Police On My Back

 

What I don't know is a lot, but I'm convinced of at least three things: 

We have gun, racism and policing problems in this country, and they ain't necessarily exclusive of each other.

These are far more complex issues than most people are willing or able to deal with, so the fallback position is to let political persuasion, ideology, social standing, ethnicity or personal situation set the tone for our own mostly-unexamined opinions.

That's the wrong thing to do, but you know... HOOMANS.

I'd wager that other than the occasional traffic stop for a moving violation, most 'Murricans have little to no interaction with law enforcement, and la-de-da good for them. I wish I could count myself among those 'Murricans, but that ain't the case.

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Real World Cop Stop #1: It was sometime in late 1974 or early 1975 when my Cousin and I were chowing down some fast-food while sitting in my '57 Chevy in my hometown of La Puente, California. All of a sudden, several police cars raced up and and surrounded the car, the cops jumping out and pointing their guns at us.

We were both frozen in mid-bite, eyes wide open, when a voice over the loudspeaker said "REMAIN CALM AND DON'T MOVE!" We complied. 

A few moments later we were outside my car, food dropped on the ground, bent over the trunk lid with hands cuffed behind our backs. A few minutes later, they were uncuffing us and apologizing for their mistake. It seems a grocery store had been robbed less than 30 minutes earlier and the APB went out for two dark-haired young men driving a brown '57 Chevy... we fit the description. However, while we were cuffed and our records were being run, a radio call came in saying the real culprits had been snagged.

No harm no foul, and the cops were really nice to us afterwards. They left and we stood there, stunned and still hungry.

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We depend on the police to deal with law-breaking criminals and to leave the rest of us alone so we don't have to think about those criminals. We expect cops to be judicious and objective with their authority, to know in advance how to correctly handle every situation they respond to and to never break any laws while doing so.

This is very hard because of HOOMANS.

Here's the conundrum: Policing is an extremely difficult career choice that only a certain kind of person is willing to take on. Once badged, cops are asked to deal with the very worst examples of humanity on everyone else's behalf, yet are expected to maintain a high level of empathy and professionalism even though they're exposed daily to the worst examples of humanity.

Cops are HOOMANS, too.

Try this on: you have a job that requires constantly dealing with awful people doing awful things who would prefer that you don't exist, which means it can be difficult to remain objectively judicious with your authority, to not overreact, to not resort to base instincts. It's the same for anyone who served in the military on an active field of battle.

After a while of dealing with awful people doing awful things who would prefer that you don't exist, pessimism and antipathy and anger begins to seep in. What was once a noble calling becomes a debilitating exercise in survival, leaving you filled with trepidation and angst and anxiety and a daily fear for your own life.

A soldier in battle knows it boils down to 'kill or be killed'. For law enforcement, that mindset becomes dangerous when dealing with the public, especially if you know the likelihood that those awful people doing awful things who would prefer that you don't exist are armed, oftentimes more heavily armed than you.

So... there you are, a duly-sworn law enforcement professional filled with all the bad juju that dealing with The Awfulness brings, regularly confronting situations that YOU JUST KNOW is gonna get out of hand.

That right there is what we refer to as a MINDFUCK, and it often turns all bad real fast. Why? Because HOOMANS.

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Real World Cop Stop #2: In 2002 while working at a tire testing autocross event in a Phoenix suburb, my co-worker and I were driving back to our hotel after having dropped off our clients and their rental car at Sky Harbor Airport. There we were, two bald-headed Mexicans cruising the nighttime Arizona freeway in a Yellow Corvette convertible that I'd rented for the autocross shootout. Top down, tunes up, rolling at the speed limit because Yellow Corvette, the offramp to our hotel literally within sight.

I hadn't noticed the police car pulling up fast behind me until he lit up the night with his gumballs, strobes and spotlights, so I quickly pulled over to the shoulder. Within about a minute, four more cruisers joined us by the freeway, two of them sliding in front of the Corvette, blocking our path. A minor freeway jam-up ensued alongside.

Loudspeaker: "DRIVER AND PASSENGER... STAY INSIDE THE CAR." After a long couple of minutes, two cops approached both sides of the car with their right hands resting on their guns.

Him (to me in the driver seat): "Sir, is this your car?"

Me: "Good evening, Officer... no Sir, this car is a rental that I picked up in Tempe several days ago."

Him: "Sir, do you have proof of that?"

Me: "Yes Sir... right there in the console."

Him: "Sir, please give me your license, proof of insurance and the rental agreement... and do it slowly."

Once he had my papers, I was asked to exit the car and follow him back to his cruiser.  My co-worker also got out but was asked to follow another cop to his cruiser in front of the car.

We spent the next 30 minutes individually fielding myriad questions about the car, our work, why a Yellow Corvette, where we lived, yatta yatta yatta all to allow them lots of time to run our licenses and the car's registration to see if they could trip us up by giving conflicting answers.

Eventually they seemed satisfied that we weren't gang-banging car thieves, gave us back our docs and without a word, jumped back into their cruisers and blasted off, leaving us there in the dark by the side of the freeway.

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These days, people are afraid of the police. Of course, NO ONE wants to get pulled over, but the general feeling among many civilians is that the protocols, protections and guidelines we always assumed were endemic to law enforcement when dealing with the public... well, they seem to have gone MIA.

Yes, we hear inflamed and overhyped accounts via the 24-hour 'no sparrow shall fall' news media about every single thing that happens across our vast nation involving law enforcement, but it seems we've lost a valuable sense of trust in the men and women who choose to wear the badge.

That is a BAD THING.

The more we mistrust law enforcement to do right by us, the less likely we are to understand and accept the vital role they play in our lives. Once lost, that trust is woefully difficult to rebuild, and anyone who lives in an area with a crime rate above 'almost zero' will attest to how strong that mistrust, apprehension and suspicion can be.

I have relatives who worked in policing during the 70's and 80's, and they were amazing examples of all that is good about law enforcement.  One of them worked as a Detective at the infamous Rampart Division of the L.A.P.D. and witnessed some of the most egregious acts of policing misconduct ever documented.

Even though he'd just recently retired from the force, that same relative was shaken and scared at the results of Rodney King's 1991 beating, the ridiculous trial and the public outcry and violence. He feared for his comrades... and for the rest of us, too. He knew where it all came from.

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Real World Cop Stop #3: About 12 years ago, my wife and I were leaving her parent's home in Lakewood, California in her 2000 Blue VW Beetle. I was driving towards the freeway on a surface street and exceeding the 35mph speed limit by a mind-numbing 10mph, when out of nowhere a police cruiser jumped in behind us and lit up his 'pull over now' lights.

Once stopped, I waited for the officer to come up to the car, my license and registration at the ready. When he did arrive, his right hand on his holster, he asked me to get out of the car and follow him to the back of it.  Once there, he asked me if I'd mind putting my hands over my head so he could handcuff me 'for my own safety'. Natch, I did.

At this point, I still had no clue why he stopped me, let alone cuffed me. He inspected the car's interior and informed us he stopped me for exceeding the speed limit and that another guy with my name had an outstanding warrant. He never did explain the cuffing or car inspection, admonished my speeding and let us off with a warning before letting us go.

WEIRD.

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I'm technically a 'person of color' who doesn't appear at first glance to be anything other than a vanilla white dude. However, I have no doubt... NO DOUBT... that if I'd been of a darker skin tone, those Cop Stops could and probably would have gone much MUCH worse. That's not conjecture, but many vanilla white hoomans who deny that reality simply haven't experienced the stomach gut-knot when The Man decides to pull you over and you ain't a white dude or chick.

And now... a bit of comic relief:

Real World Cop Stop #4: In 1975 while attending junior college, I was dating a really lovely and wholesome girl that I'd met I can't remember where, and for our second date were headed to The Ice House comedy club in Pasadena.

We were rolling in my bitchin' BRG 1968 Triumph TR-4A, a really cool but absolutely awful car that would eventually cost me a great job because it kept breaking expensive British parts. My date loved the car, and we enjoyed the drive that evening from West Covina to Pasadena, the night filled with promise until I got lost and did an illegal U-turn within blocks of our destination.

I got pulled over in a nanosecond by one of Pasadena's Finest, so I figgered to get an embarrassing ticket and then drive away, but NO. After The Man took my license and registration to run, he came back to the car:

The Man: "Sir, do you know you have an outstanding warrant out for your arrest?"

Me: "Wait... WHAT?!?"

The Man: "Yes sir... a warrant's been posted for 'non-compliance of vehicle equipment violation' for this very car."

Me: "BUT BUT BUT... that violation's been cleared! It was for missing windshield wipers and I got it signed off and everything!" 

At this point, I gestured towards the new windshield wiper arms that had been on order from the U.K. for months and had just arrived a few weeks earlier. Didn't matter.

The Man: "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to arrest you on this outstanding warrant. You should have made sure it was cleared up before you drove this car."

Within a minute or so, I was handcuffed and pleading with him to please reconsider but no dice. He then told me that my car would be towed to a yard unless the young lady would be willing to drive the car away.  She didn't know how to drive a manual transmission but would call her Dad and Brother to come out and retrieve my car.

So on our second date, her and I (me cuffed) were in the back of a police cruiser headed for the Pasadena Police Station. AWESOME. She called her Dad, explained the situation, and I heard a huge peal of laughter over the station pay phone... he though it was hilarious. To his credit, her Dad and Brother drove all the way out to Pasadena on a Saturday night, picked her up at the station, retrieved my car and drove them both home. 

The following 12 hours of incarceration in the Pasadena jail are a story for another time. Suffice it to say I didn't go to L.A. County jail the next morning with the other Saturday night lawbreakers, and I bailed out soon afterward with the help of my Uncle Rick. The feeling of walking out of the police station on a Sunday morning was exhilarating.

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I don't pretend to know first-hand what it feels like to be a considered suspicious person simply because of the color of my skin or where I live or the people I associate with. I can only imagine what it feels like to be a law enforcement officer, considered by many with contempt or derision or fear, any time they find themselves involved in a traffic stop with the public, the most dangerous thing cops have to do.

Nevertheless, I do know we have a long way to go, as a society, before we can honestly say we treat each other with compassion or understanding or empathy.  

It doesn't have to be that way. I think we can all do better. I know I can.

"I think we all have empathy. We may not have enough courage to display it." - Maya Angelou

Todos las imagenes, gracias a Google Images; video de The Clash 'Police On My Back', muchas gracias a YouTube; Apoye a su policia local.

Stingray Stomp

 

The phone call I made to Epitaph/Epitone Records in early 1997 started out really weird:

Him: "Good morning."

Me: "Hi... thanks for taking my call, it was hard finding your number! I want to get some information about a surf band on your label named Blue Stingrays.  I just bought their CD and really love it, but I have no idea who they are and I'm hoping you could help."

Him: (says nothing)

Me: (after a few seconds) "Hello... are you still there?"

Him: "Who IS this?"

Me: "... uh, excuse me? My name's Bob, I live in Mission Viejo and I'm trying to get some info on the Blue Stingrays."

Him: "Are you a reporter?"

Me: (stunned) "What?"

                           'Brave New World' - Blue Stingrays

The day before that phone call, a random search through the CD racks at my local Borders Bookstore uncovered a mystery that was like catnip to this music geek.

I'd been searching for some cool surf tunes in preparation for a music taping project. I was planning to record six hours of music (all drawn from my personal digital and vinyl collection) onto cassette tapes for use during the 1997 International Jet Sports Boating Association (IJSBA) personal watercraft (PWC, a.k.a. jet-ski) racing season.

As the IJSBA Regional Event Supervisor, I'd be working at all the National Tour and World Finals races during the year, so having a say in the kind of music being played would be AWESOME.

Our Competition Director asked if I'd be up for the project, which I agreed to in a nanosecond.

My goal: mix one 90-minute tape of semi-mellow music for morning practice sessions, then mix three more tapes of rocking music for the qualifying sessions and races. Although compact discs were already a thing, the players were very finicky and prone to jamming in outdoor environments. Cassettes were low-tech but very reliable, so that was the medium of choice. The tunes would be played over the race site PA system to get the crowd amped up during the morning pre-race rituals and competition events.

One problem: I didn't have that much surf music in-hand, so off to Borders I went.

'Goldfinger' - Blue Stingrays

After scanning through the 'Surf' music section at Borders, I'd already pulled out 'Bikini World', a compilation of surf tunes by bands from around the globe. Otherwise, the pickins' were slim.

That's when I found 'Blue Stingrays Surf-N-Burn'.  Never heard of this band, but I recognized a few of the song titles and decided to buy it and take a risk. Plus, great CD cover image... always a good sign.

I cued up the CD when I got home and was blown away at their sound: totally old-school, crystal-clear with lots of reverb, and marinated with a sense of humor and homage to the surfing lifestyle that we native Californians of a certain age have in our DNA. The kind of tunes we heard on our transistor radios.

An added bonus was the cool dark blue guitar pick with the band logo on it that fell onto my lap when I opened the jewel case.  WINNER.

My confusion began when I started to read the liner notes.  According to their bio, Blue Stingrays was the original California band that started the surf music trend in 1959. Once the genre began to blow up, they rejected stardom and moved to a Tahitian island for 30 years to hone their sound, with 'Surf-N-Burn' as the result. The other LPs in their discography were no longer available. 

Now... I've listened to a LOT of surf music in my life but had never heard of this band or their music, which was odd because they were supposedly the first to break out the signature surf sound.

I had to find out more about Blue Stingrays.

                           'Stingray Stomp' - Blue Stingrays

I was able to locate a phone number for Epitaph Records in Hollywood, the company that released the CD under the 'Epitone' name.

That's when I made the phone call that took a decidedly weird turn.

Him: "I said... are you a reporter?"

Me: " Nope... not a reporter. Just a surf music fan who found this CD by a band that I've never heard of. I'm making a mix tape for the upcoming jet-ski racing season and want to add some surf music. I have to know more about the Blue Stingrays... they're GREAT!"

Him: (apparently satisfied with my answer) "OK, I appreciate your honesty because this is a brand new release. Do you know who The Heartbreakers are?"

Me: "You mean Tom Petty's Heartbreakers? His backing band?"

Him: "Yeah, that's the one.  Tom's been on a hiatus, so the guys... Benmont Tench, Mike Campbell and a couple of others... they wanted to do a side project during their downtime, and since they all love surf music they created a fake band name and bio as a cover to record under so no one would know."

Me:  "Wait a minute. You mean the liner notes... the bio... the discography... it's all fake?  That is SO COOL! They sound so original, and the music is just fantastic!"

Him:  "I'm glad you like it, they had a lot of fun recording new stuff and creating the bio. The music is first-rate 'cuz those guys are all great musicians. That's why I asked if you're a reporter... the CD was released unannounced a few days ago and we're trying to keep it quiet so Tom's record company won't get all pissed off. You must've bought one of the first copies on the market!"

'Surfer's Life' - Blue Stingrays (my favorite cut on this CD)

We talked for a few more minutes and he asked me to be low-key about the music for at least a few weeks, because the news would get out soon enough. I agreed and thanked him for letting me in on the secret. I mean... he didn't have to tell me squat, right?

The mix tapes? They were played over the PA system at all eleven of the IJSBA National Tour races that summer and all eight days of the World Finals in Lake Havasu City, Arizona that October, where we hosted over 1,300 professional and amateur PWC racers from all over the world. It was AWESOME.

A Regional event promoter who helped with announcing at the World Finals admitted to me he'd dubbed copies of the tapes to use at his own events during the next racing season. 

Hearing my mix tapes blasting from the PA at race event sites all over the country was a pretty special feeling for this lifetime music geek.

                           'Zuma Sunset' - Blue Stingrays

If you love great surf music, there's a lot more on the CD than the sampling here, and knowing the genesis of this 'fake' band only makes it easier to appreciate the craftsmanship and skullduggery it took to create Blue Stingrays.

Sometimes, only certain kinds of music will work for my state of mind, the task at hand or the situation. 'Blue Stingrays Surf-N-Burn' is that kind of music. 

Every time I hear 'Surfer's Life', I see a video in my head of the jet-ski races... the snap of the Starting Line band, a dozen boats at speed aiming for the first buoy, a stand-up racer dragging his leg in the water on a hard turn... all in super slow-mo, the water flying away in sheets from the hulls in a massive spray, catching the sun and sparkling, just like the music.

Download this musical release and you'll be rewarded with a gift that crosses time and space. Better yet, find and buy the CD and read the liner notes about a band that never was... but will always be.

Plus... FREE GUITAR PICK!

Then imagine what it was like to hear bitchin' surf music on a transistor radio!

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Special Bonus Track -- The other CD I bought at Borders was titled 'Bikini World' (Relativity Records) and featured music by surf bands from all over the world.  This tune by The Fathoms, a Boston-based group, is one of my faves from this excellent and eclectic collection.

                             'Fathomless' - The Fathoms

Imagen principal, Gracias de Google Images; todos los videos, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube; cuando cae la goma, la mierda se detiene.

Special Dedication: This post is dedicated to Snackie, Blake (my brother from another Mother), Jonny Ya-Ya, Connecticut Steve, Tim, Mark, Mike, Tony, Shawnie and all the IJSBA brothers and sisters for some of most memorable working days of my life. I've never worked as hard or had as much fun as we did during those halcyon racing days... the IJSBA Traveling Circus.

The Matador

This story is 100% true... none of the names or places have been changed to protect anyone or anything.

That's just how I roll.

1. SACRAMENTO BLUES

Sometime in mid-1980, I found myself at loose ends. It happens. 

Having separated from my soon-to-be-ex-wife, I used a job transfer while working for a hydraulics distributor to move to Northern California to work the service counter at their West Sacramento branch. My new gig was to intake mud-caked valves and shit-covered pumps for the area's rice farmers, sketchy manufacturing plants and even sketchier service techs.

I'd found a small apartment in the nondescript suburb of Citrus Heights, directly across from the Birdcage Mall, a nondescript indoor shopping cavern that I avoided like the plague. I had also bought a very clean 1971 AMC Ambassador from the family of an old dead guy who had cherished that sled. It was Yellow with a black vinyl top and constantly reminded me that everything eventually dies.

For reasons that escape me now, I lost my job and spent the next few months working as a temp all over the valley. Sometime during that period, I also had to sell the dead guy's Ambassador so I could pay my rent. I did a lot of walking, hitchhiking and riding the buses that never ran on time.

(I later found out that because the notorious Folsom State Prison paroled prisoners directly into the local area, anyone who made a habit of hitching rides was probably going to get murdered sooner rather than later.  I didn't get murdered, so yay for me.)

After a month of being non-vehicular, my neighbor Kevin mentioned that he was going to a State auction to buy a car for his girlfriend who lived in Redding.  This was news because he was living in the apartment next door with his wife Karen... Kevin had seeeeecrets. With a serious wad of $100 to spend, I went along with him on the following Saturday morning.

We drove into downtown Sacramento and found the auction lot filled with cars, trucks, buses, forklifts, heavy equipment, trailers and every type of State-owned conveyance. We found the auto corral and walked up and down the long rows of cars that would be up for bid. Most of them were in decent shape and well outside my price range, and after an hour I figured I'd be outta luck finding anything to bid on.

That's when we came upon The Matador. It was the last car in a long row, with the passenger side directly up against the chain link fence separating the corrals.

At first glance, this wasn't a car anyone would want.  Vintage 1972 AMC four-door bathed in Institutional Green. The hood was dented, the grill was broken, and both driver-side doors were caved in. On the plus side, the rest of the sheet metal was in perfect condition. It had good tires with matching wheel covers, twin A-pillar mounted spotlights, and the interior was decent. 

I mean, how much could they want for this thing, right?

I got inside and was hit with the stench of old beer. I turned the ignition key and it started right up, the engine running so smoothly I wasn't sure it was actually running. I lowered all the windows and sat in there, thinking it wasn't as bad as it first seemed. Hell, even the A/C and radio worked! The odometer showed a reasonable 80,000+ miles, much less than the wrinkled exterior would indicate.

                    (Not The Matador, but the exact same make/model/year/awful color.)

After a few hours of car grazing and a really bad roach coach burrito, we walked over to the auction area for the bidding. Kevin was interested in a couple of cars but nothing really looked promising to me. About a dozen cars rolled through the auction and were quickly snapped up before The Matador rolled in, with the damaged side and nose most prominent.

The Auctioneer quickly read off the car's stats and then said "Bidding on this car starts at $50." I stood there waiting but no one bid on it! Maybe it was the exterior damage and 'that color', but nope... silence. I looked around for a few seconds and then raised my hand. 

"$50 bid from that young man... do I hear a raise?"

Nothing.

"No more bids?  OK, the bid is $50 going once... going twice... SOLD!"

I had a car! I followed it to the Sales trailer, gave them the $50 plus another $5 for the admin fees and walked out with the pink slip. Kevin was outbid on all the cars he'd wanted, and I drove my bitchin' new old car back to Citrus Heights with the windows all down to air out the stench.

2. MIDNIGHT EXPRESS

Shortly after I bought The Matador, everything went to crap.

The apartment property managers announced our complex would soon be turned into condos and anyone who wasn't planning to buy would have to move out in 30 days, and I was already a month behind in rent.

I was broke and my new job at a surveying equipment store wouldn't pay enough for me to cover the back rent, so I made an executive decision: I was gonna skip town in the middle of the night and head back to L.A.

On my last day in the Sacramento delta, I went to work and lied to the owner about an overdue child support payment and convinced him to give me an advance on my next paycheck. It was a terrible thing to do, but desperate people yatta yatta yatta.

(To this day, I'm still ashamed of lying to my Boss and taking his money.) 

That same night and with $150 in my wallet, I quickly loaded as much of my shit as possible into The Matador, leaving behind all the furniture. I had to slide the front bench seat all the way forward to fit everything, and the suspension was so overloaded the car looked like an insane homeless guy's lowrider.

The whole time I was loading the car, I fretted about the one obstacle that could botch my plan: the Southbound I-5 Grapevine Pass incline, rising to 4,100 feet above the San Joaquin Valley floor. In my mind, that steep roadway loomed large as a car-killer, and knowing The Matador was overloaded and old and all, I was almost certain that it wouldn't survive the climb. Now out of options, I figgered it was worth the risk.

The last thing I loaded was my cat Dinky, a jet-black refugee that a neighbor left behind when she moved away. I'd set up a small litter box on the rear floor for him, but once inside the car he buried himself somewhere in the loaded rear seat and began to howl with displeasure.

With Dinky continuously howling somewhere in the back seat and me jammed up against the steering wheel in front, I slowly pulled away from the apartment parking lot, the car's suspension bottoming out every so often to remind me of what was going to be a fretful trip.

The long drive down Highway 99 through the dark night was filled with dread, even though The Matador seemed to be cruising along A-OK. Around 3am I pulled into a gas station outside Bakersfield to fuel up.  I was resigned to whatever might happen during the run up the Pass, with visions of exploding water hoses and clouds of black smoke filling my mind's eye. Dinky never once stopped howling the entire trip, he was SO MAD.

I finished fueling and pulled out onto the freeway, and after a few minutes I could see the line of red tail lights in the distance, all negotiating the steep Grapevine climb. 

Cruising at about 65mph, with the incline getting closer and closer, I started to panic. Had I made a really stupid mistake by trying this midnight run in a $50 car? What am I gonna do if the car breaks down halfway up the slope? Who would stop at 3am to help someone driving an insane homeless guy lowrider Matador?

I flashed past the tiny burg of Grapevine and started up the hill. It looked like a vertical wall of roadway but I was committed and knew it was boom or bust. As the hill got steeper, I gently pressed the accelerator and The Matador shifted down a gear and picked up speed.

For the next 15 uphill minutes, I was in a frenzy but shouldn't have been. That fucking car just CRUISED up the Grapevine incline, keeping a constant speed, shifting down every so often but then back again, not missing a beat.  By the time I made it to Fort Tejon and over the summit, I was whooping and shouting and crying and laughing, all at once. Oh, and Dinky was still howling in back, not realizing how lucky we both were.

The dark early-morning downhill roll into Castaic, through the San Fernando Valley and all the way to the San Gabriel Valley was a blur of emotion, exhaustion, exhilaration and the expectation that no matter what happened next, I'd be OK.

The Matador came through.

I pulled into my Mom's driveway in Arcadia at around 6am, turned off the car and with Dinky still howling, fell asleep. I woke up about an hour later, got out and checked my Institutional Green 1972 AMC Matador. It still looked like an insane homeless guy's lowrider, but it was bee-yootiful.

$55, well-spent.

3. THE END

I never did register The Matador, not in Sacramento or the entire time I drove it in SoCal. I'd semi-repaired the caved-in doors and bent the hood back into shape right after I bought it, so the car appeared official and screamed "NARC!!!" right down to the twin spotlights and that color. In fact, I'd be driving to work in my shirt and tie and sunglasses and a cop would cruise up next to me, we'd meet eyes and he'd always give me the head nod and keep on going. I could have smuggled guns and drugs in that car and no one would have been the wiser.

I stupidly got back together with my soon-to-be-ex-wife about a month after my return to SoCal, and she hated The Matador so much she refused to ride in it, which was fine with me. One day I bought some matte black spray paint and sprayed 'THE CLASH' in huge letters across both the wrinkled driver-side doors, complete with a giant black star. That made her hate it even more, and somehow I never got stopped for having no plates or registration. I did get lots of honks and thumbs-up from other drivers.

After a few months of daily 80-mile round trips between our Covina apartment and my job in Rancho Dominguez, The Matador started running rough. One morning the engine was really struggling to stay running. I popped the hood and smelled hot fluids, so I checked the oil and noticed it was watery and light brown, a sure sign of water in the oil (which is BAD), prolly a cracked block or a blown head gasket. Realizing the car wouldn't be reliable enough for the long daily commute any more, it had to go.

One problem:  I'd never registered the car and even though I had the pink slip, it would be difficult to sell with a mortally wounded engine. I located a wrecking yard that would take the car and title, no questions asked, so with my s-t-b-e-w (and 3-year-old daughter) following me in her '72 VW Fastback, I drove The Matador to a location deep in an industrial area of Monrovia. The yard guy looked over the car and offered me $100 cash for it. We traded title and keys for cash and left in the VW, and I watched in the rear-view mirror as the guy got into The Matador and drove it into the back.

After all that, I'd doubled the money I paid for The Matador.

EPILOGUE

About 6 months after The Matador went to its Great Reward, my relationship with the s-t-b-e-w crashed and I found myself sleeping on the couch. One Saturday morning while she was out with our daughter in the VW (our only car), I decided to take a walk and clear my head.  I left our Covina apartment and headed West, not really thinking about where I was going... and I kept on walking. 

After a couple of hours of Westward trekking, I realized I was halfway to Mom's house in Arcadia so... I just kept on walking. I wound up walking 15 miles to her house, spent the night there and she loaned me her sweet Blue '74 Camaro to use for a few days.

I drove back to Covina the next afternoon and discovered the s-t-b-e-w had removed all of my belongings from the apartment and dumped them on the curb for the next day's garbage pickup. I scrambled for my clothes, audio gear and record collection and stuffed it all into the Camaro, with the s-t-b-e-w holding our daughter and screaming at me for being a piece of shit. I had to slide the driver seat all the way forward to fit my stuff in back, so I jammed myself behind the steering wheel and drove away. 

I spent most of the night just driving around, winding up parked in the driveway of my good buddy Jerry's house in La Puente at around 2am. I shoved the seat back as far as I could and fell asleep until his Mom came out around 6am, knocking on the window to wake me up, dragging me into the house for some breakfast.

I was once again broke and at loose ends, but the story would eventually have a happy ending.

*************************************************************************

I think about The Matador every now and again, amazed that it cost so little but was such a reliable ride and really saved my bacon. The days of being able to buy and drive a $50 car are long-gone, and I've developed a weird appreciation for AMC vehicles... especially Pacers.

In fact, just a few years after The Matador left me I was lucky enough to buy a recently-repaired 1962 Rambler American 2-door from my friend Tim's Dad, and it was basically the same color as The Matador. Three-on-the-tree shifter, an OHC 6-cylinder engine with electric overdrive, bench seat... that sled could cruise at 80mph in overdrive. The first real road trip The Artist and I took in it was to Northern California, including a run through Sacramento.

She really didn't like the American's color that much, but I thought it was bee-yootiful.

            (Not the The American, but the exact same make/model/year/beautiful color.)

Sometimes, it's the little things in life that can make the biggest difference. Things like a $50 car, a can of black spray paint, a long walk or even an overnight drive. You just never know what they'll bring to your conscious existence, which always becomes richer as a result.

Todos los images, Gracias de Google Images; Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass 'The Lonely Bull' video, Muchismas Gracias de youtube.com.

Dear Mr. President...

Dear Mr. President,

I don’t know you personally, nor am I a psychologist or trained in human behavior, so the following observations are based strictly on your public persona, my interpretations of you as a public figure, and my own understanding of people.

I am an American citizen of Mexican heritage, born in East Los Angeles, California to parents who were also born in the United States.

I consider myself to be a member of the middle-class. I have some college education, have worked hard since I was 16 years old, am lucky to own a nice home and enjoy a long and successful marriage.

My personal and emotional foundation was formed as the result of the strict, disciplined and engaged parenting I received, as a child and a teenager, from my Father and many of my relatives. That kind of upbringing is typical of almost all Mexican-American families, and I’ve always been grateful for that good start on my life’s journey.

I was raised in a home where my Father was responsible for single-parenting my younger Brother and me, a role he never envisioned for himself. Although we never had much money, we were always well cared-for and Dad made Boy Scouts a central part of my youth, a gift for which I can never thank him enough.

With the help of Dad and Scouting, I learned the basics tenets of decency, empathy and compassion towards others that still resonate with me today, as embodied by the Twelve Scout Laws:

“A Scout is Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent.”

To this very day, I live my life striving to achieve the benchmarks of positive humanity as outlined in those twelve laws. They have never steered me wrong.

The question I have is this: where did YOU go wrong?

Much has been spoken and written about what motivates you to display the kind of negative, divisive and demeaning behavior you do as an adult and the leader of our Nation. There's many opinions about the parenting you received and the wealth and privilege you were born into, and how that all shaped your adult mindset.

Whether a janitor, a warehouse worker, a business executive, a puppeteer, an astronaut, a waitress or a politician, we all have a learned set of internal guidelines that help us get through our adult days and (hopefully) will not result with winding up in the hospital or in jail.

Those learned internal guidelines are cemented into our behaviors. Sometimes we must break them apart and reassemble them in ways that will allow us to be successful adults. Sometimes, even though we try our hardest, nothing can change those behaviors, no matter how hard we try.

Not changing bad personal behaviors doesn’t necessarily mean a person wouldn’t be a successful adult, but it does mean that person will never truly be all they can be.

It’s part of being a complicated humanoid in the 21^st Century. 

The thing that most puzzles me about you, apart from our diametrically opposed politics, is how you seem to embody the worst traits of human behavior which any normal functioning adult would have long since shed, especially for someone of your age and education and status. 

My guess is that you behave the way you do because you’ve never experienced a normal life… a normal existence… the kind of life that the vast majority of Americans deal with on a daily basis.

You were born into wealth and privilege. I'd reckon you never once spent a day (or perhaps even a minute) having to think about food or shelter or clothing, worrying about paying for tuition or childcare or health insurance. You were given every advantage money could buy, sent to the finest schools, were fronted a million dollars by your Father to start your first business and bailed out by him several times when your business acumen failed.

That entitled upbringing gifted you with the ability to avoid dealing with life’s harsh realities. It also allowed you to develop a sense of superiority over all others, which is how things often work for the wealthiest among us. That superiority breeds hubris and antipathy towards those whom you feel are ‘lessers’ and the resulting lack of human compassion and empathy they deserve.

There’s a modern word for the malady that I firmly believe you suffer from: 

Affluenza.

Wikipedia notes that Affluenza can be defined as ‘a quasi-illness… an inability to understand the consequences of one’s actions because of financial privilege.’ I would suggest this condition has been a part of your life from the very beginning and has ingrained itself so deeply and completely in your soul that you're literally blind to the effects it has on you.

I don’t blame you for the parenting you received… no one can, for themselves or for others. It would seem that you are who you were raised to be, but therein lies the problem.

As we become adults, slogging our way through the emotional turmoil of maturity and responsibility, we have two paths forward: continue on with the emotional tool kit we collected through childhood and adolescence, or re-tool and revise our tool kit to deal with the realities of adulthood.

Clearly, you chose the former and it worked well-enough because of your special stature as a wealthy while male… someone who received every break and entitlement and privilege available.

What you didn’t learn, as indicated by your behavior as an adult, are the critically important foundational traits of decency, empathy and compassion towards others. In your words and actions, you seem to lack even the basic knowledge of what it means to be anything other than what you are: a self-centered and narcissistic Master of the Universe.

A person with no concept of what it means to struggle to survive.

A person who has most likely never cleaned a bathroom, mowed a lawn, shopped for groceries or rode a bus to work.

A person who looks down on others who don’t share your social standing, your heritage, your financial success or your idea of what Americans are supposed to be.

A person who freely insults, denigrates and diminishes anyone who you feel doesn't live up to your self-defined levels of success and patriotism.

It would be very easy to dismiss your divisive and destructive behavior if you were just another fabulously wealthy and powerful media  personality, but you're not. You're the President of The United States, and although you seem not to realize it, the rest of the World looks to you as an example of American ideals, morals and leadership.

And therein lies my problem with you.

Your actions... your words... your behavior... your demeanor... are all hallmarks of a spoiled child. It seems your maturity level has never risen above that of a 7-year-old who refuses to eat his vegetables, clean his room or play nicely with others.

I know this much: if I displayed any of your behaviors when I was growing up, you can bet that I'd catch a belt whipping from my Dad that would leave welts which faded only after several days. I also know that if I acted in the same childish and immature manner as an adult like you do, I'd have been fired from most of the jobs I've held and certainly wouldn't still be married to the same amazing woman for 34 years.

So once again, I ask the question: where did you go wrong?

Have you ever even once in your entire life questioned your personal behavior as it relates to others? Has it ever occurred to you that normal adults don't actively insult and demean others without consequences? 

Most importantly, does it ever bother you to know that your son Barron is watching every single negative and insulting thing you say and do and is learning from your example?

No... I didn't think so.

Your supporters always dismiss and rationalize your aberrant behavior by saying, 'Well... his remarks and behavior aren't helpful but I hope he'll turn down the rhetoric and start to act more Presidential.'

That's a lie. They know you're incapable of changing your behavior and are just making excuses for you.  No one should have any allusions about you magically changing stripes at this time in your life.

But you're a grown man with a teenage son, so if you have even a shred of decency or compassion, please... think about what your behavior is teaching your son. Think about how you could be creating someone with the same stilted, inhumane and indecent feelings towards others that you seem to be so proud of.

It's obvious what happened to your older children, who seem to be the same kind of awful human beings as you are. 

But Barron is still young enough to work with and save.

Think about Barron, if you can.

We as a Nation can vote you out of office, and I hope with every fiber in my being that you'll be swept out of power in November. But Barron... he's stuck with you for the duration, so for his sake you owe him at least the chance to grow up with a Father he can look up to... can be proud of... can aspire to emulate. 

Someone who respects others, who can offer understanding and empathy and compassion without regard for their differences. Someone with a sense of decency and humanity, irrespective of their station in life or their heritage or their philosophy.

Don't let Barron suffer the same fate as an adult that you and your other children have... only you can do that for him. Otherwise, he'll become exactly what you've raised him to be... an adult just like you.

Can you do it?


No... I didn't think so.

Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; CSNY 'Teach Your Children' video, Muchismas Gracis de YouTube; Vote Blue in November.

Leave The Driving To Us

This ridiculous story is 100% true.

In early 1976, I had decided to move to the town of Paradise, California and leave SoCal behind for good. I'd help Dad run his recently-opened Mexican restaurant in that sleepy mountain burg nestled in an oak forest within view of the Sierras. 

At least that was the plan. I wound up leaving Paradise and returning to SoCal less than 18 months later, but that's not the subject of this story.

Before moving North, my good friend Patti had set a date for her upcoming marriage and demanded that I come back to participate in the festivities. Of course I said yes. Since it would involve a 3-day quick trip turnaround, Dad gave me that Friday and Saturday off and I decided to take a Greyhound bus rather than put more miles on my sweet '72 Capri. That way I could be as high or hungover as possible on Sunday and not have to worry about keeping it on the asphalt for the trip back.

I left my car at the Greyhound terminal in Chico (about 12 miles from Paradise) early Friday morning and started my journey with only three scheduled stops during the 8-hour trip on Interstate 5: once in Sacramento for a transfer, once in beautiful Kettleman City for a rest stop and the final destination in Downtown Los Angeles.

For the uninitiated, back in the 70's Kettleman City was only rest stop on I-5 between Bakersfield and Sacramento, a stretch of over 275 miles. Kettlemen City smelled of pesticides and manure. Otherwise, the I-5 corridor was a desolate sea of agriculture.

I'd planned to stay with Mom during the weekend, so she picked me up in LA and after I dropped her off at home, I used her new Camaro as my sled for the festivities.

Just like Mom's Camaro!

 The wedding was great, we partied like monsters and I was indeed very ragged on Sunday morning when Mom dropped me back at the LA Greyhound bus station. I staggered into the terminal, confirmed my ticket and crawled onto the bus. I was barely conscious as we pulled out onto the freeway around 9AM when the driver made an announcement that woke me right the fuck up:

"Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen... thanks for choosing Greyhound. We hope you'll enjoy this express shuttle that will make scheduled stops all along Interstate 99, with our planned arrival in Sacramento at approximately 9PM tonite. Welcome Aboard!"

Holy Crap!!! How did I wind up on a shuttle that would take 4 hours longer for the return trip?!?! I scrambled for my ticket and sure enough, it said 'Express Shuttle'... I'd picked the wrong bus for the ride home and would be lucky to get home to Paradise before midnight.

The trip to Sacramento was unending. No booze, no weed, with stops in literally every city along I-99. I had pretty much calmed down somewhere near Glendale, resigned to the long ride and just slept off my hangover for most of the trip, waking up each time the bus pulled into a dusty terminal near the freeway.

We arrived in Sacramento ahead of schedule (!!) just before 8:30PM and as I was exiting the bus to hit the restroom and get some snacks, I asked the driver if the same bus was headed up to Chico, he said yes and for me to leave my bag on board.

BIG MISTAKE.

I returned to the bus (with a new driver aboard) and settled in for the 2-hour run to Chico, my car and home. The bus made its way onto the freeway around 9PM, heading North on the I-5 when the driver made the following earth-shattering announcement just outside Sacramento:

"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen... thanks for choosing Greyhound. We hope you'll enjoy this non-stop express bus, with our planned arrival in Redding at approximately 1AM. Welcome Aboard!"

I jumped up out of my seat and ran up to the driver.

Me (trying desperately to remain calm): "Wait a minute... did you say our next stop is in REDDING?!?!"

Him: "Yes Sir, we'll be there right on schedule."

Me: "But that's impossible! The last driver told me this bus would continue on to Chico!!"

Him: "It was, sir... but there was a schedule change due to a mechanical issue and the Chico route is being handled by another carriage."

Me: "WHAT?!? But but but the other driver told me..."

Him: "Sorry sir... perhaps you should have double-checked the updated schedule at the Sacramento depot. This bus rolls on to Redding and then back to Sacramento, non-stop both ways."

I was frantic, standing there at the front of the bus, knowing the driver was probably getting pissed, knowing most of the other passengers were watching to see if I was insane or drunk or violent and needed to be restrained for my own good.

I looked out the front windshield and saw that we were fast approaching the exit from the I-5 to the I-99/I-70 road that would lead to Chico and home.

Me:  "Please stop the bus and drop me off at the upcoming I-99 exit."

Him: "SIR... I'm not able to do that, it isn't safe!"

Me:  "PLEASE, I really need to get off this bus because it's headed in the wrong direction from my home!!! I can't go all the way to Redding because there's no way I'll make it to work in the morning!!"

Him: "Sorry Sir, that's just not..."

Me:  "PLEASE!!!!!!"

A few moments later, the bus stopped to drop me off on the side of the freeway, then slowly drove away.

And there I was, standing alone with my bag beside the desolate freeway interchange at 9:30PM on a Sunday night, 10 miles North of Sacramento and almost 80 miles away from my car in Chico.  I stood there for a few minutes, wondering what the hell I'd just done, really pissed at myself for this revolting development.

After about 5 minutes of mental self-flogging, I picked up my bag and started walking down the I-99 exit. Once I got off the exit incline and onto level ground, I did the only thing I could do: I stuck out my thumb in the hopes of hitching a ride.

I stood there for about 30 minutes while cars whizzed by until one slowed down to pull over and pick me up.  I ran down the road to jump in... it was a Black Pontiac Trans-Am with the t-tops out and the giant 'Screaming Chicken' decal on the hood. I looked inside at the driver, a dude with a buzz-cut, sleeveless t-shirt and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Me: "Hey man... thanks for the lift! How far you going?"

Him: (obviously totally drunk, with a can of beer in his hand): "Oh hey, maaaan... howyadooin'? Ahm going back to Beale Air Force Base outshide-a Marysville, that cool with you?"

Me (alarmed but desperate): "That sounds great, but... are you OK to drive?"

Him: "SHUR I YAM! Hop in and let's boogie!"

I tossed my bag into the back seat, climbed in and buckled the seat belt. He stomped the accelerator and peeled outta there, fishtailing and throwing up a rooster tail of gravel and dust.

Just like the drunk Air Force guy's Trans-Am!

I was petrified. Here's this drunk Air Force guy, driving along a desolate four-lane country highway at 85 miles an hour, barely keeping the car in the lane, talking to me with slurred speech while the radio was blasting so loud the music was distorted, pounding down a beer and laughing.

Him: "HAW HAW HAW... Good thing I picked yew up, I almosht din't see you there standing by the side of the road, what th' hell are you doin' thumbing in the middle of nowhere, anywaysh?"

I started trying to explain my sitch, but decided not to distract him from the task of trying not to drive into the deep irrigation ditches that bordered both sides of the roadway. He just kept on drunkenly talking to himself, drifting from the one side of his lane to the other, barely conscious and alert.

By some miracle, we made it all the way into Marysville and I asked him to drop me off at the corner of 9th and B... B Street turned into I-70 once it left town and would eventually get me to Chico. I jumped out and he once again peeled out, covering me in dust and tire smoke.

It was now about 11PM and I was almost halfway to Chico. I decided to grab something to drink at the small restaurant/bar located on the corner, so I stashed my bag behind some bushes and went inside.

It was smoky and noisy inside but not too crowded, so I sat at the counter next to a couple of half-drunk girls and started talking to them. They laughed at my predicament and said they'd be glad give me a ride to Chico where they lived. What luck!!!! I bought them both a beer and we talked for awhile before they decided to go to the restroom.

I sat at the bar for about 15 minutes waiting but they never came back. 

They ditched me. I'd been had.

Now it was past Midnight and I was still only halfway home. I walked outside, grabbed my bag and walked up B Street about a quarter mile, stopped in front of an all-night gas station and stuck out my thumb again.

After about 15 minutes, a ratty green Dodge truck pulled over to the curb in front of me. I opened the door and looked inside to see the driver was a grizzled older Black guy wearing a stained cowboy hat with a cigar in his mouth.

Him: "Howdy, Son... need a lift?"

Me: " Uhhhh... sure... thanks for stopping! How far you going?"

Him: "Well, I live in Gridley... where you goin'?" (Gridley is about halfway between Marysville and Chico).

Me: "I'm trying to get to Chico, but I'd really appreciate the lift to Gridely."

I got into the truck. He sat there smoking for a moment.

Him:  "You know, I jus' flew into Sacramento from Europe this evening and ahm pretty tired raht now. If you don' mind driving so's I can take a nap, you kin drive all the way to Chico and ah'll jus' turn 'round and head back to Gridley. How does that sound?"

Me: "WOW... that would be amazing!!! I'd be happy to drive, and THANK YOU!!!"

Just like the old guy's truck!

A few minutes later I was driving the truck out of Marysville with the old guy smoking away in the passenger seat.

Him: "Yep, been a long week. I play harmonica and been in Germany doin' a few shows, just got back into Cali tonite."

Me (suspiciously): "Germany, eh? Did you do any recording there?"

Him:  "Sure did! Here... pull over and look'a diss."

Once I'd stopped the truck, he pulled out several newspaper articles and copies of playbills from under the seat featuring him, Andy Rodgers (click the link) a world-renowned harmonica player who was famously known as the 'Midnight Cowboy' and had done session work with musical legends for decades. He gave me a couple of the copies to keep.

I was floored, amazed and humbled that this famous human being was willing and able to be so nice to me, a total stranger, in my hour of need.

After a few minutes on the road, Andy fell asleep while I drove through the dark Northern California countryside on a winding two-lane road, bordered by trees and farms and small isolated communities. I kept my speed at about 45mph so as not to take a curve too fast and wake him up.  He was leaned up against the passenger door, hat covering up his eyes, snoring loudly.

About 90 minutes later, I slowly pulled into the Chico Greyhound terminal and parked next to my Capri. It was well past 2AM. I woke up Andy and in just a minute or so, he was in the driver seat and I was shaking his hand like crazy.

Me:  "THANK YOU, ANDY!!! You have no idea how grateful I am that you helped in in such a big way. I'm so glad to meet you and will never forget you!"

Him: "You welcome, Bob... ahv had many people help me in mah life, so I jus' wanna' return the favor as often as I can. Maybe I can get mah wife to come up to yo Dad's place in Paradise sometime! It ain't that far from Gridley!"

With that, Andy slowly drove away, waving his arm out the window at me.

I stood there in the empty terminal parking lot, leaning on my car, taking a few hits off a joint, thinking about the 16-hour journey I'd just been on. 

The bus ride to Sacramento was endless, thanks to my own stupidity. 

I was really lucky to get a ride outside of Sacramento and not to have died in a fiery alcohol-fueled crash on the way to Marysville.

And I was especially lucky that Andy Rodgers, world-famous harmonica player, took the time to stop and help a brother out. I got into my Capri and drove the 12 miles home up on the ridge in Paradise.

I wasn't worth a shit at work the next day, and Dad made sure I knew it.

**********************************************************

I wish I still had those playbill copies that Andy had given me, but they went MIA in the many years since like so many things do in our lives. He never made it to the restaurant, and by the end of 1977 I had moved back to SoCal where I'd soon meet my future ex-wife.

Hitchhiking is now a thing of the past, relegated to behaviors that we just couldn't or wouldn't do in our modern world.

But I did a lot of it in the 70's, when the world seemed so much bigger and other people seemed far less mean and dangerous.

R.I.P. Andy Rodgers (1922 - 2004).

"The great thing in the world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving." -- Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)




All images, Gracias de Google Open Images; CCR 'Sweet Hitchhiker' video, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube; All vehicle images are indicative of vehicles referenced in this essay and are NOT the actual vehicles involved, M'Kay?