Pundad

May 01, 2007

Bow Tie Twenty Eight

The Bow Tie #28 April 30th 2007

Being there is more than half of the joy and the learning. It was with this in mind that I took another academic leap and put together a course. Its catalog title is “Los Angeles Museums: Public Memory and the Urban Narrative.” The rationale is that rather than simply being warehouses for the detritus of antiquity, museums are, instead, vibrant places of yesterday’s treasures and today’s realities. Those responsible for deciding what to exhibit and what not to exhibit are making conscious choices which reflect their own priorities, pleasures and, of course, biases. So curators and others are editors (even censors) of how they want the museum to be seen or perceived in the locale where the museum “lives.” The end result intended or otherwise, is a narrative statement. If that museum is located in an urban setting, that statement adds to other statements [made by other museums and institutions which are not museums] which collectively constitute the urban narrative.
Ironically my early life museum exposure was frequent and scary. To this day I remember trekking though New Haven’s Peabody Museum on Whitney Avenue. For whatever reason(s) I liked being there; but I was scared as hell of those huge dinosaurs. As a child I could only imagine how ferocious they must have been during those times when they roamed the earth without dodging cars or helicopters or serial killers. Being strongly influenced by the fantasy world convincingly fabricated by the movie makers of the day, I pictured myself being chased by one of these monsters, very quickly being overtaken by the behemoths and being consumed alive with dispatch. These long ago fears, however, didn’t stand in the way of putting the course together…unless my not including the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History (where the local dinosaurs are safely housed) is a subtle indication of my avoidance of revisiting yesteryear.
Anyway, twelve adventurous students signed up for the course and the Skirball Culture Center and Museum was first on a list of four. Skirball is one of two major Jewish museums in the city. As with the three other museums the class will visit, I am a member. Since no cameras are allowed inside, the above photo was taken in the front by one of the security guards. The special tour took about two hours and even with that there was much more that could have been included. Sonia, the docent, was knowledgeable and congenial. The “lesson” was a revealing one for me. She emphasized how consistently Jews have both maintained their identity while, at the same time, taken conscious steps to assimilate into the many cultures (places) in which they have found themselves. That’s an intriguing “positioning” for any group that finds itself in the numerical minority…in any country. I was also stuck by something Sonia said about forgiveness. She said Jews ask for forgiveness from the offended party…and not from God.
We saw many artifacts associated with Jewish religious practices which reflected other cultures. Examples which come to mind include the menorah and the encasement for the Torah. Hellenist, Russian, and, very much to my surprise, even Muslim. I was also attracted to the use of modern visual and audio technology harnassed to tell the unfolding story from ancient to modern times. And I am not even scratching the surface here.
Suffice it to say, the museum visitation academic experiment is off to a most promising start. The enrolled students who couldn’t attend will have to do so on their own since there will be something of a comparative overview at the end. As for the other three, they include the Museum of Contemporary Art in the heart of downtown (to the extent that downtown has a heart), the California African American Museum and the Japanese American National Museum conveniently located in Little Tokyo. I’ll hold off comment until the class visits
~
MY SPACE, IN YOUR FACE!
More often than not, I take a look at this phenomenon we call “culture” and find myself both thoroughly appreciative and, at other times, alarmed. I am hopeful enough a person to hold on to the wisdom of the self-fulfilling prophesy. In a nutshell (is that term self-fulfilling??), it says that what we declare to be, is. It gives us the “power” to define or describe something yet to happen; and since we have set up our expectations – or lack thereof – beforehand, that which unfolds does so in a manner consistent with our pre-determined thinking. Whew! So, I found myself having a fabulous time with the 3rd and 5th graders on April 19th during La Salle Elementary School’s Career Day. A positive experience if ever there was one [page 3]. And then there is some other “stuff” that urges me to raise questions.

As a starting point, words are powerful…beyond, in some instances, our own understanding which is interesting since we are the ones who use them. The very concept of My Space says, among other things, it is NOT YOURS. “My Space” is not exactly an invitation to sharing. It is, after all, mine! Nothing overly attention-getting or ominous about this presumably innocuous expression except this: So many of us act as though the space we occupy actually belongs to us. Because I am in it, I own it…and you don’t; further, my very occupation renders you without the power or influence as to how I inhabit my space and what I do therein. This observation comes to mind in the aural bombardment to which we (viz., urban dwellers) are exposed. So, My Space gives me the “freedom” to talk on my cell phone whenever and wherever I choose to do so. And in the My Space reality of my car, I can roll the windows down and (oh so loudly) play my music. I can do my thing in My Space because, well, because it is mine!

The very expression, My Space, says a great deal about contemporary culture (popular or otherwise) but says little about civility…and, by extension, civilization.

Yet, it would be a short-changing of the sensibilities of countless people were I not to acknowledge the wisdom of the lyric, “”A smile is just a frown turned upside down.” So, there are those who, while consciously or unconsciously do not get locked into the sad fact of widespread ownership do, on the other hand, take rather seriously a sense of responsibility for those who are close by. This includes everything from a smile extended to a passing stranger to giving money to a homeless person who just happens to get close enough (“invasion of my space!”) to notice that she/he could use a long, leisurely bath. In a way it is a variation on the Good Samaritan theme except that the current version does not require that another person be totally down and out or close to that before a kind act is prompted. Multiplying this idea results in nothing more spectacular than a simple consideration for others. Perhaps it is the simplicity, however, that makes this notion so daunting.
~

LAUGHING AND LANGUISHING AND LOVING IT AT LA SALLE
Yep. It was “all that” as the expression goes. For perhaps the fifth time, I participated in another (oh me, oh my) career day! But, hold up…I found myself translating the meaning of the label and took another approach. That choice was a wise one and set the stage for me having a grand old time with some grand young children. I suppose I could do the laborious and professional thing and find out where LaSalle “sits” in comparison with other South Los Angeles public schools. Without that boring research, I already know that the schools are serving the children pretty shabbily, if that! But LaSalle is a real delight. The new principal has not allowed any slippage from the standards set by her predecessor. The children are treated with firmness and respect. On one occasion, during my visit to the 3rd grade, a youngster was told that her mother would be called (via the teacher’s handy cell phone). That warning alone resulted in an immediate change of attitude and behavior.

Even the escorts are serious and focused. The youngster who accompanied me (Dejeanae, front right in the photo) told me without hesitation that her plans are to be a doctor, a judge and a lawyer. The only decision she had not yet made is which one she will become first. Her sense of conviction made it all but impossible not to believe her! Both the 3rd and 5th grade classes had their respective codes which they recited in unison. I was not impressed with that recitative drill until I asked a student to explain one of the words she and her classmates had just said in lock step unison. It took a little prompting, but she did it…with a triumphant smile and a wordless expression that I interpreted to say, “Gotcha!” Indeed she had done exactly that.

And then there was the (I have to capitalize it) Lunch. Yes, I most intentionally did capitalize this treat because it was anything but a mid-day snack. It was a veritable feast. But I must say it did not come as a surprise. The Ladies of La Salle had done the exact same thing in years past. So it was more of a tradition. And this was one of those instances in which a tradition was anything but ho hum. It was like “Can I get seconds? And, yes, reader, you got it right. That is a picture of my delicious plate; but no, I didn’t go for seconds! As a rule I have not placed much credence in the ritualistic aspects of food preparation, serving and, lastly, consumption. But, as a lifelong learner, I am slowly coming to a greater appreciation of this art and the immense pride which those who “put their foot in it” as we used to say, do what they do and why they do it so very well. It is anything but a simple biological necessity, a daily bland function. It is an expression of love, appreciation and friendship. And since I just happened to be hungry at the time, Lunch was “all that” and then some.

The close-of-the-day gathering in the auditorium was mostly a talking heads feature. In the past three or four classes of younger students would come on stage to either recite (usually poetry), sing, or dance. That added a lighter, entertaining touch; but it didn’t happen this year. The presentation by a retired engineer (with hair) and the Assistant Principal (without same) were informative and surprisingly relevant for the adult professionals who came to share with the children. They get high marks for their “speeches”.

There are so many negative stories about young people these days, to see them doing something positive and creative/artistic is, quite honestly, therapeutic and reassuring. So for me, the time spent at La Salle was more of a needed boost than chore. So much so that I promised to return, not having at the time I pledged to extend myself, any idea what I will do with the two classes. Since then I have decided to offer the students a slide presentation on my five treks to Mount Whitney …with an interactive component that will invite them help me put a list together of “Things to Take Along.” Even though those high altitude adventures have long since passed, I am optimistic that these hot shots will come up with something I overlooked. We shall see. Film at 11….

And…Happy Birthday, Kit!

Posted by mbowen at 06:24 AM | Comments (0)

April 13, 2007

Bow Tie Twenty Seven

“IGNORANCE AS (SAD) IMPETUS”

Oh… Lemme tell ya right from the jump. This is gonna be a hard sell. Let’s make that a VERY HARD SELL. But if the agenda of The Bow Tie were to assume reader agreement, there would be no Bow Tie, mind you. That said, let’s move on. I taped Oprah’s show on Monday, April 16th. I’ve not yet listened to the it so I may be way off base with what is shared here. But I think I picked up the flavor of what her distinguished guests were saying and I sincerely applaud that. All the same, I remain perhaps irretrievably STUCK in the linguistic battle cry about or for Self Determination so widely touted and accepted during the 1960s and early 1970s. Whatever else the term meant or intended, the fact was a seriousness among Black people to define and live what Black people considered to be beneficial for Black people. The conversation (i.e., words and concepts used) and the attendant behavior were circular, i.e., they wrapped around each other seamlessly. No rocket science or mysterious message in that. These two powerful words spelled out a strategy for the evolution of a life (as opposed to or at least distinct from a lifestyle) that was “good” and was free from fear, oppression and misuse…from inside or outside. At the time I thought that was pretty hip. I still think so. Which brings me to a strange and possibly gritty (meaning potentially uncomfortable) “take” on the Imus Issue. To my knowledge, this observation has not been made by anyone else; but if so, that’s fine.

It goes like this: An interesting “dimension” of the Black-White Connection in this country goes well beyond those matters we normally discuss or maybe even avoid discussing. It has a reach that fuses thinking, perceptions, interaction and avoidance in sometimes peculiar (even downright bizarre) ways. Cases in point: The Michael Richards Thang and the (still hot) Don Imus Thang. Even while not forgetting the inherent danger of oversimplifying some of life’s complexities, I say offer this “formula: IGNORANT WHITE BEHAVIOR>>INTELLIGENT BEHAVIOR. The “>>” means “yields, prompts or gives rise to…” Before proceeding, let me say without reservation that this observation is not an underhanded attempt on my part to universally characterize white behavior as ignorant any more than it is my way of “universally” conferring intelligent behavior to Blacks. Not only would that be stupid (or ignorant!), it would likewise be patently untrue. Hoping and trusting I have made that point, I plod along.

That which Michaels said/did was totally unacceptable. We know the story of what happened that night at the Comedy Club; and we know about what an L.A. Times writer labeled the subsequent “apology tour.” What we also know is that his faux pas singularly prompted intelligent conversation and action (i.e., a reexamination of and change in behavior) among many Black people. I’m not through with this but let’s fast forward to Imus. Pretty much the same thing a la Imus at least to the extent that offensive language was used. Drum roll and at least one head roll, i.e., he lost his job—which by the way cannot be equated with Imus becoming unemployed. Anyway, more collective, far-reaching outrage; and more intelligent Black Behavior. So…I perhaps naively ask, “Whusup with that?” Seriously. How does it happen that it is only when insult is leveled from “without” that the action from within becomes so determined, so intense, so impassioned, so immediate, so focused? One would think there is or was an symbiotic linguistic underpinning! Lions and tigers and insults…oh my! What we have is a litany of explanations, excuses and apologies. Yet before (White) Richards and (White) Imus did their deeds, we heard nothing like the orchestrations of the good reverends on the same level or of the same magnitude as we now witness. Why? Because we have been conditioned or better yet, programmed to storm the Bastille of Unacceptability (only) when it is inter-racial…”inter” here meaning between. The intra (internal or inside) protestations go without serious consideration. There is no across-the-board behavior change over what is “joked about.” That’s real, that’s sad. That’s past and present history.

A fair question might be, “Is this a good thing or a bad thing?” Even though I posed the question, I am the first to say it is the wrong question. We start with the harsh reality that people insult/offend people all too often, accidentally or with malice aforethought. Stuff happens all the time. Stuff will always happen all the time. The challenge for all of us is not to look for the day when there is no more stuff (of the earthly kind anyway) but to take responsibility for self-inflicted wounds (putting us back in tune with the civilizing aspects of self determination) and put the lid on ignorant proclamations from whatever source which are guaranteed to cause hurt or harm. So, perhaps the best formula for this recent spate of inter-action is one that puts both Black folks and White folks on notice to…chill. We are constantly being reminded that the globe is warming. Chilled human behavior might prove to be an effective palliative.

~

“SATCHMO, WHY I HARDLY KNEW YOU”

Brother Ray will readily recall the youthful joke that went something like this: “I don’t like ____ (I can’t recall the name) cereal because my brother likes it and I don’t like my brother!” Of course, that had nothin’ to do with Ray and me! All the same, we said it and laughed at it without fully understanding what that indirect slam was all about. It hardly mattered. In this many years later instance, I’m shifting the context a bit to say this: “I don’t like Louis Armstrong because my father didn’t like Louis Armstrong; and I loved my father!” There, now you have the long and short of the explanation…not really. What you do have, however, is an earlier Bow Tie in which I wrote about the pride which characterized Chico. He was never “preachy” about issues having to do with race; but it was always clear that being a Black man meant something to him…at as well as below or beyond his dark-skinned surface. In this connection, he had real distain for Black men whose “antics” he found distasteful. His label for these characters was a far cry from the label so freely bandied about these days. But he was not at all reluctant to show his distinct dissatisfaction. For Chico, Louis Armstrong did entirely too much “skinnin’ and grinnin’.” And catching Chico’s drift early on, I became more attuned to Armstrong’s sight than I was to his sound. The same holds fast even to this day; and I am the first to admit the unfairness of it all. I am more than casually aware of the many jazz musicians who, in telling of their own growth and development freely and even joyfully acknowledge their debt to Armstrong. It is not an overstatement, in fact, to say that his impact is legendary. So be it. When I visualize him, I see a “Hello Dolly” character with a white hankie and shiny white teeth. A legendary clown!

Ken Burns’ extensive albeit uneven jazz history project makes a big splash over Louis Armstrong’s role in the history of jazz in and beyond this country. And it would not be fitting to discount that role. At the same time, the distance I put between myself has less to do with his musical talent or innate ability than his persona. Even in the jazz workshops I have done at Antioch, I readily admit my bias. So, students came to understand that they would have to check out other sources to gain an appreciation for the man. In one workshop an avid and outspoken student gave high praise to Armstrong. And, quite frankly, I was glad he spoke up with so much information, so much passion because I knew the students were not going to gain that valuable insight from me!

Quite often I have inwardly played around with the differences between the fool and the clown. There are times when I am not sure that there is a difference or that it matters that much. For my own purposes, I complicate the otherwise trivial matter and consider the wider picture, the context in which the fool/clown does his or her thing. Sadly, I have yet to find it within me to place Louis Armstrong in a context that allows me to take Chico out of the picture and simply enjoy the music. That’s my problem, not his. Drum roll and curtain down.

~

“FREEDOM TO CHOOSE, FREEDOM TO LOSE”

Treks to two commercial enterprises, hardware stores and book stores, are frustrating experiences for me. I am faced with a mountain of very difficult choices. Too many. As a child, I would go into Sosensky’s Hardware Store on Dixwell Avenue in New Haven and imagine myself buying all the tools I could carry, then taking them home and building or fixing something, anything. Even without the envied skills of a carpenter, somehow the very possession of hammers and screwdrivers, saws and pliers would magically confer upon me the skills to be some kind of craftsman. That never happened. As a substitute, I used Chico’s tools. That was fun. I broke or lost Chico’s tools. The consequence wasn’t fun.

The bookstores I now frequent are more of a challenge because I can purchase what I see and want. If I don’t have the cash, my substitute means of exchange are a checkbook or credit card. So, all that holds me back these days is some semblance of real world sanity that whispers to me, “Hey, dude, you already own that book!” Or, more fitting, “Hey, dude, if you spent 20 hours a day, every day for the rest of you life, you still couldn’t finish reading what you now have in the Elbow Room. But man (and presumably woman) does not live by logic or sensibility or whispering voices alone. So, I am less inclined to close the gap between the oh so attractively arranged bookshelf and I trembling hand. At the very least, I pick up the book quite innocently with nothing more in mind that to do a quick scan. That usually works; but not always.

Tied to this public bad habit is a terribly convenient private one which allows, no make that entices me to jump to Amazon.com and do the dirty deed that way. On those (more infrequent than before) occasions, when I do Amazon surfing, the plot of choice-making and its accompanying anxiety are even greater. On screen, I am made aware of not only the specific book I am looking for but a very wide variety of other books on the same subject or one closely allied. Then there is the benefit not offered by places like Borders and Barnes and Noble. On line I can get a new book, one in almost new, one that’s like new, virtually new or in just plain used condition. The more battered and worn, the lower the cost. That might seem like an easy choice to make but I do remember having purchased a bottom of the used list book and, when it arrived, found just about every line…underlined. Ya make ya choices, ya pay the price.

But the book adventure is always an exciting and eye-opening journey with or without making a purchase. It’s amazing how much literature is out there to explore in depth or simply by checking out the appealing cover. Which brings me to an almost-overlooked weakness. I just love attractive covers be they hand drawn or done with computer graphics or (a real winner for me) consisting of a dynamite photograph. Sheer visual pleasure. The trap, of course, can easily be to find beauty on the outside and real crap within…just like people. I just gotta get back to this whole book thing in the future. In the meantime, I’ll continue to work on my hardware store softness which, I must say, is decidedly easier to “handle.” The reasons: I am less emboldened to any form of physical building and fixing than before. I have more than enough tools and they aren’t as pretty as they used to be. They haven’t really changed over the years, but I have. After all, something’s gotta give. #

Posted by mbowen at 06:30 AM | Comments (0)

Bow Tie Twenty Five

The Bow Tie #25 April 13th 2007

“DON, WHY WE HARDLY KNEW YOU”

Just when I thought it was “safe to re-direct my Bow Tie efforts, something seemingly just up and happened. It’s like one can never safely let down one’s relaxation guard…try as one might. Enter idiot of this past week, Don Imus. Before coming at this latest radiophonic shock jock’s pronouncement, I humbly query, From whom or whence did Imus first hear reference to Black women as “hos”? Was it from some right wing think tank? A subterranean cadre of urban Klansmen? Some hotbed or cold bed [whatever that is] of racially/genderly [whatever that is] insensitive robots? Or, did Imus just happen upon a rapper either live or on a disk casually flinging about that and other insults…with upbeat, top-of-the-charts, bling-generating impunity? Of course, even after we answer that to some degree of satisfaction, there is a lingering problem.

Thinking back, I am reminded of a pattern of old, which means growing up in New Haven. When a child unwittingly and/or innocently uttered a “bad word”, well before any punitive action was taken, the flabbergasted mom or pop would demand, “Where did you hear that?” And it was a reasonable question simply because in his or her heart of hearts, that same parent knew (without fear of contradiction) that the offending child certainly “Didn’t ‘get’ it from me.” And then…came the “whuppin.’” The latter was both a harsh response to the child’s “dirty mouth” as well as assurance that the infraction would not reoccur…most certainly in the presence of the parent(s). So, although the child’s honest explanation cleared the air of origin or source, it did not buy impunity.

So, Imus may well have gotten his bad news oratory from some weakened mentality Black source – as sad and inexcusable a reality though that be – repeating the offense only demonstrates his poor choice of verbal role models.

Because I am putting this together after his firing, my earlier thought that he should be suspended and subsequently restored is somewhat moot. All the same, I want to share my “logic” if such a word can be folded into this latest example of cultural and media mania. As for a suspension itself, 2 weeks (especially 2 weeks with pay) would have been less than a wrist slap. Two check-less months would have been more fitting. But then the question might be, why let him come back? I felt that he should return because if nothing else, he would serve as a continuing reminder of a chastened ass bucket. It’s like he can’t twist in the wind if he isn’t left hanging in the figurative wind.

My non-shock jock/talk show, rambling mouths radio-listening self suggests that Imus will be infinitely more selective in whatever future lies ahead of him. His presumed Teflon self has been unveiled or publicly stripped. He is either a deeply changed person or at least different one. Saying this does not excuse his asininity, but merely looks at it from another perspective. On the other hand, if Imus were to clean up his act, he would no longer have the same appeal; and this would translate into a dwindling listener base, a reexamination of his commercial value to sponsors and he would again be radio history. This, interestingly, is exactly what has happened. Imus will now take a soul-searching respite (ha!) and wait for another outlet to come his way. He may take the Howard “Nasty Man” Stern route and find an electronic home in the world of satellite radio. As for an audience? Blood diamonds and animal fur will find always find willing consumers as will meth labs and shock radio.

I am less certain that any discussion of hard/gangsta rappers should be folded into this one except if we were to continue an exploration of the MRS (Michael Richards Syndrome). Richards did in fact prompt some conversation about the unacceptability of the you know what word. And I still very much appreciate the renunciation of his own usage by shock comedian Paul Mooney…even though some hustling so-called educated Black authors and mouths persist in defending the offense. As a more than laughable parallel, no less a “spooksperson” than Snoop Doggy Dogg [the name itself should warn us beforehand] has declared that there is a difference between college-enrolled, future-oriented Back women and those money-seeking, hands in some dude’s pocket “hos” in the ‘hood! Now how’s that for making a sophisticated cultural/racial distinction?

The beauty of it all is that intelligence, insight is as universal as indifference and invective. Men and women are as infinitely alike as can be imagined. The parallels are so groovy as to be almost scary. As I have said repeatedly to students, human beings are the same. Human beings are different. There are times when the difference makes a difference. There are times when it both doesn’t and shouldn’t. for our recent examples, Snoop and Don are strange brothers. The same can be said for Richards and Mooney. How the rest of the chapter plays out and the words that are used to tell the story is up to the rest of us.

To be sure, knowing when to speak up is foundational(?) to the human experience. So too, is knowing when to shut up!

Posted by mbowen at 06:26 AM | Comments (0)

March 29, 2007

Bow Tie Twenty Four

“IN PURSUIT OF RELEVANCE”

The ring of the word is as clear to me now as it was at the end of the turbulent 1960s. The Institute for Black Studies was chugging along; and along with a host of other notions I eagerly entertained at the time, Relevance was a key concept. I put it this way: any given action could be deemed as relevant to the extent that it (the action) either more clearly defined/explained or played a part in resolving the plight of Black people in America. Obvious I considered the existence and activities of the Institute as unquestionably relevant. Well, the Institute is now long gone, but my clinging to the definition hasn’t. One major difference is my more general application. For example, a few months ago I happened to stop by the re-located Lucy Florence Coffee House in Leimert Park. I hadn’t been in quite some time so I hung out for longer than it took to drink a cup of their famous Monks coffee and a snack. The snack was provided by the owners (Richard and Ron) for folks who showed up for the weekly Urban Forum. While scooping up the greeze, I could overhear some of the conversation. It was decidedly upbeat and it was focused on some “bad time” one of the guys there had had with a policeman somewhere on Crenshaw. For me, the subject matter wasn’t new nor was the tough guy stance of the speaker. Others there offered up approving “Right On’s” or something like that. I just smiled, loaded the small plate and headed back to my table. As I reflected on what I had just “witnessed” it stuck me as both necessary and irrelevant. I would never blame any person for venting what to them was/is intense and personal; but making the connection between that expression and meaningful change is a real stretch. Personalizing, I knew that at an earlier time, I would have been in that same room. Now, the discussion seemed almost trivial

I had that same sense recently when considering the role of a certain person for whom I have maintained a high degree of respect and disagreement at the same time. I sent her a congratulatory note and card after her appointment and I have watched her high level career with interest and pride…and yet with that same remnant of disagreement: Ms Condi Rice remains a paragon of pride and professionalism. And that’s a good thing. Still Ms Condi Rice is not relevant to the cause of peace. And that’s not a good thing. It is anything but a character flaw on her part. She just happens to champion a cause or program that is decidedly antiquated, dangerous and…irrelevant. More to the point: She is an ardent supporter of a man who is the shining “star” of 21st Century irrelevance…George W. Bush, (present) President of the United States. Unbridled hubris is most assuredly a deeply entrenched character flaw of the president. There is nothing that is on this country’s drawing board –to the extent that the public is made aware the drawing board’s contents -- that will in fact lead toward a better (meaning more peaceful) world so long as national and international violence continues to receive high marks. George Bush and Condi Rice and Dick Cheney and ex-Donald Rumsfeld are distinctly irrelevant. But it doesn’t stop there. First, irrelevant people are the last ones to recognize that such is their plight. Second, once they become aware of that truth, they are the last ones to acknowledge it. And third, being irrelevant does not by any stretch diminish one’s humanity in the more inclusive sense of the word. It simply means that what one does and says has infinitely less importance than was once the case. It means that being quoted is less an honor and recognition of one’s positive impact on contemporary history than on giving further evidence as to why one should, in all fairness, be disregarded.

On a larger, more public scale there are two distinct advantages. First, one no longer has the need or desire to turn to that individual for anything of substance. Irrelevance confirms supports and perpetuates irrelevance. It’s that cold, it’s that simple. Secondly, the previous adherent or supporter now has time that is open to pay attention to people and events that are newly or historically relevant. It’s like purchasing something with a high rate of return as opposed to investing in stock that is traveling a downward spiral. I can’t say that anyone would want to spend a lifetime tracking people and situations that have dramatically or slowly shifted from one column or list to the other, viz., from relevance to irrelevance. That makes as little sense to me as tracking people who have moved from young to old or older. All the same, it is worthwhile to occasionally reflect and comment on the fact that many things (and people) aren’t what they used to be. Finally, Reverend Jesse Jackson and the present iteration of the NAACP are irrelevant; the mayor of Los Angeles, political to a fault, is relevant; Willie Brown remains relevant; Mother Teresa and St. Augustine are eternally relevant; al Sharpton leans more toward comedic than relevant or irrelevant; and Barack Obama is too much ahead of his time to find a place on The Bow Tie list.

~

“IT’S A WORLD OF NUMBERS AND WE’RE ALL COUNTING”

There was that crazy in-between mental space in which we scurry to decide which option we should choose. The positive one or the negative one? Our binary-trained brains and life experience “force” us to not only make a choice, but to do so quickly. Well, in this instance I resisted the urge and simply smiled to see son Bryan’s lanky frame in a Los Angeles Times photo. The occasion was a poorly attended gathering of people who met at the Zephyr Coffee House in Pasadena at the initial coming together of Pasadena for Obama. But STOP! Hold on…for a moment. Let’s look more critically at what I just said. “Poorly attended?” According to whom? A larger number had said they would be there but they didn’t show up. So……..???

Historically, it has taken me a long time to “get it” when thinking about and living with the reality of what I call harsh human numbers. And “harsh” is not a negative word in this context. When working in community relations with the L.A. County Health Department, I attended countless meetings, some focused and productive, others raucous and time-wasters by anyone’s definition. I recall a particular meeting that had been well planned and should have included a cast of thousands…or at least many more than those who did come. The woman who would prove to be my “guardian mentor” wisely informed me that the people who were there were the ones who were supposed to be there. The others (those who were not there) were where they were supposed to be. (Conversely) if they were supposed to be at this meeting, they’d be here….It was so clear, so simple as to be almost scary. Many years later, the same issue came up regarding the number of people who came to a particular church meeting. A dear friend and confidante calmed the nerves of the anxious with his observation went something like this: “Jesus only had show up12 and they were all jive dudes!”

When Bryan remarked some time ago that he was concerned that some of the people he had invited to join with him for a trek to the local mountains, I found myself on the dad-passes-along-wisdom train by sharing with him some of the above. Those who come to hike are the hikers. The others may be hikers as well…but not this time. Life and hikes must move on unimpeded by a paucity of numbers (people). So, the gathering at the Zephyr was a success and could only have inarguably be a failure if nobody arrived. In and of itself, it is not just about “the count.” Rather the question – if there is one – is “Can I be counted on?”

At Antioch, I say this to students who might be giving some thought to arriving late for class expecting to have material already covered reviewed for them: “Two (including me) is company, three’s a class.” And…drats!..with that approach I didn’t even get my picture in the Los Angeles Times!

~

“The (relatively) old order changeth…” with this in mind, I decided to include more photos in The Bow Tie realizing that even I get tired of endless streams of words. So a new feature will be the inclusion of recent photos with minimal captions:

Accident on Crenshaw Apple Hill’s Rupert Thompson Happy Sisters

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March 26, 2007

Bow Tie Twenty Three

“IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD

OF LOVE… EAT UP!!

There is a strange and almost dangerous fabricated conversation floating around that goes something like this: Person #1 (Reflective) “Oh, for the good old days.” Person #2 (Incredulous and emphatic) “What ‘good old days?’”). Many of us laugh when we hear this or are participants on either side of the exchange. Actually it is a modest put down of what used to be and a surrender to the harsh realities of a time (the present) which seems all but totally out of our control. A couple of days ago I heard a newscaster do a piece on a challenge to the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors for their alleged failure to take steps to bring the “Quality of Life” in this massive county up to the level of other California counties. Well, quiet as it’s kept, the issue of the quality of life is – thankfully – not solely in the hands of politicians, local or otherwise. At whom would any of us dare to point an accusative finger or fist when considering what has been happening to the expression of the gods…music?

In a crazy kind of way, I don’t care. That is, I find it infinitely more uplifting, less stressful and just plain pleasant to flood myself with the music I truly enjoy than to devote a lot of time and energy railing against the machine of musical mania. So, last Friday evening, at the invitation of a dear friend, Dr. Lou, I accepted an invitation to be treated to “dinner and performance” at Hollywood’s famed Catalina’s Bar and Grill. Also in the party was Greg, an aficionado of world music. [Note: Both men are indispensable members of the St. John’s Men’s Club.] It was a very special evening not only because we enjoyed each other’s company, but because Sir Ahmad Jamal lit the place up with sheer pianistic excellence. Other than for my regular radio and computer Windows Media Player – both feeble by comparison -- I had forgotten just how good live jazz piano sounds. It was nothing but an all too rare treat.

I don’t have the word skill to faithfully capture the joys of music or film or the dramatic arts. Since I try to “expose” myself to as much of the latter as I can, it bothers me not to be able to do so. That’s not a flaw; it’s just not my thing. The best I can do is attempt to convey what I felt or heard or saw. And so it was that night. I was immediately reminded of how skilled a broad range of jazz musicians are. Some have had formal training; others had natural talent without the experience of the music academy. But that hasn’t caused any loss or slippage. Hearing Ahmad Jamal that night made all critical journalistic/literary assessment less than superficial. I was dramatically reminded of the phenomenal contribution jazz artists have made and continue to make to the remaining sanity of a topsy-turvy world; how they continue to either pave new musical territory or revisit those delightful roads of assonance and dissonance already so well-traveled and (to be sure) mastered. Ahmad Jamal came prepared. As folks from the old school would put it, “He cooked.” And, along with my two buddies, I was glad to have been in the kitchen.

“RABBIT PROOF FENCE”

As movie titles go, this is one I would easily bypass without a second thought. But the larger lesson is that our conditioned way(s) of doing so much of what we automatically do (without question) may serve tradition well, but does nothing to help us grow as human beings. O.K. Philosophy notwithstanding, let me say here categorically that Rabbit Proof Fence is one of the best movies I have ever seen. And I know upfront that I definitely cannot do it justice in the space of this Bow Tie or in an endless string of accolades. Let me start by simply saying that if you, dear reader of The Bow Tie, haven’t seen it, do so at your earliest convenience. If fact, even if doing so is inconvenient, see it anyway.

My general pattern is to stay away from “message” entertainment. That is, if there is an intentional design to bring to my already filled mind some deep-seated or superficial message, I tend to stay away. That doesn’t mean that I automatically reject messages, it just happens that I am extremely selective when I select the source of same. I seek enlightenment or even wisdom; but I use a rather selfish cafeteria style when doing so. When I am unexpectedly surprised, however, there is little that can top that! And so it was with this film. I rented it at the suggestion of a friend and the spin-off from the viewing remains quite strong. Not only did I fully dig the film (in and of itself) but, for the first time, I was equally rewarded by the special features section. What usually happens – or at least this has been my experience – is that the director and, at times, some of those who appear in the film – informally “chat” about what was going on at the time of the shooting. Sometimes this commentary borders on the ridiculous in that what is on screen very adequately speaks for itself. On occasion, the commentary is a rewarding reflection. With Fence the commentary is truly uplifting because I was able to “see” the director and the youthful characters as both capable artists and “regular” human beings. Noyce unapologetically acknowledges the hurdle of being a White man who was attempting to gain the trust and be able to deliver an important story about a people quite different from himself. And then, there was (and very well is) the normal gap that exists between children and adults…even when the latter are “linked” biologically and culturally.

Other tasks on my laundry list precluded me from watching the film more than once, and even that one time was done in bits and pieces. I had to take it back to the rental piece, appropriately called Vidiots (in Santa Monica). But I did the next best thing: went to Amazon.com and ordered it. When it arrives, I plan to put together a study guide of sorts – extracting the historical, contemporary and symbolic value of the film. I won’t get ahead of myself here and lay out the full range of “meaningful extracts” simply because by the time I look at Rabbit Proof Fence again, there may be more or fewer cinematic gems than I now find so significant. But I can say this: ALL of those adults with whom I have discussed the flick since I watched it a few days ago were equally albeit differently moved by it. And that’s encouraging. #

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March 20, 2007

Bow Tie Twenty Two

“GETTING’ GORED, WARMED, ALL HOT AND BOTHERED ‘BOUT THE PLANET”

No…I am not intentionally or even casually a conspiracy theorist…BUT (ah, I just had to spoil it) I find it – what’s the best word for it – peculiar that there are emerging conversations suggesting that the best or logical choice for Democrats in 2008 is, Al “the Pal” Gore. Gimme a break!! The reasons are many but I’ll just touch on a few here. First, Al is a loser. Oh, I am fully aware of the harshness of saying that. We’ve all said it or have heard others say it: “I was robbed!” And in the case of Gore vs. Bush, the statement is totally credulous. In fact, America and the rest of the world is still paying for that political heist. All the same, most unfortunately, George Bush is this country’s president. Tsk tsk. Weep, weep.

Pal Al has done anything but find a quieter corner or quiet cause. He has instead dramatically, proudly and courageously taken on the very serious matter of global warming. I do indeed commend him for this crusade. He is and has been carrying and delivering no nonsense message that as inhabitants of planet Earth, we are all in trouble. That appreciation notwithstanding – to say nothing of Hollywood’s Oscar award, I found the film touted more generously that it deserved. So here I was looking at Gore on a screen; and there he was making his prophetic pitch talking to an audience that was (right!) looking at a screen. It reminded me of the endlessness of hold a mirror up to a mirror. Which was the real deal? Or, as those old enough to recall the expression, “Which twin has the Tony?” Then he does this about his son in the film which was a nice and sentimental touch but had nothing whatsoever to do with global anything. That, I suppose is Al or Hollywood or both.

The larger point is this. The democrats have 3 candidates of whom only one should be taken seriously enough to earn the nomination. And because that “message” is so obvious, so unbelievably simple, many will miss it. We are so heavily conditioned to look at or for the greater complexity in everything…even when there just ain’t none!

To his credit and to my knowledge, Gore has said nothing in the form of thanking those who have so ridiculously started this conversation. And beyond that, he hasn’t even hinted at an interest in running. And that silence is what makes my conspiratorial mind refuse to close down on this matter. It’s like all of a sudden, out of nowhere, big bang busto! More Gore! Another candidate! My hope is that he continue to get all of us to chill the planet as needed. That’s a tall order though I have no doubt that Al Gore is up to the assignment. But the book on the ups and downs and “almosts” of his of his political life is no longer on the best seller list.

#

~

CHICO – TOO PROUD TO BE ARROGANT

What I usually do is make a note of topics I plan to write about for The Bow Tie. And in this particular instance I settled on the above. For a lot of reasons I have been thinking about Chico quite a bit of late. It could be because of 1) the reality of aging –a joyful reality, by the way and not a complaint – 2) the totally unmanageable flood of silly and stupid issues which continue to surface and secure attention amidst “public affairs and behavior, or 3) the desire of wanting to address a subject that is ever uplifting and inspirational. As the reader might well imagine, this certainly won’t be the last time I write about Chico.

A good starting point is what I see as the countless examples of plain and simple pride disappearing from all too many Black males…along the shaky continuum that runs from boys to man. Sadly, it is not always easy to say who’s out front, who’s “leading/directing.” One can argue that the fault lies with the media. Such a conclusion is not without some modicum of truth; but that same “answer” leaves much out. There has always been “the media” so at some point Black males like everyone else have to ‘fess up and realize that a pointed camera is as much an opportunity as it is a risk to be anything but a paragon of pride. Enter Chico. The consummate Teacher and the silent Preacher. If ever there was a man who walked the (non) talk, it was Chico. As much yakking as he did – oftentimes without having all the information – he is more of an example of a man who lived (i.e., represented himself) in a manner that was consistent with that pride thing.

What I am certain I cannot take pride in is my memory of many of yesteryear’s details. (That’s Brother Ray’s area of expertise.) I don’t remember any conversations with Chico in which he outlined the benefits or other assorted goodies that come as a direct result of being a proud person. All the same, it was no coincidence that he was respected to a large measure because of the pride with which he carried himself…in either a family or public setting. If there was a line he drew in that respect, I wasn’t aware of it.

Arrogance takes another, a different, a much less appealing turn. It wants the world to know how terribly well it plays itself out in the midst of implicit underlings. Pride serves the uncertain or ever sorrowful needs of others whereas arrogance is, by its very sad definition, self-asserting, self-promoting and self-serving. The proud person says, “This is how I live my life and my unspoken hope is that something of what I do or say or think will benefit others.” Conversely, the arrogant one boasts loudly over the life-sounds of everyone and anyone within or beyond his (or her) reach. From the presence of the proud man, we learn much about our ever-striving selves. From the arrogant man, we learn more than we ever wanted or needed to know…about him.

Chico, I am certain, understood this; and my reflecting on him here tells me that I fall short of his pattern; but I am anything but impeded by that realization. What I know, more importantly is that I have been and continue to be blessed by the example of a Proud Black Man. Long live Chico.#

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March 17, 2007

Bow Tie Twenty One

“I’M GOD AND… …YOU’RE NOT!”

I think it’s Roberts Rules of Order that has the statement, “Point of clarification.” So before you scratch your head in disbelief that I have really gone off the deep end this time with uncontrolled megalomania, let me clarify. First, in those Bow Ties in which I will be unabashedly opinionated (as opposed to more objectively sharing a personal experience) I will use the Woolsey Hall (wool off of eyes and mind) photo as appears at the left. An earlier Bow Tie shared the rationale. That can be seen as fair warning if you find off beat viewpoint unwelcome food for thought

Now, on to the more weighty subject. A few weeks ago I heard a most unusual “sign off” on NPR. It was during the annual fund drive and, at the end of this particular segment, the two announcers gave their names. Nothing special about that. I don’t remember the specific name but it went something like this: the man said, “I’m John Smith.” The woman said, “I’m Mary Adams and you’re not.” I had to do one of those double takes. What a different statement that was. Not only was she making her own identify known, but she was letting listeners know in a direct way that they (we) are not her! It can be taken as a light touch to the predictable pattern of signing off; or it can be viewed perhaps even existentially. Who one is and who one is not.

Unless I am over-reacting to what has always been the case, I find it pretty amazing that there is so much talk about God of late…to the simultaneous points of clarification, provocation and puking! I recognize the possibility of the “you’re just catching up” syndrome being in place here. That is, everything is always happening all the time but, you’re just catching up because this issue is only now important to you. Where have you been? Were I to “all of a sudden” become fascinated with the plight of the owl or the manufacture of staplers or the history of plastic containers, I would “find” an abundance of articles, conversations, etc. about these subjects. Turns out in this instance, I have always been interested in “God as subject” which, for me has been different from an interest in religion.

I will blindly speculate that the rise in interest can be attributed to: 1) the insertion of God into American politics, 2) the military conflict in the Middle East, 3) the military conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan, 4) the “linkage” of God and science and 5) humankind’s abject boredom and frustration with itself. Now, literary protocol perhaps expects that I will now explore each of these items as so listed. Humbug! No way. Too timely, too boring; and, beside, I don’t have any solid data to make the case. So, off with the head of literary protocol here.

What I find to be utterly fascinating is the extent to which men and women not only act as if they were/are God, but talk about God as though they had/have a direct pipeline to God. So, everything and anything “happens” on this turbulent planet because “That’s the way God wants it.” “And how do I know?” “Because he whispered or shouted it to me” or “Because I read it in the ______.” For the most part, when confronted with my fellow believers or non-believers I remain mute. And it’s not because I agree or disagree. I find myself ignorant at a deep level within myself…caught up in tradition, the profound and ridiculous experiences of others and my own ups and downs, plusses and minuses in life. And, that’s all O.K. In doing the self-reflective or self-examining number, I learn that I am always learning; I find that I am ever-finding…and the dynamic of this seemingly endless roller coaster journey is not at all unsettling or, oddly, unstable. Perhaps by personal design, I remain pretty stable or (relatively)unmoved in both my beliefs and unbeliefs.

Point of clarification: I comfortably and consistently believe in (the) God of the Old Testament. In fact, while putting this Bow Tie together I came up with a phrase that best describes where I am theologically or spiritually. [And, in the future, I will be more exacting in properly differentiating these terms.]. The phrase is OTB and it doesn’t mean Off Track Betting…rather it dutifully stands for Old Testament Bob. Interestingly, I only recently learned that what countless millions of us take for granted with the designation, “Old Testament”, is somewhat offensive to Jews. It “positions” the Old (as in Testament) “against” or as being “replaced by” the New (as in Testament). To Jews, “Old Testament” is literally a play on a word and that word is Tanakh. But moving along in this direction puts me at increasing distance from the point I initially intended to make, Testaments notwithstanding. It is “simply” that God has countless “explainers” and “articulators” but no direct pipeline/spokespeople. Oh, I fully know the time-tested tenets of Christianity. That Jesus Christ is the one and only son of God and/or that Jesus Christ is God…in human form. That the essence of Christianity is the ever-repeated “God in three persons, blessed Trinity.” The latter, of course, incorporates Father (i.e., God), Son (Jesus) and Holy Spirit or Holy Ghost.

So what does it come down or up to for purposes of this Bow Tie? Just this: That mankind has positioned itself in the most presumptuous stance of whipping equally grand or flawed brothers and sisters over the spiritual head with all manner of self-elevating blessings and curses motivated or generated by little more than a self-proclaimed affinity with the Divine. That preachers of all kith, kin and klan are never, ever more than unavoidably members of the same club of wanderers, fearful or fearless pilgrims on their (our!) way to “somewhere else.” And that’s fine and perhaps even noble. But no matter how lofty any of us assume ourselves to be, all efforts geared toward “better than” or “holier than” are both understandable and utterly futile. God remains God in spite of his creative creatures.

Finally, the irony of this Bow Tie is its very title. Bob Bowen has taken placed himself in the very position of quoting God! And that makes a point that is as much revealing as it is unforgivable. We humans do what we think we must, want or are inclined to do; but none of us ever have or ever will be able to speak as, in place of or for God. That’s what gives life its elusive meaning. And that’s better than good or great… Believe me! #

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March 08, 2007

Bow Tie Twenty

“TAKING THE WOOLSEY OFF”

Ah, sweet memories. The photo accompanying today’s Bow Tie will mean nothing to anyone not from or familiar with the architecture of New Haven. It was taken some years ago behind Woolsey Hall. I have not been inside Woolsey Hall since June, 1954, for the pomp and circumstance of (Hillhouse) high school graduation. And, yes, that was a long time ago. As I usually do when I visit New Haven, I walked many places. Everything seems so close now. For this particular shot, I propped the camera on something – no, I don’t remember what it was – clicked on the timer and scooted over to this spot between the two massive pillars.

Initially, the photo was placed in an album along with countless, nameless others. But it took on special meaning when (bear with me) I gave some thought to the way I think. Not so much what I think about, but the way something works its way around in my head and, eventually, exits by way of writing or conversation. I have no innate need or desire to be different from others as regards thinking, but that is often what happens. Others may view the pattern as one of obstinacy or rebellion. There may be element of truth in the latter so I won’t dislodge that assessment totally. Still, thinking back to those always hectic “growing up years” I recall how important it was to fit in, to be and do like others were “being” and doing. Sometimes I achieved that joy of the non-descript, at other time (as in athletics) I flunked. Such was life. I don’t think compensating was on my mind at that time. I do know, however, what I liked then and what I like now.

The world of ideas had a special appeal because it was so vast, so limitless so…out of control. Ever moving into and out of something else, something often better but always something different. There was for me a youthful combination of joy, challenge and frustration. Chico had “tons” of books and seemed to have mastered each and every one of them. Would I ever catch up? Would I ever get to know even a smidgen of what he seemed to know?

Fast-forward a number of decades to something that occurred to me after having taught an urban studies course I designed and taught. Maybe it was after the 8th or 10th iteration that I thought about how I had been encouraging students to familiarize themselves with the established experts in urban studies: Delores Hayden, Mike Davis, David Harvey, Edward Soja, Michael Dear, William Whyte and Jane Jacobs. I had read their works and to be more than a little knowledgeable, they should do likewise. The mental wake-up call said that mastering someone else’s “thing” might well be impressive, but there was mental and experiential “territory” that would still be missing…although being “other-oriented” they (the students) wouldn’t know this territory. How could they? I had taught them otherwise.

Without giving it much serious consideration, I developed a concept called NUTS, meaning “New Urban Theorists.” The idea was to mentally or theoretically “position” themselves in between any experts of their choosing, to make the effort of understanding the latter as much as possible without agonizing over it [who, for example, really understands Foucault or Derrida?] Then inject or insert their own life experience. The result? What they live, breathe, think, do validates or challenges or even uproots the “masters” as opposed to the reverse being true automatically. Spatial determinists, for example, claim that the space which one occupies determines one’s thinking and behavior. At first glance this simplistic assertion seems harmless enough. Yet, it is out of such narrowing conscripted “wisdom” that people claim “Nothing good ever comes out of the ghetto.” And, were space the ultimate decider, how do we account for King’s Birmingham letters or Malcolm’s revelations or the works of Bonheoffer? For them jail was more of an inconvenience than the ultimate obstacle or impediment.

So, just as we “position” ourselves physically (or spatially), so too we position ourselves mentally, intellectually, spiritually. To be sure, there is the risk of being demonized or rejected or marginalized in some unpleasant manner. There is, on the other hand, the equal possibility of making new connections, disconnecting previous unquestioned linkages or plain and simply becoming wonderfully creative. [St. Teresa of Avila says “Always have courageous thoughts.”]

I don’t give as much though to the outcome as I do to the process. I “allow” the latter to do its own sometimes reckless thing. I worry less about acceptability than I do about the integrity of the journey. Although it may happen, for me it is never about inflicting harm, but rather interjecting another, hopefully provocative and meaningful dimension. Am I ever wrong? Well, gee, I certainly hope so. My learning is as much about my own often ill-defined pursuits as it is about feedback from those with whom I share. And, the best part: more often than not, it is FUN. And none of this is possible unless I “take the wool(sey) off my eyes and mind.”

~

Now, I’m gonna talk about Church. Less about religion than Church. But, of course, I can’t just jump into the subject without giving a small bit of background information about an original plan. A couple of years ago, I got started on a project titled, Way Up In the Middle of Da Air. I wanted to explore my own “religious” background thereby laying the foundation for a number of reflections on the lesser known triumphs and blatant failings of “dis”organized religion. The fact that it never happens tells me how bored I became with the idea of tracking through irrelevance and mediocrity. In its place, I decided to be less lofty and more specific, using as subject matter a series of personal experiences. And I’ll start with one as recent as Sunday, March 4th…just a few days ago.

Well, with the arrival of its (our) new rector, Rev. Canon Mark Kowaleski, St. John’s has taken on a new title. We are now St. John’s Downtown. As might be expected, some parishioners objected to the change. It sounds to “citified” and there is no denominational reference. I like it because of my feeling about large and chaotic cities which, by definition, remain open to new people, new ideas and new challenges. So here it was Los Angeles Marathon Sunday. And what (pray tell) did the good reverend do? Well, he simply moved the service outside thereby really giving substance to the single provocative word, “downtown.” St. John’s got down with the town! That’s Church!

What I find to be rewarding are the surprises in looking more closely at pictures after I’ve taken them. The one included here says more than I had intended. My plan was to have it reflect the chaos of the race – which, by the way, came east to west along Adams Boulevard where the church is located – and the outdoor service. I realize that the picture included here is significantly reduced in size; but with a magnifying glass or some other make-the flick-bigger device, you will see 12 humans, 9 parishioners and 3 clergy. At last count, 9 plus 3 equals 12. Hmmm. For embattled, smug or tepid Christians, the number 12 is…well, cool. And, to my even greater delight, I find in the photograph humans who are Black, White, Latino married, divorced, single by choice, senior, child, gay, straight, regular (i.e., pledging) member, drop-in; and, of course, there’s some overlap and a star-studded photographer! That’s Los Angeles and, I have to proudly say, on Marathon Sunday morning that was St. John’s.

and it is more than just the smugness that too often accompanies being an Episcopalian. In and of itself, that means little to me despite a lifelong entrapment to smells and bells and Chico’s “You will go to church every Sunday!” insistence. As an adult I have become solidly convinced that ritual and tradition range from enriching and uplifting to bizarre and irrelevant; but if the (right at your doorstep or a few blocks away) hungry are not fed – literally – and the naked or near-naked are not given (not sold or exchanged) clothes, then religion has invaded the structure and Church has moved out. The latter isn’t anywhere if it finds no manifestation outside the structure, beyond the rote-ranting of capable and effective Bible quoters. Their role is impressive and even magnetic. But their role is also suspect. So, for St. John’s to open its doors and walk its talk gave the church a real high 5 as it most dramatically moves more meaningfully into the fantastic (non-denominational and ALL inclusive) legions of Church. #

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March 05, 2007

Bow Tie Nineteen

“WHAT STANLEY ALSO SAID THAT NIGHT”

Sir Crouch himself is nobody’s fool. And, in between the earlier mentioned n word references he made that caused me to wince, he made two particular observations which I found to be nothing short of astute. The first had to do with an actual New York subway experience. It went something like this. Crouch got on a subway and saw 4 young Black dudes – high school age. They sported the menacing (“Don’t you say nuthin’ to me”) look and literally sported the outward trappings of “thugdumb” – the big/baggy pants, over-sized tee (as in “taunting”) shirts, the hooded whatever they call it, etc. They slid onto the seats and…just glared and waited (for Godot?), piercing the air with occasional stabs of verbal bad assness. Several stops later some real same age Black thugs got on. For reasons best known to those who have the good fortune of living in NYC, these late arriving dudes were immediately recognized as the real deal. After the subway door closed, one of them sealed the mechanical closure by spitting on the door. For the First Quartet, it was a sudden awakening, a moment of harsh urban revelation. An “aww shit” uncovering, a hastily constructed survivalist wall between the heretofore seeking-searching wannabees and the “I’ll stomp yo’ ass even if you don’t look at me!” dudes. Lions and tigers and subway riding bears. Oh, my!

As if by magic, the first invaders became straight-sitting, clean (as opposed to mean) citizens of the city who had only accidentally put on this silly wardrobe in their haste to get out of the tidy house and arrive at school on time or even early. The farce was brought home when one of this suddenly transformed new breed dutifully looked over to his now very alert colleague and said in a nervously loud voice, “Now what page did Miss Johnson want us to read for homework?” The audience cracked up! Lesson Learned: Separate and Unequal may not be such a bad idea.

Then there was this: To my delight, Crouch took issue with the cries for Barack Obama to establish his authenticity. He used a pithy example to make a point that required no prolonged explanation then or now. Stanley Crouch simply said in effect. “50 Cent is authentic, but questions are raised about Obama.” The joy of the mud continues to reign…and if not supreme, then pretty darn close to it.

~

Monkeys and Mountains Don’t Play

First off let be declare without reservation that I have nothing dramatic against monkeys. I always found them to be noisy and unabashedly cantankerous, but their Homo sapiens counterparts are not indistinguishable in the department. But monkeys remain monkeys ‘cause that’s what they were created, formed or just plain born to be. Once a monkey, always…I mention them here only to make a larger point. That maybe we should just do away with all professional animal trainers! Now here’s the irony about these same trainers. Part one is that they are very good at what they do. Years of study, direct observation and interaction gives them a great deal of knowledge and insight into animal behavior. Presumably they, like no other humans, know about a particular animal’s regular (i.e., normal) habits and the beast’s peculiar quirks and misgivings. The irony, however, is that the general public has no such insight. And the dangerous assumption accompanying such innocent ignorance is that all monkeys or dolphins or horses or bears or plane non-plane riding snakes are just like the very congenial and responsive animals one sees on TV or in the movies or at the circus.

There is a report that was released in the last 2 weeks that warned those who need to be so warned that whales in captivity are prone to display unpredictable behavior. They might maim or kill someone. The predictable human response was one of diplomatically rejecting the report. Now all we can do is wait for the inevitable media story about a crushing or mauling

~

Despite the strange noises one hears late at night whilst camping, it is generally known or at least assumed that mountains are inanimate. For all the paralleled joy and inspiration one might secure simply from just being there, they are not human entities in the generally understood sense of the word. So, they seem to say: “Visit me, meditate, write, read or take pictures.” First, whatever one’s choice of activity might be, be careful. And when the mountainous regions look menacing, trust your instincts and, difficult and precedent-bending as it might be, trust the weatherman. Snow may well be fluffy and puffy, but not if you are buried under lots of it. And cold weather clothing is for in and out adventures, not for undetermined periods of fear and foreboding. Global warming and freezing your buns off with little or no food or water are not linked. Hey like, THE MOUNTAINS DON’T GIVE A HOOT!! (Even if we do pollute.) Ultimately, they win because they rule. It is never a contest but instead another example of human folly to think it is or could ever be otherwise.

The alternative is to understand the power and neutrality of natural forces and manifestations. To clarify: an earthquake and a tornado are powerful forces. A tornado does “care” whose house, town or city it devastates. An earthquake shakes, rattles and rolls everything and anything along or near its fault line….and never says, “Ooops. My bad or better yet, “My fault!”

It might seem that I am making a case for staying away from animals coupled with a plea to avoid the mountains. To borrow the cliché, “Nothing could be farther from the truth.” I am instead saying that all animals are not the same, but all animals are animals. [People always have and always will kill more people than all animals combined!] And I unabashedly love the mountains…even though I know they don’t love me in return. I have gone “into” the mountains to regain “stuff” lost or misplaced in the urban or personal morass, or to gain a perspective not readily available elsewhere. Those journeys have said much about who I am or hope to be than they do about the mountain’s rugged passion for me as a human. But as for those perpetually chattering and squeaky monkeys, they belong in a zoo…or the jungle but certainly not in my backyard or in the mountains I hike to and through. So, there! #

Posted by mbowen at 12:36 PM | Comments (0)

March 01, 2007

Bow Tie Eighteen

“MA, DON’T LET YOUR SONS OR DAUGHTERS GROW UP TO BE NEGROES”

Because in the last few days I have watched 2 videos, I am more conscious than I usually am regarding the suitability ratings attached thereto. Of course all previews/trailers are O.K. for the general viewing audience. I note that here because what follows needs some kind of rating but I don’t know what letter to use. (Pause) O.K., I have decided to use “I.A.” and that’s not for Industrial Accident. Instead it stands for Intense Anger…and I do mean intense. So those thousands of Bow Tie readers who may have been inclined to share this publication with the kiddies may not choose to do so this time. [Note: There will soon be one of a similar nature which will be titled “Keeping Up with the Johnsons” having to do with continuing – make that pervasive – attitudes about what men do with their “thang.”]

Intro: “The Crew” has heard this before so they may choose to bypass it. In the 1960s I spent a lot of time hanging out at Alfred Ligon’s Aquarian Bookstore on Santa Barbara Avenue, now officially labeled Martin Luther King Boulevard here in Los Angeles. I’d buy anything and everything that was even remotely linked to Black history, pride and, of course “The Revolution.” I stumbled upon a book titled The Invention of the Negro by San Francisco writer, Earl Conrad. In my zeal I bought it but misread the title to say The Inventions of the Negro. I saw myself proudly thumbing through a laundry list of all kinds of inventions by the (then-called) Negro – in science, the arts, and who knows what else. It wasn’t until later that I learned what Conrad really had in mind. In a nutshell, it was this: As a direct part of chattel slavery, America created a new being, the Negro. That stripped of his/her religion, homeland, customs…or, summarily, African culture, the new person – albeit hardly viewed as such – was given a brand new set of (American) everthings.

Over these many years since first reading the book, I have not been successful in dismissing the notion. Sad or objectionable as it may be, it has more than a modest ring of truth. And, as I will soon explore, that’s too bad. I don’t venture into the murky territory of whether or not this new human entity was “better off” than if countless millions had remained on the African continent. That’s for someone with a broader historic perspective than I have to examine. What I am certain of is the truth in Malcolm’s observation that the chains that were eventually removed from the black body found a new “territory” in the mind or psyche of this unique American invention. The almost mysterious part is that the manifestations are often so subtle as to be virtually undetectable. The nuances so cleverly constructed that if one is not “careful” agreement with negro behavior and thinking becomes more than likely. (And, by the way, it was years later that I made switched. Now, “negro” is always lower-case!

I had a real bad experience on Monday, February 26th while listening to “Which Way L.A.” on KCRW, National Public Radio. Host Warren Olney was talking with a University of Maryland professor named Walters. I have heard Walters over the years and on occasion have read some newspaper pieces by him. I have found him to be intelligent although not especially provocative – a quality I usually look for in writers/thinkers -- men and women who “make” me think differently or who “give” me something that I didn’t have before the encounter – like Alice Walker’s admonition to “be nobody’s darling” or something Stanley Crouch said the other night and that I’ll get to later. The radio topic was the Strom Thurmond-Al Sharpton connection, a matter I consider to be of as much importance as Anna Nicole Smith’s eventual resting place or Britney’s new “do.” Olney segued into a question about Obama and the issue raised by Blacks about the linkage between the senator and African Americans given places in Obama’s background like Indonesia and Kenya. I suddenly became very interested in what Walters would say. I ended up screaming. I mean really screaming – something that could only have happened because I was in the relative soundproof environs of the Avalanche. Olney wanted to know if raising that kind of question vis a vis Obama is appropriate. Walter said yes, that it is all right to inquire about Obama’s not having shared the experience of African Americans. (SCREEEEEEEEAM!!!) What f---ing experience was he talking about? American slavery? Living in the project? The chosen or accidental “low life or nits, grits (as a non-food item) and deprivation?” Good f---ing grief! If that isn’t a classic negro response, I don’t know what is?

Has any (I say again) any White presidential or non-presidential seeker of political office ever been asked about what his family did to hold slaves in bondage or hasten their liberation? Clinton? Kennedy? Carter? Ike? FDR? And why not? Why is it O.K. to come after Obama’s “connection” and let everyone else go free? Is McCain really linked to the “White experience?” How ‘bout Gore or Edwards? Quite honestly, I feel more than a little stupid in even posing these inquiries…simply because they are so totally stupid and irrelevant. That is, for everyone and anyone except the home grown negro…and that, dear reader, is an “n word” if ever there was one.

There was a time –was it just last week? – when it was seen as an accomplishment (or source of true pride) for a person to have pulled (or gotten pushed) out of the muck and mire of poverty…by any means necessary or available. It was likewise seen as luck, good fortune or a blessing never to have had to scrape and scramble in life. To not have missed a meal, to have had both parents around during one’s formative years, to have had a decent or stellar public education (yeah, damn it, like me!), to having learned to read and write early in life…or else! But now, that pattern is subject to virtual slam and scandal. Obama is somehow a little less than the angels of thuggery because, well he doesn’t really have “the experience. Walters should be intellectually ashamed to not have responded that the issue was not a fitting one to be raised…unless it was being done across the political board.

On an almost daily basis I have learned that few “things” are as dangerous – or, if not dangerous, then sickening -- than those who see themselves as doing good with their slick undermining shit. The intellectuals, the community leaders, the preachers and teachers and the regular folks. Those who wouldn’t recognize an historic golden opportunity if it were gently or callously inserted up their dark place. negro is just such an anomaly. Long-suffering, historically rooted, and “effective.” This means that a negro (as a genre, a foolish “style”) does precisely (to say nothing about dutifully) that which negro was invented or designed to do. I don’t know if children still have wind-up toys; but metaphorically, negro can be likened to such an entity. negro has been wound up and putters and patters, sputters and splatters all over the place…doing, saying all kinds of stuff without thinking about its impact. Yet that is exactly the way it is suppose to be! negro is anything but a work in progress. That would be a contradiction because the effectiveness in this tragic instance precludes progress in the traditional sense – meaning “getting better” whereas the only thing that negro could possibly get better at is, you guessed it, being a better negro. And that is not progress. That is death!

But my ire notwithstanding, I ask, of what value is any given life experience if we cannot learn from it?…even if we do scream, in or out of a vehicle? Even if, as happened in my case, we end up shaking our heads with real tears exiting our weary eyes. Life is wonderfully bigger than any one or group of us; and as I gathered from a Forward Day-by-Day reading of a few months ago, “It (life) is not all about you.” And occasional bellowing that I do, I really both understand and accept the impact of life’s Humbling Hammer. I also find much comfort in the observation that it isn’t all about that f---ing empty-headed mechanical negro either!

Let’s just consider what follows to be Meditative Space ‘cause I ain’t got nuthin’ else to say…………………………….

See ya next time………………………………………………………………..#

Posted by mbowen at 04:03 PM | Comments (0)

February 27, 2007

Bow Tie Seventeen

“IS BARACK OBAMA GREAT?”

A few months before his 92nd birthday, Chico died. And in my ongoing reflections to consider the life he had lived and the impact of that same life on me, I struggled to capture what “angle” would best sum up that impact. In surprisingly short order, I settled on one word…Great! Yep, Chico was great. It occurred to me then as it does now that the word has been much too narrowly defined. The world has been selfish enough to focus on the exploits of a single person – making a present or historic big deal on what monumental task(s) she or he did. Big things by a big person. Big deal! But for me, greatness has to do with the impact of a person’s life on the lives of other people who would not have acted (i.e., lived) or thought or who would have been different were it not for that other (great) person.

O.K. So I can readily say that I have heard people I know –relatives, colleagues, friends and others -- make statements, reveal personal certainties and doubts about a panoply of subjects simply and directly because the name of Barack Obama has been introduced into the conversation. Folks “get off” on Obama. And, from my perspective, that is precisely what is fitting. What is the magic? Why does this happen? It is simply that the person has the quality of greatness. They possess the unique quality of causing others to reflect, introspect and project and often without their even knowing why. Barack Obama has demonstrated the capacity to do precisely that.

It has been less than a month since he announced his candidacy; and the floodgates have come flying open. Personally, even at this early stage I have heard or read the full range of praise and castigation…some of it surprising and uplifting, some of it equally surprising but most disappointing considering the presumed intelligence of the source. I still wince in unbelief when seeing any reference to the b word (as in black enough). And then there are the national and international political pundits who have fully formed ideas about American domestic and international policy. Those ideas cannot be readily dismissed simply because there is merit in them in part or in toto. Part of my disappointment is that I have neither the interest nor the need to be the recipient of such insight. If the idea is one which the author feels Obama is overlooking or if it is one about which he needs to be enlightened, so be it. Those views should be sent to him. There is nothing I can do with them except be a fairly open minded listener…up to the point at which I get bored or tired. I am positive that Obama has a most enlightened “thinking tank” that would be more than grateful to get valuable input. But I am drifting. The fact is that hitherto silent and politically naïve or indifferent people are speaking up and speaking out in support of Obama or are otherwise trashing or dismissing him. To my way of thinking, greatness is independent of drumming up a cadre of yes men and women. Conversely, it is not tied to having legions of “haters” either. Prompting that kind or variety of across-the-board response is indeed a mark of greatness. What Obama either has done or is doing “pushes” or at least prompts others to move into or toward their own moment or time of greatness. And, oddly, for some folks their moment of shining glory is when they are most negative. At the very least, they are being honest; and that’s a good thing.

Everyone can’t reach that level of impact try as they might. Yet, the quality is much more widespread than we might think. It has more to do with reaching inside the minds and hearts and very psyches of people who, in turn, take “it” and run, or walk or remain in place but do whatever they do at a more vibrant level. And…that is truly a good thing. Those so affected, are better, wiser, more assured or perhaps even more adamant. Whatever the outcome and however we explain or don’t explain the effect, we are different. And that’s a better thing!

~

And then on Tuesday, February 20th, Obama came to the city of (hope they are also registered voters) angels. Of course, I know it all(!) and I told some people that he would be at the Dorsey High School football stadium. I could think of no place else where what I knew would be a big crowd could be accommodated. Of course, as so very seldom happens (!), I was wrong. The gathering was in the “Dorsey area” but in a spot away from my locale of Bob Bowen’s geographic wisdom. Hum bug. Having found a convenient parking spot in the Ralph’s market parking lot, I trekked across Rodeo Road to the field. There were long lines but no rumors of lines. Los Angeles was there in all its nutty diversity. Meaning old folks (not me, of course), young folks, toddlers, pre-walking babies; and then this more different to find – despite L.A.’s rich complexity – people of the many “races” and ethnicities…that phenomenon which I talk about in class but which somehow is all too rare and elusive. To find that wonderful mix in (watch out, here it come) South Los Angeles just ain’t a regular thing! Why? What made the difference. Yup. ‘Twas Obama.

~

So, let me just offer a small sample of the kinds of folks barack Obama was able to drag away from their Tuesday afternoon routine. And, we will let it go at that.

Posted by mbowen at 03:58 PM | Comments (0)

February 21, 2007

Bow Tie Sixteen

“STAN - THE MAN AND HIS MOUTH”

So here, dear readers, is one of those rare and long-awaited pieces on something that really happened to me. In other words, what is written here comes from a real life experience. Last night Tuesday, February 20th I headed for the Central Library in DTLA (downtown Los Angeles). The plan was to hear a presentation by Stanley Crouch. I have known Stanley since to wild and wooly 1960s. Along with some other dudes, we spent time at Alfred Ligon’s Aquarian Center and Bookstore on Santa Barbara Avenue (now Martin Luther King Blvd.) And over the years since, he settled in New York, I’ve read his pieces in the Village Voice and elsewhere. And not long ago, I purchased his collection of writings on jazz, Considering Genius. My occasional misgivings for some parts of this book – like fawning over louis Armstrong -- he is certainly knowledgeable of the topic. (I may use it as a primary text for the jazz course I want to do in the Summer – before cutting Antioch loose.) Furthermore, Crouch did “earn” the envious title of MacArthur Fellow, no small accomplishment to be sure.

After scrambling around the library with much frustration, I learned that the event was actually being held at another site about 10 minutes away. The downtown lights and force were evidently with me and I got to The California Endowment building on Alameda in less than 10 minutes. Parking was FREE (this couldn’t be Los Angeles, I thought) and the program had been on only a few minutes when I finally seated myself in the auditorium. Right to the point: Crouch needs to diet; but that’s an observation, not a complaint. What was a “downer” for me were two items which (again, for me) had negative implications…decidedly so. To make a number of points, he repeatedly used the infamous n word. And guess what? He could readily have substituted “n word” just like I’m doing here. He didn’t say it “automatically” but in his direct quoting of rap “artists” and some young men he encounters in the not quite so Big Apple. Secondly, his subject was the downward spiral of Black culture with its bent toward thugdom or thughood. Those terms are mine but Crouch wanted to make it clear that the pattern of mimicking thugs was (and is) having a negative impact on Black culture and the Black community.

The second point that bugged me was that he was pitching his message to an overwhelmingly White audience. I couldn’t help but ask myself what it was that he expected them to do about the issues he ranted about. In addition, what I found to be surprising and amusing was his terrible delivery. Stan the Man kept looking at the podium as one would when reviewing notes or to make sure a key quote was not misquoted. But he looked only to say something totally off the cuff. It was like he looked down, studied intensely (so far, O.K.) only to note what he had for lunch. It made for an uncomfortable disconnect between himself and an obviously focused audience. And then there was the rude habit of not answering the handful of questions that came from that same audience. Stanley is a good writer; but just wasn’t cool (meaning measuring up to what could well have been an outstanding evening). But…I ain’t mad at him. He did what he did and that’s the way it was. Geared up to keep the evening from being a bust – and it was far from that – I stayed around for the fantastic reception which was held in a most attractive courtyard. A professionally catered spread! Meatballs, mushrooms, cheeses, fruit, beverages….all attractively presented and plain and simple good eatin’! I spoke briefly with Stanley, referenced the Aquarian Bookstore (and he remembered Quincy Troupe being there during those years) asked that he sign the jazz book. He did. I also gave him an Antioch business card then let him slide bad into his mini-speech making with other guests. I drifted over to the beverage line and got a glass of (chilled) Kendall-Jackson chardonnay. [Everything was FREE.]

While in line, I saw a dude roughly as tall and skinny as me and, because he had an non-Los Angeles accent, asked him where he was from He said Africa prompting me to shrug my shoulders while easily pushing out a follow-up, “What part?” He gave me an unexpected 3 continent answer: 1) born in Sierra Leone, 2) educated in London and 3) living in Los Angeles. Don Ferguson went on to share that he teaches photography at Otis Art Institute. So then we really talked. Before leaving, I (non-protocol dude that I sometimes prove to be) went up to the person who had earlier said he was the Endowment’s CEO. His name is Dr. Robert Ross. We talked briefly with his informing me that the building is used almost exclusively for day time health-related programs and activities. Of course, I made my last card a Bob Bowen gift to him – and he didn’t even have to ask! Sometimes my generosity shocks even me! On my way out I walked slow enough to marvel at the building’s interior. A spacious lounge and a wall full of paintings – not exactly what I would have expected for a building in the semi-industrial part of this (even more spacious) city. A full scale cafeteria/kitchen and, a sign directing folks to a library. I’ll check that out when I come back.

So, building an early evening around Stan the Mouth was informative albeit more than a tad disappointing, but an overall solid and worthwhile investment of time. I came, I saw and heard, I ate, sipped, talked and learned of a new site and gained something new and thus grew a few notches. So, what’s to complain or be upset about? Absolutely Nuthin’!

~

Those Dog Gone Dogs..Again

Evidently, there is something almost magnetic about Mt. Hood in the winter. A hearty group of eight doing their high altitude number and three of them making an unplanned 500 foot slide. Not having brought common sense with them, they were most fortunate enough to have brought what looks like a mangy mutt. The rest is now popular knowledge: During a bitter cold evening, the dog laid across each of them (I guess they now call it canine rotation) and provided enough heat – transferred from the mutt’s body to the cold and weary stilled climbers to keep them alive. Another story about a breakdown of sense and a triumph of “dumb” loyalty. #

Posted by mbowen at 04:00 PM | Comments (0)

February 14, 2007

Bow Tie Fifteen

“LEAVE OBAMA ALONE – PART 2”

My sincerest apologies to readers of The Bow Tie for my veering off (way off) from what I had originally intended as the publication’s purpose. I had every good intention to keep it light and, to some extent, even amusing. But of late the fan is being hit so very much by that stuff that I just gotta unload somewhere; and I’ve decided this is as viable a “venue” as any – at least considering what’s available to me. Your respected choice, of course, is not to read it. So be it. But I promise to get back to the lighter side before long. In fact, as soon as today’s closing piece

Some years ago, I had a conversation with a woman. The exchange had more meaning for me as a “process” than for the usual ways one remembers a conversation. Usually when we think about was if the conversation was congenial (and all of them certainly are not). If it was we smile memorably. Even if the conversational substance was contentious, we may well have learned some from it; so once again, the experience is not chalked up as negative. If nothing else, it was instructive. But I recall this particular one not specifically because of the overall content but for what I label “process” referring here to how she processed – or maybe failed to process – what she said. At one point she exclaimed that she could say anything that came to her mind. If she thought it, in other words, she could say it. Of course, the legal beagles can readily make the tired case about constitutionally protected “free speech.” Then there is the equally tired retort about shouting “Fire!” in a pubic gathering where (surprise!) there is none. But that’s not what I’m talking about here. I am going directly to the heart of her statement: “I can say whatever I think.”

All of which has what to do with Barack Obama? For me, just this: I am overwhelmed in my dismay for the still posed question, “Is he Black enough?” Why is this stupid question being surfaced? By whom and for what reason? What, pray tell, does “Black enough” mean? How is it measured? And (again) by whom? Someone had a totally stupid thought that was stupidly spoken or (here comes a loaded word) articulated. But now that the ridiculous has surfaced, I cannot help but wonder if those so devoted to fairness and/or deep probing scrutiny will now query: “Is Hillary Clinton White enough?” And if it’s O.K. to ask that, the following up is the same as for the goodly other senator, “White enough for whom?” Or, is she “woman” enough? For Bill? For the women who will hold off voting for her until she passes the woman test? – whatever that might mean. Or, completing the Circle of the Absurd, “Is Hillary Clinton White woman enough for a multi-everything America?” Puke, puke and more puke. Backing up a bit, did the question ever surface as to whether George W. Bush or his papa were White enough to assume the presidential post? Or Bill Clinton southern enough or White enough? Those questions would have been immediately pounced upon as being totally irrelevant, inappropriate or (a term I will get around to in one of these Bow Ties) racist. Yet, somehow, in some way the color thang question seems all right in the case of one Barack Obama.

Well, maybe my earlier day conversationalist was, in reality, on to something well beyond my imagination. Maybe she knew the impact or effect of voicing the weird, the odd, the crazy, the inappropriate, the…stupid. She spoke her mind; in one swoop she externalized the baseless and the tasteless. And in some deep recess of that same mind she may well have anticipated that years later, her utter foolishness would be resurrected by the likes of…me. Hmmm. If I happen to see her again, I’ll not recreate the conversation. I’ll simply ask, “Are you supporting Barack Obama?” and leave it at that.

“Skin and Bones”

One of the handfuls of downtown Los Angeles spots I keep heading back to is the city’s Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA). I remember when the building was going up and I marveled at the design. In fact, I bought a book which captured the details of the construction and discussed at length the Japanese architect’s philosophy and intent. So it was only natural that I became a charter member. I usually head there on Sundays after church. The present FANTASTIC exhibit is “Skin and Bones.” Having been a distinctly and embarrassingly skinny child, I see the title as a personal latter day tribute to me! Now, how’s that for stretching a point?

The show highlights the intersection or complementary nature of fashion and architecture. And the parallels are surprising, stunning and quite natural. I have been to see it three times that I can remember. The last time was last Sunday when I asked myself what was the reason why I was drawn to it? First, it “looks good.” Whoever the curator was, took lots of time placing the pieces in a pattern that is easy to follow and appreciate. One casually meanders through the museum space as though strolling through a familiar neighborhood. But despite that sense of familiarity, what one sees or experiences is both new and easy to accommodate. There is a comfortable mix of static presentations (traditional manikins, wood and plastic models of buildings from around the world and large and small screen videos. Sights and scenes personified…presented with style. And, I gotta admit, I do like style. Clarification: I am not nor will I ever been or strive to be “stylist,” but I am intrigued by the concept all the same. And, parenthetically, certain men have class; certain women have class…and style.

The exhibit seamlessly brings together the two disciplines. The pattern of what one sees is not unlike the intersection of disparate elements – like streets, which at first glance are not only geographically remote but very much unalike in every expected aspect. Like Webster Street and Whitney Avenue in Los Angeles. Or 125th Street and Wall Street in New York City, or Rodeo Road and Rodeo (pronounced “row-day-oh) Drive in Los Angeles/Beverly Hills. The coming together of different vibes or, if you will, distant planets! But when it happens, on a surprisingly and subtle level, one learns that “It all fits.” Personally I really dig those possibilities; and my return is to remind me that it can and does indeed happen. I’m tempted to draw the familiar “ebony and ivory” parallel, but with “Skin and Bones” it is less a matter of juxtaposing opposites as it is artistically cohering the different. And it works...very well. #

Posted by mbowen at 01:07 PM | Comments (0)

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)