Act II

Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the flowers gone?
Girls have picked them every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where Have All The Flowers Gone?
Words & Music by Pete Seeger, 1955


The wheels on the bus are going 'round and 'round and it's comforting to once again experience the familiar pitch, lurch and sway inherent to these lumbering conveyances. Though it's not Priscilla or Julia on which I ride. Those twisted sistas each need a long hot shower, deep fascia massage and high-colonic cleansing. I'm on the Route 80 Golden Gate Transit bus for the short trip south from Sonoma to Marin to fetch my pre-historic 1993 Volvo 960 station wagon. Imagine, an automobile that runs on fossil fuel! How quaint.

In Petaluma, at the intersection of Petaluma Blvd. North and Washington Street, the former Sonoma County Bank building is now home to The Petaluma Seed Bank (Baker Creek Heirloom Seed Company), an outlet for non-GMO, heirloom seeds. Like most mid to late 19th century and early 20th century bank architecture, the 1920s two-story granite building was constructed like the Rock of Gilbrator, as if to say to their clients...we aren't going anywhere. Those hapless customers could not have known that the Great Depression was waiting for them just down the block and around the corner.
 
Now, with its steel vault protecting heirloom seeds, instead of peoples' life savings, the formidable structure with its precious deposits would seem to say to the Big Six pharmaceutical and chemical companies - Monsanto, Dupont and Syngenta, Bayer, Dow, and BASF...check it out, suckers! we aren't going anywhere, either. And while elegantly symbolic, it's going to take a much greater counter-insurgency to combat the methodical proliferation of GE crops. The Big Six, in cahoots with the Frankenfood 15, have already seized a significant portion of the global seed industry and you know what they say – he who controls the food supply controls the world. It would be one thing if organic farms growing heirloom varieties could coexist alongside King Corn. The stark reality unfolding, I fear, is alarming. According to Organic Consumers Association:
 
"It is now widely acknowledged that GMO crops are a leaky technology -- 
 that it to say, genetically-modified pollen is spread naturally on the wind, by insects, and by humans. No one except perhaps some officials of the U.S. 
Department of Agriculture were actually surprised to learn this. GMO 
proponents have insisted for a decade that genetic contamination could never 
happen (wink, wink) and U.S. Department of Agriculture officials went along 
with the gag. And so of course GMO crops are now spreading everywhere by 
natural means, just as you would expect."

So, you have to wonder who's in bed with whom? and how come the United States is so consistently and glaringly out of step with the rest the world's nations in issues of national importance. Like health care, the environment, and education. If Peru's Congress can approve a 10-year moratorium on imports of genetically-modified organisms, as they just did, why can't we? The answer my friend is not blowin' in the wind, written on subway walls or tenement halls. You don't need to read between the lines, ask a cabbie for directions or buy a vowel from Vanna White. 
  
Still need a hint? Okay. Allow me to direct your attention to Wall Street. No, not the financial district named after and centered on the eight-block-long street running from Broadway to South Street on the East River in Lower Manhattan and the epicenter for the now viral Occupy movement. I refer, rather, to the 1987 movie of the same name, in which Michael Douglas playing the role of Gordon Gecko, a greedy corporate raider, takes a young and impatient stockbroker under his wing. In a phenomenal reversal of art imitating life, consider the following excerpt from a scene:

Gordon Gecko: The richest one percent of this country owns half our country's wealth, five trillion dollars. One third of that comes from hard work, two thirds comes from inheritance, interest on interest accumulating to widows and idiot sons and what I do, stock and real estate speculation. It's bullshit. You got ninety percent of the American public out there with little or no net worth. I create nothing. I own. We make the rules, pal. The news, war, peace, famine, upheaval, the price per paper clip. We pick that rabbit out of the hat while everybody sits out there wondering how the hell we did it. Now you're not naive enough to think we're living in a democracy, are you buddy? It's the free market. And you're a part of it. You've got that killer instinct. Stick around pal, I've still got a lot to teach you.

Remarkable, isn't it. And you thought Oliver Stone plays fast and loose with the truth? Amazingly prescient is what he was.

Where have all the dollars gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the dollars gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the dollars gone?
To the richest 1% every One
When will we start to learn?
When will we start to learn?

It is now standard operating procedure for the power elite, the corporatocracy, to keep the as-yet-enlightened-and-mobilized 99% in the dark. To keep them dumb. Wouldn't want the population to get any fanciful ideas. So let's create the illusion that voting will change the status quo. Let 'em think they've got a free press and unbiased media. Ply them with half-truths. Dangle concepts like hope and change in front of them. Distract them with mindless reality programs. Tantalize them with gossip. Re-direct their attention. (Look! A puppy!).

If they were ever to connect the dots, they might come to realize they actually have more power than they think. And the last time that happened...[gasp!]... good God, man...there was a bloody revolution.

The American Revolution. Act II.

Live To The Point Of Tears

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,

A poet, a pawn and a king.
I've been up and down and over and out
But I know one thing:
Each time I find myself flat on my face,
I pick myself up and get back in the race.

That's life, I can't deny it,
I thought of quitting,
But my heart just won't buy it.
Cause if I didn't think it was worth a try,
I'd have to roll myself up in a big ball and die.

That's Life, written by Dean Kay and Kelly Gordon;

from Frank Sinatra's 1966 album of the same name.

Many years ago, a cartoon appeared in Playboy showing an execution chamber, a death row inmate about to be strapped in for his last ride. On the wall behind an electric chair hangs a prominent sign that reads – “This is the last day of the rest of your life.” This witty spin on a popular aphorism of the time still makes me chuckle, and in light of my father's death last week, gives me pause - what if this were the last day of the rest of my life? Would I be doing anything differently than I am at this very moment, i.e., blogging about the last day of my life?  Good questions to ask ourselves from time to time. Are we really happy? Does happiness even matter? Is there something we ought to be doing that we are not. And if so, what are we waiting for? An invitation? In an earlier entry I explained the yet list of recovery. Those consequences of our addiction that have yet to rear their ugly heads. Now I speak of one's bucket list, a concept recently popularized in film. Those places, people and things we hope to visit, meet, do...before it's no longer an option, before we kick the bucket.

I know not how long I have on this mortal plane. I don't know if anybody does. Even if I do manage to live a righteous existence, a chunk of metal could still fall out of the sky at any moment striking me dead in an instant. It's as unlikely to occur as being struck by lightening, though I think you have my point.

Several chapters of my life have recently drawn to a close. The Sustainable Living Roadshow just concluded its most ambitious tour to date. It was a bigger-than-life experience and its completion has left a void. Last Monday morning, to clear skies, my father was laid to rest next to my mother. And while he had been unable to recognize even his own children for some time, it's categorically different

now that he's gone. Lastly, after 21 years of marriage, I have moved from the escrow period of having moved out to a permanent separation from my wife.

By any reckoning that's a heap of things to all happen at once. Am I hoping for a blue ribbon for holding it together? Special treatment? Extra credit for staying sober? Hardly. It isn't that I haven't cried. I have. It isn't that I'm not sad. I am. It's just I have a different relationship with emotions than I did before. Early in recovery, my sponsor counseled me that how other people felt was none of my business. He went on to further suggest that how I felt was none of my business. This last, a radical intervention at the time.

Back in junior high, a girl I've long since forgotten dropped a pearl of wisdom into the palm of my hand. She explained, “the deeper sorrow carves into your soul, the greater your capacity for joy”.      At the time, I thought I knew what she meant. Now I know. It's an ideal beautifully-expressed by Albert Camus when he admonished us to “live to the point of tears”.   From whence do these tears spring? The place in our hearts as described in song by Jackson Browne when he sung about a “fountain of sorrow, fountain of light...”.

The fact of the matter is I have a program in place – the 12 Step Program of Alcoholics Anonymous. There's a reason why our parting utterance at meetings is “It works if you work it”. I worked it and now it's working for me. Recovery is only partly about addiction, though.  It is mostly about a better blueprint for living, in my case - building a stronger foundation upon which to build my dreams.

Happy and sad are but two sides of the same coin.

You just have to be willing to toss it in the air.

The End

 

My father, who had been in steadily declining health, took a turn for the worse early last week. While driving from Texas into New Mexico, Sustainable Living Roadshow's Right2Know Tour behind us, I received a call from my sister, the essence of which was... come now! The sands of time were running out.

In New Mexico, we stopped at Carlsbad Caverns, one of the largest known limestone caverns in the Western Hemisphere, its grandeur and awesome speleothem - stalactites, stalagmites and soda straws; curtains, ribbons and cave pearls - a paean to Earth's wonders, providing a reality check of how insignificant civilization seems in the greater scheme of things. I was reminded of something I'd seen in school, a time-line of geographic history described by a 24-hour clock beginning at 12:00 AM with the formation of the Earth. The planet is bombarded with meteors for over three hours, the origins of life emerging at 4:00 AM, single-celled algae forming at 2:08 PM, mammals arriving at 10:56 PM and us humans coming on the scene just 2 minutes and 43 seconds before midnight, or 11:58:43 PM. Yet civilization  with its human-centric ways has managed to sully this incredible miracle by poisoning its water, polluting its air, compromising its protective atmospheric membrane, all the while showing neglect, disregard, most of all, hubris. Shame on us!

We are solutionaries, as opposed to revolutionaries, educating through entertainment, engaging in conversations to find common ground, effecting change through peaceful demonstrations, pointing the way to a more sustainable future. Of the three political protests of which we were a part, two have converted in our favor. The Keystone XL Pipeline proposal has been sent back to the State Department for re-review, for all intents and purposes killing it. The Delaware River Basin Commission has refused to permit new hydro-fracking wells, delaying them indefinitely. Each of these the result of calmly-plotted direct actions. It gives us a reason to believe that the third, GMO labeling, is just down the road. That road probably in California next fall.

In Tucson, Arizona, while my road dogs discovered Dirty T's 4^th Avenue, I prepared the last meal I will cook aboard Priscilla this outing - an Italian-style vegan feast consisting of tofu in a rich marinara sauce, a crispy salad of Napa and red cabbages, red kale and red bells with a red wine vinaigrette and yes, served alongside the now ubiquitous quinoa. Though its procurement comes with a startlingly-heavy carbon footprint (it's grown high atop the Andes in Bolivia), it is rare among grains (though actually a seed) for its complete protein profile. I'm sold on it.

As the days had grown shorter, the inevitability of tour's end setting in, we had begun reflecting on the truly life-changing experience we'd collectively gone through. How difficult it would be, if not impossible, to convey to outsiders.

Thus it was an incredible gift that that Wednesday night, my daughter, a senior at the University of Arizona, got to experience first-hand the powerhouse of energy and talent, the wellspring of unbridled affection and unconditional love, trust and compassion that for a third of a year has been my daily bread. Between the throw-down, beat-box, hip-hop Ode to Michael, a grace to end all graces, and the parting human spiral hug, Anya got to witness what most will never be able to understand no matter how many blogs they read, Facebook photos they see, or YouTube videos they view.

The next morning Anya drove me to Tucson International for a flight to Los Angeles. My brother Robert picked me up at baggage chauffeuring me directly to my dad's condo on the aptly-named Ocean Avenue, just north of the beaches that were my summertime hangouts growing up. After asking everyone to give me a few minutes alone, I exercised my 9^th Step option with my father. I had always heard about people who hadn't gotten an opportunity to tell someone they loved them while they were still alive. The same applies to apologies and making amends to those harmed during one's active alcoholism. I had a chance to do just that.

I know not whether my words penetrated his Alzheimer's-ravaged mind. Perhaps that's not the point. As my sponsor used to remind me, we are in the efforts business, not the results business.

My father breathed his last breath that night. Tomorrow at 10:00 AM, he will be put to rest next to my mom, who left us 16 years ago. If I know her, she's probably kept a light on.

Magical Realism

Come fly with me! Let's fly, let's fly away!
If you can use some exotic booze,
There's a bar in far Bombay,
Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away.

Words and Music by Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen
Recorded by Frank Sinatra, 1957


It was at speaker meetings in AA, where I first learned about a geographic, when an alcoholic up and leaves one place for another believing it will bring about a change in his drinking behavior. Surely, it must be New Orleans that's the problem. If I move to Cleveland I'll finally be able to control my drinking... if I can just get away from that wild crowd in Vegas, I can stop altogether... if I move to Maui, I won't need that morning drink to relax my nerves. Indeed, sometimes the alcoholic sees a noticeable improvement - for a week, a month, maybe even a year. However, you can't change a pickle back into a cucumber, as the saying goes, and eventually the drunk is right back where he started from.

This is categorically different than having a black out, when after a whirlwind weekend of nonstop drinking, a drunk ends up coming to hundreds, if not, thousands of miles away from where he had that first glass of wine in the hotel bar with a chum. Before becoming honest with myself, someone like me, in denial of his alcoholism, might've looked at somebody like that and said to himself, see, I haven't done anything like that, yet, so I'm not really an alcoholic. I haven't gotten a DUI, yet. I haven't been fired. I haven't lost my home. I haven't lost my family. We refer to that set of rationales served up as proof you're not really an alcoholic as one's yet list.

So now when I hear Ol' Blue Eyes sing about hoping on a jet plane and flying to India for a Singapore Sling, it stops and makes me wonder what might've been if I had continued to allow a fatal disease to go unchecked and untreated.

This weekend is a whirlwind of an altogether different kind. The Thrive Austin 11.11.11 Festival ended well past midnight with The Djembabes, the all-women, West African drumsong ensemble playing irresistibly-infectious, rhythmic accompaniment to a dance performance that was on fire...literally. This was the second performance of fire spinning (or fire twirling) we've seen this tour, the last in Roanoke.

No sooner were the fiery hoops and pois extinguished we started breaking down our set. We wrapped the Green Market with sidewalls, dismantled the carnival games, stowed away the sound system; then at half-past three, most of the crew called it a night only to be pried from slumber a few hours later. The apt phrase, death warmed over, comes to mind. Thank God for coffee – that's all I can say. We only had an hour or two to continue the breakdown and another several to load everything back into the box truck, trailer and the bays of the buses. After a brief drive to San Antonio, we arrived at our the next (and final) Roadshow stop. As soon as we got our bearings, we unlatched doors, lifted the bays and it was all hands on deck setting up for Sundays event. I made a simple savory scramble with mixed peppers, tofu with sauteed bok choy greens and a pot of dilled polenta with fresh basil. I had some pickled Jalapenos which which I mixed with chopped bok choy stalks, some cinnamon-laced Cinderella pumpkin and a roja sauce leftover from the night before, all of which I served as condiments.

It's now 7:37 AM, and I am up and at it again. I want to finish this entry before putting out breakfast for the still sleeping crew. Afterwards, I'm hopping on our Xtracycle to a fruteria down the road. Except for some tangelos Charlie Kain picked from a roadside tree in Austin and a few Fuji apples from the Whole Foods Market there, I am plum outta produce.

Texas is experiencing the worst drought in recorded history (since 1895) and so it is with more than a sprinkling of irony when you consider that up to today, all but two events of SLR's tour has been rained on. Some believe this is still more evidence of global warming and who's to say it isn't.

Now, far be it from me, a recovering alcoholic learning to wrest control from his ego and be guided by a higher power, to think I can make things happen by snapping my fingers. That said, a little part of me, the magical thinker, has his fingers crossed hoping somehow, someway, during the next 24 to 36 hours, the sky opens up and lets forth the downpour of the century.

In It. For Life.

 

Casting a pebble in a pond. The butterfly effect. Pillow talk. Seemingly minor things that ripple, resonate, sway. Cause and effect is often cloaked with uncertainty, though. As it is with complex issues and their outcomes. Sometimes it's not just one thing that creates change.

Take the Keystone XL Pipeline, for instance. The power was in the president's hands to prevent its construction and send a message to those who would put greed and profits over the health of our planet. Bill McKibben, and his 350.org stepped up and spearheaded the Tar Sands Action, a concert of civil disobedience at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Sustainable Living Roadshow was there, as was I,

standing tremulous with emotion as the Capitol police closed us in with barricades, readying zip ties (the fast food of hand cuffs). After all was said and done, 1253 were arrested. We didn't take our foot off the pedal, though. After that, demonstrators were in Obama's face, following him around the country. And last weekend, a year from the day of the 2012 presidential election, 12,000 people encircled the White House. Yesterday, President Obama sent the pipeline proposal back to the State Department for a thorough re-review, which most analysts are saying will effectively kill the project. (Had it been approved, a pipeline would have been built carrying dirty crude extracted from tar sands in Alberta, Canada, across the United States to refineries deep in the heart of Texas.) His decision had been teetering on the brink, threatening to totter toward Big Oil. Was the White House convinced by the logic of our rhetoric, the unrelenting barrage of direct action or the sheer numbers of citizens exercising their patriotic duty? All of it could have been ignored, discredited or drowned out by opposing forces. That didn't happen. The seesaw tipped the other way, and we can all give a sigh of relief - even celebrate. At least momentarily. For this is but one of many such issues on the docket. Once you pick up the mantle for change, your work is never done. That's just the way it is with some things. You're in it for life.

Sex, Drugs & Rock 'n' Roll

Don't you just hate when writers compromise their journalistic integrity with cheap, attention-grabbing headlines? Is it just me, but wasn't Andy Rooney's weekly, cranky postscript on CBS News' 60 Minutes the final straw? I mean, first the likes of Mike Wallace, Harry Reasoner and Ed Bradley spent 55 minutes casting dispersion upon our most cherished institutions and beloved public figures, alleging wrong doing in high places, going as far to suggest Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny didn't really exist, spoiling the innocence of my teenage years, casting a pale over my Sunday nights. No respect for the sanctity of the one night in the week America's families gathered to bask in the warm glow of their TV sets, ritually bonding with Lassie, Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color and Bonanza. Then, then! To push us over the top in 1978 with the introduction of “A Few Minutes with Andy Rooney”, foisting a sanctimonious sourpuss into our living rooms?

Of course, I'm exaggerating...for effect. Another cheap stunt. Andy served his last glass of whine about a month ago, delivering his 1,037th and final televised commentary. Don't you just hate when even after you've signed a DNR consent form some idiot intern pulls out the crash cart and administers CPR?

Tick tick tick tick tick...

I could speak to the the ethos espoused by this blog's title and I may well do so at later date, all the more so given the thematic underpinning of this journal and the potential for addiction each of cited items have. Though, I'm unaware there ever being a 12-Step program for Grateful Dead fans. Of course, the obsession of Deadheads is legendary. That was an altogether different time and place. Sex, Drugs & Rock 'n' Roll. You had to have been there to grok the gist of that motto. 40 years later, we've all grown up. Perhaps the battle cry of the 1960's should be be re-coined  Impotence, Viagra, Guitar Hero!

I was born in 1950, mid-century, making me a Baby Boomer, my father, born in 1922, a member of what Tom Brokaw characterized The Greatest Generation (Jews, please note, you cannot redeem your Chosen People and Greatest Generation coupons at the same time).

At this point I should be making a seamless segue into today's topic. That's probably not going to happen. Essentially I'm throwing a baseball around the horn today – a wonderful staying-limber technique for infielders after a successful out. [While it's not quite time for the seventh inning stretch, if you need to grab a cold brewskie, go ahead - this blog is available for viewing on closed circuit monitors throughout the ballpark – you won't miss a word!].

We spent the night before last in Abita Springs, Louisiana, at the home of solutionary Ben Harper, whose mom prepared a lovely dinner for us. Ben is the troupe member responsible for the design and construction of a 15 ft. in diameter bamboo, truncated-icosahedron with wings. It figures prominently in our shows and serves as the focal point for Veronica Ramirez's Living Peace Mandalas: one-of-a-kind, sacred circles created along with festival goers out of organic materials foraged from nature. Earlier, after arriving on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain near the 25 mile bridge that takes you to New Orleans, we had the opportunity to kayak on the bayou, which I have to say looks exactly as you would imagine – dead calm waters, Spanish moss hanging from Cypress trees, alligators prepared to launch at any moment. Really.

Yesterday we made tracks across the rest of Louisiana, cutting through warm and humid weather, covering 500 miles before coming to rest at Pine Street Station, on edge of downtown Austin and the site of this weekend's event. Fellow Roadshow members, Chad Rittenberry and Nick Moser, were there to greet us in the cool night air, having gotten a head start while we were all still in Asheville, North Carolina. This is their town and to a large extent they are responsible for making this event possible. The funky, football-field long, corrugated-roofed warehouse has worn, wood plank floors and is broken up into a series of galleries. An adjoining outdoor area includes an eclectic mix of booths and awning-covered service shacks put to good use on Sundays, when Hope Farmer's Market operates. The acronym stands for a Helping Other People Everywhere, about as honorable a mission as one could...hope for.

The Thrive Austin Festival 11.11.11, is billed as a one-day happening “celebrating local community and global sustainability”, an enlightened nexus that will require the synergy of people everywhere helping others. Yep, Texas may be the Lone Star State, but when push came to shove, like it did for the defenders of the Alamo, a constellation of many lit up the San Antonio sky.

Asheville Cats

“That he not busy being born is busy dying”.

- It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding), Bob Dylan, 1964

“Billions and billions...”

- Carl Sagan, American astronomer, astrophysicist, cosmologist, author, science popularizer and communicator in astronomy and natural sciences (born 1934 /died 1996)

Last week, as some of us were getting our faces painted for a Halloween portrayal as Carnie Zombies, the odometer of global population quietly ticked up a notch from 6,999,999,999 to an even 7 billion. My, my, where did the time go? Seems like only yesterday we were a quaint little planet with a mere 2.5 billion. Back when Industrialized Nations could pillage Third World countries with impunity. They no longer can get away with that kind of shit. Or can they? International corporations like behemoth bulldozers raze everything in their path for world dominance in an insatiable lunge for profits at the expense of people. As the Right2Know March stood poised and ready the morning of Day 16, the final ascent to Lafayette Square, DC Metro buses wrapped with Monsanto propaganda turned the corner one right after the other. The 1% has more money than God, which by definition puts the Almighty in the 99%, somehow a comfort to David in his ongoing bout with Goliath.

It's been a awhile since I last posted an entry to this journal, so you'll have to remind me where we left off. Wait, wait, don't tell me...we were drawing a line in the shifting political landscape. “Which side are you on, Obama? Which side are you on?" That, a chant from the White House Tar Sands Action earlier this tour. We altered the lyric slightly after learning a foe of the president was still asking for him to fork over his birth certificate. Which country are you from, Obama, which country are you from? Really now, must we continue to flog a dead horse? You have to wonder, however, wouldn't it be relatively easy for a forger to, well, forge a birth certificate. After all, if teenagers can put a few hundred bucks down for a passable driver's license, couldn't the fuckin' Commander-in-Chief get his hands on an ersatz document to assuage his detractors. Probably have to 86 the technician, though...you know, to cover the trail of fraud.

Occupy Asheville has two meanings for this writer, the first describes a location among many of the current tsunamic, anti-corporate political and social movement; the other, Sustainable Living Roadshow's sojourn in this amazingly cool North Carolina city. What can I say...I love Asheville. Given my limited geographical vocabulary (I didn't get around much in my first six decades), I'd describe it as one part Santa Cruz, CA, one part Greenwich Village, NY, and one part San Francisco's North Beach – woven together then unrolled street by street in this craft-brewing center of the Southeast. And just as a man (and woman) does not live by beer alone, it has an emerging reputation for farm to table culinary excellence. After partaking in a generous serving of the best, fried shoestring potatoes I have ever eaten (I kid you not!), it may well deserve the moniker Foodtopia.

Home to one branch of the University of North Carolina system, the relatively-small (3,500 students) and somewhat affordable campus is known for its liberal arts orientation. There is a comfortable intimacy, a progressive feel and judging by its food service and physical plant, a tradition of sustainability. Bringing our tented sideshow here is a little like preaching to the choir, but on the other hand it was inspiring to engage so many friendly, kindred spirits.

At the cafeteria's entrance a sign declaring Your Table Awaits You...Relax greets hungry students. Produce is locally sourced, rSBT is absent from milk products and there is much in the way of vegetarian alternatives. Most impressive of all, however, is a DIY juicer, a massive machine that pulverizes and extracts the essence of carrots, beets, kale and apples. The windows of the expansive dining area opens onto an unobstructed view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, its famous Parkway unseen in the distance. Helpful tabletop signage has suggestions for an optimum, balanced diet including a handy, healthy shopping list for your dorm. A poster bids you to Reduce Your Consumption, Take Only What You Need, which applies, of course, to more than just food. The only danger zone is a substantial dessert bar (ice cream, cookies, pudding and pies) offering a challenge to the strong of faith, yet weak of flesh.

There is a robust recycling program in effect with clearly-marked and conveniently-placed receptacles as well as biomass composting. Two of the food service workers with whom I spoke told me there is nearly zero waste at their facility. UNCA also prides itself as having an energy footprint nearly half that of any of the other 15 campuses. So, it came as no surprise that the 7^th Annual Southern Students Renewable Energy Conference (SSREC) was held here over the weekend. Perusing the two-day workshop schedule gave me a booster shot of hope against the perception that young people are dis-interested in politics and preoccupied with popular, mainstream culture. After observing a malaise of apathy and lack of native curioisty at the Maryland Institute College of Art, it was refreshing to witness a strong counter-balance. Perhaps it's possible to have your gluten-free cake and eat it too!

A smaller troupe boarded Priscilla and Julia yesterday morning, several members having jumped off the road at this juncture. We are well over the three month mark of the tour and life beyond beckons. The SLR ship of solutionaries has turned its stern, so to speak, our vessel now westward bound, Austin city limits our next Roadshow destination. Today, we awakened to a still and peaceful Alabama morning. In an hour or so we'll cross over into Louisiana for some laid back time on the Bayou.

I was sorry to have to leave Asheville alright, but it's not going anywhere any time soon. In the wake of that revelation an epiphany, the sudden comprehension that San Francisco is not the only place one can leave his heart.