On Monday, 1/25/10, I was riding my bike when I was struck by an undocumented man who had no driver's license and no insurance card on him. 

It turned out he was insured but by a company who seek out illegal aliens, Access Insurance. "At Access we are committed to...No Credit Checks, Low Down Payments, Acceptance of Foreign Driver's Licenses." 

Access Insurance specializes in taking money from illegals, who have no drivers license and then when they get in an accident denying liability and blaming the injured victim.  A claims adjuster for Access, Shana Lewis, said I was responsible because I rode my bike against traffic.  I did not ride against traffic, I rode on the sidewalk and at a crosswalk with a stop sign when their insured admitted he didn't look both ways when he turned into me.  Ms. Lewis based her info on what she learned about CA law from the internet.

You should be outraged by this practice.  I am.  I sent a letter to Access Insurance's CEO, Jerry Morris and every government official I could think of.  You should too.

Mr. JerryMorris, CEO

AccessGeneral Insurance

PO Box250087

Atlanta, GA30325

Email: jmorris@accessgeneral.com

CA director - Ken Oswald - koswald@accessgeneral.com

        

A 25 year old Mexican national was arrested, Monday January 4 for the stabbing death of Bennett "Ben" Bradley.  Jose Fructuoso now sits in the Twin Towers Correctional Facility, after confessing to killing Bradley, who was his lover. 

This is better than any play produced by the Fountain.  The sordid and lurid details about what happened the night of the murder and the full extent of Ben and Jose's relationship will probably never come out because he confessed, but the possibilities, from a playwrights stand point are endless. 

I suspected that this may have been the scenario when I first heard Ben was stabbed to death, because stabbing is pretty common among crimes of passion.  Also, I've know two other gay men who have died in the exact same fashion.  They were all in the theatre and all found dead, by the hands of their paramours.  One was in Ibiza and the other was in Harlem, he frequented bath houses, in Harlem there are still bath houses, at least there were when he was murdered about ten years ago. 

What a dramatic end to Ben's seemingly uneventful life.  I'm sorry I didn't delve deeper into his story when I had the chance.  But then again, perhaps the most intriguing part of some lives are not the beginning and the middle but the end.  This story is definitely one that would hold more interest if it began at the end.

        

BEN BRADLEY        An oasis in a desert

A few years ago, I moved to Los Angeles, and set out toproduce a play I wrote and produced in New York.  It’s a play which meldsspoken word, jazz and art.  The title of the play is, "I'm YourNanny's Child."  I performed it in New York and was inspired to writeit after I won the Amateur night competition at the Apollo Theatre, afterreading the piece, "Nigger, Nigger Burning Bright or An Impresario’sRap." 

Los Angeles is not known for theatre and especially theatre that's original orchallenging.  Most of the "theatre," and I place the words inquotes because even though it takes place in a theatre venue, most of what I'veseen in Los Angeles, can at best be described as parlor shows or vanitymonologues by lovers of Hollywood insiders and local weathermen.  Therewas actually a one-woman show where the wife of a Hollywood insider talkedabout her chemotherapy and showed slides of her during various stages ofcancer.  There was also a show of musings by Fritz Lang, a NBCweatherman.  Rob Reiner's mother often does a cabaret show; Fernando Lamashas a cabaret show... I think you get the picture of what constitutes astheatre in Los Angeles.

Seeing what I was up against I still set out to bring my brand of theatre toLos Angeles.  It t'wernt easy.  I called some contacts from New Yorkand they sent me to various people in Los Angles they knew from New York. What I met with was resistance and suspicion that I would somehow usurp theirplace.  For all the smiles and glad handing that goes on in Los Angeles,it's the most unwelcoming city and goodwill is parsimonious among artists. Undaunted I plowed on and finally after every obstacle being thrown at me,including having to change venues the day before my performance, I prevailedand vowed never to do another production in Los Angeles again. 

A couple of years passed, before I screwed up my strength to endeavor toproduce another original piece in Los Angeles.  This one was a play aboutJosephine Baker.  The first production I ever produced was a musicalproduction on Josephine Baker, and that was at the Lincoln Center Librarytheatre.  After that production, I also vowed never to produce anythingagain, but of course I did. 

The production of "Baker" I did in Los Angeles was more of a playwith music than a musical spectacular.  It had many characters so I had tohire actors and a musical director, that in itself is quite a chore in LosAngeles, because "actors" in Los Angeles are trained, if trained atall, for film and T.V. so they have this way of speaking and acting, as ifthey're waiting for a laugh or sigh or boo track, you know, canned responses,thus canned acting.   What to do I thought?  Once I again, Iturned to New York contacts and was led to two gentlemen, one was Sheldon Epps,who is the Artistic Director at The Pasadena Playhouse, and the other was BenBradley, who was the audience development person for the FountainTheatre. 

I had met Sheldon after I produced my first play in Los Angeles.  Anaudience development person who worked with him came to see my show and wasimpressed that I was able to fill the theatre, especially after switchingvenues overnight.  Sheldon was one of the few people who took my call, atleast, his assistant did.  He even invited me to tag along when hedirected an episode of "Frasier."  I never received any jobsfrom him or because of my association with him, but that's pretty much how itworks in Los Angeles.  Casual associates don't rise up the ranks; you haveto be very familiar with someone in the know to get work. 

What about talent, you ask?  Talent is perceived as a disadvantage, it'stoo much of a threat.  Connections are better than talent in LosAngeles.  When who you know is pitted against what you know, who you knowwins every time.

The second person, Ben Bradley was, and I say I was because I nearly keeledover two nights ago, when turned on the 11:00 news and heard, "Producer atthe Fountain Theatre found stabbed to death in his apartment."  Thereon the screen was a familiar face to anyone who has ever known him or been tothe Fountain.  Shock, disbelief, disgust, sadness, anger, I felt them allat once.  How could this happen?  Who would do such a thing? Why was he living in Koreatown?  Why did it take a "stagemanager" from the theatre to discover him?  Where was hisfamily?  Who knew his full name was Bennett?  All these questionspopped in my head. 

I also began to do some self-reflection.  How will I meet my death? It's one of those things that I don't spend any time thinking about, but thiswas such a shocking and violent turn of events that it crowded my mind.  Iknew this person and not in a casual way but I actually spent more time talkingto him than I had anyone in this selfish community.

Once I decided to produce my Josephine Baker play not as a performance reading,which is like a full production but with less production value and actors canread from the script, only I insisted that they know their parts, I had to finda venue.  A contact stated that Ben may be helpful.  When I called hesounded occupied, but he was willing to listen.  We finally met and he wasmuch more receptive.  We met many times afterwards because I lived not toofar from the theatre and I recall many times he was late for ourappointments.  Later, I discovered he was often late because I believe hetook the bus and walked; which is quite odd in Los Angeles.  It's verydifficult to get around without a car here.  I'm not sure if he had a carand it was being repaired but I know he didn't drive around in a fancy foreigncar, nor did he dress to impress, he always appeared dressed simply and a bitruffled.  I wouldn't say he was ill-groomed, I would say he looked neat,but without a lot of thought about his sartorial choices. 

Ben had a very mild and genial mien.  He did not offer a threateningpresence but he could get crossed and honery if he had the mind to.  Irecall someone called on the phone, in his messy office at the Fountain, withwhat he apprised to be a foolish inquiry, Ben did not mince words with them, infact he used some salty language for a man who normally used such correct speech. 

We shared our mutual love for the theatre and our frustration about the lack oftheatrical integrity in Los Angeles.  Ben was very proud of theproductions he worked on at the Fountain.  After many years as working asthe audience development person, who is the person responsible for gettingbutts in the seats for the Fountain, the directors of the Fountain rewarded Benby letting him direct.  He directed two August Wilson’s plays. 

Ben was a fan of August Wilson's work.  I'm not.  Out of deferencefor Ben I went to see his production of "Joe Turner Has Come andGone."  I was bored.  After thinking about it, it wasn't theproduction that bored me as much as it was the play itself.  The subjectmatter is passé and very dated.  I don't know if Ben could have done muchmore with what he had to work with, the story doesn't lend itself to more thanwhat he gave.  The actors gave predictable high flown over dramaticperformances, in those booming voices, that are better suited for a stirringrendition of, "Old Man River."   I was not moved by theproduction by I was touched by Ben's pride and enthusiasm about his baby, hisshow.  Ben packed in more butts through his many years of contacts withBlack churches, sororities, Jack and Jill society, than any play about theHolocaust the fountain produced. 

It was a true testament to his worth at the Fountain that Ben could get peopleto come out for plays that otherwise would never have an audience.  Isensed that Ben felt underappreciated and the fact that he was never given thetitle of producer or director in residence by the directors of the Fountain,was testament to the selfish nature of this business.  What it would havemeant to Ben to be acknowledged for more than the genial face who put butts inseats and the latent director of the "Black" productions. 

Perhaps I'm cynical but as I reflect upon how humbly and meagerly Ben lived anddied at 59 years of age, I can't help ponder whether the Fountain directors aregrieving Ben or the rolodex of contacts that went with him. 

I'll grieve Bennnet Bradley, because we shared a passion for theatre and theprocess.  The arduous process it takes to take a project from A to Z, justfor a couple of hours of audience appreciation.  Ben may not have diedwealthy or renowned but he was definitely appreciated and valued by onemisplaced New Yorker, who needed a sympathetic ear and advice.  To me, Benwill always be remembered as an oasis in a desert.

        

        

Asian journalist speak out about Tiger Woods.

David Ono from ABC News - Los Angeles.





Gina from NBC News - Los Angeles.




L.A. Times reporter stuck to his old school journalistic principles about not giving an opinion, bless his heart.  He's a rare breed, like an albino whale.

        

Two weeks ago, when Tiger's Cock 'N Tailgate or Tale of the Cock broke, I could care less.  I couldn't imagine it could be anything more than a fender bender (pun intended) but what a difference a couple of weeks make. 

I've always been indifferent about Tiger Woods; you see, I'm not into golf and physically he looks as if he might have a slight touch of Down Syndrome.  But as the days pass and the women jump out like circus clowns out of a tiny car, now I can see, that beneath his woody wood chopper smile lurks a naughty, nasty boy, which somehow makes him a lot less boring, than he was two weeks ago.

I was curious to hear what other people thought of him, so when I was invited to a party thrown by the Asian Journalist Association, I decided to see how they felt about their lost  "Caublaasian" sheep.  I received some interesting and surprising responses.

It's curious that of all the women coming forward, there isn't a Ho in the bunch.  Ho is a very popular Asian name. 

        

Yesterday while tooling about on my lovely pink bicycle, yes I have a girly bike, with basket and pink tooty toot toot horn, anyway guess who I spotted while I was taking my Sunday ride, parked at an intersection in tony Hancock Park?  No, not him, not her either, Forget it I'll tell you, Congresswoman Maxine Waters.  Yep there she was idling at an intersection. 

I was waiting to cross 6th and Lucerne, when I noticed the car at the intersection wasn't moving, even though it had the green light.  After a few seconds I decided to take my chances and cross.  As I pedaled pass I looked inside the car and gave the driver a stern look, something like, "What's your problem?"  To my surprise, the driver was none other than Congresswoman Maxine Waters, who was being accosted and held captive by a mother of two toddlers she left sitting in strollers on the curb, to chat Maxine up about some rich stay at home mom issue, her neighbor who uses her recycle bins, or something like that. 

I pedaled passed, then decided to go back and find out what Maxine was doing outside of her district humoring an "o" subscriber? 

I must admit I was very impressed by how gracious Maxine was.  In the past, I accused her of being, shall we say, overly passionate and flamboyantly vociferous when she spoke, especially about her support of Hillary Clinton for President, but yesterday not a head roll or project neck did I see.  Keep up the good work Congresswoman Waters.

So there she was working on Sunday, yes I consider listening to women in too tight mom leggings droning on about issues better left to daytime TV as work, If she keeps this up she may be removed from my "Embarrassing Black Politicians" list, and in the running for the hardest working woman in "da house."

By the way, she was just a couple of blocks from the Mayor's mansion, and he's single, and always ready to mingle, and she was evasive about where she was coming from...  I'm just saying, could Hancock Park be the West coast version of the Appalachian trail?

        

Over the summer, A.C.O.R.N., the favorite whipping boy for the Right, who are generally very Wrong, held a rally in Watts, CA.  The purpose of the rally was to draw attention to the people who were most affected by the foreclosure crisis but often little heard.  On that hot summer day their voices were heard by some famous supporters.  One of them was Roseanne Barr and her "boyfriend."

It's curious how now that ACORN has become an embattled target of the right, the good they've done for the disenfranchised has been all but forgotten. 

Let's face it, no group can weed out all the bad apples, but must we throw out the baby with the bath water.  In spite of the multi and mixed metaphors, my point is plain.

Although Roseanne speaks with a logical delirium, with that hazey, dazey crazy drug fog look in her eyes, at times she makes sense.  I wonder if her support for ACORN is as strong now as it was over the summer.  I'm curious as to whether her sentiments have changed since the cloud of controversy crept over the mighty ACORN.




Roseanne also has an explanation as to why she's not asked to sit in with the ladies of the "View."

        

The L.A. Weekly is one of those free papers that homeless people use to pad their outside bedding and pedestrians pick up to peruse the gay escort ads and if they're not near a computer, to view the movie listings.  It's suppose to be the West Coast version of the "Village Voice," but with it's shrilled, sturm and drang reporting, it can hardly be called, a must read periodical.

The major credit for the lackluster "Weekly" rest with its News Editor, Jill Stewart.  Ms. Stewart is an impressive woman, in her estimation, and has the supercilious and effrontery manner, that was once played to great acclaim, by the late Adolph Menjou. 

In June of this year, James Rainey, of the L.A. Times took Ms. Stewart to task over her ham-handed tactics and even went as far as to say:

"I don't see the Weekly regaining its equilibrium as long as Stewart remains in charge of the news section. It's likely that a new top editor will be brought in from outside.

But no one I talked to expects the bombastic Ms. Stewart to be going anywhere any time soon."

At a L.A. Press Club event to promote Chuck Todd's, "How Obama Won The Presidency," which Ms. Stewart moderated, I asked Todd and Stewart why they felt America was ready for a Black President but America's news rooms are quite sparse in color.  Listen and compare the two responses.  Is there any wonder there are so few minorities getting their hands dirty from ink, when Editors like Ms. Stewart have dismissed them as being "too few" and the ones who come across her desk as being incompetent, since corporate America's deep pockets have snapped up the "handful" of good journalist.

I haven't heard such drivel since I was an undergrad and an English Professor attempted to dissuade me from declaring English as my major.  "You know Blacks don't fare well in this department, I guess because we expect them to master proper standard English."  It's unfortunate that sentiment is still pervasive at the L.A. Weekly under Ms. Stewart's stewardship. 

I must agree with Mr. Rainey, the Weekly is destined to go the way of the typewriter and the horseless carriage, with Jill Stewart as its driver.

 

        

How deceiving it looks from the outside.  So inviting and welcoming, but the moment you step inside, that bucolic facade disintegrates into a very bleak reality.  America's libraries, that free font of learning and adventure has turned into a flop house for the forgotten man and woman.


I'm not a snob or elitist yet I have found myself inwardly mouthing the words of Dickens' Scrooge, "Are there no work houses?" each time I walk into a library.  I spend a great deal of time in the library.  I've been an inveterate patron since I was six years old.  I use to enthusiastically attend Saturday afternoon children story hour, at the Bloomingdale branch, in my neighborhood in New York City.  However, gone are the carefree days of whiling away hours, tucked in some corner in a snug chair, reading about Charlotte's Web, Alice's Adventure or the Pilgrim's Progress.



Now when I go to one of the numerous branches in Los Angeles, I must gird my senses for the assaults they are bound to meet.  The first attack is on my sense of smell.  A day in the library, is not a day in the library unless my nostrils are usurped by smells of pee, musk oil masking pee, unwashed privates and hair, stale smoke, city soot on top of filthy bare feet, halatosis, and the comingling of all those rancid smells at once.

The next sense is sight.  I sit down to complete my novel or just peruse the various sites that amuse and interest me and my attention is diverted by someone dressed in every article of clothing they own or was donated to them, topped off by a beanie on their head with one of those rotating red streamers.  I test myself to see how long I can go without looking up at the Asian couple sporting dreads and clipping their toe nails.  Of course there are the regulars, like the woman who claims to be Amelia Earhart, wearing a XXX flight suit.



The third of my senses that's attacked, sound, is the most egregious offense because of my hypersensitivity to noise.  I can not stand noisy, chatty people.  So when I go the library and I hear people speaking loudly or playing something online so loud that I can hear it emanating from their ear phones, I become the most virulent shussher that ever lived.  If my shusshing doesn't quiet them, I enlist the aide of the librarian.  If that doesn't work, I insist the security guard gives them the boot.  Yes, I'm that person.  It used to go without saying that there was no talking in the library, not anymore.  It's bad enough I have to put up with rude sounds of flatulence, belching, snoring and the repugnant sound of phlegm and snot being snorted up or out, but an old N.W.A. video ta boot, that's just too much! 

NOISY EROGONIMIC KEYBOARD

The other day I was in the library seeking peace and solace, which I can only achieve after stuffing ear plugs in my ear and keeping my head down, when I heard a definite slapping/clicking/bumping noise.  What's that noise?  I looked about and found the culprit.  It was a woman who had an old keyboard that could only register type if it was slapped with her meaty digits.  That explained the loud slap and click but what about the pounding.  That came from the "erogonomically designed" keyboard resting on the woman's corpulent lap and bumping against the wooden table each time she moved in to type.  "It's annoying, stop it, use the keyboard on your laptop," I requested.  "I can't," she rejoined, "it gives me carpal tunnel."  I push in my ear plugs deeper, but the noise permeates like a cleaver.  I asked her again to refrain from using that infernal blast from the past keyboard.  She refuses.  I report her to the librarian, it's decided she should move to the children's section.  She leaves in a huff and a puff.

PHOTO TAKEN BEFORE I REPORTED HER

Don't get me wrong I feel for the homeless, the lonely, the anti-social and the forgotten; I'm certain I've been described as all four at some point in time, but even in those dejected states one can comport oneself with decorum; if not, at least migrate to the Beverly Hills library.  It offers so many advantages; it's spacious, comfy and has a wonderful air filter system, so foul odors don't linger and attack patrons like in the small Los Angeles libraries.  Why don't I encamp myself there?  Too many stuck up people.

        

 
Dr. Mark Mathabane, author of, "Kaffir Boy" 

  Talking to women from S. African Consulate

Last night I attended a lecture at the Marlborough School, which is an elite school for girls, in a tony section of Los Angeles.  The guest speaker was South African writer, Mark Mathabane, who is best know for his book, "kaffir Boy."   In the book, he describes what it was like to come of age during apartheid.  Mr. Mathabane is a soft spoken, natily dressed, small framed, dark brown man with flecks of grey in his close cropped afro.  He's the type of Black man that intellectuals and those who call themselves, and expect to be perceived as, enlightened, hold out as the best example of Christianity and good result of charitable causes who concern themselves with liberating poor Africans from the ills of barbarous traditions, like female circumcision and hunting wild animals for food.

As a writer, I'm always curious about other writers' subject matter.  What are they writing about?  What prompts them to sit down at a keyboard and have the audacity to think that there are people out there who care about what they're writing about.  Since "Kaffir Boy," Mr. Mathabane has written various sequels to the same story.  He wrote "Kaffir Boy in America," about his experience living in America, "African Women," about the women in his life; mother, grandmother and sisters, "Love in Black and White," about his interacial marriage, and so forth. 

Prior to his lecture, in which he mildly pleaded for "Ubuntu," which means "our common humanity" in Zulu, and is also the title of his latest novel, we had a brief conversation.  I found him quite engaging and eager to compare notes about the racial struggles in South Africa and the United States.  He asked me rhetorecially, I assumed, "When will America hold a reconciliation council for their past atrocities?"  He went on to volunteer that he felt South Africa was right to forgive the leaders and persecutors under apartheid, instead of making them pay.   How gracious, I thought.  I wonder how the folks who still suffer in the impoverished townships he spoke of,  feel about that decision.  It seems to me, that it's easy to be magnanimous on a full stomach.


Appreciative audience


 
An interesting question was posed to Mr. Mathabane, correction, Dr. Mathabane, by a white South African women in the audience, she asked, why, if he felt so strongly about changing the situation in South Africa, did he not return to help his people, after a White woman secured a scholarship for him to study in America.  Mr. Mathabane, did not answer directly, nor did he avoid the question, he simply answered in the fashion that eloquent people do, when they are uncomfortable with a question but don't want to appear to be so, he went on to re-tell his journey from the poverty of his Alexandra township to the halls of academia in North Carolina.  After he recounted how humbled he was by the sacrifices his mother made so he could receive an education, he stated he felt he could help his people better, "With my limited resources, by remaining here and talking to fine people like you at this wonderful school and who knows maybe one day the Marlborough school will produce a girl who will be president and she will remember something I said about humanity."  That satisfied the masses but there was still a minority, like me, who felt he he should've been honest and said, "Life is better here, it's easier to be an exotic Black in America than an educated Kaffir in South Africa."

I'm always fascinated by the audience who attend these functions, they rarely vary, and last night was no exception; however, I was surprised by the number of Blacks.  Not to say there were a lot but there were more than usual.  I was also quite taken by how many Blacks had children attending or graduated from the school.  I met a very delightful woman named Ruth.  She's eighty-five years old and moved to Los Angeles from Selma, Alabama, forty-five years ago.  She was a nurse and her husband a carpenter.  When she moved to Los Angeles she discovered maids in Los Angeles made more than nurses did in Alabama, she laughed and said, "I told my cousin to find me a job as a maid."  Eventually, she ended up working for the federal government until she retired, by that time, she and her husband had put four children through college.


Ruth, 85, we all should look as good and be so lucid

Getting an autograph for her granddaughter

I was curious how her granddaughter came to go to Marlborough and she explained that she and her daughter live in the Crenshaw district, not exactly a tony section of Los Angeles, but her daughter was determined that her granddaughters would go to that school. "So she saved every penny and borrowed from whoever she had to, to get the tuition.  I was happy to help.  My granddaughter goes to N.Y.U. now and she sent me here tonight to get his autograph on his book."  Ruth was loquacious in the most enjoyable way, not in the rambling annoying way that most people are; she went on to tell me about her husband, "He suffered from clinical depression most of his life.  I had to forget about him and focus on my children."  With her son hovering in the background Ruth chattered on about her actiivties at the senior center located inside Macy's, at the Crenshaw Mall.  I never knew Macy's had a senior center.  She was the type of feisty forthwright senior I'm always drawn to.  If it wasn't for her son lurking imaptiently I would have chatted with her longer.


His wife is one of four generations of Marlborough women

I chatted with others, an old man, who said his wife's family had four generations at the school, a middle age Black woman who said I looked familiar and told me she and her husband were members of his and her book clubs, a middle age white woman who asked me if I thought  we could take the South African brochures left about the room, to whom I responded yes, then alerted her she had some greens stuck in her teeth.  I know that is a tricky situation, but I would hope someone would tell me if I had something in my teeth or toliet paper stuck to my shoe or pants.  I was surprised the man she came with wasn't as kind.  How do you let someone you know walk around like that? Perhaps, they were going through a difficult patch in their relationship, even though, that's no excuse.  I've digressed. 

I was very impressed by the Marlborough campus and even more so by their well stocked book shelves.  The function was held in the"Academic Resource Center,"  which had a wall dedicated to "The banned books I love," with books like "Winnie the Pooh," "The Joy Luck Club"  and "Huckleberry Finn" posted on the board.  I guess anyone can make a case against any book.  The bible was also a banned book.  Holy reasonable, considering all the mischief its caused. 

I must admit, I felt a bit envious of those privileged Marlborough girls lounging in their Italian leather chairs, reading one of the numerous biographies on Hitler I spied on the shelves, until I caught myself, and remembered that I too attended private girl schools, with a liberal arts bent.  That is, until I went to Public School in Beverly Hills.  I had a mother who placed a premium on education and made it her life mission to make certain I had the best scholastic opportunities; summers studying abroad, exchange student in Asia and private boarding schools.  And for what, so I can become a member of that over educated class of unemployed, know it all writers.  You know them, they have all the answers but don't get their hands dirty doing heavy lifting.  They're skilled at writing directions about how to assemble an Ikea book shelf, but don't know the difference between a lug nut from a leechee. 

I'm not complaining, but I often wonder what the value of a high priced private education is in a world where money and "success" is showered on the Levi Johnstons, Reality Housewives, irresponsible parents of multiples, little educated heiresses and new money offspring who proudly split infinitives and wouldn't know the bill of rights from Bill O'Reilly?  What place does an expensive education have in a society that trumpets "keepin' it real" and being likable so people want to have a beer with you.  When I attended private school the only time beer was discussed was when we talked about rinsing our hair with it. 

In a way, I found the Marlborough school and their offering Dr. Mathabane as an alternative to reality TV, a throw back to a time when newscasters actually understood how to construct a sentence with a subject, verb, noun complement; reading wasn't a chore but considered entertainment and unwed teens were ashamed of their state instead of proudly displaying their reckless behavior.

It's nice that institutions with values and traditions are still around, too bad the ones who could benefit from them the most, can't afford them, or have mothers who place their child's welfare above a new weave or botox injections.
    

        

On Sunday, I stopped by the Grammy museum.  I didn't start out for that destination, I was actually on my way to a show at the LA convention center, when I walked passed the Grammy museum and noticed a sign out front, announcing free admission.   I couldn't resist, so I went in for a look-see.  I must say, as museums go, I was very underwhelmed.  It looked more like a hippie's garage sale. 

The tour begins in an elevator.  A guard greets you then places you in an elevator, presses the number four on the panel, then instructs you to walk the exhibits via the stairs.  Once you get off the elevator you're on a floor with a collection of plexiglas boxes filled with knickknacks and costumes.  There are also booths where you can actually hear the difference between mono, stereo and surround sound.  Once the thrill of that wears off, you can actually see a poorly constructed replica of a talking machine that's spray painted white.  I've seen better music memorabilia on the "Antiques Roadshow." 

There are also screens where you can view groundbreaking performances like the duet of "Proud Mary," by Tina Turner and Beyonce.  What the ----.  That performance can be seen any day, at any time on "You Tube." 

There is nothing remarkable about the Grammy Museum, aesthetically or structurally.  The exhibits appear to have been curated by someone who's since of history goes as far back as their last blackout.  Quite frankly, the experience was embarrassing.  There among Michael Jackson's military Jackets and "Thriller's" album cover suit were nothing more than fan club fetishes; Neil Diamond's high school jacket, a letter from Tupac to a record executive, pictures and posters you can find at Amoeba. 

Museums house rare finds, originals or never before seen items.  Suits and high school letter jackets are better left at "Planet Hollywood" and theme restaurants.  Perhaps if the collection had a sense of cohesiveness and projected some thought in their placement, it would have had more impact.  As it stands, the hodgepodge of memorabilia is like the Beatles' song "Helter Skelter," which I understand is a favorite of Charles Manson, who, I would not be surprised to learn is the inspiration for this hot mess of a museum.

I did notice one thing the Grammy Museum does well, and that is, hawk overpriced posters, recycle bags, key chains, coasters, CDs, salt and pepper shakers, toe rings, decals, picks... and sundry articles with various musicians on them, that can be obtained cheaper at Walmart. 

God bless the free market and Michael Jackson.

        

           
Last weekend I went to my garage to retrieve a DVD/CD player from my car.  I suppose at some point in my going out and coming in, Princess Pussy, my feline companion, followed me out.  There's nothing unusual about that, she often walks outside and sniffs around and under the neighbors' doors; however, this time I didn't take note of her absence when I returned with the DVD/CD player.  I was excited about setting up my new equipment and comparing the sound between the old and new system.  I put on a Clark Terry CD and blasted it, then commenced to cook dinner.

About fifteen minutes passed before my door bell rang.  I immediately turned the music down and walked over to open the door, expecting to field a complaint from one of my neighbors about the loud music.  I opened the door and sure enough, it was my bearded Russian neighbor, Vladamir or Vasly or something or another, he wasn't there about the music, he wanted to tell me, "Your cat is outside your door.  She was very protective and wouldn't let me get near her."  I couldn't believe it.  I, the most protective pet owner, even among the gaggle of sissies I know, didn't even notice my litte puss wasn't mewing and pawing at me for food as I prepared dinner.  I thanked Vlad... Vas... whatever, profusely, as Princess squeezed her way inside.

After I offered my many thanks to my hirsute comrade, I turned my attention to my beloved Princess.  I fell to my knees, so I could scramble under the dining table where she crouched.  I tried to coax, wheedle and cajole her to me, but she would have none of it.  She glared at me petulantly, her green eyes were like daggers.  She craned her neck forward and back then side to side before letting out a loud, long hiss.  "Back off bitch!"  She seemed to scream. 

Suddenly my sweet little pussy willow of a cat had turned into one of the "Real Housewives of Atlanta."  I noticed her normally beautiful gray and white mane started looking like those ghetto wigs Nene and Kim sport.  Oh No!  What have I done? I had to turn the situation around and be quick about it.  I tempted her with the foods she likes; tuna, grits, almond cream cake, chocolate pudding and nachos.  She would not go near any of it.  I never understood why she ate those things in the first place.  I knew they weren't good for her feline digestion but what could I do?  I would step away a minute and she was on the table eating off my plate like a drunk at an open bar. 

So the treat idea didn't work.  Days passed and she wouldn't touch the pate she normally eats.  She slept on the dining table, cooling herself under the ceiling fan.  She didn't seem interested in sunning herself outside either.  I was at my wits end.  I began to worry if she was bit by a bug or scratched by some feral cat when she was AWOL, or as she saw it, abandoned for 20 minutes.  She didn't have any milky secretions or odors emanating from anywhere on her body.  Physically she looked the same, but psychologically she was definitely changed.  She no longer saw me as the attentive owner who indulged her with people food and let her walk along the dashboard in the car and gave her Shiatsu massages, now, I was that dumb heifer who was more concerned about some inanimate gadget than a warm and cuddly mammal.  In short, I was persona non grata.

I could feel the chill in the air each time I walked inside my house.  Princess Pussy wouldn't greet me at the door as she used to do.  Now, as soon as I opened the door, she would bury herself under the couch and force me to search for.  Princess decided she was going to make me work for her affection.  When I would finally locate her and went to pick her up she made her body limp or would squirm from my embrace.  I felt like the creepy guy who rubs against women on the subway.   You know the one, on the bus or any kind of public transportation, he's there, hairy, sweaty, smelling like pee and when he smiles, that wormy smile, his eyes narrow.  Well, Princess was as repulsed by me, as all women are by that guy.  All because I locked her out, by accident.  I had to win her over her again.  But I could see she wasn't going to make it easy.

Five days had gone by and she barely ate anything, which was a blessing in disguise, for she is one fat pussy, and could stand to lose a few pounds.  Of course, I dare not say that to her furry face but strangers feel comfortable calling her "gordita," that's fatty in Spanish.  On the sixth day, I was determined to get her out of her funk.  I wriggled myself under the table and pulled her out and brought her to my bedroom.  That night I broke a house rule and let her sleep in my bed.  Well that did it.  She romped and stomped up and down the mattress like Nefertiti.  She gamboled all over the pillows and buried her face into mine and made a nook for herself in the crook of my arm.  She was back.  My sweet little puss was back.

The moral of the story is to be mindful of your pets.  They have feelings too.  They just want you to treat them with the same consideration you would an infant.  Not the people who drive off with the infant on top of a car, in a car seat, kind of consideration, but the other kind.  Also remember, if you ever cross your pet, they will smother you in your sleep.  I discovered this when I noticed my sweet little puss standing over me pushing down on the carotid artery in my neck with her paws.  I guess she's not completely over what happened.

It's a process.  We're working through it.
 

        

If a picture speaks a thousand words...  These are a few photos I took in Hollywood one Saturday night.  A city where dreams are made, crushed or never realized. 

Sidewalk Stories...


















THE END.







 

        

The man hasn't been laid to rest yet and still they come out to bury not mourn him.  Bury any shred of privacy and dignity he has left. 

Before the autopsy results have been made public, Joe and Latoya Jackson have claimed the son and brother who went to great pains to keep him out of his life was murdered.  Joe Jackson claims he spoke to Michael a week before he died, when it's clear from not only Michael's will but MJ's Chef that Joe Jackson was not permitted to have any contact with MJ.

It's pathetic that Latoya Jackson's thirst for fame was not quenched by the psychic hotline she fronted or the string of bad albums she promoted with her swarmy husband.  Her new hustle is the Michael Jackson conspiracy theory tour.

The more I hear his family speak and see all his so-called friends, advisors and close associates beat each other to a microphone, the more I understand why Michael Jackson felt he could trust no one.  Doctors who breach confidentiality, "mentalist" who admit to being "unethical" and ask him if he was a pedophile, "while under deep hypnosis," family members who push him to help them live out their pipe dreams of re-captured success from 40 years ago, a faux wife and her co-conspirator, ex-boss/dermatoligist, possible sperm donor and best friend to the wealthy celebrated negro patient, are all the makings of pulp funerals.

"Where's the body?"   There's wrangling by the family over the corpse.  The father and brothers want to try and cash in by having him interred at Neverland, even though his will makes it clear that they are not to profit from his estate.  The Jackson women, sensibly reason that MJ never wanted to return to that property.  

When will someone step up and be the friend and protector he never had in life and quietly cremate his body and place his ashes where the people who loved him uncondiitonally, his children, have access to them? 

Stop the madness and the greed!

        

1.6 million registered, and all except 8500+ received the following email:

Thank you for your registration. Sorry,we regret to inform you that your registration to attend the PublicMemorial Service for Michael Jackson was not selected. Hundreds of thousands registered, but only a few can be in attendance.

Do Not Reply to this email. This is an unattended email box and your inquiry will not be answered. © 2009 STAPLES Center. All Rights Reserved. STAPLES Center   •  1111 S. Figueroa Street   •  Los Angeles, CA  90015 If you can't see the images in this email, click here. You received this email because you subscribed at staplescenter.com for the Michael Jackson Public Memorial Service. Visit staplescenter.com for more information. STAPLES Center is owned and operated by a subsidiary of AEG.

A small consolation for the thousands of Jackson fans and an even smaller consolation for the many more hoping to profit from MJ's insurgence of popularity.

The corridors of A list agencies and law firms specializing in entertainment, estate and trust, family law, divorce, tax, P.I. and Pet Pre-Nups, are all abuzz wondering how can they get on the MJ money making juggernaut.  Everybody wants a piece of the pie.  The family, the lawyers, the agents, mangers, surrogates, and of course the countless friends who foresaw the demise of their "dear friend," and did and said nothing about it until there was a tag on his toe. 

All the sons and daughters of has been and dead performers who were once on MJ's payroll sit on cable news shows offering tours of Neverland or anecdotes about how they'll miss that easy money.  It was entertaining listening to Gotham Chopra, Dionne Warrick's son (whatever his name is) and  Miko Brando wax effusively, until he was asked what his Job was. 

"My job?  Huh?  Oh, me, well I did what Michael needed to be done.  Ya know, I was just around to make sure if he needed anything." 

A fifty year old goffer.  Brando sure knew how to raise kids, a murderer, a suicide victim and a flunky.

The omni present media ready "spiritual advisors" of every faith swear before all that's holy to them, a camera with good lighting, that they warned MJ of his impending doom, as they sipped on champagne and ate troughs of caviar. 

Depak, Shmuley and Firpo, sounds like the begininning of a joke at the KKK lodge, an Indian a Jew and a spook...

Charlatan doctors offer quackery upon quackery on every cable show.

"He died of Oxycontin, No it was a drug cocktail of Oxy and demerol,  Oh no!  It was definitely a diprovan and Ny-Quil drip." 

They are the go to coroners who are always camera ready at the drop of any celebrity.  Real life "Quincys" who once worked on a celebrity corpse, thus are deemed qualified to offer half baked theories and dignoses before toxicology reports or autopsies are complete.  They make sensational TV and good water cooler banter and they have their own toupees and morticians to give them that ghoulish glow.

It's repugnant to watch the spectacle that was Michael Jackson's later years evolve into an even greater spectacle upon his death. 
Not one person mentioned how he held the Guiness record for charity patron, or how much money he pumped into under served communities and children causes.  No one has reported how Gavin Arvizo, who filed molestation charges in '03 has since changed his story and stated "nothing happened."

Was Michael Jackson troubled?  As bread winner for his entire clan, and perceived as a cash cow by an industry that's best known for eating their young?  Yes, but who wouldn't be?  Would all the so called friends, handlers and admirers know the full extent of his pain and anguish?  Definitely not.  

Tomorrow MJ will take his final bow and everyone who's ever thought they were anyone is vying to be present to say good bye and perhaps hello to their next job opportunity.  Cynical you say?  Well, I refer you to CNN on Sunday evening when an amiable anchor, Don Lemon, conducted an interview with a Las Vegas DJ who spoke of how excited he was to learn that he would attend the memorial.

"And who will you be taking?"  the anchor asked.

"I'll be going with my agent/manger.. she said I had to get that in there," 

Jackson's memorial may prove to be the best Hollywood networking event ever.  It's already proving to be the greatest show on earth.

Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey, which starts a five-day engagement at Staples on Wednesday, is scheduled to undertake the circus tradition of marching its elephants into town. A passel of elephants will start walking from Union Station to Staples Center at 3:30 a.m. Tuesday, according to Kathy Davis, interim manager of the city's Animal Services department, which issued the permit to Ringling.

The three-mile trek of the giant mammals -- nearly a dozen according to one source -- should take two hours, putting them at Staples several hours before the beginning of the 10 a.m. memorial service, Davis said. Of course, if the animals take longer or the fans show up early, pachyderms and people could conceivably cross paths.

"Certainly there's the hope that they will have been taken care of and be out of the way before the Michael Jackson crowd comes in," said Davis.

        

"Got your King of Pop tees!"
 
"R.I.P. Michael tees, right chere ya'll!" 

"You don't wanna miss dis!"

"I got baby tees and wife beaters in every size, you want the R.I.P. or King Of Pop?"

"This is an original art work drawing of the King of Pop!"

"Dese are glow in de dark, wit miguel on dem, solamente ventedollares!"  

As I walked, along Hollywood Blvd Saturday night I could not believe the crass commercialism that has taken over since the announcement of Michael Jackson's death.  Hucksters of every race, creed and color crowded the sidewalks with their hastily made tees.  R.I.P. signs were taped on every business,with the added offer of Jackson tacos, burgers, visors, key chains and crotch-less panties.  They swarmed around like locusts in a feeding frenzy.

It may be cliche, but true, the man's body hadn't cooled before the street corner entrepreneurs began their hustle.  They call them tributes but at20 to 25 dollar a pop, it's a hustle.  

And then there are the has- rans and one hit wonders who run toward the kliegs, pouring their hearts out about the affection and respect they had for Michael.  The same people who ridiculed him and scandalized his name on Wednesday.  The same people who wrote him off as a "weirdo, pervert,freak, plastic surgery created nightmare, aging pop has been.  "WackoJacko," they called him behind snickers. 

FOX, CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC, E, VH-1, TV-LAND and every nit-Twit have scrambled to get any news out, be it real, false, ludicrous, incredible, or down right mendacious.  Reporters are camped at his "rented house" in Bel-Air, the family's home in Encino, the coroner's office in downtown L.A, Neverland Ranch in Santa Ynez and at his star in Hollywood.  Only place they haven't camped out is at his plastic surgeon's office in Beverly Hills.  No memorial there?

Michael's death may prove to be his greatest spectacle yet, if his father Joe has anything to say about it.  This morning the Jackson patriarch,accompanied by Rev. Al Sharpton, and some Motown revival acts, stood outsidethe Jackson family home and announced another of his schemes to glom off of his son.

"Me and one of da singers from da Stylisitics, one of Myka's favorite groups, we's gonna put together a record company.  It's gonna give young kids da chance ta get off da streets and use der talent da way Myka would want dem too."

"Nah, we aint got no plans on de funeral right 'bout now, we still waitin'on tings."

"His kidz dey in back dere.  We gots all kindz of little kids some close in dey age.  Debbie Rowe aint got nothin' to do 'bout dis."

If ever there were any doubts about why Michael distanced himself from his father, those doubts were laid to rest this morning. There he stood grinning and preening before the cameras.  The sparkly fedora cocked to the side,the shades, Mr. Demille he's ready for his close up.  His face illuminated by the headlights from the coroner's van added a nice ghoulish touch.  The only thing Papa Joe missed was the sequined glove.

How could any family member allow this morbid necrophilia?  Where were Jackie, Jermaine, Tito, Marlon, Randy, Janet, Rebi and even La Toya while this spectacle took place?  While mother Katherine was dealing with custody issues, Papa Joe stood before the world reveling in his recaptured fifteenminutes.  The only thing more tragic than that non-news news conference was Thursday's discovery.

It's heartbreaking to watch events unfold; the false coroner's report about the condition of the body, the fate of his non-biological kids, the resurrection of old press hags, Diane Diamond and Maureen Orth, the regurgitation of stories that are better off cremated.  Sensationalism and Michael Jackson have always gone together like a hand in a sequined glove; however, in death it appears it's not only good copy but good business. 

The death of Michael Jackson may prove to be the best boost our sagging economy could have, at least it seems that way as I sip my King of Pop latte and eat my Thriller salad.  I can't wait 'til one of Papa Joe's underprivileged youths serenades me to sleep as lie on the mattress purchased at the Michael Jackson blow out mattress sale.

        

In days of yore, when people had disputes they would knock on their neighbor's door and say, "Howdie ho neighbor, your Pussy ate my canary, or Tommy, that scamp, broke my car window with his baseball, or, your mother-in-law is so cute they way she wanders into my house, by the way she peed on my new Persian rug."  The neighbors would then share a laugh and quickly come to an amicable agreement to settle the matter.  Unfortunately, today's disputes are not so easily remedied.  Life has become more complicated than a stroll across the lawn.

The sluggish economy has produced a strain of litigants that haven't been seen since the first ambulance rolled off the assembly line.  Issues that were once overlooked or thought of as too much of a bother to pursue in court are not just pursued, but because unemployed litigants have a great deal of time on their hands, they are pursued vigorously.   No more looking the other way for the dog bite incurred medical bills or checks returned due to insufficient funds.

If you find you're at your wit's end, because your landlord refuses to remove carpet that smells like a petridish due to a constantly overflowing toilet, or you've exhausted yourself trying to get Mercury Insurance to pay up after their insured rear ended you, or you just feel gypped, swindled, defrauded, hustled, screwed or taken advantage of in any way, do what thousands of people in West Hollywood and Beverly Hills due yearly, take the lying, cheating scoundrel to court.





One look at the bored and impatient judges, rambling litigants, petulant court clerks, trigger happy sheriff deputies and the lurking sense that anyone of them can go postal at a moments notice, reveals just how uncivil the Beverly Hills civil court is. 

"Don't call me Ma'am," the aging female Juris snaps at a litigant for the umpteenth time that day.  Commissioner Carol Hallowitz, presides over Department 4, the small claims division.  She's short on patience and long on reprimands.  "I didn't ask you that!  Don't interrupt!  You knew you were coming to court today why didn't you bring the receipt?  Look we're only going to 4:30, don't waste my time."  One can almost excuse Commissioner Hallowitz for her lack of charm, after all, her life revolves around listening to and deciding the same disputes with little variation, day in and day out.  It's not Roe v. Wade or Brown v. Board of Education.  It's a dissatisfied botox customer v. a plastic surgery center or a rambling Russian or Spanish interpreter's broken English version of a car accident v. Transit. 

Commissioner Hallowitz is assisted by an all female tag team, Ines Ponce, her court clerk who exhibits various mood swings, and then there's Sheriff deputy Nora Patockova, who has only two moods, nasty and mean.  She stands astride, moving her eyes across the small court room like search lights, "Hey I said no talkin'.  Sit down, the clerk don't want to talk to you.  Hey you, hand me the documents down here not way up there.  Hey I'm not gonna tell you again." Eye roll after glaring eye roll, Deputy Ptockova stands before the court perfecting her gum chewing and eye squinting, all while looking like a body double for Mickey Rourke in, "The Wrestler." 

The first cases heard are always the unopposed litigants.  The ones where the defendants don't show up because they claim they weren't properly served or they're sick or out of town.  Anything to get out of being in court.  The judge explains she's almost obligated to grant a continuance and that's when the plaintiff loses it.  "But Ma'am, I've taken off work."  "Don't call me Ma'am. Look,  this is first his continuance so we'll set it for three weeks from today, how's that for you?."  After repeated protestations to no avail, the plaintiff releases a loud sigh, sucks his teeth,shakes his head and agrees to three weeks. 

Since Commissioner Hallowitz can't possibly hear all the cases on the docket in two hours, the clerk busily calls around trying to find another judge who can take on some of the small claims cases.  After sitting an hour, the anxious litigants are handed yellow post-its and are told, "You're going to Judge Cole in dept X," or "Judge Stone will hear your case in Dept 6, his case is just wrapping up.  Go to the second floor."  The herd like litigants make their way to the elevator and in a confused haze, look for their new venue.  They share a frustration that sits on their faces like a wilted party hat. 

"Can you believe this place?  Why do they say come at 1:30, if the judge doesn't show up until 2:30?"  "How about that sheriff, is she a dyke or what?"  "This is my third time; first they claim the guy wasn't served then they said he was sick now I bet he's going to try some other bullshit."  "I hope I'm heard today, this is getting expensive, and parking is not easy here."





The halls are littered with stories of frustration about how the justice is as slow as the elevator and how uncivil the defendants, judges, clerks and deputies are.  There's a lot of chatter but none center on a settlement among the principals.  The plaintiffs are determined to get what they feel they are entitled to and the defendants are not budging an inch.  Even when a case has been decided in the plaintiff's favor the case is not over.  The next step is collecting. 




Judgment debtor cases are swift and decisive in chief Judge Linda Hart Cole's courtroom.  Friends in High Places v. Rachel Pouri was decided in November 2008.  Plaintiff was awarded $5000.00 plus costs.  On February 11, 2009, Ms. Pouri appeared before Judge Cole, after a bench warrant for her arrest was posted. 
"Ms. Pouri where are your financial records, bank account numbers...?"
"I don't  have them with me." 
"How much do you have in your wallet?" 
"Three hundred dollars."
"Hand it over to the plaintiff." 
Ms. Pouri's attorney expressed her displeasure with the judge's order, "Your honor that's for my fee."
"I didn't ask about your money, I asked about hers.  Call the bailiff."
At that point, three bailiffs entered the court room and one of them was instructed to empty the defendant's wallet and count the bills, not the change.  The bailiff determined the defendant had $373 in her wallet. 
"Bailiff hand $300.00 to the plaintiff.  I will deduct that from what you owe and you will return on February 23 at 8:30 A.M with your financial statements.  Court is adjourned."

At 4:30 the court promptly shuts down and everyone is hustled out with unceremonious haste. 

The proceedings at the Beverly Hills court house can be quite entertaining and at times amusing.  If the hodgepodge of litigants and jurors' kooky outfits, and goofy cases about doggy hair cuts gone awry or botched lipo jobs mixed in with fender benders and mold issues fail to amuse, then add in the scary automaton like deputies and peevish judges.  Where else can you see Courtney Love being bawled out by Judge Stone or JLO sitting on a jury? 

Of course there are random acts of kindness by the judges and clerks, like when Judge Cole demonstrated genuine concern for a plaintiff who was "screwed over by a crooked doctor" and instructed the insurance agent for Mercury Insurance to, "see what you can do to make sure they are not being hounded by collections, since your client admitted liability, you should pay the medical." 

Or when Judge stone helps out an inexperienced lawyer on cross examination of a mendacious witness and even goes the extra mile and leaves the bench to visit an apartment to see for himself if the landlord is pursuing a unlawful detainer out of spite.

Then there's Commisioner Hallowitz who employs a great deal of patience when dealing with non-English speakers and also appears to have a great capacity to get to the heart of matters even when the litigants are obfuscating the facts and raising issues that have nothing to do with the case at hand.

There is one thing all the judges at the Beverly Hills court have in common, they know the law very well.  Of course you may get a pro-tem, who may be a bit clueless and befuddled, but he is not representative of the legal minds who preside at the Beverly Hills Court house.  Even with all their quirks, moods, impatience and exasperation, litigants who come before the Beverly Hills judges can rest assured that they are going to adjudicate fairly.  It may not turn out as some like but if litigants follow a few simple rules they will be able navigate the court system with little turbulence.  

If you find yourself in civil court, here are a few suggestions for prevailing:  First ask yourself objectively and without emotion, "Do I have a solid case or am I just angry and want to get back at the defendant?"  If you answered yes to having a solid case, then sue his/her moles off.

1.  If you can't afford the court cost apply for a fee waiver.
2.  Call 10 days before your trial date to make sure the defendant is served.
3.  Stay civil.  Keep your cool. 
4.  Be brief and to the point.  Write everything out in bullet points before speaking to judge.
5.  Be prepared.  Bring the documents/receipts you need to prove your case.  Make a copy for judge.
6.  Don't ramble.  Speak clearly and coherently. 
7.  Don't interrupt the other side.
8.  No lawyers in small claims.
9.  If you're facing eviction see a lawyer or Legal Aid for a referral
10. Leave emotion out of your presentation, stick to the facts.

Resources:
Beverly Hills Court 310-860-0070
Small Claims Court Advisors 213-974-9759
Legal Aid  213-640-3881
Los Angeles Bar Association Referrals  213-243-1525
Eviction Defense Network 213-385-8112
Coalition for Economic Survival 323-656-4410

 

        

I just did a spot on Leno, ya know the whole left coast thing, Kimmel, Jillian what's her name, blah, blah, blah


This book with Bush on the cover is a little gift for Keith Olbermann.


Hispanics are the new Black.


And the heavens opened up...


On Friday, January 16, The Los Angeles Journalists Association welcomed Chuck Todd, the newly appointed White House correspondent for NBC, who made his mark during the primary and general Presidential election by handicapping the candidates with detached and sterile analysis, to discuss his new book, "How Barack Obama Won." 

The viewers of MSNBC will remember Todd for his matter of fact delivery of the numbers, the numbers from the never ending polls that became breast milk to the hungry public weighing and measuring every inch and breadth of the ever eventful race.

At the reception, Todd was much like he is on the news, relaxed and unfazed by his new found celebrity.  He arrived at the event right after taping a segment for the "Tonight Show" with Jay Leno.  When asked how he felt by some websites and web trolls who have dubbed him a sex symbol, he coyly waved off the suggestion and rubbed his red goatee.

How did Barack Obama win?  Todd offered no surprise answers, that is, not if you followed the ad nauseum political coverage and round table of pundits who spittled and spattled the same analysis and jargon.

Jill Stewart, Politcal Editor for the L.A. Weekly, hosted the hour long question and answer session.

Todd in his own words:

"Barack Obama ran a brilliant campaign but also benefited from Hillary Clinton and John McCain's screw ups.  The election was as it should have been for any Democrat.  Point is. it was a Democratic year, still you had to run a smart campaign."

"Hillary Clinton and John McCain never built an organization.  Hillary Clinton made a web video and John Mc cain went on the Tonight show.  They never told us why they wanted to be President.  It was as if they were owed it.  Barack Obama wrote down why he wanted to be President and made the case why he was the change from Bush."

"Barack Obama did a 48 state campaign, John McCain did a 4 state campaign.  There was denial in McCain's camp.  They kept saying if we lose Indiana we lose the election.  Then they said if we lose Montana we lose the election, and they just went on like that, if we lose North Dakota, if we lose North Carolina and so on...."

"if John McCain made an item pledge, like run for one term, he may have had a chance."

"The country did not re-align but a mild mannered Africa-American was just the way to go for the mid-West."

I asked Jill and Chuck if they thought there would be a milestone made in journalism, and more diversity will be reflected in the political news coverage and Todd was quite reflective.

"I think Obama's Presidency will force more news organizations reach out to Blacks but I think four years from now we'll be talking about Hispanics, they are a real force now."

Jill Stewart's outlook about diversity in the news room was not as bright. :

"I don't think you'll see many Blacks in print news rooms until the universities produce enough Blacks and Latinos with good writing and analytical skills.  The good ones are always snapped up by the big corporations.  We can't afford them."

On that note, I will hope for a realignment in the world of journalism, so that a mild mannered African American can one day break that glass ceiling.  If there can be a Black President of the United States, surely one of our universities can produce a writer skilled enough to helm an alternative paper, chock full of personal ads.

        

The Trouble Makers

Every year I marvel at how the masses rush around trying to snag this gift or that present, and for what?  Is that expensive tie you gave the boss really going to get you that promotion?  Are those expensive sneakers really going to make your child do better in school?  All the material things in the world can't match time. The gift of self and selflessness is better than any designer gee-gaw.

This past "Black Friday," a Wal-Mart worker was trampled to death by over-zealous shoppers and some patrons at a Toys R Us were injured by equally ravenous spenders.  Is this really the spirit of Christmas?  I've given up celebrating the holidays in what has become a tradition of feeding the corporate coffers and validating Madison Avenue's cynicism of the American consumer.

The concept behind spending until one is in debt and eating beyond gluttonous proportions is beyond me.  Those rituals are quite antediluvian and have been well documented in paintings by Pieter Bruegel and his contemporaries.  Scenes of the poor reveling in the streets in a drunken stupor causing mischief while the rich secret away counting their money, hang on the walls of the Kunsthistorisches and other great museums.  The Walmart incident is nothing new and have always been fodder for artist and the 11 O'clock news. 

Everyday for the past two months we've heard about the great recession.  Thousands upon thousands are jobless and homeless, yet somehow this doesn't translate to those waiting to trample defenseless minimum wage workers.  Why?  Because there may be a Tickle me Elmo on sale, or an Nintendo game at half price, for a child who can't conjugate a verb.  Isn't that what their beloved Christ, Jehovah, Allah, God or the principles of Kwanza and Hanukkah promote?  Must be, because year after year the same stories are flashed upon the news, with little variance.  The sad part is that the ones doing the injuring and the ones injured are the least among us with real purchasing power or health insurance to address their wounds.

Long ago I vowed never to get caught in the holiday trap.  I will not participate in the race for the hidden cheese in the maze with the other lab rats. I decided to give more of myself and less to the wealthy merchants.  Why fatten their bulging cash registers when they niggardly dispense goodwill and charity to the less fortunate?  I can not reconcile spending money on things that have little meaning beyond hoping they would translate into more things or favors for me.   I elect to  do something selfless and selfish at the same time. I spend it with people.

This year I was at the Kingsley Manor, which is a senior and assisted living home.  I didn't serve food or handout turkeys, I simply ate and chatted with seniors who didn't have family or out lived friends and family.  They didn't ask for much but my ear and attention.  I felt selfish because I received more than I gave.  I'm a single person in a city that can be unforgiving to single people and instead of being alone I was thankful to be useful and wanted by people who society has pushed to the side.  They were vibrant, opinionated and often feisty.

 "Where's that damn nurse, I'm ready to be taken back to my room."  That man is too old to be riding a bike at night."  "Hey where do you live?  Can you give me a lift to my condo?  My son lives there now but it's still mine?"  "My hair...it's all right but I have to get a tint next week, the roots are showing."

After I ate in their grand dining room I went into their lobby to listen to a senior who was not a resident but still made a living playing  classical piano.  I also wheeled a man to the hospital section of the residence and had an opportunity to visit with the non-ambulatory.  One man, Mohammed, was incontinent and in his eighties but still had an eye for the ladies.  While I tried to figure out why his TV remote was not working he took the opportunity to feel my bottom and try to and move my hand down his Depends.  Obviously he wasn't on his death bed.  The nurse said he had just returned from having dinner with his family.  Apparently Viagra was on the menu.  Down boy!

I was very grateful I was not in the crush of the shopping madness and was able to be around people who gave me a sense of history and purpose.  I shall return to the senior residence regularly, but I'll wear my sneakers so I can make a hasty retreat from the likes of Mohammed.

My new posse.

 
EX-BFF's


The Golden Girls- They've slept with every widower in the residence
Have walker will travel is there motto



The Wild Bunch- Must be chaperoned at all times


He's the cock of the walk because he has an off-site condo in Hollywood
She wears no Depends on the weekends