Summer 2008

Face Book Friendship requests

Thu, 19 Aug 2010 23:21:47 +0900

On a recent trip to Los Angeles, I met up with an old friend over lunch.

Our conversation inevitably turned to the popularly of Face book and the fun it allows people to interact with family and friends who we otherwise would not so easily connect.

As a professional cheerleader back in the day (Clippers, Raiders) she was known to be loved by all the girls on the squad - or so she thought.

She was absolutely shocked when some of ladies she sent friendship requests to did not respond leaving her reeling for answers. I told her that that has happened to me a couple of times where I generally attribute the rejection to the small mind of the other person (while acknowledging it is their universal right to have a small mind) and tend not to fret over it so much.

When a person sends me a friendship request - someone who I know of course - I typically ACCEPT their request out of courtesy - whether I actually LIKE them or not. In my opinion, to do otherwise would be rude and at the very least demonstrates that one is apt to hold petty grudges.

Forgive and forget I always say. Unless, well............ you fill in the blank.

Anyway, have you every been denied a Friendship Request? or have you, yourself denied others or dropped people from your Friendship List?

Would love to get your insights.

Darrell

Add comment here or send a friendship request ha ha ha!!!!

A History Lesson in Georgia

Tue, 27 Jul 2010 14:01:26 +0900

Dear Reader;

I must’ve stumbled into 30 countries by now, on a few different continents, in what has to be a countless number of capital cities, hamlets and rickety small towns; yet oddly enough, never before have I graced the Big Apple.

Though a native of California, I’ve yet to stop by Yosemite National Park or our GRANDEST neighboring Canyon; and I’m still wondering how I missed the Great Wall in China; or even the bullfights whilst traveling through Spain.

And after all those years of living in Japan, I failed to find my way to one of the greatest wonders of the natural world: Mount. Fuji.

I guess you can say, then, when it comes to visiting major tourist attractions, I’m hardly an enthusiast.

So when my Chinese friend in Savannah prodded me to take him to a local historical landmark – and, yes, tourist attraction - I initially scoffed at the idea; yet given his invaluable business ties to the Peoples Republic of China, I grudgingly acquiesced.

Mr Lee insisted upon getting off to an early Sunday morning start, an endeavor which I was not so thrilled about, especially since I had to pick him up and shuttle him out to our destination: Fort Polansky, national Civil War monument.

Georgia, the epicenter of the American civil war, is replete with history.

As it turned out, todays visit to Fort Polaski, just outside the city, would make a lasting impression; one surely to stay with me for the rest of my days.

The open air compound is a vastly spacious area, bordered by brick walls, marshes and a patchwork of small sea inlets. The eery silence of the grounds evokes an unshakable spirit that reminds one of the flickering span of life - and death- that once called home to this historically notable tomb.

It was this very scene where I would make the eye-poping discovery that some fella named GENERAL DAVID HUNTER was in fact the person who first freed the slaves - not Abraham Lincoln.

As records show, in 1854, General Hunter arrived in what history refers to as “Bloody Kansas”, where open warfare had broken out in the state of Kansas over the issue of slavery. Some historians argue that the civil war actually started in Lawrence Kansas (For more info see: Bushwhackers vs Jayhawkers).

General Hunter, a Republican (or “Whig” as they were called back then) was the first Union commander injured in the Civil War, and was also one of the few anti-slavery officers of his era. Following his assignment in Kansas, he later reported for duty under Major General John C. Fremont in Illinois who later fell out of favor with President Lincoln for issuing a proclamation that “…any person taking up arms against the United States will be shot and their slaves will be set free”. Lincoln ordered the removal of Major General Fremont and annulled his proclamation.

After the surrender of Fort Sumter in April of 1861, Lincoln ordered the blockade of the Southern coast between Savannah and Charleston. Brigadier General Thomas Sherman organized a twelve thousand man army that occupied the harbor, towns and plantations of South Carolina's sea islands but was faced with one huge problem: What to do with the mass of black slaves left behind by their fleeing masters.

General Hunter arrived on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, in March 1862. General Sherman informed Hunter that Fort Polaski, an important Confederate base near Savannah, was ready to be bombarded.

On April 13, 1862, in the immediate aftermath of the capture of Fort Pulaski, Hunter made a pronouncement that would send shock waves throughout the nation: He rendered all slaves of the enemies of the United States SET FOREVER FREE.

There is little doubt of the political fallout that the generals actions created for President Lincoln, a topic which remains open for scholarly debate to this day.

In the end, however, Lincoln voided Hunter's freedom proclamation for blacks in the South, but the idea itself was now much more crystallized then ever before and certainly ready for its eventual place in the annals of American history.

I am really happy I took the opportunity to visit Fort Polaski in Savannah, Georgia.

I think its high time that I starting visiting more tourist destinations after all - 'ya think?

PHOTO: MR. LEE AND FRIEND

Getting my mind right

Tue, 27 Jul 2010 09:56:23 +0900

This is the fourth day in a row I've been able to go jogging and get in a descent work out as well. My focus and perhaps chief motivation for the past few days is how grateful to God I truly am. I will endeavor to continue my daily meditations in order to clarify my remaining mission here on Earth.

A big change is about to come and it is important I am totally in tune with the spiritual forces and universal powers that continue to guide me.

God Bless All who continue to read this.

The LAKER in Me!

Fri, 4 Jun 2010 08:38:21 +0900

Anybody that knows me well, which generally means people I’ve known for over ten years, know that I live, breath and die by the Lakers. The achievements of the lakers, be it good or bad, largely defines my mood and spiritual disposition at any given time through out the year, particularly during the long NBA season.

When the playoffs role around, few things come between me, the tube and the Los Angeles Lakers.

My obsession with the Lakers started way back in 1969 when Sal, the kid down the block, first introduced me to the late Chic Hearn, the legendary play-by-play Lakers radio announcer, I have been totally transfixed by the mystic men sporting purple and gold.

Back then, I used to go to Sal’s house and listen to “Chicky Baby’s” colorful euphemisms and artful clichés; a masterful talent who painted wonderful pictures with words, making it easy to see why I got hooked on the game so early on. That was 1970.

Those were the days of Jerry West and a Center name Wilt “the Stilt” Chamberlain, who together won the 1971-72 NBA Championship over Walt Frasier and the New York Knicks. For those of you in the dark, Jerry, a.k.a “Mr Clutch's” image is the symbol of the NBA logo and Wilt once scored one hundred points in a single game.

Speaking of single games, that was the same Lakers squad that won an improbable thirty-three games in a row! a record that still stands today, thirty-eight years later. I vividly remember the day when “the streak” came to an end, courtesy of a skinny young rookie by the name of Lou Alcindor (who later changed his name to Kareem Abdul Jabaar) and the Milwaukee Bucks. The Lakers were on the road that day and I was watching the game In our family dining room. Though just a regular season game, the Bucks were celebrating like they had just won the world title. It is no wonder. The 1972 Lakers were no ordinary team.

"COOKE BOOKS A MAGIC SHOW" was the headline plastered on the cover of the LA Harold Examiner. The subject depicted Lakers’ owner Jack Kent Cooke's decision to select a nineteen-year-old basketball prodigy with the first pick of the 1979 NBA draft. Little did anybody know, a whole new era of Lakers b-ball was about to be born.

Earvin “Magic” Johnson, an electrifying 6-9 point guard, and MVP Captain, Kareem Abdul Jabaar (acquired from the Bucks the previous season), ushered in a whole new episode of title runs and triumphs that escorted me and my generation all the way through college and into early manhood. It was the “Showtime” era – a fitting description for those growing up or living in Los Angeles at the time.

Who can forget the performance Magic gave during GAME SIX of the 1980 NBA finals against the immortal Julius “Doctor J” Erving and the Philadelphia 76ers. As a 20 year, Magic played all five positions (Kareem was injured) and tallied 42 points, 15 rebounds, and 7 assists, and single-handedly carried the Lakers to a 123-107 victory and his first NBA Championship. The kid was just a rookie!

The Lakers won four more NBA titles during the Eighties and as I began a new life living and working overseas I quite naturally packed all my Lakers gear and took all those cherished memories on the road.

Though the decade of the Nineties largely belonged to Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls, the early century belonged to Shaq and Kobe as my championship Lakers wardrobe continued to turned heads all over Japan.

With all the ups and downs and uncertainties of life, it’s refreshing to see that some precious things do stay the same; such as simple traditions that define a life spent working hard and enjoying a favorite pastime.

It’s the Los Angeles Lakers against the Boston Celtics for the 2010 NBA Championships.

It doesn’t get much better than that y’all!

God Bless You All.

Go Lakers!!

Food Deprivation

Thu, 6 May 2010 20:42:01 +0900

Today is day 5 of my latest food fast.

This is the third or fourth time I'v tried it.

For me, fasting is one of the best discoveries made in my half-a-century young lifetime.

The obvious benefit of going without food for days-on-end is rapid weight loss as I, myself, have hopelessly struggled with containing my protruding belly for longer than I care to remember.

Not any more.

Fasting attacks the mid-section like the U.S. does Al-Qaede making it ever so pleasant to look in the mirror each day, witnessing those dreaded pounds melt away, where a once-proud and enviable physique gradually returns to form.

The ladies seem to like it too.

More importantly, though, fasting manifests a new outlook on how one looks at food in general - especially unhealthy food - which I imagine is half the reason we don't have the near-perfect bod that so many of us long for. After all, Summer’s right around the corner, right? - not that that should matter.

Finally, I find satisfaction in fasting due to the mental fortitude it creates; a certain boost in self confidence which somehow seems divinely inspired.

Fasting may not be for everyone; but I would like to encourage anyone interested in taking full control of their physical and mental well being to give it a go.

If successful, you'll be better off.

I know I am.

Darrell

Untold Stores: Rekindling old relationships may be difficult for some

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 20:44:12 +0900

While not exactly on my death bed, certain events in my life continue to stand out to such a degree, they often end up shadowing me year after year.

Take the time back in ‘97 when I strolled into a favorite watering hole not far from my apartment in Osaka.

As usual, I snuggled up to the bar and paid my greetings to the bar staff, including the owner, a charming and likable fellow from Haiti.

It was a festive night and there was plenty of music and laughter on hand. A guest DJ from Jamaica was spinning the tunes.

Back in the corner, I recognized a couple of familiar faces, including a young lady I’ll call Akiko, my good buddy John’s fiancé, who was hanging out with a couple of people I didn’t really get a look at. I waved at her and pretty much stayed to myself at the bar. Some weeks prior, her and John dropped by my apartment. It was my first time meeting her and that’s when they sprung their engagement on me. Akiko was glamorous.

Meanwhile, John Robins (fictitious name) attended and graduated from a local university outside of Osaka – where he met Akiko - but had recently moved to Tokyo after finding work there. He and I had become acquainted not long after the sudden death of a mutual friend, Harry Stevens, who was killed in a scooter accident in Osaka in the Summer of ‘96. Harry was the president of the Japan African-American friendship Association (JAFA) for which John was an officer and friend.

When Harry died, many of his friends and associates gathered at his memorial. Needless-to-say, John was directly involved in planning the farewell and delivered a heart warming eulogy – in Japanese – that I will never forget.

As the succeeding president, I had begun a working relationship with John in all matters pertaining to JAFA; yet it is also safe to say we were fast becoming very close friends as well. In fact, whenever I visited Tokyo, John was gracious enough to let me set up camp on his couch.

John and I had a lot in common: We both had Finance degrees and each of us was driven by raw ambition and lofty dreams. We also shared a love for all things Japan – the language, the culture and most notably, the women.

By all accounts, though, our relationship came to a screeching halt that fateful Winter night at the Haitian dive near my house.

One of the guys I was chatting with at the counter happened to be very close friends with the DJ and through the course of conversation he mention that the lady I said hello to was the DJ’s woman.

At this point, I’m making a conscious effort NOT to open my big mouth nor to express any look of dismay or surprise.

I nonchalantly probed a bit deeper and the stranger went on to elaborate much more than I needed to conclude that Akiko was in fact having an active relationship with at least two men, one of whom was my good friend John Robins of Tokyo.

In hindsight, I can only assume that when Akiko saw me and the DJ’s friend chatting, she must’ve started shitting mummy dust, as we used to say. Pre-empting my next move, she most likely started concocting her ‘story’ well in advance.

After I left the bar, I grappled with the dilemma of what to do.

As a youth, I recalled a vaguely similar situation where I stuck my nose in the middle of my best friend, Gary, and his lady’s relationship over issues of infidelity. Although I publicly sided with Gary, in private I foolishly shared with his girlfriend, Tanaya, certain confidentialities that she later used against me which ended up costing me the friendship of my childhood friend, Gary Preston.

I was not about to make the same mistake twice. Or was I?

I decided to consult the street-savvy, hustler-turned-businessman

, Robert Johnson (also a friend of John’s) a fifteen-year Osaka veteran at the time with alleged ties to the Yakuza or Japanese mob. Never short on colorful war stories and soliloquies, especially for us Japan “newbies”, Robert simply broke it down this way: "Don’t get involved”.

It seems he had been down that road before too. I can never forget the story he told of walking into an uptown mega nite club one night with hundreds of people inside when he was gestured toward the men’s room in the rear where a curious commotion was taking place. As it turned out, some drunk chick was in the stall allowing a few of “the brothers” to have their way with her.

“They were pulling a train on her” he said; mind you, not the most unusual thing to happen in the club scene of Japan in the late eighties and early nineties.

When Robert peeked in to have a closer look, he got a bit more than he bargained for when the woman turned out to be his best friends wife who was supposed to be at home watching the kids while her husband was at work.

According to Robert, he never breathed a word about this incident to his own best friend.

About the same time I was tripping over Akiko’s indiscretions, I was very much in love with the young and feisty Yuka Kiyofuji (of Tanabe, Osaka), and if someone had credible evidence that she was cheating on me in such fashion, I certainly would have insisted upon knowing the truth – no matter how bad it might hurt.

So in spite of the lesson I learned in my boyhood as well as a concurring second opinion from the guru himself, I never-the-less concluded that my good friend, John, deserved to know the facts about Akiko and had to know them right away.

The next day or so I called John on the telephone and laid out for him exactly what went down at the club. He listened attentively but never really reacted or expressed any emotion that I could detect. He asked no questions at all. The conversation was short and still and all he basically said was ‘ok’. I felt that John may have gone into some kind of shock mode and was attempting to process the information on his own terms. “Fair enough” I thought.

Whatever the case, I waited and waited anxiously for the follow-up call that was never to come – and with that short conversation about Akiko, James and I were never to speak again.

In the ensuing weeks, months and even years, I tried reaching out to my good friend but he made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with me.

My imagination was working overtime.

I pictured a scenario in which Akiko, having discovered she was ‘cold busted’, must’ve fabricated a tale about me coming on to her – or some angle like that - a tale that John must’ve bought into - hook, line and sinker.

In the decade-and-half-since, I still think about that day from time to time, having carried the frustration of not knowing what happened; and more importantly, perhaps – whether or not I was directly implicated in the crime.
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These nagging questions are only exacerbated by the fact that incidents like this continues to prove a reoccurring theme – with colleagues, employees and most recently tenants; where I have repeatedly been accused, judged and sentenced in absentia – without being given the benefit of the doubt, the right of a trial – or the courtesy of any kind of explanation what-so-ever.

Just hastily judged and blown off like a pesky telemarketer at times though rarely if ever with educated professionals of like mind.

Priding myself on being a student of Life including Psychology, I am saddened that some of the more important people I’ve dealt with are not more insightful.

As for myself, I always try to inform those close to me, especially, if (I sense) something is strikingly out of order. I am careful not to judge my friends for what I see or hear because I am acutely aware that misperceptions and miscues are abundant in the human communication process, especially when pride and egos are at stake - to say nothing of the human heart.

I guess that’s what the Bible means when it says: “Judge not less we be judged” or lest we throw away a good relationship for no valid reason at all.

The other day, after 14 years of no communication, I received an email from my former running buddy and pal, John Robins, apparently wishing to reconnect. He sounded upbeat and he mentioned his family, his former business and something about starting a new job in Tokyo.

I’m not sure that I’m prepared to re-establish a meaningful relationship with him (or that he wants to with me for that matter) without first taking stock of the events of the past in order to both clear the air and to set the record strait.

But then again, without knowing all the facts, I realize, too, that I may have jumped to the conclusion that the “Akiko incident” was indeed the chief cause of our friendship coming to an abrupt and sudden end.

There very well may be another untold story waiting to see the light of day.

I understand that there are those who would argue that I should just let it go, get over it, and stop dwelling on the past. After all, let sleeping dogs lay they would say.

For most people, that course of action (or inaction) might be all fine and dandy. Its ok for me as well; as long as we don’t consider ourselves real friends.

To my true friends, however, I’ll just continue my ritual of being brutally honest and sincere and trust that they know I would never betray our friendship – which to me is more priceless than all the gold in the world.

I'm not quite sure how (or if) I should proceed with John however. Would love to entertain your thoughts on the matter.

After all, we ARE still “friends” aren’t we ???

LOL!

Darrell

2009 in Review: Being Jumped into the landlord business

Mon, 25 Jan 2010 14:08:54 +0900

The relaxing and tranquil evening came to an abrupt halt enabled by a loud and intrusive knock at the front door. Once again, it was Syed, my tenant and next door neighbor, from Pakistan.

Like many of his untimely visits (previously he came to report that someone had made off with his peanut butter) this time he’d come to announce that he’d found me much too rude, arrogant and mean to the tenants – a fitting start to today’ tale it would seem.

Syed is one of a handful of individuals that I have been struggling to deal with lately; especially since market conditions have compelled me to revise my marketing strategy somewhat; one of exclusively targeting graduate students and professionals, to one of flirting with the more higher risk applicants - like teenagers, college undergraduates and God forbid, “ghetto people” who constitute much of the indigenous landscape around here.

It is a dilemma too often mitigated by overdue bills.

Readers may recall, therefore, that after taking a year off in ‘08, 2009 was the year I embarked upon the murky road of property management in the charming and historic; yet urban and crime-infested inner-city of Savannah, Georgia.

After achieving moderate success and notoriety as a foreign entrepreneur in Japan, a life- experience which lasted from 1991 to 2007, in some ways I consider this latest episode as eating humble pie. But lets face it, overall I feel fortunate to have the opportunity to start again.

National headlines suggest I am not alone in my quest or my struggles.

In the throws of a gripping recession, acquiring single family homes from motivated sellers was simple enough; and so it was I acquired three houses on Martin Luther King Blvd. - a main thoroughfare in the city - and began renting out individual rooms.

The US real estate market – chief cause of the global economic meltdown – can be a cut throat business in the best of times and in a recession such as this one, the rental market is fiercely competitive to say the least. Making matters worse, desperate homeowners have turned to renting out rooms in their private homes in order to make ends meet, making it that much harder for folks like me to compete.

Moreover, the saga of working with local handymen, the better ones of which can only be described as “trifling”, nearly sent me to the funny farm on many occasions.

Never-the-less, in order to set ourselves apart, we borrowed from a proven concept of my beloved Wisdom21, rest in peace, the storied chain of Japan-based language schools that I founded years ago; thus touting an upscale, yet affordable short-term housing accommodation aimed at Grad students and working professionals.

Overall, this strategy proved highly effective and we were able to jump start the operation in relative short order.

On the other hand, it might be more accurate to say we were "jumped in" instead.

Indeed. Like any new business, implementing an effective operational model from scratch often means enduring some very hard lessons.

In this case, we needed to understand the local culture (contractors and service personnel ), sub cultures (visitors or new arrivals), niche market (ideal client vs wannabes), as well as the ordinary do’s and don’ts of a startup business in a new industry.

With dwindling resources at hand, it was necessary to find short cuts to everything and somehow make the operation viable as quick as possible. This was equivalent to riding a bicycle while trying to fix it at the same time: There were some crashes.

The first fatal flaw was not having an iron clad set of rules and regulations for the clients to adhere - a must for any credible service business.

I knew that not setting clear guidelines for the tenants would only prove problematic, but in order to properly construct the rules, I first had to see which problems were going to arise over time: A classic catch 22 scenario.

But before I delve too deeply into discussing what some of the principle challenges were, let me take a moment to reflect upon some of the more positive aspects of the campaign which were the delightful, stable and drama-free tenants that Heaven sent our way.

There was Todd, an executive administrator at the local university, who stayed with us over the Summer while his house was being remodeled; David, who was a military officer from Texas who lived with us for four months until his deployment to Iraq this past Summer, and of course people like Monica, Stephanie, and Sara, all affiliated with the university, either teaching or doing graduate work there. These were just a few of the people who were clean, quiet, and respectful and, needless-to-say, paid their rent on time and made this small, fledgeling enterprise somewhat of a success in 2009.

It was the problem people, however, most often masquerading as descent citizens, which made the development of this project a living nightmare at times; so much so, in fact, that after a few lumps and bruises, I elected to live in my four bedroom home all by myself while sub-letting rooms in the other two neighboring properties.

Although the third house proved to be a relatively smooth operation; it was the middle house, a home I purchased with the intent of getting it refinanced so that I could do the estimated twenty thousand dollars in necessary repair work and upgrades, that was a constant headache.

Banks tightened their lending standards so I was stuck doing the best I could by performing patch-work jobs here while making frequent runs to Home Depot.

The first floor of the middle house was occupied by a lovely family - two sisters who were going to graduate school at nearby Savannah College of Arts and Design or SCAD. In fact, they were majoring in Home Restoration and were working on my house’s exterior as a school project. They never complained and worked with me gleefully as the house sometimes literally fell apart all around them.

Meanwhile, while I was away on one of my frequent trips to Japan, a guy named (fake name here) Bill moved into the 2nd floor of the middle house (1905 MLK). This was July ’09.

Bill, a youthful looking 41-year-old, seemed descent enough. After all, he was introduced by Ron, a long term tenant in good standing and both men were pursuing their Master degrees.

A student of furniture design, he was renting only one room ($375 flat rate), yet somehow got it stuck in his head that the 2nd floor of the whole house was his private apartment. This was no doubt due to the layout of the house which separated the upstairs from the downstairs by big a locked door. My initial absence and inability to modify his perceptions only solidified his misguided point of view.

When I returned to Savannah a month later, Bill handed me his laundry list of “issues” of what was wrong with the house visa vi his room; things which I basically already knew.

I assured him that my plan was to restore the house to its proper form over time. In the meantime, we went to work on some of the more pressing items like fire alarms, leaky faucets, air conditioning system and so on.

I am not a carpenter and know little to nothing about tools or home repair in general. This means that I am constantly at the mercy of the “jacklegs” as they call them or local handyman and sub-contractors who lack any semblance or notion of ‘professionalism’. This dire reality only compounded the friction between me and the (upstairs) tenant.

For example, when the water heater began acting up, Bill starting blowing up my cell phone. I had no choice but to crawl up into the attack (something he, himself, could have done) and discovered that the pilot light inside the water heater had gone out.

"Is it safe to stick a match in there" I wondered. "If so, how do I do it ?" "Let me call somebody who might know". Luckily somebody was able to walk me through the simple process over the phone and after a few attempts we finally go it lit.

The next day, Bill calls back. “The hot water is out again” he says. So I march up into the attic and start the process all over. This time, at my insistence, Bill accompanies me.

Eventually it was determined that a new water heater would be needed. But what kind? Who would instal it? How long would it take? And how much would it cost? By this time, money is running low and credit even lower, yet the nightmare with Bill and the middle house tenants was just beginning.

Around this time, two new tenants were simultaneously moving into the 2nd floor of 1905 a.ka. the middle house. Courtney, 24, a soft-spoken, timid and largely anti-social art student and a fellow named Rashad, a-30-year-old white boy with a black name, who had the outward appearance of a drug-dealing skin head. Both men were grad students at SCAD - an art school - not a business school I kept having to remind myself myself.

By the first week or two, Bill had pretty much indoctrinated the two new guys into his way of thinking; namely that the upstairs was their shared apartment thus the owner was not free to just wander inside - not even to make repairs - without sufficient notice.

Given the nature of the restoration project as well as the obvious condition of the house, this mind-set proved highly impractical, unnecessary and certainly toxic to my plans to create an orderly and dignified business operation in the middle house.

The other two houses, mind you, had no such (subversive) culture or mindset and I was in and out of those dwellings as necessity would dictate. Moreover, no one in the neighboring dwellings every complained or batted an eye for that matter.

When I finally did get ahold of Tony the handy man, he eventually made his way to the middle house at his leisure where Bill was demanding advance notice of entry. Realizing I was now dealing with a potential nut case, I refused to consider his request because there was simply no way to predict precisely when (or if) Tony or any Savannah service personnel would actually show up.

Besides, HE WAS RENTING JUST ONE ROOM IN A HOUSE AND NOT THE WHOLE HOUSE!!!!

When Tony finally did show up, he was verbally attacked and refused entry by Bill.

The next day, the cable TV man arrived at 8 a.m, four hours early as it turned out, and the upstairs guys furiously complained. Courtney, who works part time at night, had to leave his bed completely while the cable guy snaked cords in and out of his room.

Now I had a trio of guys upstairs who had it entrenched in their mind that I, as the landlord, was somehow this inherently corrupted evil-doer from the underworld, hell-bent on abusing my power and determined to deny them any form of personal enjoyment or rights to privacy in the house.

My efforts to sit down and reason with them failed as they were collectively sticking to the argument that the house should have been in perfect form before I rented it to them.

I, in turn, reminded them WHY their rent was so cheap.

Frustration was beginning to take its toll all the way around. “I came back to the the United States for this bull shit?” was becoming my daily mantra.

It was about this time that I decided to bring in an assistant in order to help me smooth out the communication process between me and the now disgruntled tenants in the middle house. I brought in a lady who had some practical experience as a struggling entrepreneur herself, as well as strong administrative and retail sales skills. Shirley also had a pleasant personality and soft demeanor- at least at first.

However it wouldn’t take long before Shirley and Bill had a head-on collision as once again, Bill refused to allow a handy man, Shirley’s husband as it turned out, to service the unit. When Shirley confronted Bill about his behavior, Bill took a deliberate nose dive down the stairs, yelling and screaming that he’d been attacked.

He called the police.

“I didn’t know he was gay” Shirley uttered as the police pulled up in front of the house.

Ultimately, the officers determined that nothing illegal had occurred and after convincing Bill to calm his nerves and go back inside they were swiftly on their way.

A week later, Bill received a dispossessory notice (sent by me) to surrender the property and the other two tenants were hastily removed as well. By the end of August, the second floor of the middle house had been vacated and things were slowly returning to normal. Or so I believed.

Not long after, Shirley had a nervous breakdown on the job, no doubt due to marriage and money related woes both imported to work. So by the first of September ’09 I found myself back on my own once again. It was a looooog Summer!

Not even the antics of Bill, or the shenanigans of Syed, however, could have prepared me for the shit-storm that was brewing and about to blow my way.

With THREE TENANTS SHORT and an avalanche of bills perched atop my desk, I was in no position to turn away any potential customers, particular those with a pulse, or those who were waving cold hard US currency right in front of my beak.

Enter nineteen-year-old Candice. A short, stumpy little brown skinned girl from Atlanta, not bad looking by local standards especially when she looks you in the eye and smiles, thus projecting the illusion that she is a respectable young lady.

Wrong.

All the signs of trouble were written over her face. When it came time for signing the lease, I held my breath and helped myself to her cash. After she left my office, I got down on my hands and knees and prayed for the best.

My prayers would fall upon deaf ears.

Within a month Candice would turn into a living monster - the devil incarnate - and she didn't bother to wait for the sun to go down. She proceeded to trash her room, foul the bathroom area and desecrate the kitchen. She also created absolute havoc amongst the new tenants there including the hopeless introverted Bobby, 18, from New York and the mildly eccentric Syed, 24, of Pakistan.

When I tried to intervene in the household to establish hygiene and order, Candice led a campaign of revolt. She called everyone she knew on the telephone, including the police, and said that I was harassing her. On another occasion, when I was emptying trash that she left behind, she called the police and claimed that I was illegally trying to put her out.

For the duration of her stay, the police were back and forth to my address like a set of windshield wipers it seemed.

Admittedly, my attitude toward everyone on the 2nd floor soured noticeably largely because none of the other tenants would apply (peer) pressure to keep the living conditions up there proper and sane. In fact, because of Candice, everyone seemed to feel that it was OK to trash the place in general.

I could not have more upset at the whole ordeal. The final straw was when Candice’s step mother, not interested in a thing I had to say, called me on the
telephone and unleashed a vicious and senseless tirade about how I was a slum lord who should be put in jail.

“I’m gonna have you investigated” she yelled.

What I needed was a secret weapon, someone I could place in the household who would keep an eye on things while I pursued legal avenues to have the demon exorcised from the property.

I called my cousin Neici and together we concocted a hair-brained scheme to send over a distant relative to pose as a regular tenant who's task would be to discreatly monitor the household.

Enter Kiera, 19 years-old, jobless, broke, newly pregnant and soon to be homeless, would be the perfect fit to our plan. After all, her father (my second cousin) grew up in the house; so we felt that she would be grateful for the opportunity to re-start her life in a clean, familiar, and rent free situation right... ?

Uhm... well..not exactly.

Within a day or two, and without explanation, Kiera clicked up and joined forces with Candice, declaring war on both me and cousin Neici. The 2nd floor of my house was now occupied territory; a teenage fortress of hate with me, the owner, no longer having the ability to go anywhere near the front door- at least not without night goggles, hand grenades and full camouflage gear.

The situation could not have been worse.

The gravel banged firmly upon the elevated bench while the bailiff called the next case:

Gartrell vs Candice.

Its October 5th, and I find myself in Chatham County magistrate court, in front of the Honorable Judge Mary Moss.

When the case was called, I presented my case, sober and methodic, laying out the facts which included copies of the lease, house rules and reg’s, police report, sheriffs affidavit as well as rental receipts.

Candice, on the other hand, walked into court without a single document to support her claim. Instead, she launched into an emotional diatribe who’s only aim it seemed was to assassinate my character. Although little of it made sense, the judge listened patiently either out of respect or out of sheer amusement.

Afterward the judge said “that was a very nice story, but what does it have to do with this case?

There was silence.

“You have 10 days to vacate the property. Verdict for the plaintiff. Next case.” Said Judge Moss.

By December '09 a whole new crop of tenants emerged on the 2nd floor of 1905: A darling and ambitious Chinese girl name Sasha, who lives in Florida and commutes to Savannah four days a week; An Le, a Vietnamese student at SCAD as well as two other very nice, quiet and super orderly tenants that I hardly even see.

One of new tenants is the returnee, Syed from Pakistan. He practically begged me to let him move back in (he went on holiday for a month and failed to make adequate housing arrangements for his return to the city).

I gave him the new and improved Rules and Regulations and swore him to an oath to keep the common areas as well as his living quarters respectful and clean.

He read and signed the forms in duplicate.

After a week or two I ran into Syed in front of the middle house. “I can’t believe this is the same place" he said. Its completely different."

Now that the first year of business is out of the way, I expect my relationship with Syed and the other tenants will be much more improved in 2010 and beyond.
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Growing up in South Central LA: Tribute to RJ Welsh

Tue, 19 Jan 2010 10:34:30 +0900

This week, I’m coping with the loss of my longest and dearest best friend, Robert Welsh, 52, of Los Angeles, California.

To his immediate family he was known as “Bobby”. Others called him “RJ”. To me, he was simply Rob.

Rob and I grew up together around 36th Street and Vermont Ave - in the shadows of USC - a working class section of South-Central L.A. which once boasted a rich and vibrant community of well-to-do African Americans, particularly in the 1940’s and 50’s. In fact, Flournoy Miller (1887 - 1971), a once renown and pioneering composer, singer and actor who appeared in Vaudeville and movie screens, lived right next door.

Some of the more noteworthy families on the block (notable due to their size or longevity in the neighborhood) were the exceptional Dumas family (son William, earned a Ph.D in applied mathematics from Harvard) the Christian clan, with Gale, Grady and a half-dozen other siblings; and the Prestons, which included sons Gary, Duane and Alonzo.

Around the corner was home to the Quinn family, with academic and athletic standouts Dennis and Darryl; the Andersons, with Michael, Anthony and Carl (all joining the air force, thank you); and the jet-setting Green family, comprised of Lincoln, Wanda and Mike, well known for hosting lavish and thunderous house-parties for their wealthier friends uptown; and who’s parents sent them half a world away to Beverly Hills High.

Then there was the comparatively low key Molina Family: Salvador or “Sal” and his sister Adele, both of whom attended catholic schools and lived on the same block as the Gartrells, the family that included myself along with my four sisters: Regina, Beth, Darlene and Camille - both lawyers.

Finally, let us not forget the widely talented but hopelessly rambunctious kid, Eric Nathan, who like so many kids we grew up with, landed himself in a federal penitentiary for armed robbery; while others in the hood committed murder or were themselves murdered.

Yet it was Rob and I, along with our buddy, Ralph Collins, that ended up forging a life long bond.

Although Rob and I were familiar with each other at Foshay Junior High School, our brotherhood didn’t take root until after we entered high school.

RJ, who was one year older than I, went to the local high school, Manual Arts High; and for a brief time, so did I. But after a harrowing and narrow escape from certain death at the hands of a half-dozen crazed, blood seeking gang-bangers, my mother hastily transfered me to Belmont High School downtown.

Ralph entered Dorsey High.

Perhaps it was our proximity as neighbors that inspired a lasting friendship between us; or perhaps it was the fact that we shared a common birthday - October 22 - a cause for major celebration each year.

To be sure, back in those days there were several things that drew everyones attention to a young Robert Welsh. First, and perhaps foremost, was his ‘cuteness’. You see, at age 16, Rob looked every bit of 12 years old. Combine that with his white boy demeanor (he want to an all white elementary school) and his gigantic, super curly, award winning afro and you had an intriguing combination that made him a very entertaining novelty at school.

As far back as junior high school, I can recall seeing Rob high-stepping around the playgrounds with his arm rapped around some girls’ waist; a girl, mind you, that was two feet taller than he was. The guys, including myself, could only stand back and gawk at the spectacle.

Rob was multitalented too. Not only was he a member of Manual Arts varsity swim team but he showed tremendous promise as a sequential artist as well. Countless hours I spent in his room marveling at the hand-mad illustrations that adorned his wall (or was it the playboy centerfolds doubling as the wall paper?).

Those were the days when we had just gotten our drivers licenses, where begging to borrow the family car became a weekend ritual. With keys in hand, we were now ready to cruise the West side, Hollywood or the foothills of Altadena in search of a house party, girls or whatever other mischief we could get ourselves into.

My parents car, a 1969 Chrysler 300 - was strait out of Green Hornet comic book; while Rob’s family car, a white, 1965 Plymouth valiant wagon was an awkward contraption that Ralph and I jokingly referred to as ‘The Roach Coach’ (see photo caption above). Given the dilapidated state of both cars, we spent as much time pushing them as we did driving them.

The 1970s in South-Central L.A. saw the emergence of violent street gangs. Groups such as the Crips, Brims (who morphed into the Bloods), Bounty Hunters, Pyrue as well as the Lumberjacks ruled the inner city sidewalks from sun up to sun down. The local news routinely reported black teenagers getting slain for their leather jackets.

Yet in spite of the inherent dangers of being a black male growing up in South-Central LA, some of us, including Rob and myself, were gingerly able to sidestep the land mines that routinely befall too many of our vulnerable youth. To be sure, we toyed around with marijuana a bit, but time would prove it to be little more than a passing curiosity.

The eighties would become yet a different time. Out of high school and calling ourselves grown, Rob was cruising around in a customized Volkswagen bug and attending Los Angeles City College; while I, myself, had moved to an apartment in Hollywood. Yet in some ways, the VW would become Robert’s trademark and for the rest of his life he maintained an active and profound interest in the VW sub culture of Los Angeles.

By 1981, a new pal and comrade arrived on the scene in Courtney Rainer of Tennessee who returned to Los Angeles to live with his father on 36th Place. I introduced him to Robert and not long after, the two began a lifelong brotherhood as well. A couple of years later, Robert and Courtney even took an adventurous cross country drive across the USA, an experience from which Rob continued to talk about to the very end of his life.

Meanwhile, Ralph began a ‘psychedelic’ journey all his own, a-decade-long detour toward certain death and destruction; yet MIRACULOUSLY was able to claw his way back from the abyss. Today, Ralph remains not only alcohol and drug free, but certainly has become an upstanding and dignified role model in every sense of the word.

But destiny would not spare such graciousness for Rob, colliding instead head on with his hopes, aspirations, promise and dreams.

In a darkened parking lot off Figuroa Blvd., in one of seedier parts of the city, Rob had just mounted his brand new silver Suzuki 550 motorcycle and was about to ride off.

Out of no where, two gun-toting teenagers demanded Rob give up his bike and the $ 5 dollars that was in his pocket. When Rob hesitated, one kid ordered his immediate execution. According to Rob, the boy holding the gun must have gotten cold feet as he could not bring himself to pull the trigger. Impatient, the other boy snatched the gun away as Rob attempted to flee.

A shot was fired, hitting Rob once in the back where the bullet pierced his spine leaving him paralyzed and wheelchair bound ever since. It was complications from this incident which ultimately resulted in his death this past week.

Although the criminals were never apprehended (for this crime) I have little doubt that justice has or will be served one way or another.

Yet in spite of this fateful incident, Robert’s outlook on life never really changed.

For the life of me I could never understand what force of nature continued to make him so upbeat and positive each time we spoke. It is this very source of inspiration that I have been searching for many years.

Moreover, Robert takes from us an incredibly benevolent nature that so many of his family and friends have benefited from in countless ways and no words can express my gratefulness for being able to call him my friend.

Rest in Peace My Dear Brother Rob.

In Loving Memory of Robert J. Welsh. October 22, 1957 - January 11, 2010.

Darrell Gartrell

Inspiring letter..

Sun, 16 Aug 2009 00:12:33 +0900

Mr. Gartrell;

How are you? My name is Anthony White. I have been one of the silent followers of your success since I was introduced to the opportunity to possibly go teach abroad back in 2005. I, too, am a fellow African-American young brother who was/is interested in pursuing ventures outside of my comfort zone in different countries. I am a graduate of the University of Tennessee-Knoxville with a degree in Spanish and Finance (much like yourself--well the finance part at least).

I became aware of you and your ventures solely through google searches back in 2005. At the time, I was a graduate student at Texas A&M University and I was considering moving to Asia to pick up an additional language (I speak English and Spanish). During the course of my research, I came across info on your Wisdom 21 school in Japan and I SERIOUSLY considered forwarding my C.V. for a position at your firm.

In the end, I decided on Taiwan. Particularly, because I felt that Chinese was a better option of critical languages to pick up. I moved to Taiwan in the summer of 2006 and actually worked for a language consulting company somewhat similar to your Wisdom 21 (in professional context..I was the only person of color in the company..so I did mostly all of the enlightenment of black history) and I ended up maintaining residence in Taichung until late summer of 2008. I came back home because my mother was experiencing some complications with her health and I was mobile enough to be able to relocate back to Tennessee without many problems. I also was trying to gain employment with several government agencies of which I am still in the hurry up and wait process.

I guess I'm emailing you to 1.) say Thank You for serving as a [unbeknown] source of inspiration before and during some of my time in Asia and 2.) to inquire about your transition back to life in the states, particularly, the south?

I have been somewhat disappointed coming back home to a depression. This has severely limited my options as far as jobs within the last year. Here in the coming month I am actually leaving Tennessee to pursue employment Washington D.C. I seem to think my skill set will be much more appropriate in that market.

Nonetheless, I simply wanted to touch basis with you and indicate that you do have some following of fellow brothers and sisters who appreciate your candidness and willingness to share your experiences through your website(s).

Though, I am still relatively young I plan to follow in your footsteps and return to Tawain/China, conquer the language (my Chinese is till in its infancy stages), and also potentially conquer the market in a few business ventures that I am interested in pursuing.

Thanks for reading my comments. I hope that we may correspond further int he future.

Kindest regards,

A.M. White

Getting Good Help

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 11:11:10 +0900

It's been a helluva last 30 days, returning to Savannah from Japan on July 1 was particularly grueling.

Im not sure why but the first couple of weeks back, my body was really worn down.   I truly felt like a pretzel. Further, the death of MJ certainly cast a fog over my entire being and I have been in a quiet state of shock ever since, looking at my own mortality in a whole new way.

Anyway, tragically, after the Japan trip, I was in no position to relax or take it easy at all, which delayed my normal international-trip-recovery-period quite a bit.

I had too much on my plate here locally - and when I returned to town it was all here waiting for me.

On July 11, I DJ my first wedding party which did NOT go as planned. For the first time in my illustrious career as an amateur DJ, it took me about an hour to figure out what this stiff, bored, and disinterested crowd wanted to hear. Eventually, I stumbled upon some mid-80's funk/dance tunes as well as early 90's R&B which finally got them out of their seats and unto the dance floor.

For now, though, I’ve decided no more DJ events until I am reasonably certain that I first understand what the audience is really in to.

It took me almost a full month to get my mind and body right again. To clarify the point, yesterday I went jogging for the first time in 8 weeks. Clearly a record for me.   I tried to go jogging tonight, but I couldn’t find not a single pair of white socks!

A quick update on the real estate business. Like any new business - especially when your dealing with meager resources - getting it off the ground can the hardest part.

Complicating matters is that the locals view me as an "outsider" so its really difficult if not impossible to obtain suitable assistance - both administrative and operational - which largely refers to handymen and misc service personnel. After all, I don’t speak their language. Like anything in life, I guess, if one has a lot of money then its fairly easy to get what ever you need.

Strangely enough, the local black community view me as (culturally) closer to the white race since - in their eyes at least - I'm clearly not a pure blood black man and being from “the North” just makes it worse.    A "red bone" would be my inter-racial classification, a term we never really heard much growing up on the West Coast.

Welcome to the dirty dirty South!

Anyway, with the month of September on the horizon, we are gearing up for the PEEK season in the rental business which I am experiencing for the first time. Last year, when I first started, I had missed the peek season by a couple of weeks so it’s largely been an up-hill battle getting the TYPE of tenants that we want which are GRADUATE students at the local university known as Savannah College of Arts and Design or SCAD.

If all goes well - and it’s a modestly big ‘if’ - we should be at full capacity by Sept. 1.

I decided only to rent out only TWO of the houses instead of THREE as I will keep one house as my private home/office and sanctuary. For those of you readers in Japan, I'm sure that you can imagine how much all my houses resemble Wisdom21 of Osaka.

Speaking of MY house, one of the rooms will be designated for commercial purposes of another level, as we are currently sprucing it up to look like a Ritz Carlton hotel suite.   This room will be rented on a daily/weekly basis and only for traveling business persons, couples and such; those who can pay the more higher end prices. We have already booked the room for two weeks beginning August 7.

Some people might call this a Bed and Breakfast. Perhaps a B&B IS the next logical step to this business venture, yet I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

First things first.

Last week I was lucky enough to find a new assistant. Her name is Donna, and she works with her strong-man husband, Derrick, both natives of Savannah (above photo).   Together, they have done miracles helping me to decorate, re-organize and fix many parts of the houses in dire need of repair.

After all the pain, struggle and frustration of dealing which soooo many characters, and soooo many disappointments and sooo many broken promises, it was truly a GODSEND to find someone who can finally help out in a meaningful way.

Donna, who has her own used furniture business, understands what it means to operate a struggling business, and is overly eager to manage all aspects of my real estate operations here in Savannah.

I'm surely considering it - but like I told her, we need to at least get past the first month in order to get to know each other on a level where I can begin to trust her with my both my life and business which are one and the same.

With Donna on board (for now?) and the operation here slowly coming together, I am finally getting some free time to work on some internet and marketing projects.

I will return to Japan in early Sept. and will surely be investing a lot of time working on various project there.
.
Once I DO get the management situation resolved here in Savannah (sadly, selling the property is not an option at this time due to the still ailing economy) I would eventually like to explore the possibility of getting a modest job somewhere in Japan or at least starting some kind of small business venture there.

We'll see.

For now, as always, I'm really looking forward to my next return trip to Japan.

Unlikely meeting with the King

Mon, 6 Jul 2009 21:38:27 +0900

Love Comes to a Jackson 5 was the caption of the Ebony magazine cover featuring a sparkling pose of Jermaine Jackson and his radiant young fiance, Hazel Gordy, the daughter of Motown record company founder, Berry Gordy.

The issue was November, 1973.

In the early seventies, the Jackson 5 were at the height of their popularity and fame. At that time I was a freshman at Belmont High School in downtown Los Angeles and was captivated not only by the magazine cover, but by the idea of the first Jackson brother to get married so publicly (we discovered later that brother Tito Jackson quietly married DeDe the previous year).

Flipping through the article, I learned that the wedding was to take place the following month at the infamous, Beverly Hills Hotel.

Because the date and location of this most monumental event was released to the press, I quite naturally assumed that the general public was invited, at least to stand outside the venue to gawk at arriving celebrities and guests.

So when the festive day finally arrived, I started my cross-town trek to the Beverly Hills Hotel at the crack of dawn. I wanted to make sure that I got a head start on the throngs of fanatical fans that were sure to be on hand.

I took the number 4 bus westward, down Olympic Blvd and arrived at the hotel about an hour or so later or just before 7 a.m.

As I walked up the hill and strode toward the entrance of the low key and somewhat simple complex, I was a bit surprised to find that the most prestigious hotel in the country at this hour at least -   seemed all but barren and vacant; with not a single soul in sight. I
cautiously walked about the hotel lobby and beyond but saw no visible signs of a forthcoming event.

I continued to wander the hotel lobby area for a few minutes then stopped to wonder if I had somehow gotten my information all screwed up - that the news release had been a clever ploy - crafted to throw the die-hard J5 fans like myself off the scent.

"The wedding must be taking place somewhere else", I whispered to myself.

Yet alas - my stumbling would eventually pay off with the discovery a banquet room that housed two large cages filled with a dozen or so white doves &;patiently waiting - along with some wedding paraphernalia and trinkets that spelled out Hazel and Jermaine;

Aha! This must be the spot after all!

Oh! But without official business inside, I realized that my best bet was to bounce and come back later. The only safe haven that I knew was back at the bus stop down the hill - So off I went.

I passed the time at the bus stop for at least two hours, a long and antsy wait; until deciding it was time to venture back to the hotel so to see what activities, if any, were beginning to stir.

Retracing my steps back to the front of the hotel, into the lobby and back into the ballroom netted the same old results: no people and no activity. So now I was really beginning to second guess the stupidity of this whole escapade.   After all, I figured, there is an obvious reason why YOU are the only one here, I said to myself.

I decided it was time to call off the expedition and head back to the ghetto. I departed the lobby and made an exit through the front of the hotel, and proceeded through the canopy where the taxis drive up only to be met by a silver, mid-size, foreign- looking car pulling up to the front.

Mortified!   I found myself looking at the driver, father Joe Jackson, with passengers Michael and little brother Randy, all stepping out of the car; unloading boxes, packages, and whatnots from the trunk. They were dressed alike in black tuxedos without the bow-ties.

Meanwhile, I was frozen in my tracks.

Before anybody had a chance to notice me, I quickly did an about face and made a hasty retreat back down the hill especially before someone had a chance to grab me by the collar and throw me out.

While leaving the premises I immediately began a vehement and severe argument with myself:

“Darrell you’ve come this far, you have to go back and try to get an autograph at least” I said.

So five minutes later I braved the most unnerving of circumstances and went back up the hill, back to the scene of the crime (where I lost my balls) to face the biggest and boldest challenge of my young life.

As I approached the car port once again, I noticed that Michael and Randy were standing alone next to the car - still mulling about as if waiting for more instructions or something.

At that point, two things briefly come to my youthful mind.   First, with all the millions that the Jackson’s possess, why on earth are they doing mundane labor? And secondly, why were there no security personnel around?

With jitters running through my legs, I slowly crept toward the car like the lion with no heart. As I got within 15 yards or so, Michael glances up, makes eye contact, then grins and waves. He then makes a b-line directly toward me, his approving smile instantly disarmed the stress, fear and apprehension that had taken over my body.

“Are you such and such?” he playfully asks. After a brief exchange, we both realized that he had mistaken me for somebody else, but Michael didn’t seem to mind at all. My impression was that he was delighted to have the opportunity to meet and talk privately with someone new - especially his own age - as though somehow such opportunities to meet new people in private were indeed rare.

Michael and I chatted briefly and I confessed to him that I had read about todays wedding in a magazine and I just wanted to come and see all the famous people especially the Jackson 5. Michael seemed comfortable with my story.

I pulled out my little index card from my pocket for which Michael happily signed his name. I got the impression he was in no hurry and was under no pressure to leave and was ready to talk more.

Out of the no where, a thunderous explosion bellowed from the sky.

Michael!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It was father Joe Jackson, issuing the loudest man-bark I had ever heard: Fierce, mean, and treacherous - and loaded with deadly innuendos.

And just like that, Michael and his brother Randy abruptly vanished into thin air - as if they were never even there.

Although I didn’t get a chance to have a photo taken between the brothers and me (the Kodak camera never moved from my jacket pocket) I did manage to engage Michael Jackson in small talk and get the autograph that I would end up cherishing for the rest of my life.

I didn’t bother to stay for the wedding.

By privately meeting and talking to my childhood idol, I had achieved much more than I had bargained for and felt - at long last - it was high time for me to take the number 4 bus back down Olympic blvd - back to my home in South Central Los Angeles.

P.S.

If its not too much trouble, please sign-in and let me know you read this. It encourages me to keep up with my blog if I know people are half way interested. Thankz!

Loss of a dear friend

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 11:20:06 +0900

Michael Jackson was a close and dear friend of mine. Well, sort of anyway.

My relationship with him shared a somewhat common beginning when, way back in elementary school, there was this new song that was playing on the radio. I had only heard it a couple of times and I just assumed that it was a young lady who was churning out those high pitched lyrics.

One evening that same week, or perhaps it was the next, happen stance found me propped in front of the TV set for the Ed Sulliven show. I say ‘happen stance’ only because I did not regularly watch the show and I had no particular plans to watch the show that evening. The TV was just on, and I happen to be in the room.

What I saw stunned me.

By the next day the whole school was on fire. It seemed every single kid on campus had witnessed the show.

We couldn’t stop talking about it or even sit still.

We were all electrified.

Talent shows, no doubt a hallmark of black schools of the day, were a real big deal back then. At our school, the reining champion was a kid we called “Chief” who’s impersonation of James browns cape-flinging antics turned him into a God-like figure on the playgrounds.

Yet when the Jackson 5 hit the airwaves, it was as if the best talent at our school, including Chief himself, had suddenly become upstaged and made irrelevant; an inconceivable notion up until that time.

MJ and I were exactly the same age, separated by about two months and as a youngster, I instantly saw so much of myself in him - the tan skin, the afro hair and the cute little boy looks were just the beginning.

Although I was never any kind of singer, I did have a natural talent at dancing. Yeah, I was one of those kids who would get the wake up call in the middle of the night to do my own interpretation of James Brown to the sheer delight of my parents, relatives and other gleeful on-lookers who came by the house to hang out or to party.

To this day, some of my older relatives, including my cousin Keith Sennette, never fail to remind me what a remarkable young performer I was.

All the kids in our neighborhood, including my five sisters, rode the excitement of the next few Jackson 5 hit songs with great enthusiasm; but it was their song “The Love you Save” that largely defined the period of the times.

Everybody at school and across the country, I suppose, was dancing “the Funky Chicken”, and “The Love You Save” was the song that we danced to. 6th grade graduation was nearing.
It was June 1969.

Being raised in a household with so many girls our home was naturally a Jackson 5 stronghold. Moreover, it was phenominal how each sister, in descending order, had their own favorite Jackson brother:

My eldest sister, Regina, favored the eldest Jackson boy, Jackie. Diane, next in line, was inseparable from Jermain as the two were often seen as siamese twins. Beth adopted Marlon with great fervor; and my younger sister, Darlene, claimed Michael as her very own.

Territories inside the bedrooms were staked out by giant posters and magazine covers of each J5 brother, plastered on the walls as if competing for attention that shouted “My Jackson is best!” .

In our house, the sounds of the Jackson five became more common than the very air we breathed.

Tragedy would strike our family in 1970 with the passing of my father, Barnet Gartrell, Jr, at the ripe old age of 45. His passage was clearly marked, and in some ways vividly recorded, by the J-5’s “Third Album” which evokes clear memories of those saddened days whenever I listen to that LP.

Ditto for the “Maybe Tomorrow” album, which takes me back to the death of my best friend and brother, William Morris, who died a few months later, stabbed to death in his neighborhood where he collapsed and died in his mothers arms in front of their house on 97th street and Vermont Ave, in Los Angeles. He was 14.

Those hurtful experiences - so early in my life - were comforted by the music of the Jackson five.

Through their songs, I was somehow able to forge both meaning and joy from those tragic loses, as well as the courage and strength to endure them and to carry on.

In the years that followed, my interest in the Jackson family never waned for a moment, and their music, in so many ways, continues to define the chapters of my life - both happy and sad - an ending that is somewhat shallow and empty now that the lead singer Michael is gone.

License to steal

Wed, 27 May 2009 23:07:43 +0900

If you are keeping track of my blogs - and I'm sure you are, you know that I recently wrote about how much the USA has changed since I moved back from living a couple of decades overseas (see blog entitled, Sexual Confusion). That degree of change, obviously, is not limited to illegal aliens or flaming homosexuals.

US businesses, in the meantime, from credit card companies and insurance agencies, to telecommunications and banks, have seemingly been granted a gradual and unfettered license to invade your life, violate your trust and do nothing other than rip you off.

Like maggots to a corpse - the telemarketing phenomena, too, has become a part of the new American landscape.

It was merely a couple of weeks after my return to the USA in 2008 that I fell victim to one such call. Viking Magazine, out of Bloomington, Minnesota, agreed to deliver the following publications for my new office: Success, Entrepreneur, US News & World Report.

In the weeks that followed, I found it very odd that very few of the magazines I ordered ever arrived at my door. Instead, I got every other publication under the sun, including titles such as Working Mother, Parenting, Surf, and some fishing magazines to name only a few. Needless to say, I had no practical use for this “junk” at all.

A couple of weeks later, I voiced my concern to the Viking sales agents for which they were all too quick to recite the company mantra that they maintained the right to switch magazines at any time as listed in the agreement.

When I expressed my desire to terminate the contract (after all, the were billing me every month) they mentioned that initially I had 14 days in which to cancel the agreement; so I was now obligated to pay for the entire two year commitment. Yet on closer observation, the contract also stated "Please allow 60 to 120 days to get your service started". So by the time the magazines actually started arriving to my house, the deadline to terminate the agreement had long passed.

So if the magazines aren’t delivered until two months, how on earth, I wondered, can one reasonably ensure the quality of the product after a mere 14 days?

In short, you cannot.

Smelling a major-league rat, I then proceeded to do what any other self respecting consumer would do when dealing with a professional scam artist: I CANCELLED THE CREDIT CARD.

So now my phone starts to ring big time. Its guess who? VIKING MAGAZINE.

Quite naturally, I again attempted to state my case with the agent on the telephone, that Viking practices are at bottom are very misleading ; but the agent was steadfast with the company line:

"Sir. The (extra) magazines you receive are free" - as if that would matter to me.

I then asked the lady. "Do you own a dog?" "No" she replied. Then how about if I send you 10 LBS of dog food to your house every week and then have the nerve to tell you, "Don't worry about it. Its free".

She then put me on hold and moments later I found myself on the line with an Eric Ball, the operations manager, who proudly boasted "20 years of experience" under his belt.

In short, Mr. Ball went on to explain the "investment" details that his company had made in supplying me with my subscription and how much it would cost me to get out of our so-called agreement. Moreover, he let me know in no uncertain terms that he was ready to report me to the credit agencies if I did not make good on the monthly payment at once or pay the balance in full - which was about $365.00.

Mr. Ball, with all his experience, knows all too well that he's got me by the short and curly's; and in classic form, I would be much better off just to pay him to go away. Yet the principle of the matter remains hard to ignore: I'm was being robbed!!

Far too amazed to be infuriated, I decided to leverage the only true power that I had.

In no uncertain terms, I told me Mr. Ball that I was preparing to draft a letter to the Better Business Bureau, The State Attorney Generals office as well start posting off of this information on internet bulletin boards across the country.

A week later, I received a call from the company president who apologized for the "misunderstanding" later sent me a letter of apology and a full refund.

I heard from the secretary that Mr. Ball had just quit the company. Hmmmmm....

Your thoughts welcomed.

Darrell

Make up your mind!!!

Tue, 19 May 2009 22:38:26 +0900

I read somewhere once that persons who share my particular date of birth, on the cusp of Libra and Scorpio, tend to be somewhat indecisive.

Coincidentally or not, this is a personality trait that I can’t exactly deny.

But never before has the choice of which road to take been so daunting.

Too much freedom indeed does have its price.

For now, then, I am considering the option of returning to live in Japan or stay put here in Georgia.

Life in Japan is super exhilarating, while live here in the States is completely dead. Being established in the United States may be more compatible with my long term goals of retirement and stability however.

Further, should I settle for a nine to five – safe but uneventful - or should I give entrepreneurship another spin, betting the farm once again, and putting it all on the line.

To make ends meet, I need to liquidate at least one property – but which one? The one in L.A. or one of the Savannah houses. There are serious serious implications for each move.

And should I get married and have kids – even at my age – or should I continue to keep my options open in that regard?

The fear of the music suddenly stopping with me not having a chair certainly remains a powerful force to reckon with doesn’t it.

Your views welcomed!