A Frozen Tear

A frozen tear
Fell from the sky
Passion’s gift
Yielded in a sigh

Touching earth
Spring’s return
Hope suspended
Where desire burns

A frozen tear
Fell from her eye
Mournful silence
Whispering goodbye

Touching flesh
Cradled in hand
Memories burn
Diamonds in sand

A frozen tear
Is part of me
Surrounds a heart
None can see

Touching dreams
Hidden by night
Spirits dance
Disappearing by light

The Freak in Funkytown

Recent travels have placed in Seattle every month for the past half year. I’ve found an edgy urban neighborhood which has a grittiness that I find interesting. It reminds me a lot of the urban future portrayed in the 1982 film Blade Runner. The hotel where I stay is a euro-style hotel in the Capitol Hill neighborhood which caters to the upper middle class 30 something crowd.

Capitol Hill is a study in sharp contrasts. It is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle. A local travel guide describes the neighborhood. “The hill itself is one of the most prestigious old neighborhoods in Seattle, with countless mansions and stately older homes, quite a few of which are now elaborate bed-and-breakfast inns. At one time local politicians dreamed of making this the location for Washington’s capitol building - hence the name. Today the campuses of Seattle Central Community College and Seattle University mark the southern edge while two commercial centers attract visitors: a small, fairly quiet strip along 15th Ave. E, and the busy, on-the-edge Broadway Ave. E stretch.”

“Because of a strong gay and lesbian presence, Broadway has been likened to San Francisco’s Castro District, but it could also be Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue. It’s a great place to people-watch, and to catch up on the latest fashion statements for the youthful art crowd. You’re guaranteed to see more black leather skirts and jackets, frenzied florescent green hair, tattoos, nose rings, and pink triangles here than anywhere else in Seattle.”

Blade Runner 1982

The area is packed with counterculture small shops and restaurants. Tattoo parlors, piercing shops, adult supply stores are dispersed between art galleries, music stores, hair salons and book stores. The restaurant trade is affordable and highly ethic with wide ranges of Asian fusion cuisines mixed with Spanish, Mexican, Italian and British style fish and chips restaurants. The street life is vibrant and edgy where the hippy, grunge and alternative lifestyles are mixed with gay, anarchist, counterculture and artist communities. Although Seattle’s desperate heroin problem is fully evident, there is not a feeling that the area is unsafe. I began calling the district is “funkytown” because the residents perceived themselves as ultra hip and trendy. Maybe they are? Who am I to judge? I perceive them as more insecure, adolescent teens screaming for attention in a harmless but comedic fashion.

Slowly over a number of trips I began to realize that I was the freak the street life was marveling at. Although the street was obliviously tolerant of diversity of lifestyles, the extended stares and surprised looks informed me that I was the outcast. I began to wonder what in my appearance was so apparent. My attire was was suitability nondescript with a faded pair of blue jeans, a beat up tee shirt with Zapata the Mexican revolutionary staring at you with coal black eyes and a pair of sandals. I was dressed in the official street uniform. The dark sun glasses and ball cap reasonably disguised my age. What was it?

It came to me! I was totally undecorated. My body did not contain a solitary piece of body art. I had no tattoos, piercing, nose rings, chains, split tongues, fake contact lenses, paper clips or implanted horns. I have found it so unnecessary to decorate myself like a Christmas tree that I was never compelled to even pierce my ears. I was the equivalent of an albino freak in a circle tent. My nonconformance was glaringly oblivious to the self appointed fashion judges. I was so out of bounds to the trend setters that I began to crossover into the perverse cool. There’s a freak in funkytown.

I have spent a lifetime examining and attempting to understand tattoos. Yeah, it’s a form of free expression, a statement of what the individual stands for or what group they belong to. It’s a way to remember life events, good or bad. Whatever you want to call it, for god’s sake don’t call it art. It’s about as far from art as Muzak is from music. Most tattoos look like the individual was unconscious and their worst enemy was allowed to pick out and place a tattoo of their choosing in order to inflict the most humiliation and embarrassment possible on the victim. Take a good look at most tattoos and ask yourself, why was this individual compelled to place this scribble in this location? For all I know a person may just go out and play paintball with a group of buddies and after the game they find the location of each welt on his body and assign it a new tattoo. Placement appears to be that random.

How many millions of teenage girls have scarred their beautiful bodies by making themselves “special” and picked the ubiquitous dolphin, butterfly, heart, cherry or gecko tattoo. It makes them about as special as a Denny’s grand slam breakfast. I once asked a friend of mine why he always dated girls with tattoos? He said “It tells me she likes to abuse her body.”

If you want to impress me with a tattoo show me the Greek letter sigma from members of Phi Beta Sigma Fraternity. By scorching their left shoulders with a brand of the sigma, their values of brotherhood, scholarship and service are physically a part of them. In case you didn’t know branding (which is a form of tattoos) is burning the skin to create permanent scarring in a desired design. Instruments used to brand include a range from a blowtorch to a wire coat hanger bent to the desired shape, immersed in boiling oil and placed on the skin. That’s got to hurt.

I will admit that there are a few tattoo rituals that I would consider art. The Japanese full body Kanji Tattoos and pure tribal or Celtic tattoos. But have you ever seen one in person? For every photo of an artistically interesting tattoo I’ve seen a couple thousand really bad tattoos. Some are so bad they are comical. You just know they got up the next day and said “Shit! What the hell did I do that for?” Mike Tyson was probably one of them.

I’ve got a proposition to help society out of the carnage of human graffiti. Before an individual is allowed to get a tattoo they need to show a certificate of graduation from an art appreciation course. The class would teach them to understand form, color, texture, proportion, scale, rhythm, balance, contrast and contradiction. They could learn the fashion risk of placing figurative Japanese design next to a black biomechanical design. They could understand the impacts of different colored inks and the patina of the skin’s aging process. The process of getting a tattoo could be elevated to a sophisticated gallery opening instead of a drunken ghetto car wreck. We can only dream.

Maybe the nonconformist judges the world too harshly. The next time I’m hiking across the Capitol Hill district, I should stop and get in touch with my feminine side by getting a tattoo of a butterfly on my crouch just to make me feel “special”. If I did that they would no longer stare and say look at the freak in funkytown.

The Call

At dawn the telephone rings.

"Hello, Senor Lucky? This is Ernesto the caretaker at your country house."

"Ah yes, Ernesto. What can I do for you? Is there a problem?"

"Um, I am just calling to advise you, Senor that your parrot died."

"My parrot? Dead? The one that won the International competition?"

"Si, Senor, that's the one.""What did he die from?"

"From eating rotten meat, Senor"

"Rotten meat? Who the hell fed him rotten meat?"

”Nobody, Senor. He ate the meat of the dead horse."

"Dead horse? What dead horse?"

"The thoroughbred, Senor Lucky. He died from all that work pulling the water cart."

”Are you insane? What water cart?"

"The one we used to put out the fire, Senor"

"What fire are you talking about, man?"

"A candle fell and the curtains caught on fire."

"What was the candle for?"

"For the funeral, Senor."

"WHAT BLOODY FUNERAL?"

"Your wife's, Senor...She showed up one night out of the blue and I thought she was a thief, so I hit her with your new Tiger Woods Top Flite graphite driver."

SILENCE...................

"Ernesto, if you broke my driver, you're in deep shit."

Death, Taxes, and our Great Civic Duty

"We must not let our rulers load us with perpetual debt.
We must make our election between economy and liberty
or profusion and servitude.
If we run into such debt, as that we must be taxed in our meat and
in our drink, in our necessaries and our comforts, in our labors and
our amusements, for our calling and our creeds...
[we will] have no time to think,
no means of calling our miss-managers to account
but be glad to obtain subsistence by hiring ourselves
to rivet their chains on the necks of our fellow-sufferers...
And this is the tendency of all human governments.
A departure from principle in one instance
becomes a precedent for [another ]...
till the bulk of society is reduced to be mere automatons of misery...
And the fore-horse of this frightful team is public debt.
Taxation follows that, and in its train wretchedness and oppression."

Thomas Jefferson
Monticello, July 12, 1816

The collection of any taxes which are not absolutely required, which do not beyond reasonable doubt contribute to the public welfare, is only a species of legalized larceny. Under this republic the rewards of industry belong to those who earn them. The only constitutional tax is the tax which ministers to public necessity. The property of the country belongs to the people of the country. Their title is absolute. They do not support any privileged class; they do not need to maintain great military forces; they ought not to be burdened with a great array of public employees. They are not required to make any contribution to Government expenditures except that which they voluntarily assess upon themselves through the action of their own representatives. Whenever taxes become burdensome a remedy can be applied by the people; but if they do not act for themselves, no one can be very successful in acting for them.

Calvin Coolidge
Inaugural address, March 4, 1925

Where Broken Toys Go

There’s a place where disappointment and despair reigns. It is a place where disbelief, sadness and anger is concentrated so intensely that light and joy can not penetrate. This place is Gate 35 at Reagan National Airport in Washington DC. It took a number of consecutive trips before I realized the true nature of Gate 35. It is the place where broken toys go.

Over the past six months I have had the occasion the travel to Washington DC via Reagan National five times. Each one of these trips was a Friday single one day bender, where I would awake at 4:00 am in order to catch the 6:00 am flight to Reagan National. The early morning flight was always uneventful and usually arrived early. The clue I was overlooking was that we would not arrive in Washington at Gate 35. In order to conduct a full day of business in the city I would book the last flight home which was the 7:30 pm flight from Gate 35. Each time the same pattern emerged.

Always on schedule, I would arrive at the airport a little over an hour early to check in and grab dinner. Reagan National is one of the best airports in the nation to eat at. In the concourse are a good sushi bar and the famous Legal Seafood restaurant from Boston. Time usually permits a quality seafood dinner and a couple of cocktails before I head off to Gate 35. As soon as I arrive at gate 35 despair is waiting to greet me. The flight is delayed 45 minutes. The aircraft has had some mechanical issue in Charlotte. I sit down to wait it out. Approaching 45 minutes later the next announcement informs us the repair has taken longer than expected and the plane in now leaving Charlotte. The target departure time is now 9:00 pm.

The entire group in Gate 35 shakes their heads and sighs in disappointment. Approaching 9:00 the next announcement comes. There is now a series of thunderstorms somewhere between Charlotte and Washington and the plane is being held in on the ground Charlotte. You guessed it another 45 minute delay. Sadness covers us like a blanket. People are getting tired and restless when the next announcement starts with a positive statement only to raise hopes that would be later dashed. “The plane from Charlotte is in range of Reagan National, ………but the weather has stacked up other flights and air traffic has placed a flow control on all planes landing………..so the flight from Charlotte is in a holding pattern for…….45 minutes……….departure time is now estimated at 10:30 pm.”

Beaten and battered it appears this last announcement is the last. The plane arrives at Gate 35 and we are loaded in silence resignation. I find my seat and sit back for the two and one half hour flight when another announcement comes. “Sorry for the delay……….We’re in the process of restocking and refueling the aircraft………..as soon as it is complete we will be leaving.” Having broken everyone’s spirit and will, they no longer feel it important to inform you that this in another one hour delay. Eventually the plane pushes off Gate 35 sometime around 11:30 pm more than four hours late. The pilot attempts to salvage the dismal performance with another announcement “Thanks for your patience……We are asking air traffic to reroute us so we can make up some lost time……Sorry but we were not able to completely restock the plane so there is no alcohol.” It crosses my mind that I should have been home almost one hour ago and there is nothing short of traveling faster than the speed of light which would save enough time to make up for this evening. The clock strikes 1:45 am when I get home. I have now been up for almost 22 hours.

Most people do not travel enough to understand the pattern that emerged with Gate 35. Each time I have traveled through Gate 35 the same thing happened. The story would slightly change as different gate agents added their own color commentary and embellishments. Around the third flight, I got it. I would get to Gate 35 and ask about the status of the 11:30 pm flight. The gate agent would reply “Sir we do not have an 11:30 pm departure, our last flight is at 7:30 pm.” I would argue the point with her “You do have an 11:30 pm flight you call it your 7:30 pm flight because no one in their right mind would book the 11:30 pm flight. Since you would be flying an empty plane you just decided to call it a 7:30 flight, past history proves that it is really the 11:30 flight.” At this point I would get one of those sit down and shut up or you will be on the 10:30 am flight tomorrow. At 11:30 pm as the gate agent takes my ticket I would say “My god I need to get my watch fixed its running four hours fast again.”

It took me a while before I could my finger of the exact feeling the passengers of Gate 35 were experiencing. Then I realized that we were all broken toys that could not be taken in the sleigh with Santa on Christmas. What disappointment and despair knowing that you were not going on that incredible journey. We were discarded like broken toys; our heartbreak would show as we resigned ourselves to a wasted life without purpose. I began to study the psychology of despair in the new toys that they were informed that they were broken and would not be traveling with Santa.

I have to admit that the world of broken toys can be ugly and cruel. As one of the oldest broken toys having missed Christmas many times in the past, I would sit with some of the older toys who knew the routine and watch the new toys arrive. Gate 35 established its own hierarchy like a prison yard. We appointmented ourselves as the yard leaders. The new toys would look to the gate agent as the prison guards assuming that good behavior would reduce their sentence, but in reality no one was safe in the prison yard. What did we have to worry about? We knew we were on death row and nothing would same us from this four hour delay.

We would watch each new toy arrive to the check-in desk only to learn their fate. They would hurry to the counter with eager anticipation smiling what they made the gate early. Shoulders erect with innocence, hopeful eyes. Then at the announcement, they would gasp or sigh. The shoulders would slump; the eyes would turn dull, while they skulked into a corner to lick their wounds. We would gain great entertainment value at the misfortune of others. Why not, we owned the yard.

It ended up being really funny watching these people. We would sit at the edge of the seating area so you have to pass us to get to the counter. As a new toy would approach we would whisper to them “the gate agent is in a really bad mood and that one more problem she said she would delay the plane so be careful.” They would look at us like we were crazy. As they stood at the counter we would try not to giggle. Then the announcement came and they would look over at us like we were fortune tellers. We would raise our hands high and shrug, screaming “Oh man what you go and do that for? We told you.” As they walked back to a seat in Gate 35 we would howl.

Just a word of warning next Friday if you’re headed to gate 35 at Reagan National we’ll be waiting for you. It’s a place where disappointment and despair reigns. It is a place where disbelief, sadness and anger is concentrated so deeply that light and joy can not penetrate. You don’t know it yet but this is where broken toys go and you’re one.

The Wire

There’s hard silence
On the end of a wire
Like the free trial
Time will expire

A book of photos
Gathers dust
Along the way
I lost the trust

It is her life
She can not share
If I was to fall
She can not care

Hoping to escape
She had a scheme
A distance shore
She builds a dream

Asking for little
Wanting too much
I look at the wire
Barely in touch

Should I let go
Adrift from shore
Tides wash away
Never was before

There’s hard silence
On the end of a wire
What does it matter
Only fools desire

Profusion on the Plains

Behold, my friends, the spring is come; the earth has gladly received the embraces of the sun, and we shall soon see the results of their love!
Sitting Bull

The prairie earth has erupted into exuberance and life. A mild winter followed by a cool March contributed to a glorious spring unsurpassed in decades. In reflection, I cannot ever recall every tree, shrub and flower blooming at the same time. The early blooms of forsythia, magnolia and redbuds share the stage with the late blooms of lilac, dogwoods and crabapples. The daffodils reach for the sky next to tulips. In the average spring this sequence of blooms may extent over four to five weeks as the ground slowly warms and awakes, but this spring all of nature exploded within the same week.

Every view is awash with spectacular color as each species sings in triumph over winter. Every corner is filled with profusion and excess. I have never experienced air so heavily scented with a sensuous mix of perfume. It is a gift to experience another prairie spring as memorable as this one. Today there is no other place I would rather be. I think I’ll turn the phone off, grab a bottle of Riesling and some cheese spending the afternoon at the botanical garden outside of town. I want to lie in the sun and watch this glorious display.

The Meeting Place

Toronto is a place that I had no image or expectation. My brief internet search before I stepped on the plane provided few clues as to the real identity of the city I would soon be experiencing. It is rare that I travel to a destination completely cold without a list of attractions that I would attempt to visit if circumstances allowed. The list is always more extensive than time ever allows. Other commitments consumed every minute for weeks prior to the trip so the journey had the feel of a scavenger hunt. I was unaware of the hotel I was booked at until I pulled out the memo on the plane. The only fundamental piece of information I knew was that I should expect my cab ride to the hotel to cost about $40.00.

Toronto would not reveal itself immediately. Clearing customs was simple, although a passport will be required by year end. Previous international travel taught me some simple rules. Change some money at the airport so you have local currency for the cab ride. This limits the opportunities for getting short changed by the cabbie. Always ignore the gypsy cab and limo drivers in baggage claim. They are typically planning to give you a real a real ride at twice the cost.

The first impression of the city was a huge traffic jam on the interstate. As we slowly passed the bumper to bumper traffic, I noticed the wide range of ethnic nationalities represented. I would later be surprised to learn that Toronto is the most ethically diverse city in the world.

Toronto is a Huron people's word meaning 'Meeting Place'. In the 1600’s Toronto was very crucial for its series of trails and water routes that led from northern and western Canada to the Gulf of Mexico. Known as the "Toronto Passage", it followed the Humber River, as an important overland shortcut between Lake Ontario and the upper Great Lakes. For this reason Toronto became a hot spot for French fur traders.

Toronto is the 5th largest city in North America at 2.4 million, which are more people than the populations of most of the provinces and territories in Canada. The ethnic diversity is what sets Toronto apart from other North American cities. Toronto is home to virtually all of the world's culture groups and is the city where more than 100 languages are spoken.


According to the City of Toronto’s website, “once primarily a British and protestant city, immigration has played a dynamic role in the changing face of Toronto since the end of the Second World War. Today, 42 per cent of all Canadian immigrants choose Toronto as their destination and as such, Toronto's visible minority population now accounts for more than 40 per cent of the population compared to 11 per cent nationwide. There are more than 90 different ethnic groups in the Toronto area and over one million non-English or French speaking people. The top ten source countries for immigration to Canada were China, India, Pakistan, Hong Kong, Iran, Sri Lanka, Philippines, Taiwan, Russia and Jamaica.”

It is apparent to the casual visitor that the city has embraced the many cultures of the world and it is working! Toronto has bilingual street signs, specialty stores, ethnic restaurants, ethnic publications and a variety of ethnic shopping centers. It is a vibrant city that at times feels more European than any other city in North America. Unlike other American cities there was not a racial undercurrent of conclaves. The atmosphere on the street was decidedly tolerant and open. Even the street beggars did not have an “in your face” attitude. They would silently stand and open a door to a store for you and politely say “have a nice day”. I’ve always maintained a simple rule for street beggars; you must contribute something to society even if it is a simple act. Act as a part of society not as outcast from it and I will contribute to your cause. Not once in my trip did I experience any individual in the city of Toronto act outside of societal boundaries, although there was clear and exuberate expression of ethnic multiculturism and individualism. I’m sure I could have found trouble if I had enough time, but it was refreshing that it was cloistered out of reach.

During dinner one night I overheard a discussion of two middle aged ladies from Toronto who were discussing the experience of a friend, who had recently moved with her husband to Chicago. She was white and her husband was black. The conversation focused on the racism the couple experienced in Chicago. The two ladies were in disbelief, appalled and dumbfounded that such demeaning and restrictive racial environment existed in the world. The married couple was denied a home purchase in a neighborhood because the husband was black. They described in great detail each of the subtle acts of racism that the couple experienced each day. I found myself quietly nodding in agreement as each violation was described.

The view during dinner from the CN tower.

At the start of the conversation I falsely assumed that the ladies were naïve to big city urban culture which requires a certain level of personal diligence mixed with slight adventure-like tension. Towards the end of the conversation my perspective shifted to the fact that racism and intolerance is alive and well in the states. This paradigm shift was only possible while being immersed in this incredible diverse city without a hint of these issues. For a moment I was able to examine our urban culture for what it was, a series of seething unhealed wounds. I was saddened by the realization that we tend to treat each other as if we are all five years old and are still on the playground. In reality, I must apologize to the five year olds because at that age we are all color blind and could not grasp the concept of racial intolerance.

I continue to wrestle with the meaning of this epiphany. Toronto was a mirror in which I could closely examine myself. Like finding the first grey hair or wrinkle in a once youthful face, you are profoundly confronted with the realization that you are not who you think you are. I am grateful to Toronto for this refreshing slap in the face. I will eagerly await my next opportunity to visit this invisible city on the northern plains which is the most cultural diverse city in the world. Who would have thunk-it???