When you are wrestling for possession of a sword, the man with the handle always wins.

- Neal Stephenson, Snow Crash

My erudite editor, the publishing magnate of Moab, Mr. Stiles, says my assignment, if I choose to accept it, is to wax nostalgic for 1,500 words. Here’s my response, originating from somewhere near my Hippocampus gland: "In my current state of dis-equilibrium, is such a thing possible?"

In the movie camera that is my head, nostalgia is a cinematic technique that ought to work, yet falls a hair short of the mark. But all it takes is a trip to the super market, BBQ joint, or nearest zoo to discover to what extent nostalgia reigns supreme in the American consciousness (assuming such an animal [no pun] actually exists). One can hardly venture more than a few paces from one’s domestic cubicle before being assaulted by manufactured nostalgic media-blips, typically in the guise of atavistic pop tunes. I truly don’t like that stuff.

I don’t know about you, but I’d just as soon break out with herpes as go to the dentist. The shrieking pitch of the drill as it deconstructs (what’s left) of my once cherished enamel is enough to cause a sudden outburst of primate phobia, despite the usual overdose of Novocaine. Just because your lips feel like rubber bananas doesn’t alter the fact that some guy with a motor-powered jackhammer is grinding your noggin into a state of abstraction.

But the thing that sticks the cherry on top of the whipped cream of my soul is the relentless drone of what every dentist assumes is an essential ingredient in the practice of jawbone repair – Oldies muzak. There simply isn’t enough laughing gas to convince me that "Doctor My Eyes" needs another minute of airplay. A nice ditty in it’s own right, but chained to a series of teenaged pop flop, Monsieur Browne’s clever tune becomes an insidious weapon in the marketing of the nation’s most banal Vaudevillian sideshow - Boomeritis. And what Boomers want is candy coated nostalgia with a side order of bubble gum utopia. Don’t touch that dial – Herman’s Hermits is up after this word from our (corporate) sponsor.

[remote control – channel surf deluxe – flip top mojo – we’re off on Tangent No. 33 – stand by for lift off]

Is it my imagination, or has Homo erectus asphaltus caused more damage to the Blue-Green Planet in the aftermath of the 1st Earth Day than in the preceding million years (during our trek from the jungles of Africa to where we now reside, atop the junk heap of the Dimformation Age)? I don’t know how one quantifies garbage like that, and certainly don’t care. But what seems obvious is that the "good ole days" of the Environmental Movement are quickly morphing into a silly circus act. Not that I’m particularly nostalgic for the Green Yesteryears – but they were fun, to be sure. At least, as long as the tequila was flowing and somebody remembered who we were suing at the moment.

Now that the fog has lifted, it’s increasingly hard to believe how many years I spent head banging for the Big Earth Momma. The irony was in winning a lawsuit, only to realize that nothing would change as long as growth for the sake of growth continued to be the mainstream American religion. Sacrilege, you say? Hardly. The worship of wealth is nothing new or weird. Primate behavior being what it is, it’s no mystery that apes like us are programmed to be as acquisitive as possible during what time is allotted to us. The fact that there are now 6.5 billion of us makes our genetic proclivity to reap what we don’t sow all the more onerous. Repeat after me: Carrying capacity, carrying capacity, carrying capacity…..

Bottom line – the old (nostalgic) eco-daze were fun because the great majority of us weren’t professionals. Today, there’s an Eco-Executive on every block, hell bent on meeting their group’s fund raising mandate before the next Annual Meeting of the Bored of Directors. If that sounds like something out of an Exxon playbook, you’re getting globally warm.

I think it’s safe to say that nobody I ever worked with got rich defending the "environment." Maybe I hung with the wrong people; but I don’t think so. Crazy, perhaps; nostalgic, of course. Yet, in the final analysis, the crazies, fools, and knights errant fought harder during the Ecological Band-aid Wars than all the corporate Green Weenies have it in their skulls to imagine. But, save the environment from 6 billion mutant primates with cell phones and the hots for Brittney Spears? Load the Cuervo; I feel a spasm coming on.

["Ladies and gents, please inhale. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. You are now ready for Act 3 of Nostalgia Theater]

I used to be a picker and a grinner of sorts. Back in 1975, by some quirk of Universal weirdness, I was half of an act that managed to record an album (vinyl!) entitled The Truck Stop Opry. Seriously. Not being endowed with an overabundance of common sense, I took this accomplishment as a sign to continue my foray into the World of Twang. By the 21st Century I’d cobbled together something approximating 16 follow-ups to my (non)celebrated first stab at the limelight. I should’ve known that anything called the "music business" was a crock of dung; but youth has a way of obfuscating what otherwise might be called sanity.

While most of my contemporaries were finding mates, investing in Holy Matrimony (some investment!), scrounging careers together, and popping kids out of the oven, I walked down a path so fraught with pot holes ("Ethel, is he using one of them double entendre things?") that any two-bit Fortune Teller could’ve predicted the moment of my encounter with the Karmic Karmichael. Then again, it doesn’t take much to figure out that electric guitars were invented for adolescents on steroids.

But, by gawd, making a joyful (loud!) noise is about as much fun as getting the preacher’s daughter naked in the back of dad’s station wagon and fogging the windows to the beat of the Iron Butterflies. Makes you want to say, "Glory!" doesn’t it? That’s nostalgia, indeed.

I reckon age has a natural tendency to round off the edges of what passes as the memories of one’s wasted years of youth. Many a Boomer senses the slow burning realization that it’s all oldies from here on out. To which I am compelled to say, "Bullshit!"

Living in the past is about as useful as sitting through the Rocky Horror Picture Show for the 200th time. Nostalgia or no nostalgia, the only moment that counts is right freaking now, amigos. And with that thought, I’m taking a break and heading to my bi-weekly kung fu class. As the old saying goes, "If you can’t beat em, practice your knee kick!"

[Visualize yourself in suspended animation while I disappear for 28 hours]

Where was I? Ah, yes – the Ever Present; the Big Isness; the Singularity of Eternal Cool – the Here and Now. But first, let’s talk about kung fu.

They say golfing is the way to ease into the Golden Years of adulthood, beneath the sky so blue, and atop the grass so green. But I never could stomach the game myself. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that, in the dark hallway of puberty, I took up golf for a tepid, lazy summer. I think it was the day I hooked the ball off the tee, hitting a caddie in the back, that I began having second thoughts about what is obviously a sadistic and malicious pastime. And that, as they say, was that. Izods notwithstanding.

Most of my friends have a hard time comprehending the idea that anybody in their mid-50s would give up being a lawyer in order to (poorly) imitate Jackie Chan. To these folks, I can only reply, "Pass the Advil." If you value your (increasingly) creaky joints, have a problem wearing a funny looking Chinese costume, or get squeamish when asked to repeat a spine wrenching tiger claw punch until the sweat runs down your underwear – forget kung fu.

As for me, the notion that the ancient art of kung fu is a top-flight technological microscope into the human mind is several orders of magnitude cooler than smashing a Titleist down a heavily fertilized fairway at the local Kountry Klub. Who knows - maybe golfers bump into the Big Now on occasion, somewhere in between one hole or another. But I doubt it.

On the other hand, if catching a glimpse of that animal the Zen dudes call your Original Nature sounds interesting – without the stink of nostalgic nonsense – button up the frogs, bow to Ta-Mo, and get your ass in gear.

Hai!