11.29.2009

DESERT NIGHT, from 'Lane and Mia'

“We’re almost there,” I said. “Just a dirt road, there won’t be a sign. We drive past it, we’ll never get there. Slow down.”

The GPS X was tracking us along the eastern side of the Weapons Range. Boris said he was able to examine documentation of stuff that was uncovered on the range when ordnance exploded, old mining sites, weird stuff the Navy didn’t really care about but had to track. Not like there were endangered species or anything hiding out that some nerd was keeping notes on. All that environmental stuff was off-limits on the range. Nobody could get close enough to find out if some desert tortoise habitat was seriously threatened. Everybody pretty much knew a bombing range takes no mercy. That was the whole point. Boris said there was a joke around headquarters, the Navy had posted signs throughout the desert range telling the critters to go find a new home. Like lizards could read.

“Slow, dude, slow,” I said. “Man you got one speed, whether it’s pool, drinking, or driving.”

“Yeah and you go no speed.”

“This is it, man. This is it. This is it. Turn here. Left, left. LEFT. . .LEFT.”

The F-150 screeched left, bucked a foot-deep ditch, spun back tires over the top of the hump and settled on a dirt path with a headlight-view of stark scrub brush and a cracked mud-sand mix spread like spackle.

“Slow, here,” I said. “Just hold on, okay?”
Boris held the truck still.

“High beams and fog lights, please,” I said. The GPS had a zoom-reduce feature, so I toggled the map to a larger scale and looked at the coordinates I’d plugged in from Boris. The desert brightened under the Ford’s headlights and the low-light from the fog lamps sprayed out to the sides. The rutted path disappeared beyond the blaze of light, into a night darker than I remembered.

“What does it show?” Boris asked.

“Six, seven miles.”

“You ready?”

“In a minute. Shut off the truck.”

“What?”

“Stop the truck. Turn off the engine.”

Boris switched off the ignition and I opened the door and stepped out. The surface had a crunch, then a doughy consistency under the dry-cured crust. The western sky was in full bloom, the planets tucked in behind the horizon when the twilight faded, hours ago. Black everywhere, with pure pinpoints of ancient light sparkling up high when your eyes adjusted, stars fired up a billion years ago, showing their signals. Silence you can hear, it’s so thick. A dense, hard, impenetrable stillness that feeds you like a drug. You get some, it’s never enough. Solid bedrock bottom, like the planet is starting all over again, right in front of you.

11.27.2009

SUN SPOTS

Fading cell phone batteries (not just mine. .), careers in transition speed-talking over screaming hot rods, police cars and EMTs and blinking fire trucks jamming intersections. . .dinner at Grazianos, wine bars.
Man, a cigarette, tonight, on the deck, Friday night cruisers running stop signs and moaning all the way to the moon.
The stars are brighter in the San Joaquin Valley and tonight, tonight. . .clouds spread the sky announcing autumn and rain, leaves firing hot red and gold in time for black Friday. Oh, what a show. . .early shoppers huddling for value--huge discounts please--grab a number for that
half-price hundred dollar television.

Get a job. Spend money--charge it. Drink wine. Smoke a cigarette.

Scan the sky--stars still point the way--watch the sky.
I got a job.
Study the sky

10.18.2009

SAM

I worry about Sam. Kid I met over the summer at the ballpark, a kid I used to give a lot of shit to, a kid I used to say stuff to like 'Do as I say, not as I do'--the Arnold movie line that came over the PA during every game that I'd mimic as I passed him--a kid who told me he was in high school when I asked him how old he was and the kid who told me he was going into the Marine Corp. This was June. I gave him my email and told him to give me a note, send a joke, let me know how things are going once he got settled somewhere. I shook his hand on his last day, wished him well.
I haven't heard from Sam. He's probably doing fine, down in Pendleton, some boot camp hell, learning how to defend our country. He's probably doing fine. I don't know why I just thought about Sam. Maybe somehow, he'll know someone is thinking about him. Nice kid, buzz cut hair, I used to rub my knuckles in his scalp, maybe once a week, male bonding stuff.
I worry about Sam. Sam, are you out there somewhere? Midnight watch on some outpost?
Where are you, man?

DESERT HIDEOUTS



CHACO

THE DOORS

10.14.2009

OVERRATED

Here they are, somewhat the province of the solitary observer, items I’ve been meaning to put in their place; acts, objects, things, traits heretofore elevated somehow in current popular status, that I declare to be overrated.. (and in no apparent order)

--Hair, in general; shave it off, let it grow, color it? Whatever. It comes and goes, so let it go..
--Perez Hilton; why is this hack exalted? Who gives him the soapbox? Dunno..
--Backing into parking spaces; why, I ask? Solely reserved for drivers of pickup trucks that can’t seem to be able to maneuver these behemoths, so they cheat, back into spaces, rather than back out? Perplexing, especially when this habit is extended to four cylinder autos..
--The Final Four; hey, I’m a fan, but let’s face it, March Madness isn’t so much about hoops as a general post-winter madness, cabin fever, and the promise that baseball is around the corner…college b-ball in front of any more than 10,000 fans in a stale, musty gym is way beyond what Naismith had in mind…
--College Football playoffs; okay, not actually in existence. . .YET. . .but the whole discussion reeks of new money, those who can’t just enjoy college guys playing ball, and the ‘I have to be Number One’ syndrome. Go to the Rose Bowl, Pac 10-Big Ten, and tell me how you feel..
--Hummers—the vehicle; If you have to ask why, you don’t deserve the answer..
--Dancing With The Stars; have to admit, I’ve never actually seen it. But anything having to do with ex-athletes, washed up politicians and ‘B’ list players getting prime time with hot chicks, is, well, not exactly what I’d call a productive use of time. Their’s, not yours. Okay, your’s either. Gone are the days when jocks drove delivery trucks in the off season so they could get to know their fans, then sold insurance until they died.
--Running—it’s just wrong. Bad on the joints, the whole lower body--just bad. Swim, hike, bike, walk, but run? Nah. Rather spin the treadmill, play air-guitar, chase moths. NO RUNNING. Should be a sign up everywhere.
--Dodger Stadium—just another nice place to play baseball, nothing special, nothing classic or timeless. Face it LA, most of you grew up loving the Dodgers, so I can’t blame you. Check out ATT Park, Wrigley, Camden Yards, Petco, Coors, and find out what you’re missing. Can’t even find a sign for the off-ramp. Why? O’Malley chose to finance the stadium himself and couldn’t get the city to pop for even a freeway sign. Nice parking lot with a stadium.
--Pete Carroll—not in the won lost sense, but in the sense that when his players get arrested, get involved in, shall we say campus shenanigans (and leave it at that), Uncle Pete is the first to deflect the questions, defer to the ‘we’ll wait and see what develops’ kind of response, and NEVER EVER comes out and says ‘we don’t tolerate this behavior on this team, at this school, or on this campus’, thereby making the kind of statement every other coach is quick to do. If you like the W-L record, Pete is your man. Check the rap sheets of the players, to find out the coaching philosophy of Carroll.

I believe we’ll stop it right here, for now..

10.01.2009

BIG HAIR AND MINE

She had Big Hair, perched on the salon chair wrapped in black, and Bobby looked her over, holding scissors and a hair dryer like he couldn't decide.
Little shorter over the ears, I told Julie-Ann, my girl. In the mirror Bobby shifted his glance back and forth, the Big Hair broad going on about her 59 year old husband's three hour gym workouts; 'abs, mostly, yeah he's pretty serious about those abs' she was saying, Bobby finally clicking on the hair dryer like he was racking the chamber of his 12-Gauge. High powered, big recoil, I could feel the blast on the back of my head; hot, wet, Bobby wielding big fire-power in one hand and razor-sharp clip-clips in the other, fully loaded, and Julie-Ann buzzing my fading scalp like she'd done for the past fifteen years.
Bobby admitted he'd given up on Facebook, he was telling Big Hair, and then she shifted gears, revved up and took off.
She announced the title of her speech; 'Social Media', and she launched in.
'I Facebook, Twitter, I'm on Linked-In' she crowed, and I asked Julie-Ann for another buzz around my neck because it felt so good and might drown out revelations on Tweet info I really didn't need, and when the buzzing from my neck down my spine shriveled up she was still at it; 'Facebook Security? I don't know, everthing's just out there', she said, big-hair piled up loose, like Bobby would let it all down in a moment when he revealed why he'd given up social media. Big Hair called it that, its correct name, 'Social Media', like there was a new section in the newspaper with that title, replacing the old 'Social Scene' pics of deb balls and champagne receptions benefiting
Zimbabwean pre-school or cloning colonies, protesting men and women landing on the moon, like drinking champagne and moon shots had more in common than maybe the phrase 'shots' and that's not all that much of a stretch when you get down to it.
I waited. Big Hair, Bobby with fire power and steel, more social media wisdom, while her old man crunched abs of steel for what? This big-haired broad?
Bobby says he's divorced, maybe the reason he'd lost so much weight, he revealed. 30 pounds in a year. He still looked kind of used up to me. Better maybe than Big Hair. Julie-Ann was using her scissors to clip my scalp, the thin stuff up top, surgically-honed snips thining my top-side like a hedge that was hiding old tennis balls and beer cans. She's a pro. No gossip, small talk when we need it, nothing too damning, nothing too gooey, she never misses a spot, always leaves me trimmed and happy. Everyone else coos and crows, dispensing gush and schmooze with rinse and highlights, perms and trims, last minute dos for late night cruise. No problem, I think. Big Hair needs a day off from crunchy abs and three hour workouts leading to sixty, and I know that need. I know that feeling.


9.10.2009

Don't Blame Carla

She wasn't to blame. Carla? Nah...wasn't her doing. One o'clock lunch on a Thursday, nothing much going on, down on the border of Ontario and Chino, where we used to eat Mexican food down off the 60 Freeway and Mountain avenue. Those were good days, when Don used to say he needed a cell phone, and it was only to call his wife when he was heading up Cajon pass during the fires, but we got him one. 1989.
Carla said to meet at Canatarro's, and I knew where it was. Carla pointed to the ceiling when we sat down, with the trellis's and the fake wine grapes and vines poking through.
Old style, I said. Reminded me of times we used to eat at pizza dives when I was a kid, Italian red-sauce hangs in San Leandro; Italian Villa, the Pine Cone, Jake's, spaghetti and meatball joints with red checkered table cloths. They've never gone out of style.
Now it's Vince's, Graziano's, Canatarro's, working crowd ristorantes for pickup trucks and four wheel drives, places I used to avoid and now find refreshing, cool dark spaces and lovely waitresses.
Hear that Henry Mancini? Sharp organ chords playing against strings, you know, pre Pink Panther? Early lounge? It lives.
Poinciana? Cal Tjader? Luzon? Smooth, baby, as oil on a backside in late sun on the Caribbean, before dinner and after lunch when time melts and you can set your watch to any old place you want. Drink up... order some appetizers, you ain't goin' anywhere for a while, relax and enjoy. Shower together, the humidity is forever, you know.
I need this. Back at home, smoke some old butts hanging around in ash trays from the nineties, is okay...I say...is okay. I know better, but I know too, is not a thing that lasts, okay? Let it go, let it happen, is okay. . .
Tomorrow? I talk some bizness..work a little bit on my craft. . .take it slow. . .doctor's orders. . .is okay. Is okay. Not Carla's fault.
Is okay. . .blame it on Jay-Lo, Clooney, 'Out of Sight'. . .blame it on Caritanno's. And the vino...

8.21.2009

DESERT RUN (excerpt from 'Lane and Mia')

Nasty’s had a little tournament going in the back room, a dozen guys chalking their sticks and pulling on beers around ten o’clock. Boris had staked out end seats at the bar.

“Polish sausage is on special,” Boris said when I walked up. We did the knuckle-fist touch. “Fries, pickles. Pretty good last time I had it.”


“Ate already.” Leaning in to the bar, I caught Slash’s eye. “Arnold Palmer, please.” He nodded. “Hey, Slash, put in some of those lemon wedges, okay?” Slash tapped the bar with his finger and went to the refrigerator. Nasty’s used real iced tea and homemade lemonade. Arnie would be proud. The pool balls at Nasty’s clicked in a rhythm sometimes all at once, four tables in back, a wooden thunk-click, balls in the pockets. A shout, a groan, a clink of beer glasses.


“So what is this place you got in mind?” I said. “Where is it, at the end of a dirt road?”


“We can get a game with some of these guys,” Boris said, nodding towards the pool tables. “Couple of guys we could take real easy.”


“Don’t want to waste karma. Got it all stored up where I need it. Pull it down like beer from a keg.”


“Jesus Christ. All right. Fuckin’ pool game, man. I could use the money.”


“Karma is like cash, dude, spiritual currency, to be used wisely and for the greater good and the enlightenment of the species.”


“And I thought you were off the medication. What’d you do, switch up to meth?”


“Hey, I’m not laughing, man. I spent three fuckin’ months at county getting shit together. Three months. Mia said I didn’t even know I was there half the time. In and out. Still got some work to do, though, dude. You’re going to help? Or no, you’re chickening out. Hmm?” The Arnold slid across the bar. “Thanks, Slash.” Slapped a five down next to the coaster.


Skinny long-haired freak at the front table snapped up a twenty from the rail, spun his cue stick like hands of a clock going twelve to six, then back the other way, Tom Cruise-style; ‘Color of Money’. Paul Newman was awesome in that movie. He and Jason Robards, Nicholson. Old dudes could play characters, defining the archetypes, cultural heroes we could depend on. Over and over. That was the cool thing about DVD’s. Lock in to something real, you watch it over and over, perfect it, learn it, master it. Sat there in my smoking jacket all day for a couple of weeks, ‘resting’, but I don’t waste time. Don’t waste time, don’t waste karma. Eventually, it all runs out. Just a matter of when.


Boris wanted that long haired freak, I could tell. Smelled money on the table, that was his problem. Couldn’t grasp the real issues, the bigger picture.


“Boris, tune your frequency, dude, I need you, man. Dial it down.” Boris turned from the pool tables back to the bar, put his finger up. Slash pulled a draft and set it down.


“One game man,” he said. “Just one game.”


“Where is this place, man? Where is this happening?”


“So you sat around all day watching ‘X-Files’?” Boris had foam around the top of his lip. “Got all pumped up nominating yourself for ‘alien abduction of the year’?”


“Uh, no. That’s not it dude.”


“Well this place, I’m telling you, nobody goes up there. We pop a tire or something, this time of year, morning comes, we fry.”


“You ever heard of a spare tire?”


“Why do you think I want to get a game here? Unlike you, Mr. Employed Truck Driver, I don’t have unlimited domestic funding.”


“And I don’t have unlimited time. I almost found that out. I did find that out.”


“Congratulations. Welcome to the human race.”


“Yeah, I’m alive. Great.” I leaned closer. “But how alive am I?”


“What are you, mixing shit now? Little meth, Arnie Palmers, what else? Splash of Karma on the rocks?”

Boris’s teeth were so fucking ugly, I really wanted him to consider an orthodontic-surgical approach, or a good pool cue to the jaw. That could be arranged.


“Thanks, Slash.” I slid the tall glass across the bar. Stood up.


“Sit down, man.” Boris pulled an index card out of his front shirt pocket. “Okay, okay. Come on.” He handed the card to me. It was yellow, light blue lines. In black ink; a time, a date, a GPS coordinate.


“I don’t have GPS,” I said. “That’s what this is?”


“Can you borrow one?”


I nodded. If I had to. They could locate us, then, I thought. GPS worked both ways. At least in this town. I didn’t say anything. Filed it away, kept it in my head. Go home, write everything out, dispose of the yellow index card, take a shower, clean off, wipe down. Jump in bed with Mia, lay my head on her beautiful thigh, the two of us arranged like a ‘T’.

8.12.2009

Close Calls

The eggs popped in the pan when the water boiled down and the kitchen was billowing smoke and it smelled. It was a while before the house cleared out, windows all opened and the fan blowing. I'd been on the computer writing and forgot about the eggs boiling. I threw everything out in the trash.
Later, after working out in the gym and reading a few pages of my story I fell asleep. My eyes felt heavy and I slipped into a dream with a dark figure looking at me. She smiled. This happened very fast, so when I woke up it seemed like it was only a few seconds. The next thing, it was a half an hour later, and time to get dressed and get down to pick up Carlos.
Driving my Jeep, I hear Carlos yelling at me; 'Watch out, watch out,' and the brakes slammed on and chattered, the ABS system worked, and I was an inch short of running into a road sign in the median. We were going to Hollywood, and I wondered if accidents happened in threes.
At Hollywood and Highland the chairs were all taken. We found a table. People came up to us saying this was their table, and I said no, we'd been there for an hour. The guy grinned and pointed to something he'd left at the table to mark it as his. I said, no, no way. But join us anyway.
Carlos from Peru and Ivonne and Eliezer join us after a while. My friend Carlos is from Columbia and has been here for eight years. Carlos, numero dos, es de Peru and is an actor. Eliezer is an actor, via Puerto Rico and New York. Ivonne is an actor, Carlos' acting coach and well known in Latino cinema.
The music is beautiful, Francisco Aquabella on congas, very precise and strong band. The wonderful horn section plays the breaks with strength and style. Francisco sings in his wavering voice. He will play forever, I think. He will always play.
Carlos from Peru is amazed that this great music is free. The summer in Los Angeles has so much to do, with free music, wonderful beaches and weather, the city celebrates this, embraces it as ours, our gifts to enjoy. It is why we are here. The KJAZ summer series draws music fans and locals and great musicians together in a setting where we all feel together, people meeting new people, talking and joined by great rhythm and sound.
After the music, Carlos and Eliezer and I have dinner upstairs at the Grille, and talk about coffee and cinema and not much about politics, but a little.

8.10.2009

Shangri La

Jerry's dead. His widow runs the place now, the Hardyville Trailer Park and The Shangri La. Both popped up on the radar on my first mission to Bullhead, couple of weeks ago. Sitting at the front end of a dusty gravel drive that passes by trailers stacked against the river. Old ones, rusty and held up it seems by plywood panels, shaded with groves of palm. I couldn't tell if the roots poking up were from trees or trailers, they'd both been there so long. Grime covered motorcycles huddling in shade--no plates; broken barbecues; mis-matched chairs and gray wooden planter boxes sprouting flowers and dried up withered stuff that couldn't stand the heat.
The Shangri La is the motel wing of this riverside lean-to.
Didn't catch her name but she showed me a furnished room. Upstairs. Introduced me to Morris, but Morris didn't say anything.
He grins at me when I say hello, sitting in the sun next to the vacant studio suite. He'd be my next door neighbor if I moved in there. Doubt if he'd make much noise.
600 a month includes cable, no internet. Furnished with a kitchen.
'Kathleen lives down here," she said, pointing down the second story hall. "Works at the Riverside. Most people here are full-time residents. Mary sold her place in San Diego, couldn't afford it no more. Moved in here."
600 a month moves just about anybody in. Me? Couple of months, play like I'm on the run or something, hole up, sketch out a few scenes, see what pops.
She took my card, but said she didn't have much use for them.
"In case I call you up, later," I said. "Maybe you'll remember me."
Up the road a few blocks I stop in to the Longhorn Gun Shop, just as my friend texts a message about buying jeans and shirts. My fashion advisor, she has the scoop on what guys need. Turns me on to some cheap shopping at Sam's.
The Longhorn has an old time rough wooden plank door, big brass handle, chimes that sound when you walk in the cool dark room. Glass cases hold turquoise jewelry. Rifles and automatic weapons line up against the walls.
The biggest guy I'll see in three days walks out from the back.
"Ammo?" he says. "We've got ammo."
I pick up a couple of boxes of 9mm and .45. I ask him about shooting ranges in Bullhead City.
"We just shoot in the desert," he says. He gives me directions to a road heading east, to a deserted hillside where locals fire away.
"Targets?" he says. "No. There's old cars out there, though."
I didn't bring any guns, but I want to check out the local shooting spot but get a bad feeling when I spot two police cars positioned at the beginning of the dirt part of the road. Some other time.
After cruising the waterfront looking for fixers on the river I end up at Lazy Harry's Bar and Grille, overlooking the curve of the Colorado River.
'Music Food Cocktails Darts'. Old boys inside complaining about the heat.
"Ten weeks in a row", the guy next to me explains, "been over 110 F. 117 today." Men compare the temps at their houses, everybody agreeing it's hot, even for Bullhead. I drink an American Ale. Seemed like the thing to do, with four boxes of pistol ammo sitting in the back of my Jeep parked up against the river where I could keep an eye on it.
Later on I pull up at the Castle for a salad and a beer. The waitresses seem nice when I ask a few questions about winter rentals.
"Winter time this place is packed at night," the older one says. The younger one is cute and spotless, bright eyed. "Pretty much an older crowd," she continues.
I tell her I had a drink at Lazy Harry's.
"How'd you find that place?"
"Cruising some property, came up on it," I say.
"That's the place for gossip and gathering," she says.
I know now what she means by 'older'. Older than me.
Brand new homes up on the hill sell for just over $200K. Not many left, but they're nice. I could hang out here, I think. Check out the river scene for a couple of months in a rental, before I decide to pack up and leave California for good. Could happen.
Next day, I'll get my first major rejection email on my novel. But first, I'll have a round or two at the tables, see if my luck has dried up like the rustling stalks hanging on in the weathered planter boxes down the path from the Shangri La.








8.09.2009

Bullhead

River run, I-10 to Blythe. Who lives in Blythe? The question isn't who, it's why. Not a bad place, just not mainstream. Now, a freeway rest stop. Gas up, water, head north along the Colorado to Parker. Fields of green crops dot the landscape accepting searing sunlight and blistering heat, water from the river to keep things lush. They are. Trailer havens cluster along the river banks; Ranchos Not So Grandes, the best name I found. Vidal junction, not like any other. Two highways, barely a truck stop, the cafe closed for almost a year now. Economic bad times? Maybe. More like these are the way things are in Vidal. Slow moving.
Move on, cross the river, enter Arizona and the Parker Strip. Ahhh...
The north side of the river hosts a few trailer villages, boat houses, semi-retirement or worse on the semi-quiet no-way-out drive skirting the Colorado. It's the one-way street, the slow lane, 'don't bother me I'm out of the way, out of sight' folks that mean, well. . .they just mean well.
Across the water it's condos and upscale, as up-scale as the river gets. Not much, it turns out. The river drive runs along the east side of the river along campgrounds and winter retreats, and, as it turns out, some river bars that are too loose with their cooking temperatures. As in undercooked food; as in, get your money back, get your water back, along with a shot to go to kill the bacteria and hope I get to where I'm going and stay alive. That kind of undercooked.
I live. I drive, I arrive in Laughlin via Bullhead City. Joe's Crab Shack has good ale, good service, and cooked food. The moron from Boron is nowhere to be seen. It's been a year since I've been here, so I don't really expect to see him.
Tomorrow, checking out the Shangri La. Furnished rooms by the month. Let's make a deal.


7.27.2009

RIVER RUN

Bullhead City. Weather? Hot, hot, blast furnace hot, hot enough you don't have to light up the barbecue grill, the reflection of the mobile home or the trailer wall is enough. Grill a burger, fry an omelet, melt your mind. Nobody cares, everyone's overheated, saturated with sun, and the water runs forever in this desert oasis, just runs and runs, finally ending in border runoff .
I should have stayed there, in Laughlin, at least a night. The food was good at the Black Bear diner. The rooms are cheap. The Mexicans own the border these days, but we own the water. Not sure which is more pressing, but drug trafficking won't stop, until we stop demanding it. All the water in the Colorado is diverted, dammed, channeled, carried by canal or aqueduct to California Arizona. The Mexicans get none.
Jet skis skim the water like flies jumping in the morning on a cool trout stream, cash-fat casinos drain wallets of sweaty travelers who like the cheap alternative to Vegas. Laughlin is small time. Bullhead City is the border town. Draws in all types of folk, you see them in the back alleys and the gravel drives, mostly staying indoors though, in the heat. They come out at night. The old run down trailers gather together in the trees along the shore of the Colorado, riverfront property, sheet metal homesteads on blocks.
The town looks hit and miss, come and go, people on the run, looking for the quick fix. They move on. Maybe I'm wrong. I don't think so. They're there. The signs are all around if you know what to look for. Liquor stores on the odd corner, out on the highway standing alone. Asian Massage. Low rent rooms, all night buffets across the river, motorcycle shops and four wheel drive after-market parts where they put anything on a vehicle and make it desert-ready.
Down river, the Parker Strip is jet boats, water skiing, campgrounds, moveable vacation homes on wheels, an upscale version of Bullhead City. Floating beer bars. A veneer of respectability. But not much. It's beer soaked, less rust, but it still has that feel about it, like people there don't have too many choices.
Maybe I'm wrong. I don't think so.
Maybe I'm not seeing something. I don't think so.
I'll look, next time. Try and find what I'm missing. But I don't think so.

7.17.2009

Zac Sunderland completes solo sail around the world - Los Angeles Times

Zac Sunderland completes solo sail around the world - Los Angeles Times

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LARRY KING AND THE POP

James Rainey had an interesting column this morning in the LA Times about Larry King and the elder's fascination with the death of Michael Jackson. Rainey details King's endless programs with speculation about the cause, who's at fault, even speculating on the speculators, like 'who's going to reveal the truth', 'where is this going', and the endlessly driven drivel of an aging talk show host who really, really, should just hang it up. I thought Greta Van Sustern was the stamina queen for driving shock stories into the ground, with the Natalie Holloway parade from the shores of Aruba and the live stand-up from the Jackson family estate in Encino.
Me? Of the three recent celebrity deaths that opened the summer with some notoriety; John Carradine, asphyxiated in a Bangkok hotel room (did he pay the bar fine?), Michael Jackson and another possible OD to add to LA's long lineup of entertainment-related cardiac arrests, and Arturo Gatti getting in in Rio from his young Brazilian wife, I have to say if I could choose, Gotti's is the way to go.
It's in Gotti's genes to have a bloody death, and we have the HBO2 trilogy on tonight to get right into the heart of Gotti's bloody heart and head. Legendary battles with Mickey Ward notwithstanding, Gotti gained fame fighting in the East Coast as a stylish brawler, the latest in a long line of brutes who please crowds and earn paychecks. With Gotti, you knew it was going to be bloody and you knew he'd go down in heroic fashion.
Carradine, what was he, in his early seventies? Hey, if I have heart palpitations or chest pains, I might just jump on a plane to Bangkok, grab me a bar girl and go out in some style. Better than OD'ing with a doctor at my side with a mouthful of prescription pills made out to Bret Bray or some phoney who's picking up my meds under a pseudo name.
Larry King, now how old is he, really? I mean, sans the badly colored hair and a few heart attacks, by-pass surgeries, what's in it for the former radio-meister gone cable host? Really.. Great career, Rolodex second to none, but dude, you're in LA, for God's sake, have someone spike your martinis at Musso and Franks, take a dive off the top row at Dodger Stadium and end up in the dugout, drive off the bluff at Griffith Park ala James Dean in 'Rebel'. . .just do it. You had a run, you had a go, you were the man. . .twenty years ago, and now you're holding on to celebrity through the death of a weird genius and we all need to move on. So let's move on.
I'm moving on.

5.30.2009

CUT AND TRIM

Remington, Sunbeam, I don’t even know the brand, and I’ve got two of them but only one works, electric shavers and trimmers to tidy up sprouts of eyebrows and ear stuff that makes me look old and then I thought about Roy, seeing him walking with his wife and his dog and I stopped yesterday as I was driving by, dropped the window to say hello. Floyd came over to the car, leaned in, pulled a patch off of his right eye. He looked diminished.
‘How am I doing, or what am I doing?’ he said, arms on the window sill. I said how, and right then I knew it wasn’t good. His eye looked bad.
‘Got a huge melanoma in my eye. They take the eye out next week.’ He twisted his mouth, shook his head. He was fifty yards from his front door, next to the sidewalk around the greenbelt in our neighborhood, where tree trimmers hacked and buzzed the last two days, where dogs bark from behind fences and brick barbecues and under the canopies of hot tubs and gazebos, in the comfort of backyards in this comfortable neighborhood.
I stand in front of the mirror admiring my brown eyes and trimmed brows and yes, I have a few grey hairs I need to pry out or cut back like weeds that spring out this time of year—my hair grows well, Julie Ann said last week when I got mine cut—and I take pride in my well-cut short hair, I don’t have to shave it yet, the sign of either going bald or a mid-life moment gone awry.
‘Can’t talk about it,’ Roy said. ‘Or I fall to pieces.’ His wife stood by on the sidewalk holding the dog on a leash. I don’t know the dog’s name. I don’t know Roy’s wife name. I know Roy. I know Roy, who owned an auto repair shop in town that still bears his name and pays him rent on the land. I know Roy from homeowner’s association meetings and landscape committee walk-throughs where we inspect shrubs and trees, watch the lawn for other-worldly greens we need to eradicate, sterilize, do over-seeding and re-planting and the seasonal work that keeps the neighborhood property values in line even through the downward slide.
Roy knows where I live. He nodded when I reminded him. Anything you need, Roy. He nodded. I grabbed his hand and it was strong. Big hands for a man his size. He moved back to the sidewalk, kicked a pinecone, I nodded to his wife. She had a grim smile. Roy told me once he carried a gun in his compact truck when he rides around in the neighborhood, this coming after a punk robbed a person walking his dog up the street one night. The word about the robbery had gone around the neighborhood. Roy was taking no chances. Said he told the Police Chief he was packing. Wasn’t taking any chances with a gun in his glove compartment. He said the Chief didn’t seem too concerned. A Chief that let a citizen do what he thought was right and didn’t call in the National Guard or something, overreact, trusting a long-time resident in a moment of concern in a neighborhood that had a blip on the radar.
I trimmed out the grey this morning. It looks okay. Julie Ann does a good job on the hair. Two weeks before the next trim. Shampoo, a little conditioner, maybe Elia will have my neck over the bowl, rub my temples, Julie Ann taking her three-hundred dollar scissors across the top, along the sides, carefully around the ears, nice and short, little feathering around the bald spot on the crown. Nice. Check the brows next week for those little stragglers. Listen to the lawnmowers and the weed whackers and leaf blowers on Monday and Tuesday, all the machines and tools for cutting and trimming the unwanted. A scalpel going in to Roy’s eye to pull it out. A silent scream. And then what will the neighborhood look like?

5.26.2009

MILEAGE

Mileage, I call it. When you're surprised by what you hear, where you hear it, what you see and where. . .the signposts of life, the hawk flying close along next to you when you drive, veering up and off to a perch with a nod, letting you know he's there and guiding you along. We all have the 'moments' when things click, go straight down smooth track like ball-bearings on oiled rails, when someone's lovely eyes pierce through a smoky room and land on yours, and she doesn't look away.
When you hear Miles Davis in a store, in a little corner among the hip hop beats and the reggae jams that patter around the jeans and the Sketchers and larger-than-live cutout underwear models in black and white that are, well, embarassing, there's Miles, and pianist Red Garland doing Ahmad's Blues, largely a looping noirish-piano tune (actually, no Miles at all on this cut, from 'Workin' With The Miles Davis Quintet, 1956 on Prestige) that is unmistakable. So I stopped in the middle of the Alfani 'hip' section, smooth cotton t-shirts at half price, silk bowling shirts and wanna-be Tommy Bahama look-alikes, and truly, hip-hop and Reggae tunes coming down just an aisle or two away, but there they were, from a speaker or two, Red, jammin' it on the ivory, I mean really doin' it, right there in Macy's and before I could break out the American Express card and make a fool of myself buying every damn black T and scruffed-faded jeans and bowling shirts and calling to make an appointment to have my hair frosted, I just listened, to the American musical hero's quintet. Miles at Macy's. Last time I heard Miles in a store it was Barnes and Noble, and they sell Miles, of course, so no real Mileage there. But Macy's? Montclair Plaza? Come on, now, that's real, baby, Miles is the real deal, among the men's fragrances and bright blue dress shirts with electric blue ties, hell, I couldn't even FIND the Ralph Lauren Polo section--I think it's gone, and those shirts fit so good--but Red was getting down, romping 1956-STYLE, I mean Prestige baby, in Macy's. . .eleven thirty AM after plugging the Writer's Cafe event I'm co-hosting at the Epicenter in Rancho with twelve hugely successful LA Noir mystery and baseball writers, after hooking up for coffee with one of the beautiful ladies from the Q's staff I ran into when I picked up some posters, I end up at Macy's, the quintessential American store, with the great American jazzman of the 'cool', the Miles Man, for a little extra mileage. It was fine..it was fine..

4.18.2009

SIX TAMALES

I bought six tamales from Gloria in the parking lot at Stater Brothers when I was folding t-shirts in the laundromat, then ate them at home in the kitchen.
La esposa de Gloria came in to the laundry and said want to buy some tamales? and I said, Gloria? and he said yes. Six for seven dollars, chicken, pork, beef’.
Yes, I said, six, please. Three pork, three beef. Diez minutos, I said, pointing to the parking lot.
I zipped the big army duffel full of socks and t-shirts and shorts, neatly folded, and walked into the sunshine. He followed me to the car, handed me a brown bag with warm tamales, big bronze hands crusted and knotty with two gold rings on his fingers.
Su esposa, una buena cocinera? I said. Yeah, he said. I had her card from before but I never bought them.
I ate two pork tamales, warm, soft, wrapped in banana leaves and thin paper. They were delicious. Rich flavor of roasted pork and not too spicy. I will buy more.
Gloria works the parking lots of the markets on weekends with la esposa. She takes phone orders. I will order more from now on. She will survive because she is a good cook and she works an honest trade. People will buy from people who are honest and work hard.
Patrick, he is a craftsman, he tells me, standing in the small courtyard-driveway between the front and back houses. He lives on the ground floor. He pulls out a tile saw and tools from the shed that hangs over the front of his downstairs flat. He has a weeks worth of gray beard and cheap wraparound silver-framed sunglasse, a red ball cap. He does home repairs, carpentry, tile, cabinetry. I ask him about doing some tile work in my kitchen, maybe installing a sink. He can do that, he says.
It has to be in Claremont, he says. I made a commitment to the environment, so I don’t own a car.
How do you get materials to the house? I ask.
I have them delivered. He has it worked out. He likes to walk, he says.
I buy groceries at the farmers market. It is a few blocks away on Sundays.
I like to stride out, he says. Sometimes people offer to give me a ride. I won’t even get in a car, he says.
I introduce myself and he shakes hands with a strong firm grip common to craftsmen. It is their signature, I think, the way men who work with tools shake hands. It is a signal, I am thinking, that the hands are the important part of their body, of their craft, and shaking hands is a way to communicate trust, integrity. The hands don’t often lie, I think.
He says my name and smiles. We talk about the downtown area, how it feels to walk through town and see the old homes and people who live there, in large craftsman homes, smaller back apartments, one-room add-ons, all kinds of people, I say. We shake hands again, to seal our new relationship, and he says my name again, as if he’ll remember it by saying it out loud.
David is huge and cuts meat at the market where I shop, thick tattooed arms holding little Angelo as he opens the door with the baseball game playing on the television. He lives in a small bad apartment in a unit that is not well kept up. The driveway is gravel and the door jambs are cracked. David says the game on television is the Dodgers’ opening game. They play the Giants, and he says the San Francisco team has a pitcher from Claremont on the mound. I see the pitcher on television a day or two later, his cap pulled down low over intense eyes, straight brim, knee socks and a high leg kick. David is an Angel’s fan, he says.
That’s my team, he tells me. Named my son Angelo. I tell him I shop at his market and we talk about the new refrigerator cases they installed over the winter in one night. I had come from the gym around eleven o’clock when they were ready to close the store and trucks were parked at every angle close to the store and the workers were tearing the old meat cases out. One night they said, it’ll all be installed when by the time you come in to the store.
David works there, he says, two swing shifts, the rest day shifts. His heavy brown arms are laced with blue and black ink. He wears a thin-sleeveless t-shirt. I will give him tickets to the minor league baseball park where I work part time. I have promises now for several people who like to go east to watch baseball, in the small ballpark in the warm evenings with the breeze blowing and the big red-tail hawk doing fly-bys showing his broad wings in the waning sunlight on his way to the top of the left-field light stanchion where he lives for free. Angelo pushes off on his scooter in front of me, twists and falls and rolls perfectly on his side and he jumps up, unhurt, taking the scooter’s handle. Nice fall, I said. Really good.
Later in the afternoon I am back on Patrick’s street, on the other side. My feet are tired, my ankle aches. I see Patrick on the other side of the street holding a glass. We wave. He calls out my name. I crossed the street and Patrick holds out his hand for the firm grip. He wears the silver-framed sunglasses but I can tell his eyes are shining, he is smiling, and he tells me that Ted is next door getting out of his car. I should introduce myself, to Ted, Patrick says. I am getting close to the end of my day, I say.
Go meet Ted, Patrick says.
Ted has a wide smile and says that if Patrick likes you he’ll open up and talk, but otherwise, no, he says. Ted is nice but I feel that Ted talks to everybody. It is more interesting, I think, to talk with Patrick, who lives alone in the downstairs flat with the overhanging shed with the tools, who’s figured out who he is and how he wants to live and is good at it. I have his card. I will car him for repairs and carpentry and I’m already thinking it’s about time to fix my patio so I can use it. It will be warm soon and nice to sit out in the back and have cold iced drinks.

4.17.2009

SUMMER JOB AT THE EPICENTER

I start my summer job tonight, ushering at the Epicenter for the Rancho Cucamonga Quakes. In addition to walking the streets canvassing addresses and map listings for the US Census, the Quakes is a great gig for a few months mostly helping fans have a great ballpark experience.
Rancho Cucamonga plays in the California League, a ‘high A’ level professional minor league franchise affiliated with the Los Angeles Angels (of Anaheim).
Minor league baseball is alive and well and value-priced, giving fans an intimate view of the game in a comfortable, clean, safe and well managed park with great food and friendly competent staff. I can’t tell you how many fans said to me ‘what a great experience, great ballpark, what baseball is supposed to be like.’ It’s like hometown baseball, one fan told me.
Wooden bats, real grass cut short, soft summer breeze to cool down the stadium, great food, real smoke wafting from out of the grills in the café concession stands, good baseball where you see players before they migrate up the professional ranks and you do see some major leaguers on rehab assignments coming off injuries. Plenty of foul balls, between inning fun, great mascots in Tremor and AfterShock who are always moving about the park trailed by a gaggle of kids wanting hugs photos and autographs. Players sign autographs before and after the game, fireworks on most Friday nights.
Check it out, either in person or on KSPA radio 1510 with announcer Jeff Levering.
Anybody coming out to the park and mentioning to me that they read this blog, I’ll buy you a hot dog!
See you at game time!
Monday through Thursday, 7:05 PM, Friday nights 7:35, Saturdays at 7:05 and Sunday’s 5:05 PM or 2:05PM. Check http://web.minorleaguebaseball.com/index.jsp?sid=t526 for details.

POMONA-PITZER INVITATIONAL

I walked on to the Pomona-Pitzer Track and Field Invitational a couple of Saturday’s ago. Nice casual meet with a ton of college athletes from schools like Occidental, Redlands, UCI, UCR, Fresno State, Southern Utah (Cedar City in SW Utah), schools where academics are first and sports a serious but more casual second. Very nice atmosphere, NO bleacher seating, only lounging in the grass. No great times. I think the winning 4/100M relay time in the top flight was 41.something. No Husein Bolt-like times. A few cute girls in the high jump. Where were they when we were in school?
Oh yeah, couple of girls were wearing t-shirts saying ‘East Bay’ and I was going to make contact and inquire where they were from when I realized, that’s the old Cal State Hayward. It was sunny, not too warm, not exactly the Kennedy Games of the Mt Sac Relays (this weekend but I’m gassed from walking and I do the ballpark gig tonight and Sat) but it was pretty cool seeing that many track athletes gathered together and NOT be at some super-meet with tons of sponsor money and stuff. Not as much speed, but hey, you get what you pay for. I walked in and sat down..

3.28.2009

LIGHTS OUT AND SUGAR SHANE

I was sitting in La Verne having lunch, fifty yards from the gym where I work out, the same gym where ‘Sugar’ Shane Mosley is said to show up before fights to shake hands and remind people he’s from here but I’ve never seen him. Not in there.
I was thinking about
‘Lights Out’ James Toney. He sat right behind me at the Nokia Theater last night for the Sam Peter-Eddie Chambers fight, and he looked magnificent.
Somebody yelled ‘Lights Out’, I heard a reply, and I turned around. The Champ was within reach. I gave him a fist bump.
“You’re watching your weight,” I said, acknowledging the career-long battle with size.
“Trying to,” he said.
“You look great,” I said, slapping him on his knee. He nodded. Everybody noticed.
‘Looking good, champ’, ‘Hey, you look beautiful, man’, ‘What’chu been up to?’, fighters and fans passing by on the aisle. He’d stand, give hugs, pose for photos, shaking hands with those big meaty fists he’s used to punish fighters his whole career, laser-sighted missiles those hands, as accurate and deadly as any in the sport.
“You got anything coming up?” I said.
“We’re working on something,” Toney said. Even at his age, nobody is real eager to fight Toney, one of the smartest and slickest boxer-punchers of his generation.
Forty years old now, he sounded eager to fight. Calling out fighters to friends and acquaintances moving down the aisle. ‘Tell him to give me a call, he’s too scared to fight me,’ and it went on like that all night.
I turned to talk to his beautiful wife Angie, telling her how much everyone loved James, and she smiled. Got his weight under control it looks like, I said, and she said yeah, we’re working on it.
He battled weight his entire career. Often I’d see him at the Hamburger Hamlet in Sherman Oaks with his group. He fought between 156 and 168 pounds for six years until he had trouble making weight for Roy Jones Jr. and looked worn out. He moved up in weight. He fought as high as heavyweight, winning the IBA Heavyweight title beating John Ruiz, weighing in at 241 pounds.
He tested positive for a performance enhancing substance after the Hasim Rahman fight and was stripped of his title. It was disputed when his promoter Dan Goossen explained it was a consequence of an inflammation suffered as a result of surgery on muscle tissue in his arm.
“225,” he said to me, about his weight last night. He looked shaped.
“How long will you continue to fight?” I asked. “You look like you’ve never been hit.”
Toney whipped off the amber colored glasses to show his face, framed by two big diamond stud earrings, clear eyes pointed at me in that fierce ‘Lights Out’ stare, but that broke down when I stared back. We both laughed.
“He’ll fight until he gets knocked out,” a guy said sitting next to him.
“He’s never been knocked out,” I said. The guy nodded.
The only thing James Toney was missing was a natural weight class. Fighters starting out at 155 and ending up at 240 over a span of 20 years can’t seem to find a natural ‘walking around’ weight, the weight the body assumes with the natural exercise of an athlete, without the rigorous boxing regimen. Toney went up and down with his famous hamburger diet. But his skills never eroded.
Sugar Shane was always in shape and fought a brilliant career, his most recent win over Antonio Margarito a masterpiece. His career is tainted by a steroid charge, one initially disputed then admitted to by the quick-handed champ. Impressive wins over Oscar De La Hoya, disappointing back-to-back losses against Vernon Forrest, Mosley will be remembered as a great champion, a Southern California fighter who rose to the top of the game. I’d met him, too, once, at a garage where we both had our cars serviced. I asked him a flattering question about the De La Hoya fight and he answered in dead pan. It was just me, no big audience to play for. Sometimes you see and learn more about a man in that intimate setting. I don’t know.
For me, ‘Lights Out’ is a people’s champ. The people showed it last night. And he showed it to me.
“You still fight at Goossen’s,” I asked.
“I train at 360 up in Reseda,” he said. “Come over, check it out.”
The guy who’d given a great version of the National Anthem in the pre-fight ceremonies was sitting next to me. We’d been talking the whole night.
“I handle his website marketing,” he said, pointing at Toney. “T-shirts, signed photos. Bobble-head dolls.”
“Bobble heads?” I repeated.
“Check it out,” he said, and gave me the www.jamestoney.com address.
They’re out of bobble heads. The T-shirts look good. I’ll order a couple. Have him sign them when I show up at his gym. They might be valuable. Signed shirt, one of the oldest world champions in boxing history. Could happen. Keeps doing whatever it is that got him to looking at forty what he looked like last night?
Could happen.
Future Boxing Hall of Fame member. People’s Champ.
It’s all I need.

3.27.2009

'TAKE OFF MY SHOES?'

She was indignant. She frowned at me. “Why”, she said, “should I take off my shoes at an airport?” The discussion at my favorite downtown coffee house was going south. They were all looking at me. I was holding on to patriotic notions that airport security should do its best to prevent further attacks like 9/11. I don’t know, sounded like a good idea to me.
She was an Episcopal Priest. Her friend next to her was a former clergyman. I was surrounded with no where to hide. The best and the brightest, in front of me, grilling me on not just the unconstitutionality of the Patriotic Act, enacted by that ‘idiot’ (their words) George Bush and his henchmen, but it was the sheer inconvenience, she was saying, of having to stand in a line and remover her shoes. I looked under the table. Ordinary flats worn by thousands of middle aged women. No specially anointed brand that I could see, no insignia or label that gave them ‘Divine Right’ or anything like that.
“I don’t want to have to remove my shoes at the airport.” The indignity. Not to mention the ability to listen in on phone conversations and watch internet conversations (as technology permits) to protect us from the terror within. Tap phone calls without a judge issuing a warrant? The coffee house crowd deemed that not only potentially unconstitutional, but un-American. An innocent person could get rounded up! ‘I’m shocked, shocked’, and you know the rest of that famous conversation at another infamous Hollywood-made gathering post.
That was the Patriot Act debate, three years or so ago, and now I’ll be anxious to see the reaction to the new idea floated by Treasury Secretary Geithner, that should businesses display ‘unsound’ financial stability, the government ‘could dismantle (italics mine) companies whose failure threatens the nation's financial stability’. And she was outraged at having to remove her shoes in the name of national security? How are they gonna feel when their company gets padlocked when the government feels they’re threatening national ‘financial security’. Is there a difference?
Slap a retro-bonus tax on overpaid execs, issue union cards to the shop crews and lean on workers to sign up for the ‘union’ without the company having a say (management training routinely tells you that if your shop has a union organizing effort underway, you probably deserve to have your workforce represented), and now Geithner, who issued billions to AIG knowing they were paying execs millions in bonus’, wants the government to step in and, I love this word, ‘dismantle’ companies that threaten national financial security. It’s okay to shutter a business if they’re over the line with bonus’ or toxic loans, but whoa to the poor security guy at the airport with a wand and a metal detector suggesting we all remove our shoes so bad guys can’t fly planes into crowded buildings.
We should all be outraged at the pathetic performance of some of our most revered financial institutions. Some of us took out loans we couldn’t pay, whether for our primary residences or for that ‘second’ note to buy the boat or the timeshare. We know who we are. And I’m not qualified nor do I want to try and compare 911 with the economic meltdown.
What I am here to do is point out the frightening similarities of the national reaction. And, to some degree, the initial reaction of the American public. Post 911, it was all about getting the bad guys. George W stood at ground zero with a bullhorn and we knew he was right. Seven years later he was all but thrown out of the White House.
Post financial meltdown, Obama was swept (by a surprisingly narrow margin, in my opinion) in to the White House and is now leading a series of sweeping reforms. Yes, get the economy back on its feet. My doubts are strong about nationalizing healthcare insurance, but let’s create jobs and get our home loans back on track.
But this back-end ‘let’s go after the financial bad guys’ will bite Barack. It will bite us all. Regulation? Yes. Sound fiscal controls for both Wall Street and the US Government? Absolutely. Taking over financial institutions, ‘dismantling’ them when they show sounds of instability? Let’s wait on that one. True, we haven’t suffered a post-911 911, so I’m okay, and was okay, with the Patriot Act. Soldier on, I say. Take a similar watchdog approach against Wall Street with the power to dismantle, potentially nationalize crippled financial institutions? Careful. You fought the Patriot Act when you thought it too stringent and without proper controls to tether zealous federal agents listening in on phone calls. I want the same careful scrutiny from those that fought the ‘indignity’ about removing her shoes to be applied to the government's ability to take over struggling financial institutions. American’s can’t expect Wall Street to cozy up to financial bailout plans and go along with this idea that the government will take them down if they make a bad loan or write off some debt. GM and Ford have been doing that for years.
If you fought against the Patriot Act under the notion that it gives government too much power, apply the same principled scrutiny to Geithner’s ‘dismantling’ concept.
And try not to talk out of both sides of your mouth.

3.15.2009

BANNING

“It’s ‘old school,’ Detective Doug Monte said about his town. Banning, California. I’d stopped to get water on my way up the mountain to Idyllwild, behind Palm Springs. Up the street from the convenience store, kids wearing blue and gold t-shirts waved and shouted free car wash. My Jeep needed a scrub.
In an open lot on San Gorgonio Avenue behind an old school, dozens more kids, all ages, boys, girls and adults, pointed to a coned-off area, motioned me to a stop. Something was alive in Banning this Saturday morning. Enthusiasm ruled.
I dropped off ten dollars and talked to a woman who explained the event. Police Athletic League. It’s where the kids hang out. The Chief is around somewhere.
Her husband, Detective Doug Monte was in charge today. T-shirt, I asked? No problem, Doug said.
The old part of downtown Banning has a few blocks, a furniture store, an independent market, an art gallery in an old house, a café or two, schools. I stopped sometimes for gas in Banning back up the freeway on my way to Palm Desert or Joshua Tree. Today I found more. The Police Athletic League kids lined San Gorgonio Avenue waving hand-painted signs.
About thirty thousand people live in Banning, Doug said. Old school, he said again. The gym here, he pointed to the beautiful structure with high windows, beams latticed inside the glass way up top, built in 1929. Yeah, still has games every week. School teams, they play there.
Well maintained, a good coat of paint, the kind of gyms that smell like they’ve been used, survived an overtime game or two, all wood, aged, the sound of the ball on hardwood that echoes on an empty floor with sun streaming in, casting shadows from the high beams. Roaring with cheering and screaming when the winning bucket falls in.
That’s not old school, I thought. That’s Main Street USA.
Spent thirteen years in the sheriff department, Doug said. A hundred and twenty kids play soccer on the field back up there. He pointed to the northwest. In addition to the dozens holding signs and spraying water and lathering my Jeep and the other cars lined up in the shade, more kids were playing soccer on this Saturday.
Doug shouted instructions to kids holding rags and buckets and spray nozzles, smiling, nodding his head. Building trust. The kind of guy a kid could go to in a time of trouble or need, someone who was willing to talk with a complete stranger about his town, talk about 'old school' and a wooden gym and a soccer field with over a hundred kids, blue and gold t-shirts.
He gave me a t-shirt. ‘Banning Police Athletics League; Making a Difference One Kid At A Time’. I believe it. Something’s going on in Banning.
We’re here every Saturday, Doug said.

3.06.2009

TRONA LIGHTS

Last night it was dark in the Panamint Valley west of Death Valley, the two nether-world stretches of folded earth that time has to catch up with.

I drove through the Panamint with a car behind me. I was glad it was behind me. It was forty miles to Trona. Twenty more to Ridgecrest.

I turned south onto 178, the truck not far behind. It was flat, I’d remembered. Sixty miles per hour steady, the truck tracking me from a hundred yards back, not crowding me. Sixty-five miles per hour, high beams on, rough road. After several miles my Jeep started to slow and I added some gas to keep my speed. I could tell from the speedometer and the tachometer that I was going up hill. I had no sensation of up or down. Black on black, headlights disappearing just beyond reach.

I felt the Jeep struggling to keep my speed and lights behind me were coming up. I kept my speed, lights reaching ahead to the yellow reflective arrows pointing left, left LEFT and a curve came fast. I braked and turned, swerved and fought the steering wheel, slowing to thirty five.

In the curves now, walls of clay and rock flash by, the lights behind me shining through the edges of little bridges across the draws I must have been driving over on the edge of this desolate valley, the lattice patterns of the bridge rails flashing and tilting from the lights behind me.

Reflective arrows pointed right, right RIGHT and I slowed this time. The walls of the canyon were on me, and the lights behind me played on the rock and scrub brush. I felt the Jeep downshift through the turns, left, right, left right, tight, around the bend, lights behind me throwing patterns on the wall in front of me, reflectors pointing left, right.

I came out of the turns, felt the Jeep still pulling, looked at the tach and speedometer to gauge the vehicles ascent or descent, all sensation of up and down gone, the only sign the tach and speedo to tell me which way the Jeep was heading.

The road flattened out. I could see the tach slowing down under two thousand RPM’s and the speedometer moving above sixty, sixty two, sixty three miles per hour. The road was straight. The headlights were on full, high beams with fog lamps underneath if I dimmed them, but there were no cars. Just a light in the distance. Maybe an approaching car, maybe a motorcycle. Far away, too far to know.

The light was twinkling like a star. Maybe a safety light, a warning for a curve, highway work being done. I headed into the dark night, watching the light. For a moment it seemed like the light was just ahead, coming towards me like a car, moving out of the dark edge of night. No, it was far away. Maybe a light in front of a motel, a sign to turn off, a warm bed and a meal and a shower. The light was so far in the distance, even after watching it for two, three minutes. All the lights I could see; my dashboard, tach and speedometer and the blue ‘high beam’ indicator and the green ‘fog light’ indicator and the light of my headlights and the light behind me and the light ahead of me, I questioned them all. None seemed to be right. My headlights had no reach, the brightest light I had and it fell short of telling me anything. The tach and speedometer were showing I was moving up, down, the shadowed light from the vehicle behind me on the curves throwing ladders of shadow and dim light on the walls of the canyon, and this bright spectre winking at me coming at me down the road, but holding its ground.

I wanted this light in front of me to show itself.

Identify yourself in this midnight valley. Who goes there?

Three minutes, four minutes, what vehicle lights would be visible for three, four minutes, without showing itself as two headlights coming down the road rushing past me? I looked in my mirror for the headlights of the vehicle behind me and there seemed to be another vehicle behind him, another pair of headlights. I looked back to the road in front of me. Still there, moving toward me, the light seemed to be coming down a grade, the strange winking light. I’d been watching it for four minutes or so. In my mirror the vehicle behind me gave space.

There were two lights in front of me. It was a car, a truck, not a motorcycle. It had been in my vision for over four minutes. Four minutes or five minutes. A pinhole of light in the desert of night, Venus coming at me on the horizon. I could not tell the difference. The vehicle speeded past me, two headlights out of the dark. Then they were gone. I drove on. Trona was coming up, its lights steady and distinct, the old plant on the edge of town, I could see it a few miles away. I’d make it.

In Trona I came up on a black Mustang convertible going twenty miles an hour, no more than thirty through town. For five miles I followed him. This driver knew his way home, all the way to Ridgecrest. The truck followed me. The Mustang weaved and hobbled like an old pony with a bad leg, but he knew the way.

I’d come through the dark desert highway. I could go forty, forty five, fifty through the dark, down in to Ridgecrest behind this old pilot. He could be my tugboat captain.

I turned in at McDonalds and ate in front of a family of large people. Their young children were respectful and delighted to sit with their big mom and dad. I heard the girl calling ‘Mom, Mom, come look at this’ and I knew she was happy.

WOLFE'S

He is a big man, too big, and I heard him talk about surgery.
I thought it was a good price, I hear him say, then I eat my sandwich, my mind drifting to writing, sun shine after rain, cars coming in and out of the driveway.
I talked to him.
He is young, friendly, sitting at a small table outside.
‘Market’s been here since the early 1900’s’, he says.
‘Heard it was going to change’ I say. ‘Take out some of the grocery aisles and make it a gourmet market, deli, counters with meat and salads, and not compete with big chains that bring oranges in from South Africa’.
‘But they didn’t’, he says. ‘They talked about it. People have been coming here thirty, forty, fifty years’, he says, ‘they talked to the owner, wrote letters, said they didn’t want the market to change. They know where everything is’.
‘I’ve been coming here for twenty years’, I say. ‘Used to bring Dad here and get sandwiches’. He liked coming here. Reminded him of an old time market, I think.
‘I like the meat counter, the deli sandwiches’, I say. ‘Good quality, good price, everybody’s friendly’.
I have cravings. Corned beef. Brunkhorst’s Boar’s Head beef bologna with American cheese. Nothing else will do.
‘Business is pretty good still’, he says. ‘Economy hasn’t hurt too much. Lots of people only shop here’.
Lot of BMW’s. Couple of Prius’. My Jeep Grand Cherokee. Delivery trucks with breads and produce and a few men walking in and out carrying small bags.
The birds will come back to the small bare trees when they blossom in a few weeks. That’s when I like it. Outside, with a corned beef sandwich. And the birds.

2.24.2009

VOICES


I was a boy when I asked my mother about people talking when no one was around. Park benches, sidewalks in San Francisco, heads down, busy talking.
They’re not well, she said.
Things are sticking in their ears now.
‘Yogurt’s on sale, ten for seven dollars.’
Looking at pieces of paper, talking loud in front of the canned beans.
‘Barbecue or ranch?’
Paying money to stick things in their ears.
‘Chicken or fish?'
'How’s Kenny doing?'
'Where are you?'
'What are you doing?'
Pound weights and pump machines at the gym.
'What are you doing? Overnight it? Be there tomorrow.'
When I was a boy, people talking with no one around scared me.
I think I will go across the street and talk with Raoul who is raking leaves in front of his house.
He’s wearing a NY Yankees t-shirt and he shakes my hand.

2.17.2009

FOUR WOMEN

A woman in a big blue smock on her phone blonde hair short,
waves and starts across.
A woman in a fuchsia blouse from the other direction.
She stops. Blue smock and blonde hair short, stops
They’re in the middle of the crosswalk
They smile
They embrace
They chat
The light is red.

Two women in black, black, black, black shirts hair, pants, all black,
They wave.
They walk.
They come to the woman in fuchsia.
They smile.
They hug. They all hug.
Me Too, Me Too,
They keep walking. The woman in fuchsia to the left.
Black, black, black to the right.
The light is red. I sit in the car.
Me, Too, Me Too.
I think about it.
The light is green.

AROUND THE PARK

I walked around the park today,
Near a place I used to work.
I walked on grass, softball fields,
Boys and girls kicking soccer balls,
On grass, on cinder path, men and dogs,
Cocker Spaniel dogs and larger dogs.
Earphones all plugged in.

Softball fields were smooth like someone cared
Near a place I used to work.
The fields were scraped clean and even,
Little footprints first to third,
Ready for action,
With lumpy tufted grass.

Woman walking in green scrubs,
Large man to small boy, ‘What are you doing?
‘Small boy stuff’,
Woman running, pounding her best,
Two men in their language,
Clouds get grey in late afternoon
While people fight theirs.

Everyone I needed to see,
Women,
Men,
Young,
Old,
Animals and cars going
In, out
All there,
Near a place I used to work.
I worked today.
Someday,
I can say.

1.18.2009

HANDS SHAKING

Mort Sahl was sitting in Starbucks
I held out my hand and he shook mine,
The handshake that men of a certain age do,
The hand you want to hold on to for ever,
The hand that you think, if you did, would lead you places, teach you things,
Hold- on-to-those-hands-for-the-rest-of-your-life kinds of hands,
Soft, firm.

Hands-that-have-done-things-hands and know how to shake another man’s hands without making him seem unimportant,
too important,
trying to get over on you,
insult you,
intimidate you,
overpower you.
Not too firm,
Not too limp,
Just-right-hands,
Trustworthy hands,
Believable hands,
Good hands. Mort Sahl’s hands.

Men of a certain age,
Men who look like twenty-five year olds in older men’s skin,
Like they could zip down and step out and go one-on-one,
Firm, still in shape,
Bodies of men who take care of themselves,
Make them last and
Make them count because it’s the only one we get and they want to go the distance.
Firm hands and steady eyes that light up with twinkle and energy,
Eyes that know things, could tell you things, could lead you to secrets and wisdom.
Eyes that see.
Hands that know,
Hands that read you,
Hands that aren’t afraid to hold another man’s hand, feel him, touch him, let-him-know-he-understands kinds of hands.
My hands were shaking, and then I was shaking hands.
The way I want to shake another man’s hands.
If I know anything.

1.13.2009

OLD SCHOOL

Sign of the times? The new radio ‘ad’ for the Sugar Shane Moseley – Antonio Margarito fight Jan 24 at Staples; ‘Due to the unbelievably high demand for tickets, we’ve made additional seats available, at the low, low, price of only twenty dollars!’
Read; ‘we ain’t sellin’ no seats, dudes, come on down, get ‘em while they’re cheap’
These two fighters are outstanding, and have both shown abilities to excite crowds, take on fights as underdogs and win, and show the highest levels of courage and skill under extreme pressure.
Shane beat Oscar De La Hoya twice, Margarito wore down Miguel Cotto in a very entertaining fight this past summer. He didn't just beat Cotto, he mugged him in the alley. Nobody wants to fight Margarito because he’s just too tough. Shane is past his prime and is accused of using ‘juice’.
Is Oscar through? Probably. After what I reluctantly call an embarrassing fight loss against Manny Pacquiao, Oscar only needs to go to the counting house, stack up the coin, continue promoting fights for the good of the sport along with ‘good guys’ Goosen Tutor and be the bright face for the sport of boxing.
I’ll be checking out the talent and talking with John Bray at Fortune’s next week. John is training a team on The
Contender and trains fighters and helps kids with his youth clinics and boxing exhibitions through the John Bray Foundation. Fortunes is a 50’s style gym in Hollywood. Might have to pull on the Everlast hoodie, take the train and hustle on in there.
Don't give up on boxing. We'll see how the economic conditions treat the newcomers to the fighting sports. Me? I see a return to brick, skylight and ceiling fans, the thump-thump of speed bags and the crunch of hard abs and the pain, man, the pain. Recession/Depression brings out the old school. Protect yourself at all times.