I can't imagine a better demonstration of civil liberty than police allowing demonstrators armed with loaded automatic weapons to rally on the capitol steps in an attempt to intimidate legislators. Any other country on earth would throw them in a gulag, level their homes, and salt the earth. Ironically, they are demonstrating over their lack of civil liberties.
Callie and I saw a few demonstrators out here last week, angry about the beaches being closed. It came during our new habit of driving to see our parents each Saturday (masks, social distancing, etc.), then continuing to the beach for a drive down PCH. The protestors were angry and organized, with signs that were a little too perfect. Once, many years ago in London, I watched a rally of some sort marching through Piccadilly Circus. Hundreds of people, if not a thousand, all carrying professionally printed signs. This took away the legitimacy of their protest in my mind, because someone had to pay for those expensive signs. It was like that with the beach protesters. No hand printed signs, but a whole lot of professional-grade placards, including one stating "I Deserve The Right To Work" held by a preppy little shit who looked like a trust fund baby who's never worked a day in his life.
I digress. The drive down the coast has become a Saturday routine, just like the Wednesday afternoon coaches meeting (masks, social distancing, etc.) in my backyard has become a weekly tent pole bringing forth community and a sense of normalcy. It gives us all something to look forward to. Yesterday's drive stretched six hours, taking Callie and I from RSM to Irvine (my Dad's house) to Anaheim Hills (Calene's Dad's) to Orange (Calene's Mom's) to Costa Mesa (El Toro Bravo, home of the carnitas tacos) to Newport Beach, all on back roads. No freeways. That's the rule. Then it's PCH to San Clemente and back to RSM, where it's time to see if Selma's has tapped the Pliny keg. I've been ghosting a book that I can't talk about for the last two months. Friday was the deadline, which I hit at 3 p.m. So Saturday's drive was also a time of resurfacing for mental clarity after those weeks writing in the first-person voice of someone famous (not my Killing co-author), which can be a little confusing to the creative process.
I don't know what life would be like without those Saturday drives and Wednesday coaches meetings. I'd probably be out there with those protesting yahoos, swinging an automatic weapon around my neck. I'm lucky to have a career that lets me work at a time like this, and lucky to be sharing this space with Calene, two dogs, a 19-year-old cat that will live forever, and whichever of our three sons chooses to drop by for the weekend. So I'm focusing on gratitude instead of protesting.
I was feeling a little funky the other day, the black dog of depression sitting on my chest. It seems ethereal and touchy-feely, but I mentally started giving thanks for all the many wonderful things that make up life as we know it. Completely reversed my mindset. The black dog wandered away, if only for a while. As Churchill once said,
"When you find yourself walking through hell, keep walking."
Sound advice. This isn't hell. Really, it isn't. There are wonders to be found in times like these, like the group of teenagers picking wildflowers on Mother's Day in the absence of florists. Better to focus on beautiful moments like that than walk around literally half-cocked.