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?