There are now at least two generations on the planet for whom this first (and, hopefully, last) truly global war has some historical value, but seemingly little personal significance.  That’s a bit troubling because, in the face of unspeakable horror and a possible bleak future, our parents and grandparents had stepped up and done their duty, making possible the world we take for granted today.  Looking back, it’s sometimes hard to realize just how precarious and uncertain the outcome was and how close Hitler and his allies came to winning- and equally unimaginable the kind of world we would have inherited, had the Allied efforts failed.

Scene from BAND OF BROTHERS

For those of us too young to have experienced those war years, I recommend viewing Ken Burns’s gripping documentary series, The War and Tom Hanks and Stephen Spielberg’s excellent mini-series, Band of Brothers, based on the book by Stephen Ambrose, a factual account of the 101^st Airborne’s Easy Company. These epic productions offer an unflinching look into the realities of World War II as ordinary citizens were called upon to do extraordinary things in order to preserve our way of life.   Both series present a portrait of war which is radically different than the glamorized, sanitized, action-adventure ambiance of the typical John Wayne film.

Movingly powerful documentary of four American communities' war experience

You know what I’m talking about: the kind of flag-waving guts-and-glory entertainment we young children in the ‘50s used to watch while commanding our miniature plastic infantrymen on cozy living room rugs in Levittown-style ticky-tacky neighborhoods across the country.  There he was… The Duke, storming the beachhead through a hail of Hollywood bullets,

Go gettum, Duke!

lantern-jawed and fearless. We would cheer, secure in the knowledge that he was on our side and imagine ourselves as helmeted, M-1 toting Cracker Jack heroes in this magnificent fantasy.  World War II was a comfortable historical event for us back then- Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan had yet to appear on our event horizon.  It was almost as much fun as cowboys and Indians!

Recently I came across a website offering this whimsical Wayne quote: “War isn’t very civilized business.” He should know, right?  I mean, he was the star of Sands of Iwo Jima, They Were Expendable, In Harm’s Way, Back to Bataan, The Fighting Seabees and The Flying Leathernecks, to name a few.  One would think he fought World War II single-handed.

The Duke, ready for action

Ironically, the Duke may have found the business of World War II to be so good that he couldn’t spare the time to enlist himself.  I did a little research; as a fan of the film persona known as John Wayne, I really wanted to discover a legitimate reason why such a Hollywood war hero and virulent right-wing Vietnam hawk was unable to join up with his fellow actors from the Greatest Generation when it was his time to serve.

It turns out that there really wasn’t one.  In fact, on the surface, our beloved flying leatherneck would appear to a bit of a draft dodger.  With his star on the rise, he would repeatedly allow Republic Studios (under which he was contracted) to apply for deferments on his behalf, taking advantage of the opportunities opening up from the film industry’s vacancies as many “A list” actors went off to war.

But then, there are two sides of the story- there are Duke’s supporters who go to great lengths to emphasize his attempt to join the OSS, his being too old for the initial draft (age 34) or his injuries from doing his own movie stunts which would have probably rendered him 4F.  On the other side, there are the myriad other celebrities who had pulled strings, lied about their age and health statuses or, failing to get in, had put themselves in harm’s way by serving in the Merchant Marines (extremely dangerous, when U-boats were sinking thousands of tons of U.S. shipping every month) or other risky endeavors, such as espionage.   Peter Falk, missing an eye due to a childhood illness, had tried to memorize the eye exam chart in a failed enlistment attempt before becoming a merchant seaman.   Even the gentle, soft-spoken “Captain Kangaroo,” Bob Keeshan, had joined the Marine Corps at the tender age of 17, two weeks before the bombing of Hiroshima, as our forces were facing the possibility of a horrendous invasion of the Japanese mainland.

An underage "Captain Kangaroo" enlisted in the Marine Corps in the final days of WWII

I was shocked to learn that Wayne’s apparent reluctance to enlist or be drafted was the exception among movie stars at that time- in fact so many celebrities had served in WWII combat roles that it boggles the mind.  The real “reel” heroes?  Here’s a random sampling: Mel Brooks fought in the Battle of the Bulge.  Clark Gable flew missions with the 91^st Bomb Group, Tyrone Power flew missions as a PBY4 pilot and James Stewart saw combat as a B24 pilot in Europe. The complete list of unlikely war veterans is staggering. It even includes “The Professor” of Gilligan’s Island, Russell Johnson- who earned his Purple Heart in a B24  and “Mr. Chicken/Barney Fife” himself- Don Knotts, who served in the Army.

Dutch Resistance Courier

WWII Espionage Agent

Yes, "Barney Fife" actually served in WWII.

Audrey Hepburn, although just a child, served as a courier delivering messages for the Dutch Resistance.  Julia Child was an OSS spy, serving in Washington, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) and China.

The strongest argument in favor of John Wayne’s willingness to serve is supported by official documents from the National Archives which include his actual application to the O.S.S.  In fact, he had been approved for duty with its Field Photographic Unit but he apparently never followed up on his application nor responded to the letter of acceptance.  I’m sorry, but this doesn’t sound like a man itching to see combat.  In fairness, it should be noted that Wayne did visit the Pacific theater of war in 1944, as a part of a USO tour.  Dan Gagliassiano of the blog Big Hollywood describes his enduring 130 degree heat to hang out with the troops and quotes him as saying “I got to go places the average entertainer wouldn’t get to go.”

As I continued my research, it soon became obvious that not all entertainers had difficulty in seeing combat.  Wayne’s Donovan’s Reef co-star, Lee Marvin, got to go to Saipan as a Marine, where he was shot in the ass during a beach landing.  (It’s interesting that Marvin seemingly had no problem with Wayne’s lack of service.)  And Marvin wasn’t the only celebrity casualty.  Director John Ford was wounded while filming aboard a Navy vessel at Midway, amtrak operator Eddie Albert was wounded at Tarawa, Airborne private Rod Serling was wounded on Manila, Charles Durning was shot on the beach at Normandy and James Arness was wounded at Anzio.  Jack Palance was seriously wounded and required extensive facial reconstructive surgery after a mission in which his B17 had crashed. There’s more, but you get the idea.  These media types weren’t doing photo ops.

If, as it appears, John Wayne did indeed make some attempt to serve in an active military role during the war, then what’s with all the sniping at his lack of an actual war record?  For me, the answer is simple.  Had he just been an actor who was also a conscientious objector, or had actually been medically disqualified, there would be no criticism.  Unfortunately, after the war  John Wayne would become a high-profile politically active conservative, a supporter of Senator Joe McCarthy and Richard Nixon, a member of the John Birch Society and an enthusiastic advocate of our involvement in Vietnam, an immoral and unpopular conflict in which thousands of young Americans were forced to serve against their will.

But World War II was not Vietnam.  Although not everyone was in favor of the U.S. entering the war, history seems to vindicate our politicians and their ultimate decision to stand up to the Axis.  The general mood of the time was so different; most Americans were eager to do their part.  In fact, there were reports of suicides among those who were rejected by the armed forces.  So, in view of Wayne’s hawkish nature and his assertion that he was “only playing himself ” in all those action movies, his selective service deferment record and halfhearted attempts to join the O.S.S. seem almost embarrassing. In later years, he even expressed a certain amount of embarrassment himself, much to his credit.

At this point, you may ask: who am I to judge? For the record, I’m not a veteran- I was and am still opposed to our country’s involvement in any non-defensive war fought over ideology, economics or politics. I was called up in the 1969 Lottery and duly reported for my pre-induction physical but luckily, due to being under the care of an orthodontist, I had received a temporary postponement of my induction.  It would be several years before I realized that they weren’t going to call me to report- you might say that I, quite literally, escaped by the ‘skin of my teeth.’  No, I didn’t want to fight in Vietnam and, yes, I was against the war from the start.  Would I have reported, had the induction gone forward or would I have fled to Canada?  To this day I can’t answer that question.  But I value and respect the sacrifices made by those who did serve and grieve for the over 50,000 who had lost their lives, some of whom were my friends. I pass no judgment on those who fled and feel neither pride nor guilt over my not serving in Vietnam.

Gung Ho!

Though it’s fair enough to say that I have no right to criticize anyone for not entering military service in wartime, in the case of John Wayne, given his gung-ho screen image, conservative politics and pro-Vietnam War position, you have to wonder why he has been given a pass by even his more hawkish friends on his tepid efforts to enlist.

Having said all that, I still can’t help being a fan of The Duke.  It’s a guilty pleasure watching him in action.  I want to believe in his courage, his heroism, his simple virtue and vibrant, iconic image of oak-tall, iron-sinew American manhood.  Was he, as he has been quoted, simply playing himself, or someone he had hoped to be? Perhaps it’s time to reconcile the actual person, Marion Michael Morrison, with the screen persona we all know and love as John Wayne.

In my favorite John Wayne film, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence, a newspaperman justifies withholding pertinent facts surrounding a past gunfight between James Stewart’s character and the villain Liberty Valance, so effectively portrayed by Lee Marvin: ”When the legend becomes fact, print the legend,” he says. So I suppose that I will continue to enjoy the film legend and root for his character, whenever he is storming the beach at Iwo Jima or shooting it out on Rio Bravo.  But sadly, the fact of the man behind the image may be no more substantive than the decaying celluloid reels upon which he has been immortalized. One can only speculate that, if he had been pressed into combat, John Wayne may have indeed turned out to be the hero he so often portrayed; more importantly, actual combat might have tempered his unbridled enthusiasm for sending others off to war in later years.  We’ll never know.

Richard Winters, Citizen-Soldier and authentic WWII hero, portrayed in Band of Brothers

Duke was right: War isn’t very civilized business.  Perhaps if he had experienced its horrors firsthand, he wouldn’t have later on made it appear to be such an attractive business- and that’s my point.  We should continue to honor the sacrifices all our veterans have made but not glamorize or white-wash the horrific conditions under which they served.  War should never become entertainment.

We must remember the real heroes, thank them for their service and work harder towards the ultimate goal of finding a more civilized way to solve our nations’ differences.

Me, after bionic enhancement

After several weeks of absence I now sit at the writee machinee, once again attempting to manipulate the English language into semi-coherent thought. It’s not all that easy, as I am recovering from surgery- the total replacement of my left hip. I hadn’t told very many people about this, as I have never been comfortable with burdening others with the tedium of having to come up with appropriate expressions of sympathy or support.

The last time I was hospitalized was about 5 years ago, after my appendix had exploded. I was flat on my back for 5 days in Louisville’s Norton Hospital, hooked up to various tubes and I.V. bags. I vaguely remember ordering my first-born daughter to go home, arguing with my fiancé and otherwise being generally churlish with the nursing staff. How or why they all put up with me remains a mystery. In fact, I have always been a wretched hospital patient, snarling and snapping at staff workers, impatient with family visitors, indifferent to flowers and cards and desiring nothing more than to be left alone with the TV remote and morphine drip button. After a day or two, nurses tend to hate my ass-face. So, this time around, I was determined to be less disagreeable. After all, due to a part-time day gig which provided health benefits, I could finally afford this operation and after nearly a year of limping around like Frankenstein’s Igor (“Walk this way…”), I would soon regain my ability to pace the floor and worry- one of my favorite pastimes.  I should be thrilled.

A pratt fall on the back porch during the holidays had exacerbated my pain and made it almost impossible to walk, so I needed this thing in a hurry. But hip replacement surgery, while becoming increasingly more commonplace, is not a simple in-and-out procedure. It took a referral from my G.P. to an orthopedic surgeon, multiple tests and x-rays and coordination of hospital and doctors’ schedules. My surgeon, the kindly and ever-so-competent Dr. William Sutherland, was able to find a spot in the middle of January at a small boutique hospital in the quaint seaside village of York, which advertised “the best lobster rolls in the state of Maine.” Yum, yum, I couldn’t wait.

So, on the 19th of January my fiancé Julie drove me to York Hospital for the surgery. As we pulled up to the main entrance, I couldn’t help notice that the tiny facility was bursting at the seams, with new construction turning everything topsy-turvy on the outside. People were marching in and out with dogs on leashes- York had a “dog visitation” policy, supposedly great for patients’ mental health but one that I, as a surgical patient, found fairly disturbing. To no avail, I tried to banish the vivid images in my mind involving packs of flea-infested, butt-licking dogs roaming the halls, ripping at my sutures, peeing in my ginger ale and chewing on I.V. tubes at their leisure. I suppose my surface veneer of calm was starting to crack. “Think lobster rolls, yum, yum,” became my mantra for inner peace.

After the preliminaries, I was ushered into a tiny, cluttered waiting room resembling a linen closet. “The anesthesiologist will be in shortly to discuss your options,” the nurse advised, after ordering me to change into a standard backless, typically humiliating hospital negligee. “In the meantime, you can fold towels, if you get bored.”

Twenty minutes and two stacks of towels later, the smiling anesthesiologist waltzes in. “Let’s discuss your options,” he begins. “Options?” said I. “How about the one presenting the least chance of mortality and a fair chance of preventing unspeakable agony under the knife?” “That sounds reasonable,” he says. I resist the temptation to ask which one comes with soup and egg roll. There are two options- one, full general anesthesia, involving being put into a death-like comatose state, with a plastic tube crammed down your throat. The other is a spinal block, augmented with a sedative, allowing for intermittent periods of wakefulness and the promise of a speedier, less nauseating recovery. I opt for number two, as the idea of being able to check out the progress and have a chat with the surgical team is irresistible. Plus, there’s no tube in the throat. After all, we don’t want any lingering impediment to my lobster roll delivery system.

Dr. Sutherland makes a brief appearance to go over a few last-minute details. I prepare to deliver my last bit of witticism: “Hey Doc, it’s the left hip, okay?” But he is way ahead of me- he actually marked the correct hip with a magic marker and I am commanded to initial it. A few minutes later they wheeled me into the O.R. I had envisioned a scene out of the Inquisition, with Dominicans preparing torture devices over hot coals, but the room actually reminded me of a small, brightly lit Las Vegas cocktail lounge. It’s Showtime! I would like to think my natural he-man fortitude was responsible for my jaunty, cavalier attitude in the face of impending surgical mayhem, but it’s quite possible that the sedative already pumping into my vein from the I.V. bag could take most of the credit. As they inserted the needle into my spine, I was already drifting off on fluffy clouds of fresh-steamed, chunky lobster meat dripping in butter and stuffed into a crisp, toasted hot dog bun…

BANG-BANG- BANG! “What the Hell is that?” I am startled from my crustacean fantasy by what appears to be construction noises in the vicinity of my ass. “That’s Dr. Sutherland, building you a new hip,” the smiling anesthesiologist explains. I can’t see the operation, as I am laying on my right side. To take my mind off the matter at hand, he asks me to recommend some jazz albums for his collection, as he is “interested in expanding his musical tastes.” I vaguely remember suggesting he begin with Ornette Coleman’s This is Our Music before I nodded out again. As I said, I’m not a very nice patient.

The operation was a success and was actually the easiest part of the hospital experience, as it turned out. Two hours after surgery, I was wheeled to my room, which I would be sharing with an elderly gentleman with a blood infection, who spent all night moaning, throwing up and calling repeatedly for the nurse. I was spared the visuals, as he kept his curtains closed the whole time, blocking the only window. Thus, I spent the next few day without ever seeing daylight, strapped flat on my back with a plastic wedge stuck between my legs, hooked up to a catheter, various I.V. bags and monitors. Even so, the day after surgery I was in great spirits: “Great job, Dr. Sutherland- I want you to sign this hip!” The benevolent surgeon shrugged it off, attributing my euphoria to the residue of the sedatives and pain killers still in my system.

Sure enough, by the second night, I was my former churlish self. My tubes were tangled, the bed adjustments were not functioning and the restraints pinning me flat on my back were making it difficult to breathe. I imagined all kinds of horrors- pneumonia, infection, the ultimate rejection of my brand new hip joint. My night nurse was curt, defensive and impatient and I began to suspect her level of competency as well. But upon reflection, I suppose that her bedside manner, however indifferent to my suffering she may have been, didn’t merit me calling her and her C.T. “a team of assassins.” From that point on, the anger and resentment would be increasingly palpable as Florence Nightenmare jabbed and prodded in her inimitable passive-aggressive style. “Was it something I said?” I asked, not without a touch of irony.

Fortunately, on the third day the more experienced, no-nonsense morning nurse took the matters in hand, requisitioning a new bed, straightening out the tangle of I.V. tubes and requesting a change in the night staff for the malcontent patient Barnes. My cheerful physical therapist did his job of getting me up and moving and I began to eat small amounts of food- Jell-O, beef broth, a piece of toast- in fact, anything but lobster rolls, which somehow had lost their appeal. A visit from my brother actually lifted my spirits. My roommate was discreetly moved to another room (at his request, I’m sure) and I was finally able to see sunlight.

On Friday, four days after the surgery, I was discharged, with home physical therapy scheduled. But there was one unfulfilled experience I had yet to savor. Yes, for my last meal, I ordered one of York Hospital’s celebrated lobster rolls, which arrived a few minutes later- cold, unappetizing shreds of nebulous, smelly, previously frozen invertebrate meat, on a stale bun soggy with mayonnaise. It didn’t matter- I was just happy to be going home.

The main point, of course, is that I am lucky to be able to have this surgery. Currently there are nearly 50 million Americans out there who are uninsured and couldn’t afford this procedure, nor even the basic, life-saving health care that people with group benefits take for granted. I hope that our government remedies this inequity soon.

My heartfelt gratitude goes out to the surgical team headed by Dr. Sutherland, the staff at York Hospital, the home health care people and my long-suffering fiancé, Julie, who bears the brunt of my recovery process.

I’m freakin’ old.  How old, you may ask?  Well, not to put too fine a point on it…really, incredibly, disgustingly old.  I was at the Red Sea when they dyed it and the Dead Sea when they died it.  I was there when Buddha sought his boody, Howdy got his Doody and Ann Coulter caught her first cootie.  Yes friends, in November I will hit the magic age of sixty.  That’s older than most self-respecting dirt.

I don’t like it one bit.  When I look in the mirror, there’s no  sixty year-old geezer staring back at me; I still see the awkward pimply-faced teenager who used to sneak a smoke behind the school building and ogle the go-go dancers on Shindig.  But apparently, that’s not what others see.  A few nights ago, as I was leaving the studio in Manchester after a trio rehearsal, I remarked to my thirty-something bass player, “I’m turning sixty in November- can you believe it?”  To which he replied, while giving me an assessing sideways glance, “Yes, I can.”

There are those among us who look forward to celebrating such a repugnant milestone; some even feel compelled to mark the occasion by jumping out of a perfectly good airplane or by getting a naughty tattoo of a voluptuous hula dancer- but I’m not one of them.  With my luck, the naughty little tattoo would probably just get hot flashes and start nagging my bicep.  As for jumping from a plane, I did that once, spraining my ankle in the process.  (The fact that the plane was already parked on the ground is neither here nor there.)  So I must content myself with the realization that life as I know it is rapidly coming to a close and there is more of it to look back upon with nostalgia than to anticipate with any degree of hope or excitement.

The thing is, I felt exactly the same when I hit the magic age of fifty… and forty… and thirty.  In fact, probably the only reason I didn’t feel that way at the age of twenty was that, at the time, there was nothing in my turbulent childhood and adolescence I thought I could look back upon with any fondness.   Naturally, with hindsight, I discover that I had it all wrong.  There were many occasions in my youth I now recall with mawkish sentimentality and realize that my life at thirty or forty… or even fifty still held much promise.  Of course, that’s all so much bupkis now that I’m hitting the big six-oh.

So, no birthday wishes, please- I intend to ignore this dark day completely.  If you feel that you really must mark the occasion, in lieu of cards or gifts you may make a charitable contribution to my favorite worthy cause.  Please send checks or money orders to: The Bill Barnes Retirement Sailboat Trust Fund*, C/O this website.  Fair winds and following seas, dear friends!

* After extensive investigation, WordPress has determined that no such charitable organization exists.   DO NOT send any donations.  Mr. Barnes would probably just spend the money on booze and hookers.

I didn’t know the term ‘Bohemian’ then, just as many don’t really know it now, but I knew what I liked and, more importantly, what I didn’t like.  What I liked: jazz, folk music, painting, theater and beatniks, who I thought were the coolest.  What I didn’t like: team sports, at which I sucked, ignorance, violence, intolerance and any form of authority.  The Beats, led by poets and writers such as Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsburg and populated by folkies, painters, jazz musicians and Ban-the-Bomb radicals, seemed to be kindred spirits and soon became my role models.  By the age of twelve I was working backstage as a grip at the Raleigh Little Theater, playing Tom Paxton, Woody Guthrie and Dylan tunes on the guitar at post-rehearsal cast parties and rubbing shoulders with local college lefties.  This was a magical time for me, the hootenanny heyday of Camelot and coffee houses, with Baez and Brubeck blaring from the HiFi.  To this budding hipster, Beat culture was compelling and romantic: sweatshirts and shades, chinos and desert boots, bongos and gut-string guitars, bitter, nasty espresso served by angry black-clad waitresses in rustic, dark, smoke-filled coffee houses… a lone spotlight on a platform stage, where itinerant poets, folk singers or jazz cats would spill their guts.  What’s not to like?

While I probably never met a true Beatnik until years later (I suppose David Amram fits the description), the varsity variety of left-wing radicals, folk singers and poets hanging around State College (which later became NCSU), Duke and UNC behaved as if they were offering a bold, revolutionary new vision.  They weren’t of course; they were simply part of a movement that had repackaged Bohemianism for the post-war atomic age; by the late nineteen fifties the beat culture had caught fire on college campuses around the world and was instrumental in the American civil rights and anti-war movements of the sixties.  However, the beginnings of the Bohemian movement can actually be traced back to the early 1800s, as artists, musicians, poets, philosophers and political radicals began to congregate in major European cities, the byproduct and catalyst of a rapidly changing social order in the western world. While artists, musicians, writers and philosophers have been with us since the dawn of civilization and have been a part of every culture, the Bohemian movement didn’t emerge until the final stages of colonialism in the nineteenth century and the ensuing rebellion against the arrogance of Eurocentric diffusionism and its class structure.  Ever since, the rejection of traditional social values and aesthetics has been endemic to subsequent incarnations of Bohemianism.

The brand name “Bohemian” originated in France, referring to the community of Romany people (Gypsies) erroneously presumed to have arrived from Bohemia.  In time it came to represent any free-traveling, free-spirited or artistic soul living in poverty, or those embracing nonconformity, radical left-wing politics or avant-garde culture.    By the mid-1800s Bohemian sensibilities had hit the United States, as writers like Bret Harte and Gelett Burgess chronicled the free wheeling lifestyles of their European counterparts.  The “Belle Epoch” era saw the emergence of the impressionists- painters such as Manet, Renoir and Monet shocked the art world and Debussy shook music’s foundation with “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.”

Throughout the twentieth century, Bohemians have been living among us in various incarnations.  From the “Génération du Feu” (Generation of Fire) in pre-WWI France, the “Lost Generation” of the post WWI era and the “Beat Generation” of the post-WWII era to the sixties radical counterculture or “Woodstock Nation” of the Vietnam War era, Bohemians have resurfaced time after time, to shock and stir up the status quo in counterpoint to periods of establishment excesses and mass conformity.  Bohemia has become more of a state of mind, rather than a geographic location or even a specific cultural movement.

Ironically, the Bohemian brand had become a bit tarnished after being embraced by a group of people with a completely different agenda.  The Bohemian Club, founded in 1872 by San Francisco artists, poets and writers, was soon taken over by wealthy businessmen and capitalists, who turned it into an all-male secret society of sorts, an enclave of the rich and powerful, an Old Boys network which included honorary members Richard Nixon and William Randolph Hearst, along with leading industrialists and military contractors- an ironic perversion of the core values of bohemianism.  Their rationale: though thoroughly establishment to the core, these movers and shakers considered themselves bon vivants, supporters of the arts and “free thinkers,” so they could call themselves Bohemians.  To flex their bon vie muscles, once a year they cavort at an exclusive retreat called “Bohemian Grove,” a secluded wilderness camp where the rich and powerful get to caper about like goofy adolescents for a few days. However, the poet George Sterling (also a BC member) had disputed their Bohemian ties, asserting there were two criteria for a true Bohemian: a passion for one or more of the seven arts and a lifestyle of poverty- the “starving artist” concept, which has become de rigueur in establishing proper Bohemian credentials.

For much of my life, I have met the criteria- at least for those periods in which I struggled to live off my musical career, when I wasn’t raising a family and working day gigs.  As romantic as this may seem, it takes a certain amount of determination to stay true to your inner voice.  In general, most of us trying to eke out an existence in the arts are not consciously living “the bohemian lifestyle;” it’s forced on us by economic necessity.  The often quoted line from Omar Kayyam’s Rubiyat celebrating “a jug of wine, a loaf of bread and Thou, beside me, singing in the wilderness” sounds romantic, especially in the candlelight.  But, believe me, when the jug of wine is empty and the loaf of bread is down to the crumbs, “Thou” will not long linger in the wilderness, romantic candlelight notwithstanding.  There are times in my life when I’ve paid a bitter, lonely price for artistic integrity.

Most ‘normal’ folks really don’t understand the mind of a true Bohemian.  The apparent lack of conventional values, rejection of materialism, distain of conservative government and irreverence toward organized religion cause a great deal of discomfort for those comfortably entrenched within the establishment.  There’s a deep-rooted (and often well-justified) suspicion of anyone who disregards accepted rules of conduct in favor of more intangible, evolving philosophical principles.  When the Old Testament’s Ten Commandments meet Joseph Fletcher’s Situation Ethics, guess which value system gets the most votes?  There’s also the inescapable stigma of poverty in a society that equates material wealth and ownership of property with personal worth.  To a true Bohemian, property is a burden; money is merely a tool, a means to an end.  To society as a whole, money and property are measures of human life value.  In the material world, the starving artist is frequently regarded merely as an indigent loser, a social parasite to be either shunned or endured.

Throughout my life I have been torn between the staid world of materialism, consumerism and fiscal responsibility and the Spartan frugality of Bohemian artistic and intellectual freedom.  Like a bumper car, I have been alternately attracted and repelled by both worlds: the crass consumerism, insensitivity, competitiveness and corruption of mainstream society versus the messy, chaotic anarchy of counterculture aesthetics.  Every choice is a trade-off and there is a certain implied obligation of conformity and an unfortunate element of hypocrisy on either side.  Both sides have their share of imposters and posers: the corporate exec shedding his Dockers to slum with his musician buddies on weekends or the ‘trust fund hipster’ who indulges in shameless, expensive hedonism while flaunting the trappings of artistic integrity.  The dilemma of the Bohemian without independent means is that you frequently have to work to meet family responsibilities or fund an artistic project; as a result, never really fit in either society and are frequently misunderstood by both- ergo, Lapsed Bohemian.

I will never completely abandon either world- whether hunched over a computer in my office cubical or navigating the modes on my D’Angelico archtop at a local café, I’m still the same person.  And that person will always cherish the vision of a more open, egalitarian world, one in which the artist, musician, poet or philosopher is considered at least as important as the hedge fund manager, industrialist or football hero.

Cabernet Sauvignon is a popular,  versatile red varietal, perfect with beef, pasta, bread and cheese or global crisis intervention.  I prefer it with a thick juicy steak, a ripe brie or a robust bowl of fettuccine with pesto, while listening to “In a Silent Way” on the iPod.  It’s also a nice accompaniment to tackling the number one environmental issue of our time.  “Aha,” you exclaim.  “Lapsed Bohemian, you so crazy…. anyone knows that you can’t solve a global crisis while sitting on your backside tossing back buckets of Two Buck Chuck!”  Well, you’re wrong there, Grasshopper.   Can you say, “Population Control?”

Of course, this phrase instantly conjures images of a Huxleyan nightmare or Orwellian, Stalinist government intervention, along with a few other ugly concepts touted by the pitchfork-waving crowd.  But reining in the explosion of human flesh currently mucking up the planet is, or should be, Job One; and averting a global disaster may just be a simple matter of universal sex education, family planning and birth control.  As individuals, we can do our part right now, by limiting the number of children we bring into the world.

There are two humane, effective and morally acceptable ways we can do this.  One is abstinence, a favorite of fundamental Christian zealots.  The other is the deployment of one or more effective birth control mechanisms during the phenomenon known as non-abstinence or, as it is commonly called, sex. Abstinence generally requires less effort and expense (simply do nothing, don’t even think about it) and therefore is the easiest way to do your part to decrease the surplus human population, while sex tends to be very complicated, time consuming and requires a great deal of energy; in other words, it’s hard work.  Although abstinence is clearly the simpler, easier path to population control, I personally have never chosen the easy way.  Perseverance in the face of adversity, that’s my motto- “once more into the breech, dear friends!”  At any rate, both methods are greatly enhanced by the consumption of a decent Cabernet in large quantities.  So, in between frequent cold showers, we could just sit back and relax, sip our vino and contemplate visions of wide open, sparsely-populated green fields full of cute little spotted owls … or, conversely, we could roll up our sleeves, step up to the plate, so to speak, while consuming boxcars of Conceptrol and cases of Mondavi.  Well, I have always relished a challenge. “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to work…”

But seriously, folks…there are so many social, political and environmental issues facing our species, like third-world exploitation and oppression, war, genocide, accelerated extinctions of other species, world hunger, and, of course, global warming; but all these problems are interconnected with and pale in comparison to the imminent threat of overpopulation; the fact is, there are just too damn many of us on this planet and we are rapidly choking the life out of it.  It’s the mother of all issues, one that calls for a rethinking of an essential part of human nature.

As the most advanced primate species, our fundamental nature hasn’t really changed since the days when we first walked on two legs- we have been genetically programmed to survive, dominate, self-actuate and perpetuate.  For the first thirty thousand years or so, it was nip and tuck in the war between man and nature.  Then we began to get the hang of it, moving from the survival column to the domination column with the help of Bronze Age technology.  Along the way, we wiped out Mr. Neanderthal, who was physically stronger and actually had a larger brain, and Cro-Magnon Man, who was a fine cave artist and probably played a mean saxophone on weekends.  Oh, not to mention Bucky the Cat and his hairy elephant buddy, Tuskzilla- they were out.  This worked well for us; fairly soon we began to get cocky, deciding that our huts were not fancy enough, food in the wild wasn’t abundant enough and jolly old Sun wasn’t God enough.  We tamed beasts, grew crops, invented the bongo drum, erected monuments and palaces for ourselves and fashioned deities in our own image; or rather, we fancied ourselves to be created “in God’s image.”  We went forth, became fruitful and multiplied… and multiplied…and multiplied.  You see, we had to- we were too busy smiting each other, at the behest of whatever gods du jour we erected to serve our narcissistic pleasure.

By 10,000 BC the world human population was estimated to have been between one and ten million happy souls, running around like crazy screaming, “My God is red-hot; your God ain’t doodly-squat!”   They didn’t know any better- they thought the world was flat, or riding on the back of a turtle…how were they to know that they could simply move to another neighborhood and stop smiting each other?  But then, we became enlightened, educated, civilized and, presumably, wise.  We explored the world and found plenty of elbow room.  Our brightest minds gave us more expanded, rational views of our universe.  We also figured out where babies came from.  You would think that we would stop all this smiting, learn to reign in our primitive nature and get a handle on the indiscriminate procreating. But, as we all know, that’s not what happened.  Just look at us now- still waging wars, still going nuts over religious ideology, still living the same narcissistic, all-consuming existence, stinking up the joint with our garbage and fossil fuels.  And still reproducing like lab rats.  In God’s image, indeed.

According to U.S. Census Bureau estimates of world population growth, between 10,000 BC and 1800 AD the total number of humans had grown to one billion.  One hundred years later, at the turn of the twentieth century, the world population had grown to one and a half billion people; you’d think that, by now, we would have realized we are not an endangered species.  But NO, human life is sacred, isn’t it?  It must be- because, by the middle of the twentieth century, a billion more mewling, diaper-clad curtain climbers were dropped into the world.  Think about it: It took all the time from the dawn of civilization until the nineteenth century for the world’s human population to reach one billion.  By 1900, it had increased to 1.5 billion.  A mere 50 years later, the population figure exploded to 2.5 billion.  Even taking into account the mass amount of technologically-enhanced smiting going on, that’s a mess o’ being fruitful.

Yes indeedy, two and a half billion is quite a number, but more shocking still is the time frame in which we have reached this level of redundancy.  Consider that, in 1800, the world population finally hit the billion mark, by1900 we had reached one and a half; but by 1950, we added an extra billion.  Now, hold onto your hats, folks: 59 years later, the population has blossomed to nearly six billion, seven hundred ninety-five million. If this keeps up, we just might have to evict a few more spotted owls.

And it seems that this geometric trend will continue.  According to Forbes.com, “Global population numbers are on track to reach 7 billion in 2011, just 12 years after reaching 6 billion in 1999. Virtually all of the growth is in developing countries. And the growth of the world’s youth population (ages 15 to 24) is shifting into the poorest of those countries.” This demographic shift has monstrous implications.  While developed nations are stabilizing their populations, in the third world there is an increasing mass of people living on the fringe of human existence, and these hapless souls are most vulnerable to the horrors of mass starvation, war, pestilence and genocide.  But what do we care?  To the leaders of the G-20, these are simply emerging markets that will suck up Fords, BMWs, Toyotas and Kias like greedy little ant eaters.

Now, here’s the kicker- according to US Census Bureau projections, by 2050 the world population will have increased to over nine and a half billion- a 50% increase in just forty years.  At this rate, we will be 18 billion by 2080; by the year 2100… well, these geometric leaps will probably have taken their toll, and not just on developing nations- factor in loss of habitat and arable farm land, overfishing, global climate change, depletion of energy, war, global famine, pandemics and a number of unforeseen events, life, as we know it, will probably cease to exist.  Forget technological advances, forget civilization, forget religion… forget all the wonderful things mankind has achieved.  It will all turn to crapola within the next hundred years or so, unless we change the nature of the beast.  By ‘the beast,’ I mean us.

So, what does this have to do with imbibing Cabernet while listening to Miles Davis?  Absolutely nothing.  That was my shameless ploy, to get your attention, although it does serve to frame the issue in more personal terms.  While we are sitting around sipping our wine, enjoying the bon vie of modern civilization, there are billions living a tenuous, substandard existence in the so-called emerging markets.  Tens of thousands are dying from malnutrition and disease.  The harbingers of massive world famine are already staring us in the face, as are the other key environmental issues, all related to that one big issue- overpopulation.   Paradoxically, while we allow thousands of unfortunates to die of starvation, the world population is exploding.  What can we do?

We can stop pretending that the problem isn’t ours to solve.  Even though the developed nations have reached what is sometimes euphemistically referred to as “neutral replacement fertility,” there seems to be no unified consensus on what roll we should play to combat the looming crisis.  Because fringe groups (anti-immigrant groups, racists, anti-Muslim hate groups, etc.) often exploit the raw data to rationalize and promote their own twisted agendas, the subject has become almost a third rail of political correctness.  But hate mongers and political fringe groups be damned- sealing our superficial borders against third world immigrants, ignoring mass starvation and genocide, treating refugees as if they were problems, not victims in need of our compassion- that’s a fast track to our own self-destruction.  We can continue to ignore the issue, until it is in our own backyard.  You think we had problems during the recent recession?  Pack your bags and book a vacation in the Horn of Africa.  Or stop averting your eyes when you see images from a world hunger organization fund-raising ad.  This shame is on all our heads and is a prelude to what our great-grandchildren face, unless we start changing our behavior.

Obviously genocide, mass starvation, pestilence, government-forced abortion and war are unacceptable ways to control the population and not at all necessary, at least at this stage of the game.  Don’t even think for a second that I advocate targeting any particular demographic or ethnic group for such Draconian measures; there is an effective solution which is much more palatable and doesn’t harm anyone.  What we need is a global paradigm shift in thinking to embrace the concept of gradual, uniform, voluntary negative population growth, with increased emphasis on sex education for all, equal rights for women in developing countries and adequate access to family planning and birth control for everyone.  Educated, socially liberated women in control of their own reproductive systems are not so quick to conceive a gaggle of unwanted children and educated, enlightened people tend to favor rational parenting, especially if responsible reproductive practices are culturally reinforced and encouraged, politically and economically.  (Note that I said reinforced and encouraged, not enforced.)  When all nations achieve neutral fertility, we will have gained enough time to create, if not utopian perfection, at least an egalitarian global community which would offer the opportunity for an acceptable quality of life for all inhabitants.  This is a very simple concept, though one that will be difficult in its implementation as political, industrial and religious leaders all over the world will fight tooth and nail to maintain the status quo- but this is a fight we must join and win.  The alternative is too horrific to imagine: a doomsday trifecta of climate change, mass starvation and eventual extinction.  Wrap your head around this image, from year One Million, PH (Post Humanity): a nattily-attired cockroach, selling insurance door-to-door, a shining example of the planet’s dominant species.  (“…and for a few crumbs more, Mrs. Scurry, this policy will include a guaranteed thorax protection clause!”)

At the very least, we can start talking about it.  In the meantime, we still have to solve the myriad environmental and social issues, along with the economic disparity among the different population groups.  Currently, while most citizens of developed countries live in what can only be called decadence, over one billion people in the world don’t have enough to eat.  That’s a disgrace, since we now have the means and resources to eradicate the problem.  Eventually, if we allow the world population to reach critical mass, we won’t have that luxury- because we will all be starving.  Is this the legacy we want to leave for our great-grandchildren?

By taking preemptive action now to reduce the human population numbers, we may still look forward to a future in which our descendents can sit on their front porches, sip Cabernet Sauvignon from a long-stemmed glass and yell, “Hey you spotted owls- get the Hell off my lawn!”

One of my favorite things to do whenever I visit Paris is to sit at a sidewalk café and watch people.  In Parisian cafés it’s not unusual for people to sit for as long as they like, nursing a single cup of unfailingly superb café’au lait, with no pressure to buy anything else or to move on (at least that was the case the last time I was there).  You see all kinds of people, from the sublime to the ridiculous- for some reason, Parisians have always seemed  to be more cosmopolitan than the denizens of most other cities around the world, running the gamut from the cutting edge of fashion elite to the ordinary, work-a-day middle class stiff.  In short, the sidewalk dwellers of Paris encompass the entire strata of humanity;  mundane, exotic or occasionally, strikingly bizarre.

An example of the latter captured my imagination one blustery, chilly afternoon in late March, 1985, a day over which winter and spring were waging an ongoing battle.  It looked like spring would prevail, as there was a bustling throng on the Champs-Elysees.  I was sitting inside a café on the boulevard, deep in thought and enjoying the jovial parade, when an ominous shadow intruded on my daydreaming.  A tall, thin man totally garbed in black entered the glass-enclosed apron of the café, slowly made his way to a table a few feet from where I was stationed and sat down, directly in my line of vision.   He reached into one of his coat pockets, deposited a pile of francs and cintemes on the table and began to methodically count and stack them.  A waiter came over and took his order for a single cup of coffee.  The cut of the man’s coat and his porkpie hat gave him the air of a defrocked priest and it was all but impossible to tell his age, although he couldn’t be much over thirty.   But the most startling feature was his face- gaunt, sallow and devoid of hair, it had a waxy, porcelain patina- he may have been a burn victim.  His eyes were too large for the rest of his face, nestled deep in sockets and were shockingly morose; his mouth was a grim slash.   One look at him and a wave of depression flooded through me, down to the very essence- but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.  He had an otherworldly, nearly skeletal countenance, almost as if he had been conjured from the depths of the darkest hole inside my imagination.  The eyes spoke volumes; I had never seen such a compelling display of abject misery.

The waiter brought his coffee and took his coin.  For what seemed an age, he sat there, seemingly oblivious to those around him and to my observation, which, I confess, bordered on rudeness.  I wanted to know his story, what had happened to him and what tragic burden he bore, but my limited facility with the French language and the sense that I had already exceeded the boundaries of proper behavior inhibited me.

From time to time he would recount and restack his coins, but otherwise he remained still, staring into space with what appeared to be a look of utter despair.  There was an increasingly palpable sadness in the air.  I wondered if others in the café felt it as well.  If they did, they kept it to themselves.  As for myself, I felt as if I couldn’t bear much more.

Mercifully, after what seemed to be an age, the gentleman polished off the last of his cup, absently gathered up the remainder of his francs and centimes and left the café.  I watched, transfixed, as he slowly made his way down the avenue toward the Arc d’Triumph and disappeared from sight, dissolving into the mass of shoppers, lovers and sightseers.

The world is full of tragic events that touch our lives and we all have our share of scars; a few are external, most are internal.   Occasionally you run across an individual who bears both.  The shadow of that dark specter lingering over a cup of coffee in a Parisian café has remained etched into my consciousness ever since and I often ponder that, if I had offered a kind word and another cup of coffee or perhaps a baguette, that simple act of kindness would have yielded a fascinating dialogue; or if it would have just been a humiliation for him and an embarrassment for me.  Well, too late now.  But the vision of that pitiable figure in black has haunted me to this day.