Do-Gooding 101

The Saturday morning AA meeting I go to is filled all types of people: There’s everything from hardcore addicts, living on the streets, to affluent, well-spoken CEO’s. This morning, a tough looking guy is sharing a bit of his story: “I’m going to classes,” he says, in a thick Brooklyn accent. “I even made the Dean’s List. But here I am still on the streets. I get paid on Tuesday and if I can make it to then, I can move into a place of my own.”

The imposing appearance of the guy, and his deep, scratchy voice, contrast the vulnerable manner in which he speaks. I’m stirred by it. After the meeting I approach him and hand him a few bills. “Hey man,” I say, “I really appreciate what you’re trying to accomplish. Tell you what – I know you don’t know me, but my wife and kids are out of town for a few days, and if you need a couch to crash on, just let me know.” He whips out a little booklet and I write my phone number down.

Almost immediately after the words come out of my mouth, I start regretting the offer. That was impulsive. Maybe even risky. But it’s out there, and I’ll do it if he takes me up on it. He probably won’t anyway. For the rest of the day I’m hoping the guy won’t call. I start thinking of excuses I could give him why I can’t follow through. I’ll say the wife said no. I’ll just be honest and say I’m not comfortable with it. I’ll say some other guys in The Program advised me not to.

I think back, about a friend of mine in Atlanta, who was once similarly moved, and brought a homeless guy in to live with his family for a few weeks. They extended him every generosity, treated him like one of the family, and even admitted him into a drug rehab center. Eventually, the guy simply skipped out on them; but I remember telling my friend that I thought it was a reckless move, especially with little girls in the house. And here I am doing practically the same thing. Damn, I hope the guy doesn’t call.

He calls around four o’ clock. I tell him – let’s call him Alex – I’ll pick him up at Pike’s Place around six o’ clock. I call David, my nineteen-year-old son, and let him know we’ll be having a guest spend the night.

Before I leave to get Alex, I take all the computers and electronics out of the main living area and put them up. Why needlessly tempt the guy? I also put away any papers that might have personal information on them, along with all extra sets of car keys.

I pick Alex up from Pike’s Place. Driving back to my house, he starts letting little bits of information loose. “I couldn’t get that job because I’ve got a felony,” he says. Oh, that’s great. I figure the best way to handle the news is with nonchalance, and I don’t ask him what the felony was for. But my imagination starts running wild.

We stop along the way, and pick up a sandwich for Alex. I take a longer, indirect route home to make it more difficult to retrace. When we finally arrive, Alex says, “Man, this is a nice house.” I fight the urge to be apologetic about having a house and just say thanks.

Alex eats his sandwich and tells fragments of his story. From what I can make out, he grew up in New York and quit school, his senior year, to be a roofer. That set him on a negative trajectory, which kept him working menial jobs and bouncing around – Florida, the Midwest, and California. He regrets quitting school and ever getting mixed up with drugs.

David comes home from work and introduces himself to our guest. Alex talks for a while, and David and I listen. I study what must be a prison tattoo, of a flower, on Alex’s forearm. It, along with his piercing stare, leathery skin and shaved head give him a sinister air; but I try not to dwell on it. I’m a big guy, and I can take care of myself. But I imagine guys in prison are used to taking risks that fighters at the gym, where I train, aren’t used to. Guys with nothing to lose are dangerous. More doubt creeps into my mind.

Alex talks proudly about his brother who’s a successful corporate guy; but many of his other family members also succumbed to drugs. One cousin’s a Meth addict; an uncle’s into heroine; someone else got sent away for trafficking cocaine. I wonder how a person can get out of a system where there’s such heavy drug abuse. Alex says it’s hard, but not impossible.

We both talk about the economy and how it’s affected everyone – how there’s not enough work to go around anymore. I tell him that my industry is in decline and that I peaked a few years back. I feel like bitching about my own financial woes but it would just sound stupid and sniveling to a man whose only worldly possessions are contained in a small plastic grocery bag.

After a while we put on a movie. It’s a Quentin Tarantino flick about grifters and smuggling. Every now and then, Alex take’s a cue from the movie and says things like: “That reminds me of this guy I know who would dress up like a businessman, go into office buildings and steal everything from petty cash to computers;” or, “I know this one guy who stole an industrial generator and sold it for $50,000;” or, “I know this guy who robbed a bank.” My takeaway from all these statements is: Alex knows an awful lot of thieves. I can only guess, by association, that he might be one too.

When the movie’s over, it’s totally dark outside. Our house is well lit and we don’t have any curtains drawn; so the darkness shouldn’t really make a difference. But it does. I’m suddenly more wary of Alex. I tell him I’m going to call it a night and I start locking everything up for the evening.

I keep all the lights on. I go into David’s room and leave one of our dogs with him. I tell him to lock his door. I take our other dog to my bedroom and lock my door behind me.

I can’t get to sleep. Not so much as a wink. I lie in bed wearing all my clothes, and a baseball bat is within reach on the pillow next to me. I keep a small light on. Every noise I hear – every shuffle or the slightest cough – I sit up, and see if sounds of a struggle are coming from David’s room. What was that? Was that the turning of a bedroom handle? Was that the gurgling sound of David being strangled? Or, was it just the dog, scratching? It was the dog. Phew!

In the morning, I’m out of bed and in the kitchen around seven. Alex is up and having a hand-rolled cigarette out back. I fix us both eggs and sausage.

After we eat, I offer Alex provisions for the road and he takes a water and a grape soda with him. I speed downtown like a stunt-driver and I’m in good spirits. This plane’s coming in for a landing. But I’m not out of this yet. I’m still half paranoid that something weird, like a hijacking, might happen: you hear stories.

I stop the car in front of Pike’s Place. Alex is grateful. When he gets out, we shake hands. He looks me in the eye and gives me a sincere, “Thanks brother.” I like it when he says this, and I think: Yes. Right now, at this moment, we are indeed brothers and I’m glad to have been able to do you a small kindness.

Driving back home, I’m utterly relieved. Except for a small, nagging worry, in the back of my mind, that now a homeless drifter and ex-convict knows where I live. Deep down, though, I don’t think I really need to worry about Alex. I think he’s just a guy who’s had a lot more setbacks than I have.

Here’s the thing: All my anxiety has been about something I’m supposed to do; and not just once in a while. I’m supposed to help people.

This big, black book, I keep in my night stand, uses some rather forceful language about helping orphans, caring for the sick, visiting prisoners, and being a general benefit to those who are forgotten and in need. It doesn’t list these things as optional. It wildly asserts that it’s my obligation to help others even if it means inconveniencing myself, being uncomfortable, or taking risks. It claims that I should be bold and somehow fearless in the pursuit of compassion.

Do I do that? Not so much. I rarely extend myself in the aid of others and that’s one of the things that makes me more of a church-goer than a church-doer. The fact that I’m even mentioning all this reinforces how unusual altruism is for me.

But I liked it. And I’d like to get better at it.

Next time, though, I think I’d probably get someone a hotel room instead.

BP CEO, Tony Hayward, and The Importance of Being British.

Listening to BP’s CEO, Tony Hayward, offer his apology for soiling the Gulf of Mexico, made me wish, once again, that I was born British.

The first time I felt that way was back in 1995 when I saw actor Hugh Grant, apologize on J. Leno for his well publicized infidelity with a prostitute. Hugh skillfully applied a public-relations policy the military calls: Maximum Exposure, Minimal Delay. Instead of hiding from what he did, he went on national television, the week it happened, and said, “I think you know, in life, what's a good thing to do and what's a bad thing; and I did a bad thing… and there you have it."

Sure, Hugh had some things going for him. He was handsome. He also appeared genuinely contrite. But what really made everyone want to say, “Aw, don’t worry about it, Hugh; what’s a crack-whore between friends,” was the British accent. Seriously. Try saying, “I did a bad thing… and there you have it," with a Brooklyn accent. It just doesn’t fly.

Now the same thing is happening with Tony Hayward. In BP’s television ads, he’s puppy-dog-sad as he addresses the camera. “The gulf spill is a tragedy,” he says, softly, “that never should have happened…To those effected and your families, I’m deeply sorry.” How can I be mad at the little guy? He looks and sounds like Frodo from The Lord of The Rings. My first reaction is compassion. What I want to do is give him a hug. Then the voice of reason, from deep inside me, yells, “Wait a second! Wait a second! This guy’s a total, A-Hole!”

I guarantee if Tony were, say, a Texas oil-man, speaking with a thick Southern drawl, his head would’ve been on a pike weeks ago. But, since we’ve been conditioned, over years, through countless movies, to associate a British accent with honor, trustworthiness, and intelligence, Tony gets his pass.

To the American ear, even a British retard sounds suave. This makes the accent practically a superpower, like atomic energy, which can be harnessed and used for good or evil. If you don’t believe me, try this experiment: Next time you’re hanging out with a British guy, have him approach a group of attractive women and say, “Pardon me, ladies, I just pooped my pants.” See if he doesn’t go home with one of them.

It’s dangerous to watch Tony Hayward on television. If you do, beware: He’ll speak English the way it ought to be spoken; and next thing you know, you might feel linguistically inferior. Then you might assume it’s best to shut up and listen; let the expert of our language show you how it’s done. Once that happens, it’s too late; you’re open to his persuasion. You won’t know why, but you’ll find yourself saying: “Thanks for the $20 billion, Tony. What’s The Gulf of Mexico between friends.”

The Strongest Finger In America

I'm experiencing post-traumatic flashbacks from my first full-medical-checkup, this morning.

Before the doctor shows me who's boss, I warn him: “I might break your finger if I accidentally clench-up.”

“Are you kidding me?” he says, displaying his pointer. “This is the strongest finger in America. Do your worst.”

The doctor isn’t lying: His finger is quite powerful. Or perhaps he’s substituted a plunger-handle, as a practical joke, when I wasn’t looking.

As he’s violating me, it seems like the doctor’s taking a long time and I ask him if he’s misplaced his car keys up there. The doctor says no and that my prostate’s in good shape.

Removing his glove, he flatly says, “Never go to prison.” I tell him I surely won’t. What an unexpected bonus this is: Not only do I learn about my health, today; I also get a valuable anti-crime lesson!

Taking my rape-shower, back at home, I crouch in the fetal position and gently rock myself back and forth; sobbing quietly.

To my gay friends out there, I’ve got to say: Gentlemen, I salute you. If that’s pleasurable, then you dudes are - for sure - the absolutely toughest bastards on the planet. Not only should you guys be allowed in the military, I think we need to start an all-gay armed force. With your obviously high threshold for pain and stunning fashion sense, you guys would be unstoppable.

Consider The Rap Music Crisis Officially Solved.

Critics of Rap music have been suggesting, for some time, that it’s gone soft: “Lost it’s teeth,” they lament. “Sold out.” While it used to be the voice of the counter-culture, now songs from former bad-asses, like 50 Cent, are being used to sell tampons.


Indeed, the appeal of Rap has grown so broad it’s become vanilla; but, I dare say, it’s not too late to recapture the genre’s original rebellious spirit. In fact, if I were given 6 months and a million dollars, I could save Rap Music: By starting the first ever Hip Hop label for Senior Citizens.

WHY THEM?
What’s lacking in Rap is authenticity. Young rappers pretend to act like gangsters in hopes of gaining street-cred; but what do these kids truly know about being hardcore? Old farts, on the other hand, are the real deal. Take Cal Wallace, a 73-year-old Vietnam Vet living in Seattle: “Kanye West’s a big, fat, giant pussy if you ask me. Oh, he grew up on the rough streets of Chicago, did he? Try being 19-years-old, knee deep in a rice patty, shoving your buddy’s intestines back into his abdominal cavity after he’s been turned inside-out by a mortar. Not ‘street’ enough for you? I once infiltrated an underground command post – filled with 23 Viet Cong – and took them all out, using just a rusted pistol and a commando knife. Trust me, Kanye West doesn’t know shit about the Thug Life. His punk-ass wouldn’t last five seconds in the jungle.”


WHAT ABOUT THEIR MATERIAL?
When you think about it, who has more justifiable discontent to write about than Senior Citizens? With their bodies in a state of irreversible decay and the threat of death imminent, their frustration is rich artistic territory. For instance: Raisin-faced, Leonard B. Callis, 83, of Atlanta, Georgia, hadn’t had a decent erection in over fifteen years. His resulting dissatisfaction inspired the now famous poem Yo, Why My Dick So Soft. Imagine if Leonard could breathe his wisdom into a broader audience by combining his prose with a really sick beat. With their own record label, Seniors would be able to impart compelling insights through songs such as: Damn, I Shit Myself Again, or Bitch, Get Me My Jello, or As I Stand On The Precipice Of The Great Abyss, I Realize My Life Was Completely Meaningless.

WOULD THEY KEEP IT REAL?
Young rappers are self-conscious and worried about their image; both of which cloud their ability to be honest. Because old people are free of the desires to look cool or get laid, they’re able to give us unfiltered, culture-changing Truth. If old men were worried about appearances, would they wear black socks with sandals? No. They do it because they don’t give a rat’s ass what other people think about them -- that’s exactly the kind of unflinching boldness needed to save Rap.


WOULD THEY BE PROFITABLE?
From the fiscal standpoint, a geriatric Hip-Hop label makes total sense. Right now, there are around 40,000,000 old folks out there that don’t listen to Rap. That’s money in the bank when this thing catches on. As an added bonus, some Seniors might even forget they purchased our records and turn into repeat customers!

HOW WOULD I DO IT?
Easy. Since old people are usually bored to tears watching television and waiting to die, they’d probably jump at the chance to learn some new things! With nothing better to do, they could spend as much time as needed in the studio, honing their technique. Since rhyming requires only rudimentary verbal skills, the learning curve wouldn’t be too bad, anyway! Our elderly performers would be up and running in no time!

LET’S DO THIS.
I would hate to see Rap continue to lose its way. But, if we act quickly and deliberately, by letting Senior Citizens take the lead, we can guarantee it’s relevance for generations to come.