THE INTRINSIC VALUE OF “FREE”

For quite a while now I’ve been having a real bone to pick over a growing trend among some local businesses that feature live music—and with some of the people who enjoy the music at these venues as well.  As a professional musician, I find it baffling that so many people think nothing of asking us to play for tips or for a fraction of what our time and experience is worth.  The proliferation of open mic nights  is a trend that, while cost-effective and profitable for businesses, is killing the quality of music and putting a generation of new musical talent at risk.  Seasoned professionals are feeling the effects of the shrinking dollars and the increasing difficulty in making a living. You can’t really blame the business owners- after all why shell out bucks for something you can get for nothing?  And open mic participants usually bring a drinking, eating entourage with them.  Unfortunately every venue adopting this business model takes away income from working professional musicians.

I wouldn’t object to working exclusively for tips if people were as conscientious about leaving a small gratuity for the music as they do for their food and beverage servers.  But too many folks are willing to sit and listen without feeling any obligation to show their more tangible appreciation.  I love enthusiastic applause, but it doesn’t put food on the table.  Would it kill a venue’s business to add a small music fee to the customer’s check, for people sitting in the performance area?  Sounds to me like a sensible compromise.  Yet few venues will bother.

Having said that, I hasten to add that I’m usually well compensated for my services.  Except for sporadic  appearances at a local coffee house to run two or three new arrangements with my trio or performing for an occasional fund raiser, I insist that my musicians and I get paid.  But this tendency to devalue live music is hurting musicians, especially those doing it full time and trying to make a living at it.  And, in my opinion, it is bringing down the quality of live music offered to the general public.  My trio’s public appearances have been cut back in favor of private parties and special events, where our fees are negotiated on a much higher and, I believe, more equitable level.  I know that many other professional musicians are doing the same.  In the long run, it’s the public’s loss.

A local Maine business recently posted this offering on a local FaceBook message board…  I won’t mention any names to protect the business’s identity, (it’s not my intention to embarrass anyone or hurt a local business; I firmly believe in attacking the problem, not the people) but here’s the peccant part:

“We would LOVE to have some music out there!! Any an [sic] all musicians are welcomed to play!

THIS SPACE IS FREE. “

In other words, you could come play for free and the venue would not charge you rent for the space!  The author of the post further wrote:  “in this day and age everything comes with a price tag…..but these things shouldn’t ….

So WE CHOOSE FREE

if we provide a space to get started maybe something amazing can happen out there for somebody! Especially with music….it’s so hard to get started in that line of work!” 

To quote Lewis Carroll, curiouser and curiouser.  At first I laughed… but then, as I thought about it, I felt that this sort of thing shouldn’t be ignored.  So I posted a comment to this magnanimous offer suggesting that it was akin to asking a cardiovascular surgeon to perform a triple bypass for free, while stating that you would not charge him for the use of your heart.

And, Lawd ‘a mercy, did I get a chewing out by other people on FaceBook.

Most of the responses were accusing me of comparing music to a “serious profession,” taking myself “way too seriously,” and saying my comment was “rude.”  The negative and sometimes downright personally insulting timbre  took me aback at first.  Then I realized just how deep the lack of respect for musicians has sunk.  And why not?  Music is available for free on the Internet, music streaming services are dirt cheap if they charge at all.  Musicians are perfectly willing to show up at open mic nights and play for nothing or work for tips.  But it is human nature to undervalue things you don’t have to pay for; and jazz musicians in particular are often treated with little or no respect, despite the years of dedicated practice and studying it takes to master the art.

In spite of the obvious inequity of the situation, few musicians dare to speak out to challenge the notion that musicians should work for free or for a pittance in the form of tips. Decades ago the American Federation of Musicians had degenerated into a toothless extortion racket preying on traveling musicians and pit bands, so there’s no local union to collectively bargain for reasonable levels of compensation.  And, God forbid, if you do speak out here’s what you can expect…these are just a few of the responses I received from my comment:

“Think of it as advertising…A free opportunity to showcase yourself..I think you are missing the point.”

 “…having grown up in a family of professional musicians, and music teachers…. and playing many instruments for decades myself, I find your responses so contrary to the spirit of music.”

 “Having been a local musician for more than a decade, both payed and having to pay2play, I can assure you that 95% of local artists would love a free place to express themselves. The other 5% just aren’t ready to play out. Once you feel you’ve outgrown the label “local” then maybe you think about going back and doing something good for the community that pushed you to the elevated status of Professional. Huge Name Artists play for free more often than you may think.”

 “Some people are just plain cheap. I belong to a local farmers market and we have people come play for free to get exposure and free goodies from the vendors at the end.”

 “I don’t play music myself, but Bill, it’s not wonder you struggle to make a living professionally. You just came off looking like a giant ass. Give me a break!!!”

“People who TRULY love playing music won’t take this kind gesture as an insult. They play for the love of the music not for the money. Maybe if you were any good you might be getting paid for it….”

I loved that last comment.

So, I have been accused of being “rude,” “cheap” and “a giant ass” for taking my stance—by some people who claim to be musicians as well as irate locals, many of whom I’m willing to bet, would never consider stiffing a waitress or bartender but might possibly neglect the musicians’ tip jars.  Of course, I don’t believe any of those folks posting their negative comments had ever heard me play. And I’m not a giant ass.  I’m more of a medium-sized ass.

As for giving back to the local community “that pushed you to the elevated status of Professional,” I’m afraid that would include much of the lower 48 states.  And I have played for many charity fund-raising events for worthy causes.  That’s different. What I am saying is that not paying musicians for providing the fruits of their education, experience and talent is like ordering food at a restaurant and expecting not to have to pay, because the chefs love what they do.  And I’m not complaining for myself- I’ve done just fine.  But how are young musicians supposed to survive?  What kind of future does the music business offer nowadays?

But okay, I get it.  In fact I have been inspired—I now realize that I have been missing a golden opportunity to save thousands of dollars over the years.  Therefore, I’m considering posting this ad on the local message boards:

                           CARPENTERS: DO YOU ENJOY BUILDING DECKS?

          I have a great space to build a deck onto the back of my house.  This is a fine opportunity for one lucky carpenter to practice his or her craft in a beautiful outdoor setting with plenty of fresh air (absolutely free!)   

           Best of all, I won’t even charge you for parking in my driveway or using my electricity!  Who knows what golden opportunities will arise as others see you working so hard.  I know how tough it is to get started in that business.  Please provide all materials and tools needed for the project. 

As I was criticized for daring to compare what I do to a “serious profession” such as medicine, maybe this ad would be a better analogy.  However, some might say that carpentry work produces tangible results, while music is just so much shaping of sound waves in the air.  Perhaps the following message would present a more reasonable parallel:

                        ITINERANT  MANUAL LABORERS: LOVE DIGGING?

 Well, I need a two-foot deep ditch dug around my property.  If you want to spend some quality time building your muscles and enjoying the beautiful Maine countryside (state parks are charging admission for this sort of view!) please come to my home and dig my ditch.  You may even use my picks and shovels for free!  It will be great exposure.

 I don’t think anyone could accuse me of placing my profession above the level of a ditch digger. But I could be wrong.  By the way, how many do you think would accept this offer? (I mean, of course, actual workers, not friends and relatives.)

You know when people will pay musicians what our music is worth?  When we refuse to give it away.

~Bill Barnes, April 18, 2016

P.S. To the gentleman who suggested, “Maybe if you were any good you might be getting paid for it….” allow me to provide a sample of my work:

Bill Barnes Trio Montage

I have responded to the better angels of my nature and in so doing, have spared that particular individual my original response to his insulting comment.

MY SOCIAL MEDIA MELTDOWN

 

Years ago I joined an Internet phenomenon called MySpace, creating a page to promote my music career and meeting literally thousands of like-minded folk across the globe in the process. Some were gifted and accomplished musicians, writers and artists, some were old friends rediscovered, some were bizarre but interesting new acquaintances best observed from a distance. I have met a number of these contacts in person on occasion and, for the most part, have not been disappointed. A few people I met through MySpace have become close friends.

As MySpace increasingly became  a ghetto of advertising and mindless pop music marketing, a new social network emerged: Face Book. After reluctantly signing up and creating a page, I quickly became enamored with the interaction, flexibility and spontaneity of the site. Most of my good MySpace friends soon emigrated to the new site as well. Eventually, most of us shut down our MySpace pages. I made new friends, formed new online social groups, rediscovered long-lost schoolmates and childhood friends and reconnected with old band mates and family members. Faced Book (as I like to call it) became a morning ritual, as we shared personal experiences, music, philosophy and politics through status updates, comments, photos, videos and those ubiquitous memes popping up on our news feed. I find all this instant online interaction royally entertaining, sometimes even cathartic. Plus, I get to post some of my photo-manipulated images, much to the horror of family and friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In addition, I have found Faced Book to be a valuable tool in my professional life- booking gigs, lining up musicians, promoting performances.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRI23oUONVg

So it was with some trepidation that I decided to take a break from social media this past week.

I did so for a number of reasons. One, I have been dealing with a few health issues (none actually life-threatening) which have had me going in and out of the hospital.

 

I’ve needed to focus on getting that squared away and getting back into shape.

 

 

I have also felt the need to concentrate more on my musical development and to divert more time and energy into my technique. Jazz is an art that demands constant study and the learning curve gets steeper the more you advance. Lately, I’ve been coming home from a night’s work feeling thoroughly disgusted with my own playing.

But then there’s that other thing… perhaps the main thing that  I’ve been feeling a need to get away from lately. Quite simply, it’s the discord and shrill rhetoric created over a widening gulf of philosophical, social and political values.

I’m not including religion here. For those who are still practicing some form of religion, that’s your conundrum and has little to no bearing on my version of reality, unless your “faith” is compelling you to blow things up or hang other folks at the end of a rope. Sorry, that’s the way I feel. Pray for me, if you want… but silently, please.

What rankles me the most is the constant sniping between the left and the right. To be clear, I’m firmly on the left of most geopolitical arguments. In fact, I don’t understand how, with today’s proliferation of information and the shrinking global community, anyone could embrace ideas and values bent on destroying the environment, oppressing women, gays and the struggling mass of those living in poverty while supporting policies promoting obscene wealth for a tiny fraction of the populace at the expense of almost everyone else. But I have always tried to keep an open mind to rational ideas from the right. For example, while I am an ardent supporter of gun control, I understand those who believe in responsible gun ownership for self-defense, hunting or sport shooting. I have been a gun owner myself. I don’t think it a crime to be wealthy, as long as your wealth was won on a level playing field and didn’t involve some form of slavery, rape, pillage or environmental plundering. If you didn’t hurt anyone in the process, more power to you. You want to be fiscally conservative? Bully for you- you may start by demanding that large corporations pay their fair share in taxes and not ship jobs overseas. You can demand that rampant pork barrel spending and no-bid military contracts be curtailed. And hey, I’m not just talking about Republicans here- there is plenty of blame to go around on both sides of the aisle. Frankly, I’m fairly exasperated with the Democrats too. But our issues go way beyond partisan politics.  I suppose you could call me an equal opportunity curmudgeon.

However, when I post anything on the environment, religion or politics, the trolls from the right invariably make their appearance- sometimes subtly, sometimes with blatantly insulting comments. Some issues, such as gun control and the Affordable Care Act, provoke unbelievably hostile, irrational responses. It’s funny how some folks can write comments on your Faced Book page they wouldn’t dare say to your face. I resist the temptation to delete or block these people but when dealing with virulent hatred or illogical fallacious reasoning, it’s usually better to pull the plug. I have old friends from my school days and one or two family members who are Republicans drinking the Koch Brothers Kool-Aid. They can’t help it- I suppose it’s hard-wired into their brain chemistry or the residual effects of some childhood trauma, so I try to be tolerant and understanding. Still, my patience has its limits.

One of my favorite Robert Crumb illustrations involves a character named Mr. Goodbar, who proclaims in all-caps, “Go Fuck Yourself… do it today!”

Sometimes, after long exchanges of comments on Faced Book with some of these folks, I just want to post this wonderful piece of art on their pages and press the “unfriend” button. But as I have said, I really try to avoid such knee-jerk reaction.

 

 

 

Having gotten that out of my system, I have to say that there are serious global issues as well as intense social problems facing us here on this terrarium called Earth. War, racism, religious fanaticism, genocide and slavery are still rampant; Fascism seems to be making a comeback; climate change is still considered a “theory” by those willing to believe in the lies perpetuated by the big oil-controlled conservative media. These issues transcend petty partisan politics. We humans should be in global crisis-solving mode but, judging from what we see in popular media, we seem to be more concerned with the size of Kim Kardashian’s ass.

I want to scream it from the rooftop, that we have too many humans on this planet sucking up resources, mostly consumed by a small percentage of the total population in the developed world, while literally billions are barely scraping by with minimal shelter, food, water and medical care. And, even though the privileged few are for the most part practicing neutral population growth, they (we) are using up a much greater proportion of resources than the “emerging economies” and devastating our environment with a lethal carbon footprint which may already set in motion an irreversible timetable for the next global extinction.

I don’t have any easy answer to solving any of these problems. To be perfectly honest, I’m not  that bright and am only marginally educated. But one thing is clear- that until we are all on the same page with the facts, until big business, the military industrial complex, well-funded lobbying organizations and religious fundamentalists release their stranglehold on our “elected” leaders, we don’t have much of a chance for any kind of future in which we would want our great-grandchildren to live.

None of these issues will ever be resolved on Faced Book. But social media is making an impact and has become a powerful catalyst for change, as the recent campaign to urge governments into taking action in finding the Nigerian school children has clearly illustrated. Plus, for all those who missed the excellent Cosmos episode where Neil DeGrasse Tyson more or less bitch-slapped climate change deniers, multiple posts on social media helped direct attention to this important broadcast.  http://www.motherjones.com/environment/2014/05/neil-tyson-cosmos-global-warming-earth-carbon

So, I will still be checking in on Faced Book  periodically, but perhaps not as often or as actively as I have been. I will continue to write blogs few will bother to read; I will occasionally join the conversations on social media in the vain attempt to reach the intractable minds on the right. However, I’m not going to get sucked into that vortex of “I say poTAYtoes, you say poTAHtoes” dueling universes arguments with closet dog-whistling racists, gun nuts, religious fanatics or laissez-faire Koch-sucking Tea Party Republicans.

I intend to spend my time more wisely: doing whatever I can to repeal Citizens United, playing my jazz, writing, composing, reading, watching old movies, sailing and traveling (whenever possible) and enjoying the clean air and quirky inhabitants of the State of Maine… in short, to live out what is left of my quasi-Bohemian Buddhist-Taoist life in peace.

As for those snarky individuals who take exception to my artsy-fartsy, socialistic, non-theistic philosophy, please be polite with your comments. Otherwise, in the words of Mr. Goodbar, I respectfully invite you to go fuck yourself. Do it today.

To all others, it’s nice to be back.

Update, May 27, 2014:  Yesterday I joined Twitter.  Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.

Hip, Yes Indeed- What It Is

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.

UPDATE- April, 2013:

I’m happy to report that, three years later, my left bionic hip is still functioning and has not given me a bit of trouble.

I’m unhappy to report that my hopes for a more equitable healthcare system, where proper medical care is available to all, not just the lucky ones with group benefits or millions of dollars in the bank, is no closer to being a reality than it was when the Clintons attempted to reform the system back in the ’90s.  As Dr. Sutherland had predicted, I now need my right hip replaced.  Whether I will be getting this much-needed surgery or not is dependent on the policies of Penbay Health, Knox County and my current limited financial status. I’ve become the Blanche Dubois of orthopedic medicine- “dependent on the kindness of strangers.”

Assuming that I am granted this surgery, I promise to chronicle the experience again in my blog- but this time, without the over-written cuteness of the above article.  At least I’ll try.

On Aging

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.

Saving the World, One Bottle of Cabernet at a Time

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!”