Crossing the River by Feeling the Stones

“Let her sleep, for when she awakes, she will shake the world.”

Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821)

A full twenty-six hours of air travel and delays have passed and all that remains is a three hour bus ride. Slowly I wander through customs in a strange and unfamiliar place emerging from the cavernous terminal to the open night sky. As the doors open it is as if I am walking into the hot moist breath of a dragon. I am engulfed by the heat and humidity as small drops of perspiration immediately begin to form on my forehead. A white still fog hugs the ground like a blanket obscuring all but the nearest objects. Frenetic activity surrounds the curbside as all sorts of vehicles jockey for the curb to swallow weary travelers. I notice a faint odor of a mechanical lubricant long abandon at home which reminders me of the World War II museum battleships I remember visiting. The scent seems to be as pervasive as the thick humidity. I chuckle to myself at what odd sensations are chosen to inform the first impression of a place you have never visited.

Our host gathers us up into a tidy group and begins a head count as our bus pulls up to the curb. We are immediately provided translated introductions and instructions as to what to expect for the journey to the hotel. Eager to keep moving we find a comfortable seat as warm bottled water are distributed to bleary eyed figures. Passing through the city in the dark it is a mix of the familiar and the unfamiliar, nondescript in appearance, but dense and worn, crowded with traffic and people. As we leave the chaos and travel the rural countryside the land appears sparsely populated with only a solitary light flickering here and there on the horizon of the coastal plain. Appearing from the fog in the distance is massive outlines of blocks of high rise buildings arising from the landscape. While the monumental scale is difficult to believe, they are but shadows reaching for the sky with only a single light burning. Reminiscent of the Swiss-born French architect, Le Corbusier’s concept of the Radiant City in the early 1920’s, these immense towering clutters of buildings sit isolated in an agrarian plain of little topography. Unlike Le Corbusier’s vison for a more perfect urban expression of life which are gleaming and bright with hope, these masses of buildings are brooding and dark without activity providing an abandon post-apocalyptic nightmare of the world after human existence, void of a moral landscape.

During the three hour bus ride we pass isolated blocks of these silent massive high rise developments one after another seemingly only a few minutes apart. Their appearance is ominous and foreboding shrouded in the dense fog. Their isolation from the horizontal sweep of the horizon accentuates their brutal eruption from the ground and brands them as overwrought symbols of phallic ego. The air conditioner in the bus struggles to tame the stifling night heat as small rivulets of sweat roll down my back. So this is the sleeping bear, so this is China? I did not come with a preconceived idea of what to expect, in fact I was so distracted and busy with work that I did no preparation at all before stepping on to the plane. To complicate matters I have not been a student of China in any regard, deciding it was a complex society as remote and mysterious as to defy common understanding. My mental framework for China was an elemental mix of cold war Nixon era images overlaid with the joyous nationalism of the Beijing Olympics, an inadequate map to navigate what I am about to experience. Contradictory fragments of foe and friend, of oppressed thought and spiritual enlightenment, of dangerous poverty and singularity of purpose collide in my mind. My consciousness is pure and unpolluted capable of imprinting the first subtle intonations of a culture free of prejudice or judgment.

I have been invited to participant as keynote speaker at professional forum put on by an American company doing business in China. The regional city of Dalian has sponsored the event and has invited over two hundred high level public officials from all over China to attend. Unlike professional invites in the states a Chinese governmental invite includes all associated travel costs and is considered very prestigious event important to attend. This will be my first keynote address with a translator which should prove to be interesting. The invite includes a few days of sightseeing for the speakers in order to get a better glimpse of this great and ancient culture.

Turning off the highway we wind through a massive boulevard with only semitrailer and concrete trucks on the road. I later came to find out that most construction in China occurs only at night. Approaching the hotel there are a large array to Hollywood type spotlights piercing the foggy night sky. As I crane my head to see what is the destination the most incredible architectural structure I have ever seen emerges from the sky. Even now it is hard to describe. It resembles a wedge shaped spaceship high atop an angled column all clad in a dark titanium metal which looks like the scales of a reptile. As we turn into the hotel drive it disappears into the forest not to be seen again. The image is so compelling that I briefly consider hiking back down the drive just to get a better look but quickly dismiss the idea as our journey has ended at close to 1:00 AM and we are told that we need to be back on the bus by 8:00 AM.

Exhausted I make it to my room only to find I have no idea on how to turn the lights on. I stumble around in the dark feeling each fixture attempting to produce some illumination. Nothing works and before giving up and crawling in bed in total darkness I decide to use the last remaining battery life in my cell phone display to light the walls in search of the problem. Finally I see a small slot on the wall near the door which fortunately has written in English “place room key here”. In a wave of recognition I recall that most European hotels require that the room key is inserted into the wall in order to energize the room.

Over the next three days we are franticly escorted from one business facility to another, then from one sightseeing location to another all the time with a convoy of police and security. Each stop we emerge into the smothering humidity and find our clothes completely trenched with sweat after about 30 minutes of walking. As hot and suffocating as the heat was for some of our guests from Chicago, I found it reasonably bearable and almost cleansing. We found out later while watching the news that the temperature was 98 degrees with 100% humidity. Someone joked that doesn’t 100% humidity mean rain, apparently not if you’re walking inside a cloud. Each day in Beijing and Tianjin is cloaked in a heavy white fog that clings to the ground as a reminder of the moisture in the air, never revealing the entire city to eye. I noticed that the men have a habit of cooling themselves by rolling up the front of their shirts to expose the midsection. This custom was not limited by age from the young to the elderly a bare abdomen was common, except for the female population which was apparently born to suffer the heat by custom.

In the daylight it became apparent that the shadowy massive structures evident in first night bus ride is evidence of the spectacular building booming occurring in China. One can hardly describe the magnitude of the building. Someone mentioned that 25 % of the building cranes in the world are in China. On every corner super blocks of housing towers are emerging from the ground. It is part of a massive program to resettle rural populations from small villages or farm based settlement into modern urban housing. The implications for China could be dire as our own experience with the Great Society of Lyndon Johnson in the 1960’s when we build complete neighborhoods of towering blocks of low income public housing only to watch them completely failed a few decades later. In its rush to modernize is China making the same mistake as us only by a factor of one hundred? In talking with urban planners and architects working in China, even the cultural differences won’t save China from the same problems America experienced with public housing, primarily because the populations being relocated are rural farmers who are now being placed in urban environments ill equipped to be gainfully employed.

What I discovered along the way is that China is an exceedingly complex place in a state of complete revolution and change. As one of the speakers put it if you spend a week in China you feel like you have a PhD, if you spend a month in China you feel you have a master’s degree, if you spend a year in China, you realize you know almost nothing about China. Another speaker provided us a Chinese saying which stated understanding China was like “blind men sizing up and elephant.” I am struck by a number of observations as I travel here. Besides the social and culture structure which was partly revealed by the ceremonial banquets and agreement signing press events, there are aspects of life in the west that we take for granted that don’t appear to exist in China or at least the small portion of it I saw.

In China’s rush to modernize its economy into a world power, I don’t see an understanding of ecological planning in urban design. Most of the urban areas have little visual expression of native ecology. You will travel endlessly through dense urban development without seeing watersheds, wetlands or watercourses bounded by vegetation. While the planners I spoke with indicate that it is a topic of all early planning discussions, it is universally stripped from a project during implementation. The incredible building boom is reshaping the entire urban context of China, but yet they are making the same environmental mistakes we made over 100 years, only they are making twice as many of them in the space of less than ten years.

Most confusing is that there is so little appreciation or understanding of cultural context with the urban design framework. It appears that China has lost sight of its 8,000 year old cultural context when it comes to designing cities. This is not only alarming but incredibly sad that the foundation of what makes this nation special from a cultural perspective is being obliterated in the rush to modernize. There was little expression of historic patterns, trails, marketplaces and neighborhoods within the new developments? Even sadder is the desire to emulate western values which embrace French empire, Gothic federalism or southern California architectural styles. Why hasn’t China developed a regional sense of its own architecture? The dislocation of the population from the land and the obliteration of the historical cultural landscape will erase society’s memory of who they are and where they come from. This extreme detachment of society from its 8,000 year environment will provoke severe social anxiety and strife leading to an acceleration of all the ills of western culture, crime, substance abuse, rampant consumerism as people attempt to escape the brutality of an urban wasteland without relief. Humanity can learn from our past misdeeds and ignorance, why does China only to strive to be equals, why not strive to redefine the gracious possibility of human existence.

It is interesting that design process is little understood in Chinese culture. Again there is evidence of massive re-vegetation of the entire country. Every inch of open space is crowded with newly planted trees. The trees are so densely planted that they shade each other seeking sunlight. Most of the trees appear to have been planted within the past five years but the trees have not been arranged to create or frame open space. Seldom can you find simple design principals which organize open space into extended views or vista. You feel as if you a completely enclosed in a young forest without a way to understand the spacial context that surrounds you. I found this to be a physical manifestation of a society that wishes to control what is seen and noticed, instead of a great humanization of the city with greenery. The minimal appreciation of ecology is also expressed in the selection of material and the rigid order of collective groupings of plants as if they are being directed, you ten stand here and you twenty stand there.

An observation that took a little while to recognize was the absolute absence of wildlife and this phenomenon was not purely confined to the sterile urban fabric, but disturbingly oblivious in the rural areas. While an abundance of dragonflies hovered and darted in herds through the rich humid air not a single bird exploited this available food source. As this realization dawned on me I became more intent and focused on looking for birds. In the forested parks, never a song was heard, in the vast green lawn of the open plazas where we see flocks of birds grazing never a solitary bird, in the approaching dusk sky when birds conclude the activities of the day and take flight, never a silhouette against the waning light. In the entire week of traveling the countryside only three small silhouettes were seen. As I pondered this omission of nature I realized that over ten hours of bus travel on highways and byways not a single incidence of roadkill was observed, the unfortunate conflict of man and nature. On my short 30 minute drive home from the airport I contrasted the three deer and four other deceased animals resting along the highway. Based on the marginal attention to trash removal and maintenance in China I have no reason to believe that the highways were subject to a preoccupation of removing roadkill. In Arkansas there is an old joke that folks stop when heading to town to draw caulk circles around every roadkill they find and pick up all the roadkill without caulk circles on the back from town. China’s highways contained no caulk circles. What does this mean? Is it what I perceive it to be, a collapse of the web of life, a gaping hole in biodiversity? In natural systems imbalance is a precursor to instability, which is a precursor to total system collapse.

For me the experience was exhilarating and daunting while observant of the subtle orchestrated show was being managed by our sponsors. While driving around in buses it was evident that large fountains which remain silent magically sprung to life as we passed. It was a strange feeling to be regarded as such an important guest, being elevated to receive extra special attention by the highest levels of the leadership. We traveled in caravans under flashing police escort with a security officers stopping traffic at every intersection for miles and miles as we race though communities never slowing down let alone stopping. We were received with dragon dancers or special firework displays before heading to delegate receptions and predictable ceremonial speeches, but always carefully separated from the general public especially in the smaller towns. It’s the closest I’m ever come to being a rock star or an important politician and I have to admit it was fun.

The conclusion of each day was an extravagant banquet hosted by the sponsoring government in each city we visited. This was an opportunity to rub shoulders and experience intimately the traditions, culture and people of China. I found these events as most rewarding and instructive. Each banquet is highly structured and formally organized based of the importance of the attendees. The primary hosts are seated at the head table in a complicated method with the descending ranking and honorary guests being placed around the table as directed by the primary host. This process occurs to a lesser degree with each supporting table at the banquet. Care was given to all invited speaker so that they receive the honor of being seated at the head table strategic to business affinities of each the guest and host. At other times the invited speakers were assigned the second highest ranked table which was primarily foreigners. Base on this hierarchical structure the food served may differ so that each table had a unique presentation of local and regional dishes.

In the center of each banquet table was a massive lazy susan which rotated easily with the slightest flick of the host’s finger. At the start of the meal the table contained a half dozen dishes ranging from fruits to cooked vegetables and salads. Once the meal began, a series of toasts were offered for the guests by each of the primary hosts and then by the guests for the host’s hospitality. Then the toasting moved into the fast lane, with toasts to toast more toasts, until the guests began to get silly, then just a few more toasts. Interestingly each glass was only filled with one mouthful of wine, beer or a clear distilled spirit made from corn, rice and grain. Upon completion of each toast a legion of petit female servers would once again pour a single mouthful of liquid into your glass. Not empting your glass at each toast was considered a bit disrespectful as the host would demonstrate without translation that he completed the toast according to custom by turning his glass upside down over his heading and asking the guest to do the same.

During the toasting frenzy, little by little the server staff would begin to bring platters of food to place on the increasingly crowded turntable. The lesser ranked hosts were delegated the responsible of slowly rotating the servings, careful to watch when a guest appeared interested in tasting a dish. As the parade of platters arrived they began to cover the entire turntable and then pile up on top of one another, salads, then soups, then seafood, then slaws, then meats, then more vegetables, then fish, until the guests were stuffed and not picking at the food any longer. This was followed with another handful of platters of food, which now covered the turntable three dished deep so that your view of the person sitting across from you was almost obscured.
Inquiring about the excessive amount of food we were given the explanation that the more leftover food remained on the table the prouder the hosts were. It is an expression of wealth, the more that remained unconsumed the greater the display of wealth. Even our interpreter was unaware of what happens to the piles of excess food. Of the dozens and dozens of dishes at numerous banquets to my surprise not one of them included rice. Apparently rice is considered peasant food and not suitable impressing guests at a banquet.

One of the more memorable banquets was Mongolian style in a yurt or a traditional tent. A small entertainment park in Beijing called 99 Yurts was a delightful event venue which included music, traditional dancers, lots of drinking and the featured star of the banquet, a whole spit roasted lamb cooked over open coal fires. There was a ceremonial process of presenting the roasted lamb, the carving by the hosts together with guests and the offering of prayer scarves. As a huge fan of lamb, I have to consider this meal as the best lamb I have ever eaten as it was accompanied with a curry dipping sauce, dry spices, thinly sliced scallions and small streamed buns.

Traditional customs were front stage during the banquets and one that I was touched by was the primary host’s routine of after the meal toasting the head table and then walking around to each guest and privately toasting them. It provided a personal moment with the mayor or chief deputy, to which a gracious appreciation of your presence was acknowledged. While everyone else retained seated you were to rise and receive your personal moment and once it occurred you were seated and the next person rose to be greeted. Once the head table was completed the host delegation walked around to every table at the banquet and offered a single collective toast to the table while offering compliments. I found this tradition as warm and genuine, realizing that our host mayor would probably do this same process of drinking 30-50 toasts every night. This job was not for the faint of liver.

There was a decidedly noticeable caste system in place among the society with specific rules for governing behavior. As the mayor would rise to toast a guest the local delegation would leap out of their seats and run to the side of the mayor to participant in the toast. Other local invitees would wait until an introduction was provided by a person of higher stature, before they would gain access to the host. The mayor or host delegate always struck me as formal to custom, but casual in an engaging sense when in conversation one on one. They held the title with a proud unapologetic superiority tempered by hospitality and benevolence at least to the delegation. The banquet would continue until a spokesperson would get up and pronounce the end of the evening and immediately most everyone would stand and leave. At first I was unaware as to what was going on, but laughed at the idea in China that when the party is over it is really over. I think the last one out of the banquet hall is not invited again facilitating a mad rush for the door. Soon the tables of foreigners were sitting alone sipping the last of the beer oblivious to the mass exoduses.

Consistent with all business trips for me where is a subtle internal evaluation of the business opportunities in any new territory I encounter. Speaking with a few professionals currently working in China the message was always one of caution and hard work. No business opportunity can be attempted without at first a personal relationship with what is called a “handler”. This process may take years to develop a level of trust before proceeding to a substantive discussion of working together. Most business meetings are not about deciding business issues, but for discussing concepts and ideas. Decisions are made more informally at the dinners where friendships are forged. Although there are a lot of ceremony and outward expressions of business formality, I was told these are not considered binding for local entities, your relationship remains your assurance that agreements are honored. There is not really what one would consider an iron clad legally defensible contract, not at least for a small company of my size. The success of a relationship depends on the influence of the handler and health of the relationship at any moment in time.

The cultural aspect of “saving face” or not being publically humiliated is critical to any understanding of how to conduct business in China. In design where process is required to evolve concepts, criticism is seen as a “loss of face” so seldom do you get to see drafts copies of anything to review. Many times when the final product arrives and the total lack of understanding of your intent surfaces, the supplier to losses face for not being able to reading your mind. For the most part true decision makers are not known so there are long negotiations with individuals to come to consensus only to find one day that you are meeting the next person in rank to approve the concept and the negotiations begin from the beginning. This is known to occur as many as four or five times before you climb the hidden decision making structure high enough to achieve resolution. Even this relatively secure platform of agreement may be subject to an outside individual taking an interest and taking the project in a completely new direction. A systematic process of design does not really exist in China as it does in the west. This way of conduction business is often called “Crossing a river by feeling the stones.”

The new popularity of the expression “Cross a river by feeling the stones” originally refers to the pragmatic policy of Deng Xiaoping, to move ahead with economic reforms slowly and pragmatically. It explains a complex deeply ingrained cultural process of gradual change. Confucian society defines success on a singular pattern. The route to success is under a “no pain, no gain” belief, like working out, like going to the gym, like diet. I’m going to go to pain, but I know I will get muscles and I will lose weight. It is certain - if I suffer, if I command, I can win. Capitalism, on the other hand, is based on the individual. He shapes his own definition. Success route is based on high risk, high return, just like what you’re learning from efficient capital markets. But success is uncertain and cannot be guaranteed.

To achieve business success in China is glorious, that is the ideal, but how can I get there? DENG Xiaoping said crossing the river by feeling the stones. Not so certain, is it? Crossing the river by feeling the stones - it’s a trying period, it’s risk-taking, it’s a maze. The Chinese leadership remains fairly conservative in their “liberalization” or “reform” efforts. “Crossing the river by feeling the stones” became China’s mode of economic reform; it means implementing partial reforms in an experimental manner, often in a few regions, and expanding them upon proven success.

As one Chinese observer explains it, “There were several reasons for this approach. First, gradualism was a means to circumvent political resistance against reforms. Second, gradual, experimental reform was a pragmatic approach in a heavily distorted environment in which ‘first best’ solutions were unlikely to apply. Experimental reforms, confined to specific regions or sectors, allowed the authorities to gather information on effects that could not be analyzed in advance. They were also necessary to develop and test the administrative procedures and complementary policies needed to implement the reforms. With proven success the experiment could be expanded to other regions and sectors. Third, experimental reform may have suited the Chinese culture well as a means to avoid ‘loss of face’: if an experiment did not work, it could be abandoned as an experiment, rather than considered a policy failure.”

Whether or not we decide to make the necessary investments required to be successful in China remains a question, but I can only appreciate the complexity of effort and patience required to do so. The cultural gap may be too excessive to bridge or the returns may be too small to consider or the personal emotional and physical commitment may be too large, however the experience has left an indelible mark on me in terms of understanding my own biases and cultural perspectives. China remains a much greater mystery to me now since I have visited. It is a society in monumental change from every aspect of life, moving forward at a speed and direction that refuses to assimilate and fundamentally integrate the important lessons the west has learned by trial and error. To the novice’s eye it can appear like a runaway freight train destine for either disaster or an early arrival, only time will tell and all that I can do until then is cross the river by feeling for stones.

"If you think in terms of a year, plant a seed; if in terms of ten years, plant trees; if in terms of 100 years, teach the people.”

Confucius (551-479 BC)

Emerald City in the Land of OZ

The driving rain pelts the blue field and white stars of the Australian flag waving on top of a turn of the century green copper domed pinnacle two hundred feet below me. Perched next to a window on the thirty-first floor of extravagantly appointed luxury hotel, I stare out over the exceptionally vibrant City of Sydney. The rain is a brief retreat from the spectacular weather and balmy tropical breezes. This is the first moment of reflection from a furious exploration of the Emerald City and the Gold Coast.

Sydney is a modern vibrant energetic city with a strong backbone of tropical British colonial influence which is evident in the beautifully maintained governmental buildings. While seemly isolated in this remote southern location, its reach is international as blends of world cultures travel to Sydney to savior its delights. The city is fashion conscious but not consumed. There is an emerging world class cuisine called “Mod Oz” which is a fusion of Asian, South Pacific and traditional Australia fare.

The people of Australia embrace everyone who ventures upon its shores with a warm and friendly attitude. It is possible to strike up a meaningful conversation with just about anyone in a restaurant, on the ferries or in an elevator and discover another hidden gem of urban life down under. One of the most revealing insights has been how open and safe the city is. We have spent the past six days walking huge areas of the city at all hours of the day and night and not once did we encounter a single individual who appeared threatening. That is a truly remarkable statement in the modern urban world.

In my heart I have always been a mariner migrating to oceans, harbors, beaches and other points of maritime adventures. Sydney is a city of the sea which is the basis of its beauty, from the ferries, harbors, piers, esplanades and beaches, the city is always reflected in shimmering clear blue water. At night the city explodes into a million stars that dance on the water like fireflies where you linger in the open air cafes captivated by urban culture.

During our visit to Sydney, we wandered the world famous beaches of Manly, Bondi and Bronti. Nothing I can say will fully express the spectacular rugged coast with the aquamarine sea foam crashing against the worn limestone cliffs. The lively beaches are lined with trendy restaurants offering a bounty of riches from the crystal clear water that stretches to the horizon.

The most pleasant surprise is how beautiful the young residents of Sydney are, especially the females. The streets, restaurant and nightclubs are filled with large numbers of spectacularly stunning women, more so by factor of ten than any other city in the world I have visited. While the rest of the world’s fashion choice is casual baggy, oversized non-descript unisex sweat pants and gym clothes, the women of Oz embrace femininity with alluring and head spinning results. What a refreshing and novel idea, women taking pride in dressing like women. If that isn’t enough on the beaches surrounding Sydney, they embrace the European custom of sunbathing topless.

There is only one disturbing observation of Australian culture that is immediately apparent when you walk off the plane. American consumer and pop culture dominates every aspect of Australian entertainment and commerce. Like an insidious contagious disease American products fill every movie theatre, music store, radio station, television channel, clothing boutique and lunch counter. It is easier to find a weather forecast for the states than it is for Australia. The process of consumer assimilation is so complete that the multinational companies are morphing to assume a cloak of pseudo Australian origin, McDonalds offers morning “Brekkies”, Burger King is called Hungry Jack, Dominos places “rocket” of its special pizzas. Like a predator assuming camouflage to blend into its surroundings, Australians are slowly being seduced into abandoning their identity.

In earlier writings I described how my grandmother was born outside of Melbourne and immigrated to the states in 1904. I never really considered my Australian origin. It was only a passing interest as the discussion of Australia surfaced when I was growing up. Only upon arrive to this great nation has a feeling of deep connection and belonging has arisen in me. My short time here is not nearly enough time to discover and explore this vast country, but it is with absolute certainly that I will return to this beautiful land and beautiful people for which I have fallen in love with. I find myself humming Waltzing Maltilda as my time grows short and all I can say is “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi”

The City Beautiful

Where sea and sand meet under the sun is a city which appears to be paradise. After spending a week in San Diego, I was almost hypnotized by its radiance. Slowly a ray of glorious California sunshine peaked through my resort hotel drapes to reveal a simple truth. The realization took considerably longer than in most cities for me to discover, but once revealed it was undeniable.

The days were filled with the typical tourist locations and experiences. I toured the newly opened Midway Museum and marveled at this retired symbol of American military might. I attended a reception on a paddlewheel cruise in Mission Bay while watching fireworks light the sky over Sea World. On Sunday, I strolled Seaport Village and watched brightly colored kites fill the crystal blue sky as beautiful young blonds in shorts whirled by on rollerblades. I dined next to a flickering fireplace in La Jolla while enjoying an incredible gourmet restaurant perched high on a cliff as the sun set over the Pacific. In the evenings I would wander along the shore passing the multitude of roaring campfires which softly illuminated the sand as the sounds of laughter floated over the water. I spent evenings sitting in Old town with friends drinking some of the more than 600 types of Tequila festooned along the walls of a cantina as the scent of jasmine caressed my face. The entire time where was something lingering in the back of my mind, a small unsettled feeling that something was not right.

While in a restaurant bar waiting for a table I was surrounded by a group of attentive beautiful young women who seemed sincerely interested in what I was talking about. Now I definitely know something is not right! It has been more than twenty years since I’ve been able to turn the head of a beautiful young woman. Finally it came to me, this place is not real. This place is too perfect. I stumbled into a Disney stage set while some sort of play was unfolding. I listened closely to the background music for a clue. You can always tell a Disney property by the signature of the subtle background music which is carefully designed to enhance the visitor’s experience. No, I was not able to identify Mickey Mouse playing the piano. I concluded it was not a Disney property, but where was I?

I began to study the crowd in detail. I was surrounded by perfectly white bleached smiles framed by full collagen lips. The enhanced breasts and contoured butts allowed the haute couture custom-fitted clothing to contrast the radiant artificially tanned skin. I studied one of the girls in her Calvin Klein silk tank dress topped by a vintage floral print opera coat trying to find her balance in platform Manolo Blahnik shoes as she clutched a vintage Dior purse. What was most disturbing was that she was perfectly color coordinated with her girl friend who was wearing a Dolce and Gabbana beaded lace slip dress with a beaded Fendi baguette. Next to them was a man posing in an Armani Charcoal Pinstriped 3-Button Suit with a black silk shirt open around the neck revealing his bare waxed chest sculpted by Bowflex. Each individual looked and acted like they had just walked off a fashion runway in Paris.

New arrivals to the restaurant drove up in a waxed and detailed midnight black Mercedes or a silver Audi sporting $500 sunglasses and jet black spiked hair as if imitating a celebrity porcupine. Each observation reinforced the concept of corporate crafted perfection embraced to a level of cult status. As I delved deeper in conversation, this commercial worship permeated every aspect of social existence; from the USC or Stanford education, to the tofu bean sprout vegetarian meals, to the save the whales fundraisers, to the personal Pilates instructor focused on improving body awareness. Even the names were revealing, like Chase, Dylan, Cadence and Paige. The only reason to provide your child such a name is to manufacturer a celebrity. All great art requires contrast or contradiction to “break the rules” and provide tension. Contradiction in art invokes the question “why”? Suddenly I realized I was the element of contradiction in this beautiful seascape. Maybe that would explain why I was so intriguing to the young beautiful social elite. Maybe they had never met a person who could care less about who your hairdresser was or what country club you belonged to. A person who would scoff at the insanity that someone would pay $1600 for a pair of shoes.

I began to wonder if I was Truman Burbank, a vaguely unhappy businessman in the perfect little seaside town of Seahaven. In the 1998 film “The Truman Show”, Truman starts to think that he is being watched. Little does he knows that his entire life is secretly filmed, his town is a gigantic sound-stage, everyone he has ever known was an actor and that his every waking and sleeping second is broadcast around the world as a top-rated docu-soap. I immediately began to scan the room for hidden cameras. Any second Allen Funt would walk out from behind the bar saying “You’re on Candid Camera”.

Standing at the bar I was transported back to my great aunt’s house where we would visit as a kid. Everything was perfectly arranged, but nothing ever moved out of place in all the years we visited. I would sit fearful about touching anything on the over stuffed baroque sofa with each cushion preserved in a clear vinyl plastic cover. My legs would stick to the vinyl making any movement an exercise in pain as you ripped the skin from the back of your legs. My aunt could tell what objects you looked at three rooms away let alone what you touched. Every visit I would sit rigid as a board mortified that I might upset the arranged perfection of the room. San Diego was just an oversized replica of my aunt’s house. This replica was expanded to include people, plants and animals, sort of the new improved next generation aunt’s house.


Despite of all of the trappings of perfection and beauty you could detect a slight emptiness while staring into those crystal blue lazik corrected eyes. Vietnam veterans would return home with what we called “the thousand yard stare”. It was subtle but each of the commercial debutants had the same thousand yards stare. I couldn’t tell if the hopelessness and disappointment was the realization that someone in the crowd was wearing a more expensive pair of shoes or if it was darker. Could it just be the Xanax-Prozaic-Vallium pharmaceutical cocktail everyone eats like M&M’s to keep them from rushing madly into a manic suicidal depression and putting a shotgun to their forehead? It must be the perfection.

Life requires balance and contrast. Evil cannot exist without good, ying without yang. The dichotomy of polar opposites provides distinction and a multitude of shades of grey. “Variety is the Spice of Life”. Maybe being forced fed a continuous diet of sunshine, flowers, expensive sports cars and trendy friends become monotonous and debilitating. When the most diverse daily experience is choosing between the pan seared Ahi tuna or the poached Chilean seabass you could develop a problem. Plus as I found out, in San Diego you have many hours each day totally isolated in your personal sports car locked in traffic gridlock to ponder relative merits of seabass vs. tuna. “Houston we have a problem!”

I was fortunate to discover this realization late in my visit to San Diego. Otherwise I would have sat around frozen, like in my aunt’s house fearful about touching anything. While approaching the plane I began to relax enough to finally scratch my ass as I watched the rest of the overweight tourists dressed in their brand new Sea World sweatshirt climb onboard. Whew! Just like leaving my aunt’s house I thought that was nice but thank God its time to leave. I swear I didn’t touch or move anything while in San Diego. At least I think I didn’t?

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???

Where Real Men Eat

Every once in a while you discover a hidden jewel forgotten by time, the place when real men eat. I have found a restaurant where home cooking is king in Baton Rouge. Louie’s Café opened in 1941 and not a single thing has changed since Truman was president. It was like walking into a time warp. A local business associate treated me to this special part of Louisiana. As we walked in the front of the building looked like a flea market with assorted abandon kitchen equipment discarded over the years stacked up under the awning next to hundred pound sacks of potatoes. The daily specials were painted on the windows in vibrant colors. We walked in through a worn aluminum screen door and stepped onto a black and white checked linoleum floor that had small chips missing.

A long white counter and red top chrome stools fenced in the grill. We were immediately greeted by the grease stained Cajun cook called Frenchie. “Mr. Jimmy, How come it been so long since ya visited me.” Frenchie had the appearance of a well worn and traveled soul. The tattoos which decorated his leathery and wrinkled arms revealed a life of military service and probably a number of incarnations. On his head sat a faded white chef skull cap which covered his salt and pepper hair. “Mr. Jimmy, ya kno ya come by cause I’m so damn beautiful.” Picking out a stool at the counter Jimmy smiled and responded “Frenchie, who the hell told you, you’re beautiful?”

“Mr. Jimmy, I don’st needs nobody to tell me, all I do is look at dis’ beautiful face every morn in da mirror.” Frenchie turned to the grill and kept talking to himself about “How da women love dis’ face”. I felt immediately comfortable sitting at the long white counter with all the condiments organized in small clusters. Half filled bottles of ketchup, mustard, real salt and pepper shakers, and a sugar dispenser not a pile of packets. Don’t look for blue or pink sugar substitutes in this place. Growing up on the east coast I spent many days of my youth hanging out at diners. It’s a culture that’s fast disappearing, replaced by fast food franchises where social interaction is impossible.

Scanning the tables behind me there was a group of four slightly overweight policemen with their heads bent as they shoveled grits from the thick white plates. Behind the officers were three tattooed and pierced college students in torn blue jeans discussing some art book with soft voices? Across the aisle sat a black soldier immaculate in his sturdy posture and brightly polished black boots. Along the counter next to me were three drug addicts who managed to scrape up enough money to buy a home cooked meal before the next bender. The drug addicts warily eyed the police as they probably knew each other from encounters on the dark side of midnight.

In the corner table sat an elderly couple that were neatly dressed in clothes from a farm supple store. It appeared that they have sat at the same table and ordered the same meal every day since the café opened some sixty five years ago. As we waited for service two rough necks from the oil industry strolled in and sat at the counter. They worn dirty yellow hard hats adorned with faded labels and scuffed emblems cataloging the many oil rigs they worked on around the world. Baton Rouge is a big blue collar oil refining town. Their work boots and coveralls were stained with crude oil to the point that they were waterproof.

Jimmy mentioned he had gotten Frenchie a job at this new expensive restaurant as a SU-chef, but it didn’t work out. Frenchie got in the habit of telling the head chef how he should be doing things. Looking at the grill I was struck on how worn and battered the equipment was. Like the old black cast iron skillet Grandma would never let any one wash but herself, there was a thick patina build up by constant daily use for so many years. All the pots and utensils had dents and pocks which gave it a hand hammered appearance. In the dents the patina would accumulate more readily giving the pots a mottled texture.

“Mr. Jimmy, I was up alls night planning dis blue plate special jus fors ya. Ya want to hears it.” The special was a Spanish omelet made with huge square chucks of spiced hash brown potatoes and homemade salsa. I ordered it with a side of pancakes and a mug of coffee. The food arrived on a big thick while oval platter with a smudge of grease where the omelet had just been slid off the grill. It was a meal your heart doctor rolls his eyes after you tell him about it.

The favor of the omelet was to die for. It was so good that I woke up the middle on the night despondent that I didn’t finish every bite and it was tossed out. I reached for the maple syrup for the pancakes and noticed it was extra dark brown. As I poured it on, I thought it must be it has been stored on the counter and has aged to this deeper color. Shoveling in a big bite of pancakes, something tasted very different? It’s certainly a different maple syrup. It took me a second before I realized this is not maple syrup this is old fashioned molasses. It was my first taste of the southern tradition of molasses and pancakes. I slowly savored the new taste combination.

As we got up to leave Frenchie turned from the grill and wiped him face with the red bandana around his neck. “Mr. Jimmy, how dem chillens doin?”
“Frenchie, if you don’t watch out I’ll bring all four of them down here to tear up this place.”
“Oh Mr. Jimmy, ya kno dem chillens love dem special waffles I make dem” Frenchie responded. “They love dem waffles almost as they love dis beautiful face.” As we walked out of the aluminum screen door I could still hear Frenchie talking to himself “All ya kno da women love dis’ face.” Needless to say I spent the next three days in Baton Rouge going back to the place where real men eat.

Like the Baby in a King Cake

On my way to Baton Rouge, I felt like the baby in the king cake. Mardi Gras is not only celebrated in New Orleans this time of year, it is celebrated throughout many towns and parishes in Louisiana. The king cake is one of the many Mardi Gras traditions.

The King Cake began in 12th century France where the cake would be baked on the eve of January 6 to celebrate the visit to the Christ Child by the three Kings. A small token was hidden in the cake as a surprise for the finder. But the origins go back a little further than that and as you would guess; it has something to do with the Catholic Church.

The King's Cake has its roots in pre-Christian religions of Western Europe. It was customary to choose a man to be the "sacred king" of the tribe for a year. That man would be treated like a king for the year, then he would be sacrificed, and his blood returned to the soil to ensure that the harvest would be successful. The method of choosing who would have the honor of being the sacred king was the King's Cake. A coin or bean would be placed in the cake before baking, and whoever got the slice that had the coin was the chosen one.

When Christianity extended its influence and began overshadowing the religions that came before it, many of the local customs were not outright abolished, but instead were incorporated into Christian tradition and given a new spin. This even happened to the tradition of Mardi Gras. Catholic priests were not predisposed to human sacrifice, so the King's Cake was converted into a celebration of the Magi, the three Kings who came to visit the Christ Child.

French settlers brought the custom to Louisiana in the 18th century where it remained associated with the Epiphany until the 19th century when it became a more elaborate Mardi Gras custom. In New Orleans, the first cake of the season is served on January 6. A small ceramic figurine of a baby was hidden in the cake. Whoever found the baby was allowed to choose a mock court and host the next King Cake party the following week (weekly cake parties are held until Mardi Gras ).

The classic king cake is oval-shaped, like the pattern of a racetrack. The dough is basic coffee-cake dough, sometimes laced with cinnamon, sometimes just plain. The baby hidden in the cake speaks to the fact that the three Kings had a difficult time finding the Christ Child. The cake is then baked, and decorated when it comes out.

The flight to Baton Rouge has the standard plane change in Memphis. The weekend before Mardi Gras was probably not a good travel day to Baton Rouge because most all the flights were booked. I was able to get the last seat in the back of Northwest DC-9 where the seats are sized for average human of the 14th century. This would be just another full 90 minute flight backed in a middle seat. I hoped my row partners would be swimsuit models, but after 25 years of flying it has never happened before, why should this flight be any different.

My routine in Memphis airport is to run into the concourse between flights and pick up the immense ½ pound pork shoulder sandwich at the famous Jim McNeely’s Instate BBQ. The smell of BBQ immediately stikes you as you enter the concourse from the plane. I think McNeely’s and the other world famous BBQ Corky’s pay the airport to recycle the air from their smokers to the jet ways. The short lay over of 45 minutes requires all the skill of the seasoned road warrior to obtain a sandwich, because the line for BBQ typically snakes down the concourse at least two or three gates. My timing was perfect; I secured the prized sandwich and got back to the Baton Rouge gate just as they were finishing up the boarding process.

Strolling down the jet way, I thought it was going to be difficult to find empty overhead space to store my carry on. I’ll just cram it under the seat like I’m done so many times in the past. Passing the seats in the front cabin, I realized the flight was completely full. Slowly I followed the line and made my way to the back of the plane to my seat located in the last row. The last passenger in front of me sat down about six rows before my seat. As the view of the seat opened, my mouth hit the floor. Oh, my god this can’t be my seat.

Sitting in the aisle and window seats were two of the largest black women I have ever seen. You could tell they were sisters, because they both were dressed in traditional Mardi Gras-colored costumes. The traditional Rex colors of Mardi Gras is Purple, representing Justice; Green representing Faith; Gold representing Power. Hundreds and hundreds of pounds covered with the most brilliant colors possible.

I attempted to refocus on my seat, but it was hidden under a sea of color. The ladies were so large that they met and pressed together in the center of the row where my seat should have been. Their enormous ponderous breasts were pressed along their entire length. Their gargantuan thighs flowed into each other like two opposing mud slides from a great mountain range. Somewhere between all that flesh was my $700 seat. I opened my mental travel folder, attempting to find some similar experience I could rely on to leverage myself into a more comfortable position. No, I had to admit this was a new travel problem I was completely unprepared for. I knew first class was full? I knew they wouldn’t let me sit on the blue water bathroom seat for the entire flight? I knew the flight attendant wouldn’t let me sit on her lap for the flight?

The total disbelief must have showed in my face, because the lady on the aisle looked up at this pitiful figure in shock and let out this huge bellowing laugh. She then looked over at her sister and they both started howling at the top of their lungs. With each laugh their bodies quivered and rolled like the land below an earthquake. Wiping the tears of joy running down her cheek, she was finally able to call out. “Come on honey, just bring that cute white ass back here, we don’t bite.” Their laughter was infectious and started to place my mind at ease. I had to smile as I replied “Are you sure you two don’t bite, I’ve been fooled before.”

“Get back here so we can get to Mardi Gras. I’m Bertha and this is my sister Mabel.” After I introduced myself, I asked “So how we going to do this?” I found a place to stow my luggage in the overhead and proceeded to climb over Bertha in an attempt to find my seat. “Don’t be shy honey. You look like you never been with a pair of sisters before?” as Mabel pulled my arm so I wouldn’t stumble. I asked Mabel to hold my sandwich as I turned to begin a burrowing process to find my seat. I felt like a weevil burrowing into a cotton bowl as I twisted and turned my butt deeper into the mountain of flesh hiding my seat. The ladies giggled as they each pulled an enormous breast to the side to aide my effort. After a minute or two of struggling I found the top of the cushion and relaxed.

As I relaxed so did the ladies allowed their breasts to fold over my shoulders. I was completely covered from the neck down, unable to move my arms. Mabel looked over and started laughing again. “If you can’t breathe let me know.” I was unable to buckle my seat belt. What’s the need I’m packed in here totally immobile? It is probably the safest plane ride I will ever take. We started talking and the ladies were going to attend the annually Mardi Gras parade where they are installed as the queens. We laughed and traded stories.

I made a deal with the sisters to share my pork shoulder BBQ sandwich if they would feed me because I could not raise my hands. I ordered a round of bourbons on the condition that I will pay the flight attendant after the plane landed when I could reach my wallet. There I was totally helpless being feed BBQ and bourbon by two official Mardi Gras queens. The world can surprise you when you least expect it. The ride was one of the most memorable ever. We laughed and joked some more and eventually had the entire back of the plane rolling.

After we landed and I was able to stand, I gave both Mabel and Bertha a big sloppy kiss for being such good sports. I wasn’t able to hug them because my arms had fallen asleep under the weight. As we said goodbye, I thought how nice it was being surrounded by so much sweetness and happiness. I felt like I was the little baby in a king cake.

I was staying at a guest house of a business associate. In the morning he brought in Baton Rouge’s finest king cake and made some coffee. King cake is traditionally served with chicory coffee' as Coffee' au lat'. It is best eaten warm. As I place the first bite of this year’s king cake in my mouth, I found the little plastic baby. I promised to share my good fortunes with the group by buying dinner that night. Good fortune is in store for me this year after being crowned the baby by two Mardi Gras queens.

In the Eyes of a Child

Innocence is never as pure as through the eyes of a child. It is always a rare opportunity to share in the unfettered pure emotions with a child. As adults we have been conditioned to channel and control, temper and blunt, constrain and dampen our emotions. It’s considered a sign of immaturity to be overly expressive and gleeful. Society binds us by rules, etiquette, tradition, mores, civility, courtesy, customs, propriety, and social graces. Slowly we develop ways to limit and curtail our emotions. We become disconnected to the full enjoyment of emotion in our constant state of suppression. As an adult, it is difficult to experience the simple joys of life, unless you look through the eyes of a child.

Somehow my life has passed without children. Nature provides balance in all things and by some strange circumstance I have been blessed with grandchildren. Remaining close to a former daughter-in-law long after a divorce from the family, her next marriage produced three sons that are now in every sense of the word my grandchildren. Like a jigsaw puzzle, life fits together seemly unconnected pieces and creates a rich, beautiful tapestry of hidden meaning.

Yesterday stripped away every constraint of decorum as I spent the day as a child with the eldest son Brennen, who is nine years old. We did something together that is one of my most cherished memories with my father as a child. This was Brennen’s first professional sporting event. We went to Arrowhead Stadium and watched the Chiefs play the Chargers on Christmas Eve. To Brennen this was the equivalent of………..well there was no equivalent. For days he would break into a beaming grin and fidget with uncontrolled excitement whenever we talked about attending the game. The days leading up to the game slowly crawled by with anticipation building to a fevered pitch as we prepared to leave for the stadium.

No one could have chosen a more miserable day to watch a football game. It was a grey cold windy day with driving rain and temperatures hovering near 32 degrees. As we arrived at the stadium parking lot, I was worried if Brennen was prepared for such a brutal climatic experience. I considered the widescreen television in front of the roaring fireplace at the house, but dismissed the retreat as I glanced over at Brennen, who was smiling oblivious to the pounding rain on the windshield. The recklessness of my long lost child began to emerge. “We’re men! Nothing is going to stop us from cheering for our heroes. Football is a tough sport and our team needs fans that are equally tough.” With a temporary loss of sanity we parked the car and left the cozy confines of our warm chariot. The march to the coliseum began.

Arriving two hours before kick-off in order to partake in some ritual tailgating, I was given some vague instructions on where to find the tailgate party. I was given a phone number to call in case we had a problem finding the temporary shelter from the cold. As we emerged from the car I considered us well prepared to endure the dismal conditions of the day. The two of us looked like giant puffballs with the countless layers of clothing, sweaters, gloves, hats, thermal underwear, ponchos and jackets. Our puffball appearance was exaggerated by the bright yellow ponchos we selected to show team spirit. My carefully crafted plan for survival has one fundamental flaw. As I walked across the parking lot, the driving rain hit the poncho and cascaded down the front of me only to land on the top of my sneakers. A combination of the half inch of water on the parking lot surface and torrents of water sheeting from my poncho completely soaked my feet within the first fifty feet of our journey. I looked down at Brennen’s sneakers and he wasn’t fairing any better than me.

The long walk from the car to the tailgating area severely tested my will. My feet were already cold and wet. The wind was whipping our ponchos up over our heads allowing driving cold rain to pelt our undergarments. The cold wind was knifing through my clothing making me shiver. I quietly wondered if this test of manhood was a good idea. Brennen and I proceeded to attempt to locate the tailgating party without success. I called the cell phone but no one answered. All the visible tailgaters were hunkered down hiding from the rain and wind. Some were sitting in the trunk of their cars with plastic sheeting covering them. Others were huddled between cars staring at a few burning embers of charcoal. It reminded me of some refugee camp high in the mountains. There was no cheering and celebration. This did not seem like the place of joy associated with every other tailgate experience. Everybody was so completely bundled with clothing that recognizing a face was impossible.

We turned the final corner of tailgater section moving toward the stadium and stumbled across a huge man of three hundred or more pounds standing under a summer awning like it was a sweltering summer day. His face was painted red and a long wet chief’s flag was hung from his shoulders like a superhero cape. He stood erect without hat, gloves or shirt. To his bare torso was welded a massive belly that was painted and decorated with chief logos. Across his chest and down his side like graffiti was penned “Belly Boy”. Brennen was the first to notice this aberration in the cold. Brennen pulled at my arm and pointed, not knowing what to think. I looked up, smiled and said that’s “Belly Boy” one of the chief’s most fanatical and devoted fans. He shows up for every home game and can usually be seen on television jumping up and down screaming for the viewing audience. For a moment I thought someone needs to tell this guy that it is 32 degrees and his medications just aren’t working. We were on a mission of survival; I had little time to save others. As we passed Belly Boy, he looked at Brennen smiling like some ancient warrior and bellowed the war cry “Chiefs!!!” It must have reminded Brennen of the old legendary highlander warriors of “braveheart”.

Failure to locate the tailgate party drove us into the stadium seeking shelter long before kick-off. It was upon entering the shelter of the stadium Brennen came to life. We walk down the concrete ramp to the field level concourse. Rounding the concourse, only small tantalizing glimpse of the stadium field would be revealed. I decided it was time to give Brennen a full view of the game field. We ducted into an aisle leading down to the field level seating. As the narrow corridor gave way to the stadium bowl the field emerged into full view. Brennen gasped at the sight. He eyes were the size of pie pans. We had entered at a place as glorious as heaven. The pure green hue of the field was brilliantly contrasted the cold gray colorless sky. The field glowed under the lights. I vividly recalled a similar memory deeply burned in my mind as I walked out from behind my father to see the expanse of Shea Stadium and Joe Namath tossing balls to Emerson Boozer during the pre-game activities so many, many years ago.

I asked Brennen if he wanted to take a peek at our seats before the game started. He was speechless trying to comprehend the sacred ground we were walking on. We walked down the aisle out from under the sheltering upper deck into the driving rain. With each step we took Brennen’s smile grew larger and larger. We past rows 36 and 32. We past rows 27 and 21. The field grew closer and closer. We past rows 16 and 10. Approaching the railing that prevents someone from walking down onto the field, I turned and pointed to seats 4 and 5 in row 8. Brennen could contain himself, like he had grabbed onto an electric cable he jumped up and down, squealing with excitement. “Are these really our seats? I can almost touch the field!” I looked at him and said “This is the most important game of the season. This is for the chance for the Chiefs to go to the playoffs and I thought the chiefs needed their biggest fan sitting close to help them win the game.” He smiled and looked over the field with a new sense of responsibility. I asked “Do you think you can help them today?” He bellowed “Oh Yeah”.

Standing in a near empty stadium, Brennen became pensive and said “The field looks so small.” I could not contain my smile understanding what had just happened. The world had just got a lot smaller and his life was forever changed. Things of importance and reverence grow out of proportion in the mind of a child. The gridiron where heroes battle in mortal supremacy in a child’s mind is the size of twenty football fields. This small field could not contain all the visions of greatness. Jokingly I said “I bet if some of those 300 pound linebackers were chasing you that field would seem a lot bigger.” He nodded in agreement. We shared a moment of magic standing silently staring out of over the field. The curtain of rain falling from the sky, the cold swirling wind, the soaking wet feet faded into the background. It was no longer cold. We were two kids enjoying a new playground while ignoring the elements.

We retreated to the shelter of the concourse to indulge in our first ball park hotdog together. As we stood in line we debated the merits of the brat verse the hotdog. At the front of the line our decision was clear; one brat with mustard and sauerkraut, one hotdog with ketchup and two hot chocolates. Pushing our way through the crowd that was beginning to swell we unwrapped our dogs at the condiment counter. The king’s ransom we plunked down on the counter secured us the common ballpark fare. The brat was overcooked and wrinkled with long black char marks where it had been burned by the grill. The bun was compressed and glued like gum around the outside of the brat. I had to peel and pull the bun back from the brat in order to have a place to apply mustard.

Huddled against an open area of wall in the concourse we devoured the meal like hungry animals that had not eaten in months. Brennen was dancing and twirling, moving in uncontrolled rapture as he savored every bite of the hotdog. I noticed his fingers were covered in ketchup as I handed him a napkin. In absolute disbelief he looked at me a said “That was the best hotdog I have ever eaten in my life.” I accepted the statement as truth assuming that he had eaten his fair share of hotdogs. I thought about it for a second and replied “Yeah, that was a pretty darn good brat” and grabbed another napkin to remove the mustard from my fingers. Taking a sip of the hot chocolate I considered the fact that food enjoyment is deeply connected to the experience. In any other circumstance I would have rejected the hotdog purely on visual evident and asked to speak to the chef. This day was different; this was quite possibly the finest food we could ever imagine.

It was time to head back to our seats and watch the pre-game activities. Walking from the dark and damp concourse we emerged as the grounds crew began removing tarp from the field. Never having seen this before on television, Brennen asked what they were doing. We spent some time discussing field maintenance and the NFL rule that required a tarp if it was forecast to rain 24 hours before a game. Standing in the pouring rain Brennen agreed today would qualify for the NFL rule. I asked him if he was sure. He just smiled.

As the last section of the tarp was rolled up exposing the grass surface, players began to venture out from the locker room to stretch and warm up. We looked around; the stadium was slowly beginning to fill. The first players to warm up were the kickers and punters. We watched the Chief’s punter drive the ball 45 yards a few times. Brennen looked at me and said “My dad can kick the ball farther than that. He can kick it from three houses away.” The greatness of a father can never be diminished in the eyes of his son. I leaned over and replied “Well maybe if we see Coach Vermeil we might mention that to him. I’ve heard he is always looking for a good punter.”

The Charger’s kicker began to practice 50 yards field goals near us. The swelling crowd began reacting to the kicker. Each missed field goal was greeted with a round of heckling. As the heckling grew louder Brennen’s face exhibited confusion, not quite sure if this was proper behavior. I tapped him on the shoulder and said “You know we came here to help the Chiefs.” As the kicker missed the next field goal, I cupped my hands around my mouth a yelled “Yeah that’s what we need during the game!” Brennen broke into laughter and stamped his feet in glee. I looked over at him and said “I’m not sure I can do this all by myself.” The next kick was good at which Brennen let out a heady “Booooo”. It was my time to laugh. We spent the next fifteen minutes cheering and booing each field goal attempt.

The level of activity on the field was building. Both teams were out on the field running drills. The Chargers offensive line began blocking drills in the end zone near us. I suggested we move down to the railing to get a better view. Nervously Brennen followed me down the eight rows until we were only about fifteen feet from the players. The linemen huddled in a group were massive with arms and legs the size of tree trunks. The sounds of snorting and grunting reminded me of mystical gigantic gladiators as they pushed and wrestled each other. I glanced at Brennen’s face and he appeared horrified at the size and strength of the warriors before him. It was the same wide eyed blank expression as when you open a door and find a naked person behind it.

A large grey haired gruff offensive line coach was barking at the linemen and any of the fans than looked at him wrong. He was the type of person you would expect to find guarding a dungeon door. He made it a point to walk near where we were standing and screamed at the groundskeeper that he needed to remove the standing water from the sideline. The groundskeeper yelled back and flipped him off. He turned a let out an evil bellowing laugh as he walked away. The tension was building. It became more and more apparent that this was going to be a clash of titans, a clash of good and evil. All of this was occurring under a cold miserable downpour.

As the minutes counted down the field continued to fill with television crews, sound crews, sideline announcers and broadcasters. Then the sideline crews, ball boys and referees drifted onto the field. Each team brought out the trainers, the medical staff, the coaches and the front office. It was like two large armies were assembling for battle. Still the field continued to fill. The color guard, sports photographers, band members, flag twirlers, mascots and security guards filed in from every opening in the field wall. The stadium behind us began to come to life as we heard a low distinctive roar start to emerge from the upper decks. Mesmerized by the intensity of activity Brennen and I scanned the stadium only to find it was filling to capacity with a sea of red.

One of the last activities is the cheerleaders entering the field. Dressed tight red pants and white hooded ski jackets, they slowly worked the crowd adjacent to the stadium wall. They walked up to the fans smiling as they introduced themselves. I looked at Brennen and said “Dude, this is your chance to say something and I’ll get a photo of you and a dozen cheerleaders.” He looked at me like I just asked him to shoot the president and shook his head no. “You’re going to regret this if you don’t go get their attention.” The answer was the same an emphatic no. I thought to myself that I should have taught him how to use my camera before we came. You never know when you might need of photo of yourself with twelve cheerleaders. I guess there is only so much a nine year old can endure before being overwhelmed. I decided not to press the issue as the rain continued to fall from the sky.

Without warning the giant video scoreboard came to life announcing the epic battle than was about to begin. Just like the players, the fans were warming up. The huge video scoreboard was coaching the crowd. Like a well rehearsed play the fans would roar at the urging of a fabled past warrior who’s face was displayed on the scoreboard looking down over the field. I let Brennen know that it was part of our job to roar with the crowd. As the frenzy built the scoreboard would flash “The Loudest Stadium in the NFL” over and over. Time was winding down as the two teams left the field for the final coaching instructions in the locker rooms.

Santa appeared on the screen extolling the fact that he always wears Chief’s red. This drove the Christmas Eve crowd into a fevered pitch. Then all of a sudden the final piece of the puzzle was set into place. As if by magic Belly Boy walks down our aisle and sits three rows in front of us. Just like in the movies where the contest could not begin until the king was seated. On this cold rainy day, Belly Boy was about as close to Chief’s royalty as we were going to get. Belly Boy was still without the comforts of clothing from the waist up as he stood with the rain pelting his screaming face. Brennen danced in circles knowing Belly Boy was in our section helping us cheer. Brennen must have caught Belly Boy’s eye as he was walking down the aisle, because he turned, faced us and posed like a superhero. In fine Celtic warrior tradition Brennen knew exactly what to do. He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed as louder as he could the ancient cry of “Chiefs”. Belly Boy curled his lip in a snarl and bellowed back “YEEAAHH”. A wave of fatherhood swept over me as I took pride in the fact I taught Brennen how to scream at a half naked fat man with a red painted face who was standing in the driving rain. I made a mental note that on the way home I should discuss with Brennen that his newly acquired skill of screaming at menacing madmen is best reserved for sporting events.

The video screen began showing glorious heroes from the past. Marcus Allen doves over the goal line while the crowd cheered. Len Dawson tosses a touchdown then held up a super bowl trophy the crowd cheered again. In a muddy uniform, Buck Buchanan drilled some helpless quarterback and the crowd roared the loudest. The crowd was ready, the practice session was over. The “twelfth” man was suited up with his game face on when out of the tunnel raced a wave of blue and gold. The Chargers team thundered across the field like a herd of buffalo. The crowd immediately erupted with a deafening roar of disappointment. Brennen clapped his hands over his ears as the essence of evil took control of the field. The Chargers ran to the sidelines, huddled around their general and began to chant occasionally turning to sneer and flex their muscles at the roaring crowd. At the center of the huddle was Coach Schottenheimer who spent ten years as the beloved head coach of the Chiefs, but had now gone to the dark side. Once was light, is now darkness. The stage was set. Evil now occupied holy ground.

Cheerleaders danced into two long lines at the center of the field acting like damsels in distress waiting to be rescued by the local heroes. As the crowd began stomping their feet, the stadium began to quake and shudder. The most deafening roar yet filled the air as our heroes took the field. For a brief second I thought Brennen was going to faint, but he recovered quickly scanning the mass of players for his favorite leaders. “There’s Trent Green!!!” he squealed. One by one the important players were identified with delight. “Tony Gonzalez!!! Tony came to my school and his handprint was so big that it didn’t fit on a piece of paper.” All heroes are larger than life. Good took its place across from evil as the two teams wearily eyed each other amidst the roar and the rain. Brennen was so caught up in the moment that his arms and legs began running themselves as they flailed uncontrolled. He was to busy to be concerned that he looked like a chicken that had just lost its head. Brennen’s enthusiasm was contagious, I developed a case of the “jimmie” legs as I began to twist and squirm uncontrollably.

On cue the video screen went silent. The players parted once again revealing the green field again as a military color guard marched toward the center. A picture of a former coach flashed on the giant screen as the loudspeakers announced a tragedy is his family and requested for a moment of silence. As if a switch was turned off the stadium was went absolutely silent. I craned my ears to hear a murmur of even the smallest sound, but there was none. Even the rain respected the request and did not make a sound. The announcer waited a few seconds and thanked the crowd as the color guard prepared for the national anthem.

A well known local soul singer stepped from behind the home team crowd and began singing. Her beautiful voice echoed from the stadium walls as the crowd hummed softly in the background. As she sang “rockets red glare, bombs bursting air”, fireworks erupted from the field filling the sky with brilliant colors and thick white smoke. The sudden explosions startled Brennen, smiling he must have thought all this and the Fourth of July too. The singing of the national anthem always concludes with a stadium tradition which you never get to hear on television any more. Broadcasting the national anthem is just one more unfortunate victim of the insidious creep to continuous commercials without any program content. As the singer finished the last line “the land of the free and the home of the…..” The crowd roared “CHIEFS!!” Brennen laughed not knowing what to think. The stadium again began to rock and quake as the roar steadily grew again.

The team captions strode out to the middle of the field for the coin toss. The smoke from the fireworks blanketed the field in a misty fog. It was as if we were transported to the highlands of Scotland. The Chiefs won the toss and Chargers chose to defend the goal line closest to us. Let the battle begin.

It was immediately apparent from the first play that the field was going to be a major factor because of the heavy rain. Clumps of sod exploded into the air while players skated and fell. The green grass of the pre-game quickly gave way to a sea of mud. It was also apparent that this was going to be a classic game to remember. It was deep in December and both teams desperately needed a win to keep any hope of the playoffs alive. The hitting was ferocious with bodies flying through the air like rag dolls. It was a human demolition derby between super human athletes who trained their entire life for this single moment in time. This is what people come to see. This is how the game was meant to be played, in the cold, in the rain, in the mud with reckless abandon to personal harm. There is no tomorrow if your team loses, there is only next year. This is the time that legends are born. Between the two teams we were watching eleven pro bowlers and quite possibly eight to ten future hall of fame inductees display their talents. There is nothing simpler for a child to understand than the mortal struggle of good and evil, heroes and villains, winning and losing.

For a moment, I imagined Brennen bringing his eldest son to his first Chief’s game and pointing to the ring of honor high on the stadium’s upper deck. “I remember watching Tony Gonzalez, Willie Roaf and Will Shields play for a playoff spot one brutally cold December day.” I imagined the same awe as when I point to Joe Namath’s number in another sacred arena in a land far away. “Did you really see Joe Namath play?” We are bound by folk lore. Ours is an oral tradition handed down from one fan to another.

The game continued as the two team bludgeoned each other in a test of wills. Brennen was catching on fast as he had learned the tomahawk chop, the dreaded D-FENCE and all the proper cheers for each Chief Player. He was dutifully helping the team on to victory. The Chiefs ground game began to gain traction amidst to piles of turf and mud. They started driving down the field towards us. This drive was all about running back Larry Johnson. Trent Green tossed a little swing pass to Larry to the right for 5 yards. Then the massive offensive line blasted a hole in the Chargers defense and Larry rushed up the middle for 21 yards. The team continued marching toward us. Johnson rushed up the middle for 2 yards and Trent threw an incomplete pass to the right. Then in clear view of the adoring crowd from the fifteen yard line Tony Gonzalez when into motion, turned up field and leveled the outside linebacker with a crushing block allowing Larry to rush into the Chargers open back field an 11 yard gain. The roar was deafening while the sky opened up and drenched the field.

Taking advantage of the situation I leaned over to Brennen and said “Theses are a bunch of soft sunny California football players. They can’t take the weather. They are going to melt like little sugar cookies.” Brennen slapped his knees in glee and yelled at the players in end zone “You’re going to melt! You’re going to melt!” The Chiefs broke the huddle and lined up in front of us at the four yard line. Every one in the stadium including the Chargers knew exactly what was about to take place. The roar of the crowd simmered down as to not disrupt the offence. The ball was snapped and both ten times pro bowlers Willie Roaf and Will Shields took a step back headed to the left side like wreaking balls looking for something to destroy. For years the Chiefs have devastated opponents’ defenses with number 77 and 68 plowing gapping holes in their right side. Today would be no different. As the combined 640 pounds hit the goal line the sounds of helmets cracking, grunts, groans and pads exploding rose above the roar of the crowd. Like two freight trains running into a group of speeding semi-tractor trailers the display was awesome. Like staring at a car wreck knowing it was going to be ugly but unable to avert your eyes, we stared in horror. The Chargers line yielded as Trent handed the ball to number 27. Larry appeared upset that he was late to the party and leaned his body forward exposing his shoulder to the crumbling Chargers right side. There was another explosion as bodies spun in the air.

As the referee’s hands were raised over his head signaling touchdown pandemonium erupted. Brennen and I slapped each other and howled like dogs at the moon. Attempting to communicate in this wall of sound was impossible. The Chiefs players ran over and lifted Larry high above their heads. Posing like a statue of conquering hero in a park he was he was now eye level with us a mere twenty feet away. I looked at the scene around me and thought “Now that’s a first touchdown to remember”. If I had sat down to write the perfect first touchdown for Brennen to witness, it still would have not compared to the drama and excitement of what just happened. One successful extra point later and the score was 7-0.

Every epic struggle between good and evil is filled with obstacles and challenges. The outcome can never be certain. Native American culture believed you could only become a great warrior by testing yourself with great enemies. The greater your enemy was the greater your reward upon defeating him. The Chargers offence turned around, tightened their chin straps and marched back on to the field to answer the touchdown. The Chargers took the ball and hammered out a long gusty 75 yard drive that culminated in Drew Brees passing to Antonio Gates for an 18 yard touchdown. Score was now tied at 7.

Not to be out done the Chiefs took the field again drove 67 yards in eight hard fought plays before Trent Green found Sammie Parker streaking to the right for a 42 yard touchdown at the start of the second quarter. Chiefs were now leading 14-7. The game slowly digressed into a good old fashion back alley bare knuckle brawl in the slop and the rain. Mud began to obscure the numbers on the players’ uniforms. The field resembled a plowed field with the rain punishing everyone in sight. You could see the frustration growing on the Chargers bench.

After a series of Chargers penalties and a poor punt the Chiefs got good field position at the KC 43 with 4:45 left before half. The Chiefs drove the ball to the Chargers 28 with a series of short runs, short passes and a penalty. At the two minute warning Trent Green tossed a little swing pass to Larry Johnson on the right flat. After the catch Larry added a clip to his career highlight reel with an incredible tackle breaking spinning power move while pirouetting his feet inches from sideline for a 28 yard touchdown. An awesome display of athletic ability we will remember for years to come. After the game in the locker room Willie Roaf said "That's one of the best plays I've seen a running back make in my career," One missed extra point and the halftime score was 20-7.

We ran back to the concession line as the halftime gun sounded. The girl behind the counter recognized the two yellow puffballs from earlier and said “Back again?” Brennen nodded. I held out another twenty dollar bill and said “Give us two of the same minus the two hot chocolates. Twelve pounds of raw sugar is plenty for one day.” She smiled and reached into a stainless steel box to retrieve another pair of pitiful hotdogs in crumpled silver wrappers. Upon inspection nothing much had changed, they were still the same burnt wrinkled tube of beef parts surrounded by a gluey mess that was once somewhat resembled a bun or at least I hoped so. We rushed to the condiment counter and lathered them up with ketchup and mustard. In almost an exact taped replay of the first meal, Brennen danced as we wolfed the food down in silence. While we were once again cleaning the ketchup and mustard from our fingers, I asked Brennen “What to you think?” He looked around for what seemed like a long time tapping his fingers to his lips. “Well, I think it was the second best hotdog I’ve eaten in my life”. Showing disbelief in my face I replied “Wow, #1 and #2 world’s best hotdog in one day. That’s got to be something special?” He nodded like it was all in a day’s work. Content with the results of our experiment the two yellow puffballs headed back into the rain.

At the start of the second half the rain lessened slightly allowing colder bitter air to pour into the stadium bowl to attack us. We pulled out all our spare clothing and prepared for a frigid second half. The two teams settled into a protracted defensive battle hammering each other’s offence, under a cold frosty twilight. Both teams were playing great defense. Near the end of the third quarter I looked at the two teams on the field and everyone was caked and covered from head to toe with mud, except one huge lineman. I elbowed Brennen. “Look Willie Roaf’s uniform is completely clean. The Charger’s entire team has been able to knock Willie off his feet!” Brennen marveled at the gleaming white mountain at the center of the Chief’s offensive line towering over the other soiled tattered players. Another legend was born. We began looking around making fun of the dirty uniforms of the sugar cookie California boys. “Brennen, look at #93. I think he got stuck under Larry Johnson’s shoe and was drug around the field on his back.” Brennen quipped back “I can’t see the number three anymore. I think it got knocked off his shirt.”

As the second half proceeded the records began to fall one after another. Tony Gonzalez tied the chief’s record for most consecutive games catching a pass at 83. Larry Johnson kept up his amazing eighth straight record breaking 100-yard rushing game, constantly digging his heels into the wet, slippery turf for extra yardage, dragging tacklers with him. Chiefs were close to running their December home winning streak to 18. Time after time we were reminded of the reasons memories of this game would be cherished.

We idled away the fourth quarter playing games with the crowd. When the Chargers offense approached the line I taught Brennen how to beat the back of the seat in front of him like a bass drum. Brennen began to lead the D-FENSE chants driving section 106 into screaming obedience. Even Belly Boy turned away from the game to watch the new kid on the block show his stuff. With a huge grin and beaming rain streaked red face, Belly Boy gave us the thumbs up. We had made it. We were part of the tribe. No one could snatch this victory from us. Two high-fives as the final gun sounded. The Chief’s playoff hopes were still alive. As we were walking up the aisle toward the concourse we heard from the announcer that another epic battle in a city called Pittsburgh in a land far away was not going well for the Chiefs. I didn’t matter much that Pittsburgh could dash the Chief’s playoff hopes. We came to do what we could today and we did it. It was a thing of beauty. It would have to be someone else’s problem that the Cleveland Browns were getting the snot beat out of them a thousand miles away.

The rain stopped as we left the stadium, no longer needed to punish the sugar cookie boys. In a slow deliberate march to yellow puffballs drug themselves across the vast wet parking lot. I patted Brennen on the head. “You know that the Chiefs are undefeated at Arrowhead, when you are there cheering them on”. He digested the meaning of the comment, smiled and raised his hand for another high-five. “Bet we would have beaten those sugar cookie boys 50-7 if your dad was punting. You need to remind to write a letter to Coach Vermeil when we get home.” From behind us we heard a now familiar bellow “Chiefs”. We both knew it was Belly Boy. He was jumping around still naked from the waist up reminding me of the crazy duck in the cartoon that goes insane and ricochets off rocks as he disappears into the sunset.

It wasn’t until that exact moment when it all made sense. I had mistaken Belly Boy as an uninhibited slightly deranged but relatively harmless frantic. His manners were likeable, his general demeanor was caring. The only aberration was his attire or lack of it. I had mistaken him completely. He processed something of great value. Something I had only regained today, the ability to see the world through the eyes of a child. It was a protected world where grown men can decorate themselves and spend three hours playing like a children. It was a place to be an actor in an epic battle between good and evil. It was a place to shed the confines and constraints of society allowing pure emotion to flow through you unfettered like a mountain stream. Lost in the crowd I had felt it too. For Brennen his emotions were never constrained. Emotions rocketed through him like electricity. He had just spent the day as close to heaven as humanly possible. His emotions were visible a hundred feet away as he pranced as light as a feather back to the car.

Arm in arm we walked toward the car. “Think you want to do this again?” With a big hug he said “Oh Yeah”. A few steps later he tugged on my arm. “What about you? Think you want to do this again”. I smiled and nodded realizing that the question sounded just as stupid to him as it did to me. The answer was evident in my hoarse voice, hands that were still tingling from pounding on the seats and feet that were sore from stomping on the ground for three hours. The great Indian Chief Sitting Bull would say “Today is a good day to die.” I better understand what he meant. Life is lived in the present. Life is lived every day to the fullest. Life is lived with every fiber of emotion in harmony with the elements. Life is not afraid of death, because life will never regret the past. I put my arm around Brennen’s shoulder and wondered how to I teach him what I learned today. How can he preserve his ability to be a child and enjoy every day like it was his last. Tired and exhausted I decided the question was much too difficult to be answered today. I decided it was simply time for two wet yellow puffballs to make it home satisfied that they made the sugar cookie boys melt and saved the world from evil.