure sign that this is going nowhere.

Solutions? I see only one. People need to be taught how to think. The education system of regurgitation has given us a nation of idiots. Furthermore, it has led us to believe in a false division between smart and dumb people. I don’t think the IQ divide is as great as we pretend it is. It is the system that makes people “intellectuals” and “anti-intellectuals”. If people were taught to open and exercise their minds more we could start having real conversations again. People would be able to articulate their positions and wouldn’t have to insult their opponents. These days it is pointless to be taught to memorize shit anyway. I have a Wikipedia app on my phone. What do you want to know? Information is not the problem. How to deal with it is.

Announcing my Candidacy for U.S. President!

J.P. WHIPPLE FOR PRESIDENT

“Because I could really use a white house.”

I know. Most candidates lie and say that they want to “serve their country”. We all know it’s bullshit so I am not going to lie to you. I need some money and a place to stay and I am willing to be your President to get those things!

WHY AM I RUNNING?

The President of the United States is guaranteed government housing while he serves in office. Of course, there are other ways out of a homeless situation such as getting a job but I figure it is probably easier to gather 70,000,000 votes than it is to get a response from a resume sent out into the abyss. Of course, becoming President also comes with a job of actually being President and I would be more than happy to do that in my spare time. I have been second guessing decisions made by Presidents since I was a small child and I have no doubt that there is no one in the country more capable of running this country than myself. I have great ideas! Just read below!

THE ECONOMY –

Clearly, banks have too much fucking money. To help put money back into the hands of people that will spend it we need to bring back that old fashioned American spirit of banditry. It’s high time we welcome back the bank robbers. Bank robbers are well known for spending their money fast and stimulating the local economy. Restaurants, strip clubs, motels, and dubious used car dealers will see an immediate boon. I want to encourage these hard working Americans any way I can. I will instruct the FBI to stop pursuing bandits. I will start offering courses to young people caught up in our overcrowded prison system to prepare them for an exciting career in bank robbery. Let’s face it America, banks have been robbing us for centuries. It’s time to get off our lazy asses and rob THEM.

SOCIAL ISSUES –

I am not going to ban abortions or try to stop gay people from getting married. These are God’s rules. Not ours. You know, quite frankly, I’m tired of the government having to do God’s work. We can’t afford it anymore! God has been given a free ride long enough! It’s time for Him to get off His lazy Ass and enforce His laws Himself. He has an army of angels, lightning bolts, burning bushes and INFINITE POWER!

Under my administration there will be no more government handouts to “deadbeat deities”. Your free ride is OVER God. Time to pony up just like the rest of us.

THE WARS –

It’s time to bring our troops home. I believe, as a favor to mankind, we should give the terrorists LSD. I know. This is a controversial tactic but LSD has been known to turn people into hippies. Even before The Beatles, the CIA was exploring tactical uses for LSD. Frank Olson, a CIA biological warfare expert, was in the early stages of becoming a hippie after being covertly dosed by fellow agents (Questioning authority… Ready to make a life change and do something more ethical…) before the CIA defenestrated him. And just think John Lennon of The Beatles went from writing violent lyrics like “Run for life if you can little girl” to shit like “All you need is love” after taking acid.

Sure, hippies are a drain on society wandering around smelling bad and not buying anything but it much easier to fight them. Let the fucking Taliban come at us and try to put flowers in our M-16 barrels.

“War is over if you want it.” John Lennon (post LSD)

CAMPAIGN FINANCING –

No more corporate underwriting, PACs, or annoying fucking emails sent to you every day with hyperbolic statements about how everything you know and love is in peril unless you waste your money championing some shithead who won’t do a damn thing on your behalf anyway.

Fuck that.

Under my plan, the government will pay for all political campaigns. Don’t worry about this raising the deficit. It won’t. I am just going to make elections fair again. Each candidate will be given a black marker and some cardboard.

Best pick a good off-ramp for your stump speech.

Good Luck!

DEBT –

Yeah… I have heard about the debt. Even while living in my truck. Debt blah blah blah… So what? Why don’t we just do what half the people and many of the corporations in this country have already done? Declare Bankruptcy. After seven years we can start borrowing irresponsibly again. We can sell off Texas too. I heard they wanted to leave anyway. Good riddance.

Another sensible strategy for balancing the budget is to invade the Cayman Islands. I know it means another war but we can conquer the Caymans on the cheap. Fifty soldiers and five hundred bartenders offering free Daiquiris would do the job. Once conquered all those US corporations headquartered there will have to start paying taxes on the ridiculous profits. This will generate billions in revenue! Problem SOLVED.

MORE IDEAS COMING!

This is just a few ideas on J.P. Whipple will save America! These are just my plans for the first hundred days!( Although I do intend to take the rest of my term off. I hear Camp David is more chill than the White House. I will be throwing one hell of a party. Stop by! The drinks are on YOU!)

You can support my campaign by giving me money, buying my CDs or books, offering me a place to stay for a couple of days, or buying me a drink. Together we can put me in a nice home and save America!

http://jpwhipple.com

Keep Doing What You're Doing...

“Keep doing what you’re doing.”

Yeah… I hear that again and again. Terrible advice but I follow it anyway… as quixotic as it is. For what it’s worth, after two years on the road I have become one hell of a musician… in a time when no one buys music anymore… in a time when few people go to clubs to hear music… whether they can’t afford it because of the economy… or whether it is because they don’t want to risk the police gauntlet at a time when being near someone who drinks is enough to get you a DUI… or whether they would rather watch something on their Netflix or one of their ten fucking billion channels… or whether they would rather hang out “liking” shit on facebook…

Keep doing what you’re doing.

At the time when I started to seriously pursue music… the early nineties… it seemed like one of the few ways to express yourself that had some potential for success. Being someone whose artistic needs cannot be suppressed or ignored without serious fucking mental and emotional consequences, I had to find some way to get this shit out. I tried painting, drama and photography but all that seemed so… well… antique.

But music seemed fresh and very much alive in the early nineties. People look back on Nirvana now and think… well… “Kobain was such a genius” Bullshit. Nirvana was a pretty average garage band with unapproachable lyrics. They would have been completely ignored if not for their very fortunate timing. Independent labels were flourishing. A large college aged population were craving something more interesting than the bullshit that had dominated the 80’s rock scene. I mean… seriously… fuck Motley Crue. Yeah… go ahead and tell me how great you think they were. I assure you that they sucked in every way. They had a decent drummer. Like I give a fuck.

“Girls girls girls”

I have spelled out better lyrics with my vomit after consuming a fifth of Jack.

So suddenly there was “alternative” rock. The big labels couldn’t completely dominate the market anymore. There was room and an audience for someone with some fucking vision. “Smells like Teen Spirit” rocked the world. There was room in this business for someone like me.

That was a long time ago. My ambition back then was to make great albums and sell enough of them to get by. Then came Napster, torrents and cheap recording equipment. On the one hand every fucking wannabe could make an album and on the other no one was buying records at all. Sure there is still great music out there and perhaps even more of it than ever but no one buys it anymore. But by this time, I had sold my soul. I had invested so much into learning to play instruments, sing, and entertain that there really is no turning back. The economy has tanked. Permanently (I hate to break it to you). Obama can’t put Uncle Humpty Dumpty Sam back together. The idiots on the other side can only make things much much worse. There really isn’t much point in sending out resumes back to the “real” world. The corporate world HR person will Google my ass and instead of seeing someone with serious skills… someone who can build a website… write clever songs and stories… design packages… play instruments… engineer and produce quality music… they will see a degenerate… a rebel… loose canon… a barefoot weirdo…

Forget it.

Keep doing what you’re doing.

Like I have a choice here.

The sad thing is this time… as horrible as it is… is my time. I know this not by how awesome I think I am but by my CD sales per audience member… by how much money gets thrown at me… how many people come up to tell me how awesome I am… by how many people tell me…

Keep doing what you’re doing…

But it’s rough… hitting half empty clubs on a weekend night. Some nights are better but I still haven’t figured out how to get that “give-a-shit” quotient up. I beg and beg my few fans to help me out. Share videos and shit… but it’s hard. We are so distracted. So I hit the road. I barely have change for gas to the next town. I am totally dependent on an old Toyota truck. It is my home now. The bad news is that it is old. The good news is that it is a Toyota. Thank god. I would be done by now if I drove a Ford.

I do love what I do. It took me awhile to accept the whole one man band thing but now I am enjoying it. I like always being able to have my lyrics heard over the racket. I love that I am able to get people to dance. It’s a good job for me. I am kept insane by going insane in a controlled environment (the stage). The hours are pretty good. I get to work barefoot. It suits my stubborn duct taped together personality.

But it’s a bad time. Clubs are struggling. Musicians are struggling. I am not sure what the solution is. Some say selling out. Indeed, one commercial would be a year’s income for me. Others think maybe crowd-funding is the future. You want me to “keep doing what I am doing”? Help me out.

Today, I am stuck in a Catch-22. Most of me really wants to live inside and stop this fucking merry-go-round… at least for a month or two… but I would need some income to do that. A job. That’s a dodgy thing. Even in good times, jobs have been hard to come by for me. The rub is that if I end my tour and try to settle and can’t find work, I am really screwed. Most clubs are booked three to six months in advance. That means I would be stuck without income for three months. Plenty of time to turn my truck into a shopping cart. Plenty of time to get kicked into the gutter without any way out.

Keep doing what you’re doing.

I hope the truck has a few more miles in her but I know she won’t run like this forever.

And neither will I.

Capitalism is DEAD... or Welcome to the New Economy... Good Luck!

As we keep rehashing the same old debates in Washington and elsewhere, we have all become complicit in a lie that we feel we must convince ourselves is true. That this capitalist we endure today can survive. Indeed, like many a poor doctor, we try to treat the symptoms because we have either misdiagnosed the problem or simply have no way to address the disease. The disease being that capitalism, as we know it, is dying.

It is a slow death for sure. It is not something that will happen suddenly (barring a Zombie Apocalypse of course…) nor is it something that will happen completely. There will always be markets but our current economic system is going to fail us. It has been failing us for decades already and it is only going to get worse.

When we think back on the most recent stock market crashes what does not stand out is the corruption. There has always been schemers out there who have figured out a way to make a lot of money by selling something that has no real value. It is neither surprising that our emotional stock market’s prices had grown to be way out of line with the real value of the stocks offered. This has always happened. It is the nature of the beast which we depend on way too much.

Instead, what does stand out is that nearly all the growth of the US economy since the 1980’s has been fictional. Indeed, those good years in the 1990’s were largely fueled by the unrealistic and unfulfilled expectations of the emerging technology sector. Sure, a few companies would eventually emerge as economic powerhouses but one has to consider that even though they have some financial might, they employ relatively few people. They are in many respects multinational small businesses. Their financial good fortunes affect a very small group of people and, consequently, their impact on the overall economy is minimal.

In the last decade, we were treated to less of a collapse than a brutal reality check. Americans growing up in families with parents who had succeeded and bought houses and kept jobs expected they would do just as well themselves… if not better. As children, they witnessed their parents working hard, advancing in their careers and making more money. They naturally assumed that their lives would follow a similar arc. They bought homes that were too expensive for them when they bought it but they assumed since they worked hard, they would be making more money soon enough. The people that gave them the loans had the same assumptions. Similarly, all those schemers on Wall Street who sold those mortgages figured that real estate would keep going up. After all, real estate had been rising their entire lives. It was as sure of a bet as spring following winter. Nobody was telling the homebuyer that his expectations of as good a life as his parents was unrealistic. No one was saying that housing market was inflated. Nobody was saying that the real economy was far behind Wall Street. It is not that we could not see such things were true at the time. We just did not want them to be true.

So we did not look.

Not surprisingly, our increasingly corrupt and corporatized government reacted to the crash like they always do. They stuck some bubble gum in the biggest leaks, repaired the engine with a blunt hammer, put a little duct tape on the exhaust and sent it merrily on its way. They say “We have hit bottom now. Things will get better now. It always has.”

Which is exactly what we want to hear.

Nothing could be further from the truth. By interfering to save the big banks, we have preserved the system which has failed us and will fail us again. I know that gets said a lot but it usually gets said for all the wrong reasons. The real reason is that corporate capitalism, which in the past centuries has brought us some progress, is now unfit and unable to serve humanity.

What?! You say. Is this some leftist rant? You ask.

Not at all.

I would never advocate the resurrection of communism. It deserves to be left in the past. What I think is apparent now, however, is that our form of capitalism will soon join it.

Why?

The very nature of the beast relies on the unrealistic principle of endless growth. For the last couple of centuries, the Earth was abundant with resources, the people were always hungry for more and there was always more to be done. While those things were true, capitalism did pretty well for itself. There were a couple of busts here and there not to mention wars but, overall, we progressed and even prospered a little. Still, the question everyone seems to be afraid to ask is how much of those above conditions still exist?

None.

Resources.

Over the last two centuries, exploitation companies had it not only good… but great. The Earth was filled to the brim with untapped, easy to get, natural resources. They had virgin forests, oil reserves literally in people’s back yard and mineral deposits just below the surface. Now the forests are scarce and often defended by a slowly rising environmental movement. Mining companies are forced to dig deeper. Oil companies are drilling through a mile of ocean to find new reserves… sometimes with disastrous results. In every case, what was once a low risk and high reward industry has become a high risk and limited reward industry. Sure, some of those companies still reap huge profits but they know their day is ending. Of course, they are not about to stop enjoying that slow ride downhill.

Labor.

We have always had this unfortunate habit to point to the other little guys first when we feel threatened rather than the big guy who is actually bullying us all. People in America like to say the Chinese or the Mexicans took our jobs. They are slightly less quick to blame the executives who outsourced their jobs and usually too daft to realize that, more likely, no one took their job.

Indeed, for every outsourced job there are just as many, if not more, jobs that have completely vanished. Corporations merge and throw out thousands of redundant employees. The corporate beast has been getting more and more efficient and while we should like to think of that as a good thing, it has not been so good for the worker… no matter where he lives.

Every year we become more productive per worker. Every year, new machines are invented to do the work of hundreds or even thousands of people. Since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution we have been making machines to do the work of people and now we have reached the point where most people can be written off entirely. We have robots to stand in our assembly lines. A farmer that not that long ago would have struggled to manage forty acres now struggles to pay the bills while managing forty thousand acres.

This is not a simple matter of factories becoming more and more automated. Our consumption is becoming more and more automated as well. I love my computer but it is an economic disaster. I can purchase music without every setting foot in a record store. I can take a thousand pictures without ever visiting a film lab. I can find out what is going on without reading a newspaper. I can make an album without ever going into a studio. On and on it goes. Entire industries are going the way of the dinosaurs.

President Obama likes to speak of building up a new technologically savvy workforce able to compete in the new economy. Sure, that sounds pretty good but what he does not tell you is this new economy will not offer anywhere near the amount of jobs it has already replaced. In fact, no matter how well people prepare themselves, jobs will be increasingly tenuous. More and more people will only find employment as subcontractors or temps. They will be brought in for a project and discarded when it is completed. People will be forced to become dynamic. They will have to constantly update their skills or get left behind. This might keep people going in their thirties but as they get older it will be a lot harder to convince employers that they are as dynamic as the new crop of young hotshots. Given the new mantras of raising retirement ages emerging from governments in Europe and in the US, people who find themselves unemployed in middle age are going to be in serious trouble.

We can’t all be Wal-Mart greeters.

Similarly, while the new “green economy” will grow, it offers only limited job opportunities and those opportunities may be further limited if our economy continues to struggle and people lose their ability to address long term issues in face of clear and present dangers.

Demand.

With the American economy limping, if not sinking, that ever increasing hunger on which capitalism depends will take a hit as well. The world economy can no longer depend on American over-consumption. Increasingly, not only are Americans going to buy less crap overall but they are going to demand that what they do buy outlasts its warranty. As a culture, we are beginning to realize the perils of our disposable lifestyle. While this is perhaps a great thing in many ways, it is yet another economic disaster. It would be naïve to think that the emerging economies in China, India or Brazil will ever become the big mouths we once were. Those markets will grow some but the peak of global consumption is likely much nearer than people today realize.

…

It is hard not to guess the results of these emerging trends in the global economy. You can see them already. Long term unemployment. This not likely to go away any time soon. We can “throw the bums out” every two years and it will make no difference. A great many jobs are gone and will never return. Those who do find work will often find themselves underemployed. Even people who equipped themselves for the modern job market with education will find themselves languishing in minimum wage service industry jobs waiting for something better to finally come along. Even more people will find themselves knocked down into a life of perpetual panic… living paycheck to paycheck… one bad break from complete disaster. Those of us who manage do a little better should not be surprised to find their thirty-something child with a college degree sleeping on our couch or even their fifty-something parents needing our spare bedroom.

Welcome to the Real New Economy.

Although it is probably hard to accept the notion the economy is not going to really “recover”, it is easy enough to make that case. What is harder, of course, is finding a solution. What is known for sure is that we will get no help from either the Democrats or Republicans. Hopelessly lost in the past, all they offer us is a choice between bad ideas and terrible ones. Obviously, neither was able to conceive of the very real possibility that had we let the big banks collapse, it could have possibly cut off a great deal of the cancerous growth or what could be best described as the “fake economy” and given room and fertile ground for smaller… more ethical and nimble… new economy to emerge. No one can know for sure but the prospects of success for a repaired broken system to work are somewhere between limited and hopeless… at best.

As I said at the outset, this is no time to argue for huge government interference or any of the “isms” of the past. I think history has panned out that simple solutions don’t fit complicated problems. It would be nice if the government became responsible to the people rather than the corporate interests that fund their campaigns. Fighting for a voice in Washington is something we have to do but Washington cannot save us. It serves us no better to have the government take over the economy than to continue to let mega banks have the reigns. If we can learn one thing from history it is the veracity of this one simple equation:

Power given to the few equals misery for the many.

So where is the “hope” in the new economy?

It is all around you. It is in the local farmer’s market. It is down the street at the local brewery. It is in the communities that most of us have long since abandon behind our white picket fences and down the aisles of Wal-Mart. We have been duped into thinking that we need these mega-corporations for everything. It is perhaps this terrible mistake that dooms us above else. Sure, maybe you need to get the latest smart phone from Apple or Motorola but there is no reason you need to go to Budweiser for beer or Wal-Mart for food. There is no reason you can’t go to a cobbler instead of Foot Locker or a reupholster instead of Ikea. We can no longer afford to sit and whine about our jobs going away. We need to start employing each other ourselves. It is either that or we will have to live in a country with a lot of people sleeping on couches or under bridges feeling useless.

Like it or not, the party is over. Corporations will not help you. The government will not help you. We are all going to have to help ourselves and each other. If we are going to survive as a people, we are going to have to start thinking outside the box… and outside the big box. It is sad to say but it is probably true that there is going to be a lot of suffering ahead no matter how our government acts. Like it or not, our great swaths of outer suburbia are unsustainable. No amount of government intervention or idiotic attempts to resuscitate the asinine concept of laissez faire economics will save them. We cannot afford to live in little isolated castles anymore.

Though the prevailing winds of the great economic machine of our time would have us all believe that there is only enough for the few and none for the many, deep down we know they are wrong. We are a smart, efficient and technologically advanced race. There is enough. We just need to offer it to each other rather than let the greed machines take it from us, hoard it, and then distribute it as they see fit.

Nothing is going to be easy. We have for far too long lost our way. Conservatives like to suggest we need to return to traditional values and you know what? They are right… but not in the way they like to think. We don’t need to return to a day when the government allowed business to run free and rape and pillage as they see fit. We do need to return to an ethic where people are worth more than property. We need to look at our neighbors not as competitors for jobs and resources but as… well… neighbors. We need to return to a time when we understood that our quality of life has little to do with the quantity of crap we have but, instead, a lot to do with… well… the quality of the life we live.

The hardest change is… sadly… is getting off that “ME!” trip most of us are on. This ethic of grabbing all you can and screwing the rest is no way to survive as a country… a people… or a race. We need to think a little deeper than just ourselves and, unfortunately, it will take a long time for the people in this country to develop that skill. We have no choice but what remains to be seen here is the amount of pain people are willing to endure before they can accept that fact that things will not be as they once were and the solution is no longer keep doing what we have always done.

Tour de Belgium II - De Crayon

GIG ONE: CAFÉ DE CRAYON
Oostende Belgium June 26th 15h00

The Nazi pillboxes still line the Belgian coast complete with artillery aimed out into the North Sea… waiting for the Americans.

Filthy and I outflanked them…. storming in from the east… via a train from Brussels… meeting light resistance in the form of broken glass dropped by an English tourist blocking our path into De Crayon. At the bar, a punk rock Belgian tells us that he was attacked by Nazis a few months back… these bad ideas sure do stick around. I know I may seem a peaceful barefoot musician but I do believe if I should encounter a Nazi in Oostende and get the upper hand… I think I would keep pounding that skull… madness on madness… not stopping until that idea… that horror… was hammered through the brick streets… back into the sewers from which it came.

I am only human after all.

But there are no Nazis around the De Crayon. Still, Filthy and I are greeted like conquering heroes with La Chouffe and Thai food. The walls are decorated with cartoons depicting the Bishop of Brugge… recently defrocked and shamed for pedophilia… these bad ideas sure do stick around…The captions are in Dutch but I get the punchlines.

Hans puts together a sound system for us. Melissa and Alexander arrive. Kris and faithful dog Walter show up. Knowing my taste for fine ale, he greets me with a box filled with Rochefort, Duvel, and Hommel. Filthy and I are worn from the late night in Bar-le-Duc… early morning… and long travel…. but we are lifted by knowing we are in a good place… in the presence of good friends… We have home field advantage and we are going to kill it. Melissa and Croy circle around with their cameras. We are rockstars for one night in Belgium.

Oostende
June 26th 11h30

After a late night of listening to records with a local DJ, Melissa and Alexander head off to get some seafood for breakfast. They think they can just run off and ditch us but they are wrong. I know these two Belgians. They are going someplace good. Melissa looks behind and finds Filthy and I are not too far behind.

We are stalking you.

We follow them to a place called Oude Stad Kortrijk. It is a small place serving simply prepared fresh seafood. I have zeetong… seared in butter… with some white wine Alexander picked out…. breakfast is served.

Delicious.

Filthy and I drop our excess baggage off at the De Crayon. We head off to Brugge to pretend to be tourists for the afternoon. Brugge is probably the most well preserved city in Belgium but after a month in Europe, it is a bit underwhelming. The shops and overpriced tourist cafes don’t do much for us but we do find some solace in that one store with the two hundred Belgian ales. We grab a few for that ten minute trip back to Oostende.

Delicious.

…

stepping out to a greater love...

stepping out to a greater love...

Perhaps when all is said and done this is the challenge of our age... never mind the hype... where every emphasis is placed on how we can make ourselves more marketable... profitable... oh.... sensible.... practical... logical. They are all distractions. When we seek profit and marketability we're just looking to take from others. We buy in... to a belief that self aggrandizement is good for all.... that an iPod in the hand is better than a Zimbabwe free from cholera....

This is not a condemnation... this is how we were built... had to be built.... to last this long... but to last longer we need a new evolution. We need to step out to a greater love.

Sadly we are often born and raised into a smaller love. An easy love. Many of us have a love of family... friends.... of country but then only "our country" and no love for the rest. They are, after all, the other. Whether they be the Mexican, the Black, the White, the Arab, the Asian, the gay, the punk, the hippie, the jock, the urban elitist, the redneck, the Joe Six Pack, the burner..... Whatever they are the small love excludes them. They are radical and will destroy society. They are a menace. The small love doesn't want to know about "their" loves, ambitions, their ideas..... the small love dismisses.

I know plenty about being dismissed. I dress funny. I don't always wear shoes. I say strange things that have to be thought about. Rather than "apply myself" and go through the motions of a routine life, I sought to make an art, and to speak a truth even though the cost is very high.... ridiculously high I might add. Yeah.. I am the "other"... plenty of the time. It can be a pretty lonely and terrible place to be sometimes.

Last week, I went out to a redneck bar and shot some pool. I watched a little of March Madness. I even went to a Hooter's. The waitress sat and hung out with us (....as is their job.... sadly). She talked about having dinner with family on a Saturday night. Bland conversation for an urban elitist for sure and she was a terrible waitress.... but I do not dismiss her... or the yahoos rooting for Michigan State (...as am I). I know enough about people that they will all go back to a family and love them and try to make happiness and get by as best they know how.....

That is not just the way I feel about the people at Hooter's though. It is the way I feel about Republicans, Palestinians, Afghans, and jocks. Whatever.

I could hate... that is easier but I found the greater love is better. Though not easy, it is something that can be taught and is far more rewarding than the small love. I would not trade anything for all the good that has been brought to me from people of different points of view and persuasions...

The trick is simple. Question authority. Your authority. When you feel or think a certain way... step outside.... and look at it from there. You may find that you were right. You may find that you were wrong... in a bad way or a good way... we do love to accept way too much of what we love and deny way too much of what we hate.... there is always that risk but the Truth is well worth having in any case.

Today... the Divide and Conquers are enjoying their last feast. Their time grows shorter by the minute in this fast changing world. They will go but they are such assholes... and we allow them to be such assholes... that they may take us with them. The best we can do is be what they aren't and to teach others to step out into the greater love with us. We are in a world of miracles. We can grow food for everyone. We can teach a world what it takes to make a world work so that we all have what we need. We are working on it in spite of ourselves.

...

My step father was a racist.... but he sold cars and he sometimes had to sell cars to black people. One black couple came in with their kids and bought a car from him. They spoke eloquently, had good jobs and credit, and their kids were respectful and well behaved. He came home that night and said "There are some good ones too". Of course, it is still sad that he failed to understand that they might all be good or trying to be good in a world owned and... at that time anyway.... ruled by people who have completely shit on their kind but... at least... that black family forced him to step out a little... and he copped as much.

John Lennon said all you need is love... and he died knowing he was right but he had to admit that a song wasn't going to do it. We all need to step out... even when it sucks and it is hard..... Me too... starting with myself.... which is very fucking hard.....

...but I'm stepping out.