LAX CONFIDENTIAL: "Living Room"

Unseen, but not unnoticed.

The second in a series.



July, 2005

(1:42 a.m.)...

Lot 7 is quiet. The cue of black Towne Cars that once lined the far wall has been replaced by a shiny strew of Smarte Carts, empty and tossed at odd angles, abandoned. Each one is a lingering reminder of the last cheap, black suit who used it — a three dollar rental dripping with the three dollar stench of salt air and palm sweat and Drakkar Noir.

I park, head in, against the same concrete foundation, a few short steps from the tower of stairs that looms over United Airlines. Inside the Terminal, one last lost parcel waits for me, invisible, even in the face of so many pairs of searching eyes.

I lock my car against the closeness of the moist night air. Against the dark reminder that these walls house more than cars, just as the ground on which they stand is more than just the lines painted upon it. The unmistakable smell — the sweet-hot smell of Type-1 diabetic urine — rising to my nose from the dark patch of soft asphalt underneath my tire, reminds me that I am merely a guest in another man’s home — a tourist, just passing through some unseen someone’s dirty mansion — on my way to somewhere else.

(1:48 a.m.)...

That was easy.

Tucked against the “over-sized” luggage belt was my missing parcel — alone, and obvious, in the empty halls of the Terminal. As I grab my phone to call it in I think,

“How many people didn’t see this here?”

How many...?

Back outside, distant in the quiet of another silent night, a sound — familiar as it echoes in the fog of another graveyard run. The wobbling, scrapping sound of a single shopping cart, fading as it pushes east toward Sepulveda, out of sight — but not out of mind.

I pass through his living room on the way to my car.

Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday

LAX CONFIDENTIAL: "Fog and Darkness"

Is the future just an echo of your past?

The first in a series.



Today...

(90277)

Fog and darkness arrive together, the setting sun hid by dripping, pale gray air. And with it, the one-way, bump-and-go of ten thousand cars, marks the end of another day. I float the other way, free. Free like a dead fish downstream toward gathering rapids, speeding without thought.

Artesia... Rosecrans... Imperial...

Planes descend before me like giants falling from the sky. My windows down, I turn to face them. Overhead they scream — every day the same.

The city, shut tight against the penetrating shroud of encroaching night. A million souls, and more, wrapped in a cold blanket of hope — all settled till the morning.

Except for me.

At times like these, I feel I’ve done this all my life.
Until the whole landscape of your existence shifts, then crumbles, then sinks out of sight; cherished memories become washed out ghosts, fading in and out, as you make your way along once-familiar paths.

I’m sure I lived another life before the one I’m living now. Far away; a recurring childhood dream that, with the passing of years, no longer controls the night—where time and place sparks a brief remembrance of what once was.

Only to forget.

Whatever I was, I am that no longer. And whatever I’ve become, I know will fade as quick in the minds of those whose eyes catch mine, like the faded markers of a life that’s passed are come and gone.

As they are for me, I will become for them — the shadow of their passage through this place, where memory fades and belief gives way to the certainty of doubt.

397 days earlier...

(90045)

8:23... The smell of burning diesel is fresh in the air. One car, at war with a yard full of fifty-three foot monsters. Horns blare — monster versus monster — angry voices challenge for their place in the hierarchy of the night. I fly under the radar of give-a-shit, wanting only to be left alone. Just do my job, then quickly fade away.

8:29... Cargo fully loaded. Clock ticking. Deadline now. I weave between the monsters, each one oddly staggered like a meth cook’s teeth, all in a crooked row. Through the rattling iron gate, onto the waiting street.

And green lights, as far as the eye can see.

8:34... One minute to go. Lock-out in 59... 58... 57. No cops. Hard right. Swerve. Roll the stop... down the ramp... pop the lid. Throw, throw, throw — three bags, four bags, five. Stack ’em. One skid, two.

33... 32... 31.

Up the ladder, running.

The office — no line.

12... 11... 10.

The counter.

05... 04... 03... Call it in — POD.

Reload.

Seventy-two minutes later...

(90045)

9:47... Terminal 7. I walk beneath the canopy of signs and speakers. Floating above me, the voice of Peter Coyote informs the collective unconscious of weary travelers,

“The white curb is for loading and unloading
of passengers only. No
parking; No waiting.
Unattended vehicles will be sighted and
towed.”

9:49... I check with United SPD about the status of flight 715 out of Denver.

Delayed.

9:52... I stand just outside the crush of Carousel #1, killing time, waiting for my parcel to drop. Off in the distance, at the bottom of the descending escalator, stands a grove of out-of-work actors in cheap, black suits — now existing as limo drivers with faces in need of more Botox, all still hoping for their one big break. They hold hand-scrawled signs with names drawn awkwardly in Magic Marker — none famous — just another bad tipper with heavy bags and noisy kids.

Waiting.

10:01... All at once, without warning — somewhere between Carousel #1 and the back door — a surprise encounter. It begins with a glance, a one-way flash of recognition, of the famous by the anonymous. And with it, a single, unvarnished truth that transcends all my two-dimensional memories of the 1990’s right in front of me.

Rail thin, with a face too pale to have just gotten off a plane from Maui. Power-walking, acne scarred TV royalty, ten strides ahead of husband, and nanny, and child.

And I am left with only one thought, screaming in my brain,

“Courteney Cox looks like hell!”

To be continued...

Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday

FIGHT gONe!

Some stunning commentary in the wake of USC's worst home loss ever.

Los Angeles (ground zero).

Today marked the end of the Pete Carroll era in L.A.

Let me say that again. On Saturday, November 14, 2009, on the floor of the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, The Pete Carroll Era is over.

Just a few observations in the wake of USC's 55-21 emasculation at the hands of the Stanford Cardinal.

OBSERVATION #1: There's a (bunch of) new bully(s) in town.

USC, the bully on the block of college football since 2002, just got ass-whupped by a group of young men for whom pocket protectors are a frat party fashion accessory. While parity in the NCAA has reared its ugly head more and more often in recent years (just ask Notre Dame), not since the year 2000 have the Trojans had to look themselves in the mirror and see Steve Urkel staring back at them.

Once feared - always respected - on this day, in the waning minutes of this precursor of the end of the Mayan calendar, Stanford defensive back Richard Sherman (Compton Dominguez HS) looked into a sideline camera and uttered, "Fight on USC, fight on... look at your crowd leaving..." as he and a teammate mockingly made the Trojan's "fight on" victory gesture.

On this day, the bully went home with two black eyes, and a locker room full of badly bruised egos.

And after "bad" losses to former PAC 10 doormats Washington and Stanford, and new conference power Oregon (with UCLA two weeks away), the tagging is already on the wall.

OBSERVATION #2: That hot chick you took to the prom may turn out to be Rupaul in disguise.

At the height of what was once The Pete Carroll Era, the coach used to ask a rhetorical question of anyone who would listen, a rhetorical question (more often than even a Stanford math major could count) that went something like this: "Why would I want to go to the NFL (more on that in OBSERVATION #3) when I can recruit first-round draft choices at every position?"

Those days are over.

Move over All-World tailback Joe McKnight. Meet Academic All-America tailback Toby Gerhart. In 2006, Gerhart (Norco HS) turned down an offer from USC to play outside linebacker for the two-time BCS Champion Trojans. At the time, USC had pedigreed ball carriers piled up at the entrance to Howard Jones Field almost as high as the number of Heisman statues it has piled up inside Heritage Hall. And everyone knows the world of college football is littered with 18-year-olds who never lived up to all their hometown high school hype.

So Toby Gerhart heads to conference doormat Stanford and the rest is (Trojan) history.

As of tonight, Gerhart is 3rd in the nation in rushing yards, and 1st in number of academic units carried this semester by a running back who just left cleat marks on the backs of what used to be the best defense in college football. This semester, the USC reject carried as many Big Brain Academy course units - 21 - as the Little Men of Troy scored against the enormous frontal lobes of the Cardinal defense. And he looked a lot better doing it than an SC offense that can now boast of more All-America Football impersonators than Marilyn Monroe impersonators at Hollywood and Highland.

Joe McKnight, Allen Bradford, and all the rest of the cast at tailback have been exposed for the frauds they are. And for that matter, the entire offensive playbook since the days when old coordinator Norm Chow and the head coach ended their manly pissing contest, and Chow left for Nashville.

And Pete Carroll and all the rest of his recruiting staff have been exposed for a consistent, glaring inability to pick the right date for the prom.

OBSERVATION #3: That wasn’t just a debacle Pete. That was your Golden Ticket.

Pete Carroll has been waiting for this moment his entire life.

Since being better known as the last coach the New England Patriots will ever fire (because Bill Belichick will be the head coach until that pesky Mayan calendar runs out), Carroll was only Athletic Director Mike Garrett's fifth choice for the vacant head coaching position. Two National Championships later and the flood of persistent rumors about The Prince of the City taking another shot at NFL immortality would not stop coming. Coach Carroll was said to have turned down offer after offer, year after year. Rumor had it that he was just waiting for that one perfect opportunity, that one Golden Ticket - autonomy, authority, the final say - all the power he's enjoyed around University Park, but on the biggest stage. The next big offer will always be there. I mean, he is PETE CARROLL. But the next big reason to take it sometimes only comes along once, and this is it. The whole world (Pete's world) has spent the last 5 years playing catch-up with the USC football program.

Mission accomplished.

Because when Stanford hands you lemons, you take that phone call from the San Diego Chargers.

And no one will remember that you, your team, your school, your fans, and all your living room recruiting cred were blasted all to hell on one sun splashed Saturday Homecoming in November.

Grab that Golden Ticket and make your way as fast as you can (after you lose to that other USC, the University of South Carolina) in the Florida Citrus Bowl) down the 5 Freeway to San Diego, or LAX for a flight to Tennessee, or Cleveland, or... oh, who am I kidding, the Chargers are going to hand you the keys to Sea World, Qualcomm Stadium, and most of La Jolla when the clock strikes midnight on January 2nd, 2010.

And what about the once-mighty USC football program? Maybe after Pete Carroll is out of the way, this town might actually get the one thing it truly needs most…

A real live, honest-to-goodness, bottom-feeding, 2-14, NFL expansion franchise to numb the pain of the fading memories of the glory that once was.

C’mon Pete. All you have to do is grab that Golden Ticket...

Copyright © 2009 Bill Friday

Whispers... Believed

Lies... softly spoken. A poem... with disclaimer*.

Brains on the bathroom floor
Gloating
Consciousness above me
Floating
Despair at life unlived
Responsibility relieved
Bucket made of bone
A sieve
Whispers of all doubt
Believed.

This poem is a companion piece for the article "With This Muse You Lose", which first appeared on Broowaha.com on March 28, 2007. This poem was written on March 21, 2009. Obviously, for the author, March is not a very good month.

* DISCLAIMER: Bill Friday does not endorse suicide as a "solution" to the problems of this life. This disclaimer should be read, and strongly taken into consideration (possibly with the counsel of a mental health professional).

Copyright © 2009 Bill Friday

ROXANA SABERI: The Face Of Citizen Journalism

Author's Note: The following article originally appeared on the website BrooWaha.com. Several references herein refer to work by writers on that site, and the idea that the content and mission of BrooWaha and its contributors is, or is closely linked to, the concept of what has been referred to as "Citizen Journalism".

All editorial license taken in this article with regard to the mission and content of BrooWaha is mine.

Roxana Saberi is a Citizen Journalist.

THE FACE OF CITIZEN JOURNALISM: What it is.

On April 18th it was announced that a court of law found Roxana Saberi guilty of spying on the Iranian government. Tried, convicted, and sentenced in a matter of minutes, Saberi has already begun serving an eight-year sentence in the famed Evin House of Detention, a squalid, overcrowded containment and execution facility on the northern outskirts of the capital city of Tehran. Originally detained January 31st on a preliminary charge involving the "illegal purchase" of a bottle of wine, Saberi was subsequently charged with, "spying for foreigners... for America."

Beginning in 2003, after several years of work in small-market, radio and television news, Saberi began reporting from Iran as a credentialed journalist, freelancing for news agencies as diverse as the BBC, National Public Radio, and Fox News. During this time Saberi, born in the U.S. and raised in North Dakota, the daughter of a Japanese mother and an Iranian father, became a well known presence on the streets of her father's home country. Recognized as both a reporter and videographer, Saberi was often seen filming and interviewing, all while wearing a traditional head covering so as not to be in violations of local customs, or interpretations of Islamic law. Maintaining dual U.S and Iranian citizenship, Saberi wanted to show the world the real face of the Iranian people, not only through her journalistic efforts, but also through a book she intended to write from her experiences there.

Then in 2006, shortly after the election of the new President Mahmood Ahmadinejad, Roxana Saberi's Iranian press credential was revoked. Lacking a recognized credential (one of the hallmarks of Citizen Journalism), yet choosing to remain in Iran without the official permission of the government, for the next two years Saberi continued to file stories periodically, interviewing and filming, becoming the very expression of a Citizen Journalist: See the news... report the news. Then, in January of this year, the original "wine bottle" detainment, and later the official "charges". In the words of the Iranian deputy public prosecutor Hassan Haddad,

"Without press credentials and under the name of being
a reporter, [Saberi] was carrying out espionage activities,"

Haddad informed the Iranian Students News Agency. The same Hassan Haddad who, according to the organization Reporters Without Borders, was a known torturer in Evin Prison as far back as the 1980's.

In a country where Journalism is at best tolerated, and Citizen Journalism is prosecuted as "espionage", Roxana Saberi has become a pawn in a hostile game over the international rights of free speech. As appeals are made to the government of Iran through official and unofficial means, including those of her parents, and even President Barack Obama, who on Sunday said, "I am gravely concerned with her safety and well-being." Despite all that, the fact remains that an American journalist sits in a third-world prison, widely known as a place where many of its inmates do not live long enough to see freedom at the end of their sentence.

At the time of this writing, whether intended or not, Roxana Saberi has become the face of Citizen Journalism in America, as well as the world.

THE FACE OF CITIZEN JOURNALISM: What it must not become.

I have a blog. That's no secret. I've had this blog for almost two years, and have published items on everything from news, sports and entertainment, to commentaries and humor pieces. Pretty much anything that crosses my mind.

My blog is not Citizen Journalism. Not even close.

Most of you reading this also have blogs, many of which I have read. And most of those, despite your protests to the contrary, are not Citizen Journalism. And, regardless of what you believe about the site on which you are first reading this article, much of what is seen here, including this article, is not Citizen Journalism.

Sorry.

And while the work of many who have written on this site should be proudly counted as Citizen Journalism and is often superior to what can be found on other similar sites (no author's names here - everyone already knows who you are), much of what wishes to be defined as such is neither journalism, or even blogging. It more closely resembles a written transcript of the talk radio caller, shouting a badly constructed, spontaneous opinion into a cell phone, only to be drowned out by the host, then forgotten just as quickly as the next badly constructed caller opinion.

A few tips.

1. Citizen Journalism is not "news" you gleaned (uploaded, downloaded, copied, cut, or pasted) from another news source. At best, that would make it commentary. At worst, plagiarism. Ranting another person's rant, with or without proper credit, is not journalism at all. In the old days, that form of distribution of information was reserved for telephone conversations between disaffected housewives after a few too many nips of the cooking sherry. It may have been news, but it wasn't journalism.

2. Citizen Journalism is not propaganda. Rephrasing what you heard shouted by O'Reilly, or sneered by Olbermann, or even lovingly smirked by Chelsea Handler last night sometime between dinner and dental floss, is not journalism either. It wasn't journalism when they said it and it isn't journalism when you repeat their opinions as your own. Parroting the talking of partisan heads, no matter how much "you couldn't agree more", is not Citizen Journalism. It's Citizen Sloppy Seconds. Or Thirds.

3. Finally, Citizen Journalism is not a popularity contest (remember Roxana Saberi). True journalism is not about having your "friends" vote for your stories to "make a name for yourself". In its purest form, Citizen Journalism is finding the story right in front of you, and telling it. Popularity and self-promotion are more closely related to Tila Tequila than to Roxana Saberi.

Roxana Saberi is a Citizen Journalist. Are you? Do you want to be?

Start now.
_________________________________________________________

Additional sources for this article include:

Roxana Saberi.com

VOA NEWS.com

Copyright © 2009 Bill Friday