Post One Thousand

One thousand posts. On this blog alone. Finally made it...

Okay, P1K Pop Quiz: What's wrong with this picture?

Don't worry if that picture and question are baffling; the answer will follow. It may not enlighten as much as you'd like, but it'll be there at the end.

I've been thinking about things coming full circle for some time now. A while back I was given a gift-card for the bookstore on campus where I am enrolled during this whole new adventure. But since I'm rarely ever on campus the gift-card languished away in my sock drawer for nearly a year.

Nearly a year? Dang...my internal sense of timing has been pummeled over the last thirteen months.

Anyway, I came across a video on Cracked's website about Harry Potter, or whatever, and watched the trailer. That was the first time I saw one of their creators doing an interpretation of Hunter Thompson. I even wrote a post about it a few posts ago, something about Artistic Sampling.

So far, it seems I've brought up three completely incongruous things.

In between seeing the HST portrayal and the related post, I made it to campus and happened to remember the gift-card. I moseyed to the bookstore and started perusing. I don't need textbooks or sweaters or shot glasses or coffee mugs. I don't need pennants or pencils or candy or soda. I guess I don't need books of a non-textbook variety, but that's where I headed.

I picked up a book about the Poincare Conjecture (it's math; about the shape of the universe), and a discounted copy of Outlaw Journalist, a biography of Hunter S. Thompson.

I haven't finished the HST book yet, but only because I'm not riding the trains of LA twice a day anymore and have too much to do around the house. BUT, it is proving to be an exciting read. A few things I didn't the know: the "S" stands for Stockton, and the pair, Hunter Stockton, as a first and middle name, come from his mother: her maiden name was Hunter and her mother's maiden name was Stockton. The "Dr." part of his personality came from a magazine send-away to become a "Dr. of Divinity"---seriously. Despite what's portrayed in the Johnny Depp 1998 film Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter didn't get into cocaine until the mid to late '70s.

Another odd anecdote: on my "Artistic Sampling" post I have a photo I found of Hunter sitting with Oscar Acosta. Oscar is the gentleman with whom Hunter was trying to get away from Los Angeles that started the entire Fear and Loathing story. Anyway, Oscar was so livid after it was published that he threatened to sue Jann Wenner of the Rolling Stone for libel and wreck the magazine and Hunter's writing career; he single-handedly held up publication of the book for nearly a year. Both he and Hunter were nervous that if it was known that it had been Oscar that had accompanied Hunter during this felonious weekend that he may be disbarred.

In a personal letter to Hunter, it sounded as it his biggest complaint was that he was portrayed as a Samoan. And then, at the last second, in exchange for the dropping of the lawsuits, he demanded that a picture of both he and Hunter be on the dust jacket of the book. That picture from the sampling post is the one from the back cover, while they were at Circus Circus in Vegas. Probably high on mescaline, but you never know.

So...coming full circle...

I had a few ideas from a very hot week a while back that I started to give the gonzo treatment to. By that, what I mean is to cast a skeptical and searching eye onto the activities in question and...

...well, what does it mean to "give it the gonzo treatment?"

Fifteen years ago it would have meant "feature drugs and use of same heavily". And that's totally not what Hunter was all about. Sure, he used and abused everything he could get his hands on, but the focus wasn't on the substances, it was, in his case, on getting the story. He just happened to use and abuse everything he could get his hands on.

So that's when I started to find trouble with this project--the hot week and gonzo treatment. I have the scenes in question, the auxiliary characters set--but what's the deal? What is the perspective of this gonzo narrator and why is this perspective the case? That's when I really tried to figure out the center of the HST trip: what is the importance of altered states of consciousness? Is it the only way to achieve a rich and varied experience with the universe? Is that what Hunter was really all about?

And, most importantly for me, how will this shade my decisions on how to set the point of view of my protagonist? Can a story been given the gonzo treatment and not have a couple of fools driving fast all full of drugs with nowhere to go?

So, sometimes, while thinking about these things, I feel the need to jump on my bicycle and ride around Long Beach. On Monday of last week, after finishing grooming that bear I'd been working on for a while the Sunday before, I realized I had just a single day without any other obligations---no housework yet, no new-gig work yet, just me and my bike and my thoughts and my notebooks.

I set out to once again check out an area I was planning on writing a long blog post about (maybe even something longer). There is a tiny encampment underneath a large freeway overpass where there had once been many folks living in tents. I had planned on my piece being titled "Under the Bridge" (too cheeky, super-LA name, fo' rilly). It would profile the people who lived there, how they got there, what it was like, maybe even stay a night or two myself. I thought the idea could appeal to human-interest story fans as well as hipsters.

I went once and didn't get a chance to talk to anyone, and by the next time I made it over there, after recovering from my couch-summer, there was nothing left. I heard the cops pushed them off permanently.

So I return every once in a while.

Like this Monday I'm talking about. I rode my bike back over to the zone--it's just a quick ride, five or six thousand feet away, and mostly straight--just to let some ideas play out in my brain. The gonzo hot-week piece, my WiLA project, a specific scene in my novel--all these things running in my head at once. And then I saw that graffiti from the first picture.

Huh, I thought to myself. I'm not a master of tagging, and this barely qualifies in the artistic sense, but I'm also not uneducated on what certain things mean. And that graffiti has something wrong. I spotted it almost immediately and may have even said out loud, "Amateur?"

As I left the spot I went back to my thoughts and joined to LA River bikeway as it beelines for the harbor. Less than a minute ride away I rode by this, obviously the same handwriting, only this time the issue was fixed.

Can you see the difference; and if so, can you explain it?

Now, this leads me onto a related tangent: some people, myself included, have, on occasions, found themselves saying to somebody else about traveling to "the LBC" or meeting us "in the LBC" or some such. I've tried to excise that from my normal language, but I haven't really started calling people out on it yet.

It's obviously attributed to a line in a popular Sublime song, where it is actually used correctly, "...representin' the LBC..."

I think the valley girls and social drinkers who use it with the greatest frequency that I hear think that it means Long Beach City. In all honesty, it does roll off the tongue rather nicely.

The "LBC" is not a place: it stands for the "Long Beach Crips".

I guess that's more of a clue than a related tangent, but those don't have to be mutually exclusive.

Happy M! Happy 1000! Happy Thousandth Post!

Thanks for keeping up, if you do, and if you don't, thanks for making it to these last sentences.

Words just want to be read!

The Streets

I always have plans. I'm working on different writing projects perpetually it seems. I always have a number of blog post ideas brewing about in my head, or tiny collections of pieces that I'm trying to hammer into pocketbook style releases, or tiny collections of treatments or theories that are awaiting a similar pocketbook focus. I have a series of political-fiction graphic novels for which I'm still awaiting a collaborator. And my novel... I'm also working on an anniversary present that I may finish by Decemberween (only six months late).

I have one blog post idea about sap that was born on a rainy Saturday afternoon in December of 2012. After I actually write it up I'm sure I will be mostly disappointed and let down...after that kind of time of build up, what else could the results be? The piece be everything a writer always wants it to be?

So, with that interior battle playing out every time I feel like chilling out and watching a futbol game or taking a nap, like I'm wasting time if I'm not actively doing the housework or working on a project, I present today a loose outline of a section of a bigger (yet ultimately tiny) piece that isn't listed above.

I named this piece "The Streets", and it concerns the set of streets that define the area that Americans (and other folks who may live in other places but have cursory knowledge) understand as South Central Los Angeles; the zone of Boyz 'N the Hood and NWA...

I'm an outsider in the neighborhoods about which I'll be speaking and am able to eye it like a drunken westerner on an African safari. Only I'm not afforded the safety of the tourist van.

Early one day last October I set about sketching my morning bike ride, testing myself if I could remember all the names of the streets that I crossed daily. I exited the train at 103rd St in Watts. Watts is still a neighborhood that suffers from low socioeconomic status and political value. From there I would ride west along 103rd past Compton Ave over to Central Ave, where I'd turn left, and head south.

I rode down to 108th, where I'd turn right and start west again. 108th had a defined bike lane for a significant stretch.

Also, at the corner of 108th and Central Ave is the Maxine Waters Adult School, considered one of, if not the, most dangerous corners in all of the 'Hood. Someone I know was stabbed while waiting for unit recovery classes there.

Anyway, I would ride down 108th. The first light was McKinley, then Avalon, then San Pedro, then Main, then Broadway, then under the I-110 freeway, then Figueroa, then Hoover, then Vermont. I would turn left on Vermont, head south to 109th, turn right and head west to Normandie, where, very quickly I would be at my first location. The next major block past Normandie is Western.

Originally I would ride my bike back not through the neighborhood straight, rather I would ride along Imperial Hwy, from Normandie to Willowbrook, where I could pick up the train one stop south of where I debarked in the morning. I got to see these same streets--Normandie, Vermont, Hoover, Figueroa, Broadway, Main, San Pedro, Avalon, Central, and Compton in this reverse order but on Imperial.

Because of the feeling of impending doom on Imperial Hwy, this didn't last long, and soon I rode south past Imperial down to 120th and then turned east, cutting north for a block to get to the Willowbrook Metro stop. That simple change made a world of difference. 120th is still the 'Hood, with the capital 'H' and all, but it surely isn't the Crip-ruled battle zone that fills the residential area north of Imperial past 108th and up to surely the 90s, where the 103rd Hoovers battle with the encroaching Manchester Bloods.

Manchester is the next major east-west road north of 103rd and represents the next stop north on the LA Metro past Willowbrook, only there, on the east-side of Central Avenue, it's called Firestone. Our good friend and kitty-babysitter Victor, during his time growing up in the 'Hood, was close to Manchester and Western and has enlightened me on the Bloods in that area. In the neighborhoods I've described above, the majority are probably Crip territories, but this oversimplifies the nature of the gang landscape.

I exited the train at 103rd and headed west. My colleague exited at the same location and headed east, to his residency site, and through the Grape Park Crew territory; they're represented by anything purple. The Firestone/Florence side of Central is marked by more Latino organizations; whereas the Manchester/Centennial side, possibly due to it's proximity to Inglewood, sees a heavier black presence in the crews. There are huge (and I mean HUGE) projects right off the 103rd stop, stretching the distance between Compton and Central, and, to the south yet unconnected, there is an entire city of projects off Imperial Hwy, and these complicate the picture a bit.

So, that was my first, rather lengthy, trip over the streets in question: mostly Crip territory, and three (or four) separate venues, (103rd) 108th, Imperial, and 120th. It was in this territory that I picked up the moniker "Sherweezy".

After the change in residency, I found myself staying on the Metro a little longer: past 103rd and Firestone to either the next stop, Florence, or the stop after (which was slightly closer), Slauson. Slauson worked best for making the trip on foot, but Florence was the better stop for biking. This time, my location was again to the west, but far closer. I'd only have to cross Compton and head to Central. This neighborhood was certainly different than even a few miles south. Most every commercial establishment in the vicinity is Spanish only, and instead of Crips and Bloods bickering through gunfire, you have to deal with Florencia.

Somebody I know is trying to make his bones as a Futures. Futures what? I tried to piece together without asking...of course he meant Future Florencia. Also, a friend had told me, "You can't get off the train at Slauson! That's where my cousin got lit up! It's not safe with your bike, man!" I shrugged and reminded him, "That's okay...that's when I'm on foot."

He tried to convince Corrie to get me to change my residency, or means for getting around.

That added 61st and Gage to the list of cross streets for Compton and Central avenues.

So far these are two distinct neighborhoods that some folks call "ghettos". I refrain from using this term too often (and haven't yet in this entire piece so far), only because the people I meet there don't use it that much. They are, by any stretch of the imagination, exactly the kinds of neighborhoods that most people would consider warranting such a term, and are, by all observations, rough and tough. (The Crip zone is rougher by my measure.)

So now I have new gig, and I've been visiting. I haven't been driving just yet, and I take my bike on the bus, and have been riding home the entire way. It is a bit further that I'd like to ride in one stretch, but I could get used to it a few times a week, and in only one direction.

The new location, my third in less than twelve months, is on Western Ave, west of Normandie and Vermont. Only this time it's closer to 246th. So when I ride home, again I'm passing Normandie, Vermont, San Pedro and Avalon. Central dies at Del Amo, a reality I saw last summer with my bike commuting to my own classes.

But this neighborhood is just another kind of 'Hood. It may not be as ravaged by organized violent hoodlums, but it is lower socioeconomically, and it has many of the trappings that busted out and depressed neighborhoods have.

It is my desire to really organize these thoughts into a more cohesive thing, along with different impressions--about content, context, people, and organizations--from my time during this residency and the immediate aftermath.

Photos would be nice, too.

I forgot to mention a place I went for an interview. It was just off the train two stops past Slauson, at Washington. Here the neighborhood was far closer to the immediate downtown of Los Angeles, and the roads are all screwy, roughly resembling Greenwich Village (not the buildings, of course). I crossed Compton Ave again, for what's worth, at, like 24th St. Compton Avenue there was thinner than our own street here in Long Beach.

It's always a work in progress or a half-completed project...

Also: if any of my fine readers bust out a calculator, you may get an idea for my next post (by adding up the posts thus far...).

One Day of Summer Break

Whew!

I've been occupied recently with a massive bear. It needed a shave, a haircut, and a bath. It took enough days (and weeks and months) just to get it hosed down with one of those kitchen sink hoses, not to mention the distaste that the bear showed during the hosing. Eventually I got the flea and tick shampoo lathered in, rinsed out, the buzzers shearing off layer after layer of grizzly growth.

Yesterday I was able to wrestle the bear to the ground, whip up some cream with the badger-hair brush than Dan got me for my birthday, layer the snarling and furious beast's muzzle, and shave it with my old razor.

The giant and scary task was finally completed, and I spent the rest of the afternoon melting into the couch, and, like I told my bear-shaving colleagues, to laze the day away drooling beer over my unshaven chin. My facial hair has returned in the absence of shaving everyday as I had been during my pre-summer-vacation activity time.

The One Day mentioned in the title of this post refers to the activities I have scheduled for my new gig on Tuesday and Wednesday, before we start resurfacing the floors in the bedroom. So, after finishing shaving that bear yesterday, the last of my bear-grooming activities, and before the new gig gives way to domestic duties, I have today as my one day of summer vacation.

I'm sure there will be more days, but I have many writing project plans, and I need to return to these neglected blogs, my focus having been for too long on grooming that bear.

Feels good to be "back"!

Rooting Interest

The Stanley Cup Finals begin on Wednesday, the championship series in American hockey. Meeting in the finals are two teams I have a specific interest in: the first is the team I grew up rooting for, the New York Rangers.

Like so many of my favorite sporting teams, my hockey team followed from that of my New York-born father; Yankees, G-Men, Knicks, etc... When the Rangers won the Cup in 1994 I was a kid rooting, for the first time I could truly remember, intently, chilling on the couch in the hot dusk early June Sacramento.

The Rangers will be playing the Los Angeles Kings, winners of the Cup just the season before last. I went to the championship parade the day before I broke my femur. The Kings were part of the original major NHL expansion back in 1967 (the year the number of teams doubled), played for their first year in Long Beach, and sucked pretty much until Gretzky was traded by Edmonton. They were relevant for a few seasons, made the finals but lost, and pretty much were mired in mediocrity until winning the Cup in June of '12. I have developed a soft spot for these lovable hardscrabble underdogs.

The Rangers traded their captain away a few months ago--not always a good sign for a team heading to the promised land. The return on their captain was a player once thought to be in the twilight of his career, only to have played in integral role in their recent trek to the finals.

Since my attention on sports has seriously waned as of late, I'm not sure for whom to root. If the Kings win, sweet! We'll have another champion in the County. If the Rangers win, sweet! Nothing's better than winning in New York, and King Henrik, Mr. Lundqvist, the Swedish superstar goalie for the Rangers, will rightly earn his spot as hockey-god du jour.