What’s a Ronin to do?

Okay, so I’m not just another voice in the wilderness, trying to warn the natives before the powers that be get out the “ugly stick.”

I’m special. I know it’s true, because my Mom told me repeatedly, just before fastening the chinguard on the football helmet I wore to ride to school, via the “short bus.”

Seriously, like many other observant people, I’ve watched the madness long enough to know that unless we actually DO something soon… we’re all bound for “hell in a handbasket.”

I’m not a Rhodes Scholar, I’m a scholar of the road. I’ve attended the “big schools” a time or three, I’ve traveled the width and breadth of the planet, and I’ve seen the heights and the depths that man can achieve, with the assistance of properly bottled oxygen.

I’ve lived in crackhouses, caves, and even mansions. I’ve slept in huts on the edge of a glacier, my car, and even slings while hanging from a rock face, as well as a comfortable bed or two…

I’ve fought with giants, played peek-a-boo in banana republics, and argued the plight of man with self-professed saints.

(Incidentally, anyone who tells you about their own sainthood, probably isn’t.)

In fact, I’ve even been known to ask an intelligent question or two.

I’m easily bored, but not easily led. I’m open to suggestion, but firm in resolve. In fact, I’ve been called “stubborn” more often than my given name.

I’m addicted to drugs, but not the kind you can buy on street corners. My drug of choice is adrenaline, and you only get it in massive doses, usually while jumping out of airplanes, hanging off a granite wall, or  while hunting those who are hunting you.

I’m not a poet, or a prophet, or even a psychic. I’ve been called a psycho, but it runs in my family, so it’s appearance in my profile doesn’t shock me in the slightest.

I march to the beat of a different drummer, in a blend I like to call “jazz-fusion justice.” I’m used to people looking at me incredulously, because I know that understanding is often based on where you’ve been, and some of us never get out of the county we were born in.

Those of my ilk aren’t the “conforming PTA’ers” next door. I’m the one standing off to one side, sitting with my back to the wall, watching the parade go by, while I wait for the bad guys to appear.

I don’t trust anyone I can’t best by myself, and I believe that “government” is often just another word for “place filled with sheep.”

And I’m not alone, out here. Those of my tribe live by rules of our own creation, in a land far more severe than the street you live on. We do what we have to do, not necessarily what we want to do. We hold ourselves to a higher standard, where right and wrong are measured against a mirror, and not necessarily the direction that the wind is presently blowing in from.

We aren’t terrorists, or fundamentalists, we’re just concerned citizens of the planet trying to live long enough to see our kids graduate high school, without horror or mayhem creeping in to mess up the family dynamic.

We’re used to people not understanding our motives or mechanisms. We stand out, by standing up. We have no problem leaving the room, if we get bored.

After all, we don’t suffer fools gladly.

We can identify with those men and women who sailed the prairies in schooners of wood, searching out a new place, one where they could make their way without obstruction or interference. We understand intimately those men and women who took responsibility for their survival and their way of life, by flapping from the handlebars and facing the elements, come what may.

And, when we were growing up, we didn’t want to be astronauts or firemen, we wanted to be pirates…

So, miscast in time, here I am, trying to make sense of it all.

Now that you’re here, grab an oar and put your back into it! Argh!