The Don't Take Me Lightly Syndrome
By Kam Zarrabi

About a year ago I noticed a shiny new pickup truck parked next to my car at the Wal-Mart parking lot. The truck's chassis was raised almost three feet off the ground, making it almost a struggle for an average person to get into without a stepping stool. The necessary reconstruction of the suspension system and the understructure, not to mention those enormous oversized offroad tires, must have cost the owner many thousands; it all looked very impressive.

The owner of the beast, as he approached the vehicle, was not some tall, brawny lumberjack; instead, I saw a young, small-framed fellow who had to struggle a bit to get inside the vehicle. As he drove away, I thought the young man's somewhat diminutive physical stature was well compensated for by the size and power of the vehicle he was driving. The throaty roar of the engine sounded a warning to everyone: Don't mess with this dude.

And then, why do some people insist on adding their academic titles to their name when introducing themselves as Doctor such & such, or Professor this or that, even in casual, non-professional gatherings? It is perhaps to say: Don't take me lightly!

Soon after settling in Silver City back in 2009, I opened a small art gallery on Yankie Street, a place to hang out away from home. My purpose was not really to sell art or handicrafts, of which I had a few pieces to spare as a collector myself. The small rear quarter of the shop was actually my real retreat, my office, where I did my writing and internet browsing.

As not much was happening businesswise, I'd often sit outside in the narrow sidewalk and shoot the breeze about daily trivia with fellow fresh air and sun lovers. The only thing that interrupted our euphoric stupor on occasion was the loud, deep rumble of chopped and tricked out Harleys looking for a place to park near the old Buffalo Bar on Bullard.

Characteristically, as each biker stopped his machine, he'd rev up the engine a couple of times as though trying to clear its throat, a totally useless and unnecessary thing to do. I know; I owned and rode a dozen motorcycles for over fifty years before I had to give up the sport. My last bike was a Harley Sturgis Low Rider. Sitting with my friends, I'd raise my two hands and separate my index fingers from just a couple of inches to over a foot apart, depending on the loudness of each bike. One friend commented one day that I was perhaps indicating the size of the biker's ego or machismo. I said: Or, something else, maybe!

I did understand the motivation behind spending more money choosing a Harley Davidson even when, prior to ownership change and the introduction of the Evolution engine, the only thing going for these bikes was the mystique of the name alone. The "Rice Burners," a title given by the hardcore Harley fans to the much better made and more affordable Japanese bikes, never deterred those serious motorcycle enthusiasts who actually wanted to ride for work or pleasure, and didn't need to prove anything to anybody.

I purchased my own brand new Sturgis Low Rider in 1979 while the company was still owned by AMF. At the age of 44, I was going through a major emotional upheaval in my life and was trying to recover from some life-changing catastrophic events. For me it wasn't some so-called midlife crisis that I needed to get over. Unlike James Dean in the 1955 movie, "Rebel Without a Cause," I did have a good cause to rebel, and the diversionary excitement of riding recklessly on a Harley Low Rider became my way of coping with my inner angst. The mystique of the name, Harley, had gotten to me, too. Even though I still had my comfortable Honda Goldwing and the powerful Yamaha XS1100, it was the Harley with all its mechanical problems and the less comfortable ride that was always my go-to bike to unwind.

On one occasion the routinely troubled Harley broke down on California 14, and I had to pull off the highway and take care of the problem. It was the newly introduced and poorly designed clutch assembly and the primary drive belt that inevitably snapped every few hundred miles. I always carried a spare belt and tools to replace it, just in case.

It just so happened that a group of bikers heading in the same direction were riding by and noticed my problem. They were members of the Hell's Angels who felt honor-bound to help a "bro" who was down. I am sure, had it been a Yamaha or Kawasaki, they would have spat at it and sped away! They invited me to ride along with the group, even though I did not have the right attire and the characteristic beard, mustache, or the bandana. I knew about the Hell's Angels and their reputation as an unruly rebellious gang. But I never thought that those who'd join that group had any real "cause" other than seeking the kind of identity or notoriety they associated with that name.

As we sat at a bar in the small town of Lancaster, I decided wisely not to engage in any kind of conversation with the group, as that would have easily revealed my identity as the wrong kind of "bro!" I guess my somber and quiet demeanor made the group think that this bro was in some kind of deep trouble, actually a badge of honor, and wanted to be left alone. After a couple of drinks I went to the bathroom and quietly snuck out the backdoor, got on my bike and headed back to Los Angeles.

After some 25 years, I kissed my Harley goodbye, and actually got more money for it when I sold it than its original purchase price. Someone else was obviously in need of establishing his own identity.

Guns, especially the ones with the more lethal reputations, are another source of identity associated with virility or masculinity. The now famous or infamous AR15 has become the Harley Davidson of gun hobbyists. Both the AR15 and its older brother, the AK47 (The Soviet era Kalashnikov), were designed for combat use as shorter range semi-automatic weapons. And, both of them can fairly easily be converted to full-auto mode firing tens or hundreds of rounds in a few seconds. Of course, there is no comparison between the current weapons' technologies and what the authors of the Second Amendment were familiar with, i.e., flintlock rifles and pistols that required reloading the weapon by hand after each shot!

I don't intend to get into the debate of whether the Second Amendment to the Constitution, the right to own and carry guns, makes any sense today or not. However, I myself, a former hunter and an avid gun enthusiast firmly believe that the principal motivation behind gun ownership in our lifetimes has absolutely nothing to do with its purpose as defined by the Second Amendment, or even for self-protection, but has everything to do with our instinctive lust to own the firearm, the more lethal, the better, as a symbol of power we can hold in our hand.

The fellow who spends thousands to customize his pickup truck as though intending to drive up the Himalayas, may only use it to go to Wal-Mart every now and then to buy a couple of six-packs and a rack of pork ribs for a backyard barbecue. And, the owner of that growling Harley might claim that he actually bought the bike for transportation back and forth to work: Yah; I bet! I actually don't think there is anything wrong with that at all.

As far as guns go, if one has a legitimate reason to worry about personal or home protection, anything bigger than a relatively small 9mm Glock type pistol is overkill. And even that requires proper training and education, both for physical dexterity, as well as for proper psychological orientation, to be able to use the weapon effectively when needed. For the average, untrained home owner, owning a gun poses greater risks and liabilities than its claimed purpose.

So why are the likes of AR15 assault rifle, or the 44 Magnum, a la Clint Eastwood in "Dirty Harry" movie, the pride of gun owners; are they honestly concerned about a potential assault by an armed terrorist gang, or anticipating a visit by a hungry and angry grizzly bear trying to break in?

A fancy Rolex watch, for instance, may cost as much as or more than a hundred-thousand dollars, and is rather bulky and somewhat heavy on the wrist and, believe it or not, is not as accurate or trouble-free as, for example, a Seiko that costs perhaps around two or three hundred. For what you'd pay to have the Rolex serviced as required every couple of years, you could purchase a new Seiko or Citizen watch! But, just like those Designer ladies' handbags such as the Gucci or even the more prestigious Hermes which can cost as much as a quarter-million dollars, these articles impart a sense of identity or specialness to those who have the means and the desire to flash their wealth or social status. For those who do have the desire but not the means, there are many well-made fake handbags or Rolex lookalikes that do the job perfectly well.

These attention-seeking folks are the reason articles of jewelry bearing diamond lookalikes such as the very hard to detect as fake, the moissanite, have been so popular. Unlike emeralds, rubies or sapphires and their simulated fakes, there is really not much "beauty" in colorless gemstones such as diamonds; so, the only true reason for wanting to wear a fake diamond is to show it off as the real thing for obvious reasons. Again, I personally don't find anything wrong with that: If you'd like to do it, you don't need anybody's permission or approval to do it.

Of course there isn't anything wrong with that fairly normal and quite common behavior. In nature, even a small and defenseless horned toad puffs up to look twice its size when it encounters a big bad snake that threatens to eat it. I just wonder how much of this identity seeking is simply a part of human nature, a natural instinctive behavior; and how much of it, in us humans, is a reflection, perhaps, of some deeper sense of inferiority complex or lack of self-confidence that needs to be compensated for.