Make Lemoncello.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid...
Let that image sink in for a moment.What does that say about the people in this region? Who would need to be told 'kids don't float?'
I've passed several of these signs now while Wandering around Sacramento's river ways and every time I see one I have to chuckle to myself, but then I have to stop for a sobering moment.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
No Chinatown Either...
Picture this:
An old man in a normal-enough looking community park. He's moving slowly like everything else on an early Saturday morning. He turns and performs a thrusting motion revealing a long, sword with a red sash hanging from its hilt. He moves in slow, fluid Tai Chi .
Forty yards away, several older men and women move in unison on a grassy square - no swords. They too practice the art (of Tai Chi or Falun Gong) in early morning light.
After a short walk east, red, dried 'Peking' ducks hang in large restaurant windows, red and gold trimmed Chinese characters adorn their windows. Men, dressed in white, silently busy themselves in food preparation - some Mandarin, some Cantonese style.
I guess they wouldn't make it here in Sacramento, they don't make tacos.
Hanging paper lanterns, fresh vegetable stands, the lyrical rhythm of the language spoken in rapid staccato, old men and women walking the streets with full grocery bags and carts, dancing dragons and firecrackers during the Chinese New Year are some of my memories of Chinatown in Manhattan's South Central near Federal Plaza and Canal Streets.
I hear tell there's a block of 'Chinatown' in downtown Sac, but... A block? Chinatown?
Nope.
Not in Sacramento.
Someone said the flavor there - at the one restaurant that says it's Chinese - leans toward Vietnamese cuisine.
There is a Little Vietnam, though in south Sac;
with two violent gangs.
Welcome to Sacramento. Hope you like tacos.
An old man in a normal-enough looking community park. He's moving slowly like everything else on an early Saturday morning. He turns and performs a thrusting motion revealing a long, sword with a red sash hanging from its hilt. He moves in slow, fluid Tai Chi .
Forty yards away, several older men and women move in unison on a grassy square - no swords. They too practice the art (of Tai Chi or Falun Gong) in early morning light.
After a short walk east, red, dried 'Peking' ducks hang in large restaurant windows, red and gold trimmed Chinese characters adorn their windows. Men, dressed in white, silently busy themselves in food preparation - some Mandarin, some Cantonese style.
I guess they wouldn't make it here in Sacramento, they don't make tacos.
Hanging paper lanterns, fresh vegetable stands, the lyrical rhythm of the language spoken in rapid staccato, old men and women walking the streets with full grocery bags and carts, dancing dragons and firecrackers during the Chinese New Year are some of my memories of Chinatown in Manhattan's South Central near Federal Plaza and Canal Streets.
I hear tell there's a block of 'Chinatown' in downtown Sac, but... A block? Chinatown?
Nope.
Not in Sacramento.
Someone said the flavor there - at the one restaurant that says it's Chinese - leans toward Vietnamese cuisine.
There is a Little Vietnam, though in south Sac;
with two violent gangs.
Welcome to Sacramento. Hope you like tacos.
Eavesdropping As Sport
I was speaking with one of the more intelligent people I've met here in Sacramento when, in a 'getting to know you' conversation, they told me something just left of center to my sensibility.
It was like listening to Leontyne Price and then, right in the middle of her aria, she's interrupted by that "She Bang" Asian guy from American Idol. Man was I shocked, surprised and disappointed.
They said they'd have lunch, exercise and then do some eavesdropping... As if it was just something else to do like go for a walk.
Eavesdropping, by definition is spying and deemed unethical. Outside of a blatant expression of committing a crime, it's hard to know the validity of what's being said, especially if it's not meant for you to hear. Not to say that if you would get the truth from someone if you were face to face with them... Hmmm. People I've met out here have a problem with being honest as well. I can begin to see the utility of some eavesdropping, but not as sport. Maybe they meant 'practice' eavesdropping.
Imagine how empty. Imagine the psyche. It's kind of sickening to me. If ever there was a time to apply the phrase, "Get a life," I think that one would fit.
In cultures of old, eavesdropping was a punishable offense; maybe they should bring that punishment back.
An old adage says a person who eavesdrops never hears good things about themselves. It's also known that eavesdropping and hearing things out of context has led to countless misunderstandings, feuds, ruined friendships, careers and led to bloodshed - hopefully that of the eavesdropper.
My perception of that person changed in a heartbeat. What troubled me most about it was the matter-of-fact way they said it and how they even did so with a smile.
Okay, yes, it was a woman, but does that matter? Really?
Eavesdropping.
I'm trying to imagine a place cultivating a people who are so bored or... I don't quite know what, yet, that they would rather listen to someone else's conversation than to their own inner dialogue or even have a conversation of their own. Something should tell them what they are doing is wrong.
But I guess ethics are relative in this political town - California Still doesn't have a budget. It's about getting the edge or a leg up. Jump a claim or two. Get them before they get you... Yeah, that fits.
Not to judge the entire city on this one person's actions, but wow.
It was like listening to Leontyne Price and then, right in the middle of her aria, she's interrupted by that "She Bang" Asian guy from American Idol. Man was I shocked, surprised and disappointed.
They said they'd have lunch, exercise and then do some eavesdropping... As if it was just something else to do like go for a walk.
Eavesdropping, by definition is spying and deemed unethical. Outside of a blatant expression of committing a crime, it's hard to know the validity of what's being said, especially if it's not meant for you to hear. Not to say that if you would get the truth from someone if you were face to face with them... Hmmm. People I've met out here have a problem with being honest as well. I can begin to see the utility of some eavesdropping, but not as sport. Maybe they meant 'practice' eavesdropping.
Imagine how empty. Imagine the psyche. It's kind of sickening to me. If ever there was a time to apply the phrase, "Get a life," I think that one would fit.
In cultures of old, eavesdropping was a punishable offense; maybe they should bring that punishment back.
An old adage says a person who eavesdrops never hears good things about themselves. It's also known that eavesdropping and hearing things out of context has led to countless misunderstandings, feuds, ruined friendships, careers and led to bloodshed - hopefully that of the eavesdropper.
My perception of that person changed in a heartbeat. What troubled me most about it was the matter-of-fact way they said it and how they even did so with a smile.
Okay, yes, it was a woman, but does that matter? Really?
Eavesdropping.
I'm trying to imagine a place cultivating a people who are so bored or... I don't quite know what, yet, that they would rather listen to someone else's conversation than to their own inner dialogue or even have a conversation of their own. Something should tell them what they are doing is wrong.
But I guess ethics are relative in this political town - California Still doesn't have a budget. It's about getting the edge or a leg up. Jump a claim or two. Get them before they get you... Yeah, that fits.
Not to judge the entire city on this one person's actions, but wow.
What? No Little Italy?
I must say, Sacramento gets curious-er and curious-er.
I was out Wandering getting things for my "guy nest" and remembered I had no espresso maker. Gotta have an espresso maker. One of those Bialetti jammies.
No, not the electric kind; the kind you spoon some 'Illy' grounds into the reusable, metal filter, add about a cup of water in the bottom, twist the top on it and put on the stove top.
Yeah. The kind that makes the espresso that will make hair sprout.
So, still being relatively new in town, and not having the gas to Wander about of late, I thought... "Little Italy." Every fairly large city I've ever been to has a Little Italy.
Not Sacramento.
The first person I asked was a clerk in a store I thought for sure would have an espresso maker. His reply was classic.
He said he had a few neighbors who were Italian.
With some of the responses I've received in this town, I'm still not sure if he was serious or not.
He then told me there was no Little Italy in Sacramento that he knew of. He referred me to his co-worker who said something to the effect that Sacramento wasn't big enough to have one, like L.A. or San Fran or New York.
Or maybe... If there aren't enough Italians in a city to make a community, maybe they're not interested in being there. Italians are sophisticated, erudite.
I wonder why they wouldn't want to settle en mass in such a diverse city as Sacra-frackin'-mento?
It's hard for me to trust a city that doesn't have a Little Italy.
I know Christopher Columbus didn't discover America, and spaghetti ain't Italian, but humor me.
Un-Freakin' American!
Last night, I settled in to watch my first complete Monday Night Football game on ESPN - still not too happy that they have the rights for the game rather than ABC; there was something special and fun about watching the nation's second-highest rated television show - more than 38 years running - on the free air waves. But then again, both ABC and ESPN are now owned by the same company... Yes, Disney. Who knew? Can you believe it?
Back to the story...
I was making some home-made spaghetti carbonara (yes, my own recipe - topped with fresh tomato... yum...) while half watching the pre-game show with NFL legend Emmit Smith and company. I was thoroughly enjoying the hype and the aroma of spices lingering in the air, in anticipation of the Ravens vs. Steelers game.
This is the closest I've been to a tailgate since I lived in San Diego a few years ago, partying with the Bolt faithful outside Qualcomm Park in Mission Valley.
After what I've been through the last few years, I was ready for this 2008 experience with my own twist on it.
I have also been looking forward to this year's football season because the last few have been exceptionally competitive AND because last year my home town, New York Giants won the Big Dance - Thank you Mr. Strahan and Mr. Manning.
Okay, so I'm so excited that the fact that the kitchen is kind of a separate, un-integrated space with no window into the living room doesn't bother me too much.
I had to turn up the set to hear the festivities over the stove fan, the tomato/basil sausage brazing and the spaghetti coming to a boil. Man! I am so thankful! God is berry-berry good to me!
And then, the moment arrived...
Hank Williams Jr. - can you get any more American? - asks the most anticipated question on Monday night television...
"Are you ready for some football?"
I can almost hear the nation's grid-iron fans screaming, "Hell Yeah!" He sang of all his rowdy friends over clips of hard-hitting football and pretty cheerleaders shaking their.... Pom-poms... God Bless America. It's impossible to stay still while that song is playing if you're a true fan.
Then, the next magic moment happened...
Duh-duh-duh-daaaaaa....
Da-da-da-da...
Duh-duh-duh-duh-daaaaaaaaaa...
Hearing the MNF fanfare is almost as good a feeling as hearing the Twentieth Century Fox fanfare before Star Wars.
Yup, that's how much I was jazzed to watch this game.
So, it began and it was a really good, brew-ha-ha. Steelers and Ravens hitting and being hit all over the field. Spaghetti twirling, slurping and bacon crunching.
Despite the excitement and offensive highlights, the game was relatively low scoring; it was a defensive match up with many warriors being carried off the field - Klingons would would have approved. The contest had to go into over time to be settled.
But somewhere in the middle of my jubilation and spaghetti fest, came a knock on the door. I was expecting it to be a neighbor with an ice chest of cold beer, chips and dip, but that seems to only happen in commercials.
An armed, rent-a-cop, officer friendly knocked on my door and politely told me someone complained that there was loud music and loud noise coming from my apartment.
?
It's Monday Night Football.
Monday Night Football!
Not Metal or Rock or Rap. None of which are... Never mind.
If you can play anything loud, you gotta amp up MNF.
Loud music? That would be Hank. Loud noises? That would be
Ray Lewis and Troy Polamalu knocking people down!
Loud noises? You damn right!
Then again, I think it was the same neighbor who complained about the Democratic and Republican National Conventions being too loud too.
I can respect that. Most political events are just noise - but not this year!
Objecting to Hank Williams and Monday Night Football is just... Un-American.
What a strange city this Sacramento is...
And what a strange people that live here.
And, now, that would include me...
Joy.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Sacramento Road Kill
Death is peaceful.
It's the crossing over...
"I wish I had my tools; I'd take its pelt," said a bike-riding passerby. "That's a jacket right there."
Cold? Maybe. Realistic? Yes. Just the way things are? You bet.
He said it matter-of-factly - not a hint of remorse for her - as he looked at the lifeless deer lying on the side of Howe Avenue, a major, four-lane thoroughfare through eastern Sacramento. According to the rider, it was a fairly fresh kill - happening last night -and now she was a potential commodity.
I'm a compassionate guy and I felt a bit of sadness for the fallen creature, but it passed.
With all I've been through the last few years, my perspective is shifting. Not sure I like it, but it just is.
As I looked at her and photographed her, the feelings I had were familiar, but they didn't feel like they were completely mine. I didn't quite know what to make of it.
Why was I compelled to stop and go back to her?
What is it about death?
What is it about 'life goes on?'
The idea of dying alone.
The idea of dying alone in a strange place.
The idea of dying with no friends being close to care for you or your remains.
The idea of no one caring.
Will you be a curiosity fathers bring their sons to ogle.
What is it about the idea that your life is over and no one knowing anything about you, your life, your trials, your defeats and your triumphs.
The idea of dying on the side of the road...
Alone...
Then reality snapped me back. I was taking pictures on the side of a road where people, texting at 50 miles per hour, wouldn't even realize they hit someone or something.
If I wasn't careful, I could be lying next to her. Would anyone stop?
Californians don't drive very well, nor are they known to help strangers; so, I focused.
I started to leave, but couldn't. I said a silent prayer.
I opened my eyes and there she was again.
Still.
Trying to distract myself from the thoughts I was having, I thought, 'sure, venison is good - very good if it's done right,' but my appetite was not aroused at the idea of eating this roadside doe;the rising bacteria levels was prohibitive.
The cyclist expressed his disappointment that she probably wouldn't be there by the time he got back with tools - and maybe a truck? Heck if he was really a mountain man, he'd heft it over his bike and shoulders and ride off.
I wonder if he'd just get real 'mountain-man' and skin her right there on the side of the road. Then, no, he'd he'd need to get his pick up and some friends and haul her away and do the bloody deed in privacy.
"Some people would take it and eat the meat - it hear it's pretty good, but I'd just take the pelt," the rider said. "Poor doe."
Winter is approaching and a real dear pelt jacket would cost a pretty penny in today's market. My-my, the rider is frugal too. Deer steak and an enviable fashion statement.
Though, I hear they shed if they're not prepared properly.
I looked at her lying there again, cars zipping by. She no longer felt pain, but she will never struggle through the trials and joys of life. I know, "...joys of deer life?"
Why not. Remember Bambi?
I wondered if the driver who hit her took the time to notify anyone. Seems the answer is no.
A number of thoughts passed through me; not to mention that nagging philosophical one, "What's the meaning of life... ?"
To which I promptly answered,
"Shut up."
At times like these, when I'm compelled to grab my camera and shoot, I hear things people have told me through the years. Sometimes, what they've said makes no sense. Then, later on, I'm allowed to live to see the situation that the advice or observation fits.
That's a good feeling.
I really feel God's blessings on those days.
I remember reading somewhere or hearing someone say, "Life doesn't have to have meaning, I do."
With this new Wandering journey I am on in Sacramento, California, patiently (and sometimes impatiently) awaiting reuniting with my son; I have to agree.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Another Lovely Day...
Slept most of the day yesterday. I only remember eating a golden omlette and sauteed vegetables.
Spent the day in church today.
Somebody said, the more of the Word you have in you, when hard times squeeze you, the Word comes out.
Okay.
It was a good place to be.
I got to work with A/V equipment and listen to the Word all day.
In the words of the great Ice Cube, "Today was a good day."
Spent the day in church today.
Somebody said, the more of the Word you have in you, when hard times squeeze you, the Word comes out.
Okay.
It was a good place to be.
I got to work with A/V equipment and listen to the Word all day.
In the words of the great Ice Cube, "Today was a good day."
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Today, I met Tony...
And what a specimen.
Lots of attitude, lots of testosterone, kinda short on several saving graces. Like communication; for one.
Then again, what he was communicating was raw. It was primal. It was real... He was like a living, breathing characature.
Drama.
Okay, so here's the scenario:
Sacramento's multimillion-dollar courthouse on its acres of grounds - they even constructed a park in its rear, complete with a fountain sprouting out of a man-made lake.
Crime, jails and courts support an entire community here.
I arrive to file custody papers against Glenda Darlene Goodwin, A medical Ob/Gyn doctor who is actively keeping my son from me. I exit the elevator from the lower level parking lot on an otherwise sunny day, still kinda cool for a September morning.
As I turn towards the court house entrance, I see a tall, dark, chocolate-skinned Black man agitatedly stepping up and down on an walkway barrier separating the walkway from the bushes and grass beyond. He stood about six-foot two or so, I'm sure shorter without his shoes... He looked fairly athletic but hid his physique in an over sized, grey, open neck, collared leisure shirt.
When he saw me, he straightened slightly and stepped down. I thought, 'Jeez, here we go.'
Sure enough, as soon as I passed, he began walking three-quarters behind me to the right. Perfect cheap-shot position.
"I'm tony! You must be Greg. (I fought the urge to say, that's grrrrrrreaat!) You hang up on me and call the police on me like a bitch! You're less than a woman to me."
Good thing I don't base my man hood on his scales. I think I could have been insulted.
Okay. Bravado, anger; maybe.
My reflexes awaited the curling swing that never ocurred.
I said nothing to his taunts. When he saw they were not having the desired effect on me, we arrived at the the doors with metal detectors, and several Sheriffs just beyond, he threw an gentle elbow into my upper gut and lower ribcage. The ball player in me thought, "Who is this guy trying to box me out? The Mui-Thai boxer in me said, "grab him by the neck until unconscious." While so many guard duty hours told me there is a time and place for deadly force, and this ain't one.
He must have said something about my mama, cause as we were...
Okay, that was an exaggeration.
He was ahead of me. He placed his things on the X-ray belt, then, still selling woof-tickets, he squared off with me, standing toe-to-toe with me, eyeball to eye ball, vis a vis... Mano-aMano....
can somebody please whistle, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly theme... (Right about five lines ago. It's okay; go back and start there.
So there we stood, in front of three armed sheriffs, more in the dark-glassed booth to our left and the most peculiar thing happened for me.
I looked into his eyes; brown, a bout an inch lower than mine. He looked back into mine. I had no energy for him. I was waiting for his first, okay maybe second or third stupid move. It never came. He told me I knew where he was sleeping. Yes, with my ex. So.
But, she is not married to Anthony Mangram. He lives there with her. She is sending my son to a Christian school, but is and has been living with this... Gentleman for two years, according to my 10-year-old son's report. According to Tony's admission.
"Yeah! You know where I'm sleeping - I'm sleeping with Glenda. Don't ask your son's going on in that house, ask me.
He's not legally in my family or my son so he has no rights to interfere. Not to mention...
Anyway, after seeing no real fire in his eyes, I told him not to get between me and my son.
He blathers on, to which I reiterated several times, "Don't get between me and my son. To which he eventually said, "Well, you're going to come to me to pick up your son."
I looked at him and thought, 'hmm, that's what restraining orders are for.'
I went to the room I was instructed to report to and began filling out the last lines of the custody paperwork.
He paced, he hovered, he approached and began taunting me for a third time-a.
At that point an armed Sheriff came out and confronted him. She said, that he had started and had been antagonistic toward me. Glenda sat on a steel chair, silent.
The Sheriffs took reports, I considered filing charges. An officer asked me if I was injured. Recommended I drop the charges because he would counter charge me... Welcome to some stupid, California laws. But recommended I file a restraining order.
So, the Jedi mind trick worked and I spent the next few hours filling out and filing restraining order papers. I'll find out if the judge grants it Monday.
Meanwhile, the judge ordered a hearing for October about getting better visitation without the drama. I was wondering if she knew how all this madness is affecting him. I was hoping to take MAX to a camping trip later this month.
So much for that.
After court, I made a bee-line for church and shot video of gospel legends Shirley Ceasar and Yolanda Adams for the next nine hours.
God is Good.
La, la, la...
Lots of attitude, lots of testosterone, kinda short on several saving graces. Like communication; for one.
Then again, what he was communicating was raw. It was primal. It was real... He was like a living, breathing characature.
Drama.
Okay, so here's the scenario:
Sacramento's multimillion-dollar courthouse on its acres of grounds - they even constructed a park in its rear, complete with a fountain sprouting out of a man-made lake.
Crime, jails and courts support an entire community here.
I arrive to file custody papers against Glenda Darlene Goodwin, A medical Ob/Gyn doctor who is actively keeping my son from me. I exit the elevator from the lower level parking lot on an otherwise sunny day, still kinda cool for a September morning.
As I turn towards the court house entrance, I see a tall, dark, chocolate-skinned Black man agitatedly stepping up and down on an walkway barrier separating the walkway from the bushes and grass beyond. He stood about six-foot two or so, I'm sure shorter without his shoes... He looked fairly athletic but hid his physique in an over sized, grey, open neck, collared leisure shirt.
When he saw me, he straightened slightly and stepped down. I thought, 'Jeez, here we go.'
Sure enough, as soon as I passed, he began walking three-quarters behind me to the right. Perfect cheap-shot position.
"I'm tony! You must be Greg. (I fought the urge to say, that's grrrrrrreaat!) You hang up on me and call the police on me like a bitch! You're less than a woman to me."
Good thing I don't base my man hood on his scales. I think I could have been insulted.
Okay. Bravado, anger; maybe.
My reflexes awaited the curling swing that never ocurred.
I said nothing to his taunts. When he saw they were not having the desired effect on me, we arrived at the the doors with metal detectors, and several Sheriffs just beyond, he threw an gentle elbow into my upper gut and lower ribcage. The ball player in me thought, "Who is this guy trying to box me out? The Mui-Thai boxer in me said, "grab him by the neck until unconscious." While so many guard duty hours told me there is a time and place for deadly force, and this ain't one.
He must have said something about my mama, cause as we were...
Okay, that was an exaggeration.
He was ahead of me. He placed his things on the X-ray belt, then, still selling woof-tickets, he squared off with me, standing toe-to-toe with me, eyeball to eye ball, vis a vis... Mano-aMano....
can somebody please whistle, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly theme... (Right about five lines ago. It's okay; go back and start there.
So there we stood, in front of three armed sheriffs, more in the dark-glassed booth to our left and the most peculiar thing happened for me.
I looked into his eyes; brown, a bout an inch lower than mine. He looked back into mine. I had no energy for him. I was waiting for his first, okay maybe second or third stupid move. It never came. He told me I knew where he was sleeping. Yes, with my ex. So.
But, she is not married to Anthony Mangram. He lives there with her. She is sending my son to a Christian school, but is and has been living with this... Gentleman for two years, according to my 10-year-old son's report. According to Tony's admission.
"Yeah! You know where I'm sleeping - I'm sleeping with Glenda. Don't ask your son's going on in that house, ask me.
He's not legally in my family or my son so he has no rights to interfere. Not to mention...
Anyway, after seeing no real fire in his eyes, I told him not to get between me and my son.
He blathers on, to which I reiterated several times, "Don't get between me and my son. To which he eventually said, "Well, you're going to come to me to pick up your son."
I looked at him and thought, 'hmm, that's what restraining orders are for.'
I went to the room I was instructed to report to and began filling out the last lines of the custody paperwork.
He paced, he hovered, he approached and began taunting me for a third time-a.
At that point an armed Sheriff came out and confronted him. She said, that he had started and had been antagonistic toward me. Glenda sat on a steel chair, silent.
The Sheriffs took reports, I considered filing charges. An officer asked me if I was injured. Recommended I drop the charges because he would counter charge me... Welcome to some stupid, California laws. But recommended I file a restraining order.
So, the Jedi mind trick worked and I spent the next few hours filling out and filing restraining order papers. I'll find out if the judge grants it Monday.
Meanwhile, the judge ordered a hearing for October about getting better visitation without the drama. I was wondering if she knew how all this madness is affecting him. I was hoping to take MAX to a camping trip later this month.
So much for that.
After court, I made a bee-line for church and shot video of gospel legends Shirley Ceasar and Yolanda Adams for the next nine hours.
God is Good.
La, la, la...
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Drama: Not Just For The Stage
I avoid drama.
But, my favorite playwright, Mr. Shakespeare said, "All the world is a stage and we are but players..."
Good Lord...
Playas...
If I look hard enough, maybe in Merchant of Venice, I'll find reference to the word "pimps" too...
Well, let me set the stage...
I grew up in Brooklyn, New York.
Yes, "The" Brooklyn.
In a time before pop-culture introduced rap from the inner city to 'mainstream' America.
I knew of it, rap and inner citylife, but was not part of it. I wasan observer; a journalist as I have grown to become for the world's finest Navy.
In the day, I was teased in my 'hood' for sleeping on books and being 'square.' But as a friend told me, as a square, at least I know my sides are equal. Not such a bad thing.
I studied theater with the late Raul Julia.
I remember the NYC blackout - at a rehearsal - when I got a new pair of sneakers from 'Pancho,' the theater director who said I pimped him for them when I had been an unpaid theater hand and actor. My off-Broadway actor brother acted for him and had introduced me to theater in NYC. He Wandered the world acting...
Now, a score and a decade later, here I am, in Sacramento trying to reunite with my son, Matthew - who just turned ten in May of this year - that I find out that my ex-wife, Glenda Darlene Goodwin, Md., is living with her boyfriend. My son is there in her house with her live-in boyfriend.
I called tonight and spoke with my son - it was like connecting with life itself to me. It was like breathing, it was like laying on your back and looking at the stars...
Speaking with him is the definition of Zen.
To me.
During our conversation, my son told me that his mother, Glenda Darlene Goodwin, the medical doctor who had to lie to me to impregnate her, had a new boyfriend who was living with them.
What? I thought.
This is the same woman who wouldn't date me in Hawai'i if I didn't attend church.
I attended church. I'd been an altar boy, a choir boy.
No problem.
This is the same woman who said to me, "If you don't want to be involved with the baby, it's okay."
I had never heard anything like that. I thought it was absurd.
Man, was I out of another time. Man, was I out of touch.
I got out of the world's finest Navy to build a family with her.
I was such a fool.
I thought so much better of her.
I thought so much more of her. I was so, very wrong.
Today, a Tuesday in California (Jee-zuhs!) I spoke with my son and he told me my medical doctor ex-wife was living with her boyfriend.
I repeat, my ex-wife, who didn't want her child to be a bastard, and asked me to marry her - and I obliged, because I too didn't want my first born to be a bastard (me at 36 years of age, her 28) - so I did.
Get this; 36, single, hetero, in the navy and having the time of my life, heading for Japan, meet an Oakland native and, more importantly, doctor in residency ...
Who cares. That was years ago.
Truly th ebest of times and the worst of times.
Today, I spoke with MY son and asked if he was being treated well by his... Live in boyfriend... Uh... Tony... A man who this is the FIRST time I am hearing about.
A man I never heard of? A man she neglected to tell me was living with them for the last two years.
I asked my son if he treated him well. He said yes. I asked my son, if he ever hit him, he said, no. Then Tony interrupted my conversation with my son, and told me that if I wanted to know whatever about him, I needed to ask him.
SIDE BAR: Why was this Cretin listening to my 10-year-old son and my conversation?
How dare he...
I told him to put my son back on the line.
He refused, saying I wouldn't speak with him tonight, if he had anything to do with it. Said, I knew where they lived at 8156 Polo Crosse Ave., Sacramento, California 95828, and that if I wanted to ask him questions, I knew where he was and that I shoulkd come to thier front door.
Hmmm.
I hung up and called the Sherriff.
They reported back to me later MAX was okay.
HOW CAN I POSSIBLY FEEL COMFORTABLE WITH THAT?
He took the phone from my son and questioned me as to who I thought I was grilling my son about who he was.
The bastard said that if I wanted to know who he was I should ask him and not grill a little kid.
Little kid?
The little man happens to be MY SON!
And as I told her last live in, don't get between me and my son. Not a good choice.
After I told him I can ask my son whatever I want, he ranted on about something or other. It sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher.
I told him to let me speak with my son and he said, "No."
So, to reiterate. I called the Sherriff's office and had them pay him a health and welfare visit.
I left a message with Glenda Darlene Goodwin of Trinity Medical care or something like that - no answer.
My, my, my...
Drama?
God has been preparing me for this battle since before I was a teenager...
Game on...
Jehovah Jirah!!!
Breast plate of Faith and Love...
Helmet ofd Hope...
Let's Rock...
But, my favorite playwright, Mr. Shakespeare said, "All the world is a stage and we are but players..."
Good Lord...
Playas...
If I look hard enough, maybe in Merchant of Venice, I'll find reference to the word "pimps" too...
Well, let me set the stage...
I grew up in Brooklyn, New York.
Yes, "The" Brooklyn.
In a time before pop-culture introduced rap from the inner city to 'mainstream' America.
I knew of it, rap and inner citylife, but was not part of it. I wasan observer; a journalist as I have grown to become for the world's finest Navy.
In the day, I was teased in my 'hood' for sleeping on books and being 'square.' But as a friend told me, as a square, at least I know my sides are equal. Not such a bad thing.
I studied theater with the late Raul Julia.
I remember the NYC blackout - at a rehearsal - when I got a new pair of sneakers from 'Pancho,' the theater director who said I pimped him for them when I had been an unpaid theater hand and actor. My off-Broadway actor brother acted for him and had introduced me to theater in NYC. He Wandered the world acting...
Now, a score and a decade later, here I am, in Sacramento trying to reunite with my son, Matthew - who just turned ten in May of this year - that I find out that my ex-wife, Glenda Darlene Goodwin, Md., is living with her boyfriend. My son is there in her house with her live-in boyfriend.
I called tonight and spoke with my son - it was like connecting with life itself to me. It was like breathing, it was like laying on your back and looking at the stars...
Speaking with him is the definition of Zen.
To me.
During our conversation, my son told me that his mother, Glenda Darlene Goodwin, the medical doctor who had to lie to me to impregnate her, had a new boyfriend who was living with them.
What? I thought.
This is the same woman who wouldn't date me in Hawai'i if I didn't attend church.
I attended church. I'd been an altar boy, a choir boy.
No problem.
This is the same woman who said to me, "If you don't want to be involved with the baby, it's okay."
I had never heard anything like that. I thought it was absurd.
Man, was I out of another time. Man, was I out of touch.
I got out of the world's finest Navy to build a family with her.
I was such a fool.
I thought so much better of her.
I thought so much more of her. I was so, very wrong.
Today, a Tuesday in California (Jee-zuhs!) I spoke with my son and he told me my medical doctor ex-wife was living with her boyfriend.
I repeat, my ex-wife, who didn't want her child to be a bastard, and asked me to marry her - and I obliged, because I too didn't want my first born to be a bastard (me at 36 years of age, her 28) - so I did.
Get this; 36, single, hetero, in the navy and having the time of my life, heading for Japan, meet an Oakland native and, more importantly, doctor in residency ...
Who cares. That was years ago.
Truly th ebest of times and the worst of times.
Today, I spoke with MY son and asked if he was being treated well by his... Live in boyfriend... Uh... Tony... A man who this is the FIRST time I am hearing about.
A man I never heard of? A man she neglected to tell me was living with them for the last two years.
I asked my son if he treated him well. He said yes. I asked my son, if he ever hit him, he said, no. Then Tony interrupted my conversation with my son, and told me that if I wanted to know whatever about him, I needed to ask him.
SIDE BAR: Why was this Cretin listening to my 10-year-old son and my conversation?
How dare he...
I told him to put my son back on the line.
He refused, saying I wouldn't speak with him tonight, if he had anything to do with it. Said, I knew where they lived at 8156 Polo Crosse Ave., Sacramento, California 95828, and that if I wanted to ask him questions, I knew where he was and that I shoulkd come to thier front door.
Hmmm.
I hung up and called the Sherriff.
They reported back to me later MAX was okay.
HOW CAN I POSSIBLY FEEL COMFORTABLE WITH THAT?
He took the phone from my son and questioned me as to who I thought I was grilling my son about who he was.
The bastard said that if I wanted to know who he was I should ask him and not grill a little kid.
Little kid?
The little man happens to be MY SON!
And as I told her last live in, don't get between me and my son. Not a good choice.
After I told him I can ask my son whatever I want, he ranted on about something or other. It sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher.
I told him to let me speak with my son and he said, "No."
So, to reiterate. I called the Sherriff's office and had them pay him a health and welfare visit.
I left a message with Glenda Darlene Goodwin of Trinity Medical care or something like that - no answer.
My, my, my...
Drama?
God has been preparing me for this battle since before I was a teenager...
Game on...
Jehovah Jirah!!!
Breast plate of Faith and Love...
Helmet ofd Hope...
Let's Rock...
Drill, Baby, Drill?
I watched the Republican National Convention and I'm still in shock and awe.
Shocked that so many people are in agreement with Senator McCain and Gov. Palin and in awe of how they all seem to have forgotten what condition the last eight years have left this great nation in.
I was most concerned when former New York mayor Rudy Giuliani led convention goers in their 'Drill, baby, drill' chant. I couldn't help but think how similar it sounded like, "Kill, kill, kill," from The Gladiator scene in the Roman Colosseum where the spectators were calling for blood.
For years, this nation's leadership said we are far too reliant on foreign oil, but has done little to become independent of it - be it the powerful oil industry or just plain stupidity. When I think of the oil industry, I can't help but think of Daniel Day Lewis and his Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences Oscar award for his portrayal of an 'Oil man' in There Will Be Blood.
So, by the portrayal, would it be a fair conclusion to say, oil men will lie, cheat, steal and kill for their product? Or would the conservative in me say, do what you have to to feed your family and live well.
Hmmm.
Just the other day, I went for a walk in a Sacramento park well off the beaten path. I saw spiderwebs laid and untouched for - by the looks of them - for quite some time, rabbits and an owl. As I walked, I noticed many natural aromas: sage, pine, eucalyptus, and I wondered what this land would have smelled like when it was 'natural.' While Wandering through off-the beaten-paths in Hawai'i, I encounter such rich, musky aromas, it would have made Glade jealous.
In our modern world, people usually don't normally remember a city by its smell unless it really smells bad. But rather, they usually have no smell to them at all.
Cities are great and I am in no way in favor of going backward, but a dose of common sense is a good thing.
That is what was a bit disturbing about the RNC 2008.
By what I witnessed, I had to guess they think global warming is still just an aberration. Yes, we use most of the world's oil production, and we may never stop extracting it from the Earth, but I believe it has to be done with more common sense - something taht seemed to be absent for the vote at the RNC.
Another disturbing example of our human impact on our environment are the disturbing amount of dead zones in massive bodies of water that are in and aound our great nation - not to mention the amount of trash set adrift throughout our oceans.
Alternatives? As long as we don't block it out with smog, there will always be sunlight. And as long as there's an atmosphere, there will be wind.
Another thing I'm not getting is the true difference between 'Liberal' and 'Conservative' and why being liberal is looked on as something evil by conservatives. From watching the convention, I could only surmise that to be conservative takes an active ability to forget what is happening around you, the nation and the world and believe that there is no repercussion to economic, political and environmental actions.
I look to the near collapse of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac for an indication. The CEOs of each company are getting seven-figure severance packages for sunning the companies into the ground.
Or Enron. Yes, the courts ordered them to pay billions in compensation, but how much of it will ever trickle down to the thousands who lost their jobs and pensions.
So, here we are again. A few months to presidential election and the nation is about to make a choice. If it's the same old rhetoric, that would be such a waste. If it's truly a time for change, I pray we Americans make the right choice, rather than riding the shifting tides and air currents.
There was plenty of wind circulating the RNC - too bad they were unwilling to harness it.
Shocked that so many people are in agreement with Senator McCain and Gov. Palin and in awe of how they all seem to have forgotten what condition the last eight years have left this great nation in.
I was most concerned when former New York mayor Rudy Giuliani led convention goers in their 'Drill, baby, drill' chant. I couldn't help but think how similar it sounded like, "Kill, kill, kill," from The Gladiator scene in the Roman Colosseum where the spectators were calling for blood.
For years, this nation's leadership said we are far too reliant on foreign oil, but has done little to become independent of it - be it the powerful oil industry or just plain stupidity. When I think of the oil industry, I can't help but think of Daniel Day Lewis and his Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences Oscar award for his portrayal of an 'Oil man' in There Will Be Blood.
So, by the portrayal, would it be a fair conclusion to say, oil men will lie, cheat, steal and kill for their product? Or would the conservative in me say, do what you have to to feed your family and live well.
Hmmm.
Just the other day, I went for a walk in a Sacramento park well off the beaten path. I saw spiderwebs laid and untouched for - by the looks of them - for quite some time, rabbits and an owl. As I walked, I noticed many natural aromas: sage, pine, eucalyptus, and I wondered what this land would have smelled like when it was 'natural.' While Wandering through off-the beaten-paths in Hawai'i, I encounter such rich, musky aromas, it would have made Glade jealous.
In our modern world, people usually don't normally remember a city by its smell unless it really smells bad. But rather, they usually have no smell to them at all.
Cities are great and I am in no way in favor of going backward, but a dose of common sense is a good thing.
That is what was a bit disturbing about the RNC 2008.
By what I witnessed, I had to guess they think global warming is still just an aberration. Yes, we use most of the world's oil production, and we may never stop extracting it from the Earth, but I believe it has to be done with more common sense - something taht seemed to be absent for the vote at the RNC.
Another disturbing example of our human impact on our environment are the disturbing amount of dead zones in massive bodies of water that are in and aound our great nation - not to mention the amount of trash set adrift throughout our oceans.
Alternatives? As long as we don't block it out with smog, there will always be sunlight. And as long as there's an atmosphere, there will be wind.
Another thing I'm not getting is the true difference between 'Liberal' and 'Conservative' and why being liberal is looked on as something evil by conservatives. From watching the convention, I could only surmise that to be conservative takes an active ability to forget what is happening around you, the nation and the world and believe that there is no repercussion to economic, political and environmental actions.
I look to the near collapse of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac for an indication. The CEOs of each company are getting seven-figure severance packages for sunning the companies into the ground.
Or Enron. Yes, the courts ordered them to pay billions in compensation, but how much of it will ever trickle down to the thousands who lost their jobs and pensions.
So, here we are again. A few months to presidential election and the nation is about to make a choice. If it's the same old rhetoric, that would be such a waste. If it's truly a time for change, I pray we Americans make the right choice, rather than riding the shifting tides and air currents.
There was plenty of wind circulating the RNC - too bad they were unwilling to harness it.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Gold Rush Days...
Oh, my.
I Wandered through Sacramento this past weekend during the annual Gold Rush Days celebration in Old Sacramento.
Okay, it was a tourist attraction, but through my eyes, it was a little unsettling.
There was a 'gunfight show' where people getting shot accidentally, because of two men trying to shoot each other on a public street was portrayed as humorous. And this was just a reenactment.
Just imagine a whole state or region full of barely educated peoples west of Kansas - drunk on wars and following their 'Manifest Destiny' west - twisted on alcohol, and all the while carrying high-powered weapons. Oh, and while killing a tribal people along the way; just think.
Seeing this 'Old West' spectacle was disturbing;
especially when a short column of Union Army troops rode through town.
Even as the 'good guys' there was just something not quite right about the way they looked.
And while I saw "Indian" flutes, "native" textile motifs and inspired art, no, I did not see one Native American booth, display or representation.
"Gold Rush Days..." Old Sacramento...
It was a little disturbing.
I Wandered through Sacramento this past weekend during the annual Gold Rush Days celebration in Old Sacramento.
Okay, it was a tourist attraction, but through my eyes, it was a little unsettling.
There was a 'gunfight show' where people getting shot accidentally, because of two men trying to shoot each other on a public street was portrayed as humorous. And this was just a reenactment.
Just imagine a whole state or region full of barely educated peoples west of Kansas - drunk on wars and following their 'Manifest Destiny' west - twisted on alcohol, and all the while carrying high-powered weapons. Oh, and while killing a tribal people along the way; just think.
Seeing this 'Old West' spectacle was disturbing;
especially when a short column of Union Army troops rode through town.
Even as the 'good guys' there was just something not quite right about the way they looked.
And while I saw "Indian" flutes, "native" textile motifs and inspired art, no, I did not see one Native American booth, display or representation.
"Gold Rush Days..." Old Sacramento...
It was a little disturbing.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Golden State? How About Fool's Gold
Last week, I Wandered around my new neighborhood. On my journey, I just so happened to meet a neighbor I had met shortly after I relocated; so we talked. Soon after, she excused herself, but left me with her twenty-something son. He and I talked and what he said was eye-opening about one human condition in the State of California.
I asked him the same question I always ask people bold enough to say they're native - not transplanted - Californians. No, not displaced Native Americans before colonial incursions, or the Spanish (Mexican) who lived here as far north as San Francisco.
Remember 54-40 or fight?
The question, I have to ask is, "Why don't people talk to each other here?"
His answer?
He told me that people have done each other wrong for so long that there is little if any trust left for one another. So, I asked him, '...Done wrong, like...?'
And he replied, stating reasons ranging from betrayal to infidelity, to theft, to failing to repay loans, to hurtful gossip, to meddling, to informing on one another including family, friends, neighbors and law enforcement . He said people are not good to their word out here (west), so folks just keep to themselves.
Something that I felt, but even Dr. Phil would say that can't be healthy.
Not to mention painfully boring! Who has the time to be that disconnected? Who has the time to be so low down as to play on good people like that?
We are social animals. So, by definition, folks here - if I may come to my own conclusions - are socially immature, living in physically mature bodies.
I find people here so wrapped around their anger from a slight from their social circle from yesterday or so long ago, that now I can only call it a childish anger.
What's dangerous about it, is that they are acting out through an adult body. But, the behavior is childish.
And it's sad. Sad that there is little opportunity for social interaction or cross cultural interaction in this car-reliant part of the country.
Imagine the rush to go west.
Who went?
Those who had? Not likely.
The Wanderer, yes, but mostly those who had nothing, who were relatively uneducated and of course, the ministry.
Dangerous combination.
Not to mention high powered weapons and way too much alcohol. I think that social structure still exists here in some real ways.
Zip back to today.
Think of it; millions get up, get in their cars, go to 'work,' have lunch, get in their cars, go home and wait for tomorrow.
When do they meet people? Nobody walks out here.
When do they meet people outside their communities when they barely meet people from their own? So many don't even know who their neighbors are.
And what about interaction with people from other races? What about those who have a social prejudice already? When and where will they have a positive interaction with people from other races?
Interaction dispels stereotypes (most times), but if all you see of another race is from passing them in your air conditioned (or not) car, or at the mall, when will you know that that young man with his pants sagging a bit has a degree and value? That he goes to church and works with youth ministries? Or that he loves and cares for his mother?
It also occurred to me why gangs are so prevalent here and I believe it's because of the lack of healthy communities, trusty and healthy, social interaction. Things I've seen in so many other communities and countries.
I want to say there was a social breakdown going on out here, but I'm not sure it ever was "fixed" or working well. What with cow-punchers, transient people and families, gunslingers, rustlers, hustlers, snake oil salesmen, bushwhackers, trade from the east, Mexicans, Asians, Pacific Islanders, businessmen, shysters and all sorts of desperadoes...
The need to be social is very strong in our nature but so difficult to establish and maintain here in Cali that people make their own social organization, even if it is potentially unhealthy.
But I've found in conversations with folks, it is a secondary family (sometimes primary) that provides a place where codes of conduct require some honesty and social loyalties - often with swift consequences for breaking those codes - things neighborhoods no longer - if ever - supply.
Folks here need therapy; me included.
Something that will help their inner child go back inside, grow up and come out later. Much later.
I could visualize folks walking around with 'Back in a Year' signs draped over them.
I think of a popular west coast rapper's lyric stating, "I've got hoes in different area codes..." I just have to wonder if those women think they are his only 'woman?' And so, one more facet of distrust kicks in.
No one trusts here. Because, often times, when folks do, the person is lying. There are many disappointed, jaded and just plain angry people here. Repercussions from socially dishonest behavior is slow.
Honesty is a rare commodity.
Kind of like Gold.
I asked him the same question I always ask people bold enough to say they're native - not transplanted - Californians. No, not displaced Native Americans before colonial incursions, or the Spanish (Mexican) who lived here as far north as San Francisco.
Remember 54-40 or fight?
The question, I have to ask is, "Why don't people talk to each other here?"
His answer?
He told me that people have done each other wrong for so long that there is little if any trust left for one another. So, I asked him, '...Done wrong, like...?'
And he replied, stating reasons ranging from betrayal to infidelity, to theft, to failing to repay loans, to hurtful gossip, to meddling, to informing on one another including family, friends, neighbors and law enforcement . He said people are not good to their word out here (west), so folks just keep to themselves.
Something that I felt, but even Dr. Phil would say that can't be healthy.
Not to mention painfully boring! Who has the time to be that disconnected? Who has the time to be so low down as to play on good people like that?
We are social animals. So, by definition, folks here - if I may come to my own conclusions - are socially immature, living in physically mature bodies.
I find people here so wrapped around their anger from a slight from their social circle from yesterday or so long ago, that now I can only call it a childish anger.
What's dangerous about it, is that they are acting out through an adult body. But, the behavior is childish.
And it's sad. Sad that there is little opportunity for social interaction or cross cultural interaction in this car-reliant part of the country.
Imagine the rush to go west.
Who went?
Those who had? Not likely.
The Wanderer, yes, but mostly those who had nothing, who were relatively uneducated and of course, the ministry.
Dangerous combination.
Not to mention high powered weapons and way too much alcohol. I think that social structure still exists here in some real ways.
Zip back to today.
Think of it; millions get up, get in their cars, go to 'work,' have lunch, get in their cars, go home and wait for tomorrow.
When do they meet people? Nobody walks out here.
When do they meet people outside their communities when they barely meet people from their own? So many don't even know who their neighbors are.
And what about interaction with people from other races? What about those who have a social prejudice already? When and where will they have a positive interaction with people from other races?
Interaction dispels stereotypes (most times), but if all you see of another race is from passing them in your air conditioned (or not) car, or at the mall, when will you know that that young man with his pants sagging a bit has a degree and value? That he goes to church and works with youth ministries? Or that he loves and cares for his mother?
It also occurred to me why gangs are so prevalent here and I believe it's because of the lack of healthy communities, trusty and healthy, social interaction. Things I've seen in so many other communities and countries.
I want to say there was a social breakdown going on out here, but I'm not sure it ever was "fixed" or working well. What with cow-punchers, transient people and families, gunslingers, rustlers, hustlers, snake oil salesmen, bushwhackers, trade from the east, Mexicans, Asians, Pacific Islanders, businessmen, shysters and all sorts of desperadoes...
The need to be social is very strong in our nature but so difficult to establish and maintain here in Cali that people make their own social organization, even if it is potentially unhealthy.
But I've found in conversations with folks, it is a secondary family (sometimes primary) that provides a place where codes of conduct require some honesty and social loyalties - often with swift consequences for breaking those codes - things neighborhoods no longer - if ever - supply.
Folks here need therapy; me included.
Something that will help their inner child go back inside, grow up and come out later. Much later.
I could visualize folks walking around with 'Back in a Year' signs draped over them.
I think of a popular west coast rapper's lyric stating, "I've got hoes in different area codes..." I just have to wonder if those women think they are his only 'woman?' And so, one more facet of distrust kicks in.
No one trusts here. Because, often times, when folks do, the person is lying. There are many disappointed, jaded and just plain angry people here. Repercussions from socially dishonest behavior is slow.
Honesty is a rare commodity.
Kind of like Gold.
Up Jumped the devil!
I was at the Cavalry Christian Center Church this morning; do you know Pastor Goudeaux?
Well, there I was in the second row, when the pastor said to take out your Bibles and turn to Romans...
Now my close up vision is kinda funky of late, so I took out my reading glasses, opened the case, unwrapped them from their lens-cleaning cloth.... Get this... The left lens literally jumped out of the frame. Good gracious!
I spent the next 20 minutes trying to replace the lens. It kinda creeped me out a little, but then I remembered I was in The Lord's House and that I am a Child Of God.
Then I realized, it's not the glasses, it's The Word.
So, I put the glasses away, and listened to The Word!
The answer is... FAITH!
Don't let anything destroy your Faith!
Fear is a paralyzer. It comes in many forms. Don't let it steal your FAITH!
God Is So Very Good
and so very good to me....
Well, there I was in the second row, when the pastor said to take out your Bibles and turn to Romans...
Now my close up vision is kinda funky of late, so I took out my reading glasses, opened the case, unwrapped them from their lens-cleaning cloth.... Get this... The left lens literally jumped out of the frame. Good gracious!
I spent the next 20 minutes trying to replace the lens. It kinda creeped me out a little, but then I remembered I was in The Lord's House and that I am a Child Of God.
Then I realized, it's not the glasses, it's The Word.
So, I put the glasses away, and listened to The Word!
The answer is... FAITH!
Don't let anything destroy your Faith!
Fear is a paralyzer. It comes in many forms. Don't let it steal your FAITH!
God Is So Very Good
and so very good to me....
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Common Courtesy
I talked with more and more 'transplanted' Californians who say the same things I do about the 'Golden State.'
I offered my card to a woman recently, but before she even read it, she said, "No thank you, I'm not interested." Interested in what? Not interested in what? I wanted to ask. Instead I just shook my head and walked back to my car.
I could have been offering a million - yeah right... But it's just the idea of an unwillingness to communicate.
The prevalent idea seems to be that personal contact means you want something from the person you begin a conversation with.
Maybe, but you'll never know unless you talk to each other about it. Networking is a good thing.
The unwillingness to engage still boggles my Wandering sensibilities.
It's not hard to see how far something as simple as a 'Good Morning' or holding a door for someone can go in making someone feel welcomed or a part of the human condition here. A sense that, 'hey, you're in the wild west, but you're not alone' would be a welcome sensation.
But over and over again, common courtesies are absent.
There is a cultural divide here. A divide in humanity.
And I believe it's one that can begin to be bridged with just a little common courtesy.
I offered my card to a woman recently, but before she even read it, she said, "No thank you, I'm not interested." Interested in what? Not interested in what? I wanted to ask. Instead I just shook my head and walked back to my car.
I could have been offering a million - yeah right... But it's just the idea of an unwillingness to communicate.
The prevalent idea seems to be that personal contact means you want something from the person you begin a conversation with.
Maybe, but you'll never know unless you talk to each other about it. Networking is a good thing.
The unwillingness to engage still boggles my Wandering sensibilities.
It's not hard to see how far something as simple as a 'Good Morning' or holding a door for someone can go in making someone feel welcomed or a part of the human condition here. A sense that, 'hey, you're in the wild west, but you're not alone' would be a welcome sensation.
But over and over again, common courtesies are absent.
There is a cultural divide here. A divide in humanity.
And I believe it's one that can begin to be bridged with just a little common courtesy.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
What to do, what to do?
I was Wandering around Sacramento's tree-lined streets with immaculately cared for homes and estates and then the near barren and dead tree, low-income neighborhoods - the neighborhoods that were abandoned by the gentry or is reclaimed farmland.
I sat for a moment to take it in.
More police in these neighborhoods, but why?
Pants sagging, music loud, cussing prevalent.
But that's just the surface.
I've learned there's always something underneath.
So, my twisted psyche went on a journey.
I looked around at America's global wealth and the hard times folks are going through now. And for the nation's Black or African American communities, they just seem as an anachronism.
The nation profited, but they were left behind. The jobs that could be done here are being done by people in foreign countries. The argument is that it's cheaper for business to hire them than hire Americans.
Hmmmm...
Now there's a fine how-d-ya-do.
Then, I thought:
What to do with a leftover workforce?
It occurred to me that about 'Eleven-Million' Africans were brought to these shores as slaves - 11-million - those who chose to survive. Not to mention all those hundreds of thousands who didn't survive the journey across the Atlantic.
I think I can say, "Only 11-Million made it." That's more people than in my beloved New York City. Eleven-Million...
Let that set in.
Those Africans, and several other races, built a nation through the sweat of their brow, bearing children, cooking, cleaning, planting, harvesting, building, inventing, engineering, shoeing and caring for horses, mules, cows, bulls, chickens, pigs, automobiles, trains, planes and eventually fighting in wars.
All the while, experiencing an historically unparalleled level of inhumanity for several hundreds of years. Its remnants and memory still green with many.
But yet, they were teaching many of their captors how to treat each other humanely. How to enjoy life. How to play music.How to dance despite and through adversity. How to respect each other. How to raise children in a 'village.'
Now, fast forward to today.
That labor force is no longer needed.
What to do, what to do?
Most were denied education back then. Death awaited and accepted thousands whose only crime was reading a book.
A man named Lynch, whom a terrible form of hanging death was named after, devised a plan to control those sometimes violently unruly Blacks with methods of horrific terror.
It can be argued that today he might be sought out and prosecuted for crimes against humanity.
Methods so heinous they're not even talked about today.
Now there's a controversy about water boarding? How about intentional, public killings or maiming - of both men and women - some while last-trimester pregnant - rape and imprisonment for the slightest infraction. That's terrorism on the highest scale. And it didn't happen in the Middle East or Asia, but right here in America.
A Frenchman said this country will be forever defined by how it treat the Africans who not only proved themselves as humans but as humane on the highest order: kind, compassionate, loving, communal, vocal, talented, courageous, artistic, craftsmen, gourmets and nurturers of generations of their own children as well as those of their enslavers.
Enslavers who had convinced themselves that the Africans were ignorant animals, or chattel and whose life was not worth much. The same peoples who were able to forgive them, contributing to their causes and way of life.
Some African Americans acclimated, some left while others have assimilated.
But there are pockets who remain. Many uneducated and uninterested in the society they find themselves in. A society that many feel they are not welcomed in.
It seems there is a sickness in the nation and in the ghettos we live in. A sickness of spirit, a sickness of disease, a sickness of hopelessness, a sickness of violence, a sickness of apathy. And I feel it stems back to how we treat each other as a family of man, regardless of color or status.
New Orleans, before the hurricane, was the most violent city in the country. We killed so many of our own, there was no need for outsiders to. We were eliminating ourselves because of societal neglect and lack of self respect. Then God (or man) sent a flood of Biblical proportions.
Is no one watching?
How do we treat a spiritual epidemic?
There are those who got out of their spiritual ghetto and have become successful. Some go back and lend a hand, others divorce themselves from their race's plight and struggle for their lost sense of belonging, their mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, their communities, tribes and their communal and personal respect; their unity.
Oh, what a proud people we must have been that so many of us here cannot imagine. Oh, what a magnificent people we must have been.
Looking at Africans today only seen on television is not a clear picture. If you believe the media, Africans are starving and AIDS ridden. Not true at all. But, like here in America, the idea of how Black folk are does not measure up to how we really are.
If you treat someone badly long enough, they will have a bad attitude. Can they be blamed?
Now, with computers and automation, some of which those African descendants helped invent, the need for large workforces are no longer needed. Labor intensive work is not an option for many African Americans. The idea of working that hard for someone else for low wages is near genetically repulsive.
So, what to do, what to do?
It still amazes me that drugs are so prevalent in 'the hood.'
How do they get there? When you consider our economic constraints, making it difficult for Black folk to barely cross town much less an ocean, how do they get drugs from Columbia or Afghanistan or Vietnam to Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard?
But the cop shows are rife with African Americans running from 'the law' or being incarcerated for long periods of time.
What bothers me most about that is that many prisons are private companies that some folks built to profit from.
If that's the case, then isn't there a profit incentive for crime?
At this point in history, there are many keys to get back on the right, and healthy track.
The key is education.
The key is being awake.
The key is regaining our spirit.
The key is not believing the hype.
The key is not buying the package.
The key is a change in paradigm.
The key is action.
The key is Love.
Love is the answer.
Someone criticized our successful athletes and celebrities for not giving back to the communities that produced them, but someone else chimed in that it's not completely their fault. Many in their communities pushed them away. Many other of our athletes and celebrities have reached back.
Oprah reached all the way back to Africa.
The communities that produced them have to realize the owners of those Gucci, Coach, Versace, Fendi and Dooney & Bourke accessories have given nothing back to the communities that helped them become wealthy.
If there was a consciousness that kept our economics in our communities, as a people we'd not be in the situation we are in today.
So, the question is not what to do, but rather, what are we going to do about it?
I sat for a moment to take it in.
More police in these neighborhoods, but why?
Pants sagging, music loud, cussing prevalent.
But that's just the surface.
I've learned there's always something underneath.
So, my twisted psyche went on a journey.
I looked around at America's global wealth and the hard times folks are going through now. And for the nation's Black or African American communities, they just seem as an anachronism.
The nation profited, but they were left behind. The jobs that could be done here are being done by people in foreign countries. The argument is that it's cheaper for business to hire them than hire Americans.
Hmmmm...
Now there's a fine how-d-ya-do.
Then, I thought:
What to do with a leftover workforce?
It occurred to me that about 'Eleven-Million' Africans were brought to these shores as slaves - 11-million - those who chose to survive. Not to mention all those hundreds of thousands who didn't survive the journey across the Atlantic.
I think I can say, "Only 11-Million made it." That's more people than in my beloved New York City. Eleven-Million...
Let that set in.
Those Africans, and several other races, built a nation through the sweat of their brow, bearing children, cooking, cleaning, planting, harvesting, building, inventing, engineering, shoeing and caring for horses, mules, cows, bulls, chickens, pigs, automobiles, trains, planes and eventually fighting in wars.
All the while, experiencing an historically unparalleled level of inhumanity for several hundreds of years. Its remnants and memory still green with many.
But yet, they were teaching many of their captors how to treat each other humanely. How to enjoy life. How to play music.How to dance despite and through adversity. How to respect each other. How to raise children in a 'village.'
Now, fast forward to today.
That labor force is no longer needed.
What to do, what to do?
Most were denied education back then. Death awaited and accepted thousands whose only crime was reading a book.
A man named Lynch, whom a terrible form of hanging death was named after, devised a plan to control those sometimes violently unruly Blacks with methods of horrific terror.
It can be argued that today he might be sought out and prosecuted for crimes against humanity.
Methods so heinous they're not even talked about today.
Now there's a controversy about water boarding? How about intentional, public killings or maiming - of both men and women - some while last-trimester pregnant - rape and imprisonment for the slightest infraction. That's terrorism on the highest scale. And it didn't happen in the Middle East or Asia, but right here in America.
A Frenchman said this country will be forever defined by how it treat the Africans who not only proved themselves as humans but as humane on the highest order: kind, compassionate, loving, communal, vocal, talented, courageous, artistic, craftsmen, gourmets and nurturers of generations of their own children as well as those of their enslavers.
Enslavers who had convinced themselves that the Africans were ignorant animals, or chattel and whose life was not worth much. The same peoples who were able to forgive them, contributing to their causes and way of life.
Some African Americans acclimated, some left while others have assimilated.
But there are pockets who remain. Many uneducated and uninterested in the society they find themselves in. A society that many feel they are not welcomed in.
It seems there is a sickness in the nation and in the ghettos we live in. A sickness of spirit, a sickness of disease, a sickness of hopelessness, a sickness of violence, a sickness of apathy. And I feel it stems back to how we treat each other as a family of man, regardless of color or status.
New Orleans, before the hurricane, was the most violent city in the country. We killed so many of our own, there was no need for outsiders to. We were eliminating ourselves because of societal neglect and lack of self respect. Then God (or man) sent a flood of Biblical proportions.
Is no one watching?
How do we treat a spiritual epidemic?
There are those who got out of their spiritual ghetto and have become successful. Some go back and lend a hand, others divorce themselves from their race's plight and struggle for their lost sense of belonging, their mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, their communities, tribes and their communal and personal respect; their unity.
Oh, what a proud people we must have been that so many of us here cannot imagine. Oh, what a magnificent people we must have been.
Looking at Africans today only seen on television is not a clear picture. If you believe the media, Africans are starving and AIDS ridden. Not true at all. But, like here in America, the idea of how Black folk are does not measure up to how we really are.
If you treat someone badly long enough, they will have a bad attitude. Can they be blamed?
Now, with computers and automation, some of which those African descendants helped invent, the need for large workforces are no longer needed. Labor intensive work is not an option for many African Americans. The idea of working that hard for someone else for low wages is near genetically repulsive.
So, what to do, what to do?
It still amazes me that drugs are so prevalent in 'the hood.'
How do they get there? When you consider our economic constraints, making it difficult for Black folk to barely cross town much less an ocean, how do they get drugs from Columbia or Afghanistan or Vietnam to Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard?
But the cop shows are rife with African Americans running from 'the law' or being incarcerated for long periods of time.
What bothers me most about that is that many prisons are private companies that some folks built to profit from.
If that's the case, then isn't there a profit incentive for crime?
At this point in history, there are many keys to get back on the right, and healthy track.
The key is education.
The key is being awake.
The key is regaining our spirit.
The key is not believing the hype.
The key is not buying the package.
The key is a change in paradigm.
The key is action.
The key is Love.
Love is the answer.
Someone criticized our successful athletes and celebrities for not giving back to the communities that produced them, but someone else chimed in that it's not completely their fault. Many in their communities pushed them away. Many other of our athletes and celebrities have reached back.
Oprah reached all the way back to Africa.
The communities that produced them have to realize the owners of those Gucci, Coach, Versace, Fendi and Dooney & Bourke accessories have given nothing back to the communities that helped them become wealthy.
If there was a consciousness that kept our economics in our communities, as a people we'd not be in the situation we are in today.
So, the question is not what to do, but rather, what are we going to do about it?
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Brotherhood Of The Natural Disaster
It's funny how in La-La town, how suddenly an earthquake make people - even strangers - talk to each other.
These are the same people who pass each other daily, avoiding you rather than talking to you.
Did you feel it?
Wow! Was that an earthquake?
First time?
Oh, that wasn't so bad...
To paraphrase the great Yogi Berra, 'The more I learn about California, the more I learn about California.'
I just know I'm going to scratch a groove in my skull from all the odd behavior I've seen here.
I know I've got to change my social circle, but come on.
God forbid that it takes a natural disaster to make people talk to each other.
These are the same people who pass each other daily, avoiding you rather than talking to you.
Did you feel it?
Wow! Was that an earthquake?
First time?
Oh, that wasn't so bad...
To paraphrase the great Yogi Berra, 'The more I learn about California, the more I learn about California.'
I just know I'm going to scratch a groove in my skull from all the odd behavior I've seen here.
I know I've got to change my social circle, but come on.
God forbid that it takes a natural disaster to make people talk to each other.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Now That's A Party
I was Wandering through Sacramento's downtown club scene in the shadow of the state capitol where on a previous visit years ago, I remember a few nicely laid out clubs filled with high-spirited, energetic party-goers; obnoxious, muscular security guards, police, but no fights.
Other clubs were similar for the most part.
This trip was about the same, but the club that was literally across the street from Arnold's House is just a restaurant. The clubs now were about the same too, except for one club that was receiving considerable attention.
As I strolled home through the night on clean sidewalks, bathed in yellow light, I had to ask myself which club I wanted to go to.
Was it the one where the patrons quietly strolled out, looked up and down the deserted streets but for other revelers, and chatted inaudibly on their cell phones or did I want to be in the club where some young lady got her hair done for about $70 dollars, has sweat the perm out and isn't too happy about it. (I could tell she had a good time through - there's a look.)
It's the club where there was a chick fight inside and the angered women continued to boil outside the club. There's a guy fight outside and there's five cop cars; their red, white and blue flashing lights illuminating the night. At the curb, about 10 officers, hands in defensive ready positions on their gun's butts and billy clubs, stand ready to mix it up like imperial storm troopers.
It's the witching hour in Sacramento.
The party people leave the club slowly, reluctantly, shrouded by a testosterone and pheromone-driven electricity wafting through the air.
The lively talk, the loud laughter and shouting for friends and their rides makes a normal phone conversation near impossible; people press one ear to cell speakers while pressing a finger into the other.
It's a near chaos, but focused on a shared disappointment the night is over a little too soon. Security guards and police shout their need for the street to be cleared and for the party-goers to go home. It seems their protestations are ignored but for the reveler's slow, short steps.
Around several adjacent corners, bathed in bright light, drivers are stopped at curbside while the police inspect them and their car's paperwork - a few colorfully clad young men stand or sit hand cuffed. The one they missed was a faded, young woman driving down the wrong side of a two way street.
As I turned to take it all in one more time, I couldn't help but feel that there was a party going on in there.
Hmmmmm....
Maybe next week...
Other clubs were similar for the most part.
This trip was about the same, but the club that was literally across the street from Arnold's House is just a restaurant. The clubs now were about the same too, except for one club that was receiving considerable attention.
As I strolled home through the night on clean sidewalks, bathed in yellow light, I had to ask myself which club I wanted to go to.
Was it the one where the patrons quietly strolled out, looked up and down the deserted streets but for other revelers, and chatted inaudibly on their cell phones or did I want to be in the club where some young lady got her hair done for about $70 dollars, has sweat the perm out and isn't too happy about it. (I could tell she had a good time through - there's a look.)
It's the club where there was a chick fight inside and the angered women continued to boil outside the club. There's a guy fight outside and there's five cop cars; their red, white and blue flashing lights illuminating the night. At the curb, about 10 officers, hands in defensive ready positions on their gun's butts and billy clubs, stand ready to mix it up like imperial storm troopers.
It's the witching hour in Sacramento.
The party people leave the club slowly, reluctantly, shrouded by a testosterone and pheromone-driven electricity wafting through the air.
The lively talk, the loud laughter and shouting for friends and their rides makes a normal phone conversation near impossible; people press one ear to cell speakers while pressing a finger into the other.
It's a near chaos, but focused on a shared disappointment the night is over a little too soon. Security guards and police shout their need for the street to be cleared and for the party-goers to go home. It seems their protestations are ignored but for the reveler's slow, short steps.
Around several adjacent corners, bathed in bright light, drivers are stopped at curbside while the police inspect them and their car's paperwork - a few colorfully clad young men stand or sit hand cuffed. The one they missed was a faded, young woman driving down the wrong side of a two way street.
As I turned to take it all in one more time, I couldn't help but feel that there was a party going on in there.
Hmmmmm....
Maybe next week...
Thursday, July 24, 2008
No Old Black Couples? NOT!
I think I've been in California too long.
Either that or I have yet to adjust to the Black West Coast culture.
In an earlier post about a downtown Sacramento event, I said I didn't see any old Black couples, like my folks or many others I saw back home in NYC. But, ya know? I just wasn't looking in the right place.
I was fortunate to have heard about a festival in Sacramento's Oak Park showcasing some local acts and featuring Midnight Star; remember them?
"I'll be your freak-a-zoid, come on and wind me up..."
Yeah, them. And, yeah, that was the jam!
Well, low and behold, Black folks came out in force filling the park with the spicy, smoky smell of barbecue, melodic music and laughter as sweet and thick as molasses. It felt good to see so many Black folks having a good time; from toddlers to seniors.
I'm not sure if I was consciously looking for an elder couple, but, when I saw one, something moved in my chest and it wasn't an alien ready to burst out or from high blood pressure.
Thank you very much.
The happiest-looking, lovingly embraced Black couple I have seen in some time was taking pictures with their cell phone, talking, smooching, dancing, singing along with the performers and having a grand time. I know I was standing there staring. I felt it. I must have had a mindless, tilted head, glazed-eyed look on my grinning face, because when they noticed me looking their way, they smiled back. I asked if I could snap a photo, they gladly said yes.
My senses kicked back in when I thought about it for a while; there must not be enough soul in the other event for Black folks to go all the way downtown for. Black folk don't just get up and walk around or up and down stairs on their day off for no good reason - especially older folk. Mother wit; ancient mother wit. Father wit, even.
And after that realization, I felt better.
I could see Adam and Eve in "The Garden" talking to the Creator and saying, "Lord, you didn't have to make paradise so big, this area right here is just fine!"
I know I would.
Not only did I see a Black, elder couple, I saw a few of them and you know what? They were married and happy.
My faith is restored.
Good Pilots Focus On The Runway
I remember when I was a kid I wanted to fly.
But my parents said, no, it was too far to fall.
I remember when I wanted to play organized football.
But my folks said, no, you might get hurt.
I remember wanting to be a jazz musician.
But my folks said, no, you'll become a drug addict.
So, now, so many years later, I've noticed when I want to do something,
I look at the obstacles, not the goal.
I am changing that paradigm.
A new friend of mine told me a story about pilots who crashed and how they fell into two categories - the ones who crashed badly and the ones who crashed less badly.
He said, the ones who crashed badly spoke of all the obstacles in their way, be it wind, controls, whatever. The ones who crashed, but not too badly, spoke of how they stayed focused on the runway.
Sports helped me see things differently.
The end zone, the home plate, the basket, the gold ring, the best time, the finish line tape, the degree, the whole nine yards, whatever; it feels good when I get there.
I get the highest compliments when I do.
But, how do I make that leap in real life? I used to ask myself.
Then, I thought about my young son in Sacramento.
For too long, I whined and lamented about wanting to be there while finding every reason or excuse not to be - all the while looking at the obstacles, not the goal.
Instead, I went to Italy, Spain, Germany, Malta, Portugal, Russia, Ukraine, Romania, Bulgaria, Cypress, Greece and France. Oh, and San Diego, Los Angeles, New York and New Jersey.
Now, I am focusing on the goal.
Now, I can see the runway clearly.
Now, I too am in Sacramento.
But my parents said, no, it was too far to fall.
I remember when I wanted to play organized football.
But my folks said, no, you might get hurt.
I remember wanting to be a jazz musician.
But my folks said, no, you'll become a drug addict.
So, now, so many years later, I've noticed when I want to do something,
I look at the obstacles, not the goal.
I am changing that paradigm.
A new friend of mine told me a story about pilots who crashed and how they fell into two categories - the ones who crashed badly and the ones who crashed less badly.
He said, the ones who crashed badly spoke of all the obstacles in their way, be it wind, controls, whatever. The ones who crashed, but not too badly, spoke of how they stayed focused on the runway.
Sports helped me see things differently.
The end zone, the home plate, the basket, the gold ring, the best time, the finish line tape, the degree, the whole nine yards, whatever; it feels good when I get there.
I get the highest compliments when I do.
But, how do I make that leap in real life? I used to ask myself.
Then, I thought about my young son in Sacramento.
For too long, I whined and lamented about wanting to be there while finding every reason or excuse not to be - all the while looking at the obstacles, not the goal.
Instead, I went to Italy, Spain, Germany, Malta, Portugal, Russia, Ukraine, Romania, Bulgaria, Cypress, Greece and France. Oh, and San Diego, Los Angeles, New York and New Jersey.
Now, I am focusing on the goal.
Now, I can see the runway clearly.
Now, I too am in Sacramento.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Fair AND Balanced?
I have never been so angry at a TV before in my life.
Why?
I watched Fox News for the first time on purpose the last few days.
Not really on purpose.
The proprietor of a cafe in Sacramento where I go online has it tuned in and leaves it on after he leaves. Okay. Free cable. But, OMG!
I should have known when D.L. Hugley said that when he turns on Fox News his TV leans to the right. I can see why.
The O'Reilly factor, had me saying O'Really? so many times I thought I was one of the unfortunate babbling comatose. But my eyes were open and I thought I was cognizant. The pictures were the same as other network stations, but the words were kind of like that late night program where they show a familiar movie, but make up their own dialog.
The views and the slant were amazing to me. But then, after I got past the initial shock of blatant ideology, a scab formed on my sensibilities, and I began to listen past the rhetoric.
It's point of view, especially on the no spin zone, borders on jeuvenile, na-na-nah-knee-na-naaaa, journalism and commentary. And then he reads email.
It seems more like shock jock journalism.
But the scariest thing I realized about Fox "News" is that there are people who have a similar opinion, world-view outlook and believe in what these journalists are saying or worse, that they are reporting the truth. Someone said truth is just a point of view.
Now, that's disturbing.
The upside is that I don't need to diet, Fox's fair AND balanced news programs had my pressure up so high I 'm burning more calories than with Billy Blanks.
Why?
I watched Fox News for the first time on purpose the last few days.
Not really on purpose.
The proprietor of a cafe in Sacramento where I go online has it tuned in and leaves it on after he leaves. Okay. Free cable. But, OMG!
I should have known when D.L. Hugley said that when he turns on Fox News his TV leans to the right. I can see why.
The O'Reilly factor, had me saying O'Really? so many times I thought I was one of the unfortunate babbling comatose. But my eyes were open and I thought I was cognizant. The pictures were the same as other network stations, but the words were kind of like that late night program where they show a familiar movie, but make up their own dialog.
The views and the slant were amazing to me. But then, after I got past the initial shock of blatant ideology, a scab formed on my sensibilities, and I began to listen past the rhetoric.
It's point of view, especially on the no spin zone, borders on jeuvenile, na-na-nah-knee-na-naaaa, journalism and commentary. And then he reads email.
It seems more like shock jock journalism.
But the scariest thing I realized about Fox "News" is that there are people who have a similar opinion, world-view outlook and believe in what these journalists are saying or worse, that they are reporting the truth. Someone said truth is just a point of view.
Now, that's disturbing.
The upside is that I don't need to diet, Fox's fair AND balanced news programs had my pressure up so high I 'm burning more calories than with Billy Blanks.
What City Is This?
You know you are a true Wanderer when you wake in a strange bed and in a moment of panic, you say to yourself, "What city is this?"
That's not such a bad thing, until the panic gets the better of you, making you run to the window and look out. Again not such a bad thing. That usually clears up any question as to where you are, unless you look out and still can't tell what city you're in - either because all woods look pretty much the same and many cities look pretty much the same.
It happens to Wanderers.
Thankfully, there's always the boarding passes or bus ticket stubs in your pocket that at least narrow your choices down to two cities unless you have those economy flights that bounce to several cities before your final destination. The sequence should help at least.
With that knowledge calming you a bit, and if it isn't past checkout time, you can at least go back to bed secure in the knowledge that you are indeed...
Somewhere.
Happy Wandering...
That's not such a bad thing, until the panic gets the better of you, making you run to the window and look out. Again not such a bad thing. That usually clears up any question as to where you are, unless you look out and still can't tell what city you're in - either because all woods look pretty much the same and many cities look pretty much the same.
It happens to Wanderers.
Thankfully, there's always the boarding passes or bus ticket stubs in your pocket that at least narrow your choices down to two cities unless you have those economy flights that bounce to several cities before your final destination. The sequence should help at least.
With that knowledge calming you a bit, and if it isn't past checkout time, you can at least go back to bed secure in the knowledge that you are indeed...
Somewhere.
Happy Wandering...
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Vets On Streets, Homeless On Base
?
I wasn't sure exactly what I was seeing.
Across from the Veteran's Hospital in Rancho Cordova, a Sacramento suburb, I saw what I thought were military barracks just past an F-104 fighter jet display, and they were occupied. At first I thought it was the residential side of an active military base - tall gates separated the housing from the streets, the grass was green and well manicured, the two-story buildings were graffiti free and immaculately clean. Every so often, I saw a few men in digital khaki DBUs (Battle Dress Uniforms) drive by. But, I guess they were Army reservists heading for their drill commands on Mather Field.
I thought about barracks living and how much I disliked it. I couldn't wait to live out on the economy.
I asked a federal employee what base housing that was across the street; they told me it was housed by former homeless families or former drug addicts who are getting their lives together. Apparently, the state has made some sort of agreement with or bought the dwellings from the Federal government.
Hmmm.
"Well, that sucks for us Veterans," I thought.
With all the Veterans on the street or living in open-bay shelters who have no housing available to them, these homeless families are living in what were military barracks?
Something seems just plain wrong about that to me.
Is that another slap in the face of our Nation's Veterans?
Or are the policy makers saying Vets are on the streets because they want to be?
It seems like what's being said is, 'You were a Vet and we appreciate you, but you're a civilian now, get in line?' Is this how a grateful Nation shows its appreciation?
Why are there no housing facilities afforded to Vets who are doing the best they can to get on their feet? Is this societies best social service a homeless shelter? While homeless people are living in military barracks?
Not to say homeless folks shouldn't be housed there, it's just that Vets should be taken care of too, if not first.
What happened?
I wasn't sure exactly what I was seeing.
Across from the Veteran's Hospital in Rancho Cordova, a Sacramento suburb, I saw what I thought were military barracks just past an F-104 fighter jet display, and they were occupied. At first I thought it was the residential side of an active military base - tall gates separated the housing from the streets, the grass was green and well manicured, the two-story buildings were graffiti free and immaculately clean. Every so often, I saw a few men in digital khaki DBUs (Battle Dress Uniforms) drive by. But, I guess they were Army reservists heading for their drill commands on Mather Field.
I thought about barracks living and how much I disliked it. I couldn't wait to live out on the economy.
I asked a federal employee what base housing that was across the street; they told me it was housed by former homeless families or former drug addicts who are getting their lives together. Apparently, the state has made some sort of agreement with or bought the dwellings from the Federal government.
Hmmm.
"Well, that sucks for us Veterans," I thought.
With all the Veterans on the street or living in open-bay shelters who have no housing available to them, these homeless families are living in what were military barracks?
Something seems just plain wrong about that to me.
Is that another slap in the face of our Nation's Veterans?
Or are the policy makers saying Vets are on the streets because they want to be?
It seems like what's being said is, 'You were a Vet and we appreciate you, but you're a civilian now, get in line?' Is this how a grateful Nation shows its appreciation?
Why are there no housing facilities afforded to Vets who are doing the best they can to get on their feet? Is this societies best social service a homeless shelter? While homeless people are living in military barracks?
Not to say homeless folks shouldn't be housed there, it's just that Vets should be taken care of too, if not first.
What happened?
Monday, July 14, 2008
No Old Black Couples
I was in Sacramento for their "Second Saturday" event.
It's an unusual combination of street fair atmosphere and block party, spanning a day filled with food, open galleries, street performers, merriment, wine tasting and a chance for the community to get out and have fun together. Then, after dark, the clubs come alive.
It was a lot of fun and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Be better with a date, but hey. One thing at a time.
There were plenty of characters, the curious and average citizens of all walks of life - a credit to Sacramento's diverse population.
I photographed some people and events and just took it all in the rest of the time. But looking back, what struck me wasn't what I saw, but what I didn't.
I don't remember seeing one elder Black couples; white and Latino and others but not one old, gray or silver-haired Black couple.
I have to wonder what that means.
Okay, maybe it's economics, I thought, but Sacramento is an affluent city.
Okay, maybe the venue was wrong, but how much better could there be?
Okay, so it's Sacramento and there may not be a large enough Black community, but I don't have the statistics to support that. So, what could it be?
Maybe there was little Black representation in the events. I saw country, folk and rock singers and their bands, a few Black performers here and there, but no live gospel, rappers or even jazz.
Maybe, I didn't see any because the timing was wrong.
Then again, maybe I didn't see any elder, Black couples because they just weren't interested.
I refuse to accept that there just may not be many left.
It's an unusual combination of street fair atmosphere and block party, spanning a day filled with food, open galleries, street performers, merriment, wine tasting and a chance for the community to get out and have fun together. Then, after dark, the clubs come alive.
It was a lot of fun and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Be better with a date, but hey. One thing at a time.
There were plenty of characters, the curious and average citizens of all walks of life - a credit to Sacramento's diverse population.
I photographed some people and events and just took it all in the rest of the time. But looking back, what struck me wasn't what I saw, but what I didn't.
I don't remember seeing one elder Black couples; white and Latino and others but not one old, gray or silver-haired Black couple.
I have to wonder what that means.
Okay, maybe it's economics, I thought, but Sacramento is an affluent city.
Okay, maybe the venue was wrong, but how much better could there be?
Okay, so it's Sacramento and there may not be a large enough Black community, but I don't have the statistics to support that. So, what could it be?
Maybe there was little Black representation in the events. I saw country, folk and rock singers and their bands, a few Black performers here and there, but no live gospel, rappers or even jazz.
Maybe, I didn't see any because the timing was wrong.
Then again, maybe I didn't see any elder, Black couples because they just weren't interested.
I refuse to accept that there just may not be many left.
Modern Times
Have you had your recommended daily allowance of 'Forms' today?
You know.
If you want to get something done, the litany of checklists and, of course, all the corresponding forms for just about everything you want or want changed.
Thing is, the people who require you to fill out the forms usually have no idea why they are necessary. It's like a rote society performing tasks because that's what they were told to do, that's the way it's always been done, and, without question, they do it like a faithful automaton.
all I have to say is, "Danger! Will Robinson!"
I really wish I could get all the Dr. Smith's out of my way and out of my life.
Then there's the lament of what happens to all those forms after you submit them. Where do they go; really? Is a file of my content or discontent being monitored? Did they find their way to the circular file? Then the worst, when you follow up, it can't be found and you have to re-submit.
On the up side, there's a feeling you get after you submit the form; one of completion, accomplishment, or at least one of working within the system . It's kind of like dropping your kid off at the day care center or at school.
All you can do is hope for the best.
And while you're at it, fill out a form.
It does a body good.
You know.
If you want to get something done, the litany of checklists and, of course, all the corresponding forms for just about everything you want or want changed.
Thing is, the people who require you to fill out the forms usually have no idea why they are necessary. It's like a rote society performing tasks because that's what they were told to do, that's the way it's always been done, and, without question, they do it like a faithful automaton.
all I have to say is, "Danger! Will Robinson!"
I really wish I could get all the Dr. Smith's out of my way and out of my life.
Then there's the lament of what happens to all those forms after you submit them. Where do they go; really? Is a file of my content or discontent being monitored? Did they find their way to the circular file? Then the worst, when you follow up, it can't be found and you have to re-submit.
On the up side, there's a feeling you get after you submit the form; one of completion, accomplishment, or at least one of working within the system . It's kind of like dropping your kid off at the day care center or at school.
All you can do is hope for the best.
And while you're at it, fill out a form.
It does a body good.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Pit Bull Shi**er
You know one.
I know one.
Hell, I even know a few.
But an ex-girlfriend stands out. I think she was pathological. No, that would have been a legitimate, medical disorder and excusable.
She was just a liar out to get something for nothing.
Thing is, empty people will never be filled, no matter what they are given or take.
The worst kind of Pit Bull Shi**er;
someone close to you but with an AK, like the Viet Cong of old.
You know how to spot a Pit Bull Shi**er, right?
They seem normal enough, at first, but there will be violated dress codes explained away, socially odd behavior in themselves or their children they'll expertly explain away. And they'll tell you believable enough stories until you start looking for the excuse for the behavior or event and not the truth. That's when the real Pit Bull Shi**ing begins. Hide your wallet. Nah, let her have the wallet, hide your annuities, IRAs and your kid's inheritance.
Now pay attention.
They'll tell you a lie. Innocent enough at first. Then they'll tell you another and another. They'll tell you lies of division, then, if that works, they begin to lose respect for you for being stupid or nieve enough to believe their cock and bull story. Then, they'll begin to tell you lies of derision, they'll tell you lies of illusion, they'll tell you lies of omission, like, "Sure I can have children," when they know full well they've had a hysterectomy. Heck, in their deluded world, they believe you'll never know until the third or fifth or 25th attempt at getting pregnant - not a bad thing - they also usually good lovers. If it's a woman, she might even try to convince you that it's you who have the problem. Then another lie and another and another.
Depending on how you deal with their lies is directionally proportional to how many more lies they'll tell you. And this Pit Bull Shi**er won't stop until their house of glass falls apart, or if they leave - if you're lucky.
Funny thing about glass, you can see through it, but you never know exactly what. That damned prism effect. But when it falls, you can generally bet it shatters. And it ain't gonna be pretty.
Pit Bull Shi**ers live to lie. They know they are morally and socially bankrupt and lack the skills to live up to the words they spew. But, they have an uncanny ability to work people or 'the system' that they know they can never live up to;
There's something innately disgusting about society not really liking liars.
Did somebody cry "Wolf!"
They know they're lying and they'll bluff 'til the end of time, if they think you don't know they're lying. In addition, they have told so many lies that if you find one out, there are still several others they can fall back on. Almost like land mines placed by a retreating army.
"Buy me a house," says she.
Uhhh... No. Tell me the truth..., says I.
"You calling me a liar?" says she.
"Why, yes," says I.
A popular "pimp" phrase today says, "Don't hate the playa, hate the game." I say hate the game and beat the playa. And here's the best part about brining an end to the game: their realization that you knew. What will bother them most is how long.
One of the best ways to beat a Pit Bull Shi**er - there's plenty if you look for the truth - is to gather up all their lies (that you know about) in one basket, wait for them to reassure you that they are the most sincere, prototypical, carbon-based hominid to ever walk the earth and then, when they are their Pit Bull Shi**iest, lock the doors - or unlock them - and open the basket.
Watching the Pit Bull Shi**er try to run for cover is worth it.
Ever turn on a light in a friend's house who has roaches? Ever stand there and watch them in National Geographic amazement?
Yeah; something like that.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Smoke Gets In Your News
If the end were here, would we know it?
A TV crew from Sacramento's largest news station, KCRA 3 - NBC and CNN affiliate - interviewed a dapperly dressed, young gentleman wearing a navy blue, pin-striped suit and a smart, moosed-in-place coif, in front of a swanky looking, outdoor eatery - the kind with the Euro-feel, camel-colored, canvas umbrellas. You know.
The kind you might eat at in the open air if it weren't for the climatically out of place wicker chairs. I know, theme is everything.
The outdoor area was empty.
The reporter asked if the smoky conditions were causing a marked decrease in patronage. He said, yes, a little, in a round about way.
After the interview and the news crew left, the lunch crowd showed up and there wasn't an empty seat. So, the story told for the noon news didn't really reflect the situation. It did for the time they were there, but the reporter didn't take into account it was the wrong time of day ion downtown Sac.
This smoke dimming light is different for locals and worthy of media attention, as it dominated the news in San Diego in 2003 when they experienced "historic" wild fires.
Difference is distance. These fires aren't as close to Sacramento as they were to downtown San Diego.
I remember the skies over Coronado being much, much darker. Troublingly so.
I remember it hurting to breathe.
I remember getting to my car and seeing it covered with greyish-white ash drifting through the air in the pace and frequency of a light, but persistent snow.
It felt like the last days of Pompeii. It was a life threatening Earth event.
I volunteered to pass out surgical masks at a make shift Red Cross aid center for residents and other San Diegans displaced by the fire.
I won't say this isn't bad here in Sacrament.
This is bad.
Never so many unchecked wild fires.
20,000 fire fighters in the field and it's not nearly enough.
Bad visibility and particulate grounds air tankers.
This is bad.
Colorful Metaphores
If we weren't meant to cuss and cuss out loud,
why were we gifted with some of the best cuss words on Earth?
So expressive, so imaginative especially in the way they can be used together.
A linguistic, even poetic, near Tourret's tirade can be a thing of beauty in the proper circles.
It may as well take on literary or at least legendary status.
That sort of eloquence will not be soon forgotten.
You may win the Nobel Peace Prize, but folks will remember that day you cussed like a Pirate.
I pinched my finger on a rusty bolt yesterday -
You know... Shock, torn skin, blood, pain...
In a millisecond, I wanted to scream the loudest, crudest, foulest curse words ever uttered through a human mouth. The bile of verbiage boiled up from deep within...
SON-OF-A-...
Then, the editor-social filter walked in and shut down the production.
Damn.
He deftly replace teh script with the Yosemite Sam version...
Dang.
Brac-a-frackin', stak-a-fraca, bac-sac-fackin' stana-frana-back-fa-flarfa-farca-fraca...
But ooohhh would the alternate have felt better.
The kind of cussin' that makes mothers scowl at you while they cover little children's ears.
The kind of cussin' that makes dogs take note and back away from you.
the kind of cussin' that makes law enforcement officers check their side arm and the charge on their tazers.
The kind of cussin' better unleashed on the open plain.
The kind of cussin' that makes horses bray - like when they called Frau Bloo-ker in Young Frankenstein.
The kind of cussin' that makes coyotes howl.
A George Carlin - Rest In Peace, you genius -string of expletives.
The kind of cussin' YOU wouldn't kiss your mother afterward.
The kind of cussin' that shakes your faith so deeply that you make a visit to the church for confession.
The kind of cussin' that makes you believe in demonic possession. Yours.
The kind ofcussin' that would make even you believe you are irredeemably damned for.
The kind of cussin' that is followed by night visits from your guardian Angel who asks you, "Y'aight?"
The kind of cussin' that will make you believe you need to go on an epic pilgrimage to remedy.
I just hit my pinched finger on the corner of a table in a crowded cafe on the 1700 block of Capital Avenue in this Golden State, Capital City of Sacra-fracken-mento. And, as tears and flashing spots of color filled my eyes, the bile began boiling again.
I thought of Yosemite...
I'm feeling the need for wide open plains and colorful metaphors...
why were we gifted with some of the best cuss words on Earth?
So expressive, so imaginative especially in the way they can be used together.
A linguistic, even poetic, near Tourret's tirade can be a thing of beauty in the proper circles.
It may as well take on literary or at least legendary status.
That sort of eloquence will not be soon forgotten.
You may win the Nobel Peace Prize, but folks will remember that day you cussed like a Pirate.
I pinched my finger on a rusty bolt yesterday -
You know... Shock, torn skin, blood, pain...
In a millisecond, I wanted to scream the loudest, crudest, foulest curse words ever uttered through a human mouth. The bile of verbiage boiled up from deep within...
SON-OF-A-...
Then, the editor-social filter walked in and shut down the production.
Damn.
He deftly replace teh script with the Yosemite Sam version...
Dang.
Brac-a-frackin', stak-a-fraca, bac-sac-fackin' stana-frana-back-fa-flarfa-farca-fraca...
But ooohhh would the alternate have felt better.
The kind of cussin' that makes mothers scowl at you while they cover little children's ears.
The kind of cussin' that makes dogs take note and back away from you.
the kind of cussin' that makes law enforcement officers check their side arm and the charge on their tazers.
The kind of cussin' better unleashed on the open plain.
The kind of cussin' that makes horses bray - like when they called Frau Bloo-ker in Young Frankenstein.
The kind of cussin' that makes coyotes howl.
A George Carlin - Rest In Peace, you genius -string of expletives.
The kind of cussin' YOU wouldn't kiss your mother afterward.
The kind of cussin' that shakes your faith so deeply that you make a visit to the church for confession.
The kind of cussin' that makes you believe in demonic possession. Yours.
The kind ofcussin' that would make even you believe you are irredeemably damned for.
The kind of cussin' that is followed by night visits from your guardian Angel who asks you, "Y'aight?"
The kind of cussin' that will make you believe you need to go on an epic pilgrimage to remedy.
I just hit my pinched finger on the corner of a table in a crowded cafe on the 1700 block of Capital Avenue in this Golden State, Capital City of Sacra-fracken-mento. And, as tears and flashing spots of color filled my eyes, the bile began boiling again.
I thought of Yosemite...
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Not Quite the Seventh Circle... Yet
It's relentlessly hot, the air is filled with smoke...
Okay, so I'm in hell.
Not really, just Sacramento.
What's that?
Same thing?
Okay, so I'm in hell.
Not really, just Sacramento.
What's that?
Same thing?
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Gone Too Soon...
The people who stay in my life are connected to me in ways I don't understand. They like me and I like them, despite who we appear to be to most. And we like each other because of the person we've met beyond our persona.
The title of "Best Friend" is earned, only through both good and tough times.
Today, that little voice told me to call one of my best friends back in NYC.
So I did.
With the time difference, I called her job.
One of her co-workers told me she died.
She was cremated and was laid to rest, just yesterday.
There at the same cemetery my father and two brothers rest.
I sat there and blinked into the phone. I don't know for how long.
What?
What do I say?
I won't say I just talked to her last month. We talked regularly.
We were still kinda young.
We talked like there would always be a next time; a tomorrow.
Gone too soon.
There's a rare disease that prevents a body from absorbing protein.
It found her.
It took her, suddenly.
She was here last month. Now, she's gone.
Too soon.
I didn't cry. Not outside.
Inside, I was screaming.
I blinked again and again.
I'm not sure when it will hit me.
When I heard she was gone, something took a swing at me like a prize fighters best shot,
but the blow passed through me like I was a specter.
Was like I was watching; defenseless.
I didn't hear what her co-worker said for long moments.
I was remembering writing her school papers from Queens College. We agreed to trade a home-cooked dinner for her reports. In my mind's eye, her friends and me - writing away between bites - are still talking, laughing and having a grand time.
I remembered getting tulips for her on her birthdays or just 'cause.
I remember perfect moments.
She was the kind of friend that was a comfort and an inspiration to know and to spend time with. The kind of friend that was easy to be around. The kind that asked for nothing but gave the most important things; encouragement, support, a kind word, a friend's "I love you."
The kind of love that was as close to your heart as love can get.
One of my shoulders was hers and one of her shoulders was mine.
It was there when we needed it.
Yep, like that warm blanket or mom's touch when we're not feeling well.
A love that only comes when you've known someone so long they are as close as family.
Hale Bop.
I remember seeing the comet some time ago. It was beautiful. But gone too soon.
It's the kind of spectacle you wish would stay around forever.
But, I guess if it did, it wouldn't be as special.
I'll never see it again in my lifetime, but it's something I'll never forget.
She was like that. A joy to watch. A joy to know. A joy knowing you are seeing a one of a kind.
It is a joy to know I am living in the same time and space to have known her, to have seen her.
I'll always remember you; like a perfect sunrise or sunset or an incredible, star-filled night sky or the rising or setting moon, or the smell of deep-forest pine, or the smell of mom's home cooking, or a Blue Jay's song when spring returns, or maybe a rainbow after a thunder and lightening storm.
I always knew you will be there, here, wherever, like the sea and the shore, whenever I called.
I've seen some of the most beautiful tropical skies, but she is better.
I've seen art by master painters; she is better.
I've seen many of God's creations; she is among His greatest.
Now she's home.
I'm here, I experience, I will go too.
Too soon?
Our phone conversations lasted long enough but never long enough.
I missed seeing her when last I was in NYC by less than an hour.
I'll never put a departure time in front of a friend again.
Too soon.
Sometimes when things were tough for her or me, a touch was all that was needed.
Just enough to keep us going along our way another day.
She had that touch.
In her Josephine Baker eyes, in her lyrical voice, in her loving words, in her love of life - of family, in her sincere, sun-like smile, in her electric finger tips.
I believe I did the same for her from time to time.
She'd call and tell me she needed a phone hug. A kind word. A poem.
Too soon.
I feel for her sons and her family who have lost someone special, but then again, I feel they are blessed to have had her as a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a niece, an aunt, a friend.
She truly was all that.
She lives in all of us who knew her.
Gone too soon.
She was a New Yorker to her heart. Her accent, her NY twang. Her sensibility.
Her Sassy style, her grace. Her short, stylin' do's.
A smile from her made things right.
A smile lit up a room.
A word from her made me see things differently. Positively.
I remember seeing her crossing Park Avenue in her long, green trench coat and thinking that life just doesn't get or offer any better - a better friend, a funnier friend, a more caring friend, a more understanding friend, a more powerful friend, a more artful friend.
That's who she is to me.
I knew a very special person in her.
She wasn't mine, but she was my friend.
I'll never miss her.
She's always with me.
"Okay, Ba-Bye..."
She'd say, in a certain, signature, staccato way, after an uplifting conversation. Breathy, almost as if it was a night-time whispered, 'Good night.'
When she said it, I just knew I'd see her again.
If not, I just knew I'd hear from her again.
Years and miles separated us, but I felt closer to her than to people in the same room.
I called to check in, to hear her voice, and someone told me she was gone.
Too soon.
Seasons. Seasons.
Seasons. Seasons.
Man. Woman.
Birth. Death.
Infinity. Eternity.
I think she knew she was leaving.
But she never said anything to me about it. I wondered, would I?
I'm not sure and I won't know until we meet again.
Sometime, somewhere.
They said it was sudden.
Tonight, I found an email from her dated February 24, 2k8, 6:01 a.m.
I had sent her a Valentine's greeting a little late.
In it, She Said,
"Thank you for the belated Valentine's.
You sent it to me on my birthday, so it's special to me.
I love you."
I love you too, Deb.
Always.
"Okay, Ba-Bye..."
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Red Lights; Good Times
It was one of those nights when I just couldn't sleep. The hour got later and later until I just couldn't take it anymore. I got dressed and went out.
After wandering a bit in the deserted Van Nuys night, I stopped in to a Denny's. I ordered a soy burger - don't ask me why - I think the waitress recommended it (it was awful!). I then ordered a short stack of pancakes cause that's what I really wanted from the git-go, but once I had it in front of me, I only took a few bites. It was good, I just had no appetite.
In my boredom, I looked up and was taken by their red, hanging lights that looked like swirling, hot gases. Did I mention it was very late.
I thought of the after-hours, chance rendezvous after clubbin' back east. Winding up walking and laughing down city streets, making it to a late night diner where we'd have coffee or French fries or something; or if it was late enough breakfast was in order.
I kinda miss partying until the sun came up. I don't think I've ever done that out here. Yet.
One of the only things better than watching the sun set, all reddish-orange was watching it rise just about the same color. It kind of made the world make sense, gave it some meaning. Although I'm not exactly sure what. Carpe Noctem? Then what? Carpe Diem? Again...? How about Carpe sleep in? Seize the bed!
There were a few patrons in the Denny's. Some older men sat down slowly - I thought I heard their bones popping. This was not a crowd that had just left a club or something - or maybe it was (older rockers, you know). I was kind of hoping a group would come in and liven the place up.
It was not to be. I thought I was in some sort of macabre dream.
I found myself looking at those red lights again and their now frozen-liquid swirls.
The colors reminded me of partying in New York and stopping at a late night diner with friends, and groups of other revelers, unwinding after a night of dancing or wall flowering. The atmosphere was usually light and filled with laughter, and connections, exchanged phone numbers, exchanged kisses, hands held, once sweet perfumes mixed with briny sweat, once crisp shirts and blouses now steamy, wrinkled and salt stained. Those were the parties where no one was afraid to perspire. In some places, we partied so hard, the walls literally began to sweat.
Out on the streets, after the clubs closed at about 4 a.m., there was a positive energy around the city especially on the train rides home. Sometimes I wished those train rides could last forever. Sometimes, I never wanted to go home - which wasn't so bad. I knew the projects and the projects knew me. When you walk through hell, it's good to know the guardian angels and the demons. When I got home everyone was asleep. No worries.
The bigger clubs in the city were cool and sure, but there was nothing like an Uptown Manhattan, The Bronx, Brooklyn or Queens house party.
I rose to leave the diner and as I walked I passed one of those red lights again. I stopped and stood looking at it when it reminded me of my friends' house parties. Those parties were social events for the entire family.
Mom, dad and the adults stayed upstairs, drank, played cards or dominoes and played grown folks music while us teens went into the basement and danced to the latest grooves. It worked out for everyone, but it also served to let parents see their son's or daughter's friends and chose who could come in and who was not welcome. Everyone knew who the trouble makers were and it was the rare party that they did get into that they didn't ruin. If they did act up, you could rest assured they'd make mom or dad pull out the baseball bat. And trust me, they prayed it was mom and they prayed they didn't piss her off too much. If dad had to put someone out, a bat was the least of their worries. There was usually no argument; they just left.
But if all was going well when the grown folks checked in on us down there, they'd leave the basement. Then, from nowhere, someone - usually the host - would put in a red light bulb changing the party's flavor. Sure we danced, but no matter the speed of the music there was more and more hip gyrating and bodies grinding against each other. The room temperature rose several degrees too.
It was usually a good time until we all got too quiet or it got too late and mom made a check in. That usually meant the white lights were turned on and suddenly there was space between the couples when there was none just moments before. None of us guys could ever stand completely upright. At least not right away.
Good times.
Red lights...
In my memory, red meant go-go...
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
I'm Not Really Into History
Remember Bob Marley's 'Buffalo Soldier?'
You know, Dread Lock Rasta?
It was almost a national anthem back in the day. At least it was in New York.
Well, the Buffalo Soldiers are taking a beating in the history museum here in Los Angeles. When I went to the Gene Autry Museum of the West in Los Angeles, California, they were having a particularly bad day.
At first I was very happy to go with some Veterans for chance to honor Black Americans who served their country in the pioneering west; The Buffalo Soldiers.
I excitedly asked where the Buffalo Soldiers were. The info specialist said, down stairs to the right. One by one, everyone one of them did.
Every time I came back up the stairs and told them I didn't see them.
I saw two large displays of Will Pickett, that Black rodeo cowbyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy was given andI thought, wow, if they'd give that much attention to a rodeo cowboy then there must be a wing for the Buffalo Soldiers, but no.
I got so frustrated that I marched up to the information desk and challenged the attendents, one who said he had a Masters Degree in Western History, to: 1. show me where the exhibit was and 2. why it wasn't as large a display.
They had no idea.
They had no idea that it was the Buffalo Soldiers who chased Pancho Villa, it was the Buffalo Soldiers who chased legendary Indians and outlaws around the west.
It was the Buffalo Soldiers who mediated disputes between the Indians and the 'settlers.'
The Buffalo Soldiers had a corner of a dimly-lit, shared display case. They weren't even referred to as Buffalo Soldiers. They were called their infantry and Calvary numbers; 9th & 10th Calvary
9mounted) and 24th & 25th infantry...
I called the curator. He never called back.
I called his lieutenant. He never called back.
Compton Middle School was there at the museum that day.
I asked the teacher - an African - if I could ask his students about what they knew about the Buffalo Soldiers. He agreed.
I approached group after group of kids asking if they knew who the Buffalo Soldiers were. I can't dignify any of their ignorant answers. None.
Most were fat and otherwise well fed.
Of the 20-plus kids I asked, none of them, White, Latino or Black knew who they were.
I checked my blood pressure.
I then asked who the Buffalo Soldiers were to a Black supervisor and a Latino one. They told me they were teachers. I asked the Black teacher who the Buffalo Soldiers were and she said, "I'm not really into history."
?
Would that count as plain ignorance, amnesia or social/cultural choice. What she was saying is, "I don't identify or acknowledge Black people, their history, how they got out west or what they did to survive once they got here. How did they survive? I don't care."
Black folks owned a large part of what is now Los Angeles and Burbank for Chrissakes.
A Black teacher in one of the deepest Black ghettos there is in America. Not just South Central, but Compton. Right next to Watts. Where the riots broke out because of social injustices.
The Black teacher who is supposed to be educating Black children in crisis didn't know who the Buffalo Soldiers were. Never heard of them.
Never heard of them.
And she's a teacher.
And their talking about legally requiring a parent to have a license in order to home school their own children. Yes, here in Califirnia. Yes, right here in Los Angeles.
You know, Dread Lock Rasta?
It was almost a national anthem back in the day. At least it was in New York.
Well, the Buffalo Soldiers are taking a beating in the history museum here in Los Angeles. When I went to the Gene Autry Museum of the West in Los Angeles, California, they were having a particularly bad day.
At first I was very happy to go with some Veterans for chance to honor Black Americans who served their country in the pioneering west; The Buffalo Soldiers.
I excitedly asked where the Buffalo Soldiers were. The info specialist said, down stairs to the right. One by one, everyone one of them did.
Every time I came back up the stairs and told them I didn't see them.
I saw two large displays of Will Pickett, that Black rodeo cowbyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy was given andI thought, wow, if they'd give that much attention to a rodeo cowboy then there must be a wing for the Buffalo Soldiers, but no.
I got so frustrated that I marched up to the information desk and challenged the attendents, one who said he had a Masters Degree in Western History, to: 1. show me where the exhibit was and 2. why it wasn't as large a display.
They had no idea.
They had no idea that it was the Buffalo Soldiers who chased Pancho Villa, it was the Buffalo Soldiers who chased legendary Indians and outlaws around the west.
It was the Buffalo Soldiers who mediated disputes between the Indians and the 'settlers.'
The Buffalo Soldiers had a corner of a dimly-lit, shared display case. They weren't even referred to as Buffalo Soldiers. They were called their infantry and Calvary numbers; 9th & 10th Calvary
9mounted) and 24th & 25th infantry...
I called the curator. He never called back.
I called his lieutenant. He never called back.
Compton Middle School was there at the museum that day.
I asked the teacher - an African - if I could ask his students about what they knew about the Buffalo Soldiers. He agreed.
I approached group after group of kids asking if they knew who the Buffalo Soldiers were. I can't dignify any of their ignorant answers. None.
Most were fat and otherwise well fed.
Of the 20-plus kids I asked, none of them, White, Latino or Black knew who they were.
I checked my blood pressure.
I then asked who the Buffalo Soldiers were to a Black supervisor and a Latino one. They told me they were teachers. I asked the Black teacher who the Buffalo Soldiers were and she said, "I'm not really into history."
?
Would that count as plain ignorance, amnesia or social/cultural choice. What she was saying is, "I don't identify or acknowledge Black people, their history, how they got out west or what they did to survive once they got here. How did they survive? I don't care."
Black folks owned a large part of what is now Los Angeles and Burbank for Chrissakes.
A Black teacher in one of the deepest Black ghettos there is in America. Not just South Central, but Compton. Right next to Watts. Where the riots broke out because of social injustices.
The Black teacher who is supposed to be educating Black children in crisis didn't know who the Buffalo Soldiers were. Never heard of them.
Never heard of them.
And she's a teacher.
And their talking about legally requiring a parent to have a license in order to home school their own children. Yes, here in Califirnia. Yes, right here in Los Angeles.
Barak Obama; The Great Experiment...
Can you imagine it?
Barak Obama becomes the President of the United States.
I don't think you heard me.
Imagine Barak Obama becomes the next President of the United States.
All the high ideals our nation's fore fathers spoke of should work for this man of African heritage.
Right?
Barak Obama may become the President of the United States.
I don't think you heard me.
Barak Obama becomes the President of the United States.
I don't think you heard me.
Imagine Barak Obama becomes the next President of the United States.
All the high ideals our nation's fore fathers spoke of should work for this man of African heritage.
Right?
Barak Obama may become the President of the United States.
I don't think you heard me.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monica Hallman
She was my hero.
I watched her night after night on AFN news feed from Washington, D.C., or wherever in the world they sent her . Or maybe it was the stories she read the leads for. I thought she was just the best Navy journalist I had ever seen. I think her hazel eyes may have had something to do with it. For a while, it seemed like she was my only companion in Italy. I didn't know anyone there, I just knew that I wanted to go. As with most excursions, the fantasy of a place is usually much different from the reality of it.
Italy was hard when I lived in The Agnano crater. It was the most God awful place in the military in Europe. I could see why they called Naples the armpit of Europe, but I was undeterred. The Agnano crater, where the Marine and Navy detachments were stationed, was literally a volcanic fumarole. It stunk of sulfur night and day, but if you didn't think that could get any worse, the farmers who cultivated the slopes of the crater often burned their dried crop waste. When they did I finally understood the Los Angeles smog situation. There was no where for the smoke to go but down and settle where our housing was. I remember one night it got so bad that I couldn't sleep. I got up and got a towel, wet it and went around the floor telling others to do the same. The smoke was like nothing i've smelled before. Every inhale burned the back of my throat. That night - and several others - I spent in a shower stall under running water. It was truly hell on earth and they stationed American enlisted troops there. Most of the officers lived out on the economy. It was bad. But after work, there was always Monica Hallman delivering the news like Walter Cronkite.
Geremy Boorda was a prior enlisted man who rose to the rank of 4-star admiral. He made things a lot better there in the crater. He got back to the states and took a bullet in the chest. They said it was suicide. Allegedly for wearing a medal or ribbon he didn't earn. took a bullet in the chest for making things better for us over there. He was a leader. Chris and I voiced some social commentary on the radio station, that I feel helped make some changes. I don't think they were really ready for people saying, this ain't so bad. Get up and do something. Italy is a vacation spot and our troops were missing out. We brought it to them through our video cameras and our news cast.
Out station went from nowhere to 1st place. Y?
I took a beta cam camera and shot the local news. Chris helped me out a lot. We made that station and that area fun. Naples was not bad. It really reminded me of Brooklyn. It was a little lawless, a little out of control, but it was full of life. It's a place you have to embrace - after you put your wallet in a safe place. And when you did, it embraced you back with more love than most people can handle.
Naples, the great walled city. Parts of the walls are now apartment. The coffee and the food is like no where else in Italy. It's an amazing place. Rome; just two hours north on the Autostrade, but if you're not in a hurry, I like taking the Appian way. The road the Roman legions used to get around. It's still lined with tall pine trees to give shade year-round.
Then I fell in love with Felicia Wyche. An Engineer. like those who went to Brooklyn Technical High School. OMG! B.T. B.T. B.T. (That was my first outside socialization on Earth. Ogranized sports.) And she wsa nooo good. She liked having me around, but she was on a mission. One that has her in Italian prison to this day, I'll bet.
But there was always Monica Hallman.
And the best part of the time I spent in Italy at AFN, was that head-to-head our local news beat out the Washington, D.C. news - the DoD's premiere station. We were the best in the DoD world.
I watched her night after night on AFN news feed from Washington, D.C., or wherever in the world they sent her . Or maybe it was the stories she read the leads for. I thought she was just the best Navy journalist I had ever seen. I think her hazel eyes may have had something to do with it. For a while, it seemed like she was my only companion in Italy. I didn't know anyone there, I just knew that I wanted to go. As with most excursions, the fantasy of a place is usually much different from the reality of it.
Italy was hard when I lived in The Agnano crater. It was the most God awful place in the military in Europe. I could see why they called Naples the armpit of Europe, but I was undeterred. The Agnano crater, where the Marine and Navy detachments were stationed, was literally a volcanic fumarole. It stunk of sulfur night and day, but if you didn't think that could get any worse, the farmers who cultivated the slopes of the crater often burned their dried crop waste. When they did I finally understood the Los Angeles smog situation. There was no where for the smoke to go but down and settle where our housing was. I remember one night it got so bad that I couldn't sleep. I got up and got a towel, wet it and went around the floor telling others to do the same. The smoke was like nothing i've smelled before. Every inhale burned the back of my throat. That night - and several others - I spent in a shower stall under running water. It was truly hell on earth and they stationed American enlisted troops there. Most of the officers lived out on the economy. It was bad. But after work, there was always Monica Hallman delivering the news like Walter Cronkite.
Geremy Boorda was a prior enlisted man who rose to the rank of 4-star admiral. He made things a lot better there in the crater. He got back to the states and took a bullet in the chest. They said it was suicide. Allegedly for wearing a medal or ribbon he didn't earn. took a bullet in the chest for making things better for us over there. He was a leader. Chris and I voiced some social commentary on the radio station, that I feel helped make some changes. I don't think they were really ready for people saying, this ain't so bad. Get up and do something. Italy is a vacation spot and our troops were missing out. We brought it to them through our video cameras and our news cast.
Out station went from nowhere to 1st place. Y?
I took a beta cam camera and shot the local news. Chris helped me out a lot. We made that station and that area fun. Naples was not bad. It really reminded me of Brooklyn. It was a little lawless, a little out of control, but it was full of life. It's a place you have to embrace - after you put your wallet in a safe place. And when you did, it embraced you back with more love than most people can handle.
Naples, the great walled city. Parts of the walls are now apartment. The coffee and the food is like no where else in Italy. It's an amazing place. Rome; just two hours north on the Autostrade, but if you're not in a hurry, I like taking the Appian way. The road the Roman legions used to get around. It's still lined with tall pine trees to give shade year-round.
Then I fell in love with Felicia Wyche. An Engineer. like those who went to Brooklyn Technical High School. OMG! B.T. B.T. B.T. (That was my first outside socialization on Earth. Ogranized sports.) And she wsa nooo good. She liked having me around, but she was on a mission. One that has her in Italian prison to this day, I'll bet.
But there was always Monica Hallman.
And the best part of the time I spent in Italy at AFN, was that head-to-head our local news beat out the Washington, D.C. news - the DoD's premiere station. We were the best in the DoD world.
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