January 18, 2023

I have a lot of respect for vegetarians. I’m just not ready to be one.

I would like to be a vegetarian because their diet harms no animals, and it does minimal harm to the planet. It’s also a healthy way of eating, but so is my omnivore diet. I almost never ingest beef, but I do occasionally eat pork, and I frequently enjoy chicken and fish. I don’t want to give up salmon, sardines, or turkey, but I’d like to be as virtuous as my vegetarian friends. I guess they’re more evolved than I am, at least in the food department.

I’ve read horror stories about how pigs, chickens, and cows are mistreated, and I wish all animals were treated humanely. But I still buy a deli chicken from Costco because it’s cheap and delicious. And when pork roast is on sale at Safeway or Lucky, I’ll buy two – one to eat now, and one to freeze for later.

This week I’ve been scarfing veggie burgers that I got on sale at Costco, and for several days now my meals have been 95% vegetarian. But sometimes I eat turkey burgers. And last week I chowed down on pepperoni pizza. If I was still a Catholic, maybe I’d have to confess my dietary sins to a priest. But maybe not – he might eat steak.

A few years ago I was in Hanoi, where I saw dogs being barbequed. I was disgusted. But I had to admit that my moral righteousness was hypocritical. Is my devouring bacon more virtuous than dining on canine ribs?

Although I consume a lot of vegetables, I never buy the organic versions because they’re too expensive. And GMO produce? It’s supposedly bad for the environment, but I eat it all the time. I love almonds, especially the salted smoky flavored ones, but growing them consumes vast amounts of water in the drought-stricken Central Valley.

At least I don’t eat McDonald’s hamburgers, which are partially responsible for the destruction of the Amazon rainforest, since loggers are clearing trees there to make way for cattle pastureland whose animal products they can sell to McDonalds. But I do drive an all-gasoline car, and when I travel I often fly. I’m contributing to climate change, though eventually I’ll get an electric car. But since overpopulation is a big part of climate change, I can console myself with the fact that I never added to that problem.

American Indians and other indigenous peoples probably had it right when their spiritual practices required that if they killed an animal or a plant, that they do so with respect and appreciation for the lifegiving qualities of those beings. In that sense, those peoples practiced mindfulness.

Am I willing to become a vegetarian to help save the planet? Not yet. But in the meantime, I’m working on becoming more aware of my habits and their consequences. You gotta start somewhere.

January 6, 2023

Today is the calm after a big storm yesterday and before the next one starts tomorrow. Flooding, downed trees, and power outages are all over northern California. Yesterday I drove through the storm to a dental office to have a root canal. Then I came home and talked to my mother who has a mild case of dementia.

Life is good.

I’m fortunate to have dental insurance. My mother is fortunate to have a husband and four kids who love and support her. I’m grateful to have a warm apartment with a beautiful view in a treehouse atop a hill where the redwoods could come crashing down on our house or my car. Two days ago a big tree did just that in the nearby town of Occidental, where a redwood fell through the roof of a living room and killed a two year old boy. A terrible loss for that family.

Life is good.

Every day I pray for peace, healing, and victory for the suffering people of Ukraine and for the defeat of Russia and authoritarian governments everywhere. I’m appalled by the political chaos in Washington, especially two years to the day after our country survived an attempted coup and overthrow of democracy by our former president, and I’m saddened by gun violence and mass migrations and the ongoing abuse of our planet.

Life is good.

I don’t pretend to understand what is going on with the evolution of the human race. There are those who believe that humanity is moving toward extinction as a result of our ignorance and self destruction, and maybe that’s true. But I don’t think so. Something tells me that we are on the verge of a big change in consciousness, an awakening to the reality that we humans need to learn to respect one another and work together to save our common home. I don’t believe in astrology, but maybe we really are at the dawning of the age of Aquarius, or something like it. It may be wishful thinking on my part, but as New York Times opinion writer Nicholas Kristof says in a recent column headline, “Cheer Up! The World Is Better Off Than You Think.” https://www.nytimes.com/2022/12/31/opinion/2022-good-news.html

Today I’m just grateful to have ibuprofen to take after my root canal, and I’m enjoying the swaying trees outside my windows even as I hope that the redwoods will stay right where they are. Tonight, if I still have power, I’ll call my mom and enjoy talking about nothing in particular.

Life is good.

December 8, 2022

I guess I wouldn’t make a very good extremist. I know it’s more fun to be self-righteous, because I’ve felt that way on occasion. But my difficulty with being moralistic is that I tend to see shades of gray in most arguments. That’s why I don’t feel comfortable with left wing or right wing culture warriors – their beliefs are often too dogmatic and judgmental for my taste.

Case in point – the question of diverse casting in TV shows and movies.

The argument in favor of including a variety of ethnicities, genders, sexual orientations, and physical abilities is that it allows all kinds of people to feel included in the story they’re watching, and it gives more opportunities for a greater array of actors to portray different kinds of characters.

The objection to that argument for some people is that the diverse actors sometimes don’t look like what that viewer expects the character to look like.

My view of this debate: I want to believe in the character that I’m watching, but whether or not I’m able to accept an actor’s performance depends not only on their acting ability, but also upon the story itself and whether or not that actor is credible in that role. Sean Penn was superb as the gay San Francisco politician Harvey Milk, even though Penn is not gay. I would not have accepted a female or disabled actor in that role, even if the actor did a great job. But I accepted a straight actor because his sexual orientation wasn’t obvious. Would I find Sean Penn convincing as Joan of Arc or Malcolm X? No.

A few nights ago I enjoyed once again the Civil War historical drama “Glory,” starring Denzel Washington as a black soldier fighting for the Union army. Washington’s performance was excellent. But some years ago I watched the Kenneth Branagh film “Much Ado About Nothing,” in which Washington played an Italian prince, and as skilled an actor as he is, I didn’t for one minute believe that he was a 16th century Italian nobleman.

And yet I saw the same play on TV recently in which the cast was all black, and I loved it. Not only was the acting outstanding, but since the play was set in contemporary times, they weren’t pretending to play European characters in Shakespeare’s era, so I was able to suspend my disbelief and simply enjoy the story.

I’m perfectly comfortable with diverse casting for stories set, say, in the 1960’s up to the present and into the future. For that reason, I’m fine with black, brown, or Asian actors in Star Wars, for example. But I just don’t believe tales set in the distant past if the producers try to impose 21st century casting values on cultures and narratives where current ideas of diversity didn’t exist. The play “Hamilton” would have been jarring to my sensibilities if the actor playing Thomas Jefferson had been the only non-white performer, but since almost all of the actors were black or brown, I wasn’t distracted by Jefferson’s race because the play made no pretense of being historically accurate; it’s casting, music, dancing, and lyrics were all contemporary.

But as a Tolkien fan, I was disappointed in the new TV series “The Rings of Power,” due to the politically correct decision to cast black and brown actors whose ethnicities were inappropriate for the story. The actors themselves did a good job, but they were not believable as inhabitants of a northern European Middle Earth. I felt like the producers were waving a red flag in my face, saying in effect, this is not a Europe of long ago, but rather is the United States in 2022. I did not believe a black elf or a black dwarf princess.

However, Tolkien did say that the Harfoots, the ancestors of the Hobbits, were “dark complected,” and so I would have been happy if all of the Harfoots had dark skin, suggesting that over thousands of years their skin colors changed hues. Instead, most of the Harfoots were white, with no explanation as to why some of them were black. The only explanation is that we are supposed to overlook the annoying inconsistency. Either make them all white, or all black, or all something, and if you’re going to make them look different from one another, give us a plausible accounting for that reality.

Unfortunately, some people who share my objection to inaccurate casting chose to not only invoke the dreaded “woke” accusation against the show, but went further by insulting and harassing the actors themselves. Many of those critics seem to be white nationalists who feel threatened by non-white cultures being increasingly represented in popular culture. Just as nasty were the lefty commentators who hurled the abhorrent insult “racist” against anyone, presumably including yours truly, who dared question the multicultural casting of an essentially white story.

I understand the desire to have more opportunities for all kinds of people to see themselves on television and in the movies. But in my view the best way to do that is to create new stories that reflect a greater human diversity, rather than try to force current social theories upon classic tales.

In the meantime, let’s let go of all the name-calling. To err is human, but to be tolerant is divine. I think I just made that up. But if you think it’s inauthentic, then maybe you’re a woke racist.

November 4, 2022

If you ever feel sorry for yourself, visit a prison. And if you have to live in a California prison, San Quentin is probably the best place to be.

I drove down to the penitentiary yesterday with my friend Jean, where we joined a tour group organized by our mutual friend Judy. It was my second visit to San Quentin, the notorious state prison located on the northern shore of San Francisco Bay. It’s a short distance from Alcatraz, the former federal prison on a nearby island in the bay.

Why is San Quentin infamous? Partly because some of its well known former inmates include cult leader and murderer Charles Manson, Black Panther leader Eldridge Cleaver (assault, rape, attempted murder), and Sirhan Sirhan, the assassin of Robert Kennedy. And partly because the prison has, since its 1852 founding at the end of the California Gold Rush, executed hundreds of prisoners, at first by hanging, then later in its gas chambers, and more recently by lethal injection.

Of the 3,263 men currently imprisoned at San Quentin, 456 are on Death Row, though there have been no executions since 2006. Although security is tight for the “condemned” – the Death Row inmates – the rest of the prison is classified as a Level 2 (medium security) facility. It makes you wonder what it would be like to live in a maximum security prison.

Our tour group had the opportunity to meet in the Catholic chapel with six inmates. We sat in pews, while the six men – three black, two white, one Latino – stood in a row on the steps of the altar, facing us. Behind them was a large crucifix, and either side of them were statues of Jesus and Mary.

The six “incarcerated” men (the term “convict” is frowned upon, for some reason) introduced themselves and told us why they were prisoners. Most, and possibly all of them, had murdered someone, although one guy claimed that he was innocent of the charge of conspiracy to murder that landed him in prison. But while the other five admitted their responsibility for their violent crimes, they all believe that “men are more than their crime,” as someone said. In other words, they are human beings who made mistakes, and they are redeemable.

As the six speakers answered questions from our tour group, it became obvious from their friendly and engaging personalities that there was a reason that these men were not handcuffed and were entrusted with being with us in the chapel and then accompanying us on our tour. Unlike many of the more hardened, dangerous inmates, these six are examples of those prisoners who are and have been willing and eager participants in the many self improvement opportunities that make San Quentin the special prison it has become.

One of the successful programs that the six are most grateful for is called GRIP (Guiding Rage Into Power). This training institute, founded in San Quentin in 2012 and now in four other California state prisons, has as its mission “to create the personal and systemic change to turn violence and suffering into opportunities for learning and healing.” They do that by teaching prisoners to control themselves, develop emotional intelligence, cultivate mindfulness, and learn empathy for their victims and the families of those victims. As one of our speakers said, the GRIP program “challenges the belief systems of toxic masculinity.” Another one added, “When you know better, you do better.” One of our tour group commented that these men are learning to turn self hate into self love.

The GRIP institute claims a success rate of 99.8%, with only two of its graduates returning to prison. GRIP students learn to heal the abuse, violence, traumas, and neglect that so many of them experienced as young people.

As my friend and tour companion Jean later commented, “I was impressed with the radical change possible if a person is interested in going in that direction, with just a year of weekly participatory instruction. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could have that in our middle schools/high schools?”

One reason I’ve visited San Quentin twice now is that the visits make me realize how fortunate I am to enjoy the freedom to go wherever and do whatever I please; the freedom to hike and travel and hang out with family and friends.

But another reason I’ve gone there is to unlock my heart toward fellow human beings who are dealing with way more stress and adversity than I’ll ever know. When I was younger my attitude toward criminals was harsh: lock ’em up and throw away the key. But meeting face to face with people who have committed murders has made me understand that, while I might not want to socialize with most of these guys, I have to respect the ones who are trying to improve, educate, and heal themselves.

I’m glad that they’re all in prison, but some – not all – of them deserve the chance to graduate from hell.

October 22, 2022

I commute to Guatemala a couple of times a week for my job. I don’t like going there – the poverty is depressing. But at least my Spanish has improved over the last nine years that I’ve been working there.

I should explain that although I did go to that Central American country over 30 years ago, the Guatemala that I’ve visited in recent years is located in wealthy Marin County. It’s known as the Canal district, so-called because many of its rundown apartment buildings in the city of San Rafael overlook a waterway that leads to San Francisco Bay. And the main drag is called Canal Street.

Most of the people I interview in that neighborhood are from Guatemala, although some are from Mexico or other Central American countries. Almost none of them are in this country legally, which is why there is irony in neighborhood signs that say “Ten cuidado con los coyotes” (Beware of coyotes). The signs are warning of the dangers of the wild animals, but coyote is also a slang term for the exploitive human traffickers that smuggle many of these residents across the border with Mexico.

I don’t like the dirty streets, the empty beer bottles, the lack of street parking due to way-overcrowded apartments. It reminds me of, well, Guatemala City, the ugly capital of that impoverished land. On the other hand, when I’m able to let go of my discomfort with the lack of cleanliness, I’m sometimes able to enjoy the ice cream pushcart hawkers ringing their bells, the fresh fruit vendors, the numerous charming little kids, the blaring music from apartments and cars, and the beautiful boats across the canal in the marina and at the Marin Yacht Club. Rich and poor, separated not by railroad tracks but by water.

Conducting a health survey is what brings me to the Canal barrio, and other social science research projects have caused me to work in more dangerous neighborhoods such as East Oakland, the Bayview Hunters Point neighborhood in San Francisco, and the south side of Chicago. In contrast, the Canal area feels safe to me, with children on bikes, single women, and families on the sidewalks day and night. I see almost no graffiti or signs of gang activity or crime, though in such a densely populated area there is bound to be some illicit activity. The people have been generally friendly and welcoming to me, even when I knock on their doors without an appointment. As an old white guy, my presence is a bit of a novelty to them, especially when they discover that I speak their language.

By world standards, the Canal area isn’t really a slum. I’ve seen a lot worse squalor in Mexico City, Managua, Sao Paulo, Casablanca, and Cairo, not to mention miserable living conditions in Indian cities such as Delhi, Bombay (Mumbai), and Varanasi. By comparison, the Guatemalans who have made it to Marin County are fortunate indeed.

But while I appreciate the hospitality and upwardly mobile progress of these hard working people, I must confess to feeling some unease about the sheer number of migrants crossing the border both legally and illegally. The U.S. seems to be the world’s largest importer of poverty, as if we didn’t already have enough underprivileged Americans to provide for. How can we possibly offer health care, housing, and education to millions of people from other countries when we already have such big problems with homelessness, racial and cultural tensions, and inadequate social services?

And we are not alone in dealing with the negative consequences of mass migration. Other developed countries such as Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and European nations are at risk of being overwhelmed by vast numbers of people escaping war, authoritarian governments, and climate change. Instead of bringing Third World countries up to the standards of wealthy nations, it seems that we are in danger of dragging North America and Europe down to the level of chaotic and impoverished societies.

Even though it often appears that the human race is determined to turn Planet Earth into a giant teeming slum, I occasionally find hope in a generosity of spirit that I seem to lack.

A couple of weeks ago I met a young man from Honduras – I’ll call him Alberto – who admitted to me that he had recently paid a coyote $22,000 to bring him across the border with Mexico. I asked him why he came to the U.S., when it would be easier and cheaper to go to the stable and relatively prosperous Central American countries of Costa Rica and Panama. He opened his wallet and showed me a $100 bill and said, “This is why I came here.” He can make far more money in the U.S. than anywhere else in Latin America. And he needs money to support his numerous younger siblings, because both his parents died of cancer, so he sends money back to Honduras to pay for the food, housing, and education of his brothers and sisters.

I don’t like it that Alberto and millions like him are coming here. But I don’t blame him for coming, and I greatly respect him for supporting his young family members.

The world may be going to hell in a handbasket, but at least one young man is doing his best to spread love and share abundance in his corner of the planet.

September 23, 2022

Jackson, Wyoming

Funny, the things you don’t think of when you’re sitting in the middle of a herd of bison.

I’ve been traveling for the last two weeks in the wide open spaces of Montana, Wyoming, and Alberta, visiting national parks and nearby places of historical significance having to do with American Indians. The scenery is sometimes wild and spectacular, and I’m so grateful to the National Park system and visionaries such as Horace Albright and Stephen Mather for preserving some of what is left of the natural beauty of this continent.

As appreciative as I’ve been of the grandeur of Waterton, Glacier, Yellowstone, and Grand Tetons national parks, I’ve also been saddened by the immense suffering experienced by the first inhabitants of this country as they faced invasion and extermination from immigrants from the eastern U.S. and from Europe.

At the Little Bighorn battlefield site in south central Montana, I marveled at the courage of Crazy Horse and Gall as they rushed to defend their Lakota and Cheyenne village from a genocidal attack by General Custer and the 7th Cavalry.

In Yellowstone and just east of it I followed part of the path of one of my boyhood heroes, Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce, where he led some 800 of his people from their homeland in Oregon through Idaho, Yellowstone, Wyoming, and Montana in an epic journey of sick, wounded, and exhausted men, women, and children fleeing relentless pursuit by the U.S. Army.

My sorrow has at times been intermixed with impatience and irritability at frequent road construction delays and inconsiderate drivers on crowded parks roads, and occasionally listening to the rantings on right wing radio stations in Montana and Wyoming. I also have a problem with some far left idealogues, but there don’t seem to be any of those in this part of the country.

Add to all of that my over-indulgence in news from Ukraine, and at times my negativity on this trip has felt overwhelming.

One bright spot in the news has been the coverage of the funeral of Queen Elizabeth, a woman I greatly admired for her sense of duty and service to her nation. And for 70 years! The pageantry, rituals, and elegance of her funeral remind us that a nation is nobler when it celebrates it shared identity rather than indulging in divisive tribalism.

At one point I got tired of indulging my own petty complaints and resentments and decided to listen to some uplifting music as I drove the sometimes clogged roads of Yellowstone. My 2004 Toyota Camry is one of the last models to have a cassette deck, so I was able to listen to a tape I had made of the movie version of the Broadway musical Man of La Mancha, starring Peter O’Toole as Don Quixote and Sophia Loren as his idealized lady, Dulcinea.

I love the music and the story of a man driven to madness by “man’s inhumanity to man.” Don Quixote’s solution is to become a knight errant, to right all wrongs, to follow the unreachable star of his impossible dream to make the world a better place. His glorious quest is intensely sincere and idealistic, but at the end of the movie, as he lays dying and disillusioned by his failure to fulfill his dream, Dulcinea reminds him that he taught her that it doesn’t matter if you win or lose, only that you do your best to follow your quest until you die.

In other words, intention is everything, along with a sincere effort.

It made me wonder whether it might be wiser for me to learn to make peace with the road construction delays, the selfish drivers, and yes, a delusional despot in Moscow and a would-be autocrat in Mar a Lago.

Which brings me to the bison herd.

I was driving from the northern part of Yellowstone, headed south past the Lamar Valley through gorgeous country, singing along with Man of La Mancha, when I encountered a large herd of bison coming toward me on the road. There is nothing unusual about bison on the roads in this park, and they often cause traffic jams as tourists like me slow down or stop to take their pictures. But this herd was quite large – hundreds and hundreds of buffalo, or bison as they are more accurately called – and all cars on my side of the highway were forced to come to a halt. It turned out that the herd was so large that it caused a backup of cars and trucks for several miles in the other direction, so a park vehicle was attempting to drive the herd up the highway and past my car. But a large truck behind me, unaware of the park ranger’s vehicle herding the animals, began impatiently blaring his loud horn hoping to drive the animals back in the direction of the park ranger’s truck. Trapped between the flashing lights of the ranger’s truck and the blaring horn of the trucker behind me, the bison started to panic and stampede.

Here I was, Don Quixote in a bison stampede, laughing delightedly as I snapped photos of running bulls and cows. My cares were gone, as I lived in the moment.

Eventually the trucker behind me saw the flashing lights of the ranger’s truck, realized that his horn blasts were counterproductive and stopped his angry trumpeting, thereby allowing the herd to calm down and move along their way.

I suppose I’ll always struggle with my inner demons, just as Don Quixote tilted at windmills and battled with imaginary sorcerers.

But was Dulcinea right when she reminded Don Quixote in the movie (not in the book) that it doesn’t matter whether you win or lose (the defense of Indian villages and lands, the war in Ukraine), only that you do what you can to follow your quest (for peace and harmony)? Is doing your best enough in a world gone mad? Are we ennobled by reaching for our unreachable star? Or does it lead to cynicism, frustration, and despair?

All I can do for now is try to stay positive for the remainder of my tour of the wild West. And that shouldn’t be too hard to do in this land of jagged, sculpted mountains, and blue rivers and lakes set among yellow meadows and valleys. But if I find myself getting cranky again, I’ll call upon my inner Don Quixote and my impossible dream, and sing my way back to California.

August 30, 2022

As I prepare to visit the Little Big Horn battlefield in Montana next week, I find myself wondering why I’m drawn to scenes of great violence.

I’ve never played video games, violent or otherwise, and I avoid crime stories on TV or in newspapers. But I’ve been fascinated by the war in Ukraine, and I loved the movie Top Gun: Maverick that I saw at a theater a few days ago.

Perhaps it’s the epic scale of war that intrigues me, with its strategies, tactics, and larger than life generals and heroics. High stakes, high drama, life and death struggles on a massive stage.

I also suspect that, consciously or unconsciously, large-scale conflict gives me the opportunity to be judgemental and opinionated about human behavior. Good vs. evil, writ large, lets me imagine how I’m superior to the bad guys and how I can look up to and emulate the good guys. Or maybe the word “guys” is operative here, since almost all warfare involves competition between men. Combat, real or imagined, might be a way for my psyche to act out masculine dramas. Quien sabe?

In any case, although I’m looking forward to September hiking in the magnificent Glacier, Yellowstone, and Grand Teton national parks in Montana and Wyoming, it’s the killing fields by the Little Big Horn River that capture my imagination the most. Ever since I was nine years old, the historic clash between Custer and Crazy Horse has exerted a magnetic pull upon my mind.

Interestingly, last week I interviewed a 16-year-old boy and his mother for the national health survey I’ve been working on for several years, and after the mother mentioned that her son enjoys reading history, I asked him what he thought about Custer’s Last Stand. He had never heard of General Custer or Crazy Horse. At first I was surprised by his response, but later, upon further reflection, it made sense. I grew up in the 1950’s and 1960’s, a time when TV and movie Westerns were a major cultural influence in this country, a time when boys played Cowboys and Indians. I don’t know what kinds of movies and TV shows boys watch these days, but I guess that my interest in the Old West is indicative of a generation gap in entertainment and history preferences. At least that 16-year-old’s interest in World War II shows that he and I share a red-blooded American male preference for tales of blood and thunder.

While many Americans used to see George Armstrong Custer as a romantic and brave soldier fighting courageously against overwhelming odds, when I was a boy and young man I hated him. To me at that time, Custer was a vainglorious egomaniac, an invader of Indian lands, a butcher of women and children. Crazy Horse and his fellow Lakota and Cheyenne warriors, on the other hand, were defending their large village camped on the banks of the Little Big Horn. In my view, there was nothing heroic about Custer’s 7th Cavalry attacking unarmed women, children, and old people, whereas there was nobility in the efforts of Crazy Horse and comrades to protect their families and people and defend their lands from invasion.

And yet…

The Lakota Sioux warriors were human beings, not paragons of virtue. As the most powerful tribe on the northern plains, they were feared and hated by their Crow, Shoshone, Mandan, and other Indian neighbors, much like the southern plains powerhouse Comanche empire was feared and hated by its Indian neighbors. It seems that human migrations almost always lead to conflict with the people already occupying the lands that the newcomers desire.

So while I offer no excuse for the aggressive behavior of Custer and the U.S. Army, the larger question is, is it possible for migrating peoples to get along with other cultures that they encounter, or is war or other conflict inevitable?

I leave a week from today on a road trip through the mountains and deserts of California, Nevada, Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, and Alberta. I hope to see grizzlies and wolves, though I hope they don’t see me. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll encounter the ghosts of Crazy Horse and Custer, and gain some understanding of and sympathy for the human condition and for the losses that can lead to compassion for suffering people everywhere.

If not, at least I’ll try a buffalo burger.

July 24, 2022

I never thought I’d work in a place where babies are sacrificed, Satan is worshiped, and a small group of billionaires secretly plot to rule the world. But hey – when you have to earn a living, sometimes you need to compromise your ideals.

Every summer for the past 12 years (except during the 2020 and 2021 pandemic) I’ve moonlighted as a food server (the politically correct, gender neutral term for waiter) at the Bohemian Grove, a 2700 acre private men’s club in a redwood forest on the Russian River here in Sonoma County.

But the annual Summer Encampment in July is no ordinary social gathering. It is an exclusive, secluded, storied assemblage of mostly wealthy and/or powerful men from the fields of business, politics, academia, entertainment and media, science, and the military. Originally conceived in 1872 as an association of bohemian writers and artists in San Francisco, early members and honorary members included writers Jack London, Mark Twain, Bret Harte, and Ambrose Bierce. But most of the bohemians did not enjoy the commercial success of London and Twain, and so to support the club financially, wealthy businessmen were invited to join the creative types. Now the rich and influential members outnumber the musician, actor, and singer associate members who perform for the regular members in exchange for reduced membership fees.

I feel obligated to respect the privacy of the members of the society, and so I will not reveal the names of some of the famous people I’ve seen there. However, it is well known that most recent Republican presidents have been members or honorary members, including Theodore Roosevelt, Herbert Hoover, Dwight Eisenhower, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, and George W. Bush. I don’t know if Donald Trump has ever been there, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he has. The most famous Democratic politicians to visit the Grove have been former Attorney General and Senator Robert Kennedy and former California governor Pat Brown. I will add that a few years ago I got into a staring contest with former Defense Secretary and architect of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars Donald Rumsfeld. I lost.

But the Bohemian Grove is not a political or business conclave. It is in my view a benign summer camp for mostly upper class white American men, though in recent years it has slowly added a few black, Asian, and Latino gentlemen, as well as visitors from other countries. Activities include sumptuous dinners and abundant drinking, variety shows, plays, lectures, concerts, sculpture exhibits, swimming, boating, canoeing, and skeet shooting. Because of the escapist, vacation orientation of the get-together, business and political networking is strongly discouraged. Hence the Bohemian motto, “Weaving spiders come not here,” from Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.

One oft-cited, supposed exception to that rule occurred in 1942, when a planning meeting was held in the Grove for the Manhattan Project that led to the development of the atomic bomb. But that little meeting of scientists was held in the Grove for reasons of wartime secrecy and security, and it occurred in September, not during the festive July Encampment.

A more accurate exception was in 1967, when Ronald Reagan reportedly promised Richard Nixon at the Encampment that he wouldn’t run against him for president if Nixon decided to run. But the Summer Encampment is almost always just a place to relax, have fun, and enjoy comradery with fellow club members.

That doesn’t stop right wing and left wing extremists from promoting their paranoid conspiracies about the Grove. One ultra conservative nut case has used the internet to proclaim that the Bohemian Club is part of a secret commission ruling the world. He adds that the Cremation of Care ceremony, a Druid-inspired ritual in which the worldly worries of the members are symbolically burned (not unlike the Burning Man ritual in the Nevada desert), is a sinister form of Satan worship where effigies of babies are sacrificed, and he speculates that real baby corpses might be used. I started to watch his 2 hour video expose of the Grove, but it was so stupid that I couldn’t justify wasting my time on such rubbish.

Besides, I’d rather focus on my experience of being an employee in a sometimes hectic, sometimes relaxed work environment in a magnificent forest of 200′ tall, thousand year old redwood trees. It’s an awe-inspiring backdrop for my inner dramas.

There are times, especially at night, when the Grove reminds me of the Elvish forest communities of Rivendell and Lothlorien in Lord of the Rings, or the magical woodland setting in Midsummer Night’s Dream. In the outdoor Dining Circle where I work, sunbeams stream through the redwood branches in the late afternoon, lighting up occasional clouds of gnats high up in the forest canopy. Dusk gives way to night, when metal candelabras illuminate the dozens of wooden picnic tables in a sea of candlelight shrouded overhead by the dark forest. In some of the nearby camps, lanterns emit a warm glow reminiscent of Buddhist temples I’ve visited in Japan. Laughter of young employees echoes through the wooded, fern-ringed Dining Circle.

And yet, dreamy paradise that it may be, human nature makes things…interesting.

On the surface, the Dining Circle is a harmoniously functioning beehive of a couple hundred red-coated servers, gray-coated bussers, white-coated kitchen staff with blue baseball caps, black-clad stewards (dishwashers), and khaki-wearing managers and interns. And 95% of the time the employees work smoothly as a team. But as in any workplace, especially a fast-paced and at times stressful one, personalities and expectations can collide.

I never thought I’d end up as a fascist waiter. But I have found that working as a food server sometimes brings out my inner autocrat.

I prize order, efficiency, good communication skills, and a conscientious attitude. Woe to any co-worker who fails to live up to my standards. I may or may not say anything to them out loud, but in my mind at least they are damned to perdition.

I’m not alone in my observations or feelings. A manager told me a few days ago that “Some young servers act like homeless, lard-ass zombies.”

In fairness, most of my co-workers do a good or at least decent job. In recent days I’ve had the pleasure of working with James and Ivan, two cheerful, hard-working young Latino men; Justin, a smiling, diligent young black man; and Elise, a bright, industrious young white woman. And a couple of days ago, two club members independently praised me for mentoring my young co-workers.

Even so, I’m sometimes disappointed in my silent impatience, judgementalism, controlling nature, territoriality, and anger toward my fellow human beings in our red server coats. So to compensate for my occasional hyper, driven, and complaining nature, I make it a point to praise and thank my table mates and anyone else I observe who is doing a good job.

Three nights ago I found myself saddled with a table partner who was incompetent, resistant to direction, and toward whom I felt resentment when she kept disappearing. At one point I found her hiding behind a redwood tree, trying to avoid working. After my shift I was still upset when I got home, but I knew I should let go of my resistance to the situation and try to practice forgiveness or at least compassion toward her and toward anyone who offends my sense of right and wrong. The next morning, I awakened with a healing and inspiring dream:

I was with my meditation group in a redwood forest in the hills of the nearby town of Occidental. Then I went for a walk alone in the forest where, to my astonishment, I saw a whale swimming slowly in a stream. The leviathan was mostly above the water line, and I could see one of its eyes as it moved gradually through the water, about a foot from the shore. It was so serene, swimming majestically through the middle of the redwoods. Then I saw a beautiful view through the trees of the Russian River and the Pacific Ocean. I felt so peaceful and happy.

I choose to interpret this archetypal dream as wise advice from my unconscious mind: to be like the whale, strong and serene, as I navigate my sometimes turbulent emotional waters in the Bohemian Grove.

We all have many opportunities for learning lessons about facing our shadow. I’m fortunate that one of my classrooms just happens to be a lovely redwood forest by the Russian River that leads to a nearby pacific sea.

June 30, 2022

When I found my old friend’s lifeless body lying on its side on his living room floor yesterday, I shed no tears. Instead, I was struck by his stillness, the coldness of his skin, the lack of any spark of energy and warmth that might suggest that Joseph was merely asleep.

I went to check up on him yesterday because he hadn’t returned my phone call, and when I called again a couple days later his message box was full – both signs of something amiss. While waiting for the owner of the apartment building to show up with a key to Joseph’s apartment, I chatted with Azami, the friendly and helpful apartment manager originally from Bangladesh. Azami lamented that families in Western societies don’t have their aged family members live with them, tacitly acknowledging that 78 year old Joseph was at times a lonely, isolated shut-in, with no car, limited physical mobility, and a widely scattered family. Old people in traditional societies like Bangladesh don’t live in nursing homes or alone in apartments, they live surrounded by multiple generations of family members.

Joseph would have thrived in a more communal setting, but that wasn’t an option. So he lived alone and made the best of it, never complaining, always happy to see or speak with friends and family.

At least our modern society ensured that his basic physical needs were met. As an Air Force veteran, he received free medical care through the Veterans Administration, and he lived in a decent, federally subsidized apartment. He had income from Social Security and a small pension, and he was provided with free dinners three times a week through Meals on Wheels. So in spite of his numerous ailments mostly caused by prior decades of smoking, he still managed to live far better than most people on this planet, and he was grateful for that good fortune.

I first met Joseph Grumich in 1969 in San Francisco, when he was 25 and I was 17 and we were both new recruits in what is now called Soka Gakkai International (SGI), a Japanese Buddhist movement. He was a short, cheerful, talkative, coffee drinking, cigarette smoking character who joyfully marched with me and other young men in the San Francisco Brass Band, a Buddhist marching band tasked with instilling religious zeal in its youthful members while we attempted to play instruments in Buddhist parades. Most of us couldn’t play our instruments worth a damn, but we made a lot of enthusiastic noise just as we did at our gung-ho proselytizing meetings. It took both of us several years to realize that we were in a Japanese cult, but after we left we both continued our daily Buddhist practice of chanting the mantra Nam Myoho Renge Kyo and reciting a portion of the Lotus Sutra. Joseph was proud of the fact that he never missed a day of chanting for 53 years, and he honored his commitment until the day he died.

As friends we were an odd couple. A few years ago I portrayed the fastidious, hyper-sensitive character Felix Ungar in a community theater production of Neil Simon’s play The Odd Couple, so I can say with some authority that Joseph played the part of the easygoing, careless Oscar Madison character quite well. At one point, while he was on his third marriage, and after he had five kids, I asked him why he continued to beget children when he was unemployed and his family was living in poverty. I was being judgmental, and he knew it, but instead of taking offence he joked “They (kids) just keep coming,” as if he had no say in the matter. I felt that he was being irresponsible, but his jovial personality was infectious, so I let go of my opinions and just let him be himself.

But being himself had consequences. After his third divorce he was homeless for several years. He never had to live on the street, though; he couch-surfed and also lived for a long time in a friend’s warehouse. So his positive spin on the matter was that he wasn’t homeless, he was houseless.

Our origins were quite different. I came from an educated, middle class Bay Area family, whereas Joseph was from St. Louis and a working class background – except that he didn’t like to work. He was frequently unemployed by choice, and when he “retired” many years ago, his numerous friends humorously asked him, “Retired – from what?”

And he did have many, many friends.

Why was Joseph so popular? Why did I remain friends with a guy who was so very different from my more focused, serious, opinionated self?

In a word, laughter.

In addition to being down to earth and unpretentious, Joseph had the gift of making people laugh. He didn’t take himself seriously, and his good-naturedness put people at ease. We had a mutual friend who much preferred Joseph’s company to mine, even though on paper this friend and I had more in common with each other than either of us had with Joseph. For this mutual friend, Joseph was simply more fun to hang out with.

Jolly Joseph joked about everything, including death, and refused to take it seriously. In 1971 he drove me in his VW bus to a memorial service for a young Buddhist woman who had been killed in a car crash. She was a good friend of his, and a former Catholic as he and I had been. But instead of wallowing in sadness, his natural irreverence expressed itself when he joked that his friend “Kathy died for your sins, Dave.” He would have been amused that I was the one who found his dead body, and would have found a way to find humor in the manner of his sudden passing.

He poked fun at my spiritual earnestness, saying at one point, “You’re like a dog worrying a bone.” He didn’t criticize my seriousness, he just laughed with me at it.

Joseph loved to hug people, and bear hugs were his specialty. He sang in Sebastopol’s Love Choir for more than 20 years, and what an appropriate name for someone who loved everybody and judged no one. He would usually end our in-person or phone or Facetime conversations by saying, “I love you, Dave,” or “I love you, buddy.” How rare for a man to say that to anyone, let alone another man. No wonder everyone loved Joseph, not only warts and all, but especially because his faults gave all of us permission to be more human.

So to my old friend the Laughing Buddha I say: Congratulations on a life well lived. I’m glad that you died for my sins, and I look forward to our reunion in Buddhist heaven, whatever the hell that is.

June 7, 2022

I like and respect Queen Elizabeth II. I love and respect my grandmother, Emma Flanagan Kenney. I don’t consider myself to be a feminist, and there are plenty of female politicians that I don’t care for. But I do suspect that the world would be less warlike and more compassionate if there were more women prime ministers and presidents.

Elizabeth has been in the news for the last few days because the United Kingdom just celebrated the platinum jubilee of her 70 years as monarch. She became queen when I was 5 days old, and now, at the age of 96, she’s shown stamina and resilience as a head of state, as a mother, and as a human being.

The queen herself is a unifying, gracious figure, both in real life and in the Netflix series The Crown, but the British monarchy remains controversial both in the U.K. and in many of its former colonies. It’s not so much the royal family that is resented, but rather the aftermath of the sometimes harsh oppression inflicted by the British Empire upon the people of its former colonies in Ireland, the U.S., the Caribbean, Africa, India, Malaysia, et al. We Americans got over our resentments a long time ago, but for other peoples the wounds are more fresh.

I don’t know how the cruelties of the British Empire compare to those of the empires of the Romans, Spanish, Germans, Russians, Chinese, Mongols, or Japanese, not to mention the American conquest of native peoples in this country or the aggressive territorial expansion of the Lakota and Comanche tribes at the expense of their fellow North American Indian neighbors. So rather than consider the pros and cons of imperial rule, I’d prefer to focus on individual leadership and character.

I can’t imagine having the same job for 70 years, let alone one in the glare of the public spotlight for that length of time. Elizabeth has managed to be a symbol of her country and an exemplar of continuity, dignity, and charm. No wonder she is revered by so many in her nation and abroad. And she played a powerful role in healing centuries of bitterness between England and Ireland during her state visit to that latter country in 2011. Her skillful, sensitive diplomacy endeared her to the Irish people, and to me.

My grandmother Emma was 100% Irish, as is my mother. I, alas, am only half Irish. My dad was a great guy, but his mix of English and German heritage was no match for the wilder, more fun-loving Irish. Think St. Patrick’s Day and Halloween – two Irish imports – and you get the idea. Emma once showed me how to do an Irish jig, and she laughed a lot. But like Elizabeth, she was also a reserved, elegant lady, and she took her role as family matriarch seriously.

Emma, like Elizabeth, was born into a wealthy family. But somewhere along the line Emma learned humility. Whether it was the result of her serious childhood health problems, or her deep Catholic faith, she didn’t let her family’s riches spoil her. As a child she asked her chauffeur to drop her off a block before her school so she could walk the rest of the way without flaunting her wealth in front of the other kids.

Money has its advantages, however. Through family connections she had a private audience at the Vatican with Pope Pius X in 1910, and in 1913 she and her father had tea at the White House with President Woodrow Wilson. But she was also captain of her college women’s basketball team, and in World War I was a first lieutenant in the U.S. Army.

Apparently she married my grandfather because he too was a good Catholic. But he was well beneath her social class, and her family disapproved. I don’t know whether she lost her inheritance for that reason, or in the 1929 stock market crash, but she raised her nine children during the Great Depression without the advantages of her former wealth and with little help from her alcoholic husband. She even got a part time job to pay for her kids’ music lessons and orthodontia. Yet I never heard her complain about my grandfather or her financial losses and struggles.

Our extended family gatherings at her home in Berkeley were filled with most of her nine kids and their spouses and her 28 grandchildren. But as in any family, royal or not, there were sometimes tensions beneath the surface. As a child and young adult I enjoyed spending Easter, Mothers Day, the 4th of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthdays at Gram’s house, but years later one of my aunts told me, “You and the other grandkids think your grandmother was a saint. And she was a great lady. But sometimes we felt pressured to attend family events, and we didn’t appreciate that.”

Queen Elizabeth is 96, and my grandmother also lived to be 96. Emma was mentally sharp until the day she died, and Elizabeth is following in her footsteps. Both women had privileged backgrounds, but they also had something more: a strong work ethic and a love for their families and countries. My grandmother died in 1991, but she’s still very much alive.

Long live the queens.