Category: Journal

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Excerpt from Cue The Camels, Chapter Eight, Dog Biscuit and Noah’s Ark 

We waited another half an hour after the Turkish patrol had disappeared out of sight before we hauled ass off the apron of Mt. Ararat and on to flat ground. My knees were shot and my feet were thrashed. We crossed numerous gullies, sliding down their drops then trudging back up their inclines, which rapidly depleted our Mt.Ararat-On plainremaining energy reserves. 

Stumbling forward, my boots scraped against the rolling rocks as I repeatedly stabbed with the ski poles for an opening between the rocks to right myself. The flare must have burned out because it became dark again. I faltered a number of times but kept an eye on my fellow climbers Cronuck and Stublich and watched them move at a steady pace towards the faint yellow and white lights of Doğubayazıt on the horizon – which I affectionately call Dog Biscuit

My feet felt warm and soggy which was a sure sign of blood. 

Mt.Ararat-2nd paragraph-BlogIt was at this point – stemming from many things, such as dehydration and sheer exhaustion – that I fell into mild delirium and David Byrnes of Talking Heads became my chaperones. 

‘And you may find yourself in another part of the world. And you may ask yourself: well, how did I get here?’

‘You know, David, you’re holding me hostage with that broken record. I mean, I can appreciate your words but after a while it gets a little old. Know what I mean?’

I didn’t get a straight answer from David; instead, he gave me his advice. ‘The sound of gunfire, off in the distance, I’m getting used to it now…’

                 At that moment, a second flare burst in the night sky. It was a couple of seconds later that we heard the low boom of the flare gun, which meant there was a good distance between us and the Turkish military. I made it to the edge of the stone field; Cornuke and Stublich stopped long enough to ask me if I was okay. My lips were cracked, my tongue was swollen and all my saliva had evaporated. I could only answer with a nod and a whisper: ‘I’m okay.’

Ahead, I could hear Dick slapping the iridium satellite phone repeatedly, trying to get enough charge out of the dead battery to make a call to Micah, our Kurdish fixer, so that he could meet us at the predetermined rendezvous point.

George grumbled. ‘This is fucking stupid. Let’s go to the main highway and catch a ride to town.’

Mt. Ararat 3rd Paragraph Sepia-BlogDick stopped smacking the sat-phone and directed all his attention towards George. ‘Shut the fuck up, George. The Turkish military use that road all the time. What do you think they’ll assume if they come across us on that highway with all our gear?’

George didn’t listen and relentlessly argued his point as the sound of the dogs’ howls grew louder. There was a gunshot in the distance followed by the hiss of another parachute flare. That was all the motivation we needed; the five of us turned and hauled ourselves across the plain. David followed nearby. ‘We make a pretty good team. Don’t get exhausted; I’ll do some driving. You ought to get some sleep.’Mt.Ararat-003-Blog copy

‘You know, David, it must be Mercury in retrograde with all the hurdles we’ve had to clear,’ I muttered.

There was no response.

We’d been tramping about in the darkness for hours and we were spent, physically and emotionally. We walked on autopilot, using the light of Dog Biscuit as our beacon.

‘You know, David, I could’ve stayed in L.A. picking up work shooting a mindless sitcom and watching a celebrity with two soft, protruding organs give us the local weather report. I could have, but I wouldn’t have had this wonderful field trip to remember. Know what I mean?’

David paused then caught up with me. ‘You may ask yourself: well, how did I get here? You may ask yourself: where does that highway lead to? You may ask yourself: am I right; am I wrong? You may say to yourself: my God, what have I done?’

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Bob had the kind of face that would compel you to volunteer any loose change your pocket held without him ever asking for a handout. His home consisted of a metal shopping cart supported by well-worn wheels, two paper bags, an old plastic container of water and a rolled up gray blanket. The corner of Central Boulevard and Windsor Road in Glendale, California was where he called home. This move was a sage-like decision on Bob’s part since the Salvation Army was positioned across the street which provided food, clothing and care and half a block to his east was the Windsor Al-Anon club that furnished free coffee, occasional shelter and most importantly, some welcomed comradeship with fellow tribe members.

It was up to you to get Bob talking since he was never known to initiate a conversation. His english was laced with a thick Yugoslavian accent and it was because of this that he was christened with the street name “Bob from Yugoslavia”. In his youth, he was trained as a pianist but as the years passed by his hands grew to be swollen and arthritic which made tying his shoes or buttoning his coat as painful as a Beethoven sonata. Bob’s private moments took place in a utility alley behind the Armenian market where he would seek refuge by smoking discarded cigarettes and watching reality slip away.

We had a very short history in our acquaintance but Bob from Yugoslavia became my navigational marker that signaled my return home from overseas. As strange as it may sound, it was comforting to see him sleeping under the tree, his tree, at the corner of Central and Windsor. One day, I noticed that the only thing holding his threadbare jeans together was the grim beneath him. I managed to sneak a pair of new levis and socks into one of his paper bags while he was napping under his tree. I couldn’t help but watch from a distance to witness Bob’s reaction to his good fortune; he proudly held the trousers up to the sky with a toothless smile and turned to look around as if he would find a magical garment fairy.  The following day I expected to see him wearing the new pants but to my surprise he was wearing the same grubby jeans. Bob had traded the jeans and socks for two packs of Marlboro cigarettes to a local gardener.

I asked Bob one day, “If you were to write a letter to God and be guaranteed that God would read your letter, what would be your the first sentence?” He looked up and spoke as expressively with his eyes as with his words, “God keep me warm and never let me get cold again”

We continued our brief interludes over the years until one day conspicuously absent from the corner was Bob and his shopping cart. A member of the Al-Anon club told me that Bob had peacefully passed away underneath his tree while napping. I can only hope it was on a warm sunny California day.

Bob’s tree.

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Somewhere between Kabul and Bagram Air Base. Sharing MRE’s (Meals Ready to Eat) with a Northern Alliance fighter. He especially liked the Hooah! energy bars. The cheese and peanut butter spread on crackers was a big hit. He would pocket the little bottles of Tabasco sauce and the moist towelette for his evening dinner of Korma stew. A base of fried onion and garlic, rice, and lamb. At Bagram, I would save empty 12 oz plastic water bottles and fill them with candy, gum, and American pennies, nickels, and dimes. As I traveled Salang Pass, which is the main highway that connects Bagram Air Base to Kabul. It’s a winding mountain pass that crosses the Hindu Kush mountain range and several villages. As I traveled I could see up ahead kids running from their village to the roadside waving. As I passed, I would toss the bottles of goodies out the truck window. In the rear view mirror the kids scrambled to retrieve their treats. It’ a reminder that God’s children are all the same no matter the country and food is the needle and thread that sews humanity together. God’s Blessing to All.

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“I would rather be ashes than dust!

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

The function of man is to live, not to exist.

I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.

I shall use my time.” 

The function of man is to live, not to exist.

I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.

I shall use my time.” 

― Jack London

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It was a comment by childhood friend Linda Vandendool that sparked an old memory and a nearly forgotten incident with my mom and Dustin Hoffman. I had shared on Facebook about my English teacher Mrs. Rackleff and my salvation from Dyslexia. My childhood friend Linda responded in the comments with. “Overcoming obstacles and pursuing your dream is very far frombeing lazy. I’m sure Tootsie was your cheerleader and encouraged you.” Linda is referring to my mom, who for any Cinephile of movies would love to know this bit of trivia for the movie Tootsie.  Tootsie is a 1982 American satirical romantic comedy film directed by Sydney Pollack and starring Dustin Hoffman. The film tells the story of an out of work actor who supplements his income working as a server in a restaurant. After many months without landing an acting job, the actor Michael, portrayed by Dustin Hoffman hears of an opening on the popular daytime soap opera Southwest General. In desperation Michael disguise himself as a woman, gives his name as “Dorothy Michaels” at the audition. Michael ends up getting the hospital administrator part as Emily Kimberly. So, in 1981 I was a cameraman on the daytime soap opera General Hospital. Yes, that General Hospital of Luke and Laura fame. Mom and dad had come to Los Angeles for a visit, and I had asked Gloria Monty the Executive Producer if my parents could visit the set. Absolutely was Gloria’s response. When mom and dad arrived, they were treated like royalty. The stagehands had setup their own director chairs as actors and crew attending to them like loyal servants. Unbeknown to me was Dustin Hoffman downstairs watching the rehearsals on a closed-circuit monitor. Dustin and screen writers Larry Gelbart and Murray Schisgal were researching and gathering material for their movie Tootsie. Dustin and Gloria had worked together in theatre in New York at the beginning of Dustin’s career. On the set were roll around monitors and the camera crew took turns pointing their cameras at mom and dad. Which was a big thrill for mom and dad to see themselves on TV. When a break in the rehearsals was called the backstage door flew open and entered Dustin Hoffman. Dustin and the writers made a beeline to Mary and Paul in their director chairs. At first Dustin thought they were background actors. With mom’s hand pressed to her chest in disbelief, “Oh heavens no, that’s my son over there behind the camera.” Dad stayed silent with his customary pipe hanging on his lower lip not knowing who Dustin was. Of course, mom knew. With moms thick Oklahoma accent she and Dustin chatted for some time. If you watch the movie Tootsie all the hand jesters, mannerism, diction, and inflection that’s my mom on the screen. Now and forever Mary’s likeness is dispersed by electromagnetic spectrum into the heavens where mom and dad now reside.

Tootsie Trailer Link: https://youtu.be/c94awfb-0wc?si=opnhBPSCvsOKyNd-T

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Journal Entry: March 30, 2000 / Marathon des Sable / Morocco / Sahara Desert.

“This is our fourth day of covering the Marathon des Sable; so far we’ve managed to lose our way, we’ve been blasted by a sand storm, we’ve run out of toilet paper and are now surviving on granola bars, turkey jerky and hot bottles of Coca-Cola. I have no idea how many miles we have traveled or how many times we’ve managed to get stuck in the sand. My driver, Nouh, speaks no English and smokes three packets of Marlboro Lights a day.  He’s also fond of breaking wind each time he exits the Land Cruiser.

What I can tell you, should you not already know, is that the Marathon des Sable is a stage race that lasts 7 days and covers 243km/151 miles. To make things even more difficult, each competitor has to carry everything they may need for the duration of the race (apart from their tent) on their backs in a rucksack – their food, clothes, medical kit, sleeping bag, etc. In addition, runners’ water is rationed and handed out at each checkpoint.

The backdrop to this event is the Sahara Desert. Not only is the Sahara the largest desert on earth, covering an area of 3.5 million square miles, (which amounts to 8% of our planet’s surface area), it stretches from the Atlantic Ocean in the west across half of Northern Africa, to the Red Sea.  It then extends down to the highlands of Ethiopia with temperatures recorded as high 40° +Celsius / 120° + Fahrenheit. The Sahara is a great leveller, making all men equal regardless of their station in life. So, when you come across another soul within this vast arena of sand, you stop, share, and remind yourself that here, we are all brothers.

 

Depending on whom you ask, the estimated population of the Sahara Desert varies from 2.5 million to 4 million people – so you would think finding a singing rabbit would be easy. Oh contraire.

The singing rabbit is competitor Derek McCarrick of the UK. Mr. McCarrick has been running marathons for Leukemia and Breast Cancer Research for the past 20 years and is still going strong at the age of 73.  Mr. McCarrick has personally raised a staggering £200,000 ($ 319,920.00) for charity, an achievement which is all the more impressive as he has completed each race dressed as the cartoon character, Roger Rabbit!

Eureka! On the horizon we spot a lone figure of a man with the head of Roger Rabbit tied to his backpack.

 


‘I’m the only rabbit in the world that’s run across the Sahara,’ Mr. McCarrick once told me. He also added, ‘People think I’m bonkers!’ In 2008, this former coal miner was awarded the MBE (Order of the British Empire) by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. For those who are not British, an MBE award is one of the highest distinctions that can be gained by a British citizen.  Not bad for a chap from Minster on the Isle of Sheppey.”

 

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Like a still image, a song can transport you back to a moment in time that has been forgotten. For instance, during the wild fires of Southern California in 2009 I had a very real flashback when Shakira’s song; “Whenever, Wherever” blared out from the radio while driving on the Glendale Freeway. The smell of a burning hillside mixed with fumes of diesel, the thump, thump, thumping of the helicopters overhead transported me immediately back to Bagram airbase in Afghanistan. Music is sort of a synthetic acid, which enhances flashbacks of one’s own memories. Scans of the brain show that when people listen to music, virtually every area of their brain becomes more active. Which may explain why I have overcome a learning disability with dyslexia and attention deficit disorder. 

Strange as it may seem, when I listen to music as I am doing right now, it forces me to focus and keeps my ADD at bay. Growing up, my parents could never understand why I would play music when reading or studying. They would just shout at me to turn the record player or radio off. But, instinctively I need this learning aid to focus .. go figure! Music helps me concentrate. Once I sit down, play my music I fall into a Zen like zone and my brain slows down to a crawl so that I can concentrate. If it were not for music and the computer I would probably be selling used furniture in Tulsa, Oklahoma. 

But when you combine music and dance it can bring back the passionate fire of our youth and the peacefulness of our softer and more graceful years – maybe they are never expressed more fully than through a song and a slow dance. It is the medium of music and dance that is tangible to our soul and expresses to the world who we truly are and who we can be. The best part of music for me, is when my arms are wrapped around a woman and I can feel the beat of her heart to the tempo of the music. We become lost, yet together in sync as the lyric’s nourish our souls. Unaware of time and space we dance losing isolation to become a bridge of kindred spirits as a karmic connection begins to blossom between us……….would you like to dance?

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Busking impersonators portraying super heros from Marvel’s Cinematic Universe and coexisting with numerous Captain Jack Sparrow have worked on Hollywood Boulevard for decades. They collect tips posing with sightseers for pictures and performing along the tourist filled corridor of the Hollywood Walk of Fame and Grauman’s Chinese Theater. In recent years competing for prime location in front of Grauman’s has become very contentious. Recently, Los Angeles paramedics responded to a battery call when a fight between Catwoman and an Ozzy Osbourne impersonators had ended with Ozzy getting pepper sprayed. It was reported that Jack Sparrow of “Pirates of the Caribbean” as being the victim but that report turned out to be false. Even superhero’s have been arrested, Spider-Man was arrested on outstanding criminal warrants after an incident in which he allegedly slugged a man. When LAPD officers arrived, they encountered four different people dressed as Spider-Man. The officers eventually got their man. 

 For Ritchie Rodgers who captures the spirit of Jimi Hendrix his challenge is to clam a spot away from the  mayhem just west of  Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Ritchie relies on the power of his music to bring the tips in and he has nailed Jimi Hendrix not only with his guitar licks but in Jimi’s vocals.

A trips to Hollywood Blvd is a wonderful opportunity to study American culture – I have never been disappointed for the lack of subjects.

Related story : Jesus of Hollywood, https://davebanks.wordpress.com/2009/10/18/jesus-of-hollywood/