Sin-A-Rama: Conversation With B. Astrid Daley

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I don’t believe in God, but synchronicity can make a good case for some sort of grand design. About a month or so ago I had received a book in the mail titled Sin-A-Rama: Sleaze Sex Paperbacks of the Sixties Expanded Edition from the good people at Feral House. This came at a time when I was in the midst of planning my curatorial debut on this very subject.

Editors B. Astrid Daley and Adam Parfrey have compiled an important collection of historical essays tracking the publishers, editors, writers, illustrators, and gangsters who were making money turning out commercial smut in great volume. In the history of publishing, these guys (unfortunately very few women) waged an important First Amendment battle, sparked by the usual pervert moralists who exist in every generation. These books paved a foundation for the 1960s sexual revolution in plain sight of mainstream American culture. And the artwork looks damn good in 2016.

I recently had the great pleasure of speaking with writer and editor B. Astrid Daley on all of the above.

MN: Can you give a brief description of Sin-A-Rama?

AD: Sin-A-Rama is a profusely illustrated chronicle of the smut peddlers, pulp writers, and illustrators who helped burst open a Pandora’s Box of the forbidden that would usher out Eisenhower era repression and usher in the libertine spirit of the Sexual Revolution. Not only are sleaze books historically relevant, having played a major role in obscenity law, they also are a delightful product of their time…. stories and illustrations of Hells Angel style biker gangs, groovy hippie love-ins, Mad Men style office hijinks, and suburban swingers swapping spouses at key parties. And for lovers of American illustration art, they are undeniably eye candy.

MN: I think that these sexually adventurous pulp novels are a direct result of the sexual repression occurring in the culture during the mid-twentieth century. Do you see them that way?

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AD: I think that’s very true. Carl Jung said, “What you resist persists.” The repressive 1950s culture couldn’t keep the lid on sexuality forever. Sex is a powerful biological force, and one that will find expression one way or another. Pulp could be seen as a regression into fantasy, whether we’re talking bug eyed aliens or the sexy exploits of go-go dancers.

MN: Tell me a little bit about the history of “sleaze publishing”? How does Sin-A-Rama fit into the historical writing currently available on pulp fiction novels?

AD: Arguably, the earliest “sleaze” books were published by companies like Beacon Books and Midwood Books. These were more of the “soft sleaze” variety…not as clearly defined as “sex” books as say another early publisher, and the most prolific – Greenleaf. Sleaze really begins in 1959 with the first Greenleaf book under the Nightstand imprint, Love Addict. The primary objective of a sleaze book was to titillate the reader, while at the same time managing to steer clear of the censors. Even in the early 60s when euphemisms for sex abounded, sleaze publishers would face legal battles that would pave the way for more liberal obscenity laws.

Before the first edition of Sin-A-Rama was published, a few major books had discussed the history of the vintage paperback, most notably The Great American Paperback by Gary Lovisi. There were also several price guides for vintage paperback collectors. Still, no book had really delved into sleaze until Sin-A-Rama. A few other books like Queer Pulp and Strange Sisters are excellent resources for LGBT pulp erotica. Around the same time as Sin-A-Rama, Young Lusty Sluts was published; it covers more of the “porn era” that followed sleaze.

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MN: This was first published eleven years ago in 2005, right? Why an expanded edition now?

AD: Yes, the original edition was published in 2005. We wanted to include some of the amazing covers we didn’t get to showcase on the first go-round. It was also an opportunity to explore new topics. I wrote pieces on Occult Sleaze and Swinging Sleaze plus an artist profile on Chet Collom. This was also an opportunity to release Sin-A-Rama with a new, more risqué cover, better aligned with the spirit of sleaze. Back in 2005, the distributor was concerned that a salacious cover would get the book banned by the chain stores.

MN: I’m particularly interested in the illustrations. How did you track all these illustrations down?

AD: Most were purchased from specialty dealers who sell illustration art as a niche. Some were obtained from eBay sellers who acquired them by happenstance. I’m not sure of the story behind how some of those eBay sellers got the pieces.

MN: How were the image rights handled on a book like this? Did you need to involve a fair use attorney?

AD: I didn’t have any role in the legal side of things, although fair use is the legal standard that allows these images to be shown without copyright infringement. Under fair use, images may be used to illustrate educational materials and certainly Sin-A-Rama is a course in sleaze!

MN: I think Earl Kemp is one of the more colorful characters to emerge from the story of pulp publishing. What are some of your favorite characters?

AD: Artist Gene Bilbrew, who also went by ENEG, is among my favorites. Bilbrew was one of the few African American artists who illustrated sleaze covers. His fetishistic style immediately caught my eye…the oddball characters on his covers stood out, which is saying a lot in the outlandish world of sleaze. Along with another African American sleaze artist Bill Alexander, Bilbrew created the “Bronze Bomber,” the first black superhero. He was also a singer for the R&B group the Basin Street Boys. The Basin Street Boys’ one hit was “I Sold My Heart to the Junkman,” and sadly, the song would prove prophetic as Bilbrew would later die of a drug overdose, while living in the back of a bookstore. Jim Linderman does a great job chronicling Bilbrew’s story in his book The Dangerous Years. Another favorite character of mine is artist Bill Edwards who illustrated covers for imprints like Saber, Vega, and Fabian. Edwards was a talented western artist, film/TV actor, and rodeo star. And who could forget sleaze writer and bad movie-maker extraordinaire Ed Wood.

MN: I think many people will be surprised by Ed Wood’s other career as a pulp writer. Who was Robert Bonfils? It seems like he was the king of the pulp illustrators.

AD: Robert Bonfils’ level of artistry and volume of work are unmatched by any sleaze illustrator; his technical skill rivals pulp illustrators of any genre. His hundreds of covers for Greenleaf are some of the most prized by collectors and fetch top prices. The bombshell women he painted could have just as easily been reproduced on a pin-up calendar or in a more “legit” men’s magazine. Bonfils seemed to have more fun and pay more attention to detail than most illustrators. His characters are frequently smiling or coyly gazing out from the covers in elaborate scenes, often with full casts of characters in everything from orgy piles to conga lines to psychedelic love-ins. He captured the 60s zeitgeist of liberation and perhaps more importantly, ignited the fantasies of the pulp erotica reader, drawing him into taboo and alluring worlds outside the humdrum existence of cookie-cutter suburbia. For more about Bonfils’ work and influence, the September 2004 issue of Illustration Magazine, with profiles by Robert Speray and Lynn Munroe, is a must-read.

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MN: Is pulp fiction something you’ve always been interested in?

AD: I first became interested in this type of material when I was a teenager. I was getting into Beat authors, so I bought a CD box set with a bunch of related audio recordings. Pictured inside the box set’s booklet were a bunch of vintage paperbacks that were clearly exploiting popular stereotypes about the Beat Generation. Think funny titles such as, Like Crazy Man, stereotypical phrases like “dig it,” and plentiful bongo drums. I asked my local bookseller if she had anything like this, and she brought out about 100 vintage paperbacks, very few with Beat themes but all with awesome illustrated covers and funny titles and cover blurbs. I was in love. From the more tame 1950s stuff, I then discovered the raunchier world of 60s sleaze, which I loved even more. This was the early days of eBay; I would spend hours scrolling through page after page of listings. The dial-up modem made the process tedious, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of them and soon began amassing a collection, which today numbers in the thousands. They reminded me of the cheesy b-movies my brother and I used to sit up late watching in the 90’s– these movies were tame for sure but very taboo to us. I remember reveling at the rebellious b-movie bad girls whose adventures were so far removed from my small town upbringing. This early exposure to the taboo was the launchpad for my fascination with delightfully raunchy things.

MN: Feral House is a perfect home for this book. How did you meet Adam Parfrey and come to work on this with him?

AD: Funny enough, I met Adam on eBay. I was listing some doubles of sleaze books on auction, and I guess my thorough book descriptions, which included details about cover artists and author pen-names, caught his eye. He contacted me and asked me if I wanted to be involved with the book. I was 19 years old at the time and enthusiastically said yes. Not long after, Adam came to visit me in Fargo, ND, where I was attending college, so that he could review the books in our collection and discuss the details of Sin-A-Rama.

MN: Wow, so you were 19 and already found yourself to be an expert in vintage pulp novels? That’s some great luck to have met Adam at that time. Was this a book he was planning on doing before you stepped in?

AD: Yes, it is a rather odd thing, I suppose, for a teenager to be into something so esoteric. I attribute my interest to growing up in a small town of 370 people where I felt like an outsider. Nothing exciting happened in my small town–the local newspaper even had a section where they would talk about people getting together for coffee or someone visiting from a nearby town. Not fitting in there helped me develop critical thinking and led me to question social norms….and in turn, that drew me to the taboo.

Adam’s timing was great, indeed! When he found me on eBay, he had already been planning to do the book. I am grateful for the opportunity to work on Sin-A-Rama and to work with Adam and the Feral House staff. It was really cool that Adam gave me this opportunity at the ripe, young age of 19!

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MN: Can you tell me a little bit about your swinger blog? How does your interests in sex pulps coincide with “the lifestyle” if at all?

AD: The blog, The Swinger Diaries, is the brainchild of co-author, Claire De Haven, whom I met in the local swinger Lifestyle. Through the blog, we share our ideas and experiences with non-monogamy and promote our upcoming memoir, also called The Swinger Diaries.

I do think there is an intersection between my interest in pulp erotica and swinging. In some ways, the swinger lifestyle feels like a living sleaze paperback. So, for me, it’s another example of my fascination with the taboo. Being involved with a non-mainstream subculture, Claire and I found ourselves navigating an unfamiliar world full of both sexy and sometimes outrageous scenes, with a cast of zany characters shamelessly experimenting with the taboo, albeit without the distinctly 60s elements. However, the Lifestyle lacks the uber fantasy elements of sleaze. You’re more likely to overhear soccer moms, having just swapped husbands, talking about a future play date for their kids, than to witness anything from Penthouse Forum or Fifty Shades of Grey.

MN: Where can people learn more about your work?

AD: You can find out more about me and my projects at www.bastriddaley.com. Outside of the Swinger Diaries memoir and blog, I also am about to publish Swap Confidential: Swinging in Popular Culture. My article on swinging sleaze in Sin-A-Rama is an excerpt from that book. I also have an upcoming article in The Sleazy Reader that discusses the life and career of popular sleaze artist Douglas B. Weaver.

You can also follow me on Twitter:
@swingerdiary
@astridswings

You can order Sin-A-Rama here.

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These Incredible Lip Tattoos Will Replace Your Lipstick

For Teen Vogue, by Andrea Navarro.

Ink for your pout.

French makeup artist, Violette, has made a name for herself by creating some of the coolest beauty looks we’ve ever seen. What really catches everyone’s eye about Violette is her attention to detail. We were so captivated by her skills that we teamed up with her back in October 2013 to dream up glossy, gorgeous lip and eye artwork. Violette’s out-of-this-world lip looks include ombré, gold foil, eyeshadow pouts, and drawings that include geometric shapes and faux mustaches.

Violette’s latest lip art creation is bound to become the next big trend in beauty, and it’s one of the coolest things we’ve seen. She posted a photo on Instagram of her newest lip art for MAC Cosmetics, and one of the looks featured temporary lip tattoos. When you think of lip tattoos, an image of real ink on the inside of lips probably pops into your head, but thanks to Violette that’s bound to change.

Violette was able to feature skulls, diamonds, hearts, mini lips, cupcakes, and more all right on a model’s pout. To be honest, she should consider selling some temporary lip tattoos herself because these would totally sell out in no time. Prepare ourselves to see a lot of these coming your way, because makeup artists and vloggers alike are bound to hop on this bandwagon. Now the only question that remains is, what happens when you kiss someone? TBD.

Related: You Have To See the Tattoo Kendall Jenner Designed for Hailey Baldwin

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Before Jennifer Lawrence and Taylor Swift Were Famous, They Modeled for Abercrombie — and We Have the Pics!
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House Benghazi Report Reveals Hillary Clinton Was Second Gunman On Grassy Knoll

More fake news daily at The Political Garbage Chute.

WASHINGTON, D.C. — Buried in the hundreds of pages of the highly-anticipated House Benghazi Committee report is something that may not have been seen by the mainstream media outlets at first, but it is quickly gathering momentum in the 24-hour news cycle. On page 269 of the report issued by Rep. Trey Gowdy’s (R-SC) select committee after roughly two years of investigating is the fact that former Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton was in fact the infamous “second gunman on the grassy knoll” in the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

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“This committee has conducted the most thorough and exhaustive investigation in the history of the world,” Gowdy told reporters in a press release this morning, “because we weren’t going to stop until we got the answers. And if we didn’t like those answers we would not stop until we had the answers we wanted, even if we had to make them up ourselves.”

According to the report, even though Ms. Clinton was just 16 years old, Clinton was contacted by Saul Alinsky and a young George Soros. This meeting is when Soros and Alinksy convinced Clinton to help them assassinate John F. Kennedy, because they said that he “wasn’t nearly liberal enough” and that Kennedy had rebuffed their attempts to get him to “swear allegiance to Communism, Karl Marx, and abortion.”

“Ms. Clinton agreed to help them carry out their dastardly deed,” Gowdy’s press release says, “and she was issued a rifle. She was also given an invisibility cloak, the Elder Wand, and the Philosopher’s Stone, all of which are magical items which she has since used to help obfuscate her role in not only JFK’s assassination, but also Vince Foster’s death and of course Benghazi.”

The JFK assassination wasn’t the only high-profile conspiracy theory that was confirmed by Gowdy’s Benghazi report. On page 145 it is mentioned that an interview “with a guy who knew a dude who once sold weed to Bill Clinton in college” revealed that Hillary admitted to “starting chemtrails” in 1965 and when the Benghazi investigators finally found and interviewed a talk radio caller who went by the name Chester Cheesecorn they discovered that in 1987 Hillary told friends at a Christmas party she was “working with George Lucas on a character called Jar Jar Binks for a new Star Track film.”

“It’s unclear whether we can file any charges against Ms. Clinton for any of these high crimes and misdemeanors,” Gowdy’s release says, “except the Jar Jar one. No one likes Jar Jar. Anyone tangentially related to bringing that dildo to life should spend the rest of their natural born lives behind bars.”

This is a developing story.

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Boxers Or Briefs: Figure Drawing

In an artistic turn this week, we find DanielXMiller at the Tom of Finland Foundation, a bastion of erotic art dedicated to its preservation. Could there be a better venue for the question of the day? Seeking an answer, Daniel finds two figure models participating in a drawing session. Fortunately, Jameson from Tucson, Arizona, and Matthew from Manassas Virginia, are willing to step out of their poses and take part in Boxers or Briefs: Figure Drawing.

As it turns out, neither Jameson nor Matthew are strangers to Tom of Finland. In addition to figure drawing and modeling opportunities, the foundation holds events and circulates news about art and erotica. Daniel discusses the experiences of these two models and how they found themselves posing for artists. In the video below, you’ll learn about some of the challenges the models face, and also why they enjoy the work.

We won’t spoil the show and tell you the answers to Daniel’s central question, but we can tell you that, because these guys are already naked, Boxers or Briefs: Figure Drawing, has an interesting inversion on the signature video series you’ve come to enjoy: these models have to actually put underwear on in order to help Daniel finish his reporting.

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Boxers Or Briefs: Caucusing With Clever

In the spirit of helping you make an informed decision when you go to the polls, DanielXMiller is taking the time to discuss not only for whom you’ll be casting a vote, but also what you’ll be wearing when you do it. In Boxers or Briefs: Caucusing with Clever, he asks four voters how they come down on two of the most important decisions a man makes.

Daniel rounded up four Democrats who are supporters of either Bernie or Hillary, and he asked them to bare their bodies and their ballots.

Anthony from Washington, D.C. supports Bernie, because Bernie is different. It’s no surprise then that he favors briefs and the brand CheapUndies to tell the world that he is liberal and care-free.

Hailing from Texas is Rance, who supports Hillary because she is a fighter. A pair of 2XIST brief is his pair of choice to show that he is not afraid to think outside the box.

George is our second Bernie supporter. Another brief-wearer, George supports Bernie, because he is trustworthy, and briefs for their close fit. He defaults to Calvin, but he’s a liberal who changes his mind all the time-when it comes to underwear.

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— This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

Boxers Or Briefs: Parkour Athletes

Maintaining a “summer body” throughout the year is no small task, but it doesn’t take a gym membership – or even weights for that matter. In Boxers or Briefs: Parkour Athletes with Jack Adams, Kevin Spencer steps in to discuss underwear preferences and parkour, an activity which turns an urban city into an obstacle course.

Kevin meets up with Russian models Sergey Shitikov and Alexander Baiturin. The two of them are actually cousins, and testaments for a parkour body (and how well underwear looks on them). Sergei has been doing parkour for 8 years, and understandably takes selfies from the top of buildings. Alexander is also coming out on top – he recently placed second in a Las Vegas parkour competition.

When he’s not maneuvering the city, Alexander finds work doing stunts in films. Sergie has only been here for three months, chilling, having a good time, and staying fit.

For more videos, subscribe to our YouTube Channel.

— This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

A 13,000-Mile Experiment in Extreme Parenting

Canadian adventurer Bruce Kirkby decided that his family was in a technology-driven rut, so he set up a grueling journey from British Columbia to Zanskar, a remote region in northern India. The dream was exploration and growth. The reality involved unexpected risks that made him wonder if the whole thing was an epic mistake.

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The Kirkby family leaving Zanskar Photo: Bruce Kirkby

The familiar roads of my neighborhood spooled out like black yarn behind the ambulance window; the lights of our family home faded in the distance. Arched atop a stretcher, I coughed up blood between shallow breaths.

Hours earlier I’d been in perfect health, or so I believed. That morning I’d skied 20 miles on nordic trails and lifted weights ­after that. But around midnight I woke up with searing pain radiating down my left arm. I prodded my wife, who called 911.

At the hospital, doctors and nurses ­orbited my bed, running a flurry of tests: blood samples, heart ultrasound, CAT scan. By the next day, a diagnosis began to take shape.

“You have pneumonia,” a burly South Afri­can doctor said. “And a small pulmonary embolism. That’s a clot in your lung. But there is something else going on. Portions of your lung tissue look like ground glass. Have you traveled abroad recently?”

Between halting breaths, I told him about our family journey to the Indian Himalayas. The three months we spent living with a Buddhist lama, sharing an eight-by-eightfoot earthen room. The wet cough the old man developed. And the daily injections of antibiotics I gave him in the rump–required for an illness that had started five years earlier and had stripped his weight.

The doctor’s eyes widened. “I’d bet my life you have tuberculosis, son,” he said, backing out of the room. “It’s very contagious.”

For days I lay there alone, listening to the relentless click of a wall clock. Nurses dressed like Ebola relief workers occasionally appeared to administer blood thinners and antibiotics. During those long hours, I found my thoughts returning to my young sons–Bodi, age seven, and Taj, three–who, together with my wife, Christine, and me, had lived alongside the lama, cuddled in his arms, and called him me-me (grandfather). If I had contracted tuberculosis, it was almost certain that they had as well. The possibility was too painful to contemplate.

Since the day the boys were born, we had been taking them on outdoor adventures. By the time Bodi was 16 months old, he’d spent a quarter of his life in a tent, joining us for sea kayaking in Argentina, climbing in the Bugaboos, surfing on Vancouver Island, and trekking in Patagonia. While Taj was still breast-feeding, we flew to the Republic of Georgia, bought a packhorse, and spent 60 days traversing the length of the Caucasus Mountains.

Now my world was upside down. Had the naysayers been right all along? Had my unshakable confidence that I could manage every risk been misguided? Had I just royally fucked up?

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Photo: Robert Harkness

For decades my work as a writer and pho­tographer has taken me on long wilderness journeys. When kids arrived, it seemed natural to pack them along, too, but in doing so, Christine and I were unwittingly choosing sides in a contentious modern debate about how to gauge and manage “child appropriate” risk. In Canada, where I live, the trend toward helicopter parenting has had sobering effects. In the space of a generation, the physical radius of play for the average nine-year-old has declined by 90 percent. Today less than a quarter of our kids walk to school. Only 7 percent meet daily physical-­activity recommendations, much less set out on challenging multi-week trips.

While our boys’ safety has always been a foremost concern, causing us to ease up on our ambitions, there’s no doubt that we’ve pushed the boundaries. When Bodi was four, he and I packed goats along Utah’s Highline Trail: 100 miles, most of it above 10,000 feet. When Taj was two, our family chartered a bush plane and paddled the Churchill River in northern Saskatchewan.

To those who questioned our ­choices, I trotted out standard arguments about the character benefits of facing rigorous challenges, the intrinsic value of sleeping under the stars, and even the improved immunity that comes with ingesting a bit of dirt. But in retrospect, the real reason I planned such long, challenging journeys was selfish: I yearned for the wilderness myself.

Whatever the original motive, these trips were good for our family. Unplugging from the distractions of modern life allowed us to connect with our boys in ways we could never replicate at home, where something ­always needed doing. In particular, the horse-­trekking journey across Georgia–sweltering, exhausting, and skirting a war zone–had a profound impact, probably ­because of its
duration. For a full year after returning home, our family savored a closeness previously unimagined.

But such glories fade, and old habits return. It was during the depths of a British Columbia winter that I sat at our kitchen ­table shoveling Cheerios into my mouth while mindlessly scrolling through Facebook posts on my phone.

“Dad!” Bodi screamed. “Did you hear what I said?”

I hadn’t heard a word of what he’d said, and he was sitting right beside me. A busy life was transforming me into exactly the type of father I swore I’d never be.

For years, Christine and I had discussed the idea of taking the boys to live in a Himalayan monastery. It was one of those pie-in-the-sky dreams, something that might happen “someday.”

She had studied Buddhism in Canada and was eager to learn more. Despite a reflexive resistance to organized spirituality, I was open to the idea. Over the space of a dozen Himalayan journeys–as support staff on an Everest climb, during an attempt to traverse Tibet’s Chang Tang Plateau, and as the leader of photography tours in Bhutan and Sikkim–I’d always been drawn to the world of mountain Buddhists.

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On the road in western China Photo: Bruce Kirkby

After the Cheerios incident, living in a monastery suddenly seemed like the most anti-­modern, anti-distracted thing our family could do. Within days we decided to drop everything and go. “Someday” would be that summer.

Rather than fly to the Himalayas, we elected to go all in and travel to the other side of the planet by surface. To me it feels like cheating to cram into a plane seat, scarf down a quick dinner, doze, then wake up the next morning in Bangkok or Delhi or Kuala Lumpur–fabled cities that, just a century ago, took six weeks or more to reach. Airplanes diminish not only time and distance but everything in between. Blame it on nostalgia, but we had our eyes set on completing a long, slow trip that would take us from Canada to South Korea to China, then on to Tibet, ­Nepal, and India.

Of course, we faced the inevitable deluge of concern, doubt, and vocal criticism. Within days, attempting to find boat passage across the North ­Pacific threatened to thwart our plans.

“There is no way you’ll get a three-year-old aboard,” we were flatly told by a New Zealand freighter agent, part of a little-known cadre of people who specialize in booking passage aboard cargo ships. “Marine insurance covers passengers between the ages of 6 and 79. No one is going to risk millions of dollars of cargo to get your baby across the ocean.”

Eventually, we found a German carrier whose insurance policy covered three-year-olds. We reserved four berths on a 66,000-ton container ship bound for South Korea.
Plenty of other worries seep into the mind of a parent planning a trip to Asia–traffic, pollution, disease–but none kept me awake at night more than altitude. The train carrying us to the Tibetan capital of Lhasa would traverse a dizzying 16,640-foot pass. Later we’d reach even higher elevations on the trek to the monastery. When I contacted a long-established American outfitter operating in Tibet, seeking assistance with permits and logistics, it flatly refused to help.

“Tibet is no place for children,” a manager insisted. “We won’t take anyone under 12.”

I asked why.

“Because they can’t acclimatize. Their lungs are not properly developed. Do you know who Peter Hackett is?”

I did. I had met the Telluride, ­Colorado-based doctor, who specializes in high-altitude illness, at Everest Base Camp during the 1990s. On my desk were two papers, one of them by Hackett, on the effects of altitude on young bodies. Neither said anything about undeveloped lungs or the inability of children to acclimatize.

If I were to boil down the advice contained in those long reports, it would read something like this: Go ahead, but be sure you know what you’re doing, make conservative decisions, and always give yourself an out.

To my mind, this was an adage that fairly reflects how all risks should be managed–kids or not.

A few more complications to mention: the first was that a full television crew would follow our family, filming our 100-day, 13,000-mile journey, step by step.

For years I’d been in touch with a young Australian producer, batting around ideas for an adventure-based TV series. Every six months or so we chatted by phone, but this time there was a pause when I told him I’d be out of the loop while my family traveled to Zanskar, a remote region in northern India, to live in a Buddhist monastery.

“Hold on, mate–that’s it!” he said. “The ultimate family relocation!”

TV pitches rarely find traction, so I ­quickly forgot about the possibility and carried on with planning: clearing our calendars, vaccinating the children against every imaginable malady, packing the lightest gear. Six weeks before departure, the phone rang again. It was the Aussie.

“Better sit down, mate. Travel Channel loves the idea. We got the green light.”

Being filmed 24/7 would clearly affect our plans to disconnect, but because I’m a freelancer, I have a hard time ­turning down work. So I agreed, with one stip­ulation: we’d be left in peace upon reach­ing the monastery. I also ­suggested a single embedded camera operator, argu­ing that this method would ­allow us to move quickly and capture authentic moments.

“Sorry, but the network has a different vision,” he said. “They want something cinematic. We’ll have a crew of 16. There’s budget for helicopters.”

For the first time, I sensed we might be getting in over our heads. Which brings me to the second complication: Bodi is on the autism spectrum.

Unless family, friends, or work have exposed you to autism, you likely know as much about it as I did before Bodi was born: nothing. In a nutshell, ASD (autism spectrum disorder) encompasses an extremely broad range of neurodevelopmental conditions, with symptoms ranging from ritualized behaviors and mild social awkwardness to being severely nonverbal. One characteristic is difficulty recognizing the thoughts and feelings of others (empathy), a crucial and reflexive skill for “neurotypical” people. In the U.S., a recent study suggested that one child in fifty is diagnosed as being on the spectrum. It’s almost certain that someone in your life is affected by ASD, and there’s an equally good chance you don’t know it.

Because early intervention can have an enormous positive impact on a child’s ­future, Christine and I decided to disclose Bodi’s diagnosis–a high-functioning form, commonly known as Asperger’s syndrome–both on television and here. It was another risk, and certainly not everyone agreed with our decision. But at the core of our thinking was a simple belief: we hide the things we’re ashamed of, and Bodi has nothing to be ashamed of. With his keen insights, razor-sharp memory, and painful honesty, he has changed how I view the world. As a parent, I learned that ASD is not something to be “cured.” Rather, the condition is both a challenge that requires support and an opportunity to encourage unique talents. Our job is to gently stretch Bodi, over and over, helping him integrate into a society that will at times struggle to make sense of his behavior.

The important point here is that Bodi’s symptoms–like those of so many kids with a mild diagnosis–include rigidity of thinking, a preference for routine, and avoidance of eye contact. And, after all, what’s a camera lens but a giant eye?

The Australian TV crew arrived at our British Columbia home in early May. As they smoked cigarettes in our backyard, Bodi and Taj ­quickly became interested in these cool new people, with their tattoos and Chuck Taylor sneakers. Christine and I were too busy to pay much attention.

Two days later, a heavy frost covered the ground as we launched canoes on the headwaters of the nearby Columbia River. Before locking the back door, I turned off my ­mobile phone and tossed it in a kitchen drawer. Anyone sending an e-mail would receive an automated reply: Back in November. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Paddling north for five days, our family camped each night on sandbars exposed by low water, while a motorboat whisked the crew to a hotel. They would reappear before breakfast, taping microphones to our chests and hoisting heavy cameras. We did our best to pretend they weren’t there, but like dogs meeting for the first time in a park, we slowly circled and tested boundaries.

On the third morning, the crew raced ahead to set up a shot, then dropped their bait as our canoe drifted past. “There are storm clouds on the horizon! What are you gonna do?” a producer asked.

“Uh, put on jackets and keep paddling?” Crestfallen looks made it clear that I’d let them down.

Thankfully, Bodi and Taj were mostly ­immune to the cameras, and the experience was not nearly as intrusive as I’d imagined. In many ways, it felt like we were on a gigantic college road trip–halfway around the world, with kids.

Upon reaching the trans-Canadian rail line, we stashed the canoes and caught a train to Vancouver, where a wobbly gangplank led us aboard the cargo ship. The rigid routine of life at sea suited Bodi perfectly: a family walk around the ship’s perimeter at dawn, lunch with the captain at noon, evening meals with the Filipino crew. Seventeen days later, we made landfall at Busan, South Korea. Transitioning to more visually impressive forms of transport–trains and river­boats, ­tuk-tuks and ferries–we continued westward into China.

Taj briefly fell ill in Qinghai province, just as we began acclimatizing to higher altitudes. Taking a day’s rest, we monitored his oxygen saturation, and he quickly bounced back. By the time our train lumbered over Tanggu La, a pass into Tibet, the boys were racing up and down the aisles, dodging Chinese tourists, who–having been dragged straight from sea level in Beijing–were collapsing in pools of vomit.

The route forward took us down into ­Nepal, across India’s great northern plains, and finally into the foothills of the Himalaya Range, on a narrow-gauge railway that carried us up to misty Shimla. Eighty-eight days after we’d left home, a jeep dropped us at a lonesome police checkpoint north of Darcha, on the Leh-Manali Highway, in northern India. From there we set out by foot toward Zanskar.

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Taj in Lama Wangyal’s kitchen. Photo: Bruce Kirkby

Sitting in the rain shadow of the Hima­layas surrounded by 20,000-foot summits, the Zanskar region is defined by the union of two rivers, the Stod and the Tsarap, whose combined waters–after running through a broad, idyllic valley–carve a near impassable gorge on their journey toward the Indus.

There is no easy way in or out. Histor­i­cally, reaching Zanskar required navigating high mountain passes during summer or tiptoeing through the frozen gorge in winter. That all changed when the Indian army carved a dirt track in from the north during the 1970s. But the route remains open for just a few months each summer, and rather than suffer a jarring 60-hour bus ride, we chose to walk.

Following ancient footpaths, we crossed the spine of the Himalayas. Both boys raced happily along, brandishing their walking sticks, until they grew tired and climbed into child carriers; Bodi on my back, Taj atop a porter. At night we shoehorned ­together into a tiny tent. After five days, we entered a maze of dry gorges where even a toe-high sprig of grass was a rarity. Eventually, the valley broadened and villages sprang up, the sturdy mud-bricked homes surrounded by fields of ripening barley sustained by ­irrigation canals stretching from the glaciers above.

It was late in the afternoon on our eighth day of trekking that we caught sight of Karsha monastery, a Buddhist compound whose warren of whitewashed temples were plastered on cliffs steeper than any black-­diamond ski run. At their base, a tall, craggy man in maroon robes waited silently.

Five years earlier, when two Canadian friends of mine were caught by a freak snowstorm here, the head lama of Karsha monastery had offered them refuge and butter tea in exchange for a week of roof shoveling.

“He’d love your family to visit,” they promised after learning of our plans. So we e-mailed the lama’s nephew, a student in a south Indian city, asking if we might visit his uncle. Maybe stay a few months? Perhaps teach English?

Three months later came his cryptic reply: “Most generously. Problems are none.” Our journey–and the TV documentary’s big payoff–rested on that shaky foundation.

Now Lama Wangyal stood before us, arms outstretched, drawing us into a tight hug, whispering the traditional Zanskari greet­ing: “Julley, julley, julley, julley.”

Clumsily, I placed a silken kata scarf around his neck. With his shaven head and bony features, his age was difficult to guess. Perhaps he was 60? Bushy eyebrows curled downward so dramatically that they touched his cheeks below his eyes, reminding me of ram’s horns.

“Today happy day,” he said with a gravelly voice. Then, taking our boys’ hands firmly in his, he led us toward the monastery.

The next morning, our journey complete, the television crew took off. Tears flowed as we pressed beads of turquoise into their palms–sound technicians, camera operators, and producers who had been with us for 96 days. At the same time, it was a bloody relief to see them go. Bodi more than anyone had been challenged by requests to repeat words and redo scenes.

Christine and I often explain our strategy for dealing with Bodi’s ASD by using a balloon analogy: We blow it up, stretching him and inevitably raising anxiety. Then we let some air out and return him to a place of comfort. When this happens over and over, his ability to deal with an uncertain world grows. But three months of filming had been one heck of a stretch, and he needed a break. Which is exactly what our time at the monastery turned out to be.

Days flowed into weeks, then months. We rose at dawn, summoned by brass horns to a darkened hall, where chanting monks sat in long rows and blue juniper smoke swirled in sunlight that cut down from cracks in the mud-and-stick roof. While Christine and I sat cross-legged, our boys played quietly with Legos. “Try closing your eyes and thinking about nothing but your breathing,” Christine whispered to me on the first day. My initial attempts proved fruitless.

Every afternoon, in a barren classroom, we taught English and math to novice monks ranging in age from 7 to 14. Starved of affection, they piled onto our laps at communal meals and visited our bedroom every night, ostensibly to seek medical attention. Sometimes they were sick, but more often the young boys just wanted a warm hand rubbed atop their peach-fuzz heads.

Tentatively, our boys joined this feral pack, sharing their precious Lego figurines, roaming the monastery’s paths, and exploring its desiccated cliffs. Set adrift without television or computers, cut off from the junky plastic toys that clogged their bedrooms, Bodi and Taj played with sticks and discarded bottles, silverfish, and dead birds. In the process, they became better friends than they ever would have at home.

It’s easy to romanticize such a simple exis­tence–without running water or power–but we encountered depressed lamas and witnessed drunken brawls. One evening, as I brushed Taj’s teeth, Lama Wangyal burst from his home with a thin stick and began furiously whipping a young monk hidden in shadows. The sobbing boy pulled robes across his face but stood his ground.

Oblivious to the commotion, Taj ran inside to kiss Christine goodnight before crawling into his sleeping bag. Not me. I felt ill. The boy who suffered the beating was a gentle novice who had skipped class to visit his family in a nearby village. Corporal punishment may be more culturally accepted in parts of Asia, but as I lay watching a yellow moon float up in the east, a line from Peter Matthiessen played over in my head: “The great sins, so the Sherpas say, are to pick wild flowers and to threaten children.”

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Lama Wangyal. Photo: Bruce Kirkby

Lama Wangyal took sick during the second month of our stay, a rattling cough racking his entire body. Pointing to a faded Polaroid on the wall, where his craggy form appeared skeletal, he explained, “Five years ago, me too sick. Many injections.”

What was the illness? He didn’t know or couldn’t explain, but the treatments had cost a fortune, forcing Lama Wangyal to sell two of his yaks. He dug out a box of syringes and vials from beneath his altar. “You needle me, OK?” he requested, squatting and pulling aside his robes to present a hairless buttock.

Over the weeks ahead, the cough gradually receded, and in a land where smoldering yak-dung fires heat homes and hacking can be a constant, the fleeting malady went almost unnoticed.

We stayed three months, until the first ­October storms threatened to close the mountain routes and isolate Zanskar again. Then we set off by foot, crossing 12 high passes in 14 days, encountering no one apart from a scattering of villagers. On the final morning, we entered an eight-mile-long gorge, the vertical walls pressing together until the sky above became a memory.

Then it was over. We rounded a bend and a concrete wall stood before us. Beyond that were cars and a road. Our porters were already on their cell phones.

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Bodi at the Karsha monastery.

Four months later, when two small clots lodged themselves in the outer lobe of my left lung and the doctor backed apprehensively out of my room after scribbling “TB?” on my chart, my first thought was of my boys. A shaky feeling washed over me.

In the study of risk management, there’s a well-documented tendency to attribute near misses–events where only blind luck averts disaster–to our own good judgment. This can lead to a false sense of being bulletproof. Which is why experienced backcountry skiers are more likely to trigger a slide on a ­familiar slope than on unknown terrain. Had years of travel caused me to overestimate my ability to protect Bodi and Taj?

Alone in that sterile room, I replayed our footsteps over and over, plagued by a single question: If I could turn back time, would I set out on the same trip again?

People often ask if I hope Bodi and Taj will grow up to be adventurers, but such an outcome is irrelevant to me. I only want them to be free, to live the life they were meant to live–whether they become carpenters or concert pianists, homebodies or nomads, gay or straight, city slickers or country bumpkins. And the only way I know to teach freedom is to live it myself.

I remembered a gloriously warm afternoon during our return trip, when we were descending from the 15,480-foot Hanuma La. Bodi skipped ahead of me down steep switchbacks, knock-kneed and coltish like a young caribou. Then he paused and cocked his head to one side. As a gust of dry wind lashed his hair, I could see he was staring out over the sea of ice-capped peaks leading ­toward Tibet.

As I gazed at his freckles and clear eyes, a wave of love swept across me, an immensity of feeling I suspect only a parent knows. Then, on its heels, a fleeting shadow. Fear. I’d felt it before, that inescapable reality that something bad, even tragic, could happen to my boys someday–no matter what I did.

To love is to risk loss. One cannot exist without the other.

In the hospital, I thought of the impossibility of protecting my boys from lightning strikes and texting drivers and all the other random threats in our world. I thought of Bodi’s ASD. I thought of living in fear. And teaching my boys about freedom.

And I realized, yes, I probably would set out on the same trip again.

Three days after I was hospitalized, a rosy ring failed to develop around the tuberculosis antigens injected under my forearm skin. Sputum samples vacuumed from the depths of my lungs confirmed I was TB-free. I was released from quarantine, and the unprovoked pulmonary embolism was written off as a fluke in an otherwise healthy middle-aged male. The prescription: three months of blood thinners, then carry on.

by Bruce Kirby, author of the books Sand Dance and The Dolphin’s Tooth

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One More Time! Beating Their Heads Against That Benghazi Wall

Hey, what’s two years and millions of dollars among friends? This one’s worth another look…

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I Believe In Super Consciousness

You may not be perfect, but God is not basing your value on your performance. He’s looking at your heart. He is looking at the fact that you’re trying. – Joel Osteen

I believe in super consciousness. We have all experienced our subconscious minds in our sleep, dreams, and through our unconscious thoughts and emotions. I have been on the both sides of the game of life. I believe that I qualify to talk about the business of winning and losing in life. These are relative terms and one who looks like a loser to me might be a winner for you. It all depends upon where you currently stand in life and what your ambitions are. Again, it might also depend upon what area are you talking about to a person might be a winner in one area but loser in another. A winner is always part of the answer. A loser is always part of the problem.

The point I am trying to make here is the attitude we must have in life. I am talking about a new way of living a life which is really how our Creator wanted us to be. We were created in the image of our Creator each with a particular purpose and each one with their share of all the blessings life has to offer. There is an abundance of everything we need if only we have the guts to dream big and just go get it. That’s where the winners and losers are identified. It is the winner that has guts to make something happen while losers just fall to the way-side.

It’s easy to be nothing and to get by. It’s easy to be a problem than a solution. It’s never easy to reach out to what you can be and what you should be. So, why talk about all these winning and losing business? I’d ask you, why not? Why not live a better life? Why not set an example for other people to follow? Life is all about change and winning is all about making changes. So, if we are not growing inside, we are not winning outside. Losing doesn’t take any effort. We shall automatically be losers if we do not do anything. The rest of the world will be far ahead of us if we let the opportunity pass by us. According to Einstein, Insanity is doing the same thing again and again but expecting different results. We must change some aspects of our lives if we are unhappy with the circumstances or people we are attracting to ourselves. If we want something we never had, we must become something that we never were.

Personally, I had to work hard on myself before the attitude of victory cemented on my subconscious. I had to re-program myself of the truths of my own being and how the Creator of the whole universe wanted me to live. I have learnt from successful people, sacred scriptures of different religions and my own experience with the divinity that Creator has endowed me with talents and abilities that are unlimited. I have discovered that we are meant to live a great life and reach out to as many God’s creatures as possible. I have found that where we go, the divinity goes with us and anything we want to accomplish, we can for the divine power is always with us if we only care to seek its help rather than trying to do everything on our own.

Equipped with the knowledge that the Spirit of Creator is with me wherever I go, I have launched into a new life, I have given myself a permission of voluntary rebirth. I have given myself a chance to win, do whatever I want to do and be whatever I want to be. By leaving my old skin of failure and defeat, I have launched myself into a life of adventure, glory and success. I believe each one of us can win the game of life, have everything we want to have and do everything we want to do. Creator of the universe has made us in such a way that we must move on in our life or perish. All the experiences in our life good and bad come to teach us things that we must learn at the moment, apply the information and get on with what we must do. Each of us is here to perform the work of the creator.

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Playing With Possibility — An Exercise In Manifesting

Setting a clear conscious desire to manifest what you desire around work, relationships, homes and life and then celebrating the results is brilliantly empowering! This exercise requires that you suspend doubt, limiting beliefs, worry about making money or being young enough, smart enough or educated enough. It requires that you open your heart to explore your dreams.

I promise that you will see them come alive!

I have asked some clients to post their success stories and share their experience in Playing With Possibility!

Are you ready to give it a try?

What you need to begin:

Uninterrupted quiet time to first sit and ask yourself some questions.
A preferred way of writing: pen and paper, laptop…your choice
An open mind and willingness to be curious, playful and creative as thoughts and dreams emerge

Here we go…

What does your IDEAL look like?

Companion / Relationship
Job (life work)
Home
Vacation
Other __________


NOW…


Imagine there are NO limitations
. Time, money, education, geographic location… whatever you need is available to you.

Imagine there are NO negative ramifications. No one is going to give you a hard time, you are not going to hurt anyone’s feelings, your own fears and limiting beliefs are miraculously suspended!

Some questions to get you started: (please add to the list as you are inspired)

Ideal Work/LIfe’s Passion:

Set an EMOTIONAL INTENTION: When you are engaged in your ideal work / life’s passion, how do you FEEL? (use as many adjectives as adequately describe how you want to feel)

**Answer the following EVEN if the answer has nothing to do with making money…your ego mind will say “that doesn’t count, I can’t make money doing that…” Write it down anyway.

What are your gifts and talents?
What are you passionate about?
How do you most enjoy spending your time? (ie. working on a team vs. alone, doing research, talking to people, being creative)
What percentage of your day / week would you want to do each of those things?
What is your ideal work environment? (private office vs. community space vs. home office, in the field, your own space: store / shop / business)
What routine would work for you? (steady daily routine, different every day)

Now that you have your creative juices flowing…

Write a story about your ideal work day or week.

What time do you awake? What do you do in the morning?
When do you begin work? Is there a commute?
What does your workspace look like? Color of the walls, lighting, etc.
How does your day unfold?
When do you end your work day?

Finally…

How do you FEEL in this flow of working? What emotions do you attach to each activity?

Be open to what unfolds after you do this exercise.
Where have your expanded possibility?
How have you become clearer about what it is you want to do?
Who can you talk to about this?
What research can you do?
What are your next steps?

Ideal Companion / Relationship

Set an EMOTIONAL INTENTION: When you are engaged in a relationship with your ideal companion, how do you FEEL? (use as many adjectives as adequately describe how you want to feel)

What are your non-negotiables and must haves? (ie. non smoking, physically active…)

What are the attributes you desire in a companion: consider any categories that are important to you

Emotional
Relational
Physical
Intellectual
Social
Spiritual
Financial
Professional

Describe in detail how your ideal relationship would BE.

o How would you be together?

o What would you do?

o How would you face difficulties?

o Problem solving?

Step away from the exercise and revisit it a few times over the next few days…think about it, edit it, add to it. How does it feel?

Now take a leap of faith that THIS is the person and relationship that you will engage in and let the process unfold… drawing to your heart’s desire!!

Ideal Home

Set an EMOTIONAL INTENTION: When you are engaged in your ideal work / life’s passion, how do you FEEL? (use as many adjectives as adequately describe how you want to feel)

What type of surroundings do you want to live in? The city, suburbs, mountains, shore, country…
What part of the world / country do you want to live in?
What type of home do you desire? Home, apartment, condo
What does your home look like?
How many rooms? What size? What do you use them for?
What is your ideal floor plan?
What colors are your walls, how sunny is it, what other characteristics does it have (hard woodfloors, crown molding, lush wall to wall carpet)
Describe your kitchen, bedroom, common living space…?
Is it old or new construction?
How much land do you have? What is the surrounding town / city / open space like?
What do you love to do and how does your home fit into that? (biking, hiking, barbecuing, shopping, live music, museums…)
What does your outdoor space look like? Terrace, patio, gardens…
What is your surrounding neighborhood? Sound & air quality, driving experience, population…

How do you start and end your day in this home…in which rooms, doing what? What do you most enjoy about your home? What else???

If you are like me and considering relocating to an entirely new location, you may have even more questions to ask. If you are looking for a home in your current community, some of these questions may be irrelevant to you. These questions are guidelines meant to get your creative juices flowing, not limit you in any way.

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