Bucket List Trip Day 2: Laguna Seca Track And Maserati Holy Grail

Parking in the early morning fog

The greatest disappointment of my trip was my way too short time allowed at the track. I really needed a good three days to get the lay of the land, find good filming locations and then be able to piece together a coherent trip around the track on video. I also would have bought a better ticket. That's the problem with bucket list trips: you really have to do them twice to get it right.



I had two enemies this day: time and sun. My glorious trip up the coast left me vulnerable to the California sun and there was no shortage of it that day. This left me unable to indulge my curiosity for a walk around the track and view some of its more famous elements like the "Corkscrew". I also lost time figuring out the parking. Who knew "Down the road to the right" meant FOUR miles down the road (which then doubles back to the track). Confusing!

Jaguar D Type! Perhaps the most beautiful sports racing car ever.

Shelby AC Cobra. Seen tons of replicas, never the real thing - until now.

From the misheard lyrics department:
"I spent four lonely days in a brown Delahaye [L.A. haze]"

But when I got there, legends abounded. I obviously can't speak for all vintage races but it's hard to imagine a better class of cars at one event. Wow! Just wow! When you read about cars in the history books they sort of become like superheroes to you. Epic tales of cars stretched to their limits by gritty drivers in the halcyon pre-corporate days of auto racing. Cars were shaped as much by the senses as science and the personality of the designers shined through.



One particular treat was an interview with Sir Stirling Moss, a driver of many of my superhero cars, including Maserati. I recorded the interview but the sound got drowned out by ambient noise. A thousand stories he could tell if I could get him one-on-one over some beers. The man is a walking piece of history and just as sharp and agile as ever at a spry 85. Apparently he's a regular at car week in Monterey and he certainly adds to the aura in an irreplaceable way.



But what of my beloved Maserati heroes?? Would I at last find the Formula 1 world championship winning 250F? Would I get to see Maserati's own gorgeous sports racers of the 50's? How about the exotic "birdcage" racers? Or dare I hope for some of the magnificent pre-war Grand Prix cars the Maserati brothers made their bones with? How far can I dream?

At Monterey, all the way!

1938 Maserati 8CTF. Blazingly fast but unreliable,
this superb beast helped spread the Maserati name.

185 in 1935! A V8-RI. What a sight to see.

1952 Maserati A6GCS.
Sports racing cars were just beginning to take shape in the early 50's. 

It was a great time of discovery.

1957 Maserati 300S, above and below. Pictures say it all.

***

1957 Maserati 450S, big brother to the 300s. Outrageous, mammoth, victorious.

1962 Maserati Tipo 151. Just too cool!

And I finally got to see a "Birdcage" in person:

1961 Maserati Tipo 63

But what of the Maserati Holy Grail, the 250F? Of those there were two!

1958 Maserati 250F. Sleek, fast, highly drivable. Doesn't get any better than this.

1957 Maserati 250F, from the year of the world championship

Here's some video highlights:



For the race, I finally found a spot on Turn 5 where the fence did not block me. Hard part was I was at the complete mercy of the sun, forced to cower under an outback sun hat from the gift shop. I waited anxiously for the 250Fs to come roaring down the track. They were vast overdogs in their class and naturally finished 1-2. A third Maserati (profiled in the Austin vintage races) came in third for a clean sweep. In my mind I transported myself back to the 1957 glory days of Maserati when they ruled the world stage. Just wonderful.





Race video shows them in action.




Alas, I had to run at this point before the Italian Concours ended, unable to stay for the grand sports cars: the 300S, 450S, Jaguar D Type among others. That will haunt me but I do take much solace in what I was able to see and experience. The plethora of Maserati wealth was dizzying and I will still be absorbing it for a long time to come.

Avoid The Void (21st Century Lifestyle Wars)

"Does she love him? ...Does she really love him?"

Almost no day passed without that thought passing through his head. A commercial, a movie, a couple in a book store - almost anything could trigger it despite the fact the breakup happened years and years ago. He'd only fallen apart since that time: incriminating proof for her decision to leave him high and dry.

He was a dreamer lost in the fog of life, afraid to make his move. Dreams un-faced can be anything you imagine, safe from cruel reality. You've written the greatest book, envisioned the greatest movie, the greatest life awaits you. In the beginning, she too was swept up in the possibilities of life. But like a child frozen at the edge of a high rise diving board, her mate couldn't make the jump. So she jumped ship.

An irrational panic gripped her as she felt the cold chill of ghosts of a life wasted chasing her. What a fool to have ever believed! Having determined the dream was false she wondered just what was real. Anything? Nothing? Time to grow up. Time to die.

Marrying a banker at one point in her life would have horrified her. The idea of numbing numbers ruling her life was something she mocked mercilessly in teenage rejection. Let the dead bury the dead, she said. There was a time when she knew the brass ring awaited her, she only need let it happen to come true. Well, what rubbish that turned out to be!

Still, a secret hurt remained, unable to stab with her steely knife. Just as he was haunted by his question she was haunted by hers: "Am I being useful or am I being used?" She never passed on a chance to badmouth dreamers of the world (though she was particularly stung if they became successful). Every bitter and broken life she crossed only affirmed her decision. "Am I not supposed to eat?"

A competition of lifestyles entered her head in haughty contempt. She'd be leading the winner's life! She'd disdain money on one hand while counting it with the other. Who could possibly see through her private game? Of this, she'd never breathe a word. Charitable donations would provide the perfect cover for this upstanding citizen of the world who cared not for material possessions but just "happened" to have so many.

But the hurt drove her as mercilessly as she'd once mocked the life she now lived. What direction could she go? Certainly not towards the truth! But she couldn't be seen greedily grabbing her way to the top, either. She was above all that having chosen the true and correct path in life. But while the banking life may have filled the couple's bank accounts, the Hole That Cannot Be Filled pushed them ever closer to revelation.

As if standing on a frying pan, to stay in one spot too long became unbearable agony. You have to move or die! So they became vagabonds, addicted to the greener grass just around the corner. No more wishing and waiting on silly dreams that cannot come true, she huffed. The Greener Grass Theory was real. At one point they had become self-conscious of the constant moving, gritting their teeth for what seemed like ages to prove they could put down roots like any other allegedly normal couple. But then came a visit to the golden bay in the west.

He kept vicarious tabs on her progress. As their fortunes amassed, his dwindled. No matter how remote, he lived in fear of her finding him in poverty. "If only I could know what's real!" But to know that meant to jump off that dreaded high dive - from which he had climbed down long ago. Without her, the idea of jumping was unthinkable, a physical reality of the mind. He could have no delusions on who is the weaker sex.

For him too it became all about the show - only without the funding. "If I could just get the money, I could beat her!" Massive money was beyond his means but he'd always felt he'd kept a piece of his soul she'd lost. To have that and the big bucks - he'd show her then, loser bitch! He pondered renting an exotic car for their mutual class reunion, letting her get a curious glance at him as he drove by, leaving her mired in mystery having to question on what exactly she had given up. But the prices for that were ridiculous on his budget.

Finally, he broke. Life really is about lifestyle, she'd proven that. She'd gotten a mate and a million dollar house. She had made all the right decisions, untouchable in a world of inequality's ruthless dichotomy - a world at which he publicly railed against while she privately praised. Would he have the strength to reject the world were he in her shoes? Probably not. His rants were as empty as his life.

"If God wants to bless liars like that then I guess nothing has any point after all." Betrayed on his dreams, betrayed in the world, he had no place left to turn as her lifestyle skyrocketed. "The whore by the shore has won the war." His life was over, sitting in a room with a muted TV to give the appearance to the outside world he was still engaged. But he was only waiting to die. Goodbye, cruel world.

Needing proof of the futility of life in this universe he'd by lottery tickets just to lose. "Fuck you, nigger God and the goddam horse you rode in on! This shitty ticket proves you've doomed me to fail!" So even if he was going to die a loser he took (very slight) solace in being right about something, dammit. God: just another assassin.

But then he won, netting 46 million after taxes. He was speechless and confused. Surely he'd die on the way to collecting it. There had to be a catch somewhere! "Only I could be fucked by success," he muttered. He remembered stories of the shockingly high number of lottery winners who's lost everything. A special hate he reserved for them - but now he understood the weight of it. Still, he had an old hurt to avenge. Let war resume!

"Howdy neighbor!" crowed the bouquet of flowers delivered to her door. The return address was a six million dollar dream home on the bay (no doubt from pursuing his creative endeavors), less than three miles from her house. As he'd hoped, every worst nightmare she'd dreaded for trading in her dreams came true in a fatal, sinking instant. She'd given away her life for nothing, a sanctioned prostitute of the world rejected by heaven. She dare not even cry lest the tears drown her. "I thought I had it all figured out!" Suicide suddenly seemed not so unreasonable a thing.

He knew what he could make the world - and her - believe. He also knew what he lived. The house was a living void of harrowing hollowness, more disconnected from his dreams than ever, the world went dark. Now he didn't even have misery to push him the right direction. "Oh, this can't be! I'm going to go out of my mind!" As if his head were in an inescapable vice, he felt himself being unstoppably crushed. "I thought I had it all figured out!" Suicide suddenly seemed not so unreasonable a thing.

Only the banker man - whose heart was already dead with a winking smirk - knew the truth of the coincidence of the deaths of he and she. "Those two were fools." A practical man, the banker had long ago faced up there's no room for romance or sentiment in this world. He'd furiously chained her for years to that perverse ideology, daring her to leave him if he be wrong. The money man was the last man standing - as always. Paradise lost, again.

CODA: "Don't let them substitute their morality for yours. That's how you end up loading Jews into ovens." Rich banker man scoffed at her every proclamation of this silly sentiment. He thought her naive, stupid, and weak. (He was only projecting himself, of course.) She had no understanding of business or the outside world. Idiocies like that were holdovers from her previous mistake marriage.

But greedy banks do treasure their greed and especially relish the damage they do to lives around them - even to their own! Banker boy's way in this world had been to unquestioningly be their bitch. That's what kept him on the inside, one of the club. Who needs respect? He'll take the cash instead. But then his boss set up him up to fail, giving him tasks outside his job scope - tasks he knew the bitch would not refuse. Throw out the bitch boy and there's more for the rest of us!

It was complete and total humiliation when called into the head office for his firing. His immediate boss was there too, laying into bitch boy with righteous fury. Even the bitch began to believe he should be fired, so little moral fight left inside him. In the twinkling of an eye, his career, his home, and identity vanished forever. "I thought I had it all figured out!" Suicide suddenly seemed not so unreasonable a thing.

P.S. The land, as if seeking to purify itself, tremored beneath the once mighty house, ground zero for an angry earthquake, leaving only rubble. What had engendered such wrath from the gods? What gifts had the previous owners thrown away to so infuriate Nature herself?

Bucket List Trip Day 2: Concorso Italiano

Day 2, in which Doris gets her oats.

To truly appreciate the Monterey Automobile Week one needs to spend the entire week there. Looking back I wish I had scheduled another couple of days regardless of cost. There's just plain too much to do and see. So my Saturday got hacked into two pieces: first at the historic races and then the Concorso Italiano. By the time I made it to the concorso I basically ended up paying a dollar a minute!

I also had to sacrifice races I wanted to see. Very painful. But I had come to Monterey as much for the street cars as I had the historic racers and I figured this would be my best chance to do that. Luckily, I was right! I had come to see the car that got me into cars, the one that blew me away as an otherworldly dream as a kid: The Maserati Merak. I didn't know how rare of a care it was. I've never seen one in any car collection. I prayed I wouldn't end up bust here too.

Got enough Ferraris there, Butch?

The amount of exotic cars there was unbelievable. It was like seeing a thousand Playmates of the month gathered together. At some point you just stop reacting and your eyes glaze over. Clearly, I was knee deep in serious car porn. My rushed experience left me feeling a little gypped. I never really got to exhale and let myself absorb the event the way I wanted. The Maserati mission came first, deep breathing second.

Got Panteras?

Yes, that's even more Ferraris

I was barely able to glance at cars I'd normally drool over. Some were rare cars, ones I'd only seen in books. Have to come to a very special event like this to see them in person. If I'd just found one of these in real life I'd be ecstatic, like meeting a celebrity. But to find so many grouped together, it's impossible to take it in. What do you do when you meet fifty celebrities? Hard to get an intimate moment.



Finally I made my way to the Maserati section. Check out this stunning 1970 Ghibli Spyder above. There's traditionally been a sort of rivalry between the German and Italian supercars. I always sided with the Italians. Their cars are pure passion. Italian exotics are visceral beasts with throaty engines and never a shortage of cylinders. German cars have extreme engineering but with a sterile quality. Much as I appreciate them, won't find me at any Porsche festivals.



A Maserati Mistral, now that's a rare specimen! Most likely I'll never see another in my lifetime. Wonderful lines and this one impeccably restored.





Never seen a Maserati Khamsin before, either. Heard the Maserati Club had booked the Laguna Seca track for Sunday. What a thrill to drive these cars the way there were meant to be.





A row of Maserati Boras. The Bora is the Merak's big brother. They are very popular and I've seen a few in my time. Supposed to be a blast to drive.



At last, Meraks! Four in a row, I was in heaven. The famed "flying buttresses" were everywhere. I didn't know how cool cars could be until I saw one of these in a liquor ad. I cut it out and kept it for years in a notebook cover. I read about the entire history of Maserati, getting into Formula 1 in the process and starting subscriptions to car magazines. I'd entered the worldwide club of car nuts.

Flying Buttress

Mid-engine

"Car owners love to talk about their cars." Renee told me this as I began to feel a bit sheepish about my constant peppering of questions. She and her husband Bruce own the black Merak above. It's a wonderful example, meticulously original. Bruce raved over its handling qualities and how happy he was with the car. I'd read unreliability might be an issue but he said he'd not encountered that problem. It fed a longstanding hunger to finally learn about my dream car firsthand.

Car owner Bruce

Seeing these Meraks and getting the chance to pester an owner for over an hour certainly fulfilled part of the hopes I'd had on making this pilgrimage. I now feel a connection I didn't have before. I may never have the money to buy one but the feeling I have cannot be repo'd. And owning one now would be a much richer experience. So while I didn't get to spend the entire day poring over the exotics as I'd wished, I did accomplish Mission Maserati and I'll carry that for life.

Click here to see the entire album.

Bucket List Trip, Day 1: California Dreaming

I've been a recluse, a hermit, a monk, a blogger - among other vile things - lately. Go West, I said to myself. Get thee to Pebble Beach Concours d'Elegance, see the greatest car show on earth and, yes, also seek ye the Maserati Holy Grail on this the 100th anniversary of their formation. Previous men had come to California seeking their gold. I would come seeking mine: M-A-S-E-R-A-T-I!

Flying grieves me so. To put oneself in the hands of little people, to be herded, poked and prodded, to be shuffled along like a string of convicts to chow - somehow that has ripped the charm and allure away for me. I knew I would need muster the entire force of my persona to plow through this miasma of misguided thinking and pervasive self-paranoia to which we have succumbed in this society. Sigh.

Perhaps my negativity caused a self-fulfilling prophesy as sure enough Mister Blue Gloves punk asks to rifle through my carry-on. This I needed to nip in the bud.

"Look, son, don't let a false sense of importance get you carried away. This isn't security, it's security theater. Put some thought into your work, don't be random and blindly stupid."

"But, but - they told me -"

"I know what they told you. But ask yourself: do you want to die a man or a boy? If it's the former, then grow a pair and stop substituting their morality for your own. They just pretend to know better. OK?"

"Yes...yes...I see what you mean. You know, I've had that very same thought! I just thought I was being, uh - "

"You don't have to explain. It's the conservatives in every society who fuck things up."

"It's so clear! Why didn't I see that before? I can see the light!"

He kept raving like a blind man healed by Jesus as I crossed the gateway to the plane. I hadn't sat down five seconds when I get a tap on the shoulder from the seat behind.

"Sir, please, may I speak to you?"

Damn, everyone wants a piece of me. "Sure, what do you need?"

"I recognized you right away, Mr. Homeless. I'm the air marshal for this flight but I just wanted to say I'll completely defer to you in any crisis situation."

"Understandable."

"No one has seen you in years. Your legend has only grown..."

"Oh, what men dare do..."

A supplicant stewardess approached me. "Sir, the pilot would like to see you before take-off."

"But, of course!" I snapped. Was I to be made door greeter as well? All this for being too poor to own my own plane. The trials of poverty never end.

The Captain took his hat off in my presence. "Sorry to bother you, sir, but I just know I forgot something in my pre-flight check but for the life of me I can't figure what it is. If I could just borrow your keen eye for a moment?"

"Dude!" I immediately pointed towards the offending switch. "The fog lights are off!"

"Yes, of course! I feel so embarrassed."

"You should be. Can I go now?"

"Well, uh, " he stammered. "If you wouldn't mind, later, maybe - I could use some advice on my love life."

"Consider it done," I declared (he had no idea I meant it literally). Then I dismissed him with a high hand, signifying my patience had come to an end. I overheard two stewardesses whispering as I headed back.

"Do you know who that was?"

"No, but he seemed really important!"

"Yes, that was Harry Homeless, the most interesting homeless man in the world."

And my journey had begun.

***************************************

Driving out of the San Jose airport, first thing I noticed was the hills - and this boy knew he was far from home. I've heard the California experience sung about my entire life so I reserved the first day for a trip up the coast into San Francisco. The rolling of the land and the light atmosphere can only be understood firsthand. I felt I had stepped into a dream. Misty mountains, rolling hills, the constant farming - there was something in the feel of the place that made me understand why people flock to live here.



I checked into my hotel in Gilroy about 25 miles south of San Jose then started my planned trip up Highway 1 into San Francisco. Taking 152 to H1 was an adventure in itself! I was driving at the base of steep hills through a canopy of tall trees, like nothing I'd ever experienced. But then I found myself winding down a vary large hill in a wild ride of dead man's curves. I decided to stop and put the top down on the convertible. This was too good to pass up!



Getting on H1 was a bit of pain, but once on, it was magnificent, everything I'd imagined. Bear in mind, for every picture I took, there was a thousand more I passed up. I'd go nuts living out there. I had the sun, temperate weather, the smell (and taste even) of ocean salt in the air. I was drawn to stop, to explore, or just simply soak it up. I understand how the lifestyle could override the rest of your life; jobs just a means to an end.

***************************************

San Francisco was exactly as I expected - only more so. My God, what a place; magical, wondrous. I wasn't sure if crossing the Golden Gate would live up to the hype - it surpassed it. I was envious of the many walkers, wishing to be one myself, to take my time and fully understand Journey's "Lights" song. Hard to imagine I'd ever get tired of making such a trek.



I had intended on visiting the Japanese Garden but I'd gotten toasty and burned in the convertible (which hampered me the rest of the trip). So I decided to avoid outdoor activity and head to Japan Town. I got lost along the way - but that was fun too! The steep hills in the movies are even steeper than you think and the views are breathtaking.





Japan Town was cool but the mall was a bit run down and cheesy in spots. Still, it had the high quality and unique shops I'd hoped it would have. I will treasure my new tea cup and my example of famous Ryukyu glass direct from Okinawa. Having not eaten in 15 hours I was running on fumes. I found a Japanese robata grill north of the bridge, dined on some fine yellow tail then drowsily made my way back south to Gilroy at the end of a very long twenty hour day. Even with that, I just felt my appetite had only been whetted for more.

Tears Not Cried

How to spot an ashamed person

"I not ashamed of nothin' I done." There was conviction and proud defiance in Joaquin's voice, daring anyone within hearing to contradict him. No one cared to.

Sometimes I end up in odd rooms with odd people because I have no place to go. This was another cheap apartment - like where I live - and all of us in there knew we'd never shake up the world or amount to much. We'd labor and toil, boast falsely, block out the drowning drudgery of our day-to-day lives, stay silent on the fears of the piling years of more of the same until the day comes we pass from the earth as unannounced as when we arrived. Yes, it was the loser's room (again).

I liked Joaquin but it was clear he lived in pain. He'd done a stretch in the county jail and I assume that was sort of like going through basic training. It sharpens your focus one way or the other, for better or worse. Joaquin clearly didn't want to go back to what got him in the stir (burglary) but he felt hopeless in the outside world, never coming to terms with what he'd done. He wasn't gonna be sorry for nothin'!

Porter (he was always just called Porter) was sitting over in the corner chiming in as he saw fit. He was the best dressed of us wearing his button down long sleeved shirt. What Joaquin had informed me, though, was that was to hide the track marks on his arm. Porter was on probation and I had to believe it was just a matter of time before he got sent back. A true tragedy in this world in that the people sending him back are the true criminals. They call it criminal justice for a reason.

Marvin was a scrawny blonde, talkative in his deception. I got the feeling if he stopped talking he was afraid he might hear himself. For the life of me I can't remember a word out of his mouth though I can recall the sound of him quite well. Heck, all four of us were scared but it was Joaquin's defiant stand that jumped out at me. It was out of tune with the nothingness of the room's conversation. I knew there was a story to be told.

Joaquin hooked a ride with me in my jalopy on the way to hell's nightmare inferno work. That's how I got a peek into his world. But it was the odd occasion where I picked him up from his mother's house where I got the untold story.

He was a different person there, still maintaining the image of a son with potential, that "No, you were a good Mom" insistent smile of a failed child, not a drop of honesty as to his real life. Easy to see with the religious iconography deeply embedded into the house she was a conservative woman whose values required approval. It was at that point I imagined what it must have been like when the news was broken to her of her only son's arrest and conviction. What would the neighbors think?

Around her, it was like Joaquin was in perpetual apology mode. So no wonder he lashed out like he did when he said he wasn't sorry for anything in his life. He was tired of bowing and scraping before his mother, but what else could he do? She was the one last person who had faith in him in this cold world of stone hearts. Like the rest of us, he needed a woman to make him whole, to allow him to break away - to allow forgiveness.

I sensed his jail time was a black mark branded upon his life in Joaquin's mind. Explaining that to a wanted girl would be the same as explaining it to his mother. In other words, there was no way. Just keeping on and getting by would never be enough to rectify what he'd done to the family name. That was a thorn in his side and Lord knows, I certainly had no advice to offer on that account as I dragged out the buffer from the janitor closet.

So easy to see self-sabotage in others. So obvious that if the right girl came along she'd care less about his prison time. I'd wanted to say that to him but I had no proof having not received forgiveness myself. It happens in the movies anyway.

This was over three years ago. I drifted, he drifted. Lost souls never congregate together long lest we become too well known. But I never forgot that huge thumb of guilt pressing down on Joaquin's head, pressuring him as he sought hopeless refuge in six packs of delusion. Joaquin was sorry - overwhelmingly sorry - for what he'd done. Or maybe it's more accurate to say it was of what he'd perceived he'd done. Banks burgle pockets every day so how much of a crime was Joaquin's in the greater scheme of things?

Apparently, redemption eluded him over the years. The voices of worthlessness and failure won out, driving his tears out in the worst way possible. I read his name in the paper in conjunction with a string of home robberies. His favorite victim? Elderly women. I felt frustrated I couldn't go to court and explain it was really his mother he was robbing in absentia. For this he got two 20-year terms. Hey, ma, look at me now.

We like things to be black and white. I'm sure the relatives of the grandmothers he robbed take relish in Joaquin's harsh sentencing. Our so-called Department of Corrections will dehumanize and brutalize him in the same way he did his victims - probably more so. This is how we hope to fix the world. Perhaps if we found out a little but more about the truth of everyone we just might actually make the world a better place.

Obama Year 6: Is He Still Jesus?

First, to get a couple of things out of the way which I think are necessary when commenting on a political figure. One is that I have no respect for our current POTUS and in many ways despise him and his adamant lack of conviction  (well, he has one dogged conviction: to have no convictions). I was one of those who applauded in what I hoped would be the end of the Bush era in 2008. Alas, little did I expect (or want to see) the massive Trojan horse we let in the door.

Secondly, there are those who would criticize the President were he to walk on water and end hunger. They would say he didn't walk the right way and the water not deep enough. He'd be derided as a fascist ("He mandates we care about the hungry! Who is this dictator to tell us what to do?"). I find those kind of charges amusing. So while it might seem my criticism of the President aligns me with conservatives, in truth they are no allies of mine for my solutions and their solutions are polar opposites. And it's by your solutions you are defined.

The lesson I have learned is either your part of the problem or part of the solution. I never saw Obama as part of the solution but I did hope for a stoppage of the insanity, if not a reversal. After horrifying escalations of Bush era policies I stand corrected. There can be no middle. One either takes a stand against the flow or becomes a party to it. So the question remains, why would an otherwise seemingly decent man both further and enhance policies of self-destruction? In a word: Fear.

"Those who stand for nothing fall for anything."

When you're in a dark room, blind, not knowing which way to turn, most will naturally take the most conservative approach possible. Obama may be a Democrat, but he's most thoroughly a conservative. He fears the liberal voice of truth and lashes vindictively out at it. He's a man who proclaims the right thing only when his intentions are to do the opposite. These are all signs of a man in over his head. He wants to be known as a great politician - but not actually be one. That is certainly the trait he shares most with his predecessor. (One lied us into war, the other into Obamacare)

I'll give an example of what I mean (don't worry, I don't expect anyone to agree with my assessments or characterizations.) Obama supporters love to crow about the economy, but really, had Obama lost the election the economy would be no different than what it is now. He's taken the most conservative approach possible. Inequality continues to skyrocket (Obama publicly laments it because he knows he's helped deepen it and fears he'll be tagged with it), the stock market takes off as main street still suffers (40 percent of households show signs of financial stress) and meaningful regulation has not been demanded nor implemented.

The fundamental issues that caused the meltdown of 2008 have not been resolved. Too big to fail is worse then ever, the cancer of derivatives grows daily and masking agents that rob from tomorrow to fund today continue in open disregard. Commodities manipulation by speculators steals hundreds of billions of dollars from those who need money the most. The outrages are there if one cares to look and this I can also tell you: our dear President is fully aware of them.

It's easy to sit in the peanut gallery and call for honesty or say that you would stand up for it in a political vacuum. Truth is, most would act as our POTUS has. He believes the banks are what's fundamental to our way of life, they must be saved above anything else, even if it means siphoning everyone else dry! (There's a whole chorus of cowards and malcontents who sing this song to high heaven. Hi, Mr. Greenspan!). Honesty as a principle is radical, unpragmatic, and - gasp - liberal, the sin of all sins.

Unfortunately, there is absolutely no possible way dishonesty has a future, no matter how much we promote and cheerlead the ways of greed. All we've done the last few years is exacerbate the problem by refusing to take our medicine and kicking the can down the road, worsening our day of reckoning. But hey, who cares, that's on somebody else's watch and that person will get the blame. (Imagine how torched Kerry would be if he had won in 2004!) The goal has not been to heal, but to "restore confidence" - even if it's a lie. That's how you get people to start spending their precious dollars again (and set themselves up).

But it's in foreign policy where Obama's fear is most palpable (and signed off on by the fearful American public). We execute for thought crimes now, devolving into a Stalin-like paranoia that everyone is out to get us (a self-fulfilling prophesy). For now it's overseas but time will come when it hits these shores and trust me by then it will be too late to stop it. The President has already ordered a Jacobian directive in the intelligence agencies to snitch on "traitors to the revolution". That's about as smart as relying on feuding Afghan tribes to give us intelligence on who our enemies are. Oh yeah, it's always the guy I hate!

Hey, look who's deciding our foreign policy!

We throw away our freedoms in the name of freedom. Again, most people would choose that route because they would fear being blamed for not doing enough to keep us safe if a major attack occurs. The rise of the police state shows no sign of stopping, especially when the man in charge desperately encourages it behind the scenes not knowing what else to do, grasping at straws, listening to the worst of the voices for support and comfort. We are not being made safer, just the opposite.

But it's the half-measures - the half-cancer - approach that divides the left from the liberals. "Removing half the cancer is best we can do!" "Don't worry, we'll remove the rest of the cancer some other time!" "No one can do more than removing half the cancer!" These wildly contradictory arguments are heard all the time from the left. They rail at liberals for being too idealistic, not living in the real world. Meanwhile, the patient dies in the name of practicality. Sorry, moron me just don't get what's practical about that.

But we need to feel hope - even if it's a false hope. Even rabid Obama supporter Clooney inadvertently revealed his misgivings when he said believed the President's term could be sold as a success. It's the magical thinking of Obama as purity and grace itself. It gives one peace in the night. If we take immigrant deportations for example, we find Obama has been far more ruthless in splitting up families than any hard-hearted Republican beast. But these same magic thinkers would howl to the wind were a "beast" committing these same acts. But we hear nothing when our alleged savior does it because "he's doing the best that can be done. No need for us to care."

That's some scary shit.

Who we elect President reflects the psyche of the American people, of how we want our lies to sound. "Obama reformed healthcare!" is a phrase we often hear. However, no free clinics or hospitals were opened up, rather it was insurance that was "reformed". But to say "Obama reformed health insurance!" is as empty sounding as it suggests. We don't want to hear we invaded Iraq for oil or that our economic system needs changing - or that change is needed at all. The person who fulfills that demand of liar-in-chief in the marketplace speaks volumes about us as a people.

In closing I would submit if a man of whole conviction were to call us to a fireside chat, explain to everyone all the wonderful benefits to the ordinary man and woman in the street of, say, a surcharge levied on every Wall Street trade, how it would curtail the greed and distribute wealth back to the poor and middle class, elevate the tide for every boat, that we could hear the MLK like timber in his voice conveying the urgency, the political pressure would landslide any opposition. Instead, we see an unbecoming self-pity party of "Why don't the Republicans fix everything for me." Why indeed!

Descent Of A Mad Samurai (Part 3)

Day 100:

Each night the dream got stronger: Nobu was still a samurai in his old clan. He was bound, bent low before the judge, convicted of stealing from another samurai. For this unforgivable offense he could offer no defense. It was over, his long charade ended. Time to die in inglorious shame and guilt.

And yet, Nobu still refused to comply! He demanded life even after one of the most egregious crimes possible. The judge was outraged.

"Have you no shame! Have you no honor! Where is your samurai code!"

Nobu left his code behind a hundred days ago but it lingered within, festering in his doubts. Even he wondered at demanding life after an undeniable crime of theft, not like his slip-up at guard duty.

He'd wake up gasping for air. Nobu was tired. Tired of running and tired as hell of the constant lying. But in whom could he confide?

He clutched his tense and tightened stomach, his head spinning like a typhoon. "I'm losing my mind."

Day 111:

I still don't get it. The leaves and the colors say "life" but the world says "death". Which is true? Or are they both? Did I make myself too much of the world and now I can't escape? Is hope an illusion?

Nobu sat on the edge of Lake Biwa as the Autumn colors made their presence known. The serenity of the water, the uncomplaining leaves whose time came to fall, and the sleepiness of the breeze lured him into a drowsy sense of security - and this annoyed Nobu. Surely he could have no real security - this was just a trick played on him by his tired soul. The same vexing questions still hounded him and he wondered if he'd live to see the Spring blooms.

One does not fear death until one wants to live. Damn.

Day 113:

"Nothing in the cry

"Of cicadas suggests they

"Are about to die."

"I feel a disturbance within you. You must release it or die."

"I cannot speak it - or you will die."

"You speak in riddles."

"So be it."

Nobu had heard of a temple renowned for its soothing comfort and deep insights into Nature. He was too desperate to avoid it but too fearful to face it.

"Ah, so ka. You are a wanted man?"

Should I confess? I'll say nothing.

"You fear you will put my life in danger as would happen to anyone who helps you."

Dear Buddha! These truly are men of insight. They speak when I cannot. What sweet nectar this is.

"Have no fear. You can tell me everything."

"No, I cannot! I will not bear your death upon me!" Curiously, Nobu felt death speaking those words. But wasn't he preserving life?

"Your confession can only give me life. It will give you life - and that gives me life. We will share this dream and what happens afterward is of no consequence."

Nobu's vexed brow peered into the monk's eyes, searching for the truth. This was no ordinary monk, but rather a wandering poet leaving signposts on his journey through life. The open-mouthed former samurai was sorely tempted.

"But how? How can this be? After what I've done?"

"You lived a life of weakness and vanity, giving as little as possible while taking as much as possible. One day, you see the error of your ways fearing you've damaged your life beyond repair. But only your lies are damaged beyond repair."

"Ha! I love that! So true! But how is it you read me so well? Believe me, my day of reckoning was forced upon me."

"I read you because I read myself. I cannot answer for what your sins have done. But certainly you see, life is not of this world. It belongs to the sky and the stars."

A sense of clarity struck Nobu as never before. During his confession what previously had seemed unspeakable crimes for the ages were reduced to simple human frailty. His imagination had run amok, casting him as a super villain. Yes it was true: his crimes were not unique nor uncommon - just the opposite, in fact. So why was his sense of guilt and reprobation so staggeringly high? A terrifying thought occurred to him.

It's the size of the dreams we betray that determines the penalty - or reward - we attain.

Day in Autumn:

Nobu had a keen political mind. Perhaps the keenest in the country. (He kept it keen by not using it for political purposes.) Japan was no longer the pure meritocracy it had been during the Sengoku period ending 150 years ago. She'd become more concerned with fears over what might happen as opposed to what was happening - which made those very fears come true. Nobu knew that by keeping the country closed - as well as their minds - that Japan was falling behind the rest of the world - and one day that would cost her dearly [approximately 100 years later]. This very much frustrated Nobu as being an unforced error on his beloved nation's part.

Since his exile, what also had become glaringly obvious was the disconnect between the populace and the Shogante leaders. "If only those bowing and scraping on the ground knew what a bunch of cowering fools, greedy robbers and militant sycophants rule this land!" But the peasants had been taught to revere and respect and besides, the idea of leaders they could not trust was too terrible to contemplate [which has kept many an ill suited leader in power over the course of history]. And thus, Japan recklessly headed for a day of reckoning when the absolute truth would be revealed [in August of 1945]. That too frustrated Nobu to no end.

These were the thoughts that consumed him as he sliced the soba noodles for the day.

Day Of First Snow:

I've found a home that's not a home,

My soul no place to rest;

And though I search both time and space,

I never find my own.

-- English sailor marooned in Japan

Nobu made a small shelter for himself deep in the mountain woods. It was not a place where he could live but it's where he went to live. He wished to leave the world and do nothing but practice calligraphy. But to do that would require funding like one of the great devil merchants. Only the snowflakes were free.

"What I see...are snowflakes...snowflakes of death." Rage had been a part of Nobu's life for as long as he could remember. First he railed against the constraints of samurai life - now he railed against the constraints of lacking a samurai life. Trapped, always trapped. He could deceive himself no longer.

"What I want to do...is kill." Without hope and yet still chained to the planet, Nobu felt he must express himself. No way out for me, then no way out for you! He'd become a hired assassin, satisfying both the needs of his raging soul and monetary burdens. Unfortunately for Nobu he was more feared for his game of Go than his swordplay. And only samurai had permission to carry a sword anyway.

"That's OK. I'll be a sneak assassin with a hidden dagger. I just want someone to give me a reason to kill. I'm so angry! I don't want to give my life to the sky. I want to live!"

Day Trapped In Hut By Deep First Snow:

Nobu's eyes had grown as cold as the air around him. It all seemed so incredibly inevitable now. Of course, something happened to ruin his life! He'd been living a lie, he could run from himself for only so long. His one faint hope had been that his coming mistake would not be a fatal one - but of course it had been. His time as a samurai was never going to last.

Had he left of his own volition he wouldn't be in these dire straights of hunted hell. True, in their rigid caste system a farmer must remain a farmer, an artist an artist, a merchant a merchant and a samurai a samurai. But some of the raggedly poor samurai did depart (if only to still struggle). Nobu previously wondered if his need to leave had only been imagined. Now he knew.

In the Spring he'd become a son of sin, killer of the world - in a world that needs killing. Nobu would be a revenge monster of their own making, a mirror of their souls, a wrecker of false lives. What other path is open to a fugitive?

I'm Sorry. I'm Not Political.

"Schicklgruber! Have you finished those plans yet?"

"Almost, mein kampf."

"Well, hurry up. People are waiting. We need zie Judes in zie ovens quicker!"

Schicklgruber was the industrious sort and the methodology for faster loading of Judes into the gas chambers was a high level priority from the top. All he wanted was to be good at his job. What's wrong with that?

Herr Oblahma strolled over to Schicklgruber's desk. "Don't you wonder sometimes if we're doing the right thing?"

"We're doing what we've been told! That is gut."

"Yes, but - "

"Please, do not bother me with politics. I am not political. Ich bin ein engineer!"

"I realize it's important to get the job done over all and that compromise is necessary in every issue and that nothing is black and white and that no one should ever feel alienated that disagrees with you and -"

"Oh, shut up! I'm not voting for you."

"Oh, poo! Some day everyone will love me! You just wait and see!"

A noisy crowd began to assemble outside. Oblahma got flustered. "Oh, my! Who are those people?"

"Stupid protesters."

"Protesters! What could they possibly be protesting?"

"Who knows! Something somewhere isn't just exactly perfect so they have to run around screaming their heads off. Idiots!"

"Those fools! Don't they understand they can't let the perfect be the enemy of the good?"

"They think they are smarter than our glorious leaders who run the government."

"Outrageous! That's the whole reason I joined the government, so I cannot be protested."

Schicklgruber's moral indignation boiled over, opening the window in a furious spite. "Go away! No one cares what you have to say!"

"You're helping to commit mass murder and genocide! It's wrong to kill the Judes!"

"Oh, what do you know? Others say different. Get a life, you losers!"

Oblahma stuck his head out the window, looking for votes as ever. "What if I can be your hero and negotiate a deal where we only kill half as many Judes as now?"

"No killings are acceptable! Since when is murder allowed?"

Schicklgruber slammed the window shut. "See? They are unreasonable! Never satisfied with their pointed pitchforks!"

Oblahma sniffed. "I don't know how they expect to convince anyone that genocide is wrong with manners like that. And how unpragmatic to reject my deal that would have made the situation fifty percent better. Who do those people think they are? I know what I proposed was not perfect but we could vote to reduce the murders further at some point in time later on."

Emilberg, the troublemaker, came waltzing into the office.

"Schicklgruber, you old boot-licker you! Still tongue-ing your way to the top?"

"Get away from me, you anarchist! Somebody has to make this country run. Our leaders are beautiful and wondrous and never should be questioned!"

"You a funny guy, Shick. How about you O-man? You buying that garbage?"

"I have to! I hope someday for those things to be said about me."

"Well, ain't you two a pair!"

"We're winning - and there's nothing you can do to change that! So why don't you shut your mouth and obey and do what's in the best interests of society?"

Emilberg applauded. "Good idea! I think I'll do exactly that!" Then he promptly went outside and joined the protesters.

Brought to you by vocal patriots and a silent majority

"You traitor!" fumed Schicklgruber yelling out the window. "You betray your society and all that it stands for!"

"The real traitor is the one who gets us bombed to smithereens in retaliation and backlash."

"That can never happen! We are the biggest and the baddest in the world!"

At that point Emilberg mooned him, ending all debate.

***

Later, on his way home, a small Jude girl came up to Emilberg, giving him a hug. "Thank you, sir, for speaking up or us. Sometimes it feels like the whole world wants us dead. You don't know what it means to hear your voice. It makes all the difference in the world."