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January 30, 2007
Bow Tie Thirteen
“Nuthin’ But the Dog In Me!”
No, folks. I am really not trippin’ out. The title has a meaning surely at variance with what you may well have assumed. It literally has to do with my deep and abiding love – yep, love – for canines of all kinds. Brother Ray and Sister Kit can probably do a better job of recalling the long string of animals that were a regular part of our growing up household. I have no memory of any of us asking Miss Madam or Chico, “Can we have a dog?” Or, “Will you bring us a dog home as a present.” There was always a dog around. And they were all loved and cared for with reckless abandon. And they were anything but home bodies. Where we went, they went. This was especially true for the “camping grounds” and other local woodsy treks in and around New Haven. Skippy was a standout. And yet so were Tricksie, and Hamlet and Cleopatra and Lady Macbeth. Right straight up to this very day’s Buster, initially mistaken for a male, but very much a female. And since turnabout is said to be fair play, let it be widely proclaimed that Buster loves adults and adores children! (Ya get back what cha put out!)
A couple of weekends ago, I saw part of a docudrama of a man who had gone snowboarding in some part of northern California’s snow-filled mountains. As adventurous snowboarders are inclined to do, he went into an area that was off limits because of avalanche danger. But what are posted signs for if not to be neglected. He did indeed create an avalanche and, after a scary series of head over heels flips, moved off to the side of the fast-moving snow…safely. His canine companion was not so lucky. He searched with a long pole and called and panicked. Eventually he was able to get help from friends, his father and a couple of trained rescue dogs. Unfortunately, they had been trained to sniff around for humans, and not for a fellow canine. But after 2 ½ hours his shivering (really shivering!) and very cold dog was found in about 3 feet of snow. When the pulled him out, I started sniffing…perhaps somewhat like a dog. But seriously, I was moved, even knowing it was a reenactment.
That night and subsequent to the story I reflected on how cruel humans are toward animals. Not the accidental kinds of neglect, but the intentional insanity. Silly as it is, to this day there is a dude whom I appreciate less because I know he hunts squirrels, rabbits and foxes. I find cockfighting equally barbaric as having pit bulls go at each other. Cats, by the way, are too independent to be “trained” in that regard. Good for them! So when I heard all the fuss about Barbaro being “put to sleep” I shook my head, thinking that on nature’s agenda, that horse was not born to run some silly race so that some human fool (or fools) could reap profits. And his “accident” occurred (well what do ya know) while racing!
Posted by mbowen at 04:09 PM | Comments (0)
Bow Tie Twelve
“’C’ As In Confidence”
I’m here to tell ya. There just ain’t no confidence like self-confidence. Like perhaps thousands of dictums and adages and young as well as old wives tales each of us has heard over the years, we usually end up remembering perhaps dozens of them; but find only a handful or so to be useful. And the value of what we have been told comes upon us quite unexpectedly. Let me give a couple of examples. As it turns out, they both have to do with photography and painting.
Some years ago, I was walking in the vicinity of St. James Place Park here in Los Angeles. It’s a quiet neighborhood just west of Mount Saint Mary’s College. I looked down at the sidewalk and noticed something I had glanced at no doubt hundreds of times albeit not in that particular location. I noticed a sidewalk “emblem”, an engraved “signature” of the company that had poured that strip of sidewalk and the year the work was done. It dawned on me that here was a stepped on (literally) and stepped over and perhaps never “studied” piece of urban history…right under my feet. Maybe not so coincidentally, I had my camera with me and snapped a picture. I continued walking in the same vicinity until I found another emblem by another sidewalk-pouring company/contractor.
Not long after that I made an equally rewarding discovery: that a similar moniker was “stamped” into curbs. I got caught up in the pursuit and picture-taking of these signs of an earlier time. It wasn’t long before a pattern was spelled out. The marked sidewalks were peculiar to parts of town where the original sidewalks and curbs remained. In many areas they had been removed either to make the sidewalk wider or they had been pushed out of place – again, to be replaced by a more modern version – because of the constant push of massive tree roots, nature’s way of sending a message about not being thwarted by man’s well intentioned thoroughfares. So there I was, lookin’ and clickin’ with nothing special in mind except the need to follow an ill-defined urge to grab onto something seemingly historic. And that is really very much out of the ordinary when one considers Los Angeles’ equally weird “need” to engage in what Norman Klein calls “erasure.”
Some time later I saw a piece in the Los Angeles Times Sunday magazine section on a series of
photographs on (can you imagine) street lights! Yep. Someone had recognized their historic value and decided to capture them before these ornate guardians of the night would be systematically replaced by a new breed of slender metallic but decidedly not attractive mercury vapor tall boys. Sleek, efficient, functional and ho hum! Then later I learned of a photo project focused – literally – on what was once (oh so politically incorrect) labeled man hole covers. They were quickly being visually preserved because some urban archeologists (of the illegal kind) found them to be valuable enough to both remove them from the street and haul these heavy, round monsters off to some equally unscrupulous “junk” dealer who would sell them himself or pass them along to an awaiting foundry. Greed, like misery, likes and finds company. Whatever this string of folks did or didn’t do, I didn’t have the confidence that what I was photographing had any interest or value beyond my own quirky pursuit. And now, the sidewalk and curb black and white originals sit quietly in some nondescript pile waiting or not waiting to be re-discovered by a more confident me.
The other example is along similar lines. I gave it the title, “Patterns;” and because the “project” continues, I’ve held onto that label. What I’ve done is take a photograph of patterns in natural and person (previously “man”) made objects. The image may be totally plain, by which I mean a solitary color or of more interest and complexity as one finds in the bark of a tree. Then there are rock patterns and sand patterns and – if not interrupted by the contractor’s markings, sidewalk patterns. I still do it and the collection grows. And then it “hit” me one day while visiting a local museum – or perhaps it was an art gallery. Here were large representations by famous artists who saw fit to create “nothing” more eye-catching or imaginative than a solid color pattern…big and yet (although the professional art critic or reviewer would say otherwise) monotonous.
I am not a trained artist and I am not able to convincingly enter those debates about what is or isn’t “art.” All the same, I do know what I find to be visually pleasing. I am inexplicably drawn to certain “arrangements” which, as noted here, I simply and proudly call patterns. It has never occurred to me to have them blown up and displayed publicly…and maybe, no, most likely because I lacked the confidence that they had anything more than a very personal meaning and, as such, would be seen as simple, unimaginative or a clear waste of time. I now better understand that sense of myself and without totally attempting a latter-day elimination of it, I have instead “put it in its proper place” meaning that I smile at its reality and, after that smile, move well beyond its limitations into a brighter and more imaginative way of living and expressing myself.
And, just for the record, here is a sampling of Patterns. Enjoy….
Posted by mbowen at 04:06 PM | Comments (0)
January 23, 2007
Bow Tie Eleven
“THE --AS IN OBAMA-- ZONE"
It would, one might suppose, be better to wait a while and see how “things political” shape up before launching into what I am sure will be a number of Bow Ties on Barack Obama. But as will be explored some time in the literary future, not only is tomorrow not promised, neither is a few hours from now! So, I will, instead go for what I know or, perhaps more accurate, what I sense.
First, the picture above is taken from the cover of the good senator’s first book, Dreams from My Father. At first I thought the title was Dreams of My Father. For me there is a tinge of intrigue even here since, in the traditional sense, Obama didn’t really know his father. So, how can he explore the dreams from someone he never really knew? The plot thickens even before getting into the reading. As of this writing, I am on page 375 of the book and I won’t spoil the “plot” for those who might consider getting the book except to say this: there is no plot. Dreams is an excellently crafted autobiography of a man and his unfolding life undergirded and undermined by the adventures and doubts that characterize most (if not all) young men. The specifics of Obama’s life are, most definitely, important…but there is, all the same, a thread that can readily be generalized to others young men on their self-discovery journey.
Although I clearly had the choice, I decided to start with this book because I wanted to learn something about his life and his thinking before he was thrust into the present political limelight. As far as I know The Audacity of Courage was written after he made his political mark as a US senator. So, Dreams has another kind of authenticity for me. For now, it has dramatically displaced the other books I had been reading in terms of my ever-limited but never neglected allocation of reading time…and I am glad! I am certain that the book has “struck” me in a way that may not tie into its effect/impact on others. I have always been attracted to those who write with “style” but when the latter is coupled with meaningful content or substance, I am hooked.
On those occasions when I am asked to prepare a job or graduate school recommendation, when fitting, I end by saying that I have no reservations whatsoever about recommending said student. I don’t include the phrase either unknowingly or casually. When I write it, I mean it. In this very special instance I am pleased and proud to say that Obama is at the very top of my personal and political list and, quite frankly, there are no – as we said in days of yore – sloppy seconds. I am fully aware of Madame Clinton’s announcement and see that as no surprise. But she doesn’t come close in terms of what America needs at this unparalleled point in history. In my non- humble view, she is no different from a nondescript laundry list of Democratic males who have jumped into the candidate ring. She is old school to the point of being old hat to the point of being someone who just ought to sit down and be quiet. Should America seriously consider having a woman for president? Most definitely! Is it time for women or a woman to make a serious bid to run for president? A 2nd equally forceful yes indeed. Is Hillary that woman? Absolutely not! Or more delicately said, Hell No!! And my view has nothing to do with the gentleman she happens to be married to. If there is baggage in that respect, that baggage is more of a personal than national matter. I care less about who she sleeps with than I care about who she speaks for.
Obama brings to the national and international table exactly what this country has put aside for entirely too long: International Respect. Sure, one can get away with big sticks (as in guns) the latter generates; but that only lasts for so long. One small but significant part of why Iraq is a no-win dilemma – no make that a nightmare – for the United States is that those labeled as militants or insurgents or whatever might be the label of the month are not afraid of the military might of this country nor, equally unbelievable, are they afraid to die. If those astute political and military air heads were to literally double the number of troops, the fallacy of fear would remain a fallacy. No, Obama is not a hat in hand apologist; but his dedication to the concept of healing sets him apart from the bad ass dudes (and women) of yesteryear and, as such, makes him ideally suited not simply for victory for the equally lame brained Democrats, but for the needs of a war torn planet. America was tricked into this terrible and costly war and the present pain calls for nothing short of healing instead of the infliction of a bigger and badder pain. It doesn’t get much simpler than that.
A young man, with young children is the kind of person who will bring to the embattled office of President of the United States a perspective and, yes, sensitivity that has all but vacated the White House. Mr. Clinton was slick (and effective), George W. Bush was/is a gross mistake; and America has an extremely rare opportunity to regain some semblance of its former place in the COMMUNITY of nations.
The Clinton lady has said that she’s in it to win. That’s a much more revealing assertion than might be grasped at first glance. Yes, it may be politically expected; but it is patently selfish. And I am not nitpicking. Her statement is about…herself! Even thinking “small” she is not talking about winning for the party of which she is a member. And, sadly, far be it for her to say anything about a victory for the party or even on a more elusive scale, winning for the country. And far be it for her to make a statement about winning for sanity. Nope. Hillary is winning for Hillary. Tsk tsk. What she brings to the table is a tattered, used and decidedly tired table cloth; and I, for one, just ain’t buyin’. I dug her husband as president, but can’t forget his pre-president nickname of “Slick Willie.” I sincerely wish them both well in resolving their personal issues, but I do likewise find credence to the phrase “all in the family.” So, Go Barack, Go!
~
Update on the homeless man whose name was actually Kinati: Two days ago, I decided to take a few more dollars to him. During our earlier second conversation I learned that he had spent 2 years in Metropolitan Hospital, a state run mental health hospital in nearby Norwalk, California. At the time he engaged me in a lengthy conversation about Bunsen burners and how by putting a cover (viz., cardboard or a blanket) on the ground before laying down, he would stay warm. “If you take care of the earth, the earth will take care of you.” He explained that heat from the magma at the earth’s molten core rises to warm the earth itself and, by extension, him. Kinati also told me that his Social Security checks are being held in conservatorship; but he didn’t say who has the checks nor did I feel inclined to ask. His other belongs were, according to Kinati, kept in the large public storage facility which served as a backdrop to the long stretch of curved sidewalk where he had been living. And now he is gone. And there is nothing at the spot to even remotely suggest that anyone had ever lived there. I have been back a couple of times since my initial discovery of his absence. Nothing. I simply…….wish him well.
~
Early on, I promised to include photographs as a part of The Bow Tie. So, let me now back away from this seemingly endless stream of words and do just that. The setting is the January 15, 2007 Martin Luther King Day Parade here in Los Angeles. There were reportedly 300 entries which made for a very long parade. Although I took pictures of many of the sights, I decided to concentrate on: children in general, children being held by adults, animals and people in wheel chairs. But this plan was quickly thwarted by an interesting parade sequence. I saw a fancy limo coming down King Boulevard. Clearly, the vehicle had a driver; but like where oh where was the passenger? The story tells itself in the following sequence. Moral of the mayoralty story: Antonio V. loves people and people love Antonio!
Posted by mbowen at 04:11 PM | Comments (0)
January 19, 2007
Bow Tie Ten
COUNTRY & WESTERN MUSIC – PART 2
“Jesus Love You, I Don’t” – There are a lot of subtleties folded into either the title or lyrics of Country and Western Music. In this song there is the unchallenged assumption (among Christians anyway) that Jesus loves everybody, presumably even those who are not Christians. Many of us are familiar with lines: “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world” and “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” And there are countless others. The female singer here presents the reminder to her dude that on the spiritual or religious level, he may well be loved by Jesus; but on the boyfriend-girlfriend – just us ordinary human beings – level, he is not loved. Thus, the declaration, Jesus loves you, I don’t It’s not known if the realization that the girlfriend has pulled back her affection will cause a behaviour change on his part. It hardly matters. He can and perhaps will continue to find comfort in the uninterrupted loved of Jesus. But as for the vocalist: “Know this, errant dude: whatever Jesus does, Jesus does. But as for me…you’re history!”
~
White Trash With Money – That’s actually the title of a CD. At first I thought it was the name of the group that recorded it as well. I later learned that the artist is Toby Keith, a real popular dude in the world of country and western music. The group is Rascal Flats. Several weeks earlier I heard an interview of the group leader not knowing at the time who he was. He shared how some neighbors in an adjoining, more financially accomplished neighborhood, suggested to him that he and, by extension, his wife, were nothing but “white trash.” But because he was confident that his musical endeavors would be successful, he told the offending neighbor that he was actually “white trash with money.” The cd was a success and, despite his wife’s objections, he kept the name. Not to her objection, however, the money did follow. If anyone would bother keeping track of who laughed first, it wouldn’t be hard to guess who had the last laugh…all the way to we know where. I found the story amusing, but felt a more fitting title would have been, White Trash [although I abhor the expression with the same intensity as I do the equally inexcusable “n” word] With Cash. But nobody asked me either then or now. Besides, they don’t even know I listen to the music.
~
“Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off” – This is a real gas of a song. The dude goes through a list of alcoholic beverages that his lady friend can easily handle. Some of it is pretty powerful stuff but its impact on her is either negligible or nonexistent. But ah, tequila. She starts by kickin’ off her shoes, leaves her jacket in the bathroom stall, she drops an earring in her drink, a contact in the restroom sink, does other rather strange things and comes home wrapped in a table cloth. Oddly enough when told about her displays and demonstrations of the night before, she doesn’t remember a thing. But, pray tell, why? Why on earth would she disrobe like that? And in a “public place” to the extent that a neighbourhood bar warrants that gentle designation. For an answer, we hastily return to the song’s revealing, clever title: (Because) “[It’s] Tequila [That] Makes Her Clothes Come Off.” Now if the very thought of this sequence of events doesn’t prompt a grin, perhaps we need to loosen up a bit with a glass...or two glasses of a beverage. Maybe that will make our smirk come off.
~
“I’m Down in Mississippi and Up to No Good” – The misbehaving woman is a regular topic of Country and Western Music. Moral purists might call them “loose women.” And the songs about what they do are that much more entertaining, to say nothing of convincing, when delivered to us by a female vocalist rather than a pompous, finger-pointing man. All by itself, to talk about one being “down in Mississippi” prompts no special thoughts because that state is located “down south” as we said as kids. So, initially, all we have is a geographic point of reference. The expression “up to no good” is likewise a familiar one suggesting getting into mischief or perhaps even serious trouble. Putting the two together we have to conclude that the merger is nothing short of clever. The singer is sick and tired of the mundane chores to which she is tied. Cookin’, cleanin’ floors and all that traditional stuff (meaning somebody’s gotta do it and it might as well be a woman!). She decides to call, Lisa and Carla Sue, two of her equally fed up lady friends and suggests they 3 of ‘em get out of Dodge or wherever else they were living. [The lyrics: “If anyone should ask and not that they would, I’ll be down in Mississippi and up to no good.”] I don’t remember what she said she did in Mississippi; but the very idea is interesting on the corny end and provocative on the other. We can trust that up to no good does not include knitting or selling Girl Scout cookies! The converse might be to sing about one who is down in the dumps but up in spirits. Then again, it might be best if I leave well enough alone.
~
“Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” – As an expression, this is one of my favourites. And I suppose the very title is what some might even call risqué. Risqué is actually in a category that is wonderfully distinct from nasty. And the two words are different – just how different is left for debates between moralists who tend to be regular people who happen to be bored. Anyway, there is this dude who is going to the city where the girls are oh so pretty. Were that not the case, why not just stay home? He makes the trip without incident and the cry goes out to save a horse (his horse?) and ride a cowboy (him?) That’s one kicker of a line. We can’t just leave it alone, however. The word analysts in our midst wanna know, what exactly does it mean to save a horse? From whom or what and why? Surely the horse is not on this country’s endangered species list. Then again, I suppose environmentalists and animal rights advocates would not object to the inclusion should we entertain the prospect of saving the horse.
I also wonder, though, why someone would come to the (modern) city on a horse. Even the animal-dependent circus brings its horses to town via truck(s) or train. Ah, but how about this business of riding a cowboy? That’s a surprising reversal to be sure. Now let’s not be too anxious and jump to a “normal” adult conclusion that riding a cowboy ain’t different from having sex with a cowboy. I’m not a cowboy, but if I was, I’d be flattered to know that a song was written to suggest that I’d be worthy catch for bodily frolicking…in preference to my horse! All the same, fun-loving as I might be as a mythic cowboy, during the height of my unbridled passion, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Who’s looking out for my horse?” On the equally serious side (ha!) when I told a friend abut my expanded musical repertoire citing this song in particular, he laughingly referenced the now less talked about movie, “Brokeback Mountain.” To his obvious relief I informed him that the song pre-dated the movie. Whew!
~
“I’m Here for the Party” – The Womanist, feminist, etc., Revolution is less dramatic than it was some years ago; but every now and then a female will make it abundantly clear to a well-meaning, no harm intended male that “things ain’t like they used to be.” So be it. At Antioch I am still reminded by female students that there is no automatic link between the words “female” and “nurturing”. And so be that as well. So I can’t help but admit to any delight when hearing a woman shameless and convincingly say/sing that she is (yup!) “Here for the party.” I love it. And what makes it more groovy, there’s nothing indicated that she required a date (i.e., a dude) to either go/get into whatever place it is presumably a local bar or (and here’s the kicker) to have a good time. Hee haw.
But the plot thickens. After making it abundantly clear that she is here for the party, she just as boldly proclaims, “And I ain’t leavin’ til they throw me out. I’m gonna have fun, gonna get me some… you know I’m here for the party!” To which I humbly add, “You go, Girl!” Or better yet, “You stay, girl!”
~
“That Girl Is a Cowboy” -- Yeah, I know. At first blush it doesn’t get much more sexually (referring to gender rather than it just explored “get me some”) confusing than this! Exactly what are these country and western folks up to? Only they can say; but as an unabashed movie groupee, I can dig it. [Talk about outdated expressions!] Again, there is this unapologetic inclination to challenge standard social expectations mores [as in more rays] or roles. A “girl” (read “woman”) as a cowboy? Like what’s up with that? Surely the wild wild west is infinitely more wild than anyone might have anticipated. But, hold up. Let me share the lyrics in the hope that they might better communicate what’s being said/sung here!
Wow! Just plain wow! Only a woman can (and should) say if a male acquaintance has earned the distinction of be (like) one of the girls. The very thought comes across as rather strange because of our stereotype lock over which we struggle to find the key. A man/male who is accepted as one of the girls cannot possibly be anything but effeminate or gay or, good grief, both. As suggested, let the women address this!
The song gives us these lines: “When I need a friend, she’s the guy I call.” I just gotta linger at this place for a bit. No matter what our so-called position is in life, no matter what our material or non material gains might be, we all fall short of having it made in the elusive shade all the time. It’s that simple; it’s that real. Yet, I dare say that for the most part when we seek a friend, better yet when we need a friend, we tend to be predictable. Meaning what? Just this. We hook up with someone who is very much like whatever if is that we are. Not exactly a clone but not radically different from a clone either. And because of tradition, we do pretty much the same the same thing over and over and then over again. When the going get tough and unbearable, we call upon that traditional friend. And that works. The radical break is to develop and maintain a new alliance. In a word, to “make” a new friend: A female’s best friend is a male and vice versa. When that happens, off on the microscopic sidelines we find a gaggle of lookelews, nosy busy bodies who giggly presume sexual alliances? Yet the song, in defiance, offers this line: “Sometimes the best cowboys aren’t real cowboys after all.”
And then there’s this: “She’s got my back even when it’s against the wall.” As true friendship goes, it doesn’t get much better than that. Again back to yesteryear. We used to say, “A friend in need is a friend indeed.” How true. Or there is the and overworked reassurance that comes from the presumed comfort of, “I got your back.” But again here we have the country and western inclination to rein in the regular, the usual, the expected, the mundane and take it to another level for consideration. To have me one’s back, i.e., to be available and as helpful as possible even when one is at one’s wits end, weak, tired and perhaps even irretrievably frustrated. For a friend to say I’ve got your back even when it’s against the wall in the best, the internal sense clearly means that the friend so in fact the buffer between the troubled person and the wall itself! It doesn’t get more reassuringly intimate or helpful than that. That’s an unusual female cowboy. A willing posse needs to round ’em all up without delay.
“I Love This Bar” -- Huh? We all have fond memories of places that brought delight to our youthful years: a park, a playground, a schoolyard, a beach, etc. The same or a similar list can be developed noting places which bring joy to our adult years. It may be a very similar list. And it would not be melodramatic to admit our love for just such a yesterday or today place. Yet to say, “I love this bar” is to confer on said bar a true mark of distinction. I can easily think of four New Haven bars which, if he would have written the songs, my father would have in mind: The Yellow Lantern, the Monterey (both on Dixwell Avenue), the Elks Street on Goffe Street & Paul and Shorty’s, on Whalley Ave, a scant ½ block from the church we attended. He loved those bars, the characters who frequented them, the incessant noise and endless flow of whatever. To be fond of a (favorite) place is not especially noteworthy. To love a bar is to acknowledge an attachment to a locale not known for its calm ambiance. But a musical genre that urges the saving of a house or pours accolades on a female cowboy, finds no contradiction in proclaiming love for a bar. All I can say is, “Two beers and hold the mayo!”
“My future ain’t what it used to be” -- Here, again, the logic of ordinary discourse has been discarded, the lyrical window of the country and western sensibility has been opened as if to say, good riddance to ordinary yet bad company. That used to be something is the ordinary reference to time passed, however long ago that might be. So to hear the expression “my future ain’t what it used to be” impels us to either scratch our heads wondering if we got the intended message right or raise questions about the sanity of the song writer. But again, that’s over customary logic which, as it turns out, is of little use here. And that’s just as well. At least we give thought, however hasty, to a future that we are positioned to do something about…right now. That’s quite a time-twisting challenge.
Posted by mbowen at 08:39 AM | Comments (0)
January 16, 2007
Bow Tie Nine
My earliest “exposure” was listening to the music which came out of Uncle Bunny’s [aka Thomas Prudence Blackwell] large radio. Brand name: unknown. Fidelity: excellent. That marvelous appliance was conspicuously placed in an impossible to miss spot in the living room of their 3rd floor Dixwell Avenue, New Haven apartment he shared for many years with his beloved Mary Saxon or Aunt Mae. Sitting in the living room was a Sunday after-church family ritual of sorts. Whoever entered therein listened dutifully…hoping something (anything!) would suddenly pop up (from anywhere!) and thus rescue the captive (captured!) family members from these terrible sounds emanating from the museum piece radio. That never happened. So, although there was not much foot-tapping, there was endless and painful listening. I never raised the question; but I always asked (myself) how anyone who did not live in Virginia could listen to – to say nothing of enjoy – music that emanated from that part of the country. All of that and more was part of a special decade we nostalgically recall as the 1950s. Four decades later, I got the answer without the benefit of a formal lesson.
Fast forward to Inglewood, California: Gloria’s “play uncle” BJ, was a master craftsman. Some might use the more convenient designation, handy man, but that would be inaccurate and an almost mean spirited putdown. To be handy is to know how to do a particular job in a manner that is just good enough. Adequate is a better expression. Handy also tends to be quick. As in quick and dirty. BJ took his time, measured, cut, aligned, etc., with anything but all deliberate speed. And while he worked, there were two other things he did without fail or hesitation or apology: 1) BJ cursed profusely and 2) he listened to Country and Western Music. I had actually long forgotten the “hillbilly” designation that Uncle Bunny used. We whispered a more telling definition: “twas shit-kickin’ music!
Try as I might, the names of the many songs I (again, unavoidably) listened to while either helping or watching him work around Gloria’s house rest securely just beyond the limits of my memory. However, all is not lost! Two songs do stand out in my mind. The first is Kenny Rogers’ “You Gotta Know When to Hold ‘Em” and, although I don’t know who the artist was/is, I also remember, “All My Exes (as in “X” and “O”) Live in Texas.”
Before getting to the fun part, let me share my new attraction to Country and Western Music. In some ways, my thoughts fold into a bigger pattern of what I’ll simply call Me and Music…s. What I label “sociologically speaking – a method of looking at certain life phenomena that I am working hard at abandoning – I will use Content Analysis. I’ll simply take the titles and/or lyrics (trusting that they have been accurately written here) and share their personal appeal as honestly as possible. My hope is that the method used notwithstanding, this doesn’t come across as too serious or laboured.
So, backing up a little bit, let’s look at my “inaugural/rite of passage” pieces. I was single at the time and found this particular reference to one’s exes (as in ex-spouse) amusing. I had no reason to want my “ex to be in Tex…” but I could easily imagine the plight of a dude who had what I’ll call “the dubious benefit of the marital plural”, i.e., having more than one “ex.” Anyway, there’s a line in the song tells us that because all his exes live in Texas, that’s why he lives in Tennessee! The peace of mind that, in some cases, only piles of miles can bring about.
As for the Rogers piece, there is practical advice and more worldly wisdom in the observation that one’s gotta know when to hold or fold cards. I know nothing about poker – or any card game for that matter with the exception of “war” and solitaire – other than what I have observed. There are indeed times when disappointed players look at their respective hands, shake their heads wearily and “fold.” Then, of course, they sometimes smile optimistically and “hold.” The same choice-making applies to walking away and/running as in the line, “You gotta know when to walk away, know when to run.” Further, not counting “your money” while sitting at the table makes real good sense. Why? First, because one might readily be relieved of one’s money by either another player or a quick-on-the-draw spectator. But not having such an unwelcome eventuality in mind, Rogers simply suggests, “There’ll be time enough for counting when the game is done.” There will be ample time and opportunity for that or some other activity later. Sage advice if ever there was any. Maybe even an unintentional touch of Ecclesiastes.
And now for the more contemporary stuff: As is often the case with me, I am not very exacting about dates; but I do pretty well at recalling distinct states of my mind or how I felt. A healthy pile of months ago – now there’s a solid reference point if ever there was one -- I suddenly found myself disgusted with much of the music I had been listening to on the car and home radio. I will never abandon my love for jazz; but I was tired of some of the redundancy I was hearing at the time. In addition, another mainstay, so called “classical” music lacked the wild and woolly big monster symphonic sound I loved as a child. [More on that later.] Endless dial flipping – I think it’s called surfing – got to be tiresome whilst waiting for the broadcast pattern to bring comfort or enjoyment. I wanted to make that an aural change. And, there along the dial’s right to left, left to right route I chanced upon two heretofore unknown stations: KZLA (93.9) and KFRG (95.1). Shortly after that I knew that I was at least temporarily hooked because I punched the numbers in with the car radio’s pre-set gizmo button whatever whatchamacallit.
What I immediately noticed was how intently I listened to the lyrics, how they usually told a story in some kind of order. As in having a beginning, middle and end. That shouldn’t be worthy of note except that too many of the songs I had been listening to not only lacked “order” but mastered the familiar “art” of both not making sense coupled with a measured stab at being as legally offensive as (FCC-regulated) permissible…to me anyway. Listening to Country and Western, I often smiled, sometimes laughed out loud and, when the good ole boy spirit hit me, I jotted the words down while waiting at a red light. New music is being composed and played even as I make these reflections; but here’s a sampling of some of what I like…and why.
Posted by mbowen at 08:08 AM | Comments (0)
January 15, 2007
Bow Tie Eight
TODAY IS A VERY SPECIAL BOW TIE DAY:
Happy Birthday, Debbie!
Mucho love,
(Dad)
Posted by mbowen at 03:00 PM | Comments (0)
January 14, 2007
Bow Tie Seven
Today’s Bow Tie was supposed to be about Country and Western music. But that will keep until another time…most likely later in the week. I decided, instead, to write about a man named Akanti. Although I had seen him many times, I had never stopped to talk to him. This morning (Sunday) was different. Akanti is a homeless man who lives on the east side of the La Brea Avenue sidewalk between Rodeo Road and Exposition Blvd. He has been in that spot at least 6 months. Most of the time he simply stands in place. Like other urban “fixtures” (human and otherwise) after a while, one stops noticing. But the weather these past few days has been unseasonably cold. The thermometer inside the Avalanche registered 31 degrees at around 7 am. One cannot help but imagine what it’s like to sleep outside in these conditions.
For the past week or so, I decided to give away my sleeping bag. It’ll be summer before I camp out again and I have been thinking about getting a new bag. At first, I was going to drop it off with someone in Skid Row…no questions asked other than “Can you use a sleeping bag?” And then I thought about taking it to the women’s center since the women who come to the day center live on the street or in one of the missions. This morning, however, I thought about the man on La Brea whose name I didn’t know at the time. All I knew for sure was that it was cold and that it was surely even colder between midnight and 5 am.
There is no parking (at any time) on the side where he stays so I drove to Jefferson Blvd., turned around and parked on the west side of La Brea. Traffic was still light and I scooted across with the bag in tow. I simply said, “Hi. Do you want this sleeping bag?” The response was interesting. He said other people had offered him bags but he didn’t need one. He pointed to a single blanket and said he was O.K. at night…although last night was cold. He then pointed to a large plastic bottle of distilled water and told me that it had frozen overnight. In fact, he had at least 10 plastic bottles neatly lined along the sidewalk out of the way of passersby. I extended my hand and told him my name; and he told me his. His teeth were uneven and as brown as the nearby telephone pole. But his eyes sparkled and his speech was clear and distinct. He spoke without pause or apology and had the presence of a man who is educated. I asked him if there was anything I could get for him and he said no. At one point he mentioned cheese and I offered to get some for him. His response was that later in the day he would go to Albertson’s (a large supermarket ½ block away) and buy some. That statement alone told me much. My parting remark was that I will come by again and see him. And when I do, I’ll simply ask how he’s doing and give him cash.
Posted by mbowen at 08:02 AM | Comments (0)
January 12, 2007
Bow Tie Six
ote: Some of the topics to be explored in The Bow Tie will be continued over a period of time. This keeps me from getting bored and maybe others as well.
I want to start with Homelessness. There is something about the very word “homeless” that is most disconcerting. It separates itself out from other words in a way that is strangely unique. For a moment, let’s take a look at this labeling game; and I don’t mean the sickening yet persistent epithet madness game. We usually identify people by geography, race, ethnicity, religion, neighborhood gang, educational or social status, political party and, of course, sexual preference/affiliation. But, think about it, each one of these categories – if we call them that – have to do with what an individual or group has as opposed to the absence of something. So to say homeless means, quite apparently, that a given human being is without a place to live. What a disaster!
Although there may well have been some, I don’t remember any homeless people when growing up in New Haven. Oh, there was a smattering of people (men) we called “bums” who we’d see sleeping or at least dozing in any one of Dixwell Avenue’s alleys. But the assumption was that was the spot they had chosen for sleeping and not where they actually lived!
As I hope to do with other Bow Tie offerings, I want to include the personal dimension. What seems like ages ago I worked among the – for lack of a better term – housed homeless. Sure, that’s a contradiction; but their so-called dwellings were Skid Row flop houses (aka SRO). Small and dank. There was really no social work done with the rag tag group of aimless men, all of whom had stories to tell, each story with its own varying degree of believability. But that was all those of us assigned to Single Men Intake were expected to do. Just check on their eligibility for General Relief by verifying the non-existence of income and personally visit their humble abode to make sure they lived (ha!) where they said they lived. So, Skid Row Los Angeles was my first County Social Worker beat. My jaunts to that part of town after other assignments were irregular. I would simply drive through on my way to some other place or just to break the monotony of moving about what a local paper calls This Considerable Town.
Roughly 10 years ago, I was at a meeting at St. John’s. As often happens with church meetings, there was food left over. And as is too often the case, cleaning up meant throwing away those pesky leftovers. Someone wisely asked, however, if anyone wanted the extra trays. Without knowing why, I said I’d take them. On the spur of the moment I decided to take the trays “someplace in Skid Row” with no specific destination in mind. I loaded ‘em up and drove the few miles to The Row. I parked on a block (I later learned it was Winston Street) that was filled with cardboard dwellings, rectangular edifices that were containers for large refrigerators or water heaters in their former lives. After parking I and went to the back of the weather beaten Ram Charger. No one paid any attention. When I (ill advisedly) announced that I had food to give away the sidewalk suddenly came alive. There was a quick and unorganized rush to the raised door. Then came a unexpectedly and booming voice that said, “You guys know better than that! You know that Mama eats first!” (Wow! Was that the voice of God barking a reminder in this all but forgotten part of town?) The “crowd” sheepishly moved back to its previously unseen spots and I saw a diminutive Black woman sitting on what was perhaps a milk crate. She said nothing but, accompanied by an escort (who was probably the source of the verbal boom) came to the back of the truck and helped herself to the food. It was not until she was though and safely perched on her plastic seat that the other – now just as hungry but more orderly than before, came and took what was left. I came away with the positive thought that although Skid Row may not been the shining example of “manners,” there was certainly a well understood code for what goes and what doesn’t.
Then the tape rolls ahead to my academic work at Antioch which began in 1992. To date I have put together a series of workshops and courses that require going to Skid Row to bring home to students the reality of living on the streets. There was the Youth in Los Angeles workshop, for example, that included a visit to the Union Rescue Mission, one of a number of missions downtown which “specializes” in programs for families. It was a real eye-opener to find families “on the street” right outside an organization in business to get them inside!
Of course, all of this city’s homeless folks are not confined to the downtown area. A course I designed titled, The City: Myth, Madness and Maturity required students to interview a homeless person preferably in their own neighborhood and then write a 5 page paper on the experience. It was (and is) important that the plight of the homeless be realized in a more personal way. Reading about what it is like to have the sky as one’s “shelter” and eye balling someone who is in such a predicament is quite different. Articles and studies on homelessness abound. As important as that kind of data might be, it can serve as an unintentional barrier or balm for human disconnect. I have purposely tried to guard against suggesting to students that they will study homelessness and, have instead, fostered the notion of learning, the difference being what happens when we talk and listen to another human being. Without going into all the particulars here I should mention the perspective I share about giving money to homeless people. I simply suggest that they do what they feel comfortable doing. If there is an unavoidable judgment made that “They will only use it for drugs,” then the student should not feel obligated to fork over some loose or not so loose change. But since that is not always the case, parting with a few coins or dollars does no harm whatsoever. Some students have, in fact, developed interesting personal relationships with homeless people…an unexpected but invaluable outcome that I will revisit in the future when I will write about a true oasis in Skid Row Los Angeles: The Downtown Women’s Center.
Posted by mbowen at 01:01 PM | Comments (0)
January 08, 2007
Bow Tie Four
I was a poet
before I was
when I was a
dreamer of real
worlds
now I remember
from breath to heartbeat
all I seen and been
and what it felt
like what it
meant
extract from “Past Present”by Amiri Baraka
~
It is rightly said that the most challenging part of a major writing project is getting started. Perhaps the same truism holds for a minor one as well. At this early juncture I won’t presume which label best fits The Bow Tie. But I will say that I have given the real beginning considerable thought. With an uncharacteristic degree of personal relief, I settled on distancing myself from any potential reader. That, quite obviously, is a strange contradiction since who other than a known or unknown reader will take the time to look at these writings in the first place? Writing is neither be created in a vacuum nor viewed in any semblance of same. There must be a writer-reader connection for the process to work. Otherwise, why bother? The alternative is to quietly engage in nonjudgmental literary navel-gazing?
So I have the task to make my caveat as clear as I possibly can: My intent is certainly not to disregard the reader altogether. In fact, I already know that my personal or indirect or casual or some other non-descript relationships with any number of people [known and unknown as the saying goes] constitute the frame of reference for a significant part of what I intend to explore and share. There, that’s been established. What I do feel compelled to note, however, is that I will try with uncharacteristic vigor to not be unduly swayed by their real or imagined approval or disapproval. Allow me to linger on this very point for a bit.
Recently, I had a conversation with a talented woman who has completed and is planning a series of film projects. During the course of a our conversation we discussed her earlier habit of being almost immobilized by the need to seek the approval of others. I suggested something I had given no thought to whatsoever until that time. After she said she now works on ways in which she does not journey into the murky territory of seeking the approval of others, I suggested this: Because we are human, we want to be appreciated. To seek approval of another person should not lead us down the slippery slope of being controlled by that same approval. Yes, of course there are exceptions of a commercial or business and personal nature. There are specific instances in which approval is what we consciously seek and approval is what we definitely need. But we were talking more generally; reflecting on how, as adults, we find ourselves (automatically) following the same patterns we engaged in as approval-hungry children.
I suggested that if we fail to have what we extend to others come back unappreciated, we remain in tack. Why? Because (in the context of our animated conversation) appreciation carries with it an aesthetic dimension, whereas approval is personal and potentially damaging or at least restrictive. As an artist, she could relate to this; and as an incessant gabber, I gave myself an unexpected High Five!
So my caveat here is to put some unaccustomed distance between myself and whomever. To “move” from ordinary close territory to another place from which I can say/write what I want to say/write without the worry of the withholding of the power of other-controlled green lights of smiles, accolades and approval. To do what I have to do, I’m gonna move………
I’m Gonna Move Way On the Outskirts of Town
I'm gonna move way out on the outskirts of town
I'm gonna move way out on the outskirts of town
I don't want nobody, ooh always hangin' around
I'm gonna tell you baby, we gonna move away from here
I don't want no ice man, I'm goin' get me a frigidaire
When we move way out on the outskirts of town
I don't want nobody, ooh always hangin' around
I'm goin' bring my own groceries, bring them every day
That'll stop that grocery boy, and keep him away
When we move way out on the outskirts of town
I don't want nobody, ooh Lord baby always hangin' around
It may seem funny, funny as it can be
But if we have any Children,
I want 'em all named after me
We move way out on the outskirts of town
I don't want nobody, ooh always hangin' around
(William Weldon/Roy Jacobs)
In a related vein, there is another “stance” I want to set forth here. There are those times when one must declare a certain independence or emotional remoteness from others…most especially those who are (excuse the redundancy) emotionally close. Writing in and of itself is not necessarily a lonely activity. We often choose any number of complimentary distractions and joyfully peck away at the laptop or jot morsels of our obvious brilliance on the pages of a battered notebook. All the same, that which is indispensable is clarity of thinking and, hopefully, a candor about feelings. Our countless cherished human ties notwithstanding, we can be nobody’s darling…….
Be Nobody’s Darling
Be nobody’s darling;
Be an outcast.
Take the contradictions
Of your life
And wrap around
You like a shawl,
To parry stones
To keep you warm.
Watch the people succumb
To madness
With ample cheer;
Let them look askance at you
And you askance reply.
Be an outcast;
Be pleased to walk alone
(Uncool)
Or line the crowded
River beds
With other impetuous
Fools.
Make a merry gathering
On the bank
Where thousands perished
For brave hurt words
They said.
Be nobody’s darling;
Be an outcast.
Qualified to live
Among your dead.
Alice Walker
Enough said………….the rest will have to speak for itself.
Posted by mbowen at 01:09 PM | Comments (0)