A Note From The Publisher
So is the great the enemy of the good? I’m going to have to publish OYB more often, and thus more cheesily. It’s our only hope.
I hope you like this issue. It’s the biggest one yet! The most mature! Most panic-stricken.
I may be in a bit of a pickle. #6 was laid out all hot-n-styley so maybe there’s a bunch of hep cats who’ve signed on thinking that’s the way of this zine. Oops. Coolness here is just another accident.
OYB’s advertisers are people I’ve found who think unmuzzled life can coexist with business. If you want to deal with real people, contact OYB advertisers and say Hi. If you don’t, the next issue will be 10-pages, typed and xeroxed! Promise!
The past year I’ve been trying to rescue our family publishing company. Got my first taste of 20-hour days and 3-months-straight-no-breaks work. We usually make a book a year…we did 3 this past summer. OK…I also fell onto the live wire of the Internet, which slowed this issue, but it’s so cool.
The past 2 years I commuted to work by bike. Now I work at home. Not the same. Those were the days! Riding in that crisp air. Riding home in the dark, stars overhead, headlight on. Or with full moon up, light off. Snug as a bug. It’s been 8 months since and I’m getting Dunlop’s disease…the dreaded spare tire that makes me yearn for new overalls. My Dad laughs and says I’ll make him look like a piker.
Martha sewed me an Ultimate Riding Coat. It works great. I haven’t seen a $150 cycling Gore-tex coat that comes close. I wear it during the splendid cycling we have around here from 5-40degrees. (See story, pg. 19.)
Martha worked as a mailman last fall. She was the only “casual” who lasted out of her batch of 24 recruits. Most quit after two days. She worked $6/hr, 6 days/wk. The USPS is attritting union jobs, replacing them with casuals. But they can’t find anyone to do the work. I guess the mail is going to hell.
Martha loved the walking routes, all the letters, old people, houses and pets. Loved being a mailman like she always wanted to. The PO people think she’s crazy. She just took the civil service test for a real job.
If she was a rookie carrier, she’d be happy with even starting wages, wouldn’t want overtime. The lifer mailmen think she’s crazy. Why turn down an easy $60K with overtime? But of course they’re all in debt. Money-ism corrodes.
I’ve been going to this philosophy group. (Another reason for no OYB.) We read stout books and talk about them. I’ve been getting my mind spanked. Maybe my sports and adventure training were training me all along for this kind of risk, discipline and prioritizing of values over objects or something. Martha says I think too much. She’s right. Some quest and get nowhere. Others take the stillness path and make great progress.
It bugs me how people in our culture present Action Sports as ends to themselves. Just do it. Forever if you can. But the reality is that these activities are mostly abandoned as people grow up. Instead of denying this, shouldn’t the culture explore it? Isn’t facing reality what exploration is all about?
(But I’m kidding myself. Our culture doesn’t emphasize anything. We have no culture. Only marketing.)
Trying to escape boredom is apparently what inspires a lot of clinging to activities and ideas. But we’ll never escape it. Every thing contains its own Death, as the philosophy books say. Boredom should be faced and transcended! Is this all a piece of cake for everyone but me?
My Gramma died a few months ago. Now both Gramps and Gram are gone. If you haven’t tasted loss, you will. We’re all dying since we’re born. Unless we can be lifted out of time. Stop clinging, right?
When Gramps died, the next day I dreamt that he got out of his casket and told me that being dead wasn’t so bad. No longer a carpenter, he was now wearing a black turtleneck. He had a monocle. Gramps as David Byrne. Then he said “Well I told you. Now I have to go back.”
A couple weeks after Gramma died, I was on vacation after months of solid work. Sleeping in the desert, I had a dream of her when she was young. Our whole family of 8 was all back in time, sitting in G&G¹s little living room. There was a bit of quarreling. But I was awestruck. This was heaven, not the bad time I¹d always heard. I tell ya, we were beautiful. I never realized how dullness could be so sweet until that dream. ‹And yet the quarreling finally tainted everything between G&G and the rest of us. Sure Gramps was a crank. But he swung on swings, and spent time with kids and jailbirds. Grams was an angel. Why couldn’t we see how special all of what we had was?
I wish I had voice recordings of Gramps and Gram. I miss voice the most. Video would be nice.
Anything.
More.
-JP
