Chronic[les]: Blunt Language and Joint Efforts

Author's Note: The following is not meant to examine the morality of cannabis use. It is meant to highlight the disparity between science and law, and the resulting struggle between what is logical and what is lawful. Whatever your feelings are on marijuana use, understand that the laws of the United States are purposefully ignorant.

The Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) defines Schedule I drugs as "substances, or chemicals... with no currently accepted medical use and a high potential for abuse." Apropos, cannabis is labeled as such a drug, wherein it carries stiff penalties for possession, use, distribution, and trafficking. It rubs shoulders, in fact, with the likes of heroin, LSD, Ecstasy, Quaalude, and peyote (which is approved only for certain religious rites of native tribes).

All of this begs a single, relevant question. Who says what "accepted medical use" is?

Apparently, that responsibility falls firmly on the Food and Drug Administration (FDA). Let's be clear, if it isn't already; the FDA is an Executive agency within the US Government. As an agency, they work closely with the DEA to regulate medical marijuana research.

Based on what we already know, let's establish a few things. Firstly, marijuana is a narcotic by order of the DEA. Secondly, a narcotic is a drug that dulls senses, relieves pain, or induces sleep (marijuana fits this description). Thirdly, narcotics in excessive doses can cause stupor, coma, or convulsions.

The first point is not one that is up for contention. That's a cold, hard fact. Point two really isn't up for contention either. Marijuana has been proven effective in pain management, cancer treatment, and numerous other neurological disorders. The third point, however, is where marijuana fails to fit the implied description.

I really hate to come at this entry with dictionary in hand, but it's important to know what words mean before we use them, or acquiesce to their incorrect use. It has a direct and measurable impact on the interpretation of the standards being applied. So, here we go....

Stupor is generally defined as "a condition of greatly dulled or completely suspended sense or sensibility" or "mental torpor." More elaborate descriptions explain the absence of response to all but the most base stimuli, such as pain, shock, bright light, or loud noise. There has never been a recorded case of a person smoking themselves unconscious. Asleep? Certainly. But never unresponsive.

Coma is an extended state of unconsciousness, lasting days, or even years. In this state, even extreme stimuli mentioned above are ineffective. Given that marijuana is not known to induce stupor, it's proven completely incapable of inducing coma.

That brings us to convulsions. Typically manifesting as rapid, uncontrolled muscle movements, loss of speech, and occasionally soiling oneself, it should be noted that cannabinoids have been successfully used in treating and preventing these symptoms. Epilepsy has been effectively treated by canabidiol (CBD), a chemical found only in marijuana.

Given that the three major, negative narcotic effects cannot be attributed or associated with marijuana, it seems unfair at this point to lump it in with known dangerous drugs. But is that enough to rest on? Hardly.

The DEA also stipulates that Schedule 1 drugs have a "high potential for abuse." This clause is not defined, nor is clarification given. However, we can infer what is meant by comparing it to Schedule 2 drugs, which also have "a high potential for abuse, with use potentially leading to severe psychological or physical dependence." So there you have it. Schedule 1 drugs like marijuana carry a high risk of psychological or physical dependence. But, does it?

Cannabis Use Disorder is a condition in which a cannabis user experiences some degree of dependence. Dependence is vastly different from addiction, but is often used as a proxy in surveys studying the possibility of cannabis addiction, so the proof of addiction is highly questionable. Around 9% of marijuana users (dependent on their age at the time habitual use begins) develop some degree of dependency. Physical dependence has not been identified (see my entry Chronc[les]: But not for the Gander for a description of the condition HYPERALGESIA associated with opioid abuse).

By way of comparison, 15% of alcohol users, 23% of heroin users, and 32% of tobacco users develop dependency. According to an article published by the New York Times, of heavy marijuana users who attempt to quit "...some get withdrawal symptoms such as irritability, sleeping difficulties and anxiety that are usually described as relatively mild." The painful, and sometimes life-threatening, ordeal of getting off of other drugs would place marijuana withdrawal somewhere in the range of 'mild hangover'.

That really only leaves one question. How dangerous is it to overdose on marijuana? Here's the thing... depending on how you define an overdose, it's effectively impossible to do. The amount of marijuana that it takes to kill a user is estimated to be 40,000 times greater than what it takes to get a user stoned. It must be estimated because the actual number hasn't been found yet. Though one could make the argument that an overdose is characterized by paranoia, vomiting, tremors, and other physiological symptoms that pass within 20-30 minutes.

The state of Oregon (oregon.gov) has available through their website a report issued by the Institute for Cannabis Therapeutics which states "...enormous doses of Delta 9 THC, All THC and concentrated marijuana extract ingested by mouth were unable to produce death or organ pathology in large mammals..." Smaller animals, like mice, did die. However, as the article points out, this dose would be equivalent to an average person (154lbs) eating 46lbs of marijuana. That's a lot of hooch. It should be noted, you can die by alcohol poisoning with as little as five times the intoxicating dose.

With all of this in mind, there's one issue that needs to be cleared up. By whose estimation is marijuana as dangerous as heroin or cocaine? By whose estimation is there no accepted medical use? As we established earlier, the DEA and FDA. But who are they? They're law makers and enforcers. The DEA and FDA are not lead by doctors, and the doctors that they do employ are tasked with ensuring compliance, not providing medical advice. The leaders are not medical professionals with extensive lab or research experience. Yet they hold all the keys and guard all the locks. They are the worst possible entities to have the responsibility of making medical recommendations.

There isn't a single scrap of evidence that marijuana is addictive, toxic, or carcinogenic. There are mountains of evidence that it has medical value. Habitual users only suffer minor psychological withdrawal symptoms. Occasional users experience no adverse side effects. Yet we jail people for inordinate periods of time for possession of a non-lethal, non-addictive, non-toxic plant. Because why? Because bureaucrats said so.

I'm neutral over the notion of recreational marijuana use. I have no more interest in whether people smoke out or drink. Although, alcohol intoxication has the tendency to make you think you can do anything, including drive, whereas marijuana intoxication makes you want to sit on the couch. In that respect, I'd rather people toked out than slam tequila.

I'm a considerable advocate for the use of medical marijuana. I've seen its effects first hand, and the more I learn about its advantages and safety of use, the more convinced I am in the failure of our government on yet another level. This is an under-investigated issue with myopic officials at the helm. There is no scientific reason to classify marijuana as it is.

Your elected officials, their representatives, appointees, and assignees say otherwise. Ignorance speaks. Loudly. Those in power are listening.

Milton the Furry Turtle

This is a departure from my regular thinking-man's existential blog. This is just a story that I wanted to write just for the kiddos out there. For the people with kids. For the kids who are wondering who they want to be. For the kids wondering who they are...

Milton the Furry Turtle

Copyright 3/9/2016

Milton was a turtle. As turtles go, he wasn’t all that extraordinary. He had a shell and a tail, scaly skin, and all of the other things that you would think of when you thought of a turtle. But what you couldn’t see, deep in his heart, was a dream.

The dream was the same one he’d had from the moment he hatched and stepped foot into the world. No, it wasn’t to be fast. That would be silly! Who has ever heard of a fast turtle? It wasn’t to be tall. Why, that’s just as absurd.

No. Milton had a dream that was bigger than all of those things! In fact it was bigger than all of the dreams any other animals had ever had if you mashed them all together.

Milton wanted fur.

Every day, Milton would shuffle down to the pond and gaze at himself in the water. He sometimes had to think very hard about how he thought he should look. Without fail, though, he would see himself as he truly wanted to be.

He imagined all varieties of fur. He saw himself with the long mane of the horse, or the shaggy coat of the coyote. Sometimes it was the finer fur of the squirrel, or even the coarse hairs of the skunk with their racing stripes.

And he was beautiful! At least to himself he was. To the other animals, he simply looked as an ordinary turtle should look.

One day, as he stood by the pond enjoying the image of his magnificent mane, his friend Waldorf the Chipmunk happened by.

“Mornin’ Milt,” Waldorf chittered.

“Heya, Wally,” Milton replied.

“Whatcha doin’,” Waldorf asked.

“Just lookin’ at me,” he replied.

“Why?”

“Just tryin’ to see what’s missin’,” Milton explained. “Ever feel like you’re missin’ somthin’?”

“Acorns, mostly. That's what my mama says,” Waldorf shrugged. “She always says, ‘Waldorf, you’re a few acorns short of an oak tree.’ But I didn't know I was missin’ any acorns.”

“I don’t think that’s what she means, Wally,” Milton smiled.

“Well, whadya mean, Milt? What are you missing?”

“Fur.”

Waldorf rolled in the dirt clutching at his belly and laughing. Milton’s heart sank. “You can’t have fur, silly! Everyone knows that turtles don’t have fur!” Waldorf exclaimed between giggles.

“Just because you’ve never seen one doesn’t mean that I can’t! I can be anything I want, and I want to be furry!” Milton said with every ounce of courage he could muster.

“Oh, Milt. I’ve never seen a duck hoot like the owl either, and I know I never will. It’s just the way it is.” Waldorf tried to sound comforting, but it wasn’t helping Milton. “Ducks don’t hoot, chipmunks don’t lay eggs, and turtles don’t have fur, my friend.”

Waldorf rubbed Milton's shell and hopped off into the tall grass. Milton knew that Waldorf was right, of course. No turtle in the history of turtles had ever had fur. He also knew that in his heart, he was supposed to be the first.

Milton thought of one last place to go. His mama... She always knew just how to fix everything.

When he got to her home, she put a plate of cookies in front of him, just as she always did when she was sad. "What has my baby boy so inside out?" she asked.

"Mama, I don't know how to say this and I don't want you to be disappointed," Milton started. 

"Milton," Mama said, "you could never disappoint me."

"I'm supposed to be furry..." Milton looked at her from the corner of his eye, trying to see her reaction. Mama just pursed her lips and sat down next to him.

"Son, you know there's never been a furry turtle in these woods, right?" Mama asked.

"Yes'm," he replied.

"You know that you were not hatched with that future in mind, right?" she asked.

"Yes'm. Are you disappointed?" Milton wondered.

"Not in you my dear. Not in you," Mama assured. Milton finally turned his head to see his mother's worried face. "I'm disappointed that you will have a difficult road ahead of you. I'm disappointed that this unexpected path in front of you will have struggles that will be yours alone to overcome. No parent wants that for their child."

"What will I do, Mama?" Milton asked.

"Your best, my love. You will do your best." Mama gave him another cookie and kissed him on the head.

“I gotta go, Mama,” Milton said, and started the long walk back to his burrow to think. It was a cozy little burrow dug into the side of a hill under an old log that was covered in moss. It was also where he got his best ideas.

All day and all night, Milton sat in his burrow and pondered his problem. How does a turtle get fur? Of course, he had many ideas, but none of them seemed to work.

He tried pushing hair out of his body from the inside. He pushed with all his might, but only got strange noises coming from his tail.

He tried to walk through the brambles hoping the coyote fur stuck to them would in turn stick to him, but it simply didn’t work. In fact, the brambles slipped over his shell as if he weren’t even there.

He tried borrowing fur from the dens of the field mice, though they said he was crazy. Again, the fur slid off his shell without so much as a hit of taking root.

He thought rolling in mud may help the fur stick, but the only thing that got stuck was him. He lay there a good long time before Waldorf found him and flipped him over.

Word had begun to spread in the woods about what Milton meant to do, and time after time, animals would stop to chuckle and point at the crazy little turtle that wanted fur. Milton thought very long and very hard and soon decided to give up. The other animals were right, after all. Turtles weren’t supposed to have fur.

So Milton went back to his burrow and was very sad. Even the sky had turned sad. As the rain began to fall and thunder crash, Milton took comfort in thinking the sky was as sad as he.

All night it rained, pouring great gouts of water into the woods. Though Milton’s burrow was in the side of a hill and under his log, the ground still became muddy and soft.

Even so, Milton was able to fall asleep. All night the thunder crashed and the rain poured down. Milton’s dreams were frightful. He worried that he may never get his fur, no matter how hard he wished or knew it was meant to be.

Morning finally came and the sun peeked through the clouds. Milton crawled out of his burrow under the mossy log. He stretched his little turtle legs and was again determined to figure out a way to get his fur. As he basked in the warmth of the sun for a moment, he felt a cold, wet plop on the back of his shell. He turned his head to look and saw that the moss growing on his log had slid off onto his back in a thick blanket of green.

“Hmmph,” he groused to himself. “Now I’m covered in moss!”

He tried to shake his shell to remove it, but the sun quickly dried the roots of the moss to his shell. He tried to scrape it off on the underside of the log, but he just couldn’t reach. Frustrated and at his wit’s end, he flopped down in a puddle to pout.

“Great!” Milton said. “Not only do I have no fur, but now I’m covered in moss!”

It was then that Waldorf came along.

“Hiya, Milt!” he chirped.

“Hey, Wally”, Milton sighed.

“What’s wrong, Milt?” Waldorf said with concern.

“As you might have noticed, I still have no fur and I’m now covered in moss”, Milton pointed out.

Waldorf looked over Milton’s shell and saw that the moss had in fact become stuck on his shell. But it was still healthy and green. And on top of that, it had a single daffodil growing from the middle.

“Ya know, Milt, the moss kinda looks like fur!” Waldorf said in surprise.

“It does?” Milton exlaimed.

“Yeah,” Waldorf said, “green, but still furry! And I can promise you that no other animal in the woods has fur like this! Heck, you’re even growing a flower!”

Milton looked again and he finally saw it! It did look like fur! He turned this way and that way letting the dew catch the sunlight. His fur was healthy and bright, reflecting the light so beautifully that you could even see rainbows in the water droplets.

Milton was so proud that he strutted through the woods as best a turtle can. The other animals called out to him “Hey Milton, nice ’fur’!”, trying to make a joke of it. But he would just reply, “I bet you can’t grow fur like mine!” And he was right.

His fur was unique, unlike any other animal in the forest. It took time for them to see Milton as he saw himself, but soon enough they recognized him as the ‘furry’ turtle. Milton had always known what he was supposed to be, and though it wasn’t what others expected when he told them who he was, he believed in himself long enough that others finally saw him as the beautiful Milton he had always been.

Milton had finally found himself. Though it was hidden behind the turtle he had always been, and looked nothing like what the other animals thought it should look like, he had at last convinced everyone that he was the furriest turtle they would ever see and just as furry as he had ever hoped to be.

The end.

O'er the Ramparts

You know it, you love it, at least insomuch as it does not conflict with your moral, social, or patriotic conscience. It is the 1st Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, and it guarantees that you can say pretty much anything you want. However, there is a growing public movement that seems to want to limit this. I am directing this at you, the person who is angry about those treading upon or burning the Stars and Stripes, or flying the Confederate flag. 

I've tried not to throw the full weight of my opinion onto the fire that's erupted in the past several months over flags because, lets be realistic, my opinion will fall on a bunch of deaf ears. Regardless, I'm sick to death of seeing person after person that I respect tread so freely upon the very document that the Stars and Stripes represents. 

The first argument to develop came from Facebook posts showing videos of people walking on Old Glory. The outrage was instant. People like you screamed in anguish over having the colors a) intentionally laid on the ground and b) then being walked upon. You posted (and continue to post) memes and angry comments that stopped short of being actual threats against the people in the videos. Some tangentially, and very incorrectly, justify violence against them by virtue of their political speech. 

Images such as Figure. 1 began to creep up, trying to establish that a lawful code of conduct respecting flags (though inferentially limited to the U.S. flag) existed. 

It does not. 

Figure. 1

Figure. 1 is in fact an excerpt from a now-repealed Arkansas State law, which was modeled after the Flag Protection Act of 1989, which failed to become law due to its unconstitutional nature. The actions prohibited by the Act were deemed lawful and protected political speech, so long as they didn't violate other state, local, or federal laws (such as destruction of property, theft, or ordinances banning the setting fires in public). The Supreme Court of the United states has ruled twice on this issue, and with the same result (Texas v. Johnson, 491 U.S. 397 (1989); United States v. Eichman, 496 U.S. 310 (1990)). Desecration of a flag for the purposes of political speech is completely lawful.

Accept that. 

The next argument to arise came over the Confederate flag not being lowered to half-mast following the murder of nine black church members by a teenage white supremacist. The debate that followed, and continues now, has evolved from whether it represents racism into who should be allowed to fly it, or who should not be allowed to fly it. It has even raised questions over whether Confederate War Memorials should be defaced to remove important political and military figures from their representation. I cannot even fathom the absurdity of this argument, much less convey its depth. 

Again, the unpopular nature of the Confederate flag has blinded people like you to the principle concept of their argument. In effect, 'The views of people who support and cherish the Confederate flag are invalid and may not be spoken of publicly'. That is the core of all calls to remove the flag from public places. That very efficiently ignores the fact that it is neither your right nor responsibility to declare how a person may express their political views. 

The people who do not share your opinion don't have a responsibility to do so. No amount of rabble-rousing will ever impose such a duty. Their political speech is theirs to spread or display, so long as they do not violate state, local, or federal law like the ones mentioned above. 

Time and again, the Supreme Court has affirmed that if you disagree with a situation, you have the right to publicly voice your position. You absolutely have the right to disagree with people who do not share your values. You absolutely have the right to persuade others to share you viewpoint. So do the people with whom you disagree. 

What you don't have the right to do is incite, suggest, or commit violence against them. Yet, repeated incidences of violence are occurring. You also don't have the right to demand that they cease their speech simply because it's offensive to you. Yet, that's what the violence I just mentioned is aiming to do. The only way that you, my friend, can have what you want is to give up all rights to political speech. The only way to silence people you dislike is to accept silence yourself. 

Recognize that the freedom to express ourselves is the greatest single freedom we have. It is first among our Amendments because it is so powerful at affecting change and ensuring liberty. When you demand that people be silenced for their views, you demand that the very document the American flag represents be suppressed. Yes, in protecting the flag against desecration or demanding that it have no competition for loyalty, you pervert the spirit of its greatest authority. The People.

Accept that.

Love, the Verb

I recently had a talk with a colleague about the cost of doing business. However trite it may be to say, you can be screwed out of your investment. Capitalism has sidestepped this unfortunate truth by finding ways to recover that cost on the next go-round, which usually results in a greater cost to the end user.

The cost of microchips go up when a factory in Japan gets flooded. Gasoline ticks up a few cents a gallon because a refinery blows an o-ring. Ice cream becomes worth its weight in calories because of a listeria outbreak. These are the things that we, as consumers, understand about free market economy. Someone experiences a loss and everyone else who is interested in that product gets stuck with the fallout.

Funny how that tends to be true of emotions as well...

I know. Comparing emotions to a commodity... How bourgeois of me.

Think on that for a minute though, and you may start to see some truth in it. Happiness, sadness, even love, are all degrees of responsiveness subject to market saturation, demand, and costs of doing business. I'm sure I've lost you...

Think about someone who is keen on being in love. They get hurt, perhaps several times. They've lost their investment. To reinvest takes [emotional] capital that they may not have, so they have to borrow in the hopes that the next investment will pay off. If it doesn't, they have an account to settle and have lost yet another investment. Their cost of doing business goes up with each failure.

On the other side of that, because of their cost of doing business, loving someone who has been hurt requires a greater investment in the hopes of seeing a return on the same. Had this been a first try, or the other person had not been badly hurt, the emotional capital is more likely there and takes less commitment from a second party to free up the proverbial purse strings.

These are the costs of doing business.

Then there's the investment that one just keeps pouring capital into. The asset has devalued, no one else is interested in it, except that one faithful little soul that keeps it going with everything they can muster.

On paper, this looks like a terrible investment, but that's because it is. At least at the individual level. But there's something to be said for keeping the market strong. Love is occasionally a positive, purposeful action that we carry out in spite of the dividends it does not pay. And sometimes, it simply comes to pass that no amount of active love will bring it back to life.

But was it worth it?  In the me-centric society we've cultivated since the 1980's, most people will stand back and declare it a loss. When measured by what it yielded, they're right. Love though, isn't measured by what we get out of it.

No one watched The Notebook and called James Garner a loser. That's because the capacity and endurance of love is judged by how much of it we're willing to give. The strength and power of love is given substance by the shit we'll endure when we know that there is nothing coming back to us.

In that instance, love is beautiful for what it was. There is nothing that says a thing must endure to be memorable, or never fade to have been beautiful. We all have to accept that we're going to lose the things we love. It may go the way of the Dodo because of personal growth, personal mistakes, or even death. What is inescapable is that an end will come for everything we hold dear.

The question that you're asking yourself, "is the pain of loss worth the opportunity to experience the love", isn't really a question. It's a selfish attempt to categorize love as an enduring object. Love, in my humble view is much more accurately realized as a verb than a noun. Ultimately, loving is something you do, not something you own. And when it ends, hurting is something you will do, too. And then you'll eventually stop hurting.

All the King's Men

I had a teacher that once said he wouldn't be surprised if I ended up in the state legislature. He said it to the entire class, in fact. It wasn't a private comment to me, or to my parents. It was a public statement of belief. I sometimes wonder about that.

Egotism is a proper and fitting character flaw for most politicians. You could, in most cases, call it a prerequisite. Narcissism fits the paradigm well. So does being a panderer, in general. Taken together, I never thought that politics was a career path with which I wanted to be identified if it involved these characteristics. Then I turned thirty-five.

The realization hit me last year that the President of the United States is an office that's open to citizens who are of that age.

Do I want to be President? No. Certainly not. So why consider it?

For the very reasons that I mention not wanting to be identified as a politician. Anyone who actually wants the job is an asshole of some kind. A friend asked me about which side I'd take if I were to make a legitimate bid. Would I be for Big Government, or for Big Business. In his view, those are the only two sides to take. Historically, he as precedence. Republican or Democratic seem to be the only two viable parties in American politics.

But why are those our only choices?

Right wingers also tend to be capitalists, and I support free market economies and capitalism. They work. But as part of that identity, I'd have to rub shoulders with Conservative Christians who think you can "counsel" the gay out of someone, or in some way believe that legislative authority can be imposed on a vagina. Impossibly large conglomerates of international wealth are the backbone of our economy and must be coddled indefinitely, and equally ridiculous notions of magnanimous oligarchy are the brand they pimp.

Yeah. I'm definitely not one of those.

On the flip side of that, the Left has a driving need to save you from yourself. You can't be trusted to make your own decisions, buy your own health insurance, or even determine whether or not you need it. The retirement and stability of each generation is built upon the earnings and labor of their progeny. As a citizen, you are entitled to a share of the proceeds from those in the community, and must surrender a portion of your earnings to support others. Your liberties are inconvenient and dangerous to you, and it's really better for all involved if you leave those decisions to the government.

Molon labe, bitches. Molon labe.

The problem with two-party politics (because let's face it, Libertarians, Greens, and Independents have no real shot) is that to get what you want, you have to stomach what you can tolerate. At what point did this become a good idea?

For the next seventeen months we will be inundated with advertisements, smear campaigns, promises, rhetoric, debates, lies, and scandals until the polls finally open and we cast votes for the Crap Sandwich or the Douche Bag. We know it will be one of them. May as well throw in with the one you find to be the lesser evil.

Back to my original question of why consider running for President. I did agree, after all, that I don't want the job. But more than that, I don't want the people I describe above to have it either. No one who actually thinks that they are the best candidate has the humility, moral fortitude, or capacity for critical thought to do it.

Can I do the job? I bet you five dollars that I can't. At least not any better than the last guy. What I do believe that I can do is show the American people that their government can be returned to them. I can show them that they are not beholden to rich people backed by big companies or rich people who hate big companies (you have to admit that the only candidates you're going see are wealthy ones with exploratory committees, both Republican and Democrat).

I'm just a working class guy, with a moderate credit score, a lot of questions about God, and a working respect for people not like me. I can't make any promises except one: I will question everything and ask honestly, 'Is this the best we can do?'

St. Ann - My Home and what is left of it...

I had an opportunity to fly back to my hometown of St. Louis this past April after a six-year stint in Phoenix, AZ. I was only going to be in town for a full day, at best, since I'd be helping my sister-in-law make the move back to my adopted Arizona. I'll be honest, it's hard to put into words what I saw and felt in a 24-hour snapshot of the 'Lou'.

I've tried to keep my finger on the pulse of home since I've been gone, with varying degrees of success. Social media has afforded me access to groups that are populated by current residents of my municipality, St. Ann. Within those groups, I've been able to keep abreast of developments at the old Northwest Plaza site, some local politics, and the social clamor the followed Ferguson. But one really has to see a thing to understand it.

I flew in to Lambert with an unusual sense of trepidation, which I admit was predicated on recent revelations about Cold Water Creek. Disembarking in what I will always call the East Terminal, even the airport struck me as visibly outdated and poorly kept compared to some of the places I've visited in the past year. This turned out to be the first in a long list of observations that pervaded my time at home, and contributed to an overwhelming and undeniable theme.

Vacancy.

It's an unfortunate reality of economic depression. Businesses close, jobs dry up, and the people who are left behind often stop having the sense of pride that goes along with the bright, shiny, and profitable. Tax revenues go down and city budgets become the next victim of creative budgeting. The roads fall into disrepair, common areas become overgrown, and even power lines look cobbled together and questionably safe. The entire face of the community starts to show signs of neglect. It's the pallor that falls over a town when the money has gone away. Businesses are empty. Homes are empty. Churches are empty. Lots where memories were forged are empty.


My dad once took me to an hardware store, and as we walked out, he told me that the business was going under. I asked how he knew. "The life has gone out of it," he said. "The shelves are half-empty, the store is in disarray, and there are hardly any customers."

He was right. Within six months, that store was shuttered. I felt similarly about St. Ann.

Later, on the night of my arrival from Phoenix, I sat in a restaurant with my wife and friends, pensively eating my toasted ravs. I didn't have much to say, not that much of it would have been good. Up until this point, I'd been to the East Terminal, a moving truck rental facility in Earth City, and my childhood home. In every single place, there was just more vacancy.

The news in St. Ann hasn't been good lately. I mentioned Cold Water Creek earlier. That was particularly hard to swallow. I had friends that grew up down on that end of town, and from the reports I've read, they are friends I likely won't see at future High School Reunions. I was luckier to have grown up a few miles farther south, but I still wonder what I will face in the years to come.

St. Ann municipal courts are also under fire for laws that disfavor the poor. Well, given the economic state of the city, there are more of those to go around. One local resident pragmatically suggested that people 'stop breaking the law'. It's hard to deny the causality of that, but it's also realistic to say that law enforcement reaches a tipping point where fines become a hole from which the declining median income provides no escape.

There was also a pipeline for removing toxic leachate from the Bridgeton landfill that was supposedly going in with little public disclosure. That story seems to have died with very little reporting being done. And what can be done? Two dozen people showed up to a public meeting in which company representatives were questioned. Two dozen, out of nearly thirteen-thousand, that showed up to ask what could be done.

Still more vacancy. Vacancy of public involvement. Vacancy of legislative disclosure. Vacancy of legislative action. Vacancy of vested interest.

All I can really do from Phoenix is to cry 'shenanigans' and watch as my home town is slowly swallowed by apathy and band-aid solutions. But maybe that's the legacy of St. Louis county. The frog is slowly being brought to a boil. There really is no denying it.

So I challenge you to see St. Ann through the eyes of a returning son. Go stand on any street corner of the Rock Road corridor between Wismer Road and Lindbergh Boulevard. Ask yourself honestly how much time you want to spend there. Ask yourself how long you'd expect any visitor to stay. What would they stay for? Empty businesses, potholed streets, litter and weeds?

Me either.

There are some who may criticize my treatment of this issue as unnecessarily harsh. There are a number who still have pride in the city and think it's a great place to live. They are the ones who show up at city council meetings, write to their Aldermen, and organize interest groups. But more like them are needed if there is any chance of rescuing St. Ann from the black hole of vacancy.

The Dude Abides

Yes, that bastion of urban colloquialism. Dude. It's a word that is so reliably present in the American lexicon that most people have forgotten its meaning. My high-school Industrial Technology teacher, Mr. Sater, had a rule against its use, unless it was done properly. Since I respected him so, being the only teacher (or person in general) that I ever consistently called "Sir", and being the next-door neighbor to his daughter, I followed his express wishes without ever complaining.

I figured out, as a high-school freshmen, what that word meant. Though I haven't always used it correctly since, I've made a mental note every time I've misused it. A dude, besides being a slacker pot-aficionado with a penchant for White Russians, is a person who is unfamiliar with horsemanship. More specifically, it's a person who vacations on a ranch, but is otherwise a resident of an urban area. This is also where we get the term "Dude Ranch".

I like to think of myself as a capable man. I can swing a hammer, wire a light switch, split wood, hunt, fish, and all kinds of manly shit. But horses... Well, I just haven't ridden a whole lot of them.

Back when I was a 20-something, I went a few times with my young wife to A&A Ranch, which is completely misleading. It was a stable next to an I-170 overpass. Calling it a ranch of any kind is just a damn lie. It's since been renamed Ace Stables, but for $20 and a tip to the trail guide, you could go on a half-hour ride. The guide was typically a teenage girl, and this had absolutely nothing to do with why I enjoyed going.

Time and unforeseen occurrence being what they are, the universe conspired to make sure that I had very little opportunity to ride for the last thirteen years or so. I like horses just fine. I'm not afraid of them, and I even have what I feel is a natural rapport. I do with most animals.

This past weekend, I set up a ride at Koli Equestrian Center for me and my family. I don't recommend an hour-and-a-half in a saddle if you haven't done it frequently enough. My ass is sore. Very sore.

The office was neatly decorated, but utilitarian. It was clearly inhabited by people who work for a living. There were two shelters out in the pasture with an adjacent exercise ring. Two dozen horses were tied off under the shelters, well shaded and seemingly quite content. We met with our guide, a very nice Native girl who was maybe twenty-five, named Silvia. She took us out to meet our horses and we were asked to stand outside the corral until called for. The boss, a very impressive looking Native with a proper cowboy hat, called us over one at at time to mount up.

My darling daughter got an older horse named Alice. Silvia told us that it used to be Crazy Alice, but she'd had calmed down a lot in her later years, so it had been shortened. Alice had a history of having thrown every employee who had tried to ride her while she was being broken.

Mrs. got a beautiful Paint named Butch. He seemed a little shorter than my mount, but he was calm and loving. Butch was of certain age at around 16, and had a companion that he liked to spend time with. Of course his name would be Cassidy. Had it been me, I'd have gone with Sundance.

My horse was also a beautiful Paint named Slider. She was only slightly older that Butch, and otherwise well mannered. She didn't seem to care for her bit and tossed her head frequently during the ride. We managed to get along well enough despite the perceived discomfort.

Unlike most trail rides, we weren't relegated to the straight line business of following he leader. The loosely defined trail gave us the option to follow several different paths, with each of us being in the lead at any given time. Slider had a natural tendency to want to be in front, and as a result, walked a little faster than everyone else. So, I practiced with her a little. We'd trot from time to time. I'd lead her back and forth on the path, and she was quite willing to comply. Besides feeling a need to hurry, she was very pleasant and well-mannered. Sometimes, I'd hold her up to wait for the others and turn circles with her among the sage brush. From a distance, I imagined that she looked like she was dancing.

The Sonoran Desert of Southern Arizona is a vast place. Life is hard, but not impossible. Though the guide groused about the lack of wildlife during our ride, I didn't think it was that bad. The tough and hardy vegetation is beautiful in its harsh way. Lizards scampered about in abundance and colonies of ants toiled on a graciously cool day. We spotted a few red-tail hawks, one grey hawk, and a lonely old coyote.

A friend of mine, who understands my love of nature, said that I should spend some time in the woods. Well, this was far from it, but it was still a beautiful way to spend an afternoon. Time spent in nature isn't a labor of any kind. It's calming. Every sound is soft. Every creature, noble. For ninety minutes, I got to abide with the world according to natural law, and with a sweet Painted mare to bear me along on a serene stroll.

There is a pleasantness in being an observer in the natural world. There's very little commitment except to appreciate it and protect it. The sights and sounds of creatures great and small always give me a measure of peace that I couldn't find anywhere else. With the soundtrack being little more than the wind in the mesquites, and the soft clop clop of hooves on the gritty Sonoran soil, I'll admit to being no cowboy. But neither am I a dude.