Benjamen Walker's Theory of Everything - Man Without a Country (3 of 3)

Episode Date: August 8, 2014

What happens when you curse your own country? In this version of the classic Americana tale your host is sentenced to live out the rest of his days in a hot air balloon.  Our story concludes(?) when your host attempts to turn bread into wine. Plus learn about the origins of the tale of the Man without a Country and the various versions that have been produced over the last hundred years.

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Episodes every other week at neverpo.st and wherever you find pods. You are listening to Benjamin Walker's Theory of Everything. This installment is called Man Without a Country, Part 3. I'm heading north along the California coast. I just passed over Ortonville, where the 33 joins up with the 101. And remarkably, there were cars. Cars turning onto the 101 and going south. Obviously, they're ignorant about what's going on in Los Angeles. They must have forgotten to watch the YouTube before getting into their vehicles.

If only there was some way I could warn them. Ever since my encounter with that soldier from the supply plane, I've felt nothing but love for the people beneath me. I know it sounds ridiculous to even say the word out loud, but it's true. All the loathing, all the hatred, all the disgust that I've been nurturing and cultivating for the past 10 years, it's gone. Evaporated. Overnight. And you have to realize that in my travels, there's no single place I hate more than Los Angeles. For years I've been fantasizing about its destruction. Earthquakes, tsunamis, giant nuclear beetles. But this morning, when the city was engulfed

by violence and terror, I wept. As far as I could tell, the root of the problem was a section of the 405 that they closed down for construction. Sure, a couple of guys in hard hats pretended to dig some holes with a jackhammer, but that was just for show. There was no construction. The whole crew was hanging out in the trailers, playing video games, and drinking iced tea. But they went too far.

They closed down too many exits. And as the sun came up, traffic was reduced to a crawl. And by 9 a.m., the entire city had stopped in its tracks. I could feel the road rage cooking the underside of my gondola. Not a single car was moving. As far as I could see in every direction, not a single car was moving. And then, a woman kicked open the door of her minivan, and with a frustrated growl, launched herself at the sports utility vehicle in front of her.

Like a mad dog, she gnawed at the brake lights with her teeth until a man in a business suit got out of the passenger side and started clubbing her with a supersized bottle of green fluorescent water. And then all hell broke loose. I don't know if you're familiar with the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch, but his visions of the apocalypse have always haunted me. The fantastic creatures, the fire and the blood. It was like he was able to see directly into the heart of Hades. But I realize now, he was having visions of Los Angeles. Men and women and children, they all win at each other with an energy I didn't know existed on the West Coast. They beat and battered each other with tire irons and steering

wheel locks. And when they ran out of blunt instruments, they used their fists and their bodies. This giant obese man climbed up on top of his truck and belly flopped under the roof of a small compact in the lane besides him, crushing and killing everyone inside. And he tried to do it again to the car on the other side of his truck, but a woman garrotted him with an iPod cable. The smart ones tried to escape. I saw a man tear the shirt off his back and the muffler off his car and bare-chested attempt to hack his way off the highway. But he barely made it 100 meters. A busload of prep school kids armed with windshield wipers

also tried to slash their way out, but they were mowed down by a group of shrieking soccer moms who had tasers. As the bodies piled up and the cars exploded, I shouted at the top of my lungs. But no one paid me any mind, and Carmageddon continued. I come from a long line of walkers. At least that's what my father always used to tell me. Whenever I would ask him why we didn't own a car, he would tell me that walking was my blood right, my heritage,

something that distinguished me from all the Philistines and fools who drove around in pickup trucks and hatchbacks. He had this story that my great-great-great-grandfather was the first man who walked from Russia to America over the ice bridge. Of course, I knew he was totally full of it. Even though I was only seven years old, I knew that he was lying. When he married my mother, her family gave him a car. But in less than two years, he ran it into the ground.

He never put any oil in it. He never took it in for a checkup. He never even bothered to clean it. And one day, it died. Supposedly, he was on his way to an important meeting, a life-changing meeting. And because of the dead car, he missed it. Supposedly, he just took all his stuff out of the trunk and walked away.

But who knows how much of that story is even true. This not having a car, though, it really traumatized me. When I was little, it felt like it was a sign of how dysfunctional my family was, how unnormal we were. I just didn't understand how everyone in the neighborhood could have a car except for us. Even the woman across the street with the five kids and the husband in jail, she had a car. It just didn't make any sense. It was like we were cursed. When I was in the second grade, I started clipping the car ads out of the newspaper, and at night, I would take them out

and hold them underneath my Kermit the Frog nightlight, and I'd go over the options. Power windows, pleather upholstery, corrosion-proof paint, mud flaps. When I turned 21, I finally got a car. I was working at this used bookstore. This was before they made used bookstores illegal. And one day, this old guy came in to sell all of his old books because he was going blind and he didn't have any health insurance.

And as he was leaving, he said, I also have a car to get rid of. Do you know anyone who wants a free car? Immediately, I started driving everywhere. I drove to my job at the used bookstore. I drove to the flea markets. I drove to the liquor store. I even drove to the Salvation Army that was technically at the end of the parking lot of the housing project I lived in.

That's actually where I first discovered Big Ass Magazine. One afternoon, I found a whole stack of them. Someone had carefully wrapped each one individually in a Mylar bag in order to keep the pictures from yellowing with age. I wasn't a very good driver, though. For some reason, I hit everything. I hit parked cars, I hit telephone poles, I hit newspaper boxes. I even hit this high school girl who lived in my building. And I had to drive around with her for hours until her foot stopped bleeding. And she promised not to turn me in to the police or her parents. And then, one night, as I was driving to a party, smoke started coming out of the steering

wheel. I pulled over and opened up the hood. The engine was on fire. I knocked on the door of a nearby house and asked if I could use the phone, but this old lady just slammed the door in my face. I didn't know what to do, so I just stood there and watched as my car burned. It was like an old mafia movie.

A fireball lifted my car off the ground. I never got another car. I just passed over the Emma Wood State Park. I've done this leg of the journey a countless number of times now, so I know exactly where I'm going. My craft is programmed to follow the California coast all the way to the Redwood National Forest, and then we'll head northeast into Oregon. For some reason, I keep weeping. Perhaps it's the ocean,

or perhaps it's the scene I witnessed in Los Angeles, or perhaps it's the woman below, the one wearing the polka dot dress, riding the mountain bike. But it's been an emotional couple of weeks. My craft got stuck over Boston. Then I had that encounter with a soldier. And then, this morning, I witnessed Carmageddon.

I don't think I want to be up here anymore. I would like to come down. But I can't think I want to be up here anymore. I would like to come down. But I can't. When they sentenced me, the judge made a point of saying that there was no hope of parole, no chance of a reduced sentence for good behavior. He said that since I had cursed America, I would never again be allowed to return.

You know, it's strange, me being a political prisoner, because before all this mess happened, I don't think I ever had a political thought in my life. I mean, sure, I was bummed out every time they made another thing illegal, and sure, it bothered me to see the stupid and the evil ruin everything, but I just was never really into politics. But before all this is over, I feel I should at least say, you know, one thing that's political. So I'm going to share with you now my political philosophy.

Now, it is a bit light. You might find it even a bit silly. I've actually never told anyone about it. But here goes. After my car blew up, I got a bicycle. And this changed everything for me. I wouldn't say I turned into one of those bike nuts. I was never able to ride fast enough to hang out with them,

but I did take my bike everywhere. I took it to school, I took it to work, I even took it to the mall once. I thought it would help me meet girls. It didn't, but over the years, I've come to realize that the bike is the answer to all our nation's problems. It's economical, it's environmental, and it's fun.

I told you it was a stupid political theory. But what did you expect to get from a guy living out the rest of his days in a hot air balloon? © transcript Emily Beynon The American writer Edward Everett Hale first published his story, The Man Without a Country, in the pages of The Atlantic in December 1863. He didn't sign his name, he just wrote anonymous. He did this because he wanted to fool the audience with his historical fiction. The Man Without a Country tells the story of an army lieutenant named Philip Nolan, who, in his youth, got caught up in one of Aaron Burr's plots. When he was tried for treason, he cursed America. The judge sentenced him to live

out the rest of his life consigned to a U.S. Navy ship, never to set foot or eyes on his native land, and this sentence was carried out to the letter. In the story we learn, the man without a country proved his courage and his patriotism on many occasions, and gained the respect of all he traveled with. Many Navy officers tried to win his release, including the author of the story, who tells us he once sailed with Philip Nolan early in his career. But the man without a country never regained his freedom. He paid for his youthful sin in his career. But the man without a country never regained his freedom. He paid for his youthful sin with his life. The story was a hit. The man without a country was just what America needed in the late 1860s

as the nation emerged from the horrors of the Civil War. And to capitalize on his fame and royalties, Edward Everett Hale announced to the world that he was the author of The Man Without a Country. He sold the rights to the story to a number of early silent film pioneers. In 1917, there were two versions released, one directed by D.W. Griffith and the other by Ernest C. Ward. Even though Griffith was at the height of his career, it was the Ward version that captured the attention of the American people. This was because the film starred Florence Labede, one of the industry's first superstars. Tragically, on the way to the film's premiere, she got into a car accident and she died from her injuries.

Many film historians credit the success of her last film to the American public's desire to see the dead woman on the big screen. But Griffith was so incensed by the lack of attention his version got that he burned all the prints. What can be won? his version got that he burned all the prints. What? Tell me why! Why not? When Mary Rutledge honors us? On May 12, 1937,

The Man Without a Country Opera premiered at the Met. The music was composed by Walter Damrosch. The opera was not a hit and has not been performed since. In many adaptations of The Man Without a Country, creative liberties are taken with the story. In the television series that aired briefly on ABC in 1972, Philip Nolan became a West Point dropout who wandered back and forth across America,

one step away from the authorities who wanted to try him for treason. In every episode, he would get involved with someone who is on the verge of committing an act of treason or doing something un-American, and he would intervene. Johnny, Johnny, listen to me. You gotta listen to me, man. I may be a man without a country, but you still have a choice. Put that assault rifle down. Disband your mountain militia before it's too late. The most bizarre rendition of Edward Everett Hale's story is, without question, the 1977 XXX movie supposedly made by Henry Paris. In this version, trader Philip Nolan

is living out his sentence alone on a deserted island, a man without a. Until one day, a ship carrying 50 women washes up on the shore. The women are all state finalists for the Miss America pageant. Virginia. North Carolina.

Montana. Texas. The Man Without a Country has been remade countless times. We now have books, comic strips, radio plays, movies, television shows, operas, and in 2006, a video game was even produced. But every version of The Man Without a Country shares the same ending, for there is only one way the story can end. Even in death, our hero is a man without a country. And thus, his final resting place can only be a cold and watery grave. Thank you. Jesus once turned water into wine,

but the scriptures do not tell us what kind of wine it was. Some theologians have made the case that Jesus being holy would never turn water into an intoxicating beverage, so therefore his wine was most certainly of a non-alcoholic variety. But Jesus was at a wedding. He was trying to win followers and impress people. He had a religious vision to push. It was not the time or place for grape juice. I'm sure the wine that Jesus made was of the highest quality. And I'm sure that many of the men and women at that wedding dreamed about that wine for the rest of their days.

I'm trying to make wine myself. A few weeks ago, I made an accidental discovery. One morning, I awoke and found that I had unfortunately spilled the contents of one of my bread machine packets, a whole wheat mix, onto the floor of my gondola. The night before, there had been no moon, and in the dark, I had missed the bread machine entirely. I scraped up what I could from the floorboards and put it back into the machine. I added some more yeast and some more water, and I put the machine on another cycle. But a few hours

later, when I opened the machine, I discovered a strange-smelling liquid. It was a miracle. I had turned bread into wine. And I'm getting better at it. With every batch, I'm getting better. Tonight, there is a full moon. I can see the waves crashing on the beach. From my perspective, or maybe it's just the bread wine, the ocean looks like it's nurturing and cultivating the vineyards of the Sonoma Coast. Jack London wrote about this place in his novel, The Valley of the Moon.

This is the book where he began to question his liberal and socialist beliefs. His protagonists, Billy and Saxon, go on an epic road trip. Fed up with the corruptions of modern life, they flee the city and travel around the countryside. They meet farmers, artists, adventurers. And when they come to the Sonoma coast, they decide to settle down and live happily ever after. According to Jack London, Sonoma Valley was the Native American way of saying happily ever after. But it's unclear just where Jack London picked

this up. Most experts claim this statement is untrue. He certainly didn't get it from the Pomo, Wapo, or Miwok peoples. But there used to be so many tribes in the valley, so it could have come from a tribe that was obliterated by the white man. But even so, even if that's the case, it's still not true. It's said that before the white man came,

the diverse native peoples of the valley lived in harmony and peace. But today, on the Sonoma coast, there is only acrimony and division. The trouble can be traced back to 1987. This is when the United States Department of Alcohol and Tobacco created a new appellation, the Sonoma Coast AVA. At first, producers big and small welcomed this new appellation. Finally, they had a way to distinguish themselves and compete with Napa. But as the wine market became more and more competitive and more and more difficult for the smaller producers to sell their estate wines, fault lines emerged. The battle began in earnest

when a few small wineries from the Fort Ross area petitioned for a new appellation, one that would include all the vineyards on the coastal ridges from Casadero to Annapolis. a new appellation, one that would include all the vineyards on the coastal ridges from Casadero to Annapolis. The petitioners met fierce resistance. The larger producers would have no talk of secession, and the Fort Wass winery was appalled at the idea that they might lose control of their brand name.

So the campaign quickly fell apart. But a small group of producers refused to accept defeat, and they rebranded themselves anyway as the True Sonoma Coast. They say that the story of the true is the story of America's struggle with nature. In this wild, remote area, the only way to produce wine is to battle the cold, the fog, and the rain. What defines the true is a series of ridgetops close enough to the coast to be cooled by the deep, cold Pacific, yet high enough to bask in brilliant sunshine above the omnipresent summer fog. These conditions make for a very long growing season.

Bud break can begin as early as February, and the harvest can linger into October. So it's a fruit that has a haunting perfume and a bright acidity unlike anything else. Unfortunately, I've never been able to try one of these fabled Pinot Noirs or Chardonnays, but I've passed this way so many times now that I can recite the legends and the magazine copy by heart.

Of course, once the subdividing began, there was no stopping it, and now the true Sonoma Coast breaks down into three pieces. In the north, the vineyards around the town of Annapolis call themselves the truer Sonoma Coast. And to the south, stretching to the town of Occidental, we have the truest Sonoma Coast. And in the middle, the central region, we have the true, true Sonoma Coast.

Here, around Fort Ross and Seaview Road, one finds the oldest vineyards. But even here, in the true true, there are still divisions. There's a girl who spends her days hiking in the woods behind the Russian Orthodox Church and riding her bike on the Fort Ross Trail that goes to the beach. She is immune to the fighting and undaunted by the tribalism. She makes it a point to say hello to the true, the truer, and the truest alike, even though it drives her mother crazy. Her family owns one of the most famous vineyards of the region.

It's also one of the original producers of organic wine. Her grandfather did everything without pesticides or chemicals, not for ethical or environmental reasons, but because he had allergies. This is what gave the family a head start on what would eventually become a popular trend with the rich and the powerful. The vineyard is officially a member of the True True contingent, but only by geography. The girl's father can't stand most of the neighborhood producers and their arguments

for subdivisions. He calls them the nouveau wine. But her mother thinks brand names are important and proudly tells everyone about their true, true pedigree. This is why her brother left. Before he took off to start his own winery in Washington State, he told her that their mother made it impossible to envision a future that was anything unlike the past. He sent them a case of his first production, a Pinot Noir he gave the name Don't Worry Mama. But the girl's mother still can't bring herself

to try it. She cries every time she looks at the bottles. This afternoon, the girl took one of the Don't Worry Mama bottles to the beach, and she drank it while she wrote in her diary. She thought it was okay, but she says she'll do better when she starts making wine. She also likes to draw on her diary. She designs labels for future vintages. Today she drew one that was quite remarkable. It was a red heart suspended between the ocean and the sun. It was a heart that drew power from both the cool water and the warm breeze. She spent hours working on it, and she gave it a name.

The True, True, True. And then she drew a less than sign and a three, making another little heart. Incredible. Tonight, in honor of this true, true, true, I am going to attempt to make a new batch of my own bread wine. Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to unhook my bread machine and climb up the rope to where the hot air burners are. And then I'm going to hold the bread machine over the flames for a few minutes. You see, I've jerry-rigged a siphon. Using a plastic bottle, I've made a siphon that should draw out all the alcohol

as the hot air burners heat the bread machine. I just have to go slow because the bottle's not exactly a tight fit. And so if I'm not careful, some of the liquid could spill out. And then I'll end up losing some of my distilled alcohol to the flames. But I'm going to try. If I know one thing, you have to try. I'm sorry. You have been listening to Benjamin Walker's Theory of Everything. This installment is called Man Without a Country, Part 3. It was written and produced by Benjamin Walker,

with help from Bill Bowen and Laura Mayer. Visit theory.prx.org for more information. And that is where you can subscribe to the podcast. The Theory of Everything is a founding member of Red Autopia from PRX, a public radio exchange. And if you are interested in sponsoring this podcast, please write to sponsor at redautopia.fm. Radiotopia.

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