Words cannot describe

The Women's March in New Orleans yesterday. Crowd estimates from the NOPD were 10,000 to 15,000 - I personally think there were more. It looked like 10,000 were assembled in Washington Square Park, where the parade began, but there were hundreds and hundreds more people outside the fences, standing on the neutral ground at Elysian Fields, and thronging on Frenchman Street.

Pre-parade gathering.

I went with a friend, Jennifer, from my neighborhood. We stopped off at another woman's house for some pre-parade socializing. When we arrived at the Park, it was about 1:45 pm, with the parade set to start around 2:00.

I must confess that I did not feel comfortable with the set-up - the Park is surrounded by high iron fences, with only narrow gates at the four corners. I did not feel comfortable going in there with that many people inside. So Jennifer said, "Screw this, let's go find a bar on Decatur Street and let the parade come to us."

We headed down to The Abbey, a dive bar on Decatur between Ursulines and Governor Nicholls, where Curtis, the bartender, told us the story of how he broke his arm. Within a few minutes, we could hear the drums of the parade approaching, and went outside with our go-cups.

The parade stretched on. There were people filling the street from curb to curb, but also people rushing down the sidewalks, watching from the many bars and storefronts, and also from the balconies overhanging the street. 

I will let the photos and videos tell the rest of the story. I will simply say that it took 1 hour and 15 minutes for the entire assembly to pass us.

Thank you, ladies and all, for sending a message to Washington. Movement? I'll give you a movement, Mr. Trump. THIS is a movement.

All the things I'd rather think about

Passionflower in bloom

Than this election! Only 38 more days!

Proud traditions

Unique and interesting people

Unashamed to be themselves!

Celebrating life

Joyously

With music

In an historic and beautiful setting

With incredible food

And great drinks

Vote Blue and vote early if you can, to make a difference and get it over with!!!

Heroine

Texas state Senator Wendy Davis. For all she did for women, in the state of Texas and in America.

Throne of Weapons

Click to "embiggen"

"Throne of Weapons" - Cristovao Canhavato (Kester) in Maputo, Mozambique, 2001

This is an artwork displayed in the British Museum. The accompanying note reads:

"This Throne is made from decommissioned weapons collected since the end of Mozambique's civil war in 1992. During the war, seven million guns - none of them made in Africa - poured into the country. In 1995 Bishop Dinis Sengulane initiated a project called "Arms into Tools." The Mozambican people were encouraged to swap their weapons for agricultural, domestic, and construction tools. Artists then turned the decommissioned weapons into sculptures.

This is a contemporary artwork, but thrones and stools are traditionally symbols of power and prestige in Africa. They are also symbols of discussion and debate."

A Throne made of guns, for those who would exalt and worship weapons. Mr. LaPierre, your chair awaits you. Sit on it.

It's a hard knock life

15 year old sweeper, Berkshire Cotton Mills, Adams, MA, July, 1916

Speaking at the Harvard Kennedy Business School last week, Newt Gingrich, Republican presidential hopeful said, "First of all, in child [labor] laws, which are truly stupid...Most of these schools ought to get rid of the unionized janitors, have one master janitor and pay local students to take care of the school. The kids would actually do work, they would have cash, they’d have pride in the schools, they’d begin the process of rising."

Illegal use of food product

Thanks to the internet, this guy will have his face and image go world-wide, showing him comitting an act of brutality.  Nice way to cap off your career in law enforcement, buddy!

Disturbing as the original incident was, the image of a militaristic officer spraying pepper at innocents has also gone world-wide as a satirical and inventive internet meme.

I am always amazed at the creativity of human beings.

Meanwhile, in the "you couldn't make this up" department, Fox News anchor Megyn Kelly defends the action, declaring that pepper spray is "a food product, essentially!"  

I am equally amazed at the absurdity of human beings.

What more will it take?

photo: Jay Finneburgh/.Reuters

Tuesday night, Iraq war veteran Scott Olson was critically wounded when he was hit in the head by a projectile shot by Oakland Police as they evicted the Occupy Oakland protesters from their encampment.

Police then fired teargas at members of the group as they came to Olson's aid. Olson was hospitalized with a fractured skull and brain swelling.

The photograph of the injured man being carried by his friends tugged a visual memory that finally came clear.

What I should have said

"Pardon me, sir, but I have to tell you how I feel. The bar at this little restaurant is small and narrow, and when you told a racist joke to your two friends, I couldn't avoid hearing it.

You sat there, just three feet from me, perhaps four feet from that lady over there who's quietly dining alone. You told a racist joke, and then - probably because your friends didn't laugh in response - you raised your voice and told it again.

What offends me is that you assumed you were safe airing your bigotry, here, in this Pacific Palisades restaurant - did you think I shared your views? How about that lady over there? And the friend I'm with? Did you think we would hear your ugly words and laugh? Or approve them? Or - perhaps worse - did you think we would simply not mind them? Find them commonplace, routine, normal, unremarkable?

How about the Latino waitress who served your drink? Do you think she found your joke about black people funny? When an African-American server waits on you, do you joke about Chicanos?

I'm even offended for your friends. It's not fair people will think less of them for being associated with you.

I think you owe an apology to everyone in this room."

But I didn't say it. Instead, I finished my drink, paid, left a good tip and left the restaurant. Why?

It's a nice little neighborhood place; we come every month or so, and the staff recognizes us. This time, it was my friend's birthday, and they bought him a drink. I didn't want to cause a fuss. I didn't want to embarrass the waitress, the bartender, the hostess.

Was I right? Would it have made any difference if I had spoken up? What would you do?

Support where it's needed

Today, I've been observing some bullying behavior on the part of some protesters trying to disrupt a fundraiser for a worthy cause.

If you are in West LA. and have the evening free, please consider supporting this event. There are silent auctions, fashions and accessories for sale, and free food and drink samples from local restaurants.

Don't let the bullies win.

I voted - Have you?

In 1972 I was 3 weeks too young to vote in the Presidential election. In November of 1976, I lived in Greenwich Village in New York City, and I remember hearing a friend talk about leaving the country if the election didn't go the way he hoped. I remember wondering why he felt that way - even though just a year ago, one of the guys running for President had denied New York federal assistance - infamously though incorrectly quoted by the newspaper as having said "Drop dead" to my city. I didn't make the connection. I hadn't registered to vote, and wouldn't know where to do it if I wanted to.

In 1980 I voted for the first time ever, in the basement of a Presbyterian Church on Capitol Hill in Seattle.

In 1984, I was in perpetual motion. I had a new job, and had moved from a shared house in the suburbs to an apartment of my own. I was also looking for a house to buy. I voted - but I don't remember where or how.

In November of 1988, my son was small enough to sleep in a stroller as I voted in the gymnasium of Madrona Elementary School in Seattle, just a short walk from our small bungalow.

In November of 1992, he held my hand as we walked to the beautiful old Horace Mann School on Cherry Street in Seattle, and stepped into the dark, cool hallway where elderly African-American poll workers checked my name and address in the big books, and sent me to a flimsy folding booth set up on the wide, creaking old Douglas fir floorboards.

Since those years as a home-owner, I've voted in every election, including the primaries. In a city like Seattle, there are always complicated issues that actually affect you, like bond measures, city council races, and judgeships.

We've been in Topanga since 1997, and our polling place has moved around a bit, depending on the expected turn-out. I've voted in a small wooden church; in an old stucco American Legion hall turned restaurant and rental venue; and in a dilapidated trailer housing the offices of the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy District. But for the last couple of elections, we've voted at the Topanga Community House.

The Community House is a good place to vote, because its very existence is evidence of people participating together for the good of their community. In 1949, residents of Topanga got together to build a place where they could meet, have parties, hold programs, and join together. This modest red brick building has a linoleum-floored hall with a small stage and a kitchen. We've attended Mothers' Day Teas, community fire prevention meetings, and festivals. Our son played T-ball on the ball field, and played bass on the stage in his first band, part of an after school program in middle school.

My voter instructions tell me to go to the Penny Room - a small meeting room off the side of the main hall - and check in at the Orange Table, where two ladies sit and check me in. The table is actually covered with an orange vinyl Halloween tablecloth.

Although I know they were registered Republicans, I don't remember my parents voting. This is not to say they didn't - they just didn't share the experience with me. I'm sure Dad voted on the way to work. Mom probably voted while I was in school. I just don't have any memory of them doing so, or even talking about it. And I don't know where they would have gone to vote. I wonder if growing up without being familiar with voting or polling places made me delay my own civic participation until I was well into my 20s.

Even though we can now vote by mail, or vote early, I enjoy voting on election day. I enjoy the sense of anticipation, and the sense of coming together with my neighbors. Today as I stood in line waiting my turn for a booth, someone gently poked me between the shoulder blades.

It was my friend Dorothy Ann. She had her granddaughter with her. Other people in line admired the giant stuffed triceratops she was clutching, tail-first, dragging behind her. The poll workers arranged for a chair for the little girl to sit in while her grandma stood at the Inkavote booth.

Even now, I love getting my "I Voted" sticker - it's like a little reward. Perhaps Dorothy Ann will let her granddaughter wear hers, so she will remember going to the polls with her grandma, when she's 18 and it's her turn.

Reduce plastic consumption

Photo Chris Jordan. Click to "embiggen."

Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean is a giant pile of floating garbage that spins and whirls eternally in the ocean currents that rotate between the equator and 50 degrees North latitude. Debris, including plastics, chemical sludge, and other garbage accumulate on the ocean's surface and are trapped here by the currents that coil around them. Like a clogged kitchen sink full of garbage, the crap breaks into smaller pieces suspended in the water, chunks ranging from large to the size of zooplankton, kept spinning by the rotating currents Oceanographers call a gyre.

Photographer Chris Jordan brings us a chilling Message from the Gyre.

Midway Atoll lies in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It's a small island at the apex of this spiraling patch of crap known as the Great Pacific Garbage patch, which is twice the size of Texas. Midway Atoll was an important air base for the U.S. during World War II.

Midway Atoll is also the home of nearly three million seabirds - black-footed albatross, Laysan albatross, and other seabirds. Seals, dolphins and sea turtles also rely on Midway Atoll for shelter and nourishment.

On Midway's beaches, the plastic washes on the shore daily, and the birds collect them, thinking these bits of pretty pink, white and blue plastic are food. Growing baby birds are voraciously hungry, and mother birds feed the bits to their chicks until they choke and die. The beaches of Midway Atoll are thick with the decomposed remains of plastic-choked albatross chicks whose corpses are stuffed with our bottle caps, plastic lighters, foam peanuts, grocery bags and packaging. As the bodies of the birds decay and disappear, the plastic in their guts remain.

Photographer Chris Jordan has documented this. Look at his photos.

Think about this next time you buy a bottle of Diet Coke. Don't let anyone ever tell you that human beings can't alter the Earth's environment.

Critical care

I was hustling up and down the concrete steps in section 10 of the L.A. Sports Arena, when a man in a Lakers cap said to me, "You oughta stop running around so much and get off that bad knee."

I looked at him. "How'd you know I have a bad knee?" I asked.

"I can tell by looking at you," he said, "'Cause I got one of my own. You got to slow down if you're gonna be doing this all day."

From April 27 through May 3, the Remote Area Medical Clinic is open for business at the Los Angeles Sports Arena - a shabby and venerable old event facility near downtown. A Knoxville, TN based private non-profit medical charity, RAM provides free medical care to thousands of people, at no cost to taxpayers or government.

Here are dental stations where people can get fillings, have teeth extracted, have limited emergency procedures performed, and get their teeth cleaned. People can see pediatricians, have diabetes screening, mammograms, pap smears, and other services. There are eye exam stations and glasses will be made and fitted on site.

According to statistics on the organization's site, 6,349 people were issued wristbands allowing them to receive medical care. Of those, 2,260 people had received care by the end of the day yesterday.

The clinic called upon medical professionals to volunteer their services. They also called for general volunteers to help with line control and helping patients find their way.

The L.A. Sports Arena

Last August, during the height of debate over the proposed health care reform bill, the Remote Area Medical Clinic held a similar event in Inglewood, at the old Forum. The contrast between the virulent rhetoric opposing health care reform and the sight of thousands of Americans lining up to receive health care they couldn't otherwise afford was startling.

What was this monumental and important effort? When I heard that RAM was returning to Los Angeles this spring, I signed up to volunteer.

Non-press cameras were not allowed due to patient privacy so this is my only photo of the event.

My shift began at 5:30 AM. I was sent to the entry area, and assigned as a patient escort.

The patients were admitted starting at 6:00 AM. While most people needed multiple types of care, they were told to prioritize - did they want to see a doctor first or a dentist? Or get an eye exam? We escorted groups of people down a long escalator that led to the lower arena floor, and then directed them to the waiting area for their first priority.

Photo from the Los Angeles Times

The lower arena floor was filled with dozens of giant RVs that served as specialty dental or ophthalmology labs, mammogram stations, eye-glass workshops or other medical labs. Thick electrical cables snaked across the floor to power these trailers up. Curtains or folding screens enclosed spaces where people could have blood drawn for HIV tests. Rows and rows of tables ranged up and down the concrete floor, next to portable dentist chairs. Dental techs in gauzy lemon-colored robes, doctors and nurses in colorful scrubs, and volunteers in our white tee-shirts roamed the floor. Formations of folding red chairs - the waiting areas - teemed with people sitting quietly, resigned to a long wait - they were patients, indeed, in both senses of the word.

For the next couple of hours, I moved quickly. It was easy to pick out patients from volunteers, because they clutched a sheaf of papers colored pink, blue and white.

By 10:00 AM, the waiting areas on the arena floor were full, so overflow waiting areas were set up in the upper concourses of the Arena. People were asked to sit in order of arrival. Volunteer runners would arrive from below to escort groups of ten or twenty down to the floor as space opened up. I was in charge of the overflow Dental Reception area.

This was a little different from my earlier duties - Instead of leaving people within sight of the dentist they had come to see, now I had a crowd that stayed with me for a long time. As the overflow area filled up, people grew increasingly dismayed as they realized how long their wait would be. I had to explain the rules - to keep people in line without cutting, or keep people from getting on one anothers' nerves.

As the wait grew longer, people had to make choices that were sometimes agonizing. Should you wait two hours in Dental to have that aching tooth pulled? Or should you take your child to the pediatrics line first for an immunization, and risk losing the chance to relieve your pain? We triaged people with elevated blood pressure to the Medical area - yet some desperately needed glasses. A caregiver had placed her charge, a mentally retarded woman, in the Dental area while having her own diabetes screening. The lengthy separation had made the dental patient anxious. Volunteers were dispatched to reunite the women.

Some folks couldn't walk the steep concrete stairs of the seating area. We kept a row at the top for those folks, and asked them to use the buddy system to remember their place in line

I got to know people as they remained with me. Some were friendly, others glum. Some were annoyed. Still others were helpful - a lady named "Arlene"* who used a scooter for mobility stationed herself at the top of my stairway and sternly corralled newcomers until I could seat them.

A big guy who looked like trouble didn't want to sit in line with others. He sat off to himself listening to his I-pod, and kept bantering with me as I ran up and down. Finally one of the older ladies asked me for some water, so I asked Mr. Trouble if he would mind going to fetch a glass of water for the lady - after that, he helped direct traffic for me.

Every half hour or so, twenty of my charges were escorted to the lower floor. There were old folks, families with kids, young people. Our Team Leaders expected us to treat everyone with respect - people were "sir" or "ma'am" and when we referred to them they were "gentlemen" or "ladies." We kept families together in rows. We tried to answer questions if we could. We refused to discuss rumors. We pointed out locations of bathrooms. We handed out sandwiches donated by Subway.

The Remote Area Clinic was founded to bring medical care to isolated Third World areas and remote rural areas where medical resources are scarce. Yet as medical costs soar and the number of people without health insurance increase in the United States, the need is just as great in our biggest cities as it is in the headwaters of the Amazon where RAM began. It's a disgrace that people in America have to line up and wait six or more hours so that ten-year-old children can see a dentist for the first time in their lives.

This spring's clinic has its challenges. The number of volunteers are down. One problem is a legal one - the state of California currently does not allow out-of-state practitioners to serve here. Legislation to correct that is pending. But volunteers are critically needed. Because of the lack of volunteers, some people may be turned away, even after waiting so patiently for so many hours.

If you live in Los Angeles, and have some free time between now and May 3, visit the RAM Volunteer Registration website and consider volunteering. If you are a dentist or a dental technician, they need you. If RAM is coming to your city in the upcoming months - consider volunteering. You won't regret it.

The Advil is for my aching feet

I lasted until 1:30 PM before I was urged to take a break - and my aching feet and legs kept me from arguing. On the way down to the lunchroom, I passed the dental area, and there was "Arlene" on her scooter. "How are you doing, did you get checked out?"

She was fine - she'd had her examination and was now waiting for a prescription to be filled. "I want to thank you," I said, "for helping me out up there."

"Oh now, baby, everyone's doing such a good job, it's only right I gotta help out too." Bless you, "Arlene".

*I have edited this to change the lady's name, to protect her privacy.

Earthquake in Haiti

A girl in Port-au-Prince was in tears after the quake. Photo: Tequila Minsky for The New York Times

Neg di san fe.
Bondye fe san di.

People talk and don't act.
God acts and doesn't talk.

- Haitian kweyol proverb

These are our neighbors. Let's work to see that those in peril are rescued. That those who are suffering are comforted.

Sushi surprise

What I'd expected to be a boring, routine evening was transformed by a phone call. Friends offered to treat us to dinner at their favorite sushi restaurant. Could we meet them there at 7:00?

Well, our dinner plans had been to rustle up some leftovers or a frozen chicken pot pie, so it was quite a pleasant surprise. But it complicated things a bit, because our clunker car was in the shop; our mechanic had delivered a grim diagnosis, and we had a decision to make. But - oh well. We decided to keep the rental another day and take our friends up on their invitation.

I drove my own beater car across town, met [The Man I Love] in a central location, and then we carpooled to the restaurant.

We had enjoyed dinner with our friends at this place before. The food is exquisite. The service impeccable. The company was wonderful. On this evening, one gentleman at our table was a celebrated international architect, who told us of his current projects in Europe. The last time we'd been there, while talking to our host I glanced over his shoulder a few times at the blonde woman at a table beyond, and after a few minutes realized it was Reese Witherspoon.

And on that day, the restaurant's staff gave our table more attentive service than hers. Our hosts were more valued customers than a Hollywood movie star.

When the meal was over, I drove my old car home, dents and all. It was 11:00 pm. We were out of milk, coffee, and we hadn't picked up the mail. And how much would that transmission repair cost?

A few years ago, we were standing with another group of business associates after an event, on the sidewalk in front of an L.A. restaurant, waiting at the valet stand. A couple of young guys walked by with flyers, and pressed one into the hand of our dinner companion, a mild-looking elderly gentleman. "Come hear our band!" they said, "We're playing a gig this weekend!" They were full of enthusiasm and optimism. "Our manager says a guy from a major record label is gonna be there!"

We wished them luck, as they moved down the street. Our friend smiled. He knew a little bit about the music business. Before he retired, he was CEO of one of the largest record companies in the world.

And this is the kind of cognitive dissonance that every day seems to bring. Last week at work I was asked to analyze the comparative cost of toilet tissue my company purchases from various vendors. Later that same day, I stood in a Beverly Hills restaurant, chatting with a venerable sex symbol movie star (yes, he still has the sizzle.) At work I eat microwaved ramen noodles or hot dogs at my desk. Then later I'm sipping rare imported sake with an afficionado.

In these settings I'm rarely the center of attention. Often, I hardly speak; usually I just listen while the people talk at me, over me, around me. I don't take offense - I listen. It's fascinating. I could be a character in a spy novel. Mild-mannered middle-aged lady with jujitsu powers, a hidden past, and un-exploited connections. (except for dinner - ha ha ha )

Sometimes it's brought home to me that I'm not the only one experiencing this dissonance. One evening I nibbled hors d'ouevres at Spago, and chatted with film and theatre artists. They were from the former Yugoslavia, and just a few years ago had gone through a war I could hardly imagine.

We all live with trouble and with blessings. Tribulations and unique experiences. Bureaucratic tedium and brushes with creative genius. It also comes with opportunity - and the thing that brings you out into the big world. There are so many days when I think how lucky I am, or when I wonder whether, as a kid growing up in an Ohio suburb, or in the days when I scuffled for work in New York City, I would ever have imagined myself in these scenarios.

It's a reminder how mobile American society is. It's also a reminder that the only way to expand your own horizon is to reach outward - or, at least, to walk through the doors that open to you. And - as my new Yugoslavian friends remind me - there may come a day when your comfortable world splits apart, and your life changes in the other direction. When the glitter turns to grit.

But mostly, it's a reminder not to forget what you left behind. Is there a doorway you're not exploring? Are you playing it too safe? Is there something that intrigues you, that you're afraid to explore? What could you experience if, instead of driving by that sight that piques your interest, you took a turn around the block, found a parking place, and went in to check it out?

Then expand it outward. It's not just about places - it's about people. If you can move beyond your origin, so can anyone else. So look around yourself. If you don't think you can explore for your own, how about helping someone else do it instead? Is there a person you're taking for granted? Someone who needs more motivation? Is there a kid who's got an idea that first looks foolish, but might end up taking hold?

I'm not talking about philanthropy right now, but in fact, the reason we know our friends, who treated us to sushi, is because of their philanthropic efforts. They did not come from rich or privileged origins. They worked hard, and now, they are giving back. Perhaps it's because even after they were successful, they were able to remember what it was like to struggle. They are an inspiration for us to follow - but even if you don't end up as successful as they are - take their example.

What do you think?

Allaho Akbar

Love/Eshgh by A1one, Iranian calligrapher/graffiti artist

In Iran, the government is cracking down on communication, making it hard for people to get news out of the country, or to communicate with one another inside the country.

One of the most haunting and beautiful things about the uprising is the spontaneous calls made by people from the rooftops of Tehran by night:



In another video also on Huffington Post, a woman speaks. Translated, she is saying: "They can take away our phones, our internet, all our communication, but we are showing by saying Allaho Akbar that we can find each other."

Allaho Akbar means "God is great." People are shouting from their rooftops three times each night - at 10:00, 11:00 and midnight.

You can learn more about the calligrapher who created the extraordinary image that heads this post by going HERE to his blog, http://Tehranwalls.blogspot.com.

Carne Asada is not a crime

Listen up people! Tonight is Taco Truck Night. Go visit one of L.A's best known traditions, and show your support! To find a good truck, you can go here, or here.

Be sure to sign the petition at http://www.saveourtacotrucks.org/