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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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...

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...

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.

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.