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...