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Bill Barnes

Bill Barnes Collection from 2012 (or 2013) / Great writing

Burgess COMMENTARY

Peter Burgess

RACISM: A PERSONAL JOURNEY with 6 comments KingMarch [I had written this in 2013. I think, in light of the advent of a Trump presidency, the rise in hate crimes and violence, and the recent coming out of hate groups we thought had gone away, the need to address the core causes of racism is even greater. B.B.] On the anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King’s historic speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial there are many whose thoughts have turned to the state of race relations in America and feel a certain amount of discomfort; and that’s a good thing, considering the social and political climate and increased evidence of polarization our country is now showing. It has been a long, bitter struggle for African Americans. Many brave souls, both white and black, have suffered and died to achieve the racial equality that has been centuries overdue. Now gerrymandering, voter ID laws, attempts to repeal the Voter Rights Act of 1965, The virulent rhetoric against President Obama, the ‘birther’ campaign, the botched trial following Treyvon Martin’s murder and the ridiculous comparison between that travesty of justice and the senseless killing of Australian baseball player Christopher Lane, the rise of neo-Nazi and white supremacist groups all indicate growing forces that are trying to turn back the clock to the days of Jim Crow. For many, we still live in an “us or them” culture. Simply put, racism is alive and well in our culture today- and lately it is having a real ‘coming out party.’ There are many who are better qualified to write volumes about the history, politics and sociological implications of race relations in America than I am. Instead, I want to address the subject on a more personal level. You see, I am a racist. And, more than likely, so are you. Take a moment to get over your outrage. “I am no racist!” you cry. “I voted for Barack Obama, I have many black friends, I approved of all the major civil rights bills, etc.” Or, “I didn’t vote for Obama- but that doesn’t make me a racist. Don’t play that ‘race card’ with me, pal!” Well, unless you’ve spent a great deal of time delving into your psychological makeup and have carefully purged your inner self of some hard-wired social conditioning, you’re probably wrong. Because, like an onion, racism has multiple layers and they run deep. I don’t want a huge debate on this. This is a conversation I believe every American, of whatever ethnic or racial category, should have with himself or herself. It boils down to your own personal upbringing and character. Racism, as the Rogers and Hammerstein song goes, “has got to be carefully taught,” and our parents and communities have done a whopping good job in most cases. Being of the Caucasian persuasion, I’m obviously addressing the subject of white racism. Now, I know that black racism exists; I’ve been subjected to it many times, sometimes subtly, sometimes blatantly and rudely. But, as I don’t have to deal with the legacy of 400-plus years of black folk stepping on my neck, I don’t get too upset when I have occasions to encounter it and will put that topic aside for this particular writing. So, I say it again- if you are white, go to the mirror and take a good look… really peel back those onion layers. More than likely, you too will wind up admitting, “I am a racist.” And that, my friend, is the start of the healing process. Because racism is a disease of the mind and soul. It spreads deep into your psyche and is easily transmitted from one person to another. It can be contained by laws, positive social interaction and education, but to really overcome it, you have to dig deep. You have to ask hard questions. You have to relive much of your past and search for answers. In the mid nineteen-nineties I was playing a regular Friday night gig at a bar in the west end of Louisville, Kentucky called Joe’s Palm Room, backing up blues singer Tanita Gaines. The band was your classic B-3 jazz trio and we played two sets, mostly bebop, before the singer came up to do her sets. Suffice it to say that I was the only white guy in the group. In fact, I was usually the only white guy in the room. This was particularly true on one memorable night. As we were in the middle of a our first set, an elderly woman walked in through the back door, carrying what may have been her personal belongings in a shopping bag. She walked up to the bandstand, stood right in front of me and blurted out, “Caucasian!” We stopped playing. The crowd suddenly became quiet. I said, “What?” She repeated in an incredulous tone, “Caucasian! You’re a white boy!” You could have heard a pin drop, as they say. After a pause which must have seemed an hour, I answered, “Well don’t blame me, lady- it was my parents’ fault. I had nothing to do with it!” The place erupted in applause and relieved laughter. She turned around and walked back out the door. Outside of diffusing an embarrassing situation, I think I spoke true- much of what’s wrong with our attitudes about others of a different color, ethnic background or sexual orientation IS our parents’ fault. Whether you grew up in the house of a highly educated liberal or were raised by narrow-minded bigots (as many of us were) there is a level of racism in our culture that you had to have been exposed to. Moving to the Jim Crow South from Pittsburgh in 1956, it was obvious to this child of six that black folk were to be treated differently. Restrooms, water fountains and waiting rooms at bus terminals were all marked with “white” and “colored” signs. Blacks were not supposed to look you in the eye. Sharecroppers lived in dirt-floor converted tobacco barns with no plumbing and often no windows. “Colored people” were to be treated as inferiors, sometimes regarded as less than human. My parents soon fell into the behavioral norm. When my mother interviewed house maids, they had to come to the back door. I learned to treat Ida, the attractive young woman my mother deemed acceptable to clean our house, with an air of superiority. To this day, I cringe at my own behavior,which was rude and occasionally downright snotty. But I was a child and this is what I had been taught. Ida, to her credit, wouldn’t take my crap, nor would she bow and scrape to my mother’s rather imperious demands. Eventually she was dismissed as being “too uppity.” I could go on, but I’m sure you all know similar examples of society- enforced racism. Unfortunately, my parents fell into the pattern of racial abuse all too easily. My father had briefly joined the KKK back in the 1930s, when he lived in Ohio. My mother, who grew up in rural Oklahoma, didn’t really have an ax to grind concerning black folk, but, as the civil rights movement began to assert itself in the early sixties, it became obvious that she was becoming increasingly racist. By the time I was 12, both my parents had joined the John Birch Society, which was making a nice profit by selling hatred, fear and paranoia to its gullible members- pamphlets showing Dr. King in ‘know communist training camps,” etc. for around a buck apiece. Even to a child of 12, this seemed like a flim-flam operation. I believe there were several factors that saved me from going down my parents’ road. First, as a boy from Pennsylvania suddenly thrust into a rural Southern school system, I had first-hand experience with prejudice and hatred. In short, for the first two years of school, I got beat up a lot; not for anything I had said or done, but for being a Yankee- a much-despised class of people to many in the post-reconstruction South. This was a strange concept for a six year-old to grasp… but it made something inside resonate later on, when seeing others treated in this manner. Then there was the revelation that my own parents were tragically flawed; I had begun to question everything they believed in, with the realization that they seemed to get it wrong most of the time. Had my mother been smarter and more lovable, if my father had been stronger and more successful, I might have bought into their narrow mind-set. But ultimately, it was the music that saved me. Even as a young child, I was drawn to jazz, starting with the jaunty syncopation of Ragtime and evolving into the other more complex styles of America’s own art form. The musicians became heroes to me, larger than life and magical. Even though the music was beyond my reach, it became the most important factor in my ability to overcome the racist environment of my childhood. Becoming a musician and working in bands from the age of 15, I was taken out of an all-white environment and exposed to new ways of thinking. By the time I was a sophomore in high school I was working and hanging out with college students from all parts of the country. Their ‘liberal’ ideas gave me a moral compass. I had helped form an R&B band with three horns, a singer and a rhythm section, playing Stax and Motown covers. Soon we were hired to back recording artists making appearances in local clubs and concert venues throughout the Carolinas. We worked with rising and falling stars- Eddie Floyd, Spider Turner, Gary U.S. Bonds, The Platters, etc. I developed long-lasting friendships with a few local black musicians. I considered myself free of racial prejudices. But still, occasionally I caught myself judging, patronizing, categorizing and reacting to certain situations in a way I’m sure my mother would have approved. I had to confront an ugly fact- that, deep down, I still had racist conceptions and tendencies which had to be dealt with. There was still much work to do. I read James Baldwin. I participated in the Wake County Phase II Integration Workshop which prepared for the coming influx of black students into my high school. I co-chaired my school’s Student Avisory Council, which our principal had created to provide an outlet for interracial grievances. My African-American friends were invaluable in helping me understand and overcome my remaining lapses and faux pas. I still marvel at their patience, their understanding and, on occasion, their good-humored tolerance. There were many such social blunders; I will share one example. In 1974 I moved to Atlanta and landed a house band gig in an Underground Atlanta nightclub called Scarlett O’Hara’s. The band was predominantly black, as were the patrons on most nights. The band’s leader, an excellent drummer named Steve Milner, had grown up in Atlanta’s notorious Bankhead projects and was generally a man of few words. One night, he spared a few for me. I had been appointed to handle the band’s emcee duties, introducing the band members, telling the audience about upcoming acts, drink specials, etc. My one problem was that I had habitually avoided using the typically southern phrase “you all” or “y’all” since early childhood. So, as I greeted each new audience, I would ask, “How are you people doing?” … then go on with the announcements. After a couple nights of this, Steve pulled me aside. “You know, Bill,” he began calmly, “you really shouldn’t be addressing black folk as ‘you people.’ That’s something we’re tired of hearing.” I was dismayed. “Really?” I then went on to explain that I meant nothing, other than to avoid sounding like a native southerner. I asked, “You mean to tell me that, if you were sitting in the audience, you would take offense?” He paused, looked at me sideways and said, “Yeah… I just might.” From that point on, “y’all” became a part of my nightly speil, palpable irony notwithstanding. To this day, I still wonder if my using the phrase “you people” might have been my subconscious, deeply embedded racism rising to the surface. After all, I had been carefully taught. In the summer of ’69, before my senior year in high school, my band was contracted to back up ATCO recording artist Arthur Conley, who had achieved success with his single, “Sweet Soul Music.” He was touring to promote his latest hit record, “Funky Street.” Our seven-piece band had recently acquired an old Greyhound bus; we were ready to hit the road! It was an eye-opening experience, to say the least. We played a variety of venues- college concerts, municipal auditoriums, all-black nightclubs throughout Georgia, Alabama, the Carolinas, West Virginia, Washington, D.C. At one point we were in south Georgia driving late into the night to make a gig in Albany, when we stopped at an all-night gas station/diner. We were confronted by an angry group of whites who identified themselves as Minutemen militia members. They brandished shotguns and told us to “get out of town.” Of course, we complied with their request. I suppose seeing a busload of scruffy, long-haired white boys following a shiny new Lincoln full of nattily-dressed black men was too much for them to stomach. You could almost cut the hatred in the air with a knife. Just part of my continuing education. The highlight of the summer, at least for me, was the concert we played at Tuskegee Institute. In the late sixties, Tuskegee, Alabama was an extraordinary place. It was obvious that the predominantly black population was firmly in charge, a phenomenon in largely Jim Crow Macon County. The college itself was a typically serene, ivy-covered campus. I was a bit apprehensive. Black college students all over the country were becoming increasingly militant. In the wake of Martin Luther King’s assassination, the violence against the freedom riders, the assaults on demonstrators in Birmingham and Montgomery and countless other problems, how would this 100% African-American audience react to seeing a pasty-faced, all-white band take the stage? My fears proved to be unfounded. We were not only treated with courtesy and respect- we received the warmest response of the whole tour. Backstage, nothing but hugs and handshakes. I was overwhelmed. On our way out of town later that night, we stopped to fuel up at an all-night filling station. On the island next to the attendant booth, there was a man who appeared to be in his 50s or 60s, playing a beat-up old electric guitar and singing the blues. His clothes were shabby; he wore a slouchy hat and his guitar was missing a couple of strings. I stood there transfixed, listening to wonderful, raw music emanating from the heart, pure and simple. On impulse, I ran back into the bus and pulled a set of strings from my guitar case. When the old gentleman stopped playing, I complimented him on his music and gave him the strings. “You seem to be missing a few,” I said. He looked at me with an expression of simple joy and started singing a song which he seemed to be composing right off the top of his head, about how grateful he was for this simple gift. “… and I love you, man,” he sang. I’m not exaggerating here. As we drove out of town, I was fighting back tears. There have been many small epiphanies such as this marking my climb out of the dark pit of racist conditioning- that pit from which which most of us have had to escape. I will stop here to say that, if you have not confronted those demons inside of you at some point in your life, then you are either in denial or you are extremely fortunate. I hope my point is clear, however ham-handed my ramblings may have been in this piece. I have nothing to say to those who choose to embrace hatred and prejudice. They are doomed to a Hell of their own making. But, to the majority of us who want to affect real change for the better in this world, I hope you will have each examined those onion layers and will have routed any remaining seeds of racism- with the understanding that it is an ongoing process. I write this today, on the 50th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech. We all owe Dr. King a huge debt of gratitude for his non-violent approach and the sacrifices he made on behalf of civil rights. We owe it to him and to our country to combat the rising tide of reactionary, right-wing intolerance and the ongoing attacks on key legislation, such as the Voting Rights Act. We owe it to future generations who, hopefully, may one day ask their parents, “What’s a racist?” Written by Bill Barnes August 28, 2013 at 11:32 am Posted in Arts and Humanities, Politics FROM YOUR COLD, DEAD HAND with 3 comments Image [I had written this in 2012, shortly after Sandy Hook. Now, after so many shootings involving assault rifles, you’d think the gun lobby would finally loosen its stranglehold on our lawmakers. But no.] The latest horrific mass murder in Connecticut has once again opened the debate on gun control and, as you would expect, the bodies of the twenty-six victims were still on the floor lying in their congealed blood when opponents of gun control trundled out their usual rhetoric on the sanctity of second amendment rights. And, while I agree that this is a complex problem involving broader discussion and many simultaneous solutions, right now I want to stay focused on this issue concerning our national obsession over “bearing arms.” A while back I came across an article from the Washington Post about a man who ordered a TV from Amazon.com and was sent an SIG716 assault rifle instead. (http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/crime/2012/08/08/d96b55e4-e1a2-11e1-a25e-15067bb31849_story.html?hpid=z5) How could this be possible? Curiosity eventually got the better of me. I went to Amazon.com and searched SIG716 semi automatic rifle and came up with a variety of AirSoft assault weapons and pellet guns, but no actual assault rifles. Then, directed by the Post article, I went to a site called Gunbuyers.com. It had a ‘nice’ selection of Browning rifles, including the BEAR (Browning Enhanced Automatic Rifle) but I couldn’t seem to find the assault rifle which had been the subject of the Post article. This must be some joke, I thought; as a last resort, I Googled AK47 and- holy DOO DOO! Bingo! Blammo! What came up in the search was quite an impressive array of Kalashnikov-designed assault rifles, including 30-round magazines and a neat option called the “slide fire stock set,” which enables fully automatic ‘machine gun’ fire. I thought this sort of thing was illegal in the U.S. but what do I know? One in particular seemed affordable, at around $600 and easily obtained from a company called Atlantic Firearms. (http://www.atlanticfirearms.com/storeproduct1103.aspx) There’s even a snazzy video demonstrating the sexy firepower of such a weapon. Now, I admit that the ‘guy compartment’ in my brain finds the prospect of pulling a trigger and unleashing an explosive rain of leaded mayhem somewhat empowering and sexy. This is undoubtedly why action movies are so popular among males of the species. But, other than your average terrorist or sick, demented mass murderer-in-waiting, who are buying these cute little engines of death? And why are so many wing nuts on the right adamant about preserving our right to buy these products? So, reading between the lines (I am such a newbie at this paramilitary business, having been a virulent anti-war protester in the sixties and fairly non-violent ever since) I noticed a word which came up constantly in the marketing verbiage for these companies: “Prepper” (not to be confused with “preppie”and frequently referred to as “Doomsday Preppers.”) http://americanpreppersnetwork.net/viewtopic.php?f=493&t=19951 http://www.thesurvivalistblog.net/acquire-prep-items-quickly-inexpensively/ http://www.thesurvivalplace.com/food-prepping-supplies-c-728.html http://readynutrition.com/resources/prepping-a-beginners-guide-essential-items-needed-for-disaster-preparation-pt-2_17022010/ http://www.squidoo.com/doomsday-prepping-supplies-the-basics http://prepper.org/Prepper.asp What on earth is a prepper? Turns out, it’s a catchy name for the reincarnation of the old survivalist- you remember, the people who dug atomic bomb shelters, stored years worth of dried food and weapons and armed themselves to the teeth in preparation for the post-nookular planet we would have inherited after the U.S. and U.S.S.R. blew the world to smithereens. But now, with the threat of Mutual Assured Destruction a thing for history books, the new focus is on the disintegration of society in general and the resultant anarchy that must surely follow. The doomsday scenarios for which they are ‘prepping’ include but are not limited to: global oil shortages, avian flu pandemic, World War III, electromagnetic pulse aftermath grid failure, hyperinflation (really!) and alien invasion. http://endoftheamericandream.com/archives/life-after-an-emp-attack-no-power-no-food-no-transportation-no-banking-and-no-internet I was shocked to discover that there is a well-connected Prepper Network, with a chapter in each state- and make no mistake about it, these folks will be ready when the Four Horsemen come galloping into their neighborhoods. Here’s a quote from the mission statement of my own state’s chapter (Maine Prepper Network): “Most of us who consider that we may get caught by deteriorating societal circumstances in our present homes wonder how we might be able to harden that house for ballistic protection in case it is needed.” That’s right, it said, “deteriorating societal circumstances.” The statement continues to say, “unless you live in the most southern locations you will probably want to have plenty of firewood stocked. Especially in the north you may want to invest in a LOT of firewood while it is relatively cheap & available – so why not pile it against your house to protect it ? You do NOT want it piled in the back yard to provide cover for attackers.” http://mainepreppersnetwork.blogspot.com/ So, picture this: your average rural or suburban home, its occupants armed to the teeth with assault weapons, the basement stocked with months of food, water, medical supplies and ammo- and cloaked in a cocoon of stacked firewood. Sort of a far cry from CSN&Y’s lovely “Our House,” with “two cats in the yard.” Hey, shoot the cats- great target practice! Don’t get me wrong; a little emergency preparation is smart; we should all have fire extinguishers, alternate lighting sources and first aid kits, along with potable water and some canned goods for those very real blackout periods following natural disasters such as tornadoes or hurricanes. But much of the Network’s advice borders on lunacy (do you really want to barricade your home with firewood? What if there was an actual FIRE?) So, getting back to the assault weapon issue, we have several categories of proponents: One is the above mentioned group who, for one reason or another, believe that society is about to crumble and so cling to their second amendment rights to amass arsenals of combat weapons as part of a prepper survival strategy. http://www.atlanticfirearms.com/storeproduct1103.aspx Another category involves those who believe there is a government conspiracy to disarm America’s citizenry before stripping our society of all individual freedom. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gy7FVXERKFE Then there’s the sinister sub-genre which involves white militia groups, who are arming themselves against the “mongrelization of America” and the demise of the Caucasian race. (As one who is obviously of the “Caucasian persuasion,” I can’t tell you how often I’ve felt threatened by those whose epidermal pigment efficiency makes me feel like the Pillsbury Dough-boy. Oh, the horror!) Finally, there are those relatively benign individuals who simply like to own, collect and shoot beefy, loud military weapons for the sheer testosterone joy of destroying inanimate objects in a blase of gunpowder-scented glory. And these are the individuals who become the poster children of the NRA; those otherwise normal, healthy, responsible citizens who would have you pry their assault weapons from “their cold dead hands.” Ironically, it’s this group which may make it possible for the gun lobby to maintain its stranglehold on a comprehensive assault weapons ban and other gun control measures. Lobbyists from organizations such as the NRA, http://www.nra.org/ the National Association for Gun Rights, https://www.facebook.com/nagrfb, Citizens Committee for the Right to Keep and Bear Arms,http://www.ccrkba.org/ and many others exercise considerable political clout on Capitol Hill. Since the election of Barack Obama the rhetoric has been accelerated to the point of near-hysteria. We have limits on access to automobiles, explosives and drugs; is the proliferation of military tactical weapons really covered by the second amendment? Should it be? I don’t want to take away your firearms. In fact, the day they pass a bill that prohibits the ownership of handguns for self-defense or hunting rifles for sport, I’ll stand with you. But don’t tell me you will protect me with your testosterone toys sometime in the hypothetical future, after my rights are taken away. Because you can’t. My guess is you probably won’t even try- you’ll probably be too busy shooting each other in the ensuing panic. And no, I’m not afraid of your hate; I’m afraid of your fear. Because your guns can’t protect me now against the very real threat of heavily-armed nut jobs whose unbridled rage and ravenous hunger for attention continue to be enabled by the flawed interpretation of the second amendment rights you people have been wailing about; because you can’t convince me for one second that your penis-guns make the world safer, when you can’t even protect us from people like yourselves, only more paranoid and unstable, who one day decide to go over the edge and get their pathetic faces onto CNN. As far as I’m concerned, if you believe your nonsense for even a second, then you’re living in a cartoon universe, less than six degrees of separation from Woody Woodpecker. That’s my personal opinion and I’m entitled to it; please resist the temptation to empty a 30-round magazine into my gut from your slide-firing Kalashnikovs. Try to remember that we still have the first amendment- and please devote some serious thought to the dangerous society you are nurturing. To the families of the Sandy Hook victims and to all those whose lives had been destroyed by acts of violence, I send heartfelt condolences. The world grieves with you. [Update, December 15, 2012: Adam Lanza’s weapons of choice included a Bushmaster .223 assault rifle, which had given him the firepower he needed to kill so many victims in such a short period, according to the latest news reports. All four of the weapons in his possession at the time of the massacre were taken from his mother, Nancy Lanza, who was an avid gun collector and who became his first victim. 48 Hours reported that she had kept an arsenal of assault weapons partly because of her concern over the breakdown of society and the need to protect herself in the resultant chaos. She was a prepper. ] Written by Bill Barnes December 15, 2012 at 11:57 am Posted in Politics MY GUILTY YOUTUBE OBSESSION leave a comment » I love YouTube. It has truly revolutionized our access to information, news, politics, education and the arts, while providing a stage and a bully pulpit for those who heretofore had no voice. As an aid to promoting one’s own agenda, it has no equal. I use it frequently to promote my music projects and to seek work- after all, an audition is just a mouse click away. One of my guilty pleasures concerning YouTube is the seemingly unending postings of strange, quirky and sometimes frightening music videos. I’m in a Face Book group called “Painful, Gagging, Horrid Songs,” which feeds me a steady stream of posts from an alternate universe of obsession, narcissism, delusion, paranoia and, occasionally- truly brilliant, visionary art which forces one to rethink reality. Or not. In the interest of getting this out of my system, so I don’t continue to pollute Faced Book and other social media with these quirky entertainments (at least not so often,) I am now listing my Top Ten Weird Videos- if only for no other reason than to see if there’s some sort of connecting thread which may suggest an underlying psychosis or possible early stage of dementia forcing me to watch these aberrations. MY TOP TEN MOST BIZARRE BUT COMPELLING VIDEOS: 10 Kyary Pamyu Pamuy – Pon Pon Anime obsession gone terribly wrong- the Cutebonic Plague has arrived. http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=yzC4hFK5P3g 9 Dalmatian Rex and the Eigentones- Octopus I Love You The world’s first cephlopod-cast. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tSgG9yvZ4OE&feature=youtu.be 8 Orphic Oxtra- Skeletons Having Sex on a Tin Roof Icelanders have way too much time on their hands. But I can’t stop watching this… http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=d5BdyIGtYcg 7 Klaus Nomi- Lightning Strikes The legendary new wave operatic Berliner/New York Underground enigma takes on Lou Cristie’s oversexed pop anthem. http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=gma5IUNMTn0#! 6 Zanger Rinus – Met Romana op de scooter I want these two to get the help they need. Soon. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XHEFbX81XWQ&feature=player_embedded 5 Armi Ja Danny – I Want To Love You Tender Hey! There’s no atmosphere in space! STOP, you two! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kA5GkLM5C7M&feature=youtu.be 4 William Shatner – Mr. Tamborine Man After watching this for the first time, I felt truly Shat upon. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_0hTtsqiFCc 3 Cibo Matto – Know Your Chicken Poultry in motion. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COMWwwv_MTk&ob=av3e 2 Klaus Nomi (yes, two of his videos are on my list) The Nomi Song He was not of this Earth. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKYpepxGkyY 1 Finally, the legendary Trololo guy, Eduard Khil- For some odd reason, I love this guy. What’s wrong with me? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oavMtUWDBTM But wait- there’s more! The video below didn’t make the top ten because it is intentionally off-the-wall and they knew exactly what they were doing. But it deserves attention for being so… well, uh… unique. Barnes and Barnes (no relation to me) are actually Bill Mumy, of Lost in Space fame, and Robert Haimer. Mumy was also very scary in a classic Twilight Zone episode in which he played a little boy with unlimited power over reality who did terrible things to people when he was crossed. Mumy’s the word. I’m still a little apprehensive about posting this- but I’m sure he wouldn’t do me any harm… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTpUVAcvWfU Was it something I said? Well, there you have it. And, no, I’m not on medications of any sort. Nor do I intend to seek help. Written by Bill Barnes May 4, 2012 at 1:16 pm Posted in Uncategorized WAYNE AND REMEMBRANCE with 2 comments Saturday, August 14th, marks the 65th anniversary of the day President Truman announced the surrender of Japan, marking the end of World War II, one of the darkest times in human history. It was a man-made global catastrophe in which close to 80 million people were wiped off the face of the Earth while the levels of human carnage, cruelty and savagery were expanded further than ever thought conceivable. Not so coincidentally, there has recently been a spate of John Wayne flicks showing up on TV. This has given me much cannon fodder for thought. There are now at least two generations on the planet for whom this first (and, hopefully, last) truly global war has some historical value, but seemingly little personal significance. That’s a bit troubling because, in the face of unspeakable horror and a possible bleak future, our parents and grandparents had stepped up and done their duty, making possible the world we take for granted today. Looking back, it’s sometimes hard to realize just how precarious and uncertain the outcome was and how close Hitler and his allies came to winning- and equally unimaginable the kind of world we would have inherited, had the Allied efforts failed. Scene from BAND OF BROTHERS For those of us too young to have experienced those war years, I recommend viewing Ken Burns’s gripping documentary series, The War and Tom Hanks and Stephen Spielberg’s excellent mini-series, Band of Brothers, based on the book by Stephen Ambrose, a factual account of the 101st Airborne’s Easy Company. These epic productions offer an unflinching look into the realities of World War II as ordinary citizens were called upon to do extraordinary things in order to preserve our way of life. Both series present a portrait of war which is radically different than the glamorized, sanitized, action-adventure ambiance of the typical John Wayne film. Movingly powerful documentary of four American communities’ war experience You know what I’m talking about: the kind of flag-waving guts-and-glory entertainment we young children in the ‘50s used to watch while commanding our miniature plastic infantrymen on cozy living room rugs in Levittown-style ticky-tacky neighborhoods across the country. There he was… The Duke, storming the beachhead through a hail of Hollywood bullets, Go gettum, Duke! lantern-jawed and fearless. We would cheer, secure in the knowledge that he was on our side and imagine ourselves as helmeted, M-1 toting Cracker Jack heroes in this magnificent fantasy. World War II was a comfortable historical event for us back then- Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan had yet to appear on our event horizon. It was almost as much fun as cowboys and Indians! Recently I came across a website offering this whimsical Wayne quote: “War isn’t very civilized business.” He should know, right? I mean, he was the star of Sands of Iwo Jima, They Were Expendable, In Harm’s Way, Back to Bataan, The Fighting Seabees and The Flying Leathernecks, to name a few. One would think he fought World War II single-handed. The Duke, ready for action Ironically, the Duke may have found the business of World War II to be so good that he couldn’t spare the time to enlist himself. I did a little research; as a fan of the film persona known as John Wayne, I really wanted to discover a legitimate reason why such a Hollywood war hero and virulent right-wing Vietnam hawk was unable to join up with his fellow actors from the Greatest Generation when it was his time to serve. It turns out that there really wasn’t one. In fact, on the surface, our beloved flying leatherneck would appear to be a bit of a draft dodger. With his star on the rise, he would repeatedly allow Republic Studios (under which he was contracted) to apply for deferments on his behalf, taking advantage of the opportunities opening up from the film industry’s vacancies as many “A list” actors went off to war. But then, there are two sides of the story- there are Duke’s supporters who go to great lengths to emphasize his attempt to join the OSS, his being too old for the initial draft (age 34) or his injuries from doing his own movie stunts which would have probably rendered him 4F. On the other side, there are the myriad other celebrities who had pulled strings, lied about their age and health statuses or, failing to get in, had put themselves in harm’s way by serving in the Merchant Marines (extremely dangerous, when U-boats were sinking thousands of tons of U.S. shipping every month) or other risky endeavors, such as espionage. Peter Falk, missing an eye due to a childhood illness, had tried to memorize the eye exam chart in a failed enlistment attempt before becoming a merchant seaman. Even the gentle, soft-spoken “Captain Kangaroo,” Bob Keeshan, had joined the Marine Corps at the tender age of 17, two weeks before the bombing of Hiroshima, as our forces were facing the possibility of a horrendous invasion of the Japanese mainland. An underage “Captain Kangaroo” enlisted in the Marine Corps in the final days of WWII I was shocked to learn that Wayne’s apparent reluctance to enlist or be drafted was the exception among movie stars at that time- in fact so many celebrities had served in WWII combat roles that it boggles the mind. The real “reel” heroes? Here’s a random sampling: Mel Brooks fought in the Battle of the Bulge. Clark Gable flew missions with the 91st Bomb Group, Tyrone Power flew missions as a PBY4 pilot and James Stewart saw combat as a B24 pilot in Europe. The complete list of unlikely war veterans is staggering. It even includes “The Professor” of Gilligan’s Island, Russell Johnson- who earned his Purple Heart in a B24 and “Mr. Chicken/Barney Fife” himself- Don Knotts, who served in the Army. Dutch Resistance Courier WWII Espionage Agent Yes, “Barney Fife” actually served in WWII. Audrey Hepburn, although just a child, served as a courier delivering messages for the Dutch Resistance. Julia Child was an OSS spy, serving in Washington, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) and China. The strongest argument in favor of John Wayne’s willingness to serve is supported by official documents from the National Archives which include his actual application to the O.S.S. In fact, he had been approved for duty with its Field Photographic Unit but he apparently never followed up on his application nor responded to the letter of acceptance. I’m sorry, but this doesn’t sound like a man itching to see combat. In fairness, it should be noted that Wayne did visit the Pacific theater of war in 1944, as a part of a USO tour. Dan Gagliassiano of the blog Big Hollywood describes his enduring 130 degree heat to hang out with the troops and quotes him as saying “I got to go places the average entertainer wouldn’t get to go.” As I continued my research, it soon became obvious that not all entertainers had difficulty in seeing combat. Wayne’s Donovan’s Reef co-star, Lee Marvin, got to go to Saipan as a Marine, where he was shot in the ass during a beach landing. (It’s interesting that Marvin seemingly had no problem with Wayne’s lack of service.) And Marvin wasn’t the only celebrity casualty. Director John Ford was wounded while filming aboard a Navy vessel at Midway, amtrak operator Eddie Albert was wounded at Tarawa, Airborne private Rod Serling was wounded on Manila, Charles Durning was shot on the beach at Normandy and James Arness was wounded at Anzio. Jack Palance was seriously wounded and required extensive facial reconstructive surgery after a mission in which his B17 had crashed. There’s more, but you get the idea. These media types weren’t doing photo ops. If, as it appears, John Wayne did indeed make some attempt to serve in an active military role during the war, then what’s with all the sniping at his lack of an actual war record? For me, the answer is simple. Had he just been an actor who was also a conscientious objector, or had actually been medically disqualified, there would be no criticism. Unfortunately, after the war John Wayne would become a high-profile politically active conservative, a supporter of Senator Joe McCarthy and Richard Nixon, a member of the John Birch Society and an enthusiastic advocate of our involvement in Vietnam, an immoral and unpopular conflict in which thousands of young Americans were forced to serve against their will. But World War II was not Vietnam. Although not everyone was in favor of the U.S. entering the war, history seems to vindicate our politicians and their ultimate decision to stand up to the Axis. The general mood of the time was so different; most Americans were eager to do their part. In fact, there were reports of suicides among those who were rejected by the armed forces. So, in view of Wayne’s hawkish nature and his assertion that he was “only playing himself ” in all those action movies, his selective service deferment record and halfhearted attempts to join the O.S.S. seem almost embarrassing. In later years, he even expressed a certain amount of embarrassment himself, much to his credit. At this point, you may ask: who am I to judge? For the record, I’m not a veteran- I was and am still opposed to our country’s involvement in any non-defensive war fought over ideology, economics or politics. I was called up in the 1969 Lottery and duly reported for my pre-induction physical but luckily, due to being under the care of an orthodontist, I had received a temporary postponement of my induction. It would be several years before I realized that they weren’t going to call me to report- you might say that I, quite literally, escaped by the ‘skin of my teeth.’ No, I didn’t want to fight in Vietnam and, yes, I was against the war from the start. Would I have reported, had the induction gone forward or would I have fled to Canada? To this day I can’t answer that question. But I value and respect the sacrifices made by those who did serve and grieve for the over 50,000 who had lost their lives, some of whom were my friends. I pass no judgment on those who fled and feel neither pride nor guilt over my not serving in Vietnam. Gung Ho! Though it’s fair enough to say that I have no right to criticize anyone for not entering military service in wartime, in the case of John Wayne, given his gung-ho screen image, conservative politics and pro-Vietnam War position, you have to wonder why he has been given a pass by even his more hawkish friends on his tepid efforts to enlist. Having said all that, I still can’t help being a fan of The Duke. It’s a guilty pleasure watching him in action. I want to believe in his courage, his heroism, his simple virtue and vibrant, iconic image of oak-tall, iron-sinew American manhood. Was he, as he has been quoted, simply playing himself, or someone he had hoped to be? Perhaps it’s time to reconcile the actual person, Marion Robert Morrison, with the screen persona we all know and love as John Wayne. In my favorite John Wayne film, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence, a newspaperman justifies withholding pertinent facts surrounding a past gunfight between James Stewart’s character and the villain Liberty Valance, so effectively portrayed by Lee Marvin: ”When the legend becomes fact, print the legend,” he says. So I suppose that I will continue to enjoy the film legend and root for his character, whenever he is storming the beach at Iwo Jima or shooting it out on Rio Bravo. But sadly, the fact of the man behind the image may be no more substantive than the decaying celluloid reels upon which he has been immortalized. One can only speculate that, if he had been pressed into combat, John Wayne may have indeed turned out to be the hero he so often portrayed; more importantly, actual combat might have tempered his unbridled enthusiasm for sending others off to war in later years. We’ll never know. Richard Winters, Citizen-Soldier and authentic WWII hero, portrayed in Band of Brothers Duke was right: War isn’t very civilized business. Perhaps if he had experienced its horrors firsthand, he wouldn’t have later on made it appear to be such an attractive business- and that’s my point. We should continue to honor the sacrifices all our veterans have made but not glamorize or white-wash the horrific conditions under which they served. War should never become entertainment. We must remember the real heroes, thank them for their service and work harder towards the ultimate goal of finding a more civilized way to solve our nations’ differences. Written by Bill Barnes August 14, 2010 at 9:23 am Posted in 1, Arts and Humanities, Environment, History, Philosophy, Politics Tagged with Band of Brothers, Japanese Surrender, John Wayne, Ken Burns, Peace, The War, World War II Hip, Yes Indeed- What It Is with 4 comments Me, after bionic enhancement After several weeks of absence I now sit at the writee machinee, once again attempting to manipulate the English language into semi-coherent thought. It’s not all that easy, as I am recovering from surgery- the total replacement of my left hip. I hadn’t told very many people about this, as I have never been comfortable with burdening others with the tedium of having to come up with appropriate expressions of sympathy or support. The last time I was hospitalized was about 5 years ago, after my appendix had exploded. I was flat on my back for 5 days in Louisville’s Norton Hospital, hooked up to various tubes and I.V. bags. I vaguely remember ordering my first-born daughter to go home, arguing with my fiancé and otherwise being generally churlish with the nursing staff. How or why they all put up with me remains a mystery. In fact, I have always been a wretched hospital patient, snarling and snapping at staff workers, impatient with family visitors, indifferent to flowers and cards and desiring nothing more than to be left alone with the TV remote and morphine drip button. After a day or two, nurses tend to hate my ass-face. So, this time around, I was determined to be less disagreeable. After all, due to a part-time day gig which provided health benefits, I could finally afford this operation and after nearly a year of limping around like Frankenstein’s Igor (“Walk this way…”), I would soon regain my ability to pace the floor and worry- one of my favorite pastimes. I should be thrilled. A pratt fall on the back porch during the holidays had exacerbated my pain and made it almost impossible to walk, so I needed this thing in a hurry. But hip replacement surgery, while becoming increasingly more commonplace, is not a simple in-and-out procedure. It took a referral from my G.P. to an orthopedic surgeon, multiple tests and x-rays and coordination of hospital and doctors’ schedules. My surgeon, the kindly and ever-so-competent Dr. William Sutherland, was able to find a spot in the middle of January at a small boutique hospital in the quaint seaside village of York, which advertised “the best lobster rolls in the state of Maine.” Yum, yum, I couldn’t wait. So, on the 19th of January my fiancé Julie drove me to York Hospital for the surgery. As we pulled up to the main entrance, I couldn’t help notice that the tiny facility was bursting at the seams, with new construction turning everything topsy-turvy on the outside. People were marching in and out with dogs on leashes- York had a “dog visitation” policy, supposedly great for patients’ mental health but one that I, as a surgical patient, found fairly disturbing. To no avail, I tried to banish the vivid images in my mind involving packs of flea-infested, butt-licking dogs roaming the halls, ripping at my sutures, peeing in my ginger ale and chewing on I.V. tubes at their leisure. I suppose my surface veneer of calm was starting to crack. “Think lobster rolls, yum, yum,” became my mantra for inner peace. After the preliminaries, I was ushered into a tiny, cluttered waiting room resembling a linen closet. “The anesthesiologist will be in shortly to discuss your options,” the nurse advised, after ordering me to change into a standard backless, typically humiliating hospital negligee. “In the meantime, you can fold towels, if you get bored.” Twenty minutes and two stacks of towels later, the smiling anesthesiologist waltzes in. “Let’s discuss your options,” he begins. “Options?” said I. “How about the one presenting the least chance of mortality and a fair chance of preventing unspeakable agony under the knife?” “That sounds reasonable,” he says. I resist the temptation to ask which one comes with soup and egg roll. There are two options- one, full general anesthesia, involving being put into a death-like comatose state, with a plastic tube crammed down your throat. The other is a spinal block, augmented with a sedative, allowing for intermittent periods of wakefulness and the promise of a speedier, less nauseating recovery. I opt for number two, as the idea of being able to check out the progress and have a chat with the surgical team is irresistible. Plus, there’s no tube in the throat. After all, we don’t want any lingering impediment to my lobster roll delivery system. Dr. Sutherland makes a brief appearance to go over a few last-minute details. I prepare to deliver my last bit of witticism: “Hey Doc, it’s the left hip, okay?” But he is way ahead of me- he actually marked the correct hip with a magic marker and I am commanded to initial it. A few minutes later they wheeled me into the O.R. I had envisioned a scene out of the Inquisition, with Dominicans preparing torture devices over hot coals, but the room actually reminded me of a small, brightly lit Las Vegas cocktail lounge. It’s Showtime! I would like to think my natural he-man fortitude was responsible for my jaunty, cavalier attitude in the face of impending surgical mayhem, but it’s quite possible that the sedative already pumping into my vein from the I.V. bag could take most of the credit. As they inserted the needle into my spine, I was already drifting off on fluffy clouds of fresh-steamed, chunky lobster meat dripping in butter and stuffed into a crisp, toasted hot dog bun… BANG-BANG- BANG! “What the Hell is that?” I am startled from my crustacean fantasy by what appears to be construction noises in the vicinity of my ass. “That’s Dr. Sutherland, building you a new hip,” the smiling anesthesiologist explains. I can’t see the operation, as I am laying on my right side. To take my mind off the matter at hand, he asks me to recommend some jazz albums for his collection, as he is “interested in expanding his musical tastes.” I vaguely remember suggesting he begin with Ornette Coleman’s This is Our Music before I nodded out again. As I said, I’m not a very nice patient. The operation was a success and was actually the easiest part of the hospital experience, as it turned out. Two hours after surgery, I was wheeled to my room, which I would be sharing with an elderly gentleman with a blood infection, who spent all night moaning, throwing up and calling repeatedly for the nurse. I was spared the visuals, as he kept his curtains closed the whole time, blocking the only window. Thus, I spent the next few day without ever seeing daylight, strapped flat on my back with a plastic wedge stuck between my legs, hooked up to a catheter, various I.V. bags and monitors. Even so, the day after surgery I was in great spirits: “Great job, Dr. Sutherland- I want you to sign this hip!” The benevolent surgeon shrugged it off, attributing my euphoria to the residue of the sedatives and pain killers still in my system. Sure enough, by the second night, I was my former churlish self. My tubes were tangled, the bed adjustments were not functioning and the restraints pinning me flat on my back were making it difficult to breathe. I imagined all kinds of horrors- pneumonia, infection, the ultimate rejection of my brand new hip joint. My night nurse was curt, defensive and impatient and I began to suspect her level of competency as well. But upon reflection, I suppose that her bedside manner, however indifferent to my suffering she may have been, didn’t merit me calling her and her C.T. “a team of assassins.” From that point on, the anger and resentment would be increasingly palpable as Florence Nightenmare jabbed and prodded in her inimitable passive-aggressive style. “Was it something I said?” I asked, not without a touch of irony. Fortunately, on the third day the more experienced, no-nonsense morning nurse took the matters in hand, requisitioning a new bed, straightening out the tangle of I.V. tubes and requesting a change in the night staff for the malcontent patient Barnes. My cheerful physical therapist did his job of getting me up and moving and I began to eat small amounts of food- Jell-O, beef broth, a piece of toast- in fact, anything but lobster rolls, which somehow had lost their appeal. A visit from my brother actually lifted my spirits. My roommate was discreetly moved to another room (at his request, I’m sure) and I was finally able to see sunlight. On Friday, four days after the surgery, I was discharged, with home physical therapy scheduled. But there was one unfulfilled experience I had yet to savor. Yes, for my last meal, I ordered one of York Hospital’s celebrated lobster rolls, which arrived a few minutes later- cold, unappetizing shreds of nebulous, smelly, previously frozen invertebrate meat, on a stale bun soggy with mayonnaise. It didn’t matter- I was just happy to be going home. The main point, of course, is that I am lucky to be able to have this surgery. Currently there are nearly 50 million Americans out there who are uninsured and couldn’t afford this procedure, nor even the basic, life-saving health care that people with group benefits take for granted. I hope that our government remedies this inequity soon. My heartfelt gratitude goes out to the surgical team headed by Dr. Sutherland, the staff at York Hospital, the home health care people and my long-suffering fiancé, Julie, who bears the brunt of my recovery process. UPDATE- April, 2013: I’m happy to report that, three years later, my left bionic hip is still functioning and has not given me a bit of trouble. I’m unhappy to report that my hopes for a more equitable healthcare system, where proper medical care is available to all, not just the lucky ones with group benefits or millions of dollars in the bank, is no closer to being a reality than it was when the Clintons attempted to reform the system back in the ’90s. As Dr. Sutherland had predicted, I now need my right hip replaced. Whether I will be getting this much-needed surgery or not is dependent on the policies of Penbay Health, Knox County and my current limited financial status. I’ve become the Blanche Dubois of orthopedic medicine- “dependent on the kindness of strangers.” Assuming that I am granted this surgery, I promise to chronicle the experience again in my blog- but this time, without the over-written cuteness of the above article. At least I’ll try. Written by Bill Barnes February 14, 2010 at 10:32 am Posted in 1, Arts and Humanities, Humor, Philosophy Tagged with health care, hip replacement surgery, Hospital, Humor, patient care, personal journal On Aging with one comment BillFossil I’m freakin’ old. How old, you may ask? Well, not to put too fine a point on it…really, incredibly, disgustingly old. I was at the Red Sea when they dyed it and the Dead Sea when they died it. I was there when Buddha sought his boody, Howdy got his Doody and Ann Coulter caught her first cootie. Yes friends, in November I will hit the magic age of sixty. That’s older than most self-respecting dirt. I don’t like it one bit. When I look in the mirror, there’s no sixty year-old geezer staring back at me; I still see the awkward pimply-faced teenager who used to sneak a smoke behind the school building and ogle the go-go dancers on Shindig. But apparently, that’s not what others see. A few nights ago, as I was leaving the studio in Manchester after a trio rehearsal, I remarked to my thirty-something bass player, “I’m turning sixty in November- can you believe it?” To which he replied, while giving me an assessing sideways glance, “Yes, I can.” There are those among us who look forward to celebrating such a repugnant milestone; some even feel compelled to mark the occasion by jumping out of a perfectly good airplane or by getting a naughty tattoo of a voluptuous hula dancer- but I’m not one of them. With my luck, the naughty little tattoo would probably just get hot flashes and start nagging my bicep. As for jumping from a plane, I did that once, spraining my ankle in the process. (The fact that the plane was already parked on the ground is neither here nor there.) So I must content myself with the realization that life as I know it is rapidly coming to a close and there is more of it to look back upon with nostalgia than to anticipate with any degree of hope or excitement. The thing is, I felt exactly the same when I hit the magic age of fifty… and forty… and thirty. In fact, probably the only reason I didn’t feel that way at the age of twenty was that, at the time, there was nothing in my turbulent childhood and adolescence I thought I could look back upon with any fondness. Naturally, with hindsight, I discover that I had it all wrong. There were many occasions in my youth I now recall with mawkish sentimentality and realize that my life at thirty or forty… or even fifty still held much promise. Of course, that’s all so much bupkis now that I’m hitting the big six-oh. So, no birthday wishes, please- I intend to ignore this dark day completely. If you feel that you really must mark the occasion, in lieu of cards or gifts you may make a charitable contribution to my favorite worthy cause. Please send checks or money orders to: The Bill Barnes Retirement Sailboat Trust Fund*, C/O this website. Fair winds and following seas, dear friends! * After extensive investigation, WordPress has determined that no such charitable organization exists. DO NOT send any donations. Mr. Barnes would probably just spend the money on booze and hookers. Written by Bill Barnes September 30, 2009 at 2:24 pm Posted in 1, Arts and Humanities, Humor, Philosophy Lapsed Bohemian Manifesto with 6 comments Gypsy-BillI suppose I’ve always been a Bohemian at heart, even at a very early age. As a pre-schooler in Pittsburgh, music and art were as important to me as Howdy Doody and Cheerios- my toy piano and my well-worn record collection (featuring stellar recordings of sophisticated tunes such as “Teddy Bear’s Picnic”) were prized possessions; these and my drawing pad, crayons and pencils, were my main fix to satisfy a precocious creativity Jones. Early on I also grappled with the absurd rationale of my existence and the twisted logic of religion, as explained by our local Methodist minister, Dr. Manny (and got nowhere, I might add). My family’s move to semi-rural North Carolina when I was barely six gave me plenty of solitude to ponder the ironies of life and a longing for the urban sophistication we had left behind. Between the time I received my first guitar at the age of eight, and my beloved bongo drums when I was in the fifth grade, I had developed a love of music and a thirst for the freedom of expression and uninhibited thought horizons that the world’s loosely-connected artistic/philosophical/literary community seemed to offer beyond the dank, red silted banks of the Neuse River. I didn’t know the term ‘Bohemian’ then, just as many don’t really know it now, but I knew what I liked and, more importantly, what I didn’t like. What I liked: jazz, folk music, painting, theater and beatniks, who I thought were the coolest. What I didn’t like: team sports, at which I sucked, ignorance, violence, intolerance and any form of authority. The Beats, led by poets and writers such as Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsburg and populated by folkies, painters, jazz musicians and Ban-the-Bomb radicals, seemed to be kindred spirits and soon became my role models. By the age of twelve I was working backstage as a grip at the Raleigh Little Theater, playing Tom Paxton, Woody Guthrie and Dylan tunes on the guitar at post-rehearsal cast parties and rubbing shoulders with local college lefties. This was a magical time for me, the hootenanny heyday of Camelot and coffee houses, with Baez and Brubeck blaring from the HiFi. To this budding hipster, Beat culture was compelling and romantic: sweatshirts and shades, chinos and desert boots, bongos and gut-string guitars, bitter, nasty espresso served by angry black-clad waitresses in rustic, dark, smoke-filled coffee houses… a lone spotlight on a platform stage, where itinerant poets, folk singers or jazz cats would spill their guts. What’s not to like? While I probably never met a true Beatnik until years later (I suppose David Amram fits the description), AmramGinsburgKerouacthe varsity variety of left-wing radicals, folk singers and poets hanging around State College (which later became NCSU), Duke and UNC behaved as if they were offering a bold, revolutionary new vision. They weren’t of course; they were simply part of a movement that had repackaged Bohemianism for the post-war atomic age; by the late nineteen fifties the beat culture had caught fire on college campuses around the world and was instrumental in the American civil rights and anti-war movements of the sixties. However, the beginnings of the Bohemian movement can actually be traced back to the early 1800s, as artists, musicians, poets, philosophers and political radicals began to congregate in major European cities, the byproduct and catalyst of a rapidly changing social order in the western world. While artists, musicians, writers and philosophers have been with us since the dawn of civilization and have been a part of every culture, the Bohemian movement didn’t emerge until the final stages of colonialism in the nineteenth century and the ensuing rebellion against the arrogance of Eurocentric diffusionism and its class structure. Ever since, the rejection of traditional social values and aesthetics has been endemic to subsequent incarnations of Bohemianism. The brand name “Bohemian” originated in France, referring to the community of Romany people (Gypsies) erroneously presumed to have arrived from Bohemia. yarosh_gypsyIn time it came to represent any free-traveling, free-spirited or Pierre-Auguste_Renoir_-_Summertimeartistic soul living in poverty, or those embracing nonconformity, radical left-wing politics or avant-garde culture. By the mid-1800s Bohemian sensibilities had hit the United States, as writers like Bret Harte and Gelett Burgess chronicled the free wheeling lifestyles of their European counterparts. The “Belle Epoch” era saw the emergence of the impressionists- painters such as Manet, Renoir and Monet shocked the art world and Debussy shook music’s foundation with “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.” HuchetteThroughout the twentieth century, Bohemians have been living among us in various incarnations. The Cellist OriginalModigFrom the “Génération du Feu” (Generation of Fire) in pre-WWI France, the “Lost Generation” of the post WWI era and the “Beat Generation” of the post-WWII era to the sixties radical counterculture or “Woodstock Nation” of the Vietnam War era, Bohemians have resurfaced time after time, to shock and stir up the status quo in counterpoint to periods of establishment excesses and mass conformity. Bohemia has become more of a state of mind, rather than a geographic location or even a specific cultural movement. Gelett_Burgess_-_Map_of_Bohemia_1896 Ironically, the Bohemian brand had become a bit tarnished after being embraced by a group of people with a completely different agenda. The Bohemian Club, founded in 1872 by San Francisco artists, poets and writers, was soon taken over by wealthy businessmen and capitalists, who turned it into an all-male secret society of sorts, an enclave of the rich and powerful, an Old Boys network which included honorary members Richard Nixon and William Randolph Hearst, along with leading industrialists and military contractors- an ironic perversion of the core values of bohemianism. Their rationale: though thoroughly establishment to the core, these movers and shakers considered themselves bon vivants, supporters of the arts and “free thinkers,” so they could call themselves Bohemians. To flex their bon vie muscles, once a year they cavort at an exclusive retreat called “Bohemian Grove,” a secluded wilderness camp where the rich and powerful get to caper about like goofy adolescents for a few days. Bohemian Grove LuminariesHowever, the poet George Sterling (also a BC member) had disputed their Bohemian ties, asserting there were two criteria for a true Bohemian: a passion for one or more of the seven arts and a lifestyle of poverty- the “starving artist” concept, which has become de rigueur in establishing proper Bohemian credentials. For much of my life, I have met the criteria- at least for those periods in which I struggled to live off my musical career, when I wasn’t raising a family and working day gigs. As romantic as this may seem, it takes a certain amount of determination to stay true to your inner voice. In general, most of us trying to eke out an existence in the arts are not consciously living “the bohemian lifestyle;” it’s forced on us by economic necessity. The often quoted line from Omar Kayyam’s Rubiyat celebrating “a jug of wine, a loaf of bread and Thou, beside me, singing in the wilderness” sounds romantic, especially in the candlelight. But, believe me, when the jug of wine is empty and the loaf of bread is down to the crumbs, “Thou” will not long linger in the wilderness, romantic candlelight notwithstanding. There are times in my life when I’ve paid a bitter, lonely price for artistic integrity. Bill on gig Most ‘normal’ folks really don’t understand the mind of a true Bohemian. The apparent lack of conventional values, rejection of materialism, disdain of conservative government and irreverence toward organized religion cause a great deal of discomfort for those comfortably entrenched within the establishment. There’s a deep-rooted (and often well-justified) suspicion of anyone who disregards accepted rules of conduct in favor of more intangible, evolving philosophical principles. When the Old Testament’s Ten Commandments meet Joseph Fletcher’s Situation Ethics, guess which value system gets the most votes? There’s also the inescapable stigma of poverty in a society that equates material wealth and ownership of property with personal worth. To a true Bohemian, property is a burden; money is merely a tool, a means to an end. To society as a whole, money and property are measures of human life value. In the material world, the starving artist is frequently regarded merely as an indigent loser, a social parasite to be either shunned or endured.Beatniks Movie Poster_01 Throughout my life I have been torn between the staid world of materialism, consumerism and fiscal responsibility and the Spartan frugality of Bohemian artistic and intellectual freedom. Like a bumper car, I have been alternately attracted and repelled by both worlds: the crass consumerism, insensitivity, competitiveness and corruption of mainstream society versus the messy, chaotic anarchy of counterculture aesthetics. Every choice is a trade-off and there is a certain implied obligation of conformity and an unfortunate element of hypocrisy on either side. Both sides have their share of imposters and posers: the corporate exec shedding his Dockers to slum with his musician buddies on weekends or the ‘trust fund hipster’ who indulges in shameless, expensive hedonism while flaunting the trappings of artistic integrity. The dilemma of the Bohemian without independent means is that you frequently have to work to meet family responsibilities or fund an artistic project; as a result, never really fit in either society and are frequently misunderstood by both- ergo, Lapsed Bohemian. I will never completely abandon either world- whether hunched over a computer in my office cubical or navigating the modes on my D’Angelico archtop at a local café, I’m still the same person. And that person will always cherish the vision of a more open, egalitarian world, one in which the artist, musician, poet or philosopher is considered at least as important as the hedge fund manager, industrialist or football hero. Written by Bill Barnes September 26, 2009 at 11:30 am Posted in 1, Arts and Humanities, Philosophy Pages About Bill Barnes Search search site archives Blogroll WordPress.com WordPress.org Archives February 2018 November 2017 February 2017 April 2016 February 2015 May 2014 August 2013 December 2012 May 2012 August 2010 February 2010 September 2009 Categories 1 Activism Arts and Humanities Humor Philosophy Environment Gun Control Debate History Politics Social Media Meta Log in Site Feed Comments Feed