Saturday, December 29, 2012

Today's MOMENT OF ZEN 12/29/12

Words by F LoBuono
A man is but the product of his thoughts. What he thinks, he becomes.
                                                                                                               Gandhi

I think that I need to offer my readers some perspective when it comes to my position on guns - you know, to have guns or not to have guns. I have certainly made it clear that I'm in the not to category. But I think it's important to explain how and why I got there. And it was a journey because I did not always feel the way that I do now.

First, I was raised with weapons (i.e. handguns) in my house. My father, a WWII combat veteran who served in Patton's Third Army, made a bold, mid-life career change and became a law enforcement officer in Bergen County, NJ. I was a young adolescent. So, of course, his job would require him to own, train with, and possibly use, a handgun(s). And my father loved his guns. He really did enjoy them. He had a Smith and Wesson "snub nose" .38 with a custom grip for his service revolver. In addition he had a long-barrel .38, also with a custom grip, that he used for target shooting at the police range. In the warm months he tried to get to the range to shoot at least once a week. When he couldn't get to the range, he would practice his form with the weapon while staring into their full-length dressing mirror. I always knew when he was practicing because I could hear the click of the hammer as he stared into the mirror and squeezed the trigger, slowly. He would do it dozens of times. Click. Click. Click. He loved it and he wanted to be good at it. And he was incredibly responsible with his weapons. The VERY first thing he told me when he handed me his weapon to hold was, Frankie, ALWAYS remember what the purpose of a gun is - and that is to kill. It is NEVER to be taken lightly. NEVER. It is NEVER to be played with. And, therefore, NEVER raise it unless you intend to use it. Guns ARE a matter of life and death. And only then he handed me the gun. Handing me the gun, even though I was young, was part of the lesson. He took the "mystery" out of it and gave me practical knowledge of what the true purpose and meaning of gun ownership was. My parents did the same thing with alcohol. They never hid it from us. In fact, beer and wine was readily available at our table. It wasn't taboo. So, it was just never a big deal and none of us ever really struggled with alcohol. It really is about taking personal responsibility.

He taught me the skills needed to safely handle and USE a weapon. I often went with him to the police range. I hung out with policemen and their weapons, ate hot dogs, snuck an occasional beer, and even got to fire a weapon from the firing line (at least when I was old enough; 12-13). After my father passed away, I did not pursue target shooting with handguns but, rather, switched to shotguns and skeet and trap shooting. And I loved it. What's not to like? It's usually a day out in the country, practicing a very skillful endeavor. I even purchased a number of shotguns, including a few antique ones, for that purpose. I found some guns to be actually works of art. In fact, I bought the antique shot gun, not to use, but because it had beautiful carvings on the wood stock. It really is "beautiful". So, I KNOW guns and I have ENJOYED guns.

MANY of you have written to me about just that: the right to be a responsible gun owner. And, from what I've read, the great majority of you are. In response, and in REALITY, because gun ownership has really become a part of American culture, especially to responsible owners, I know that we may never be a "gun-free" society. After all, our very country was founded (and sustained) through violent revolution. How The West Was Won can certainly be said to be at the barrel of a gun. Gun right advocates often use the 2nd Amendment as a shield to defend their position. However, most of them do not truly understand the spirit of that law, including WHEN and WHY it was written. Many advocates also site the need for not only self defense, but to protect self determination (i.e. the government has ALL the guns and we have NONE), as well. Well, statistics (like the ones included in the sketch above) refute the claims of guns as an effective means of self defense. And I find the idea that the government having all the guns and we having none as mostly paranoia. So, logic interrupts those arguments.

But there is more to this debate than just logic. There is emotion - raw, pure, emotion. Many Americans feel that it is there RIGHT to CHOOSE if they should or should NOT own a weapon. And America IS about choice. Many have fought and died (hate that we have to keep saying that, but, sadly, we do) to give us that RIGHT. And I have ALWAYS supported our right as AMERICANS to choose - across the board - a woman's right to choose, a person's right to marry whomever they choose, a persons right to privacy in their own home. This is no different. It's about CHOICE. It's always been about choice. Even so-called Tea Baggers can get behind that! They're always whining about Big Government running our lives. Well, you don't NEED the government to "regulate" this, really. It can be self-regulated by making the right choice - the rational, sensible, compassionate one. I've made my CHOICE. I've made it by renouncing (and DEnouncing) violence in all it's forms. I've chosen to lock my guns away forever. I will not use them anymore - for any purpose. I've chosen not to watch violent movies or programs - especially those that have no point. I don't play video games, so there's no issue on this level LOL!

Something must be done to change the mindset of America. We have become obsessed with, not only guns, but violence. It seems that EVERY hero in our culture solves their problems at the barrel of a gun. I could easily name dozens of examples. It's easy because they are pervasive. And no one is immune to it. I have called out Denzil Washington, a GREAT actor and, by all accounts, a GIVING and wonderful person, for taking the "cheap" money by playing ultra-violent characters. We need new THINKING 'cause something WRONG 'round here!! Too many of us our dying and we are left to answer the questions, "why" and "what's wrong"? "Why are we so afraid"? There are too many widows, widowers, and orphans. We're killing our own children. Yes, guns do most of the killing but it's the PEOPLE behind the guns that we really need to address. Why must they resort to a gun to do their bidding? THIS is the ultimate question.

I could go on with the practicality of sensible gun control. I could give you the statistics in either direction to support either POV. Some solutions might work. Others are folly. But, ultimately, that still does not answer the basic questions as to why we are obsessed with guns and violence and, more importantly, what can we do to stop it? I think that, like most great movements, the answer lies with the individual and the choice that he or she makes. We need new thinking to address the issues that have confronted us in the 21st Century. We can't JUST rely on laws that were written 200 years ago. We have to make a choice NOW - based on the issues at hand NOW, with the thinking in place NOW. So, make your CHOICE. I have made mine and I am not afraid. I will ask, how many will put their fears aside and join me by renouncing violence and locking away your guns - forever . . .


Thursday, December 27, 2012

Today's MOMENT OF ZEN 12/27/12


Words by F LoBuono

On days like today, I wish that I could just write my blues away. If I bang away furiously, perhaps, I can turn a phrase to make me feel better about things. It seems like I have the weight of the whole world squarely upon my shoulders. On days like today, there is no gravity - the world just sucks. Perhaps, a well placed word will show me the light that I know lies behind these damned clouds!! But that's also part of the problem: I KNOW the sun lies just beyond the clouds. The issue is how do I reach them?

I feel like it's a Catch-22 situation. The term comes from the title of the award winning anti-war novel by Joseph Heller. It refers to circular reasoning. In the book's case, the protagonist, Yosarian, a bombardier on a B-17, says he can't fly any more combat missions because flying them has made him crazy. But since flying in a tin can while someone is trying to shoot you out of the sky IS crazy, he can't be crazy. Therefore, the doctors will not certify him as insane and, so, he must continue to fly missions. In a sense, the same pretzel logic applies here. I know that I have nothing to truly fret about. I have my health, a great family, a warm, safe apartment, clothes, a good, reliable vehicle, a great job, respect and love from my friends, and my beloved cat, Red, by my side as I write this. Simply put, I HAVE SO MUCH. I have no right, especially compared to what others have experienced lately, to complain. However, the more I think that way, the worse I feel. See, Catch-22: I'm trying to focus on what I have rather than what I don't. It may be an attempt to feel better about myself, but the more that I do, the worse my depression becomes.

Well, it's time to try a different approach. Failure is not an option. What I DO find effective is to change one's thinking. Break the cycle. Stop beating yourself up for not thinking right. Stop thinking about it all together and start LOOKING for the little signs that will show you the way to the light. In fact, I have a couple of those reminders right here in front of me. Red is sleeping peacefully next to me. I can't help but feel his warmth. And, to provide some "background distraction", I turned on my TV. On AMC, I found one of my all-time favorite movies, featuring one of all-time favorite characters: Big Trouble in Little China, starring Kurt Russel as Jack Burton. Burton (IMHO) is one of the great, campy anti-heroes in film history. He's kind of an every man -tough guy. Jack constantly blunders into and out of trouble - all with this incredible sense of bravado. He talks a good game, but we all know that he ain't THAT tough! But you'll never get that from him. And he gets shit done. I love him. And he has the perfect attitude to pull me (and you?) out of any funk. The movie closes with Jack in his beloved 18-wheeler, back on the open road after having completed his mission and saving the day. He is alone again, when he says this into his CB radio:

Just remember what ol' Jack Burton does when the earth quakes, and the poison arrows fall from the sky, and the pillars of heaven shake. Yeah, Jack Burton looks that ol' storm square in the eye and he says "Give me your best shot, pal, I can take it".

Well, BE Jack Burton for awhile! Look that ol' storm in the eye and say Give me your best shot, pal, I can take it! Now, this is often easier said (and written) than done. That's why depression can be so insidious: we KNOW the way, we just can't seem to get there, just making it worse (Catch-22). But the key is to try, to FIGHT, to persevere, to find the strength to say Give me your best shot, pal, I can take it.

I'm starting to convince myself. I hope that, perhaps, I may have helped convince you, too. You just have to believe. :)


Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Today's MOMENT OF ZEN 12/26/12

Words and photo by F LoBuono

While sweeping the floor of my apartment, I noticed a thin strip of paper lying hidden behind one of my chairs. Being a fastidious cleaner (LOL), I reached down to pick it up. I immediately recognized it as a Chinese fortune cookie strip. How it got there, we'll never know and is irrelevant anyway. Of course, I did what I think anyone would have done; I read it:

YOU HAVE AT YOUR COMMAND THE WISDOM OF THE AGES.

Of course, that made me smile! However, even with a healthy ego like mine, I could not accept that as accurate. I will say that I'm workin' on it - hard. But I've barely set out on this sojourn. I have many more roads to explore before (if ever!) I can even hope to achieve that most lofty and admirable goal.

At the same time, it sure is fun to think that nothing is completely random, everything has a purpose. Was finding that particular message at this particular time a sign that, at least, I'm on the right path? I can't answer that. I simply don't know. But I do know that it can never work if you don't believe . . .

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Today's MOMENT OF ZEN Christmas, 2012

Words and photo by F LoBuono

Like many others, as I get older, it seems that Christmas and the entire Holiday Season, no matter what your religious affiliation, just becomes more and more of a pig fuck. Don't be shocked. You've heard me use that term before. I often use it to describe my time on the Red Carpet Movie Premiere Circuit: Lots of squealing. Lots of jockeying for position. All signifying nothing. Well, hasn't Christmas become just that? I mean they start selling shit to us more than a month in advance. We run around like chickens with their heads cut off to shop, to make parties, to make commitments, to make nonsense. It just obscures the message. 

So, every year, I say the same thing: Screws this. I NEVER needed this. I most certainly don't need it now. Bah, fuckin' humbug! And this has been a particularly trying year for me - personally and professionally. I have weathered the collapse of my marriage. I have witnessed incredible loss and heartache through my assignments with Hurricane Sandy and Sandy Hook Elementary. As Jackson Browne puts it, Doctor, my eyes have seen the heartache and the tears. Perhaps, I've seen too much. But, when I do feel this way, I'm always brought back to the other side of that coin - to the yin side of the yang. I have also seen the unconquerable human spirit, the will to survive against all odds. I have witnessed the humanity of man. And I've seen it overcome the horror of man, as well. The best in us was displayed far more often than the worst.

On a personal level, I had reaffirmed what I have always known: my family and friends are unshakable in their love and support of me. They are my rock, my salvation, my heart. And I have learned. Man, have I learned. All I've ever wanted was to be "bigger" tomorrow than I was today. It's what I strive for. And, as all of my dearest friends told me, that if I could only hold on, I would achieve that goal. They were right - I'm fucking HUGE. I am at the height of my powers because of all of this. I am confident in my direction and, most importantly, in my heart. And I am not afraid. Not anymore. Not of anything. Except, perhaps, the dentist.

I still didn't get a tree. But that's OK. I've never been much into all that show, anyway. I did string lights, though - white lights. Simple and clean. The way I like it. Pure, white, light. And I had the most wonderful dinner with my family last night. Unfortunately, it wasn't the Feast of the Seven Fishes which, as Sicilians, we ALWAYS celebrated as kids growing up. It was part of our Christmas traditions. But Stella's turning 89 and isn't physically capable of all that effort. My sister is not so inclined. So, we went to a friend's restaurant, a fellow Sicilian, for next best thing. We had a delicious dinner and we were TOGETHER. And it was wonderful. I'll miss dinner with my delightfully insane Hungarian in-laws. But I'll hold them in my heart. In the meantime, I think that I'll count my blessings - if I can - I have so many - rather than curse my misfortunes. I am home, warm, have my health, my family, my friends, my dear Red Cat, my writing, and most of my sanity. Yes, Margaret, it's been a good Christmas.

PEACE ON EARTH. GOOD WILL TO ALL MANKIND.


Monday, December 24, 2012

Today's MOMENT OF ZEN 12/24/12

Words and photo by F LoBuono

At this most critical time. At this most sacred time. In the true sense of the word sacred- in the realm beyond any religion. The message is as clear as it is simple as it is powerful:

PEACE ON EARTH. GOOD WILL TO ALL MANKIND.

Could it be more profound? But it will only work if you not only believe it, you live it as well . . .

I wish to all, life, love, and, above all, peace. And to all a Good Night!

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Today's MOMENT OF ZEN 12/23/12

Words and photo by F LoBuono

The debate rages on. As it should. The issue is not resolved. If you will allow this assault on Shakespeare, it's comes down to a matter of to have guns, or not to have guns. In light of the recent massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, the focus (too long missing, IMHO) is once again on our so-called rights as Americans to bear arms (The 2nd Amendment). I used the term so-called not as mockery of our rights as citizens but, rather, to call attention to the fact that the 2nd Amendment is certainly open to a broad interpretation.

With this in mind, those who favor gun ownership as a right for all Americans feel that if we leveled the playing field by arming responsible citizens, that tragedy may have been prevented, if not at least mitigated. For arguments sake, let's say these people are more guns. Those opposed fear having more guns on the street is like throwing gas on a raging fire. Let's say these people are no guns.

Now, you may ask "and where do you lie, Frankie"? Well, for me, if it were possible, I would have no guns. However, I believe that genie is out of the bottle and it's unrealistic to assume that guns can actually be eliminated from our culture, and, therefore, our society. So, we can begin with less guns and, hopefully, build from there. To get to a destination, you must begin from somewhere.

So, where do we begin? For me, it always begins in the mind. I ask, "what is the impetus behind the action". In this case, I feel like I know what it is: fear. People are living in fear - so much so that they feel the only solution is to arm themselves. But, then I ask, "why"? Why are people so fearful and, then, why do they feel that they must use a weapon as the means to conquer their fear? I keep coming back to the same answer; our culture has become one that worships violence as the ultimate answer to our most pressing needs. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but is not our society absolutely deluged with images that promote our heroes (both men and, now, women) as using violence as THEY means to their ends? Need I list the movies? Need I list the TV programs? Need I list the video games? Need I go on? It's as obvious as the freakin' huge Italian nose on my face - we have become desensitized to violence. Therefore, we don't see it for the horror that violence, in all it's forms, truly is. Fear rules the day.

So, how do we break this seemingly endless cycle? Well, it really comes down to fear. We must ask ourselves as a society, but, more importantly, as individuals, "what am I afraid of"? "Why am I afraid"? And, "why do I feel that a gun will alleviate that fear"? I have asked myself these questions and have MY answer: I am not afraid and REFUSE  to live in fear. I am defiant and part of that defiance is a pledge of non-violence, in ALL it's forms. I have nothing to hide. I have nothing of great value to steal. Therefore, I have nothing to fear. Without fear I have no need for a weapon. Besides, I have one; they're called my wits. Some would ask, "but what about your life? "They could take your life"! Yes, that's true. And I have no death wish. But, still, would that change anything? Really change anything? No. It would be my fate and I would not have lived in fear - ever. FDR said it best: We have nothing to fear but fear itself.

The statistics that I have read seem to reject the idea that gun ownership actually protects the individual that owns one or the home he wishes to protect. In fact, from what I have read, it increases the chances of that very weapon to be used against him! And, when you consider the chances that your home will actually be invaded (the chances are minuscule), is it worth the risk of keeping a loaded firearm in the house?  So, ultimately,what's the point?

Perhaps, a better idea may be to eliminate the fear in your life but removing as much violence from your lives as possible. And it's easier than you think. Don't play violent video games. Don't allow your children to play violent video games. Don't watch violent movies or TV shows. Don't allow your children to either. Stop glorifying those who use violence as a means to an end - any end! I've taken even great actors like Denzel Washington to task for taking on violent movie roles just because they can! At first, I was going to see Quentin Tarantino's new film, Django. I was told that it's violent but it's "fun". Well, it's not "fun" to me anymore. I won't be going. It's time to reject violence IN ALL IT'S FORMS.

I understand that this is a BIG issue that involves mental health as well. But part of addressing that mental health is the acknowledgement that we have become a violent society that breeds these type of calamities. We see evidence of the decay all too frequently. We can be part of the problem by increasing our level of violence (i.e. adding MORE guns to the mix). Or, we can be part of the solution but rejecting violence (and guns!). Besides, the answers are all around us - especially at this time of the year. I am not RELIGIOUS but I believe that I have always heard the message: THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE. Yes, my friends, only love can conquer hate. And that's only hippie drivel if you don't believe it. I (religious iconoclast that I proudly am). believe. I am not afraid. Will you join me?

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Today's MOMENT OF ZEN II 12/16/12

Words and photo by F loBuono

No matter what side of the gun control debate you may be on, we're all hurting and we're all angry. Most of us cannot fathom that such evil even exists in the world. But, obviously, it most certainly does. And it manifested itself in the form of one, seriously deranged 20 year-old young man in rural Connecticut. It's hard to wrap one's mind around the sheer horror of what happened there. What would be easy to do is to hate. We're mad and we want someone to pay. We wished that Adam Lanza had the balls to survive - so that we might not only understand why he committed such a heinous crime, but to make him pay for it as well. We would make him suffer as mightily as he has made others suffer. Yes, that would be so easy. But it would also be so wrong. First, no human being in their right mind could even conceive of perpetrating such an act. This was done by someone who had lost all touch with any type of human emotion - beyond pure, unadulterated hate. Second, if we hate the haters, are we any better than they are? If we yield to hate, does the evil win? Does spending that kind of energy, negative energy, really accomplish anything?

Now, I'm not talking about forgiveness. True, transcendent forgiveness is beyond my pay grade. Ultimate justice lies within someone else's (or somethings) district. What I am more interested in is forgetfulness. No, of course NOT for the victims. They should never and WILL never be forgotten. But, rather, the absence of even a mention of the evil that spawned this entire tragedy would be a better response. It WILL BE forgotten. It will not live, even in infamy. But try not to hate. If you hate, than hate wins. It cannot. It must not.

Today's MOMENT OF ZEN 12/16/12



I can't believe that I'm sitting here, writing THIS again. But I have to because the unthinkable has happened - again. A deranged person has used a gun to kill, maim, and destroy. WHY? WHY? WHY? We may never  know truly why. The perpetrator of this heinous act took the cowards way, as most of them do, and wasted himself after inflicting his unspeakable carnage. And we do need to know why. We need to know how and why this obviously deeply troubled young man came to this place of horror. We need to know how and why our mental health system has failed, once again, to protect us from the evil that lurks in men's hearts. But I do not want to focus of this subject for today's discussion. I'd rather focus on how and why, once again, someone turned to, and OBTAINED, weapons of mass destruction to achieve his demented goals.

Adam Lanza was 20 years old when something seriously snapped in his brain and he resorted to the most extreme violence imaginable to ease his own pain. Details are still emerging, but we do know this: he got his hands on some guns. They were legal guns. They were owned by his mother. And they were powerful guns. In, perhaps, the greatest bit of irony in this story, he took one of his mother's guns and shot her in the face. He then took two more guns, his mother's car, drove to the school where his mother was a teacher and preceded to brutally execute 26 more people, including 20 young children, before taking his own life. All the victims where shot with a high-powered rifle, multiple times and at close range.

Of course, the reaction was immediate and visceral. After the shock of what had really happened started to wear off, the debate began. People on both sides of the so-called gun debate started to fill the air defending their positions, me being one of the many. The pro-gun lobby, headed by the NRA (the National Rifle Association), started their spin immediately with their trite, inane, insane slogan, "guns don't kill people. People kill people. Really? Well, that PERSON sure didn't use a fucking butter knife to achieve his perverse goal - he used a fucking HIGH POWERED ASSAULT WEAPON - WHICH CAN BE LEGALLY PURCHASED IN THE US!! So, fuck you NRA!! One "pro-gun" friend even tried the equally inane, insane argument that maybe we should ban driving and flying because those things cause more deaths than gun violence! WTF? Forgive me for being so direct, but that's just fucking stupid. Deaths in cars and planes are ACCIDENTAL. Shooting someone to death is no fucking accident!!! GUNS ARE MADE TO KILL. They call upon the 2nd Amendment that protects the so-called right of Americans to bear arms, not REALLY knowing the true spirit of the law. They use fear as a tactic: what if someone breaks into your home and threatens you and your family. You have a right to defend yourself. Well, you most certainly do. However, what the NRA doesn't tell you is that the DOWNSIDE of keeping a gun in the house FAR outweighs the potential benefit. Every statistic that I could find shows that the chances of something bad happening with that gun (including it being used AGAINST you) are so much greater than any good.

Every industrialized nation in the world looks at us and our obsession with guns and violence and wonders what happened to the dream of America - a benevolent, peaceful America. They look at the number of people killed with guns in this country and are shocked! NONE of them, even those with strong hunting cultures, can match us for pure, unadulterated gun violence. Why? Simply put, because too many of worship guns and the violence that surrounds them.

The NRA is, hands down, the most powerful lobby in this country. Simply put, any politician who screws with their agenda is annihilated in a barrage of money given to their opponent by the NRA. They will slay anyone who opposes their goal of unfettered gun ownership. THEY HAVE BLOCKED EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF REASONABLE GUN LEGISLATION PUT BEFORE CONGRESS. And this will never change UNLESS WE MAKE IT CHANGE. And I'm not even asking people to give up their guns (although they SHOULD) totally. That would be unrealistic. Unfortunately, guns are a part of our history and culture - after all, we were created by violent revolution. But let's work to insure that the NRA does not dominate the scene as it has in the past. Show your righteous anger and indignation. Let your voices be heard. SCREAM if you have to  - before another child is blown away by fear and ignorance in the form of a gun.


Monday, December 10, 2012

Today's MOSTLY TRUE SHORT STORY: The Camel Run

THE CAMEL RUN
A True Story
11/24/12

The locals, and others in the know, call it The Camel Run.  And the reason that they call it this rather unusual name has nothing to do with actual dromedaries. It’s meant to be a warning: you’d better fuel up your camel before you hit that stretch of highway, ‘cause there ain’t nuthin’ out there!  Well, my brother Joe and I learned  all about that little bit of local wisdom only AFTER we found his truck out of fuel on, yes, you guessed it, THE CAMEL RUN!

My brother Joe on my left

My younger brother, who was only about twenty-one at the time, was living his childhood dream; owning and operating a tractor-trailer.  She was a beauty – a “cab-over”, bright red Peterbuilt, one of the most sought after models in the trucking business. He bought it used but it was in great shape and my brother was fanatical about keeping it that way. My father, who would do anything to see us get ahead, re-mortgaged our house to help him finance the purchase. And, man, my brother could really drive, too. It’s all he ever really wanted to do. I remember him as a kid, almost obsessed with caring for his Tonka Toy truck collection. So, while I went off to college, my little brother went to learn to drive THE BIG RIGS.  And, now, he even owned one.

Peterbuilt "Cab Over"

The problem was that, despite the fact that my brother was an incredible driver, he was still just 21 and a neophyte when it came to the “business” of trucking. Plus, the truck itself was highly technical and required specific and regular maintenance. All in all, it was a lot for a kid to handle and he struggled to make ends meet.  I’m two and half years older than Joe and was just starting to find out what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Despite my so-called higher education, Joe was way ahead of me in figuring out the direction his life would take. At least he knew what he wanted to do. He always did. I was still searching. At that time, I was teaching wherever I could find a long-term substitute gig. But the work was sporadic. This was one of those good thing/bad thing scenarios. It was bad because I was perpetually broke, but it was good because it gave me the time to explore life in a way that I had always wanted to. This meant that, when I had the time and Joe had a job that required him to travel almost anywhere in the country, we were going together. I couldn’t drive (no license) but I could help load and unload the truck and I’m damned good company, too! And believe me, since trucking can be a very lonely life, the importance of companionship cannot be over-emphasized.

It was Easter Time and schools were in recess. Therefore, I had time on my hands and Joe had a gig – a good gig: he was to pick up a load of industrial chemicals at Port Newark and deliver them to a warehouse just outside of Charleston, SC. He would then reload there for the return trip. Joe figured that, if all went well, we should be able to do it in a few days. Perfect. I had a teaching assignment coming up but that was still a week away. We packed a few things to last a couple of days and, with our old man seeing us off as he always did from the corner near our house at dawn, Joe and I took off together for another adventure. Just how much of an adventure we could not have imagined. . .

Charleston, S.C.

The trip down to South Carolina was uneventful. The weather was unusually cold, even for the South, but clear. The truck was humming along and we made great time. We put in 5-600 miles and decided to call it a day. We could make our delivery the next afternoon. As usual, we were broke as hell and had no money to stay in a hotel – even a cheap trucker’s one. We would spend the night in the parking lot of a truck stop. Joe’s truck was a “sleeper” and had a small bed located in the back of the cab. Joe was going to sleep there. It was only fair; he was doing all of the driving. Besides, it was HIS truck LOL. So, I had to sleep across the two front seats. The problem was that the seats were separated by this hump that, because of its “cab-over’ design, covered part of the engine. It was covered in carpet and acted as a sort of table. Unfortunately, it was also just slightly higher than the two seats. Therefore, I think that I have a permanent crook in my spine from sleeping over that hump!! My brother's little sleeping compartment that not only had a bed and a radio but could be zipped closed to seal it off from street lights and noise. Shortly after he said good night, Joe sealed himself in his little cocoon. I, on the other hand, was left to fend for myself. That damned truck stop had these huge lights illuminating the entire lot. I mean, we might as well have been back in fuckin’ Times Square! So, I took some of the clothes out of my bag and draped them over the truck’s sun visors so that, in hanging, they would block out at least some of those damned spot lights. It would have to do. I only needed a few hours of sleep, anyway. Besides, I could doze while Joe drove.



We both got a few hours of shut eye and raced the sunrise to see who would reach the highway first. Again, with the truck humming and the radio blasting, it was easy to feel good. It’s the upside of adventure. We accept the challenges for the moments of bliss, like this one.  Joe and I were out on the open road; free men on a freeway. We were making our own rules. In fact, there were NO rules. We were young and we were fearless. Perhaps, because we were so young, we could not know fear. Fearlessness lies within the realm of the youthful. Consequences are not contemplated. They are only learned through the prism of time and experience. We were wild stallions on a mission.

We reached our destination right on schedule and unloaded and reloaded without incident. Our plan was to start back, do our 5-600 miles, and sleep a few hours before making the final leg home. Joe consulted his maps (this was in “ancient” times before GPS and there was an art to reading a map) to plan our trip back from our current location outside Charleston. He also had to figure our fuel consumption and plan the appropriate fuel stops. After checking his fuel gauges (there were two, one for each 100 gallon tank), he felt like we had enough to get through the first leg of our trip before we’d have to stop to take on fuel (by the way, NEVER say “gas” to a trucker – they use FUEL, not GAS!). Joe fired that BIG TRUCK up and we were soon on the highway, racing with the wind again. 

After a short time, we hit what we came to know as The Camel Run. After passing what looked like a small trucker’s restaurant, we reached a stretch of road snaking through dense pine forest – and NOTHING ELSE! I mean there was no sign of life. No roads. No towns. No lights. No nuthin’!  Just pine trees. I thought to myself, I’d hate to get stuck here. If we did, they might not find our bones until summer.  But, there was no cause for concern. Right? I mean, we were humming right along. Then, suddenly, in the middle of this wasteland, the truck began to run really rough! The engine was struggling like it was starving for fuel. And, we were losing power, too. I saw the alarm on Joe’s face, which made me even more concerned.   Joe, what’s goin’ on? He answers, I’m not sure, but I think we may be out of fuel. I ask, what does the fuel gauge read? A little under a quarter of a tank, he replies. Then, the truck coughed one last time and died. Joe managed to limp her to the emergency shoulder where we could try and assess what was really wrong. After we pulled over, he kept trying to restart the engine. She cranked but wouldn’t fire. The injectors just seemed to not be getting any fuel. We just HAD to be out of fuel. In a fuel injected Diesel, that’s a very bad thing. Well, as I said, Joe was a great driver, but there’s more to successful trucking than just driving. The gauges must not have been calibrated properly. We were indeed out of fuel.   Joe knows now that he should have never cut the margin that fine. The level should not have been allowed to drop below a quarter of a tank. But, as I said, we were kids and we were learning – the hard way. 

So, now, two mostly clueless young guys from New Jersey were stuck in the middle of some godforsaken Southern wilderness. And it was cold. Really cold. Record cold. We were in South Carolina and it was only in the 20’s! Radio reports warned that record low temperatures would plague the area for the next few days. Great. We were catching every break - NOT. Breaker, Breaker 1-9, Joe announced into the CB radio, trying to raise someone who might rescue us. Remember, this was in the days before not only GPS, but cell phones, as well. “CB”, (Citizen Band) radios were used instead. Anyone have their ears on? Joe implored. Truckers had their own language and vernacular that they used to identify one another as “brother truckers”. Help was usually more forthcoming if it involved a “brother”. Still, we got no response. Again. Breaker, Breaker 1-9 (hailing CB Channel 19 – the emergency channel). Is anyone out there? Silence was, once again, the response. There was nothing else we could do except keep trying until we either ran out of battery or someone happened to drive by. Breaker, Breaker 1-9. Amazingly, no one drove by on that lonely stretch of highway- no one - on either side of the road. We tried the CB again. Breaker, Breaker 1-9. Miraculously, the radio finally crackled with a response. It was a State Trooper who happened to be monitoring Channel 19. Joe explained our predicament. The trooper replied that he would come by with his cruiser within the half-hour to see what he could do to help. What a relief that was! At least we wouldn’t freeze to death in the forest.

When he arrived, it was decided that the trooper would take Joe back to that little truck stop/restaurant that we had seen when we first entered The Camel Run. There were no repair shops that the trooper knew of in that area but, perhaps, one of the truckers at the restaurant might know of one. I would stay with the truck to guard it and its cargo. Great. I got to stay behind to guard the truck and its cargo. Guard ? With what? In the middle of nowhere? In the cold? But there was no alternative. I would do what I would have to do. I watched Joe and that trooper pull away and back down that long, dark highway. Man, that was a lonely feeling. The truck stop was some distance back. It would take Joe some time to get there, find help (if he could) and then drive back. And, remember, there were no cell phones. There was no way of communicating to know if he was successful or when he might return. I prepared myself for what was sure to be a long, cold wait.

I crawled into the sleeping compartment at the back of the cab. We needed to conserve as much battery power as possible, so I didn’t listen to the radio. But at least I could wrap myself in some blankets and make an attempt at least staying warm, if not keep from directly freezing to death. While I was gathering the blankets, I found a stack of pornographic magazines stashed away in one of the compartments. They must have been left there by the previous owner. Joe wasn’t much into that type of stuff. I suppose that, by today’s standards, they were pretty tame; full -figured, naked women – lots of tits and asses, but no really graphic sex. Now, one would think that this might provide a welcome diversion to the cold and the quiet. But what was I going to do with a dozen girlie magazines – by myself – in the middle of nowhere – in the cold? One of my least favorite feelings is to be “all revved up with no place to go”! Still, I suppose something to read is better than nothing to read. I wrapped myself in a blanket and started thumbing through the first magazine. Well, none of the magazines rivaled “The New Yorker” but they did help pass the time. But it was hard to escape the cold. Without being able to run the engine, I had no source of heat. And, with the temperature now in the upper 20’s, the cold was becoming problematic.  Damn Murphy’s Law – everything that could go wrong, WAS going wrong! But this is what “adventure” is all about. It’s about growing through learning to handle the unexpected. It’s about putting yourself in situations where you had better have your wits about you or the else the consequences could be dire. It’s about growing by burning first. That’s a term often used by athletes, particularly bodybuilders, to describe the process of muscle growth know as the pump, or being pumped. When you exert a particular muscle to fatigue, blood is rushed to the muscle to aid in its function. This causes the muscle to swell with blood, causing the pumped effect. And it feels great; almost euphoric. Some have even described it as orgasmic (it’s basically the same physiological process). It also means that, with the right nutrition, muscles will grow to compensate for all the exertion. But it’s painful to get there. You work the muscle until it’s fatigued and that’s painful. In fact, it produces a burning sensation in the muscle before you experience the euphoria of the pump. So, you see, you can’t grow without burning first.  It’s funny because, now, upon reflection, I can say that. However, at that time, I was not so profound. I really wasn’t “thinking” about it. I was living it. But, and I believe that this is key, I never lost faith. Somehow, I knew that Joe would find a way. Failure was not an option.

The irony of the situation was not lost on me and if anyone would have been observing the situation, they would have been aware of it, too. In my efforts to stay warm, I had covered myself in a mountain of blankets while all along thumbing through a bunch of magazines filled with naked women – alone! I’m not sure exactly how long I spent shivering in the back of that cab, distracted only by cheap girlie magazines. I do know that, despite the cold, I dozed off for a bit. It surely felt like a long time but I know that in situations like that, time becomes distorted. So, I’m sure that it may have been a couple of hours but it was probably not longer. Be that as it may, Joe did return – and with help! I heard the sound of that diesel before I saw it. I jumped out of the little nest of blankets I had created to see them pull up. Joe was in the passenger seat of an old, beat-up Mac truck.  I mean this truck (and apparently its driver, too) had been around. It was hard to find a part of the truck that didn’t have a dent in it. The windshield had a huge crack down its entire length. About the only thing that wasn’t dented or scratched was the gleaming hood ornament and the symbol for Mac trucks; a defiant bulldog! And she was running – running strong!!



It appeared that its driver was as well worn as the rig he piloted. Buddy was a local; born and bred in Charleston. He was of average size and build. I guess that he must have been in his forties. He was socializing at that little truck stop when Joe came in with our tale of woe. As it turned out, Buddy was very social! Joe would later tell me that Buddy did not hesitate to help a brother trucker in need and offered his rig and his service immediately. So, they piled into Buddy’s old Mac to rescue me and our rig. The plan was to hook us up to Buddy’s with a sturdy chain. Buddy would then pull us to a parking lot he knew of that was not too far away. The trailer would be safe there and Joe and Buddy could work on our engine problems. And those problems would turn out to be more severe than we could have known. It seems that running a large diesel engine like ours out of fuel is a lot more serious than if would have happened in a normal gasoline engine. The fuel injectors used in the diesel engine can be damaged, as ours would turn out to be.
We found this out, and more, from our host and savior, Buddy. He turned out to be a wealth of knowledge, not only about trucking and trucks, but about life itself. As we drove along, safe, with our rig in tow, Buddy told us (with a wry smile) why they called this stretch of road “The Camel Run”. He explained to us how difficult it might be to repair the damage we probably caused to the fuel injectors. And he offered to help us in any way that he could for as long as he could. He turned out to be remarkable in so many ways.

On initial impression, Buddy looked right out of Central Casting: send us a Southern redneck! Of course, he wore the prerequisite filthy baseball cap. He had a long, barely visible scar on one of his cheeks. He later explained to me that he received it in a knife fight with the jealous boyfriend of one of his flirtations. And he couldn’t bring himself to call The War Between The States, the Civil War. This flew in the face of Buddy’s American history. Instead, he insisted on calling it what he believed to be a more accurate title: The War of Northern Aggression! But this was all superficial. Buddy was no dummy. And he was no narrow-minded redneck either. He was educated as an engineer at The Citadel. He would gladly debate you as to why he called the Civil War “The War of Northern Aggression”. And he could argue his points effectively.  He was also kind, caring, and open minded. He invited us to stay at his home (a house trailer, of course LOL!) where he lived on the outskirts of Charleston with his girlfriend (originally from Long Island) while we got the truck straightened out. He kept surprising us with his selfless generosity. At one point, he even brought us to a grove of bamboo where he cut a length of it to make a “bong” for us! He told us in his thick as molasses Southern drawl to, fill that bamboo with some cool wine, the bowl with some good smoke, and draw it through that wine and hold it deep in your lungs for a few seconds. He closed his eyes for a moment and held his breath. Then he exhaled and opened his eyes, exclaiming, man, that’s gooood! Buddy was certainly NOT the “good ol’ boy, Southern redneck” we were told we should fear if we traveled to the South. And he showed us the wonderful city of Charleston as only a native could. I think he got as much of kick out of The New Yawkas (as he called us, trying to mimic our accents) as we did out of him.

The reason we had time for these things was that the truck was proving more difficult to repair than we could have even imagined and we were stuck in Charleston. Buddy and Joe spent hours trying to re-prime the fuel injectors so that the engine would fire again. Of course, as I mentioned previously, we were broke and, so, with Buddy’s help, we were trying to accomplish our task without the costly assistance of a real diesel mechanic.  But it was proving to be too difficult. Hours turned into days and still the truck was not running. I had to find a way to get back. Joe could stay with the truck until it was fixed but my teaching assignment was set to begin in a couple of days.  So, a course of action was decided (based on our limited finances, of course): Buddy and Joe would drive me to the nearest gas station where I would try to hook up with someone driving north.  They would stay with me while I waited for a car to pull up to the pumps. If the car had NY or NY license plates, I would approach them and ask for a ride back to NJ. Business at the pumps was not exactly brisk and, as it had been from the beginning of this trip, my luck remained lousy. The few cars that did stop with the right plates were all going in the wrong direction!  This went on for a couple of hours. Finally, I told Buddy and Joe that it was OK for them to leave. They really couldn’t help me at that point. It was just a matter of luck and persistence before I would inevitably catch a ride. I told them it’s part of the adventure. I just wished that I meant it a bit more – I was sorry to see them leave. I wished Joe luck, thanked Buddy from the bottom of my heart, we hugged, and off they went. I was alone once again.

I continued my “gas pump ritual” for the entire night –again, with no luck. It was cold, dark, and lonely. Yes, sometimes, adventures can get pretty miserable. And this one was getting there.  Damn, it was cold! Hey, folks, I noticed your plates. If you’re heading back home, I could sure use a ride. Sorry, dude. We’re heading to Florida for semester break was the usual response. In fact, it was so frequent that I actually contemplated changing my plans and heading SOUTH! But, being the responsible idiot that I am, I decided to stick with the original plan and hope for a ride north. Finally, just before dawn, I noticed a 1957 black Chevy van with Pennsylvania plates pull up for gas. The two passengers in the van looked like “yuppie” college kids. But the driver was older, had long hair, and was missing a tooth. In other words, he was my kinda’ guy! And, besides, Pennsylvania may not be NY or NJ but it sure is a hell of a lot closer to home than South Carolina is. What could I lose? Hey, buddy, would you be heading north, I pleaded. I am, was his simple reply. Got room for one more? Sure. Hop in. I thought that my face might crack from the smile that broke over it. After he finished fueling up, I hopped in the back of that van so fast I’m sure that I created some type of vacuum!

My host turned out to be a signal engineer for the Pennsylvania Railroad and the back of his van reflected that profession. It was filled with the tools of his trade. But it also had a mattress on the floor to rest on and, damn, it was warm! He had been in Florida on vacation and had picked up two college kids on their way back to school to help him with the driving. It turns out they were from Tenafly, NJ but were heading back to school in Pa. My host seemed not to be too crazy about them and, so, used them to do virtually all of the driving. I rode with him in the back of the van with him while the two college kids split time at the wheel. I remember that at one point, the sunrise was breaking and a golden beam shown through the back windows of the van, illuminating us in bright light and warming the whole compartment. My host then produced a joint and a guitar. He lit the joint, passed it to me and began a tune on his guitar: Old man, take a look at my life. I’m a lot like you were, he sang. I don’t think that I ever heard a sweeter sound in my life. The sun mixed with the smoke from the joint, filing the van with a feeling of well being that I had not experienced for days. In fact, I have seldom had that same sense of peace before or since. It was a seminal moment. And even though I have forgotten my host’s name, I will never forget his face, his kindness, or that moment. Whenever I hear Neil Young sing that song, I am transported instantly to that time and place.



My host planned to take I-95 until Fredericksburg, Va. and then head from there to Harrisburg, his ultimate destination. I figured that my chances would be better getting to NY/NJ if I stayed along the I-95 corridor. So, I asked him for one more kindness and to drop me off at a truck stop in Fredericksburg.  From there I hoped to offer my service loading or unloading a truck in exchange for a ride back to NYC. He obliged, I thanked him, and I never saw him again. It was dusk now and I started doing my “thing”. There seemed to be plenty of trucks around, so, I hoped, it wouldn’t be too difficult to hitch a ride. Well, as it had been for the whole damned trip, if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have NO luck. It seemed that virtually all the trucks were heading south! I couldn’t buy a break. I must have approached a dozen trucks. Nothing. One redneck (yes, despite Buddy, some Southerners do fit that description!) even had the balls to respond to my question about heading north with, no, I’m not and I wouldn’t take your kind anyway. WTF?! I suppose that he was referring to my long hair when he said “your kind”. I told him that he could drive with anyone he wanted, but he could spare me his bullshit!

After trying unsuccessfully for nearly an hour, I determined that I was not going to spend the greater part of another night begging for another ride! I had reached my breaking point and I was anxious to finally get home. I had some money left. If I remember correctly, it was about $30. I found out that there was a bus station about a mile from where I was and that there was a bus that could take from there to D.C. From D.C., if my estimates were correct, I would have just enough money left to take a Trailways bus to NY. I started walking to the bus station. Checking the time, I knew that I had to hustle if I was going to make that bus. Walking became running. Breathless, I just made it in time to catch the last bus.  At last, I could finally sit for the trip from Fredericksburg to D.C. and then, hopefully – finally – home.

By the time I had reached D.C. it was already dark and I had miles to go before I could really sleep. The ride to NYC would take about 4 hours, meaning that I would arrive in NY sometime well after midnight. Then, I would still have to get from NY to my apartment in NJ. And I didn’t think that I would have enough money to take a bus home much less a taxi. I would have just about enough to make one last phone call (remember, no cell phones!) and I would use that to call in a favor from a friend. So, I bought my ticket and boarded the bus for the long ride up I-95. It was pitch dark and I couldn’t see much from the window of the bus but that was OK. I was exhausted and I had seen plenty already. What should have been a 3 day trip turned into nearly a week. And I still wasn’t home yet! I drifted in and out of a light sleep, reflecting on all that I had experienced. I wondered what Joe was doing with Buddy and what they would do in the morning to finally get that truck running. I thought about the ‘57 black Chevy van and the wonderful moments I had in its belly. I considered how many miles I had come and how many more I had to go. I had met every challenge, was enriched by the experience of it and by the people I met along the way. I had done my “job”.

The GWB
I arrived at the uptown Port Authority Bus Terminal sometime around 1 a.m. I used my last bit of change to call a friend who owed me a favor (I know sounds a little like “The Godfather”) for a ride. In the first bit of good fortune I had in a week, my friend was home, answered the phone, and (reluctantly) agreed to return the favor and pick me up at the bus terminal. By the time he collected me up and deposited me at my apartment it was about 3 o’clock in the morning. I had been on the road, literally, for over 36 hours.  I melted into my bed and slept the entire next day.

Joe and Buddy managed to get the truck running after I made it home and Joe joined me shortly thereafter. We kept in touch with Buddy and his girlfriend for a few years but then we lost touch. Neither one of us have heard from him in a long, long time. I never knew what happened to the railroad man in that ’57 Chevy. Joe made a go of it with that Big Truck for a few more years and we had many more (mis?) adventures together. But the care, storage, and maintenance of the truck just got to be too much and Joe had to sell her. He still drives trucks, but those of a large food company now. No, the “Pete’s” gone, too. They are all gone, but not forgotten. They, like The Camel Run, now live in my memory.