rust buster

In the forties and fifties there were no products for sale that we knew about to "bust" the rust, corrosion, and like on bolts, nuts and other automotive/truck parts. So my mechanic Father fashioned a liquid made from Coca Cola and motor oil, which worked well, but probably not as well as those commercially available these days.

My Father was no fan of many of the so-called soft drinks, and thus made a point of broadcasting and making possible parallels between this automotive solution and the possible health ramifications for the human organs, the complexions of teenagers, etc. I was taking a physiology course in high school at the time, and decided to weigh in with his parallels and analogies with Mrs. B. and my classmates. Well, it didn't go over very well with the class, but I made a few points with our beloved teacher.

Drinking glasses full of coke with submerged pieces of rust, iron and steel enabled us to observe the disappearance of the little "specimens" into the liquid. I presented a short talk with some bonafied results at Norman's Automotive. I'm not sure how many of my fellow students changed their soft drink consuming ways. This memory came up as one of the fellows working on the next property starts the arduous process of restoring a very old Farmall tractor; rust busting will be important.

Beyond Pollyanna

As we reach the threshold of a new era the tendency is to take refuge in Pollyanna and utter denial to avoid going up against "the wall." The so-called "armed lifeboat" syndrome has brought us a new kind of literature, one which goes beyond warnings and denials to state that we must face, what Bill McKibben and many other writers have warned us about. These writings can amount to what Christian Parenti has called "romancing the end times."

Paarenti's book, "Tropic of Chaos," Slavoj Zizek's "Living in the End Times," and Naomi Kline's "The Shock Doctrine" take us to a reality that goes well beyond the fire walls put up and maintained by both apologists and critics of our dire predicaments. This is to be looking at the barrel of a gun, one which is not going to go away with rationalizations and platitudes.

It doesn't matter if your lifeboat has a cross on the bow and the old "red, white & blue" flying on the stern, nor whether you are able to lounge on your bullet and torpedo proof Chris Craft, or kick back in your deeply gated community. Everyone is involved, regardless of their armour or bank accounts. Last evening I hit the bottom of this and it was terrifying. All the best to you.

Redactive

The first hint of this word came with a trip to a library in Los Angeles with my Grandfather. This was the stereotypical Carnegie public library where you had to walk up at least a flight of stairs to enter a portal of heavy wooden doors. There was something very forbidding about the place, it had the shusshing atmosphere, very dark interior, and a no nonsense staff. We were uncomfortable in an environment that my Grandfather had hoped would be a "positive experience."

Its rules counted more than its humanness, and when my Grandfather tried to describe his uneasiness with it he found it hard to describe. Years later I discovered the redactive word, and have found myself in other circumstances which would be well described by it. The dictionary definition of the word is fascinating in that it also relates to collecting, editing and revising.

My present public library is completely the opposite; and I have had the good fortune to work in several libraries during my years of labor as a librarian to work in open, welcoming circumstances, essentially unreactionary in their services and environments. Libraries have changed over the decades and it is tragic to see many library systems being shut down due to financial difficulties and the attitudes of legislatures and institutional hierarchies. "Comes the Revolution."

Civility

To me personal memory about other people's needs is the essence of being human, a hallmark about that is civility. Not that I consider myself a "paragon of virtue," no. But to be thoughtful and courteous is part of the boilerplate of character in my book. My parents and my grandparents did not teach this, they lived it. Now I find that I miss the earlier generations' lives in this regard.

What set this off? Working with a young man this week I found that he threw his pop cans in the back of my pickup truck, and when I got in his car to take a ride to help him with something the floor was strewn with so much debris he had throw some of it over the seat. Now I like this fellow a lot, a very good worker, but I can't handle the situation which puts me at odds with his personal habits.

My Father was an automotive mechanic for many many years and couldn't stand the fact that people did not respect themselves or the cars he was to work on because of the way they brought them in. To him maintenance was critical and for people to expect him to clean up after them before he could solve their mechanical problems was a sign of disrespect. This seems to be an allegorical situation, an uncomfortable one, perhaps a sign of the times.

content

The word "intellectual" is certainly passe, undescribed today. And content (what used to be called intellectual content) is simply not current in today's parlance. I have described earlier what was once an obligatory response mechanism which was expected as part of conversation and idea sharing. Now that there are seemingly no obligations one had better have little or no expectations in this regard.

As I referred to awhile back, my Father would say something to the affect "that the ball is in your court," and he damn sure expected you to bring that ball out. If you missed the ball your obligation was to find out what you missed, clear it up. Now silence rules or obfuscation. Why? From middle age onwards I found that my dear Father had given up on conversation pretty much, controversy was pretty much no where to be found.

Talk shows and NPR prattle take the place of this in our lives I guess. But I miss it, would like to see a resurgence of it before I pass along into whatever incarnation awaits me. I remember fondly the faculty senate debates at the University in Buffalo, and the heated conversation which followed those debates. I remember being invited by an English professor to an afternoon tea in Los Angeles, the expectation was that you would come with ideas and contraversy to mix it up with faculty and students. In graduate school we had a library symposium to take on subjects and opinions seemingly forbidden in the standard curriculum. Why not stir it up, keep the "brain cells" cooking a little?

Salamanca Stories

Salmanca is a post medieval walled city in the Northern, arid part of Spain, Don Quixote country. I spent one academic year there at the University, accompanied by my ex-wife, Jan. There was a active "foreign" community there that made things lively, mostly centered around a couple of University departments, a language institute run by an Irishman, Monohan, and his Spanish wife; plus a few watering holes frequented by the people who were so inclined. I would like to share a few stories that seem worth telling.

One of the English professors from Cambridge (GB) was a better than average story teller, sometimes seeming to embellish the truth, but always in a kind of improper raconteur style. One evening we talked of poetry and he told of the visit and reading of the Poet Laureate of England, at Cambridge. Well, the man started to read his poems and a few in a young man in the audience stood up in silence. The poet, Phillip Larkin, called upon him to explain himself, to which he said: "Sir, you are a great poet, but you can't read your own work." The poet had the sense to ask if he could read the poems any better and the young man said "yes." He was invited on stage, read the poems which were indicated by markers in the collected volume, and they received a standing ovation at the conclusion of the reading.

Monohan had served in India in the second world war, and had gained a liking for curry and gin. He held a yearly dinner which featured both, in part facilitated by his travels to Lisbon to acquire the proper ingredients. This legendary occasion was followed by his doctor assisted bed rest to deal with his ulcer. Everyone brought flowers and other tokens of appreciation, in a continuous toast his health with Bombay; and so he would gradually reenter the local society to take his helm with the intelligentsia and hangers on.

That year the visiting contingent of American would be "scholars" came from Yale. They were an active bunch in the bars, seemingly able to buy drinks and dinners at will, and didn't seem particularly keen about their studies. One of their haunts was a bar down on the Rio Tormes near where the Gypsies lived temporarily in wagons and tents, traded and sold horses and cattle (the women came to town be ask for donations on the street). The gypsies came to the bars to play and sing for drinks and meals. The Yalies decided to have a big party their last night there and invited the university community and hangers on to it. Everyone gathered and started to drink at their expense. The big problem was that the gypsies were paid to sing and play in advance, a big mistake, because they rode off into the sunset to be gone until the Yale men went to Madrid to fly back home. Most be a moral to the story someplace.

Asleep at the Wheel

This title is thought of primarily as the name of a country group originally from West Virginia, who's home has been Austin, TX for many years. I like the name better than their music, although their work in their genre is considered tops by many people. To the point, I have a fear of the existential condition related to this name, and also a deep dislike for those who assume authority way over their abilities, and insist on holding on "for dear life" in spite of their inadequacies.

My Father's bookkeeper, Max, rode a Harley-Davidson (45) up and down Central and Southern Calif. serving his clients. A be speckled, CPA type, he was known for an exploit which gives a different twist to the title of this piece. Having partied a little late, he had to make his way over the Ridge Route (Highway 99) after midnight in a attempt to reach a motel in Bakersfield so he could visit a client next morning. Half way down the grade or so it seems he went to sleep at the handlebars, crossed the double lines and exited on a smooth stretch of shoulder. A few hours later he woke up; having knocked himself out earlier, followed the trail of the scooter, got it on its' tires, and then made his way to the motel to get cleaned up and changed for his appointment.

My memory of a personal incident was in the sixties, returning to Venice from a three day family Love-in event in Marin County. Heavy partying and little sleep had not left me in the best of shape for the return VW bus trip with my friend, Tommy Morehead Sunday night. I decided to travel on a secondary road, two lane with very wide gravel shoulder, rather than risk it on the interstate. The VW had a tendency to pull to the center of the road, so in my semi-conscious state I ended up rolling along on the gravel. A stretch of washboard woke me and I decided to park it (call in with an excuse the next morning). Tommy never woke up and was a little surprised when I explained the existential predicament on the way in next morning.