Goodnight, Revolver

Today, on June 11, 2016, one day before I ring in my 42^nd year aboard this crazy rock, I’ll say goodbye forever to one of the best friends I’ve had in Las Vegas, Revolver Dancehall and Saloon.  I know what you’re thinking – what kind of pathetic bastard counts a country bar as one of his best friends?  Well, if you have to ask, you’ve likely never lived in Vegas.  Friends here are hard to come by.  It’s a town of relentless hustle, where everything is for sale and things are rarely what they appear to be under the neon glow of a Saturday night.  But in this town where the Strip markets the same nightclub under two dozen different names, with endless “VIP Hosts”, slender European DJs with questionable facial hair and an entire ecosystem built just to get in to these clubs, the country bar is as timeless as it is anachronistic.  Revolver was much more than just a country bar, however.  For many of us, we made lifelong friends, lovers and dance partners there.  We laughed, cried, got too drunk and (sometimes) too sober.  We danced through injuries, bad nights and, God help me, a thousand replays of the Cupid Shuffle.  But still we danced.  Revolver is the first bar I’ll close since I closed my very first country bar: the Neon Armadillo, in Orlando, and this parting will be just as much sweet sorrow as that was seventeen years ago.  But, in the best way I know how to say goodbye, here are three things I’ll remember about Revolver: 

1.     Love At First Sight.  On my first visit to Revolver, having lived in the city for less than three months, I entered a line dance contest, jumped on a bar, ripped off my t-shirt and got my “Black Card.”  Back then, I was the only dancer wearing sneakers (Chucks) or with a towel in my back pocket.  The club was packed, and there were biker gang members, cowboys, rednecks and more short shorts and boots than I had seen in any one place before – everybody was cheering and having a great time, and I knew I had found a place to call “home.”  Five years later, the girl I danced with in the finals of that contest is a go-go dancer at a different country bar, there have been four different versions of Stoney’s (hopefully, this one sticks) and there are a whole lot more sneakers and towels in back pockets.  Sure, there have been other dance contests, different DJs and even more crowded nights, but of all my favorite nights at Revolver, there’s never been anything quite like the first one.

2.     Frienemies.  There’s nothing quite like your “home” country bar – as it creates a “family” of sorts.  And like any family, there are people in it that you love more than anything, and a few others you’d like to see wander blindfolded onto the highway.  Revolver gave me some of the best friends I’ve got here, and some of the best people I know: Franklin, Steph, Kaz, RC, Lara, Kristina, Nicco, Jason, Lauren, Theresa, Jacquie, Tavis, Jason, D’Awna, Dawn, Eric, Jared, LIZ, Nicole, Liberty, Shana, Shawna, Tony, Michael, Dayman and so, so many more.  I can’t imagine living here without friends like these.  But like any good hero, I also needed a nemesis, and I found mine wearing a schmedium shirt, demanding to be paid by the bar manager for doing the same three ice-skating stunts over & over and declaring himself the “King of Line Dancing” in Las Vegas.  Like it or not, that got me to give my very best on that little dance floor night after night and even in training and injury rehab – and for that, I’m just as grateful.  Oh, and even on the last night, like I’ve always said, I don’t know who the King is, but I know who it isn’t.

3.     Dance Like Everyone’s Watching.  There are a lot of different kinds of “great” country bars.  There are great places to drink, great places to pick up a date and great places to meet with friends.  And while Revolver was certainly all of these things, what is was most was a great place to dance.  The floor was small but perfect, easy to get on and off, and small enough to keep people who don’t know how to dance where they belong – in their seats.  You can see the floor from anyplace in the club, and the DJ’s?  Well, in addition to being some of my best friends, they are some of the best country programmers I’ve ever heard.  We line danced to songs we never thought we’d hear in a country bar, and only had to suffer through thirty minutes (or so) of dancing-for-idiots (i.e. “freestyle”) music, each night.  We once danced the same dance (Swamp Thing) for over a half an hour (thanks, Franklin), and had a floor where we were allowed to throw whatever stunts we wanted, without bouncer warnings.  Drinks were relentlessly kept off the floor, and drunks and idiots were always ushered away quickly.  I can’t think of more than one fight in all five years, and I have memories of hundreds of great nights, where I got home too tired to anything but peel off my sweaty clothes and get into bed.  Revolver was a dancer’s bar, and that’s what I’ll miss most about it. 

As author C. Joybell C. said “Ends are not bad things, they just mean that something else is about to begin. And there are many things that don't really end, anyway, they just begin again in a new way. Ends are not bad and many ends aren't really an ending; some things are never-ending.”  The last night at Revolver isn’t a bad thing, though many tears will certainly be shed.  And it also isn’t an ending – because in the end, Revolver wasn’t really a country bar, it was the people who worked there, danced there and spent part of their lives, there.  It was the joys, the heartbreaks, the spotlights and the dark corners.  It was country, it was Las Vegas and it was way too far north.  It was in a casino that most of us will never walk into again, and I can’t imagine it anywhere else.  It was small, but it was huge.  It was New Years, birthdays, Ladies Night and going away parties.  It was loud.  It was good, and now it’s gone… but what it will never, ever be, is forgotten. 

Thanks, Revolver – it’s been one hell of a ride.

41 Things

My, what a long, strange trip it’s been.  As marking the years gone by has turned from a cause for celebration to an occasion for indifference and, ultimately, to a harbinger of impending doom, finding the silver lining amidst all the silver hair has become increasingly difficult.  However, this annual tradition has become the touchstone of that ever-more-important optimism, because the trade we make each year, exponentially more wisdom for marginally less youth, remains a very, very good one.  Growing older always brings the opportunity to answer the proverbial question of whether one would “go back” if they could.  And while I desperately miss my former indestructibility, I have never and would never trade what I’ve learned in for slightly less painful joints and regular visits to the doctor because I’m too stubborn and stupid to stop dancing (and exercising) like I’m still 25.  And so, with this continuing recklessness in mind, and with a nod to those of you who have stuck around for the sixth installment of these, here are the FORTY ONE things I’ve learned so far:

1.     You really don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. 

2.     The media has us convinced we’re never attractive enough, but on a positive note, we’re all probably a lot better looking than we think... except you

3.     If you think keeping friends is harder when you’re older, try making them.

4.     There is always another train coming; desperation is always manufactured – and usually by people who are more afraid than you are.

5.     There’s a reason they call it a “vanity plate” and that’s not a compliment – it’s one of the seven deadly sins.  Or if you’re not religious –it’s fantastically douchey. 

6.     If you’re always the smartest person in the room, you’re in the wrong room.

7.     Flattery is easy, inexpensive and the “secret” in every book every written about how to do better with people.

8.     Generational wealth is the second most destructive force in the world, today.

9.     The first? Organized religion (obviously).

10.  Schools don’t need to get rid of bullies, they need to teach kids how to deal with them, effectively.  Real life has real bullies.

11.  The most terrifying thing about the youngest generation growing up to lead is what we’re going to do about having access to their life-long Facebook feed.

12.  Fashion trends come and go, but visible chest hair will always be terrible.

13.  Never have more fun on someone else’s couches than you have on your own...  trust me, they’re following the same rule.

14.  Anti-intellectualism is the word that smart people use to describe the pro-stupid lobby – see, we’re better at that, too. 

15.  We became post-truth before we even got close to post-racism... and that’s probably why we never will.

16.  The two least attractive words you can say to a woman at 41 are: “never married.”

17.  The two least attractive words a woman can say to a 41-year-old man are: “fairy tale.”

18.  I’ve involuntarily trained my brain to say the word “DOUCHE” as loud as I can every time I hear an engine being revved.  Seriously. 

19.  You are not that big of a deal. 

20.  Only women are allowed to declare that they will not date overweight members of the opposite sex.  Ignore this advice at your own peril.

21.  Getting drunk is a universally terrible idea. 

22.  No matter how strongly they insist, if you want to keep your friends, do not let them set you up on a date.

23.  The Internet’s most useful tool is Facebook’s “Block” button.

24.  Nothing is more expensive than anything you’re offered for “free”.

25.  No one needs a gun.  Ever.

26.  Being friends with an ex is weird.  You know it’s weird because you always have to explain it.  Nothing normal always has to be explained.

27.  Men and women have the same number of emotions, men just have fewer names for theirs.

28.  One of life’s greatest lessons is knowing when to shut up... especially when you’ve got something to say.

29.  The scariest thing I’ve learned as an adult is how tremendously little that adults know. 

30.  People want to trust you, but they need to like you.

31.  A teenaged me would never have survived my adult bad habits... here’s to the late bloomers, and how much longer we’ll live.

32.  Skinny arms have finally come into style for young men... about thirty years too late.  At least I get to skip skinny jeans.

33.  I finally found the one thing that will always give away a woman’s age – what she says.  What gives away a man’s age?  He does. 

34.  What’s most important in a person’s “profile picture” is what’s not in it. 

35.  I’m not saying it should ever be legal to hit someone with your car, but if it ever was, I’d definitely be hitting passive-aggressive, slow-walking, judgy-faced pedestrians first.

36.  Teenagers are never funny.  I even found one I liked (my niece).  Still not funny.

37.  What a person wears tells you more about their friends than it does about them.

38.  We are wasting our shame on fat people when we have so many stupid people so close by!  At least fat people know they’re fat. 

39.  Conspiracy theories are the most reliable way to identify people who will make you dumber.

40.  What scares me most about aging is not feeling bad when I’m older, but that I’ll forget how to feel bad at all.

41.  We only really have two stories, destruction and survival, up to you which one you tell... and when. 

Here’s to 42... you wonderful bastards. 

A Reckoning Redone

It is said that the years soften old grudges, and that, inevitably, old wounds heal, and we make peace with our demons.  But there are also those enmities that endure; hates that will not be quelled by the tides of our lives or the perspective of days.  These are loves in their own right – because it is impossible for hate, on its own, to survive.  They are passionate defenses of beloved things, because we cannot separate the instinct to protect from the drive to love.  There are a great many reasons to hate Notre Dame.  Even without my own self-imposed limits, I could never hope to list them all.  Besides, that’s ground better covered by more seasoned scribes.  But, I hate Notre Dame because I love Navy.  Make no mistake, this annual battle is as much a morality play as any you’ll see in the MCU.  Need help figuring out whose wearing the respective white and black hats?  Well, that’s what you’ve got me for.  And so, here we are, on the cusp of the annual reckoning that is Navy-Notre Dame, and here are three (more) reasons to hate Notre Dame, because sometimes that thin line between love and hate is actually the line of scrimmage:

1.         Respect.  There is lots of hubbub this year about “mutual respect” – including both teams wearing identical “base layers” and warm-up gear – with all the subtlety of a train wreck – emblazoned with the words “RESPECT”, “HONOR” and “TRADITION.”   The official Navy Athletics outlet went so far as to note the “storied history and brotherhood between our two schools.”  Huh?  In 2007, a young Notre Dame undergraduate named Matt Couture was interviewed by ESPN after his team started the season 0-3, and he noted that the season would be considered "a success" as long as they "continued the streak against Navy."  Now, let’s be clear, he didn’t say that the season would be a success by beating Navy.  No, it’s a success if we continue to prove our domination.  That’s not respect, folks… that’s supercilious disdain (or at least the closest thing that a Notre Dame undergrad can muster).  That’s the echoes of once-Presidential candidate John Kerry noting that you should study hard and “do your homework” or you’ll end up in the military.  Twenty-three years after I first put on my uniform, I’ve only ever been made to feel badly for it once.  In South Bend.  Nominal “thank you”s and school-sponsored tributes aren’t respect, they’re obligatory, and trust me, you can feel it in that stadium.  For my part, I don’t wear a uniform anymore, and I’m done giving respect to those who don’t return it.  So, the only respect I’m looking for from Notre Dame is not scurrying out of the stadium and into the locker room when we’re singing Blue and Gold again like you did the last time.

2.         Honor.  Honestly, comparing the “honor” of Notre Dame (and it’s athletic department) to Navy’s honor, is a bit like comparing the modern Notre Dame teams to those from fifty years ago.  You know, where one is legitimate, and the other is complete, undeserving and overrated bullshit?  On one hand, you have centuries of explicit dedication to the development of honor in the students of the institution, including a student-led honor board, guest speakers including military and national leaders and training at every level to ensure that it is not simply lip service but actually put the principles of honor into daily practice, and on the other you have none of that… or what we like to call, Notre Dame.  Seriously, where exactly is the “honor” on the Notre Dame campus?  They have an “Academic Honor Code” – but, it’s got less teeth than the average great-grandparent, saying you’re “sorry” goes a long way in avoiding any real penalties, and this “storied” tradition has been around since… 1989.   That’s right, Notre Dame’s Honor Code is younger than their last national championship.  (http://www.chicagotribune.com/sports/college/ct-notre-dame-honor-code-spt-0930-20140930-story.html)  Oh, and it only deals with academics.  Seriously, Notre Dame’s most recent “star” quarterback was “given the opportunity to transfer” as a result of academic violations so egregious that not even they could cover it up.  Notre Dame wouldn’t know honor if it walked up and slapped it with a rake – which, come to think of it, isn’t such a bad idea. 

3.         Tradition.  Let’s be real about this.  I’m not saying Notre Dame doesn’t have tradition, but we’re one of the very few schools that has a great deal more.  As I said back in 2007 (when I predicted the first reckoning), Blue & Gold, we wore them first and we (still) wear them best.  We’ve been playing football longer than Notre Dame, and we never needed Notre Dame to save our school.  The traditions that made us great 100 years ago, still, in large part, make us great today.  We don’t need made up stories about practice squad players or “sidewalk alumni” to tell our story.  Our story has been told on the high seas and battlefields for the last 150 years.  Our last Pro Bowl NFL quarterback graduated just fifteen years before Notre Dame’s.  Every player on our teams is a leader – in their unit, their community and their family.  Notre Dame’s last great leader graduated when I was five years old.  If we have a modern tradition, it is a tradition of competitiveness without competitive advantage; of being a scrappy and difficult underdog and of translating heart and hustle into victories.  Notre Dame’s modern tradition?  Delusion.  Every year, ESPN trots out the rotting corpse of Lou Holtz to predict a National Championship (which will never happen again), and statistically, Notre Dame is 6^th most overrated team since 1989 (http://preseason.stassen.com/over-under/teams.html).  Talking about Notre Dame’s “tradition” via its ROTC units couldn’t be more disingenuous.  They’re about as Notre Dame as most of Indiana is Catholic.  They, like those few alumni who truly do respect Navy, are the exception, not the rule.  There’s only one school that has a tradition comparable to ours, and we play them every December, not November.

* * *

The years haven’t softened my resolve to watch Notre Dame driven to the ground.  In fact, they have hardened it.  And no matter how many years or wins later, I expect it to continue to do so.  You can’t love a team like Navy and be equivocal about Notre Dame.  We aren’t brothers-in-arms, or brothers at all – we are polar opposites.  If Navy is good, Notre Dame is evil.  It’s just that simple.  Sure, you’ll hear Jimmy Roberts slurping the Irish like a fan boy blogger (which he, essentially, is), and telling anecdotes about a player or two who had a hard upbringing, so that we’ll forget about the whitewashed and moneyed bigotry which festers just under the façade of “Touchdown Jesus” – but he’s not fooling anyone.  Especially not me.  This weekend, I channel my inner John Kreese, because I don’t want them beaten, I want them out of the tournament.  You got a problem with that?  Good.  Now, go sweep the leg, Navy.

3 Halloween Hates

As this era of change and tolerance sweeps the nation, there are a great many things that I have finally determined are acceptable to disclose about my personal beliefs.  The majority of these liberating revelations have been kept secret owing to my fear of reprisal and reproach – positions unpopular enough to warrant significant negative responses – and, so I kept quiet.  But through my own personal maturation and these more liberal times, I am finally read to reveal the world: I hate Halloween.  That’s right, you heard correctly – this most jovial of holidays, this celebration of costumed shenanigannery, this ode to horror and all things dark – is an occasion for me to go to bed early, turn off my phone and wait for November 1. There is no worse holiday to hate than Halloween. After all, if you hate Christmas, you’re a grinch, or a Scrooge – each quite lovable in their own way.  But hate Halloween?  Well then you an enemy of children and candy and happiness – good luck surviving that PR hit.  But those are times now past and I can finally spend October 31^st dressed in grown up clothes and not making any regrettable drinking devisions.  And with my newfound freedom, I’m please to share with you three reasons I hate Halloween.

1.         Save the Women and Children.  I’m just going to come right out and say this – Halloween is a holiday primarily for women and children.  I’m not saying it’s always been that way – so please don’t send me the Wikipedia entry for Halloween (I’ve already read it) – but today’s version is decidedly immature and feminine.  I also realize this view is gender-normative, which I’m not trying to provide as an exclusive worldview, just my own.  But disclaimers notwithstanding, there seems precious few ways (if any) to maintain a measure of dignity and self-respect as a grown man during this most jovial of holidays.  First, the entire exercise is basically one big drunken game of dress up.  This alone might be enough – after all, I was never too keen on costumes, and as the years went on, the enthusiasm for the event seemed mostly generated by the women I knew (save for the men I knew that wanted to see those women dressed up).  But the fact that everyone seems keen to get themselves just a shade past New-Years-Eve-Drunk combined with wearing silly costumes makes it the sort of thing that I’m comfortable skipping.

2.         Vegas-Goggles. Living in Las Vegas gives one a very unique perspective on holidays.  Being the party capital of the world has a way of taking the “family” right out of most traditional “family” celebrations.  It also has a way of making some holiday seems extraordinarily anti-climactic.  It is nearly universally understood that American version of this is a national excuse to dress up in only your underwear and dance around with strangers.  But what the rest of the country calls “Halloween”, we call the “weekend” – or for that matter, Monday through Thursday, as well.  In fact, if there is a center of the dressing inappropriately and acting absent any regular inhibition, I’m living in it.  We don’t need an annual excuse for this sort of thing, we are the national excuse for this sort of thing.  The majority of women who visit Las Vegas have a section of their closet that they devote to clothes that they would only wear (a) on Halloween or (b) in Las Vegas.  As a result, the only reason I used to have to go out on Halloween (to ladies’ least appropriate outfit, thinly veiled as a “costume”) has now been replaced by… well, every Tuesday night. 

3.         The “New” Scary.  I can remember a time when the Thriller video gave me nightmares, and staying up way too late because I was certain that Freddy Krueger was going to kill me in my dreams.  I have always had an affinity for the horror genre – as it is one of the few truly emotionally evocative mediums left – but, the modern day horror movie is about as scary as a Jem and Holograms episode (which, looking back at it now, is a little scarier than it should be).  Most of what used to be truly scary has been replaced by over-the-top hyper-violence or just straight camp.  And the “new scary” doesn’t need darkness, the supernatural or even the macabre for effect – all you really need is the evening news.  We have become so intimately acquainted with fear these days that we’re almost numb to it.  It’s not a stretch to say that everyone is trying to scare us – especially this time of year… when we’re electing people to lead us.  Politicians are trying to scare us into not voting for the other guy (or not voting at all).  The news is trying to scare us into staying home – and watching more news.  Retailers are trying to scare us into buying things we don’t need and most of us are trying to scare each other into doing things we don’t want to do through the eponymous “fear or missing out” or “FOMO”.  I don’t need a holiday to remind me to be scared – I need a holiday from being scared.

* * *

Look, I’m not trying to diminish anyone else’s enjoyment of this popular holiday. After all, I’m enjoying the day off via Nevada Day, which I’m fairly certain was put into place to accommodate the nearly ubiquitous hangover which this city endures this time of year, and I’m (obviously) putting it to good use.  But, for anyone who’s hoping to “FOMO” me into participating – I know exactly what I’m missing, and that’s why I’m missing it.  I don’t need an excuse to act silly, I definitely don’t need to go far to see pretty girls dancing around in their underpants and I am, damn sure, not going to dress up in an “adult costume” just so that the pictures of it can end up as part of the permanent lexicon which constitutes the results of the “Google me” exercise.  As my regular readers can attest to, there is more than enough embarrassing content attached to my name, already.  So, you all have fun tonight.  Wear your costumes, drink too much and find a safe way home.  I’ll have the light off early, my regular clothes on, and will finish the night with exactly the same amount of candy in my place that I started with.  Boo, Humbug.        

3 Aging Body Betrayals

The great tragedy of aging is the subtlety of the betrayals  Despite the portrayal, in pop culture, of age milestones as instances of sea changes in your body and mind, the reality is far more subversive and slow-moving.  Like any effective betrayal, you simply don’t see it coming.  The person in the mirror always looks familiar – until they don’t anymore.  To make matters worse, your mind is a stubborn and reminiscent bastard.  After all, identity is far more about who were were than who we’re going to be.  And you’re always the last person to realize that you’ve changed.  I expect that at some point in this long and winding road, my mind will give way to some measure of dementia and reduced cognitive capacity – but until that time, the only part of me that’s really fading is my body, and it’s almost worse than if the whole of me was disintegrating.  Because now my mind and body are in constant conflict.  Despite being in the best position to be aware and apprised of each and every physical limitation I have – my mind seems determined to imagine my physical capabilities as they were in my days of wine and cheese – when I was, at least in small measure, a superhero (or so I would have appeared to my adolescent self).  So, as a reminder to myself (because I appear to need it), here are 3 ways in which my body is betraying my mind:

1. Turn and Cough. The vast majority of physical limitations that I’ve experienced have been, at some point, recited to me by comedians, sitcoms or other columnists – but there is one that has come without any warning: the extended battle now involved in coughing. You see, coughing has always been somewhat innocuous to me – I swallow something wrong, drink something too fast or even just a random mix-up between my lungs and my gut – a few coughs later, all is well. But, nowadays, what starts as a small little hiccup becomes a full-blown emphysemic fit that is measured in quarters of hours instead of seconds. Strangers begin by offering water and end up dialing 911 without pressing “Send” – just in case you don’t pull out of it.  Worst of all, you literally have to stop whatever you’re doing and deal with your body seizing up your breathing mechanism – and by “deal with” I mean endure it helplessly and try to avoid eye contact with strangers.  I have fairly good cardio-vascular health, running 2 miles a day around 4 days a week, but nevertheless, I appear to have the esophageal health of an eighty-year-old man.  I’m scared to think what coughing will look like when I’m 60.

2.  The Morning After Pills.  There was a time when I was convinced that a good night’s sleep could cure almost any ailment.  And I was convinced of this because it was true.  I would go to bed with injuries, illnesses or just feeling a bit off and wake up like I was Clark Kent watching a Metropolis sunrise.  These days I have a strong suspicion that not only am I sleepwalking, but that I’m sleeping into the local Fight Club (please forgive my violation of Rules 1 & 2 if this is the case). This is only slightly more plausible than my original theory that someone was sneaking into my bedroom at night and kicking my ass while I sleep.  Why all this pugilistic paranoia?  Well, I’ve started waking up to a Russian Roulette of sports injuries that simply don’t have any other explanation – and I’ve now got a bottle of anti-inflammatory that I can rightfully consider a fifth food group.  I remember watching television commercials for these types of over-the-counter medications, and wondering why anyone would need to take them every day. Now I just wonder why they haven’t figured out a way to get them into my my morning coffee (can you hear me, Starbucks?).

3. Sweet Little Lies.   I’ve always felt that an essential element of anything you can rightfully call a “lie” is intent.  After all, if you didn’t mean to misinform someone, at worst you’re reckless and the real explanation is likely far less sinister.  As a result, I don’t like to think of they way my mind talks to my body as “lying” – just very well-intentioned misstating.  You see, my body is keenly aware of its current limitations – and as a testament to the wonder of this biological machine, keeps finding brilliant ways to work around them.  My mind, on the other hand, had no idea that my body has changed from say around the turn of the century (no, smartasses, the 21st century).  If I have it in my mind to run or jump, my mind sends the exact same signals to my muscles that it did fifteen years ago – expecting similar results.  Needless to say, while I am very much still capable of running and jumping, I now understand why recreational sports leagues have “age groups” and exactly why pro athletes in their 40s are rare and wondrous beings.  That said, I’m happy to weather a little disappointment if it means not “acting my age” – because I’d rather be carried off the proverbial field for the last time than to slowly skulk into the crowd.

* * *

In the years to come, I suspect that my legs will slow, my arms will shrink and my joints will begin to have more in common with an old house than a powerful engine, but that’s completely ok with me.  Like an old home, my bumps and bruises tell a story than I’m nearly incapable of telling myself, even with my most well-considered prose.  It tells of my triumphs and my defeats, my good decisions and my bad ones.  It is a story of self-destruction, but in the most beautiful and meaningful ways.  Just like the old saw told to encourage people not just to save for savings sake, you similarly don’t get to take your body with you when you “go” and you should similarly endeavor to use it in the best possible ways.  My youth may be gone, but it surely isn’t the past.  My body tells a story – one where I didn’t take shortcuts and how I did the very best with what I was given – stories of which I am immensely proud.  It tells of chances taken and failures endured.  But most importantly, it tells the most important story about me – that then, as now, I’m far too stubborn to listen to my body tell my mind what we can’t do – and that had made all the difference.  

3 Political Party Parting Shots

In 1992, I turned 18 in Lafayette, Colorado.  I had just graduated from Centaurus High School with the one of the most impressive groups of people I have ever been associated with.  And one of the first things I did?  Not a lottery ticket, not Selective Service registration and certainly no cigarette buying.  No – I registered to vote; as a Republican.  Since then, I’ve registered in many different cities and states, but always with the same party – the Grand Ol’ Party.  But, after 22 years, I’m finally ready to re-pick sides – by not picking a side at all.  The typical American starts as a liberal Democrat and ages into being a conservative Republican.  After all, aren’t we all supposed to be more tolerant in our youth than our old age?  But after being raised in a “red state” family, and then leaving for the military, college and then law school – I’ve ended up taking the opposite route.  But it turns out the grass isn’t any greener on the other side.  In fact, it’s exactly the same shade of bulls&%t.  And so, in deference to my very first trip to the voting booth without an easy way to pick all the winners, here are 3 reasons I’m leaving the Republican Party … and not joining another one:

1.  Haters Gonna Hate.  The only thing Republicans used to hate was taxes.  It did seem unfair that money was being taken out of my check, in addition to the sales tax I was paying – and I didn’t appear to be getting much bang for my buck.  After all, the government hadn’t stepped up to help me go the colleges I wanted to, and I had the same affection for the police as your average member of NWA.  But while the GOP still hates taxes – the new GOP hate goes much farther and wider.  To be a “real” Republican these days you have to hate (in no particular order): African Americans, Latino Americans, immigrants, anyone in the LGBT community, scientists, atheists, Muslims, college graduates, climate change advocates, Democrats, gun violence activists, Planned Parenthood, unmarried adults without children and essentially anyone who isn’t a member of a traditional, white, nuclear, Christian family.  Look, I’m all about some hate – especially when it comes to sports, but this much hate is like a part-time job.  I’m not even sure how to keep track of who to hate, let alone why.  Maybe that’s why the modern day GOP doesn’t bother with, you know, reasons to hate all these people.  Call me old-fashioned, but if I’m going to hate someone – I’m going to need a reason.  Besides, when you’re letting hillbillies and rednecks decide what “normal” is – it’s only a matter of time until you don’t make the cut.

2.  Tyranny of the Ignorant.  The Republican archetype I grew up with was Alex P. Keaton.  My family watched Family Ties like it was the news – and I saw myself in Michael J. Fox’s suit-wearing, briefcase-carrying overachieving outcast.  He was short on cool and long on disdain for his parents and sisters.  He was a flag-waving Reagan apologist and was identified by his intelligence and education.  He confirmed my belief that we should be led by the smartest and best-informed among us – and he made being a young Republican an obvious and easy choice.  But since then, the GOP has become the party of celebrated ignorance and fear of information.  Rather than advocating higher education and academic excellence, the current GOP holds that all the important things you need to know you either (a) know already or (b) can find in the Bible.  This is the political party that has given us the Creation Museum (and in case you haven’t lost all hope for humanity, please go check that out).  Republicans don’t just dislike the educated, they distrust and fear them.  It is widely believed that a college education includes some sort of shadow liberal indoctrination – despite the fact that most college students spend their free time trying to chemically alter their minds and/or see each other naked.  The reality is that getting educated means rejecting most of the modern conservative platform – and if I were them, I’d be afraid of that, too. 

3.  Oh, My God.  The only redeeming quality of the millennial generation to date has been their widespread rejection of traditional religious doctrines – many before they get to college.  The ubiquitous nature of modern information has made indoctrination into mysticism exponentially more difficult – and the original purpose of religion, to explain the inexplicable – has become increasingly less necessary in a world with Wikipedia.  Connectivity has made our culture global, and hating, mistrusting or dehumanizing those who simply believe differently (the central tenet of most religions – no matter what they tell you) makes a lot less sense when you can see beyond the city limits of your hometown.  I have believed in the wisdom of the separation of church and state since the first time I heard it – and I believe in it a little more each day.  I’m not a Christian.  I’m not even religious.  In fact, I’m an atheist, and it’s been made clear to me that “my kind” is unwelcome in modern GOP ideology.  Seemingly overnight, the Republican party became a euphemism for the Christian Party – and we are force fed inaccurate truisms like “the United States is a Christian nation” (no it’s not) and “the Founding Fathers were Christians” (no they weren’t).  The best reason to leave is the biggest change the party made – because as history has demonstrated over and over again, those who use divinity to derive influence are those destined to do the most evil – and I’ve got enough evil to deal with (that’s for you all my ex-girlfriends – I told you I’d get you into one of these).]     

* * *

Before the DNC starts celebrating another GOP refugee joining their ranks, please know that I’m not “switching sides.”  The DNC is just as broken, lost and dysfunctional as the GOP.  The only difference between them is that one hasn’t betrayed me.  But my true disappointment lies in not being able to find a political party at all.  We have chased the thinkers out to islands, gated communities and otherwise polite exile.  We have reduced ourselves, at every turn, to the least common denominator – accommodating even the most unreasonable and misguided amongst us, because each vote only counts as one – no matter how much or how little that person knows or cares.  It makes sense, after all - it’s far simpler (and less expensive) to influence the stupid than people who will actually think about what you’re saying.  But for me, I’d rather be a thinker than anything else.  And since that label is apparently incompatible with either of the popular affiliation options, I’m going to sit that decision out.  Because, democracy notwithstanding, politics and parties only really work if you don't invite everyone.