Free State Observer

One of my legions [cough] of fans asked me recently why I hadn’t blogged in so long. Well, I’ll tell you: I’ve been freakin’ busy! Here are the blog entries that could have been, and maybe still will be if I ever get a round tuit:
* Free State Project litter pickup in Peterborough, wherein I release my inner garbageman and throw out my back
* the LP National Convention in Denver and its aftermath, aka Fear and Loathing in Libertarianland
* my third anniversary in New Hampshire
* PorcFest, featuring free-flowing liquor, low-lying clouds of weed, topless chicks, group sex, live bands, an anarchic caricaturist, and oh yeah, some political stuff
* celebrating the summer solstice in the Free Town of Grafton, getting ready for the now-in-progress Burning Porcupine Festival
* bicycle rally in Keene, wherein I break in my new bike (which deserves a blog entry all by itself)
* FreedomFest in Las Vegas (baby)

We were quite gruntled to be asked out by a charming but nefarious fellow Free Stater who, in an ongoing effort to win my blackened heart, has mercilessly deployed over-the-top flattery, roses, sonnets (OK, that one’s a lie), and romantic sojourns to the peak of Mount Pack Monadnock, Ashuelot Pond Dam, and the Nashua Dartmouth-Hitchcock Emergency Room. So yeah, things are looking up.

Meanwhile, I’ve finally arrived in the fun-filled fantasyland of IT consulting: my client is mad at me for not delivering twice what they asked for in half the time it reasonably takes to develop and deliver it. Meanwhile, I have been drafted to assist on another project that is in itself a full-time job. Both of these are in addition to my regular full-time job. Good times.

Let’s have a song, shall we?

Sandra’s Having Her Brain Out

Sandra’s having her brain out
Sandra’s having her brain out
Sandra’s having her brain out, now
And she feels alright
Like a slot machine
Like a pimple too

You don’t really need a brain, ducky
If you’re a girl
It’s like tonsils
They’re more trouble than they’re worth

Sandra’s having her brain out
Sandra’s having her brain out out out out
Out out
Sandra’s been to nightmare school
Sandra done a collage of nightmares
Slept with a virus and slept with a mule
Now, she works in a shop in a crimpolene hairnet
And she works in a shop in the south
Now she waddles around in a crimpolene hairnet
Tickets grow out of her mouth

Someone’s pulling your leaves off
Someone’s pulling your leaves off
Someone’s pulling your leaves off
Someone’s pulling your leaves off
Pull ‘em off

Sandra’s having her brain out
Brenda’s having her heart washed
Norman’s having his soul dry-cleaned
Sandra’s having her brain out
Brenda’s having her heart washed
Barry’s having his mind replaced

And they feel alright!
Like a naked bulb
Like a living bulb

Bloaty’s having his
Bloaty’s having his
Bloaty’s having his
Bloaty’s having his
Bloaty’s having his newt installed

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[Editor’s note: our blogger was taken behind the woodshed and bitchslapped for the recent pathetic display of self-pity. This entry has been edited to stick to the topics of freedom-fighting and no more than the usual quantity of whininess.]

[Editor’s note: You’ve also watched Fight Club twice in the past week. You clearly have issues. Now STFU.]

Is it just me, or do the days just keep getting looonger and looooooonger?

Thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster it’s almost over. No, not winter; spring.

I don’t know why, but spring tends to be a very bad time of year for me. At the Free State Project’s recent PorcFest, a delightful event full of libertarian activists, reunions with old friends and introductions to new ones, cool bands, guns, topless chicks, and FREE BEER & BAR compliments of Sakal CAI, I attended a presentation on The Law of Attraction, which included various interpretations of the concept and a spirited Q&A session. If you support this theory, then you’ll say I bring my spring fevers on myself. If so, I wonder why? Am I punishing myself for crimes in a past life? Have I been cursed by a resident of Mt. Olympus whose love I rejected? Am I mentally defective? Psychologically crippled? Born under a bad sign? I truly don’t know.

[edited for excessive self-pity and airing of personal dirty laundry]

First, I’m going to retreat into my cave and lick my wounds. This will quite likely involve a certain amount of tear-shedding and ice cream consumption. Then I’m going to do some very serious soul-searching and analyzing and try to get to the bottom of why I’m in this position, determine a course of action, and then take the steps necessary to get myself to a better place (emotionally speaking). This may sound ridiculous, pompous, and/or irrational coming from a self-avowed atheist, but I believe I was “put here”, erm, “landed here”, “evolved here”, for a purpose. I haven’t fulfilled it yet. I aim to.

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PUBLIC NOTICE

State of Emergency

10 Day National Bank Holiday Declared

Starting on June 5, 2008 and lasting through June 15, 2008 all US Citizens, Americans, Foreign Nationals, and Resident Aliens are hereby requested by the authority of We The People of the United States to withdraw all Federal Reserve Bank Notes (U.S. Dollars) from their personal bank for a term no less than ten (10) days. This includes all checking, savings, CDs etc.

Due to the reckless policies of the central bank of the United States, the Federal Reserve, its Chairman and Board of Governors a financial state of emergency exists. Billions of dollars of financial relief afforded to Wall St. because of the sub-prime mortgage market meltdown and the “economic stimulus package” for the American Taxpayer has resulted in hyper-accelerated inflation causing record price indexes for gas, food, energy and the cost of living.

This 10 day bank holiday is designed to strengthen the buying power of the U.S. Dollar by limiting the amount in circulation, therefore reducing inflation. Withdrawing funds reduces their reserves and minimalizes the amount of money the banks can lend, reducing the impact of inflation therefore lowering prices. Please note: Banks can loan out their holdings by a factor of 9. When new funds are deposited, the banks can loan out 9 times the actual deposit.

Americans participating in this national 10 day bank holiday are encouraged, not required, to withhold their federal reserve debt notes (U.S. dollars) outside of banking institutions for as long as possible.

This 10 day bank holiday is also intended to strike the source of the problem by demanding the repealing of the “Federal Reserve Act of 1913″, and likewise demand “lawful money” backed by gold or silver printed by the U.S. Treasury to replace the fiat currency backed by debt printed by the Federal Reserve.

Please note: Banks have limits on cash withdrawals per day to prevent rapid depletion of their cash reserves, stagger withdrawals to achieve desired balances.

Also note: In cases where minimum balances must be maintained individuals must decide to either close their account or maintain the minimum balance to avoid penalties.

This June 5th marks the 75th anniversary of the United States going off the gold standard.
This June 15th marks the 172nd anniversary of the repealing of the charter of the “Bank of the United States” by the 24th Congress.

This 10 day bank holiday is so declared by the authority of
We The People of the United States.

The Free State Observer pledges to participate. Will you?
this june 5th

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You know what really burns my butt?
A flame about three feet high.
— Miss Mona, Best Little Whorehouse in Texas

I have a deep, dark confession to make.

I love Dolly Parton.

I know, I know, this totally clashes with the hip kid persona I have tried (and so utterly failed) to cultivate. But seriously, it does clash with my usual musical preferences, which generally hover in the hard rock, new wave, alternative and hip hop genres. I just can’t help myself; even as a kid, when my father’s country music playing on the radio above his handyman workbench in the garage would send me bolting in disgust, I actually kind of liked “Here You Come Again”. I’m happy to say I’ve become much more open-minded about various genres of popular music than I was as a snot-nosed black-T-shirt-wearing teen, and I’ve even added a few country albums to my CD collection over the years. But Dolly is in a class by herself in my heart. Is it her angelic voice, her irresistible giggle, her outrageous wigs, her Jessica Rabbit figure, her incredible song-writing talent (25 #1 hit singles and counting), her wonderfully down-to-earth attitude and willingness to poke fun at herself, that Smoky Mountain accent that takes me back to my years in Tennessee, the happiest of my childhood? It’s all those things, but I think the thing I like about her most of all is the joy she seems to exude. So when I heard she was coming to Boston, I unclenched my tightwad fist, opened my wallet, and shelled out the bucks for a concert ticket.

Despite the fact that it’s a mere 30 miles away, I rarely venture into Boston. Too much traffic, too little parking, WAY too many socialists. But for Dolly, I left work early, snarfed down dinner as quickly as possible, and made the trek to downtown B-town. I parked in the Boston Common Garage, which stays open all night and is quite cheap by Boston parking standards, which is saying very, very little. The Opera House was a pleasant stroll away on the other side of the Common, so I enjoyed the sunset on a spring day, people walking their dogs, a baseball game in progress. I became aware that I was in the theater district when I suddenly noticed I was surrounded by gay men. I mean, it’s not the Castro, but still, I was surprised. I made it to the Opera House without incident *or* getting lost (don’t worry, I more than made up for it on the way home) and a good 20 minutes early. Some of the Dolly T-shirts they were selling were sorely tempting, but I couldn’t bring my cheapskate self to fork over $40 for one.

The Boston Opera House is quite gorgeous; I sat slack-jawed while admiring the ornate fooferah on every inch of the walls and ceiling. I’ve been to a few concerts that were bi-generational, but this may have been the first one I’ve been to that was truly multi-generational. There were quite a lot of elderly people there. And people my age. And hipsters in their twenties. One guy dressed as a cowboy with a red hat, and a lot of women in evening dresses. I wore something pink and mildly cleavage-baring, in honor of the occasion.

Just my luck, a 70-year-old man going stag had the seat next to me and yes, he wanted to chat. Let’s call him “Spencer” (because that was his name). He lived on Beacon Hill and had walked to the show. I made the mistake of asking if it was considered safe to cross the Common after dark, to which he gallantly replied that he would be pleased to escort me back to my car after the show. I didn’t have the heart to wound his pride by pointing out that a senior citizen only slightly taller than myself wouldn’t offer all that much protection, if it came to that. So he became my date for the evening.

Dolly came onstage promptly at 8:00, “looking better than a body’s got a right to” considering she’s in her freakin’ 60’s. During the course of the evening, she performed several of her biggest hits, including “Here You Come Again”, “Jolene”, “I Will Always Love You” (did you know she wrote that song that made Whitney Houston the diva of the decade?), “9 to 5″, “Islands in the Stream”, and many I was unfamiliar with, including a few off her latest album, Backwoods Barbie. I knew she’s a great songwriter, and knew she defies the laws of physics by managing to play guitar with long, painted nails, but I had no idea she can play about 20 gazillion other instruments, some of which I couldn’t even identify. During the course of one show, she played guitar, banjo, slide guitar, piano, whistle/recorder(?), harpsichord(?), tamborine, and I know I’m forgetting a couple. She was also pretty spry for a 60-something who recently injured her back, prancing about the stage in high heels, and her voice sounds as good as ever, despite the fact that she has been performing in public and making records for over 50 YEARS. She actually sang a song she wrote, and recorded, when she was 10 years old! She also talked a lot about her very large, very close Pentecostal hillbilly family. During the song “Coat of Many Colors”, written about a coat her mother sewed for her out of scraps of cloth because they were too poor to buy one at the store, rumor has it that I may actually have shed a few tears, but of course I categorically deny any such accusations.

There was an intermission, after which Dolly came back in an adorable pink cowgirl outfit with a skirt so tight she could barely sit down to play the piano. Everyone in her band got an opportunity to solo during a medley of some of her favorite songs that spanned the decades of the 50’s, the 60’s, and the 70’s. It kind of boggles the mind to realize that she has been working steadily through every phase of modern popular music. And she has no intention of retiring; in fact, she said her wish is to eventually keel over on stage, mid-song, with a big smile on her face.

After the show, I was stuck with my noble escort (I did draw the line at taking his arm when profferred), who not only kept his word by leading me across the Common (although, considering that I was wearing suede sneakers, and recalling how many dogs had been getting walked earlier, I really wish he hadn’t made me walk through the grass), but escorted me *into* the garage and all the way to my car. And then asked me for a ride. WTF?! I didn’t see how I could say no, though, so I dropped him off at the foot of Beacon Hill, nearly getting creamed by a taxi for my efforts.

Apparently, every *single* highway in the state of Massachusetts is currently being worked on at night. My adventure with Spencer slowed me down just enough that the on-ramp I needed for the highway back to New Hampshire was walled off by cops and hazard cones just as I got to it; I was literally the first car to not get on. Then, my meager navigatory skills spent, I wandered aimlessly from highway to highway, somehow winding up in Saugus (mmmm, Saugus), then Newburyport, which I know is nowhere near where I wanted to be because that’s where my boss lives and she has a crappy commute. All in all, it took me at least 2 hours to get home. As God is my witness, I *will* buy a GPS system this year. I hate Massachusetts.

But I love Dolly.

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[editor’s note: the following post may be offensive to hippies, Christians, and people who don’t find South Park funny]

A few weeks ago, I received an invitation to attend an organizational meeting of a new “ecovillage” that’s being developed in Barnstead. I didn’t know what an ecovillage is, or where Barnstead is, but I was intrigued enough to find out more.

The idea behind the ecovillage is that a couple of self-described hippies own a large tract of largely undeveloped land. They’re getting on in years and lack the time and energy to develop it themselves. They’re also demoralized by battling, for years, with the planning nazis of their small town, who have wasted a great deal of their time and money by imposing various arbitrary rules on them as far as what kind of home they can live in on their own property, how many friends they can have living with them, etc. But, as you are probably aware, the national real estate market is in the toilet right now, so they don’t even have the option of selling their property. Their adult children don’t share their passion for permaculture and have no interest in giving up their various careers to live in Barnstead. So the property owners are making a last-ditch effort to meet like-minded individuals willing to join them and try to develop an intentional permaculture community on the property.

I had to look up the word permaculture on wikipedia, as I really didn’t know what it meant. After doing so, I liked what I saw. I particularly liked this quote: “Permaculture design principles extend from the position that “The only ethical decision is to take responsibility for our own existence and that of our children” (Mollison, 1990).” Although I was pretty turned off of modern American environmentalism as practiced by mainstream government-funded-and/or-colluding nonprofit organizations, based on my experiences working for the Sierra Club and a nonprofit recycling company, I still believe in the fundamental concepts. Resource conservation makes sense. I like fuzzy woodland creatures. I’ve been known to climb a tree (OK, mostly I just *think* about climbing trees…). I’ve also been giving a lot of thought to what kind of house, if any, I’d like to own. The truth is, a 1-BR apartment holds me, my cats, and everything else I own pretty nicely, and I am beyond lazy when it comes to things like housecleaning and handyman tasks. The thought of me owning a 3+-BR house seems like a recipe for disaster, unless I firmly commit to paying other people to maintain it for me. So the idea of developing a community based on the principles of resource and energy conservation, possibly featuring tiny houses, appeals to me. I also like the idea of having privacy within my own modest home, while still having the option of hobnobbing with other freedom-loving individuals who live within walking distance. Plus, the ability to just pack your house on a trailer and relocate it as necessary has definite appeal in these increasingly fascistic times.

I missed the first ecovillage organizational meeting due to illness. I did make it to the second, but showed up late on account of having to rush from the monthly LPNH meeting. By the time I got there, everyone else had disappeared into the woods for a tour of the property. One woman who had stayed behind told me which direction to head into the woods, and said “When you get to the yellow schoolbus, just keep going.” Ah yes… I was definitely in Hippie Country.

Perhaps I should mention that I spent many years in the socialist triangle of Berkeley/Oakland/San Francisco California. I attended college at Cal Berkeley, spending the first two years living one block up from People’s Park. I know hippies. And, [Cartman mode]GODDAMMIT!!![/Cartman mode] I don’t like ‘em.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I occasionally burn incense. I saw the Dead… twice! (Granted, I fell asleep during one of the shows.) I am most definitely anti-war. I can even tolerate the scent of patchouli.

But many other aspects of hippiedom make my stomach churn. I’ve got nothing against peace, love and happiness per se, but for Christ’s sake, would you get a JOB?! Take a SHOWER?! Plan for your own FUTURE, not to mention that of your children and those two mangy dogs you’ve got living under the overpass with you?! Unconditional love, IMHO, should be limited to pets and babies. Everyone else needs to *earn* love by being a decent, pleasant, productive human being. Obviously, if Jesus “Love Thy Neighbor” Christ and I had to go mano a mano, Jesus would kick my weenie ass in the fans-of-his-philosophy department, but I don’t care. I’m right, [Cartman mode]GODDAMMIT!!![/Cartman mode], and Jesus was just the first of the hippies, mooching free food and crash space off other people with, you know… jobs.

Where the hell was I?? Oh yeah, Barnstead. So, I caught up with the others, but was surprised to discover that, although all the snow had melted down where I live on the southern border of the state, there was still at least a foot of it up there in the woods. Fortunately, Doc Martens are fairly waterproof. We had a nice tour of the property, which is beautiful. We saw an owl head (yes, just the head), which was an odd David Lynchian touch. The owner of the property, who seems like a very nice old guy, told us his history with the property and what his vision for it is. Then we adjourned to a cabin on the property to continue the discussions.

Now, despite the fact that Barnstead is a bit beyond commute distance from my job, and my aforementioned aversion to hippies, I was trying really hard to keep an open mind and to see if I might be able to work with these people. Unfortunately, the owner lost me when he started discussing the mandatory ground-rules that would have to be applied to all who chose to pay to come live on his property. They included the following:
* no alcohol (granted, I don’t drink, but I have friends and relatives who do)
* no drugs (no mention was made of allowance for people who smoke marijuana for medicinal purposes)
* no firearms (I guess intruders will be kept off by the smell of patchouli?)
* no harsh language, because that is violence
* no walking your dog in the woods; it might disturb the wild creatures

Now I’m sorry, but this, to me, does not sound like a recipe for “freedom”. Some of these rules were to be imposed as a form of self-defense against the local police, who would apparently be looking for any excuse to shut the whole thing down. I fully understand that, and would probably be equally eager to protect my assets, liability-wise, if I were the one who owned the property. But still, if I can’t get hammered and scream obscenities at my significant other within the privacy of my own home, and must rely upon my bad breath to scare off intruders, what’s the point? And what the hell did my (theoretical) dog do to anyone?

Maybe I’ll take a second look at Grafton.
– fin –

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A few weeks ago, when I was visiting the fam in California, my mother asked, “Why do you blog?”
To which I replied, “That’s a very good question.”

Since then, I’ve been giving that some thought. Granted, I often crack myself up writing this shite (I laugh at my jokes, whether or not anyone else gets them). And sometimes there’s a certain feeling of catharsis from getting something off my chest. But aside from that, why *am* I doing this?

Long-time readers may recall (and anyone can see on the About FSO page) that the original stated purpose of this blog was as follows:

to provide news, opinions and journals written by libertarian activists in the state of New Hampshire. Our writers are actively involved in New Hampshire politics, business and civic life. The FSO provides an insiders’ view of the growing New Hampshire libertarian community.

The predecessor to “Free State Observer” was entitled “5437 Miles to Freedom”, named for the mileage on my car after driving from Oakland, CA to Manchester, NH three years ago next month during my move to the “Free State”. The blog then migrated to the domain Free State Observer, partly as a project for a class I was doing in the Libertarian Leadership School, and partly with the intention of expanding it into a multi-writer blog with a greater diversity of styles and opinions. That idea never got far off the ground, although there are a few entries by other people in the archives. You can check out Free State Blogs , which was launched after this blog but really took that concept and ran with it.

I’ve been gruntled to receive very positive feedback from numerous people over the years, some of whom I was quite surprised to learn read this blog. But to be honest, I’m not aware of having convinced a single solitary person to join the FSP and/or move to New Hampshire based on the past 2 1/2 years of writing. Oh well.

My signature on the FSP forum, years back, was “Free your mind, and your ass will follow” (a line from a Parliament/Funkadelic song). I did free my mind, at least part of the way, and it dragged my ass to New Hampshire. I have no regrets about that. I intend to stay. However, I’m frequently befuddled by the level of, how shall I say… “irrational exuberance” expressed by almost every other Free State Project early mover I know. Check out this recent article for a few unpleasant statistics; I leave it as an exercise for the class to draw your own conclusions (or not, as the case may be).

By the way, I don’t think I ever explained the origin of my online handle “Friday”, which I’ve been using steadily for… christ… 22 years now. (I was a BBS freak before this here Internet thingie even went mainstream.) It comes from the title character of a novel by my favorite libertarian writer, Robert Heinlein, which I read at age 17 on the recommendation of the person who also taught me the word “libertarian”. It chronicles the adventures of a multitalented but mildly neurotic female secret agent. There’s quite a bit of sex and violence. Also, kittens. She winds up emigrating to a new planet, where the book ends, because she’s just too busy living her life and being happy to bother with chronicling her adventures anymore. I used to think it was a bit of an anticlimactic ending, but now I kind of get it.

I could just keep this blog going as a journal of my thoughts, feelings and daily activities. But I hate that shit. As I said in my very first post: “I know what you’re thinking… the Internet needs another blog like you need a hole in the head. Well listen… this isn’t your average blog.” I don’t want it to turn into the average blog; or even worse, just be neglected, so that people check in occasionally and find that nothing has been posted since last year (the fate that seems to befall almost every other blog I’ve ever bothered to check out). I also don’t want to be an idiot. I’m finding new ways to maximize my personal freedom and happiness, but it would be counter-productive to myself to blog about them (helLO Homeland Security, BATF, IRS, TSA, FBI, XYZ and PDQ, and thank you for your patronage! ).

Anyway, I’m not ready to “blow up the school” [random BTVS reference] just yet… although I am still reading Atlas Shrugged, and Wyatt Ellis has already blown up his oil well. Still waiting for poor dimwitted Dagny to get a clue: everyone else is leaping out of the pool, and she doesn’t understand why; she has failed to see the turd someone has launched in it that’s headed right for her. She’ll open her eyes soon; I hope you will too.

And now, let’s see what’s on Friday’s nightstand for some light-hearted bedtime reading:
Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand
Crash Proof: How to Profit from the Coming Economic Collapse - Peter Schiff
The Collapse of the Dollar and How to Profit From It - James Turk & John Rubino
When All Hell Breaks Loose - Cody Lundin
How to Be Invisible - J.J. Luna
How I Found Freedom in an Unfree World - Harry Browne

Blog series finale most likely coming soon!

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When not thinking deep anarchocapitalist thoughts and compulsively listening to FreeDomainRadio, I work for a software consulting company, where almost all work is project-based. Periodically, as a project is completed (or “goes live” in the geek vernacular), the project manager sends out a company-wide email announcement about the successful implementation/upgrade/bilking (just kidding on that last one) for Client XYZ with public thank yous to Tom, Dick and Sanjay for all their hard work. One of these announcements went out a couple of months ago, for some company I’d never heard of. Here’s an excerpt:

It is with great pleasure that I announce the successful Go Live of PDQ Corporation in January. We are currently assisting PDQ with closing their books for their first month in Oracular.

PDQ specializes in the design and manufacture of electro- explosively actuated devices and gas storage and release systems for military, underwater and aerospace applications.

My initial thoughts on reading this were an inward chuckle of black-hearted glee at the unbelievably twisted Orwellianosity of “electro-explosively actuated devices”. Can’t they just say BOMBS?! Then, reading the list of names under Tom, Dick and Sanjay, I chuckled even harder when I saw my own name in the list. Now that is a comic error. Then, I thought “Hey, wait a minute…..” :-\

I did indeed work on that project. For one whole hour, I assisted a coworker. I didn’t even know which project it was for at the time (and have never met the coworker, come to think of it; much of my work is done via email), and was just given a 5-digit project code to put on my timecard after the fact. But I guess I must admit that I did something evil, if ignorantly and extremely tangentially (technically, I assisted someone who was assisting others who create stuff that other people use to do evil in configuring software to balance their checkbook). How heinous, bogus, and non-triumphant.

So far I’ve been pretty lucky, working for a succession of clients with whom I have absolutely no philosophical differences: an online job placement company (jobs are good; I like jobs!); a global travel company (basic human necessity in the modern world); a company that invented a simple industrial product so very ubiquitous, the company name is now a part of the English language; and most recently, a pretty nifty high-tech company whose products you have undoubtedly used if you’ve ever listened to a CD or viewed a DVD (and who have the coolest office art you can imagine, including an original 1968-issue Fillmore poster and whose conference room has a “Rolling Stones” theme.) But some of my officemates haven’t got off so clean. They have worked for a client in the “defense” industry, where security is so tight they’re not allowed to bring their cell phones with them because, if allowed to do so, they would surreptitiously take photos of lethal bleeding-edge (pun-intended) technology and transmit them to Kim Jong-il or MI6 or something.

What happens the day they ask me to work for Mass Murder Inc.? “That will be an interesting day.*” I like to think I will respectfully refuse.

*will these infernal Firefly quotes never end?

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Just got back from my first trip to KKKalifornia in almost two years. It hasn’t changed. I spent the first week in the East Bay attending training for work, then spent a few days visiting the fam (which I shall not discuss as it has recently come to my attention that my mom reads this blog… eep!) in the north bay.

My radio karma was definitely in effect on this trip. The day I was driving from the East Bay to the North Bay, just around the moment where I was wondering for the first of what would be many occasions why I was doing 10 mph on a multilane freeway in perfect weather during non-commute hours with no accidents nearby, the radio regaled me with California Uber Alles by the Dead Kennedys. Oh, right. I’m in CALIFORNIA. At the end of the trip, just as I was about to return my rental car, I was treated to the mellifluous sounds of my favorite Northern California homegrown band, Cake, covering Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive“, which seemed strangely apropros considering how much time I spent feeling maudlin about places I used to live, people I’ve loved and lost, yadda yadda. Then, when I’d made it back to the Free State of New Hampshire and had just crossed over the town line into my town, the radio played my favorite song by my favorite band, Kiss Off by the Violent Femmes. Which reminded me that the world’s most neglected and woefully out-of-date fan site was due to expire at the end of the month, but, overwhelmed with nostalgia, I decided to renew it for another year. Maybe I’ll turn it into a chicks-with-guns site.

I bitch and moan a lot about California, but the truth is, there are a lot of things I love about it. And considering that the human body is 65-90% water (I’m probably at the high end of that scale, considering how much water I drink on a daily basis), my adult body was made out of Calistoga Water. Also, sea salt from shark-infested Stinson Beach; dirt, bugs and grass seeds from my many hours wandering the golden hills in my youth; strawberries, grapes, artichokes and mint leaves from my parents’ backyard; pebbles and gravel embedded in my knees from running cross-country in high school; countless bottles of Sutter Home… let’s face it, I might as well have a tag that says “Made in CA” on the back of my neck.

Jack London served as bookends on my trip; on my first day released from work, I visited his statue in Jack London Square, Oakland, and said “Hey buddy”, and on my last day I visited his former ranch in the wine country. The Valley of the Moon is God’s own country in the springtime. While enjoying a nature walk amongst oak trees, golden poppies, poison oak (”Leaves of three, let it be”), rattlesnakes (”do not provoke”), and mountain lions (”may be unpredictable”), I pondered the paradox of London’s avowed love of socialism, and the fact that he was the epitome of the rugged individualist and self-made man throughout his too-short life. That led me to think of the number of people I know who call themselves libertarians, or even anarchocapitalists, but their actions tell a very different story. What’s the point of labelling yourself an anarchocapitalist if all your behavior makes you indistinguishable from a card-carrying Republican apparatchik? How can you claim to espouse a philosophy of self-responsibility while *not* acting responsibly regarding your own health, financial welfare and/or children? I don’t know; my little jet-lagged brain can’t make sense of it. But it seems to me that actions speak louder than words.

I’ll wrap up with my favorite JL quote:

“I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.”

Very, very, very glad to be home.

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