I used as earlier examples a newly sober person experiencing great disappointment due to falling off the wagon.  Or someone abandoning his or her personal principles in order to get ahead at work.  Or when we suffer and grieve from shameful or remorseful behaviors with loved ones.  Or how we simply give up on ourselves—our hopes and dreams, and live a life unfulfilled.  We give up believing in ourselves.

In Part One, I suggested ways to get back on track, to run to our own rescue, through the use of meditation, prayer, conversations that teach us valuable lessons, ponderings, living as consciously as possible.  Paying mindful attention to our needs.  Taking a breath and taking stock.  And when we cannot (yet) rescue from within, we can reach out to trusted friends and loved ones for help. Having a sympathetic shoulder to cry on helps, as well as a non-judgmental ear to listen.

In Part Two, we explored how our abandonments as well as our rescues all begin with our thoughts.  For instance, when we think poorly of ourselves, we make choices that reflect those beliefs.  When we think of ourselves positively, guess what?  We make choices that reflect those beliefs.  Our thoughts lead the parade, followed by our feelings, words, and actions.

“I’m not deserving of …” is a perfect example of what I’m referring to.  “I’m not deserving of good health”, for example, leads to not taking care of yourself.  “I don’t deserve to be loved” leads to unhealthy relationships.  As regular “Shrink Rap” readers know, what you think (and feel) about yourself determines every one of your choices in life.
So by taking a few moments every day to think about what it would be like to be the person you wish to be, you take the all-important first step toward becoming.
Becoming happier, or deserving, or more confident, or a better parent, partner, son, daughter, lover, contributor to a better world.  It all begins with your thoughts.
Now, in Part Three, let’s build on this further.

You have opportunities all the time to make choices, the outcomes of which will either honor your highest self—or leave you not feeling very good about yourself.  These “decision intersections” take countless forms.  From how to best perform at work, to what to do if your kid is struggling in school.  From getting along with your partner, to helping a parent with Alzheimer’s.  How to stay healthy mentally and physically.  How to grieve a recent loss.  How to call upon your Higher Power for help.  By the end of the week, you’ve probably logged about a million miles through these intersections.  Some you handle easily.  Others, however, plague your sleep.

So how can you consistently come from a healthy place as you navigate your world of choices?  To not throw your hands up in the air and give up on yourself, nor simply shake your head and move into denial, nor abandon your good common sense.  But instead, tap into your best self, your highest self?

Here is my suggestion:  When faced with a dilemma, ask yourself these three questions:

If I were an intelligent person, how would I proceed?

If I were a loving person (which includes loving yourself), how would I proceed?

If I were someone who took responsibility for all my actions, how would I proceed?

In doing so, you regain, you rescue, your best parts, the parts of yourself that can handle the big decision intersections and, even when you stumble, can pick you back up to continue forward again, one step at a time, one choice at a time.

Is it always easy?  Of course not.  It’s a process, and stumbling is an important part of the process.  It’s one way we learn.  Remember:  It doesn’t matter how often you fall—only how often you get back up again.

Until next week:

“Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, and don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.  Don’t waste your time being jealous—sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind.  The race is long, and in the end, it is only with yourself.  Remember the compliments you receive, and forget the insults.  And if you succeed in doing this, tell me how.”
— Kurt Vonnegut

Personally, I don’t know why we bother. I know, I know, “giving” is part of the spirit of the season. But why should I have to spend money buying a bunch of stuff for other people that I wouldn’t have bought for myself in hopes that they can read my mind and buy the very thing I would have bought for myself (“That’s just what I wanted—thanks!”)?

Then you realize that what they bought you—which you didn’t really need or want because no one knows what you want or need any better than yourself—cost about a third of what you spent on them. What? So I spent more money on something I didn’t want and gave to someone else than something I really wanted but didn’t get. Bah humbug.

Again, why do we bother? We live in one of the richest countries in the world, where everyone has at least two televisions for every car in their driveway and enough clothes not to have to wear the same combination twice—ever—and we still find it necessary to “need” things all of the time. “I really needed that second car for times when the other car was low on gas.” “My iPod is way too big so I need a smaller one.” “I just can’t live without my new Snuggie.”

My daughter is the hardest to buy for because she’ll never tell you what she wants for Christmas. I’d like to think that she feels the love of her family and the sacrifices we make to provide her with the best life possible is enough of a gift in itself not to have to shower materialistic sundries on her Christmas morning. But that’s likely not the case.

I suspect it’s because she already gets so much stuff throughout the year that by the time Christmas rolls around, she literally can’t think of anything else she might want…or “need.” That certainly wasn’t the case when I was a kid.

Christmas was the only time—except for maybe your birthday—when you could capitalize on the myth of Santa Claus and North Pole elves that just happen to market their wares in the pages of possibly the most profound publication known to children under the age of 18: the Sears Christmas Wish Book.
As soon as it came in the mail, my brother and I would take turns in pre-scheduled installments flipping through its glorious pages marking toys and folding page corners as if we were conducting research for our doctoral dissertation.

Then we’d compare notes in order to make the most of this once-a-year lucrative situation. “I’ll ask for the Stretch Armstrong and you ask for the Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine. Then we’ll take the rest in GI Joe adventure gear and Legos.”

For months we’d carefully put together a strategic plan that included procurement of only the finest, most fun-filled, time-consuming items every consummate toy box should include.

We were always careful to make the most of “Santa’s” budget instead of squandering the entire nut on one expensive item (such as a new bike) that we might be able to guilt the necessary parties into purchasing during some rogue period at another time of year.

When the final list was complete, it was checked, double-checked—even triple-checked—to ensure it included everything we’d agreed upon. Then we’d carefully fold it and place it in an envelope that was addressed in unmistakable penmanship and finished off with at least three postage stamps (to ensure sufficient funds for North Pole delivery).

And, after it was all said and done, we’d visit JC Penney’s and buy dad an ugly tie, and mom some God-awful perfume that she neither wanted nor needed but pretended to love just the same. Happy Holidays.

I hated the people who broke into cars on the parking lots of malls and stores everywhere to steal their well-intended contents, and I hated the people who had parked their cars with a $250 dollar Garmin on the dash and a shopping bag and purse in plain view below it in the first place.  I hated that thieves would prey upon a holiday of giving, and I hated that victims would act baffled and shocked that anyone would take advantage of the opportunity they presented to said criminals.  I hated the crooks’ boldness and I hated the victims’ naiveté, but I of course approached both in person with a gracious smile and professional demeanor; after all, as all my Adoring Readers know, professionalism is my trademark.  A standard excerpt for your pleasure:

Victim:  “I just can’t understand it!  I was only in the store for 15 minutes; how could this have happened?!’

Ofc. Teach:  “It only takes about 20 seconds to break the glass, then snatch the items and run, sir.  I’m sorry, I know how frustrating this must be.”

Victim:  “You’re damn right it’s frustrating!  I can’t believe it!  There are cameras here!  Why wasn’t someone watching the cameras?!”

Ofc. Teach:  “I’m sure someone was watching the cameras, but again, in 20 seconds, there’s not a lot store security can do.  Cameras deter some, but don’t prevent all.”  (Cameras indeed show what is a man or perhaps a woman, five feet to six feet tall of unknown race in dark clothing smashing and grabbing items and fleeing on foot south, thus narrowing the suspect pool to roughly 250,000 locally.  CSI: Chattanooga has a tough row to hoe on this one. )

Victim:  “Well, then where were you?!  I pay taxes for you to watch this place, this is outrageous!  Can’t you check the glass for prints or something?!”

Ofc. Teach pauses, then says:  “I was actually across the street taking another report where someone else left their packages on the car seat.  I’m afraid shattered glass leaves no real prints to lift, either.  Let’s go ahead and itemize the losses, shall we?”  While taking copious notes, another call comes out on the same lot.  Burglary of another auto, of course.  (If rolling of eyes had a sound, I would deafen the world.)

My generous pay was dedicated to luxuries like “electricity” and “cable television”, so my own Christmas gifts were often derived from side jobs such as visible store security and traffic direction.  And the only thing I hate more than store security and registered Democrats is (brace yourself) traffic direction.

The contempt for careless and selfish drivers mates with the fear of being struck by a car every eight to 12 seconds, and born from that is an anxiety that a metric ton of Prilosec (God bless it) and Thorazine couldn’t put a dent in.

Cars are not only more insulated from outside noises (such as police whistles and other car horns) than ever before, their drivers are more distracted by technology and high-end sound systems than ever and the sight of a “STOP” sign is more of a suggestion than a rule these days.

I usually work straight through until someone rolls past their stop sign through an intersection I’m regulating, unaware of my presented palms and piercing whistle because they are busy texting the person in the back seat, and I am forced to open-hand slap the hood and roof of their car as I side-step them on their way into oblivion, stopping all directions of traffic while I bellow at them in lawful fury.  I take five, and head back in until I have to repeat this.

Yes.  I hate “The Holidays”, but as you remind me from time to time, don’t judge too quickly…because I LOVE “Christmas”.  There is a difference, you see.
One of them has Rules.

(Happy “Whatever Doesn’t Offend You”, folks.)

Open this year on Sundays until December 6, this open-air market, the largest in the region, provides products sold by the producers and represents 3,500 acres of regional farms. One can find him or her self among an enticing selection of fresh vegetables, flowers, and herbs. A variety of meats, cheeses, breads, honey, jellies and jams are available to complete the menu. For dessert, you can find treats ranging from candies to fudge to cake. With such a diverse assortment of fresh, local foods available, the market provides an excellent resource for people who are interested in both a healthy and sustainable lifestyle.

By consuming what we can produce locally, we are investing a personal interest in the means of production and transportation of our products. We can know that the vegetables we are buying came to us by a pick-up truck from 15 miles out of town instead of coming in a Mack truck from 1,500 miles away. The money we spend on local food and crafts goes to support our friends and neighbors, not the construction of another chain store. Knowing all this, it is remarkable the sense of accomplishment you can achieve when simply buying a basket of apples or a jar of pickles. It’s amazing how much better a cake can taste when it comes with a smile from the woman who made it.

The Chattanooga Market is not just an outlet for delicious foods. It also serves as a true community center. It is free to come into the market to stroll and enjoy live musical performances and let the kids play on the climbing wall. A monthly cooking class is offered (for a small fee) for those wanting to learn how to make the most of their market purchases.

New this year, the market has introduced the S.A.F.E. program: Support Area Food Economies. There are different levels of customized memberships available for purchase, and members enjoy special benefits in addition to being able to receive curbside grocery delivery each week.

Perhaps the most notable aspect of The Chattanooga Market is its support of charities: the true heart of a caring and connected community. The market serves as a venue for events held by varied organizations including United Way, American Cancer Society, and Pennies for Vicki, a local charity. Also, community members are now able to utilize the market as a donation center for the Chattanooga Area Food Bank. According to the meter on The Chattanooga Market’s web site, they have already collected 2,487 pounds of food this year, as well as raised $52,429 for charities. Spending at the market, through the S.A.F.E. program, has also resulted in $434.78 to support the local food economy.

The regulations for what can be sold as arts and crafts at the market are extensive. There are four main standards: the items must be handmade with natural materials gathered by the seller or family member (the commercial components of the products must be used in a way that makes them unique), items must be of the artist’s original design, starting materials must be significantly altered or enhanced, and the products must meet “basic expectations of product life, function, and safety.” There are additional qualifications for each sub-category of items. The standards that the market employs ensure that the products offered to customers will be not only locally made but also original, quality work.

When considering the necessary ingredients for a healthy community, one must consider what he or she can contribute and therefore expect to receive from local resources. The Chattanooga Market provides a space for local farmers, bakers, butchers, smiths, carpenters, musicians, and candlestick makers to share the fruits of their labor. It a place where citizens can also share use their fruits to stimulate and continue this resource. And most importantly, the market strives to provide care and consideration for a variety of local needs.

Visit the Market from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. November 22, 29 and December 6 before it closes for the year. First Tennessee Pavilion, 1826 Carter St. (423) 648-2496. www.chattanoogamarket.com

Dear Mexican,
Why oh why do most Mexican women cut their long, black hair after reaching the pivotal age of 40? Not only do they cut it, but they then proceed to cut it short and dye it all shades of the most unnatural hair color for Mexicans: red. My own madre is guilty of this offense and I see it on all the older women of SanTana! Why is this the case? Why do women in Mexico tend keep their long flowing hair and trencitas while women here in the States go for the Bozo look? Please help me with this!
— A Que Tener Pelo Largo

Dear Wab,
Mujeres shearing their locks in el Norte has gone on longer than you think—and it’s not just the geezers. “During the 1920s, a woman’s decision ‘to bob or not bob’ her hair assumed classic proportions within Mexican families,” wrote University of California, Irvine professor Vicki L. Ruiz in her 1999 book, From Out of the Shadows: Mexican Women in Twentieth-Century America. She was specifically talking about young mexicanas following gabacho youth trends to the consternation of their elders, but you can use that same rubric with nuestras mothers and aunts. I don’t have any empirical data on the number of old ladies with short hair in the U.S. since the AARP isn’t exactly the Pew Hispanic Center of viejitos, but nearly every elderly gabacha the Mexican has ever met, seen, or heard about uses their pelo corto. I’m not a post-menopausal gal, but methinks it has to do with hair loss, a better framing of the wrinkled face, and the creation of an easier platform to dye those pesky grays. Since Mexicans take to American habits like we do to Reconquista, it follows que Mexican ladies copy their gabacha peers. But why the outrageous hair colores? For once, the Mexican will not dare answer a pregunta, because you just don’t question the logic of your madre, whether it’s hair color, superstition or her insistence that Vicks VapoRub and 7-Up cure everything—you just don’t.

Dear Mexican,
Why is it that Mexicans only want to go back to Mexico after they kill a gringo?
— Gabe Ocho

Dear Gabacho,
Such ignorance, such stupidity, such lies! Lou Dobbs, was that you?

Dear Mexican,
Why do Mexicans put lard in their beans? I don’t know any fit-‘n’-trim Mexicans. Even the skinny ones have a lil’ belly. I just made some excellent refried beans with Goya extra virgin olive oil and butter. Just wondering.
— Skinny White Boy Vegetarian from Dallas who Loves Healthy Tex-Mex

Dear Gabacho,
Refried beans made with olive oil? Why don’t you just add tomato and capers to ruin it even more? Whatever floats your barco, but no need to call us a bunch of fatties along the way. Besides, you’re muy wrong. Not only does the Mexican know too many wabby gym rats, all getting their buff bodies ready to further overrun the United States, but lard ain’t what gives the gordos their panzas. “My friend Rick Bayless is skinny and he loves lard!” says Robb Walsh, author of The Tex-Mex Cookbook and perhaps the most Mexican gabacho after the famous Chicago chef. “As Señor Bayless likes to point out, lard is not unhealthy—it is lower in saturated fat and cholesterol than butter. When rendered at a high temperature, as it is in Mexico, lard has a roast pork flavor that is part of the traditional taste of tamales, refried beans, and moles. Don’t use the hydrogenated stuff in the tub—buy your lard at the butcher shop. And it sounds better if you call it manteca.” One further food insult from me: using Goya products to cook Mexican cuisine is like making your Cuba Libre with Hornitos.

I want to share with you some excerpts from a lecture by Zenkai Blanche Hartman given earlier this year at the San Francisco Zen Center.  The images are rich and beautiful, and you will likely find your mind happily navigating its way around the metaphors and language.  I love these passages, and my own mind instantly goes into a sort of excited dance as it awakens to new expressions of thought.  See what this experience might do for you.

The first passage is about oneness with the universe.  The second addresses awareness and living in the present.  And the third is about how we see ourselves and life.  All are concepts you’ve read in this column before, but rarely expressed with such poetry. Enjoy!

1.  “We have many difficult experiences in our life.  From a distance, a waterfall looks like a curtain, thrown from the top of the mountain. The water was not originally separated but was one whole river.  But it is separated into many tiny streams as it falls.  Individual droplets of water in a waterfall take a very long time to reach the bottom.  Only when the water is separated does it have this difficulty reaching the bottom of the waterfall.

“Before we were born, we were one with the universe. After we are separated by birth from this Oneness, as water falling from a waterfall is separated by wind and rocks, then we have feeling.  We have difficulty because we attach to the feeling we have without knowing just how this kind of feeling is created.  When we do not realize that we are one with the river, or one with the universe, we have fear.  But whether it is separated into drops or not, water is water.  When we realize this fact we have no fear of death anymore and have no actual difficulty in our life.

“There is great value in the experience of realizing that we are always one with the whole universe.  This idea we get that each of us is separate and distinct from the whole of life, this division into ‘self’ and ‘other’ that we are capable of making with our mind creates a lot of anxiety and difficulty.  As we begin to notice that this separation is something we do with our own mind, that in actuality we are all breathing the same air, we realize the Oneness in which we exist.  The more you consider this as a possibility, the more you feel the connection with all other living beings.”

2.  “In breathing, [Zen Master] Suzuki Roshi emphasized the exhale.  ‘Just follow the exhale,’ he’d say.  ‘Let it go out, let it go out, let it go out.  And just watch it and at a certain point it will turn into an inhale all by itself.  You don’t have to reach for it.  It just becomes an inhale.  And you can say, “Oh!  I’m still alive!”’
“We know how to breathe.  We’ve been breathing since we were born.  We don’t have to direct the breath or control the breath.  We just have to be aware of it.  In practicing being aware of it we can begin to bring our mind here to where we are, and be awake and aware of what’s happening, within ourselves, in each moment.”

3.  “So perhaps you think, this life has not been the way I wanted it.  You can do this if you want to.  But if you notice yourself doing this, you might say to yourself, ‘Every time I tell myself this, I feel really bad.  H’mm, maybe I don’t want to tell myself this story anymore.  Even if it’s true, every time I tell myself this story, I feel awful.  Well, gosh, maybe I have some control over what stories I tell myself.  Let me see if I can not tell this story this time.’  And each time you pick it up, you notice you’re chewing on this same old bone again.  You can say, I don’t like the taste of this bone, and you can put it down.  Some of us have stories we’ve been telling ourselves for years!  We identify ourselves by our stories; that’s who we think we are.  How can we not get stuck in these labels we paste on ourselves and on others?  Perhaps we can give ourselves the opportunity to see things with beginner’s eyes, with fresh eyes.  Let’s see what’s here now. Be awake each moment.  Don’t waste this life.  Appreciate and recognize that it’s a gift.  Revere life now.”

Until next week:  “Without leaving my house I know the whole universe.”   — Lao-Tsu

Dr. Rick Pimental-Habib, Ph.D., is a psychotherapist, minister, and educator, in private practice in Chattanooga, and is the author of “Empowering the Tribe” and “The Power of a Partner.”

It’s a tough question to answer, because most people immediately think of the British powerhouse bands like the Beatles, Stones, Who, Kinks, Yardbirds, Zeppelin and so on. But when you look back towards our shores, the question seems a little muddier because there aren’t that many influential “bands” per se—at least not of that magnitude.

Sure, American music is credited with providing the roots to rock n’ roll—country, rhythm & blues, blues and jazz. And we can likely be credited with inventing the genre altogether with Elvis, Carl Perkins, Roy Orbison, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Bill Haley, Eddie Cochran, Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis. However, with the exception of maybe Bill Haley’s “Comets,” there’s not a “band” there to speak of—only solo artists.

The record labels that produced much of the American music that influenced the aforementioned British bands—Stax, Chess, Sun, Motown, Atlantic—had extremely talented and pivotal house bands and songwriters that contributed probably more to the sounds of those solo artists than they’ll likely ever be credited. But they were just that—house bands for hire.

As far as the influential musicians and songwriters you have heard of who hail from the good ole USA, we’ve got plenty of those as well—Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Ray Charles, Johnny Cash, Woody Guthrie, Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Marvin Gaye, Randy Newman, Willie Dixon, Muddy Waters, Leonard Cohen, Patsy Cline, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding and many more. And some of our country’s most influential songwriters have backing bands that are just as famous and talented.

Bob Dylan had The Band, Bruce Springsteen has the E Street Band, Tom Petty has the Heartbreakers and Neil Young has Crazy Horse, as well as other variations of backing bands. All of these groups of musicians are critical to helping those artists achieve their signature sounds.

But a great backing band that’s taking marching orders from one main songwriting source doesn’t really count as an influential “band.” The only exception here is The Band, who went on to have their own catalog of exceptional music—and from three or four songwriters within their ranks.

That said, there have been a lot of great American bands with multiple songwriters—Fleetwood Mac, REM, The Byrds, Velvet Underground, B-52’s, Cheap Trick, Drive By Truckers, Black Crowes, Talking Heads, NRBQ, The Cars, Beastie Boys and even though I despise them with every ounce of my being, the Eagles. But you rarely see those bands included on a modern-day artist’s list of “greatest influences,” so maybe these giants are aren’t as influential as they are just great.

This brings us back to the question of the hour. By the long and tedious process outlined above, we’ve pretty much determined that by “most influential band” we mean the songs, sound, look, presence and impact created by an entire group. The whole being much, much greater than the sum of its parts. In fact, the parts may even be fairly insignificant on their own.

In my opinion, as far as the entity of a “band” influencing other artists, Americans caused the greatest impact around the punk era. We truly helped invent and greatly influence that genre of music with bands—not musicians or songwriters. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the handful of pioneering punk bands to come from America in the late sixties and early seventies, there wouldn’t have been a Sex Pistols, Clash, Buzzcocks, Joy Division or Stiff Little Fingers, which means there never would’ve been a Replacements, Cure, Nirvana, Pretenders or that smarmy Green Day.

Who are the nominees then? Well, our group settled on three possibilities—The Stooges, New York Dolls or The Ramones. And, even though they somewhat influenced each other (basically in that order), as true pioneering bands they’ve done more to influence every band that came after them than any other American band we could name. But that’s just our opinion. What do you think?

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his wildly popular website www.thenoog.com

In my experience at least, I found that the only good thing about the accursed airline was the sense of camaraderie it imposed upon the passengers, who for just a little while set aside all cultural, racial, ethnic and sexual boundaries to verbally rally among themselves against their common enemy:  The Corporate Degenerates operating US Airways like a Thailand teen-slavery ring and the bi-polar stewardesses who treated their passengers as if they were all simultaneously defendants in a divorce court.  Sure, they had “Captain Sully”…but he wasn’t the one tending to the passengers.  With him tucked away in the cockpit, US Airways flights were like sharing the inside of a Pringles tube with Hillary Clinton.

That didn’t matter to me these days, though.  As soon as I found my seat and dealt with the age-old question of “crotch or ass” when I had to squeeze past the occupied aisle seat to get to my window (he got “ass”, by the way), I had been sitting for less than five minutes when I nodded off as people were still boarding, and didn’t wake up until the plane abruptly jarred in landing two hours and one time zone later.  Beautiful.

There are two benefits to being a third-shift patrolman:  The more obvious is a charming personality, but a lesser-known one is the ability to sleep anywhere, at any time, in any position.  It’s kind of like a forced narcolepsy, and you won’t hear about it at any recruiting seminars.

I have slept sitting bolt upright in a Crown Victoria (1989 through 2005 models) with a seatbelt shoulder strap wrapped around my forehead to keep me from falling forward onto the steering wheel.  I have slept in closets on a pile of clothes to avoid daylight, air mattresses in basements, and even a few times after hours in a clamshell-style tanning bed with a coat for a pillow.  (This might not sound too interesting, but bear in mind they are solid plastic and very, very cold echo chambers when not in use.  Anyone here ever get the first use of a tanning bed for the day and feel the thrill of cold plastic on your person as the lights fire up?  Well, when the lights are off, it just stays that way.)

I’ve slept on the bench seat of a friend’s restaurant after hours, waiting room couches, and under the glare of fluorescent lights in an underground parking garage.  I’ve been lulled to sleep by the cool winds off of Lake Chickamauga as I slept on a boat ramp, and even once behind the wheel of a Ford F150.  (Not for long, mind you.)

I’ve slept next to a 1:1 scale mock-up of a nuclear reactor, and at the top of parking garages overlooking our downtown area.  At the end of abandoned and shuttered project development cul-de-sacs, and in favorite spots in more than one cemetery.  I’ve slept at dinner tables (much to the consternation of family members) and in gymnasiums (much to the consternation of gym members), and once at the base of a monument at the center of Point Park.  I’m a regular narcoleptic Johnny Cash, folks:  “I’ve Slept Everywhere, Man”, and not to worry:  I slept in nearly all those places with a pistol in my hand.

The plane trip was for business of course; US Airways is atrocious, but they’re low-bid.  I had been told I was being sent to a Department of Justice conference, but I wasn’t certain until the last second I wasn’t walking into an often-threatened and elaborate intervention setting, and I was pleasantly relieved to find only strangers with badges instead of family with baggage.

I eased into a chair nearest a window.  I popped a mint in my mouth and settled in nicely between PowerPoint presentations on the cost-savings of powered parachutes for searches and surveillance, and uses for logic-based predictive analysis algorithms.

And in the end?

Albeit ever-so-briefly…I slept there, too.

When officer Alexander D. Teach is not patrolling our fair city on the heels of the criminal element, he is an occasional student at UTC, an up and coming carpenter, auto mechanic, prominent boating enthusiast, and spends his spare time volunteering for the Boehm Birth Defects Center.

The main obstacle the general public faces when trying to become less dependant on personal vehicles is the lack of education. People want to be independent, and so, depend on their cars to take them where they want to go, when they want to go. They are wary of riding a bike among cars and other traffic.

However, more and more people are discovering the beauty of the bicycle. This brilliant invention, dating back to the 1860s, is the primary means of transportation in many regions of the world. Bicycles outnumber cars by two-to-one. There is nothing like the freedom of riding a bike, using your own person-power to propel yourself through the breeze and to your destination, with no impact on the earth, only your tread marks in the mud. I often see drivers get frustrated when bikers slow down traffic on curvy roads, and I, too, am guilty of this frustration. But I try to curb myself and think how I should really give these bikers a wave and a nod as if to say, “You’re doing the right thing.”

With its natural beauty and mountainous surroundings, Chattanooga has long been a mecca for mountain and road bikers alike. The region is not only conducive to bike riding but also concerned about healthy lifestyles for its citizens and their environment. Since the early 2000s, many organizations have formed providing resources for people who want to make a change in their routines.

Activate Chattanooga is a partnership that consists of a long list of local members, including the Health Department, Regional Planning Agency, National Park Service, and City of Chattanooga Traffic Engineering. All of these partners work to fulfill different needs under the same set of goals: educating citizens about exercise, advocating policies and urban designs that promote active lifestyles, promoting alternative transportation, and using community assets to demolish obstacles to active living.

We are very fortunate to have the Riverwalk, which provides 12 miles of paved trails accessible to feet and two-wheelers alike. This path allows car-free citizens to get from North Chattanooga all the way to the Chickamauga Dam. The walk also includes a trip across the longest pedestrian bridge in the world, so whenever your gaze drifts down at the Tennessee River from the Walnut Street Bridge, remember that you are having an internationally unique experience.

Chattanooga stands out among Southern cities because of its resources for alternative transportation. For example, the Chattanooga Urban Area Bicycle Task Force (BTF) is a group made up of citizens, business representatives, and government agents who regulate planning that pertains to bicycling. The main goal of the BTS is to facilitate the safe use of bicycles for citizens of all ages and skill levels. The best way to encourage and ensure the use of safe bike paths would be to create connections from neighborhoods to other community centers such as schools, churches, and recreational areas. The group serves as an advisory to the Transportation Planning Organization, and the chair of the BTF serves as a voting member.

Another example of local initiative towards healthier, less harmful lifestyles is the Bike2Work group that meets on the first Friday of each month from 7-8:30 a.m. to share over bagels the blessings of riding bikes to work. This group provides a focus on the benefits of their choice: saving money on gas, maintaining personal health, improving air quality, and creating a social scene in which to discuss new ways to share their experiences with the community.

So next time you are sitting in your car, feeling the tension of the mid-day or late-afternoon traffic mounting in your shoulders, think of how you might be riding a bike and propelling yourself through the open breeze to your destination.

Victoria Hurst is a proud resident of the Appalachian Mountains. She has recently graduated from Warren Wilson College with a B.A. in English: Creative Writing.

Dear Mexican,
Whenever I see an ad for a Mexican ramera, they always describe themselves as “spicy.”  Are Mexican women hiding habaneros in their panochas?
— Concha Curious

Dear Gabacho,
“I wish I could say that ‘Mexican Spitfire’ Lupe Velez was to blame for the ‘spicy’ epithet so often associated with Mexican femme pulchritude,” says William Nericcio, author of Tex(t)-Mex: Seductive Hallucinations of the “Mexican” in America, “or that ersatz Latinas Rita Hayworth or Raquel Welch had conspired with the intrinsically hot movements of their netherworlds to have forever etched the ghosts of their hot pudenda into the semantic pantheon of ‘spicy’ DNA.” “However, I think its far more simple: Adjective-challenged ‘Mericans merely borrowed the epithet from Brit views of Spanish gals and their cuisine—namely paella, which would never give a Mexican a sweat, but might make a West End wonk spit fire and cry out for a bloody glass of water.” The Mexican agrees with the loco professor of English at San Diego State, but ratchets up the gabacho-bashing by also blaming Protestant frigidity and its eternal efforts to dismiss Catholic cultures (French, Hispanic, Italian, Irish, y the like) as intrinsically, sinfully hot-blooded. So the answer, Concha Curious, is yes:  mexicanas have habaneros in their hoo-hahs that make them spicy, just like all women. Called the clitoris.

Dear Mexican,
I always see Mexicans pushing their ten- and twelve-year-old kids around in strollers. What gives? Why don’t you impose a maximum age for stroller usage?
— Jealous Of Mexican Babies

Dear Gabacho,
Same reason Mexicans don’t impose a maximum age for living at home with their parents until marriage—why deny a parent’s love?

Dear Mexican,
I have a question regarding the legitimacy of Spanish as the predominant language of Mexico. In regards to the future reality of a United States overrun by Mexican people, I realized that the language spoken there is a European language, the same as Dutch, French or Euskadi. Shouldn’t there be a Mexican national movement to bring back the Nahuatl language, sort of on the same level as the Irish bringing back Gaelic? Just curious if I should go out and purchase a Mixteca-to-English dictionary.
— El Boludo

Dear Gabacho,
Go ahead and buy that bilingual dictionary, but don’t count on speaking like the Aztecs—Mixteca is an Oto-Manguean tongue, while Nahuatl is a branch of the Uto-Aztecan language family. Besides, you’re wrongly assuming that all Mexicans have Aztec roots in them, when that’s not el caso. Nahuatl might be the most-spoken indigenous language in Mexico, with an estimated 1.38 million speakers, but that figure is less than a quarter of the more than six million people who the Mexican government says speak an Indian idioma (Maya is the second-most-spoken, while about half a million speak Mixteca and its many dialects). You’re right to assume a mini-movement of learning Nahuatl in Chicano circles, but that’s based more on their lionization of Aztec culture and Nahuatl’s influence on Mexican Spanish than the tongue’s practicality or its place as Mexico’s rightful lingua franca. To say Nahuatl should be brought back and function as Mexico’s official language is the same imperialistic mierda that brought on the dominance of Spanish and the extinction of so many languages in the first place.  That said, the Mexican is in favor of other Mexicans relearning their ancestral tongues, if only to further confound gabachos who are just beginning to grasp the language of Cervantes.

Ask the Mexican at themexican@askamexican.net, myspace.com/ocwab, facebook.com/garellano, find him on, Twitter, or write: Gustavo Arellano, P.O. Box 1433, Anaheim, CA 92815-1433!