Dignity: At Last and Almost

The American political system is a long and arduous road for those seeking major social change, costing much in the way of time, sometimes political careers and even lives. New York State made history on June 24, 2011, becoming the sixth and largest state to allow same-sex marriage in this country. For many it was a moment of jubilation in "closing the circle" between the Stonewall Riots of 1969 to finally being granted nearly equal civil rights more than 40 years later. Here in Dallas, Texas the event did not even warrant a sideline in "The Dallas Morning News" website.

I took a quick look around some of the other national papers the morning after the news broke which, of course, was emblazoned all over CNN.Com just as it was in the New York Times. The Denver Post had a link under the "National & World Video" section titled "Stonewall celebrates gay marriage." It was the banner headline in the Washington Post with several related articles, videos and op/ed links at the top of the page. It was at least front page news in the Chicago Tribune, the Boston Globe, the Los Angeles Times and the San Francisco Chronicle and was again the lead story in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

Not surprisingly no mention could be found on the front pages of papers in Birmingham or Nashville but I was surprised not to find a front page story on the Philadelphia Inquirer website Philly.Com. The Statesman carried the story as the 5th headline for the good people of Austin, Texas while the Houston Chronicle ranked it the third story below an update on voter approval to have a Confederate flag specialty license plate. The Houston article was also quick to point out directly in the hyperlink that such unions are "not recognized in Texas." The article itself was a mish mash of feed from the Associated Press and Reuters discussing some of the last minute maneuvers, reprisals against the Republicans who supported the bill and the difficulty of getting a divorce in states like Texas where such marriages are not legal or recognized. For Dallasites there was an article on the Dallas Holocaust Museum featuring an exhibit on the persecution of gays in Nazi Germany.

Judy Garland, our beloved Dorothy, died tragically on June 22, 1969 with her funeral held five days later in New York City. It has long been debated whether or not her death was in any way a causal factor of the riots that took place the very next day on June 28th in Greenwich Village, New York City. It can certainly be said that, as is the case in most riots, the victims of systemic police persecution that day had had enough. The events seem coincidental when lined up on paper but surely most people know the feeling of being picked on and then, worst of all, being kicked when already down. Even that famous line from "What's Love Got to Do With It" comes to mind when Tina, fed up, had taken all she was going to from Ike: "I ain't in the mood today!"

The timing of the bill couldn't be better for its supporters. The New York Gay Pride March is this weekend. Stonewall, Judy, even the one year anniversary for my partner and I. And while some cities as expressed through their news media bury their heads in the sand and hope it will all go away or at least not come to them, life surely goes on and evolves through ever more enlightened eyes and increasingly inspiring ways.

Gotta go.

The Highway Rivalry

I-35 runs from the Mexican border at Laredo almost to the western tip of Lake Superior at Duluth, Minnesota. Strung along that highway are millions of sports fans who support such teams as the Vikings, Twins, and Timberwolves through the Chiefs and Royals of Kansas City. Then there is the "I-35 Rivalry" stretching from San Antonio to Oklahoma City with Dallas/Ft. Worth smack in the middle and definitely not the peacemaker of the set-up by no means. What makes it truly interesting at the southern end of this particular interstate is the deeply entwined loyalties most of the people have for one team in particular but vehement and equally divided rivalries when it comes to other teams and sports in the area.

Believe it or not let's start with the one team that brings the region together every Fall, the Dallas Cowboys. Outside of Greater Houston the entire rest of the state is primarily Cowboys Country while Cowboys Nation extends deeply in to Oklahoma as well except for the Northeast corner that skews more towards the rams or the Oklahoma Panhandle which might lean to the Broncos. The average citizen on the street in Oklahoma will tell you they want nothing to do with anything coming out of Texas but bleed blue in spite of their pronunciations at least from September to January.

Where the splintering begins remains in the game of football, however, at the collegiate level where Dallas becomes the epicenter of the rivalry between the Texas Longhorns of Austin and the Oklahoma Sooners of Norman . There is no strong professional baseball rivalry since the Rangers are the only team along I-35 until you get to Kansas City. Uh...no real rivalry there at the moment. Things heat up for basketball, though, which probably is the showcase sport of contention for the region.

The San Antonio Spurs really get under the skin of Dallas Mavericks fans while there is no love lost in the other direction either. The gleeful thing for "Mavs" fans this season is that San Antonio was eliminated from the 2011 playoffs. The irony of it all is that the Mavs are now locking horns with, of all cities, the Oklahoma City Thunder, late of - wait for it - Vancouver, Canada! It's too early to call it a conspiracy but if Dallas wins the Oklahomans will have one more reason to loudly pronounce their hatred of all things below ("beneath" to some folks) the Red River. At the same time, if the Thunder win the semis to advance to the Finals the tune won't change a whole lot from the former scenario.

If I look at I-5, the backbone of California and the West Coast I'd see a more clearly defined landscape. With the exception of Los Angeles not having a football team each major city has its own set of football, baseball and basketball teams to celebrate, from San Diego to Seattle. Likewise I-95 running the Eastern Seaboard of the country; to each his own in every major city from Miami to Boston or even I-80 from New York to San Francisco. There truly doesn't appear to be anything like the I-35 Rivalry anywhere else in the country.

It happens. Enemies gather in Dallas in October for "Texas-OU Weekend," formerly held at the Cotton Bowl downtown but now played in Arlington at Cowboys Stadium. They do battle on Saturday and then return the next day to the exact same venue proudly wearing and swearing by the Silver and Blue! Whaddya gonna do?

Only thing anyone on the RIGHT side of the Red River would do: Go Mavs!!!

Gotta go.

Failing The 2nd Generation?

My generation of Black Americans was the first. Those of us born in the 60s grew up too young to know firsthand many of the pains and sufferings that came with the Civil Rights Movement raging all around us. Our concerns were limited to diapers, bottles, regular feedings and learning how to walk. As we got older using a public toilet only meant making sure we went in to the correct one for our sex, not our race. We walked in the front door of every restaurant and stayed at motels when our families were tired of driving as we went "down home" to visit relatives or drove across the country to new homes in new states. We shopped at malls named "Glendale" like any of our white friends would, often seeing them in the same stores or even traveling together so our moms could keep an eye on us. Suffering to us was going to bed without getting any candy.

Recently I was on business to Florida and was just winding up an evening at dinner with co-workers. One I dropped back at the office where he'd left his car so we could travel together while the other I'd dropped at the hotel before heading out for some last minute shopping of my own. Upon returning to the hotel I had left the car and was making my way across the drive in to the lobby when I heard the plea "Excuse me, Sir" for me to stop. This was Florida and I'm not from New York so whatever instinct I should have possessed to simply keep walking was not in my make-up.

Here comes this tallish, lanky and obviously stoned young man who began with the usual schpiel of meaning no harm and just wanting some help. Inside of a minute he'd made his plea for a couple dollars for gas to get his stalled car started so he could get home. The hotel was a reputable brand in a good neighborhood on a busy thoroughfare less than a mile from the interstate but the first rule of safety in the parking lot of any establishment is never under any circumstances open or even reach for your wallet in public. I was tired and alone and wanted to get inside to safety and upstairs to pack for the flight home the next day as soon as possible. I politely refused and proceeded inside.

In his own words this person was 19 years old and high, having just "smoked a J" before realizing his alleged predicament. Being Black American as well he was also hoping that I could "hook a young brother up." After I'd refused and gone upstairs to my room which faced the parking lot I first checked out of the window to see if he'd seen the car I had alighted from and if it had been damaged or attacked after I'd left him. The car was safe and so was I as I began packing for the flight home the next day.

A mixture of sadness and anger washed over me as I worked my way through a week's laundry along with thoughts of what had just happened. This child of less than 20 years clearly did not know or was never told of the sacrifices made to offer him a better start than many before him could have ever dreamed of. This young man who could easily have been a child of mine had no real sense of the opportunities created from blood, sweat and politics that he was smoking away with each pipe and reefer he could get his hands on. On top of that this foolish fellow tried to play me for gas when a couple of dollars wouldn't get him across the street at today's prices! More likely this young junkie who's life looked already over was short on the cost of a fix and his dealer was waiting nearby to get paid.

Did my generation fail him or did he fail himself? Either way heaven knows he's not alone.

Gotta go.

What to Blue in Texas

Texas is not Washington, D.C. That in itself is not a fair comparison since one is a state and the other a city but it doesn't stop one from competing with the other across all kinds of issues, events and pursuits. D.C. usually gets the trump card in most debates simply because it is the nation's capital and one of, it not the most powerful city in the world but let's take it down a few notches and discuss something really simple, pretty and unique. Flowers. In Texas it is not cherry blossoms but blue bonnets that hold the same place in the hearts and minds of the citizenry and perform the same function as their erstwhile cousins back east. There is a big difference, however, in how each is enjoyed by those who travel up to great distances to see them. And there is some interesting ironies surrounding the ones down in Texas, too. "Bonnet" comes from the shape of the petals which reminded early discoverers of the shape of the sun bonnet pioneer women wore at the time. The flowers are more purplish than blue, anyway, but when seen in great numbers stretching across the horizon they do indeed have more of a bluish tint to them. Before the more popular name was adopted they were known as "buffalo clover." The blue bonnet is an "annual" flower which begins to bloom in late March and reaches its peak in mid-April before slowly fading out by mid- to late May. Texas does have winters and cold weather so the first sighting of blue bonnets growing wild in fields and along highways is something greatly anticipated by one and all in the area. Just as the National Cherry Blossom festival is in mid-March, the annual Bluebonnet Festival takes up the entire month of April in Ennis, Texas, hardly 30 minutes south of Dallas on I-45. Here at Ennis people from Dallas and Houston come together for a common ritual known all over the state: the annual Easter photo opportunity. Small children especially but full grown adults flock to the flowering fields to sit, squat and lie face down, propped up on their elbows to mark the passage of another year of memories and good living. Even the family pet gets in on the history in the making. The irony is that as the state flower it is illegal to pick them. Thousands of people tramp through them, smashing them flat for the sake of the family photo but they're not allowed to take any home which adds to the other trick of the season - finding that sweet spot in the season when the flowers are in full bloom but not totally trampled by others looking for the best patches with the most gorgeous backgrounds! Just like in D.C. when the flowers die off it signals the beginning of the Summer but for a few weeks in the Spring the weather is beautiful, the flowers warm and inviting. For those who don't know it's good, very good, to be in Texas in April. There is simply no better way to watch "Li'l Emma" grow up than from her first picture in the bluebonnet fields through Easter whites, adolescence, puberty through to her own family right up to one more with "Gramma Em" before moving on to the great beyond. Gotta go.

The Future Over the Horizon

This was a cross-country journey of purging. Like the rest of the country that did not die on September 11th certainly had life as previously known destroyed or at least irrevocably altered. I knew when the 2nd tower fell that my career was over and was furloughed as expected along with 20,000 other employees a little over a month later. After almost 20 years in the business I knew it would not recover anytime soon. The ones left behind to pick up the pieces and move on would surely be a wounded and entrenched set of dog-eat-dog survivors, grizzled veterans suffering drastically reduced salaries and benefits, clawing at each other in a world of infighting to simply stay afloat much less get ahead.

I packed up my life, moved in with family and then set out across the country to clear my mind, to push "reset" and figure out what I wanted to do next with the rest of my life. I had no desire to return to my previous industry; I had in fact been wanting to leave for years but the money was finally good and the personal rewards meaningful. As sometimes happen the push it takes to cause significant change is more traumatic than if it had been deliberately planned. Nobody saw September 11th coming but it was definitely all the impetus I needed to break the inertia and move on in a different direction.

The only question was where? A tank of gas and a pocket full of severance money to sustain me and I simply headed west. I did have a plan, though, for this trip and that was to see friends in Oklahoma and Texas then head in to the Rockies to explore parts of the country I'd never seen before and likely would not have an open-ended opportunity to visit again. I truly believed there was little reason to begin an immediate search for work in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy. Vestiges of the hiring practices used ten years ago remain in place today where professional employment required virtually an exact match to garner even one interview so short of unskilled labor I felt I had some time to rediscover myself and America.

The early versions of internet chat circa late 2001 allowed me to keep in touch with friends around the country while I traveled and managed to set up some windows of time when I might be in there part of the country for a visit or particular event. On this trip in addition to the Southwest and the Rockies I would ultimately end up in Florida, Georgia, the Carolinas and Virginia before winding up back in Baltimore where the rebuilding would begin. On this journey the scenery would range from the Rockies and the Badlands through the Texas Panhandle to the Louisiana Bayous, Central and Coastal Florida to see a shuttle launch and up through Civil War Georgia, North Carolina and finally Appomattox, Virginia.

Old friends, new friends and family along the way helped keep me sane and social and the scenery was fantastic, too, but really, truly, I needed time to find out who I was, what I had to offer and where it might fit in the new United States, a country few had any idea what it would be or look like. I had a boatload of skills and experience that my old industry no longer wanted and I wasn't sure about anyone else at the time or if those skills were even transferrable.
The only thing I knew for sure was that the tank was full, the car running smoothly and both the horizon and the future lay in front of me. Time to see what was out there.

Gotta go.

The New Southeast

It was time to go and visit the family again in the Washington/Baltimore part of the country. I had pledged that I would try and return home more frequently outside of the Christmas holidays as my niece and nephews were growing rapidly. Being from a large family there is rarely time to visit everyone I'd like while in the area but there is also the desire to be a simple tourist while in the nation's capital as well. Even for those who have lived in the area and moved away such as myself it is always good to stroll along the Mall or find some new part of town to discover, particularly if recent redevelopment has altered the area from what it once was.

Southeast DC is synonymous with the most dangerous quadrant of the city and a well earned reputation it was until now. Long associated with such no-go areas as Anacostia and Minnesota Avenue, everyone in Washington will tell you that the south end of the Green Line is for locals only. At the same time, The Southeast was infamous for having some of the best warehouse dance clubs in town including such venues as Nation and Tracks where it was all about the party and not always so much about the gender! The yuppies looking for a thrill, the gay underground and the urban all came together at one of these two haunts and usually one and all came away alive and in one piece.

All of that is gone now in the area along South Capitol Street. Though Anacostia is still just across the river along with the five other stations at the end of the Green Line the gentrification of Southeast DC has definitely begun. Washingtonians are quite accustomed to taking the Metro to the stadium to root for their favorite team only now instead of the Redskins at RFK it is the Nationals baseball team at Nationals Park, served by the Navy Yard Metro Station. Where once there were clubs even lower on the scale than Nation and Tracks there is a shining temple to America's favorite pastime. Where there were decaying factories, slums, taxi garages and rib shacks there are gleaming condominium towers and new shops along M Street SE and even a Five Guys outlet hardly a block from the new Department of Transportation facility.

The ballpark is not quite on the water in similar fashion to AT&T Park in San Francisco but there is a marina not too far away for those so inclined. With professional employers like the DOT in the area the Southeast is certainly being provided with every opportunity to improve beyond the facelift of a sports stadium and a few overpriced condos. It has every chance of coming, finally, in to its own if not necessarily rivaling Georgetown for cache and appeal. I truly enjoyed my couple of hours in the area.

Yes, only a couple of hours. There was a game on that afternoon but I didn't have tickets and I needed to get back north to my family in the Maryland suburbs. Plus, the Southeast is still a work in progress; like any other inner urban area there remain pockets where the lost are not often found again. The city is off to a good start but where the area once was no-go unless you're brave it has at least transformed in to an area where you and your family can travel safely but go with a purpose and leave with the rest of the crowd.

Gotta go.

They Were Soldiers

It is over 700 miles from Japan and yet is still today considered a part of Tokyo. Surrounded by the deep Pacific Ocean, from the air it looks like a bone-in pork chop with one of the vertebrae still in at the southern end. That round vertebra is Mt. Suribachi, the extinct volcano that came to symbolize the ultimate sacrifice of thousands of men and women during the island hopping campaign of the Second World War. It was only the fourth day of the fighting in February of 1945 that one of the most iconic photographs of all time was taken, capturing a signature moment pride and entirely by accident.

There had already been one flag raising on the island much to the outrage of the 22,000 Japanese soldiers garrisoned to defend the island and support the airbases there protecting the southern air approaches to Japan. As with all things related to politics and propaganda the first raising was staged and the flag was smaller although certainly no less patriotic. To the men who were there it remains the only raising that really counts.

The second was to raise a larger flag to give to a government bureaucrat observing from the beaches that day so six guys at random were tapped to do the honors. A photographer named Joe Rosenthal who happened to be nearby turned around at the last possible second, saw what was happening and captured the image that almost literally saved the war in the Pacific. By then Americans were grown weary of death and telegrams and war budgets were getting precariously low. Washington brought three of the flag raisers home for a war bond tour - the other three were killed on the island - boosting morale and the national coffers to see the fighting through to the end later that year.

Nine years later the United States Marine Corps War Memorial, more popularly known as the Iwo Jima Memorial, was dedicated outside of Washington, D.C. on a hill in Rosslyn, Virginia overlooking capital city. It is a particular favorite place of mine to go and relax, reflect, enjoy the views of the city and consider all things unique to this monument in the annals of American and world history. I simply love being there and took Mom this time as part of a visit to Arlington National Cemetery to pay our respects to Senator Ted Kennedy.

As we walked around the memorial several busloads of tourists arrived shortly after we did. These were not just any tourists. These were actual veterans of World War II, some from the Pacific Theater, and all participating in Honor Flight. This volunteer network is across the country and serves to honor and serve those who served our nation by taking them on tours to the capital to see how their efforts have been acknowledged through the various artworks around the city. Some in their nineties, some in wheelchairs, one guy from Tennessee as chatty as you please and all quite happy to be out and about on a glorious day in D.C. Mom made sure to thank as many as she could personally before they loaded up on the bus and we headed over to see Teddy. He's on the left in the picture below, Bobby on the right.

The country and the world have come a long way from that brutal and blustery day in 1945. For me it is always good to remember and for the veterans who just happened to be there it simply became priceless. No longer merely statues, names etched in marble or photos from other events; each and every one of them for the first time in my life were alive that day. They were soldiers.

Gotta go.

Hello, Baltimore

I used to live in Baltimore. Heck, I used to live in a lot of places but those are other stories. Three times over the course of my life have I called this city and surrounding area "home." As a toddler in the late 60s I watched my older sister delight in frogging the stream that ran through our backyard. During high school I went through platform shoes, afros and silk shirts in the late 70s and early 80s. Finally, as a full grown adult in the aftermath of a major national crisis, I struggled to survive and redefine myself as a professional and human being in the early 2000s. Good or bad, Baltimore, affectionately off-kilter "Balmer," has always been there.

Founded in 1729 by Cecil Calvert, Lord Baltimore of the Irish House of Lords, for three months from 1776 to 1777 it was the capital of the United States! Most Americans will recall that the Star Spangled Banner were written here by Francis Scott Key after witnessing the failed British attack on Ft. McHenry during the Battle of Baltimore in 1814. The city has seen a few facelifts since then, including the Great Fire of 1906 and some notable riots spanning 1861 during the Civil War to 1968 when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. Though we lived just south of the city on Ft. Meade at the time my mother would not let her children out of the house for a few days that week. In almost lock step with blood and blight, however, there always seems to have been one savior after another coming over the horizon to reinvent the city, repaint the landscape and, most especially, revitalize the Inner Harbor.

Before moving to Chicago Oprah Winfrey anchored the evening news on WJZ-TV but the city's art scene has always been way left of center. Fells Point has long been a neighborhood of activism going back to Frederick Douglass. Tallulah Bankhead held court at select watering holes in town while Jada Pinkett-Smith ("The Nutty Professor"), John Waters ("Hairspray") and Barry Levinson ("Diner" and "Rainman") hail from the city. Hollywood got in to the act once via "Hot L Baltimore," a sitcom around a flophouse hotel starring James Cromwell, Conchata Ferrell, Richard Masur and Charlotte Rae.

Former Mayor William Donald Shaeffer is revered still as the contemporary equivalent of Lord Baltimore himself over 20 years after his last year in office.

Among too many achievements to list here, he presided over the creation of Harbor Place, which included the innovative National Aquarium and the new Ballpark at Camden Yards for the woebegone yet beloved Orioles. Most notably for the people of the city, he and City Commissioner Robert Embry offered what I call "The Dollar Deal" where anybody could buy any abandoned row house in select parts of the city for one dollar. The stipulation was to personally invest a minimum of $100,000 in renovations as a way to jumpstart the decayed inner city.

It reversed the population decline, beautified the city and gave a much needed boost to personal equity and city coffers in one fell swoop. Key note here: not a single city backed loan defaulted!

I am not from Baltimore but it is the closest thing to a family home that I have. Thanks to "The Wire" it doesn't always look its best and is indeed facing major challenges today but it is essentially the same city most people would recognize and that I remember from years ago. It is at once a little touchy in the underdog kind of way when mentioned in the same conversation as nearby Washington D.C. or Philadelphia; a little quirky in its love of Old Bay Seasoning on everything from its world famous blue crabs to ice cream and is justifiably proud of its place in American national and sports history - Pimlico hosts the Preakness the first Monday of every May, a part of the Triple Crown.

A lot of heavy industry is gone but the Bromo Tower, those famous marble steps and the people are still there, dancing to their own rhythm on the west side of the Chesapeake. Go for crabs, ballgames, fresh produce at one of six neighborhood markets or any of over 100 bars and pubs in Fells Point but don't expect to see too many beehive hair-dos!

Gotta go!

On Ohio Living

"I hate Cleveland," said my co-worker with unequivocal conviction. Born and raised in the city there was nothing there for her in location, culture, sports and certainly not weather. How did she wind up in Columbus, I wondered. This was only my second visit to the "Apple" of America, having last been in Ohio in September of the previous year. Then the weather was agreeable and I found Columbus to be a livable enough city with a decent skyline and the apparent means to care for its citizens. What may not be available along the Ohio Turnpike or in the farming and mining belt along the Ohio River seemed to be available in Columbus for those with drive, education and ambition.

"I went to OU," she sing-songed in a light sorority sweetheart drawl. "OU" to me, a Texan, means the Univeristy of Oklahoma while Athens means the Georgia Bulldogs. I was in unfamiliar country indeed. This Athens sits in the middle of nowhere which led me, a geography buff, to instantly conclude the southeast corner of the state, not too far from the river and West Virginia and at least an economically challenged part of the state. Far removed from the relative stability of Cincinnati, Columbus or even Pittsburgh, the closest metropolitan area of any size to the south is Greensboro/Highpoint/Winston-Salem, North Carolina. On the surface this part of the country has farming, steel and coal mining, making the 22,000 strong city of Athens and Ohio University "ground zero" of the local universe.

My colleague couldn't even recall two years later exactly how she wound up in Columbus and not, say, Cincinnati if she hated Cleveland that much with Athens clearly a place to learn but leave as soon as possible. "There are 49 other states to choose from," I laughed but upon further reflection it made sense. In Columbus I saw evidence of homegrown "cradle-to-the-grave" industry in the parking lots, offices and clothing of the locals who were perhaps born in Pickerington, went to school in Reynoldsburg, attended "THE" Ohio State University, joined corporate America with some internationally powerful names and now live in Easton, Gahanna, Worthington and Westerville, all only a few minutes' drive around I-270.

To my co-worker it evidently never occurred to her to seek a career and life outside of Ohio, as foreign a concept to my own nomadic upbringing thanks to the military as can be imagined. Migrating for work, food, family or a simple change of scenery is the theme of life from the lowest animal to the Bedouins of North Africa and the Middle East. My colleague's journey around Ohio fits that description even if contained within the microcosm of one state and reminded me that similar experiences are probably more often the norm within California, Texas, New England, the Midwest, the Carolinas and Florida.

Is my own experience an example of the extreme, encompassing as it does several states and two continents? From my perspective mine is not the most far ranging example by any measure. The common denominator is acceptance of and almost an expectation that one can be raised in one or more places, move away from home for higher education and either settle in that location or move at least once again before finding a comfortable environment in which to put down roots, start a family, etc.

My Cleveland hating colleague pretty much proved that contrary to national opinion, Ohio is quite capable of providing all of that to her people and more.

Gotta go.

Where Dat One Goin'?

Wanna turn a grown man in to the most excited little boy in the world? Take him plane watching at the nearest international airport and watch the light shine in his eyes for younger days gone by. I used to ask that question as a young child when my parents discovered my love of airplanes and took me to the airport to watch the world fly by. It still happens today because I regularly head out to some observation area or vantage point just to watch the metal move through the air, bringing people and products together all over the world.

There is nothing to stir the imagination as much as watching planes roaring in to the sky unless, of course, you happen to live near Cape Canaveral. The bigger the plane the greater the thrill and the ultimate icing is seeing a foreign flag shining bright and exotic to break up the monotony of one US airline after another, especially if it is the same airline over and over again.

Some airports are certainly better than others when it comes to having a wide variety of airplanes and airlines to choose from. JFK, London/Heathrow, Frankfurt and Tokyo come time mind while some serious international players like Bangkok and Hong Kong bring a particularly exotic feel to the comings and goings, being heavy with regional brands not necessarily seen elsewhere in the world. Combine the major players from every corner of the globe that you would expect to see at Bangkok and then add in the low-cost carriers such as Air Asia and Jetstar and 'tis a heady stew indeed of smells, sights and sounds.

Getting as close to the action as possible is the trick, of course. A zoom lens is fine for the tight shots from a distance but hearing and feeling the "heavies" pounding overhead truly gives the heart a burst of joy and adrenalin. There's a nice village pub on Spout Lane at the western end of Heathrow that offers a pint, pub grub and a spectacular view directly underneath the aircraft whether they are landing or taking off. In San Francisco at the northern end of 28-R is the parking lot to the United Airlines Maintenance Base. The concussion from international widebodies thundering off of this strip routinely sets off a number of car alarms as they head over the sea to Asia, Hawaii or Europe.

Sadly though, the current economy has curtailed this unique and free way to spend an afternoon. On a recent trip to "Funeral Hill" on the south side of Los Angeles International Airport, where the "Asian Invasion" was the highlight of any day, traffic was noticeably down from the glory days. A typical day at LAX used to see up to 12 nonstops a day to Tokyo alone - today I counted two international departures between 11AM and 12:30PM, once prime viewing time at this major international gateway.

There is still activity out there, of course, and thanks to online travel agencies it is very easy to figure out when the best time of day is for viewing at your local airport. Don't be surprised if you're not alone; rather, be uplifted at wondering which is more the child, the little boy playing in the grass and turning his eyes up to watch the next one go boy or the father who brought him as a bonding opportunity for them both or an excuse to go himself.

Gotta go.

The Subway Zombies of Tokyo

My first day in Tokyo on business found me nervous about trying to remember the basics of making a good impression in Japan. Co-workers who had been before showed me how to purchase the correct joint ticket for our connecting journey using the two independent operators of the massive Tokyo Metro system. What my colleagues failed to inform me of as part of the experience was the show that was about to begin as soon as the train left the station.

The Suitengumae subway station is directly below our hotel, the Royal Park which featured a cross-walk connecting it to the Tokyo City Air Terminal. From there we transferred at Jimbocho for the rest of our trip to Kasuga where our offices were, a few blocks north of the Tokyo Dome, home of the Giants baseball club. As the train pulled out a stream of passengers began shuffling single file thru the car, making their way deeper in to the belly of the snake slithering beneath the teeming city above.

At first I was confused. There was plenty of open seating and hand grips yet they marched steadily onward. Subway Zombies. I then wondered if they didn’t want to sit next to the “gaikokujin” (foreigner) or worse, if my three scrubbings in the shower that morning was one scrubbing short for the famously fastidious Japanese.

We slowly learned that each train stops at precisely the same location at every station, all of which are served by several access points to the street above. Instead of fighting thru crowded platforms to the car closest to their preferred exit they peacefully, robotically walked the length of the open-ended train while in transit.

No one pushed or shoved. Indeed, on our routing we did not see any of the famous platform “Pushers” who intimately squeeze more riders on board before the doors closed. Once they reached their preferred car each zombie would peel off in stride, stepping out of the way for the others to wordlessly continue unabated. Those already set knew to keep the center clear so the Zombies could find their place as we wound our way across town. Polite, respectful, efficient. Sleepy.

We never made being a Subway Zombie work for us but the show wasn’t over yet. Tokyo revealed a whole new kind of endless commute which included some riders needing two subways, two trains, some buses and three hours each way to get to and from work.

Back at Suitengumae on the way home, bleary eyed riders would wake up, look around and realize that they had slept thru their connecting station somewhere back up the line. As we made our way up stairs and elevators to the sanctuary of our rooms, the Subway Zombies of Tokyo sighed their weary sighs below, trudged across the platform to the next train heading in the other direction, took a seat and, hoping for better timing, promptly fell asleep again.

Gotta go!

An Assembly at Wembley

“Dude,” I pleaded, “I can get tickets to any show on the tour.”

In my eyes it was a fair trade. Free concert tickets for a place to stay. The new album was out and a monster tour all over the world was in full swing but one that would not touch the American mainland. It had been at least five years since the last tour but there was no sense that everything was winding down, heading towards retirement or that this would be the last show. I only sensed that for a tour that size NOT to touch the United States it seemed unconscionable to miss.

Having playfully twisted my buddy’s arm I flew to London from my home in California for a once in a lifetime event at Wembley Stadium. On the famous Metropolitan Line heading up to the historic venue we rattled off which songs were likely to be performed and which ones were our personal favorites, hoping the two lists would overlap more often than not. Would the oldies medley be different this time? Would it matter?

London fans have always set the bar for adoring and supporting their music icons. Still, very few artists dared to announce not just one but multiple dates at the original Wembley Stadium instead of the arena nearby. Adding to that would be the festival atmosphere of open seating on the field itself instead of the orderly reserved seats for premium prices at American venues. I also knew the energy of the crowd would be just as electrifying as the show we had all gathered to see.

July 15, 1997. Some 73,000 descended on venerable Wembley on a clear, late afternoon to fellowship with and bask in the presence of one man. And this was a Wednesday. In the United States we only see packed stadiums like that on Sunday afternoons in the Fall. Our spot on the field was half-way back in the midst of a human ocean yet we still had a good view of the stage. What would the opening number be? Would it matter?

Not a bit. Over the next two and a half hours the fans showed out as much as the man putting on the show. The opening was bombastic, the ballads beatific, the dance numbers dazzling and the signature moves as silky and sizzling as ever, this in a production already ten months on the road with three more months to go.

His greatest hits were then and are now permanently behind him. His detractors will fade in to the shade they struggled to cast upon him. Will it matter? Not to the exhausted but satisfied fans then, now and always. Decades from now "Wanna Be Startin' Something" will kick some party in to high gear just like it did that yesterday's Wednesday at Wembley. That is HIStory.

Rest in peace, Michael Jackson.


Gotta go.