Author: michaelshainline

People give thanks to God when they experience good fortune.  But then do we need to resent God for accidents, diseases, and injustice?  I could resent God for the death of my sister at the age of four, my wife at the age of fifty-seven, wars between groups of people with differing customs and faiths, and the multitudes of children born with life-limiting disabilities.  But doesn’t it make more sense to admit to myself that there is no God who intervenes in the lives of humans?  Using God as a metaphor for joy, love, and wonderment is a beautiful, poetic practice, but it should not be confused with the fantasy of an anthropomorphic deity overseeing the workings of everything from the universe to our personal lives.  And we can’t let those who believe in that fantasy to impose their beliefs on the rest of us.  It’s time to be outspoken in our resistance to Christian Nationalism.

I’m not sure if I have every been deeply religious. I remember going through Catechism class in the Lutheran Church before I was “confirmed” as a young teenager. My friends and I would giggle and goof off while the minister recited standard questions about Christianity and the stock answers. As I approached adulthood I started considering myself an agnostic, because I didn’t want to flatly deny the existence of some form of supreme being. Later I admitted to myself that I was an atheist, in the sense that I did not believe in any form of theism that I had ever heard of. But for most of my adult life I have been happy to let others believe what they did without feeling the need to challenge them, unless they challenged my atheism first. But in the past few years my views have changed as I see the United States drifting toward a theocracy where I will be forced to live my life in accordance with the believes of fundamentalist Christians. As I hear songs this season about the miracle of the virgin birth and the resurrection, the walking on water, healings through the touching of hands, and the need to believe in Jesus as the son of God in order to live for eternity, I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the absurdity of these beliefs, especially the more I learn about the history of the Old Testament and the Gospels.

My Christian friends tell me that faith begins where science stops. They argue that science can only tell us so much about the nature of the universe, the origins of the Earth and the life it supports, and the interplay of the physical and the spiritual. But I am not sure what faith has to do with it. The universe is what it is, regardless of what we believe. The fact that we can’t know everything does not mean that we have to make up and cling to explanations for what is beyond our knowledge. Speculating about the unknown is human nature, and testing those speculations gives rise to the scientific method. But to dogmatically claim to know the unknown and to insist that others accept this dogma is dangerous, dishonest, and cruel.

Those who tell me that they have faith in God seem to come in two varieties: those who see God as loving and protective, and those who see God as vindictive and punitive. God is described in both these contradictory ways in the Bible. Both say that faith in their God is essential for life everlasting. When I argue that if God exists she (he, it) does not make herself (himself, itself) known to us. other than what has been “revealed” to us in the Bible. Of course, they would argue that they see God in the beauty of nature, the patterns of the seasons and the comings and goings of sunlight, and the many wonderful moments of joy they have known. But then they must admit (an admission that they hesitate to make) that God is also visible in earthquakes, hurricanes, fires, drought, famine, disease, war, and other tragedies. It seems to me that when they proclaim their faith in God they are really saying they have faith in the humans that made up the stories in the Old Testament and the Gospels, and that these people were not writing from their imaginations. I don’t have that faith, and neither does anyone who has studies the origins of these writings. I guess I have put my faith in modern scholars and scientists, rather than the authors of ancient texts.

As we face a country ruled by Christian Fundamentalists, it leads one to believe that many of the fables in the Bible were written for political reasons. Kings, pharaohs, priests, gurus and other religious leaders could more easily control their subjects if they convinced them that they were the ones through whom their followers could know God and avoid condemnation to Hell. So, they wrote parables and commandments that served their own interests. I’m afraid that we’re witnessing a return of that kind of con game today. I hope that sensible and ethical people will come together to resist this new reality.

In 2017 I developed a mild seizure disorder that is easily controlled with the right medication, at the right dosage. But for neurologists, finding the right prescription can involve some trial and error. The medications have some side effects, so doctors don’t want to overprescribe. After being seizure free for six years, my neurologist reduced my medication dosage by 50%. The result was that in September, 2023, I experienced a partial complex seizure (formerly known as petit mal or absence seizures). This is a topic for a separate post, but when my neurologist put me back on my previous dose he asked me to refrain from driving for three months to make sure that the seizures were once again under control. While waiting out these three months I entertained myself by spending hours walking through the neighborhoods of northwest Denver.

My period of long walks coincided with an influx of Venezuelan refugees into Denver. These people were escaping economic crises, political turmoil, and social unrest in Venezuela, and were hoping to rebuild their lives. Denver had established a shelter near North High School, about a mile from my house. In spite of the shelter having been established by Mayor Mike Johnston and the City Council, many refugees were forced to live on the streets in encampments, enduring the coldest weather they had ever experienced, awaiting work permits so they could establish new lives in what they assumed to be a free and welcoming United States – a free and welcoming United States where new opportunities would exist. In September, October, and November of 2023 I encountered many of these people during my walks, and with my very limited Spanish I sometimes tried to strike up conversations with them. Often these were young men out on the streets who asked if I had any work for them. They were willing to do landscaping, construction, household repairs, auto repairs, housekeeping, or any other type of legitimate work to earn enough to feed themselves. I came across many young women with children, too. Their situations were heartbreaking.

Donald Trump and his MAGA supporters are portraying Venezuelan immigrants as criminals, when the truth is the vast majority of them are here to flee the conditions resulting from the regime of Nicolás Maduro, a dictator who was voted out of office recently but refused to relinquish power. There are many parallels between Maduro and Trump. We have to keep in mind why refugees from Central and South America come here to being with. The vast majority of them are seeking opportunities to work, support themselves and their families, and contribute to the American economy if they are given the chance. Trump has promised to deport them if he is elected, but we have to remember that they have no place to go if they are sent back to their countries of origin.

Many observers argue, though it is disputed by others, that Trump’s economic sanctions against Venezuela, imposed against the advice of the United Nations, have contributed to Venezuela’s economic crisis, while increasing disease and mortality in the country. Whether or not Trump shares some of the blame for conditions in Venezuela, it is clear that refugees in the United States would have no place in their home country if they were deported. And it is not likely that they would be welcomed in Mexico or any other country south of our border either. The United States, being the richest economy in the world, is probably the only country in the Western Hemisphere that can afford to shelter and assist these unfortunate humans. Yet Trump and his MAGA supporters continue to malign and disparage these people and portray them as criminals.

We can’t be sure what motivated Trump and other world leaders to impose sanctions on Venezuela, and to be sure Trump is not the only American politician to support sanctions in one form or another. But was the intention of these sanctions to create better living conditions for the Venezuelan people, or was it politically motivated to further facilitate the collapse of a country that, under Socialist leadership and vast petroleum reserves, had once prospered? As an aside, despite his publicly condemning Maduro, Trump must admire Maduro for his success in holding on to power despite having been voted out of office by a large majority. Regardless, the sanctions have contributed to the collapse of Venezuela’s economic and social structure, and have led to the influx of immigrants into our country.

Rather than punishing countries like Venezuela and then disingenuously vilifying the victims of that punishment who have fled to the United States, shouldn’t we devise strategies to help those countries prosper so that their citizens wouldn’t have to emigrate in the first place? Surely the wealthiest nation in the world is in a position to do this, while at the same time helping make the lives of refugees here less painful. I am reminded of the opening words from Lincoln in his Gettysburg address. Although we have yet to live up to our founding fathers’ words, Lincoln reminded us that the United States was “conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men [shouldn’t this mean women and peoples of other countries, too?] are created equal.” I hope we have not given up on striving to make this vision a reality.

Following the assassination attempt against him on July 13th, Donald Trump posted to social media that “It was God alone who prevented the unthinkable from happening.” It is assumed that he meant God intervened to prevent the assassin’s bullet from striking a fatal blow to him.  I didn’t find any record of his being questioned about this statement, but I imagined what kind of dialogue might have ensued, had he been.

Trump: “It was God alone who prevented the unthinkable from happening.”

Interviewer: “Are you saying that God changed the course of the bullets that left the would-be assassin’s gun?”

Trump: “It was God alone who prevented the unthinkable from happening.”

Interviewer: “If God did prevent the bullets from inflicting a fatal strike to you, then he must be responsible for the people who took the direct hits from the shots that were intended for you.”

Trump: “It was God alone . . .”

Interviewer: “If God could stop the bullets from hitting their target, why couldn’t God have stopped them from being fired in the first place?”

Trump: “It was God . . .”

Interviewer: “Perhaps God could have kept that young man from picking up the gun to begin with.  Or maybe God could have stopped him from even planning to be anywhere near the rally.”

Trump: “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Interviewer: “Couldn’t God have stopped that young man’s father from ever purchasing the assault rifle, or seen to it that previous efforts to make illegal the purchase of assault rifles in Pennsylvania had been successful?

Trump: “We don’t know the mind of God.”

Interviewer: “Well, apparently you think you do, since you state that God alone prevented the unthinkable from happening.”

Trump: “That’s just the kind of statement I’d expect from the liberal, Godless, Fascist, Communist, free-speech-hating anti-American media.  After I’m elected that talk will no longer be tolerated, and you’ll have a steep, steep price to pay.

Interviewer: “Thank you for clarifying your position and your statement, Mr. Trump.

• Life begins at birth
• No, life begins when a fetus is viable outside the womb
• No, life begins at the detection of a fetal heartbeat
• No, life begins at natural biological conception
• No, life begins with in vitro fertilization
• Since we know (many believe, anyway) that sex is only for reproduction, we must also consider these concepts:
• No, life begins at contact between sperm and ovum (regardless of fertilization)
• No, life begins at coital penetration (regardless of ejaculation)
• No, life begins at genital contact (manual, oral, mechanical, or otherwise)
• No, life begins with heavy petting.
• No, life begins at arousal
• No, life begins at feelings of attraction
• No, life begins at the passing of notes across the aisle in fifth grade

Any argument can be taken to absurd extremes, and it appears that many of our nation’s courts are willing to do just that for political purposes, or perhaps to try to gain favor with their personal concept of a deity.

I’ve been listening to a radio broadcast about Mitt Romney on which Romney said his actions as a Senator were motivated by “an oath I took before God.” When I heard him say this I had to admire him for being true to his values. Unlike most Republicans today, I don’t think Romney is a hypocrite. But at the same time, his statement implies that he acts the way he does because in the end he believes his life and his actions will be judged by God. But our actions and our decisions have immediate consequences. Do religious people really base all their decisions on the promise of an eternal reward in paradise? Don’t honesty, justice, kindness, and charity exist independent of a supreme being? Don’t humans have enough common sense to know how to act in ways that serve the greater good here on Earth while we’re alive, without consideration of a payoff in the afterlife?

According to Exodus, God gave Moses the Ten Commandments to share with the Israelites after God had helped them escape from Pharaoh and the Egyptians (subsequent to God’s hardening Pharoah’s heart and sending plagues upon the Egyptians). But only Moses was permitted to meet with God, who promised death to any who set eyes on his face, or even ventured above the boundary he had set at the foot of Mt. Sinai. This is strange behavior for a loving and benevolent God, and forced Moses’ followers to trust him that the words he was sharing were actually the words of God. This isn’t so different from Evangelical preachers today who tell their congregations that God speaks directly to them, telling them what he wants the congregants to know, to believe, and to do. Perhaps Moses used his own judgment to devise the rules he wanted the Israelites to follow, but didn’t trust that they would be adhered to without the threat of divine punishment. Maybe Moses made up the whole story about God on the top of Mt. Sinai for this purpose. I know I am skeptical when I hear tele-evangelists relate the messages they have heard directly from God.

The Ten Commandments that Moses brought down from Mt. Sinai might be divided into three groups. Four of them – Don’t kill, don’t steal, don’t lie, and don’t wish for what belongs to others – are practical rules that allow people to live in a peaceful, orderly society. I’ll call these the “Ethical Laws.” Three of them – I’m you’re only God, don’t create idols to worship, and don’t use my name in vain (this one is open to interpretation and will be discussed later) – don’t seem to have much to do with a civil society, but rather seem to cater to an egotistical, anthropomorphic deity. I’ll call these the “Loyalty Laws.” The final three – Don’t commit adultery, honor your parents, and remember the sabbath – could be interpreted as having more to do with culture, customs, and ceremony. I’ll call these the “Customs Laws.” To the extent that the last three overlap with the concepts of honesty, justice, kindness, or charity, or facilitate a peaceful orderly society, I would argue that the first four already have these covered.

I don’t think we need the threat of God’s judgment to know that we all make the world a better place when we refrain from killing, stealing, lying, and acting in an envious manner. Religious and non-religious people alike value high ethical and moral standards, and the actions of people like Donald Trump, Marjorie Taylor Greene, Lauren Boebert, Matt Goetz, Jim Jordan, Rudy Giuliani, Ted Cruz, Paul Gosar, Josh Harder, Mike Johnson, and Tommy Tuberville demonstrate that proclaiming a religious devotion does not exempt one from dishonesty and hypocrisy. Please feel free to add your own hypocrites to this list.

Today’s evangelical Christians in positions of power seem to violate the “Ethical Laws” so frequently and publicly that I was wondering if, unlike Romney, they either never took an oath with God or else don’t take that oath seriously. But lately I’ve come to realize that for them the “Ethical Laws” don’t really matter as long as they adhere to the “Loyalty Laws.” If one declares religious faith loudly enough, publicly enough, and often enough, then honesty, justice, kindness, and charity don’t matter. God will be flattered, forgive ethical sins, and reward those who praise him with admission to Heaven.

My maternal grandfather was a fundamentalist Lutheran minister in rural Pennsylvania. He and my grandmother taught my sisters, my cousins and me that the spirit of Jesus was always present and knew our every thought and action. I was six years old in 1956 when my four-year-old sister died from influenza. I remember my grandmother trying to comfort me by saying that she was so special that Jesus had called her up to Heaven to be by his side. I resented this nonsensical rationalization of death, and wondered if my grandmother really believed it. I know my mother did not. My mother later left the Lutheran church and became a Unitarian, where the “Ethical Laws” were all important but the “Loyalty Laws” mattered not at all to the clergy and the congregation. My father remained active in the men’s Bible study group at the Lutheran church, and later had me go through Catechism class and confirmation, but my path toward agnosticism had been set many years earlier. I remember being reprimanded in Catechism class for my less-than-serious attitude. My father and I never joined a church again after we moved to California when I was fifteen.

One cannot think about today’s practicing Christians without wondering about the various forms of worship and celebration there might be, the ways in which people people find strength from their faith, and the things that inspire them to believe. The Merriam-Webster dictionary offers three definitions of the word “faith”: 1 – allegiance to duty or a person; 2 – belief and trust in and loyalty to God; and 3 – firm belief in something for which there is no proof. Since atheists and agnostics don’t see any proof of the existence of God, they would see no difference between definition #2 and definition #3. So without empirical evidence of God, belief itself must provide strength and inspiration for the religious. When we see a sunrise we know that there is no golden orb tethered to the hand of God that he mystically lifts above the horizon, yet the faithful see the handiwork of God in every movement of nature. When some of us get news from the doctor that our potentially terminal disease has gone into remission, we are grateful to medical science, the efforts or our medical team, and our good luck. Others will declare that they have been blessed by God and praise his goodness and mercy. These people probably are not thinking of why their God has forsaken someone else who just saw the same doctor for the same condition and was told they only had a matter of weeks to live. Or they might simply say, “God works in mysterious ways.” Saying that God works in mysterious ways is the line that always emerges in the face of contradictory evidence for faith.

Faith in Christianity and the expression of that faith comes in many forms. People like our new Speaker of the House, Mike Johnson, is said to be a Creationist, which means he takes the account of God’s creating Heaven and Earth, day and night, etc. in six days and resting on the seventh, literally. Others consider the stories in the bible to be nice parables, and gain inspiration from the words of Jesus, without having to believe in the virgin birth, the resurrection, or the promise of eternal life. Still others enjoy a lively, emotional celebration or simply enjoy the comfort of belonging to a congregation, hearing music on Sunday, singing in a choir, or listening to an intelligent, thoughtful, inspiring sermon. I assume that the majority of practicing Christians fall somewhere in between, not believing the literal creationist stories, but believing that there is salvation through believe in Jesus Christ and following his teachings. But honestly, I have no way of knowing this for sure, and I think it would be hard to honestly survey a representative sample of Americans to find out their true religious beliefs. I suspect that many individual’s beliefs are not fixed, either, but can change from day to day. Suffering and grief are powerful factors that keep people tied to a belief in Heaven. If one has lived an impoverished life or experienced chronic illness and pain, why not hope for a reward beyond Earth. And if one has suffered the loss of a loved one, the thought of being reunited with that person beyond the grave can be comforting. On the other hand, there are people who have died before us who have made our lives miserable on Earth. Will we have to suffer them when we encounter them again after we die? The thought of life everlasting itself can be frightening. I imagine a cartoon of a soul in Heaven sitting on a curb with his head in his hands and a choir of angels and a band of trumpeters behind him as he says, “Dear God, is there no end to this eternal basking in glory?”

If God does work in mysterious ways, who are we to assume that our good fortune, or bad fortune, have anything to do with those mysterious ways? My disbelieving self until recently was content to let the religious hang on to their faith unchallenged. When my non- belief was confronted by one of the faithful, my response was usually, “I’m glad you have your faith, but it just doesn’t work for me.” But lately I’m more likely to push back a little harder, depending on why someone might be wanting to interrogate me on religion. As an increasing number of politicians propose and even pass legislation that imposes Biblical law that has nothing to do with “Ethical Laws” on the American people, I believe it is time for people like me, who have politely kept their doubtful views to themselves, to speak up. If we were all more outspoken, I think we’d find that there are a lot more people than we assume who don’t buy into the Christian point of view (or any other fundamentalist view).

If closet non-religious people are more prevalent than the general public thinks, we should ponder why they remain closeted. People who run for office must believe that, unless they come from the most progressive of districts, they can’t get elected if they don’t have some kind of religious affiliation. Other religious skeptics fear that many Christians equate religiosity with morality, and fear that they will be viewed suspiciously, even thought to be immoral, if they deny religion. Others may hold on to the slightest superstition, thinking that even though the virgin birth, the miracles, the resurrection, and the promise of life everlasting don’t make much sense, just in case the threat of Hell is real they will not declare their doubts. Still others may say they don’t believe in any conventional religion, but they just can’t comprehend nothingness. Of course agnosticism and atheism are not synonymous with nothingness. Religious skeptics are open to the infinite mysteries of the universe. The more science learns about the origins of the universe, the solar system, our planet, and life on our planet, the more we realize how much greater the mystery really is. If there were a deity responsible for creating all this, it would be an insult to conceive of him as the anthropomorphic being described in Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Etc. In some ways, I like the approach Iris DeMent has taking in her song, “Let The Mystery Be,” of which there are many recorded versions. Of course, this doesn’t mean we should suspend our scientific inquiries, but we need to refrain from imposing simplistic, superstitious, disproven explanations on the American people.

I said I would discuss more about God imploring Moses to forbid the Israelites from taking his name in vain. Exodus 20:7 says, “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in Vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.” I was raised to believe that this meant using the word “God” in a curse, such as saying “God Damn It,” a frequent utterance from my father. Now I believe that to be a trivial interpretation of that commandment, and I think that most conservative Christian politicians and Christian nationalists violate this commandment all the time. My interpretation is that to use God’s name in vain is to say you are speaking or acting on behalf of God when in fact you are acting in pure self interest, or using God’s name to deceive, manipulate, mislead, scare, or anger people. When these people tout their own righteousness, assert the godlessness of their opponents, tell you what God wants for our country, or that their actions are motivated by a deep faith, they are using God’s name in vain. They do not exist any closer to God, or have any greater insight into God’s will than you or I do when we ask ourselves how an honest, just, kind, and generous person should act. And since their behavior leads me to believe that honesty, justice, kindness, and generosity are not values they honor, I believe their every actions are acts of vanity. And yes, I am talking about the likes of Donald Trump, Marjorie Taylor Greene, Lauren Boebert, Matt Goetz, Jim Jordan, Rudy Giuliani, Ted Cruz, Paul Gosar, Josh Harder, Mike Johnson, and Tommy Tuberville. It would be easy to add another fifty or sixty names to this list.

“Don’t Tread On Me” has become the pet slogan of the 2nd Amendment zealots. In my neck of the woods I see lots of pickup trucks with this phrase printed on a yellow decal with a coiled rattlesnake. This is often next to another sticker that says something like, “When you come for mine, you better have yours.” The right wing has done a good job of convincing its followers inaccurately that sensible gun laws would mean all guns would be outlawed. But is America now facing a real, and quite different threat from the Christian Nationalist movement? Women are losing the right to control their own reproductive organs. Books in our libraries and schools are being banned. Scientific subjects that contradict biblical accounts of creation are being called into question. Funding for secular public schools is being cut. Laws are being proposed that would make it a crime for two consenting adults to engage in a loving relationship. These changes are based on a misunderstanding and misreading of a single book compiled from many writings over a long, long time to which divine origins are wrongly attributed. As a non-religious person with progressive political views, I feel as though a new wave of conservative politicians are treading on me, and sadly, people like me are too naive, trusting, and polite to recognize it, admit it, and speak out against it. We are not doing enough to ensure that in a democratic way, it goes no further than it already has.

The “God” that these Christian Nationalists claim to bow to, and the one of which I am declaring my skepticism, is the one that has many contradictory profiles in the Bible. But even the most confirmed atheist must concede that we are governed by higher powers. If we think of these powers as godlike, then, speaking for myself, I took an oath before a concept of god on the day I was born. In accepting life I accepted the gravity that keeps me tethered to my planet. I accepted the oxygen that fuels my muscles and my brain. I accepted the cycles of seasons and days, of rain and sunshine, of bounty and famine. I accepted the need for water and nutrition, and I accepted the temperature limits outside of which I could not survive. I did not have to acknowledge these things, for by simply living I was making good on this oath. There is no promise that our Earth will sustain life forever. We know it won’t. But human behavior is increasing the odds that the Earth will be less able to sustain life in a matter of generations, rather than in a matter of ages, epochs, or periods of time.

I hope that people who share a concern for our planet’s ability to sustain life recognize the unspoken oath we have taken, and the responsibility that places on us. We have to oppose laws and values that don’t recognize, and in fact even deny this responsibility. We must support each other in standing for the values of honesty, justice, kindness, and charity, and oppose those who want to govern us based on an archaic vision of God. If fundamentalists want to believe in a literal interpretation of the Bible, let them do so. But they do not have the right to transform our country into one that conforms to their views, or oppressively subjects America’s citizens to their views.

Walking Through the Neighborhood in Mid October

Today in Denver on October 17th at 3:00 pm the temperature is 82 degrees. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and I just finished a two-mile round trip walk to the grocery store. I haven’t been driving since September 9th due to a medical condition. This has given me the chance to do a lot of walking around my neighborhood, making observations as I wander and wonder, and reflecting on those observations. First, I’ll offer some background on my medical condition.

I wonder, when I tell people that I can’t drive for three months due to a medical condition, if they don’t suspect that I have actually had my license suspended for driving under the influence. This is not the case. You might have seen a report in the news of Mitch McConnell having a brief spell of perhaps thirty seconds when he was addressing the senate and became unresponsive. When I saw this I speculated that he was having an absence seizure, or what my doctors later called a complex partial seizure. I see these also referred to as focal impaired awareness seizures or focal onset impaired awareness seizures. Neurologists are less poetic than we are. We call this behavior spacing out. My first episode happened in March of 2017, when I was playing music with a friend. We had agreed that we were going to cover a handful of songs, including Greg Allman’s “Melissa.” When I told her I thought we should do that song next, she told me that we just finished it, and that for twenty or thirty seconds after we finished she could not get me to respond to her. When she told me this, I thought maybe I remembered doing the song, but I wasn’t sure. It was concerning enough that I called my doctor who said if it happened again I would undergo a neurological evaluation. Sure enough, in September, while out to breakfast with a friend, she told me that I experienced another similar episode. After a battery of tests including CT scans and MRIs which found nothing, I was prescribed anti-epileptic medication that successfully kept me seizure-free for six years. When I started that regimen I was told to avoid driving and other potentially dangerous situations for three months to ensure that the medication was effective.

In the late spring of 2023 after asking my neurologist about some side effect to the medication, he decided to reduce my dosage. I was already on a low dose of Zonisamide (150 mg per day) which was lowered gradually to 100 mg per day. I have read that a more typical dose is 300 to 400 mg per day. Regardless, on September 9th I was at a music party where some of us were performing live sets of music. I apparently had another event, my only one in over six years, after doing my second of four planned songs. I didn’t know this had happened until my female friend said she had to reorient me after the second song to “restart” me on my third song. When I told my neurologist about this he put me back on the higher dose and told me not to drive for three months to make sure the higher dose was sufficient to keep me seizure free.

On Saturday, October 21st it will have been (was) six weeks since I returned to the higher dose, and so far, so good. I had some strange side effects for the first two or three weeks after going back to the higher dose, but now I don’t really notice anything. I might try to describe those in a separate post, since they do make me wonder about the workings of the human mind. But I really want to write about what life’s been like without driving.

My woman friend, Ruth, and I had been planning for a year, since we made the trip last September, to go to the Walnut Valley Music Festival in Winfield, Kansas starting on September 13th. I decided to cancel this trip after talking to Ruth. Neither of us thought it a good idea to have her do all the driving, or to have me be away from home while adjusting to a change in medication. This was a big disappointment since there were several performers we looked forward to seeing, and we had hoped to meet up with good friends from New Mexico. I took advantage of staying in town during that time to take the bus to a local Kaiser medical office to get a flu shot. I checked out the route and saw that it was a short bus ride on one line going south and then another short ride on a different line going west. I assumed that any westbound bus that came along Alameda would be one that would pass the medical office, so I took the first one. It diverted south a few blocks after I got on and kept going, taking me several miles out of my way. By the time I got off I was facing a long walk to get back to a point where I could catch a different line that would get me close to my destination. Upon closer inspection, I saw that Google Maps shows the bus line numbers that take you where you want to go. I had not made note of these numbers, but did so on my return home. All in all, I kind of enjoyed the adventure of taking the bus, and had to laugh at myself for not planning better. This experience did make me realize how much less independence people have who must rely on public transportation. In Denver, which probably has better service than many cities, routes are limited, buses and trains don’t always run on schedule, and there can be long waits for vehicles to show up. Those of us with automobiles are spoiled by the luxury of being able to come and go as we please.

Although the doctor did not mention cycling, common sense says that if one should not drive due to the risk of a seizure, one should also refrain from riding a bike in traffic. But, as I sat on my indoor trainer for the fourth or fifth time in less than two weeks, I began to rationalize that a driver who has a seizure is a danger to others as well as himself, whereas a cyclist who has a seizure is likely only a danger to himself. I concluded that I could pick routes to ride along bike trails and on back streets that were not heavily travelled and resume riding outside. This has helped my mental health, since I now allow myself to resume my outdoor rides.

Taking a Break in the Mountains

Ruth is like I am in that she loves the mountains, the outdoors in general, and simply getting out and walking. She picked me up one day and drove us to Staunton Ranch State Park southwest on Denver for a six or seven mile hike amidst the changing aspen leaves. We’ve also taken some long, directionless walks through my very interesting neighborhood. I won’t write any more about our hike, but below this picture is a link to some other photos I took.

https://michaelshainline.com/staunton-ranch-state-park-hike-october-9-2023/

My Changing Neighborhood

My neighborhood is in northwest Denver, near the intersection of 23rd Avenue and Federal Boulevard. My sense is that it is a part of the city that has always been changing, but I’ve seen a lot of transition in the more than twelve years I’ve lived here. The area is often referred to as the Highlands, with smaller sections some call Lo Hi (Lower Highlands) and Slo Hi (Sloan’s Lake Highlands). Adjacent neighborhoods include Berkeley and Jefferson Park. A few blocks have been designated the Witter-Cofield Historical District. City of Denver documentation describes the area thusly:

The Witter-Cofield neighborhood, once in the town of Highlands, is a streetcar suburb with an eclectic mixture of homes built predominantly from 1880 through the early 1940s. To a greater extent than other residential areas of its time, Witter-Cofield housed a mixture of Denver’s wealthy, upper middle and working class citizens. It’s not uncommon to see a large, ornate Queen Anne style residence adjacent to a cluster of simple Victorian, pyramidal cottages and early 20th century row homes. Queen Anne is the predominant style of architectural; however, scattered examples of Denver Square and bungalow homes are found, often with Classical or Craftsman detailing. Dutch colonial style and other early 20th century revival styles are also found in the district.

The above description applies accurately to the area bounded by 25th Avenue to the north, 21st Avenue to the South, Irving Avenue to the west, and Federal Blvd. to the east. This district falls under regulations intended to preserve the period character of the structures as much as possible. The further one strays from these boundaries, especially to the south and to the west, the less one sees Queen Anne and Victorian architecture, and the more one sees new duplexes and multiplexes having been built on lots where Denver Squares and bungalows have been cleared from expensive real estate.

Below are two examples of Queen Anne- / Victorian-style homes in the blocks near where I live.

Many of the Queen Anne and Victorian homes are well preserved and maintained, while others are in need of repair, and still others are no longer structurally sound. I’m not sure what mandates are placed on property owners whose structures are unstable. In my walks around the neighborhood I see some abandoned homes that appear to be near collapse, and others in various stages of restoration. Outside of the designated historical district, I don’t think there are any regulations preventing the sale and demolition of older Denver Square, bungalow, cottage, and row homes, but between 21st and 25th Avenues I haven’t noticed the demolition of any Queen Anne- or Victorian-style homes. It would be a tragedy to see any of them brought down, but at the same time I can only imagine the expense required to maintain them at modern standards of comfort, safety, and efficiency.

In early 2011, when I first moved into this part of town, the area east of Irving and south of 20th avenue bordered by Colfax Ave. on the south and Federal Blvd. on the east was almost all bungalows and row houses. My assumption is that they were owned by people who did not live in the neighborhood, but they were affordable to working class renters. In 2011 there was still a housing slump, but that rapidly changed, and within a few years property values doubled and even tripled in the area. Since I’ve lived here I’ve watched the bungalows and row houses get scraped from their lots as the properties are sold to developers for the price on the land. In place of the former affordable rental properties multiplexes have sprung up. Some call these structures slot apartments because of the way they’re places over alleyways with carports or single garages on the ground floor and six or more two- or three-story units lined up in a long, narrow row. North of 20th avenue, based on what I observe, the zoning allows for single homes and duplexes, but virtually all the new construction consists of duplexes like the structure pictured above. South of 20th avenue almost all the new construction consists of multiplexes of six or more units in a single structure.

After seeing all the changes taking place in my neighborhood I wrote a song about them, which I was lucky enough to perform, along with Ruth Price, at the Walnut Valley Music Festival several years ago.

My East Bay Subdivision

The subdivision I live in doesn’t conform to any of the characteristics I’ve described so far. It’s called East Bay, and was developed in 1995 on the property that once housed the Jewish National Home for Asthmatic Children at Denver. This center was later renamed simply the National Asthma Center, and was a national residential treatment facility for children with intractable asthma, as well as a research facility. The campus where East Bay now sits was sold in 1981, so I’m not sure of the history of the the property between then and 1995 when the houses were completed.

The development consists of five or six blocks of probably 75 to 100 individual homes, all built in a similar style. Each home has a pitched roof, front porch, rear garage with alley access, basement, and a main and second second floor. All the homes have wood siding and might remind some of New England architecture. Casual observation from the outside would lead one to believe that there are four or five basic floor plan variations, with at least three plans somewhat derivative (at least with regard to the interior) of the Denver Square, but lacking the little window peeking out from the center of a pyramid-shaped roof, as well as other external characteristics.

When my wife and I moved to Denver we rented an apartment in the southeast part of town while we looked for a home. In 2010 there was a housing slump which meant we listed our home in Albuquerque for less than we had paid for it about six year previously. We didn’t want to buy a house in Denver for more than we were going get for the Albuquerque house, and even though Denver was also in a slump, we were prepared to downsize. One day we rode our bicycles from our apartment to Confluence Park along the Cherry Creek Trail, and as we were wondering where to go next someone suggested taking the short incline up 23rd avenue and heading west to Sloan’s Lake. We had no idea that there was a lake there, but the ride took us just two blocks north of the upper edge of East Bay, and we decided we wanted to explore home options in this part of town. It didn’t take us long, though, to decide that we didn’t want to pay that much for a home, even though we looked at one that we really liked in East Bay.

We spent another few weeks looking at homes in the suburbs and were ready to close on a house in a newer development in the northeast part of town, but discovered some plumbing issues on our final walkthrough. We told ourselves we didn’t want that house anyway, and immediately made an offer on a house we’d been looking at in East Bay. That’s where I’m living now by myself as a widower of more than eight years.

From my house it’s a five minute walk to the east side of Sloan’s Lake – a great destination at the end of a day. I’m also only ten to fifteen miles from the foothills and can easily reach the roads behind Golden or Morrison for beautiful, challenging climbs on the bicycle. Although I’ve greatly reduced my alcohol consumption since my latest epilepsy event, there are at least six small brew pubs within walking distance of my house, and another half dozen within a fifteen-minute drive. I also have a great selection of restaurants, pastry shops, and cafes nearby.

Some photos captured while walking around Sloan’s Lake.

Some photos captured while out cycling.

The Other Side of Life in Northwest Denver

Since I’ve been walking or taking the bus to my destinations the past weeks I’ve encountered people I wouldn’t have otherwise run into. On one of my first pedestrian journeys to the grocery store I met a young man of not more than 25 years of age who approached me in the aisle and asked me in Spanish if I could help him with the purchase of food. He apparently didn’t speak any English and was taking a chance that I either understood enough Spanish to know what he wanted or could just deduce his needs. With my meager Spanish I told him I didn’t have any extra cash but I would get some when I checked out. I found him waiting outside as I exited the store with a backpack filled with the goods I had purchased for myself. We stood together at the edge of the parking lot, where we had a short conversation.

He told me that he and his family had recently fled Venezuela due to economic and political conditions there. After crossing the border in Texas they were bussed to Denver, where they were led to believe they would be able to find work. In the meantime, his daughter had become sick and was in the hospital, where his wife was waiting for him. He wondered if I could give him a ride, but I was on foot, and under a driving restriction, so I could not help him. He let me know that he had a work permit and was not in danger of being deported.

A few days later Ruth had intended to drive us to the mountains for a hike, but we changed our minds and instead decided to see how much of the neighborhood around Sloan’s Lake and the Lower Highlands we could cover on foot. Somewhere near 25th and Perry we were approached by a young adult man who spoke only Spanish, asking us if we had any work for him. He explained that he, too, was from Venezuela and had been bussed from Texas. He hoped to make money any honest way he could, by painting, landscaping, cleaning, doing small construction work, or any kind of labor anyone would hire him to do. He did not ask for money. We apologized and said we could not help.

A day later as I was walking to the bus stop on the way to get a flu shot a young woman asked me in Spanish if I needed a housekeeper, or knew anyone who could use her services. Like the others I had recently met, she was a Venezuelan, bussed up to Denver from the Texas border. I was heartbroken to think about the vulnerability of this young woman, the conditions she must have been living with in her homeland that led her and the others to flee, and the anxiety they must be feeling about their futures. I wondered if they had encountered much hostility and contempt since they’d arrived in Denver, and I wondered what our city was doing to make things as comfortable as possible for them, realizing that Denver has it’s own substantial population of unsheltered people that it fails to help.

I wondered if the recent arrivals from Venezuela were viewed suspiciously by law enforcement? They were non-white, did not speak enough English to account for themselves to people who didn’t understand Spanish, were out on the streets in neighborhoods where residents did not recognize them, were clearly poor, and were forced to confront strangers to ask for help. It seemed a ripe circumstance for a tragic misunderstanding. I thought about the extreme contrasts in wealth and living conditions which perhaps exist in the country today to an extent that has never been greater in my lifetime. Within a two mile radius of my home there are beautiful, multi-million-dollar homes a stone’s throw from Sloan’s Lake, while just west of Sheridan Boulevard and south of 17th avenue lies the most run-down, crumbling mobile home park I have ever seen. I suspect it is one of the most impoverished neighborhoods in the Denver metro area, if not in the entire state. Although it has not been subject to any recent natural disasters, it looks like photographs one sees of communities that have been devastated by hurricanes or tornadoes. Yet these derelict trailers are the permanent homes to many families.

According to the 2021 U.S. census, the median household income was $75,000, with only 15.5% of Americans earning between $100,000 and $149,000. At the same time, 11.6% of Americans lived below the poverty line, considered to be $28,000 for a family of four and $14,000 for an individual. Elon Musk’s estimated wealth is $225.2 billion, Jeff Bezos’ is $148 billion, and Bill Gates’ is 108.5 billion. Given these numbers, three million average American households could live for a year if Musk’s worth were divided among them. Nearly six and one half million average American households could live for a year if the wealth of the these three richest American men were divided among them. I cannot comprehend wealth in the billions, nor do I want to imagine what day-to-day life is like for someone who is chronically unsheltered. Unsheltered, by the way, seems to be how many are now referring to individuals who are homeless. It seems that any neutral, useful, descriptive term, when used long enough, becomes associated with stigma, and ends up falling out of favor.

The View From the Bus

Denver has a fairly extensive network of bus routes and is constantly expanding its light rail system, but I’ve learned over the past month how inconvenient it would be to always rely on the bus to get where I need to go. I assumed that they ran more frequently headed north on Federal blvd than they do, so I simply left the house at my own convenience to head to a medical appointment not long ago. It was a hot day, and I ended up waiting for nearly half an hour to be picked up. I was naive in not checking the schedule before making the ten minute walk to the stop. I was able to make the transfer to the correct bus this time, but missed the stop where I needed to get off. When I realized the clinic was not visible from the street where the bus ran, I was several blocks past my destination, so I ended up walking along a street that was not pedestrian friendly. By the time I reached the clinic I had been ninety minutes in transit – a trip that would have been twenty minutes if I had been driving myself. After my appointment I took Lyft home so that I would get there before dark. This was a luxury not available to most who depend on public transportation.

I can only speak for myself, but I assume that what I say is true for others like me as well. I have a middle class income and live in a middle class community, and unless something unusual happens, such as being forced to use public transportation, I am not regularly exposed to the world of those of lesser economic privilege. This allows me to live under the impression that poverty is not widespread, and where it exists there are services and programs to ensure that the needs of the poor are met. While I was never naive enough to really believe this was true, just a few days of taking the bus to get around makes it apparent how widespread poverty is in my community, and how much suffering it causes.

As I waited for a connecting bus on my way to my appointment a man approached me and told me that he hadn’t eaten in three days. Of course he asked if I could spare any money to help him out. Even if he was exaggerating his state of hunger, it was clear he was not doing well, and had to humble himself to ask for help. A day or two earlier an elderly, toothless man stumbled off the bus and began complaining to me about “those damn kids” who didn’t know anything but would find out some day. He reeked of urine and other foul-smelling bodily odors, and most of what he said to me was incoherent, but I assumed that he was the subject of harassment from youngsters on the bus due to his lack of hygiene. Surely if he had the means to keep himself clean he would have used them. Who knows where he slept or how he found meals. These were extreme cases of people who were down and out but nearly all the passengers I rode the bus with were non-white and seemed to be of meager economic means. Most of the words I heard spoken were not English.

For someone who needs to be punctual, either to show up for work on time or keep an appointment, buses present a challenge. I started thinking about someone seeking employment and having to take the bus to get to various locations at specific times. One can only be as reliable as the bus schedules are, and twenty or thirty minutes from one bus to the next can make it hard to be on time for anything. Would anyone be hired if they showed up late for an interview and blamed it on the bus?

Most of the time when I got on a bus it was full, and I had to stand for the first few stops. The further the bus traveled from the center of town, the less crowded it became. By the time I reached the medical clinic in Wheat Ridge I was only one of two passengers. The other passenger was asking the driver if there was any way he could get to the casino in Black Hawk. I had seen a side of my city that I would not have seen if I hadn’t had to depend on public transportation to take care of my flu and Covid vaccines. I was reminded of a song “Streets of London” by Ralph McTell. The setting and the details are different but the sentiment is the same: a side of the city and the lives of individuals that are overlooked or ignored by many of us, but the people are just as much a part of our community as our next door neighbors and the young couples we smile at as they play with their children in the local park.

That Might Have To Wait

Ruth and I talked about going to the Desert Nights Acoustic Music Camp’s Southwest Mandolin Camp several months ago. When I found out I couldn’t drive Ruth said she would be willing to do all the driving from Denver to Kingston, NM, where the camp was to take place. So we headed south on October 24th for the six hundred mile one-way trip, with an overnight stop in Cedar Crest, NM to stay with my friends Janet and Joseph. Ruth did all the driving without complaining, and I had the luxury of enjoying the New Mexico fall colors without having to pay attention to the road. I can be an uneasy passenger when someone else is driving but Ruth is a steady, competent driver and I was completely relaxed the entire way.

I’ve played guitar for many years but have only picked up the mandolin occasionally and don’t know the instrument well and don’t play it well. I thought this camp would help me decide if I wanted to devote time to becoming an accomplished mandolin player. It was humbling and inspiring to be one of the least skilled players at camp, but I felt as though it would not be too difficult to apply what I know about the guitar to the mandolin with a little dedication. Besides being one of least skilled players, I found that my mandolin was a cheaper make than those that most of the other campers had. It had a flaw in the neck near the body that caused notes played above the seventh fret to buzz, and be completed muted above the ninth fret. This would require more than just a truss rod adjustment to fix, so I started to think about a trip to The Pickin’ Parlor in Olde Town Arvada or the Folklore Center in Denver to both discuss repairs and sample some more expensive mandolins.

Thinking about repairing my mandolin started me thinking about many things that would have to be put on hold until I could drive again. I could not just hop in the car and take myself up to Arvada. I wanted to replace the filter in my furnace, but a trip to the hardware store would have to wait. There were open mics taking place are various spots around town I could not drive myself to on the spur of the moment, or drive to a restaurant if I was restless come dinner time. When we left for Kingston, Denver was still enjoying summer-like weather, but we returned to snow and freezing temperatures. A week ago walking to the grocery store or taking care of other errands on foot was fun, and being out in the elements for several hours at a time was pleasant. Now, when it’s windy, overcast, and twenty-five degrees, some things will just not get done if they require a long walk. Swallow Hill, a music school and performance space to which I belong, is having a members-only gathering on November 10th. I will probably have to miss it this year.

Up until now I’ve enjoyed the challenge and change in routine that the driving restriction has presented. I’ve appreciated the generosity and friendship of Ruth, Carl, JoAnna, Glenn, Jenny, and others in keeping me company and helping me get around. But with less routine tasks now presenting themselves I will have to be patient and a little more creative these last five weeks until I can drive again. Until then I will have more experiences to write about, the mandolin to master, new virtual cycling routes in Zwift to explore, and generally good health to be grateful for.

In 1963, just after my parents were divorced and I lived alone with my father, he regularly drove me to school in the morning and picked me up in the afternoon. The British invasion was in full swing, and besides the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Kinks, Herman’s Hermits and so forth on the radio, Motown music was also popular, with groups like the Chiffons, Stevie Wonder, Martha and the Vandellas, and the Miracles. Even though Dad complained about the popular music of the time, he let me control the car radio, and I kept it tuned to WSBA that served Harrisburg, York, and Lancaster, PA. It was an exciting time for music. Now, several events and conversations over the past few days have caused me to reflect on my early musical influences and my father’s reaction to them, and put them into the larger context of changing tastes in popular music within and across generations and subcultures.

It started when my friend Ruth and I were listening to one of our favorite podcasters commenting on how right-wing politicians have “appropriated” the term “woke” for their own purposes. The podcaster (David Pakman) was explaining how “woke” was a term popular during the civil rights movement to denote an awareness of social injustice, racism, and the need to work to overcome them. People on the left still use the term in a similar way, while politicians on the right seem to use it in a derogatory sense to imply that liberals who are “woke” are trying to corrupt America with vaguely defined progressive trends that are in opposition to fundamental Christian values. Ruth said she had heard that one of the first documented uses of the word was from the folksinger Lead Belly, as a spoken comment after he performed the song, “Scottsboro Boys.” In that instance he was warning young Black youth to be constantly alert to the threat posed to them by racists. This led to a discussion about cultural appropriation, and the irony of Lead Belly’s influence on folk music, along with his having been an early user of the word “woke.”

I believe cultures advance through the blending and sharing of art, science, technology, and other innovations. The influence that African Americans have had on popular American music is undeniable. Bela Fleck documented that the banjo came from Africa. We know that many woodwind and percussion instruments came with slaves from Africa as well. African Americans also brought many rhythmic and harmonic innovations to traditional European instruments and vocal stylings. Would we have blues, jazz, and rock ‘n’ roll as we know it without the influence of African Americans? But I think it is important to distinguish between being inspired by, influenced by, borrowing from, and building on art from another culture on the one hand, and appropriating it on the other. The former happens when there is respect and sharing between and among cultures. The second happens when the contributions of one culture are denied or repressed by another, and when the art, science, technology, and/or other innovations are exploited for profit. I know that Lead Belly had tremendous influence on the American folk music scene. I don’t know how much recognition he got during his career, but I suspect he was highly respected by those he influenced, although I’m sure racism limited his opportunities to perform and earn a living doing so.

Elvis Presley is often accused of taking influences from the Black musicians in and around Memphis without given them credit. He clearly capitalized on their creativity, but did he give them their due? Did he recognize that he would not have been who he was without them? I do think that Elvis inadvertently made mainstream America aware of the amazing Black musicians that until then were making great music, but were out of the view of the music-consuming public. Similarly, there were so many great blues musicians who were not recognized by the general music-consuming American public, but who greatly influenced the music of British musicians like Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, John Mayall, Jimmy Page, and others. The list includes B.B. King, Albert King, Albert Collins, Buddy Guy, Willie Dixon, John Lee Hooker, Freddie King, Muddy Waters, and many others. These blues musicians had careers that took off after British guitarists made young White Americans aware of the brilliant Black musicians who had been playing music in their own country for decades. My sense is that the British blues musicians always recognized, honored, and gave credit to their American inspirations.

I’m grateful that in my late teens I was able to hear the music of Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee, Sonny Boy Williamson, Mississippi John Hurt, Fred McDowell and others who broke through racial barriers to have their songs reach White listeners, albeit not until after they had been playing for many years while being forced to earn livings outside of music. I hope my friends and I who tried to imitate their brilliance would not be thought of as appropriators. I didn’t set out to write a piece on cultural appropriation, but it seems important to consider it when talking about popular music in America.

This past Sunday morning, CBS presented a piece on the Everly Brothers in which it was mentioned that when they first emerged, the popular thinking was that Rock ‘n’ Roll was a passing fad. Maybe the Everly Brothers had something to do with its endurance, smoothing the edges of Elvis’ rebelliousness, appealing to a country audience, and adding tight, accessible harmonies that Americans could relate to. Later that Sunday afternoon three friends and I got together in my living room with guitars (and one mandolin) to share songs, including at least one Everly Brothers song, as well as songs from the forties, fifties, sixties, seventies, eighties, and beyond. When we get together our eclectic tastes are apparent. We enjoy listening to and playing traditional Irish music, American folk music, music of the sixties and seventies we came of age to, country music, and anything else that we become aware of that we are challenged to learn to play. When our gathering was finished three of us went down to a local brew pub to listen to a bluegrass jam.

Bluegrass is enjoying a resurgence of popularity today, similar to what happened when my generation was introduced to it in the early 1970s. Bill Monroe gets credit for developing the style in the 1930s and 1940s, along with Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs, by evolving it out of more traditional southern acoustic music. In his early career Monroe was influenced by his association with Arnold Shultz, a fiddler, guitarist, and son of a slave who developed what is today known as the “Travis picking” style of guitar playing. Bluegrass has always appealed to a largely White audience, although its roots drew from music that was not the exclusive domain of White performers.

The crowd at the brew pub was almost exclusively White that afternoon, as had been the crowd at the Midwinter Bluegrass Festival in suburban Denver a few weeks earlier. I had remarked at that festival how the crowd was mostly older and not very ethnically diverse. Traditional bluegrass musicians might be assumed to be conservative, but those recording and performing currently write songs with progressive political themes and appeal to a more liberal, urban audience. Still, my sense is that their fans are mostly White. How ironic that Bill Monroe cites the son of a slave as an influence on his playing. Regardless, bluegrass is energetic, personal, acoustic, participatory, and often available live. Today, if there is discrimination associated with it, I suspect that people of color hold it in distain for its old association with the racist south, even though today’s fans and practitioners are nothing like that with regard to their politics or their attitudes.

After playing our own music for over two hours and then listening to another hour of live music, Ruth and I were energized and hungry. We walked several blocks through dropping temperatures and increasing winds until we found a restaurant that had opened a few years ago in a redeveloped area on the southern edge of Sloan’s Lake where St. Anthony’s Hospital had previously stood. Ten years ago the hospital had been surrounded by old bungalows, duplexes and single-story apartments built in the thirties and forties. When the hospital was razed the residences were cleared as well, and replaced with condominiums in structures ranging from six to twelve stories high. The condos were sold to or rented, apparently, to young singles, who also were the primary patrons of the restaurant in which we found ourselves. Young women sat together at the bar talking excitedly to each other. Couples at the bar leaned into each other intimately. Other young couples sat at tables or in booths talking as if on a first date, trying to get to know each other better. The menu featured craft beers from local breweries, creatively named cocktails, and a trendy mix of Mexican, Asian, and burger offerings.

As Ruth and I sat down and tried to converse I found myself asking her to repeat almost everything she said. Speakers embedded above us, behind us, and apparently all around us broadcast a constant thumping bass that might have been part of a larger musical arrangement, but if there were any vocals, guitars, keyboards, horns, or strings, they were inaudible due to the imbalance of the mix. The longer we sat there the more irritated I became, and the more I wondered who was responsible for the environment created within the restaurant, and who would choose to be in that environment if given a choice.

There was a time not too long ago when hotels, restaurants, and stores all played soothing mood music constantly in the background. Some criticized this as subtle form of brainwashing, dulling the senses and numbing the public to the world around them. Was what Ruth and I were hearing something similar, but rather than attempting to numb us, trying to keep us in a state of excited agitation? I don’t know, but I thought about what I would play if it were up to me. With an almost infinite selection of streaming music to choose from, why select a booming bass at a volume that drowns out conversation? Why not put on a playlist of chamber music, or swing jazz, or fifties doo-wop, or disco, or blues? I also wondered how many patrons of the restaurant were paying attention or even cared. Were my old ears really the problem? This was not the first restaurant we’d been in recently where the music was so loud that it discouraged conversation and the bass overshadowed all the other tracks. Had research been done that determined that young patrons preferred this? Did new restaurant owners say to themselves, “I want to open an establishment that pipes in constant, loud, booming bass sounds”? And who is producing this music?

The next morning I turned on the radio and heard an interview with Ricardo Valdez Valentine, Jr., who records and performs under the name 6LACK. The interview made him sound like an interesting singer/songwriter. I had never heard of him, so I thought I’d look up his music. I expected it to be sensitive and personal, based on what he revealed about himself in the interview. An internet search revealed that he is signed to the record label Love Renaissance, whose creations are distributed by Interscope Records, which falls under the umbrella of Interscope Geffen A&M. When I heard 6LACK’s music I was disappointed. There was nothing about it that allowed me to connect personally with the songwriter or the singer. While I’m sure the musicians on the recordings were outstanding and the singing was amazing, what stood out was the engineering. The music was highly digitized. 6LACK’s voice had so many electronic effects applied to it that he sounded robotic. The instrumental tracks were all synthesized with pulsating volumes and rhythms. I don’t want to take anything away from the production and the engineering of the recording. It was amazing, but it hid who Ricardo was, in my opinion, and what he had to communicate. I wondered how much control he had over the production. I listened to some other artists signed to Love Renaissance and the few that I sampled had production values similar to 6BLACK’s. The same holds true for their live performances. Most rely on pre-recorded tracks, sound effects, elaborate light shows, moving stages, and exotic costumes.

I’m not the target demographic of the artists signed to Love Renaissance. They are an extremely successful company founded by a small group of students at Georgia State University in 2012. They have probably found many talented artists and made them successful, but I do wonder how much creative control their artists have to give up in the process, and how different the popular music scene would be without the control of recording companies and their promotion and distribution mechanisms. Maybe there wouldn’t be a popular music scene. If not, would it be so bad if we just had live performers in coffee houses, bars, brew pubs and street corners, who posted their performances on YouTube? Certainly no one would be getting rich off of music.

The other night I watched “Hallelujah,” a documentary about Leonard Cohen, his career, and perhaps his best-known song. The film documents that Columbia records rejected Cohen’s album “Various Positions” for release in the United States in 1984. That album contained the single “Hallelujah,” and sent Cohen and his team on a search for an independent label to release it a year later. Cohen already had a well-established career by this time, and the album had been released in England, but had he been struggling to establish himself and been rejected, he might never have had a music career and his beautiful, influential song might never have been known. How many brilliant, deserving performers and songwriters have had their careers thwarted due to the fickle, unfounded whims of record company executives? And how many boring, tasteless, untalented groups have made the airwaves because these same executives thought they could push them onto the public?

I want to believe that my tastes in music are eclectic – that they are not bound by eras or genres or languages or cultures – but I’m probably wrong. I’ve probably proven that I’m wrong by what I’ve written here. I started this piece by related how my father would listen to the Beatles but complain about how the music made him tense and irritable. Now I hear myself sounding like him when I discuss the music that’s being recorded and released today. At the same time, I wonder why I don’t see a connection between the music the artists signed to Love Renaissance perform and the music that has shaped the popular music that appeals to me. If the first bluegrass musicians were influenced by Arnold Shultz, why does bluegrass only appeal to White audiences? Many say jazz is the greatest American form of music, born from the blues when Black musicians moved to the cities and applied the blues to keyboards and horns. So why are people born in 1990 and later rejecting it in favor or hip hop, rap, and highly-produced electronic music? If the folk music scene of the early 1960s was spawned by Lead Belly, Josh White, Big Mama Thornton, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee, Odetta and Elizabeth Cotton, I ask the same question.

My only conclusions are that I could listen to Jaco Pastorius, Tal Wilkenfeld, Victor Wooten, Charlie Haden, Stanley Clarke, and Charlie Mingus forever, but I don’t want a thumping bass drowning out my conversations over dinner. I wonder what Ricardo Valdez Valentine Jr. would sound like if he presented his lyrics simply with just his voice and a guitar? I think bluegrass music has something for everyone. It’s easier for me to appreciate my father’s music than for him to appreciate mine. It’s easier for my son to appreciate my music than for me to appreciate his.

Yesterday, Thursday, January 12th, marked five weeks since my total knee replacement surgery. The surgeon told told me that at six weeks I would be recovered to the point that any pain or disability I experienced would be no worse than the state I was in before the surgery. I don’t think this will be true across the board but it is already true in some regards. Before surgery, whenever I stood up, especially getting out of bed, the first step on my right leg was painful and immediately caused me to shift my weight to my left leg. Now, when I get up, I stand slowly and carefully, expecting the same pain I used to feel, but it is no longer there. This still surprises me and it seems too good to believe that it will last, but I know that it will. For years I have protected my right leg, using my left to bear most of my weight when I stood. I don’t need to do this anymore, and I’m consciously trying to stand evenly on both feet. My right leg used to be slightly misshapen, with my knee unnaturally bent inward. That has been straightened, and when I start cycling again I will probably find that I don’t need the shim that I wore beneath the cleat in my right shoe to adjust for the leg length discrepancy.

The physical therapists judge recovery progress by how much range of motion I have, and I have been at or ahead of goals with each visit, although it is not comfortable when they force my knee to achieve maximum flexion. The knee is still swollen and stiff, though, and not close to being able to bend as far as it could before surgery. They have been reluctant to tell me how active I should be, other than emphasizing the importance of the strengthening exercises they prescribe. They just say I should do as much as I can tolerate. At my three-week visit I was still hobbling around with a cane but was feeling pretty good about getting out and taking a walk around the block. The therapist said that was great, and then went on to tell me about a patient that, although he said was an extreme case, was only a few weeks past his surgery and was walking ten miles a day. He said he had others who were still barely able to walk across a room, and that recovery was an individual thing and everyone had to set their own pace.

The physical therapy sessions have been very helpful. On my own I’d been hesitant to do things like walk stairs normally or get on the stationary bike when it hurt. I’d been afraid I could do damage. But they had me try climbing and descending stairs using alternate steps, and even though it hurt, I could do it and was told I would not do myself any harm, and in fact would strengthen my leg and increase flexibility. So, even though it isn’t comfortable at this point to walk down stairs, I try to do it normally. Going up is easier than coming down. The stationary bike has been great. I knew I wouldn’t be able to use my smart trainer for a long time (it uses software to simulate outdoor rides, including long, steep climbs), so I found a fairly inexpensive spin bike on line, and set it up about two weeks after my surgery. At first I could not do a full rotation, but would go as far as I could in one direction and hold that position, forcing it as much as I could tolerate. Then I would reverse the direction. At one of my therapy visits the therapist suggested raising the seat to see if I could make a full rotation without having to bend the leg so much. Voila! It really hurt at first but after a few pedal strokes the knee started to loosen up and I could even increase the cadence. Since then I’ve been slowly lowering the seat, increasing the resistance, and staying on the bike for longer periods of time. Now I can work up a sweat and get my heart rate into the aerobic zone.

But I expect that in another week my knee will still be stiff and sore, and my leg will still feel weak. I don’t trust it completely, although I think this is mostly in my mind. But before surgery I didn’t have any limitations with regard to cycling. I think I’m months away from being able to go out and ride forty miles at a fifteen-mile-per-hour pace, but that is one of my goals. Walking and hiking were where my knee damage really showed up. It’s been several years since I could hike steep terrain without a lot of pain on descents. My physical therapist said I should be able to do some moderate hiking this summer, but he recommended using trekking poles. That would be fine with me. This past summer even long walks on flat ground got to be painful after fifteen or twenty minutes. When I walk outside now I am slow and careful, and there is some discomfort. I don’t think this will change over the next week, but maybe in a month or so I’ll be able to take a fast-paced walk around Sloan’s Lake without wincing.

The week before my surgery I had a consultation with a surgical nurse practitioner. She wanted to make sure I knew what to expect during my recovery, and give me a final chance to confirm that I wanted to go through with the operation. She told me that since my right knee was having the procedure I should not expect to drive for six weeks. I’m hoping I am cleared to drive next week, and I certainly feel as though I can drive. Besides the lack of physical mobility as a result of the surgery, not being able to drive and the subsequent isolation have resulted in a great deal of restlessness and even depression. I’m going to mention to the surgeon next Thursday that the psychological aspects of recovery, though not as significant as the physical aspects, are still very real and should be considered when putting together a recovery plan. I think at a minimum it would help to be able to join an online group of people who were in the same stage of recovery as I am to talk about progress and coping strategies. Before my surgery I met with a friend of a friend who had undergone surgery several months earlier and she offered me some great strategies for how to prepare my house and what to expect that weren’t specifically covered in the materials that Kaiser and St. Joseph provided.

Generally I’m encouraged and I see small progress day to day, but I am very eager to reach the point where I can start doing more normal physical activities, and especially regain the independence that will come with driving. It doesn’t help that until earlier this week the streets and sidewalks had been frozen and sketchy for someone to walk on who wasn’t completely confident of a new knee. But spring isn’t far off, and I still expect to be able to repeat what I’ve heard so many others say, “I don’t know why I waited to long to have this done.”

Jealous of Elon Musk, Donald Trump has made an offer of an undisclosed amount to purchase the Catholic Religion. Sources say the transaction has already been approved. The Pope, when asked to confirm, replied, “Yes, I’m sad to say it’s true. But honestly, I don’t think a purchase was necessary, since we’d mostly sold out already. When asked for details of the deal, Trump said, “Jesus Christ. We worked them down to such a low price that it was literally a steal. I mean, God, you wouldn’t believe what we got it for. It was criminal.”

Trump said he plans to make The Ten Commandments the law of the land, and added these additional stipulations. “I will see that my profile is mounted above every alter of every church, next to the crucifix, and the revised Communion service will now include the distribution of golden threads to be worn around the wrist, which, through transubstantiation, will become actual strands of my hair. I swear to God!” He went on. “I will encourage Sunday afternoons to be devoted to ‘Make America Great Again’ rallies and promotions for ‘My Pillow’ products. “I will encourage children to recognize the role of the New Catholic Church, and to reject their mothers and fathers if their parents do not also recognize the values so central to ‘Make America Great Again.’ “

When pressed for further details Trump was glad to elaborate, “We’re working to revise the Apostle’s Creed to include language attesting to the theft of the 2020 election, and confirming that RINOs and Democrats are led by the Devil.”

“Finally,” Trump concluded, “we shall hold all those who do not convert to the New Catholicism in absolute contempt, especially those who live in close proximity to us. Our neighbors who don’t agree are the worst. Furthermore, we declare that to not follow the Ten Commandments will be considered a capital offense, punishable by death. We shall place adherence to the Ten Commandments above all else.” When asked about adultery he said he would have an assistant look that word up in the dictionary and get back to the questioner at a later date.

At this time comments from other world leaders were not available, but Ted Cruz, Lindsay Graham, Marco Rubio, and Mitch McConnell made assurances that Trump’s purchase would be met with enthusiasm by the international community.