lostcoast1

R&B Star Johnny Ace Dead; Shoots Himself Backstage Playing Russian Roulette

2011-09-21T10:22:00.000-07:00

Rising R&B star Johnny Ace shot himself in the head today (December 25, 1954) while backstage at Houston’s City Auditorium.

Johnny Ace, born John Marshall Alexander, was playing a game of Russian roulette with his girlfriend when the tragedy occurred.

Ace had finished singing “Yes, Baby Yes” to 3,000 screaming fans. During a 5 minute intermission, he went back stage, where his girlfriend Olivia Gibbs, Mary Carter and Willie Mae “Big Mama” Thornton were sitting amongst others.

Olivia Gibbs told officers that earlier in the day Johnny Ace had been fooling with the .22 pistol as he usually did and that the gun, which he purchased from another musician while in Florida, was not loaded.

Johnny Ace “I saw Johnny look at the gun and then he put it up to my head and pulled the trigger and it snapped,“ Olivia Gibbs told Police. “I saw him look at the gun again and then he put it up to his head and pulled the trigger and the gun fired. He then fell off the table and onto the floor everybody ran out of the room except Mary Carter, Willie Mae “Big Mama” Thornton and me. I thought he was just playing and I picked up his head and then I saw the blood. I then ran to the box office and told Evelyn Johnson that Johnny had shot himself.”

To be technical, Johnny Ace was not actually playing the “game” of Russian Roulette. although he was obviously taking chances with the gun, by pointing at first at his girlfriend and pulling the trigger, before turning the pistol on himself fatally.

Contrary to reports circulated for promotional purposes by Peacock Records owner Don Robey, Ace died today, December 25, not the day before, as is widely reported.

Johnny Ace was originally a member of the Beale Streeters, a legendary group from Memphis, Tennessee that featured artists like BB King and Bobby Blue Bland.

“When I first started performing… I got a trio on the radio: Johnny Ace on piano, Earl Forest on drums, Billy Duncan on tenor sax. That’s when I made ‘Three O’ Clock Blues’. We recorded our first hit in the YMCA in Memphis. They wanted me as a solo act so I gave up my band, gave it to Johnny Ace, which is how he got started.”

Johnny Ace - My Song Johnny Ace signed with Davis Mattis’ Duke label in 1952 and hit number one immediately with the ballad “My Song.”

Mattis sold his label to Peacock Records’ feared boss Don Robey, who owned the most successful black distribution network in the business in 1952.

The hits continued for Johnny Ace with songs like “The Clock,” “Cross My Heart,” “Please Forgive Me” and the beautiful ballad “Never Let Me Go.”

Even in death the hits continued with the song “Pledging My Love,” and another “Anymore,” which Duke released posthumously.
Johnny Ace – Pledging My Love

Although he left an imprint on decades of musicians, Johnny Ace had recorded only 21 song when he died at the age of 25.

A number of artists have remade Johnny Ace’s signature tunes throughout the years including Curtis Mayfield and The Impressions Aretha Franklin, Luther Vandross and Paul Simon, who made a tribute record to the singer titled “The Late Great Johnny Ace”.

We Got The Beat

2011-04-06T10:06:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 1988, I attended former Go-Gos lead singer/song writer Belinda Carlisle's concert at the Universal Greek Amphitheater in Los Angeles. During the middle of the show, while walking through the nearly empty concourse/concession area I saw an impossibly young Johnny Depp of the new Fox Network's laughable series, 21 Jump Street, and an even younger Charlie Sheen, son of bad boy actor and soon-to-be mayor of Malibu, Martin and brother of better known Brat-Packer, Emilio Estevez, leaning surreptitiously against the wall as if discussing a drug deal. From the corner of my eye, I saw the pint of what appeared to be Jack Daniels going back and forth. Later, as the show's ending loomed I was looking for friends to join a Green Room party. As I sailed through the concession area, there stumbled the two future Hollywood icons: the one who was destined for greatness was a little sloppy, but managed to keep things under control. The other one? He looked like a drunken teenager after his prom as he hurled in public for all the world to see. Imagine my surprise that within a couple of years seeing him cast by Oliver Stone in 'Platoon' and playing opposite Michael Douglas in 'Wall Street'... Some things never change...

Kent State {Four Dead in Ohio}

2010-05-04T12:43:00.000-07:00

Remembering to Never Forget

2010-05-04T12:08:00.000-07:00

Today is the 40th anniversary of the Kent State massacre. The book "Generation of Fire" speaks to the heart in its remembrances of a time when people fought for what they truly believed. Pause for a moment during your daily routines to remember those who lost their lives exercising their civil liberties to ensure our democratic freedoms as protected under our Constitution's Bill of Rights.

Little Green Army Men

2010-04-28T13:58:00.001-07:00

Back then, it was a rite of passage. Today, sandbox therapy is a standard modality in most pediatric psychology practices.

As impressionable young boys, we would set up elaborate battlefields in the sand box with foxholes, bunkers, trenches, moats, the whole enchilada ~ and then deploy bags of small plastic soldiers... green Americans versus light gray Nazis.

In a capture the flag motif, we would lace the battlefield with strategically placed firecrackers, intertwine all the fuses into one long slow burner, light it and step back. In the ensuing carnage, the carpet bomb effect was the only way that we as young boys could process the atrocities we watched on nightly television coming into our living rooms from the steaming jungles of Vietnam.

I remember the evil looking SS Nazi officer suddenly disappearing ~ the sadistic monster becoming just another victim of war. All that remained of him were the goose stepping boots attached to the plastic stand with a wisp of smoke rising from a hole in the sand where he once stood.

As the deafening explosion and smoke subsided, we surveyed the destruction before us. It was all over before we knew it and there was nothing we could do. We felt somehow powerless as we looked at the broken bodies of the little green and gray army men. You never forget things like that ~ for in that moment I knew in my heart I could never kill another human being or be a soldier.

So Now You Get Mad!

2010-04-28T07:00:00.000-07:00

SO NOW YOU GET MAD !

We had eight years of Bush and Cheney, but now you get mad!

You didn't get mad when the Supreme Court stopped a legal recount and appointed a President.

You didn't get mad when Cheney allowed energy company officials to dictate energy policy.

You didn't get mad when a covert CIA operative got outed.

You didn't get mad when the Patriot Act got passed.

You didn't get mad when we illegally invaded a country that posed no threat to us.

You didn't get mad when we spent over 600 billion(and counting) on said illegal war.

You didn't get mad when over 10 billion dollars just disappeared in Iraq.

You didn't get mad when you found out we were torturing people.

You didn't get mad when the government was illegally wiretapping Americans.

You didn't get mad when we didn't catch Bin Laden.

You didn't get mad when you saw the horrible conditions at Walter Reed.

You didn't get mad when we let a major US city drown.

You didn't get mad when we gave a 900 billion tax break to the rich.

You didn’t get mad when, using reconciliation, a trillion dollars of our tax dollars were redirected to insurance companies for Medicare Advantage which cost over 20 percent more for basically the same services that Medicare provides.

You didn't get mad when the deficit hit the trillion dollar mark, and our debt hit the thirteen trillion dollar mark.

You finally got mad when the government decided that people in America deserved the right to see a doctor if they are sick.

Yes, illegal wars, lies, corruption, torture, stealing your tax dollars to make the rich richer, are all okay with you,

But helping other Americans... oh hell no.

AND NOW YOU'RE MAD!

Mount St. Helen Blows

2010-04-23T18:59:00.000-07:00

There is no greater force on our planet than a volcanic eruption. On August 7, 1980, I was aboard an Alaska Airlines flight from SFO to Seattle when in mid-flight Mount St. Helen blew her stack for a third time since the May 18th. All in-air traffic was diverted across a broad expanse of miles to detour the eruption. All later departures were grounded until the situation could be further assessed. Like 9-11, it was an amazingly clear day with unlimited visibility as the late afternoon sun began its western descent. The scale of the devastation is beyond description. All comparative references are totally inadequate. Even at our 35,000 feet altitude, the column of ash was at least three to four times higher if not more. From a probable distance of 75-miles away, the ginormous column appeared within reach of my hand just through the window. It resembled a gargantuan wet cauliflower dipped in dry cement sculpture of Jack's magic beanstalk. Easily the most extraordinary sight I've ever witnessed! Respect the epic glory of nature at her most powerful!

Cake of Miracles

2010-04-13T10:53:00.000-07:00

Light me a cake of miracles ~ where I bask in the glow of countless blessings shared with family, friends and lovers past, present, future or ~ perhaps never. Your love fills my spirit's heart with compassion for the world. To each of you, I say shalom ~ שָׁלוֹם

Between Heaven and Earth

2010-04-12T23:43:00.000-07:00

O rain soak this earth in your fertile rite...Sun make all that has passed green and good...I give you my sons and daughters to grow from my dreams...I look upon you as a child to his mother...For in trust and love we learn the strength that nurtures life...

Ewing Field: Lost in the Fog Bank

2010-03-30T17:34:00.001-07:00

by Greg Gaar

(Originally published in the Haight Ashbury Newspaper and the WNP Member newsletter.)
Ewing Field 1914

Once upon a time there was a beloved baseball team called the San Francisco Seals. For over half a century, the Seals belted drives and chased flies at funky Recreation Park at 15th and Valencia; and from 1931-1957 they played at Seals Stadium at 16th and Bryant, but for one strange season in 1914, pro baseball was played west of Masonic Avenue and across the street from Calvary Cemetery at Ewing Field.

J. Cal Ewing, owner of the Seals, and one of the organizers of the PCL, was fed up with sharing the lease at Recreation Field with the owner of the Oakland "Commuters." The fans were disgusted about Rec Park's short fences, overcrowded stands and congested entrances. So J. Cal coughed-up $100,000 (70 million bucks for a ball park today) and built the most modern minor league park in the country." Mr. Ewing modestly named the new stadium after himself.

On opening day, May 16, 1914, a brunch was served for dignitaries and boosters at the Palace Hotel then a motorcade parade up Geary to Ewing Field, 18,000 fans listened to patriotic music and the usual array of speeches by Mayor Rolph and other VIPs. An iron chest containing names and photos of the players and other baseball memorabilia was buried three feet below home plate. As the time capsule was being lowered the floral horseshoe inscribed with the words "Good Luck" was blown over by the winds. To the superstitious this was a bad omen.

The Seals played a lousy game and lost to Oakland, the worst team in the league, 3-0. The Chronicle placed much of the blame on the weather:

"Perhaps it was the cold wind that whistled around Lone Mountain on to the green of the ball field that made the spectators shiver and long drives which would be homers at Rec Park inconsequential."

Though the Seals got off to a slow start, they came "roaring back" with rugged ballplayers like: "Howling Harry" Hughes - who rarely said a word; "Nig" Clarke - 1907 American League batting champ nicknamed for his dark complexion; "Del" Howard - the Seals' 35-year-old manager and the team's best hitter; "Spider" Baum; "Goat" Colligan; and "Wild Bill" Tazer.

As the season wore on - the fog rolled in... nearly every game. A game was actually canceled due to fog on June 6. The fans stopped coming to games, not only because of the climate, but most of the Seals supporters lived in the Mission - miles from Ewing Field. Freeloaders, who didn't want to pay the price of admission, watched the games from the top of Lone Mountain.

The players couldn't deal with the fog either: Elmer Zachar, an outfielder for Oakland, was so confused by the fog that the mascot for the "Oaks" was sent from the bench to inform Elmer that the side had been retired. Pete Daly built a fire in the outfield to emphasize the need to stay warm.

The Seals were in the pennant chase until the final week of the season. They won 115 and lost 96. That's 211 games! On the final day of the season, Skeeter Fanning of San Francisco pitched a no-hitter against the first place Portland team. That was the last game the Seals would play at Ewing Field.

In the off season Mr. Ewing sold the Seals to the Berry Brothers, owners of the L.A. Angels. The new bosses immediately stated that because of the weather conditions, they would never play at Ewing Field. A few months later, through negotiation and big money, the Berrys' achieved what J. Cal Ewing could not - ownership of Recreation Park. In 1915, the Seals returned to Rec Park and brand new Ewing Field was abandoned.

On September 29, 1916, Ewing Field was to play host to "Aida." the opera by Verdi. 20,000 tickets were sold but the weather struck again. A freak rainstorm washed out the extravaganza and the performance was moved to the Civic Auditorium.

In 1923 Ewing Field was transformed into a football stadium. The grandstand was enlarged to handle 26,000 gridiron fans. A sold-out crowd watched Santa Clara and St. Mary's play the first football game at Ewing. The weather couldn't postpone a football game.

In 1925 a huge throng of spectators turned out for the first Shriners Football Game for Crippled Children.

Boxing promoters leased Ewing Field to stage championship fights. It appeared that Ewing Field had a bright future, but on June 5, 1926 disaster struck.

While an amateur baseball game was being played, someone tossed a lighted cigarette under Ewing's grandstand. The wooden stands caught on fire and quickly became a raging inferno. A forty-mph wind blew flaming embers onto the roofs of Victorian rowhouses in the Western Addition as far away as Fillmore. Within thirty minutes, over 21 alarms were called in. Fireman responded quickly but over a hundred fires were burning at one time. A troop of boy scouts successfully controlled a tree and brush fire across the street from Ewing Field at Calvary Cemetery. Only seven persons were injured, but forty buildings were damaged and many families were homeless. Chief Murphy of the Fire Department said, "Not since 1906 has San Francisco been in such danger of being wiped out." Ewing Field's stands were a charred ruin.

From 1926-1938 Ewing Field, except for an occasional appearance of neighborhood kids, stood vacant.1 To motorists, pleasure driving down Masonic or Geary, the site of Ewing Field prompted chuckles or the words "white elephant."

In 1938, the Catholic Church, which had always owned the land, sold Ewing Field for $150,000. In November 1938, the old ballpark was demolished to make way for 95 homes selling for for $7,500-$8,000. Heymann Homes claimed the subdivision would offer "an attractive pillared gateway entrance with gardened terraces similar to Presidio Terrace."

To see these "magnificent" homes and the site of the old Ewing Field, go past Turk on Masonic, north of the old Lincoln University and former convent, and find Ewing Street. Somewhere underneath the house near Anza, probably still buried, is the historic Ewing Field time capsule. Bring a pick and shove, Kindly ask the property owner if you can have access to their basements.

When you think Candlestick Park is a joke, remember Ewing Field.

Notes:

1. Laurie Farnam notes: "Ewing Field did not stand vacant from 1926 [to 1928]. Brick Muller's Californians (NFL) vs. George Wilson's Wildcats (American League) played at Ewing Field on January 23, 1927. Could be a few more games were played at Ewing during 1927."

Hell Explained

2010-03-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

The following is an actual question given on a University of Arizona chemistry mid term, and an actual answer turned in by a student.
The answer by one student was so 'profound' that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well :

Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.

One student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving, which is unlikely. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today.

Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.

This gives two possibilities:
1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.
2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, 'It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you,' and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.

The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct..... ...leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting 'Oh my God.'

THIS STUDENT RECEIVED AN A+.

Ghost Town By the Bay

2010-03-08T04:35:00.000-08:00

San Francisco reminds me of the pod people in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers". It only resembles the place we all once loved. However, it's soul was long ago sucked dry by alien life forces - dot com DOAed! Take it off life support - spend your money out of Gavin town! Tag it and bag it! And, tell the back up singers to hit it with a heavenly chorus of "Move on Up"!!!

2010-02-27T06:51:00.001-08:00

A cœur vaillant, rien d'impossible!
(A valiant heart, nothing is impossible!)

LES JEUNES NOUVEAU

2010-02-26T19:52:00.000-08:00

by Ian Rage

In the wee hours of a quiet summer morning in 1894, the fin-de-siècle movement, Les Jeunes (“The Young”), was born in the city of San Francisco. Artists Gelett Burgess and brothers Bruce and Robert Porter toppled the self-erected cast iron statue of teetotaling civic demagogue, Dr. Henry Cogswell, (from novelist Frank Norris’ McTeague infamy) off its pedestal on Market Street. Far from being some mindless, adolescent prank, this seminal act of iconoclasm became a harbinger for knocking hypocritical Victoriana square on its collective ass.

For masterminding the pre-dawn hi jinx, Burgess was summarily dismissed from his faculty post at the University of California, Berkeley. But, there was no time for tears. Instead, Burgess and Bruce Porter promptly launched the première edition of The Lark—a publication whose sole purpose was satiric anarchy. Contributors soon included architect Willis Polk, artists Florence Lundborg and Ernest Peixotto, poet Yone Noguchi and writings from the estate of Robert Louis Stevenson.

Despite a brief life of only two years, The Lark’s whimsical style and spirited attacks on pomposity swiftly won favor in the hearts and minds of literary San Franciscans. The popularity of The Lark was such that the always au courant Teddy Roosevelt shouted out recitations of Burgess’ pre-Dadaist/absurdest poem, The Purple Cow, between affairs of state (and otherwise) at the White House.

I never saw a purple cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one
~ Gelett Burgess

One hundred years have past since the days of Les Junes. On the eve of the millennium, The Lark’s two years or even Warhol’s “fifteen minutes of fame” manifesto seem to be undergoing a myopic compression of time and space. Such dimensions are now measured in non-linear, sub-microeconomic terms like nanoseconds and angstrom units. Our world is rapidly on the threshold of critical mass. Our infinite wisdom creates an information society and feeds it gigabytes of vacuous waste ad nauseam. Suddenly, “Who’s on first?” is completely inadequate. The real question is “Where is home?”

In this time of crusades to unholy lands and flag waving bravura, there are still some tiny bands of misguided malcontents naively adhering to the notion that minority voices can make real impacts. Perhaps, home is a non-nuclear family? Could there really have been tribal communalism a million years before frozen TV dinners and Floppy Pop? And if so, what is the connection between the wall paintings of Lescaux and MTV?

In relative terms, the recognition of global survival may perhaps steer human cultures to look at the future in less prosaic eyes and to realize today’s sacred cows are destined to be tomorrow’s USDA inspected, 100% all beef patties. For the Home of the Whopper® is the planet earth. It is not just a parallel world or fantasy dimension of some overpaid crazy, high on martinis and uppers in some Madison Avenue executive suite. Understanding that that media spawned reality is as much our reality somehow juxtaposes the past with the future and suffuses it into a present, where isolation and alienation are not mere tokens, but actual identity badges for everyday survival.

Our identities are being strip mined from us daily as we willingly submit to torturous rigors unknown by previous generations. Our barbarous past pales in comparison to what is becoming the new reality. And, guided by the push of a button, the prospect of an even more barbarous future looms through an uncertain haze of Capital Hill folly and Wall Street hubris - both fueled by the vapor trails of tax payer bought martini lunches.

We are rapidly losing our humanity. We will soon be less sentient creatures than the machines we create. And, why not? We are HAL. We are Commander Data. SONY is not just consumer electronic gadgets or a global corporation destined to rule the planet. It is you and I. After all, who plugs in whom? Who makes the choices?

So, pull up an easy chair in the glow of your fractal fire, find your drug of choice and hear the soothing voice of Guy Lombardo crooning into the dawn of a new millennium. After all, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s later than it seems and we’re already here. Welcome to the Brave New Order. And, have a nice day. ☻

Copyright © 1991 by Timothy Johnson. All rights reserved.

Dark Comforts

2010-02-22T17:40:00.000-08:00

Are you not the poet who rages at heaven's hope to find a universe all in the name of truth and love? Do you not whisper tenderly to those who care when the sun rises? This is what I ask the waning moon and stars amid fading jet black skies. Perhaps it is you... for love is a mistress who only gives away her secrets to hearts unwavering and thirsts unquenched.

McRave: How Greed Killed the Techno-Acid Test

2009-12-23T07:27:00.002-08:00

by Ian Rage

. . . For the man in the suit has just bought a new car from the profits he’s made on your dreams . .. from Low Spark of the High Heeled Boys, Traffic, Island Records © 1970.

It seemed innocent enough. When English kids headed outdoors dancing under the moon to the sounds of remixed American house music in the late 1980’s, it could be seen as a backlash against the repressive dullness of Thatcherism. Along the line, someone decided to throw in a little ecstasy and more kids started showing up. Before long, thousands made the scenes.

Eventually, the media created a tempest-in-a-teapot firestorm of middle class disapproval. In it's official response, Parliament and Thatcher had little choice but to crush the burgeoning movement by declaring it a public menace. Privately, they couldn't give a damn. But, by calling in the air cavalry to assist the local law enforcement and flushing these underground raves, as they came to be known, out of the wilds and into the hands of mainstream promoters, the government hedged its bets with an overblown show of conservative zeal. This was the death knell blow to the rave scene in the U.K.

Big bucks snuffed out the English rave.

Not coincidentally, the rave phenomenon washed upon the shores of America a little more than a year ago. Like a message in a bottle, disciples from the UK imported the rave to the greenest pasture of them all - California. If money rotted the rave scene out of England, American promoters, with their predatory instincts, should bastardize the concept beyond recognition in record time.

American youth are typically ripe for most “waves” or invasions of British pop culture. Sprinkle in a little West Coast hippie nostalgia, a few heaping doses of ecstasy, a couple of gigabytes of high tech nonsense suited for brains softened from too much exposure to MTV and a few years of George Bush’s “Son of Voodoo” economics and voila! The Second Coming of the Sixties is upon us! Or is it the Saturday Night Fever Seventies revisited? It’s difficult to sort out at times.

The Nineties’ Ravers’ styles are a television and pop culture inspired potpourri of the past three decades. The influences run the gamut from Dr. Seuss to The Monkees to Sesame Street to Nintendo's Super Mario Brothers. Specifically, it is this lack of its own original cultural identity, which makes less discerning ravers susceptible to commercial exploitation by certain promoters. This naive and unsuspecting target market are sacrificial lambs jumping for the proverbial knife as these eagle eyed hucksters, frauds, charlatans, con men, scammers, grifters, street hustlers and back alley boobies stop at nothing to scavenge the dumpsters of pop memorabilia knowing how to polish a turd, wrap a pretty bow on their slick package and call it a diamond. (See Rave Nader’s Rave Alert! piece.)

The rapid acceptance of raves into American culture has far transcended its humble roots. From the great outdoors and underground warehouses, promoters are now talking about “corporate policies” to “spread the faith.” In classic Nineties’ doublespeak, words like “communalism” are intermixed with plans to organize and replicate similar buku bucks multimedia extravaganzas in other cities. Given the recent explosion of news media coverage, the monster box office potential (SF’s Toon Town allegedly took down $175,000 on New Year’s Eve at $30.00 a pop) and the integration of Silicon Valley gimmicks, it seems obvious to some observers that this latest hybrid of the rave is to be expected.

But, just how can these cyber-lounge shows be viewed as anything less than mutant yuppieism in Haight Street drag? For in the land that spawned the Disney version of reality (VR, natch) and fast food chains, “new and improved” raves should not only be expected, but, are in fact the ideological conclusion of a society whose footprints have been long since washed away from the sandy beach of time at an alarming rate. And, the mind reels, with thoughts of the franchising premiums to be made in the Japanese after market which is hot, hot, hot for anything with America’s social imprimatur. Yes. Local rave promoters are already planning to open in Tokyo within months. Bonzai all the way to the bank, baby!

So, as perversely bizarre as this twisted type of logic would translate to most, corporate decisions to franchise hamburger stands and alternatively spawned underground social gatherings are apparently not a distinctly disparate process, but rather, prefabbed on the same assembly line. Or so, at least, thought Orwell and Huxley. Who knows? Perhaps, there even might be future Ray Krocs, Sir Jimmy Goldsmiths or Henry Fords in our midst. But, more than likely, these rising monopolistic titans of the scene will resemble the Boeskys’ and Milkens’ ilk. Judging from the bad vibes at their events, being pioneers in cyber/social experimentation is for them just another day at the office. More to the point, corporate America has a new look. Eschewing pin stripes and wingtips as Eighties’ anachronisms, Generation X can now proudly don its own uniform of funky hats, bad haircuts, tattoos by numbers, pierced noses and Doc Martin boots, while schlepping off to the vault.

One can only wonder, “What is really in those so-called smart drinks?”

Copyright © 1991 by Timothy Johnson. All rights reserved.

Category-5

2009-10-12T22:50:00.000-07:00

The phone rings and it's Chuck. Come up for dinner? Sure, no problem. I'm on the way. The first storm of the year builds off shore. Category-5 typhoon just inundated the Philippines. Villages buried under mud. People swept away in floods. Upgraded to a Super Typhoon -- whatever the hell that is. Fisherman in the South China Sea call them daaih-fùng or big winds. But it doesn't sound good in any language. A nasty business these big winds. Anybody's guess what lies in store for us. But it's dark and ugly. That much I know.

Batching it is never quite as desperate as it sounds. Chuck turns out a respectable meal with a modicum of flair every time. We eat some spicy vegan concoction and wash it down with a fine red wine. It seems many of the local farmers are in a bit of a jam. By waiting for that one last week of sunshine to fatten up their pot gardens, they are now perilously close to being royally screwed and losing it all from a monsoon three weeks early and now only hours away. So the calls go out to friends and friends of friends to jump in with both feet and lend a hand in finishing the harvest.

One kid literally stepped out of his battered Toyota Forerunner 12-hours ago a complete stranger without any ties to the community or any reasons for local job prospects. For bailing out my farmer neighbor, he walked away with about three pounds of the exotically named Afghanigoo. The sweetly pungent, sticky buds will move at $20 per gram back in his hometown of Phoenix. The 453 grams in a pound will bring in a staggering nine grand on the street in Arizona. Multiply that little stash times three and it's not bad for a day's work. No wonder he's grinning from ear to ear as though he's just won the biggest lotto in history. But, I don't blink an eye. What's given away locally as a neighborly gesture is nothing short of a major crime where he comes from. All it takes is for some sad sack to have the misfortune of a run in with a redneck deputy in the Grand Canyon state and they might be staring at a ten-year stretch in a federal pen for interstate narcotics trafficking. Some may say, changes in latitudes - changes in attitudes. I say, pure and utter insanity.

The sky continues to darken over a night cap of aged single malt scotch. Thank god, neither Chuck nor I have a green thumb much less the inclination to ever consider driving across the desert and into the arms of trigger happy Arizona rangers. I'll take my chances with a northern California storm. As the first big drops splatter across my windshield, I pull into my driveway with yet another new appreciation for the sounds of a howling wind through the trees and the crackling roar of a fire waiting inside.

Doesn't it always feel good to be home?

Cheese Steak

2009-10-09T00:11:00.000-07:00

I'll do better next time. I swear to God. I know I can. Sweetie, you know how I feel about you. You're the only one for me. Of course you are! What -- you don't believe me? How could you say those kinds of things? All right. Maybe I do come across a little like that sometimes. What's that? You really mean that? But, I thought -- wait a minute -- let me check this other call -- Hello. Oh, baby. Could you hold the line just for a minute, let me get rid of this other call. Right. I'll be back in a sec -- Hi sweetie. Oh, some telemarketers. Listen, fix yourself up 'cuz I'm comin' over right now to take you out to dinner. Of course, I mean it. Oh baby, you know your the only one for me. Gotta run if we're gonna make it to the restaurant on time. Hurry up! Love you, too! -- Hi baby...what's that you say. Of course, your the only girl for me!

Around the Next Bend

2009-10-08T23:27:00.000-07:00

Dear true friend,

I feel your heart with my soul. I listen to your words with my eyes. I, too, hang on to those beliefs that others long to have abandoned before they realize never having discovered them to begin with...for it is the journey within the heart that one traces the path to the soul... and it is by far the longest, frequently most perilous and often loneliest journey of all.

Many years ago I re-entered the temple of my personal vision quest alone, hurt and bewildered by fate's course. I sought to absolve my past, live fully in my present and rekindle my future. Soon thereafter -- and to the astonished disbelief of many who feigned having known me -- I became a father, a husband, a provider and inherited a part of myself previously unexpected. It was a brilliantly perfect time for I shall always relish the unexpurgated simplicity of life on its own terms.

It was later I rediscovered that when we walk into the flames it only burns for an instant before we are released. Into what I cannot say with any degree of certaintly. I only know that in the moment of surrender, we are reborn with a new life --- free from the baggage and bondage that holds us back from ourselves -- and with no plans other than to be fully alive in the exact moment.

Living in real time is what it is all about and always has been for some.

It is precisely in that moment that we live our lives in a state of blissful elation. Without preconceptions or contrivances, there are no expectations or disappointments. We experience absolute freedom to become whatever it is we are in our dreams. It is only when we attempt to mark our time that we become aware of its passage. And, by crossing an imaginary line with that passage comes a sense of loss. Opportunities never seized. Dreams never realized. Promises never kept. Relationships never fulfilled. A life never lived. A shadow creeps from overhead ushering a sadness unlike any we have ever known. Life's joys are diminished. We are overwhelmed by darkness and despair. We feel anxiety. We experience depression. We become listless and lost. By the time we hit rock bottom, we are practically marking the days on the calendar like a death row inmate awaiting the executioner. Much like aboriginal "dream time", the concept of linear time is foreign to some and when imposed upon them, ultimately, fatal.

We are taught that lives without measure are failed in themselves. But, from whom or what do we view those virtuous examples of existences? And, for what purpose do we examine such trivialities -- other than to satisfy others? And, just who are these "others" that we sacrifice all that is precious in our own existences to appease?

I believe the answer is absolutely no one. For many, the moment of truth is to distort who they are by allowing external influences determine precisely whom they have actually become. They become trapped in a hall of mirrors which conceals their real identities from themselves. They have lost their perspective, balance and judgment. They are uncertain as to who they truly are for they have lost their sense of self.

What a paralyzing predicament. To be at the cross road of one's life, completely freeze in the middle of the intersection and be run down by an oncoming bus with anyone other than yourself behind the wheel is patently absurd. By taking your foot off the gas, tapping the brakes to supply air in the hydraulics and pulling to a stop along the side of the road, one can open the door, get off the fucking bus and walk away from the whole kit and kaboodle. Oh yeah. You're behind the wheel of your own bus. That person who looks like you in the cross walk is just the imposter that you've allowed others to convince you that you've become wandering aimlessly across a busy thoroughfare!

Of course, that person is no one that you or I actually know. It could be any one, including ourselves, but more than likely it never seems to be us. However, while the view of the road from a higher focal point might allow us to see further ahead, it doesn't change the outcome of the final destination. Sure, we ride in a little more comfort. But, the road doesn't really change on our way to where we are going. Only our perception of the ride itself.

And, in the end, all we usually do is readjust the rear view mirror and keep our eyes focused on the road ahead. Isn't our ultimate stop always just out of sight and around the next bend?

Negentropy vs Entropy

2009-08-15T07:18:00.000-07:00

Wow. Humanity's soul speaks deeply when allowed to manifest. It has always possessed that gift, but societal mores continually bridle its girth in a corseted fashion.

I can only speak from my own experiences. When we are of this world in the "real" sense we give up a part of our spirituality. I am not referring to organized religion or a value based society that points to the sky expecting answers. I am referring to heart felt connections that permit us to live -- responsibly, yet freely -- in the moment. I believe there is a pantheistic aspect to all of our existences, which is free from the dogma of orthodoxy. Our beliefs are formed not just through the pursuit of hierarchical learning, but from understanding the importance of intuition in our being. Rollo May referred to this phenomena of surrendering our insides to the teachings of others in 'The Loss of Innocence'. We sacrifice our souls in our indoctrination into the realm of hierarchical pursuits. We trade who we are for the acceptance by others for what we are "supposed" to be. In the end, we accomplish much according to those standards that are imposed upon who we were originally. But, at what cost? And for whose gain and whose loss?

It's a real conundrum...life. I feel I need to plunge deeper if I am to attain any measurable value in this existence of mine. I've barely scratched the surface this time around. Sure. I've had my moments, which is more than most. And I suppose in that context, shouldn't that be enough? I am satisfied with what life offers. But, in the end, it only offers what we allow.

Which takes me back to my original premise. We only live deeply when we abandon our fear from holding back. Walking through the fire is less about getting burned and more about experiencing the moment. It is only then that we live.

Freed from the trivialities of convention, humanity moves me. Sometimes we need to walk away in order to take those two steps forward. What is life? Negentropy triumphing over entropy. Richard Marsh -- a former teacher of mine -- used to tell me: "Sometimes we need to get out of our mind in order to get into our mind..." I think he learned this axiom while on the beach in Zihuatenjo with Timothy Leary. It was undoubtedly a revelatory insight while in a hallucinogenic drug addled state. Nonetheless, the lesson is readily learned. We serve a higher purpose when we allow ourselves to get in touch with ourselves. A circle rather than a straight line. Forward movement does not come from a simple choice of negentropy over entropy. The path of evolution is circular.

While at the Institute of Visual Perception at Princeton University, British researcher Osmond Humphrey collaborated with well known author Aldous Huxley in a series of experiments involving the use of the hallucinogen peyote. Much of the experimentation was the basis in defining premature psychological closure as a method of connecting the dots to form an image not present but inferred from limited visual information. The result was Huxley's 'Doors of Perception' and Humphrey coining the term in an epigram to Huxley: "To fathom Hell or soar angelic, just take a pinch of psychedelic."

In Your Light

2009-06-22T08:14:00.000-07:00

In your light I learn how to love
In your beauty, how to make poems

You dance inside my heart
where no one sees you,

but sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.

**************

The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you not knowing
how blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.

***************
We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste this minute
of eternity. We are pain
and what cures pain, both. We are
the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.
I want to hold you close like a lute,
so we can cry out with loving.

You would rather throw stones at a mirror?
I am your mirror, and here are the stones.

****************

What was in that candle’s light
that opened and consumed me so quickly?

Come back, my friend! The form of our love
is not a created form.

Nothing can help me but that beauty.
There was a dawn I remember

when my soul heard something
from your soul. I drank water

from your spring and felt
the current take me.

Rickey Henderson Runs to Cooperstown - 90-feet at a Time!

2009-01-12T12:24:00.000-08:00

I remember being at the Coliseum in 1982. It was a really electric atmosphere. When Rickey got on base, you knew he was going to steal. The other team knew he was going to steal. And they still couldn't stop him. Ever. So he'd take off, Lansford would foul one off, and Rickey hustled back to first. Then, it would start all over again. Crowd chanting. Soft throw over from the opposing pitcher -- who at this point can't even begin to concentrate on Lansford up at the plate. Krazy George starts beating on his drum; the pitcher starts his windup and he's off. Before the catcher could even glove the ball, it was over. And, he'd always go in HEAD FIRST with the crowd going wild!! He'd hold his hand up to ask for time, then dust the infield dirt off his pants. AND THEN HE'D STEAL THIRD!! Great days, Rickey -- thanks for the memories of Billy-Ball!! You deserve the Hall of Fame for your great lifetime accomplishments.

Hittin' the Note

2008-12-15T14:28:00.000-08:00

It is far less conspicuous to crash a party by yourself than arriving with someone else. The key to successfully crashing a scene is to always remain circulating, while exuding the air of a confident host overseeing his own dinner party. In nature, no creature is a better survivor than the three hundred seventy five million year old shark. They must constantly swim to keep the water passing through their gills or they literally die from drowning. By always being on the move everyone assumes you must be a friend of someone else since you aren't speaking with them directly. Or, at least they assume as much.

Sprawled across Skip's floor in the old Sig house, Mona Man fires up a bowl. The bong passes around the horn. Major Strausser. Alpo. Griff. The cross legged circle is consumed by a dense billowy cloud of smoke. Alpo's face contorts with stacatto spasms exhaling broken shards of gray haze. Tears streak down my cheeks and onto the filthy apple green shag carpet. "Ramblin' Man" blares from a Marantz stereo in the background. Allman Brother's coming to town this week. Pretty sure it's Friday... I catch a gleaming squint through the reeking fumes of conspiracy.

September 1973. My first two weeks of college at UCLA and I'm already bored and trying to get kicked out of the joint. Without rhyme or reason, my new college buddies and I are cutting all classes, rolling down the hills of Westwood toward the freeway and the Fabulous Forum to the band's sound check.

The Forum used to be easy to access during the day. We simply drove around the backside where a large rolling door opened up to a hangar sized loading area. A big moving truck is surrounded by a number of vans and other vehicles. Roadies are carefully lowering equipment down to their compadres. There is absolutely no security in sight anywhere. I saunter right in. As I walk through a darkened narrow hallway, I suddenly breeze passed a familiar face. I think to myself, "Shit. That's Bill Graham." I enter into a well lit room where Dickie Betts is standing in a small group. He's only about 5'9", absolutely thin as a rail and his acne pocked face looks worse in person than in his photos. Then again, maybe it's just the poor overhead lighting making everyone look unhealthy with a greenish pallor. In any event, a few of the guys cast a glance toward me.

Not wanting to stand out anymore than already, I ask where to find the road crew. Dickie says to go out to the stage area and ask for Twiggs. I tell him thanks and as I walk away, the curious eyes quickly forget me and return back to their conversations. I cross through the backstage area skirting behind the concourse and enter the cavernous arena. It really is quite enormous. And -- yes -- it is fabulous. Zeroing in on the tweakiest looking guy on stage, I introduce myself to Twiggs. Wrong dude it turns out. Oops. Nice to meet you, Red Dog. Beautiful Southern, Gothic ginger hippie with flowing red main and beard, trailer park white trash. Sleeves rolled up, veiny forearms covered in prison tats tell the story of a misled life on the road that I am desperately running headlong toward in a dead sprint. In short, my kinda guy. In a whiskey gravel scratch, he asks, "Who the hell are you?" Without so much as a blink on my part, I say something right because in about two minutes I'm helping unload amplifiers off the back of a moving truck. I hit the jackpot.

That evening's show is a benefit for the North American Indian Foundation. It seems just about everyone in the band has a little bit of Cherokee in them. Afterward, the greenroom is laid out with a terrific buffet spread. The big deal for these southern boys is the Colorado Kool Ade chilling under ice in the tubs. Yeah. These are the days before Coors beer is distributed east of the Mississippi. These guys love Coors! The band is on the road with Marshall Tucker, an outfit out of Spartanburg, South Carolina. Filling out the bill is San Francisco's own Boz Scaggs, who I've known on and off for about four years. A former girlfriend of mine had run off with his keyboard player, Joaquin. I end up becoming pretty tight with Boz's head roadie and younger brother, Mark.

Begin the Beguine

2008-12-06T09:29:00.000-08:00

Let me assure you, Artie Shaw earned his Lothario tag! While attending UCLA during the 1970s, I lived across the hall from Artie in an apartment complex on Kelton just off campus in Westwood. Amazingly, even though he was in his mid 60s at the time, he maintained a steady stream of stunningly beautiful, young women running in and out of his place at all hours.

UCLA enjoyed a well deserved national reputation for its ravishingly lovely female population. So it seemed only natural for the Casanova of his generation to set up shop within steps of the dormitories and sorority houses. A veritable stable for the old stud retired to pasture. And, he was in great company. Hugh Hefner had already reached the same conclusion a few years earlier when he ditched Chicago's dreary winters for balmier climes at his Playboy Mansion West in Holmby Hills just a few blocks away. It was little wonder I never heard Artie practice his clarinet. Not once! When could he possibly manage to find the time in his hyperactive social schedule with all of the demands?

I share these reminiscences on the occasion of Artie's newly remastered compilation release, which is an absolute must have for aficionados and neophytes alike. Shaw was the "it" guy of the Big Band era. Known as the "King of the Clarinet", Shaw's creativity and virtuosity of playing made him stand out from many of his contemporaries, including fellow clarinetist and "King of Swing" Benny Goodman. Shaw: "Benny Goodman played clarinet. I played music."

Throw in Ava Gardner, Lana Turner and Evelyn Keyes as three of his eight uber trophy wives and you begin to understand the dynamic charisma of Artie Shaw's megastar celebrity during his hey day. Five Stars says it all. Go check it out. *****

Gino & Carlos

2008-11-10T11:00:00.000-08:00

The USC defense is truly awesome. Those linebackers are absolute studs. Cal simply couldn't find its rhythm on offense against them. The Trojan offensive line though needs to taken to task. Ridiculous penalties. SC undoubtedly has the best players in the country. But, they are going to have a tough road to the BCS with Oregon, Notre Dame and UCLA remaining -- all spoilers.

I agree, to a point. What I can't figure out is how OSU annhilhated SC in the first half of that game. Ran right through them. Cal has two good backs and didn't do squat with the run. Longshore gets spooked under pressure, throws picks, Riley has a concussion hangover but they held SC to one TD in 57 minutes? Wassup?? Yeah, SC is solid, but I don't think they would hang in their very long in a BSC 'playoff'.

If the Golden Bears couldn't beat SC with Aaron Rogers or DeShawn Jackson, they weren't gonna get it done yesterday with Longshore or Riley. As inefficient as the Trojans looked on offense yesterday, I ca n't imagine any team in the country beating them when their hitting on all cylinders. That includes any teams from t he SEC, Big Ten, Big 12, Big East, ACC or independents. I have not seen the Trojans choke in any big game since Vince Evans manhandled them in the Rose Bowl in 2006 -- and even that game was theirs for the taking except for the Reggie Bush fumble when he was running alone in the open field for a touchdown! Believe me, I'm a classic USC hater, but -- man -- they are loaded!!! Go Pac-10!!!

I listen to a lot of SoCal sports talk and it's amazing how a host can go a whole segment complaining about the BCS standings, how SC gets hosed in national rankings, how they get passed over compared to SEC, Big Twelve, etc. Can anyo ne say Oregon State University? How did they beat the Trojans so EASILY?? SC usually lays a pretty big egg every year, sometimes more than one. I wouldn't say SC was inefficient on offense, I'd say Cal has a pretty good defense. I think SC was much better in past years, except p ossibly, on defense. Yes, they do come at you, albeit with forearms up and aiming high. They've always done that.
I'll take Florida or Bama against SC any day.

Well, here we go. The only thing missing from this friendly discussion is a couple of cold beers and a game on the TV in the background at Gino & Carlos!

As you know, I've had great pleasure reading your journals, that clearly demonstrate that you are indeed an astute observer of many subtle and nuanced aspects in sports. I'm talking about a broad range from boxing to minor league baseball. With that acknowledgment, I'd be willing to take the Trojans over the Gators, The Tide or any conference champion in America any day of the week -- especially in a big money bowl setting. Perfect seasons and better records have very little to do with cementing the argument about on field superiority. Head-to-head competition is the only way to satisfy the debates, which is why the current BCS system is such a farce.

In fact, when Texas beat USC in the Rose Bowl in 2006, the consensus among knowledgeable observers was that the best team in the country lost the game. USC beat themselves more than Vince Evans beat them. True, on the winning drive Evans was virtually unstoppable and USC's defense laid down like yellow dogs and died. But, number two beat number on in an upset where one was vastly better than two.

This year, however, the Trojans are vastly underrated -- Oregon State notwithstanding. Look at what they did to Ohio State the week before. They destroyed them so totally, that Ohio State was discounted for the remainder of the season -- regardless of their record! After that performance, the Trojans were emotionally ripe for an upset the following week. That is no excuse for that performance nor is it a reason to throw them under the bus as the BCS computers obviously did! I'd take the Trojans in a head-to-head match up against any program in the country -- bar none! For God sake, they house trained the Huskies 58-0 last week and somehow dropped two places in the BCS poll. Does that seem a little wierd to you? No wonder Carroll was pissed. You'd think he would have put a major league ass whipping on Tedford's boys to prove the point.

Yes. Cal's defense is completely underrated. They held the sixth highest scoring offense in the country -- averaging 40.1 points per game to 17! And, that could have just as easily been 10 points if Tedford had challenged the first TD -- we all saw the incompletion - or if his idiot wideouts could not line up offsides on touchdown plays...amazing! But, the Trojans completely shut down an offense averaging 36 points per game. They never could find their rhythm and the constant pressure took Best out of the game plan and forced QB turn overs.

There is a reason why the Crimson Tide have not been ranked number one in the country for 28-years. Their program has never completely gotten out from the shadow of Bear Bryant. And, that was practically back in the stone ages of college football at this point! Alabama looked really bad yesterday - as in terrible. John Parker Wilson is an absolute stiff. McClain and Arenas are decent, but far from Heisman worthy consideration. And, Lou Saban...well, we don't need to go there, do we?

Urban Meyer is the best coach in the SEC. But his up tempo offensive schemes make Tebow better than his true talents. He'll never star as a QB in the NFL. Pure and simple. In fact, few SEC QBs -- other than the Manning family -- ever make the grade at the pro level!

On the other hand, as uneven as USC performed on offense last night, look at the roster. Mark Sanchez is an absolute stud. He's a NFL first rounder and easily the best quarterback at SC since Carson Palmer. The Pac-10 passing game is more adept at a high level pro-style attack then any other conference in the nation. Forget Leinart and Booty...proven losers outside of Carroll and Sardisian's system. Take your pick from the current stable of Trojan tailbacks over any running back in the SEC. McKnight, Gable, McCoy, Johnson can all run circles around the other backs. As for coaching in the college ranks, Carroll is the hands down best in the business.

The only area, which I might concede, is the intangible that makes college football so much more entertaining than the NFL. It is the capacity of the human heart. If the Trojans play with the same degree of emotional intensity as they're capable...they are truly unstoppable. The question remains can Tommy Trojan get it up in the clinches.

I guess we'd have to do an in depth interview with the Southern Cal cheer leading squad for confirmation. My final take on the subject is that it's a wonder the NCAA has not banned Viagra as a performance enhancing drug!

with their heads and less with their testosterone levels bordering on steroid-induced, I think they could do some long term damage. Trouble is, you're right, watching that sideline and the panty-hose legs of some of that high-priced SC snatch, yoweee, I'd be thinking post-game snarf, too... Sanchez? My jury is hung. I can't figure him out. Truly, if you took him out of SC and put him anywhere else in the Pac10 I don't think he'd get noticed. Jake Locker was the best QB in the conference but he went down. I like Rudy Carpenter. Tough, heady, Brett Favre genes, and I don't mean the 'real..comfortable..jeans'.

or NFL bonus baby before their golden girl shelf life status expires, they can always apply for post graduate work at Hooters! And, yes, Locker is a stud. He hails from a stretch up the road -- Ferndale -- which plays in our school's section. Lastly, I'll take you up on the Hotel California bar exodus. As Eric Burden once said: We gotta get out of this place!

Ferndale, ahh..reminds me of the last vacation trip I was on with my mom and my dad, about ten years ago before he slipped away to the Big Library in the sky. Ferndale, up there around Fortuna and Rhonerville, where my mom and dad grew up. We went up there for a little road trip, couple of days at Sea Ranch, a few days in Garberville and day trips up to the Redwoods and Eureka, Arcata, Ferndale. Great trip. I didn't know Jake Locker was from up there. I think he looks much better than Tim Tebow. Much better in all aspects. I don't know if he's as big as Tebow, but he's got a better arm and he's faster, I think. But ever since Ryan Leaf tanked in the NFL, the old Northwest doesn't get much attention for its QB's. Next year I'll be up at Stanford for the Big Game and also for the Notre Dame game. Easy with the ND smack, I have some friends from there. I think they have at least a realistic academic ideal. Real classes, real standards. I don't know about Rick Neuheisal. He yells at his QB constantly, waving his arms and berates the poor guy on the sidelines, after admittedly throwing some questionable balls. But the guy was third string. And when the announcers scratch their heads wondering what

the coach is doing in the QB's face on television, you've got to wonder. Ben Howland? Top drawer. The man.

A Candle for Katie

2008-10-31T00:52:00.000-07:00

Our life stories could break our hearts if we only let them. A work in progress...When film director Claude Lelouche was asked why his Paris apartment was always in a state of upheaval, he exclaimed: "It is like life... a work in progress. When it is finished, it's over!" We've spent a lifetime apart and I look at where we've been and with whom. For my own peace of mind, I stop short of asking myself the reasons why.

Soon after I left Lehman Brothers, I leased an office space two blocks down the same street on Kearny at the base of Nob Hill. Right around the corner and up a block on California was the Old Saint Mary's Catholic Church. It stood like a missionary sentinel in the midst of Chinatown. Rising from the crowded throngs on the corners of California and Grant Streets, its red brick facade was streaked in dark gray stains making it resemble a widow in mourning. Its diminutive silhouette was draped in the long afternoon shadows from a sea of lifeless skyscrapers. Across the clickety clack sounds of cable car tracks was a McDonalds filled with tourists.

I used to go up on the roof of my building to escape reality -- sometimes I'd smoke a little grass. I'd watch the pigeons fly in sweeping formations around the steeple of the old brick church...the late afternoon sun would reflect off its spire. The clock hands never moved. I lived not too faraway up several steep flights of stairways ascending the southern slope of Telegraph Hill.

Sometimes on the way home -- if it was early enough -- I'd stop into the gift shop of the church. They had an amazing collection of not just Catholic articles of faith, but ecumenical items from around the world. Anyway, my questing led me to browse various spiritual readings. I bought my first Coptic cross there. I wore it around my neck on a rawhide string for a few years.The day I broke my neck was the last time I wore it. Something was lost -- my innocence, perhaps -- and with it, the kismet had vanished... our connection was gone. Somewhere in a long forgotten jewelry box lies a cold piece of tarnished pot metal that used to carry the heat from my body...

Yes... I remember Old Saint Mary's...The next time in the old neighborhood, I'll stop in and light a candle for Katie and say a little prayer for what is to become of us...

A Trillion Here...A Trillion There

2008-10-22T09:07:00.000-07:00

Much to my surprise, I recently found that we now own AIG…??? So here is another proposed solution... I’m against the $85,000,000,000.00 bailout of AIG.

Instead, I’m in favor of giving the $85,000,000,000 back to America in a We Deserve It Dividend.

To make the math simple, let’s assume there are 200,000,000 bona fide U.S. Citizens 18 years old and over. Our population is about 301,000,000 +/- counting every man, woman and child. So 200,000,000 might be a fair stab at adults 18 and up..

So divide 200 million adults 18+ into $85 billion that equals $425,000.00.

My plan is to give that $425,000 to every person 18+ as a We Deserve It Dividend.

Of course, it would NOT be tax free.

So let’s assume a tax rate of 30%.

Every individual 18+ has to pay $127,500.00 in taxes.

That sends $25,500,000,000 right back to Uncle Sam.

But it means that every adult 18+ has $297,500.00 in their pocket.

A husband and wife would have $595,000.00.

What would you and your family do with....$297,500.00 to $595,000.00?

Pay off your mortgage – housing crisis solved.

Repay college loans – what a great boost to new grads

Put away money for college – it’ll be there

Save in a bank – create money to loan to entrepreneurs.

Buy a new car – create jobs

Invest in the market when it recovers – capital drives growth

Pay for your parent’s medical insurance – health care improves

Remember this is for every adult U S Citizen 18+ including the folks who lost their jobs at Lehman Brothers and every other company that is cutting back and, of course, for those serving in our Armed Forces.

If we’re going to re-distribute wealth let’s really do it instead of trickling out a puny $1000.00 ( “vote buy” ) economic incentive that is being proposed by one of our candidates for President.

If we’re going to do an $85 billion bailout, then let’s bail out every adult U.S. Citizen 18+!

As for AIG – liquidate it.

Sell off its parts. Let American General go back to being American General. Sell off the real estate. Let the private sector bargain hunters cut it up and clean it up.

Here’s my rationale. We deserve it and AIG doesn’t.

Sure it’s a crazy idea that can “never work.” But can you imagine the Coast-To-Coast Block Party! How do you spell Economic Boom? I trust my fellow adult Americans to know how to use the $85 Billion We Deserve It Dividend more than I do the geniuses at AIG or in Washington DC .

And remember, this plan only really costs $59.5 Billion because $25.5 Billion is returned instantly in taxes to Uncle Sam.

PS: Feel free to pass this along to all of your pals as it’s either good for a laugh...or a tear...or a very sobering thought on how to best use $85 Billion!!

By the way, America will be borrowing this money from China just like they have already done to pay for the war in Iraq.

On Stargazing

2008-10-17T14:09:00.000-07:00

You send me to the moon...

Would love to go there with you - having a "roller coaster day." May skip lunch and just have a Grey Goose Martini!

Your taste is impeccable as is mine. Grey Goose or nothing at all!

Agreed!

Here's to happy landings!

Cheers!

The Fall Classic

2008-10-17T06:17:00.000-07:00

I have always considered myself a dog lover. When my son Cole was eight years old, he had this little smooth coat fox terrier -- Lulu. Perfectly adorable to look at, the reality was quite the opposite. In fact, she was the most neurotic, high strung little cur that ever existed. Clearly, a misspelled breed name. It should be terror -- not terrier. When Lulu wasn't chewing on woodwork and baseboards, she'd jump up on the table at fancy dinner parties and break crystal. And, mind you, this was while the guests were seated. Red wine everywhere! To this day, the memory of her incessantly shrill yapping and schizophrenic behavior provide me with a spot on definition for the French word migraine.

It is October 2002. A date seared into my mind like a branding iron straight through my skull and into my cranium. The Giants are leading the Series against the Angels 3 games to 2. Right before game six, my Giants cap that I've had since I was a kid vanishes into thin air. Now, I wear that hat for all the games. I can't find it anywhere. The game starts. Our pitcher, Russ Ortiz takes a five to nothing lead into the seventh inning. Nine more outs and we are world champions! Dusty walks out to the mound and hands the game ball to Russ. The Angels are so incensed, they rally back to win the game and win the Series the next day in game seven.

After an epic choke job of that magnitude, I polished off a pitcher of martinis and headed for bed -- teetering and bewildered. There on my bed rested the tattered remains of my beloved cap. Compliments of Lulu. She hid it, destroyed it and then added insult to injury by thoughtfully placing it on my pillow after the devastating loss. The little devil dog knew exactly what she was doing... She had deliberately stolen my mojo solely to place a hex on my team. And, then the crafty little bitch had chewed it up to spite me forever.

That hat was more than just a symbol of support for my team. For though it was faded with age, it's kelly green underbill and inner head band liner stained with the sweat of my brow from years of passionate campagning, it was also a totem for all the generations who have loved the orange and black -- the most honored and venerated professional team in all of sport. A team that has won more games than the Yankees, Dodgers, Cardinals in baseball; Lakers, Celtics, Knicks in basketball; Bears, Cowboys, Giants, 49ers, Steelers in football or Manchester United in soccer. The franchise with more hall of famers enshrined in Cooperstown than the fabled New York Yankees despite their impressive array of hardware accumulated from 26 world series championships. The roll call of greatness whose names personify the very essence of the sport itself. Christy Mathewson. Willie Mays. Willie McCovey. Juan Marichal. Orlando Cepeda. John McGraw. Carl Hubbel. Cap Anson. "Wee Willie" Keeler. Rube Marquard. Joe McGinnity. Mel Ott. Gaylord Perry. Bill Terry. And, the countless others who on their way to the hall wore the Giant uniform with distinction. Not forgotten and shrouded in a controversy that only true greatness can court is Barry Bonds. The ultimate anti-hero to those who wrap themselves in the cloth of hypocrisy, but, undeniably the greatest player to ever suit up. These are my heroes. This is my team representing a line up card for the ages. And, in the 50-years since the club moved from the Polo Grounds in Manhattan to San Francisco, Giants fans remain among the most loyal and devoted in all of sports, awaiting their first world series championship title in the City by the Bay.

Former Giant skipper Roger Craig had a way of spinning folksy homilies into the lexicon of San Francisco sports lore. When Scott Garrault was a young pitcher for the club during its late 1980s resurgence, he experienced a losing streak that threatened his confidence. In his reassuring North Carolinian voice, Craig intoned to his young pitcher: "Don't get your dobber down." The dobber in baseball is the little button on the top of the cap. As I turned out the light to sleep that fateful night, I stared up at the darkened ceiling and thought, "I am losing my faith. My dobber has never been this down. Hell, she chewed the dobber completely off and buried it!"

Somewhere out there on a sand lot, a small group of kids laugh with glee as they circle the bases with reckless abandon. The crack of a bat echoes across a diamond. The crowd roars in the chill of autumn. Above it all, presides a baseball god with a sword of justice in one hand and judgment book in the other. Karmic justice for the deserving and the damned.

It is with only a tinge of sadness that I must report Lulu was run over by a car less than three months later. As we stood by Lulu's little grave with the hard, dark earth and shovel at its side, the sun glared brightly upon a frost covered January morning. Wincing in the harsh light, I told myself that duty demand I utter a brief, solemn benediction for the comfort of my surrounding family, which I did. But, as the children wailed balefully, it was all I could do to restrain myself from smiling just a little. For with a little patience, comes justice in this world. Such are the roles of fathers and baseball fans alike.

Square One

2008-10-13T08:16:00.000-07:00

The problem with closure is that it rarely works. At least when it is unexpected.

Eight hours in from Vegas. My mind is a blur. I try to clear the cobwebs from my brain, but nothing seems to do the trick. I decide to check my emails and attempt some followup correspondence. I'm on Facebook and add as a friend one of the guys I've been partying with in Vegas. While reminiscing over a drink in the desert, we'd thrown around a few names of people from our past. One had stuck right smack in my craw and I couldn't quite shake it. I haven't seen her since Jimmy Carter was president. I wonder if she is on Facebook. Nah. Highly unlikely. I enter her name and bingo!

Wow! There she is. And, man... I am not ready.

The picture reveals a lot. Timelessly gorgeous, she has taken good care of herself. She is the same age as me and looks a damn sight better for the years. Her dark hair flows from a widows peak sweeping across a sculpted brow. With a pair of silver hoop earrings and an open neck blouse, her complexion radiates a healthy southern California glow. She possesses a Mona Lisa smile quixotically translating the sacred mysteries of her inner thoughts. All of this is good. I think.

But, it's those damned eyes that I lock into and I know at once this is the woman I had fallen head over heels for as a girl. It seems as if the stars have traveled a billion light years to land in her eyes and now shine back at me.

No, I tell myself. I am not that boy searching for love from so long ago. I am a middle aged, single man with three children who look up to and need my unconditional love and support. I wear the scars of the intervening decades that have forged my character and strengthened my identity. Where I was once a callow youth, experience dictates that I should by all rights have more answers than questions to the riddles of life.

And, there I stare in silence. For on that screen smiles a lovely face that once intoxicated me with its scent, gentle caresses and vibrancy. It is an overpowering sensation. I feel a release of energy rising from my stomach and a hot flash across my cheeks. Why am I blushing? My conscience quickly responds. You're blushing because of what you did to this beautiful woman. And, I know that little voice inside is shooting straight with me.

Do our choices in life shape our character? Or does our character teach us about choice? The weight of the question drifts off in the ether of pheromones I emit as I study her face. Jesus. Over the years, I've frequently wondered what became of her and my love. And, staring back a foot away is a smiling face with all of the answers to the countless questions I've asked myself since I was that boy. This is the very moment of truth. The years of anticipation and expectation are at an end. All I need to do is send a message and hope she responds.

Amidst the champagne euphoria of rediscovery, a nagging doubt bubbles up to the surface threatening to turn my emotional elixir flat. Why would she respond to me? In that instant of recognition, my conscience is laid bare. Drawing a long, deep breath, I stare back into those soulful eyes -- reflection pools of hope. I want to make certain that those are real sparkles and not just pixels manipulating my heart.

Sure, she'll reply I tell myself. Just click the mouse and wait. After 30-years, what have I got to lose?

Surf and Turf

2008-10-10T12:35:00.000-07:00

The differences between San Francisco and Las Vegas are, if not abundantly subtle, transparently clear. Both are islands of a kind, one being surrounded by water on three sides while the other stands out like a shiny trinket amid a vast wasteland of sand. You sink or swim in one town. In the other, you begin to wither from extreme exposure the minute you arrive and end up crawling to survive for the remainder of your stay.

Vegas could only be built in the middle of a desert. Everything is truly a mirage. As my plane taxis down the runway toward the terminal, the hotel where I am staying appears right over the fence and down the street. God isn't that great. Everything is so close by. Wrong. Once in the cab, it takes an agonizingly slow ten minutes as we drive eight miles to reach my seemingly nearby destination at Mandalay Bay. Only as we approach it, do I realize the epic scale of the structure. It is 64-stories tall, which would make it the tallest building in San Francisco by a considerable height. By contrast, along the Vegas Strip it's only slightly above the local average.

The valet graciously opens my cab door greeting me as I fumble through a stack of small bills for the driver. Standing at the registration desk, a tour guide from Denver leads a group of jack Mormons through reception. At least this is my educated guess, since the men have all been attired from a Sears Roebuck catalog and each are trailed by their own individual harems not of the local pay-for-play variety. After checking into my suite, which at a luxurious 800 square feet for only $109 seems criminal, I change into a swim suit and head down to the pool area to meet two college friends I haven't seen in close to 30-years.

Referring to Mandalay Bay's outdoor water facilities as a "pool area" is like calling the Taj Mahal a building. About a thousand bronzed and tightly toned figures lie on chaises in the whitest sand I've ever beach combed around a man-made oasis with a gentle three foot swell breaking about every minute. Surrounding the lagoon are several enclosed palm fringed pool areas with naughty laughter emanating from private cabanas. Promenading through the maze of endless rows of beach goers, I feel the constant gazes of people eyeballing me, checking to see whether I am someone famous. No celebrities today. Only celebrity seekers. After I pass, their disappointed looks return to their Star magazines.

I spot my friend in the distance. He holds his cell phone against his ear and waves to me with a rakish grin. His fit physique does not jibe with my memories of a doughy college student. Mike is now a sought after film producer in Hollywood who in recent years has hit his full stride. Perhaps, he is not quite an A-list producer, but, with a beautiful former soap opera star for a wife and two young healthy children at home, he has a good life and he knows it. He reaches out confidently to shake my hand with a firm, but relaxed grip. No wonder the fucker has a beautiful golf swing.

"TJ," he tees off. "It's been far too long." Hell of a back swing I think. Damn near perfect form. Mike adjusts the USC golf cap shading his piercing blue eyes.

"Forget it," I reply skipping a beat. "It's Vegas."