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How Muscle Cars and Would-Be Czars Divided the Nation


We were best friends throughout our high school years. The four of us were like brothers, minus the sibling rivalry. Our bond was formed primarily through basketball. We played the game for hours at a time—and nearly every day.


I was the first among the group to get a car, which only expedited our trips to the basketball courts. Yeah, it was just a little VW Beetle, but it was only a couple years old, and I felt pretty cool being chauffer to my longtime friends. But before long, each of them managed to get a relatively new American muscle car, which they modified into competitive street racers. Meanwhile, I continued putting around in my underpowered Bug. That transportation distinction—I now see—serves as a symbol for the divergent direction our lives would take. For me, a car is just a convenient mode of transportation. For them cars epitomize the macho culture they associate with patriotic Christian America. Riding in my Beetle was acceptable, but they'd have been mortified to be seen driving it.


Going Our Separate Ways

So, we would soon go our separate ways. I would head off to college while John, Greg, and Ray (pseudonyms) would stay in Ventura. While I was sitting in classes, they were pursuing other life courses. John and Greg got jobs in auto parts stores; Ray—who’d set several school gymnastics records—landed a job as a Hollywood stunt man.


A couple days before I crammed all my belongings into that tiny Beetle to make the 600-mile drive to Cal State Humboldt, the guys bought me lunch at a local pizza joint. We reminisced, had a few laughs, said our goodbyes, and then I went home to prepare for my new life. That was early September of 1973, a few weeks before my 19th birthday.


A Brief Reunion

The next time the four of us got together was in 1978, when I returned to Ventura for a short visit. Naturally, we played another long two-on-two basketball game. Over the ensuing years, our communication was sparse. I think I remember letting them know I’d gotten married in 1980, but that was it until I returned again to Ventura, in 1985, with my wife and two-year-old son. Ray was unable to join our brief reunion—I think because he was on a movie set—but John and Greg met with me and my little family.


That was the last time I saw or even communicated with any of them—until I joined Facebook in 2011. I’d hoped to meet with them when I flew to Southern California in August of that year for my mother’s funeral, but schedules and logistics prevented doing so. But at least we continued to communicate occasionally via Facebook—until 2016. In 2015, when Donald Trump announced his candidacy for POTUS, I was stunned—after I stopped laughing.


"All Aboard"

“Who,” I asked myself, “would vote for that goofy, horrid excuse for a human being?”

Tens of millions of American voters, I soon learned was the answer. And my three best high school friends were among those tens of millions. I tried to reason with them: “You have nothing in common with Donald Trump,” I said. “He’s a rich, privileged pansy who inherited millions from his dad, then increased that wealth by scamming folks like us. And then he declared bankruptcy six times! You’re blue-collar guys who’ve worked hard to make a living. You guys love getting your hands dirty working on cars. I doubt he’s ever even pumped gas into a gas tank.” But they’d been sucked in, and there was no pulling them out.


I couldn’t resist; I felt it was my duty to post on Facebook my concern over the momentum building under the Trump train. My friends felt it was their duty to tell me to go to hell. I tried to maintain the friendship despite our profound political and philosophical differences, but to no avail. I had to choose: Quit trying to derail the train or never hear from them again. Not long after that, I left Facebook, never to return. And I’ve not spoken with John, Greg, or Ray since.


One Last--Lost--Opportunity

I thought, however, that perhaps we could set aside our differences briefly for my return to Southern California for my brother’s memorial service this month. Bob recently died from a nasty, aggressive form of brain cancer, and I’d hoped that while I was near our old stomping grounds, my old friends and I could have one final reunion before we, too, depart this life.


But no. Loyalty to Trump trumped our old friendship. I was unable to track down any way to communicate with John or Greg, but I did manage to find Ray’s phone number. I called and got his voicemail, and it was clearly his voice. I left a message about my upcoming arrival for the memorial service, which was scheduled for a site just an hour’s drive from Ray’s home. In my voicemail I asked Ray to let John and Greg know I was coming and that it would be great if we could all meet for what likely would be the last time.


But that was several days ago, and Ray has not replied. His silence speaks volumes. It seems “the last time” (to get together) had already passed, way back in 1985, long before the Trump train left the station. Long before Donald J. Trump arrived on the scene and divided this nation to a degree I’d never imagined possible. That’s the way of cults and cult leaders. There is no middle ground; you’re either for them or against them.


At least we all know which side of the divide we stand on.




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