Silverladder

Have a look at Eric Jacomet’s amazing video of this year’s Silverladder November Event. I was thankful to have him shooting video this year and Pia Ward doing photography. I knew they’d both do an excellent job, but the results far surpassed my expectations. This being our final year, I am so very glad that we have this to look back on. Thanks also to everyone who contributed.

And I am really placing an emphasis on brief. I have much more to say about this, including a lot of things which tie into my faith, yet seem to be contrary to a lot of what I have heard from those who consider themselves “American Christians” have had to say regarding the topic.

Simple Disclaimer: I am not anti-capitalist. Let me type that again: I am not anti-capitalist.

So let’s begin…

There are plenty of people possess degrees from four-year universities, reasonable IQ’s, and a good work ethic, who have been applying for things like receptionist positions and warehouse labor jobs, yet are still not getting hired. We’re no longer talking about people aiming for jobs that utilize their degree or pay what they feel they’re worth. It’s now literally about trying to get a job, period. The problem is that, as a result of our shaken economy, there is now a ridiculous amount of people fighting tooth and nail for every little simple job.

The Occupy movement is not so black and white as to purely be a bunch of “lazy hippies” asking for handouts. Far too many people are making blanket statements about this whole latest movement being about entitled spoiled brats who don’t want to work. I genuinely believe there is more to it than that.

Are there some on the fringe who have made it about that? Yeah. And there have also been some on the fringe of the Tea Party movement who are complete racists. Does that mean the Tea Party movement is, in and of itself, racist? No.

I think a lot of us would like to see just the tiniest bit of accountability from the financial industry, which not only helped destabilize the American economy but the world economy as well. We’ve demanded accountability from the government. Why not do the same for corporations?

I’ve learned this recently: A lot of the right wants to point the finger solely at the government. A lot of the left wants to exclusively blame irresponsible corporate behavior.

As usual, the truth falls somewhere in the middle.

Again, I don’t see this as an anti-capitalist protest. It isn’t anti-capitalist when it’s a protest regarding an industry that was bailed out with trillions of taxpayer dollars. They privatize profits but then it becomes the public’s responsibility to bail them out when their own recklessness causes a major crisis? How does that work? Honestly, I fail to see what the problem is with asking the financial industry to have some common sense and take some responsibility. Doing so doesn’t make one some kind of hippie anarchist. I’m heavily right-leaning on plenty of issues, but I don’t see this situation as a right/left topic. I see it as a matter of the average citizen being tired of footing the bill for an industry that was incredibly irresponsible. Even if this hasn’t affected you yet, give it time. It will.

And as far as the dismissive, sweeping generalizations made about those who have joined the Occupy protests in various cities, I will say this:

I happen to know a number of professionals who joined the protests, including numerous people with degrees (law degrees among them). A number of military veterans (old and young) have joined them in recent days. Also among the ranks are EMTs, doctors, individuals who possess Ph.D’s, small business owners, etc. That fact alone is going to mess up some people’s generalized attempt to dismiss this whole deal. Some of you have convinced yourselves that you’re against “these people,” when in reality they’re a lot more like you than you might realize or be willing to admit. And they may just be fighting for a cause you don’t yet realize you have.

Hi. I’m Shane Watson. I speak in complete sentences. I bathe regularly and practice good hygiene. I am a Christian. I am pro-gun, pro-Constitution, and a huge advocate for supporting our soldiers. I feel blessed to live in America and I am thankful for the chance to do so. Oh, yeah, and I happen to think that, at least at its core, the Occupy movement has a solid point.

Sorry if I just shattered your concept of reality.

None of the people I know personally who have spoken up about this are looking for a “handout.” They’re angry that the bad behavior of the financial industry was rewarded with a bailout. Many of the companies that were bailed out are still giving their execs bonuses. Last I checked, bonuses were for good performance, not for messing things up entirely. A bonus is not an assured contractual obligation owed to you simply for showing up. It is dependent on performance. I mean, even a jr. high kid who follows the NBA understands that concept. Yet somehow it has escaped the banks and Wall Street? Please.

I don’t want a free cent from anyone. I have too much pride for that. What I want is a little responsibility from banks. I demand it from the government and I think it’s reasonable to ask it of corporations as well.

From October 27th to the 30th, I took part in the largest machine gun shoot in the United States. My dad and cousins have been going to the “Big Sandy” shoot since 2006. After a few years of missing the event for no good reason, I finally made it there myself. It was nothing short of amazing.

While 21 minutes long, this video is still only a very small sample of this event. The camera can’t bring you the concussion of the tank firing, the heat from the muzzle blasts, or the smell of the gunpowder. It also can’t show you the very cool camaraderie that goes on during the event. What is normally a vacant chunk of private land in the high desert of western AZ transforms into an instant town of sorts when Big Sandy is happening. And while the citizens are heavily armed, they’re incredibly friendly and helpful.

Among the firearms I shot during the event were various AR-15s (including a full-auto one with a 100-round magazine), an AK-47, a Romanian PSL, a 50 caliber single shot bolt action rifle, a MAC-10, and a belt-fed 1919A4 machine gun. I also launched a ton of flares (including smoke flares and parachute flares of various colors).

And if you don’t have time for the full 21-minute vid, this 10-second clip will tell you plenty:

More information: mgshooters.com

I’d like to tell you a little story about shoveling dirt, repairing water lines, and fixing a sprinkler system. Sounds riveting, eh? I mean, who sees such a spellbinding sentence and doesn’t have to catch their breath in sheer anticipation? This already sounds like something that should be made into a movie. Does anyone have Michael Bay’s number?

All kidding aside, stay with me. It’ll be worth it. I’ll make the back story as brief as possible so we can get to the payoff. Besides, Michael Bay is all wrong. This has much more of a Richard Donner ending.

A few weeks ago while at my house, I went to go wash my hands and noticed the water pressure in my house was unusually low. It was too early in the day for the sprinklers to be on, so I knew they weren’t the culprit. Likewise, the dishwasher and washing machine weren’t running, nor were any of the external hoses turned on. A brief investigation revealed that my backyard had begun to flood, and the source of the problem was clearly coming from one particular corner where the sprinkler valve boxes are. A quick peek inside showed that there was a pretty serious issue with a sprinkler valve.

I called my dad to come have a look at it, as he is far more knowledgeable than I am when it comes to irrigation systems. Okay, so he’s far more knowledgeable than me when it comes to most things. However, in terms of irrigation system comprehension, I hover somewhere near “chimp” skill level. So his input was especially crucial.

Considering that we were now nearing midnight and working by the light of a motion sensor light on the side of my house, we did what needed to be done to simply stabilize the situation and end the chaos. That meant circumventing part of the sprinkler pipe system via a cap. It was a matter of stopping the flood and ensuring the water line to the house was working. The idea was to come back at a more reasonable time to do a full fix.

Fast forward to that “more reasonable time,” AKA today. Starting around 10 AM, we headed to Home Depot to get a couple parts we needed. My dad mentioned to an employee what pieces we needed and the guy pointed us to the section of the aisle where we’d find them. My dad’s demeanor indicated that this would be a quick fix, and that idea was only further cemented when, upon finding all the parts we required, he told the Home Depot employee, “That was too easy.” Jokingly, I spoke up and said, “Whoa. Don’t say that out loud. Don’t jinx us now.” The employee laughed along with us and added, “No kidding. Save that for when the project is over.”

Let’s fast forward again for the sake of the story and the sake of my sanity, because I already lived this once. An old piece we needed to remove from the existing pipe system snapped off when it was being unthreaded from its connection point due to how old and brittle it was. It turns out the broken part that remained connected had been glued in place. No attempt at removing it with all the correct tools and all the sheer force one could muster proved successful. What should have been around a one-hour project was now clearly going to become an all day affair. It was now a matter of removing the whole valve box, and doing a fair amount of digging to get to a big enough piece of the main line to patch off of.

We both dug for a while, talking the whole time and joking around a lot, as we are prone to do when working together. As much as this change of plan was a bit of a pain, we made the best of it. I was loosening dirt around the four edges of the valve box with a pick, while my dad then shoveled out the loosened dirt into a pile. We had reached somewhere near a foot deep on all sides of the box.

As he threw one particular shovel full of dirt on the pile, we simultaneously paused and said, “What was that?” Something that landed on the pile immediately stood out from the standard clumps of dirt, rocks, grass, etc. I leaned over and picked it up. It was a little plastic pouch, approximately 2×2″. As I picked it up, I could tell that whatever was in it had a bit of weight to it for the size of the sleeve it was in. I opened it up. It was a coin. A gold coin.

I handed it to my dad, and as he saw it and felt the weight, he said, “That’s gold. That’s real.” We inspected the face more closely. It read “Suid-Africa * South Africa” and had the profile of a bearded man on it. Flipping it over, the back said “Krugerrand” on the top, had an image of an antelope in the middle surrounded by the date 1978, and read “Fyngoud 1oz Fine Gold” on the bottom.

As much as we needed to get the pipes fixed, this was a valid reason to pause for a couple minutes. I jumped on Google and did some searching. As of today, an ounce of gold is valued at $1,641.80 USD. So the ounce of gold we found is, at least, worth that. The collector value of the coin seems to be somewhere in the $1,800 to $2,500 range, depending on condition and other factors.

There was gold buried in my back yard. Had my sprinkler valve not malfunctioned, we would not have found it. Had the fix gone as planned, we would not have found it.

We immediately started laughing about what had previously been a nuisance. We also discussed the fact that, after finding the coin, we also found an empty plastic pouch (identical to the one the coin was found in) in the pile of dirt we had removed. Needless to say, when the project was finished, we ran the loose dirt we had removed through a sifter before returning it to the hole to cover up the pipes and secure the valve box back in place. We didn’t find another coin in the loose dirt, but I’d say that an ounce of gold isn’t too bad for one day.

Oh, and the pipes eventually got fixed too.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krugerrand

Thoughts on tonight’s show, in brief list form:

1. Wow. Yeah… wow.

2. If you’re not familiar with Thrice, skip down to item #11.

3. I haven’t sweated like that at a show since I saw Fugazi. I’ve missed it.

4. The band was on, and the crowd responded in kind. It was nice to see an audience return an amount of energy to the band that was equal to what the band was putting out from the stage.

5. Here is tonight’s setlist: http://www.setlist.fm/setlist/thrice/2011/marquee-theatre-tempe-az-63d00257.html

6. The fact that they played “Circles” was a huge (and very cool) surprise. Singing along with that was amazing.

7. Speaking of surprises, a couple songs before Thrice finished, lead singer Dustin Kensrue hinted that he would be playing an acoustic set in the parking lot after the show. He wasn’t kidding. We sat five feet away while he played the bonus acoustic set, watching him play on a tiny makeshift stage, as trains passed by in the distance. Only a handful of the crowd who showed up for Thrice made it out for this bonus show. Those who passed up the opportunity truly missed out. Hearing those who stuck around singing “Pistol” along with Dustin was one of those amazing moments that I’ll remember for a very long time.

8. During the acoustic set, he talked about an organization called Invisible Children. Check it out at http://www.invisiblechildren.com/

9. After a full concert fronting Thrice and a bonus acoustic set in the parking lot, Dustin still stuck around to make sure everyone who wanted a handshake, hug, photo, autograph, or even something more important, got one.

9.5 (Yes, nine and a half) – Eric and I ran into some fellow Thrice fans after the show who couldn’t get a cab to come pick them up at the venue and drive them to their hotel in Tempe. So we gave them a ride back to their hotel. Well, I guess I should technically say Eric gave them a ride back to their hotel, while I entertained two of them in the back of the truck with my trademark rambling. Nice meeting you guys. Safe travels back to Sierra Vista!

10. Watching Eric Jacomet hold the door for countless people multiple times with no expectation of even a “thank you” in return made me think about the last being first and the first being last, and reminded me of the many reasons I am thankful to count him as a friend.

11. For the uninitiated, here are two Thrice songs and one from Dustin Kensrue’s solo album:

Thrice – “Words in the Water” (live)

Thrice – “Circles”

Dustin Kensrue – “Please Come Home”

Sloan Churman’s original video:

My response to the ensuing comments on the video:

In this video, I react to the tactless comments being posted in response to Sloan Churman’s inspiring video where Sarah Churman hears her own voice for the first time after a lifetime of being deaf. Whereas a simple, “Congrats on your newfound hearing!” would have been both sufficient and polite, many people chose to turn the video’s comment section into their own personal political platform. Several of them did it in the most tactless way possible, offering up flat out insults and not even constructive points.

In my opinion, her video and the subsequent comments show what is great and horrible about the internet.

Your attention span…

Your attention span begins to shrink. You begin to grow. You grow very tired. Sitting on the sidewalk, leaned against the side of a bank, you find your eyes straining to remain open. The bank closes. You have nothing to do tonight, and you’re doing exactly that: nothing. The boredom is only fueling the exhaustion and you’re dueling the escape of consciousness. Through half-open eyes, you glance up and down the street. However, with nothing interesting to look at and no one to talk to, sleep begins to win.

“Got a light?” Yes, light. The streetlight seeps in and reality creeps in and sleep is defeated… at least for the moment. “What?” you hear yourself say out loud. “A light? Do you have a light?” The figure in front of you leans forward, down toward your face as he repeats the question. He has your attention. His stark white skin is offset by the blackness of his coat. As his words cycle through your mind and you grasp for the language to respond, it hits you that the person you’re talking to doesn’t look entirely human. He looks like a…

“Uhh, yeah,” is the phrase your mouth produces on autopilot. You find your right hand rooting around in your left inside coat pocket. There it is. You thrust your hand forward. “Thanks. Thanks,” he, the creature, repeats as the details of his features are revealed by the flame of the lighter. Brighter becomes dimmer, as you find yourself swimming in half-awake confusion.

Here? “Here.” What? Where? What do you mean, “Here?” You feel a slight tapping on your shoulder as the voice repeats that one word, the meaning of which still eludes your grasp. “Here.” As your eyes survey the scene and your mind gets back up to speed, you realize that you must have drifted off again. But for how long? “Thank you,” he says as he inserts the lighter back into your hand. Before you can say “You’re welcome,” you realize your eyes are closed again. You feel someone patting your arm. “Don’t stay out here all night. It isn’t safe.” More patting on your arm. More patting. More patterns. More repeating phrases. More looping words. “Don’t stay out here all night. All night. All night.”

All night? What time is it anyway? The thought forces you enough into consciousness enough to cause you to open your eyes and glance at your watch… or at least where your watch used to be. In front of your eyes sits your left wrist. Bare. You stare, unaware that the watch which was on your person only moments ago is now making its way down the street. The looping words. The repeating phrases. The patterns. The patting. Wait a second.

You leap to your feet, leaving the cold concrete beneath. Reality feels like a frigid breeze as you realize that the person you just let borrow your lighter also helped himself to your watch. Your eyes catch a shadow moving in the opposite direction a little way off. As it stops under a streetlight and is illuminated momentarily, you see the thief look back in disbelief, as he realizes his crime has been revealed. His eyes flicker, almost appearing to be lit by some kind of small flame behind them. An extremely mischevious grin makes its way across his face for a moment before he turns and runs.

You face reality and give chase. As the distance between the two of you increases he reaches his arm up in the air above his head, holding the watch up like some kind of trophy. Repeatedly, you see the bottom of his shoes. As if to mock you, the word “Lucky” is written on the bottom of them. It flashes over and over as each step takes him (and your watch) that much more out of your reach.

Suddenly, he stops in mid stride and makes a hard right turn, right into the doorway of a building. Above the entrance, the street number of the building declares “1111.” You arrive at the doorway and swing the door inward, still moving urgently. You hurry forward toward the elevators. The one he got into is already making it’s way up. Impatiently, you pace, waiting for the other one to open. You hear the bell, telling you the doors are about to part. As they open, you launch forward, and suddenly find yourself…

…Falling.

My dad is an interesting guy.

Back when I lived at home, around late high school age, these really big solid plastic cups started showing up in our cupboards. They were the kind you’d find at some kind of cafeteria. However, the really weird thing is that every single one would have at least one or two different colored pieces of narrow tape wrapped around the circumference of the cup. Green and red were prominent, but other colors were known to show up from time to time. My dad did that. He put the tape on the cups.

He would do it frequently. It got to the point where it wouldn’t be uncommon for one of the cups to have four or five pieces of tape around it. People would come over and visit and see them in the cupboards and inevitably raise an eyebrow. Finally I asked my dad what the deal was with the tape.

He said, “One time there was a guy who worked at a quarry. You know, the place where they mine rocks and break them down into certain sizes and such? Well, anyway, every day when this guy left work to head home, he was pushing a wheelbarrow full of sand. Every day, the quarry’s security guard would stop the guy and search through the sand really thoroughly to make sure that the guy wasn’t stealing anything by hiding it in the sand. Every day he’d search and find nothing, and would let the guy go home. Finally, after the guy worked at the quarry for a number of years, it came time for him to retire. As he was leaving on his last day of work, sure enough, he was pushing a wheelbarrow. The guard stopped him, searched it, and found nothing. He looked up at the guy and said, ‘Level with me here. You’ve been doing this for years and I know you’re stealing something. I just can’t figure out what the heck it is. What is it?’

The man looked back at the security guard and replied, ‘Wheelbarrows.’”

And that, my friends, was my father’s explanation for why there were tape stripes on our cups.

I told you he was an interesting guy.

Some kind of flowers
Some kind of coffee
And some kind of morning that starts out like a movie
Some kind of person shouting out words which tell you how you’re supposed to feel
Some kind of romance and some kind of novel
Some kind of newspaper that explains the day

And you turn and you look
And you hit your mark
And the sun will rise and the moon will die
But somehow we’ll still end up in the dark

Some kind of perfect
And Some kind of plastic
Some kind of radio waves that shout out the future
Some kind of electricity
That mixes with lightning to become the tsunami of perfume

And you turn and you look
And you hit your mark
And the sun will rise and the moon will die
But somehow we’ll end up in the dark