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.