Ravens speckle the landscape, feeding off the roadkill and the litter which trucks and travelers leave in their wake.

Turns to make and twisters to avoid abound on the road. On the road means you’re homeless essentially; but instead  of settling in one area, you’re homeless everywhere; mile after mile. You have to pay to pump, to poop, to park anywhere longer than a red-light might allow.

It’s medieval on the road. It’s boiled mop water labeled as Breakfast Blend. It’s quickie marts for food and gas and even quicker exits where you appear to be taking a photo, standing out by the open passenger door–the motor and your guts both grumbling as you place a casual hand on your hip; hoping no one sees your business while the traffic (ironically) whizzes past you.

Living life on the edge of your seat becomes clear when you open yourself to the precarious street food options found along the lesser known routes.

The last all-in-one-gas-grub-and-get-going type place I hit had  every stall plugged with a set of hairy, stove-pipe shins visible below the doors; squat chunks of trucker, well traveled flesh, crammed side by side; all men locked and loaded and sounding off like battleship turrets gone mad. Wads and rips of TP-shrapnel lay everywhere about their boots. Wet elbows clashing about the sinks. Knuckles slapping buttons which armed the shrill sounds of incoming hand dryers. Call me a conscientious objector, a flight risk–but I was looking for a border to cross. I needed a better option as I backed out of there.

A limping old Native American man with a mop that supported his weight more than it worked the spatters which followed me outside into the hall, read the reticence in my eyes. He knew I’d not accomplished my mission and had probably read my next move more clearly than I had at that moment. He’d just come from the SHOWERS area. I knew damn well they were for the paying customers who not only bought fuel, but paid extra for a shower and a private toilet. I didn’t have time to book a stall. I was seconds from possibly one of my darkest hours. I had to grab the apple and run, hop under the fence, swim the channel. I hit the private door, locked it behind me and tried to enjoy the fastest crap of my life. Forty five seconds later, I’m locked in fear, the door handle moving violently up, then down, and up again. “What the hell you doing in there!” It was the man with the mop. I was on his land like a red-assed Pilgrim, taking once again; a yellow thief; a white man about to walk a gauntlet of shame the second I opened the door …

Dashboard awaits his rightful spot in the Datsun, eager to hit the next road without a sign.

“I’m sorry; I had to go,” was all I could think to say. Would that I were homeless. A homeless man has his route, his deadbeat pizza outlets; the usual bushes and doorways and alleys to make his rounds in. If only I were truly homeless at that moment, I might have been pitied. He might have said, “Dude, I’ve been there, just go out the back-way and don’t make a habit of this, ok?”

My latest beast is likely the best of all, a '71 Range Rover, grey market shipped from Europe.

When you get a bill from your mechanic that tops $4 grand, you kinda figure your rig will be good-to-go for any kind of tripping on any kind of road. Instead, after six months of “service” I found myself humming a new jingle for their future adverts:

“We put the ill in Willard!

We’ll put the dill in you.

Don’t forget to pick up your wallet,

You’ll sit fine in a week or two.”

     So, instead of the green steed that the Rover is, carrying me on this new journey, I had to take the exfoliating Datsun, who’s clear coat was clearly all-but-falling off; peeling up at every corner–crippled old skin, reaching towards heaven in one final, pathetic gasp.

But as I stare out the window of my $30 room in Kingman, AZ, the first trace of moisture has hit the air. The beads of water on my car’s hood are bubbling. Fat, squat dancers on a sea of milk. Yeah, I went with a creamy white paint job, hoping to add some class to the look. I think the original James Bond grey was a better color. The long hood, the tight retro grill, just wreaks of spy car … well, sorta. Like if Bond had a family, this would be the ride to the weekend house, luggage up top.

One dear friend said, “David, you must be a very confident, secure man to drive an old car like that, especially one with fading paint.” I thought how I must have fooled her and everyone else. I’m as vain as anyone when it comes down to it. This car makes me look taller, darker and well, it’s a handsome ride don’t you think?

A looking forward into the year 2012.

All I wanted for Christmas, was a new year. I got it! I’m grateful for it too. It’s the time of year when we hope to molt into a more refined person, shrugging away old dander from undone deeds and take another stab at re-not-doing them again.

We create lists, make resolutions and compress the already hefty sack of pressure we’ve been carrying for years. I think it’s time for a new kind of list; a new kind of bucket–maybe one with holes in it for a change–one that excludes the needless activities which suck creativity and productive energy from our bones. I say we create a ‘fuck-it list.’ What not to do–before we kick the bucket we’re trying to fill.

That’s right. If you’ve got things, jobs, people, keeping you from your goal, then say fuck it and turn off the phone, close the door, make your move; but make it count in your favor for once. It’s OK at times to be selfish. You can’t resolve a single thing for someone else. Their choice, is theirs. Our job is to solve our own issues, fill our own buckets, and to purge our own toxins from our world.

It’s not altogether a lonely path towards our personal goals. Those seeking their own bliss will understand your need to be free, to grow, to walk, to write, to breath new air from distant breezes; and they will be there, all around you, walking their path at your side, near or far.

There is a time to sacrafice, to starve, to die, but it’s not yet come for most of us. The clock just struck today. The time is now.

Don’t not do what’s right for you.

Golf in Wyoming.

“So Dave, what do you do with yourself these days?” That tends to be the top question I’m asked anymore–ever since my self-imposed sabbatical began back in June. Well, when I’m not working on that novel, or recording a new song for my self-produced album project; or even arm wrestling with my Rover mechanic; you’ll find me doing everything I can to get in another round of golf. In fact, I just experienced my 50th day playing the game this year–all since my birthday in May. Last year was my first year–so I’m still an obvious novice, and I only got a dozen days in last year, but this year I paid some real dues and played a lot more than any of my avid golf buddies got to.

By round 45 I'd broken 100 twice, with a 95 & 96 ... that will hook you.

Of course, when you’re talking about golf in Wyoming or Montana in mid December, it’s more a game of surviving the elements, rather than one of khaki-clad-leisure. But, for me, it’s really about bettering myself at something new. Stretching my legs and that grey matter between my ears in ways that spark fresh challenges. Something as physically and mentally demanding as golf is, can keep a man alive, with a reason to keep living. Yeah, I’m at the point where hitting a nice fairway shot is much more appealing than middle-aged sex, especially when not having any.

I consider golf my health care plan; my cure for Alzheimer’s, Mud Butt, and all other old age curses you can think of. I don’t mean golf will make me immortal. But if you are working on a novel, or spending hours in a studio with your guitar as I am, then you’re likely not getting out much. So, when I golf, I usually walk the 5 miles that the 18 holes amount to; and almost always with great people, new and old friends alike, who “get” what I get about this crazy, wonderful game I’ve fallen for.

Yes, I started playing too late in life to ever be a pro, or even peak at my highest potential like I might have, had I begun at an early age. But, unless I get struck by lightning, or I drown, chasing a silly little ball into the deep water, I believe the game of golf will add many extra years to an already blessed man’s life. Therefore, I plan to still be working on my swing, long after my discount senior rates kick in at the club house.

In a spurt of rage after a bad tee shot, this fellow dredges the bottom of the water at this course in Montana for the flung driver. I don't care how poorly I ever play, I hope to never get this angry at the game. A bad day on the course is still better than a kick in the shin.

More than 200 photos later–I still don't know what to think.

A year ago, I was in hospital, being told my head was about to explode. It was an interesting experience to suddenly face your mortality after one simple phone call from the doctor.

It was the not knowing what was next, that was oddly soothing to me. I remember feeling out of control–so not in the driver’s seat–that for once, I could be exonerated from responsibility in my outcome. I could let go of the wheel, look out the window, take in the moment, cherish each breath that came to me and just let myself be–ah, finally!

I’ve read dozens of books by the likes of Eckhart Tolle and Don Miguel Ruiz, about living in the moment, the now, the space of time it takes to inhale one long gulp of meditative air without some freaking pesky thought getting in the way. But I’m likely the most fidgety person I know, and self-help books cause me nothing but anxiety. I tend to flip to the end, find the answers I need, so I can get back to my Elmore Leonard novel–find out how the cool guy gets the girl and that bag of cash for himself.

Well, turned out the doctors had no clue about my future either. At least the one who said I was dying. It was a ten thousand dollar bill handed over to me by Dr. Simpson, saying, “D’oh!”

“Maybe it was a mistake on the X-ray, a fly speck on the film or the technician’s nose hair in the microsope that had them believing I was in trouble.”

We all want the answers to life. We cling to passages from ancient writings, sayings from our life coaches and professors, methaphors from the elders in our world and of course we want to be percieved as bright and in control; but in reality, we control very little. We merely pretend to believe we do.

As a kid, whenever I got on my high horse (as Mom called it) thinking I had the answers to the big questions of the univeres, she was quick to pull the saddle blanket out from under me with simple quips like, “You ain’t so mucking fuch David Wesley, now sit down and eat your goulash.”

Still, I grew up believing in extreams, two colors of paint, two shades of light and shadow and one truth for all, which I clearly felt I had a handle on.

Now, after 51 years of pondering the nature of the universe, I rarely see anything in absolutes of black or white. The varieties of grey in the middle, where we really live, seem only to grow and continue to spread into a trillion variations–like my misguided brain scan.

Yes, I was a pompous pain in the ass to all who knew me at one time, thinking I had the answers for not only my life, but everyone else’s as well. But the older I get, the less concerned I am with finding the eternal answers to the pop quiz that is this life.

Do I really know anything now? Not so much. Of this one thing, I’m quite certain.

My current daily driver is a lovely push button radio outfitted beauty, made the year Elvis died.

I love the old cars. The ones that were just coming off the line when I was still in vinyl underwear. It’s their vintage body lines, chromed bumpers, real wood trimmings and hobo scented interiors of yesteryear that woo me. Not the nondescript unibody, molded bumpers and plastic everything that it has now come down to. They were boats and yes, we cruised, we floated on endless tanks of petrol. Back when you could pop a clutch,  choke a carb or steer with just a pinky.

I piled my pals inside like loose bags of rice and we’d fly, sans all restraints–for fun–for as far as a pocket of milk money would take us.

Always along roads without signs–curves without rails–we explored as young vikings might, pulling in just to see what we could conquer along the way. Finding love without seat belts, one hand on the wheel and the other sprouting white knuckled sensations. We sped fearlessly onward … until one day we suddenly sat idle, wondering what kept us alive despite it all while flipping, flying, rolling and nearly dying simply because we wanted to see what bug spattered adventure would slam into us beyond the next curve.

On a Kansas City sidewalk, these two sick pops find eternal life in this, their death-bed portrait.

I remember wondering right after 9/11 if there would ever be reason to laugh again. I knew the world had changed in a profound way and that our idea of normal, especially in the United States, would never be the same again.

A week later, David Letterman  went back on the air as the first late night celebrity to face the country, wondering what to do with the sack of gags he’d spent most of his life tossing out to his audience. This night however, he chucked the jokes behind him, and simply spoke from the heart. He broke down before the cameras, before the world, and we cried with him.

Then he said, “There is only one requirement for us; that is to be courageous, because courage defines us better than any other characteristic we have.”

He went on to site Mayor Rudolf Giuliani as the real hero in terms of public leadership, but for me, Letterman said what I needed to hear most at that time.

Now, I wake up and think, “I don’t want to live in a world where we have to see David Letterman cry.”

That sounds like a Far Side cartoon–some alternate universe where insects speak and use us as props for their silly sitcoms.

All I know, is the last thing I felt compelled to do after 9/11 was be creative. All of the American pie we reveled in seemed to have said goodbye. And that contrary voice of medieval times was on my shoulder saying: art is frivolous , extravagant, self-indulgent and therefore ancillary, needless–especially in times of crisis!

But I don’t believe we were meant to live in a world of terror; or one without laughter or lascivious stimulation of all our senses–without art. Yes, courage defines our character during our toughest times, but art encapsulates it and extols its virtues for generations to remember. When we cease to have reason to laugh, to live our dreams–to create art–then truly a D-day is soon to follow.
]]> http://frankquarters.wordpress.com/2011/09/11/the-end-will-come-precisely-the-day-after-art-becomes-irrelevant/feed/ 9 Willie Nelson, Rothbury MI ©VAUGHAN•2009 Dave POPSICK Willie Nelson, Rothbury MI ©VAUGHAN•2009 http://frankquarters.wordpress.com/2011/09/05/frank-quote-of-the-day-consider-the-barefoot-necessities-of-love/ http://frankquarters.wordpress.com/2011/09/05/frank-quote-of-the-day-consider-the-barefoot-necessities-of-love/#comments Mon, 05 Sep 2011 18:30:40 +0000 Dave Vaughan http://frankquarters.wordpress.com/?p=1411 ]]>  

No matter

©D.Vaughan

How fucking

Amazing they look

The cruelest damn joke

In the cosmic book

Is to love

Someone

Some thing

Some booty

A blowing fish

A cat named Hootie

Arches tumble

Fallen with regret

Steve damn Miller

Said it best

I’d like the sweater better

If it just got wet

Force your foot

In the slipper

In the door

In the water

Said to be so fine

Like the deacon’s daughter

But the soul in the shoes

Yo the man in the dude

The part of the heart

Even torn apart

No lie

Has to be supplied

By you

A big kid at heart, Morgan loves his toys, whether they be plastic cameras or an old fashioned Yo Yo. ©David Vaughan

I FIRST MET MORGAN IN THE FALL OF 1993 while enrolled at Northwest College–a sleepy little institution nestled near the east gate of Yellowstone. Morgan was one of several professors there who not only helped educate me in the arts, but who also became an instant friend.

And now, 18 years later, I find it hilariously ironic that someone as vocal, opinionated and articulate as he is, could simultaneously be so misunderstood.

Morgan’s blog, Everyday Dissidence, suggests he’s all about challenging conventional thought. When you work for institutions, large or small, they’re typically mired in convention. It takes a brave soul to take the road less traveled and those who are more comfortable sitting on the stool of do-nothing, whittling on the stick of do-less, are usually made uncomfortable by his ideas. He discusses everything from his personal pet peeves, to the weighty issues facing any progressive thinker these days–especially one living in a typically conservative part of an already redneck demographic. He covers all the important topics: neighbors with barking dogs, bureaucratic dumbth amongst college administrators (especially when they dodo on the head of the little guy), and of course, how the U.S. falls short in their creation of fine chocolates as compared to his beloved New Zealand.

MAYBE IT’S HIS FEARLESS THIRST FOR ANSWERS that motivates him to ask “why” much of the time. I recall being taught early in life that there were no bad questions. Yet, many of the queries I’ve known Morgan to offer up, are met with an avalanche of negative feedback; often suggesting he should keep his hand down unless he’s thumbing for a ride out–at the edge of town. These are usually people who would rather sit in their soiled shorts, than to have their lives disrupted by challenging the way things are.

But Morgan doesn’t shy from criticism and he’s happy to put his thoughts out there with his name firmly affixed to his collar, willing to go on record asking the hard questions.

You’d think those in the business of education, would foster forums for hearty debate; or honor employees who pressed for higher ideals. Instead, the freedom of speech we say we hold dear in this country is typically dampened by bureaucrats who pressure their minions to conform, get in line, and take another survey along with their seat.

Recently, I resigned from a thankless position at the above institution; one which had sucked a steady stream of creative juice from my marrow for most of the past 8 years. The administrators I worked for were well known for squandering talent, and in recent times, had run-off or fired several gifted instructors and professional staffers. All were good friends of both mine and Morgan’s. Although I was muzzled by the PR ball gag they fixed me with, I watched as Morgan openly challenged the ethicality of such firings. He wrote letters to the local editors, blogs to the world, and attended public board meetings where his concerns were made directly to those who actually had the power to affect real change.

IN A WORLD WHICH HAS BECOME INCREASINGLY FEAR-BASED, where most of us are too afraid to challenge authority and risk losing a paycheck, Morgan has been an inspiration. Sadly though, most of the accolades he receives are in the form of whispered praise by those who posture themselves as champions of the latest cause, yet likely wish they had as much hair on their eggs as he.

“Good article Morgan,” they might say, “way to stick it to the bastards,” shuffling back to their desk, hoping no one of authority was within earshot. These are the same people who will come to him with their own personal peeves, and solicit ideas for his next blog: “You should really say something about the napkin dispensers in the snack bar; they’re so hard to pluck out without tearing.”

TYPICALLY, HIS DETRACTORS ARE QUITE FEEBLE, choosing in large part, to remain anonymous with their rebuttals. Last year for example, a group of sanctimonious employees at the college, plotted–in effect–an anti-Morgan campaign. He’d been on a roll with letters to the local papers, speaking out against the buffoonery of President Paul Prestwich and his underlings who’d brought such public shame to the institution already, with various snafus. This time, a group called the “Silent Majority”  touted themselves as leaders of some so-called “peace movement.” In reality, the actual majority of us at the college were appalled by their sneaky methods and blatant attacks against faculty and other free thinking intellectuals. By the time the press was finished with them, this truly mousy minority of anonymous twits ended up looking more like they’d had a virtual bowel movement in their respective britches rather than one of peace.

The day the letter came through to everyone’s email, I remember expressing my disgust to the V.P. of Administrative services Kim Mills: “Have you seen this creepy letter Kim?” I said, “If it’s for real, the people behind it ought to have their respective asses handed to them don’t you think?”

Knowing NOW that Mills was in fact a key player behind the scenes and actually facilitated the letter’s secret posting (as revealed in the student newspaper a few days later) makes me chuckle all the more as I recall how he stammered in response: “Gee Dave, I’ve not looked at my email today. Ah, umm, I’ll have see what you’re talking about later … “

What’s ironic to me is that those who seem to dislike Morgan’s open approach to dialog, are also among the most cowardly. Few will go toe-toe with him on record, preferring to snipe from the bleachers of anonymity. Only the slightly less pussy-fide will remark behind his back to those that know him in hopes (most likely) that their dig reaches him vicariously. One such mouth-breather, remarked to me in passing after he read the letter …

“I love this letter! It’s an ‘anti-Morgan’ letter. That makes it a good one.”

Morgan however, has the tenacity to endure such heat, round-a-bout or not. I don’t. I’m usually more phlegmatic, hoping always to avoid conflict. As a public relations specialist, it was my job to BE phony, softening the blemishes on every puss I photographed and blurring the red bricked buildings in every backdrop. When you’re selling cornflakes, you have to make believe you like the crap, no matter how many weevils you find in the box.

Morgan thrives on discussing the stark reality of what lies before us, sans any sugar coating. I admire him for this. Especially since I’ve been the recipient of his public support time and again, despite the vitriolic retorts his unnamed, cowardly opposition has come back with. These are the simpletons who stab him with nick names behind his back such as, “Morgan Tirade” (kinda catchy I’ll admit).

SO WHY GO PUBLIC, ALIGNING MYSELF WITH MR. TYREE? Well, it’s not just the fact that I’d rather have him ON my side than not; and it’s not because I do on occasion need help moving something heavy. And, no, it’s not because I think he needs my help–he’s comfortable I believe, fighting his own battles. Hell, there isn’t even a battle going on any more. At least for myself, I got what I wanted–my voice and my freedom. But aside from the obvious catharsis a blog such as this provides, it’s mostly because after 8 years of feeling muzzled by nitwits who never showed me any effectual support, who made disingenuous pats to my back and daily blew smoke rings up my trowser legs with their beuqacratic B.S., I felt it was time to be real, to contribute my voice and my vote to someone who’s been more than willing to speak up for me time and again.

Call me an official Morgan donor if you will. He deserves some kudos for a change; especially after all the heat he’s taken for simply asking “is this the best we can do?”

I wish there were more men and women with the integrity, work ethic, character and tenacity of Morgan Tyree at NWC. If you hate him, you’re likely a person who likes to kick underdogs when they’re down; if you love him, you’re likely someone who’s been kicked. Either way, I’m guessing he will continue to speak out against injustice, ignorance and the status quo, wherever it rears it’s seedy head–and he’ll make you one hell of a cup of coffee if you have the time to sit and talk.

Although originally attributed to Morgan when published in the NWC Trail, he had asked that I help illustrate what he felt was an apparent rampage by the administrators against some of NWC's finest. ©David Vaughan

CASUALTIES  & CONCLUSIONS

Even though NWC still uses the slogan I gave them, Your future, our focus, I find it blasphemous that those in power have been more focused on pushing away some of the most dynamic, student-focused individuals I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. Here are a few of the good ones who got away; casualties of but a few, small minded folk who apparently had no idea what was in the students’ best interest.  May these good men not be forgotten …

Mike Taylor: Likely the most popular, well-liked employee on campus ever. Yet, the year he won faculty of the year, he was let go. No one knew why, save for a few cowards who tossed an exit package at him and legally gagged him from going public. Personally, I never heard a single, negative word about Mike or his work as activities director. The student’s were his life and they loved him. He brought out their best in all the activities he organized for them. I  know, because the most useful and rewarding photographs out of the more than 60,000 images I’d taken while employed there, were always a result of his involvement with the students. Just this past weekend, NWC (I hear) had one of its most lack luster kick off weekends in history, abandoning most of the wellness, challenge course and team building activities Mike had spent his career developing. Despite his hard work and dedication to the students, he was ultimately escorted off campus like a common thug. 

Ron Feemster: After only two years as advisor to the Northwest Trail, Ron was let go–despite having forged an award winning student newspaper staff which ultimately won the 2010 College Press Freedom Award for covering the above issues Morgan helped to raise. Ron wasn’t afraid to print the letters Morgan wrote, nor was he afraid after he was dismissed, of telling his side of the story in a well written article published in Inside Higher Ed, called: The making of a real student newspaper. He was also fearless at driving his students to investigate the tough topics, working to uncover corruption within the college administration.

Kory Roundtree: Fully supported by the NWC art department as their top adjunct for 4 years, Kory championed the virtues of a strong work ethic and encouraged his students in the art program to achieve their highest potential. He was also vocal about the firing of Mike and Ron. It took the then V.P. of instruction, Sher Hruska, about two weeks after Kory’s opinion’s were made known, to decide he too was no longer needed any longer. Not having tenure, he was easy prey. Despite never sitting in on a single class he taught, she sighted a few ananymous student evaluations which suggested his classes required too much work, and let the hatchet drop. One has to wonder about the timing, and motivation for dismissing someone as dedicated well liked as Kory. Ultimately he was told, “We want happy art classes. Art isn’t work, it should be fun.”

Maybe the pen IS mightier than the sword, especially when wielded by administrators who focus on rubrics rather than students.

Who’s scribblings ended the tenure of all the above employees, disrupting their lives–and in some cases–causing severe hardship to good people who would still be serving NWC students well to this day had they not been let go.

In the end, all that the disingenuous HR department could say to the rest of the campus community was that these great people were “no longer employed.” Lacking even the slightest assemblance of a single human heart beating amongst their collective soulless number–they left no word about the brilliant contributions which all these men made. Neither the president, HR or the feeble college relations office had an edifying word to say. Why couldn’t Mark Kitchen, Kim Mills, or Paul Prestwich acknowledge the good in these men, rather than simply defaulting to a cold exit letter? I’d have more respect for them had they said nothing, rather than sending out a nefarious stink cloud over the heads of those they let go with such trite, Dear John formality. I guess the requirement for having a spine, might have hindered their ability to do the right thing, once again.

SO WHAT’S THE SOLUTION? For starters, I’d offer the notion that every NWC administrator be required to teach at least a single class each each year. Use those degrees to edify the lives of the students they’re supposed to be focused on, rather than trying to discard the efforts of good men in the trenches, doing the work that actually makes NWC the jewel that it is. Another might be, to allow campus-wide evaluations of all administrators. Imagine that. Their ivory towers might get rattled a bit, but if they had a measurable hint as to what the general campus community thought of their performance, then maybe they’d work harder at earning the trust and the six figures they seem to demand.

WHICH BRINGS US FULL CIRCLE BACK TO MORGAN. He’s undoubtedly the most vocal of all at the college. Based on the comments you’ll find on his blog, some would even suggest they wish him real harm, yet he’s still there after nearly 20 years. He’s not only doing a lot of things right, he’s clearly got a greater constitution for plowing through horse shit than most. Because, like any myopic, hoop-filled institution, NWC is mired in a massive mound of the stuff.

But let me be clear: the flies that gather there do not emanate from the halls of the faculty, the bulk of the employees nor the students.

The source of all that stinks at NWC comes from but a few administrators who have taken their eyes off the students and instead, focused them on a few stand-out individuals who were gifted, creative innovators with clear records of success. Should Morgan be targeted next on their hit list, I suspect the same three or four individuals who outed all the above and who made me want to leave as well, will be the only ones smiling.

Just as with Mike, Ron and Kory, Morgan’s exit will certainly be another sad day for the ones who matter most–the students.

Tenacious in all pursuits, Morgan even takes the time to shovel the local high school track in the dead of winter, just so he can continue his training runs. ©David Vaughan