Winter Citrus

This is the season when the men who have managed to navigate their way through all of the hazardous corridors from their poor countries south of our border to this one end up on the corners of cities like mine selling bags of oranges.

Yesterday, I spoke with one of these men, as he stood in the cold air with plastic bags full of oranges. He was asking for a price of $9, which I decided to pay without bargaining, because I have a sense of how little of that gross price would end up in his torn pocket.

As he reached to hand me the change, I declined to accept it. "Para usted," I said, as I hoisted my bag of oranges over my shoulder and headed home. "Gracias, gracias," he shouted at me as I left.

One U.S. dollar!

The real "thank you" that ought to have been uttered was from all of us, here in the richest society on earth, regardless of our present circumstances, to people like him, who come from poverty beyond our imaginings. But we can never find the words to say it, and that is why America, as we know it, will no longer enjoy its privileges in future decades.

We have simply never come to grips with why we are as rich as we are. And that will prove to be the fatal flaw for this society. Until we join with our global brothers and sisters and recognize how we share a common fate, we will continue to wander lost in a desert of our own making...

Triumph

The most wonderful thing for little Synergy School, which probably has fewer students than any other K-8 school in this city, is that this year, for the first time in its quarter century or so of existence, all four basketball teams made the playoffs.

By tonight, however, only one team was left standing -- the boys' varsity basketball team. The other three -- varsity girls, JV boys and girls -- also had great seasons, but by tonight, other teams had won the championships in their leagues.

So, tonight, was the final game for not only the varsity boys but the whole school.







In the end, the varsity boys prevailed in a manner that left no doubt who the best team in their league is. They won this game 45-11.

For the season, they finished 10-0 and won games by an average score of 36-12. Naturally, I am very proud of my own son, who anchored this team, played hurt, and was a leader in every respect.

But even more I am proud of this little school, its coaches, and the families who helped our sons do something that never before has happened in this league in this city. A perfect season!



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We All Need Angels

Please listen to this song if you are feeling sad, lost, unappreciated, or hopeless tonight. My main goal, as a writer, has always been to offer hope to others, and not to promote the opposite emotions, which can be so destructive.

This particular song has long inspired me to keep going. I hope it has the same effect on you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BDkcJ-62uuY

Verge of Perfection

I'll never be one to suggest that kids' sports are more important than other aspects of their development. But healthy physical education complements good intellectual and emotional development, so competitive sports have their place.



In this context, two of my kids have been standout athletes in their youthful years. My first son was a star in little league baseball, soccer, and track; he also was on the swimming team in high school, is a surfer and a sailor and, at 27, is in perfect physical shape (despite all those McDonald's hamburgers I fed him in years past!)



My second son, now 14, has been a great Little League baseball player, a star in soccer and track, and an extraordinary basketball player. Last year, as a 7th grader on his school's varsity team, he had a good year but the team finished 1-8 and missed the playoffs.



This year he's grown, to 5'11", and he plays center, guard and forward. Primarily he is at the low post on defense and high post on offense. The team is 10-0 and has outcored its opponents by an average score of 34.6-11.9.



But he missed the most recent game (before tonight's) due to an injured foot. Watching from the bench, he got frustrated as his teammates squeaked out a win, 20-15. I knew by the look on his face that he wouldn't sit out any more games.



Last night he told me he would be playing tonight. He did. In the first 18 minutes, he scored 10 points, grabbed 6 rebounds, blocked 5 shots, had three assists, had no turnovers and won the opening jump ball, as he has every game since the season began.



The final score, as captured in this photo by his little sister (potentially a pretty good athlete herself in the future), was 46-12. The final game of this final middle school season for him and his teammates will be Thursday.

The championship. I'll be there.

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Who's Working Now

At night, the artist paints.

In day, the singer sings.

At morning the smoker smokes in her robe. Sunlight etches her clearly against the rubble of her cluttered back porch.

The same old man walks his tiny dog. He smokes. "Yuck," says my daughter, as we walk past.

My oldest son stopped by for a visit; walking back from the coffee shop, we speculated about what the real unemployment rate is in California's cities. The state claims 9.3% are out of work, but that's only people who've lost jobs that qualify for unemployment benefits -- perhaps covering most of the jobless but certainly not all.

We came up with an estimate that the actual percentage of unemployed is about 14-15%.

There are other problems that the numbers don't capture. Some workers have been cut back to half-time. They consider themselves lucky, given the environment, for having any income at all.

Meanwhile, the song-writer composes, the new Mom walks her baby, the drug dealers are in hiding after a recent raid. A young athlete, with an injured foot, decides to suck it up and get himself into the playoff game tonight.

The blogger stares at an empty screen, marveling at the times when he thought he any say at all over any of the things around him.

Because it is dreadfully clear now that he didn't, and he never will. All he has are words -- or not -- depending on the moment.

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Miracle Recovery. Being Naked.

My computer is back, courtesy of the diagnostic geniuses at Apple. Best of all, they fixed it but didn't charge me anything.

I've gotta examine why I get so pessimistic quickly these days. My daughter excoriated me for this today, "I thought I taught you to stop being a pessimist. It's not nice!"

Last night's school dance was a challenge for my youngest son. He'll be a teenager himself in two months & change. But for now, it's just all too awkward.

***

Like many Americans, I get daily emails from President Obama and his team. We may have our first Spammer-in-Chief (just kidding). It is pretty nice to see Barack in my inbox and most of "his" messages have substance of interest to me.

The curious battle to get a stimulus passed appears to have been resolved, thanks to a coalition of adult Republicans and Democrats in the Senate. It all looks good, but there's nothing in there for those of us who live by our art, music, or writing as far as I can see.

Way too bad the Obama team lost my application for work. Well, it wasn't really an application; it was a proposal for how to reorganize government. Only occasionally have I lost a piece of writing due to a technological glitch, but apparently that is what happened this time.

I thought that I had saved and copied my ideas, but no, that appears to be untrue. Therefore, I can never recreate what inspired me on the day I wrote it. Of course, I know the general drift of what I proposed, but it was the way it was written that has been lost.

Every writer will tell you that as much as content matters, style matters even more to us. We are communicators. Sometimes we play with ideas -- we float conceptual balloons, we pose as different people than you think us to be.

I do this relentlessly. Monday I write from the left. Tuesday from the right. Which person is me? Either, neither, or both?

I don't know. I'm exceptionally open to ideas, always have been. I loved my Dad, whose instincts were conservative. I loved my Mom, whose instincts were liberal. As a youth, I was a radical, even a Marxist (in theory).

Later, I fell in love with the power of private enterprise, and I discovered a libertarian, free-market streak deep within my psyche.

At this point, I realize that I have never actually been privileged enough to become a true liberal. Lacking any sense of entitlement whatsoever, for whatever reasons, I identify with the poor, weak, disadvantaged, the out of favor. I always root for the underdog, except in the cases of "my" schools or teams.

Writing demands, finally, for the writer to stand naked before the world. Physically, no (that would not be a pretty site); but emotionally, yes. My weapons are my words. I have no gun with ammunition, no knife except a fishing knife.

Then again, though I know my words can cut, I'm not a slasher-writer. I mean to do no harm. I write out of a sense of love and responsibility.

Someday my kids will all grow up. Maybe one of them will read this stuff, assuming that I don't (in a sudden fit of self-censorship -- the worst disease any writer can suffer) simply delete all of these electronic signals some tyrannical night, from their virtual existence.

Even then, Google will retain them on a server somewhere, I'm sure. That's okay.

Writers are not really able to be like de Kooning. We can't erase what we have said, because someone, somewhere, out there, has a copy. Do you read me? This is what I meant about being naked.

BTW, this photo is of my bud, Oliver, who seems to have shed his collar recently but came to visit today, and let both of the children mentioned above hold him, stroke him, and let him know he is always welcome here in Weirville...

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Breakdown!

No not that kind. My long-suffering computer chose today to die, or at least to lapse into a coma. Thirty years ago, one of my dreads was that whatever old car I happened to own at the moment would break down. But today, a laptop that costs less than a thirteenth of my car is costing me (it's not yet paid off) is a far more important tool than my car.

Like most people, I don't backup my hard disk as often as I should, so today I confronted the possibility of losing a couple years' work. Had that occurred, more than my Mac might have suffered a breakdown. But the exceedingly patient young man who helped me at the Apple Store coaxed the old box back into enough life that I was able to transfer 6.45 GB of data onto a $30 flash drive, before he sent the Mac from the ER into the Intensive Care Unit.

He said they'll call me once they diagnose the problems. But I have a very bad feeling about this.

The timing, as usual, could be better, naturally. But I am back online, sort of, tonight on an old, fragile Japanese computer that has the unnerving propensity to suddenly and spontaneously switch languages on me 理家テャt！胃t八編sあs位sたれどwんあt手ぇけy簿あ like that.

Maybe I'll stop　漏れ無 now while I am ahead.

As for the photo at the top of this post, as they say in Japan "A thousand hearings are less than one view." Think about that.

案d位f用感フィグレ王tウァt手ぇヘッl位tmて案sれt目kの

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