6/21/04 4:22 AM: "If you tell the truth, you are often selling out the people who are near to you, who have agreed to talk to you, who have told you their stories, who have gone on travels with you. Writers are not nice people, although they may be charming enough." -- Jon Carroll

THE PLAYBOY JAZZ FESTIVAL: This weekend I went to cover the Playboy Jazz festival at the Hollywood Bowl. I forgot it was this weekend up until, oh, Thursday. I had other things scheduled, which I had to reschedule. Last year when I went, I took a date on each day and barely got any work done. I'm not seeing either of those women any more, coincidentally.

So this year I decide, especially with the late notice, "screw it, I'm gonna just go by myself and get some real work done." This was both a good idea and a bad idea. On the good side, I parked maybe seven blocks away from the Hollywood Bowl and wasn't forced to contend with "stack parking," where they jam as many cars into a small space as they can, blocking in everybody who's not in front or on the outward facing side until the other people show up and leave. This was fine last year -- I made out in the car both nights. This year, as I was by myself, I just walked down to the truck I'm driving (more on that in a moment down in CAR-GO SPACE) and left, with nothing more than normal Hollywood traffic to contend with. That was great. Also, because I wasn't worried about returning to some VIP-pass-less date (I can only get that much love for myself), I was free to wander the whole stadium, exploring areas I'd never seen. For example, the very top of the bowl looked like a homeless squatters camp, with dressed up drunk uncles sitting on lawn chairs with martini sets, unable to see the show and seemingly unconcerned. A passerby called it "God's country," as it was high enough to reach up and brush clouds with your fingertips. That was cool. I ran into tons of people I know, including Jay Polk (famous for "Jay Polk's Hungry Black Folk" parties at USC), my man Conney's friend Scott, and a bunch of other groovy people. That's all right. Also, I was able to effectively confab with photographers and publicists and handle most of the business I would have to do, plus secured my gear in the press room without worring about predatory seat swipers. All of that was cool.

But as the sun set and the jazz sounds grew smooth and mournful, I got lonely. I had nobody to talk to -- all the photogs and publicists, while nice people, are not people I know and can just chat with. Plus they were a lot busier than me. There wasn't as much dancing (a lot more festival-goers seemed fat this year) and less for me to photograph personally. I brought food the second day, and had nobody to share my meal with. I got bored more easily, since I missed a lot of the acts I wanted to see (more on that in a moment, down in EX-FACTOR). I left fairly early even the second day, when I could have stayed for the whole show conceivably. It was actually almost like work this year and not fun, which also probably had something to do with missing the annual party held by festival manager Jonne Marie and her husband at this crazy Greek restaurant in the Valley.

However, I did notice something interesting about the sociology of the Bowl. Close to the stage, moneyed Black people in finely tailored and expensive clothes sipped champagne and were served by waiters. Up in "God's Country" people drank liquor from paper bags and ate out of styrofoam coolers. The strata of Black class could be examined by going up or down the stairs. Closer to the stage, event staff checked for tickets. Closer to God's Country, nobody looked and nobody cared.

On the same note, I had a personal experience which reinforced the next news point. Down closer to the stage, I was widely ignored by every brand of sister as musclebound brothers in linen shirts paraded past. Even Bernie Mac Show actress Kellita Smith, who I actually met some years ago at a Hollywood Black Film Festival screening, found no more interest in her eyes passing over me than in a paramecium on a slide. However, as I wandered and took the escalator towards the top, two sisters started talking to me and one pretty much hit on me. I wasn't terribly attracted to her (she was cute, but nowhere near as together or attractive as who I'm seeing now), but it's so rare that sisters make the first move, I didn't wanna completely shoot her down, so I gave her my card and hung with her for a bit (we did have a cool moment -- I stopped to shake hands with Scott, who's a pal of my poetry friend Conney, and while I did two open-shirted brothers moved in. The first was trying to push them about a June 25th event, and the girl who hit on me saw me, and asked, "honey, aren't we doing something on the 25th?" Seamlessly, I replied, "that's the day we have to do that thing with your sister." Very funny, and deflated the guy instantly. But I digress ...). Anyway, it led me to a realization, which led to poetry, which leads us to ...

STAB WOUNDS, STANZAS AND STRETCH MARKS: I ended up at my homegirl Dana's karaoke show in Playa del Rey, and we talked about it. I realized that Black females who could be considered "bourgeoise" or "saditty" or "proper" never, in my life, have wanted anything to do with me. The only time I ever got with one was after she'd been dumped and abandoned by a pretty boy, and was crying her eyes out in a Denny's booth at 5AM. The girls who like me normally fall into one of two camps: creative, artsy types (which includes sci-fi, comic book and film fans) or (to be kind) "round the way girls." If a sister had her bachelor's degree by 22 and paid off her student loans by 30, she's not feelin' me. Not when I made twenty grand a year, not when I made eighty grand a year.

So I wrote a poem about it. I'm still working on it (I emailed it out to some people for feedback), but it's close, I think.

THIS JUST IN: We now interrupt this blog to bring you some news. Jessica Alba is freakin' hot (despite only being 34-25-34, but she's Latina, so that's alright with me). However, Jessica Alba was born April 28th, 1981. With a little bit of thinking, I could tell you what I was doing on that day, and probably even some of the TV I watched. Argh. I'm getting old ... we now return you to your regularly scheduled blog.

EX-FACTOR: Speaking of my ongoing issues with sisters, I had to deal with my ex-wife last week. Now, I don't like dealing with her, as her very existence is a reminder that I am an idiot (I chose her, she went nuts, therefore the responsibility lies with me for allowing such a toxic presence into my life).

About six months ago, she told me she had the title for my car and would give it to me. I said, "Cool," and forgot about it. Of course, if you've been following my blog, you'll know that my beloved Monte Carlo was hit, not once but twice. The damage was too severe for me to fix, totalling more than the value of the car, and only the second accident included current insurance. So I called a salvage company, who came by on Monday to get it (had they gotten it sooner, I'd still have all my karaoke CDs, gone in another automotive mishap that happened while I was parked ... as long as the vehicle is moving, I'm virtually invulnerable, but again I digress). However, they need the title so I can get my money (a measly $300, but that's another party).

So Monday night I call and ask her for it. A day goes by. Nothing. I send her an email late Tuesday night. Nothing. No response at all. I figure maybe she's out of town or something -- after the divorce she took to doing a lot of travel. I was up early Thursday morning working, so I called her and asked her for it. Now, I'll note here, I have a standing agreement with her not to print exactly what she says to me on my website (but I will be very specific in any other media or in conversation, because she wasn't very specific with her terms, and I follow the letter of the law). She basically implied she would mail me the title, which would go to my homeboy Inpu's house (she doesn't know where I live, as I divested her from my life like apartheid South Africa). "I kind of need it soon, but okay, if that's what you need to do," says I, ready to move on. She then tells me that she's upset, because when she tried to give me some divorce-related paperwork months prior, I was less than rushed in helping her get the data to me (eventually saying, "Mail it to Inpu's house," which seemed to placate her).

Now, I don't bring up the fact that she's been holding on to my title for more than a year. No. I don't even mention that whenever I find something of hers, I drop it off at her mom's house instantly, because I don't want anything of her or her energy in my home or my life. No. Alas, I need her to not be nuts here, so I instead take another tactic. "I respect and understand your anger," I said, "because the paperwork thing surprised me and I reacted out of ignorance. I was one hundred percent in the wrong there, and I apologize for putting you through inconvenience. As well, I appreciate you sharing this with me, as there have been times during this process that you weren't so open to letting me know these things. I appreciate your willingness to be that open with me." She had little to say to that, so we got off the phone. She's mad, I'm not. Who knew?

So Saturday, when I cut out early from the Jazz Festival to make the Juneteenth Poetry Slam (argh, I missed Etta James, Wynton Marsalis and Savion Glover), I got stuck working the door. By way of background, while looking for some files in my chaotic office, I found a very expensive pen and a CD of hers in some stuff she gave me back. I wanted it out of the house, so I swung by her mom's house and left it in the mailbox. So I'm sitting at the counter (and more weirdness had happened, as a woman who I basically told to get out of my life walked up and said "Hello!" as I was preparing my piece, right after another ex's psycho mother did the same), in walks the ex-wife. Argh.

"Hello," she started carefully (this is incidental, outside of the bounds of the agreement). "Did you leave some stuff at my mother's house today?"

"I did," I replied evenly.

She nodded. "So you're working the door?"

"So it appears," I noted.

She handed me the five dollar donation and sat across from me. I was to be the "pace car," and read a poem for the judges to calibrate their senses to. I'd picked "Watching Me" by Jill Scott, because it was good and had some not-too-hard singing I could incorporate. The ex-wife, next thing I knew, had volunteered to be a judge. I was really glad not to be an official competitor at that time. She gave me a middle of the road score, and was noted by a few people to give low scores all night.

My cowboy friend Jon theorizes she still has feelings for me, which would be like a horror movie. Inpu theorizes that I'm a jackass and it's my fault, but ninety-eight percent of the things he's said to me over the last dozen years are under review, so his advice is spurious at best. In either case, it seems like she's not doing as well at dealing with all of this as her new age speak implies (as numerous people have independently come to me to report), and I think that's just ducky. "As I have suffered, so shall ye suffer," I often say. Plus, aside from the ongoing car things, I'm pretty pleased. Which, oddly enough, brings us to ...

CAR-GO SPACE: The broken glass will have to be custom replaced, since the company that made the truck's canopy went out of business. They need to cut a hole and put in a new, bigger window. It's gonna cost me $275. Likewise, the passenger side lock is completely ruined and unusable, and will have to be replaced to the tune of $381. About $700. Kelly Blue Book lists the value of the truck as a whole at about $1700. Fantastic. Oh, and the thing got a flat tire from a screw dug deep into the tread. Yeah.

I got the first insurance check for two grand from Mercury Insurance, so I can do it, but honestly I'm gonna offer my boss the cash and see if he'll let me off the hook. Somehow I gotta make all this work, and still get a new (to me) car (hopefully a Chevy Lumina).

I'm in the struggle here, and I'm trying to work my way through it. I even added a "make a donation" button to the front page, if you'd like to help, as the only things I find I need are time and money, neither of which is in abundance these days. More news as it develops.

SINGING THE BLUES: As I noted, I was at Dana's show, and I had my new, meager songbook. Ten discs. I had a hard time finding things I wanted to sing, and ended up doing Coldplay's "Yellow" and then looking for crazy stuff (including a horrible Lisa Loeb rendition of "Stay (I Missed You)" which we will never speak of again). I really wanted to sing "The Scientist," which I have made into a really bluesy kind of riff, but neither I nor Dana have it right now. I've gone to Wal-Mart and gotten a new kit-bag (one of those one shoulder messenger types), a new 96-disc case, a new tip jar and pen holder, and so on. Burned some CDs for my show Sunday, including the necessary themes (NFL on Fox, NBA on NBC, and Wayne Newton singing "Danke Schoen" for the end of the show). Luckily, I found the same guy on eBay selling the same hard-to-find Maxwell song that made me so happy, so I'll see if I can win it again. I also do my big swap tomorrow, so we'll see how that works. Right.

Done now.