Juneteenth: 143 Years Later

Yesterday the United States of America took the largest step ever toward the healing the gaping historical wound between whites and people of color in this nation. While the Emancipation Proclamation made the abolition of slavery a national intention in 1863, it wasn't until the 13th Amendment was ratified that the monstrous sin of slavery was outlawed. That was on December 6th, 1865. Previously, on June 19th of that year, in Galveston, Texas, a Union general emancipated former slaves in Texas, and the little known (by most white folk) Black holiday of Juneteenth was born. Now one hundred and forty-three years later, a man who in 1863 would have been legally considered inferior, or even more abhorrent, the physical property of a white man in some states where he campaigned the heaviest, is the President Elect of this great country.

Those of you who know me, know I rarely speak about our nation with such affectionate language.

But now I can.

Now WE can.

All of us. Not just veterans, not just civil servants, not just the descendants of historically prominent citizens, not just bitter/crazy flag waving white people . . .

Back during the primary elections I was torn between so many good democratic candidates. Clinton seemed the practical choice. Richardson and Edwards (at the time) both moved me with their focus on the common citizen, and they had solid experience. I, like so many, was afraid to put my hopes in the exuberant fresh faced young man who reminded me of so many of my heroes from history. I could hear the echoes of John and Robert Kennedy, could feel familiar inspired energy of Martin Luther King Jr. I debated a long time in the polling station. Finally, I decided, I wanted to believe, I wanted to hope, I wanted to bet on a dream. I voted for Obama.

Yesterday, over half of the 133 million participants in the election voted the same way. Today I echo Michelle Obama--today I am proud to call myself an American. Its a strange and wonderful new feeling-to have hope and pride in one's nation.

As I sat on the couch and talked with Ashley, I became aware that for the last eight years I have turned quite inward in my vision of the future. I could see a place and future for Ashley and me, but it was like living with all the drapes closed: I couldn't see the future of this country, not even glimpse an idea of where we might go. Now the drapes are down and I can see good things for us as a nation. My social ostracism as a child had left me feeling like an outcast, my political views the last ten years have left me feeling like I can only relate to the underrepresented views and desires of so many. But now I feel I am part of it. I feel part of the whole. For the first time my vote has been rewarded with positive results. Its an amazing thing. I am giddy with the surreal joy of victory.

But, Obama is not a god or a superhero, he is human and not infallible. But what he represents to our nation and the world is a good example and the mortal embodiment of the American Dream.

Mahatma Gandhi said, "Be the change you want to see in the world." Obama is that change and represents that change. A change for good, for the better, for unity, not division, for cooperation, brotherhood and sacrifice for the common good. He represents the most Christian values in the New Testament, without bringing his church or religious beliefs to the table.

There are still red states (why the Republican party has now attached itself the color that used to be associated with socialists and Marxists is beyond me, but amusing, nonetheless). And there are still bigots and racists and zealots. And I pray that the guilty parties of this current administration are met with justice and retribution befitting the massive damage done in just two terms.

But I will try to follow the example of the man I helped put into office. I will try my hardest not to be bitter, not to be angry, but instead to reach out a hand to my fellow citizens and make peace.

Freedom, get ready to ring baby, because the times, they are a-changin.

Peanut

The world was so much brighter
when life was on the way.
Politicos choices and slogans
economic crisis,
death, poverty, oppression—
these were all just passing noise.

Everything would get better,
because life was on the way.

Our boy, he’d be special.
We’d raise him to make a difference.
We’d teach him to love,
to respect, to care, to make choices.

Nothing seemed impossible,
when life was on the way.

Our love was never greater,
our hearts were never fuller.
Our joy out shone us, illuminated
paths through dark days.
…because life was on the way.

Now its been thirteen days…
and that little light is gone.

No heart beat to be found,
our hopes, our dreams, our love—
vanish in a cold breath of sterile
doctor’s office air.

Quiet thank yous and goodbyes.
A numb stumbling drive home.
We hold each other and cry,
and painfully wonder why,
no longer, life is on the way.

These days we smile,
we behave accordingly.
We go to work, we say “fine
thanks, how are you?”
But inside we’re still rebuilding,
inside the abscess still heals.

Together and separately we wonder,
whether we can make it through
each day.
Silently we pray, we hope, we fear.

No words spoke nor written
can say,
how much I long and dread for,
life to be on its way.

The Third World

Why is it whenever I leave my comfy neighborhood, or any major metropolitan area for that matter, that it only takes a matter of miles before I can find the every day American that is lauded on CMT: the NASCAR watching, Budlight swilling, deer-season happy, thinks Jeff Foxworthy is a comic genius, average Joe(Dirt). Observing this trend (which is really a realization, not some developing change in our culture) I kept an eye out for it regardless of what state I passed through.

THE WHITE BETWEEN RED AND BLUE

I live in a very blue state, or so I thought. I began to see this trend in my own wealthy border state on the east coast, prime real estate (not that you can sell it), the richest state in the Union, third best schools in the nation, yadda yadda. Now Maryland is a very historically democratic state, way back when being a Democrat meant being a white southern male; it is one of the few states technically in the South that didn’t make the change over to the Regan era family value republicans with bible thumping conserveative grassroots support. No, Maryland is blue—sort of. Blue around the DC suburbs of Montgomery County (among the wealthiest in the nation), Prince George’s County (wealthiest Black majority population county in the nation), Baltimore County which hovers over Baltimore City (as blue as blue gets) happy for the financial promise of a large metropolis but terrified by the gentrification and violence a free market can breed. You have a few other counties where people who work around DC or Baltimore live, like Howard County (light blue). But when you look at the last gubernatorial election or last presidential election, it is very easy to see that the solid blue counties are surrounded by lighter blue neighbors, some of which border on white, then fade to pink, finally a light red on the fringes of the state (interesting how the fringes are red...).

What is my point? Obviously there is something about being literally more connected to people and urban life that makes people vote with more democratic sympathies and values. This does not mean the reverse is not possible: you have conservative persons living in Washington, DC, and blue collar democrats working mines in West Virginia; however, the trend is true. Now, I don’t care about party affiliation or politics, my curiosity lies in patterns of behavior in regard to populatino distribution, voting, etc. It seems the further we are from our fellow citizens, the less we care what happens to them, politically. This is not an attack on the Republican Party or conservative values (that would be too easy these days), but the simple truth of the matter is Democrats have been labeled “bleeding hearts” for decades, as though having empathy for the suffering of your fellow man and woman is a bad thing.

GEOPOLITICS

It is no surprise that geography plays such a role in politics. Why, every four years on Election Day, what do they display? a map of all the states in their primary colors. The same trend I see in the counties of my home state I see in nations: the more isolated an individual, group or people, the more xenophobic. Thusly, we are, after all, products of geography. This is something we forget in our globalizing rootless (and wireless) age of technology. We are products of the oceans, forests, plains, and mountains that gave rise to all the different species of life and races of humans out there.

It takes ten thousand years to make a race of people. All that is required is that the people not move from their geographic area for one hundred centuries, or five hundred generations. Now, of course, we forget that the reason white people are pale is they came from the north where the sun shines less and cold weather requires heavy clothes. We forget the reason black people have wider nostrils and curly hair is to protect their bodies from the intense heat of the inner African continent. We forget that Asian persons are all descended from peoples who roamed the open steppes of Asia for millennia, treeless wind bearing down on their faces. Why else can you exchange someone from Italy, Greece, Libya, Jordan, Iran, or Morocco? They all live in the heat drifting off the Sahara, they all live within reach of a major salt sea, and we forget that is the reason they might look alike, if we drop the cultural context, drop the racial perspectives that have evolved up with centuries of conflict.

ITS ALL MUNDANE

So geography is everything. Or rather, the world shapes us, as much as we try or try not to shape it.

One curious thing to me is what sort of race will develop over the next ten thousand years? Will we all be pale skinned people who tan under fluorescent or LED lights? Will our night vision be depleted by computer monitors and tv screens and endless light pollution? Will our fingers elongate and narrow allowing us to type faster and manipulate tools of the digital age? Will we lose all body hair as we adjust to a climate controlled existence? Will our butts and stomachs get bigger as we acclimate to working all day from a chair? Will our brains swell, as they did in the past, to store new volumes of endless streams of information?

Or will we even get that far?

For all the country folk dwelling in this first world nation, we have exponential counter parts all over the world. Most of the world is country, or rural. Even the industrializing beast that is China is still mostly rural, most of its citizens living in conditions somewhat improved from their ancestors a hundred generations past. As globalization creates awareness beyond our own village or town, the infection of wealth and materialism spreads too. Chinese middle class workers want their own cars that guzzle petrol and emit CO². Indian business men and women want their own SUV’s. Everybody wants to live our way of life. But our poor mother earth, our poor home, she is struggling to provide us with what we need. Perhaps global culture will arise soon enough to meet the crisis before Earth reaches a breaking point. I certainly hope so…

EPIPHANY

I was once working in an Italian restaurant with a bunch of Mexicans (really from Mexico, not a culturally ignorant mis-label). Another cook, Zefferino, he I would trade language in an attempt to better understand each other and communicate. One thing I found to be universal: humor. He told me some dirty joke in Spanish that sounded familiar. And suddenly it hit me, the same centuries-sun tanned stocky guy who sported a mustache working next to me, the same guy who watches futbol, drinks Corona and listens to ranchero (Mexican country music), was the same farm tan guy who cracks dirty jokes at his blue collar job, watches football, listens to country music, and drinks Budlight. You change the labels and language, it’s the same behavior, the same person. Like Zeffy, most people I run into while traveling the highways of this country are from the same place as my friend, the country.

BACKWATER

Should it come as a surprise to a suburb dwelling well educated intellectual like myself, that the universal culture is one of sparseness, dirt, simple humor, family (my closest Budlight swilling NASCAR friend is an amazing family man, and Zeffy left medical school to come here and help support his family after his father had a stroke), cheap beer, grilled meat and some starch (bread, potatoes, maize tortillas, pita bread, pasta, or rice)? Take England for example. Here is a nation roughly the size of Maine that retains one of the largest, ancient, and most sprawling cities on earth. It was once the seat of an empire upon which the very sun itself always shone. But, drive thirty minutes outside of the any major city, and you see green farmland and find down-home people who want to talk to you and offer you food and have a beer. They even like country music, our country music. Country, redneck, mountain folk, rural, even third world (as my Nigerian friend jokingly refers to the poorer man’s way of doing anything), these are the majority of our brothers and sisters.

It shouldn't come as a shock to other suburban bound registered Democrats like me? After all, we are a backwater planet. We reside on the outer edges of the Milky Way, the boondocks of our galaxy. Following the second planet in our solar system, should it surprise us that being Third World is the universal predilection on the third world?

The poverty is inexcusable, the family values are invaluable, folklore and traditional food cloting and music are cultural treasures; its merely the xenophobia that must be tamed.

Maybe we're just a backwoods planet trying to be cosmo-politan.

Maybe Virgin is right and our destiny isn't only written in the stars but lay in the stars.

Maybe one day my descendents will be dirt farmers on Mars--and they'll probably like the sound of fiddles, guitars, and have hover tractor pulls.

We can wash our hands and change our clothes; we can move to the city and buy a hybrid; but you can't get all the dirt from under your nails.

The earth is in our blood, literally.

The iron that builds sky scrapers and metropolis carries oxygen to our trillions of cells.

What's my point?

We're all connected. Everything is connected to everything. Call it Cultrual Chaos Theory.

If a butterfly in Brazil can cause a tsunami in Japan--maybe a vote in Maryland can cause peace in Iraq . . .

One

The world is
so much bigger
than ourselves

but would be
nothing

if we were
not in it.

Pigs at the Trough

They don't listen. Unless we spend $1000 a plate. I cooked for almost a decade and I can tell you no dish is worth $1000. Of course, if it means they'll craft a bill for you, or slip it into another, that works too. Maybe you've invested in Shell or Exxon Mobil, or BP, then you might not send an impotent e-mail telling Bush and his cronies to be tough on Darfur. After all, China backs them; don't want to upset the cuddly dragon. Thieves. All of them, thieves; they steel our dreams and sell them back to us at a price we can't afford, and a reality we'd never have bought. They get richer, we get fucked. Maybe Marx was right. Hitting these keys with forceful accuracy is still not that much more rewarding. Pigs. Fat, pink, wallowing in their own shit, feeding on each other's waste - pigs. Stop giving them feed. Stop supporting. Stop giving. Start speaking.

Create your own reality that you approve of.
Perhaps call it a dream.
Share it with others.
See what they think.
Craft a better future.

Dream together
live together
fight no one.

Ode to Shattuck

When the government owns the corporations, it is communism, our sworn enemy. When the corporations own the government, it is fascism, our other supposed sworn enemy. . .

What a gratifying yet depressingly sober relief it was to finally hear a media figure label our government as fascist. It shames me.

Yet I am galvanized that I am not so much a radical, not alone, not a heretic to the oh so holy sect of patriotism that chooses to be blind in its cowardice of sending the poorest and the privately well paid to die for those that would resent a draft. It shames me to think that my very own grandfather, married and a father of two, a steal worker and exempt; would volunteer to fight against European fascism in the name of freedom on his own terra firma. After all, my family has done so since 1776. The very blood of my ancestors that stirred to a passionate boil at the injustice of the British, of the Confederacy, of Hitler; that blood runs rampant through my veins, disgusted yet glad that my grandfather who lived to see 911, a man who fought them there so we would not have to fight them here, glad that he did not live to see the rise of the fear mongers, the hate seekers, the discombobulators. They that are schooled to be loyal above all else, to react as trained rats, to smell out a threat and attack beyond the rule of reason, to disregard logic for the sake of fealty.

Do you smell it? That is the smell of cowards, the stink of shameful sweat. The self serving few that rake the ranks of the many to die, to sweat, to bleed and go without so that they may lavish themselves.

The pattern has never changed.

So what now? Shall I cry out my protest yet volunteer my mortal chamber out of guilt for those that have sacrificed and continue to do so, to fight for some government, some cause which violates the very precepts of our own nations birth?

I know history. I read accounts of bravery and luck and good fortune and steadfastness. I hunger for the glory of sacrificing all for what is just-- but death be not proud.

Last night I bore witness to several thousand privileged Americans, most older than myself, perhaps better off members of my fathers generation; Americans and others who shared a commonality, a desire for peace. My, what a forgotten word that has become, a word of cowards and atheists and hippies (what hippies?). How cowardly must seem the efforts of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr., proponents of non violence and peace as a means to an end. Ironic that they would both be inspired by a mostly forgotten white American male of the 19th century, one Henry David Thoreau. . .

My heart rejoiced at the idealism, the optimism, the love, the shared values that cross culture, religion, nation, sect, race, and ethnicity:

Peace
Love
Self Preservation
Tolerance
Sovereignty
Compassion

To what nation, what group are these things foreign? It was comforting to look around the National Cathedral on the eve of the Dali Lama's bestowal of the Congressional Gold Medal and see so many different faces, to think of the speakers from so many faiths, fames, and backgrounds might share my thoughts; to think of them and hear the cries of my own heart echo off the solid stone of an American interfaith cathedral. Yet no network broadcast our hopes. No media outlet streamed our common goals. But one politician was present, and he a former musician performed a wonderful song entitled "We are all one Tribe"(you know his days in Washington must be numbered). No other "leaders" were present. Yet these strangers were my people. People with unknown names, of different nations, different religions, different races; but one heart. My people.

Absent were the fear mongers, the talking heads, the pundents, the politicos, the experts, and the cautioners.



Perhaps in my own way I shall fight them here, so I will not have to fight them there, or anywhere ever again.

Man as Machine

In 2005, human populations and activity function on levels which border on chaos. At the same time, a few societies continue to zoom towards the ever closer goal of simplification. With the infusion of technology into the mundane details of daily life, the mass storage space of our over evolved brains, space and energy which had been developed to keep track of the ever shifting variables that were the complex means of socialization; this space continues to be supplanted with the dull details of how to run and maintain the very technology which replaces piecemeal the little and large tasks once done by us. As these tasks previously required human action, and thus inevitably human interaction; the elimination of the need for human toil slowly eradicates the once broad array of social interaction into increasingly smaller and smaller circles. Technology even allows for less and less personal interaction within those small circles as well.

With the streamlining ability of machines to uniformly reduce options to a few mere choices, eliminating the small details which result in individuality and style, people likewise continue to form into one indistinguishable mass of decreasing tastes and variations. In such a world, the ultimate goal would be no people at all, since machines only existed to eliminate the doing of things by people, so once everything is accomplished, what then are we to do? The increased pace of living combined with the tedious task of keeping track of machines and not people results in simpler and simpler methods of communication, abbreviated speech and minimal vocabularies. Language, the very thing which sparked the fire of intelligence in our species, is dying. It seems that in less than a mere 100,000 years that humans have been capable of true thought, that we are growing weary of thinking.

For Katja and Marie

Good Company I Keep

Lonely is the hour
when night slips into day,
for if you are not careful,
weary thoughts will stray.
Ponder on your solitude
and little good will come.
Far better to listen to the birds
and watch the rising sun.
For blowing bubbles at the moon
in three part company
can get you through the darkest time
between hours four and three.
A friendly memory of warm shoulders
in the middle of the night,
side by side, heads and arms,
a blanket of stars for light.
Moments like these cherish long and true
as they are far between and few,
never knowing when next we might meet,
our lids to gleen the morning dew.
To brave hours, oh so late
when the world is fast alseep,
the crickets and frogs our concierto play
with thier chirp and peep.
So until we meet again, so long my friend,
you are missed and remembered well.
Eyes shine bright, smiles stretch tight
as I next see you my heart will surely swell.

A Dash of Bitters

Okay so that 20 oz coffee was a bit of an overdose at 9:30 pm on a Sunday night. Not only did I get stuck in traffic on I95, causing my back teeth to float quite boyantly by the time I crossed the Maryland state line; it is now 1:30 am and my mind is too wired to allow my body rest, despite the screaming protest of my ragged eyes. My nerves are jumpy and the random sounds of seven cats in this old house as well as the inhuman disregard for decency by the asshole who pulled up and honked his horn for my oh so civilized neighbors has me wide awake. That and a certain affectionate orange cat is determined to share the small confines of my bedroom, scratching, mewing, and even just now leaping up infront of the monitor, using my left arm and the keyboard as a spring board.

I attended two surprise parties in the last 48 hours, consumed too many good ales, better glasses of red wine, some covert bourbon, many cups of coffee and not nearly enough water. That and I drove almost 350 miles in the roaring clamor of my red Toyota which I had intended on selling as the need for two cars is immediately outweighed by the need for stable income; hell, any income.

Physically drained but emotionally fueled by family, fun, new old stories, and a wee bit of frustration I sit in a cold old house with no heat, the glow of the monitor an illusion to the idea of warmth, or memory thereof.

As often happens, my muse struck while I was doing about 70mph and blasting my radio. I was listening to an ancient mix tape I made after being dumped for the first time. The tape was a medley of songs that followed the progression of emotions that I sought to run like river rapids, turning to music to help speed the process along. As I switched out my cd player with an old tape deck and have long ago lost most of my tapes, these songs were my constant driving companion despite the actual emotions and person existing as mere memory and footnote of things learned.

A note struck a chord and I popped out the tape, listening instead to the words forming in my head as the background noise of caffine fueled mini-thoughts grew from a trickle into a roaring flood eventually escaping my very lips.

It is very surely love that inspires all art, or for that matter creation, and just as surely the lack of love that results in destruction...

So here I sit, the same as ever,
silent sometimes, sleeping never.
The rat tap tap of the keyboard stutters,
orange cat mews, window shudders.
Eyes are bleary but still see,
a magic mirror glowing with words reflecting me.
Unknown rythms pulse my veins,
murmered words escape my brains.
A clock tics softly keeping time,
the key strokes slow, providing ryhme.
Soft breath purring, no mice to peep,
I dream waking of long sought sleep.

On Loyalty

My loyalty lay in warm safe beds within the walls of the home I grew up in. Within a home and a house a score of minutes a way, a half a day’s journey. My ideals are the virtues and universal lessons I learned in Sunday school, at home, in stories and my own witnessed experiences of human value, all value, any value, true value.

I love this nation, it is my home. Yet its borders are less real than the walls of my home, the room where I sleep. A nation is as real and as fragile as the dusty cobwebs unswept from attic eaves. People are real. Hunger is real. Pain is real. Joy is real. Blood is real, and it stains.

What man has a right to tell another how to live his life? Does not this government, this long ago chosen form of political dictation, application, and function, does it not belong to us? It is ours by our will, and our will alone. This is a nation of the people, by the people, and is supposed to be for the people, not the persons, the few, the fiscal minority, who wield the majority, the capital, the power, the means and the command.

Beware the pugilists, the angry, the hate filled, the wild eyes, the smirking plutocrat, the war hawks, the fear mongers, the finger pointers, the so called patriots. Point a finger away so none look at the legal criminals. Make the decent fear so they will pay the thieves. Drive the young into bloodlust so they will spear themselves on the enemy’s barbs and shrapnel. Keep the plebes distracted so they see nothing of the crass evil around them.

Yet we sleep soundly, sometimes that sleep disturbed the media fed image of a horrific act of terror, more scared of lightning strikes and plane crashes than homicide or alcohol ridden car wrecks.

Drive them into fear and frenzy, point determinedly out where the evil is with catch phrases and words. Wave the banners and pins of loyalty, bandwagon propaganda, fear of not being in the group, being good.

Does the devil appear to you in hooves and horns?

What is more evil, a fiend committing sins among the wicked, or a good man mislead into harming another good man?

Is the righteous path easy or obvious?

Hate, violence and evil: the hurting hand, is as contagious as the helping hand that breeds gratitude, generosity, mutual respect: peace.

I challenge those who espouse to live fervently by the New Testament and His teachings, to actually practice them. You so called “Christians,” who whoop fear and hate of the other, the enemy. And to the so called “Muslims,” who distort holy texts into violence and destruction, hell does not discriminate hypocrites and murderers of one faith from another.

Yo Voté

I just a got a nifty little gift from my older sister who dwells in Buffalo. I'm sure most of you have seen those yellow LIVESTRONG wristbands promoted by Lance Armstrong to support research for cancer. Well, my sister sent my father and myself black wristbands that say I DID NOT VOTE 4 BUSH. Now the black wristbands were eerily reminiscent of Italian fascist black armbands, but the message won me over. She also included matching silver on black background bumper stickers for us. This thrilled me when I walked into my parent's house and found them. I found it appropriate and a little divisive, but very much me. The website for these nick knacks is www.nationdivided.com. Pretty true label in many ways.

I recently won a poetry contest for a poem entitled, "A House Divided," which contains certain remarks regarding the current state of the nation. I wrote it while I was in Europe prior to the 2004 election(returning specifically in time to vote). I got a lot of flack for my president, for whom I did not vote last time, either. But there were no lynch mobs waiting for me at international airports, just a lot of honestly curious and at least mildly intellectual persons whom genuinely wanted to know, what the hell the rest of us here in the States are smoking. I did my best to try and explain and at times defend myself and my fellow citizens. After all, as a public we are ultimately responsible for each other whether we like it or not, that's part of the deal when we accept all the freedoms and luxuries that come with our style of government and commerce.
Now, there are plenty of people who's politics I don't like, and plenty of them would label me insane as I would dub them fascist. But that’s fine, because we are damn lucky in this country to even have the freedom to argue over such things. As a nation we've always been divided. It’s always been us and them abroad, and back home. Whether its North and South, Black and White, Conservative or Liberal, or now Red States vs. Blue States, we've had plenty of aggressive political animosity, and healthy (sometimes ugly) competition. We need that; it keeps the ball rolling. Now, we don't need too much of it, because then we'll end up with a prime minister, who isn't even a publicly elected official, to play the role of bandleader in congress. Cooperation is just as required as competition. After all, if as a species we'd been too competitive with each other, well, we wouldn’t likely be around. Striking a healthy balance is not only the most beneficial way, but also necessary for survival. So while I dislike Bush and his cronies almost as much as I distrust them, I still respect their right to lawfully shape the direction of this country through policy and constitutionally sound legislation.

While it’s the greatest endeavor to work towards, harmony between individuals and demographics in our democratic republic is a long ways a way.

A house divided cannot stand—

However, a house united may still have many kinds of rooms and individual boarders that dwell within.

First there was the WORD

Thanks for humoring me. Ginger, thanks for the idea, and for getting me hooked on Damien Rice, and all those other things I owe you for.

So I'm 25, live in Baltimore, am a college graduate and according to Time, a "twixter." That lable makes me think of the old "Oh yeah..." Twix commercials from back in the 80's, you know, the song from Ferris Buller's Day Off, no real words just "Oh yeah . . . chick-a chick-ahhh . . ." very rad for back then. Wow, isn't it nuts? Now 99.1 is on 105.7 and 90's music is getting played on classic rock stations? Yes my friends, that strange and terrible thing called time is continuing its relentless march and we are getting older. But, you won't hear me bitch. I mean, did anyone really enjoy being a teenager? If those were the best days of your life, well, most of your brain cells probably went out with MC Hammer and Seinfield. Does anyone else enjoy this whole aging thing? I for one love being 25. I'll admit 26 sounds scary, but hell, even that's younger than 30. Remember when you thought 23 was old?

I am an unemployed traveling mooching writer. Bohemian? Absolutely. An asthete? 100%. I've held more jobs than anyone I know my age, and quite a few older than myself. I've been a janitor, fry cook, painter's helper, construction worker, English teacher, telemarketer, wrestling coach, gourmet cook, gas station cashier, pizza boy, camp counselor, kitchen manager, professional political activivist (see telemarketer), stock boy in a warehouse, cotton candy vendor at a zoo, computer lab manager, waiter, geriatric food specialist, bartender, mall kiosk calender seller, caterer, editor, dishwasher, book seller, grill cook, journalist, and TEFL teacher in Rome.

I've been from one end of I-95 to the other, from Fort Kent Maine to the Florida Keys. I've been to Los Angeles once and was not impressed. I've been to Rome where I ate pizza with my uncle who lives in Los Angeles, and was impressed. I fell in love with Venice and slept covertly in an all girl hostel run illicitly by a small Chinese woman fleeing at dawn through the six inches of water covering the cities cobble stone "streets." I've seen true poverty and true happiness. I've seen a little wealth, and a lot of ugliness. I've seen beauty that defies words, film, or canvass.

I am a brother, a son, a friend, a mentor, a teacher, a student, and sometimes a lover.

I own a black lab runt with one eye named Othello.

I have scars.

Horses don't like me.

But children do.

I am Dan Brown.

Nice to meet you.