Start Shouting

At a stoplight yesterday I pulled up behind a car with an “Ouck Fbama” bumper sticker, and I just about lost my shit.

There might have been an incident of road rage, if not for Sagar being in the car, and his willingness to call me on it.

And, it’s bothered me since–why was I so upset? Not since I gave up flipping off cops (some years ago) have I been so, so angry at a random stranger in another car.

And I wasn’t quite sure why at the time, but I realize that I was upset, not by the fact that the driver of the car disliked President Obama, but rather by the level of the blatant disrespect. Regardless of how one may feel about Obama’s policies, President Obama remains the President of the greatest country on earth. And, for that, he deserves a little fucking respect.

America IS the greatest country on earth (–and will REMAIN the greatest country on earth, so long as we keep the disrespectful douchebags at bay).

Now, it’s true that you could, perhaps, search the archives of this very blog and find some rather disrespectful things written about George Bush.

Would I have gone so far as to put a Buck Fush bumper sticker on my car? Perhaps–if not for the fact that I, uh, lived in Wyoming, and then Montana (and I’m not a particularly burly guy).

But, honest to god, somebody has to put an end to this political climate where politicians are accorded no more respect than a rival football team–who, in and of themselves, likely deserve far more respect than they are permitted by the fans of the home team.

Every American is entitled to his or her own opinion. And, I suppose, every American is entitled to be an intolerant, offensive, disrespectful douchebag. But I’d rather not live in THAT America. There’s an America I’d rather live in.

Productive, constructive political debate–the type that will move this country forward (if, in fact, the political process is capable of producing such progress) can only ever occur in an environment of mutual respect. Even if you respect your opponent, it is STILL a great task to understand your opponent position, and whether or not that position has merit.

To be fair, I suppose I must ask myself: If Sarah Palin were elected president of the United States (ha ha ha, ha ha, ha, insecure laugh), would I be willing to accord her the respect the office demands? (Fortunately, I feel that is a very fanciful proposition. Highly fantastical proposition indeed! Ah!)

Mmm. Perhaps my indignation is rooted in an abiding admiration for Barack Obama. Perhaps my indignation has nothing whatsoever to do with the lofty ideals of respect for this great nation’s highest office–but merely my dogged insistence that President Obama is a good-if-not-great president.

I would have a hard time finding the same well of righteous rage if, in 2013, Sarah Palin were president and I were in Boulder, CO and behind a vehicle proclaiming Puck Falin. But, perhaps, that’s only because I believe the election of Sarah Palin–as absurd at those four words, juxtaposed, are–would bring immense dishonor and disrespect to that estimable office.

I strive to be tolerant. But, because I value tolerance so highly, I find it difficult to be tolerant of those who are, themselves, intolerant. Is that ironic? I do not know.

Would I now tolerate the person I was five years ago, should we meet in the street? Likely not! Eight years ago? Surely not!

All this raises a certain degree of sincere self-doubt. To what extent is my commitment to tolerance sincere? And, to what extent it my commitment to tolerance merely intolerance to those who think differently, and dare to say so?

Weird Expectations

Going home in invariably weird. Or, at least feels weird.  Inevitably, the conversation, at some point, turns to “how weird is it that …” How weird is it that Brandon is married? How weird is that we all have real jobs (–no, NO ONE has said that yet). How weird is it that so-and-so has bloomed, become successful? How weird is it that so-and-so-else, despite everyone’s great expectations, has fallen off, lost the course of things. How weird is it that certain shared memory happened ten years ago?

Paired down, these questions are essentially “how weird is it that we’re growing older, that we’re changing, and the world is changing around us?”

Going home to Cheyenne draws this into sharp contrast. Without making overt reference to a frog, pot, and heating water–I live with myself every day. I’m myopic. To a lesser or greater extent, I expect we all are. Every morning, when greeting myself in the mirror,  I fail to perceive change. To me–to my mind–I’m the same that I was yesterday–and, by extension, the same as I’ve ever been. And yet that’s so obviously untrue.

Similarly, I fail to perceive changes in my environment, in the city where I live. Businesses may come or go–new houses or roads be constructed. But it’s all at such a pace that it’s indiscernible from what’s actually fixed, unchanging.

And, I fail to perceive changes in my friends–those that I see frequently–for precisely the same reason. All my friends change from one day to the next–but the pace of change is glacial, imperceptible.

But being home throws everything in sharp contrast. The change observed is sudden, abrupt, and sometimes significant. And thus it’s the fact of change that strikes one as weird–as not being familiar, not being expected, not being comfortable or familiar.

Perhaps what makes the change observed at each successive homecoming so poignant is its unpredictability. Something expected is seldom perceived as strange when it occurs.

The ebb and wane of personalities, of interests, values, of personal appearance–there’s no accounting for, and expectations are wrong as often as right.

So what, in fact, is weird is our shared expectation of constancy. What’s weird is that we expect people, places, outcomes to be the same. Or, if it’s not the change itself that is striking, it’s the failure of that change to match a future we’ve expected.

Someone older and wiser would expect change–unfathomable, wild and unpredictable change.

It’s unnerving, unsettling–but oughtn’t be. It’s just that we, as twenty-somethings, lack the experience to expect change. But, in fact, the change we deem as weird is always some delightful of disappointing change we lacked the imagination to foresee as possible.

So, a new resolution for my next trip home: expect to be surprised. And delight in the weirdness of a life that defies expectations.

Scottsdale vs. The World

A list: what makes Scottsdale unlike anywhere else I’ve lived:

  • Nobody cleans their own house. Or mows their own lawn
  • Nobody changes their own oil–much less does their own auto repair
  • There’s a dry cleaners in every shopping complex
  • There are no local businesses. Only chains. Restaurants being the sole exception
  • There are no good coffee shops. Only Starbucks
  • Scottsdale’s culture centers around dining at trendy places, shopping (or, more accurately, buying), and parenting
  • There’s seemingly no virtue associated with “good honest work”
  • If you’re going to rent, you’re going to live in an apartment (rental houses are few and far between). If you’re in an apartment, its likely owned and managed by a national property management company–not somebody’s dad
  • People drink Bud Light or Coors Light. There are TWO microbreweries in the 4.2 million people strong Phoenix valley that bottle their beer (compared with … 6? in and around Bozeman)
  • You drive a BMW, not a Subaru
  • Nobody puts bumper stickers on their cars. And, cars are ALWAYS clean. You never see a dirty car (except for mine, of course…)
  • Instead of bumper stickers, people seem more likely to get tattoos. Or plastic surgery
  • Nobody bikes as a means of transportation

Hrm. That’s a start. It scratches at the surface.

Random facts about Scottsdale / Phoenix / Arizona:

  • Phoenix population in 1960: 726,183
  • Phoenix population in 2008: 4,281,899
  • Scottsdale is 90.18% white
  • Phoenix proper is 52.2% white and 41.3% Hispanic or Latino
  • The average home value in my zip code is $540,000. The median home value in nearby 85262 is $1,102,500
  • 50% of Arizona home owners are in negative equity

The Four Peaks

A insolent disregard for mountains is one thing the Four Peaks will cure you of. Me of, anyway.

Showed up at the Lone Pine trailhead around 9:00 am on Sunday, feeling rather hung over. Didn’t know much about the Four Peaks, save that there were four of them, with only a trail to the first. Figured I could run most of the four. Threw a couple Clif Bars into the Camelback, looked at my amount of water–over a liter!–and started running for Brown’s Peak.

An hour later, I’d summited Brown’s and was off at a dash to #2. A little backtracking, some mediocre route finding, class 4 scrambling with the odd exposed but easy class 5 move, and I was on top of #2.

I evaluated my water stock–perhaps a half liter–and looked long and hard at peaks #3 and #4. The rational part of my brain said to turn around. Call it a day. Come back another day, better prepared (a partner, adequate water, a headlamp, [i]pants[/i], etc.).

Needless to say, I soon found myself downclimbing and thrashing my way down, south, and east. I had some crazy plan of downclimbing basically to the valley floor, then going up the eastern flank of #4, and catching #3 on the way back.

Two hours later, I’m nearly to the bottom–and I’m nearly out of water. I’m scratching and tearing my way, one step at a time, through matted, clawing trees, bushes, shrubs. Suddenly, I see dripping water (and, yes, this part of my day seems improbable–a spring in the middle of a mass of granite?!).

It’s definitely dripping, not flowing–but there’s a small pool of it. I pull the big leaves out, to reveal a small pool–perhaps 12″ x 8″, and 2.5″ deep at its deepest of more or less clear, cold water.

I mentally review the reasons why I filter my water in the back country (giardia, right?), and reassure myself with Ed Abbey’s countless tales of drinking untreated water–apparently to no ill effect. I cup my hands, scoop up some water, rinse my hands, and scoop again, raising water to my lips. I take a timid sip. It tastes … remarkably normal!

In a moment of singular ingenuity, I realize that, by removing the head, I can siphon water from the shallow pool down into my Camelbak bladder. I try it–and to my surprised delight, it works! I watch as the pool slowly drains, and my bladder fills (green algae and all!).

Two hours later, I’m on top of #3. At this point, I estimate that I have two hours until sunset. I descend toward the west from #3, fighting through brush and over boulders. The terrain is barely navigable in full daylight. Trying this at night would be suicide. The wind picked up an hour ago, and I’m chilled. My skin is lacerated, as, step by step, I make my way down and north.

I know that, if I can make it back to the saddle, I can make it back to my car.

The sun is setting as I push myself through briars and brambles over another small ridge. I notice what appears to be a clear stretch below, and move toward it. Then–wait! Could it be?!

My eyes well with tears of relief. I’ve found a trail.

Dusk settled as I reach the saddle.

In the remaining, failing light, I run from the saddle down, all the way down, to my car.

And for a solid twenty minutes–what a rush. What a thrill. There’s nothing better than running downhill on a trail at dusk. The cool air feels crisp and refreshing as you perspire. You breathe easily, flying, effortlessly, down. Your eyes strain for the trail. The whole of one’s attention is focused on the single moment of running. Running down a hill. Running in cool, darkening dusk. Alive. Lucky. Foolish. Flying.

Electioneering

This election is going to be a hard one for me. I have no freaking clue who to vote for–such is the tumult of political views at the moment.

I take that back. I have SOME clue. For example: voting against Jan Brewer (any EVERY other politician soiled by HB1070) is a no-brainer.

But what about the senate race? Do I vote for John McCain? I liked him a lot more as a centrist moderate–and a lot less as someone fighting tooth and claw to hold on to his seat. But the democrat candidate talks worryingly about the government creating jobs, about government being the solution to our problems. And the libertarian candidate (like most libertarians) is just a crackpot. (END THE FED! END THE FED! RABBLE RABBLE RABBLE!!!)

But what about the congressional race? The democratic candidate, Rebecca Schneider, supports the environmental issues I hold near and dear, and seems to have taken Econ 101. Consider her stance on job creation: “It is imperative that we bring new jobs to District 6. But remember, Congress doesn’t ‘create’ jobs – businesses do.” She then goes on to explain some measures that can support small businesses. Seems reasonable, right?

But the republican, Jeff Flake, opposes farm subsidies, is “an unapologetic proponent of free trade,” and “strongly believes in the free market.” What a heart throb. But he pits my environment-loving barefoot hippie self against my free market, capitalism loving rational self. Grr…

Not to mention the contradictions inherent in my ballot initiative choices. It’s not cognitive dissonance–I know that I’m simultaneously voting FOR measures that cost money, and AGAINST measures that would help the state of Arizona collect that money. It’s rational, to the extent that I’m not the one that is charged with balancing the state’s budget. It quite makes sense: “Do you want more services that benefit you? Yes! Do you want to pay for those services? No!” What’s irrational about that?

And then there’s all the other races. And the 12 ballot initiatives. Being an independent voter is more work than it’s cracked up to be–you can’t vote party line if you don’t have an affiliated part. Alas. Time to stop blogging and drive to the polls.