WAKE BOARDING OFF A FORMULA 40!!!

REVOLUTION!

(the american one)




The fourth of July came like a brilliant climax to a week of Carnival. But besides the fireworks what is Independence Day really about?
Imagine a group of ragtag farmers, political radicals and free thinkers who dared to challenge the largest, most fearsome military on earth. People who dared to imagine a different kind of society; one based on freedom, self determination and the liberation of desire. What kind of revolutionaries would be insane enough to believe they might overthrow a superpower in favor of their own free society?
Of course you know their names already: Thomas Paine, George Washington, Samuel Adams, Thomas Jefferson, John Hancock and thousand of rebels who today would, no doubt, be labeleled terrorists and probably enjoy free room and board at Guantanamo
Bay or Colorado’s Supermax prison along with Theodore Kaczynski and other politically motivated criminals.
In 1776 Thomas paine, sat down and wrote a little pamphlet entitled “Common Sense.” Today Barnes and Noble wouldn’t carry it and Borders Books would pressure the publishers never to print it but at the time it had a massive circulation large enough to inspire, well, a revolution. What was Mr. Paine saying?

“Society in every state is a blessing, but
Government, even in its best state, is a
necessary evil; in its worst state, an
intolerable one.”

In America we have a kind of double standard. Erecting a monument to Thomas Paine in Washington while villanizing revolutionaries all over the world. Given our history we should be embracing revolutionaries, making allegiances with anyone championing humanity over capital and tyranny.
Shortly after our successful revolution a group of Massuchesettes farmers and veterans of the Continental Army marched into Springfield. They were opposed to the new State Constitution which was heavy with polling taxes, property taxes and effectively blocked the poor from voting. One time radical Samuel Adams, now part of the Establishment, drew up a “Riot Act” allowing authorities to jail anyone without trial. He said in its defense.
“In Monarchy, the crime of treason may admit of being pardoned or lightly punished, but the man who dares rebel against the laws of a republic ought to suffer death.”

The rebels who were acting against the same excessive taxation they had suffered by the crown were captured, imprisoned, hung and a lucky few were pardoned. Shortly after, the “Alien and Sedition Act” was passed which stated,
“If any person shall write, print, utter or publish...any false, scandalous and malicious writings against the government of the United States...than such person...shall be punished by a fine not exceeding two thousand dollars, and by imprisonment not exceeding two years.” Revolutionaries who had so bravely fought for their freedoms just a few years earlier were now jailed for criticizing their new government.
While St Croix considers secession from the Virgin Islands government, much the same way American colonies did, the territories are put on high alert for terrorism after three bombs explode in the London Underground and a fourth rips the top off a bus. We are put on code orange, which to Virgin Islanders means that no one can get on the ferry without identification. All of a sudden the chain link fence that protects Cruz Bay from the terrorist infected world doesn’t look high enough. A policeman patrols the dock along with our homeland security guard. Perhaps now is not the time to start our own revolution, maybe we should be happy under the protective umbrella of Uncle Sam and just keep quiet. Then again as Thomas Paine put it so eloquently when considering the American Revolution,
“We have boasted the protection of Great-Britain, without considering, that her motive was interest not attachment; that she did not protect us from our enemies on our account, but from her enemies on her own account, from those who had no quarrel with us on any other account, and who will always be our enemies on the same account.”

And the truth rolls out like a terrorists oily tongue. The efforts for Homeland Security on St. John aren’t for the safety of St. Johnians. We are an extremely unlikely target. After torching the World Trade Centers and most recently London, targeting a marginal territory of the U.S. would be laughable. We are more likely considered some sort of gateway - a hole in the border to the land of the free.
Fourth of July parade St John style

What the attacks against the U.S. have done, their real triumph, one that reaches much deeper than the original tradedy, is to make America less free. A place where, like communist Russia, one must carry one’s “papers.” we have sacrificed freeedom in the name of security.
Meanwhile in Perthshire, Scotland thousands of people gather in popular protest of the policies of the G8, namely the industrialized nations of the UK, the US, France, Germany, Japan Italy, Canada and Russia. As the world leaders gather behind a militarized zone with a 150 million dollar security budget to protect them from thier own citizens, the folks outside dance and chant and maybe some of them might quote Mr. Paine when he said,
“Society is produced by our wants, and government
by wickedness; the former promotes our happiness
positively by uniting our affections, the latter
negatively by restraining our vices. The one encourages intercourse, the other creates distinctions. The
first is a patron, the last a punisher.”

MOUNTAIN SHACKS, FLYING BEER BOTTLES AND THE DEATH OF THE MIDDLE CLASS

Or How to Save St John From Itself










We are walking through dense undergrowth in search of a shack for rent. We have hitchhiked up Centerline Rd and stumbled down a goat path. The shack clings precariously to the hillside. It’s screen door hangs on one hinge.
“It’s perfect” we exclaim, “We’ll take it.”
That sad little hut on the mountain is as precarious as St John itself. Rising property values put shacks in high demand for renters. At the same time they are an endangered species as more land is cleared for new development. In some areas expensive houses spring up next door to plywood and corrugated tin huts. The contrast is shocking. Alas the old St John is quickly disappearing into memory.
Old St John was lawless, rough around the edges, quirky and sometimes unpleasant but a real place. A place completely different from the homogenous suburbia that smothers America.
The new St John doesn’t pick up unshowered long hairs with their surfboards heading to the break. It’s residents are tucked safely inside brand new SUV’s, air conditioned and sealed up tight. The new St John is gated developments, with homeowner’s associations. Meanwhile, the soul of old St John dies with each Suzuki Samurai that belches it’s last breath.
No longer can you buy a piece of land, build your own little house, and live like Robinson Crusoe in the jungle. That would hurt your neighbor’s property value, not to mention violate building codes. Impractical dreamers beware, the new St John is about money, lots and lots of money. Funky, eclectic shops like Natures Nook are under siege by parking garages and supermarkets where a gallon of milk is $7.95.
But there’s no point in waxing for the past. The question is, where are we headed? Headlong into a race of progress, development and estates, leaving in its wake an entire population of pool cleaners, driveway sweepers and housecleaners. I’m talking about no less than the death of the middle class. Aspen Colorado has to bus in it’s resort workers because no wage earner can afford to live there. The tragedy of St John would be a ghost town of massive empty houses and a phone book full of property management companies. Communities can literally be gutted by the onslaught of wealth. Property taxes continue to rise as the uber rich speculate and the native population, unable to sustain, must cash in.
Of course the dynamics aren’t quite that simple but judging by the crowds at the ferry dock each day, more and more people are forced to live on St Thomas and commute to St John.
I have a suggestion on how to save St John. It’s radical and unheard of, except in the little town of Ward, Colorado. This small mountain town, sits precariously in the Rocky Mountains just above the burgeoning, exploding, wealth pit of Boulder. Boulder is a town so infamous for yuppification and massive demographic shifts that one needn’t even mention what state it’s in. Boulder suffered from being beautiful. A perfect town with a mountain backdrop and an urban core of escalating property values.
The outlying areas boomed as speculators and developers rushed to meet the new demand for Rocky Mountain high - rises. Only one place was spared, the odd little town of Ward. A town so eccentric that when the mayor died they never bothered to elect another one. And since the dead mayor never told them what to do they did nothing. You see Ward was and is a kind of haven for bohemian types and hard toothed mountain men. When our car broke down just outside of Ward and we sought out the warmth of the wood stove at the local market a large bearded man with knee high moccasins sat next to us, unsheathed his knife and lay it pointedly on the table between us. Then he proceeded to berate us city folk, our inability to fix our own car, our inability to survive out here. His point was, basically, go away and don’t come back. From that moment on I loved Ward. I loved it’s mountains of trash, old hippie buses, shrines of rusty car parts and half finished sculpting projects. I loved its cabins fashioned from recycled barn lumber and homemade stained glass clinging stubbornly to the hills above the little town.
Passing through Ward there were always people in the road to glare at you, jealously guarding their hamlet from speeders and realtors. There also might be a procession of flautists and other musicians prancing along. Or a group of unkempt kids lighting off fire works in the middle of the road. My point is, this eclectic community survived Boulder’s excess by leaving a wall of old cars, buses, trucks, trash and unsavory and unpleasant characters to guard against attack.
Perhaps St John should do the same. We need more abandoned vehicles, less trash removal, less government, less showers and more spontaneous festivals of the weird. Investors, speculators and second homeowners are notoriously finicky. They don’t like messy, chaotic, un-manicured, anarchistic places. So spit in the street, wear your dirtiest shirt, roll that old heap from the back of the yard to the front, take a jackhammer to the street in front of your house and generally be unpleasant. Watch our local homeless for tips in how to head off the













impending shifts in our way of life. Each person must take personal efforts to smell badly, drive badly, talk badly and landscape badly. We can no longer afford to be charming or cute or friendly or pretty.
When you go to the beach go naked and bring your dog, let ‘em poop wherever he wants, then put your cigar out in the sand. Have a huge fire, and roast a pig. The horrifying sight of a burning pig carcass skewered on a stick while we all jump around naked and the dogs howl might make the beach a little less attractive. Don’t worry, after things get back to normal we can sift the cigar butts and pig bones out of the sand.
A few days ago I ducked as an irate man hurled beer bottles down the ferry dock at our “Homeland Security Guard.” As the bottles hummed overhead, bouncing off vehicles and shattering down the dock the guard collected up his own bottles angling for a clear shot back at the trouble maker. I had to admit, in spite of all the changes, St John is still like nowhere else on earth.