Stuck in the middle

Let’s slash taxes. Let’s not even have a government except for a military.
Well, we could privatize that, too. So let’s abolish all taxes and let the market take care of it. Private militias will keep us safe, right?
The market will take care of everything. It’s the natural way. It’s the way of God. Excuse me, a Christian God.
Let’s make health insurance, pensions, police forces, fire departments and parks all totally private.
Every man, woman and animal for themselves. Survival of the fittest. Wait. Strike that secularist sentiment. Survival of the most devout.
Or let’s raise taxes on the rich. They make the most money, so they should foot the bill for our health insurance and retirements -- even though these are the people most of us work for and they’re already footing part of the bill.
Let’s redistribute all the wealth in the name of fairness, so even if you quit school at 16 and sit around smoking joints all day and playing video games, you have a quality of life relatively similar to someone who busts their rumps day in and day out.
Let’s create more programs so the irresponsible can continue to skirt responsibility. Let’s banish all religion from sea to shining sea -- and any of the morality that comes with them. This country ought to be an orgy of abortions, drunken debauchery and the spending of other people’s money.
We’re all worm food when we die anyway, so what’s it matter?
Well, what you believe does matter. It’s what puts certain people in charge.
Given the recent debt ceiling debacle it’s obvious that the extreme factions of political parties are becoming an issue. Has the gulf between Democrats and Republicans grown so large that all they can do is sneer at each other like kids on different kickball teams at recess?
My clarion call to all of you: stop being a bunch of crybabies. This country’s greatness was built on compromise and moderation.
Democrats have to learn to be more fiscally responsible. They’re beholden to every poor sap or welfare mom looking for a hand out. There’s always another deserving program that needs funding. They’re always ready to punish financially success folks with more taxes to fund a federal ballet camp, or something like that.
Stop it.
The Republicans are no better. They try to cloud their agenda with gallant magic tricks and illusions. They have duped people who make less than $200,000 a year into thinking that they represent you. They do not. Let me repeat. They do not represent your interests in Washington. The rich have been buying working class hearts and minds for decades by flashing an American flag and playing country music in the background of their political ads. Unless you belong to the country club, they are prying into your soul and stealing your votes.
This is what they do: they get honest, hardworking Americans riled up on a social agenda concerning abortion, gay rights, sex before marriage, religion in schools, and all that other baloney, but when it comes down to it, they really don’t care about that stuff. What they do care about is what all politicians care about: money and power.
So, with clowns to the left to me and jokers to the right, I am just stuck in the middle -- probably with the rest of the country. The folks who don’t go to Tea Party or PETA rallies. The folks who quietly head off to work each day and pay their taxes and try to pursue happiness within reason.
The folks no one seems to care about anymore.

The first role of a lifetime

If you’ve seen me in the last couple weeks walking around town mumbling to myself, I swear I’m not going crazy.
Unless you count joining a play with absolutely no acting experience an act of insanity.
That’s right, I’m not talking to myself, I’m trying to learn lines for my latest -- and probably ill-advised -- endeavor: acting in a play.
I have a small (yet crucial, of course) role as cowboy Virgil Blessing in the Manistee Civic Player’s production of “Bus Stop.”
It’s not as far-fetched as you think. I’m no stranger to the stage. I’ve played guitar in rock and roll bands since I was 14 years old and have played most of the large venues in the Detroit area like St. Andrews Hall, Clutch Cargos and, just this past weekend, the Majestic Theater.
Plus, I’m a Greek. Well, half Greek at least. My people invented drama. I like to think that my blood traces back to the great dramatists Sophocles or Aristophanes, though my ancestors were probably the folks who followed sheep around Mount Olympus with a shovel.
I’ve never harnessed any of those atavistic dramatic abilities until now, yet I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be in a play.
So far, it’s been a fabulous experience.
The director Jackie Karnisz and the rest of the cast have welcomed me with open arms -- and, thankfully, a lot of patience.
I joined up a few weeks after they already had the ball rolling, when my colleague here at the newspaper, Dave Yarnell, who plays Carl the bus driver in the play, asked if I’d be interested in playing Virgil.
I took a look at the script. Virgil is a cowboy. What American boy doesn’t love cowboys? He is also a cowboy that plays the guitar in the play. I could do that too.
Then, I read the entire play, scribed by William Inge, and really liked it. It’s funny. It’s sad. It’s a story about our American loss of innocence, and the archetypes that played the roles in that grand drama of changing ideals as our country went through its painful adolescence (Civil War, the settling of the West) and young adulthood (Word War I and World War II). It’s also a story about the sexual politics of a society becoming increasingly liberal. Set in 1955, the play’s main character is Bo, a young, eager, post-pioneer cowboy in an era when the West was all but closed. He monomanically purses the slatternly Cherie, a nightclub singer and fallen woman. They are each other’s redemption. The drama unfolds while a busload of disparate American characters confront their own dilemmas while waiting out a winter storm at a diner in Kansas.
Antics, of course, ensue.
Getting involved in the play was a no-brainer after reading it. Virge is basically Bo’s right-hand man. A guitar strumming oracle. A touchstone of comfort for the young cowboy.
It was all fun and games until I started highlighting the lines I had to memorize. There were a lot of them. While stage-fright isn’t something that freaks me out too bad, there’s nothing more terrifying than forgetting what you have to say in front of a bunch of people waiting on you to say something.
It’s the stuff of nightmares, right?
In addition to that, you
But, like I said, the director and cast have been wonderful and forgiving whenever I mess up, especially Clyve Lagerquist, who does a terrific job of playing Bo, and Theresa Pepera, who does an equally great job of playing Cherie. I have most of my lines with them, and they -- as well as the rest of the cast -- have been nothing but encouraging.
So, with that said, the play opens up this Friday at the Ramsdell Theatre at 7:30 p.m. and will continue with 7:30 p.m. performances on Aug. 13, 19 and 20 and 2 p.m. performances on Sundays, Aug. 14 and 21.
Come and check it out.
Hopefully I’ll remember my lines.

Remembering an old friend: Driving to high school in a 1970s Mustang with no heat

Death’s bewildering nature stops us in our tracks.
When someone we know dies, we feel as if we should do something, but there’s usually nothing to do but mourn.
And mourning is a strange enterprise, specifically because those of us who survive suffer from an ineffable helplessness.
Dead is dead.
Gone is gone.
There is nothing we can do.
Deaths are even more poignant when the person didn’t make it out of their 20s or 30s.
I was scanning the headlines today and was saddened to discovered the death of an old friend.
Jevon Hollywood (born Hotchkiss) died Monday after being struck by a car on 7-Mile Road in the Detroit area, near where we both attended high school together in the suburb of Livonia. He was 34-years-old, a year older than me.
Jevon changed his last name to “Hollywood” when he became a radio DJ. I wasn’t surprised he became a popular disc jokey in Detroit. His last gig was at WDTW-FM, 106.7, The Beat.
My entire junior year, Jevon and I commuted together to a different Livonia high school for a three-hour radio and television class. This was back when I thought I was going to be the next Francis Ford Coppola and the class was the closest thing my school had in the way of film-making.
Jevon and I were the only students from Franklin High School accepted into the program at Churchill High School. He was a grade above me, but we knew each other socially, so he didn’t mind if I caught a ride with him in the morning and got a ride back to our own high school at lunch.
Even back then, Jevon had flair. We drove to the other high school in a 1970s red Ford Mustang he had somehow acquired. The car had no heat, and didn’t start reliably, but we usually made it without the help of parents.
I grew disinterested in radio and TV and dropped the course the next year. But Jevon kept going.
A few years later, I wasn’t surprised to hear him on the radio. He was also well known around town for hosting parties and other radio-related events.
I last saw him at one of these maybe five or six years ago. He was standing up on a podium with a microphone, pumping up the crowd at the bar a friend and I were at.
We shared a drink when he had a break. I asked him if he still had that old Mustang.
He smiled -- he had an infectious smile -- and said he’d gotten rid of that piece of crap years earlier and had moved on to a nicer car.
We shared a couple of memories about riding to school in the winter and having to be real bundled up because it didn’t have any heat.
We chatted for a few more minutes then drifted out of each other’s lives again.
Until now.
I wasn’t surprised to read in the Free Press’s account of his death that Jevon was probably drunk at 5 a.m. and walked in front of a moving car while it was raining.
Like many of those who bring bright, electric joy into our lives, Jevon lived fast.
But it doesn’t mean he had to die so young.

Can America think big anymore? The crash landing of our cosmic confidence

I didn’t want to be an astronaut when I grew up.
I figured by this time, I’d be a ship captain like Hans Solo and the term ‘astronaut’ would be historical.
There would be galaxies to explore. Aliens to pal around with. Cool, new ships to pilot.
I’d be an explorer for a new era.
That’s why it’s so discouraging to see that NASA is retiring the shuttle Atlantis and will end manned missions into space. The four American astronauts are now on their way back to Earth from the International Space Station, and when they return, a dream will have landed.
Obama and Congress can talk all they want about hazy plans to send missions into deep outer space, but that’s dependent on if we can figure out how to live together on this planet first.
Or, at the very least, in this country.
The saddest thing is that no one seems to care all that much. The only thing Americans are thinking big about are themselves.
Just look at the technological innovations we value. Are they rockets and manned missions into space?
No.
Want to know why? Because they haven’t found anything worth exploiting out in space yet, no planet with giant reserves of oil or nacho cheese. No one wants to fund an expensive program with lofty ambitions. When more practical concerns demand our attention, I fully agree funding something like the space program should be cut. It’s just sad that all these problems -- power grabs, climate change, financial meltdowns, earthquakes, warfare, welfare, abortions and Michelle Bachman’s presidential bid -- so consume our energies that we don’t dream big anymore.
Instead, our technology -- and our mentality -- goes sideways. We can play Tetris on our cell phones while driving, watch episodes of “Malcolm in the Middle” on an iPad in an airport and have face-to-face video Skype sessions with Mongolians.
Never before has information -- words and images -- been so easily disseminated across the world.
Meanwhile, the American empire crumbles.
Technology is all socially driven these days. It’s not shooting up in the air anymore, it’s ringing in our hands or flashing in front of our faces.
While social networking tools like Facebook have been credited with helping with the so-called Arab Spring revolutions in the Mideast recently, just how important are these technologies to mankind?
The only thing we’re using them for is to socialize. A new way for a single dude to pick up chicks. A new way to share a recipe with mom. Amusements and frivolities.
These proliferate with reckless abandon while the space program, once the innovator in technology, continues to lose relevance in our nation’s collective imagination. It therefore loses funding.
There’s an easy explanation for this: humans are narcissistic and vain. For the most part, we only care about ourselves, then our families, then our friends. We’re usually not walking around with Big Ideas about the fate of humankind and the great mysteries of existence that could be answered out in the deep blackness of space.
Most of us are walking around thinking about where to eat lunch or what gossip to Tweet from our smart phones.
Remember, all these superfluous gadgets are at the mercy of the satellites orbiting the earth.
And those satellites got there by thinking big.

Patriotism is not a competition: Celebrate independent thought this Independence Day

Like any other holiday, the Fourth of July has morphed into something different than what it started out as.
We think of fireworks, barbecues and getting together with friends and families.
It’s sometimes hard to remember that we are celebrating the birth of our great nation.
And even with all our problems, as I purvey the world scene, I’m still damn proud to be an American.
The most patriotic person I know is my grandma. In her 80s, she watches the news more than anyone I know. She holds deeply felt political beliefs. She will be the first to tell you that she loves America.
That same grandma also didn’t speak English until she was five years old.
That same grandma’s parents were born in Greece and came to this country in the 1910s for a better life.
They found it.
This is the type of patriotism I’m glad to be a part of.
Patriotism is a strange thing these days, though.
There is a certain element in our political culture that would have you believe they are more patriotic than you because they espouse certain “family values.”
There are some folks who seem to believe that to be an American you have to be white, Christian and heterosexual. These same kinds of people make up the ranks of “birthers,” the folks who can’t possibly believe our African-American president with a weird-sounding name could actually come from “their” country.
The patriotism that makes me grimace has most recently come from our friends in the Tea Party who will have you believe no one is more patriotic than they are. They dress up in silly, historical costumes and pull out the fife and drums at events.
Pack up the pageantry. Patriotism is not a contest. Bowing down before the flag and the Constitution with jingoistic fervor without questioning anything isn’t the way the Founding Fathers would want it to be.
What we fail to forget sometimes is that the dudes who started the Revolutionary War were, well, revolutionaries. They went counter to the status quo of a monarchy.
So, whose side do you think the patriots would be on?
The folks parading around in their costumes, or those trying to actually solve realistic problems instead of worshiping the past without any doubts whatsoever.
It would be refreshing if we had a little independent thinking this Independence Day.
And this goes both ways, both extreme sides of the political spectrum. Blowhards on the left are just as dogmatic about their beliefs (if they have any.)
They’re fixed on the evils of laissez faire capitalism and think every Republican sits up in a castle thinking about how to rid the land of minorities and homosexuals.
So, this Independence Day, think about everything that makes our country great, namely our freedom to have any such ideas and be able to freely express themselves.
Once you’ve become a U.S. citizen -- like my great-grandparents did so many years ago -- you are an American.
There is no way to be more American than anyone else.

TALE FROM THE TRAILS PART THREE: No sleep till Stronach: Walking the final miles summons reflection

In drama, the third act is when the action reaches a climax, leading to a resolution.
The prince finally slays the dragon and marries the princess.
In this story, three trail-weary gentlemen abandon their heavy backpacks and walk the road toward Stronach, more than 30 miles from where they began the journey at the Marilla Trailhead on Day One.
Stronach was our final destination, our unwitting princess. The trail, of course, was our dragon.
Day Three was different than the rest.
The first two days of our grand hike had been brilliantly sunny. The final day was overcast.
Day One, we got on the trail around 9:30 a.m.; Day Two, after the epic 20-mile hike, we didn’t get started until 11 a.m. On Day Three, we hit the road around 7:30 a.m., eager to bring the adventure to a close.
But everything was reaching a climax, mostly the toll the trip was making on our bodies.
There were blisters and bruises. Sore muscles and joints. Mental and physical exhaustion.
It was anguish pulling on the boots that last day. It hurt to breath. We took to River Road and moved slowly toward town.
We were loving every moment of it.



SLEEPING UNDER THE STARS

The night before, we were still firmly at the tail-end of Act Two.
We were camped on the Little Manistee River off of Little River Road, just a touch west of Six Mile Bridge. Despite having my old man and his Jeep along for the ride after our shameful five-mile shuttle down Koon Road, we weren’t living like car camping kings.
I haven’t yet mentioned the rations. You’d think walking 10 to 15-plus miles a day would mean our bodies needed thick juicy steaks and energy-giving carbs like pasta.
Not so.
Not only isn’t it practical (or sanitary) to hike with raw meat in your backpack, I think it would be unnecessary. (Bears, I’m guessing, would think otherwise.) Now, if you take a glance at me, you can tell I’m in the Clean Plate Club: no French fry left behind.
But on the trail, the body -- and the mind -- transform. Your normal hunger is vanquished. I just didn’t have much of an appetite.
Which is good, because all we had to eat were noodles and soup heated on a small backpacking stove.
Food on a backpacking trip, after all, is nothing more than basic fuel.
When “dinner” was finished, we hung out by the bonfire under a black canopy of night sky spangled with stars. Before crawling into our tents for the last night in the woods, we pondered Act Three. Unlike characters who live in the predetermined world of a drama, we free-willed human beings have the creative power to author our own tales.
Lives are rife with endless possibilities.
In the morning, we’d only have about a six or seven-mile hike to Stronach. Then we would be done. Our main decision was to relieve our backs from the burdens of our packs. We’d leave them in the Jeep. I was amenable to this -- especially after the shuttle. We’d already cheated. What did going packless matter?
Then suddenly, I was starting to get brave again.
“Kids used to walk to school farther than that,” I said.
Since we’d had a fairly normal day of hiking -- only 13 or so miles -- I was feeling cocky, though I may also have been emboldened by the flask of whisky I was sipping from.
Falling asleep that night, I had visions of myself jogging those miles not only to Stronach, but all the way to Lake Michigan where the entire town would greet me, hoist me on their shoulders and parade me around.
Ah, you gotta love a little snort of the good stuff before bedtime.
I never slept so good in my life.




STRONACH CALLING

Everyone woke early.
Six a.m.
There was no grumbling, just precision-like packing up. Two days in the woods had turned us into a well-functioning unit.
Our bodies still quaked with pain, but we had a few measly miles left, and we weren’t going to lollygag.
It was Stronach or bust.
Chris couldn’t even pull his boots on one more time. He’d bought a new pair for the trip and they weren’t properly breaking in.
“I’m going to throw them at the salesperson’s head when I get home,” he said.
Instead, he wore a pair of sneakers. We loaded up the Jeep and hit the road.
Walking without a pack was strange at first. The pack gives you purpose.
Instead, we just looked like three dudes walking down a rural road. I’m surprised we didn’t get stopped by the cops for being suspicious characters.
Little River Road follows the Little Manistee River on the north side into Stronach. It’s mostly federal forest on either side until you get closer to town, when homes and cottages appear inside the trees.
It was a casual walk. There was no great mileage we needed to achieve.
Our journey was coming to a close.
It began to settle in when we reached Stronach Road. I had forgotten to mention to the fellas that it’s a trucking route.
A semi whooshed by us, nearly knocking us on our backs. There were more houses and barking dogs.
We were back to the world humans had built.
The Jeep scooped us up near Water Street and we were whisked into town without any fanfare. We were too tired for anything other than a shower and cheeseburger. Our feet and legs were numb. Our spirits weary.
But I definitely felt a subtle spark.
We had made it.
We had finally made it.

AFTERMATH

The journey is never over.
It’s part of memory, part of my story.
And that’s one of the reasons I had proposed the hike to begin with: to alter my personal narrative a little bit.
Our post-industrial lives are filled with dread and monotony. We work, we watch TV, we scoop processed food into our mouths and we sleep.
I like to think that there’s more, that if we break out of the quotidian, we can better understand what this living business is all about.
The frontier may be settled, and there may be no lands left to explore, but the mapped world gives us the opportunity for inward exploration as we check out the non-manmade world.
We humans are shrewd manipulators of nature, so shrewd that we assume we are not a part of it anymore. That’s why it’s so easy to listen to arguments that will lead to the destruction of our habitats.
As a culture, we tend to think of nature as a thing which we don’t have a connection with anymore. It sadly becomes a “lifestyle” choice.
“Oh, I’m into the outdoors. I’m into nature.”
Well, we’re all part of nature, and nature is a part of us. No amount of movies, make-up and Chevy Malibus will change that.
What also made me want to go on the trek was to experience the land around me in a more intimate way.
I can safely say that Manistee County is one of the most beautiful and rugged areas in the state. The woods, rivers, meadows and glades are a treat.
I will carry them with me internally forever.
As for the fellas, we’ve been in constant correspondence since our adventure.
“Dude, I’m gonna come back up there and walk those last five miles to make it official,” Moldovan e-mailed me when he saw yesterday’s installment.
My brother was more ambitious.
“What other areas up there need to be hiked,” he wrote me the other day. “I’m ready.”
I told him it’s a big county.
I’ll be up for it as soon as my feet are.