Category: Life

Each moment is different. Here are some of mine.

Double Identity

IN ADDITION TO what else one may find in a wallet (money, DL, &c.), mine contains two cards that license me as a member of the clergy.

They’re neither what you think – I’m not a rabbi, nor will I likely become one in this life – but they do tell a semi-religious story nonetheless.

The first came c. 1999, after a friend who was a member of the Universal Life Church asked me if I too wanted to be ordained. “Sure! What do I need to do?” I asked him. After anointing my head with a frosty cold one (it was a very hot day, in the way that only Northern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire days can be very hot), he declared, “You’re in.” He then told me where to write and receive my free ordination credentials.

ULC espouses a single creed: “Know your beliefs and be true to them.” And because ULC is legally recognized in California (and other enlightened states) for solemnizing weddings, I have since married a handful of friends – which was, really, why I wanted ordainment in the first place.

The other ordination, also legally recognized in some places, belongs to the Church of the SubGenius. Those behind that inexplicable parody religion/religious parody/living art project published a trade paperback in 1983 which – much like science-fiction conventions and DEVO – assured lonely misfits that they too had a place, and a people, they could call their own. Of course, I took to it in a big, enthusiastic way.

Unlike the ULC, the CotS then charged $20 for an ordination kit. So, justifying it as for a good cause, I mailed a Jackson to their Dallas, Texas headquarters. Within a week I received an ordination card, a poster of Church frontman J. R. “Bob” Dobbs, and various pieces of SubG propaganda (some of which I distributed in the summer of 1985 at 2 a.m. in Times Square – but that story is classified.)

For a long time, my ULC and CotS “ministries” helped me feel as though I belonged somewhere spiritually important. I am grateful to be able to do that now in other ways. But I will always be respectfully grateful to the Revs. Kirby Hensley and Ivan Stang for opening their secretly famous doors and inviting me in.

Secret Signposts

HIDDEN SOCIAL NETS surround us everywhere we go, and those who know – know.

Example? Sure!

I was shopping in one of my favorite grocery stores earlier today when the guy behind the butchers’ counter noticed my black Firefly T-shirt.

“Nice shirt!” he said with a wide grin.

“Thank you,” I said, bowing.

Now, he could have added something like, “I’m a Firefly fan too.” Or “I really like that series.” Or even “How long have you been a fan?”

But instead, he indicated the leather bomber-jacket I was wearing (Sonoma mornings are cold these days) and said with a wider grin, “I see you’re a real Browncoat.”

If none of this makes sense to you, allow me to explain. Instead of stating the obvious, my fellow fan responded with another insider’s reference. You see, the shirt in question doesn’t feature the title of the show or anything like that – the only way to “get it” is if you recognize the image and motto: a burnt-umber image of the titular spaceship above the motto, “STAY SHINY.” If you don’t, then no harm done. His comment told me right away that he got it. And his grin told me that he was enjoying our little secret signpost as much as I was.

Connections. Isn’t that what it’s all about?

Father’s Time

SOME TRADITIONS ARE axiomatic: just as a woman should inherit her mom’s wedding ring, so should a man wear his father’s watch.

My dad, who died at the end of January, didn’t like to faff around much. He was a happily simple man with happily simple tastes, and preferred straightforwardness in all things. That’s reflected in his choice of timepiece – a white-and-gold Timex Indiglo Easy Reader, mounted on a gold stainless-steel expansion band that conforms to the wrist without constant buckling and unbuckling. Simple and tasteful, and accurate without nerding out about it – it’s easier to say “a quarter to three” than “2:47 and 38 seconds.” After more than 40 years of wearing a cheap but rugged Casio Illuminator on a plastic strap that buckles, I actually and seriously feel “grown up.”

Maybe that’s why we inherit these things, or rather, that’s what it means to inherit them. In my dad’s absence, I am now the “man of the family” (for some values of “man of the family,” anyway, since now there’s just my sister and me), and in trying to figure out exactly what that means, it occurs to me that part of it means adopting certain cultural traditions.

Hence the watch.

Might there be the same effect as inheriting his car or house? I don’t think so, as these are not as intimate as, say, what I now wear to bed every night so that I can see what time I wake up. Or to synagogue board meetings. Or to conduct services. Or to the grocery store. Or even to simply look at and think about the man who wore it before I did, and wonder what he thought about when he looked at it.

Thanks, Dad. It’s good to feel like the man who’s your son.

Machine Time

HOW MANY HOURS do we waste waiting for our thinking machines to do their thing?

Browsers to load. Files to open. Printer jobs. Email delays. Forms to register. TFA codes to arrive. And a hundred other petty inconveniences that result in impatience, lost tempers, and general cussedness.

Now, I am a patient man, but I swear – if I had a dollar for every minute spent waiting for my machines to catch up to my schedule, I could retire to my own private Idaho. It’s a ridiculous feature of modern life that these (what used to be called) “labor-saving devices” may be actually causing more helplessness than enabling usefulness.

I have no solutions to this mishegas – what can one person do against a vast cultural tide anyway? – but I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels this way. Perhaps that Butler fellow had it right all along. Who’s with me?

Silent Revolution

PROPOSAL: EVERYONE-BE-QUIET DAY.

The Idea: We were fretting about leafblowers disturbing the local birds, and wondering what the world would sound like were all the machines to be turned off for a while…

The Action: On June 1, 2026, between 12:01 a.m. and 11:59 p.m. UTC, everyone in the world turns off all cell phones, computers, televisions, radios, games, leafblowers, lawnmowers, weedwhackers and cars — in short everything that beeps, rings, roars, rattles, or makes a sound louder than a normal human conversation and isn’t essential to maintaining human life. (Sort of like The Day The Earth Stood Still, but voluntary.) Conversation is optional during this period, but it might be fun (and instructive?) to enjoy the silence in silence.

The Method: Get the word out by linking this announcement through Facebook, email, Twitter, texting, DMs, Usenet, phone-pole posting, graffiti, listservs, Bluesky, letters to the editor, and whatever remains of talk radio. (Pretty please.)

Motto: “Shhh.”

Moon Shot

THE FOUR ASTRONAUTS who recently swooped around the Moon and back again – Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch and Jeremy Hansen, may their names live forever – did more than visually explore Earth’s neighboring world from close quarters for the first time in decades.

They injected into this world a burst of hope and vicarious glory sorely needed in this age of cynicism, distrust, chaos and doomcrying.

Think of it. When’s the last time you felt a surge of positivity and pride at human accomplishments? Speaking strictly for myself, it’s been more than one year, three months, and a day or two.

But watching the Artemis mission’s textbook-perfect splashdown and recovery had me shedding at least one tear of grateful joy.

This is what humans can do when we all work together, I thought, dabbing my eyes with a tissue. This is what’s possible.

I don’t know about you, but I needed that.

5 Thoughts: Why Sonoma?

0. WE SONOMANS LIVE in the greatest semi-isolated piece of spacetime findable on this vast and tiny Earth. Here are five reasons why I believe that.

1. Environmental infrastructure: Green hills in winter, golden in summer, wildflowers in the spring, and – partly due to the ubiquitous vineyards – some of the certifiably best autumn foliage that will ever knock out your eyeballs with giddy wonder. (Not to mention Sonoma Plaza, which San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen once called the most beautiful public square in California.) And all of it available within walking, hiking, or biking distance.

2. Social infrastructure: A friend of mine refers to this place as “the island.” Unlike other Sonoma County population centers, we’re not on any main highways/freeways – so to get here, you have to really want to. And because of that, there’s this fierce community spirit and shared sense that “we’re all we have.” In addition to our many volunteer-built niceties (a feature-rich senior center and independent FM radio station, to name just two), this was most evident during the October 2017 wildfires, where folk used their skills and resources to help their neighbors (and house and feed the many first responders who helped save us from a fiery fate).

3. Quality of life: Taking into account the countless farms, restaurants, museums, music and food venues, newspapers, artists and artisans, festivals, markets, parks, charities and benevolent societies, sister-cities, youth programs, tree-lined streets, classic cars, cottage industries, and 1930s-era moviehouse, there’s a reason we call it “Slownoma.”

4. The people: With Sonoma’s estimated population of less than than 11,000, one person really can still make a difference. And they make for great neighbors! (Mostly.) In any case, there’re a lot of friendly folks round these parts, and due to having lived here since 1998, a lot of familiar ones as well. You can’t buy that kind of connection.

5. Reality check: Oh, we’re not perfect: we have our occasional (and sometimes bad) crimes, a high cost of living and housing, our share of homelessness and hopelessness, and crushing poverty side-by-side with privileged opulence, just like many other American communities. But we also have more nonprofits per capita than many other American communities, meaning an unbelievable proliferation of goodhearted and competent people working to change or at least ameliorate our problems. Sometimes that may seem a Sisyphean task – but then, Sisyphus couldn’t muster so many cheerful and enthusiastic helpers.

Sober Assessment

TWO-AND-A-HALF MONTHS AGO, I completed my tenth year of clear-eyed, clean-headed and grateful sobriety.

Now, when some people hear that, they might think, “Great, here comes the self-righteous lecture on the evils of intoxication.” But that won’t happen, at least not from me. I don’t and won’t disdain anyone else’s recreational or coping choices; frankly, they are none of my business, and refraining from inebriation is not a crusade that I feel either comfortable or qualified to pursue toward others.

Instead, I want to speak about the rarefied and addictive intoxicant that actually “saved” me, keeping me sane and healthy not just during the past decade but all of my life – and if you know me as well as you think you do, you can already guess what that is.

WRITING.

Not for nothing did Stephen King say of this 6,000-year-old-plus art: “Do it for the buzz.” There is an ineffable thrill in watching the words spill out onto paper or screen, an actual physical and mental rush only gotten from congealing thought into alphabetic form, that’s as hard to beat as it is to describe.

And the best part is, it’s free. Easily accessible. Shareable. No more watching my money go up in a cloud of marijuana smoke; no more furtively prowling dodgy neighborhoods; no more keeping it all to myself lest I run out.

Did I mention addictive? Once you start writing, you’re hooked for life. I sometimes find myself typing and typing until I fall asleep at the keyboard, literally unable to stop ’til I drop. (True story.) E.g., tonight: I meant to take advantage of the finally clear Sonoma skies and do a bit of long-delayed stargazing. But as I write this, it’s well after 10:30pm (or, if you prefer, 2230 hours) PDT and I’m already getting sleepy.

So before I trundle off to Dreamsville, I’ll leave you this hard-earned advice: Try not to let the Great American Novel (or Essay, or Blogpost) keep you from tending your other bodily needs. Otherwise, you may find yourself face down in a pool of your own ink – or even with “QWERTYUIOP” reverse-imprinted deeply into your throbbing forehead. Nighty night.

Aged I

LET’S SHIFT GEARS for a second and talk about something that’s been on my mind for a long but indeterminate while: in a word, aging.

Later this month, may the Force so will it, I’ll celebrate my 64th birthday. While momentous enough in itself, what’s even more of the moment is the matter of perspective this milestone brings.

I have now outlived several dear (and once-dear) friends and family members.

Many of the Hebrew-school children I taught when we first came to Sonoma are now out of college or vocational school and pursuing their own successful careers – some with children of their own.

I have seen my beloved hometown change from a quaint and sleepy rural community to a quaint and world-famous tourist playground. (Don’t get me wrong – it’s still by far the best place on Earth in which to live, filled with the best people to live with. It’s just … different, that’s all.)

And I have matured from a depressive but charmingly self-aggrandizing hophead to a joyful and sober social asset. (For some values of the term “social asset.”)

All these changes – particularly the sobriety – have helped me realize the fragility, continuity and inevitability of time and its cycles; it’s the sort of realization one can only derive from direct experience, and has also given me an appreciation of depth and focus. (And rocket-fueled my innate and sardonic sense of the absurd.) Most valuable of all is what the kids today call “radical acceptance” – a healthier byproduct than cynicism of struggling against the unchangeable – as well as a fierce love of life and its many inhabitants.

Wisdom? Enlightenment? Inner peace? I wouldn’t go that far, because I don’t know how to define or even recognize any of those. Let’s just call it a grateful and quiet delight in the simple, in the small, in the deep happiness of becoming and belonging. And we’ll leave it at that.

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