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...

Is sound colorful?
Does it change by the hour?
Does it change with the season?

What color is sound?

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.

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.

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...

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?

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.

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.

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.

I'm Not Defeated...

It's just been a very long half-time.
Game on.

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...

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?

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..."

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...

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.

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.