Wind the clock back to 1930,
Wind it on back to the dust bole.
Wind it back to your notional wild west,
Each man jack of us holstered and twitchy,
Wind it back to your voortrekker fantasy,
To your samurai swagger,
Wind the clock back to your 1865,
Pry out the minnie ball and cauterize it.
Wind the clock back to 1740,
On your feudal fringes of Europe.
Wind the clock back as far as you like.
Where will you put in the stables?
Delphina, 14: "Wouldn't it be funny if people passed on their sports-team loyalties to their kids like they do with religions?"
Me: "Actually, that's exactly the way it works."
DW: "But you didn't pass on _your_ favourite sports team to us!"
Me "Well..."
DW: "Oh... I get it! You're atheist!"
Me: "I have been being a non-sports-fan as loudly as I could."
Some notes.
1. The nazis were smarter than us 2 weekends ago in Berkeley. If you'll take a moment, you'll notice they did not smash any windows, unlike, say, the BLM protests of, what, 2 years ago? Also, given that they appear demonstrably to be largely racists and sexists, there was very little shouting of racist or sexist epithets. Perhaps this has to do with the significant number of nonwhites who were for some reason among the ranks of the skinheads. Centralized control [I assume this would have been on the gang/ squad level corresponding to a medium-sized affinity group or several cells] has advantages. You can simply tell everyone not to break any windows. The antifa with its apparent ad hoc structure seems to lack this control.
2. “Punching nazis” seems a noble occupation. They concur, enjoying punching antifas just as much. I think punching nazis is not a worthwhile activity. I think violence only has an effect if it eradicates the undesired philosophy by eradicating the brain that bears that philosophy. This is ugly, illegal, and damaging to the perpetrator as well as the the former proprietor of said brain. I do not recommend it. Personally, I am seeking to conclude my current incarnation without committing murder of any kind, including the state-sanctioned variety. It is, however, true that in the course of human political interactions there is a point where it can truthfully be said that even people meeker than I will resort to murder. Beware.
3. Much violence, street demonstration, and other political activity is little different than the expressions of a group of any other primate expressing dominance over another. Let us not be chimps. Or Australopithecus, for that matter.
4. Violence has winners. And losers. It tends to cause more violence. Violence against material, though, may avoid some of the pitfalls of personal violence. This would include what Edward Abbey called “monkeywrenching”, or what science fiction author Bruce Sterling called a “structure hit”. This of course is a deep violation of our social contract, striking at one of the core values of our society, personal [or corporate] property. I have no idea what property is most valuable to the nazis who invaded Berkeley 2 weekends ago, but I did notice that the groups leaving the rally were small, isolated, and probably not headed to BART.
White Comedy by Benjamin Zephaniah
I waz whitemailed
By a white witch,
Wid white magic
An white lies,
Branded by a white sheep
I slaved as a whitesmith
Near a white spot
Where I suffered whitewater fever.
Whitelisted as a whiteleg
I waz in de white book
As a master of white art,
It waz like white death. People called me white jack
Some hailed me as a white wog,
So I joined de white watch
Trained as a white guard
Lived off the white economy.
Caught and beaten by de whiteshirts
I waz condemned to a white mass,
Don’t worry,
I shall be writing to de Black House.
Dolores Huerta: César Chávez’s family had always lived in Arizona in Mexico.
Border guard 1: [move border] Now it’s in the United States!
Grandfather Cesario: So now I’m American Right?
Border guard 2: Well, I don’t know about that.
Border guard 3: Yeah, you just look like a Mexican to me.
Father: Look papá! A baby boy! We’ll name him César after you!
Grandfather: What a lovely baby.
Little César: I love to play on my family’s farm!
Mother: Bad news. We need to leave our home because we can’t pay the government the taxes that we owe.
Little César: So we’re homeless now?
Mother: Yes, that’s the word when you don’t have a place to live.
Father: We have to travel from farm to farm looking for work.
Mom: You will have to work, too, César.
Little César: Now we drive all around California working on farms. There are new towns and new schools.
Teacher 1: Hi! I’m your new teacher.
Teacher 2: Hi! I’m your new teacher.
Teacher 3: Hi! I’m your new teacher.
Teacher 4: Hi! I’m your new teacher.
Teacher 5: Hi! I’m your new teacher.
Little César: ¡Ay! !Aún otra escuela! ¡Aún otra maestra!
Teacher 6: Stop that! It is bad to speak Spanish! Only dumb people speak Spanish!
Bigger César: Eso no es justo.
Teacher 7: Go sit in the corner. Wear this dunce hat.
Bigger César: Never mind. I need to go work to feed my family. 7th grade will have to be enough.
Recruiter: Join the Navy and defend the United States!
Big César: Aye-aye, sir! [marches around a lot] Wow. That was the worst 2 years of my life!!
Sign carrier: [silently carries sign across stage]
Big César: So that’s what I get for helping defend the United States? People talk about me like I’m a dog? Like I’m not even American?
Worker 1: So where is the organizer who is coming to speak with us?
Big César: Uh… It’s me!
Worker 2: Don’t make me laugh!
Worker 3: You are the leader who is going to get us fairness in our work?
Big César: No, I’m not. You’re the ones who are going to get yourselves fairness at work. I am here to help and lead, but you’re the ones who have to do the job.
Union buster 1: You better quit protesting and get back to work!
Union buster 2: Yeah, you’re pretty small. I bet if I hit you with this stick you would just dry up and blow away.
Big César: That’s probably true, but there are a lot more than me here.
Crowd: ¡Si se puede! ¡Si se puede! ¡Si se puede!
Dolores Huerta: Actually, that was MY line. Not César’s. Like he said— we’re the ones that have to do the job. Not just him. [winks]
Worker 4: César, the stuff they are spraying on the grapes is getting on us and making us sick!
Worker 5: I wonder if it is making people sick when they eat it?
Owner 1: Of course not! It helps me make more money when I spray the grapes. It’s perfectly safe. I would be happy to stand right there beside you in the fields when they spray.
Older César: OK, then. How about tomorrow at 7:00 in the morning when we are working and they airplane comes to spray?
Owner 1: Um, I’d like to, but I have to get a haircut then.
UFW member 1: César, please drink some of this broth I made you! It is not good to stop eating for so many days!
Older César: I… can’t… this … is how… I show… that it is… more important to me… than life or death.
UFW member 2: ¡Ay, César! If you go on hunger strike like this, you will damage your health. You probably won’t even live to be 70 years old!
Dolores Huerta: [aside] Yeah, we told him, but he wouldn’t listen. Look at me! I’m almost 90 now, and I just go, go, go! ¡Viva la causa! In fact, César will die at age 66. He won’t even live to see the year 2000.
All workers and UFW members: ¡No compran uvas! ¡No compran uvas!
Kid: Mommy, can we buy some grapes? They’re my favorite fruit!
Mom: Well, you like oranges, too, don’t you? The farm workers outside wouldn’t ask us not to buy grapes unless it was really important.
Kid: Yay! Oranges!
Owner 2: Will you look at all this fruit? It’s just rotting! This will cost hundreds of thousands of dollars!
Owner 3: Wow. Who knew we needed people so badly?
Owner 4: Yeah, it’d probably just be cheaper to pay the UFW better wages, don’t you think?
UFW member 3: My feet feel like they are on fire!
UFW member 4: How far can Sacramento be, anyway?
UFW member 5: Only about 5 hours.
All UFW members: [yelling] That’s only if you are driving in a car! We’re walking the whole way!
UFW member 6: ¡Ay! Hey, has anyone seen César?
Older César: This better be awfully important. I’m supposed to be out somewhere near Tracy walking all the way to Sacramento.
Farm owners: OK, fine Mr. Chávez. You win. Let’s negotiate a contract!
Farm owner 5: You’re a pretty tough opponent, Mr. Chávez.
Older César: Look I told you, I told them, I told everybody. It’s not me: it’s all of us. It’s the whole United Farm Workers. It’s all our families. It’s all the people who do the work that you need to get done. That’s who!
Familiar Bike, Demonic Bike
by Joseph Glydon
CityBike, January 1995
Anton Szandor LaVey, in his brilliant discourse on the male psyche, tragically mistitled The Satanic Witch, has a thing or two to say about me and their cars. His perceptions can, of course, be conveniently extended to accommodate motorcycles.
Lavey’s most significant insight is that a man’s (or a woman’s) bike represents either their demonic (opposite) side, or their familiar (similar) side. The demonic motorcycle represents what is inert, suppressed or unresolved in the rider’s persona. Ye Olde Oxford Dictionary defines demon as: “Supernatural, being, inferior deity, spirit, ghost, in-dwelling or attendant spirit...” The word demon does not necessarily relate to evil. In the context of LaVey’s writing, the demonic is regarded to be the hidden self, the unexpressed self. The counterpoint personality below the surface. A familiar motorcycle, on the other hand, like the witch’s traditional familiar, the black cat, has a personality very much like its rider.
The first class or demonic relationship between rider and motorcycle is best demonstrated by the Harley-centered evangelism of otherwise highly-respectable members of the local citizenry. In this case, the motorcycle confers upon its rider the status of Mister Demon, just as twenty-year-old arm candy surrounds the aging middle manager with an aura of virility. The demonic, it seems is the seat of all that one lives irrationally. It is the latent seed of infatuation, the incubator of passion and obsession. If one chooses motorcycles, lovers, or other art forms on the basis of the relentless nudging of the demonic self, pragmatism becomes an unwanted turd in one’s existential soup.
In the clarified broth of contemporary Harley pageantry, all those intimidated little demons have had their day in the sun (Sunday?) parading in mass on runs organized by one benevolent/ corporate entity of another. The demon is leashed, tamed, and home in tame to get the barbecue (barbarian cooker) going. By the way, Anton advises that amorous women not try to compete romantically with a vehicle that answers to a man’s demonic side. It’s too much like breaking up a good marriage.
The fact that Harley riders look so unlike their motorcycles betrays the demonic nature of the attraction. While the bikes themselves are ll color, sparkle and chrome, their riders can only be properly attired in basic black with an authenticating patina of grunge. The motorcycle embodies the radiant, transcendent spirit; the rider is its dark side, its earthbound acolyte. Sacred wounds in form of tattoos, and consecrated (licensed by Willie) garments confirm the humble and enduring reverence of the Biker.
The second class of demonic influence on motorcycle choice is seen among the Ducati enthusiasts. Like Harley thugsters, the Ducati cognoscente are at the mercy of the hidden demon’s need to be heard and seen. But the twist is a little different with Ducatis and other notoriously-demanding exotics: the bike itself mirrors the hidden demon. In the Harley-based relationship, it is the rider who wields the rubber pitchfork, in the case of Ducati, the bike is the bitch.
Sportbikes are the third class of demonic reconciliation on tho wheels. In this instance, the bike and rider are inseparable; combined to synergistically produce a unique entity, fiercer than either of its components. This is a demonic manifestation that writes checks you can cash at most hospitals and police stations. Sportbikes can also function as familiar motorcycles, as in the case of those full-clip testosterone loopers to be mentioned later.
At this point I was considering exploring the demonic aspects of vintage British motorcycle ownership, but hey, Merry Christmas Norton owners.
Moving on to the realm of the familiar motorcycle, the whole scenario changes. It becomes, well, boring. According to LaVey’s thinking, a rider who chooses a motorcycle that’s as reasonable as a moderately well-adjusted human being is probably having his demonic side answered more satisfactorily by a lover, or worse, personal expression. If you think the industry is in the doldrums now, imagine a motorcycle market consisting exclusively of windbreaker-clad transportation riders. Someone so inclined could argue that if humans didn’t come equipped with a demonic side, bikes would have no place as civilian transportation. That someone, however, isn’t me.
You can usually tell a motorcycle that functions as a rider’s familiar, because it either has no image at all, or an image nobody would pay a nickel over MSRP to enjoy. Exceptions to this are the truly anti-social Harley riders, and the aforementioned sportbike youts, who are as ready to display an inappropriate response to accepted behavior as their 160-mph sportbike are to break the speed limit. In both cases, these individuals are likely to have had their riding time curtailed by the need to need to pay social debts in one sort of a correctional facility or another.
The most common species of familiar riders can usually be seen on standard and touring bikes. They don’t want to have have an emotionally-meaningful relationship with riding. The bike becomes an extension of the self. With the exception of fully-coordinated Gold Wing riders, such motorcyclists hardly think about how they look on their bikes-- and it shows.
BMW riders are the most self-conscious familiar motorcycle riders in the world. BMW owners confirm their familiar relationship by their dress. BMW owners and their bikes tend to show an unblinking fashion harmony reminiscent of those married couples who wear identical, very expensive, pastel yacht club sweatshirts or gold outfits. They also depend on their motorcycles to express how mature and well-adjusted they are. BMWs function not just as tools but as tools with a message. Like the career mechanic's monolithic, red Snap-on chest displaying an earthly fortune in premium wrenches, the BMW motorcycle conveys a sense that its owner is a serious and devoted motorcyclists. Of all the marques, the BMW is truest to the spirit of the familiar motorcycle.
Next month: Nortons in purgatory.
I spotted some vineyards in the spring from the uplands of Etiwanda on a walk. The entire landscape spread out before me used to be covered in grapevines when I was a kid in the area in the 60s and 70s. Now, re-familiarizing myself with the place 50 years later, I was surprised to find a scrap left over just a bit east, on the other side of the 15 freeway in Fontana. My visits to the remnant vineyard began with the unmistakable yellow-green of spring foliage and bunches of hard green grapes. When I looked again at intervals in the summer and fall, I saw the fruit ripen, redden, and, finally, dry up to form raisins.
Vineyards in California in the 21st century spread across the landscape from the famous Napa Valley to further south than my Cucamonga curiosity. What typifies them is an excess of care. A basic criterion is the stake-and-wire arrangement where plants are trained up trunks like bared forearms to the flexible branches and tendrils that bear or will bear the fruit. For the grape picker using a curved knife, this makes the bunches accessible from a standing or sitting position. Mechanical pickers--motorized gantlets of rubber paddles-- violently strip the grapes from the vines, along with leaves, branches, mice and snakes. For these monstrous machines, vines groomed to the wires fit between their wheels, allowing them to harvest one row at a time. Fencing outside the vineyards is either formidable, in the case of industrial operations in isolated expanses among the hills, or "twee" closer to the highway, sometimes using thickets of roses. Relating to the wine-tasting tourist, this fencing is reminiscent of the white staked fences seen on horse ranches in tonier rural areas. The vines in Fontana are not on stakes and wires. They rise perhaps as much as 2 feet above the ground, not the 5 or 6 feet of staked vineyards.
Each bush here in Fontana sand spreads out to about 4 feet in diameter. Bordered by highways and freeways, they grow on what was clearly desert sand before their entry on the scene. I meander in unobstructed from the shoulder of the road into the rows, just as the litter and debris of passing traffic does. No fence interferes, nor is there any sign warning the wanderer away. A powerline right of way cutting through the vineyard is equally open: cars sometimes drive under the wires, sometimes leaving trash piles, despite signs there prohibiting entry. Sight lines are long: the interloper can be spotted from as much as mile away, but I have not been questioned there. The few weeds are familiar to anyone who grew up crossing vacant lots as a child in the Southern California. The vineyard does not appear cared for, though occasional tire tracks between some rows say otherwise, and the weeds might be more numerous I suppose.
As an urban fruit gleaner and an amateur fermenter, I am immediately drawn the question of whether or not this fruit is utilized. Certainly, the potential harvest would be large, and while I find the idea of wasting that much fruit abhorrent, everything around me in the car-centric urban sprawl of Rancho Cucamonga tells me that waste is A-OK.
Well, these grapes apparently do not go to waste. Next, I will write about how I found out. I also found out significantly more than I had ever intended.
