Photo courtesy of: http://www.flickr.com/photos/neontommy/5647831559/

The other day I turned a game on just as some dude was standing over a quarterback he had sacked and before I could sit down he commenced to prancing around like James Cagney portraying George M. Cohan in Yankee Doodle Dandy or, to the young crowd, like Chris Brown doing the James Brown.

Then I saw the score and this guy’s team was about 30 points down. So I couldn’t help but wonder, pray tell, what was he celebrating? Especially since he got a penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct or was it for not knowing the choreography well?

Hey, I know, the young man was acting out a scene in the new ways of these new days. But in my jock days if somebody was whomping me like that I wouldn’t have wanted to be seen and this guy was doing a Radio City Rockettes dance routine.

Truth is, celebrating isn’t the only difference between these athletes of today and my generation of competitors. They do things athletically we couldn’t have dreamed of doing no matter how “in the zone” we were.

I mean we used to talk about it like we really could do it, but these guys can practically literally “jump out of the gym!” They can hang with kangaroos.

If the ball is not hit clean out of the park they will run it down like a greyhound chasing a frisbee.

They’re big. They’re strong. They go to sports camps. They work out all year long. But other than being tons better than us another big difference between them and my peers is that it never occurred to us to seek any attention beyond just playing the game. We wouldn’t have ever thought of jumping into the stands into the arms of the fans or dunking the ball over the goalpost (the few among us who could do such a thing) or pretending the football is a newborn baby or a chainsaw.

I’m trying to picture anybody, outside of Muhammad Ali (and he was a master showman), back in my day, who was overly demonstrative.

We just weren’t ready for “entertaining.” If Bill Russell blocked shots like these guys do today, slapping the ball like it was a menace to society, nobody would come to the games because the ball would have been flying into the crowd like richocheting machine gun bullets. He just tapped the ball to himself or a teammate and the Celtics were off to the races.

And speaking of races, if Jesse Owens had strutted around and played with the other runners in the olympics like Usain Bolt did, Adolph Hitler would have been eating even more Aryan Superiority crow and, of course, that would have been a good thing, don’t you know. Jesse was just a little too much Negro for the Fuehrer.

There are just sights I can’t imagine, like Jim Brown running would be tacklers over and then roaring at them as would an alpha lion standing on the chest of a felled wildebeast. That would have been something awfully fearful for those times.

It would be hard visualizing Johnny Unitas doing a “State Farm Discount Double Check” touchdown dance or Dick Butkus executing a “Lights Out” two-step routine over some running back he’s driven into the turf. Talking about insult to injury.

I can’t begin to picture Bob Cousy and Bill Sharman doing a running chest bump after one of Cooz’s no look behind the back passes for an easy two. It was just all in a day’s work for them.

Neither can I form a mental image of Mickey Mantle or Roger Maris, rounding the bases, pointing to the sky, thanking “the man upstairs,” after hitting a breaking ball that got hung up deliciously over the plate to the far reaches of Yankee Stadium. They were just doing what they were born to do, knock a hardball silly. No big deal.

I can, however, picture Early Wynn and Bob Gibson nearly beheading some showy batter with a wayward 100 mile per hour fastball the next time whoever he was came up to the plate. The scene would have not been sedate.

Some say all the showboating is just indicative of the so-called “Me” generation. I don’t know if I would go that far but I’ve heard players referring to their antics as “entertaining” and I definitely beg to differ with them on that.

I remember one of these super athletes, who made that claim, juking and zipping past blitzing linebackers and blasting through a seam leaving a couple of corners and a free safety, in his wake, left to deal with the jockstraps he faked them out of and soaring over the last man standing between him and the end zone like a hurdler trying out for the Olympics, landing on his feet like a freestyle gymnast. Now that was “entertaining,” far more so than his feeble little boogaloo in football cleats. Putting a towel over your arm pretending like you’re a waiter after pulling off something like all that is way too anti-climatic for me. Trivial to a high degree.

Oh, well, I guess all I’m trying to say is: I just like it best when, after a guy sinks a smooth three pointer or smashes a laser double off the fence or gets to the end zone in a spectacular way, he plays it like, as we used to say, it “ain’t no thang,” like he’s done it before, like it’s just another day at the office: get back on defense, look to the third base coach to see what’s next, give the ball to the ref – or if the desire to show off is so deep and wide, maybe a healthy spike, every now and then, in stride, would be okay with the addition of a little “Mile High Salute” if you really just have to be cute.

But the handwriting is on the wall when it comes to doing something nifty in the heat of the game and then putting on an aftershow as, not too long ago, I saw a little boy kick a soccer ball past his dad and then ran around him in circles, doing a forward roll, a somersault and the splits, all the while letting go with “Goallllllllllllllllllll, Mexico!”

His actions said it all that day: when it comes to sports, dancing on the playing fields is here to stay, “entertaining” or not, as it is just how it’s done today.

So I’d best learn a couple new snazzy dance steps aka: adapt to the changes. That’s something we human beings have to do over a lifetime, isn’t it? Enjoy the fun and games, my friends.

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/tambako/4601546689/

I’m still riding high as a result of the elections. It was so great seeing so many propositions that I like pass, so satisfying having the president remain where he is, so refreshing having a mayor who is a friend. I mean, hey, I’ve been voting since 1959 and this has been a real new experience for people of my voting kind.

I’m just basking in these wins because there have been propositions voted on in the Golden State in the past that have affected me personally. Like 187. When that became law I went from a school principal to “la migra,” which just wasn’t a fit for me – so I was forced to tell the school system and whoever else was listening that they could stick that inhuman idea where the sun does not shine. Proposition 8. Now that one didn’t sit well with me either because who somebody marries, as long as it’s not to me, is none of my business.

This time “We the People” chose death over life imprisonment, a surprise to me, because in my idealistic mind I chose to envision us, as a society, as a little more compassionate than that. Next time, perhaps.

But, on the whole, this election was like electoral karma of some kind for me, taking my mind off the hateful and hurtful propositions and messed up local and state and national politicians that have come along, and teasing my imagination about what could come to be.

I hate borrowing words from a Mickey D’s commercial but “I’m loving it,” the invigorating energy of it, the good vibes rushing through my bones. It’s a feeling that warms me like the sun peeking through clouds on a chilly day, radiating just enough heat to make me a wee more comfortable in the world, a bit more hopeful.

Such sentiments of optimism, however, actually began a little before the election. For a while, now, I’ve been sensing a gradual change in our collective thinking. Like, at my alma mater, the U of A, not too long ago, there was a cartoon in the Arizona Wildcat featuring a father saying to his little boy, “Ya know son… if you ever tell me you’re gay… I will shoot you with my shotgun, roll you up in a carpet and throw you off a bridge…” and his son says “Well I guess that’s what you call a ‘Fruit Roll Up’” and then he laughs “Ahh Ha ha ha Ha haaa…” and his dad joins in with “Bwaa Ha ha ha ha ha haa!!!”

But in response to such gross insensitivity, the Tucson community held a forum and entertained ways to keep such nonsense from ever happening again. In my day no such cartoons or reaction would have taken place as LGBTQ wasn’t a concept to us, at large. The “closet” was as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon.

But a new day has dawned. A couple of days after these goings on I sat on the grass in Balboa Park as Sandra Fluke spoke in behalf of Planned Parenthood and women’s rights. She’s such a bright ray of that sun that peeks through the clouds.

Then, on the next day such a rosy beat played on. I got to hang out and share a poem called “Jim Crow’s Jig is Up” at a Black Storytellers event that began with African drums and libation, the pouring of a liquid, to honor those who came before us – then dancers and music blended with all the stories that were told and songs that were sung about our ages long struggle to keep our eyes on the prize, beginning with our ancestors who were crammed inhumanely on the slave ships in the middle passage, to the veiled spirituals filled with couched words that implored a people to struggle until they’re free… Ah, that sun peeking through the clouds spoke loudly to me in those moments, telling me to “keep on keeping on.”

And a few days later I listened as the man who was to be my new mayor spoke of making San Diego everybody’s city: people of color, gay people, homeless people, rich people, struggling people, regular Joes, plain Janes. All that he had to say spoke volumes to my soul and my brain.

The next evening I kicked back with people at the Barrio Station who are friends of the Border Angels who work in behalf of undocumented immigrants in a spirit of “Compassion and Justice for All,” the theme of the night, giving them, in their desperation, water as they cross burning deserts and freezing mountain paths, just trying to stay alive, and live with dignity. How can hope not feel so alive in moments like these?

And I’ve never felt more hopeful than I did on the next day, a Sunday, two days before election day, when I had the privilege of supping with Jerry Brown and a number of other folks, taking it all in as he, every few minutes or so, took calls regarding how his folks on the ground for Proposition 30 were doing. Watching him work for children and their schools from his dinner plate was a sight to behold, a sight overflowing with promise.

Then came Election Night, an evening that began for me and my beautiful sidekick at the San Diego Rep where we, with the cast of a Hammer, a Bell and a Song to Sing, sang songs that shaped our nation, songs about change, songs of freedom imbued in our cultural DNA, songs that made you feel, in the moment, that yes, “we shall overcome.” I was transported to the 60′s in my memory. Before the last song was sung we already knew that Obama had won through the magic of our cellphones which weren’t supposed to be on. We made our way to the Community Concourse to join all the fun and when that magical day ended we were one happy pair.

So much sheer joy literally filled the air that we breathed. But we knew the work was just beginning because that’s just the way it is when it comes to molding a world into how you’d like it to be. But we’re going to go with this great feeling until the cows come home (but we’re not letting them on the property). To people who think as we do, the sun peeking through the clouds is a hint that it could eventually break through and begin to shine ever so brilliantly. What a world that would be.

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/king-edward/2147059397/

The other night I sat with other writers, in a workshop, to consider how the rules that guide one person might contrast with rules somebody else lives by. Like a man who has grown up thinking women should be barefoot and pregnant, always with a pork chop ready to put on the stove, might have a problem with a woman who is of the thinking that she should always be treated like a queen, with doors opened for her and a coat set down for her to walk on in a puddle in the rain. How could they come to co-exist was the gist of this exercise.

As I put pen to paper, these words, came to mind along with images of the Temptations: “Rules! Hunh! Good God! What are they good for?”

Now, I would never say “Absolutely nothing!” but I basically don’t need rules, generally, as I tend to be somewhat law abiding naturally. I mean I don’t need a sign saying “Slow: Children at Play” to keep me from driving 55 miles per hour in someone’s Hood. That would do no one any good. I don’t drink or text and drive. I’m never in a hurry because I want to stay alive. I have no robbing or molesting genes and I get mad at myself when I jive. My personal code of ethics and hitting on somebody’s wife would not jibe.

I got my attitude about rules early on in life from a number of experiences similar to one that came my way one day back around 1943, when I stepped onto a platform at a train station in Union, Mississippi and a man with more tobacco stuffed in his jaws than anyone should ever have to see, said to me: “Where you going, Nigger?”

Now, as a confused five year old, with no knowledge of the area’s mores, I said something innocently like “You talking to me?” And my mother, who was caught completely off guard, looked at me like I was the carrier of a fatal disease, so suddenly worried was she, since she knew the rules, that something bad could happen to me, while this tobacco chawing yokel heaved our luggage into the mud over a fence as though this was some kind of olympic event.

But, hey, that was “okay” because he made the rules and such a heartless rude attitude was the main rule of the day, one in which he could also: have his way with my mother and the townspeople would have been cool with that; hang me from a tree as though there was nothing to that; pretty much take my uncle Bud’s property and not have to flee and create a rule on the spot to justify such a travesty of justice and civility. That’s how it goes with rules. So rules just don’t appeal to me. And besides, those rules of an earlier day went against the very rules of the Milky Way, the rule that all that exists has a rightful place and, I’d say, when it comes to the human race we all deserve to live a life with dignity.

Then there’s just too many rules. “Thou shall not” rules which play havoc to people who are LGBT. Sex rules aimed at getting teenagers to abstain at an age when “doing it” is very much in their brain; rules where you have to take your shoes off and get X-rayed before you can fly in a plane; rules that make it a misdemeanor to smoke weed for your pain; rules that have no sting like boys and girls have to take PE everyday which isn’t happening since there are way too many pudgy children far and wide throughout the USA who don’t look as though they’ve ever spent any part of any day engaged in physical play.

So, what’s the real purpose of rules if they’re not taken seriously? If it were up to me I’d reduce them down to only those that keep us in line reasonably while I concentrate on just living a life; while I write some prose or a poem or a song or strike a pose in a dance that gets at what I feel, what I want to to give, how I want me and the rest of humanity to live; while, in essence, I simply try to “keep it real” and contribute to a world that’s deeply bruised and needs to heal.

And there are rules for such thinking: Rules of decency. Rules wherein: one person lets another person change lanes without having to drive recklessly just to find a little space to maneuver in; heterosexual folks don’t stand in the way of freedoms sought by gays and lesbians; folks of all colors are treated fairly; animals are treated humanely as special beings among all of humanity; no one blows smoke in your face, literally or figuratively; those who have lend a hand to those who have little to none; good deeds become a way of life; the love within us is shared free and liberally.

Oh, what would the future look like if rules like these were common place? Might our children, as a result of being exposed to such examples of Golden Rule-ish-ness, if you will, turn their world around, in contrast to ways and rules of life that falls short of such a reality?

Hmmm, that accomplishes, I think, the intent of this workshop piece. Maybe rules ain’t so bad after all.

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/donkeyhotey/6668178199/

After the last presidential debate the San Diego Union-Tribune waxed romantically about how serene Mitt Romney appeared to be and all I could think was: What kind of HD do they have that can make a man who looked like he had chugged some unsweetened lemon juice, seem to be serene? Wearing an expression on your face that’s like a cross between a smile and a grin – a “smin” perhaps – is not a picture of serenity. A bit too Cheshire Cat for me.

They followed that up by citing a poll that showed that 60 out of a 100 voters thought Romney had looked credible, aka pretty good, on national security and I wondered “Should these people be voting?” Which one of his approaches to national security have they latched on to? His: “Hey, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, if I hear you even say ‘Nuclear’ I’m going to go upside your head!” attitude? Or his (pointing to Obama) “What he just said” stance? Is the man now in love with the president? We got something latent going on here?

Then, in a manner that was in no way serene, the U-T started chest bumping and fist pumping in behalf of their boy with “Bring it on — and bring change to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue!”

Change? Change from what? Change from one “trickle down” con game to another? Change back to the way every ex-president has looked in our history? Mitt even looks a little like Thomas Jefferson. What kind of change is that?

They must have been trying to appeal to the “undecided” among us, people who would, I guess, find it troublesome trying to determine whether or not they should light their heater on a 30 below zero degrees day. Undecided about what? What would one of the candidates have to do for these people to earn an X next to his name? Fix a parking ticket? Scratch their back? Pick up the check at Mickey D’s?

It seems logical to me that we have no choice, in this moment in time, other than to consider which one of these guys will, when all is said and done, make the world a little better for everyone. And Mitt Romney, serene or otherwise, doesn’t qualify to be the guy.

I mean Romney is stuck on marriage as only between a man and a woman and Obama stands tall for marriage equality. That takes us a bit closer to a loving respectful society, the way America should be.

Neither Obama or Romney has spoken to us about our poor, our people who live in the streets, the people who still fear losing their homes, the biggest symbol of the “American Dream,” in any deep thoughtful personal way. It’s been in political language about the economy and the “need for jobs” and a bunch of other blah-blah-blah. But Obama has tasted what it’s like to not have much and he’s walked the streets in the inner city of Chicago, helping people cope and feel they belong. That, I would hope, would give him the edge in this campaign.

I simply don’t trust Mitt Romney. When I heard him say “Latin America is a fine opportunity for us” I thought, oh, oh, cuidado, mis amigos. The man will put on a brown face and talk to you like you’re his favorite people in the human race and whatever you thought you had would be gone. Recuerdas Bain? There were all kinds of opportunities in that flurry of capitalistic insensitivity. For Romney and his homies. Verdad?

Plus who knows what’s going to come out of the man’s mind and mouth at any given time as he changes directions like an elusive running back juking the defense after busting through the line and everything is so easy for him. Oh, he’s going to stifle the “rising tide of chaos” and get the Middle East to “reject terrorists” like all it takes is a little American ingenuity with a touch of flashy sabre twirling and trash talking with a big stick – he does like obsolete weapons. And, voila, Iran is nuclear and bad guy free, causing no problems, just as real as one can sail from Syria out to the open sea which reminds me that I’d like my president to have a little more knowledge of geography when it comes to relating to other countries.

And the man wants to charge Iran with war crimes because of their history of genocide — while a man who lied and sent our kids off to “make a difference” in a horrible “Shock and Awe” Show walks free? Have there been many war crimes more egregious than that unmerciful spree?

He spoke of peace, about promoting it throughout the world, but he voiced such thoughts as though it was an afterthought, like a sentence filler, just words to win a moment in a debate, like: “The mantle of leadership for promoting the principles of peace has fallen to America. We didn’t ask for it. But it’s an honor that we have it.”

It is, indeed, an honor and that mantle has been in America’s court for many years now, carried out in various ways, from the use of arms way too many times to the use of diplomacy, not enough times, and at this juncture in the journey towards bringing about peace, with the world teetering dangerously economically, and warriors always at the ready, I don’t see Mitt Romney as the man to take us the next step of the way. No way. He doesn’t seem serene or credible enough to be a president for all the people, definitely not the 47 percent whom he sees as deadbeats.

There it is. Barack Obama is the only choice that makes sense to me. Anybody with me?

Photo courtesy of http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/sandra-fluke

It was so nice at Balboa Park the other day. Typical San Diego Day. Sunny. Warm. Bright. People wearing smiles everywhere I looked. We were gathered at 6th and Laurel for a Rally for Women’s Health, featuring Sandra Fluke, a woman who gained fame for being shunned by a group with no shame who ran a sham they call the United States House of Representatives’ House Oversight and Government Reform Committee.

These Big Time Charlies wouldn’t let her speak to them about reproductive freedom for women because, according to them, she had no “expertise.” And she pretty much had to tell them “Hello! I’m a woman, you know, and how much ‘expertise’ y’all got regarding a woman’s needs, I might ask, considering that every single one of you is a man?” Not to mention, (to counter what their smartassed answer to the question is likely to be) men who have not evolved much when it comes to ways of thinking things female beyond their junior high days. Like their good buddy, Rush Limbaugh, a sophomoric man who has no sensitivity genes, or inclinations for civility anywhere within him, a man who called Sandra a “slut” for her troubles which fundamentally fits his “expertise” of saying things that are crude and ugly and grossly untrue almost every time he opens his mouth — and he’s always opening his mouth. Always.

But she’s speaking now and how with all the expertise of a woman who sees with clear eyes and hears with discerning ears and has much to offer the world.

She spoke to how if Romney were president, birth control could end up in the hands of those who won’t use it and politicians in D.C. might redefine rape in ways that survivors are victimized all over again. To prove her point she reminded us how Paul Ryan, who would be vice-president, worked for legislation that would not only support the redefinition of rape but also ban abortion in all cases and cut off funding for providers of abortion and other services that women need and deserve in a free society. She highlighted how, in essence, a Romney presidency would allow pregnant women to die preventable deaths in our emergency rooms.

Oh, I love young clear thinking people, for they represent the hope we, as a society, should be looking for. She encourages us to speak up, to listen to and engage those who hold opposing views to ours with information based on facts and common sense to correct the divides between us. I call that love in action.

She supports Obama over Romney, in that same spirit of love and human understanding, saying at the Democratic National Convention that she desires to have “An America in which our President, when he hears a young woman has been verbally attacked, thinks of his daughters – not his delegates or donors — and stands with all women. And strangers come together, reach out and lift her up. And then, instead of trying to silence her, you invite me here, and give me a microphone, to amplify our voice.”

And what a voice she has. She has so many paths down which she could travel, but has chosen to accept a role as a public figure mainly, given all the problems this could cause herself and friends and family, to send a message to young women that it’s OK to speak up. “I did not want any elementary school girl not raising her hand because of me,” she has often said.

With that she’s won a very special place in my heart. It’s comforting to me knowing that there’s a Sandra Fluke in the world who dares to speak out so my daughters and granddaughters and great-granddaughters can feel free to be who they choose to be, so they can live a life of dignity, having within their reach health services that all human beings need and deserve.

This woman energizes my soul, leading me to feel that there is a potential for society to become more thoughtful, more understanding, more people friendly (with people meaning all people), more loving.

She took that already magnificent day and made it even sunnier and warmer and brighter. She’s my new hero.