Negentropy vs Entropy

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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...