Let Freedom Ring

In the dawn's early light I got to thinking about being British. It was 6:30 a.m. on July 4th. and I was awakened not by the rockets' red glare but by the continual cawing of canyon crows, which kept me from falling back asleep on this day of celebrating our independence from mother England. Back in the day, say 300 years ago, a group of crazy religious fanatics who wanted England's brand of Protestantism to reflect their own narrow, sectarian views, left for the British colonies, a land already stolen from an indigenous people and in the throes of continual plundering mode by the English throne, in order to establish their own community of religious intolerance, a tradition which continues today with our Christian right. Cotton Mather and his merry gang of Puritan pranksters scared the bejesus out of their churchgoing constituents, framing much of daily life around a continual need of proving one's righteousness to placate a truly pissed off God. What holy father wouldn't be angry, given such a gathering of wayward, sinful souls. If the Pilgrims had waited just a mere 20 years England's religious reformation might have embraced the grim and sober tenets of the Pilgrim's brand of Protestant craziness. But, drunk on the notion that they must practice their own bigoted, racist and narrow-minded faith without the shackles of accepting other beliefs, off they went. Their adventure upon the high seas and subsequent landing in America is the stuff of which legends are made. Our quaint myth of the Pilgrims' landing and the breaking of bread and sharing of fowl with the friendly heathens rings true to school children marching in Thanksgiving Day parades but has little real historical traction, although the slaughtering of nearly 45 million turkeys for our annual Thanksgiving celebration makes one wonder if more than just the children are gullible. Life in the colonies under the rule of King George III of Great Britain couldn't have been much different than life in England under the same rule of law. But, oh dear, the taxes. That onerous tax on tea was the final straw. Thank goodness our own Tea Party today in America is ever vigilant on the tax front. So, just where am I going with this? Well, I'm not sure what I'm celebrating on 4th of July. A land grab from the Indians? Englanders that turned on their own country? Religious zealots that formed their own more perfect union? Had we done nothing and simply been law-abiding English folk residing in the colonies we would be English today and instead of launching fireworks and imbibing in potato salad we would be celebrating the Wimbledon semi-final victory of fellow countryman Andy Murray while downing some fish and chips and a not-so-cold beer. Would that be so bad?

The Walk Home

Funny things can happen when I walk home from the shuttle
through the heart of Hillcrest, especially when the darkness
starts crawling in and filling in the lingering shadows and
the neon starts washing the sidewalks with its strange and
eerie light. This particular Wednesday was no exception.
I expected there to be something interesting coming my
way and I wasn't disappointed. At the corner of University
and 6th. Avenue, outside of City Deli a woman asked me
if I could spare some change for the bus. This wasn't an
unusual request as the avenue is loaded with sad people
in various stages of their demise, some pushing what's
left of their worldly goods around in shopping carts, others
just wandering aimlessly, if they're even able to wander. This
woman seemed somewhat together in that her clothes
seemed fresh and clean, she was walking erect and
carrying a satchel, not unlike my book bag I was carrying
but she did have a somewhat dazed look that is hard to
describe. She looked a little crazy. So, when she asked
me for change for the bus we were both waiting at the
light and I couldn't escape. It was awkward. So, I fished
a dollar bill out of my jean pocket and handed it to her.
She looked startled and said, "That's a lot of money, are
you doing OK." I wasn't sure what she meant, could I
afford that dollar, or was I crazier than she? I nodded
and told her I was doing fine. Then she asked me why
I gave her a dollar bill. "Because you need to take the
bus and this dollar bill might give you bus fare," I
replied. She gave me a funny look and said, "But what
if I'm lying about the bus." What an odd thing to say,
I thought. "Well, I guess you'll have to live with that,"
I told her. "I'm taking you at your word." And with those
parting remarks I crossed the street and continued my
walk home down University Avenue. I never looked
back to see if she even crossed the street and I don't
know if she took the bus. I only know that I wanted
to believe her.

The Fourth Reich?

Hidden in plain sight
The Reich of misplaced dreaming
Broke nazi hipsters








Heading out from Will Rogers State Park, just a sneeze away from the heart of chi chi Brentwood, off of Sunset Boulevard and a half mile up, hikers have before them a matrix of trails, crosscrossing through the Santa Monica mountains, that could keep even the most ambitious trekker busy for days. If you find the right trail that heads toward the top ridge of Topanga Canyon you can see the layout of Los Angeles bow before you; the gentle curve of coastline that sweeps from Santa Monica to the jutting jawline of Palos Verdes and the cluster of urban behemoths that comprise downtown Los Angeles. All the while the birds are singing, the squirrels are scampering, the oak trees are flexing and the hillsides are lush with the native California palette; sages, lemonberry, acacia, manzanita. Since the signage amongst the sage is
casually and sparsely placed, it’s easy to get lost. We did. Our party of five slipped and slid down recently cut rivulets into a stream fed canyon known as Rustic Canyon. There, not really hidden but clearly off the beaten path is an abandoned enclave of long lost dreams of a future Utopia for American National Socialists waiting for their Fuhrer to set them free. Yep, I’m talking Nazis, our own homegrown kind, huddled in a canopied, self-contained community to wait out World War II and pounce on the American mainstream to impose order Nazi style. While the full story behind this boondoggle is a bit sketchy the following is known: In 1933, 50 or so acres of canyon property were purchased from Will Rogers by Winona and Norman Stephens using the front name of “Murphy”. Norman was a wealthy silver miner from Colorado and his wife, Winona was the daughter of a wealthy industrialist and a bit of a kook, believing in the world of metaphysical phenomena. She became acquainted with a German, Herr Schmidt, who claiming to have supernatural powers, apparently imposed them on our gullible Winona and Svengalied her into believing that with Europe collapsing and Germany’s inevitable victory in its march toward world domination, there would be a period of anarchy across our great country. This made sense to Winona and Norman, who spent upwards of $4 million to build a small community for Nazi sympathizers to safely wait out the impending societal breakdown. Prior to running out of money, the Stephens built an impressive infrastructure: terracing hillsides for agriculture, laying out sprinkler systems for orchards, a 500-gallon water tank, power station with double generators, stables, a two-story steel-framed garage and machine shop…Before the actual living quarters were built the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Herr Schmidt’s sorry ass was arrested and the future home and plans of the Stephens were dashed and abandoned. The 1978 Mandeville Canyon Fire destroyed the abandoned work of the Stephens and what now remains is the burnt out hulk of the machine shop, the generator station completely awash in graffiti and suffocating through overgrown vines, numerous concrete staircases that lead up to overgrown terraced hillsides and what would have been a sustainable garden, and a virtual jungle gym of rusted steel pipes, rebar, bathtubs, window frames, even an old bike hangs garroted in the miasma. The property now belongs to the Santa Monica Parks and Recreation Department which plans on razing what’s left of the compound and replacing it with a benign picnic area. But for now, this fascinating peek into a bygone era and wonderland of eye candy for photo buffs is ripe for the taking. And there’s a more direct way of finding Murphy Camp. Just head upstream from Will’s polo fields.

Why I Learned To Swim at 13

Tiny pigtails slipped quietly
Out of sight, keenly overlooked
Amongst clinks, drinks, poolside cocktails.
Late afternoon piercing the chlorinated cover
She drifted along its silver shaft
Unafraid of the bubbles, wondrous bubbles,
Baby bubbles, eyes wide, still and blue
Faint laughter poking through
Beyond the bubbles, nose bubbles, mouth bubbles
Until a boy’s appearance roiled the stillness
His arms freckled, familiar, brotherly
And she, unknowingly breathless, plucked to safety.
As they shattered the surface in sibling embrace
She cried for her mother.

Illustration is David Hockney's. He's really great!
Check out his web site here

GOOGLE SANTORUM

Aching penises

Look to the lord for relief

While scapegoating Eve.

Jacked up on self-loathing and enraptured by

religious adventurism, Rick Santorum and his

ilk i.e. Michelle Bachman, Rick Perry, Newt Gingrich,

Ron Paul, a virtual Madame Tussaut's cast of waxy,

empty-headed loons, are a shameful reminder

that our country has not only stumbled but is

grotesquely out of joint. I wrote this haiku the

last time Santorum rode his wave of bible-thumping

intolerance back in 2006 when he attempted to

hang on to his senate seat in Pennsylvania while

caught in a vortex of controversy including his

place of residence, Virginia, and the billing of

Pennsylvania for his children's online schooling,

to name just a couple. Hmmm, the lord wasn't able

to shield him from his own righteous corruption.

Gladly, he lost. However, our collective memory

seems to last a nano-second and Rick is back making

a run for the Republican nomination for President.

If I were a religious type of the christian flavor this

might be one of those, "Father, forgive them for they

know not what they do," sort of moments. However,

thankfully I'm not. There is no excuse for such patent

stupidity on the part of a large segment of blind

believers and a knuckle-head like Rick Santorum.

Oh, by the way, google the word, Santorum, for a

good laugh.

HUNT PERCHANCE TO KILL

The collective pulse

Of a violent species

Grows ever dimmer.

A Grizzly recently received a reprieve from being hunted down by "officials" for bad behavior due to the benign nature of the Grizzlie's attack. Apparently it was determined the Grizzly was startled and meant no real harm to the Idaho hunter holding a high-powered rifle designed to blow apart all desired species for pleasure purposes. I believe this is referred to as an "avid sportsman". The Grizzly landed a couple of blows that resulted in a broken arm and some abrasions for the hunter and then either lost interest, wasn't hungry or understood the possible repercussions of the "kill" and melted back into the forest. The man was airlifted out, licking his wounds.

"It's very clear from the incident that the bear was surprised and ran away. It did not intend to kill or consume the men", said an official from the Fish and Wildlife Agency. Had the Grizzly gone all the way and destroyed the man who held the rifle that could, in turn, destroy the Grizzly, something commonly referred to as the "law of survival," there would have been an APB out for that particular Grizzly determined to have held the intent to kill in its grisly heart.

Call me crazy but if some sick-ass hunter pointed a gun at me for his jollies with intent to bead me in with his high-powered, technically advanced rifle and blow me to kingdom come, I would come at him with intent to bite off his nasty-ass head. That hunter was given a reprieve by the Grizzly and should put that rifle away and join the Endangered Species Coalition and honor the animal that spared him his life.

9/11

Phoenix emerges

From the Fall of innocence

Innocents fallen.

9/11 casualties:

3,000 innocents die trapped in twin towers

6,026 American troops dead in pursuit of...

Scores more brain damaged/amputees

150,000 innocents die trapped in Iraq/Afghanistan

Those poor, dear souls who went innocently to

work on Tuesday, September 11, 2001 were

presented with a horror beyond imagination and

had to choose whether to jump or face a more

gruesome death. Their deaths have been greatly

dishonored by our country's "shock and awe"

response which has killed other innocents many

times over and has tarnished our image and

reputation in our world community. The 9/11

dead deserved better; a commitment to a more

peaceful existence would have been a fitting and

lasting memorial. We could have reassessed our

practices of resource exploitation and corporate

adventurism, all in the name of democracy

building, and stayed out of the pipelines of other

sovereign nations.

A memorial at Ground Zero is appropriate as a

tribute to our twin tower casualties but a far

greater memorial would be a lasting embrace of

truth and decency.

Here is a poem I read out of the New Yorker, just

a few weeks following the tragedy. I thought it

beautifully rendered:

I Saw You Walking

I saw you walking through Newark Penn Station
in your shoes of white ash. At the corner
of my nervous glance your dazed passage
first forced me away, tracing the crescent
berth you’d give a drunk, a lurcher, nuzzling
all comers with ill will and his stench, but
not this one, not today: one shirt arm’s sheared
clean from the shoulder, the whole bare limb
wet with muscle and shining dimly pink,
the other full-sheathed in cotton, Brooks Bros.
type, the cuff yet buttoned at the wrist, a
parody of careful dress, preparedness—
so you had not rolled up your sleeves yet this
morning when your suit jacket (here are
the pants, dark gray, with subtle stripe, as worn
by men like you on ordinary days)
and briefcase (you’ve none, reverse commuter
come from the pit with nothing to carry
but your life) were torn from you, as your life
was not. Your face itself seemed to be walking,
leading your body north, though the age
of the face, blank and ashen, passing forth
and away from me, was unclear, the sandy
crown of hair powdered white like your feet, but
underneath not yet gray—forty-seven?
forty-eight? the age of someone’s father—
and I trembled for your luck, for your broad,
dusted back, half shirted, walking away;
I should have dropped to my knees to thank God
you were alive, o my God, in whom I don’t believe.

—Deborah Garrison

From the issue of Ocotber 22, 2001.