Tag Archives: americana

train set

If I Could Live In A Train Set.

By: Chris Warren.

Last Saturday evening I stopped by my brother’s house to see his kids, and as luck would have it, my young nephew was away at a sleepover and my niece was with one of her girlfriends busy doing…whatever junior high age girls do. So I thought to myself, uhhmm, well, I guess I can stay a while and actually spend some time with my brother. What I thought was kind of bummer because I didn’t get to see my niece and nephew turned into a fun and insightful evening playing with a train set.

My brother is big into model trains and has a large O-gauge layout in his basement. So like two little kids we descended the stairs into his electrified rail-realm. All males, and I do mean all of them, no matter how old they get, like to play with toy trains. A guy who does not like toy trains needs psychiatric intervention.

To call it a “toy” is factually accurate but a little misleading. A lot of adults, maybe too many, take the hobby very seriously. They spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars constructing very realistic looking layouts. My brother is not so much of a purist. His train set is realistic enough, but he does not sweat the details. He’d rather spend time running his trains than fuss over whether the rivets on the locomotive are historically accurate.

He flipped a series of switches, turned a few dials, and his little world came to life. One steam engine chugging the main line, one diesel hauling freight, and a streetcar shuttling back and forth across town. A train set is quite noisy when everything is running, yet the rhythmic sound is alluring and has a soothing quality to it. If that noise came from anything else it would be annoying as hell. But trains have a certain something that calms your nerves.

I was quickly absorbed into the make believe. Job and family stresses, world events, and political vitriol all seem to melt away in train land. It puts one in a much better frame of mind to  face the real world when it’s time to come up from the basement. My brother has a tendency to freak out over any little thing and I think his train set, whether he realizes it or not, is his therapy.

And effective therapy it is! I don’t have my own train set so it was a real treat to run the engines around, work the horns and bells, relishing in what I have to admit is pointless as a practical activity but amazingly beneficial as a visceral escape. There is no bad day that cannot be made better by playing with a train set.

We cracked a few profoundly offensive & tasteless jokes (sorry, mom!), talked about our lives, and discussed ideas for expanding the layout. We would have kept going much longer but for a call from upstairs that dinner was ready. The hour or so we were down there seemed like mere moments. That was probably the longest time I’ve spent alone with my bother in decades.

There are certainly other pastimes that give their practitioners a lifetime of stress relief and fun, yet few hobbies are as universally appealing as train set and have an efficacy equal to or better than antidepressant medication. Both my brother and I were big into trains as kids but along the way to growing up it drifted away from me. I’m glad he stuck with it, for his own benefit and mine. I know I can’t always live in the idyllic world of a train set, but for a while it sure was nice to pretend.

flag burning

The Reason We Shouldn’t Is Because We Can.

By Chris Warren

There are a lot of ways to identify a blubbering idiot.  The most common is when someone announces that they have the “right” to do or say something, then proceeds to make a big dramatic spectacle of doing it. At that point the odds are very good that they are in blubbering idiot territory.

Flag burning as a form of protest has seen something of a renaissance lately. The self absorbed, mostly millennial-aged activists represent a huge buffet of causes and think they are being edgy and progressive, but we of more vintage know that flag burning is an old trope that goes back to the Vietnam era. I presume one of the protesters’ goals is to convince others to join their cause; apparently they have not figured out that flag burning  is appealing to no one except those who were already on their side in the first place.

Burning the American flag is an offense far beyond any single cause because it is the symbol of all just causes. The average protester does not have enough brain cells to understand the irony of destroying the very symbol of what protects their freedom to protest, or that it reflects the protesters’ own weakness and lack of courage.

They don’t burn the flag to advance their cause. They burn the flag for the shock value and to be hurtful. That’s really what this is all about. They’re like a recalcitrant angry child screaming “Mommy I hate you!”. Their immaturity does not allow them to express themselves in any reasonable way, so they lash out with the only weapon they have–inflicting emotional pain.

When a protester is asked why they are protesting, the answer is almost always some nebulous statement about “rights,” either theirs or someone else’s. I do agree that burning the American flag is a Constitutionally protected First Amendment right, even as I personally find it deeply offensive. But my individual sensibilities are not a basis for a legal or moral system.

I’m sure the flag-burners are likewise offended that I exercise my Second Amendment rights by packing a gun everywhere I go. The difference of course is that I do not carry a gun for the sole purpose of upsetting anyone, although it does not bother me at all if someone is. No one has the right not to be offended, and that concept is a two way street. One could fill many gigabytes of computer memory discussing the contradictions and double-standards that revolve around the flag.

14449788_887015971433081_7878711121246051680_n

One sign of maturity and wisdom is the ability to accept an opinion you disagree with and not take it as a personal affront. The flip side to this is mature people do not deliberately inflict emotional pain as part of, or in many cases in lieu of, making their point.

The other day a television news channel featured a story about protesters protesting the recent US Presidential election by burning an American flag. Unfortunately for the protesters, the coverage was almost totally devoted to the flag burning. Barely any mention was made about what they were actually protesting against.

And so it is with such childish and disrespectful overtures. The flag burning becomes the issue and no one pays much attention to whatever the hell it is they are complaining about.

I suggest that the best response to flag burning is to be passive and let it go. I know it is difficult, but not all wrongdoing is worthy of intervention. Anti-flag burners do not want to descend into a state where they think everything that offends them should be eradicated from the Earth. If that sentiment sounds familiar, it’s because we already have an entire generation of runny-nosed milquetoasts who need puppies and Play-Doh just to get through the “trauma” of an election that offended them, but apparently not enough for most of them to participate in.

Burning the American flag is Constitutionally acceptable (albeit offensive) free speech. Honorable men and women have fought and died for our rights, and that includes the right to be a blubbering flag-burning idiot. I have no confidence that someday the idiots will see their foolish former selves immortalized forever on YouTube and be embarrassed enough to join the ranks of we who understand that the reason you shouldn’t is because you can.

hero

The Value Of A Hero.

With the political season nearing its denouement, there is a lot of hero worship from every campaign. The military and police are oft cited examples, and the hero label has been applied to everyone from generals to pizza delivery guys. It seems like the definition of hero can be stretched to include almost anyone, and that is quite bothersome.

What I’m left wondering is, what exactly is a hero anymore? There are obvious examples that are easy to quantify, such as the guy who risks his own safety to rescue someone from a car sinking in water, or a Congressional Medal Of Honor winner. But after that it’s not so clear cut.

Is someone a hero simply by being in a certain group, such as firefighters and the military? Or do they actually have to do something heroic? Suppose an ordinary guy who otherwise has never shown any proclivity for acts of bravery is suddenly thrust into a situation…such as child trapped in a burning building. If he places himself in great peril to rescue the child, is he a hero more, less, or equal to the retired Army sergeant who spent his entire career at a desk job and never did anything more hazardous than minimum required basic training?

By virtue of their enlistment, the military people have professed a willingness to place themselves in danger on behalf of others. The same could be said of police officers and firefighters. This willingness is not mere words. It is  verified by lengthy, difficult training intended in part to weed out the pretenders from those who really mean it. Is that enough to satisfy the nebulous “do something” requirement?

Whether or not they have ever actually done anything dangerously heroic is beside the point. Raising their hands and volunteering to imperil themselves in the service of complete strangers must count for something, and in my mind it makes them a hero on some level even if they are never called to perform these duties.

That brings us to the less obvious. Teachers, clergy, medical people, and a raft of others are often lifted to hero status. The missions they undertake are unarguably difficult, noble, and often done at great personal sacrifice. But here we go again…does mere inclusion in one of these respected groups by default make them a hero?

We admire teachers and clergy and the rest…I get it. Yet I cannot make an easy connection between someone who does something honorable and selfless, but not particularly risky, and someone who actually does take a big risk or accepts the potential of danger.

The problem I have with the modern hero is that, consistent with society’s attitude of “everyone gets a trophy,” and “let’s not hurt anyone’s feelings,” the concept of a hero has been diluted down to include pretty much everyone. And if everyone is a hero, then being a one isn’t such a big deal. Furthermore, the real heroes, those who clearly earned it, are having their rightful honor debased.

I do not consider myself a hero, but I’m sure if I was a lot more full of myself I could find a circuitous way to claim the title. Meh. I’ll watch with a little sadness while so many others abuse the term. When it’s all over, I’ll give up my spot on the pedestal for someone who really deserves it.

work shoes

The Story In A Workingman’s Shoes.

By Chris Warren.

I went out yesterday and bought a new pair of work shoes. I know it’s not exactly a profound life event, but when I looked at my old shoes it struck me that every beat up, worn out pair has a story to tell about a Workingman.

Most people have several pairs of shoes for everyday use, but the Workingman, a guy who doesn’t wear a fine suit, usually has only one pair. Those old shoes carried me through every moment of my career for several years. I wear them more than any other single article of clothing I own.

The photo above shows two pairs of my work shoes. Both are the exact same make, model, and size. One pair is three years old and well past the end of its useful life; the other is brand new, never worn. When compared side by side, it’s a bit startling to see what three years of honest hard work will do to a pair of shoes.

Those shoes were a silent witness to many great things that happened to me, and a few not so great things. They were there when the boss dressed me down over a mistake I made; they were also there when the same boss gave me a fat bonus and told me what a great employee I was. They’ve been to funerals and retirement parties. They’ve shoveled snow and walked through 100 degree heat.

Every scuff and crack and stain and scrape on those old shoes has a story behind it. Of course, I don’t remember the details of how and when every blemish occurred, but collectively they are the testimony of a guy who clearly does not spend much time sitting around.

Workingmen are not a complicated lot, which, by the way, should not be interpreted as being uneducated or simple-minded. Their skills are technical and complex and can take years, even decades, to master. The Workingman’s job requires advanced math and analytical abilities; many of the people in work shoes and hard hats hold college degrees and/or have completed vocational training that essentially equals or exceeds a college degree. They show up every day with lunchbox in hand and a can-do spirit in their heart and do what is needed to keep our modern world seamlessly running.

Building buildings, lighting up the cities, keeping cellphones on line, toilets flushing, and trucks and trains and airplanes moving are all part of the countless behind the scenes labors that no one sees but everyone would definitely notice if they did not get done correctly and on time. These are not skills any unmotivated dropout can learn. Workingmen are diverse in their advanced expertise but they have one thing in common: Their shoes do not stay pristine and new for very long.

I don’t know why, but there is something about getting a new pair of work shoes that boosts my mood. For that first few days, before they are fully broken in and start showing obvious signs of wear, I put my work shoes on in the morning and leave the house feeling like it’s going to be a good day. Like a blank sheet of paper they too will collect the story of my daily life and someday will be worn and spent.

That is where the Workingman is different from his shoes: The Workingman is never spent. He may return home tired at the end of each shift and dream of a well earned retirement, but the next morning he will put on the same pair of shoes and go out and make the world happen…again. During the course of his day his shoes will collect a few more scrapes and scuffs, each of which is a testimony to honest hard work. Show me a beat up old pair of work shoes, and I’ll show you a dignified Workingman who never failed to carry the pride of his skill and labor upon them.

chitty chitty bang bang

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Teaches Us About Life.

By Chris Warren.

I was on YouTube researching material for another website I write for and ended up wandering around and getting lost on my own click trail. YouTube does a great job of getting me to drift off task. My proclivity to being an easily distracted airhead had me watching clips from the classic British children’s movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I loved that movie as a kid. It never seems to get tiresome and I diverted from my mission for just a few minutes to partake in a little childhood joy.

I did not have time to watch the entire movie, but I saw enough Chitty Chitty Bang Bang clips to realize what I did not notice as a kid: The story, intentionally or not, had some depth to it. It was not just a cute kids’ movie. There were lessons buried in there:

Children can be strong agents of change. The magical Chitty Chitty Bang Bang car would never have existed if the kids had not grown fond of it and begged their eccentric inventor daddy to buy the old wreck before the junkman did. What started as a mere appeasement of children turned out to be a major process of self realization for its builder.

In real life, adults  learn a lot about themselves as a side effect of doing some pretty crazy stuff to please kids. Having kids means not living solely for yourself. It means being needed. And sometimes, it means buying an old junk car that you would otherwise have no interest in because a little kid begged you. It reminds me of all the things my parents put up with to make me happy and how that contributed to their wisdom.

How many of us will not actively go looking for a challenge but will accept one if it is given?

Great people always underestimate themselves. Main character Caractacus Potts (played by Dick Van Dyke), is a loving single dad of the two children but is a somewhat inept inventor who doesn’t make any real money. Lacking confidence, he seems resigned to his mediocre standing until he is forced take his flying car to the fictional Kingdom of Vulgaria and rescue his kidnapped father.

He successfully recovers his father and unintentionally also liberates an entire country from their immature man-child Baron. Throughout the story, even Caractacus himself seems amazed at his own abilities and those of the car that he built. By the end of the movie, everyone returns home safely. Caractacus gets the pretty girl, finally attains status as an inventor, and lives happily ever after. And oh yeah, the children get a really cool car that can also be a boat and an aircraft.

Great people usually begin as average  people. On the surface, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is just a whimsical kids’ story. But in the mix is a regular guy many of us can relate to: Potts trudges through life doing the best that he can with what he has. He deeply loves his kids but does not have a lot of money to give them the lifestyle he’d like. He never gives up, but does not take any big risks, either. That is, until he is forced to. How many of us will not actively go looking for a challenge but will accept one if it is given? It’s not the same as being lazy. Some of us just need a little push. Like many people who overcame adversity or achieved a difficult goal, Caractacus didn’t know how great he was until being great was the only option.

Ok, I know the plot of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is a very far fetched and implausible children’s movie, but I’m not reading too much into this. There are legitimate lessons buried in there. Even the movie itself  defied its own fate: It received wishy-washy reviews from the critics when it  was released and was only a modest financial success. Yet like Caractacus it endured and hung in there and is now considered a timeless classic. What entertained me as a child now enlightens me as an adult., and that’s not silly kid stuff.

 

gun control

Gun Control: So Shallow, A Flea Couldn’t Drown In It (Best Of TFS)

by: Chris Warren

The validity of statements made in the past can and should be measured by how well they hold up against the test of the future. Unless and until the big guesses evolve into tangible reality, gun control is at the same level as overdramatic hucksters on late night infomercials telling us they have the secret to all our heart’s desires.

The apparent death of the Second Amendment as we know it and the subsequent rise of the gun control movement over the vanquished National Rifle Association was glowingly foretold by liberals since well before 2008 when Barack Obama won the Presidential election. In his first term he bailed on his promise to come down on the “bitter clingers,” but that was not enough of a buzzkill to keep his patsies from reelecting him.

My rearview mirror wisdom now confirms what I presumed in the first place: The gun control movement is indeed a collection of overdramatic hucksters, with Barack Obama and Michael Bloomberg getting top billing. Note: I refuse to use the term gun control in the context it is employed by the political left because those claiming to want “common sense gun laws” are either liars or fools (see also, useful idiot). Their newest hero, Hillary Clinton, claims that she does not want to abolish the Second Amendment. Technically, this is true. She has never openly made any such statement. But we all know her end game: The complete and total abolition of all private civilian firearm ownership. Of course she’s not going to admit it blatantly. Yet everyone, including her hired buffoons, know that if given the opportunity, that’s exactly what she would do. I will not take the bait and be a party to their overt bullshit, even if it is rhetorical hair splitting.

The “gun lobby” is not as much a lobby as it is a genuine, people-centric movement. The NRA has around five million members, each paying (give or take) about thirty-five bucks a year. Many if not most of those members donate over and above the yearly dues and are also members of other pro-gun organizations. Then factor in sales of NRA-branded clothes and gear, raffles, cash donations collected at gun shows, and yes, the occasional corporate sponsorship. But there is more to it than just a big pile of money. Gun enthusiasts are active participants every single day. They know it’s not enough to “like” a Facebook meme or slap a sticker on the back of their car or write a $35 check once a year.

“The left are accomplished experts at getting people to sign an online petition or answer a poll question, but their ‘point and click’ activism is miles wide and a millimeter deep.”

Most of the time, being engaged is not very exciting. It’s a daily grind of staying informed and reacting when needed. As one NRA member put it, “Thanks for emailing your U.S. Senator, but you have to also write a letter or send a hand written postcard. No one ever tripped on a bag of email.” Even buying a gun or a box of ammo is a statement.

A common taking point dragged around by the gun control hopefuls is that firearms ownership is on the decline; the recent dazzling increase in gun sales is due to the same core group of “gun nuts” panic buying multiple firearms. The theory only works if you ignore the thousands of new gun carry permits issued every year and that very few gun owners will respond to a survey by admitting they own guns. I know I would not. And I personally know dozens of gun owners who would not.

Even my own family does not know exactly how many and what type of guns I have. Liberals in general and Obama/Hillary in particular are in a tizzy because their claim that fewer and fewer Americans want to keep guns cannot be validated against gun sales, carry permit figures, and registration in training classes, all of which are easily quantifiable facts. Gun owners are sophisticated enough to know that any data collected on firearms ownership will ultimately be used to support gun control. As a result, Second Amendment supporters’ default setting is to be recalcitrant towards the media and the pollsters who work for them. To put it more simply, many if not most gun owners deliberately lie on polls and surveys.

Pro-gun citizens have the advantage of a common thing (guns) that serves as a base for organizing. They gather at gun shops, ranges, gun shows and shooting competitions, all of which serve a secondary purpose as a friendly venue where ideas are exchanged and information is passed along. As amazing as the internet may be, there is no substitute for a face to face discussion where everyone can shake hands and look each other in the eye.

The gun control folks have no such common platform. They organize marches and rallies which are are limited in duration and headlined by professional victims along the lines of Jesse Jackson or Micheal Pflager. There is no natural interaction, no opportunity for small random meetings. Everyone stands around and cheers for a speech, lights a few candles, then goes home.

The left are accomplished experts at getting people to sign an online petition or answer a poll question, but their “point and click” activism is miles wide and a millimeter deep. When it really counts, the claimed support is mere gentle vapor drifting to invisibility, at least on the gun control issue. This is why Obama got elected, and re-elected, with vigor only to see his fan base go back to playing Xbox. They are thinking, “Hey, we voted. What else do you want?”

Progressives then turn up the spin and gooey sentimentality because they can’t make a case with facts and and follow through, nor do they have genuine long-haul support for their gun control goals. It’s not too hard to figure out why many progressive causes never seem to materialize into active policy even when the polls say it should be an easy win.

The goodwill and kinship felt among gun people transcends anything the left can put up. When gun banners gather, it’s to share their disgust for those of us who disagree. When gun enthusiasts gather, it’s to express appreciation for Constitutional freedom. There is no acrimony. Celebrating freedom does not require hating anyone. But gun banners have to hate guns and gun owners, otherwise their cause has no reason to exist.

My analysis should not be taken to mean that firearms freedom supporters and the NRA have nothing to fear from Hillary Clinton and her army of useful idiots, led by Michael Bloomberg. On the contrary, as soon as one Second Amendment abuse is beaten back, it’s not long before another pops up.

The gun control clowns, knowing nothing will get done at the national level, have recently shifted focus to state and local efforts. To their credit, this tactic will probably be more successful than trying to get any big federal rules through Congress. They have indeed managed to get some very heavy-handed gun control legislation passed in a few states and cities. The gun enthusiasts have likewise benefitted from several laws expanding Second Amendment freedom. Which side is ahead is a matter of semantics, but it’s generally accepted that the pro-gun side has the upper hand. For the purpose of fundraising and stirring up their respective bases, each side will claim the other is winning.

In my relatively short career as a firearms owner, I’ve discovered that “gun people” are some of the most harmless folks you’ll ever find. They would prefer not to involve themselves with controversy, and they would rather spend their time pursuing their Second Amendment freedoms instead of defending them in the courts and at the ballot box.

Gun people do not see themselves as the reason for criminal gun violence (they are correct). As long as the left demonizes us, blows off the true cause of the problem to pursue a power trip, and pushes to take away not just a Constitutional freedom but a natural, God-given right, Second Amendment supporters will have no choice but to jump reluctantly off the diving board into the cesspool of politics. Hillary Clinton and Michael Bloomberg don’t care enough to understand that all gun people really want is to live in their freedom and be left alone.

Author’s Note: I’m away from the keyboard this week, so I’m re-releasing this Twenty First Summer article originally posted on February 8, 2014. The article has a few edits and updates. 

las vegas

Las Vegas, Where Everything Is Authentically Fake.

By: Chris Warren.

I just got back from my very first trip to Las Vegas and it was the satisfaction of a curiosity that had been nagging at me for a long time. Las Vegas is more than anything a place where nothing is what it seems, and that is exactly why I’m looking forward to going back.

If you are destined to gamble away every cent you have, then you may never get out of the airport. As we stepped off the jetway the very first thing that greeted us was a row of slot machines. Going the other way, the airport slots give you that one last chance to leave town as a millionaire. That scene was only the beginning of the aura of wealth and success that Las Vegas plants into the mind of every single visitor no matter how modest their means.

As our cab pulled up to the casino-resort-hotel (they all triple bill themselves that way) the first thing that hit me was the both the opulence and the size. Casino-resort-hotels are built with huge, palatial architecture, finely appointed with artwork, fountains, luxurious furniture. The size of these places is hard to overstate. Just being there makes ordinary folk like me feel rich.

That is the psychology of Las Vegas. They want guests to feel above their means because it makes them more inclined to spend money above their means. They do a brilliant job of pulling off the con. Everywhere we went, attendants in neat uniforms were holding doors open for us, handing us towels, offering us drinks. Every detail was addressed. One barely has to even do much walking to get around Las Vegas: I think there are more shuttle buses and taxis than there are private cars.

We took a walk over to the The Venetian, a casino with an old world Italian theme that features an actual indoor canal with gondola boats. The ceiling was convincingly painted to look like a blue sky. It’s easy to forget that you’re really in the middle of a desert. These illusions are repeated all over town. There is a fake Eiffel Tower. A Fake Statue of Liberty. A fake Roman Coliseum. Hundreds of fake Elvis’ and probably thousands of ladies who are, uhhmmm, technically not ladies, if you know what I mean.

Las Vegas is the world capital of fake-ness, but they aren’t liars: Las Vegas never claimed to be the real deal. Heck, they even have a casino-resort-hotel named The Mirage. They loudly celebrate being fake. Of course, deep inside no one believes anything there is real. Yet, that’s the attraction. The idea that everyone will strike it rich is the the biggest fake of all and the source of funding for all that feigned opulence. Las Vegas is so good at what they do they still earn very huge, very real profits even after coving all the overhead costs of the fake stuff.

I never gambled a cent the whole time I was there but I had a terrific time in Las Vegas and definitely want to go back again. I too can be swayed by the allure of fake. Las Vegas is the only place in the world where an average dude like me can feel like a globe-trotting aristocrat for a few days. I am well aware that all those grand Roman columns and statues are made of Fiberglas. And yes, I know that Eiffel Tower is off by about 5400 miles. In Las Vegas, the fake is real, but the hospitality and kindness of the locals, and the good vibe that comes from just being there, is the genuine article.

vhs

VHS Video Rewinds For The Last Time.

By: Chris Warren.

I came along at that perfect time where I’m old enough to know what life was like before digital technology took over the world and young enough to embrace the change. I owned vinyl records, and am now a iTunes fanboy. I had a car radio with mechanical presets, and now I’m addicted to SiriusXM and podcasts. I don’t miss phone books, even a little. I love the idea of making a few clicks on Amazon and a package magically appears at my door the very next day. Soon another piece of my analog past, the VHS video recorder, will roll off the assembly line and into multimedia history.

I was honestly surprised that VHS video recorders were still being made at all. I assumed they had gone out of production years ago. I can’t remember the last time I saw a new-in-the-box VHS in a store or on line, so I got curious and did a little looking around. Apparently they are still out there, but not for much longer. Soon the only way to get a VHS video recorder will be on the used market because the last company to manufacture them, Funai of Japan, is ending VHS’ run forever.

The VHS recorder is officially if not belatedly about to become yet another broken down old junk on the information superhighway.

Those young enough to think that having high definition video no further than the smartphone in their hand is a normal expectation of life might have a hard time grasping what a breakthrough VHS was. The machines were big, heavy, and expensive. They were mechanical devices and prone to breakdown. They required a mess of wires, adapters, and plugs. The picture and sound quality was dismal by today’s standards. But the ability to record programs and watch them later, or watch them over and over, was something that had not been possible until the VHS recorder came along.

Imagine the drudgery of having to sit in front of your television at a certain time and date to see your favorite show. If you missed it, or wanted to see it again, you were out of luck until the episode came around in reruns, at which time you would still be tied to the schedule of the network programmers.

VHS was the on-demand programming of its day and had a social appeal that does not transfer over to digital media. As a teenager, me and a bunch of friends would hole up in my parents’ basement with a borrowed VHS recorder, some sugary-caffeinated drinks, cheap Little Caesar’s pizza, and a pile of rented tapes. I don’t know how many times we watched Mad Max and Spinal Tap in glorious analog on a tube TV. The party, such as it was, would usually last until 3 or 4 in the morning.

Those great times would not have happened without the then-innovative VHS recorder. Yet, as great as the new technology was, home video entertainment still required enough effort & expense that it was something of a special occasion.

Kids today will never suffer the archaic process of getting up to adjust the tracking to get a decent picture and having to rewind and change the tape when the movie was over, much less the now absurd transaction of renting physical tapes. I can hear my nine year old nephew’s incredulous voice now: You mean you actually had to get in the car and go pick up the video tapes? From where? And then bring them back when you were done? By the way, what is a video tape?

Technology rapidly rolls forward and the VHS recorder is officially if not belatedly about to become just another broken down old junk on the information superhighway. As I type this article I’m lounging on my couch with a laptop computer connected to wifi, smartphone at my side, watching my large flat screen high definition TV with Bluetooth speakers. Yeah, I had a good run with VHS recorders back in the day. The memories of fun times with my friends mean something to me but the new stuff is so far and away better that I have no such nostalgia for VHS recorders. Like floppy disks and phone books, VHS’ time has passed and we who lived through it are just fine with letting it become a fading dot in the rear view mirror.

jeep

A Diamond Anniversary Covered In Mud.

By: Chris Warren.

Americans embrace a culture of cars in a way no other nation does. Classics such as the Mustang and Corvette usually first come to mind, but the true king of them all, the one that predated the muscle cars of the 60’s & 70’s and even the chrome & tail wings era of the 50’s, is an unrefined, simple, instantly recognizable no-frills vehicle that was built to slop through mud and sand and be bombed and shot at and keep pushing on through obstacles that would humiliate any other car: The Jeep is an American legend and has been proudly kicking ass for seventy five years with no sign of stopping soon.

Jeep, the proper noun and brand name, has several sport utility vehicles in its lineup, but only the Jeep Wrangler has a pedigree going back to the original jeep, the common noun, that was a key player in winning World War II and went on to win the hearts and respect of three generations. Jeep Wrangler has a fan base like no other.

I got sucked into the Jeep cult at an early age. When I was nineteen, I decided that my Ford F-250 truck was too big and too thirsty for gas to be a practical vehicle for a college kid. After some persuasion, my parents agreed to help me get a Jeep CJ. I had been a Jeep freak since I was little, so having a real one of my own was a pretty dang big deal.

My dad sold my tired old truck to a guy in the neighborhood for I think $500. I had some money I saved from my part time job at a radio station, and my parents kindly kicked in the rest. Dad found me a used Jeep through a relative who was in the car business. Purchase price $2100.

It wasn’t what I would have chosen if I could have anything, but teenagers with very little money are in no position to be picky, so I happily embraced it. For my two-grand-and-a-little-more I got a 1979 Jeep CJ that was equal parts rust and metal. It had a 3-speed stick shift and a V8 engine. A big engine in a little jeep translated into breathtaking power and speed. My Jeep may not have looked like much, but it had plenty to brag about under the hood. My parents didn’t even notice (or pretended not to notice) that its gas mileage was only a little better than the truck.

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President Roosevelt visiting the troops in a jeep. Date unknown.

I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but I was driving a piece of American military history. Jeeps were on the beaches at Normandy and Iwo Jima. Jeeps were in Korea and Vietnam. Jeeps hauled Presidents and privates in equally modest utility. Jeeps had been turned into ambulances, tow trucks, delivery vans, card tables, and weapons platforms. Jeeps were adapted to every conceivable task and succeeded at all of them.

Everywhere the Army went, they took jeeps with them. And I do mean literally everywhere. Soldiers revered jeeps, and after returning home from World War II, the veterans’ nostalgia for a vehicle that was itself a legitimate war hero created a loyal civilian customer base.

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The 2016 Jeep Wrangler.

I drove that Jeep for five years, all the way through college and into the job market. Then the day came when my dad suggested that maybe it was time to trade the rust bucket in and get something else. Dad’s wisdom was right: By then I had a real job and my own money, and the old Jeep needed to go. I knew someday I would own another. Nobody trades in a Jeep and says to themselves, “I hated that thing. I’ll never buy one again!”

Today, Jeeps still steadily roll off the assembly line and millions of them sit in garages and driveways from coast to coast, including mine. It’s bouncy. It’s unsophisticated. It’s coarse. But it has a personality as big as America itself and will always get you there, even when “there” is up the side of a mountain or through eighteen inches of snow.

Among all the  amazing classic cars, only one is a true patriot that earned its place in history with mud and blood. The Jeep is still in production in 2016 on its diamond anniversary because it was cut from the proud spirit of a great nation and polished into a legend by American heroes who needed a vehicle that was was tough as they were.

Editor’s note: If you enjoyed this article, you may also like my related article, The Legend Of Super Jeep .

hangar 17

Hangar 17: A Lonely Shrine To 9-11.

By: Chris Warren.

We are nearly fifteen years out from the September 11, 2001 radical Islamic terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. The debris and mountain-sized mess has long been cleaned up and rebuilt with an impressive new building and a reverent memorial that attracts thousands every day. Just a few miles away, another building representative of that horrible day still stands. There are no grand memorials. There is not even so much as a sign or plaque to commemorate the site. No one comes to pay their respects. Hardly anyone knows about Hangar 17 at Kennedy airport in New York City or its deep connection to 9-11.

In the aftermath of the terror attack, someone, somewhere, had the foresight to realize that a lot of the debris had historical and commemorative significance and should be saved. These artifacts were stored in hangar 17 until it could be decided what would happen to them.

The inventory of hangar 17 was as diverse as the people who died that day. There were a lot of twisted steel beams, emergency vehicles, various building parts, retail displays, a huge elevator motor, a broadcast antenna, a bike rack with bikes still chained to it, two intact subway cars, and an entire section of the parking garage. The most poignant to me were the signs identifying the World Trade Center, and  personal items, such as the bikes. They’re like a killed soldier’s dog tags. They have an identity. Theses items speak to us in a way a piece of nameless twisted steel or broken glass cannot.

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At one point hangar 17 was filled to the rafters with these sad remembrances. Over the years, they were claimed by municipalities, veterans groups, museums, schools, and other organizations to be used in public memorials all across the United States and a few in foreign countries. Some of the steel beams ended up in my hometown of Naperville, Illinois because of one of the victim’s connection to the community.

A decade and a half later, JFK hangar 17 is now nearly empty. Its contents have been spread all over the earth like symbolic cremains of the deceased who were never found. The victims of that day never made it home; what could be saved of the surroundings they perished in have been given eternal places of honor for all to see. In addition to the inventory of hangar 17 are the countless undocumented relics picked up by rescue workers for their own personal commemorations.

The future of hangar 17 is not so noble; it is slated for demolition. It’s not clear if the teardown has anything to do with its relationship to the 9-11 radical Islamic terror attacks, or if it’s just a junky old building that needed to be replaced anyway. I am guessing the former. Hangar 17 is inextricably woven into the lore of September 11. No terrorist plowed a jetliner full of innocent passengers into it, but it’s plausible to say that the building was also destroyed along with the World Trade Center. It would be awkward and inappropriate to return hangar 17 to its original use, and airport managers are not going to let an empty structure just sit there. Tearing it down seems like the only choice.

As the days between the present and September 11, 2001 click higher and higher and a new generation of radical Islamic terrorists plot against the civilized world in general and the United State in particular, it’s more important than ever to understand that the saved items are covered with the invisible remains of thousands of real people who until that day had a million reasons to live and were loved by families and friends. The ones who died are, literally, a part of every memorial made from the recovered pieces of the World Trade Center. Hangar 17 was more than a temporary vessel to hold artifacts from one of the darkest days of our time. It was also the victims’ last layover before their flight into eternity.