I woke up as the sun’s rays began to
brighten the inside of a beat up Ford F250.
I was folded up in the back seat while Midshipman occupied the front. He looked like a bear coming out of
hibernation. We both climbed out of the
truck and quickly ran out of the shade and into the warmth of the sun.
We got to the edge of the lower meadow
when we realized the sunrise over the mountain valley was breathtaking. Midshipman and I split my last two cigarettes
and stood smoking in silence as we took in the sun. It was a deeply reassuring feeling becoming
one with nature.
This was Sunday morning—Day 10 of The
Boredom.
After an indeterminate amount of time we
piled into the truck and took a rocky dirt road over to the upper meadow, a
mile or two away. There was a turnout on
the road, trimmed by a ranch-style minimal wood fence that fed into a path. At the end of the path which took me a short
way into the meadow stood a lone cabin.
The cabin was built there in 1859. William F. Holcomb and Ben Choteau,
prospectors from Bear Valley, found gold in 1860 while tracking a bear in the
next valley north. The discovery
triggered a gold rush in San Bernardino County and by 1861 “Belleville” (the
town named after the first child born in the valley). However, the boom quickly busted and
Belleville was virtually a ghost town by 1864, and literally a ghost town by
1870. I suspect the folks there got
caught up in the drama of the Civil War, which even affected California.
Breakfast consisted of leftover pizza from
the night before—Midshipman heated up over the engine. We ate our pizza and let the warm sun and
cold wind confuse and torture our bodies.
Despite the elements being harsh up there, it was invigorating just
being exposed to them. By 10:30 we began
the bumpy trek down the mountain.
What a hell of a weekend it had been!
Monday, Day 11, was largely
uneventful. I wrote and I worked on
manuscripts, and I made excuses not to go to the gym. I put a metaphorical gun to my own head and
wrote the third dispatch for The Boredom, which was published to the Rants blog
later that evening.
I did attend my weekly Civil Air Patrol
squadron meeting—the first Monday of the month is always Commander’s Call and
awards ceremony. I took a ton of photos
of CAP members just going about their business.
Chartered by Congress, Civil Air Patrol
is the U.S. Air Force Auxiliary, a civilian volunteer organization authorized
to wear paramilitary uniforms and carry out search-and-rescue and disaster
relief missions on behalf of the Air Force.
I’ve been an auxiliary airman for three and a half years, on top of my
two years as a military contractor and seven years in the state guard.
I spent the morning of Day 12, Tuesday,
editing and preparing the photos from Commander’s Call for uploading to the
squadron Facebook fan page. I spent a
few solid hours working on manuscripts and an hour or two slaying orcs on The
Lord of the Rings Online. Good
times! Later that evening I prepared the
thirtieth installment of Five Libertarian Ideas for next-day publication on the
Rants blog.
Wednesday/Day 13 I went to the gym and
worked out like a fiend. My body and
mind equally needed it. While doing
cardio on the machines I started a new book—War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning,
by Chris Hedges—as if I needed any more books to read. I still have a pile I either haven’t started
or haven’t finished. Each and every one
is outstanding, and I can’t put either of them down, at least until I find the
next one.
That night I linked up with one of my
close friends, Aqua Bat. He’s been a
friend since childhood, from Scouting, and we really started hanging out a lot
after high school ended. Aqua Bat is an
interesting character. He’s a new-school
stoner with a love for punk and ska music.
His preference for Converse shoes, shorts, and brightly knitted Baja
jackets and beanies give him the look of an orphan rescued and raised by a
Peruvian flute band.
We drove down into a seedy-looking
industrial area of lower Pomona—we were south of Holt Avenue and east of the
71. Our objective was the VLHS
warehouse, an amazing little place tucked away in between shipping warehouses
and welding garages, far out of ear shot in its location at this time of night. It’s the ideal place to hold a concert, throw
a party, get wild, you name it!
VLHS—named after the show producer’s
high school—is DIY (do-it-yourself) punk at its finest. As a matter of fact, this is full-on
underground punk rock. There are no permits,
no insurance, no mass-posted flyers letting anyone know the shows at this
location are approved and open to the public.
There is only a private lease paid in cash between the show producers
and the property owner. The shows are
promoted by word of mouth and Facebook, to a very limited extent.
The shows at VLHS are technically illegal. We don’t care. For us it’s about freedom of assembly, freedom
of expression, and voluntary association.
Spontaneous order happens every night there’s a show at VLHS. It’s BYOB, and everyone’s either holding a
beer can, a bottle of liquor, cigarettes (for your non-drinkers), and the
harder stuff people are encouraged to do inside their car or on the other side
of the building.
The “donation” is paid at the door, and
all participants are aware that this is private property. Moreover, the DIY punk rockers and supporters
here police themselves. Serious drama
involves the cops, and the police typically frown on untaxed, unpermitted, unregulated
concerts. So everyone solves problems
between themselves and no drama ensues.
Aqua Bat and I hadn’t been to a VLHS
show in nearly a year. It felt good to be back among familiar sounds and
familiar faces. I love punk rock, not
just the juxtaposed simplicities and complexities hidden in the chords and
lyrics, but for its spirit of rebellion and a determination of individuals not
to be ruled. Not bad for a Wednesday
night!
Thursday was a blur—I went to bed late
on Wednesday night and paid for it with a late morning. I shambled off to the gym, got in a decent
work out, and reflected on Chris Hedges’ philosophical essays on war.
Day 15, Friday, I spent most of the day
fine-tooth combing through some texts on the Vietnam War for a writing project
that’s been slowly developing over the last few months. I’m nowhere near ready
to announce this, but this project will be one of my proudest scholarly
achievements.
Friday night saw Aqua Bat and I return
for another show at VLHS. Punk rock
women are some of the most attractive on the planet. There’s just something about the way they pull
off leather and black without going full Goth
Then their off-beat hair (usually dark with a neon highlight or two),
and the whole mysterious persona they wear along with their torn jeans… Life is good.
Day 16, Saturday was an obnoxiously
early start. It wasn't yet 6 AM as I
tore myself away from sleep and started shuffling into my Army Combat
Uniform. I picked up a large jerky
stick, a Powerade, and a Red Bull and made the 45-minute commute to the National
Guard armory I drill at once a month.
It was December drill, cut short by the
usual annual family-friendly barbeque banquet.
The banquet was at noon, so morning-time had a lot of ridiculous
standing around. Whatever. I was at all the places I needed to be and I
got my tasks done. Better yet, I had
time to coach some junior enlisted soldiers about a few career matters involving
the uniform. I find it ironic as hell
that the majority of soldiers in the state guard are in their 40s and 50s—it’s
Title 32 militia, after all. Then here I
am, 25 years old, outranking dozens of people.
I guess I really have been in 7 years!
* * *
All photos used in this post are the property of the author.
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