I'm starting over!

http://ipickedthewrongday.blogspot.com

It was fun Daffy.

I am who heroes have called The Dopleganger. At a time all too long ago I was given the ability to change into any being living. I would become them. I would learn their thoughts, passions, desires, fears. I would become like them but not them at all. My own psyche still existed in every form, allowing me inhumanly freedoms. This was ages ago. Since then I have... lost myself. It seems that I changed form so many times that I forgot who I once was. Sometimes I stare at people on the street and wonder if each one was once my wife, girlfriend, daughter, or mother. Men become best friends or fathers. Sometimes they become lovers too. I think I was once male. I'm not sure of it but it's the only thing that rings true. What was my name? Did I ever have one? Why not just change back to myself you might ask. The answer being a simple one. I've never had that ability. It was one thing to loose my body but now I've lost my mind.

I spot a hansom man at a grocery store. Being envious, I become him. The tricky thing about becoming a person is not to be seen by them or with them. I exit the store hastily and head toward the hansom man's home. It would seem his bikini model girlfriend is waiting for her chocolate Hagen Daaz. She greets me at the door with a big kiss. She believes that I've lost my keys for why would this good man lie to her.

I'm sorry honey but they were out of Hagen Daaz. I would have gone to another store but I just had to get back to you.

Again I am kissed for my efforts. The passion starts to swell when she stop us from going further. She's made up her mind and yes she'll marry me. My reaction isn't what she expected. Riddled with guilt I try to reassure her that I am just overwhelmed.

I'll be right back with your Hagen Daaz honey. I just can't believe my ears. Please tell me again when I get back.

I head to the elevator. This is when I make a shape-shifter faux pas. My hansom host sees me for a split second and is frozen in his tracks. I slip behind him and change into a man I saw earlier. The hansom man spins.

Sorry, I thought... you were someone else.

I pause.

Happens to me all the time.

My new form is fat and breaths heavy. He stinks of unwashed flesh and has thoughts that make my mind feel dirty. Fired from his job he has let himself go. He plans to murder his boss and as many coworkers as he can. The forgotten hero in me awakens in a rare glimpse. Apparently I still know right from wrong. The fat man isn't from the city and wasn't heading home at the time of my change. The main limitation to my power is that although I have all of my hosts memories, at the point of transmogrification I am disconnected from their present thought process. This man could be anywhere by now. I start by going down the block to see if he is still in the area. I ask a few perplexed vendors if they've seen me before and if so what direction was I headed in. Getting nowhere I decide to head our obese murderer off at the pass. I catch a crosstown bus hoping that it's not too late. I run off the bus out of breath after ten steps, fighting the urge for a unfiltered cigarette. Transformation is always fascinating no matter what some might tell you. There are few experiences that can rival the duplicity of being in a place a thousand times and for the first all at once. At the security desk I meet up with an old friend. An old friend of the Fat Man that is.

Hey Albert, how did you get down here? He asks me.

My heart stops for a beat when I realize that I'm too late. Shots ring through out the building. I head for the elevator and plead for the security guard to call the police. I urgently press buttons. When I arrive there is already blood on the floor. It's coming from the head of Trudi Schumacher, the bitch secretary who laughed when I asked her out... In the intensity of the moment I get lost in his thoughts. More shots ring out. There are screams coming from all directions. I turn the corner wheezing and in a cold sweat. My host self is standing there over a man on his knees. The man is pleading for his life. His pleas fall silent as he is shot execution style to the temple.

No! I scream.

The fat man turns his head and sees me. I am almost shot for my efforts. In my great rush to stop him I realized that I had no contingency plan. Now what? They say if you walk far enough you will eventually meet yourself. It's an age old proverb. What the proverb doesn't tell you is that the human mind isn't equipped to so literally meet it's self. The fat man snaps. He puts the gun up to his head and pulls the trigger. I can't stop him in time. I can't emulate the dead only the living. Should he die I might cease to exist. In a panic I search for a new host. The floor is deserted so I head for the elevator. As the car reaches my floor I am met by my security guard friend and the police.

There he is officers! He yells.

I am tackled and stun gunned.

No wait! You have the wrong man! Please! My... brother is in there dying!

A police officer runs to investigate. He yells back. He's not going to make it. In my desperation I transform into the officer in the other room. My transformation causes panic. The security guard vomits. The remaining officers let go of me as if I had plague. I'm able to run to an exit and make my escape. Half way down the stairs I rest. Finally able to concentrate I become the Haagen Daaz loving girlfriend. I am in love and miss my man. I wish he was here to protect me. By now the police have regained themselves and find me sitting on the stairs.

Are you alright miss? Did you see a man come through here?

Yes, I did. He was holding a gun. Was he the one shooting? I'm so scared.

In this guise I am eventually able to get away. Men can be so easy.

Or should I call her by her modern skewed equivalent "the shrink." My unforeseen foray back into panic disorder has been headed off at the pass by my glorious Dr. from parts Near East. I've been placed on a med that has taken the edge off the panic but has also left me short of breath. Quid Pro Quo doctor? Looks like I'll have to call her in the morning. Good thing it's not August. (I know at least one of you got that reference. Probably a happy pill popper like me.)

This only goes to illustrate (quite literally) how futile it is to remain closeted.

Classic...

About two years ago I started suffering from anxiety attacks for no apparent reason. Well, that's not 100 percent true. There were obvious stressors in my life at that time. Just the same when a panic attack hits you there is no rationalizing with it. Your body goes in to fight for flight mode with the emphasis on flight. The panic is so debilitating that there is little you can do to carry on with your life when you are in the midst of it. I had gained some level of control over my attacks until the last couple of weeks when they started to return. I have had several days of being unable to leave the house until something larger than my needs necessitated it. Describing an attack is a very subjective and personal thing. Not the same for everyone. For me, imagine a lingering and very present fear of nothing in particular that resides in your chest. Then imagine being afraid of the passage of time and what needs to be done in the coming hour. Imagine your heart beating out of its chest when the phone rings. Imagine the clock becoming your worst enemy. Imagine willing to take or do almost anything to make these feelings stop. If you can imagine these things you can have a sense of what I'm feeling as I write this now.

This is the opening paragrpahs of a New York Times article I just had to share. Take important note to remember which US angency rushed into Afghanistan with their "independent contractors" and took over the poppy fields. *Hint* Their name rhymes with "yes I may".


Opium Harvest at Record Level in Afghanistan


By CARLOTTA GALL
Published: September 3, 2006
KABUL, Afghanistan, Sept. 2 — Afghanistan’s opium harvest this year has reached the highest levels ever recorded, showing an increase of almost 50 percent from last year, the executive director of the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, Antonio Maria Costa, said Saturday in Kabul.

He described the figures as “alarming” and “very bad news” for the Afghan government and international donors who have poured millions of dollars into programs to reduce the poppy crop since 2001.

He said the increase in cultivation was significantly fueled by the resurgence of Taliban rebels in the south, the country’s prime opium growing region. As the insurgents have stepped up attacks, they have also encouraged and profited from the drug trade, promising protection to growers if they expanded their opium operations.

You'll find the rest of the article here: NYT

When I was 18 I had somewhat of a super hero complex left over from my childhood. I had grown up with Batman as my hero and had an inflated sense that a trained person should be in a position to stop crime. That plus my absorption of Frank Miller's seminal "The Dark Knight Returns" pushed this all into high gear for me. The Batman was back and was badder than ever. Now it was my turn.

Dressing up in tights and a cape was would have been way over the top and besides as much as jumping from building to building would have appealed to me I'm deathly afraid of heights. But oh did I want to do it. Fuck Michael Keaton. I didn't need no stinkin' stunt double.

So instead I did the next best thing. I joined the Guardian Angels. That's right, red beret and all. The Angeles had just moved into the Village in Manhattan. I walked right down to their office and signed up. Well, there was nothing to sign. All you had to do was ask to be in and you were in. They gave you a different shirt than the standard one during your "training period". The was the same except for the words "I support the Guardian Angels" written on the front. When I was given this shirt to wear I found out that there were three levels of Guardian Angel: I Support, Guardian Angel, and Leader. I Supports couldn't do much of anything. You could follow along with patrols and partake in activities but that was about it. Guardian Angels could lead patrols and take with them whoever they wanted. Leaders could take patrols on trains and potentially setup their own operations in other parts of town or cities. Leaders basically told everyone else what to do.

Oh, we had knicknames too. Unlike knicknames in the rest of the world our names were self proclaimed. The idea was to give yourself a knick name not of who you were but of what you wanted to convey. Some had OK names. Hannibal was one of my favorite ones. However, not many people are that creative. We had 3 "Ninja"s. One "Rambo". One "Unique" (well that one got points on originality). Curtis Sliwa's knickname was "Rock". It was an old name he was given due to his ability to stay up for days at a time. The comic book geek in me settled on "Daredevil". Daredevil patrolled the streets of NYC as well. I was 18 and I was inspired. Sue me.

Some cool things I got to do as a Guardian Angel included:

Seeing the premiere to Robocop.
Being in a Mick Jagger video. ("Let's Work". You can catch about 12 nanoseconds of me just before they cut back to Mr. Moose Lips.)
Winding up in a Martial Arts magazine.
Getting to eat all the leftover Popeye's Fried Chicken I could want.


Looks like I might have to stretch this out to a two part story. To be continued.

So I just got finished watching the "Let's kill the kykey hebbey jewey jew" episode of Star Trek the next generation. Character actor Saul Rubinek plays a "collector" who steals Mr. Data. Amazingly enough it is the emotionless android Commander Data who grows to hate the Jewish alien in this episode. His programmed logic leads him to conclude that the Jew must be "thrown down the well."

Something must have happened in the 24th century because I have never seen the visiting Chink captain episode. Although we have had two nips and a gook. Let's not forget the genetically modified Asiatic Khan played by the immortal Mr. Rourke.

I've never seen the episode with the spic or wetback unless we count the half wetback half klingon with the temper problem.

I don't recall ever seeing the dego ginny goomba wop Starfleet Officer save for the possible plumber who just like bathrooms has never been seen on screen.

We've had enough spooks, spades, and jungle bunnies to fill a shuttlecraft. Interesting how that spells diversity. In the USA we're only 10 percent of the population.


That leaves us with Bobo, Ofay, The Man, Cracker, and Peckerwood. Maybe Darwin was on to something. The caucassoid race is so strong that even all the aliens have taken on their features and mannerisms. Save for the Klingons who remain dark and have anger management issues.

Dammed be all that high yellow, butterscotch, oreo, sellout in me doesn't love the show anyway. Fuck it. Live long and prosper Whitey.

Daffy at his finest. After all, it was the yams that did it.

My favorite scene from Napolean Dynamite. The Spanish subtitles make it even better.

If you've read my previous post you know that I started working in the New York City club scene when I was 20 years old. Back then the best clubs in NYC didn't card but rather let you in based up your look. I knew one girl who claimed that she was actually 14. We all called her the Chocolate Girl as she worked her way into clubs by giving out free chocolates to everyone. She looked older and that's all anyone cared about. So being 20 in the club naturally meant that I had to turn 21 at some point during my employment there. That night came and boy was it a night.

On the night of my 21st birthday after we closed up the club the head of security decided to have all of the liquor cabinets opened up. They lined up shots of some evil concoction called an Orange Crush.

Here is the order in which I remember things.

The club closed.

The head of security asked the manager to open the liquor cabinets.

About 20 shots Orange Crush were being poured into glasses.

The DJ, Mark Kamins, fired up some music. He was thrilled to find out that I liked his music.

I was running across the dance floor.

I was throwing up into a trash can on the dance floor.

I was throwing up next to a co-worked into a trash can on the dance floor.

The morning sun of West Broadway hitting me.

Me being put into a cab worrying that I had no money to get home. Someone yelled out that it was paid for.

Trying to find the keys to get into my loft on Chambers St.

Me giving up on the key and falling asleep with my knees tucked to my chest in the doorway.

My neighbor Jim finding me asleep with my knees tucked to my chest in the doorway.

My literally having to crawl out of the elevator and into the loft.

My brother laughing his ass off.

The painful 12 hours that resumed after that.

It was one hell of a night not to remember.

I think we all have had times in our lives where we've been complete poseurs. Usually such things first happen to us around puberty. In our sudden need to break away and be independent we ironically start following others and trying to do what they do. When I was in Junior High School in 1981 Hip Hop culture had begun to flourish. It was the latest way for young people to stick their finger at the "Man." "Hip Hop" became a label to what was new and fashionable in brown and black communities in New York City. Being raised in the artist community of Tribeca I wasn't exactly in touch with was was happening Uptown and in the Bronx. However there were the ghettos in Chelsea nearby the Junior High School I attended. My Junior High was named the Clinton Program. Clinton was housed on the 5th floor of an elementary school. It consisted of 90-100 kids and about 5-6 teachers. It was first class instruction but very socially claustrophobic. There was a very diverse mixture of kids but too few of them at the same time. It was in the 6th grade at Clinton that I first became aware of having a Black identity. Coming back from a field trip on the Subway I was sharing some seats with a few other kids. The leader of our little group was a kids named Andre. Andre was athletic, cool, good looking, and already showing signs of being a man. Quite the 8th grader. He was lecturing us on being black. There was one other black kid in our group who was nodding his head up and down every time Andre made a point.

"None of you can understand what it's like to be black! Just me and Jamal!", Andre exclaimed.

At that point I had what some would call a moment of clarity. I was this little overweight sixth grader with a jacked up afro. But I had to set the record straight.

"Well, I'm half.", I said clear enough for all to hear.

"I heard that!", Andre said proudly as he got up out of his chair to give me five. Jamal got up too. I was now a part of a larger club.

It was on this same train ride that Andre pointed out he had been in that particular subway car before. His graffiti "tag" was in plain site up by the emergency break. He was being congratulated by all. Andre had now become my personal James Dean. The rebirth of slick, the personification of cool. I had to get my own graffiti tag.

The story seriously winds down from here. I had no talent for NYC early 80s style graffiti. My chosen tag was even worse, "Jab". I would scrawl it, in my inept style, all over my note books with store brought felt tip markers. I was actually too scared to draw it on trains. However, there was one time I manage to pull it off. I was completely alone in the train save for one man diagonally across the length of the train from me. He was fast asleep. I curled up in the corner of my seat and snuck out my pen looking out for anyone who should suddenly walk in the train. I managed to pull off one sloppy and tiny "Jab". I was a rebel at last.

As for Andre I remember bumping into him when I was in high school. He was selling newspapers down by the World Trade Center. We always greeted each other warmly. To this day I can still hear him yelling out: "Post! Post final! Post!"

I think my mother at one point belonged to the White Gay Men Who Are Willing To Love Black Women Club. Just like I have been known as the great lesbian converter of my time, my mother did the next to impossible with my father. My father was a gay man when she met him. She managed to get him to play for the other team for 10 years. Forget Pride of Family. That's what her novel should have been about!

After my father she got involved with another gay man named JL. In retrospect JL wasn't just a gay man he was a sterotype. A very talented musical theater perfomer, JL was dramatic, overly emotional, and thin to boot. The relationship didn't last very long and to this day I'm not sure how it ended. It might have had something to do with an exchange that JL and I had when I was 11.

Me: JL, you look so happy.
JL: yes, I just fallen in love.
Me: Oh really? With who?
JL. Michael B.
Me: *????????????????????????*

Welcome to yet another typical event in my childhood.

At Lennox Hill Camp there were a few Camp Counselors who seemed to transcend their genre of expertise. Not just famous around Lennox Hill Camp were these individuals but infamous.

There was Scooby. Scooby was the complexion of a Hershey's chocolate bar with skin as smooth to boot. Scooby would ask us if we wanted to see the dark side of the moon and then sure enough he would turn around, walk away, and drop his pants for all to see. Scooby's famous saying was "And you can get it for a dollar ninety-nine." He would say this in a carnival barker/W.C. Fields voice.

There was Carlos. Carlos was insane. Benevolently so but definitely insane. On my very first trip to Lennox Hill camp I was sat down in Carlos's group. "Hi, I'm Carlos", he said to me as he introduced himself. "Fuck to the East, Fuck to the West, Fuck with me and you're fucking with the best." Talk about an icebreaker. I remember one night when dressed as a pirate for our annual costume party Carlos could be seen in our bunk chasing a bee out with his sword. You didn't mess with Carlos. The kids in his care gave him nooooooo problems.

There was Fran. Fran was a very obese and kind hearted man. He also had a quick temper. I was told by my brother one summer that Fran was gay. I'm not sure if this was just rumor or not but given how I was raised it was easy to accept as reality. Fran took the brunt of all the fat jokes the camp kids had to offer.

There was our resident naturalist named Dan. Dan the Nature Man. "Dan, Dan, the nature man, can put gorillas in garbage cans." Dan had a fascinating knowledge. I was taken with the different types of bug and reptile life in Connecticut when I was at Lennox Hill. There wasn't an animal or insect that Dan couldn't identify or tell you about. I remember one summer being taken on a blind nature tour where we had to make our way through the woods guided by him but tethered together by rope and blind folded. At the end of the tour we were given a mystery leaf to hold which we were all told was poison oak. Boy were we all pissed. He assured us that as long as we didn't touch our faces we would be fine. Ugh. I'm still pissed. That was the only negative feeling I ever had towards Dan.

Finally when I was in Boys 3 I had two counselors who's names I can't remember anymore (I think it might have been Jim and Johan). Every summer we got to go of into the woods and have a camp out for a day or two. These were always adventurous and felt like the real out doors experience. One this one outing we were deep into the woods. Every once in awhile we could hear the sounds of the outside world. I distinctly remember hearing a motorcycle in the distance making it's chainsaw like noise. One of our counselors told us that they had to get something and that he would be right back. After 5 or so minutes we were starting to wonder what had happened to him. Suddenly we heard a loud crack and a yell.

"Ahhhhhhhh!!!!! Johan!!!! Help me!!!!!!"

*crack* *crack* *crack*

Johan stood up and ran into the woods after Jim.

"Jim!! I'm coming!!! Hold on!!!"

*crack* *crack* *crack*

"AAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!", we then heard Jim yell.

We were scared white. Kids were clining to each other some crying for their mothers. There was total pandemonium amongst the ranks. My response was to delve into temporary insanity and start acting like a mental patient.

"OK. I am now going crazy!", I said to myself. I kept up some type of cuckoo's Nest monologue up until we realized that it had gotten very quiet. We all shut up. You could hear a pin drop. In the distance we saw two figures emerging out of the mist. The one street kid who was with us, Jaime, jumped down to him stomach and crawled GI Joe style over to the figures.

Of course it was Jim and Johan. When we all saw their faces we broke into tears. We were fucking furious at them. We honestly though they had been killed and that we were next.

We swore that we were going to tell Walter (the camp director) what had happened when we got back. Somehow that never happened.

I'm on a plain
I can't complain
The finest day
That I ever had
Was when I learned
To cry on demand
Love myself
Better than you
I know it's wrong
What can I do?

-Nirvana

These immortal lyrics written by Kurt Cobain and permormed by Nirvana hold deep meaning to those who have been on mood altering drugs. Not the kind that you buy from a dealer but the kind that your doctor prescribes for you. Your psychiatrist most likely.

I recently had a major event in my life where my psychiatrist asked me why I had a problem with keeping my appointments. I explained to her my life long struggle with what I learned several years ago was Attention Deficit Disorder. On the spot she suggested trying a typical ADD medication. Eagerly I agreed to try this out. Anything was better than continuing this curse. I was actually at the visit to talk about the Zoloft that I had been taking for the last year. Zoloft had done it's job well enough. It had gotten me through the panic attacks I was experiencing in 2005. At this point the side effects were getting in the way of living a happy life. If my oldest son didn't read this blog from time to time I might explain more. She asked how I was feeling and honestly I was feeling OK having been over Zoloft for a week. She told me to stop with the Zoloft and to try the new meds.

Like a super hero to the rescue. Look up in my hand, it's speed, it's a pill, it's Wonder Drug! Well it's actually named Concerta. Concerta is now my new hero. It's a controlled dose of speed that allows me to focus on tasks at hand and not forget that I am in the middle of them. I now understand how and why speed freaks stay up for days and try and write novels or take apart cars just to see if they can. The controlled dose that I take allows me to focus just enough to get everyday life tasks done without feeling overwhelmed. My main side effect is that I get sped up a bit sometimes and my sleeping patterns can be a bit off. When I speed up I do my best to slow myself down by concentration on shutting the fuck up. Sleep patterns aren't so bad due to the fact that I create my own schedule. If I'm compelled to stay awake I just make sure I devote the time to work.

More on my chemical calithenics as they develop.

It's been a long month.

Injuries, hospital visits, emergency room stays, full contact matches, and a major move.

Alicia and I had an opportunity to buy a house through the help of her sister. The possibility came up very fast. After an exhaustive search we were able to find a beautiful house in the city of Lynwood. I had never heard of the place but it was an opportunity to own again.

After an exhausting move that lasted two weeks and took place in the worst heat wave seen in Los Angeles in many decades, we were finally done. The next morning I took my youngest son to childcare. Needing to run some errands I took my time getting home.

Upon arriving home I noticed that the realtors sign was still up and decided to take it down. I noticed that my gate was open but didn't read too much into it as meter readers and mail carriers aren't always very courteous. As I was taking the sign down a sheriff's car passed me by. I made eye contact with him and he drove away. Suddenly I was approached by one of my new neighbors. He began the conversation in Spanish as most people mistakenly view me as Latino. (I'm Black and Sicilian for those who don't know). I told him politely that I didn't understand him. The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Neighbor: Do, eh, two eh-black live here?
Me: Uh, excuse me?
Neighbor: I eh-see two, how you say? Knee-gers?
Me: So what the hell are you trying to say man?
Neighbor: Oh, noting but two eh-guy come in and take stuff.
Me: What?? Wait one minute! Thank you!

I run inside the house only to see that the door had been kicked open. Stuff had been stolen. Our new house violated. So far what has been noticed missing is two laptops, a portable DVD player, my iPod, and some jewelry.

Ugh.

Hell of a way to top off a move.

At the same time my mind really can't wrap it's head around the problem. There is a great episode of the Sopranos entitled "Unidentified Black Males" where made up black men are made the scapegoats for all the crimes committed in the episode. Very well written.

I can't help but think that my next door neighbor's nephew is right now listening to all the Richard Pryor albums I had just downloaded.

Over a year ago I posted about my summer camp experiences at Lenox Hill Camp in Litchfield Connecticut. The post went by with no fanfare whatsoever. My usual blog readers scratched their head and figured I was having an off day at the keyboard. The truth was that I really intended to post for other friends and survivors of Lenox Hill. It was such a wonderful and unique place. Check here for the original.

A few days ago in the middle of my move into my new house I get a letter by not just someone who went to the camp but from the director (our god on Mount Olympus) Walter himself!

The last time I saw Walter was my very last day I ever attended Lenox Hill. Our entire group (boys 4) went over to his air conditioned hut and sung him a voracious wake up version of "The Lord Said to Noah". I remember having my staff in hand as I banged on where I imagined his bed might have been on the other side of the wall.

Walter was the most even tempered and good natured man. The camp was always exciting and progressive with him in charge. He's asked me to post more stories so here goes. Anything for a man who helped me become who I am today.

Every night at dinner (and middays at lunch) we would sing songs of grace which were for the most part pretty fun. One of my favorite was Praise Be, sung to the tune of Windy by The Association.

Praise be to God the Father Almighty
Praise be to God who gave us the earth
Praise be to God the spirit eternal
Praise be to God forever

There were about 5-10 songs that we could choose to sing. Every day a different table would get to choose the song to be sung. Our tables were all assigned to us at the beginning of the year. It was a great time to get to know different people and counselors at the camp.

My last summer there led to some amazing experiences. Falling in love for the first time being one of them. I don't' think the girl even knew. One of the counselors Fran (a gentle obese man who studied and sung opera) took me aside one night in my grief of feelings and gave me m first talk about relationships. Every single thing Fran told me turned out to be true for the rest of my life.

One night while fighting in our bunks (those of us in Boys 4 that is) a kid named James Brown (A white kid no less. It was 1981 and the kid had been born in 1969. His parents had to know.) started calling one of us a "faggot". We all agreed that this was not cool. "Besides", I said. "My father is gay and I don't appreciated it." Much to my surprise one of my bunk mates jumped up and said "Mine too!"

Little did I know that my experience with the world's openness of this subject had just peaked.

More to come....

The Mooninites were by far my favorites of the expo. "I'm doing this as hard as I can. I hope he can see me."



A big sword gets you all the chicks at the Expo. Hey, wait a minute. That's my daughter!!



I'm not cool enough to know who she is. She does look cool though.




For his size the guy had some big balls.



Don't tell my wife but I glomped her.




Can you believe they had the nerve to be cranky at the end of they day? Here was the tally: Kids out zero dollars, Daddy out three hundred. And that didn't even include the price of admission.

I tell you the Anime Expo in Anaheim was a blast. Anime people are the new hippies. They just are there to have fun. There was none of the "too cool for the room because I'm trying to impress Kevin Smith" vibe that you find at every last comic book show. People were very mellow, some just holding up "hug me" or "I'm a demon child looking for my mother" signs. Very mellow.

I left my daughter and her friend alone for much of the expo as it was a really safe place (with the exception of the Bonaduce scare. ;-) ) Besides she had her cell phone on and I was checking in with them every few minutes. Towards the end of the show I get a call from Ari telling me that they were upstairs. I had explicitly told them not to leave the downstairs floor. I couldn't be that mad but I figured it was time to bring the rope in a bit. I asked Ari to come down stairs. When she got there her friend was not with her. Apparently her friend refused to listen and wanted to stay where she was. (oh hell no...)

When I got upstairs with Ari there was her friend who had happened to find the most rebellious goth kids at the event. She was sitting down and flirting with one of them in her geisha outfit. Quite a contrast to the dirty black look of the goths.

A couple of interesting stories later (to be told later) I whisk the kids away and make for the car to go home. I over hear Ari's friend saying "Jesse was sooooo cool. But I have a boyfriend, oh well." I didn't exactly know where to start with this. First of all it's not every day you hear a 12 year old contemplating cheating on her boyfriend. Second of all Jesse was a biological girl who was identifying as a boy. Whether or not she really identified as a boy was in question. I more got the sense that she was the kind of girl who got off on making other girls belive she was a guy so that she could fool around with them. I've known many girls like that.

"No! Jesse was a boy! He was sooooo coooool!"

"Of course he was cool! He's on drugs and he's a girl! He knows all the right things to say." My retort got quite a laugh from Ari's mother later on that night.

Here's a picture of Jesse. You decide.




Aftermath:

I got a big kick out of talking to Ari about this a couple of days later. She told me that her friend had resigned to my analysis of the situation and said: "Well if Jesse is a girl then I guess I like girls."

This is one cool generation.

So, while at the Anime Expo I happened to see Danny Bonaduce walk by as I was eating some lunch. For those of you who are Bonaduce-philes you might know that he holds a 3rd degree black belt in karate. I've always wanted to talk to him about training and maybe invite him down to the dojo to train with us one night. Given his insane lifestyle I've always wondered what he thought his life would be like without training. Would it be worse? The same?

As I was contemplating getting up to go and speak with him I noticed that he wasn't alone. He had his daughter with him. Now, I tend to leave celebrities alone but if I see them with their kids I definitely give them their space. Being a parent I can only imagine how stressful that must be having strangers in your face when you're trying to look out for your children. I let them pass by figuring that fate might bring our paths together on another day.

Low and behold my daughter gets ahold of him when I'm not looking and takes a pic with his arms around her shoulder. Ugh.

Gloves are off Danny Partridge. Next time it's no more Mr. Nice Sensei. Eye for an eye. I'm talking to you, your kids, and your hot wife. And I'm leaving my daughter at home from now on.

OK. I was all set to post some great observations of the incredible time I had at the Anime Expo 2006 today. Armand was dressed as a Samurai and Ari and one of her friends as Geisha. Their outfits were wonderful.


When we got home I had lots to write about. So I decided to unload my digital camera and low and behold my heart stopped.



I left her alone for 15 fucking minutes only to find out later that she'd been arm to arm with Danny Bonaduce. (!!!!!!) OK. Lesson learned! Never let your kids out of your site. Bonaduce... Be afraid... Be very afraid...

Wednesday night one of our new students suffered a very serious injury at the dojo. There was no negligence on anyone's part it was just simply one of those freak accidents. David Klein, who is also a member of this list long before he began training with us, suffered a broken Tibia and Fibia bone in his left leg. While attempting a throw his foot became stuck and his uke landed directly on his calf causing both bones to fracture and his tibia to break through his skin. This was a very horrific experience but I was very glad that I was in a room full of martial artists. As I attended to David to see how bad things were most students kept on training as I've taught them to do when there is any kind of injury in the dojo. The philosophy of there being too many cooks and giving people something to do. Also I maintain a philosophy of students staying in action in the midst of fallen friends as turning to suddenly help someone in a real situation can wind up with both people dead. Defend yourself first. We keep the job to the sensei and the training partner to look after the injured party. This however was a case where the injury was so serious I needed every single person to help in one way or another. Total focus was needed in the dojo. I immediately began reiki and I knelt down next to him and asked one student to call 911. I had another student go and get my emergency procedures manual (Every teacher should have one of these handy. The one I use is from here: http://aikidofaq.com/health/emergency.html). I had another student come over and perform more reiki as I did my best to comfort David. I then had someone get wet paper towels, another to get cleaning supplies out and ready as the mat was collecting large amounts of blood. 3 more students went out and stood on the corners to flag the ambulance down. I also had yet another person check on David's uke who I knew would be distraught over the event. The paramedics finally came after what felt like an eternity (it was probably no more than 10 minutes though) and I rode with them and David to the hospital. To shorten the story, we stayed with him in the emergency room and sent someone to pick up his grandmother who wanted to be there with him. David went into surgery this afternoon and was told by the doctor that he will make a full recovery.

As for David, he was in about as much pain as I've ever seen anyone in my life. Just the same one of his first concerns was that he wouldn't be able to train. I told him that I could teach him in a wheel chair if he needed. He was very relieved to hear this. He even told me that not for nothing but his uke better damn well pass his black belt test he had coming up on Sunday. That was too funny at the time.

I was so impressed by David's spirit. Here is a student who had only been in 3 classes up to this point. He had just moved in from out of town and hadn't even started a new job yet. Laying in the emergency room he had every reason to lash out. Instead he started up a conversation that allowed us to get to know each other better. We exchanged stories about cooking and good sake, and beer. We even talked about training.

He's in for a 9 month full recovery of his leg and will be out of the hospital by Sunday. The surgeon told him that the operation was a complete success and that he will have no problem with the leg.

I spent a good part of today interfacing with the hospital and my insurance companies to make sure that David never sees a bill. I really learned the importance of having a insurance that not only covers liability but also covers medical bills as well. If there the hospital bill surpasses my insured limit I will be holding a fundraiser to cover the rest of the cost.

For any of you that are healers please send your prayers and healing to David. I will continue to hold him in my consciousness and send him reiki as well.

I seem to write best during times of change and strife.  That's actually how this whole blog got started.  Free therapy to suppliment the therapy I was already paying for.  I've got a few posts saved up in my mind.  More self satirism to come soon...

Tom Welling.



Tom Welling's younger brother Mark.



Nuff said...

I bet you had a moment of fear when heath ledger flipped michele williams over and fucked her in the ass. A collective of women around the world all thought of you during that scene.

http://www.winterrowd.com/illusions/

I think every family has a member who is bonafide insane. Not eccentric but freaking nuts. My younger brother qualifies for this title hands down. I have another younger brother (the youngest of us) but I'll devote another blog to him entirely.

The stories I can tell you about him are endless. From the time he stuck a raisin in his nose when he was 2 (he stuck it so far up that my parents couldn't get it out. He finally sneezed and out came a very moist raisin) to a couple of months ago where for no reason he convinced me that a very famous comic book artist had died. I finally got wise on that one when the same artist had updated his blog a few months later.

Most of my brother's stories need to be told in person to have the full effect but thankfully my brother is a comic book artist so there is plenty of visual evidence that I can show you. When my brother gets bored he decides to make up a lie or he will draw something outrageous staring his own family members. Let me give you one of my personal favorites.

Here is a picture of my mother, Ione. You get the gist. Cultured and very literate.





For my father's 60th birthday my brother drew him the following card (for purposes of the illustration I'll tell you that my father is Italian).





The prosecution rests your honor.

So in the latest of my interesting experiences online I get this doosy of an instant message the other day from and ex-coworker.

clava
hey

aledro
hi

clava
hi
am i alive?

aledro
????

clava
did i die?

aledro
literally?

clava
yes
huh?
help

aledro
what's up m?
you ok?

clava
im dying

aledro
where are you right now?

clava
im amsterdam

aledro
did you take something?

clava
yes
shrooms
am i dead?

aledro
you're alive

clava
ok
thank you

aledro
i'm alive and talking to you
no worries
you just got ahold of some strong amsterdam shrooms is all

clava
call 911q
please

aledro
i can't call them for amsterdam.
what are you worried about?

clava
that i'm dead

aledro
you're not dead, you are alive and chatting with me

clava
ok

aledro
how long have you been in amsterdam? are you alone right now?

clava
yes
alone
i need help

aledro
yes, is anyone you know there at all?

clava
yes

aledro
where are they?

clava
i dunno
im dying
now

aledro
why do you think you are dying?
where are you? hotel room?

clava
Oostelijke Handelskade 34
1019 BN Amsterdam
T. 020 561 3636
F. 020 561 3600
E. post@lloydhotel.com
im dying

aledro
can you call me?
you there?
i called the hotel. they are sending a doctor up
you still there?



I wound up talking to him later on.



aledro
hi
you there?

clava
i'm alive!
no more shrooms for me!

aledro
you feeling better now?

clava
yea
amen

aledro
good. did they come up to your room right away?

clava
they did
thanks


aledro
i would imagine they are used to this kind of thing

clava
i think so

aledro
no problem. at least a get a good blog out of this. i'll change your name to protect your innocence.

clava
ok

aledro
i'm glad you're better. no mushrooms while you're alone!

clava
i learned that
clava has logged off

Well, is it just me or was I owed a bit more thanks than that. I could at least have gotten a reach around.