WEIRD TIMES

As you blow another candle today may you keep on keeping on, Mr. Revelant of yesterday, today and tomorrow.

Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing;

Land where my fathers died,

Land of the pilgrims’ pride,

From every mountainside

Let freedom ring!

My native country, thee,

Land of the noble free,

Thy name I love;

I love thy rocks and rills,

Thy woods and templed hills;

My heart with rapture thrills,

Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze,

And ring from all the trees

Sweet freedom’s song;

Let mortal tongues awake;

Let all that breathe partake;

Let rocks their silence break,

The sound prolong.

Our fathers’ God to Thee,

Author of liberty,

To Thee we sing.

Long may our land be bright,

With freedom’s holy light,

Protect us by Thy might,

Great God our King.

Written by Samuel Francis Smith

The Republic of California, my new home state, is not considered to be synonymous with patriotism, no argument there.

But this here site transforms preconceptions.

It takes place on Pepperdine University’s lawn for three consecutive  years. This year it was left it up a bit longer for whatever reason. Each flag represents each of the fallen of 911.

Evidenced in the powerful visual what’s even more spellbinding about it is the sound the flags made flapping in the relentless current blowing through, each banner individuated and looping into one seamless Zen-like soundtrack.

This is Malibu, CA, folks. That’s right. Very proud.

Essay pending on new global comfort food restaurants on Franklin Avenue, Los Angeles

For the most part, as with most people, Sunday is family day, and I’m no different. Before the festivities begin, no matter what I’ve got going on, the quiet early rise of Sunday morning begs for much reflection. And others it just takes a strong cup of coffee wielded by somnambulist effort before managing to spit out a coherent sentence. This morning I was in an alternate part of town in Napa. Even though I tended to stay away from the Starbucks on Soscol Avenue which is often action-packed with teenagers and their random acts of fancy it was a matter much convenience. I expected to be greeted by a carrot-top freckled tween who was up and awake and prepared to wrangle me with morning banter. Not in the mood this morning.

This morning, however, would be different at this Starbucks. Very different. Quieter.

I ordered my cup of brew and proceeded with my morning ritual. After a couple of sips I am awakened by a mural across the room.

When I inquired about the oddity taking place in as sterile an environment as Starbucks, the barista stepped away from behind the counter and walked over to me in discretion. She solemnly explained it was a memorial paying tribute to an employee at this location who recently passed. “He was younger than me,” she soberly questioned almost in protest of destiny.

As it turns out, Dayton Moore said goodnight to his work buddies on one fateful night of February the 6th, 2011 and did not return for his following scheduled shift. The cause of death was a car accident. He skidded off the road and bashed into a tree. Alcohol or drugs were not involved. Dayton was 17 years old. To read the farewells, and notes scribed and realize that the young man’s life that was so simply flattened up on that wall was non other than the carrot-top tween with the sharp wit I wished to avoid this morning a shiver of guilt passed through me. But the feeling was immediately quelled by another barista’s consolation, “it happens, things like this happen sometimes.” They do, indeed. But one can’t get away from the fact that a seventeen year old boy, or a 40-year old for that matter would’ve never foreseen nor account for such a possibility for himself.

Road weary and absent minded I was filling my tank at a Malibu Chevron station. A teenager was giving me the thumbs up and with some effort she caught my attention in saying “I agree.”

Alright, I thought– whatever – failing to understand the implication.

“Your shirt,” she clarified, “I agree with what your shirt says,” as if a light bulb had gone on in her head about everything she’d seen happening around her.

I came to such agreement when I first picked it out at a local shop, selling select closeout merchandise in Wilmington, NC, of all places. Size large and one in stock the bright yellow shirt read WEIRD TIMES in pixelated black lettering.

This about wraps it up, I thought.

For someone who abstains from wearing any kind of logo, I was delighted to slip this shirt on immediately. I changed right in the shop and walked home with it on. Proudly representing the two words pressed against my chest and belly.

Still, if the shirt called any attention to itself it wasn’t my doing. I was still trying to understand and trying to keep it under wraps. It knew it summed up everything I cared to flesh out in detail. Detail I hadn’t fully uncovered yet. The shirt came to stand as a secret emblem of my looming departure.

Coast-to-coast I was, then, remiss of the shirt’s attributed meaning. It now had visible stains that wouldn’t wash out and its brightness faded with wear-and-tear. I had finally made it to the West, but the idea hadn’t settled in me.

I was walking along a new frontier and nothing was certain. No frame of reference.

Here I was in Malibu, of all places. A place I’d only known as an ideal. A place known synonymous with success. The Dream. A place where petty little grievances made by pouting teenagers may be considered obscenely benign by teens in less affluent parts of the country. Or, so I thought.

When the young gal concurred about my trademark, she brought it all back home.

These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated.

Excerpt from Thomas Paine’s, The Crisis

Freedom had been hunted round the globe; reason was considered as rebellion; and the slavery of fear had made men afraid to think. But such is the irresistible nature of truth, that all it asks, and all it wants, is the liberty of appearing.

Thomas Paine

San Francisco Window

San Francisco, CA––I’m sitting smack in the middle of the steps of City Hall downtown. It’s Sunday and I’m in meditative mode. If it had been any other day it wouldn’t be possible. But on Sunday, church day, that’s the day to be here. It reminds me of mornings spent in Wilmington, NC. Where the day almost never got kick started without the proper reinforcements.

Yes, it’s Sunday, I remind myself, church day, in most places at least, and Fog City is no different. San Francisco can use some prayers. The Mayor of San Francisco surely may need a prayer to two to win the gubernatorial race in California. The laying of hands, perhaps. If he actually believed in such a a thing. Which, one has to, in order for it to work. But I suspect he doesn’t.

Facing the wide open space a larger than life multi-armed deity cast in bronze centers the plaza. It looks as if it’s having a hard time keeping its balance. Behind the statue and dead center of the square is a building that reads T R U T H in mural-sized letters that look as though they’ve been directly typeset right on there.

It’s easy to forget where you are in as much as it is to remember that people are the same everywhere. Ditto for red double decker sightseeing tours. “Hop on, Hop off” inscribed on the side of the bus makes it seem altogether effortless. People need a place to go. Tourists need sites to see. The only trouble is people don’t know the place they want to go. Tourists don’t know which sights they want to see. Till someone else is there first. Let’s go there; they come wandering, what’s over here?

Uh, that would be City Hall. But it doesn’t really matter what it is. What matters is competition. I don’t want it until someone else has it.

Has what? You ask. The scruples, perhaps, not to pass on a chance to take a spot up on these steps with almost a bird’s eye view out into the city.

Ken, a retired L.A. cop,  hired gun and Brittany Spears’s former bodyguard, took me out shooting at the Los Angeles Gun Club today. We picked out a corner booth in the 50 foot indoor range. The club has been around since 1988 and it’s frequented by professionals in the force and the L.A. Police Academy. Ken gave me a few pointers introducing me to his 9mm semi-automatic before we took turns at the target. The gun had a nice kick to it for a lightweight handgun.

The name of the game is to release the pressure, don’t hold on to it too tight as you press the trigger. And sort of move toward the shot.  Being indoors with multiple shooters at a time there two things that can throw you off the sound even with the required ear protection and the smell of burning through ammo could turn your stomach, but as time wore on it didn’t have the same effect.

I made some very calculating shots at first, taking way too long to aim. Ken, a trite-and-true professional, handled the piece by removing it from my hands carefully,  switch pin safety on before placing it on its side on the table. He performed this ritual over and over in zen-like precision. Inside the booth, he mindfully contained his movements within the limits of the red line. Needless to say, he coached my looser movements by placing his hand over the barrel to lower it and align me into similar habits prior to putting the gun to rest. With good measure he reloaded and placed it back on the table and on its side. I took my place behind the line, pick up the gun, switched safety off, adjusted my weight and fired. Ken aimed for the head while I shot straight for the heart. After a couple of turns, I got a little warmer and little faster, taking the ten rounds in the cylinder to task.

“What was going on there?” Ken asked, “what were you thinking about, you looked like you went somewhere with that one.”

I’m not sure. But it felt good.

I like golf, but the exhilaration of holding a hunk of metal between your fingers, and that thrust that can easily throw you back when you make the shot is a different kind of aim sport and some kind of head rush, indeed.

And the results on paper weren’t bad, either. It isn’t often you get impress a professional.

Afterwards, we kept up with tradition by loading up on sweets at Randy’s drive-thru. Good times.