8/8/11- Fear Trumps Hope?

Tomorrow, 8/8/11, may be the day historians pinpoint as the day that fear trumped hope in America, and the day that America lost its place as the center of the world. But let's hope not.

The symptoms?

Internal politics of fear, trumping hope. Market devaluations. A restless world without a central axis. Domestic troubles shaking world confidence.

Here's the detail:

At dinner, a friend commented, a few times, that his phone was blowing up. Messages to make sure to be at work early, by 6 AM.

"It's going to be crazy. The next couple of weeks look rough," was as analytical as things got, but what other words would one need to hear?

My friend is a banker. Fixed income guy.

Tomorrow, American markets will take a massive hit. Credit de-valuation "adjustments" will rock the entire world.  And as many know, markets are more indicators of basic animal motivations like fear and lust, than rational behaviors oriented toward the common good. (Despite Republican arguments that markets should regulate rather than be regulated.)

To me, it's less an "adjustment" than it is a symptom of  "climate change." And at the root of that climate change, is a domestic shift from hope to fear.

If money is like water, then the big thaw is coming. The elevated vaults of frozen assets will soon evaporate into the ether of the global market.

Just as global warming means more hurricanes, the dramatic alteration of rain fall patterns, record levels of flooding, and refugees searching for safety, a landmark day on Wall Street will mean similar things for emerging and established markets. Changes in long held patterns, washed out markets, record spending on "safe" commodities (gold for instance), and the search for new "securities"- (maybe companies lke Apple and Google.)

The symptoms are clear: a markdown to AA+ due to Tea Party shenanigans around the US debt. A weak President trying to create consensus instead of setting an agenda. World wide markets (Japan, greece, Spain) standing on artificial legs, propped by national banks.

The evaporation of capital will sadly dim the hope that underpins "recovery", leaving the psychological driver of fear to dominate in the days that follow.

Sadly, "Hope" was once Obama's mantra, a slogan and sentiment that drove him into office. A 2000 era vision of prosperity, equity and peace firmly motivated Obama's base.

Our hope doggedly chased  his every negotiation and compromise, until his voter mandate for change had suddenly disappeared.

What are we left with then?

A weak President. A Tea Party intent on making the poorer parts of the world suffer more than they already do for its benefit. A world without a vision of hope that can hold it together.

Perhaps we will look back at 8/8/11 as a day that the markets, and all who look to them as measurements of our world's motivations, were over-run by our basest animal instinct.

Perhaps Obama has some backbone we have not yet seen; certainly he is capable of becoming great. Certainly the man is the most intelligent, articulate, and genuinely good person we have had in office in my lifetime.

But now is the time to deliver.

I'm looking for, yes, a market meltdown, but also a sign of that latent greatness.

Because I'm too fearful to truly let go of hope.

Bring it Obama. Time to kick some ass, and remember what you were elected for.

NBA Draft 2012

Comparisons and Projections

There are a few players who will do well, some on their own unique abilities, and others because they find the right fit on the right teams.

Starting with the right fits..

Lakers PG- the need is a a quick defensive PG, who can drive and hit open 3's. Not unlike Mario Chalmers.

A consolation would be a defensive PG who can drive.

Top choices, in second round, including Malcolm Lee, form UCLA, and Shelvin Mack, for Butler. Though both might be gone, either could fill the role for the PG strapped Lakers. New coach Brown could re-vamp this position, which almost became irrelevant when Fisher was not hitting timely 3's in the playoffs. If so, a trade for Mack or Lee, if either drops into the second round would be a wise move. Lee is more of a defensive presence, while Mack is the all around bull, who can hit timely shots.

Unique Talents-

Irving- Has the poise of a Chris Paul. But the game of KJ.

Keith Faried- An animal. Every team needs him coming off the bench. Imagine him as Udonis Haslem meets Ronny Turiaf. A defender, mostly, who can rebound, and provide the grit and energy inside that lifts the team.

Marshawn Brooks- Could be next Kevin Martin. Great outside touch and range. Perhaps with a better handle than Martin.

Kanter- Like the younger Gasol. Has the same game. Even touch from the outside. Will bang hard and provide inside presence.

Bismack Biyombo- Has the same exact body as Bill Russell, for what that's worth. Quick ups, wiry strength, long reach, seems like he can dunk without jumping. How about an Ibaka without the offensive game? Not too bad....

Derrick Williams, Arizona- Great all around talent. Tough guard for anyone. Inside/Outside game, plus mentality to dominate will carry him far. Future all star. Similar to Rudy Gay, but stronger.


Intermediate Pix...

Jimmer- Won't be more than a mildly successful 6th man, at best. But still, a guy who can fill it up every once in a while.

Vucevic- USC center will surprise- yes, another heavy legged center, with limited mobility, but also a nice outside touch, like Nenad Krstic, currently on the Celtics.

Bulls and Thunder

So many similarities do the Thunder and Bulls have...first off, let's say this is a necessary step in the development of their teams, to lose, to have adversaries, to find limitation. Both are newly minted teams. New additions to a core of star, but developing players. Youth who don't believe they have any limitations yet.

And many differences.

The Thunder need to establish their pecking order, the flow of ball control. With Westbrook clearly desiring stardom, akin to Dwayne Wade, a dominant 6'3" shooting guard who handles and dishes, the hierarchy isn't yet clear. And clearly Brooks, their coach, wants those guys to work it out amongst themselves, knowing that the true chemistry that brings championships is born through mutual understanding fraught from both winning and discord.

The Bulls however, have a clear pecking order. A dominant Point Guard, Derek Rose, who has jets, then a cast of guys who can play D and occasionally score. Luol Deng has become the second option that Carlos Boozer was supposed to be. Deng unfortunately, should be a third option on a championship team, and with Thibedeau's emphasis on defense, and the less flexible nature of the team's lineup, this is never going to be a team that will blow another team off the court. Ultimately, they don't have that finisher, who can grind it out in a half court setting.

Not many teams do- and some teams that thought they had one, don't. The playoffs showed Kobe isn't enough anymore. Neither was Zach Randolph. And sadly, and surprisingly, neither was Kevin Durant.

But it isn't because KD can't be that kind of player, he just isn't yet. Having his shot blocked by Shawn Marion was a classic juxtaposition of veteran versus young talent. Unsure of exactly what to do, Durant's lack of experience, and lack of creativity was easy for Marion to take advantage of, knowing which options could be defended in that situation.

This brings us back to some of the Thunder's issues. Neither Durant or Westbrook should be player pulling the trigger. Both are potential superstars, but neither is capable, as LeBron is, or Kobe was, of creating enough consistency in crunch time themselves. If Va Gundy didn't make it abundantly clear, the Thunder have the trigger man they need in James Harden. A High IQ guy, with no real flaws in his game. His ballhandling made him look every bit a big, bullish point guard in the Chauncey Billups model. Hits 3's can drive, makes good decisions, can be deadly. He rarely shoots a shot he shouldn't and almost all of his shots look like they will fall. And the kid knows where his team mates are. Once the pieces fit, with Harden leading the attack, Westbrook on the left wing, Durant on the right, the Thunder will create good shots for their stars almost every time down court. They should be, when all is said and done one of the most consistent teams on both ends of the court in the next five years.

Chemistry is the only question. And once that's answered, the path to the Western Finals is open, with the Lakers and Mavs both going into decline over the next two years. Only Memphis seems like a potential challenger, with the Blazers sadly sinking out of contention with the tragic diminishment of Brandon Roy.

The Bulls however, will always have the Heat to contend with. Imagine how things would be if the Bulls just signed Bosh instead of Boozer. Another legit scoring presence who can hold his own on the D side of the ball- rather than Carlos, who is undersized, a bit sluggish, not as powerful as one would think, and has a softer inside game than a guy with his heft and strength should have. And let's not discuss his D, which, in my opinion, makes him a potential bench sitter in crucial 4th quarter situations.

Unless Rose transforms into a consistent, deadly outside shooter, he will never truly be able to carry his team to Game 7 wins.

But, the paths are clear. Both teams are going to be contenders for years to come. Champions? The Thunder have all the pieces and coaching in place, and it's a matter of chemistry, which can only happen with losses like these. Chicago? Still a piece away. Maybe if they can trade Boozer, and Noah can become a 14 ppg player, and a scoring perimeter player, someone like Kevin Martin can take over the role of 2nd scorer, the Bulls can climb past the Heat. But right now, they look like a distant second, particularly if Miami tinkers with its roster, and finds a real big man to clog the middle.

Who knows- maybe Dexter Pittman!

40. Y Que, Culero?

It's been said that there are four major transitions in every man's life.

Birth. Puberty. 40. Death.

Of those, 40 seems the most arbitrary and least explicable. But I'll give explanation, or justification, a shot. (Might be the last real opportunity to justify some asinine behavior.)

IF the disease is turning 40, here are some of the symptoms.

Facebook photo albums labeled, "Now we are all old", showing themselves.. eating, smiling, in a park chasing kids. Am pleased to say they don't seem to be afflicted with extraordinary stress or hardship, though Facebook is not exactly the forum for hardship is it?

An aptly named panel at the South By SouthWest film festival, called Growing Up or Getting Old? 

All the athletes we grew up with have retired. Our bands have split up, with only the lead singers left to sing favorite --oldies. 

The women we fell in love with, irresistably, and inexplicably, have all "matured," hardening into a set of behaviors and responsibilities that we might not recognize as attractive any more.

We grey. Metabolism slows down. Food, it's said, becomes as appetizing as sex. Religion, it's said, becomes somewhat, though not very, tantalizing.

And not making that transition?  Can be seen as prolonged  juvenile behavior.

So this age is where the average soul begins to contemplate immortality. The lack of growth without extraordinary means (steroids, viagra, rogaine, young muses) is clear.

It's more about maintenance now. We've built and mastered our tools; innovation is either part of a process, or it's for the young, who can take our unfulfilled dreams, our remaining inspirations, and dedicate themselves to them, as we did for our mentors.

Standing on the shoulders, so to speak.

Each of my peeps has a different story:

One is leaving Manhattan after 16 years in an East Village pad, to Queens, to move in with his lady, hoping his music career can continue its acceleration and pay the rent. 

Another had a kid last year, and got married, though he made bank and could retire if he felt like it. It's all about the challenge of being able to chill at home now. 

One moved out from his girl's place, because her son (not his) starting calling him daddy, and is hoping his internet design company has the right talent to persist.

Another has basically turned his music studio into a storage unit for a jumble of projects: video, construction, even culinary ideas.

Another is opening a chimp preserve in Texas. Damn straight.

Others seem like they've been 40 for years already. 

Those guys with a circlet of pale skin under their wedding bands who have sired several wonderful, stable kids, speak the jargon of office talk, and look financially, if not physically, healthy.

The seemingly immutable guys, who've set their life in stone, the ones you just don't think about enough, because they're doing just fine, content, who always have a few dozen priorities on their mind.

But the ranks of my New Orleans Jazz fest cohort are swelling. Maybe the mortar is loosening a bit. This year, with mid east turmoil, nuclear meltdown, natural disaster, financial instability, loose nukes, and yes, the loom of 2012 overhead, the call to New Orleans for a weekend out has been answered from across the nation.

40 years.
Y Que, culero??

. 

Hiromitsu Shinkawa

The ocean was now everything it had taken from him. Clinging to the splinters of his roof, grateful he had recently added a grainy waterproof tiling, the ocean supported him, carried him, roused him, or tranquilized him. Black waters brought him what means of survival he required, a plastic bottle to catch rain, a sheet of plastic he could dry off and use as a blanket.


The edge of his homeland drifted farther away with each hour, now a mere blur on the horizon. As it receded, he re-considered the decision not to swim to shore when he was a mere 100 meters away. But away from what?

The tsunami had hit with ferocity. First a shallow advance of water only ankle deep, then a raging torrent, a hammer of black water that smashed a commercial street into a cataract of bobbing cars and trucks. A rivulet that tore homes from their foundations with the hiss of still live electrical wires and gas pipes. In less than five minutes, his neighborhood, his grocery store, all things familiar were gone. In their place, a flotsam of gubbage- broken things, floating things, splintered things, a skin of chaos.

What had there been to swim toward? he asked himself again.

Standing on the edge of his rooftop, grief stricken, just scrambled and dripping from those chaotic waters, he saw only the ragged edge of his city, houses floating like boats. No shoreline. Even to clench his fist was hard, the cold made his fist a stone. The tendons ached.

Instead he laid himself down on his back, stretched out with his chest open to the sky, and let himself weep. There, splayed across his rooftop, he let the sun dry him, let the wind caress him, let the ocean weave its endless undulation beneath him. Holding his hand above him, like a silhouetted starfish against the bright sky, he saw the wedding band that remained on his finger, a solid band of gold. Unnoticed went the sky, which was clear save a single column of smoke that dispersed like a dream.

Later, when he would wake from brief naps, dreaming of the steaming bathhouses, his eyes would search for that column of smoke, knowing its path was the way home.

“But what home do I have now?” he asked himself, feeling the roof buckle.

When night hit, there were the lights in the sky. Stars, a half moon like a lidded eye. And helicopters, red beads blinking across the sky, always heading back to land.

He wondered what was happening there. Had the waters receded? Had they found her yet? Would they ever? A red light blinked faintly, but it did not turn his way.

The only certainty was that he was moving farther into the ocean as the waters pulled back to the epicenter, 9,000 feet underwater, from whence they had exploded.

Chapter Two

An infant God wrestled inside the womb, kicking against the elasticity that enmeshed her. And the world shook, the plates moved.

Hiromitsu and his wife dropped their bags of bean sprouts, packaged fish, miso paste. The shelves rattled as they scrambled for cover. After a minute, scrambling for a safe place, they held each other in the middle of the street, watching themselves and the power lines sway like arythmic dancers.

It was the longest he had been shaken.

The shaking would not stop, and they were falling down now, everytime they tried to get up.

Immediately,  city-wide sirens and a mechanically insistent voice, echoed.
"Tsunami warning. Move to higher ground. Evacuate immediately."

Glass shards were falling like rain. The earth still shook while he fumbled for the car door.

"We need things. We need clothes!" said his wife.

And so they drove home.

Their neighbors were leaving in a hurry.

"Evacuate!" they shouted. "Go!"

Instead, as the world stopped shuddering, they climbed their stairs, found bags, and began stuffing them with clothing, pictures, a computer.

"Tsunami warning. Move to higher ground. Evacuate immediately."

"What is that?" he said, suddenly aware of a river. The sound of a river as it sped by. But there was no river here. Then, broken glass.

He ran downstairs to see black water pouring in, rising up the stairs, pushing him back. He ran to his wife, screaming.

The house lurched, flipping on its side, the lights went out. Blackness except for the windows. Water covered their bed.  Their TV sank to the bottom of his bedroom.

There were only windows to leave through. He shoved her through, and she said, "The water is here!"

"Climb up!" he told her, still shoving her. Water forced itself in, cold, hard, dense.

He grabbed for the edges of the window frame with his eyes and mouth filled with the sea.

Then the world flipped,
a sky opened above,
the waters carried him.

He heard only the roar of the dark salt waters. Somewhere above him, a bleary sun twisted in the sky, blurred by a sheet of water.

When the water released him, he clung to the edge of his roof, riding a dark current that carried other homes, cars, sticks. He was cold, shivering. He coughed, but could not clear his lungs.

"Mitsuko!," he shouted.  "Mitsuko!"

Though he searched everywhere for her, she did not answer.

"Tsunami warning. Move to higher ground. Evacuate immediately."


The wave churned fields into mud, looted stores,  drank cattle. It circled a stubborn home, as if angered by its resistance.

After hours had passed, the river stopped moving, and gathering itself,  commenced it retreat, inexorably, back into the ocean form whence it came, gently carrying him and the ashes of the city out to sea.

Inside Central Juvi Part II.

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LA Central Juvi

"I don't have a PhD,  but I have a G-O-D!" says Mr. Flores, who directs programs in and around LA County's Juvenille Halls.

We're walking through a maze of fencing, squat cold war barrack style buildings, and empty stretches of grass. It's Central Juvenille Hall, which is essentially, purgatory...

Kids come here when they can't find a place in the Probation system. It's a processing center, between arrest and court date, and a move out to a long term placement- either a foster home, a camp, or a max security hall. So purgatory, where the waiting seems eternal. Or limbo. Between places, and yet nowhere.

I'm here to start up LA County's version of the Beat Within, a program for creative writing workshops inside of juvi's across the nation. It's been a goal of the Beat's founder for nearly a decade, and in his mind, LA County is considered "MECCA" for juvenile justice.

Why?

"It's the biggest and baddest probation department in the world."

Youth from 4,083 square miles, an area larger than the combined areas of Rhode Island and Delaware, with higher levels of poverty, and concominantly, crime, than any other part of the US. 


In 2005, Los Angeles County had a total of 1108 gangs with 85298 members. So imagine the diversity then, in this processing center, this "Central" Juvenile Hall. 


Mr. Flores heads me toward a girl's unit, where the first of three workshops is to begin. 


A group of 8, all Latina and African-american girls sit at a small table, and the conversations begin. The trick is to make writing interesting. And each has a story that got them locked up, and a story of being locked up and a story of when they get out. Hope is despair's shadow.


Today, most of the girls are talking, except one, an African-American girl sitting on the corner. A Latina lived with her grandmother, left the church to be with friends who laced the pot with meth, and got piss tested the next day, and came back to jail.


"Now, I'm not ever going to come back if I get out, because I found God. God is in the picture."


An African American girl begins to laugh: "Everybody says that. Everybody says, "Oh, I got God now!"


The silent girl in the corner can't be bothered, so I ask, "how you doing?"


"Bad."


"How come?"


"Mt back hurts..these damn matresses make my back hurt."


"So, if we get you a better mattress, everything's gonna be all right?" I ask, pulling her in to a conversation.


"No."


"Why not?"


"I got court in two weeks, and I'm pregnant."


"How old are you?"


"17."


"And where you going?"


"Maybe to Georgia to live with my dad."


"Hmmm. That's home?"


"I left when I was nine. Some terrible things happened, so I moved to Los Angeles, and then that's when everything got terrible."


Conversation in the room slowly takes over, and I don't want to leave her hanging.


"Write me something...write about the kind of world you want your child to grow up in."


Five minutes later, she passes me a page, on which she's written:


I was nine when I was raped and burned, and thrown out a window. That's where my mom found me bleeding.  I blame my parents, because I called them 3 times to come home, but they didn't listen. I have scars all over my chest, and everyone asks me in the shower what happened, and I just say I was in an accident, or something. I don't trust anyone.


As I read, everyone is told to leave the room and return to their cells. I hand her the page as she walks out the door, and she rips it into shreds. 


Then, it's on to another classroom.

Work Site: jangle of january 28

Ava was moving out, "due to some serious complaints!" she shouted, "from a person who shares this room!"

"I guess," she sauced,"they thought I was too loud."

Packing her boxes, emptying her cubicle, she found a book she had a question about.

"Hey, Marshall...here's a book on how to work in a multi-cultural workspace.... Shall I leave it for you?"

"Well, I,..hmmm, you can leave them and then Robin can take alook and see if they're materials we could use here."

"I'm leaving," says Ava, "so I can be closer to Jeff."

Jeff is the assistant who produces videos for the County, though he wants to make feature films. He's a sweet kid, works hard, stammers, a bit in a slightly overseas Asian accent, and speaks in a manner that makes me feel the resentment behind the filial piety overtones like a bludgeon.

Jeff only works about a cubicle away from Ava, now, and frequently, her demands that Jeff "come over" ring through the small room on the 4th floor of the 4 story building on 6th and Vermont in Korea Town, Los Angeles. So moving her closer, would be essentially, moving them both together into the same cubicle.

Yesterday, our visionary offered his vision for the staff. I wrote down each significant item, and it was magnificent: human rights, sustainability, leadership develpoment, community engagement, dealing with social tensions as they build in the social fabric, bringing the bottom to the top, levelling the playing field, equal rights issues, intersectionality...

There were 37 items in the list, total. Maybe we will stick it up on the internet so everyone can see it. But most likely not, because of the many eyes who might wonder at our mandate. Mor later.

The Roots of MR. NIMBY

The Eaton Canyon waterfalls are oasis in the desertscape of the San Gabriel Mountains. A short, one mile hike gets anyone from the electric sprawl to a cascade of mountain waters in a box canyon, breathing rich oxygen from oak and bay laurel, where the city seems like an unlikely myth.

It was 330 on the Sunday before MLK Day, when I parked to take my daughters, 2 and 1 years old, to check out the falls. Enough time sitting in the house, car seats, sidewalks, cafes..these girls needed to be free- climbing boulders, chucking rocks, swinging sticks.

What better way to demonstrate the freedom MLK died for than to set loose two racially diverse girls into the American wilderness?

There are three public access points into Eaton Canyon- the closest to the waterfalls being the gated entrance to a fire road in a residential neighborhood nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, surrounded by clifftop estates overlooking the public lands to the north and east.

Pulling up, I noticed no cars were parked by the gate, prompting me to read parking signs very closely:  "No parking on weekends."

I parked a few blocks away, where the signs ended, then walked along a 12 foot high chain link fence topped with barbed wire to the fire road gate, where I read another sign stating,

"GATES OPEN FROM SUNRISE TO SUNSET. CITY OFFICIALS DO NOT HAVE KEY TO GATE."

So, we have to get back by sunset, I thought, and hoisted one of the girls over a shoulder, then got to the trail.

It was pretty packed- a church group milling around a small swimming hole, some tatted, shirtless homies pulling leashed pitbulls down the trail, Chinese couples in matching hiking gear, small groups of teen agers and college kids giggling in packs, a few elderly with backpacks and walking sticks; a busy holiday sunday.

There are normal delays when working with a two year old girl- not wanting to wear pants, or shoes, or wanting to observe the stinkbug crawl through the granite sand. Or, not wanting to be held while a parent tried to balance on wet logs while crossing the creek, flowing fast from snow run off. Also, she refused to follow the trail, or walk for more than three or four minutes at a time. Carrying 26 pounds of weight is alright, unless it's squirming and talking back, and can degenerate into tantrum in less than a second.

But the hike was great- cool, clean, a river of green. Time passed, and the sun blasted the canyon walls gold. Red tail hawks circled above without flapping a wing. The girls got their feet wet, jumped off rocks, grabbed handfuls of bay leaves and sage, ran down the trail and swung tiny purple flowers in their tiny hands.

I had no interest in having to walk back to the car without daylight, so before we had gotten to the falls, it was time to turn back.

The punchline to this little essay is probably already clear.

The gate was locked. Sun was still setting, but the gate was locked.

I was the first to stand around and wonder just how this came to be, so it was clear that many of the others who had parked at this gate had recently walked through it. A group of Asian kids walked up, radio blaring. A few bikers arrived.  A Latino couple waltzed up.

"The guy with the key lives about a block away," volunteered a biker. "And he never unlocks the gate for anyone."

The task ahead was to carry the two girls down canyon about a mile and a half to another gate, then walk back up the road to my car.

It gave me an hour or so to ruminate on the situation, first walking through a pleasant fading light  down a wide, flat trail, then, as it got dark, balancing across a comibination of slick logs and granite rocks to cross the river and get to the gate, then, walking up a dark street without sidewalks as SUV's whizzed by.

Here's what I imagined:

Mr. NIMBY, an older white male, lives very close to the fire road gate in a fabulous home perched on the arroyo, from which he takes in the view of the public lands at his leisure. Sunset is particularly spectacular, but he doesn't notice that, as he has the routine of walking to the fire road gate, and locking it with his key.

To get this key, he had to talk to County officials, for a very long time, perhaps make donations to certain campaigns. He had to express, in no uncertain terms, his issues, and press for a "local" solution.

Let me enumerate the many threats to his well being.

Too many people came "up" from the valley "below," a valley holding the highest numbers of Asians and Latinos in urban America.

They bring with them their problems- leaving trash, grafitti on rocks and structures, and sometimes, virile, unspaded pit bulls. They play loud rap music. Some smoke pot. Sometimes, they laugh loudly, and their car engines can be heard halfway down the block- all the way to the next house.

Five days out of the week, the silence and serenity of the wilderness surrounds him. But every weekend, they return, parking their cars in every available spot on his street. He has no idea who is walking his street, which is why he built a wall round his home.

He is in fear, even with a wall, some guns, elaborate alarm systems, a law enforcement agency a phone call away.

Who wants to live under these conditions?

So, he sets up regulations. Rational solutions to his irrational fears.

A gate. A lock. A key. Barbed wire to keep people from climbing out of that wilderness at night. Because the precise time, in hours and minutes, that sunset and sundown take place cannot be determined, there are no posted times of open and closure. The timing of opening and closing the gate then, is up to him.

Once a gate is closed, it will not be re-opened for any reason, because, who wants rules that aren't rules? The rules need to be respected. The gate gets closed at sunset. The gate re-opens at sunrise. Mr. Nimby decides exactly when that is. That's why he has the key.

Now, I know the presumptions of my imagination very well.

1) Rich white landowners always get cast in my imagination as fearful nativist racists who seek to compound their privledge the way they compound their interest. They use this political capital to control natural resources, exploit other nations/races, and destroy all threats to their self-perceptions as ruling class alpha males.

2) Rich white landowners consider themselves the "stewards of the land," which my imagination presumes means seeing the poor, the immigrant, the less educated, as threats to the "pristine wilderness"- eliciting an environmental elitism which cuts along racial and class lines. (Ed Abbey himself, God rest his soul, was afflicted with this myopia.)

3) Los Angeles is a city built for the automobile, not the human. Restricting parking near public lands/ rare open space in LA is a policy created by such rich white landowners/ stewards of the land, to limit the poor, the immigrant, the less educated from enjoying the uncrowded serenity of natural beauty that the rich white landowner considers to be his natural environ.

To be fair, the guy might not be white.

To be fairer, there is another parking area with an gate that is always open (1.5 miles down.)

I had a long time to get pretty specific about some solutions as well.

First, find out who Mr. NIMBY is. There must be public record of the private key holder to a fire road accessing public lands.

Second, write up a nice story about him for the local press. Or, if the local press doesn't want it, then on-line.

Third, advocate for a policy that gates to public lands be open on Holiday weekends until a certain hour, say, 8 PM, so that families carrying young children can enjoy the sunset at the waterfall, and leisurely return to their cars.

Fourth, explain that it's a safety issue. Had anything happened to one of my daughters because I fell in the dark on a rock in the river, or was hit by a car on the walk back, I would have blamed him, personally, for trying to keep people like me out of "his" neighborhood.

More later.