Purple Pinecones

 Purple Pinecones

By: Javan Bair

            There I stood a mere Private in the United States Army, being yelled at about a new tattoo that had mysteriously appeared on my leg, sometime during a period of summer leave. The person yelling at me went by the name of Staff Sergeant Russo. And Staff Sergeant Russo was the same individual, who was responsible to ensure that I maintained and exercised the upmost professionalism and military discipline at all times. So, you can probably imagine his dismay as his soldier showed up to a morning PT formation with a brand new, quite unusual, and most certainly permanent tattoo on his leg for everyone to see. He was unhappy to say the least, and he voiced his thoughts to me in an adequate fashion. I mean, honestly there was a lot to be upset about. First off, I got the tattoo about 1,500 miles away from where I was supposed to be on leave, it was (and still is) a matching tattoo with another person, and most importantly it is a tattoo of a purple pinecone. Yes, you read that correctly, I have a tattoo of a purple pinecone. So, I stood there and took my ear full (as privates do), and upon being asked by Russo “What in the hell does that stupid tattoo mean?” I responded by saying, “It’s just a purple pinecone, Sergeant.”

            Inside of a tattoo shop in Oceanside, California, my best friend Jace and I were drunkenly explaining to the confused tattoo artist as to why two grown men were in his place of business asking him to permanently mark their bodies with a pair of matching purple pinecones. As we rambled on and on about how long we had been friends and how much we wanted these tattoos, it turns out that the only explanation that that gentleman was looking for was cash. Because two hours and several hundred dollars later, Jace and I walked out of that shop with bright purple homages to the pine tree on our left thighs. As we both realized the unusual nature of these tattoos, we understood the meanings and motives would be heavily analyzed by all of our other friends and our families. So, I looked over at Jace and asked, “What are we going to say about these?”

            “It’s just a purple pinecone? What does that even mean? Is that the supposed to suffice as some kind of an answer? What kind of reputable tattoo shop would do such a stupid thing?” These are the types of questions that Staff Sergeant Russo was looking for the answers to but because of a promise made to my best friend years prior, I just kept responding with “It’s just a purple pinecone, Sergeant.” Eventually, Russo stopped with the third degree, made peace with the fact the pinecone wasn’t going anywhere, and let me go on my merry little way. What he didn’t understand, was I had told him the truth every time he asked me what the tattoo meant.

            Jace and I were eighteen years old, sitting on the side of the road waiting for our friend to give us a ride home. As we sat there waiting, both of us engaged in the kind of nonsensical conversation one can only have with their best friend, it happened. From the mighty tree above, a purple pinecone fell between the two of us. We remarked at how neither of us had ever seen a purple pinecone before, and how interesting of an occurrence this was. So, naturally we kept talking about it, long after our friend Tyler had already picked us up. So, when he finally (and rightfully) asked his friends why they were talking about a purple pinecone; for reasons I cannot explain to you, Jace and I decided to keep the purple pinecone and the wonderment of it’s unveiling, a secret from Tyler. This was nothing but a trivial effort to slightly frustrate a friend of ours. But as he grew more and more frustrated at the lack of an explanation he was receiving for the two of us, he kept digging deeper and deeper to discover what significance a purple pinecone could possibly hold for Jace and I. And even though we kept true to our vow of secrecy, we never lied when we told him repeatedly, “It’s just a purple pinecone, Tyler.”  

            “I am not asking you. I’m telling you. I need you to slap me in the goddamn face before we go up there or I will not be able to do this.” Jace said this to me as we were being ushered up to the front of the church, where in a few moments he would be delivering a eulogy for his older brother, Zachary. Zachary was taken away swiftly and without notice, and the grief I witnessed his younger brother go through while trying to cope with this insurmountable loss, was like nothing else I had ever seen before. So, when Jace asked me to stand by his side as he did one of the hardest things he’s ever done, I obliged. And if he needed a slap to the face to be able to stand in front of what seemed like a crowd of thousands, and read the words he had written for his brother, then who in the hell was I to deny him such a  wholehearted request? His father introduced Jace and I to the congregation of people and told them all that Jace had prepared a statement for his brother. We both stood to our feet and took a deep breath. I grabbed his right shoulder, and with my right hand I struck his left cheek just about as hard as I could. The crack of the slap echoed through that church until we reached the podium and Jace began to speak.

            While the tattoo was absolutely a derivative of our alcohol consumption that day, it was however not the brainchild of our drunken spontaneity or the result in a lapse of judgement. It was absolutely a planned event. It just so happens that Henry Mckenna helped us pull the trigger and just do the damn thing. There was and continues to be a level of mystery and frustration that exists around the purple pinecone tattoos. People seem to have an incredibly difficult time grasping that the tattoo is not nearly as meaningful as they try to make it out to be. On the other hand, it does require some form ideological or sentimental motivation to go through the purely unique experience of having a cluster of needles tear your skin apart at a rate of 3,000 punctures per minute.   

            When shit hits the fan and your life is utterly torn to shreds, people seem to comfort you with words. And even as some of the words are received and their sentiment of love and positivity are understood, sometimes they do little to ease the gaping wound that is in your soul. Sometimes, it is just the simple act of someone being with you and nothing more. They don’t try to rebuild you, as the pieces of what you once were, are now scattered across the floor. Instead, they just make sure you don’t lose track of the good pieces while you reconstruct yourself. They provide solidarity in the form of just being present. That is what Jace did for me when we were young. Long before the passing of his brother, long before the slap heard ‘round the church, long before the tattoos had meaning, Jace was there for me as my pieces were scattered. 

            “Blood is thicker than water.” Everyone has heard that expression, and most have mutilated the meaning over time. The real saying is “the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” What that means is that the relationships you make in this life and the ones you choose to keep in your inner circle  are the ones of the upmost importance. If you’re looking for a tattoo with meaning, look no further than the inside of my left forearm. 

            “Bair, I just simply don’t understand you.” My commander said that to me, one morning as he saw the buttstock of my rifle, which was labeled as “the property of: Purple Pinecone Bair”. Our unit armorer, who was also my next-door neighbor in the barracks, thought that my tattoo was something extraordinary and he had decided that it would become part of my title. And he was not the only one. At this point, the tattoo had gained a good amount of notoriety, infamy, and popularity amongst the ranks of us lower enlisted soldiers. Some saw it is as downright hilarious, some saw it as a way of “sticking it to the establishment”, and others shared the sentiment as my commander. Regardless, the purple pinecone had become more than just a physical part of who I was.   

            There is no ambiguity, yet there is still confusion. There is no grey area, yet the meaning seems lost in the fog of bewilderment. The pinecones exist, endure, and reciprocate exactly as they were intended, and that is beautiful. Do not become so immersed in the search for meaning that you ignore the blatant proof in front of your eyes. The meaning may not exist within the tangible ink stains of this paper or even between the lines of this text. But I can assure you, that I have never lied to you as I have said time and time again “It’s just a purple pinecone.”

The Big SAD

 The Big SAD 

By: Javan Bair

That bastard Benjamin Franklin robs us of our precious sunlight once a year, every year. I actually have no idea if Benjamin Franklin invented daylight savings, I learned that from the movie National Treasure like fifteen years ago. But Nicholas Cage is a reliable source. Right? Whether or not Benjamin Franklin did take a break from being one of the Founding Fathers of the United States, being a diplomat, posing for his portrait on the one-hundred dollar bill, and flying kites in lightning storms to develop daylight savings is beside the point. Because that time has come once again. And I speak for exclusively for myself, but I absolutely dread this time of year. I always encounter this overwhelming feeling of persistent sadness.

For most of my life, I thought this was an uncommon feeling. But then I learned about the big SAD. Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), also known as Seasonal Depression. And there is a slew of reasons that the real spooky season begins right after Halloween for most people.  

According to the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), “Millions of American adults may suffer from SAD, although many may not know they have the condition.” According to the research completed by NIMH, reasons for experiencing these seasonal symptoms may include: a lack of sunlight, a correlated lack of vitamin-D, isolation due to weather, and the exacerbation of pre-existing mental health conditions. And that last one is a straight up fucking B-I-N-G-O for me.  

My anxieties run rampant during this time of year. 

In an effort to be as honest and transparent as possible, I'll admit that during this time of year my anxiety manifests in persistent feelings of loss (past and potential) and worthlessness. I always tend to over analyze my current position in life. Which is also not uncommon. We all feel like burnouts sometimes. We all feel lost. We all feel displaced. We all feel as though our progress is simply not enough. And I find this to be so bizarre. After all, this a common on trope in everyone’s human experience. But the other commonality we all share is a trouble in expressing these thoughts of inadequacy, hopelessness, and uncertainty. It’s really fucking hard to open up.

That’s why I do this. My brain is much better connected to my hands than it is to my mouth. I can express my thoughts and emotions on paper so much better than I can when I try to use the old face hole. But there is profound impact in sharing your thoughts out loud. I implore anyone experiencing depression, seasonal or otherwise, to talk to someone. Preferably a professional. But there’s also no harm in commiserating with the homies. Start local. Be open with your friends. You may find that your struggle is not so singular. 

But here I am, face to face with all my seasonal demons once again. And they are really trying to fuck with me this year. So, I am going to lean into the emotions they invoke. Before I go further, I am not proposing this as a method of coping or healing for anyone else. But, I have spent at least the last decades worth of winters doing all I can to escape the way I feel. But now I want to feel every last fucking bit of what I am afraid of. I am embracing the kind of pain that sits in the gut pocket of our soul and strips us of the very air we need to breath. I want to learn from this pain rather than continually trying to silence it. I find myself beginning to surrender to the consequences of the decisions I have made and others have made around me. I am also diving deeper into the feelings of happiness that make that same part of my soul swell with excitement. I am finding that it is this duality that makes our consciousness worth possessing.  

As far as the feelings of being lost or not being where I should be in life, I’ll be taking a mantra from my friend Carlin. The other day we were talking and I shared with him the way I have been feeling. He not only shared the same experience, but he also told me something that will resonate with me for a long time. “This is it… For right now.” Understand where you are. Appreciate where you are. And continue to grow from this position.   

We all have a tendency to become downtrodden during this time of year. But I hope that this short piece can serve as a reminder that none of us our alone. If you read this and it resonated with you, let’s talk about in the comments.

The big SAD is here. We can all band together and blame Benjamin Franklin based off of one obscure scene from a dated Disney movie or we can act as a support system for another through the cold and dreary foreseeable future. I prefer the latter.

P.S.

Here's an article about Benjamin Franklin’s involvement in day light savings:

https://spectrumlocalnews.com/nc/charlotte/weather/2021/02/24/why-daylight-saving-time-

Here's the article I sourced from the National Institute of Mental Health. It has a lot of great information beyond what I used it for:

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/seasonal-affective-disorder

 

 

 The Billy Madison Experience  

By: Javan Bair

When I decided to use my GI Bill benefits and go to college instead of reenlisting for another four years, my Army leadership was kind and reassuring. They were kind enough to remind me that at twenty-six years old, I was eight years, nearly an entire decade more senior than the average college freshman. And they reassured me that due to my age and military background, I would likely fail college. There was no way I could assimilate into the fabled landscape of higher education—one comprised of progressive ideologies and kindness. I was too old of a dog to learn new tricks. Who did I think I was? Billy Madison?

            Billy Madison is a reference to the classic Adam Sandler film. Madison, a grown man, must complete grades K 12 as he navigates various age gaps and complexities he encounters along the way.   

            I was out of touch with my classmates during my first two years at CU Denver. Our age difference was evident in appearance and behavior. But as I progressed through my program and reached my 3000-4000 level courses, I began to feel more comfortable. Not only were the classes more stimulating, and the students were a little closer to my age, but I had allowed myself to become fully immersed in the experience of being a student. I realized that everyone on campus, despite their age or prior experience, is here to gain an education.

            The significant part about having a Billy Madison-inspired student veteran experience at CU Denver is that I was not alone. The CU Denver campus is commuter based, meaning that veterans who settled anywhere near the Denver area can attend due to the flexible nature of the class schedules. I have met a decent number of veterans on campus that are succeeding in college because they have also embraced this new chapter in their lives.

Carlin Page, a junior at CU Denver, explained his post-military college experience and outlook on this new portion of his life. “Growing up, going to school was a chore. But coming back to school as a non-traditional student, I have a different outlook. I think of everything I can accomplish if I pay attention for a couple of hours a day. Knowledge is freedom.”

So, if you are a student veteran, nervous about succeeding in college, you can either take to heart the kind and reassuring sentiments that your leadership gave to you on your way out or can go back to school, back to school and prove to Uncle Sam that you are not a fool. With enough effort, you can become the Miles Davis of undergraduate programs if you choose.

             And if my Billy Madison references are coming across as a bit dated, that’s probably because I’m nearly an entire decade older than the average college student. 

The Zeitgeist Diaries Pt. 2 - Redundancy  

By: Javan Bair 

It wouldn’t be a used truck dealership if there weren’t a steel sign with the company logo in front of the office. In big, brushed metal letters fixed inside of a banner, the company name TTI Trucks is the very first thing you see when you walk inside.  

Like most companies, we place our logo anywhere and everywhere we possibly can. The logo is everywhere you look. Our hats, t-shirts, license plates, trucks, and coffee cups. Everything has a logo on it. For Christ’s sake, I can’t tell you how many times I have been cut off by a truck with TTI mudflaps on my way to work.

So after about a month of working there and seeing this logo on every square foot of my workspace, I realized something. I have no clue what the “TTI” in “TTI Trucks” stands for. I ask Mike what it means, and he tells me he has no clue. He has worked here for five years, and that strikes me as odd. So, I ask around, and no one seems to know. Until I asked Angie, the girl who did our payroll, for a document with our entire company name printed.

And there it was. In all of its repetitive glory, “Turner Trucks Incorporated Trucks.” “Wow. The word “trucks” is in our company name twice. Let there be no confusion that we sell trucks and truck parts. The redundancy makes it undoubtedly funny. (Redundancy: the inclusion of extra components which are not strictly necessary to functioning in case of failure in other components.) The overuse of the word trucks in the company is accurately redundant as it neither aids nor diminishes anything from a money-making standpoint. But it did make for a name that rolls off the tongue nicely. Nicely enough for me to begin answering the phone at the parts desk like “Turner Trucks Incorporated Trucks. This is Trucks. How can I help you find Trucks?”  

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We even had cloth masks made with our secretly redundant logos on them. I’m not sure why we had those made. We wore them one time. Quite literally one time that I can remember. And you would have thought that some of my coworkers were channeling the spirit of Rosa Parks, the way they were fiercely preaching about overcoming oppression and the need for more civil liberties and rights. But unlike Rosa Parks, who was fighting for freedom while living through the brutal realities of racism and forced segregation. These were grown-ass, blue-collar men falling to pieces behind a small piece of cloth.

I am not saying there is no validity to the argument over the infringement of masks on the principles of freedom. But at the time, placing the fabric on our mouths to potentially stop old people from dying seemed quite minimal compared to the state of other things in America. We had the two oldest and least qualified potential candidates vying for the most important job in the world during a key moment in our nation’s history. The streets of most major cities were still riddled with palpable tensions between citizens and police officers. Protests were erupting everywhere, all the time, and about anything. Violent crime had risen significantly since the pandemic began. Drug overdoses were skyrocketing. The masks just seemed a bit redundant in comparison. And despite everything that happened, the “goddamn, pussy, libtard, queer masks” remained a central point of contention.

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If I had to give an estimate, I would say that Gus weighed approximately seven-thousand pounds. He was a morbidly obese cokehead, which I thought was impossible before meeting him. He was a co-worker of mine during this period. He sold used parts at the counter next to Mike. And this dude got COVID so fucking bad that it nearly killed him. He miraculously pulled through and survived. He will be on oxygen for the rest of his life, but that’s incredible considering a virus that targets the cardiovascular system specifically was thwarted by a heart filled to the brim with cholesterol from numerous years of deep-fried tamales and eight balls. Oh, and all the doctors and medicine, which he thinks are liberal propaganda.

He was a full-blown disciple of Qanon, Breitbart, Infowars, and any other conspiracy-driven narrative. He was, therefore, not allowed to admit that COVID was real even after it put him in the hospital for a complete month. He took one round of the vaccine and then read an article that Bill Gates was using it to put microchips inside of people and just never went back for a second dose. We would argue incessantly about politics and COVID over the soft whispering sound from his oxygen tank as it released pressure. That little *psst* sound would serve as a constant reminder that he really did have COVID and it could potentially be life-threatening to high-risk (the old and severely out of shape). If I ever brought this up to him, I was given the same response. “Fuck you” *psst* “You stupid ass” *psst* “Democrat!” *psst* It was like arguing with a walkie-talkie. He would then angrily grab his little oxygen tank and waddle away until I could no longer hear the faint sound of me winning another argument. *psst*    

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All at once, in a large sweeping fashion. Everyone and their grandmothers got COVID at TTI. After Gus, the dominos just continued to fall. Somehow, during my part-time hours spent at work, I never contracted COVID.   

It was just me and another guy, Thomas, who didn’t get COVID. I assume the variants that I was exposed to only affected full-time employees, and Thomas did not get it because he works alone in the far corner of our lot in the back of an old FED Ex truck. But that is a whole different story for a whole different time.

For weeks I would come into work, and there would be three people out of the usual thirty working there. But business did not slow down. Not for one second. I have never been so happy to be a part-time employee anywhere in my life. There would be a sea of angry customers wondering where their truck parts were, and I would just look at the clock and realize, “Oh, look at that! Time for class!” And I would leave and go to school, where I would wear one of the custom cloth TTI masks and spend the rest of my afternoon on what felt like the other side of the planet.  

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I stand by my defense of college. It is not (usually) a socialist brainwashing seminar like Fox News and The Daily Wire would like you to believe. In fact, all those anchors and reporters that consistently shit on institutions of higher education all went to one. They wouldn’t have their jobs if they didn’t. When Ben Shapiro drones on about the alleged brainwashing occurring at colleges across the nation, never forget that he himself is a graduate of Harvard and UCLA. However, there are times that colleges live up to the types of stereotypes that give reporters like Tucker Carlson wet dreams. This was never more evident than when classes were reopened in the fall of 2020.

CU reopened its doors with a no negotiation, one-hundred percent mask mandate, and a very limited number of in-person courses.  

The mandate itself was little to no issue to me. Much like the escape from the mundane nature of the pandemic that I was receiving by working at TTI, the school re-opening served as a similar reminder of regular life. So, if all I had to do was wear a mask to attend classes, then so be it.  

But Jesus H Christ did these young students who had never had any taste of power and got totally shitfaced on the role of enforcing the mandates on others who did not comply. And, of course they did. Most of these young people were consuming media that reinforced the idea that those unwilling to comply with mask mandates were synonymous with the mob of Qanon dipshits trying to rip down 5G towers. While it is true that those people do often stay in the same camp, they don’t usually share the same tent. These misguided liberal children of conservative parents thought they were playing an important role in saving humanity while pissing their Dads off. It was a perfect situation for misguided post-teenage angst. Unfortunately for them, they were just as annoying and as pedantic as the anti-maskers screaming about their religious and constitutional rights to abstain from masks. As they attempted to mock and berate their right-wing opponents, they became the very cannon fodder needed to fill the b roll footage spots on Fox News. The pro-mask policing student bodies on campuses all over the nation were just as terrible as the deranged alt-right religious fanatic shouting at members of their town hall representatives about their local mask mandates. “You cannot force me to cover my mouth. God intended our mouths to be free from sinful oppression. God gave me this hole to breathe from. God gave me this hole, and you cannot control it! That’s God’s Hole!”  That’s not a direct quote, but we’ve all seen the videos at this point, and I'm not that far off.

Admittedly though, the return to in-person classes felt somber. Most of the campus was closed, aside from a couple of different buildings. Sure we had human contact in the realm of education once more, but this felt like human contact Lite. Sure, being around the presence of enough masked faces could make you feel alive again, but it’s just not the same as the full-strength stuff. No one spoke to anyone else in the halls or classrooms. It was just bleak. Everything felt gray. If it weren’t for the complete and total abandonment of the mask mandates at TTI, I probably would have been begging strangers to cough into my open mouth so I could feel alive again.

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“The masks are an infringement on my fucking rights!” I was often yelled at by coworkers that looked like deer in the headlights if you mentioned the Patriot Act. 

“The masks are not a fucking option! If you don’t comply, you are murdering people!” I would often hear similar sentiments being screamed by students who were ironically obsessed with preserving our democracy.

The argument about masks has never been over freedom v. oppression. It has always been about ability v. regulation. And that is the real degree of freedom that we have in this country. We do not, nor have we ever lived in a place with true freedom or unlimited liberties. In America, you have the ability to do what you want until it no longer adheres to an existing regulation. No matter where your allegiance was sworn at this time, you were still not allowed to enter a restaurant and eat food without a mask on. Stop pretending that you are somehow living in a free country. That is a fever dream. We live and operate according to the freedoms allocated to us.

And if I have to wear a mask to go to a brewery and sit inside like a civilized human instead of sitting at a picnic table in the middle of a closed-down street in December like some kind of side character in Grand Theft Auto, then so be it.

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Much like the name Turner Trucks Inc. Trucks, there is a comically valuable level of redundancy in the arguments presented in this piece. The battle that was waged between the hardcore pro and anti-maskers was relevant in terms of their place in time but absolutely fucking useless in terms of assisting our country as it navigated a pandemic. These two groups of people made a massively absurd amount of noise, but they achieved nothing. They were extra components unnecessary to the functionality of our nation. These folks were merely cheerleaders for ideals that were not even their own.  

And at the end of it, both approaches appeared useless. Shortly after everyone at TTI contracted COVID, CU Denver canceled all classes for the next semester and a half because many of our masked student population had also gotten COVID. Looking back, is it fair to admit we had no fucking idea how to resolve the pandemic? It seems that we were simply adding more and more redundant parts to the machine rather than addressing the central cause of all of our problems, an already broken two-party system.  

***Pt. 3 Coming Next Week***

 

 

 The Zeitgeist Diaries Pt. 1

By: Javan Bair

Somehow, I had managed to feel even more trapped in the day to day grind than I did before the pandemic began. The two major time consumers in my life, work and school had become constant fixtures in my home. MY desk loomed in my bedroom as if to remind me that even in the imminent fall of the world, I was still merely a cog in a profit-driven machine.

A significant number of people loved working from home during the pandemic. Many of them are still doing it to this day. At first, I have to admit that I loved working from home. It was a dream come true to hang out in sweatpants and smoke weed with my dog while pretending my job still had meaning.

But countless hours spent stoned and alone had finally lost their luster, and I decided I needed some kind of alteration in my life’s direction.

I switched all my classes to CU Denver and moved in with a couple of friends that needed a roommate. They had an apartment that was “basically in Denver.” And for the price in rent, I couldn’t believe how affordable this apartment was in the notoriously expensive and saturated Denver market. 

I quickly found out that I was not “basically in Denver. I was in Thornton, which is fine if you are searching for an alternative to everything that makes Denver, Denver. Where Denver is contemporary and creative, Thornton is suburban and purposefully ordinary. The only thing both areas have in common is an absurd number of homeless people.

Classes were supposed to resume in person a couple of days after I moved up there. But COVID had other plans, and classes were once again relegated to zoom meetings and Microsoft office meeting rooms. I was trapped again. The world had briefly reopened, and then the omicron variant came in like Dikembe Mutombo and swatted all our hopes and dream of normalcy into the trashcan. And taking the 20-minute drive from Thornton to downtown was to no avail. Aside from the occasional protest, Denver had very little excitement at the time. Everything was either closed, or you sat outside on picnic tables outside of a microbrewery and drank beer in the frigid cold. I was drinking at one of these urban winter survival courses once and made direct eye contact with a homeless person doing the same thing I was. Except, he was doing it for far less money. The pandemic was nonsensical, monotonous, and downright arduous unless you were homeless. The pandemic was like a never-ending summer camp for them.

Because I hadn’t yet given up on myself enough to forgo my worldly possessions and join the Forever Camp on Colfax Ave. And I couldn’t afford to move out of Thornton, so I was forced to resume our regularly scheduled programming. I was back to smoking weed, hanging out with the dog, doing homework, and working in the form of sending meaningless emails to coworkers day in and day out. New location. Same directionless feeling. 

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My roommate Mike still worked a regular job. He got up at 7:00 every morning and came home at 6:00, a ritual beginning to feel foreign to me. Sure, he still came home with the glaze of the workingman’s dread over his eyes. He would openly vocalize how much he hates work and his co-workers. But I was jealous of him. He was leaving the house every day and somewhat living with some sense of normalcy.  

He worked as the manager of a medium-duty truck salvage yard/dealership in Denver called TTI Trucks. If the term “medium-duty truck salvage yard and dealership” sounds sketchy, that’s because it is. The essential business model of TTI Trucks is to purchase used box trucks at auction and either sell them back to the general public if they run or strip them for parts that they sell back to the general public if they don’t run. It’s kind of like recycling, except more dangerous. These aren’t plastic bags being turned into flimsier bags; these are parts for the big trucks on the highway that you pass on your way to work. Very sketchy.  

So, I was all in when he offered me a part-time job. I grew up in salvage yards. My dad kept our family cars running with parts from U-Pull-And-Pay for most of my life. As a toddler, I used to sit in dilapidated vehicles that had already been ransacked by others while my Dad would pull the parts he needed. Those are some of my fondest memories, sincerely. In addition, my Dad has been a mechanic his whole life, and as a result, I grew up around shops like TTI.

Mike knew this about me, and that’s why he thought I might enjoy working part-time at TTI while I was still in college. In addition, TTI needed help. Unlike most industries in the time of COVID, the trucking industry hit a major boom. The rise of online shopping binges that kept many people tethered to reality during the pandemic caused a subsequent surge in the need to deliver those products. The demand for delivery drivers and transport services went through the roof, and trucks worldwide began clocking in more miles than ever before. But more miles equals more wear, and more wear equals broken and worn-out parts that must be replaced.

Truck drivers are losing money when their trucks are not operating correctly. And just like every other good or service during the pandemic, truck parts were no different. They we limited and challenging to come across. Acquiring new parts in a timely manner became an act of God. And thus, TTI Trucks arose as the prodigal son of the Western Front trucking industry.  

The parts were sold faster than the trucks could be purchased, and TTI needed more help pulling and selling the parts. The manual labor force in this country does not slow down for politics or pandemics. Even in times of chaos, one thing remains true in the United States, wrenches must be turned, and those doing so must be paid. The pandemic was good for TTI and those that worked there.

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“This job is ghetto as hell.” I think to myself as I use one of our jump boxes to try and start a truck that was literally recovered from a highway fire. The jump box I use is a steel furniture dolly with car batteries stacked on top of one another. They are inconveniently heavy and very unsafe. I hook cables to the battery terminal and let this old International 4700  rip. The engine remarkably starts, but the rest of the truck appears unsalvageable. I take pictures of the truck, a video to prove that it does, in fact, run despite looking like it was used on the set of a Michael Bay film, and see what parts are still salvageable and advertise those parts online. It is a very blue-collar job. It’s dirty. My co-workers are dirty. Everything smells like grease, diesel, cigarettes, farts, and Copenhagen. And on a somewhat hereditary level, I like it.

After a couple of months at this job, the world began to open, and some of my classes began occurring in real classrooms again. I began to split my time 50/50 between CU Denver and TTI Trucks. A College of Liberal Arts and a blue-collar mechanic shop and salvage yard. I believe there to be no two more polar opposite locations in the universe. They are the antithesis of one another.  

At CU Denver, the world is viewed through a lens that portrays a myriad of left-leaning agendas common throughout academia. Despite how the media represents the college, it is not just a crash course in communism nor an indoctrination to Antifa. But the tropes and stereotypes do exist. Anti-fascist poetry club posters and Joe Rogan petitions decorate the hallways. At TTI Trucks, the agenda is all over the spectrum of right-wing beliefs, everything from the overtly Christian Conservatives to the heartfelt followers of Qanon. There is no shortage of unfounded conspiratorial beliefs to be heard. 

I existed in both of these places during a time of intense division in this country. I was bounced around between major ideologies like a pinball during COVID,  the protests, the election, the vaccine rollout, the mask mandates, and every other piece of duplicitous chaos that unfolded between 2020 and 2022.

I learned, worked, and lived among the two groups in this country that seem to have the most disdain for one another but spend almost no time commingling. 

I found myself smack dab in the middle of the American Zeitgeist (definition: the defining spirit or mood of a particular period of history as shown by the ideas and beliefs of the time).  

This isn’t some “take a walk in someone else’s shoes” story or some profound tale of self-discovery and unification in a time of division. Those would both be excellent options, but I fear we have long since departed from being able to digest anything from a central point of view in this country. Instead, I will tell you stories about the last two wild fucking years I have spent among these two vastly different groups, and hopefully, by the end of it, you realize just how ass-backward we have become as a nation. What you choose to do with that information is entirely up to you.

***Part 2 is coming next week***  

 

Duck Creek Shit Storm

Karli and I pulled up to Duck Creek and drove through what seemed to be a pretty average “car camping” site. There were small, treed areas separated by thirty or so meters scattered among both sides of the road that were already about half full of various RV’s and pickups. Based on the recommendation of our friends who had camped here prior, we kept pushing through the valley of the weekenders. After about a mile, we hooked a turn and we were in one of the most stunning landscapes I have ever seen.

This valley looked like something out of a painting. We had finally achieved our much needed vacation from the city of Denver.

We drove down the road for what felt like hours, just taking in all this mountain range had to offer. We said very little on this portion of the drive because the scenery was simply awe inspiring. We finally found a perfect little secluded spot, miles and miles down the road.

This was it. I parked the car. We let the dogs out and we set up camp. This felt perfect. The woman I love. Our dogs, Sturgill and Hank. Cold beer. Food cooked over a fire. I felt like I was living out a country song. Hell, I felt like Zac Brown was just whispering sweet, soft little nothings into my ear as I rode on the shoulders of Garth Brooks. Yeah, it was that kind of trip.  

For two days and one night, this was absolute paradise. The second night was… uh, more chaotic.

Camping out of the back of a Subaru Crosstrek with two grown ass people, and two medium dogs is very tight but doable. We had the backseats folded down and had fit a decent sized air mattress in the back. The dogs were supposed to sleep at our feet, but they basically just did whatever they fucking wanted to because they are dogs that were being forced to sleep in a car. The first night went ok. A little uncomfortable, but we figured it was manageable.

The second night came, we piled into the back of the car, and we all fell asleep. I was asleep for three and a half seconds before the dogs started stomping me out like I was being initiated into a fucking gang. I finally got them to settle and laid my head down once more. Insert the most jarring panting noises I have ever heard. They were panting so hard, they were shaking the car. I could not sleep and I was getting very upset. I let the dogs outside, hoping they just needed to pee or poop. I was partially right. They both peed and got back in the car. I fell back asleep.

I woke to even worse panting, a really strange noise, and utter darkness. I thought it came from outside. “Oh, fuck! Is that moose we saw yesterday out there?” I asked myself. I groggily came to, and my head began to fill with questions, “Was there an animal outside? Is that why the boys were acting so crazy and denying me of my precious sleep? What time is it?” All of these questions were cut short by the intrusion of a smell. “Is that a fart?” I think to myself. And then it hits me. That was the sound I heard. And that was no fart… that was a shart.

“That’s shit! That’s fucking shit!” I start to repeat with increasing levels of volume every time I say it. Karli wakes up as I am chanting, “That’s shit. That’s fucking shit.” As she begins to put the confusing pieces of me yelling and trying to get the dogs out of the car together, she begins to ask me what in the hell I’m talking about. “Sturgill shit somewhere in the car!” As the dome lights in the car finally turn on, I realize that the “somewhere” that Sturgill shit was, in fact, right next to my head.

At this point, I get Hank out of the car and Sturgill quickly follows. Sturgill is a long, tall dog that resembles much more of a horse than a K9. As his body sneaks past me, he manages to brush my face with his exceptionally long tail. Normally, this would be of no issue. But due to the explosive diarrhea that he had just expelled from his bowels and onto our bed, this was a huge problem. 

My tone now shifts from that of confusion and frustration, to unfiltered rage and fury “There is shit on my face! There is shit on my goddamn face!” I begin another chant, as if stating my misfortunes will somehow resolve them. I scramble out of the car still screaming about the smear of dog poo on my face. Not a ton of shit, mind you. But any amount on your face is warrant for an emotional reaction. I am so upset that I scare Hank and he just runs away. I don’t blame him, that’s the correct response when you are a thirty-eight pound labradoodle who doesn’t understand English but are smart enough to understand that your brother just shit on your Dad’s face and Dad is now throwing poop covered items out of the car while informing your brother that he will spend the rest of his days in these woods. It is also worth noting, I looked criminally insane during this portion. The smell was so awful that I was gagging, dry heaving, and still yelling obscenities at my dog. All the while, Karli is laughing hysterically, and I don’t blame her. That’s the correct response when you are a nurse and shit is a normality. When you look over and your boyfriend is behaving as though he just contracted Ebola and smoked meth simultaneously, you laugh.

Hank finally returns and we load up everything into our 2021 toilet on wheels and begin our drive home… with the windows down, of course.

Karli had to drive at first because there was so much stuff jammed into the back of the vehicle that I couldn’t fit in the drivers seat. We got on the narrow, two-lane, mountain highway in the middle of the night and two semi-trucks and trailers zoomed past us and shook the Crosstrek violently. You know, like a small car with all of its windows down would shake when being passed at an opposing seventy-five miles per hour. “Nope. You have to drive.” Karli says to me.  

We pull over to the side of the highway and rearrange the car, again. I’m nearing the end of my patience with this escapade and I am just fucking ready to be home.

I’m driving down the highway, the steering wheel is only inches from my chest, all the windows were down, and to say I was upset would be a gross understatement. I looked at my dog and once again told him I should have left him in the woods. I obviously did not mean this. Sturgill is my horse dog, my sweet boy, my dog. But in this moment, I was being downright mean to him. Karli informed me that saying horrible things like that was not funny. I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was trying to be hurtful because I was angry. There was, after all, dog shit on my face. But as we hurdled down the road surrounded only by the sounds of the headwind of the highway that drowned out the already low sound of the radio, my mind began to wander. The cold air that was bellowing through the open car windows was the only thing keeping me awake. Well, that and the overpowering stench of dog shit that smelled strangely reminiscent of Cheerios. The smell was so pungent I couldn’t keep my mind off of Sturgill.  

I began to feel lower than low. As I should have. I said some off the wall shit to him when I was angry. It’s times like those where I really hope our dogs can’t understand us. But even if he couldn’t verbally express anything to me, his face spoke volumes. I could tell that he was hurt. He was afraid and uncomfortable because he knew that his Dad was furious with him. I looked at that sad face of his and I thought of that same boyish face that would light up when I came home. That same face that would look up at me with complete and total trust. That same, sweet face that kept me company throughout pandemic lockdowns and some of the hardest chapters of my life. I was flooded with all of the countless joys that dog has brought to my life.

I look back at him and I earnestly apologized. He seemed to accept my gesture. 

We continued down the road as the wind blasted us and the dogs. Karli looks at me and smiles, as if to remind me that everything is going to be ok, and that we will laugh about this someday. I smile in return because I know she is right. I look in the rear view mirror and I see Hank, just sitting there looking justifiably confused and cold. I look for Sturgill and I notice that he is squatting and is facing the rear window. He is once again, shitting the car. I take a deep breath in to process the situation. In retrospect, that was poorly timed inhale. I look over at Karli and simply say “He’s pooping again.” “Oh, wow. That’s really unfortunate.” She responds. We both focus back on the road and realize there is nothing we can do about any of this right now. It was relieving. We both just dug into our reality and realized that we had a unfortunately pungent drive ahead of us, but we were going to make it.

Sometimes life is an oasis in the mountains. Sometimes life is a Subaru filled with watery dog shit. It is the reaction to either scenario that dictates the overall energy of your life.

Strive to move with grace and eloquence through all aspects of life and reciprocate love to those who give theirs to you. Even if they shit on your face. 

Dedicated to my little family:

Karli, Hank, and Sturgill aka “The New Amber Turd”

 

 

Karli holding Sturgill while Hank ignores the camera. 

 

Anatomy of A Reality

Buried deep in the vast and uncompromising woods of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is the story of one of America’s most unique murder trials. The relatively quiet and calm landscape of the Upper Peninsula, more commonly referred to by its residences as the “UP” was the stage for a story that would prove to be monumental in terms of its real life decision and its Hollywood depiction.

The film noir classic Anatomy of A Murder is a legendary piece of American cinema and has cemented itself in the canon of outstanding courtroom dramas for good reason. Since the film’s release in 1959, it has continually captivated audiences for decades. The movie weaves the tale of one man’s perceived justification for committing first degree murder and his attorney’s struggle to convince a jury to find merit in that argument. The film tackles the dichotomous situation presented by one man’s crime of passion. The dichotomy exceeded simply convincing a jury but convincing a jury comprised of the members of close knit and very unique community who were determining the fate of an outsider. This enthralling film follows the courtroom proceedings that follow the gruesome events that unfolded at the Big Bay Inn in Big Bay, Michigan.

On July 31, 1952, A Lieutenant in the US Army, Coleman Peterson shot and killed a man, former Michigan State Police officer Mike Chenoweth for allegedly raping and beating his wife, Charlotte Peterson. According to The News-Palladium, Benton Harbor, Michigan “Peterson’s wife went to the tavern last night to purchase beer to take back to the trailer camp, and Chenoweth offered to drive her home. On the way, she said, Chenoweth assaulted and raped her. In tears, she told her husband, who picked up his gun and went to the tavern. There he fired several shots at Chenoweth , striking him in the stomach, chest and right arm. There were a dozen a more patrons in the tavern at the time of the shooting, which occurred about 12:30 a.m.” (News Palladium, 1952) By August 7 of the same year the trial had begun and concluded with a verdict of not guilty for Lt. Peterson on the grounds of temporary insanity a mere six days later. The events that unfolded in the 25^th District Court (Michigan Courts, 2022) in Marquette County were the foundational groundwork for a story that was destined turn to gold on the silver screen.

Anatomy of A Murder and its depiction of the People of Michigan v. Coleman Peterson trial sets itself apart from many other factually based court room dramas due to the films deeply inherent roots in the truth of the matter. The film does not open with the typical “based on a true story” frame that have become a contemporary symbol of validity for most true crime dramas. But the absence of this cinematic commonplace does not cause the story to deviate too far from the truth. The movie was filmed in its entity in Marquette County, where the real trial occurred. The film is based on a book by the same name by an author named Robert Travers. However, a little research will prove that Robert Travers was a pseudonym. (Tribune, 1970) The author’s actual name was John Voelker. John Voelker was the defense attorney for The People of Michigan v. Peterson in 1952. Voelker’s identity was not the only name changed in his book. Every important person in the trial was given a new name and the filmmakers followed suit. In the film LT. Peterson is referred to as Lt.  Manion, Charlotte Peterson is portrayed as Laura Manion, Judge Charles O. Arch  was portrayed as Judge Weaver and the prosecuting attorney was given the name Claude Dancer. John Voelker is referred to as Paul Biegler. Voelker wrote this book in a semi-fictional fashion in attempt to tell the complicated story that envelopes this murder and consequential trial without possibly implicating any of the people involved. He had to be particularly careful with his depiction of this case because he had a seat on the Michigan State Supreme Court at the time his book was published. In fact, he was still on the Michigan State Supreme Court until the book had become a solidified hit. “Now assured of an adequate income, Voelker resigned from the Michigan Supreme Court in January 1960 to devote his time to fishing and writing.” (NMU, 2008) As this article expands on the various layers of this murder trial, it will begin to bring to light the realities of the crime that inspired Anatomy of a Murder while also highlighting the discrepancies that the film makers may have portrayed in the name of a dramatic effect. However, sandwiched between the truth in recounting of this story and the Hollywood flare that made it a hit, there is a very American lesson to be learned.

 From left to right: John Voelker, Lt. Peterson, (seated) Charlotte Peterson (NMU, 2008)

            The details and evidence of the murder were piling up in favor of the prosecution before the trial had even begun. But the most adversarial force Voelker was up against was a battle with the aforementioned tightly knit community that the deceased (Chenoweth) was a part of for his entire life. Chenoweth was a true Yooper.

Yooper: an endearing and self-proclaimed title that the residences of the UP wear with a badge of honor. The Yoopers are a unique group of Americans belonging to a portion of Michigan that is often forgotten by outsiders.

(Hannity, Nov. 19, 2020)
 

 But this sense of exclusion from the outside world has stretched over generations and given birth to an unparalleled sense of community that is exclusive to the Upper Peninsula. They care for one another in a manner that is dedicated and true because they have the resources to do so. The population in the UP is still small to this day and was significantly less in 1952. The upper Peninsula is a collection of various small towns that thrive in different ways from either mining or exporting iron ore or the logging industry. As if the arduous labor involved in mining and logging were not enough, the winter months are hard, treacherous, and long in the UP. There is a  communal sense of suffering among those that soldier through these blistering winters.  Facing some of nature’s harshest elements can really create cohesion that is unparalleled. This peculiar element of closely bound community was very important in the real trial and the depictions in the film. Far be it from anyone to associate them with the lower state of Michigan, they are a community and culture all their own.

The judge in this case was a lower statesman. He was called up to oversee the proceedings because the original judge, Judge Maitland had “an illness” (NMU, 2008) He recognized that his presence might cause some uneasiness with a jury and courtroom comprised largely of Yoopers. In the Judge’s opening statement he addressed his reason for travelling from up state to be a preside over the case and assured the all in attendance that his main objective was to find the truth above all else. In the film, Judge Weaver adds an element of comedic relief in his statement. “ One judge is quite like another. The only differences may be in the state of their digestions or their proclivities for sleeping on the bench. For myself, I can digest pig iron. And while I might appear to doze occasionally, you will find that I am easily awakened, particularly if shaken gently by a good lawyer with a nice point of law.” (Time-Life Multimedia, 1959) Judge Arch was portrayed as honest and integral throughout the film.  

            The defense had an out of town judge with the appearance of being less biased in their favor. Next, they had to ensure that the jury did not feel biased toward Lt. Peterson. After all, he was basically a stranger that had been placed in their community by the Army and were unfamiliar with his character. However, the Lieutenant’s service to his country seemed to have an impact on his appearance at the trial. The defense would not only mention LT. Peterson’s combat service in Korea, but the Lieutenant appeared at trial in his dress service uniform every day. He never appears in civilian attire in the film or over the period of the actual trial.  The only photograph of the Lieutenant in civilian attire was taken sometime shortly after his arrest.

 Pictured Above: LT. Coleman Peterson after being arrested for the shooting of Mike Chenoweth

           Voelker was crafting an excellent defense built on his clients proud military service and an out of town judge that was willing to maintain order in a seemingly chaotic courtroom. The courtroom was depicted as having hysterical outbursts in the film. One of which was over the use of the word “panties” which in the film is responded with laughter from those in attendance. But an interview that was conducted in 2008  with one of the jurors on the case. Shows that this famous scene had a little bit of hyperbole added by the camera. “The colorful person was John Voelker.” NMU, 2008) Max Mueller recalls after being asked about the courtroom hysterics. He said he remembered the courtroom to be relatively calm except when Voelker and Dancer would argue.

However, it does seem that Mrs. Peterson’s panties were in fact a piece of evidence. Apart from her actual underwear being retrieved and used as evidence. The film depicts behavior in the courtroom that would deemed as grossly inappropriate according to today’s standards. In the line of questions regarding Mrs. Peterson’s alleged rape, one question was in reference to what she was wearing that night. These questions stood without objection partially because it was the 1950’s and partially because Mrs. Peterson had a colorful reputation with men and alcohol. Especially, when her husband was absent. According to the Chicago Tribune “The reason that Lt. Peterson had shot Chenoweth that night was because Mrs. Peterson, who had been drinking and partying all evening at the tavern, came home with a black-eye. She told her husband that Mike Chenoweth raped her. It was later established in the court records that Peterson had a jealous streak. One night, outside the tavern, he struck his wife. Witnesses testified he accused her of flirting with one of the men stationed with him at the U.S. Anti-Aircraft Range near Big Bay.” (Chicago Tribune, 1970) 

            Voelker had a difficult situation on his hands as the Peterson’s dirty laundry was being aired out in front of the jury. Voelker and Lt. Peterson decided to plead that the murder was committed under a state of temporary insanity. Lt. Peterson plead that he did not remember the killing in any capacity.

            The lieutenant recalled the events of July 31, 1952, as such in the film:   

Lt. Manion: “My next coherent recollection is back in the trailer.

Paul Biegler: "Can you illustrate for us, Lieutenant, what position the deceased assumed when he turned around?"

The Lieutenant's words came in breathless spurts,

Lt. Manion: "As I say, he turned.. To the best of my recollection he turned to his right...

his left hand on the bar... I cannot recall seeing his right arm."

Paul Biegler: “You say his left hand on the bar or arm and hand?"

Lt. Manion: "His left forearm. He kind of leaned."

Paul Biegler: "State whether or not you remember driving back to the trailer."

Lt. Manion: "No, sir; I don’t-"

Paul Biegler: “What happened when you got back to the trailer?"

Lt. Manion: "I guess I came to.”  (Time-Life Multimedia, 1959)

According to the researchers at Northern Michigan University, the copy of Voelker’s testimony from the character dialogue between Lt. Manion and Paul Biegler does resemble his actual testimony given during the trial. “The lieutenant's testimony closely follows that of the actual trial, although it is condensed in places.” (NMU, 2008)

            Upon hearing everything the defense and prosecution had prepared and delivered, the jury returned with a decision of not guilty, on the reason of temporary insanity. That is not just the storybook ending that Lt. Manion received in Anatomy of A Murder but the real decision in The People of Michigan v. Coleman Peterson.

 The jury from the People v. Peterson trial (NMU, 1952)  

The unfolding of events behind the camera were not that much different than the reality that unfolded in the Marquette County courtroom. There were certainly many elements of Anatomy of a Murder that were accentuated for dramatic effect. But when it comes to watching courtroom deliberations, sometimes a little dramatic effect is needed. Despite any exaggerations of the truth used to create the film, the indisputable fact that a complete outsider murdered a Yooper in the UP, in front of a crowd of Yooper witnesses, then tried by Yoopers was ultimately found innocent is truly incredible. Despite overwhelming evidence that was not in the favor of the defendant. A jury comprised of close knit community members, people that were able to feel the ripple of the murder in their everyday lives, decided in the favor of Lt. Peterson. Lest it be forgotten that Voelker was also a Yooper, being born and raised in Ishpeming, Michigan. All of those factors in conjunction with one another, and he was still able to use all of his local charm and convince the jury that one of their own was not only capable of raping Charlotte Peterson but had done so beyond the shadow of a doubt. Therefore, deserving of his death at the hands of her temporarily deranged husband. Voelker’s work as an attorney was as equally stupendous as James Stewart’s on screen portrayal of him. Many things can be misconstrued through the lens of a camera as its directors attempt to simulate real court room proceedings, but what it cannot distort is the empirical need to hire an outstanding attorney when trapped in the grips of the law.