W'�s Whacky World: A Short History of Bush'�s White House

By Don Monkerud

New Pipeline to Solve U.S. Oil Problems

Concerned about the economy and his poor environmental record, President Bush on November 22, 2002 unveiled an $821 trillion project to build an oil pipeline directly from Afghanistan, through Iraq to Houston, Texas. Addressing recent public criticism that he was ignoring the economy to concentrate on his upcoming attack on Iraq, President Bush unveiled his ambitious plan at a White House memorial for bankrupt oil firms.

"The shortest distance between two points is a straight line," the president said. "My friends at Enron have been maligned. Now we can shut up those greenie-wienie environmentalists who keep crying about drilling in the Alaskan Wilderness and Enron can make more bucks off a new energy crisis."

Although the plan originated with Vice President Cheney and is a mere three weeks old, observers expect Congress to pass legislation within days. The project would bring relief to the battered U.S. economy and employ a legion of out-of-work oil executives and energy traders.

"We are offering new opportunities for Americans to make money in the production, transportation and refining of the largest oil and gas resource known to man," said Chump T. Change, spokesman for the Speaker of the House, Dennis Hastert. "Environmentalists give me a brain cramp. At last, we can forget their ridiculous efforts to impose gas standards on SUVs."

The oil pipeline will be the world's largest engineering project. The giant 12-foot-diameter pipeline will snake through mountains, slice open forests, and tunnel under the Atlantic Ocean to reach oil refineries in President Bush's home state. In Houston, oil and gas refineries will double and triple air pollution, but few people will notice. Since President Bush's Clear Skies Initiative began, Texans go for weeks without seeing the sun.

"Consumers won't save any money," said Lotso Luck, CEO of Gouge Oil Corp. "The markets don't work that way. Executive compensation, corporate jets, luncheons and business entertainment don't come cheap. We barely make a living as it is."

Critics are raising questions about cost, estimated to be over $1 million per linear foot. "This is a ridiculous project," said Cal Rope, executive director of Please Let Us Breath. "It would be cheaper to hand-carry buckets of oil from Iraq than to build this pipeline." Rope further asserted the project was illegal because it failed to comply with international environmental protections for the Atlantic Ocean.

"Atlantic-semantic," quipped O'don Winkydink, the General Motors-sponsored spokesman for the Supreme Court. "The ocean is made of water and you can't hurt water. This boils down to some people making money and some losing their shorts. No big deal. We had the Supreme Court make a decision last week and they decided taxpayers should pay for it."According to a GAO report, the U.S. will have to raise taxes on every American by $2,557,632 to pay for the project. "They can pay it off over time," said Joe "Diamonds" Murphy, president of the Free Enterprise Shaft-U Institute. "Taxes have to be raised and money has flow to oil investors and executives. They have to eat too."

Brown and Foot, a Halliburton subsidiary that recently received U.S. government contracts to build auto showrooms, movie complexes and Wal-Martstores in the Middle East, will be tapped to build the pipeline. "Basically Arab nations require bribes to get anything done, so naturally they picked us to head the project," said Shad P. der Finkle, a Saudi oil advisor to President Bush. "Few people know bribery like we do."

Enron, Halliburton, ExxonMobil, Texaco, and British Petroleum are enthusiastically lining up behind the plan. Washington's Carlyle Group, a $122 billion private firm, which employs a bastion of Republicans convicted of felonies during the Reagan administration, will assist Brown and Foot in negotiations with Central Asian nations.

"It takes crooks to deal with crooks," said Ex-President George Bush Sr., a Carlyle investor. "As former director of the CIA, I had nightmares about Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Jerkastan-all of the 'Stans'-and Iraq. They gave us nothing but trouble. Only by delivering oil to my boy's home state of Texas can we make the world safe for democracy. God bless America."

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Italy Uncensored: A Travelogue with Politics and Religion

By Don Monkerud

Introduction

Saturday dawns bright and sunny, the grass outside the window lush and green after a spring rain, the fields below the house yellow with mustard, birds singing. Everything is ready to go-the bags packed, the newspapers cancelled, a cat sitter arranged, the mail stopped, and the answering machine set to tell people we will be away. Carol, my companion of twenty-five years, retired yesterday, and we plan to leave for a six-week tour of Italy on Monday. I'm in a strange, halfway land, delirious and disconnected from the daily routines of my life as I prepare to embark on the trip of a lifetime. A country lad from the Ozarks, I've never been to Europe and eagerly look forward to the trip.

Carol stands with the phone in her hand. She is just agreeing to help her 80-year-old mother, Ruth, work on her gravity flow water line. The line runs from a spring to her house through almost a quarter of a mile of plastic pipe, suspended from trees on steep banks. Periodically the water level in the input box goes down, the hose springs a leak, or falling branches break the pipe. In the past several weeks, the two of them have installed an 800-gallon water tank, barely escaping smashing the tank several hundred feet down the bank. I want to say something like, "Are you sure this is a good idea, we are leaving in two days," but don't. Her mother's refusal to drill a well because it will deplete the water table has taken on religious proportions, and we've had too many disagreeing words over it already. It's inconvenient, but not because she can't take care of the water line.

Ruth plays tennis several times a week, hikes, and works most afternoons clearing brush in the redwood canyon where she lives, only a few miles from us. She takes delight in living simply: Call her the Ruth Henry David Thoreau of Browns Valley Canyon. We get along well, better than most son-in-laws and mother-in-laws and, although Ruth says I'm too conservative, we share many perspectives and enjoy each other's company.

After I make coffee and Carol leaves, I wander listlessly around the house. As usual, I've prepared early for our departure and have little to do but twiddle my thumbs. What have I forgotten? Just think, two days from now I'll be in Italy! About an hour later the phone rings. A woman who identifies herself as Ruth's neighbor is calling. Ruth has fallen and broken her leg. She's lying on the trail and needs help to get to the hospital. Oh hell! I rush out of the house and drive like a speed demon to her house. How on earth? Then I realize that I heard Ruth's voice in the background. Ruth is hard of hearing and can't talk on the phone. How can she be lying on the trail if I heard her voice? I begin to worry. What happened?

Arriving at the neighbor's house, I find Ruth and the neighbor, who happens to be a doctor from Switzerland, in front of the house with a carload of young men in their twenties. My worse fear is confirmed. It's Carol who has broken her leg and is up on the trail in the redwoods. The three young men who are visiting rush up the trail with me. We find Carol sitting in the middle of the trail with a sad smile. She's not nearly as panicked as I am, but calmly tells me that she turned on the trail to say something to her mother and heard a loud "snap!"

"I sat down immediately because I knew I had broken something," she says wanly. She's not upset but matter of fact; she can't place any weight on her leg and we take turns carrying her back to the car. I drive her to the emergency room where X-rays confirm what she already knows; her leg is broken. There is no way that we can go on a six-week trip on Monday.

Monday morning finds us in the doctor's office getting another exam, and we return two days later for a walking cast. The good news is that the break isn't serious; of course, the bad news is that there's no way that Carol can go on the trip. Suddenly the old saying from the stage, "Break a leg!" isn't funny anymore.

Unfortunately, before the year was out, Carol also had reflex sympathetic dystrophy (RSD), a painful condition that made it difficult for her to walk. Whether brought on by physical therapy or simply an unlucky fluke, the pain prevented our daily walks together and laid Carol up for most of the year. It's a hell of a story that made the rounds. People I never met heard about the accident, which became somewhat of a legend in Santa Cruz. "Did you hear about the woman who broke her leg the day . . .?" Gradually Carol improved and, by the following spring, we attempted the trip again.

I'm in my fifties, too old to joke about my age and at the point in my life when I need to do the things I've never had time to do, before I'm too old, as they say, "to cut the mustard." After working in Silicon Valley for fifteen years and then at home as a writer for the last ten years, I'm finally at a time in my life when I can pursue dreams. "Follow your bliss," as we say in California.

But I'm not such a dreamy guy; I consider myself too sober and down-to-earth, at least compared to my younger days when I lived in a commune surrounded by people who said "Hey man," and "Cool" and believed in everything from the "Orgone Box" to astrology. We made love half the day and didn't have a worry in the world. Today, the children are gone, the house payments are reasonable and the world beckons. I find myself standing on the corner asking, "Huh?" while life passes me by. It's time for me to see the world!

Many of my friends, especially the older ones, are accomplished world travelers. When I told one friend that I was going to Italy, he looked at his wife and said, "We've been there, what? Fifteen or sixteen times?" My trips have included six-months in Japan when I was in my twenties, studying Aikido, a Japanese martial art based on non-resistance, and several trips to Central America, trying to unravel the mystery of the Maya. I feel like a country rube, the kind of doofus who arrives in New York City and gets his bags stolen and is cheated by the taxi driver on his first day, and people laugh at him because he's dressed like a hillbilly. And the worst part is that he's laughing along with them but doesn't know what they're laughing at.

This introduction is supposed to establish my credentials for writing about my experiences in Italy. (A long silence follows.) Well, I don't have any except that I'm a writer. I record observations, passing history, ideas, emotions, and I believe that it matters. I get positive feedback and am regularly published in technical and business journals; I have written several novels, but remain unknown. If I had any sense, I would get a job that pays real money. Instead I keep writing. I'm the type who sees seminars on overcoming writer's block and can't understand why anyone with writer's block would want to write. What a blessing-not wanting to write. Life would be much easier for me if I could simply live without spending my time in continual reflection, writing down my feelings and impressions. Compulsive writing can lead to bad gums, alcoholism, drug addiction, failure, and even suicide.

Like Allen Ginsburg, who collected every written thing that ever passed through his hands, and later sold his collection to Stanford University for a million dollars, I collect paper with writing on it, primarily my own. I make notes on Kleenex, bits of napkin, business cards, corners of newspapers, envelopes rescued from the trash, and on the back of my hand when paper isn't available. I borrow pens, for I don't always have one, and often I root through trash cans for paper. Someone told me that a writer should always have a pencil and paper with him, but somehow I'm invariably unprepared. I wish I could say I'm following in the steps of James Joyce, who constructed Ulysses from such hastily written scraps while bar hopping in Dublin, Trieste and Paris. Instead, I can't read half of the notes I make and the other half outline a novel that will cover every experience that ever occurred in the whole wide world-in other words, how will these various and sundry bits ever make a book?

If I'm not writing, the world isn't going right. Some argue that if you take photographs, you aren't seeing what's there, or at least you aren't truly engaged in viewing, but I would argue that photography is simply another way of seeing, as is writing. Writing is another way of recording the events of the world. I have a keyboard that holds up to 100 pages and runs on triple-A batteries. It weighs almost nothing and is easier to use than a pencil and paper-at least I don't have to decipher my awkwardly scrawled handwriting afterwards. I slip the keyboard into my backpack and pull it out anywhere to take notes. Somehow what I see in my mind never gets down on paper the way I expect. Perhaps this should deter me, but it doesn't. I write because I can. But that's of course not the whole story. I write to communicate, and when I'm not trying to convince people to stop the spread of nuclear weapons, to stop invading small defenseless countries, or stop amassing huge fortunes while others starve, I'm attempting to share my experience. It comes from the heart and hopefully the reader will overlook my differing opinions and consider my perspectives. Hopefully, warts and all, this narrative will bring a smile to its readers' lips and bring them closer to Italy.

I have serious doubts also. How on earth am I going to make it without knowing the Italian language? While I've always attributed it to my mid-western upbringing, my brain gets tied in knots when confronted with a different language. My experience is quite limited. I studied what was billed as a "foreign language" my last year of high school-Latin. Squeaking by college French with a "D," I was the type of student who, when asked to order a beefsteak, would say instead, "Could I smell that tasty garbage?" In short, I was hopeless. Yet I still believe that one must speak the language to truly visit another country. I don't, but what the hell? At that pace, I would never go anywhere. I'm off to Italy.

Boarding Time

From Northern California, trips to Italy originate at the new San Francisco International Airport, a huge building that soars a half-mile above the floor, with a ceiling high enough to create it's own weather patterns. When I look up expecting rain or snow, I only see the reflection of California sunshine glittering off chrome and glass. We get in line with six hundred others and begin the slow line dance to get our boarding passes. We wait forever, before proceeding to our seats in a plane the size of the civic auditorium. Just before boarding, I pick up a copy of the International Herald Tribune, "the world's daily newspaper," to discover words of wisdom from the new American president, Georgie Junior, not to be confused with his father George Senior, whose spectacular record put the country to sleep. Americans must have had enough prosperity for, after the American people voted for Al Gore and the Supreme Court awarded Georgie Junior the presidency, the economy went into a tailspin.

Europeans think Georgie Junior is a few bottles short of a six-pack and no wonder. The paper quotes him, "I will explain as clearly as I can today, and every other chance I get, that we will not do anything that harms our economy, because first things first are the people who live in America . . . and I'm going to explain that to our friends. It is in their interest, by the way, that our economy remains strong. After all, we've a free-trading administration; we trade with each other."

"Please, please," I pray under my breath, "Don't let the Italians blame this guy on me; he's an embarrassment." Packed cheek to jowl in our economy class seats, I try to look as straight as possible on this Lufthansa flight. Stewardesses march up and down the aisles in crisp clean uniforms. Carol and I stretch out and settle down for our long-delayed trip. We are fed well on the plane; dinner is complete with complimentary wine and mixed drinks. Despite what my friend Gene warned, the stewardesses are not bossy or homely. In fact they are gorgeous-neither severe nor matronly. I cut Gene some slack because he's 80 and hasn't taken this airline since WW II and may have a slight memory handicap.

Taking my friend Sandy's advice, I stayed up late last night and now doze-off, counting sheep. I don't have enough fingers to count the time change: Italy is nine hours ahead and the plane flight is eleven hours, which means we arrive next Easter. Or is it Mother's Day? Math isn't my strongest subject. I manage to doze for five or six hours, hoping this will help me cope with the time change. Before I know it, sunshine pours in the window and breakfast sits on the tray in front of me. I look at my watch that says 10:30 P.M., PST-hardly time for breakfast. We're landing shortly, Carol warns me, and I gulp down a croissant, yogurt, fruit, scrambled eggs and fried potatoes.

An overhead TV monitor shows a video simulation of how to get to the main gate in Munich. The passageway goes on forever, taking abrupt twists and turns as it speeds down corridors that resemble the medieval torture chambers in some video game. The video simulation is real, I discover upon deplaning. Like a rat in a maze I follow miles of passageways, wary of the video game monster that might pounce on me. Finally we reach our gate and board a bus that drives halfway to Kansas to deposit us at our plane to Italy.

Milan

Less than an hour later we arrive in the deserted Milan Airport, board a train speeding toward downtown Milan, get off at Cadorna Station, and encounter our first language barrier. "Catch the cab there," says one driver. "No, over there," says another. Still no one picks us up. Finally we wade into traffic and hail a taxi for Hotel Speronari.

Originally a dorm for monks, the hotel is in an alley a half block from the Duomo, a fifteen-story cathedral. The Duomo is the city's centerpiece; 515 feet long and 301 feet wide, it is the fourth largest cathedral in Europe. This is pure Gothic, complete with 135 spires, arches, oversized bronze doors, gargoyles, pillars and frilly windows; it resembles a skyscraper made of melted candles. We toss our bags into the room, thankful that there's no Gideon Bible on our dresser, and go down to the foyer to gulp a cappuccino and head out to visit the Duomo that we'd glimpsed from the cab window. The streets are lined with people watching the Stramilano Marathon runners cross the finish line next to the Duomo. It's 4 A.M. on my biological clock, but I'm raring to go after being confined, traveling for so many hours.

It's Saturday afternoon and several thousand people are crammed into the plaza in front of the Duomo. Carol isn't much of a shopper, but she's impressed by the fashions we see. Dressed to the hilt in expensive leather shoes, leather coats, slim-fitting slacks, and stylish dresses with colors ranging from black to black, they remind me of extras on break from a fashion shoot. I enter the Duomo, that spills across a city block; it's truly a monstrosity of stained-glass, marble and masonry, which tells the story of Jesus more times than the number of lovers smooching and running their hands underneath each other's clothes on the steps outside. There are enough candles before the altars to solve the California energy crisis for a decade and more marble statues than fans at Yankee Stadium on opening day. On the other hand, the interior is cool and calm, despite the race announcer's blaring microphone, outside, and the cheerful shouts of children, climbing over the marble balustrade that contains the bones of the last 600 Bishops of Milan.

Back outside, on the street, racers arrive at the finish line at hundred-yard intervals. Someone says the winners came in an hour ago; these are the stragglers. They sprint toward the finish line and pass under an archway of balloons as a throng of people dressed in black, wearing jackets on a warm day, pay more attention to the latest fashions in the shop windows. In tents set up in the Duomo Plaza, smiling young women give away samples of merchandize and sign people up for portable phone service, mineral supplements and life insurance-essentials for any true marathoner.

We sit in the sun under a pigeon-poop-covered statue of some warrior on horseback, or possibly the inventor of gelato. We could care less, for the crowd rivets our attention as they stroll along, showing the world their new clothes. After soaking up enough sun to fuel a power plant, we make our way back to our room. Carol couldn't sleep on the flight over, and we both need to sleep off jet lag.

For dinner, it's down the street to Peck's, a gourmet deli comprised of three shops, flooded with Saturday shoppers. People stand in front of counters and order dozens of different types of olives, meats and cheeses. There are two dozen different breads, a pasta bar, a wine store downstairs, a snack bar upstairs, and three counters filled with blood red raw beef that somehow escaped the English foot-and-mouth epidemic. A glance at the prices sends shudders down my spine. Fifty dollars for a leg of smoked wild boar! Not bad once you pick the hair off and cut off the hooves. I picked myself up from the floor and watched the other customers. One woman says, four of this and four of that, and I realize that she's ordering in 100-gram units. The prices are for kilograms and aren't nearly as steep as I had imagined.

I order olives, a roll of fresh local salami and two hard rolls for dinner, which costs 20,000-that's lira-or about $10. I add a barbera red wine from the wine store next to the hotel for $6.50, for a total of $16.50 for dinner. I pick up some apples next door to the hotel, at a fruit stand that has a sign posted at the doorway marking it as the oldest fruit and vegetable store in Milan. We eat in our room with the window open and the sun shining across the marble floor, while a singer belts out an opera somewhere down the alley.

After going to sleep at 8:30 P.M., we awaken, not exactly fresh or alert at 10:30 A.M. the next morning. We slept 14 hours! So much for thinking I could escape jet lag. It's Sunday morning, and outside, the crowd is streaming toward the Duomo Square, which is already overflowing with people. We hear no motor vehicles. Parents with children in strollers, old people, a young woman in pink with her dog, and young lovers holding hands queue up in the street. Balloons are everywhere as the "Stramilano Children's Race" begins.

In the distance, I spy a large civic building of some type, and we walk toward it down the cobblestone street as waiters in black vests and white shirts set chairs and tables out on the street. Inside the cafés, people line up at marble bars to quickly down cappuccinos and espressos. We take a few minutes to determine that you pay at a cash register and then pick up your order by sliding your receipt to the man behind the bar. We have brioche, a croissant-like roll with a teaspoon of jam inside, and stand at the bar to drink our coffee while racers stream by outside. Three racers run in, and one man nods toward the coffee. "Energy," he laughs, for he's only run three blocks. As for running, we're walking, and Carol's leg seems to be holding up with little soreness. We both cross our fingers because she's not done so much walking since she broke her leg a year ago.

We return to the cathedral where the service is just beginning. It's packed. Up front a priest drones on in Latin, interspersed with choir and organ music. A flock of men in white robes sit behind him while a boy waves an incense burner over the Bible and the altar. Plumes of smoke swirl upward and the music drones on, the audience alternately standing and sitting. People come and go, and women bend and cross themselves at the back of the cathedral while others simply wander in and out.

While watching the men sitting in the front of the congregation, an idea suddenly dawns on me; the Catholic priesthood has achieved perfect patriarchy. No women are participating in the rituals. At one side of the altar a large painting shows a man stabbing a long knife into a woman's chest; it's the centerpiece of one of a shrines and is set off by marble colonnades with an altar below and a steel fence in front. While I don't know where this story comes from, it's obviously the perfect metaphor for the exclusion of women. Yet, despite my rejection of religion, the sense of peace here leads me to understand why people seek this refuge from a world they can't understand, won't challenge, or are afraid to change. Several short men wearing black leather jackets in the congregation, looking glum, remind me that Milan is the city where Mussolini began the fascist movement in the 1930s.

Outside, the sunlight is dazzling, and we trek to the Leonardo da Vinci Museum of Science and Technology, which is housed in a four-story, sixteenth century villa, built around two central courtyards. Small models of da Vinci's inventions show drawbridges, ships to dredge the ocean floor, fans, and other early designs for ratchets, gears and chains that use gravity and counter balancing weights. One particularly ingenious device is a reed boat covered in leather that could be filled near the shore, floated into the middle of a bay or lake, and then released to dump rocks or dirt. Most of the designs are for instruments of war, including early drawings of a tank and a gatling gun.

On the opposite wall are pages from da Vinci's notebooks, enlarged to show the range of his inventions-remember, he wrote backwards in a mirror so people couldn't decipher his work. Not only did he minutely record the inside of the human body, but he also drew maps, botanical drawings, mathematical proportions, church designs, and don't forget his painting, The Last Supper, one of the most famous paintings in the world. It is on the wall of a church in Milan, but reservations have to be made months in advance to get in to see it for fifteen minutes. There is a copy of The Last Supper here, although it must be an interpretation, for the guy next to Jesus looks like a beautiful woman. He's obviously gay, yet he's here in a national museum. I can imagine Christians in America going absolutely bonkers over this painting and wonder how the Italian artist got by with this interpretation that tells us more than we ever wanted to know about Jesus and his group of loving men.

The museum also contains cast-off items from the industrial age: several huge turbine engines; pistons from a steam engine; a wire forging foundry; metal forges; aluminum manufacturing machinery; buggies and horse collars from the Victorian age; a perfectly preserved 1940s Alfa Romeo roadster; a complete radio station; a glass-blowing furnace; and a warehouse filled with several dozen steam locomotives, some from the 1860s. Three jet fighters sit outside. Nothing is well cared-for or preserved-it's just a collection of junk from the industrial age that nobody wants. I wish we had gone to the art museum instead, but I thought there would have been more about da Vinci because he lived here. It turns out he only spent a few years in Milan, starting in 1482.

We walk back to our hotel in time to hear Gregorian chants in a nearby domed church, complete with an organ and a dozen white-robed women. We stay until the music ends and escape before the sermon. I must be losing my mind . . . I haven't been to a church service in years, but today I attended two religious services-more than I've attended since my childhood.

We have a cappuccino and return to the Duomo, which is still teeming with people at 6 P.M. After a short rest, we visit the Galleria Vittorio Emmanuel, a four-story neoclassic structure with a soaring dome, located next to the Duomo. It's lined with shops and filled with people window-shopping and strolling arm-in-arm. Seated at a table in front of a restaurant, we watch people and drink half a bottle of wine, accompanied by small bowls of potato chips, olives and pretzel-like crackers. Several Chinese women selling silk scarves approach us at least a half-dozen times; we expect them to realize we aren't buying, but they're relentless. We feel at home when a young man approaches us, selling long-stemmed roses-just like our hometown, Watsonville!

A parade of locals dressed in leather and fine fashions pass before us, the men in suits, the children in tennis shoes, and the tourists from America, France, Germany and England. Not many are tourists; but how can we tell? An old trick for determining who people are is to look at their shoes and clothing. If they are over sixteen, wearing white athletic shoes, they're tourists. Or if they are wearing blue jeans, they're tourists. On the way back to the hotel, we watch a couple holding hands, both completely engaged in their own cell phone conversations. Every other person seems to be talking on a cell phone.

Dinner tonight is at the Spizzico, an Italian fast food place that has separate dessert, coffee, gelato, and pizza bars. Tour books call Milan a fast food city, and indeed, the duomo area is filled with restaurants where people eat standing up at small tables. There are two McDonalds and two Burger Kings, both with sit down tables that are filled most of the time. People eat gelato and pizza and keep moving. Call it a speeded up fast food city.

Although I heard things are expensive here, I don't see it. Our half-bottle of wine at the café was 22,000 lira, about $11, and dinner reached the astronomical sum of $11. Leather shoes run about $260 for men and shirts cost between $40 and $50-about the same as they do on Union Square in San Francisco. In New York City, every time you turn around you have to break a twenty-it's $20 for a taxi, $20 for a drink, $20 for coffee, $20 when you go to the grocery store-so Milan doesn't seem so expensive. I interpret Italy through American equivalents. Do people dress up here? Not if you compare them to the people in Union Square. As for the cost of dinner-Do we go to the wharf for dinner, have cheap Chinese or eat Mexican food in Watsonville? Prices are relative. Basically, we don't worry about the cost of things because we didn't come here to buy things. We're having a great time simply strolling along the streets, joining the crowd, and window-shopping.

I shouldn't be so blasé about overcoming jet lag. I woke up just after midnight because some guy was yelling outside our window, and the sound was amplified as it echoed between the buildings. Maybe he was the same guy who woke me up last night. I couldn't get back to sleep and finally at 1:30 A.M. I turned on a light to read for an hour and then slept until 8:00-time for coffee and, just like home, leftover pizza from the night before. Carol cuts up an apple I bought from the small vegetable vendor downstairs before we head off to Castello Storzensco, the medieval fortress that once anchored the wall around the old city. This sprawling brick fort, complete with an inner courtyard, is being refurbished, and there's a time line mural on a construction wall in the center of the courtyard that recounts the city's history. For some reason, everything is in Italian! But I can make out the main story. First constructed in 1392, the fortress was destroyed twice, once by the Lombards and again, in the 1600s, when it was turned into rubble by some invading force or other. It was rebuilt, only to be destroyed by Napoleon, who later rebuilt it, but I can't figure out why-maybe for tourism? After studying the diagrams, I can see that the building before us is a modern replica of the original fortress, which sat in the large park in front of the present fortress.

I wander the grounds, discovering columns, cornices, and small statues that have been dug up from previous ruins of the fortress. Unfortunately, the museum is closed on Monday, but the explanations are probably all in Italian, and we would have to guess at what we were seeing. Outside in the park, there's part of the original fortress that contains large blocks of granite, meshed in concrete. Evidently the granite is left from the original fortress. The poorly maintained park has mud puddles in the walkways and a pond with weird looking ducks. I only see one duck I recognize-a mallard. Another is a pure white mallard-like creature. It could be a German duck, for the Germans are keen on atomic power plants just now-I noticed on TV that the Green Party is blockading the railroads in Germany to stop nuclear waste shipments. Who knows, in the future we may see more weird ducks and other odd creatures around the world. We stroll through a maze of fences that surround the north end of the park, apparently a reconstruction of the muddy paths, and reach a small arch with no explanation of what it might be.

Consulting our trusty map and confirming with a kid on a bench who claims to know some English, we head for Fiera Milano, a shopping mall. Carol has doubts about the kid's English ability, but we forge ahead. As we leave the park, we see a Farmers Market nearby where we buy our lunch, consisting of skewered pork with yellow peppers from a rotisserie, tomatoes, mozzarella, ripe red strawberries, apples and radishes. We eat on a bench in the park across the street from the market and watch women wheel their vegetables home, children play, and laundry flap on the balconies.

After lunch we walk up the tree-lined Corso Sempione, slip past the guard at the gate and enter Fiera Milano. Whoops! We're in the wrong place. Workmen swarm in and out of buildings, unloading huge trucks and racing forklifts around as if this were Le Mans. A business-suited woman confirms my suspicion; this is a trade show area, not a shopping center. It turns out we're a week early for the yearly furniture design show that draws buyers from around the world. It's the perfect time to catch a taxi back to our hotel.

From the cab, we can see where the ancient city walls stood, for, although the ancient walls are gone, there's a boundary outside of which eight- and ten-story buildings rise. Within the ancient city's boundary, buildings are rarely more than four or five stories and are older, surrounded by narrow streets that go off at radical angles from each other. As we speed along, shutters begin to clank down in front of the shops; it's 2 o'clock-siesta time-when all of the stores close. We return to our hotel for a nap.

By four o'clock we are sitting in the sun having cappuccini (plural for cappuccino) and croissants before heading to the Duomo for more people watching. Trying to distinguish nationalities is part of the fun; who are those guys with Mohawks, dressed in black leather jackets and thick-soled shoes? The woman dressed to the nines on a bicycle, talking on a cell phone? The blond with the big smile, with her arm around a boy's neck? The children wearing blue jeans? High school kids wear blue jeans and running shoes here; the adults dress in what they must consider a more dignified fashion. And who are the fashionably dressed women riding bicycles, or carrying motorcycle helmets under their arms? They must be locals. There's also a blue jean and athletic shoe-wearing crowd hanging out at the cathedral square, who appear to be Latino, from California, perhaps?

We decide to send some postcards, but the clerk at the post office waves Carol away. He's evidently not selling any stamps today. We ask someone on the street where to get stamps, and she directs us to the tobacconist. "How obvious," Carol comments with a laugh. She buys a phone card, also at the tobacconist, to call Cindy, our friend from Santa Cruz whom we'll visit in Lugano, Switzerland tomorrow. But she bought a local card rather than an international one, and it doesn't work. In search of an international card, we descend the subway stairs to discover a whole city of underground shops, bustling with customers.

It looks as if you can buy anything down here-a whole hidden city below ground that we didn't even suspect existed. We buy an international phone card, call Cindy, and let her know when we'll be arriving.

Coffee next and more window-shopping. We pass a political rally where a young man explains that it's the small shop owners party, "a far right party" that's rebelling against taxes. It's Sunday, and the wine shop next to the hotel is closed; we find a supermarket where we buy salad, wine, bread and a lemon for dinner. The checkout woman asks me something in Italian, which I understand as, "How much does the lemon weigh?" I run back to the vegetable area and weigh it, returning to tell her 185 grams. She asks me more questions that I don't understand. Despite a line of people waiting, she goes to the produce stand, weighs the lemon, punches a button on the scale that has a picture of a lemon on it, and places a label on the lemon. So simple! The people in the line are polite about waiting for this dunderhead, and we're soon out of the store, back in our hotel room having a dinner of cheese, bread, radishes, and salad, complete with lemon juice dressing.

Whoops, we drank a whole bottle of Chianti this evening. It's 9 P.M. and Carol and I are nodding out. I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night again, so I walk around the square to find my first Japanese tourists and a bum sitting at a fountain. I had noticed that there were no homeless here. What gives? There are police everywhere, which may be why I don't see any homeless people. In front of the cathedral yesterday afternoon, I noticed two policemen questioning a man who was lying down with his shirt off, but they didn't arrest him. Everyone appears prosperous here, and we haven't seen anyone who looks poor.

Lovers are something else. We took a lift to the top of the Cathedral to follow the narrow marble steps onto the roof, which goes on and on in small niches, rows of carved figures, spires and arches. In the Duomo, I grew accustomed to young lovers kissing and rubbing their bodies together as if trying to ignite a fire. They were everywhere. One couple on the roof appeared to be British or German-a shapely young woman in a low-cut blouse straddling her boyfriend's legs, her blue jeans low on her hips, revealing thong underwear. She ran her hand through his thick belly hair and into his pants. If the church fathers saw this, they'd turn over in their graves. Or they might like to get their hands in his pants too. Who knows?

Everyone smokes-even women pushing baby carriages-but we haven't had trouble with smoke: We haven't eaten in a restaurant yet, either. We avoid heavy smoke at the bars where so many Milanese grab cappuccini, often with heaping teaspoons of sugar. Most cafés are open to the street, with lots of fresh air, and cappuccino makers perfect their art with foamy and delicious specialties. Cappuccino bars are everywhere. Even our hotel has an espresso machine, and our hotelkeeper layers the cappuccini-first coffee, then heavy sprinkles of chocolate, then milk on top, followed by more sprinkles of chocolate. Yesterday the barista at one bar swirled the milk to create a design on top. Most patrons gulp their coffee drinks and leave immediately, rather than sitting and smoking over a cup of coffee like people do in the States.

I keep waking up in the middle of the night, and I take a while to go back to sleep. Jet lag hangs on. Unfortunately it makes us sleep late, which, coupled with the museums being closed on Monday, cuts down on what we can see. We aren't following a guidebook, but rather wandering the streets and discovering things on our own-not the most efficient way to use our time, I suppose, but we're enjoying ourselves.

I took Carol to Pecks this morning to share my amazement at the cheeses, meats and other delicacies. Afterwards, we take a taxi to a train station that reminds me of Grand Central Station and catch a train to Lugano to visit our "Bagel Church" friend, Cindy. (Bagel Church is a group of a dozen non-believers, agnostics and atheists who gather on Sunday mornings for conversation about everything under the sun. Recently one of the members said in apparent shock, "My God, you people will discuss anything!")

A group of German high school students chatter away at the far end of the car, but otherwise, the train is quiet, smooth riding, clean and comfortable. The lake shimmers in the distance as we approach the town of Como. White flowering fruit trees dot the hills and tulip trees blossom beside the train tracks. Cows graze in green pastures.

******************************************

Free Land: Free Love; Tales of a Wilderness Commune

An Introduction to the Black Bear Anthology

From its start in 1968, stories of Black Bear were passed back and forth, making the remote Northern California commune a myth in its own day. Scrupulously protected from the public eye and the news media, Black Bear developed unmolested by authorities or media attention which residents feared might divert their already scattered energy.

The early Black Bears were not experienced at living collectively or surviving in the woods. The woodcutters were lucky they survived the trees they felled. The food and shelter were marginal even by Third World standards. Some would say that not all of us were great parents. But there was an area where we excelled. We were, from the start, great debaters.

This was not always an area of pride but it got widespread attention. Many of us were at our creative heights during public disputes. One of our editors remembers that when he was finally released from his "welcome to Siskiyou County" stay in the Yreka jail, he arrived at the Ranch ready to write an epic journal of the heroic "new life." After a week or two, his journals recorded nothing but arguments so he put them away and turned his attention to honing his skill at public speaking.

Black Bear's community meetings were spirited, to say the least, but they allowed speakers to reveal their thoughts and feelings. While the resulting decisions didn't always please everyone, every person was allowed to participate. Meetings, we should note, seldom resolved very much because people went ahead and did what they were going to do anyway. We wondered then, and wonder to this day, how the community retained its cohesion.

To preserve these beautifully contentious beginnings, the editors of this anthology claim they have resisted the temptation to define the total experience or provide a complete context. Allowing each person to speak in his or her own voice helps recreate, in memories at least, how individuals marched to their own drummers, made their own decisions, held their own beliefs, and put forth their own ideas. Still, pulling together this collection presented certain dilemmas. Should each piece be placed in its social context for those who don't know anything about Black Bear? Should a background be provided so the reader can more fully understand why the individuals use non-standard forms of writing? And what about editing conventions? Should John Dagget's home be the main house or Main House or mainhouse? If Womyn can be spelled thus, what about other words?

One of our younger storytellers writes our agenda: "I have heard many of the stories that go around, read the personal journals left as archives, slept in the beds they slept in. And the lore of heartbreaks, fights, partner switches, cult takeovers, deaths, pregnancies, abortions, fires, families, gardens, pig roasts, tree planting and circuses; this lore does not prevent my own life from unfolding in its way."

Hopefully, there is much more than nostalgia at work here. By reminding us of our past ideals, these stories, we hope, will encourage others to strive for the world we envisioned at Black Bear. At the same time, many of those who lived at Black Bear are very active today in social, environmental and political movements for progressive change and, as much as anything, this collection is dedicated to inspiring the future by providing a glimpse of the past.

Despite on-going attempts to control the future by re-defining the past, the spirit of the 1960s lives on. Social changes of the '60s led to the anti-corporate stances of both the far right and the far left today, increased awareness and power for minorities and a move toward multi-culturalism. They foreshadowed the ecology and conservation movements, the growth of new spiritual alternatives, the women's rights movement, alternative medicine, natural childbirth, the gay and lesbian rights movement and a wide choice of individual lifestyles. Each of these movements for change arose from the forces that coalesced in the 1960's "cultural revolution" that shook America to its very core and still informs its direction more than thirty years later.

Black Bear held its 30th summer solstice in 1998. As we walked on familiar ground and mingled in a group of old friends and lovers who once shared the most intimate aspects of life, we felt comfortable when people described what being part of that group meant to them. Holding the babies of the now-grown Black Bear babies brought tears to our eyes, for we felt part of a larger group of people that we lived with and shared with; seldom is there such continuity today, even in many blood families. To many, the family and tribal bonds from Black Bear are as important as blood ties and in some cases replace them.

The Black Bear children, some grown and some yet unborn, are among the main reasons to collect these accounts. It has not always been easy for us, children of the '60s, to share our youthful adventures with our own children. When the kids asked for stories, they were more likely to get tales of building cabins, anti-Vietnam-War politics and organic gardening than any indiscretions of, say, drugs or sexuality that our children might take as license.

Here are the stories then to speak for themselves. Not all stories agree. A few are clearly suspect, clouded by personal views or lost memories. Some are clearly fantasies that attempt to bring out the visions we had. But on some level, all of the stories you are about to read are true stories.

******/p>

Diary Entries from April 1971

by Don Monkerud

In the last four days 19 people left the Ranch which leaves 25 adults and 10 kids here. House is much quieter than it's been in weeks. This morning's breakfast felt like being naked. There were so few people and no one milling through the room as we all sat along the walls. There wasn't any protective screening; we could all observe each other.

Several of us are talking about moving to the gate to finish the beds for Jerusalem artichokes and of cleaning up the dump. We felt too crowded, noisy and disliked the lack of cleanliness and order in the house with all the people here. We felt like being with fewer people so we could be closer with each other. Being with everyone seemed like such a mass of people that two things happened: I couldn't really be with those I felt closest to and those who were far away from everyone else could flow around the rest of us and never be confronted. Going to the gate was seen as a solution even though a temporary one. Before we have talked of splitting in half and going to the meadow but each time there was loud opposition.

I suppose we will see how the fewer numbers really affect us. This morning I noticed that the kitchen was clean when we were ready to fix lunch and the house was cleaned this morning. Then everyone went outside to work.

• Breakfast:
• Pancakes with maple syrup from our own trees
• Ground rice and wheat cereal
• Carob milk
• Yogurt
• and leftovers, for the first time in a long time, from last night's dinner, salad, fried rice with elderberries in it.

• Lunch:
• soy bean pie (made like pumpkin pie)
• tuna sauce
• wheat rolls
• fried rice (from breakfast with bean sprouts)

• Supper:
• baked Jerusalem artichokes
• acorn bread
• dandelion salad

April, 1971 from charts in the main house copied into my notebook: 45 people in April consumed 300 gallons powered milk and 120 gallons fresh goat's milk for 9 gallons per person per month.

A goat gives 1 to 1 1/2 gallons a day, a cow 4 to 5 gallons a day. For 60 people we'll need 600 gallons a month or 22 gallons a day.

People's Food Chart:

Projected consumption in the coming year based on the past winter and seasonally adjusted population.

• May to June 60 to 70
• July to Sept. 80 to 200
• October 70

Between November and April (6 months) an average of 45 to 60 of us consumed the following items with the costs noted per month:

• Milk, 300 lb., $120
• Wheat, 300 lb., $30
• Rice, 200 lb., $24
• Honey, 1 1/2 can per week at $15
• Sugar, 200 lb., $24
• Oil, 30 gal. $50
• Vinegar, 4 gal. $2
• Salt, 8 lb., $1
• Brewers Yeast, 20 lb., $20
• Bakers Yeast
• Wheat Germ, 50 lb., $7
• Dry Fruit, 90 lb., $30
• Sesame, 24 lb., $13
• Spices: Tamari 1 gal. Per day

• Grains:
• Sunflower, 25 lb., $4
• Corn, 150 lb., $15
• Oats, 60 lb., $9
• Rye, 20 lb., $2
• Millet, 25 lb., $5
• Barley, 10 lb., $1
• Buckwheat, 30 lb., $8

• Beans:
• Soy, 50 lb., $4
• Other, 200 lb., $16

• Onions, 200 lb., $8
• Garlic, 20 lb., $10
• Potatoes, 550 lb., $11
• Lemons, 2 boxes, $16 in April

Estimated amount needed to support the Ranch:

• May to June, $484 per month
• July to Sept., $558 per month
• Oct., $489 per month
• Nov. to April, $531 per month
• Or $6240 per month or $85 per person per year for food.