Red-faced, Lucas—35, gaunt, black greasy hair, and in soiled sleeveless t-shirt and torn faded jeans—ranted as he raced his 22-year-old lawn service pick-up truck through freeway traffic, full trailer swaying left and right, right and left.

“And then there’s this guy in Washington,” he snipped in his southern drawl. “What the hell’s he doin’? You can’t run a country like that. You can’t just give it all away. Our forefathers sacrificed their lives for our freedom.” Lucas smacked the steering wheel with an open palm. “And damn it! We have a responsibility to them, as patriots.”

I glanced between Lucas and the road, as I white-knuckled the torn, black vinyl passenger seat.

Lucas weaved in and out of cars, trailer whipping from one lane to another, lawn equipment rocking to and froe. “There’s no excuse for this nonsense, Paul. None!” Lucas glanced at me. “What, was this guy raised in a fuckin’ commune?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

From the left lane, a late model pick-up truck jetted in front of us, almost clipping the driver’s side front quarter panel.

Lucas yanked the wheel to the right then the left then the right then the left, trailer slinging from side to side As he straightened the truck out, Lucas gritted his teeth and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. “Motha fucka!”

The engine roared and clanked and knocked and whined.

“What in gawd’s name is that asshole tryin’ to pull?!” Lucas shook his head. “That fucka’s dead.”

Lucas sped right up to the man’s bumper, at more than 90 miles per hour, shoved his arm out the window, and jabbed his index finger over the roof, toward the shoulder, several times. “Pull over, dip shit!”

After twenty seconds of eyeing Lucas in his rearview mirror, the man jerked his truck onto the shoulder and slammed on his breaks, Lucas and me right behind him.

Once stopped, Lucas jumped from the truck without closing the door. Cars zoomed by every millisecond.

The man—early thirties, stocky, blonde crew cut—opened his door and hopped from the car. He slammed the door shut and scowled at Lucas while he made his way toward him.

As Lucas neared the man’s bumper, he glanced down. There, on the shiny metal rail, a foot-wide sticker glared at him. It read: United We Stand.

The man made his way to within five feet of Lucas. He still scowled. “What the fuck’s your problem?!”

Lucas looked to the man; he spoke in calm manner. “You’re a conservative.”

The man squinted. “What about it?”

Lucas tapped his index finger against his own chest. “I am too. Wanted to kill Sadam myself.”

The man smirked.

“Almost went over there on my own dime.”

The man grumbled, “Me too.”

Lucas extended his fist, for a bump. “Right on, brotha.”

The man bumped the fist. “Right on.”

Lucas took a step backward, flexed his knees, and raised both fists, in boxing manner. “Now I’m gonna kick your sorry ass for tryin’ to run me off the fuckin’ road.”

The man shook his head. “No you aint.” He raised his fists. “I’m gonna fuck you up, redneck.”

The two men punched and clawed and punched and bit and punched and clawed and punched and bit, and pounded each other bloody, right there on the freeway shoulder…

Until the squad cars arrived.

###

Why is that when we’re young, when we’re in our teens and twenties, we assume no one will ever age? We know—or more like accept—that we’ll grow old, yet we refuse to comprehend it. Sure, you’ll lose your hair and she’ll lose her eyesight and I’ll have wrinkles. We accept that what’s to come is inevitable. But, really, we can’t picture it; we just can’t fathom it.

Thus, when we reunite with those friends we last saw during our high school or college years, after a decade or two of little-to-no contact, we’re amazed, astonished, even disturbed. How did she get so gray? we think. How did he become so inflamed? What happened to her skin? His voice? Where did her killer body go? All his hair? What’s with all the brain farts? Where’d he get those man-boobs? How’d her teeth get so yellow? Her lips so thin?

And we can’t shake it. Days and days after we’re reunited, we can’t get “the transformation” out of our heads. We don’t admit it to one another, of course. But we dwell, we brood, we analyze, we dissect, we mull it over again…and again…and again: the transformation.

Why?

Because as young adults, we simply couldn’t fathom it. Yes, we knew it was coming, but we just couldn’t comprehend it.

Arrogance? Doubtful. Vanity? Perhaps. Ignorance? Most likely.

Did we ever bother to peruse pictures of mom and dad before they had kids? If so, did we weigh those images against the couple we saw each night at the dinner table during our high school years? Or, like most kids, did we just assume mom and dad didn’t exist before they were parents?

During my college-age years, I skied competitively. I retired almost 20 years ago. The other day, I saw an old teammate for the first time since my retirement. While he flagged me down from across the room with a “Hey, Nel!” I didn’t recognize him. After he approached, he extended his hand and mentioned his name. I, of course, replied with the obligatory, “Ohhh…hey, man, how ya doin’?” As I studied him from head to toe, I tried to associate the image before me with the archived image in my mind.

I couldn’t do it. He’d swelled. His hair had thinned. His eyes had lost their luster. Although he now holds a healthy five-figures-a-year job, he appeared more defeated than I’d ever seen him—even after a good ass-kicking on the slope from yours truly.

In other words, he looked old. Surprisingly old.

Why?

Because in all the years I knew him, I never once considered that he might one day approach the age of 40; Young, virile, and a bit ignorant, I was unable to comprehend it—or, what “it” might look like.

This past summer, I ran across a woman I’d been intimate with in my late teens, the last time I’d seen her. Today, she’s at least twice the size she was back then. I couldn’t believe it. I stood frozen, with mouth agape, trying to deal; I couldn’t stop staring. I was mesmerized by “the transformation.” In fact, down deep, I was a bit embarrassed that I’d ever seen her naked, that I’d ever satisfied her sexually…that I’d ever spent hours trying!

Why? Am I shallow? Nah. Perfect? Not close. An asshole? Not often, really.

No, more like…because as a teenager, I just couldn’t comprehend that an active young woman with an ass from heaven might actually grow up to boast the ass of a sedentary, middle-age housewife.

And, as we parted ways that fateful evening, I glanced over my shoulder at her one last time, sighed, then uttered that age-old adage:

If I’d only known then what I know now…

###

~

By the time you’re an adult, you probably realize how important greens are to your diet. In fact, it can be argued that not one other single dietary element is as rudimentary to wellbeing as green leafies.

Yet, the most potent greens—the ones you really want in your diet, like powerhouse greens kale, chard, and collard greens—are also typically the most bitter. Thus, they don’t rank high on our “delicious” menu.

It doesn’t need to be so. Eating greens shouldn’t be a challenge. Sure, eat a kale leaf raw and you might feel like vomiting due to the bitter aftertaste. But mix that kale with mangoes and pineapple or strawberries and lemons and it’s a whole different story.

I routinely eat at least one head of bitter greens (kale, Swiss chard, collard greens, or mustard greens) per day, and I enjoy it more than most foods because of the methods I’m using to consume those greens.

Those “methods” help the nutrient-rich foods assimilate much quicker and spare the digestive system the difficult work it usually requires in processing greens.

Try these three tricks for getting optimum amounts of greens into your daily diet:

1. Make them into soup. By blending greens with other vegetables/fruits high in water, like tomatoes or celery, you can make them into an easy-to-eat soup. He notes that it’s best to eat these soups raw/cold to protect the nutrient make-up.
2. Juice them. By mixing your greens through a juicer with your carrot or apple juice, you can consume a head of kale or chard or collard greens easily. He recommends involving a fruit, such as apples or lemons, to better dull the taste of the greens. One drawback he mentions is that you don’t get the “green pulp” you get when creating a soup or smoothie.
3. Make them into smoothies. These are delicious, as Pahl gave me several recipes from his book. He usually uses a base fruit, such as a mangoes, pineapples, or bananas, and then adds other berries and fruits, then the greens. I couldn’t even taste the greens, even though the color of my drinks are forest green. I eat a full head of kale with each pitcher of smoothies.

One last tip: the darker green the leaf, the more nutrient dense it is. Try dino kale for the powerhouse of all green leafies.

###

~

You can listen to all the talk show romance advice you want. You can read through the “tips & tricks” section of that online dating site. You can even phone Aunt Mildred, who’s been married for 93 years, and pick her brain on the subject. But if you want a simple formula for finding Mr. Right, you need look no further than this brief but astute entry.

Five Rules to Finding a Real Man

1. Never commit to a guy that calls women “girls.” There’s something eerie about that —in a very pedophile/molester/catholic priest-type way. Not to mention the latent “I’m boss” attitude and implied condescension it offers. “Woman” is equality; “lady” is old-style regal; “girl” is adolescent.
2. Never commit to a man that calls you “angel.” If he considers you a cliché, what does that say about the life you’re going to live together? Yawn; ho hum…”Honey, should we spend Saturday at Home Depot? That sounds romantic, doesn’t it?” Remember: “Angel” is the favorite term of tired rock stars when describing their “chicks.”
3. Forget the man that doesn’t like animals. Doesn’t matter if you yourself don’t really care for a pooch or kitten. If your guy isn’t affectionate toward animals, trust me here, he won’t be affectionate toward you in the long run. I mean, even John Wayne, Humphrey Bogart, and Clint Eastwood—all “real men”—love/loved animals. Look at it this way: If he can’t caress the ears of Man’s Best Friend, what’s he got to offer the soul, heart, and G-spot of man’s real best friend???
4. If he lacks passion now, he’ll always lack passion. The only thing that might increase is his rage—spawned, no doubt, from being so dispassionate about all things in his life.
5. If he’s gainfully employed yet earning $50K or less per year when you meet him, he’ll always resent you if you earn more than he earns. You see, $50K to a man is halfway to “successful,” and if you’re earning more than him, you’re either “more successful” or “closer to successful.” That chaps our poor lad. Ridiculous, I know, but it is what it is.

There you have it. Take it with a grain of salt…or realize it for the astute wisdom that it be.

###

~

I had lunch with a friend of mine in Rice Park the other day. While we shared a beverage on a black mesh bench, she mentioned that she bought George Michael tickets for his upcoming show at The X.

With a grin, while she nursed her coffee, she told me she still planned to marry Georgie one day. Donna, a mid-thirties career woman, has been in love with Georgie since…well, as long as I can remember, and I’ve know her since grade school.

I nodded. “That’ll be the day.”

Donna looked away, still grinning. “I know. I’ll never meet him.”

My friend is a stunning woman. A former flame, she still stirs me. Slender, five seven, well-kept, a brunette. She’s lovely in every way, as well as very determined.

I shook my head. “Even if you did…”

She stared right trough me, only half-joking. “What, I’m not good enough for him?”

I smiled. “You’re too good for him. But, darlin’…he’s gay.”

She broke out laughing. “George Michael gay? Mr. Sexy Stud? Yeah right.”

I didn’t flinch.

“He is not!”

“Luv, he’s married to another man. I swear.”

Donna is great, in every way. But she’s a workaholic that’s been through seven years of college and graduate school. She isn’t always up on the latest celebrity gossip, for she simply doesn’t have the time to stay up on it with all her aspirations.

I fought a smile. “I swear.”

Her eyes remained wide, her jaw hung. “Are you serious?”

I nodded.

Donna cupped her mouth and literally gagged.

From that point on, her afternoon looked to be destroyed. That was five days ago. As of this morning, she’s still looking to dump the tickets.

Aside from my cherished friend’s broken heart, the episode pissed me off in more ways than one. Celebrities like George Michael…well…

These “artists” have accrued deca-millions prior to “coming out.” Then, they blame us for the delay in any declaration. In other words, we are to blame for their deceit; it is you and me that have made them suffer through the millions upon millions of dollars, limos, private jets, caviar, champagne, fame, and all-out idolatry—because we “wouldn’t understand” had we known the truth.

Or, we simply wouldn’t have bought into a guy like Georgie, and he’d now be nothing but a street mime or some guy writing Toyota and Colgate jingles.

Listen, there are thousands, if not millions, of worthy artists that never get their break, no matter their sexuality; there are people twice as talented as George Michael, Elton John, and Michael Stipe that can’t buy a break, let alone a bottle of champagne. Thus, if George Michael has gained a lavish lifestyle because of his sexual farce while others have essentially starved while remaining honest…

So, why is it a big deal? Because it’s fraud. George Michael’s career has been made by way of his manufactured “appeal” to the opposite sex. It certainly wasn’t the gay male population buying 10 million copies per title. How do I know? Because they’re aren’t 10 million gay men in all of the U.S., Canada, and Britain combined! No, instead it’s women like Donna that have made George Michael rich, famous, and worshipped, again, by way of deceit. Had Donna known Georgie was gay, she most likely wouldn’t have bothered. Not fair? Perhaps. Then again, perhaps that scenario is a much fairer script. George Michael made his lot posing as a sexy, heterosexual crooner. Women bought into him left and right; women bought into his lies, to the tune of about $100 million. Now, I ask: Is that fair? Is it fair that a gay man posing as a sexy womanizing stud with modest talent lies his way to tens of millions of dollars while a supremely talented heterosexual indie musician residing in Ohio, an average-looking father of three, can’t make a living from his music even though he’s critically acclaimed and arranges and composes every single note of every single song he’s ever written?

Sexuality is our own business, you say? Bullshit. Not in this day and age, my friend. I love sex. You love sex. We both worship the art, in a sense. And, thanks in large part to our Baby Boomer parents and grandparents, “the revolution” has ensured that individual sexuality is not to be a secret but instead to be “celebrated” and downright flaunted.

Before you chide me for “picking on” the Gay Kingdom, ask yourself these questions: 1.) Although he never really came clean, not even on his death-bed, would Queen have been anything stateside had we all known Freddy Mercury was gay all along? 2.) Does it now bother you to know that Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s monster hit “Relax” is about two men indulging in grudge anal sex? How many times did you hit the club floor to that one? 3.) Would Elton John really have survived the tough 1970s rock scene had we all known he was a gay man under the seemingly happy married man facade?

I say no, yes, and no to those three questions. Why? Because rock is based almost entirely on it’s sexy image—on its lusty heterosexual image. In the 70s, in the 80s, even today, there’s simply no room for “gay” in rock. Unfair? Sure. Then again, perhaps “gay rock” should be sold to the Gay Kingdom and heterosexual rock—today’s mainstream rock—sold to heterosexual fans, generally speaking; perhaps gay rock should take the same approach as Christian rock. And, under such framework, there’s no way any of the aforementioned artists live like kings on their royalties. Not a chance.

Even women like Melissa Ethridge duped us all. We listened to her gritty rock for a decade before we realized she wasn’t singing her songs to a man, as so many women had envisioned. No, instead she sang them to another woman and pretended to sing them to a man. Then, with reputation secured, she “came out” like a “courageous” woman. Isn’t it easy to “come out,” to demonstrate “courage,” when you’re filthy rich?

I guess it can work the other way. Ani DiFranco played the lesbian card from day one in building a loyal, cult, indie lesbian following. Then, with a dozen years of fame and modest fortune tucked away, she…married a man! Her following wasn’t the least bit impressed by that “revelation,” so now Ani’s divorced and seemingly lesbian once again.

This isn’t an argument about gay marriage or homosexuality. In truth, I have several gay friends in The Arts, where I earn a portion of my living—friends that are ridiculously talented. We all have gay friends, don’t we? Thus, I say let men and women do whatever they want, as long as it doesn’t harm anyone else, and as long as it’s not based on deceit. Really, who cares if two men marry? I certainly don’t. In fact, marriage advocates should be happy that anyone wants to take on that dinosaur of an institution these days, ya know?

Yet, many celebrities in the Gay Kingdom wait until the world has been fooled to the tune of millions upon millions upon millions of dollars before coming clean—before they decide to “celebrate” their true sexuality with “courageous” honeymoon and adoption photo opps.

Sounds like a hoax to me. Then again, I’m just a simple, unenlightened guy that prefers to shake the tail feathers of a peacock in lieu of a rooster, so what do I know?

###

But I do love being an uncle…most days, at least.

My nephew turned ten a couple weeks ago. For his birthday, amongst other things, he received $100—five 20s—from his grandmother.

“Billy” cherished the gift. For our little Aries boy, self-reliance is a must, and having a roll of dough always enhances one’s opportunity for self-reliance.

Yet, self-reliance wasn’t his only objective. It seems puppy love was as well. You see, Billy’s little friend, “Suzie,” comes from a fragmented home; dad’s a boozer, and mom’s over in Iraq fighting someone else’s war. Since daddy digs the bottle more than he does accruing stamps on his Subway card of life, adorable little Suzie often gets left behind.

Not this time, Billy thought. With plans for several students to go skating at the rink on Friday evening, Billy was in a chivalrous mood. An all-too-shy kid towards the little ladies, he saw this as an opportunity to indirectly show Suzie how he felt about her.

After reciting his lines again and again all morning, he approached Suzie in the lunch room. In demure manner, she greeted him. In equally demure manner, he asked if she was going skating “with everyone” on Friday night. She studied the cream-white ceramic tile as she rocked back and forth on her tennis shoe heels. “No.” She continued to study the floor. “I can’t. I don’t have enough money.”

Billy knew, through hearsay, that this is why Suzie never made it to the rink on Friday nights. But he was now ten, much wiser than a few days earlier, and certainly quite a bit wealthier. He dug deep into his pocket and retrieved the roll of twenties. Turning his back to Suzie, he crouched over the roll and peeled the rubber-band from it. He eased a twenty from the roll, slid the rubber hand back onto it, then stuffed the roll into his pocket. He turned to Suzie, who, with wide eyes, hung on his every word.

“I don’t want you to have to stay home.” Billy stuck his arm straight out. The twenty dangled from his fist. “So please take this and come along.”

Suzie eyed the fist.

“Take it, please.”

Suzie continued to stare at the fist, hands deep in her pockets.

“It’s a lot of fun. And you deserve to have fun.” He nodded toward the fist. “Please.”

Suzie looked to Billy.

He nodded toward the fist again.

She eased her hands from her pockets and, open-palmed, raised one to Billy’s fist. He let go and the twenty fluttered to her hand.

Billy smiled, “See ya Friday,” and sprinted across the cafeteria, where his friends awaited him.

Needless to say, from my last report, Suzie’s dad drank the twenty and she was a no show at the rink. But, the kid was brilliant.

###

Why is it that America’s senior citizens, those that are single, are now so lonely? Having traveled abroad extensively in my life, I know this just isn’t the case in most other nations. When one is widowed or divorced in most foreign locales, he or she still has plenty of family and friends around. But in the U.S.—where work and career are placed above socializing and family on the priority totem pole, and where no one respects their elders in this day and age of born-again free love and unbridled hedonism—a significant minority of today’s senior citizens are heartbreak-lonely. And, truth be told, it breaks my heart.

The gentleman that spoke to me was sixty-four. He fought in Vietnam. He earned a purple heart after taking a few rounds to his leg, his buddies all butchered in the same jungle massacre. After he returned to the ‘States, he got married. A couple decades later, he got divorced. He had four children with the woman; the all live out-of-state, scattered throughout the Midwest. He never remarried and now lives in a senior care center. He gets to work out in the facility’s fitness center for free, he says. He looks like he uses it three to four times a week. He doesn’t drive anymore, so he rides his bike everywhere, even in winter. Saturday nights are his night out, at the bowling alley; it’s the one night of the week he’s allowed to get out and socialize, to actually speak to someone outside the senior home, in the real world.

I wish I had the courage to walk away the moment I became bored with his biographical monologue—thirty seconds after he began it. But I didn’t; I couldn’t. Instead, I stood there, with gal-pal in hand, and pretended to hang on his every word…until we shut the place down together.

At least my mom would’ve said, “Job well done, Nels,” even if I was bored to tears and getting more restless by the second. I just hate to think of anyone being so lonely. I f***ing hate it.

###

Was it Roe vs. Wade pioneer-turned Born-again Christian Norma Leah McCorvey?

Was it Hippy Chick and former WAA Director Gloria Steinem?

Was it former Goldwater groupie-turned-First Lady-turned-Senator Hilary Rodham Clinton?

Perhaps we need to travel back in time a bit further; was it the venerable Elizabeth Stanton and her Declaration of Sentiment?

I offer you a resounding “no”…to all of the above.

The first and most influential feminist in American history furthered women’s rights while she also dared to call perhaps the most brilliant male minds of her time “best friends.” How influential was she? By the time Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiment was published and signed, America’s first and most important feminist had already lived 95% of her life, and she’d already loved, worked, spoke her piece, and changed the American woman’s image for the better—forever.

She wrote with uncanny eloquence, as well as anyone on American soil. She spoke with clarity and conviction, in a time when women weren’t permitted to do such. She thought in concise and intelligent manner, alongside the greatest male minds in America at the time. She furthered the cause of all women on U.S. soil less hostility and armed with nothing more than relentless tact.

So who was she? Those two aforementioned “best friends” just happen to be Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau…

And that extraordinary woman—America’s first and most influential feminist—happens to be…

Transcendentalist and Editor of The Dial, Margaret Fuller.

###

The press, at times, also spoke of a “simpler time,” a time some 40 years ago, when such catastrophes didn’t take place. Ironically, it was during this precise era that the bridge itself—a “span” bridge—had been constructed. (No matter that this design had been deemed unsafe long-term by the worldwide engineer community some two decades later, and that DOT’s across America have largely ignored the proof of such.)

Why is it that today’s America incessantly longs for “ a simpler, better time”? What time is that? Is it the 1930s and its debilitating Great Depression? Is it the war-torn, blood-soaked 1940s, in which the U.S. lost 400,00 souls? Is it 1950’s California, where racism and ethnic prejudices, vast economic class discrepancies, and gender inequity ruled the day? Was it during the 60’s in the Midwest, where political elections were routinely rigged by corrupt city officials, thus rendering the actual voice and choice of the people utterly meaningless? Was it 1970s New York, where the Son of Sam terrorized a city; where crime engulfed every day life; where the mob reigned supreme; where filth and stench saturated the city sidewalks? Was it 1980’s San Francisco, where AIDS festered and propagated in clubs and bath houses citywide while the government turned a big deaf Dumbo ear to the gay community? Was it 1990’s Seattle, the grunge scene, where young Gen Xers (DOB: 1964-1979) were so heartbroken by “today’s America” that they offed themselves by the hour?

The Baby Boomer Stamp is all over today’s America—every damn inch of it!

In my opinion, America longs for a simpler time because it is, without a doubt, still run by the baby boomer generation—an aging, largely hypocritical, quixotic generation that’s having a very difficult time letting go of the wheel, as well as admitting that it is indeed old and, perhaps, over-the-hill. To the baby boomers (DOB: 1946-1963), yesterday—their youth—looks so appealing through the rose-colored glasses that decades removed often avail.

The truth is, we don’t need a “simpler time.” Yesterday isn’t all that appealing. Certain aspects are somewhat intriguing, sure. But the puritanical attitudes, the between-the-lines thinking, the inequality, the lack of choice, the Mayberry essence…

We live in a wonderful era, if only we could get off the meds, quit whining and bitching about everything, and learn to appreciate it. Fifteen years ago there was no such thing as a digital phone, satellite radio, or the Internet. The iPod and iPhone didn’t exist, nor did the mp3 or a single blog. If you wanted to send a friend or colleague “mail,” it cost you 29 cents each time you did so. Fifteen years ago, Amazon, eBay, Wikipedia, Google, MySpace, and YouTube weren’t even visions yet. There was no such thing as Lasik eye surgery, liposuction, or Botox. Whole Foods, Barnes and Noble, Starbucks, and Wal-Mart were but relatively modest regional chains. Not a single woman had been named as CEO of a Fortune 50 company. Fifteen years ago, the term anti-aging hadn’t even been coined. The tanga—yummmm—had yet to be marketed and thus popularized.

Yesterday wasn’t better. It had it’s time and place, and we lived it. But it wasn’t better. In truth, yesterday kind of sucked; it was terribly primitive. But in yesterday, we were younger and fresher, with less baggage to our credit, with fewer pollutants in our path, and with less responsibility saddling our every move. Yesterday, you see, we had yet to really live, and we had yet to really fail.

Today, if you care to take a rational look, really is the best day ever—even when a bridge with a bunch of people you’d never meet on it collapses in the middle of a city you could care less to visit.

###