I guess I have trouble taking the whole reunion thing seriously. A few years ago, when Council Rock High School began collecting alumni information on the class of '88, I listed my career as "CIA Dentist." It's still in the book. While that might have pleased me -- and it did -- it also virtually guaranteed that I remained hidden from anyone who might have been trying to locate me using that method.
It wasn't a dismissal of those people, mind you, so much as it was a rejection of the whole idea of memorializing a time period in my life that I'd pretty much like to flush down the memory hole forever.
Let me explain. Since I was 17, I've kept a fairly regular diary. I am fascinated by dreams, and tend to record them when I have time. After I graduated from college in 1995, I recorded more than 300 versions of the same dream. The details are slightly different each time, but the plot is basically the same: I am my current age, and though I've graduated from college, some academic police force has discovered that I didn't properly graduate from high school, and I have to go back (at my current age) to complete either German or trigonometry.
I'll leave thorough analysis of that dream cycle to the team of psychoanalysts who treat me on a regular basis, but suffice to say it's a dream about anxiety, and anxiety and high school were the yin and yang of my teenage existence.
Not all of it was bad, of course. I didn't mean to lose touch with everyone. But prior to the advent of facebook, that's exactly what happened. As of 2007, I had fallen out of contact with everyone I knew in high school, baby and bathwater.
That brings me to the present. The Friday after Thanksgiving was the eminently miss-able 20-year reunion of the 1988 senior class of Council Rock High School in Newtown, Pennsylvania. Apparently, some kind of fight broke out, but this is what happens when your graduating class (908 people) is larger than some towns in Iowa. Saturday was the much more important reunion of the Bill Behun Comedy Team, a group of my friends that formed senior year to perform comedy and skewer the pretensions of one Bill Behun. Even by the usual standards of teenage pretension, Bill Behun was a colossus: He wore suit jackets and jeans, sported John Lennon-glasses and had his hair in a ponytail, and despite a clear lack of evidence that he was born in England, would regularly utter British-isms like "'lo love" and pronounce "schedule" like shed-yool. Nonetheless, Bill was something exotic in our suburban world, and he had a knack for wooing the kind of brainy girls I swooned over in high school. I can't speak for the rest of the group, but even while throwing darts at him, there was a part of me that envied his ability to carve out such a rich identity (even if some of it was made up) in that unforgiving environment. It was probably more than a bit cruel, but when we performed, we adopted his uniform, and while it was not our chief reason for being, Bill provided an umbrella for our self-referential and absurdist brand of comedy.
I admit to feeling some harbingers of anxiety Saturday night as I approached the home of Brian Klaus, the leader of our group and the one responsible for getting the reunion together. I feared there was one of three ways this was gonna go down:
a)An orgy of lame nostalgia-tripping "Remember when we went to Olga's Kitchen, and everyone ordered stuff that began with Olga's name, like Olga Burger, Olga fries, Olga Cola and, for dessert, Olgurt? Yeah, that was pretty funny, wasn't it? Good times."
b)Awkward attempts to bridge lost time "So, you're an actor, huh? That must be fun. Here are pictures of my cherubic children."
c)A dysfunctional meltdown. The group included three former couples who used to date, a bunch of strong-willed guys who experienced creative tension even over the question of which fast-food joint to eat at, and Bill, always something of a wild card.
Like everyone else, I am happy to report that none of that happened. I had a big goofy grin on my face the entire time, and it came from actively enjoying these people in the present, not from rehashing the past. Although that was fun, too. We watched the film we made during the cusp between high school and college, titled "The Last Temptation of Bill." The movie is really quite horrible, but fun to revisit in a "Rocky Horror" kind of way (I am looking at the camera in every single fracking scene I'm in! I have to believe my acting has improved since then.) In addition to five of the six members of the BBC (sans the elusive Gary Schwartz, Orlando's "champion of the underdog."), real Bill and movie Bill (the wonderful Jeff Cothren), there were several people who played roles in the movie and a couple of newcomers.
I had forgotten how funny we all were -- funny in very different ways -- and how enjoyable it was to riff of each other. It was interesting to see all the ways we've changed and haven't. But mostly it was just fun. Despite it all, I'm still a pretty shy guy. At most parties, I'm eyeballing the door after the first hour. This one, I didn't want to end.
Hopefully, we can make this happen again before we're 58, although the 40th reunion of the BBC in the year 2028 sounds kind of funny too.
This post is brought to you in amazing triple-blog format. See Brian's posts here and here, and Jeff's here.
My little corner of the publishing empire where I work rests uncomfortably close to a non-descript reference shelf marked "Dead Pubs." This is the place where we keep bound copies of newsletters and books that, for one reason or another, didn't make it. It is, to coin a phrase, the place where publications go to die.
I was staring out at the shelf from my cubicle the other day, noting the array of blue binders, all tagged with four letter acronyms the company uses to name its many compliance publications. One row in particular stood out. Side by side were binders labeled "SPEC," "TMAN," "TRAN" "TRAD," and my favorite, "TOOL".
Then it hit me: Don't these all sound like names of Palin children?
I did a little research and discovered that most of you, as usual, are way ahead of me. Scroll down a little bit to find the "Sarah Palin Baby Name Generator."
For the record, I am Stinger Assassin Palin. I can live with that.
"Big bear! Big, big bear! Big bear..chase..me!" --John Candy, "The Great Outdoors"
I'll get to the part about the bear soon enough.
I don't remember much about Mammoth Hot Springs. The area is similar to Geyser Country, with smoking pools of water in prismatic hues of orange and blue. Like the Plitvice Lakes, which I recently visited in Croatia, the area is formed by sculpted mounds of travertine, a form of limestone that is dissolved and carried to the surface by boiling water and forms layer after layer of steaming rock.
We saw a regal-looking bull elk with an ornate crown, it's royalty only somewhat diminished by the tag dangling from one of its antlers. And I went swimming -- again. This time, the Boiling River lived up to its name. The swimming area is a series of spa-like holes separated by rock walls, where the scalding Boiling River hot spring blends into the cold rushing water of the Gardiner River. You have to skeeter through a jarring mix of very hot and very cold water before you get to a comfortable spot -- it's kind of like taking a shower in England -- but it's worth the effort.
From there, we found our way to the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. I made the vertigo-inducing trek down the 328 steps of Uncle Tom's Trail -- we had a longer hike planned for the afternoon, so my Dad sat this one out -- where I was greeted by the 308-ft tall Lower Falls. And an amazing rainbow.
After the final hike, four miles past the Lower Falls along the South Rim Trail, we got back in the car and criss-crossed a wide swath of the park we had visited previously: the lush Hayden Valley, the tempestuous Lake Yellowstone, past West Thumb Basin and then south to Grand Teton.
All of which brings me to the bear.
As we approached the Signal Mountain Summit Road, where we spotted two black bears on the first day of our trip, we decided to make one last run in the hope that lightning would strike twice.
At the very top of the road, we spied a small group of people huddled above the wild grasslands that led to the valley below. I couldn't make out what they were looking at, so I asked. A woman pointed to a berry bush not more than 20 feet down. I hadn't looked there because it was so close. And there, much to my excitement, was another black bear, this one looking just slightly older than a cub. It was much closer than the other ones we'd seen, but like the others remained oblivious to our presence.
While looking through the viewfinder of my camera, I noticed that he was making his way closer. He remained unthreatening, blithely munching on leaves and berries. The next photo was taken when he was about 10 feet away. The caption might be, "What big eyes you have!"
Threatening or no, the bear was now a little too close, even for the most enthusiastic photographers among us. Some moved back. Others returned to their cars. I joined 2 or 3 shutterflies who moved to higher ground. I was fiddling with my camera, when I was startled by the sound of rustling in the leaves below the fencepost at the top of the lookout. That's when the bear poked its head through the lowest rung of the fence.
I must have been in slight shock because my first instinct was to take a picture. It's not a very good picture, mind you. But it was taken without amplification or zoom when the beast was not five feet from me. I could have scratched it behind the ears if I wanted to. But luckily, my senses returned and I took five slow, steady paces back.
I walked down from the lookout back to the spot where I first saw the crowd. Those who remained were mostly up near the lookout, trying to capture the excitement from a safe distance. I was more or less by myself -- although people were close by -- when I heard the now familiar, foreboding sound of rustling in the brush. This time, I walked back right away as a second, somewhat larger bear made its way into the middle of the road. It seemed befuddled -- perhaps it was looking for the other bear, a relative? -- before it was shooed off by a Teton fireman who had joined the throng to help ensure safety.
I know it is easy to overdramatize such encounters, as the Onion does hilariously in this parody, but then again, how often does one come within five feet of a bear? I could have been killed! It was a wonderfully adventurous way to cap off a fantastic trip that was full of adventure. As is always true with trips of this kind, exposure only breeds a desire for more -- a wish to delve more deeply, to stay longer and more fully absorb the wonder and purity of this place.
As such, I am left with wonderful memories until I return. Before I finish my travelogue, I want to take a sec and thank those of you who offered invaluable advice and tips before I left, including Donna, Matt, Jim and Laura. Of course, I also want to thank my Dad, who had the foresight and generosity to make it all happen and was a wonderful travel companion for this unforgettable week in the wild. What can I say? Thanks, Dad. I love you.
If you'd like to see more of my photos, go to this link (Unfortunately, the video files are too large to download anywhere but on Youtube). If you see a shot you like that I didn't post, let me know.
"I've never slept out underneath the stars, The closest that I came to that was one time my car Broke down for an hour in the suburbs at night I lied about being the outdoor type." --The Lemonheads, "The Outdoor Type"
In summer, the town of Cody, Wyoming -- about an hour east of Yellowstone -- smells vaguely of sulfur from extinct geysers and frequently fills with dust and orange haze emanating from wildfires in the nearby Shoshone National Forest. It's an appropriate setting for a place named for William Frederick "Buffalo Bill" Cody, the cowboy and showman who did more than anyone to popularize the myth of the Wild West. Cody is a haven for bikers and a museum to outlaws of an earlier era, a place where history and kitsch comfortably co-exist.
Before arriving at our hotel, we passed Bork's Guns (Sale!) and a giant statue of a cowboy, surrounded by tumbleweeds, that towered over an ice cream stand. I love stuff like that. It reminded of when I lived in Bangor, Maine, and for three years passed a colossus of Paul Bunyon on my way to work.
We stayed at the historic Irma Hotel, opened in 1902 and named for Buffalo Bill's daughter. The room boasted ancient patriotic wallpaper, classic corner sinks and antique wardrobes and light fittings. There was taxidermy everywhere in the hotel, and I mean everywhere: all manner of mounted heads of deer, elk, bison, and big-horn sheep. It's just the cool thing over there, I guess. Its a facet of decor all over Cody, from hotels and restaurants to museums and even the local visitor center.
I have to admit, it creeped me out a bit. I have nothing against those who hunt for food and obviously, I had little problem eating the results (delicious!), but after passing the 20th mounted animal head, I began to think of that scene in "Planet of the Apes" where Charlton Heston discovers the stuffed human display outside the office of Dr. Zaius.
Cody is primarily a tourist town, but still retains the feel of a rural Western settlement. Like most of the state, it is very conservative. You can usually get a sense of the political mainstream in any given town by perusing the opinion pages of the local paper; this one had a regular column by Ann Coulter -- enough said. Just outside the hotel, next to a sign advertising "Col. Cody's Wild West Emporium," two young born-again Christians stood on a box, bibles in hand, preaching the power of redemption to bikers and other assorted visitors.
The larger-than-life figure of Buffalo Bill is perhaps an ideal prism through which to view the contradictions of the American West. A Union soldier in the Civil War, the youngest rider on the Pony Express and a scout during the Indian Wars, Cody is known primarily for his skill in hunting buffalo (he once bragged that he killed over 4,200 bison in 18 months) and his world famous Wild West Show that traveled the world with the likes of Sitting Bull and Annie Oakley. At the turn of the century in 1900, Cody may have been the most recognizable celebrity on the planet. But toward the end of his life, the bison were nearly extinct and the once-fearsome Indian tribes were almost completely confined to reservations. Before he died nearly penniless due to bad investments, he urged the government to respect all Native American treaties and put an and to the wanton slaughter of buffalo and other game.
These various strands of history come together in Cody's intriguing Buffalo Bill Historical Center. The center is actually five museums in one: the memorabilia-filled Buffalo Bill Museum, the Plains Indian Museum, the Whitney Gallery of Western Art, the Draper Museum of Natural History and the Cody Firearms Museum. My Dad and I spent the bulk of our time in the atmospheric and affecting Indian Museum. Many of the ceremonial garments on display, dating back more than a hundred years, are in stunning condition. The art was placed in historical context, something the Cody museum does much more effectively than the Smithsonian's National Museum of the American Indian here in DC.
More poignant were the displays bearing witness to our government's broken treaties, the concerted efforts to erase Native American culture and the wanton slaughter of Indians in shameful episodes such as the massacre at Wounded Knee.
There was a quote on the wall from Sitting Bull. I wish I had written it down, but the gist is that the Indians had been forced to give concession after concession on territory, laws and customs, but that "the White Man would not be satisfied 'til every last one of us has perished from the earth."
The Holocaust of World War II was still fresh in my mind, having several months ago visited the Nazi death camp at Auschwitz. Though it had occurred to me before, the Cody museum really drove home how little we as a nation have come to terms with this period. We fought a war over slavery, revisited in the civil rights marches of the 1960s. But we are largely silent about the treatment of the Indian. In school, we talked much more of the plight of the Jews in Europe than the condition of Native Americans here at home.
Where once they were plentiful in this part of the world, I can't recall seeing a single one during my visit. We can split hairs over whether the actions of our government constituted genocide. But surely we can do a better job in our schools of portraying, without propaganda or whitewash,the details of this ugly chapter in our history.
The next day, we visited a complimentary, but entirely different, take on this era called the Historic Trail Town. It's a bit random, but somehow they've taken log cabins, wagons, firearms and other relics and re-assembled them as a one-stop tribute to frontier life. While it's a hodgepodge, the place is very tactile. That's the way I like to see history -- buildings you can walk into and relics displayed the way they were rather than locked beyond glass cases. The 25 buildings, dating from 1879 to 1901, include a schoolhouse, trapper's cabin, general store and saloon. The latter, by the way, is the Rivers Saloon, once frequented by the likes of the Sundance Kid; there are bullet holes in the wooden door from the many gun battles started there. We also saw the hideout of the Hole in the Wall Gang, which included Sundance and other outlaws, as well as the cabin of Curley, the Crow Indian scout of General Custer who survived the battle of Little Big Horn. The western end of the Trail Town includes a number of graves. Among them is the grave of the notorious John Jeremiah "Liver Eating" Johnston, who is believed to have earned his nickname by killing, scalping and eating the livers of the Indians who killed his wife.
From there, we began our way back to Yellowstone. This time, however, we made a detour to the northeast in order to enter the park via the breathtaking Beartooth Highway. I'd read that Charles Kuralt called it "the most beautiful drive in America," and it didn't disappoint.
I've taken roads that go under the mountains or alongside them. But this was my first time on a road that trailed through a mountain's highest elevation. The highway reaches heights of 10,947 feet and is the highest road in the Northern Rockies. The Beartooth traces a series of steep zigzags and switchbacks, rising from 5,200 to 8,000 feet in a matter of 12 miles, all in the most daring landscapes, with glaciers and patches of snow along the way.
Our destination for the day was a hike into the wildlife-rich Lamar Valley, which is rightfully dubbed "America's Serengeti." At this time, I should point out that while I like to hike, I am by no means an expert. I have never taken an overnight hike, for example, nor have I been anyplace so wild that it required a bushwhack. This hike was labeled "moderate" -- good for our speed -- and once again, it was a gorgeous day, sunny with a cool breeze.
Now, I know that markers consisting of a pile of stones are important in hiking. They even have a name, which I don't remember. In addition to not knowing the name, more importantly, I don't know what they signify. Thus, when my father and I reached a fork in the road, and I saw the stone pile on the path leading to our left, I assumed that meant the left path was the way to go.
I was wrong.
About an hour later, after coming to a dead end, we were back to the fork. (Note to self: Next time you see that pile of stones on a hike, don't go that way.) Now confident that we were heading in the right direction, we soon came upon a sight that gave us pause. In the tall grass lay an animal skeleton. Picked clean to the bone and gleaming in hot sun, it was probably the remains of a young calf. Did I mention that there was not a single other hiker in sight?
It is interesting how quickly we become instant experts when we travel, fooled by a few tidbits gleaned from guides and tour books into thinking we really know what we're doing. Thus, my father and I became Cliff Clavins of the veldt. When we passed a lone buffalo grazing high on a bluff, I said to my father, "Must be a male." We were certain that the bird circling above us was an osprey, even though we'd both seen our first just days before. And if a bear came upon us, we were prepared: Talk loud, don't run, don't make eye contact and don't crouch down under any circumstances. Would it work? Who knew, but we were ready.
Or so we thought. Thankfully, the up-close-and-personal encounter that ensued was not with a bear, but a buffalo. As the trail led upwards, a creek gurgling below us, we quickly realized that the bison we spotted on the bluff earlier was stalking us from afar. The creek to our right, we looked up to our left to find our friend staring down at us.
"Must be a male," my Dad said.
The buffalo walked down slowly, and we moved forward. When he reached our path at the bottom of the hill, the buffalo faced a critical moment of decision -- critical for us, that is. He looked at us, looked away, looked at us again , looked away again...and finally wandered off in the other direction toward a grazing herd.
We moved on. The hill leveled off to reveal a vast, grassy plain. We came within 15 feet of a beautiful pronghorn antelope that was, like most of the animals we encountered, grazing alone ("Male?" we both wondered).
About 2 miles in from the start of our walking path, we spotted a foreboding sight in the distance. As we got closer, it came into focus: a huge lone buffalo -- yes, male -- resting regally right in the center of the hiking trail. It was like he was guarding the pass. And he showed no signs whatsoever of wanting to move.
We entertained the idea of heading back, but there were also bison behind us, and there was no guarantee that we wouldn't get the same treatment from them. We decided to stand still and wait it out. The brief clash of wills between Brownstein and bison is captured in the video below. Initially, we thought we were in Very Big Trouble. The buffalo got up and made his way right for us. As he got closer, and we stayed still, the animal, for whatever reason, balked. It headed up the hill and off the path, leaving us to continue onward.
All told, we made it about 4 miles into a 9 mile trail before heading back. On our return, we finally ran into fellow travelers, a group of four middle-aged Germans.
"Have you seen any beers?" one of them asked. From the accent, it wasn't clear if he was talking about wildlife or the nearest Hoffbrauhaus.
Back on the main road, we saw a huge herd of bison bathing in the river. As I snapped some photos, I overhead people talking about another grizzly siting. It was the same story as before: A grizzly, a bison kill, the bear resting on top of the carcass. Actually, the ranger back in Hayden had mentioned something about this sighting several days before. It was supposed to be much closer to the road than the one we saw previously.
So we drove 12 miles or so, where we were slowed down by a caravan of parked vehicles and looky-loos at the side of the road. And there it was, a huge grizzly, this time in plain view. But I barely got a good look before a group of young onlookers -- read "morons" -- decided to move up a hill closer to the bear to get a better view. Mind you, the rangers were at this point so concerned about the proximity of the bear to the crowd that they were carrying rifles.
"Get back!" the ranger yelled. "Get down from there!"
Within moments, the bear dramatically rose up from its quarry and began moving at a quick clip closer to the crowd.
This was too much for the rangers, who sounded the alarm. "Everyone, back in your vehicles! Immediately. Now. Get back in your vehicles and head out!"
It took a while for the crowd to disperse. It wasn't until well after we'd made our way west to Mammoth Hot Springs that I realized that, in all the excitement, I had not gotten a single clear photo of the bear. But there is one, which serves only to prove I was there. Blown up to about 15 times its normal size, you can definitely make out the grizzly.
There are times, of course, when it's better to use your imagination.
"The Park is just a howling wilderness of three thousand square miles, full of all imaginable freaks of a fiery nature." --Rudyard Kipling
"The hidden pool is nice and cool." --Gollum
We fell asleep in the tiny burg of West Yellowstone to the sound of wolves plaintively crooning in a nearby sanctuary. The next day, a little pressed for time, we raced to our morning "ranger walk" near Castle Geyser, in the vicinity of Old Faithful.
You really shouldn't rush Yellowstone. If the wondrous sites of wildlife ambling on the sides of the roads aren't enough to drive that point home, the park offers subtle reminders, such as the collection of signs that trail, Burma-Shave like, from the southern entrance of the park:
You saw wildlife From afar Until they crashed Into Your Car Slow down!
We arrived, a little breathless, just as our ranger was describing how geysers worked. I wish I could tell you I retained the information, but all I seem to remember is that it has something to do with a giant underground volcano. One day, sometime before the Earth is swallowed up by the Sun or 1,000 years from now -- whichever comes first -- the volcano is going to erupt and all hell's gonna break lose. There was also something about plate tectonics and a bit about seismic activity.
For those of you looking for something authoritative, let me refer, once again, to the Rough Guide: The magma created by the volcano boils water deep underground. Sometimes, the water flows unrestricted, cooling off before it reaches the surface. This creates hot springs. But geysers are formed when there's a constriction in the underground plumbing that prevents the water from reaching the surface to cool. The geysers erupt when the groundwater, held down by fissures and narrow channels, forms bubbles that literally blow the water through vents at the top.
And....they're really cool...if you can call anything that reaches temperatures of several hundred degrees, causing instant destruction, cool.
This was the first of three free ranger walks we engaged in, and it was a wonderful introduction to the landscape. Our guide, who reminded me very much of Rick Moranis from "Ghostbusters," got wonderfully geeked out on the subject, peppering his talk with cautionary tales of hapless humans and other creatures that were unlucky enough to fall in these fiery furnaces. Those that plunged to their deaths included bison, a dog, even a Belgian. The rangers gave these geysers playful nicknames like "Bison Stew" and "Hot Dog." (Tastefully, they refrained from naming the pit where the Belgian met his untimely end "Belgian Waffle.")
This brings me to an important point about Yellowstone. There is a fine line, and perhaps a slippery slope, between getting blissed out about the park and immersing yourself in its many mysteries, and being a Complete and Utter Boob. For example, when my girlfriend visited Yellowstone, a tourist dipped his hand in one of the geysers to test the temperature of the water. If you follow the links on YouTube from my bear video, you will find an unintentionally hilarious clip of a family that taunted a black bear until it charged their car and began pawing at the window and chewing on the side mirror; of course, they laughed hysterically the whole time as if they were on some neat ride at Busch Gardens. I tried to exercise good judgment -- I don't think I behaved like a Total Jackass -- but it wasn't until after I shot about 200 photos of a bison herd near the Tetons that I closely read the caveats about how they sometimes charge without warning, 2,000 pounds of horned beast hurtling at you at speeds of up to 40 miles an hour.
This will all become important later in the story.
Back to the ranger walk, where our guide was telling us, "If you're not careful, you might be unlucky enough to have a geyser named after you."
Once again, we were blessed with uncanny luck. As we arrived for the walk, the colossal Grand Geyser began spouting in a series of powerful bursts of water and steam for about 20 minutes. Grand only spouts twice a day, and people are known to wait hours for it to work its magic. Nearby Castle Geyser also went off, blowing silica from a large fortress-like cauldron into a pool streaked in orange, black and yellow flames. In a three-hour period, the predictable but less interesting Old Faithful did her stuff. And just as we were about to leave, I overheard a ranger in the Visitor's Center mention in hushed tones that Beehive, an unpredictable geyser and the one our guide called his favorite, was about to go off in a matter of minutes.
We raced there just in time: Beehive doesn't look like much when inactive, but due to its tight cone and powerful plumbing, it is able to force a narrow spray as high as 200 feet with a noise that sounds like the roaring of a jet engine.
From Old Faithful country, we took a slight detour. Devoted readers of this blog (all five of you) will know that I'm a fan of the water, the more exotic the better. There are two places in and around the park where you can swim in rivers warmed by nearby thermal springs -- both named, somewhat misleadingly, Boiling River.
With good reason, there are rare opportunities for full immersion in this wild park, and I longed to, literally, dive right in.
The first Boiling River is just up from a huge waterfall beneath Firehole Canyon Drive. When I say the name is misleading, that is because the water is initially quite freezing. It takes a few steps before you feel the warmth of the current -- and even that is more like your average swimming pool than a jacuzzi. The current is also not what it appears to be. It looks quite tame until the moment you're in it, and then you're holding on to jagged rocks for dear life for fear of being carried down the river...well, faster than you'd like to be. I was very grateful for my new sandals, and was quickly able to find a quiet place just out of the river's pull. My dad decided to sit this one out. In fact, there were very few people there at all -- a facet of the trip that surprised me pretty consistently.
I took some time to soak it all up, not just the river, but the beauty of this place, the clear water, the sound of the nearby falls, and the mountains rising in the distance amid the faint smell of pine. There are scant moments in life when we sense the compression of time, of life shrinking to a moment and being aware of only that moment, like children at play. It felt, to borrow a line from one of my favorite movies, like I had dipped my head in magic waters.
But there was more to see, from the gurgling mud of Fountain Paint Pots to streams that hissed and flowed orange like some tributary in the depths of hell. I loved the cobalt blue of Sapphire Pool. It had the look of some forbidden destination out of Greek mythology, with its disarmingly benign color masking its deadly power. I wondered if anyone had fallen in, mesmerized by its beauty.
We spent the night at the nondescript Grant Village. The next morning, we headed for the fertile Hayden Valley and another early morning ranger walk. As the sun was rising, we stopped to see (and listen to) a grunting pack of bison, the first of many encounters with the plentiful herds in this area.
Some of the best moments of the day occurred on the drive over. There was a mischievous caravan of bison, evenly spaced on the road from Fishing Bridge to Hayden like they were in some kind of military formation. And there was the breathtaking sight of a solitary male bison bathing in a river beneath shady trees and leaping onto land.
Our walk taught us some interesting facts about the mating practices of the elk and bison in the area. Bison, for example, will often fight over a single female. The male travels alone, we were told; a bison traveling alone will almost never be female. The females stay with the herd, caring for the young and the less mature males. The male elk, by contrast, enjoy something like a harem, traveling and mating with many females at once. I suppose it's low-hanging fruit to note, at this point, that while I retained next to nothing on the mechanics of geysers, I absorbed plentiful detail on the mating habits of Yellowstone's wildlife. Talk amongst yourselves.
This was fascinating, but very quickly preempted by a newsflash: We were informed that less than a mile to the south, a grizzly was laying on top of a fresh bison kill just across the river from the main road. The ranger told us we were free to leave the walk and come back later if we wished. A good many of us, including my father and I, took him up on it.
From a distance of about 300 yards, it was difficult to see. My trusty camera has many virtues, but a powerful telephoto capability is not one of them. My dad brought binoculars, and the bear was clearly visible, but difficult to see because of a)the distance b)the tall grass and c)the fact that it was not moving.
When we rejoined the walk, the ranger told us this was common behavior for the grizzly. After killing the bison, it will lay on top of it to protect the kill from scavengers like wolves and competing predators like other grizzlies. With 2,000 pounds of meat underneath it, a grizzly could feed contentedly for several days, leaving only for the occasional pit stop and to fend off the competition.
As we made our way to lunch at the lodge on Lake Yellowstone, we were halted for about 20 minutes by a bison that evidently confused itself with a pace car, or was merely toying with us. For many miles, it stayed in the right lane without veering, trotting nobly and indifferently ahead of the traffic.
At one stop, I saw what would have been a fantastic photo opportunity which I, with great restraint, decided not to pursue because it probably would have ended with me getting gored by a bison. I spotted about a dozen buffalo laying in and around a circular hot spring. There was something very humorous about this lazy picture. The bison looked like they could have been in Boca Raton talking about Mahjong.
But there was a whole herd separating me from that vision, and I had to let it go.
"Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs." --Norman Maclean, "A River Runs Through It."
"Two little feet to get me 'cross the mountain two little feet to carry me away into the wood two little feet, big mountain, and a cloud comin' down cloud comin' down cloud comin' down" --Greg Brown, "Two Little Feet"
Sorry about the long hiatus from blogging. With Long Day's Journey into Night over, I no longer have four hours of drunken crying to look forward to after work. In fact, as some of you know, I am about to embark on a different kind of hiatus -- from theater. That is perhaps the subject of another post. But with life about to get back to "normal," I'll theoretically have more time to blog, and hope to shoot off many more in the coming weeks and months.
I can't think of a better way to start than with a grand journey, the reason I started this blog in the first place. A week after the show ended, I flew to Jackson, Wyoming with my dad for our long-awaited jaunt through Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks.
The airport at Grand Teton is the only one in the U.S. that stands in the middle of a national park. Thus, immediately upon touchdown, we were confronted by the primordial beauty of these majestic slopes rising high above us. The name of the park, incidentally, means "Big Tits," which I presume is what you get when you allow lonely French fur trappers to go around naming stuff.
For the time of year we went, mid-August, the parks were largely free of crowds. A large percentage of people we ran into were German, Italian or French tourists taking advantage of the weak dollar. In any case, the roads were relatively empty. As much as possible, my dad and I were determined to trek through the many wonderful hiking trails that veered off into the wilderness. Tragically (but good for us), these were even emptier. At times, there was nothing on the trails except for us, a few bison and the occasional osprey -- a fact that added to the adventure. My dad is on the cusp of 70, and I am further from my pre-fight weight and fitness* than I'd like to be (I'm workin on it!), but we did O.K.
*(Back when I fought George Foreman. Remember that? Neither do I.)
After a ferry-trip across Jenny Lake, we began our first trek, a moderate 2 mile hike to Inspiration Point and then to the spectacular, cascading Hidden Falls. It was shortly after we left the falls and I cooled my feet in the crystal clear water that my dad noted the general absence of wildlife. As if on cue -- I mean, less than a minute later -- a family of deer walked right in front of us, a doe and two fawns. It wasn't the first time that I'd be amazed at the fearlessness of the animals we encountered. You get reminded many times that this is their park, and the rules are different here. Of course, I've seen deer before, but never close enough to pet one (Don't worry. I didn't).
That was a precursor to what we saw later on the Signal Mountain Summit Road. As it approached sunset, we took this painfully slow -- speed limit 20 mph -- detour off the Teton Park Road. It was worth it. There are two stops, one facing west toward the mountains at their most majestic and another facing northeast toward Lake Emma Matilda.
About a minute after I took over driving for the day, a large black bear crossed the road ahead of us and disappeared quickly into the woods. On the way down, my dad abruptly told me to stop and pull back a few paces. There, within 100 feet of us, was another black bear. This one was much bigger, probably an adult male due to the collar around its neck that had been placed their by park personnel. Though we stayed for a good twenty minutes, the creature remained blissfully unaware(or was indifferent to) our presence as it tore into various shrubs and berries. You can see it all below, with "In A Big Country" appropriately playing on the radio and my dad doing his best Dr. Dolittle.
That night we dined at the Mural Room of Jackson Lodge, a more upscale inn that was home to several negotiations between the U.S. and the Soviets during the Cold War. The restaurant is named for it's twin "paintings": an Old West mural on one side and a huge picture window opening onto the Tetons on the other. I am a bit of an adventurous eater, so I decided to try some of the unusual game on the menu. I had elk (later in the trip, I'd have bison and wild boar -- all delicious).
The next day, we departed at the sacrum of dawn from Flagg Ranch, just north of the park, to see the sunrise at West Thumb Basin in central Yellowstone. Although it's not as feisty as the geysers in the Old Faithful area -- there are no regular eruptions -- the collection of alien colors reflecting mirror-like onto the lake made for a breathtaking morning. As the sun creeped over the mountains, bathing the landscape in hues of purple and orange, it was hard to miss the beautiful devastation left by the 1988 fire that wiped out long stretches of old wilderness. While that may sound like an oxymoron, there was an odd ethereal quality to the scene, particularly in this light, that made the trees look white. It made me think of what Lothlorien, the haven of the elves in the Lord of the Rings, might look like.
There is another reason for this seeming paradox. The fire burned 36 percent of the park, some 80,000 acres. At the time, there were dire predictions about the devastation of the park's ecosystem. But as were told many times during the trip, the fire was a natural, and even positive, development for the park, clearing out 200 year-old trees for new growth and opening up new habitats for much of the park's wildlife. The biggest losers were the moose, who lost most of the spruce trees that formed their habitat, trees that will take decades to regrow.
We first learned this from the wonderful guide who rowed us down the Snake River for a lazy 2 hour float trip. I don't know about you, but it's been my experience that river guides are always delightfully nuts. Whether its been whitewater in West Virginia or Maine, the people who lead these trips tend to be rugged adventurers and self-taught naturalists who travel the world in search of natural highs and thrills. They are living truly free lives, largely off the grid. Our guide did river trips in the summer and fall, and snowmobile treks in the winter. In his down time, he climbed peaks and traveled rivers around the world. Just days before our trip down the Snake, he had climbed up Grand Teton, the biggest of the big tits, with no instruments whatsoever. "Like the Indians," he said.
We lucked out with the weather: Every day we were there was sunny, in the 70s and 80s, and usually with a cool breeze. The current felt strong, as did the wind, as our guide pointed out several osprey and bald eagles perched along the way.
After the trip, we made our way north and east to the Antelope Flats Road, and then another dirt road that lead to Mormon Row. There lay a series of old wooden structures in various states of disrepair, which the Rough Guide calls without exaggeration "the most photographed barns on Earth." It was our first encounter -- one of many -- with a huge heard of bison in the park. There were easily a hundred there, grazing in the golden fields near the Moulton Barns, with the jagged Tetons rising in the distance.
It was hard not to fall in love with this iconic vision of the Old West, and I was not immune to its charms. The bison, who never fail to communicate in various ways that you are a visitor in their home, seemed bemused by yet another starry-eyed tourist, and obliged me by failing to charge as I snapped hundreds of photos of the herd in various poses.
By night, after a four mile hike into the forests and lily ponds on the Hermitage Point trail, we made our way to Geyser Country. A coyote followed the traffic for many miles.
More to come...
Note: For those of you still getting these on e-mail, you can see pictures and watch videos if you go to the Web site, odneytravels.blogspot.com. For those of you who don't know, if you click on the photos, you can see them at full size.
Sorry it's been such a long, long time. A good deal of it has been spent tackling this monster of a play, Long Day's Journey into Night, which just opened last weekend.
It's being done by Quotidian Theatre in Bethesda, and directed by Bob Bartlett, whom you may remember from his production of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," where I met Laura.
I think this is a very fulfilling, challenging and committed piece of theater, and I hope you get to see it. If you do, please stop and say hi afterwards.
DCTheatreScene calls it "old-school theater at its best: passionate, honest, intense, complex, and demanding...In less competent hands, Long Day’s Journey would be melodrama, but Quotidian presents us with a show about real people, each of them struggling to save the people they love while keeping their own heads above water."
I play Jamie Tyrone, the cynical, alcoholic son of a faded matinee idol. Favorite line: "Not after I wash my face."
For more information on show times and directions, go the the theatre's web page.
Here's the brief blurb:
Eugene O'Neill's Long Day's Journey Into Night
O’Neill’s autobiographical masterpiece recounts the lives of the Tyrone family with a power unmatched on the American stage.
FEATURING: Michael Avolio, Andy Brownstein, Erika Imhoof, Steve LaRocque, and Stephanie Mumford.
DIRECTED BY: Bob Bartlett.
July 11 - August 10, 2008
Please note that evening performances for this production start at 7:30 pm, and matinees at 1:30 pm.
Via my friend Leta, here's a uniquely British take on Facebook, which I think nails what is so peculiar about the phenomenon. See my own take on the same subject here.
PS: Since my last posting, I have been friended by another former high school girlfriend and the sister of my first love, whose parents hated me and forbade me to see her, who got married and befriended me again later in life, and who died suddenly and tragically at the age of 30. Jessica, wherever you are, I'm sure you'd find this all a little funny.
If you're like me, and happened to spend a good portion of your childhood in Philadelphia, you're likely to remember a certain voice, a voice that sounded to me like an emphysemic mobster and that comedian Patton Oswalt once likened to "Tom Waits gurgling hot asphalt." The voice would say things that didn't make much sense like, "Tuesday is Sunday at Carvel," always accompanying grainy, home-grown commercials for ice-cream cakes with absurd-sounding names like "Fudgie the Whale" and "Cookiepuss."
Yes, Cookiepuss. There are certain words that are able to conjure an entire sensory encyclopedia from my childhood, like a Northeast suburban version of "Remembrance of Things Past," and Cookiepuss is one them.
Cookiepuss was one of a handful of pre-fab ice-cream cakes that were a staple of birthdays for my friends and I until I was about 8, and we moved away. I had forgotten -- perhaps repressed -- Cookiepuss until several years ago, when Doug Bowles, a castmate in "Assassins", recalled Fudgie the Whale. It wasn't long before my friend Stephen Gregory Smith, who also grew up in PA, and I began reciting the absurd commercials. Tom Carvel was no doubt a kind and gentle old man, but in my mind, I always pictured him as the black sheep of a Mafia family, like Fredo from "The Godfather," with the voice of Krusty the Clown: "Come to Carvel...Tuesday is Sunday....We've got Fudgie the Whale...We've got Cookiepuss..."
Recently, during the production of "Kiss of the Spider Woman," Stephen and I were backstage, and he asked me, "Whatever happened to Cookiepuss?" This evoked the phenomenon once again, and I discovered, not for the first time, that, with or without the voice of Krusty, "Cookiepuss" is just funny. Maybe it's because I have the sense of humor of an 8-year-old, but when castmate Danny Binstock opened a conversation by saying, "I googled Cookiepuss the other day...," I started giggling like a girl. I could be wrong, but I think we may have accidentally stumbled upon one of those rare comedy rules, like the Rule of 3 or the Rule of 7: If you start a sentence with, "I googled Cookiepuss...," it's going to be hilarious -- no matter what follows.
Stephen actually googled Cookiepuss and discovered that the cake, like seemingly everything else in the universe, has it's own Wikipedia entry. Here's what we learned: Cookiepuss is actually a space alien. His original name was "Celestial Person," "C.P." for short, which later came to stand for Cookiepuss. Cookiepuss was born on the planet Birthday. He can fly, but requires a flying saucer for interplanetary travel. This is never explained. I also learned that there were special versions of the cake for St. Patrick's Day ("Cookie O'Puss) and Valentine's Day ("Cupie Puss").
Once again, google is my way of finding out that I'm not alone in my obsessions. Cookiepuss, as it turns out, has been mentioned in episodes of The Family Guy and The Critic. It's also lent its name to a somewhat raunchy, prank-call centered rap by the Beastie Boys, and to a clothing and cosmetic line.
That is what I learned from googling cookiepuss. And I'm still giggling.
"Half the people you see these days are talking on cell phones Driving off the road and bumping in to doors. People use to spend quite a bit of time alone I guess nobody's lonely anymore." --Greg Brown, "Cept' You and Me, Babe." "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared." --The Jayhawks, "Blue."
I recently passed a curious milestone: I reached the 100th friend marker on Facebook, the internet social networking utility I joined somewhat reluctantly several months ago. The response of said friend, Keith Bridges, artistic director of Charter Theatre, perhaps said it all: "Dude, that's just sad."
There are, in fact, people out there with over 300,400 friends, but why quibble over the math? At what point, exactly, do you become a Facebook whore? But then something happened that got me thinking about this phenomenon, even more than the endless invitations from the site to become a werewolf, a vampire or a zombie, or the quizzes to determine what city, James Bond movie or brand of underwear is most like me -- with answers available only if you have the audacity (or shamelessness) to pass it on to 20 more "friends."
I got a friend request (number 107) from the girl I took to my 9th grade homecoming dance in Milwaukee. Actually, to say I "took" her is a bit misleading, as it suggests that a)I did the asking and b)that I had a vehicle to take her in. Neither was true. I was still at that awkward age where I was much too shy to ask anyone on my own, and even in a recent e-mail, she acknowledged what a good "sport" I was to go along. Adding to the angst was that my sister chaperoned us to the dance and the restaurant beforehand, as I had no car. Photographic evidence of the night (Polaroids show me with a suit my mom dressed me in and an expression similar to those in hostage videos from the Middle East--I had a major stick up my butt) was the source of endless ribbing for years afterward.
The picture that accompanied the request showed her with her baby girl. She located me because we had a "friend" in common, the person who is organizing the 20th reunion at the high school I went to briefly in Milwaukee (which I left after the 9th grade when we moved to Philadelphia, for reasons that had nothing to do with the homecoming dance). I put friend in quotes because my chief memory of this person was a fight we had in the 7th grade during gym. The scene: Outside, playing softball. I was catching, he was pitching. I may have said something like, "Can't you get one over the plate?" He then beamed me in the head with the ball. I rushed toward the mound. Mayhem ensued. Though I think I was operating largely in self-defense, we both got detentions. My "friend" had a reputation for being what we would have then uncharitably called a "spaz," and I will never forget the subtle smile that appeared on the face of my otherwise mild-mannered English teacher when he accosted me in the hall, and asked, "Is it true that you beat up...."
And there was my friend's photo on my computer screen, 20 years older (with tattoos, holding baby boy.)
There are further odd connections in my burgeoning pile of Facebook friends:
*The best friend of a girl I dated in high school in Philadelphia, who unbeknownst to both of us, had been doing props in DC at the same time I was getting back into theater.
*The person who played the loyal lieutenant to my corrupt colonel in an amateur production of "A Few Good Men" in college. He also lives in the area and currently works for the state department.
*Two close high school friends that were part of a comedy troupe I performed in during high school. One is a vice-president of a medicinal rubber company (it's not what you think) and the other is a film director in New York.
*The assignment editor of the newspaper I worked at in Albany, now flak-ing for a local college, whose favorite question was, "Hey Brownstein, where's my page one story?"
I think there needs to be a new word for the weird cognitive dissonance, the sense of compressed time bridged instantaneously, that comes from reconnecting with old memories after getting "friended" on cyberspace. Maybe "webui" or "netstalgia."
Don't get me wrong. For the most part, it's incredibly exciting to have people I was once close to back in my life. In some of these cases, we had previously tried to find each other through more conventional means, and discovered one another purely by accident (or a degree of separation) on Facebook. But it sure makes repression rather difficult. The phrase "The past is not dead; it's not even the past" takes on a whole new meaning when the past sends you e-mail with photo attachments.
A final note: There also needs to be a new word for people on the opposite end of the spectrum. I am not proud of this, but as of this writing, I have 7 Facebook friends whom I've never met, and 15 who I've spoken to only briefly.
When I go to my girlfriend's place, I tend to leak coins onto the couch. By the time I leave, there's usually a big pile of quarters, nickels and dimes in the corner, sometimes on the floor. It occurred to me the other day that maybe someday I could be president. I, too, have a proven track record of making change.
The first thing to say is that this movie shook me to the core. It is one of the most well made and well acted movies I've seen in a long time. The second thing to say is that I don't think I will see it again for a long time...maybe ever. That's because, in addition to all of it's well deserved accolades -- including the top prize at Cannes last year -- it is also one of the most disturbing films I have ever seen.
Briefly, "Four Months, Three Weeks and Two Days" takes place during one harrowing day in Romania and tells the story of a woman and her friend attempting to get an illegal abortion during the last days of the Communist dictatorship there. In many ways, it echoes my favorite movie of last year, "The Lives of Others," in that it powerfully evokes the brutalization of the Communist system. But this movie, while not quite as good as "Lives," nonetheless speaks more to our political and cultural circumstances in this country, especially in an election year where abortion once again is likely to be the subject of much polarizing rhetoric, division and grandstanding.
When I said the movie was disturbing earlier, I meant that in the best possible sense, in that it is genuinely thought-provoking and that it's images and themes will haunt you and spark conversation long after you leave the theater. Director Cristian Mungiu deserves much credit for his ability to drain every ounce of tension from this situation, and I couldn't keep my eyes off of Anamaria Marinca, who was so believable and sympathetic in her portrayal of the friend whose story anchors the film.
In tone and its sense of lingering claustrophobia and doom, the movie also reminded me a lot of the Hitchcock thriller "Rear Window." But the movie's ability to disturb never rests on cheap thrills, rather from its brutal depiction of a nightmarish scenario that many of us argue about, philosophize on and sometimes even vote on, but (thankfully) seldom experience.
What makes this movie closer to art is that it eschews the easy polarities and arch rhetoric that constitute much of the abortion debate in this country ("pro-life" "pro-choice," "the lives of the unborn," "a woman's right to her own body," "partial birth," "back allies"...and so on) and instead depicts a situation in which everyone involved is brought down by a culture that devalues life in all its forms.
When my sister and I discussed the movie later, we were certain that the director, while offering fodder for all sides of the abortion question, was pro-life. It says something about the subtlety of his approach that I learned later we were wrong: He is adamantly pro-choice. And,just to prove once again that I truly have my finger on the pulse of nothing in this country, I was equally surprised to learn that many pro-life groups were highly critical of the film. There are some people in this world who can forgive anything but subtlety, I guess.
I do find it heartening that this year has brought two movies that have treated the notion of unwanted pregnancy with thoughtfulness, compassion and, yes, subtlety. I absolutely loved "Juno," which delved into roughly the same subject matter. But where "Juno" is acidly funny, light and ultimately heartwarming, "Four Months" is it's mirror opposite: brutal, unsparing and dark, dark, dark.
Anyhow, if you've thought at all about this subject, I urge you to go see this movie. Go see it, and then talk to me later. I'll be thinking about it for a long time.
A few of you have asked me about the whereabouts of the fifth annual Mr. Odney Holiday Mix. It's having,um, technical difficulties, as it were, but is still coming. A surge zapped my hard drive, depriving me of a home computer and (perhaps) destroying my vast encyclopedia of mp3 files. This weekend, I'm taking it up to my brother-in-law's to see if he can fix the computer and, hopefully, recover what was lost from the old hard drive.
So, it will be late obviously, but it'll get there.
If you'd like to be added to the mailing list for the mix or merely want to know what the heck I'm talking about, just e-mail me.
For five days, I am staying in the Gaylord Opryland Hotel in Nashville for a work conference. It is not the worst hotel I've ever stayed in on business. That label goes to the Circus Circus in Reno, Nevada. Nor is it the tackiest place I've ever been. That would be the Bugaboo Creek steakhouse Laura and I went to off I-95 in Delaware during a moment of hunger-induced desperation. The waitress introduced herself as "Baby back," which she told us was her "Bugaboo name."
"Hi," I said. "I'm Sir Loin. This is my girlfriend, Tube Steak"
No, the Gaylord Opryland Hotel is none of that. It goes out of its way to exude an air of taste and convenience, and mostly succeeds. Underneath it's glassed-in nine acres are waterfalls, tropical plants and a man-made bayou filled with exotic fish. There's 2 dozen restaurants, including 3 very nice ones, 2,400 rooms, 6 pools and about 20 shops devoted to tourist hokum. There's even a country radio station that beams out from here. Opryland once laid claim to being the largest convention center in the world, and its geared for people who don't expect to be seeing much in the way of daylight. The whole place feels like an orbiting biosphere: a little bit country, a little bit Disney, with a dash of Stepford thrown in.
There are a lot of hotels like this that cater to the convention goer, but in those places you can at least take comfort in knowing that there's civilization nearby: a nice restaurant, a downtown to stroll in, or maybe even a little park.
Opryland takes the concept up to 11. We've all been talking about the overwhelming claustrophobia of the place. The closest site of interest, aside from a Shoney's, is the gargantuan Opry Mills Mall -- which is not at all a cure for claustrophobia. A free shuttle takes you there from the hotel. And if you want to splurge and head to downtown Nashville, there is a shuttle that takes you there as well. But the destination is a chain bar that advertises 3 floors of line dancing, which in my mind served only to underscore the Stepford feeling.
As I headed to my room from another fact-filled day of education policy, I noticed a tour heading down the man-made bayou in a boat. There are times like these, dark moments of the soul, where I wish I could commune with Charlton Heston and just rail to the heavens on the savagery of it all. As an aside, I should note that I've always loved those over-the-top moments from movies. One of my favorites is Al Pacino from "And Justice for All": "That man should go straight to f*ckin jail....You're out of order! My client's out of order. This trial is out of order. The whole f*ckin American justice system is out of order." I also just saw "Poltergeist" on TV, and I loved the moment towards the end, where Craig T. Nelson yells out,"YOU ONLY MOVED THE HEADSTONES!!!"
But few things beat the original. So, I'll leave with this:
Anyone who declares him- or herself to have libertarian sympathies is usually hit with one of two knee jerk responses: the first, and most common, is that by virtue of wanting to dramatically shrink the size and influence of the welfare state, you must have no sympathy for the poor, minorities and disadvantaged among us. The second is some variation of: "Without a giant federal bureaucracy, anything is permitted." Or, to paraphrase libertarian Dave Barry, laissez faire is just a slippery slope to dog marriage.
So, it was with considerable dismay that I read the latest troubling revelations concerning presidential candidate Ron Paul, a libertarian-leaning Republican. Earlier on this site, while indicating some differences I have with Paul, I generally noted that the popularity of his campaign was a welcome sign that libertarian ideas were taking a foothold in this country.
The other day, I was alerted to a very well-done (albeit troubling) article in Reason magazine that detailed a slew of bigoted rhetoric that appeared in Paul's newsletters during the 80's and 90's. And this isn't just "crying racism," as in the recent flap between Clinton and Obama over the legacy of Martin Luther King. This is vile stuff, including claims that King "seduced underage girls and boys," that black protesters should gather "at a food stamp bureau or a crack house" rather than the Statue of Liberty, and that AIDs sufferers "enjoy the attention and pity that comes with being sick."
Even worse than the substance is the notion that the bashing of gays and blacks was part of a conscious political strategy among confidantes of Paul to form a coalition with people holding "older conservative values." One essay outlining the strategy called it -- and I'm not making this up -- "Outreach to Rednecks."
This is wrong on so many levels that it's hard to know where to start. In addition to the obvious bigotry and bile inherent in such comments, there's the fact that they feed into people's worst misconceptions about libertarians, namely that we're a bunch of wingnuts who don't care about the poor and whose opposition to state interference is really just nothing more than a thinly-veiled racism. Finally, if you agree that the two-party system has been compromised by relentless pandering (elements of the Republican Party being beholden to Christian mullahs, for instance, or the obeisance of many Democrats to the teacher's unions), libertarians lose moral authority when they make such naked political comprises to achieve power.
Paul has distanced himself from the controversy, calling it "old news" and saying that discussion of the newsletters' content were "hysterical smears aimed at political enemies."
I'm sorry, that doesn't cut it. Reason put it best:
Ron Paul may not be a racist, but he became complicit in a strategy of pandering to racists -- and taking "moral responsibility" for that now means more than just uttering the phrase. It means openly grappling with his own past -- acknowledging who said what, and why. Otherwise he risks damaging not only his own reputation, but that of the philosophy to which he has committed his life.
