Open Mic Night: Lazy Hummingbird

I walked into the strange cafe that had a Fedex attached to it. I smiled to myself and thought, "this place is hokie." I was amused at the rag-tag Ocean Beach crowd that swarmed in and out of the narrow door at a place so fittingly called "Lazy" Hummingbird. 

When I walked in, the young crowd was friendly and shared a few hellos. Most were there staring straight ahead at the open mic of musicians, paying close attention, not saying a word and dedicated to the music. It seemed they were all a little less than hippie, a little more than hobo - dreads, multi-colored clothes, tattoos and an interest to save the world through music and community. They were a group of artist-idealists. 

A little blond toddler walked into the cafe, looked at me curiously and gently put her little finger to her lips instructing me to "shh" - she bent down next to the jewelry maker on the floor and pointed to the game shelf wanting to retain the Twister box. After she got her hands on it, she darted out the door to play with her mom, a woman about my age with long beautifully wavy hair who later told me she was from Colorado.

I looked up and my friend had just walked in with her Ukalale. I made my way through the crowd and we decided to head outside. While there were no chairs available, so we found a table with a lone artist and made ourselves comfortable on the cement next to him. Through the course of conversation, he asked my friend to play during his spoken word session, for which she happily agreed. The young man told my friend that he was going to call it the Penguins of Paradise because he appreciated how penguins stuck together in the harshest conditions and well, he liked paradise, so it worked. 

Conversation continued for a while until we thought it best to check out a couple of the other artists. As we stood up to go inside, the emo-Brad Pitt and his motley crew behind us asked if they were bothering us - and we assured them we just wanted to hear some of the music. Although, I'm quite sure the other guy who was shaky and wouldn't sit still was looking to escape for a drug hit. 

We walked inside and watched various musicians take turns sitting in the hot seat. At one point, a gentleman, with long grey hair sticking out of his green hat and a nervous demeanor sat down. My friend leaned over and said, that's Dave. He was abducted by aliens and this is his song, she smiled. I stopped and shifted my eyes into a dead stare at her, thinking...um really? I shrugged and turned back to the man on the stool. But instead of singing a song this time, he made an announcement about how he identified with the Occupy group in San Diego and believed in equality. He passed out orange fliers and walked away. 

Back to the music and it was finally time for a little spoken word. The young artist my friend and I spoke with was up and she joined him. He allowed her to start with her song about a tree and he followed with his poetry, while she continued to play. Several drummers picked up the beat, but before long there were a few too many and the drum circle wasn't really listening to each other. Even so, my friend found a way to conduct them back into the same basic rhythmic pattern and the Penguins of Paradise carried on through the 10 minute open mic. 

When it finally dissolved, my friend and I exchanged smiles and left the little hokie coffee house. All in all, it had been a sweet and entertaining evening on Santa Monica street. 

A Word On Syria-

 "So in the interest of innocent victims everywhere, 
we as journalists need to work harder to find out who they were, to paint a picture of the lives they had and the people who grieve for them. 

May they all rest in peace -- and be counted." 

(Sara Sidner, CNN)*

*the quote above was take from an article discussing the recent 17 victims in Afghanistan, however it applies to this platform

In Syria, an estimated 9000+ people have been declared dead. And as numbers continue to increase, so does the discourse about what will come next and if the Syrian regime doesn't accept a plan presented by Kofi Annan to end the conflict peacefully, which thus far has not been done. Of course, the debate also rages on as to whether or not Annan's "cease-fire" and negotiation "plan" will even be effective as the Opposition groups struggle to come to terms in Istanbul. 

The Western educated Syrian leaders, with their iTunes lists, flirty emails and general dismissal of the pain they inflict on their own people has certainly been nothing but disturbing. In recent days, President Bashar Al-Assad visited the city of Homs where much of the shelling occurred and from where residents fled...those that did not die on the way out, for the past year. But it seems his visit was only that of a political ploy. According to activists, shelling continued after he left and others say security forces gathered a "pro-Assad" crowd to make his visit seem welcome. Even humanitarian groups have had difficulty getting in and out of the country to rescue those with dire medical needs. The situation, frankly, is a mess.

Ironically, the "Friends of Syria," seem to be looking less like friends and more like the political leaders debating how to handle the ravaged country, that is, idly sitting by and "talking." There are those among the Arab nations who might readily arm the opposition and but Western powers hesitate when there is a wide variety of opposition groups that have yet to come together. At the end of the day, the International Community is frustrating the people who are suffering the most. Even Annan's 6-point plan seems like steps right out of a self-help book in the dusty corner at Barnes & Noble bookstore. 

While the world's leaders have encouraged the opposition to create a clear vision of what they hope for the future of Syria, most are just trying to survive. Women, Children, Old Men - are lost, are dead, are barely hanging on. At the end of the day, the politics are meaningless and the talk is just that -- babble achieving nothing, at least not until the last gun shot is fired, not until the last explosive reduces to ashes. If the international community doesn't, there are those with ill intentions, and theirs will be the help Syria receives because they have no one else.  Even then, the repair will take years and the mourning will have only just begun. 

The tears, anger and suffering press on, and ironically, the journalists seem to be the only hope for the Syrian people. Perhaps, just maybe, if we keep showing their stories, chasing the aftermath, showing the blood and sweat and screams -- the world will finally wake up. 

Of Note: Invisible Children

A Note On Kony 2012 --

With over 80 million views, Invisible Children has sparked a movement of young people, through YouTube, social media and highlighted a warlord that has long been wanted by the ICC. Through content made for children with the simplest explanation of Joseph Kony and his atrocities in Northern Uganda, the organization has been able to raise awareness and money to support their cause. They encourage students and viewers to buy media and help make Joseph Kony famous so that Congress will pay attention and help fund military operations to bring Kony to justice. 

But the campaign has not been without criticism. Invisible Children CEO, Ben Keesey and Film Producer, Jason Russell have made a number appearances on NBC, CNN and other media outlets to answer for their intentions. The organization has been drilled over their financial distribution, a perceived western-world driven campaign and even why they're producing a film that has been a story for more than a decade. 

Granted, CNN interviewed Jacob Acaye, featured in the Kony 2012 film who says it's not too late, especially if Kony is still kidnapping children, making them child soldiers and raping young girls. He says the mission is important and he wants justice for he and his brother, who was killed by Kony. While there are Ugandans who support and are part of the campaign and Invisible Children's programs for education and assistance, others are raising a red flag.  

A couple of days ago; the campaign's producer, Jason Russell was detained by police after reportedly being drunk in public and stripping to his underwear in Pacific Beach, San Diego. He was taken to the hospital for treatment and Invisible Children released a statement saying he was hospitalized for "exhaustion, dehydration and malnutrition. The past two weeks have taken a severe emotional toll on all of us, Jason especially, and that toll manifested itself in an unfortunate incident yesterday"

So the question remains: was the campaign a good idea? Or were there self indulgent intentions behind raising funds to make Kony famous? Immediately, those defending the campaign would say no. They might blame the projected media attention or the pressure of such a large campaign. 

Interestingly enough, activists in Uganda conducted a screening, bringing thousands of Northern Ugandans, some former victims of Joseph Kony to view Russells film and join the debate, react to the content. And the result, documented by Al Jazeera, was anger and distrust. For some, it comes from the fact that Kony no longer exists in Uganda. Reports indicate that he has gone into the bush somewhere in the Democratic Republic of Congo. For others, they want to call attention to the Ugandan government leaders who allowed the LRA's atrocities and still some feel as if Invisible Children are calling them weak, patronizing them and their pain.

Ultimately: while they may have had some pure intentions identifying a terrible villain to a new generation; Invisible Children seems to have more to answer for; their strategy was to take Joseph Kony and turn him into a celebrity. To a culture who has spent years (and still is) recovering from the fear of this man and his oppression, turning him into a celebrity, putting him on T-shirts and posters, to them, shows an ignorance on the part of the organization. For many Ugandans, Jason Russell is missing the point and doesn't understand their need or their view of justice.  

Ironically, then, the point is: it's important to be open to understanding the customs and culture of people groups that you're trying to represent. One, two or five does not represent an entire country or an entire region. People need to see your humility before their see your capability. Learn from them, then help them. And be honest, as a non-profit organization, you're held at a higher standard, so complete transparency is key. Then again, there must be a balance: don't put yourself so closely in the public eye that even cause is just about an image, and it looses the flavor. Be willing to morph and change when perhaps, just maybe - the means doesn't bring a justified end. 

Will Joseph Kony be caught? Eventually yes. Evil men cannot stand. Will Invisible Children have helped with their awareness campaign? Maybe. 

What happens Next, God only knows, and Time will tell. 

Book Review: Game of Thrones Part 1

"When you play the game of thrones, you win or die, there is no middle ground." 

(Cersei Lannister, Game Of Thrones)

How true comes the statement from a jealous and even vile Queen in an epic story by George R.R. Martin. Set in an early century world of Knights, Kingslayers, watchmen, Lords and rumors of ancient Dragons: Game Of Thrones depicts a story that can only be told through the eyes of its characters.

Eddard Stark and his wife Catelyn are caught in the middle of a battle for honor among families who are competing for the throne while their own family may be in jeopardy. After Stark, a long time friend and confidant of the King, becomes the Hand of the throne, he discovers secrets that he wish he had never known. And time is running out as rumors rise that the children of ancient dragons are planning to revolt. 

Each chapter Martin moves the story forward by focusing on the point of view through various characters. From the view of the Stark family to the dwarf brother of the Queen to the daughter of the last great Targaryen warrior to the Night's Watch, the high intensity of progression made it hard to put the book down. 

When vying for power, money and in the case of Sansa Stark: love, everyone's honor seems to fail. Even among those most respected among the Night Watch, most of the boys coming from questionable backgrounds regaining their name and reputation -- find their vows are a heavy loyalty to bear against their families, particularly for Jon Snow, the illegitimate son of Ned Stark. 

Nevertheless, as winter is coming, so is war - and the high anticipation of clashing Lords hangs in the balance through betrayal, tragedy and peculiar loyalties and unorthodox victories.

I would highly recommend this Award winning book, Game of Thrones, and I look forward to the second installment: A Clash of Kings.

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (#OutOfOrder)

West Rear-View

It's not as if it was the last time I would ever see the place called home, but leaving so quickly does things to one's head that often come as a result of driving 40 or more hours by oneself.

As it were, I left in a fog - the mist enveloped scenery, bounding once again to a life that would lead me away from the crashing waves. The only thing I could see in front of me were the eastern Mountains silhouetted against the sky and two feet of road. The crisp air smelled of salt and dew, and my mind was in a swirl of ghost like passing. Perhaps it would get clearer, so I went on. 

The two lane highway headed Southeast into the desert barely bore a soul. As the salted wounds began to shake off, and the border drew closer, the skies began to clear and I could see my first sight of green grasses and ascending desert-like mountains, which seemed small in comparison to what I experienced in the mist. The sight of it was like watching a painting in motion of brilliant earth tone colors welcoming me away from where I had been. 

Three hours and Yuma, Arizona was in sight. The deep sigh that escaped my breath made me realize I already need to stretch my legs, so  I spotted the nearest gas station, filled my tank the rest of the way and paused a moment to reflect on the idea that well, I just didn't know when I would cross that sweet California border again. 

I was headed to see my Papa, just months after his surgery. He was in his own house, had a walker and a new leg to boot - a boot that attached to his stump and made for a good story, even in its saddest of moments. The aunt, the uncle, they were nearby - pushing prodding and making good to keep an eye on him. 

Getting back on the road seemed a little more bearable and the dry air gave me motivation to work the second half of the first leg of a long cross country trip. 

Descending south led me to a border checkpoint, though I can imagine it's nothing compared to those that would make themselves home in desert countries overseas. Still, it wasn't the first time and as usual, it was a little odd. Needless to say, as the checkpoint got closer, I slowed and rolled my driver-side window down. The young Border Patrol cop, who looked younger than me and scarcely older than a high school student asked, "Can you roll all your windows down please?" 

"Sure," hoping that he wouldn't mistake all of my "travel-for-a-month" supplies as a sign that I had human beings stuffed underneath. 

"Where are you headed?" 

"Georgia" 

"Is that where you live?"  

"Yes." 

"Are you a US Citizen?"

"Yes."

"Where were you born?" 

"Ohio, sir." 

"Anyone else in the vehicle?"

"Nope."

"Ok, move on!" He commanded it, almost as if I had disappointed him. I can only imagine that a good smuggle was all the excitement these guys got. Semi-trucks are like treasure chests and the dogs were their shining hope. 

Considering how easy that really was, I kept thinking they needed a better system. But who was I to say? 

Quickly forgotten; I continued on to Maricopa. After several road detours I made it to the aunt & the uncle's house, two hours later than I had expected. A little dinner, wine and jacuzzi joy...the end of the night had finally come. Breathe.

Only seven states to go....

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (7)

The Moment of Yes

I needed a break. I needed a moment to think. I needed to call out in the middle of the week. I needed to wander, and perhaps I needed to get lost. So I did. When the burden of work was released, I slipped on my favorite sweats, a T-shirt, and picked up my camera. I was headed to the beach to think, not that thinking was going to do me any good and perhaps it would only cause me trouble, but think I would and whatever came of it would keep from being at home, cooped up all day.


Finding a parking spot on a weekday isn't so hard to do, then again this was San Diego and even in February the 60-some odd degree weather and a slight breeze is enough to bring even the most stubborn bear out of hibernation. I made my way down the boardwalk, jumped over the wall and dug my toes into the sand. The sound of the crashing waves kept my attention and I felt like I was able to breathe - slowly, in through my nose, out through my lips, closed eyes and sense of rest passed over me.


But as I continued walking down the beach, I heard voices singing. This was Ocean Beach, there were always buscars about and a hobo sitting audience. Of course, this time, the voices I heard were multiple and harmonizing. Curious, I approached the group of ragged musicians - they were jamming to the beats of Bob Marley's "One Love" and traded off guitars, a shaker, and a djembe. I couldn't tear myself away, and frankly I didn't want to - from Bob Marley to jams to the Spanish singer and others encouraged everybody to "keep on movin'," -- I was practically drooling over the fantastic scene of talent and joy that came out of their vocals.


I found a spot on the wall near the musicians, tossed my flip-flops aside and faced the water. I could have sat there all day just listening to music and watching the waters tumble underneath the pier.


Finally, the music stopped long enough for me to lean over and tell them how great I thought they sounded. One of the boys, peered back at me from under his long curly hair, smiled and said, "thank you so much." He reached out his hand which I eagerly shook and introduced himself.


I asked if they lived in the area. No, he told me, they were from New York, he and two others he pointed out. They were The Band and had come to Southern California to find fans and friends, living off the good graces of strangers.


Introductions went all the way around and eventually I met the Spanish singer, blond hair, tall and talented. He wasn't part of The Band, but he was a local musician, a starving one at that - working for a catering company by day and making his way around San Diego with a guitar at night. His bright attitude and hippie sticks kept us in conversation even after the band kept playing. He'd brought crackers and carrots which he willingly shared and we swapped stories about our roots.


After realizing I still had my camera with me, I grabbed a few pictures and figured I'd throw it up on my blog. It couldn't hurt to show a little support, truth was, I didn't have a dime on me to throw into the guitar case, which honestly is what the band was really hoping for -- they had to manage to eat and fill their purple van with gas...somehow.


The afternoon ended with an invitation to join the boys at a bar and the conclusion that I had finally made a few new friends. The place I'd come to find myself and get lost was becoming home - and it was only the beginning.

A Wedding

My New Year started with taking pictures at a wedding - one of my dearest. Here are a few of the pictures:

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (6)

Starting Line

New Year, new apartment, and thank heavens only a mile from the clear blue waters of the Pacific. The hustle and bustle of legal paperwork I had to sort through just to get approved for a legit studio California bungalow was enough trouble to make a person go bald by way of pulling all their hair out. 

January 1st - moving day and once again, I'd have to hail a Uhaul to drag my belongings from the dusty house to a smaller space with a pool. But I could live with that, the studio was the biggest I had ever seen. Truly - the living room could have added a wall and a door with room to spare. The long hallway led to a built in vanity at the end next to a walled off bathroom. A separate kitchen with counters and cupboards completed the space and I was set for time being. 

I dragged everything I owned into that apartment: the headboard, the foot-board, the glass iKea desk, the iKea shelf, the dishes, the pictures and well the guitars & cameras. The property manager, Beverly, gave me the keys to the mail box, the gate and my 1-car garage. But, of course, I didn't care about any of that. I just wanted to unload and see how long it would take me to make it to the ocean. I was in a race for the sand between my toes and I wasn't due to be back to work until Monday. 

After about two hours of heavy lifting and probably damaging my back for ages to come, I locked up, hopped in my little Honda and drove down the street, literally - 1.2 miles - to the blue vastness that rushed over my toes. Since it was winter; the ice cold sent chills went up my spine. But I took a deep breath and released. Now, now I felt like I was home with a beach and a sane mind. 

I had no outlook on the new year, I just wanted to get through the first month, earn enough to avoid detaching my arm for expensive California living. And at the moment, I was content enough to be staring across of body of water that doesn't stop until it reaches the next continent. 

What would come next...

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (5)

First Step Misfits

The apartment was at the bottom floor of an old building that had once been of some prestige. Now it was drab house that looked out of place between two skyscrapers which scoffed at the vintage mystique. The bathtubs were from taken from a 1950s sitcom, the wood floors creaked and the so-called courtyard was really just a couple of wicker chairs where the neighbors came out to say hello while they smoked and spread the latest community gossip. They were all misfits, entertaining strangers, with the occasional joint and usually an alcoholic buzz.

The fairly wealthy Hispanic woman who lived in the corner had been in apartments the longest, a chain smoker and never without a full bottle of wine led the pack with stories about her daughter's ungratefulness. She admitted to sleeping with the mysterious Navy guy at the other end of the house and always hoped her latest fashion statement would impress him. Then of course the Navy guy, himself, had three kids, barely afforded his child support and admitted to being a heavy drinker just to block out thoughts of the children his ex-wife took from him. He often told me the Navy was the only thing he knew and believed he'd probably be a bad father anyway.

There were two awkward tenants above me - one woman, who worked at the Salvation Army. She talked about church and homeless people, but her loneliness was evident. She frequently isolated herself in her apartment except for the occasional cigarette and was rumored to have strangers in and out her home. Her neighbor, the Gothic-hipster who rarely appeared sober enjoyed conversing about the meaning of life, but the bunny trails usually led to video games, his jobless existence and his handicap mother who provided for him.

The two who often kept my attention the most were the two "besties" who both lived at the back end of the apartment building. She was tall blond hippie and he was a flamboyant red-headed cosmetologist (the Gay best-friend). She was a dog walker - her obsession was caring for pups that belonged to rich people -- of course I think it was really about being able to overnight in luxurious apartments. Somehow she managed to enjoy the high life of clubs and Hollywood attractive men with little cash in her pocket. Then again, her other source of income - as she boasted - was her ability to donate her eggs several times a year. 


She clung to her fashion obsessed hair dresser as if he were going out of style - and he was the apartment informant who always had a tale to tell about his latest client or a revealing secret we just didn't want to know. The two were awkward, but colorful and were always asking me to wine and waste time on those hideous wicker chairs.

For the next 5 weeks, this little community would be the only people I would have any real interaction with. Ironically - they were all as raw and real as anyone could be, they hid nothing of their reckless existence. Disappointed dreamers, lost in the whirlwind of meaning- one they couldn't figure out - and desperate for anyone, a stranger - a friend - an enemy to listen to their story. 


I felt like I was conducting an experiment - testing their souls in a strange game that moved way beyond the bounds of everyday "people watching." In the heat of it all, it was like an endless play that never exited stage right and because there was no audience to applaud-- what did it matter if the curtains never closed? They weren't acting any way. Most of the time, it was a distraction...from the silence wrestling with me in my quiet-unpacked apartment.


The Winter holidays were almost over...

Year In Review: The Stories

As the year draws to a close, we gather with family and friends for the holidays and a time of reflection. To date, this has been one of the most adventurous years of my life and I know 2012 will carry it over.

Over the next couple of weeks, I will add my thoughts to the end of 2011 - but to begin, this video put out by Google really hit chord with me. As a journalist, I have touched most, if not all of these stories this year - and I can say with confidence, they resonated deeply with me. People of the world - I celebrate you....