Gunspeak

High Noon (1952). See notes below.

A Smokin' Yarn from the New Old West.

An American pastime of elocution.

There was a time he figured he was a real hotshot,

A bigshot taking potshots at targets at too close range. 

But he learned he had to bite the bullet, after the smoking gun

Proved that he had shot himself in the foot.

Shoot, he had a hair trigger, mind blowing for sure

But when Kitty shot him down, he wanted to blow his brains out.

He had taken a scatter shot approach, a crap shoot, he confessed. He had rifled through her drawers half cocked. She wanted to put a gun to his head.

If there was a silver bullet, it was that he only got winged. He had faced a firing squad and maybe, just maybe, they had been shooting blanks.

He headed over to Max Patio for a couple of tequila shooters, the hard stuff,

Bullet proof. Savvy? By then, he was locked and loaded.

He was sure-shootin trigger happy again, but Max, being a straight shooter,

Told him he had a double-barreled problem. “Go shoot some hoops with Pistol Pete, Unload,” he advised. “No need to take up arms. Squeeze the trigger gently

Aim high… Shoot for the stars.”

Still he was confused, imagined himself in the middle of a cross-fire. His mind was blazing: Popping, whistling bullets, drop-dead strategies. All manner of 2nd amendment excuses.

He took note of a big-wave gun hanging on the wall behind the bar, said to himself: “I could surf that stick at Mavericks through a couple of barrels an’ explode out of the tube like a cannon ball.”

The photogs could shoot some frames and run em in a magazine. Shoot first, talk later, so to speak.

But that was a cowboy fantasy, a shoot ‘em up kind of deal, take no prisoners.

He remembered how that coward Mr. Howard had plugged Billy in the back.

Then from the juke box across the room he heard the soft lament, perhaps a snapshot 

of his future: “Take this gun away from me. I can’t use it anymore.”

This was no small-bore recrimination or blast of buckshot, but a bullet point on his resume. He looked that barkeep straight into his blood-shot eye.

His lips trembling with resolve, he fired away: “Set me up one last shooter, friend,” he said. “I’m not driving the Bronco tonight, I’m riding shotgun."

Fade to dusty road leading into town and a few dead bodies sprawled in front of the saloon. The moody Western twang of Tex Ritter breaks the silence... "Do not forsake me, oh my darlin'/Do not forsake me, oh my dar-lin/ /Although you're grievin/Don't think of leavin/Now that I need you by by side."

Wait along/ wait a-long, wait a-long.

Notes: I wrote this piece several years ago as a spoof, attempting to show, and discover for myself, how gun references have influenced our language. Looking for an image to go with it today, I landed on the picture of Gary Cooper, from a poster advertising the 1952  film High Noon, which created a controversy during the McCarthy Era of blacklisting communist sympathizers, many from the Hollywood film industry. The film is eerily relevant today.

There is very little violence in the movie, which is based on tension and suspense as the clock ticks. The movie unfolds in real time as small-town Marshall Will Kane (Gary Cooper) attempts to round up support to defend the town from released prisoner Frank Miller and his gang. Miller has vowed to kill Kane. Kane has just wed his beautiful wife, played by Grace Kelly. Miller is due to arrive in town on the train at high noon.

The townfolk act cowardly unwilling to help the Marshall. Actor John Wayne reportedly turned down the lead role because it seemed weak and unmanly, even un-American. Screenwriter Carl Foreman was  unable to find work following HUAC hearings led by Sen. Joseph McCarthy. The film explores themes of duty and courage and standing up for justice rather than succumbing to safety and convenience. We see the same behavior in today's Republican Party with members voting for their own self-preservation rather than the good of their greater communities. 

The political critics viewed the film as socialistic, emphasizing strength in community rather than the iconic individual Western hero. Produced by Stanley Kramer, known for socially conscious films like Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, High Noon won seven Oscars, including Best Actor, Best Screenplay, Best Director and Best Original Score: Do Not Forsake Me, written by Dimitri Tiomkin, sung by Tex Ritter, a favorite song of mine since I was very young.

"When [Marshall Kane] dies," says one character in the film, "the town dies too."

Summer Solstice (!)

He who obtains has little. He who scatters has much.-- Lao Tzu

Art by Isabel Bryna

Roaring along at mach-minus-a-zillion speed (that's very slow), I only discovered at this second that today is the Summer Solstice. I was transendentalized (stoned) by a yoga class early this morning and nobody said anything about the solstice.

You would think that folks who practice the ancient healing art (yoga) would be excited about our planet and the seasons. I cannot really speak for them. They are very nice people and I am ... well, sorta out there (a goofball).

Reality (what we think is fact) is:

We are moving into summer in the northern hemisphere!

Why should we celebrate this?

For one, it's a change. Practically anything has got to be better than what's been going on. I rant a lot and I'm sure you're tired of hearing about my pain. But I've noticed it's becoming universal (a lot of people are upset).

Granted some are not. For example, Elon Musk had just one simple word to say yesterday when another one of his SpaceX Rockets blew up: He said it was due to an "anomaly." (something unexpected). How many anomalies has he had? Six (6) SpaceX rockets have exploded??? I call that a habit (something that keeps happening).

Change, Space Man! Concentrate on repairing your Tesla reputation not going to Mars!

If he actually went there, I would not be unhappy or sad...  If he stayed there!

According to Meta AI (Mark Zuckerberg's artificial intelligence program), here are a set of Summer Solstice Rituals of Abundance that we might want to consider for a fruitful summer:

1. Write Your Intentions: Write down your desires for abundance, whether financial, emotional, or spiritual. Be specific and positive (that's asking a lot, if you ask me).

2. Create a Solstice Altar: Decorate with symbols of abundance like sunflowers, green plants, or golden objects (like someone we all know).

3. Light a Candle: Representing the sun's energy, light a candle to attract abundance and positivity (and bugs if you're living in the tropics like I am right now).

4. Solstice Bath (my favorite): Add herbs like chamomile or lavender to cleanse and invite abundance. (I say, jump in the ocean or any large body of water and yell, WHOA MAMA!!!)

5. Gratitude Ritual: Reflect on what you're thankful for and express gratitude to attract more abundance (How much abundance can one person take? Apparently a great deal. I'll take a little more abundance, please.).

You can see how AI is creeping into our lives. I'll give you one more ritual that I think Zuck himself and a few of his tech bros (inflated egotistical men) like to do:

6. Green Money Ritual: Place a handful of coins in a green pouch or bag on your altar to attract wealth. (Or, start a social media company that attracts trillions of followers and allow all the crazy people in the world to say whatever they want, and you say whatever you want, and call it fact.)

Seriously, I wish you all a wonderful Summer Solstice and a joyful Aloha Friday!

Abundance (having more than you need). When is enough enough?

Note: The bombing of Iran (the day following the summer solstice) is further evidence of the insanity of the President of the United States, DJT. The singular decision of a mad man. The loudest patient in the asylum is claiming he wants quiet time, while wearing a red ‘call to arms’ cap.

The Inner Brian

Brian Wilson 1942-2025. 

When The Beach Boys hit the scene in the early Sixties with their song Surfin USA, I was puzzled. Here was a Chuck Berry remake by a group of white guys with high pitched voices.

As they continued to produce nasal-like harmonies of bubble gum hits, I wasn’t impressed. My good friend Paul claimed they sang out of tune. 

Another high school friend, Andy, began collecting every one of their albums. He was hooked on surfing and in my opinion, riding the wave of the latest trend. 

We came from Pomona, a valley town. The culture was changing from lowrider to something else yet to be determined. As the story went, The Beach Boys were booed off stage at our most popular nightclub dance venue, Rainbow Gardens.

I believe the year was 1962. I didn’t know anyone who was there that night, but my research did reveal that the up-and-coming band from Hawthorne was forced to leave the RG stage due to a Latino music event scheduled on the same day.

I took that as a sign of honor. Probably because, in those days, I was a cynic. We didn’t want no stinking Beach Boys in our town.

I laugh about it today. My cynicism was palpable and directed at most authority figures and especially whatever struck me as trendy and popular. I chose The Rolling Stones over the Beatles because they were renegades.

I laugh even more when I consider how straight I really was.

I blew off The Beach Boys. It wasn’t until many years later that I recognized the genius of Brian Wilson. I still consider many of the band’s tunes vacuously annoying. 

Ironically, I didn’t realize that Brian’s pain as a young man represented how I felt at that time of my life. Granted, as I’ve learned, Brian had mental challenges and a tyrant for a father. I had neither. But I felt really bad and alone.

I’m not prepared to talk about my problems here, other to say that I felt abandoned. Suffice to say that when I listen to some of Brian's very personal musical compositions today, I choke up. He hits a nerve of  adolescent loneliness that resonates with me.

In his well-researched book, If Everybody Had An Ocean (2021) author Willian McKeen, explains the harsh family background and musical genius of Brian Wilson. We learn how Brian's brilliant studio work attracted musicians from around the country to Los Angeles in the late 60s. They included the Mamas and the Papas, the Eagles, Crosby-Stills & Nash, as well as Neil Young and Joni Mitchell from Canada.

As we now know, The Beach Boys Pet Sounds album opened up a new world of complicated arrangements and inner person feelings that were outside of the standard fun-in-the-sun Beach Boys repertoire. When released in 1966, Pet Sounds was not a commercial success, far from it. Over the years, with high marks from music critics, Rolling Stone Magazine has consistently rated the album No. 2 on its top 500 list.

On an early sunny morning in 1964, I was riding with my surfing buddies down PCH through Laguna Beach when a Beach Boys song began playing on the AM radio, probably station KRLA. The mood of the tune caught my ear, not just the lyrics. It seemed to define the opening of a new day. We were on our way to Doheny with surfboards. Nick, Andy, Bill, Pat? I don't remember exactly who was there.

The song was Don't Worry Baby, which, as I learned later, Brian defined as his greatest musical accomplishment as of that date, according to McKeen's book.

Brian had been gobsmacked by musical producer Phil Spector's release of Be My Baby by the Ronettes. The production featured Spector's new "wall of sound." Brian was jealous and told his girlfriend, "I'll never produce a song like that." She replied: "Don't worry, baby," reassuring him that he would.

Here was Brian Wilson achieving his own wall of sound with that tune and inserting the poignant lyric from his personal conversation.

McKeen's book explained to me why that piece of music, mostly the arrangement, had made such an impression on me.

I have since discovered more about and gained more appreciation for Brian Wilson from documentaries and the feature film, Love and Mercy (2014). I purchased Pet Sounds for my musical library.

Brian died a few days ago at 82. Thank you Brian for revealing your inner feeling so artistically so that we may understand our own lives a little better.

Full Moon Rising

Stripping wax from the deck of my Bruce Jones longboard.

President Trump sending the National Guard and thousands of U.S. Marines into a tiny section of Los Angeles is like me calling in a heart surgeon for a bee sting. It's getting crazy out there. 

Meanwhile, I attempt to go with the proverbial flow, rather than dive into the chaotic rip currents. Or do I?

Speaking of which, I sold my log at the monthly Hanalei surfboard Swap Meet last Saturday. Precisely where I purchased said board -- a 9' 6" Bruce Jones model, single fin totally old school -- six years ago, drawing another circle for my life's path. I've been going in circles for 78 years.

I arrived at the Swap Meet early and before I had a chance to lay my longboard on the grass, an old surf dawg greeted me with: "That's a Bruce Jones! Not too many of those around. He's gone, you know, won't be making any more boards."

Five minutes later, I accepted $175 for the BJ: SOLD. The day before when I cleaned her for sale, stripping off wax and noticing all the ding repairs, I considered the possibility that nobody would want this funky surfboard. Beautifully shaped, she had many miles on her when I got her. All the repairs had made her too heavy. I was tired of carrying her to the water. I wanted something lighter. Like a Longboard Lager.

On the precipice of a full moon, I was ready for a change.

View from above Anini Reef last week.

Owning a condo on Kauai is a money pit, a small price to pay for paradise. Owning anything on this Garden Isle in the middle of the Pacific Ocean is an act of acceptance (as if we can really own anything). That is, acknowledging that the climatic elements of wind, rain, humidity always come out ahead of man-made stuff. So you pay to keep stuff working. The material world owns you. I repair screen doors as a matter of habit, as well as trimming, weeding, planting to keep our gardens in shape. Same thing I do at home. I try to keep up with Barbara.

Mystiko keeps his eye on the ball

Our daughter Isabel Bryna and grandkids, Viva, 14, and Mystiko, 7, are embracing island life, growing as fast as the surrounding jungle that never sleeps. The family vibe here on the North Shore appears tight and supportive. Look around and you see a generous population of young parents and their kiddos at soccer games, beach parties and park activities. The kids whose parents grew up here -- many of Pacific Islander descent -- typically have multi-generational support. 

Joseph Kekuku with his lap steel guitar, circa 1904

Hawaiian music received unexpected credit this month with a new documentary produced by PBS Hawaii, Pu'uwai Haokila (Heart of Steel in Hawaiian). The film tells the story of how Hawaiian music influenced American music of the early 20th Century, particularly through the steel guitar "invented" by Hawaiian Joseph Kekuku. Hawaiian orchestras toured the backroads of the U.S. playing a new style with stringed instruments including the ukulele, guitar and violin. 

These bands toured remote locations in the Deep South, Texas and Midwest, introducing unique high tones with the steel guitar, bending notes with a steel slide. Blues players, including blues-original Robert Johnson, as well as country and bluegrass musicians adapted the instrument. You can watch the documentary free on YouTube. Five stars! Another reason to save PBS. They do a marvelous job of covering and preserving Hawaiian culture, as well as serving other local regions throughout the land. 

The Royal Hawaiian Orchestra played at the gala opening of the Cocoanut Grove Ballroom in Santa Cruz in 1907. I had the playlist posted above my desk when I was employed in the marketing department there.

Back to Los Angeles and those circles. In January I wrote a series of posts under the title, Ask the Dust, a quasi ode to author John Fante and his novel (1939) of the same name. My series took place very close to where the current immigration protests are happening in old Los Angeles. I was there in December. Is there a theme here? A clairvoyance? Connection?  

One more question: Why have there been so many airplane crashes since Donald Trump was inaugurated as President?  Chaos breeds chaos. The Kilauea volcano on the Big Island has been active lately. The Hawaiians believe the fire below the earth is a goddess named Pele, a deity known for her temper and passion. She’s certainly disturbed. It’s in the air.

Keep the faith. Aloha nui loa.

Good Stories for Mama's Day

My mother, Dorothy, and grandmother, Kate, circa 1913 Havre, MT.

My mother, Dorothy, was a good story teller. I believe it was a family tradition that traces back to Ireland on my mother's side. She also possessed a psychic ability, or at the very least a superstitious tendency that she inherited from her mother whose parents were both from the Emerald Isle.

I never knew my grandmother, Kate, who according to family lore would turn around and go home if a black cat crossed her path. She birthed 10 children in Havre, Montana. Nine survived. Seven boys and two girls. My mother told of laundry freezing on the clothes line and the earthen floor in their home that was heated by a coal-burning cook stove.

One morning at the age of 13, I had just returned from my morning paper route when my mother confronted me in the kitchen. "I had the strangest dream last night," she said. It was one of many meetings between us where I felt a special confidence, as though what she was telling me was a secret or important message.

"I heard a voice," she said, "repeating, 'Father Ronald is dead. Father Ronald is dead.' Followed by the number 51."

Her hazel-colored eyes beneath dark eyebrows peered straight through me, to the point where I was hearing the voice in her dream, her words echoing in my mind. I visualized a script of repeating numbers floating through dark space... 51, 51, 51.

A day or so later we learned that her brother Ronald, a Jesuit priest, had died of heart failure. He was 51.

On another occasion, my mother approached me with intriguing news. "Judy Garland has married Mark Herron. He may be your cousin." That was like telling me he was my cousin.

Judy Garland was the girl Dorothy in the movie, The Wizard of Oz. She became an actress, singer and entertainer who was married five times to different men, Herron being her final husband at the time of her unfortunate death at age 47.

I do have a cousin named Mark Herron, whom I finally met years later, but he was never married to Judy Garland. But it was a good story.

My life opened to a new world when I was 8-years-old and my mother introduced me to the Pomona Public Library in the town where I grew up.  I found a children's section that was full of books about interesting people. I got hooked on reading biographies of famous Americans, although they were all men.

I went through the whole bookshelf: Davy Crockett, Francis Marion, Lewis and Clark, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Edison, George Washington Carver, Henry Clay, Daniel Boone and more. That's where my love for books began and I thank my mother, who always had one or two open books laying around the house.

There's nothing like a good story, but a good mother beats it all. Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!

Some Things Never Change

Oliver Hardy and Stan Laurel (Laurel and Hardy) with their miss-sized pooches. Circa 1930

Cameron was not a dog person as a kid. Four-legged creatures made him nervous. He was born that way. Not with four legs but with an aversion to animals. They bugged him. 

Growing up he also didn't like sticky things, flies in his milk or the taste of pizza. Everybody likes pizza, but not Cameron. When he was first offered a slice of pizza pie, he gagged. “That's not pie," he said.

He would stir his Cream of Wheat until every lump was gone. It had to be smooth like a milk shake. The tiniest bump bothered him. He would take his spoon and squash it as if it were alien invader.

The only animal he tolerated was horses. He enjoyed watching them run and gallop on TV with cowboy and Indian riders shooting, whooping and hollering. But he didn't really know much else about horses. In fact, the first time he rode a horse at a riding track, he got sick and threw up.

Probably because he asked to ride the fastest horse, named Midnight. He had heard friends talk about the speed and thrill of riding Midnight. He climbed up and into the saddle and sat there like he was on a bench waiting for a bus. When Midnight took off, Cameron bumped up and down like a jumping bean on a hot skillet.

After that, he took horses off his list.

He didn't understand the process of learning how to ride a horse, or that maybe his taste buds would change as he grew up. He just banished things with the words: "NOT DOING THAT AGAIN."

He was "cut and dry." "Plain and simple." 

When his parents brought home a small puppy with shaggy blond hair and little brown eyes, he was intrigued. He liked petting the soft fur of the dog, which his mother named Blondie. But he did not like the chore of house-training Blondie.

This meant putting newspapers on the floor where Blondie was supposed to do her duty. Cameron didn't care for that, especially cleaning up afterwards. He didn't realize that his mother did the same thing with him when he was a baby and wore diapers.

Cameron was clueless.

But miracles do really happen and people change along with everything else. We call it "growing up." We all learn to adjust, or not. Some continue to act like children with their little hang-ups and trantrums, whether it's out of stubbornness or arrested development.

Cameron's big change came as an adult. He inherited a large Malinois breed dog when his friend Patrick, moved into an apartment and could no longer keep it. The dog's name was Finston. He was extremely shaggy with straw-like fur as thick as a polar bear's coat. Finston shed so much fur that Cameron's place looked and smelled like a barn. But it didn't bother him. He had adjusted and developed the sense of caring or compassion, although he was never compatible enough to marry or live with a roommate.

In the late morning after the fog lifted, you would see Cameron and Finston walking together across the railroad tracks and down the hill into Capitola Village.

"Hey Cameron!" the local fishermen would shout.

"Howzit! Buddy, or Billy or Jimbo!" Cameron returned the salutation, depending on who called him. 

"Finston's lookin good!"

Cameron's face wrinkled into a big smile, as he thought to himself how uptight he used to be back in the day. Now he's actually recognized for his dog. He had become a dog person.

"Oh yeah,” he replied. “But I gotta keep him on a leash. It's a damned police state down here. No doubt about it."

Back to the Island

The beach at Hanalei Bay yesterday morning. PHOTO:BBS

Waterfalls from heavy rains streaming down the mountains as seen from Hanalei. PHOTO:ROBYN 

The government craziness that pervades our life these days feels slightly removed as we settle into island reality once again. Magical white clouds dance through the sky chased by dark, water-laden puffers orchestrating a familiar hide-and-seek drama between sunshine and rain on Kauai, the small, northern-most island of the Hawaiian chain. 

This week all of the islands turn their focus to the Merrie Monarch Festival, the annual week-long hula competition in Hilo on the Big Island, where halaus (hula clubs or studios) from throughout Hawaii perform impressively choreographed dancing and show off beautiful costumery in front of adoring fans. 

Kane (men) don hula garb and dance like warriors at the Merrie Monarch Festival.

Female and male dancers alike fill the stage. The popular show has been running since 1963 and is named after one of Hawaii's favorite kings, David Kalakaua (1863-1891), a major patron of the arts who restored the ancient rite of hula to island culture following years of missionary crackdown.

We'll be watching on a TV screen. Hawaiian pride, discipline and joy will be on full display.

The Blue Buddha, our island ride, is back on the road, having been awakened from nearly ten months of hibernation, which translated to dead battery and this year a defunct starter. No worries, right? Hearing that engine hum is as pleasant as listening to the shama birds sing outside our window every morning before dawn. They take their cue from the crowing of the resident roosters.

We've watched our 6-year-old grandson Mystiko hustle around a soccer field, his shaggy blond hair flopping and a smile on his face. He's focussed.

Granddaughter Viva, 14, seems to have stretched several inches, her long limbs flowing as gracefully as the fronds of a queen palm swaying in the breeze.

Mama, Isabel Bryna, is as busy as ever juggling her life as mother, artist, entrepreneur and surfer.

Being grandparents is special. And in the islands, kupuna (elders) hold a revered role in the family hierarchy. Store discounts are also appreciated.

Yesterday, hearing that the Hanalei bridge was open following flood closure the day before, we drove down to the historic little town which fronts Hanalei Bay. The clear, glassy water drew me in for a dunk. Back at the condo I pulled my longboard from behind the couch and waxed her up for the days ahead.

Barbara has already attended two yoga sessions at the Princeville Community Center, re-connecting with our island friends who prefer a good stretch first thing in the morning. 

Final note: I’d been thinking about Pope Francis over the past few months understanding that he was nearing the end of his life on earth, and marveling at what a great spiritual leader he’s been. He truly walked the walk, emphasizing the virtues of dignity, humility and compassion for all. He was the right person, in the right role at the right time. We need more leaders like him. Here's hoping the Conclave elects the next Pope in his humanitarian likeness. May you Rest In Peace, Pope Francis. Pray for us.

Here's wishing you all the best in your lives. Aloha nui loa.

Let's Get Together, Smile on Your Brother

Jesse Colin Young from the cover of the LP, Song for Juli.

When I came across the news that singer Jesse Colin Young had died last week, my heart sank, a reaction over which I had no control. He was 83 -- a decent life span, I thought. No cause of death given.

The thing is, Jesse's career and my life conjoined in a funny and, in the end, heartfelt way. In fact, at one time, I was Jesse Colin Young.

His 1973 song "Ridgetop" about living in the woods north of San Francisco  -- a jazzy rockin' ode to counter-culture environmentalism -- struck a chord in me the moment I first heard it in a record store in downtown Eugene, Oregon, where I was hoping to relocate with my small family -- wife Linda and daughter Molly.

I purchased the record, which also included "Song for Juli," a beautiful dedication to his young daughter, and the title of the album.

Jesse's tenor rose rose to a wonderfully optimistic octave -- smooth and good feeling. His voice didn't approach negativity. So much so, that his attempt to evoke a grim moodiness in his psychedelically inspired song, "Darkness, Darkness," was still hopefully charged by his unique voice.

In 1977, he brought his band to the Cocoanut Grove Ballroom in Santa Cruz. A lady friend of mine was dying to go. I was curious but had been sidetracked by so many of the great folk-blues inspired compositions of the Seventies by the Eagles, Steve Miller, Boz Skaggs, Neil Young to name a few. 

Jesse's show at the Grove was a bust, uninspired and disappointing. He seemed to have stagnated for some untold reason. He'd gone stale. I had lost Linda in a car accident the previous year and my emotions were jumbled. Was that it?

Fast forward to 1979. I had moved to Santa Cruz, had two young daughters with me, Molly, 9 and Vanessa, 4. A young guy I don't know knocks on my door to ask if he can climb the pine tree in my front yard to retrieve his frisbee. "Of course."

He tells me that he's visiting his sister across the street. I don't know her, have only seen her from a distance. He tells his sister, Barbara, that Jesse Colin Young lives across the street from her.

That is how he described me. I guess it was the dark hair and mustache. Long story short, the moniker becomes, jokingly, my pseudonym. Barbara and I become a couple and a family with a third daughter, Bryna. I call Barbara, Jane Fonda.

I don't believe we really saw ourselves as celebrities, but it was fun. 

Me as Jesse

Sometime later in the 90s, Barbara and I are vacationing on the Big Island of Hawaii. I see in the local newspaper that Jesse Colin Young will be performing at the Aloha Theater in a small town above Kona. He lives here on a small coffee plantation. We attend the show with our Hawaii friends and former Santa Cruz neighbors, George and Kathy.

Jesse looks healthy and happy and the show includes Hawaiian players and songs and oozes with love and aloha in front of a local audience in the intimacy of a restored old theater. It was a winner. A few nights later we find ourselves in a restaurant specializing in fusion cuisine (East & West) with George and Kathy and Jesse. Jesse is actually sitting at another table with his family. We don't meet.

Back home in Santa Cruz maybe seven years ago, we see that Jesse Colin Young will perform in concert  at the Rio Theater, a former movie theater now performance venue. Of course we go. Jesse performs with a band of young musicians, including his son, who are touring the country. He's the seasoned band leader of these talented kids.

Jesse's voice is as pristine as ever. He has the audience swinging with his signature "let's get together, smile on our brother" anthem. He tells the story of how he had suffered from Lyme Disease from a tick bite, how it took a toll on his life.

I thought about his lifeless show at the Grove in '77. After all the years I had wondered about his performance and my disappointment. I attributed it to Lyme Disease. He later wrote a song, "Lyme Life."

Thank you Jesse for hanging in there. Barbara and I thoroughly enjoyed the show. I could tell that having your son and a group of young, exceptional musicians play with you elevated you to a higher level. 

That would be Maestro.

JC Young 2019

Side Note: Singer/songwriter Kris Kristofferson (1936-2024) was misdiagnosed with Alzheimers for years, before his memory loss was finally attributed to Lyme Disease.

 

When I was Editor

Art by my daughter Isabel Bryna. Her imagery soars into the cosmos lighting the way to a more munificent world.

I write these words with a heavy heart as I watch our nation being unfairly, vindictively and most of all, stupidly, destroyed by the Trump Administration.  

We are not a perfect country. When you choose democracy you understand the necessity for compromise, which is a dirty word for extremists. Our founders were not extremists. The current president and his apparatchiks are exactly that, or cowards.

For the past month I have witnessed an unconscionable tearing apart of the American dream that includes personal freedom and equality for all. We're supposed to be the good guys. We help people, root for the underdog. Lend a hand to our neighbors and community. But no more. The President is a bully, a monger for power. He hates poor people, has no use for them. It's all about grifting for more wealth for himself and his family and his wealthy donors. He has alienated and divided us.

If you've been paying attention, you understand that a sea change is taking place throughout the world. Strong men, authoritarians, are drawing lines. You're either in or you're out. Zero sum. Extreme is the word of the day.

To assuage my sorrow about all of this, I've been watching and listening to the comedy of Stephen Colbert and John Lawrence who make fun of the hypocrisy and horror of what's going on. I get a good laugh and feel better for a moment. And the Golden State Warriors have been playing better and that's lifted my spirit a tad. I've also been listening to my favorite songs and artists. I hear a phrase from The Beach Boys' "God Only Knows" and tears fill my eyes. I found Judy Collins and Leonard Cohen singing "Suzanne" together on YouTube and my heart swelled as I remembered that era. 

Maybe I'm just getting old and wistful. I haven't been able to write much. Over the past nearly ten years I've bared my soul in stories on this blog. Some pieces I have taken off the platform because they are so personal. One of my blog posts was deleted. I don't know why. Either I was hacked or Google -- the host of this blog site -- decided it was unfitting. I can't contact a real person at Google to ask. "They" never informed me about why they removed the post, which was about my ancestors, the Civil War and why we should elect a woman for president.

I wrote a harmless piece following the recent election and tried to share it on Facebook, which informed me that it didn't meet their standards (?). So Zuckerberg censored me while at the same time he informed the world that he was allowing free speech on FB. I say, bullshit.

Given the censorship of my writing, I have essentially divorced myself from FB and I'm considering ending by blog on Google. I figured that the title of this blog post would pass the censors. Note that Trump is surrounding himself with propagandists and fake news makers, taking seats away from legitimate news sources like the nonpartisan Associated Press. 

One of my great memories and experiences was working as editor for several publications. I loved dealing with writers, especially young people just starting. I also looked for the best writers who told their stories most honestly and gracefully. I was a light editor, which means in editing a piece for publication, I attempted to maintain the voice of each writer. I have been published in various periodicals and found that some editors will always rewrite your copy. I believe this leads to the same sing-song voice in every story. 

It's been my pleasure to produce this blog in my own words without an editor. Although I'm sure my writing at times has suffered from not having a perspicacious editor. 

So if you don't hear from me for a while, you know why. I'm hanging out, watching and waiting to see what happens. If something inspires me, I may post. Thank you for joining me on this journey of words and ideas. Peace be with you. Don't let the bastards get you down. 

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. -- the Beatles, from Abbey Road

Black Not Like Me

Watts Towers made by Simon Rodia in his Los Angeles backyard. Rodia began constructing the towers in 1921. There are 17 interconnected towers made from collected junk completed in 1955. The site is designated a State Historic Park and open to the public.

The first time I heard the word "nigger" I'm sure it was during my years growing up in Pomona in the Fifties. There was only one black kid at St. Joseph's during my grade school years. My tract neighborhood was entirely white. The word came up in street talk and it was always derogatory, the butt of a joke or comparison to something indecent.

Stereotypes included: They don't know how to handle money, as in, they're poor yet drive Cadillacs. They're ugly. And of course they bring down the value of the neighborhood. 

I listened to these stories and wondered about the truth.  My parents were old-school of Irish and Scottish ancestry. They were prejudiced in a softer sense. They never used the "n" word.

In my mother's eyes, the wedding of a black and white person would create a serious problem.

"I feel sorry for their children," she said. In her eyes, such kids would not belong to either race, not have an identity.

This may seem ridiculous today. The mixing of races has produced beautiful children. Their parents have probably had a more difficult time adjusting in a nation whose roots are based on segregation and slavery. We fought a Civil War over it. 

During the summers of 1963 and 1964, I took a job as a student worker for the Los Angeles Unified School District, the second largest in the U.S. The district included predominantly black areas like South Central L.A. and the community of Watts. It was my first opportunity to work with black kids my age and visit schools of predominantly black populations.

It was thrilling and scary. It opened my eyes to communities that were as foreign to me as another country. The project apartments on Imperial Highway were the most dismal living quarters I had ever seen, faded brown buildings, surrounded by dirt, baked by sun and smog. No trees or plants.

The summer of 64, I was an introverted naive 17-year-old assigned to assist a black man named Charles Johnson. Our job was to drive to various schools and pick up office machines that needed repair, bring them back to central maintenance in downtown Los Angeles. 

Johnson was of average size, wore a baseball-style cap that was always askew and had a jovial, outgoing personality. His lower lip protruded most likely due to the omnipresent cigar that hung from his mouth. The black student workers all wanted to be assigned to Johnson. I was the lucky one.

Johnson didn't fit any stereotype that I knew. He was unique. If anything, his sloppy dress and quirky demeanor were that of an absent-minded professor. He promoted education and claimed to have a masters degree from UCLA, which at the time I found hard to believe. I've since changed my mind.

We traveled the freeways and surface streets of greater L.A. in a green Ford panel truck with identifying yellow letters: Los Angeles Unified School District. He drove like a maniac which had me gripping my seat in terror. I didn't know what to say. I was gagging from the foul smelling smoke from his cigar.

He went out of his way to show me the now-famous Watts Towers that a man had constructed in his backyard. We drove up the alley behind the modest neighborhood house. "Look at that! Isn't that something, built with junk.”

I wasn't impressed. I was focused on sports. I wish I could have appreciated it. It struck me as a very funky tower of mortared metal. I can only guess how Johnson perceived my indifference.

Still, wherever we went, Johnson had my back. One time a group of black guys sitting on a wall began heckling me. "Surfer! Surfer! What you doin' here surfer!" I was being stereotyped in my white T-shirt, Levis and blue tennis shoes -- today called Vans.

"Drop outs!" Johnson yelled at them. "You're just a bunch of drop outs!” To my relief and surprise, they shut up.

He loved strawberry ice cream and treated me to ice cream cones at his favorite place. He showed me a large, rambling pet cemetery. "Celebrities have their pets buried here," he said. "Can you believe it?" He thought that was the strangest thing.

I had to think about that. A pet cemetery seemed to me an affectation for the wealthy. A money-making scheme. I paid attention and internalized most of what I saw and felt. 

Johnson had a girlfriend who lived in Watts and nearly every afternoon around 3 we would head there on the Harbor Freeway at speeds of up to 90-mph. The panel truck would start to shake on its axles which made me very nervous. We would pick up his girlfriend and take her back to town where she was employed as a maid. We three squeezed into the cab. Her eyes were as wide open as mine when we arrived.

She lived in a small white house and there were always a bunch of men hanging around the front yard which was scattered with car parts and other odds and ends. They collected and sold junk to make ends meet. Later, the popular Sanford and Son TV show was an accurate depiction. The guys wore knit caps and porkpie hats. Stubbly beards covered their chins like Motown singer Marvin Gaye. I thought they looked very cool.

They reminded me of the jiving black guys whom I had admired at the invitational track meets I had competed in and attended as a spectator. They were slender with long legs and demonstrated an infectious camaraderie. They spoke their own brotherhood slang.

We lugged a lot of mimeograph machines, typewriters and the like up and down stairs, through school hallways while summer classes were in session. I prayed that the bell wouldn't ring and I'd be swarmed by unfriendly teenagers. 

One time while sitting in the panel truck waiting for Johnson, I fashioned myself being black. What would that be like? I was fascinated by the idea. In my reverie, I lifted my arm imagining that it was black. Seeing my own skin the color of coal shattered my illusion. I would be somebody else. Of course I would. The power of color had never seemed so strong. I dropped the idea.

The following summer of 65, a six-day riot began in Watts (later called The Watts Rebellion) in which businesses were burned to the ground, buildings were destroyed, the community had burst with cries of mistreatment by police, discrimination in housing and employment. It all started with a black man being pulled over for alleged drunk driving. I couldn't help but think of the previous summer with Johnson behind the wheel. 

I haven't been to Watts since 1964. I don't know what it's like today but our culture seems to have become more integrated. We don't use the "n" word. We've elected and re-elected a black President. Johnson with his masters degree may have found better and safer employment following the Civil Rights Act of 1964.  He wasn't meant to be driving a panel truck.

I recently read Percival Everett's excellent 2024 novel, James. It's a reimagining of Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn told from the point of view of the slave, Jim. Some would classify the story as "woke." I would agree in the complimentary sense of the word. If we do not know where we come from, how are we supposed to know who we are. 

The summer of 64 gave me a glimpse.

 

 

Ask the Dust/3, a Realization

“That’s when I walked down the street toward Angel's Flight, wondering what would I do that day. But there was nothing to do, and so I decided to walk around town." — John Fante

Wall of art inside The Last Bookstore PHOTO:KCS

Searching for a theme in the art that covers one complete wall inside The Last Bookstore in downtown Los Angeles,  I came up blank.

"Isn't it great?" said Barbara.

"I don't get it?"

"It's the way in which the art is arranged to fill the entire wall."

"Oh... yeah."

I was looking at the trees not seeing the forest.

There's a great deal to see at The Last Bookstore which has been featured in magazines, television, Instagram, Facebook, TikTok and anywhere better mouse traps are found. It's like walking into the Centre Pompidou in Paris or strolling through the dusty aisles of eye-candy at Burning Man. You're liable to see anything. Presentation is key.

Silly me. I was hunting for a particular book.

PHOTO:KCS

Walking from Angel's Flight to The Last Bookstore felt safe. Traffic was muffled by the old buildings of Los Angeles that speak of a different period with gargoyles and columns, what might be called substance. These old girls have withstood earthquakes, sig alerts, heat waves, high winds, low lives and acid smog. We passed through a cloud of sour air near a small plaza, perhaps a reminder of where we were or who we are. We were inside the axis of our nation's second largest city amid a core of quietude, similar to the eye of a hurricane, insulated from the greater tumult that surrounded us.

The Last Bookstore sits on the corner of Spring and Fifth streets occupying a 100-year-old building that was once a bank. It's the brainchild of Josh Spencer who started selling used books in a downtown loft in 2005. The store encompasses 22,000 sq. ft. that includes two floors and the bank's original vault. Here you will find, according to its website, "a record store, a comic book store, five art studios, an epic yarn shop, a famous book tunnel, a mammoth head and unexpected nooks of funkiness."

To enter you must pass through a security check that reminded me of an experience at LAX. I get it. Many visitors enter in a constant flow. At least we didn't need a QR code.

The overall funkiness is, Spencer admits, designed to capture the Instagram crowd who are wont to shoot "reels" of the quirky nooks and set ups. This provides instant free advertising, which seems to be working. Several movies have taken advantage of the location including Gone Girl (2014) and the Netflix series, Crime Scene: The Vanishing of the Cecil Hotel (2021).

I wish we would have had more time to explore. The afternoon was moving toward sundown and I didn't want to drive the freeways back to Manhattan Beach in the dark. I found the fiction department and began madly searching authors under the letter "F." Surely The Last Bookstore in Los Angeles would have at least one copy of Ask the Dust by John Fante. Surely they would have sought and shelved this classic novel of old Los Angeles; the "greatest novel ever written about Los Angeles."

I couldn't find a single book by Fante or his son, Dan Fante. Although I would caution anyone against reading the son's morbidly revolting novel, Point Doom (2013), set in Malibu. Take my word. Unless you have a taste for the macabre. He must have had a grudge against one of the town's filmmakers, or wrote the book as a pejorative metaphor of the industry itself and the way it treats people. Or perhaps the way we treat each other.

Fante the Father was a prodigious writer and earned his bread and butter penning screenplays. In 2010, a small cadre of literary activists were successful in getting the city of Los Angeles to designate the downtown corner of Fifth and Grand streets as "John Fante Square." The LA Times described him as "a chronicler of downtown, its unloved and overlooked residents, its dirty sidewalks and cheap bars."

The only physical reminder that he existed is a solitary, barely noticed sign on a street post.

Photo by unknown photographer of sign on corner of Fifth and Grand streets identifying John Fante Square. Probably taken from inside a moving car with the window closed blurring the letters.

We exited The Last Bookstore, walked back to Angel's Flight and rode uphill to the plaza station and found our car in the covered lot. Our parking tab was I'm sure more than six months rent for a room on Bunker Hill in 1940. It had been a swell afternoon in old downtown LA starting with a beef dip sandwich at Philippe's.

Old map of Los Angeles area with downtown colored in.

Epilogue:

This trip to Los Angeles took place a week or more before the horrific wildfires that blazed through Pacific Palisades and Altadena and other pockets of LA spurred by Santa Ana winds of up to 100-mph. I wrote my first installment of this story before the fires. 

We left town on PCH through Malibu past the familiar beach houses between the road and the ocean; many now reduced to ash. Our daughter Vanessa and her family live on the inland side of nearby Topanga Canyon. She said the winds were terrifying, the devastation “incomprehensible.” 

Thankfully, they are safe but ready to evacuate in case.

Nearly 200 novels have been written about the natural risks of living in Los Angeles and end-of-world scenarios there, according to the LA Times. Now there will be more. Wildfires and earthquakes are expected. The fires when I was growing up sparked in September. They were mostly confined to the dry-scrub undeveloped hills. Today the fires are year-round and reach buildings where people live. 

Good luck, Los Angeles. Good luck to all.

"All that was good in me thrilled in my heart at that moment, all that I hoped for in the profound, obscure meaning of my existence. Here was the endlessly mute placidity of nature, indifferent to the great city; here was the desert beneath these streets, around these streets, waiting for the city to die, to cover it with timeless sand once more."  from Ask the Dust by John Fante