(Still) Driving While Black

I finished up a great drum lesson with a long time student, fired up my Dodge Challenger RT and began my journey out of Manhattan Beach. The neighborhood is a primarily white and affluent. The area I was in has several stop-sign controlled intersections. I often comment to my wife that people rarely obey the etiquette of four-way stops and often pull the "California stop" which is actually a roll-through.

Personally, I never do the 'Cali-roll' because I never want to give "them" a reason and by them I'm referring to cops. I should point out here for those who do not know—I'm a black man that's lived in and around L.A. for a twenty-plus years. At the end of my student's block I approached my first stop sign. I pulled up, geared down (I have a six-speed manual transmission...yes I do), then depressed the brake and came to a full stop. When the coast was clear I moved through the intersection. In my rearview mirror I noticed a motorcycle cop (caucasian) slid in behind me.

I moved my eyes back to the road and moved on. The cop caught my eye a second time as he was now completely "up my Challenger's ass" so to speak. To exit this neighborhood my route requires more than a half dozen right and left turns, most of which are 'stop sign' controlled. As I neared my first four-way stop I noticed at least two cars rolling through their stops and at least as many crossing through the intersection when it was not their turn. Still, the motorcycle cop stayed on my back like a spider monkey. Clearly he was too close to read my plate, run it into a shoulder mic and check me for priors. No, his interest was not in who I was, it was in what I was—a black man. This was a good old fashioned mid-50's style: let's escort this negro to the county line—type of theater.

Most people in this situation might experience fear at this point. But as a brother that's been here too many times before I shot passed the fear and landed on rage. I'm 52 years old, which makes me too old for this shit and it's 2018, which means we should be done with this racist nonsense. No...such...luck. Congratulations brother, you've just been profiled, here's your complimentary escort, oh joy! A vision flew through my brain where he pulls me over, asks for my license and instead of presenting it, I get out and present him with a beating.

I beat him until he says, "I picked the wrong brother to profile, I should have called in sick today."

But that's not me and this was just a passing vision. I'm a lover not a fighter. I have love in my heart. (*However, I would caution you not to test the depth of my love lest the lover steps aside for the fighter within).

After the labyrinthine route we arrived at my final stop sign which would put me onto the main drag and officially beyond the haloed gates of the coveted Manhattan Beach. The lineup of vehicles put me three cars back. This was the moment of truth. Would he light me up? Would the cute cherries kiss my rearview? Or would he be satisfied that he'd run another negro out of town? And if so would this be a tiny tidbit he'd share with the family over his wife's pot roast after his shift? Wait, make that over a kale salad and tofu burgers. Alas, he seemed satisfied that he'd delivered his potential criminal to the proverbial border. With the threat neutralized he pulled past me on the sidewalk. I kept my eyes forward but could feel the heat of his passing glance.

I put this cop at 25, 26 years old, half my age yet still part of me wanted to get him in the ring and go a couple rounds with him. But I know that wouldn't work. We're past the age of 'teaching someone a lesson' with force. (Well, some of us are). No, in all honesty I'd love to sit down one on one, man to man with this guy. It would be a small table so I could hold his eye—no distractions. I'd ask him one simple question.

"Why are you afraid of me?"

He'd probably deny being afraid of me or any man for that matter. But It would be text book false bravado. I'd interrupt his diatribe and tell him who I am. I'd begin by telling him about my students and fitness clients; my writing; how amazing my wife is. I'd tell him that although I'm not a church going man, I do believe. I'd tell him that a good chunk of my heart is filled with aspects of Buddha's teachings. I'd mention the level of martial art black belt that I achieved. I would end my life's curriculum vitae by sharing the phrase I use at the end all of my personal training classes:

All of the world's problems can be solved with love.

I wonder what he'd do next? Would he relax and shed his fear of my people? Or would  he remain suspicious and fearful of us? Either way I would have done what I set out to do, which was to sit down with a stranger that has built-in prejudices—a profiler's heart—a man uneducated on the subject of black people, specifically this black person and shed some light on who the tax paying—law abiding—black man in the Challenger was...on that day.

This DWB just occurred yesterday and on that day I was angry. Today my temperature has dropped and the love has returned to my soul. In actuality I feel pity for the cop. He sees the world through a one-way lens that has been perverted and narrowed by racist talking points and stereotypes. Meanwhile, my cup is so full it runeth over.

Hemi love baby!

Later today when I fire up the Hemi engine and roll out I'll feel California's warm sun on my mocha skin as I listen to my favorite tunes. A smile will come to my lips because I'm loving life. I'll find my ride an open stretch of road where I can put her in high gear and let her sprint. Then I'll pop the sunroof and shout to the heavens.

"Hey God, I'm driving while black and fu%*ing loving it! Thank you!"

Give The Drummer Some

Clyde Stubblefied...the man!

'Give the drummer some' was a shout out by James Brown in the song The Funky Drummer. James also guides drummer extraordinaire, Clyde Stubblefield at the beginning of the solo.

He tells him, "Don't turn it loose, just keep doin' what you're doin' cause it's a mother..."

James was giving his drummer some love and baby he had it right!

I've got an amazing drum student named Logan. Not only is he an amazing player, he's got a truly strong character and what you'd call, grit. I want to put the spotlight on a particular situation that he handled--masterfully.

He's sixteen years old, which makes him the oldest member of his hard rock band. The band has a unique situation where one of the parents manages the band; they have a paid band coach and all parents get together with the band at rehearsals. Is this helicopter parenting? Or is this a level of support that all young rockers deserve? You decide. I'm not getting into that here.

A few months ago I had the opportunity to see the band live and was blown away. These kids are playing challenging material and doing it very well--better than some bands with cats in their twenties. They cover everything from Deep Purple to Metallica to Van Halen and beyond.

At our first drum lesson after the show I told Logan he should be doing a drum solo. It's hard rock music and in my semi-biased (and scientifically based) opinion Logan is the most proficient on his instrument. Logan, the ever fearless cat that he is smiled and said, "O.k."

We discussed his set list and found the ideal spot in the set for Logan to rip it up. He'd come out of Black Sabbath's War Pigs and go into his solo. Then he'd open Van Halen's Hot For Teacher, which is perfect because the Halen song starts with drums. At the following week's drum lesson he told me that the manager or (Mom-ager) and band coach tensed up and gave him the empty calorie response,

"Ah, not on this gig maybe on the next one..."

I dropped a few expletives then immediately apologized to Logan--he was cool with it. I was not surprised by the response Logan got from his camp because this is a typical response we drummers get.

I pondered it and thought perhaps this goes back to a time of bebop free-jazz where everyone took twenty minute solos and when it came around to the drummer audiences just got burned out. Or perhaps it was during 60's acid rock where drummers took, again, twenty minute solos because, well, they were on acid and time just sort of flies...or drags on acid. (Or so I'm told).

Either way people's eyes glaze over when 'drum solo' is mentioned. To be fair it's also due to the fact a lot of drum solos are poorly executed.

"How many guitar solos are there in your two sets of music?" I asked Logan.

"Every single song."

"Precisely," I said. "Yet a brother can't get a two minute drum solo."

Logan and I discussed the solo, the art of building the solo. I stressed how it's necessary to have one ready because P.A. systems and guitar electronics go down all the time at shows, so the acoustic drum solo keeps the show rolling while roadies figure their sh** out.

I then let the issue drop and we carried on with the lesson. What I didn't realize was that Logan looked at the problem and took initiative. He grabbed the bull by the horns. This didn't surprise me. Logan is a confident, intelligent and thoughtful little (6 ft. tall) dude.

During the week he prepared a drum solo. Then at the next rehearsal with band members, parents and coach he told everyone of the idea and where to put the solo. He then said,

"Can I at least show you my idea? I'll play it for you and if you don't like it we'll move on."

The coach and Mom-ager agreed. 'Oh how big of them...don't get me started!'

Logan clued the boys in on the transition between the songs and played the solo. Everyone in the room went nuts. Logan was then granted permission to play the solo at the gig. This is a victory for all drummers but still the situation is pathetic. He initially was told 'no' based on prejudice and preconceived notions. Human nature 101: I don't understand therefore I say no! Oh, how I grow weary of the small minded.

I admire how Logan didn't give up yet did not bully his way into a solo. And never once did he take the typical millennial route and claim entitlement to his idea. No, he essentially created an audition situation for himself. It was a very mature move not to mention downright shrewd. The cat's a stud, I'm telling you.

Note to: parents, teachers, band members, soundwomen, soundmen, producers etc: Use your ears first before you strike down a drum solo or any musical idea for that matter...ya friggin' dummies!

I was unable to attend the gig as my nephew was in town playing in a basketball tournament. But I turned Tyler, one of my other younger students onto Logan's band and both Tyler and his parents said Logan 'killed it' with his solo. Tyler and his guitar shredder brother, Noah have a gig coming up and guess what's been added to their set? You got it baby...a drum solo. (Tyler played it for me, it's awesome).

We all know the old phrase 'act your age not your shoe size' right? Well in music,  'use your ears not your pea brain'. James Brown had it right back in 1970 and ain't nothin' changed today folks, you gots ta give the drummer some!

Wholesome

As I was training a client this morning during a boxing workout we had the local news station on in the background. Unfortunately the stories wouldn't stay in the background. In between rounds we'd glance at the news.

The first visual showed a woman that had been abducted escaping out of the trunk of a speeding vehicle. She then ran into a gas station in search of safety.

"Who could even conceive of kidnapping someone?" My client asked. The question obviously rhetorical, I didn't answer. Next break we saw a brutal hit and run caught on surveillance camera, the break after that showed a shooting during road rage.

At the end of the workout we chatted about the world's current state of 'heading to hell in a hand

Weapons of Peace

basket.'

As I drove away I moved my thoughts to the positive. Recently a neighbor of mine who is a pastor brought his grandson to me for drum lessons. As of late I'd been considering moving on from teaching. Most of my students are Middle schoolers and Highschool kids. But the drum pool has been thinning mostly because D.J.'s are on the rise and much of modern music is built at the computer, not behind the drum set or on the guitar. (This could be an entirely separate blog post b.t.w.)

But I accepted because my neighbor actually approached me over 5 years ago and I promised him I'd be there when he's ready. His grandson is an amazing dude and extremely enthusiastic about the drums. To ask him he'd probably say he's 'stoked.' As a result of his 'stokeage' I too am stoked.

Two weeks into his lessons his mother called and asked if I'd take another student. Turns out a friend of my student heard how much he'd improved in such a short time and wanted to start.

"By all means," I said. "Bring him over."

Fast forward to present day and I've now got 5 students all from the same church. I got them all because each drummer heard the improvement in the other. I take very little credit in how well these boys are doing because they all love drums; practice daily and dig music all around. Did I mention, I'm stoked? I love teaching again! I owe these lads. It's a refreshing sight to see one lad finish his lesson, walk outside and embrace his buddy (and his parents) that's up next. This is what community is all about: drums, family, friendship and huggin' it out.

When I was coming up in the 70's grownups often preached wholesome living. As kids we acted as wholesome as we could but we never admitted to it on the playground because--come on man, being wholesome wasn't cool. Still, we dotted our i's and crossed our t's baby, you best believe that.

If one enters the word Wholesome into the Google machine the second definition reads: conducive to or promoting moral well being. That is the word I'd use to describe these kids. They are all so polite. Some even shake my hand at the beginning and end of each lesson! And these cats are ages 8-16. That's just cool baby, that's just old skool!

Are they wholesome because they attend church? I'd say that's a big part of it. Are they young gentlemen with great manners due to good parenting? You're darn skippy. It's a breath of fresh air in these violent times.

The point of this post if you haven't picked up what I'm putting down is that good old fashioned wholesome living is going on right here on my block and I'm blessed to be part of it.

Finally, if ever you get the urge to shoot a passing vehicle during road rage; flee the scene after you've driven your car into somebody or get a hankering to kidnap someone, give me a call. We'll set up a lesson and I'll show you how to work it out behind the drum set. Or I'll hold the focus pads, you put on the gloves and blow off that steam. Until then, get out there and be kind to someone!

Alternative Facts

Hard working, blue collar dad, Bob Sims, was outraged. "Timmy Simms, you better get down here right now!

Dutiful son nine year old Timmy slammed his bedroom door and vaulted down the stairs. His grin is huge. He looks up to his dad. "Hey daddy, what's going on?"

"What's going on? Your school emailed me a copy of your Current Affairs test today. You didn't get a single question right. Zero percent. How do you explain this?"

Timmy kept his chin high and met his dad's stare eye to eye. "Actually dad, I got a hundred per cent on the test."

"Timmy, I'm warning you," Bob scowled. "Look at this, every answer is wrong."

Timmy pumped up his little chest as big as he could. "With all due respect daddy I gave alternative facts, therefor every answer is correct."

Bob ran a hand through his graying hair. "Timmy, I'm just about out of patience here. There are facts and there is fiction and your answers were one hundred per cent fiction--total crap!"

"Where have you been Pop? Alternative facts are the new facts...or are also facts so I nailed it daddy, I nailed it."

"Son, where are you getting this stuff?"

Alternative facts are hot!

"We studied it in class daddy, a woman named Kellyanne Conway who's very close to the most powerful man on the planet said so."

"Look Timmy, you're only nine and maybe you're getting a little confused. Sometimes in politics people say--"

"But neither the President or Kellyanne walked the statement back. And if they're my role models and he's the most powerful guy on the planet, why can't I use alternative facts on my test?"

"Oh boy," Bob sighed and began pacing. "Son, the President and his staff aren't always right ok."

"So why did you vote for him daddy?"

"Well that's because--I didn't know the--you see, the choices in the race--which is to say that if I could do it again--"

"Are you ok daddy, you're kinda sweating"

"Yes, yes I'm fine. Let's get back to this test," the proud father said rolling up his shirt sleeves. "Level with me here Timmy, how could you get every question wrong?"

"I learned in my class that when that Sean Spicer man said the President's inauguration was the biggest of all time, he was wrong."

"That's right Timmy, he was wrong."

"But then Spicer-Man said the President believes...what he believes. And so, well, I believe in the

alternative facts that I wrote on my test."

"Holy-moly. O.K. Timmy in's getting late let's pick this up tomorrow."

"O.k. daddy. Do you want me to Brexit back up to my room?"

"Hardy-har-har son," Bob said hugging the boy. "By the way son, what do you think of your Current Affairs teacher?'

"I like her. She's very pretty. I think I might grab her by the pu--"

"TIMMY!!!!!!!!!"

Raccoon vs. Tough Guy

Who wins? Who loses?

What you are a bout to read is a true story, so you might as well keep on keepin' on. The tale took
place back in the 1980's when I was in my early twenties and darn near invincible--weren't we though?

I had a 1981 Ford F150. We got along great. She had an old school 3-in-the-tree standard shift which I dug. I pulled up the back alley to my place and shut her down outside my garage. I walked through the garage as I had  hundreds of times. The sun vacated several hours earlier. Something was in the air that night as I walked across the back lawn but I couldn't put my finger on it.

Trucks have your back!

I climbed the back stairs and found a mother raccoon and her three cubs on my porch. Ah ha! That's what was in the air. Mother turned to me hissed then approached. In true Canadian fashion I apologized and hightailed it back down the steps. The kids seemed cool but mom was pissed.

On the grass I turned back to check her progress and thankfully I didn't trip on a tree root and roll my ankle the way distressed damsels often did in bad 70's flicks. The furry mother was still coming with a quick waddle. My ego was shot. There I was a 200 pound red-blooded black Canadian ultra-male turning tail from a carnivore a tenth my size. In that moment I wondered if I'd lose my place at the top of the food chain table.

 In my defense I wasn't scared I was merely respecting family...and hissing, fangs and claws. Honest! As momma accelerated I did the same and emerged into my alley. I peaked back with a chuckle thinking she was done. Didn't they have a home to get to? As it happened she came barreling out of my garage. We now ran toward each other as I was heading for the box of my pickup truck. (A pick up truck always stands by his man by the way).

Terminator or Raccoons

The raccoon nearly got to my ankle as I hopped into the box. I stood back at the cab and listened. Suddenly a (normally) cute paw peaked over the lip of my tail gate. Seriously?

She was now in the box and coming in hot.

"By momma," I said and hopped onto the cab's roof. Trucks are awesome. The raccoon wasn't done. I didn't even know what the hell the beef was about but she didn't seem the type to calmly explain it to me. She got the end of the box and began scaling the side where the side panel meets the cab.

Ok it was on. Now I was pissed. Nobody and nothing runs me off like this. Does this little mammal know who I am, I thought as I leaped up to my garage and pulled myself up chin-up style to the roof. I considered making a stand. I could jump back in the box and kick a field goal with that little thing. Nobody humiliates me like this.

However, that's not my style. Besides it would have made for a horrible barroom story.

"Say fellas I kicked the crap out of a mother raccoon last night. Cool huh?"

Do you see my dilemma? I thought you might. Now on the roof I was king. I'd read Sun Tzu's Art Of War. I had the high ground. I had the vantage point. I could do recon and the whole bit. I out smarted my furry foe.

Alas, my self back-patting was short lived as a familiar (now angry) paw crested the roof. Are you like the friggin' Terminator of raccoons? Geez Louise baby!

There we stood: mano-a-raccoon-o. I straddled the ridge in a fighting stance. She held her spot briefly before waddling forward hissing and whining at me.

"You're lucky I don't hit ladies," I said, turned and leaped off my garage. Two hundreds pounds came down on the lawn with heat. I did a shoulder roll because I was young and that's how they did it in action movies!

The cubs stood on the lawn and stared at me.

"Hi kids. Stay in school," I said as I ran passed them and up the stairs. Ha! The high ground was mine again. Not only that I'd retaken my castle and secured my spot at the top of the food chain table. Ha! I say again Ha!

I stood at the balcony's railing and surveyed my land. The raccoon waddled out of the garage and stood with her cubs and stared up at me. She eyeballed me and I eyeballed her right back. She made some sort of squeaky sound then turned and took her family back through the garage. I'm sure she told me to shove it or something like that.

Back in the castle I grabbed a remaining half bag of chips and cracked a cold Kokanee beer. Once in my Lazyboy all tilted back and chillin'' I asked myself aloud, "WTF was that all about?"

Blogger's note: No raccoons were harmed during the forging of this blog post.

Noir At The Bar...Los Angeles

Cheers Mandrake

We cruised up La Cienega Blvd. The Waze App promised us the bar was on our right-1500 feet up. The App held up. We saw it at the same time. A building with no name but it had a marking we could
comprehend; a neon cocktail glass. And beneath that a pleasant three letter word: bar.

Simple. So simple it was perfect. We shut the ride down, locked her up and slid inside. Many would put this joint in the Dive category and I wouldn't argue with them. I said it was perfect, didn't I?

It wasn't until we got eighteen feet into the place that she told us her name; Mandrake. The joint was divided into two sections: bar,  hooch and old school turntables up front; tables and chairs in the back as if department heads or board members would meet back there to hammer out deals. That was the look she had. But this night would be different. A group would gather. Some would read from their works while others listened.

It was a new gig for me which meant I was the new kid in town. I'd been here before. Forty some-odd years ago I was the new kid in school. "Everyone say hi to Jonathan," the teacher sang. Now, on the brink of the big Five-One in years and comfortably nestled at Two Hundred and Two pounds I was the new 'kid' again. I was about to read a passage from my book DRUMROLL, PLEASE...A

The new gig baby!

LOU CRASHER MYSTERY to a bunch of good looking strangers.

Back in the day my gig meant loading six drums and the hardware along with it into my ride and hittin' the road. I'd set up, count to four and bash them drums like they owed me money. Tonight, it was a plain black bag bustin' at the stichin' with books, ten of them. I was nervous which was ok. It's when you're not nervous that the shit happens, shit goes wrong or should I use the word 'awry?' what with being a writer and all. The bar was stocked just right and the booze did as she promised. Somewhere during the hugs, handshakes and back slappin' I was informed that I'd be up first. I wouldn't have it any other way if the choice were mine.

I stepped to the mic with book in hand. I intro'd myself with light humor (if I may say so myself). Then I donned my 1.0 magnification friggin' readers. (Ah the joys of being 50 and 9/10ths). The reading came of without a hitch. The highs were high, the action was meaty and the sprinkling of jocularity did what I intended her to do. Six minutes later I was done. I welcomed the applause. (I'd be a friggin' psychopath not to right?). I can't say I was great or amazing, far from it. Getting over the finish line was the goal and that was achieved, baby!

But I must say it was easy because of the community. These mystery/noir/hard-boiled cats are so

Vinyl be slick baby!

dang nice and so dang supportive I don't know what to say...or write. So, let a brother end it this way: this is the new gig, the new home. A home where we write about hard-boiled P.I.'s, society's underbelly, fast talkin' dames and everything else that pops off within the perpetual rolling waves of crime. Ha, I love it here. I love the new gig. Thank you Noir At The Bar cats, I'll see ya down the road. Hold it between the ditches and stay outta the crosshairs.

Sweetest fan ever!

Trouble With The Food Chain

I'm not usually a cat who watches videos on Facebook. It's not that they're beneath me but I've been known to sit down with the intent to watch one video then come up for air 90 minutes and 12 videos later. Dang, time wasted again. However, the other morning I clicked on a video where a group of people protested a bullfight in Spain. Sixty or so protesters charged into the ring just before the 'festivities' were about to start. They sat in a circle and linked arms.

The plan seemed sound. There was nowhere for the matador to stand (and preen). And surely humanity would prevent the event hosts from loosing the bull on innocent people, right? As I said: the plan was sound. I'm happy to say that the bull was not set on these people which puts them a half notch above the (alleged) Romans of yesteryear that released lions on the defenseless christians. The good news is that those in charge of the 'sport' didn't let the bull into the ring with those people because they were human after all. The bad news is that well, they were human…after all. The organizers and fans of the bullfight game went to that deep primal place were some believe evil may rest.

The first man to attempt locking down the situation was a large security guard. He tried to break the human chain. When that failed her went to plan B which was throwing overhand right punches--what those into the human fight game refer to as 'haymakers.' The protesters were at a distinct disadvantage as their circle faced inward so their backs were to the security guard. Oh yeah, and they were seated. As with many protest sights one can see on the daily news next came the water hoses. Anybody remember the civil rights days of the 60's in this country? Um Hmm, we're talking learned behaviors here folks.

By this time more security guards arrive along with growing numbers of bullfight supporters. Tempers flared. The guards and fans weren't having anything to do with this protest nonsense and thus stepped down to the next rung of the those-without-conscience-ladder bringing them closer to indecency and cruelty. What is the next rung you ask? Simply put; when water and fists don't work its time to put the boots to work. I mean heck them boots are already on the ground for heaven sake. Let the kicking and stomping begin. Ironically the fray is now more brutal than the actual bullfight would have been. No? I lost you? I'm speaking from a psychological aspect. You might feel that slowly skewering a bull to death is gruesome and it is but this is man-beating-man in broad daylight with impunity. Still unconvinced? Ok read on.

Here is where my blood boiled and my stomach began to turn. A healthy 99% of those attempting to protect their 'sport' were men. And let's say a conservative 85% of those attacked were…wait for it…women. Don't get me wrong I despise what would have happened to the bull but this? Men in cowboy boots kicking seated women, yes SEATED women in the backs of their heads? So add to my boiling blood; hands locked into fists, heavy breathing and a jaw clenching so tight that my back molars begged me to knock it off. I continued watching.

At one point a man in a suit literally pulls a t-shirt from a woman's torso. Now this was not done in the style of asking her to lift her arms so he could gently remove the garment no, he yanked from above until it tore. But this esteemed prick wasn't done yet. In his mind he hadn't taught her the entire lesson. Just when I'd seen it all the S.O.B. doubled back and grabbed her bra and pulled with everything he had. I'm no woman but obviously this would be extremely painful and terrifying.

Man. Man vs. Animal. Let's take a look shall we? When lions attack a herd of wildebeest, let's say, the  lions will target the weak--the young or the slow. Prior to flight the herd tries to keep the weak to the center and hold the herd tight as a massive unit. The male protesters did their best to retrieve the women that were dragged (often by the hair) back to the group. The protest busters continued to hammer, beat and humiliate the women (and some men).

Here's where there's trouble with the food chain and where the lion rises above these particular men in the food chain. The lions are hunting for their survival. These dimwitted brutal characterless bastards are what? What's their excuse? They are operating from something down deep within them and that is hatred. A hatred of women. It's open season on women and keep in mind this video is mere minutes. This means that these abusers went from "hey, don't interrupt my blood sport," to "Bit** I'm going to make you pay…in broad daylight…in an era where every phone has a camera and a thousand live onlookers are present." Is that hatred enough for you?

Also keep in mind that each and every one of these men have mothers; some have wives or girlfriends and some even have daughters. And still--

This putrid hate is actually not buried deep, rather it  runs deep and simmers just beneath the first layer of skin. These abusers are not men. They are not boys and they are certainly not toddlers because toddlers start out from a place of innocence. I don't know what they are to be honest; can't get my head around it. And if they hold a spot on the food chain their position is not only beneath the lion it is far beneath that of the cockroach.

I have no solution to this problem but I do have a suggestion as to where we could start. Parents. Parents all over the world need to take young boys by the hand and teach them that women are human beings to be loved and respected and that without them that little boy would not exist. Also parents, if at any time your boy shows the slightest sign of aggression aimed at women or girls: DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!

I'm movin' up the food chain, baby

Obviously it's not good to have hate in the heart and God and the Buddhist in me keeps that hate at bay... not to mention a little thing called love. But if I were granted a one day pass to Hateville I'd have to say that I absolutely hate bullfights. But not nearly as much as I hate men that abuse women. Furthermore, if I were granted a day to meet each and every one of those abusers in a different sort of combat ring...

Get Your Rhythm Right!!!

In 2003 my mother passed away. As we were planning her funeral with the funeral director I asked if he could rent me a drum set. He said yes. After the meeting my brother asked if I was going to play a solo. I responded, "I guess so. I think that's what mom wants me to do."

The ceremony went ahead and somewhere in the middle of the speeches I got up and played. When I was finished the tears came on strong. After the ceremony was done and people hugged and consoled--my father approached. He paid me a very nice compliment about my piece and then he blew my mind.

He said, "Son, that was excellent but I feel that it was a duet."

"A duet? What do you mean?" I asked.

"I think your mother was playing with you, it sounded that way," he replied.

Naturally more tears came and for two reasons. Number one was that my dad was never really the type to talk in such spiritual terms, at least not to me, and I'm a real spiritual Cat. And two; in the middle of my solo I remember (like it was yesterday) looking at my hands with the sticks in them and they just floated across the drums…but I wasn't the one playing. I wasn't in control. How the hell did my father hear that? It's because my dad had a very strong rhythm beating within him and he knew what he heard. That is the only explanation.

My father passed away a few short weeks ago. When I was a kid my father told me that I marched to my own drum. I was too young to know what he meant but I loved the sound of it. My wife and I returned home and began planning for the service along side a whole host of amazing participants. My initial plan was to play an African Djembe for my father but the only rental drums available were 12'' in diameter. That wouldn't cut it…not for what my dad deserved. Then it hit me; duh…why don't I rent a full drum set again and play my dad on into heaven? Again; duh!

With my mother's solo I had a loose plan of what to play before I sat down. With my dad I went without a plan. I knew that one or both of my parents would join me on that stage and we'd make music with the gift they and God gave me. I wasn't worried at all about stage freight or freezing up or not being able to see the drums due to tear-filled eyes. (It can be done with eyes closed if necessary).

I sat down and let my hands and feet do what they wanted. I threw in some jazz because my dad was a huge Big Band kinda guy and then moved into some African rhythms with an audible, "Let's go Daddy-O!" (Not sure where that came from but I felt as though I was leading our two-man rhythmical platoon. All I had to do was get him to Heaven's gates…and my music would suffice as cover charge).

I called my solo "For Daddy-O" because that's what I called him even though he didn't really approve at first. I wasn't worried about whether the solo was going to be good or not. I knew it was. That's not a brag, it's a comment about rhythm. I'm not the world's greatest drummer, far from it. But my rhythm is right. I have good rhythm. My father had good rhythm. He had a rhythm to his walk that was cool; a rhythm to his speech that was musical and thus also cool. My Pop was just plain cool…because his rhythm was right. He was more charitable then even I ever knew. Why? Because his rhythm was right.

Rhythm is in everything we do. It's in your walk, how you brush your teeth, how you run, it's in your pattern of speech and it's also present in how you treat others. Rhythm is also beating inside that chest of yours at this very moment. You literally have a bass drum pounding inside you keeping your pilot light on.

Have you ever had a day where you felt you were 'out of sorts?' Guess what? Your rhythm was off. Have you ever done something you knew was wrong but did it anyway? You probably thought it was your conscience nagging at you while you did it. Well, I'm here to tell you that your conscience has rhythm and when you're acting 'wrong' that bad music in your ears is your off-beat rhythm baby!

There are a million more examples where rhythm rules the day but I won't go into them here. But getting back to my solo I knew my rhythm was right because my dad and I had many ups and many downs but we survived them all to come out smiling on the other side. And in his last remaining years we smiled and laughed for the majority of our visits. Our rhythm…was right.

 I did not feel as though my mother or father took over my limbs when I played for my dad at his service. However, I did feel my parents hovering just above my head watching; toes tapping, heads bopping and smiles bigger than Buddha's. I know they were proud. I know this because of the love and support they'd given me over the years; and believe me it couldn't have been easy to love a struggling musician, Yikes!

I've missed my mother since the day she left and now I miss my dad--Daddy-O as well. But I will move on as a better man because of everything my folks gave me, taught me and sacrificed for me. I'll aways be thankful that they let me march to my own drum…that they let me find my rhythm. Because when the rhythm is right, then there is love. And when there is love...

They Are The Future...

I've been working with a student who I'll refer to as Steve since he was 6 years old. He's now 10. I see him every week. One week we'll do self defense and the next week I'll give him a drum lesson. Steve, like myself is black.

Last week when he showed up for drums he was dragging his feet; literally not figuratively as he followed a few steps behind me. Steve is one of the most happy, upbeat kids you'd ever meet. So when I heard the foot scrapes it was clear that he wanted me to hear them. I should point out that I've been teaching since the year 2000 so I'm not too shabby at reading cues and this kid's cues said, 'I'm bummed out and I want to talk.'

I didn't waste any time. I opened up the studio and put the question to him.

"Steve, you're dragging your feet today and you're not a foot dragger. What's going on? Not enough

Defend yourself

sleep?"

"No, I slept fine," he said.

"Problems with the girlfriend?" (Two weeks prior he confided that he had a new girlfriend…and not his first…)

His head remained down, which for Steve is pretty much unheard of. I got serious.

"Everything cool at school? You're not hurt are you?" I asked.

He sat down behind my drum set and slumped the way only kids know how; with a ton of drama.

"It's my teacher," he said. "I think she has ebola or something."

Fighting back a laugh I asked, "What makes you think she's got that?" (I thought that sounded like something a therapist would say)

"Well, everybody in class was laughing and I mean everybody and only me and this kid Bob (fake name) got sent to the Principal's office."

"Really? That blows. Why do you think you guys were singled out?"

"Because we're black," he said.

And there it was. Not only was it time for me to get super serious but a ton of my own boyhood memories came back. Actually not so much memories but that specific feeling in the stomach. I believe the stomach can have many feelings but this one is a knot of: dread meets despair with a sprinkle of pissed off.

Steve went to pick up his drum sticks but I told him to put them down 'for a sec'. At that point I went on to compare my days of coming-up with his current experience. My plan was to form a camaraderie because I'm here to tell you that a brother-in-arms was what I was looking for back in my day. Once I'd convinced him that I fully understood his struggle I got down to the 'hang in there' portion of my speech. (Although I did my best to not sound speech-y or preach-y.) Here's a slice of it:

"Steve you know when you get blamed for something you didn't do or singled out for something that everybody is in on? It sucks. It's not fair is it?"

"No."

"Well, the bad news is that life is like that. When you get out of school and start working you're going to find more of the same…but not all the time and not everywhere." I waited so he could digest my words.

"The good news is that…wait have you heard that expression 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger?'

He told me 'yes' with a screwy look on his face that said, 'duh.'

"Ok, let me back up. When your parents were told of this incident did they believe your version or the Teacher's version of how it went down."

"My parents believed me. They know what's up."

Put in the work!

"That's great! It really blows when your parents aren't in your corner. Ok, so if you get in trouble, wrongfully accused of course, but you get through it and it happens say, a few more times, that will actually make you stronger and help you figure out how the game is played. Because I promise you when you get to high school or college and something bad happens to those kids that always 'got away with it' they are going to unravel.

They're going to cry. They're going to freak out; they might even ask their parents to sue the Dean on their behalf. Why? Because they haven't been through the struggle that Steve has been through. They haven't had any hurdles put in front of them. Is this making sense?"

He nodded that it was. "For example if some kid walked up to you and pushed you to the ground before you learned any self defense you might have freaked out or tattle tailed or cried--whatever. But now because you know what you know and you've been through what you've been through you're ready for obstacles like that. The kid that tries to push you won't get the chance."( I threw a punch in the air and made a Bruce Lee type battle cry…because I'm mature like that)

The big smile that I see week to week returned. All I had to do was put the cap on it.

"That's why you've got to put in the work, be polite and keep your head on a swivel. Also, remember that if you are honest with yourself and you know that you're innocent and your family knows your innocent then that's all a cat needs."

Cat's pajamas

"Why do you always say 'cat' like it's the 1970's?" (I swear he said that. I couldn't stop laughing) I was tempted to lecture him on how cool it was coming up in the 70's when my afro was blown out (although a tad nappy), my dashiki was cool and my platform shoes were badass but he picked up the drum sticks and grinned…which reminded me of what he'd actually showed up for.

The kids are the future. I say...let's guide them. (Insert Bruce Lee battle cry here!)

Dear blog fans: Below is a guest post from my good friend Julia. Enjoy…and thank you Julia!

I'm An Athlete. I'm Also Terrible At Sports…By Julia

It's funny how when you're an old, one teeny thing can make you see big chunks of your own life in a new light. I've been doing P90X3 workouts recently and I LOVE them. They're like sports practice-drills, drills, drills as hard as you can go. But there are never any games. It's just practice. It hit me that after finishing one that, even while I played sports from jr. high through college, I absolutely sucked in actual games. I knew that part years ago. What I realized today is that what I was good at was practice.

The thee-man weave, fast break drills, box-and-one drills, wall jumps-yeah! Bring that shit on. But get me in a game and I'd steal the ball only to blow it by dribbling like a coked-out crazy person up the court and barely manage to fling up a brick before flying under the basket and off the court. Softball, field hockey even gymnastics saw me blowing big game moments week after week (and year after year). I hate to admit that I was the queen of choke, but I was. Because what I liked about sports was building skills. Putting them together, not so much.

Unfortunately, being able to hit a bucket on home plate throwing from right field in practice didn't mean I could help the team win. Doing endless wind sprints without heaving didn't cause me to score any points. No one cares--nor should they, about how good you are at practice. While it's important for coaches to recognize hard work, there shouldn't be any trophies for it. Those who perform when it counts are the winners. But somewhere along the line, well after my game days were behind me, I learned that it is absolutely possible to be athletic and still suck at sports; to excel at the mechanics and fail at the game. For me, the mechanics are the game. And challenging myself every day is where I find the wins.

Julia plans and produces stuff for entertainment and technology companies. She works (and works out) in Redondo Beach.

Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To Tread

Senseless street brawl

When is it time to rush in and do something and when should one hold back? That is often the question when a dangerous event is taking place. We've all heard the expression 'only fools rush in..' or maybe I'm dating myself and that expression has gone the way of the Dodo bird. I suppose in that moment we all have to do what we think is right and society (and God) will be the judge.

The other night my wife and I and a couple of friends went out to hear some live music. The band was great, we had a few laughs and enjoyed a quiet cocktail or two. That same night while we were rocking, a few bars in the area were showing a UFC mixed martial arts fight on pay per view. In fact, the bar we were at showed the fight without sound during the band's breaks.

As it turned out the bar we were at let out at the same time as the bars hosting the fights. The streets were packed with everyone from early 20's to my age and a tad older. (Perhaps). We, along with many others called Uber and waited for our ride. Suddenly a commotion erupted across the street from us. Girls were screaming, guys were shouting and a crowd was moving in that unsettled way that a herd does when stampeded.

MMA fight

In a moment's time our eyes locked on the fracas. A group of young 20-something males were moving through a throng of people and kicking the crap out of them. When young folk have bellies full of booze and have watched a fighting event stupidity has a chance to thrive. It was brutal. It was panic. As the brawlers continued it became a like a tidal swell of tumbling bodies. Some call what we saw swarming. People, mostly young guys were dropping like flies. I've been in a few dust-ups, I've bounced (and been bounced) in bars and I've put on the sparring gear more than a time or two. And even for me this was difficult to watch. It just kept growing and growing.

Several people had their phones out filming. At one point we spied the main aggressor. He was 6'2" and about 215-220 lbs. And like many morons he had his shirt off. The M.O. of this guy and his crew was that 'shirtless' would knock someone out and then the cronies would boot and stomp the victim. The injustice got my blood going as I'm sure it did most witnesses.

At one point we saw victim number three, a fairly big guy get knocked out. The 'knockout king' raised his arms in the air like Rocky Balboa at the top of the steps in Philly. (I think I literally growled quietly in my throat). This time the cowardly crew were relentless with their kicks and stomps. Many people have died this way throughout history. When they were done they left the victim in a heap in the middle of the street and moved on. The guy laid out for at least a minute. Nobody went to his aid. Cars drove up to and then around this fallen dude.

The swarmers carried on. My first thought was to meet 'shirtless' in the middle of the street and take him out. I studied his moves. He was repetitive. He danced like Mohammed Ali, or so he thought, he'd toss a couple of jabs and then he'd deliver a devastating right hand. Cut off the head of a snake...and the body dies with it right? But I'm not that guy. I don't start fights. I don't rush in like a fool. Too many things could have gone wrong. Still, I wasn't going to sit there and let that fallen guy bleed out or who knows.

"I'll be right back honey, I'm going to help that guy," I said to my wife.

"Sweetie, don't get involved," she said, and she was right, but...

"Don't worry about me. Our Uber will be here in 6 minutes, I'll be back before that. Call the cops."

And with that I jogged into the mayhem. I jogged passed the bulk of the swarm. The sights and sounds were awful. Fists on skulls, noses breaking, heads meeting concrete all look and sound far more devastating in reality than in movies and television. I could see up close innocent guys attempting to protect themselves getting knocked out by this one guy's hammer blows. My god I wanted to drop that fool! I knew just how I'd do it too!...But I jogged passed. They checked me out as I did so. I pretended not to notice all the while watching them like a hawk…a pissed off hawk. They moved on.

I knelt beside the big guy and began talking to him while checking his pulse. His face was a bloody mess. Blood in and around the mouth and nose--one eye closed. I constantly checked the perimeter in case those cowards came back. If they did I'd have to give them everything I had. I wasn't looking forward to that because as guys once we get in that mode we are no smarter than rabid dogs. And if they came at me I'd have to sink to that rabid dog level.

They did not return. A guy knelt beside me and said, "I'm a paramedic."

"Thank god because I'm a little rusty on my St. John's--what do you need me to do?"

I looked around again and saw the phones of about 6 bystanders. "Would one of you assholes please call the fucking cops and an ambulance?" I asked.

"I already did," said a red haired 22 year old girl while still filming us.

Get that video

The paramedic told me what to do with the guy who was still unconscious. Eventually people came over to help us. What I thought was a crowd of kids wanting to grab that 'viral video' was actually fear. This scene was foreign to them. They were terrified.

We gently moved the guy to the curb; put his feet up and put him on his side as he was in danger of choking on his blood. Some girls that knew him balled their eyes out. More screaming erupted and sounded closer to us. Were the swarmers coming back? Fuck.

As we worked and spoke to the unconscious I scanned the crowd. Just then I heard a loud 'thwack'. Apparently a splinter group made their way near to us. They knocked out a slender latino kid of about 20. I stood up and got ready. The kid dropped like a cinder block and hit his head on the pavement. Two of his girlfriends screamed. He was half on the sidewalk half in the street. Three guys moved in to lay boots to him. I'd had enough and said so.

"Enough!" I shouted and held out my hand like a traffic cop. They inched closer. They were dying to put boots to this guy.

"He's done!" I said pointing at the guy that knocked him out. "And so are you assholes. Now Fuck Off!"

They stared at me with hands up and fists ready. I kept pointing while keeping my other hand at my side. All phones were on us--great. They looked at one another quickly without sound. Deciding. Wondering if--. Surely they could take this platinum haired brother..but they knew I wouldn't make it easy for them. Finally they slowly moved on. None of us taking our eyes off each other. Either my psychotic look from my bouncer days returned to my eye or they decided to leave the old gray haired dude alone. Either way I was ecstatic because as Danny Glover said as Det. Murtaugh in Lethal Weapon, "I'm too old for this shit."

We got back to the fallen latino. I put a hand on his chest and told him to 'come on back' and to 'wake up pal,' and other b.s. like that. His girlfriends continued to cry and scream. Finally his eye lids fluttered and then he came to. Next the big guy came out of it as well. The paramedic and I started laughing and high five-ing. The small crowd breathed sighs of relief and joined in the celebration. The majority of us actually cared and wanted no part of what the minority, the swarmers were doling out that night.

The paramedic said, "I'm Dave do you know these guys?"

"No I came out of that bar and saw what happened and came to help."

"You came to help," he looked stunned. "Really?"

"Yeah, because as you know when somebody gets knocked out, then their head hits the pavement and then they get stomped, people die."

"You're telling me. I can't fathom doing something like that, you should see the shit I see all of the time."

"That's why you're the man and I'm oughta here," I said getting up.

"No dude, you're the man. You're a good dude, dude. People don't run into shit like this."

We shook hands ending the bromance. I checked my phone and saw that my Uber arrived. Suddenly cops were everywhere. A cop came up to me and asked that I stand on the sidewalk with everyone else.

"Actually I'm not with the kids. I came out of that bar and helped because guys were getting stomped."

"Sir I need you to-"

"Do you want to know what happened? I'll be one of the best witnesses you have out here."

"Yes ok, what the hell is going on here?"

I filled him in on what I saw and what we did. He thanked me and let me go.

Back in my day we used to go to the bars and watch boxing matches; Mike Tyson, Sugar Ray Leonard or whoever. Afterward we'd enjoy more beers, talk about the fight and then move on. Today's youth watches their gladiator sport equivalent, gets drunk and takes it to the street. I've been told that the neighboring beach community's bars have stopped showing the fights because of the ensuing street brawls.

Sugar Ray Leonard

We could separate what was on the screen (and in the ring) from reality. Sure there was the odd brawl but it was rare and it was never swarming. Where is this current anger coming from? What are kids today trying to tell us? Who are they pissed at? Their parents? Society?

The generation before mine used to say 'never kick a man when he's down.' My generation did it's best to uphold the idiom...with a few exceptions of course but now if a cat goes down it's open season on the fallen. And there is a big difference between a swift kick in the ribs and a downward heel stomp to the head. You boot stompers have literally got to give your own heads a shake. People die that way you mindless idiots!

Moral decency starts at home!

If one were to ask me I say it starts in the home and needs to be nourished  24 hours of every god damn day so that when Junior is in the streets he knows how to conduct himself…regardless of the fights he watches, the Call of Duty game he plays, the comic book movie he watches or the peer pressure he's under.

Good character starts at home!

Ask yourselves this parents: how would you feel if your son was stomped to death? Now ask yourself how would you feel if your son stomped someone to death? Neither scenario makes for a feel good moment. So, if you're going to raise 'em, raise 'em constantly and RAISE 'EM RIGHT!

Phones Fabulous Phones!

Dean Liptak:
I'm just trying to teach brother!

I simply must commend former pro wrestler turned science teacher Dean Liptak who used a cell phone jammer in his classroom in an attempt to keep the students attention. Or to put it shortly, Liptak was attempting to teach…which is his job. Sadly, the practice of jamming cell phone signals to spoiled little brats who posses zero cooth, class or consideration is illegal. Thus, Liptak was suspended for a week without pay.

Oh the humanity! The poor sap was merely trying to do his job. A job that if done correctly and without distraction will arguably benefit the kids. But the law is the law also, some parents were outraged. Outraged? Who are these outraged parents and what messages do they impart on little Junior?

My guess is it goes like this:

"Son, this is America and as such when in class you have the god given right to text your friends or call your father at the office or text me…but not during my hair appointment."

I don't know, what did you get?

"Really? Thanks mommy dearest!"

Perhaps I exaggerate. But this is ridiculous. The 'no jamming the phone of little upstarts' is a law based on safety. It is believed that in the event of an emergency students cannot make 911 calls nor could first-responders alert the kids of an emergency if the cell phone jammer does what it's supposed to do. The law has merit, I admit but it's pretty damn thin especially when students learned in class rooms the world over for several decades prior to the nifty cell phone's invention.

But if the law is to remain then here is what I would make into law were I the Mayor of Everywhere.(and fear not for that day is coming!)

To wit: if your precious child is caught texting, chatting, looking up answers on the Google machine etc. on their phone while in class he and or she will be sent to the office. Once there the Principal will assign the student 1 hour of manual labor…without out phone or earbuds or any of that jazz. These duties might include garbage duty, graffiti removal, ditch digging (you can never have too many ditches), toilet cleaning, gum removal and so on.

And on this there will be zero tolerance, no exceptions. And to all helicopter parents that feel the need to bail your kid out with pleading phone calls, emails or marching down to the school with lame excuses like Little Timmy is allergic to peanuts, he's lactose intolerant and has extreme refuse phobia." Tough sh** oops I mean tough beans. Your little rescue attempt just bought Timmy another hour with the waste bucket.

With my solution kids can keep their phones (in their back packs) in case of emergency and will be granted plenty of time to use it before school, recess, lunch break and after school. I guarantee that in- class cell phone use will drop like a rock. Can you imagine today's teen performing menial manual labor without any form of electronic device?

Oh yay! my parents are going to
 home school me

Oh, before I forget, parents will have signed a document prior to the child's enrollment agreeing to these terms. For those not wanting to sign the document…it is your god given right…to home school.

Hey...3nder Me Baby!

Ok so by now everybody knows about the Tinder App yes? No? Well, it has been referred to as the 'hook up' App. Picture if you will Match.com all sexed up. Turn on the App, search for the hot girl in a zip code near you and swipe. Minutes later if she's swiped you back y'all can 'get it on' as we once said back in the way back...of the day.

Perhaps that's a bit crass. You don't have to hook up but as I said it's been called the 'hook up' App; their words not mine. Today Tinder has augmented itself. There is now 3inder the dating App for threesomes. Did I hear you exclaim, "oh dear!" Heavy sigh.

Allow this semi-humble blogger to use the commencement of this paragraph to say, 'Come On!' current generation do you guys work for anything? Anything at all? For the love of St. Peter do you Cats ever have it easy. Turn on phone, slide App voila: two bodacious babes are ringing your doorbell 12 minutes later.

It's 3nder time!

Ah, but it seems like only yesterday when I felt a rumbling in the loins for the gentle attention of the opposite sex but I had nothing. I had no game whatsoever. So I picked up some drum sticks because at the time girls (which we called chicks) were into rockstars. Become a rockstar-get the chicks-easy calculus. Being that I wasn't a natural I had to take lessons. Lesson after lesson in a time where a guy had to play the snare drum alone for 6 months before being permitted to play the whole drum set.

Then came the bands and countless rehearsals and band squabbles. Of course there were battle of the bands contests where ya won some and ya lost some. But we had a mission dammit- chicks! And do you think the ladies came flooding in like a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue tide of babes? No-siree-Bub! Who knew that a scant 3 decades (or so) later a lad could turn of his phone, press play and 14 minutes later find himself knee deep in an innocent pillow fight with two slammin' chicks…that would ultimately digress into reckless debauch'?

When the drums failed to bear the fruit of gentle caresses of the prettier sex I put on the football helmet and strapped on the pads. Why not? Chicks like athletes right? I ground it out practice after practice, game upon game in Vancouver's hard driving rain. I hit and was hit countless times. And who could truly count the number of times when one is perpetually semi-concussed? We played on any given Sunday where we won some and lost many but it was ok because we had a goal.

Later you'd slide up next to a pretty lass and find a cleverly auspicious way to work the gridiron sport into your dialogue. She'd perk up at first only to burst your bubble moments later when she'd say, "Football is ok but I prefer soccer players!"
"Nooooooooo!"

Don't judge us

Why couldn't there have been an App in those days were a young lad could punch a button (or turn the rotary phone dial ) and 17 minutes later embark in an innocent jello fight with the Mayor's twin 20-something daughters? Who knew that in 2015…

We didn't have 'hook up' Apps in my day. We spent hard earned blue collar bucks in bars spitting worn-out dialog on disinterested babes.

But to be honest this rock n roll blogger wouldn't have had it any other way. I wouldn't trade my past for this generation's present. The pursuit of dames, broads and chicks led me to drums, football, soccer, jumping of high rocks into shallow bodies of water, horrible dialog, pathetic karaoke, track and field, muscle cars, hours of weight lifting (upper body only), heavy beer drinking (at times), light (albeit primarily involuntary) drug use,  barrels of laughter and so much more.

You guys got the App?

Hear me now and spread the word youngsters: it ain't about the immediate gratification-the threesome that awaits mere minutes away. It's about the journey. It's about the chase and the planning. It's all about the pursuit of happiness for nothing worth anything is worth a damn without hard work! Remember that the next time you find yourselves thrashing in the throes of your 3nder throng.

I still play drums and love it, I still exercise and love it. I gained experience which helped form a little thing called character. When the chicks reject you or take little interest in your gig it's not the end of the world. Picking oneself up and dusting oneself off makes a grown-up out of you. BUT, the biggest payoff from the journey is where I am now…with a ridiculously beautiful wife, both inside and out. (And do you know what? I only need one!)

It's A Dog's Life

Now that we're top of the food chain, what's next?

The top of the food chain ain't what she used to be ladies and gentlemen. The other day my wife and I went to a restaurant. Being a SoCal sunny day we opted for the patio as opposed to indoors. The patio housed a dozen tables, six of which were occupied with owners and their dogs. My wife and I found an empty table and bee lined toward it. The establishment packed the tables in tight as is their right to maximize real-estate vs. $$$. As we approached the table a couple with a boxer dog was attempting to leave their table. Our table slightly pinned their table. Being decent folk my wife and I gave sufficient berth.

However, trouble erupted when the boxer attempted passage by table #3 which had a feisty chihuahua staking its territory. Feisty chihuahua wasn't about to let the uppity boxer (in his eyes) safe travel. He growled and barked and pulled at his tiny restraints. The boxer backed off…which disappointed me, I must admit. At this point the 'pinned down' couple asked to pass around my side of the table which would mean I'd have to back out to the entrance. No problem for me but the wife of the boxer owning couple was what some would call plus size. She'd not make it through the tables. The husband seeing this tells me 'never mind', with a huff and tug of his dog's leash.

Meanwhile couple number two see the boxer coming and manage to scoop up the deadly chihuahua  and place it on 'mommy's lap'. Crisis avoided, yes? That was until the boxer got to the last table where a beagle in a service vest barked, 'hell no' at the boxer. The boxer went into a cowardly panic and tugged every which way upsetting two other tables. The boxer owning dad asked (not politely) for the vested beagle to be handled. The beagle looked on in shock as he had a service vest where the boxer was practically naked-a mere citizen! The owner of the beagle glared at boxer dad, who returned his glare. Onlookers looked on as onlookers will. At this time with an ironic grin I put volume to my voice I piped up.

"Say honey," to my wife, "remember the days when restaurants were for people?"

Believe me when I tell you blogasphere I had NO supporters in that SoCal dog friendly crowd. I was given the stink-eye by 92% of the patrons on that patio. Luckily, being that I'm a card carrying member of the 'old school' I welcomed their scorn the way a party-animal embraces a bar's Happy Hour. Finally, dog owners negotiated the boxer's exit and my wife and I were permitted to sit.

As I stated earlier perching atop the food chain mountain aint what she used to be. And now thanks to Governor Jerry Brown of the great state of California, dog owners are dancing on rooftops. Brown has signed a bill into law allowing dogs to dine on restaurant patios. According to the San Jose Mercury News "…law provides some relief to dog owners statewide…"

Oh que relief in deed, for what were dog owners to do prior to this law; leave the dog at home while dining out? Oh the humanity! Que injustice! Now before y'all toss your doggie poop bags at me know this: I like dogs. I've owned two in my lifetime. I think they rock. But did I suffer separation anxiety while I dined at a restaurant and Poopsy was at home? Hell to the No! Grow up people, you don't have to take your dog with you everywhere.

And don't get me started on service dogs. Ok, since we're onto service dogs…When I was coming up back in the day a typical service dog was a seeing-eye dog and usually a german shepherd breed. Now there are more breeds and I'm cool with that. But, today we have a new category in this great state and that is the 'emotional support dog'. This is a dog that is deemed to give it's owner emotional support often used when flying. Isn't it fair to say that if you love, or even like your dog that she gives you emotional support by definition? Well, it is fair to say that and it's that darn easy to get the papers and the vest for your k-9.

Need support? I got your back!

For a mere $49-$125 and a doctor's note claiming that one has a fear of flying just about anybody can acquire a 'support dog' certificate…and nifty vest to match. Just take a gander around you the next time you fly, it's becoming ridiculous. Under the ADA ( American Disability Act) sexy Stews (sorry I mean flight attendants) cannot question the validity of the dog's 'status'. This is cool as far as the disabled but as far as the 'emotional support dog' group…come on man. Not long ago I did a little survey while waiting in the baggage check line at LAX. Of the 11 people around my wife and I, 8 had dogs and 7 of those were blond women under age 35. This can only mean that although blonds have more fun they truly do…need support. The ADA further states that as long as the dog behaves any and all breeds are welcome. And the patron with the emotional support dog cannot be asked to leave if someone has an allergy to or fear of dogs. In other words, if little Timmy Timmington is scared of dogs not only out of a past traumatic dog bite but because he may go into a pet dander induced coma due to a severe dog allergy…oh well, sorry Timmy you'll have to catch another flight because hot Bianca the next up-and-coming twiggy Super-Model from Raykjavik needs her dog Sheena the Shih-Tzu on her lap at all times!

Sheena the Shih-Tzu

Once again I'm a dog guy. I'm just not a 'people-who-feel-their-doggie-needs-trump-everybody-else's kinda guy. I have a probable solution/ possible declaration. And that is: the day I fly and dogs on the plane equal the number of people I'm going to exercise my right to my emotional support. I'm going to head down to the animal shelter and rescue a three year old 130 lbs. male rottweiler. Then I'm going to book a round trip flight goin' anywhere but here (with frequent stops). Then I'm going to knit the dog an 'emotional support vest' (as I will have taken knitting in night school). I'll board my flight with my Rottweiler, Terminator with a thin fraying leash. Last, I'll work a slightly terrified look on my face. If anybody gives me doubting or nervous looks I'll simply state, "hey, this is a rescue thus making me hero. And he is my rock, my absolute emotional four legged support puppy. Come along Terminator try not to eat the other service dogs this time!"

I'm just playing folks, I wouldn't play my hand like that. But we are in a time where some people are taking their entitlement too far as they bask in their self-absorbed baths of narcissism. If you can't be away from your dog for more than 3 minutes it's not doggie support that you need, it's therapy. Why can't you be away from the little guy for that amount of time and why is it cool to disregard others that may have allergies, fears or just plain want to hang with other bipeds? And as far as my food chain; I need to accept that well…I'm no longer sipping mai tais at the top of it. That era has passed. There's just dogs on planes, restaurants, stores and every-damn-where else. It's going to be 2015 any minute now and as such, if the wife and I want to go for a burger and a beer we're going to have avoid stepping on doggie tails; accept battles for supremacy between competing dog breeds and work a pleasant smile onto our mugs when useless (not all) dog owners are uncertain as to how to exit a SoCal restaurant patio when Billy the boxer becomes afraid at the site of a single marauding attack-chihuahua. Be that as it may, I caution you K9 owners not to abuse this new found privilege in these new found ridiculous times. For, if you do, me, the wife and Terminator the Rottweiler (a.k.a. Termy the Rotty) might be visiting a patio or airplane near you!

I'm an emotional support dog, is there a problem here?