Lindell's Gospel

Marble Towers, Nighttime Sky; An Old Lady, Today, Would Cry...

My great Aunt once said to me, 'it means something to be a Kennedy."  Every 'Negro,' she said, 'owes the Kennedy's a debt." I was a kid-- a first grader-- so I didn't understand.  I was at Martin Van Lucas elementary school when they hurried the student's home saying, 'the President had been shot.' I walked home to a house filled with women-- all crying. To this day, I remember the tears. A few years later, as I awakened  to dress for school, my great Aunt was crying again. She explained that down Figueora Street, a few miles North from our little house, another Kennedy has been murdered. Although she is long since dead-- now some 30 years--she would cry today because another Kennedy -- whom she loved with such matchless devotion-- no longer breathes  in this world. Two by an assassin's bullet-- another by a murderous growth. Yes, in America, it does mean something to be a Kennedy. The marble towers, standing tall in the night sky, express the far-flung loneliness of those who dared to dream.

A Leg Man

Some mornings, in the half-light of dawn, Leti saw hope for the future. But the hope was distant and far off. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Who knows?

 At 29, he was dismayed by the accident the caused him to lose his leg. His other leg, however, worked fine and quickly learned to take up the slack. Learning to live without a leg is a lot easier than learning to live without a thumb, or memory. Alzheimers, he quipped, would be eminently more difficult. He said there were things he missed about having two legs. Like the ease at which he used to climb stairs or the free flowing way he and his friends played soccer. I guess it is no longer possible to kick the dog with only one leg. This idea of being without a limb was distressing and weirdly liberating.

One becomes less inwardly focused and more attuned to the needs of others.  People with disabilities are more acutely aware of the world. A curb without a cut. Every bathroom, hotel room, sound room and clubroom that isn't accessible is an as apparent  as the blasting horn from a passing freight train.

 What you are less aware of, he reminded me, was the idea of limitations. Limitations, like skin color and race, morph into artificial barriers of the mind that enslave and encircle.

Leti has never planned this. I mean who really plans to lose a leg. When someone asks you on your 19^th birthday, "So, what will you be doing at 25,” no one says: "Well, I'll be learning to get around with only one leg." 

 When Leti came home over to watch the Duke  game, he asked me: "What do you think they did with my leg." I thought: "Medical waste," But I lied and said I didn’t know. He looked around and started to cry. My heart, at that moment went broke, sensing the humiliation that only an amputee knows intimately: " Nerves are not your friends,’ he said. “I mean--they are but they aren't'.  They tell you when pleasure is approached and they warn you of pain. Yet, they also lie and tell you that your legs needs to scratched, or there is a sharp pain in the ankle. You know it isn't true because that leg is gone, burned to a crisp in a furnace hotter than a thousand July's.”

 Yeah, I thought, nerves are a lot  like people. They mean well, they try their best, but they often lie to you. They don’t mean to lie.  Leti looked at me and asked it I was OK.  His abrupt question interrupted my fog of dreaming. I looked up and saw the Blue Devils were down by nine points. I  smiled and snapped back to reality. Life goes on, I thought. One chapter closes and another begins. And so it goes, even for those of us who have two legs.

 

New Orleans: The Once and Future Great American City

Louisiana-- well, NOLA-- is a complex confluence of social and cultural conventions. In many ways, what happens in NOLA is a harbinger of the class divide that's rapidly emerging in the U.S. From spending time in NOLA, I conclude that every American should be intensely clued in to what's unfolding there. From the explosive growth in charter schools to the expansion of 'NGO-influence' to decisions being considered about how to protect the city, it's a fascinating study. The other intriguing aspect about NOLA is that it typifies the fragility of our 'so-called' way of life...everything hangs by a precarious thread.

Obama, Arlington and the Moving Target of Racial Politics in America

I like Arlington, Texas. Always have. Arlington is like the middle daughter in the family where the two older siblings are scholarly, athletic and beautiful. No matter what the middle daughter achieves, she can't break free of the shadow cast by her other two sisters.

In late December, a black couple in North Arlington had the phrase, "Die Nig--er Die" spray painted onto the garage of their new house. The female owner was attacked by a neighbor with a 2x4. The injuries sent her to the hospital.

This story broke in the same week that a black man achieved the most impressive political victory in our Nation's history. A peculiar juxtaposition, one would think.

I thought about my experiences in Arlington. And lo, and behold, the last three times I've been a called a 'Nig--er' to my face was in Arlington, Texas. One of the occasions involved a personal assault near the intersection of Collins and Division; another was a reference made about my son during a high school basketball game.

I do not present my experiences as the norm. They represent my experiences alone.

Mississippi, probably, has the most troubled past--from a standpoint of racial terrorism-- of any State in the Nation. My father, a native of Mississippi, oft-said that if "Jesus returned to Earth and was in Mississippi, he'd wait for the third coming.'" But I like the Magnolia State-- and, ironically, what has been the biggest boon to improved race relations in Mississippi? Jobs. Stable, solid blue collar work that pays a livable wage. It's amazing how people are less inclined to want to lynch their neighbors when they've got a good job with health insurance.

Arlington is a city desperately looking for itself. It is a city...searching for an identity of what it can and should become. It is overshadowed by Dallas and Fort Worth…but, ironically, not in the same way that Irving is overshadowed. Irving is a bonafide U.S. border town-- it is neither Dallas, nor Fort Worth but a whole and distinct other entity separate from each. If one wants a front row seat to observe how our Nation is changing, spend time in Irving, Texas.

Arlington, however, is an enigma. It is home to a world-class university (UT-Arlington), critically acclaimed and zealously committed to higher education but completely eclipsed by the other UT-A (Austin), TCU (Fort Worth) and SMU (Dallas). It is home to a major league baseball team (Texas Rangers) and about to be the home for the Cowboys. But who, outside of a 100 mile radius know that Arlington is home to the Rangers.

The Cowboys will be good for the city financially, but won't help its image--for they are the 'Dallas' Cowboys.

Arlington has created its fortune, now it must create both its image and legacy. It's OK to be a small town when you really are a small town--but, when you're one of the 50 largest cities in the United States, you're in a different category. And it’s important to recognize this and act appropriately.

Jasper, Texas is immortalized by those who killed James Byrd, Jr. And, I'm sure there are many good people in Jasper--of all races-- who despised the killing. Yet, every resident of Jasper is tainted by, and linked to, the actions of their neighbors.

So back to the garage door incident.

The neighbors were angry because the homeowner --a Mr. Gamble-- refused to remove the "Die Nig-er Die” graffiti from the garage door. Some even suggested that if he failed to remove it, the Arlington authorities should cite him under a code violation regarding 'tagging.' Or, others complained because the building of the house has dragged on long past what they considered an appropriate length of time (Mr. Gamble's house is under construction), he bore some latent responsibility for what happened.

I found these responses insensitive and crude. But, my view of the world, as some readers of this blog will say, is slightly off-center. I asked four people what they thought --two blacks and two white. The blacks said, "I agree, he ought to leave it up." The whites said, "It's offensive, he needs to take it down. He's trying to make more out of this than it really is."

And I was back to where I started: still in a quandary! So, here is my take:

First, this isn't a hate crime. This incident, improperly labeled as such, sensitizes us to real hate crimes: (Emmit Louis Till, James Byrd, Jr., Matthew Shephard, et al). Yet, every black person over 40 who has lived in the South understands the following as part of our collective memory: The first step is a warning; the second step is burning and the third step normally involves a rope. This trifecta was an oft-repeated series of racial terrorism against persons of color in Texas and throughout the South.

So, I'm in a quandary. We want to look at Mr. Obama and say, "This is a different America in which we live." Then, we look at what happened in Arlington and the subsequent responses and think: "Hmmmm, maybe things aren't that different."

If someone tagged my garage door with, "Die Nig--er Die," I would move. There is power and peace in being part of a neighborhood and surrounded by folks who are, if not like-minded, are at least respectful. There is no way I'd ever fall asleep in a house --or move into a house-- that had been tagged with the above language. That logic is inexplicable. This isn't 1908 -- more options are available. I know this is America and one can live wherever they chose -- but just because one can 'afford' to do something doesn't mean they necessarily 'should' do it. I don't find it an act of 'courage and responsibility' to remain, nor do I find it an 'act of cowardice' to move. Some battles won are just Pyrrhic victories--and who needs that!

Former NBA great Bill Russell described how the vandals who'd broken into his house in a fashionable area of Boston turned back the covers of his bed and took a dump on the sheets. I don't know what his neighbors did or did not do, nor do I know how much longer he chose to live in that house, but I could feel the pain in his voice some forty years later.

Arlington, however, is not Boston. The legacy of Boston is such that no person will define Boston by what happened in Mr. Russell's bedroom. "Oh yeah, Boston. Damn Patriots, Red Sox and Celtics." "Oh yeah, Arlington. Isn't that the city where..." You know where I'm going.

The questions, I feel, are much larger: Are these actions an isolated and separate event perpetrated by someone requiring psychological help or do they represent an emerging flash-point of something else? We really don't know, do we? If Arlington isn't pragmatic, thoughtful and aggressive about this, the city may find itself defined by what happened to Mr. Gamble. And who wants that because Arlington really is a nice city.

One last point: When I was in Hong Kong, a shopkeeper told me this: 'for every one person who complains out loud, 84 people feel the same way and just boil inside." Those Hong Kong shopkeepers are usually right.

Will Tony Soprano go to Heaven? Who among us will make it in?

My ex-wife used to stand in our living room and ask: "How can you sit there and stare at those Van Gogh paintings for a solid hour...sometimes I'm convinced you're crazy like he was crazy." I said, "First, no one ever, truly, established Vincent was crazy and second I don't think that any person with 82 pairs of shoes in the closet who believes that a trip to Nine West is a religious experience can label someone crazy."

Not surprisingly, we divorced --but it had nothing to do with "Cafe Terrace at Night" or "Sheaves of Wheat,” or, for that matter, shoes...it had to do with self-centeredness and ego. A friend sent me a text message on yesterday announcing the break-up of a marriage.

So of course, I thought about my Dad. Which I do a lot-- he’s been dead for 38 years, but does one ever, really, get past the death of their father? We’re all searching for our fathers, or trying to place another in that role. When your Dad dies, your childhood officially closes. He wrote or said this in a sermon:

"The first hunger within a man is to connect with God, the second hunger is to find and achieve his destiny.The third is know that his life matters."

As I remembered this, it struck me that marriage (for most American men) remains at odds with all three hungers. Our connection with God must be our own--from th deepest depth of our individual heart and soul. Our destiny is our own-- others can surely help, but destiny is unique to the individual. Our life must matter to us before its outward expression can be earnest and valid toward others.

Personally, I don’t know why people get married--well, that’s not entirely true: (Security, Companionship, Intimacy, Love). But these reasons, though metirorious in their own right, come up short.

There is, as I see it, a single valid reason for getting married: Trust.

a.) What’s the value of loving someone you cannot trust?
b.) What’s the value of intimacy with someone you cannot trust?
c.) What’s the value of the company of someone you cannot trust?
d.) Can you be secure with someone you cannot trust?

I always liked Tony Soprano because he valued loyalty above all else. Tony, as an archetype, was looking for people he could trust. Though he wasn’t exactly a trustworthy husband, father business partner, nor family boss, he craved in others what he lacked within himself.

Tony craved redemption by projecting his weaknesses onto others and demanding, from them, salvation-- and when they could not save him, he lashed out at them from this place of unique pain.

Tony Soprano is the icon of the 21st century American male. It isn’t pretty guys, but it is what it is. We’re more like Tony than the dreadful Cliff Hutaxble.

Carmela, I think, was Roman Catholic-- if I remember, she had a ‘near-miss’ dalliance with a Priest in an earlier episodes. Was Tony an RC? What did he believe? Did he, in his private moments, have a passion to know God? Was Tony Soprano a person of faith?

Back to the text message: I tried to think of what my Dad would say-- so, here is what I wrote:

"...one of the simple, elegant and haunting truths about our 'walk of faith,' is that that God enters into every situation to work things out according to His ultimate will and purpose. When I coached [at a Christian school] I would remind my players that God is 'interested in your lives'...He isn't same 'far-flung disconnected Deity,' but real...someone with whom you can communicate with through prayer and listening. When one recognizes that about our heavenly Father-- the fact He is THERE-- a transformation begins to occur...in how we think, act and live. And that, clearly, transcends matters of divorce and separation...God is just bigger than all of that. This realization energizes one to do more that cope-- it helps you, literally, to go on. We blame ourselves for our choices-- and, most time, we are correct in accepting responsibilities...for ultimately, we each live the life we chose to live. And yes, YOUR self-centeredness and ego destroyed your relationship. Don’t ever blame the other person.

Yet, within that, are opportunities for God-inspired course corrections that enable us to end the journey at the place that was our appointed destiny. My father--who is deceased-- reminded me no 'person of faith starts out on the journey knowing how it will end.' The journey, fundamentally, is about daily acts of trust designed to bind, galvanize and immerse us in the reality of God-- and, what He wants to be in our lives."

Haopy New Year!

The Ghost of Christmas Past Leaves an Icy Trail

I once had a g.f. who was a Psychiatrist. She was the smartest woman (ok, person) I'd ever known. She could interpret obscure Biblical passages from Leviticus, flawlessly read (and understand) Toni Morrison without an unabridged version of the Oxford English Dictionary. This woman was so smart it unnerved me-- except she could not understand why I voted for President Clinton twice.

In many rambling discussions on life, medicine and the death of love in the Western World, she would occasionally pontificate on the nature of men. I once asked her, "Why don't more men go to the doctor?" She said, "That easy. Because when it comes to health, men are stupid, arrogant and afraid. That's why you all die every day of illnesses you could easily survive."
"What do you mean," I said.
"Men are too stupid to admit they don't know what's best for themselves... too arrogant to acknowledge they need help, and too afraid to learn the truth," she said.
She went on: "And, I'll tell you another thing-- when it comes to matters of mental health, you can multiply those three reasons by a factor of 10."

Outwardly, I defended my gender. Inside, I knew the 'Doctor' was right.

So that brings me to Christmas, 2007. Reading my blog, you'll know the uneasy relationship I've had with this season. Three of the five most significant male role models in my life departed during this time of the year. But my Christmas malaise didn't start with these deaths. I began spending Christmas alone 32 years ago as I took the RTD Bus to the Egyptian theatre on Hollywood Blvd. and watched a movie entitled, "Aaron Loves Angela." In 32 years, I've spent 22 Christmases solo.

Even though I normally subscribe to, 'Bah, humbug,' I sincerely tried to be different this year. But, alas, to quote Mr. Orwell, 'what's past is prologue.' Can any of us escape the drag of our past?

I decided--from guilt and angst-- to visit my mother. After spending four hours at DFW airport, that plan unravelled under the shaky weight of standby travel. And presto, another Christmas alone. But, the log-line of my blog is: "We all live the life we choose."

Since I had eschewed and ignored every offer of Christmas lunch, brunch or dinner, it was a Bennigan's night. I took a seat in the bar, ordered Salmon and and watched my Lakers beat the Suns. I counted 72 people in Bennigan's tonight. Of that total (minus two couples and a group of three high school girls who came in just for dessert-- they ordered, 'Death by Chocolate') every other patron in the restaurant was male. Every race was represented-- and, although I didn't check IDs, I'd say that the youngest guy was about 20 and the oldest about 75. There were a few groups of guys, but most were eating alone.

I am regularly at this Bennigan's -- and, routinely lots of women are there--either eating alone or in the bar. But, strangely, not tonight.

There was a time when it would have been considered anathema to eat alone on Christmas Day...not anymore. I don't wish to attach any undue significance to the fact an inordinate number of guys eat alone on holidays --but, let's just say, when I took the count, it was striking.

It started me thinking about the comments my Psychiatrist friend made about men and the state of our mental health. Does anyone-- who isn't assigned a work shift or happens to be away from home-- go to Bennigan's for Christmas dinner alone? I don't know-- but, I can say that going to a restaurant and eating alone on Christmas Day--even with the Laker game on a flat panel and great food-- should, perhaps, create an opportunity for introspection.

The Lonely Sojourn of Black Men in America-- Dream Deferred, Dismantled or Dismembered

Conservatively speaking, I've been to Tulsa 60 or 70 times. And, no kidding, every trip has been an adventure. Last year (or year before) I wrote about my Tulsa experiences in a series of posts titled, "Red River Blues." They are present in the archives.

I was in Tulsa this past week; and yes, it was an adventure.

I had, in both legs of the journey, significant time to sit around both airports (DFW and TUL). Sitting at airports is perhaps my least favorite thing to do. I've spent fully one-third of my waking hours waiting in airports.

I was sitting at gate C31 with my beautiful iBook plugged into the lone electrical outlet in the departure lounge. A guy walks up to me and says: "Can you unplug your laptop so I can plug in mine. I've got a project due and my computer is dead?" Already dazed, I didn't know what to say--and, I couldn't say what I considered saying. Such rudeness, I thought. He went to clarify saying that the design of my Macintosh adapter was such that is I moved it from the upper outlet to the lower, he could have access to AC power. This request seemed reasonable and I was glad I hadn't misjudged the guy.

What followed was one of the more robust, transcendental conversations I've had at an airport (the best ever was a conversation I had with a guy from Banglasdesh while we were both stuck at Hong Kong's old Kai-Tak Airport) -- this man trains quarterbacks for a living. From NFL to high school, he traverses the country teaching quarterbacks to avoid blitzes and the nuanced difference between a '2' deep and a '3" deep zone. What struck me was his passion for teaching and training--he and his partner were on his way to Jenks High School in Tulsa to videotape several sessions with the quarterbacks.

We delved into the racial component of quarterbacking-- he said that in his analysis, the only skill NFL teams and major college programs seek from potential quarterbacks is this: "can you throw the ball with speed and accuracy-- can you get it there is all the matters... everything else can be taught." He further explained that the days of the 'running quarterback' were over..."defensive players are just too big and too athletic. 'Fran Tarkenton would be dead if he played in today's NFL."

Well, Sean Taylor is dead and it happened in his own home--that is what flashed through my head. I know Sean Taylor's death and the startling change in the speed of NFL linebackers aren't related-- but such is how my mind works--finding connections in seemingly unrelated items. One thing leads to another and I'm off on some random, chaotic tangent.

Does it seem like the lives of many young black men and violently end tragically-- or, it just me?

In July of 1979, my brother William and I were standing in front of his apartment building. It was a beautiful L.A. evening, about dusk. Those kind of transitional L.A. evenings, just before dark, that are peaceful and comforting. Some of the kids were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk and we were leaning on the building talking about Fernando Valenzuela or something. In what seemed like a flash, a green 1963 Impala turned onto our street. The squeal of the tires and deep roar of the V-8 resonated as the screamed down the long block. Instinctively, the kids playing hops dropped below the parked cars. I pushed William and two girls onto the grass. The shots rang out, spraying the front of the apartment building and ricocheting off the parked cars. The Impala raced to the end of the block and turned around. The kids were screaming and crying. We all just laid there for a moment, not knowing what to feel--except glad to be free of any bullet holes.

Four and one-half years later I was in an aircraft accident that fractured my skull on both sides, two pints of blood lost from a gaping hole above my left ear. The good folks at Daniel Freeman hospital-- in Inglewood, California-- helped me a lot. They said it had been a while since they'd seem that much blood loss that didn't come from a multiple gunshot wound.

My grandfather committed suicide by laying down on a railroad track in front of slow-moving locomotive owned by a railroad company called "Louisville and Nashville." I was told that the undertaker couldn't put his body back together and therefore suggested a closed casket funeral.

Randy was a guy I worked with during my days working at Los Angeles International. He met a girl who lived in Cleveland and transferred there to be with her. Randy had never been away from L.A. We warned him about Cleveland weather-- I remember someone saying, "Have you ever seen a Cleveland Browns game on TV?" Of course, Randy didn't listen. He got to Cleveland and found that the girl of his dreams was sharing dreams with another guy--one she was legally separated from-- but, at the last moment, she and the husband decided to try one more time...you know, 'just to make sure before we file for divorce.'

Randy, with no place to go and no girl of his dreams --and, probably no money-- decided to sleep in his Ford LTD, wrapped up in his Navy pea coat and the car resting in the uncovered airport parking lot. Being from L.A.,Randy didn't understand the anger of midwestern cold. When the airport police found Randy, three weeks later, they said his body was preserved quite nicely for having been dead three weeks. I wonder if the girl and her husband ended up working things out. I know it didn't work out for Randy.

Marvin and I played basketball together in high school. We graduated June 12th. Marvin was killed near Morningside Park on August 12th of that year.

My brother-in-law, Errol Thomas, was stabbed in his sleep--neighbors contend his young wife was the guilty party--that she'd unearthed evidenced of his cheating-- but no charges were ever filed and she ended marrying a guy who owned a bar.

My next door neighbor, Andre, went to see a Chicana who lived on the outskirts of Compton. He had shown me a Polaroid of her-- she looked like the reincarnation of Dolores Del Rio...I understood why he was going to see her. I remember thinking: "Does she have a hermana for me?"

His mother and grandmother cried uncontrollably at his funeral. Andre had been robbed, shot and left in a bathroom stall at a county park off Rosecrans Avenue.

Did you know that the FBI statistics indicate that 92% of all homicides against black males are commitment by other black males?

Nearly 4,000 black men were lynched by whites between 1872 and 1936. Today, black men are killed by one another.

This is not a good picture.

So, back to Tulsa.
I get my shoes shined at airports. it is a ritual that I employ to assuage my frustration at the incessant waiting. So, I'm waiting at the Tulsa Airport and I find the shoe shine guy. We will call him, "Joe."

He was black man, aged 49, wearing a candy apple red stocking hat that read, "Merry Christmas." He seemed to be a kind and gentle soul-- he spoke to everyone with a pep in his voice...ok, it was really a smile that I heard in his voice.

I queried him about his work: (He'd shined shoes for 15 years...his work days was 0600 to 1700 Monday through Friday...summer is the worst because people wear athletic shoes...95% of his clients are men...the average tip is $3.00...he has one kid left at home in high school...)

I then asked, "What is your dream? I know you can't do this for ten more years."

He paused from rubbing my shoes, dashing to his desk to retrieve a black Nikon digital camera. He said, "Here is my future," while showing me a photo of a contraption that I embarrassingly couldn't recognize. He said, "It's a smoker. I got it at a used car lot for $900.00. They said some guy from Temple, Texas has left it there."

"Joe"explained that his goal was to smoke Turkey legs and sell them at county fairs and selected public events. "That," he explained, was "all he wanted to do with the rest of his life." He estimated that three days a week during the summer would be equivalent to his shoe shining income.

He finished my shoes as two other customers strolled into the little shop. I got down from the chair and went to where I'd left my backpack. I thought about "Joe" for a long time. Every black guy I have ever known had a dream. Randy wanted the white girl to love him. Andre wanted to be a graphic designer. Sean Taylor, I assume, wanted to be an 'all-pro" and play in a Super Bowl. Errol wanted to come to the United States and open a Jamaican restaurant.

Often, things don't end well for black men. "I cried at a photographic exhibition called, "Without Sanctuary." The photos chronicled the history of lynching in America. Oddly, all the persons hanging from trees looked amazingly like me. I believe that black men often ascribe such little worth to the lives of other black men because the legacy of slavery and lynching causes us to question the worth and value of our own lives. Could it be that because our country de-humanized us, it is difficult to see worth, value and goodness in one another It is for this reason we must make demands of ourselves and each other-- as men-- to deny violence toward one another while searching for the threaded dance of hope and possibility that is often beaten from us, quite often, by well-meaning strangers.

It is my hope that "Joe" gets that opportunity to smoke and sell Turkey legs. Every black man--whether shining shoes or making tackles on Sunday afternoon -- deserves a precious shot at having his dreams come true.

Beautiful Desolation

"Only the fundamental things apply..."
-James "Dooley Wilson in the movie, "Casablanca"

There was a point yesterday-- in the late afternoon-- when I felt desolation such that I haven't felt in years. It was such a tangible expression that I stopped what I was doing.

Over the past few weeks I've been working on a film that's being shot at the airport. It's been cool for me because I used to like airports-- a chunk of my youth was spent working at an airport. From student jobs cleaning airport bathrooms to serving meals to working in customer service, I've seen a lot. What I remember about the airport in Los Angeles was the irony at how many places their were to be alone. One thinks that airports and crowds are synonymous-- yet, once venturing from the TSA Screening checkpoint or the chaos at the gate or in baggage claim, airports are about open spaces. There are places at LAX where one can sit-- in the late afternoon or early morning-- and be convinced you're the only person on the planet. Airports represent beautiful desolation--places where loneliness amidst a sea of people is the concomitant norm.

With this week came an subtle epiphany: Relationships -- and not just the romantic variety-- are similar to airports: frenetic, confusing, awe-inspiring and strangely desolate. Airport terminals, I submit, are crucibles of loneliness. With the late afternoon sun at my back, the epiphany flashed, and then went away. I wanted to reach out and talk about this present desolation. But, to whom?

A powerful truth, I think, is the essential nature of being as it relates to loneliness. We must “be” in the pure since of living in the moment, but also we must “be” becoming the person that we are destined to become. That’s a bit harder. OK, its a helluva lot harder. because most of us are lost.

My Dad would often say that 'life's easier when you have a companion" -- the etymology of the word companion encompasses a root meaning of “someone with whom you share your daily bread.” In the days before supermarkets and food shops and restaurants, it was more of a challenge to procure ones daily bread. How beautiful, then, the expression of intimacy implicit in the idea of a companion. I think that this idea transcends, drills down, and expands on the notion of relationships. A relationship can be superficial. A companion-- at least in the historical frame-- acknowledges a recognition that ones life in entwined with the other at an organic, fundamental level-- we share our daily bread...we share in that which gives sustenance to one another.

The evil that engulfs the world, and the complexities of life that spring forth from just living, can grind us into grist. Having a real companion can be the counter-balance to what the big, bad world throws at us. Of course, there is another component to this-- and, it actually holds preeminence. That component is knowing God (to the degree that any of us can know God). The quest for knowing God is a recognition and acceptance that God’s first desire was that we know him. It was his idea. Even of the garden of Eden, it was God who came looking for Adam and Eve after they’d sinned.

Two people who individually have a desire to know God, and make the choice to become companions for one another, become a formidable source for good in a world that is gone bad.

Companionship is a life principle. Those who embrace it , then, upon receiving it treat it as something sacred, receive a gift that transcends any and all relationships they’ve ever experienced. It’s like breathing air with enriched oxygen content-- every part of your being is enriched in ways that you never thought existed. Even our best expectations and our highest aspirations fall so far beneath what could have been-- there are some things that out feeble little minds just know is possible.

On this day, I have a new appreciation for the dazed and confused look that rests upon the faces of airport travelers. Many give the outward appearance of rudeness or sadness---but, in reality it is their loneliness they seek to mask. Bereft of companionship, they wander amidst the desolation looking for clear signage, hopefulness and a friendly face. It's kinda like life, isn't it?

Ezekiel and Me

I haven't posted anything in few months because I haven't been that well.

The problem is with my head-- really, no kidding. I've been feeling a lot like my late friend who spent time in Arles. I have ten pieces of his work. Don't know if he got hit in the head though.

During my hiatus, there has been lots of time to think about stuff-- about life, about the world and my place in it. The unrelenting conclusion is that it's time to make a change. And, I'm not certain what that change will mean, but I am compelled to sail onward.

This season marks the first time since I can remember that I haven't been coaching. It's a peculiar feeling, given my love and dedication to the game, but my health and my head demanded that I take this year off. I miss the game terribly-- the gym and the teaching and all that -- but, I am compelled to finish my book and do a few other things that are necessary. Moreover, I've pondered the condition of the world-- Sudan and the suffering in Sub-Saharan Africa, to name one-- and how little I am personally doing to anything better. So, as is my way, I turn to the book that has been my mainstay since I was seven years old -- the Bible.

Ezekiel, of all the Old Testament prophets, seemed to have been dealt a a tough hand of cards. Aside from being directed to consistently bring a message no one wanted to hear, he spent 390 days laying on his left side-- a day for a year representing the sins of the House of Israel-- and another 40 days-- a day for a year representing the sins of the house of Judah-- laying on his right side. The Lord, also, directed him to use human excrement as fuel to cook his barley cakes. (Finally, the Lord relented and allowed Ezekiel to instead use cow dung as cooking fuel.)

Finally, when the moment arrived to drive home the final point, God said this, "I'm going to take the object of your eyes from you." He was referring to EZ's beautiful young wife--the one who he loved.

What was Ezekiel's clear-eyed response? This is what the bible records: "In the evening, my wife died, and in the morning I did as I was told."

I could be wrong, but I don't think Ezekiel had a lot of supporters or friends. His messages, focusing on betrayal, are some of most vivid and direct in God's book. He explained why the citizens were in the current predicament, how they got there, and the cost of idolatry.

Idolatry is any thing/person that takes our focus away from God? I think we should all re-visit the definition of idolatry because this behavior is clearly offensive to God. Why should we behave in any way that is offensive to God?

It started me thinking: What were my idols? What do I worship? Where is my focus?
Is my faith in God or elsewhere? Am I doing what is commanded?

Few of my readers, hopefully, are worshiping golden calfves, bulls, snakes, trees or the sun-- but we are worshipping family, children, money, career, corporations, ESPN/CNN/FOX, technology, jobs, pleasure and of course, ourselves. Worship has just become a tad more sophisticated in this age...and, it doesn't seem like worship in the classic sense of praying to a obectified deity, but it tracks a more subtle path because we simply give our time to ultimately meaningless endeavors--without weighing the central question of Time versus Eternity.

I am, again, haunted, by a paragraph from CS Lewis: "Most men do neither the things they WANT to do, nor the things the OUGHT to do....living lives of quiet desparation."

Damn, is that me? Am I trapped in some labyrinthian cave burning through my destiny like fire through a stucco duplex? And, as a cancer survivor, I should KNOW better. But, like most people, once you emerge from a valley, and the skies are clearer on the other side, you just forget. (Have you seen the new MacBook? Have you seen the HDTV? Did you see Kobe got 52? )

I'm taken by the matter-of-factness of Ezekiel's writing: "In the evening my wife died, and in the morning, I did as I was commanded.'

Can I return to the simple declaration of faith: Action, based on Belief and supported by Confidence. How is faith explained as a practical manner. Ninety percent=courage. Nine percent=tenacity. One percent is an aggregate of everything else you've ever heard, thought or learned about the definition of faith.

Reflect on the plight of the young man named Ezekiel-- he was in his mid-twenties while facing this ordeal. God instructed Ezekiel to shave his head with a sword and weigh the cuttings of hair. Then, he was told to divide the hair into three parts-- the first third was burned; the second portion was struck with the sword; and, the last portion was scattered to the wind.

Ezekiel reminds us: "In the evening my wife died, and in the morning I did as I was told."

Are we making the world better--even in the tiny pockets where we have influence. Or, are we just continuing to serve ourselves, wrapped in our wants and needs-- mostly, misguided and selfish.

Ezekiel made it easy for us...just do what you are told. That's my renewed mission.

Checkerboards, Re-Borders and Chicken Pot Pie - Part 1

“Yes, I”ve had many meetings with strangers. Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
-Blanche DuBois (A Streetcar Named Desire)

“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some of you have entertained angels unaware.”
-Book of Hebrews        

My Pastor often said that the closer you get to God, and the more you read the Bible, the more you realize how little you know about God and the Bible. That is true about many aspects of life-- and, I now know it is true about traveling.

The plan was for a short trip to Baton Rouge-- out in the morning and back in the evening. A simple plan. A good day. It became an “Alice in Wonderland” adventure with shades of Indiana Jones—or, the Bataan Death march.  I am no virgin traveler- I’ve wandered the back alleys of Kowloon--away from Tsim Tsa Shui-- gotten lost in the seemingly endless shops in and around central London and immersed myself in the poverty-stricken areas of Montego Bay. And, I’ve been to East St. Louis and Inglewood, California.

I should have known this would be an adventure when the nose gear was damaged on pushback from the gate departing  DFW. Delay: One Hour.

Baton Rouge was joyous—memorable, even. It wasn’t the problem. My traveling companion and I got to the airport two full hours before the scheduled departure. TSA wasn’t a problem-- I made a shoeless scamper through the metal detectors and was no worse for wear. We found a coffee shop and stopped for Cafe-au-Lait, Raspberry Scones and bottled water. We leisurely wandered to the departure lounge—then, the first wave of trepidation swept over me. I had a flashback to my youth--during the time I spent working for an airline in Los Angeles. Back then, by taking a look at the number of people in the lounge forty minutes to departure time and  I could assess whether we’d be able to leave on time. It was uncanny how often I was right. The flight to Dallas was on a 44-seat Embraer regional jet. And, I kid you not; there were at least 90 people in the departure lounge. Each had that bewildered, end-of-the-day, “I have no idea what’s going on look in their face.” I've seen that look countless times.

Another airline cancelled a flight to DFW and the people were standing by as 'oversales' on the flight we hoped to board-- and, we weren’t confirmed, but standby flotsam.

The flight departed with me and my traveling companion (and about thirty other people) standing at the gate. The gate agent, a pretty black girl named Violet was graciously trying to get people to Baltimore, Seattle and Atlanta. She motioned to me and said, “Your best bet is to come back tomorrow--after four o’clock.  There is an option to take Delta and go through Atlanta--it’s about $500.00.”

Standby travel is an odd blend of art and science-- when you don’t get on, the first thing is to assess the location of the nearest airport with a later flight --which was New Orleans.  I called and quickly learned there was a 6:35 flight from Louis Armstrong to DFW-- of course, by now it is 5:45 p.m. No time,  and as fortune would have it , that was the last trip of the day.

Since we had to get back that night, I immediately thought of Greyhound. Now, under the heading of full disclosure, let me say that the last time I took Greyhound was as a 12 year old going from L.A. to Redding, CA and a trip to Mount Shasta.  Tricky Dick was at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

My traveling companion-- quite the savvy traveler--quietly suggested that I have my head examined for considering Greyhound.  I think her quote was, “Are you crazy? You only want to try this because you have never ridden Greyhound.” It can’t be that bad,” I quipped. “We can get travel chess or checker sets and play all the way back to Dallas.”

Thirty minutes and $15.00 later we were at 1253 Florida Avenue...the bus depot.  It was not 6:40 p.m. and we were standing in line to buy tickets for the 7:15 Bus to Dallas.  There were buses leaving to Houston and Pensacola. There were throngs of people. Strangely, it reminded me or Mexico City or Mombassa. A Greyhound agent at the door began screaming for re-borders to come forward. I didn’t know what a re-border was so my traveling companion had to explain.

There was bank of ten (working) pay phones and a vendor was selling Chicken Pot Pies for $2.25. The ticket agent’s voice interrupted the show. “I have no tickets left to sell tonight. Come back tomorrow.”

The six or seven people in front of me dutifully got out of line, but I marched up to her. ‘Does this mean you’re not selling seats on the 7:15 bus to Dallas,” I said.

She looked at me the way the customers used to stare at me when I said, “It's a weather delay and we can’t leave until the fog lifts.” "I"m going to write your superiors," the customers would often say.

The agent looked at me with pity. “Sir, there are no seats going to Dallas or anywhere else tonight. Come back tomorrow. Didn’t you hear me?”

My traveling companion shook her head-- there was no need to even say,  ‘I told you so, stupid.’  Decision time for me—I said, “I know, let’s go back to the airport and get a rental car...we can drive to Dallas and be in before sunrise!”

We called Yellow Cab....and waited...and waited. The rain drops were attacking the pavement, so we waited inside. I learned that Cabbies don’t like to pick-up at the bus depot—at least the one in Baton Rouge.  Seventeen minutes passed and a Yellow cab showed up. Before we could get outside, a light-skinned black girl in a Houston Texan jersey raced to the cab door and opened it. The driver asked her last name and when she gave a different name, he asked her to step away.

During the seventeen minute wait I met a black man named Elvin. He looked about 45 or so. He suggested that we go to New Orleans because there were more travel options from there--and, that there was a free coach going to New Orleans at 7:30. The pick-up location was about ten blocks up Florida Street, just past the cemetery. He said that he didn’t have a car because he had been really sick, but he often took the bus down to New Orleans and spent the day. He was at the bus station because his best friend was trying to get to Dallas to attend a funeral. The best friend’s Sister had hung herself from the second story balcony of her home the day before. They had to get over to Dallas and make funeral arrangements. He was traveling with his kids who didn’t know their Aunt was dead. He went on to explain that he would ask the best friend if he could borrow the car and drive us the ten blocks because it didn’t make good sense t walk that far in the rain. I had to interrupt Everett to keep from losing the cab to the light-skinned black girl. Everett said he bought and sold cars-- he told me that he could help me if I were ever back in Baton Rouge...even with financing…

We slid into the expansive back seat of the Caprice. Smilin’ Tom, a white guy, was our driver. He gleefully announced he’d have us at the airport in ten minutes. “Greyhound would be out of business if they didn’t have a damn monopoly,’ he said. “They don’t care whether you get there or not. If there was any competition, they’d treat people better. As bad as they are, it might take to you two weeks to get from Baton Rouge to Dallas because you’ve gotta layover for five days in Alexandria.”

I painfully called the “Ding” airline and learned there was a 9:20 p.m. flight from New Orleans to Houston and we could connect to get back to DFW. The problem, of course, was getting to New Orleans Airport—now known as Louis Armstrong International.

Smilin’ Tom was right. Ten dollars and ten minutes later we were at National Rent-a-Car. Hope was starting to rise in me. It didn’t last.

“Why sir, in order to rent this vehicle, you’ll have to show us a return ticket showing Baton Rouge as the final destination,” the agent said. I sighed.

“Can’t I just pay the drop-off charge and leave it at the airport in New Orleans,” I offered.

“No, sir. That won’t be possible. Every car rented in Baton Rouge must be returned here. Try Enterprise.”

We walked exactly thirty steps to the Enterprise counter and I presented my valid Texas Drivers License and Visa.  The National agent was right; Enterprise didn’t charge a drop-off fee to leave a car in New Orleans. The only problem was that they didn’t have any cars. Only, a Honda Ridgeline.

I said, “Cool, I’ll take it.”  She looks down at my card -- we don’t accept Visa.

I ran to the American Eagle ticket counter and asked them how they arranged for misconnected passengers to get from Baton Rouge to New Orleans. The young man looked at me, “Taxi. About One-twenty. Minimum.” “Damn, I said.”

My traveling companion was one step ahead of me, having gone to the taxi stand and arranged a taxi for us.

I walked up and saw an older black man. Let’s just call him, “Gideon.” Gideon the guardian angel. He opened the door of the Chrysler and said, “Get in.” 

The radio was playing ‘Room at the Cross for you’ and the sight of a wooden cross dangled from the rearview mirror. Gideon said: “Don’t worry, I’ll get y’all there.”  Peace, like a Waikiki wave, washed over me.

We disappeared into the concrete blackness of Interstate 110 and sleep came easily to me. I awakened at 8:47 and we were getting off the freeway heaeding for Racetrack. Gideon, sensing my concern said, “I don’t want to run out of gas on the Lake Pontchartrain bridge...don’t worry, we’re eight miles away. "

TO BE CONTINUED