It's just another day dee-de-dee

The cellblock got real quiet after the tear gas dispersed like some kind of phantasmagorical vapor.
Just before the bars of my cell had clanged shut, 702 had squeezed through and now sat on the floor near the cell door.
702 was 19 years old, but he’d seen a lifetime of incarceration already, having graduated from years of juvenile detention centers and emerging into the adult population.
He lit up a crooked hand rolled cigarette and asked, “What’re you locked, up for Blackburn?”
702 was the kind of kid you never really met in the “real world”, incredibly intelligent but completely uneducated.
He was quiet and intense, handsome, in a furtive sort of way.
“It’s a long story, Seven, let’s just say, I made some enemies amongst state officials. Petty bureaucrats with more power than they can handle.”
“Yeah, but what did you do, is my question.”
“Nothing illegal, Seven. I’m innocent.”
He looked at me through heavy lidded eyes, “I think you’re a con man.”
I didn’t laugh out loud but I smiled inwardly.
Guards were filing in through the front of the cellblock, wearing riot gear and carrying a panoply of weapons.
Zimmerman was the lieutenant.
He stood in front of the tightly bunched group of correction officers.
He was calm and efficient, an anomaly in this setting.
His eyes swept the cellblock and he said, “Gentlemen, you are now on lockdown.”
Moaning and cursing reverberated through the block, echoing like a jet roar through a mountain canyon.
He wiped his brow with a black-gloved hand and continued. “There has been a fight, I need to know who was involved.
Until that issue is resolved, lockdown will be in effect. That means no rec room, no smoking.”
702 reached into his waistband, pulled out a Bic and lit another cigarette.
Zimmerman paced back and forth, like a large house cat, “Anyone want to tell me who was fighting?”
Someone shouted from further down the row of cells, “Yeah, anyone wanna snitch? Step forward!”
Another voice yelled out, “it was the new guys! The new fish! Roll’em out!”
Another party was heard from, “Get the Fuck outta here!”
Inmates began shouting throughout the block; the metallic rattling of fifty sets of cell doors gave an unsyncopated rhythm to the uproar.
“Hey, Blackburn,” said 702, “I got some dope, you wanna get high?”
“Maybe later, Seven Oh Two, thanks.”
I cracked the hot-water tap on my sink and filled a cup.
“You want some coffee, Seven?” I asked.
“No, thanks, Man, I don’t drink coffee.”
“How unusual.” I commented as I spooned in a teaspoon of instant from a bag, added some sugar and stirred the mixture before swallowing the coffee in one long gulp.
The brew helped to clear the taste of tear gas from my mouth and throat.
Zimmerman was coming upstairs, his soft- soled shoes noiseless on the concrete stairway.
He peered through the bars at 702.
“What are you doing in here Roberts?”
702 smiled, “I didn’t have time to get to my house when you locked us down.”
“Unlock 19 and 17!” Shouted Zimmerman in the direction of the control room.
“Go back to your cell, Roberts.” Then to me, “You been fighting today, Blackburn?”
I chuckled. “I’m an old man, Sir. Would I be fighting?”
Zimmerman laughed good-naturedly, “I’ve known some pretty crazy old men here, Mike.”
“I’m not one of them, Sir.”
“Then why are you here?”
I pondered the question. “Because I’m crazy.”
He laughed again and walked down the freeway.

It could be you..or me

United States Homeless Statistics


From the National Coalition for the Homeless:

Poverty, Urban Institute and specifically the National Survey of Homeless Assistance Providers, draw their estimates from a study of service providers across the country at two different times of the year in 1996.
They found that, on a given night in October, 444,000 people (in 346,000 households) experienced homelessness - which translates to 6.3% of the population of people living in poverty. On a given night in February, 842,000 (in 637,000 households) experienced homelessness - which translates to almost 10% of the population of people living in poverty.
Converting these estimates into an annual projection, the numbers that emerge are 2.3 million people (based on the October estimate) and 3.5 million people (based on the February estimate).This translates to approximately 1% of the U.S. population experiencing homelessness each year, 38% (October) to 39% (February) of them being children (Urban Institute 2000).
It is also important to note that this study was based on a national survey of service providers. Since not all people experiencing homelessness utilize service providers, the actual numbers of people experiencing homelessness are likely higher than those found in the study, Thus, we are estimating on the high end of the study's numbers: 3.5 million people, 39% of which are children(Urban Institute 2000).

Walking With Mary

If the story below seems familiar it's becuase I ran it on Michaelblackburn.org.
I'm running it here for old time's sake.

circa 1967
I’m walking Mary Ann home.
My heart is pounding away in my chest.
I’ve got to be cool, I think to myself, I’ve got to be like Paul Newman.
“You lived around here long?” I ask, struggling to make conversation.
She’s looking ahead ,“I lived in Thousand Oaks for a while.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that like?”
“Oh, lot’s of rich kids.” We turn the corner onto Alvarado street.
She turns her head three quarters of the way toward me and I look into her eyes, they seem so huge, she smiles.
“Kurt Russell went to school at the same school that I did.”
I light up a cigarette and offer her one, she touches my hand as she takes it.
She cups her hands to light up in the mild spring breeze, I cup her hands with mine, I try to look in her eyes, but she’s concentrating on the smoke.

I’m thinking of the dream I’d had the night after I first met her.
In the dream we are walking hand in hand, in the forest of the San Bernardino Mountains,
She’s standing in a glade, her face is golden, glowing, she’s wearing a white ruffled blouse, with ruffles at the sleeve.
She’s gesturing, she’s beckoning
Then we’re on the beach, Santa Monica, black clouds roll , the sea is dark green and seems to rise to fill the horizon, the sand is gold, it’s soft, she leans toward me, her lips part…
Then I woke up.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, Jesus Christ, I thought, what the Hell was that all about?

I leave the reverie and look at Mary Ann.
“Hey, you gotta walk on the inside, OK?”
She steps in front of me, smiling.
“Why?”
I think about it.
“Well, if the girl walks on the street side, everyone thinks she’s a prostitute.”
She laughes, it sounds like chimes, those real thin one’s you see on rich people’s porches.
“So you think someone might think I’m a hooker, eh?”
“It isn’t that. I just don’t want anyone to think I’m a pimp.”
She runs a hand across my chin, “you don’t even shave yet. No one’s going to think you’re a pimp.”
I blush, “I shave. I just shave real close.”
She looks serious for a moment. “I like your face; it’s just like a girl’s.”
I’m insulted and scowling.
I walk her to her door and she says, “Come on in.”
The floor is hardwood..
The place doesn’t look like they have a full time maid, but it’s clean.
Edna, her mother, is sipping a beer and sort of watching TV.
She looks me up and down, heavy lidded, bedroom eyes, I swear to God.
I figure she’s about 34, she’s a little plump, but she still looks pretty good.
She bears a remarkable resemblance to Ann Margaret, a popular actress.
“What’s your name?” she says looking over her shoulder.
“Michael, Ma’am.” I reply, hoping to sound like the kind of boy she’d push her daughter to hang out with.
“How old are you, Michael?”
“I’m seventeen, Mrs Monterosso.”
“You look younger. It’s delightful to meet you Michael.” She says and makes sort of a bow and a flourish, using the glass in her hand like a scepter.
There’s a basinet next to her, I walk over and look inside.
“What’s her name?”
Mary walks to my side and puts her face beside mine “Linda Monterosso.”
She reaches into the basinet and scoops the kid out “She’s 3months old.”
She nuzzles her face against the baby.
“Well, I gotta go.” I say, self-consciously.
“Thanks for walking me home,” Says Mary.
“It was a pleasure” I say, a little too emphatically, but no one seems to notice.
I feel completely weightless on the way to the park
Mary Ann, Mary Ann, I’m thinking.
I approach Macarthur Park and Dennis and Eddie are coming towards me.
It’s a weekend, and the park is somewhat crowded.
I throw my arms around Dennis and Eddie grandly, benevolently; I love these two guys, even though I’m hoping to wind up with Eddie’s girl.
We walk through the colonade on the Alvarado side of the park and enter the boathouse.
All the races and nationalities in the world come through this park, and some drift through the boathouse scene.
Some hang out for a while, or month or two, some for years.
Maureen is Mary Ann’s best friend, and they come here from time to time.
Everyone had fights here.
Mary Ann had a fight in this park, for Christ’s sake.
“So Eddie, ” I start, “Mary Ann’s your girlfriend or what?”
“Whatta ya always asking questions about Mary for, Mike?”
“I don’t know man, just trying to make conversation. What’s she like?”
“She’s the Virgin Mary, man”
I blink, “What?”
“She don’t play around. So forget about her, anyway, you ain’t her type.
Ya got me?”
He asks as he “playfully” punches me in the shoulder.
“Yeah, Eddie, sure, not her type. Got ya, Man.”
I had to get home and talk to Maureen, see what kind of impression I was making on Mary, if any.
I made my excuses and shot over to our apartment.
It was a stucco duplex near Sunset Blvd, I hurried inside and entered Maureen’s room, closing the door behind me.
Maureen had a funny kind of grin at the corner of her mouth.

To Be Continued

Shabbat Shalom

It's Friday, the Sabbath.
Have a good weekend everyone.!