Another New Year, Another Burst of Gunfire...

It’s early morning on New Year’s Day and outside things are as quiet as a dead church mouse. Not a sound stirs the air, other than the small chomping noises made by the squirrels feeding on the plethora of expensive ($8/pound) mixed nuts I leave for them in their front yard feeder.

It’s absolutely lovely, this soundless natural state of auditory harmony that prevails, due to the fact that all of the dimbulbs, dipshits, idiots, shitheads, three-brain-cell morons and retards that were out last night raising hell and firing guns into the air are still cutting Zs (and hopefully afflicted with the Mother of All Hangovers from Hell!).

Around here, in urban Suckatomato (CA), Sunday mornings also have their similar charms, since by 10AM most of the still devout True Believers are kneeling in their church pews and the previously alluded-to miserable specimens of humanity’s nethermost dregs are either similarly sleeping off the effects of the night before, or are still rubbing the ‘eye boogers’ (also known colloquially as ‘sleep’, but technically known as ‘Rheum’) from their blood-shot orbs. It’s the best time for me to venture out on one of my suicycles (defined here as a powerful motorcycle capable of going from 0 to 60 mph in 2.5 seconds) with the least likelihood of encountering a distracted, car-driving young idiot checking his smartphone as he sloughs around the corner.

Although I have no intention of venturing forth on the road thus mounted, it is wonderful to be able to stand outside, bereft of the usual cacophony of unmuffled cars, leafblowing Chicano lawn service providers and all the other myriads of infuriating noises that otherwise daily assault our ears in your typical American neighborhood.

I’ve long since given up the banal and rather stupid practice of ‘celebrating’ the New Year’s Eve by partying or gathering together with others to observe the departure of the old year and the entrance of the new one. After all, aside from the fact that it’s merely a mass expiation of angst (and an excuse to drink to excess), it’s a useless and largely ineffectual custom since the new year will turn out to be just as disappointing, just as colossally depressing, just as violent and just as emotionally incendiary as the one exiting stage left. In fact, I usually go to bed at 8PM, regardless of what sort of ritual common practice and tradition suggests we all adhere to. Unlike most, I am a firm believer in a good night’s sleep as a necessary restorer of energy and vitality. Try it sometime; you might actually find it (sleep) beneficial, surprise, surprise.

I suppose I got an early start on my appreciation for quietude, since I was raised quietly in a small family unit that valued calm reflectivity and peaceful serenity. No hyperactive brothers or bratty sisters around me to constantly disrupt whatever shreds of harmony were still hanging in the air. Of course, I seem to have suffered from undiagnosed ADD as a child (long before it even made it as an entry in the DSM…a few of you will know what that massive tome of psychological syndromes is, of course) and therefore lacked the ability to consciously block out noises and distractions. Such a person must by necessity constantly strive to eliminate as much extraneous disturbance and perturbation as possible from one’s immediate surroundings, otherwise thinking clearly and productively is an order of magnitude harder than it would be for most.

All my life I have therefore sought out peacefulness, a trait that in my post-adolescent period found me keenly caught up in an appreciation of nature’s wildness and lack of human presence. After service in the Air Force in the early 70s, I was living in the SFO Bay Area, in Berkeley, but used to enjoy making the short trek over to the Point Reyes National Seashore (Marin County) and similar sanctuaries of wild natural beauty along the fabulous Sonoma Coast. In 1980 I joined the then VERY German Naturefruende Touristenverein chapter located off Panoramic Highway on Mount Tamalpais, whose Alpine style clubhouse was built on the hillside overlooking the Muir Woods National Monument stand of towering Sequoia Sempervirons (Coastal Redwoods) that thrive in that fog-bathed coastal area.

Back in those days, Marin County had yet to become a wealthy person’s exclusive enclave and there was still a satisfying post-war sort of Bohemian ambience prevalent. Mill Valley (today one of the most costly of places in Californica (sic) to reside in) was still a somewhat sleepy little junction on the eastern side of Mt. Tam and you could still find small apartments to rent there for a few hundred dollars. Sausalito was similarly quiet and not overrun by either wealthy expatriate New York Jews or Hippy-Dippy flower children. Richardson Bay in fact hosted a motley fleet of some of the most bizarre houseboats you could ever imagine, all anchored more or less just offshore in the shallow water directly opposite the former US Navy Fleet Submarine shipyard that used to crank out those 300 foot long ‘pigboats’ by the score, at the peak of the war.

At that time, today’s monstrous commercial corporate entity Banana Republic in Mill Valley was still a small, dingy & dusty storefront operation that specialised in buying lots of old war surplus from South American ‘republics’ and selling as trendy counter-culture duds to the up and coming lifestyle fashionistas just beginning to invade Marin. I passed it every time I was on my way up the backside of Mt. Tam (via the ‘Old Mill’ route) to the Tourist Club (e.g. Touristenverein Naturefreunde) for a day of serene contemplation in the woods.

Once up the winding Mill Valley switchbacks that got you to Panoramic Highway from that side of the mountain, it was a short drive to Ridge Road, which then led down a short length of dirt trail to the Tourist Club parking area. From there, another quarter mile hike down the Tourist Club’s trail continued to the clubhouse. As one got closer to the club, signs of German influence began to become apparent, with beautifully elaborate wood-carved and painted signs pointing the way.

Finally, the club’s dance deck came into view on the left as the main bulk of the Alpine styled three-story clubhouse loomed on the right, with its ancillary outlying buildings (the dining hall, a ‘married couples’ or ‘Honeymoon’ cabin, etc.).

Typically, the first sight an unknowing hiker down this trail had of the clubhouse was enough to inspire a double-take, since it had all the picturesque architectural appeal of a little slice of Bavarian village. Someone once described the feeling as having stumbled across a time-warp wherein a bit of old Germany had been magically transported to a perch over the beautiful Muir Woods grove of towering Coastal Redwoods. Thinking over that analogue, I have to agree; it was my very first impression, as well!

By 1980, I had already been regularly coming to the Tourist Club as a visitor since at least 1970 when I wasn’t over in Point Reyes), consequent to an American Youth Hostel hike (SFO Chapter of the AYH) that took us through the TVN/NF property on our way to Muir Woods (a trail from the club leads directly down to it). To say I was flabbergasted when I first saw the club is considerably understating things. It was, to me at least, fabulous. One of the best kept secrets of Mount Tamalpais at that time, since it had not yet gained the tourist notoriety that later came its way, as Marin filled up with the wealthy and slavishly lifestyle conscious.

In order to gain membership back then, one had to undergo a somewhat lengthy vetting process, intended to ensure the fact that only worthwhile, conscientious individuals could gain entry into the club’s membership. Of course, as I have mentioned, the club in those days was solidly German-American and almost all the members had German connections, family from the ‘old country’ and/or associations with various SFO organisations like the SF Mannerchoir or the Sons of Hermann (etc.). But, being that the TVN/NF was a European organisation (begun in the late 1800s as a recreational outlet for German and Austrian factory workers), it had a pronounced left-of-center ‘international’ orientation that accepted people of all creeds, races and ethnic origins (today it still reflects those values, perhaps even more so, and right-wing German Nationalist sentiments find little sympathy there).

The membership requirement stipulated that a prospective candidate spend some time getting to know the members, but more importantly that he/she participate actively in a certain number of ‘workdays’ on the club’s grounds, doing whatever might be required to maintain the club’s grounds, trails and buildings. It was an effective way not just for the candidates to get to meet the members, but also for the members to subtly assess the character and nature of the candidates.

Finally, after completing the required number of workdays, a candidate had to find two members who were willing to sponsor their application. After that, the application was reviewed by the club’s board and membership was either approved or denied, depending on the aggregate impression the candidate had made on all concerned. More than a few were, I am told, rejected on various grounds, but the objective of making sure the club had committed, conscientious members worked very well indeed. Today, the process remains largely the same, although most of the very old members have passed on, leaving new generations of much younger people in the club. But the club maintains almost all of the old German customs and a yearly series of fests (Summerfest, Oktoberfest, Herbstfest, Kinderfest, etc.) attracts so many people that there are occasionally crowding problems as a result on fest days. Fests still include such delights as authentically prepared, homestyle German cooking, ‘Schuhplattler’ dancers and the ubiquitous ‘Oompah (village) band’ music that so colorfully characterises Bavarian folk festivals.

My own sponsors were Roy Hendriks (a Swiss expatriate) and Dick Nietzel, an American war veteran with German heritage, but I also fell in with a crusty old mountaineer named Harold Atkinson, who was probably a contemporary of the Original John Muir and who helped found the ‘Tamalpais Conservation Club’ (TCC), one of the oldest SFO conservation organisations in the area. Harold spent his weekends, despite being in his early 90s, working on the Mt. Tam hiking trails, maintaining and keeping them in good shape, so I relished being his younger understudy on foggy Mt. Tam mornings when the air was positively charged with the unforgettably aromatic scent of Bay leaves and moist Eucalyptus nut pods.

Regrettably, Harold, old ‘mountain man’ and ex-lumberjack that he was, has long since passed on, but his legacy remains as the core spirit that unifies the vast preponderance of people living in this part of Marin who value the mountain and its serenely lovely scenery. For me, Harold partly substituted as a surrogate father figure in many ways, having lost as I did my own father at age 4.

The importance of something like that is hard to explain to someone who had a father throughout his childhood and adolescence, but I still value the knowledge of woodsmanship I gained from our trips up and down the mountain, repairing trails and appreciating the natural beauty that abounds there.

Today, despite the fact that Marin County has turned into yet another haven for the wealthy and privileged...in a state wherein the working poor and middle-classes are progressively being displaced by two groups: 1) the wealthy upper classes and 2) the indigenous homeless, who have been adopted as ‘favored pets’ by the former...old Marin lingers on in the memories of those of us who recall what it used to be like, back in the 50s, 60s and 70s, before obscene wealth began to change this lovely area into a rich man’s privileged playground (like serenely beautiful Pebble Beach, which originated as a Chinese fishing Village back when coastal real estate was not yet even a concept).

Speaking of the area’s spectacular scenery and serenity, one of its chief attractions has been and always was the ‘quietude’ that could be found in this part of Marin headlands. Whenever the maddening sounds of ‘civilisation’ became too great to tolerate, one could always escape to Muir Woods, the Tourist Club, and Mount Tam’s woody surrounds, where peaceful tranquility and near total absence of annoying sounds were a given. I would imagine that it is not quiet as quiet today as it was back then, but I am reminded in saying all this of a lifelong hatred I have had of needless noise.

Every now and then some prescient person comes out with a book about ‘noise’ (which can be defined as ‘displeasing sound’ for our purposes). One of the best, which I recently read, is Mike Goldsmith’s excellent ‘Discord: The Story of Noise’ (Oxford University Press, ISBN 978-0-19-960068-7, 2012). Goldsmith has a PhD and was head of the Acoustics Group at the UK’s National Physical Laboratory for many years. In this seminal book, Goldsmith provides a fascinating backdrop on the rise of sound as an artifact of so-called ‘modern civilisation’, focusing chiefly on sound that is not harmoniously melodic (and therefore displeasing to the human range of hearing).

[Another excellent book dealing with noise is Susan Cain’s ‘Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking’, by the way (Crown Publishers, ISBN 978-0-307-35214-9, also released in 2012).]

As might be expected from someone dealing with the acoustical sciences, Goldsmith starts off by providing an excellent introductory insight into exactly how human auditory perceptivity works on both an anatomical and sensory level. He then delves into the main topic of noise and what constitutes the specific physics of sounds that are annoying, as contrasted to sounds that are regarded as pleasing, all the while painting these images upon a canvas that helps explains the scientific basis of sound and the profoundly unappreciated role it plays in our lives.

Among some of the many revealing insights he shares in his book is that, generally speaking, those who love (or prefer) quietude and peacefulness generally tend to be better educated and more thoughtful members of society (a group that includes intellectuals, teachers, writers, thinkers, scientists and in fact anyone for whom intelligent reflection is an absolute necessity of life). In contrast, those who are lower-down on the human experiential and intellectual food-chain (read: the common masses) tend to favor discord, disruption, noisy excitations, rudely excessive disturbance and noisome excitement. In a nutshell, if it helps to paint a clearer picture, ‘brain-users’ require silence and ‘brainless’ morons prefer noisy sensationalising.

Thus it was, back as early as the Middle Ages, that the educated, refined and cultivated classes valued quietude, whereas those in the common classes reveled in rudely noisy behavior. This has been repeatedly demonstrated and well documented in literature for over hundreds of years, but a surprising aspect of ‘rude noisiness’ is that it is often a deliberate protest against those same upper-classes (the definers and keepers of prevalent social norms) the common classes wish they were!

Think of it this way, using the evolution of technology as our paradigmatic setting: Any scientist will state without hesitation that ‘noise’ correlates closely with the presence or absence of precision in the design and manufacture of man-made machines. Thus, the quieter a machine operates, the more highly precise and mechanically efficient is its design; the noisier it is, the less precise, less efficient and less well-designed. Think of it more simply this way: a powerful car that operates smoothly and quietly is viewed by scientists as preferable to a powerful car that is objectionably noisy and annoyingly loud. And yet, to the ‘common’ person, noise more often corelates closely to ‘power’, hence the preference for high-performance, largely unmuffled (or altered) ‘muscle cars’ by poorly educated, often ‘ignorant’ younger people. All too often when we hear some outrageously loud and noisy car being driven down the street, engine roaring and perhaps being driven recklessly as well, this exhibit of what many would consider ‘rude and antisocial’ behavior is being deliberately aimed at those in the upper classes (that is, more refined, better educated and thoughtful individuals) as a sort of protest against those in privileged, higher echelons of social status. It’s a non-verbal (but highly effective) way of saying ‘f*** you’, in other words. In my opinion, as someone who suffers more exquisitely from needless noise than others, I certainly agree with that premise.

For centuries now, perhaps even millennia (as Goldsmith notes), noise had been regarded by the educated as unsophisticated and vulgar, and this fact is seemingly not lost on what I like to term the ‘bottom-dwellers’ (those who think making noise is a necessary component of demonstrating personal power or machismo), for noise can be and in fact is a convenient class protest weapon in the hands of uncomplicated people.

Poor blacks in the so-called ghettos know this and never miss a chance to annoy honkies by being loud, obnoxious and vulgar in their presence, whenever possible. QED: much of rap and hip-hop ‘music’, which is also highly sexist and disrespectful of women (sadly, many of them think such displays of male macho excess are ‘cool’…but what do they know? They’re still just ‘post-adolescent kids’ anyway), since they know that this often evinces a look of disgust and irritation from whites. Of course, young people who are not yet fully ‘evolved’ into properly reflective adults hear this and unquestionably emulate it (thus we end up with cretins like EMENEM, who take the unfortunate mindset to disgusting new extremes as a honky in virtual ‘blackface’).

As for finding workable social solutions to this problem, to quote Goldsmith: “In general throughout modern history, the law has been uneasy about dealing with noise, and it has been suggested (particularly by Karin Bijsterveld in her 2008 book, ‘Mechanical Sound’), that there are three main reasons for this. The first is the necessity until the mid-20th Century of relying upon subjective reports of the amount of noise involved. Secondly, there has long been widespread acceptance that people both have some kind of right to express themselves and at the same time some kind of right to peace. The third reason is the realization that what bothers one person does not necessarily bother another!”

Goldsmith explores in his book how human society gradually evolved from a largely bucolic, rural state redolent with quietude into today’s highly technologized post-industrial society, wherein gratuitous noise has almost become universally accepted as a necessary component of modern life.

Goldsmith further notes that up until fairly recent times (post 1900), conscientious noise abatement efforts were largely nonexistent and needlessly excessive levels of noise were almost entirely ignored by the medical profession as constituting a definite health hazard to human wellbeing. As vocationally related cases of deafness began to rise alarmingly, with the advent of the Industrial Revolution, this began somewhat to change, but again progress towards instituting effective noise regulations and abatement strategies in society was frequently frustrated by the inability of individuals to agree upon what exactly constituted ‘objectionable’ noise (as opposed to noise that was more or less acceptable, or at least tolerable). It is even today this lack of consensus as to whether the cacophony of motorized ‘leaf blowers’ constitutes a socially objectionable dynamic or not that hinders the passage of local urban ordinances aimed at eliminating or reducing needlessly loud noises in our residential communities. And because of the strong commercially supported political lobbying groups that tend to have a disproportionate influence on such statutory measures, sound abatement efforts by concerned citizens often fall flat.

I like to recall an interesting nuance that relates to the foregoing. Back in the 70s/80s it was a common practice among younger individuals to cruise city streets with loud rock music blaring forth from a car’s sound system. This provoked a substantial outcry (largely from ‘genteel’ white folks) and before long the local police began cracking down on youthful offenders, issuing citations for creating a public disturbance to violators. This appeared to resolve the problem until some likely lad come up with the idea that a sound system that hushed down the actual ‘music’ whilst grossly amplifying bass effects could sneak under the statutory radar governing ‘public noise nuisances’. Suddenly the streets were filled with hopped-up cars literally shaking the earth with the powerful ‘mega-bass’ vibrations their car stereo systems were capable of producing. In fact, a whole new industry grew up, promoting the production of such 4-wheeled mega-bass producers, and by this time law enforcement was stretched so thin that putting teeth in new laws prohibiting ‘public disruption’ became almost an impossibility (another unenforceable law).

Of course, this new fad immediately caught on with younger people of all ethnic origins and it is still considered tres cool to shake nearby cars nearly to pieces with mega-bass sound systems (often called 'boom cars') whose deep, resonant vibrations can be felt literally blocks away. Genteel honkies hate it, but what can they really do? More collective angst expiated non-verbally (and I might add, most effectively).

Another example of this sort of sub-rosa ‘class warfare’ is found in the motorcycle world. For decades, most mainstream commercially produced motorcycles were manufactured with increasingly effective exhaust silencing systems intended to quieten them down…except for a few ‘bad-ass outlaws’ who again flaunted convention by ‘unmuffling’ their already noisy Harley-Davidson hogs. They were, however, far and few between, until once again younger people (and ‘arrested post-adolescents’, of whom there appear to be disproportionately many in America today) became fixated on the ‘bad boy’ image as being ultra-cool & stylish. Soon, despite the illegality implicit, nearly all owners of Harley-Davidson motorcycles began following suit, by altering their exhaust systems to be as loud and as noisy as possible.

When Mr. ‘average’, mild-mannered, conventionally minded citizen objected to this increasing barrage of motorcycle exhaust noise, often created when riders drove through neighborhood gunning their motors needlessly, the argument was raised by these ‘hog’ owners in their defense that, and I quote: “Loud pipes save lives.” The allusion being that on freeways, where motorists are frequently distracted and negligent drivers, the presence of a nearby motorcycle is far more effectively announced by the loud noises they make at speed.

This is both partly true and partly a convenient obfuscation, since yes, people tend to not ‘see’ motorcyclists on the freeway, but no, off the freeway, in residential neighborhoods, needlessly loud motorcycle exhaust noises are not only unnecessary but highly annoying and irrefutably anti-social.

Unfortunately for those of us reflective types who value peace & quiet, police tend to cast a blind eye at this uniquely American phenomenon, since most police departments still use motorcycle officers for enforcement and therefore side (covertly) with the civilian Harley-Davidson riders. As a rider of high-precision Japanese ‘sportsbikes’ myself (that can still be objectionably noisy when ridden at abnormally high RPMs, but are otherwise far quieter), this particularly rankles me and I am accordingly NOT a big fan of America’s original, ubiquitously indigenous motorcycle.

Goldsmith covers a huge amount of ground in his book, going everywhere from the history of ‘ultrasound’ technology that stemmed from anti-submarine research in WWI to the development of quieter aircraft jet engines (the story of Concorde is particularly of interest in that context), but every single paragraph of it is absolutely fascinating to someone like me who firmly believes that in any ostensibly democratic society, such as ours, reasonable limits predicated upon individual responsibility should govern ALL human interactions. And that our right to peaceful quietude should not be compromised by mindless commercial catering to youthful ignorance and immaturity, as expressed in youth’s fondness of loud, disharmonious noise for the sake of titillation.

Today, I no longer go over to lovely (and ‘wealth-polluted’) Marin County on a regular basis because the traffic congestion from Sacramento to the Bay Area is now so absolutely maddening as to be nearly intolerable, but I still look back fondly on the 70s era when I was hiking in Muir Woods, on Mount Tam or at Point Reyes almost every week. In fact, this year (2020) will mark my 40th year as a card-carrying member of the wonderful Naturefreunde Tourist Club and I expect to get a little gold pin as my reward for being one of their ‘old-timers’. Whoopee-do, eh?

Next time some idiot drives by, gunning his car or motorcycle engine inappropriately or vibrating the neighborhood like an 8.6 temblor on the Richter, stop and reflect for a moment that with each repetitive 100+ decibel expression of thoughtlessness like this the natural quiet beauty of life on Earth is sliding perilously closer to extinction…

Better yet, save the reflection...just brain the idiot, if the opportunity presents itself!