A Day in the Life of Chaos

Warning:  This is one of those postings that really shows my age. When I was a child visiting my grandfather an ex Navy WW2 Veteran in California I always remembered one familiar cry.  "O9!" he would say as I entered the room and picked up the clicker.  We called the remote a clicker in those days and when I visited my grandparents it seemed like an amazing luxury.  Television back home was still get up and change the dial when you wanted to watch another channel.  Of course it didn't hurt that there were only three to four channels to watch in Anchorage, Alaska.  In my room I had the black and white TV cast off when my parents upgraded to color.  It was so decrepit the actual dial was broken off an not only did you have to turn it by hand, you had to wedge a pencil in the side to get it to stay on the selected channel. When I visited my grandparents their 27" TV seemed positively enormous and the accompanying remote simply magical.  Los Angeles had something un

David Hockney's "Pearblossom Highway #2." As I cross the mid-point of my life and move toward third base I always find myself wondering where is home?  These thoughts have recently come brilliantly to the forefront as I not long ago made contact with a distant cousin who is in the oil industry.  He lives a life of wandering that makes my own seem humble.   While Texas is his home his journeys carry him to Russia, Egypt, Oman, Yemen, Kazakhstan and East Africa.  Oh the old saying, "Home is where the heart is." has a certain ring to it but does it really mean anything?  As human beings we associate experiences with places and they color our minds in a collage of memories.  For some these are all close to home and for others, they span the world.  I often wonder if those that never lived a vagrant life are more satisfied?  They must feel so connected to the place that they live.  Like it is a part of them and they a part of it.  Are they happy with this or do th

In Santa Monica California there is a long street promenade spanning blocks. It is a people place in a city built on cars, freeways and the isolated communities they spawned. Spaced out in increments musicians play, girls sing, clowns tie balloons and even the freakish contort their bodies in ways that defy sense. On one short stretch a young woman stood with guitar in hand. She sang from her heart, a smile piercing her lips. Her eyes were filled with joy as she seemed to turn this public space into a cathedral of her own.  With her talent on display for the world to see she was comfortable, almost serene.  There was no hesitation, no modesty, only a smile and an expression of joy painted with natural color across her lips. Santa Monica, is a wonderful part of Los Angeles mercifully rescued from the cycle of destruction and renewal. Los Angeles is a city that in truth is quite ugly however, little by little it is remembering that it has a soul. Lost among the maze of immigrant nei