Adjusting My Religion

"The leader is best when people barely know he exists, not so good when people obey and acclaim him, worst when they despise him." Lao Tzu, Ancient Chinese sage

Columnist David Brooks recently wrote a piece about why right-wing conservatives are gaining ground over traditional liberals. It's a world-wide phenomenon. 

The gist of his argument is that non-sectarian liberalism has individualized liberals, whereas the right-wing is held together based on belief in God and Country (err, the flag), a power greater than the individual.

He goes on:

Kindness and moral integrity don’t run as deeply as the power of a strong man and his God-fearing, flag-waving belief system, whether it's a fight to criminalize abortion, hold onto our loaded guns or keep nasty immigrants out of our country. The right has been victimized by woke, and so have you. Make America great again!

The left wing has turned their focus from Christian religion to education and intellectual politics as the answer, attempting to imbue basic morals into an imperfect system, an elitist attitude.

A mainstream conservative (not a Trumper), Brooks sees this as a warning as we hurtle toward another National Election pitting two old guys to lead our nation, one a decent but seemingly frail octogenarian and the other a grifter maestro of popular media, who will only accept winning, exhibits no spiritual underpinning other than his own self interest.

I was raised a Catholic, attended parochial schools grades 1 through 12. I was a believer. I had religion, due to deep philosophical reasoning at a very young age. I deemed it a privilege to be an altar boy and recite the Latin prayers. I didn't eat meat on Friday. I went to confession before receiving communion. As I got older, I changed.

The more I learned, especially through literature and history, I slowly let go of my early belief in God and Church. The institution seemed phony and usury and politically motivated. See stories re predatory Catholic priests. The idea of a supreme male authority in the sky and man-written Bibles with contradictory interpretations yet true believers, fall short of believable. 

I began to find religion in music, from protest songs to the poetry of Bob Dylan, from the mellifluous words of Crosby, Stills and Nash -- songs like Teach Your Children, Our House, For What It's Worth. The soulful musings of Van Morrison. The cries for peace by John Lennon. The questioning of Marvin Gaye, What’s Goin’ On?

I never had to fight for my country, as my father did in WWII. He saw conflict with Japanese fighter jets in the Pacific Theater while assigned to the battleship, USS Idaho. He fought so I wouldn't have to, nor my children. Today I watch courageous Ukrainians and marvel as they fight for their home land. 

Do I have that same gut feeling about my country? Perhaps I should. I hear many liberals say they will leave the U.S. if Trump wins the Presidency. Is this giving up? Where is the patriotism? What is a patriot? The right-wing has stolen its mantle.

We are talking about our United States of America, with liberty and justice for all. (Congress added “under God” to our flag salute in 1954, during a period of anti-communist McCarthyism.)  

I am guided by the very basic notion of right and wrong. Do the right thing. My veteran father, hardly a preacher and not a religious man, told me in a letter that he was guided by honesty and fairness. Is that enough, when those virtues are shunned as weakness by tyrants and their loyalists?

As music has changed, I have been drawn to the teachings of Zen Buddhism and involvement with yoga and tai chi, both based on Eastern concepts of physical and spiritual strength and nourishment. Zen Buddhism was founded as an antidote to human suffering. Philosopher, and self-described entertainer, Alan Watts called it “A religion without a religion.”

To a Zen Buddhist monk, the doings around us, what happened yesterday and will happen tomorrow, are not real. They are distractions that interfere with reality: that is, the present moment. That is our gift that incorporates past and future without forcing or doctrine. It can be a place of refuge.

I occasionally reach such moments through yoga, watching children play, riding a wave, looking into another's eyes, laughing or crying together. Then it's gone. Another will come. To know and feel this on a visceral level affirms life. Being in the moment is an art, a discipline of letting go. We inevitably change. Whether we evolve is up to you and me. This is my spiritual understanding.

Brooks may have a point that some liberals have forsaken the idea of a Supreme Being, but I don't believe they've given up on universal truths that hold us together beginning with a belief in human dignity. The nationalism of the far right, as we have witnessed in tragedies like the holocaust, is a dangerous gambit toward mob rule. Evident in chants like "lock her up!"

The so-called strong man reveals inner weakness. He fears his enemies. He mistrusts others. He will finally fail.  (Note Hush Money Trial of sleazy dealers all pointing fingers.) We shall overcome, one step at a time. Do the right thing, moment by moment. Do unto others... I don’t remember Jesus waving a flag. Beware of phonies.

Practice deep breathing. Speak with loving kindness.

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” Rev. Martin Luther King

The Tear-Down Crew

Film actor Anthony Perkins

Chuy Vega's hair always looked greasy. It wasn't long, but it was stringy and wavy. His brown complexion was smoothed by a close razor shave and his flowery cologne hovered around him like burning incense.

His height reached about 5-ft 11-inches even with his rounded shoulders. He wore his collared shirt unbuttoned on top, a V-shaped patch of chest exposed. His most distinguishing feature was his tenor-pitched voice that could stretch a word for emphatic tone. There was no mistaking it. It made me flinch.

"WAKE UP, SLEEEEPING BEEYEW-TEE!”

He called me that because I tended to fall asleep in the backseat of his car, an early 50s 4-door Chrysler that occasionally would not start when we were about to drive to another job site. He would pump the gas pedal to get the car started, but if he pumped too many times the engine would flood and we'd have to sit and wait.

In those cases he swore like a drunken dock worker.

"I'm good."

"What time did you get home last night, Beauty?"

He knew that I visited my girlfriend, Linda, and stayed late. 

Two other guys, Sam and Ronnie, both high school students like me, made up the Tear-Down Crew. Chuy was an adult and our boss. 

"Oooooooh, look at those chunky legs!" he cackled one morning, spying a young woman in a short skirt walking across the bridge near the old Sears Building that towered on the east side of the L.A. River. "Yummm... chinga!"

We were heading east toward Roosevelt High School and Stevenson Junior High in East LA. Our mission was to find the typing classrooms -- where a manual typewriter sat on top of every desk like rows of mechanical soldiers. We carried screwdrivers that we used to take apart each machine, remove the carriage and platen, leaving a skeleton of a typewriter on each desk.

The following day the cleaning crew would arrive, set up an assembly line of tanks on the school lawn where the machines would be dunked and cleaned. The cleaning crew consisted of a dozen or so student workers like us.

We were employed by the Los Angeles City School District, the second largest school district in the U.S., behind New York. It was summer 1963. The District ran from San Fernando Valley through central Los Angeles all the way to San Pedro, Narbonne High School; from Pacific Palisades High School on the west side to East L.A.

Chuy loved East L.A. because that's where he had connections.

My father worked for the L.A. School District and was instrumental in getting me the job. I enjoyed meeting my fellow student workers from various areas of Los Angeles. My home was the city of Pomona, about 30 miles east of downtown L.A. and Central Maintenance on Santa Fe Avenue where we met every morning.

I've always been curious about what kids my age were doing, what schools they attended and what the cultures were like. Each work morning I would hang with a variety of kids -- Black, brown, white and Asian. We shared stories about our work days and our schools, talked sports and even surfing.

Ronnie, in our Tear-Down Crew, was a dancer, had been a child actor. He was a theater guy. All child actors in L.A. had to be accredited through the L.A. School District. Photos were taken with a bio of each young thespian/performing artist kept at the Administration Offices. I guess for legal purposes, child employment rules. His dark hair was always combed in a perfect pompadour and his smile accentuated by his straight white teeth.

"You look just like Tony Perkins," he told me.

Tony Perkins was the actor in the Alfred Hitchcock movie, Psycho. He played the nervous Norman Bates, who turns out to be the schizophrenic murderer.

"Really? Do you know Tony Perkins?"

"I've seen him on sets. You look just like him."

As a somewhat reserved guy, concerned about acne and other teenage maladies, I thought I might pay attention to my lookalike, a movie star.

Perkins played the lead in the 1957 movie The Jimmy Piersall Story about the mentally troubled professional baseball player. I just happened to own a Jimmy Piersall signature baseball glove.

Was there a theme here? Perhaps, but not what I expected.

Sam was the oldest student of the Tear-Down Crew. Ronnie and I both looked up to him as a good guy, sort of a counter-balance to Chuy. Sam always wore a clean collared shirt and his posture defined his personality: not tall but firm and straight.

This particular day we were working at Stevenson Junior High in the Boyle Heights area of East L.A. Ronnie pointed out graffiti on the wall out front and took it as a warning.

"There's trouble here," he said. Ronnie was Mexican-American, the predominant culture here. He understood the Spanish references.

Neither Chuy or Sam seemed nervous. The morning went as planned. We found the typing room and had torn down the machines before we broke for lunch. Chuy said he had business to take care of and would be back in about an hour.

We had sandwiches with us and we found a shady spot on the empty campus to eat and relax.

When Chuy returned he had a wide grin on his face as though he had won the Daily Double at San Anita. He was whistling a tune.

"Did you find any trouble?" he said. "Are you girls ready to go?" 

"We're fine, Chuy. No problems," said Sam.

Which was true. Ronnie's anxiety had dropped. Nothing happened. Just another day.

But not for Chuy, as Sam explained later.

"Chuy got laid," he said. "He has a whore named Rosie that he sees. I heard him talking about it to one of the guys back at the shop."

For some reason, I knew that. It was all so obvious. I wasn't surprised or bothered by it. Every once in a while the memory comes back. I fantasize that Chuy sets me up with Rosie and what that would have been like? How would she have treated me? Would I have gone through with it? I envision her lighting candles, being seductive and kind. 

As for Tony Perkins, I didn't realize that he was gay until he died of AIDs in 1992. Then it all made sense. 

Ronnie was gay, too.

 

Small Kine Sticky

Guy Hagi 

"I grew up on Oahu where I learned proper Pidgin."

These words, seen recently on social media, tickled me.

Some may consider "proper Pidgin" an oxymoron. Like saying, proper slang.

But guess what, the 2015 U.S. Census recognized Hawaii Creole English (Hawaiian Pidgin) as a language.

If you've spent any time around the Hawaiian islands you've heard locals speaking Pidgin. Its roots come from the plantation days of the 1830s. Its utility is undisputed. It enabled people from as far away  as Japan, Korea, Portugal, England and Spain, among others, to communicate. 

Children of the immigrants were particularly quick to learn and spread Pidgin throughout working class communities. Hawaiian Pidgin is referenced as English-based Creole.

Dat da case.

Pidgin rings with an economy of words and a nice flow that matches the mood of island life. When you hear it, you want to repeat it, use it. Some Pidgin, however, is too heavy to comprehend.

I studied Hawaiian music taught by Kalae "Bobo" Miles, a well-educated Hawaiian man who attended private Kamehameha boarding schools on Maui. You must claim Hawaiian ancestry to attend these schools. They take the Pidgin out of students.

When he introduced me to his father, Kalae told me that I would not understand a word of what he's saying. He was correct. His father's Pidgin was unlike anything I'd ever heard. It made no sense to me. There are different grades of Pidgin: heavy and light. 

Kalae taught traditional Hawaiian music, mele (songs) in traditional Hawaiian language, sung in verse, a form of song taught to the Hawaiians by the missionaries, one worthy contribution to Hawaiian culture. Although he did say that these traditional Hawaiian songs contain secret meanings. 

It doesn't take long to understand that the secret is obvious sexual content that the padres would have found unacceptable (hee hee). Or is it? Who's fooling who?

The Hawaiian music that became popular in the U.S. in the early 20th Century was hapa haole, meaning half English and half Hawaiian. Songs like Little Grass Shack and Lovely Hula Hands are hapa haole, not traditional Hawaiian. They mix English lyrics with Hawaiian words, many of which are multi-syllabic and fun to sing. Like, humuhumunukunukuapua'a, which describes a fish. 

When Mele Kalikimaka (Merry Christmas) tumbled out of Bing Crosby's throat in mellifluous baritone, he was singing hapa haole.

Hapa haole songs are not Pidgin. Yet, the term itself has been called Pidgin. Hawaii Creole English has remained the language of the people, including elders like Kalae's father. An estimated 600,000 residents speak Pidgin natively, 400,000 as a second language, according to Wikipedia.

Foh evah, brah. 

Advertisers on local TV dip into Pidgin to add color and humor to reach their intended audience. TV news broadcasters have fun with it. Popular NBC surfer-anchor-meteorologist Guy Hagi speaks quickly and authoritatively, throwing out phrases like "bad-hair advisory” for windy and "sticky" for humid. He can speak even more precisely by using his Pidgin: 

“Small kine sticky.”

A Walk on the Wild Side

British actress Helen McCrory plays Polly Gray in BBC series Peaky Blinders on Netflix. McCrory unexpectedly died from breast cancer at age 52 during filming of the series.

I've been watching Peaky Blinders. It is a violent, ribald and intriguing story based on a real gang of gypsies who were involved in crime and politics in Birmingham, England during the early 1900s. Their charismatic leader, Thomas Shelby, is played by Cillian Murphy, who won an Oscar this year for his portrayal of Robert Oppenheimer in the award-winning film, Oppenheimer.

Wow. This series sizzles like a piece of raw meat on a hot grille. Murphy steals every scene in which he appears -- his blue eyes, round cheeks and pleasant good looks draw you in. His resonant Shakespearean voice seals the deal. But make no mistake, he's one shrewd dude, every nuance calculated.

Tommy Shelby

The Shelby family are the Peaky Blinders, named for their flat caps whose brims, pulled low, shade their faces. Legend tells us that inside those brims were hidden razor blades. Their tailored long coats flare like evil wings when the Blinders walk the shadowy streets of industrial, working class Birmingham evoking a chill in the smokey air, with potential violence at every corner.

"How can you watch this?" my lovely spouse asks, following a fury of spilling guts.

I have no answer other than I enjoy the tension and righteousness of a downtrodden class attempting to succeed. It reminds me of the cowboy movies I watched when I was young. My mother asked me the same question, even forbade me to watch those shoot 'em-up B-level flicks. I was more upset with my mother's censorship.

"Too much killing," she said.

"It's just a TV show. All my friends watch it."

My will was too strong. I had to watch.

I don't binge on Peaky Blinders. I watch one or two episodes and turn it off. When I prepare to stream another, part of me cringes, mindful of the raw violence and misogynistic sex, but once the episode begins I fall under its spell, beginning with the opening music, dark and foreboding, by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. 

We are an interesting species that cannot seem to get along. These are our ancestors. Or many of ours.  Themes of despair, hedonism, revenge and identity strike nerves. Not so lost today, they make for good theater that ideally we can learn and evolve beyond. Modern Shakespeare. 

Esteemed British actress Helen McCrory plays Polly Gray, Tommy's sister, a beguiling gypsy cohort, expressing pearls of wisdom: "Sometimes the women have to take over. Like in the war." She is a major player. 

McCrory, 52, died from breast cancer, unexpectedly, during the beginning of the sixth and final season (2021). She kept it a secret. It was a devastating blow to the cast and crew who had to re-produce at least one episode, in which she would die. It is dedicated to her memory.

I don't know how the series ends. I can't believe it will be a happy ending. I have just begun the final season. No spoilers here.

My mother and I loved to stay up late and watch movies on TV, especially on Saturday nights. Her favorite actors were Joseph Cotten and Vincent Price, because of their voices. She would complain about British films, saying they liked to leave parts out, expecting viewers to pick up the story. This BBC production is guilty of same. Some of the scenes are meant simply for drama, like the dialog between Tommy and the Jewish mobster Alfie Solomon, played by Tom Hardy, whose cunning and dialect as Alfie are nothing short of fabulous.

Because the language is difficult to understand at times, I watch with English subtitles, and will stop and  replay a scene to fully appreciate the poetry. The story line includes historical events and characters including the U.S. Stock Market Crash of 1929, Prohibition, the oncoming of Fascism in Europe, the role of the early IRA (Irish Republican Army) and British statesman  Winston Churchill on his way to becoming Prime Minister. Five stars. If you've got the stomach. 

"I am as true as truth's simplicity, and simpler than the infancy of truth."  William Shakespeare

Fun Fact: The series was filmed in Liverpool, home of the Fab Four Beatles, including the neighborhood where drummer Ringo Starr grew up.

You Know You're a Geezer...

 

When the simple act of watching your grandson tackle a hot dog gives you pleasure.

When you get a speeding ticket and you think it's cool. You broke the speed limit!

When nobody laughs at your jokes. You're considered funny for other reasons.

When you have a 54-year-old daughter, and a 22-year-old granddaughter graduating from college, a life-opening accomplishment too long ago.

When you go to bed at 9 and think you've stayed up too late. Not so much from fatigue, more your bio- rhythms have shifted.

When you can't remember your neighbor's name, even though you spoke to her yesterday and asked.

When you realize that you're shrinking.

When you make a pact never to drive at night because it's dark, the time you once went out to party and drive fast.

When you flirt with elderly women (or men).

When you read the same book over and over and there's no exam coming up. And it seems vaguely familiar. You've been here before.

When you translate a QR code as Quite Ridiculous.

When you remember the phrase "I Like Ike" as though it was yesterday. Beware of the military industrial complex.

When news of the world scares hell out of you.

When you wake up at dawn and your body creaks like a rusty hay baler.

When you know even vaguely what a hay baler might be.

When you remember before the iPhone and the remote control there was the far-out grooviness of the clock radio, which started and ended your day. AM radio. All the hits. Dodger games.

When you start laughing uncontrollably for no reason.

When you discover that you really do have a great singing voice. But nobody wants to hear you sing.

When you tell your grandkids that something is "bitchin."

When you realize that you are smarter than everyone else.

When you begin playing ukulele with senior citizens.

When you spend an afternoon with your 5-year-old grandson and feel like you've competed in an ironman triathlon.

When you can't decide whether it's better to walk, drive or just relax in a swing on the porch.

When you look back over the years and admit how fortunate you've been to be able to smell the roses, run with the wind, listen to great music, play with good friends and still be hanging around.

If you’re a geezer or geezerette, feel free to add your own wisdomry. We can even make up our own words!

Blowin in the Wind

Following the Presidential election of Barack Obama in 2008, Bob Dylan, now a Nobel laureate, told a Minnesota audience, "I was born in 1941 the year they bombed Pearl Harbor. I've been living in a world of darkness ever since. But it looks like things are gonna change now."  

The results are in. Generational Flip has occurred. We are now the Establishment.

By "we" I mean Boomers. This is not news so much as confirmation, as evidenced by the Robert F. Kennedy, Jr campaign to get on the ballot for President in all 50 states. The former Democrat has started his own political party, We the People.

Leader of Anti-Vax and scion of the famed Kennedy clan, RFK JR is fast appearing everywhere, fueled by the technology fortune of his choice for VP-running mate, Nicole Shanahan, who will be 39 in September.

Former spouse of Google co-founder Sergey Brin, Shanahan brings not only mucho denaro to RFK's campaign, but anti-establishment bona fides. She pooh-poohs medical science with beliefs that include "natural light therapy" for autism. She reportedly had a fling with Elon Musk. She introduces a Libertarian flare to politics and she surfs!  

Campaign rallies, documentaries and social media posts are being fed to a wide audience including youngsters who are members of the new Anti-Establishment that used to be us, or me. Although I see no comparison between Joe Biden and Dick Nixon. I canvassed for Senator George McGovern against Nixon in 72 and lost big time. The Establishment won.

Encouraged by a family associate, I picked up a copy of RFK Jr's book, The Real Anthony Fauci, a hit piece purportedly proving that Fauci is a fraud and huckster. The book is dense and mean-spirited written in the style of a supermarket tabloid. I tried to follow the so-called evidence but it bogs down into circuitous studies and footnotes. The Kennedy family, firmly established in American culture and the Democratic Party, disavows the opinions of Bobby's son.

He has struck a sensitive anti-establishment nerve in our country, members of whom I know and love.

This all leads to a third-party candidate who speaks to those disenfranchised by our cumbersome and elderly political leaders. Who wouldn't want new blood, new ideas, a new empowered future for a better country and world? I wanted anti-war McGovern, who served as a fighter pilot in WWII and came with knowledge and experience of war-time conflict. He spoke for the Anti-Establishment (a tad more coherently) in the same way that Kennedy speaks today. He reflects their conscience and desire for a better world. I understand his appeal.

Slick videos in support of Kennedy have been appearing on Facebook. Paid for by his campaign. They’re high-quality, and difficult to avoid or escape once you click into his posts. I assume this is due to Shanahan's contribution. She's a savvy techie with deep pockets.

Curious about how his presence on the ballot for President might effect the National Election, I've engaged in a very unscientific, random "poll."  I have read lots of comments made by his supporters. Many are hopeful and well-intentioned. A few still support Donald Trump. Some comments are by people who voted for Trump and are looking for something new. I haven't seen any express that they are former Biden Democrats. I'm sure there are those.

Our two-party system of electors makes it nearly impossible for a third party to win the Presidency. Essentially, it's a vote between two major candidates of the two established parties. A third candidate's only effect on the election is to take a vote away from, or give a vote to, one of the two major candidates. Third-party consumer-advocate Ralph Nader in 2000 swung the vote, a very narrow margin, to George W. Bush over Al Gore. In 1992, third-party candidate Ross Perot swung election for Bill Clinton over former President George H. W. Bush.

There are three third-party candidates this year -- Kennedy, Green Party candidate Jill Stein and People's Party candidate Cornel West.

How this will influence our National Election and the two major candidates is a guessing game at this point. It's only April and the Election is in November. Trump could have a criminal record by then. I don't want to consider numerous other calamities and surprises that could or might happen.

If I were going to place a bet in Vegas today, based on the simple facts that I have gleaned, I would not put my money on the anti-establishment Donald Trump, who seeks vengeance and wants to be king. My money would go on the most establishment of all candidates: Joe Biden. 

I am currently a tax-paying member of the once reviled, I-swore-I-would-never-join, Establishment. I still believe in peace and that we shall overcome. Unfortunately, the country was not ready for President Obama, who was blocked at every turn by the opposing Republican Party, which has fallen apart.

Have You Checked Your Email?

Me and Red

I don't know how excited most folks are about technology and how it makes our lives easier, but I am one step away from suicide. Modestly, of course. I won't be hanging myself in the bathroom or asking my wife to run over me in the driveway with our island car. One more blip of a QR code, forgotten password or demand for another app so I can connect a speaker to my laptop and I'll probably just swallow a bucket of nails.

Sometimes you feel better when you really feel the pain.

I can't believe I said that. But that's how I feel.

Technology is supposed to be easy, save time, provide more choices... yet it doesn't do that at all.

Life used to be so simple. I would connect my speaker wires to my amplifier. And I had really good speakers! I had a sound component system with a turntable and a deep collection of LPs of my favorite musical artists. Those records came in jackets with cool art on the front and liner notes on the back that told a story about the artist. I would rest the needle of the tonearm onto those vinyl platters and sweet, rich music would fill the air.

I traded my two table-sized speakers for two little ones, each smaller than a two-slotted toaster. I swapped a load of LPs for a few measly CDs that never sounded as good. I was saving space, trying to be more modern, attempting to save my marriage.

Even that seems like another lifetime. The entire component system went the way of the rotary phone. CDs are now relics. Try to find a use or application for the lowly nickel (once worth a Snickers or Baby Ruth).

I paid cash for a couple of malassadas at the bakery the other day and the clerk could not for the life of her figure how to give change for a twenty dollar bill. Young people don't do that. They have screens and apps and facial recognition. Wow.

Even if I could figure out how to connect my speaker to my laptop I know the sound would be inferior to those records I had. 

So I sit in silence lost in sweet, wistful memories.

About 20 years ago I heard a famous NY magazine editor being interviewed on the radio. He was elderly. He said his days were pleasant and wonderful because he could conjure memories of his youth, hear the ring of bells at Christmas time, smell the pine scent of the tree and hear laughter of children playing in the street. He didn't know what technology had in store for us. He didn't know about the thousands of emails we sort through each hour of each day.

Technology is moving so fast that what you purchased yesterday is practically obsolete by the time you receive it in the mail. I receive an online notification nearly every hour of something new I need to download or upload or reply to or delete, or be left stranded in the dark. Or penniless. Does a reference to pennies have any connection with our modern world?

For some of us it does. A penny for your thoughts A penny saved is a penny earned.

Today it's a bitcoin purchased is a bitcoin never seen, touched or smelled. And you must consider NFTs (non-fungible tokens). Why are they so popular? What does fungible mean, anyway? What's the point of something not fungible?

It sounds like something to go with pickle ball. One of the few things today that is not digital. But you won't find me playing pickle ball, either. I'd rather fall into soft water than onto hard court, thank you.

I know I sound like a cranky old man. I plead moderately guilty because I feel like I've earned the right to be cranky. I fashion myself cranky but wise. The Hawaiian culture shows respect for the elderly. We're called kupuna. We have wisdom from our years of living, we tell cool stories and strum our ukuleles.

Just keep me away from technology. I could be dangerous.