This is a fictionalized account. All resemblances to real individuals and situations are merely coincidental.
Notes from today's meeting:
Maya leans toward Meadow- who is dressed in red shoes, red belt ( as if we don't know anything about gang affiliation when we see it)- on the corner in front of the PACT, a shelter for homeless youth.
"My roomate has got a dick..." says Meadow in a low voice, "and I can't stand her."
Turns out, Meadow's talking about Kye, a tranny from Pennsylvania, who showed up at the PACT, and into our "leadership group" one week ago.
So, when Today's discussion on the demographics of homeless youth in Hollywood begins, Meadow gets up, and walks out after Kye takes over the discussion, leaving an unsigned contract on the table.
It's not resolvable, says Simon, the PACT clinical director, who says,"we place clients in housing according to their self-identification, so even if Kye is biologically male, she's going to be placed in a woman's dorm room, with a female room mate."
"There just aren't any other rooms available...and imagine if we just let people change rooms for whatever reason they wanted to...this place would be chaos," continues Simon.
It's another in the litany of reasons for lack of cohesion, lack of follow through in our group. The task of putting together a speaker's bureau of homeless youth, with a long term goal of creating a council to ponder policy issues is looking a bit dubious today.
Now, we're in week 7, and at a point where there should be camraderie, some group dynamic, some trust, but every week there are these reasons.
Today's include Meadow's, but Kareem is also MIA. Apparently, he's in Lancaster, meeting a newborn child that's his.Funny, I thought he was having a kid with Meadow, who three weeks ago said SHE was pregnant, but that it was time for her and Kareem to go separate ways- "I just don't see him being a good long term partner," she said.
As we move past Meadow's absence, a discussion of education and homelessness takes place.
Kye was in five high schools.
"Do we count schools we went to while locked up?" asks Pepe, knee high white socks up to his plaid shorts.
"Of course," I answer.
"OK," he says,....."Then, 6."
"And how about you DJ?" I ask an African-American man, who is as close to lying down as possible in his chair as one can be while still sitting.
"Me?...I was in 5."
Monday, December 13, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Cheyenne
Austin, Texas, is the nectar in the sun flower of Texas. And Cheyenne is the sweet kernal of pollen that flew from its petals, blown by westward winds across the stoned and sun blasted South West, and into the industrial basin of Los Angeles.
18, and LA was the place to be. A bit of California Dreaming. But she didn't come here to "make it big," the way that Hollywood has become a cliche for migrating 18 year olds.
During her three months she wove an elaborate existential web, equally laden with the questions of career, goals, love, nature, health, work, family.
Perils followed: she braved Glendale drivers to and from work on a bike. She was woken in the morning by enterprising 2 year olds curious about the young woman sleeping in their living room. She endured limited privacy, shared bathrooms. There was an inept, but very real attempted murder in the home above her. She almost, but not quite, witnessed her cousin slip from the edge of a cliff.
Successes followed: She made three kinds of business cards, one for film making, one as a nanny, and the last as a city planner. She found work in all three fields. She began a documentary film about women's empowerment. She had her fair share of celebrity sightings too, a Glee actress, and Michael Cerra, amongst others. She began blogging. She volunteered for the Los Angeles County Commission on Human Relations. She taught a two year old girl to say please and thank you, and was in the process of teaching the same two year old that sometimes she'd just have to wear a certain dress, no matter what. She became a god mother.
There was a trip to New York City, and Washington DC. There were hikes to hot springs, red rock formations, and hidden beaches in Malibu.
She discovered how to find $400 dollar dresses for $8, and re-made an entire wardrobe in 4 months.
Essentially, she stuffed her college admission applications.
And of course there were the relationships she built, becoming close to everyone she lived with.
And most importantly, she was, she wrote in a "good bye, see ya soon letter," happy. So she wants to come back.
For me, nearing age 40, and having left behind the moment of being 18 years of age nearly two decades ago, it was fascinating for me to see this daily excercise in self defintion up close. The longing for freedom, the intoxication and anxiety for an unknown future, the coming judgement of college admission committees, the search for permanence in her relations, while building new, professional ones, the balance of attaining personal hapiness while much of life was not yet in one's control. So much driven by optimism, hope, and dreams originating in childhood that nonetheless serve as life's rudder even at age 40.
It's ironic that at 40, I would develop the tenacity with which an 18 year old could conquer the world, and that the 18 year old has the ease of learning and the creative flexibility with which a 40 year old could conquer their world.
Done right, the strengths could come together to produce inspirational experiences. Coach and Player. Supervisor and Staff. Professor and Student.
Of course, Cheyenne did not come here to be MY student, and in fact, came here to leave formal education altogether for a year. But lessons are learned, truths are found in many surprising ways, often by experience, or by osmosis, and it was in this ocean of serendipity that we dipped, together, during her time here.
Next year?
She's going to get into a school, get a car to drive around, finish her documentary film, and hopefully, get her own room.
Lots to look forward to, for all of us who have been touched by her sweet, intelligent approach to life.
Miss ya cousin!
Your adoring family in LA!
18, and LA was the place to be. A bit of California Dreaming. But she didn't come here to "make it big," the way that Hollywood has become a cliche for migrating 18 year olds.
During her three months she wove an elaborate existential web, equally laden with the questions of career, goals, love, nature, health, work, family.
Perils followed: she braved Glendale drivers to and from work on a bike. She was woken in the morning by enterprising 2 year olds curious about the young woman sleeping in their living room. She endured limited privacy, shared bathrooms. There was an inept, but very real attempted murder in the home above her. She almost, but not quite, witnessed her cousin slip from the edge of a cliff.
Successes followed: She made three kinds of business cards, one for film making, one as a nanny, and the last as a city planner. She found work in all three fields. She began a documentary film about women's empowerment. She had her fair share of celebrity sightings too, a Glee actress, and Michael Cerra, amongst others. She began blogging. She volunteered for the Los Angeles County Commission on Human Relations. She taught a two year old girl to say please and thank you, and was in the process of teaching the same two year old that sometimes she'd just have to wear a certain dress, no matter what. She became a god mother.
There was a trip to New York City, and Washington DC. There were hikes to hot springs, red rock formations, and hidden beaches in Malibu.
She discovered how to find $400 dollar dresses for $8, and re-made an entire wardrobe in 4 months.
Essentially, she stuffed her college admission applications.
And of course there were the relationships she built, becoming close to everyone she lived with.
And most importantly, she was, she wrote in a "good bye, see ya soon letter," happy. So she wants to come back.
For me, nearing age 40, and having left behind the moment of being 18 years of age nearly two decades ago, it was fascinating for me to see this daily excercise in self defintion up close. The longing for freedom, the intoxication and anxiety for an unknown future, the coming judgement of college admission committees, the search for permanence in her relations, while building new, professional ones, the balance of attaining personal hapiness while much of life was not yet in one's control. So much driven by optimism, hope, and dreams originating in childhood that nonetheless serve as life's rudder even at age 40.
It's ironic that at 40, I would develop the tenacity with which an 18 year old could conquer the world, and that the 18 year old has the ease of learning and the creative flexibility with which a 40 year old could conquer their world.
Done right, the strengths could come together to produce inspirational experiences. Coach and Player. Supervisor and Staff. Professor and Student.
Of course, Cheyenne did not come here to be MY student, and in fact, came here to leave formal education altogether for a year. But lessons are learned, truths are found in many surprising ways, often by experience, or by osmosis, and it was in this ocean of serendipity that we dipped, together, during her time here.
Next year?
She's going to get into a school, get a car to drive around, finish her documentary film, and hopefully, get her own room.
Lots to look forward to, for all of us who have been touched by her sweet, intelligent approach to life.
Miss ya cousin!
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Assange: Internet Anarchy?
Bakunin.
Emma Goldberg.
The Unabomber.
And most famously, the Joker.
Anarchists all.
So, Julian Assange?
In his own words, Assange seeks to diminish the Empire's ability to conspire, limit its ability to communicate to its attaches. Disrupting internal communications. Keeping the world abreast of how the Empire speaks of it, and the influence such interests have upon other nation-states.
Transparency, and self-examination.
I can only guess that the belief that information leads to informed decisions pulses at the base of his actions. But I can't be sure.
WikiLeaks had its most recent "success"- tearing the lid off of moldering American coorespondances with other nations....As if Uncle Sam kept a journal lying around, and you picked it up, took a long dump, and read what he's been up to.
The sheer quantity is amazing. As is the guy, the mole/private charged with delivering such goods (what were his motives?)
But states jostling each other in forthright, or manipulative means isn't really a revelation.
Perhaps the revelation comes to those who were not sure what the high paid staff do for the governments they serve. Or that there are conflicting opinions and stories behind the seeming wall of unanimity that comes from public declarations?
I guess what surpises me most is that there is surprise that the minions of the Empire are involved in politics- which is by (my) definition, the use of power to benefit one's self-interests. Or surprise at those goverments who allow US activity in their nations while simultaneously blasting them for the sake of public opinion. (Qatar's president might have to dig himself out form his own grave.)
But who considered Qatar's government to be public servants concerrned with public opinion to begin with?And when was the last time, you personally believed in a public figure's integrity? Serioulsy?
We all assume that the "backroom deals," the "special interests" and the "getting down to brass tacs" means saying one thing and doing another, just as "keeping strange bedfellows" and "keeping your enemy close at hand" are part of the game as well.
These "revelations" are a small drop in the conspirator's bucket...in fact, these Obama era shananigans are jack when discussed with the "W" era.In fact, most recently proclaimed conspiracy theorists cut their teeth during the Bush era.
Remember prior to 9/11, when there was no real threat to American power after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and China's emergence as a trade partner?
It was a golden moment for change, when the global order could have shifted to soft power, a more equitable re-shuffling of natual resources during "globalization," facilitating the levelling of the playing field of the haves and have nots....
And then Florida determined the American election, W was delivered a win by court rulings on hanging chads, a staff of war hawks was assembled, and the domestic preparations for the use of unnecceasry force were upon us.
How was American population psychologically prepared for a Pearl Harbour-like event, prior to 911?
A year earlier, by a movie called, wonder of wonders, Pearl Harbour, awarded the highest of ratings from all the critics you'd never heard of , and those paid by FOX and Entertainment Tonight! (My question--- who produced that historically inaccurate, jingoistic whitewashed version of history anyway? How did that movie, to any of you who remember, generate such amazing press prior to its release, sending the American public to see the kind of movie that generally flops, big time, in theatres?)
And prior to that, how could anyone interested in the Empire, not be disturbed by the much more disturbing COINTELPRO- domestic surveillance of disident identity politic groups within the US, throughout the last half of the 20th Century?
So back to the point-
There's much discussion about Assange. There are even pending rape cases being used to tie his hands for more public disclosures of goverment activities.
But, in the end, it seems like all of this information, alas, will only make an impact to those who listen, those who care, and those who make meaning of it.
In the meantime, no matter the levels of shrinkage of the system, or the diminshing ability for the Empire to conspire, it will be up to the collective conciousness of the world (the literate world, who can read these missives) to somehow form a sustainable collaborative that can change business as usual, if the impact is going to be more than a hard punch to the champion's gut, and then the Empire is off the ropes, and mowing down its opponents once again.
Emma Goldberg.
The Unabomber.
And most famously, the Joker.
Anarchists all.
So, Julian Assange?
In his own words, Assange seeks to diminish the Empire's ability to conspire, limit its ability to communicate to its attaches. Disrupting internal communications. Keeping the world abreast of how the Empire speaks of it, and the influence such interests have upon other nation-states.
Transparency, and self-examination.
I can only guess that the belief that information leads to informed decisions pulses at the base of his actions. But I can't be sure.
WikiLeaks had its most recent "success"- tearing the lid off of moldering American coorespondances with other nations....As if Uncle Sam kept a journal lying around, and you picked it up, took a long dump, and read what he's been up to.
The sheer quantity is amazing. As is the guy, the mole/private charged with delivering such goods (what were his motives?)
But states jostling each other in forthright, or manipulative means isn't really a revelation.
Perhaps the revelation comes to those who were not sure what the high paid staff do for the governments they serve. Or that there are conflicting opinions and stories behind the seeming wall of unanimity that comes from public declarations?
I guess what surpises me most is that there is surprise that the minions of the Empire are involved in politics- which is by (my) definition, the use of power to benefit one's self-interests. Or surprise at those goverments who allow US activity in their nations while simultaneously blasting them for the sake of public opinion. (Qatar's president might have to dig himself out form his own grave.)
But who considered Qatar's government to be public servants concerrned with public opinion to begin with?And when was the last time, you personally believed in a public figure's integrity? Serioulsy?
We all assume that the "backroom deals," the "special interests" and the "getting down to brass tacs" means saying one thing and doing another, just as "keeping strange bedfellows" and "keeping your enemy close at hand" are part of the game as well.
These "revelations" are a small drop in the conspirator's bucket...in fact, these Obama era shananigans are jack when discussed with the "W" era.In fact, most recently proclaimed conspiracy theorists cut their teeth during the Bush era.
Remember prior to 9/11, when there was no real threat to American power after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and China's emergence as a trade partner?
It was a golden moment for change, when the global order could have shifted to soft power, a more equitable re-shuffling of natual resources during "globalization," facilitating the levelling of the playing field of the haves and have nots....
And then Florida determined the American election, W was delivered a win by court rulings on hanging chads, a staff of war hawks was assembled, and the domestic preparations for the use of unnecceasry force were upon us.
How was American population psychologically prepared for a Pearl Harbour-like event, prior to 911?
A year earlier, by a movie called, wonder of wonders, Pearl Harbour, awarded the highest of ratings from all the critics you'd never heard of , and those paid by FOX and Entertainment Tonight! (My question--- who produced that historically inaccurate, jingoistic whitewashed version of history anyway? How did that movie, to any of you who remember, generate such amazing press prior to its release, sending the American public to see the kind of movie that generally flops, big time, in theatres?)
And prior to that, how could anyone interested in the Empire, not be disturbed by the much more disturbing COINTELPRO- domestic surveillance of disident identity politic groups within the US, throughout the last half of the 20th Century?
So back to the point-
There's much discussion about Assange. There are even pending rape cases being used to tie his hands for more public disclosures of goverment activities.
But, in the end, it seems like all of this information, alas, will only make an impact to those who listen, those who care, and those who make meaning of it.
In the meantime, no matter the levels of shrinkage of the system, or the diminshing ability for the Empire to conspire, it will be up to the collective conciousness of the world (the literate world, who can read these missives) to somehow form a sustainable collaborative that can change business as usual, if the impact is going to be more than a hard punch to the champion's gut, and then the Empire is off the ropes, and mowing down its opponents once again.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Tales from Cul De Sac, LA County
So I know this 21 year old kid who just tried to commit murder.
The near victim (so you know no one dies...) was my upstairs neighbor, a kid with 19 years- who has a sister who's 16, going on 17.
Not too tough to see what took place here.
21 year old drinks with 19 year old, then talks shit about the 16 year old. Big brother swings at dumb ass. Dumb ass is knocked through a door. Dumb ass picks up some glass shards and begins carving up big brother. Big brother gets the fuck outta there, sprinting for his life into the suburban night.
Oddly, the real story begins here.
The 21 year old, whom I'm now imagining as the enebriated equivelant of Wolverine, in full berserker glory, shows up at my upstair's neighbors home, enters the kitchen silently at 1 AM
- carrying three knives- (not sure how you carry three of em at once, but this guy knows...)
and meets up with Cristian,
a long haired, 40-year old German guy, wearing slick bottomed house slippers, boxers and a t shirt
for a late night snack.
"Hey...Who's that?" asked cristian.
"Jack."
"You're Bruce's friend?"..
yeah,..Im here to kill your son...
I don't have a son...oh, you mean my step son?
yeah..Bruce..
hes not here. why do you have three knives?
im going to kill him..hey man, i hear you're really good at guitar...
uh, yeah...
i want to take some lessons from you man...
well, uh sure.. (at this point, Cristain told me later, "I was looking for a bottle or something to break over his head...but I didn't want to fight him, because i had those slippers on..but just in case this crazy guy tries to attack me, I had to be ready...")
yeah, i really want to learn how to play guitar...
ok...well, yeah...hey..do you...i'll tell bruce you were looking for him..
Remember, I'm asleep a few feet below this crazy shit...
Jack staggers back into the night, christian calls the cops, and the 16 year old girl, who was going to have her "after" party at Jack's house in a month when she turned 17, receives a text
"Sorry for trying to kill your brother."
After the hospital, and 17 stitches, after Cristian ID's Jack at Jack's home at 3 AM, Jack goes to jail- where he currently awaits trial for attempted murder....
The near victim (so you know no one dies...) was my upstairs neighbor, a kid with 19 years- who has a sister who's 16, going on 17.
Not too tough to see what took place here.
21 year old drinks with 19 year old, then talks shit about the 16 year old. Big brother swings at dumb ass. Dumb ass is knocked through a door. Dumb ass picks up some glass shards and begins carving up big brother. Big brother gets the fuck outta there, sprinting for his life into the suburban night.
Oddly, the real story begins here.
The 21 year old, whom I'm now imagining as the enebriated equivelant of Wolverine, in full berserker glory, shows up at my upstair's neighbors home, enters the kitchen silently at 1 AM
- carrying three knives- (not sure how you carry three of em at once, but this guy knows...)
and meets up with Cristian,
a long haired, 40-year old German guy, wearing slick bottomed house slippers, boxers and a t shirt
for a late night snack.
"Hey...Who's that?" asked cristian.
"Jack."
"You're Bruce's friend?"..
yeah,..Im here to kill your son...
I don't have a son...oh, you mean my step son?
yeah..Bruce..
hes not here. why do you have three knives?
im going to kill him..hey man, i hear you're really good at guitar...
uh, yeah...
i want to take some lessons from you man...
well, uh sure.. (at this point, Cristain told me later, "I was looking for a bottle or something to break over his head...but I didn't want to fight him, because i had those slippers on..but just in case this crazy guy tries to attack me, I had to be ready...")
yeah, i really want to learn how to play guitar...
ok...well, yeah...hey..do you...i'll tell bruce you were looking for him..
Remember, I'm asleep a few feet below this crazy shit...
Jack staggers back into the night, christian calls the cops, and the 16 year old girl, who was going to have her "after" party at Jack's house in a month when she turned 17, receives a text
"Sorry for trying to kill your brother."
After the hospital, and 17 stitches, after Cristian ID's Jack at Jack's home at 3 AM, Jack goes to jail- where he currently awaits trial for attempted murder....
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
computing parenting dilemmas
A week ago, we got junior's report card. These inescapable judgements were later followed by a series of fiften minute conversations with each of Junior's teachers.
Now, jr. goes to a prestigious private school, so when I showed up with his mom to the first teacher conference, I thanked the teacher for her time, and she smiled, threw up her hands and responded, "That's why you pay the big bucks!" laughing..
By the time we had come to the last of 6 meetings, it was pretty apparent that our kid ..check this out..In two classes, he was noteworthy for getting up out of his chair and wandering the class during lectures. In others, he was a standout for not even reading the directions on his test, and being the first to finish, so he could...
I actually have no idea what he's doing instead.
I only have his study habits at home to make conjectural thesis statements.
A quick knock on the locked door- (don't lock your door, kid- why not?)
a quick takeover of the computer before its history can be erased, - (I'm doing my homework, DAD!)
shows that there has been recent surfing into fantasy-
fantasy football and basketball
manga
some social networking-
facebook (i'm trying to get assignemnts from people on-line, DAD!)
and the expensive private school portal.
I don't like having to police a 13 year old, when the imagination is ripe for conspiracy and oppression. But its a dad's job, so I do it.
"So, no internet until you have your homework done," I say for the nth time.
"And don't lock your door." I say as I walk out.
I wonder how much this is the typical inter-generational discussion that takes place whenever children are born.
"That damn technology isn't helping you none sonny."
I update my comments this way,"That fantasy shit is going to confuse you kid. You spend more time pretending to be outdoors and running around then you do in real life. In fact, go ride your bike."
Ironically people tell me this behavior is helping him to relate to his peers. Like, what? They can kill each other from the safety of their bed rooms. And in the near future, they can sext?
I continue, "Maybe one day you can do all this as a brain sitting in a plastic vat somewhere. Wouldn't that be cool? You can do the same things as a 95 year old man that you are right now...That's cool too."
This of course, doesn't bring us any closer, though it does make me closer and closer to sending him off to Wilderness Leadership Camp for 2 months for a massive re-programming, a harsh encounter with nature, to learn how many layers suffocate that striving physical body propelled by a prepared mind and a seething spirit.
It's amazing to see how grabbed my kid is by this artificial, technological universe. And of course, he's not the only one, he's probably typical, at least on this side of the digital divide. (What, is outdoor recreation now an activity for those living below the poverty line?)
I've even been warmed by a few, that I were to pull all the plugs, that he might indeed have very little, or should I say, even less, in common with the other kids living above the poverty line. Because you know what- kids just don't play together the way they used to- at least here in LA.
But do I begin to bang the doomsday gong? Or, do I ride the zeitgeist- because this mesmerizing tech is only going to grow more and more enveloping, more and more interesting than the bleak economic world we've created. The growth of fantasy, or the underlying need for fantasy, might just be shelter from the alienating, anomic, world we are bringing them into.
To cap, I recently read a NYT article, which showcased a Bay Area kid, who is preparing a future for himself in film making, at the expense of his academic career. He can film, edit, and manipulate media in a way that was unheard of 30 yars ago. In fact, most kids can these days. Not my kid though, who really doesn't control his technology as much as he lets it control him- at least in my opinion. I mean, he's not producing videos, or songs, or publishing blogs, or any of the traditional things one produces with these "tools."
Check out the article.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/21/technology/21brain.html?pagewanted=1&ref=general&src=me
Such technology has not only shaped our lives, but the world's. For instance, last week, there were 50,000 kids in Warsaw going to Reggae concerts, when only 25 years ago, Iron Maiden was illegal in Poland (and all of the Soviet block).
Back to the point: my kid is showing signs of being controlled by his tech use, and not getting the benefits.
Short attention span, lives in a fantasy world, is angered when prodded into the "real world" - basically, any time responsibility to others is required (family, school, classroom, etc), and is not using the tools to empower himself, as is always touted...i.e.- become a producer of information, entertainment, whatever.
So where to go?
Back to the basics.
This kid needs to be active.
This kid needs to understand himself as a creation of nature.
He needs to know more species of flora and fauna than pokemon.
He needs to know how to make more things than he does how to kill another human (I'd guess he, and the rest of his Black Ops playing peers, knows more about guns, military tech, and martial art killing methods than any other generation in history.)
So now, after painting a bleak picture of the tech consumables which have become the equivelant of addictions (call them stimulants, and the metaphor works), my kid also does do sit ups, push ups, squats, and balancing excercises. He does play basketball every day at school, and with an outside team. He does go on hikes with me, at least twice a month. So, he doesn't want to "evolve" into a brain in a vat, and he's not yet sexting, though one of his friends is- age 14...yeah..
More to come.
Now, jr. goes to a prestigious private school, so when I showed up with his mom to the first teacher conference, I thanked the teacher for her time, and she smiled, threw up her hands and responded, "That's why you pay the big bucks!" laughing..
By the time we had come to the last of 6 meetings, it was pretty apparent that our kid ..check this out..In two classes, he was noteworthy for getting up out of his chair and wandering the class during lectures. In others, he was a standout for not even reading the directions on his test, and being the first to finish, so he could...
I actually have no idea what he's doing instead.
I only have his study habits at home to make conjectural thesis statements.
A quick knock on the locked door- (don't lock your door, kid- why not?)
a quick takeover of the computer before its history can be erased, - (I'm doing my homework, DAD!)
shows that there has been recent surfing into fantasy-
fantasy football and basketball
manga
some social networking-
facebook (i'm trying to get assignemnts from people on-line, DAD!)
and the expensive private school portal.
I don't like having to police a 13 year old, when the imagination is ripe for conspiracy and oppression. But its a dad's job, so I do it.
"So, no internet until you have your homework done," I say for the nth time.
"And don't lock your door." I say as I walk out.
I wonder how much this is the typical inter-generational discussion that takes place whenever children are born.
"That damn technology isn't helping you none sonny."
I update my comments this way,"That fantasy shit is going to confuse you kid. You spend more time pretending to be outdoors and running around then you do in real life. In fact, go ride your bike."
Ironically people tell me this behavior is helping him to relate to his peers. Like, what? They can kill each other from the safety of their bed rooms. And in the near future, they can sext?
I continue, "Maybe one day you can do all this as a brain sitting in a plastic vat somewhere. Wouldn't that be cool? You can do the same things as a 95 year old man that you are right now...That's cool too."
This of course, doesn't bring us any closer, though it does make me closer and closer to sending him off to Wilderness Leadership Camp for 2 months for a massive re-programming, a harsh encounter with nature, to learn how many layers suffocate that striving physical body propelled by a prepared mind and a seething spirit.
It's amazing to see how grabbed my kid is by this artificial, technological universe. And of course, he's not the only one, he's probably typical, at least on this side of the digital divide. (What, is outdoor recreation now an activity for those living below the poverty line?)
I've even been warmed by a few, that I were to pull all the plugs, that he might indeed have very little, or should I say, even less, in common with the other kids living above the poverty line. Because you know what- kids just don't play together the way they used to- at least here in LA.
But do I begin to bang the doomsday gong? Or, do I ride the zeitgeist- because this mesmerizing tech is only going to grow more and more enveloping, more and more interesting than the bleak economic world we've created. The growth of fantasy, or the underlying need for fantasy, might just be shelter from the alienating, anomic, world we are bringing them into.
To cap, I recently read a NYT article, which showcased a Bay Area kid, who is preparing a future for himself in film making, at the expense of his academic career. He can film, edit, and manipulate media in a way that was unheard of 30 yars ago. In fact, most kids can these days. Not my kid though, who really doesn't control his technology as much as he lets it control him- at least in my opinion. I mean, he's not producing videos, or songs, or publishing blogs, or any of the traditional things one produces with these "tools."
Check out the article.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/21/technology/21brain.html?pagewanted=1&ref=general&src=me
Such technology has not only shaped our lives, but the world's. For instance, last week, there were 50,000 kids in Warsaw going to Reggae concerts, when only 25 years ago, Iron Maiden was illegal in Poland (and all of the Soviet block).
Back to the point: my kid is showing signs of being controlled by his tech use, and not getting the benefits.
Short attention span, lives in a fantasy world, is angered when prodded into the "real world" - basically, any time responsibility to others is required (family, school, classroom, etc), and is not using the tools to empower himself, as is always touted...i.e.- become a producer of information, entertainment, whatever.
So where to go?
Back to the basics.
This kid needs to be active.
This kid needs to understand himself as a creation of nature.
He needs to know more species of flora and fauna than pokemon.
He needs to know how to make more things than he does how to kill another human (I'd guess he, and the rest of his Black Ops playing peers, knows more about guns, military tech, and martial art killing methods than any other generation in history.)
So now, after painting a bleak picture of the tech consumables which have become the equivelant of addictions (call them stimulants, and the metaphor works), my kid also does do sit ups, push ups, squats, and balancing excercises. He does play basketball every day at school, and with an outside team. He does go on hikes with me, at least twice a month. So, he doesn't want to "evolve" into a brain in a vat, and he's not yet sexting, though one of his friends is- age 14...yeah..
More to come.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Veteran's Day, 2010: Approaching 40 Years
Approaching 40
All is Not Quiet on Veteran's Morn.
A stray motorcycle slices the silence of 3 AM.
A wind picks up along the ridge, hissing like ice on a hot iron.
How to break into one's infinity with grace? How to slide down the backside of life?
The question begins to percolate behind the seething mind, once so hedonized it was lead by the bloody tracks, the ripe fruit, the swaying hips, the narcototic howl of midnight. Now, a mind beguiled by less, and tipped toward the eternal contemplates star movements, seismic shifts, the price of oil, emerging markets.
It only took a small thing: Some buried memory, some fresh wound,.... some re-positioning of the cognitive needle,....and a valley floor opens beneath one's gaze, the tracks of their life a single path blazen through its midst.
Hindsight, and trajectory. All in one fell assessment.
Age 40.
When the cryptic language and foggy memories can no longer blunder along without temples falling apart.
When perhaps the temple protects almost nothing but the last remnants of a youthful fire that never burnt fields, scorched mountains, or endured tsunamis.
When perhaps the future looms like a monolith of light and hope, beckoning that you solve future riddles with mirth and lust, like a Leprechaun, lucky with your clover fields.
When perhaps you learn from your own words to a 2 year old daughter: "Only stand on things which are stable and can hold you up without breaking."
And looking around and answering that very question, in the only silence one gets these days- at 3 AM, with a single motorcycle slicing the silence like boiling ice on a cherry iron.
I had an idea, perhaps inspired by this looming 40th year of life (41st if you count in the East Asian birth calendar, which believes that the moment of conception is the actual moment of one's life, thus adding 9 months to most Westerner's age), of a drug I named "Epiphany." Imagine being able to synthesize, or at least isolate the chemical reactions one experiences moments before they almost die. That sense of time slowing down to tiny increments, of seeing one's life fly in their mind's eye like a warp speed slide show, yet complete with the entire, complex emotional content of that memory- so a wash of experiences, sads, happies, dazed, ecstatic, that accumulate into an emotional aftertaste, a flavor one can judge.
Imagine being able to take Epiphany whenever one needed to check in with themselves, know who they are, sense their decisions, their chosen limitations, and return to the roots of their happiness. Sitting here at the precipie into the after life, (kinda joking here...), I'm betting there'd be a rush at 18, then 40, then, perhaps before it was dying time.
Imagine a world where people are capable of correcting each negative or coercive influence on their life, and stay true to their real desires.
Hard to imagine how people would be different, but I'm betting for one that people would work less, feel bad for profitting off of someone else, seek to grow rather than to be served, and hum a song that was as confident, real and resonant as anyone's.
All is Not Quiet on Veteran's Morn.
A stray motorcycle slices the silence of 3 AM.
A wind picks up along the ridge, hissing like ice on a hot iron.
How to break into one's infinity with grace? How to slide down the backside of life?
The question begins to percolate behind the seething mind, once so hedonized it was lead by the bloody tracks, the ripe fruit, the swaying hips, the narcototic howl of midnight. Now, a mind beguiled by less, and tipped toward the eternal contemplates star movements, seismic shifts, the price of oil, emerging markets.
It only took a small thing: Some buried memory, some fresh wound,.... some re-positioning of the cognitive needle,....and a valley floor opens beneath one's gaze, the tracks of their life a single path blazen through its midst.
Hindsight, and trajectory. All in one fell assessment.
Age 40.
When the cryptic language and foggy memories can no longer blunder along without temples falling apart.
When perhaps the temple protects almost nothing but the last remnants of a youthful fire that never burnt fields, scorched mountains, or endured tsunamis.
When perhaps the future looms like a monolith of light and hope, beckoning that you solve future riddles with mirth and lust, like a Leprechaun, lucky with your clover fields.
When perhaps you learn from your own words to a 2 year old daughter: "Only stand on things which are stable and can hold you up without breaking."
And looking around and answering that very question, in the only silence one gets these days- at 3 AM, with a single motorcycle slicing the silence like boiling ice on a cherry iron.
I had an idea, perhaps inspired by this looming 40th year of life (41st if you count in the East Asian birth calendar, which believes that the moment of conception is the actual moment of one's life, thus adding 9 months to most Westerner's age), of a drug I named "Epiphany." Imagine being able to synthesize, or at least isolate the chemical reactions one experiences moments before they almost die. That sense of time slowing down to tiny increments, of seeing one's life fly in their mind's eye like a warp speed slide show, yet complete with the entire, complex emotional content of that memory- so a wash of experiences, sads, happies, dazed, ecstatic, that accumulate into an emotional aftertaste, a flavor one can judge.
Imagine being able to take Epiphany whenever one needed to check in with themselves, know who they are, sense their decisions, their chosen limitations, and return to the roots of their happiness. Sitting here at the precipie into the after life, (kinda joking here...), I'm betting there'd be a rush at 18, then 40, then, perhaps before it was dying time.
Imagine a world where people are capable of correcting each negative or coercive influence on their life, and stay true to their real desires.
Hard to imagine how people would be different, but I'm betting for one that people would work less, feel bad for profitting off of someone else, seek to grow rather than to be served, and hum a song that was as confident, real and resonant as anyone's.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Vasquez Rocks
We were headed toward a distant cluster of cottonwood trees, which in the desert signifies permanent water, a lush pocket of congregating life. I had pointed it out to my cousin, Cheyenne, a hiking partner non paraleil, for her interest in going off trail, wading into the geology, discovering the raw, untouched places no path leads to. We were improvising our way there, along the spines of fractured ridges, eroded boulders, wind burnt caves. Rosa was too, and she and I were carrying our babies in our arms.
Now, we had meandered to a bad spot, which I had just noted to Rosa, who carried our 8 month old daughter, Bella, a few yards ahead of me. She worked her way eagerly, almost blindly, to a spot where one could edge down a shelf- a shelf strewn with chips of granite, like loose tile, on a hard, slippery rock, to a level spot beneath.
Rosa had no fear carrying the 8 month old on the lip of granite, and silently passed the Bellita from her pair of hands to my cousin's, Cheyenne's, who had already clambered down, needing both hands and feet to do so.
There was an elusive, diffuse point to being on the edge of a cliff carrying one's progeny; improv. That is, the joyful sensation of following one's instincts. There's nature and art that promotes true freedom, true creativity, true, in-the moment-ness, and after that, for me, it's degrees of illusion. This meander through the ruptured and distended tectonic plates of Vasquez Rocks was long views toward distant destinations, and thousands of snap judgements about how to get there, with potential diversions at every turn. It was this creative whim which lead Rosa to this point.
I approached less whimsically, though certain of a routine, careful descent, when a cliff edge crumbled under my foot, my 2 year old daughter tucked under one arm.
Time stopped, I tumbled toward the edge in a small cloud of falling granite. In front of me, I could see a massive rock spinning edgewise down, toward Rosa and the baby, and I reached for it, slapping it as hard as I could with the ends of three fingers of my right hand, trying to re-route it. At the same time, I was falling onto my left rib cage, against which my two year old daughter was held, tightly, like a football in my left arm. My elbow caught the ground, hard.
I imagined righting myself, so that no matter how far the fall, I'd land feet first, and be able to collapse, maybe breaking ankles and hips, maybe a bone in my arm, instead of landing sideways, crushing my ribs, internal organs, smashing my head on rock. I imagined making sure that my body was between the earth and Ariana's, so that i would cushion her fall with my body..
A woman screamed..
The flush of granite rock and gravel travelled silently through thirty feet of air, and its clatter on solid ground echoed up the walls of the small ravine below.
Two seconds bloated into an eternity, and I found myself on my back, stopped, my feet and butt holding everything into place, a crying baby in my arms, a torn, aching left elbow, a woman, Rosa, screaming that she could not get down, that she was scared, and, strangely, tattered fingertips.
At the moment, I shrugged off my good fortune, relieved that my daughter wasn't even scratched, but as we continued our walk through the recently wet ravines and cliff faces, she said, "Daddy, you fell down a mountain! I fell down a mountain! I'm scared!"and the moment came back to me in its adrenalized delerium, where the bleary details were unclear.
Above is the best description I could muster.
I asked Rosa what she saw, and she said, there was a look, a startled look on my face, like I was thinking I would die, and that I was holding a huge rock in one hand, and Ariana in the other. And she asked me why I was trying to carry that rock.
Her description made me laugh...how could it look like I was carrying a huge rock, much bigger than I could actually carry, while sliding down the edge of the cliff?
From the safe, conjectural world of hind sight, (and my cousin agreed,) I looked like I was holding the rock in my hand because everything, the rocks, the humans, moved down the hill at the same speed. What I remember thinking was a slap, was probably an extended shove, which deliberately moved the rock from its original trajectory. My hand did look like it was holding the rock in that split second.
In the end, it was probably the rock which saved my, and Ariana's, ass.
Reaching out to knock the small boulder from hitting Rosa and Bellita gave me something heavy to push against- that even though the rock was in motion, it absorbed my fall, and my shove pushed me backward just enough to land cleanly on the edge.
Miraculous, that an instinct to protect others before oneself could lead to self-preservation.
Still in one piece...
JP
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
1942 to 2010 - congressional medal of honor for JA
To continue the last blog, I learned that, today, Congress awarded Medals of Honor to the Japanese American troops who fought for the US Army in World War Two (in France, and Germany) while their families were incarcerated in "interment camps" (In the United States) Heralded as patriotism at its apogee: that grown men would fight for the nation that jailed their mothers and sisters- and would have jailed them unless they were willing to fight on enemy soil- the reward comes after a 68 year hiatus- meaning that the men who fought, and survived, are most likely in their late 80's now.
Surely, after the decades of commitment it required to build the political capital to reify such an act, it is truly an honor, mixed with relief, that one's sacrifice was recognized.
However, this blog is about to turn into a personal reflection on this history. It is a painful surgery to unsuture wounds now covered by scar and callous.
Surely, after the decades of commitment it required to build the political capital to reify such an act, it is truly an honor, mixed with relief, that one's sacrifice was recognized.
However, this blog is about to turn into a personal reflection on this history. It is a painful surgery to unsuture wounds now covered by scar and callous.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
2010 + 1942= 1984
2010. Kubrick.
1942. Lucas. (Or is it Spielberg? Sometimes I get those two mixed up.)
And how can I leave out Orwell's 1984?
To explain what these years, (not the films), have in common with the book (not the year), I have to begin with the story of my grandma- Kikuko Nakao.
Kikuko Nakao was born in 1920, on a small island off the coast of California. It was pristine, with massive runs of bonito and mackeral off its beaches. Halibut and perch were easily caught from the shore. A short swim across an adjacent channel would get an enterprising swimmer to the growing municipality of Long Beach, known at that time for its...long beach.
Terminal Island, as it is called today, was then called Furusato, and for decades my grandmother, along with her family and approximately 3,000 other residents, formed a bustling community. Many were immigrants from Japan, though most had children born on this island, who were thus American citizens. All spoke Japanese as a first language, though it mutuated into a unique dialect of its own, a "Janglish", so to speak, and the island was an isolated world centered around the tuna factories, for whom many worked for, or supplied tuna to as fisherman, to make their living.
Their community followed Tuna Street, the spine of the community. Along it, as with any small community, were the typical Houses of Worship, Associations, schools, businesses, all of which supported the culture and the values of the residents.
In this case, the enduring center of the city was the hardware and grocery stores, from which island traffic, mostly on foot, though bikes and a few autos also prevailed, circulated.
By all accounts, it was a nice place to grow up- safely absconded from the rest of America, and living in orderly, intimate rows of homes, where everyone knew their neighbors.
However, my grandmother's father passed away when she was in her teens, and her life in the factories began at an early age. By the time she was twenty, she was not married, and instead of being able to pursue her studies, she had taken on the role of primary breadwinner for her family, helping her mother- a teacher at the elementary school, raise the younger brothers and sisters.
Locally, the Japanese community was tolerated as contributing, though unassimilated, neighbors. Though Terminal Island kids went to school on the mainland, they came home to "Little Hokkaido" and played mainly with each other. The fisherman and factory workers worked hard, were disciplined, and took lower wages than their white counterparts, so for the most part, Van De Kamp, and other canneries, were delighted to be working with the Terminal Island Japanese.
In fact, throughout California, Japanese farmers and fishermen were becoming succesful. A Truck farming industry was developing on the backs of Japanese labor, and such success was arousing a Nativist rage. How can these Japs keep getting more and more land? was the thinking, getting richer and richer?
Legislation outlawing the purchase of land by Japanese was enacted. Movements to limit Japanese to small ghettoes also followed. REntal of lands was also limited to 2 years, meaning family farms could not persist in one location.
And so when Pearl Harbor was hit by the Japanese Imperial Army, to preemptively cripple the US Navy nestled in the Hawaiian Islands, and the USS Arizona was sunk, despite early warnings, the match hit the tinder that had been building over the years.
In 1942, Executive Order 9066 was infamously passed, decalring that all residents of Japanese ancestry along the West Coast of the United States be given 48 hours to pack up what belongings they cold carry with them, and enter "relocation camps."
Consequently, 120,000 Japanese, the vast majority of whom were citizens of the United States, (and supposedly with all the rights that US citizens enjoy), were moved from their homes along the Pacific Coast, to desert wastelands (often in Native Reservations) ranging from Arkansas to Idaho.
My grandma was one of these 20,000. Kikuko Tanamachi, nee' Kikuko Nakao, was born on Terminal Island, worked the Van De Kamp tuna factory to help put her brothers and sisters through school, and was transformed by EO #9066 from a "US Citizen" to an "Enemy Alien" in the slash of a pen stroke. And in the space of a year, she had moved from factory worker, supporting her family, to "intern" at Rohwer, Arkansas, an area still defined by its proximity to untilled swamp land.
And what of Terminal Island? Today, it is surrounded by the largest port in America- Long Beach Port, concreted over, and blacktopped, surrounded by the nation's most polluted waters. A naval air field is built on one corner, and a penitentary is built on one corner of a sheet of concrete that has no other use expect the occasional transfer of cargo from boat to truck.
And what of the Japanese? Well, in my family, there is exactly one full blood Japanese male, and the rest of Kikuko's grandchildren are mixes of Japanese and German, or Japanese and Mexican. None of us speak Japanese. And only a few of us have even visited Terminal Island, let alone Japan. Our assimilation is complete. Our ethnic identity comes more from having non-white racial features, than being born into a Japanese dominated household, or Japanese influenced community.
Many sociologists have claimed that the high rates of outmarriage in the JA community, and decisions made by parents to not teach their children the Japanese language came from the experience of being vulnerable outsiders, and the drive to be "American" was a rational consequence to help their children "succeed."
So, that was 1942. What of 2010? And how does any of this relate to 1984?
More later...
1942. Lucas. (Or is it Spielberg? Sometimes I get those two mixed up.)
And how can I leave out Orwell's 1984?
To explain what these years, (not the films), have in common with the book (not the year), I have to begin with the story of my grandma- Kikuko Nakao.
Kikuko Nakao was born in 1920, on a small island off the coast of California. It was pristine, with massive runs of bonito and mackeral off its beaches. Halibut and perch were easily caught from the shore. A short swim across an adjacent channel would get an enterprising swimmer to the growing municipality of Long Beach, known at that time for its...long beach.
Terminal Island, as it is called today, was then called Furusato, and for decades my grandmother, along with her family and approximately 3,000 other residents, formed a bustling community. Many were immigrants from Japan, though most had children born on this island, who were thus American citizens. All spoke Japanese as a first language, though it mutuated into a unique dialect of its own, a "Janglish", so to speak, and the island was an isolated world centered around the tuna factories, for whom many worked for, or supplied tuna to as fisherman, to make their living.
Their community followed Tuna Street, the spine of the community. Along it, as with any small community, were the typical Houses of Worship, Associations, schools, businesses, all of which supported the culture and the values of the residents.
In this case, the enduring center of the city was the hardware and grocery stores, from which island traffic, mostly on foot, though bikes and a few autos also prevailed, circulated.
By all accounts, it was a nice place to grow up- safely absconded from the rest of America, and living in orderly, intimate rows of homes, where everyone knew their neighbors.
However, my grandmother's father passed away when she was in her teens, and her life in the factories began at an early age. By the time she was twenty, she was not married, and instead of being able to pursue her studies, she had taken on the role of primary breadwinner for her family, helping her mother- a teacher at the elementary school, raise the younger brothers and sisters.
Locally, the Japanese community was tolerated as contributing, though unassimilated, neighbors. Though Terminal Island kids went to school on the mainland, they came home to "Little Hokkaido" and played mainly with each other. The fisherman and factory workers worked hard, were disciplined, and took lower wages than their white counterparts, so for the most part, Van De Kamp, and other canneries, were delighted to be working with the Terminal Island Japanese.
In fact, throughout California, Japanese farmers and fishermen were becoming succesful. A Truck farming industry was developing on the backs of Japanese labor, and such success was arousing a Nativist rage. How can these Japs keep getting more and more land? was the thinking, getting richer and richer?
Legislation outlawing the purchase of land by Japanese was enacted. Movements to limit Japanese to small ghettoes also followed. REntal of lands was also limited to 2 years, meaning family farms could not persist in one location.
And so when Pearl Harbor was hit by the Japanese Imperial Army, to preemptively cripple the US Navy nestled in the Hawaiian Islands, and the USS Arizona was sunk, despite early warnings, the match hit the tinder that had been building over the years.
In 1942, Executive Order 9066 was infamously passed, decalring that all residents of Japanese ancestry along the West Coast of the United States be given 48 hours to pack up what belongings they cold carry with them, and enter "relocation camps."
Consequently, 120,000 Japanese, the vast majority of whom were citizens of the United States, (and supposedly with all the rights that US citizens enjoy), were moved from their homes along the Pacific Coast, to desert wastelands (often in Native Reservations) ranging from Arkansas to Idaho.
My grandma was one of these 20,000. Kikuko Tanamachi, nee' Kikuko Nakao, was born on Terminal Island, worked the Van De Kamp tuna factory to help put her brothers and sisters through school, and was transformed by EO #9066 from a "US Citizen" to an "Enemy Alien" in the slash of a pen stroke. And in the space of a year, she had moved from factory worker, supporting her family, to "intern" at Rohwer, Arkansas, an area still defined by its proximity to untilled swamp land.
And what of Terminal Island? Today, it is surrounded by the largest port in America- Long Beach Port, concreted over, and blacktopped, surrounded by the nation's most polluted waters. A naval air field is built on one corner, and a penitentary is built on one corner of a sheet of concrete that has no other use expect the occasional transfer of cargo from boat to truck.
And what of the Japanese? Well, in my family, there is exactly one full blood Japanese male, and the rest of Kikuko's grandchildren are mixes of Japanese and German, or Japanese and Mexican. None of us speak Japanese. And only a few of us have even visited Terminal Island, let alone Japan. Our assimilation is complete. Our ethnic identity comes more from having non-white racial features, than being born into a Japanese dominated household, or Japanese influenced community.
Many sociologists have claimed that the high rates of outmarriage in the JA community, and decisions made by parents to not teach their children the Japanese language came from the experience of being vulnerable outsiders, and the drive to be "American" was a rational consequence to help their children "succeed."
So, that was 1942. What of 2010? And how does any of this relate to 1984?
More later...
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Music Review #1: Subatomic Sound System
Not many know "the Emch."
But he's legendary.
His name alone (Emch) has been the subject of phonetic discourses, beginning predicatably, "What the F.. kind of name is that?"
Emch.
It has been shouted in households across the nation, as a non-sensical, ejaculatory uluation.
The word "Emch" has been used as a verb.
"In tiger skin loin cloth, he Emched his way across the jungle canopy."
Or gerunds...
"Damn, that's some filthy Emching right there."
Maybe that's why he goes by the name of Subatomic Sound System these days.
Cuz the Emch is a sensitive soul. The Emch is an artist. The Emch is a lover and a fighter. The Emch stands for entertainment that improves the planet, and expands your mental horizons.
And Subatomic Sound System has a new albumn out; a concetration of nectars that the Emch has been harvesting for the last two decades.
Take dub reggae, like Pablo Augustus, or Lee Scratch Perry, or newer, Rusko, then, add avant garde electronic sensibilities, say, Flying Lotus, and even 70's Miles Davis, On the Corner era, and you're getting close.
The guy has been collecting sound since the early 80's in Seattle Wa., where sanctuary and sanity were first discovered in the meliflous riffing of Randy Rhoads, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Manitas de Plata. From there, music lead him from diverse local bands like the U-Men and Killgore Trout, to the world, like Fela Kuti. I have a hard time finding music he hasn't heard, so I often challenge myself to do so- (and yeah, recently, I introduced him to Smood, and I always like beating him to the punch. In the past, I got him into Jane's Addiction. I take credit for Eddie Palmieri, and Omar Sosa, too.)
Needless to say, the guy personifies a love of music in all its variety, only insisting that it has soul.
His new albumn certainly has that.
In fact, his eclecticism finally gets served in all its variety, pairing both Lee Scratch Perry, the dub pioneer heemself, and David Lynch, the avant garde film maker, with badass Jamaican chant masters like Anthony B.
You won't really know what to think on the first listen, because you haven't really heard stuff like it before. but after a third listen, your ear accomodates the poly-sonic vibe, senses the innate ruminations on peace and justice, and creates a desire for equally strong elixer, and an exploratory dance floor with like minded argonauts.
So, check it out. The Emch-neesh is for real.
http://www.kidult.com/news/entertainment/david-lynch-and-lee-scratch-perry-get-remixed-in-dub
But he's legendary.
His name alone (Emch) has been the subject of phonetic discourses, beginning predicatably, "What the F.. kind of name is that?"
Emch.
It has been shouted in households across the nation, as a non-sensical, ejaculatory uluation.
The word "Emch" has been used as a verb.
"In tiger skin loin cloth, he Emched his way across the jungle canopy."
Or gerunds...
"Damn, that's some filthy Emching right there."
Maybe that's why he goes by the name of Subatomic Sound System these days.
Cuz the Emch is a sensitive soul. The Emch is an artist. The Emch is a lover and a fighter. The Emch stands for entertainment that improves the planet, and expands your mental horizons.
And Subatomic Sound System has a new albumn out; a concetration of nectars that the Emch has been harvesting for the last two decades.
Take dub reggae, like Pablo Augustus, or Lee Scratch Perry, or newer, Rusko, then, add avant garde electronic sensibilities, say, Flying Lotus, and even 70's Miles Davis, On the Corner era, and you're getting close.
The guy has been collecting sound since the early 80's in Seattle Wa., where sanctuary and sanity were first discovered in the meliflous riffing of Randy Rhoads, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Manitas de Plata. From there, music lead him from diverse local bands like the U-Men and Killgore Trout, to the world, like Fela Kuti. I have a hard time finding music he hasn't heard, so I often challenge myself to do so- (and yeah, recently, I introduced him to Smood, and I always like beating him to the punch. In the past, I got him into Jane's Addiction. I take credit for Eddie Palmieri, and Omar Sosa, too.)
Needless to say, the guy personifies a love of music in all its variety, only insisting that it has soul.
His new albumn certainly has that.
In fact, his eclecticism finally gets served in all its variety, pairing both Lee Scratch Perry, the dub pioneer heemself, and David Lynch, the avant garde film maker, with badass Jamaican chant masters like Anthony B.
You won't really know what to think on the first listen, because you haven't really heard stuff like it before. but after a third listen, your ear accomodates the poly-sonic vibe, senses the innate ruminations on peace and justice, and creates a desire for equally strong elixer, and an exploratory dance floor with like minded argonauts.
So, check it out. The Emch-neesh is for real.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Franz Schurmann: American Soul
1997.
I was a whip snap recent hire at Pacifc News Service. I wanted to write. I wanted to edit. I had that young, blind burn to succeed in my chosen profession, and wanted to do it all. I was "back from Asia," I liked to say to anyone who listened- (though it was really just a year and a half in South Korea, Cambodia and a few vacations in Japan and Thailand. I knew little more than zip about "Asia.")
Sandy Close, who hired me, set up a lunch with her husband, Franz Schurmann, and it seemed clear I was about to be measured. Measured, meaning, analyzed, plumbed, then, categorized, perhaps for job placement.
Reading his bio, I saw he had authored several works on foreign policy, most often focused on US- China relations, and original, historical analysis of US involvement in South East Asia. Furthermore, he was a professor emeritus of the Cal Berkeley History department, and spoke a dozen or so languages. This linguistist's talent enabled him to read the "ethnic press" in its original, non-translated drafts, pushing him closer to the 360 degree worldview which journalism often espouses, but rarely, if ever, strive for.
That his studies illuminated the ideas and practices of Communism from a non-jingoistic perspective, meant I was meeting one of the great portals of non-American political though in America. Here, I mused, was a person capable, actually, truly capable, if put in the right place, of changing US foreign policy in a radical direction, a direction from which the world could benefit.
At that time, I should add, I thought that such a goal- changing US foreign policy- was the only goal worth achieving in the United States.
How nice to be hired into a news agency with this visionary's values at its core, I thought. Bringing the voices of the the subaltern into mainstream news, understanding the impact domestic policy decisions could have on the world at large, educating Americans by re-inventing news, and having educated opinions impact future policy decisions. Seemed pretty clear to me then.
I came prepared; with a pen and a notebook. I toyed with the idea of bringing a hand-held voice recorder to capture the conversation. Imagine, though, that I would be sitting in front of a guy who had written extensively, reported and authored op-eds for all of the major publications, who wrote extensively about any topic that piqued his curiosity. Who would want this guy to think you were a wanna be reporter? Could be embarassing.
I imagined a DC guy, capable of walking in front of the Senate and edifying on North Korean military capacity and the effects closing US bases in Okinawa would have on Taiwanese independence.
Well, he certainly was that. But he lacked bombast. He radiated humility. He had wisdom.
When Franz and I met, across a plate of lo mein, he cupped an ear and leaned toward me- so that I would not necessarily adress his eyes, but his ear. A bit pulpy- with a wealth of hair sprouting from the interior, it seemed a geological feature countoured by voices, music, opinions, poetry, facts.
And throughout the meal, that ear invited me to speak about a bit of everything. My mother, my religious values, how I saw plastic surgery in South Korea, what of the skeleton trade in Cambodia, and did I know about the Hmong general Vang Pao who lived somewhere outside of Fresno yet was planning a coup d'etat in Laos as we spoke?
Over the next two and a half years, I learned the true definition of an American intellectual, plying every day people with questions that got at the subjective truths we each carried within, then tying them to the great currents of history, rather than the less palpable smoke of political agendas. He was a vast respository for odd facts, quirky historical moments, revisionist paradigms, what ifs, why nots, and imagine ifs, which grew from a lifetime of searching for what historical certainties there were.
His often rambling and seemingly untethered ruminations ended with surpising conslusions that often reminded me of Huxley's analysis of history, which I misquote now:
"A study of history shows only that human beings are always doomed to ignore the lessons of history and repeat mistakes. And that is the great truth one learns from the study of history."
If all of America was driven by such curiosity, what a magnificent nation we would be- searching for the artists, the visionaries, the silver lining, the most truth one can find. Catching it all through a willing ear trained to the vocubles of 12 languages!
The last time I spoke with Franz directly, was on a morning walk through the Sunset, by his home, which was his daily routine. He dubbed them these morning walks his "talks with God," where the rumination could contend with the daily grind of a news organization, where the ideas concretized from that cauldron of memory and text. I was 26, a new father, and he in his 70's, and that morning, we discussed Anthony Poshepny, the unlikely inspiration for Colonel Kurtz, Marlon Brando's character in Apocolypse Now- a CIA vet who lived a mere mile away from us at that moment who had amongst other things, recruited the hill tribe soldiers in Laos to take up the US cause, and who had orchestrated the Dalai Lama's "kidnapping" from Tibet.
I enjoyed the way we discussed the truth behind myth, the forces which shaped myth, the individual imperfections of those individuals who achieved mythological status in our culture, or in our lives. No doubt, Franz was one of those mythical people to those of us who spent time with him.
Sadly, Franz has left us, and is perhaps meandering the cosmos on a journey for the curious, a final talk with his God, that I would love to hear him discuss once again.
In the meantime, I will toast Franz, daily, and remain a devoted meanderer, chasing the newest incarnation of the curious which always seem to show itself at just the right moment to keep life wondrous.
I was a whip snap recent hire at Pacifc News Service. I wanted to write. I wanted to edit. I had that young, blind burn to succeed in my chosen profession, and wanted to do it all. I was "back from Asia," I liked to say to anyone who listened- (though it was really just a year and a half in South Korea, Cambodia and a few vacations in Japan and Thailand. I knew little more than zip about "Asia.")
Sandy Close, who hired me, set up a lunch with her husband, Franz Schurmann, and it seemed clear I was about to be measured. Measured, meaning, analyzed, plumbed, then, categorized, perhaps for job placement.
Reading his bio, I saw he had authored several works on foreign policy, most often focused on US- China relations, and original, historical analysis of US involvement in South East Asia. Furthermore, he was a professor emeritus of the Cal Berkeley History department, and spoke a dozen or so languages. This linguistist's talent enabled him to read the "ethnic press" in its original, non-translated drafts, pushing him closer to the 360 degree worldview which journalism often espouses, but rarely, if ever, strive for.
That his studies illuminated the ideas and practices of Communism from a non-jingoistic perspective, meant I was meeting one of the great portals of non-American political though in America. Here, I mused, was a person capable, actually, truly capable, if put in the right place, of changing US foreign policy in a radical direction, a direction from which the world could benefit.
At that time, I should add, I thought that such a goal- changing US foreign policy- was the only goal worth achieving in the United States.
How nice to be hired into a news agency with this visionary's values at its core, I thought. Bringing the voices of the the subaltern into mainstream news, understanding the impact domestic policy decisions could have on the world at large, educating Americans by re-inventing news, and having educated opinions impact future policy decisions. Seemed pretty clear to me then.
I came prepared; with a pen and a notebook. I toyed with the idea of bringing a hand-held voice recorder to capture the conversation. Imagine, though, that I would be sitting in front of a guy who had written extensively, reported and authored op-eds for all of the major publications, who wrote extensively about any topic that piqued his curiosity. Who would want this guy to think you were a wanna be reporter? Could be embarassing.
I imagined a DC guy, capable of walking in front of the Senate and edifying on North Korean military capacity and the effects closing US bases in Okinawa would have on Taiwanese independence.
Well, he certainly was that. But he lacked bombast. He radiated humility. He had wisdom.
When Franz and I met, across a plate of lo mein, he cupped an ear and leaned toward me- so that I would not necessarily adress his eyes, but his ear. A bit pulpy- with a wealth of hair sprouting from the interior, it seemed a geological feature countoured by voices, music, opinions, poetry, facts.
And throughout the meal, that ear invited me to speak about a bit of everything. My mother, my religious values, how I saw plastic surgery in South Korea, what of the skeleton trade in Cambodia, and did I know about the Hmong general Vang Pao who lived somewhere outside of Fresno yet was planning a coup d'etat in Laos as we spoke?
Over the next two and a half years, I learned the true definition of an American intellectual, plying every day people with questions that got at the subjective truths we each carried within, then tying them to the great currents of history, rather than the less palpable smoke of political agendas. He was a vast respository for odd facts, quirky historical moments, revisionist paradigms, what ifs, why nots, and imagine ifs, which grew from a lifetime of searching for what historical certainties there were.
His often rambling and seemingly untethered ruminations ended with surpising conslusions that often reminded me of Huxley's analysis of history, which I misquote now:
"A study of history shows only that human beings are always doomed to ignore the lessons of history and repeat mistakes. And that is the great truth one learns from the study of history."
If all of America was driven by such curiosity, what a magnificent nation we would be- searching for the artists, the visionaries, the silver lining, the most truth one can find. Catching it all through a willing ear trained to the vocubles of 12 languages!
The last time I spoke with Franz directly, was on a morning walk through the Sunset, by his home, which was his daily routine. He dubbed them these morning walks his "talks with God," where the rumination could contend with the daily grind of a news organization, where the ideas concretized from that cauldron of memory and text. I was 26, a new father, and he in his 70's, and that morning, we discussed Anthony Poshepny, the unlikely inspiration for Colonel Kurtz, Marlon Brando's character in Apocolypse Now- a CIA vet who lived a mere mile away from us at that moment who had amongst other things, recruited the hill tribe soldiers in Laos to take up the US cause, and who had orchestrated the Dalai Lama's "kidnapping" from Tibet.
I enjoyed the way we discussed the truth behind myth, the forces which shaped myth, the individual imperfections of those individuals who achieved mythological status in our culture, or in our lives. No doubt, Franz was one of those mythical people to those of us who spent time with him.
Sadly, Franz has left us, and is perhaps meandering the cosmos on a journey for the curious, a final talk with his God, that I would love to hear him discuss once again.
In the meantime, I will toast Franz, daily, and remain a devoted meanderer, chasing the newest incarnation of the curious which always seem to show itself at just the right moment to keep life wondrous.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Jeremy Lin and Bruce Lee
All my life I've wondered exactly how the world's greatest martial artist (at least in film) could be Asian, but there had never been a dominant, cat quick, ninja-like point guard, akin to Allen Iverson, or Brandon Jennings- thin, wiry, yet strong and fluid, and SO quick you couldn't stop them.
As an Asian American who played a lot of basketball, and having grown up in Los Angeles- where there are pretty good Japanese-American basketball leagues, it was never clear to me why this would be so. Not even at the college level- (though there have been more sitings than normal in the last few years.)
In fact, the premier Asian talent in basketball is Yao Ming, then Yi Jianling, followed from afar by Sun Yue, who is the shortest of them all at 6'9". The influx of height definitely changed one of the most prevalent stereotypes about Asians- that we are short. (Even I theorized that Yao et al had been bioengineered by a selective breeding process engineered by the Chinese government, something which has yet to be proven; today I take the realistic tack that if there are 1 billion and counting individuals in China, then .001% of the population should fall into the 7 foot category.)
Aside from these tall guys though, there has not been a Bruce Lee type who has made it at the highest levels of basketball.
Some will point to Rex Walters, a first round draft pick out of Kansas a few decades ago. Or even Raymond Townsend, or back in the day, Wat Misaka, the "first" Asian American in the NBA. (Check out this link to a documentary film about his life...http://www.watmisaka.com/). Heck our people are even claiming Nate Robinson's 1/8th Filipino heritage makes him the first Asian-American Dunk champ..http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZXyM0i_rlg
Cool? Yeah.
But it's not what I'm talking about here- which is a tradition of great NBA caliber Asian point guards.
See, PG's can be in the 6 foot to 6'5" range, and there's a lot of Asian guys who are that tall.
PG's also need discipline, skill, speed and quickness, traits that you'll see at every single martial arts tournament.
While it's believed that Asians can't jump, they are also fabled with ninja like verticals, so, what's the truth?
I summon Rick Noji to answer this question. This is a 5'8" Japanese-American guy, growing up in Seattle, who, strangely, I remember having more than his fair share of grey hairs as a senior at Franklin High.
Back in the 80's, Noji won not only the State championship in the high jump, (once posting a 7'4" jump), but he also won the 200 meter sprint (21.2) and the long jump (23'4") in his high school career.
Not bad.
Later, as a professional he jumped 7'7"- which was about two feet over his head. (That's actually what your average ninja does..)
Here's his bio:
http://www.wiaa.com/ardisplay.aspx?ID=513
Of course, basketball needs more than simple athleticism, often requiring a focused perfectionist's ability to learn the details of the game. Hmmm. Know any Asians like that? (I do, and I hate them all. They're the guys I had to compete with to get into a good school.)
Reasonable to think that the gym rat requirement would be met.
What else?
Good coaching and opportunity to play?
Maybe this is the hardest part- to get a great coach to believe that an Asian player has the same talent and abilities as kids from races with more proven track records. But you know what? That's not a reasonable argument. Every coach in AAU is looking for some kid who can help his team that got overlooked by those dominant, well known teams continually crushing them by double digits.
Parents? Maybe, not encouraging their kids to play basketball at the highest levels?
Yeah. Surely there are some. Surely many Asian parents wouldn't want their kids to be involved in sports at all if they've decided that their child's path to success lies in academics. And certainly, Asian parents have been stereotyped for pressuring their child to succeed academically, with cram schools, language schools, tutors, etc...
But then there are other Asian parents who do put their kids in sports, so, ...consider it a small filter- yes, Asian parents will emphasize academics over sports, particularly as a career, so the sample size is smaller.
Still, if this leaves us with 500,000 Asian kids growing up in the US alone, whose parents put them in sports, and are willing to give them the support (driving, getting them good coaching, etc.) to develop to their fullest potential, there should by now, be more than one Jeremy Lin in the NBA as a spider quick point guard.
Maybe, just maybe, Asian kids aren't raised to be leaders of kids of other races, though. And a point guard has to accomplish this, every day, every play, on the court.
Maybe that's why we haven't yet seen an Asian Quarterback, or president.
In fact, there are very few Asian Americans I have seen visibly leading individuals of other ethnicities. Bruce Lee, Guy Kawasaki, Dale Minami, a few senators, that governor in Washington. So yeah, there are a few. But there should be more. For the skills, the intelligence, the discipline, and the spirit that Asians have in abundance, their placement in positions of leadership should be higher.
But the instructed humility, the discomfort with pushing an envelope, all time honored parts of the Asian heritage as well, leaves it to envelope pushers like Lin and Lee to drag the rest of us behind them.
In conclusion, I hope that Lin is as much an inspiration to all of you as he is to me, who never did accomplish my goal of being that first in the line of many lightning quick point guards, of the Asian persuasion.
I already got Miles in three basketball camps this summer...
As an Asian American who played a lot of basketball, and having grown up in Los Angeles- where there are pretty good Japanese-American basketball leagues, it was never clear to me why this would be so. Not even at the college level- (though there have been more sitings than normal in the last few years.)
In fact, the premier Asian talent in basketball is Yao Ming, then Yi Jianling, followed from afar by Sun Yue, who is the shortest of them all at 6'9". The influx of height definitely changed one of the most prevalent stereotypes about Asians- that we are short. (Even I theorized that Yao et al had been bioengineered by a selective breeding process engineered by the Chinese government, something which has yet to be proven; today I take the realistic tack that if there are 1 billion and counting individuals in China, then .001% of the population should fall into the 7 foot category.)
Aside from these tall guys though, there has not been a Bruce Lee type who has made it at the highest levels of basketball.
Some will point to Rex Walters, a first round draft pick out of Kansas a few decades ago. Or even Raymond Townsend, or back in the day, Wat Misaka, the "first" Asian American in the NBA. (Check out this link to a documentary film about his life...http://www.watmisaka.com/). Heck our people are even claiming Nate Robinson's 1/8th Filipino heritage makes him the first Asian-American Dunk champ..http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZXyM0i_rlg
Cool? Yeah.
But it's not what I'm talking about here- which is a tradition of great NBA caliber Asian point guards.
See, PG's can be in the 6 foot to 6'5" range, and there's a lot of Asian guys who are that tall.
PG's also need discipline, skill, speed and quickness, traits that you'll see at every single martial arts tournament.
While it's believed that Asians can't jump, they are also fabled with ninja like verticals, so, what's the truth?
I summon Rick Noji to answer this question. This is a 5'8" Japanese-American guy, growing up in Seattle, who, strangely, I remember having more than his fair share of grey hairs as a senior at Franklin High.
Back in the 80's, Noji won not only the State championship in the high jump, (once posting a 7'4" jump), but he also won the 200 meter sprint (21.2) and the long jump (23'4") in his high school career.
Not bad.
Later, as a professional he jumped 7'7"- which was about two feet over his head. (That's actually what your average ninja does..)
Here's his bio:
http://www.wiaa.com/ardisplay.aspx?ID=513
Of course, basketball needs more than simple athleticism, often requiring a focused perfectionist's ability to learn the details of the game. Hmmm. Know any Asians like that? (I do, and I hate them all. They're the guys I had to compete with to get into a good school.)
Reasonable to think that the gym rat requirement would be met.
What else?
Good coaching and opportunity to play?
Maybe this is the hardest part- to get a great coach to believe that an Asian player has the same talent and abilities as kids from races with more proven track records. But you know what? That's not a reasonable argument. Every coach in AAU is looking for some kid who can help his team that got overlooked by those dominant, well known teams continually crushing them by double digits.
Parents? Maybe, not encouraging their kids to play basketball at the highest levels?
Yeah. Surely there are some. Surely many Asian parents wouldn't want their kids to be involved in sports at all if they've decided that their child's path to success lies in academics. And certainly, Asian parents have been stereotyped for pressuring their child to succeed academically, with cram schools, language schools, tutors, etc...
But then there are other Asian parents who do put their kids in sports, so, ...consider it a small filter- yes, Asian parents will emphasize academics over sports, particularly as a career, so the sample size is smaller.
Still, if this leaves us with 500,000 Asian kids growing up in the US alone, whose parents put them in sports, and are willing to give them the support (driving, getting them good coaching, etc.) to develop to their fullest potential, there should by now, be more than one Jeremy Lin in the NBA as a spider quick point guard.
Maybe, just maybe, Asian kids aren't raised to be leaders of kids of other races, though. And a point guard has to accomplish this, every day, every play, on the court.
Maybe that's why we haven't yet seen an Asian Quarterback, or president.
In fact, there are very few Asian Americans I have seen visibly leading individuals of other ethnicities. Bruce Lee, Guy Kawasaki, Dale Minami, a few senators, that governor in Washington. So yeah, there are a few. But there should be more. For the skills, the intelligence, the discipline, and the spirit that Asians have in abundance, their placement in positions of leadership should be higher.
But the instructed humility, the discomfort with pushing an envelope, all time honored parts of the Asian heritage as well, leaves it to envelope pushers like Lin and Lee to drag the rest of us behind them.
In conclusion, I hope that Lin is as much an inspiration to all of you as he is to me, who never did accomplish my goal of being that first in the line of many lightning quick point guards, of the Asian persuasion.
I already got Miles in three basketball camps this summer...
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
SAVE THE WHITEFISH!
There is a great article about the Asian carp- currently public enemy number one in the Great Lakes of America (and Canada).
The Asian carp, it seems, was introduced in the "Deep South" back in the 70's.
They were "imported" to fish farms, as well as sewage lagoons.
Extrapolating, then, the Asian carp was brought to make money, and to literally "eat shit."
Since the early 1970's, the carp "escaped" into the Mississippi River, and is now, "infesting" northern waterway, devouring the plankton upon which cherished native species rely, species which include "whitefish."
Check it here.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20100719/ap_on_bi_ge/us_asian_carp_great_lakes_5
What is most interesting about this is the rhetoric is identical to that used by Arizona Minutemen in their battle against "Illegal immigrants."
"Asian carp will kill jobs and ruin our way of life," states Michigan Attorney General Mike Cox.
In his petition to the US District Courts in northern Illiniois, Cox is essentially asking for "locks, gates, and other infrastructure" to be closed, after the carp was discovered north of an "electric barrier" designed to "block the voracious fish's path."
Anyone want to play "Parallels in American History?" (Sounds like a fun new board game to me!)
My turn!
Off the top of my head, they include both the bracero programs for migrant labor, and the plantation based economy of the "deep south", where blacks and latinos were brought into the US to work fields, clean houses, etc. the "dirty jobs."
Most obvious, since we're talking about "asians" is the Chinese "cooley" system, when labor from China was brought to the US to build the railways, wash clothes and pick weeds.
Then, there's "chitlins"- basically, the pigs intestines which were fed to slaves, very close to eating shit.
Fast forwarding to the present, there's the electric fence, which echo the "border" fences being erected to keep out terrorists, drug dealers and of course, the evil illegal immigrants.
There's also the Arizona law- how could I leave that out? which would allow law enforcement and a network of patriotic vigiliantes (aka- the minutemen) to act as a "gate, lock, or other infrastructure" to keep out the "invaders."
Other parallels?
That this fish has in its core a desire to succeed, proliferate, and conquer that seems to embody the American Dream at its best. A fish that, by the way, jumps out of the water to "attack" boats and fisherman. Kinda badass, really to think about these escaped shit eaters kicking everyone's ass!
As a half-Asian/ half-white man, I feel both a sense of pride, and a Nativist rage! How compelling.
SAVE THE WHITEFISH!!!
A quick glance at the comments in the Yahoo section shows that while there are some intersting ideas, like harvesting the fish and selling it "back" to "Asia" (a big continent, by the way, extending from Turkey to Japan), where it is apparently eaten, there are human bottom dwellers as well.
Here's a sample:
Joseph
"It's called "infiltration". The only thing is it's at every level in this country. All the way from diseases, to animals, to aliens slithering in, to politics, to whatever else you can think of."
William S
"The Feds won't keep out mexicans or fish. Just what the hell are they good at? Taxing me to death and spending money even my great grandchildren will never be able to repay!!!!!! Thanks Barry.
KC "This species of fish routinely major in electrical engineering, that is how they are getting by the electric fences."
the anti-liberal "Obama will give them amnesty, health care, and the right to vote. He will also start a civil rights protest if the fishermen step any closer to them."
The Asian carp, it seems, was introduced in the "Deep South" back in the 70's.
They were "imported" to fish farms, as well as sewage lagoons.
Extrapolating, then, the Asian carp was brought to make money, and to literally "eat shit."
Since the early 1970's, the carp "escaped" into the Mississippi River, and is now, "infesting" northern waterway, devouring the plankton upon which cherished native species rely, species which include "whitefish."
Check it here.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20100719/ap_on_bi_ge/us_asian_carp_great_lakes_5
What is most interesting about this is the rhetoric is identical to that used by Arizona Minutemen in their battle against "Illegal immigrants."
"Asian carp will kill jobs and ruin our way of life," states Michigan Attorney General Mike Cox.
In his petition to the US District Courts in northern Illiniois, Cox is essentially asking for "locks, gates, and other infrastructure" to be closed, after the carp was discovered north of an "electric barrier" designed to "block the voracious fish's path."
Anyone want to play "Parallels in American History?" (Sounds like a fun new board game to me!)
My turn!
Off the top of my head, they include both the bracero programs for migrant labor, and the plantation based economy of the "deep south", where blacks and latinos were brought into the US to work fields, clean houses, etc. the "dirty jobs."
Most obvious, since we're talking about "asians" is the Chinese "cooley" system, when labor from China was brought to the US to build the railways, wash clothes and pick weeds.
Then, there's "chitlins"- basically, the pigs intestines which were fed to slaves, very close to eating shit.
Fast forwarding to the present, there's the electric fence, which echo the "border" fences being erected to keep out terrorists, drug dealers and of course, the evil illegal immigrants.
There's also the Arizona law- how could I leave that out? which would allow law enforcement and a network of patriotic vigiliantes (aka- the minutemen) to act as a "gate, lock, or other infrastructure" to keep out the "invaders."
Other parallels?
That this fish has in its core a desire to succeed, proliferate, and conquer that seems to embody the American Dream at its best. A fish that, by the way, jumps out of the water to "attack" boats and fisherman. Kinda badass, really to think about these escaped shit eaters kicking everyone's ass!
As a half-Asian/ half-white man, I feel both a sense of pride, and a Nativist rage! How compelling.
SAVE THE WHITEFISH!!!
A quick glance at the comments in the Yahoo section shows that while there are some intersting ideas, like harvesting the fish and selling it "back" to "Asia" (a big continent, by the way, extending from Turkey to Japan), where it is apparently eaten, there are human bottom dwellers as well.
Here's a sample:
Joseph
"It's called "infiltration". The only thing is it's at every level in this country. All the way from diseases, to animals, to aliens slithering in, to politics, to whatever else you can think of."
William S
"The Feds won't keep out mexicans or fish. Just what the hell are they good at? Taxing me to death and spending money even my great grandchildren will never be able to repay!!!!!! Thanks Barry.
KC "This species of fish routinely major in electrical engineering, that is how they are getting by the electric fences."
the anti-liberal "Obama will give them amnesty, health care, and the right to vote. He will also start a civil rights protest if the fishermen step any closer to them."
Friday, July 16, 2010
Uncle Bucky Asks: Wither the Trailblazers?
So, he who coined the "term" Peckerpole, now asks, "what's up with the Blazers?"
Uncle Buck is the guy who keeps me abreast of all things Portland- from micro brews, to bike paths, to the Blazers. So, his obsession with the Blazers, essentially what puts the city on the Map around the nation, is not out of line. But now, he ventures into the dangerous land of speculation, and consideration of the "front offices" thinking/ philosphy re: the future.
I love it- to wax philosophical about hoops. Expect some Nietzche, and possibly some Darwin as well.
Here we go. Let's start with the brain, for where the brain goes, the ass follows. And there are a few asses which need kicking in Portland.
Essentially, the Blazers have had a lobotomy. The odd termination of Kevin Pritchard, leaves a lot to be desired in Portland.
Pritchard, a guy whom many, including myself, consider one of the top three personnel guys in the league (Presti, Kupchak, and the guy in San Antonio (Buford?) also come to mind), leaving the Blazers is kind of mind boggling. If Oden had just had ONE fucking full season under his belt, it says here that Pritchard would never have left, and there would be more talk about Portland than Oklahoma City as the Second Best in the West.
Evidence of this distentigration is already taking place: highly questionable moves, like overpaying Wesley Matthews, and sending out Martell Webster for, essentially, a tall white rookie, named Luke Babbit (the guy can shoot though), stand out.
Back to Uncle Bucky's Question though: what does the Summer League tell us about the direction the Blazers want to go in?
Bucky's smelling strange things in the winds, and says he's feeling a massive trade rolling in.
It's possible. Because in disarray, almost anything can take place. But Uncle Buck seems to be trying, as is his wont, to make sense out of disorder. He's a highly rational guy- uses the scientific method to compost his toilet paper, so, this isn't out of character.
And I like Bucky, because he assumes that if he's got a master plan, that the Blazers have a metanarrative in place too, because, maybe, they're guiding this team.
I am writing this, more than anything else, to dispute that, and offer some ideas about what may be actually guiding the Blazers in lieu of a real master plan.
So, let's accrue the details.
1) "When the cat's away, the mice will play."- Bob Marley
All those muffled subordinates, who chafed under Pritchard's domination of the Blazers? Suddenly, they are opinionated mother fuckers- and most of them probably have zero experience or real basketball knowledge. They're suits, basketball parasites, the equivelant of a rhemora fish suctioning to the belly of a shark. They're along for a ride. Without Pritchard, suddenly the overstocked basketball pantry in Portland, looks like food that's sat on the buffet table for too long, and all the suits want to jump as high as they can on this suddenly zero gravity planet, and rock the potlatch. Look for will and emotional baggage to become guiding principles for this transition, while Allen, a hands off owner, leans over the rail of his yacht somewhere and regurgiates his dom perignon.
2) "The Will to Whiteness" in the Pacific Northwest.
Never ever leave out context.
The Jailblazers are not too far gone. Rasheed, Randolph, "those guys" lurk in the Portland memory like dense, hazy smoke in a backalley. The race of those individuals can't be overlooked, particularly in a city that has had more than its fair share of neo-Nazis. I remember walking through down town Portland, as a non-white kid, and feeling like a pack of drunken asswipes would try to kick my ass.
Now, the Blazers have got a great set of players, leaving aside the Greg Oden porno shots for a second, but the lingering sentiment is that there are too many wild hairs on the Brazilian Wax. Guys who just don't fit in. Guys like Bayless, Outlaw, Batum, Webster, Mills, Armon Johnson, Wesley Matthews...
The flumoxed Blazer brass doesn't see how this all fits together. So they go and get spare parts from Utah (Matthews) a guy who isn't better than Webster, or Batum, or Outlaw, but who is easy to understand. A guy with a role, who you can slot in somewhere. a guy you can control. Not a Jailblazer, or a wild hair, just a role player.
So now, Outlaw is gone. Webster is gone. Batum is likley displaced.
Fernandez?
Black holes. Wild Hairs.
The only known quantities are Roy, and Aldridge. And Pryzbilla, coming off the bench in the event Oden shows up to play.
I'm telling you now, that if you gave this roster to Boston Celtics coach, Doc Rivers, he'd have them in an intelligible rotation, based on strengths, creating chemistry. Not a flumox of talent that makes bball brass' opinions suddenly matter.
Opening up the id, can often reveal long standing impulses, and frustrations. Though these suits may have zero bball acumen, they also have a chip on their shoulder about it by now, and want to "finally" do what they've been held back from accomplishing.
More context-
One thing that I learned living in Seattle for a decade, was that in the predomiately white parts of the nation, there's a real desire to see a great white ball player- a Larry Bird. That, it seems, is a basic emotional/ racial urge which acts as a default setting for, say, uninformed basketball suits, without a lot of real knowledge of the game, who suddenly find themselves in a power vaccuum.
Without Pritchard, it's clear that that will to whiteness, to bastardize Neitzche, and probably sound slightly Neo- Nazi, has come to the fore.
Evidence?
Travis Outlaw and Martell Webster, two of the most athletic, yet underitulized players in the NBA, are already gone. Perhaps Portland's inability to find them steady roles is contributing to what looks like what might happen to half the team over the next few years- Dante Cunningham, Nicholas Batum, Jerrod Bayless, add Patty Mills and the new PG from Nevada, Armon Johnson. Even Pendegraph.
Pritchard has put together as much talent as anyone could wish for, and yet, I'm thinking that the move for Babbit- a better version of Kyle Korver- (and probably not a better shooter than Webster, and certainly not nearly the defensive presence that Webster was/ could be,) has its history in searching for the next Bird, or, more aptly, Tom Chambers.
The Blazers dont realy have a white guy anyone can pin any hopes on. Their rotation is confusing for everyone. The talent is an unruly mess. The suits are in revolt. Perect conditions for the will to whiteness to prevail.
So let's move from context, and get back to the original question:
Can we read anything from Summer League?
In short, yeah.
Pritchard has again done his job of assembling talent. More good players are on the roster. It will be crowded, and playing time will be sparse for a lot of young talent.
Mc Millan will be the same. Not quite enough leadership. Enough excuses and reputation to hold him though a good, yet mediocre season.
Brass will no longer make sterling decisions based on basketball knowledge, and a waning influx of talent will result.
Will there be a massive trade? Probably.
Most lilely, for Oden. then Fernandez. Then Bayless. Then Batum. Maybe even Roy. (Disorder.)
If I am an opposing GM, I being to target the weakened Blazers, and play to the factions inside the eco-friendly, starbucks' drinking organizational facade.
So yes, trades are coming. Maybe even a blockbuster. But it won't be a good one.
Unless McMillan has got a miracle up his sleeves, be prepared for a long run of 6th to 8th seedings in the West, while the will to whitenenss roils below.
What would I do?
If I'm Allen, I get those disgruntled salary men out of the building, and build around Pritchard, or someone like Pritchard. Though, to be honest, there aren't many guys with his eye for talent.
Uncle Buck is the guy who keeps me abreast of all things Portland- from micro brews, to bike paths, to the Blazers. So, his obsession with the Blazers, essentially what puts the city on the Map around the nation, is not out of line. But now, he ventures into the dangerous land of speculation, and consideration of the "front offices" thinking/ philosphy re: the future.
I love it- to wax philosophical about hoops. Expect some Nietzche, and possibly some Darwin as well.
Here we go. Let's start with the brain, for where the brain goes, the ass follows. And there are a few asses which need kicking in Portland.
Essentially, the Blazers have had a lobotomy. The odd termination of Kevin Pritchard, leaves a lot to be desired in Portland.
Pritchard, a guy whom many, including myself, consider one of the top three personnel guys in the league (Presti, Kupchak, and the guy in San Antonio (Buford?) also come to mind), leaving the Blazers is kind of mind boggling. If Oden had just had ONE fucking full season under his belt, it says here that Pritchard would never have left, and there would be more talk about Portland than Oklahoma City as the Second Best in the West.
Evidence of this distentigration is already taking place: highly questionable moves, like overpaying Wesley Matthews, and sending out Martell Webster for, essentially, a tall white rookie, named Luke Babbit (the guy can shoot though), stand out.
Back to Uncle Bucky's Question though: what does the Summer League tell us about the direction the Blazers want to go in?
Bucky's smelling strange things in the winds, and says he's feeling a massive trade rolling in.
It's possible. Because in disarray, almost anything can take place. But Uncle Buck seems to be trying, as is his wont, to make sense out of disorder. He's a highly rational guy- uses the scientific method to compost his toilet paper, so, this isn't out of character.
And I like Bucky, because he assumes that if he's got a master plan, that the Blazers have a metanarrative in place too, because, maybe, they're guiding this team.
I am writing this, more than anything else, to dispute that, and offer some ideas about what may be actually guiding the Blazers in lieu of a real master plan.
So, let's accrue the details.
1) "When the cat's away, the mice will play."- Bob Marley
All those muffled subordinates, who chafed under Pritchard's domination of the Blazers? Suddenly, they are opinionated mother fuckers- and most of them probably have zero experience or real basketball knowledge. They're suits, basketball parasites, the equivelant of a rhemora fish suctioning to the belly of a shark. They're along for a ride. Without Pritchard, suddenly the overstocked basketball pantry in Portland, looks like food that's sat on the buffet table for too long, and all the suits want to jump as high as they can on this suddenly zero gravity planet, and rock the potlatch. Look for will and emotional baggage to become guiding principles for this transition, while Allen, a hands off owner, leans over the rail of his yacht somewhere and regurgiates his dom perignon.
2) "The Will to Whiteness" in the Pacific Northwest.
Never ever leave out context.
The Jailblazers are not too far gone. Rasheed, Randolph, "those guys" lurk in the Portland memory like dense, hazy smoke in a backalley. The race of those individuals can't be overlooked, particularly in a city that has had more than its fair share of neo-Nazis. I remember walking through down town Portland, as a non-white kid, and feeling like a pack of drunken asswipes would try to kick my ass.
Now, the Blazers have got a great set of players, leaving aside the Greg Oden porno shots for a second, but the lingering sentiment is that there are too many wild hairs on the Brazilian Wax. Guys who just don't fit in. Guys like Bayless, Outlaw, Batum, Webster, Mills, Armon Johnson, Wesley Matthews...
The flumoxed Blazer brass doesn't see how this all fits together. So they go and get spare parts from Utah (Matthews) a guy who isn't better than Webster, or Batum, or Outlaw, but who is easy to understand. A guy with a role, who you can slot in somewhere. a guy you can control. Not a Jailblazer, or a wild hair, just a role player.
So now, Outlaw is gone. Webster is gone. Batum is likley displaced.
Fernandez?
Black holes. Wild Hairs.
The only known quantities are Roy, and Aldridge. And Pryzbilla, coming off the bench in the event Oden shows up to play.
I'm telling you now, that if you gave this roster to Boston Celtics coach, Doc Rivers, he'd have them in an intelligible rotation, based on strengths, creating chemistry. Not a flumox of talent that makes bball brass' opinions suddenly matter.
Opening up the id, can often reveal long standing impulses, and frustrations. Though these suits may have zero bball acumen, they also have a chip on their shoulder about it by now, and want to "finally" do what they've been held back from accomplishing.
More context-
One thing that I learned living in Seattle for a decade, was that in the predomiately white parts of the nation, there's a real desire to see a great white ball player- a Larry Bird. That, it seems, is a basic emotional/ racial urge which acts as a default setting for, say, uninformed basketball suits, without a lot of real knowledge of the game, who suddenly find themselves in a power vaccuum.
Without Pritchard, it's clear that that will to whiteness, to bastardize Neitzche, and probably sound slightly Neo- Nazi, has come to the fore.
Evidence?
Travis Outlaw and Martell Webster, two of the most athletic, yet underitulized players in the NBA, are already gone. Perhaps Portland's inability to find them steady roles is contributing to what looks like what might happen to half the team over the next few years- Dante Cunningham, Nicholas Batum, Jerrod Bayless, add Patty Mills and the new PG from Nevada, Armon Johnson. Even Pendegraph.
Pritchard has put together as much talent as anyone could wish for, and yet, I'm thinking that the move for Babbit- a better version of Kyle Korver- (and probably not a better shooter than Webster, and certainly not nearly the defensive presence that Webster was/ could be,) has its history in searching for the next Bird, or, more aptly, Tom Chambers.
The Blazers dont realy have a white guy anyone can pin any hopes on. Their rotation is confusing for everyone. The talent is an unruly mess. The suits are in revolt. Perect conditions for the will to whiteness to prevail.
So let's move from context, and get back to the original question:
Can we read anything from Summer League?
In short, yeah.
Pritchard has again done his job of assembling talent. More good players are on the roster. It will be crowded, and playing time will be sparse for a lot of young talent.
Mc Millan will be the same. Not quite enough leadership. Enough excuses and reputation to hold him though a good, yet mediocre season.
Brass will no longer make sterling decisions based on basketball knowledge, and a waning influx of talent will result.
Will there be a massive trade? Probably.
Most lilely, for Oden. then Fernandez. Then Bayless. Then Batum. Maybe even Roy. (Disorder.)
If I am an opposing GM, I being to target the weakened Blazers, and play to the factions inside the eco-friendly, starbucks' drinking organizational facade.
So yes, trades are coming. Maybe even a blockbuster. But it won't be a good one.
Unless McMillan has got a miracle up his sleeves, be prepared for a long run of 6th to 8th seedings in the West, while the will to whitenenss roils below.
What would I do?
If I'm Allen, I get those disgruntled salary men out of the building, and build around Pritchard, or someone like Pritchard. Though, to be honest, there aren't many guys with his eye for talent.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Krakauer's Into Thin Air
Picked up this book for no particular reason, perhaps due to a lull in my own personal ambitions, to read about individuals motivated by the simplest form of idealism- climb the highest mountain. It went quickly, and every time I put it down, I flashed to my own, minimal experiences of mountain climbing, or hiking into the folds of the Northwest Cascades on my own.
The sense of exhaustion, the difficulty of working in teams, the central paradox of sublimating the ego when clearly it was the ego that was the prime motive, were all clear to me. And yet, I was somehow proud to be from this strange, idealistic clan of the individual. In fact, most of my friends have paid some price or another to consider themselves part of this sensibility.
How to describe the experience of moving past one's limits, onto a slick, fractured rock face with only one's ebbing strength and the desperation of possible death to motivate?
I used to do that regularly. Probably between the ages of 19-25. Without a true, binding "vocation" to provide focus and self-discipline, without a material desire lashing me to the economic corpus bloating in the early and mid 90's, there was only discovery of my own physical and mental limitations to discover.
Without a religion, or a God to pray to and fall before, there was only Nature and Will to push me.
Having a son changed all that- at age 26. But it was interesting to see these grown men and women, who needed to continue to separate themselves from others, driven by some internal egoistic gratification that made the book compelling.
The First World Ego accompanied by the Third World Support. Perhaps nowhere more personified than there, on the face of Everest.
As I read it, I was simultaneously pulled in, and relieved that I was not experiencing this myself. Leaving the book to play with my children, then returning to the self-flagellation that propels each of these individuals gave me the balance to both tolerate the day to day grind, heavy with oxygen, and to appreciate the deprivation required to appreciate what I had.
But such a trapeze walk speaks of deeper ambitions still writhing, alive deeply in some unlit place.
Krakauer's gift is to allow each of us to see bits of ourselves in the climbers on the Lhoste Face, the psychological cwm we continually spin within.
The sense of exhaustion, the difficulty of working in teams, the central paradox of sublimating the ego when clearly it was the ego that was the prime motive, were all clear to me. And yet, I was somehow proud to be from this strange, idealistic clan of the individual. In fact, most of my friends have paid some price or another to consider themselves part of this sensibility.
How to describe the experience of moving past one's limits, onto a slick, fractured rock face with only one's ebbing strength and the desperation of possible death to motivate?
I used to do that regularly. Probably between the ages of 19-25. Without a true, binding "vocation" to provide focus and self-discipline, without a material desire lashing me to the economic corpus bloating in the early and mid 90's, there was only discovery of my own physical and mental limitations to discover.
Without a religion, or a God to pray to and fall before, there was only Nature and Will to push me.
Having a son changed all that- at age 26. But it was interesting to see these grown men and women, who needed to continue to separate themselves from others, driven by some internal egoistic gratification that made the book compelling.
The First World Ego accompanied by the Third World Support. Perhaps nowhere more personified than there, on the face of Everest.
As I read it, I was simultaneously pulled in, and relieved that I was not experiencing this myself. Leaving the book to play with my children, then returning to the self-flagellation that propels each of these individuals gave me the balance to both tolerate the day to day grind, heavy with oxygen, and to appreciate the deprivation required to appreciate what I had.
But such a trapeze walk speaks of deeper ambitions still writhing, alive deeply in some unlit place.
Krakauer's gift is to allow each of us to see bits of ourselves in the climbers on the Lhoste Face, the psychological cwm we continually spin within.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Miami Heat 2010-2015
Le Bron, Wade and Bosh, with Chalmers and Pittman rounding out the starting 5. I've mentioned Pittman before, and I believe that the guy is going to emerge as the fourth Heat- the guy that makes the team legendary. Similar to the emergence of Rondo.
He is exactly what the Heat needed to have- bulky, deceptively quick post player who can and will score.
In fact, it's almost as if Riley drafted knowing that he'd have the Three in the bag already.
Consider the second round role players picked by Riley. Pittman, to start, as a Kendrick Perkins type around the basket. Then, Javaris Varnado, the leading blk getter in NCAA history- similar in some ways to Rodman defensively. Add to that DeShaun Butler, who could've been a lottery pick if he had not injured his knee- a small forward to can bang, dunk and hit the outside shot- often compared to Caron Butler, and you can see that Riley drafted to fill the holes on the roster he now has.
While losing Beasley is tough, as he'd have been a nice 6th man off the bench, or even a starter, if Wade or LeBron take over the point, the possibility of replacing him still exists with a lower salary player. Mike Miller, off the bench?
When all is said and done, I can't wait to get my Heat- Laker ticket next year. Gonna be basketball at its highest levels- like a Redeem Team scrimmage..
He is exactly what the Heat needed to have- bulky, deceptively quick post player who can and will score.
In fact, it's almost as if Riley drafted knowing that he'd have the Three in the bag already.
Consider the second round role players picked by Riley. Pittman, to start, as a Kendrick Perkins type around the basket. Then, Javaris Varnado, the leading blk getter in NCAA history- similar in some ways to Rodman defensively. Add to that DeShaun Butler, who could've been a lottery pick if he had not injured his knee- a small forward to can bang, dunk and hit the outside shot- often compared to Caron Butler, and you can see that Riley drafted to fill the holes on the roster he now has.
While losing Beasley is tough, as he'd have been a nice 6th man off the bench, or even a starter, if Wade or LeBron take over the point, the possibility of replacing him still exists with a lower salary player. Mike Miller, off the bench?
When all is said and done, I can't wait to get my Heat- Laker ticket next year. Gonna be basketball at its highest levels- like a Redeem Team scrimmage..
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
nba draft comparisons
With a comparison to their highest and lowest potential incarnations...
John Wall- Dwayne Wade/ Steve Francis
DeMarcus Cousins- Karl Malone/ Zach Randolph
Derrick Favors- Antonio McDyess/ Dale Davis
Luke Babbit- Tom Chambers/ Galinari
Evan Turner- Brandon Roy/ John Salmons
Gordan Hayward- Dunleavy Jr.
Jared Randle- Eddie House/ DJ Augustine
Wesley Johnson- Scottie Pippen/ Josh Howard
Cole Aldrich- Chris Mimh/ John Koncak/ Eric Montross/ etc...
Eric Bledsoe- Kyle Lowry
Dexter Pittman- Eric Dampier/ that Center for the Pacers...from Gtown...Hibbert
Hassan Whitehead- Camby/ Caldwell Jones
Ed Davis- Brandon Wright/ Josh Powell
More Later
John Wall- Dwayne Wade/ Steve Francis
DeMarcus Cousins- Karl Malone/ Zach Randolph
Derrick Favors- Antonio McDyess/ Dale Davis
Luke Babbit- Tom Chambers/ Galinari
Evan Turner- Brandon Roy/ John Salmons
Gordan Hayward- Dunleavy Jr.
Jared Randle- Eddie House/ DJ Augustine
Wesley Johnson- Scottie Pippen/ Josh Howard
Cole Aldrich- Chris Mimh/ John Koncak/ Eric Montross/ etc...
Eric Bledsoe- Kyle Lowry
Dexter Pittman- Eric Dampier/ that Center for the Pacers...from Gtown...Hibbert
Hassan Whitehead- Camby/ Caldwell Jones
Ed Davis- Brandon Wright/ Josh Powell
More Later
Laker's Next Step: Dexter Pittman
Two things re: Lakers struck me after the Finals this year:
1) They need some backup in the post.
2) They need some firepower off the bench.
Remedies: The Lakers need a backup post player who can clog the middle, play strong post D, and rebound. You'd imagine that Josh Powell, or DJ Mbenga would be able to do this- but that's not the case.
Powell doesn't have that one defining edge: not strong or tall enough. Not fericious enough. Not a leaper. Can't really shoot. A nice body for practice.
Mbenga, is all elbows and knees, and fouls. He can drape himself all over his opponent, but his overdeveloped upper torso seems to weigh down the crab legs below, and he always seems out of place, out of position, ready to swing completely out of balance, with only his size 17 feet to scrabble about fruitlessly for leverage. He'd make a great baseball bat, just grab him by the legs, and let the barrel of his chest slam the fastball out into left field, (just like this metaphor) but he sucks as a basketball player.
And weirdly, for a huge guy- Mbenga isn't even a space eater. He's thin, and even when boxing out, seems to get only a small piece of the "canopy"- (I can't think of a better term- but how do you describe the space around the basket where rebounds are to be gathered? Going furthur, if Mbenga were a tree in the Amazon jungle, he'd be a skinny "pecker pole" that shoots up straight and narrow, gathering only a small bit of the sun.
(By the way, the term "pecker pole" was used by my buddy, a prominent ecological designer, to describe the thin, shallow rooted second generation trees planted by lumber companies to replenish a clear cut. He used the term angrily, "Look at all those fucking pecker poles!" and I say this to let you all know I didn't coin the term all by my lonesome.)
Back to the point- what do the Lakers need?
When Bynum was wounded, and draining fluid from beneath his patella, and the Lakers were getting beaten up underneath in Game 5, I asked myself why they were continuing to play Gasol- clearly exhausted, and out of ideas, and not let him rest for a bit, get some clarity and come back in with energy and a game plan?
Answer: Because every one else they had was a complete liability. Powell, and Mbenga already discussed- what's next? Morrison? Walton? What ever happened to Mike Smrek?
The Lakers needed, at that moment, a space eater who can alter the post area and lower key just by being there. Some King of Bulk, a lot like Kendrick Perkins, who showed his value once he was gone and the Celts got pummeled inside in 6 and 7.
And I'm the kind of guy who hates to complain without bringing the solution. So...
The Solution.
Dexter Pittman, Texas.
Likely available in the second round.
This guy is huge- like an Oliver Miller, and like Miller, has all the same limitations. Not fast, laterally challenged. But strong like bull, with a soft finishing touch, and can potentially devastate a small point guard darting into the lane. And the guy can fucking box you out!
Imagine Westbrook slamming against this wall while Gasol rests and Bynum recovers from his latest knee injury. Imagine Garnett trying to elbow his way past Strong Like Bulk.
Remember those massive supervillians who nothing could hurt due to their resiliant density? Even a Superman uppercut would merely send tremors rolling through their torsos?
Or have you seen a Brazilian porno, where the cam suddenly slo mo's on the largest bunda you've ever seen, quivering like a bowl of jelly, something evolutionally prepared to take a pounding?
That's Pittman.
And Pittman can be a force of nature- let me drum up a better metaphor- a voracious black hole- like DeJuan Blair, on the rebounding front. For ten violent minutes a game before he collpases into a puddle of high cholesterol persipration.
But how much would Laker's fans liked to have seen this guy- an option- as opposed to the other non-options, on their bench in Game 5?
All that for only the minimum NBA salary...
1) They need some backup in the post.
2) They need some firepower off the bench.
Remedies: The Lakers need a backup post player who can clog the middle, play strong post D, and rebound. You'd imagine that Josh Powell, or DJ Mbenga would be able to do this- but that's not the case.
Powell doesn't have that one defining edge: not strong or tall enough. Not fericious enough. Not a leaper. Can't really shoot. A nice body for practice.
Mbenga, is all elbows and knees, and fouls. He can drape himself all over his opponent, but his overdeveloped upper torso seems to weigh down the crab legs below, and he always seems out of place, out of position, ready to swing completely out of balance, with only his size 17 feet to scrabble about fruitlessly for leverage. He'd make a great baseball bat, just grab him by the legs, and let the barrel of his chest slam the fastball out into left field, (just like this metaphor) but he sucks as a basketball player.
And weirdly, for a huge guy- Mbenga isn't even a space eater. He's thin, and even when boxing out, seems to get only a small piece of the "canopy"- (I can't think of a better term- but how do you describe the space around the basket where rebounds are to be gathered? Going furthur, if Mbenga were a tree in the Amazon jungle, he'd be a skinny "pecker pole" that shoots up straight and narrow, gathering only a small bit of the sun.
(By the way, the term "pecker pole" was used by my buddy, a prominent ecological designer, to describe the thin, shallow rooted second generation trees planted by lumber companies to replenish a clear cut. He used the term angrily, "Look at all those fucking pecker poles!" and I say this to let you all know I didn't coin the term all by my lonesome.)
Back to the point- what do the Lakers need?
When Bynum was wounded, and draining fluid from beneath his patella, and the Lakers were getting beaten up underneath in Game 5, I asked myself why they were continuing to play Gasol- clearly exhausted, and out of ideas, and not let him rest for a bit, get some clarity and come back in with energy and a game plan?
Answer: Because every one else they had was a complete liability. Powell, and Mbenga already discussed- what's next? Morrison? Walton? What ever happened to Mike Smrek?
The Lakers needed, at that moment, a space eater who can alter the post area and lower key just by being there. Some King of Bulk, a lot like Kendrick Perkins, who showed his value once he was gone and the Celts got pummeled inside in 6 and 7.
And I'm the kind of guy who hates to complain without bringing the solution. So...
The Solution.
Dexter Pittman, Texas.
Likely available in the second round.
This guy is huge- like an Oliver Miller, and like Miller, has all the same limitations. Not fast, laterally challenged. But strong like bull, with a soft finishing touch, and can potentially devastate a small point guard darting into the lane. And the guy can fucking box you out!
Imagine Westbrook slamming against this wall while Gasol rests and Bynum recovers from his latest knee injury. Imagine Garnett trying to elbow his way past Strong Like Bulk.
Remember those massive supervillians who nothing could hurt due to their resiliant density? Even a Superman uppercut would merely send tremors rolling through their torsos?
Or have you seen a Brazilian porno, where the cam suddenly slo mo's on the largest bunda you've ever seen, quivering like a bowl of jelly, something evolutionally prepared to take a pounding?
That's Pittman.
And Pittman can be a force of nature- let me drum up a better metaphor- a voracious black hole- like DeJuan Blair, on the rebounding front. For ten violent minutes a game before he collpases into a puddle of high cholesterol persipration.
But how much would Laker's fans liked to have seen this guy- an option- as opposed to the other non-options, on their bench in Game 5?
All that for only the minimum NBA salary...
DeMarcus Cousins: Silverback Mastadon
I hate mock drafts. I read them, but they are generally full of shit. While it's enjoyable to see players as stock, the conjectures often have nothing to do with their value on a basketball court.
With that in mind, I'm paring this entry down to who I think is notable in this upcoming draft.
First, DeMarcus Cousins is a silverback mastadon. If those never existed, God fucked up. They exist now, and the first is DeMarcus Counsins. May he have 8 children with 8 women and thus spread his seed. And yes, I'm comparing him, at least in mental capacity, to Shawn Kemp.
Compare him to Moses Malone if you are ignorant, but consider Karl Malone instead. A huge thick guy who can bang, has touch and can hit from the outside? A guy with attitude and the ability to intimidate- like a silverback mastadon? A guy who isn't going to jump over you, like Blake Griffin, but would prefer to plow through you? Karl Malone. That's the highest upside.
But this guy's going to doa lot of dumb things with the ball too. The Malone we all remember dished out of the post when doubles came, and generally played smart. Even though we hated watching him pray before each free throw, we knew they were going in.
Back to Kemp- take Kemp's brain, and implant it into Karl Malone's body, and you get Counsins. This means, some miswired circuity, some bad decisions, both on the court and off. Some mechanics that won't always get learned, some deficiency in the fundamentals (for instance, in footwork, or post D, that limit his upper limit.) Expect fouls, lots of them, and even some Rasheed Wallace, a hot headed T every now and then.
I'll say it right here- Zach Randolph 2.0.
But overall, you'd live with the deficincies, and take the strengths; the man-eating oak tree in the post who can snap the 17 footer at will.
Prognosis: 17 pts. 12 rbs. 1.4 blks. 2 TO's.
Overall, GM's pass him only to save them and their franchise a few headaches. But they will hate facing him on the court.
With that in mind, I'm paring this entry down to who I think is notable in this upcoming draft.
First, DeMarcus Cousins is a silverback mastadon. If those never existed, God fucked up. They exist now, and the first is DeMarcus Counsins. May he have 8 children with 8 women and thus spread his seed. And yes, I'm comparing him, at least in mental capacity, to Shawn Kemp.
Compare him to Moses Malone if you are ignorant, but consider Karl Malone instead. A huge thick guy who can bang, has touch and can hit from the outside? A guy with attitude and the ability to intimidate- like a silverback mastadon? A guy who isn't going to jump over you, like Blake Griffin, but would prefer to plow through you? Karl Malone. That's the highest upside.
But this guy's going to doa lot of dumb things with the ball too. The Malone we all remember dished out of the post when doubles came, and generally played smart. Even though we hated watching him pray before each free throw, we knew they were going in.
Back to Kemp- take Kemp's brain, and implant it into Karl Malone's body, and you get Counsins. This means, some miswired circuity, some bad decisions, both on the court and off. Some mechanics that won't always get learned, some deficiency in the fundamentals (for instance, in footwork, or post D, that limit his upper limit.) Expect fouls, lots of them, and even some Rasheed Wallace, a hot headed T every now and then.
I'll say it right here- Zach Randolph 2.0.
But overall, you'd live with the deficincies, and take the strengths; the man-eating oak tree in the post who can snap the 17 footer at will.
Prognosis: 17 pts. 12 rbs. 1.4 blks. 2 TO's.
Overall, GM's pass him only to save them and their franchise a few headaches. But they will hate facing him on the court.
A Sociologist Embraces Basketball
When I moved to LA, 6 years past, I told a friend I would start to watch basketball again, but I would never wash my car.
My vision was: LA as a smog pit/ bright light for the globalized moths of the world, community so diffuse that the Lakers and cars were the common parlance, the coin of the realm, the tendons of the dream.
My idea was to embrace one and villify the other.
It wasn't a bad choice- as a former Seattlite, I valued clean rain, green wilderness, waterproof clothing, heathly outdoor activities (yeah, like walking, biking, hiking, swimming), salmon, and the Sonics. Durant and Green, Payton and Kemp, the X man, Tom Chambers, Dale Ellis, and Derrick McKey, even Dana Barros for a season.
In sum, I had a natural affinity for "sustainable living", (LA is about as sustainable as a Sahara fish farm) and a love of the athletic grace of hoops.
Additionally, all that Sonic love was now being bought out by some Oklahoman oil magnate. Didn't hurt either when Pau Gasol suddenly dropped into the Laker's laps and Kobe stopped crying long enough to get the Lakers into the Finals against another re-vamped team- the Celtics.
To add to my Laker's resume, I was born in LA during the Kareem Abdul Jabbar/ Norm Nixon era. I sat at some playoff games with my dad, when Bird and Magic went at it. I remember wondering how in the hell the Lakers got the number one pick to get James Worthy, and even trade for Byron Scott? Was anybody trying to compete with this team?
Back to the topic-
I relate all this to say I surprise myself with how much I've stuck to that original statement. I've washed my car, once. It's a pigsty. I don't care. It drives. No one breaks into it. It's got 6 month old birdshit plastered on the hood. People don't ask me for a ride- makes life convenient.
And as far as B-ball. Now , I play every week. I coach kid's bball- I've even been asked to start an AAU team- but who has the time for that?
I still read the news every day- but it used to be about cultural assimilation stories, impact of economic change on culture. Now, I look up future NBA prospects in my free time. I enjoy knowing the name of Tiago Splitter, and wondering what impact he could have on The Spurs. I wait with baited breath for news on Patty Mills, knowing that when he and Bayless finally run the Blazers second unit, they will be a frenzy of steals, dunks, and fast breaks that will help lift the Blazers to new heights.
If I could, I would watch D-League games, summer league games, and definitely European league games. I know the names of the best bball columnists- Ford, Adande, Dwyer, d'Allesando. There are others. I read their stuff daily. I find myself debating their opinions. Agreeing, disagreeing- I see how entire worldviews get squeezed into one's approach to basketball, and I want to bring some noise too.
It surprises me, that all this has happened, as it also represents how living in a morass of concrete and traffic, and overpriced shit makes one turn to entertainment for not only a small bit of distraction, but a small bit of morality, of values, of greatness.
My vision was: LA as a smog pit/ bright light for the globalized moths of the world, community so diffuse that the Lakers and cars were the common parlance, the coin of the realm, the tendons of the dream.
My idea was to embrace one and villify the other.
It wasn't a bad choice- as a former Seattlite, I valued clean rain, green wilderness, waterproof clothing, heathly outdoor activities (yeah, like walking, biking, hiking, swimming), salmon, and the Sonics. Durant and Green, Payton and Kemp, the X man, Tom Chambers, Dale Ellis, and Derrick McKey, even Dana Barros for a season.
In sum, I had a natural affinity for "sustainable living", (LA is about as sustainable as a Sahara fish farm) and a love of the athletic grace of hoops.
Additionally, all that Sonic love was now being bought out by some Oklahoman oil magnate. Didn't hurt either when Pau Gasol suddenly dropped into the Laker's laps and Kobe stopped crying long enough to get the Lakers into the Finals against another re-vamped team- the Celtics.
To add to my Laker's resume, I was born in LA during the Kareem Abdul Jabbar/ Norm Nixon era. I sat at some playoff games with my dad, when Bird and Magic went at it. I remember wondering how in the hell the Lakers got the number one pick to get James Worthy, and even trade for Byron Scott? Was anybody trying to compete with this team?
Back to the topic-
I relate all this to say I surprise myself with how much I've stuck to that original statement. I've washed my car, once. It's a pigsty. I don't care. It drives. No one breaks into it. It's got 6 month old birdshit plastered on the hood. People don't ask me for a ride- makes life convenient.
And as far as B-ball. Now , I play every week. I coach kid's bball- I've even been asked to start an AAU team- but who has the time for that?
I still read the news every day- but it used to be about cultural assimilation stories, impact of economic change on culture. Now, I look up future NBA prospects in my free time. I enjoy knowing the name of Tiago Splitter, and wondering what impact he could have on The Spurs. I wait with baited breath for news on Patty Mills, knowing that when he and Bayless finally run the Blazers second unit, they will be a frenzy of steals, dunks, and fast breaks that will help lift the Blazers to new heights.
If I could, I would watch D-League games, summer league games, and definitely European league games. I know the names of the best bball columnists- Ford, Adande, Dwyer, d'Allesando. There are others. I read their stuff daily. I find myself debating their opinions. Agreeing, disagreeing- I see how entire worldviews get squeezed into one's approach to basketball, and I want to bring some noise too.
It surprises me, that all this has happened, as it also represents how living in a morass of concrete and traffic, and overpriced shit makes one turn to entertainment for not only a small bit of distraction, but a small bit of morality, of values, of greatness.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Environmentalists' 911: Moving on from BP
Before my morning swim, I checked Facebook, and saw a story posted about an AP reporter, 40 miles off the Coast, who jumped into the thickest slick of oil he could find, no hazmat suit, whatever that amounts to, in order to experience and thus write a story someone would read.
No living animals- just a few dead fish and a jellyfish. Softball size spheres of crude floating ten feet under- and it was sticky. So sticky it would have been impossible for him to clean himself- it took the crew 30 minutes with brushes and Dawn.
Swimming, I thought of this- even diving down ten feet just for reference.
Finishing, I hit the showers, where, as usual, there were a few older white guys talking, drying off their jocks a little longer than necessary, etc...
"So, Ed, when should I buy BP? Last week, you told me when it goes below 30."
"It's below 30," said Ed. "And I'd wait a little longer."
"HA! So your good advice last week is no longer your good advice this week?"
"Yeah, and next week you'll get my "better" good advice than this week!"
They both chuckled, and continued the fastidious toweling off of their greying jocks, as I dressed and left.
What struck me about this whole situation was layered.
The backlash against BP, to them, and probably a majority of old school investors, was just temporary, and there would be a good time to capitalize on all this "negativity." Environmentalism was a moment, a temporary focus on a disaster which would pass, until business as usual returned.
The price then, of a dead ocean, could be reaped when the garunteed myopia of the world had moved onto some new crisis, perhaps a war in Korea, or Iran, or a new threat of processed uranium.
What would it take to change this? Other than tossing the legions of Ed's into the Gulf, to suck on softball sized spheres of oil?
A price index for sustainability. A monetary value on moral situations. Yes, something legal, which would make this "fluctuation" in stock prices a permanent change.
Last week, at a wedding, I spoke to a top Democratic policy maker, whom I won't name. He didn't say no when I asked if the Gulf spill was akin to an Environmentalists' 911.
"Sure, but other than giving political priority to a few pieces of pending legislation, like permitting off shore drilling, what's the gain?" he asked. "I help navigate these political moves, for quick gains, but will they really change things?"
What's not in place, it seemed, was what Cheney had in his backpocket when 911 rolled around- a core of fanatics who had planned out an invasion in the wake of just such a "sneak attack- akin to 911."
Environmentalism, to make true gains, needs to get off of coal. Needs to harness and develop wind and solar. We all know this. Soy- not the answer. Expensive subsidies for non-sustainable agriculture interests.
What then? What, ultimately would make Ed shift his "good advice" to investing in other areas that aren't business as usual?
In the same wedding conversation, the idea floated that finding the children growing up in Appalachia, whose fathers died from coal dust, or the Navajo children whose father died of uranium poisoning, or poverty due to coal mining, or the children of the gulf fisherman, whose future is now uncertain, and training them to create the industries of the future in their backyards- synthetic fuels from genetically altered bacteria in West Virginia, hydrogen engines(!!!) in Louisiana, or solar panels in the land of eternal sunshine, New Mexico.
Twenty years of that, and Ed might be scratching his balls, at the swimming pool, but giving different good advice- "We should invest in the Navajo nation, Bob. And there's this genius company in West Virginia, making ethanol from chips of wood- cheaper than drilling, Bob!"
Take this Environmental 911, and plant the seeds for a next generation, so that in 20 years, we, as a nation, can produce our own energy, avoid costly, useless wars, and not see dead oceans as business as usual.
No living animals- just a few dead fish and a jellyfish. Softball size spheres of crude floating ten feet under- and it was sticky. So sticky it would have been impossible for him to clean himself- it took the crew 30 minutes with brushes and Dawn.
Swimming, I thought of this- even diving down ten feet just for reference.
Finishing, I hit the showers, where, as usual, there were a few older white guys talking, drying off their jocks a little longer than necessary, etc...
"So, Ed, when should I buy BP? Last week, you told me when it goes below 30."
"It's below 30," said Ed. "And I'd wait a little longer."
"HA! So your good advice last week is no longer your good advice this week?"
"Yeah, and next week you'll get my "better" good advice than this week!"
They both chuckled, and continued the fastidious toweling off of their greying jocks, as I dressed and left.
What struck me about this whole situation was layered.
The backlash against BP, to them, and probably a majority of old school investors, was just temporary, and there would be a good time to capitalize on all this "negativity." Environmentalism was a moment, a temporary focus on a disaster which would pass, until business as usual returned.
The price then, of a dead ocean, could be reaped when the garunteed myopia of the world had moved onto some new crisis, perhaps a war in Korea, or Iran, or a new threat of processed uranium.
What would it take to change this? Other than tossing the legions of Ed's into the Gulf, to suck on softball sized spheres of oil?
A price index for sustainability. A monetary value on moral situations. Yes, something legal, which would make this "fluctuation" in stock prices a permanent change.
Last week, at a wedding, I spoke to a top Democratic policy maker, whom I won't name. He didn't say no when I asked if the Gulf spill was akin to an Environmentalists' 911.
"Sure, but other than giving political priority to a few pieces of pending legislation, like permitting off shore drilling, what's the gain?" he asked. "I help navigate these political moves, for quick gains, but will they really change things?"
What's not in place, it seemed, was what Cheney had in his backpocket when 911 rolled around- a core of fanatics who had planned out an invasion in the wake of just such a "sneak attack- akin to 911."
Environmentalism, to make true gains, needs to get off of coal. Needs to harness and develop wind and solar. We all know this. Soy- not the answer. Expensive subsidies for non-sustainable agriculture interests.
What then? What, ultimately would make Ed shift his "good advice" to investing in other areas that aren't business as usual?
In the same wedding conversation, the idea floated that finding the children growing up in Appalachia, whose fathers died from coal dust, or the Navajo children whose father died of uranium poisoning, or poverty due to coal mining, or the children of the gulf fisherman, whose future is now uncertain, and training them to create the industries of the future in their backyards- synthetic fuels from genetically altered bacteria in West Virginia, hydrogen engines(!!!) in Louisiana, or solar panels in the land of eternal sunshine, New Mexico.
Twenty years of that, and Ed might be scratching his balls, at the swimming pool, but giving different good advice- "We should invest in the Navajo nation, Bob. And there's this genius company in West Virginia, making ethanol from chips of wood- cheaper than drilling, Bob!"
Take this Environmental 911, and plant the seeds for a next generation, so that in 20 years, we, as a nation, can produce our own energy, avoid costly, useless wars, and not see dead oceans as business as usual.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Magic Plays Rondo
Game Three, Lakers Verus Celtics. Lakers up by 12 at halftime. Magic Johnson, considered one of the Top Five players in history, and perhaps the greatest Laker ever, sits across from Rajon Rondo, a new kid on the block, and begins firing him one question after another.
Me, I'm flashing back to Kung Fu, the old 70's show, where David Carradine is a young, bald apprentice, sitting cross legged from his blind, venerable master. Master is palming a pebble, and placidly holds it out in his palm.
Go ahead, take it, Rondo...I'm thinking. Grab the pebble.
Of course, the pebble represents greatness. And Rondo, as he is prone to do- reaches for it...
what do you know, but Magic closes his palm before the little guy can swipe it.
You got to ask yourself- Is Magic a neutral guy? Might he be bringing something to the table, in this interview (as part owner of the Lakers)? Might Magic, say, have a legacy and an organization to protect? Might he be playing chess with a young kid, just coming into his own?
Consider what's at stake: the Celtics have a two championship lead in the overall team standings. Consider also, that Rondo is being compared to Magic as a triple double machine. Magic's franchise and individual legacy are under attack.
So, the Answer, of course, is yes. Come grasshopper, come.
Watch for yourself...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNn4hDmSouk
Key points:
2:52: Magic tells the story of Pat Riley turning over the Lakers to him, saying, "Riley approached Kareem and said, This is Magic's team now."
He follows with a question/ baited hook for Rondo:
"Did Doc River's do the same for you, saying, "this is Rondo's team now?"
3:19- "Yeah, in practices, Doc basically gave me more and more responsibility, and let me run the show. ...(I'm) really a coach on the floor."
The Effect?
Did Paul Pierce agree? How about Garnett? Or Allen? Do you think Doc Rivers wants this potential division cleaving his players into old versus new?
After that, Magic asks, "So, beating the Lakers in '08, what would happen if you beat them in 2010?"
Rondo's answer is essentially: "To win two out of four years, puts me in the same place as you, Magic, and Tony Parker. That's an honor, and beating the Lakers to do it is even better."
The Effect?
Lakers pride at stake. As if it weren't already.
Here's Rondo, comparing himself to the greatest Laker of all time. And already proclaiming his legend before the baby is born.
Think the Lakers aren't listening?
Take the pebble grasshopper. C'mon Rondo. A reach....a foul...
Magic just assisted his team again.
Just like that, the momentum of the series shifts. Stroking Rondo's ego before he's ready, or his team is ready to accept it, and stoking the Laker's flame....all in one masterful closing of the palm....
Magical indeed.
Seismic tremors build from the interview, and the long-term effects could be the defining moment of the series.
Magic Johnson - still the greatest Final's point guard in NBA history.....
Me, I'm flashing back to Kung Fu, the old 70's show, where David Carradine is a young, bald apprentice, sitting cross legged from his blind, venerable master. Master is palming a pebble, and placidly holds it out in his palm.
Go ahead, take it, Rondo...I'm thinking. Grab the pebble.
Of course, the pebble represents greatness. And Rondo, as he is prone to do- reaches for it...
what do you know, but Magic closes his palm before the little guy can swipe it.
You got to ask yourself- Is Magic a neutral guy? Might he be bringing something to the table, in this interview (as part owner of the Lakers)? Might Magic, say, have a legacy and an organization to protect? Might he be playing chess with a young kid, just coming into his own?
Consider what's at stake: the Celtics have a two championship lead in the overall team standings. Consider also, that Rondo is being compared to Magic as a triple double machine. Magic's franchise and individual legacy are under attack.
So, the Answer, of course, is yes. Come grasshopper, come.
Watch for yourself...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNn4hDmSouk
Key points:
2:52: Magic tells the story of Pat Riley turning over the Lakers to him, saying, "Riley approached Kareem and said, This is Magic's team now."
He follows with a question/ baited hook for Rondo:
"Did Doc River's do the same for you, saying, "this is Rondo's team now?"
3:19- "Yeah, in practices, Doc basically gave me more and more responsibility, and let me run the show. ...(I'm) really a coach on the floor."
The Effect?
Did Paul Pierce agree? How about Garnett? Or Allen? Do you think Doc Rivers wants this potential division cleaving his players into old versus new?
After that, Magic asks, "So, beating the Lakers in '08, what would happen if you beat them in 2010?"
Rondo's answer is essentially: "To win two out of four years, puts me in the same place as you, Magic, and Tony Parker. That's an honor, and beating the Lakers to do it is even better."
The Effect?
Lakers pride at stake. As if it weren't already.
Here's Rondo, comparing himself to the greatest Laker of all time. And already proclaiming his legend before the baby is born.
Think the Lakers aren't listening?
Take the pebble grasshopper. C'mon Rondo. A reach....a foul...
Magic just assisted his team again.
Just like that, the momentum of the series shifts. Stroking Rondo's ego before he's ready, or his team is ready to accept it, and stoking the Laker's flame....all in one masterful closing of the palm....
Magical indeed.
Seismic tremors build from the interview, and the long-term effects could be the defining moment of the series.
Magic Johnson - still the greatest Final's point guard in NBA history.....
Intent
Whim and curiosity drive me, and so, will drive this blog.
While today could be about Magic Johnson's artful entrapment of Rajon Rondo during a halftime interview in Game Three of the 2010 NBA Finals, (perhaps the key turning point in the series), tomorrow could discuss the developing interest in Afro-Beat and Dub reggae currently building in a few key American cities.
I might re-create a conversation I have with a porno producer, or simply give you a fishing report from a Malibu beach. You might get a vivid description of my child's bowel movement, a kind of unique niche blog that has its origins in Japan.
I'm versatile.
Most likely, you will also see me make my job as interesting as possible. If you mash-up the movie CRASH, with the TV Show, X-Files, you get a good idea of my work- government official deals with the supernatural aspects of LA's race relation issues.
I'm saying here, now, that it's all unofficial, and any resemblence to real individuals is mere coincidence. Totally unintended. And most likely completely fictional.
Enjoy!
While today could be about Magic Johnson's artful entrapment of Rajon Rondo during a halftime interview in Game Three of the 2010 NBA Finals, (perhaps the key turning point in the series), tomorrow could discuss the developing interest in Afro-Beat and Dub reggae currently building in a few key American cities.
I might re-create a conversation I have with a porno producer, or simply give you a fishing report from a Malibu beach. You might get a vivid description of my child's bowel movement, a kind of unique niche blog that has its origins in Japan.
I'm versatile.
Most likely, you will also see me make my job as interesting as possible. If you mash-up the movie CRASH, with the TV Show, X-Files, you get a good idea of my work- government official deals with the supernatural aspects of LA's race relation issues.
I'm saying here, now, that it's all unofficial, and any resemblence to real individuals is mere coincidence. Totally unintended. And most likely completely fictional.
Enjoy!
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