One hot July night in 1976, we pulled up to the locked Griffith Park gate on Crystal Springs Drive near the Wilson & Harding golf course. It was after 10:00 PM. We were in Mark Flaata’s mom’s massive, dark green, fake wood paneled 1972 Chrysler Town & Country station wagon, the same car I wrote about here. Mark turned off the radio and we were given instructions to “Be quiet.” Actually, his instructions were to “Shut the hell up!” Just to the left side of the gate was an equestrian trail that was barely wide enough to allow the humongous station wagon to squeeze through. Mark turned off the lights and drove along the dirt equestrian trail slowly until we got past the ranger station, and then turned back onto Crystal Springs Drive, flicked the lights back on, and drove to the first parking lot near the merry-go-round. There were maybe a half-dozen other cars parked there too.
Although, from a purely technical legal standpoint, we were definitely trespassing into the park after hours, however, the cars that were already inside the park after hours could drive out of the south entrance at Crystal Springs Drive and Los Feliz Boulevard without being harassed by the park rangers. But, if the rangers caught you hiking or walking around inside the park after hours, they would warn you that you could be cited and strongly encourage you to leave RIGHT NOW, or they would radio in for law enforcement which meant the LAPD. I know this from personal experience. Back then the park rangers were not sworn peace officers and were unarmed, so they were basically LAPD-light.
For us, we just didn’t care whether or not we were technically trespassing with our single-minded purpose of going to the Old Zoo to get high and have some fun. Back in those days, the exuberance of our wasted youth was boundless, and we weren’t going to let any legal technicalities prevent us from achieving our mission.
The passengers were Mark Flaata and his girlfriend Eve Anton, Tom Armstrong, Van Cognata, and yours truly. We brought a couple joints of good weed – well, good weed for the era anyway – and two six packs of Bud tall boys in a brown paper bag that we had to pigeon for over at Circus Liquor at the corner of Burbank Boulevard and Vineland Avenue in North Hollywood (NoHo), famous for its landmark giant clown neon sign and popularized in movies like Blue Thunder and Clueless. I should explain that to pigeon for beer meant hanging around the parking lot of a liquor store where the store clerk couldn’t see you and asking guys that looked like they were old enough to buy beer to buy some Bud tall boys for us, which was about $2.50 back then. It was also a 50/50 proposition at best. I personally hated doing it, but even so, I did it anyway mostly because I liked drinking beer, but also to not get hazed by the guys if I didn’t do it.
We hopped out of the station wagon and slinked across the road over to the Lower Old Zoo Trail, hiked up the trail about three-quarters of a mile to the dilapidated chain link fence on the boundary of the Old Zoo property which was, um, open? Someone had used some wire cutters to cut a gap in the fence just wide enough for a teenager to squeeze through. I was like going through a portal because as soon as you descended down the hill on the other side of the fence, you began to see some of the old overgrown structures looming in the darkness and it felt like you were transported into some dystopian Planet of the Apes future. It was the coolest thing that I had ever seen.
The local story of the Old Zoo (est. 1912) was that when the new L.A. zoo was finished being built in 1966, they simply transferred the animals over from the old to the new and then abandoned it as it was, tucked away in a canyon near Bee Rock. It was already 65-years old when I first saw it.
We walked over to a partially burned concession stand, put the six packs on what remained of the old counter, and we all cracked one open and started chugging them down while Tom fired up a joint and passed it around. It seemed as if we were the only people left on the planet.
Before this first visit to The Old Zoo, a.k.a., The Bear Caves, it was already a local legend in NoHo. There were dark, disturbing stories of people disappearing, rape, murders, dismembered bodies in trash bags, ghost sightings, and people dropping too much acid and going stark raving mad. There were also lighter stories of young people going there just to meet up and party and have a good time wandering around the abandoned administration buildings, concession stands, animal barns, aviary, monkey cages, and bear caves. Obviously, we were in the latter group, but that did not prevent talk of the scary stories which started freaking Eve out a little bit, so much so that every little noise in the periphery made her jump which, naturally, made all of us guys laugh.
We eventually found our way over to the back access road for the bear cave entrances. At the entrances, there were a series of levers and pulleys and cables and sliding metal doors that were used to manage the animals, and surprisingly some of them still worked.
We descended down a couple of steep flights of concrete steps into what could only be described as a black hole. The first flight was to the dark main bear den on the left that reeked like piss. The second flight of steps went to the open viewing area out in front. For the moment, you could say that we were the ones that were on display, Adolescens Americanus, if you will. We drank the remaining beers that, by then, were barely below ambient temperature, and smoked the remaining joint.
We talked about all sorts of things, you know, the sorts of things that factually naïve yet miraculously all-knowing teenagers talk about, like how out-of-touch our parents were, books, movies, music, love, God, Jesus, the meaning of life, what we’ll do after graduation, who’ll go to college and who’ll go to trade school and who will get married first, how many children we wanted to have, where we wanted to live and work, and so on and so forth, all compressed into a lively ninety-minute or so ebb and flow conversation with completely inappropriate jokes being cracked all along the way because no topic was off-limits – not even God.
Suddenly, Tom shushed us with his index finger over his pursed lips and said in a low voice, “I hear something!” We collectively listened and heard a vehicle driving on the access road behind us. We immediately understood that it must be the park ranger and we went into Ranger Danger dead-silent mode. They stopped at the back entrance of the bear cave. We could hear some chatter coming over the ranger’s radio. They got out of their truck, flicked their bright flashlights on and pointed them down the steep steps with a sweeping motion and said, “The park is closed; come out of there NOW!” We were quiet as a mausoleum; you could have heard a pin drop. “We know you’re in there!” More hold-your-breath silence. After about a minute more, the flashlights turned off and the rangers got back in their truck, more radio chatter could be heard, and they slowly drove off. Time to go!
We slowly crept up the steps to the road and could see the taillights of the ranger pickup in the distance to our right. We went left and found our way back to the parking lot as fast as we possibly could. We were high and slightly tipsy and very paranoid about getting busted, so Mark wasted no time in getting us out of the park. It was around midnight. Van said, “Let’s drive down Hollywood Boulevard!” We turned west at Los Feliz and drove past the magnificent homes to where Los Feliz turns south and becomes Western Avenue. We turned right onto Hollywood Boulevard and headed west again. This was a very different neighborhood. We saw bums sleeping in the doorways of the shops, hookers and John’s, drug dealers, drug addicts, and tourists, and rundown buildings in various stages of urban decay. Mark turned right at Highland Avenue, and we quietly drove back to the Valley through Cahuenga pass.
Over the following years, I would take my friends to party at the Old Zoo many more times with whatever party materials we could get our hands on. It was mostly weed and beer, sometimes tequila and limes, and occasionally some LSD to go tripping around the Old Zoo and watch the sun rise over Griffith Park. During that time period, the word got out about it, and it soon became crowded (like everything else in L.A.) and fires, trash, crime, gang activity, and graffiti took their collective toll, destroying all of the remaining buildings, leaving only the bear caves and various chain link and metal barred cages intact but all covered with the various rival L.A. street gang tags, and some stupid token suburban white boy tags like, “Greg Was Here,” or, “I Love Laurie.”
Now renamed Old Zoo Picnic Area, the city cleared out the overgrown trees and shrubs, cleaned up the trash, back-filled the bear cave pit area in front, and welded the metal doors either open or closed, providing limited access to our old familiar haunt, you know, all in the name of public safety.
Nowadays, the Los Angeles Haunted Hayride takes over the Old Zoo area in the fall, hinting at the haunted notoriety of the past.
More Information:
Hadley Meares from PBS SoCal wrote a good article about it here.
January 1983 was a historic month for monster waves in Southern California. My close, very talented friend Bobby Doran (IG: @bobbydoranart) and I were in the thick of it with our newish state-of-the-art yellow topped, slick black bottomed, Morey Boogie Mach 7-7 bodyboards. The pejorative term the surfers used for these was “sponge,” but what the surfers didn’t appreciate was that we could get deeper inside a barrel and get more quality time in the green room that they ever could imagine on their fiberglass surfboards, granted that the bodyboards were not as fast. The animosity between bodyboarders and surfers is legendary, but that is a story for another time.
Our usual breaks were at Leo Carrillo (Primo’s), Point Zero (“Zeroes”), Staircase, and Drainpipes. Drainpipes is located at Free Zuma on Westward Beach Road in Malibu, just northwest of Point Dume’, and it was one of our favorite, most frequented breaks. Also, the parking was free (hence the name, “Free Zuma”), which was great for young broke dudes like us. Drainpipes was a fast, hollow shorebreak that broke both left and right due to the contours created by the huge boulders that were scattered around the sandy bottom. It was also notorious for riptides, but we knew the break and the beach well enough to avoid them. We were living the classic SoCal weekend warrior beach bum life.
When we heard that Drainpipes was pumping at 20-feet, we knew we had to go. Neither of us had been on such a big, heavy wave, and this was our chance to get a North Shore experience in SoCal, albeit without the warm water, reef sharks, sharp coral, and cute island surfer girls. The biggest waves we had surfed previously were double overhead, or about 12-feet.
Being that it was still winter, the water was super cold (mid 50-degrees) so we brought our thickest O’Neill full wetsuits to fight off the chill. We knew it was going to be a short session by default due to the cold water and drizzly, thick overcast weather, but a short session is better than no session.
At Drainpipes, you don’t usually see the waves breaking from Westward Beach Road as you’re driving in from PCH due to the downward slope of the sandy beach, but on that Saturday morning, we saw these glassy walls of water lining up and peeling off. We looked at each other with our jaws agape without saying a word. We pulled up to the beach and there were only a couple of dozen or so people hanging around, mostly watching the three or four surfers that were already in the lineup at the outside break. We got out of my beater, primer gray ’69 Chevelle Super Sport and took cover under one of the lifeguard towers to watch. The waves were absolutely massive, and the ground shook with the pounding of the breakers. The surfers were pretty good as we watched them carve it up. We assumed that they were either loco Malibu locals or maybe some pros.
We were also counting the wave sets and their timing to get an idea of when and where we could paddle out. After about 15-minutes we knew what to do and went back to the car to get suited up. The gawking onlookers couldn’t believe that we were going out into such big waves with our sponges and Viper and Duck Feet fins. We were the only guys on bodyboards. It was a battle to get out, even on the smaller sets. The whitewater itself was 15-feet high. After what seemed like an eternity (but in reality, was maybe all of 10-minutes) we were outside the break and could rest for a few minutes. The thing about gigantic waves like these is that the incoming swell itself moves you up and down so much that it sometimes feels like you’re on a roller coaster.
After a few minutes of rest, we paddled into the lineup. Bobby was to my right, and he found himself in a perfect spot to drop into a right breaking wave and I watched him slide down the face, carve hard right, and disappear behind a thick wall of water. I watched the back of the wave for the telltale signs of closing out, but it kept on peeling, and by the time Bobby flew up and over the back of the wave ten feet above the water, he was about a hundred feet away from me. The smile on his face, and the fist pump, and the loud, extended WOO-HOO were all I needed for some additional motivation.
My first wave was a left, and the exhilaration of sliding down so fast on such a steep face for so long will never be forgotten! I pulled a hard left bottom turn, trimmed up my bodyboard about mid face and carved sharp top and bottom turns a few times inside this incredibly massive, almost perfectly round, hollow wave. On a bodyboard, you are much lower and closer to the water than you are on a surfboard which provides a very different wave experience, and to me, it’s a deeper connection. I could hear the wave closing out behind me and felt the rush of air, so I accelerated across the face and digging hard with my left rail and shoulder, went vertical and punched through the lip for a nice airborne landing on the back of the wave where I slid down for a little bit – it was like getting a little bonus wave at the end!
Bobby and I caught several more individual waves and also a couple of “Party Waves” where we both dropped into the same wave and exchanged top and bottom turns as we crisscrossed each other – our wake looking like a DNA double-helix.
Then Bobby started to show off a little bit, so, naturally, I had to show off a little bit too…but then I got cocky, as young twenty-somethings do with their boundless hubris. I decided to go for a late drop-in and paid the price for it: I got pitched out over the falls, dropped headfirst at least 20-feet in midair, got pounded to the bottom, which knocked some of the air out of me, and then got sucked up the back of the wave and ended up inside the most extreme rinse cycle that I ever experienced – I was basically a spinning human-sized starfish. I could not sense which way was up. My leash wrapped around my neck, and for a brief moment, I thought I was going to drown – this was not your typical hold-down! But then I pulled myself together, detangled my leash and reeled in my bodyboard with it, grabbed the rails of the board with all of my strength, and popped up above the churning foam gasping (choking, really) for air.
But now I was caught on the inside of the break, which is the worst place you can find yourself in big surf. At this point, you only have two choices: Paddle back out, or ride the churning foam in. Make that three choices; the third of which is to die! I decided that I had to get at least one more wave, so I did the paddle-battle to get back out into the lineup. In the meantime, I spotted Bobby tearing it up, which made me both happy and slightly jealous.
When I got back into the lineup, I was cold and exhausted and had to take a break to catch my breath. By the time I caught my last wave of the day, my feet were numb, I was shivering, and my teeth were chattering. That’s when I found myself in the perfect take-off zone and dropped into the most glorious wave of my life. It was a perfect, glassy, seemingly endless left. I tore it up until it started closing out behind me. I turned hard right and let the fast, foamy whitewater push me back to the sandy beach where I was stranded momentarily like a beached whale. I jumped up with still numb feet, which was not a pleasant experience with the pins and needles sensation shooting through them, and struggled to walk up the steep sandy shore with the heavy pull of the retreating water from the massive waves trying to yank me back in. I fell forward a few times in my battle to break free. It was as if the ocean didn’t want me to leave.
I tossed my board down on the sand and plopped my totally spent ass on it, and as the saltwater, sand, seaweed, and maybe a very small sand crab or two drained out from my nose and ears, I watched Bobby take his last wave of the day and shred. He was so good; I truly think he could have gone pro.
As we were walking back to the car looking like a couple of wet stray cats, one of the onlooking surfers asked, “You guys were pretty good out there; are you pros?” Bobby and I looked at each other and smiled. I replied, “No, man, we’re just a couple of rank amateurs; can’t you tell by the holes in our wetsuits?” as I pointed to a hole in the knee of my wetsuit. We all laughed. Someone passed a joint to us. We inhaled deeply.
My old car did not have a working heater, so Bobby and I, exhausted, shivering, and half frozen, drove back to the Doranch in the Valley (another story for another day), listening to KROQ as we drove along Kanan Road toward the 101. We amused each other with the retelling of our epic wave session and what the experience was like on such a terrifying yet magnificent wave. We planned a surfing safari for the summer where we would hit all of the famous SoCal breaks all the way from Malibu to the Mexican border, and maybe plan a trip to the North Shore of Oahu. It was a good day to be out in the water.
BANG-BANG-BANG! – down came the gavel with an overly enthusiastic force during the last legislative session of the year. “H. R. 11,776 2050, the TAIL (Taxing Animal’s Innate Look) Tax has passed with a supermajority vote; this session is adjourned.” And just like that, another expensive, intrusive new tax was imposed upon the people virtually out of thin air, and the formerly considered untouchable direct taxation upon people’s pets was quickly – even eagerly – signed into law by the president. These legislators have zero restraint and are perpetually scheming for new taxes needed to continue funding the ever-expanding Government Industrial Complex, which, by 2050, knows no boundaries. And so, the giant sucking maw of government greed, power, and corruption continued unabated.
As the dissenting nay voters stormed out of the chamber, the minority leader by the name of O’Keefe verbally warned his colleagues, “The citizens of this country will not tolerate this egregious, pernicious, and arbitrary tax on their beloved pets. We should be voting to repeal taxes like this instead of creating new ones! This TAIL tax will be the final straw, and the people will not tolerate it – mark my words!”
The TAIL tax law went into effect on January 1, 2051, and was retroactive for the 2050 tax year.
Unfortunately, this new TAIL tax did not really surprise anyone, after all, by 2049 everything else had already been levied a tax. People were now paying taxes on everything consumable (the list of which is too long and tedious to put down here, but believe me when I say everything), plus other ridiculous taxes like a personal carbon footprint tax as assessed by how much CO2 gas a person emits while breathing, how much rainwater and sunlight falls on their property, how many miles they drive, a per square toilet paper tax (that always spikes during cold and flu season), a keyboard keystroke tax (which always spikes during a breaking news story), a per-email tax, social media account taxes, a bodyweight tax (which is always up and down), a carbohydrate tax, condom tax, per brick tax, phone minute use tax, ice cube tax, firewood tax, a plant and garden tax, grass clipping tax, yard trimming tax, a per tooth tax (rumored to have triggered a massive spike in tooth extractions), fingernail and toenail trimmings taxes, earwax tax, haircut tax, dog poop tax, cat poop tax, human poop tax, toilet tax, fork, spoon, and knife taxes, a sleep tax, a snore tax, flatulence tax (which always spikes on Cinco de Mayo), a per-page book tax, a sporting goods tax, a facial hair tax (both men and women – because equality!) the full list of absurd taxes just goes on and on – let your imagination run wild and you’ll be right! The tax rate was already approaching 80% and rising, mostly to pay for the ever-expanding $100 trillion-dollar federal debt.
In essence, the politicians were perpetually scheming and engaging in financially punishing people simply for being human in order to fund the out-of-control government spending. Absolutely nothing was sacred anymore (not that anything ever actually was sacred to begin with, in the literal term anyway). The government even forced people to install cameras and toilet seat sensors and all manner of environmental sensors in and around their homes and yards and in their cars and trucks to track all of this stuff, all at the taxpayers’ expense, of course.
Naturally, many of the tax revenue estimates made by the bureaucracy in Washington DC were entirely wrong, hence the ongoing assault on the taxpayer for more and more of their money, after all, someone has to pay for all of the “free” stuff doled out by the government. Sadly, the people were complicit; they had capitulated because they would rather stay out of a dark, dank federal prison and enjoy what little liberty and freedom and money that they had left on the outside than to rebel against it and end up on the inside of one. All of the politicians knew this, and they used it to their maximum advantage.
Filing the tax returns for all of these new taxes not only costs far more money, it takes four times as much time – proving once again that the government doesn’t care about using up your time as they see fit – but also the punitive punishment administered by the government for getting it wrong will directly result in the seizing of all assets plus jail time, so people are always in fear of an audit. Nowadays, there are more heart attacks during tax season than there are during daylight savings time changes in the spring and the fall, the previous recordholders. “Death by a thousand taxes,” was no longer just a metaphor.
When Mark Armstrong heard the news about this new TAIL tax, he dropped his cup of coffee onto the floor, which made all of his half-dozen or so rescue dogs and cats temporarily scatter from the kitchen where he was standing. As Mark was cleaning up the mess, his pets slowly started returning to the kitchen to see what was going on, and his favorite Pomeranian, Zea, started licking up the whiskey-tinged coffee from the floor. “Don’t’ worry guys,” Mark said to his beloved pets, “I’ll figure out a way to come up with the extra TAIL Tax money.”
Then he stood up and looked out of the kitchen window across the expanse of his hilly, tree studded, hundred-acre property located somewhere east of Podunk where he had other rescue dogs and cats housed in his barn and outbuildings all living very comfortable lives. There were about twenty-five dogs and cats in all. This new TAIL Tax was going to cost him thousands of extra dollars per year – money that he simply didn’t have – which would ultimately bankrupt him. Unfortunately, Mark was a retiree on a pension that he was barely scraping by on, and any new expense – especially involuntary ones imposed by the government – were an absolute threat to his livelihood. He bristled at the thought of another new, unfair, idiotic tax.
Mark also felt deeply in his heart that the government had gone too far this time, and he simply was not going to take it sitting down – he was not going to go along with this death by ten-thousand taxes madness imposed upon the people by the faceless, heartless, mindless bureaucrats in DC. In fact, an intense feeling of rebellion began to swell up in him; one that he could not suppress – he determined at that moment that the time for a tax war had come. But before engaging in a battle with the federal government Leviathan, he wisely decided to check into the language of the new law so that he could better develop some rules for engagement.
Notably, “A $50 per inch annual TAIL tax will be assessed on any cat or dog living within the household, the length of which shall be measured from the anus to the tip of the tail, including the fur, rounding up to the next one-quarter of an inch. All farm animals will be excluded.” He did some quick math in his head; this new TAIL tax was going to cost him approximately $30K per year, and there was no way he could pay it. Then he had a dark thought cross his mind that maybe this law was not really about a new tax, rather, it was a law designed to allow for more civil asset forfeitures because people won’t be able to pay their tax bills, giving the government more ownership and control over private property. This thought sent a chill down his spine, and he was not going to give up his ranch without a fight, even if it killed him.
From reading the entire text of the new law, Mark ascertained the following items which he could use in his TAIL Tax war:
The government was clearly attempting to also get a headcount of the dogs and cats that were living amongst the population, most likely for another tax scheme. Mark reasoned to himself, “And this is why I never fill out the census: The government will use the information provided against me.”
The term(s) of “within the household,” were not clarified, so there was a gray area for an indoor/outdoor pet, like a cat, for example, and whether there was an exemption for a pet that spent more time outdoors than indoors.
Specific language for dogs and cats not living “within the household” was missing from the law entirely, either by design or possibly by mistake, leaving room for interpretation.
There was no language included in the text of the law preventing tail docking or caudectomy, vis-à-vis, removal of the tail, and although this would be an extreme tax avoidance measure, certainly, some people would do it.
There was also some darker text within the law that enraged Mark: “Any citizen that underreports the headcount of the pets living within the household will be fined $50,000 and sentenced to a mandatory minimum of 6–months in jail, and the pets intentionally excluded from the tax return will be taken into custody and a fine of $100 per day will be assessed. At 90-days, if the fine is not paid in full, the animal in question will be destroyed. Financing options are available.”
“Those greedy, immoral, power-hungry bastards! ‘Pay us, or the dog gets it?’ It is now painfully obvious that the government will never stop their assault on the taxpayers unless we force them to stop! Guys: We must be the tip of the spear!” Mark exclaimed to his audience of house pets.
Mark sent a letter to his congressman, eloquently explaining his financial situation and how the TAIL tax was going to bankrupt him. There was no reply.
Mark sent a letter to the President, eloquently explaining his financial situation and how the TAIL tax was going to force him to sell his property. There was no reply.
Mark emailed the local news station, eloquently explaining the financial implications and how the TAIL tax was going to bankrupt many people. There was no reply.
Fuming over being ignored by the politicians and the media and facing financial ruin, Mark decided to make a TikTok video using clips of his rescue animals and house pets and explaining the TAIL tax law and how it allowed for the government to seize and destroy peoples pets and levy heavy fines against them, and it must be stopped by any means. This, fortunately, got the people’s attention. On day 1, he got a hundred views. By day 3, there were 10,000 views. By the end of the week, the video had reached 1,000,000 views and followers. The word was getting out. Zea was the new darling of the Internet. The politicians were getting flooded with phone calls, letters, and emails demanding them to repeal the TAIL tax. They did not budge.
In one protest, a few dozen people dumped a truckload of fake animal tails in front of the White House while holding up a banner that said, “NO TAIL TAX!” The crude, ineloquent message hinted that the people would cut off their pets tails in rebellion to avoid the new tax. This only got national news coverage after the capitol police arrived in force in full riot gear and started bashing the heads of the peaceful protesters.
The TikTok video also got the unwanted attention of someone in power in DC who directed the IRS to audit the last 6-years of Mark’s tax returns and to scrutinize them, “Microscopically.” This was the sort of audit that everyone feared. The kind of audit that nobody could survive with the relentless requests for all manner of obscure receipts, bank records, cleared checks, savings and checking account activity, cryptocurrency accounts and activity, stock trading accounts and activity, non-profit donation receipts, gifts, inheritances, lottery winnings, medical expenses, home improvement expenses, ad infinitum. I was clear that Mark was being targeted by the government, and there was no doubt that they would surely find something. They always do.
Early one morning, just before dawn, the rescue dogs in the barn and outbuildings began barking fiercely, waking Mark up. He got out of bed, grabbed his 12-gauge pump shotgun, which, living on a ranch with bears in the vicinity, was per the usual, walked out into the living room, and peered out of the big front window. He did not notice anything unusual. On his way to the kitchen from the living room to make some coffee, he heard a strange buzzing sound coming from the outside of the house near the back door where the electrical panel was located. He thought there might be an electrical problem, so he opened the back door to go outside and check it out – and there he was met with a large, matte black drone hovering at eye-level, just beyond the wraparound porch, which not only startled him, but it also triggered a split-second defensive response that resulted in the immediate disassembly of said large, matte black drone via a 12-gauge 00 shotgun blast from the hip. After years of collecting and shooting firearms, Mark was an expert marksman and new a few trick shots.
Mark walked over to the wreckage to investigate. There, on what remained of the matte black carbon fiber fuselage that housed the NiCad batteries, hard drive, HD camera, and circuit boards, was the unmistakable logo of the FBI. He took a video clip of it with his phone. At that precise moment, Mark knew that it was going to be a very long day. With the phone video camera still rolling and the sun rising, he discharged a point-blank 00 shotgun blast into the heart of the electronics. Blown to smithereens was an understatement. He looked into his camera, shook his head, stopped the video, and went back inside the house to finish making his coffee and also to prepare for the imminent battle. He reviewed surveillance video from around the ranch and saw that there were a half-dozen black SUV’s plus an armored personnel vehicle at the front gate. “They must have found something really bad in my tax returns,” he said to Zea. He called a lawyer friend.
“Well, Mark, you certainly have them on failing to provide due process, but they are definitely not going to back down now. They will label you as an unpatriotic tax evader and claim that you started the hostilities, destroyed government property, falsified your tax returns, and they will find a way to escalate until you leave the house feet-first in a body bag. Remember what happed in Waco; your house may ‘accidentally’ catch on fire. Unfortunately, today may be your last one. I advise that you take to your TikTok followers and tell the story as it unfolds. I’ll call the media.”
The commanding FBI agent named Johnson who was watching the live HD video feed from the drone camera as it got blasted out of the sky was not amused. “Do you not understand what the meaning of ‘stealth’ is!” he snapped at the drone pilot, who quickly replied, “You saw what happened – that guy’s reflexes were unbelievable – I had zero time to respond!” “Well, now that the stealth surveillance tactic has been compromised, we’ll have to give Mr. Armstrong a courtesy call and allow him to surrender peacefully,” said Johnson to his colleagues.
Mark’s phone rang with “This is the FBI” displayed as the caller ID without a phone number. He started his live TikTok app and answered the phone in hands-free mode. “Hello FBI, this is Mark Armstrong, I’ve been expecting your call. Fair warning: you are being streamed live in front of a million plus TikTok followers.” There was an awkward moment of silence, and Mark thought that he heard a few muffled expletives before agent Johnson responded, in a calm voice, “Mr. Armstrong, it appears that we may have started off on the wrong foot this morning. You see, you’ve been indicted for tax evasion, and we have a federal warrant for your arrest, and we were simply using the drone to determine if it was safe to send up some agents to take you into custody. But now that you shot it down, not only have you committed another serious federal crime you have also escalated the situation with your hostility.” “Hostility? I’m no threat to anyone, Agent Johnson, and you could have just used the intercom button at the gate – I would have let you in. But now I am in fear for my life after seeing that drone spying on me.” “Mr. Armstrong, are you saying that you are not going to surrender to the FBI?” “Surrender to some trumped up charges brought on by some greedy, bloated, ham-fisted politicians in Washington because I informed the public about the ugly truth of the money grabbing TAIL tax? This is absolute tyranny and likely a death warrant based on the FBI’s infamous history of bungling these sorts of things. I’ll need to consider my options, Agent Johnson.” and with that, Mark hung up the phone. The TikTok live stream responses were blowing up.
Mark addressed his TikTok followers, “Friends; I really don’t want to die today, but the FBI is probably going to raid my house at some point and ‘accidentally’ kill me, so I’m going to leave this live stream on, and you can watch how the events unfold in real time.” He plugged his phone into the charger, set his phone on a stand, put the stand on a table, and aimed the camera with the front window and front door of the house in the field of view. That’s when the power went out. Mark got back in front of his phone and told his audience that the FBI had just cut his power, but he had several fully charged battery banks for his phone to keep the live stream going.
Although Mark was on high alert and flinching at every sound he heard outside of the house, the rest of the day was uneventful, perhaps indicating that the feds were planning for something after nightfall.
Sure enough, just after sunset, the dogs outside started barking again. Mark looked out of the front window to see a small tactical robot rolling up the driveway in the twilight. He grabbed his phone and showed his live stream audience what was happening – which had grown to over 3-million viewers – and said, “Looks like they sent up a robot TAIL tax collector! I don’t know what is going to happen next, but please pray for me and my pets!” And at that very moment, his phone displayed, “Lost Internet Connectivity.” Now the FBI was blocking his 5G signal. Mark found himself completely cut off from the grid. He sipped his cold, whiskey laden coffee in the dark.
As the dogs continued barking excitedly in the darkness, and as Mark continued to observe the tactical robot closing in on his front porch (he had already assumed that it had some sort of fatal explosive or incendiary payload, or other armament intended to kill him), suddenly, from the back of the house, there were headlights shining in through the back door window. Mark assumed that it was the FBI driving in with the armored personnel carrier, coming in from the old, mostly unused back gate that was overgrown with black walnut trees and was only accessible by an old unmapped dirt fire road that ran along the back of the property.
He picked up Zea, who was also barking, and went to the back door window to see what was happening, halfway expecting to take a bullet to the head. That’s when he saw the endless stream of cars and news vans and pickup trucks rolling in with huge American and Gadsden flags abundantly displayed. Then he heard the horns honking. Then he saw droves of people walking in with flashlights and their dogs. The cars and trucks and people began surrounding his house. Someone yelled out from a bullhorn, “MARK ARMSTRONG – YOUR CAVALRY IS HERE!”
In that moment, FBI Agent Johnson realized that he missed seeing the back gate of the property during his earlier recon using satellite images, and this error might cost him his job. He also couldn’t believe what he was witnessing through the HD camera on the tactical robot: The people surrounded it and started chanting, “USA-USA-USA!” while pumping their fists in the air. Johnson lamented to his team, “Dammit! We’re done, boys. Pack it up!” And with that order, the tactical robot operator began backing it down the driveway, slowly, all the while the growing crowd of people escorted it to the gate.
The lights on the property suddenly came back on. Mark’s phone rang with the same, “This is the FBI” caller ID with no phone number. “Armstrong; this is Agent Johnson. It appears that you have a lot of friends supporting you. We’re going to disengage and leave now, and best of luck to you.” Mark replied, “Agent Johnson, why don’t you come up to the house for a dram of whiskey, you know, as a peace offering?” “Thanks, Mark, but I’m on duty. Besides, I don’t like big, potentially hostile, anti-law enforcement crowds. By the way, I was on your side the entire time, but I have orders to follow.” And with that, Agent Johnson ended the call, and the convoy of FBI vehicles drove off into the inky black night.
It became known as the “Wag-the-Tax Revolution.” The media reports said that 5,000 people came to stand with Mark. The FBI said that it was only 500. There was a subsequent anti TAIL tax march on Washington where it was estimated that 5-million people showed up with their beloved, well behaved pets. Mark and Zea became folk heroes and made the usual media appearances. Mark wrote a bestselling book about it. Zea became a well-paid spokesdog for a national dogfood brand.
The pushback against the TAIL tax was so intense across the nation, that every single legislator who voted for it got voted out of office. Thousands of arcane tax laws and anti-liberty and anti-freedom laws were repealed. The size and scope and power and expense of the government was reduced to a point where nobody really noticed it anymore, as it should have been all along.
The people flourished with the additional freedom and liberty, and with the heavy tax burden lifted off of their backs, they had more money in their pockets to put to use for their own personal version of the pursuit of happiness.
We wake at dawn, often begrudgingly, and load up the bikes, and the necessary gear, and drive the road, barely awake, to the edge of land, to the edge of the sea, where the two collide, is where we congregate, to set out, on our weekly ritual.
We ride, we ride.
With skinny tires, and spoke and wheel, and chain and gears, we hop on our saddles, and grab our handlebars, and we ride the weathered, asphalt ribbon, that strings along the, Pacific Ocean, and crisscrosses, the coastal mountains, that are dotted with, century old oak trees, that are covered with lichen, and black walnut trees, with resident squirrels, and holes in the ground, with other resident squirrels, that often scurry, frantically, without apparent reason, out across the road, directly in front of us, making us flinch, and miraculously, with nowhere to hide, they somehow avoid getting run over, at the very last second.
We ride, we ride.
With hawks, crows, and condors, soaring overhead, and sometimes, a turkey buzzard or three, on the road ahead, dining a creature, that was formerly living, this is what they do, we also spy mule deer, and an occasional coyote, out in the periphery, of the living canvas, and we see, the tumbleweeds, waiting for the wind, to set them free, and we see the purple sage, and the green wild fennel, an invasive species, that is hard to eradicate, and the orange poppies, and the purple lupine, and the yellow coreopsis, the rainbow of colors, and the richness of textures, is pleasant to the eyes, as we roll by, side by side, and keenly observe.
We ride, we ride.
Looking out across, the shimmering azure sea, changing hues by the moment, we see the dark kelp beds, just beneath the surface, that protect the little fishes, from the big fishes, who want to eat them, and we see sailboats, and fishing boats, and we see whales, and dolphins, and sea lions, surfing and playing, in the briny blue, and they smile at us, and we smile back, acknowledging each other, in the fleeting moment, as we glide down the road.
We ride, we ride.
We ride in the fresh salt air, and in the warm sunshine, and in the biting cold, and in the pouring rain, and in the gusty wind, that nobody really likes, and we fix flat tires, regardless of weather conditions, because we must, and we talk and laugh, about all sorts of things, sometimes serious, sometimes humorous, but always engaging, and sometimes we cuss, to emphasize a point, and sometimes we deride, the ones that are deserving, of our scorn.
We ride, we ride.
We ride along, through the open space, between heaven and earth, past the verdant fields, and up and over the hills, and across the valleys, and through the mountain passes, and down the canyons, sometimes too fast, and through the tunnels, and over and under the bridges, and sometimes through water, that’s a little too deep, that gets your shoes and feet wet, making them cold and squishy, and year after year, we meet and we ride, for endless miles, with the people that we love.
We ride, we ride.
This is how we meditate, and naturally medicate, and how we heal, and how we make sense of, our complicated lives, until the fateful day comes, when circumstances conspire, to weaken and wither our bodies, and we can ride no more, then we’ll dream, the wonderful dream, the golden dream, the infinite dream, of the adventures past, and the stories told, and the laughter, and the comradery, where time stands perfectly still.
Recently, my old wireless keyboard had some stubborn, sticky keys, so I had to replace it. Mind you, the keys were not sticky with foodstuffs like strawberry jam, orange blossom honey, or gooey perfumy hand lotion like my mother-in-law’s keyboard (true story); they were sticky as in I had to mash them down to get them to work. This mashing of the keys has the potential to trigger carpal tunnel syndrome, so the keyboard had to go to the great computer in the sky. Farewell, my QWERTY friend.
Subsequently, I had to purchase a replacement keyboard and mouse set. The set came with what can best be described as a warning booklet in a 1-millimeter font which required a magnifying glass to read. There were battery warnings, laser warnings, FCC warnings, plus product use guidelines. You’d think that I just bought a nuclear detonating device, not a keyboard and mouse. The only thing missing, I think, was language about the keyboard not being intended to be used a weapon. This booklet seemed like hyper legal overkill to cover any potential product liability. All of this for a keyboard? I’m pretty sure that my dad’s old mechanical Smith-Corona typewriter had no such label. I’m also pretty sure that his generation would have torn any such label off anyway.
Naturally, now I’ve been noticing that there are warning labels on everything. EVERYTHING! It is as if we have collectively lost all common sense and are somehow no longer responsible or accountable for not knowing that a knife may be sharp, or that a fire is hot. This is beyond ridiculous – this is insanity.
Is it not common sense (or common knowledge, which, apparently, is not so anymore) that:
A stovetop may be hot.
A hot cup of coffee may be hotter.
An electric appliance may shock you.
An electric chainsaw may shock you and also cut you.
You might fall off of a ladder.
A lawnmower may be dangerous if you stick your hands or feet underneath the cutting blade shroud.
That sunscreen may not protect you from actually getting skin cancer.
An inflatable flamingo is not a life saving device and you may drown.
Gasoline is flammable.
Rat poison is poisonous.
You might crash your bicycle.
You might cut yourself with a pair of scissors.
If society is going to go through slapping warning labels on all of the allegedly dangerous things, may I also suggest warning labels for people? Simple labels like:
Does not get along well with others.
Do not allow to consume alcohol.
Volatile.
Agitated.
Bigot.
Democrat.
Republican.
Dangerous while driving.
Dangerous while talking.
Narrow-minded.
Intolerant.
Indifferent.
Hater.
Extremely selfish.
Hypocrite.
Liar.
Pathological liar (there is a difference).
Blowhard.
Unmotivated.
Manipulator.
I think this would help avoid a whole lot of conflicts because you simply would avoid these types of people, right? On second thought, it would leave you with the uncomfortable knowledge that there are so many of them running around possibly having children.
I would argue that warning labels are interfering with the natural order of things like Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection, for example. Think about that for a minute. If we don’t allow Darwinism to do its natural selection thing, are we not allowing for the perpetuation of DNA that perhaps should have discontinued?
I don’t believe that we want the guy who shocked himself while trimming his tree by cutting into a utility wire with an electric chain saw and fell off his ladder into a gasoline fueled firepit to have any children. Prove me wrong.
But there is always a lawyer somewhere that would ask, “Was there a visible warning label on the utility wire?”
msnarky 