A time for being inspired -- and, one day, actually inspiring others.

It's been quite a while since I've posted to my silly blog. I wasn't ready. Now I am. Here's the briefest of brief updates, followed by something that moved me -- finally -- to share something that I believe is worth sharing:

Since last time . . . . . let's see . . .

Cancer -- stage two Melanoma. Three times under the scalpel. Finger-biting time. Good news. No more cancer. Whew! A quick second scare. No worries. The Veterans Administration and Social Security recognize my combat-related condition and grant me disability status. Roller coasters of emotions, adjustments, scrambling to adjust more and time to face irritating obstacles I should have faced years ago.

A brief journey to Belgrade and Novi Sad, Serbia, and then to Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina, along with a couple of days working on my documentary about a most surprising, former German concentration camp where thousands of Jewish women and children spent their final days on Earth.

Home again and still adjusting and still facing (but not embracing) personal obstacles.
The whole time, I've explored a pathway for that mysterious and illusive desire to change things somewhere for the good.

Today, this inspired me enough to want to share it with everyone I know and even with people I don't know.
Would you please take some time to watch it? If it doesn't touch you, at least you'll know what touches me.





Oh, and you should feel free to share it with other folks. And if you wish, leave a comment here or send me an e-mail at donray@donray.com. I'm looking for ways to get involved somehow.

For all of your time travel needs.

Where can you get all of the news from the future as well as the past? Only at the Echo Park Time Travel Mart.
Welcome!

 

The moment I heard about the Echo Park Time Travel Mart (EPTTM), I had to go there for a visit. It's at 1714 W. Sunset Blvd. in the Echo Park District of  Los Angeles.
What a great experience --- an experience you shouldn't miss.





Trevor Byrne was running the unique (that's an understatement) shop that offers everything you'll ever need for that time-travel trip you've been planning. It doesn't matter if you're going forward or backward in time, this store has what you'll need.

It opens up at noon (not that time matters), which gives you more than enough time to examine the goods for sale there --- goods such as Time Travel Sickness Pills, bottled Robot Milk, dinosaur eggs, medicinal leeches and Woolly Mammoth Chunks.











My mouth was watering for a Time-Freezy Hyper Slush, but the machine was out of order. I didn't have time to go back yesterday when it was working.

I was able to sneak into the back room to see if they had other things in stock, but what I discovered instead was the real reason for this timeless store's existence.

You see, it's really a front for a tutoring service that's part of what's called 826LA. Truth be told, I first heard about this remarkable volunteer effort when I watched a fascinating video about the germ of this project on Ted.com. You can also view it at  Dave Egger's Ted Wish.


I know that there are a lot of educators who visit my blog, so I encourage you all to consider volunteering for the one-on-one tutoring during the school year or work with the entire classes that come to EPTTM during the daytime. You journalists out there can also help out ever Monday night from 7 to 8:30 p.m. when the young staff of "828LA Good Times"convenes to put together its astoundingly professional newsletter.

The student journalists write about more than their pets. For example, in the current edition, reporter Alanis offers up a Q&A with seismologist Kate Hutton from CalTech. Josephine, another reporter, interviewed Tom Overton of Gems and Gemology Magazine as well as Wendy Van Norden of National Earth Sciences Teacher Association. Ruby used her interviewing and writing skills to address the dispute about whether Pluto is really a planet. She turned to USC Professor Werner Dappen for her material. Pretty impressive stuff, indeed.

I promised Trevor that I'd have to travel to the future (when my next check arrives) before I can return to buy some of the really cool items at the store --- including books that the students have published as part of the program.



The best part is that the money the store raises goes directly to the tutoring programs and helps pay the rent. It's a worthy endeavor and I encourage you to stop in and buy something.

That is, if you have the time.

You can learn more by visiting them online http://www.826la.org

A kind of love that everyone should experience. A vicarious video.

Catalina Provencia agreed to talk about growing up in the Palo Verde section of Chavez Ravine before the city cleared the area of houses and people for what was supposed to be low-income housing. Instead, it became home to Dodger Stadium.

At the annual gathering of former Chavez Ravine residents in 1990, I noticed the most intriguing couple. Catalina was animated and gregarious.She stood four inches above her quiet, unassuming husband, Morro. Whenever their eyes connected, however, bolts of amorous energy seemed to dart between them. I knew that I couldn't leave without trying to tap into that energy.

During the "neighborhood" interview, I asked Catalina to tell me about her first encounter with Morro. The result is this jewel. Before I could share it with the world, I had to track down Catalina and first show her the 20-year-old video. It was a great excuse to capture, again, her electrifying and contagious spirit.




 By the way, Catalina has already agreed to another interview in ten years when she turns 101.

If I receive enough encouragement (comments here or on Youtube -- or direct e-mails), I'll begin posting more gems from the two interviews.

Signs that confuse me . . .

Sometimes I wonder what they were thinking.

This is like the drive-up ATMs that have instructions for the driver that are in braille.

Or it's like the sign in the post office that reads: "No dogs allowed, except seeing-eye dogs."
These signs are there for the blind, the illiterate and the dogs.

How about this one in a Pollo Loco Restaurant?

Curious Critter

My dog Mija and I like to get up and out early. I don't know about her, but I prefer to walk when there's a shortage of other people out there. It's in the early morning on our walks that I'm able to think through my day, and come up with crazy ideas that I'm certain will revolutionize the world.
Mija is a little nervous about some of the dogs behind fences and gates. It's interesting that she fears the little nippers more than the macho mutts.
We both marvel at how the young squirrels will scurry part of the way up the trunk of a tree and then hide on the backside -- if it can't see us, then maybe it thinks we don't even know that it exists.
This morning, we both noticed a little movement on the bricks that run alongside the cement path to a wrought iron gate. It wasn't a cat -- the ears and nose were to pointy. It wasn't a mouse or a rat -- much too slow moving. The little fella was curious, and not nearly as cautious as one would think.
I'd never seen one of these this young. I was surprised that Mama wasn't around. One of his or her little sisters or brothers, however, was exploring the flower bed on the other side of the pathway, but wasn't nearly as brave.
I'm sure you know what it is -- even without seeing its telltale tale. Telltale tale? I don't think I've ever written that before.

Night flight to Saigon to save a dog's life

It was one of the most touching moments in my tour in Vietnam. I made the journey in late 1968 -- probably in October. I was with the 212th M.P. Company at a small detachment at the Soc Trang Army Airfield.

Countless times in my 30+ years as a reporter, producer, author and teacher, I've looked into the eyes of people I was interviewing and realized that they weren't there with me -- they had taken a mental journey into the past. They were somewhere else. I eventually learned to remain as silent as possible so that they could stay in that place -- any questions would quickly bring them back to the present.

Ten years ago I attended a memorial presentation at the unveiling of a statue honoring the bravery and dedication of the thousands of dogs what served our country in combat. I remember how, during the ceremony, I found myself in one of those trances -- I was in another place, in another time ....

The strange thing is that I wasn't with my dog Fritz, I was with a 105-pound German shepherd named Samson. I was back on a gunship in the middle of the night sky on our way from Dong Tam to Saigon. I was trying to take Samson to the veterinary hospital at Tan Son Nhut Airfield so a real veterinarian might keep him alive. Samson was suffering from encephalitis -- he was burning with fever and having trouble breathing through the muzzle. I had tied his paws together to keep him from trying to stand up.

Samson's handler was on R&R somewhere and had no idea that his best friend was fighting for his life. All I could think of was my own dog in a similar situation. How far would someone else go to save my dog Fritz? I was determined to get Samson to a place where someone could help him.

It had all begun a few hours earlier when someone discovered Samson nearly passed out in his kennel. Only a day or two earlier I had been "volunteered" to be the acting-vet tech at our little 12-dog detachment in Soc Trang, south of the Mekong Delta. The nearest veterinarian was in Can Tho. On the phone, he told us to get the temperature down (we put him in a bathtub-sized dip tank with ice water) and rush him to Saigon. A local dust-off (Med Evac) pilot agreed to take us as far as he could -- to the airfield at Dong Tam. It was after midnight, when he dropped us off and flew away. Even though I had neither the orders nor the authority to request a helicopter for the dog, I still insisted that the CQ runner (enlisted guy on duty) awaken the officer-of-the-day. I don't know how I did it, but I convinced the major in charge to authorize a Huey helicopter gunship to take us the rest of the way.

The pilot and copilot were not happy about the run. They were reluctant to help me load the stretcher into the copter. Of course, there were no side doors and no way to tie the stretcher down. I sat on the floor and held onto the back of the pilot's seat as we took off on a most frightening ride. As they'd bank to the right or the left, the stretcher would slide toward the open door. It took all my strength to keep the stretcher and myself from falling out.

There was nobody manning the M-60 machine guns at either of the open doors. But we were traveling fast enough and high enough that the bright red tracers rising from some ground fire was of little concern to the pilot and copilot.

We eventually landed at Tan Son Nhut Air Base at an evac hospital for people -- not at the veterinary hospital we needed to go to. Two Vietnamese ambulance drivers were afraid to load the dog into their 3/4-ton ambulance. Eventually, I convinced them that the dog was tied down, they finally helped me and then drove us to the triage area.

Two more Vietnamese workers opened the rear door of the ambulance and were equally shocked to see that the patient was a dog. One of them helped me carry the stretcher to one of the empty. outdoor stretcher racks in what seemed like an ocean of occupied stretchers. Soon about 15-20 medical personnel were crowded around us pointing, laughing, and talking.

It was about that time Samson completely stopped breathing!

 All I could think of was doing that leg-lift-chest-push artificial respiration I had read about somewhere. But his front paws were tied together with gauze tape. I couldn't get them untied. All I could think about was Samson's handler coming home from R&R to find his dog had died.

Everyone around me were just spectators -- amused spectators! By this time I was crying.

"Would someone please help me? Please?"

It was then that an angel -- a nurse -- yelled, "Get the %@*% out of my way!" and shoved her way through the crowd.

"What can I do?" she asked. I told her I couldn't untie the gauze. She reached in a pocket a pulled out some scissors and freed Samson's front legs.

She quickly caught on and started lifting his right leg while I pushed on his rib cage. Within two minutes he started breathing again. At almost that moment, some veterinarian technicians from the veterinary hospital arrived in a jeep, and I helped them load Samson into it.

It happened so quickly that I never had a chance to thank that beautiful angel. She had vanished.

By sunrise it was clear Samson was going to survive. I knew I could face Samson's handler.

Decades later, on February 21, 2000, I sat listening to the poignant comments at the War Dogs Memorial dedication at March Air Force Base. I looked at all of the guys around me and I could feel the love each one had for his dog, and the lengths to which they would have gone to save their dogs' life or save the life of any other handler's dog.



After all, I'm convinced every dog handler who attended the ceremony was able to be there because of his dog -- and maybe because of the dogs of his fellow handlers. And I wondered how many lives Samson went on to save when he went back to work. And I wonder what ever became of that beautiful nurse.

If she only knew the importance of her work that night.

If you ever encounter a former Army nurse who says she served in Vietnam, please ask her if she remembers saving that dog's life.

If you have a conscience, boycott Costco!

Tens of thousands are expected to picket Costco stores across the globe on Earth Day to protest the blatantly cruel treatment of God's cotton creatures.

One can only imagine the terror and torture these innocent animals endured in Asia, Africa and South America before someone packed them into cardboard, pitch-black prison cells and shipped them to North America, Europe and other parts of the world.

Its no wonder stuffed animals are rarely, if ever, found in the wild.

These loving creatures were bred to be silent and obedient enough to live in the homes of children and adults.
But at what price?

If you've ever cuddled a Teddy bear or Curious George, you must take a stand against this kind of treatment!

Please share this with everyone you know who has ever been the recipient of their love.

The Real World of Mr. Mum

It was the perfect reading material for a kid who couldn't read very well -- a pantomime cartoon. The Strange World of Mr. Mum ran in scores of newspapers during the 1950s and '60s. I discovered a paperback compilation of the Irv Phillips cartoons when I was nine or ten, as I recall.

I must have "read" the book a thousand times -- and I still laugh at the strange things that the little man and his little dog observed along their way.

When I took a television job in Arizona, my great friend (and former journalism professor), Bill Thomas told me that I should look up his cartoonist uncle in Phoenix. When he mentioned Mr. Mum, he was surprised when I said something like, "Your uncle is Irv Phillips?"

Bill had not encountered too many people my age that had heard of the character -- much less its creator. It was in 1981 that I went to visit the man who had created my favorite cartoon. It wasn't long before I returned with a camera crew to interview him on camera.



Irv Phillips died in 2000 at age 95. He left his lifelong collection of his cartoons and other creations to Bill Thomas and his sister. Today, Bill and his wife are keeping the memory of Uncle Irv at http://buymrmum.blogspot.com.

If you want a book that you and your grandkids (and their grandkids) will treasure, search Amazon.com for The Strange World of Mr. Mum. That's the book that got me hooked.

A rational message about what's rational and essential

It's been a couple of years since I worked with young, professional journalists in Malawi, Africa. You can learn more about my work there at http://www.malawiobserver.com.

Since I was there, two of the students have died. It's not surprising in a country where the life expectancy is under 40 years or so.

One of the big reasons is AIDS and HIV. It's not a fun or amusing topic, but this talk posted to day at www.ted.com is essential viewing.

Read between the lines of signs

Indoor Road Rage Rantings

I told a couple of my friends to be on the lookout for a really interesting posting I’m working on. For the record, this isn’t the one I was talking about — that one is still in the works.

I thought I’d share my response to a job posting on Craigslist.com. The person was looking for someone to help with a start-up website that focuses on the rude things that rude people rudely do:

Dear Rude-ologist,

I probably wouldn’t have been able to send this e-mail if I had acted on my impulses yesterday in that public parking garage in Burbank. You see, I don’t believe they have e-mail access in the city jail.

In my fantasies, I was going to put my car in park and sprint to the car that was blocking everyone in the indoor garage. The back-up of cars caused cars on Palm Street to back up to Third Street.

You know what was going on, don’t you? The lazy, “Oh my god, there’ll never be another parking spot available in the world,” jerk-faced idiot was, you guessed it, waiting for someone to get into their parked car and vacate the space.

In the mind of the rude, senseless, brainless amoeba, this was to be a quality, “premium” spot, as spots go. And in his micro-bacterial mind (I’m being generous here), there were surely no available spots in the three-story structure.

And Parkinson’s Law says that another tired shopper would be unable to back her non-compact car out of her nearby compact car space. That prevented the first exiting driver from backing out and allowing the peanut-brained donkey in front of us from getting his once-in-a-lifetime spot.

Finally, when the second shopper in her over-sized “non-compact” car wriggled her way out, I was able to pass Jerkface on the left, round the first corner and select from more than three dozen available spaces.

My inclination, however, was to yank the oblivious, selfish, self-centered moron (no offense to clinically diagnosed morons — they never do stuff like this) out of his car, turn him inside out and make him eat his stomach.

When I was fuming my way on foot out of the parking structure, Mr. I’m-the-Center-of-the-Universe was still blocking traffic with that stupid turn signal flashing a Morse code message that surely was saying, “Screw all of you! I’m more important than you are! Don’t be in such a hurry! I’m waiting for this spot so I won’t have to walk as far to the Burbank Health Club across the street where I’m going to pay to get exercise!”

Meanwhile, the traffic on Third Street was backed up to Magnolia.

What the hell is wrong with people?

Oh, by the way, your proposed Rudeness site is just what I’ve dreamed someone would create. Don’t get me started on the thousand other “let me tell you about rude jerks” examples I have bubbling out of my frustrated brain.

Then again, maybe you should get me started!

Thanks.

I feel better now!

Don Ray



Are you old enough to remember the comedy bit that the late Steve Allen used to do on his Steve Allen Show? He would pick up a newspaper and read the letters to the editors with the same voice, passion and anger that he figured the original writer was feeling. Maybe you should read the above message the same way.

By the way, I didn’t hear back from the folks who posted the job on Craigslist. Maybe I wasn’t rude enough. Or maybe he or she didn’t believe that I could rant so much over something that apparently doesn’t bother other people.

Don't get me started about my grocery store observations. Did you know that people drive shopping carts the same way they drive their cars? Aaaargh!

Confessions of a Master Scammer

I first met Chuck Walton in 2000 when I was researching a series of stories about the homeless. He was no longer homeless -- he was staying in an inexpensive motel in Barstow, Cal.

We spent countless hours together over the period of the next two years. At one point, he allowed me to interview him on camera about his life and his adventures on the road and occasionally in jail.

As a storyteller, he was as loquacious as he was entertaining, so it's difficult to find short-enough stories to post here.

I've included one that requires little set-up and also includes a demonstration of Chuck's most successful, secret weapon.

I was saddened to learn that Chuck passed away in April of 2009. He was prone to lying about his age, but the official records indicate that he was 82 when he died.
Here's the video, but I recommend you first read the story below that I wrote about him way back in 2000.



Here's the story that ran in 2000:

If he were to carry business cards they would read, “Chuck Walton, Bum, Retired.” After nearly 50 years of hitchhiking, sleeping along the highway, panhandling, dumpster diving and scamming good-hearted people out of their money, Walton decided to hang up his knapsack.

Odd jobs along the way somehow qualified him for minimum Social Security benefits. To him, it’s a fortune.

“What do I need money for?” he said. “I can pay my rent and phone, buy cigarettes and groceries and still have money left over to shop for clothes at the thrift store.”

He stands barely 5 feet tall and measures his weight in double digits. He buys boys clothes. He’s remarkably well groomed and always wears the cleanest of threads. He tells people he’s 75, but if they were to check his identification, they’d see he’s only 73. He’ll be 74 in December.

“I like telling people I’m 75. It has a nice ring to it.”

He tells people he’s living the straight life now. He doesn’t drink much, doesn’t take people’s money anymore and the only thing he lies about is his age. But in his lifetime, Walton has pulled off just about every kind of scam imaginable, he said. If they gave out awards for best performance by a hobo, he’d have a shelf of Oscars.

“The key to scamming people is to put on a good act,” he said. “You have to prepare for it, and you have to live the character you’re portraying. You have to be that person.”

The targets are almost always trusting, caring people with big hearts, he said. In a sense, Walton believes he’s doing a favor for the person who helps him, he said.

“This guy works downtown in a high-rise office building. He just drove away from a $200,000 home. His dog eats better than I do. And waiting back there is a beautiful wife and two kids. So I give him something to talk about when he gets back home. He can scare the wife and kids when he tells them he picked up a hitchhiker this morning and took him into the city.”

But Walton really wasn’t trying to go anywhere in particular. He was hitchhiking to make money. He talks about it unashamedly with a devilish grin and a no-doubt-about-it East Coast accent — a blend of his native Philadelphia, some New Jersey and a lot of New York City.

“If you do it right, you can hitch a ride and end up with some nice cash in your pocket,” he said.

Walton said he would typically make up a handwritten sign with the name of the next big city. Then he would find the best freeway onramp and stand with his head down.

“You don’t want to make eye contact that makes it look like you’re soliciting,” he said. “I always look down toward the ground. It’s a psych thing. He has the car. He sees you with your dirty thumb out there in the morning sunlight and he thinks you have been standing out there all night.”

When someone would pick him up, Walton would shyly say, “Thanks.” Nothing more.

Then, he would look out the window and wait for the inevitable question.

The first would be “Where are you headed?” Walton said. “If I were hitching from Barstow to San Bernardino, I’d tell them I’m going to Palm Desert to see my granddaughter. I promised her I’d be there for her birthday tomorrow.”

Then the person would likely ask where he slept the night before.

“Oh, I didn’t sleep at all. It’s too dangerous for an old man. I just walked around Barstow all night,” he would say. “After that I’d just remain quiet and let his brain go to work. Then when we get near San Bernardino I’d give him a sob story about how hungry I am and would he drop me off at a restaurant where I might find some kind of work even for a couple of bucks and a meal.”

Walton would never directly ask the driver for money, he said. Instead, he would sit quietly and hope the driver would stop at a shopping center.

“They’d almost always ask me to stay in the car while they ran an errand,” he said. “I knew what they were going to do, but I didn’t want to act too excited. They would go to an ATM but they wouldn’t give me the money until they dropped me off at a restaurant.”

As he would get out of the car, the man would shake his hand and, at the same time, place one or two folded $20 bills in Walton’s right hand, he said.

“I’d act surprised and say, ‘God bless you, Sir.’ Then I’d go into the restaurant and sit where he could see me. You see, the guy would always drive around the block a few times to make sure I was telling him the truth. After a while, I’d leave the restaurant and head back to the freeway onramp and hold up a ‘Barstow’ sign. On a good day, I could make two round trips and end up with $60 or more.”

On Sundays, Walton would target another group of caring people, he said.
“I’d put one of those fish symbols on my sign and, sure enough, I’d get picked up by a good Christian family,” he said. “The only difference is I’d have to pray with them in the car. A lot of times they’d actually pull off the road and we’d all hold hands and pray.”

If they were on their way home from church, he said, he could count on a big Sunday dinner and a clean bed. Maybe they’d even hand him a few dollars following the big breakfast.

But if they were on their way to church Walton knew it could be a bonanza, especially if it was a small, country church, he said.

“They’d ask me if I wanted to join them at church. I would always reply, ‘Of course.’ We’d all walk in together but I’d sit in the last row, all by myself, in my dirty clothes with my backpack. Sure as ever, they’d whisper something to the pastor and, somewhere during his sermon, he’d point back to where I was and welcome me, a brother just passing through.

“When the sermon was over, I’d gather my things and walk out before anyone else and slowly head for the road,” Walton said. “I had to time it right because a handful of the people from the congregation would call out to me or chase me down and start giving me money, sometimes lots of money. And, again, someone might offer to take me home for that hot meal.”

Another favorite scheme would unfold in a fast food restaurant at lunch time or dinner time when it was busy and people were in a hurry, he said.

“I’d order an average meal, nothing too big or fancy,” he said, “and then when the clerk would tell me how much I owed I’d start fumbling through all my pockets and even in my backpack looking for the money I knew was in there somewhere. It would drive the people behind me crazy. After a while someone would step up and pay for my meal just so they could get to the front of the line quicker.”

He had good luck with a scam he used on bigger restaurants, he said.

“I’d go in the kitchen door and look for the lowest-level employee I could find, usually the dishwasher. I’d tell him I was hungry and willing to work. He’d get the manager and the manager would always tell the chef to cook me a good meal,” Walton said. “They’d sit me at that little table in the kitchen where the lowly employees eat. I’d make sure the waitresses all saw me there.

“Then I’d go outside where everyone could see me through the windows, and I’d start cleaning up the parking lot. No one asked me to, I’d just do it. When each waitress would get off work, she’d come outside and give me a big hunk of her tip money. It never failed.”

There were times when he would get caught and he would be forced to stand in front of a desk sergeant, a judge or even an angry priest or pastor, he said.
That’s when he’d turn to his secret weapon: he calls it “The Lip.” He’s done it a thousand times, he said, and can turn it on in an instant. He nervously wrings his hands, drops his head, lowers his eyebrows and nervously looks down, then up, then down again. He even creates tears. The most convincing part, however, is the quivering lower lip. It quivers like that of a 3-year-old.

“Then I say, hesitatingly, ‘Sir, I, I’m an alcoholic and I can’t get work and I’m hungry and I was just trying to eat.’ Ninety-nine times out of 100 they send me off with a severe tongue lashing.”

The other 1 percent of the time Walton would find himself in jail or prison, he said. His worst stint was in the state penitentiary in Huntsville, Texas.
“You don’t want to go to prison in Texas,” he said. “It’s just like it was in the movie ‘Cool Hand Luke.’ At least it was when I was there.”

Walton usually ended up behind bars for passing bad checks, he said.
“Back when banks left stacks of blank counter checks lying all around I could sign in to a hotel, stay three or four days and pay with one of the bad checks,” he said. “But if I got caught, it was hard to avoid going to jail.”

Today, Walton just observes, he said. He lives not too far from where the homeless congregate and is able to watch them pulling the same scams he pulled for years.

“Every penny you give them goes to booze or drugs,” he said. “And if you give them food, you’d better watch them eat it or they’ll sell it and buy their wine or drugs."

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

If you haven't watched the video, now's a good time. Of course, I don't condone his actions -- that's not my job. He was honest with me and he allowed me to see his many sides.

If anyone coaxes me in the slightest manner, I'll post some additional video clips in which he discusses the price he paid for all of his crimes and misdemeanors, and maybe some of his other interesting stories.

On a personal note

Today I'm saddened to learn of the passage of a person whose voice I had never heard, but whose voice has been in my head for 40 years.

Author J.D. Salinger's voice reached me in 1970. I had just left the Army a little more than a year after I had returned from Vietnam. It was in an English class that we received what I consider a "gift assignment" -- to read his short story, "For Esme -- with love and squalor."

More than any piece of work by any writer, this moving, personal and oh-so-realistic story inspired me to write and gave me permission to find and embrace my own voice.

I didn't understand why, every time I read the story, my head released a tidal wave of tears and snot and everything else that goes along with mega-sobbing -- I didn't understand, that is, until 30 years later when I was able to find the direct links to the pain of the main character, J.D. Salinger himself.

Imagine that. I had an empathic bond with a superstar, albeit reclusive, writer.

For those who wish to know a little bit about what makes me tick a little off beat today, I urge you to read this wonderful story. Again, it's a short story -- short enough that you can actually give yourself the gift of a few minutes to embrace great writing and a poignant story.

It's one of the "Nine Stories" by J.D. Salinger that's available in most any bookstore. But you can also read it and even print it out from this link:

http://scriptorpress.yage.net/BM16_2001_salinger.pdf

I urge you to share with me (and others if you wish to comment on this post) the manner in which this story touches a part of you.

Help me help a deserving veteran

Just a quickie posting to alert the world to an important yard sale in Pasadena.
The host is a disabled Iraqi War veteran who came home to find that her mother was about to lose the family house. Fatima Palaez needed help and, thanks to a couple blog readers, she was able to find an attorney to help them.

Fatima "Flaca" Palaez with her mother, Socorro Palaez.

Her beautiful mother died about a week ago and Fatima is putting on a yard sale to raise money for her mother's funeral. The sale is going on as I write this. It will continue on Saturday and Sunday, January 9th and 10th. The address is 500 N. Summit Ave. in Pasadena.

I'm certain that there will be some great bargains there. It's worth the drive if you live near there.
If you need directions or information, you can call Fatima (her friends call her "Flaca") at 626-216-1050. Her e-mail address is sportychick_00@hotmail.com.

Just to put her difficulties into some more perspective, several months ago someone murdered Flaca's infant nephew right there in their home. Now, her sister (the child's mother) had to go into the a witness protection program, so Flaca is caring for her surviving niece.

I can't even imagine what she's going through. Injuries from a war, post-traumatic stress disorder that has dragged her life to a halt, a fight over the family home, a mother with terminal cancer, a murder of a loved one in her own home and now the death of her mother.

But she served her country proudly. I hope you can visit the yard sale.

The Great ATV Caper

Let me tell you a little about this video:



Larry and Donna Brusch made the local news back in the 1990s when word got out that they had teamed up to find his stolen all-terrain vehicle (ATV) and, at the same time arrested the thief.

At that time, I was supplementing my investigative reporting, lecturing and book writing income by chasing down breaking news stories at night and on weekends. If I was lucky, I could sell the raw footage I'd shoot to local and network television stations.

I don't believe that I was able to sell this story -- mainly because I shot it in Oceanside and it was next to impossible to deliver the videotapes to the Los Angeles TV stations within their news cycles.

But like the three previous videos I posted here, this one is finally finding its rightful place in the mass media. And like the other stories, I guarantee you that you're going to be able to view an update. This one, in particular, has a great follow-up story.

Oh, and would you be kind enough to click on the YouTube link on the video so you can rate it and maybe maybe make it your favorite on YouTube? And comments. It really helps if you can leave comments -- here on this blog and on YouTube. Why is it important? Because the more people who see my work, the more stories will come my way.

Thanks.

I'm excited to receive some pix of my Vietnam dog

More than 40 years after I was a "puppy pusher" (as we called ourselves) at Soc Trang in the Mekong Delta, one of my buddies send me some photos I'd never seen before. They're of me and my first (and best) Vietnam dog, Fritz. They bring back some fond memories.


















My sincere "thank you" to Martin Maier.

Another story that may have gotten away

It was certainly in the '80s that I took the camera assigned to the UCLA Extension class I was teaching and drove to Portuguese Bend on the Palos Verdes Peninsula. My quest was to sell what I saw as a "great story" to the TV folks at Ripley's Believe it or Not. My friend at KNBC, Karen Estudillo (Gordon) was cool enough to edit the raw footage at my direction.

The Backstory

Sometime in the '50s, our family went to Marineland of the Pacific and ended up taking a short cruise on a tour boat. We traveled in the direction of San Pedro and marveled at the stunning coastline. At one point, the guide pointed out a group of seemingly new and expensive homes close to the beach surrounded by a small bay.

"Those houses are all vacant," he said, "because they're slipping into the ocean." He told us how the authorities had condemned them all. They just sat there (well, maybe they were moving slightly).

Fast forward about 30 years and I decided to find out what became of the neighborhood. I drove through San Pedro and then looped around the peninsula on Palos Verdes Drive South. I had no trouble finding the area because the roadway suddenly turned into a broken, bumpy drive. The yellow centerline shifted left to right with the moving earth. All of the utility pipes -- gas, water and sewer, were safely above ground and sported special joints that enabled them to shift without breaking. The same with the electric and phone wires. They all had big loops that would enable them to stretch when the poles might drift apart.

What surprised me the most was that there still a few homes in the neighborhood and it seemed as if people lived in them. It was still part of the Portuguese Bend neighborhood, a private community behind security gates. Somehow I managed to get in and I was able to see those few remaining houses up close.

Astounding. They were either on steel girders and I-beams and leveled on stacks of railroad ties or they were leaning drastically down the hill. One young family invited me to return with the camera and shoot my little promo.

I went there on the day after Christmas with Xiao Mei and her father, and we were lucky enough to get in again. However, I couldn't find the particular house in the video below. I did some research last night and I now believe that the city of Rancho Palos Verdes purchased the property and tore down this particular house. I'm trying to track down the family that once lived there, but it will require a trip to the L.A. County Assessor to do some historical research.

I'll keep you posted.

I hope you enjoy this "blast from the past" -- albeit never-before shown to the public.

The man who paints rocks and cactus

My friend Joe Veraldi and I were driving near downtown San Diego about 15 years ago and we had to pull over when we saw a house made mostly of stone, it seemed. What made it so intriguing is that someone had painted colorful and sometimes strange colors and images on those stones -- as well as on the cactus plants, on palm tree trunks, on the windows, the sidewalk and even on the station wagon parked out front.

Then we saw the energetic 83-year-old culprit wearing bib overalls over a bright red flannel shirt. He was pushing a wheelbarrow up the steep sidewalk to get more cement. He needed it because one of the stone retaining walls he had built years ago needed more stones and more cement.

Of course, he had to stop and get to know the man, "Scotty" Campbell. I can't remember why I had my TV camera with me, but we put it to impromptu use. Joe did some of the interview, I did the rest. The hour or so we spent with him provided up both with enough wisdom and lust for life to last us for years to come.

Oh, and if you look closely, you'll see that he's painted his hat and his tennis shoes as well.

Meet "Scotty" Campbell. You'll love him!

If you do, please go to Youtube and rate the video. You can even subscribe. Wouldn't that be fun?

For the love of the horse

From the "Projects I'm Determined to Complete" file comes the story of the love affair between a horseman and a blind mare.

It was in 1993 that a woman from a horse rescue group called to tell me about the blind horse that they had recently rescued. What many people don't know is that unwanted animals are easy marks for brokers who arrange to provide horses to butchers who sell the meat overseas -- where horse meat is a delicacy.

I visited a ranch in a canyon above the San Fernando Valley and had the pleasure of meeting a horse with the nickname of Lady. She was wonderful, but even more astounding was a gentle horseman I'm calling by his initials, K.S.

He and Lady impressed me so much that I returned with my television camera and a high-quality wireless microphone. It turned out to be a most memorable shoot. I brought Diane Toomey along with me to conduct one of her brilliant interviews, Vilma Yolanda Garcia as a production assistant. More recently, my friend, Pat Hall, transcribed and logged the entire day of videotape. Many of the fantastic instructors, technicians and fellow students at Video Symphony (where I'm honing my editing skills) helped out with information and encouragement.



Anyone who has seen the raw footage seems to get hooked. Hence, this sample. The rest of the story of how the relationship between Land and K.S. developed will unfold in the final product. You'll just get a hint of it here.

K.S. had his own history of rescuing doomed horses. He had learned the loving art of what we now call "horse whispering" long before the term became popular. He was frustrated that so many people bought horses -- often expensive thoroughbreds -- with the same I've-got-to-have-one fever they buy BMWs and Rolex watches. He told me that people had no idea of how to care for these special animals and, even worse, didn't have the time.

The result? The horses would act up, the owners would declare that their horses were dangerous and they'd unload them "for the sake of the safety of their families." Of course, the horse brokers and the butchers were very happy to take the horses.

When K.S. met Lady, it was the beginning of a beautiful romance. Somehow they seemed to fill each others' needs in ways I'm still exploring. As you'll see in the sample video here, K.S. had to draw on all of his gentle horse skills and more.

I'm sharing this sample video for two reasons: I'm determined to complete projects that I started years ago, and I want to invite others to participate in the full-scale production that will come out of the video I shot back then and on more current information that I'm gathering.

So if you know people who are passionate about horses, other animals or about very special and inspirational people, please share this video with them. There's a wonderful development that takes place in this story as well as a sad, bittersweet ending.

I'll share that with you in the completed project video. If you want to participate, please get in touch with me. It's a wonderful project and it deserves to be in the public eye. Oh, and if go to it on Youtube, you could rate it and maybe even make it a favorite. That will help get the word out.

Don Ray Archives: Managua 1985

We were pretty much locked in at the Nicaragua Press Building -- a former hospital, I believe -- on the day before the inauguration of newly elected President Daniel Ortega.

This wasn't the recent inauguration of Nicaragua President Daniel Ortega -- this was 1985. A young journalist accompanied me on a series of freelance print and radio assignments in Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua and Costa Rica.

My reporting partner, John Bilotta, was my former student. He had recently accepted an entry-level job with United Press International.

When whoever was scheduled to cover the inauguration couldn't make it to Managua, John's boss asked him if he had ever reported for the radio. He hadn't, he told them, but his traveling partner had. That's how we ended up in the press building -- prisoners of sorts -- along with dozens and dozens of other media folks from around the world.

Someone introduced me to the guy in the photo who was pausing to refresh himself. It was Abbie Hoffman, one of the so-called Chicago Seven who had disrupted the 1968 Democratic National Convention.

We had an interesting chat. What I remember the most is the newspaper clipping service he was using. As you may know, many public persons and organizations hire news clipping services to scour every newspaper and magazine in search of stories that reference their clients.

"I have the best clipping service in the world," Hoffman told me with a smile. "Once a month I send a Freedom of Information Act request the FBI. I request all of the newspaper stories about me that they've collected.

"It doesn't cost me a penny," he said.

In a future blog posting, I'll tell you the story of my amazing adventure the following day. It involves a pre-dawn, wrong-number call to our room, being held at gunpoint and then ending up in the most unlikely place.

I even have photos.

A Dog-dancing Day in the Park

It's always a treat when I see these dogs converging from different directions. It means there's going to be an impromptu performance.

The Home-Loan Ranger

The secret is apparently out that Bank of America is not happy with me lately. They bought out the crooks at Countrywide and now manage the outrageous, obscene, inflated, slippery mortgage I ended up with two years ago.

They somehow think that I'm going to let go of the little, one-bedroom house I moved into more than 22 years ago. It'll never happen. Where would I put the mountains of stuff I've pack-ratted for decades? They don't make a shopping cart big enough.

Besides, I gave up camping out and sleeping under the stars when I got out of the Army. To me, "roughing it" is a room at Motel 6 next to the loud ice machine.

I knew that my footrace with foreclosure was public knowledge when at least three people told me about some big shindig at the Los Angeles Convention Center this weekend -- an event where folks like me could go and maybe find some creative way to distract the vultures.

The last thing I figured I'd encounter there today was a conversation with a true urban hero -- I call him The Home-Loan Ranger.

His name is Bruce Marks and he's the founder and CEO of the Neighborhood Assistance Corporation of America (NACA). Neighborhood assistance is an understatement. What he runs is more like a guerrilla army.

When I heard him tell the crowd of a couple thousand of my delinquent brethren about how he "gets the attention" of the CEOs of banks and other lending institutions, I darn near wanted to build a stature of him on Figueroa Street or something.

He's doing the stuff I dream of doing. When the rich, fat-cat executives ignore his calls for restructuring the rancid loans his troops are stuck with, he leads a small batallion of them to the CEO's doorstep -- the home doorstep.

He gives out their home phone numbers and encourages everyone and their relatives to call the big wheel at home -- every 15 minutes.

I don't know where I've been that I haven't heard about his delightful tactics or about the other massive gatherings he's been hosting. I had to learn more -- from the horse's mouth.

I waited for him to finish an inspirational pep rally and I approached him with notebook in hand.

It's great to be a journalist. Such access. Such respect (sort of).

Within 20 minutes or so we had found a less-noisy spot and I picked his brain apart.

Then I talked to a few of the thousands of people he had helped this weekend and I began to feel just how much of a Pied Piper the Loan Arranger really is.

Here's a short sample of what he and a couple of others told me:




I'll be heading off in the next couple of weeks to one of his next gatherings in either Phoenix, Las Vegas or Oakland. It turns out I didn't have all of the paperwork that they require. Plus, a couple of weeks gives me some more time to nail down some additional work assignments.

I want to grow up to be like Bruce Marks.

Maybe he needs a sidekick. The Loan Arranger and Donto!

Leti lights up the morning

Her name is Leticia, but anyone with that name in Mexico quickly becomes Leti.

She's one of the many people who make the rounds at the local park. Her eyes are so warm that they light up the morning. She's not the only visitor in search of recyclables. You'd be amazed at the number of hard-working and dedicated residents who count on bottles and cans to round out whatever income they need to keep kids dressed and in school and to pay the rent an utilities.

Leti has been in the Burbank area for ten years. You might have seen her with long, beautiful hair that cascaded down to her waist. But she had a stroke that apparently triggered a heart attack.

"They had to cut my hair," she said in Spanish, "so they could cut into my head.

"Touch here," she said in English as she parted her hair. I was willing to believe her, but she seemed insistent on having me feel the lump.


People who don't speak Spanish believe that I'm fluent in it. Those who know Spanish instantly know that I'm just a beginner who speaks more quickly than other beginners. The same applies to my piano playing, by the way. I can't fool real musicians.

I tell you this to apologize for any information that I may have gotten wrong this morning when Leti stopped by to meet Mija (my dog -- you can check out the video down further in the blog). What I never knew what how fast Leti speaks in Spanish as well as in the limited English she's learning. She's taking classes at the local adult center and apparently doing very well.

But back to her stroke/heart attack. From what I could pick up, she was pregnant at the time and that complicated things even more. I believe she was paralyzed for a while and couldn't speak.

That's certainly not the case now. She gets up early every morning and walks a little more than a mile to the park. I'm certain she has other stops along the way. Two days a week she cleans houses for two clients.

She spent a couple of minutes describing in English -- backed up in rapid Spanish -- the excellent work she does cleaning houses. I could tell it was a matter of great pride for her.

She told me that she'll clean a complete house for $50, but she hinted that she works a lot harder in the afternoon is the client shares lunch with her. Apparently, one of the clients in the past didn't believe that she should stop to eat.

What fun is it having a friendly, qualified and speedy housekeeper if you can't share lunch with her or him. Besides, that how I brush up on my Spanish.

Leti doesn't have a phone where she lives in Burbank, but her sister, Marisol does. If you should want to meet Leti and experience her high energy and higher enthusiasm, e-mail me at donray@donray.com or call me directly.

I'll hook you up.

She'll light up your morning also!

The girl I never met

I accepted an invitation to join some fellow Vietnam veterans who get together once a week to share poems that they've written about their post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

It turns out that it's therapeutic to express inner fears and feelings and share them.

When I returned from Vietnam, I also wrote a few poems. The interesting thing is that I didn't know that I was doing the same thing these vets are doing today -- I was expressing inner fears and feelings.

PTSD works in strange ways, it turns out.

Because my job in Vietnam was to work alone at night with only my dog, I didn't develop many of those close friendships with fellow soldiers that my colleagues who fought in other wars may have developed.

My best friends were the two dogs I worked mostly with: Fritz and Ralph (the cute little fellow in the photo).

When I got out of the Army, I went straight in to Los Angeles Pierce Community College with the belief that I'd end up a veterinarian (I'll tell you the amazing story about how that dream came about, but in a later posting). One of the first classes I took was astronomy. If you go back into the earlier blogs, you'll read about the constellation Southern Cross. It's connected to that.

It was in my astronomy class that an attactive and friendly looking young woman attracted my attention. What I didn't know back then, was that the early signs of my PTSD were showing up.

After weeks of wishing that I could be her friend, but being unable to make it happen, I wrote the poem.

I never gave it to her.

In preparation for meeting with the veterans' poetry group, I found the old poem. When I read it, I immediately understood what was at work in my mind.


The Girl I Never Met
By Don Ray

You might be Sue or Cindy —
Monique, Marie, Michele.
You could be Cathy, Kay or Chris
As far as I can tell.

Your name is, quite regrettably,
Unknown to me as yet.
Unless we’re introduced, you’ll be
The girl I never met.

That day when I first saw you,
A month or so ago,
I vainly tried to smile at you
And simply say, “Hello.”

We see each other frequently —
A dozen times a week.
I can’t help feeling close to you
Although we never speak.

I wonder if you wonder
What I’m thinking when I stare.
If you think I think I’m good for you,
You haven’t got a prayer.

I guess I should explain it now —
My silence from the start —
Thought I appear unsociable,
I’m cowardly at heart.

So be happy that we’re strangers.
It’s really not profound.
As long as I don’t know you
I can never let you down.

You’ll always be a friend to me
But, one day, I’ll regret
I never really got to know
The girl I never met.

McFlashbacks with a side of Pride

Just about every morning, I take my spectacular dog, Mija, to the local park.

It's not for enjoyment -- it's her job. Every morning she heads for the ivy that surrounds the tennis courts and searches for a tennis ball. When she finds a ball -- and she always does, the work is over and the fun begins. She has trained me to throw it and then, when she retrieves it, to throw it again.

And again and again.

But that's a story for another time. This story begins at the same park, but in the dark hours before midnight. I was blessed to have my stellarly stunning wife, Xiao Mei, accompany Mija and me to the park. Mija enjoys showing off for Xiao Mei. Xiao Mei enjoys pretending to not be impressed. I pretend to not notice.

As we entered the park, I noticed the couple sleeping on the grass behind the trunk of a big tree. One of them was wearing a white sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over the head. A couple of days earlier, I had seen a big fellow sitting with his wife or girlfriend on the bleachers watching an imaginary softball game.

He had been wearing the hood of a white sweatshirt over his head. The sweatshirt draped down his back and, from afar, looked like long, white hair. My park friend, Larry, told me later that they were, like him, homeless and that the guy had beaten him to a pulp a while back.

I didn't tell Xiao Mei who I thought the sleeping couple was -- I simply steered us in a different direction on the walk back home.

The following morning, Mija and I were there doing our respective jobs. It was shortly before 8 a.m. when she and I started walking across the baseball fields in the direction of home. That's when we noticed a young couple with their three-year-old (probably) daughter walking away from the spot where the people had been sleeping the night before.

It was the woman, it turns out, who was wearing the white sweatshirt with the hood keeping her ears warm. And the guy was much smaller and thinner than the homeless man who had messed with Larry.

They were carrying some blankets, some makeshift bags and the little girl's Teddy bear and they were walking in the direction of the public restrooms on the opposite side of the ball fields. Park workers open the restrooms at about 8 a.m.

I kept walking toward home, but I couldn't stop thinking about the young couple and that little girl having slept all night in the park. Something made me turn around and walk in the direction they were walking.

I finally caught up with them when they reached the restrooms -- which were still locked. The mother stood off to one side with the little girl while the father checked the doors.

"You were in the park last night," I said to the man. He had warm, friendly eyes. He looked to be in his early-to-mid 20s. He hadn't shaved in a couple of days, but he didn't have any of the telltale signs of being a careen homeless person.

I know now that I should have approached him with a better first line.

"No," he said with a friendly smile, "we weren't in the park last night."

"I'm going to be at the McDonald's down the street in about 15 minutes," I said. "Could I buy you folks some breakfast?"

"We weren't in the park last night," he said again, a bit more firmly. "We like to come here in the morning."

I knew better. I'd never seen them before. "I must have been mistaken," I said in a desperate attempt to undo the damage I figured I'd already done. "The couple I saw last night were wearing the same colored clothes. You must be embarrassed that I made such a stupid mistake. I certainly am."

The whole time, his wife or girlfriend stood about 20 feet away with her daughter and just listened. I strategically bid him a farewell, offered up another apology and headed home.

I wasn't even halfway there when it became perfectly clear to me that I couldn't continue my day without doing something.

That's when I had the McFlashback.

When I was about three years old, we lived in a little, one-bedroom house at 11116 Weddington Street in North Hollywood.

My sister and I shared a sofa that flattened out into a bed. The living room was the dining room and vice versa. My mother backed a couple of dining room chairs up against the sofa to keep me from falling out. When my father wasn't looking, she would pin a bathroom towel around as a makeshift diaper. If Dad found out I had wet the sofa, there would be a bad scene.

The man with the baseball cap and the flashlight came to the door in the middle of the night. It's the first memory I have of being alive. It was a disturbance. Our parents were clearly afraid and were scrambling to get whatever it was that the man in the baseball cap wanted. They didn't turn on any lights -- probably so they wouldn't wake my sister and me.

It would be years later that I would figure out what had happened that night -- what that man wanted. He was either a bookie, a loan shark or one of my father's co-workers at Lockheed Aircraft who my father had scammed. You see, my father was a horse race addict and, by that time, had already pretty much ruined their marriage. This man wanted his money and wasn't going to leave peacefully until he got it.

McFastforward.

As I walked back home from the park, I couldn't stop thinking about that nightmare and about the three-year-old girl who had slept with her parents on the wet grass the night before. I wondered if, many years later, that little girl would remember hearing her father lie about sleeping in the park and then turn down the offer for food. Even if she didn't hear or understand the conversation, I'm certain that she could feel the tension and wonder what Mommy and Daddy were worried about.

Of course, there was no doubt in my mind that the young father was not being truthful. I figured it was about that ridiculous pride that keeps us men from admitting that we need help. Later, a friend suggested that the young man was afraid that someone might report him to the authorities and they would take the child away.
I felt even more stupid. But back to that day.

When I left home to begin my day, I drove through the local McDonald's and ordered four breakfast meals. I knew that the man would probably not accept it, but it didn't matter. I suppose it became more about me than about them.

I parked my car in the parking lot and walked to a picnic table about 50 feet from where the mother was sitting on a blanket with the little girl. The father was, no doubt, in the restroom cleaning up. I didn't make eye contact with them. Instead, I methodically set the table for four and sat myself down.

Again, I never looked at her and I don't know if she looked at me, but I'm guessing she did.

I ate my breakfast, gathered the empties and deposited them in the nearby trashcan. Of course, I left the three other meals sitting on the table -- orange juice, McMuffin and hashbrown potatoes. I never looked back

As I drove off, I knew that I would never know what happened to the food. Did Mommy and Daddy have a "should we" discussion? Did they scramble to the table and begin eating? Did the little girl ask them why they couldn't eat the food?

I'll never know. And I'll never know if or how that innocent little girl will see life differently because of the crisis her parents were experiencing.

The whole incident, however, made me think more about how easily some circumstances can change the course of someone's life. I pondered about the impact that the circumstance of my childhood had on my life.

Was it a combination of childhood crises, attention deficit disorder, dyslexia and post-traumatic stress disorder from Vietnam (and childhood?) that set the tone for everything that has happened in my life? For as long as I can remember, I've struggled just to keep up with life. I've been blessed with an inflamed curiosity and a radar-like ability to connect with the most wonderful and amazing people -- and a few who were not that wonderful, but equally amazing.

And I've been cursed with the inability to complete stories and projects so that I could share them with people. I'm buried in a massive collection of astoundingly wonderful stories to tell about people anyone would want to get to know.

But instead of crafting the stories and sharing them with people, I've spent my entire adult life (so far) scrambling to keep the wolves off my heels. If only I had the time. If only I had the money. If only I had a working partner. If only I had the breaks.

I cannot keep saying "If only."

I can no longer wait for someone to give me permission to write something or shoot something or to record something. In my heart, I believe that it's time to tell the stories and hope that people read them. I spend so much time encouraging people to sit down with their parents or grandparents and record oral histories.

"It's like being in a library that's burning down," I keep repeating. "You have to move fast."

I'm also a library and I'm feeling the heat.

I hope you'll enjoy the very personal and amazing stories I'm about to share with the world.

Signs of the times

Thoughts on the death of Michael Jackson

Let there be no doubt about it, I'm saddened to learn that singer Michael Jackson has died.
My sadness isn't, however, because I will miss his music. Truth be told, I don't believe I could name any song he recorded since he sang "Never Can Say Goodbye" or "Ben" -- whichever one came first. I probably heard him sing, however, before most anyone I know. I was stationed outside of Detroit in 1969 and 1970 and I remember watching him and his brothers on local television there.
He was cute and amusing. And it was clear he had a lot of talent.
It was 1993, however, when he sort of stepped into my life and changed things forever. It was when a Los Angeles Police detective blessed me by tipping me to what was, up until today, the biggest single entertainment story in history. I was able to break the story that the police were investigating the famous singer as a possible child molester.
After I was able to confirm the investigation and the allegations, I worked with my best client, KNBC-TV News in Burbank, and we broke the story. Nobody outside my circle of news media friends knew that I was responsible for the scoop of a lifetime. It would be months later that the producers of a PBS FRONTLINE documentary about the news coverage of that story learned that I was the one.
The information had come to me from a longtime contact -- a contact I trusted and still enjoy being his friend today.
I had already learned about pedophiles. In fact, I knew more about the subject than most any journalist.
Was Michael Jackson a child molester? Was he a pedophile? Nobody ever proved it in criminal court and a secret, out-of-court settlement prevented the civil trial from ever happening.
The veteran detective investigating Michael Jackson was convinced that he was a pedophile. If there was ever someone who fit the FBI's profile of pedophiles, it was Michael Jackson.
But that doesn't mean that anything every really happened. And after the media circus that my story triggered, I'm not sure I would believe anything that might have surfaced since then.
But I can say that Michael Jackson's death was a tragedy that followed a life that was, in its own way, tragic.
If he was a pedophile -- if his interest in children was, in reality, unhealthy or criminal, one would only have to look at the world into which he was born to understand why.
The one thing that this parent-driven child celebrity never experienced was a normal childhood. What child could experience normalcy when he was on the road with older brothers who were dealing with groupies in the hotel room every night? I'm convinced he was the victim of child abuse and that these factors took a tragic toll on him.
Imagine being so famous, so gifted, so rich and yet so lonely and lost in the world.
These are the kinds of things that lead people down paths that aren't normal -- that lead people to do things that our society doesn't (and shouldn't) allow.
When the shock of his death wears off and people take a microscope to his tragic life, we're likely to learn more about what really happened.
But whether the allegations were true or false, Michael Jackson is still a tragic figure -- even when he was alive.
By the way, that's not really Michael Jackson trying to strangle me in the photo. It was a Michael Jackson look-alike who shared a talk-show stage with me in Chicago. Just for the fun of it, someone set up the photo and someone else pretended to be the body guard.
I'm so sorry that Michael Jackson died before he would know what life is really all about. Indeed, he'll join Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe in history and legend.
Maybe he can rest in peace.