Cut The Crap

Say goodbye to these treasures


Our Board of Supervisors is attempting to create legislation to require McDonald's and other fast food establishments to offer healthier food in their Happy Meal promotions. In other words we are now legislating choice. This, the career politicians claim to combat childhood obesity and health issues especially regarding those families with lower incomes (more likely to frequent these venues). It must be noted that poor fat kids are not the only children that would choose a Happy Meal over any other meal; the temptation to have the latest, slave labor produced toy is just too tempting. My 6 old only wants the toy so the chances of his increased OPF (obesity progression factor) are slim.

Supervisor Eric Mar is behind this hurtful legislation; cloaked as an initiative to protect children, it is instead a purposeful vindictive act against older people and an enabler of crime in our communities.
1. A purposeful vindictive act against older people:
Child experts say you must play with your children. Keep them active, running and laughing. And I agree. But this legislation would remove fat kids from Tag play, and there is no fun in chasing down 11 year old kids that are faster and quicker than you. Whenever I play tag with children, I always look for the little fat kids. So one hand these spirit snipers say play with your children and then they create legislation that makes this impossible.
2. An enabler of crime. Crime is often born of those that have been excluded from participation in society; that is, the not haves. Do these legislators believe that by taking away Happy Meals from those that already have less- that this will improve their situation? And do we really need healthy muggers?

We supported Eric Mar in his campaign for Supervisor in District One. Committed to social issues and with his brother, Gordon- they have always fought the good fight against poverty, injustice, and those that seek to abuse power and privilege. (we served as one of the poster families, although I was not too happy with the picture that was used of myself and Oliver). With this new dark turn, we may need to revisit our support when he runs for reelection. People, let's start a movement.

Scapin at the Fair

Whew! Summer has finally arrived in this town, and just in time. Today after another go at the Folsom Street Fair, I've come to the honest conclusion that with the addition of the weight I've gained that it is finally time for a new pair of chaps. I am being my usual jesting self as I really have not put on any extra pounds. I will spare the details as to what could have been an embarrassing situation Sunday turned out to be a very pleasant encounter. I've posted the one picture that even a Tea Partier could live with. And, I do miss working the Peet's coffee booth at the Folsom Fair; caffeine addicts in chains paying for us to throw coffee on their tattooed backs. Foam art on skin. Priceless. Good tips too.



Photo censored


We spent a fine afternoon at the Museum Mechanique after attending an ACT play, Bill Irwin's adaptation of Moliere's Scapin. I don't know anything of Moliere's version only that it existed centuries ago and was also presented in comedic form. Bill Irwin has had a very successful career in stage (Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf") and in movies ("Rachel Getting Married") and the little screen (Mr.Noodle, Sesame Street, Northern Exposure). You can trace his career way back to the Pickle Family Circus (1975) where many of the players were later featured with Robin Williams in Altman's Popeye. To me in the context of where and how we saw him, is the best place to see Irwin and friends do what they do best. That is, performing comedy.

It is a comedy where movement is purposeful, and magnified. Reaching up to the balcony the performance communicates itself clearly; the audience engaged from near and far.
Bottom line- funny stuff. An opportunity for Irwin and his friends from Pickle Family Circus to gather up again, and go. The nuance of movement and dynamics of sound (voice and music)are keen, for whether it is ballet, dance, parkour, sports, it is movement and the art of the craft, that impresses. I sometimes come across stories that claim we peoples only use 25% of our physical capabilities (or some minimal number)but it is in Scapin that every twist, turn, facial expression counts. And we marveled.
Hey, $10 balcony seats....

Always One To Provide Helpful Advice

Don't wear red at a Chinese Funeral Ceremony. Got it?

Yesterday my father and I attended a memorial for Auntie Ruth, who made it to 93, and 91 of those years living independently. A crowd of about 150 people, active users of black hair dye (hey Grecian, how about some give back?) serenaded Ruth Qok with sincere memories and heartfelt wishes. Dad held up pretty well and it was nice to see Anna, the elder silver haired lady who used to have a store in Chinatown. She always gave me a 5 cent discount whenever I bought candy. A man struggling past us on his walker asked if I was with my father. When I responded yes, he told me that when my father was younger, he was a "tough guy and a good man". Auntie Ruth was another member of the "it takes village" community who was not a blood relative. Her family had a laundry on Clay Street with a place to visit in front, and many people did. My grandmother made it a daily stop.

My grandmother was sort of the Don Corleone of the family- not for any criminal endeavors but for the respect she had in the community; her presence and her endurance. She also had a flair for the dramatic and I recall holding her at memorials. At some point usually upon visiting the open casket, Paw Paw would sigh, moan, her body suddenly limp, and we would hold tight to keep her from falling.

An interesting facet of progress is what is lost when movement for the greater good steps forward. Back in my parents young days, when the Chinese were restricted within the borders of Chinatown (explore beyond, and face a beating from the guardians of the gates, the police- as happened to my dad), this created a stronger community, where everyone was connected to each other. A big family. Milestones were shared and family gatherings were often, held in restaurants where food seemed as important as the birth of a new baby, a birthday or a marriage. Now the freedom to live where we want and less than a generation away from the absence of these gatherings. These days they are few. For the children of our parents have lost the connection, and our children will know of it, only in story- or experienced in such a rare form as bearing witness to a fin whale in the Pacific Coast.

Red is the color of celebration in our community and that is why you don't want to wear red at a funeral. Of course, if you really disliked the deceased you might consider it. Oddly, wearing black at a wedding is probably okay (we like black) but you might want to add a little color to break up prince of darkness attire (such as a red tie). At the open casket, it is customary to take a moment for a silent wish, then three bows, originating from the neck, not the waist and in simultaneous movement with whoever you are with.

Let me go back to writing about my grandmother, the only grandparent I knew. She lived to 98 (I always believe she didn't want to go to 100, where people might call her "old"). In her 90's she too was still traveling about on her own, walking down the hills to visit me when I worked at Double Rainbow ice cream, or riding the 1 California to Chinatown. Old time shop keepers would still take care of her and she enjoyed visiting. Once when I drove her the parking lot was full and I had to reroute us to another parking lot seven blocks away. My Chinese is at best, exceptonally poor and I could not explain why I backed out of the preferred lot. In the parking lot, grandma simmered and in the elevator, in memorable fashion, verbally let me have in a great volcanic eruption of reproval. She was oblivious to the awed tourists.

Against traditional customs, Grandma's father did not believe in the beauty norm of the day which was breaking young woman's feet so that their feet would be tiny. He believed the tradition stupid for the crippling effect it imposed on these young women. To say that my Grandmother was tough would be understating her disposition greatly. My memories at the family banquets where hundreds gathered, would be many individuals, old and young coming over to our table and paying respects to grandma, who loved the attention.

What of my other grandparents? All died before I was born- my mothers' father died when she was three but her mother- both grandmothers became friends, although of very different temperaments. Grandfather on my dad's side worked in a store and during a robbery was shot. Physically he was always wounded and his wife never had the patience for it, considering him weak.

In my 20's I enjoyed visiting Grandma and drinking the hard hard shots of her favorite beverage which phonetically sounds like oon kay pay. It was something close to 150% proof. I later needed to bring Contreau because that was not as strong. Grandma did not seem to mind. She was the exception; hard liquors and cigarettes did not stop her. Her memories of being interned on Angel Island, she would only say that the food was bad. My last interaction with her is a good one. Visiting her at her apartment, we both laughed, laughing to hysterics, without either of us knowing what began this nonsensical conversation. Days later as Maria and I took a trip to Cambria, she died.

Asked to come up with something for her memorial, I was drawing blanks- feeling the pressure of the task at hand. Nothing. The morning of her service, very early, I sat on her old mattress, and came up with words and feelings that communicated what needed to be said. I wore black, but my words were of red.

Trombone, 40, Sac and wet, and The Biggest Man

Guess I needed to take a break from piling in the words but I am back for more. I've been spending time with Dexter's transistor radio listening to Giants baseball games. The outcome of these games as we head to October impacts my moods. That is the beauty of sports; you feel. And if you feel agony more often than not, it isn't the type of pain that compares to the loss of life. It really is just a game. Get up. Get on with it. Next year is going to be fun. However we are still in the clutches of this year, and I am in agony. Torture. Next year following only Canasta and that's it.

Last weekend in Sacramento with our friends Hale and Colleen. Haven't been to Sacaramento since my family and I would visit friends, Uncle Johnny and Auntie Rose and their 6 children. I remember Uncle Johnny's restaurant (the restaurant was in Vallejo, they lived in Sacramento) and how cool it was to be treated so royally by this sweet family. Soda in a glass? More soda? Really- whatever I want?
For my parents 50th wedding anniversary, Maria and I borrowed their phone book and contacted all their friends & relatives to ask for old photos and stories. It was amazing what we would find in our mail box as we put the project together. Uncle Johnny had saved letters that my Dad had written him shortly after World War 2. My father is a minimalist in terms of speaking but here were 2 page letters- 2 pages! he sent to Uncle Johnny. Also stories from Johnny as to how my Dad helped (not an Uncle by relation) Uncle Johnny come to the US. We also found how my mother pretended to be from the South the first time they met.

There are things to do in Sacramento and we were there (Maria graciously and happy to relax in hotel, stayed with the young 'ens) to see Trombone Shorty at a club called Harlow's. Trombone Shorty began playing music in New Orleans when he was six (hence the nickname) and is a major musical export from the city. Dr. John might refer to it as the "fonk" and as fine a blend of fun, musical chops, hard rhythms, James Brown bandleading skills, interplay with audience and his band, this was one wild, fonky set, my friends. He will be part of the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass lineup (the first two-three years was called "Strictly Bluegrass") in a few weeks.

Backtrack to two birthday events: Photo of Colleen's new boots at her lovely 40th birthday party staged at a Cuban restaurant. The dancing was great fun and I think my sunshine move was best. Also, photo of Dexter's skills at the water park. Dext had never gone to a water park, expressed an interest intriguing his paents. Raging, Flaming Waters- whatever it is called in San Jose on a fortunate sunny Sunday Sept 12.

Ungh- hate these type of public dressing rooms but the layout of the place if smaller than anticipated was good. Water a bit cool and crowds, even late afternoon in the middle of September, still substantial. Oliver, who I have taken to calling "Al Ver" was not very keen at exploring beyond the kid friendly big pools. When Maria and Dexter tackled a big slide, they ended up with a ride full of water up their noses. I should be grateful to Big O's lack of adventure. Dexter and I did check out the wave action pool which was good fun. By the way regardless of how Maria remembers it, it was not me who chose the Jaws theme as our wedding theme. Would anyone seriously believe that I would choose Jaws? Lovely score by John Williams.

I suppose I am exploring feeling alive, amidst the marking of time. Besides the breakdown of our physical bodies (see me jumping up to touch a ceiling light and throwing out my back) that which really might age us, is in living, witnessing our loved ones and friends, die. When we are younger it is an unexpected blow and we, in our mobility, can recover. The longer we live the more grief we share, and this wears us down. As we lose our mobility, we can only face that which becomes almost a house mate, waiting, waiting.

The biggest man in my life is of course, my father. He turned 90 last week and he is a great man. It hurts to see him hurting, in physical and mental pain, missing my mother. He is alone now and makes overtures that he is ready to go. The children fortunately provide some joy as do any wins from the Giants or 49'ers. Dad does not have any very close friends to visit with. Mom had a social network. Four of her old friends were over this past Saturday for a dinner for Dad. They are an inspiring group. All four women, in their 80's, independent and strong, some travel daily by Bart and Muni. All were drinking coffee at 8pm at night. Not decaf but coffee. Most of the 20 year olds I work with don't touch the stuff after lunch. They had wine with dinner and rumor always had it that Aunt Blossom could match play anyone else's drinking capabilities. So here's to you guys for thinking about my Dad and your beloved friend, May- Auntie Bess, Aunt Blossom, Aunt Helen, and Auntie May Fong. Another sideways story: Aunt Helen's sister, Florence was married to Tom Hanks father, after his mother died. She was a great wife to Mr. Hanks but Tom and his siblings were not nice to her, as he tells the story now. Tom, my sort of cousin. We're related to pitcher Nolan Ryan too.

Growing up Dad was always calm- stuck in a sandstorm in a desert outside of Vegas for 15 hours, everyone in the broken car panicked except Dad. It was a scary night and odd too for 15 feet over the swirling winds were blue skies. Outside the wind and sand would knock you over. He was not one for showing much emotion but now, his willingness to allow us to help him has allowed relationships to deepen and without many words, create new meaning in how we relate to one another. I have always admired him for his humor, and engaging personality, his sense of decency and fairness. In 1978 , although I was not old enough to vote, there was Propositon 6, the Briggs Initiative, anti-gay legislation and I remember trying to grasp its meaning. Sitting on our front stairs, Dad spoke of its unfairness and how he would vote against it. This memory is a calling that the decisions that I make, the actions that I take will have lasting impressions on my children.

My father and I became close when I moved out in 1985. I am certainly both my parents. If ever anyone says that I remind them of either, I will be touched and honored.
This week Dad took to being ill- he seems to have come out of it but I am no less worried. My other parents, Ann and John as they too show signs of the wear of life, we know there are sad days ahead. I feel older and just want to hold my family near.

Kids Make Choices

Independence=choice and to the previous ruling party, often not a preferred choice. As a parent you have a marvelous opportunity to provide culture when the kids are tiny (and without choice);
listening to Ellington, X, Machito, Bill Monroe, Sam and Dave- viewing Lost In Translation, , On The Waterfront,Tender Mercies, Singing in the Rain, and of course, Jaws and Star Trek. Then they grow and begin to assert their preferences, and you live with it. Bring on Barney,the dancing purple turd, Dora, the talking corpse, the Wiggles ("your friends are going to see them? You know they are in town?- Our town? You really want to go?"), Black Eyed Peas, Snooki Dog, Disney rap...). Independence=choice=could be=the end of civilization, but you live with it. The price of freedom. I won't tell you which way to jump but if you look at my face, you would have a pretty good idea what I'm thinking.

However, sometimes you (of course this is subjective all you Justin Bieber lovers) find the kids gravitating to something you are also find worthy. Most recently, young Oliver has become a big fan of Pee Wee's Playhouse: the Pee Wee Herman show. Its subversive but gentle humor holds up well today. Yelling at the secret word is such a good gimmick, a release that helps break up the zombified state of passive viewing. And I'm sorry spell check, in my blog, zombified is a word.

Someone that most Australians might find too silly (but would have to acknowledge his one-of-a -kind abilities) Dexter took to when he was little- Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter. (Dex and Steve's daughter Bindi are nearly the exact age) Since Irwin's death, no one has been able to do what he could. That is, the ability to engage with giant crocodiles, poisonous snakes and other animals with showmanship and nerve that was overshadowed by his comic persona. This man broke down the proximity barrier, by crikey!

When the bush man in SF dies, another bush man takes his place the next day. But Steve and Pee Wee, are singular sensations. Success breeds imitation but some individuals create a niche that no others can copy. At six, Dexter had the Crocodile Hunter and now six, Oliver has Pee Wee Herman. I can live with those choices.

This blog's gone to the toilet

I've edited myself on this one for some time now but decided that if I really am writing this to paint a portrait of who I am, and the things I think about, then- there really is no need to edit, if the topic is something that is on my mind. This topic is not often discussed: Etiquette in the men's restroom. First, acknowledgment that it isn't fair that the line for a women's bathroom is sometimes longer than the men's. Why? Are the men washing their hands? Well, unfortunately, not always. I grimace when I am soaping up and other club members bypass the sink leaving the restroom. At least women have the privacy of separate stalls.

Other than the public service spots George Michael and tap dancing Senator Larry Craig have provided, I am not aware of the appropriate behavior that should occur in a men's bathroom. I only know that for me, it still is a bit of a mystery as where I should be looking, or pretend to be looking on the walls directly in front of me. I pretend to read a magazine, of not much interest but with small type as to minimize the need to turn a pretend page. I should also pretend that my eyesight is reasonably good so as to not stand too close but not too good, so as to not stand too far away.

Still, there are times when the person standing next to me wishes to make conversation; it may be a co-worker or it might be Senator Craig and I am not really comfortable engaging at this point. I do know that handshakes are out of the question in this region and the gag of the fake third hand, while tempting, is also not the best idea. I have thought about having a sound box with various odd noises but in this too, I have chosen restraint.

Many years ago I was washing my hands in one spot of the bathroom when a gentleman who turned out to be a secret service agent, for whatever reason did not notice my presence and allowed the person he was guarding, to use the facilities. In moments I realized (excited is not the word to use in this context) that I was standing next to John Anderson, Presidential candidate. Other than future President Clinton, how many people would have the opportunity to see a President wthout pants?

Some backstory: In 1979 (when I wore $100 pants)-1980 the country had lost faith in President Carter (botched rescue attempt in Iran, attacked by a rabid rabbit, collapsing after a jog, overly critical of the American public's apathy) opening the door for someone who stood as unreasonable a chance of becoming President, Ronald Reagan as much as the thought that the Terminator could become the governor of California. The only viable alternative was John Anderson, third party candidate and with enough support that he was involved in one of the two Presidential debates. Anderson had begun as a Republican but in his older years, had morphed into a Liberal Independent. Before the days of equal TV time, at the end of a Saturday Night Live, the B-52's and Bill Murray led cast, called Anderson up on stage. I ended up working for Anderson, the first Presidential candidate that I had ever the opportunity to work for. Despite Jimmy Carter's big heart and great post Presidential efforts, Reagan's large persona, I still believe that Anderson would not have involved this country in death squads in El Salvador, deregulation of industries opening the door to the redistribution of wealth to the richest, trickle down economics and the ending of many social programs that Reagan is responsible for.

I digress, back to my bathroom etiquette questions. No handshakes. Minimal discussions. Eye contact only. Pretend to read. When someone calls out, "change", you do not leave your station; you stand your ground.
And now an awful admission. Working in cafes for over 25 years, there was always one bathroom with one toilet. That was it. Just the one sitting unit. Keeping it in working order for so many customers was always a test but a challenge that I felt my staff answered better than most. However beginning my very first office job in '09, I was overwhelmed to find such large bathrooms with multiple stalls. Some even with showers and bidets- unfathomable! What I know now to be called a urinal, I mistook, much to the horror of those around me, to be a stand up crapper. Everyone makes mistakes.

Hey, I'm Still Working!

There goes the extra time I was planning on having off. There goes my plans of being house husband/daddy and friend for my soon to be 90 year old father. Of course most of the time spent with my father would be answering his queries as to how I lost my job. But I'm still working, and it looks as if it might be for awhile.

So what took me to this place? What brought me to the cold I have, not from the big party Dexter had but from stress from last week's canceled meeting, re scheduled for this week (yesterday)? While attempting to be a vague (just in case) the genesis of my situation is this: I have been told to scale back on my standard of customer service to do what I feel anyone can do- not what I was hired to deliver (deliver, get it?). Any idiot can put things on a shelf, and I don't mean to insult any idiots who do this. So instead, I am delivering every confirmation email to the virtual shelves which does leave me in a bit of an extra pickle; 1. determining a system to have the numbers reflect appropriately 2. the emails no longer will tell me where things actually are, so I can not make any mistakes. 3. confusion as to what information the emails provide.

So you say, hmmm, this is kind of Paul Blart, Mall Cop-ish. Afraid so. Whatever one does, one should take it seriously. At least we are at a place now where I can afford to have my professional integrity. Here in my life, my only ambition is to be a good citizen, a good father and husband, a good soul. My eventual meeting as I interpreted it turned out like this: that anything I do, as long as I get the job done, played smartly is okay. However I am on my own.
What I am doing is contrary to the directive but better serves/ and is preferred by my customers. I can't do less. Most important to me, someone was told to solve my actions and as far as he "sees" it, is solved. Left to my own devices. Trust. Of course what is making work feel more like work these days, is an increased workload-40%, and that I am left to my own devices. So maybe I would be better off with extended time off. I wouldn't be so damn tired.

To change the subject, best wishes to my friend Andrew, competing in the Big Kahuna in Santa Cruz this weekend.

Breaking News: Bad Daddy Update 21:28

Today Dexter and his father were walking his Grandparents dog. Maria handed bad daddy a plastic bag just in case the wild beast opted to place a solid waste deposit on somebody's lawn.
The father and son schemed that if they could catch this before it occurred, they could walk the dog home by lifting up its back legs, thereby using gravity in their favor. A ridiculous idea certainly for the wild hyena quickly made a double down. Bad Daddy paid his son $1 to clean it. He did however toss in a napkin as a bonus. Bad daddy, when will you learn?

What I Did For Summer Vacation

To sum up my summer vacation, or at least those days off that constituted a vacation: 2 great weddings, and back to New Orleans. One way or another, I am always finding my way back to New Orleans. This time we were honored to have our friends ask us to be their tour guide for their first visit. Sure, when can we go?!! Navigating a duration of stay was trickier than determining time of year but with teachers in the group left us to choose from June-August. In August you start to come up on hurricane (or Failed Levee) season, and it's really too humid in the summer- off season, June is pushing it but not usually as unbearable as July and August. Pictures of some very overheated tourists.

Of course traveling with great friends there is an implicit level of trust and faith that you will not be bringing them to the inferno-anywhere but that was definitely a concern. This is after all a great city, a very urban place, a land of unpredictable charm and madness. If you go into it, I can't tell you what you may experience but you will experience something that is lasting and unique to where you have been. Many people head to the drunken noise pounding clubs of the upper French Quarter where a prefabbed wild time can be had by all- but this an always be mapped out before it even happens. Predictable. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas because, who cares?

Now before anyone says "who cares about this", immediately turn to pictures of big alligators eating hot dogs and marshmallows. Marshmallows because they are white and easy for predators to find (hence, not many big white animals living to old ages outside of zoos). The Honey Island Swamp is a protected area. Most of the 2 hour ride is sheer beauty, sometimes jetting across the water for miles at high speeds -hold onto your hats, kids. Learning about the wildlife, plants, and people who live nearby builds to both a rip into the oil companies and a pitch to take care of these waters. Our guide, Captain Charlie had to speak over the loudmouths who were screaming to back up so they could take more photos of some gators.

There are indeed some big fellows here protecting their territory. The largest who I missed visiting with this time is El Whoppo, some 15 feet and 60 years old. We did see Big Al (photos), about 11-12 feet long and while not the girth of El Whoppo, impressive nevertheless. Everyone is cautioned to please keep your arms in the boat. It's a Disney ride when an alligator glides under the surface of the water, scutes (plates on its back) showing and an eye in view, all on a conveyor belt of swamp to you...and then your realization is that this is a dinosaur, with big teeth and big pathogens (not to mention gnarly breath for anyone getting that close).


Some gators can assume the guise of children but the teeth are always the secret, so beware, squares. Like hot dogs? Yes. Like marshmallows? Yes. In fact this one in green was the only child who did not toss his marshmallow into the waters; too good to waste thought he, and ate it himself when others were preoccupied. Yum.

Uh, that's pretty close. The temptation is to take photos over the boat which naturally makes your guide a bit nervous. Then you witness the big fellows jumping eight feet out of the water and you understand why. Look big, not stupid.















After Katrina (or when the levees failed) we went about a year later, then the following year for a month in December. In 2006 we could not locate the Lower 9th on our map. We found that the AAA does not place some locations on their maps, in some cities. The breakdown of the levee system did the most immediate damage in the Lower 9 as the waters poured in a sudden crush submerging homeowners in minutes. In other parts of the city, Midcity (Esplanade Ridge is an area we love) and Lakeview (middle class and nicer residences not spared) were also flooded terribly -just not as sudden.

It was distressing 2 years later to go to the L9 and see all the devastation still there; destroyed homes crushed, battered but not yet razed. Blocks of moldy wood piles and broken glass. An occasional individual pounding for his life but no government presence. We saw a Habitat for Humanity sign and not far from there, the Pink Houses. The Pink House Project is a volunteer organization with the goal to create houses in this forgotten zone. Draped in neon pink to attract media attention, these houses would be built to withstand another flooding but also use technology to harness solar and other natural power. In '07/08 when we visited there were no houses, only frames. Since then 50 houses have been built by the Make it Right Foundation. Community support by Common Ground Relief, a grassroots organization that the Bush administration chose to infiltrate (found no terrorist activity). The houses while a bit fancy, are in our mind, terrific.
New Orleans is a big grand city that has no substantial technological economic base- Google has branches in most of the United States big cities but nothing in New Orleans. Perhaps symbolic; large city portraits adorn the floors of one of the Google offices and during a relocation, all the portraits were brought up to the upper floors except one- New Orleans. She is the sister good for the party but for business or serious matters, not so much.
The South has big versions of bugs; grabbing this moth, we had a bit of fun with him before setting him back on his way.

In New Orleans, your life might be featured in a book, your home might be destroyed but somehow someway you come back home. Ronald Lewis is the primary character of Nine Lives. Formerly a union man bridging racial lines across the streetcar tracks, he is now a historian of the Lower 9th, and curator of the Indian Tribes of New Orleans. He recognizes change alters what was, and what is to be. It was wonderful meeting with him, and feeling the pulse of international community.

We were waiting for the heavy tropical rains where the sky opens up and you are soaked within five seconds; Here it comes-get outta of the way- too late!!. It had been abnormally hot for June but as long as the kids could swim twice, or more each day, they were content. Traveling in a group is a bit tricky as everyone's start times vary, we seemingly take turns in not feeling well, and it is difficult in keeping a core group of nine, plus two reasonably happy. I think once I came around to accepting everyone's experience as their own, as opposed to what I hoped it might be, I was good. New Orleans is not a controlled environment.

Having traveled with Hale and Colleen and their lovely children on other occasions- shorter trips, closer to home, I still look forward to future explorations and shared experiences. They are easy to laugh with and always close friends.

Music: You can walk out on Frenchmen Street and witness brass bands competing against each other on opposite street corners, with the Police on horseback tolerating or disrupting these sessions. Only in New Orleans are teenagers walking about with tubas, violins, and trombones.
Clubs have such a low cover fee surely making it difficult to have any substantial income as a musician but for those going to the Blue Nile, Spotted Cat, DBA, Balcony Club and others, you can't find a better deal. There's always something going on and New Orleans still has its own sound; brassy funk, clave rhythms. Also for Maria and I, stumbling upon a meeting with the great great Irma Thomas was a year's highlight. It's fun to see Maria tongue tied in admiration.

Food: Despite the sadness surrounding the fire at what once was Verti Marte, we had no difficulty in finding palette satisfaction. A highlight, although we felt under dressed, was finally going to the legendary Dookie Chase restaurant. There are pictures of a very happy President Obama anticipating a big meal, and he hugging Leah Chase. We were made to feel extremely welcome and man, that was a fine day.




shelter from big time rain. Note Olivers soppy head. Pool side, big band- 2 guests from
Houston

Oliver found $20 in the street. Dexter listened intently to what Mr.Lewis had to share. I found great red beans and rice just down the street. Maria did some volunteer work with Colleen and Angie. Hale experienced a city blatant in its reality , unlike anywhere else. Something old, something new. A new mayor, a new hope. Singular, sad but inspiring, soulful but mournful, wounded but alive.

Now let me tell you where you got your shoes...

Tourist Point Of View

I love traveling with Maria and the boys. I also love being on my own. If not for the first preference, I would opt for the second more- where an ice cream sandwich is not 1/3 of a desert, crossing the street means not being on Spidey-senses alert, and entertaining anyone else is not a concern. I am my own best audience; maniacally laughing across Boston Common. And as I walked these New England streets, free time built around the most splendid wedding of Allison and John, I felt as if I was skipping across town.

Living out on the West Coast you can forget how old old can be, and man, Ben Franklin and Paul Revere are old dudes. They existed here. Hark, me. I engaged some of that revelry but it was strolling, just strolling that got me rolling.
Coffee, pizza slices and books and records on Newbury, neon bowling pins at Kings, an attempt to ask Pat Benatar to sign Allison and John's wedding invitation that did not quite pan out (damn those militaristic Borders personnel!), sitting outside munching on tasty crunchy veggies at sunlight. Peace was found. The only time that existed was wedding time, morning and night.

The most dangerous place was the lobby of my fancy hotel, where I sat in the middle of some drunk young men with the women of UFC fans, who when the men would not heed their warning about their mates, warned that they would do this themselves. Please note that all of them had no connection with the wedding party.


I also got to commiserate with someone working at a coffee shop wearing a Giants cap. A fan, in Boston. Sympathies, empathy, man hug.

Good Daddy v.So-So Daddy

Dexter had a bunch of friends over last night. 8 boys, 2 girls. Children gravitate to where they want to go and as anti-gun as Maria and both are, Dexter has about 10 Nerf guns (friends, uncles and uncles). If you ask him what the highlight of the evening was, he likely will say it was this crazed Nerf battle down the stairs leading into a free for all in the lobby. Sorry, neighbors!As a parent, you will have good days and so-so days (hopefully not worse than that). If you're a good parent you probably aren't aware of the good days but very aware of the so-so (or worse) days. I'm aware of both so I'm not sure where this places me. I'll write more about good daddy, of course. Last night I took Dext to the Great American Music Hall to see several bands- 4 hours of music and card playing. During the second set of music, I was Dexter's bed, pulling up another chair for his legs and being the best pillow-daddy that I can be. Before Jenny (Lewis) and Johnny (Jonathan Rice) took the stage, Dext woke up to finish another round of Milles Bornes. Our table was joined by two very nice men named Omar and Christian who invited us to share their food as they also accepted our invitation to partake of this most excellent of card games.
When the music began again, Dexter needed a boost up even though we were on the balcony to see the stage. Also, it was a way for him to have something that we used to share; up until he was five or six I would often dance him to sleep as we listened to music together. Now, whether because of age, size or it not being cool for an 11 year old to do this, it doesn't happen.

Sometimes when I'm dancing with his younger brother Oliver, I glance at Dexter who seems alternately indifferent and a little sad. So under the pretext of seeing Jenny and Johnny we could share this again ( agh! my back) . Held high in my arms, myself sweating profusely, we bounced and swayed for nearly the entire set.
I am proud to share this relationship with him and in many ways, Dexter may be the best friend that I will ever have. Time will embellish the relationship, possibly alter it in ways we can't predict but I know what is here now, and where we've been. Of course, I also share incredible individual bonds with Oliver and Maria. Some of how Oliver views me at this age is through his older brother. Maria, as with any adult relationship there is a give and take- that is, this feeling of what have you done for me lately? Dexter is completely in my corner and until I betray his trust (greatest fear), everything I do is accepted, justified, forgiven. It is a huge responsibility but I am grateful just the same.

Dexter is a big jerk who farts too much.
This isn't true but he was looking over my shoulder. Might need to change my blog address.
By the way, Jenny and Johnny's performance, blending of voices, sonics and songs, stories of fellow passengers on the bus ride to the Mission District, tribute to friend Farmer Dave made for an impressive close.

Bad Daddy (so-so=). This morning, this afternoon. Preparing for Dexter's sleepover (7 total kids staying over, 9 until mid-evening) and prodding the boys to actually clean for their event, my patience was thin. I was grumpy today. Getting Dext to be proactive in selecting some party favors/decorations at the party store was a long time waiting for him to have some idea of what he wanted. I was grumpy today. Maybe it was the dust from cleaning. Maybe it was just an afternoon of being a so-so daddy. Better nights, better days ahead. Rest is important, I know.

Hours late into the evening. A good night. Dragging his friends into watching a Futurama movie (as his father had his friends watch Abbott and Costello meet Frankenstein recently), optional art projects and Nerf battles later, it is bedtime. I'm typing as he sits with 3 friends; 2 of them, girls who can rough house with any boy. One, saved Dexter a sore neck when she freed Dexter from a neck hold with a crushing block. They are now talking about school, friends, swearing, television while three others sleep. He can talk he, and laugh they do. Minutes later: a fart, and hysterics. Didn't think that would be my exit line.

This Is Not The Type Of Progress We Were Talking About

First, obviously someone did not read my blog about the temperature. It's too hot. Now on to the topic. I am fascinated with a facet of the criminal element- at least those types of crimes that gather airplay with the national media outlets. This curiosity is in regards to those committing these deeds; often we find them to be of groups of mixed race participants. . Criminals of all types of people, working together. Progress? This is avoided in certain types of high theft- your Wall Street type of gig is not very integrated. All of this has much less to do about race but points to class levels and the social circles in which we exist.
Still.

Then we have today's "big" story. Crazy Asian Man takes Discovery building hostage (the Media left out the Asian description but put his big mug up front and center. Wink). If you read some of his stuff, he makes some sense about his claims of the Discovery channel but his actions were crazy and unwarranted, on any level of comprehension.
Used to be, in America with few exceptions that the individuals doing crazy things on a big scale (shooting up crowds of people, strangers) were almost always white folks, And also in America because guns are so prevalent. Now, the perpetrators of these acts can be any color. Progress? This too is more about how people are dealing with their rage with guns, weapons that are so easily accessed in the US.

A few years ago I asked a librarian friend to look up the amount of deaths by guns in the US in one year compared to another country where civilians are not packing the heat. The number was something to the amount of US, 35,000 to Japan, 5. And if we could include the number of deaths in the world related to guns made in the US, the numbers would be staggering. The US, us. Progress? In Japan they still club dolphins to death. We don't. I wouldn't have a problem if today's story was reported, " A crazy Chinese guy held hostages at the Discovery office today"- people are thinking it anyway. I am.