Fairfax, VA, USA.I am by nature a political moderate; in olden times, before the extremes emerged to compete for a chokehold on America, I could be called a liberal Republican. At times I want to throw rocks at The Man; other times I would tell demonstrators they need a permit to demonstrate.

There aren’t a lot of liberal Republicans around, it seems. We appear to be a dying breed. And no one in either party seems willing to call themselves a (gack) moderate.


Perhaps it is my thirteen years of Catholic education. I respect tradition even as I would change it to better serve our current situation. But — I seldom suggest we discard tradition entirely as I find a mix of both worlds usually a better solution than starkly choosing one over the other. Homo sapiens is a changeable animal but not one who changes very quickly.

Perhaps it is because I was raised Sicilian American. I undoubtedly have relatives in both law enforcement and organized crime. The choice between an oppressive, non-functioning government and the Mafia is often one of inclinations rather than substance. I tell no tales, however, or break with family. What happens within the family should stay within the family and admit that I too have family.

I have studied the Roman Empire and the early Christian Church, emperors and founding fathers, generals, bishops, and messiahs. I have read the ancient philosophers, studied Catholic theology, and learned realpolitik. Somewhere along the way, I lost my innocence and naivety. I no longer believe that all things are possible or even if we should want them possible. Life is series of choice that are often contradictory.

I once believed in God. I remember the morning. I was seven and thought I felt him touch me at mass. Apparently, he didn’t like what he found ‘cos he’s never come back. I no longer believe but I am open to change should He suddenly appear before me on my death bed and doesn’t resemble some James Cameron computer generated avatar or an old white man with a beard. I won’t be holding my breath.

I was young when rock and roll was young. Very young when it started. But I remember sitting beside my mother and watching Elvis on Ed Sullivan. I remember it all, large parts of it are embedded in my DNA. Rock and Roll will never die. Television was a child when I was a child. We did every for the first time and grew up together and I would go with my father to Radio Shack to test television vacuum tubes that he suspected were going bad.

Still, I remember listening to shows on the radio at my grandparents’ house by the old State Fairgrounds. Later radio meant baseball and basketball and minor league hockey. At first I used a crystal set to listen at night after my official bedtime. Later the crystal set was replaced by a small, battery powered transistor radio. I often fell asleep to Willie Mays and Willie McCovey, Wilt Chamberlain and Rick Barry. The world was different and my expectations somewhat less than what 500 cable channels now provide me.

Hell, my father’s car had tailfins. Every cool car and a lot of the uncool ones did. No particular reason. We all just thought it was the coolest. You had to be there, I guess.

The one constant in music or life — if you think you are hip, you are not. [N1] If you try to be hip, you are not. Hip is without explanation. Corollary: if you consciously use slang, the ginchiest groove and patter, you may be a lot of things, but one thing you are not is hip. You might be a liberal college professor, however, trying to get down with the kids.

I have almost died three times in my life. Once by polio, once by a car accident, and once by an undiagnosed infection that ran consecutive marathons in my body. Four times, if you count the airplane turned missle that rammed my office on November 11, 2001. I learned a few things from not dying. For one, dying is incredibly easy.

If you survive, if you don’t die, your life doesn’t change much. Life goes on much as it did before. Although you may get some muscle weakness from the polio or a bad back out of the auto accident. But you are still here and that is what matters most. Followed by the cable bill, the car payment, the rent, and any lingering medical expenses not covered by your health insurance. And your boss who wonders when you will be coming back to work.

But other than for your loved ones and a few friends, the world really doesn’t care one way or the other whether you are alive or not. Sharon cares. Our Border Collie cares. I think my children care — but you never really know and they have lives of their own.

You, out there in Internetland, the ones reading this on their pads, laptops, computers, and cell phones, you’d have to find some other piece of periodic brilliance to read. Assuming you do read these columns and don’t come simply to see the nifty graphics that Sharon places on my column.

Or perhaps you have wandered over from Randall Munroe’s xkcd webcomic and this is your first time actually reading something by me. [N2] I can’t decide if that is luck or fate. Not that there is a razor’s hair of difference between them. Stuff happens — and then we make up acceptable stories to explain what we have just experienced.

There are 7 billion and counting stories on our ever growing planet. This has been one of them. There were approximately 2.5 billion people on the planet the day I was born. That world, that planet, is gone forever but I remember what happened in between. I think.

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