Tales from the bar stool Volume 2: Written at Club 223 in Hallowell Maine

The Notion of Stranger Danger

And other dark & scary prowlers of adulthood

"Stranger Danger."  It’s a term most of us know very well. It’s one we heard over and over again as children. Anyone we didn’t know, especially those who drove in large vans offering candy, were dangerous people. They were perverts who lurked on every street corner, who would pounce on us like jackals at a moments notice, ready to defile us and leave us life a bag of shredded, wet, trash on a street corner somewhere we’d never be found.

I’ve never once argued this teaching to youngsters and children. It’s the law of nature; the young are often the easiest prey. Teaching them to run at the first sign of danger is not a bad thing. It’s an evolutionary advantage, designed to keep our children around long enough to learn the lessons of how to weed out those who would be dangerous from those who would not. What happens though when we don’t, as parents, take the time to teach our children the proper social dance steps to maneuver through the minefield and allow them to take this concept of Stranger Danger, well into their adolescent and adult lives?

            It’s just that kind of training that’s really driving a social wedge into the world. It’s why we take the furthest seat away from anyone in the movie theater, always look to separate ourselves in bookstores, and coffee shops.. Nobody dares to trust in those around them anymore, because the unknown is just too scary. Perhaps that’s what drives us, in droves, to the various coping mechanisms we’ve created for ourselves; text messaging, social media websites like Facebook, and the like. Is that really good enough; how long can we really hold out in that kind of dark, burning our best spirits just so we can see?

            Why is it that we hold on to these patterns of instability and isolation?  What is it that caused us to deviate, so far, from the tribal routes and customs from our bygone days, leaving us to venture down the paths that are only well lit and, ultimately, empty? It’s a pattern of comfort, of inhibition, self doubt, and even a dash of self loathing. We’re all dangerous strangers to others and to ourselves. That’s the problem with adults and stranger danger, but when you step back to look at the world? The picture, at least why we look at it the way we do, makes a little more sense – as much as it can anyway.

            The notion that the world is bad seems to be reinforced at every turn. Good news is never as good for business as bad news and it never gets the ratings. Television dramas, – at least the popular kind – aren’t any better. Look at your average television crime drama. Everyone’s a murderer, or some other predator, prowling the streets of your concrete jungle, just waiting for the right time to leap out of the shadows and drag you straight to the statistical headline in the following week’s paper. There’s at least four or five variations of these shows, and entire channels dedicated to this kind of heroic fear mongering.

            It is these highlight reels and benchmarks our world in thirty to sixty minute intervals; each commercial break reminding us that, through spending, we’re actually safe if we keep up with the trend of ‘Buy. Buy. Buy.’ Is it any wonder then, if you look at this model, that we’ve degenerated into a slathering mass of wage jockeys, hiding out in our basements, shutting off our world outside, and living vicariously through the terrors of late night infomercials?

            Even the sporting world hasn’t survived the social impact of adulthood ‘Stranger Danger’ unscathed. People gather around, crowding into Stadiums across the country, or hunched over in front of their oversized televisions, waiting on the edge of their seats for a tiny glimpse of disaster or violence. Sure, everyone feels bad when it occurs, but there’s always that hope, silently lingering; that the next time the car rounds that, dreaded, number two corner, that it will somehow lose control and go headlong into the wall. The resulting explosion and fireball will draw gasps of surprise from the crowd, but if you listen real close, you can hear it. It’s the muffled cheer that, finally, something had happened; the sickening delights of excitement that ride in on a tailwind of panic and despair.

            These are just some of the, all too tragic, side effects that come from being so detached from those around us. It’s why tempering this notion that “all strangers are dangerous” with the reality that not everyone drives a dark van with tinted windows – that not all words are like, drug coated, candy that you just can’t trust – is so important. Not everyone should be regarded with a white knuckle fear. Yes, there are some particularly vile and depraved behaviors in the world, but it’s teaching people to look out for them, how to identify who means you well and who means you harm, that should be the real lesson.

The brass tax of the matter is that we’re never taught to let go of that fear. Yes, fear is healthy. It’s the natural evolution of a survivalist response and every animal has it for a reason. The difference is that animals learn by experience what will hunt them, what will kill them, and what has no more interest in them than any other blade of grass on the savannah. Humans seem to have forgotten that part. We keep on with this mentality that the world is full of stalkers and other ill intending scavengers ready to pick us off at a moments notice. It’s healthy, if not prudent, to be aware such things are possible, but to approach every situation with that sort of mentality? That’s just lunacy, and it just doesn’t make any sense. Which life is worth more; the life lived among friends, both old and new, experiencing adventures and taking the occasional risk, or the life of vice grips and paralyzing fear, where no one talks to anyone and all activities are undertaken alone?

It all comes down to the edge again, that teetering moment where we’re forced to stare into the yawning maw of the unknown and decide which way it is we go. Some, naturally, will always favor the safe roads. There is wisdom, even if I find it outdated, in the “dangers of the unknown”, but what about the adage of “look before you leap”?  Whatever happened to teaching yourself to take a good, honest, look at what was out there and then decide? Does that not sound like a far better lived life, even if you still decide it’s just too scary?

The social world is a dwindling flame, sputtering on its last breath, but we’re spreading further and further out so that no one can enjoy its warmth; leaving those who, so infrequently, take a step in to be greeted by everyone else wearily staring at them like they’re a serpent wandering into the garden. The cost of this treatment is already exceeding what we can afford, and we’re all freezing to death. We’re already well on our way to social bankruptcy, staving off the final death rattle with the life support system built on the internet, social networking sites, and text messaging – something has to change.

So, why continue to hold on to these archaic notions of childhood, treating the whole world as alien, and everyone in it as someone who would abduct you? The whole world is not bad, and it’s okay to second guess that thinking. It’s not a death sentence that promises you’ll wash up, pale blue, on the banks of the river. We might all be strangers but there’s only one way to fix that. We’ve got to deviate down the mountain we’ve built for ourselves and walk dangerously close to it’s edge. You’ve got to get close, even if all you do is look, It’s the only, absolutely safe, way to know what’s really out there. We’re all unknown to one another and, until we take the time to make that investment of knowledge, we have no way of really knowing if the lions in the woods like to prey, or play.

At this point, starvation and desperation is making even the candy seem tempting; which, by all accounts, is a bold and foolish risk without the proper training to know what you’re getting into. We’re ravenous with hunger but still holding onto the training that all the food might kill you in your sleep. The hard fact of the matter is that we have to eat if we’re going to live, it’s simple science. This pattern of starvation, with the small handful of risk takers being the only ones to eat, simply cannot continue. It’s high time we stopped paying so much mind to, sensational, Five P.M to Five A.M. television; maybe we ought to stop buying into to such commercialized, and high priced, fear. The cost is too high, and we all have the right to be rich in the world. It’s a choice. The food of people, real, honest, to goodness, people, is not a luxury that should be paid only to risk takers and fools. It’s a right for everyone to eat – and I, say, a right for everyone to feast.

So, please, feast. Take the principle foundations of this world we live in and dive into the excess of capitalism. Take what you will and toil for what you want, turn down the volume of the T.V., and turn up the volume of your world. It’s better to live dangerously in a world of faces – knowing as many as you can – than it is to wither away without the warmth of flame, and the fullness of food. Our days are short, our hours are long, and there’s never a good time to hide, but always a good time to keep your eyes open and take stock at what's around you. Yes, the world is full of all manner of things. It has all manner of well meaning people, as well as those who'd just as soon take your teeth and make an ashtray out of your skull. It never hurts to be mindful of the dangers, but it never pays to invent them everywhere either.


So be aware that poisonous animals exist, but don’t think they’re everywhere. Be careful you're not creating them where they're not too, as inaction and isolation, due to fear, are just as fatal. Those thoughts are the same breed of scavenger, and just as common, as those “dangerous” strangers you’re trying to avoid. They lurk, just outside your conscious thoughts, waiting for just the right time to pick off the stragglers of the herd; those too weak from a lifetime of caged living and basement dwelling, to fight back. Life's too short to be ruled by a tyrant like fear. We’re all burning sand and, when that hourglass is empty, there’s no one there to turn it over. So, fill your days with faces, old and new, and brandish your name loudly on your flag. Strangers are only strangers until we get to know them, and sitting still is just as strong an invitation to discord as any hand you might opt not to shake. Be ready for anything and weary of turning away everything. All the wisdom is wasted if unshared – and all we are is all we know.

“Waste not for wanting, and don’t waste yourself for a lifetime of nothing. Spend your life richly, for time is money, and your currency is good everywhere -- as long as you spend it. It's the high cost of being afraid to go broke that nobody can afford. There's always a limit and when you find it you have two choices: Stop or Go further, just to be sure. I never advocate stop. I say -- Ad augusta per angusta - To high places, by narrow roads." N. Alexander

Tales from the Bar stool Volume 1: Written at Club 223 in Hallowell Maine

Fast Strange Times

for fast and stranger people

The world is always changing and those of us on it, we’re just struggling to adapt. Sixty years ago, we conquered the last of the tyrant kings, usurped the old and fickle gods, and really thought we had a world of peace ahead of us. Then what happens? We get Pestilences, Famine, War, and Death – not to mention all the other new breeds of horsemen – galloping across our skies and television screens, halted if but for a moment, by the strange, golden, rays, of a new dawn.

It’s those early, morning, hours; where most of us are still reeling form whatever poisons and toils we were up to during the Werewolf hours, where we dare to have faith in a better day. It’s those precious moments, spent shaking off cobwebs and cursing the cobwebs in our wallets, where the sense of revelry in life is most clearly painted. It’s a reminder of the high waves we rode, screaming into the sunrise, waving the banner of promise and hope for whatever came next.

Hope is a dangerous and powerful drug, doled out to every adolescent, every up and coming adult, but we’ve long since lost sight of the wisdom to use it properly. Now, after passing through the gates of “Adultland” – we realize the charlatans have charged us a steep price of admission. We’re hopeless and doomed, trekking through down the brightly colored walkways, pushing aside tent flaps to shell out our limited tickets to carnival headshrinkers, buying our own hope back at outrageously inflated prices.

The problem is that the modern day, street legal, pushers don’t do a thing for hope. They hand it out in neat little packages, books on tape about “Self Improvement”, motivational posters about success, and whatever else they can get their greasy little fingers on. It’s only natural though, just like everyone knows: There’s no money in a cure, only in treatment. They don’t teach you how to maintain hope, but rather happily take your money week after week, to give you the perspective as if you have it.

I’ve never been one to buy into any of that, finding that too much of whom we’re supposed is fed to us on the spoons of commercialism and the only real sense of worth that means anything in the world is predated by a dollar sign. It’s really no wonder we’ve lost sight of hope. Hope is difficult to commercialize. It’s not sensational – until you’ve lost it – and you can’t market it.

So where’s the place for hope in a world where everything we’re told that everything we need to make it on the outside world should come from a tube and be applied generously in a paste? What about everyone else, those among the crowd ill content to paint on their personality and take a pill for all their problems, these perverts to the “natural” social order? Television dramas would have you believe they’re all lost and tortured souls, in dire need of your intervention. Those who turn it away? Well society would tell you they're a ragtag band of miscreants and degenerates, blazing a mad trail of chaos and depravity that undermines everything that’s right and true in the world.

I like to imagine, if only because it helps me sleep better at night, that the same has been said of all the great Pioneers that have come before. If every cosmonaut had been socially stoned for wanting to go to space or every philosopher was cast out for interpreting new behaviors, I’d feel a lot better about this trend. Couldn’t it be said though that those among us who walk away from this socially medicated thinking – and still manage to overcome – are doing their Patriotic duty? After all, it wasn’t that long ago that a bunch of people got on a boat and sailed away to avoid religious oppression, landing in some new and alien land to forge a path all their own.

Why then, are there those would seek to treat every sickness with the same cure? Is it really that we’re all just sick as people, or is something wrong with the world? It’s the question nobody seems to want to ask, but isn’t it really past due? At what point is the price of not asking just too high? When’s does the risk of breaking social foundations finally cease to outweigh the value of forward progress?

We’re taught, at least in hypothetical principle that progress never comes without risk. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained” goes the slogan, and it’s always been true. The problem comes in when, in these modern times, we’re taught to safeguard our ventures until we’re coughing away a lifetimes worth of unused ambitions on our deathbeds and life support, sputtering and crying our eyes out at an endless list of ‘What if’ questions. It’s another side effect of having a culture run by pushers seeking to treat a sickness, and not cure a disease.

From the moment our key gets turned over in the ignition and the engine screams to life on the echoing sound of a hand slap and a crying baby, we’re burning fuel. It’s really on a matter of time before the tank runs dry. So, in a culture where it’s all about bottom lines and corner cuts to aid profit margins, which cost then becomes greater, loss or regret?

In a world gone bankrupt, what’s the harm in risk when there’s still time to heal? What’s the point of being safe, only to end up mummified by wires with all the money in the world to keep you alive until someone else with more money comes along and the greedy vultures wheel you down in the basement to live out the rest of your days in the dark and cold? That’s just outright madness.

As long as there’s time, loss can be balanced out, but regret? That’s a permanent blemish on an otherwise pristine credit score. So why slave away until the years of retirement, squirreling away nuts for the endless winter, completely ignoring the fun of spring, summer, and fall? Death or, worse yet, an addled mind, is the only surefire diagnosis for a prescription of that caliber.

It’s that kind of thinking, waiting forever, hoping that one day the price will be ‘just right’, that has those among the world who simply go out and spend labeled as frivolous - if not just outright deranged. It’s a kind of living that’s just too fast, too strange, for the average person to really understand. It’s a real ‘no holds barred’ kind of fight for everything and everything, that’s driven more than one hapless bystander into a lifetime of binge sleeping. Dreams, after all, are the hopeless mans mung bucket. It’s where all the overflow of unused hope ends up, and he’s left drooling for the scraps, rather than going straight for the source.

Still, even those bottom feeders are a step ahead of those would rather covet an existence defined by pristine health and material possession. It’s those mad fools who’re the really terrifying mass in the crowd. They tend to be fiercely territorial, and always like to keep buckets of polished rocks on hand – just waiting in the wings for whatever might challenge their particular flow.

It’s those people who embody that primal, wolverine, mentality in a way that I almost consider sacred, if not for their application. Still, I hold out hope for them. For now they’re just the holdouts, defending the walls of their personal Alamo’s, stocked to the gills with over sized televisions and barbecue grills. This, as a point of fact, is a very dangerous practice for them, as the smell of meat will often drive the locals into a savage frenzy.

It could be said though, that such a frothing chaos is healthy for the sound mind. It’s just the kind of thing that might, with a little bit of luck and a dash of that old world magic, serve as a catalyst. It’s like the first bite of a cattle prod that sends the whole herd into a hurried stampede of action.

Those on the outside of those walls, or at least those who have no desire to try and be on the inside of them, are always welcoming to this kind of horde. It’s a numbers game after all and the more of them who’re willing to come play a different game, the better. It’s those on the outside who understand the importance that hope without action, is effectively useless. They see hope for what it is – the driving force behind every great play in sports history, that list bit of fuel in the tank that eases you into the driveway, it’s what give you that strength to really pull through, no matter what life’s throwing at you.

So, here we are, outcasts in the desert, waiting on the mad rush of barbarians, drunk on the smell of cooked meat, to welcome them into the tribe. It’s here and seemingly only here, that the old wisdom from those earliest days when we were wanderlust gathering people still seems to have a real sense of weight. It’s that luring call that echoes off the canyons of our souls, harkening back to those long forgotten days. It’s the rhythm of tomorrow that stirs the heart back into motion, where it’s not just beating – but dancing.

We’re the people who never ask “What if?” but instead ask “When?” We know there’s time, we believe in making it. We’re the miscreants and degenerates your parents always warned you about. We’re the ones who you were always told would never go anywhere in life. We’re wishful thinkers and daydreamers. They’ll tell you we’re pariahs of the natural order, piranhas of the structure, all singing some strange, freaked out, song because we’re all so totally twisted on drugs we couldn’t tell you what’s evening happening.

The truth of it is that our drug? It’s just hope. It’s rawer than anything they’ll sell you at the corner store, and causes more smiles than even the most potent anti-depressant. Hope is my anti-drug. It’s the music that moves us all to dance our dance, and sing the songs the rest of the world seems to find strange. It’s hope that lets us count ourselves among the truly rich. It is hope that has helped keep us together in these times that seem almost too weird and strange for our eyes.

It’s hope that has helped us evolve from the hunched desk monkeys, still slinging fruit, into the upright free runners we are today. It’s hope that we’ve used to paint the banner under which we all ride, changing the colors whenever we get a little to close, and the Cowboys have riding out to try and gun us down or reign us in. It’s hope that puts air in the tires – which is good…because we have the gas, and there’s plenty of road for us to burn yet.

"Never underestimate the value of a well placed surprise; it’s just the kind of thing you need to keep you on your toes. That kind of training is ultimately invaluable when you find yourself teetering on the edge of madness." -N. Alexander