BSC, CA - Here is what Jewish experts tell us about the New Year.
And our 'What If' question is...
This scenario?
Saturday, December 31, 2016
OUR NEW YEAR
THE 'WHAT IF' QUESTION -
BSC, CA - Here is what Jewish experts tell us about the New Year.
And our 'What If' question is...
This scenario?
BSC, CA - Here is what Jewish experts tell us about the New Year.
And our 'What If' question is...
This scenario?
Saturday, December 24, 2016
UNPLUGGING THE PC CORD - Commentary
'FAKE' REAL NEWS or 'REAL' FAKE NEWS -
BSC, CA – [Ed. Note. This commentary was filed Wednesday when the rain started, not today when posted]. The current controversy comes to us from the Establishment, the people who brought you 'being politically correct' as a way to join the country's peoples and viewpoints. Today as I look at my smart phone which says 0% precipitation though the ground outside is wet with a slight sprinkle, I can only think that the FedEx pouch with the weather forecast from Raytheon, the defense contractor that owns the Weather Channel, didn't arrive in time for the smart phone robots to enter the corrected forecast.
I propose the holiday way to disconnect the PC plug is to watch the movie in the city where Freddie Gray had his back snapped by two bicycle cops with a move learned from our war on terror, Baltimore, or to the locals, B-more. The movie I speak of is Hairspray [the original] with Ricki Lake and Devine, Sonny Bono, Debbie Harry, Ruth Brown, and Ben Stiller's dad, Jerry, by John Waters. The movie's first 30 seconds bring reality back because the movie is set in the day when I danced on a TV dance party show.
And now, approximately an hour after I started this report, the last before Christmas, the new forecast is up, 87% precip and the rain is coming down. Well, they're getting better. As we enter one of the most stalwart fantasies of the year, it seems a good time gaze at what's real and what's labeled fake, in the news department and what that means to us and for us. I know, a lot of 'ands' but no 'ifs' or 'maybes'.
With a government setup, a citizen pays a tax or fee to help pay for government services provided for the people. The American government agrees to dispense these services without regard toward race, creed, national origin, or religion. In return, the government recognizes certain inalienable Rights as granted citizens from above the Government, above the Religion. These are Human Rights the same as we all aspire for; respect, equality, liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. At present, this equation is out of balance.
We now see the enforcement of communist, socialist, and fascist ideals in the nation by way of instituting legislation that infringes upon the People's Freedom in order to promote a system of controls said to produce general welfare. The unconstitutional granting of privileges in place of Constitutionally guaranteed Rights has compromised our Constitutional integrity. The apparent situation appears to be lost on a certain segment of the population, and the world.
Various leaders and religious thought have tried to put this down to certain racial colors, but one look around just this country, proves skin color meant diddly-squat to the victims.
Likewise, other leaders though well-meaning, utter the simplistic platitude of 'why can't we all just get along?' That too begs the reality that there has always been 'owners' and those owned. But it goes back farther than that, and that leads us to our present dilemma and solution.
Haven't you ever wondered why Cain wasn't just spared for jealously killing his blood kin, but is was spared any to harm done to him in retribution? The answer suggested by Shakespearean analogy fits logically. Cain is a player. His bloodline was needed as much as Abel's [Gen 4:25, KJV] in this play, which the Bible has listed as a refining some places, separating the goats from the sheep in others. Jesus called this last group, the meek of the earth.
Many times people may tend to confuse the meek with the poor. For anyone who has walked past a homeless person, the feeling felt isn't one of meekness, it is one of concern. For someone half my age, this isn't the America we grew up in. Neither is it the same country for protecting the kids, or most kids. Does this all come from one bloodline, this poisoning and gene manipulation of sexual DNA? As the second trending man in the news has said, “Any nature that sacrifices their children has no future.”
As stated in past reports here, Dr. Martin Luther King pretty much said the same thing to me when I met him at the first Louisville 'Nothing New For Easter' boycott meeting for lunch counter integration, “The children are the future. Your parents are already part of the system.”
The system of this world is run by those who recent revelations provide shocking and sickening answers to the cases of Natalie Holloway and Madeline Cahn, high profile cases that gathered attention, not because they happened, but because they happened to rich people. Now we see the rich and famous go after the rich and innocent for their pleasure; it is the poor and deplorable who are used for 'spare parts'. Rockefeller is reported to now have his 7th heart.
So what is a normal sinner to do, since none are worthy because we are all sinners? Everybody's got something to hide including me and my monkey, to paraphrase the old motto. Again we come to a 'two' division like separating sheep from goats, two almost identical animals when seen from a distance. Though it took until December 5th to get the final election count in Cali [Prop 64's $1B wet kiss to the Cali Democratic Party and DNC wing repped by poster children that fit the Clinton/DNC profile with the only difference being skin color and clothes] none of us are traipsing up to SacTown to rumble in the streets for justice. And they know that because it is the way it has always been – till now.
Now we know the types of people who 'govern us' and their friends. We see them for who they really are, the same people they are descended from and all the same bloodline that has propagated itself all over the earth. Media used to be the salt of the earth. We wouldn't know about Jesus as we do without Mark, a scribe, aka reporter. The same can be said for knowing Columbus' evil intentions based on the prevailing eugenic religious belief. But when a salt loses it's flavor and turns into a spice, what good is it for salt? The simplest way to avoid the real fake news is to turn off the fake media whose owners are establishment companies. No more TV. Watch sports at a bar or restaurant. Tough Nielsen, Bubba. Watch a movie, read a book, have a conversation. Walk outside and look up.
At this time of year, we look forward to the one day of peace on the planet, Christmas Day. From the staff of BSC, CA to all of you out there, have a blessed Christmas Day, drink lots of eggnog, medicate with friends, get high with stoners, but never forget about those who are much less unfortunate for whatever reason. We are all loved by He whom we celebrate December 25, Merry Christmas. See you soon, Lord Willing and the creek don't rise.
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
SUNNY BOY'S SOUL FOOD REVIEW
IT'S A FAMILY AFFAIR -
BSC, CA – I may kid about being this valley's male Lois Lane, but I am not joking. Take, for instance, the latest story about a soul food cafe opening up in Murrieta. In a place with no grid system where every street either turns a bend or goes over a hill in either direction you look, and a journalist who finds it easier to obtain a Shungite stone in Orange Country than go across town having moved beyond personal transportation, well you get my point.
So, how does a wizard who lives up on a hill find out about a family with ties to LA, Arkansas, and Louisiana, with a cousin who dresses better than Don King? And is a Panthers Fan? It's as they say in Hollywood, it's who you know. This time I knew the family who chiefed Sonny Boy's restaurant location before he did. It had been an Afghan ethnic food cafe. Though I never visited the business, I helped the fam move into the valley through their cousin and my friend, AJ, the guy who brought Fingerlights into the valley before Dip 'n' Dots [now the Triple Beverage tea-juice-ice spot next to Shakey's, Palm Plaza].
As we rode around the valley one day AJ says, “The people who bought the [old location] were offered the contact for the gyros because that item was a main seller and had a market, but they turned it down.”
“What kind of restaurant are they putting in?”
“Soul food.” As the opening bars to the Sam and Dave Stax Records hit popped into my head, I chimed back, “Nobody goes to a soul food place for gyros. They go for the soul food.”
Conveniently located by car or bus [NB 23 across/Chevron, SB 23 Little Caesar's end] in the Cal Oaks Barons Center, an upscale fixture in the city since the time I lived around the corner, I was back for the soul food and to capture the opening day crowd.
Murrieta's Business Development Manager, Scott Agajanian, was in the house.
The staff was a family affair, starting with Sunny Boy, Sr. and an aunt, both from out-of-state.
Inside the staff was taking care of business*.
While the man in blue, knew what to do.
Tasty treats,
Southern-styled good eats.
And though the sign says 'dine in or take out' I grabbed an order of fried catfish, fresh mashed potatoes w/gravy, [yummy] green beans, and a corn bread muffin with a pat of butter to dine out, saying good-bye to the friendly faces and delicious smells associated with real 'soul food'. $$
"Best Soul Food since Sharon's" - PT Rothschild
(*- Yes, I know the band who had a hit with that title never played Soul Train.)
Monday, December 19, 2016
Riverside County Calendar of Events - January 2017
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Sunday, December 18, 2016
SEASON'S FLEETINGS
KID MAGIC -
BSC, CA – This time of year always carries special meaning for me. Before it was my mother's birth month, and now it is my youngest son's birth month also. A few days ago, J.R. entered boot camp at about the same time as I was working on Gem Bones. Perhaps it was a combination of the three things that brought to mind one of the two most 'magic' episodes in my life, times when it seems reality was suspended. The first was a Christmas time when I was seven or eight.
This particular Christmas was very good that year, probably 1952 or '53, and everyone was happy, I remember. The country was doing well, the grown-ups were doing their grown-up things, and the world was moving along in it's segregated way, except as a kid, in my bubble, the word segregation didn't have a meaning. It was part of the grown-up drama and I was a kid. In those days, a kind stranger would bring you home and Louisville, KY was that way toward kids, any race.
Although my family had some community renown, we were always bottom rung middle class. Being only one [kid] in the fam, I didn't have to share budget finances with a sibling. I could get a big toy at Christmas and assorted kid toys [trucks and cars] but never the rich kid toys like those giant hook-n-ladder die cast firetrucks that shot real water. {To Nikki Giovanni, I got a Schwinn Corvette}I was always happy for what I did get and was taught to be so. As I said, this particular Christmas stood out because my mother had gotten a bonus, all the school teachers had. My mother and I went off Christmas shopping in a happy, happy mood.
Growing up in a subculture really means that inside your bubble things exist that make sense. Although I didn't know the word 'segregation' that didn't mean I was unaware of the social separation concerning the two races and cultures. Walking along the icy patches on the downtown sidewalk, you just don't pay any attention [outside of courtesy] to whites. They were part of the landscape [shop owners, Santa, etc.] mostly outside my familiar neighborhood. My grandfather worked for one a rich white enjoying a charmed off-fall from that relationship that baffled those outside the inner circles of knowing. ISBN 0-8131-1674-0, page 115.
In fact, where my grandfather worked was one of the two main hotels in the state and city, and both were located on 4th Street. In those days, 4thStreet was the shit. It was the commercial hub in Louisville. All the main stores, except Sears, and many restaurants were along there. My mother and I didn't hit the restaurants since the eateries weren't allowed to serve [sit down] meals to Negroes [blacks], but we hit the stores like a couple of Mad Hatters.
In the days when big cities had down-towns and no malls, going shopping was always special, to be topped off with a treat. My mother and I had always twotreats. One was stopping off at this bakery that was in the block bordered by the Broadway corner. They always had a nice snowy window display and as many stores you went in that didn't serve food to eat, there was no racism because there were no barriers to be crossed, or Jim Crow laws to be broken. We got our goodies and left, arms fuller.
We had Christmas presents for everybody in the fam that year, even some relatives I didn't recognize. Being firmly in my 'little man' mindset, I was determined to hang on and not complain about all the bags I was toting, one of which was a present for me because my mom said she was giving Santa a break on. Though I still believed in Santa Clause, I didn't think that he really carried all those toys around to every kid in the world. The parents did their part but Santa brought the ones 'from him'. I only groaned a little when mother said that we still had one more stop before catching the bus for home.
There are really just 2 common denominators in Louisville. One is the infield of the Kentucky Derby, a 'free' location that has never been segregated, ever, in the long history of The Derby. The other is White Castle. The Indiana-origin chain has been a fixture in Louisville since before I was born. One of the first foods that I can distinctly remember as delicious and not coming from home were those little [12 cents, later 15 cents in my heyday] square hamburgers with the holes that are steamed on a big griddle with onions on top and the bottom bun on top of that.
The name 'castle' applied to the logo because most White Castles were small with a 'L-shaped counter running the front and side lengths of the interior dimensions, all lined with permanent swivel, no back, cushioned stools. The inside décor was stainless steel with white and black porcelain accents and always very clean. The help was always white in those days, and fast. I used to love watching the grill cook steam those little burgers, row by row.
White Castle was also a brand that was located in various parts of the city. While the spot out on Eastern Parkway may not have been 'downtown' friendly, the White Castle at 7th and Broadway was always neutral ground even though we never bought food to eat there. Buying food and taking it home to reheat it was normal. It was also normal for us to stand and order our food; then pay and get our order and leave. And it wasn't just blacks who stood. If the place was crowded, most people stood for 'to go'.
The other thing that made the White Castle at 7th and Broadway neutral ground to me was that usually most of the people there were, black or white, didn't have as nice a clothes as me or my mother, especially around Christmastime. We weren't sportin' but we had a definite middle class look, as you can see from this picture of me, ISBN 978-1-935497-36-3, page 189. Even as a kid, I noticed what people wore as an economic sign.
We walked the 3 blocks down to White Castle and the place was packed. We squeezed inside the front door and waited for the ordering to get to us. Every stool was taken and people were lined up around the inside wall and in the aisle. It was like a bus. I could hardly wait until we got our sacks of White Castles and went home. But it was warm and toasty inside the restaurant too. We sat our packages down by our feet and sighed. We were both tired but I figured it was harder on my mom. We had a lot of stuff and this was in the days way before wheeled carts were anywhere outside a supermarket lot.
As we stood there, the inner row closely changed positions with the seated patrons who got their food and left. Nobody was staying there eating. We were all shoppers or those getting off work. The back row up against the inner wall stayed the same until they got they order and left. Getting our order was of course slow due to the volume, even with the rapid cooking process that was totally efficient as anyone who has ever eaten at a White Castle can tell you. They were bagging them and tagging them.
Even as the crowd thinned a bit, I watched my mother shift in her stance and knew her feet were killing her. Mine hurt and I was a kid, so I knew hers had to be hurting. The area we were in was still packed being by the front door. We had let people in by us who wanted to go deeper into the place. We just wanted our food and out the door we would go, away from this cluster to relax at home. And then it happened.
A person at the very last seat, the one directly in front of us, opened up. For whatever reason, no one to my right made a move on the seat. I tugged at my mother covertly, nodding for her to take the seat since she was tired. I was a gentleman. She waved me off twice. I knew she was tired, we both were, and we weren't there to eat, just rest until our food got to us. What was the deal?
When she waved me off the second time I thought to myself, we'll both tired and nobody is sitting down. If you don't want the seat, then I'm plopping my tired butt down. And so, a few years before it became trendy, I Rosa Parked it. This time it was my mother who tugged on my coat. She wanted me to get up! I couldn't believe it. It wasn't like we were there to eat. Plus, I wastired, no one else in the place wanted this seat, and I looked around to every face in the place. All the whites and the few blacks all wore the same expression, 'let the tired little boy sit'.
I turned and looked at my mother and the counter waitress said, “He's tired. It's OK if he sits here.” At that, my mother relaxed and thanked the lady. I thought to myself, 'finally somebody gets it.'
A few minutes later in the normal course of things, our to-go order came and we left. I never had a second thought about it, outside of being glad to be headed home. I felt energized after the rest and carried something extra to give my mother a hand after we rearranged our bags of presents.
It was a few years later when I hit the 8th grade that I reflected back on the incident and understood what my mother had been concerned with that day. Eating at the counter wasn't really the faux pas, it was behaving in a normal manner under the guise of not being allowed to eat. I felt compassion for what my mother had to go through, not for my actions. Kids always know the truth, which is why a few years later when I met and shook hands with Martin Luther King, he remarked, “No, thank you for coming [to this meeting to organize the high school youth in Louisville, 10th Street Mens Y, four adults, 500 kids (it seemed)]. You kids are the future, your parents are already part of the system.”
I stand on corners and protest or publicize issues because I am a parent and grand-parent, like the majority of us grass-rootsters, but I also do it for the magic of being a kid, which is before you know of evil and evil people plans.
The second magic episode happened exactly at the opposite time of year, in the summer. It was the last year I was a kid, before I turned into a teenager. It was my last year before puberty, the last year of kid magic for me and I made two new friends at a church summer camp up in Michigan. They were having the same midsummer crisis. One was a redhead and her friend was a brunette. I came this close to getting away with it too, this close. But that's another story for another time, when it's warmer outside.
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